Texts and Culture in Late Antiquity: Inheritance, Authority, and Change 9781910589458, 1910589454

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TexTS & CulTure in laTe anTiquiTy Inheritance, Authority, and Change

edited by

J.H.D. Scourfield

TEXTS AND CULTURE IN LATE ANTIQUITY Inheritance, Authority, and Change

Editor

J.H.D. Scourfield Contributors Anna Chahoud, John Dillon, Richard J. Goodrich, Roger P.H. Green, Mark Humphries, Andrew Louth, Scott McGill, Ann Mohr, J.H.D. Scourfield, Andrew Smith, R.M. van den Berg, Stephen Wheeler, Mary Whitby

The Classical Press of Wales

First published in 2007 by The Classical Press of Wales 15 Rosehill Terrace, Swansea SA1 6JN Tel: +44 (0)1792 458397 Fax: +44 (0)1792 464067 www.classicalpressofwales.co.uk Distributor in the United States of America: ISD, LLC 70 Enterprise Dr., Suite 2, Bristol, CT 06010 Tel: +1 (860) 584–6546 www.isdistribution.com

© 2007 The contributors 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 978-1-910589-45-8 A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Typeset by Ernest and Andrew Buckley, Clunton, Shropshire Printed and bound in the UK by Gomer Press, Llandysul, Ceredigion, Wales

The Classical Press of Wales, an independent venture, was founded in 1993, initially to support the work of classicists and ancient historians in Wales and their collaborators from further afield. More recently it has published work initiated by scholars internationally . While retaining a special loyalty to Wales and the Celtic countries, the Press welcomes scholarly contributions from all parts of the world. The symbol of the Press is the Red Kite. This bird, once widespread in Britain, was reduced by 1905 to some five individuals confined to a small area known as ‘The Desert of Wales’ – the upper Tywi valley. Geneticists report that the stock was saved from terminal inbreeding by the arrival of one stray female bird from Germany. After much careful protection, the Red Kite now thrives – in Wales and beyond.

CONTENTS

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ix xi 1. Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity J.H.D. Scourfield (National University of Ireland, Maynooth) 2. A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts in late Antiquity Mark Humphries (Swansea University) 3. Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus Anna Chahoud (Trinity College Dublin) 4. More Roman than the Romans of Rome: Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian’s Panegyric for the Consuls Olybrius and Probinus Stephen Wheeler (Pennsylvania State University) 5. Birth and transfiguration: some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius Roger P.H. Green (University of Glasgow) 6. Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae Scott McGill (Rice University) 7. The Bible Hellenized: Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos Mary Whitby (Oxford) 8. Plotinus and the myth of Love Andrew Smith (University College Dublin)

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33 69

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135 173

195 233

Contents 9. John of Stobi on the soul John Dillon (Trinity College Dublin)

247

10. What’s in a divine name? Proclus on Plato’s Cratylus R.M. van den Berg (University of Leiden)

261

11. Pagans and Christians on providence Andrew Louth (University of Durham)

279

12. Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden: the attitude of Jerome to classical literature Ann Mohr (Galway)

299

13. John Cassian, the instituta Aegyptiorum, and the apostolic church Richard J. Goodrich (University of Bristol)

323



339

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Preface The origins of this volume can be traced to the inaugural meeting of the Celtic Conference in Classics, held at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth, in September 2000. One of the panels at that conference, convened by Andrew Smith and chaired by myself, considered the theme ‘Late Antiquity: its uses of inherited texts’. Six of the chapters in this volume represent reworkings (in some cases substantial) of papers originally delivered in that panel; the other seven were written specially for this collection. Broadly speaking, the volume is concerned with the intellectual, and particularly the literary, culture of late Antiquity. As has increasingly been recognized, this period – whatever exact chronological and geographical definition is put upon it – is more interestingly and constructively viewed in terms of transformation or dynamic change than of transition (which emphasizes before and after) or closure (the lights go out on ancient Rome). This process is evident in the written as well as the social/political and physical worlds, though the picture is certainly not a simple or uniform one. This volume seeks to explore that picture by examining some of the ways in which texts of the classical (‘pagan’) and Christian traditions – above all, texts of special authority, Homer, Virgil, Plato, and the Bible – were received in late Antiquity by writers of various persuasions; how they regarded them, what they did with them, and what can be said on the basis of this about the culture in which this took place are the central underlying questions. Despite the explosion of scholarship which has brought about the demarginalization of late-Antique studies in the anglophone world in recent years, intellectual culture does not possess the central status it holds in the study of other periods of Antiquity, and remains largely balkanized: classical/classicizing, philosophical, and patristic literature may pay each other visits, but still inhabit essentially different territory. Through its inclusiveness, this book seeks to offer encouragement towards a view of the textual world of late Antiquity which sees it as a single land. A number of specific debts are acknowledged at the end of the first chapter; I should also like to express my gratitude to Neil Adkin, John Dillon, and Andrew Smith for assisting in various ways. Above all, I wish to thank Anton Powell for his enduring support and friendship, and for having the perspicacity and energy to found the Celtic Conference in Classics, now an vii Return to Table of Contents

Preface established biennial series; Monica Gale, for all kinds of invaluable advice during the planning and editing of the volume, for innumerable discussions on literature, and just for being there; and the Irish Research Council for the Humanities and Social Sciences, which awarded me a Government of Ireland Senior Research Fellowship for 2005–6, facilitating the completion of this undertaking as well as enabling me to advance the project for which the award was actually made. JHDS May 2006

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ABBREVIATIONS Abbreviations for Greek and Latin authors and texts generally follow, where possible, the practice of OCD; others can typically be elucidated by reference to LSJ, G.W.H. Lampe’s A Patristic Greek Lexicon (Oxford, 1961–8), or TLL. The titles of periodicals are abbreviated according to the system of L’année philologique. The following collections of ancient texts and works of reference are also cited throughout in the abbreviated form here given. ANRW

H. Temporini and W. Haase (eds.) Aufstieg und Niedergang der römischen Welt: Geschichte und Kultur Roms im Spiegel der neueren Forschung, Berlin and New York, 1972–. CCSL Corpus Christianorum, series Latina, Turnhout, 1953–. CIL Corpus inscriptionum Latinarum, Berlin, etc., 1862–. CSEL Corpus scriptorum ecclesiasticorum Latinorum, Vienna, 1866–. Enc. Virg. F. Della Corte (ed.) Enciclopedia virgiliana, Rome, 1984–91. GG R. Schneider, G. Uhlig, and A. Hilgard (eds.) Grammatici Graeci, Leipzig, 1867–1910. GL H. Keil (ed.) Grammatici Latini, Leipzig, 1857–80. GRF G. Funaioli (ed.) Grammaticae Romanae fragmenta, Leipzig, 1907. Herzog–Schmidt R. Herzog and P.L. Schmidt (eds.) Handbuch der lateinischen Literatur der Antike, Munich, 1989–. ILAlg S. Gsell (ed.) Inscriptions latines de l’Algérie. 1. Inscriptions de la Proconsulaire, Paris, 1922. ILS H. Dessau (ed.) Inscriptiones Latinae selectae, Berlin, 1892–1916. Lewis–Short C.T. Lewis and C. Short, A Latin Dictionary, Oxford, 1879. LSJ H.G. Liddell and R. Scott, A Greek–English Lexicon, 9th edn, revised by H.S. Jones, Oxford, 1940; with a supplement by E.A. Barber, 1968. ix Return to Table of Contents

Abbreviations MGH, AA OCD OLD PG PL PLRE 1 PLRE 2 RAC RE SVF TLL

Monumenta Germaniae historica, auctores antiquissimi, Berlin, 1877–1919. S. Hornblower and A. Spawforth (eds.) The Oxford Classical Dictionary, 3rd edn, Oxford, 1996. P.G.W. Glare (ed.) Oxford Latin Dictionary, Oxford, 1968–82. Patrologia Graeca, ed. J.-P. Migne, Paris, 1857–66. Patrologia Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, Paris, 1844–64. A.H.M. Jones, J.R. Martindale, and J. Morris, The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire 1. ad 260–395, Cambridge, 1971. J.R. Martindale, The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire 2. ad 395–527, Cambridge, 1980. T. Klauser et al. (eds.) Reallexikon für Antike und Christentum: Sachwörterbuch zur Auseinandersetzung des Christentums mit der antiken Welt, Stuttgart, 1950– . A.F. von Pauly, G. Wissowa, et al. (eds.) Paulys Real-Encyclopädie der classischen Altertumswissenschaft, Stuttgart, 1893–1980. H. von Arnim (ed.) Stoicorum veterum fragmenta, Leipzig, 1903–24. Thesaurus linguae Latinae, Leipzig, etc., 1900– .

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NOTES ON CONTRIBUTORS Anna Chahoud is Professor of Latin at Trinity College Dublin, and works on the language, transmission, and reception of early Latin literature. She is the author of C. Lucilii reliquiarum concordantiae (Hildesheim, 1998) and articles on classical scholarship, and is currently preparing a commentary on Lucilius for Cambridge University Press. John Dillon is Regius Professor of Greek Emeritus at Trinity College Dublin. Recent publications include The Heirs of Plato: A study of the Old Academy (347–274 bc) (Oxford, 2004), and (with Lloyd P. Gerson) Neoplatonic Philosophy: Introductory readings (Indianapolis, 2004). Richard J. Goodrich is a Research Fellow in the Department of Classics and Ancient History at the University of Bristol. His research interests include the development of western monasticism and the spread of Christianity in the later Roman world. Roger P.H. Green is Professor of Humanity (Latin) at the University of Glasgow. A central strand of his researches into late Latin has been the study of the varied modes and patterns of the reception and appropriation of classical Latin verse, especially Virgil’s, in Christian milieux from the time of Constantine the Great to that of King James VI of Scotland. Mark Humphries, formerly Senior Lecturer in Classics at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth, is Professor of Ancient History at Swansea University. He researches widely in early Christianity and late Antiquity, and is author of Communities of the Blessed: Social environment and religious change in northern Italy, ad 200–400 (Oxford, 1999) and Early Christianity (London and New York, 2006). Andrew Louth is Professor of Patristic and Byzantine Studies at the University of Durham.  His most recent book is St John Damascene: Tradition and originality in Byzantine theology (Oxford, 2002).

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Notes on contributors Scott McGill is Assistant Professor of Classical Studies at Rice University.  He is the author of Virgil Recomposed: The mythological and secular centos in Antiquity (New York and Oxford, 2005) and several articles, mainly on Virgil’s ancient reception. Ann Mohr taught Classics at the National University of Ireland, Galway, for twenty years. Her particular interests are in hagiography and early Christian literature, especially Jerome. J.H.D. (David) Scourfield is Professor of Classics at the National University of Ireland, Maynooth. He is the author of Consoling Heliodorus: A commentary on Jerome, Letter 60 (Oxford, 1993) and articles on late-Antique literature and the ancient novel. Andrew Smith is Professor of Classics at University College Dublin. He has published widely on Neoplatonism; publications include the Teubner edition of the fragments of Porphyry (Leipzig, 1993), Porphyry’s Place in the Neoplatonic Tradition (The Hague, 1974), and Philosophy in Late Antiquity (London, 2004). Robbert (Bert) M. van den Berg is University Lecturer in Ancient Philosophy in the Department of Classics at the University of Leiden. He has published on the Platonic tradition and has recently completed a book on ancient interpretations of Plato’s Cratylus. Stephen Wheeler is Associate Professor of Classics at The Pennsylvania State University and is currently pursuing research on the literary reception of classical authors in late Antiquity and the Middle Ages. Mary Whitby lives and teaches in Oxford; she works on late-Antique poetry and historiography, primarily of the fifth to the seventh century.

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1 TEXTUAL INHERITANCES AND TEXTUAL RELATIONS IN LATE ANTIQUITY J.H.D. Scourfield

Inherent in the phrase ‘late Antiquity’ is the idea of something coming to an end, and more than two centuries after Gibbon the notion of decline remains hard to escape when we think about this period.1 We might trope this further as the setting sun – late Antiquity as late afternoon – or, less prettily, as the approach of senescence and death;2 but fading away gently in the sunset home of the ancient world is not the kind of demise historians have generally envisaged in writing about the later Roman Empire. Rather, the dominant motifs have been those of collapse and conflict: the Roman empire struggling against barbarians from beyond its borders, the military ‘disaster’ at Hadrianople, the ‘fall’ of Rome, concretized in the capture and sack of the city itself by Alaric – and the quite different kind of ‘conflict’ (though not lacking a violent dimension) between pagans and Christians, leading to Christian ‘victory’ and ‘triumph’.3 This perspective, and these emphases, can certainly find justification in the events of the fourth and early fifth centuries, but other narratives, troping the period in different ways, are equally possible. One of the most common sees it in terms of ‘growth’ – the growth, specifically, of Christianity and of the institutions and power of the Church, given impetus by Constantine, and with huge implications for power structures within the empire and for the character of European culture for the next millennium. Yet, in part, this is the flip side of the ‘decline’ idea, for – in terms of the grand narrative – what is held to decline is the strength and vitality of ‘Rome’, conceived as an essentially static embodiment of a complex of qualities, of which ‘classical culture’, implicated in and inseparable from a ‘pagan’ view of the world, is one of the most important. The language of coming-to-be and passing-away has, in fact, been a standard mode of conceptualizing and talking about these years in human history. One way of avoiding this kind of schematic is to view late Antiquity in terms of transformation, with emphasis placed less on broad oppositions (Romans and barbarians, pagans and Christians, ‘orthodox’ and ‘Arian’) and 1 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield specific conflictual episodes which underscore those oppositions and justify the analytical model, and more on historical process – regarded not as an ‘unfolding’ of events, with an implied teleology, still less in more strongly teleological terms,4 but simply as a journey without a destination. An advantage of such an approach, preferred by many (perhaps most) scholars nowadays,5 is that it blunts the sharp edges of periodization: life rolls on regardless, change is continual, even if some changes can be represented as more profound and ‘transformational’ than others. Seen through this lens, late Antiquity appears not as the story of the Graeco-Roman world imploding under the pressure of Germanic invaders or being crushed under the Christian juggernaut6 (to use another metaphor, the sky did not fall in either when Theodosius I outlawed pagan sacrifice in 391 or when Alaric stood on the Capitol nineteen years later), but as a complex of events in which both chance and design had a part, which moved forward by degrees, and which involved accommodation as well as conflict. ‘Barbarians’ found themselves in high places at the imperial court, and ‘Christianization’, like ‘Romanization’, was not a one-way process.7 The transformation model is especially useful when looking at that aspect of the late-Antique world generally referred to as ‘culture’, or, more specifically, ‘intellectual’ or ‘literary’ culture.8 To begin with, the idea of ‘decline’ is scarcely appropriate here. If the Roman world itself set the highest value on literary figures at the beginning of traditions (in Greek, Homer; in Latin, Ennius, until Virgil took over that role, as it were resetting the counter) and, in literature as in so many aspects of life, can be seen constantly to hark back (sometimes anxiously) to the past, the view from the twenty-first century reveals in the fourth a period that in its variety, creative experiment, and, above all, productivity, can only be regarded as flourishing.9 Modern scholarship has nonetheless displayed a tendency to regard the literature of late Antiquity as something essentially second-rate, perhaps following a narrative in which, when ‘Classical’ Greece comes to an end, nothing written in Greek could ever be as good again, or in which the Golden Age of Latin precedes the Silver, now itself long past.10 Such assessments, frequently justifying themselves through appeal to canons of quality that are always contestable, tell us nothing interesting about late Antiquity or any other period, and may distract us from the kind of non-evaluative engagement with texts that can lead to an enhanced understanding both of the texts themselves and of the culture which produced them; even when dealing with the most obviously derivative of literary forms such as the cento,11 we should strive to avoid value-judgements (such as that, indeed, present in the word ‘derivative’). Of course, we are trapped in a maze of metaphors, and have to accept that we would never say anything about late-Antique texts (or anything else) if 2 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity we sought to say it in wholly unloaded language, but an awareness of the words we use and the discourses in which they participate is likely to result in sharper critical analyses. More prominent than the idea of decline in discussions of late-Antique literature is that of conflict. This is part of the wider discourse which sees the fourth-century ‘Latin west’ in particular in terms of a struggle between paganism and Christianity. This polarization is exemplified in the area of ‘culture’ by certain events and texts traditionally accorded an important status in this history. The Emperor Julian’s prohibition of Christians from teaching in schools of grammar and rhetoric12 and the ‘debate’ in 384 between the pagan senator Symmachus and the Christian bishop Ambrose over the restoration of the Altar of Victory to the Roman Senate-house13 are two of the moments highlighted in the story, but the greatest emphasis is placed on the account given by Jerome of the dream-experience in which he renounced pagan texts.14 The weight attached to this passage, however, is at least partly the consequence of its author’s rhetorical skill, brilliantly deployed to create a memorable vignette, and in the four simple words ‘Ciceronianus es, non Christianus’15 entrenching an opposition that, as Ann Mohr shows in this volume (chapter 12), has to be viewed not as an absolutist manifesto but as a tool serving aims specific to the context of writing and publication. All the same, Jerome’s dream is far from being the only expression of the tension felt by some Christians to exist between their religion and the traditions of Graeco-Roman culture, and a narrative of rejection or separation can be traced from Tertullian in the late second/early third century to the work of the mature Augustine in the fifth.16 How typical of the Christian community this attitude was is another question. Over a long period Alan Cameron has challenged the idea of a ‘pagan [or ‘classical’] revival’ in the late fourth century, a movement driven by the concerns of the pagan aristocracy of Rome about the threat posed by Christianity to everything they held dear, and centring on classical texts.17 Part of his argument is that there is ‘no evidence of any such threat to the classics on the part of Christians at large (as distinct from a handful of extremist clerics)’.18 The dismissive swipe at ‘extremist clerics’ minimizes the influence that the likes of Jerome wielded within a Church whose increasing importance was soon19 to be illustrated in the extraordinary sight of a Roman emperor doing penance in the cathedral of a leading Italian city at the demand of its bishop, but the essential point is uncontestable. As Cameron says elsewhere, traditional culture, whether we like to call it ‘pagan’, ‘classical’, or ‘secular’,20 ‘was the only culture there was’, 21 and its texts were the texts of educated pagans and Christians alike. This is not to say that Christians stood in precisely the same relation to it as pagans – and one of the purposes of this volume is 3 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield to explore the kinds of relationship that Christians had with this heritage – but to suggest a cogent reason for marginalizing the conflict model. It is in fact a problem with representations of the fourth century which emphasize pagan–Christian polarities (however much they may owe to contemporary accounts and to the pre-Constantinian history of Christ­ianity) that the new religion is not formed outside Graeco-Roman culture but develops and grows within it. Different this religion certainly was, in various striking respects, and serious clashes were sometimes the consequence; but its adherents, like its organizational structures, were products of the same world as those who opposed it, those who tolerated it, and those who didn’t care. Late-Antique Christianity – and we should beware of supposing that what it meant to be a Christian was a matter of unanimity within the community as a whole – was a part of classical Antiquity, not an alternative to it. From this point of view, and particularly as far as literary culture is concerned, what happens in the course of the century is most aptly described in terms of negotiation, accommodation, adaptation, transformation. To this point I have very largely been speaking of late Antiquity as if it were essentially coterminous with the fourth century, and with a focus that is more western than eastern. The expression often – by now, one might almost say classically – has a much wider field of reference, reaching as far forward as the end of the eighth century, and taking in the Islamic as well as the Byzantine Empire and the kingdoms that succeeded the Roman Empire in the west.22 But it can equally be cut to a different size, and for the purposes of this volume ‘late Antiquity’ may in general be taken to represent roughly the period from the middle of the third to the middle of the fifth century ad, and to be bounded geographically by the limits of the lands more or less under Roman imperial control. The texts on which the spotlight falls show some clustering in the decades around ad 400, from about 380 to 420, which is unsurprising in view of the literary richness of these years and the attention which historical events have caused to be devoted to them, but range back in time as far as Origen (d. 254) and Plotinus and forward to Nonnus and the Empress Eudocia (d. 460). The geographical spread, similarly, reveals a concentration in Italy, and indeed Rome itself, but also takes in Spain and Gaul, Greece and Macedonia, North Africa, Egypt, Palestine, and Syria.23 Together the texts reflect an intellectual world constantly exploring its relation to the past, a past that is neither simple nor single, but of unusual importance in a tradition-valuing society coming to terms with major change and seeking to redefine itself in the process. Late-Antique culture, indeed, might well be said to derive its special character from the multiplicity of ways in which attempts are made to integrate the past, particularly as represented by texts which possessed special authority, into the present. Three main strands might 4 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity be identified in such an analysis. First, there is the reception of texts belonging to the classical tradition in new texts formed entirely within that tradition, expressing an analogical or interpretative relation to the works received; poetic and philosophical texts are prominent here. Secondly, there is the specifically Christian strand concerned with exegesis of Scripture, a body of inherited texts believed by Christians to possess an always-contemporary relevance; traces of the classical tradition may be evident in form and approach in these works, but they are to a great extent sealed off from it. Thirdly, there is the most experimental strand, in which new texts seek in more or less explicit ways to accommodate both inheritances and both pasts, biblical and classical. The emphasis in this volume on the first and third of these strands does not imply a negative judgement about the importance of the second, or of a further strand, namely the reception of earlier non-scriptural Christian texts by lateAntique Christian writers: patristic commentary in particular is a field that offers enormous possibilities, but no book could do justice to the entire sweep of late Antiquity, and this one as it stands can reasonably claim to offer a broad but focused range of studies illustrating some of the varied ways in which this period viewed and dealt with its literary heritage. In recent years classical scholarship has placed increased emphasis on visual aspects of ancient Greek and Roman culture, a very welcome corrective to the narrowly philological approaches to Antiquity that dominated the field – outside the strictly-defined areas of art and archaeology – for so long. This shift no doubt reflects the ubiquity and power of images in our own world, and we need to be careful not to underestimate the importance of the written word in the much less literate societies of ancient Greece and Rome.24 The power of a text does not, after all, always depend on widespread ability to decipher it – indeed, the restriction of literacy to a small proportion of a population can imbue texts with greater power through the mystery of a message directly apprehensible only by the initiated. Though the interplay – pronounced in the ancient world – between oral and written communication, texts and performance, precludes sharp demarcation between the literate and the non-literate,25 in a society where the ability to read (and still more to write) fluently belongs to a minority, possession of such ability may be a prime tool of social differentiation. Under the Roman Empire, the governing classes maintained their identity partly through their participation in a highly conservative education system which stressed facility in language from grammar to sophisticated rhetorical composition, and in which the close study of specific literary texts was central.26 In late Antiquity, this was the common intellectual currency of both the pagan and the Christian elite, though at the same time another corpus of texts, the 5 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield Bible, provided the Christian community with a separate marker of identity. Textual inheritances, then, had a significant role in the formation of groups, and the incorporation – in many different ways – of those inheritances in contemporary writing was arguably a means both of sustaining group identity and of re-engineering the past to suit the concerns of the present. To put this differently, texts could be at the same time a mechanism for the expression of continuities and an instrument of adaptive change, in pursuit, one might say, of steady state. This essentially progressive (and optimistic) model is applicable to much of the material discussed in this volume, but, as we shall see, anxiety-driven desire to preserve and reaffirm the past is also a feature of late Antiquity’s relationship with its textual heritage. In a famous story,27 Jorge Luis Borges represents the universe as a library, and an investigation into relations between texts in the world of late Antiquity may appropriately begin with that world’s representation of itself in textual form. In chapter 2, starting from the observation of Symmachus in his famous third relatio to Valentinian II that pagans and Christians saw the same stars and were surrounded by the same earth, and contrasting the conceptions of the spatial-physical world apparent in the elder Pliny in the first century ad and the Hereford mappamundi in the thirteenth, Mark Humphries examines the adaptation of classical literary traditions to a new world-view in late-Antique Christian geographical writing. Accounts of pilgrimage to the Holy Land such as the Itinerarium Burdigalense of 333 and topographical texts designed to aid the understanding of Scripture are shown to be derived from classical models, but more significant in Humphries’ analysis are geographical texts of a more discursive character which reveal a fundamental shift in ideology. Though in certain respects a peculiar work, the Expositio Totius Mundi et Gentium, probably a Latin translation (or a derivative of a Latin translation) of a Greek original written in the third quarter of the fourth century, displays many of the standard features of classical geographies, and embodies a pagan view of the world. Very closely related to the Expositio is a second text, the Descriptio Totius Mundi, which, as Humphries demonstrates, betrays clear signs of Christianization through excision, interpolation, and adaptation to a biblical world-view compatible with a late-Antique date. A complementary case is provided by the fifth-century Christian apologist Orosius, whose Histories begin with an account of world geography thoroughly indebted to the classical tradition and eschewing biblicization; the difference, Humphries argues, lies in the writer’s conception of the Roman empire as ordained by God as part of his purpose for humanity – the birth of Christ under the pax Augusta being a telling indication of this. If the medieval Hereford mappamundi establishes Jerusalem, rather than the elder Pliny’s Italy, as the centre of the world, its 6 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity geography, filtered through conceptual and ideological changes generated in the crucible of late Antiquity, still remains rooted in the classical past. The continued use of classical geography through late Antiquity and far into the Middle Ages reflects the strength of that tradition, but how useful it would be to go beyond this and speak of the tradition in terms of ‘authority’ is less certain: knowledge of geography in the ancient world was, after all, to a large extent necessarily tralatician,28 and any authority embedded in it belonged more to the tradition as a whole than to any particular textual instantiation of it. The notion of authority, however, will emerge as a central theme in this book; the nature of the authority possessed by received texts, especially those of high canonical status, the uses to which that authority is put by the receiving texts, and the impact upon that authority of the reception itself, form a set of interrelated questions posed or invited by many of the individual studies in the volume, and briefly explored from a wider perspective in this chapter. The authority that could be located in texts of the past is nowhere better demonstrated than in ancient writing on grammar. A shadowy figure from north Africa, Nonius Marcellus, whose De Compendiosa Doctrina, a lexico­ graphic and grammatical work which preserves many fragments of early Latin texts (all the way back to Livius Andronicus) which would otherwise have been lost to us, is the subject of chapter 3. Anna Chahoud’s focus here is on Nonius’ effective identification of ‘antiquity’ (antiquitas, vetustas) and authority (auctoritas), concepts which permeate the work. The authors whom Nonius cites as examples of good Latin usage are, with few exceptions, those of the Roman Republic, and while his work is strongly influenced by grammatical writers of the imperial period, none of these is named. This idealization of the now distant past as the repository of good Latin, while entirely consonant with the conservatism of the grammatical tradition and the character of Roman education, is associated by Chahoud29 with Nonius’ status as a writer on the geographical fringe of the classical world, writing in the context of ‘ideological appropriations of the Roman tradition’ and at a time of perceived threat from linguistic ‘barbarism’. What is at stake, according to this view, is Latin – and hence Roman – identity, and the means to reassert this identity is to emphasize the authority of the old writers (veteres). It is also tempting to engage in further speculations. In effacing the period of the Empire to the extent that he does, Nonius reduces the gap between his own time and that of the veteres, more easily suggesting a shared temporality (and a shared culture) without any loss in the authority carried by vetustas. Again, Nonius’ foregrounding of Varro as an authority30 (whose own emphasis on linguistic authority did much to shape the grammatical tradition31) might be said to underline a sense of crisis common both to 7 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield the middle of the last century of the Republic and to the years around the end of the fourth century ad, or at least to point to a similar nostalgia.32 In any event, what is clear is that Nonius’ veteres are not just models of correct linguistic usage but carry a symbolic weight that is undiminished by the fragmentation of their work in Nonius’ text. As Chahoud points out, the author most frequently cited by Nonius is Virgil, who possesses special authority; it may even be the case that Nonius had in his sights detractors (obtrectatores) of Virgil in particular (pp. 80, 81). The supremely elevated cultural status of the author of Rome’s found­ational epic and other poems that were to become generic paradigms33 seems to have begun in his own lifetime (when there is evidence that he was already a school author34) and persisted into late Antiquity. His authority in this period is reflected in such works as Servius’ great commentary on Eclogues, Georgics, and Aeneid, and Macrobius’ Saturnalia, in which his poetry is the central subject of the discussion, and in the production of luxury manuscripts of his work.35 His literary influence is not only widespread in both the classical and the Christian poetry of this time, but is also evident in prose and beyond the strictly literary sphere altogether: a recent volume on the reception of Virgil in the fourth century begins with a discussion of coins issued by the usurper Carausius in the 280s or 290s bearing clear Virgilian allusions.36 For some Church Fathers, he presented problems, and a different kind of engagement is apparent here;37 but whatever difficulties might be felt, Virgil was too thoroughly woven into the fabric of late-Antique culture to be ignored, still less (had anyone wished it) extirpated. In the year 395, a young poet from Egypt burst spectacularly on to the Latin literary scene with a hexameter poem celebrating the beginning of the consulship of two teenage brothers, members of a notable Roman family, the Anicii. Stephen Wheeler’s discussion of Claudian’s Panegyric for the Consuls Olybrius and Probinus (chapter 4) argues a case for reading this poem not simply as a ‘routine panegyric’ but as a kind of epic, indebted to the tradition as a whole, but especially and in important ways to Virgil. Wheeler’s analysis has three focal points in the text of Claudian: the prooemium (vv. 1– 7), which he shows to echo in its language several verses of the Aeneid as well as the opening of the fourth Eclogue; the miniature ecphrasis of the shield of the personified Roma (vv. 94–9), which alludes to the ecphrasis of the shield of Aeneas in Aeneid 8; and the personification of the river Tiber, where the description of the river-god and the speech he delivers in praise of Olybrius and Probinus again evoke Aeneid 8 and Eclogue 4, as well as other parts of the Virgilian oeuvre, including passages of the Georgics. The web of intertextual relationships which Wheeler convincingly realizes, above all through close attention to verbal detail, leads to an interpretation of Claudian’s poem 8 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity which reveals both a political and a personal programme. The young consuls are represented as the new founders of Rome, linked particularly through the shield of Roma (but also in other ways) with Romulus and Remus and the line of Aeneas, and, especially via the evocation of the fourth Eclogue, as the initiators of a return of the Golden Age. At the same time, in incorporating Virgilian texts in a manner so integral to the communication of his message, the late-Antique poet can be said to fashion himself as the new Virgil, a claim which accords with other evidence, including the well-known inscription on the base of a statue of Claudian set up in the Forum of Trajan in 400, describing him as ‘the mind of Virgil and the Muse of Homer’:38 no sign here of the deferential attitude to his predecessor most clearly evident in the closing lines of Statius’ Thebaid.39 Wheeler’s study of the Panegyric for the Consuls Olybrius and Probinus is highly instructive as to how Virgil might be read and used at the end of the fourth century. In the first place, the allusive technique is subtle. Claudian establishes the connection principally through verbal echoes; these may produce, as in the case of the prooemium, ‘a glittering fabric of traditional epic language’ (p. 119), but may equally be less densely marshalled. These poetic brush-strokes, however, are more than a kind of homage to Virgil, or a way of locating the poem in the traditions of epic as well as of panegyric (though interesting questions about genre emerge in the process); the invitation they issue to the reader to make supra-linguistic connections between Claudian and his ‘source-text’, leading to important hermeneutic results, implies an embodiment in a phrase or a small-scale network of phrases of a range of meaning that goes far beyond its precise linguistic confines. At the same time, it is open to readers to impose limitations on that range of meaning. Thinking along these lines, Wheeler suggests (pp. 116–17) that Claudian’s readers are unlikely to have read negative connotations into his association of Olybrius and Probinus with Romulus and Remus; rather, the consuls of 395 will have been taken as surpassing their legendary models in concordia.40 This may all seem a highly contemporary way of understanding Claudian’s poem, but the power of the interpretation is at its greatest in the immediate context of production and delivery, and the centrality of Virgil in lateAntique literary culture gives credence to the view that it was as accessible to the poem’s earliest audience as to the poet himself. A further aspect of the relationship between Claudian and his Augustan predecessor, related to the time of composition, may usefully be highlighted here. The poet’s use of Eclogue 4 as a programmatic model for his panegyric, pointing to the return of the Golden Age in the consulship of two youths who recall both Virgil’s Pollio and the puer predicted in the earlier poem, is especially striking given the Christianizing readings of this Eclogue generated in the fourth century41 9 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield and the fact that the panegyric is entirely free of explicit Christian content: the surprise in this is that Claudian’s patrons, the Anicii, were Rome’s most prominent Christian family, and that the Emperor Theodosius’ victory at the battle of the Frigidus just months before, which has an important place in the poem, is not represented, as it would soon be elsewhere,42 as a triumph of Christianity over paganism. As Wheeler indicates (pp. 117–18), the possibility of the Christian interpretation of the fourth Eclogue spilling over into an understanding of the panegyric emphasizing the Christianity of Olybrius and Probinus is not excluded; but Claudian’s move can equally (or better) be regarded as a statement that the pagan tradition represented by Virgil’s poem remains available for use, secularized but essentially accepted on its own terms, even in the most public and political arenas of Theodosius’ Christian Empire. The traditions of epic poetry43 are exploited for quite different purposes, and with different effects, in the Christian (sub-)genre of biblical epic. Around 330, the Spanish priest Juvencus wrote a hexameter poem in four books44 presenting the gospel story, initiating a tradition that would continue into the sixth century at least. It is widely agreed that one of Juvencus’ aims was to render the Gospels in a form that would attract the interest and tastes of the cultivated elite at a time when Constantine’s adoption of and increasing support for the Christian religion had begun to change the social and political rules; epic, the most elevated genre, was the obvious choice for the most elevated of stories. In chapter 5, Roger Green offers a detailed examination of the Nativity and Transfiguration episodes in Juvencus’ poem, alongside their counterparts in the Paschale Carmen of the Italian Sedulius, written a century or so later. Green’s discussion shows how the epicization of the Gospels by Juvencus in particular embraced a variety of techniques. In addition to the most obvious feature, the employment of the epic metre, Juvencus’ poetic transformation of the Old Latin biblical text45 involves the use of epic, and especially Virgilian, vocabulary, phraseology, and structural or organizational features,46 all lending grandeur to the narrative. Sometimes particular expressions evoke particular passages from classical epic; Green shows more scepticism than some scholars might about the extent to which such intertextual connections can be held to deliver meaningful interpretative gains,47 but still allows space for Kontrastimitation, a hermeneutic which points an opposition, often strongly polemical or ideological, between the Christian text and its pagan model. The exercise of judgement in which Green engages here raises an issue of major importance in the study of lateAntique verse. Interpretation based on the identification and analysis of intertexts is an area always liable to provoke serious differences of opinion among literary critics; in the case of the classicizing Christian poetry of late 10 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity Antiquity the problem is especially pronounced because of what has recently been called ‘the strong confessional opposition between pagan and Christian authors’.48 What can reasonably be said about the effect of a perceived intertextual relation on both the receiving and the received text in this kind of context? What, in particular, is the impact on Virgil of the appropriation of Virgilian language by a text not just informed but directed by a radically different ideology? An answer can be supplied in part by consideration of another characteristic late-Antique literary product, cento. In poems of this type, existing texts are disassembled and atomized units of the text reassembled in a new order to create a new poem that may be utterly different in character (narrative, tone) from the original; minor adjustments may be made to the text for reasons of grammatical logic, but as a general principle the new poem is constructed solely from pieces of the pre-existing work (its ‘hypotext’).49 The most frequently-sourced ancient quarry for Latin cento is Virgil, from whom whole lines and line segments were reassembled to create, probably in the third quarter of the fourth century, two strikingly contrasting poems.50 The Cento Probae, or De Laudibus Christi, most likely written by Faltonia Betitia Proba, coincidentally a member of the family (the gens Anicia) which later commissioned Claudian’s Panegyric for the Consuls Olybrius and Probinus, is a poem based on episodes in the Old and New Testaments with a soteriological emphasis and a partly protreptic purpose. Scott McGill’s study in chapter 6 considers the relationship between the poem and its Virgilian hypotext through a close examination of contemporary or nearcontemporary views. Two quite different understandings of that relationship are identified. The first is that presented by the author herself in the prefatory section of the poem, where she states: ‘Vergilium cecinisse loquar pia munera Christi’ (‘I will say [or ‘show’] that Virgil sang of the holy gifts of Christ’) (line 23). McGill argues that Proba here expresses the view not that she was Christianizing the text of Virgil but that Christian meaning was already inherent in it, and that her role was simply to release that meaning; this can be seen as an extreme version of the kind of interpretation of the fourth Eclogue evident in Lactantius and Augustine and especially in Constantine’s Oratio ad Sanctorum Coetum.51 The other understanding is apparent in the short verse epistle which precedes Proba’s cento in many manuscripts. Addressing the Emperor Arcadius (Augustus 383–408),52 the scribe who authored this epistle asks that the emperor ‘deign to recognize Virgil changed for the better [Maronem mutatum in melius] through divine meaning’. Here a disjunction between Virgil and Christian content is clear: it is Proba who has Christianized Virgil in the creation of the cento. The scribe’s view is connected by McGill also with a passage in a letter of Jerome datable to c. 394,53 a passage 11 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield regularly cited in discussions of late-Antique cento without, however, being subjected to the searching analysis the patent difficulty of the Latin calls for. McGill’s careful unpicking of this passage leads to the conclusion that what Jerome is attacking here is not (as is often asserted) cento per se, but the mode of interpretation which turns Virgil into a Christian before the event. Going beyond the scholarly consensus that Jerome was thinking specifically of the Cento Probae when he wrote this passage, McGill suggests that he was in fact criticizing Proba’s own understanding of her activity as the exposure of inherent Christianity in Virgil’s verses. Like the scribal epistle, then, Jerome’s view clearly separates the pagan poet and Christian ‘truth’. By this point it will have become plain that Virgil was open to a wide range of responses in the poetic world of late Antiquity. He could be evoked in an allusive way to clarify (or complicate) the generic frame of reference of the receiving text, and to establish an authoritative literary lineage for the alluding poet and his poem; the use of specific allusions could, further, significantly shape a poem’s meaning, as in the case of Claudian’s Panegyric for the Consuls Olybrius and Probinus, in which the poet might also be said not to offer respectful acknowledgement to Virgil but to assume his prestige, a new Virgil for a new age. This could all be done without any express ideological shift even in an immediately Christian context and in the years following Theodosius’ anti-pagan legislation of 391. At the same time, Virgil could be rendered Christian in a variety of ways. At the extreme edge, he could be endowed with proto-Christian status, either through radical reinterpretation, as of Eclogue 4, or through a process of industrial-scale stripping and reassembly, in which Christian content, latent but already present, was brought to light. Alternatively, the Christianized Virgil of cento might be kept quite distinct from the Virgilian original, its Christian meaning imported into it. Such reworkings could be regarded not as a malformed bastardization of Virgilian text, but as an improvement: Maro mutatus in melius. This surpasses in its ambition Juvencan Kontrastimitation, but McGill draws a parallel between the scribe’s reading of the Cento Probae and a passage in Juvencus’ preface, in which the Christian epicist expresses his confidence that he and his poem will exceed Homer and Virgil in glory, because his subject is ‘the life-giving deeds of Christ’. Virgil’s cultural authority in late Antiquity is thus contestable, but also guaranteed: no poet would boast of outdoing a predecessor who was not worth outdoing,54 and no writer of cento would undertake a literary sparagmos and consumption of a poem which could not lay claim to some sort of divine status. The potential consequences for Virgil of Christianization through cento can be clarified by a comparison with the other important Virgilian cento of Proba’s time, the Cento Nuptialis of Ausonius. The final part of this 12 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity marriage-poem reuses Virgilian lines to compose a graphic description of wedding-night sex. The poem is intended as a literary joke, which, the poet admits, debases its distinguished original.55 Such an admission underlines the separation between Virgil and the Ausonian rewriting, but it might well be argued that once a sexual construction has been placed on a Virgilian line in so explicit a way it is difficult to read that line in its original context without those sexual resonances;56 to achieve such a reading requires a deliberate and decisive exclusion of the imposed layer of meaning. Similarly, where Virgilian text is endowed with Christian meaning, this meaning, whether it is held to inhere in it or to be created out of it, is always potentially present; such retrojection can be resisted in an exclusionary act, but the onus is on the reader to do so. Virgil’s poetry in itself thus becomes a kind of parasacral Christian text, always susceptible to a Christian reading, and possessing in such a reading a truth-content akin to that implied by the sortes Vergilianae, the practice of seeking guidance or illumination by random consultation of Virgilian verses.57 The authority of Virgil was therefore not only cultural; in certain limited senses it was also religious. For Fathers of the Church, of course, such a view was scarcely possible.58 Nonetheless, even for those for whom the employment by Christians of pagan texts was not a simple matter, Virgil had his uses; indeed, it could hardly be otherwise, for, as Ann Mohr says of Jerome (and the observation would be equally applicable to others), Virgil ‘was part of [his] blood and bone’ (p. 318). In chapter 12, Mohr revisits the question of Jerome’s attitude to the classical inheritance, properly insisting on the need to interpret the key texts – Letter 22.30, his account of his dream, written in 384; and Letter 70, his presentation in 397 of a more liberal stance towards pagan literature – in the light of their immediate contexts. The dream account is associated with the tensions of the period following the removal of the Altar of Victory from the Senate-house and the impending attempt to have it restored, and with Jerome’s own need to establish his authority as an ascetic teacher in a work intended as a contribution, within a charged and polemical Christian context, to the growing body of ascetical literature on virginity; Letter 70, similarly, is located in the agonistic world of ecclesiastical politics, specifically the Origenist controversy of the 390s, in which Jerome’s fractured personal relations with his local rival in ascetic leadership, Rufinus of Aquileia, were thoroughly entangled – Jerome here, Mohr suggests, is not only defending his practice of citing pagan authors by appeal to tradition but also ‘delivering a message about the orthodoxy of his views in general’ (p. 306). This recontextualization results in a more nuanced picture, in which Jerome’s much-criticized inconsistency with regard to the use of classical texts appears less extreme. 13 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield The final part of Mohr’s chapter examines briefly some of the ways in which the Aeneid is utilized by Jerome, with a focus on the figure of Dido. The Carthaginian queen affords both a positive and a negative example for Jerome’s correspondents. The ‘dux femina facti’ of Aeneid 1.364, resolute and effective, is on two occasions reconfigured as a woman whose commitment to the ascetic life can serve as a model for men; in a similar way, Dido’s expression of fidelity to her dead husband Sychaeus (Aen. 4.28–9) is brought up in the context of exhorting a Christian widow against remarriage.59 On the other side, Dido’s passion for Aeneas can represent danger for a monk,60 while her pretence of marriage provides Jerome with a special weapon in his attack on the teaching of Jovinian. This repeated enlisting of the most prestigious of classical Latin poets, through verbal echo or explicit quotation (where he might even be mentioned by name), in the service of Christian asceticism offers a further and striking demonstration of the cultural value which attached to Virgil in late Antiquity, and it is this above all which motivates Jerome’s employment of Virgilian text. Though knowledge of context can add power to an allusion (as in the case of the evocation of Dido’s passion in Letter 125, where familiarity with the tragic end of the story underlines the importance of resistance), in some instances the gain is slight, while in others severance from the wider context seems indicated if the evident purpose of the citation is not to be undermined:61 Dido is a less successful model for the recently widowed Salvina if regard is had to the action which follows her assertion of loyalty to Sychaeus.62 Part of the theoretical basis for the acceptance of classical texts as grist to the Christian mill put forward by Jerome in Letter 70 is a passage in the book of Deuteronomy (21.10–13), where it is laid down that an Israelite may marry a beautiful enemy captive as long as her head is shaved and her nails cut. Interpreting this passage allegorically, as he had already done years before in Letter 21 (Mohr’s discussion points to significant differences in the treatment of the image in the two instances), Jerome uses it as both a justification and a guideline for Christian use of pagan material. The special character of Christianity as a ‘religion of the book’ 63 is evident here, as throughout patristic writing. But neither religion nor book was static: Christian doctrine and practice developed over time within a multiplicity of cultural frames and in response to a multiplicity of events and pressures, while Christian Scripture was correspondingly subject to a continual process of reception and (re)interpretation. In other words, as a text read, studied, and used in late Antiquity, the Bible can be regarded in an analogous way to Virgil and other classical inheritances. To say this is not to deny the great and obvious differences that separate the Bible from the epic poet. For a start, for all its assumed coherence, the 14 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity Bible was not, like the Aeneid, a unitary work but a collection of texts of different kinds, and a somewhat variable collection at that.64 Secondly, it did not possess what we might call a high literary value; distaste among the educated for the Old Latin Bible translations was in fact an important motive behind the production of works such as Juvencus’ Gospel epic.65 Thirdly, in having a liturgical function – the formal reading of portions of Scripture was a central element of Christian worship, and sermons were based on them – it will have become widely known, in textual detail, throughout the Christian community, regardless of literacy levels; the essential story of the Aeneid was doubtless familiar to many, but textually it will have remained largely the preserve of the educated few.66 Fourthly, most people who encountered the Bible encountered it in translated form. The New Testament was available to Greek readers in the original, but the Hebrew Scriptures of the Old Testament were accessed in Greek communities through the Septuagint, while (generally speaking) the Latin world was dependent entirely on translations – in the case of the Old Testament, a translation of a translation, a situation that did not cease with the creation of what was to become the Vulgate.67 While the importance of what lay behind the translated texts was appreciated (though to different degrees) by Christian intellectuals, biblical textuality was in this respect different in kind from the textuality of an author such as Virgil. Words mattered, but meaning was not just a matter of words.68 To be sure, Virgil could, as we have seen, carry different levels of signification, and in the fifth/sixth century Christian allegorization of the Aeneid reaches new heights in Fulgentius, but in the tradition of scriptural exegesis stemming from Origen, whose influence was profound, the ‘spiritual’ meaning of the text, which lay beyond the literal meaning, was paramount. In this sense, the authority of the Bible was, as it were, supertextual. The centrality and power of Scripture within the Christian community is illustrated most memorably by the fact that it was specifically targeted by the state authorities in the ‘Great Persecution’ of the early fourth century: the books of the Christians were to be surrendered and destroyed.69 In a different way, that centrality is seen in the character of early Christian literature, which, though embracing a wide variety of forms, is dominated from the mid-third century by scriptural exegesis: commentaries, dense in detail, and homilies are at its core, but explicit or implicit interpretation of the Bible is a fundamental feature of late-Antique Christian writing. All such writing, that is to say, is biblical commentary of a kind. The Cento Probae could be said both to substantiate this general assertion and to demonstrate in an extreme form the independence of biblical meaning and biblical text. Lines of Virgil are used to recount parts of the Christian story (drawn chiefly from the first chapters of Genesis and from the Gospels), 15 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield and in such a way as to offer exegetical comment on it; if every rewriting must be a reinterpretation, and in this case the composer is constrained by self-imposed limitations of material and method, Proba’s cento can still be regarded as having a general interpretative direction and specific interpretative effects.70 Commentary is similarly evident in scriptural paraphrase of the type represented by Juvencus and Sedulius, and one might say that in both the epicization of the Bible by these poets and the biblicization of epic by Proba, Scripture receives distinctive glosses. Investigating the paraphrastic techniques employed in the passages examined in chapter 5, Roger Green shows how both authors rework their base-texts in individual ways, creating new emphases, incorporating exegesis, and reflecting and engaging with theological and other contemporary concerns. Juvencus’ treatment of the Transfiguration episode in Matthew 17, for example, elaborates arrestingly on the detail of the ‘six days’ at the beginning of the account (Matt. 17.1), perhaps alluding to an allegorical interpretation found in Origen and Lactantius, while the words of Peter in verse 4 are radically adapted and expanded to present the apostle in a different light and, it seems, to establish a curious link between the Transfiguration and a Jewish festival (Succoth) described in the Old Testament. Similarly, the recasting as ‘the just’ of the ‘men of goodwill’ referred to in the message of the angels at Luke 2.14 ‘underlines a perception of Christian identity forged in the persecutions that had ceased only some twenty years before’ (p. 145), and resonates powerfully in the new Constantinian context. Juvencus nonetheless keeps more tightly to his base-text than Sedulius, who approaches his scriptural model very selectively, partly, Green suggests, because by his date the Gospel stories will have been better known both within and without the Christian community. Correspondingly, the commentary element is more pronounced in the fifth-century poet, who incorporates other biblical material into his text more generously than his predecessor, and displays a more evident interest in theological issues: a special concern is to combat the view that Christ was not fully divine, an interpretation read into Nestorius of Constantinople’s strongly-worded reservations about the attribution of the title theotokos (‘bearer of God’) to Mary, mother of Jesus. What emerges from all this is an attitude to the Bible that, while accepting its essential and inalienable truth, allows its stories to be variously re-presented and adapted, and recognizes the need for explication and interpretation, both on an internal basis (that is to say, through the use of other Scripture) and through the application of techniques not in themselves dependent on Scripture. The nature of the Bible as a composite work, the variety and patent difficulty of much of its contents, and the language of the translations through which it (or most of it) reached its Greek and Latin 16 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity readers and audiences all contributed to an intense hermeneutical demand; one wonders if there has ever been (in Barthes’ terms) a more ‘writable’ text, or (in Iser’s) one with more gaps. Cento and biblical paraphrase are also found in Greek. Around the same time as Sedulius, Nonnus of Panopolis in Egypt wrote a verse paraphrase of St John’s Gospel in twenty-one books (one for each biblical chapter), while a further contemporary, Eudocia, the highly educated wife of the Emperor Theodosius II, represents one – and arguably the most important – of the hands behind a collection of Homeric centos which has come down to us in several versions; like Proba, Eudocia71 rearranges Homeric text to retell Christian stories. Mary Whitby’s contribution to this volume (chapter 7) compares the treatments of the Doubting Thomas episode of John 20.24–9 – the sole biblical account – in Nonnus’ Paraphrase and in both of the principal cento recensions.72 Nonnus’ version, though keeping close to the original in certain respects, expands considerably on its scriptural model (the six verses of the Gospel generate thirty-three hexameters), partly – and typically – through the introduction of compound adjectives drawn from Homer and other classical poets or coined by Nonnus himself. In the use of these adjectives, Whitby argues, exegetical purposes are detectable: a sequence of epithets applied to Thomas, linked in sound and sense with his other name, Didymus (‘Twin’), offers imaginative and effective elaboration of the apostle’s character as presented by John as well as a kind of meditation on his name, while the language applied to Christ in his epiphanies to the disciples comments on the nature of those epiphanies – Christ appears miraculously, borne through the air in the manner of an epic god, but retaining (as touching his wounds would prove) his physical human form. As in the case of the Latin paraphrasts, then, Nonnus’ epicization of Scripture also involves explication; Whitby connects this both with the tradition of the rhetorical prose paraphrase and with the climate of theological and scriptural debate prevalent in the era of the great Church councils of the mid-fifth century. The two cento versions of the story differ widely in length and manner of adaptation. The longer, though technically less accomplished, holds more closely to the biblical account; by contrast, the shorter, in omitting altogether both Thomas’s insistence on touching Christ’s wounds and the latter’s closing words about the blessedness of those who have not seen but have nonetheless believed (Christ departs even before Thomas can make any response to the displaying of the scar), ‘eliminates the message of the Gospel story’ (p. 211). The issue of the limits of intertextual interpretation in cento naturally arises here as in the case of Virgil; the consequences of centonization for the received text have already been discussed, and interpretative 17 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield problems in the reading of allusion touched on particularly in connection with Jerome’s use of the Dido episode73 – but those problems increase in an exponential manner when considering a text where every line carries heavy and obvious resonances of other, essentially alien, contexts. Once again, the acceptance or rejection of particular resonances must be a matter for the individual reader, whose choice will depend partly on his or her attitude to the receiving text; the possibility of the enrichment of readings of the Homeric centos by the importation of elements from the original context of the lines, however, is emphasized by Whitby, for whom, for example, the ‘evocation of Odysseus’ loyal but despondent dependants instils sympathy for Thomas’s doubt’ (pp. 215–16). In any event, the use and treatment of Homer in the centos resembles that of Virgil in the Cento Probae:74 the literary and cultural authority of ‘The Poet’, as Greek writers so often describe him, which (in his case) is intertwined with his perceived value as a source of moral wisdom,75 goes a considerable way towards explaining his appropriation for Christian purposes in late Antiquity, a time when the Homeric poems were also subjected to allegorical interpretation by Neoplatonist philosophers.76 This brings us to the last of the great textual inheritances of late Antiquity. It has often been said – following A.N. Whitehead – that the whole of western philosophy is a footnote to Plato, and certainly it was Plato who lay at the heart of philosophical enquiry in this period. If there is paradox in Plato’s presentation of Socratic dialectic in the fixed form of written texts, it is no less paradoxical that, centuries later, those texts, which do not seek or claim to set out a coherent, systematic philosophy, should be treated as if possessed of special philosophical truth. The nature of the authority ascribed to Platonic writings, however, was not identical throughout the entire history of Neoplatonism – as we should indeed hardly expect it to be across a period of three centuries, especially one that witnessed major cultural change. The Neoplatonist movement begins in the middle of the third century with Plotinus, who, in Andrew Smith’s words, regarded his own work as providing ‘the fullest explication of a constant philosophical truth which … had been only partially uncovered by earlier philosophers, although … it had received very special and authentic expression in the work of Plato’ (p. 233). In chapter 8, reacting against a view which dismisses as unimportant (because suggesting an unacceptable irrationality) the references made by Plotinus to myth, Smith focuses attention on Plotinus’ treatise On Love (Ennead 3.5), which concerns itself with the story of the birth of the god or daemon Eros. The fundamental sources here are the differing accounts of the myth presented by Plato in the Phaedrus, where Eros is described as a god and the child of Aphrodite, and in the Symposium, where he is said to be a daemon born from the union of Poros (Plenty) and Penia 18 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity (Poverty).77 Plotinus’ interest, Smith argues, does not lie in attempting to reconcile the conflicting Platonic accounts (and thus to demonstrate Plato’s consistency) – though such reconciliation is involved in his discussion – or in the interpretation of Plato per se, but in the opportunity the myth affords for the complex analysis of philosophical themes central to Plotinus’ own metaphysics, such as the relationship of Intellect to Soul within the structure of transcendent reality. The Platonic texts which present the myth of Eros’ birth can thus be said to provide Plotinus with raw material for explorations that range some way beyond Plato’s universe; and yet we may well believe that Plotinus would have denied that he was doing anything other than expounding Plato.78 The attitude to the authoritative text implicit in Plotinus is unexpectedly similar to that implied a century later in Proba’s own view – as interpreted by Scott McGill – of her cento, a work not commonly mentioned in the same breath as the Enneads: in both, though of course in very different ways, the production of something quite new is represented as the disclosure of something already in existence. The interpreter thus adopts a secondary position in relation to his or her authority, but at the same time can claim credit for having made plain what was formerly obscure, or (to put it another way) fulfilled the meaning latent in the text. This relation between Plato and his Neoplatonist disciples emerges very clearly in Robbert van den Berg’s investigation of Proclus’ commentary on Plato’s Cratylus in chapter 10. Just as commentary became the central mode of biblical interpretation in late Antiquity, so it dominated philosophical writing in the same period; similarly, interpretation itself, whether of the Bible or of philosophical authorities (not to mention the great poets), might move far beyond what would now – in the scholarly community, or most of it, at any rate – be considered acceptable limits. Van den Berg argues that Proclus converts a Platonic text essentially concerned with language – more precisely, ‘the nature of the names of things and their relation to things’ (p. 263) – into a work of theology. This is achieved through interpreting the etymological section concerning divine names – i.e. the names of divine beings – in the middle of the dialogue in a way consistent with Proclus’ metaphysical and psychological beliefs, even though elements of the interpretation appear to run counter to the position taken in the Cratylus itself: Socrates there rejects the use of etymologies as a source of knowledge about the gods, while for Proclus divine names, whether revealed to human beings through divine inspiration or constructed with the use of human intellectual capacity, contain truth and are, in different ways, of assistance to us in our attempts to return to the world of Being, which is our goal. In other words, Proclus’ reading of the Cratylus very obviously endows that text with a meaning for which there is very little support in the text itself; as Van den 19 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield Berg says (p. 262), ‘what … [the Neoplatonists] tried to do – although they would of course deny that they were doing such a thing – was to read their philosophy back into the Platonic corpus. Any original thought … was not presented as such, but as a new interpretation that was true to Plato.’ 79 What Proclus does with the Cratylus, then, is broadly similar to the approach to Plato followed by Plotinus – with the important difference that by the time of the fifth-century Athenian School, of which Proclus is the most important representative, Neoplatonism had undergone a process of theologizing. The philosophical life now included the practice of theurgic rituals;80 more relevant to the present discussion is that in this context Plato’s writings acquired an authority akin to that of a sacred text, from which Proclus and his school strove to derive a systematic theology.81 The parallel with Christian Scripture is easily drawn, and, as we have seen, both bodies of material could be made subject to a manner of exegesis that, it might be claimed, pushes the boundaries of explication to a point where it enters the land of creative rewriting. Another figure of pronounced philosophical interests, though not this time a professional philosopher, is the subject of chapter 9, by John Dillon. At around the end of the fourth century or the beginning of the fifth, John of Stobi, better known as Stobaeus, put together, with subject titles but without comment, a vast compilation of extracts from Greek literature from Homer to the orator and philosopher Themistius (d. c. 388), explicitly intended for the instruction and edification of his son, but no doubt with a wider readership in view. Like Nonius Marcellus, Stobaeus has tended to be valued principally as a repository of material that we would otherwise not possess, and certainly classical scholarship owes a great debt to the diligence of both men and their convictions about the worth of earlier texts. But just as some sense of Nonius himself can be derived from his ‘dictionary’,82 so the outlines of a picture of Stobaeus – about whom we have as little concrete information as we do about Nonius – may begin to emerge from consideration of the excerpts, and their arrangement, in at least parts of his anthology. This principle underlies Dillon’s examination of Stobaeus’ chapter on the soul (Book 1, ch. 49), a massive block of material running to more than 150 pages in the standard edition. This chapter, argues Dillon, is particularly well suited to the kind of analysis undertaken here, because Stobaeus is likely to have collected most of the passages he sets out himself, rather than drawing them from earlier compilations. The main contributors are the Neoplatonists Porphyry and Iamblichus, texts from the Hermetic corpus, and Plato himself. Dillon’s sequential reading of the chapter leads to the conclusion that it presents a coherent doctrinal position: Stobaeus has selected his extracts with care so as to provide ‘a well-rounded account of the late Platonist theory of 20 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity the soul’ (p. 258).83 The anthologizer’s silence on the texts he quotes, then, by no means implies an absence of critical reflection; and while readers are left to draw their own conclusions from the authorities provided, they are not left directionless. Which is to say that what Stobaeus does, at least in this part of his work, is more akin to commentary than one might at first suppose.84 The centrality of the Bible to Christianity did not, as we have seen, preclude the annexation of classical texts for Christian ends, and of all the great classical authorities it was Plato, with his notion of a single creating god or ‘demiurge’ and his understanding of the human soul, who most obviously lent himself to Christian use. Christian thought had been significantly influenced by Platonism from the early third century at least (the first important figure is Clement of Alexandria),85 and though polemical contrasts could be made by Church Fathers,86 a sense of affinity with and indeed admiration for Plato and the Platonic tradition is also widely evident in late-Antique Christianity.87 In chapter 11, Andrew Louth examines the Christian reception of Platonism in this period in regard to a single theme, that of providence (πρόνοια), a topic that would continue to inspire a great deal of writing and reflection to the very end of the Byzantine era. God’s providential care for his creation was always a fundamental tenet of Christianity, with scriptural authority;88 conversely, the religion had no place for the idea of fate, understood in the deterministic Stoic sense of a binding chain of causes. Louth’s study focuses on the ways in which two learned Christian thinkers, Origen, writing in Alexandria around ad 230, and the much less familiar Nemesios, bishop of Emesa in Syria towards the end of the fourth century, use Platonic material in setting out positions on the subject. In his De Principiis (On First Principles), Origen responds to the gnostic claim, based partly on the patent inequality of the human lot, that the world was not governed by providence. His argument draws on the myth of Er in the tenth book of the Republic, where differences in the human condition are explained as the consequence of decisions made prenatally by the individual soul: ‘blame lies with the one who chooses; god is blameless.’89 For Origen, the lot received by each soul in the material world is both in accord with the extent to which that soul turned away from God, in an act of free, rational choice, and so arranged as to provide the opportunity for that soul to realize its error and return, through a form of training, to the contemplation of God which it lost upon its fall: in all this God’s providence is evident. In Louth’s judgement, Origen’s use of Plato in making this case against the gnostic rejection of providence is highly significant in that it posed a serious problem for Christian belief, through the association of Plato’s myths of the soul with metempsychosis: the affinity Origen felt with Plato’s conviction of the centrality of providence in the ordering of the 21 Return to Table of Contents

J.H.D. Scourfield universe was deep enough to take him to the very edge of orthodoxy, and perhaps beyond. The importance of Plato for Nemesios is also apparent in his discussion of fate and providence in the treatise De Natura Hominis (On Human Nature). The matter is complicated, however, because what Nemesios takes to be Plato’s doctrine is filtered through a later Platonic commentary on the Timaeus, which over-emphasizes the importance of fate (εἱμαρμένη) in Plato’s thinking; in consequence, Nemesios finds himself obliged to criticize the teaching of ‘Plato’ about fate, while at the same time attributing to the philosopher what he holds to be the truth about providence. But the essential point as far as this volume is concerned is that, as Louth makes clear, Nemesios wants to make that identification of the truth with Plato’s teaching; for an erudite Christian bishop in late-fourth-century Syria, Plato’s authority remained something well worth having. A good deal has been said in this chapter about the authority of inherited texts in late Antiquity; rather less about the authority sought or acquired by the texts produced in the course of engagement with this inherited material. In some sense, all texts claim to be authoritative, but the creation of authority is more clearly marked as a goal or an outcome in certain cases than in others. In the complex and highly transformative negotiations between the classical tradition and Christianity exemplified by poets such as Juvencus and Proba, the idea of new authority taking the place of old (on which, however, it is heavily dependent) is sometimes made explicit: Juvencus boasts that he will surpass Homer and Virgil, the scribe who sends the Cento Probae to Arcadius sees in the poem Virgil ‘changed for the better’. More often, however, what we can construe is not a transfer of authority but an entrenchment and expansion of it. The Neoplatonist interpreters of Plato not only underline the master’s authority by making his work their object of study; in the very process of clarification and explication they establish their own. Christian commentators (of all kinds) on Scripture similarly build personal authority on the basis of that of their sacred texts; Claudian’s skilful exploitation of Virgilian verse is integral to his self-fashioning as the new Virgil, with the comparability of status which that implies; it might even be said that, paradoxically, it is Nonius’ insistence on the authority of the veteres that creates authority for him. Of course, authority cannot come into being simply by being asserted, and its achievement in any instance depends not only on the persuasive power of the text itself but on a whole range of predisposing factors; but the point I want to stress is that, for many late-Antique writers – as indeed for many earlier in Antiquity – the acquisition of authority rests very clearly on a relationship with existing authoritative texts. 22 Return to Table of Contents

Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity A curious but striking illustration of this may be found in a Christian writer who forms the subject of the final chapter in this volume, John Cassian. Just as in 384 Jerome had sought to establish his credentials as an ascetic teacher in his libellus on virginity (Letter 22) by invoking his dream, so about thirty-five years later Cassian, coming to Gaul with firm ideas about the monastic life and how current Gallic practices needed to be reformed, had to find a way of ensuring a hearing for his views; the task was all the more difficult because he was an outsider who espoused a brand of asceticism more rigorous than the local version. In chapter 13, Richard Goodrich investigates the means by which Cassian in his De Institutis attempts to convince his readers of his authority and win that hearing. Cassian builds his case partly on the first-hand experience he had acquired – or claimed to have acquired – among the monks of Egypt, but also, and much more interestingly, on an appeal to a great body of legislation, the instituta Aegyptiorum, laid down at a first-century Egyptian council, which governed all monastic practice: it was this code that he was communicating to the Gallic ascetics in the De Institutis. But as Goodrich demonstrates, there was no such code. Cassian’s authority is a fabrication, underpinned by a passage in Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History which Cassian adapts to suit his purpose and which already represents an imaginative Christianization of a passage in Philo concerning a group of Jewish ascetics; linked to the apostolic church through a passage in the Book of Acts; and given a divine gloss through the inclusion in Cassian’s account of its creation of a story about an angel with roots in fourth-century legend. By an intricate trick, which seeks to create conviction by various means including reference to the work of the authoritative and influential Eusebius, where Cassian’s readers can find confirmation of the story he tells about the early origins of Christian monasticism, Cassian acquires for himself an authoritative voice – a voice deriving from his knowledge of a text which bore the sanction of antiquity and of God himself, and which never existed. Acknowledgements

I should like to thank Monica Gale, Roger Green, Mark Humphries, Gerard O’Daly, and Bert van den Berg for their valuable comments on an earlier version of this chapter.

Notes

  Cf. Averil Cameron 1991, 17. In the decade and a half since the publication of this important book, positions in relation to the term ‘decline’ have in fact become more polarized. The utility of the concept in regard to late Antiquity is vigorously defended by Liebeschuetz 2001b, 233–8, whose perspective and affiliation are marked in the title 1

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J.H.D. Scourfield of Liebeschuetz 2001a; it is equally vigorously debated by his respondents (Liebeschuetz 2001b, 238–45). A more polemical assertion of its value and appropriateness is made by Ward-Perkins 2005, with a great deal of other provocative comment on contemporary historical writing on this period; see esp. his first and last chapters (1–10, 169–83). The issue remains alive, pace Clark 2004, 11, who asserts the abandonment by late-Antique historians of the ‘decline and fall’ grand narrative. My own preference for terms such as ‘transformation’ (see below) arises from many of the same considerations as those put forward by Averil Cameron at Liebeschuetz 2001b, 238–9.  2   Both connotations can claim a presence in the title of the magisterial work of Seeck 1895–1921 (‘Untergang’).  3   Cf. Averil Cameron 1991, 121–2. This particular notion of conflict is reified especially by the title of Momigliano 1963, an influential collection of essays; Momigliano’s own opening chapter takes us back to Gibbon again (‘Introduction: Christianity and the decline of the Roman empire’ [pp. 1–16]).  4   Teleological perspectives are, I think, unavoidable in history, as any attempt to explain anything involves looking back from a particular point; but once any such perspective is formed, it needs to be challenged, partly because it tends to efface the often very different, and certainly multiple, perspectives of those involved in the events embedded in the process, and partly because it tends to carry with it a strong sense of inevitability. This is the merit of counterfactual history. In the case of late Antiquity, to give one example, the reign of Julian is generally presented as a blip or a hiccup in the steady progress of Christianity to the dominant position it held at the end of the 4th century, but it is worth remembering that only one generation of emperors separates Julian from Constantine I, and asking how things might have been different if Julian had lived to (say) the 380s.  5   And paradigmatically instantiated in the title of the monograph series published by the University of California Press, ‘The Transformation of the Classical Heritage’ (Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London, 1981–), and of the series of volumes of papers published by Brill arising from the similarly-entitled European Science Foundation Research Networking Programme, ‘Transformation of the Roman World’ (Leiden, 1997–).  6   I owe this expression to Trout 2000.  7   See e.g. Salzman 2002, 200–19 on how, in the process of seeking to convert the Roman aristocracy, Christianity absorbed and was shaped by the values of that aristocracy.  8   It is telling that the titles of the two chapters (7 and 10) on literary culture in Liebeschuetz 2001a (for which see n. 1 above) speak of its ‘transformation’.  9   The 3rd century is less of a literary desert than is often suggested, but nonetheless the contrast is striking. ‘Restauration und Erneuerung’ is how the Latin literature of the period from 284 to 374 is characterized by Herzog–Schmidt, vol. 5. 10   Historically, even perceived high points have been subject to the downward gaze: an especially egregious example is afforded by Platnauer 1922, vol. 1, pp. xvi–xix, on Claudian, who, as regards his Latinity, ‘could … challenge comparison with poets such as Valerius Flaccus, Silius Italicus, and Statius – poets who flourished about three centuries before him’ (plainly such a thing could never have been expected), and who ‘even as a poet … is not always despicable’; we then turn the page and find ‘almost all post-Virgilian Latin poets’ damned for ‘the besetting sin’ of ‘a “conceited” frigidity’.

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Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity No serious scholar (I hope) would treat Claudian (or his 1st-century predecessors) so patronizingly now, but it would be optimistic to claim that the underlying attitude has been eradicated; cf. Averil Cameron 1998, 707, on Ammianus (and suggesting a further reason why late-Antique literature has suffered negative evaluation). 11   See below, pp. 11–13, 17–18, and chs. 6 and 7 (McGill and Whitby). 12   See Cod. Theod. 13.3.5 (17 June 362), with Julian, Ep. 61c Bidet; Amm. Marc. 22.10.7, 25.4.20. 13   The ‘debate’ is played out in Ambr. Ep. 17 and 18 (= Ep. 72 and 73 in CSEL 82) and Symm. Relat. 3, all three texts translated and helpfully contextualized in Croke and Harries 1982, 28–51; Liebeschuetz 2005, 61–94. 14   Jer. Ep. 22.30.3–6. 15   ‘You are a Ciceronian, not a Christian’: the words of the divine judge to Jerome at Jer. Ep. 22.30.4, gaining in force from the alliteration and rhyme. 16   Tert. De Praescr. Haeret. 7.9; for Augustine, the key texts are De Doctrina Christiana and De Civitate Dei. 17   See esp. Alan Cameron 1977 and 1984; but the theme, which derives ultimately from the redating of Macrobius in Cameron 1966, continues in later work. Cameron’s position is subjected to a broad-ranging and stimulating critique in Hedrick 2000, esp. ch. 3 (pp. 37–88), but this does not affect the point I am making here. 18   Alan Cameron 2004, 504. 19   Jerome’s account of his dream belongs to 384, six years before Theodosius I’s act of penance before Ambrose in Milan following the massacre at Thessalonica. 20   Cf. Alan Cameron 2004, 510: ‘The features previously identified as “pagan” in classical and classicizing literature are now more plausibly described as “secular”.’ This view is related to Cameron’s observation (2004, 507; cf. 1999, 119) that contemporary Christians themselves frequently referred to this literature by phrases such as saeculares litterae, ‘literature “of the world” ’ in Cameron’s formulation. There is certainly a gap, however, between modern notions of the ‘secular’ and ancient Christian notions of the saeculum, which often imply a negative contrast with the Christian ‘world’, and to use the word ‘secular’ as Cameron suggests is to risk importing into discussions of late Antiquity the sharp distinction that exists in the contemporary West between religion and ‘culture’. Classical texts could be secularized through particular kinds of reading, and Christians (even Church Fathers) did this, but to call them ‘secular’ is to efface the problem. This is not to argue that ‘pagan’, which ships its own problematic freight, is necessarily better, but to offer another illustration of how difficult it is to write about the period without distortion. 21   Alan Cameron 1999, 121. 22   The perspective received its formative crystallization in Brown 1971, and remains potent: see esp. Bowersock, Brown, and Grabar 1999. For the 8th-century terminus cf. Vessey 1998, 388 with n. 27, on the German term Spätantike; the whole article offers a rich study of the development of the idea of ‘late Antiquity’, with focus on Peter Brown and Henri-Irénée Marrou. The intellectual, political, and cultural contexts within which the concept of the ‘long’ late Antiquity became established are valuably discussed in Averil Cameron 2002. 23   Perhaps Constantinople too, if it was there that Eudocia was writing. 24   On literacy in the classical world the fundamental study is Harris 1989, whose estimates of literacy rates are consistently low across Antiquity as a whole (for example,

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J.H.D. Scourfield around 10–15% for Classical Athens, 10% for the Roman Republic prior to 100 bc [Harris 1989, 328 and 329]); the overall picture for late Antiquity (considered in detail at 285–322) is one of diminishing literacy, not greatly affected by Christianity (on which, however, see the criticism of Horsfall 1991, 73–5). 25   And it needs to be remembered too that ‘literate’ is not a straightforward category. Though related, reading and writing are different skills, and both admit of degrees; competence in one language implies nothing about competence in another; and even within a single language there are numerous generic and other codes which can render understanding impossible even by the literate. 26   For an excellent summary account, see Kaster 1999. 27   ‘La biblioteca di Babel’ (‘The Library of Babel’), first published in 1941. 28   In Humphries’ words, ‘the study of geography involved, above all, the study of earlier geographical texts’ (p. 55). 29   pp. 84–5 below. Chahoud locates Nonius in the years around ad 400; for this and other possible dates see pp. 69–70 with n. 6. 30   See Chahoud, pp. 79, 81. 31   See Chahoud, pp. 75–6. 32   For Varro’s work as a response to crisis, and as displaying nostalgia, see Conte 1994, 212. 33   ‘Code-models’ in a terminology which has gained some currency: see Conte 1986, 31; Hinds 1998, 41 with n. 46. 34   Suet. Gramm. 16.3, on Q. Caecilius Epirota; cf. Conte 1994, 284. 35   For MSS Vat. lat. 3225 and Vat. lat. 3867 see Wright 1993 and 2001 respectively, with Alan Cameron 2004 on problems of dating. Servius’ work is now generally dated to c. 420, Macrobius’ to c. 430. 36   Rees 2004, 1–2; the whole collection (Rees [ed.] 2004) is of great interest and relevance to the present volume. 37   The most interesting case is Augustine, on whom see above all the rich study of MacCormack 1998; note esp. her comment at 226: ‘Augustine’s engagement with Vergil was therefore sometimes in the nature of a dialogue and at other times in the nature of a confrontation.’ 38   See Wheeler, p. 118, pointing out that the epigram was plausibly composed by the poet himself. 39   Stat. Theb. 12.816–17; though the matter is not straightforward (see Hinds 1998, 91–5). 40   Similarly, in connecting the first line of Ol. Prob. with Dido’s invocation of the Sun at Aen. 4.607, Wheeler dismisses any idea that the curse Dido utters against Aeneas in her prayer should carry over into Claudian’s use of the Virgilian passage as a model. 41   See below, p. 11 with n. 51. 42   See Wheeler, p. 117 with n. 99. 43   Wheeler, p. 120, sees ‘epic pretensions’ in Eclogue 4, and all ancient hexameter poetry might be held to revert towards epic. 44   The number possibly chosen to correspond to the four Gospels; cf. Green 2004, 204; also Humphries, p. 43 below, on Irenaeus. 45   On the Old Latin versions of the Bible see below, n. 67. 46   For example, the use of abrumpere at 3.318 (p. 153); phrases such as ‘Dei monitu’ (1.160) (p. 142), or ‘talia dicenti’ and ‘simul his dictis’ in effecting transitions from direct

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Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity speech to narration (p. 144); the narrative tricolon at 1.155–7 (p. 140). 47   e.g. p. 145, on Juvenc. 1.175; p. 154, on 3.321–2. 48   Roberts 2004, 50. 49   For a highly suggestive parallel between cento and the use of spolia in the Arch of Constantine and other late-Antique architecture, see Elsner 2000, 176. 50   Helpfully discussed as a pair by Pollmann 2004. 51   See McGill, p. 176 with n. 24; Wheeler, p. 107 with nn. 61–2; for fuller discussion, MacCormack 1998, 21–31 (25–6 on Constantine’s Oratio ad Sanctorum Coetum). 52   For this identification of the addressee, see McGill, p. 186 n. 6. 53   Jer. Ep. 53.7.3. 54   Just so, the criticisms of Virgil made by his obtrectatores should be taken as an affirmation of his status; cf. Tarrant 1997, 59. 55   Ausonius, Cento Nuptialis, pref. ‘piget equidem Vergiliani carminis dignitatem tam ioculari dehonestasse materia’ (‘It is vexing to have degraded the grandeur of Virgil’s poetry by so jesting a theme’). 56   Cf. Malamud 1989, 37. 57   On the sortes Vergilianae (and much else that relates interestingly to the present discussion) see Den Hengst 2004; a connection with cento is made at 174–5. As Den Hengst indicates (174), Homer and the Bible were employed similarly; in the context of this chapter and in the light of Den Hengst’s analysis of the treatment of Virgil in the Historia Augusta, the passage quoted (173) from that work in which Virgil is described as ‘the Plato of poets’ (Alex. Sev. 31.4) is also highly suggestive (for Plato, see pp. 18–22 below). 58   At best, any religious truth present in Virgil was partial and subsidiary; cf. MacCormack 1998, 29–31, on Augustine’s understanding and use of the fourth Eclogue. 59   See pp. 314–15, 316–17. 60   In the allusions to Aen. 4.4 and 4.67 at Ep. 125.7.2 (see below, p. 314) the monk Rusticus is effectively identified with both Dido and Aeneas: the warning against succumbing to Dido-like passion is also a warning against being diverted from his Aeneas-like mission (for which see also Ep. 66.11.1, quoted in the previous paragraph). 61   For similar considerations in regard to the reading of cento, see below, pp. 17–18. 62   Incorporation into the picture of the conclusion to the Dido-Aeneas episode will have the effect of restoring the purpose originally in view, but it is simpler to regard the quotation of Aen. 4.28–9 at Jer. Ep. 79.7.8 as end-stopped in respect of the Virgilian context. The use of Aen. 4.548–52 and allusion to Dido’s death on the pyre in a similar context at Ep. 123.13 (see below, p. 317) is more straightforward. 63   For a wide-ranging discussion of how and how far early Christianity can appropriately be described in these terms see Stroumsa 2003. 64   Even in the 4th century, the canon of the New Testament was not firmly fixed: a canon of twenty-seven texts corresponding to the modern canon is explicitly recognized by Athanasios of Alexandria in his thirty-ninth Festal Letter, written in 367, but not everyone agreed. Similarly, the question whether the Old Testament canon should be restricted to the Hebrew texts accepted as canonical in Judaism divided Jerome from Augustine and others around the end of the century (and continues to divide churches today). For helpful brief discussions of canon development and associated issues in the early Church (the whole matter is immensely complex), see Grant 1970, Sparks 1970,

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J.H.D. Scourfield 532–5; for the New Testament, a full and fundamental account is provided by Metzger 1987. 65   See Green, p. 138 below, with n. 25. The case of the Greek New Testament is more complicated, but by ancient criteria none of its constituent texts could possibly be considered stylistically elevated; studies of its language have shown similarities with technical prose writing of the period (see Gamble 1995, 33–4). 66   Horsfall 1995, 250 properly reminds us that ‘public readings of Virgil continued into the late Empire and beyond’, but to hold that the text of Virgil achieved the degree of penetration in late-Antique society that we can suppose for the Bible would not be credible. 67   Jerome’s translations of the books of the Old Testament from the Hebrew, carried out in the last decade of the 4th century and the first decade of the 5th, did not win general acceptance for centuries (the Psalter never did), co-existing with (and crosscontaminating) the earlier ‘Old Latin’ versions based on the Septuagint; most surviving Old Latin manuscripts in fact date from the 5th to 8th centuries, with one as late as the 13th (Burton 2000, 7). See generally Kelly 1975, 159–62; Livingstone 1997, 1710–11, s.v. ‘Vulgate’, with helpful bibliography. 68   Cf. Scourfield 1993, 10–11, on Jerome’s attitude to his own translations of Scripture; Green 2004, 205 (citing at n. 14 August. Doctr. Christ. 2.37–40): ‘it may be doubted that the Church Fathers operated with a strict concept of the verbal inerrancy of the Bible.’ 69   Euseb. Hist. Eccl. 8.2.4; cf. Lactant. De Mort. Pers. 12.2. For an account of the persecution (mainly) under Diocletian, citing further evidence on the handing over and burning of the Scriptures, see Frend 1965, 491–505. The passionate and troubled dispute which consequently arose within the north African church concerning those who had complied with the imperial demand – the traditores, ‘surrenderers’ – is equally telling; on this see generally Frend 1952. 70   See Pollmann 2004, 87–92. 71   For the sake of convenience, I treat Eudocia here straightforwardly as the author of the centos, though there is in fact nothing straightforward about the attribution; for full discussion of the different versions, and the problems relating to authorship, see Whitby, ch. 7 below, esp. pp. 208–9, 218–19. 72   For a wide-ranging and stimulating discussion of the Doubting Thomas story and its many receptions, in art as well as text, see now Most 2005. 73   pp. 12–13, 14 above. 74   For the suggestion that Eudocia was inspired by Proba’s poem see Whitby, pp. 216–17 with nn. 128, 131. 75   Cf. e.g. Hor. Epist. 1.2. 76   See esp. Lamberton 1986. 77   Plato, Phdr. 242d, Symp. 203a–e. 78   Cf. Smith 2004, 5: ‘[Plotinus] would have regarded himself as a faithful Platonist expounding and clarifying the sometimes hidden implications of Plato’s own words … he probably genuinely thought that his often complete rethinking of Platonic metaphysics was an authentic representation of Plato’s real meaning.’ 79   Cf. generally the perceptive remarks of Obbink 2003, 177 on the nature of exegesis (introductory to a discussion of the Derveni papyrus): exegesis, explanation, is post factum, as something has to be already there to be explained; but ‘disguised in this is the

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Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity fact that something is made up or produced in the process’. 80   On theurgy, see Van den Berg, p. 275 n. 4 below; also Hadot 2002, 170–1; Smith 2004, 79–89. 81   See Van den Berg, pp. 262–3. 82   So Lindsay 1901 describes the De Compendiosa Doctrina. 83   There is, however, no trace of the teachings specific to the Athenian School (which may be relevant to the question of Stobaeus’ date): see p. 249, with n. 8. 84   In modern terms, there is certainly an element of ‘cf. e.g.’ about Stobaeus. 85   Traces of the Greek philosophical tradition are of course already apparent in the New Testament, notably in the prologue to John’s Gospel, which needs to be understood in the context of the philosophically-shaped thought-world of contemporary Hellenistic Judaism. For philosophical influence on Christianity to the time of Augustine generally, see Stead 1994. 86   Cf. e.g. Ambr. Exc. Sat. 2.35, Jer. Ep. 60.14.2, contrasting the idea found in the Phaedo (64a, 67e) of the philosophical life as a preparation for death (meditatio mortis) with Paul’s words (‘cotidie morior’, ‘every die I day’) at 1 Cor. 15.31. 87   Cf. e.g. Louth, p. 280 below, on Athanasios of Alexandria and Anastasios of Sinai. 88   Louth, p. 286, cites Ps. 90.11 and Matt. 10.29–31. 89   Plato, Resp. 10, 617e.

Bibliography

Ackroyd, P.R. and Evans, C.F. (eds.) 1970 The Cambridge History of the Bible. 1. From the Beginnings to Jerome, Cambridge. Bowersock, G.W., Brown, P., and Grabar, O. (eds.) 1999 Late Antiquity: A guide to the postclassical world, Cambridge, Mass. and London. Brown, P. 1971 The World of Late Antiquity: From Marcus Aurelius to Muhammad, London. Burton, P. 2000 The Old Latin Gospels: A study of their texts and language, Oxford. Cameron, Alan 1966 ‘The date and identity of Macrobius’, JRS 56, 25–38. 1977 ‘Paganism and literature in late fourth century Rome’, in Christianisme et formes littéraires de l’Antiquité tardive en occident, Entretiens sur l’Antiquité classique 23, Geneva, 1–40. 1984 ‘The Latin revival of the fourth century’, in W. Treadgold (ed.) Renaissances before the Renaissance: Cultural revivals of late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Stanford, 42–58. 1999 ‘The last pagans of Rome’, in W.V. Harris (ed.) The Transformations of Urbs Roma in Late Antiquity, JRA Supplement 33, Portsmouth, R.I., 109–21. 2004 ‘Vergil illustrated between pagans and Christians: reconsidering “the late-4th c. classical revival”, the dates of the manuscripts, and the places of production of the Latin classics’, JRA 17, 502–25.

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J.H.D. Scourfield Cameron, Averil 1991 Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The development of Christian discourse, Sather Classical Lectures 55, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London. 1998 ‘Education and literary culture’, in Averil Cameron and P. Garnsey (eds.) The Cambridge Ancient History. 13. The Late Empire, ad 337–425, Cambridge, 665–707. 2002 ‘The “long” late Antiquity: a late twentieth-century model’, in T.P. Wiseman (ed.) Classics in Progress: Essays on ancient Greece and Rome, Oxford, 165–91. Clark, G. 2004 Christianity and Roman Society, Cambridge. Conte, G.B. 1986 The Rhetoric of Imitation: Genre and poetic memory in Virgil and other Latin poets, Engl. tr., Ithaca, N.Y. and London. 1994 Latin Literature: A history, Engl. tr., rev. by D. Fowler and G.W. Most, Baltimore and London. Croke, B. and Harries, J. 1982 Religious Conflict in Fourth-Century Rome: A documentary study, Sydney. Den Hengst, D. 2004 ‘ “The Plato of poets”: Vergil in the Historia Augusta’, in Rees (ed.) Romane Memento, 172–88. Elsner, J. 2000 ‘From the culture of spolia to the cult of relics: the Arch of Constantine and the genesis of late Antique forms’, PBSR 68, 149–84. Frend, W.H.C. 1952 The Donatist Church: A movement of protest in Roman North Africa, Oxford. 1965 Martyrdom and Persecution in the Early Church: A study of a conflict from the Maccabees to Donatus, Oxford. Gamble, H.Y. 1995 Books and Readers in the Early Church: A history of early Christian texts, New Haven and London. Grant, R.M. 1970 ‘The New Testament canon’, in Ackroyd and Evans (eds.) The Cambridge History of the Bible 1, 284–308. Green, R. 2004 ‘Approaching Christian epic: the preface of Juvencus’, in M. Gale (ed.) Latin Epic and Didactic Poetry: Genre, tradition and individuality, Swansea, 203–22. Hadot, P. 2002 What is Ancient Philosophy?, Engl. tr., Cambridge, Mass. and London. Harris, W.V. 1989 Ancient Literacy, Cambridge, Mass. and London. Hedrick, C.W., Jr 2000 History and Silence: Purge and rehabilitation of memory in late Antiquity, Austin, Tex.

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Textual inheritances and textual relations in late Antiquity Hinds, S. 1998 Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of appropriation in Roman poetry, Cambridge. Horsfall, N. 1991 ‘Statistics or states of mind?’, in J.H. Humphrey (ed.) Literacy in the Roman World, JRA Supplement 3, Ann Arbor, Mich., 59–76. 1995 ‘Virgil’s impact at Rome: the non-literary evidence’, in N. Horsfall (ed.) A Companion to the Study of Virgil, Mnemosyne Supplement 151, 249–55. Kaster, R. 1999 ‘Education’, in Bowersock, Brown, and Grabar (eds.) Late Antiquity, 421–3. Kelly, J.N.D. 1975 Jerome: His life, writings, and controversies, London. Lamberton, R. 1986 Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist allegorical reading and the growth of the epic tradition, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 9, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London. Liebeschuetz, J.H.W.G. 2001a Decline and Fall of the Roman City, Oxford. 2001b ‘The uses and abuses of the concept of “decline” in later Roman history or, Was Gibbon politically incorrect?’, in L. Lavan (ed.) Recent Research in LateAntique Urbanism, JRA Supplement 42, Portsmouth, R.I., 233–45. 2005 Ambrose of Milan: Political Letters and Speeches. Translated with an introduction and notes, Translated Texts for Historians 43, Liverpool. Lindsay, W.M. 1901 Nonius Marcellus’ Dictionary of Republican Latin, Oxford. Livingstone, E.A. (ed.) 1997 The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, 3rd edn, Oxford. MacCormack, S. 1998 The Shadows of Poetry: Vergil in the mind of Augustine, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 26, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London. Malamud, M.A. 1989 A Poetics of Transformation: Prudentius and classical mythology, Cornell Studies in Classical Philology 49, Ithaca, N.Y. and London. Metzger, B.M. 1987 The Canon of the New Testament: Its origin, development, and significance, Oxford. Momigliano, A. (ed.) 1963 The Conflict between Paganism and Christianity in the Fourth Century, Oxford. Most, G.W. 2005 Doubting Thomas, Cambridge, Mass. and London. Obbink, D. 2003 ‘Allegory and exegesis in the Derveni papyrus: the origin of Greek scholarship’, in G.R. Boys-Stones (ed.) Metaphor, Allegory, and the Classical Tradition: Ancient thought and modern revisions, Oxford, 177–88. Platnauer, M. (ed.) 1922 Claudian, 2 vols., Loeb Classical Library 135–6, Cambridge, Mass. and London.

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J.H.D. Scourfield Pollmann, K. 2004 ‘Sex and salvation in the Vergilian cento of the fourth century’, in Rees (ed.) Romane Memento, 79–96. Rees, R. 2004 ‘Introduction’, in Rees (ed.) Romane Memento, 1–16. Rees, R. (ed.) 2004 Romane Memento: Vergil in the fourth century, London. Roberts, M. 2004 ‘Vergil and the Gospels: the Evangeliorum Libri IV of Juvencus’, in Rees (ed.) Romane Memento, 47–61. Salzman, M.R. 2002 The Making of a Christian Aristocracy: Social and religious change in the western Roman empire, Cambridge, Mass. and London. Scourfield, J.H.D. 1993 Consoling Heliodorus: A commentary on Jerome, Letter 60, Oxford. Seeck, O. 1895–1921  Geschichte des Untergangs der antiken Welt, 6 vols., Berlin. Smith, A. 2004 Philosophy in Late Antiquity, London and New York. Sparks, H.F.D. 1970 ‘Jerome as Biblical scholar’, in Ackroyd and Evans (eds.) The Cambridge History of the Bible 1, 510–41. Stead, C. 1994 Philosophy in Christian Antiquity, Cambridge. Stroumsa, G.G. 2003 ‘Early Christianity – a religion of the book?’, in M. Finkelberg and G.G. Stroumsa (eds.) Homer, the Bible, and Beyond: Literary and religious canons in the ancient world, Jerusalem Studies in Religion and Culture 2, 153–73. Tarrant, R.J. 1997 ‘Aspects of Virgil’s reception in Antiquity’, in C. Martindale (ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Virgil, Cambridge, 56–72. Trout, D. 2000 Review of Hedrick, History and Silence, BMCRev 2000.07.11. Vessey, M. 1998 ‘The demise of the Christian writer and the remaking of “late Antiquity”: from H.-I. Marrou’s Saint Augustine (1938) to Peter Brown’s holy man (1983)’, JECS 6, 377–411. Ward-Perkins, B. 2005 The Fall of Rome and the End of Civilization, Oxford. Wright, D.H. 1993 The Vatican Vergil: A masterpiece of late Antique art, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and Oxford. 2001 The Roman Vergil and the Origins of Medieval Book Design, London.

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2 A NEW CREATED WORLD: CLASSICAL GEOGRAPHICAL TEXTS AND CHRISTIAN CONTEXTS IN LATE ANTIQUITY Mark Humphries

1. Introduction. Pagans and Christians in a shared universe? Few episodes in the conflict between paganism and Christianity in late Antiquity are so well documented or have attracted so much attention as the debate in 384 over the removal of the Altar of Victory from the Senate-house in Rome. A dossier of three ‘letters’ details the dispute.1 The first is the famous third relatio (official communication) written to the young western emperor Valentinian II by the prefect of Rome, Quintus Aurelius Symmachus. He was writing on behalf of pagans in the Senate who wanted the restoration of the altar, which had been removed two years earlier by Valentinian’s elder half-brother and predecessor, Gratian. The second letter, requesting a copy of Symmachus’ relatio from the emperor, was penned by Ambrose, the redoubtable bishop of Milan, in whose city Valentinian’s imperial court was located. The third document, also by Ambrose, is more problematic: although cast as a letter to Valentinian, providing the emperor with a detailed rebuttal of the senator’s arguments, it seems instead to have been composed as an oration after the pagan petition had been rejected.2 In it, Ambrose gave a point-bypoint demolition of Symmachus’ arguments that maintenance of the empire’s security depended on piety towards the traditional gods of the Roman state, and that therefore the Altar of Victory should be restored forthwith. In his relatio, Symmachus had asked Valentinian: ‘Who is so friendly with the barbarians that he has no need of the Altar of Victory?’3 Ambrose’s counterargument was strident: the person who did not need the Altar of Victory was the Christian emperor who ‘has learned to honour the altar of Christ alone’.4 Ambrose’s rejection of Symmachus’ arguments encompassed a new Christian theology of victory that he had been formulating for some years, and which saw success as coming not from the pagan gods, but from faith in Jesus Christ. When Gratian had set out to do battle with the Goths in the late 370s, Ambrose had assured him that his Christian faith would guarantee him 33 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries victory: ‘Go forth, sheltered by the shield of faith, and girt with the sword of the spirit; go forth to victory, promised from antiquity, and foretold in the prophecies of God.’5 On the face of it, Symmachus’ and Ambrose’s arguments seem to exclude entirely each other’s validity. Yet for all that, Symmachus had written to Valentinian in the belief that in seeking to ensure victory there was room for both pagan and Christian views. In the course of his letter, he made his famous, sad plea for religious toleration: We see the same stars, and share the same sky; the same earth surrounds us. What does it matter what scheme of thought is used to seek out the truth? It is not possible to reach such a great mystery by one road alone.6

So far as Symmachus was concerned, all his fellow senators – whether pagan or Christian – would have shared, at the most basic level, a similar vision of the cosmos (stars, sky, and earth). If what divided them was the theological framework within which they interpreted it, Symmachus remained confident that there was still enough common ground to allow room for both religious approaches. In this chapter, I want to explore the wider background to this position, showing just how gravely misplaced was Symmachus’ confidence. For the sake of clarity and coherence, I propose to concentrate on just one strand of Symmachus’ assertion, that ‘the same earth’ surrounded both pagans and Christians; in other words, I am concerned here with late-Antique perceptions of the earth, with geography. This might seem an over-narrow focus, but the ancients themselves – in both the classical and the late-Antique period – asserted that geography was embedded in broader ideas about the nature of the universe (see section 3 below). By looking at views of the earth, I hope to shed light on wider cosmological notions, demonstrating that precisely because, to use Symmachus’ terms, pagans and Christians took different routes in their quest for the truth, they saw the world around them, and the cosmos as a whole, very differently. My focus will be on the ways in which ancient geographical texts were utilized by Christian authors and audiences in late Antiquity, between the fourth century and the sixth, particularly in the Latin west.7 I will argue that the different perceptions of the cosmos held by classical pagans and late-Antique Christians had an impact on the way in which the geographical tradition of classical Antiquity was used and manipulated by its Christian inheritors. In order to understand these differences, it will be necessary, therefore, to consider the place of geography in the classical/pagan and late-Antique/Christian categories of knowledge respectively (section 3). Then I will examine the use to which late-Antique Christians put the geographical inheritance of Antiquity (section 4). This will 34 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts encompass both how classical geographical texts were to be read in a Christian context, and how the rudiments of classical geography were adapted for use by Christian authors. It will emerge that although classical geographical texts were preserved through late Antiquity and into the Middle Ages, the ways in which they were perceived were subject to shifts as pagan culture gave way to the civilization of medieval Christendom. At the same time, however, this use and re-use of classical geography shows some element of continuity between the geographical knowledge of pagan Antiquity and its Christian successor. Thus there is a tension between, on the one hand, a dramatic shift in the way in which geographical knowledge was understood and, on the other hand, the reality that late-Antique and early medieval Christian notions of geography often depended heavily on their classical pagan precursors. To throw this apparent paradox into high relief, I begin (section 2) with an examination of two depictions of the world, separated in time by some twelve centuries, that show the distance between pagan and Christian geographies, as well as the close links that exist between them. 2. Poles apart? World and universe in pagan Antiquity and medieval Christendom A neat epitome of the close connection between classical pagan views of the physical, terrestrial world and broader conceptions of the cosmos as a whole may be found in the third book of the elder Pliny’s Natural History. Here the author set out to describe the geography of the whole world.8 He began with Europe, ‘the nurse of the people who have conquered all nations, and by far the most beautiful region of the earth’.9 When he came to describe Italy, he took stock of the importance of his subject: I know full well that it would be considered characteristic of an ungrateful and lazy mentality (and deservedly so), if my observations of Italy – a land that is the nurseling and mother of all other lands – were casual and superficial. Italy was chosen by the divine inspiration of the gods to enhance the renown of heaven itself, to unite scattered empires, to make customs and manners more gentle, and, by the sharing of a common language, to bring together the disparate, wild tongues of many nations, that is, to give mankind civilization. To put it succinctly, Italy was to become the sole patria of all races throughout the world.10

In Pliny’s cosmology, Europe was the most important part of the inhabited world, and Italy its crowning glory. Moreover, such a circumstance seemed inescapably to show the design of the gods.11 It is hard to imagine how Pliny, living under Flavian emperors, could have thought otherwise: the importance of Italy under the guiding influence of the gods was self-evident in Rome’s imperial might. 35 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries Contrast Pliny’s vision with that found in the famous Hereford mappamundi compiled by Richard of Haldingham in the late thirteenth century. The world is shown as a disk, with the three continents of Europe, Asia, and Africa grouped around the Mediterranean, and the whole surrounded by water. Although the map contains much that has been taken to demonstrate that its compiler was concerned in some sense to give what modern cartographers would call an accurate account of certain topographical features,12 its depiction of the earth is primarily symbolic. At the top of the map is the figure of the Risen Christ in majesty flanked by angels; the largest item shown on the map is the tower of Babel; and the centre of the world is fixed on Jerusalem.13 In the Hereford mappamundi, then, we have an explicitly Christian cosmology, centred on the Holy City of Jerusalem, and shaped by the hand of God. Between this view and Pliny’s there seems to lie an enormous gulf that epitomizes, albeit in rather extreme fashion, the fundamental shift in world-views that occurred in late Antiquity. It would appear to highlight the fragility of Symmachus’ hope in the shared universe of his pagan and Christian peers, the tendency of whose views might be seen as represented by Pliny and the Hereford mappamundi respectively. The shape of the world envisioned by Pliny is ideologically and conceptually that of the self-confident pagan Roman state of the mid-first century ad, which emphasized the centrality of Rome and Italy, whose achievement of political dominance was a palpable sign of the pax deorum. The image in the Hereford mappamundi is ideologically and conceptually that of medieval Christ­endom, of a world that saw at its centre Jerusalem and the Holy Land, those places where, through the Incarnation and Resurrection, God’s compasses had touched the face of the earth. Yet if, on the face of it, Pliny and the Hereford map seem to illustrate two utterly unrelated cosmological views, closer inspection shows that the reality is more complex. In the bottom left-hand corner of the Hereford mappamundi, almost unrecognizable in the garb of a medieval monarch, sits the emperor Augustus, handing three men a commission to describe the world. These are identified in captions as Nicodemus, Theodotus, and Policlitus, men named by the text known as the Cosmographia Iulii Caesaris as having been entrusted by Julius Caesar with measuring the world, and who completed their task under Augustus.14 Of course, this does not mean that the Hereford map directly reproduces ancient Roman descriptions of the world. In fact, the compiler of the Hereford map conflates the geographical endeavours of Caesar and Augustus with another enterprise. Above the figure of Augustus is a caption taken from Luke’s Gospel (2.1): ‘Lucas in euuangelio: exiit edictum ab Augusto Cesare [sic] ut describeretur huniuersus [sic] orbis’ (‘Luke [says] in his Gospel: a decree went out from Augustus Caesar 36 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts that the whole world should be enrolled [or, described]’). The compiler of the Hereford map has understood the verb describere to mean a cartographic enterprise rather than a census – implying, therefore, that Joseph and the pregnant Mary travelled from Nazareth to Bethlehem to satisfy the demands of officious mapmakers!15 What we have in the Hereford mappamundi, then, is ancient geography seen through the refracting lens of Christian belief. Moreover, this was an interrelationship that traced its origins back to late Antiquity. In the lower right-hand border of the Hereford map is another caption that declares: ‘descriptio Orosii de ornesta mundi sicut interius ostenditur’ (‘Orosius’ description of the ornesta of the world, as is displayed within’).16 Thus the map claims to reflect the description of the world given in Paulus Orosius’ Seven Books of Histories against the Pagans.17 Now Orosius, who wrote his work after the Goths sacked Rome in 410, was a near-contemporary of Symmachus. Hence the Hereford mappamundi can be said to represent in visual form a Christian cosmological and geographical tradition stretching back to the same time that Symmachus had claimed that pagans and Christians were surrounded by the same stars, sky, and earth. As we will see later (section 4.iii), Orosius’ description of the world, while it was made to serve a Christian conception of God’s role in human history, took its form and content from classical antecedents. So for all the appearance of an impassable chasm between them, the classical pagan and medieval Christian world-views were in some sense related. 3. Form and function in classical and late-Antique geography In both pagan classical Antiquity and Christian late Antiquity, the form taken by geographical texts was intimately related to the place occupied by geography in contemporary taxonomies of knowledge. Moreover, in both periods, the conception of geography was intimately related to broader notions about the cosmos. By setting these different conceptions side by side, I aim to clarify the framework within which the late-Antique Christian use of classical geography operated. i. Geography and ideology in the Roman Empire In these days of increasing intellectual specialization, geography seems, to outsiders at any rate, a discrete academic discipline.18 Ancient authors, however, took a different view.19 In the early first century ad, Strabo had asserted that a geographer needed to be a polymath, with a strong grasp of geometry and astronomy: ‘the special branch of geography represents a union of meteorology’ – which to Strabo would have meant astronomy also – ‘and geometry, since it unites terrestrial and celestial phenomena as being very closely related, and in no sense separated from each other.’ 20 Indeed, he 37 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries thought that geography was a proper endeavour for the philosopher.21 Not everyone shared his enthusiasm. Cicero, advised by his friend Atticus to write a geographical work, quickly despaired of ever completing a task that was so laborious and, worse, allowed him no opportunity for literary flair.22 But geography was not just an abstruse philosophical discipline: not only did it, like any branch of ancient learning, contribute to that shared sense of cultural values which united the social and political elite; it also constituted part of the educational panoply that enabled them to rule. Strabo, indeed, was in no doubt as to the utility of his subject to statesmen and generals amongst others.23 In addition to being a subject of practical and political utility, ancient geography encompassed areas of enquiry that would be considered distinct from its modern descendant. Ethnography, for instance, was considered part of geography.24 This link is easily comprehensible if we consider the interrelationship that was held to exist between the characteristics of any given people and the quality of the lands they inhabited: the medical writings of the Hippocratic corpus, for example, include a work on Airs, Waters, Places, in which the link between natural environment and national character is neatly articulated.25 If geography was not a discrete discipline, neither were its exponents averse to writing works that we would categorize as belonging to different genres or areas of enquiry: Strabo’s monumental Geography was conceived of as a companion to his Histories.26 Similarly, works that we would think of as belonging to other genres or disciplines often included markedly geographical elements, such as the ethnographic digressions that characterize the writings of classical historians.27 Ancient geography – like the geography produced in any era – enshrined some of the preconceptions of the culture in which it was embedded, but these are facets that we may miss if we impose our own cultural assumptions and expectations onto classical geographical writings.28 Ancient descriptions of nature simultaneously reacted to how the world is and interpreted the world by projecting broader ideological preconceptions onto it. In particular, humankind occupied a central place in this world-view, either as the zenith of creation or as a frame of reference against which everything else was interpreted.29 Ancient geography reflected this perspective: according to Strabo ‘the peculiar task of the geographer’ was not the description of the whole world, a task that was really the domain of the geometrician, but rather of its inhabited regions.30 In addition, the realities of political power could influence ancient geographical preconceptions. We have already seen how Pliny the Elder’s description of Italy reflected contemporary ideologies of the place of Rome and its empire in the gods’ plan for humankind. Strabo, writing a half-century earlier, similarly meditated upon Roman power as he 38 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts described Italy. He appended to his description of the peninsula ‘a summary account also of the Romans who took possession of it [i.e. Italy] and equipped it as a base of operations for their universal hegemony’, going on to remark that even the Parthians, whose realm lay beyond the empire’s eastern frontier, accepted Roman pre-eminence, recognizing Rome’s right to appoint client kings in the Middle East.31 Indeed, Strabo’s description of the world as a whole seems to accord well with other early-imperial notions that Rome’s dominion extended not just over the provinces, but also, in some sense, over the barbarians, even unto the ends of the earth.32 Strabo was writing not long after Ovid had claimed that ‘Romanae spatium est urbis et orbis idem’ (‘the space for the city of Rome is the same as that of the world’), and Virgil had famously made Jupiter himself promise the Romans an ‘imperium sine fine’ (‘sovereignty without end’).33 This ideological geography is most familiar in terms of the binary opposition of ‘self ’ and ‘other’ in ancient descriptions of non-Greeks and non-Romans. Life among such barbarians was frequently conceived of as an inversion of the civilized behaviour found among Greeks and Romans, and thus served to reinforce notions of the normality and supremacy of life at the heart of the inhabited world. This negative image of barbarians – from fifth-century bc Persians to late-Antique Huns – has received most attention in recent scholarship,34 but it was not the only portrayal possible. In addition to reinforcing Graeco-Roman notions of their own normality and superiority, barbarians could also be idealized, thereby providing a contrast that highlighted not the superiority but the failings of life in the central inhabited regions. For example, Tacitus’ description of the moral rectitude of the Germans (who, by his reckoning, lived by the shores of Ocean, at the very limits of the inhabited world) served to excoriate the depravity into which the historian saw the Romans of his own day as having sunk.35 Tacitus’ description of these noble Germans was by no means merely the idiosyncratic complaint of a particularly grumpy moral conservative. It belonged to a wider tendency to see at the edges of the earth not only the perversion and inversion of the norms of civilization, but also residues of the idealized Golden Age which had departed from the more central occupied regions of the world. Such far-flung lands were, as the elder Pliny remarks of the remoter parts of Africa and India, ‘especially full of wonders’. The land was extra­ordinarily fecund, meaning that there was never any threat of famine, and the inhabitants of these regions enjoyed, in addition to these extra­ordinary natural resources, such physiological benefits as longevity and freedom from sickness.36 Moreover, these wonders were explicable in terms of a moral design to the cosmos. Peoples such as the Ethiopians, Indians, and Hyper­boreans were famed for their moral rectitude and for 39 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries enjoying at the same time close relations with the gods, who frequently came to feast among them.37 It is easy to patronize such descriptions as products of ignorance,38 but to do so is to miss their essence. What they show is that ancient geography provided a means not just for describing what we would consider empirically observable phenomena, but for mapping onto the world a comprehensible vision of the universe.39 In the discussion of classical geography so far, I have concentrated on a succession of works of what used to be termed ‘high literature’; but there existed in Antiquity other geographical writings and not all of them were conceived on a scale similar to that of Strabo or Pliny. There has been a tend­ency, perhaps, to take works such as those of Strabo and Pliny as somehow ‘normative’, possibly because their apparent empirical research and technical precision (at least in those sections devoted to the central regions of the Mediterranean world) correspond neatly to what is expected of modern geographers. As a result, some of the other geographical works that have come down to us, such as Pomponius Mela’s De Chorographia, have been dismissed as inferior or as technical failures.40 Moreover, ancient geographical discourse encompassed a variety of types. Some of these texts were very bald indeed, such as the lists of staging posts on land or sea journeys that make up works like the Antonine Itinerary.41 Other works concerned with geographical space could take the form of technical treatises, such as those that make up the body of writings recounting the activities of the Roman land-surveyors, the agrimensores.42 Such works, whether the spare enumeration of distances along roads or the highly technical instructions for the division of land in cities and their surrounding territories, were nevertheless statements of Roman culture’s view of its relationship with the natural world. By listing roads and giving instructions for land survey, such works showed how Roman civilization sought to extend its control over and impose its identity upon newly conquered territory.43 Works concerned with geographical matters could also take the form of provincial lists or glossaries of different types of geographical features.44 Provincial lists, itineraries, and glossaries continued to be compiled throughout the Roman period and into late Antiquity, when they provided the basis for the forms of geographical discourse used by Christians. ii. Geography as exegesis in early and late-Antique Christianity The geographical endeavours of late-Antique Christians were similarly concerned not simply to describe the world, but also to map ideological perceptions onto it. Christians, like the Jews, saw the world as the stage upon which was played out a mighty cosmic drama, and of particular interest to them, therefore, was the geography of the lands of the Bible.45 That this would 40 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts have ramifications for the study and writing of geography was clear to no less a mind than that of Augustine of Hippo. In his De Doctrina Christiana, in which he set out his agenda for those studies of use for the exegesis of Holy Scripture, Augustine noted that an understanding of biblical geography was necessary if the significance of certain passages in the Bible was not to remain hidden.46 He commended, therefore, the efforts of various experts in the [Hebrew] language [who] have rendered no small service to posterity by explaining all these individual words from the scriptures and giving the meaning of the names Adam, Eve, Abraham, and Moses, and of placenames such as Jerusalem, Zion, Jericho, Sinai, Lebanon, Jordan, and any other names in that language that are unfamiliar to us.47

Augustine perhaps had in mind works like Jerome’s Liber Interpretationis Hebraicorum Nominum, on the names of characters in the Bible, and Liber Locorum, on topographical concerns.48 Jerome’s latter work on biblical place-names, however, was based largely on a Greek precursor, Eusebius of Caesarea’s Onomasticon.49 This work, compiled in the early fourth century, had proved popular and had already been translated into Latin (in an inferior fashion, it would seem) before it attracted Jerome’s attentions.50 It provided an alphabetical list of place-names from the Bible fleshed out, in varying degrees of detail, with allusions to, quotations from, and discussions of passages from Scripture. Eusebius’ Onomasticon, the Latin versions inspired by it, and Augustine’s observations on place-names in Scripture in the De Doctrina Christiana show that the study of geography was becoming part of the Christian tradition of biblical exegesis. Eusebius’ work and the Latin version of it by Jerome were based on their authors’ knowledge of the geography of the Holy Land and of Hebrew. Others too took an active interest in Holy Land topography as a means to correct biblical interpretation. According to Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History, the second-century bishop of Sardis in Asia Minor, Melito, travelled to the Holy Land in an effort to establish which books of Jewish Scripture might be considered to constitute the Old Testament for the Christian Church.51 His interests seem to have extended to topographical matters too, if we are to judge from comments in his Peri Pascha that the location of Christ’s crucifixion was to be found not outside the city of Jerusalem, but within its limits.52 Melito was the first of many Christians who visited the Holy Land as pilgrims in search of insights into Scripture. The Spanish lady Egeria, in her record of her pilgrimage to the Holy Land in the early 380s, emphasizes how acquaintance with the lands of the Bible lent a special intensity to her understanding of Scripture. She recounts how she travelled through Sinai 41 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries in the footsteps of Moses and the Israelites escaping Egypt.53 She sometimes recalls how her visits to sites mentioned in the Bible were accompanied by apposite readings from the Bible.54 Above all, she bears witness to the dizzying experience that many devout pilgrims who visited the Holy Land at Easter must have felt when they listened to readings about Christ’s Passion ‘on the same day … and in the same place’ as the events they described.55 Egeria’s account of her travels is one of a number of literary by-products generated by Holy Land pilgrimage in late Antiquity. Although Egeria’s is written as an autobiographical travel diary, others took a form highly derivative from classical geographical works. One of the earliest examples of pilgrimage literature recounts the visit of a pilgrim from Bordeaux in 333. This text gives a detailed description of the route taken to and from the eastern Mediterranean. It lists the roads taken, staging posts, cities travelled through, and provincial boundaries crossed: as such, it is analogous to the earlier Antonine Itinerary.56 However, it makes occasional references to points of interest along the route: at Viminacium in Moesia, the pilgrim records that this was ‘where Diocletian killed Carinus’; passage through Pella in Macedonia prompts the comment ‘Alexander the Great was from here’; while at Tyana in Cappadocia, it is noted that ‘Apollonius the magician was from here’.57 Side by side with these references to the classical past are others to Christian history: Philippi in Macedonia is identified as the place ‘where Paul and Silas were imprisoned’, while at Tarsus in Cilicia, the pilgrim notes ‘Paul the apostle was from here’.58 When the account reaches the Holy Land, its character changes: entries on the historical significance of sites refer exclusively to biblical events.59 Thus the Bordeaux pilgrim’s itinerary shows how an established classical geographical genre could be adapted to suit the needs of a new Christian world-view. Just as the travel accounts of Christian pilgrims developed out of existing genres, so too the catalogues of Holy Land topography represented by Eusebius’ Onomasticon and Jerome’s Liber Locorum, while they certainly had a distinctively Christian function, did not represent a Christian innovation in geographical writing. In the second century ad, Diogenianus had produced a lexicon of cities throughout the world; while, perhaps as late as the fourth or fifth century, Vibius Sequester had produced a list of place-names used in Latin poetry.60 Similarly, catalogues of, for example, the topography of Jerusalem were comparable to secular works, such as the catalogues describing the different regions of Rome and Constantinople.61 Indeed, the interrelationship between catalogues of biblical and non-biblical topography was so close that, in the sixth century, the Illyrian author Count Marcellinus (best known for his chronicle) could combine both strands in a work in four short books (libelli) describing the cities of Constantinople and Jerusalem.62 42 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts Hence we have a close relationship between late-Antique Christian geographical writings and their pagan classical precursors. In the early Roman Empire, geographical writings had emphasized Rome’s dominance over the inhabited world and had seen this as reflecting the design of the gods for humankind. A divine conception of the shape of the world was also important for the geographical output of late Antiquity. By now, however, this divine plan was that of the Christian God, and the geographical focus of such works was the Holy Land, where, through biblical history and the Incarnation, God’s scheme for humankind had been made evident on earth. And yet, different though these world-views certainly were, they were closely related, as the format of Christian geographical writings was standardly developed out of classical precursors. This arose from two interrelated factors. In the first place, there was no autonomous Christian geographical tradition, so that Christian authors of late Antiquity were compelled to adopt and adapt existing models of geographical writing. Secondly, late Antiquity saw an increasing interface between established classical modes of discourse and those adopted by the Christian Church developing within the classical world:63 as part of this process, Christians interested in geographical matters manipulated and reinvented for their own use formats used in some kinds of classical geographical writings. In turn, this was to have an impact on the preservation of classical geographical texts and thought through late Antiquity and into the Middle Ages. 4. Classical geography in a Christian context That the format of Christian geographical works depended on classical models is just one aspect of the complex interrelationship between pagan/ classical and late-Antique/Christian geography. In addition, Christians were quite happy to pillage classical geography for ideas that suited a Christian vision of the universe. At the same time as Melito of Sardis was travelling around the Holy Land in order to satisfy his curiosity about the Old Testament, for example, Irenaeus of Lyons was deploying classical geographical and meteorological data to demonstrate the truth of his own views on Christian orthodoxy. Thus, to support his argument that there could be only four canonical gospels, he asserted: There cannot be either more or fewer gospels than there are. Since there are four regions of the world in which we exist, and four principal winds, and since the Church, spread out over the whole world, has for a column and support the Gospel and the Spirit of life, consequently it has four columns, from all sides breathing imperishably and making men live.64

Irenaeus was plainly looking back to a geographical tradition about a fourfold 43 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries division of the earth found, for example, in the fourth-century bc historian Ephorus.65 Indeed, Ephorus’ scheme won approval from other Christian writers such as Cosmas Indicopleustes, who, in the sixth century, angrily denied notions that the world was spherical.66 Plainly, the geographical inheritance of Antiquity was useful to early and late-Antique Christians, which in no small measure explains the survival of various works of classical geography. This section will examine ways in which classical geography was used and manipulated by Christian readers and authors in late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, beginning with the mechanisms through which ancient geographical texts survived, and then proceeding to two analyses of late-Antique texts that show the influence of the classical tradition in a new Christian context. i. The survival of classical geography in Christian late Antiquity The reasons for the survival of geographical texts from classical Antiquity are many and varied, and it would be impossible to review all of them here. I propose instead to show how such works were still considered useful to Christian readers, and how this had a bearing on their survival. Of course, it was not purely exegetical concerns that dictated the preservation of such texts. The writings of the agrimensores, for example, had a practical utility that did not disappear with the fall of the Roman Empire: people still needed to survey land, and the various technical treatises that come under the heading of the agrimensores provided valuable instruction in how this might be done.67 Similarly, early medieval kings, like Roman emperors before them, had use for geography. Examination of the anonymous early-eighth-century Ravenna Cosmography suggests that in the years around 500, geographical studies flourished at the Ravenna court of the Ostrogothic king of Italy, Theoderic. Such geographical endeavours seem to have been undertaken to assist the king in his diplomacy with lands beyond his kingdom.68 Such contexts fostered an atmosphere in which classical geography was still considered useful and which facilitated its survival. At the same time, and bearing in mind the habits of early medieval copyists, it was generally the case that short works stood a better chance of preservation intact in the early Middle Ages. An example is C. Iulius Solinus’ Collectanea Rerum Memorabilium: this popular work, cobbled together from various bits of Pliny and Pomponius Mela, did much to pass on the geographical inheritance of Antiquity to the medieval world.69 The question of the utility of ancient geographical works for late-Antique Christians has been considered already in connection with Augustine’s injunction that those wishing to obtain a comprehensive understanding of the Bible should pay attention to its geography (section 3.ii above). 44 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts Augustine, as we have seen, recommended to his readers those works that provided glossaries of biblical place-names. In addition, however, Christians in late Antiquity also looked to the works of classical geographers for insights into the world of the Bible. Such Christian interest extended even to the coupling of classical geographical works with books of the Bible in individual manuscript codices. This arose out of a relatively common practice in late-Antique libraries, where it was only very rarely that a single codex would (or even could) contain the entire Bible. Instead, selected books of the Old and New Testaments were bound in codices with works that would help readers interpret Scripture.70 Most commonly, these would comprise existing commentaries, or collections of sermons and homilies on a particular text, but occasionally geographical material was included. For example, the catalogue of Roman provinces known as the ‘Verona List’, much debated by historians for the light it may shed on the administrative reforms of Diocletian (284–305), occurs as part of a collection of geographical texts, including also the Cosmographia of one Julius Honorius, appended to a seventh-century manuscript of the Vulgate text of I–IV Kings (i.e. I–II Samuel and I–II Kings in modern Bibles).71 This might seem an unusual juxtaposition of texts, but Cassiodorus described how it might occur in his description of the library he assembled (or purported to have assembled) for the monastery he established in the sixth century at Vivarium (modern Squillace) in southern Italy: In the second codex, that of Kings, because I was unable to discover an explanation of the entire text, I have woven together, as if in a kind of garment, certain pieces by the most clever men, so that piece by piece it can be learned from the assembled collection what could not be found in one body.72

Thus Cassiodorus added a series of extracts drawn from exegetical works by Origen, Augustine, Jerome, and Ambrose. The compilation in the Verona codex of Kings reflects a similar practice, but instead of a miscellany of patristic exegesis, it assembled a range of geographical works. Cassiodorus would have approved of this too. Directing readers in his monastery’s library, he writes: We recommend, not without reason, that some conception of cosmography should be touched upon by you as well, so that you might know clearly in what part of the world are located the individual places you read about in Holy Scripture.73

Yet Cassiodorus either did not know or did not have access to gazetteers of biblical place-names like that compiled by Eusebius and translated by Jerome. Instead he lists a number of classical geographies among the books assembled at Vivarium. Among these works, and especially recommended by 45 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries him, is a geographical handbook by Julius Orator, otherwise known as Julius Honorius.74 It is precisely this work that appeared among the collection of geographical treatises accompanying the books of Kings in the Verona codex. Thus Cassiodorus’ precept and the practice of the compiler of the Kings codex in Verona show how classical geography could be employed to assist biblical exegesis. In some cases, such geographical works were even ascribed to patristic authors: a thirteenth-century manuscript in the Vatican library, for instance, gives Jerome as author of a purely classical Dimensuratio Provinciarum.75 Through such examples we can glimpse the means by which and the purposes for which Christian scribes and librarians in late Antiquity preserved classical geographical texts and transmitted them to the medieval world. ii. Christian interpolation and classical geography Sometimes Christian dependence on classical predecessors could result in secular works simply being adapted by Christians for their own use. Among the more curious survivals from late Antiquity is the Expositio Totius Mundi et Gentium. The text as we have it seems to be a Latin translation of a Greek original composed sometime in the third quarter of the fourth century, perhaps as a rhetorical display piece.76 Our understanding of the text is hampered by the chequered history of its survival. No manuscript of the Expositio survives, so we are forced to rely upon the first published edition of 1628 for our earliest witness to the text.77 Our understanding has been assisted, however, by the publication, in the nineteenth century, of a very similar text, the Descriptio Totius Mundi, of which three manuscripts (the earliest from the eleventh century) do survive.78 The Expositio and Descriptio are very similar: they arrange their geographical material in identical ways, and in some cases the text of the two works is exactly the same.79 In general, the Expositio is more extensive and detailed, and the Descriptio seems to be an abbreviated version of it. In some cases, however, the text of the Descriptio is more complete than that of the Expositio. Most importantly, four opening paragraphs and a final conclusion missing from the Expositio are supplied by the Descriptio. In addition, where the text of the Expositio has patently become corrupt, it can be restored by reference to the Descriptio. Finally, in a few cases the Descriptio actually gives lengthier descriptions of certain regions than does the Expositio. According to Jean Rougé, the most recent editor of the texts, the Descriptio and the Expositio should be seen as representing divergent derivatives of the full Latin translation of the Greek original.80 In what follows, reference to the Expositio will indicate the fullest version of the text, with restorations of missing passages taken from the Descriptio; reference to the Descriptio, however, will mean specifically that recension of the text.81 46 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts The oddities of the Expositio extend also to its contents, which amount to a description of the world divided into Roman provinces and barbarian territories, each section giving an account of the character of a region’s inhabitants, its major settlements, and its important natural resources. After an introduction (paragraphs 1–3) in which the author sets forth his agenda and lists his predecessors, the geographical description begins with those peoples living beyond the eastern frontier of the Roman empire (4–21). This account begins with the furthest reaches of the inhabited world, with a people known as the Camarini, and progresses westwards to the Roman frontier via regions occupied by Indians, Axumites, Persians, and Saracens. On reaching the empire, the text describes the frontier provinces of Mesopotamia and Osrhoene (22) before launching into a detailed description of the three Levantine provinces that make up the regio Syriae: the Syrias Punica, Palestina, and Coele (22–33). The description then moves around the Mediterranean coast to provide an account of Egypt, Alexandria, and the Nile (34–7), before retreating to describe Arabia (38). Next, Asia Minor is described in considerable detail (39–49), and then, in more cursory fashion, the provinces of the Balkans (50–3). The description now moves to Italy (54–6), before crossing over the Alps to the Danubian provinces of Moesia, Dacia, and Pannonia (57). Next comes Gaul (58), Spain (59), and then the north African provinces (60–2), at which point the text states that ‘we reach again Alexandria’, and thus comes full circle. The work is not finished, however: there follows a description of the islands in the Mediterranean (63–6). Tacked on somewhat awkwardly to the end of this list is an account of Britain (67). From this summary of the Expositio’s contents several features are apparent. In the first place, the description both of the regions of the far east and of the Roman empire follows the patterns established by itineraria and periploi. Both the Roman empire and the islands of the Mediterranean are described as if part of a journey around the Mediterranean. More explicitly, the journey through the far east is characterized by such signposting phrases as ‘after these peoples’ and ‘next there is’,82 and the territories occupied by various peoples are measured out in terms of the number of days required to traverse them.83 Similar features are found in the description of the Roman empire. Crossing over the frontier from the lands of the Persians, the author states ‘after them there is our territory; for Mesopotamia and Osrhoene come next’,84 and formulae beginning with deinde and post are frequent as the description moves from province to province, or city to city.85 A second general characteristic of the description is its lack of balance: the majority of the text deals with the East, in terms of both foreign peoples and Roman provinces. This might have recommended the Expositio to a Christian readership, since the eastern focus corresponds roughly to the lands of the Bible. By contrast, the 47 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries description of the western provinces, with the exception of Italy, is brief and sketchy, while references to western barbarians are limited to notices of the Sarmatians along the Danube, the Mazicae and Ethiopians living beyond the Sahara desert, and the Goths who, rather bizarrely, are placed across the frontier of Gaul.86 For all its clumsiness, however, the Expositio demonstrates the enmeshing of ideological projection and empirical description that we have come to expect of ancient geographical writing. There are notions of centre and periphery: Asia Minor is considered to lie at the centre of the inhabited world,87 while Ocean denotes the limits of the inhabited world and of human knowledge.88 Peoples living beyond the frontiers are described in ways that reflect wellestablished stereotypes. The Persians and Saracens, whose habits are described in most detail, are denigrated as impious, untrustworthy, incestuous, and effeminate.89 By contrast, those peoples at the edges of the earth are associated with residues of the Golden Age. They have no need of the institutions of government, a phenomenon that only begins to appear in lands closer to the Roman frontier.90 The most detailed of the Expositio’s accounts of these remote peoples is of the Camarini, inhabitants of the far eastern reaches of the world. They are depicted as noble and dutiful, and particularly blessed in terms of the natural resources, good health, and longevity that they enjoy.91 Finally, it should be noted that the religious ethos underlying the Expositio, at least in terms of its original conception, is pagan. It notes the role of the gods in the development of human civilization, such as Mercury’s invention of writing, while the descriptions of provinces and cities in the Roman empire are filled with references to cult centres.92 For all its peculiarities, therefore, the Expositio displays the norms of the classical pagan world-view. The form of the text preserved as the Descriptio Totius Mundi, however, shows clear signs of having been tampered with by Christian copyists. In the first place, where we have a parallel text for both Descriptio and Expositio, we can see that many allusions to pagan cult have been excised.93 For example, whereas the Expositio stated that the beauty of the women of Heliopolis in Lebanon and Cyzicus on the Asian shore of the Hellespont was a gift from the goddess Venus, the Descriptio merely remarked upon their beauty, without any reference to the goddess.94 Yet it is intriguing that whoever produced the text of the Descriptio did not systematically introduce allusions to Christian cult places in the revised version.95 Secondly, in the introductory paragraphs that have only been preserved in the Descriptio, we find clear evidence of Christian interpolations into the text. The first of these comes in the second paragraph, when the author sets forth his agenda. The original Latin version of this passage probably read: ‘quaerentes autem scribere, debemus dicere primum quae gentes ab oriente usque 48 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts ad occidentem constitutae sint’ (‘Seeking, however, to write, we ought to indicate first what peoples are located from the east to the west’). However, the surviving form of the text has been revised. It reads (interpolation in italics): ‘quaerentes autem scribere, debemus dicere primum quando mundus a deo fuerit institutus, dehinc quae gentes ab oriente usque ad occidentem constitutae sint’ (‘Seeking, however, to write, we ought to indicate first when the world was created by God, and after this what peoples are located from the east to the west’). That this is an interpolation seems clear enough: the reference to a mundus a deo institutus is out of keeping with the polytheism found in the original Expositio; moreover, the text contains no discussion of when (quando) the world was created. Two further interpolations come in the third paragraph of the text, where the author enumerates his predecessors. One notes the writings of Moses, whose divine inspiration and consequent ability to write the truth are mentioned; the second adds the name of Josephus.96 The most striking interpolations occur in the part of the work devoted to describing the idyllic life of the Camarini in paragraph 4. It seems that the account of the otherwise vanished Golden Age evoked in Christian minds biblical visions of paradise. The opening sentence of the original Latin text seems to have run as follows: ‘gentem aiunt esse Camarinorum in partibus orientis, unde et fluvius maximus exire dicitur’ (‘They say that there are in parts of the east the people of the Camarini, and a great river is said to flow out from there’). In the form in which the text survives, however, this has been adapted to suit a biblical world-view, so that it runs instead as follows (interpolations in italics): gentem aiunt esse Camarinorum in partibus orientis, cuius terram Moyses et Eden nominando descripsit; unde et fluvius maximus exire dicitur et dividi in quattuor flumina, quorum nomina sunt haec: Geon, Phison, Tigris et Euphrates. They say that there are in parts of the east the people of the Camarini, whose land Moses also described under the name of Eden; and a great river is said to flow out from there and to divide into four rivers, of which the names are these: the Geon, the Phison, the Tigris, and the Euphrates.

What we have here is the classical geography of the Expositio recast along biblical lines: the idealized existence of the Camarini has suggested to the redactor of the Descriptio a parallel with the pristine state of humankind in the Garden of Eden, as described in Genesis. The reference here to Moses (along with that in paragraph 3) reflects the common assumption in Antiquity and the Middle Ages that he had been the author of Genesis and the rest of the Pentateuch.97 Moreover, the reference to a great river in the original text has evoked in the mind of the Christian interpolator Genesis 49 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries 2.10–14, which described a similar river that watered Eden and then divided into the four rivers found in the Descriptio.98 The editor of the most recent critical text of the Expositio and Descriptio is probably justified in hypothesizing that these interpolations began as Christian glosses in the margins of a non-Christian text which were in turn incorporated into the main body of the text when the glossed version was copied out.99 The date of the interpolations is impossible to determine with precision. It plainly occurred sometime after the mid-fourth century when the pagan original was written, and almost certainly after the text was translated into Latin, but before the production of our earliest manuscript in the eleventh century. Even if we cannot ascertain when exactly the Latin text of the Expositio was revised to take account of the biblical world-view, the end result visible in the Descriptio can nevertheless be associated with a tendency in lateAntique Christian scholarship to make precisely such connections between the account of creation in Genesis and classical geographical traditions about the far east.100 In part, the inspiration came from the biblical text itself, which specifies that Eden was in the east,101 while its mention of the Tigris and Euphrates provided a link to known terrestrial geography. There was also the influence of the Jewish exegetical tradition, which had sought to locate Eden in the real world of the east.102 In their turn, some Christians continued to insist that the earthly paradise of Eden and the heavenly Jerusalem promised in the book of the Revelation lay somewhere in the east, to the extent that the pagan Roman authorities worried that the Christians had founded some hostile state beyond the eastern imperial frontier.103 In the Latin west, the most influential voice, as was so often the case, was that of Augustine. Although he did not eschew metaphorical interpretations of the biblical Eden (such as that the four rivers could symbolize the four Gospels),104 Augustine was also concerned to demonstrate that there was a literal truth behind the account in Genesis. Thus he located the four rivers in real geographical space. In the case of the Tigris and the Euphrates, this was self-evident. When it came to the Geon and Phison, however, he contended that they had taken on new names and should be identified with the Nile and the Ganges respectively. In this respect, Augustine was following a wellestablished tradition, found in Jewish authors such as Josephus, reiterated by Christians such as Eusebius in his Onomasticon, and transmitted to the Latin west by Jerome’s Liber Locorum. Above all, Augustine was concerned to show that the biblical Eden ‘should be understood as nothing other than a real place, where earthly man might live’.105 It is precisely this literal interpretation of Genesis that informs the interpolations into the prefatory paragraphs of the Descriptio. The description 50 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts of the blessed existence of the Camarini apparently suggested to the Christian redactor a real place in the east where the conditions of the earthly paradise actually existed. This Christian reader of the Expositio was not the only person to see this connection between the Garden of Eden and the idealized vision of the far east in classical geography: it is found also in Isidore of Seville’s Etymologiae.106 But the revised form of the Expositio found in the Descriptio is our most eloquent witness to this process of a Christian reconfiguring of the geographical world-view of classical Antiquity. In the course of its transmission, the text has undergone a revision, through which, as has been said recently in respect of Isidore of Seville, ‘the geographical space of antiquity gets recategorized in biblical terms’.107 Such a geographical cocktail, with explicitly Christian biblical elements sitting side by side with classical ones, might strike us as strange. There seems no reason, however, to suppose that late-Antique Christians would have thought so. In the final part of this section, I want to look at another text that suggests that there was no incongruity in using classical geographical space as a background on which to represent the biblical world-view. iii. Classical or Christian? The geographical vision of Paulus Orosius In the early fifth century, Paulus Orosius wrote his Seven Books of Histories against the Pagans. The work, which had been suggested to Orosius by Augustine, was shamelessly apologetic in conception and tone. It was written in the aftermath of Alaric’s sack of Rome in 410 as a counterblast to those pagans who blamed such misfortunes on the Roman empire’s abandonment of its traditional gods in favour of Christianity. According to Orosius, however, such recent disasters appeared less serious when compared to those catastrophes that had befallen the human race in the more distant, pre-Christian past.108 Orosius contended, moreover, that those ancient calamities could not have been assuaged by ‘the solace of true religion [i.e. Christianity]’; by contrast, the fortunes of humankind had improved through the implementation of God’s plan for the world that had begun with the Incarnation.109 Orosius commenced his Histories with a lengthy description of world geography. His reason for including this is explicit: the geographical excursus was necessary so that ‘when the location of wars and the ravages of diseases are described, everyone interested may more easily find out not only the events and their dates, but also their location’.110 In describing each region, Orosius was less concerned than, for example, the author of the Expositio to list major towns, physical features, and occupying peoples. Rather, his chief aim was to indicate the locations of regions and provinces relative to one another. He did this by indicating the locations of neighbouring territories 51 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries according to their position on compass points often named after the winds.111 For example, Moesia is described as follows: Moesia has the mouth of the river Danube on the east, Thrace on the southeast, Macedonia on the south, Dalmatia on the south-west, Histria on the west, Pannonia on the north-west, and the Danube on the north.112

Orosius’ geographical excursus, therefore, was intended to provide his readers with an overview of the locations of the events that he would narrate in the rest of the work. Orosius’ description of the world begins with a discussion of the extent of the three continents before proceeding to a more detailed analysis of each one. Asia – which encompasses also Egypt and Ethiopia113 – is described first, then Europe followed by Africa, and finally, in a structure that recalls the Expositio, the islands of the Mediterranean.114 If, as a consequence of its purpose, Orosius’ geography gives a less detailed description of the world than that found in other geographical works,115 it is nevertheless one that is firmly rooted in the classical tradition. His geographical information is attributed by Orosius himself to maiores nostri, by whom he must surely mean classical geographers.116 He adopts the scheme of an inhabited world divided into three parts – Asia, Europe, and Africa – and surrounded by Ocean, exactly the division found, for example, in Pliny the Elder.117 Orosius noted, however, that another, twofold, division was possible, showing that he was aware of a separate geographical tradition that did not consider Africa to be a separate continent in the same way as Europe and Asia. This alternative tradition was noted in some of Orosius’ sources, notably the historian Sallust.118 The names used for the various regions of the world are Roman and, indeed, when describing the areas covered by the Roman empire, Orosius used versions of their provincial names.119 His view of the inhabited world being bounded by Ocean is itself familiar from the classical geographical tradition.120 In implicit contrast to the periphery of Ocean is the centrality of the Mediterranean: it is described by such terms as Mare Nostrum or Mare Magnum, while its islands are the subject of a separate description.121 Elements of what might be termed ‘mythological geography’ have crept in from the classical tradition. Discussing the regions around the Caspian Sea, he notes that ‘the nearer region is generally called Albania, the further, near the sea and the Caspian mountain, is named the land of the Amazons’; and talking about the western boundaries of Africa, he mentions the Isles of the Blessed (‘insulae quas Fortunatas vocant’).122 Finally, Orosius sometimes draws the connection between peoples’ environments and their social habits that was customary in classical geography and ethnography: he remarks, for example, that the Hyrcanian and Scythian tribes ‘wander widely on account of the widespread barrenness of their lands’.123 52 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts Now Orosius has a particularly poor reputation among modern scholars, especially those of a positivist bent who want their history richly laden with facts, and prefer it emanating from a dusty library, not thundering, as it were, from a pulpit.124 Such criticism might also be levelled against Orosius’ geographical excursus. As a background to the history of the world that starts with Creation, it would appear to be inadequate, especially as a guide to biblical geography.125 Apart from commenting that Parthia corresponded to the region that Holy Scripture called Media,126 Orosius makes no effort to introduce biblical elements into his geography. Indeed, when he does narrate events from the Old Testament, he needs to introduce geographical asides to explain the locations of biblical places.127 Yet criticism of Orosius’ geographical excursus, much like criticism of his work as a whole, results from a failure or reluctance to consider the Seven Books of Histories against the Pagans on its own terms. To assess Orosius’ skill as a historian, we need to read it not according to the criteria of modern ‘scientific’ historiography but as a work of apologetic history: it was successful in the Middle Ages for precisely that reason. Similarly, assessment of his geographical excursus needs to be set in the context of the work as a whole. Orosius’ geography treads the familiar path of dividing the world into the provinces of the Roman empire and the peoples who lived outside it, and in this respect there is little to distinguish it from that of his pagan predecessors. But this does not mean that it was taken over from some classical predecessor without any consideration for the events for which it was to provide a background. If we consider the place of the Roman empire in Orosius’ conception of world history, the form taken by his geographical excursus begins to make sense. For while Orosius certainly rejected Roman paganism, he did not reject the Roman empire:128 in his view, the Roman empire had been specially ordained by God as part of his plan for humankind.129 There can be no better indication of this than Orosius’ description of the Incarnation. In his view, the birth of Christ occurred at precisely that moment in history when the emperor Augustus had brought peace at the end of the civil wars. This peace, moreover, was universal: Thus in the 752nd year since the founding of the City [i.e. Rome], Caesar Augustus closed the gates of the temple of Janus for the third time, having settled in a single peace all peoples from the east to the west, from the north to the south, and throughout the whole circuit of the Ocean.130

In such circumstances, the Roman empire was permitted by God to flourish, an honour which God had bestowed on no previous state. Indeed, Orosius pushed his argument a little further: Christ’s birth occurred at the time of a Roman census precisely because Christ wished to be enrolled as a Roman citizen!131 53 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries This special place occupied by the Roman empire in God’s plan for humankind had been stated, moreover, in Orosius’ outline of the historical task he had set himself: I intend to speak, therefore, of the period from the foundation of the world to the foundation of the City, from there to the principate of Caesar [sc. Augustus] and the nativity of Christ, after which time rule over the world has remained in the control of the City, even down to our own time.132

Here Orosius explained not only the basic structure of his history, but also the importance of Rome within it. His narrative was framed equally by events ordained by God and by phases in Roman history. Moreover, a series of puns on the words orbis and urbs made explicit the central place of Rome’s universal dominion in Orosius’ concept of history: the first part of the narrative would stretch ‘ab orbe condito usque ad Urbem conditam’, while from the time of the Incarnation to his own day ‘sub potestate Urbis orbis mansit imperium’.133 Thus the fates of the world and the city of Rome were intertwined in God’s plan. If Orosius’ geographical excursus looked like nothing other than a description of the Roman empire and its neighbouring territories, then that was perfectly natural. His history was designed to narrate God’s plan for humankind, and in that plan the Roman empire had a special, divinely ordained place. By describing the geography of the world in terms of the Roman empire and its neighbours, Orosius was simply describing a form of the world that God had ordained from the beginning of time. In Orosius’ Seven Books of Histories against the Pagans, therefore, the world of the Roman empire was a world predetermined by the Christian God. We need to understand Orosius’ geographical excursus in this context, not simply as an uncritical regurgitation of any classical precursors. To be sure, it was based on classical sources, but that does not make it a classical geography any more than his reliance on, say, Sallust or Tacitus makes his narrative of Roman history classical historiography. Just as Orosius saw the workings of God made manifest in Roman history, so too he saw the world not as part of a pagan cosmos, but as part of a universe created by God. In Orosius’ geography, then, for all its classical elements and antecedents, we have begun to move from the pagan world-view of Pliny the Elder to the new created Christian world exemplified by the Hereford mappamundi. What Orosius did was to take the world of the Roman empire and make it a creation of the Christian God.134 5. Conclusion. The new created world and the geographical inheritance of Antiquity At the heart of this chapter has lain an apparent paradox. The worldviews espoused by a classical pagan, such as the elder Pliny, and a medieval 54 Return to Table of Contents

A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts Christian, such as the compiler of the Hereford mappamundi, were very different in terms of the fundamental religious design that they saw in the world and the universe. At the same time, in their conception of the basic components of the world they showed considerable affinity: in both cases, the world was made up of Roman provinces and barbarian peoples, grouped around the Mediterranean, and surrounded by Ocean. This affinity reflects a very real continuity between the geographical traditions of pagan classical Antiquity and medieval Christendom. The processes by which this contin­ uity came about are instructive of how late-Antique Christianity, while it constructed for itself its own world-view based on the notion that God had created the world, also depended heavily on the geographical heritage of classical Antiquity to assist construction of that world-view. In late-Antique and early medieval Christianity, just as in the classical world, geography fulfilled a number of functions. Studies of the shape of the world retained a practical utility for late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages. Thus technical treatises, such as the writings of the agrimensores, and works concerned with political and diplomatic geography continued to find a ready readership.135 At the same time, however, the shape of the world was seen as a palpable sign of God’s design in creation. Geography, especially that of the Holy Land, provided assistance, through exegesis, in understanding the nature of God’s plan for humankind as mediated through Scripture. Yet Christianity possessed no autonomous geographical tradition of its own, so in order to articulate its views of the world it necessarily adopted and adapted the geographical inheritance of classical Antiquity. In this context, we need to remember that in late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, just as in classical Antiquity, the study of geography involved, above all, the study of earlier geographical texts.136 Thus it was natural that Christians should turn to their pagan forerunners when they needed geographical information. In spite of this dependence, Christian use of the classical geographical tradition and its texts involved a degree of subtle manipulation. That this was so resulted from the very different world-picture that Christians possessed when compared with pagans. In some cases, such manipulation involved the insertion of elements of a Christian world-view into otherwise classical visions of geography. The equation of biblical paradise with the idyllic lifestyles found at the edges of the earth in the Descriptio Totius Mundi has provided us with a striking example of this phenomenon. In addition, the classical world-view could be appropriated more directly for Christian ends. In Orosius’ geographical excursus we have a description of the world that conforms neatly with the precepts of pagan classical geography. Yet while Orosius’ pagan forebears might have recognized individual elements and overall shape in his geography, they could not have agreed with the 55 Return to Table of Contents

Mark Humphries fundamental preconception that underpinned it. For Orosius, the Roman empire had been specially favoured by the Christian God: therefore its geography was a reflection of God’s design for the world. Orosius’ vision shows us how the geographical inheritance of the ancient world could be reconfigured without necessarily being rewritten to suit a Christian worldview. It shows, moreover, how late-Antique Christians were able to manipulate the geographical heritage of the classical past, fashioning from it a new created world in which God’s will was made manifest. Acknowledgements

For comments on this chapter and more general discussions of late-Antique and early medieval geographical texts, I am grateful to Jás Elsner, Roger Rees, Diarmuid Scully, and Mary Whitby. Ann Marie Mealey read through a late draft and removed several obscurities and infelicities. My thanks also to David Scourfield, who provided editorial good sense and much encouragement. None of the aforementioned should be held culpable for the faults that remain; those are my responsibility.

Notes

  The letters are Symmachus, Relatio 3, and Ambrose of Milan, Letters 72 and 73 (in the now standard edition of Zelzer 1982, 11–20, 34–53; they are traditionally numbered 17 and 18 in the old Maurist edition of Ambrose’s letters found, for example, in PL). A detailed analysis of the debate of 384, including translation of the letters with detailed commentary, may be found in Croke and Harries 1982, 30–51; cf. McLynn 1994, 166–8 for a view of the events in their Milanese context. 2   For the problem of the authenticity of the letters in this dossier, see esp. Liebeschuetz 2005, 61–94. 3   Symm. Relat. 3.3 ‘quis ita familiaris est barbaris, ut aram Victoriae non requirat?’ Except where specified, translations of ancient texts are my own; I do not pretend, however, that they have not been influenced by existing English versions. 4   Ambr. Ep. 73.10 ‘aram solius Christi didicit honorare’. 5   Ambr. De Fide, 2.16.136 ‘progredere plane scuto fidei saeptus, et gladium spiritus [cf. Eph. 6.17] habens, progredere ad victoriam superioribus promissam temporibus et divinis oraculis profetatam’; cf. 2.26.143. 6   Symm. Relat. 3.10 ‘eadem spectamus astra, commune caelum est, idem nos mundus involvit: quid interest, qua quisque prudentia verum requirat? uno itinere non potest perveniri ad tam grande secretum.’ 7   Lozovsky 2000, 9–10 notes how the word geographia itself provoked some bewilderment among western readers and scholars in the early Middle Ages, and had to be glossed with formulae such as id est mundi scriptura. In the main, geographical knowledge in the early medieval west came from, or was mediated through, Latin texts. Classical Greek geographical texts were unknown in the west until the Renaissance: perhaps the best example, Strabo’s Geography, only achieved a wide western readership, it would seem, with Guarino Guarini’s Latin translation in the mid-15th century: Fryde 1

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A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts 1983, 72–82. Even in the Byzantine world, the attention paid to Strabo seems to have been meagre: Diller 1954, Cook 1959. This is perhaps related to a noticeable decline in the classical ethnographical tradition in the Byzantine east after the mid-6th century: Maas 2003.  8   Plin. NH 3.1.2.  9   Plin. NH 3.1.5 ‘Europa altrice victoris omnium gentium populi longeque terrarum pulcherrima’. 10   Plin. NH 3.5.39 ‘nec ignoro ingrati ac segnis animi existimari posse merito si obiter atque in transcursu ad hunc modum dicatur terra omnium terrarum alumna eadem et parens, numine deum electa quae caelum ipsum clarius faceret, sparsa congregaret imperia ritusque molliret et tot populorum discordes ferasque linguas sermonis commercio con­traheret ad colloquia et humanitatem homini daret, breviterque una cunctarum gentium in toto orbe patria fieret’; translation adapted from Healy 1991, 43. 11   For the divinity of nature in Pliny’s Natural History, see Beagon 1996, 285 and 308–9. 12   Thus Crone 1965, cited with approval by Woodward 1987, 288, who sees the Hereford map as ‘a repository of geographical information of use for planning pilgrimages and stimulating the intended [sic] traveller’. Cf. Dilke 1985, 179–80. That said, such works were never merely descriptive, but contained a deliberate representation of space as sacral or otherwise: see Elsner 2000, 194–5, and the discussion below in section 3.ii. 13   Kline 2001, 192–218. 14   Kline 2001, 50–1, 58–60; the achievements of Nicodemus, Theodotus/Theodocus, and Policlitus are also mentioned in inscriptions around the outer edge of the map. For the Cosmographia Iulii Caesaris, see the edition in Riese 1878, 21–3; translation and commentary in Dilke 1985, 183–4. 15   Dilke 1985, 179. 16   Kline 2001, 63; also Woodward 1987, 309 n. 115. The word ornesta is difficult to interpret. It has been suggested that is simply meaningless (Dilke 1985, 216 n. 47); that it is a corruption of an abbreviation such as ‘Ormista’, derived from ‘Or[osii] m[undi h]ist[ori]a’ (Crone 1965, 448, followed by Kline 2001, 63); or that it is somehow derived from the Brittonic word gormes, meaning decline or oppression (Arnaud-Lindet 1990–1, vol. 1, pp. xiii–xiv, 254–5; cf. Wright 1986, 185). 17   Moreover, the Hereford map is not the only mappamundi to have been influenced by Orosius. For others, see Itineraria 1965, 648–94; Bately 1972, 59 n. 4. 18   I say ‘to outsiders’ because, in my own institution, geography encompasses topics as diverse as hydrology and cyberspace, themselves areas of inquiry almost wholly independent. 19   Romm 1992, 3–7; for ambiguous definitions of geography and history in the late Hellenistic period see Clarke 1999, passim, but esp. ch. 1. For late Antiquity and the early Middle Ages, see Lozovsky 2000, 6–34. 20   Str. Geog. 1.1.15 (C 8). 21   Str. Geog. 1.1.1 (C 1). 22   Cic. Att. 2.6.1 (= 26.1 Shackleton Bailey). 23   Str. Geog. 1.1.1 (C 2) and 16–18 (C 9–11). 24   On the problems of generic categories, see the discussion of Posidonius in Clarke 1999, 177–83. 25   [Hippocrates], Airs, Waters, Places, 16 ‘The small variations of climate to which

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Mark Humphries Asiatics are subject … account for their mental flabbiness and cowardice …  They are less warlike than Europeans and tamer of spirit …  Such things appear to me to be the cause of the feebleness of the Asiatic race …’: translation and discussion in Cartledge 1993, 40–1. 26   Str. Geog. 1.1.23 (C 13–14). 27   Marincola 1997, 83–5. 28   For a brief survey of the different attitudes to the environment held by the Romans, see Purcell 1996, 180–3; cf. Lozovsky 2000, 1–5. 29   Humankind as zenith of creation: Plin. NH 7.1–2; as frame of reference: Lloyd 1983, 18–43. 30   Str. Geog. 2.5.4 (C 111–12). 31   Str. Geog. 6.4.2 (C 286 and 288). 32   Clarke 1999, 210–28; cf. Whittaker 1994, 16–17. 33   Ov. Fast. 2.684; Virg. Aen. 1.275–83. For discussion, see Hardie 1986, 364–6; cf. more generally Romm 1992, 120–3. 34   Thus Hall 1989, passim; Cartledge 1993, 36–62; for late Antiquity, Ladner 1976; Wiedemann 1986. 35   Moral Germans: Tac. Germ. 19, with Romm 1992, 140–9. Contrast Ammianus Marcellinus’ description (31.2.1–4) of the Huns, who are remote from civilization in both spatial and cultural terms: they live near the shores of Ocean and might only begrudgingly be called human. 36   Plin. NH 7.21–30. 37   In general: Romm 1992, 49–67. Also important: Dihle 1964; Nadeau 1970; Nadeau 1977. Of course, such intermingling between humans and gods also represents an inversion of the norms of the ancient city: Buxton 1994, 91–2. 38   For criticism of such modern approaches to ancient and medieval geography, see Romm 1992, 9; Lozovsky 2000, 1–5. 39   For a good discussion of this phenomenon in late Antiquity, but with much that is relevant also to earlier periods, see Clark 1996. 40   On Pomponius Mela, see most recently Batty 2000. 41   On such itineraria and periploi see Dilke 1985, 112–44; Elsner 2000, 185–6. For the use of such lists in late Antiquity, see e.g. Veg. Mil. 3.6; Ambr. In Psalm. 118, serm. 5.2; discussion in Dilke 1987, 234–8. 42   See most recently Campbell 2000. 43   See generally Elsner 2000, 184–6, with references to further discussion. Not mentioned by Elsner, however, is Purcell 1990, which gives an excellent example of how road-building and land survey facilitated the creation of Romanized space in a conquered area (northern Italy). 44   Such as the Verona List of Roman provinces (see p. 45 below with n. 71), or Vibius Sequester’s dictionary of geographical features in Virgil (see p. 42 below with n. 60), where items are listed according to different categories (rivers, forests, etc.): Marrou 1938, 136. 45   For Jewish traditions, see Scott 2002, esp. 159–70 on possible Jewish influences on the geographical tradition that gave rise to medieval mappaemundi. 46   August. Doctr. Christ. 2.16.23, 2.29.45. For detailed discussion of Augustine’s geographical exegesis, see Lozovsky 2000, 10–14 and 51–3. 47   August. Doctr. Christ. 2.16.23 ‘nonnulli eiusdem linguae periti viri non sane

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A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts parvum beneficium posteris contulerunt, qui separata de scripturis eadem omnia verba interpretati sunt et quid sit Adam, quid Eva, quid Abraham, quid Moyses sive etiam locorum nomina, quid sit Hierusalem vel Sion vel Hiericho vel Sina vel Libanus vel Iordanis et quaecumque alia in illa lingua nobis sunt incognita nomina’: text and translation in Green 1995, 82–3. 48   Green 1995, 82 n. 47. 49   Barnes 1981, 106–11. 50   Jerome’s Liber Locorum was designed to replace the earlier defective Latin version of Eusebius’ Onomasticon: see Kelly 1975, 153–5. 51   Euseb. Hist. Eccl. 4.26.14; cf. Hunt 1982, 3–4. 52   Melito of Sardis, Peri Pascha, 72, 93–4; cf. Harvey 1966. 53   Itinerarium Egeriae 1–2. 54   See esp. Itin. Eg. 47.5; cf. e.g. 37.5–8, 38.2, 40.2. See further the comparison in Wilkinson 1999, 175–94 between liturgical elements recorded by Egeria and those noted in the 5th-century account of Jerusalem services preserved in the Old Armenian Lectionary. 55   Egeria noted the experience of readings ‘eadem die … in eodem loco’ in connection with her visit to Mount Sion, the traditional location of Christ’s reappearance to the disciples after the resurrection, where she listened to a reading of the appropriate passage from the Gospel of John: Itin. Eg. 39.5. 56   Elsner 2000, 183–6. 57   Itinerarium Burdigalense 564.10 (Viminacium), 578.1 (Tyana), 606.1–2 (Pella); cf. Elsner 2000, 189 for other examples. 58   Itin. Burdig. 579.4 (Tarsus), 604.1 (Philippi). 59   Itin. Burdig. 585.3–600.1. For detailed discussion, see Elsner 2000, 190–4. 60   Diogenianus: Suda ∆ 1140, with discussion in Barnes 1981, 109. Vibius Sequester: Marrou 1938, 136; cf. Gelsomino 1990. 61   Arce 1999. 62   Cassiod. Inst. 1.25.1. On the possible form of the work (lost since at least the 12th century), see Croke 2001, 37–46. 63   See generally Cameron 1991. 64   Irenaeus, Adversus Haereses, 3.11.8 ‘neque autem plura numero quam haec sunt neque rursus pauciora capit esse Euuangelia. quoniam enim quattuor regiones mundi sunt in quo sumus et quattuor principales spiritus et disseminata est Ecclesia super omnem terram, columna autem et firmamentum Ecclesiae est Euuangelium et Spiritus vitae, consequens est quattuor habere eam columnas undique flantes incorruptibilitatem et vivificantes homines’: ed. Rousseau and Doutreleau 1974, 2.160–2, with a note on the vexed question of the Greek original at 160; translation from Grant 1997, 131. On four cardinal points: Woodward 1987, 334–7. 65   On Ephorus: Aujac 1987, 143–4. The fourfold division is also found in Strabo, Geog. 1.2.28 (C 34). 66   Cosmas Indicopleustes, Christian Topography, 2.79–80: ed. with commentary in Wolska-Conus 1968–73, 1.394–7. 67   For the textual tradition of the agrimensores, see Reeve 1983; Campbell 2000, xxi–xxii. 68   Staab 1976, esp. 55–8. 69   Rouse 1983.

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Mark Humphries 70   As described by Cassiodorus, Inst. 1.1–9, writing about the nine codices of Scripture in his monastery’s library. Cf. more generally McGurk 1994, 1–5, 16–17. 71   Verona, Biblioteca Capitolare, MS II (2). Description in Lowe 1934–71, 4.477; cf. Riese 1878, xxxvii. Verona List as a historical source: Barnes 1982, 201–8. Further discussion of this text will follow in Humphries forthcoming. 72   Cassiod. Inst. 1.2.1 ‘in secundo vero Regum codice, quoniam continui textus expositionem reperire non potui, quaedam frusta disertissimorum virorum velut in uno quodam vestimento contexui, ut membratim possit adunata collectione cognosci, quod sub uno corpore nequaquam potuit inveniri.’ 73   Cassiod. Inst. 1.25.1 ‘cosmographiae quoque notitiam vobis percurrendam esse non immerito suademus, ut loca singula, quae in libris sanctis legitis, in qua parte mundi sint posita evidenter cognoscere debeatis.’ 74   Cassiod. Inst. 1.25.1 ‘libellum Iuli Oratoris, quem vobis reliqui, studiose legere festinetis.’ For the identity of Julius Orator and Julius Honorius, see Kubitschek 1917, 614–16, esp. 614 on the subscriptio to Julius Honorius’ Cosmographia, where the author is described as ‘Iulius orator utriusque artis’. 75   Riese 1878, 9, app. crit.: ‘Ieronimi prespiteri [sic] demensuratio provinciarum’. 76   Rougé 1966, 9–26 (dating), 39–47 (genre), 89–103 (Greek original). 77   This first edition was published as Vetus orbis descriptio at Geneva by the great editor of the Theodosian Code, Jacques Godefroy ( Jacobus Gothofredus), who himself had never seen the text in manuscript, but depended instead on a copy sent to him by François Juret, an early editor of Symmachus’ letters. On problems concerning the text and its transmission in the early 17th century, see Rougé 1966, 89–90. 78   On the manuscript tradition of the Descriptio: Rougé 1966, 104–9. 79   Summary in Rougé 1966, 110. 80   For the complex relationship between the texts summarized here, see the detailed analysis of Rougé 1966, 104–27. 81   The edition of Rougé 1966 carefully separates out the two versions. That of Livadiotti and Di Branco 2005, however, regrettably does not, and must be treated with some caution. 82   The formulae include e.g. post ipsam gentem (8), post hos (9–11, 18–19), and descriptions beginning with deinde (15–17). Cf. on entry to the territory of the Brahmans: ‘venientibus ad occidentem’ (8). 83   The text uses the term mansio (staging-post) found in itineraria. The examples in the Expositio are listed in the index verborum in Rougé 1966, 371, s.v. ‘mansio’. 84   Expositio 22.1–2 ‘post hos nostra terra est. sequitur enim Mesopotamia et Osdroena.’ 85   deinde is used to describe the relationship of, e.g., Edessa to Nisibis (22), and Syria to Mesopotamia and Osrhoene (23); cf. also paragraphs 38–9, 43–4, etc. For regions introduced by post, see, e.g., paragraphs 25, 40, 46–8. 86   Expositio 57.9–10 (Sarmatians), 58.12–13 (Goths), 62.1–4 (Mazicae and Ethiopians). On the problem of the Goths in paragraph 58, and a possible solution, see Rougé 1966, 101–2. 87   Expositio 45.1 ‘sunt enim media terrena.’ 88   Expositio 59.10–13. 89   Expositio 19–20. 90   Expositio 5.1 (Camarini), 8.2 (Brahmans), 9.2 (Eviltae [sic!]), 10.2 (Emer): all are

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A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts described as living sine imperio. Only when the author arrives at Nebus does he note ‘a qua [sc. regione] invenitur tyrannorum initia; et regitur a maioribus’ (‘from this point one finds the first princes; and it [i.e. Nebus] is ruled by its elders’, 11.1–2); for the sense of tyrannus and maiores in the Expositio, see Rougé 1966, 225–6.   91   Expositio 4–7.   92   Mercury: Expositio 34.13–15. On the religion of the Expositio more generally, see Rougé 1966, 48–55.   93   For what follows, see Rougé 1966, 48–55; Inglebert 2001, 97 and 113.   94   Contrast Expositio 30.5–6 with Descriptio 30.3–4 (Heliopolis); Expositio 48.5–7 with Descriptio 48.5 (Cyzicus). See Inglebert 2001, 97 nn. 327 and 329 for further examples.   95   There are no references, for instance, to biblical sites in the description of the Levant (Descriptio 31, which, in terms of content, is little different from Expositio 31). The only explicit reference to monotheistic Christianity that I can find in those passages for which we have parallel versions in the Expositio and Descriptio comes in the account of the preservation of Nisibis and Edessa from Persian attacks: the Expositio attributes this to ‘deorum et imperatoris sapientia’ (‘the wisdom of the gods and emperor’, 22.10– 11); the Descriptio explicitly mentions ‘gubernaculo dei … et imperatoris prudentia’ (‘the guidance of God and the good sense of the emperor’, 22.11).   96   On these interpolations, see Rougé 1966, 121–4.   97   For the often acrimonious debate on this issue, which lasted well into modern times, see Blenkinsopp 1992, 1–5.   98   To early and late-Antique Christians, the four rivers symbolized the four Gospels. This is made explicit in an inscription from the so-called Christian basilica on the decumanus maximus in Ostia: Meiggs 1973, 397.   99   Rougé 1966, 125. 100   Indeed, Inglebert 2001, 97 postulates a mid-6th-century date, suggesting some connection between the redactor and the circle of Cassiodorus. 101   Gen. 2.8. 102   Josephus, Jewish Antiquities, 1.37–9. 103   Eusebius of Caesarea, Martyrs of Palestine, 11.9–12, records how the martyr Pamphilus, at his trial in 310, unnerved his Roman prosecutor by talking of a ‘heavenly Jerusalem’ lying ‘toward the far east and the rising sun’. 104   August. Gen. c. Manich. 2.9–10. 105   August. Gen. ad Litt. 8.1 (the terrestrial reality of Eden), 8.7 (identity of Geon and Phison); cf. Josephus, Jewish Antiquities, 1.38–9; Eusebius of Caesarea, Onomasticon, pp. 60 (Geon) and 166 (Phison); Jerome, Liber Locorum, pp. 61 (Geon) and 167 (Phison). For the exegetical tradition, see Lozovsky 2000, 52–3, citing earlier literature. 106   Isid. Etym. 13.21.7–10; cf. Lozovsky 2000, 53–5. 107   Lozovsky 2000, 54. 108   e.g. Oros. Hist. 1.6 (stating that Rome’s fate in 410 was not as bad as that which befell Sodom and Gomorrah), 2.3 (favourably comparing Rome’s fate with that of Babylon); cf. 7.39–40 (arguing that Alaric’s sack had not caused significant damage when compared with disasters such as the conflagration under Nero). 109   Oros. Hist. 1 prol. 14; cf. 6.22. 110   Oros. Hist. 1.1.17 ‘quo facilius, cum locales bellorum morborumque clades ostentabuntur, studiosi quique non solum rerum ac temporum sed etiam locorum scientiam

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Mark Humphries consequantur’. 111   For Orosius’ system of orientation, see Janvier 1982, 28–33; Arnaud-Lindet 1990–1, 1.192–3. 112   Oros. Hist. 1.2.55 ‘Moesia ab oriente habet ostia fluminis Danuvii, ab euro Thraciam, a meridie Macedoniam, ab africo Dalmatiam, ab occasu Histriam, a circio Pannoniam, a septentrione Danuvium.’ 113   On these territories as part of the ancient conception of Asia, see Janvier 1982, 202–6. 114   Janvier 1982, 273–5 provides a convenient summary. 115   Janvier 1982, 172–8. 116   Oros. Hist. 1.2.1, 83; Lozovsky 2000, 71–2. 117   Plin. NH 3.3. 118   Oros. Hist. 1.2.1, 85; cf. Sall. Iug. 17.3; Luc. 9.411–13. See discussion in ArnaudLindet 1990–1, 1.194–5. 119   At Hist. 1.2.86 Orosius specifies that his description of Africa will proceed ‘per provincias et gentes’. It should be noted, however, that Orosius’ provincial names do not, on the whole, reflect the new provincial boundaries resulting from administrative reforms under Diocletian and later emperors: Janvier 1982, 231–7. 120   For the Ocean in Orosius, see the detailed analysis of Janvier 1982, 72–9. 121   Oros. Hist. 1.2.3 ‘mare nostrum quod Magnum generaliter dicimus’, 8 and 84 ‘Mare Magnum’ (cf. 105 ‘Magnum pelagus’), 95–105 (islands). 122   Oros. Hist. 1.2.11 (Isles of the Blessed), 50 (Amazons). 123   Oros. Hist. 1.2.47 ‘Hyrcanorum et Scytharum gentes sunt XLII, propter terrarum infecundam diffusionem late oberrantes.’ On ethnographic aspects of Orosius’ geography, see Janvier 1982, 173–5. 124   For example, John Matthews, in his massive study of Ammianus Marcellinus, complains that the large number of surviving manuscripts of Orosius, when compared to the paucity of manuscripts of Ammianus, is ‘an embarrassment to the [historians’] profession’; while in the index of the same work Orosius is entered as an ‘alleged historian’: Matthews 1989, 6, 597. Cf. Trompf 2000, 292–309, for an attempt at a more positive appraisal. 125   Lozovsky 2000, 72–3 reviews such objections, but wisely does not side with them. 126   Oros. Hist. 1.2.19. 127   e.g. Hist. 1.5.6, on the location of Sodom, Gomorrah, Adama, Soboim, and Segor on the borders of Arabia and Palestine. 128   Paschoud 1967, 276–92. 129   See Trompf 2000, 109–57 for similarly positive ideals among Christian writers, especially Eusebius and Lactantius. 130   Oros. Hist. 6.22.1 ‘itaque anno ab Urbe condita DCCLII Caesar Augustus ab oriente in occidentem, a septentrione in meridiem ac per totum Oceani circulum cunctis gentibus una pace conpositis, Iani portas tertio ipse tunc clausit.’ 131   Oros. Hist. 6.22.7–8. 132   Oros. Hist. 1.1.14 ‘dicturus igitur ab orbe condito usque ad Urbem conditam, dehinc usque ad Caesaris principatum nativitatemque Christi, ex quo sub potestate Urbis orbis mansit imperium, vel etiam usque ad dies nostros …’. 133   Lozovsky 2000, 70; cf. Hardie 1986, 264–6.

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A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts 134   Indeed, Orosius’ geography could take on a life of its own. An 8th-century codex (Albigensis 29) contains Orosius’ geographical excursus (under the title Discriptio [sic] Terrarum, and without an attribution to Orosius) together with a mappamundi based upon it and a table of the winds that Orosius had used as compass points: Itineraria 1965, 467–87; cf. Arnaud-Lindet 1990–1, vol. 1, pp. lxxii–lxxiii. A less elaborate version (under the title Liber Canonum in Dei Nomen Ratio Totius Orbis vel Provintiarum [sic], and again without an attribution to Orosius) is preserved in a second codex (Monacensis 396): Arnaud-Lindet 1990–1, vol. 1, p. lxxvii. 135   Indeed, this prompted continuous geographical innovation. The Old English translation of Orosius, for example, shows a number of innovations in its version of the geographical excursus, particularly in sections devoted to those regions of north-western Europe that were England’s neighbours. For discussion and interpretation, see Bately 1972. 136   Lozovsky 2000, 7–8.

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Mark Humphries Cartledge, P. 1993 The Greeks: A portrait of self and others, Oxford. Clark, G. 1996 ‘Cosmic sympathies: nature as the expression of divine purpose’, in Shipley and Salmon (eds.) Human Landscapes in Classical Antiquity, 310–29. Clarke, K. 1999 Between Geography and History: Hellenistic constructions of the Roman world, Oxford. Cook, J.M. 1959 ‘On Stephanus Byzantius’ text of Strabo’, JHS 79, 19–26. Croke, B. 2001 Count Marcellinus and his Chronicle, Oxford. Croke, B. and Harries, J. 1982 Religious Conflict in Fourth-Century Rome: A documentary study, Sydney. Crone, G.R. 1954 The World Map by Richard of Haldingham in Hereford Cathedral, London. 1965 ‘New light on the Hereford map’, Geographical Journal 131, 447–62. Dihle, A. 1964 ‘The conception of India in Hellenistic and Roman literature’, PCPhS 10, 15–23. Dilke, O.A.W. 1985 Greek and Roman Maps, London. 1987 ‘Itineraries and geographical maps in the early and late Roman Empires’, in Harley and Woodward (eds.) The History of Cartography 1, 234–57. Diller, A. 1954 ‘The scholia on Strabo’, Traditio 10, 29–50. Elsner, J. 2000 ‘The Itinerarium Burdigalense: politics and salvation in the geography of Constantine’s empire’, JRS 90, 181–95. Fryde, E.B. 1983 Humanism and Renaissance Historiography, London. Gelsomino, R. 1990 ‘Vibio Sequestre’, Enc. Virg. 5, 528–9. Grant, R.M. 1997 Irenaeus of Lyons, London. Green, R.P.H. (ed.) 1995 Augustine: De Doctrina Christiana, Oxford. Hall, E. 1989 Inventing the Barbarian: Greek self-definition through tragedy, Oxford. Hardie, P.R. 1986 Vergil’s Aeneid: Cosmos and imperium, Oxford. Harley, J.B. and Woodward, D. (eds.) 1987 The History of Cartography. 1. Cartography in Prehistoric, Ancient, and Medieval Europe and the Mediterranean, Chicago and London. Harvey, A.E. 1966 ‘Melito and Jerusalem’, JThS 17, 401–4.

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A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts Healy, J.F. (tr.) 1991 Pliny the Elder: Natural History (A Selection), London. Humphries, M. forthcoming  ‘From catalogue to commentary: a textual history of the Verona List.’ Hunt, E.D. 1982 Holy Land Pilgrimage in the Later Roman Empire ad 312–460, Oxford. Inglebert, H. 2001 Interpretatio christiana: les mutations des savoirs (cosmographie, géographie, ethnographie, histoire) dans l’Antiquité chrétienne (30–630 après J.–C.), Paris. Itineraria 1965 Itineraria et alia geographica, CCSL 175, Turnhout. Janvier, Y. 1982 La géographie d’Orose, Paris. Kelly, J.N.D. 1975 Jerome: His life, writings, and controversies, London. Kline, N.R. 2001 Maps of Medieval Thought: The Hereford paradigm, Woodbridge. Kubitschek, J.W. 1917 ‘Iulius Honorius’, RE 10, 614–28. Ladner, G.B. 1976 ‘On Roman attitudes toward barbarians in late Antiquity’, Viator 7, 1–26. Liebeschuetz, J.H.W.G. 2005 Ambrose of Milan: Political Letters and Speeches. Translated with an introduction and notes, Translated Texts for Historians 43, Liverpool. Livadiotti, U. and Di Branco, M. (eds.) 2005 Anonimo del IV secolo: Descrizione del mondo e delle sue genti, Faville 29, Rome. Lloyd, G.E.R. 1983 Science, Folklore and Ideology: Studies in the life sciences in ancient Greece, Cambridge. Lowe, E.A. 1934–71  Codices Latini antiquiores: A palaeographical guide to Latin manuscripts prior to the ninth century, 11 vols. and supp., Oxford. Lozovsky, N. 2000 ‘The Earth is Our Book’: Geographical knowledge in the Latin west, ca. 400– 1000, Ann Arbor, Mich. Maas, M. 2003 ‘ “Delivered from their ancient customs”: Christianity and the question of cultural change in early Byzantine ethnography’, in K. Mills and A. Grafton (eds.) Conversion in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages: Seeing and believing, Rochester, N.Y., 152–88. Marincola, J. 1997 Authority and Tradition in Ancient Historiography, Cambridge. Marrou, H.-I. 1938 Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique, Paris.

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Mark Humphries Matthews, J. 1989 The Roman Empire of Ammianus, London. McGurk, P. 1994 ‘The oldest manuscripts of the Latin Bible’, in R. Gameson (ed.) The Early Medieval Bible, Cambridge, 1–23. McLynn, N.B. 1994 Ambrose of Milan: Church and court in a Christian capital, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 22, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London. Meiggs, R. 1973 Roman Ostia, 2nd edn, Oxford. Nadeau, J.Y. 1970 ‘Ethiopians’, CQ 20, 339–49. 1977 ‘Ethiopians again, and again’, Mnemosyne 30, 75–8. Paschoud, F. 1967 Roma aeterna: études sur le patriotisme romain dans l’occident latin à l’ époque des grandes invasions, Bibliotheca Helvetica Romana 7, Rome. Purcell, N. 1990 ‘The creation of provincial landscape’, in T. Blagg and M. Millett (eds.) The Early Roman Empire in the West, Oxford, 7–29. 1996 ‘Rome and the management of water: environment, culture and power’, in Shipley and Salmon (eds.) Human Landscapes in Classical Antiquity, 180–212. Reeve, M.D. 1983 ‘Agrimensores’, in Reynolds (ed.) Texts and Transmission, 16. Reynolds, L.D. (ed.) 1983 Texts and Transmission: A survey of the Latin classics, Oxford. Riese, A. (ed.) 1878 Geographi Latini minores, Heilbronn. Romm, J.S. 1992 The Edges of the Earth in Ancient Thought: Geography, exploration, and fiction, Princeton. Rougé, J. (ed.) 1996 Expositio Totius Mundi et Gentium, Sources chrétiennes 124, Paris. Rouse, R.H. 1983 ‘Solinus’, in Reynolds (ed.) Texts and Transmission, 391–3. Rousseau, A. and Doutreleau, L. (eds.) 1974 Irénée de Lyon: Contre les hérésies, Livre III, 2 vols., Sources chrétiennes 210–11, Paris. Scott, J.M. 2002 Geography in Early Judaism and Christianity: The Book of Jubilees, Society for New Testament Studies Monograph Series 113, Cambridge. Shipley, G. and Salmon, J.B. (eds.) 1996 Human Landscapes in Classical Antiquity: Environment and culture, London. Staab, F. 1976 ‘Ostrogothic geographers at the court of Theodoric [sic] the Great: a study of some sources of the anonymous cosmographer of Ravenna’, Viator 7, 27–64.

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A new created world: classical geographical texts and Christian contexts Trompf, G.W. 2000 Early Christian Historiography: Narratives of retributive justice, London and New York. Whittaker, C.R. 1994 Frontiers of the Roman Empire: A social and economic study, Baltimore. Wiedemann, T.E.J. 1986 ‘Between men and beasts: barbarians in Ammianus Marcellinus’, in I.S. Moxon, J.D. Smart, and A.J. Woodman (eds.) Past Perspectives: Studies in Greek and Roman historical writing, Cambridge, 189–201. Wilkinson, J. 1999 Egeria’s Travels, 3rd edn, Warminster. Wolska-Conus, W. (ed.) 1968–73  Cosmas Indicopleustès: Topographie chrétienne, 3 vols., Sources chrétiennes 141, 159, 197, Paris. Woodward, D. 1987 ‘Medieval mappaemundi ’, in Harley and Woodward (eds.) The History of Cartography 1, 286–370. Wright, N. 1986 ‘Knowledge of Christian Latin poets and historians in early medieval Brittany’, EC 23, 163–85. Zelzer, M. (ed.) 1982 Sancti Ambrosi Opera, Part 10, CSEL 82, Vienna.

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3 ANTIQUITY AND AUTHORITY IN NONIUS MARCELLUS Anna Chahoud



vetustas quidem nobis semper, si sapimus, adoranda est Macrobius, Saturnalia, 3.14.2

Modelled on the Stoic notion of Hellenismos as a mark of linguistic excellence,1 the ideal of pure Latin style and idiom (Latinitas) evolved in parallel with the study of Latin language and literature (ars grammatica).2 The Romans defined this discipline as ‘the expert knowledge of the diction of poets, historians, and orators’ (Varro, GRF 234), practised through the reading (lectio) and elucidating (expositio) of the classical authors.3 If Latin language science and literary criticism are intrinsically preoccupied with the definition, transmission, and preservation of Roman identity at all times, the prominence given to the authority of the ancient writers (auctoritas veterum) both in the orientation of scholarship and in the educational system is a characteristic feature of Latin culture in late Antiquity,4 when the perpetuation of the Latin literary heritage becomes part of a wider discourse concerning the Roman past. Conservatism and emphasis on authority are the conceptual guidelines to the work of the north African scholar Nonius Marcellus, whose encyclopaedic dictionary De Compendiosa Doctrina is an invaluable receptacle of Roman Republican literature, and the main, if not single, source for a number of early Latin texts which have not survived independently in the manuscript tradition. Nonius’ ‘Dictionary of Republican Latin’ signifies the presence, in a minor centre of the Roman western provinces, of sufficiently keen interests and adequate resources to carry out a project as ambitious as a comprehensive ‘handbook of instruction’ on the language and literature of the ancient Romans. Exactly when this happened, we do not know. Indications arising from the text of the De Compendiosa Doctrina merely suggest a date later than Aulus Gellius’ Noctes Atticae (second century ad), which Nonius extensively appropriates without acknowledgement; similarly, the work must be placed earlier than Priscian’s Institutiones Grammaticae (sixth century), where Nonius is explicitly named as a source.5 Scholars generally represent 69 Return to Table of Contents

Anna Chahoud Nonius as a contemporary of Tiberius Claudius Donatus and Macrobius (late fourth/early fifth century), or locate him in the early fourth century on the basis of an inscription from the age of Constantine (CIL 8.4878), although a Severan date (late second/early third century) has also recently been suggested, mainly on the grounds of Nonius’ marked archaism.6 Nonius’ interpretation of correctness in terms of antiquity, the reverent (and at times misguided) observance of the principle of authority which consistently colours his linguistic analysis, and such technical terminology as he appears to share with late-imperial grammar specialists, point to a cultural scene no earlier than the end of the fourth century ad. 1. An antiquarian in Roman Africa The historical figure of Nonius Marcellus is an elusive one. The little that helps to contextualize Nonius’ activity comes from the inscriptio transmitted in the manuscripts: ‘Nonii Marcelli Peripatetici Thubursicensis De compendiosa doctrina ad filium’ (‘Compendium of instruction to his son, by Nonius Marcellus, the Peripatetic of Thubursicum’).7 The dedication of the work, apparent philosophical affiliation of the author, and indication of residence offer some elements for discussion. The title ‘grammarian’ traditionally associated with Nonius’ name is suggestive of the nature of his work rather than indicative of any evidence for his involvement in the teaching profession. No record exists for Nonius as a professional ‘teacher of liberal letters’ 8 ( grammaticus), schoolmaster (magister ludi), or holder of a similarly formalized position. As Kaster has convincingly argued, the dedication of the De Compendiosa Doctrina to the author’s son, rather than to a patron or pupil, identifies Nonius as a ‘learned amateur’ of the like of Aulus Gellius, Tiberius Claudius Donatus, and Macrobius.9 The praetorian prefect Macrobius indeed sets out an entirely similar purpose for his Saturnalia, intending it as a shortcut to education (‘compendia’) for his son and expressing the wish that ‘all the material painstakingly gathered, both after and before your birth, from a number of different works in Greek and Latin, will furnish you with a complete apparatus for knowledge’.10 The turn of phrase ‘Nonius Marcellus, the Peripatetic of Thubursicum’ matches exactly the inscriptio transmitted for the Metamorphoses ‘of Apuleius, the Platonist of Madaura’ (‘L. Apulei Platonici Madaurensis’). 11 Unlike Apuleius’, Nonius’ philosophical affiliation finds no supporting evidence in the text but for a quotation from Aristotle’s On Memory (453a6) in the discussion of synonyms for ‘remember’ at Nonius 708 L. It has been argued that this passage betrays a familiarity with the writings of Aristotle that may be satisfactorily explained only on the assumption of a terminus ante quem 70 Return to Table of Contents

Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus for Nonius of around ad 250, after which date ‘no Peripatetic can be cited’.12 The argument is plausible, but unconvincing: Nonius found the Aristotelian reference, if not the quotation, in Gellius (8.7), who also supplied the material for the following four entries in this section of the De Compendiosa Doctrina.13 Failing all attempts to detect philosophical clues in Nonius’ grammatical discourse,14 and lacking information on Nonius’ biography that might account for the epithet, one must be content with the notion that ‘Peripatetic’ is a further indication that Nonius was no Christian: his ‘reactionary’ agenda corroborates the hypothesis.15 Ethnic or topographical cognomina are not unusual for north African authors,16 both in the ancient sources and in the manuscript tradition: besides Apuleius ‘of Madaura’, one recalls Terentianus ‘Maurus’,17 Olympius Vopiscus Nemesianus ‘of Carthage’ (‘Karthaginiensis’),18 the ‘African’ C. Marius Victorinus (‘Afer’),19 and of course the playwright Terence (Publius Terentius Afer).20 The title ‘Thubursicensis’ locates Nonius’ activity in the north African town of Thubursicum Numidarum, now Khamissa, 32 kilometres south-west of Souk-Ahras in Algeria. Municipium from ad 99, colonia from 270, Thubursicum (probably the same town as the oppidum Tubuscum mentioned in Tacitus, Ann. 4.24) was a prosperous centre in the province of Africa Proconsularis between the Antonine-Severan era and the end of the fourth century; documentary silence following the reign of Julian seems to suggest subsequent decline.21 Augustine, who had occasion to visit the town on his way to Cirta in 396/7, remarked on the population’s excessive enthusiasm for rhetorical displays, lamenting that his doctrinal conversation with an elderly bishop of Thubursicum, the Donatist Fortunius, was disrupted by the uncontrollable noise of the large audience assembled ‘as one would in the theatre’ (‘theatrica consuetudine’, Ep. 44.1).22 That public lectures and performances were an important feature of social life in Thubursicum in late Antiquity is attested by the remains of a large theatre which, with its 54-metre stage, represents the most significant Roman archaeological find at Thubursicum.23 Local Latin inscriptions document an extensive renovation of the town in the age of the Emperor Constantine, exhibiting the typical pride which Roman authorities took in their building works. The name of a Nonius features in two such inscriptions. CIL 8.4878 (= ILAlg 1.1773) credits one ‘Nonius Marcellus Herculius’ with the paving of the platea vetus and the consolidation of the thermae and other buildings in disrepair, in the years 324–33.24 A very fragmentary inscription mentions the name of a Noni in connection with the restoration of the basilica at Thubursicum (ILAlg 1.1287, fr. r); this inscription is impossible to date with any precision.25 Nothing proves that this Nonius is the scholar and not ‘his son, grandson, father or grandfather’.26 Epigraphic evidence speaks only 71 Return to Table of Contents

Anna Chahoud for the presence at Thubursicum of an individual or a family of considerable social standing and resources. The range of Latin literature available to Nonius – whether private collection or town library at Thubursicum27 – was remarkable. One is reminded of another such provincial library in earlier times, that of the great scholar Marcus Valerius Probus of Beirut: ‘He had read certain old books at school in the province, where memory of the ancient writers remained and had not yet been wiped out entirely as it had in Rome’ (Suet. Gramm. 24).28 W.M. Lindsay reconstructed the list of Nonius’ primary sources for the compilation of his dictionary as consisting of thirty-three texts of seventeen Republican Latin authors, and five scholarly works in eight volumes (‘glossaries’: one such work is Gellius’ Noctes Atticae), for a total of forty-one books, both in roll and in codex form.29 Nonius’ authorities are the texts of the traditional Augustan syllabus: Plautus, Naevius, Ennius, Pacuvius, Accius, Lucilius, Terence, Afranius, Pomponius, Novius, Turpilius, Sisenna, Lucretius, Cicero, Sallust, and, of course, Varro and Virgil. Catullus and the ‘new poets’ are significantly absent, although quoted from intermediate sources along with other early authors (e.g. Caecilius and Titinius) and a few later ones (Cornelius Celsus, Apuleius, Septimius Serenus). Nonius’ choice of stylistic models conforms to the archaizing canon which the African authors Fronto (pp. 56.21–57.4 Van den Hout) and Apuleius (Apol. 95.5) promoted in the second century ad,30 and the imperial grammarians subsequently standardized (with the natural inclusion of Virgil). Servius was the first to include the neoterici and post-Virgilian authors (Lucan, Statius, Juvenal) in his notion of ‘suitable authors’ (idonei auctores), but felt bound to motivate his choices.31 No lexicon surviving from Antiquity is so rich in quotations from thirdand second-century Latin authors.32 We owe it principally to Nonius that we have access to excerpts from early Roman epic, tragedy, and satire. In addition to the several thousands of examples from Republican authors cited to illustrate his ‘dictionary’, Nonius calls upon antiquity in general (veteres, scriptores vetustatis, auctoritas vetustatis) over a hundred times in the De Compendiosa Doctrina.33 Displaying an attitude widespread in imperial grammatical discourse, Nonius perceives ‘antiquity’ and ‘authority’ as one category, with consequent fusion of the two distinct notions of archaic usage and figurative language of poets and high-register prose writers.34 2. Nonius and the Roman lexicographical tradition Except for the Etymologies compiled by Isidore of Seville at the dawn of the Middle Ages, the De Compendiosa Doctrina is the best preserved lexicon from Roman Antiquity. The illustrious precedent On the Meaning of Words 72 Return to Table of Contents

Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus (De Significatu Verborum)35 by the Augustan scholar Marcus Verrius Flaccus is lost; the second-century re-elaboration of it by Sextus Pompeius Festus has come down to us in a very fragmentary form, along with an epitome compiled for Charlemagne by Paul the Deacon at Monte Cassino in the eighth century.36 The seminal studies on Verrius’ modus operandi by Fröhde (1880), Reitzenstein (1887), and Strzelecki (1932) detected the correlation between the De Significatu Verborum and the De Compendiosa Doctrina; Lindsay analysed the textual correspondences between Nonius and the epitome of Festus, and demonstrated that Verrius was the source of one of the ‘glossaries’ used by Nonius in the compilation of his dictionary.37 Verrius, Festus, and Nonius bear witness to the concept and development of Latin lexicography as a tool for organizing the cultural heritage of Republican Rome through a study of the Latin language, combining the didactic necessity to explain literary texts with a scholarly interest in linguistic science.38 A more or less fixed canon of authoritative writers supplies the lexicographer with the material for linguistic analysis and the opportunity for a discussion, and even a reconstruction, of Roman institutions. Ancient lexicographers concerned themselves with more than words; Nonius designs his work in the tradition of Roman antiquarianism, of which he inherits the methodology. The collection of source-material, the reading, excerpting, and compiling of glosses, and the alphabetical arrangement of glosses, in as far as possible keeping the extracts in the order in which the sources were examined, were the three stages of a method which has been traced back to an Alexandrian model and is well attested in authors such as Varro and Gellius.39 The ‘mechanical regularity’ with which Nonius reproduced quotations from his word-lists in the same order as he had drawn the examples from his sources is such that it offers a rule for the reconstruction of the sequence of passages in the original authors.40 The entries in the De Compendiosa Doctrina appear to have been arranged alphabetically only in Books 2–4, either by the author himself or, less plausibly, by a medieval ‘editor’ of the work.41 In any case, the text shows lack of final revision.42 Other signs of incompleteness may be ascribed to external factors. The De Compendiosa Doctrina is likely to have been abbreviated in the course of its transmission, as is often the case with lexica and glossaries;43 recent studies support the theory of Oliver (1947) of an originally longer version of the work (‘Nonius plenior’, or ‘Nonius integer’), which perhaps survived into the Middle Ages.44 The transmitted text is without an opening preface containing aims and proper dedication, which might be expected; it is possible, though unlikely, that Nonius’ quotation (723 L.) from his own Letters on the Neglect of Study (Epistulae de Peregrinando a Doctrinis)45 is an extract from a dedicatory letter prefixed to the De Compendiosa Doctrina, rather than a reference to a lost work by the grammarian. 46 The extant 73 Return to Table of Contents

Anna Chahoud version of the De Compendiosa Doctrina also exhibits lacunae and signs of transposition; an entire section (Book 16) is lost. Like Festus, Gellius, and Isidore, Nonius structured his lexicon in twenty books, or sections, dealing with vocabulary, grammar, and, to a lesser extent, antiquities in general. The lexicographical framework of the De Compendiosa Doctrina incorporates the characteristics of an ars grammatica (discussion of analogy and anomaly according to the parts of speech) and of a glossary (registers of rare terms, along with lists of linguistic peculiarities). Lexical investigation is predominant in Books 1 (‘De proprietate sermonum’, 1–94 L.) and 6 (‘De impropriis’, 719–47 L.), on ‘correct’ (etymological) and ‘incorrect’ (metaphorical) use of words; in Book 2 (‘De honestis et nove veterum dictis’, 95–278 L.), on unusual words found in the ancient authors; in Book 4, on polysemy (‘De varia significatione sermonum’, 345–680 L.);47 in Book 5, on synonymy (‘De differentia similium significationum’, 681–718 L.); and in Book 12, on ‘various peculiarities of Republican Latin’ 48 (‘De doctorum indagine’, 832–53 L.). The central sections of the work, along with Book 3 on metaplasm (‘De indiscretis generibus’, 279–344 L.), concentrate on morphology and syntax, reviewing apparent authorial irregularities: anomalous verb forms in Book 7 (‘De contrariis generibus verborum’, 748–73 L.), heteroclite nouns in Book 8 (‘De mutata declinatione’, 774–93 L.), syntactical irregularities in Book 9 (‘De numeris et casibus’, 794–806 L.), heteroclite verbs in Book 10 (‘De mutatis coniugationibus’, 807–18 L.), and adverbs in Book 11 (‘De indiscretis adverbiis’, 819–31 L.). The final sections, considerably shorter than the others, deal with specialized terminology in a fashion reminiscent of Alexandrian technical glossaries. Nonius illustrates words for boats in Book 13 (‘De genere navigiorum’, 854–9 L.), for the variety and colour of clothes in Books 14 and 17 (‘De genere vestimentorum’, 860–70 L.; ‘De colore vestimentorum’, 879–82 L.), for vessels in Book 15 (‘De genere vasorum vel poculorum’, 871–8 L.), for shoes in the lost Book 16 (‘De genere calciamentorum’, cf. 878 L.), for food and drink in Book 18 (‘De generibus ciborum vel potionum’, 883–5 L.), and for weapons in Book 19 (‘De genere armorum’, 886–93 L.), to conclude with kinship terms in Book 20 (‘De propinquitate’, 894 L.). Nonius’ special interest lies in archaic or unusual words, which places the De Compendiosa Doctrina in the area where lexicography meets glossography – a related genre not easily distinguished in Antiquity.49 The singling out and explanation of ‘words not in common use’ ( glossae, or, more frequently, glossemata 50) was hardly separated from the study of Latinitas as opposed to barbarismus; a large variety of deviations from the norm fall halfway between the two extremes, including the significant category of authorial reshaping of words (metaplasmus) and figurative language (schemata).51 Nonius inherited 74 Return to Table of Contents

Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus much of his material from illustrious predecessors; exactly to what extent he did so, and what selection criteria he used, we cannot establish with any precision. Very little survives of the production of Republican scholars (Fest. 192.2 L. ‘glossematorum scriptores’) such as Aurelius Opillus and Lucius Ateius ‘Philologus’ (late second/first century bc), whose compilations of rare or difficult words in Republican writers were cited by Varro and Verrius as authoritative.52 In the second century ad Statilius Maximus compiled a list of hapax legomena in Cicero and Cato (De Singularibus).53 Verrius himself was the author of a short collection of ‘old words, with examples’ (Priscorum Verborum cum Exemplis Libri), which was probably known to Nonius.54 The principle of antiquity which guides the author in his annotations on language also applies to grammatical sources, which Nonius names in so far as they belong to the Republican period. No mention is made of imperial writers (e.g. Verrius Flaccus, Remmius Palaemon, Flavius Caper) whose linguistic research had a profound influence on the De Compendiosa Doctrina. A near-contemporary, unacknowledged source may have been the alphabetical ‘dictionary of constructions’ (Exempla Elocutionis) of Arusianus Messius (c. ad 395), which presents close parallels with Nonius’ Books 4, 7, 9, and 12 in terms of both interpretation and illustration.55 Gellius is a special case. Nonius draws large quantities of material from the Noctes Atticae while leaving the author unnamed but for the occasional, though consistent, reference to an ‘old writer of good sense’ (vetus prudens) but ‘dubious authority’ (auctoritatis incertae or obscurae).56 Nonius’ acknowledgement of the scholarly tradition behind him begins with the elder Cato, who scattered linguistic observations in his historical work Origines, and ends with Varro and Varro’s contemporaries Santra and Nigidius Figulus. Much of this material he cited at second hand.57 3. Nonius’ grammatical discourse I now turn to the analysis of Nonius’ idea of ‘correct Latin diction’ and its position within the Roman grammatical tradition. The model is a Republican one: Varro defined Latinitas as ‘the observation of uncorrupted speech, in accordance with the language of the Romans’, establishing such criteria as system (natura), norm (analogia), usage (consuetudo), and authority (auctoritas) – in particular: The last principle in language is authority, to which we resort failing everything else, as one would turn to a sacred altar. For authority has nothing to do with either norm or usage – it is a notion acquired through the reading of the ancient writers, and not even those who follow it would know how to explain the reason for their doing so.58

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Anna Chahoud Varro resorts to metaphor as a tool for emphasis: auctoritas is the ‘sacred altar’ (or, with alternative reading, the ‘anchor’) to cling to when no other guiding principle is available.59 Varro’s definition is often cited and elaborated in the grammatical tradition, with variations concerning the classification of principles.60 Quintilian would come to prioritize usage as ‘the surest pilot in speaking’ on the grounds that language should be treated ‘as currency minted with the public stamp’ (Inst. 1.6.3),61 and warn against anachronistic excesses in the application of the auctoritas principle.62 In late Antiquity, authority takes over – more precisely, the authority of antiquity (auctoritas veterum). Nonius reflects the position of imperial technical writers, who elaborate on the Varronian definition (especially when distinguishing between barbarism and metaplasm) and take authorial usage as synonymous with correctness.63 The frequency and distribution of the argument in the De Compendiosa Doctrina is a clear indication of Nonius’ preference for the auctoritas principle, which alone guides him towards his definition of Latinitas and makes him confident enough to pass verdicts on linguistic matters.64 i. Antiquity and usage The De Compendiosa Doctrina opens with a markedly etymological section illustrating ‘the precise and correct meaning of a word’ ( proprietas verbi),65 as opposed to solecism (vitium, Gk. ἀκυρολογία).66 ‘Correctness of speech’ is called upon twenty-seven times in the De Compendiosa Doctrina, twentythree of which instances predictably occur in Book 1, ‘De proprietate sermonum’. The inseparable notions of accuracy, clarity, and refinement are implied in Nonius’ frequent comments on the elegant style of the ancient authors (honestas or elegantia).67 Imperial grammarians in general emphasize this quality of the classical writers as an indication of pure Latin style (e.g. Char. Gramm. 122.24 B. ‘eleganter … et Latine’)68 and incorporate it in their understanding of auctoritas as a paradigm to conform to (e.g. Vel. GL 7.67.18 ‘elegantiam et auctoritatem sequendam’).69 This model allows for the justification of language anomalies at all levels (from morphological irregular­ities to semantic shifts) on the grounds that an unusual expression (novum dictum) meets with the grammarian’s approval as long as the usage is found in the auctores. Nonius’ attention to this characteristic of the written language of the classical authors is the underlying concept of Book 2, ‘On the elegant innovations of the ancient writers’; here and elsewhere in the De Compendiosa Doctrina the authors credited (rightly or not) with ‘original expressions’ (‘things said nove’) are Cicero (Non. 116, 185 L.), Lucretius (198 L.), Sallust (205 L.), Varro (217, 239, 241, 278, 851 L.), Ennius (248 L.), Lucilius (714 L.), and Virgil (747 L.). Far from being an 76 Return to Table of Contents

Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus obfuscating impediment (cf. e.g. Rhet. Her. 1.15 ‘nove … et perturbate’),70 originality is for Nonius a mark of style and a reason for praise (205 L. ‘nove et eleganter’).71 In rather formulaic fashion and with the synonymic explanatory practice typical of a lexicon,72 Nonius lists unusual word-formations or syntactical structures beside their current equivalent: ‘the ancient authors said’ (appellabatur, dictum est apud veteres, veteres dixerunt/appellari voluerunt), or ‘word X [was used] instead of [expected] word Y’, with a pro-structure signalling an apparent irregularity, e.g.: MACELLVM dictum pro macilentum. Lucilius probat lib. VI. The word macellum was used for macilentum, ‘thinnish’, as is proved by Lucilius in the sixth book.73 Nonius 199 L.

Likewise, formulae such as ‘as often’ ([sic]uti saepe, saepius, plerumque; ut aput multos) contrast the ordinary form with the archaic or poetic one. If occasionally literary and ordinary usage (consuetudo or usus) coincide and meet with Nonius’ approval (as at e.g. 337 L. on tergum neuter), more often than not Nonius sets the elegant language of his authorities as the norm against ordinary usage, the latter denounced as ‘common’, ‘improper’, ‘unacceptable’ (e.g. 330 L. ‘vulgaris consuetudo’; 840 L. ‘vitiose dicimus’; 237 L. ‘usus pessimus’).74 When Nonius seems to commend an instance of contemporary spoken Latin (508 L.),75 he is supported by archaic literary evidence (Pompon. Com. 89), and refers to an Italian variation of the language (‘ut nunc Itali dicunt’). Remarks such as this can hardly be taken at face value. The frequent references to usage (sicuti/quod nunc dicimus/vulgo dicitur) would appear to suggest that Nonius is in these cases commenting on the Latin spoken by his contemporaries. Such occurrences, which Lindsay classified as referring to ‘sermo hodiernus’, number seventy-five in the De Compendiosa Doctrina, and mostly concern lexical choice (over half these observations are found in Books 1 and 2).76 Attempts have been made to capture from Nonius’ representation of the language of his own time a glimpse of the regional variation of Latin spoken in north Africa (‘Africitas’).77 The evidence is thin and controversial.78 It has been rightly pointed out that Nonius’ ‘we say’ (dicimus) is merely a scholarly formula and by no means a guarantee of contemporary usage; in fact, some examples are cited second-hand from Gellius.79 We learn little more from the single atypical case of Nonius speaking in the first person singular: ‘torculum is what I would normally call torcular [wine-press].’80 Both words are recorded in Pliny the Elder (NH 18.317, 230), and while evidence from Varro (Sat. Men. 185; Rust. 1.55.7) may suggest that torculum is the older form, it must 77 Return to Table of Contents

Anna Chahoud be said that literary records prove very little about the history of the technical language of Latin-speaking farmers. Whether Nonius is here reproducing his own experience or repeating a comment from an intermediate source, the word torcular tells us nothing about African usage in particular. Other examples seem to point to a variety of Latin characterized by archaic or vulgar features in terms of lexical choice (e.g. 885 L., mellacium for sapa, ‘new wine’; 869 L., mafurtium, i.e. μαφόρ(τ)ιον, for ricinium, ‘shawl’) and pronunciation (e.g. 864 L., clamys for chlamys, ‘cloak’); it is hard to say to what extent this material reflects Nonius’ experience as a speaker, rather than just his preference for archaizing language. ii. Etymology and competence Following the Varronian doctrine of etymological theory as a model for the study of the Latin language,81 Nonius dwells on etymology especially in Book 1, illustrating his equivalence of antiquity and correctness (proprietas) with examples of words used in their etymological sense.82 The derivation of the word is introduced by typical formulae such as ‘derived from’ (dictum ab, tractum ex) or ‘[we say X] because …’ ([idcirco …] quod- or quia-clause). Nonius’ etymological interests lead him to examine cognate words, sometimes grouping them in a single entry, and to discuss the radical term itself, antonyms, diminutives, and derivatives (unde et, nam et inde, ‘a derivative is …’). Nonius is also eager to explain Greek loanwords and Greek cognates or synonyms for Latin terms (quod Graeci [vocant], sicuti Graece, etc.).83 In his discussion of cognate words, Nonius follows the time-honoured practice (cf. Varro, Ling. 6.37) of identifying etymological roots (radices) and primitive words (primigenia verba).84 Attempts range from the reasonable (e.g. 29 L. on clepere, ‘to steal’, from κλοπή 85) to the unlikely (e.g. 9 L. connecting cinaedus, ‘catamite’, with ‘the action of moving [κινεῖν] one’s body’ 86). At times Nonius is confident enough to challenge someone else’s interpretation of a word (non ut quibusdam videtur, quidam volunt, putant); his judgement, however, is not always to be trusted, as in 80 L., where the word assa (‘dry-nurse’; from assus, ‘dry’) is wrongly connected with the act of ‘providing assistance’ (adsum). Nonius appears there to claim credit for original investigation and sharp attention (‘acri intentione potuimus indagare’),87 whereas he is in fact reproducing a wrong etymology from a misleading source.88 When Nonius rejects a plainly wrong etymology, he is applying a stock motif from the grammatical tradition; but when he gives two alternative derivations with an either-or structure (vel, or less frequently, aut) – as if unable, or unwilling, to choose one – more often than not the truth is that he is striving to construct an etymological explanation on the basis of the 78 Return to Table of Contents

Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus passage(s) he has at hand for that particular lemma. For example: EXPIRARE dictum est vel ab spiritu effuso vel ab spiraminibus. Lucilius lib. III: ‘expirans animam pulmonibus aeger agebat.’ idem XXVI: ‘ut, si eluviem facere per ventrem velis, | cura ne omnibus distento corpore expiret viis.’ We say expirare either from ‘the act of breathing one’s last’ or from ‘exhalations’, as in Lucilius, Book 3 [106 Marx = 134 Warmington], ‘he was sick in his lungs, breathing his last’, and Book 26 [645 f. M. = 684 f. W.], ‘so, if you want to wash out the filth through the bowels, make sure it doesn’t pour from all passages in your swollen body’. Nonius 55 L.89

Nonius’ etymology of expirare (‘to breathe out’) is entirely founded on the context of the word in the two Lucilius passages, which he produces as evidence for the ‘etymological’ use of the verb. The analysis he offers is more reasonable in this case than in numerous others, where a misinterpreted quotation generates a patently erroneous interpretamentum. Nonius is no exception to the rule that ‘ancient lexicographers did not take time to consider in depth the passages they adduced in their works. They were content to force the unusual word in question into harmony with what they saw as the general sense of the passage.’90 Nonius’ belief that the veteres used words in their etymological sense leads him to far-fetched interpretations even when perfectly usual words are involved: see, for example, the derivation of verbero (‘flog’) from both verbera (‘blows’) and verba (‘words’) given at 64 L., where the unacceptable etymology rests entirely on a misunderstanding of the exemplum (Plaut. Aul. 42). iii. ‘Auctoritas’ ‘Auctoritas veterum is Nonius’ watchword.’91 The entries in the De Compendiosa Doctrina regularly include one or more quotations from the authors whose auctoritas is repeatedly invoked to back up the grammarian’s interpretation of a form or grammatical structure: the quoted author ‘indicates, illustrates, gives evidence for and support to, this usage’ (hoc manifestat/manifestavit, ostendit, aperuit, confirmat, demonstrat, probat); ‘the ancient writers established that one should say …’ (dici veteres volunt); or, more concisely, ‘on so-and-so’s authority [we say]’ (auctoritate + gen.). The practice, with similar variety of formulaic expressions, is well documented in the late imperial grammatical tradition, notably in Servius’ commentaries on Virgil.92 Nonius calls upon the auctoritas of his literary models some sixty times in the De Compendiosa Doctrina,93 either specifying whose authority he has in mind (above all, Varro and Virgil),94 or using a generic formula (auctoritas veterum or vetustatis) to introduce the quotations pertinent to the lemma.95 Nearly half of the examples are found in Book 6, ‘De impropriis’, where 79 Return to Table of Contents

Anna Chahoud Nonius makes his strongest case for the acceptability of poetic metaphors. This distribution is indicative of Nonius’ perception of the distance between the language of the veteres and the sensitivity of contemporary speakers (or readers), who might mistake figurative language for common irregularities. Nonius’ defence of authorial peculiarities becomes emphatic when an example from Virgil corroborates the evidence collected from other authors: Virgil features in four of the five passages where auctoritas is accompanied by a supporting adjective – 721 L. vehemens (‘strong’), 725 L. honesta (‘elegant’), 726 L. litterata (‘learned’) – or specified as ‘the authority of the learned men of the past’ (719 L. ‘veterum doctorum auctoritas’), with which Nonius on one occasion proudly associates himself (723 L.). All passages belong to the opening section of Book 6. It has been suggested that Nonius implicitly addresses his argument to detractors of Virgil in particular, thus placing his Book 6 in the same tradition as Asconius’ Contra Vergilii Obtrectatores (first century ad).96 Virgil’s canonical rank as a school text – dating back perhaps to the innovative syllabus of Atticus’ freedman Q. Caecilius Epirota (c. 75–c. 15 bc), allegedly ‘the first to lecture on Virgil and other modern poets’ 97 – explains both the unanimous association of Virgil and auctoritas in imperial grammarians,98 and Nonius’ preference in particular, as attested by the more than eleven hundred quotations from Virgil in the De Compendiosa Doctrina.99 The prominence given to the principle of authority introduces a conservative stance whereby correctness is judged on the basis of the written word of the classical authors rather than by the standards of everyday use. The grammarian is prepared not only to reject all charges of barbarism brought against authoritative poetry, but even to mistake a standard use for a poetic innovation. An interesting example is offered by the ancient notes available on Virgil’s choice of the adjective turpis, ‘ugly, unsightly’, to describe a cow’s head at Georgics 3.52: ‘optima torvae | forma bovis cui turpe caput, cui plurima cervix’ (‘The best appearance is that of a fierce looking cow, whose head is ugly, whose neck is thick’).100 Servius’ commentary on this line glosses the adjective as ‘wide, enormous, and for this reason terrifying’ (‘amplum atque magnum ac per hoc terribile’); likewise a commentator on Horace cites the Virgil passage to parallel an alleged Horatian usage of turpis in the sense of ‘large’ (‘grandis’: ps.-Acro, Hor. Epod. 5.19). Nonius interprets the word similarly (662 L., ‘turpe, grande’), pairing the passage with Georgics 4.395, where the adjective, with its standard meaning of ‘ugly, uncouth’, makes perfect sense in the context of a description of seals (‘turpis … phocas’);101 in fact, the adjective in this sense is used of animals since Ennius.102 It was probably an annotated text of Virgil circulating in Antiquity which supplied all grammarians with the note.103 Nonius is led 80 Return to Table of Contents

Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus astray by his confidence in Virgil’s ingenuity and blind adherence to his sources on the passage. Authority is also associated with language ‘specialists’, above all Varro, ‘auctoritas Romana’ (Non. 853 L.), who comes second only to Virgil in the list of most frequently cited authors in the De Compendiosa Doctrina.104 Although the vast majority of quotations come from Varro’s Menippean Satires (for which Nonius is the main source of transmission), Nonius also had a copy of the De Vita Populi Romani and at least two ‘glossaries’ based on Varro’s antiquarian works.105 As we have seen above (p. 75), Nonius does not name a single grammatical source later than Varro; Gellius is plagiarized, and yet dismissed as an author ‘of dubious authority’. Lindsay suggested that Gellius, along with the various unidentified texts which Nonius used to compile his dictionary, supplied all the quotations from unnamed writers whose authority Nonius suspects as insufficient (87 L. ‘auctoritate deficiunt’), unaccepted (317 L. ‘non recepta’; 325 L. ‘non probatur’), unknown (194 L. ‘ignobilis’; 143 L. ‘incognita’), unclear (284, 285, 340, 791 L. ‘obscura’; 708 L. ‘in obscuro’), doubtful (97 L. ‘in dubio’; 286 L. ‘dubia’), uncertain (57, 211, 252 L. ‘incerta’; 291 L. ‘vaccillat’), or inferior (286 L. ‘minor’).106 As one finds out, the authors so discredited are Accius (Annales), Claudius Quadrigarius, Furius Antias, Matius, Memmius, Caesar, Catullus, C. Licinius Calvus, Cornelius Celsus, perhaps one Mummius author of Atellanae, and, of course, Gellius.107 Some of these authors – Caesar, the ‘new poets’, the early-imperial encyclopaedist Cornelius Celsus – do not suit Nonius’ archaizing ideal of ‘ancient authority’. Others, however, are indeed distinguished veteres; Accius in particular is thoroughly documented in the De Compendiosa Doctrina, and Nonius had no reason to doubt Accius’ word on e.g. alvus masculine (perfectly acceptable; cf. Plaut. Pseud. 823) other than indirect knowledge of the passage (Non. 284–5 L.). Nonius’ reticence betrays second-hand knowledge or lack of information; however, the ways in which he disguises his own shortcomings as inadequate auctoritas of his sources (with the wide variety of expressions listed above) are consistent with the general line of his work and symptomatic of ‘his typically professorial method and preference: “early” authors are good, i.e., authoritative.’108 iv. Technical language and late chronology I conclude with a brief analysis of Nonius’ technical language (sermo grammaticus) in connection with the chronological issue mentioned at the start of this study. In a few cases Nonius characterizes his sources with expressions which are either unattested or unparalleled until the third or fourth century (Tertullian, Arnobius, Augustine). The African distribution of occurrences may be meaningful. Nonius is also familiar with some of the specialized 81 Return to Table of Contents

Anna Chahoud terminology which we find in grammatical handbooks such as those of Charisius, Donatus, and Diomedes (fourth/fifth century). Two agent-nouns, used to denote the prescriptive authority of the Republican writer (normally qualified as auctor or testis), are possibly recent coinages. Manifestator, ‘author giving evidence’ for the etymology of a word (Lucretius at Non. 20 L.) or for the difference between two synonyms (Cicero at 701 L.), is a late and rare word, unattested before Augustine.109 Its equivalent designator, used of Varro at 17 L., is also scarcely documented, except for one example in Tertullian.110 Comparatively late is also the adjective compendiosus, ‘short’, featuring in Nonius’ title. The word is attested no earlier than Apuleius (Met. 11.22) and subsequently mostly in scholastic contexts.111 The closest parallels to ‘compendiosa doctrina’ are Boethius’ ‘succinct narration’ of ancient doctrines (‘compendiosam … traditionem’, Porph. Isag. p. 25), and Macrobius’ ‘concise proof ’ as opposed to ‘convoluted arguments’ (‘compendiosa adsertio … disceptationis ambage’, In Somn. 1.19.15). Nonius’ sermo grammaticus includes specialized terms typical of lateimperial technical writers. In Nonius as in, for example, Priscian, figuratio indicates a ‘derivative form’ (Non. 133 L.) rather than ‘the process of derivation, or word-formation’ (e.g. Gell. 17.2.16).112 The Greek term monoptoton (sc. onoma), ‘indeclinable word’ (Non. 298 and 782 L.), is still glossed by M. Plotius Sacerdos (third century) with its Latin equivalent (‘Prob.’ Cath. GL 4.14.3 ‘monoptoton vel indeclinabile’); this is no longer the case with Charisius, whose Ars includes a section ‘De monoptotis’ in Book 1 (39.25 ff. B.).113 The term declinatio specifically designates ‘declension of nouns’ in Nonius (224 and 774 L.), rather than broadly ‘inflection of words’, as in e.g. Varro, De Lingua Latina, 8.3.114 If authentic, the title of Book 12, ‘De doctorum indagine’ (known as such to Priscian, e.g. GL 2.35.21), suggests that Nonius, like Diomedes and Chalcidius, used indago in the strictly linguistic sense of verborum indagatio, ‘research on words’ (cf. e.g. Gell. 18.2.6).115 The idioms veterum auctoritas docet (e.g. Non. 231 L.) and usurpat (e.g. 333 L.) are reminiscent of the repeated appeals to auctoritas familiar to any reader of the Grammatici Latini.116 Although the adjective litteratus, ‘learned’, is used in classical Latin to describe intellectual pursuits (e.g. Cic. Tusc. 5.105, ‘otio’; Sen. Ep. 26.6, ‘colloquia’), Nonius’ expression auctoritas litterata for the ‘learned authority’ of Virgil (726 L.) is otherwise unheard of but for a reference to Aristotle in Arnobius;117 Augustine offers a possibly relevant parallel when contrasting common habits of speech (‘loquendi consuetudo vulgaris’) to literary perfection (‘integritas litterata’) at De Doctrina Christiana 3.15. 82 Return to Table of Contents

Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus The expression littera adtrita, ‘elided letter’, at Nonius 77 L. (‘IVMENTVM a iungendo … g littera … adtrita’) is entirely isolated in the grammatical tradition and may be interpreted as Nonius’ variation on the well-established formula littera detrita (e.g. Varro, Ling. 5.136; Nigid. GRF 166 = Gell. 10.5.1; August. De Civ. D. 16.3). 4. Conclusions However unfair the disparaging comments made about Nonius by classical scholars of the past,118 it is a fact that Nonius’ strength does not lie in either originality or critical depth. The De Compendiosa Doctrina is the work of an enthusiastic compiler, muddled by reason of his own limitations just as often as he is misled by errors in the texts available to him.119 The driving force of the De Compendiosa Doctrina is the author’s anxiety to secure the legacy of Roman antiquity in the best tradition of Latin scholarship – a commendable mission, and as such credited with the attention of those who carried forward that tradition into the Middle Ages. In the late fifth and early sixth centuries, the African grammarians Fulgentius and Priscian (the latter to become the most influential grammatical writer in the European Middle Ages) drew extensively upon Nonius’ ‘dictionary’.120 In the ninth, one Virgil scholiast at Tours used Nonius as an authoritative source, mentioning him among ‘certain learned authors’ and ‘others of no lesser authority’ than Servius.121 Unsurprisingly, the earliest extant manuscripts of Nonius, dating from the early Carolingian era, come from Tours and northern France in general (e.g. Ferrières, Rheims), perhaps from an insular archetype.122 What has been convincingly argued about a greater scholar, Servius, is also true for Nonius: that misinterpretations, distortions, and even blunders are emblematic of the author’s attitude and bring us closer to his identity.123 A passage from Book 2 is suggestive of the grammarian’s perception of antiquity: VETVSTAS et ANTIQVITAS vel felix vel sapiens vel mansueta est habita. Terentius in Hecyra [Hec. 848]: ‘quis me est fortunatior vetustatisque adeo plenior?’ The words vetustas and antiquitas were taken to mean ‘fortunate’, ‘wise’, ‘civilized’. Terence writes in The Mother-in-Law: ‘Who is there happier than me, and indeed more full of antiquity?’ Nonius 271 L.

The peculiar definition is supported by a misquoted line from Terence, where the correct reading is of course venustatis, ‘[full of ] delight’, which Donatus (Ter. Hec. 848) explains as ‘on account of Venus’ blessings’ (‘ob beneficia Veneris’). In all probability Nonius found the text already corrupt in an annotated edition of the Roman dramatists;124 not only did he find no fault 83 Return to Table of Contents

Anna Chahoud in it, he also used it to construct a definition of antiquitas which articulates the idealization of the Roman past implied in the entire work, with its characteristic focus on the exemplary quality of the word of the ancient writers (veteres docti, sapientes, sapientissimi).125 Nonius’ understanding of linguistic auctoritas in terms of antiquity, unaware (or regardless) of the distinction between ‘models of linguistic usage’ (auctores) and ‘early models’ (veteres, antiqui, or maiores, as against post-Virgilian writers)126 reflects such a pronounced orientation in late-imperial grammatical discourse that Priscian would feel bound to reformulate criteria for his new system of grammatical instruction at the outset of the sixth century.127 More generally, Nonius’ regard for ‘the memorable wisdom of the ancient authors’ (‘veterum memorabilis scientia’, 835 L.) appears to fit the antiquarian conservatism which shapes much of Latin culture in the fourth and early fifth centuries. The notion of the venerable Roman past which permeates the De Compendiosa Doctrina, and the author’s failure to challenge inherited views or confront emerging ones, are not just the hallmark of a nostalgic amateur of limited intellectual resources. These features prefigure the ‘non-militant and sentimentally pagan atmosphere of the Saturnalia’128 of Macrobius, writing around 430. A generation or two earlier, the apprehension of the increasingly isolated aristocratic pagans of Rome had found in Symmachus, prefect of the city, a committed defender of tradition. Symmachus’ attempt to restore the old order is eloquently expressed in the appeal of the personified Rome to the Emperors Valentinian, Theodosius, and Arcadius on the occasion of the Altar of Victory dispute in 384: ‘Let me live in my own fashion, because I am free’ (Symm. Relat. 3.9).129 By Macrobius’ time, religious and political concerns have been removed, or have at least faded, from the picture, and one concern remains: the preservation of culture and education.130 The task of the grammarian, in his capacity as repository of Latinitas, is more onerous (and consequential) than ever in the context of ideological appropriations of the Roman tradition. Macrobius’ idealized portrait of the young Servius in the Saturnalia is an indication of this attitude.131 Nonius’ provincial, and most probably private, didactic endeavour is no match for professional scholarship as it was being conducted in the capital; marginality, however, tells its own story. In fourth-century Numidia the grammatici belonged to the mainly pagan or Donatist ‘traditional’ local aristocracy, whose supremacy was threatened by the ‘new’ Catholic aristocracy dependent on imperial patronage.132 Latin had long been the language of both intellectual and public life in Roman Africa,133 just as the heritage of Roman literature, history, and culture in general had long been the property of the provincial educated classes.134 Parallels have been drawn between the figure of Nonius and Augustine’s portrait of the grammaticus in the first book of the Confessions,135 where the 84 Return to Table of Contents

Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus author vividly presents the pedantic obsessions of north African schools through a narrative of his contemporaries’ (and his own) fear of barbarism as the worst of all possible evils (Conf. 1.30). In the same region nearly a century earlier Arnobius had mocked the pointlessness of pagan preoccupations with style, arguing that ‘if you are concerned with the truth, no speech is perfect by nature; by the same token, none is flawed’.136 It was in peripheral areas of the empire, wherever and whenever the Romans perceived their linguistic identity to be in danger, that the study of Latin was more strictly associated with a preference for an idealized model of literary language:137 ‘The word Latinitas fixed the concept of the old order, an ideal of speech and society linked to the idealised (if not original) Romans.’138 And it is in Roman Africa that the linguistic ideal of Latinitas opens up to a broader cultural translation, when Tertullian speaks of ‘Roman identity’ (Romanitas) in a sarcastic address to the citizens of Carthage in the early third century,139 and when, upon the Vandals entering Africa in the early fifth, people construed the event as a threat to the Roman empire and all that it stood for (Romania).140 Acknowledgements

I wish to thank Professor David Scourfield, editor of the present volume, Professor Italo Mariotti, and Dr Ernesto Stagni, for their criticisms on earlier drafts of this chapter. The original version was written in 2000 as a study of Nonius’ ‘authorial voice’, intended to cast light on Nonius’ theoretical positions, cultural context, and chronology. A number of important contributions which support the general line of my investigation have appeared subsequently: Deufert 2001 (late date), Zaffagno 2003 (preliminary survey of Nonius’ technical language), and Barabino 2003 (systematic analysis of the auctoritas motif in Nonius). In so far as possible, I have taken them all into account during the preparation of this chapter.

Notes

  Cf. e.g. Diog. Bab. SVF 3.214, Ἑλληνισμός as ἀρετὴ λόγου.   For the notion of ‘grammar’ ([τέχνη] γραμματική, [ars] grammatica) and ‘grammarian’ (γραμματικός, grammaticus), see Jocelyn 1991a, 146–7; Kaster 1983; Kaster 1988, 32–50, 443–54. 3   Varro, GRF 234: ‘ars grammatica … scientia est quae a poetis, historicis oratoribusque dicuntur ex parte maiore’; translations from ancient texts in this chapter are my own except where otherwise stated. The passage is transmitted by Marius Victorinus (Gramm. 1.6 p. 65 Mariotti = GL 6.4.4–6). On lectio and expositio as the scope of the discipline see e.g. Diom. GL 1.426.13. Other late-imperial parallels at GRF 265. 4   Cf. Jocelyn 2002, 3. 5   Prisc. GL 2.35.20, 269.24, 499.20. 6   Late 4th/early 5th century: Lindsay 1901, 1; Mantero 1975, 143; Maggiulli 1982, 1

2

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Anna Chahoud 174; Schmidt 2000, 994; Deufert 2001. Early 4th century: Strzelecki 1936, 882–3; PLRE 1.552; Browning 1982, 769; Kaster 1988, 417 and 1996. Late 3rd century: Dihle 1994, 322. Late 2nd/early 3rd century: Keyser 1994 (see contra Deufert 2001; Jocelyn 2002, 9). For an overview of the arguments, see Gatti 2004, 5–7.  7   The majority of manuscripts read ‘De compendiosa doctrina per litteras’, where the phrase ‘per litteras’ (normally taken to mean ‘in alphabetical order’) is rejected as spurious by most editors. For a thorough discussion see Mantero 1975; cf. also Rocca 1982, 234–5; Gatti 2004, 7–8.  8   Kaster 1983, 324.  9   ‘Learned amateur’: Kaster 1988, 417–18; 67 and n. 142 (with Jocelyn 1991a, 151); cf. Schmidt 2000, 994 (‘Privat-gelehrter’). Arguments in favour of Nonius’ professional status (e.g. Mantero 1975, 165–6; Rocca 1982, 235–6) rest primarily on parallels with the dedications of Flavius Sosipater Charisius to his son (Char. Gramm. 1 Barwick ‘Fl. Sosipater magister ’) and Terentianus Maurus to his son and son-in-law (GL 6.328 ‘ad filium et generum liber’). Doubts concerning both individuals recommend caution. There is not a scrap of evidence for Terentianus’ position as grammaticus, and his grammatical poem rather suggests authorship by a ‘learned poet, in the customary fashion of third-century Africa’ (Cignolo 2002, xxix). Charisius’ title magister (the single genuine word in the supposed dedication) proves nothing, as it may refer to a palatine office (e.g. magister scrinii): cf. Kaster 1988, 392; Schenkeveld 2004, 2–3. 10   Macrob. Sat. 1 pref. 2 ‘quidquid mihi, vel te iam in luce edito vel antequam nasceris, in diversis seu Graecae seu Romanae linguae voluminibus elaboratum est, id totum sit tibi scientiae supellex.’ On this passage and Macrobius’ idealization of the (pagan) past see e.g. Cameron 1966, 36. 11   Cod. Mediceus Laurentianus 68.2 (F), fol. 126a: cf. Helm 1931, 1. 12   Keyser 1994, 381. 13   Cf. Lindsay 1901, 20. 14   The most extensive treatment of this topic is Mantero 1975, 145–78, who concludes (178) that ‘Peripateticus’ must be taken in a ‘generic’ sense as equivalent to magister, ‘teacher’. 15   An old view: Nettleship 1882, 7. 16   Cf. Mantero 1975, 144–5. 17   August. Util. Cred. 17; cf. Cignolo 2002, xxviii. 18   ‘Karthaginiensis’, variously spelt, is found in all manuscripts of Nemesianus: see Volpilhac 1975, 8 with n. 3; Williams 1986, 3. 19   Jer. De Vir. Ill. 101; cf. Hadot 1971, 15. 20   Cf. e.g. Suet. Vita Ter. 1. 21   Lepelley 1979–81, 1.100 and 2.210; Huss 2002; Lepelley 2004, 27. 22   On this passage as evidence for Augustine’s fame as a public speaker see Marrou 1987, 416. 23   Lepelley 1979–81, 2.210; Huss 2002. 24   Cf. Kaster 1988, 418. Only tentatively did the CIL editor T. Mommsen identify the ‘Nonius Marcell Herculius’ of line 7 of the inscription with the grammaticus: see Mommsen 1878 and CIL 8.1 (1881), 490. 25   Lepelley 1979–81, 2.214 n. 15. 26   Lindsay 1903, xiv. See Kaster 1988, 418; Keyser 1994, 380.

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Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus   Cf. Lindsay 1901, 101.   ‘legerat in provincia quosdam veteres libellos apud grammatistam, durante adhuc ibi antiquorum memoria, necdum omnino abolita sicut Romae.’ Cf. Mantero 1975, 184; Jocelyn 1984, 465–72 and 1985, 159 n. 139. 29   For Lindsay’s reconstruction of Nonius’ library (Lindsay 1901, 7–10), see in particular White 1980; Keyser 1994, 369–74; Deufert 2001, 148–9. 30   Cf. Mazzacane 1985, 192–3; Keyser 1994, 374–8. On archaism as an originally African movement see e.g. Cameron 1980, 160. 31   idonei auctores: Serv. Aen. 2.80; 5.823; 6.154; 8.435; 9.742 (commentatores); 11.373 (recentes); 12.923; G. 3.124; 4.122. See Kaster 1978, 185; Pellizzari 2003, 221. 32   For example, the transmitted text of Nonius includes 687 quotations from Lucilius (roughly 50% of the lines surviving for the 2nd-century satirist), as opposed to the total of 82 found in the extant version of Festus’ lexicon (45 in the manuscript of Festus and 37 in the epitome of Paul the Deacon: see below). 33   A complete list of passages in Mazzacane 1985, 191–2 n. 7. 34   See Kaster 1980, 229–30 and 1988, 184–5. 35   Or De Verborum Significatu, as attested in the indirect tradition of the text (e.g. Gellius): see Pieroni 2004, 9 n. 1. 36   See now Pieroni 2004, esp. 12–15 (biographical details on Verrius Flaccus); 28–30 (on Verrius’ method of citation); 15–17 and 19–28 (on Festus and the order of quotations in Festus). Cf. also De Nonno 1990, 608–9. The title of Festus’ work was probably De Verborum Significatione: see e.g. De Nonno 1992, 174–8; Schmidt 1997, 241; Pieroni 2004, 21 n. 79. 37   Lindsay 1901, 101–3; cf. Lindsay 1933, 78. 38   Jocelyn 1998, 364. 39   Cf. Stevenson 2004, 135–6. 40   See Lindsay 1901, 3–4 and 89. On Lindsay’s reconstruction of Nonius’ method of citation (‘lex Lindsay’), see in particular White 1980. 41   See Lindsay 1901, 90–1 and 1902, 46; White 1980, 131 ff.; Rocca 1982, 234–5; Llorente 1996, 97. 42   See Lindsay 1902, 51. 43   Cf. Gatti 1996, 82–3; Pieroni 2004, 23–30. 44   See Rocca 1982, 232; Gatti 1996, 90–1; Bertini 2003a, 131–5. 45   Non. 723 L. ‘nos in epistulis quae inscribuntur a doctrinis de peregrinando …’ (‘In my letters entitled On the Neglect of Study, [I wrote …]’). From this enigmatic text L. Mueller, in his Nonius edition of 1888, extracted the title Epistulae de Peregrinando a Doctrinis, generally accepted and interpreted as ‘On the neglect of study’ (Lindsay 1901, 1) or ‘On departure from the teaching subjects’, i.e. digressions on other topics (‘allontanamento dall’attività di insegnamento’: Mantero 1975, 167). It has been suggested to me that the content of the fragment would perhaps allow the title to be reconstructed as Doctrinae de Peregrinando, in the sense of περὶ ἀμελείας, ‘Instructions on negligence’, in epistolary form (‘epistulae’). I intend to discuss this suggestion, which recommends more attention than the scope of the present study permits, in a separate study on the problematic passage. Solimano’s article on this lemma (1992) does not touch upon the issue. 46   Dedicatory letter: Gatti 1996, 81. Separate work: Rocca 1980, 127 and 1982, 237–8; Kaster 1988, 418; Solimano 1992, 220 and 242; Schmidt 2000, 994. 47   Book 4 is the longest section in the De Compendiosa Doctrina, taking up the whole 27 28

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Anna Chahoud of vol. 2 in Lindsay’s three-volume Teubner edition. Lindsay 1901, 65 described Book 4 as ‘a Latin Lexicon’ in itself. On ‘polysemy’ for ‘varia significatio sermonum’ see Lupinu 1992, 51. 48   Lindsay 1901, 30. 49   Cf. Holtz 1996, 12. 50   The Greek loanwords glossa and glossema apply both to the obscure word (cf. Quint. Inst. 1.8.15) and to the explanation (interpretatio) of it (cf. Quint. Inst. 1.1.35): see TLL 6.2.2108.38 ff., 2109.1 ff. We read both terms first in Varro (glossa: Ling. 7.10; glossema: Ling. 7.34 and 107); see GRF 111–13; Suerbaum 2002, 556 (on L. Aelius Stilo as the supposed precursor of the genre in the late 2nd century bc). 51   Cf. Quint. Inst. 1.8.14 on metaplasms (μεταπλασμοί) and schemata or figures (σχήματα) as the names given to ‘faults’ (‘vitia’) when they occur in poetry. Technical writers likewise define metaplasmus in terms of poetic licence, e.g. ‘irregularity due to either metrical necessity or ornament’ (Sacerd. GL 6.451.25, ‘metaplasmus vel figura est dictio aliter composita quam debet metri vel decoris causa’); cf. also Consent. Gramm. 3.8 Niedermann; Serv. Aen. 5.120. 52   On glossematorum scriptores see also Fest. 166.13 L.; Varro, Ling. 7.10 ‘qui glossas scripserunt’; GRF 111. On Aurelius Opillus, Musarum Libri IX: Suet. Gramm. 6.1 ff.; GRF 86–95; Suerbaum 2002, 559–60. On Lucius Ateius ‘Philologus’, Liber Glossematorum: Fest. 192.2 L.; GRF 137–41; Pieroni 2004, 11–12. Outlines of the genre: De Nonno 1990, 607–12; Suerbaum 2002, 539–47; Pieroni 2004, 9–12. 53   Cf. Schmidt 1997, 257. 54   See Schmidt 1997, 239 on Nonius’ early-imperial grammatical sources, with bibliography. 55   Maggiulli 1982, 173–6; Magallón García 2002, 165–7. 56   Non. 791 L. (cf. 340 L.), 187 L., 276 L., all passages containing excerpts from Gellius: cf. Lindsay 1903, 943–5; Barabino 2003, 106. 57   Nonius found in Gellius excerpts from Nigidius Figulus and Santra (De Verborum Antiquitate; cf. Fest. 176.10 L.). On Santra in particular see Mazzacane 1982, 189–92. 58   Varro, GRF 268 ‘Latinitas est incorrupte loquendi observatio secundum Romanam linguam … auctoritas in regula loquendi novissima est. namque ubi omnia defecerint, sic ad illam quemadmodum ad aram sacram [var. l. ad anchoram] decurritur. non enim quicquam aut rationis aut consuetudinis habet, cum tantum opinione secundum veterum lectionem recepta sit nec ipsorum tamen, si interrogentur cur id secuti sint, scientium.’ The passage is transmitted in this form by Diom. GL 1.439.15, except for the reading ‘ad aram sacram’, which is found in Char. Gramm. 62.14 B. (see Barabino 2003, 81 n. 1). Cf. Schmidt 1993, 372. 59   Cf. Schenkeveld 1998, 452. 60   See GRF 290. 61   ‘consuetudo vero certissima loquendi magistra, utendumque plane sermone ut nummo, cui publica forma est’; translation: Butler 1920, 113. 62   Quint. Inst. 1.6.42 ‘multum tamen refert non solum quid dixerint, sed etiam quid persuaserint’ (‘It is important to notice not merely what [the best authors] said, but what words they succeeded in sanctioning’: tr. Butler 1920, 131); cf. also Inst. 9.3.3. See Eigler 2003, 97–8. 63   Cf. e.g. Aug. GL 4.494.4; Pomp. GL 5.232.4; Victorin. GL 6.189.3; Audax, GL 7.323.1. See TLL 1.1223.69 ff.

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Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus   See Barabino 2003, 107.   proprietas verbi: see e.g. Non. 62 L. Adv. proprie also mostly occurs in Book 1. 66   Cf. Quint. Inst. 8.2.3 on the definition of ‘impropriety of language’ as vitium, ἄκυρον; Gell. 17.1.1 (‘improprie loqui’), 10.11 tit.; Donat. p. 658.8 Holtz (= GL 4.394.29); Isid. Etym. 2.20.1. See TLL 7.1.697.69 ff. 67   Adj. honestus at Non. 143 L. (‘honestum verbum’), 700, 706, 725 L.; the derivative adverb honeste/honestissime (positum/dictum) is even more frequent (14 examples) (cf. the title of Book 2 ‘De honeste et nove veterum dictis’). Cf. TLL 6.2907.46 ff., 2913.7 ff. Elegantia: Non. 744 L.; adv. eleganter: Non. 111 L. (cf. 241, 205 L.). The adjective is used at 80 L. (‘elegantior’) and 73 L. (‘eliganti interpretatione’, with reference to Augustan law writers, ‘veteres iuris scriptores’). 68   The pairing of style and correctness is first implied in the definition of solecism (syntactical error) as an ‘uneven and discordant collocation of the parts of speech’ attributed to Sinnius Capito by Gell. 5.20.2 (‘soloecismus est impar atque inconveniens compositura partium orationis’); cf. e.g. Quint. Inst. 1.5.51; Isid. Etym. 1.33.1. 69   Cf. also Vel. GL 7.78.21, 79.19; Iulius Romanus ap. Char. Gramm. 251.12 B.; Diom. GL 1.382.16. 70   Cf. also Gell. 15.14.1. 71   Cf. Macrob. Sat. 6.6.1 ‘nove … sed decenter’. 72   Cf. e.g. Amsler 1989, 110. 73   The quotation that follows is Lucil. 242 Marx = 259 Warmington. 74   Index of passages in Zaffagno 2003, 10 (consuetudo and [omnium] consensus) and 21 (usus). For consuetudo as opposed to ‘regularity’ (analogia, cf. e.g. Varro, Ling. 8.27, or ratio verborum, cf. e.g. Diom. GL 1.8.57), see TLL 4.558.58 ff. 75   On nubere, ‘to become married’, of a man. 76   Lindsay 1903, 993–5. 77   Contini 1987 (with list of supposed examples of ‘African’ Latin at 24–5). 78   See Keyser 1994, 383–8, with the convincing criticism of Deufert 2001, 143–7. 79   Keyser 1994, 383 with n. 65. 80   Non. 68 L. ‘TORCVLVM quod usu torcular dico.’ 81   Cf. Amsler 1989, 25. 82   Cf. Lindsay 1901, 10. 83   See e.g. Non. 69 L. (ὀχήματα/vehicula [carriages]; edones/phagones [gluttons]); 141 L. (ὀδοντάγρας/dentharpagas [forceps for drawing teeth]); 882 L. (anthraces/carbones [coals]). 84   See Lupinu 1992, 153; Thiermann 1996, 671. 85   ‘CLEPERE est furari: tractum a κλοπῇ, verbo graeco’ (‘clepere means furari [to steal]: the verb is derived from the Greek word κλοπή [theft]’). 86   ‘CINAEDI dicti sunt apud veteres saltatores vel pantomimi, ἀπὸ τοῦ κινεῖν σῶμα’ (‘cinaedi: the ancients used this term for dancers or pantomime performers, calling them so from the movement [kinein] of their body’); cf. Et. Gud. 322.13. 87   Cf. Diomedes’ preface to his Book 3, GL 1.473.8–9, where sound attention (‘sincera mentis intentione’) is paired with competence and accuracy (‘conpetenti studio diligentiaque’). 88   For the misconception, apparently derived second-hand from a glossary (Lindsay 1901, 16), cf. Gloss. 5.649.23. On this lemma see Rocca 1980, 135–6. 89   On this lemma see Garbugino 1990, 216 (text) and 232 (commentary). 64 65

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Anna Chahoud   Jocelyn 1991b, 580.   White 1980, 113.   92   Cf. Pellizzari 2003, 220–1.   93   See Mazzacane 1985, 191–3; Barabino 2003, 82; Zaffagno 2003, 9.   94   The authors specifically credited with auctoritas are, in alphabetical order, Accius, Caecilius, Cicero, Lucilius, Lucretius, Plautus, Pomponius, Sallust, Sisenna, Titinius, Varro, and Virgil. For all these authors except Caecilius and Titinius, Nonius had one or more editions available in his ‘library’: see p. 72 above.   95   ‘The authority of the ancient writers’ (auctoritas veterum) is called upon at Non. 231 L. (with quotations from Titinius and Coelius Antipater); 290 L. (Livius Andronicus, Caecilius, Pacuvius, Ennius); 333 L. (Plautus, Pomponius); 337 L. (Plautus); 720 L. (Varro, Virgil, Sisenna); 727 L. (Virgil, Plautus); 729 L. (Plautus); 735 L. (Virgil); 781 L. (Titinius, Plautus, Pomponius); 820 L. (Titinius); 832 L. (Titinius, Ennius, Afranius, et al.). The equivalent phrase, ‘authority of the past’ (auctoritas vetustatis), is found at Non. 726 L. (with reference to Sallust and Lucretius); 738 L. (Cicero); 746 L. (Virgil, Plautus, Ennius, Varro, Afranius).   96   Barabino 1983 and 2003, 84. The question of Nonius’ sources for this section is complicated by the problematic chronology of the scholarly material ‘in defence of Virgil’ disseminated in the grammatical and scholiastic traditions: see Görler 1987, 812.   97   Suet. Gramm. 16.3 ‘primusque [dicitur] Vergilium et alios poetas novos praelegere coepisse’.   98   Cf. Char. Gramm. 76.18 B.; Prisc. GL 2.66.1, 67.18, 239.17; 3.482.8; Pomp. GL 5.269.25; Consent. GL 5.388.30. See Holtz 1981, 268; Barabino 2003, 84 n. 56 (= Barabino 1983–4, 206 n. 46).   99   Systematic studies in Cadoni 1977 and 1987; Barabino 1984 and 1987; Senis 1987. 100   Translation: Thomas 1988, 2.50. 101   Cf. Mynors 1990, 189; Caviglia 1990. The two ancient notes on this passage recorded in Barabino, Nazzaro, and Scivoletto 1991–8, 2.1.200, are not relevant here. 102   See OLD s.v. ‘turpis’ 2a. 103   For similar parallels between Nonius and Servius see Lindsay 1903, xvii n. 1. 104   On Varro’s authority in Nonius see Barabino 1991. 105   ‘Gloss. i’ and ‘Gloss. iv’ in Lindsay’s list (1901, 7–9). 106   Cf. Barabino 2003, 82. 107   See Lindsay 1903, 992; Keyser 1994, 370–4; Barabino 2003, 84 and 102–6. 108   Keyser 1994, 371; cf. Mazzacane 1985, 202–11. 109   August. C. Petil. 2.14.33: see TLL 8.304.41 ff.; also Deufert 2001, 147. 110   Tert. Adv. Valent. 3.5: see TLL 5.1.714.64 ff. 111   e.g. Diom. GL 1.518.27, ‘metra’ (metrical units); Prisc. GL 2.2.23, ‘scripta’ (writings). Cf. TLL 3.2036.70 ff. 112   See TLL 6.1.739.66 ff. 113   Cf. also Isid. Etym. 1.7.33. For monoptoton in Greek grammatical treatises, see Apollonius Dyscolus, Synt. 29.1 = GG 2.41.9 (2nd century ad), and two scholia to the chronologically problematic ‘Dionysius Thrax’ (Schol. Vat. in Art. Dion. 12 = GG 1.210.37, Schol. Lond. in Art. Dion. 12 = GG 1.523.33). 114   Cf. TLL 5.1.189.69 ff. 115   Cf. TLL 7.1.1107.9 ff.   90   91

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Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus 116   Cf. ps. Prob. Ult. Syll. ad Caelest. GL 4.245.38; Donat. p. 641.4 Holtz (= GL 4.386.3); Diom. GL 1.406.12; Explan. in Don. GL 4.511.34; Cledon. GL 5.22.11, 22.14, 37.13, 63.14; Prisc. GL 2.160.11. 117   Arn. Adv. Nat. 3.31 ‘[Aristoteles] Minervam esse Lunam probabilibus argumentis explicat et litterata auctoritate demonstrat’ (‘Aristotle convincingly argues that Minerva is the moon, and proves it by learned authority’). Cf. TLL 7.2.1533.47 ff. 118   L. Mueller used the abbreviation ‘n. N.’ (‘nugatur Nonius’, ‘Nonius is talking nonsense’) as a standard comment in his Nonius edition (Leipzig 1888). Lindsay 1901, 1 protested: ‘Some of his modern critics accuse him of an amount of ignorance that is hardly conceivable.’ 119   See Lindsay 1903, xvii. 120   See in particular Bertini 1975. 121   Schol. Tur. Virg. Ecl. 9.43 p. 115 S. ‘quidam … non indocti’; Schol. Tur. Virg. G. 3.458 p. 125 S. ‘alii … non minoris auctoritatis’. See Savage 1925, 110; Barabino 1984, 11. 122   See Reynolds 1986; Barabino 1987, 758; Schmidt 2000, 995. 123   Kaster 1980, 236. 124   See Lindsay 1901, 58 and 1902, 51. Busdraghi 1986 does not include the passage in his discussion of Nonius’ exegesis of Terence. 125   Cf. Schmidt 1993, 372 and 2000, 994; Eigler 2003, 100–1. 126   For the distinction in Servius see Kaster 1978; Pellizzari 2003, 220–2. 127   See Dionisotti 1984, 207, with reference to Prisc. GL 3.6.25. 128   Cameron 1966, 36. Cf. also Eigler 2003, 77. 129   ‘vivam meo more, quia libera sum.’ 130   Cf. Pellizzari 2003, 6. 131   Macrob. Sat. 1.24.8, 6.6.1, 6.7.2 (Servius’ learning); 2.2.12, 7.7.11 (modesty befitting a young grammaticus). See Davies 1969, 9; Kaster 1980, 218. 132   Brown 1968, 92–3. 133   Cf. Millar 1968, 134. 134   Cf. Cameron 1980, 160. 135   Mantero 1975, 184–5. 136   Arn. Adv. Nat. 1.59.7 ‘si verum spectes, nullus sermo natura est integer, vitiosus similiter nullus’; cf. also 1.59.13. 137   Cf. e.g. Kaster 1988, 15–31; Amsler 1989, 60. 138   Amsler 1989, 57. 139   Tert. Pall. 4 ‘quid nunc, si est Romanitas omni salus, nec honestis tamen modis ad Graios estis?’ (‘Now why, if being a Roman means salvation for everyone, do you side with the Greeks in your undignified ways?’). 140   Romania: Oros. Hist. 3.20.11, 7.43.5–6; Possid. Vita Aug. 6; but the word belongs to Latin Umgangssprache: Oros. Hist. 7.43.6 ‘ut vulgariter loquar’. See Zeiller 1929, 196–7; Berger 2001.

Bibliography N.B. SN = F. Bertini et al. (eds.) Studi noniani, Genoa, 1967–. Amsler, M. 1989 Etymology and Grammatical Discourse in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages, Amsterdam and Philadelphia.

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Anna Chahoud Barabino, G. 1983 ‘Il libro VI di Nonio Marcello e gli obtrectatores Vergilii’, Sileno 9, 197–206. 1983–4 ‘L’ auctoritas di Virgilio in Nonio Marcello’, Sandalion 6–7 (Virgilio nel bimillenario), 203–25. 1984 ‘Gli scholia del Virgilio di Tours (cod. Bernensis 165) e l’esegesi virgiliana di Nonio’, SN 9, 9–31. 1987 ‘Nonio Marcello’, Enc. Virg. 3, 753–8. 1991 ‘L’ auctoritas di Varrone in Nonio Marcello’, in Buttitta et al. (eds.) Studi di filologia classica in onore di Giusto Monaco, 3.1223–35. 2003 ‘Il tema dell’auctoritas in Nonio Marcello’, in Bertini (ed.) Prolegomena noniana II, 81–108. Barabino, G., Nazzaro, A.V., and Scivoletto, A. (eds.) 1991–8 Interpretationes Vergilianae minores, 3 vols., Genoa. Berger, A. 2001 ‘Romania’, in Cancik and Schneider (eds.) Der neue Pauly, 10.1121. Bertini, F. 1975 ‘Nonio e Prisciano’, SN 3, 57–97. 2003a ‘La fortuna di Nonio dal medioevo al Perotti. I Parte: da Fulgenzio a Lupo di Ferrières’, in Bertini (ed.) Prolegomena noniana II, 131–48. Bertini, F. (ed.) 2003b Prolegomena noniana II, Genoa. 2004 Prolegomena noniana III, Genoa. Brown, P. 1968 ‘Christianity and local culture in late Roman Africa’, JRS 58, 85–95. Browning, R. 1982 ‘Learning and the past’, in E.J. Kenney and W.V. Clausen (eds.) The Cambridge History of Classical Literature. 2. Latin Literature, Cambridge, 762–9. Busdraghi, P. 1986 ‘Nonio esegeta di Terenzio’, SN 11, 5–26. Butler, H.E. (ed.) 1920 Quintilian: Institutio Oratoria, Books I–III, Loeb Classical Library 124, Cambridge, Mass. and London. Buttitta, A. et al. (eds.) 1991 Studi di filologia classica in onore di Giusto Monaco, 4 vols., Palermo. Cadoni, E. 1977 ‘Le citazioni virgiliane nel De compendiosa doctrina’, SN 6, 51–196. 1987 Studi sul De compendiosa doctrina di Nonio Marcello, Sassari. Cameron, Alan 1966 ‘The date and identity of Macrobius’, JRS 56, 25–38. 1980 ‘Poetae novelli’, HSPh 84, 127–75. Cancik, H. and Schneider, H. (eds.) 1996–2003  Der neue Pauly: Enzyclopädie der Antike, 16 vols., Stuttgart and Weimar. Cavallo, G., Fedeli, P., and Giardina, A. (eds.) 1989–93  Lo spazio letterario di Roma antica, 5 vols., Rome.

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Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus Caviglia, F. 1990 ‘Turpis’, Enc. Virg. 5, 337. Cignolo, C. (ed.) 2002 Terentiani Mauri De Litteris, de Syllabis, de Metris, 2 vols., Hildesheim, Zürich, and New York. Contini, A.M.V. 1987 ‘Nonio Marcello e l’Africitas’, SN 12, 17–26. Davies, P.V. (tr.) 1969 Macrobius: The Saturnalia, New York and London. De Nonno, M. 1990 ‘Le citazioni dei grammatici’, in Cavallo, Fedeli, and Giardina (eds.) Lo spazio letterario di Roma antica, 3.597–646. 1992 ‘Due note festine’, RFIC 120, 174–84. Deufert, M. 2001 ‘Zur Datierung des Nonius Marcellus’, Philologus 145, 137–49. Dihle, A. 1994 Greek and Latin Literature of the Roman Empire: From Augustus to Justinian, Engl. tr., London and New York. Dionisotti, A.C. 1984 ‘Latin grammar for Greeks and Goths’, JRS 74, 202–8. Eigler, U. 2003 Lectiones Vetustatis: römische Literatur und Geschichte in der lateinischen Literatur der Spätantike, Munich. Fröhde, O. 1880 De Nonio Marcello et Verrio Flacco, Berlin. Garbugino, G. 1990 ‘Il XXVI libro di Lucilio’, SN 13, 129–236. Gatti, P. 1996 ‘Nonius’, in Hamesse (ed.) Les manuscrits des lexiques et glossaires de l’Antiquité tardive à la fin du Moyen Âge, 79–92. 2004 ‘Introduzione a Nonio Marcello’, in Bertini (ed.) Prolegomena noniana III, 5–20. Görler, W. 1987 ‘Obtrectatores’, Enc. Virg. 3, 807–13. Hadot, P. 1971 Marius Victorinus: recherches sur sa vie et ses oeuvres, Paris. Hamesse, J. (ed.) 1996 Les manuscrits des lexiques et glossaires de l’Antiquité tardive à la fin du Moyen Âge, Louvain-la-Neuve. Helm, R. 1931 Apulei Platonici Madaurensis Metamorphoseon Libri XI, 3rd edn, Leipzig. Repr. with additions 1992. Holtz, L. 1981 Donat et la tradition de l’enseignement grammatical, Paris. 1996 ‘Glossaires et grammaire dans l’Antiquité’, in Hamesse (ed.) Les manuscrits des lexiques et glossaires de l’Antiquité tardive à la fin du Moyen Âge, 1–22.

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Anna Chahoud Huss, W. 2002 ‘Thubursicum (2)’, in Cancik and Schneider (eds.) Der neue Pauly, 12.1.504. Jocelyn, H.D. 1984 ‘The annotations of M. Valerius Probus’, CQ 34, 464–72. 1985 ‘The annotations of M. Valerius Probus (II)’, CQ 35, 149–61. 1991a ‘Review-discussion: R.A. Kaster, Guardians of Language: The grammarian and society in late Antiquity’, LCM 16, 146–60. 1991b ‘Studies in the indirect tradition of Plautus’ Pseudolus. II. Verrius Flaccus’ De Significatu Verborum’, in Buttitta et al. (eds.) Studi di filologia classica in onore di Giusto Monaco, 2.569–80. 1998 ‘Latin glossaries’, CR 48, 364–5. 2002 ‘The text of Plautus’ Pseud. 174–184 and the copyists and grammarians of late Antiquity’, in A. Isola et al. (eds.) Curiositas: studi di cultura classica e medievale in onore di Ubaldo Pizzani, Naples, 3–14. Kaster, R.A. 1978 ‘Servius and idonei auctores’, AJPh 99, 181–209. 1980 ‘The grammarian’s authority’, CPh 75, 216–41. 1983 ‘Notes on “primary” and “secondary” schools in late Antiquity’, TAPhA 113, 323–46. 1988 Guardians of Language: The grammarian and society in late Antiquity, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 11, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London. 1996 ‘Nonius Marcellus’, OCD, 1048. Keyser, P.T. 1994 ‘Late authors in Nonius Marcellus and other evidence of his date’, HSPh 96, 369–89. Lepelley, C. 1979–81  ‘Les cités de l’Afrique romaine au bas-empire’, 2 vols., Paris. 2004 ‘The perception of late Roman Africa, from decolonization to the reappraisal of late Antiquity’, in C. Straw and R. Lim (eds.) The Past before Us: The challenge of historiographies in late Antiquity, Turnhout, 25–33. Lindsay, W.M. 1901 Nonius Marcellus’ Dictionary of Republican Latin, Oxford. 1902 ‘The emendation of the text of Nonius’, CR 16, 46–52. 1933 ‘The Verrius problem’, CR 47, 78–9. Lindsay, W.M. (ed.) 1903 Nonius Marcellus: De Compendiosa Doctrina, 3 vols., Leipzig. Llorente, A.L. 1996 ‘The lemmatic arrangement of the fourth book of the Compendiosa Doctrina of Nonius Marcellus according to its manuscript transmission’, in Hamesse (ed.) Les manuscrits des lexiques et glossaires de l’Antiquité tardive à la fin du Moyen Âge, 93–100. Lupinu, G. 1992 ‘La polisemia nel IV libro del De compendiosa doctrina’, SN 14, 51–172. Magallón García, A.-I. 2002 ‘Arusiano Mesio y su “Diccionario de construcciones” ’, Faventia 24, 157–74.

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Antiquity and authority in Nonius Marcellus Maggiulli, G. 1982 ‘Nonio Marcello e Arusiano Messio’, SN 7, 123–76. Mantero, T. 1975 ‘La inscriptio dei codici del De compendiosa doctrina e “Nonius Marcellus Peripateticus Thubursicensis” ’, SN 3, 123–88. Marrou, H.-I. 1987 S. Agostino e la fine della cultura antica, Ital. tr., Milan. Mazzacane, R. 1982 ‘Santra’, SN 7, 189–224. 1985 ‘Nonio e i veteres’, SN 10, 189–211. Millar, F. 1968 ‘Local cultures in the Roman empire: Libyan, Punic and Latin in Roman Africa’, JRS 58, 126–34. Mommsen, T. 1878 ‘Inschrift des Nonius Marcellus’, Hermes 13, 559–60. Mynors, R.A.B. (ed.) 1990 Virgil’s Georgics, Oxford. Nettleship, H. 1882 ‘Nonius Marcellus’, AJPh 3, 1–16. Oliver, R.P. 1947 ‘ “New fragments” of Latin authors in Perotti’s Cornucopiae’, TAPhA 78, 373–424. Pellizzari, A. 2003 Servio: storia, cultura e istituzioni nell’opera di un grammatico tardoantico, Florence. Pieroni, P. 2004 Marcus Verrius Flaccus’ De Significatu Verborum in den Auszügen von Sextus Pompeius Festus und Paulus Diaconus: Einleitung und Teilkommentar (154, 19–186, 29 Lindsay), Studien zur klassischen Philologie 147, Frankfurt am Main. Reitzenstein, R. 1887 Verrianische Forschungen, Breslau. Reynolds, L.D. 1986 ‘Nonius’, in L.D. Reynolds (ed.) Texts and Transmission: A survey of the Latin classics, Oxford, 248–52. Rocca, S. 1980 ‘Il preverbio ad- in Nonio’, SN 6, 127–99. 1982 ‘La Compendiosa doctrina è acefala?’, SN 7, 231–8. Savage, J.J. 1925 ‘The scholia in the Virgil of Tours, Bernensis 165’, HSPh 36, 91–164. Schenkeveld, D.M. 1998 ‘The idea of progress and the art of grammar: Charisius “Ars Grammatica” 1.15’, AJPh 119, 443–59. 2004 A Rhetorical Grammar: C. Iulius Romanus, introduction to the Liber de Adverbio as incorporated in Charisius’ Ars Grammatica II 13, Mnemosyne Supplement 247, Leiden and Boston.

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Anna Chahoud Schmidt, P.L. 1993 ‘De honestis et nove veterum dictis: die Autorität der Veteres von Nonius Marcellus bis zu Matheus Vindocinensis’, in W. Vosskamp (ed.) Klassik im Vergleich: Normativität und Historizität europäischer Klassiken, Stuttgart, 366–88. 1997 ‘Grammatik’, Herzog–Schmidt 4, 218–61. 2000 ‘Nonius Marcellus’, in Cancik and Schneider (eds.) Der neue Pauly, 8.994– 5. Senis, G. 1987 ‘Testo ed esegesi delle Bucoliche in Nonio’, SN 12, 203–44. Solimano, G. 1992 ‘Meridies (Non. 723 L.)’, SN 14, 219–42. Stevenson, A.J. 2004 ‘Gellius and the Roman antiquarian tradition’, in L. Holford-Strevens and A. Vardi (eds.) The Worlds of Gellius, Oxford, 118–55. Strzelecki, W. 1932 Quaestiones Verrianae, Warsaw. 1936 ‘Nonius Marcellus’, RE 17, 882–97. Suerbaum, W. 2002 ‘Grammatisch-antiquarische, philologische und rhetorische Fachschriften’, Herzog–Schmidt 1, 539–60. Thiermann, P. 1996 ‘I dizionari greco-latini fra medioevo e umanesimo’, in Hamesse (ed.) Les manuscrits des lexiques et glossaires de l’Antiquité tardive à la fin du Moyen Âge, 657–75. Thomas, R. (ed.) 1988 Virgil’s Georgics, 2 vols., Cambridge. Tolkiehn, J. 1925 ‘Lexicographie’, RE 12.2, 2432–82. Volpilhac, P. (ed.) 1975 Némésien: Oeuvres, Paris. White, D.C. 1980 ‘The method of composition and sources of Nonius Marcellus’, SN 8, 111–211. Williams, H.J. (ed.) 1986 The Eclogues and Cynegetica of Nemesianus, Mnemosyne Supplement 88, Leiden. Zaffagno, E. 2003 ‘Nonio e la sua lingua’, in Bertini (ed.) Prolegomena noniana II, 7–79. Zeiller, J. 1929 ‘L’apparition du mot Romania chez les écrivains latins’, REL 7, 194–8.

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4 MORE ROMAN THAN THE ROMANS OF ROME: VIRGILIAN (SELF-)FASHIONING IN CLAUDIAN’S PANEGYRIC FOR THE CONSULS OLYBRIUS AND PROBINUS Stephen Wheeler

1. Introduction The chronicler Prosper of Aquitaine reports that Claudian became famous as a distinguished poet in the year 395: ‘hoc tempore Claudianus poeta insignis innotuit.’1 It is generally assumed that this notice refers to the recitation and publication of the Panegyric for the Consuls Olybrius and Probinus (hereafter Ol. Prob.), a carefully-crafted panegyric of 279 hexameters that celebrates the consulate of two teenaged Roman aristocrats who were brothers.2 Although Anicius Hermogenianus Olybrius and Anicius Probinus were not old enough to have accomplished anything worthy of Rome’s highest public office, their pedigree recommended them. They were scions of the most notable Christian family in Rome, the Anicii, and sons of the recently-deceased Sextus Petronius Probus, who had been an ally of the Emperor Theodosius I and the wealthiest and most influential senator of his time.3 Given their lineage, Olybrius and Probinus were ideal instruments for the Christianization of Rome by Theodosius. In September 394, the emperor had put down a revolt of the western empire led by the usurper Eugenius and supported by his praefectus praetorio and consul for that year, Nicomachus Flavianus, a prominent pagan senator who was interested in the restoration of Rome’s sacrificial cults after their ban by imperial decree in 391.4 In the aftermath of the decisive battle at the river Frigidus, Theodosius sought to consolidate his political influence over Rome by bestowing the consulate on the city’s leading Christian family and hence to show the pagan aristocracy that its future political success would depend on its conversion to Christianity.5 To celebrate and commemorate the day on which Olybrius and Probinus took up the rods of office, the gens Anicia retained the services of Claudian, a talented young poet from Egypt who, before coming to Rome, had been active as a Greek poet in the east.6 Ol. Prob. appears to have been Claudian’s 97 Return to Table of Contents

Stephen Wheeler first commission as a Latin poet, if one can trust what he says in an epistolary epigram that he later wrote to his patron Probinus (Carm. Min. 41.13–16): Romanos bibimus primum te consule fontes   et Latiae cessit Graia Thalia togae, incipiensque tuis a fascibus omina cepi   fataque debebo posteriora tibi. I first drank from Roman sources when you were consul, and Greek Thalia made way for the Latin toga; starting from your consulship I took my omens and will owe my future destiny to you.7

Although the exact meaning of the phrases ‘Romanos …  f ontes’, ‘Latiae … togae’, and ‘Graia Thalia’ is disputed, the most likely interpretation is that Claudian, formerly active as a Greek poet, began his career as a Latin panegyrist when he commemorated the consulship of Probinus and his brother.8 Even if one assumes that these phrases do not refer to a career-change from Greek to Latin but to the possibility that Claudian ceased working on his mythological epic De Raptu Proserpinae and began composing consular panegyric,9 the main point of the statement remains unchanged. Claudian viewed Ol. Prob. as the official beginning of his literary career – his first honour as a poet in Rome. One might claim that Claudian owed his fame in 395 less to the poetic qualities of Ol. Prob. than to his patrons and to the circumstances of his debut.10 But evidence for the reception of the poem suggests that Claudian’s consular panegyric had an immediate impact on the literary landscape. The poet Licentius, who was a friend of Augustine living in Milan, appears to allude to Ol. Prob. in his Carmen ad Augustinum, which he probably composed in 395.11 In the same year, Claudian was invited to the imperial court in Milan to commemorate the third consulship of the child-emperor Honorius with a verse panegyric similar to Ol. Prob. Presumably the imperial court wanted to exploit Claudian’s demonstrated literary talent rather than his connections or his opportunism.12 Although scholars generally agree that Claudian’s debut in Rome was a poetic success, they differ about whether Ol. Prob. is simply a well-executed piece of panegyric relatively free of political content or a new kind of political poetry. Cameron set the terms of the debate when he argued that Claudian underwent a transformation from panegyrist to propagandist, and that Ol. Prob. displayed Claudian in the former capacity, which is to say, in the capacity of a poet more concerned with how to praise his patrons than with addressing the political issues of his day.13 It was only after he joined the imperial court in Milan, according to Cameron, that Claudian began to compose a new type of content-oriented poetry that justified and 98 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian publicized the policies of Stilicho, the imperial regent. Subsequent scholars, chiefly Döpp and Taegert, have questioned Cameron’s thesis of Claudian’s transformation from panegyrist to propagandist, pointing out that Ol. Prob. is not a conventional panegyric but a new form of political poetry with specific aims: to defend the reputation of the Anicii and to mediate a political reconciliation between the emperor and the senatorial aristocracy in Rome following the civil war fought at the Frigidus.14 Cameron has responded to his critics by reconfirming his earlier verdict that Ol. Prob. is a ‘routine panegyric’ and not political.15 If Ol. Prob. were political, he observes, it is weakly political in the sense that all poetry written about public people is political. Nonetheless, the evidence for the poem’s political significance adduced by Döpp and Taegert – and not addressed by Cameron – suggests that the distinction Cameron draws between Ol. Prob. and the later carmina maiora is artificial. Certainly, Ol. Prob. differs from the poetry written at the court of Honorius because it is not concerned with Stilicho, but this does not mean Claudian changed methods in serving his patrons when he moved from Rome to Milan. There is little reason, in short, to accept Cameron’s thesis of Claudian’s transformation from panegyrist to propagandist. Cameron makes another questionable distinction between Ol. Prob. and the later political works of Claudian, particularly the consular panegyrics. He observes that Claudian’s ‘propagandistic’ poems for Honorius and Stilicho do not slavishly follow rhetorical prescriptions but ‘are a new hybrid form, children of the marriage between Greek panegyric and Latin epic’.16 He would appear, however, to exclude Ol. Prob. from the hybridism characteristic of the other carmina maiora, for he states that it is ‘simple and unpretentious enough in conception’ and follows ‘the rules of the genre’.17 According to Cameron, Claudian does not attempt to do anything novel in Ol. Prob. but delivers what is expected: ‘a panegyric on the consuls of 395 and their illustrious line’.18 Yet scholars have shown that there are many epic elements in Ol. Prob. that justify viewing it as the first child of the marriage between Greek panegyric and Latin epic.19 And so once again, Ol. Prob. appears not to differ in kind from Claudian’s later poetry, but rather to be its harbinger. Claudian, as we have already seen above in Carmina Minora 41, was keenly aware that Ol. Prob. launched his literary career in Rome. Consequently, one may hypothesize that a poet of his talent had an interest in making a literary statement and carving out a niche for himself in the traditions of Latin poetry. But in which tradition or genre?20 The Latin title Panegyricus Dictus Olybrio et Probino Consulibus plainly indicates Claudian was working within the occasion-specific genre of panegyric.21 However, Claudian departed from recent Roman practice when he composed a consular panegyric in dactylic hexameters. In the fourth century, such encomia were usually in prose.22 It 99 Return to Table of Contents

Stephen Wheeler is nonetheless difficult to judge the novelty of Claudian’s delivering a verse panegyric in the year 395. His audience may have already been accustomed to hear verse panegyric in other contexts. 23 Moreover, Claudian was not the first Latin poet to compose a consular panegyric in verse. Statius wrote a short poem of 47 hexameters (Silvae 4.1) that celebrated the seventeenth consulate of Domitian on 1 January 95, exactly three hundred years before Claudian’s debut.24 The late-Antique poet’s use of hexameters in a consular panegyric was therefore not a literary innovation. Still, the choice of metre opened up the resources of the epic tradition and enabled Claudian to import elements of epic into the framework of verse panegyric in a way that may have been unprecedented.25 The purpose of this chapter is to make a new case for reading Ol. Prob. within the epic tradition. In the following section, I show that Claudian works into his panegyric many devices characteristic of epic. This is not a new discovery, but affords a useful way to view the poem as a whole while laying to rest Cameron’s untenable assertion that Ol. Prob. simply follows the rules of panegyric. In the third section, I focus attention on a pattern of allusions Claudian makes to specific poetic models in the traditions of epic, which help shape his literary programme and message. The main finding of this discussion is that Claudian alludes repeatedly to two central Virgilian texts, Eclogue 4 and Aeneid 8, in order to fashion himself as the new Virgil and to cast his patrons as the new founders of Rome, who initiate a return of the Golden Age. In a brief follow-up section, I present some additional evidence outside Ol. Prob. that supports the claim that Claudian emulated Virgil in his Roman debut. 2. From panegyric to epic Claudian’s first panegyric resists classification as a routine panegyric in a couple of obvious ways. First of all, one may assume that it was unusual for a panegyrist to praise a pair of brothers reaching the consulate, not to mention a pair of brothers who had done nothing in war or peace to display their virtues. Next, there is no extant precedent for an encomium that praises privati on the day of their investiture as consuls.26 Ordinarily, a non-imperial consul would eulogize the emperor as part of his official thanksgiving ( gratiarum actio) for the office bestowed on him.27 Claudian’s panegyric of the young Anicii may, therefore, have been regarded as a departure from routine, inasmuch as the main object of praise was not the emperor but a pair of child-consuls. That said, Claudian does begin his eulogy in a conventional manner, initially fulfilling the expectations of an audience accustomed to the rules of panegyric. In particular, he draws on the basilikos logos, the formal encomium 100 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian of the emperor, whose rules are laid out in the second treatise attributed to the late-third-century rhetor Menander of Laodicea-on-Lycus.28 Menander recommends ordering the topics of the basilikos logos in the following way: introduction (prooemium), native country or nation (patris or ethnos), family ( genos), birth ( genesis), upbringing (anatrophe), deeds in war and peace (praxeis) so as to exemplify the four cardinal virtues, comparison (synkrisis), and conclusion with prayers and good wishes (epilogos). Now, Claudian does not reproduce this scheme in Ol. Prob., but selects and arranges the topics in his own manner.29 Moreover, he departs from the format of the basilikos logos when he incorporates segments of epic narrative into his panegyric. As we shall see, the poem gains its energy from alternating between the modalities of panegyric and heroic epic. Ol. Prob. starts with a prayer to the sun for a propitious beginning of the New Year in which two brothers share the consulship (1–7). Structurally, this section corresponds to the prooemium of the basilikos logos, but the content of the prayer is oriented to the occasion of the consular inauguration. Specifically, the topic of the sun as renewer of the year is a mark of consular panegyric, which also appears at the beginning of Statius’ panegyric on the seventeenth consulship of Domitian (Silv. 4.1.2–4).30 Following the prayer, Claudian makes the sun witness the nobility of the wide-branching family (genos) of Olybrius and Probinus: ‘scis genus Auchenium’ (‘you know the Auchenian race’, 8).31 As well as being one of the first topics in the basilikos logos, praise of ancestors features in rhetorical handbooks as one of the standard elements of a eulogy.32 Claudian accordingly reminds his audience that the family of Olybrius and Probinus had held the consulate for many generations (8–21) and compares it to the moon that outshines the constellations of other senatorial families (22–8). The poet next feigns uncertainty about which of the young consuls’ ancestors he is to praise (29–30): the elder Probinus (cos. 341) or the elder Olybrius (cos. 379)?33 He settles instead on the boys’ father, Petronius Probus (cos. 371), who is lauded for his universal fame (31–8), his virtuous use of wealth (38–54), and his accomplishments (55–60). Here, Claudian injects into the laudatio a miniature epic catalogue of the gold-bearing rivers of Spain that Probus outdoes in liberality (51–4); he also exploits the famous epic topos of ‘multiple mouths’ to express the countlessness of Probus’ deeds (55–7).34 The many achievements of Probus are but a prelude to the single, crowning accomplishment of Olybrius and Probinus: the sons have surpassed their father (‘sed nati vicere patrem’, 61) by reaching the consulship as boys and by sharing it as brothers (61–70).35 Here the change of topic from the family ( genos) to the deeds ( praxeis) of young Olybrius and Probinus may seem abrupt if one expects the panegyrist to follow the scheme of the basilikos 101 Return to Table of Contents

Stephen Wheeler logos, for he skips the birth ( genesis) and upbringing (anatrophe) of his honorands. But Claudian adapts the order of the encomium to the unusual circumstances of Olybrius and Probinus.36 The emphasis on their family (genos) and, in particular, the deeds (praxeis) of their father Probus helps to justify their inheritance of the consulate, on the one hand, and compensates for their own lack of deeds, on the other. Within this encomiastic framework, we may also observe that Claudian deploys epic language and motifs which elevate the tone of his praise. At 71–2, Claudian introduces a change of direction in the panegyric that sounds like the beginning of an epic: ‘tu, precor, ignarum doceas, Parnasia, vatem, | quis deus ambobus tanti sit muneris auctor’ (‘I pray, Muse, you may teach an ignorant poet what god is giver of such a great gift to the two’). The invocation of the Muse can be traced back to a number of epic sources,37 but it is perhaps most reminiscent of Homer and Virgil. At Iliad 1.8, Homer asks the Muse which god pitted the two men, Agamemnon and Achilles, against each other. Virgil similarly asks the Muse at Aeneid 9.77 which god (‘quis deus’) saved the Trojan ships from the fire kindled by Turnus. Claudian’s self-characterization (‘ignarum … vatem’) recalls Homer’s invocation of the Muses at Iliad 2.484–7, where the bard confesses his own ignorance before launching the Catalogue of Ships. Moreover, the phrase ‘ignarum … vatem’ has a Virgilian ring, recalling Vulcan, the maker of the shield of Aeneas, who is introduced in Aeneid 8 as ‘haud vatum ignarus’ (‘hardly ignorant of prophets’, Aen. 8.627). Even if Claudian is an ignarus vates, he is not vatum ignarus, as we shall see. The invocation of the Muse initiates a sequence of ‘mythological’ epic narrative, beginning with the conjunction postquam, which often marks the beginning of a book in Roman epic.38 The poet flashes back in good epic fashion to September of the previous year, when the goddess Roma is imagined to have visited the Emperor Theodosius after the battle at the Frigidus and to have asked him to designate the sons of Probus consuls for the year 395 (73–7). Claudian prepares for the journey with an ‘arming scene’ comparable to one in the Iliad (5.720–47), in which Hera and Hebe equip a chariot and hitch it to horses while Athena arms herself for battle.39 Claudian, like Homer, describes the readying of Roma’s chariot (77–82). He then says that Roma arms herself ‘in imitation of the virgin Athena’ (‘innuptae ritus imitata Minervae’, 84) and details her Amazon-like appearance (83–93). Claudian concludes the scene with an abbreviated epic ecphrasis of the goddess’ shield (94–9), which was fashioned by Vulcan and on which is emblazoned a scene representing the childhood of Romulus and Remus. Here Claudian clearly recalls the Virgilian description of the shield of Aeneas fashioned by Vulcan in Aeneid 8. 102 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian Claudian next narrates Roma’s journey to the Frigidus and describes the Julian Alps, the heaps of dead, and the victorious Theodosius, resting like Mars after battle (100–23). The poem’s first and only dramatic scene consists of an exchange of three epic-style speeches between Theodosius and Roma (125–73). Roma makes her epiphany and Theodosius pays her homage, asking why she has left Rome and come to him (124–35). Roma replies by thanking Theodosius for the defence of her liberty and asks for the additional gift that Olybrius and Probinus be made consuls. In a miniature panegyric embedded within the epic narrative framework, she justifies the merits of the boys by treating the topics of their birth, upbringing, education, and moral character; she concludes with a conventional prediction that the Roman empire will expand its boundaries during their consulship (136–63). Theodosius responds that he had intended to designate Olybrius and Probinus consuls and that he will never forget their father Probus (164–73). This section of narrative, which spans roughly one hundred verses, obviously contains elements of panegyric, but these are subordinated to the epic framework, just as the epic elements were subordinated to the panegyric framework in 1–70. Claudian continues the epic narrative thread when he relates how a messenger races to Rome to announce Theodosius’ decision, giving rise to popular rejoicing (174–6). Proba, the mother of Olybrius and Probinus, also rejoices and weaves togas of silk and gold for the consular investiture of Olybrius and Probinus (177–82). Claudian compares her to Latona welcoming back Artemis and Apollo to Delos (183–91) and praises her at length for her virtues as wife of Probus and mother of two consuls (194–204). This section of the poem, which mixes epic and panegyric elements, serves as a temporal bridge between Theodosius’ victory at the Frigidus and the poem’s narrative climax: the consular ceremonies of New Year’s Day 395, possibly also the same day that Claudian delivered the poem.40 When the young Anicii take office, Jupiter sends prosperous omens of thunder, which arouse the attention of the river Tiber (205–8). Tiber enters the narrative as the divine structural counterpart to Roma and is similarly described in vivid detail as he leaves his caverns (209–25). From the island in the middle of his stream, he witnesses the consular procession (226–35) and delivers another embedded panegyric (236–62), in which he compares himself to the Spartan river Eurotas and the boy-consuls to Castor and Pollux. He predicts that his young charges will replace Castor and Pollux in the heavens; he wishes for a return of the Golden Age and invites all the rivers of Italy to a banquet, which will be celebrated every year in memory of the consulship. The nymphs then prepare the banquet (263–5). Therewith Claudian ends the epic narrative and concludes his poem with an encomiastic 103 Return to Table of Contents

Stephen Wheeler epilogos, characteristic of the basilikos logos, in which he addresses the year and prays for its prosperity while promising that the consulship of Olybrius and Probinus will be remembered forever (266–79). From this summary one may see that Claudian does not simply adhere to the rules of Greek rhetoric. He fuses panegyric topics from the basilikos logos with an epic narrative about the appointment of the Anicii to the consulate. The epicization of the rules of panegyric is perhaps most noticeable in Claudian’s treatment of the personification of Roma. Menander Rhetor (Epid. 2.1–2 [374.6–9] Russell–Wilson) recommends that the panegyrist relieve his speech about the emperor’s deeds by letting a country or a river speak as in drama. But Claudian does not simply introduce Roma and Tiber to praise Olybrius and Probinus. He deploys them like epic gods that participate in the human narrative. Roma appears as a suppliant before Theodosius, recalling the traditional epic supplication scene exemplified in the first book of Homer’s Iliad where Thetis supplicates Zeus to honour Achilles.41 Claudian’s epic treatment of Roma is, furthermore, not unique to Ol. Prob. but is a recurrent feature in his consular panegyrics.42 Therefore, rather than draw the conclusion that Ol. Prob. differs in kind from Claudian’s later work, it would seem more plausible to understand this poem as the first instantiation of a form of discourse that Claudian invented and was subsequently commissioned to practise at the court of Honorius. At this point one may raise the generic question whether Ol. Prob. is panegyric or epic or both. On the one hand, it is possible to view verse panegyric as inherently flexible inasmuch as it accommodates epic language and conventions to a certain degree without losing its identity as panegyric.43 On the other hand, one may suppose that Claudian aims to write a new kind of ‘panegyrical epic’ by transforming the narrative structure and epic conventions of the epic tradition, which he inherited from Homer through Virgil, Ovid, Lucan, Statius, and Silius Italicus.44 Alternatively, one could identify Ol. Prob. as a ‘crossing’ of panegyric with epic that is either a hybrid or a new genre altogether.45 That Ol. Prob. has epic elements is indisputable, but the question whether it is primarily a form of epic is less easy to decide. I would like to take a new approach to the problem by doing something that, to my knowledge, has not been attempted before: namely, to read Claudian’s allusions to classical authors in a systematic way to see if a meaningful literary-historical pattern emerges that helps us understand the programme and message of Ol. Prob. 3. Models There has not been much progress in answering the question what literary model or models Claudian imitates in framing Ol. Prob. as a whole. In his commentary on Ol. Prob., Taegert argues that Claudian’s principal structural 104 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian and conceptual model for the poem is Statius’ epithalamium for Stella and Violentilla (Silvae 1.2).46 This is a work that was unquestionably influential on Claudian, especially his Epithalamium for Honorius and Maria.47 But of the eleven congruences that Taegert identifies between Ol. Prob. and Silvae 1.2, only two qualify as recognizable allusions.48 The rest are either chance or dubious parallels. A more likely Statian influence on Ol. Prob. is Silvae 4.1, in which Statius praises Domitian on the occasion of his seventeenth consulship. Silvae 4.1 and Ol. Prob. share some topics that could be generalized as typical of consular panegyric: the happiness of the new year (Silv. 4.1.1 ‘laeta … purpura’; Ol. Prob. 6 ‘laeti … menses’, 266 ‘o … felix … anne’); good omens for a prosperous year (Silv. 4.1.23–4; Ol. Prob. 205–8); expressions of joy (Silv. 4.1.5–10; Ol. Prob. 234–5); and a prediction for a prosperous year (Silv. 4.1.37–43; Ol. Prob. 268–79).49 Not surprisingly, Silvae 4.1 has been taken as a possible point of departure for Claudian’s praise of the consuls in the context of the inaugural ceremonies, but scholars do not view it as a model for the length or structure of Ol. Prob.50 For example, when Claudian introduces the river Tiber into his poem to praise Olybrius and Probinus, the source may lie in another Statian poem, Silvae 4.3, in which the river Volturnus eulogizes Domitian.51 Claudian’s dependence on the Silvae (and Thebaid ) in Ol. Prob. is undeniable, and one might be tempted to make the case that he presents himself to his patrons and audience in Rome as the ‘new Statius’.52 However, there is a great deal of evidence in the poem indicating that Claudian moulds himself after Virgil. At significant junctures of Ol. Prob. the poet from Egypt weaves a complex web of allusion that includes significant echoes of the Eclogues, Georgics, and Aeneid.53 In particular, the fourth Eclogue and the eighth book of the Aeneid emerge as primary frames of reference during the course of Ol. Prob. Each of these intertexts suggests that Claudian is establishing a literary genealogy for himself and his patrons, in which he plays the role of Virgil by praising a pair of brothers who not only bring back the Golden Age with their consulship but also claim the mantle of Rome’s founders, Romulus and Remus. In this section of the chapter, I present and interpret the poetic significance of Claudian’s allusions to Virgil in the prooemium, the ecphrasis of the shield of Roma, and the epiphany of the river Tiber. i. Prooemium The prooemium, which is a unit of seven verses, takes the form of a prayer in which Claudian expresses his wish for an auspicious new year. He begins by addressing the sun at dawn (Ol. Prob. 1–5): Sol, qui flammigeris mundum conplexus habenis volvis inexhausto redeuntia saecula motu,

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Stephen Wheeler sparge diem meliore coma, crinemque repexi blandius elato surgant temone iugales efflantes roseum frenis spumantibus ignem. Sun, you who encircle the world with your flame-bearing reins and roll round the returning ages with tireless motion, scatter daylight with brighter rays, and with manes combed more pleasingly may your yoked horses rise, their chariotpole aloft, blowing out rosy fire from their foaming bridles.

That the sun should shine more brightly to mark the prosperity of the new year is a conventional topic in consular panegyric: it occurs in the Panegyricus Messallae (121–3) as well as in the Statian panegyric for Domitian’s seventeenth consulship (Silv. 4.1.3–4). The sun, and more specifically the sunrise, is also a topic found in panegyrics commemorating the advent of a ruler who, like the sun, dispels darkness (cf. Men. Rhet. Epid. 2.3 [378.10–12, 21–3; 381.16–18] Russell–Wilson).54 Hence, the poet’s address to the sun may be read as a conventional eulogistic gesture. But there are also indications that Claudian wants his audience to think of specific Latin texts that give his encomium a literary heritage. The novelty of Claudian’s treatment of the panegyric topic of the sunrise lies in its epic stylization and more specifically in its sustained evocation of Virgil’s Aeneid. Of course, a detailed analysis of the opening prayer could uncover language from many other poets, but it seems significant that Claudian begins and ends his treatment of the sunrise with Virgil.55 The opening verse, ‘Sol, qui flammigeris mundum conplexus habenis’, is initially modelled on the invocation of the sun by Virgil’s Dido in Aeneid 4.607: ‘Sol, qui terrarum flammis opera omnia lustras …’ (‘Sun, you who survey all the works of the earth with your flames …’).56 The prayer formula ‘Sol, qui’ is fairly common and can be paralleled in authors other than Virgil.57 However, Claudian makes the allusion to the Virgilian verse noticeable through his reworking of the Virgilian ‘flammis’ in the phrase ‘flammigeris … habenis’, thereby transforming the simple image of the sun’s ‘flames’ into ‘flamebearing reins’, a mythological reference to the chariot of the sun.58 Another probable source for ‘flammigeris … habenis’ is Lucan’s panegyric of Nero: ‘seu te flammigeros Phoebi conscendere currus’ (‘or if [it should please] you to mount the flame-bearing chariot of Phoebus’, Luc. 1.43). If Claudian expands Virgil’s ‘flammis’, he abbreviates ‘terrarum … opera omnia lustras’ in the phrase ‘mundum conplexus’, thereby locating the word ‘mundum’ in the centre of the verse, embraced by the sun’s chariot. Word order thus reflects world order, which is not the case in Virgil. The model for such word patterning could be a verse from Statius, Thebaid 3.504: ‘ales … liquido … polum complexa meatu’ (‘the bird encircles the sky with its serene flight’).59 Claudian’s imitation of Virgil thus results in a verse that is varied with elements from poets such as 106 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian Lucan and Statius. If this poetry is stylistically closer to Silver Latin epic, it does not mean that the Virgilian template is any less important. Claudian rewrites Virgil in the light of the evolution that the epic genre underwent at the hands of Virgil’s epic successors. One may ask, in passing, whether it is relevant to Claudian’s purpose that Dido curses Aeneas in her prayer to the sun. Very unlikely. Claudian has no reason to undermine his panegyric or his patrons at the beginning of his enterprise by recalling Dido’s animosity toward Aeneas. Indeed, it is a well-known technique in late Antiquity to borrow Virgilian verses and place them in a new context that contrasts with the original. Here one may think of the Virgilian cento by Faltonia Betitia Proba, De Laudibus Christi, that uses Virgil to paraphrase parts of the Old and New Testaments,60 or the witty Cento Nuptialis by Ausonius that gives Virgilian hexameters an obscene sexual meaning. After enjoining the sun to shine more brightly, Claudian exhorts the horses of the Sun to rise auspiciously. Here he conflates three passages of Virgil. Verses 4–5, ‘elato surgant temone iugales | efflantes roseum frenis spumantibus ignem’, recall (a) the description of the sunrise in Aeneid 12.114–15, ‘Solis equi lucemque elatis naribus efflant’ (‘and the horses of the Sun blow light from their upraised nostrils’); (b) the fire-breathing Chimaera on Turnus’ helmet in Aeneid 7.786, ‘Aetnaeos efflantem … ignis’; and (c) the foaming bridle of Dido’s horse in Aeneid 4.135, ‘stat sonipes ac frena ferox spumantia mandit’ (‘The steed stood and high-spiritedly chewed its bridle foaming with saliva’). In the first and the fifth verse of the proem, then, Claudian draws on different passages in the Aeneid that have to do with the sun, the sunrise, horses, the breathing of fire, and foaming bridles. No single allusion can be called programmatic in the sense that it reveals Claudian’s poetic conception or guides the audience’s interpretation of the panegyric as a whole; taken together, however, the verbal echoes ground Claudian’s own beginning in the text of Virgil, and specifically the epic Aeneid. In the final two verses of the proem, Claudian orients himself toward Virgil’s Messianic fourth Eclogue. This text will have been especially familiar to Claudian’s audiences, Christian and pagan alike. In the early fourth century, Lactantius and Constantine had interpreted the Cumaean Sibyl’s oracle of the birth of a wonder-bringing child in Christian terms as a prophecy of the coming of Christ.61 In Claudian’s times, Augustine used the fourth Eclogue to illustrate the truth of Christianity when addressing pagans.62 Against this background of Christian allegorizing, Claudian recontextualizes the fourth Eclogue in a secular setting when he prays that the year and the months celebrate the miraculous consulship of Olybrius and Probinus (6–7): iam nova germanis vestigia torqueat annus consulibus laetique petant exordia menses.

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Stephen Wheeler May the year now take a new turn of steps when brothers are consuls, and may the months joyfully seek their beginnings.

In wishing the year to take a new turn of steps – ‘iam nova … vestigia torqueat annus’ – Claudian recalls language from Virgil’s Sibylline prophecy: ‘iam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto’ (‘Now a new generation is sent down from the sky on high’, Ecl. 4.7). However, Claudian takes Virgil’s phrase ‘iam nova’ and applies it not to Olybrius and Probinus but to the ‘vestigia’ (‘footsteps’) of the year. The second part of the line, ‘vestigia torqueat annus’, is in turn based on Georgics 2.402: ‘atque in se sua per vestigia volvitur annus’ (‘and the year rolls back on itself over its own footsteps’).63 Here, Virgil paints a picture of the unchanging circularity of the farmer’s year. By contrast, Claudian prays that the footsteps of the Anician year become new (‘iam nova … vestigia’), implying a return to the Golden Age of Eclogue 4 and a redemption of the iron-age conditions in the Georgics. One may also be tempted to read ‘iam nova … vestigia’ as a metapoetic metaphor for the footsteps of the poet, which both follow Virgil’s and make them new again. If ‘nova … vestigia’ replaces ‘nova progenies’, does Claudian abandon the idea of a new generation descended from heaven? It would appear not. Later in Ol. Prob. the river Tiber beholds the young consuls and exclaims (240): ‘en nova Ledaeis suboles fulgentior astris’ (‘behold a new generation more resplendent than the stars of Leda’).64 He goes on to predict that Olybrius and Probinus will replace Castor and Pollux as stars in the sky. The phrase ‘nova … suboles’ is modelled on ‘nova progenies’; however, by oppositio in imitando, the new offspring will return to the sky from which their Virgilian counterpart descended.65 Let us return to v. 6 of Ol. Prob. and observe further that Claudian writes ‘iam nova germanis’ in the place of ‘iam nova progenies’. If the germani are ‘nova … suboles’ at 240, then one may see more clearly that ‘iam nova germanis’ retains a connection to ‘iam nova progenies’, progenies being cognate with germanus (both derived from gignere, ‘to bring into being’). The word ‘germanis’, in turn, is complemented by ‘consulibus’, and the whole phrase appears to be an ablative absolute (not a dative) modelled on the consular ablative absolute in Eclogue 4.11–12: ‘teque adeo decus hoc aevi, te consule, inibit, | Pollio’ (‘and this glorious age will begin when you, yes you, are consul, Pollio’).66 Claudian continues his imitation of these Virgilian lines when he wishes that the months begin joyfully – ‘laetique petant exordia menses’ – which picks up the prediction at Eclogue 4.12: ‘et incipient magni procedere menses’ (‘and the great months will begin to go forward’). The final two lines of Claudian’s prooemium, then, intersect repeatedly with the fourth Eclogue. Given the prominence of this Virgilian text as a model at the end of the prooemium, one may also be tempted to read 108 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian Claudian’s earlier phrase ‘redeuntia saecula’ (2) as an allusion to Eclogue 4.5– 6: ‘magnus ab integro saeclorum nascitur ordo |  … redeunt Saturnia regna’ (‘The great sequence of ages is born anew |  … the rule of Saturn returns’). The phrase ‘redeuntia saecula’, to be sure, derives from Martial’s birthday wish that Domitian may live long enough to celebrate another cycle of the Secular Games: ‘hic colat ingenti redeuntia saecula lustro’ (‘May he honour the ages returning in a vast period of time’, Mart. 4.1.7). Yet Martial also models his ‘redeuntia saecula’ on Eclogue 4.5–6, and so Claudian probably alludes doubly to Martial and Virgil. The conclusion one may draw from the intertextual evidence of the prooemium is that Claudian aligns the beginning of Ol. Prob. with the beginning of the fourth Eclogue. Further parallels suggest themselves. Both poems praise consuls.67 Virgil prophesies the birth and upbringing of a marvellous child. Claudian commemorates the birth and upbringing of two pueri.68 One may therefore surmise that Claudian’s communicative strategy for praising two young and inexperienced consuls is to compare them with the child of the fourth Eclogue who is to bring back the Golden Age.69 If Claudian begins Ol. Prob. by taking the fourth Eclogue as a model for his own consular panegyric, one may also infer that he is modelling himself on Virgil. In the transition from the prooemium to the praise of the Anician family, Claudian returns to the Aeneid as his primary point of reference; he addresses the sun again (8–9): ‘scis genus Auchenium, nec te latuere potentes | Amniadae’ (‘You know the Auchenian race, and the powerful sons of Amnius have not escaped your notice’).70 This invocation recalls the words of Dido in Aeneid 1, when she reassures Ilioneus that she has heard of the Aeneadae and Troy: ‘quis genus Aeneadum, quis Troiae nesciat urbem …?’ (‘Who could not know the race of the Aeneadae, the city of Troy …?’, Aen. 1.565). Claudian’s allusion to Dido’s warm welcome of the Trojans is not simply a verbal echo; it associates the family of the Anicii with the Aeneadae and hence with the founders of Rome. It is worth noting that the Anicii are identified by the names Auchenius and Amnius. This polyonymy may be a function of the metrical difficulty of the name Anicius, but it also enables Claudian to include six generations of Anicii in his poem. Amnius Anicius Iulianus, consul of 322, was the grandfather of Anicius Auchenius Bassus who was in turn the great-grandfather of Olybrius and Probinus. The name Amnius is also convenient for the formation Amniadae, which is suggestive of Aeneadae.71 Claudian thus compliments his patrons by associating them with the founding family of Rome. If we take stock of the first nine verses of Ol. Prob., Virgil is the poet to whom Claudian most heavily alludes. He recalls all three of Virgil’s major works, 109 Return to Table of Contents

Stephen Wheeler but the emphasis falls on the Aeneid, on the one hand, and the beginning of the fourth Eclogue, on the other. The allusions to the fourth Eclogue appear particularly important because that poem commemorates the consulship of Asinius Pollio and the birth of a child who brings to Rome a new Golden Age. If the fourth Eclogue was a well-known poem that had been reinterpreted by some Christians as a prophecy of the Messiah’s coming, Claudian revives the poem’s secular meaning, by casting his (Christian) patrons in the role of the Virgilian puer. It may also be noted that Claudian alludes twice to speeches of Dido in the Aeneid, each time while addressing the sun: once at the beginning of the proem (1 ‘Sol, qui flammigeris mundum conplexus habenis’), and again in the transition from the proem to the panegyric of the gens Anicia (8–9 ‘scis genus Auchenium, nec te latuere potentes | Amniadae’). These allusions seem to be structurally significant, calling attention to the association of the Anicii with the Aeneadae – the future founders of Rome – and looking ahead to the poem’s strategy of reviving the mythological past of Virgil’s Aeneid in the lateAntique Roman present. This strategy realizes itself in Claudian’s description of the shield of Roma, to which we may now turn. ii. The shield of Roma As already discussed (p. 102), at vv. 71–2 Claudian asks the Muse which divinity was responsible for the appointment of the Anicii as consuls. The answer is the goddess Roma, whom Claudian describes for the next twentyfive verses (75–99), concluding climactically with a miniature ecphrasis of the shield that she carries (94–9). Intertextually speaking, Claudian’s personification of Roma is knit into a variety of discourses concerned with Rome’s civic identity.72 Personifications of Rome (also identified as patria or res publica) appear in Cicero (Cat. 1.17–18, 27–9) and Lucan (1.199–200), and frequently in late-Antique literature such as the panegyric for Maximian and Constantine (Pan. Lat. 7[6].10.5–11.4 Mynors), Symmachus’ third relatio (Relat. 3.9–10), and the letter of Ambrose which responds to this (Ep. 18.7). Furthermore, when Claudian portrays Roma in full battle-gear as a cross between Pallas Athena and an Amazon, he may be drawing on the visual vocabulary of coins, contorniate medallions, consular diptychs, and public monuments such as the relief on the base of the column of Antoninus Pius.73 Although the figure of Roma per se does not have Virgilian ancestry, Claudian caps his description with a set-piece description of Roma’s shield which harks back to that most Roman of Roman texts, the ecphrasis of the shield of Aeneas in Aeneid 8. First, let us look at Claudian’s depiction of the shield of Roma (94–9): et formidato clipeus Titana lacessit lumine, quem tota variarat Mulciber arte:

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Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian hic patrius Mavortis amor fetusque notantur Romulei; pius amnis inest et belua nutrix; electro Thybris, pueri formantur in auro; fingunt aera lupam; Mavors adamante coruscat.74 And her shield, which Mulciber had varied with all his skill, challenges the Sun with dreadful light: represented here are the paternal love of Mars and the Romulean offspring; on it is the faithful river and the feral wet-nurse; the Tiber is formed in amber and the boys in gold; bronze fashions the wolf; Mars glints with steel.

Claudian signposts his allusion to the shield of Aeneas in the Aeneid by identifying Roma’s shield as the handiwork of ‘Mulciber’, precisely the epithet that Virgil uses for Vulcan at the end of his shield-description (Aen. 8.724). The device on Roma’s shield also replicates the first historical vignette on the shield of Aeneas described by Virgil: the cave of Mars where Romulus and Remus are nursed by the she-wolf.75 Claudian’s statement that Vulcan had varied (‘variarat’) the shield of Roma may also be read as a moment of poetic self-consciousness in that the poet, like Vulcan, has also produced a variation on Virgil’s shield of Aeneas, selecting and preserving part of the Virgilian original while transmuting it into a distinctively late-Antique text. To appreciate Claudian’s reworking of Virgil, let us now examine the scene of Romulus and Remus on the shield of Aeneas (Aen. 8.630–4): fecerat et viridi fetam Mavortis in antro procubuisse lupam, geminos huic ubera circum ludere pendentis pueros et lambere matrem impavidos, illam tereti cervice reflexa mulcere alternos et corpora fingere lingua. He had also made the pregnant she-wolf stretch out in the green cave of Mars, and the twin boys hanging around her teats were playing and licking their mother fearlessly, and she with her smooth neck bent back was stroking them alternately and shaping their bodies with her tongue.

Virgil describes vividly a sensual scene in which the she-wolf lies in the cave of Mars, suckles the twins, and licks them into shape, as if the image were a moving picture. Claudian, by contrast, does not describe a picture at all; he enumerates the figures in two static lists that are arranged more or less chiastically.76 The first list (Mars, twins, Tiber, and she-wolf ) introduces the various characters with striking epithets; the second draws attention to the material out of which each figure is formed (amber, gold, bronze, and steel). These different arrangements of details illustrate well what Roberts calls the ‘jeweled style’, in which the words themselves are arranged like gems to form patterns of similarity and contrast.77 111 Return to Table of Contents

Stephen Wheeler Claudian’s abstract treatment of the shield of Roma concentrates the reader’s attention on the symbolic and literary value of its individual figures rather than on their pictorial naturalism. In this regard, we may notice that Claudian introduces two new figures, Mars and Tiber, into the Virgilian picture of the she-wolf suckling the twins. Mars’ presence (‘patrius Mavortis amor’, 96) may be traced to the cave of Mars on the shield of Aeneas (Aen. 8.630 ‘Mavortis in antro’). The representation of Tiber, on the other hand, has no literary precedent; it may have been inspired by the common grouping of Tiber with the she-wolf and twins in Roman coins, painting, and sculpture.78 Be this as it may, the figures of Mars and Tiber are not introduced into the Virgilian context simply for the sake of variatio or because they reflect some iconographical source. They play a meaningful role in Claudian’s poem. First of all, Mars is introduced through the abstraction of his paternal love (‘patrius Mavortis amor’). The representation of Mars in terms of love is deliberately paradoxical and richly suggestive. Rather than try to imagine what ‘patrius Mavortis amor’ would look like, it is more rewarding to think about the literary significance of the phrase. The phrase ‘Mavortis amor’ is usually deployed in Silver Latin epic to mean the ‘lust for war’ (e.g. Stat. Theb. 3.598; Val. Fl. 6.694; Sil. Pun. 5.589), with ‘Mavortis’ being an objective genitive and a metonym for ‘war’. ‘Lust for war’ would be an appropriate way to characterize Roma, who is described as a militant virago. Yet Claudian changes the meaning of the phrase. ‘Mavortis’ is a subjective genitive and refers to the mythological deity who fathered Romulus and Remus. So Roma does not exhibit ‘lust for war’ on her shield, but rather ‘Mars’ parental love’. Claudian’s ‘patrius Mavortis amor’ may also look back to the ‘patrius … amor’ of Aeneas for Ascanius in Aeneid 1.643–4. The love of Mars for his sons may, in turn, suggest his erotic love for their mother Ilia.79 Finally, the fact that Roma’s shield displays ‘patrius Mavortis amor’ may allude to the common amor– Roma wordplay, implying that Roma is derived from the amor of Mars.80 The paternal love of Mars helps explain, in turn, the presence of Tiber on the shield of Roma. We learn later in the panegyric that Tiber is married to Ilia (224–5), the object of Mars’ affection and the mother of Romulus and Remus.81 This makes Tiber the stepfather or foster-parent of Romulus and Remus. The latter may accordingly be viewed as sons of the river or ‘Amniadae’ and hence forbears of the young Anicii.82 Claudian calls Tiber ‘pius amnis’ (‘pious river’), which could refer to a tradition that Tiber helped the twins by not drowning them.83 The epithet pius is also closely associated with the paternalism of Aeneas and so may suggest the paternal role of Tiber in the foundation of Rome. Claudian’s description of the shield of Roma thus concentrates on the parentage of Romulus and Remus, reflecting the emphasis of his own poem on the parentage of Olybrius and Probinus. 112 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian Claudian’s imitation of the Virgilian shield in miniature lacks the historical and universal comprehensiveness of the original, but it is not a selfcontained rhetorical set-piece. It foreshadows the panegyric’s subsequent action. The prominent placement of Mars at the beginning and the end of the ecphrasis looks ahead to Roma’s visit to Theodosius, whom Claudian compares to Mars (119–23). Romulus and Remus, in turn, foreshadow the consulate of Olybrius and Probinus.84 The twins are represented in gold on the shield (‘pueri formantur in auro’, 98); so too the young consuls will put on golden consular robes (‘auratas trabeas’, 178). The motif of gold in the shield implies that Rome’s pristine origins were a Golden Age and that Olybrius and Probinus, in turn, initiate a return of the Golden Age. Another correspondence between the shield of Roma and the panegyric is identifiable in the figure of the Tiber, who is first depicted as ‘pius amnis’ on the shield and then appears personified in the final section of the poem, where he celebrates the consulship of Olybrius and Probinus by wishing to become an ‘ebrius amnis’ flowing with wine: ‘iam profluat ebrius amnis | mutatis in vina vadis’ (‘Now may my stream flow forth drunk after my waters have been changed into wine’, 250–1). The one figure on the shield that does not reappear in the poem’s narrative is the she-wolf. However, the ‘belua nutrix’ is symbolically replaced by the martial figure of Roma herself, who declares to Theodosius that she cared for Olybrius and Probinus on the day they were born (143–4): ‘festa quos luce creatos | ipsa meo fovi gremio’ (‘I myself nurtured in my lap the children who were born on a hallowed day’). Claudian may allude to the Virgilian description of the shield of Aeneas again at the end of Roma’s speech to Theodosius, when she predicts that the consulship of Olybrius and Probinus will lead to the conquest of the Araxes and Rhine, the Medes, Babylon, and the Ganges (160–3). The list of conquered rivers and peoples at the edges of the Roman empire parallels Virgil’s enumeration of conquered rivers and peoples, including the Rhine and Araxes, which the triumphant Augustus leads into Rome following his victory in civil war over Antony (Aen. 8.724–8).85 Through Roma, then, Claudian suggests that Olybrius and Probinus are the fulfillers of Roman imperial destiny as it had been plotted on the shield of Aeneas from the birth of Romulus and Remus to the establishment of a universal Roman empire under Augustus. iii. Tiber personified In the final narrative section of Ol. Prob., Claudian raises Tiber from his river-bed to witness the consular ceremonies and to speak as a representative for the city of Rome.86 We have already seen (p. 104) that Menander Rhetor recommends the introduction of a speaking river as a way of relieving the 113 Return to Table of Contents

Stephen Wheeler basilikos logos and specifically the topic of deeds in war. However, Claudian does not miss the opportunity to locate the source of his Tiber in the poetry of Virgil. The idea of making Tiber a spectator of the festivities may be an inversion of a passage in Aeneid 6, in which Anchises apostrophizes the river as a future witness to the funeral of the young Marcellus (Aen. 6.873–4): ‘vel quae, Tiberine, videbis | funera, cum tumulum praeterlabere recentem’ (‘What a funeral you will see, Tiber, when you flow by the new tomb’). A more obvious Virgilian source for Tiber is the beginning of Aeneid 8. There, the river-god reveals himself in a dream to Aeneas and welcomes the hero’s arrival in Italy. His head is covered with reeds (Aen. 8.34): ‘et crinis umbrosa tegebat harundo.’ Claudian similarly dwells on the reeds that grow on the head of Tiber (216): ‘vertice luxuriat toto crinalis harundo’. Virgil’s Tiber is clothed with a bluish-green cloak of thin linen (Aen. 8.33–4): ‘eum tenuis glauco velabat amictu | carbasus’. Claudian expands on Virgil’s text by specifying that Tiber’s wife Ilia wove the mantle (224–5): ‘palla graves umeros velat, quam neverat uxor | Ilia percurrens vitreas sub gurgite telas’ (‘His heavy-set shoulders a mantle covers, which his wife Ilia had woven when moving quickly across her glass-coloured warp beneath the sea’). The image of submarine weaving, which is censured by Cameron as unpoetical, may additionally derive from Virgil’s description of Cyrene and her nymphs spinning wool underwater in the fourth Georgic (334–49).87 The association of Tiber with Ilia, the mother of Romulus and Remus, is part of Claudian’s strategy to connect Olybrius and Probinus with the city’s founders and more distantly with Aeneas. It will be recalled that Claudian had already integrated Tiber into his description of the shield of Roma. At the moment of the consular ceremonies, Claudian identifies Tiber with the epithet Romuleus (226), which is first attested in Virgil’s description of Romulus’ hut on the shield of Aeneas (Virg. Aen. 8.654).88 Romuleus, however, is not a casual synonym for Romanus; it is a cross-reference to the earlier description of the shield of Roma, which features Romulus and Remus as well as the Tiber. Now Tiber watches the brothers Olybrius and Probinus enter the forum with the Senate (231–2): ‘unanimos fratres cuncto stipante senatu | ire forum’ (‘The brothers acting in accord went to the forum with the whole Senate closely surrounding them’). This image of political unity summed up by the phrase ‘unanimos fratres’ implies that the new Romulus and Remus do not quarrel with each other.89 The phrase naturally invites a reading against its Virgilian source. In the Aeneid, Juno instructs Allecto to foment war between the Trojans and Italians and draws attention to the Fury’s power to arm harmonious brothers for war against each other (Aen. 7.335): ‘tu potes unanimos armare in proelia fratres’ (‘You can arm for warfare brothers who were acting in accord’). Claudian uses 114 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian the Virgilian phrase ‘unanimos … fratres’ to point to the beginning of peace rather than war. Tiber makes a speech in praise of Olybrius and Probinus comparing them to another set of twins, Castor and Pollux, whom they will surpass and replace as stars in heaven. He then announces that it is time to make libations and to drink. In particular, he calls for various fantastic transformations of nature in keeping with the return of the Golden Age (250–2): mella ferant silvae; iam profluat ebrius amnis mutatis in vina vadis; iam sponte per agros sudent inriguae spirantia balsama venae. May the woods bring forth honey; now may my stream flow forth drunk after my waters have been changed into wine; now of their own accord may juicebearing plant veins exude fragrant balsam throughout the fields.90

Tiber wishes that the trees produce honey. Although the idea that trees, specifically oaks, flow with honey during the Golden Age is commonplace in Augustan-age poetry, it receives its first statement in Virgil, Eclogues, 4.30: ‘et durae quercus sudabunt roscida mella’ (‘and the hard oaks will exude dewdrops of honey’).91 Claudian thus returns to his programmatic Virgilian text introduced at the beginning of Ol. Prob. The motif of the river Tiber flowing with wine has already been discussed (p. 113), but it is worth pointing out here that it does not have a parallel in the fourth Eclogue. However, Virgil assumes in the Georgics that rivers flowed with wine in the Golden Age, because Jupiter stopped the flow of wine in the transition to the iron age: ‘et passim rivis currentia vina repressit’ (‘and he suppressed the wine running in the rivers everywhere’, G. 1.132). The last item in Tiber’s wish, the spontaneous production of balsam, is an original contribution to the repertoire of the Golden Age but appears to be a reworking of Virgil’s description of exotic plants in Georgics 2.118–19, ‘odorato … sudantia ligno | balsama’ (‘balsam dripping from its fragrant wood’). Taegert does not think these images link the consulate of Olybrius and Probinus with the rise of a new Golden Age.92 However, it seems unlikely that Claudian would allude to Virgil’s fourth Eclogue prominently at the beginning of his poem and deploy so many Virgilian images of the Golden Age at the end of the poem without wishing his audience to entertain the fiction of a Golden Age, whose return is a conventional form of praise in the context of imperial panegyric.93 Tiber concludes his speech by saying that he will always remember the day on which Olybrius and Probinus became consuls and will always celebrate it with rich banquets (261–2): ‘semper honoratus nostris celebrabitur undis | iste dies, semper dapibus recoletur opimis’ (‘This day will always be held in honour and celebrated by our waters, it will always be renewed with rich 115 Return to Table of Contents

Stephen Wheeler banquets’). In Tiber’s words one can hear an echo of a promise made to him by Aeneas in Aeneid 8.76: ‘semper honore meo, semper celebrabere donis’ (‘You will always be celebrated with my honour, always with my gifts’). Claudian’s Tiber pays the Anicii, the new city founders, the same honours that he received from Aeneas in the Aeneid. In his panegyric for Olybrius and Probinus, Claudian combines features of the fourth Eclogue and the eighth book of the Aeneid in order to lend his subject a deeper Roman significance. At the same time, the association of the Anicii with both Romulus and Remus and the idea of a Golden Age may appear inconsistent, because Rome’s first brothers are inevitably associated with fratricide and civil war. It is possible, of course, that Claudian draws on a version of the legend in which the two brothers were imagined as peaceful co-founders or co-rulers of Rome.94 There is in any case precedent for such a revisionist handling of Rome’s founding legend in the famously ambiguous representation of the fratricidal twins in Virgil’s poetry. In the second Georgic, Virgil cites ‘Remus and his brother’ as examples of rural harmony in the Golden Age (532–3): ‘hanc olim veteres vitam coluere Sabini, | hanc Remus et frater’ (‘The ancient Sabines cultivated this way of life, as did Remus and his brother’). Furthermore, he makes no mention of fratricide when he observes that the Golden Age saw the foundation of Rome (533–5): ‘sic fortis Etruria crevit | scilicet et rerum facta est pulcherrima Roma, | septemque una sibi muro circumdedit arces’ (‘Thus Etruria grew strong assuredly and Rome became the most beautiful of states, and surrounded its seven hills with one wall’).95 The theme of discordia fratrum is similarly revised in Aeneid 1, when Jupiter prophesies peace under Augustus, a Golden Age returned in which Romulus and Remus will rule together: ‘Remo cum fratre Quirinus | iura dabunt’ (1.292–3). Servius interprets this odd detail as a reference to the joint-rule of Augustus and Agrippa, who shared the consulship in 28 and 27 (cf. Prop. 2.1.23; 4.1.9–10; 4.6.80).96 In all of the Virgilian passages cited, there is a motive to redeem Romulus and Remus in the interests of peace, harmony, and reconciliation.97 This is not to say, of course, that Virgil suppresses the darker side of the legend. But it raises the question whether Claudian reads Virgil selectively and emphasizes the redemptive version of Romulus and Remus at the expense of their association with fratricide. Given the historical background of the recent civil war fought at the Frigidus, it seems unlikely that Claudian could mention Romulus and Remus without recalling the negative exemplum of their fraternal strife. Furthermore, by comparing the Anicii to Romulus and Remus, Claudian implicitly makes the point, as is proper in a mythological comparison (synkrisis), that the young consuls surpass their legendary Roman counterparts in concordia 116 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian fratrum.98 When Tiber says that they are ‘unanimos fratres’ (232), he not only negates the power of Allecto in Aeneid 7.335 to instigate civil war but also confronts head-on the fratricidal origin of Rome and declares its redemption in Olybrius and Probinus. In other words, Claudian and his readers would probably be inclined to read Romulus and Remus as a foil for Olybrius and Probinus who are the true embodiment of Golden-Age harmony. This message will inevitably have had a political effect in Rome following Theodosius’ victory at the Frigidus. Although the precise circumstances of Claudian’s performance of the panegyric cannot be ascertained, it seems likely that the poem’s wider intended audience was the Roman senatorial aristocracy, pagan and Christian alike. They will have heard Claudian’s Roma refer to Eugenius and Nicomachus Flavianus as rebellious Furies (‘Furiaeque rebelles’, 138) and brand their cause slavery (‘servitium’, 138). In this regard, it is noteworthy that Claudian does not mention the Christianity of his patrons or of the emperor; nor does he interpret the events of the battle at the Frigidus as a victory for the forces of Christianity over paganism, as Ambrose and others would.99 In fact, he treats the young Anicii and Theodosius as if they were pagans in keeping with the pre-Christian traditions of Roman epic. Here, one might contrast the way Prudentius, a Christian poet and contemporary of Claudian, writes about the battle at the Frigidus and its aftermath in his Contra Symmachum. In Prudentius’ account, the Christian emperor Theodosius visits Rome and makes a speech to the personified city exhorting her to give up paganism and to worship Christ (C. Symm. 1.415–505). Prudentius then describes the transference of Rome’s love to Christ and the conversion of the pagan Senate to Christianity (1.506–50); additionally, he names many members of the Anician family as the city’s earliest converts (1.552–60).100 If Theodosius did visit Rome in the autumn of 394 and was intent on converting pagan senators to Christianity by various means, including the appointment of the young Anicii as consuls,101 then Claudian’s Ol. Prob. is strikingly silent about its Christian context. In fact, Claudian makes his laudandi the inheritors of Rome’s secular traditions, the very traditions which the pagan aristocracy sought to defend against Christian orthodoxy. This representation of the Anicii could have been viewed as contradictory to their role as model Christians. Yet that which may have been troubling for a Jerome, Ambrose, or Augustine was obviously not so for Rome’s most respectable family, which prided itself on its classical culture in the still-important secular context of senatorial Rome.102 Indeed, what better way to promote the conversion of the pagan aristocracy than to show it that Rome’s most respectable Christian family did not have to sacrifice its interest in Rome’s secular traditions? Moreover, the interpretatio Christiana of the fourth Eclogue may still have enabled an allegorical reading of Claudian’s 117 Return to Table of Contents

Stephen Wheeler panegyric. If the nova progenies of Eclogue 4.7 were associated with Christ, then the application of this phrase to Olybrius and Probinus might signal their status as the Christian figureheads of a new Golden Age in Rome.103 4. More Virgilian self-fashioning If Claudian lays claim to the authority of Virgil in Ol. Prob. to promote the reputation of his patrons, one may ask if he continues to fashion himself as Virgil after his first commission. To answer this question satisfactorily one would have to embark on another study, but a few points can be made here to support the thesis that Claudian continued to cultivate his image as a new Virgil. At some point in time, probably after his arrival in Milan in 395,104 he wrote an elegiac epistle to Olybrius in which he urges his patron to write back (Carm. Min. 40.23–4): dignatus tenui Caesar scripsisse Maroni.   nec tibi dedecori sit mea Musa. vale. Caesar deigned to write to the humble Virgil. May my Muse also not be a shame to you. Farewell.

Here Claudian modestly compares himself to Virgil. When he returns to Rome in 400, he delivers a panegyric on the consulship of Stilicho, in which, according to Felgentreu, he sets himself up as Virgil; a telling example is his ecphrasis of Stilicho’s consular cloak (Cons. Stil. 2.339–60) which is clearly indebted to the description of the shield of Aeneas.105 In the same year, the emperors and Senate ordered a bronze statue of Claudian to be erected in the Forum of Trajan, whose inscribed base included a Greek epigram that praised the poet for unifying in one person the mind of Virgil and the Muse of Homer:106 εἰν ἑνὶ Βιργιλίοιο νόον καὶ μοῦσαν Ὁμήρου   Κλαυδιανὸν Ῥώμη καὶ Βασιλῆς ἔθεσαν.

Rome and Emperors set up Claudian, the mind of Virgil and the Muse of Homer in one man.

Fo has attractively suggested that Claudian composed the elegiac couplet himself.107 If this is the case, the poet from Alexandria makes clear how he wishes posterity to read him. 5. Conclusion Although the scale of Claudian’s panegyric for the consuls Olybrius and Probinus does not bear comparison with the lengthy epics of Homer and Virgil, it would be a mistake to underestimate the literary and cultural ambitions of Claudian and his patrons in the year 395, following the 118 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian heady victory of Theodosius at the Frigidus. The decision by the Anicii to engage Claudian to praise the new consuls Olybrius and Probinus in verse rather than in prose was attention-getting. Claudian’s great talent as a poet advertised the literary culture of the gens Anicia, which three generations earlier had produced Faltonia Betitia Proba, author of a Virgilian cento, De Laudibus Dei, and a panegyrical epic on the war between Constantius II and Magnentius. Claudian’s role in promoting the literary culture of the Anicii justified their claim to the highest political prestige in Rome in 395. Claudian will have fulfilled the expectations of his patrons and audience by touching on the structural and topical points of a prose panegyric, but he may also have done something new in drawing on the rich traditions of imperial Latin poetry. We have seen in particular that the prooemium consists of a glittering fabric of traditional epic language drawing, above all, on Virgil’s Aeneid. More important, Claudian foregrounds Virgil’s fourth Eclogue at the end of his prooemium as a model for his consular panegyric, exploiting in particular the Virgilian idea that the consulship of Asinius Pollio marks the return of the Golden Age (Ecl. 4.6 ‘redeunt Saturnia regna’), a conceit to which Claudian may allude when he addresses the sun at the beginning of his poem, ‘Sol, qui … volvis … redeuntia saecula’ (‘Sun, you who wheel round the returning ages’, 1–2). Claudian’s decision to use the fourth Eclogue as a frame of reference may have been further motivated by the desire to justify the appointment of boys as consuls. In Virgil, the return of the Golden Age occurs with the arrival of a miraculous puer. Similarly, the consulship of the young Anicii is itself a prodigy that points to a new age of imperial peace and unity. Claudian’s literary programme expands upon the fourth Eclogue by adding to it elements from Virgil’s Aeneid. The opening prayer to Sol, the shield of Roma, and the presence of Tiber show a marked recollection of the Aeneid and more specifically of its eighth book, which has been called the most Roman and most Augustan book of the poem.108 Claudian redeploys the Virgilian vignette of Romulus and Remus on the shield of Aeneas to suggest that Olybrius and Probinus are successors of the founders of Rome. This mythological connection is strengthened through the personified Tiber, a father-figure for Romulus and Remus, who rejoices over the consulship of Olybrius and Probinus. The new Romulus and Remus are, moreover, represented as harmonious figureheads of state rather than as quarrelsome brothers, suggesting either a redemption of Rome’s ambiguous foundationstory or, perhaps less likely, adherence to a variant of the myth in which the original twins not only co-found Rome but rule together peacefully. The application of the myth of Romulus and Remus to Olybrius and Probinus is of special import in the year 395. Claudian makes a Christian family the inheritor of Rome’s secular traditions following the official abolition of 119 Return to Table of Contents

Stephen Wheeler paganism in Rome by Theodosius four years earlier. Just as Claudian’s patrons are the inheritors of Rome’s secular traditions, so too does Claudian fashion himself as Virgil’s heir, inaugurating a return of the Golden Age with a new kind of panegyric that synthesizes different parts of the Virgilian corpus. On this basis, one may conclude that Claudian seeks to place himself in the traditions of epic broadly defined as hexameter poetry. But it may be possible to be more precise. The evidence in the poem implies that Eclogue 4 is a significant programmatic model for Claudian. In that poem, Virgil invokes the pastoral Muses to sing things greater than before (1–3): Sicelides Musae, paulo maiora canamus! non omnis arbusta iuvant, humilesque myricae; si canimus silvas, silvae sint consule dignae. Sicilian Muses, let us sing things a little grander! Trees and humble tamarisks do not please everyone. If we sing of the woods, let the woods be worthy of a consul.

As the opening three verses make clear, Eclogue 4 is not conventional pastoral, but is rising to a grander register worthy of the consul Pollio, implying epic pretensions, which nonetheless are not realized in the poem.109 Eclogue 4 may, in turn, have inspired Statius to write silvae consule dignae, particularly the panegyric for Domitian’s seventeenth consulship (Silvae 4.1), which are likewise of limited ambition. Claudian’s Ol. Prob. could therefore be aligned with these two poems as part of a tradition of consular panegyric in Latin poetry whose nominal founder is Virgil. The problem with this genealogy is that Claudian writes a different kind of poem. The silvae consule dignae that Virgil and Statius compose centre on predictions about the future. Claudian’s poem gives a narrative history from the time of the battle at the Frigidus to the present, which has obvious affinities with heroic epic. Claudian swerves from Virgilian and Statian precedents by elevating his consular panegyric to the level of epic that Virgil had hinted at in the beginning of Eclogue 4. Moreover, Claudian accomplishes this elevation with the help of Virgil himself in that he grafts onto his consular panegyric appropriate elements from the Aeneid and the tradition of epic that it represents. The effect of this manoeuvre is to subsume the tradition of heroic epic within the form of panegyric and to make panegyric the culmination of the epic tradition. Such a view of epic would not have been uncommon in late Antiquity. Servius, a contemporary of Claudian, read Virgil’s Aeneid as a panegyric of Augustus (Serv. Aen. p. 4, lines 1–11 Thilo–Hagen): ‘intentio Vergilii haec est, Homerum imitari et Augustum laudare a parentibus’ (‘Virgil’s intention is this, to imitate Homer and to praise Augustus from his ancestors’). 110 120 Return to Table of Contents

Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian Claudian’s reading focuses on those texts, Eclogue 4 and Aeneid 8, that are most suitable for panegyric and illustrative of the imperial peace and prosperity that is the ideal narrative end of Virgilian epic.111 Given this secular idealism, it is not difficult to see why Augustine would have referred to Claudian as ‘alienus a nomine Christi’ (‘a stranger to the name of Christ’, De Civ. D. 5.26). For Claudian was not preaching the future of the city of God, but the ever-returning past of the city of Rome. Acknowledgements

The research for this chapter was conducted at the Freie Universität Berlin (2000–2001) with the support of the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation. Oral versions were presented to audiences at the University of Leeds, the University of Manchester, and the APA in Boston. I would like to express my gratitude to W.W. Ehlers for his hospitality in Berlin and to David Levene and Alison Sharrock for their invitations to speak on Claudian. Additional thanks are due to Daniel Berman, Michael Dewar, Fritz Felgentreu, J.B. Hall, Paul Harvey, Jacqueline Long, David Scourfield, and Tony Woodman for advice and corrections as I prepared the chapter for publication.

Notes

  Prosp. Chron. I p. 463 (MGH, AA, 9). The entry is repeated in Cassiodorus’ chronicle, Chron. II p. 154 (MGH, AA, 11); cf. Chronica Gallica, Chron. I p. 650 (MGH, AA, 9) ‘Claudianus poeta admiratione dignus habetur.’ 2   For this interpretation, see Birt 1892, vi; Fargues 1933, 12; Cameron 1970, 34–5; Döpp 1980, 13–14; Taegert 1988, 35. For the alternative view that Prosper’s notice refers to Claudian’s Panegyric on the Third Consulate of Honorius, see Trout 1991. The Panegyricus Dictus Olybrio et Probino Consulibus (on the title of the poem, see Hall 1986, 111 n. 1) appears at the head of the Carmina Maiora in most editions of Claudian. I quote from the Teubner text edited by Hall (1985), unless otherwise noted. Taegert 1988 is the sole modern commentary on Ol. Prob., which may be supplemented with notes complémentaires in Charlet 2000. 3   On Probus, see PLRE 1.736–40, s.n. Probus 5; Brown 1961, 9; Matthews 1975, 195–7; Taegert 1988, 20–5; Perrelli 1992, 13–14. 4   For the history of this period, see Matthews 1975, 238–47. O’Donnell 1979, esp. 78–81, calls into question the traditional view that Flavianus led an organized pagan resistance in Rome against Theodosius. 5   For the appointment of the Anicii as an imperial strategy to convert pagan senators to Christianity, see Cameron 1970, 189–90; Salzman 2002, 183–4. There is also a tradition that Theodosius actually visited Rome in the autumn of 394 and bid the pagan aristocracy convert to Christianity, on which see Cameron 1969, 250–67; Taegert 1988, 18. 6   For Claudian’s origins and career before Rome, see Cameron 1970, 1–29. 7   This poem and its counterpart addressed to Olybrius (Carm. Min. 40) commemorate Claudian’s connection with the Anicii. Birt 1892, ix dates Carm. Min. 41 to 395/6. 1

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Stephen Wheeler Cameron 1970, 7–8 and 36 suggests that the epigrams were written after Claudian moved to Milan from Rome in 395. Translations from Claudian and other ancient authors in this chapter are my own unless otherwise indicated.  8   So Fargues 1933, 12 and n. 4; Cameron 1970, 7, 30, and 457–9; for further arguments, see Duc 1994, 160–4; Felgentreu 1999, 158–60.  9   So Postgate 1895, 163–4; Cremona 1948, 247–8; Romano 1958, 20 n. 39; Clarke 1968, 128; Hall 1969, 101–3; Charlet 1991, xxviii–xxix. For these scholars ‘Graia Thalia’ refers to De Raptu Proserpinae, which they consider to be Claudian’s first major Latin work given what the poet says in the praefatio to Rapt. Pros. 1 (Carm. 32); Carm. Min. 41.13–14 thus indicates that Claudian stopped work on Rapt. Pros. in order to pursue Ol. Prob. For objections to ‘Graia Thalia’ designating Latin poetry, see Döpp 1980, 7 n. 31; Felgentreu 1999, 159. 10   The implication of Matthews 1975, 257. 11   The case that Licentius was dependent on Claudian rather than vice versa is made by Döpp 1980, 58–9 and n. 62; cf. Clarke 1968, 127. For traces of Ol. Prob. in later authors, see Taegert 1988, 252–4, and the loci similes cited below the text of Birt 1892. The most significant examples of the reception of Ol. Prob. occur in the panegyrics of Sidonius Apollinaris for the Emperor Majorian (Carm. 5) and the second consulship of the Emperor Anthemius (Carm. 2). It is well known that Sidonius modelled his panegyrics after Claudian’s (cf. Cameron 1970, 8 and 255; Harries 1994, 2–3), but it is striking that he repeatedly returns to Ol. Prob. for his idea of Rome. 12   In the concluding verses of his praefatio to the Panegyric on the Third Consulate of Honorius (Carm. 6.15–18), Claudian refers to his debut in Rome as a test rehearsal for his appearance at the imperial court. 13   Cameron 1970, 34–5 and 459; cf. Cameron 1974, 136; Schmidt 1976, 23–4 and 38. 14   Döpp 1980, 43–60, esp. 58; Taegert 1988, 35–40. Cf. Gualandri 2000, 154–5, who does not openly disagree with Cameron’s analysis, but interprets Ol. Prob. in the light of the politics of reconciliation pursued by Theodosius. 15   Cameron 2000, 135. He does not deal with the details of Döpp’s argument (see n. 14 above), such as the possibility that Claudian rebuts the negative portrayal of Probus in Amm. Marc. 27.11, nor does he consider Taegert’s fuller assessment of the poem’s political significance (see n. 14 above). 16   Cameron 1970, 255. It should be noted that this observation marks an important advance over scholarship which sought to analyse Claudian solely in terms of the prescriptions of rhetorical handbooks (e.g. Kehding 1899, 16–28; Struthers 1919; Fargues 1933, 195–218). Subsequently, scholars have followed Cameron’s lead and shown how Claudian epicizes the form and content of panegyric (and invective) through linear narratives, type-scenes, ecphraseis, dramatic speeches, similes, catalogues, the diction and topoi of epic, and allusions to individual epics. For a recent survey of the epic elements in Claudian’s panegyrics, see Schindler 2004. On the blending of panegyric and epic in Claudian see also Schmidt 1976, 21–9; Burck 1979, 362; Fo 1982, 15–95; Kirsch 1989, 162–3. 17   Cameron 1970, 32. 18   Cameron 1970, 33; cf. Schmidt 1976, 23, who says that the consular panegyrics that are of limited political meaning (Ol. Prob., IV Cons. Hon., Mall. Theod.) exemplify the basilikos logos most fully.

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Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian 19   On epic elements in Ol. Prob., see Döpp 1980, 54–5; Fo 1982, 32–3; Taegert 1988, 41–2; Perrelli 1992, 23–8. 20   Here I understand genre as a mode of communication. When a given author imitates a model (e.g. Virgil imitates Homer), he indicates the tradition to which he belongs and the system of conventions he inherits and so provides a key to the interpretation of his work. For this concept of genre, see Fowler 1982, 42–3. 21   In the 4th century, the Greek term panegyricus had become accepted in Latin as the term for a laudatio delivered upon a ceremonial occasion: see MacCormack 1975, 143–4. 22   There is, in fact, only one extant example of such a prose panegyric: Symmachus’ oration on the third consulship of Valentinian I in 370 (Symm. Or. 2). The corpus known as XII Panegyrici Latini, which was compiled at the end of the 4th century, does not contain a consular panegyric but indicates that prose panegyric was expected in a ceremonial context in the Roman west. On the tradition of Latin prose panegyrics, see MacCormack 1975. 23   Cameron 2004, 351–4 corrects his earlier view (Cameron 1965, 477–9) that Claudian introduced his brand of verse panegyric to the Latin west from the Greek east, by arguing that Claudian’s success was contingent on the growth of Latin verse panegyric in the 4th century. 24   On the importance of Silv. 4.1 for Claudian, see Barr 1981, 20; Kirsch 1989, 161; Dewar 1996, xxv n. 28. Other examples of consular panegyric in hexameters are the pseudo-Tibullan Panegyricus Messallae (written for the consul of 31 bc at an unknown date) and Laus Pisonis (written c. ad 39/40), neither of which appears to have exercised influence on Claudian. 25   My understanding of epic as a tradition is based on the ancient view of epos articulated by Manilius (2.1–52) and Quintilian (Inst. 1.46–58) that it embraces poems written in dactylic hexameter including heroic, didactic, bucolic, and satiric poems – genres which can be understood as emanating from Homer. For this definition of epic, see Koster 1970, 135–7; Farrell 1991, 61–2. 26   The Panegyricus Messallae and Laus Pisonis are examples of panegyric for nonimperial consuls but were not written for public occasions. Claudian wrote two other non-imperial panegyrics, one for Mallius Theodorus (cos. 399) and the other for Stilicho (cos. 400). 27   Pliny the Younger began this tradition on taking the suffect consulship in ad 100 when he turned his gratiarum actio into a panegyric of the Emperor Trajan. The published speech (the Panegyricus), in turn, became a model for the speeches of subsequent non-imperial consuls taking office, such as Mamertinus’ gratiarum actio for the Emperor Julian in 362 (Pan. Lat. 3 [11] Mynors); see MacCormack 1975, 149–51 and 154–5. 28   Men. Rhet. Epid. 2.1–2 Russell–Wilson. On Menander Rhetor and the epideictic treatises attributed to him, see Russell and Wilson 1981, xi. 29   For a detailed analysis of the relationship of Ol. Prob. to the basilikos logos, see Taegert 1988, 48–51; cf. Barr 1981, 21–2 on the basilikos logos and Claudian’s Panegyric on the Fourth Consulate of Honorius. 30   See Du Quesnay 1977, 45; Coleman 1988, 64. 31   On the relation of the Auchenii to the Anicii, see Taegert 1988, 19. 32   Cf. Rhet. Her. 3.10 ‘laus igitur potest esse rerum externarum, corporis, animi’

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Stephen Wheeler (‘Praise therefore can consist of external circumstances, physical attributes, and qualities of character’); 3.13 ‘ab externis rebus: genus – in laude: quibus maioribus natus sit; si bono genere, parem aut excelsiorem fuisse’ (‘External circumstances: descent – in praise: the ancestors of whom he is sprung; if he is of illustrious descent, he has been their peer or superior’). Text and translation (slightly modified) are taken from Caplan 1954, 180; cf. Scourfield 1993, 135–6. 33   On the rhetorical character of this dubitatio and its relationship to Menander Rhetor’s prescriptions for the prooemium of the basilikos logos, see Taegert 1988, 100–1. 34   The source of the much-discussed topos is Hom. Il. 2.488–90. For further details, see Taegert 1988, 117, to whose bibliography one may add Courcelle 1955, and Hinds 1998, 35–46. 35   Cf. Rhet. Her. 3.13 (quoted in n. 32 above). 36   Cf. Dewar 1996, xxvi. 37   Parallels are collected by Taegert 1988, 125–6. 38   See Fo 1982, 32, who compares Virg. Aen. 3.1, Sil. Pun. 3.1, and Stat. Theb. 11.1; cf. Perrelli 1992, 23; Schindler 2004, 27. 39   The parallel is noted by Taegert 1988, 129–30. 40   On New Year’s Day as the occasion for recital, see Taegert 1988, 35. 41   At Ol. Prob. 160, Roma asks for Theodosius’ approval: ‘adnue.’ Thetis similarly bids Zeus nod at Il. 1.514. 42   On Roma in Claudian’s poetry, see most recently Riedl 1995; Roberts 2001, 533–40, 561–3. 43   I take this to be the position of Dewar 1996, xxv–xxvi. 44   For this definition, see Hofmann 1988, 101–2; on the transformation of epic, see Schindler 2004. 45   This is how Cameron 1970, 255 and Schmidt 1976, 21 view Claudian’s later poetry, excluding Ol. Prob.; on the fusion of epideictic and epic in Claudian’s Carmina Maiora, see further Fo 1982, 15–95. 46   Taegert 1988, 44–6. Döpp 1980, 22 observes that Claudian’s incorporation of epic elements within panegyric corresponds to that of Statius in Silv. 1.2; cf. Roberts 2001, 536–7. 47   On Claudian’s later use of Silv. 1.2 for his epithalamial poetry, see Morelli 1910; Pavlovskis 1965, 166–8; Roberts 1989a, 328–35. 48   Claud. Ol. Prob. 143–6 ~ Stat. Silv. 1.2.107–12, 260–2; Claud. Ol. Prob. 233 ~ Stat. Silv. 1.2.174–5, 233. 49   Du Quesnay 1977, 44–7 notes these correspondences and identifies them as topoi for the genre of the laudatio consulis whose generic pattern (the basilikos logos) he believes was laid down by rhetoricians as early as the time of Aristotle; here he follows the lead of Cairns 1972, 105–12, who analyses Theocritus’ Idyll 17, a panegyric of Ptolemy Philadelphus, in terms of Menander’s basilikos logos. For reservations about retrojecting Menander’s precepts back in time (even to Statius’ time), see Russell and Wilson 1981, xxxi–xxxiv, who argue that poets would have been aware of pre-Menandrean stages of development in encomium. 50   See n. 24 above. 51   I owe this point to Michael Dewar ( per litteras). 52   Cameron 2000, 131–2 believes that Claudian’s panegyric poetry is indebted to

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Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian Statius and announces a forthcoming book in which he makes the case that Claudian was able to make a career as the ‘new Statius’ because of the revival of interest in earlyimperial rhetorical poetry in the late 4th century. 53   Cf. Birt 1892, vi. Felgentreu 2001, 93–104 argues that Claudian models himself after Virgil in the praefatio to the third book on the consulship of Stilicho (Carm. 23); cf. Riedl 1995, 555; Ware 2004, 157–8. 54   Examples of this panegyric topos are conveniently collected in Dewar 1996, 357–8. For the rising of the sun and the triumphal advent of the emperor, see also MacCormack 1981, 35–6; more generally, on the imperial connotations of sol oriens, see Kantorowicz 1963, 119–35. 55   See Taegert 1988, 83–7 for parallels to different imperial authors; at p. 83 he privileges the influence of Auson. 8.2.2–4 Prete (XX 3.2–4 Green). 56   Taegert 1988, 84 cites the parallel, but does not privilege it as a model. Charlet 2000 ad loc. prefers to focus on the prayer’s sources in Naevius and the tragedies of Ennius and Accius. That Claudian is familiar with Aen. 4.607 is proved by his imitation of it in VI Cons. Hon. 412; cf. Courcelle 1984, 366. 57   See Hom. Il. 3.277; Enn. Trag. 110.234 Jocelyn; Acc. Trag. 589 Warmington. See also Anth. Lat. 389, In Laudem Solis, which may very well have been inspired by Claudian. For the relative clause of predication in prayers, see Norden 1913, 168–75. 58   For habenae = currus, cf. Manil. 1.668, 4.838. 59   See Taegert 1988 ad loc. 60   On the Cento Probae, see McGill, ch. 6 in this volume. 61   Lactant. Div. Inst. 7.24.9; Constantine, Oratio ad Sanctorum Coetum, 19–21. Christian poets such as Juvencus (1.155–7 ~ Virg. Ecl. 4.6–8), Hilary of Poitiers (Hymn. 1.37 ~ Virg. Ecl. 4.7, 49), Proba (De Laudibus Christi 34 ~ Ecl. 4.6), and Prudentius (Cath. 11.8) also allude to the poem in a Christian context. For discussion of the Christian exegesis of the fourth Eclogue in the 4th century, see Courcelle 1957; Benko 1980, 670–8; MacCormack 1998, 21–31. 62   See MacCormack 1998, 29–30. 63   Claudian may also be re-reading ‘vestigia’ in Ecl. 4.13, ‘si qua manent sceleris vestigia nostri’ (‘if any traces of our guilt remain’), through G. 2.402. 64   On the cross-reference see Taegert 1988, ad vv. 6 and 240. 65   Claudian’s ‘nova … suboles’ also conflates Ecl. 4.7 ‘nova progenies’ with Ecl. 4.49 ‘cara deum suboles’ (‘dear offspring of the gods’). Prior to Claudian, Hilary of Poitiers conflates the same Virgilian verses in Hymn. 1.37, ‘kara progenies dei’ (‘dear offspring of God’), which associates the Virgilian puer with Christ; on this point, see MacCormack 1998, 27 n. 89. 66   Claudian clearly echoes Virgil’s ‘te consule’ when he recalls his own consular panegyric to Probinus at Carm. Min. 41.13: ‘Romanos bibimus primum te consule fontes’ (‘I first drank from Roman sources when you were consul’). ‘Romanos … fontes’ could be understood not only generically but also as a reference to Virgil’s fourth Eclogue. 67   Du Quesnay 1977, 43–52 argues that Eclogue 4 is a consular panegyric like Ol. Prob., but does not assume that the latter is modelled on the former; rather, the similarity between the two poems is to be explained by their dependence on the same set of generic rules (see n. 49 above). 68   Olybrius, the elder of the two brothers, is said to have been ‘consul … in pueritia’ by

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Stephen Wheeler Jerome (Ep. 130.3.2). Taegert 1988, 26–7 argues that Olybrius was about 14 or 15 at the time of the consulship, given the references to the brothers’ youth (Ol. Prob. 142, 156); Probinus was probably not much younger. 69   For imitation as a form of panegyric synkrisis, see Keudel 1970, 164. 70   Whether the text reads ‘Amniadae’ (Hall, Taegert) or ‘Anniadae’ (Charlet), my point remains unaffected. I am persuaded by Taegert’s arguments for the correctness of ‘Amniadae’ (too lightly dismissed by Charlet) and would add that this reading also makes sense given the prominent role played by the river Tiber (‘pius amnis’, 97; later ‘ebrius amnis’, 250) as a father-figure for Olybrius and Probinus. In late Latin, as was independently suggested to me by David Langslow and Fritz Felgentreu, the pronunciation of ‘Amniadae’ will have sounded like ‘Anniadae’ and so will also have implied a pun on annus, making the consular family uniquely suited to name the year. In the Middle Ages, when the prosopography of the Anicii was no longer known, the lectio facilior was ‘Anniadae’. 71   The name Amniadae may also have special prosopographical resonance given the marriage of Sextus Petronius Probus and Anicia Faltonia Proba which continued the gens Amnia through Olybrius and Probinus; for further details, see Barnes and Westall 1991, 57. 72   On the literary and iconographic background of Claudian’s Roma, see Taegert 1988, 126–8 (with further bibliography); cf. Dewar 1996, 264–7. For the goddess Roma in Claudian’s poetry and in late Antiquity, see Paschoud 1967, 151–7; Fuhrmann 1968; Christiansen 1971; Klein 1986; and n. 42 above. 73   Taegert 1988, 127–8. 74   In the text of v. 96, Hall reads ‘patris Mavortis amor’, adopting Goodyear’s emendation ‘patris’ (possibly attested in one MS) instead of the paradosis ‘patrius’. However, the transmitted reading ‘patrius Mavortis amor’ makes good sense. As Taegert 1988 ad loc. points out, it is not only a figurative way of designating Mars as a loving father, but also has a source in another Virgilian ecphrasis that pictures the bull impregnating Pasiphae (Aen. 6.24): ‘hic crudelis amor tauri’. In each case the abstract noun ‘amor’ with a dependent genitive ( genitivus inversus) is an alternative to the normal construction of adjective + noun (i.e. ‘amans Mavors’ or ‘amans taurus’) and can be modified by an additional adjective (‘patrius’ or ‘crudelis’). For further discussion of this syntactic point, see Hofmann and Szantyr 1965, 152. 75   Intermediary models that may be relevant for Claudian are Silius Italicus’ description of Flaminius’ shield (Pun. 5.142–5) and Juvenal’s description of chasing on a helmet ( Juv. 11.103–7). 76   For the lack of pictorial vividness in Claudian’s ecphrasis, see Lawatsch-Boomgaarden 1992, 175–7. 77   Roberts 1989b. For a different analysis of the two lists, see Taegert 1988, 142–3. 78   The iconographical evidence can be found in Taegert 1988, 141–2. 79   The potential for reading the love of Mars for Ilia into the shield is realized by Sidonius Apollinaris, who in his imitation of Claudian adds Amor and Ilia to the list of figures represented on Roma’s shield (Carm. 2.395–6): ‘illius orbem | Martigenae, lupa, Thybris, Amor, Mars, Ilia complent’ (‘The sons of Mars, the she-wolf, Tiber, Love, Mars, and Ilia fill the circle of [Roma’s shield]’). 80   For the amor–Roma wordplay in Claudian’s Panegyric on the Sixth Consulate of Honorius (78–80), see Balzert 1974, 140 n. 263; Wieland 2001, 114–15.

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Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian   81   The tradition of Tiber’s marriage to Ilia can be traced back to Horace’s ‘uxorius amnis’ (‘husbandly river’, Carm. 1.2.19–20); cf. Nisbet and Hubbard 1970 on Carm. 1.2.17.   82   Cf. n. 70 above.   83   See Taegert 1988, 144, who refers to a passage in Ovid’s Fasti (3.51–2), where Amulius orders the twins to be submerged in the river, but the river shrinks from the crime and the boys are set down on dry ground (‘amne iubet mergi geminos; scelus unda refugit, | in sicca pueri destituuntur humo’).   84   This point is recognized by Taegert 1988, 143 and Lawatsch-Boomgaarden 1992, 177.   85   Claudian reworks this passage again in Against Rufinus (2.101–19) and On Stilicho’s Consulship (1.152–62), on which see Dewar 2003.   86   On the river Tiber in Claudian’s poetry, see Long 2004, 2–5.   87   Taegert 1988, 213; cf. Cameron 1970, 269.   88   On Romuleus, see Taegert 1988 ad loc.   89   Claudian uses the phrase ‘unanimi fratres’ of the imperial brothers Honorius and Arcadius at III Cons. Hon. 189, where he likewise stresses unity and strength.   90   For the translation of vv. 251–2, I follow Taegert 1988 ad loc.   91   The motif of honey-laden trees in the Golden Age recurs in Virg. G. 1.31; Tib. 1.3.45; Ov. Am. 3.8.40; Ov. Met. 1.112; cf. Hor. Epod. 16.47 (the blessed isles).   92   Taegert 1988, 230.   93   For Roman rulers praised as bringers of a new Golden Age, see Gatz 1967, 135–43, esp. 138–9.   94   For the tradition that Romulus and Remus were co-founders of Rome, see Bruggisser 1987, 71–83, esp. 72–3 and 81–3; Wiseman 1995, 170 n. 23.   95   Note the potentially ironic word ‘scilicet’, which can indicate that something is palpably impossible or absurd (OLD s.v. 4). One school of Virgilian criticism, represented by Putnam, Ross, and Thomas, has emphasized hints of civil war in this Golden Age: for discussion of this point see Bannon 1997, 165–8, with further references.   96   Serv. Aen. 1.276, 1.292, 6.779.   97   Cf. Wiseman 1995, 145–6. Bruggisser 1987, 125–60 discusses the fictive dyarchy of Romulus and Remus in relation to the Emperors Honorius and Arcadius, whose concordia is idealized in Claudian’s later panegyrics.   98   This is, in fact, the rhetorical strategy of Mamertinus in his panegyric for Diocletian and Maximian when he praises their harmonious co-rule on Rome’s foundation day, 21 April 289, contrasting it with the competition of Romulus and Remus (Pan. Lat. 10[2].13.1–2 Mynors).   99   Such was the interpretation of the battle by Ambrose in his funeral oration for Theodosius (cf. Obit. Theod. 2, 4, 7, 10, 39), delivered in February 395, an interpretation later echoed by Prudentius (C. Symm. 2.3) and Augustine (De Civ. D. 5.26). On the formation of Ambrose’s interpretation of the battle at the Frigidus, see Gualandri 2000, 149–52. 100   On the Anicii in C. Symm. 1.552–60, see Barnes and Westall 1991, 51–4. 101   See n. 5 above. 102   See Brown 1961, 9, who charts a ‘respectable Christianity’ between the extremes of staunch paganism and ascetic Christianity. 103   As Richard Thomas pointed out at an oral presentation of this chapter, the image of

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Stephen Wheeler Tiber’s water changing to wine may also recall Christ’s miracle at Cana ( John 2.1–11). 104   Cameron 1970, 7–8. 105   Felgentreu 2001, 93–104. 106   CIL 6.1710 = ILS 2949; cf. Claud. Carm. 25.7–8. 107   Fo 1984, 816. The idea of two qualities in one man (εἰν ἑνὶ Βιργιλίοιο νόον καὶ μοῦσαν Ὁμήρου) does, in fact, turn up twice in Claudian’s poetry. Telephus felt both the deadly and the healing hand in one man (Achilles): ‘et sensit in uno | letalem placidamque manum’ (Carm. Min. 22.47–8). The Tiber sees both the consular robes of Brutus and the sceptre of Romulus on one man (Honorius): ‘iam Thybris in uno | et Bruti cernit trabeas et sceptra Quirini’ (VI Cons. Hon. 640–1). 108   Gransden 1976, 336–7. 109   See Hubbard 1998, 76–86, esp. 85: ‘Virgil’s attempt at grandiose epic scale in this poem inevitably deconstructs itself into neoteric allusiveness and irony, ambiguation and doubt.’ 110   Servius’ Virgil is not the same as the Virgil of modern readers who find the poet ambivalent about the emperor; see Thomas 2001, 93–121. 111   Hardie 1993, 2.

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Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian Cairns, F. 1972 Generic Composition in Greek and Roman Poetry, Edinburgh. Cameron, Alan 1965 ‘Wandering poets: a literary movement in Byzantine Egypt’, Historia 14, 470–509. 1969 ‘Theodosius the Great and the regency of Stilicho’, HSPh 73, 247–80. 1970 Claudian: Poetry and propaganda at the court of Honorius, Oxford. 1974 ‘Claudian’, in J.W. Binns (ed.) Latin Literature of the Fourth Century, London, 134–59. 2000 ‘Claudian revisited’, in Consolino (ed.) Letteratura e propaganda nell’occidente latino da Augusto ai regni romanobarbarici, 127–44. 2004 ‘Poetry and literary culture in late Antiquity’, in S. Swain and M. Edwards (eds.) Approaching Late Antiquity: The transformation from early to late Empire, Oxford, 327–54. Caplan, H. (ed.) 1954 [Cicero:] Ad C. Herennium, Loeb Classical Library 403, London and Cambridge, Mass. Charlet, J.-L. (ed.) 1991 Claudien: Oeuvres. Tome I: Le rapt de Proserpine, Paris. 2000 Claudien: Oeuvres. Tome II, 1: Poèmes politiques (395–398), Paris. Christiansen, P.G. 1971 ‘Claudian and eternal Rome’, AC 40, 670–4. Clarke, A.K. 1968 ‘Claudian and the Augustinian circle in Milan’, Augustinus 13, 125–33. Coleman, K.M. (ed.) 1988 Statius: Silvae IV, Oxford. Consolino, F.E. (ed.) 2000 Letteratura e propaganda nell’occidente latino da Augusto ai regni romanobarbarici, Saggi di storia antica 15, Rome. Courcelle, P. 1955 ‘Histoire du cliché virgilien des cent bouches (Georg. 2, 42–44 = Aen. 6, 625–627)’, REL 33, 231–40. 1957 ‘Les exégèses chrétiennes de la quatrième églogue’, REA 59, 294–319. 1984 Lecteurs païens et lecteurs chrétiens de l’Énéide. 1. Les témoignages littéraires, Mémoires de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, NS 4, Paris. Cremona, V. 1948 ‘La composizione del “De raptu Proserpinae” di Claudio Claudiano’, Aevum 22, 231–56. Dewar, M. 2003 ‘We’re all Romans now (except for the foreigners): multi-ethnic armies and the ideology of Romanitas in the poetry of Claudian’, Syllecta classica 14, 1–17. Dewar, M. (ed.) 1996 Claudian: Panegyricus de Sexto Consulatu Honorii Augusti, Oxford. Döpp, S. 1980 Zeitgeschichte in Dichtungen Claudians, Hermes Einzelschriften 43, Wiesbaden.

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Stephen Wheeler Du Quesnay, I.M.Le M. 1977 ‘Virgil’s fourth Eclogue’, in F. Cairns (ed.) Papers of the Liverpool Latin Seminar 1976, ARCA 2, Liverpool, 25–99. Duc, T. 1994 Le ‘De raptu Proserpinae’ de Claudien, Europäische Hochschulschriften, Reihe 15: Klassische Sprachen und Literaturen, 67, Berne and New York. Ehlers, W.W., Felgentreu, F., and Wheeler, S.M. (eds.) 2004 Aetas claudianea: eine Tagung an der Freien Universität Berlin vom 28. bis 30. Juni 2002, Munich. Fargues, P. 1933 Claudien: études sur sa poésie et son temps, Paris. Farrell, J. 1991 Vergil’s Georgics and the Traditions of Ancient Epic, New York and Oxford. Felgentreu, F. 1999 Claudians Praefationes: Bedingungen, Beschreibungen und Wirkungen einer poetischen Kleinform, Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 130, Stuttgart and Leipzig. 2001 ‘Wie ein Klassiker gemacht wird: literarischer Anspruch und historische Wirklichkeit bei Claudian’, in G. Thome and J. Holzhausen (eds.) Es hat sich viel ereignet, Gutes wie Böses: lateinische Geschichtsschreibung der Spät- und Nachantike, Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 141, Munich, 80–104. Fo, A. 1982 Studi sulla tecnica epica di Claudiano, Studi e ricerche dei ‘Quaderni catanesi’ 4, Catania. 1984 ‘Claudiano’, Enc. Virg. 1, 815–17. Fowler, A. 1982 Kinds of Literature: An introduction to the theory of genres and modes, Cambridge, Mass. Fuhrmann, M. 1968 ‘Die Romidee der Spätantike’, HZ 207, 529–61. Gatz, B. 1967 Weltalter, goldene Zeit und sinnverwandte Vorstellungen, Spudasmata 16, Hildesheim. Gransden, K.W. (ed.) 1976 Virgil: Aeneid, Book VIII, Cambridge. Gualandri, I. 2000 ‘Claudiano e Prudenzio: polemiche a distanza’, in Consolino (ed.) Letteratura e propaganda nell’occidente latino da Augusto ai regni romanobarbarici, 145–71. Hall, J.B. 1986 Prolegomena to Claudian, BICS Supplement 45, London. Hall, J.B. (ed.) 1969 Claudian: De Raptu Proserpinae, Cambridge Classical Texts and Commentaries 11, Cambridge. 1985 Claudii Claudiani Carmina, Leipzig. Hardie, P. 1993 The Epic Successors of Virgil: A study in the dynamics of a tradition, Cambridge.

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Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian Harries, J. 1994 Sidonius Apollinaris and the Fall of Rome, Oxford. Hinds, S. 1998 Allusion and Intertext: Dynamics of appropriation in Roman poetry, Cambridge. Hofmann, H. 1988 ‘Überlegungen zu einer Theorie der nichtchristlichen Epik der lateinischen Spätantike’, Philologus 132, 101–59. Hofmann, J.B. and Szantyr, A. 1965 Lateinische Syntax und Stylistik, Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaft 2.2, vol. 2, Munich. Hubbard, T.K. 1998 The Pipes of Pan: Intertextuality and literary filiation in the pastoral tradition from Theocritus to Milton, Ann Arbor, Mich. Kantorowicz, E.H. 1963 ‘Oriens Augusti – lever du roi’, DOP 17, 119–77. Kehding, O. 1899 ‘De panegyricis latinis capita quattuor’, diss. Marburg. Keudel, U. 1970 Poetische Vorläufer und Vorbilder in Claudians De Consulatu Stilichonis: Imitationskommentar, Hypomnemata 26, Göttingen. Kirsch, W. 1989 Die lateinische Versepik des 4. Jahrhunderts, Schriften zur Geschichte und Kultur der Antike 28, Berlin. Klein, R. 1986 ‘Die Romidee bei Symmachus, Claudian und Prudentius’, in F. Paschoud (ed.) Colloque genevois sur Symmaque à l’occasion du mille six centième anniversaire du conflit de l’autel de la Victoire, Paris, 119–38 (= R. Klein, Roma versa per Aevum: ausgewählte Schriften zur heidnischen und christlichen Spätantike, Spudasmata 74, Hildesheim, 2002, 437–59). Koster, S. 1970 Antike Epostheorien, Palingenesia 5, Wiesbaden. Lawatsch-Boomgaarden, B. 1992 ‘Die Kunstbeschreibung als strukturierendes Stilmittel in den Panegyriken des Claudius Claudianus’, GB 18, 171–93. Long, J. 2004 ‘Claudian and the city: poetry and pride of place’, in Ehlers, Felgentreu, and Wheeler (eds.) Aetas claudianea, 1–15. MacCormack, S. 1975 ‘Latin prose panegyrics’, in T.A. Dorey (ed.) Empire and Aftermath, London, 143–205. 1981 Art and Ceremony in Late Antiquity, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 1, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London. 1998 The Shadows of Poetry: Vergil in the mind of Augustine, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 26, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London. Matthews, J. 1975 Western Aristocracies and Imperial Court ad 364–425, Oxford.

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Stephen Wheeler Morelli, C. 1910 ‘L’epitalamio nella tarda poesia latina’, SIFC 18, 319–432. Nisbet, R.G.M. and Hubbard, M. 1970 A Commentary on Horace: Odes, Book I, Oxford. Norden, E. 1913 Agnostos Theos: Untersuchungen zur Formengeschichte religiöser Rede, Leipzig. O’Donnell, J.J. 1979 ‘The demise of paganism’, Traditio 35, 46–88. Paschoud, F. 1967 Roma aeterna: études sur le patriotisme romain dans l’occident latin à l’ époque des grandes invasions, Bibliotheca Helvetica Romana 7, Rome. Pavlovskis, Z. 1965 ‘Statius and the late Latin epithalamia’, CJ 60, 164–77. Perrelli, R. 1992 I proemi claudianei: tra epica ed epidittica, Saggi e testi classici, cristiani e medievali 5, Catania. Postgate, J.P. 1895 ‘Editions of Claudian by Birt and Koch’, CR 9, 162–9. Riedl, P. 1995 ‘Die Romidee Claudians’, Gymnasium 102, 537–55. Roberts, M. 1989a ‘The use of myth in late Latin epithalamia from Statius to Venantius Fortunatus’, TAPhA 119, 321–48. 1989b The Jeweled Style: Poetry and poetics in late Antiquity, Ithaca, N.Y. 2001 ‘Rome personified, Rome epitomized: representations of Rome in the poetry of the early fifth century’, AJPh 122, 533–65. Romano, D. 1958 Claudiano, Palermo. Russell, D.A. and Wilson, N.G. (eds.) 1981 Menander Rhetor, Oxford. Salzman, M.R. 2002 The Making of a Christian Aristocracy: Social and religious change in the western Roman empire, Cambridge, Mass. and London. Schindler, C. 2004 ‘Tradition – transformation – innovation: Claudians Panegyriken und das Epos’, in Ehlers, Felgentreu, and Wheeler (eds.) Aetas claudianea, 16–37. Schmidt, P.L. 1976 Politik und Dichtung in der Panegyrik Claudians, Konstanzer Universitäts­ reden 55, Konstanz. Scourfield, J.H.D. 1993 Consoling Heliodorus: A commentary on Jerome, Letter 60, Oxford. Struthers, L.B. 1919 ‘The rhetorical structure of the encomia of Claudius Claudianus’, HSCPh 30, 49–87. Taegert, W. (ed.) 1988 Claudius Claudianus: Panegyricus Dictus Olybrio et Probino Consulibus, Zetemata 85, Munich.

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Virgilian (self-)fashioning in Claudian Thomas, R. 2001 Virgil and the Augustan Reception, Cambridge. Trout, D.E. 1991 ‘The years 394 and 395 in the Epitoma Chronicon: Prosper, Augustine, and Claudian’, CPh 86, 43–7. Ware, C. 2004 ‘Claudian, Vergil and the two battles of Frigidus’, in R. Rees (ed.) Romane Memento: Vergil in the fourth century, London, 155–71. Wieland, H. 2001 ‘Drei Wörter Poesie: Enn. ann. 82 V. (= 77 Sk.) als Beispiel einer beziehungs­ reichen Klanggestalt’, WS 114, 105–18. Wiseman, T.P. 1995 Remus: A Roman myth, Cambridge.

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5 BIRTH AND TRANSFIGURATION: SOME GOSPEL EPISODES IN JUVENCUS AND SEDULIUS Roger P.H. Green

1. Introduction It is hardly surprising that in the vast range of classicizing verse of late Antiquity a large role – albeit one that has been too little recognized – is played by poems closely based on the biblical text. Many Christian writers seized the opportunity to exploit the possibilities of the traditional and time-honoured medium of verse, especially the hexameter, in the interests of their religion, acknowledging its potential contribution to their drive to inform, delight, and influence. The first such writer known to us is the Spaniard Juvencus; their number includes Sedulius (probably Italian1), the African Dracontius, and the Gaul Avitus, and extends at least as far as the mid-sixth century,2 when in the year 544 Arator recited his poetic version of the Acts of the Apostles on the steps of St Peter ad Vincula.3 A full survey of such Christian poetry would need to take into account numerous other works and fragments of works, some of them anonymous or of doubtful attribution, such as the poem on Genesis and others ascribed to Hilary, and the short narratives on Sodom and Jonah.4 It would also need to include the contributions of the better-known writers Ausonius, Paulinus of Nola, and Prudentius, though their Christian work generally has a different focus and range. Further testimony to the appeal of such a programme is provided by various poems in cento form which, though sometimes mocked both then and now, were presumably very popular.5 All these poetic endeavours indicate a vivid perception of the potential advantages in presenting the faith in the metrical forms beloved of the Roman educated elite, to whom poetry was at once a source of enjoyment6 and a symbol of their cultural and social status. Within this array of writing it is fascinating and instructive to compare the approaches of diverse authors, their choice of biblical books to present, the variety of their methods of representation, their emphases and omissions, and indeed their reception and influence.7 135 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green In this chapter, two of these poets, Juvencus and Sedulius, will be examined, through a comparison of two important and revealing episodes. Juvencus, the nobly-born priest of Elvira, seems to have been the first to break this new ground.8 He wrote in the year 330 or within a few years of it,9 and certainly in the reign of Constantine, whom he addresses at the end of Book 4, in a kind of epilogue. Although a full discussion of the work’s aims cannot be attempted here, it is reasonable to link his enterprise with the increase in numbers of Christians, or semi-Christians, or potential Christians – these categories are far from clear-cut – in a society where Christianity was now a legitimate, and indeed favoured, religion. Such a work would have been inconceivable before Constantine. Juvencus’ four books – the work’s title as we have it is simply Evangeliorum Libri Quattuor, ‘Four Books of Gospels’ – present a unified narrative, intelligently but not seamlessly created from the four Gospels, which are not used equally: Matthew is predominant, Mark barely visible, and there are a few chapters each of Luke and John. Jerome’s description of his rendering as almost word for word (‘paene ad verbum’) has been accepted by almost all modern critics,10 but it is plain to see that Juvencus rephrases the Latin of the Gospel accounts11 in his own distinctive style and feels free at times to reconfigure passages in various ways. His use of the hexameter, and the length of the individual books,12 are by no means the only signs that he is emulating epic.13 It certainly was a most industrious work, and is acknowledged as such in the words of the so-called Decretum Gelasianum, the document that specifies ‘books to be accepted or rejected’, compiled about a hundred years after Jerome and ascribed to Pope Gelasius: ‘laboriosum opus non spernimur sed miramur’ (‘a painstaking work [which] we do not despise but marvel at’).14 Mentioned a little before Juvencus in this work, and ‘presented with conspicuous praise’ (‘insigni laude praeferimus’), is the Paschale Carmen or ‘Easter Poem’ of Sedulius, written almost certainly in the reigns of Theodosius II and Valentinian III, that is, in the years 425–50.15 Sedulius describes his theme as the ‘famous miracles of Christ, the bringer of salvation’.16 The first book has a remarkable richness of prefatory material, including a demonstration of God’s saving power as seen in the miracles of the Old Testament, vigorous attacks on pagans and heretics, and plentiful moral exhortation, all presented with a notable degree of Virgilian allusion. The second of the five books takes up the New Testament story, and moves from the narratives of Jesus’ birth through his baptism and temptation to a short exposition of the Lord’s Prayer from chapter 6 of Matthew. The third and fourth books concentrate strictly on presenting the various Gospel miracles, omitting almost all else. Book 5 is devoted to the Easter story, with regular exposition of details of the passion and arguments for the resurrection. Sedulius later 136 Return to Table of Contents

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius wrote a prose version, Paschale Opus (‘Easter Work’);17 this follows the Carmen closely, but is somewhat fuller, and although not intended as an explanation of the poem sometimes sheds useful light on theological and stylistic matters within it. These works, and other works of Christian epic, have been little studied, and the editions on which readers must rely are more than one hundred years old; there are few even partial translations in any language. The first aim of this chapter, accordingly, is to present extracts from Juvencus and Sedulius, and to make it possible to compare their treatments of the same or similar subject-matter. The second, and central, aim is to show in depth how they worked and engaged with the biblical texts that they are paraphrasing or adapting. This analysis will attempt to illustrate their techniques and concerns, covering, albeit in summary, a wide variety of issues ranging from the mechanics of paraphrase to the exposition of theology. The chapter concludes with some general reflections, which should be seen as ‘matters arising’ rather than as firm conclusions that necessarily hold good for the poems as a whole: there are more broadly-based studies to offer such help.18 The episodes chosen for close examination are, first, the angelic appearance to the shepherds and their visit to Bethlehem within the Nativity story, and, secondly, the episode of the Transfiguration.19 The relevant passages of the poems are presented below, following a Latin version of the New Testament text. We cannot be certain of the actual text used by either poet, or even pin it down to one of the two main families or classes of the Old Latin (that is, pre-Vulgate) versions, the African and the European, that scholars have distinguished.20 These geographical descriptions are not sufficiently firm or clear-cut to be useful in the present case, and the degree of verbal freedom that the poets allow themselves, whether because of metrical constraints or because of their inevitable expansion or contraction of the narrative, makes the search arguably pointless.21 But since a choice must be made, the biblical text reproduced below follows the ‘European’ version, or what Jülicher, whose text is the most recent and the most scholarly one available, called the ‘Italian’ version,22 with significant variants of the ‘African’ in brackets. It has been shown in a careful study23 that although the Vulgate existed in Sedulius’ time, he uses an Old Latin version; this is not surprising, since the transition was a slow process.24 The translations of the biblical passages are essentially my own. Where the variants make little or no difference to the meaning, I have ignored them in the translation. The reader will also find literal translations of the passages of Juvencus and Sedulius that will be analysed. In these renderings, literalness and clarity have been the paramount considerations. They may well seem odd and stilted to those familiar with English versions of Scripture, but it would be wrong to 137 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green assume that the Latin passages themselves would have made a similar impression on late-Antique readers and to judge the poets by that. This is not to say that there would have been no effect of ‘culture-shock’ – far from it; but it would operate in a different way. The biblical poets were seeking to bridge the large divide between the simple diction of the Gospels and the diction of elite poetry, and thus to present in an acceptable way to a sophisticated readership narratives which in their traditional forms were stylistically repellent and sometimes obscure.25 The effect of this extensive change cannot be instinctively judged by the anglophone reader, who will prefer, for example, ‘Our Father which art in heaven’ from the King James version or the New English Bible’s ‘Our Father in heaven’ to ‘Father residing in the starry summit of the sky’.26 But Juvencus and Sedulius are in fact seeking to represent versions which did not have the kind of stylistic appeal that the older biblical versions have for many English readers – and which certainly never underwent the process of canonization in linguistic and rhetorical theory which has resulted in the association of earlier English versions with a high and allusive style – and to do this they are seeking to appropriate a traditional style and format which had both prestige and familiarity. In twentieth-century translations of the Bible into English we see a movement in the opposite direction, which might almost be described as aiming to remove the ‘literary’ flavour of the original, whereas the early Christian epicists are certainly seeking to provide one. 2. The Nativity The text of Luke 2.6–20, in Jülicher’s edition, is as follows: 6 Factum est autem, cum essent ibi (esset illic) impleti sunt dies, ut pareret. 7 Et peperit filium primogenitum (suum primitivum), et pannis eum involvit (obvolverunt illum) et posuit (collaverunt [sic] illum) in praesepio, quia non erat locus in diversorio (stabu). 8 Pastores autem erant in illa regione vigilantes et custodientes vigilias noctis (nocturnas vigilias) supra gregem suum. 9 Et ecce angelus Domini stetit iuxta illos et claritas (claritas Dei) circumfulsit illos et timuerunt timore magno. 10 Et dixit (ait) illis angelus: ‘nolite timere (ne timueritis), ecce enim evangelizo (adnuntio) vobis gaudium magnum, quod erit (est) omni plebi (populo). 11 Quia (quoniam) natus est vobis hodie salvator, qui est Christus Dominus, in civitate David. 12 Et huius hoc vobis signum: invenietis infantem pannis involutum et positum in praesepio.’ 13 Et subito (Subito autem) facta est cum angelo multitudo exercitus caelestis (caelestium) laudantium Deum et dicentium: 14 ‘Gloria in altissimis Deo et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis.’ 15 Et factum est ut (quomodo) discessit ab illis angelus in caelum. pastores loquebantur ad invicem et dixerunt: ‘transeamus (eamus) usque Bethleem et videamus hoc verbum quod factum est (sermonem istum qui factus est), quod sic (sicut) Dominus ostendit nobis (notum nobis

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Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius fecit).’ 16 Et venerunt festinantes (festinanter) et invenerunt (viderunt) Mariam et Ioseph et infantem positum in praesepio. 17 Et cognoverunt de verbo (Cum vidissent autem, retulerunt de verbum [sic]), quod dictum est illis de puero hoc (ad illos de infantem [sic]). 18 Et omnes, qui audierunt (audiebant), mirati sunt (admirabantur) de his quae dicta erant a pastoribus ad ipsos. 19 Maria autem conservabat omnia verba haec (observabat omnes sermones istos) conferens in corde suo (in cor suum). 20 Et reversi sunt (revertebantur) pastores magnific­ antes et laudantes Deum (Dominum) in omnibus quae audierant et viderant, sicut dicta sunt (dictum est) ad illos (eos). 6 And it happened when they were (she was) there, that the days were fulfilled that she should give birth. 7 And she gave birth to her first-born son, and wrapped (they wrapped) him in rags and placed him in a manger, because there was not a place in the inn. 8 And there were shepherds in that area, awake and keeping watch during the night over their flock. 9 And behold, an angel of the Lord stood by them and the glory (glory of God) shone around them and they were afraid with great fear. 10 And the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid, for behold, I announce to you a great joy, which will be (is) to all people, 11 because a saviour, who is Christ the Lord, has been born to you today in the city of David. 12 And this is the evidence for you of this matter: you will find the infant wrapped in rags and placed in a manger.’ 13 And suddenly with the angel there came a multitude of the heavenly army praising God and saying: 14 ‘Glory in the highest to God and on earth peace to men of goodwill.’ 15 And it happened that the angel departed from them into the sky. The shepherds spoke to each other and said: ‘Let us go over as far as Bethlehem and let us see this word which has been performed, which the Lord has shown to us in this way.’ 16 And they came hurriedly and found Mary and Joseph and the infant placed in the manger. 17 And they learned about the word which had been said to them about this boy. 18 And all who heard marvelled about those things which had been said by the shepherds to them. 19 Mary kept all these words, storing them in her heart. 20 And the shepherds returned magnifying and praising God in all things which they had heard and seen, just as they (it) had been said to them.

The corresponding passage of Juvencus is 1.155–80.27 As in Luke, from whom he takes most of the early part of the Nativity story, it follows a description of the census which brought Joseph and Mary to Bethlehem. Although Juvencus used a short passage of Matthew (1.18–24) in lines 133–43, he omitted Matthew’s mention of the birth itself, and so describes the birth here for the first time. illic virgo novo completa in tempore fetu solvitur et puerum veteri cunabula textu involvunt durumque datur praesepe cubili. circa sollicitae pecudum custodia noctis pastores tenuit vigiles per pascua laeta. ecce Dei monitu visus descendere caelo

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155

160

Roger P.H. Green nuntius, at subitus terror tremefacta pavore prostravit viridi pastorum corpora terrae. talis et attonitis caelo vox missa cucurrit: ‘ponite terrorem mentis, mea sumite dicta, pastores, quibus haec ingentia gaudia porto. nam genitus puer est Davidis origine clara, qui populis lucem mox laetitiamque propaget. hoc signum dicam, puerum quod cernere vobis iam licet implentem gracili praesepia voce.’ talia dicenti iunguntur milia plebis caelestis cunctique deum laudantque rogantque, talis et uniti vox agminis aera complet: ‘gloria supremum comitatur debita patrem; in terris iustos homines pax digna sequetur.’ et simul his dictis caeli secreta revisunt.   pastores propere veniunt puerumque iacentem praesepis gremio cernunt; post inde frequentes dispergunt late celeris vaga semina famae. mirantes laudant, laetantes constipuerunt, omnia nocturnis monitis quod vera recurrant.

165

170

175

180

(155) There the virgin, filled with her new offspring, is delivered in due time and the swaddling bands wrap the boy in the traditional covering and a hard manger is given as a bed. Nearby the protection of their flocks in the anxious night occupied watchful shepherds in the fertile pastures. (160) Behold, at the direction of God a messenger was seen to descend from heaven; they were terrified, and the sudden alarm prostrated the shepherds’ bodies on the green earth. And a voice sent from heaven came to them in their astonishment, like this: ‘Set aside the terror of your mind, take in my words, (165) shepherds, to whom I bring these huge joys. For a boy has been born from the famous line of David, who is soon to generate light and joy for the peoples. This sign I will tell you: you may now see the boy filling a manger with his slender voice.’ (170) As he speaks thus, thousands of the heavenly multitude join him and they all praise and pray to God, and the voice of the united company fills the air (saying): ‘The glory that is due accompanies the supreme Father; on earth worthy peace will follow just men.’ (175) And hard on these words they revisit the recesses of heaven. The shepherds come in haste and see the boy lying in the warmth of the manger; afterwards they repeatedly broadcast the wandering seeds of swift gossip. Amazed, they give praise; rejoicing they are astounded, (180) because everything tallies exactly with the tidings of the night.

A close analysis of the opening lines of this passage gives a good preliminary insight into Juvencus’ methods of paraphrase. His narrative of Jesus’ birth is articulated in three concisely expressed lines which recall a Virgilian type of narrative tricolon.28 Juvencus rings the changes between active and passive forms of the verb, and between singular and plural in ‘virgo’, ‘cunabula’,29 140 Return to Table of Contents

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius and ‘praesepe’. He adds adjectives not present in his base-text: ‘novo’ (155), which in juxtaposition with ‘virgo’ perhaps draws attention to the unprecedented situation of a virgin birth (in Sedulius one would be less tentative in identifying a paradox); ‘veteri’ (156), which, although in at least superficial opposition to ‘novo’, stresses the observance of tradition; and ‘durum’ (157), to describe the hard makeshift cradle. But there is also an element of rigorous economy: in 155 the expressions ‘illic’ and ‘in tempore’ and in 158 ‘circa’ are sufficient for him, he dispenses with the periphrasis ‘factum est … ut’, and does not repeat the verb ‘give birth’, where the Lucan text has both ‘ut pareret’ and ‘et peperit’. Perhaps, too, he ignores the notion of ‘first-born’; although it might be seen in the word ‘novo’, he might have wished to allude to the doctrine of the eternal virginity of Mary, if he knew of it, or at least keep the question open.30 But no theological design can plausibly be suggested for his omission of the detail that there was no room for them in the inn; this was not done, it seems, because it was absent from any current versions of Luke. Perhaps Juvencus rejects it as of marginal importance. In discussing Juvencus it is always appropriate to bear in mind the effects of metrical constraints; these weigh heavily on a paraphraser, and he is no less a poet for that. In lines 158–9 the abstract expression ‘custodia … tenuit’ typifies a distinctive and very common feature of his style.31 Many Latin verbs are cumbersome in verse – here there could be no question of using the Old Latin’s ‘erant … custodientes’ or its classical Latin equivalent custodiebant – whereas the abstract noun in the nominative case makes it easy to create the necessary dactyl in the fifth foot of the hexameter line. The noun ‘custodia’ is modified by the two words ‘noctis’ and ‘pecudum’, of which the first is rather awkward and perhaps recalls the phrasing of his original (if it is of the ‘European’ tradition), but the second provides a neat and classical equivalent of the phrase ‘supra gregem suum’. The representation of this biblical verse is completed by the adjective ‘vigiles’ (159), smoothing out the diction of the Old Latin – which, as often, follows the syntax of the Greek original – and reinforcing the point of the shepherds’ watchfulness. It might be thought too that the presence of extra adjectives in these lines (and many others) is due to metrical constraints, and this is true insofar as they do tend to make it easier to construct hexameter lines.32 But they are much more important than that, for the adjectives deployed by Juvencus throughout the poem play a major role in what has been called his Emotionalisierung or Psychologisierung 33 of his narratives – the constant creation of emotional or psychological heightening which, cumulatively, is such a striking feature of the poem as a whole. By the insistent force of their repetition empathetic adjectives such as ‘marvellous’, ‘wicked’, ‘holy’, and so forth guide and determine the reader’s response. For the committed Christian they provide material for devotion 141 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green and meditation; as stressed in the work of Herzog, for whom these poems belong to an ‘erbauliche Gattung’, their aim is edification.34 Examples of this in the present passage are ‘sollicitae’ (158; a transferred epithet, which while relating grammatically to ‘noctis’ in fact points to the shepherds’ own anxious feelings), and ‘laeta’ (159; ‘fertile’ in the context of ‘pascua’, but normally ‘joyful’). These two words sum up the themes of anxiety and joy which dominate the episode, producing at the affective level a parallel to its contrast of darkness and light. There is also, in various ways, an appreciable epic flavour to the passage. The ‘ecce’ (160) that introduces the description of the angel could be claimed as both epic and biblical; there is no need to seek an adjudication through statistics.35 But in the next phrase, ‘Dei monitu’ – where the abstract noun is combined for obvious theological reasons with singular ‘Dei’ rather than Virgil’s divum/deorum – there is a clear Virgilian touch (cf. Aen. 4.282, 4.465, 6.533); and the phrase ‘visus descendere caelo’ has an epic ring.36 It is remarkable that the apparition is in fact that of a ‘messenger’ (nuntius) in Juvencus and not an angelus, a word regularly used for ‘angel’ in the Bible translations and in Christian Latin generally. In fact angelus never appears in Juvencus (neither does the adjective angelicus), though it might have been used several times, and the explanation is not immediately obvious. The problem for Juvencus is not a metrical one (as it is with ‘evangelizo’ in the next verse); and the word is unlikely to be avoided because it is Greek, for Juvencus uses daemon and propheta frequently,37 or because it is common coin in Christian discourse,38 for this is never a problem for him. Nor is it avoided as being in some way technical, for many words used by him might be so categorized.39 Now although nuntius is not a distinctively epic word, Juvencus may have chosen it as a word better suited than angelus to the register and tone that he is seeking at this point and, having done so, retained it later.40 It is true that he is happy with the word propheta from a relatively early stage (1.125, 214) and does not privilege the more poetic word for ‘prophet’ (vates, used at 1.141, 233), but propheta is not such a stranger to the classical lexicon as angelus. The tendency to epicize may help to explain the fact that Juvencus omits the detail that ‘glory shone around’. Describing heavenly glory and its associated light is never a problem for him elsewhere, and here it would have been easy to find a metrically convenient synonym for the Bible’s ‘claritas’ (‘brightness’, ‘glory’), such as lux, lumen, or gloria. Perhaps he was concerned that such a rendering would somehow interfere with or detract from the later references to glory and light in this passage (1.166, 167); or perhaps he felt that he could take the notion of glory (or at least brightness) as given. He may have assumed that his readers, as readers of Virgil, would bring to this 142 Return to Table of Contents

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius passage a knowledge of the nimbus, the effulgence that surrounded divine beings.41 This nimbus is twice so defined by Servius,42 whose commentary, though written almost a century later, is a good guide to how Virgil was read; and it may be seen in such passages of Virgil as Aeneid 3.151 and 4.358. Conceivably Juvencus made the same assumption of his readers in an earlier passage (1.59), where Gabriel appeared to Zachariah, father of John the Baptist: going beyond Scripture, Juvencus attributed Mary’s anxiety to ‘this fearful sight’, and this may have been a supernatural brightness.43 By contrast with the epic ambience, it should be noted that the reaction of the shepherds, whom their fear prostrates upon the ground in 161–2 (the pleonasm is typical, and emphasizes the point), is not an epic one, but one modelled on the Jewish ritual act of proskynesis. Juvencus carefully sought out appropriate language to describe this in 1.13.44 Although he cannot reproduce all details of Luke’s narrative of worship at the Jewish temple, he does not ignore the Jewish background. We see more of Juvencus’ independence of thought in his version of the words pronounced by the angel, now referred to as ‘caelo vox missa’ (163).45 The Bible’s ‘nolite timere’ – if that was what he read here – could, as far as metre is concerned, have been taken over just as it stands, but he prefers his own words, ‘ponite terrorem mentis’ (164), followed in a mildly antithetical combination by ‘mea sumite dicta’.46 Then he replaces the unmetrical ‘evangelizo’ (or ‘adnuntio’, of the ‘African’ version) with ‘gaudia porto’ (165); this is not normal Latin for ‘bring joy’, and he may be recalling a particular usage in Statius.47 The angel does not announce a salvator (‘saviour’) as such, although, as his later uses of the word seem to confirm, this would not have caused a difficulty for Juvencus’ readers,48 but a puer (166). Nor is the infant introduced here as ‘Christ the Lord’, although the Latin terms Christus and dominus occur frequently later in Juvencus. Perhaps he felt it unnecessary to make the point; but it is equally possible that he chose to hold back these titles so that the identification of Jesus as Christ, the Messiah, unacceptable to the Jews, can be acknowledged first by Jews who are closely associated with the temple, Simeon and Anna (1.195 and 220).49 Then, although the expression ‘city of David’ would be easy enough to put into metre as (for example) Davidis in urbe, Juvencus says ‘from the famous line of David’ (166). Perhaps he wished to avoid repeating what he has said in 1.149–50 (‘urbs est Iudaeae Bethleem, Davida canorum | quae genuit’, ‘There is a city of Judaea called Bethlehem, which produced tuneful David’), following Luke 2.4 (‘in civitatem David, quae vocatur Bethleem’, ‘to the city of David, which is called Bethlehem’); instead he repeats the point also already made (in 1.121 ‘Davidis origine’) that Jesus is from the line of David (cf. Luke 1.69).50 The genealogy seems to be something of greater importance to him; and the repetition of the point 143 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green may be a kind of compensatory emphasis for his omission of the genealogical material in Matthew 1.1–17, which is metrically quite intractable. 51 But certainly, far from wishing to conceal the fact of Jesus’ Jewish origins from his Roman audience, as was suggested by Marold,52 Juvencus leaves it in no doubt that Christ is from the line of David. The following line (167) stresses what Jesus brings, not who he is. What he brings is ‘light and joy’; ‘laetitiam’ may be said to come from ‘gaudium’ of the angel’s message in verse 10 of the Luke passage, while lux is a very common soteriological concept in Juvencus, one that he couples with salus (‘salvation’) or uses on its own.53 These things he brings ‘to the peoples’, for which detail we may also compare Luke’s ‘to the people’ in the same verse (though there is no agreement among modern commentators on the significance of the singular). This is one of several places where Juvencus uses a word such as terris (‘to the world’) or populis as here to show that salvation is for the whole world, and unrestricted by race.54 Then the shepherds are told that they may see the infant not in swaddling clothes (so Luke), but ‘filling a manger with his slender voice’ (169).55 This is an intimate touch, and a subtle understatement of the contrast between the greatness of Christ and the baby’s physical weakness that Sedulius will draw out at much greater length. An important feature of Juvencus’ narrative technique is to give weight to the speeches that he chooses to highlight – he has notably fewer than the Gospels do – by emphasizing their beginnings and endings. Epic-style incipits or transitions are valuable here, and form a conspicuous feature of his style, as witness the use of the epic connective ‘talia dicenti’ (170; cf. Ov. Met. 2.394, Virg. Aen. 4.362) rather than the Old Latin’s ‘et subito’, and later (175) the use of the Virgilian ‘simul his dictis’ (Aen. 5.537, 11.827) to unite this verse with what precedes. The message given by the heavenly host, in which ‘exercitus’ and the unmetrical ‘multitudo’ are replaced by ‘milia plebis (caelestis)’ (170), and the prelude to their song articulated with the Virgilian usage of repeated -que, is significantly remoulded, just as the earlier angelic message was. It is evidently configured as two statements (there are no verbs in the Greek), if we follow the evidence of the manuscripts,56 and not as wishes or hopes. The description of the glory that accompanies the ‘supreme Father’57 as ‘debita’ (173) – ‘owed’ or ‘due’ – marks this manifestation of glory as an important event. Just as cardinal events in the story of Aeneas are presented with the word debita (Virg. Aen. 7.120, 8.375, 9.108), so too are the crucial episodes in salvation history, such as the creation of the world, the birth of Jesus, and his death, which are ‘due’ because predetermined by God and then inscribed in prophecy.58 Then, for ‘men of goodwill’,59 Juvencus has a bold solution: they are the ‘just’ or ‘righteous’ (174). In fact this word iustus is extremely common in Juvencus, and one of his most significant 144 Return to Table of Contents

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius modifications.60 It is his standard term for those who follow Christ: out of all the appellations that might be used in the post-biblical context for those who follow Christ – they might be called ‘the faithful’ (as at the Council of Elvira), or ‘believers’, or ‘the saints’, and so forth – he overwhelmingly prefers to identify Christians as the ‘just’ or ‘righteous’, notwithstanding his wonted variatio.61 This is not necessitated by the metre, but a deliberate and emphatic choice. Though not by any means absent from Christian discourse in earlier times, and as old as Psalm 34.15–22, it underlines a perception of Christian identity forged in the persecutions that had ceased only some twenty years before. Christians have survived the injustice of their enemies, and moreover they are now in the process of administering justice. Justice was made the central point of Lactantius’ exposition of the Christian faith in his Divine Institutes, completed not long before Juvencus wrote. It is tempting to probe a little further for signs of contemporary background: this is one of a handful of places where it is possible that Juvencus makes a specific reference to the new age of Constantine, although in general he adopts the time-frame of the Gospel narratives and, unlike Sedulius,62 does not intrude his own voice, or the voice of his own times, into the narrative. Peace (174) is a theme of the epilogue, and Constantine is there praised for it (4.806–8). Having given their message, the angels depart, and do so in a notably epic manner. The verb ‘revisunt’ (175) recalls the departure of Venus at Aeneid 1.415 after appearing to Aeneas; the phrase ‘caeli secreta’ derives from Statius, Thebaid, 10.209, where the phrase is used in the context of augury. Kontrast­ imitation is present, as often, but not obtrusive, and here at least there is no need to weave intertextual stories to explain these particular allusions; their general effect is what counts. In Luke the shepherds immediately talk together and make the decision to go to Bethlehem; in Juvencus they just go. They are in Juvencus uncomplicated characters, and it is noteworthy that the message they received according to Juvencus was simple: no ‘saviour’, no ‘Christ’, no ‘Lord’. The paraphrase describing their journey is relatively simple at first – ‘propere veniunt’ (176) for ‘venerunt festinantes (-ter)’, no reference to Mary and Joseph, the single addition of ‘gremio’ to ‘praesepis’ (177) – but the following verses are recast quite extensively. In Juvencus’ more direct version they arrive, and see the baby (cf. verse 16 of Luke); they then talk about the birth, as implied in verse 18. Verse 17 seems to be ignored by Juvencus, the economical paraphraser, and verse 19 is not needed, because a later passage (Luke 2.51) will say exactly the same thing. But the poet allows himself an interesting expansion of the words ‘omnes, qui audierunt’ of his base-text in a strikingly original phrase: they ‘broadcast the wandering seeds of swift gossip’ (178). It is as if Virgil’s fama is demythologized; the personification of Rumour (Aen. 4.173–97) disappears, and it is the ‘seeds’ that wander, as if 145 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green blown through the air. Finally, in a line (179) which outdoes Luke, they are full of wonder, praise, joy, and amazement63 when they see that everything tallies with their nocturnal message. This passage shows to a conspicuous degree Juvencus’ tendency to rearrange, and if one may say so, tidy up the original. There is also a wealth of thoughtful change beneath the surface of the passage: as well as the effects of Juvencus’ own style and moderate restructuring we can see how by taking advantage of various possibilities for epic colouration, by carefully calibrating the degree of Jewish colouring and Christian theology, and by sensitively adjusting the content of speeches and the presentation of the speakers, he presents the Gospel narrative quite faithfully but also in his own way. The comparable passage of Sedulius is 2.35–72.64 It follows not from earlier elements of the Nativity story, but from the poet’s exposition of the place of the virgin Mary in salvation history. The immediately preceding lines of Book 2 have in fact bridged the gap between Eden and Bethlehem. haec ventura senes postquam dixere prophetae, angelus intactae cecinit properata Mariae; et dictum comitata fides, uterumque puellae sidereum mox implet onus, rerumque creator nascendi sub lege fuit. stupet innuba tensos virgo sinus gaudetque suum paritura parentem. iamque novem lapsis decimi de limine mensis fulgebat iam sacra dies, cum virgine feta promissum complevit opus verbum caro factum, in nobis habitare volens. tunc maximus infans intemerata sui conservans viscera templi inlaesum vacuavit iter; pro virgine testis partus adest, clausa ingrediens et clausa relinquens. quae nova lux mundo, quae toto gratia caelo! quis fuit ille nitor, Mariae cum Christus ab alvo processit splendore novo, velut ipse decoro sponsus ovans thalamo, forma speciosus amoena prae filiis hominum, cuius radiante figura blandior in labiis diffusa est gratia pulchris! o facilis pietas! ne nos servile teneret peccato dominante iugum, servilia summus membra tulit dominus, primusque ab origine mundi omnia qui propriis vestit nascentia donis obsitus exiguis habuit65 velamina pannis; quemque procellosi non mobilis unda profundi, terrarum non omne solum, spatiosaque lati non capit aula poli, puerili in corpore plenus

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35

40

45

50

55

60

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius mansit et angusto Deus in praesepe quievit.   Salve, sancta parens, enixa puerpera regem, qui caelum terramque tenet per saecula, cuius nomen et aeterno complectens omnia gyro imperium sine fine manet; quae ventre beato gaudia matris habens cum virginitatis honore nec primam similem visa es nec habere sequentem; sola sine exemplo placuisti femina Christo. tunc prius ignaris pastoribus ille creatus enituit, quia pastor erat, gregibusque refulsit agnus et angelicus cecinit miracula coetus.

65

70

(35) After the elderly prophets spoke of these things to come, the angel sang what had been put in train to the virgin Mary; and faith accompanied his words. The heavenly burden soon fills the girl’s womb, and the creator of all things became subject to the law of birth. (40) The unmarried virgin is amazed at her distended womb and rejoices that she will give birth to her creator. And now with nine months gone, on the threshold of the tenth month the sacred day was shining, when, with the virgin having given birth, the Word made flesh, wishing to dwell among us, completed the promised work. Then the greatest of infants, (45) keeping the interior of his temple inviolate, left the route of birth without harming it; her offspring, who had entered what was closed and who left what was closed, is present as a witness on the virgin’s behalf. What a new light comes to the world, what a new comeliness is in the whole sky! What was that brightness, when Christ proceeded from Mary’s womb (50) with an unprecedented splendour, like the rejoicing bridegroom himself from his glorious bedchamber, handsome with pleasing beauty above the sons of men, from whose radiant form a more charming grace is diffused on his lovely lips! O kindly holiness! So that the servile yoke could not hold us (55) under the domination of sin, the Lord from on high took the limbs of a slave, and he who first from the origin of the world clothed everything at its birth through his own gifts took on clothing, covered in mean rags; and he whom neither the tossing wave of the stormy sea, (60) nor the whole surface of the earth, nor the spacious court of the broad heavens could hold, abode in a boy’s body in his fulness, and rested in a narrow manger, though God.   Hail, holy mother, who have given birth to a king who holds heaven and earth through eternity, whose (65) name, and whose authority, embracing all things in its eternal course, endure without end; a woman who, having in your blessed womb the joys of a mother with the honour of virginity have been seen to have neither predecessor nor successor, and have alone, without forerunner, pleased Christ. (70) Then he, created, shone forth to the hitherto unaware shepherds, because he was a shepherd, and, being a lamb, gleamed among the flocks; and an angelic throng sang the miracles.

Clearly Sedulius is far more selective in his approach to the biblical text than Juvencus. There is very little here of Luke’s first chapter.66 And, unlike Juvencus, he rarely, in any part of his narrative, strives for complete coverage. 147 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green In the above passage, he begins with the annunciation, which is not given in direct speech, as in Luke (1.28–38), but reported through the simple word ‘cecinit’, common in epic for prophesying.67 Likewise there is no direct speech for Mary’s reaction (Luke 1.38 has ‘contingat [fiat] mihi secundum verbum tuum’, ‘let it happen to me according to your word’); Sedulius’ comment that the angel’s message was directly followed by faith picks out a particular devotional aspect. He then departs from the Gospel account (or at least greatly expands on the single word ‘praegnante’ of Luke 2.5), with his own tricolon in lines 37–9, moving as he often does into a mode of free composition. In due course her maiden’s womb is filled with ‘the heavenly burden’, but the word sidereus, a synonym for ‘heavenly’, brings added tones of beauty, light, and expansiveness as well as perhaps hinting at a contrast with the darkness of the womb. Then, in a more patent antithesis, the creator of the world submits to the necessary process of human birth. In line 40, as Mary marvels at her womb, she is said to rejoice that she ‘will bear her parent’ (‘suum paritura parentem’).68 There is a clear theological agenda; for in these words Sedulius uses paradox and word-play to make a pointed intervention in a matter of current controversy. This highly divisive controversy began when the new bishop of Constantinople, Nestorius, expressed reservations about the appropriateness of referring to Mary as theotokos, ‘the bearer of God’. Interpreted by some, notably and most vocally Cyril of Alexandria, as a denial of the divinity of Christ, this move led to passionate debate about the nature (or natures) of the incarnate Christ for some twenty years before a settlement of sorts, or perhaps a breathing-space, was attained at the Council of Chalcedon in 451.69 Sedulius, who may be writing when this debate first reached the Latin west,70 does not attempt to use either the contested Greek word or its Latin equivalent deipara, but the reference to this issue is unmistakable. Later in his narrative he may be seen to go out of his way to emphasize that Christ was fully divine without in any way compromising his humanity.71 The passage describing the birth (40–7) begins with notable attention to the temporal particulars; for Sedulius here, unlike Juvencus, the dimension of time, not space, is all-important. He says nothing of the circumstances which according to Luke made the journey to Bethlehem necessary, but concentrates on the climax of the pregnancy, carefully setting his story at the beginning of the tenth month. The actual day on which salvation would come to the world, in this very real birth, is now present, its immediacy indicated by the word ‘iamque’ (41), so frequently used in epic to herald a new turn to the narrative and heighten expectation.72 Juvencus’ account, as we saw, was in a lower key, and indeed he had given greater verbal emphasis to the Baptist’s birth than to that of Jesus.73 Sedulius now introduces a Johannine viewpoint: the child, fulfilling the promised task (‘opus’ [43] follows upon 148 Return to Table of Contents

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius ‘onus’ [38]), is the word made flesh, who by choice (‘volens’, 43) ‘dwelt among us’. He here quotes John 1.14 ‘et verbum caro factum est et habitavit in nobis’, and the quotation is notably, and typically, close; although he is generally much freer in his paraphrasing than Juvencus, he gives close quotations of supporting passages of Scripture.74 Another theological concern is to emphasize the virginity of Mary. Two carefully located adjectives (‘intemerata’, ‘inlaesum’ [45–6]) emphasize that the virgin’s body is unaffected and unharmed by the normal wear and tear of parturition. The womb which Jesus left has been God’s temple in a special sense: not only in the sense that the bodies of all Christians are the temple of God,75 but also, and more importantly, because it was Jesus’ sacred abode until he was born. This image of Mary’s womb as temple Sedulius derived from Ambrose, who had used it in theological treatises76 and in at least one hymn;77 and it is not at all impossible that Sedulius had heard Ambrose preach, or sung hymns composed by him. Sedulius also uses the image in his famous abecedarian hymn, A Solis Ortus Cardine.78 Mary’s physical and moral integrity is further emphasized when Sedulius asserts that her great offspring, miraculously conceived and miraculously brought forth, ‘entering what was closed and leaving what was closed’ (47), is a witness, almost as if in court; in this defiant paradox, turning on the contrast of ‘pro virgine’ and ‘partus’, and not found at all in Luke, the uniqueness of Christ attests a miracle that would not be believed in the context of any other birth. Sedulius may again be following the hymn of Ambrose mentioned above79 when in line 50 he presents Christ as the bridegroom of Psalm 19.5: ‘et ipse tamquam sponsus procedens de thalamo suo exultavit ut gigans ad currendam viam suam.’80 (The psalmist’s comparison to a giant is not activated, unless perhaps in an implicit contrast with Christ the baby.) Sedulius is careful to follow closely the words of the Psalm with ‘processit’, ‘ipse’, ‘sponsus’, ‘thalamo’; ‘exultavit’ is replaced with the synonym ‘ovans’. Then (51–3) there is a further quotation, from Psalm 45.2 ‘speciosus forma prae filiis hominum; diffusa est gratia in labiis tuis’, again quoted very closely.81 Just as he added ‘decoro’ in the preceding quotation, so here the poet has added the descriptive phrase ‘radiante figura’ and the adjectives ‘amoena’, ‘blandior’, and ‘pulchris’. The comparative form blandior has particular point, for as explained in Paschale Opus Christ came as Son of Man but was not subject to original sin, and so his gratia was divina.82 But in spite of his various elaborations – commentary, citation of other Scriptures, and personal meditation – Sedulius does not lose sight of his base-text, and details of the Lucan narrative may be detected in various places. In the exclamatory passage that precedes the Psalm quotations the angelic appearance to the shepherds may be alluded to in ‘quae nova lux mundo’ (48) (this may refer to the brightness that in Luke, and perhaps in Juvencus by 149 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green implication, as argued above, terrified the shepherds). There is probably a reference to the heavenly host in ‘quae toto gratia caelo’. The third element, ‘quis fuit ille nitor’ (49) – introduced with an epic formula found in Lucan, Statius, and perhaps before that 83 – may be intended to allude to the claritas, the glory, of the appearance to the shepherds (Luke 2.9) or the star which shone over the birthplace for the Magi (Matt. 2.7–9) and so was closely associated with the birth; but it is also the sun, the supreme source of light, as in Psalm 19. The brightness of the sun, as of Christ, outshines all other sources of light, and the star was a reflection of this light that came into the world ( John 1.4–5).84 There is more allusion to the Bible narrative in the rhetorically powerful and freely developed triad of comments – a further series of paradoxes on Christ, as redeemer, creator, and transcendent God – that follows from the praise of the ‘facilis pietas’ (54) of the divine Christ. The first of these alludes to Paul’s statement in Philippians 2.7 that Christ took the form of a slave to remove the yoke of slavery (‘sed semet ipsum exinanivit formam servi accipiens’85), but in what follows (56–8) Sedulius alludes to the detail of the swaddling clothes. The one who adorned all things, at their own birth (that is, at the time of Creation), with his own gifts,86 himself took on coverings (‘velamina’), and was covered in rags (‘pannis’). This latter word contrasts with ‘donis’ (both are placed at the line-end), and ‘obsitus’ 87 contrasts with ‘vestit’, often used in classical contexts to suggest rich adornment. And although the whole world – sea, earth, and sky – could not contain him,88 Christ lay in his (narrow) manger, fully God, though in a young boy’s body, and quietly, unlike the ever-moving, storm-tossed sea of line 59. After further celebration of the king who has been born, and who has ‘imperium sine fine’ (Virg. Aen. 1.279), and of the incomparable virgin, the Lucan narrative of the appearance to the shepherds comes in, at 70–2, almost as an afterthought. There is no attempt to reproduce it closely; probably the poet can refer to it as thoroughly known, and not only to the devout. Its significance for Sedulius is allegorical: Christ appeared – or rather shone out – to the shepherds because he was a shepherd, and to the flocks because he was the Lamb. The point of describing the shepherds as ‘prius ignaris’ (70) (it is of course true that they did not know of the birth until they were told, but such an obvious point does not need to be stated) is perhaps that the shepherds are also to be interpreted, in accordance with the language of the Old Testament prophets, as the leaders of the Jews.89 With the coming of Christ those who oversee the people are no longer ignorant. Christ also appeared in an appropriate way to their flocks ( John 1.29). There is, finally, a reference to the angelic throng who sing of the miracle of the birth; 90 Sedulius thus explicitly links the episode with his overall interest in the miraculous which dominates Books 3 and 4. It is a sign of the development 150 Return to Table of Contents

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius in Christian language in the century or so since Juvencus that the word angelicus (72) has attracted little attention, unlike Juvencus’ nuntius (1.161). In Sedulius’ language and style we see the effects of a century of maturation since the time of Juvencus, as well as a more inclusive range, which can accommodate without strain exact scriptural quotation where desired and sophisticated theological comment as well as the rhetorical armoury of panegyric and various kinds of poetic allusion. But he does not desert the mode of simple narrative; although in the quoted passage the base-text is rather inconspicuous, the passage of Matthew that immediately follows is rendered quite closely. It begins (73) with the epic-style transition ‘talia Bethlaeis dum signa geruntur in oris’ 91 (‘while such signs are performed in the region of Bethlehem’), and the subsequent narration of the episode of the Magi has clear features that show what Sedulius has learnt from Juvencus.92 3. The Transfiguration The other episode chosen in order to illustrate the techniques of the epicists is the Transfiguration, a topic which in various respects is rather more challenging. The biblical passage will again be given first, in its Matthean version (17.1–9). This is certainly the one followed by Juvencus, and there is no sign in Sedulius’ less close account of either Mark (9.2–8) or Luke (9.28–36). 1 Et factum est post dies sex adsumpsit Iesus Petrum et Iacobum et Iohannem fratrem eius. et ducit (imposuit) illos in montem excelsum seorsum (altum separatim). 2 Et transfiguratus est (confortatus) Iesus ante eos et resplenduit facies (coram ipsis fulgebat vultus) eius sicut sol, vestimenta autem eius facta sunt candida (alba) sicut nix. 3 Et ecce apparuit (visus) illis Moyses et Helias cum eo loquentes (conloquentes). 4 Respondens (respondit) autem Petrus dixit ad Iesum (ad Iesum dicens), ‘Domine, bonum est nos hic esse; si vis (volueris) faciam hic (hic faciamus) tria tabernacula, tibi unum et Moysi unum et Heliae unum.’ 5 Adhuc eo loquente ecce nubs (nubes) lucida inumbravit eos (illos) et ecce vox de nube dicens, ‘hic est Filius meus dilectus in quo mihi bene complacuit (in quo bene sensi); ipsum audite.’ 6 Et audientes (cum audissent) discipuli ceciderunt in faciem suam et timuerunt valde (nimis). 7 Et accessit Iesus et tetigit eos et dixit (dixitque) eis: ‘surgite (exsurgite) et nolite timere (metuere).’ 8 Levantes autem (Et cum adlevassent) oculos suos neminem viderunt nisi solum Iesum. 9 Et descendentibus illis (cum discenderent [sic]) de monte praecepit eis Iesus dicens ‘nemini dixeritis visum (visionem), donec (quoadusque) filius hominis a mortuis resurgat.’ 1 And it happened after six days that Jesus took Peter and James and John his brother and led them up apart into a high mountain. 2 And Jesus was transfigured before them and his face shone like the sun; and his clothes were made white like the snow. 3 And behold, there appeared to them Moses and Elijah speaking with him. 4 In response, Peter said to Jesus: ‘Lord, it is good that we

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Roger P.H. Green are here; if you wish, I will make here three tabernacles, one for you and one for Moses and one for Elijah.’ 5 Behold, while he was still speaking a bright cloud overshadowed them; and behold, a voice from the cloud, saying: ‘This is my beloved son, in whom I am well pleased; hear him.’ 6 And hearing this the disciples fell on their face and feared greatly. 7 And Jesus went to them and touched them and said to them: ‘Arise and do not fear.’ 8 Raising their eyes they saw no one except Jesus alone. 9 And as they went down from the mountain Jesus instructed them, saying, ‘Tell this vision to no one, until the Son of Man rises from the dead.’

The corresponding passage of Juvencus is 3.316–42; the reference in the first four words is to various sayings of Jesus and reactions of disciples recorded in Matthew 16. haec ubi dicta dedit, passus bis terna dierum lumina converso terras transcurrere caelo, tum secum iubet abruptum conscendere montem Petrum Zebedeique duos per devia natos. inde ubi perventum secreti montis in arcem continuo Christus faciem fulgore corusco mutatur, vestemque93 nivis candore nitescit. respiciunt comites mediumque adsistere sanctis Heliae Moysique vident. tum talia Petrus: ‘respice, num nobis potius discedere longe an istic tantae spectacula cernere molis conveniat; trino tamen hic tentoria vobis, si iubeas, frondis faciam diversa paratu, singula sub noctem quae vos aulaea receptent.’ talia dum loquitur, caelo praefulgida nubes circumiecta oculis vestibat lumine montem, et vox e medio lucis manifesta cucurrit: ‘unicus hic meus est natus, mea summa voluntas;94 huius iustitiam iusto comprendite corde.’ discipuli pavido presserunt corpore terram, nec prius e prono vultus sustollere casu audebant, sancto Christi nisi dextera tactu demulcens blandis firmasset pectora verbis: ‘surgite et abiectum fortes calcate timorem nec cuiquam praesens pandatur visio verbis ni prius huc hominis suboles speciosa reportet in lucem referens mortis de sede tropaea.’

320

325

330

335

340

When he had said this, having allowed twice three daytimes in the revolving sky to pass across the earth, then he orders Peter and the two sons of Zebedee to climb a steep mountain in an unfrequented area with him. (320) When they had arrived at the summit of the remote mountain immediately Christ was changed in his appearance with gleaming splendour and sparkled in his

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Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius raiment with the brightness of snow. His companions look round and see him standing in the middle of the holy men Elijah and Moses. Then Peter said this: (325) ‘Consider whether it would be more fitting for us to go far away or to behold sights of such grandeur; if you command it, I will make three different tents for you here, with a threefold provision of leaves, individual tabernacles to receive you during the night.’ (330) While he was saying this, a surpassingly bright cloud in the sky cast over their eyes clothed the mountain with light, and a clear voice came from the middle of the light: ‘This is my only son, my greatest desire; embrace his justice with just hearts.’ (335) The disciples sank to the earth with fearful bodies and did not dare to raise their faces from their prone position until Christ’s hand with its holy touch had soothed and reassured their hearts with gentle words: ‘Arise, and away with your fear, bravely trample on it, (340) and let not this present vision be revealed to anyone before the Son of Man wins handsome trophies, bringing them back to the light from the abode of death.’

Rounding off the previous episode with the common Virgilian phrase ‘haec ubi dicta dedit’, Juvencus proceeds to the Transfiguration, though not without taking care to include the scriptural detail ‘after six days’, on which he lavishes considerable elaboration. It is possible that he is taking the opportunity not only to expand the description a little but also to emphasize a detail that he considered significant. His wording underlines Christ’s control of the situation; and Juvencus may also have been aware of the interpretation of these six days as referring to the six days of creation that is found in Origen’s Commentary on Matthew 95 and in Lactantius,96 and to be drawing attention to the number, as far as his strict self-imposed format allowed. The possibility at least reminds us not to ignore the weight of interpretation already acquired by Scripture, and in many cases no doubt inseparable from it in readers’ minds – even if at this date our information is rather meagre and we can seldom specify exact sources that Juvencus used.97 In the following lines Virgil is used again, and Juvencus introduces epic wording and idiom while keeping quite close to Matthew. He replaces the epithet ‘excelsum’ with the metrically equivalent ‘abruptum’ (318), used in comparable contexts by Virgil at Aeneid 3.422 and 12.687; also relevant (it would be very fitting) may be its use in Statius, Thebaid, 1.114 ‘abrupta qua plurimus arce Cithaeron | occurrit caelo’.98 The phrase ‘per devia’ (319) is found in two writers of post-Virgilian epic;99 and ‘inde ubi perventum’ (320) shows a combination of inde ubi (which Virgil uses seven times) with the concise ‘perventum’.100 Together with this there is specifically Hebrew material, which is not felt to be at odds with the epic tone; admittedly Juvencus here avoids using the names James and John (they are introduced in lines 1.430 and 433, rather clumsily, perhaps), but he brings in the name of their father in the phrase ‘Zebedei … natos’ (319). 153 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green The Transfiguration itself attracts stronger Virgilian colouring: Juvencus’ phrase ‘fulgore corusco’ (321) recalls Georgics 4.98 (‘fulgore coruscant’, ‘glitter in splendour’) and there are Virgilian echoes in the comparison, not unusual in itself, of Jesus’ garments to snow.101 As is often the case, the original contexts of these passages – they relate to bees and horses respectively – are hardly significant, and it would be pointless for scholarly ingenuity to devise a connection. More might be made of a later allusion, when Peter is made to speak of ‘tantae spectacula … molis’ (326): this could be related to Virgil’s prominent words ‘tantae molis erat Romanam condere gentem’102 at Aeneid 1.33, or to Ovid’s adaptation of this phrase in Metamorphoses 15.1: ‘quaeritur interea quis tantae pondera molis | sustineat.’ 103 The latter is in fact closer to Juvencus’ actual wording. Arguably the use of moles here is somewhat awkward: the meaning is surely ‘grandeur’ rather than the usual ‘effort’; it is surely not suggested by Juvencus that the spectacle was in some way strenuous. Critics in such cases used to consider such kinds of quotation as signs of clumsy borrowing;104 it may be more useful to seek a reason for making the allusion. It would be reasonable to speak not just of Kontrast­ imitation but of an ideological contrast, as the particularly resonant allusion elicits a contrast with other tasks, those of leading the Roman state, whether as founder, king, or princeps. But the polarity should not be exaggerated, at least on the basis of a single allusion. In his preface (1.2) Juvencus chose ‘aurea Roma’ (‘golden Rome’) as one of his examples of what was not immortal, but the whole tenor of the preface indicates that what is mortal and in the last analysis transient is not necessarily disparaged.105 It does not seem to be the case that he regularly seeks to emphasize the gulf between the world of traditional epic and that of the Gospels, even if he does from time to time ‘correct’ or significantly modify.106 When the disciples look back – it is natural to assume that they had averted their gaze, although Matthew does not say so – they see that Jesus is now flanked by Elijah and Moses. Juvencus omits the detail that they talked together (as he did when he described the shepherds’ reaction to the angel and his message), and, more interestingly, he modifies the speech that expresses Peter’s reaction. This is a good example (if more extensive than most) of the poet’s attention to clarifying or, more often, empathetically supplementing the narrative, and it also shows his interest in the character of Peter.107 Rather than the confident Peter who states ‘It is good for us to be here’ (Matt. 17.4), we have a confused Peter, in keeping perhaps with the Gospels’ testimony that Peter ‘did not know what to say’ (Mark 9.6) or ‘what he said’ (Luke 9.33).108 His first suggestion, that the disciples withdraw, is an addition to the narrative; Juvencus almost reverses the statement of the original. In rendering Peter’s other suggestion, that he make three ‘tabernacles’, he seems to make 154 Return to Table of Contents

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius a fleeting allusion to the Old Testament, in the phrase ‘frondis … paratu’ of 328. There are indeed not many materials from which tents could be made on a mountain-top, but to a learned reader this would immediately suggest the Jewish festival of Succoth (or ‘booths’).109 Modern scholars sometimes make the same link, though without reaching firm conclusions about the precise relevance of Succoth to the Transfiguration.110 Whatever precisely Juvencus had in mind, it does seem that he is aware of the festival, perhaps through a commentary, or some oral channel such as preaching. Unlike Sedulius, he refers to other Scripture very rarely, but there is some evidence that he consulted the Old Testament directly: at 1.187, when describing the Feast of Purification, he uses a rare grammatical construction from the Latin version of the Old Testament passage to which his text refers.111 Peter’s words are overtaken by a further display of brilliant light. It is emphasized by the adjective praefulgida (330), which if not actually coined by Juvencus is a type of which he is extremely fond, and in his ‘vestibat lumine’ in line 331 he alludes to Virgil’s description of Elysium at Aeneid 6.640–1 (‘largior hic campos aether et lumine vestit | purpureo’, ‘A more open atmosphere here clothes the plains, covering them with bright light’). The Virgilian ambience is reinforced with the rare form vestibat from Aeneid 8.160. In the divine message that follows (333–4) a further reference to Virgil’s underworld may be heard. There are some notable similarities between these lines and Virgil’s ‘discite iustitiam moniti et non temnere divos’ (‘Learn justice – you have been warned – and not to despise the gods’, Aen. 6.620), if one takes into account the combined effect of the word ‘iustitiam’ and its identical position in both authors, the imperative verb, and the public nature of the command, here of course addressed not to malefactors but to mankind in general. It is typical of Juvencus to develop one of Scripture’s strikingly brief statements into a message that conveys his own characteristic ideas.112 He might be influenced by the apologetic of Lactantius, who likes to describe Christ in his incarnate role as the teacher of justice.113 The disciples prostrate themselves, as the shepherds had done. In response to their terror – reinforced by the expression ‘nec prius … audebant’ (336–7) (Virg. Aen. 2.741 might be compared, at least for the syntactical construction) – Christ is ‘soothing’ (‘demulcens’) and his words ‘kind’ (‘blandis’), and he strengthens their hearts (338). This is a good example of Juvencus’ ‘Emotionalisierung’. Juvencus amplifies the Gospel expression ‘nolite timere’ (Matt. 17.7, in the ‘European’ version) and combines with it a pericope that Matthew presented separately, in the context of their descent. When reporting the injunction that the vision be revealed to no one, he takes the opportunity to amplify the notion of Christ’s rising from the dead by speaking of the ‘handsome trophies’ that Christ, the Son of Man,114 will 155 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green ‘bring back to the light from the abode of death’. The paramount importance of the theme of light to Juvencus will already be clear – significantly, it is contrasted with ‘death’ (2.652) as well as darkness, in soteriological contexts – but another characteristic emphasis, Christ’s victory over death, should be noted too.115 Juvencus has his own theological emphases, albeit more subtly portrayed than in Sedulius. The corresponding passage of Sedulius is 3.273–92. Sedulius is working through Matthew at this point in the poem, and since he passes over almost all discourses in his base-texts what precedes our passage is the feeding miracle of Matthew 15.32–9. Although Christ is not concerned there with alimentary needs of his own, this context may have suggested to Sedulius a particular way of introducing the Transfiguration.116 nec tamen humano quamvis in corpore Christum, matris ab occasu mortalia membra gerentem, clam fuit esse deum, quia non absconditur umquam urbs in monte sedens, modio nec subditur ardens lychnus, anhelantem sed spargens altius ignem cunctis lumen agit; radians nam testibus amplo discipulis fulgore tribus velut igneus ardor solis in aetheriam versus splendore figuram, vicerat ore diem, vestemque tuentibus ipsam candida forma nivis domini de tegmine fulsit. o meritum sublime trium, quibus illa videre contigit in mundo quae non sunt credita mundo! quid quod et Heliam et clarum videre Moysen? ignotos oculis viderunt lumine cordis, ut maior sit nostra fides hunc esse per orbem principium ac finem, hunc α viderier, hunc ω, quem medium tales circumfulsere prophetae, alter adhuc vivens, alter stans limite vitae. sidereoque sono ‘meus est hic filius’ aiens ostendit verbo genitum vox patria Christum.

275

280

285

290

But it was no secret that Christ, although in a human body, bearing mortal limbs as a result of his mother’s mortal nature, was God, (275) because a city that sits atop a mountain is never hidden, nor is a burning lamp placed beneath a bushel, but spreading its flaring flame on high presents its light to everyone; for with three disciples as witnesses, he, shining with great brightness like the fiery heat of the sun, (280) and turned into his heavenly form in splendour, had surpassed the daylight with his face, and to those who looked at his very clothing the white form of snow shone from the Lord’s garment. O sublime merit of the three, to whom it was granted to see in the world things that were not vouchsafed to the world! (285) What about the fact that they saw Elijah and famous Moses? They

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Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius saw with the light of their hearts men unknown to their eyes, so that our faith should be greater in the fact that this man whom such prophets shone around, (290) one of them still alive and one on the edge of life, is the beginning and end, is the alpha and omega, throughout the world. And with a heavenly sound, saying ‘This is my son’, the father’s voice showed that Christ was created by his word.

The Transfiguration, miraculous in a somewhat different sense from the other miraculous episodes of Books 3 and 4, is clearly of great theological importance to Sedulius, and evokes considerable speculation. An overriding antiNestorian concern is very clear from the opening words of our episode and those of the following one (293–5), which begins with the firm declaration that after the Transfiguration the virtus (‘divine power’) returned to Christ’s bodily limbs and his heavenly form was once more covered by the clothing of flesh.117 Christ certainly had human limbs derived from the mortal nature of his mother118 – a concession here to Nestorius, perhaps – but Sedulius is anxious to show that he was God. This contention he supports with a Christological reading of Matthew 5.14–15 ‘non potest civitas abscondi supra montem posita neque accendunt lucernam et ponunt eam sub modio sed super candelabrum, ut luceat omnibus qui in domo sunt’ (‘A city set on a hill cannot be hidden. Nor do men light a lamp and put it under a bushel, but upon a stand, so that it may shine to all who are in the house’). This is a close paraphrase in the style of Juvencus, though independent of him ( Juvencus actually omitted the analogy of the lamp entirely); and there are elements reminiscent of epic in the word ‘lychnus’ (277; cf. Virg. Aen. 1.76) and the use of ‘anhelantem’ (cf. Virg. Aen. 8.421). Sedulius’ argument sits rather awkwardly with the fact that the Transfiguration is not a public event; it is true that he omits any indication that Christ took the three disciples apart (compare Juvencus’ ‘per devia’ in 3.319), or climbed a high mountain, but he does make it clear that the vision was uniquely presented to three disciples. It is true also that, unlike Juvencus, he says nothing about Christ’s subsequent instruction to keep this vision secret (v. 9); but that does not make it a public event. Sedulius’ Transfiguration does not continue beyond verse 5 of the Matthew passage. Sedulius’ version of this episode is indeed radically pruned; there is nothing on its location, no speech from Peter, and no sequel to the message from heaven. His purpose is to concentrate attention on the main event. The description is remarkably full, fuller indeed than the prose of the Opus passage,119 which prefers exposition to description. It is explained there that the sun and snow are the brightest things that humans can look upon, and so suitable if inadequate comparisons in this case. Hence the statements that Christ shone like the sun120 and that his face surpassed the light of day are followed by the careful statement that the brightness that the disciples 157 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green saw (‘tuentibus’, 281) was the bright form or beauty of snow. Christ has taken his heavenly form, surpassing all these things: ‘in aetheriam versus splendore figuram’ (280) – which is a pretty close rendering of ‘transfigured before them’, with ‘(in) figuram’ and ‘versus’ answering for the original verb ‘transfiguratus’.121 After further celebration of the merit of the three disciples who were witnesses of the event, Sedulius’ comments reach a high emotional pitch, comparable with that in 2.54 ‘o facilis pietas! …’. He then asks a question about the disciples’ vision of Moses and Elijah (and perhaps sidesteps another which might be asked about the manner of their perception or recognition of them), in effect saying to us, his readers, audience, or even congregation, just as a teacher, preacher, or expositor might, ‘How are we to understand the role of Moses and Elijah in this vision?’ The answer is not that they symbolize the law and the prophets, but that they serve to increase our faith, our faith that Christ is the beginning and the end, or, as the poet Prudentius had expressed it before him, the alpha and omega.122 The evident presence of Elijah and Moses demonstrates Christ’s encompassing of time and eternity, since the first became immortal123 and the second lived as long as any mortal could live.124 There is no mention of the bright cloud in Sedulius, but a version of Matthew’s words is tacked on to the end – rather like the detail of the shepherds in the earlier passage – in 291–2. Its thrust is again theological. Sedulius draws a conclusion that the father’s words from heaven, ‘This is my son’, prove that Christ was begotten by the word – an interpretation confirmed by a line in his abecedarian hymn, where at line 16 he states that the virgin ‘verbo creavit filium’ (‘gave birth to her son by the word’).125 Mary conceived by the word of God, a fact which made Christ divine as well as mortal. Having repeated this fundamental point, Sedulius takes no further interest in the episode: nothing corresponds to Matthew’s ‘my beloved’ or ‘hear him’. This version by Sedulius has been highly theological, and even polemical in its insistence on a particular presentation of the nature or natures of Christ, and this and other points he wishes to make have dominated the account. 4. Concluding remarks Coming from Juvencus to Sedulius we have crossed a boundary; and this boundary approximates to the boundary between biblical text and biblical commentary. Although Juvencus is certainly not without his own input of various kinds, and clearly uses, consciously or not,126 some standard interpretations of his age, he keeps rigorously to a predetermined format. More selective than Juvencus, Sedulius concentrates on particular points. Using his formidable rhetorical resources, and in particular a skill with paradoxes 158 Return to Table of Contents

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius which is highly apposite in a book of wonders, he expands on certain themes, such as the lowliness of Christ at the time of his birth and infancy. While close parallels have yet to be found (it has recently been shown that Sedulius’ follower Arator recycled in verse form sermons of Origen, Augustine, and others 127), various aspects of his technique recall the sermon-commentary. (Many works which we now read as commentaries were first delivered as sermons.128) Such a matrix may also account for the relative invisibility, in places, of the Gospel text as such. In the liturgical context the Gospel would already have been read, and the preacher would not need to repeat it, whereas parallel texts adduced from other areas of the Bible to enhance the exposition needed to be given in full. It is also surely true that in Sedulius’ time the Gospel stories will have been somewhat more familiar to the world at large – which Sedulius, as argued below, also seems to have in his sights, over and above a devout Christian audience – than they were when Juvencus wrote. The Bible itself had not become clearer or more palatable to the traditionally educated reader (for Jerome’s version was a conservative one, and in any case its adoption was a slow process), but its narratives, its principal doctrines, and its presuppositions, propelled into society by a Christian discourse that is more confident and profound, cannot fail to have acquired a higher profile. Sedulius’ less painstaking approach to the details of the Gospel narrative is therefore understandable. If Sedulius is commentary, it must be discussed in what way Juvencus is (biblical) ‘text’. Juvencus, unlike Sedulius, presents almost everything, and the proportion of what he omits from the Gospels relevant to his harmony is very small.129 Proceeding in a very consistent way, he makes noticeably little comment; some of this may in fact be due to the copia or relative abundance of phraseology needed in paraphrase, and some, as we have seen, may not be deliberate exegesis. In the words of Herzog, Juvencus sometimes ‘substitutes himself for the Biblical speaker’, and indeed this is his dominant, and even regular, narratorial mode.130 The most prominent feature that differentiates his work from Scripture is what Juvencus calls ‘ornament’ in the passage of his epilogue where he says that the grace of Christ has shone on him to such a degree ‘versibus ut nostris divinae gloria legis | ornamenta libens caperet terrestria linguae’ (‘that in my verses the glory of the divine law willingly took on the ornaments of earthly language’, 4.804–5). Further discussion of this ornament will not be attempted here, though there is more to be said than what has emerged from the passages used in this chapter.131 We may, however, infer from these words not only his satisfaction but a confidence – significantly unqualified by any concession to conventional writer’s humility – that the gloria of the New Testament has not been compromised; the experience of writing has justified his undertaking. To some extent this 159 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green is echoed by Jerome’s comment in his letter to Magnus, Letter 70 (where the context makes it clear that he is speaking with approval), ‘nec pertimuit evangelii maiestatem sub metri leges mittere’ (‘nor was he afraid to subject the majesty of the gospel to the laws of metre’, Jer. Ep. 70.5.3). The two passages just quoted are the closest we come to any answer to the question of authority,132 though this may be confirmed by Juvencus’ strong expression of hope – again perhaps unexpectedly confident – in his preface that the work will be immortal, even escaping the final conflagration, and so outdo Homer and Virgil.133 Like Christ’s words, which can never pass away (Matt. 24.35; cf. Juvenc. 4.161–2, adding a reference to the conflagration of heaven and earth which is also the context of the passage in the preface), his poem will endure. If, then, Juvencus seems to ascribe some kind of authority to his epicparaphrase, we must consider what kind of authority this is. Not, surely, the kind of authority which could qualify the words of Juvencus to be the arbiters of belief or behaviour for Christian society on earth; nor can he have expected that future theologians would desert the Greek original or the Old Latin translations and use citations of his poem as their base-texts and proof-texts. The reason why these suppositions seem absurd is not so much the problem of verbal accuracy, for a notion of verbal inerrancy or infallibility, though implicit in patristic approaches to Scripture, could hardly be sustained in face of the acknowledged ambiguity and opacity of existing translations and the limits to philological knowledge. Readers of the age lived with a considerable degree of variation in their biblical texts, and in this perspective Juvencus’ divergences from his texts of Matthew and Luke are not so different. But authority and canonicity involved much more in the early Church, including such things as the perceived status of the writers involved – the age in which they lived, their consequent venerability, and their distance from the present were important here – and the dictates of the ‘rule of faith’ and credal doctrine. Juvencus’ novel enterprise could hardly challenge works sanctified on such grounds as these. For its period, it is sui generis, and difficult to classify; there are, at this time, no parallels of comparable length that might enable further speculation on the status, vis-à-vis the Bible, of Evangeliorum Libri Quattuor. But in recent years there has been a relaxation of earlier notions of parabiblical writings which offers a wider perspective and gets away from the simple polarity of canonical and non-canonical.134 For an earlier century Averil Cameron usefully introduced the notion of ‘stories that people want’, making the point that ‘the concept of what counted as a Christian writing was far different and more elastic than it was to become later’.135 In Juvencus’ case, of course, it is a matter of genre and style, and not story, but the recognition of this greater elasticity 160 Return to Table of Contents

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius in presentation is an important one. The plethora of Christian poems mentioned at the beginning of this chapter shows how these possibilities were later to be exploited. The question of the particular audiences or readerships targeted by Juvencus and Sedulius is not an easy one to answer. There are few explicit or unambiguous statements; there is some evidence of actual readers – Ausonius and Jerome in the case of Juvencus, and various Christian readers of Sedulius – but not enough for helpful extrapolation.136 The study of what in the entirety of their poems the poets choose to explain or leave unexplained affords a not unhelpful criterion, though there may be some doubt as to what actually counts as explanation.137 There is also a danger of splitting the potential readership into unrealistically hard and fast categories. The attraction of people who would not otherwise read Scripture was an integral aim, but it is likely that the instruction and edification of the Christian flock was also in the poets’ minds. It is not a matter of choosing between ignorant pagans who need delight as well as enlightenment if they are to show interest and Christians safely within the flock who knew it all, or who as eager Bible readers or fully converted hearers of the word soon would. Juvencus will have been aware that there was a broad spectrum of people to whom his poem might appeal. The same may well apply to Sedulius. In his case it is tempting to say that non-Christians would have had little interest in, or understanding of, such prominent elements of his poem as doctrine, allegory, and moral homily; but this would be premature. One of the most helpful contributions in recent years has been the demonstration of Mazzega138 that Sedulius’ modes of exegesis would not necessarily be repugnant to the unconverted, but quite the reverse. Using Augustine’s treatise De Catechizandis Rudibus (On the Catechizing of the Unlearned), Mazzega showed that Augustine saw Christian types of allegorical interpretation as a useful weapon when dealing with well (or fairly well) educated people who scorned Scripture because of its language and style. This makes the claim of Sedulius, in his prefatory letter to Macedonius,139 that he chose to write in metre in order that all sorts could be ‘acquired for God’ more credible. It also buttresses the credibility of the apparent evangelistic context of the invocation at the beginning of his poem (1.37–59), which has sometimes been dismissed as a literary flourish. One thing is certain about the intended readers, that they were readers of Virgil. Some might be tempted to dismiss the Virgilian material in the above extracts of Sedulius as normal for any kind of composition of the age, but in Book 1 he lays down his special allegiance to Virgil very clearly.140 Juvencus, the first of the biblical poets, is, as we have seen, full of Virgil. There are numerous formal features, such as incipits and transitions; his language is thoroughly epic, too, though at the same time he does not hesitate to depart 161 Return to Table of Contents

Roger P.H. Green from the Virgilian style. It is not a matter of keeping up appearances. His language is in fact quite inclusive, for he freely uses semantic Christianisms, as already noted, and there are phrases such as ‘hominis suboles’ (‘Son of Man’), or ‘mortis de sede tropaea’ (‘trophies won from the abode of death’), which would be puzzling to someone brought up on Virgil and unfamiliar with the Bible. But in many places Virgil can be used to contribute to the elucidation of specifically Christian issues. The concept of heaven, and some of its epic images, creates no problem: there is in this area no perception of a difference between pagan and Christian. Any reference to ‘gods’ in Virgil must of course become singular, but this is not foreign to epic writing. Juvencus’ angels, and their prophetic or admonitory messages, can be represented in language which recalls divine messengers in epic; perhaps, too, the poet exploits the Virgilian notion of the brightness surrounding a divine figure. Virgil may also be laid under contribution to assist one of Juvencus’ pervasive emphases, the idea of justice; and his revisionist emphasis on the ‘whole world’ chimes in with Virgil’s use of the concept for cosmos and empire. Outside the passages used in this chapter, even such an epic and pagan idea as that of Fate may be reflected in the heavy obligation of Juvencus’ Christ to fulfil prophecies that is prominent in Matthew.141 Other affinities are exploited, notably in connection with the notion of the epic hero.142 It is, of course, unheard of in pagan thought for a god to become a baby, and indeed rare for an epic hero to be so depicted; but following Luke’s distinctly low-key approach Juvencus can in effect play down the prominence of this idea. Likewise the death and resurrection of Christ are treated by the poet with the simple dignity of the evangelist, which neither conceals the issues nor draws attention to them. The narratives are not uncomfortably Virgilian. In classical epic it is, in general, not at all unusual for Virgilian usages to be developed in quite different ways and different contexts by a later poet. Juvencus thus follows a well-trodden path, and if it is felt that there is particular audacity in doing this in a Christian context, then it may be seen as an extension of the procedure of Christian prose writers before him, who unselfconsciously use short Virgilian phrases.143 It was briefly noted at the beginning of this chapter that the Christian epics of late Antiquity have been rather unfashionable, at least until the present interdisciplinary age. On both sides, so to speak, critics have been happy to stay in their laagers, as if mutually content with Tertullian’s ‘What has Athens to do with Jerusalem?’ The viewpoint of generations of composers of Latin verse may also have contributed; false quantities are certainly to be found in these poets, although new critical editions of the texts, long overdue, might modify the picture somewhat. Others have felt an intolerable tension in these poems for various, and usually barely expressed, reasons; Curtius complained that Christian epic was a hybrid, a genre faux, because the ‘inner 162 Return to Table of Contents

Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius truth’ of the Bible made its combination with classical poetry impossible in an age when paganism is being outlawed.144 Every age has its own approach to the Bible—and perhaps its own Virgil. Perhaps the paradigmatic assumption of ideological conflict between traditional epic and the Bible is also overdue for reconsideration.145 Of course their world-views were to some extent competing, and for no mere trivial prize. But in what sense was Virgil the standard-bearer, or high priest, of the pagans? The notion of Virgil as the Bible of the pagans, in which the concept of direct conflict has often been enshrined, dies hard, in spite of, or perhaps because of, its fuzziness. Virgil was, of course, revered in art, in the schoolroom, in intellectual circles such as the one recreated by Macrobius, and no doubt by countless individual readers, and that there was widespread respect for him is certain. But there is little sense of the supposed sacredness or numinousness of Virgil in the fourth century,146 other than the singular obsession in the Historia Augusta with the practice of the sortes Vergilianae – the random consultation of Virgil’s text for mantic purposes – which is a poor prop for the traditional scenario.147 For Juvencus, writing at a time of greater symbiosis between pagan and Christian,148 and before Julian had championed the gods of his beloved Hellenic literature, there is even less need to be chary of the religious aura of Virgil, or to seek to secularize or ‘neutralize’ him; rather he approaches the classical heritage with the same combination of genuine respect and pragmatic criticism that his contemporary Lactantius applies to his classical authorities, Virgil prominently included. The quiet transformation of Virgil by Juvencus was an important legacy to his followers in Christian epic and indeed to the whole Middle Ages, when he and Sedulius were widely and intensely read.149 Notes

  For a full discussion see Green 2006, 135–43.   With Zwierlein 1994 one reaches the 7th century. 3   For Arator, see Schwind 1990; Green 2006. 4   These may be found in Peiper 1891, 212–73. 5   For Proba and her reception, see Green 1995; McGill, ch. 6 in this volume. 6   See Kirsch 1989, 72, quoting the lines ‘quia carmina semper amasti, | carmine respondens properavi scribere versus’ (‘Because you have always loved poetry, replying in verse I have hastened to write these verses’) from the Carmen ad Quendam Senatorem (3–4); Springer 1988, 33. 7   See Herzog 1975 (on Juvencus, Proba, and Cyprian [the author of an Old Testament paraphrase], who are treated with little attempt to distinguish their separate aims and contexts); Roberts 1985; Green 2006. 8   For the evidence (mainly from Jerome), see Herzog 1989; Thraede 2001; Green 2004. 9   See Herzog 1989, 332, and, more fully, Green 2006, 3–7. 1 2

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Roger P.H. Green 10   Jer. De Vir. Ill. 84. The main dissenting voice is that of Colombi 1997, but while usefully pointing to many exegetical nuances within Juvencus’ lines her study does not demonstrate that Jerome’s formula is misconceived. See also Green 2007, 75–6. 11   It is far from clear that he consulted the Greek text regularly or directly, although this is often claimed. See Green 2006, 385–90. 12   They are close to 800 lines each. Herzog 1989, 333 exaggerates the similarity in length to the first four books of Virgil’s Aeneid. 13   Notwithstanding their rather different agendas, Herzog 1975 and Roberts 1985 both accept the term ‘epic’. 14   See Von Dobschütz 1912, 47. 15   Springer 1988, 23–6 presents and discusses the various evidence; see also Green 2006, 141–3. 16   1.26 ‘clara salutiferi … miracula Christi’. Both Juvencus and Sedulius discuss their reasons for writing in prefaces or proems; for the former, see Green 2004, and for a comparison of the two poets’ prefaces, Costanza 1985. 17   On this see Roberts 1985, 79–84; Springer 1988, 19–20; Green 2006, 157–9. There is still a need for a detailed comparative study of Carmen and Opus. 18   Herzog 1975; Roberts 1985; Thraede 2001; Green 2006. 19   Storm scenes – these passages are less typical of their authors, at least in the case of Juvencus – are compared by Ratkowitsch 1986. 20   On the two traditions see Burton 2000, 14–15. 21   As remarked by Thraede 2001, 887. 22   Jülicher 1938 and 1954. 23   Van der Laan 1990, 204–12. 24   See Burton 2000, 6–8. 25   See Lactantius, Divine Institutes, 1.1.10, 5.1.15, quoted by Roberts 1985, 67–9. 26   ‘sidereo genitor residens in vertice caeli’ ( Juvenc. 1.590). 27   The text quoted is that of Huemer 1891. 28   Cf. e.g. Virg. Aen. 1.104–5, 6.382–3. 29   ‘cunabula’ is here ‘swaddling clothes’, as often (TLL 4.1388.54–60). 30   The matter is briefly alluded to by Fichtner 1994, 203. Helvidius appealed to this passage in his tract attacking the exaltation of virginity above marriage: see Jer. Virg. Mar. 9–10. 31   For this feature see Green 2006, 39–40. 32   See Green 2006, 42–3. 33   See e.g. Flieger 1993; Fichtner 1994; Thraede 2001. 34   Herzog 1975, esp. 130–54. 35   So Flieger 1993, 84. 36   Cf. e.g. Virg. Aen. 2.270–1 ‘ecce  … visus adesse mihi’ (‘behold, there appeared to me …’). 37   In Wacht 1990 daemon has 24 entries, profeta (sic, following Huemer) 30. 38   See Mohrmann 1958, 156–7. Specifically Christian usages such as fides (‘faith’), oro (‘I pray’), and even credo in (‘I believe in’: see 4.350), are not difficult to find in Juvencus. For fuller discussion of this matter see Green 2006, 97–103. 39   See Simonetti Abbolito 1986. 40   For ‘angels’ he also has ministri (1.365, 4.259) and custodes (3.408). 41   See Warde Fowler 1919, 84–6.

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Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius 42   Serv. Aen. 2.616 ‘nimbus est fulgidum lumen quo deorum capita cinguntur: sic enim pingi solent’ (‘The nimbus is the bright light by which the heads of gods are encircled: they are painted in this way’); 9.110 ‘lumen quod capita deorum ambit’ (‘the light which surrounds the heads of gods’). 43   Juvenc. 1.59 ‘desine conspectu mentem turbare verendo’ (‘cease to upset your mind at this fearful sight’); compare with this Luke’s ‘but she was greatly troubled at the saying’ (1.29). For divine appearances in Juvencus in general, see Thraede 1996, 506. 44   ‘cetera nam foribus tunc plebs adstrata rogabat’ (‘For the rest of the people were then prostrate at the doors, praying’). At 1.248 too, ‘deiecti prono straverunt corpore terram’ (‘Cast down, they [the adoring Magi] covered the ground with their prone bodies’), he goes to some length, using Virg. Aen. 8.719 for his very different purpose. 45   Cf. the descriptions of Mercury in Virg. Aen. 4.356, 377 (‘Iove missus’, ‘sent by Jupiter’), and 574 (‘aethere missus’, ‘sent from the sky’). 46   Cf. Virgil’s expression ‘mea figite dicta’ at Aen. 3.250, 10.104. Juvencus uses the first half of these lines in 2.775 ‘accipite ergo animis’. 47   Stat. Theb. 10.555 ‘signifer ante omnis sua damna et gaudia portat’ (‘Before them all a standard-bearer carries their sufferings or their joys’). The standards will bring joy to the victors, suffering to the vanquished. 48   See Röttger 1996, 31–2. 49   Before this the child was introduced first, at 1.142, as Emanuel (or rather, in a Latin rendering, ‘nobiscum deus’) and then, at the time of his circumcision, as ‘Iesus’ (1.184). 50   Herzog 1975, 113–15 surprisingly used this passage to illustrate Entjudaisierung. 51   One verse such as ‘Jechoniah was the father of Shealtiel; and Shealtiel was the father of Zerubbabel’ would have been demanding enough, but fifteen such were obviously out of the question. 52   Marold 1890, 331. The point is developed by Poinsotte 1979, 58–67 and Orbán 1992, 224–9. See Green 2006, 103–12. 53   Cf. e.g. 1.121 and 127; Röttger 1996, 45–6. 54   Such phrases are usually additions to the Gospel texts (cf. 1.70–1 and Luke 1.35; 2.119–20 and John 1.49). 55   It has been suggested to me that the words ‘gracili … voce’ recall Callimachean poetics. 56   Although the differences in form between indicative and subjunctive are very small, and such readings thus open to corruption, there seems no reason to suspect error here. Two manuscripts do have the subjunctive sequatur, but this may be explained as a repetition of the ending of ‘comitatur’ in the previous line. 57   Juvencus uses ‘supremum’ for his original’s ‘in altissimis’. 58   See Thraede 2000; Green 2006, 69–71. 59   In the Latin versions there is no sign of the variant reading in the Greek that makes ‘goodwill’ part of the subject. 60   For example, in 2.559 he adds the word ‘iustis’ (‘to the just’) to the statement ‘my yoke is easy, my burden is light’ (Matt. 11.30). 61   The most striking example of this is his avoidance of repeated ‘Blessed are …’ in the beatitudes of Matt. 5.1–11. 62   See Springer 1988, 90–2. 63   For the metrical shape of line 179, cf. 1.259 and 1.279, each composed of four heavy words.

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Roger P.H. Green   The text quoted is that of Huemer 1885.   The verb ‘habuit’ is a weaker indication of Christ’s passivity than we might expect; subiit (‘underwent’, ‘put up with’) would be stronger. If the first letter of this word were lost after ‘exiguis’ the remainder would look in minuscule very like (h)abuit. 66   Later (2.144–9) there is a brief reference to the birth of John the Baptist, at the point where the Baptist enters into the narrative of Christ’s life. 67   As in Virg. Aen. 6.99 and 8.339, among many examples. 68   Cf. Paschale Opus 2.3 ‘genitoris genetrix mox futura’ (‘soon to be the mother of her Father’). 69   See Kelly 1977, 310–43; Wessel 2004, passim; Green 2006, 239–44. 70   See Green 2006, 141–2. 71   See Green 2006, 240–2. 72   Cf. Virg. Aen. 3.588, 7.25, among very many examples. 73   1.105–7 ‘iamque aderat tempus, quo iussum fundere partum | Elisabeth volvenda dies in luminis oras | cogeret’ (‘And now the hour was present, at which the passage of time was compelling Elizabeth to bring forth her bidden offspring into the light of day’); cf. Luke 1.57. 74   See Green 2006, 228–30. 75   1 Cor. 3.16–17, 6.19; 2 Cor. 6.16. 76   Ambr. Inst. Virg. 5.33, 17.105 (PL 16.313, 331). 77   At line 16 of his hymn Intende qui Regis Israel, which reads ‘versatur in templo deus’ (‘God is in his temple’). 78   Lines 13–14, ‘domus pudici pectoris | templum repente fit Dei’ (‘The home of a modest heart suddenly becomes the temple of God’). 79   Ambrose there writes, in lines 17–20: ‘procedat e thalamo suo | pudoris aula regia, | geminae gigas substantiae | alacris ut currat viam’ (‘Let the giant of double substance proceed from his chamber, the royal court of modesty, eagerly to run his race’). 80   ‘He himself like a bridegroom coming forth from his chamber exulted like a giant to run his course.’ 81   ‘beautiful in form beyond the sons of men; grace is spread over your lips’. The word ‘filiis’ is scanned anomalously by the poet to retain it in his version. 82   Paschale Opus 2.4. 83   See Green 1991, 286, on Auson. VII 11 Green (Pater ad Filium). 84   This might be seen in the juxtaposition of manger and firmament in Ambrose, De Isac, 4.31 ‘in praesepi erat, fulgebat e caelo’ (‘he was in a manger, he shone from the sky’). 85   ‘but he emptied himself, receiving the form of a slave’. 86   Cf. Eph. 4.8 ‘dedit dona hominibus’ (‘he gave gifts to men’), itself quoting Ps. 68.18. 87   The words obsitus and pannus are found together in the same grammatical relation in Ter. Eun. 236 ‘pannis annisque obsitum’ (‘covered with rags and old age’) and in later writers, possibly influenced by this well-known context (TLL 9.2.50–65). 88   Cf. 1 Kgs. 8.27; 2 Chr. 2.6, 6.18. 89   See e.g. Isa. 56.10–11. 90   Cf. Hymn 2 Huemer, 25–6 ‘gaudet chorus caelestium, | et angeli canunt deum’ (‘The choir of the heavenly beings rejoices, and the angels sing in praise to God’). 91   For ‘dum … geruntur’ cf. Virg. Aen. 7.540, 9.1; for ‘Bethlaeis … in oris’, Aen. 3.117 64 65

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Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius (‘Cretaeis … in oris’). More examples could be given.   92   See Green 2006, 153.   93   The reading vestisque would be easier Latin, for one does not expect an accusative of respect with ‘nitescit’; vestemque may have entered the text by assimilation to ‘faciem’ in the line before.   94   The reading voluptas may be correct here, bringing the text closer to Virg. Aen. 8.581 ‘mea sola et sera voluptas’ (‘my late, and only, pleasure’). Conceivably it was changed to voluntas through medieval squeamishness at the sexual associations of the word, as has been suggested to me, but it is also possible that Juvencus himself modified the Virgilian phrase. He does not use voluptas elsewhere.   95   On Matt. 12.36 (PG 13.1066).   96   Div. Inst. 7.14.9.   97   See Colombi 1997; Green 2006, 93–4.   98   ‘where huge Cithaeron’s summit soars | abrupt to meet the sky’ (A.D. Melville).   99   Stat. Theb. 5.248; Val. Fl. 3.49. 100   Cf. Virg. Aen. 2.634 ‘ubi … perventum’. 101   Virg. Aen. 3.538 ‘(equos) … candore nivali’ (‘[horses] of snow-like brightness’); 12.84 ‘qui candore nives anteirent’ (‘surpassing the snow in brightness’). 102   ‘Such a labour it was to found the Roman race.’ 103   ‘Meanwhile the question is who will sustain | The burden of so great a charge’ (A.D. Melville). Cf. also Tac. Ann. 1.4.3 ‘tantae moli’, in the context of the succession to Augustus. 104   In the words of Löfstedt 1949, 149–50, ‘An expression, a phrase, a thought, which in its original place is natural, clear and well motivated, usually becomes somewhat peculiar, a trifle hazy or less suitable in the context, when borrowed by another author …’. 105   See Green 2004. 106   See Green 2006, 50–71. 107   On Juvencus’ portrayal of Peter in general, see Thraede 2001, 901–3. 108   These translations are in fact based on the Greek, which in the case of the second phrase makes clear that the question is not deliberative. 109   For the Old Testament evidence see Ulfgard 1998. 110   Heil 2000 examines various interpretations of the New Testament narratives of the Transfiguration. 111   Num. 28.2. The construction is the double infinitive observare … offerre, ‘to observe the custom of offering’. 112   So at 2.294 the phrase ‘I who speak to you am he’ ( John 4.26) becomes ‘[Christ] admits that he has come as the light for the world’. 113   Div. Inst. 4.10, 4.13, 7.27. 114   Juvencus uses this phrase frequently, always giving a literal paraphrase of it and not attempting explanation or comment. 115   Cf. 2.405, 4.770. 116   When Christ stops at the well of Jacob in 4.222–32 ( John 4.1–26), Sedulius makes the point that while being fully divine he had the human need to drink. See Green 2006, 240–1. 117   In the words of Paschale Opus (3.25), ‘corporeum resumpsit aspectum’ (‘he resumed his bodily appearance’). The language of both prose and poem is relatively untechnical.

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Roger P.H. Green 118   Occasus (274) is evidently equivalent to mortalitas (so TLL 9.2.341.15–17). Sedulius’ meaning is a little clearer in Paschale Opus 3.24 ‘a maternae generationis occasu’ (‘from the mortality due to his maternal parentage’). 119   Paschale Opus 3.24. 120   For ‘ardor solis’ (279–80) cf. Lucr. 2.212, 5.564. Earlier in the passage the image of the lamp attracted classical expression: for ‘anhelantem ignem’ (277) cf. Virg. Aen. 8.421 ‘ignis anhelat’. 121   The ‘African’ reading confortatus is puzzling, but cannot be discussed in the present context. 122   Prudent. Cath. 9.11. 123   2 Kgs. 2.11. 124   Moses lived to be 120 years old, according to Deut. 34.7; Sedulius knew of men who were reported to have lived much longer (2.11–13), but his statement in the present passage is based on God’s limitation of the human lifespan to 120 years, as recorded in Gen. 6.3. Paschale Opus 3.24 makes the meaning clearer with its ‘finalis luminis metam nullus humanae sortis cursus excedat’ (‘No span of human life exceeds the extent of his final age’). 125   The meaning is not, then, ‘showed by means of words …’. 126   See Green 2007. 127   Schwind 1990, 184–201. 128   Examples are the Expositio Evangelii Secundum Lucam of Ambrose and the Enarrationes in Psalmos of Augustine. 129   See Green 2006, 31–6. 130   See Herzog 1975, esp. 115: ‘Er substituiert sich dem biblischen Sprecher zum Teil; der Abstand zwischen Text und Umdichter schmilzt.’ 131   See Green 2006, esp. 126–9. 132   The so-called Decretum Gelasianum (see above, p. 136) is not a papal decree, and it is doubtful whether the opinions expressed therein have any authority. See Von Dobschütz 1912. 133   For contextualization of this statement see Green 2004, 215–16. 134   As signalled by Young 2004, 6–7. 135   See Cameron 1991, 89–119 (p. 90 for the passage quoted). 136   See Green 2006, 129. 137   See Green 2006, 90–3. 138   Mazzega 1996, 15–33. 139   Huemer 1885, 5, lines 2–13. 140   For an analysis of this book see Green 2006, 161–72. 141   See Green 2006, 69–71. 142   See Green 2006, 66–9, 382–3. 143   See Herzog 1975, 185–200. This detailed schema was in fact drawn up to show the development of Christian epic from non-epic sources, for which it is hardly adequate. 144   Curtius 1953, 460–1; see also Green 2006, 384. 145   Such a presupposition is dominant both in the interpretation of single passages of biblical epic (Ratkowitsch 1986), and in characterizations of whole poems (Springer 1988, 80). 146   In the various contributions to Rees 2004 there is little sign that Virgil’s work was seen as a challenge to Christianity.

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Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius   The evidence of the Historia Augusta is excellently set out by Den Hengst 2004.   See Markus 1974; cf. Digeser 2000, 84–90, 140–3. 149   Green 2006, 359–66. 147 148

Bibliography

Burton, P. 2000 The Old Latin Gospels: A study of their texts and language, Oxford. Cameron, Averil 1991 Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The development of Christian discourse, Sather Classical Lectures 55, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London. Colombi, E. 1997 ‘Paene ad verbum: gli Evangeliorum libri di Giovenco tra parafrasi e commento’, Cassiodorus 3, 9–36. Costanza, S. 1985 ‘Da Giovenco a Sedulio: i proemi degli “Evangeliorum libri” e del “Carmen paschale” ’, CCC 6, 253–86. Curtius, E. 1953 European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, Engl. tr., Princeton. Den Hengst, D. 2004 ‘ “The Plato of poets”: Vergil in the Historia Augusta’, in Rees (ed.) Romane Memento, 172–88. Digeser, E. DeP. 2000 The Making of a Christian Empire: Lactantius and Rome, Ithaca, N.Y. Evans, C.F. 1990 Saint Luke, London and Philadelphia. Fichtner, R. 1994 Taufe und Versuchung Jesu in den Evangeliorum Libri Quattuor des Bibeldichters Juvencus (1, 346–408), Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 50, Stuttgart and Leipzig. Flieger, M. 1993 Interpretationen zum Bibeldichter Iuvencus: Gethsemane, Festnahme Jesu und Kaiphasprozess (4, 478–565), Beiträge zur Altertumskunde 40, Stuttgart. Green, R.P.H. 1995 ‘Proba’s cento: its date, purpose, and reception’, CQ 45, 551–63. 2004 ‘Approaching Christian epic: the preface of Juvencus’, in M. Gale (ed.) Roman Epic and Didactic Poetry: Genre, tradition and individuality, Swansea, 203–22. 2006 Latin Epics of the New Testament: Juvencus, Sedulius, Arator, Oxford. 2007 ‘The Evangeliorum Libri of Juvencus: exegesis by stealth?’, in K. Pollmann and W. Otten (eds.) Poetry and Exegesis, Leiden, 65–80. Green, R.P.H. (ed.) 1991 The Works of Ausonius, Oxford. Heil, J.P. 2000 The Transfiguration of Jesus, Analecta biblica 144, Rome. Herzog, R. 1975 Die Bibelepik der lateinischen Spätantike: Formgeschichte einer erbaulichen

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Roger P.H. Green Gattung, Theorie und Geschichte der Literatur und der schönen Künste 37, Munich. 1989 ‘Juvencus’, Herzog–Schmidt 5, 331–6. Huemer, J. (ed.) 1885 Sedulii Opera omnia, CSEL 10, Vienna. 1891 Gai Vetti Aquilini Iuvenci Evangeliorum Libri Quattuor, CSEL 24, Prague, Vienna, and Leipzig. Jülicher, A. 1938 Itala: das neue Testament in altlateinischer Überlieferung. 1. MatthäusEvangelium, Berlin. 1954 Itala: das neue Testament in altlateinischer Überlieferung. 3. Lucas-Evangelium, Berlin. Kelly, J.N.D. 1977 Early Christian Doctrines, 5th revised edn, London. Kirsch, W. 1989 Die lateinische Versepik des 4. Jahrhunderts, Schriften zur Geschichte und Kultur der Antike 28, Berlin. Löfstedt, E. 1949 ‘Reminiscence and imitation: some problems in Latin literature’, Eranos 47, 149–56. Markus, R.A. 1974 ‘Paganism, Christianity and the Latin classics in the fourth century’, in J.W. Binns (ed.) Latin Literature of the Fourth Century, London, 1–21. Marold, K. 1890 ‘Ueber das Evangelienbuch des Juvencus in seinem Verhältniss zum Bibeltext’, Zeitschrift für wissenschaftliche Theologie 33, 329–41. Mazzega, M. 1996 Sedulius: Carmen paschale, Buch III, Chrēsis: die Methode der Kirchenväter im Umgang mit der antiken Kultur 5, Basle. Mohrmann, C. 1958 Études sur le latin des chrétiens, Rome. Orbán, A.P. 1992 ‘Die Versifikation von Lk 1, 5–80 in den Evangeliorum Libri Quattuor des Juvencus: eine Analyse von Juvenc. 1.1–132’, ZNTW 83, 224–44. Peiper, R. (ed.) 1891 Cypriani Galli poetae Heptateuchos, CSEL 23, Prague, Vienna, and Leipzig. Poinsotte, J.-M. 1979 Juvencus et Israel, Paris. Raby, F.J.E. 1953 A History of Christian-Latin Poetry from the Beginnings to the Close of the Middle Ages, Oxford. Ratkowitsch, C. 1986 ‘Vergils Seesturm bei Iuvencus und Sedulius’, JbAC 29, 40–58. Rees, R. (ed.) 2004 Romane Memento: Vergil in the fourth century, London. Roberts, M. 1985 Biblical Epic and Rhetorical Paraphrase in Late Antiquity, ARCA 16, Liverpool.

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Some Gospel episodes in Juvencus and Sedulius Röttger, W. 1996 Studien zur Lichtmotivik bei Iuvencus, JbAC Ergänzungsband 24, Münster. Schwind, J. 1990 Arator-Studien, Göttingen. Simonetti Abbolito, G. 1986 ‘I termini “tecnici” nella parafrasi di Giovenco’, Orpheus NS 7, 53–84. Springer, C.P.E. 1988 The Gospel as Epic in Late Antiquity: The Paschale Carmen of Sedulius, Leiden, New York, Copenhagen, and Cologne. 2003 ‘The biblical epic in late Antiquity and the early modern period: the poetics of tradition’, in Z. von Martels and V. M. Schmidt (eds.) Antiquity Renewed: Late classical and early modern themes, Leuven, 103–26. Thraede, K. 1996 ‘Epiphanie bei Iuvencus’, in G. Schollgen und C. Scholten (eds.) Stimuli: Exegese und ihre Hermeneutik in Antike und Christentum, JbAC Ergänzungsband 23, Münster, 499–511. 2000 ‘Zum Beginn des Täuferperikope beim Bibeldichter Juvencus’, in A. Haltenhoff and F.-H. Mutschler (eds.) Hortus Litterarum Antiquarum: Festschrift für Hans Armin Gärtner zum 70. Geburtstag, Heidelberg, 537–46. 2001 ‘Iuvencus’, RAC 19, 881–906. Ulfgard, H. 1998 The Story of Sukkot: The setting, shaping and sequel of the biblical feast of Tabernacles, Beiträge zur Geschichte der biblischen Exegese 34, Tübingen. Van der Laan, P.W.A.T. 1990 ‘Sedulius: Carmen paschale, boek 4: inleiding, vertaling, commentar’, diss. Leiden. Von Dobschütz, E. (ed.) 1912 Decretum Gelasianum de Libris Recipiendis et non Recipiendis, Texte und Untersuchungen 38.4, Leipzig. Wacht, M. 1990 Concordantia in Iuvenci Evangeliorum Libros, Hildesheim, Zürich, and New York. Warde Fowler, W. 1919 The Death of Turnus, Oxford. Wessel, S. 2004 Cyril of Alexandria and the Nestorian Controversy: The making of a saint and of a heretic, Oxford. Young, F. 2004 ‘Introduction: the literary culture of the earliest Christianity’, in F. Young, L. Ayres, and A. Louth (eds.) The Cambridge History of Early Christian Literature, Cambridge, 5–10. Zwierlein, O. (with Herzog, R., Bischoff, B., and Schetter, W.) 1994 Severi episcopi in Evangelia Libri XII: das Trierer Fragment der Bücher VIII–X, Bayerische Akademie der Wissenschaften, PhilosophischHistorische Klasse, Abhandlungen, NF, Heft 109, Munich.

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6 Virgil, Christianity, and the CENTO PROBAE Scott McGill

A Virgilian cento consists of unconnected verse units taken from the Eclogues, Georgics, and Aeneid, and pieced together patchwork-style to create narratives that differ from Virgil’s own.1 The units may be a segment of a hexameter line; an entire line; or, on rare occasions, two or three entire lines. Sixteen Virgilian centos remain from Antiquity, probably ranging in date from c. 200 to c. 530 ce. Twelve are on mythological or secular subjects, and four have Christian content. Critics in the modern age have often responded to the Virgilian centos with brute condescension and contempt, disparaging them as low, late affronts to high, classical Virgil, and as embodiments of a fruitless and frivolous bookishness.2 Yet the centos deserve more than scholarly derision, not least because they are some of the more striking documents in the reception history of Virgil. The Christian centos, moreover, are arresting if eccentric manifestations of the interplay between ancient Christianity and classical culture, as represented by one of the classical world’s Latin cynosures. In late Antiquity, different writers described and discussed the textual and cultural exchange between Virgil and a particular Christian cento, the 694-line Cento Probae. Faltonia Betitia Proba, wife of Clodius Celsinus Adelphius, prefect of Rome in 351, probably wrote this poem in the middle of the fourth century.3 After a preface delivered in the first person and mixing original hexameters and the cento technique (1–55),4 Proba – that rarissima avis in extant Latin literature from Antiquity, a female poet5 – devotes the first half of her cento (56–332) to material from the Old Testament, focusing mainly on Genesis. She then turns to the gospel story in the second half of her poem (333–694). This chapter will look at three ancient comments on the Cento Probae that probably all date to the fourth century, those of Proba herself, St Jerome, and an anonymous scribe. The discussion, however, will centre on the 173 Return to Table of Contents

Scott McGill scribe’s statements, which have received less critical notice than have the observations of the centonist and the Church Father. The scribal remarks appear in a fifteen-line epistle in hexameters to the eastern Roman emperor Arcadius, who ruled from 383 to 408.6 The letter precedes the cento in many manuscripts.7 A recent attempt has been made to identify its author as Fl. Anicius Petronius Probus, son of Anicia Faltonia Proba.8 I remain convinced, however, that the author, who calls himself a famulus in line 5 of the poem, is an anonymous scribe.9 This figure copied Proba’s work for Arcadius probably late in the fourth century and perhaps between 395 and 397,10 and did so, as he relates in the verse epistle he sent along with the cento, at the emperor’s request.11 Nothing else is known about him. In his letter, the scribe gives voice to two ideas about the relationship between Virgil’s poetry and the Christian Cento Probae. One is that the content of Virgil’s poetry and Christian subject-matter are discrete, without any areas of overlap; and the other is that the cento’s Christian subject-matter sets it above Virgil’s own works. Upon showing how the scribe makes those claims, this chapter will situate them in their cultural context, by comparing them with Proba’s and Jerome’s remarks on the relationship between the Christian content in the Cento Probae and Virgil and with themes in lateAntique Christian poetics. Along the way, I will also offer readings of the material with which I compare the scribe’s position. The aim is to produce a better understanding of the scribe’s stance and of the ancient interpretation of the Cento Probae, and to offer a new perspective on late-Antique Christian responses to Virgil and classical poetry. The scribe’s fifteen-line epistle to Arcadius contains introductory praise of the emperor (1–3); a request that he deign to look at the text that the scribe has copied (3–5); a summary of the cento’s contents (5–12);12 and an exhortation to Arcadius to read the cento and in time hand it on to his offspring, for whom it will always be a teaching text (13–15).13 Lines 3–4 are relevant to this chapter: ‘dignare Maronem | mutatum in melius divino agnoscere sensu’ (‘Deign to recognize Virgil changed for the better with your divine perception/through divine meaning’). The words ‘Maronem mutatum’ reflect the historical and textual realities of how Proba created her cento and capture her work’s simultaneous secondariness and independence. For the lines constituting the cento are of course Virgil’s; but the act of centonizing alters that reused material and produces a work distinct from Virgil’s. It is this at once Virgilian and new, discrete, piece that the scribe is sending to Arcadius and describing to him in lines 3–4. The scribe makes Maro a metonym for Virgil’s poetry and shows how his verses comprise Proba’s poem, and uses mutatus to point to how those verses have been remade to create an original text. 174 Return to Table of Contents

Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae But the scribe does not stop at portraying the cento as Maro mutatus, and in fact presents that change as an ameliorative one, with Virgil ‘changed for the better’. The phrase mutatus in melius is common in Latin literature, and can denote a wide range of things or people altered for the better in different ways.14 The scribe for his part gives it a distinctly Christian colouring, though he does so with an ambiguity in line 4 brought out in the above translation.15 ‘Divino … sensu’ would seem to signify Arcadius’ mental faculty through which he is to take in the cento, with divinus a piece of imperial flattery: the way that the words flank ‘agnoscere’ suggests as much. At the same time, the phrase may also be taken as an ablative of means with ‘mutatum in melius’, the message being that Virgil’s verses have been ‘changed for the better’ through the ‘sacred meaning’ that they have acquired in the Cento Probae.16 Divinus in that scenario equates to ‘Christian’, as becomes apparent in lines 5–12 of the epistle, where the scribe summarizes the cento’s Christian subject-matter, i.e. the content to which Proba has adapted Virgil’s lines. Upon encountering that précis, which shows that ‘Maronem mutatum in melius’ amounts to a new poem on Christian topics, and consequently that ‘sacred meaning’ is central to bringing about that alteration, it grows very difficult not to take the phrase ‘divino … sensu’ with ‘Virgil changed for the better’. It is reasonable, therefore, to see ‘divino … sensu’ as doing double syntactical and semantic duty in line 4. The scribe’s idea that Virgil has undergone improving change via Christian content naturally implies that his poetry did not originally contain such content. In his assessment, change lies at the heart of the cento, and the reworking of Virgil that produces the text is a kind of conversion, with Virgil’s verses invested with new, Christian, meaning. To put this differently, for the scribe, Proba’s act of centonizing Virgil amounts to Christianizing his non-Christian verses. In so depicting Virgil’s relationship to the Christian content of the Cento Probae, the scribe provides a different take on the topic from the one that Proba herself provides. The centonist’s comment appears in the prefatory section of her work, at line 23. Proba’s concern in that passage up to line 29 (and again in 47–53) is to emphasize that she is now a Christian poet, rather than the writer on non-Christian themes she used to be (cf. esp. Cento Probae 1–8).17 In line 23, Proba calls attention to the Christian character of her cento, but does so in a way that describes how Virgil’s poetry relates to her text’s Christian subject-matter. Proba states: ‘Vergilium cecinisse loquar pia munera Christi’ (‘I will say [or perhaps, ‘show’, ‘indicate’] that Virgil sang of the holy gifts of Christ’).18 The obvious surprise here is to find Virgil, in whose Aeneid the verb canere famously had other direct objects, singing of ‘the holy gifts of Christ’. One could take this as a statement on the transformational 175 Return to Table of Contents

Scott McGill nature of the cento, with ‘loquar’ signalling Proba’s intercession in connecting Virgil to alien Christian content. Only her performance in the cento, in other words, will make Virgil appear to have sung of Christian subjects; for on his own, the tacit addendum runs, he did no such thing.19 The wording of line 23, however, suggests that Virgil in his own poetry (note the perfect ‘cecinisse’) sang of ‘pia munera Christi’ along with, for instance, pius Aeneas – and the temptation is to see that adjectival echo as deliberate. That is to say, what Proba actually writes in her programmatic statement makes it seem that her intercession will bring out the Christian in Virgil, rather than impose Christian material on him. Given the patchwork technique that she then pursues in her poem, I would argue that line 23 describes an idiosyncratic allegorical approach to the cento’s hypotext. Whether Proba actually believed what she was proposing or was taking a provocative rhetorical position, perhaps to chafe pagans or to please Christians,20 she tells her audience that she intends to disclose the Christian that exists within Virgil’s poetry, alongside its explicit messages.21 The cento normatively shows that the same verse units, when reconfigured, can have different signifying functions.22 But Proba states that the secondary semantic values that the verses constituting her cento acquire inhere in the verses’ first Virgilian manifestations; the capacity that Virgil’s poetry has to convey Christian material demonstrates that the Christian stuff was present in that poetry.23 Presumably Proba’s idea is that the Christian content lay latently in the semiotic depths of Virgil’s lines, and that the centonist simply releases that content. This stance is a curious and extreme variation, one reflecting the singularities of the cento, on notions of contiguity between Virgil’s poetry and Christianity that appear in claims by other Christian writers that some Virgilian subject-matter agrees with, adumbrates, and anticipates Christian material. The most famous such alignment of Virgil and the Christian tradition comes in Christian readings of the fourth Eclogue.24 The scribe must of course have been familiar with line 23 of the Cento Probae. But even if he understood Proba to be attributing her cento’s content to Virgil, he does not view Virgil’s relation to that Christian material through an allegorical lens and hold that the cento’s subject-matter was uncovered in his verses. Nor does the scribe express any sense of continuity between Virgil and Christianity – and he could easily have omitted the idea of ‘Virgil changed’ and conveyed instead that, for example, Virgil’s poetry had its sympathies with Christian doctrine or the gospel narrative, and that Proba gives peculiar expression to that trait and exaggerates it. Rather than engaging in such a harmonizing move, the scribe provides an example of a late-Antique Christian voice that chose not to reconcile Virgil and Christianity. This position links up with Christian appraisals 176 Return to Table of Contents

Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae of Virgil that coexisted in the ancient world with notions of agreement between some of his poetry and Christian material, but were their opposite, as writers at times called attention to the differences and incompatibility between elements of Virgil’s texts and Christianity.25 On the one hand, Virgil could be viewed as an author from the Roman past who had written in and about that past. On the other hand, his poetry could be viewed as being in some sense endowed with a special authority or inspiration, which brought aspects of it into contact and alignment with aspects of the biblical story and Christian doctrine.26 Just as there were contrary poles in Christian readings of Virgil’s relationship to Christianity, so there were contrary poles in Christian readings of Virgil’s relationship to a cento’s Christian subjectmatter. Indeed, the latter positions mirror the former, though in a funhouse sort of way. While the scribe’s perspective, on how the Christian content of the Cento Probae alters Virgil’s poetry, deviates from Proba’s own claim, it is not entirely unique in late Antiquity. A similar judgment is in fact offered in Jerome’s Letter 53, written to Paulinus of Nola c. 394, and so roughly contemporaneous with the scribal epistle:27 quasi non legerimus Homerocentonas et Vergiliocentonas ac non sic etiam Maronem sine Christo possimus dicere Christianum, quia scripserit: ‘iam redit et virgo, redeunt Saturnia regna, | iam nova progenies caelo demittitur alto’ [Virg. Ecl. 4.6–7], et patrem loquentem ad filium: ‘nate, meae vires, mea magna potentia solus’ [Aen. 1.664], et post verba salvatoris in cruce: ‘talia perstabat memorans fixusque manebat’ [Aen. 2.650]. puerilia sunt haec et circulatorum ludo similia, docere, quod ignores, immo, ut cum stomacho 28 loquar, nec hoc quidem scire, quod nescias. Jerome, Letter 53.7

Jerome’s comment about Virgil after he mentions the Homeric and Virgilian centos is central to interpreting the passage; but it is also rather difficult to understand. To my mind, the most satisfactory translation has Jerome introducing a second negative idea after ‘quasi non legerimus’ (though with no quasi understood).29 In that case, ‘ac non … etiam’ connects a negative clause to the preceding statement and introduces a further statement about a subject, thus combining two uses of atque.30 This makes ‘non possimus’ a negatived potential subjunctive, and ‘sic’ proleptic of the quia-clause. The passage translates as follows: As if we have not read the Homeric centos and Virgilian centos; nor could we say further that Virgil was a Christian without Christ on this basis, that he wrote ‘Now the virgin returns, the Saturnian reign returns, | now a new generation descends from high heaven’, or assert that it is the Father speaking to the Son, ‘Son, my strength, alone my great power’, and later that these are the words of the Saviour on the cross: ‘Saying such things he stayed resolute and remained

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Scott McGill unshaken.’ These things are puerile and akin to the play of charlatans, to teach what you do not know, or rather – to express my annoyance plainly – not even to know your ignorance.

There is good reason to believe that Jerome had the Cento Probae in mind when he delivered this diatribe. Of the three Virgilian passages that Jerome cites, two appear in their entirety in the Cento Probae (Aen. 1.664 and 2.650, which Proba reuses in lines 403 and 624 respectively). Proba also incorporates a part of the third Virgilian example mentioned by Jerome, Eclogue 4.6–7, to depict Christ as a nova progenies (Cento Probae 34).31 In none of the other surviving Christian centos do we find citations of all three Virgilian segments which Jerome quotes in Letter 53.7. This suggests that he was describing a reaction to the Cento Probae specifically; and scholarly consensus has settled on this conclusion.32 Having referred to the plural Homerocentones and Vergiliocentones, Jerome proceeds to concentrate on a particular example of the latter, which, to judge by references to it in late fourth- and early fifthcentury Christian poetry and by the scribal epistle to Arcadius, was well known around the time of Jerome’s letter.33 Jerome presents the notion that the Cento Probae shows Virgil to be a ‘Christian without Christ’ as a parallel to how foolish and unschooled people take it upon themselves to interpret Scripture and in the process terribly misread it. He discusses this phenomenon just before turning his attention to the cento (Ep. 53.7): quicquid dixerint, hoc legem dei putant nec scire dignantur, quid prophetae, quid apostoli senserint, sed ad sensum suum incongrua aptant testimonia, quasi grande sit et non vitiosissimum dicendi genus depravare sententias et ad voluntatem suam scripturam trahere repugnantem. Whatever they say, they consider it to be the law of God, nor do they deign to learn what the prophets and apostles thought. Rather, they conform ill-fitting passages to their own meaning, as if it were something grand and not the most corrupt kind of speaking, to pervert intentions, and to take Scripture as they see fit, though it resists them.

Given that Jerome equates the misreading of Scripture and the misreading of the cento, we can reasonably assume that the acts of misinterpretation occur in the same way in both cases. Therefore, Jerome’s implicit starting-point for his critique of the position that the cento betokens a Christian Virgil is that in the patchwork poem Virgil’s language is wilfully fitted to meanings that are alien to him. Jerome then describes a line of interpretation that does not reflect that view. Just as people ascribe the new meanings they give Scripture to Scripture itself, so the response to the Cento Probae that Jerome disparages gives the text’s Christian content to Virgil’s poetry and proceeds to 178 Return to Table of Contents

Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae label him Christianus. An inversion of secondary and primary semiotic arenas takes place, with the cento’s Christian content attributed to the Virgilian verses that comprise the patchwork poem; and this gesture makes Virgil a Christian author sine Christo. To Jerome, this take on Virgil, which stands as a misreading that does not see itself as such, is as utterly ridiculous as the misreading of Scripture against which he also rails. What gets Jerome’s bile boiling, then, is not the cento itself, but a response to it. He does not dismiss or attack the cento per se, but considers ‘puerilia’ an interpretation of Proba’s work which bestows Christian status on Virgil.34 Jerome may introduce the idea that the Cento Probae reveals Virgil to be a Christianus sine Christo as a hypothetical parallel to faulty approaches to Scripture. That is, Jerome could be imagining a merely conceivable way that one could preposterously interpret what the Christian cento reveals about Virgil that would match up with what he saw as preposterous approaches to and teachings about Scripture. Conversely, and to my mind more plausibly, Jerome may have had an actual external target when lambasting the idea that Proba’s work shows Virgil to be a Christianus sine Christo. In that case, Jerome’s message in using the potential subjunctive would be that we, the right-thinking crowd, could not­ – or maybe better, should not­ – accept an interpretation of the cento that had been proposed because it is wrongheaded and mistaken. Perhaps Jerome was responding to an interpretation of Proba’s text that some readers were propounding in the mid-390s. It is tempting, however, to believe that he had Proba herself in his crosshairs as one who had earlier in the fourth century misunderstood what her text revealed about Virgil’s relationship to Christianity. 35 Should that have been so, Jerome could have been attacking Proba chiefly, as an important proponent in the recent past – and obviously all the more so as the cento’s author – of a view still in currency. Another option is that he was heaping scorn only upon Proba’s attitude to her poem, and not upon hers among others’. The temptation to see Proba as the principal if not exclusive object of Jerome’s vitriol stems first from the agreement between the position that Jerome scorns and one way of understanding Proba’s message in line 23 of her cento. Perhaps Jerome’s critique derived from his impression of what Proba was saying and, as he saw it, teaching in her programmatic statement. Jerome could have thought that in line 23 Proba attributed her work’s Christian content to Virgil’s poetry and consequently saw him as a Christianus sine Christo, and could have been assailing that message, either alone or with other corresponding responses to the cento in mind. There is also the faint possibility that Jerome’s attack on Proba was grounded in her historical activities, rather than just in the interpretation of 179 Return to Table of Contents

Scott McGill a line of her preface. For Jerome might have been aware of how Proba used to assert that her cento exposed the Christian in Virgil’s poetry when she led private classes in scriptural instruction attended by fellow Romans, including men.36 This conjecture has its basis in Jerome’s reference in Letter 53.7 to women who teach Scripture before he comments on the centos: alii adducto supercilio grandia verba trutinantes [cf. Pers. 3.82] inter mulierculas de sacris litteris philosophantur, alii discunt – pro pudor! – a feminis, quod viros doceant, et, ne parum hoc sit, quadam facilitate verborum, immo audacia disserunt aliis, quod ipsi non intellegunt. Some, furrowing their brows as they weigh pompous words, philosophize on Scripture among women; others – for shame! – learn from women what they should teach men, and, as if this were not enough, they explain to others with a certain skill in words, or rather, with a certain audacity, what they themselves do not understand.

One explanation for why Jerome turns to the centos very soon after these remarks is that he envisioned Proba when he mentioned women who teach Scripture to men.37 That is to say, recalling that Proba had been a teacher could have triggered the reference to Homeric and Virgilian centos, with special attention to the Cento Probae. Perhaps too Jerome remembered not only how Proba taught Scripture, but also how she contended in that pedagogical setting that the Virgilian cento exposes the Christianity in Virgil’s poetry. In that case, the recollection of Proba docens could have occasioned Jerome’s subsequent reference to the centos and his allusion to a particular misinterpretation of the Cento Probae. Obviously, this is a very speculative line of interpretation. But it is not impossible that Jerome was responding to and indeed decrying how Proba conveyed, while otherwise teaching Scripture, that her cento revealed the Christian that lay within the classical Virgil’s verses.38 Jerome could have connected that misreading only to the historical Proba or to her and others, perhaps including some people whom she taught. Even if Proba attributed her text’s Christian content to Virgil while leading scriptural classes for Christians outside of her family,39 we of course have no means whatsoever of determining whether the scribe knew of that practice. If the reading that Jerome disparages was in general circulation in the 390s, moreover, there is no way of knowing how widespread and well known it was and whether the scribe could have been and was cognizant of it. What is clear is that, in his letter to Arcadius, the scribe rejects the conclusion that the Cento Probae brings to light a Christian Virgil; the image of Virgil that he in fact offers is of a figure haud Christianus. In taking this stance, the scribe resembles Jerome. No evidence exists that 180 Return to Table of Contents

Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae either was aware of the other’s position. But they are in accord when they portray the cento in a manner that sees in it not any inherent Christianity in Virgil’s poetry, but the distance and difference that divide Virgil and the cento’s Christian content. Like the scribe’s, Jerome’s comments thus stand as a peculiar instantiation, because connected to a peculiar work, of a separatist view of Virgil’s relationship to Christian material that found a range of expression elsewhere in Christian texts, including at other points in Jerome’s writings.40 Of course, the scribe’s description of the Cento Probae also diverges sharply from Jerome’s in one way. The scribe not only points up the adaptation of Virgil’s lines to foreign Christian content; he offers a triumphalist take on that act as well. For as we have seen, the scribe relates that in the cento Virgil’s lines have not just been changed through their acquisition of divinus sensus, but have been changed for the better. The idea that the Cento Probae is not just distinct from Virgil in its subject-matter, but a distinguished poem in relation to that source, is the most positive assessment of any cento to survive from Antiquity and reverses many modern critics’ view that centos alter Virgil in peius. The scribe’s concern with the cento’s Christian subject-matter and his notion that divinus sensus produces an improvement on Virgil has things in common with how Christian Latin poets in late Antiquity agonistically compared their works to the classical past. The development of a Christian poetic idiom in late Antiquity was largely built on this classical past, with authors reusing, updating, and pushing the boundaries of classical genres and their rules and conventions, and applying diction, rhetorical ornaments, and phraseology derived from classical works to new Christian circumstances. For Christian writers, classical poetry was also exemplary in form and style;41 and they were in no way immune to prevailing critical standards that saw verbal mastery particularly in the language of Virgilian epic and that kept that language culturally prestigious.42 Yet in Christian poetics, excellence of form was a secondary feature of poetry, and a means of dressing up a Christian message to make it more appealing, persuasive, or memorable to audiences, both pagan and Christian.43 However great their sense of the classical achievement on the verbal level and however deep their debt to classical forms and language, moreover, authors described the Christian subject-matter of their poetry as better than secular and pagan content, including that of the works of classical predecessors, Virgil among them. This theme, customarily expressed through a pagan lies/Christian truth topos,44 appears in Christian works throughout late Antiquity, even as the polemical urgency of the idea diminished over time, and particularly as the fifth century elapsed. 181 Return to Table of Contents

Scott McGill In the epistle to Arcadius, the scribe also sets a Christian poem’s content above that of classical texts. The message that Virgil has been improved by means of Christian sensus implies, after all, that such material surpasses what was originally in Virgil. Even though the scribe does not set up the common opposition between non-Christian falsa and Christian vera, his message about the effect of Christian subject-matter on Virgil’s poetry is therefore consistent with a prevalent idea in late-Antique Christian poetics. But what is notable about the scribe’s position is its connection to a Virgilian cento, a text of course more dramatically indebted on the formal level to classical models than other Christian works were, and one that avails itself of Virgil’s canonical language in an extreme way. This radical reliance on Virgil’s verbal surface suggests that the Christian work is at least on one level a nod to his linguistic authority and greatness.45 Given these things, the scribe shows more sharply than other writers that in Christian evaluations of the relationship between Christian poetry and the classical past the realm of content could trump that of form. The superiority of Christian sensus could be proclaimed no matter what the understood formal accomplishments of classical verse, and no matter how much a Christian work owed to the verbal riches of classical texts. But the scribe does not simply convey that the cento’s content surpasses that of its predecessor: he states that the text itself stands above Virgil’s poetry owing to its divinus sensus. That is to say, the scribe’s formulation focuses on the substantive adaptation of Virgil, but denotes the poem made up of the verses that have been given Christian significance. To the best of my knowledge, the comment in the scribal epistle on the cento’s preeminence over Virgil is more closely analogous to an evaluation of another fourth-century Christian poem, the Evangeliorum Libri IV of Juvencus, than to any other agonistic statement in Christian poetics. Juvencus’ hexameter work told the story of the Gospels and was the first Latin biblical epic; it was written somewhat before 330 (thus anticipating the full flowering of Latin Christian poetry by roughly a half-century). The pertinent remarks on that poem come from its author, when he writes in a preface to the poem that it will merit greater and longer-lasting fame than the epics of Homer and Virgil have enjoyed ( Juvenc. pref. 15–20):46 quod si tam longam meruerunt carmina famam, quae veterum gestis hominum mendacia nectunt, nobis certa fides aeternae in saecula laudis inmortale decus tribuet meritumque rependet. nam mihi carmen erit Christi vitalia gesta, divinum populis falsi sine crimine donum.

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15

20

Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae But if their [Homer’s and Virgil’s] poems have won so long a fame, poems that interweave lies with the deeds of ancient men, sure belief of eternal praise through the ages will hand over to me immortal glory and will recompense me with a due reward. For my poem will be about the life-giving deeds of Christ, a divine gift to the people without the taint of falsehood.47

This will occur despite the sublimity of Homer (‘celsi cantus, Smyrnae de fonte fluentes’ [‘the lofty strains, flowing from the fount of Smyrna’], pref. 9) and the ‘dulcedo Maronis’ or stylistic ‘sweetness of Virgil’ (10). For their poems contain lies (16), whereas Juvencus’ will tell of the ‘life-giving deeds of Christ’, which have no stain of mendacity (19–20). Juvencus’ message that his epic will outshine and outlive Homer’s and Virgil’s stylistically excellent poems because it is concerned with Christ while theirs relate falsehoods affirms the superiority of his work on the basis of its subject-matter. For Juvencus, the ‘Christi vitalia gesta’ elevate his text above poems containing mendacia veterum gestis hominum nexa. The Christian material will enable his work to achieve a longer-lasting glory than the highest epics of the classical tradition, even with their celsi cantus and dulcedo – a statement implying that his Christian poem is better than their non-Christian ones. While there is no sign that the scribe directly imitated Juvencus, he joins with his predecessor in placing a Christian poem above classical texts, and specifically Virgil’s, on the basis of the difference in their content. In doing so, he offers along with Juvencus one of the stronger declarations in a surviving Latin work of Christian literary superiority to the classical past, as well as vivid evidence that Virgil did not win every competition with his successors in Antiquity. Because the scribe adopts his position in relation to a piece that is in linguistic terms so secondary to Virgilian poetry, however, his viewpoint can also be seen as a wilder and sharper indication than Juvencus’ of how for a Christian writer Christian subject-matter could enable a poem to surpass the great classical Latin exemplar, Virgil.48 The possibility of course exists that the scribe was simply offering his sincere assessment of the Cento Probae in lines 3–4 of his epistle to Arcadius, and that no other influences or designs shaped his description of the poem. The scribe may have truly held that the adaptation of Virgil’s lines to Christian content was the cento’s defining feature, and that Proba’s poem, because of its Christian character, transcended its source-material – a position that in the late fourth century could have had a real polemical bite. Perhaps, however, it had somehow been made known in the request for a copy of Proba’s cento that Arcadius considered the text’s Christian subject-matter to bring about a change to Virgil’s non-Christian verses in melius. (This assumes that Arcadius knew at least in broad terms about the 183 Return to Table of Contents

Scott McGill cento’s Christian content, a scenario that is compatible with the scribe’s summary of the poem’s narrative.49) Should that have been so, the scribe’s position could have been meant to reflect that imperial perspective. It may also be that the scribe had no hard evidence of what Arcadius thought of the cento, but offered up an assessment that he thought would please the emperor, given his solicitation of the poem and his Christianity. Perhaps too the scribe praised the cento as the new and better Christian manifestation of the verses of the great classical poet Virgil to tout implicitly his own role in providing Arcadius with a substantial and excellent Christian work. Some combination of wanting to echo the emperor’s expressed or supposed position and of wanting to promote himself may have also occasioned the scribe’s words. If the scribe was restating Arcadius’ opinion, offering a description that he believed suited the emperor’s request, or taking a particular stance for self-aggrandizing purposes, lines 3–4 of his epistle may still reflect his actual thoughts on the Cento Probae. In that case, the scribe’s ideas would have agreed with the emperor’s or overlapped with the positive message he thought fitting and useful. At the same time, if the scribe was doing any of the things just mentioned, his views on the cento may have been different from his stated position, and perhaps even negative in some way. For instance, the scribe could have had his misgivings about how Proba put Virgil through the centonic shredder, even if the result was a Christian poem. So too he could have disapproved of the cento because of the use of non-Christian Virgilian verses to convey a biblical narrative. We naturally cannot know if the scribe felt either of those things or had some other unhappy thoughts about the cento. But if he did, rhetorical demands and interests would have taken precedence over such opinions and concerns and excluded them from his letter. Whatever his feelings and motives, the scribe offers a striking response to a striking response to Virgil in Antiquity. This chapter has sought to deepen our understanding of the scribe’s comments, as well as of the ancient interpretation of the Cento Probae, and to cast new light on aspects of the ancient Christian reception of Virgil and classical poetry. Let me end by reiterating my main points. One of the things that the scribe discloses is that an ancient reader could separate Virgil’s poetry and the cento’s Christian content. While this might seem a self-evident move, Proba herself reveals in the prefatory part of her poem that another hermeneutic option was to locate the cento’s Christian subject-matter in Virgil’s verses. This same alternative comes to light in a letter of St Jerome, where, perhaps in response in some way to Proba, he disparages the act of reading the cento’s Christianity back into Virgil. In the process, Jerome conveys, like the scribe, 184 Return to Table of Contents

Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae that Virgil had nothing to do with the poem’s Christian content. From the scribe, Proba, and Jerome, a polychromatic picture of the Cento Probae’s ancient interpretation therefore emerges, as they show that portrayals of the connection between Virgil and the cento’s Christian subject-matter were variable. Those portrayals, in turn, are eccentric expressions, because connected to a unique literary undertaking, of two approaches to Virgil that were operative in ancient Christianity, one that reconciled his poetry and Christian material, and one that distinguished and opposed his poetry and Christian material. Finally, the scribe depicts the cento’s reconstruction of Virgil in competitive terms, with Proba’s text changing its source-material for the better by imbuing Virgil’s lines with Christian content. This evaluation of such a verbally secondary text as the cento resembles the way that Christian poetics placed the subject-matter of Christian poetry above that of classical works, even as Christian authors adapted and valued the forms and language of classical verse. The scribe’s endorsement of Proba’s composition also compares with how a fourth-century Christian poet, Juvencus, made Christian content the basis for his work’s superiority to Virgil. But because his subject is a cento, with its utter linguistic dependence on Virgil, the scribe provides us with perhaps the most arresting manifestation to survive from Antiquity of how Christian subject-matter could be enough for a Christian writer to declare a text’s pre-eminence over the classical past. Acknowledgements

I thank Roger Green, David Scourfield, and Mary Whitby for their help with this chapter. Needless to say, all shortcomings that remain are my responsibility.

Notes

1   Homeric centos, comprising lines from the Iliad and Odyssey, also survive from Antiquity; see Whitby, ch. 7 in this volume. While centos were written on the basis of the work of other poets, Homer and Virgil were the most popular sources for them in the ancient world. 2   Representative contempt comes from Shackleton Bailey 1982, iii, who labels centos ‘opprobria litterarum’ (‘insults to literature’) and asserts that they taint the great Virgil. Shackleton Bailey refuses even to include the centos in his text of the Anthologia Latina, despite their presence in the Codex Salmasianus (Parisinus 10318), which forms an important part of his anthology. Another example of anti-centonism appears in Comparetti 1997, 53: ‘The idea of such “centos” could only have arisen among people who had learnt Vergil mechanically and did not know of any better use to which to put all these verses with which they had loaded their brains.’ For more balanced accounts of the Virgilian centos, see e.g. Ermini 1909 (with a focus on the Cento Probae); Lamacchia

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Scott McGill 1996; Salanitro 1997; McGill 2005 (with a focus on the mythological and secular centos).  3   The identity of the centonist Proba has been the subject of much debate. The arguments of Green 1995, 551–4, however, that Faltonia Betitia Proba (Proba 2 in PLRE 1) composed the cento rather than Anicia Faltonia Proba (Proba 3 in PLRE 1; b. ?352, d. before 432), granddaughter of Faltonia Betitia Proba, are to me particularly convincing. If we accept the former Proba as the author of the cento, a date anywhere from 354 to c. 370 (and potentially even a bit later; cf. n. 35 below) is possible for it. Amatucci 1929, 147 argues that Julian’s edict of 17 June 362 forbidding Christians to teach in schools led to the cento’s composition. Green 1995, 554–60 builds upon Amatucci’s position. He contends that Proba wanted Christians to be able still to avail themselves of the grammatical school text Virgil without having to go to the secular schools and without having to read non-Christian subject-matter, and wrote her cento to serve that purpose. See too Stevenson 2005, 67–8. Proba herself, however, links her creation of the cento to her literary conversion alone, i.e. her turn from writing poetry on non-Christian topics to writing poetry on Christian topics; see Cento Probae 1–12, 47–53, and n. 17 below.  4   For an analysis of this passage (mainly thematic, but with some attention to textual issues), see Green 1997.  5   Stevenson 2005, 31–82 examines Latin women poets in Antiquity; Proba is discussed at 64–71.  6   Among the reasons to accept Arcadius as the letter’s addressee is the use of the phrase ‘fratrisque decus’ (‘glory of your brother’) (3) to describe the emperor: to my mind, this refers most convincingly to Arcadius’ brother Honorius, the western emperor from 395. (The opening lines of the epistle, ‘Romulidum ductor, clari lux altera solis, | eoa qui regna regis moderamine iusto, | spes orbis fratrisque decus’ [‘Leader of the Romans, another light of the brilliant sun, | you who rule the eastern kingdom with just guidance, | hope of the world and glory of your brother’, 1–3], meanwhile, indicate that the addressee is an emperor.) Mastandrea 2001, 566–9 convincingly argues that Arcadius was the letter’s recipient (a position also taken by Seeck and Green; cf. n. 10 below) and answers Dessau (ILS 818), Bury 1923, 1.220 n. 3, and Cameron 1982, 266–7, who claim that the poem was sent to Theodosius II sometime between 423 and 425, with ‘minori Arcadio’ (‘younger Arcadius’, 13–14) referring to the short-lived son of that emperor and Eudocia (see also Whitby, p. 216 below, with n. 128).  7   Green 1997, 549 briefly touches upon the textual history of the scribal epistle. Citations from both epistle and cento in this chapter follow the text of K. Schenkl in CSEL 16 (1888).  8   Mastandrea 2001, 569–78. On Anicia Faltonia Proba, see above, n. 3.  9   Shanzer 1986, 233 and Green 1997, 548 identify the author as a scribe on the basis of this line (‘scribendum famulo quem iusseras’, ‘[Virgil changed for the better, i.e. the cento] which you ordered your servant to write’). Green, moreover, counters the doubts of Sivan 1993, 144–5 that a scribe could have written the epistle. Clark and Hatch 1981, 106 and 189 also state that the author is a scribe, as does Kyrikiadis 1994, 191–2. My argument in this chapter, I should add, would be unaffected if the author were the Probus whom Mastandrea identifies; but I still want to take a position on the matter. 10   Green 1995, 562 notes that Seeck 1883, xcvi sets 401 as the terminus ante quem for the epistle because of the phrase ‘minori Arcadio’ (‘younger Arcadius’) at 13–14. In

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Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae Seeck’s view, this refers to Theodosius II, who was born in 401; his argument is that the name Theodosius was not yet known to the scribe, and so the child was not yet born when the scribe wrote his letter. Green himself notes that it is rather odd that the scribe passes over Arcadius’ daughters if his epistle was written between 397 and 401. He proposes, therefore, that the letter was written before Arcadius had any children, and that the phrase ‘minori Arcadio’ is intended to cover any children Arcadius might father. Hence Green sets the terminus ante quem at June 397, when Arcadius’ daughter Flacilla was born. Mastandrea 2001, 566–9, meanwhile, argues that the epistle was written between 395 and 397. 11   Line 5 ‘scribendum famulo quem iusseras’. The scribe, someone apparently with authorial pretensions, here incorporates a topos used by ancient authors to refer to solicitations for their work from others. The verb iubere is common in that context; usually it is a superior of some kind who does the ‘commanding’. (On this topos, see e.g. Curtius 1953, 85.) How Arcadius might have conveyed his wishes for a copy of the Cento Probae is unclear. Despite this gap in our knowledge, and despite the rhetorical nature of the scribe’s reference to the emperor’s command, I agree with Green 1997, 548 that the solicitation could well have actually occurred and could have come ultimately from Arcadius. (Rhetorical topoi and historical reality, after all, are not incompatible.) The scribe’s stated wish in lines 3–4 of his epistle that Arcadius ‘deign’ (‘dignare’) to read the cento, moreover, does not imply that he sent the poem out of the blue and actually had to hope that the emperor would read it. The formulation is instead an expression of rhetorical politeness and modesty. 12   Green 1997, 549 points out that the scribe’s summary is rather misleading: ‘It says nothing of the Fall, a major topic of the cento, and dilates on the soteriological implications of Christ’s crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension in a way that Proba does not.’ 13   For more on the possible connections between the Cento Probae and teaching, see n. 3 above and p. 180 with nn. 36, 39. 14   Cf. OLD s.v. ‘muto’ 7b. 15   All translations are my own. 16   Clark and Hatch 1981, 13 translate: ‘Maro, changed for the better with sacred meaning’. Mastandrea 2001, 566 n. 2 also suggests that the scribe’s statement could be rendered in that way, though he points out too that it is unclear whether by ‘divino … sensu’ the author intended to denote the ‘percezione sensibile’ of his addressee. 17   In lines 1–8 and 48, Proba makes it clear that her topic was a martial epic. Matthews 1992 argues that the topic of Proba’s epic was Magnentius’ attempt to depose Constantius II in 353. On the autobiographical topos among Christian writers of ‘converting’ from writing on non-Christian topics to writing on Christian ones, see Klopsch 1980, 15–17. 18   Proba does not begin to use the cento technique until line 29, though lines 24–6 are close to verses in Virgil. 19   So Green 1997, 556 interprets the line. 20   Either or both of these aims could have obtained if Proba wrote her cento in response to Julian’s edict of 362. Amatucci 1929, 147 conjectures that Proba’s line 23 was in fact written in direct response to the imperial edict. 21   Wiesen 1971, 91 asserts that line 23 points up an allegorical approach to Virgil, though he does not analyse the line as I do. Clark and Hatch 1981, 17 also appear to take Proba to be suggesting that the cento’s Christian material belongs to Virgil when they

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Scott McGill render line 23, ‘That Virgil put to verse Christ’s sacred duties let me tell.’ The translation of Verweyen and Witting 1991, 171 is clearer in how it interprets Proba’s meaning: ‘I would like to demonstrate that Virgil wrote about Christ’s sacred gifts.’ (I follow Green 1997, 556 in considering ‘loquar’ to be future indicative rather than present subjunctive.) See too Buchheit 1988, 167–76. Pollmann 2004, 88, meanwhile, suggests that Proba ‘accepted that Vergil in all his works proclaims Christian truth and that she therefore understood her cento as a kind of Vergilian exegesis, as stated in the programmatic verse 23’. I should also mention a genuine allegorical reading of Virgil’s Aeneid, that of the late-5th-century Fulgentius. 22   I paraphrase Meconi 2004, 121. 23   Malamud 1989, 37 has insightful things to say about how the centos generally can affect one’s reading of Virgil’s poetry, with the centos’ content intruding into the Virgilian texts. What Proba proposes in line 23, as I am reading it, is a radical variation on Malamud’s idea. 24   On the Christian reception of Eclogue 4, see e.g. Courcelle 1957; Benko 1980; MacCormack 1998, 22–31. Another good example of material in Virgil that Christians reconciled with Christianity is Aen. 6.724–8. Wiesen 1971, 80–2 discusses how Minucius Felix saw in those Virgilian lines agreement with Christian cosmology (Oct. 19.1–2), and at 83–4 notes that Lactantius (Div. Inst. 1.5) and St Ambrose (Spir. 2.5.36) did the same. 25   Among the Christian writers who point out the differences between the worlds of Virgil’s poetry and Christianity is Jerome, whom I will discuss later in the chapter. In Christian poetics, meanwhile, it was possible to contrast Virgil’s mendacity and Christian truth; an example comes from the 4th-century poet Juvencus (also examined below, pp. 182–3). On the varied thoughts of Augustine – that towering Christian figure – on Virgil’s relationship with Christianity, which included assertions of agreement and of distance and opposition, see e.g. Hagendahl 1967, 384–463; MacCormack 1998, passim. 26   I closely paraphrase MacCormack 1998, 26. 27   The date of the letter has been the subject of dispute. Recent consensus is for 394: Green 1995, 554, following Nautin 1973, posits that date, as does Mastandrea 2001, 575. I cite the letter according to the text of I. Hilberg in CSEL 54 (1910). 28   Here I print the reading of the manuscripts in preference to Hilberg’s conjecture ‘Clitomacho’. 29   Mark Usher discussed this translation with me per litteras, and I am indebted to his insights. 30   Cf. Lewis–Short s.v. ‘atque, ac’ III.a and IV.2.b, which is more precise than OLD s.v. ‘atque, ac’ 4, 4b, and 4e. See also TLL 2.1.1077.15–1078.11. 31   It is a reasonable assumption that Jerome’s citation of Ecl. 4.6–7 as one of the examples of the centonized material that makes Virgil a Christianus sine Christo owes something to the Christian readings of the fourth Eclogue. But that line of interpretation is of course different from the kind of Christianizing through the cento with which Jerome is concerned in Ep. 53; and criticizing the allegorical readings of Eclogue 4 is not here Jerome’s aim. 32   Courcelle 1957, 309–11, Hagendahl 1958, 188–9, Wiesen 1971, 91, Clark and Hatch 1981, 104–5, Pavlovskis 1989, 78–82, Springer 1993, esp. 99–100, and Green 1995, 553–4 all suggest that Jerome was thinking of the Cento Probae in Ep. 53.7.

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Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae   As Green 1995, 561–2 points out.   This reading of Jerome’s critique in Ep. 53.7 differs from others I have encountered, notably those of Springer 1993 and Stevenson 2005, 68. (It also diverges somewhat from McGill 2005, xvii.) I should note too that Jerome, as I understand him, is not troubled here by the use of Virgil to convey Christian material, i.e. the act of retelling biblical stories through classical verses. I would surmise that Jerome was not an admirer of Proba’s cento. Even so, his point in Ep. 53.7 is not to express such disapproval. 35   Faltonia Betitia Proba may have died around 370 (cf. n. 3 above); and even if that date is not certain (Sivan 1993, 155 n. 11, for instance, notes that it is hypothetical), she must have been dead by the mid-390s. Yet Jerome could still be criticizing that particular Proba. For as Green 1995, 554 argues, identifying Proba as the object of Jerome’s rancour does not imply that she had to be alive in the 390s, even though Jerome uses the present tense in Ep. 53.7 in criticizing the allegorical readings of the cento (‘puerilia sunt … nescias’). Indeed, Jerome’s point could well have been that the viewpoint that Proba alone used to propound remains preposterous. 36   Clark 1993, 128 discusses how female teaching in ancient Christianity was acceptable only in private and with regard for proprieties, including deference before men. While Jerome himself taught women in Rome in the 380s, as Layton 2002, 503 notes, he seems to have been offended and outraged by the phenomenon of women playing the leading pedagogical role. Springer 1993, 104–5 examines Jerome’s reference to female teachers in Ep. 53.7, but from a different point of view from my own. 37   Green 1995, 553–4 suggests that the ‘garrula anus’ mentioned in the sentence before the lines cited here is Proba, a position that Usher 1997, 317–18 endorses. (The passage reads: ‘sola scripturarum ars est, quam sibi omnes passim vindicent: “scribimus indocti doctique poemata passim” [Hor. Epist. 2.1.117]. hanc garrula anus, hanc delirus senex, hanc soloecista verbosus, hanc universi praesumunt, lacerant, docent, antequam discant’ [‘Skill in the Scriptures is the one thing that all people everywhere think they have: “We unlearned and learned alike everywhere write poems.” The blathering old woman, the daft old man, the person full of eloquent solecisms, one and all they take up Scripture, rip it apart, teach before they learn’].) See too Springer 1993, 99–100. It seems to me, however, that Jerome presents the garrula anus as an exaggerated type and for satirical effect, and that it is hazardous to identify a historical person behind her. The neutral feminae docentes, meanwhile, seems a better place to look for historical personages. 38   If Proba did present such a message while teaching Scripture, we would of course have grounds for reading line 23 of the Cento Probae as a sincere comment on how Virgil actually sang of Christian subjects. Perhaps too Jerome in Ep. 53.7 was reacting both to Proba’s historical practices and to her programmatic message. 39   Proba may have also used the cento to teach her own children ‘the correct, that is, Christian way to read the classical texts they were reading at school’, as Meconi 2004, 113 suggests (an idea that follows Amatucci 1929, 146–7; see too Clark and Hatch 1981, 98– 100). Of course, Proba may have presented the notion that her cento reveals Virgil to be a Christian poet in that setting as well. I suppose that Jerome could have come to know of that intra-familial lesson and been responding to it in Ep. 53.7; but this is less likely than the conjecture I am pursuing. It should be reiterated too that Proba might have conceived her work with an educational purpose other than maternal instruction. For if she decided to write her cento in response to Julian’s edict of 362, she could well have wanted it to be 33 34

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Scott McGill a Virgilian textbook for grammatical instruction for Christian schoolchildren (and not just for her own offspring). Whatever her intentions, and however she might have herself used her cento pedagogically, the Cento Probae continued to have some educational role through the 4th century. As already noted, the scribe ends his epistle to Arcadius with the wish that the emperor pass the cento on to his offspring, who will always learn from it. This comment quite possibly reflects a wider use of the Cento Probae for instruction, the plan being for the imperial family to adopt that practice. 40   On Jerome’s references to differences and incompatibility between Virgil and Christianity, see e.g. Hagendahl 1958, esp. 276 and 305. Jerome also finds agreement between Virgil and Christian material, or cites him ornamentally; see Hagendahl 1958, esp. 240–5, 276–81. 41   Roberts 1985, 73–4, 84–6, 96, and 222–4 discusses well Christian poets’ attitudes toward and engagement with the language of the classical past. 42   I paraphrase Roberts 1985, 107 and 220. On Virgil’s reception and continued lofty reputation in the 4th century, see the recent useful overview of Cameron 2004, 503–11; the essays in Rees 2004 are also valuable. 43   This formulation is largely indebted to White 2000, 6 (who offers a good summary of the topic at 6–12). 44   On this topos, see Klopsch 1980, 9–12. 45   This reading is possible even if Proba wrote her poem in response to Julian’s edict of 362. For one of her goals would presumably have been to continue to expose Christian students to Virgil’s language and to keep them imbibing and learning from that central and valued poetic discourse. 46   On Juvencus’ preface, see Van der Nat 1973; Green 2004. Citations follow the text of J. Huemer in CSEL 24 (1891). 47   Juvencus also distinguishes between the glory of Homer and Virgil that remains ‘aeternae similis, dum saecula volabunt’ (‘similar to eternal, while the ages unfold’, pref. 12) and his own ‘certa fides aeternae in saecula laudis’ and the ‘inmortale decus’ he will achieve. Later in his preface, moreover, Juvencus varies the ‘my poetry will be eternal’ topos of the classical tradition, as he states that his Christian work will live on even after the end of the world and Christ’s judgment (21–4). 48   Juvencus also avails himself often of the dulcedo Maronis, as he frequently makes use of Virgilian tags, sometimes to create active allusions (on which see e.g. Roberts 2004), and sometimes ornamentally. Juvencus thus makes content the basis for his Christian poem’s superiority to Virgil’s work even as he takes Virgil as a model in formal matters; but Juvencus’ debt to Virgil is of course nowhere near as extreme as Proba’s. 49   This conjecture also assumes that the request for the cento was genuine and somehow came from Arcadius (cf. n. 11 above).

Bibliography

Amatucci, A.G. 1929 Storia della letteratura latina cristiana, Bari. Benko, S. 1980 ‘Virgil’s fourth Eclogue in Christian interpretation’, ANRW 2.31.1.646– 705.

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Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae Buchheit, V. 1988 ‘Vergildichtung im Cento Probae’, GB 15, 161–76. Bury, J.B. 1923 History of the Later Roman Empire from the Death of Theodosius I to the Death of Justinian, 2 vols., London. Cameron, Alan 1982 ‘The empress and the poet: paganism and politics at the court of Theodosius II’, YClS 27, 217–89. 2004 ‘Vergil illustrated between pagans and Christians: reconsidering “the late-4th c. classical revival”, the dates of the manuscripts, and the places of production of the Latin classics’, JRA 17, 502–25. Clark, E.A. and Hatch, D.F. (eds.) 1981 The Golden Bough, the Oaken Cross: The Virgilian cento of Faltonia Betitia Proba, Chico, Calif. Clark, G. 1993 Women in Late Antiquity, Oxford. Comparetti, D. 1997 Vergil in the Middle Ages, Engl. tr., Princeton. First published 1895. Courcelle, P. 1957 ‘Les exégèses chrétiennes de la quatrième églogue’, REA 59, 294–319. Curtius, E.R. 1953 European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, Engl. tr., Princeton. Ermini, F. 1909 Il centone di Proba e la poesia centonaria latina, Rome. Green, R.P.H. 1995 ‘Proba’s cento: its date, purpose, and reception’, CQ 45, 551–63. 1997 ‘Proba’s introduction to her cento’, CQ 47, 548–59. 2004 ‘Approaching Christian epic: the preface of Juvencus’, in M. Gale (ed.) Latin Epic and Didactic Poetry: Genre, tradition and individuality, Swansea, 203–22. Hagendahl, H. 1958 Latin Fathers and the Classics: A study on the apologists, Jerome, and other Christian writers, Göteborgs universitets årsskrift 64, Göteborg. 1967 Augustine and the Latin Classics, Studia Graeca et Latina Gothoburgensia 20, Göteborg. Klopsch, P. 1980 Einführung in die Dichtungslehren des lateinischen Mittelalters, Darmstadt. Kyrikiadis, S. 1994 ‘Proba, Faltonia Betitia’, Kleos 1, 185–200. Lamacchia, R. 1996 ‘Centoni’, Enc. Virg. 1, 733–7. Layton, R. 2002 ‘Plagiarism and lay patronage of ascetic scholarship: Jerome, Ambrose, and Rufinus’, JECS 10, 489–522. MacCormack, S. 1998 The Shadows of Poetry: Vergil in the mind of Augustine, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 26, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London.

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Scott McGill Malamud, M.A. 1989 A Poetics of Transformation: Prudentius and classical mythology, Cornell Studies in Classical Philology 49, Ithaca, N.Y. and London. Mastandrea, P. 2001 ‘L’epigramma dedicatorio del “Cento Vergilianus” di Proba (AL 719d Riese²): analisi del testo, ipotesi di datazione e identificazione dell’autore’, BStudLat 31, 565–78. Matthews, J. 1992 ‘The poetess Proba and fourth-century Rome: questions of interpretation’, in M. Christol, S. Demougin, Y. Duval, C. Lepelley, and L. Pietri (eds.) Institutions, société et vie politique dans l’empire romain au IVe siècle ap. J.-C., Collection de l’École française de Rome 159, Paris, 291–304. McGill, S. 2005 Virgil Recomposed: The mythological and secular centos in Antiquity, Oxford and New York. Meconi, D.V. 2004 ‘The Christian cento and the evangelization of Christian culture’, Logos 7, 109–32. Nautin, P. 1973 ‘Études de chronologie hiéronymienne (393–397)’, REAug 19, 213–39. Pavlovskis, Z. 1989 ‘Proba and the semiotics of the narrative Virgilian cento’, Vergilius 35, 70–84. Pollmann, K. 2004 ‘Sex and salvation in the Vergilian cento of the fourth century’, in Rees (ed.) Romane Memento, 79–96. Rees, R. (ed.) 2004 Romane Memento: Vergil in the fourth century, London. Roberts, M. 1985 Biblical Epic and Rhetorical Paraphrase in Late Antiquity, ARCA 16, Liverpool. 2004 ‘Vergil and the Gospels: the Evangeliorum Libri IV of Juvencus’, in Rees (ed.) Romane Memento, 47–61. Salanitro, G. 1997 ‘Osidio Geta e la poesia centonaria’, ANRW 2.34.3.2314–58. Seeck, O. (ed.) 1883 Q. Aureli Symmachi quae supersunt, MGH, AA, 6.1, Berlin. Shackleton Bailey, D.R. (ed.) 1982 Anthologia Latina, Stuttgart. Shanzer, D. 1986 ‘The anonymous Carmen contra Paganos and the date and identity of the centonist Proba’, REAug 32, 232–48. Sivan, H. 1993 ‘Anician women, the cento of Proba, and aristocratic conversion in the fourth century’, VChr 47, 140–57. Springer, C.P.E. 1993 ‘Jerome and the cento of Proba’, Studia patristica 28, 96–105.

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Virgil, Christianity, and the Cento Probae Stevenson, J. 2005 Women Latin Poets: Language, gender, and authority from Antiquity to the eighteenth century, Oxford. Usher, M.D. 1997 ‘Prolegomenon to the Homeric centos’, AJPh 118, 305–21. Van der Nat, P.G. 1973 ‘Die Praefatio der Evangelienparaphrase des Iuvencus’, in W. den Boer (ed.) Romanitas et Christianitas: studia Iano Henrico Waszink a. d. VI Kal. Nov. a. MCMLXXIII XIII lustra complenti oblata, 249–57. Verweyen, T. and Witting, G. 1991 ‘The cento: a form of intertextuality from montage to parody’, in H.F. Plett (ed.) Intertextuality, Berlin and New York, 165–78. White, C. 2000 Early Christian Latin Poets, London and New York. Wiesen, D.S. 1971 ‘Virgil, Minucius Felix, and the Bible’, Hermes 99, 70–91.

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7 THE BIBLE HELLENIZED: NONNUS’ PARAPHRASE OF ST JOHN’S GOSPEL AND ‘EUDOCIA’S’ HOMERIC CENTOS Mary Whitby

1. Introduction A cluster of three texts associated with the middle decades of the fifth century are the only surviving Greek witnesses to two complementary types of poetry more widely attested in Latin, biblical paraphrase and biblical cento poetry. We have two Greek paraphrases, that of the Psalms incorrectly attributed to Apollinarius, the fourth-century bishop of Laodicea condemned for heresy at the Council of Constantinople in 381, and that of the Gospel of John by Nonnus of Panopolis. Cento poetry is represented by the Homeric centos attributed to the Empress Eudocia, wife of Theodosius II: she died in 460.1 All three texts retail parts of the Bible in a more elaborate literary form, but they employ two distinct techniques. While the paraphrases render an individual book of the Bible into original hexameter verse, the centos select lines and half-lines from Homer and recycle them in new combinations so as to re-tell a wide range of episodes: a series of New Testament themes is located in the context of God’s purpose for the world by an introductory sequence based on the Old Testament. The centos are arranged in independent chapters on discrete topics, whereas the twenty-one books of Nonnus’ paraphrase each cover one chapter of St John’s Gospel. Extant Latin paraphrase spans a much longer period, from the fourth to the sixth century. The closest parallel to Nonnus’ poem on an individual book of the New Testament is Arator’s paraphrase of the Acts of the Apostles, which was recited in a public performance in a church in Rome over a period of four days in ad 544.2 Two centuries earlier, under Constantine, the Spaniard Juvencus had composed a Latin epic based on the three synoptic Gospels, an example followed in the fifth century by Sedulius in his Paschale Carmen. There also survive several fifth-century Latin paraphrases of Old Testament material.3 It has been argued that Latin paraphrase developed in conjunction with advances in the study of the Bible – improvements to 195 Return to Table of Contents

Mary Whitby the text and a growing corpus of exegesis that was linked to Christological controversy. The Latin paraphrasts concentrated on limited parts of the Bible – Genesis, the early historical books, the Psalter, and the synoptic Gospels.4 Nonnus’ choice of John’s Gospel distinguishes him from his Latin counterparts, but it too has been convincingly linked with exegesis, specifically the commentary on John by Cyril of Alexandria which was completed there in ad 428.5 For cento, the best-known Latin exponent is, like the Empress Eudocia, an aristocratic lady, Proba, who, probably in the 360s, composed a 694-line poem of similar scope to the Homeric centos, beginning with Old Testament material on the Fall of Man and the Flood as background to an account of the life, death, and ascension of Christ.6 These Latin poems have received considerable attention in recent years7 and this work, together with the fact that we now have new editions, or partial new editions, for two of the three Greek texts, encourages reconsideration of the techniques and objectives of the Greek poets.8 Nonnus and ‘Eudocia’ (the attribution is uncertain) have both benefited from recent scholarship. In Italy Enrico Livrea and his pupils are working on the paraphrase of the Gospel of St John. At the time of writing, new editions, with extensive introduction, commentary, and Italian translation, exist for six of its twenty-one books9 and more are promised.10 The Homeric centos have been twice edited in as many years, by André-Louis Rey (1998) and by M.D. Usher (1999).11 The manuscript transmission of this latter text is complex and Rey and Usher edited distinct recensions, a shorter and a longer version; a third group of manuscripts which contain the shortest collection of verses remains unedited.12 The Greek paraphrase of the Psalms, on the other hand, still has to be read in the 1912 edition of Arthur Ludwich. However, Joseph Golega’s studies of 1939 and 1960 established on both literary and doctrinal grounds that the work belongs to the fifth rather than the fourth century: it displays knowledge of the poetry of Gregory of Nazianzus, has linguistic, although not metrical, links with Nonnus’ paraphrase, represents orthodox Chalcedonian theology, and so on. Golega argued for a date in the 460s, identifying the Marcian to whom the preface ( protheoria) is dedicated as the Egyptian steward (oikonomos) of St Sophia who died after 470.13 Later studies put the date a little earlier, perhaps in the 450s.14 The addressee has also, less plausibly, been identified with the Emperor Marcian, who reigned from 450 to 457.15 The Psalm paraphrase, then, is close in time both to Nonnus’ paraphrase and to Eudocia. But I leave it aside in this study because it is separated from them both by its Old Testament theme16 and by its different technique. The Psalm metaphrast17 produced a cautious line-by-line versification of the Septuagint text, aiming to restore it to the verse form of the original Hebrew,18 whereas 196 Return to Table of Contents

Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos both Nonnus and Eudocia in their individual ways go far beyond the biblical text. In this chapter I briefly consider the context for these two works, outline some of the larger issues that have been raised in connection with each, and then sample them so as to demonstrate and to juxtapose their techniques for Hellenizing the Bible and to assess their literary quality; I conclude with some speculations on their purpose. 2. Paraphrase and cento: context and background Pseudo-Apollinarius and Nonnus are the only Greek biblical verse paraphrases to have survived complete, but we know of another from the same period. Photius speaks admiringly of the Empress Eudocia’s paraphrase of the Octateuch and another of the books of Zechariah and Daniel:19 his comment that the reader has no need of the originals suggests that the Octateuch paraphrase may have been as faithful to the biblical text as the extant Psalm paraphrase.20 In the same context Photius summarizes Eudocia’s three-book hexameter poem on the life of the martyr Cyprian of Antioch, which is partially extant.21 This flowering of Greek paraphrase in the mid-fifth century has to be considered in conjunction with comments in the contemporary church historians Socrates (Hist. Eccl. 3.16) and Sozomen (Hist. Eccl. 5.18) on paraphrases of the Bible undertaken by Apollinarius of Laodicea and perhaps by his father (also Apollinarius) a century earlier in response to Julian’s edict of 362 forbidding Christians to teach in schools.22 Socrates and Sozomen give slightly different accounts, but both refer to paraphrases of large parts of the Bible into a range of metres – hexameters, tragic and comic verse, Pindaric lyrics – while Socrates adds that the Gospels were rendered into Platonic dialogues. Socrates, writing about 440, condemns this activity, whereas a few years later Sozomen acclaims it. Nothing of the works of the Apollinarii survives and it may be that the versifications never existed or at least that their extent was exaggerated,23 but the church historians reinforce the evidence of the surviving texts by highlighting contemporary interest in biblical paraphrase.24 As Eudocia’s poem on St Cyprian indicates, the mid-fifth century also saw verse paraphrases of other Christian texts such as martyr acts. Photius (cod. 168; 116b1–3) alludes to a verse paraphrase of the Acts of Thecla by Basil of Seleucia (d. c. 468), but this testimony is not secure since the prose Acts and Miracles of Thecla also attributed to Basil have been shown not to be his work.25 Secular cento and paraphrase are both attested from the imperial period and beyond, but very little Greek cento survives. This ‘whimsical genre’ 26 is exemplified by a second-century graffito found among others inscribed by Roman tourists on the legs of a Memnon colossus,27 and again much later in the ninth century by erotic and mythological epigrams probably all attribut197 Return to Table of Contents

Mary Whitby able to Leo the Philosopher.28 Cento-like incantations also occur in Greek magical papyri.29 From late Antiquity Ausonius’ risqué Cento Nuptialis (c. 374) is a better-known and more substantial Latin example of erotic cento. More interesting in our context is a ten-line Homeric cento (five lines from the Iliad and five from the Odyssey) preserved in Irenaeus’ Adversus Haereses (1.9.4) which describes Heracles’ descent to Hades to free Pluto’s dog. On one interpretation, this is a gnostic allegory for the descent of Christ, which, if right, would provide a curious precedent for ‘Eudocia’s’ use of Homeric cento to enunciate biblical themes. However, this Christian interpretation of the lines is by no means certain.30 The Greek Christus Patiens, once attributed to Gregory of Nazianzus but now usually dated to the eleventh or twelfth century,31 drew on tragic sources for a similar purpose. Cento composition is often associated with aristocratic leisure and entertainment – Jerome’s letter to Paulinus of Nola criticizing its puerility is frequently quoted ( Jer. Ep. 53.7)32 – but within that context it could also have a serious purpose. Although doubt has been cast on the view that Proba’s poem may (like the work of Apollinarius and his son) have been a response to Julian’s schools edict,33 hers is not a frivolous undertaking.34 And a lost cento continuation of Homer by Tatian was admired by Libanius, who attests its use as a school text.35 Paraphrase has more fundamental links with education. Explanatory prose paraphrases of Homer, closely following the original word-order, were a standard school teaching tool, to aid either the teacher’s exegesis or the student’s comprehension: examples survive on papyri dating from the first century bc to the fifth century ad. In addition, from an early period paraphrase of a short passage, often from Homer, was a rhetorical exercise in style at both elementary and higher levels, its object to demonstrate verbal dexterity by retaining the content of a passage while varying its form. In the fourth century Sopater produced seventy-two different paraphrases of a single short passage from the Iliad, using different rhetorical figures. Two prose paraphrases of Iliad 12.322–8 by Procopius of Gaza (fifth/sixth century) are also preserved. More sophisticated than the school paraphrases were those used to expound a difficult or technical text, such as Themistius’ prose paraphrases of Aristotle and those of Nicander’s and Oppian’s didactic poems. These often had their own stylistic refinement, sometimes included supplementary exegetical material, and could be read independently of the original text. In the Byzantine period iambic paraphrases made learned hexameter poems more accessible: an early example is Marianus Scholasticus (fifth/sixth century), who rendered Apollonius Rhodius, Theocritus, Callimachus, and others into iambics.36 Biblical epic paraphrase is distinctive in that it embellishes a text originally in a simple style and renders prose into verse, but it has links in technique 198 Return to Table of Contents

Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos with both the rhetorical exercise and the explanatory paraphrase: in Nonnus’ case, as we shall see, it involved ornamentation, variation, and exegesis. Such a high-style work could not have the straightforward educational purpose of the elementary prose paraphrase, but, more in the manner of the rhetorical paraphrase, it was aimed at a sophisticated audience able to appreciate its complex allusion and artistry. Planudes in the thirteenth century was clear that its purpose was ‘for the delight of lovers of learning and of language’ (πρὸς τέρψιν φιλομάθεσι καὶ φιλολόγοις).37 More recently it has been suggested that Nonnus’ Paraphrase was intended for a similar audience to that of the Dionysiaca, the mixed group of cultivated Christians and pagans who frequented the philosophy schools of Alexandria.38 This suggestion is persuasive, although the absence of an explanatory authorial preface means that we can only guess at Nonnus’ intentions. Study of the Latin authors of biblical paraphrase has demonstrated a range of motivations for writing, often closely tied to the author’s individual situation: in several cases prefaces or associated letters offer more or less explicit statements.39 Since this corpus of works was composed over more than two centuries, it is not surprising that no single explanation emerges, although a broad devotional purpose has been argued.40 Juvencus in the fourth century felt the need for a highbrow Christian literature analogous to the pagan classics. The author of the Alethia in the fifth envisaged a youthful audience for whom his work would be educational, while the roughly contemporary Heptateuch paraphrase, for which no preface survives, seems more suited to cultivated literary entertainment than school reading. Sedulius both expected to derive personal moral benefit from his Paschale Carmen and implied a didactic motive by noting the valuable mnemonic qualities of a verse rendition. Arator too speaks of personal inclination in writing after retirement from public life to the Church and is clear that he intends to explore both the literal and the mystical meaning of his text: his poem systematically couples literal and allegorical interpretation and has been described as a verse commentary on Acts.41 Avitus’ De Spiritalis Historiae Gestis, composed in the last decade of the fifth century, similarly examined the sequence of Christian salvation for a cultured audience. Although one might argue for an increasingly sophisticated exegetical motivation in the later works,42 the intellectual and spiritual attainments of the individual authors, as well as their poetic talent, were clearly crucial determinants. 3. Nonnus i. Authorship and date It used to be doubted that the author of the forty-eight book Dionysiaca describing the birth and career of Dionysus could also have written the 199 Return to Table of Contents

Mary Whitby verse paraphrase of St John’s Gospel, simply because of the pagan/Christian dichotomy; at the very least a mid-career Christian conversion was postulated. But recent critics have viewed this dichotomy as an anachronistic construct, and demonstrated the prevalence of syncretism in late Antiquity.43 Dual authorship has, however, been proposed on different grounds by Lee Sherry, whose 1991 Columbia thesis provided a translation of the Paraphrase with prolegomenon, and who subsequently edited in collaboration with Bernard Coulie the Thesaurus pseudo-Nonni quondam Panopolitani (1995), in which the challenge is reiterated. Sherry’s argument rests on technical points of syllabic quantity and verse construction: first, the Dionysiaca is well known for its accurate scansion – it has only one error of quantity 44 – whereas the much shorter Paraphrase has at least nine such errors, excluding proper names. Second, the Dionysiaca is stringent in the regulation of accent at line-end and at the mid-verse caesura, but the Paraphrase shows greater laxity.45 Sherry concluded that the author of the Paraphrase did not understand Nonnus’ metrics and suggested that the poem was ‘virtually a cento’ of the Dionysiaca, composed after 450, his terminal date for the latter..46 Close studies of the two poems, however, decisively refute this argument: metrical anomalies in the Paraphrase can be related to the constraints of proper names and desire to retain a powerful expression in the Gospel model.47 Indeed, good linguistic grounds have been adduced to suggest that the Paraphrase was begun before the Dionysiaca,48 perhaps shortly after the completion of Cyril of Alexandria’s commentary on John’s Gospel in 428.49 Livrea’s view that the epithet θεητόκος (e.g. Par. 2.2) reflects the ratification by the Council of Ephesus in 431 of the title ‘Theotokos’ for the Virgin is less watertight,50 as are his arguments that the poem must postdate the death of Cyril of Alexandria in 444 and predate the Council of Chalcedon in 451;51 a dating around 430 has also been proposed on the basis of the Christological language of the poem.52 The earliest certain echoes of the Paraphrase occur in Pamprepius, who died in 484;53 the terminus ante quem is pushed back perhaps to about 460 if we accept that the Psalm paraphrase also imitates it.54 Livrea’s identification of Nonnus of Panopolis with the fifth-century bishop of Edessa of the same name is also problematical,55 and it is prudent simply to settle for composition in the middle decades of the fifth century by an author of whom we know only what he tells us in Anthologia Palatina 9.198:56 Νόννος ἐγώ· Πανὸς μὲν ἐμὴ πόλις, ἐν Φαρίῃ δὲ ἔγχεϊ φωνήεντι γονὰς ἤμησα Γιγάντων.

I am Nonnus, Pan’s is my city, but at Pharos with my voice’s spear I mowed down the Giants’ seed.

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Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos frame available for their composition, the view that they were written contemporaneously is attractive.57 ii. Sample The familiar story of Doubting Thomas is one of a sequence of incidents in the last two chapters of John’s Gospel in which Christ shows himself to the disciples after the Crucifixion and before the Resurrection. Chapter 20, represented by Book 20 of Nonnus’ Paraphrase,58 has four main incidents – Mary Magdalene’s discovery of the empty tomb and her fetching of Simon Peter and John (vv. 1–10), Mary’s subsequent encounter with the ‘gardener’ whom she eventually recognizes as the risen Christ (vv. 10–18), the appearance of Jesus to the disciples behind closed doors (vv. 19–23), and Doubting Thomas (vv. 24–9) – and concludes with two verses summarizing the miracles of the risen Christ (vv. 30–1). Of these incidents the first, the discovery of the empty tomb, appears in all the Gospels in slightly differing versions, while the last, Doubting Thomas, is unique to John. These two stories also form the subject of two of the Homeric centos. I take the shorter, Doubting Thomas, as my example to illustrate the respective techniques of paraphrase and cento composition. 24 Θωμᾶς δὲ εἷς ἐκ τῶν δώδεκα, ὁ λεγόμενος Δίδυμος, οὐκ ἦν μετ’ αὐτῶν ὅτε ἦλθεν Ἰησοῦς. 25 ἔλεγον οὖν αὐτῷ οἱ ἄλλοι μαθηταί· ἑωράκαμεν τὸν κύριον. ὁ δὲ εἶπεν αὐτοῖς· ἐὰν μὴ ἴδω *τὰς χεῖρας αὐτοῦ καὶ βάλω μου τὸν δάκτυλον* εἰς τὸν τύπον τῶν ἥλων καὶ βάλω μου τὴν χεῖρα εἰς τὴν πλευρὰν αὐτοῦ, οὐ μὴ πιστεύσω. 26 καὶ μεθ’ ἡμέρας ὀκτὼ πάλιν ἦσαν ἔσω οἱ μαθηταὶ αὐτοῦ καὶ Θωμᾶς μετ’ αὐτῶν. ἔρχεται ὁ Ἰησοῦς [(τῶν θυρῶν κεκλεισμένων)] καὶ ἔστη εἰς τὸ μέσον καὶ εἶπεν· εἰρήνη ὑμῖν. 27 εἶτα λέγει τῷ Θωμᾷ· φέρε τὸν δάκτυλόν σου ὧδε καὶ ἴδε τὰς χεῖράς μου καὶ φέρε τὴν χεῖρά σου καὶ βάλε εἰς τὴν πλευράν μου, καὶ μὴ γίνου ἄπιστος ἀλλὰ πιστός. 28 καὶ ἀπεκρίθη Θωμᾶς καὶ εἶπεν αὐτῷ· ὁ κύριός μου καὶ ὁ θεός μου. 29 λέγει αὐτῷ ὁ Ἰησοῦς· ὅτι ἑώρακάς με John 20.24–9 πεπίστευκας; μακάριοι οἱ μὴ ἰδόντες καὶ πιστεύσαντες.59

24 But Thomas, one of the twelve, called Didymus, was not with them when Jesus came. 25 The other disciples therefore said unto him, We have seen the Lord. But he said unto them, Except I shall see in his hands the print of the nails, and put my finger into the print of the nails, and thrust my hand into his side, I will not believe. 26 And after eight days again his disciples were within, and Thomas with them: then came Jesus, the doors being shut, and stood in the midst, and said, Peace be unto you. 27 Then saith he to Thomas, Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands; and reach hither thy hand, and thrust it into my side: and be not faithless, but believing. 28 And Thomas answered and said unto him, My Lord and my God. 29 Jesus saith unto him, Thomas, because thou hast seen me, thou hast believed: blessed are they that have not seen, and yet have believed. Authorized King James version

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Mary Whitby John’s narrative is characterized by its simplicity and the prominence of direct speech. Verse 24 first singles out the absent Thomas, identifying him by his second name ‘Didymus’, ‘the twin’. Direct speech follows in v. 25 with the exchange between the disciples and Thomas; v. 26 culminates in Jesus’ words to the disciples, which are followed (v. 27) by his direct address to Thomas, which pick up Thomas’s own words two verses earlier; v. 28 signals Thomas’s recognition in his address to Jesus, and the passage ends with Jesus’ comment on the blessedness of those who believe without seeing (v. 29). Verse 26 adds some circumstantial details – the eight-day interlude between the two appearances of Christ and the closed doors – but the essentials of the encounter are conveyed in the words of the participants. 24 25 26 27 28 29

Θωμᾶς δ’ ἐνδομύχων ἀπελείπετο μοῦνος ἑταίρων, ἀγχιφανὴς ὅτε πᾶσι δι’ ἠέρος ἦλθεν Ἰησοῦς κοίρανος ἠνεμόφοιτος ἀμάρτυρον οἶμον ἀμείβων. καί οἱ ὀπιπευτῆρες ἐπεφθέγξαντο μαθηταί, κοίρανον ὡς ἐνόησαν· ὁ δὲ θρασὺ χεῖλος ἀνοίξας ἔννεπε μῦθον ἄπιστον, ἐπεὶ βραδυδινέι θυμῷ μαρτυρίης ἄγναμπτον ἐδίζετο μείζονα πειθώ· εἰ μὴ χεῖρας ἴδοιμι βαθυνόμενόν τε σιδήρῳ πήξω δάκτυλον ἄκρον ἐς ὀξυτόρων τύπον ἥλων καὶ παλάμην γλαφυροῖο κατὰ πλευροῖο πελάσσω, οὔποτε πιστεύσοιμι. θεοφραδέες δὲ μαθηταί ὀγδοάτης μετὰ φέγγος ἐπήλυδος ἠριγενείης πάντες ἔσαν στοιχηδὸν ἔσω κρυφίοιο μελάθρου φρίκτον Ἰουδαίων πεφυλαγμένοι ὄγκον ἀπειλῆς· ἀγρομένοις δ’ ἅμα τοῖσι συνέστιος ἕζετο Θωμᾶς, ὃν Δίδυμον καλέσαντο διώνυμον· ἀπροϊδὴς δέ Χριστὸς ἔσω μεγάροιο θορὼν ἀνεμώδεϊ ταρσῷ ἄπτερος ἀγχιθέων ἀνεφαίνετο μέσσος ἑταίρων· καὶ τριτάτῃ παλίνορσος ἀνίαχεν ἠθάδι φωνῇ· εἰρήνη πάλιν ὔμμι. καὶ εἰν ἑνὶ πάντας ἐάσας Θωμᾶν ἀντικέλευθον ἀμείβετο μάρτυρι μύθῳ· δός μοι δεῦρο, πέπον, σέο δάκτυλον, ὄφρα πελάσσω μάρτυν ἀναμφήριστον ἐς ὀξυτόρων τύπον ἥλων. καὶ παλάμας ἑκάτερθεν ἐμὰς ἴδε· δεξιτερῇ δέ πλευρῇ χεῖρα τάνυσσον ἐμῆς αὐτάγγελον οὐλῆς καὶ τεὸν ἦθος ἄπιστον ἀναίνεο. πιστότερος δέ εἰς ἐμέ ῾διπλόος’ ἔσσο, καὶ εἰσορόων καὶ ἀφάσσων. Θωμᾶς δὲ ὑστερόμητις ἀμοιβάδα ῥήξατο φωνήν· κοίρανος ἡμέτερος καὶ ἐμὸς θεός. εἶπε καὶ αὐτός Ἰησοῦς Διδύμοιο νόον διχόμητιν ἐλέγχων· πείθεαι ἀθρήσας με καὶ ὄμμασι δέξαο πειθώ. κεῖνοι μᾶλλον ἔασι μακάρτεροι, οἳ μὴ ἰδόντες μείζονα πίστιν ἔχουσι καὶ οὐ χατέουσιν ὀπωπῆς.

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105

110

115

120

125

130

135

Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos 24 But Thomas alone of the closeted companions was missing, when Jesus came through the air appearing close by to all, the Lord borne on the wind, travelling a path unwitnessed. 105 25 And the disciples who were observers declared to him that they had seen the Lord. But he opening bold lip spoke a word of distrust, since with slow-eddying mind he sought testimony’s greater unbending persuasiveness: ‘Unless I see his hands and plant my finger-tip 110 in the print of the sharp-piercing nails, hollowed by the sword, and bring my palm down over his hollow side, 26 I will never trust.’ The disciples inspired by God after the light of the eighth supervening dawn were all lined up inside the secret hall 115 guarding against the awful weight of the threat of the Jews; and with them as they were gathered sat Thomas sharing the meal, whom they called Didymus, double-named; and unforeseen Christ within the chamber, leaping on windlike foot unwinged, appeared amidst the companions close to God, 120 and the third time returning cried out in familiar voice: 27 ‘Peace once more to you.’ And leaving all at once aside, facing Thomas he answered with witnessing word: ‘Give me here, friend, your finger, so that I may bring it near – witness incontrovertible – to the print of the sharp-piercing nails. 125 And see my palms on either side; and to my right side stretch out a hand self-messenger of my scar, and deny your untrusting nature. And be “doubly” more trustworthy of me, by both seeing and touching.’ 28 And Thomas, understanding late, burst out in tone of response: 130 29 ‘My Lord and my God.’ And Jesus himself said, censuring Didymus’ wavering mind: ‘You believe after seeing me, and by your eyes received persuasion. Those are more blessed who, although not seeing, have greater trust, and do not need the eye.’ 135 Nonnus, Paraphrase, 20.103–35

Leaving aside the more technical points of Nonnus’ style, I select here two aspects for discussion, the use of adjectives and of direct speech: both seem to me to yield interesting results. Expansion is the most obvious feature of Nonnus’ version: the six biblical verses, two of them (24 and 28) very short, are represented by thirty-three predominantly dactylic hexameters.60 The poet’s most obvious technique for expansion, long recognized, is the introduction of lush compound adjectives, some drawn from Homer and the Alexandrian poets, some apparently his own coinage. Overall in Book 20 the fifteen adjectives of the Gospel chapter have been increased to 159.61 Nonnus’ two poems have a higher number of Homeric epithets per hundred 203 Return to Table of Contents

Mary Whitby lines even than the Iliad and the Odyssey themselves – sixty-nine per hundred lines in the Paraphrase, sixty-eight in the Dionysiaca – the similar density surely a further point against Sherry’s hypothesis of dual authorship.62 But in Nonnus Homeric epithets are seldom ornamental, and careful attention is given to placing in the line, with variation from the Homeric sedes a priority. A nice example here is διπλόος, ‘double’ (129), now remote from its standard Homeric locations and usage (of a garment of double thickness),63 but at once capturing the redoubled faith the Lord hopes that Thomas now has from both seeing and touching, and playing by its sound and sense upon his name ‘Didymus’, ‘twin’. Other adjectives originate in classical and Alexandrian poetry: such is ἐνδόμυχος (103), first in Sophocles’ Philoctetes (1457), but here surely evoking Callimachus’ description in the Hymn to Demeter of the ‘closeted’ Erysichthon (Callim. Hymn 6.87). Finally, coinages like ἠνεμόφοιτος (105, ‘wind-borne’, of Christ) further elaborate upon the Gospel original. But it is not by mere accumulation of adjectives that Nonnus elaborates the Gospel material and in so doing changes its character. As mentioned above, with the epithet διπλόος (129), he draws attention to Thomas’s other name, ‘Didymus’.64 In the Gospel, this name is mentioned in v. 24 at the natural moment when Thomas is introduced (Θωμᾶς … ὁ λεγόμενος Δίδυμος), but not again thereafter. Nonnus, on the other hand, omits the name at the beginning, introducing it only in line 118 (~ v. 26), the occasion when Thomas is present with the disciples just before Jesus’ second appearance to them (συνέστιος ἕζετο Θωμᾶς, | ὃν Δίδυμον καλέσαντο διώνυμον, ‘Thomas sat with them sharing the meal, whom they called with a double name Didymus’). Attention is drawn to the name Didymus by the long initial clause of 118 with διώνυμον emphatically placed after the mid-line caesura, and echoing Δίδυμον in sound and sense, Δίδυμον … διώνυμον (‘Didymus … double-named’); this echo is later picked up in διπλόος (129). At 132, when the Lord reproaches Thomas, his name Didymus is repeated, Διδύμοιο νόον διχόμητιν ἐλέγχων, ‘censuring the wavering mind of Didymus’, Nonnus’ coinage διχόμητις 65 again playing on the di- sound of its prefix. So, beginning from the name Didymus, Nonnus introduces the sequence ‘of double name’ (διώνυμον, 118), ‘twofold’, ‘double’ (διπλόος, 129), and finally ‘of double/ wavering mind’ (διχόμητιν, 132). This last characterization of Thomas can be linked to the initial description of him as one ‘with slow-eddying mind’ (βραδυδινέι θυμῷ, 108),66 and ‘understanding late’ (ὑστερόμητις, 130),67 which contrasts with his ‘bold lip’ (107): Thomas is one prone to ponder before accepting but also inclined to speak too soon, as when he demands tangible proof of Jesus’ return. In sum, I suggest that Nonnus has deliberately delayed mention of Thomas’s alternative name Didymus from its place early in the Gospel account and then elaborated on it in a sequence of linguistic 204 Return to Table of Contents

Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos echoes so as to link it with Thomas’s behaviour in this episode.68 Through careful placing of meaningful epithets Nonnus’ Thomas acquires a much more distinctive and coherent character than he has in John’s account, and the episode is focused around the aptness of his name. The character of Christ too and his miraculous appearances acquires greater complexity in Nonnus’ hands. This is indicated already in the adaptation of the Gospel verse 24, ‘But Thomas … was not with them when Jesus came.’ Nonnus devotes two lines to the last phrase (ὅτε ἦλθεν Ἰησοῦς), which becomes (104–5) ‘when appearing close by to all’ – ἀγχιφανής is a further striking coinage – ‘Jesus came through the air, the Lord borne on the wind [another new compound], travelling a path unwitnessed’. This expansion shifts the emphasis of v. 24 from Thomas (in the Gospel) to Christ’s miraculous epiphany, like that of an epic god borne through the air, perhaps reflecting the idea, already in Plato, of the soul’s ascent to the air, rather than descent to hell, after death.69 For Christ’s second appearance (v. 26) Nonnus uses similar language (118–20), this time combining the idea of airborne entry with emphasis on the suddenness and shock of the epiphany: ἀπροϊδής (118), ‘unforeseen’, ‘unexpected’, is reinforced by its appearance at line-end with enjambment and by θορών, ‘leaping’, in the following line, split by the caesura from its accompanying phrase ἔσω μεγάροιο, ‘within the chamber’, while ‘on windlike foot’ (119) looks back to ‘windborne’ in 105, but is qualified by ‘unwinged’ (ἄπτερος, 120): Christ retains his human form. Accorinti observed that Nonnus in the Dionysiaca uses ἄπτερος of Hermes (Dion. 4.87, 35.239), the god who in the Homeric Hymn finds his way through keyholes (Hom. Hymn Herm. 145–7): ‘and luck-bringing Hermes, the son of Zeus, passed edgeways through the keyhole of the hall like the autumn breeze, even as mist’.70 This is but one aspect of a much broader assimilation in Nonnus, through the use of identical epithets, of the figures of Christ and Hermes.71 The Gospel account at this point (v. 26) has the phrase ‘the doors being closed’, which is omitted by Nonnus but no doubt present in the minds of an audience to whom the Gospel text would have been very familiar.72 It is especially pertinent to emphasize Christ’s supernatural epiphanies in the context of the story of Thomas’s doubt: when Thomas actually touches Christ’s wounds, there can be no doubt that his resurrection is indeed physical as well as miraculous. This point is made by Cyril of Alexandria in his commentary on John’s Gospel: Cyril draws a contrast both with Christ’s refusal to allow Mary Magdalene to touch him earlier in the same chapter and with the unbearable and unapproachable light surrounding Christ at the Transfiguration (Matt. 17.1–2).73 It seems to me that the techniques displayed here in the portrayal both of Christ’s epiphanies and of Thomas’s doubt are very similar to techniques 205 Return to Table of Contents

Mary Whitby which have been much more thoroughly investigated for the Dionysiaca. Beneath the glittering opulence of Nonnus’ adjectives lies a carefully contrived and allusive purpose, a witty display of erudition, unobtrusive but responsive to probing, with links both to classical literature and to contemporary theological discussion. Sherry’s disquiet on matters metrical does not pose a serious challenge to the view that Nonnus is the author of both poems. I turn now to Nonnus’ use of direct speech in this passage. This too is an area which has received detailed attention for the Dionysiaca.74 In that poem Nonnus favours long monologues in the ethopoeic style: participants or onlookers react with high emotion to their situation or to what they see, often without regard for those around them, so that conversational interchange is unusual.75 Our sample of the Paraphrase shows a different technique from that of the Dionysiaca: conversational speech plays a large part in the Gospel passage and Nonnus remains close to his model. The foregrounding of Thomas as against the other disciples is assisted by downgrading their words ‘we have seen the Lord’ (v. 25) to indirect speech (line 107), while Thomas’s own tricolon of disbelief in the same biblical verse, culminating in ‘I will not believe’, is closely reproduced (110–13), its force enhanced by the prefatory lines of characterization (107–9) introduced by Nonnus and discussed above. Nonnus’ rendering of v. 26 supplements the biblical account with material on the secrecy of the disciples’ meeting and their fear of the Jews (115–16) – the latter transposed from v. 19 of the Gospel76 – as well as on Thomas’s name and the nature of Christ’s arrival, already discussed. Jesus’ words ‘peace be with you’ (122), with only πάλιν added to the Gospel text to recall that this is his second visit, form a forceful hemistich, like those of Thomas at the beginning of 113. Like Thomas’s words of doubt (113), Jesus’ address to the errant Thomas (124–8) is close to that of John, with παλάμας varying χεῖρας as at 110–12, and Homeric πέπον (124) to suggest Jesus’ kindly affection.77 Thomas’s response, ‘my Lord and my God’ (131), reproduces exactly John’s effective simplicity (v. 28), as does the phrase οἳ μὴ ἰδόντες in Jesus’ concluding lesson (v. 29 and line 134), even though the latter entails an uncharacteristic metrical licence.78 The final phrase of 135, καὶ οὐ χατέουσιν ὀπωπῆς, smacks of Nonnian redundance, but overall Nonnus’ reproduction of the biblical direct speech is restrained and effective. The long monologues that interrupt the narrative flow of the Dionysiaca are rejected as a means of expansion here since they would merely distract from the Gospel text, whereas Nonnus’ carefully selected epithets assist interpretation of its meaning. In the Paraphrase Nonnus offers a text and interpretation intertwined in one. The Gospel original is expanded to incorporate exegetical material – here 206 Return to Table of Contents

Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos the link between Thomas’s second name and his doubting behaviour and the hints at the nature of Christ’s epiphanies. But by keeping the dialogue basis of the original, Nonnus ensures that the text itself is also present to the reader’s mind – even at the expense of metrical laxity: the example just noted (οἳ μὴ ἰδόντες) arises from a conscious decision to retain John’s original phrase. Perhaps this brings us a little closer to understanding Nonnus’ purpose in composing this work. It has been observed that this florescence of Greek biblical paraphrase belongs to the period of great Christological controversy reflected in major Church councils in the East – Ephesus in 431 and Chalcedon in 451. Church councils feed on texts, including biblical exegesis. In an atmosphere where debate upon the meaning of Scripture is rife, Nonnus offers his own sophisticated contribution. On the other hand, Livrea has suggested that Nonnus’ ‘revisiting’ of the sacred text of the Gospel should be viewed in the context of the great Neoplatonist studies of Homer and the Platonic texts in this period, while his hagiography of Christ in the Paraphrase as a whole parallels the Neoplatonist Lives of Pythagoras, Plotinus, and Proclus.79 In the multicultural world of fifth-century Alexandria these views are not exclusive. 4. Eudocia i. Authorship and date The Empress Eudocia, who is credited with composing Homeric centos, is an exact contemporary of Nonnus, brought up in pagan intellectual circles. She was the daughter of an Athenian sophist, Leontius, became a Christian, was married to the emperor Theodosius II in 421, fell from favour in somewhat mysterious circumstances about 440,80 and spent the last decades of her life until her death in 460 in Jerusalem, where she was responsible for acts of munificence.81 We know that Eudocia was unusually well educated for a woman,82 that she wrote verse panegyric on Roman victories over Persia in 421 and 42283 and delivered a public oration at Antioch, which ended with a line based on the Iliad.84 An epigram in her honour has been found on a statue base in the Athenian agora.85 A verse inscription by her in praise of the baths at Hammat Gader in the Yarmuk valley in Palestine was published in 198286 and an iambic inscription from Paphlagonia records the cure of an infirmity in her left foot.87 Photius’ account of her Old Testament paraphrases (cods. 183–4) has already been mentioned, as has the partially extant verse paraphrase of the life of St Cyprian.88 Modern analysts differ on the likely dating of her works: Livrea puts the Cyprian poem about 439,89 while Cameron argued that the biblical and hagiographical paraphrases must postdate Socrates’ condemnation of the genre in 439, and they are usually associated with her 207 Return to Table of Contents

Mary Whitby period in Jerusalem at the end of her life.90 All, however, agree that the extant poem on St Cyprian is technically much inferior to Nonnus’ Paraphrase. Eudocia writes in an old-fashioned style with scant regard for the strict metrical rules observed by Nonnus and apparently limited understanding of basic metrics and grammar.91 These poems are, moreover, paraphrases rather than centos,92 while the biblical epic paraphrases described by Photius deal with books from the Old Testament by contrast with the predominantly New Testament focus of the surviving Homeric centos. These centos are linked to Eudocia by an epigram transmitted with them in some manuscripts, including the earliest, the tenth-century Paris suppl. gr. 388 used by Rey (1998), as well as the fourteenth-century Iviron manuscript on which Usher (1999) is based.93 These manuscripts in fact contain two explanatory epigrams.94 The first, also preserved independently in the Palatine Anthology (Anth. Pal. 1.119), summarizes the contents of a cento poem which covered the period from the Incarnation to the Resurrection. The poem is attributed to ‘the holy priest Patricius’ (βίβλος Πατρικίοιο θεουδέος ἀρητῆρος), and no mention is made of Eudocia. There follows in the Paris manuscript a short lemma explaining that Bishop Patricius set out these lines and that what follows is the defence (ἀπολογία) of Eudocia Augusta the Athenian, wife of Theodosius II son of Arcadius.95 The second epigram96 begins by praising Patricius as the initiator of the work (πάμπρωτος ἐμήσατο κύδιμον ἔργον, 4), but goes on to say (5–8) that his version is not completely truthful and does not preserve ‘the entire harmony of the verse’ (οὐδὲ μὲν ἁρμονίην ἐπέων ἐφύλαξεν ἅπασαν, 6), nor did he limit himself only to lines from Homer (7–8). Eudocia, finding the work half finished, took it up, took out altogether the lines that were in disorder (πάντα ἄμυδις κείνοιο σοφῆς ἐξείρυσα βίβλου, 12), completed parts that were missing, and gave ‘harmony to the holy verses’ (9–14). The core of the poem offers a defence (15–29) against criticism for the inclusion of ‘doubles’ (δοιάδες), that is, two successive Homeric lines, a practice which we know was condemned as ineptum by Ausonius and fourth-century Latin proponents of the genre.97 Eudocia defends herself on two grounds, first that we are all servants of necessity (πάντες ὑποδρηστῆρες ἀνάγκης, 18), that is, the technical constraints of metre and genre,98 and second that her predecessor Tatian (admired by Libanius) had an easier task, since he dealt with a Trojan theme (19–29).99 Patricius, on the other hand, had to adapt the Trojan material to the Gospel story (30–3). The poem concludes (34–8) by describing the work as a joint labour between Patricius and herself, woman though she is (θηλυτέρῃ περ ἐούσῃ, 35), though Patricius has won the greatest glory for laying the foundations. These epigrams indicate that Eudocia’s was already the second version of the cento poems. It is likely that both prefatory poems were composed 208 Return to Table of Contents

Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos about the middle of the fifth century: already in his 1897 edition of Eudocia, Arthur Ludwich identified Nonnian tendencies in the metre of the first epigram, a view accepted by more recent analysts.100 Recently Agosti has argued that the metrical technique of the second epigram, Eudocia’s own apologia, is close to that of the Patricius poem.101 However, the title of the Paris manuscript attributes the work jointly to ‘Bishop Patricius, Optimus the philosopher, Eudocia Augusta, and Cosmas of Jerusalem’ and describes it as a harmonious selection from all of them.102 Hence, although it preserves the epigrams which must have been attached to earlier versions, the Paris manuscript apparently represents a later reworking, which may have been undertaken in the eighth century if the identification of Cosmas with the hymnographer and bishop of Jerusalem of the same name is correct.103 We have little means of distinguishing individual contributors, since cento composition is not receptive to the usual criteria of stylistic analysis, except perhaps in the use or avoidance of ‘doubles’.104 But the Paris manuscript title implies that individual (though unidentified) chapters may represent early strands of a composition that invited constant reworking. It will be well to defer further comment on authorship until after examination of a sample from each version. The Paris and Iviron versions of the centos contain essentially the same span of material with slight variations, especially at the beginning: Usher (1999) contains fifty-three episodes and a total of 2344 lines, Rey (1998) has fifty episodes in about 1950 lines. Rey divides the corpus in the Paris manuscript into three main parts. First comes a prefatory group of centos (nos. 1–13) which deal with the prehistory of the Incarnation and the establishment of Christ’s ministry up to the call of the disciples. Here the Paris manuscript presents a slightly curtailed selection in a confused order by comparison with that preserved in the Iviron manuscript, a further indication that the Paris version is late.105 This is the most original part of the work, sketching the Old Testament background to the New Testament story.106 A longer central sequence (Centos 14–37) deals with Christ’s miracles, from the marriage at Cana to the raising of Lazarus (both of these, incidentally, only in John’s Gospel). The last part of the corpus (nos. 38–50: thirteen centos, like the first group) covers Christ’s death and resurrection, from Palm Sunday to the Ascension. ii. Sample (a) The Paris version The Doubting Thomas episode is preserved in both published versions of the centos. In each it is the penultimate chapter, followed by the Ascension. I look first at the version in the Paris manuscript edited by Rey. 209 Return to Table of Contents

Mary Whitby Ὀψὲ δὲ δή μιν ἑταῖρος ἀνὴρ ἴδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσι, (Il. 17.466) στῆ δὲ παρ’ αὐτὸν ἰὼν καί μιν πρὸς μῦθον ἔειπεν (Il. 8.280) εἰσορόων ὄψιν τ’ ἀγαθὴν καὶ μῦθον ἀκούων· (Il. 24.632) ‘ Ὦ φίλ’, ἐπεὶ νόστησας ἐελδομένοισι μάλ’ ἡμῖν, (Od. 24.400) 5 πείθεις δή μευ θυμόν, ἀπηνέα περ μάλ’ ἐόντα· (Od. 23.230) ἐν μοίρῃ γὰρ πάντα διίκεο καὶ κατέλεξας. (Il. 19.186) Ἄλλο δέ τοι ἐρέω, σὺ δὲ μὴ κότον ἔνθεο θυμῷ· (Od. 24.248) σῆμά τί μοι νῦν εἰπὲ ἀριφραδές, ὄφρα πεποίθω.’ (Od. 24.329) Τὸν δ’ αὖτε προσέειπε Θεοκλύμενος θεοειδής· (Od. 15.271, etc.) (Od. 14.391) 10 ‘ Ἦ μάλα τίς τοι θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ἄπιστος, ἀλλ’ ἄγε δεῦρο, πέπον, παρ’ ἐμ’ ἵστασο καὶ ἴδε ἔργον· (Il. 17.179; Od. 22.233) σῆμα δέ τοι ἐρέω μάλ’ ἀριφραδές, οὐδέ σε λήσει· (Il. 23.326; Od. 11.126) οὐλὴν μὲν πρῶτον τήνδε φράσαι ὀφθαλμοῖσιν (Od. 24.331) ὄφρα γνῷς κατὰ θυμόν, ἀτὰρ εἴπῃσθα καὶ ἄλλῳ.’ (Od. 22.373) 15 ‘Ως ἄρα φωνήσας ἀπεβήσετο, τὸν δ’ ἔλιπ’ αὐτοῦ. (Il. 2.35)





Cento 49 Rey

But at last there was one of his companions who laid eyes on him; He went over and stood beside him and spoke a word to him As he saw his brave looks and listened to him talking: ‘Dear master, since you have come back to us who wanted you, 5 So you persuade my heart, though it has been very stubborn; Fairly have you gone through everything and explained it. But I will also tell you this; do not take it as a cause for anger: Give me some unmistakable sign, so that I can believe you.’   Then godlike Theoclymenus said to him in answer: 10 ‘Truly the mind in you is something very suspicious; Come here, friend, and watch me at work, standing beside me And I will give you a clear proof, and you cannot miss it. First, then, look with your eyes upon this scar and know it So you may know in your heart and say to another.’ 15 So he spoke and went away and left him there. tr. Lattimore107

There may be an initial lacuna, since the title is missing in the manuscript and the beginning is abrupt:108 we move straight to verse 26 of the biblical narrative, the second appearance of Jesus to the disciples, when Thomas was present. The structure of the Gospel narrative is entirely changed: in the latter the incident is dominated by the words of Jesus, first to the disciples in general, then to Thomas, who responds only ‘my Lord and my God’, and finally Jesus’ lesson to Thomas. The cento offers a balanced dialogue with five lines each for Thomas (4–8) and Christ (10–14).109 The initial three lines describing Thomas, followed immediately by his speech, make him 210 Return to Table of Contents

Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos the more prominent of the two speakers. His speech is rather awkward, since the first three lines acknowledge the identity of Christ, but the last two then ask for proof, turning the biblical story on its head. There is no indication in the surviving lines of the setting of the episode, or of the locked doors and Christ’s miraculous entry. The Gospel account of Thomas’s insistence on touching the wounds and Christ’s concluding message about the blessedness of those who believe without seeing are omitted, the latter replaced by a dramatic exit line for Christ (15): this eliminates the message of the Gospel story. Clearly the composer who wishes to remain faithful to the Homeric originals – and every line is indeed authentically Homeric110 – is limited by the material at his disposal, but the immediate effect here is of attenuation and fundamental transformation of the Gospel account, although the result is not unpleasing in itself and the predominance of dialogue reflects the character of the Gospel narrative. One way to enhance the reading is to see Homer as an intertext which resonates against the Gospel story: consideration of the original Homeric context of the lines selected may add new layers of meaning. This is the approach favoured by Usher, whereas Rey is much more reluctant to link the recycled lines to their original Homeric context.111 In an earlier study of the cento describing the Annunciation, Smolak identified three possible relationships between the cento line and its original context – neutral, parallel, or contrasting.112 Schnapp’s more recent and discerning study of Proba’s cento (Schnapp 1992) comes to similar conclusions: he identifies a twofold consonant/dissonant response to the Virgilian original that expels what is resistant to Christian interpretation and absorbs what is not. Ironic discrepancies are sometimes pointed (for example, the choice of Aen. 5.49 points the analogy/contrast between the day of the funeral games for Anchises and the day of the Crucifixion),113 but less productive dissonances can produce a muddled picture, as when the Sermon on the Mount tends to promote Roman rather than Christian virtues. Finally, many of the lines chosen must be considered random, a connective tissue which helps to distance the Virgilian original but would drown out the new Christian context if each line were followed up. The reader must proceed with discrimination,114 although clustered allusions to a particular passage are likely to indicate pointed reference.115 This cautious approach has much to recommend it, although it is not easy to identify a means of excluding subjectivity, beyond Schnapp’s pinpointing of the likely significance of clustered allusion. The Homeric texts raise different issues from those of Virgil: on the one hand Homer is less explicitly moral, but on the other his reiterated set-piece typescenes provide a multi-layered stratum of reference. In addition, certain types of Gospel story will necessarily evoke certain types of material in the 211 Return to Table of Contents

Mary Whitby Homeric poems, for example, scenes of arrival and reception.116 Nevertheless investigation of the Homeric contexts of the lines selected for this account of the Doubting Thomas episode produces interesting results. The passage draws on both of the Homeric poems – some lines are common to both – with a slight preference for the Odyssey. There are no consecutive Homeric lines, but line 8 (spoken by Thomas) and line 13 (Christ) occur in close proximity in the scene where Laertes recognizes Odysseus: is Laertes’ subsequent joy at the sight of his lost son to be transferred also to Thomas? Similarly line 5 evokes Penelope’s equally joyous recognition of Odysseus, and line 4 is Dolius’ recognition of his master. Other lines recall the disguised Odysseus: line 7 comes from earlier in the Laertes scene when Odysseus first engages anonymously in conversation with his father, line 10 from Odysseus’ dialogue with Eumaeus before he is recognized, while Christ’s concluding words in line 14 are those of Odysseus to Medon as he spares him in the palace slaughter: Odysseus’ mercy and moral message there – he suggests Medon tell others that good dealing is better than bad – are pertinent to the biblical context. Finally line 11 has as its Odyssean model the commanding words of Athene to Odysseus as she assists him in the same scene.117 Four lines then from Thomas’s speech (4, 5, 7, 8) and four from Jesus’ answer (10, 11, 13, 14) draw upon scenes from Odysseus’ return in which the associated emotions can enrich a reading of the biblical paraphrase. The central line of each of the two speeches (6, 12) is taken from a new context, but in each case also evokes a moment of high tension. Line 6 (Il. 19.186) is from Agamemnon’s words to Odysseus in response to the latter’s proposed deal when Achilles and Agamemnon agree to be reconciled. Agamemnon’s somewhat grudging acknowledgement of the reasonableness of Odysseus’ terms is apposite to the new context of Thomas’s niggling doubt whether the figure he sees can really be the risen Christ in the flesh. Line 12 has two Homeric models, Nestor’s identification of the turning-post in the chariot-race in his preliminary advice to Antilochus, and, in more sombre mode, Teiresias’ prophecy to Odysseus of the future, when he must carry his oar to a land where it is identified as a winnowing-fan. In each Homeric scene an authoritative figure conveys crucial information to one less experienced or knowledgeable, as Christ’s scars will offer incontrovertible proof to Thomas. In addition, line 3 prefacing Thomas’s speech comes from an equally charged context, Achilles’ wonder at the sight of Priam in his hut: Thomas likewise is unable to believe the evidence of his eyes. The final line, on Jesus’ sudden departure, in Homer describes the departure from Agamemnon of the evil Dream that appeared in the guise of Nestor (Il. 2.35). The unexplained and sudden arrival and departure of this divine apparition in human form, the first of its kind in the Iliad, is as mysterious 212 Return to Table of Contents

Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos as that of Christ in the Gospel context.118 Homer’s Dream gives the advice to arm for battle that, after initially misfiring, sets in motion the tragic events of the Iliad, just as the appearance of the risen Christ will inspire his disciples to begin spreading the good news of his resurrection. In this case the negative resonances of the Homeric model are at odds with the joy and hope associated with Christ’s appearance. Of the Odyssean lines in the two speeches, all but 7 and 11 sustain an identification between Odysseus and Christ, a parallelism which pervades the centos, although here too, as elsewhere, Christ is also linked (line 9) with the mysterious Odyssean stranger Theoclymenus.119 Part of the point of that analogy is the significance of the name, ‘he who is heard by God’.120 I find myself persuaded that these two balanced speeches and their narrative framework have been constructed with careful attention to the original contexts of their constituent lines. It is striking that so many lines derive from scenes that are today considered high points in the Homeric poems. And yet work on the Homeric papyri has shown that these do not coincide with the parts of the poems most used in late Antiquity in an educational context at both elementary and more advanced levels. We have three times as many papyri of parts of the Iliad as of the Odyssey, the early books of the Iliad and the early parts of each book being commonest; the Catalogue of Ships was particularly favoured. Knowledge by heart of the poems was restricted to the highly educated, men like Plutarch and Libanius.121 So the resonances evoked in the centos are likely to have been accessible only to the most cultured, those who had enjoyed Eudocia’s own privileged level of education. This surely has implications for the intended audience of the centos; if they were read by students their subtle allusiveness is likely to have passed unnoticed. But on the other hand late Antiquity was an era when a cultured Christian elite might have clear recall both of Homer and of the Gospels. If the Homeric lines are familiar and loaded to us, might they not also have been equally resonant then? (b) The Iviron version οἱ δ’ ὅτε δή ῥ’ ἔντοσθε δόμου ἔσαν ὑψηλοῖο 2270 τερπόμενοι φιλότητι παρ’ ἀλλήλοισι κάθηντο. κηληθμῷ δ’ ἔσχοντο κατὰ μέγαρα σκιόεντα. κλήϊσαν δὲ θύρας μεγάρων ἐῢ ναιεταόντων. κληϊσταὶ δ’ ἔπεσαν σανίδες πυκινῶς ἀραρυῖαι.   ἦμος δ’ ἠριγένεια φάνη ῥοδοδάκτυλος Ἠώς, 2275 αὐτίκα δὴ μνηστῆρας ἐπῴχετο ἰσόθεος φώς. τοὺς δ’ αὖτε προσέειπε θεοκλύμενος θεοειδής,   ῾ ἔνδον μὲν δὴ ὅδ’ αὐτὸς ἐγὼ, κακὰ πολλὰ μογήσας,

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(Od. 1.126) (Od. 5.227) (Od. 13.2) (Od. 19.30) (Od. 2.344) (Od. 5.228) (Od. 1.324) (Od. 15.271) (Od. 21.207)

Mary Whitby γιγνώσκω δ’ ὡς σφῶϊν ἐελδομένοισιν ἱκάνω.᾿   καὶ τότε δή μιν ἑταῖρος ἀνὴρ ἴδεν ὀφθαλμοῖσιν. 2280 μερμήριξε δ’ ἔπειτα κατὰ φρένα καὶ κατὰ θυμὸν εἰσορόων ὄψιν τ’ ἀγαθὴν καὶ μῦθον ἀκούων, ἦ πρῶτ’ ἐξερέοιτο ἕκαστά τε μυθήσαιτο. στῆ δὲ παρ’ αὐτὸν ἰὼν καί μιν πρὸς μῦθον ἔειπε·

(Od. 21.209) (Il. 17.466) (Od. 4.117) (Il. 24.632) (Od. 4.119) (Il. 8.280) (Od. 3.211)   ‘ὦ φίλ’, ἐπειδὴ ταῦτά μ’ ἀνέμνησας καὶ ἔειπες· 2285 πείθεις δή μευ θυμόν, ἀπηνέα περ μάλ’ ἐόντα. (Od. 23.230) ἐν μοίρῃ γὰρ πάντα διΐκεο καὶ κατέλεξας. (Il. 19.186) (Od. 3.243) νῦν δ’ ἐθέλω ἔπος ἄλλο μεταλλῆσαι καὶ ἐρέσθαι. ὦ φίλε, εἰ καί μοι νεμεσήσεαι ὅττι κεν εἴπω; (Od. 1.158) σῆμά τί μοι νῦν δεῖξον ἀριφραδές, ὄφρα πεποίθω.’ (Od. 24.329) (Od. 15.271) 2290   τὸν δ’ αὖτε προσέειπε θεοκλύμενος θεοειδής, ‘ἦ μάλα τίς τοι θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ἄπιστος. (Od. 14.391) ἀλλὰ σὺ μή μοι ταῦτα νόει φρεσί, μηδέ σε δαίμων (Il. 9.600) ἐνταῦθα τρέψειε, φίλος· κάκιον δέ κεν εἴη. (Il. 9.601) (Od. 3.254) τοιγὰρ ἐγώ τοι, τέκνον, ἀληθέα πάντ’ ἀγορεύσω. 2295 ἦ τοι μὲν τόδε καὐτὸς ὀΐεαι, ὥς κεν ἐτύχθη. (Od. 3.255) (Od. 22.233) ἀλλ’ ἄγε δεῦρο, πέπον, παρ’ ἔμ’ ἵστασο καὶ ἴδε ἔργον, ὄφρ’ ἐῢ εἰδῇς οἷος ἐν ἀνδράσι δυσμενέεσσι. (Od. 22.234) (Od. 21.212) σφῶϊν δ’, ὡς ἔσεταί περ, ἀληθείην καταλέξω· εἰ δ’ ἄγε δὴ καὶ σῆμα ἀριφραδὲς ἄλλο τι δείξω, (Od. 21.217) 2300 ὄφρα μ’ ἐῢ γνῶτον πιστωθῆτόν τ’ ἐνὶ θυμῷ. (Od. 21.218) σῆμα δέ τοι ἐρέω μάλ’ ἀριφραδές· οὐδέ σε λήσει.’ (Il. 23.326) (Od. 21.221)   ὣς εἰπὼν ῥάκεα μεγάλης ἀποέργαθεν οὐλῆς. δεξιτερῆς δ’ ἕλε χειρὸς ἔπος τ’ ἔφατ’ ἔκ τ’ ὀνόμαζεν· (Il. 7.108)   ῾οὐλὴν μὲν πρῶτον τήνδε φράσαι ὀφθαλμοῖσι, (Od. 24.331) 2305 ὄφρα γνῷς κατὰ θυμόν, ἀτὰρ εἴπῃσθα καὶ ἄλλῳ. (Od. 22.373) ὡς ἐπὶ σοὶ μάλα πόλλ’ ἔπαθον καὶ πόλλ’ ἐμόγησα (Il. 9.492) ὄφρα μ’ ἐῢ γνῶτον πιστωθῆτόν τ’ ἐνὶ θυμῷ.᾿ (Od. 21.218) (Od. 17.150)   ὣς φάτο, τῶν δ’ ἄρα θυμὸν ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ὄρινε. οὐλὴν δ’ ἀμφράσσαιτο καὶ ἀμφαδὰ ἔργα γένοιτο, (Od. 19.391) 2310 χειρῶν δ’ ἁψάσθην· ὁ δὲ δακρύσας ἔπος ηὔδα· (Il. 10.377)   ῾νῦν γ’, ἐπεὶ ἤδη σήματ’ ἀριφραδέα μοι ἔδειξας (Od. 23.225) πείθεις δή μευ θυμόν, ἀπηνέα περ μάλ’ ἐόντα, (Od. 23.230) τοῖος ἐών τοι χθιζὸς ἐν ἡμετέροισι δόμοισι, (Od. 24.379) οὐδὲ λίην ἄγαμαι, μάλα δ’ εὖ οἶδ’ οἷος ἔησθα. (Od. 23.175) 2315 αὐτὰρ μὴ νῦν μοι τάδε χώεο μηδὲ νεμέσσα, (Od. 23.213) (Od. 23.214) οὕνεκά σ’ οὐ τὸ πρῶτον ἰδὼν ἐγὼ ὧδ’ ἐπίθησα. πρὶν δ’ ἔγνων, πρὶν πάντα ἄνακτ’ ἐμὸν ἀμφαφάασθαι. (Od. 19.475) αἰεὶ γάρ μοι θυμὸς ἐνὶ στήθεσσι φίλοισιν (Od. 23.215) (Od. 23.216) ἐρρίγει μή τίς με βροτῶν ἀπάφοιτο ἔπεσσιν.᾿ 2320   ὣς ἄρα φωνήσαντες ἀπέστασαν ἀλλήλοιϊν. (cf. Il. 13.708) Homeric Centos 2269–320 Usher122

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Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos The Doubting Thomas episode is here developed at much greater length in fifty-two lines, although expansion is not an overall characteristic of this recension.123 Stylistically this version is, as Usher suggests, more Homeric,124 being much less rigidly structured than the Paris version and including some repetition. The first five lines (2269–73) set the scene of the gathered disciples happy in one another’s company, a part of the episode missing in the Paris version. In contrast to Nonnus’ omission of the point, this passage puts strong emphasis in two successive line-openings on the closed doors (2272 κλήϊσαν, 2273 κληϊσταί), as in the Gospel ( John 20.19, 26), although John’s reference (20.19) to the disciples’ fear of the Jews (included by Nonnus) is omitted. The occasion is set at dawn rather than evening ( John 20.19), using a Homeric dawn formula (2274 = Od. 5.228). A long dialogue between Jesus and Thomas follows: Christ, presented once more as Theoclymenus, first briefly announces his arrival (2276–8), Thomas looks at him and ponders, then goes to stand beside him (2279–83). Thomas states his belief but asks for proof (2284–9), Christ/Theoclymenus rebukes his distrust but agrees to provide evidence (2290–301) and displays his scar (2302–7), so that Thomas, weeping, is finally persuaded and asks forgiveness (2308–19). This version uses seven ‘doubles’ or adjacent Homeric lines (2277 f., 2292 f., 2294 f., 2296 f., 2299 f., 2315 f., 2318 f.), as well as repeating three lines (2276, cf. 2290; 2285 = 2312; 2300 = 2307) and selecting lines that appear close together in Homer (e.g. 2270/2274, 2289/2304). Odyssean material plays a much larger part here than Iliadic, but two lines at the beginning of Jesus’ main speech to Thomas (2292 f.) come from the opening of Phoenix’s advice to Achilles, Iliad 9.600–1, while a line towards the end (2306) is taken from Phoenix’s earlier description of the troubles he had in caring for the infant Achilles (Il. 9.492): these establish the kindly and fatherly tone of Jesus’ words of rebuke. As for the Odyssey, new areas of the core poem are evoked: several scenes from the Telemachy (Athene/ Mentes and Telemachus, 2269, 2275, 2288; the locked doors of Odysseus’ storeroom, 2273; Athene/Mentor and Telemachus chez Nestor, 2284, 2287, 2294 f.; Menelaus watching Telemachus weep, 2280), along with new parts of Odysseus’ revelation of himself to loyal Ithacans – a number of lines come from the Eumaeus scene in Book 21, which provides Jesus’ initial greeting (2277 f.) and the words with which he displays his wounds (2298–300, 2302, 2307); 2309 and 2317 are from Eurycleia’s recognition of her master as she bathes him and touches the wound (a point omitted in the Paris version), while much of Thomas’s last speech draws on Penelope’s tricking of Odysseus and her subsequent plea for forgiveness (2311 f., 2315 f., 2318 f.). This evocation of Odysseus’ loyal but despondent dependants 215 Return to Table of Contents

Mary Whitby instils sympathy for Thomas’s doubt. In other cases, however, the original context evokes Schnapp’s sense of dissonance: line 2275 aptly designates Christ ‘godlike man’, but identifies the disciples with the suitors, while line 2270, depicting the disciples’ pleasure in being together, is adapted from a line describing Odysseus’ love-making with Calypso.125 This rendering is also rather closer to the biblical original than the Paris version: the setting is described, Thomas actually touches Christ’s wounds, and the biblical exchange of speeches is more closely reproduced. All but one (line 7) of the lines used in the Paris version are represented (lines 4 and 15 only partially), although the sequence is different at the beginning. Instead of the Paris line 7, ‘But I will also tell you this; do not take it as a cause for anger’ (Od. 24.248, Odysseus’ reprimand to Laertes for his shabbiness), this text uses Telemachean material (2288), Telemachus’ adverse comment to Athene/Mentes on the suitors’ behaviour (Od. 1.158), in line with the greater influence of the Telemachy overall. On the other hand, this more diffuse account lacks the epigrammatic punch and artistry of the shorter Paris one and it is technically less accomplished: its grammatical structures are flawed (e.g. lines 2308–10) and the particle connections weaker. Its use of adjacent Homeric lines or ‘doubles’ can be linked with Eudocia’s self-defence in the epigram discussed above (lines 15–18), and its technical weaknesses too might be explained by Eudocia’s description of herself there as ‘servant of necessity’ (line 18), and the deficiencies of her poem on St Cyprian may be recalled.126 Its evocation of Homeric contexts is, however, both learned and sophisticated. On the basis of this single sample, the longer version seems more in keeping with what we know of Eudocia’s poetic talents than the Paris version.127 But it would be rash to judge on a single instance and in the present state of scholarship it is prudent to remain a Doubting Thomas about the relationship and authorship of the different collections. iii. Proba and Eudocia It may be that the Virgilian centos composed by Proba in the mid-fourth century cast light on Eudocia’s interest in cento composition a century later. Two points suggest a connection. First, we know from a scribal preface added to Proba’s cento that a luxury version of her composition was presented to Eudocia’s husband Theodosius II, with an invitation to read and preserve it and hand it on to his young son Arcadius.128 Second, the surviving Homeric centos, like the poem of Proba, set the Gospel material in the context of an initial sequence from the Old Testament delineating God’s plan for man’s salvation from the time of Creation. Proba’s poem opens with fourteen episodes from Creation to the Exodus in chronological order (lines 29–332), 216 Return to Table of Contents

Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos followed by eighteen from the Gospels.129 Now the work of Patricius as summarized in the first of the two epigrams discussed above was concerned entirely with New Testament material, dealing with the period from the Incarnation to the Resurrection. So one aspect of Eudocia’s ‘completion’ of this material may have been to supply the Old Testament context on the analogy of Proba’s poem – a hypothesis which of course raises the tricky issue of whether we can assume that the well-educated Eudocia could read Proba’s Latin.130 But even if she could not, Proba’s poem is likely to have been discussed among the educated group at Theodosius’ court to which Eudocia belonged.131 Can Proba’s purpose in composing her cento poem also suggest a motiv­ ation for Eudocia? Proba’s cento has often been thought to have an educational aim as a response to Julian’s ban on Christian teachers in schools: this new Virgil, cleansed of passion and pagan gods, is fit material for Christian teachers.132 But perhaps her intention was not so much to provide an alternative highbrow literature for the school curriculum as to enhance Virgil by producing from him a new work that would be attractive to educated Christians and possibly even demonstrate Virgil’s prediction of Christian truth.133 Schnapp’s study locates Proba’s poem within the response of fourth-century intellectuals to the challenge of harnessing pagan learning and literary institutions in the service of Scripture. Cento had hitherto been a dilettante genre, as in the hands of Ausonius, but its use for the articulation of Scripture rendered it a serious tool for reflection on the conjunctions and disjunctions between pagan and Christian doctrine.134 In the Greek world, who better than the daughter of the sophist Leontius turned Christian empress to explore the possibilities of Homer as an intertext for Scripture? In addition, Eudocia’s early upbringing among the intellectuals of Alexandria and Athens135 makes it plausible that she was aware, as it is likely that her contemporary Nonnus was aware,136 of Neoplatonist allegorical interpretations of Homer, which read the texts as keys to understanding the structure of the cosmos and the relationship of body and soul.137 This contemporary interest in and reinterpretation of Homer may have helped spark Eudocia’s interest. But whereas Proba’s text enjoyed immediate and long-standing popularity,138 the Greek centos were repeatedly reworked, first by Eudocia herself from Patricius’ original and later by the shadowy Optimus and Cosmas. In the case of the Doubting Thomas episode, while it is plausible to see a serious interpretative purpose in the intertextual resonances of the longer version, such a purpose recedes in the Paris version, which has become far removed from the Gospel story: we seem to be back in the world of learned aristocratic jeu d’esprit. Hence the Paris rendering of the Doubting Thomas episode could be seen as a return to the dilettante composition of cento, an attempt to produce a more piquant version through rigorous selection of the 217 Return to Table of Contents

Mary Whitby cento lines. But any such conclusions can be no more than tentative, pending more extensive analysis and the appearance of a full edition of all the various recensions of the centos. In Doubting Thomas I have chosen a relatively uncomplicated example. Other samples from Nonnus’ Paraphrase and the Homeric centos would doubtless yield deeper engagement with theological discussion and contemporary contexts.139 But my chief purpose here has been to focus on literary craftsmanship and artistic intent, so as to illustrate the survival and revival of Hellenism for the elucidation of Christian texts. Appendix: The various recensions of the Homeric centos I have discussed two versions of the Doubting Thomas episode transmitted in two distinct recensions of the Homeric centos. The first version discussed is that preserved in a tenth-century Paris manuscript, suppl. gr. 388,140 which contains about 1950 lines arranged in fifty chapters. This recension was partially edited by Arthur Ludwich for Teubner in 1897, but he published only 490 lines, chs. 1–13 on the divine plan for human salvation and the establishment of Christ’s ministry, and the last chapter on the Ascension. It is now re-edited and published in full by Rey (1998). Preserved in this manuscript are two epigrams (discussed above), one of which, together with a linking lemma, connects Eudocia with the work. The second version discussed is that preserved in the defective Iviron manuscript 4464 (fourteenth century), which originally contained a longer recension of 2344 lines in fifty-three chapters. Iviron 4464 is now edited by Usher (1999), its missing final 900-odd lines supplied from the editions of Stephanus and Aldus.141 This long recension is also preserved in other Renaissance manuscripts, twenty-one in all,142 and it was on this group of manuscripts that the original Aldine edition and the several intervening editions up to Ludwich’s Teubner were based.143 There is overlap between Iviron 4464 and the Paris manuscript: of the 490 lines of the Paris manuscript published by Ludwich, 353 are represented in Iviron 4464, although not in the same sequence. The epigrams preserved in the Paris manuscript are also transmitted in the Iviron manuscript, the second in a slightly shorter version and with a slightly different lemma.144 These are the only versions of the Homeric centos so far published. In addition there survives an unpublished group of manuscripts which contain a shorter recension or recensions of 600 to 750 lines. There is no consensus whether this group should itself be further subdivided, but Rocco 218 Return to Table of Contents

Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos Schembra, who is preparing a complete edition of all the various recensions and who has conducted the most thorough analysis of the manuscripts, has recently suggested that the nineteen manuscripts that he has examined from this group fall into three sub-groups.145 The existence of these significantly different collections, together with the information preserved in the second of the two accompanying epigrams that Eudocia reworked an incomplete poem by Patricius, has prompted speculation as to which of these two named authors might have been responsible for which version. So, for example, Schembra once proposed that the long Renaissance tradition (represented now by Usher’s edition) was the original work of Patricius, which was reduced by Eudocia’s reworking to the Paris version (Rey’s edition).146 Rey and Usher, on the other hand, agree that the Paris version is, as its manuscript title suggests, an eclogue or selection of works by a range of authors, but while Rey retains an open mind as to Eudocia’s version, Usher is categorical that the long Renaissance tradition represented by his Iviron manuscript is the authentic work of Eudocia.147 He suggests that the short unpublished recensions represent Patricius’ original, and dates Patricius to the last third of the fourth century. Usher argues that the long recension is much closer to Homer than the Paris version and Eudocia claims in her epigram (lines 7–12) to have eliminated unHomeric elements from Patricius’ work; further, the long recension contains a great many blocks of consecutive Homeric lines (from two to six), and Eudocia’s epigram justifies the use of such ‘doubles’ (lines 15–29).148 The conviction that he has identified Eudocia’s original work underpins Usher’s study Homeric Stitchings (1998), which argues that Eudocia composed from a memorized Homeric text in the tradition of the ancient rhapsodes. Acknowledgements

For discussion and bibliographical help I thank Gianfranco Agosti, Katerina Carvounis, James George, Scott Johnson, Scott McGill. David Scourfield has offered constructive comment and encouragement and shown infinite patience.

Notes

1   The considerable problems of dating and attribution of these texts are discussed in more detail below. 2   See Roberts 1985, 87; Hillier 1993. 3   Useful survey: Roberts 1985, ch. 4. 4   See McClure 1981; Nodes 1993, ch. 1. 5   Livrea 1989, 25; 2000, 52–3. 6   See McGill, ch. 6 in this volume, who collects bibliography. The date in the 360s

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Mary Whitby was disputed by Shanzer 1986 and 1994, but see Matthews 1992, Green 1995, McGill. Virgil, the core text for Latin cento, was, unlike Homer, associated with prophetic literature from an early period.  7   e.g. Herzog 1975; McClure 1981; Roberts 1985; Springer 1988; Hillier 1993; Nodes 1993; Pollmann 2001; and now Green 2006. See further chs. 5 and 6 in this volume (Green and McGill).  8   Cf. Agosti 2001, an excellent study to which this chapter is much indebted.  9   Livrea 1989; Accorinti 1996; Livrea 2000; De Stefani 2002; Agosti 2003; Greco 2004. 10   Listed by Livrea 2000, 15–16 (cf. 9–10): the theses of Accorinti 1987 (Book 19), Caprara 1995 (Book 4), Serra 1997 (Book 9), Savelli 1999 (Book 15). 11   For the background to Usher’s edition, see Usher 1997 and 1998. 12   See Appendix. 13   Golega 1939 and (for a summary of the arguments) 1960, 169–74. 14   Gonnelli 1989; Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 360–3, esp. n. 301 (mid-5th century); Agosti 2001, 87 (perhaps 457–60). 15   Sherry 1996, 413. 16   Brief verse paraphrases of OT material dating from the 4th century have been found in the Bodmer papyrus that contains the ‘Vision of Dorotheus’; they include an ethopoeia of Abel that paraphrases Ps. 101 and another of Cain that paraphrases Gen. 4.13–15: Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 366 n. 315; Agosti 2001, 71. 17   I use the terms ‘paraphrase’ and ‘metaphrasis’ interchangeably: cf. Roberts 1985, 26. 18   Met. Ps., proth. 15–21; Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 360–1, 364–5; Agosti 2001, 85–92. 19   Photius, Bibliotheca, cods. 183, 184. 20   Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 365; cf. Cameron 1982, 284. 21   Ludwich 1897: Book 1 and part of Book 2 survive. Photius says he found the Cyprian poem ‘in the same volume’ (ἐμπεριείχετο δὲ τῷ τεύχει). 22   Useful summary of evidence on the two Apollinarii: Kaster 1988, 242–3. The extant Psalm paraphrase used to be attributed to Apollinarius junior (see above, p. 195); its author was perhaps also named Apollinarius: Agosti 2001, 87. 23   Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 363–7, following Speck 1986, 617–19 and Thraede 1962, 999; Speck 1997; Agosti 2001, 70–1 (with n. 17 on divergences between Socrates and Sozomen). 24   Cameron 1982, 282–5; Agosti 2001, 85–7. 25   Dagron 1974 and 1978: I thank Scott Johnson for these references. Other examples of poetic versions of hagiographical texts: Roberts 1985, 58 n. 72. 26   Silk 1996. 27   See Bowie 1990, 65; cf. Adams 2003, 546–55. 28   Anth. Pal. 9.361, 381, 382, and an epigram preserved only in the Appendix Barberino-Vaticana. Only Anth. Pal. 9.361 is explicitly attributed to Leo, but see Cameron 1993, 172–3, 333–4, and index s.n. 29   See Maltomini 1995. 30   Bibliography: Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 300 n. 28. Agosti and Gonnelli, and Agosti 2001, 82–3, favour the allegorical interpretation, but Wilken 1967 makes a strong case against.

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Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos 31   Garzya 1984 argues for a 4th/5th-century date on the basis of textual errors that he attributes to an uncial manuscript; cf. Accorinti 1999, 493 for the continuing debate. 32   For a somewhat different view of this passage, see the discussion of McGill, ch. 6 in this volume, pp. 177–81. 33   So Green 1995, cf. 1997; challenged by Agosti 2001, 68–70. 34   See p. 217 below, at n. 133. 35   Libanius, Letter 990 Foerster = 173 Norman. See further below, p. 208 with n. 99. 36   Excellent detailed survey and analysis in Roberts 1985, ch. 2 and esp. ch. 3: 12–13, 27–8, 45–7 on Sopater; 45–6 on Procopius. 37   An autograph comment on cod. Ven. Marc. 421, quoted by Browning 1992, 136. 38   Agosti 2001, 97–9. 39   See McClure 1981, Nodes 1993, ch. 1, and esp. Roberts 1985, ch. 4, whose conclusions I summarize. 40   Roberts 1985, 61. 41   Hillier 1993, 14. 42   McClure 1981. 43   e.g. Bowersock 1990; Hopkinson 1994, 121; Saïd and Trédé 1999, 159; Lightfoot 2000, 283–4. 44   The shortening of the iota of λιτά at 17.59, corrected by Nonnus’ disciple Agathias at Anth. Pal. 9.644.3: see Cameron 1983, 287 n. 17; 2004, 339. 45   In particular the admission of an oxytone word at the feminine caesura without preceding trithemimeral (or trochaic) caesura. The fundamental studies are Wifstrand 1933; Keydell 1959, 35*–42*. 46   Coulie and Sherry 1995, viii–ix; Sherry 1996 (quotation at 414); contra, Accorinti 1999, esp. 494–5 on hapax legomena and rarities common to Dion. and Par. 47   Livrea 1989, 65–8; Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 341–8; Accorinti 1996, 67–75; Livrea 2000, 106–12; De Stefani 2002, 36–42; Agosti 2003, 175–210; Agosti 2004, 73–7 on accentuation at the caesura. Hollis 1994, 58–9 supports single authorship by noting that different parts of the same line from Callimachus’ Hecale are reflected in two separate imitations, at Dion. 27.307 and Par. 7.140. 48   Vian 1997: analysis of μάρτυς and related words demonstrates that in Par. Nonnus developed a system of formulas for rendering this term – which is rare in poetry but common in John’s Gospel – and subsequently used it in a weakened sense in Dion. Cf. Cameron 2000, 179–80; 2004, 341. 49   Cf. p. 196 above, at n. 5. 50   Livrea 1989, 24–5. 51   Livrea 2000, 53; contra, e.g. Cameron 2000, 182. 52   Grillmeier 1996, 95–9, cited by Accorinti 1999, 494. 53   See Livrea 1979; Accorinti 1999, 494. 54   See Golega 1960, 93–4; Cameron 1982, 282; Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 392; Agosti 2001, 96; Agosti 2003, 180. Cf. p. 196 above. 55   Livrea 1987; 1989, 30; 2000, 55–76; contra, Cameron 2000, answered by Livrea 2003. 56   Livrea 1989, 32–5 shows how the epigram refers to both Dion. and Par.; cf. Livrea 2000, 51. 57   See Livrea 1987, 97–123; 1989, 23–30; 2000, 39–53, 76; also Agosti 2003, 177 n. 6.

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Mary Whitby   Ed. Accorinti 1996, to which I am much indebted.   I use the text of Nestle and Aland 1981, printed by Accorinti: ** indicates variant reading in the Gospel text used by Nonnus, [()] words omitted by Nonnus for uncertain reasons. Janssen 1903 attempted to reconstruct the text of the Gospel used by Nonnus and identified it as related to the Syriac recension Syrus Lewisianus. But the exegetical element in Par. makes it impossible to reconstruct Nonnus’ Gospel model with certainty and it is in any case likely that, like Bede, he used more than one version of the Bible: recent discussion in Agosti 2003, 229–39. 60   The Paraphrase is, incidentally, stricter than the Dionysiaca in never admitting lines with two consecutive spondees; in our sample only two lines, 106 and 127, have as many as three spondees. Other examples of greater metrical rigour: Agosti 2003, 176–7 n. 5. 61   Accorinti 1996, 52. 62   Homer has fifty-two, Apollonius twenty-seven, while Virgil is much closer to Nonnus with sixty-one. Figures from Wójtowicz 1980, quoted by Accorinti 1996, 51. On Sherry, see above, p. 200. 63   e.g. Il. 10.134, Od. 19.226. 64   Widespread in Egypt, according to Chuvin 1992, 38 n. 1: see Accorinti 1996, 217 (on line 118). 65   Elsewhere only at Par. 7.167. 66   The epithet is another Nonnian coinage: see Accorinti 1996, 211–12 (on line 108) on this and the textual problem θυμῷ/μύθῳ. 67   A further coinage, only here in Par.; cf. Dion. 2.8, 13.540, and Accorinti 1996, 223–4. 68   The suggestion that the name Didymus is deliberately delayed, rather than that Nonnus was working with a different text of the Gospel, is also made by Livrea, reported by Accorinti 1996, 209–10 (on line 103). 69   Accorinti 1996, 210 (on line 105): Nonnus uses ἠνεμόφοιτος four times with ψυχή in Dion. For a summary of Platonic views, see Annas 1996, 1192. 70   Διὸς δὲ ἐριούνιος Ἑρμῆς | δοχμωθεὶς μεγάροιο διὰ κλήιθρον ἔδυνεν, | αὔρῃ 58 59

ὀπωρινῇ ἐναλίγκιος, ἠύτ’ ὀμίχλη.

  See Accorinti 1995, esp. 27 n. 11; 1996, 218 (on line 120).   Accorinti 1996, 219 (on line 120) suggests that Nonnus wished to avoid repetition from line 85 (cf. John 20.9). 73   Pusey 1872, 126.30–128.15, 145.21–146.6; Randell 1885, 667–8, 684–5. 74   e.g. String 1966. 75   In general Nonnus uses a much higher proportion of direct speech than epic predecessors like Quintus of Smyrna or Apollonius, although not so much as Homer: 36% in Nonnus, 24% in Quintus, 29% in Apollonius: Elderkin 1906, 2–3; Homer has 55%: Griffin 1986, 37. 76   John’s Gospel betrays greater hostility to the Jews than the synoptic Gospels, perhaps reflecting a date of composition after the Roman war in Palestine (ad 66–70): Carroll and Prickett 1997, 410–12. 77   See LSJ s.v. πέπων II. 78   Shortening of μή in hiatus on the first short of the fifth dactyl; in Dion. only at 35.334: Accorinti 1996, 74. Other similar examples: Agosti 2003, 178–9. 79   Livrea 2000, 54. 80   Cameron 1982, esp. 270–89. 71 72

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Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos   Hunt 1982, ch. 10; PLRE 2.408–9.   Cameron 1982, 273–5.   83   Socrates, Hist. Eccl. 7.21.8.   84   Chron. Pasch. p. 585 Bonn = Whitby and Whitby 1989, 74–5; Evagrius Scholasticus, Hist. Eccl. 1.20, with Whitby 2000, 48 n. 172; Cameron 1982, 278.   85   See Sironen 1990.   86   Green and Tsafrir 1982; see also Habas 1996.   87   See Livrea 1996.   88   Above, p. 197.   89   Livrea 1998.   90   Cameron 1982, 282–3; Agosti 2001, 85.   91   See Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 309–58; cf. Cameron 1982, 279.   92   Although Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 309 note that the technique is occasionally cento-like. Wilson 1994, 174 n. 4 is incorrect in describing the Cyprian poem as a cento.   93   Iviron 4464. This manuscript preserves a slightly shorter version of the epigram than that in the Paris manuscript: Usher 1999, viii–x. On the complex transmission of the centos, see Appendix.   94   Text and French translation: Rey 1998, 515–21, who supplies some correct readings from the late Palat. Vat. gr. 326 (p. 521).   95   Τούτους μὲν ἐξέθετο Πατρίκιος ἐπίσκοπος· ἡ δὲ ἀπολογία Εὐδοκίας Αὐγούστης   81   82

τῆς Ἀθηναίας τῆς γυναικὸς Θεοδοσίου Αὐγούστου τοῦ νέου υἱοῦ Ἀρκαδίου βασιλέως αὕτη.   96   Good detailed discussion: Agosti 2001, 77–81. Zonaras 13.23.38–9 refers to this epigram, which he or his source appears to have read.   97   See Green 1991, 133, 518.   98   So Agosti 2001, 79–80.   99   For Tatian’s Homeric poem, which ran to several editions and was widely used in schools, see p. 198 above, with n. 35. Livrea 1997 identifies this Tatian with the Tatian whose monument in Aphrodisias, known from a dedicatory epigram, was restored by his homonymous grandson, city prefect of Constantinople in 450–2: Livrea suggests that Eudocia would not have referred to the elder Tatian but for the prominence in Constantinople of his descendant, himself a literary man, and accordingly proposes a date of 450–2 for Eudocia’s prologue. See further Roueché 2004, IV.13. 100   Ludwich 1897, 86–7, who identified Patricius with the father of the Neoplatonist Proclus; Schembra 1995, 123–5; Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 319–20. 101   Agosti 2004, 70. In addition A. Pignani has suggested that certain terms in the titles of the first thirteen centos of the Paris manuscript reflect mid-5th-century theological discussion: see Rey 1998, 32–4. 102   This list of names invalidates Tzetzes’ statement (Chiliades 10.306) that all the Christian Homeric centos were composed by Eudocia. 103   Neither Optimus nor Cosmas can be certainly identified: Rey 1998, 56–9. Ludwich 1897, 87 identified Cosmas of Jerusalem with the 8th-century bishop; cf. Smolak 1979, 31; Usher 1997, 309. 104   An argument used by Usher 1997, 313–15; see further below, and Appendix. 105   Rey 1998, 29–38. See further Appendix. 106   See Rey 1998, 29–32, who sees the opening OT passages as scene-setting, depicting

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Mary Whitby the divine decision to save humanity. The poem may draw on apocryphal texts such as the Ascension of Isaiah for its dialogue between Father and Son, in which God decides to send Christ to earth. 107   I have used Richmond Lattimore’s renderings of the Homeric originals in Lattimore 1951 and 1965. 108   Rey 1998, 500, who notes, incidentally, that Proba’s cento also briefly describes Doubting Thomas (lines 678–81). 109   Compare the balanced arrangement of the whole collection, with the central panel flanked by thirteen centos on either side. 110   The end of line 7 is slightly modified from Od. 24.248 μὴ χόλον ἔνθεο; this might be due to a different text of Homer or faulty memory. 111   Usher 1997 and 1998; Rey 1998, 68–72. 112   Smolak 1979, discussed by Rey 1998, 71. 113   Schnapp 1992, 115. I thank Scott McGill for drawing this excellent article to my attention. 114   Schnapp 1992, 116–17. 115   Schnapp 1992, 113–14. 116   Usher 1998, Part 3 includes discussion of the use of Homeric type-scenes. In ch. 7 (esp. 126) he suggests that ‘Eudocia’ saw the narrative backbone of the Gospels as the arrival and reception of Christ in a range of contexts. 117   The Iliad parallel (Il. 17.179) is Hector to Glaucus in battle. 118   Nonnus’ treatment of Christ’s arrival in the passage discussed above indicates that its and his nature were matters of debate. 119   The same line occurs also at Centos 19.20, 21.46, 23.34, 26.11, 28.10, 37.10; other references to Theoclymenus: Rey 1998, 540. 120   Rey’s suggestion (1998, 197), on Cento 11.11. One argument for the heterogeneity of the Paris collection is that some centos use biblical names, others Greek ones, suggesting different principles of adaptation. 121   Cribiore 2001, 194–7, 204–5. 122   I have reproduced Usher’s citations of the Homeric models but not adopted his system for indicating variations from them. Lines shared with the Paris version of the centos are underlined. I have not supplied a full translation for reasons of space. 123   e.g. the Resurrection is handled in 23 lines as against 42 in the Paris version. 124   e.g. Usher 1997, 308, 313–15. 125   Cf. (e.g.) Usher 1998, 120–1 for an analogous case of what Usher terms Verfremdung, Christ represented as a bride rather than a bridegroom (lines 1090–1). 126   See Agosti and Gonnelli 1995, 309–58, esp. 351–2. Cf. Green and Tsafrir 1982 on the technical weakness of the bath inscription ascribed to Eudocia. 127   This is the view of Usher: see Appendix. 128   Anth. Lat. 719d. 13–15 Riese² ‘haec relegas servesque diu tradasque minori | Arcadio, haec ille suo semini, haec tua semper | accipiat doceatque suos augusta propago.’ I follow Bury 1923, 1.220 n. 3; PLRE 2.130, s.n. Arcadius 1; Cameron 1982, 266–7 in identifying the ‘minori Arcadio’ mentioned here with the short-lived son of Eudocia and Theodosius II of that name, also mentioned in an inscription in Ravenna dated after 439 (CIL 11.276). Others (e.g. Schnapp 1992, 109; Green 1995, 561–2; Green 1997, 548 n. 1; Agosti 2001, 74; Agosti 2004, 72; McGill, ch. 6 in this volume, p. 174 with nn. 6 and 10) link this preface with Theodosius II’s father Arcadius, emperor ad 383–408.

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Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos Even if the latter view is correct, the preface suggests that Proba’s poem was available at the eastern court in the 5th century. 129   Schnapp 1992, 110–11. 130   According to Nicephorus, Hist. Eccl. 14.23 (PG 146.1120A–B) (early 14th century), Eudocia was educated by her father in Latin as well as Greek: see Agosti 2004, 71–2 (to whom I owe this reference), who stresses that Latin was prominent at Theodosius II’s court, and raises the possibility that Eudocia’s metrical habits may reflect the influence of Latin verse. Other anecdotal material connected with Eudocia and preserved in Nicephorus Callistus can be traced to Theodore Lector (first half of 6th century): Mango and Scott 1997, 130 nn. a and b, 156 n. 7. 131   The suggestion that Proba’s poem inspired Eudocia is also made by, among others, Green 1995, 562; Agosti 2001, 82; Agosti 2004, 72. 132   See n. 33 above. 133   Agosti 2001, 75; McGill, ch. 6 in this volume. 134   Schnapp 1992, 99–109. 135   Cameron 1982, 274–5. 136   See above, p. 207. 137   Lamberton 1992; cf. Browning 1992. 138   Schnapp 1992, 119. 139   e.g. Cento 50 in the Paris collection. This poem ends (lines 35–42) with a personal farewell from the author of the poem, addressed to someone living beyond the river Sangarius. Rey 1998, 504–5 suggests that the author might be Eudocia, the addressee the banished Cyrus of Panopolis; Schembra 1995 argued that the addressee was Patricius. 140   Together with one other late and fragmentary manuscript, Vat. gr. 915 (13th/14th century), a collection of poetry, including Pindar, perhaps associated with Maximus Planudes; but it contains only two folios of the Homeric centos: see Rey 1998, 90–1. 141   Usher 1999, vi–vii. 142   Schembra 2000a (who designates Iviron 4464 ‘E’). 143   Schembra 2001 investigates the differing manuscript traditions that underlie twelve printed editions of the Homeric centos beginning with the 1501–4 Aldine. 144   Schembra 2000a, 165, who quotes the lemma: Τὰ πάροντα Ὁμηροκέντρα συνετέθη μὲν ὑπὸ Πατρικίου ἐπισκόπου, διορθώθη δὲ ὑπὸ Εὐδοκίας, ἧς καὶ ὁ παρὼν ἐστὶ δι’ ἡρώου πρόλογος (‘The present Homeric centos were composed by Bishop Patricius, but

corrected by Eudocia, who is also responsible for the present hexameter prologue’). See n. 95 for the Paris lemma. 145   Schembra 2000b; cf. Schembra 2001, 641 n. 1. Schembra’s edition of all five recensions is to be published in the series Corpus Christianorum, series Graeca (Turnhout, 2007). 146   Schembra 1995 and 1996: the overlap in lines used in the Iviron and Paris versions may indicate that the author of the latter had the former before him. But Schembra 1993 and 1994 suggested that Patricius wrote one of the shorter recensions. Schembra 2000b, 122 attributes the short versions to a grammaticus who produced a sequence of summaries of a longer version for different generations of pupils. 147   ‘hic libellus illos Homerocentones continet, quos Eudocia Athenais Augusta, uxor Theodosii Imperatoris, pro Patricio quodam, qui primus Homerocentones de rebus christianis scripsit, composuisse aut correxisse dicitur’: Usher 1999, v. 148   Usher 1997. Schembra 2006, v–vi follows Usher in attributing the long (‘first’)

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Mary Whitby recension to Eudocia; the version of Patricius has not survived. Schembra 2006 appeared when this chapter was in proof and I have not been able to take full account of it. The Doubting Thomas episode appears at lines 2280–332 in his edition and translation and commentary.

Bibliography

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Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos ‘The epigrams of Sophronius’, CQ 33, 284–92. The Greek Anthology from Meleager to Planudes, Oxford. ‘The poet, the bishop and the harlot’, GRBS 41, 175–88. ‘Poetry and literary culture in late Antiquity’, in S. Swain and M. Edwards (eds.) Approaching Late Antiquity: The transformation from early to late Empire, Oxford, 327–54. Caprara, M. 1995 ‘Nonno di Panopoli: Parafrasi del Vangelo di S. Giovanni, Canto IV’, diss. Florence. Carroll, R. and Prickett, S. (eds.) 1997 The Bible: Authorized King James Version, Oxford and New York. Chuvin, P. (ed.) 1992 Nonnos de Panopolis: Les Dionysiaques. Tome III, Chants VI–VII, Paris. Coulie, B. and Sherry, L.F., CETEDOC 1995 Thesaurus pseudo-Nonni quondam Panopolitani: Paraphrasis Evangelii S. Ioannis, Turnhout. Cribiore, R. 2001 Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt, Princeton. Dagron, G. 1974 ‘L’auteur des “Actes” et des “Miracles” de Sainte Thècle’, AB 92, 5–11. Dagron, G. (ed.) 1978 Vie et miracles de Sainte Thècle, Subsidia hagiographica 62, Brussels. De Stefani, C. (ed.) 2002 Nonno di Panopoli: Parafrasi del Vangelo di S. Giovanni, Canto I, Bologna. Elderkin, G.W. 1906 ‘Aspects of the speech in the later Greek epic’, diss. Baltimore. Fantuzzi, M. and Pretagostini, R. (eds.) 1995–6  Struttura e storia dell’esametro greco, 2 vols., Studia di metrica classica 10, Rome. Garzya, A. 1984 ‘Per la cronologia del Christus patiens’, Sileno 10, 237–40. Golega, J. 1939 ‘Verfasser und Zeit der Psalterparaphrase des Apolinarios’, ByzZ 39, 1–22. 1960 Der homerische Psalter: Studien über die dem Apolinarios von Laodikeia zugeschriebene Psalmenparaphrase, Studia patristica et Byzantina 6, Ettal. Gonnelli, F. 1989 ‘Il psalterio esametrico I–II’, Koinonia 13, 51–9, 127–51. Greco, C. (ed.) 2004 Nonno di Panopoli: Parafrasi del Vangelo di S. Giovanni, Canto tredicesimo, Alessandria. Green, J. and Tsafrir, Y. 1982 ‘Greek inscriptions from Hammat Gader: a poem by the empress Eudocia and two building inscriptions’, Israel Exploration Journal 32, 77–96. Green, R.P.H. 1995 ‘Proba’s cento: its date, purpose, and reception’, CQ 45, 551–63. 1997 ‘Proba’s introduction to her cento’, CQ 47, 548–59.

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Nonnus’ Paraphrase of St John’s Gospel and ‘Eudocia’s’ Homeric centos Livrea, E. 1987 ‘Il poeta ed il vescovo: la questione nonniana e la storia’, Prometheus 13, 93–123. 1996 ‘La slogatura di Eudocia in un’inscrizione paflagone’, ZPE 113, 71–6. 1997 ‘I due Taziani in un’inscrizione di Afrodisia’, ZPE 119, 43–9. 1998 ‘L’imperatrice Eudocia e Roma: per una datazione del De S. Cypr.’, ByzZ 91, 70–91. 2003 ‘The Nonnus question revisited’, in D. Accorinti and P. Chuvin (eds.) Des géants à Dionysos: mélanges de mythologie et de poésie grecques offerts à Francis Vian, Hellenica 10, Alessandria, 447–55. Livrea, E. (ed.) 1979 Pamprepii Panopolitani Carmina (P. Gr. Vindob. 29788 A–C), Leipzig. 1989 Nonno di Panopoli: Parafrasi del Vangelo di S. Giovanni, Canto XVIII, Naples. 2000 Nonno di Panopoli: Parafrasi del Vangelo di S. Giovanni, Canto B, Biblioteca patristica 36, Bologna. Ludwich, A. (ed.) 1897 Eudociae Augustae, Procli Lycii, Claudiani carminum Graecorum reliquiae, accedunt Blemyomachiae fragmenta, Leipzig. 1912 Apolinarii Metaphrasis Psalmorum, Leipzig. Maltomini, F. 1995 ‘P. Lond. 121 (= PGM VII), 1–221: Homeromanteion’, ZPE 106, 107–22. Mango, C. and Scott, R. (trs.) 1997 The Chronicle of Theophanes Confessor: Byzantine and Near Eastern history, ad 284–813, Oxford. Matthews, J. 1992 ‘The poetess Proba and fourth-century Rome: questions of interpretation’, in M. Christol, S. Demougin, Y. Duval, C. Lepelley, and L. Pietri (eds.) Institutions, société et vie politique dans l’empire romain au IVe siècle ap. J.-C., Collection de l’École française de Rome 159, Rome, 291–304. McClure, J. 1981 ‘The biblical epic and its audience in late Antiquity’, in F. Cairns (ed.) Papers of the Liverpool Latin Seminar: Third Volume 1981, ARCA 7, Liverpool, 305–21. Nestle, E. and Aland, K. (eds.) 1981 Novum Testamentum Graece, 26th edn, Stuttgart. Nodes, D.J. 1993 Doctrine and Exegesis in Biblical Latin Poetry, ARCA 31, Trowbridge. Pollmann, K. 2001 ‘The transformation of the epic genre in Christian late Antiquity’, Studia patristica 36, 61–75. Pusey, P.E. (ed.) 1872 Cyrilli archiepiscopi Alexandrini in D. Joannis Evangelium, vol. 3, Oxford. Randell, T. (tr.) 1885 A Commentary on the Gospel according to St John by Cyril of Alexandria, vol. 2, London.

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Mary Whitby Rey, A.-L. (ed.) 1998 Patricius, Eudocie, Optimus, Côme de Jérusalem: Centons homériques (Homerocentra), Sources chrétiennes 437, Paris. Roberts, M. 1985 Biblical Epic and Rhetorical Paraphrase in Late Antiquity, ARCA 16, Liverpool. Roueché, C. 2004 Aphrodisias in Late Antiquity: The late Roman and Byzantine inscriptions, revised 2nd edn, online at http://www.insaph.kcl.ac.uk/ala2004. Saïd, S. and Trédé, M. 1999 A Short History of Greek Literature, Engl. tr., London and New York. Savelli, B. 1999 ‘Nonno di Panopoli: Parafrasi del Vangelo di S. Giovanni, Canto XV’, diss. Florence. Schembra, R. 1993 ‘La “quarta” redazione degli Homerocentones’, Sileno 19, 277–93. 1994 ‘L’Omero “cristiano”: varianti di cristianizzazione e δοιάδες nella “quarta” redazione degli Homerocentones’, Sileno 20, 317–32. 1995 ‘Analisi comparativa delle redazioni lunghe degli Homerocentones’, Sileno 21, 113–37. 1996 ‘Genesi compositiva della III redazione degli Homerocentones’, Sileno 22, 291–332. 2000a ‘La tradizione manoscritta della I redazione degli Homerocentones’, ByzZ 93, 162–75. 2000b ‘Analisi comparativa delle redazioni brevi degli Homerocentones’, Orpheus 21, 92–122. 2001 ‘La genesi delle edizioni a stampa della I redazione degli Homerocentones’, ByzZ 94, 641–69. 2006 La prima redazione dei centoni omerici: traduzione e commento, Hellenica 21, Alessandria. Schnapp, J.T. 1992 ‘Reading lessons: Augustine, Proba, and the Christian détournement of Antiquity’, Stanford Literature Review 9, 99–123. Serra, P. 1997 ‘Nonno di Panopoli: Parafrasi del Vangelo di S. Giovanni, Canto IX’, diss. Florence. Shanzer, D. 1986 ‘The anonymous Carmen contra Paganos and the date and identity of the centonist Proba’, REAug 32, 232–48. 1994 ‘The date and identity of the centonist Proba’, RecAug 27, 75–96. Sherry, L.F. 1991 ‘The hexameter paraphrase of St John attributed to Nonnus of Panopolis: prolegomenon and translation’, diss. Columbia. 1996 ‘The Paraphrase of St John attributed to Nonnus’, Byzantion 66, 409–30. Silk, M.S. 1996 ‘Cento (Greek)’, OCD, 309.

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8 PLOTINUS AND THE MYTH OF LOVE Andrew Smith

No ancient philosophers can have established themselves more securely or with greater sophistication within a tradition than the Neoplatonists, and Plotinus (ad 205–70), their effective founder, was no exception for the way in which he employs traditional philosophical material through which to develop his own ideas. In the Enneads, he carefully locates his own thought in the philosophical tradition as the fullest explication of a constant philosophical truth which, he claims, had been only partially uncovered by earlier philosophers, although he maintains that it had received very special and authentic expression in the work of Plato, who occupies the pivotal role in the history of its unfolding. Aristotle, too, has an important, though less explicit, part to play. Indeed, though Aristotle is frequently taken to task by Plotinus, major Aristotelian ideas are vital to Plotinus’ interpretation of Plato.1 It is, however, not just the philosophers who are important for the formation of this Hellenic tradition of thought but the poets, especially Homer, and Greek myth.2 It is on the latter that I wish to focus in this chapter, for Plotinus is fond of exploiting a theological myth, especially when he can cite a Platonic source. It is striking that in the treatise On the Three Primary Hypostases Plotinus alludes to the story of Zeus and Kronos to express the relationship of Soul and Intellect just before introducing Plato, the Presocratics, and Aristotle as precursors for his three Hypostases, the One, Intellect, and Soul, the primary Neoplatonic metaphysical realities.3 But some interpreters of Plotinus, in their attempt to deflect what they perceive to be an embarrassing slur on his Hellenic rationality, dismiss his references to myth as unimportant.4 This is a view which needs some correction and it is as a contribution to this debate that I would like to examine the way in which he employs myth in one treatise, 3.5 On Love. I have chosen this treatise since it is special in two ways: (i) it is the only treatise to be based entirely on myth: the story of the genesis of the god or daemon Eros; (ii) in the final chapter Plotinus gives us a clear rationale for the use of myth in philosophical discourse. According to this theory, myth serves philosophy by expressing in disjointed form what in itself remains a whole. And this is 233 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Smith precisely the practice applied in this treatise, in which a number of central Plotinian themes are analysed into their several components in mythical representation and then reassembled to display their original unity. The interpretation of the myth of Eros is a tour de force which probably responds to the challenge of previous interpretations of the Platonic and other versions of the myth which would have been familiar to his audience. But it is not the act of interpreting which is for Plotinus the most important element here – i.e. the challenge of providing an interpretation of a specific text or myth – but the philosophical issue at hand, and that involves the reaffirmation of some of his major metaphysical concepts: in particular the relationship of Intellect to Soul and the rediscovery of that inner urge which is the stimulus to the ascent of the individual soul. In one sense, at least, Plotinus is doing with this mythical material what he does with Platonic philosophical texts, i.e. showing less concern with what might appear to be a literal meaning than with the deeper meaning of a text drawn out in accordance with his own ideas and driven by his own philosophical programme. Thus despite the external form of this treatise, which partly, at least, appears to concern itself with the reconciliation of two apparently conflicting Platonic accounts of the birth of Eros, Plotinus is not interested in the myth for its own sake or as a source of revelation or in showing that Plato is consistent, but because it provides an opportunity to analyse in greater complexity some important philosophical themes. This employment of myth for the communication of philosophical ideas is quite different from the later attempt by Proclus (ad 410–85) and others to place Homer and the so-called Theologians alongside Plato as comprehensive and mutually consistent expressions of a seamless metaphysical world-view. In saying this I do not wish to belittle the role of myth in Plotinus, but, quite the reverse, to affirm its importance to him as a tool of philosophical exegesis and communication, within a pragmatically limited overall context. From his own comments it is possible to conclude that Plotinus is responding to a tradition of treatises on Eros and in this sense writing in a particular genre. For example, in chapter 4 he rejects the identification of Eros with the universe, an interpretation found in Cornutus and Plutarch.5 We know, too, that Origen (ad 184–254), discussing Plato’s account of the birth of Eros in the Symposium, had identified the garden of Zeus with paradise, Poros (Plenty) with Adam, and Penia (Poverty) with the serpent.6 Porphyry (ad 234–c. 305), one of Plotinus’ most important students and editor of the Enneads, knows of an Orphic legend in which Kronos is ambushed by Zeus with honey, and compares it with the Symposium story.7 But right from the beginning of the treatise the questions chosen for discussion, whilst partly determined by the Platonic representation of the 234 Return to Table of Contents

Plotinus and the myth of Love myth and perhaps by later interpretations (but we have no information about the latter), have their own clear metaphysical significance, which is gradually revealed in the course of the discussion. ‘Our enquiry concerns love, whether it is a god or a daemon or an affection of the soul’ is the opening statement of the treatise.8 It will turn out that love is found on all of these levels, both in the text of Plato and in Plotinus’ own metaphysics. Affection (pathos) is the lowest level of love (cf. Plato, Phaedrus, 238c; also Laws 734a, 870a, 941c), love as a daemon (Plato, Symposium, 202d) will be seen as the first stage of love which causes us to ascend to the Good, love as a god (Plato, Phaedrus, 242d, 265c) will represent the activity of the higher soul with its permanent link with the Good. In this way what may be a traditional theme serves as an introduction to Plotinus’ own thought. It is also likely that these three topics were selected for emphasis by Plotinus rather than being presented in this prominent manner in the tradition. Certainly later we will be able to point to details of the myth that were almost certainly selected or omitted by Plotinus to serve his own metaphysical purposes. After discussing love as affection Plotinus moves (3.5.2.1 ff.) to the exegesis and reconciliation of two apparently contradictory accounts of the birth of love in Plato. In the Phaedrus Love is a god and is the son of Aphrodite, whereas in the Symposium he is a daemon conceived as the son ‘of Plenty and Poverty at Aphrodite’s birthday party’.9 Now elsewhere Plotinus shows himself concerned to remove apparent contradictions in Plato.10 But this does not mean that he has a grand programme for removing every contradiction; rather he selects the texts and ideas which are important for him. Such contradictions and anomalies are less an embarrassment than an opportunity to expound his own ideas. In this case he uses the two Loves to express his own theory of different levels at which the urge to the Good can operate. But before entering upon this explanation he first introduces two levels of Aphrodite herself, the one mentioned in the Phaedrus, where Aphrodite is the mother of Eros, and the one implied in the phrase Plotinus has carefully cited from the Symposium, where Eros is said to have been conceived at ‘Aphrodite’s birthday party’. By picking out the apparently circumstantial detail that Love was conceived at Aphrodite’s party, Plotinus can maintain the link between Eros and Aphrodite in the Symposium version, in which he is strictly the child of Plenty and Poverty. This link will be vital for the metaphysical point he wishes to make, as we shall see. These two Aphrodites are now neatly identified with the heavenly and the demotic Aphrodite mentioned earlier in the Symposium.11 The Aphrodites represent different levels of soul, each with its attendant Eros as its activity. We will come to the precise metaphysical relationships in a moment. But before doing so we should note how Plotinus in a typical transition moves 235 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Smith from universal principles to the individual when he introduces in chapter 4 the extra complication for the myth of the existence of many Loves and many Aphrodites, each one representing the activity of an individual soul.12 There is no call for this in the original myth; it is an addition of Plotinus to make the myth serve his own purpose. But the emphasis is clear – Plotinus is concerned with the spiritual progress of the individual. This transition to the individual is not forced. Often, as is the case here, we are left unclear whether Plotinus is discussing the Hypostasis Soul, in the sense of Soul in general (and this may also include the individual), or more precisely the individual soul; but an important point to be grasped is that in a certain sense they are identical: But in so far as each individual soul in its relation to the whole is not in a state of being completely cut off, but of inclusion in it so that all souls are one, so the individual love, too, is related to the universal love.13

This identity is a good example of the ethos of the treatise, in which the narrative mode of mythical representation may be exploited and adapted to point to distinctions between entities which in reality and strictly speaking remain one. Chapter 4 concludes with the triumphant announcement that the two types of love, the god and the daemon, can be reconciled as referring to the activities taking place at two phases of the ascent of the soul: So this love here leads each individual soul to the Good, and the love which belongs to the higher soul is a god, who always keeps the soul joined to the Good, but the love of the mixed soul14 is a daemon.15

In these words we can detect an allusion to another solution to the problem of explaining how the soul can ascend to the intelligible (i.e. the level of the Hypostasis Intellect), Plotinus’ doctrine of the undescended soul. Plotinus elsewhere maintains that our soul did not at birth descend in its entirety into the body but that ‘part’ of it always remains above.16 This doctrine allows him to claim that the very highest part of our soul is always in touch with Intellect. The same idea seems to be implied, in the passage above, when he says that love is a god ‘who always keeps the soul joined to the Good’. The ascent of the individual soul as described in this treatise also asks to be placed in the wider context of Plotinus’ concern to identify the true nature and destiny of the soul, to show how it may fulfil that destiny and to encourage his students to put this into effect. There are close connections in this treatise with the way in which that ascent is described in the treatise On Beauty (1.6), in which the ascent of the soul is based on Diotima’s speech in the Symposium. There the ascent is towards Beauty and the Good, the former being identified by 236 Return to Table of Contents

Plotinus and the myth of Love Plotinus not with the specific Platonic Form of Beauty, but with the entire world of real being. So in 3.5 the ascent is to the level of true being at the level of Intellect and also to the Good. It is an ascent also to Beauty, as is made clear from the very beginning of the treatise: And if someone assumed that the origin of love was the longing for beauty itself which was there before in men’s souls, and their recognition of it and kinship with it and unreasoned awareness that it is something of their own, he would hit, I think, on the truth about its cause.17

This beauty, to which the philosopher is called, is later termed the ‘archetype’ of the beauty of this world,18 and the means to attain it lie within the very workings of the soul: that element which Plotinus calls ‘love’ and which is described as ‘an activity of the soul which is desirous of the Good’,19 ‘a desire aiming at what is better and good’,20 ‘an activity which aims at the Good’.21 Much of this is reminiscent of the language and ideas of 1.6, e.g. 1.6.7.17 ‘to love with true love’ (ἐρᾶν ἀληθῆ ἔρωτα), for the love of what is lower in the hierarchy, e.g. physical things, yields place to true love, the love of the transcendent. For the transcendent is beautiful and ‘is desired as good, and the desire for it is directed to good, and the attainment of it is for those who go up to the higher world’.22 This first chapter of 3.5 reproduces some of the moral and spiritual earnestness of 1.6, and some of its appreciation of the different levels on which man finds himself in his spiritual progress. To that extent it is rooted in the reality of what man has to do now and is no mere jeu d’esprit. We will now return to consider the metaphysical symbolism of Aphrodite and Eros. Plotinus first distinguishes two Aphrodites whom he equates with two distinct levels of soul. The higher Aphrodite is equated with the ‘most divine kind of soul’ (ψυχὴν θειοτάτην, 3.5.2.20); it springs directly from Intellect and is said to ‘remain above’ (μείνασαν ἄνω, 2.21). This Aphrodite is now described using the standard metaphysical terms and concepts normally applied to Soul or to the way in which any of the Hypostases (the One, Intellect, and Soul) relate to each other. She is said to direct her activity towards Kronos or Ouranos (ἐνήργησέ τε πρὸς αὐτόν, 2.34) and in so doing to produce (ἐγέννησε, 2.35) Love. This recalls the standard theory that Hypostases produce by contemplation.23 Love is described in terms which suggest that it is a product of Aphrodite/Soul in the same way that Intellect is a product of the One or Soul the product of Intellect. For Love is described as ‘a hypostasis and a reality’ (ὑπόστασιν καὶ οὐσίαν) produced by Aphrodite’s activity (2.37) and as less or of a lower rank than its producer (3.1–2). But despite this difference there is a closeness which makes Love much nearer to Aphrodite than Soul to Intellect or Intellect to the One. 237 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Smith Plotinus is here trying to describe a distinction within a Hypostasis, for the element in soul which yearns after the Good is not something entirely different from the soul but an aspect of it. Both Aphrodite and Love are said to contemplate Intellect together. And although Love is ‘produced’ by Soul’s contemplation of Intellect, this contemplation does not produce a vision that is a ‘by-product’ (ὡς μὴ πάρεργον ποιεῖσθαι τὴν θέαν τὸ ὁρῶν, 3.8), which is how Plotinus elsewhere regards the product of contemplation.24 In fact Love is an activity of Soul itself and so completes its nature. The production of Love from Aphrodite is like the fulfilment of an eye which is only fully an eye when it is actively seeing and acquires an image, i.e. sight is only complete and fully itself when it is actually seeing something. This desire for vision of Intellect is always satisfied. This is the activity of that part of soul which never turns its attention from Intellect to descend to this world. The activity of soul which does descend is represented by the demotic Aphrodite whose activity, Love, is not so closely united with her, for this Love is the son not of Aphrodite, but of Plenty and Poverty. In other respects, however, it bears a similar relationship to its Aphrodite, i.e. to the lower soul, whose eye it is also said to be (3.29). But Plotinus has more to say about the birth of this lower Eros. In relating the Platonic Symposium version of the birth of Eros from Plenty and Poverty, Plotinus dwells on a number of details which were almost certainly traditional foci of interpretation but which allow him to air particular issues. The first question raised by him is the identity of Zeus in the Symposium version. For Zeus is mentioned both in the context of his garden in which Love is conceived and as the father (with Dione) of Aphrodite.25 Now Plotinus applies the genealogy Ouranos–Kronos–Zeus in a number of treatises to the sequence of Hypostases, the One, Intellect, and Soul,26 and has similarly identified Kronos with Intellect in 3.5.2.19. But he acknowledges in 3.5.8.5–6 that there is a problem, since there is no place for Zeus in the hierarchy of Hypostases if Kronos has been identified with Intellect and Aphrodite with Soul. And so in order to accommodate the place of Zeus in the myth he adjusts the identifications to equate Zeus with Intellect. To smooth over the ambiguity of Zeus’ position (Soul or Intellect?) and thus account for the inclusion of Zeus in the myth, he cites Plato, Philebus, 30d, where Zeus is said to be ‘a royal soul and a royal intellect’. A reference to the same Philebus passage is found in the earlier treatise 4.4, where (9.2–3) Plotinus uses it to illustrate a certain blurring of demarcation lines between Intellect and Soul. It is similarly used in our treatise, in which the closeness of Soul and Intellect is expressed; Aphrodite is said to be not only from intellect but also with intellect (καὶ ἐξ αὐτοῦ καὶ σὺν αὐτῷ, 8.15). This combination of closeness and distinction is also further emphasized by calling Aphrodite the soul 238 Return to Table of Contents

Plotinus and the myth of Love of Zeus and declaring that male gods are to be put at the level of Intellect with their female counterparts as their souls. Indeed at this point Plotinus happily introduces the testimony of ‘priests and theologians’ who identify Hera and Aphrodite, an identification which also helps to bring Aphrodite closer to Zeus. But it must again be emphasized that this closeness nevertheless involves difference. This question of derivation and independence, expressed by the words ‘from’ and ‘with’, is raised throughout the treatise: ‘from’ suggests dependence in the sense of being derived ‘from’ and therefore dependent on something else, whilst ‘with’ suggests the independence denoted by being there at the same time as something else and therefore not dependent on that other thing. The issue prompted by this distinction is just one manifestation of the way in which both rational discourse and myth have analytical and synthetic dimensions; for it is the myth which has raised the problem by making the distinction in the first place, e.g. with regard to Soul and Love at the beginning of the treatise: Next we must ask how Love is either born from her [Aphrodite/Soul] or with her.27

In fact both (‘being from’ and ‘being with’) are the case in the sense that causal priority need not imply temporal priority (a cause need not precede its effect in a temporal sense but, in an eternal and atemporal context, is merely causally prior) and both are included in the final reassembling (synthesis) of the analysed elements at the end of the treatise where the two aspects are ascribed both to Soul and Intellect and to Love and Soul in their relationship to each other: ‘Soul which is with Intellect and has come into existence from Intellect’;28 ‘Love has from everlasting come into existence from the soul’s aspiration towards the higher and the good, and he was there always, as long as Soul, too, existed.’29 Here we see exactly how the two are reconciled by removing the notion of temporality, which has been the cause of the paradox, and replacing it with the notion of eternity. Plotinus is also very careful to distinguish Intellect proper (Zeus) from his garden. At first sight it seems curious that Plotinus would choose to comment on ‘the garden of Zeus’, which in the Plato passage would appear to be a picturesque detail which has no special significance.30 There are two reasons for this. Firstly it may well have attracted the attention of earlier interpreters. It is picked up, for example, by Origen, as we noted earlier. Secondly, and this is of greater importance, he uses it to introduce the notion of a level of intelligible content which is lower than Intellect itself and is to be located at the same level as Soul and is yet in some way distinct from Soul. We can also detect here again that tendency to make distinctions between levels of reality whilst at the same time trying to maintain something of a continuum in the 239 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Smith progressive expansion and pluralizing of Being. The garden of Zeus points to the logoi or Intelligible archetypes (the Platonic Forms) which flow out from Intellect (οἱ λόγοι οἱ παρ’ αὐτοῦ ῥυέντες, 9.14); these are then equated with Plenty as manifested logoi, i.e. no longer at the level of Intellect itself where everything is ‘contracted together’ (συνεσπειραμένον, 9.4), but at soul level where the contents of soul are ‘more spread out’ (κεχυμένος καὶ οἷον ἁπλωθείς, 9.2). The garden with the drunken Plenty lying within it exists before the physical world31 and is said to come into being at the same time as Soul.32 Of course, as we learn a few lines later, there is strictly no place for time distinctions or ‘coming into being’ in the realm of Intellect and Soul. It is the narrative nature of the myth that has made it possible to point out and emphasize metaphysical distinctions and relationships in this way. More particularly we have been shown distinctions at the level of Soul: Aphrodite as Soul in general, Love as the soul’s activity of desire for the vision of Intellect and of the Good, the garden with its fruits as the contents of that vision. Such distinctions are not ones which have been suggested to Plotinus by the myth. Rather he has used the myth to express and communicate ideas with which he has grappled for a number of years. The almost contemporary treatise 5.3, as Armstrong points out,33 shows a similar concern with different levels of cognitive activity at the level of soul and particularly at the transition point to the activity of pure intellect in which thought and its object are one. Even at the highest levels of soul’s activity the contents of the soul’s thinking are different from the soul as thinker, just as in the garden Aphrodite as Soul (and therefore thinker) is represented as distinct from Plenty representing her thoughts or logoi. Thus in the end only Intellect is fully master of its thoughts or possesses them (9.19–20); for Soul they will always be external and ‘possessed’ as images only. We have encountered here Plotinus’ use not only of Platonic myth but of myth from wider sources.34 We have seen how he employs it to explore and explicate important metaphysical themes. When Plotinus speaks at the end of the treatise of the way in which myth expresses things in a separated way which must then be ‘put together’ he explicitly invites us to draw a parallel with verbal discourse and, we might justifiably add, with his use of images and analogies to express metaphysical concepts; for he is acutely aware that both word and image can distort the reality which they try to represent: But myths, if they are really going to be myths, must separate in time the things of which they tell, and set apart from each other many realities which are together, but distinct in rank or powers, at points where rational discussions, also, make generations of things ungenerated, and themselves too separate things which are together; the myths, when they have taught us as well as they can, allow the man who has understood them to put together again that which they have separated.35

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Plotinus and the myth of Love Although Plotinus does not disparage reason and the restrictions of language which it must use to express itself, he is acutely aware of the limitations imposed on us and frequently warns us of them whilst at the same time straining the very bounds of language and expression in a continuous attempt to indicate what is strictly ineffable. So in 6.7.35.27–30, in making a distinction at the level of Intellect between two phases, Intellect contemplating its own content and Intellect contemplating the One, he warns us that it is our reason which separates what is in fact one: But does that Intellect see in part, at one time some things and at another others? No, but our rational discourse instructing us makes them come to be, but Intellect always has its thinking and always its not thinking, but looking at that god in another way.36

Let us look more closely at this ‘putting together’, which we will, for convenience, call the ‘summary’. Soul is derived from Intellect and is then filled by Intellect, says Plotinus. This represents the process ascribed at the beginning of the treatise to the Heavenly Aphrodite (and her Eros) who springs directly from Kronos (Intellect).37 The content of soul’s thinking is then identified with the garden of Zeus, Plenty and Poverty. It is only at this point in the summary that Eros is mentioned. And all of this is a timeless ‘process’: And so this being, Love, has from everlasting come into existence from the soul’s aspiration towards the higher and the good, and he was there always, as long as Soul, too, existed.38

In effect the two Aphrodites and Loves have now been telescoped and the unity of soul restored. In fact this was apparent even in the main body of the text in the discussion of the Symposium details, for, as we noted, the story of Aphrodite and the consumption of nectar by Plenty in the garden of Zeus is set before embodiment, i.e. in a totally transcendent world, whereas the lower Aphrodite represents the embodied soul. The unity of soul, then, has been restored, but at the same time the internal tension has been maintained as expressed by Plenty at one end of the scale and Poverty at the other with their offspring, Eros, as the moving force of spiritual progression which both possesses knowledge (Plenty) in order to know what to desire and yet at the same time in its very desiring exhibits need, the lack of what is yet to be attained. This is another way of expressing the polarity of the highest part of ourselves, our undescended soul, and the embodied soul: The lack and the aspiration and the memory of the rational principles coming together in the soul, produced the activity directed towards the Good, and this is Love.39

At the same time we have also to take full account of the fact that Plotinus 241 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Smith is exploiting myth here, albeit Platonic myth, on a grand scale. Against Armstrong, who constantly tries to underplay the role of myth in Plotinus, one can point to the important themes which Plotinus often illustrates by a mythical reference. Moreover, if Plotinus had placed no importance on myth, we might well ask why he chose to address his own students in a treatise such as 3.5, which revels in the mythological presentation of metaphysical ideas.40 There has been a tendency to disassociate from Neoplatonism anything which might incur the label of irrationality; but Plotinus, too, as a man of his time, was not completely oblivious to the religiously-coloured philosophical experience of his students and fellow-philosophers. It is striking that he dwells in this treatise in some detail on the question of the difference between daemons and gods.41 His discussion shows similarities with that of Porphyry in the Letter to Anebo. Plotinus evidently did have some interest in such subjects. Of course the matter does not stop there because Plotinus knows how to turn such subjects to metaphysical advantage. Thus the treatise On the Guardian Daemon (3.4 [15]), written before Porphyry’s arrival in Rome, turns the religiously conceived daemon into a spiritual and intellectual force. And so in 3.5 too the final words of the treatise have a strong metaphysical message; for they reconnect those two disparate poles of our being, our link with Intellect represented by that part of our soul which has never descended and our activity in the physical world. The concentration at the end of the treatise is on the soul as a unity and the emphasis is firmly on where we may begin the spiritual ascent in the quest for the Intelligible and the Good: So Love is a material kind of being, and he is a daemon produced from soul in so far as soul falls short of the good but aspires to it.42

It is this polarity of experience within the soul as a unity, of a goal recognized and yet to be attained, possessed but not possessed, which lies at the heart of Plotinus’ expression of the philosopher’s spiritual quest and which Plotinus articulates so dramatically at the beginning of 4.8: Then after that rest in the divine, when I have come down from Intellect to discursive reasoning, I am puzzled how I ever came down, and how my soul has come to be in the body when it is what it has shown itself to be by itself, even when it is in the body.43

Notes

  See esp. Ennead 5.1.8–9. Plotinus is cited from Henry and Schwyzer 1964–82; translations are from Armstrong 1966–88. 2   For Plotinus and myth see Pépin 1955; Lamberton 1986, 83–107. 1

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Plotinus and the myth of Love   5.1.7.32–7.   See e.g. Armstrong 1966–88, vol. 3, 176 n. 1: ‘This shows clearly how little real importance Plotinus attached to myths and their allegorical interpretation’; 197 n. 4: ‘This passage shows again how little real importance Plotinus attaches to the interpretation of myths.’  5   Cornutus, Theologiae Graecae Compendium, 25; Plutarch, De Iside et Osiride, 374D–E.  6   Origen, Contra Celsum, 4.39. The Symposium account (203b–e) tells how, in the course of a dinner-party to celebrate Aphrodite’s birthday, Poros (Plenty) retired to the garden of Zeus in a drunken state and was joined by Penia (Poverty), who conceived a child (Eros) by him. The basic significance of the story in the Symposium is that philosophy is to be identified with Love and personified in Socrates. Thus philosophy falls, as it were, between attainment (Plenty) and unfulfilment (Poverty), since philosophy is always searching.  7   Porphyry, De Antro, 16; Plato, Symp. 203b–e.  8   3.5.1.1–2 περὶ ἔρωτος, πότερα θεός τις ἢ δαίμων ἢ πάθος τι τῆς ψυχῆς;  9   See n. 6 above. 10   See 4.8.5; 2.6.12; Wallis 1995, 16–25. 11   Plato, Symp. 181c. 12   3.5.4.1–2. Cf. Ennead 5.5, where the subject appears to be the Intellect but what is said may equally apply to the individual intellect; by 5.5.6 the transition to individual intellect is clearly made. In 5.1.10.5–6, the parallelism is clear when the transition is explicitly made: ‘And just as in nature there are these three [sc. The One, Intellect, and Soul] of which we have spoken, so we ought to think that they are present also in ourselves’ (ὥσπερ δὲ ἐν τῇ φύσει τριττὰ ταῦτά ἐστι τὰ εἰρημένα, οὕτω χρὴ νομίζειν καὶ παρ’ ἡμῖν ταῦτα εἶναι). 13   3.5.4.10–13 καθόσον δὲ ἑκάστη πρὸς τὴν ὅλην ἔχει οὐκ ἀποτετμημένη,ἐμπεριεχο­  3

 4

μένη δέ, ὡς εἶναι πάσας μίαν, καὶ ὁ ἔρως ἕκαστος πρὸς τὸν πάντα ἂν ἔχοι.

  The ‘mixed soul’ is the embodied soul, which is ‘mixed’ with the body.   3.5.4.23–5 ἄγων τοίνυν ἑκάστην οὗτος ὁ ἔρως πρὸς τὴν ἀγαθοῦ φύσιν ὁ μὲν τῆς

14 15

ἄνω θεὸς ἂν εἴη, ὃς ἀεὶ ψυχὴν ἐκείνῳ συνάπτει, δαίμων δ’ ὁ τῆς μεμιγμένης. 16   4.8.8.1–2, where it is clear that he is aware of the novelty of a doctrine that did not appeal to subsequent Neoplatonists. 17   3.5.1.16–19 ἀρχὴν δὲ εἴ τις θεῖτο τὴν αὐτοῦ κάλλους πρότερον ἐν ταῖς ψυχαῖς

ὄρεξιν καὶ ἐπίγνωσιν καὶ συγγένειαν καὶ οἰκειότητος ἄλογον σύνεσιν, τυγχάνοι ἄν, οἶμαι, τοῦ ἀληθοῦς τῆς αἰτίας. 18   3.5.1.33 τὸ ἀρχέτυπον. 19   3.5.4.22–3 ἔρως δὲ ἐνέργεια ψυχῆς ἀγαθοῦ ὀριγνωμένης. 20   3.5.9.40–1 ἐφέσεως πρὸς τὸ κρεῖττον καὶ ἀγαθόν. 21   3.5.9.47–8 τὴν ἐνέργειαν τὴν πρὸς τὸ ἀγαθόν. 22   1.6.7.3–4 ἐφετὸν μὲν γὰρ ὡς ἀγαθὸν καὶ ἡ ἔφεσις πρὸς τοῦτο, τεῦξις δὲ αὐτοῦ ἀναβαίνουσι πρὸς τὸ ἄνω.

    25   26   27   23 24

3.8.4; 5.2.1. 3.8.8.26. 3.5.2.17; cf. Plato, Symp. 180e. Cf. Hadot 1981. The main texts are 4.4.6 and 9–10; 5.1.3–4; 5.8.12–13. 3.5.2.13 εἶτα πῶς [sc. Ἔρως] ἢ ἐξ αὐτῆς ἢ σὺν αὐτῇ.

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Andrew Smith   3.5.9.30 ψυχὴ νῷ συνοῦσα καὶ παρὰ νοῦ ὑποστᾶσα.   3.5.9.39–41 ἀεὶ δὲ οὕτως ὑπέστη ὅδε ἐξ ἀνάγκης ἐκ τῆς ψυχῆς ἐφέσεως πρὸς τὸ

28 29

κρεῖττον καὶ ἀγαθόν, καὶ ἦν ἀεί, ἐξ οὗπερ καὶ ψυχή, Ἔρως.

  See n. 6 above.   This may be inferred from the fact that the food here is nectar (the logoi), something higher than wine, which therefore as a later product suggests the physical world which is derived from the Soul’s logoi. 32   3.5.9.22. 33   Armstrong 1966–88, vol. 3, 198 n. 1. 34   e.g. the genealogy Ouranos–Kronos–Zeus, which draws on Hesiod. 35   3.5.9.24–9 δεῖ δὲ τοὺς μύθους, εἴπερ τοῦτο ἔσονται, καὶ μερίζειν χρόνοις ἃ 30 31

λέγουσι, καὶ διαιρεῖν ἀπ’ ἀλλήλων πολλὰ τῶν ὄντων ὁμοῦ μὲν ὄντα, τάξει δὲ ἢ δυνάμεσι διεστῶτα, ὅπου καὶ οἱ λόγοι καὶ γενέσεις τῶν ἀγεννήτων ποιοῦσι, καὶ τὰ ὁμοῦ ὄντα καὶ αὐτοὶ διαιροῦσι, καὶ διδάξαντες ὡς δύνανται τῷ νοήσαντι ἤδη συγχωροῦσι συναιρεῖν. 36   6.7 [38]. 35.27–30 παρὰ μέρος δὲ ὁ νοῦς ἐκεῖνος ἄλλα, τὰ δὲ ἄλλοτε ἄλλα ὁρᾷ; ἢ οὔ· ὁ δὲ λόγος διδάσκων γινόμενα ποιεῖ, τὸ δὲ ἔχει τὸ νοεῖν ἀεί, ἔχει δὲ καὶ τὸ μὴ νοεῖν, ἀλλὰ ἄλλως ἐκεῖνον βλέπειν. It is interesting to note that Plotinus two lines previously

calls the aspect of Intellect which contemplates the One ‘Intellect in love’ and cites Plato, Symp. 203b μεθυσθεὶς τοῦ νέκταρος, ‘drunk with nectar’. 37   3.5.2.19–20. 38   3.5.9.39–41. See n. 29 above. 39   3.5.9.46–8 ἡ ἔλλειψις καὶ ἡ ἔφεσις καὶ τῶν λόγων ἡ μνήμη ὁμοῦ συνελθόντα ἐν ψυχῇ ἐγέννησε τὴν ἐνέργειαν τὴν πρὸς τὸ ἀγαθόν, ἔρωτα τοῦτον ὄντα.

40   Even though this treatise was composed in the final period of isolation and illness that Plotinus endured at the end of his life, it nevertheless, like the other treatises of this period, is as exhortatory and communicative in style as the treatises published when he was fully engaged in teaching activities. For this urge to communicate a philosophical way of life as an essential aspect of the practical philosophical life see Schniewind 2005. 41   3.5.6.7–8. 42   3.5.9.54–6 οὕτω τοι ὁ  Ἔρως ὑλικός τίς ἐστι, καὶ δαίμων οὗτός ἐστιν ἐκ ψυχῆς,

καθόσον ἐλλείπει τῷ ἀγαθῷ, ἐφίεται δέ, γεγενημένος. 43   4.8.1.7–11 μετὰ ταύτην τὴν ἐν τῷ θείῳ στάσιν εἰς λογισμὸν ἐκ νοῦ καταβὰς ἀπορῶ, πῶς ποτε καὶ νῦν καταβαίνω, καὶ ὅπως ποτέ μοι ἔνδον ἡ ψυχὴ γεγένηται τοῦ σώματος τοῦτο οὖσα, οἷον ἐφάνη καθ’ ἑαυτήν, καίπερ οὖσα ἐν σώματι.

Bibliography

Armstrong, A.H. (ed.) 1966–88  Plotinus, 7 vols., Loeb Classical Library, London and Cambridge, Mass. Hadot, P. 1981 ‘Ouranos, Kronos and Zeus in Plotinus’ treatise against the Gnostics’, in H. J. Blumenthal and R.A. Markus (eds.) Neoplatonism and Early Christian Thought, London, 124–37. Hadot, P. (ed.) 1990 Plotin: Traité 50, Paris.

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Plotinus and the myth of Love Henry, P. and Schwyzer, H.-R. (eds.) 1964–82  Plotini Opera, 3 vols., Oxford. Lamberton, R. 1986 Homer the Theologian: Neoplatonist allegorical reading and the growth of the epic tradition, The Transformation of the Classical Heritage 9, Berkeley, Los Angeles, and London. Pépin, J. 1955 ‘Plotin et les mythes’, Revue philosophique de Louvain 53, 5–27. Schniewind, A. 2005 ‘The social concern of the Plotinian sage’, in A. Smith (ed.) The Philosopher and Society in Late Antiquity, Swansea, 51–64. Wallis, R.T. 1995 Neoplatonism, 2nd edn, London.

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9 JOHN OF STOBI ON THE SOUL John Dillon

To analyse the views of John of Stobi (Stobaeus) on psychology, or on any other subject for that matter, might seem, at first sight, hardly more profitable than probing the political prejudices of the telephone directory. However, that is what the Spirit has moved me to attempt, and it is a challenge that I welcome. John represents, after all, only a particular, if rather extreme, case of a common phenomenon. All too often, as we know, late-Antique authors have been used by modern scholars solely as sources for earlier material, with very little consideration for any views they may have held themselves. Simplicius and John Philoponus are two figures who come readily to mind, though the latter, at least, has recently begun to attract considerable attention in his own right, mainly through the efforts of Richard Sorabji.1 John of Stobi, however, constitutes a tougher problem than either of these two, since he puts nothing of himself into his compilation, and so leaves us to conjecture what views he may have held simply from the conjunction of extracts from previous authors which he chooses to preserve on any given subject. Nonetheless, he must have had some views, and it may after all prove possible, from a careful examination of his choice of passages, to discern what these were.2 We should start, I think, from his own preface, addressed to his son, Septimius (preserved only by the Patriarch Photius [c. 820–c. 895 ad] in his summary of the work3 – not in the manuscripts). The avowed purpose of this vast compilation is to ‘harmonize and improve’ (ῥυθμίσαι καὶ βελτιῶσαι) his son’s natural disposition, which was ill-attuned to reading and study – a problem common to most teenagers, then as now. Whether or not this is his real purpose, it is plain that what John is intending to do is to place before his reader or readers a conspectus of the wisdom of the ancients on all subjects of any substance, from a broadly Platonist point of view. For much of his material he is able to borrow from a long succession of previous compilers of such florilegia, such as (on philosophical topics, at least) Aetius; but his later material, in particular his extracts from such authorities as Porphyry, Iamblichus, the Corpus Hermeticum, and Themistius (his latest datable authority), is very probably4 gathered by himself (as, indeed, may be 247 Return to Table of Contents

John Dillon his extracts from Plato and the Pythagorica), so we may legitimately, I feel, derive a clearer impression of his views from these passages than from his vast cullings of the poets and earlier philosophers.5 It happens that the chapter which I propose to examine, that on the soul, is particularly rich in extracts from these later authors, and so correspondingly more interesting for our purpose than many others. Before turning to examine this, however, I would like to survey briefly the sequence of topics covered in Book 1 of the Anthologia, in order to put our chapter in context. Photius tells us6 that John began with a preface, in which he first presented a commendation (epainos) of philosophy, derived from the protreptikoi of various authorities, and then a survey of the main philosophical schools, with a sort of appendix in which he presented the opinions of the ancients on the preliminary studies of geometry, music, and arithmetic. Of this all is unfortunately lost except the last section on arithmetic, but we know that he quoted, among many others, Themistius and Iamblichus, as well as many Pythagorica. After this, John begins the main body of his work with God, as is proper, and specifically with the proposition ‘that God is the creator of (all) beings and administers the universe by the rationale [logos] of his providence; and also, of what substance he is’.7 This nails his colours pretty clearly to the mast of Platonism, as does the second chapter (now lost), which has as its subject: ‘Concerning those who consider that there is no providence, nor any divine powers deriving from this for the administration of the universe.’ The third chapter concerns ‘Justice [Dikē] as assigned by God to oversee what is done on earth by men, which takes vengeance on sinners’. Here John begins his poetical extracts with the well-known passage from Hesiod’s Works and Days (276–9), while in his prose extracts he moves from Demosthenes, Epictetus, and Herodotus, to Hierocles on How to Behave towards the Gods, Plato (three extracts, from Laws 4 and 10), and Porphyry, On the Styx (a long extract), the latter passages, at least, doubtless excerpted by himself. Next there follow chapters on divine necessity (ch. 4), ending with a quotation from Hermes Trismegistus; on fate and the good ordering of generated things (ch. 5), also culminating in quotations from Hermes and Iamblichus (from his Letters), as well as Plutarch, Plato, and the ‘Letter of Aristotle to Alexander’ (i.e. the pseudo-Aristotelian De Mundo); on chance, or the accidental (ch. 6), ending with a quotation of Aristoxenus about the Pythagoreans and an extract from the pseudo-Pythagoric Euryso, On Chance; and on the topic ‘that the movement of chance is incalculable’ (ch. 7), ending with an extract from another pseudo-Pythagoric, Diotogenes, On Holiness. We are seeing here, I think, the development of a distinct philosophic stance, not by any means impartially eclectic, but rather (as indeed one 248 Return to Table of Contents

John of Stobi on the soul should expect at this period8) that of a post-Iamblichean Pythagoreanizing Neoplatonist. Stobaeus does not, certainly, present us with anything of the more abstruse doctrines of the Athenian School. Even if he was acquainted with them (which I do not think that he was), such subtleties would not be suitable to a work of this kind. John now proceeds, for the next thirteen chapters (chs. 8–20), to cover a series of basic philosophical issues, such as time, matter, forms, causal principles, bodies, shapes, colours, mixture, void, motion, and coming-to-be and passing-away, where, apart from the basic doxai of the ancients which he borrows from Aetius (or whoever), his main authorities are Plato’s Timaeus and Chrysippus, but he still manages to work into nearly every chapter some extracts from either Hermes or the Pythagorica or both. Chapter 21, ‘On the cosmos, and if it is ensouled and administered by providence, and where it has its ruling part, and what is the source of its nourishment’, begins a new, long series of chapters on all aspects of ‘physics’, beginning with the heavenly bodies and celestial phenomena (chs. 22–32), proceeding to sublunar questions, starting with the earth itself (chs. 33–6), going on to the sea (chs. 37–9), and then to nature and the generation and constitution of animals, before coming ultimately to man (chs. 40–7). Chapter 47, ‘On the nature of man’ (which is mainly drawn from Plato, chiefly the Timaeus, Republic, and Philebus, but containing an extract from Aristotle’s Physiognomica, and two extracts from Hermes), begins the final part of Book 1, which is concerned with the various faculties of man, beginning with intellect (ch. 48), and continuing through soul and the various senses, down to phantasia and doxa (ch. 59), with which the book closes. This, then, is the context of chapter 49, with which we are concerned on the present occasion. Chapter 49, covering fully 154 pages in Wachsmuth’s edition (pp. 318–472), is by far the largest chapter in the book (indeed, it takes up not much less than a third of the whole), dwarfing, for instance, the chapter on intellect, which runs for only eight pages. This might be justified by the central position of the soul in the universe, or by the complexity of the subject, but Stobaeus does not explain himself. He simply goes on quoting. It is our task to derive what coherent doctrinal stance we can from his quotations. The chapter begins, as do most, with a doxographic section, adopted from Aetius, listing the doctrines of ‘the ancients’. We find here a distinction (noted by Wachsmuth, who divides the section into 1a and 1b) between doxai presenting the soul as an immaterial entity, and those regarding it as material. We begin with doxai declaring the soul to be ‘ever-moving’ or ‘self-moving’ (Thales – and, with some elaboration, Alcmaeon), ‘self-moving number’ (Pythagoras and Xenocrates), ‘a harmony of the four elements’ (Dicaearchus), 249 Return to Table of Contents

John Dillon and – more remarkably – ‘the common exercise [συγγυμνασία] of the senses’, the view of the doctor Asclepiades; ending with Aristotle’s entelecheia (which Stobaeus, or his source, confuses with endelecheia) – all of which take the soul to be immaterial (though, in the case of the last three authorities, not a substance so much as a function of the living body). We then find a set of views of those who hold that the soul is a material substance, beginning with the group Anaximenes–Anaxagoras–Archelaus, who say that it is made of air, and ending with Epicurus, who makes it a mixture of four elements, a certain kind of air, a certain kind of fire, a certain kind of pneuma, and a fourth, unnamed element. The only apparent odd man out here is Xenarchus the Peripatetic (‘and certain others of the same school’), who defines it as ‘perfection and entelechy of form, both on its own and when combined with the body’ – a rather mysterious formulation, since it sounds immaterial, but Stobaeus or his source may have had reasons for regarding Xenarchus as a materialist. Xenarchus of Seleucia (late first century bc), a contemporary of Strabo and Arius Didymus, is also the chronologically latest figure mentioned in this doxographic sequence.9 This section is rounded off with a doxa of Hermes, no doubt added by Stobaeus, to the effect that the soul is ‘an eternal intelligent substance, having as its object of thought its own logos’; and a tag from Plato’s Phaedrus (247c), where, against all plausible syntax, the ‘colourless, formless, and intangible truly existent substance’ is connected with the immediately following ψυχῆς (which is actually dependent, of course, on κυβερνήτῃ) to make a definition of soul. We now begin the main part of the chapter – again, I assume, assembled by Stobaeus himself. Here there are no very clear divisions of sub-topics, except where Iamblichus’ De Anima is being quoted (pp. 362–85), but we start with a discussion of the nature of the soul, and then go on to discussions of its parts and functions, ending with its ultimate fate. The chief authorities here are Hermes Trismegistus (approximately 48 pages), Plato (approx. 44 pages), Porphyry (approx. 29 pages), and Iamblichus (approx. 27 pages), with very little else except a three-page excerpt from the treatise of Aesaras (or Aresas) the Pythagorean, On the Nature of Man (pp. 355–7). John starts out with a sequence of four extracts from Hermes. All the Hermetic passages in the Anthology have been well discussed and analysed by A.-J. Festugière,10 and I will be indebted to him for any comments I make here. He would connect three of the four closely together, and join them with another in a later chapter (2.8.31), to form parts of a discourse of Hermes to Ammon, while the fourth (49.5) he would connect with an earlier extract (1.41.6), as part of an address to Tat. The extracts in the latter parts of the 250 Return to Table of Contents

John of Stobi on the soul chapter, 49.44–5 and 68–9, he groups together, and joins with one later one (3.13.65) as a series of logoi of Isis to Horus (Excerpts XXIII–XXVII in Nock and Festugière 1945–54). It is worth noting at the outset, I think, that John chooses both to begin and to end his sequence of passages in this chapter with Hermetic works, which indicates the respect in which he holds Hermes Trismegistus. The first passage (49.3 = Excerpt XX) is a businesslike discussion of the soul’s incorporeality, of its being the origin of intellectual life, and of its relation to the harmony of the various bodily elements (we may note here the characteristic Hermetic use of harmonia,11 and its connexion with astral determinism). It thus constitutes a good introduction to the main body of the chapter. This is followed by 49.4 (Excerpt XVII), which concerns mainly the taking of the soul to itself of thymos and epithymia12 in connexion with its entry into body. Soul itself is a perfect substance (αὐτοτελὴς οὐσία); these lower elements of the soul constitute its relation (ἕξις) with the body, which will be shed when it departs from the body. This extract is very Aristotelian in tone, though it is more probable that the author has been studying not Aristotle himself, but a Peripatetic handbook. The third extract (49.5 = Excerpt III) is a discussion of soul as an energeia. It begins with the very Platonic dictum that ‘all soul is immortal and evermoving’ (cf. Phaedrus 245c), and goes on to show how soul is the source of all activity in the universe, from the divine level to the inanimate. The fourth extract (49.6) can be seen as following on immediately from the second, and concerns the same contrast between the soul in itself, which is ‘an eternal intellective substance’, and the soul in the body. Two levels of life and motion are distinguished, that of the incorporeal soul and that of the ensouled body, the former being autonomous, the latter subject to fate. Overall, these Hermetic passages, coming as they do from the mouth of the god Hermes himself, can be taken as giving a quasi-divine underpinning to the essentially Platonist doctrine on the soul that John favours. The text now becomes somewhat confused. From the evidence of Photius, it looks as if a heading and its contents, of a doxographic type, concerning the parts of the soul, have fallen out. This is followed by another heading, this time ‘On the motion and imperishability of the soul’, which begins with a doxa of Aristotle, and continues with one of Plato (‘Plato, that it is imperishable and ever-moving’, Πλάτων ἄφθαρτον καὶ ἀεικίνητον), but we then continue with a series of Platonic extracts (49.7–16) – interrupted by a little passage from Herodotus (2.123), describing Egyptian beliefs about the immortality of the soul and reincarnation (49.12) – first from the Phaedo (69e–70a; 70c–71a + 71c–72a; 78b–c + 79a–80b); then a short piece from 251 Return to Table of Contents

John Dillon the Cratylus (399b), presenting the etymology of psychē from anapsychein; then the famous passage from the Phaedrus, 245c–246a; then back to the Phaedo (91e–95a; 95e–96c; 99b–100a; 105c–107a). Obviously, on the subject of the motion and imperishability of the soul, the Phaedo is taken as the primary authority, along with the essential passage from the Phaedrus. If a whole sub-chapter on the parts of the soul has in fact fallen out, one would expect passages of the Republic and the Timaeus to be adduced in that connexion, but such passages turn up later in the chapter (49.28–31), so it seems hardly likely that they would have been brought in here. It makes this doxographic intrusion rather mysterious and suspicious. At any rate, Stobaeus now turns to Porphyry, first (49.17–23) to the Sententiae, covering Sentences 5, 7, 16, 17, 18, 23, and 37 – this last a big one – and then (49.24–6) to his lost work On the Powers of the Soul. The Sententiae passages still concern the broad topic of the nature of the soul, and its life in and out of the body, but the extracts from the latter work plainly concern rather the faculties or ‘powers’ (dynameis) of the soul. Either a heading has fallen out, or Stobaeus has forgotten about headings. He seems to be starting at the beginning of the work, but then uses only its doxographic portion, even as he does later with Iamblichus’ On the Soul. I quote the first sentence: It is my purpose to give an account of the faculties of the soul, first presenting an historical survey of the views of the ancients, and then the later judgements of my own teachers.13

What we in fact get is a doxography, beginning with the Stoic Ariston of Chios (= SVF 1.377), then going on to ‘others’ – also, it seems, Stoics; then, in section 25, we find the opinions of the Middle Platonists Numenius and Longinus, the latter of whom, at least, qualifies as a teacher of Porphyry, but after Longinus Porphyry turns back to ‘the ancients’ and ‘those from the Academy’ – whatever we are to understand by that. In 25a, the discussion moves from the faculties of the soul to the parts of the soul, and the distinction between them. Here again we start with the Stoics, then on to Plato and Aristotle, and then Numenius (whose view is that we have, not just different parts of one soul, but two distinct souls).14 On the question of the difference between a faculty and a part (p. 351.8 ff.), Porphyry specifies that a part is generically distinct in character from another part, whereas faculties fall under the same genus. That is why Aristotle, he says, rejects the concept of parts of the soul, but accepts faculties. This leads, via a reference to Longinus, to a statement of Porphyry’s own doctrine, or rather, his interpretation of Plato’s doctrine, that the soul in itself is partless, but becomes multiparted (πολυμερής) when it enters the body. 252 Return to Table of Contents

John of Stobi on the soul Porphyry goes on (p. 352.7 ff.) to make a three-way distinction between part, faculty, and what he calls ‘condition’ (κατασκευή), in which the distinction between faculty and part is clear enough, but that between faculty and condition is not so clear. ‘Condition’ is defined as ‘the proper fitness of the parts for the natural function of each’ (ἡ πρὸς ὃ πέφυκε τῶν μερῶν οἰκεία ἐπιτηδειότης), while ‘faculty’ is said to be ‘a state or condition on the basis of which it [sc. the soul] is enabled to act, and in accordance with which each thing is conditioned’ (τῆς κατασκευῆς ἕξις ἀφ’ ἧς ἐνεργεῖν δύναται, καθ’ ὃ κατεσκεύασται ἕκαστον). I confess I do not quite understand the thrust of this. ‘Some authorities’, Porphyry goes on to say, ‘declare that condition and faculty are the same.’ And God knows they may be right. Overall, then, the extracts from Porphyry’s treatise help to clarify the sense in which the soul can be said to be divided, and this suitably advances Stobaeus’ project. Stobaeus next (49.27, pp. 355.1–357.22) presents an extract from a pseudo-Pythagoric work, On the Nature of Man, attributed to one ‘Aesaras’ in the manuscripts, but probably to be credited to the otherwise known Aresas (so Heeren, followed by Thesleff ).15 Since it expounds the theory of the tripartite soul of the Republic, together with a theory of the best life as being a blend of intellect and pleasure, derived from the Philebus, it serves as a good lead-in to Plato himself, to whom John now turns for a series of four extracts (49.28–31): (i) Ti. 34b–35b + 36e–37c; (ii) Resp. 10, 610e– 611b; (iii) Resp. 4, 436a–b + 439a–440a; (iv) Resp. 4, 440e–441c (really a continuation of the preceding). Of these – as we hardly need reminding – the first concerns the creation of the soul out of its two main components of Same and Other, and its mode of cognizing both the intelligible and the sensible world; the second presents an argument for the immortality of an (essentially unitary) soul; while the third and fourth present the argument for the tripartite soul. These Platonic passages in turn serve to lead up to what may be regarded as the centrepiece of the chapter, covering 23 pages and 12 sections (49.32–43), an extensive series of extracts from the treatise of Iamblichus, On the Soul. I have lived with this part of the chapter for many years now,16 so I will refrain from saying too much about it on the present occasion. However, a brief account of the contents will be in order. The whole passage has been well translated and annotated by Festugière.17 Iamblichus starts with a section (49.32) on the nature of the soul in general, surveying all the opinions of the ancients, from atomism, through those who take the soul to be the form of the body (some Aristotelians), and those who see it as a mathematical essence or a harmony, to those who hold that it is an incorporeal substance (Platonists). Within these last, Iamblichus 253 Return to Table of Contents

John Dillon sees an important distinction between a group consisting of Plotinus, Amelius, and Porphyry on the one hand, and himself on the other, the former taking all incorporeal substance as essentially uniform (ὁμοιομερῆ καὶ τὴν αὐτὴν καὶ μίαν, p. 365.8), the latter making proper distinctions between the substance of the soul and those of the beings superior to it. The next three sections (49.33–5) concern the dynameis (faculties) of the soul. First, Iamblichus presents a section on the relation of the faculties to the substance of the soul, and the distinctions between them (33), then one on the number of faculties (34), and lastly one on the distinction between those faculties which make up the essence of the soul and those which do not (35), in each case passing in review the opinions of Platonists, Aristotelians, and Stoics, and, à propos the essential and non-essential faculties, those of more recent authorities, such as Plotinus, Democritus the Platonist,18 and Porphyry. Following on the dynameis of the soul, Iamblichus turns to a discussion of its activities (energeiai). This section (49.36), in contrast to the previous ones, is not doxographic, but presents Iamblichus’ own views on the distinction between those activities of the soul which are proper to it alone, and those which are proper to the composite of soul and body. There follows on this a section (49.37) on the acts (erga) of the soul, closely linked to the preceding, in which, after a brief mention of Stoic doctrine (they say that the acts of individual and universal souls are the same), Iamblichus returns to his argument with his immediate predecessors. Plotinus and Amelius are presented (p. 372.9 ff.) as being in essential agreement with the Stoics, while Porphyry is credited with holding that the acts of universal soul are totally distinct from those of individual souls. Even this, however, is insufficiently precise. Iamblichus now (p. 372.15 ff.) presents his own view, which is that one must distinguish souls by genera and species, and differentiate between the acts of divine souls and those of daemons, heroes, human beings, and irrational animals. Towards the end of the section (p. 374.21 ff.), the discussion turns to the reasons for the fall of the soul, and the origin of evil in it, and the critique is extended from Plotinus and Porphyry backwards to such Middle Platonic figures as Numenius and Cronius, Harpocration, Plutarch and Atticus, and Albinus. This seems to anticipate somewhat a later section of the treatise, as we shall see. This is followed by a section (49.38) on the quantification (μέτρον) of souls – in fact, whether the number of souls is finite or infinite. Here the atomists, and perhaps the Stoics – those, at any rate, ‘who do not distinguish the soul from nature’ – who regard souls as being infinite in number, are contrasted with the Platonists, who declare that there is a definite number. The extract breaks off just as Iamblichus is beginning to discuss Plotinus’ 254 Return to Table of Contents

John of Stobi on the soul use of the Perfect Number (presumably that of Republic 8, 546b–c) in this connexion – a reference, interestingly, that corresponds to nothing in the Enneads, and, indeed, does not sound like the sort of speculation in which Plotinus would have indulged.19 We now come to what we may, following Festugière, regard as the second main part of the consolidated Iamblichus passage, a discussion of the descent of souls. This covers four sections in Stobaeus (49.39–42), divided by Festugière into three chapters, of which he entitles the first ‘Points of departure and purposes of the descent’, the second ‘The union of the soul with the body’, and the third ‘Times and modes of incorporation’. In all of these Iamblichus presents much interesting criticism of his Platonist predecessors, as well as samples of his own views. The third main part begins at a lacuna (signified by Wachsmuth as 42a [p. 382.25]), and continues through 43. It is denominated by Festugière ‘The life of the soul in the body’, and divided into two sections, the first (truncated) one on the types of life one might choose, a topic not very different from a discussion of the telos, or ‘purpose of life’ (and indeed the piece we have becomes a survey of alternative telē); the second, longer, one concerns death, and is divided by Festugière into various subsections, such as the cause of death, and the fate of the various elements of the soul. This is not the last we are to hear of Iamblichus’ treatise – Stobaeus returns to it later in the chapter (49.65–7) – but for the moment he turns to something else. What he presents us with next is an enormous Hermetic passage (49.44), followed by a shorter one (49.45), both helpfully edited by Nock and Festugière (1945–54).20 The former is not so much an extract as the whole, or virtually the whole, of an Hermetic tractate, the Korē Kosmou – a mysterious title, which might mean either ‘Daughter of the World’, referring to Isis, or ‘Pupil of the World’, in the sense of ‘apple of the world’s eye’, referring to Egypt.21 It takes the form of a discourse addressed by Isis to her son Horus, the content of which she has in turn learned from Hermes, and it presents a comprehensive account of, first, the creation and structuring of the higher world as a dwelling-place for pure souls, then the revolt and punishment of these souls, and their confinement in human bodies, and, thirdly, the coming to earth of a divine emanation in the form of Isis and Osiris, in order to save souls, or at least some souls. The second passage, which is connected rather with two further Hermetic extracts with which Stobaeus ends his whole chapter (49.68–9), and to which we will return, is also an Isiac piece. It concerns the origin of different types of soul, royal, noble, male and female, and intelligent (συνεταί, p. 410.18 ff.). This is followed by a discourse on why the inhabitants of Egypt are the 255 Return to Table of Contents

John Dillon most intelligent of men, and then – rather inconsequentially – by a short speculation on why, in long illnesses, there occur alterations of speech, of the reasoning faculty, and even of the soul itself. These Hermetic passages can be seen as carrying on the topics raised in Iamblichus’ De Anima on a more theological level. Following on these, Stobaeus inserts a curious little oracle (49.46) of just six lines, which he entitles ‘On the life [διαγωγή] of souls after their departure from the body’, of unknown provenance. He may have extracted it from Porphyry’s Philosophy from Oracles, but, if so, he gives no indication of this. This, at any rate, leads in to a passage from the pseudo-Platonic Axiochus (371a–372a), describing the judgement and fate of souls after death (49.47), and this in turn to two short Hermetic extracts (49.48–9), this time from an otherwise known tractate in the corpus, to wit, Tractate 10, the Kleis, or ‘Key’. What we have here are sections 7–8 and 19 of the tractate, both passages concerning the afterlife of the soul, and metempsychosis in particular. We next come to a series of five extracts from an otherwise lost work of Porphyry, On the Styx – of which John has already presented a long extract earlier in his Anthology, in 1.3 – also concerning the afterlife (49.50–4). The work appears to be essentially a commentary on the Homeric poems, in respect of what they have to say, not only about the Styx (which is, after all, not that much), but about the afterlife in general, and it is buttressed, as one would expect from Porphyry, by much quotation from previous authorities (e.g. Philon of Heraclea, To Nymphis, on Marvels among the Scythians, which tells of asses which have horns in that part of the world [p. 421.11 ff.]). The last extract (54) has some particularly interesting reflections by Porphyry on the degree of consciousness possessed by disembodied souls, based on his attempt to make coherent sense of Homer’s description of life in Hades in Book 11 of the Odyssey. This is followed by a passage from Porphyry’s Sententiae (49.55 = Porph. Sent. 29), which concerns likewise the afterlife of the soul, and specifically the sense in which it can be said to reside in Hades, this being explained by reference to the ‘pneumatic vehicle’ of the soul, and its degree of turbidity. We next return to a sequence of three further extracts (49.56–8) from Plato’s Phaedo, 63b–c, 80d–82c (a passage which very much reflects the theme of the last passage from Porphyry), and lastly the whole myth, 107b–114d. We have by now had pretty much the whole business part of the Phaedo – which is only, after all, a reasonable reflection of the central place it holds in Plato’s (and therefore Stobaeus’) doctrine of the soul. 256 Return to Table of Contents

John of Stobi on the soul From this we turn once again to Porphyry, this time three extracts (49.59– 61), the first and third very short, the middle one somewhat longer, from an unnamed work (or works – the lemmata read simply Πορφυρίου, and then τοῦ αὐτοῦ), still concerned with the fate of the soul after death. The first tells a story of Pythagoras replying to a man who said he had thought that he had seen his dead father in a dream. ‘You did not think you saw him’, was Pythagoras’ response. ‘You saw him.’ A similar story is told by Iamblichus in his Bios Pythagorikos (ch. 148), but not by Porphyry in his Life of Pythagoras. The other two extracts concern exegesis of Homer, and so may in fact come from the work On the Styx.22 John now returns again to Plato (49.62–4), this time to the Timaeus (42a–d, concerning metempsychosis into women and animals), the Gorgias (523a–524a – the beginning of the myth), and Republic 10 (614b–616c – the beginning of the myth there). All three extracts, therefore, are concerned with eschatological questions. This is followed by a brief return to Iamblichus’ De Anima (49.65–7), which Festugière separates off as section 4 of that work, and entitles, appropriately enough, ‘Eschatologie’, since it concerns the judgement, and the rewards and punishments, of souls after death. The final thirteen pages of the chapter, comprising two passages (49.68–9), are given over, once again, to Hermes Trismegistus, to whom Stobaeus characteristically allows the last word. These two passages, as I have remarked earlier, can be seen to follow on from 45 above, on the origin of different types of soul. The first of these begins with a question of Horus to Isis as to where souls go after death, to which the reply is that they do not just dissolve, but depart to places in the universe appropriate to each type. This involves elaborate distinctions between the types, built on remarks of Plato’s, particularly in Phaedrus 248c ff., but according special honour to the souls of kings. The first part of the next extract continues this topic, adding a description of the different types of body which nature prepares as receptacles for souls when they descend. The second part of the extract continues this latter theme, expatiating on how the different mix of the four elements in each receptacle causes differences between men, and between men and animals, and also their health and illness. All this would be seen by Stobaeus, of course, not as deriving from the Platonic tradition, but rather as conferring divine validation upon it, from none other than Hermes, the Logos himself. That, then, is the content of the longest chapter in Stobaeus’ Anthology. Can one derive anything from it in the way of a coherent doctrine? I think that 257 Return to Table of Contents

John Dillon one undoubtedly can. John has selected his authorities in such a way as to present us with a well-rounded account of the late Platonist theory of the soul, its essential nature, its relation to the body, in what way it may be said to be unitary, and in what way it may be said to have parts, what are its faculties and its acts, and its fate after death. The soul, for John, is an immaterial essence, partless in itself, but distinguishable into various faculties, rational and irrational, in its embodied state. It experiences repeated, if not eternal, reincarnation, though not into animals (this is to be taken metaphorically, as all Platonists after Porphyry would hold), but the souls of the good may look forward to a glorious disembodied state among the stars, and a share in the administration of the universe. Stobaeus himself no doubt approved of the Hermetic doctrine he relays at the end of the chapter as to the very special status accorded to the souls of kings. This would no doubt go down well with the emperor of the day, Christian though he might be. Similar exercises could no doubt be performed with other chapters of the Anthology. It occurs to me to wonder, however, having undertaken this task, how many people now living, or even in the course of the last century, have ever sat down and read John of Stobi’s work as he intended it to be read – by his son Septimius or whoever else. No doubt Wachsmuth read it, and Hense read it, but that was back in the 1880s. Ever since, I suspect, it has been used only piecemeal, simply as the extremely valuable source of earlier lost works that it undoubtedly is. I do not imagine for a moment that this will ever be otherwise, but I would point out that John, by his selection of extracts, can be seen to present a comprehensive philosophical position, one appropriate to a late-Antique gentleman of Hellenic loyalties and vast learning, in a world grown, from his point of view, mad and savage. Notes

  I think particularly of Sorabji 1987 and Sorabji 1990.   The standard edition of Stobaeus is that of Wachsmuth and Hense 1884, Wachsmuth being responsible for the portion of the work dealt with here. All translations of the text are my own. 3   Photius, Bibliotheca, 112a16 ff. 4   There is no evidence, at any rate, of anyone before Stobaeus gathering together an anthology from the works of these authors, nor is it at all probable that there would have been. 5   There is an excellent discussion of Stobaeus as an anthologist in Mansfeld and Runia 1997, vol. 1, ch. 4, but the authors’ focus is on his use of the earlier doxographer Aetius, not on his own cullings. 6   Phot. Bibl. 112b41. 7   Ὅτι θεὸς δημιουργὸς τῶν ὄντων καὶ διέπει τὸ ὅλον τῷ τῆς προνοίας λόγῳ, καὶ 1 2

ποίας οὐσίας ὑπάρχει.

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John of Stobi on the soul 8   I take it that Stobaeus is to be dated approximately to the end of the 4th century or the early 5th century ad. The most recent author he utilizes is Themistius (c. 317–c. 388), and he shows no knowledge of the Athenian School of Neoplatonists (Syrianus [c. 370–437] or Proclus [410–85]) – nor is he concerned with Christianity (though he may have been a nominal Christian – his name suggests it). Mansfeld and Runia (1997, 197) would accept the conventional floruit of c. ad 420, and I would have no quarrel with that either.  9   On Xenarchus, see Moraux 1973, 1.197–214 (on his theory of the soul, 207–8). 10   In Nock and Festugière 1945–54, vols. 3–4. 11   Cf. Corpus Hermeticum 1.14–16; Excerpt XV.3. 12   ‘Spiritedness’ and ‘desire’, the two lower elements of the Platonic tripartite soul, as set out most notably in Republic 4. 13   Τὰς τῆς ψυχῆς δυνάμεις ὑπογράψαι πρόκειται καὶ πρότερόν γε ἐπεξελθεῖν τῇ ἱστορίᾳ

τῇ τε παρὰ τοῖς παλαιοῖς καὶ τῇ ὕστερον ἐπικρίσει τῇ παρὰ τοῖς διδασκάλοις.

  On Numenius’ psychology, see the useful discussion in Frede 1987.   Thesleff 1965, 48–50. 16   The results may be found in Finamore and Dillon 2002. 17   In an appendix to Festugière 1944–54, 3.177–264. 18   A dim, late-2nd- or early-3rd-century figure, on whom see Brisson 1994. 19   It may, however, have occurred in some collection of Plotinus’ conversations recorded by Amelius, to which Iamblichus could well have had access, in view of his presence in Apamea, to which Amelius had retired. 20   Vol. 4, pp. 1–96 (Excerpts XXIII and XXIV). 21   Festugière discusses this question in Nock and Festugière 1945–54, vol. 3, p. cxxviii, coming down in favour of the second alternative. 22   In section 61, pp. 448.8–9, Porphyry quotes part of the same passage of Odyssey 4 concerning the Elysian Plain which he quoted in the extract from On the Styx (section 53) at pp. 422.12 ff. 14 15

Bibliography

Brisson, L. 1994 ‘Democritos’, in R. Goulet (ed.) Dictionnaire des philosophes antiques, vol. 2, Paris, 716–17. Festugière, A.-J. 1944–54  La révélation d’Hermès Trismégiste, 4 vols., Paris. Finamore, J.F. and Dillon, J.M. 2002 Iamblichus: De Anima. Text, translation, and commentary, Leiden. Frede, M. 1987 ‘Numenius’, ANRW 2.36.2.1034–75. Mansfeld, J. and Runia, D.T. 1997 Aetiana: The method and intellectual context of a doxographer, Leiden. Moraux, P. 1973 Der Aristotelismus bei den Griechen, 2 vols., Berlin. Nock, A.D. and Festugière, A.-J. (eds.) 1945–54  Hermès Trismégiste, 4 vols., Paris.

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John Dillon Sorabji, R. (ed.) 1987 Philoponus and the Rejection of Aristotelian Science, London. 1990 Aristotle Transformed, London. Thesleff, H. 1965 The Pythagorean Texts of the Hellenistic Period, Åbo. Wachsmuth, C. and Hense, O. (eds.) 1884 Ioannis Stobaei Anthologium, Berlin. Repr. 1974.

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10 WHAT’S IN a DIVINE NAME? PROCLUS ON PLATO’S CRATYLUS R.M. van den Berg

1. Introduction One day late in ad 430 – or was it early 431? – a young man who had freshly arrived from Alexandria went to see the Athenian acropolis. Apparently he had arrived just in time. ‘Honestly,’ the guard at the gate told him, ‘if you had not come, I would have locked up.’ To most tourists this sounds like another request for a tip. One pays up and forgets about it. This particular visitor, though, remembered the doorman’s words exactly and communicated them years later to his biographer. He had come to Athens to study philosophy with the Neoplatonists who lived at the foot of the acropolis. Being a very devout pagan, he was convinced that it had been the goddess of that place, the patroness of wisdom, Athena herself, who had spoken to him through the doorman. The message was clear: one day the continuation of the perennial tradition of Platonism would depend on him and him alone. And indeed, in due time, Proclus (410–85) was to become head of the Neoplatonic school of Athens, the so-called Diadochos, successor of Plato.1 A driven teacher and prolific writer, he exercised a profound influence on the intellectual milieu of his day and indeed contributed significantly to the survival of the school in an increasingly hostile Christian environment. This little episode is illustrative of the deeply religious attitude of the Neoplatonic school of Athens which to a large degree determined its interpretation of Plato. I will now briefly sketch this attitude in general terms as an introduction to Proclus’ dealings with Plato’s Cratylus, the topic of this chapter. We refer to the revival of Platonism in late Antiquity, that started with the figure of Plotinus (205–70), as Neoplatonism. A Neoplatonist believed that Plato had already discovered the Truth and that he had expressed it in his writings. Therefore, all a philosopher had to do in order to find the Truth was to study the works of Plato assiduously. From this point of view, nothing good could ever come from something new. A Neoplatonist considered himself to be first and foremost a loyal interpreter of the works of Plato, 261 Return to Table of Contents

R.M. van den Berg hence a Platonist, not a Neo-platonist.2 Yet a modern reader who comes unprepared from Plato to the Neoplatonic commentaries is in for a surprise. The Plato whom he encounters in these commentaries hardly resembles the Plato he knows from the dialogues at all. The Neoplatonists had not sat down to read Plato with an open mind, but had opened his books already knowing exactly what they were going to find. What in fact they tried to do – although they would of course deny that they were doing such a thing – was to read their philosophy back into the Platonic corpus. Any original thought, and the Neoplatonists had many of these, was not presented as such, but as a new interpretation that was true to Plato. Given this outlook on the nature of doing philosophy it is hardly surprising that the favoured format of philosophical writings in late Antiquity, an age that was predominantly Neoplatonic, was the commentary. What, then, was the Truth that the Neoplatonists believed was to be found in Plato? They assumed, with some reason, that Plato had been concerned particularly with the structure of the universe and the position of the human soul in it. Following Plato, the Neoplatonists opposed the everchanging material world of becoming to an unchanging world of Being (the domain where Plato locates his Forms). Yet they did not leave it at that, but, on the basis of their interpretation of Plato’s dialogues, sought to articulate this world of Being and what lay beyond it (the famous Neoplatonic ‘One’) in greater detail. This was not just an academic exercise in metaphysical topography. They believed that the soul had fallen away from the realm of Being and a superior mode of existence into this grim material world where it was doomed to lead a miserable life. Since real happiness consists in a return of the soul to Being, one had to come to know exactly the nature of one’s soul and the way back to the world of Being, that is, the structure of the universe. The question how one was to achieve this return3 constituted the big divide in the Neoplatonic community. Some, like Plotinus and his student Porphyry, who were rather optimistic about the capacities of the human soul, believed that the philosopher could achieve it by means of his own intellectual efforts. Others, including Iamblichus and Proclus, had a low opinion about the human soul and believed that it was incapable of returning on its own. It needed divine assistance, which it could procure by means of rituals.4 For that reason, knowledge of the divine became important. The divine world was seen as the realm of Being and beyond, and the entities that populated this realm were identified with the traditional gods. Within this perspective, the distinction between philosophy and theology evaporated. Plato became a divinely inspired authority and his works reached the status of sacred texts, comparable to the Scriptures in the Christian tradition. The chief project of Proclus and his school 262 Return to Table of Contents

What’s in a divine name? Proclus on Plato’s Cratylus consisted precisely in extracting a systematic theology from Plato’s writings. Indeed, Proclus’ magnum opus, to which we will return below, is the Platonic Theology, a massive work in six books that can be seen as the sum of Proclus’ work as a commentator. In this chapter, we will take a closer look at Proclus’ commentary on Plato’s Cratylus, a work on the nature of the names of things and their relation to things. The commentary shows how Proclus turns a work on linguistics into one of theology, even though the text itself does not encourage such an interpretation. What is more, we will see that the commentary format does not stop Proclus from developing his own theory of names within the context of his own philosophical system. This theory is essential for his overall interpretation of the dialogue. Yet the support for this theory is at best minimal. As such, this case study is illustrative of how Proclus and his school dealt with the inherited texts of Plato. 2. Plato’s Cratylus Plato’s Cratylus is an odd dialogue.5 The central question seems to be whether the correctness of names is based on convention or on nature.6 Of the participants in the dialogue, Hermogenes verges towards the conventionalist position, whereas Cratylus represents the alternative view. In the first part of the dialogue Socrates refutes Hermogenes and makes him accept the claim that names have some kind of natural correctness about them. In corroboration of this claim, Socrates then comes up with a lengthy series of etymologies, which cover the central part of the dialogue. At the very moment when the issue seems to be settled in favour of Cratylus, Socrates turns on the latter and shows that the correctness of names depends on convention as well as nature. The first and the last part of the dialogue, the refutations of Hermogenes and Cratylus, have always enjoyed their fair share of attention. The issues that these address strongly appeal to those interested in the philosophy of language. Not so, however, the middle section of the dialogue with the etymologies. This is hardly surprising since most of these etymologies are utterly unconvincing by modern standards, and one wonders whether at least some of them looked any less unconvincing to Plato’s readers. As a result they have often been considered a joke that overstays its own welcome, a painful slip of Plato’s literary and philosophical genius, and hence better mercifully neglected. Understandable as this may be, it is from a methodological perspective at least a questionable procedure. Plato presumably inserted this lengthy passage for some reason. Any interpretation of the dialogue that wishes to claim some degree of plausibility is obliged to come up with a suggestion for one. 263 Return to Table of Contents

R.M. van den Berg The last years have witnessed a significant increase of interest in the Cratylus. Even more important, the need to find some function for the etymologies within the structure of the dialogue has been acknowledged and various suggestions are now on offer.7 This is by no means a pioneering approach to the dialogue. For Neoplatonists every word of the master was worth contemplating, including the fanciful etymologies of the Cratylus. Most of what survives of Proclus’ Commentary on the Cratylus, for example, is taken up by a discussion of the etymologies of divine names. It is on these that I will focus in this chapter. That is not to say that I recommend that we adopt Proclus’ interpretation of them. Although every now and then he makes some suggestions that reappear in modern discussions, it is only fair to say that his understanding of Plato is so radically different from ours that we cannot share the interpretations that result from it. What follows is not so much an attempt to shed new light on the Cratylus as an essay on Proclus’ understanding of the functions and workings of the etymologies. 3. Proclus on the Cratylus The major source for our knowledge of Proclus’ understanding of the Cratylus is his commentary on the dialogue.8 Although it is the only commentary on that dialogue which has come down to us from Antiquity, it has not been much studied. The last century has only produced a handful of publications that bear on it.9 An English translation by Brian Duvick, from which I will be drawing in this chapter, is, however, soon to appear in Richard Sorabji’s ‘Ancient Commentators on Aristotle’ series. Calling the work a commentary is perhaps saying a bit too much. It is an excerpt from a set of lecture notes by an anonymous student from Proclus’ course on the dialogue, that breaks off around Cratylus 407c. The commentary does not in any way resemble Proclus’ carefully composed commentaries on, for example, the Timaeus and the Parmenides, or even Hermeias’ commentary on the Phaedrus. The latter too is based on a lecture series, this time by Syrianus, Proclus’ and Hermeias’ teacher. But whereas Hermeias’ commentary consists of an edited version of that course, the commentary on the Cratylus consists merely of a series of observations concerning the text. As far as I can tell, there is no reason to assume that the student or the one who excerpted the commentary (if these are two different persons) added anything to it of his own accord. Unfortunately, however, the commentary, because of its condensed nature, is often difficult to make sense of. In some cases, it is even impossible to tell which part of the Cratylus a certain section of the commentary is referring to. 4. The skopos of the dialogue Iamblichus (c. 240–c. 325 ad), one of the leading lights in the Neoplatonic 264 Return to Table of Contents

What’s in a divine name? Proclus on Plato’s Cratylus community after Plotinus’ death, had posited that any Platonic dialogue had one skopos, its central aim or target. As a result the first thing for any Neoplatonic commentator on Plato to do was to establish what the skopos of the dialogue under discussion was. Hence, right in the first lemma Proclus states that the skopos of the Cratylus is [T. 1] the generative activity of souls among the lowest entities and the ability to produce likenesses which souls, since they received it as part of their essential lot, demonstrate through the correctness of names.10

The idea that the Cratylus is in some way about the correctness of names is an old one. The ancient subtitle of the dialogue is ‘On the Correctness of Names’.11 The idea that the Cratylus is about the generative activity of the soul, though, is anything but common ground. Below we will examine what Proclus had in mind. When one reads through the commentary, the amount of attention spent on the etymologies of divine names is striking. It may well be that the fact that the commentary as we have it does not cover the whole of the dialogue is responsible for this. The commentary now breaks off in mid-sentence in a lemma on the etymology of the name of Athena (Cra. 407a8–c2). The editor of the text, G. Pasquali, observes that this was already the case for the archetype manuscript.12 I would like to suggest, tentatively of course, that this is not mere chance. From the fact that we have lost the final parts of Proclus’ other commentaries, and that these were of considerable length, we have reason to assume that the same holds true for the notes on the Cratylus. However, it should be observed that the point where the commentary breaks off more or less coincides with the end of the section on etymologies of divine names in the Cratylus itself. In the Cratylus, Socrates next tackles the names of Hephaistos and Ares, and wishes to leave it at that; but then, at the request of Hermogenes, he takes a brief look into the names of Hermes and Pan. Once he has done this, he declares the discussion of divine names to be closed and moves on to astronomical names (Cra. 408d5). All in all, the section on divine names continues for two OCT pages after the treatment of the name of Athena. Last pages of manuscripts tend to get lost, so one can easily imagine that initially the commentary ran to Cratylus 408d5 and that subsequently the last page or so went missing. Why go in for this kind of speculation? The reason is that, in my view, Proclus was especially interested in the Cratylus as a work on theology, more so than, say, as a work on linguistics. As I have explained in section 1, the Athenian Neoplatonists viewed philosophy first and foremost as theology. The part of the Cratylus that is most likely to attract the attention of anyone with such a theological interest is precisely the section on divine names. 265 Return to Table of Contents

R.M. van den Berg Proclus’ treatment of the dialogue in the Platonic Theology seems to point in that direction. In Platonic Theology 1.5, the Cratylus is counted among the dialogues that are especially concerned with theology. It is grouped together with the Symposium and the Phaedo, [T. 2] for each of these produces a recollection to a greater or smaller degree of the divine names from which those who have exercised themselves in the study of the divine can easily grasp the individual characteristics of the gods by means of reasoning.13

Now, one may object that the Platonic Theology is precisely that, a work on Platonic theology, and will therefore focus on the theological aspects of the dialogues involved. I will therefore try to show that the soul’s ability to produce likenesses (hence, according to T. 1, the skopos of the Cratylus) coincides with the activity of doing theology. As it so happens, both the commentary on the Cratylus and the Platonic Theology describe what we do when we make names, and especially divine names. And even if in the end one does not want to accept my view that Proclus’ reading of the Cratylus focused uniquely on divine names, I think that I am still justified in claiming that the theological element was an important one for Proclus. 5. Proclus’ problem In line with the suggestion made above that Proclus reads the Cratylus as a treatise on theology, we should note the following observation: [T. 3] Indeed, in the Cratylus Socrates believes that he should demonstrate the correctness of names especially in the case of divine beings.14

Did Socrates indeed think that he should do such a thing? To the modern reader it will seem that Socrates is rather undermining the belief in the correctness of names and their usefulness as a source of knowledge. In order to convince Hermogenes that there is such a thing as the natural correctness of names, Socrates first draws attention to the fact that Homer distinguishes between the names by which humans call things and those in use among the gods. As examples he cites the river near Troy, known to the gods as ‘Xanthos’ and by man as ‘Skamandros’, a certain bird the gods call ‘chalkis’ and men ‘kumindis’, and a hill with the divine name ‘Murinē’ and the human name ‘Batieia’.15 Socrates assumes that these divine names are better suited to the things to which they refer than the human ones, but he is unable to tell why. To do so is beyond human power.16 So Socrates has in fact very little to say about this type of divine name. Moreover, what he has to say is not very helpful to Proclus, for he is interested in divine names for divine beings, not in divine names for such insignificant things as rivers, hills, and birds. 266 Return to Table of Contents

What’s in a divine name? Proclus on Plato’s Cratylus When it comes to the discussion of names of divine beings in the Cratylus, Socrates explicitly states that these are names which were invented by human beings. An investigation into these names, we are told, is first and foremost an investigation into the beliefs people had when they gave them to the gods, not an investigation of the gods themselves, for we are unworthy of such an investigation (Cra. 400d6–401a6). This remark points forward to the conclusion of the Cratylus that etymologies in general reflect the beliefs of human name-givers (Cra. 436b), and that divine involvement should be ruled out (Cra. 438c). Since these beliefs may be wrong as well as right, the searcher for the truth is well advised to leave them for what they are, i.e. human opinions, and investigate true beings directly. So, according to Socrates, in the case of names as used by the gods one can be sure that they are correct, but one is incapable of explaining why, whereas in the case of names as used by humans, one can tell what these names mean, but there is no reason to assume that these are correct. Yet Proclus assumes that even the human-made names that we use for the gods contain some truth. They have been produced by specialists who either work under divine inspiration or construct these names by using their intellectual capacities. In the latter case, Proclus describes the names as images of the specialists’ own internal visions (Theol. Plat. 1.29, p. 124.10–11 τῶν ἔνδον θεαμάτων εἰκόνας). By way of explanation he adds that, when the specialists adopt the second method, they proceed in a way that is comparable to the way in which the divine Intellect creates images of the divine world. The divine Intellect is the Demiurge from Plato’s Timaeus, the divine creator who makes our material universe in the image of the divine universe, i.e. the world of the Platonic Forms.17 As we will see, Proclus believes that the names that arise through divine inspiration and the names that are the product of human intellectual capacities are related. The divine Intellect is not just responsible for the creation of this world as an image of the realm of the Forms, it also constructs the divine names that are subsequently revealed to mankind through divine inspiration. Like the created world, names too are the products of the contemplation of the Forms by the divine Intellect. These Forms may in a way be considered as the thoughts of the divine Intellect. In a comparable manner, the names that we produce are the products of the contemplation of our own thoughts (the ‘internal visions’ just mentioned). These thoughts are, as will be shown, reflections of the Forms. We will now first look into Proclus’ theory of divine names as they exist on the level of the gods and then see how these relate to man-made names.

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R.M. van den Berg 6. Divine names for divine beings One important difference between Plato and Proclus is that the latter seeks to achieve some kind of mystical union with the gods through certain rituals, known as theurgy (cf. section 1 above). This idea is absent from Plato. In these rituals, the use of divine names as revealed by the gods plays an important role. For that reason, Proclus cannot allow himself to follow Plato in claiming that knowledge of these things is beyond human power, and indeed in his commentary on the Cratylus he presents a theory of these names, which I will now briefly discuss.18 One cannot understand Proclus’ theory about divine names without some knowledge of his, admittedly obscure, conception of the gods. Proclus believes that the gods are simultaneously present at the three highest levels of his complicated metaphysical world. At the top of this system stands the One (τὸ Ἕν). For Proclus the gods properly speaking depend directly on this One. They are the so-called Henads. Because of their one-ness, nothing can be said about them. For if something can be said about a thing, it is apparently a thing with a certain quality and therefore not an absolute unity. Since they are ineffable, they are also unnameable. For Proclus the existence of the gods on this level corresponds to their essence (οὐσία), which is therefore unnameable. Yet the gods stretch themselves out through an intermediate realm and that of Intellect. To the extent that they are present in these realms, they are less one, and therefore less ineffable. As a result names occur at these levels of the divine world. These gods are the ultimate causes of everything there is in our world, including our human souls. According to the Neoplatonists, every product desires to return to its cause, thus ultimately the human soul aspires to return to the gods and to unify itself with them. This return towards one’s cause is called reversion (ἐπιστροφή). It is the ultimate goal of one’s existence. In order to facilitate this return, the gods have planted signs of them in us. These signs enable us to attract the benevolence of the gods during rites which connect us to them. Since the gods themselves are present at three different levels, they have sown in us three different signs that correspond to their triadic structure. Among these are their names. Names are signs of the gods that belong to them in so far as they are on the level of Intellect.19 Proclus, who after all just wants to be a faithful interpreter of Plato, is at pains to connect this theory of divine names with the Cratylus. This ritual function of names is of course absent from the Cratylus, but Proclus assigns a second function to them. Not only do these names, ‘revealed from the gods themselves, cause reversion [ἐπιστροφή] back to them’, but

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What’s in a divine name? Proclus on Plato’s Cratylus [T. 4] to the extent that they are manifest, they lead to human understanding. For through these names we are able both to indicate something to each other concerning the gods and to converse with ourselves.20

Proclus derives this second function of divine names from Cratylus 388b. There, Socrates explains that we humans use names in general to indicate something to each other and to instruct each other. It should be observed, though, that Plato mentions this function in regard to human-made names only. It is Proclus who connects it with god-made names. As an example of such a god-made divine name, Proclus mentions the name of the monster ‘Briareus’ – an interesting case, for it shows that Proclus tries to stay as close to the Cratylus as possible. As we have seen, Socrates refers to examples from Homer when he argues that the gods may refer to things by other names than we do. Unfortunately for Proclus’ theological purposes, Socrates does not mention such names for divine beings. Proclus knew his Homer well, though. There are four such cases of divine names in Homer, the three mentioned by Socrates (see p. 266 above), and the case of the monster Briareus, known to mortals as Aigaiōn (Hom. Il. 1.403–4). Admittedly, Briareus is a monster rather than a god, but this is as close as one ever gets to a divine name for a divine being in Homer.21 As we have seen, Proclus associates names with the gods on the level of the divine Intellect. As we indicated above, this has to do with the fact that the divine Intellect creates names as images of the divine world which it contemplates. How does this idea relate to the Cratylus? According to Socrates in the Cratylus,22 a name should preferably be an image (εἰκών) of the thing it refers to. That presupposes knowledge of the thing that is imitated by its name. At the end of the dialogue, Socrates drives home the point that true knowledge can only be of unchanging things. It is hinted that these unchanging things are the Platonic Forms (Cra. 438e–440d). Throughout the whole dialogue, Socrates has never shown any interest in going into the naming business himself, so he does not state the obvious, i.e. that one can never be a successful name-giver if one has not enjoyed the contemplation of the Forms. However, Proclus does draw the conclusion that name-giving goes with a study of the Forms. He feels all the more justified in doing so, since Socrates had told Hermogenes earlier on (Cra. 390d5–7) that the name-giver should work under the supervision of the dialectician. Now it is by no means clear that we should think here of the dialectical art extolled in the Republic as the way to knowledge of the Forms. Rather the contrary, for the existence of the Forms is only tentatively hinted at, at the very end of the dialogue, and at this point we have not been given the slightest reason to believe that there are such wonderful things as Platonic Forms. Such considerations did not figure in Proclus’ mind, though. He happily states at the beginning of his 269 Return to Table of Contents

R.M. van den Berg commentary that the Cratylus is a dialectical dialogue, and that the dialectics involved are not those of the Peripatetic school, but those discussed by the great Plato in the Republic.23 As we have just pointed out, it is the divine Intellect that contemplates the Forms that are prior to it. For that reason, Intellect is the first dialectician. Proclus declares that it is ‘the projector of the dialectical technique’, that ‘generates dialectic as a whole from itself as a whole’.24 As the first dialectician, Intellect is also the most appropriate candidate for being the first name-giver. Proclus believed that he had sound textual evidence from Plato that Intellect is indeed a name-giver. At Cratylus 389a2, Plato had called the human name-giver ‘the rarest of craftsmen [δημιουργῶν]’. Proclus is quick to point out the correspondence with the Demiurge of the Timaeus, whom he identifies with the divine Intellect. Moreover, at Timaeus 36c Plato had explicitly stated that the Demiurge named (ἐπεφήμισεν) the revolutions of the soul the ‘Same’ and the ‘Other’,25 which shows, as Proclus observes, that he is indeed the first name-giver.26 7. Human names for divine beings So much for the truly divine names which reach us by means of divine inspiration. But what about the divine names which were constructed by us, humans? After all, these make up the bulk of the divine names in the Cratylus. As we have seen (T. 2), Proclus believes that we may derive from these names knowledge about the individual characteristics of the gods by means of reasoning. As we have already stressed above, this idea seems at odds with the very bottom line of the Cratylus that names cannot be a source of knowledge of true being (including gods), since they do not reflect the reality about the gods, but rather human beliefs about them. However, Proclus believed that names, or at least correct names, of the gods are instructive, because they are reflections, not of whatever we happen to think about them, but of the Forms themselves in so far as they are innate in us (the ‘internal visions’ mentioned in section 5 above). What is more, the analysis of them helps us in our ascent towards the divine in a manner comparable to the study of mathematics. Let me first briefly sketch Proclus’ theory of innate ideas, their importance for science, and the extent to which doing science, that is, the study of these innate Forms, purifies us and so contributes to our ascent. I shall be drawing here on an excellent article by Carlos Steel (1997) on Proclus on innate knowledge. For a Neoplatonist, scientific knowledge (ἐπιστήμη) is the domain of discursive reasoning, just as the knowledge, or perhaps better, wisdom, of the Forms is that of intuitive contemplation. Scientific knowledge is of course inferior to intuitive wisdom. All the same, the two are related, for science studies the Forms in so far as they are innate in us, or, better, in our 270 Return to Table of Contents

What’s in a divine name? Proclus on Plato’s Cratylus soul. According to Proclus, Nous, Intellect, is the cause of Soul. Now, as a rule, products are like their causes. Nous contains in itself all Forms, and, analogous to these, Soul contains logoi, hence a sort of second-degree Forms. These logoi constitute the soul, and are therefore essential to it (οὐσιώδεις). Following Steel, I shall translate logoi in this context by ‘reason-principles’. Although we possess all knowledge, this does not mean that we have direct access to it. The shock of falling away from the intelligible realm into a body gets in the way. When we practice science, we try to access these reason-principles, which are still there, by trying to articulate them. This is, of course, the Neoplatonic interpretation of the thesis defended in the Meno and the Phaedo that all knowledge is but recollection, especially recollection of the Forms. This recollection is brought about by studying the projections (προβολαί) from these reason-principles in the mind. How these projections work can best be demonstrated in the case of the study of mathematics, as Proclus describes it in his commentary on Euclid, especially in his two prolegomena to the commentary. Steel touches on these prolegomena, which have been extensively discussed by John Cleary in a paper on Proclus’ philosophy of mathematics (Cleary 2000). When the mathematician studies, say, a circle and its properties, he is on this account really articulating his innate reasonprinciple of what a circle is. He does so by imagining a circle, or various circles, on which he performs all kinds of operations. Even if he does not draw out these imaginary circles on a writing-tablet, these circles are still thought of as figures with a certain extension in contrast to the logos circle which has no extension.27 It is precisely for the reason that imagination (φαντασία) plays an important role in the scientific process that the Neoplatonists value it as a positive function of the human soul.28 Proclus refers to these projections in the imagination as ‘images’ (εἰκόνες). To come to understand what a circle is, is in itself a fine thing. However, for Proclus, far more is involved. On the one hand, the study of the innate logoi is a form of self-reflection, since we are these logoi. The soul that studies the projections in its imagination and is impressed by their beauty, comes to realize that it is really impressed by its own beauty. Hence, the study of mathematics leads the soul to revert upon itself, which is considered an important step in Neoplatonic mysticism. On the other hand, the logoi are just emanations of the Forms, hence of the gods as perceived by Nous. Doing mathematics, therefore, prepares the mind for theology, since it shows the truths about the gods by means of images (εἰκόνες). Let us now return to the human-made names for the gods. The fact that Proclus describes these names as ‘images of internal visions’ already suggests that names are produced by our imagination in the same way as circles are, and that they therefore have the same scientific and mystical functions. 271 Return to Table of Contents

R.M. van den Berg A number of other texts also point in that direction. We have already seen that T. 2 mentions names in connection with recollection and (discursive) reasoning. Paragraph 51 of the commentary on the Cratylus is revealing in this respect. The soul, we are told, by its characteristic power to produce images and likenesses (cf. T. 1), makes (material) statues of superior beings like gods and daemons; [T. 5] but wishing to set up likenesses of beings that are in some way immaterial and products of rational being only, it produced from itself and with the help of linguistic imagination the essence of names.29

I take it that since the soul produces the names from herself, the ‘rational being’ which is referred to must be the reason-principles that constitute the soul. Imagination too plays its part here. As imagination in the case of mathematical objects enables us to draw an image of them, so the linguistic imagination makes it possible to create a sound image of the gods.30 Proclus warns us that the names thus created deserve the same respect as is due to statues of the gods: [T. 6] and just as it is not reverent to transgress against the statues of the gods, so it is not lawful to sin regarding names. For the legislative demiurge of names is Nous, which instils images of their models in them.31

That is all a bit vague, but the point is apparently that Nous is in some way responsible for the names that we make. In the light of what has just been said, I take it that Nous instils these likenesses only indirectly in the names. For if these names were the direct product of Nous, they would be the type of divine names as produced by the gods themselves which we discussed above, not the man-made names which Proclus is referring to here. Rather, it seems to me, Nous is indirectly responsible, for it creates soul with the logoi in it. Since we create our names as projections of the logoi, it is in the end Nous who guarantees the correctness of names. And this brings us back to the skopos of the dialogue. For now we know what that ‘ability to produce likenesses’ is which the souls received as part of their essential lot and which is demonstrated through the correctness of names. 8. Names as likenesses Let us finally reflect a little on what it means for a name to be an image, or a likeness, of a god. An image is always in some respects unlike the thing it is an image of. Plato makes Socrates observe that an image of Cratylus is not completely identical to Cratylus. For if it were, it would no longer be an image of Cratylus, but a second Cratylus (Cra. 432a–c). For Plato, this is a reason to admonish his readers to study the things themselves, i.e. the Forms, directly, instead of through the images that names are (Cra. 439a–b). 272 Return to Table of Contents

What’s in a divine name? Proclus on Plato’s Cratylus Proclus, however, adopts a different line. We should study divine names precisely because they are not the gods or the Forms themselves. This has to do with Proclus’ rather pessimistic view of the capacities of the human soul. Soul can only know things in a soul-like fashion, that is, discursively. This means that the soul can contemplate only one thing at a time. The gods and Forms are situated in the intelligible realm. There every part contains the whole intelligible universe. It is, for example, impossible to contemplate just the Form ‘Horse’. When one contemplates the Form ‘Horse’, one has also to contemplate all the other Forms simultaneously. Divine Nous, as opposed to soul, can do this. For that reason, as we have seen, it is Nous that is the first name-giver. However, these names are incomprehensible to us, since the names of the divine Nous are the products of its intellections, which are beyond the capacities of our discursive human souls. The only way in which we can partake in these intellections is through images of them. It is only through the images (εἰκόνες) which the soul generates as projections of its innate ideas that it can entertain intuitions about the essence of the gods and about the nomenclature of the gods.32 Be that as it may, it is not easy to see what a likeness of a god consists in anyway. We are dealing here with highly abstract metaphysical notions and it is not at first sight clear how these could be captured in an image. As we have seen, Proclus compares names to statues. The Neoplatonists had the habit of interpreting all kinds of elements, for example the attributes held by the statue of a god, allegorically, as if such statues were texts. This principle is now applied to the etymologies of names. Take the name of Rhea. At Cratylus 402a–b Plato connects it with the Greek word for flowing (rheein). Proclus explains that this is because this goddess ‘produces the unbounded flood of all life and all unceasing powers’.33 We have good reason to think that Proclus may have had a statue in mind from which poured out streams of water.34 However, it is obvious that he did not literally believe in a goddess somewhere up in the heavens from whom came pouring forth a stream of fluid. Rather it is, Proclus points out, as with Plato’s image of the horses of the soul in the celebrated myth of the winged charioteer in the Phaedrus.35 The horses represent powers of the soul: surely Plato does not want us to think that there are little horses running around in our heads. In Proclus’ words, the relation is not that of the Form ‘Horse’ to an image ‘horse’. Rather, it is one of analogia. What analogia is precisely is a difficult matter, which I will now pass over.36 The fact is that we should not take the idea of a name as an image of a god too literally. 9. Conclusions As far as the evidence allows us to tell, Proclus saw in the Cratylus first and foremost a work of theology. It was especially the etymologies of divine 273 Return to Table of Contents

R.M. van den Berg names that attracted his attention. In the Cratylus, Plato had sought to discourage anyone from approaching philosophy and theology by means of etymologies: the meaning of the names by which the gods call themselves is beyond the reach of our human understanding, whereas the names by which we honour the gods express our beliefs about them, rather than the truth itself. This did not stop Proclus from trying, though. He develops a theory about the origin of divine names, which explains their usefulness in rituals. Divine Intellect or Nous produces them upon contemplation of the intelligible world. It is the same Intellect that fashions the material cosmos after this intelligible realm as its image, εἰκών. These divine names are then revealed to us. Because of their divine origin, they hold special power and are, for example, used in theurgy. Meanwhile, human beings too produce names for gods in an imitation of the divine Intellect. Our souls consist of innate logoi which we project as images in order to reach a better understanding of them and prepare ourselves for divine illumination. So we too produce images upon contemplation of the intelligible to the extent that it is present in us. These, according to Proclus, are the divine names discussed in the Cratylus. Whereas Plato had discarded names as a source of knowledge, precisely because they are only an image of reality, Proclus holds this to be an advantage they have. The soul, since it is a soul and not an intellect, is unable to contemplate the gods directly. It has to do so through images. The term ‘image’ should not be taken in the sense of some sort of realistic portrait of the divine. Rather it refers to it by means of analogia. Proclus thus provides a positive interpretation of Plato by placing his thought within the context of his own Neoplatonic metaphysics and psychology. Acknowledgements

I am grateful to the editor of this volume, David Scourfield, for his helpful and careful comments. This chapter was written with the financial support of the Netherlands Organization for Scientific Research (NWO).

Notes

  For a more detailed treatment of Proclus’ Commentary on the Cratylus, see Van den Berg forthcoming. In ch. 1, I argue that, contrary to what I say here in section 6, Proclus was right to equate the dialectician from the Cratylus with the typically Platonic dialectician from other dialogues such as the Republic.   For a survey of Proclus’ philosophy, see Siorvanes 1996. The anecdote about Proclus’ arrival in Athens can be found in Marinus’ Life of Proclus, 10: the new standard edition 1

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What’s in a divine name? Proclus on Plato’s Cratylus of this work is that of Saffrey and Segonds 2001; for an English translation, see Edwards 2000.  2   The term ‘Neoplatonism’ was coined in the 19th century.  3   The return involves the much-discussed Neoplatonic mysticism.  4   These rituals are also known as theurgy, literally ‘the art of making gods’ from mortals. For primary texts and secondary literature on theurgy, see e.g. Sorabji 2004, 381–90, who among other things pays attention to the theurgical value of divine names.  5   The text of the Cratylus used in this chapter is the new Oxford Classical Text of Duke et al. (1995). The reader is reminded that line numbers in this edition do not always correspond to those in Burnet’s edition, which it replaces.  6   For an alternative view, see Keller 2000.  7   See e.g. Barney 1998 and Sedley 1998 and 2003 for two different, although not mutually exclusive, suggestions.  8   The standard edition of this text is Pasquali 1908.  9   For a survey of recent publications on the Commentary on the Cratylus, see D’Hoine et al. 2005. For older publications, see Muth 1993. 10   In Cra. 1, p. 1.1–4 ὁ σκοπὸς τοῦ Κρατύλου τὴν ἐν ἐσχάτοις ἐπιδεῖξαι τῶν ψυχῶν γόνιμον ἐνέργειαν καὶ τὴν ἀφομοιωτικὴν δύναμιν, ἣν κατ’ οὐσίαν λαχοῦσαι διὰ τῆς τῶν ὀνομάτων ὀρθότητος αὐτὴν ἐπιδείκνυνται. The translation followed throughout is

that of Duvick. 11   Diogenes Laertius 3.58; note, however, that this subtitle was probably not by Plato. 12   Pasquali 1908, app. crit. ad loc. 13   Theol. Plat. 1.5, p. 25.18–23 ἑκάστῳ γὰρ αὐτῶν πλείων ἢ ἐλάττων μνήμη γίνεται

τῶν θείων ὀνομάτων ἀφ’ ὧν ῥᾴδιον τοῖς περὶ τὰ θεῖα γεγυμνασμένοις τὰς ἰδιότητας αὐτῶν τῷ λογισμῷ περιλαμβάνειν. Translations from this work are my own. 14   Theol. Plat. 1.29, p. 123.20–1 καὶ γὰρ ὁ ἐν τῷ Κρατύλῳ Σωκράτης τὴν ὀρθότητα τῶν ὀνομάτων ἐν τοῖς θείοις διαφερόντως ἐκφαίνειν ἀξιοῖ.

  Cra. 391e–392b. For a similar distinction between human and divine language, see Plato, Phdr. 252b; Plato here cites the Homeridae as authorities on divine language. 16   Cra. 392b; this does not stop Proclus from offering an explanation for why the divine names are better suited to their referents than their human equivalents (In Cra. 71, pp. 34.12–35.15). 17   Theol. Plat. 1.29, p. 124.6–20. 18   On the topic of divine names in Proclus, see also Hirschle 1979, 21–8. 19   In Cra. 51, pp. 29.21–32.4. 20   In Cra. 51, p. 32.2–5 ὅσον ἐστὶν αὐτῶν φανόν, εἰς γνῶσιν ἀνθρωπίνην προάγοντα· 15

διὰ γὰρ τούτων καὶ ἀλλήλοις σημαίνειν τι δυνάμεθα περὶ ἐκείνων καὶ αὐτοὶ πρὸς ἑαυτοὺς διαλέγεσθαι.

21   Kirk 1985, 94, commenting on Il. 1.403–4, lists two other instances of divine terminology in Homer, without, however, human equivalent (Od. 10.305, 12.61). He observes that no principle to account for these peculiarities of names has been satisfactorily proposed. Janko 1992, 197, commenting on Il. 14.209–10, comes up with an explanation of the divine name ‘chalkis’ for the bird ‘kumindis’. Originally Chalkis was a girl who was then changed into a bird. The gods alone can recognize the girl in the bird. 22   e.g. Cra. 433c5.

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R.M. van den Berg   In Cra. 2, pp. 1.10–2.4.   In Cra. 3, p. 2.5–12 ὅτι νοῦς ἐστιν ὁ τῆς διαλεκτικῆς προβολεύς, ἀφ’ ἑαυτοῦ ὅλου

23 24

ὅλην αὐτὴν ἀπογεννῶν, κτλ.

  In Ti. 34b–37c Plato describes how the Demiurge fashions the world-soul as two intersecting, revolving circles, that of the ‘Same’ and that of the ‘Other’. 26   In Cra. 51, p. 20.1–7; 63, p. 27.17–20; 71, p. 33.23–5. 27   i.e. these imaginary circles are thought of as dimensional figures, whereas the logos circle has no dimensions. 28   On the positive appraisal of phantasia in later Neoplatonism, see Sheppard 1995. 29   In Cra. 51, p. 19.8–11 βουλομένη δ’ ἀύλους τρόπον τινὰ καὶ μόνης τῆς λογικῆς 25

οὐσίας ἐγγόνους ὑποστῆσαι τῶν ὄντων ὁμοιότητας, ἀφ’ ἑαυτῆς, χρωμένη τῇ λεκτικῇ φαντασίᾳ συνεργῷ, τὴν τῶν ὀνομάτων παρήγαγεν οὐσίαν.

  Cf. Theol. Plat. 1.29, p. 124.10–12.   In Cra. 51, p. 19.20–3 καὶ ὥσπερ εἰς τὰ τῶν θεῶν ἀγάλματα πλημμελεῖν οὐχ ὅσιον,

30 31

οὕτως οὐδὲ περὶ τὰ ὀνόματα ἁμαρτάνειν εὐαγές· νοῦς γὰρ ἐστιν ὁ νομοθετικὸς τούτων δημιουργός, εἰκόνας αὐτοῖς ἐνθεὶς τῶν παραδειγμάτων. The Neoplatonists usually

quote Philebus 12c as the Platonic text that stresses the respect due to the gods; see e.g. In Cra. 30, p. 11.5; 57, p. 25.10–11; Theol. Plat. 1.29, p. 125.3–5 Saffrey and Westerink with their n. 1. 32   In Cra. 135, p. 78.13–22. 33   In Cra. 143, p. 81.9–10 τὴν τῆς ζωῆς ἁπάσης ἄπειρον χύσιν ὑφίστησιν ἡ θεὸς αὕτη καὶ τὰς ἀνεκλείπτους ἁπάσας δυνάμεις.

  Cf. Brisson 2003, 119.   Plato, Phdr. 246 ff. 36   For a discussion of analogia in Proclus, see Sheppard 1995. I cannot, though, subscribe to everything she says. 34 35

Bibliography

Barney, R. 1998 ‘Socrates Agonistes: the case of the Cratylus etymologies’, OSAPh 16, 63–98. Brisson, L. 2003 ‘Plato’s Timaeus and the Chaldaean Oracles’, in G.J. Reydams-Schils (ed.) Plato’s Timaeus as Cultural Icon, Notre Dame, Ind., 111–32. Cleary, J.J. 2000 ‘Proclus’ philosophy of mathematics’, in G. Bechtle and D.J. O’Meara (eds.) La philosophie des mathématiques de l’Antiquité tardive: Actes du colloque international, Fribourg, Suisse (24–26 septembre 1998), Fribourg, 85–101. D’Hoine, P., Helmig, C., Macé, C., and Van Campe, L. 2005 ‘Proclus: fifteen years of research (1990–2004)’, Lustrum 44. Duke, E.A., Hicken, W.F., Nicoll, W.S.M., Robinson, D.B., and Strachan, J.C.G. (eds.) 1995 Platonis Opera, vol. 1, Oxford. Edwards, M. 2000 Neoplatonic Saints: The Lives of Plotinus and Proclus by their students, trans. with introduction, Translated Texts for Historians 35, Liverpool.

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What’s in a divine name? Proclus on Plato’s Cratylus Hirschle, M. 1979 Sprachphilosophie und Namenmagie im Neuplatonismus, mit einem Exkurs zu ‘Demokrit’ B 142, Beiträge zur klassischen Philologie 96, Meisenheim am Glan. Janko, R. 1992 The Iliad: A commentary. Vol. IV: Books 13–16, Cambridge. Keller, S. 2000 ‘An interpretation of Plato’s Cratylus’, Phronesis 45, 284–305. Kirk, G.S. 1985 The Iliad: A commentary. Vol. I: Books 1–4, Cambridge. Muth, N.S. 1993 Proclo, negli ultimi quarant’anni: bibliografia ragionata della letteratura primaria e secondaria riguardante il pensiero procliano e i suoi influssi storici (anni 1949–1992), Milan. Pasquali, G. (ed.) 1908 Procli Diadochi in Platonis Cratylum Commentaria, Leipzig. Saffrey, H.D. and Segonds, A. (eds.) 2001 Marinus: Proclus, ou Sur le bonheur, Paris. Saffrey, H.D. and Westerink, L.G. (eds.) 1968 Proclus: Théologie platonicienne, vol. 1, Paris. Sedley, D. 1998 ‘The etymologies in Plato’s Cratylus’, JHS 118, 140–54. 2003 Plato’s Cratylus, Cambridge. Sheppard, A. 1995 ‘Phantasia and analogia in Proclus’, in D. Innes, H. Hine, and C. Pelling (eds.) Ethics and Rhetoric: Classical essays for Donald Russell on his seventyfifth birthday, Oxford, 343–51. Siorvanes, L. 1996 Proclus: Neo-platonic philosophy and science, Edinburgh. Sorabji, R. 2004 The Philosophy of the Commentators 200–600 ad: A sourcebook. 1. Psychology (with Ethics and Religion), London. Steel, C. 1997 ‘Breathing thought: Proclus on the innate knowledge of the soul’, in J.J. Cleary (ed.) The Perennial Tradition of Neoplatonism, Leuven, 293–309. Van den Berg, R.M. forthcoming  Proclus’ Commentary on the Cratylus in Context: Ancient theories of language and naming, Leiden.

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11 PAGANS1 AND CHRISTIANS ON PROVIDENCE Andrew Louth

In his commentary on Proclus’ Elements of Theology, E.R. Dodds famously remarked that ‘the topic of πρόνοια bulks almost as large in Neoplatonism as does that of predestination and grace in the Christian theology of the period’ (Dodds 1963, 263). In fact, it seems to me that Dodds’ judgment would be more accurate if the comparison were between Greek and Latin theological or philosophical reflection, rather than between (pagan) Neoplatonism and Christianity, for in the Greek Christian world there was, and continued to be, a great deal of reflection on the notion of πρόνοια or providence. God’s providential care for the universe has been a fundamental belief among Christians from the beginning. It was not long – at least by the time of the so-called Christian Platonists of Alexandria – before Christian reflection on providence drew on the long history of reflection on such problems found in classical and Hellenistic philosophy. In the period Dodds had in mind – from the mid-third century onwards – works on providence by Christians are at least as numerous as works by pagan Neoplatonists, if not more so. Indeed, in the Byzantine period, apart from reflection on pro­vidence in general, there emerged what amounted almost to a literary genre, concerned with the question of ‘predestined terms of life’ (περὶ ὅρων ζωῆς), that is, whether the date of death is determined for each individual. This question was discussed by many Byzantine writers, drawing on philosophical considerations as well as some of the discussions in the Fathers, notably Basil of Caesarea in his famous sermon on God not being the author of evil.2 Theophylact Simocates, the historian of the reign of the Emperor Maurice, may be said to have inaugurated the genre at the beginning of the seventh century. Those who followed his example include Anastasios of Sinai (also 7th century; the question is discussed in later works ascribed to him, as well as in authentic works), Patriarch Germanos I and John Damascene (8th century), Patriarch Photios (9th century), Patriarch Nicholas I Mystikos (10th century), Niketas Stethatos and Michael Psellos (11th century), Nicholas of Methone and Michael Glykas (12th century), Theognostos 279 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Louth and Nikephoros Blemmydes (13th century), and Theodore Metochites (14th century, the date also of an anonymous dialogue entitled Hermippos). Finally, from the fifteenth century, the last century of Byzantium, there survive treatises by two of the Orthodox participants in the Council of Ferrara–Florence (1438–9), Mark Eugenikos and George Scholarios (later Gennadios II, the first patriarch of Constantinople under the Ottomans), as well as Theophanes of Medeia and Joseph Bryennios.3 It is not, however, with this later period that we shall be concerned in this chapter, but rather with the doctrine of providence in the classical and Hellenistic philosophers, and the way in which this reflection influenced early Christian understanding of providence. We shall take our investigation up to the end of the fourth century ad, and a work by a little-known Christian bishop – De Natura Hominis by Nemesios of Emesa – which culminates in a lengthy discussion, informed by his extensive knowledge of the Greek philosophical tradition, of fate, free will, and providence. We shall also confine our discussion to those who wrote in Greek. One reason for focusing on the doctrine of providence in considering the reception of the tradition of Greek philosophy among early Christian thinkers is that the doctrine seems to be central to the sense of affinity many early Christians appear to have found with Plato and Platonism: an affinity manifest in the admiration the fourth-century bishop Athanasios of Alexandria evinced for Plato in referring to him as ‘that great one among the Greeks [i.e. pagans]’ (ὁ μέγας παρ’ Ἕλλησι Πλάτων),4 and also in the story preserved among the writings ascribed to the seventh-century abbot of Sinai, Anastasios, where it is related that it was the custom of a certain learned Christian to curse Plato daily; eventually Plato himself appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘Man, stop cursing me; for you are merely harming yourself. I do not deny that I was a sinner; but, when Christ descended into hell, no one believed in Him sooner than I did.’ 5 For belief in the gods, their providence and their impartiality, was required by Plato for the citizens of the kallipolis for which he legislated in the Laws;6 refusal to accept these tenets merited severest punishment, and after death the loss of the right to burial. Such an emphasis on what one might call a moral universe, ruled by Divine Justice, provided precisely the world-view that the Christians needed to express their own understanding of the relationship between God and human kind.7 We shall, first, discuss the development of reflection on providence and fate among Greek philosophers up to the end of the second century ad; secondly, we shall look at Christian reflection on providence, and its use of considerations found among the philosophers; thirdly, we shall look at early Neoplatonism; and finally, we shall seek to draw some conclusions.

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Pagans and Christians on providence I Nowhere in his works does Plato formally set out his doctrine of providence, but there are four places where he reflects on providence or issues closely linked to it. The most important discussions are found in his later works, the Timaeus and the Laws. In Laws 10, Plato presents a lengthy defence of the idea of divine providence, that is, that the gods care for human kind. This doctrine, as already mentioned, is presented as a fundamentally religious doctrine – that is, it is presented as concerned with the relationship between gods and human kind, rather than primarily concerned with the ordered harmony of the cosmos (though it involves this) – as well as being one of the beliefs about the gods needed to ensure the smooth running of Plato’s ideal state. The Timaeus, although it does not explicitly discuss providence, presents a picture of ‘the cosmos as truly a living being, endowed with soul and reason, brought into being by the providence of God’.8 The evidence of divine providence in the universe is found in reason, rationality, λόγος, which has sought to reproduce in the realm of becoming the pattern of truth found in the realm of the Ideas or Forms. Reason has not been, could not have been, entirely successful, for the realm of becoming is just that, and not the realm of being; there is a kind of brute necessity, and reason can do no more than ‘rule it by persuasion so that most of what came to be was for the best’ (Ti. 48a). The rational structure of the universe is, then, the mark of divine providence, but such providence is not all-ruling, the result is not a universe absolutely determined by the divine will. In two other places in Plato’s works, there is reflection that bears on the question of providence. The first is in the myth of Er in the last book of the Republic. One purpose of this myth is to explain the inequality of human fate. Some are born with every advantage, others are born slaves; does not this tell against the impartial providence of the gods? Plato’s reply, in the myth of Er, is that we each choose our own destiny. Before being born to another life, the soul makes its own choice in the light of the values that it has come to acknowledge as a result of its experience so far: ‘No δαίμων will cast lots for you, you will choose your own δαίμων … blame lies with the one who chooses; god is blameless.’ 9 δαίμων is difficult to translate here. Plato himself had defined a δαίμων as a being intermediate between the gods and men (Symp. 202e), but Herakleitos (fr. 119 Diels–Kranz) had already by Plato’s time identified a human’s δαίμων with his character (ἦθος ἀνθρώπῳ δαίμων). Both meanings seem to be in play here: no other (semi-divine) being will make the choice for one, one chooses one’s own character. Furthermore, whatever character one chooses it is nevertheless possible with that character to pursue virtue, for ‘virtue knows no master’ (ἀρετὴ δὲ ἀδέσποτον, Resp. 10, 617e). One is responsible, therefore, not only for the character one has, but also for what one makes of it. 281 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Louth The final place is in the Phaedrus, with its explanation of the ‘ordinance of adrasteia [necessity, or the inescapable]’. This is again about souls choosing their lot: Whatever soul has become a follower of the gods, and discerned something of the truth, will be free from sorrow until the next cycle begins … but when it is not able to follow or to see, and meeting with some mischance, and burdened with forgetfulness and vice, weighed down with that burden, it loses its wings and falls to the earth, thus runs the law …

and there follow nine fates from a philosopher to a tyrant (Phdr. 248c–e). Again the point is that the kind of existence possible for us in this life, even though it depends on birth and other circumstances beyond our control (including a mysterious possible ‘mischance’, συντυχία, which Plato does not explain), is determined by our pre-natal choice, so that the diversity of human destiny is not evidence for the unfairness of the gods, but rather the reverse: it is evidence of the different choices the souls have made, and the different lots that correspond to these choices are in fact evidence of the impartial providence of the gods. From this emerges a fairly consistent picture of a cosmos ruled for the most part by reason, where we can expect more or less regular patterns of consequence, but not an absolutely predetermined state of affairs; there is room for human choice, and even our conditions of life, where much is determined by birth and other circumstances outside our control, have been chosen by our souls prior to their birth in bodies. In Aristotle’s surviving works, there is nothing that can be called a doctrine of providence, and this for two reasons. First, Aristotle has not a robust enough notion of the divine; either the divine is an ultimate principle, the unmoved mover, ‘causing motion by being loved’ (Metaph. Λ. 1072b), but hardly able to care for the beings that aspire towards it, or the divine refers to beings of a purely contemplative nature, who for precisely this reason are only and eternally concerned with what is eternal.10 Secondly, Aristotle does not think that in this realm of change and decay there is enough regularity: there are always exceptions, rules only apply for the most part. In the heavens, things are different: there the motions of the stars and the planets can be reduced to mathematical laws, but this is not thought of as due to providence. In late Antiquity, however, Aristotle was widely credited with the belief that in the superlunary world providence held sway, but that it was too weak to be effective beneath the moon. No such notion is found in any extant treatise thought to be authentically by Aristotle, but it is found in a treatise included in the Aristotelian corpus called On the Cosmos (De Mundo). No one believes nowadays that this work is by Aristotle; it is stylistically quite 282 Return to Table of Contents

Pagans and Christians on providence different from the extant authentic works, and while it draws on authentic Aristotelian doctrines, it seems to be dependent on later thinkers for some ideas, e.g. on Posidonius in its meteorology.11 It used to be thought that it was simply owing to this pseudo-Aristotelian treatise that the idea that Aristotle restricted providence to the superlunary realm had become widespread amongst the Christian Fathers, but it is now thought that this doctrine may have been found among the now lost earlier treatises of Aristotle.12 Despite the absence of any doctrine of providence in Aristotle’s surviving works, however, we find there a notion that was to play an important role in later discussion of providence and fate, and that is the notion of τὰ ἐφ’ ἡμῖν, what is ‘up to us’ (to use Hankinson’s felicitous translation13): namely, those matters that are our responsibility, both actions within our control and conditions, such as (good or bad) habits, that are due to former patterns of behaviour within our control.14 The discussions of providence and fate in the early Christian period are almost wholly conditioned by the discussion they received in Stoic circles. Central to the Stoic discussion was the idea of εἱμαρμένη, usually translated ‘fate’ or ‘destiny’. The notion of fate is also found in Plato, but it is little developed and subordinate to his belief in the providence of the gods. 15 Several times Plato appeals to a popular idea of fate (e.g. that ‘no one can escape his fate’, something that ‘women say’, Grg. 512e, cf. Phdr. 255b), and he uses the term, εἱμαρμένη, to describe the summoning of the souls to their next incarnation (Phd. 115a, cf. 113a), and refers to ‘laws of fate’ (νόμοι εἱμαρμένοι, Ti. 41e) and ‘the order and law of fate’ (ἡ τῆς εἱμαρμένης τάξις καὶ νόμος, Leg. 904c). It is not difficult to see how the Stoic notion of fate is developed from these hints in Plato. Stoic cosmology was based on that found in Plato’s Timaeus, but the distinction between reason and necessity is collapsed, and reason and necessity are identified. This is parallel to the collapsing together of other concepts kept distinct by Plato and others, such as God and nature, or the spiritual and the material. For the Stoics, all these were two sides of the same coin: to speak of soul was to speak of the leading part of the human being, τὸ ἡγεμονικόν; to speak of God or the λόγος was to speak of the ‘skilful fire’, πῦρ τεχνικόν, that gave shape and structure to nature, with which it was identical. Most of what we know about the Stoics we know from those, Platonists, Aristotelians, Epicureans – and Christians – who argued with them. They present a picture of an absolutely deterministic cosmos, that allows no scope at all for free choice. Rather than – as is correct – deriving εἱμαρμένη from μείρομαι, which would render the meaning ‘what is allotted or decreed’, the Stoics generally present the term as etymologically derived from εἱρμός, a chain: it is thus presented as a binding chain of causes, εἱρμὸς αἰτιῶν.16 The extent of the influence of the Stoic notion of fate, or at 283 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Louth least the way in which it governed the terms of the debate in Hellenistic times about determinism and human freedom, can be judged from the fact that the word εἱμαρμένη becomes the term universally used – by Platonists, Peripatetics, and Epicureans – for the ordered structure of the cosmos, Platonists and Peripatetics arguing that such an ordered structure of causes does not disallow the possibility that some things are genuinely ‘up to us’. But there is more to the Stoic doctrine of fate than the notion that everything is determined. This universal rationality of the cosmos is but an aspect of the ordered structure, διακόσμησις, of the cosmos, its ordered harmonious beauty.17 It is, indeed, arguable that the notion of harmony lies at the centre of the whole Stoic vision. It is this harmony that manifests the fundamental goodness of the cosmos; it is this harmony that inspires humans with a desire to form part of that harmony. And the conviction of the overruling nature of this harmony explains both the human aspiration to play a role in that harmony – to contribute a beautiful solo part, as it were – and the fact that whatever we do, we shall form part of that harmony, even if it is only making a discordant grumble that sets off the beautiful melodies of those who live ‘in accordance with nature’. Another aspect of the Stoic understanding of the providentially ordered structure of the cosmos (for the Stoics providence and fate were closely interrelated, and could sometimes be more or less identified18) also derives from the Timaeus and the seriousness with which the Stoics took Plato’s idea of the cosmos as modelled on the human being, so that it was in consequence ζῷον ἔμψυχον ἔννουν, a ‘living being with soul and reason’,19 a doctrine that Christians came to express by calling human kind a ‘little cosmos’, μικρὸς κόσμος.20 In consequence the Stoics regarded the cosmos as ordered, not just for the good, but for the human good, a view rejected as absurd by Platonists and Peripatetics, but, as we shall see, enthusiastically embraced by Christians, who were also inspired by the Stoic understanding of the harmony of the cosmos.21 A brief account of current Platonic doctrine on providence or fate (or a current Platonic account) in the early Christian centuries can be found in the second-century handbook of Platonic doctrine, Alcinous’ Didaskalikos: a textbook of what is often called ‘Middle Platonism’, to distinguish this period of Platonism (roughly late second century bc to early third century ad) both from Plato himself and his immediate successors in the Academy and from Plotinus and the ‘Neoplatonists’. It is striking that chapter 26 22 is presented as an account of fate, εἱμαρμένη; the word providence (πρόνοια) does not appear at all. But Alcinous’ account of fate is not that of the Stoics. With them he accepts that there are sequences of causes, and that everything takes place in such ordered sequences – all things are ἐν εἱμαρμένῃ, within the sphere of fated, but they are not fated (καθειμάρθαι): fate has the status 284 Return to Table of Contents

Pagans and Christians on providence of a law, but it does not determine what each person will do, otherwise the notion of what is ‘up to us’ would vanish, along with the notion of praise and blame. He explains this by appealing to the kind of considerations we have found in Plato’s myth of Er and in the Phaedrus (there are verbal echoes of these passages in what Alcinous has to say 23). There are certain sets of consequences, but these are set in train by human actions that are free. ‘The soul, therefore, owns no master, and it is in its power to act or not, and it is not compelled to this, but the consequences of the action will be fulfilled in accordance with fate.’ 24 He gives the example of Paris’ abduction of Helen: his action in abducting her was not fated – he could have refrained – but once he had abducted her, the consequence that the Greeks would go to war was. Very similar discussions of what is often called the doctrine of ‘cofatalities’ can be found in roughly contemporary works such as the Peripatetic Alexander of Aphrodisias’ De Fato,25 and another similarly titled work ascribed to Plutarch (and certainly by a Platonist). II If we now turn to Christian reflection on these themes, we immediately encounter one striking difference: for Christians the doctrine of providence is a fundamental credendum, while fate, far from being another word for much the same thing, as it had become in contemporary pagan writers, is a grave error, to be firmly rejected. For illustration of this conviction – the rejection of εἱμαρμένη – it suffices to consult Lampe’s A Patristic Greek Lexicon. The article on this word, of more than two columns, is almost entirely devoted to citations denying the existence of fate, asserting that it is a pagan belief and incompatible with Christianity, with dire consequences of immorality and absurdity, lending support to the equally absurd beliefs of astrology, and destructive of free will; if there is such a thing as fate, then humans, or at least Christians, can rise above it, for its power has been destroyed by Christ.26 It is not that the Christians were ignorant of the terms of the philosophical debate. The authors of many of the sources drawn on by Lampe knew more than we ever shall about the works of classical and Hellenistic philosophy: Christians such as Clement of Alexandria, Origen, and Hippolytus, who are among our main quarries for what remains of many of these philosophers. Alongside this outright rejection of fate, we find an emphatic assertion of providence. Clement of Rome, at the end of the first century, appeals to the harmony of the universe, the evidence and result of God’s providential governance, which is to be an inspiration for Christian behaviour.27 Early Christian writers regularly speak of God as enveloping the universe, or affirm with the second-century apologist, Athenagoras, that ‘the Maker’s care [ἐπιμέλεια] extends to everything, the invisible as well as the visible, the small 285 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Louth and the great’,28 or speak of providence extending both to universals and to individuals, particular providence being the preserve of the angels.29 The sources of this understanding of providence are, certainly, scriptural, even if occasionally they are draped in philosophical language. The teaching of Jesus in the Gospels about God the Father’s care for the least creature, even individual hairs on one’s head (Matt. 10.29–31), or the reference in the Psalms to the care of humans confided to the angels (Ps. 90.11): these are the immediate source for Athenagoras’ stress on the universality of divine providence. This also gives a clue as to why the Christians embrace providence and reject fate, for providence is to the Christians primarily a religious doctrine – about God’s care for his creation. Fate is also, perhaps, seen by them as religious – only an aspect of religion associated with astrology and divination, which Christians universally rejected. Their pagan contemporaries, on the contrary, were primarily philosophers; the philosophical debate was presented in terms of fate or destiny and human freedom, providence being either not mentioned at all (despite the prominence of πρόνοια in Plato’s doctrine), or introduced as an argument against the determinist consequences of the Stoic doctrine of fate (as its opponents understood it), for instance in Alexander of Aphrodisias’ De Fato 17. In the course of time Christians, in presenting their doctrine of providence, demonstrate awareness of the philosophical debate about fate and free will. However, despite the fact that Christians and pagans seem to be discussing much the same problem in trying to reconcile providence/fate with human self-determination, Christians’ awareness of the pagan debate does not affect their uniformly negative understanding of the notion of εἱμαρμένη that they inherited from the earliest Christian writers. This is evident from the time of Clement of Alexandria onwards.30 Origen demonstrates a profound familiarity with all aspects of the Hellenistic debate over fate, particularly in his tussle with the Platonist philosopher Celsus.31 Nemesios, too, in a more explicit way, sets out his understanding of the debate over fate in his De Natura Hominis. Although it is in Contra Celsum that we find the most explicit evidence for Origen’s familiarity with the Hellenistic debate over fate, it is his use of classical, Platonic arguments about fate and destiny in De Principiis that I want to discuss here. Providence is central for Origen’s understanding of human engagement with God. Immediately, his thought on providence is determined by his rejection of gnosticism, which maintained that the universe was evidently not ruled by providence; on the contrary, it was largely given over to evil powers. One of the arguments that the Gnostics used in support of their rejection of providence was the manifest inequality of the human condition: some human beings were born to wealthy parents, benefited from a fine education, and then had the means and opportunity to pursue wisdom 286 Return to Table of Contents

Pagans and Christians on providence and goodness, others were born in much less favourable circumstances and could only survive by undertaking menial tasks, or even resorting to crime. Following from this the Gnostics regarded it as evident that humans are not equal, but have different natures, so that some are spiritual (πνευματικοί), others, the irredeemable, are material (ὑλικοί), while still others are simply alive (ψυχικοί), capable of turning either way. There is no equal or just providence, rather human society, not to mention the rest of the cosmos, is made up of beings with different natures, good, bad, and indifferent, which are a matter of chance, or the result of the activity of different divine creators. To meet this, Origen turns to the Platonic defence of providence found in Republic 10: to the principle, αἰτία ἑλομένου· θεὸς ἀναίτιος (‘blame lies with the one who chooses; god is blameless’). For the diversity in the human lot is not due to conditions of birth over which humans have no control; rather, for Origen, as in the myth of Er, souls choose their human lot – some choose well, others badly. Providence comes in by arranging matters so that the human lot chosen befits the rational choice made pre-natally. All rational beings were created equal, but they have come into this material cosmos as a result of their turning away from God, and that turning-away from God was a matter of free, individual, rational choice, in which there was enormous variety, from those rational beings whose attention to God wavered for just a moment – to these correspond the highest ranks of angels – to those whose rejection of God was thorough-going – the devil and the fallen angels or demons – with human beings in the middle. The variety of the cosmos is an index of the justice of divine providence. As Origen himself puts it, at the end of the passage from De Principiis that I have been summarizing: This … was the cause of the diversity among rational creatures, a cause that takes its origin not from the will or judgment of the Creator, but from the decision of the creature’s own freedom. God, however, who then felt it just to arrange his creation according to merit, gathered the diversities of minds into the harmony of a single world, so as to furnish, as it were, out of these diverse vessels or souls or minds, one house, in which there must be ‘not only vessels of gold and silver, but also of wood and of earth, and some unto honour and some unto dishonour’ [2 Tim. 2.8]. These were the reasons, as I think, which gave rise to the diversity of this world, wherein divine providence arranges all creatures individually in positions corresponding to the diversity of the movements [of their wills] and the fixed purpose of their minds.32

This diversity not only manifests the even-handedness of providence, it also shows the way in which God’s providential care adjusts to the different capacity and condition of each of the fallen rational creatures. For each different human lot is fitted to the state of the soul that chose it so as to help it to realize the nature of its turning away from God, to come to repentance, 287 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Louth and to seek to ascend again to the pure contemplation of God from which it has fallen: πρόνοια disposes the cosmos so that it is a place for appropriate παίδευσις, to echo the title of Hans Koch’s fine study of Origen (a thesis explored further by Marguerite Harl).33 The cosmos is a place of punishment and training – παίδευσις – enabling souls to realize, each in its own way, the extent of its fall from God, and providing, in that very human lot – in much the way that Plato envisaged in the myth of Er, as well as in other myths, such as those in the Phaedo (107c–114c) and Phaedrus (246a–257a) – the opportunity for a form of training, ἄσκησις, that will enable the soul to develop those faculties it has damaged, or lost, as a result of its fall from contemplation of God, and return to that state of contemplation. Origen’s vision here is impressive, though problematic. The problematic element that his contemporaries latched on to was its closeness to the Platonic myths of the soul, just mentioned, which for Plato were bound up with the idea of metempsychosis. Nowadays most scholars doubt whether Origen believed in metempsychosis, though there is dispute as to whether he believed in pre-existence of souls (to most Platonists tantamount to metempsychosis),34 but his contemporaries can hardly be blamed for thinking that his vision endorsed a belief in metempsychosis. Another problematic element, much less remarked on by his contemporaries, concerns the role of Christ and the Incarnation. Origen’s understanding of the providential ordering of the cosmos is so complete that it is not clear why an Incarnation would be needed at all, save perhaps to provide an accelerated ascent for some chosen souls.35 But what is interesting for our purposes is the way in which Origen’s defence of providence against the Gnostics draws on Plato’s own defence of the apparent inequality of the human lot. We see here, I think, a quite fundamental affinity with Plato’s conviction of the central place of providence in the cosmos – an affinity so profound that it creates problems for Origen’s own Christian convictions – which is much more revealing of the significance of Plato for Origen than the learned skirmishings we find in Contra Celsum. A similar conviction of the fundamental insight of Plato’s grasp of providence can be found in the last of the Christian works we shall deal with here. This is the treatise De Natura Hominis, written by Nemesios, a late-fourthcentury bishop of Emesa, present-day Homs in Syria. We know nothing about Nemesios, save what can be gleaned from this work (and it reveals nothing personal). The work itself had an erratic reception history, and, maybe for that reason, but also because it fits into none of the conventional trajectories of Dogmengeschichte, it has been largely neglected by modern theological scholarship. Initially, it seems to have had little impact, though Nemesios’ discussion of Christological matters was referred to in the 288 Return to Table of Contents

Pagans and Christians on providence sixth-century debates over Christology. In the seventh century, however, Maximos the Confessor made use of Nemesios’ work, especially his discussion of providence, thus establishing it as a resource for early Byzantine theology. John of Damascus shared Maximos’ regard for Nemesios, and drew on it heavily (not just for his doctrine of providence), thus establishing a tradition of recourse to the work that endured throughout the Byzantine centuries, and was passed on to western medieval scholasticism. Despite its evident importance in the history of theology, however, it is only recently that it has become easily accessible in a good critical text, with the publication of Moreno Morani’s Teubner edition;36 Matthaei’s 1802 edition was a decent one for its day, but the reprint in Migne’s Patrologia Graeca was so full of mistakes as to make it virtually unusable. The first thing that strikes one about Nemesios’ work is his learning, and it is this that has attracted the attention of what scholarship there has been on Nemesios, notably Werner Jaeger’s now ninety-year-old monograph ( Jaeger 1914). With each topic that he discusses – from formation of human kind from soul and body, through a detailed examination of the constitution of the body and the faculties of the soul, to his analysis of human freedom, leading into his final discussion of fate and providence – Nemesios gives us an account of the different views of the philosophical schools, among which he especially favours the views of Plato. This, as we shall see, is markedly true of his treatment of providence. Although Nemesios is writing a philosophical treatise and has a thorough grasp of the philosophical debate, he betrays his Christian principles in following the tradition we have seen above of deploring any notion of fate, and discussing the substantive issue essentially in terms of providence. Fate is discussed as a problem: a problem that threatens the integrity of the human and the nature of religion. The consequences of a belief in fate are set out uncompromisingly: Laws are absurd, courts are superfluous in that those they punish are guiltless, blame and praise are alike irrational, and prayers are profitless, if everything happens in accordance with fate. Providence is abolished together with religion, added to which, man is found to be nothing but a plaything of celestial motion, for by this not only are the members of the body moved to various actions but also the thoughts of his soul. In a word, those who assert such things destroy the concept of what is up to us, as well as the nature of the possible.37

However, Nemesios finds this doctrine of fate, εἱμαρμένη, in Plato, whom he respects, and so he is obliged to discuss it (Nat. Hom. 38). As we have seen, although Plato himself makes a few references to εἱμαρμένη, he is much more interested in providence, πρόνοια. Nemesios found his account of ‘Plato’s’ doctrine not directly in the text of Plato himself but, as Telfer suggests, in some commentary on the Timaeus, now lost (Telfer 1955, 407). 289 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Louth In summary, his account is this. ‘Plato’ uses the word εἱμαρμένη in two ways: κατ’ οὐσίαν and κατ’ ἐνέργειαν – as an essential notion, and in action. As an essential notion, εἱμαρμένη is identical with the world-soul of the Timaeus; in action it is the ‘inescapable and inviolable divine law operating through causality’ – this law is called (as in the Phaedrus38) the ‘ordinance of the inescapable’ (θεσμὸν ἀδραστείας, ch. 38, p. 109.12–13), through which everything is ordered and everything takes place. This active fate is also said to operate in accordance with providence. However, providence is the more general notion, for although everything fated takes place in accordance with providence, not everything providential is fated. This divine law, at once fate and providence, embraces everything, both the principles of our actions (τὰ καθ’ ὑπόθεσιν) and their consequences (τὰ ἐξ ὑποθέσεως). The principles of our actions, our ‘assents, judgments, and impulses’, are ‘up to us’ (ἐφ’ ἡμῖν); the consequences of our actions, however, are a matter of fate, and beyond our control (though not necessarily beyond our foresight). What is up to us comes under the general sway of providence, i.e. God works through our free choices to achieve the designs of his providence, while the consequences of our actions are ruled by fate. It follows, then, that while everything comes under the sway of providence, not everything is determined from all eternity by fate, for the principles of our actions – the reasons behind what we do – are up to us. This, Nemesios assures us, is in accordance with the Platonic principles affirmed in the myth of Er in the Republic that ‘blame lies with the one who chooses; god is blameless’ and ‘virtue knows no master’.39 What ‘Plato’ does then, according to Nemesios, is to call the purpose and will of God fate, and subject fate to providence: all this, Nemesios remarks, differs little from the Scriptures, which say that providence alone rules over all (Nemesios gives no reference, and in fact is hardly likely to be quoting, as the word πρόνοια is rare in the Scriptures; he may intend a general reference to Matt. 10.29–31 or Ps. 135 [136]). There is, however, according to Nemesios, one important difference from the Scriptures, in that according to this account of ‘Plato’s’ teaching, the consequences of our actions follow necessarily (in accordance with the doctrine, discussed above in relation to Alcinous, of co-fatalities). For Nemesios, the deliverances of providence do not follow by necessity (κατ’ ἀνάγκην), but within a range of possibilities (ἐνδεχομένως). For if providence operated by necessity – that is, if what followed from our actions followed as a matter of necessity – then ‘the greater part of prayer would be laid waste’. For prayer is not only concerned with our intentions, but also with the consequences of our actions. If we decide to go to sea, what happens to us then is not fated, and therefore beyond the power of prayer, but depends on God’s providence, so prayer to God is still valuable. Nemesios goes on to assert that God is not subject to necessity, rather he is the creator of necessity. 290 Return to Table of Contents

Pagans and Christians on providence Nemesios then goes on to discuss the problem of free will (‘what is up to us’, or what is in our control, τὸ αὐτεξούσιον) at some length, exploring how free will works together with divine providence, how far free will extends, and how free will is to be seen as part of what it means to be a rational being (Nat. Hom. 39–41). He then returns, in the final – and culminating – chapters of the treatise (chs. 42–3) to the question of providence. He begins by demonstrating the truth of providence: the saving history of the Old Testament (so powerful that ‘no Jew, even if beside himself, could fail to recognize providence’: ch. 42, p. 120.15); for Christians, ‘the most divine, and in its overwhelming love for human kind most incredible, act of providence: God’s incarnation for our sake’ (ch. 42, p. 120.20–1); and, for the pagans, the evidence of the ordered movements of the cosmos, the signs of divine retribution, the structure and proportion of our bodies, and the beauty of the animal kingdom. Another evidence of providence is the universal acknowledgement among humans of the need for prayer, sacred offerings, and holy places, as well as the zeal to do good. Further on, Nemesios gives definitions of providence. Providence is ‘the care that comes from God to the beings that are’40 (ch. 42, p. 125.4–5), or ‘the purpose of God by which the things that are receive their fitting outcome’41 (ch. 42, p. 125.6–7). If providence is the divine purpose, then it necessarily follows that everything works out in the best way, as is most fitting to God, and that there is no better order of things. Nemesios then goes on to discuss the scope of providence: does it concern things in general, or particular beings and events as well? What for Nemesios is the truth about providence is presented as the teaching of Plato. According to Nemesios, Plato teaches that providence holds sway over both what is general and what is particular. He divides providence into three: primary providence, that of the first God, that extends through the realm of the Ideas and also the whole of the cosmos, that is to say, the heavens and the stars; then there is the providence of the ‘second gods who traverse the heavens’, ‘ruling the generation of individual animals and plants, and indeed everything that belongs to the realm of change and decay’ (ch. 43, p. 126.4–6); a third providence rules actions that are concerned with the course of life, and is consigned to δαίμονες, who are guardians of human affairs. Nemesios’ discussion continues by considering other ideas of providence – all (in his view) inferior to those of ‘Plato’ – found among the philosophers, and then turns to the objections to the idea that God exercises providence over particular events and people; these objections he reduces to three, ‘that God does not know that it would be good to care for these, or that he does not wish to, or that he cannot’ (ch. 43, p. 130.9–10). These objections are dealt with at some length, and dismissed. 291 Return to Table of Contents

Andrew Louth There are two things that seem to me to be striking about Nemesios’ treatment of fate and providence. The first is that he follows the already established Christian tradition that puts providence at the centre and rejects the notion of fate as compromising human free will and, indeed, any real notion of divine providence. The second is that he is keen to identify the truth with what he regards as Plato’s doctrine. However, he reads Plato through the lenses of later Platonic tradition (some of which is now lost to us), which based its understanding of fate/providence on exegesis of the Timaeus, coupled with ideas about human responsibility drawn from, principally, the myth of Er and the Phaedrus. It is an odd thought that he would have made matters so much easier for himself had he based himself simply on Plato, and ignored the Platonic tradition; for in Plato he would have found little mention of εἱμαρμένη, which is so abhorrent to him, and could have developed from Plato himself a doctrine of simple providence. He was, however, too learned in the Hellenistic philosophical tradition, and shared to too great a degree the assumptions of that tradition, for that simple route to be open to him. Instead, he ventures to criticize Plato’s doctrine of fate (and indeed the doctrine of co-fatalities that he criticizes is firmly based on Platonic texts, as we have seen in our discussion of Alcinous), and then lays emphasis on his doctrine of threefold providence. III I want finally, and briefly, to look sideways, as it were, at the developing Neoplatonic tradition, that is, at the direction the Platonic tradition came to take with Plotinus and those influenced by him. There are three treatises in the Enneads devoted to fate and providence: Enneads 3.1–3. In reality these represent two treatises, one on fate and one on providence, the second treatise having been divided by Porphyry so as to make up the desired number of ‘enneads’: fifty-four. In the chronological numeration, they are treatises 3 and 47–8; they are therefore widely different in time of composition, the treatise on fate being one of the earliest of Plotinus’ treatises, and the one on providence being one of the last. Furthermore, the short treatise on fate is largely unoriginal, being (as Armstrong put it) ‘very much a conventional Platonic school discussion of its period’,42 while the treatise on providence is a lengthy treatise in which Plotinus introduces some significant new ideas, notably his notion of λόγος as the rational forming principle through which providence is effected. Here is not the place to enter into any detailed discussion of how Plotinus develops the Platonic tradition of providence; what is striking is that it is just this that he does. It is the doctrine of providence that is primary; fate or destiny, εἱμαρμένη, appears simply as a lower providence.43 This distinction between higher providence, concerned with the intelligible world, and lower 292 Return to Table of Contents

Pagans and Christians on providence fate, concerned with the material world, is commonplace among the Middle Platonists (though not found in Alcinous),44 but, as we have already noticed, for Alcinous, in this followed by other Middle Platonists, the principal subject of the philosophical discussion is fate, not providence, whereas in Plotinus’ mature treatise, fate is only mentioned in passing; it is rather providence that engages Plotinus’ attention. This shift of attention from fate to providence is characteristic of Neoplatonism: Sallustius has a chapter devoted to the providence of the gods,45 the Alexandrian Neoplatonist Hierocles wrote a major work, now lost save for fragments, on providence,46 and providence is important in the works of Proclus.47 These Neoplatonists do not, like the Christians, reject the notion of fate – far from it – but they do subject it in their discussion to providence, in contrast to the Middle Platonists. Is there any reason for this? It seems to me that it might be explained as part of the greater commitment to religion we find in the post-Plotinian Neoplatonists. Just as the concept of faith, πίστις, is revised in the Neoplatonic tradition and changes from the very lowly form of knowledge, indeed scarcely a form of knowledge at all, that we find in Plato’s Republic,48 to being a necessary disposition, if we are to hope to gain any understanding of mysteries beyond normal human grasp, in later Neoplatonism,49 so, we might argue, the notion of the providence of the gods assumes much greater significance in the Neoplatonists than it had been granted by the Middle Platonists – and for this it could claim the authority of Plato himself. The parallel between Christians and Neoplatonists in their estimate of providence is striking, and probably neither coincidental nor evidence of Christian influence on Neoplatonism, but rather evidence for the greater appeal of religious considerations in the period we call late Antiquity. To discuss the reasons for this would be to embark on another paper. E.R. Dodds’ theory of a deepening ‘Age of Anxiety’ (Dodds 1968) has fewer followers nowadays than it once did, though for some any evidence of greater receptiveness to religious claims is tantamount to the endorsement of such a theory. Perhaps the most value-free way of putting the shift we can see here is to say that it is evidence – among both Christians and non-Christians – of a deepening interest in the intelligible world, the κόσμος νοητός, as a realm of transcendent reality. Notes

  Let me apologize straightaway for the use of the term ‘pagans’ to mean nonChristians. It is unsatisfactory in all sorts of ways, lumping together a diverse group of thinkers simply because they are not Christians, and even suggesting a degree of unity that we should not expect to find. It is, however, not easy to think of a conveniently brief alternative, and the later ‘pagans’ we shall consider did, in fact, think of themselves as embracing a religion opposed to Christianity. 1

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Andrew Louth   Bas. Hom. 9 (PG 31.329–53).   See Lackner 1985, xliii–lxxxiv (with details of editions of Byzantine authors, and [p. liii] a list of authors cited and the position they took on whether the terms of life are predestined or not). There are also (less complete) discussions of this series of treatises in Garton and Westerink 1978, ix–xii (by Westerink), and 1979, xiv–xxvi (by Garton).  4   Athanasios, De Incarnatione, 2.18–19 (Kannengiesser 1973, 264).  5   Anastasios of Sinai, Quaestiones et Responsae, 111 (PG 89.764C).  6   See Laws 10, 899 ff.  7   Such a view of the affinity of Platonism and Christianity has long been held: notable proponents of this view include Bigg 1886, Arnou 1935, Ivánka 1964. It has recently been attacked, in the case of Origen, but with wider implications, in Edwards 2002. Here is not the place to discuss Edwards’ arguments, save to say that his case is more narrowly defined than to constitute an attack on Christian Platonism as such.  8   Plato, Ti. 30b–c τὸν κόσμον ζῷον ἔμψυχον ἔννουν τε τῇ ἀληθείᾳ διὰ τὴν τοῦ θεοῦ  2  3

γενέσθαι πρόνοιαν.

 9   Plato, Resp. 10, 617e οὐχ ὑμᾶς δαίμων λήξεται, ἀλλ’ ὑμεῖς δαίμονα αἱρήσεσθε … αἰτία ἑλομένου· θεὸς ἀναίτιος.

  Cf. e.g. Arist. Eth. Nic. 10.   See Festugière 1949, 477–501; Furley in Forster and Furley 1955, 337–41. 12   See Runia 1989, 19 and n. 40. 13   Hankinson 1999, esp. 531–4. 14   See e.g. Eth. Nic. 3, 1114b–1115a. 15   As Baltes puts it: ‘für den [sc. Plato] der Begriff der εἱμαρμένη noch nicht zum philosophischen Fachterminus verfestigt war’ (Dörries and Baltes 1993, 320). 16   See SVF 2.917, 918. 17   See SVF 1.201, 2.526; applied especially to the order of the visible, changing cosmos: 2.528, 590. 18   See SVF 1.176; 2.528, 913, 933. 19   Plato, Ti. 30b; affirmed by the Stoics: SVF 2.633–45. 20   See e.g. Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 28.22 (Mason 1899, 56); Maximos the Confessor, Mystagogia, 7 (Sotiropoulos 1993, 188). 21   See SVF 2.1153–67; Spanneut 1957, 380–4. 22   Whittaker 1990, 51–2; Dillon 1993, 34–5. 23   ‘A soul chooses’: Didaskalikos 26.1; cf. Plato, Phdr. 248c, Resp. 617e. The soul is said to be without master (ἀδέσποτον: Didaskalikos 26.2), as is virtue in Resp. 617e. 24   Didaskalikos 26.2 ἀδέσποτον οὖν ἡ ψυχὴ καὶ ἐπ’ αὐτῇ μὲν τὸ πράξαι ἢ μή· καὶ οὐ 10 11

κατηνάγκασται τοῦτο, τὸ δὲ ἑπόμενον τῇ πράξει καθ’ εἱμαρμένην συντελεσθήσεται.

Translation: Dillon 1993, 35. 25   De Fato 16: see Sharples 1983, 194–5 (translation: 64–6). 26   Lampe 1961, 416–17. 27   1 Clement 20 (Bihlmeyer 1970, 46–7). 28   Athenagoras, De Resurrectione, 18.2 (Schoedel 1972, 132–3). 29   Athenagoras, Legatio, 24.3 (Schoedel 1972, 58). 30   See e.g. Clem. Al. Exc. Thdot. 69–75 (Stählin 1970, 129–30). 31   See esp. Or. C. Cels. 4 (Chadwick 1965; Borret 1968). 32   Or. Princ. 2.9.6 (Koetschau 1913, 170; translation: Butterworth 1936, 134, slightly modified).

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Pagans and Christians on providence   Koch 1932; Harl 1958.   That Origen accepted the doctrine of the pre-existence of souls is firmly rejected by Crouzel 1985 and Edwards 2002, though the argument from De Principiis, discussed above, seems to require it. Other scholars (e.g. Daniélou 1948, Scott 1991) accept that Origen was committed to a belief in pre-existent souls. 35   This is the argument of Koch 1932 and Harl 1958. 36   Morani 1987, to which page and line numbers given in references to Nat. Hom. in this chapter refer. There is a translation by W. Telfer, from Matthaei’s 1802 edition, with introduction and running commentary, in Telfer 1955, 203–453. 37   Nemesios, Nat. Hom. 35, p. 104.15–22. 38   See p. 282 above. 39   See above, p. 281. 40   ἐκ θεοῦ εἰς τὰ ὄντα γινομένη ἐπιμέλεια. 41   βούλησις θεοῦ, δι’ ἣν πάντα τὰ ὄντα τὴν πρόσφορον διεξαγωγὴν λαμβάνει. 42   Armstrong 1967, 6. 43   Plotinus, Enneads, 3.3.5. 44   See Armstrong 1967, 126 n.; Dillon 1977, 84–8, 166–8, 208–11, 294–8, 320–6, 360; Dörries and Baltes 1993, 86–8 (texts), 320–7 (commentary). 45   Sallustius, De Diis et Mundo, 9 (Rochefort 1960, 13–15). 46   See Schibli 2002. 47   There are two treatises devoted expressly to providence, De Decem Dubitationibus circa Providentiam and De Providentia et Fato; see also his Elements of Theology, 120–6 (Dodds 1963, 104–12). 48   See the analogy of the divided line: Resp. 509d–511e, esp. 511e1. 49   See Rist 1967, 231–46, and most recently Laird 2004, 4–14. 33 34

Bibliography

Armstrong, A.H. (ed.) 1967 Plotinus, vol. 3, Loeb Classical Library 442, London and Cambridge, Mass. Arnou, R. 1935 ‘Platonisme des pères’, in Vacant et al. (eds.) Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, 12.2258–392. Bigg, C. 1886 The Christian Platonists of Alexandria, Oxford. Repr. 1913. Bihlmeyer, K. 1970 Die Apostolischen Väter, Part 1, 3rd edn, rev. by W. Schneemelcher, Tübingen. Borret, M. (ed.) 1968 Origène: Contre Celse, Livres III et IV, Sources chrétiennes 136, Paris. Butterworth, G.W. (tr.) 1936 Origen: On First Principles, London. Chadwick, H. 1965 Origen: Contra Celsum. Translation with an introduction and notes, Cambridge. Crouzel, H. 1985 Origène, Paris and Namur.

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Andrew Louth Daniélou, J. 1948 Origène, Paris. Dillon, J. 1977 The Middle Platonists: A study of Platonism, 80 bc to ad 220, London. 1993 Alcinous: The Handbook of Platonism. Translated with an introduction and commentary, Oxford. Dodds, E.R. 1968 Pagan and Christian in an Age of Anxiety, Cambridge. Dodds, E.R. (ed.) 1963 Proclus: The Elements of Theology, 2nd edn, Oxford. Dörries, H. and Baltes, M. 1993 Der Platonismus in der Antike: Grundlage, System, Entwicklung. 3. Der Platonismus im 2. und 3. Jahrhundert nach Christus, Stuttgart-Bad Cannstadt. Edwards, M.J. 2002 Origen against Plato, Aldershot. Festugière, A.-J. 1949 La révélation d’Hermès Trismégiste. 2. Le dieu cosmique, Paris. Forster, E.S. and Furley, D.J. (eds.) 1955 Aristotle: On Sophistical Refutations, On Coming-to-be and Passing-away, On the Cosmos, Loeb Classical Library 400, London and Cambridge, Mass. Garton, C. and Westerink, L.G. (eds.) 1978 Theophylactus Simocates: On Predestined Terms of Life, Arethusa Monographs 6, Buffalo, N.Y. 1979 Germanos: On Predestined Terms of Life, Arethusa Monographs 7, Buffalo, N.Y. Hankinson, R.J. 1999 ‘Determinism and indeterminism’, in K. Algra et al. (eds.) The Cambridge History of Hellenistic Philosophy, Cambridge, 513–41. Harl, M. 1958 Origène et la fonction révélatrice du Verbe incarné, Patristica Sorbonensia 2, Paris. Ivánka, E. von 1964 Plato Christianus: Übernahme und Umgestaltung des Platonismus durch die Väter, Einsiedeln. Jaeger, W. 1914 Nemesius von Emesa: Quellenforschungen zum Neuplatonismus und seinen Anfängen bei Posidonios, Berlin. Kannengiesser, C. (ed.) 1973 Athanase d’Alexandrie: Sur l’ incarnation du Verbe, Sources chrétiennes 199, Paris. Koch, H. 1932 Pronoia und Paideusis: Studien über Origenes und sein Verhältnis zum Platonismus, Arbeiten zur Kirchengeschichte 22, Berlin. Koetschau, P. (ed.) 1913 Origenes: Werke. 5. De Principiis, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei Jahrhunderten 22, Leipzig.

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Pagans and Christians on providence Lackner, W. (ed.) 1985 Nikephoros Blemmydes: Gegen die Vorherstimmung der Todesstunde, Athens and Leiden. Laird, M. 2004 Gregory of Nyssa and the Grasp of Faith, Oxford. Lampe, G.W.H. 1961 A Patristic Greek Lexicon, Oxford. Mason, A.J. (ed.) 1899 The Five Theological Orations of Gregory of Nazianzus, Cambridge. Morani, M. (ed.) 1987 Nemesius: De Natura Hominis, Leipzig. Rist, J. 1967 Plotinus: The road to reality, Cambridge. Rochefort, G. (ed.) 1960 Saloustios: Des dieux et du monde, Paris. Runia, D.T. 1989 ‘Festugière revisited: Aristotle in the Greek patres’, VChr 43, 1–34. Schibli, H.S. 2002 Hierocles of Alexandria, Oxford. Schoedel, W.R. (ed.) 1972 Athenagoras: Legatio and De Resurrectione, Oxford. Scott, A. 1991 Origen and the Life of the Stars, Oxford. Sharples, R.W. 1983 Alexander of Aphrodisias on Fate, London. Sotiropoulos, C. (ed.) 1993 I Mystagogia tou agiou Maximou tou Omologitou, Athens. Spanneut, M. 1957 Le stoïcisme des pères de l’Église, Patristica Sorbonensia 1, Paris. Stählin, O. (ed.) 1970 Clemens Alexandrinus, vol. 3, 2nd edn by L. Früchtel and U. Treu, Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten drei Jahrhunderten 17, Berlin. Telfer, W. (tr.) 1955 Cyril of Jerusalem and Nemesius of Emesa, The Library of Christian Classics 4, London. Vacant, A. et al. (eds.) 1903–50  Dictionnaire de théologie catholique, 15 vols., Paris. Whittaker, J. (ed.) 1990 Alcinoos: Enseignement des doctrines de Platon, Paris.

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12 JEROME, VIRGIL, AND THE CAPTIVE MAIDEN: THE ATTITUDE OF JEROME TO CLASSICAL LITERATURE Ann Mohr

St Jerome’s difficulties in reconciling his attachment to his classical heritage with his Christian convictions are well known and yet surprisingly hard to chart with precision. Harald Hagendahl, in his massively erudite study of Jerome’s quotation of the classical authors, concluded that Jerome’s attitude ‘cannot be defined in a plain and unequivocal formula. It is inconsequent, inconsistent, reflecting opposite tendencies, fluctuating like the currents of the tide.’ 1 The two poles of his attitude towards classical literature are taken to be the account of his celebrated dream in Letter 22, written in 384, where he renounced the classics, and the change to ‘a more unprejudiced and liberalminded understanding’ 2 of classical culture seen thirteen years later, in Letter 70. Between these attitudes he is seen to swing, torn by conflicting feelings of love for the old writers and loyalty to his Christian principles, never able to achieve stability.3 Such ambivalence is territory which invites a revisit. A clearer picture of Jerome’s attitude might emerge if the focus on the two texts which delineate the conflict, Letters 22 and 70, is expanded to take in the wider scene. Examination of the biblical image through which Jerome justified his continuing use of the words and ideas of classical authors, the image of classical literature as the captive maiden mentioned in the book of Deuteronomy, followed by some examples of how this imagery translated into literary practice with regard to one writer, the poet Virgil, should provide further insight into Jerome’s view of his classical inheritance. Jerome’s account of his dream4 at Letter 22.30 is the main piece of evidence for his crisis of conscience over classical literature. In his dream, Jerome was condemned before the court of heaven as ‘Ciceronianus … non Christianus’, and swore never again to read the classical authors: ‘domine, si umquam habuero codices saeculares, si legero, te negavi’ (‘Lord, if ever I possess worldly books or read them, I have denied you’, Ep. 22.30.5).5 He seems to have abstained from reading, though not from quoting, pagan authors for more than a decade, perhaps as long as fifteen years,6 and it is generally agreed 299 Return to Table of Contents

Ann Mohr that at some point afterwards he began to read the classical writers again.7 The gap between the principle, so well publicized in the account of the dream,8 and Jerome’s literary practice, his use of material from the works of the classical authors in the form of quotations, paraphrases, and allusions, has been noted by both contemporary and modern critics. It was seized upon by one contemporary opponent, his erstwhile friend, Rufinus of Aquileia, who accused him of treachery in breaking his oath.9 Modern commentators are, for the most part, somewhat less judgmental, but make much of his inconsistency which, it is hinted, borders on hypocrisy.10 Jerome’s qualms of conscience over classical literature were, of course, far from being peculiar to himself, however strong his expression of them may have been. Christians of both East and West had long been uneasy about the immersion in pagan literature that comprised traditional education. Alternatives were occasionally proposed, but nothing else could successfully impart the rhetorical skills necessary for a career in public life. The role of pagan texts in the education of the young was more or less accepted by Christians,11 and Christians, by and large, participated in the traditional education system as pupils and also as teachers. Jerome himself had been sent to Rome to receive the best education money could buy at the school of Aelius Donatus, a pagan, the foremost grammaticus of his day and a teacher whom Jerome acknowledged with pride.12 In the East, Jerome’s contemporary, John Chrysostom, was the pupil of the pagan Libanius in Antioch; Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianzus studied with both the pagan Himerius and the Christian Prohaeresius. On the question of what attitude it was held should be adopted in adulthood it is difficult to generalize, for Christian qualms and the manner in which they were expressed varied considerably. Tertullian’s outright rejection in the early third century was memorably expressed by his question, ‘quid ergo Athenis et Hierosolymis? quid Academiae et Ecclesiae? quid haereticis et Christianis?’ (‘What has Athens to do with Jerusalem, the Church with the Academy, Christians with heretics?’, Tert. De Praescr. Haeret. 7.1.33). Jerome’s early rejection of classical literature stands in this tradition. But there was also an ongoing process of assimilation, of which Jerome was well aware. In Letter 70.4–5 he gives a long list of Christian writers who made use of pagan authors. His catalogue starts with Quadratus and includes Justin, Clement of Alexandria, Origen, Minucius Felix, Arnobius, and Lactantius. Most of these on occasion spoke against pagan literature,13 so Jerome’s ambivalence was far from unique. The problem of how to reconcile the inheritance of the pagan past with the Christian present was especially severe for the increasing number of Christian intellectuals in the fourth century who, like Jerome, espoused the 300 Return to Table of Contents

Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden ascetic ideals exemplified by the monks of Egypt, ideals of withdrawal from the world, self-denial, and renunciation of sex, which replaced martyrdom as the way to spiritual perfection. Classical culture was seen as part of the saeculum, the worldly values that ascetics left behind as they followed this path. Rejection of worldly philosophy and culture became a topos of Christian ascetic writing, making evaluation difficult when Christian writers inveigh against classical culture. A major difficulty in writing of Jerome’s attitude to classical culture comes from the nature of the evidence. His views are expounded mainly through letters and polemical treatises, or gleaned from commentaries on Scripture. None of these provides a clear or comprehensive account of his thinking. Jerome usually wrote his letters on the Christian life from a prescriptive motive, that is, not to give an ordered account of his own beliefs but to advocate a particular ascetic view, or to answer a particular question or need of the correspondent. The precise context of his teaching is, therefore, of great importance, for what he says is an appropriately directed part of what he thinks. Failure to take careful note of the context accounts for at least some of the inconsistency of which Jerome is frequently accused. An example might help to clarify this point. In Letter 77.4–5, Jerome writes of the penitence of Fabiola, who had committed the sin of remarrying after divorcing her husband. At the end of the letter (77.11–12) he describes her death and pictures her triumphant entry into heaven, the repentant sinner carried on the shoulders of Christ amid rejoicing angels. In Letter 79, written in the same year (400) to the widowed Salvina, he warns his correspondent sternly against relying on penitence should she fail in continence. Penitence, he says, is only a plank on which the shipwrecked struggle painfully into the harbour of salvation.14 These two letters, close in date and both belonging to the broad category of consolatio, are written from very different standpoints to serve different purposes. The more hopeful view of penitence comes in an epitaphium on Fabiola, where Jerome’s purpose is to praise the deceased and the example she set through her works of charity. The less hopeful view comes in an exhortation against remarriage. Similarly, appropriate caution must be exercised in considering views expressed in a polemical context. The early rejection of classical literature15 as the vehicle of pagan religion owed much to the Christian experience of martyrdom.16 Adherence to the classical authors was equated with the worship of idols. About reading Horace, Virgil, and Cicero at the same time as the Scriptures Jerome says, in the introduction to the account of his dream, echoing Tertullian’s question: quid facit cum psalterio Horatius? cum evangeliis Maro? cum apostolo

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Ann Mohr Cicero? … simul bibere non debemus calicem Christi et calicem daemoniorum. referam tibi meae infelicitatis historiam. What has Horace to do with the Psalter, Virgil with the Gospels, Cicero with the Apostle? … We ought not at the same time to drink Christ’s chalice and the chalice of demons [i.e. the pagan gods]. I will tell you the story of my own unhappy experience. Jerome, Letter 22.29.7

This is clearly a comment on his own problem, since it leads directly into his own ‘unhappy experience’, and these were Jerome’s favourite and mostquoted authors.17 As a monk, Jerome viewed the ideal Christian commitment as the response to a call from God to a life of exile in one sense or another, the renunciation of all worldly attachments. It is with this call to exile that he begins Letter 22, addressed to the virgin Eustochium: ‘obliviscere populum tuum et domum patris tui’ (‘forget your people and your father’s house’, Ep. 22.1.1, quoting Ps. 45.10). The calling of Abraham to leave his former life, which Jerome here evokes, is central to his thinking, and its implications with regard to his attitude to his classical heritage are obvious. He tells us, in Letter 22, that when he embarked on his life of detachment from the world as a monk, he renounced his family and, more difficult, the tasty food he was used to, but what was impossible was to break the ties that bound him to his beloved authors. He took his books with him, and read them in preference to the Scriptures, whose uncouth language, he says, repelled him18 (Ep. 22.30.1–2). Hence the guilt that manifested itself in his dream. Jerome’s dream is a story so powerful and so vividly related that it has become the locus classicus for the discussion of Christian attitudes to pagan culture. The dramatic presentation makes it easy to lose sight of the fact that the dream was some ten years in the past when Jerome wrote his account of it, so that this was not a recent shock to the system urgently communicated, but a carefully elaborated account of an experience reflected on for a long time. The fruits of this pondering can be seen in Letter 21, written the previous year (383), which indicates the direction in which Jerome’s thoughts had been moving, and which will be discussed later. It cannot be assumed that because, in Letter 22, Jerome chose to put a spotlight on his early agonies over classical literature, he was, ten years later, writing out of the same agonized state of mind. Both his motive and the message he wished to communicate in publicizing his dream in such a way at this time need to be examined. The dream is recounted about two-thirds of the way through Letter 22, written while Jerome was in Rome assisting19 Bishop Damasus. He was also acting as spiritual advisor to a group of upper-class Roman ascetic women, amongst whom was his friend and patroness Paula, and it is to her third daughter, Julia Eustochium, that the letter is addressed, offering the young girl 302 Return to Table of Contents

Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden advice on how to maintain her vocation to virginity. Far more than a letter, it is a long tract or libellus, which was intended for, and reached, a geographically wide but narrowly focused readership of upper-class elite, asceticallyminded, Latin-speaking Christians. Its theme is virginity as the epitome of Christian commitment, a view that was shared by most of the ascetic leaders of the time. Among Jerome’s contemporaries, Gregory of Nyssa and John Chrysostom in the East, and in the West, most notably, Ambrose,20 had all written in praise of virginity. The moral superiority of virginity was, however, far from finding universal acceptance among late-fourth-century Christians, and Jerome’s libellus was written against a background of controversy, part of the ascetic propaganda that he published against a certain Helvidius, who had written a tract challenging belief in the perpetual virginity of Mary, which was taken by its advocates as proof of the superiority of virginity over marriage.21 Jerome saw it as his particular contribution to the literature on virginity to set down, in Letter 22, practical advice on how to persevere: ‘nobis diverso tramite inceditur: virginitatem non efferimus sed servamus’ (‘I am setting out on a different path: I am not extolling virginity but maintaining it’, Ep. 22.23.1). The essence of his teaching was that the necessary single-mindedness could be maintained only by distancing oneself as far as possible from the world. For the totally committed Christian no compromise with worldly values could be allowed. It is in this context that Jerome’s cautions against pagan literature are voiced. Jerome’s position in the letter seems to have been based not simply on the idea that pagan literature was the vehicle of pagan religion, but that devotion to it amounted to an alternative commitment, compromising wholehearted devotion to Christ. The account of the dream complements an earlier excursus (Ep. 22.7), in which Jerome also cites his own experience, recalling his time in the desert and his battle against the lures of the flesh. In this account too dreams play a part, daydreams of seductive dancing girls. The rival, the false god which here tempts him, is bodily pleasure. In the case of classical literature, the false god he is tempted to follow is intellectual and aesthetic satisfaction, which he had failed to find in the Scriptures. Immediately after the account of the dream Jerome pursues the same theme of the need for uncompromising commitment with reference to avarice. One cannot divide one’s loyalties: ‘nemo potest duobus dominis servire …’ (‘no one can serve two masters …’, Ep. 22.31.2, quoting Matt. 6.24). One reason for the great attention paid by scholars to Jerome’s dream is that, unlike Augustine, Jerome rarely cared to indulge in long passages of self-disclosure. Letter 22 is unique in containing two substantial, carefully elaborated accounts of key experiences in his life: his struggle in the desert and his dream. A clue to the reason for this is found just after the desert 303 Return to Table of Contents

Ann Mohr account where, before offering further advice, he says, ‘And so if I have in me any good advice, if experience gives one credibility …’ (Ep. 22.8.1).22 Again, just before the account of the dream, he recommends that ‘if there is something you do not know or some point of Scripture about which you are in doubt, ask a man whose life commends him …’ (Ep. 22.29.2).23 A likely explanation, then, for these detours into his past life is that Jerome was setting before his readers his credentials as an ascetic teacher. Credibility in this area rested on experience of the desert, actual and notional. Fierce battles against temptations and demonic forces were part of the tradition of the Desert Fathers, the pioneers of Christian asceticism. Jerome was showing that he too had fought memorable battles and was now an experienced ascetic campaigner who could guide others on the way. His dream was dressed up in highly rhetorical form to make a vivid account that would impress itself on the minds of his readers and remain in the memory. It must rank as one of the most successful pieces of rhetoric of all time. Erasmus, in his 1537 edition of Jerome’s letters, says of the dream, ‘This is the story that everyone remembers, even those who have never read a single word of what Jerome wrote.’ 24 The same is probably true today. It certainly stuck in the minds of his contemporaries. But to take so memorable a stance is to invite recriminations if, later on, one’s position changes, as many a politician, ancient and modern, has discovered. It seems that Jerome’s reputation has suffered from the success of his own rhetoric in the narration of his dream, for his vivid picture of his early renunciation of classical culture looms so large in the imagination that practically all accounts of his attitude to the classics are couched in terms of when, why, and by how much he departed from this position. If we accept that anxiety over classical literature was not the sole motivating force for Jerome’s recalling of his dream in 384, then perhaps the dream should occupy a less dominant position in our thinking. The account of the dream in Letter 22 is, then, a piece of self-advertisement arising out of Jerome’s need to establish his credentials as an ascetic teacher, since he lacked the authority of office such as a bishop possessed.25 Perhaps this by itself provides sufficient explanation for the inclusion of the dream-account in the letter. But the dream is also part of a lengthy exhortation to educated ascetic Christians on the necessity of separating themselves from worldly and pagan values, a dramatic demonstration that no compromise with paganism is allowable. When we consider Jerome’s motive for delivering such a message at this time, it is perhaps no coincidence that it was a time of particular tension in Rome between Christians and pagans in the Senate. Two years earlier, in 382, the Emperor Gratian had re-enacted a ruling of Constantius II to remove the Altar of Victory from the Senate-house and had confiscated the revenues which funded the state cults. These measures 304 Return to Table of Contents

Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden were a blow not only to traditional religious observance but also to the social standing of aristocratic pagans, whose prerogative it was to hold the priesthoods, by which their status was enhanced.26 Even though religious difference was thus not all that was involved, the resentment of the pagan senatorial elite was bound to colour their relationship with Christians.27 Through his association with Damasus and his close acquaintance with a number of senatorial families, Jerome would have been well aware of the ill-feeling among the pagans and, combative Christian that he was, would quickly have picked up any anti-Christian overtones. He might also have been aware of the impending attempt by influential pagans led by Quintus Aurelius Symmachus, the city prefect, and Vettius Agorius Praetextatus, praetorian prefect of Italy, to get the measures rescinded.28 It could hardly have been unexpected that the Senate, having sent an unsuccessful embassy to Gratian in 382, should try again with the new young emperor, Valentinian II. The prospect of a pagan attempt to reassert the link between the Roman state and the pagan religion would have raised Christian temperatures. When viewed against this background of pagan resentment and Christian suspicion, it is tempting to connect Jerome’s message of no compromise with the worldly and the pagan, graphically illustrated by the story of his dream, with contemporary upper-class Christian anxiety about a more assertive paganism. This gives cause to question the common perception of his attitude to classical culture at that time. It seems not unreasonable to propose that the narration of his dream in 384 might have been fuelled as much by anxiety about contemporary events as by a continuing extremist view of classical literature, and that Jerome’s chief concern in recounting his dream so long after the event was to alert his fellow ascetic Christians to the more general danger of compromise with the pagan world. This is not to deny that Jerome had difficulty in accepting the literary inheritance of the past, but to suggest that when he spoke of pagan literature it was not necessarily because it was the most important thing on his mind. Generations of readers have cut out this passage and highlighted it, for the problem of integrating the past concerns every age, but the dream is only one small part of a very long piece, and the caution against literature only a tiny part of the teaching that Jerome wished to communicate through his libellus. What, then, of the other ‘pole’ of Jerome’s attitude, his later, more liberal-minded view expressed in Letter 70? Again, the context in which Jerome takes his stance on pagan literature is far from neutral. Letter 70 was written in 397 to Flavius Magnus, the official rhetor of Rome and therefore a man of some consequence,29 in answer to a letter from Magnus criticizing Jerome’s use of exempla from pagan literature. The criticism had evidently 305 Return to Table of Contents

Ann Mohr been couched in very strong terms: ‘quod autem quaeris … cur in opusculis nostris saecularium litterarum interdum ponamus exempla et candorem ecclesiae ethnicorum sordibus polluamus …’ (‘You ask … why in my works I sometimes quote examples from secular literature and defile the whiteness of the Church with the filth of pagans …’, Ep. 70.2.1). At the end of the letter Jerome voices his belief that the person behind the attack is his former best friend, now bitter enemy, Rufinus of Aquileia. Jerome was thus forced to write a defence of his literary practice. The views expressed here have to be seen in the context of a struggle between competing ascetic views and against the background of the personal feud between Jerome and Rufinus. Jerome seems to have disapproved of the less extreme ascetic lifestyle of Rufinus and his patroness, Melania, in Jerusalem.30 Rufinus saw in Jerome’s insistence on the superiority of translating the Old Testament from the Hebrew reprehensible disrespect for the Septuagint.31 But the major quarrel between them was part of a much more serious and far-reaching dispute within the Church over the works of Origen, involving ecclesiastical politics in which both they and their supporters in Rome became embroiled, and in the course of which not only the reputation but even the orthodoxy of each was impugned.32 In this battle Jerome’s literary practice was a side-issue, a useful piece of ammunition for his enemies, especially Rufinus. Jerome was certainly vulnerable in his use of borrowings from pagan authors, having given such publicity to his early renunciation of pagan literature. There is a certain irony in that the piece of rhetoric used by Jerome in 384 to combat pagan influence was later turned against him in a battle between Christian ascetics. Letter 70 cannot, therefore, be taken as a simple, straightforward account by Jerome of his practice with regard to the classical authors. The argument begins with an attack on Magnus. Jerome accuses him (2.1) of being too much of a Ciceronian. At the end (6.2) is a nasty sneer at Rufinus who, it is suggested, is making this accusation against Jerome out of envy of a learning and literary skill he does not himself possess. These personal attacks, allowed by the conventions of polemic, place the letter in that category. Jerome’s defence consists of a detailed appeal to tradition. Beginning with Moses and the writers of the Old Testament, proceeding to the apostle Paul, then on to Christian writers Greek and Latin, he outlines a process of accommodation between Jew and gentile, Christian and pagan culture, a process of which his own practice is a continuation. This argument was calculated to appeal to a traditionally-minded Roman readership. In taking such pains to demonstrate his own conformity with Church tradition, he is, perhaps, not only defending his literary practice but also delivering a message about the orthodoxy of his views in general. 306 Return to Table of Contents

Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden The accommodation he outlines in Letter 70 is based on a traditional principle that Christians might use pagan writings in order to further Christian ends. Jerome, above all a biblical scholar and exegete, saw this principle in terms of a biblical image, the captive gentile maiden mentioned in Deuteronomy 21.10–13. It was chiefly through this image that Jerome was able to justify to himself his continuing relationship with the pagan writers of the past. The captive maiden was not a new arrival; Jerome had introduced her in Letter 21, written in 383, where the image reveals the direction in which Jerome’s thinking had taken him in the years between his dream and his narration of it. This letter is a detailed exegesis of the parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15.11–32), written to Damasus in response to questions from him on the meaning of the parable. The address to ‘fidelis mecum lector’ (26.2) suggests that Jerome was showing what he could do as an exegete, with a wider readership in mind. The maiden is introduced (13.5) as a scriptural type of classical culture. One might well wonder at the company she is keeping, what the works of Virgil and Cicero could possibly have to do with the prodigal son. It is instructive of the complex working of Jerome’s mind to see how he makes the connection. He is commenting on the husks fed to the swine, which the son in the parable had to eat. The first mental leap is to identify the swine as demons, because, as Jerome has already said (12.1), ‘the pig is an unclean animal because it delights in swill and filth. Such is the horde of demons …’.33 (Perhaps he had in mind also the story of the Gadarene swine, told in Matthew 8.28–32 and Mark 5.1–13, in which demons entered into swine.) To eat the husks intended for swine is, then, to eat food offered to demons. These husks which demons feed off are interpreted as drunkenness, luxury, fornication, and all the vices: ‘These are alluring and lascivious and stroke the senses with pleasure …’ (13.2).34 The emphasis is on the allure of these vices, and this leads to his second interpretation of the husks: daemonum cibus est carmina poetarum, saecularis sapientia, rhetoricorum pompa verborum. haec sua omnes suavitate delectant et, dum aures versibus dulci modulatione currentibus capiunt, animam quoque penetrant et pectoris interna devinciunt. Food of demons are the songs of poets, secular wisdom, the display of rhetorical language. These delight all with their loveliness but, while they captivate the ears with flowing verses of sweet rhythm, they penetrate the soul as well and bind the depths of the heart. Jerome, Letter 21.13.4

Jerome’s problem here is clearly with the attractiveness of classical works. They penetrate his soul, captivate and bind him. Thus they present, at the 307 Return to Table of Contents

Ann Mohr deepest level of his being, a threat to his Christian commitment. Seductive and dangerous, they are a threat to his integrity akin to bodily pleasure. Small wonder, then, that the image of classical literature that suggested itself to him was that of a beautiful woman. The food of the demons, classical texts, are, then, very inviting; verum ubi cum summo studio fuerint ac labore perlecta, nihil aliud nisi inanem sonum et sermonum strepitum suis lectoribus tribuunt: nulla ibi saturitas veritatis, nulla iustitiae refectio repperitur. studiosi earum in fame veri, in virtutum penuria perseverant. but when they have been read with the greatest zeal and effort, they impart to their readers nothing but empty sound and the noise of words; no satisfaction of truth, no refreshment of justice is found there. They who are zealous for these things remain starved of truth and in need of virtue. Jerome, Letter 21.13.4

Delightful as they are, the classical writings cannot fulfil the deepest needs of the Christian any more than mere husks can adequately nourish the body. What relationship, then, if any, should a Christian have with classical literature? Jerome turns to the Bible and finds a scriptural type in Deuteronomy 21.10–13, where the Law says that an Israelite who falls in love with a beautiful enemy captive may marry her, provided all her hair is shaved off and her nails cut. Jerome remarks: haec si secundum litteram intellegimus, nonne ridicula sunt? atqui et nos hoc facere solemus, quando philosophos legimus, quando in manus nostras libri veniunt sapientiae saecularis: si quid in eis utile repperimus, ad nostrum dogma convertimus, si quid vero superfluum, de idolis, de amore, de cura saecularium rerum, haec radimus, his calvitium indicimus, haec in unguium morem ferro acutissimo desecamus. If we understand this literally, isn’t it ridiculous? But we too are accustomed to do this when we read the philosophers, when books of secular wisdom come into our hands. If we find anything useful in them, we apply it to our own doctrine, but anything beyond this, to do with idols, or love, or the care of secular things, we shave off, we prescribe baldness, we cut them away like nails with a very sharp knife. Jerome, Letter 21.13.6

Jerome is referring to the process of accommodation, in which he speaks of himself as participating. As has been mentioned already, the principle that Christians might take from pagan writers what is of use to Christianity and discard the rest was one traditional way of dealing with the problem of how to regard the classics. Other Christian writers found their own images for expressing this appropriation, most famously, perhaps, Jerome’s younger contemporary, Augustine. He also took his image from the Bible, saying that just as, by divine command, the Israelites took the gold and silver of their 308 Return to Table of Contents

Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden captors as they fled from Egypt, so too the Christians, in leaving behind the pagan past, must take with them what is valuable and put it to better use.35 Jerome’s own acceptance of this principle is, however, accompanied by caution. He is wary of the maiden, even in her cleaned-up condition. His caution seems to stem, initially, from fear of her captivating charm which might compromise Christian commitment. But far more space is devoted to a social concern, the danger to the faith of weaker, less well educated Christians, if they hear the educated reading, with apparent approbation, the works of pagan authors. His concern stems from the advice of St Paul who (1 Cor. 8.9) cautions men of knowledge against giving scandal by being seen to eat meat offered to idols. This Jerome construes as meaning that, for the sake of the weaker brethren, one should refrain from reading the philosophers, orators, and poets: ‘videte autem, ne haec licentia vestra offendiculum fiat infirmibus …’ nonne tibi videtur sub aliis verbis dicere, ne legas philosophos, oratores, poetas, ne in eorum lectione requiescas? ‘But take care lest this liberty of yours become a stumbling-block to the weak …’ Doesn’t he seem to say in other words, do not read the philosophers, the orators, the poets, lest you find your peace in reading them? Jerome, Letter 21.13.7–8

Jerome’s concern here needs to be understood in the light of the fact that in the ancient world reading was often36 done aloud. This is certainly what Jerome has in mind, as he makes clear by his use of the words vox, audire, and personare in the passage quoted below (Ep. 21.13.9). One’s reading, therefore, might affect others. (The point is famously illustrated by the story in Acts of the Ethiopian eunuch who sat reading in his chariot and was overheard and converted by Philip.37) Of major concern to Jerome in the reading of pagan material was the risk that pagan attitudes and beliefs might unintentionally be communicated to the less well educated. The educated are likely to have the discrimination to separate the message from its vehicle of expression, others may not. Pagan verses must not be allowed to penetrate Christian souls. He accepts the necessity of the classical authors in the education of the young, but castigates priests (whose public office requires them to be good examples) for reading comedies, love poems, and Virgil, thereby, presumably, endangering the faith of the lower orders they are supposed to serve. His summing-up of his attitude to the captive maiden/literature is as follows: cavendum igitur, ne captivam habere velimus uxorem, ne in idolio recumbamus; aut, si certe fuerimus eius amore decepti, mundemus eam et omni sordium horrore purgemus, ne scandalum patiatur frater pro quo Christus est mortuus, cum ex voce Christiani carmina in idolorum laudes conposita audierit personare.

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Ann Mohr So we must be wary of wanting a captive for a wife, of sitting down to dine in an idol’s temple; or, if indeed we have been deceived by love of her, let us cleanse her and purge her of all the horror of uncleanness, lest a brother for whom Christ died be caused to stumble when he hears resounding from a Christian voice songs composed in praise of idols. Jerome, Letter 21.13.9

What we see, then, in Letter 21, written the year before the account of the dream, is not a fearful, guilt-stricken, absolute rejection of classical literature, but an acknowledgement of the Christian tradition of accommodation and a very qualified acceptance of it, the result of study, careful thinking, and the finding of a relationship between classical literature and the Bible through allegory. The language of imagery allows Jerome some space in which to manoeuvre. The captive maiden is dangerously alluring, and the union has to be approached with great care, but it is not out of the question, provided she is properly cleansed and the relationship conducted in such a way that others are not given the wrong idea. We turn now to the image of the maiden in Letter 70, written fourteen years later, when, as already indicated, Jerome was forced to defend his literary practice. He points (Ep. 70.2.2–4) to the fact that St Paul himself had quoted from pagan writers, Epimenides (Titus 1.12), Menander (1 Cor. 15.33), and Aratus (Acts 17.28). Moreover, in the famous episode in Acts 17 he had used a pagan inscription to proclaim his Christian message. Jerome sees Paul’s use of secular literature as deriving from his application of two passages from the Old Testament (Ep. 70.2.4–5). The first is the story of David and Goliath.38 David’s use of Goliath’s own sword to decapitate him teaches that the enemy’s weapon may be turned against him to great effect. The second is Deuteronomy 21.10–13 – the passage concerning the captive maiden. Whether or not Paul had these two passages in mind, it is, in fact, Jerome himself who has reflected on them and is now applying them to the reading of secular literature. In comes the captive maiden, as in the previous letter an allegorical interpretation of the passage in Deuteronomy. But Jerome’s attitude to her is here very different. He makes no apology for admiring her grace and beauty, carefully associating himself with St Paul in this: quid ergo mirum, si et ego sapientiam saecularem propter eloquii venustatem et membrorum pulchritudinem de ancilla atque captiva Israhelitin facere cupio, si quidquid in ea mortuum est idolatriae, voluptatis, erroris, libidinum, vel praecido vel rado et mixtus purissimo corpori vernaculos ex ea genero domino sabaoth? What is surprising if I too, because of the charm of her speech and the beauty of her form desire to turn secular wisdom from a captive handmaid into an Israelite, or if I cut or shave off whatever is dead in her, idolatry, pleasure, error,

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Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden and lust, and joining myself to her pure body beget by her house-born slaves for the Lord of hosts? Jerome, Letter 70.2.5

We see here a much more confident Jerome. The image in Letter 21 spoke of the attraction of classical literature, so great as to make him the captive. In Letter 70 he still finds the maiden beautiful, but there has been a power shift. He is now definitely in control of the relationship. The key idea is the use to which she can be put. This was mentioned in Letter 21.13.6, where Jerome spoke of the practice of Christian writers – ‘if we find anything useful in them [books of secular wisdom], we apply it to our own doctrine …’ – but the idea was not developed. Uppermost in his mind at that time was the maiden’s attractiveness and the danger to the faith of the weaker brethren. Now, however, the focus of his thinking is her captive condition; he views the maiden/classical literature from the standpoint of a victor. The voluptas and libido, pleasure and lust, that he wishes to excise from the captive are not, in fact, features of herself, but rather the response her beauty arouses in others. He deals with these unwelcome emotions by removing what makes her attractive – her hair – and dangerous – her nails. Then he can safely mate with her and produce offspring for Christ: ‘labor meus in familiam Christi proficit, stuprum in alienam auget numerum conservorum’ (‘My work is to the benefit of Christ’s household; my fornication with a foreigner increases the number of my fellow-servants’, Ep. 70.2.6). His perception of the maiden has undergone a change which is reflected in his language. No mention here of his being beguiled by her beauty. This is a working relationship, labor, and he speaks as a master breeding slaves for the household, vernaculi. This is not marriage but a dishonourable liaison with a foreigner, ‘stuprum in alienam’, and Jerome justifies it by the use he makes of her to increase the household of Christ. To drive the lesson home, he cites the example of the prophet Hosea (Hos. 1.2–4), who married a prostitute at God’s command and had a son by her. The captive maiden has become a foreign whore. The image of classical literature as a woman adds an extra complication to Jerome’s view of literature, for he projects onto it all the anxiety and negativity of his feelings towards women (other than ascetic devotees). His strategy for resolving the problem of his relationship with secular literature is strikingly similar to the one he employs to justify his relationship with women. In his letters of spiritual advice he stresses that, in order to be acceptable to God, would-be nuns must divest themselves of all that might make them attractive to men.39 The following is his description of his beloved Paula, the only woman in Rome, he says, able to delight him: There was no other woman in Rome who could tame my heart but she, mourning and fasting, filthy with dirt, almost blind from weeping … whose song

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Ann Mohr was the Psalms, the gospel her conversation, continence her pleasure, fasting her life. No other woman was able to delight me …40 Jerome, Letter 45.3.2

Emaciated, filthy, and joyless, she will not captivate; she is no threat to any man’s vocation. The change we see in Jerome’s attitude to the maiden in Letter 70 may, of course, be due to his need to play down his love for the classics and emphasize their usefulness to Christianity, in self-defence. But it may also be linked to the changed times. By 397, what Chuvin calls ‘The Wavering Fourth Century’ 41 was almost at an end. Jerome speaks with the confident voice of the next century and a triumphant Christianity. Paganism was no longer a force to be reckoned with in the present. Pagan cult, both public and private, was, by this time, outlawed.42 Christianity had conquered, and Jerome could afford a less fearful attitude to the pagan past and its literature. In the final chapter of Letter 70 Jerome makes his most favourable statement on the value of the classical authors. In reply to the idea that secular literature might be used by Christians against pagans but should be disregarded in other contexts, Jerome replies that this is a mistaken opinion, ‘for almost all the books of all these writers … are full of erudition and learning’ (‘quia omnes paene omnium libri … eruditionis doctrinaeque plenissimi sunt’, Ep. 70.6.1). This is certainly a great advance on the condemnation in Letter 21, that they are merely empty husks which cannot satisfy the hunger for truth and virtue, but it is still far from being an affirmation of the positive value of classical literature in its own right. There is still no appreciation of truth or virtue in them; their erudition and learning are praised in the context of their use in promoting Christ’s household. We do, then, see a more positive attitude to classical literature in Letter 70, but we should be careful about reading it too enthusiastically.43 It is still a qualified acceptance, and, in terms of Jerome’s image of the captive maiden, has come about partly through a diminution of the status of the maiden. It seems, then, that neither the rejection of the classics in Letter 22 nor the acceptance in Letter 70 can be taken at face value simply and solely as expressions of Jerome’s attitude to classical culture. If, as seems likely, his early rejection was not as long-lasting nor his later acceptance as liberal-minded and enthusiastic as has been portrayed, we are left with an attitude that is less colourful and dramatic but more stable. Rather than helplessly oscillating between two extremes, Jerome seems never to have swerved from the opinion that to read the classical authors for themselves is not the work of a Christian. In the image of the captive maiden he found Bible-based confirmation of a traditional justification for the reading of pagan literature: its use to serve Christian ends. That this principle was not applied with perfect consistency 312 Return to Table of Contents

Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden is hardly surprising given the fact that his literary output was huge and varied and spanned more than forty years. It remains to consider a few examples of how Jerome’s image of classical literature as captive maiden translated into literary practice. Much of Jerome’s literary effort was devoted to advocating or defending the ascetic version of Christianity. There are, of course, many instances where pagan and Christian sentiments coincide: on the evils of avarice, or excess in food and drink, for example, and Jerome often cites classical authors to provide additional support for the evidence of Scripture. To take just one example: speaking of the virtue of sobriety, he cites three authorities in descending order of importance: Christ, St Paul, and Terence (Ep. 54.9.5). Jerome operates on the assumption that text must and will convince, and that the more authorities he quotes, the more convincing will be his point. In this sort of context, where quotation from the classical authors reflects a more or less shared outlook, the maiden is a useful helpmate. She is only useful, however, when partnered by a man learned in Scripture. In a letter to Paulinus of Nola, Jerome asserts that even the well-educated need a guide if they are to make progress in the study of the Scriptures (Ep. 53.6). While on the theme of the misinterpretation of text, he comes down firmly against the Christianizing of Virgil seen in centos, which he dismisses as ‘puerilia’, ‘childish’, and ‘circulatorum ludo similia’, ‘like the play of charlatans’ (Ep. 53.7).44 Jerome’s own relationship with the text of Virgil was a complex one. The brief discussion which follows will be confined to the Aeneid, mainly Book 4, the Dido and Aeneas episode. There can be no doubt about the importance of the Aeneid in Jerome’s thinking, nor is it surprising considering that the study of Virgil was the backbone of the education system, and that Jerome’s teacher, Aelius Donatus, was the acknowledged Virgilian expert of his day.45 Jerome viewed the life of the dedicated Christian as a life of pilgrimage and exile. The call of Abraham to leave his country and journey to the promised land is Jerome’s model of the spiritual life of the ascetic Christian.46 It is not difficult to see possible parallels between this Christian ascetic ideal and the story of Aeneas. Aeneas too was an exile, ‘fato profugus’, exiled by fate (Aen. 1.2). He had left his native land and embarked on a dangerous and difficult journey to fulfil the will of the gods in a new land. The connection is explicitly made by Jerome in a letter of consolation and exhortation to his friend, the senator Pammachius, where Jerome links Pammachius first to Abraham, then to Aeneas, in his espousal of the ascetic way of life: ‘audio te … virgam de arbore Abraham in Ausonio plantasse litore. quasi Aeneas nova castra metaris …’ (‘I hear that you … have planted a twig from the tree of Abraham on the Ausonian shore. Like Aeneas you are measuring out a new encampment …’, Ep. 66.11.1). The 313 Return to Table of Contents

Ann Mohr Dido and Aeneas episode in particular gives Jerome scope for ascetic interpretation. When he writes on such themes as continence, marriage, fidelity to one’s vocation and the power of sexual attraction to undermine it, this story of the disastrous love between two noble people, each with an unbreakable commitment elsewhere, is often strongly present in his mind. In a letter of advice on the monastic life to Rusticus, a young man of Toulouse (Letter 125), Jerome sets out all the dangers that may lie in store for the monk. Women and their wicked ways call forth particular condemnation (Ep. 125.6–7), and Jerome urges Rusticus to see only his mother and avoid the company of other women, ‘for their faces may abide in your heart, and a secret wound may live in your breast’ (‘quarum vultus cordi tuo haereant, et tacitum vivat sub pectore vulnus’, Ep. 125.7.2). The quotation is from Aeneid 4.67 ( Jerome has changed Virgil’s ‘vivit’ to ‘vivat’), and there may also be an echo of Aeneid 4.4, ‘haerent infixi pectore vultus | [verbaque]’, ‘his face [and words] remain[s] imprinted on her heart’. The allusion is to Dido, smitten with love for Aeneas. Every reader would recognize this immediately, and, in the context in which it is presented, make the connection between the woman who attempted to turn Aeneas from his ordained path and women as a threat to the monk’s vocation. Thus Virgil is subtly made to confirm Jerome’s perception of the danger of women. Towards Dido, as towards women in general, Jerome’s attitude is ambivalent, for he also uses her, when it suits his purpose, as a model of Christian resolve. Jerome evidently encountered criticism from his peers over his correspondence with women.47 The women of his acquaintance seem often to have displayed greater dedication to their Christian calling than did their men. When Jerome wanted to goad men into making greater ascetic efforts, he pointed to the example of women, and found in Dido, as seen at the beginning of the Aeneid, a convenient example of a resolute and capable woman. A favourite phrase is ‘dux femina facti’ (Aen. 1.364), ‘a woman leads the enterprise’. The picture would immediately spring into the reader’s mind of the redoubtable Dido organizing the flight to Carthage. Jerome uses this image in Letter 122 to exhort a spineless backslider called Rusticus (not the same Rusticus as in Letter 125) to follow the example of his wife, Artemia, and return to the ascetic fold: ‘pro pudor! fragilior sexus vincit saeculum et robustior superatur a saeculo. tanti dux femina facti est et non sequeris eam …’ (‘Shame on you! The weaker sex conquers the world and the stronger is overcome by the world. A woman leads the great enterprise, yet you will not follow her …’, Ep. 122.4.3). The same quotation is used in a letter of consolation to Julianus, a wealthy aristocrat of Dalmatia (Letter 118). Jerome urges him to seize the opportunity to embrace the ascetic life, and to follow the example of a holy woman, Vera: 314 Return to Table of Contents

Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden ‘domestica sanctae Verae exempla sectare … et sit tibi tanti dux femina facti’ (‘At home follow the example of holy Vera … and let a woman be for you the leader of this great enterprise’, Ep. 118.7.4). Jerome is conjuring up a picture of Dido, which will resonate with his readers, to deliver a message which he knows will be new and unpalatable to men – that they should follow the lead of women. He attempts to head off criticism in the typically Roman way of introducing innovation while asserting its links to past tradition. Most importantly, into the story of Dido and Aeneas, as told by Virgil, Jerome reads confirmation of his belief that marriage is less meritorious than continent widowhood and virginity. In his tract against Jovinian, who had challenged this, Jerome conscripts Virgil in support of his own ascetic view. Jovinian’s teaching, and in particular his application of 1 Cor. 7.9, ‘it is better to marry than to burn’, had apparently encouraged some who had vowed virginity to opt instead for marriage. Jerome comments in outrage: hoc profecit doctrina tua, ut peccata nec poenitentiam quidem habeant. virgines tuae quas … de Apostolo docuisti, ‘melius est nubere quam uri’, occultos adulteros in apertos verterunt maritos. non suasit hoc Apostolus … Virgilianum consilium est: ‘coniugium vocat, hoc praetexit nomine culpam’ [Aen. 4.172]. The result of your teaching is that sin is not even repented of. Your virgins, whom … you have taught the Apostle’s dictum, ‘it is better to marry than to burn’, have turned secret adulterers into acknowledged husbands. It is not the Apostle who has urged this … it is the teaching of Virgil: ‘She calls it marriage, with this name she covers up her guilt.’ Jerome, Against Jovinian, 2.36

The reference is, of course, to Dido, who, in the original context of this line, driven by passion, has just consummated her love for Aeneas in a cave, and now deludes herself into calling this marriage. Jerome sees a parallel between these followers of Jovinian who have rejected dedicated virginity and chosen marriage, and Dido, who has reneged on her vow of fidelity to her dead husband. It is not surprising that the quotation of 1 Cor. 7.9 leads Jerome’s mind to Dido, for Virgil frequently describes her love in terms of fire and burning,48 and her name is inevitably associated with the funeral pyre. Jerome’s ‘occultos adulteros’ perhaps derives from the preceding line in Virgil: ‘nec iam furtivum Dido meditatur amorem’ (‘no longer does Dido think of secret love’, Aen. 4.171). Jerome has already dismissed any idea that these followers might be genuinely convinced of the correctness of Jovinian’s teaching and sees sensuality as the only explanation for their actions: ‘That many assent to your opinion is indicative of sensuality: for they do not so much approve your words as favour their own vices’ (Adv. Iovinian. 2.36).49 He uses the allusion to Dido to make this charge more specific: like Dido they have taken secret lovers and now use the name of marriage to cover 315 Return to Table of Contents

Ann Mohr up guilt. For Jerome, the choice of marriage over continence and virginity necessarily involves some degree of culpa, and it is to this connection made by Virgil between coniugium and culpa that he wishes to draw the reader’s attention. Jerome is here employing the power of Virgil to assist in a struggle within Christianity. As his words ‘many assent to your opinion’ suggest, the ascetic view of Christianity was by no means universally accepted in the form in which it was advocated by Jerome, Ambrose, and others in the fourth century.50 In particular, the downgrading of marriage, which was a consequence of the exaltation of virginity, was seen by some as not only mistaken but heretical.51 Whenever he recommends virginity or preaches against remarriage, Jerome has to keep his critics in mind. His marshalling of Virgil in his support would have had great emotive force for classically-educated, traditionally-minded Christians. His treatise against Jovinian is a polemical text, written in 393, at the urgent request of upper-class ascetic Roman Christians, to answer a treatise published by Jovinian in Rome challenging the ascetic view on several major points, most importantly that among baptized Christians there is no difference in merit between virginity, widowhood, and marriage, and no difference in the reward for each in the next life. This was a stick of dynamite under the Christian ascetic edifice, and Jerome fought back with a ferocity that shocked even his friends,52 using every weapon in his theological, biblical, and literary armoury. The value of Virgil as an ally in a battle for the hearts and minds of Christians, all classically educated if they were educated at all, was incalculable. If marriage was a lesser choice in Jerome’s eyes, remarriage after the death of a spouse indicated serious moral weakness, the refusal of a God-given second chance to opt for continence. Jerome wrote a number of letters to aristocratic widows encouraging them not to remarry, and again Dido is brought in to reinforce his teaching. In Letter 79, to the recently widowed Salvina, he holds up Dido as chaste widow as an example against remarriage: audi, quid ex persona viduae continentis ethnicus poeta decantet: ‘Ille meos, primus qui me sibi iunxit, amores | abstulit; ille habeat secum servetque sepulchro’ [Aen. 4.28–9]. Listen to what the pagan poet says from the mouth of a chaste widow: ‘He who first joined me to himself has taken away my heart; may he have it with him and keep it in the tomb.’ Jerome, Letter 79.7.8

This is Dido, seen at the beginning of Aeneid 4, resolved not to remarry in spite of her growing love for Aeneas. Jerome uses Virgil’s expression of loyalty to a dead spouse to preach his own controversial message of the 316 Return to Table of Contents

Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden reprehensibility of second marriage. He is here applying the ‘sharp knife’ to the captive maiden of his image, cutting away the sequel in the Aeneid, where, persuaded by Anna, Dido yields to her love. In other instances Jerome does not suppress the original context but makes use of it to support his point. In Letter 54, to Furia, another aristocratic widow, the persuasive words of Anna are used to warn of the sort of opposition the decision against remarriage is likely to encounter. Jerome urges Furia to ‘beware of nurses, maids, and similar wine-tippling creatures’, who will constantly try to turn her from her resolve. Into their mouths he puts the words of Anna to Dido, ‘solane perpetua maerens carpere iuventa | nec dulcis natos Veneris nec praemia noris?’ (‘Will you wear away all your youth alone and grieving and never know sweet children nor the rewards of Venus?’, Aen. 4.32–3, quoted in Ep. 54.5.1). In a letter against remarriage to another widow, Geruchia (Letter 123), Jerome uses the same passage from Aeneid 4 to reject the notion that marriage brings any reward. He picks up the word ‘praemia’ in the speech of Anna, quoted above, and then has Geruchia answer, in the persona of Dido, with Dido’s bitter words near the end of the book, when the tragedy is moving to its conclusion: tu lacrimis evicta meis, tu prima furentem his, germana, malis oneras atque obicis hosti. non licuit thalami expertem sine crimine vitam degere, more ferae, tales nec tangere curas. non servata fides cineri promissa Sychaeo. Sister, you were the first to load this suffering on me in my madness and set me at the mercy of my enemy, for you were won over by my tears. If only I might have passed my life free from wedlock, with no reproach, as wild animals do, not knowing such cares. The vow I made to the ashes of Sychaeus I have not kept. Virgil, Aeneid, 4.548–52, quoted in Jerome, Letter 123.13.1

Jerome responds to Anna’s ‘praemia’, the rewards of marriage, with Dido’s despairing wish that she had never known marriage but had lived ‘sine crimine’. He uses the whole scene to sum up his teaching in his own inimitable way: proponis mihi gaudia nuptiarum; ego tibi opponam pyram, gladium, incendium. non tantum boni est in nuptiis, quod speramus, quantum mali, quod accidere potest et timendum est. You put before me the joys of marriage; I will give you in reply the funeral pyre, the sword, and the fire. In marriage there is not so much good to be hoped for as evil which can happen and must be feared. Jerome, Letter 123.13.2

The scenario is Virgil’s, the message is totally Jerome’s. 317 Return to Table of Contents

Ann Mohr Jerome’s manipulation of Virgilian text as propaganda for his ascetic views is the final consummation of his union with the captive maiden, to produce ascetic offspring for Christ. In so doing he renegotiates his own and his reader’s relationship with Virgil. However, to see in Jerome’s redeployment of Virgil’s lines only zeal for promoting the Christian ascetic cause would be to underestimate the closeness of the ties which bound him to Virgil above all other classical writers. Throughout his formative years, trained by a Virgilian expert, Jerome had been immersed in the works of Virgil. Virgil could not simply be used or discarded, he was part of Jerome’s blood and bone. Though he did not approve of attempts to turn his beloved poet into a sort of protoChristian, Jerome desperately wanted to hear a Christian song in Virgil’s lines, and listened carefully for it. In terms of his image of the captive maiden, the important thing is that Jerome recognized and valued her fertility, and envisaged a continuing relationship with her, to keep what he could of his classical heritage by producing new life out of it. For all the negative aspects of his view, his was an image of transformation and of partnership, albeit an unequal one, to enrich Christianity with its offspring, and leave room for the survival of classical culture in a new age. Acknowledgements

I would like to thank David Scourfield for the perceptive comments, criticisms, and helpful suggestions which have greatly assisted in the revision of this chapter, and Edward Herring and the Department of Classics, NUI Galway, for supporting this work. 

Notes

  Hagendahl 1958, 309.   Hagendahl 1958, 208. 3   See Hagendahl 1958, 92: ‘Oscillating between aversion and adhesion to the classics Jerome never succeeded in getting over the internal conflict or in reaching a stable equilibrium.’ Cf. Kelly 1975, 335, accepting Hagendahl’s assessment: ‘He was for years painfully embarrassed by what he took to be the incompatibility between his ascetic ideals and the pagan culture on which he had been nurtured, and never succeeded in entirely resolving the conflict.’ 4   The long debate on the date and location of the dream is usefully summarized by Adkin 2003, 285–6, where his conclusion is that neither can be determined with certainty. See also Rebenich 2002, 9 and 164 n. 28, where Trier is the suggested location rather than Antioch or the desert of Chalcis. 5   I follow the generally held view that this represents an actual renunciation of the reading of the classical authors, pace Adkin 1991; 1999; 2003, 283–5. Passages from Jerome’s Letters in this chapter are cited according to Hilberg 1910–18. Translations from Latin texts are my own. 1 2

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Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden  6   Cf. his statement to Paula and Eustochium in the preface to Book 3 of his Commentary on Galatians (PL 26.399): ‘nostis enim et ipsae, quod plus quam quindecim anni sunt, ex quo in manus meas numquam Tullius, numquam Maro, numquam gentilium litterarum quilibet auctor ascendit’ (‘For you yourselves know too that it is more than fifteen years since Cicero, Virgil, or any author of pagan writings whatsoever came into my hands’). This has occasioned much debate. The Commentary on Galatians is variously dated: to 386, by Nautin 1979, 5 ff.; c. 387–9, by Cavallera 1922, 2.156; c. 389, by Kelly 1975, 43; c. 389–90, by Hagendahl 1958, 120 n. 3.  7   Opinions differ as to when. Hagendahl 1958, 312–28­­examines Jerome’s quotation practice and concludes (320–4) that from 386 he consulted texts. Kelly 1975, 43 and 44 n. 39, mainly agrees, but is cautious: ‘For a decade at least … Jerome seems to have striven to observe his promise strictly …’. Adkin 1999 disputes Hagendahl’s evidence for the period 386–93 and upholds the veracity of Jerome’s statement at In Gal. 3 (see n. 6 above), maintaining, however, that this was not because of a ‘vow’ to refrain from reading pagan authors, but because of his preoccupation with Scripture. Additional evidence for Jerome’s reading of classical texts after 393 comes from Hagendahl 1974, 226–7, where the conclusion is that Jerome probably had in his hands a copy of Pliny’s Letters in the years 393–8. Scourfield 1993, 12–13 expresses the opinion that Jerome’s Letter 60 (written in 396) ‘was almost certainly written with a text of Cicero’s Consolatio at his side’.  8   The letter was certainly intended for wide circulation; cf. the discussion on pp. 303–4.  9   Rufin. Apol. adv. Hier. 2.6–7. It seems very likely that Rufinus exaggerated the importance of the dream in order to score a point against Jerome in the course of the Origenist controversy (cf. Adkin 2003, 283), but Jerome’s downplaying of it in his polemical reply (Adv. Rufin. 1.30–1) needs to be treated with equal caution. It should not be taken as proof that Jerome never took his renunciation of the classics seriously. 10   Cf. Hagendahl 1958, 328. A harsher verdict is that of Rebenich 2002, 9. 11   Cf. Jer. Ep. 21.13.9; Basil, Ad Adulescentes (PG 31.563–90). 12   Cf. Jer. Ab Abr., s.a. 354; In Eccles. 1.9–10 (PL 23.1071A), where Jerome reports a joke made by ‘praeceptor meus Donatus’ when commenting on a line of the prologue to the Eunuchus of Terence. 13   Cf. e.g. Minucius Felix, Octavius, 24.1–8, where the Christian speaker complains of the corrupting influence of pagan writings about the gods. 14   Ep. 79.10.2. For the date, see Cavallera 1922, 2.162 (misprinted as Letter 129). 15   Cf. e.g. Didascalia Apostolorum 3.2 (mid-3rd century), where the reading of pagan writings is condemned; Tert. De Praescr. Haeret. 7.1.33. 16   Analysis of Jerome’s account of his dream reveals language highly reminiscent of martyr trials: cf. Adkin 1984, 123; 2003, 292. 17   See Hagendahl 1958, 110 n. 2. 18   ‘sermo horrebat incultus’ (Ep. 22.30.2), referring to the Old Latin versions. 19   Cf. Rebenich 2002, 31–2. 20   De Virginibus (written in 377), referred to by Jerome at Ep. 22.22.3, for which see Adkin 2003, 200–1. 21   Jerome had published a refutation of Helvidius’ arguments the previous year (383), at the request of ascetic friends in Rome. For the controversy over virginity and Mary as exemplar see Hunter 1993.

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Ann Mohr   ‘si quid itaque in me potest esse consilii, si experto creditur …’.   ‘si quid ignoras, si quid de scripturis dubitas, interroga eum, quem vita com­mendat …’. 24   ‘haec est illa fabula quam memoriter tenent omnes etiam ii qui ne verbum quidem unquam legerunt in scriptis Hieronymianis’ (quoted by Antin 1963, 369). 25   He was ordained priest but did not function as such and always referred to himself as a monk; cf. C. Ioh. 41. 26   Cf. Cameron 1999, 109–12. 27   The notion of an organized pagan resistance or a ‘pagan revival’ has undergone revision, mainly through the work of Alan Cameron (e.g. Cameron 1999). This change of focus from a view in which religious conflict was the dominant feature of the age is perceptively discussed by Hedrick 2000, ch. 3 (pp. 37–88), esp. 47–71, who sees the pendulum as having swung too far in the direction of writing out religious difference altogether. 28   Through the famous third Relatio of Symmachus to Valentinian II. The attempt failed, thanks largely to the efforts of Ambrose of Milan. The key texts – Symm. Relat. 3 and Ambrose, Letters 17 and 18 – are translated and discussed by Croke and Harries 1982, 28–51; a translation may also be found in Ramsey 1997, 174–94. 29   Fl. Magnus 10 in PLRE 1.535. 30   Cf. Kelly 1975, 196 n. 5. 31   Rufin. Apol. adv. Hier. 2.32 ff. 32   A lucid summary of the complexities of the Origenist controversy is given by Kelly 1975, 196–209, 227­–58. See also Hammond 1977, 373–93, and, for a detailed analysis, Clark 1992. 33   ‘porcus animal immundum, quod caeno et sordibus delectatur. talis est daemonum multitudo …’. 34   ‘haec blanda sunt et lasciva et sensus voluptate demulcent …’. 35   August. Doctr. Christ. 2.40.60; the work belongs, for the most part, to 396–7. 36   But not always. A considerable body of evidence has been assembled to support the view that silent reading was less unusual than has commonly been supposed; cf. Knox 1968; Gavrilov 1997; Burnyeat 1997; Burfeind 2002. 37   Acts 8.26­­–38. Jewish sacred texts were traditionally read aloud; cf. Gavrilov 1997, 72 and n. 58. 38   1 Sam. 17.12–54. 39   See e.g. Epp. 38.3.2; 54.7; 107.11.2. 40   ‘nulla fuit Romae alia matronarum, quae meam posset domare mentem, nisi lugens atque ieiunans, squalens sordibus, fletibus paene caecata … cuius canticum psalmi sunt, sermo evangelium, deliciae continentia, vita ieiunium. nulla me alia potuit delectare …’. 41   Chuvin 1990, 36–56. 42   Cod. Theod. 16.10–12. 43   Cf. e.g. Quain 1952, 219: ‘Jerome’s handbook of Christian humanism’. 44   For a discussion of Ep. 53.7 and Jerome’s probable reference there to the Cento Probae, see McGill, ch. 6 in this volume. On Virgil seen as a vehicle of divine inspiration, cf. the remarks of Tarrant 1997, 70–1. 45   Cf. Comparetti 1895, 56. 46   Cf. e.g. Epp. 22.1.1; 39.5.1; 71.2.2; 108.31.2. 47   Cf. Ep. 65.1.1 ‘scio me, Principia, in Christo filia, a plerisque reprehendi quod 22

23

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Jerome, Virgil, and the captive maiden interdum scribam ad mulieres et fragiliorem sexum maribus praeferam’ (‘I know, Principia, daughter in Christ, that I am censured by a good many on the grounds that I sometimes write to women and put the weaker sex before men’). 48   Cf. e.g. Aen. 1.713–14; 4.2; 4.54–5; 4.66–8. 49   ‘quod multi acquiescunt sententiae tuae indicium voluptatis est: non enim tam te loquentem probant, quam suis favent vitiis.’ 50   Cf. Brown 1988, 353–62. 51   Jovinian explicitly and, earlier, Helvidius by implication, had accused of heresy those preaching the superiority of virginity; cf. Jer. Ep. 49.2; Virg. Mar. 22. 52   Cf. Ep. 49.2; 49.14.

Bibliography

Adkin, N. 1984 ‘Some notes on the dream of Saint Jerome’, Philologus 128, 119–26. 1991 ‘Gregory of Nazianzus and Jerome: some remarks’, in M.A. Flower and M. Toher (eds.) Georgica: Greek studies in honour of George Cawkwell, London, 13–24. 1999 ‘Jerome’s vow “never to re-read the classics”: some observations’, REA 101, 161–7. 2003 Jerome on Virginity: A commentary on the Libellus de Virginitate Servanda (Letter 22), ARCA 42, Cambridge. Antin, P. 1963 ‘Autour du songe de saint Jérôme’, REL 41, 350–77. Brown, P. 1988 The Body and Society: Men, women and sexual renunciation in early Christianity, New York. Burfeind, C. 2002 ‘Wen hörte Philippus? Leises Lesen und lautes Vorlesen in der Antike’, ZNTW 93, 138–45. Burnyeat, M. 1997 ‘Postscript on silent reading’, CQ 47, 74–6. Cameron, Alan 1999 ‘The last pagans of Rome’, in W.V. Harris (ed.) The Transformations of Urbs Roma in Late Antiquity, JRA Supplement 33, Portsmouth, R.I., 109–21. Cavallera, F. 1922 Saint Jérôme: sa vie et son oeuvre, 2 vols., Spicilegium sacrum Lovaniense 1–2, Louvain and Paris. Chuvin, P. 1990 A Chronicle of the Last Pagans, Engl. tr., London. Clark, E.A. 1992 The Origenist Controversy: The cultural construction of an early Christian debate, Princeton. Comparetti, D. 1895 Vergil in the Middle Ages, Engl. tr., London. Repr. 1966. Croke, B. and Harries, J. 1982 Religious Conflict in Fourth-Century Rome: A documentary study, Sydney.

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Ann Mohr Gavrilov, A.K. 1997 ‘Techniques of reading in classical Antiquity’, CQ 47, 56–73. Hagendahl, H. 1958 Latin Fathers and the Classics: A study on the apologists, Jerome, and other Christian writers, Göteborgs universitets årsskrift 64, Göteborg. 1974 ‘Jerome and the Latin classics’, VChr 28, 216–27. Hammond, C.P. 1977 ‘The last ten years of Rufinus’ life and the date of his move south from Aquileia’, JThS 28, 372–429. Hedrick, C.W., Jr 2000 History and Silence: Purge and rehabilitation of memory in late Antiquity, Austin, Tex. Hilberg, I. (ed.) 1910–18  S. Eusebii Hieronymi Epistulae, CSEL 54–6, Vienna. Hunter, D.G. 1993 ‘Helvidius, Jovinian, and the virginity of Mary in late fourth-century Rome’, JECS 1, 47–71. Kelly, J.N.D. 1975 Jerome: His life, writings, and controversies, London. Knox, B.M.W. 1968 ‘Silent reading in Antiquity’, GRBS 9, 421–35. Nautin, P. 1979 ‘La date des commentaires de Jérôme sur les épîtres pauliniennes’, RHE 74, 5–12. Quain, E.A. 1952 ‘St Jerome as a humanist’, in F.X. Murphy (ed.) A Monument to St Jerome, New York, 201–32. Ramsey, B. 1997 Ambrose, London and New York. Rebenich, S. 2002 Jerome, London and New York. Scourfield, J.H.D. 1993 Consoling Heliodorus: A commentary on Jerome, Letter 60, Oxford. Tarrant, R.J. 1997 ‘Aspects of Virgil’s reception in Antiquity’, in C. Martindale (ed.) The Cambridge Companion to Virgil, Cambridge, 56–72.

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13 JOHN CASSIAN, THE INSTITUTA AEGYPTIORUM, AND THE APOSTOLIC CHURCH Richard J. Goodrich

1. Introduction John Cassian, an early-fifth-century Gallic writer, offers a particularly interesting example of the way inherited texts could be reworked in order to substantiate new ideas. Not only did Cassian show great imagination in redeploying inherited texts, but his own creations proved a source for the works of his successors. Cassian stood midstream in an ongoing process. Cassian left three major works. The first two, The Institutes of the Coenobia and the Remedies for the Eight Principal Vices 1 (written c. 419) and The Conferences of the Fathers 2 (c. 428), addressed the practical and theoretical aspects of the monastic life. His final work, On the Incarnation of the Lord, was a theological polemic aimed at Nestorius, the bishop of Constantinople. Cassian’s reputation and importance rests on his two ascetic works, which were based on knowledge he claimed to have acquired while living with the monks and holy men of the Upper Egyptian desert,3 and influenced a wide variety of monastic and theological writers. Evidence that De Institutis and Collationes enjoyed a measure of success appeared shortly after his death (sometime in the mid-430s). The earliest instances of the use of his work were the epitomes of De Institutis composed in Gaul and Africa. One such epitome, now lost, was written by Bishop Eucherius of Lyons (d. c. 450).4 The authoritative standing of Cassian’s work was firmly established by Benedict of Nursia (d. c. 547). Not only did Benedict draw heavily on Cassian’s work in composing his Regula, but he also prescribed Cassian’s Collationes for reading before compline.5 Monks in search of spiritual perfection were encouraged to seek advice in the Bible, Cassian’s De Institutis and Collationes, and Basil’s Regula.6 When Benedict’s Regula became the dominant rule in the West, Cassian was established as a monastic authority par excellence. Cassiodorus (d. c. 583) also offered Cassian the palm, labelling him ‘most eloquent’ (eloquentissimus),7 and stating that his monks should receive Cassian’s works gladly.8 In later centuries Cassian’s work would 323 Return to Table of Contents

Richard J. Goodrich be appropriated and cited by major theologians such as Gregory the Great, Alcuin, Rhabanus Maurus, and Thomas Aquinas.9 This later approbation has tended to obscure a rather obvious fact: when Cassian wrote his first work (De Institutis) he had no guarantee that it would be well received by his target audience, the ascetics of the Gallic province of Narbonensis Secunda. The incorporation of his thought into the works of those who followed him signals approval and certification of his authority as a monastic expert. But this should not lead us to conclude that his expertise would have been self-evident to contemporary readers. On the contrary, Cassian had to persuade those readers that he, an unknown ascetic writer, and possibly a foreigner in Gaul,10 had the right to reshape an ascetic project that predated his arrival in the West. Moreover, Cassian advocated a rigorous version of the ascetic life, one that opposed the concessions made for an elite class by other western ascetic writers.11 How was he to advance recommendations that would be unpopular in many quarters? His first task was to win a hearing for his work in Gaul,12 convincing his audience that his voice was authoritative and that what he offered would reward their attention. Cassian’s approach to creating authority followed two lines of argument. The first was to lay a claim to experientia, a quality that separated him from his audience.13 Cassian claimed to have spent years absorbing the teachings of the Egyptian Desert Fathers. He had learned an ancient and enduring system, unlike the Gauls, who simply made up ascetic practices,14 or other non-Gallic writers such as Jerome, who had substituted eloquence for experience.15 This latter group of ‘authorities’, while producing richly eloquent works, had ultimately failed because they had ‘attempted to describe what they had heard rather than what they had experienced’.16 In short, the Gallic audience could trust him because he had studied and lived the life he described. Cassian’s second tactic was to claim that there was a body of legislation, the instituta Aegyptiorum, that was normative for all monastic practice. The instituta, drafted by the Egyptian monastic patriarchs at a great firstcentury council, had been handed on (unaltered) from master to disciple in an unbroken chain that linked Cassian’s generation to the apostolic church. Rooted in antiquity, passed on via succession, the instituta represented the highest form of monastic practice. Those ascetic practices that diverged from this great code were inferior, or worse, bordered on heretical. Cassian created the instituta Aegyptiorum as a source of independent authority.17 By claiming that there was a great body of Egyptian monastic legislation, Cassian established a literary distance between himself and his recommendations for the Gauls. Cassian the foreigner, newly arrived in Gaul, was not telling the Gallic monks how to order their monasteries; he was simply explaining the code of practice that guided the lives of all true 324 Return to Table of Contents

John Cassian, the instituta Aegyptiorum, and the apostolic church monks in the East. He grounded his recommendations in this external source of authority, a great, overarching body of legislation that had governed four centuries of Christian asceticism. These instituta with their great weight of antiquity were set against the practices of those in Gaul who had founded monasteries based on their own opinions and misguided notions.18 In the preface to De Institutis, Cassian promised his literary patron, Bishop Castor of Apta Iulia,19 that he was not going to make up a set of guidelines; he would relate the one true path for the ascetic life, the instituta which had been agreed upon by the earliest Egyptian monks. His work was not a novel formulation cobbled together out of his own ingenium,20 but rather a reliable account offered by a man who had himself been formed under this code. Consequently, Cassian’s instituta carried the legitimizing weight of antiquity; they had roots which ran deeper than anything recently formulated in Gaul. Cassian’s instituta transcended their reporter, they had an existence that was independent of their advocate. The interest of this paper is not so much the substance of Cassian’s instituta as the way in which he used other sources to substantiate the idea that there was an authoritative, historical foundation for his views. In Cassian’s formulation, the Old Testament prophets were antecedents for the ascetic life; this way of life had received its first full expression in the apostolic church. The patriarchs of the ascetic life, those who had pursued the Christian life with fervour and zeal, had withdrawn from this church when it had grown lukewarm. These monks, wishing to provide their successors with a firm foundation, had drafted the instituta. This body of practice had received the imprimatur of God through the action of an angel. Moreover, the code had been transmitted faithfully across the centuries by devout men, and ultimately had been passed on to Cassian, who offered himself as a conduit of correct practice to the Gallic ascetics who lacked both experience and knowledge. As will be demonstrated in the following sections, Cassian reworked extant sources to buttress his creation of the instituta Aegyptiorum. 2. The apostolic church Antiquity was Cassian’s key argument for his ascetic legislation. He claimed that the Egyptian monks followed a single code, in contrast to the disorder that characterized Gaul. In the regions outside Egypt he had seen nearly as many varying standards of ascetic practice as there were monasteries and cells.21 This was the result of the formation of monasteries by men who lacked experience. Certain men chose to become abbots before they had served as disciples; they ruled monasteries, but had never received the fundamental training required for the job; they preferred their own ideas to the welltested instituta of monastic life that guided the monasteries of Egypt and 325 Return to Table of Contents

Richard J. Goodrich the Thebaid, monasteries that had not been established at the whim of an untrained individual.22 This state of chaos was to be contrasted with the Egyptian practice, which, established in antiquity, endures inviolate down through the ages until now in all the monasteries of those provinces: for what is asserted by the [Egyptian] elders is that it was not laid down by human innovation, but brought from heaven to the fathers under the supervision of an angel.23

This statement summarizes Cassian’s justification of the instituta Aegyptiorum. The instituta were pre-eminent not only because of their great antiquity, but also because certain aspects of the code had come from heaven, given directly to men by God. To support this claim, Cassian drew on the Acts of the Apostles and Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History.24 These two sources established the antiquity of Cassian’s instituta. The Rule of the Angel (which will be discussed below) sealed the legislation of these monastic forefathers with divine approval. Cassian developed this argument over three chapters of the second book of De Institutis.25 He began with an exploration of the ancient roots of the coenobitic life. According to Cassian, the monastic life was started by the evangelist Mark, who was also the first bishop of Alexandria. This first group of monks not only embraced all of the virtues recorded of the first believers in the early Jerusalem community,26 but ‘also added much loftier things than these’.27 Cassian’s link between the apostolic church, as described in Acts 4.32–5, and the monastic movement was not without logic. This passage portrays a community which was apparently severing its ties to the world and joining together to pursue Christian perfection:28 Now the heart and soul of the great number who were believing was one, and no one said that any of his possessions belonged to him,29 but rather, all things were held in common … for no one was poor among them, for those who owned houses or lands sold them and brought the proceeds of the sale and laid them at the Apostles’ feet; and this money was distributed to each as they had need.30

These verses describe an early fervour, the feeling that Christ (who had just ascended into heaven) would soon return. Anticipating an imminent parousia, the believers were exchanging their earthly possessions for treasures in heaven.31 Goods and property were sold and donated to a common fund, an action which Cassian would later interpret as a precedent for his injunction that monks must renounce their ownership of all worldly goods.32 The importance of these verses for the monastic movement is demonstrated by the range of writers who utilized them. The Pachomian abbot Horsiesios (leader of the Pachomian federation in the years 346–50 and 368–87) took them as a proof text that the Pachomian monastic community 326 Return to Table of Contents

John Cassian, the instituta Aegyptiorum, and the apostolic church sprang from God, and was intended to be united in love, just as the hearts and souls of the members of the apostolic church had been united.33 Every action of the monk was to be directed toward the good of the community, to further the coenobitic goal of a single heart and mind.34 Implicit in this idea of unity was the idea that a monk had no right to withhold worldly goods from his brethren, and must follow the example of the saints who had relinquished their goods, laying them at the feet of the Apostles.35 In the First Sahidic Life of Pachomius, we read that when disciples began to flock to Pachomius (c. 324), he established a rule which required each monk to work enough to be self-supporting and to provide a share of the food and goods that were used to offer hospitality to guests. In a passage modelled on Acts, each of Pachomius’ early disciples is said to have brought a share to Pachomius, who administered their contributions. The early disciples required this oversight, observed the author, because they were not yet ready to enter into the perfect koinōnia, the state where all the brothers were of one heart and mind.36 Basil also used these verses to support his argument for the superiority of communal living, a lifestyle intended to produce Christian perfection and unity in the brethren. Communal life was a training school that fostered perfection in love through service to others.37 Basil closed this chapter on the advantages of community by stating that those who work communally toward this goal adhere to the pattern set in Acts 4. In a later chapter, Basil stated that the words ‘mine’ and ‘yours’ were not permitted among the brothers, as they would serve as a barrier to the goal of unity of heart and soul.38 This goal was made possible by the renunciation of possessions, and Basil forbade the private ownership of goods as contrary to Acts 4.32.39 Each monk was to receive as he had need, like those who had been part of the apostolic church, an act that would lead the monk into bodily continence.40 Sober overseers were to be placed over the community to ensure that this goal was met, dispensing goods impartially and without favouritism.41 For Cassian, like the early Pachomian monks and Basil, the one heart and soul signalled the perfection of the apostolic church in Christ. The Egyptian monastic forebears were cast in the image of the now-dispersed apostolic church. Their unity was displayed by their voluntary shedding of temporal goods for the welfare of the brethren. But this, according to Cassian, was only a starting-point for the progenitors of the monastic life. Having received their monastic training from the blessed Mark, the first Egyptian monks went on to deeds which exceeded those recorded in Acts 4. The original source from which Cassian derived his monastic ancestors was a work of the first-century Jewish philosopher Philo of Alexandria. Philo’s On the Contemplative Life documented the practices of a group of Jewish ascetics who had taken up residence south of Alexandria on a hill above 327 Return to Table of Contents

Richard J. Goodrich Lake Mareotis.42 According to Philo, this group of men and women were called therapeutai.43 His description of their life reveals a number of parallels with later Christian asceticism. Before fleeing to the desert, the therapeutai renounced all of their worldly goods, handing them on to their lawful heirs, or friends if they had no one else (13); they lived alone in small houses that had a room consecrated for worship and study (20, 24); they prayed twice daily, at dawn and sunset (27); they fasted throughout the day, taking neither food nor water until after sunset (some of the therapeutai would fast three or six days at a time) (34); they spent their days studying the divine Scripture (which Philo [25] defined as the Law, Prophets, and Psalms), reading the writings of wise men, and composing hymns and psalms (28). Once a week the therapeutai would meet for a communal assembly (30–3), and every year there was a great feast (65), which was probably Pentecost (Shavuot). Eusebius reworked Philo’s account in the Ecclesiastical History. He found in Philo’s text an excellent authority, dating back to the early days of the Church, for Christian asceticism. According to Eusebius, the men and women whom Philo had described were not Jews, but early Christians of Hebraic origin (Hist. Eccl. 2.17.2). This was clear because the therapeutai followed the rules of the Church that were still maintained in Eusebius’ day (2.17.1). Philo’s careful documentation of their practices proved that he had been impressed with the Christian ascetics (‘He not only knew, but also warmly accepted, revered, and exalted those apostolic men’ 44). If Philo had labelled them therapeutai rather than Christians, it was only because he had given them a name that best described their healing ministry, or possibly because it was what they had called themselves, since the name ‘Christian’ was not in common use at that time (2.17.4). Much of Eusebius’ exposition of the life of the therapeutai followed Philo closely; nevertheless, he added to the story a number of Christian details that were not found in the earlier work. Perhaps the most important was his account of their origin. Rather than being Jews who had emigrated to the region in order to live the perfect life, Eusebius stated that these men and women were the first converts of Mark, who had been sent to Alexandria in order to preach the gospel and establish churches.45 These new Christians renounced all of their wealth and possessions in accordance with the example found in the Book of Acts (2.17.6).46 Eusebius replaced Philo’s account of Egyptian Jews with another, giving the therapeutai a distinctly Christian pedigree. Other Christianizing details are readily apparent. Among the works that served as the basis of the study and discourses of the therapeutai were the Gospels and the writings of Paul (2.17.12). The female therapeutai were also a clear testimony to the Christian character of the group, as only Christian 328 Return to Table of Contents

John Cassian, the instituta Aegyptiorum, and the apostolic church women voluntarily practised chastity in order to pursue wisdom (2.17.18– 19). Moreover, the annual celebration described by Philo was clearly the Christian celebration of the Passion of the Saviour (Easter), signified by its vigils, abstinence, and the way in which the clergy were seated in order of precedence.47 It should be plain to any reader, concluded Eusebius, that Philo recorded some of the earliest traditions of the Christian Church which had been handed down from the Apostles (2.17.24). It seems to have been plain to John Cassian. But just as Eusebius had altered Philo’s account to suggest early Christian ascetics, Cassian improved Eusebius’ version to offer an ancient antecedent for correct monastic praxis. The first significant difference in Cassian’s account of these Egyptian ascetics is that they have lost their name. They are no longer referred to as therapeutai. To the contrary, Cassian labels them ‘monks’, monachi.48 Where Eusebius had tried to explain away Philo’s name for the group, Cassian simply changed it to suit his purpose. In addition to changing this designation, Cassian also eliminated the women. His monks are described as ‘fathers’, and all of the pronouns in the passage (Cassian, Inst. 2.5–6) are masculine. For Cassian, asceticism had risen out of an all-male context. Following Eusebius, Cassian maintains that these earliest monks had received an ascetic rule (norma) from the evangelist Mark. Mark was the link between Alexandria and Jerusalem, a conduit for the ascetic practices that had arisen in the first community of believers. Cassian goes beyond this Eusebian idea by elevating Mark to the bishopric. Although one could infer from the passage in Eusebius (Hist. Eccl. 2.16.1) that Mark was the first bishop of Alexandria, the historian does not explicitly make Mark a bishop.49 At a time when churches in cities were competing for pre-eminence by claiming apostolic foundation,50 Cassian laid claim to Mark as one of the founders of Egyptian asceticism. Mark, as both evangelist and bishop, lent authority to the instituta Aegyptiorum. He also provided a link to the original apostolic church in Jerusalem. That Cassian has this in mind can be seen by his immediate citation of Acts 4.32, 34–5, where the early members of the Jerusalem church sell their property and goods and contribute the proceeds to the common fund. Having made a connection between Jerusalem and Alexandria, Cassian then claims that the Egyptian ascetics went on to add even loftier things to what had been done in Jerusalem.51 Cassian now returns to Eusebius’ version. The loftier deeds of the monks are found in their departure from Alexandria to pursue spiritual perfection in solitude. Outside the city (Cassian omits a reference to Lake Mareotis), they gave themselves over to the reading of holy Scripture, prayer, and manual labour.52 Manual labour was another of Cassian’s additions to the story. He would later insist that all monks needed to work, both in order to support 329 Return to Table of Contents

Richard J. Goodrich themselves and to foster prayer.53 Like the therapeutai, Cassian’s monks endure heroic fasts, sometimes only eating every two or three days, and most certainly never before sunset (Cassian, Inst. 2.5.2). Cassian reworked Eusebius’ story in order to demonstrate the great antiquity of the instituta Aegyptiorum. The therapeutai become ‘fathers’ and true monasticism is located at the beginning of Christian history. Readers who did not know this story were directed to the Ecclesiastical History, one of the very few citations to be found in Cassian’s work,54 where they could read it for themselves. Unlike the ascetic practices which were simply being made up in Gaul, the instituta Aegyptiorum could be dated to the time of the Apostles. The ever-sapient fathers had created a normative body of legislation for all successive generations. 3. The Rule of the Angel Having reworked Eusebius to locate the origins of monasticism in the distant past, Cassian then moved on to an account of the genesis of the instituta Aegyptiorum. The second half of De Institutis 2.5 narrates the events that, according to Cassian, grew out of the founding fathers’ perception that the original purity of the coenobitic life which they had begun was at risk of contamination. Although the founding fathers possessed a great deal of fervour, there was a fear that subsequent generations might lapse into lukewarmness. This threat was met by the convocation of a monastic council charged with defining the rules for coenobitic life. The goal was to codify ascetic practices and standards so that future generations of monks would enjoy a legacy of ‘piety and peace’ rather than noxious schism and division. Cassian used the idea of a monastic council to lend additional authority to his instituta Aegyptiorum. A fifth-century reader would know that the purpose of a council was to define orthodox Christianity. Just as the bishops had gathered at Nicaea, Constantinople, and innumerable lesser councils to judge what was correct for the Church, so too did Cassian’s monastic patriarchs meet to draft the legislation that would define orthodox asceticism. As with most councils, there was a considerable range of opinion present. One question that divided the fathers was the number of psalms to be recited at the twice-daily offices of prayer. Each man had his own particular practice which he advocated for adoption. Nevertheless, their desire for uniformity and a concern for future generations compelled the fathers to formulate a standard practice. The difference between the first-century Egyptians and the fifth-century Gauls was not that the Egyptians did not have their own ideas about what was appropriate, but rather that they were willing to conform to the consensus of the whole, whereas the Gauls persisted in their self-centred practices. 330 Return to Table of Contents

John Cassian, the instituta Aegyptiorum, and the apostolic church The heroic excellence of these fathers emerges in Cassian’s account of the number of psalms each man advocated. Each monk proposed an increasingly large number of psalms, championing what came easily to him, while simultaneously neglecting the needs of the weaker brothers. Some of these great monks advocated the recitation of fifty or sixty psalms at each office, while others pressed for still more. Cassian makes clear that this was not out of a spirit of pride or braggadocio, but was rather a reflection of the individual excellence of these early monks. The debate was not contentious but rather a ‘pious struggle’, a ‘holy disagreement’ (Cassian, Inst. 2.5.4). The fathers were not engaged in monastic one-upmanship. Each was sincere in his advocacy of what he had found to be the best practice for his own temperament. Unfortunately this wide variation of ideas created an irreconcilable rift. The council had reached an impasse, one which human negotiating skills were unable to resolve. Finally, when the hour of prayer approached, the monks decided to celebrate the evening office (vespers) together. A monk rose in their midst and chanted twelve psalms. At the conclusion of the twelfth psalm, he vanished from sight, imposing a sudden end to the office as well as to the dispute over the appropriate number of psalms (2.5.5). The holy fathers understood, wrote Cassian, that God, through the agency of an angel, had established a universal rule for the monastic offices, which was to be observed by the congregations of brothers (2.6.1). Cassian’s invocation of an angelic messenger shifts the authority of the instituta Aegyptiorum to a higher plane. In the first book of De Institutis Cassian had justified his recommendations for monastic garb with appeals to the example of the prophets, Apostles, and early fathers.55 Cassian now made God the source of the rule for prayer. In doing so, he reworked an Egyptian story and placed it at the heart of his foundation myth. The idea that God had directed the organization of primitive monasticism through the intervention of an angel was not unique to Cassian. The best parallel to his version is the account offered by Palladius in the Lausiac History, in which Pachomius is said to have received a bronze tablet containing the rules for monastic life from an angel.56 In Palladius’ version, Pachomius was sitting alone in a cave when an angel appeared. The angel told Pachomius that because he had attained perfection, he was now fit to go forth and lead young men into the monastic life. To aid in this task, the angel gave Pachomius a bronze tablet which contained directives for food and drink, work, dress, and the organization of the monastery. Additionally, the angel ordered the monks to offer twelve prayers throughout the day, twelve at the time of lamp-lighting, twelve at the night vigils, and three at the ninth hour; and when the monks were about to eat, he ordered a psalm to be sung before each prayer.57

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Richard J. Goodrich When Pachomius protested that this number of prayers was too small, the angel answered that the measure had been set with the needs of the weak rather than the strong in mind.58 The presence of stylistic variations between this chapter and the rest of Palladius’ work has led some scholars to suggest that Palladius copied this account from a written source.59 It is indeed likely that the story did not originate with Palladius and had been circulating in oral and written forms for some time. A further sign that it predates Palladius may be found in Jerome’s preface to the Regula Pachomii, where he mentions the angel ‘who came to them, having been sent on behalf of this rule itself ’.60 Although Jerome does not offer any details of the story, his reference (made in the year 404) suggests that some version of the tale existed prior to its appearance in the Lausiac History.61 Although it is impossible to trace the transmission and development of this story, certain interesting observations may be drawn from Cassian’s employment of it. Whereas Jerome and Palladius agree that the Rule of the Angel was associated with Pachomius, Cassian linked it to his ancient Egyptians. Just as he did in his reworking of Philo and Eusebius, Cassian reshapes a story to suit his own purposes, in this case transposing it from one context to another. There is also a sense of monastic one-upmanship in Cassian’s account. His angel did not give the fathers a list of regulations for monastic life, but only disappeared in a timely manner to settle an irreconcilable division. The angel in Cassian’s story provides guidance that is subtler than that of Palladius’ angel (who offers rules on inscribed tablets). Moreover, although Cassian’s fathers had engaged in a vigorous debate over the number of psalms that were to be sung during the offices, when the angel vanished all dissent ended. Pachomius, on the other hand, argues with the angel. The fathers demonstrate spiritual discernment by correctly interpreting the significance of the angel’s sudden disappearance, and then by obediently shaping their psalmody to conform to a divine standard. While the great founder of Pachomian monasticism sits in a cave arguing with an angel (and indeed needs to have the rules written out for him on a tablet), Cassian’s patriarchs immediately discern God’s will and get on with the business of establishing the code. In Cassian’s account, divine intervention set the seal of orthodoxy on the instituta Aegyptiorum. The disappearance of the angel clearly establishes God’s will for monastic praxis, in contrast to the diverse practices Cassian had observed throughout Gaul. By reworking the Rule of the Angel story to meet his purpose, Cassian grounded the instituta Aegyptiorum in the ultimate authority.

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John Cassian, the instituta Aegyptiorum, and the apostolic church 4. Conclusion Cassian, as has been demonstrated, relied on three major sources to create a historical foundation for his instituta Aegyptiorum: the Book of Acts, Philo’s account of the therapeutai as mediated through Eusebius’ Ecclesiastical History, and an Egyptian tale known as the Rule of the Angel. His instituta had an ancient pedigree that could be dated back to the Apostles, the early Jerusalem church, and the first ascetics of Egypt. Moreover, Cassian’s version of monasticism also bore the divine imprimatur, as illustrated by the story of the angel who set the standard for monastic psalmody. The instituta Aegyptiorum were both ancient and divinely instituted. This certainly could not be said about the novel and haphazard practices of Gaul. The instituta Aegyptiorum were, in fact, a rhetorical device that Cassian employed to create an authoritative basis for his ascetic ideas. Cassian did this by making an essentially simple proposal: the ascetic life was not something new to Christianity, but rather, it had been forged in the same fires that gave birth to the Church. In fact, Cassian asserted, it was the Egyptian ascetic strand that preserved the original fervour that had characterized the apostolic church. Nevertheless, since fervour only lasts a season (or a generation in this case), the monastic forebears had met to craft an enduring body of legislation that would guide subsequent generations. The authority conveyed by their individual charisms was codified, preserved for those who sought the highest way of life. This codification, according to Cassian, was the instituta Aegyptiorum. Organized by the most excellent of the ascetics and an angel, based on the examples of prophets and Apostles, this code was intended to be normative for all who followed. Moreover, it had served its purpose, and to the present time (Cassian’s day) served as the code for the Egyptian monks, to whom it had passed through an unbroken line of succession. Since this was the case, those who practiced asceticism were obliged to turn from their own novel formulations and adhere to this ancient code. By creating an external source of authority, Cassian the foreigner sought to justify his own views. His reworking of older works and legends to create a monastic history lesson was an integral part of his bid to persuade a Gallic audience to adopt his ideas. Acknowledgements

This chapter has benefited greatly from the thoughtful comments and criticisms of Gillian Clark, Chris Craun, Jill Harries, David Miller, and David Scourfield.

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Richard J. Goodrich Notes

  De Institutis Coenobiorum et de Octo Principalium Vitiorum Remediis (hereafter De Institutis). In this chapter, all citations of this work are from Guy 2001; and all translations from ancient texts, unless otherwise indicated, are my own.  2   Collationes Patrum (hereafter Collationes).  3   Although like many things in Cassianic scholarship this too is being questioned. See Frank 1997, 431 for the view that Cassian’s stay in Egypt may have been more a quick tour than the traditional fifteen-year apprenticeship, and Dunn 2000, 74, who argues that Cassian lacked first-hand experience of Egyptian monasticism. On this question I am inclined to agree with Stewart, who argues that Cassian’s formidable knowledge of Egyptian asceticism presupposes a lengthy stay in Egypt (Stewart 1998, 8).  4   Cf. Gennad. Vir. Ill. 64. See also Stewart 1998, 157 n. 222.  5   Bened. Reg. 42.  6   Bened. Reg. 73.  7   Cassiod. Inst. pref.  8   Cassiod. Inst. 29. Cassiodorus does caution his monks to be wary, however, as Cassian ‘oversteps the mark in places’.  9   See Ramsey 1997, 7. 10   The question of Cassian’s provenance remains open. See now Frank 1997 for the view that Cassian was from Gaul. For the hypothesis that Cassian was from the Roman province of Scythia Minor see Chadwick 1950, 190–8, Damian 1990. Since Cassian casts himself as a foreigner in the preface to De Institutis, I am inclined to believe that he was not a Gallic native returning home, although as Stewart 1998, 4–6 judiciously notes, the state of our evidence ensures that there will probably never be a consensus concerning Cassian’s birthplace. 11   Our main evidence for early Gallic asceticism comes from the writings of Sulpicius Severus (for the foundations of St Martin, and his own ascetic foundation at Primulacium) and Hilary of Arles on Honoratus and Lérins. Paulinus of Nola, although living at the shrine of St Felix in Italy, also exercised a deep influence on the imagination of Gallic ascetics. For a detailed discussion of Cassian’s debate with these writers, see Goodrich 2003, 150–201. 12   See Goodrich 2005 for a discussion of Cassian’s use of rhetoric in his prose prefaces to win a favourable reception of his work. 13   See Goodrich 2003, 46–114. 14   Cassian, Inst. 2.2. 15   Cassian, Inst. pref. 5–6. 16   Cassian, Inst. pref. 7 ‘audita potius quam experta describere temptaverunt.’ 17   The word ‘created’ is very important here. Even a casual survey of contemporaneous Egyptian sources (the anonymous Historia Monachorum in Aegypto, Palladius’ Lausiac History, and the stories collected in the Apophthegmata Patrum) reveals a great deal of variation in the practices Cassian claimed were governed by the instituta Aegyptiorum. In fact, these sources seem to suggest the same sort of individual practice and fluidity that Cassian disparages. Moreover, as has been demonstrated (Marsili 1935; De Vogüé 1985), Cassian drew on a number of writers (ranging from Evagrius to Basil of Caesarea) in drawing up his instituta. 18   See esp. Cassian, Inst. 2.3. 19   Castor was the Bishop of Apta Iulia (modern Apt, in Provence) until sometime in  1

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John Cassian, the instituta Aegyptiorum, and the apostolic church the first half of the 420s. Outside of references to him in Cassian’s works (Inst. pref. 2, 5.1; Coll. pref. 1, pref. 2, 9.1), little is known about this bishop. The only other certain reference to him is in a letter of Pope Boniface I (Letter 3), where he is listed among the bishops summoned to the Council of Valence. 20   Unlike, for instance, the works of Jerome (Cassian, Inst. pref. 5). 21   Cassian, Inst. 2.2. 22   Cassian, Inst. 2.2–4. 23   Cassian, Inst. 2.4 ‘antiquitus constitutus, idcirco per tot saecula penes cuncta illarum provinciarum monasteria intemeratus nunc usque perdurat: quia non humana adinventione statutus a senioribus adfirmatur, sed caelitus angeli magisterio patribus fuisse delatus.’ 24   Primarily Euseb. Hist. Eccl. 2.17.2–24. 25   Cassian, Inst. 2.4–6. 26   Here Cassian cites Acts 4.32, 34–5. 27   Cassian, Inst. 2.5 ‘verum etiam his multo sublimiora cumulaverant’. 28   For the idea that the early ascetic and communal quality of the apostolic church was derived from the teachings of the Essenes see now Capper 1995. 29   A modern commentator on the Book of Acts, I. Howard Marshall, suggests that this clause means that the believers did not renounce their property until it was needed by the community (Marshall 1980, 108). This interpretation would be favoured by those who advocated Christian stewardship of property (Paulinus of Nola, for instance). Needless to say, it does not correspond to Cassian’s exegesis of the passage. 30   Acts 4.32, 34–5 (UBS 4) τοῦ δὲ πλήθους τῶν πιστευσάντων ἦν καρδία καὶ ψυχὴ μία, καὶ οὐδὲ εἷς τι τῶν ὑπαρχόντων αὐτῷ ἔλεγεν ἴδιον εἶναι, ἀλλ’ ἦν αὐτοῖς ἅπαντα κοινά … οὐδὲ γὰρ ἐνδεής τις ἦν ἐν αὐτοῖς· ὅσοι γὰρ κτήτορες χωρίων ἢ οἰκιῶν ὑπῆρχον, πωλοῦντες ἔφερον τὰς τιμὰς τῶν πιπρασκομένων καὶ ἐτίθουν παρὰ τοὺς πόδας τῶν ἀποστόλων, διεδίδοτο δὲ ἑκάστῳ καθότι ἄν τις χρείαν εἶχεν.

  Cf. Matt. 19.21.   See esp. Cassian, Inst. 7.17. 33   Horsiesios, Testament, 50. 34   Horsiesios, Regulations, 51. Theodore, leader of the Pachomian federation c. 350– 68, in his discourse on Pachomius’ speech to some erring brothers, asserted that it was Pachomius who had made the brethren one spirit and one body (Bohairic Life of Pachomius 194). 35   Horsiesios, Testament, 27. Cf. August. Ep. 211.5, where Augustine uses the same precedent (Acts 4.32) to support his claim that the women living under his sister must contribute all of their private property to a common pool for the good of their sisters. 36   First Sahidic Life of Pachomius 11. 37   Bas. Reg. Fus. 7. 38   Bas. Reg. Fus. 32. 39   Bas. Reg. Br. 85. Clarke 1925, 262 n. 4 notes some inconsistency in Basil’s application of this precept to himself. One of Basil’s letters (Ep. 37) suggests that Basil continued to maintain an interest in his ancestral home. He also wrote a letter (Ep. 284) requesting that his monks be exempted from imperial taxation, which suggests the ownership of property. 40   Bas. Reg. Fus. 19. 41   Bas. Reg. Fus. 34. See also Reg. Br. 131; at Reg. Br. 135 Basil discusses the duty of 31 32

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Richard J. Goodrich the overseer to know the needs of those for whom he makes provision. At Reg. Br. 150, Basil notes that the overseer who failed in his task would receive Christ’s condemnation: ‘Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels; for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink’ (Matt. 25.41–2, RSV). 42   Philo, Con. 22; cf. Runia 1993, 230. 43   Philo, Con. 22. Philo offered two possible explanations for this name, which he claimed was derived from the verb θεραπεύω: (i) that it signified the ascetics’ ability to heal the ills of both body and soul; (ii) that it pointed to their exemplary worship of God. 44   Euseb. Hist. Eccl. 2.17.2 οὐκ εἰδὼς μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἀποδεχόμενος ἐκθειάζων τε καὶ σεμνύνων τοὺς κατ’ αὐτὸν ἀποστολικοὺς ἄνδρας. 45   Euseb. Hist. Eccl. 2.16.1–2. 46   Unfortunately, Eusebius failed to reconcile an earlier statement (that the ascetics gave their property to their relatives, Hist. Eccl. 2.17.5) with his depiction of the therapeutai following the precedent of the apostolic church and contributing their worldly goods to a common pool. 47   Euseb. Hist. Eccl. 2.17.21–3. Philo writes of the order of seating during the celebration in which the therapeutai are arranged by length of service (Con. 67). 48   Cassian, Inst. 2.5. 49   The only other reference in Eusebius to Mark’s position is at Hist. Eccl. 2.24.1, where the historian notes that Annianus was the first man after Mark to receive the charge (λειτουργία) of the city and surrounding region. Interestingly enough, Eusebius does not use the term ‘bishop’ (ἐπίσκοπος) here either, although he employs it regularly throughout the rest of his work. 50   An example overlapping with the period in which Cassian wrote De Institutis was the claim made by Arles that it deserved to be the metropolitan over south-eastern Gaul because the church in the city had been founded by St Trophimus (see Zosimus I, Ep. 1.3). 51   Cassian, Inst. 2.5 (see above, p. 326 with n. 27). 52   Cassian, Inst. 2.5.2. 53   See e.g. Cassian, Inst. 2.13–14. It is possible that Cassian added manual labour as an explanation for how the therapeutai might have supported themselves, a question not addressed by either Philo or Eusebius. 54   Cassian, Inst. 2.5. 55   See e.g. Cassian, Inst. 1.1, where Cassian appeals to the examples of Elijah, John the Baptist, and Peter to support his directives for the monastic habit. 56   Pall. Hist. Laus. 32. This story was later repeated in Soz. Hist. Eccl. 3.14, where Sozomen adds the interesting detail that the bronze tablet existed in his day. The correspondence with the version offered in the Lausiac History suggests that Palladius’ work was Sozomen’s source (cf. Butler 1904, 206 n. 50). 57   Pall. Hist. Laus. 32 ἐτύπωσε δὲ διὰ πάσης τῆς ἡμέρας ποιεῖν αὐτοὺς εὐχὰς δώδεκα, καὶ ἐν τῷ λυχνικῷ δώδεκα, καὶ ἐν ταῖς παννυχίσι δώδεκα, καὶ ἐννάτην ὥραν τρεῖς· ὅτε δὲ μέλλει τὸ πλῆθος ἐσθίειν ἑκάστῃ εὐχῇ ψαλμὸν προᾴδεσθαι τυπώσας.

  This is a theme that Benedict of Nursia would develop as the backbone of his rule: the need to set goals that even the weakest of the monks could attain. See, for instance, his legislation on the proper amount of wine for a monk: a monk is allowed a half bottle 58

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John Cassian, the instituta Aegyptiorum, and the apostolic church per day as a concession to the weak, although the strong brother should aim to take no wine at all (Bened. Reg. 40). 59   The arguments for this view may be found in Veilleux 1981, 5–6. 60   Jer. Reg. Pachom. pref. 1 ‘qui ad eos ob hanc ipsam institutionem missus venerit’. 61   Van der Mensbrugghe 1957, 445 dates the genesis of the Rule of the Angel story to the period between 346 and 390. He attributes (447) the differences in Cassian’s and Palladius’ versions to the fact that the Rule (and the monastic practice of prayer it purports to legislate) developed between the time when Cassian first heard it (prior to 400), and the time when Palladius heard it (during a trip back to Egypt after the death of Theophilus of Alexandria in 412). I believe that the differences in the story have more to do with the rhetorical aims of each author. Veilleux 1981, 6 sees this story as one which predates Palladius, and concludes, ‘The famous Rule of the Angel is a document composed in Lower Egypt by someone who had only a very superficial knowledge of the Pachomian Koinonia.’

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Butler, E.C. 1904 The Lausiac History of Palladius, Cambridge. Capper, B. 1995 ‘Community of goods in the early Jerusalem church’, ANRW 2.26.2.1730– 44. Chadwick, O. 1950 John Cassian, Cambridge. Clarke, W.K.L. (tr.) 1925 The Ascetic Works of Saint Basil, New York and Toronto. Damian, T. 1990 ‘Some critical considerations and new arguments reviewing the problem of St John Cassian’s birthplace’, Patristic and Byzantine Review 9, 149–70. De Vogüé, A. 1985 ‘Les sources des quatre premiers livres des Institutions de Jean Cassien: introduction aux recherches sur les anciennes règles monastiques latines’, Studia monastica 27, 241–311. Dunn, M. 2000 The Emergence of Monasticism: From the desert fathers to the early Middle Ages, Oxford. Frank, K.S. 1997 ‘John Cassian on John Cassian’, Studia patristica 33, 420–33. Goodrich, R. 2003 ‘A temple of living stones: John Cassian’s construction of monastic orthodoxy in fifth-century Gaul’, unpublished PhD thesis, University of St Andrews. 2005 ‘Underpinning the text: self-justification in John Cassian’s ascetic prefaces’, JECS 13, 411–36. Guy, J.-C. (ed.) 2001 Jean Cassien: Institutions cénobitiques, Sources chrétiennes 109, Paris. Marshall, I.H. 1980 The Acts of the Apostles: An introduction and commentary, Leicester.

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Richard J. Goodrich Marsili, S. 1935 Giovanni Cassiano ed Evagrio Pontico: dottrina sulla carità e contemplazione, Rome. Ramsey, B. (tr.) 1997 John Cassian: The Conferences, Ancient Christian Writers 57, New York. Runia, D. 1993 Philo in Early Christian Literature, Minneapolis. Stewart, C. 1998 Cassian the Monk, New York and Oxford. Van der Mensbrugghe, A. 1957 ‘Prayer-time in Egyptian monasticism (320–450)’, Studia patristica 2, 435–54. Veilleux, A. (tr.) 1981 Pachomian Koinonia. 2. Pachomian Chronicles and Rules, Cistercian Studies Series 46, Kalamazoo, Mich.

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INDEX References to footnotes are given only in the case of important or substantial discussions, or where it otherwise seems particularly helpful. The names of modern scholars are given only where they feature in the main text. Abraham  302, 313 Accius  72, 81, 90 n. 94 Accorinti, D.  205 Acts of the Apostles  23, 135, 195, 199, 309–10, 326–7, 328–9, 333 Acts of Thecla  197 Aeneadae  109, 110 Aeneas  9, 14, 107, 112, 114, 116, 144–5, 176, 313–16 shield of  8–9, 102, 110–14, 118–19 Aesaras  see Aresas Aetius, doxographer  247, 249 Afranius  72 Agosti, G.  209 agrimensores  40, 44, 55 Airs, Waters, Places  38 Alaric  1, 2, 51 Albinus, Platonist philosopher  254 Alcinous, Platonist philosopher  284–5, 290, 292–3 Alcmaeon, philosopher  249 Alcuin  324 Alethia  199 Alexander of Aphrodisias  285–6 Alexandria  21, 118, 199, 207, 217, 261, 279, 326–9 allegory  14–18, 117–18, 150, 153, 161, 176, 198–9, 217, 273, 310 see also Virgil, Eclogue 4, Christian interpretation of allusion  see intertextuality Altar of Victory  3, 13, 33, 84, 304 Ambrose  3, 25 n. 19, 33–4, 45, 110, 117, 149, 303, 316

Amelius  254 Amnius Anicius Iulianus  109 Anastasios of Sinai  279–80 Anaxagoras  250 Anaximenes  250 Anicii  see gens Anicia Anicius Auchenius Bassus  109 Anicius Hermogenianus Olybrius  8–10, Ch. 4 passim Anicius Probinus  8–10, Ch. 4 passim Anthologia Palatina  200, 208 Antonine Itinerary  40, 42 Antoninus Pius  110 Apollinarius of Laodicea  195, 197–8 Apollinarius, father of the above  197–8 Apollonius Rhodius  198 Apuleius  70–2, 82 Aquinas, Thomas  324 Arator  135, 159, 195, 199 Aratus  310 Arcadius (Augustus 383–408)  11, 22, 84, 174–5, 178, 180, 182–4, 186 n. 6, 208, 224 n. 128 Arcadius, son of Theodosius II  186 n. 6, 216, 224 n. 128 archaism, linguistic  70, 72, 74, 78, 81 Archelaus, philosopher  250 Aresas  250, 253 Ariston of Chios  252 Aristotle  70–1, 82, 198, 233, 248–9, 250–2, 264, 282–3 see also Peripatetics [Aristotle], De Mundo  248, 282–3 Aristoxenus  248

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Index Arius Didymus  250 Armstrong, A.H.  240, 242, 292 Arnobius  81–2, 85, 300 Arusianus Messius  75 asceticism  13–14, 23, 300–6, 311–18, 323–5, 327–30, 333 see also monasticism Asclepiades, physician  250 Asconius  80 Asinius Pollio  9, 110, 119, 120 Athanasios of Alexandria  27 n. 64, 280 Athenagoras, Christian apologist  285–6 Athenian School  20, 249, 259 n. 8, 261–3, 265 see also Proclus Athens  207–8, 217, 261 atomism, atomists  253–4 Atticus, friend of Cicero  38, 80 Atticus, Platonist philosopher  254 Augustine  3, 11, 26 n. 37, 27 n. 64, 41, 44–5, 50–1, 71, 81–2, 84–5, 98, 107, 117, 121, 159, 161, 188 n. 25, 303, 308–9 Augustus  36–7, 53–4, 113, 116, 120 Aulus Gellius  69, 70–5, 77, 81 Aurelius Opillus  75 Ausonius  12–13, 107, 135, 161, 198, 208, 217 authority, textual  vii, 4–5, 7–8, 12–13, 15, 18–20, 22–3, 69, 70, 72–3, 75–6, 79–84, 118, 160, 177, 182, 262, 293, 313, 324–5, 327, 333 Avitus  135, 199 barbarians in ancient thought  39–40, 48 ‘barbarism’, linguistic  7, 74, 76, 80, 85 Basil of Caesarea  279, 300, 323, 327 Basil of Seleucia  197 basilikos logos  100–2, 104, 114, 124 n. 49 Benedict of Nursia  323 Bible, the  vii, 5–6, 14–17, 20–1, 27 n. 57, 27 n. 64, 40–2, 44–5, 135, 137–8, 142, 153, 159, 160–3, 180, 195–7, 217, 262, 290, 301–3, 306, 310, 312–13, 323, 328–9 see also biblical epic, biblical paraphrase; exegesis, biblical; Gospels; Old Latin

Bible; Paul, apostle; Septuagint; Vulgate; and titles of individual books biblical epic, biblical paraphrase  10, 16–17, Ch. 5 passim, 182, 195–208 Boethius  82 Bordeaux pilgrim see Itinerarium Burdigalense Borges, J.L.  6 Caecilius Epirota, Q.  80 Caecilius Statius  72, 90 n. 94 Callimachus  198, 204 Calvus, C. Licinius  81 Cameron, Alan  3, 98–100, 114, 207 Cameron, Averil  160 Carausius  8 Cassian see John Cassian Cassiodorus  45–6, 323 Castor of Apta Iulia  325 Cato, M. Porcius (‘the Censor’)  75 Catullus  72, 81 Celsus, Cornelius  72, 81 Celsus, Platonist philosopher  286 cento  2, 11–13, 17–19, 107, 135, 173, 176–8, 180–1, 195–8, 208–9, 211, 216–17, 313 see also Cento Probae; Homeric centos Cento Probae (De Laudibus Christi) 11–12, 15–19, 22, 107, 119, Ch. 6 passim, 196, 198, 211, 216–17 Chalcidius  82 Charisius, Flavius Sosipater  82, 86 n. 9 Charlemagne  73 Christus Patiens  198 Chrysippus  249 Church Councils Chalcedon  148, 200, 207 Constantinople  195 Elvira  145 Ephesus  200, 207 Ferrara–Florence  280 Chuvin, P.  312 Cicero  38, 72, 75–6, 90 n. 94, 110, 301–2, 307 ‘classical revival’  3, 320 n. 27 Claudian  8–12, 22, 24 n. 10, Ch. 4

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Index passim Claudius Quadrigarius  81 Cleary, J.J.  271 Clement of Alexandria  21, 285–6, 300 Clement of Rome  285 Clodius Celsinus Adelphius  173 co–fatalities, doctrine of  285, 290, 292 commentary, biblical  5, 15–17, 19, 22, 45, 153, 158–9, 196, 199, 301 see also exegesis, biblical commentary, philosophical  19, 21–2, 256, 262, 264–5, 289 see also Proclus conflict and late Antiquity  1–2, 3–4, 33–4, 163, 320 n. 27 Constantine I  1, 10–11, 16, 107, 110, 136, 145 Constantinople  42 Constantius II  119, 187 n. 17, 304 1 Corinthians  309, 315 Cornutus  234 Cosmas Indicopleustes  44 Cosmas of Jerusalem  209, 217 Cosmographia Iulii Caesaris  36 Coulie, B.  200 Cronius  254 Curtius, E.  162 Cyprian of Antioch  197, 207–8, 216 Cyril of Alexandria  148, 196, 200, 205

Donatus, Tiberius Claudius  70 Döpp, S.  99 Doubting Thomas  17–18, 201–7, 209–18 Dracontius  135 Duvick, B.  264

Damasus  302, 305, 307 Daniel, book of  197 decline and late Antiquity  1–3, 23 n. 1 Decretum Gelasianum  136, 168 n. 132 Democritus the Platonist  254 Demosthenes  248 Descriptio Totius Mundi  6, 46, 48–51, 55 Deuteronomy  14, 299, 307–8, 310 Dicaearchus  249 Dido  14, 18, 106–7, 109–10, 313–17 Diocletian  45 Diogenianus  42 Diomedes, grammarian  82 Diotogenes  248 Dodds, E.R.  279, 293 Domitian  100, 101, 105–6, 109, 120 Donatus, Aelius  82–3, 300, 313

ecphrasis  8, 102, 105, 110–13, 118 Eden, Garden of  49–51, 234 edges of the earth in ancient thought 39–40, 48–51, 55 education, Roman  3, 5, 7–8, 15, 38, 69, 70, 72, 80, 84–5, 135, 159, 161, 163, 174, 180, 186 n. 3, 189 n. 39, 197–9, 207, 213, 217, 300, 309, 313, 316 Egeria  41–2 Elijah  154, 158 Ennius  2, 72, 76, 80 Ephorus  44 epic  8–10, 17, 72, 99–104, 106–7, 112, 117, 119, 120–1, 122 n. 16, 123 n. 25, 136, 142–6, 148, 150–1, 153–4, 157, 161–3, 182–3, 205 see also biblical epic, biblical paraphrase; Homer; Virgil Epictetus  248 Epicureans  283–4 Epicurus  250 Epimenides  310 Er, myth of  21, 281, 285, 287, 288, 290, 292 Erasmus  304 etymology, ancient  19, 76, 78–9, 82, 252, 263–4, 265, 267, 273–4, 283 Eucherius of Lyons  323 Euclid  271 Eudocia  4, 17, 186 n. 6, 195–8, 207–9, 213, 216–19 Eugenius  97, 117 Euryso  248 Eusebius of Caesarea  23, 41–2, 45, 50, 326, 328–30, 332–3 Eustochium see Julia Eustochium exegesis, biblical  5, 15–17, 19, 20, 28 n. 79, 41, 45–6, 50, 55, 153, 159, 161, 178–9, 195–6, 199, 206–7, 307

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Index Expositio Totius Mundi et Gentium  6, 46–52

Gratian  33, 304–5 Great Persecution  15 Gregory the Great  324 Gregory of Nazianzus  196, 198, 300 Gregory of Nyssa  303

Fabiola   301 fate  21–2, 162, 248, 251, Ch. 11 passim see also providence Felgentreu, F.  118 Festugière, A.–J.  250, 253, 255, 257 Festus, Sextus Pompeius  73–4 Flavius Caper  75 Flavius Magnus  160, 305–6 Fo, A.  118 Frigidus, battle of the  10, 97, 99, 102–3, 116–17, 119, 120 Fröhde, O.  73 Fronto  72 Fulgentius  15, 83 Furius Antias  81 Genesis  15, 49–50, 135, 173, 196 Gennadios II see George Scholarios genre  8–10, 12, 38, 42, 74, 98–104, 106–7, 120–1, 123 n. 20, 124 n. 49, 162–3, 181 gens Anicia  8, 10–11, 97, 99, 109–10, 117, 119, 121 n. 7 geography, ancient  6–7, Ch. 2 passim George Scholarios  280 Germanos I  279 Gibbon, Edward  1 glossography  74–5 gnosticism, Gnostics  21, 198, 286–8 Golden Age  9, 39, 48, 49, 100, 103, 105, 108–10, 113, 115–20 Golega, J.  196 Gospels  10, 15–16, 43, 50, 61 n. 98, 136, 138, 144–5, 154, 159, 182, 195–7, 201, 211–13, 216–17, 328 Matthew  16, 136, 139, 144, 150–8, 160, 162, 205, 286, 290, 303, 307 Mark  136, 151, 154, 307 Luke  16, 36–7, 136, 138–51, 154, 160, 162, 307 John  17, 29 n. 85, 136, 148–50, 195–6, 200–7, 209–16 grammatical writing  7–8, Ch. 3 passim

Hadrianople, battle of  1 Hagendahl, H.  299 Hankinson, R.J.  283 Harl, M.  288 Harpocration  254 Helvidius  164 n. 30, 303 Hense, O.  258 Herakleitos  281 Hereford mappamundi  6–7, 36–7, 54–5 Hermeias, Neoplatonic philosopher  264 Hermes  205 Hermes Trismegistus see Hermetic corpus Hermetic corpus  20, 247–51, 255–8 Herodotus  248, 251 Herzog, R.  142, 159 Hesiod  248 Hierocles, Stoic philosopher  248 Hierocles of Alexandria  293 Hilary of Poitiers  135 Himerius  300 Hippolytus of Rome  285 Historia Augusta  163 Homer  vii, 2, 9, 12, 17–18, 20, 22, 27 n. 57, 102, 104, 118, 160, 182–3, 195, 198, 203–4, 206–8, 211–13, 215–17, 219, 233–4, 256–7, 266, 269 Iliad  102, 104, 198, 204, 207, 210, 212–15, 269 Odyssey  18, 198, 204, 210, 212–16, 256 see also Homeric centos Homeric centos  17–18, 177–8, 180, 195–8, 201, 207–19 Homeric Hymn to Hermes  205 Honorius  98–9, 104 Horace   80, 301–2 Horsiesios  326 Hosea  311 Iamblichus  20, 247–8, 250, 252–7, 262, 264–5

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Index intertextuality  8–4, 17–18, Ch. 4 passim, 145, 154, 206, 211–13, 215–17, 314–17 Irenaeus  43, 198 Isidore of Seville  51, 72, 74 Italy, in classical geography  6, 35, 38–9 itineraries  40, 42, 47 Itinerarium Burdigalense  6, 42 Jaeger, W.  289 Jerome  3, 13–14, 18, 23, 27 n. 64, 41–2, 45–6, 50, 117, 136, 159, 161, 173–4, 181, Ch. 12 passim, 324, 332 dream of  3, 13, 23, 299–300, 301–5, 307, 310 Letter 21:  14, 302, 307–12 Letter 22:  3, 13, 23, 299, 301–4, 312 Letter 53:  11–12, 177–81, 184–5, 198, 313 Letter 70:  13, 14, 160, 299, 300, 305–7, 310–12 Jerusalem  6, 36, 41–2, 207–8, 306, 326, 329, 333 John Cassian  23, Ch. 13 passim John Chrysostom  300, 303 John Philoponus  247 John of Damascus  279, 289 John of Stobi  20–1, Ch. 9 passim Jonah  135 Joseph Bryennios  280 Josephus  49, 50 Jovinian  14, 315–16 Julia Eustochium  302–3 Julian  3, 163, 186 n. 3, 197–8, 217 Jülicher, A.  137 Julius Caesar  36, 81 Julius Honorius ( Julius Orator)  45–6 Justin Martyr  300 Juvenal  72 Juvencus  10, 12, 15–16, 22, Ch. 5 passim, 182–3, 185, 195, 199 Kaster, R.A.  70 Kings, books of  45–6 Koch, H.  288 Kontrastimitation  10, 12, 145, 154 see also oppositio in imitando

Lactantius  11, 16, 107, 145, 153, 155, 163, 300 Lampe, G.W.H.  285 ‘late Antiquity’, scope of  4 Latinitas  69, 74–6, 84–5 Laus Pisonis  123 n. 24 Leo the Philosopher  198 lexicography  7–8, Ch. 3 passim Libanius  198, 208, 213, 300 Licentius  98 Lindsay, W.M.  72–3, 77, 81 literacy   5, 15 Livius Andronicus  7 Livrea, E.  196, 200, 207, 223 n. 99 Longinus  252 Lucan  72, 104, 106–7, 110, 150 Lucilius, satirist  72, 76, 79, 87 n. 32, 90 n. 94 Lucius Ateius ‘Philologus’  75 Lucretius  72, 76, 90 n. 94 Ludwich, A.  196, 209, 218 Macrobius  8, 70, 82, 84, 163 Magnentius  119, 187 n. 17 Marcellinus, Count  42 Marcian, emperor  196 Marcian, steward of St Sophia  196 Marianus Scholasticus  198 Mark, evangelist  326–9 Mark Eugenikos  280 Marold, K.  144 Martial   109 martyrdom  301 Mary, perpetual virginity of  141, 149, 303 Matius  81 Maurice, emperor  279 Maximian  110 Maximos the Confessor  289 Mazzega, M.  161 Melania the Elder  306 Melito of Sardis  41, 43 Memmius  81 Menander, comic playwright  310 Menander Rhetor  101, 104, 113, 124 n. 49 metapoetics  108, 111

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Index Michael Glykas  279 Michael Psellos  279 Middle Platonism  252, 254, 284, 293 Minucius Felix  300 monasticism  23, 45, 301–2, 314, Ch. 13 passim see also asceticism Morani, M.  289 Moses  49, 154, 158, 306 Mummius, author of Atellanae  81 myth, Platonic  18–19, 21, Ch. 8 passim, 256, 257, 273, 288 see also Er, myth of Naevius  72 Nativity, the  10, 16, 137–51 Nemesianus  71 Nemesios of Emesa  21–2, 280, 286, 288–92 Neoplatonism  18–22, 207, 217, 233, 242, 249, 261–2, 264–5, 268, 270–1, 273–4, 275 n. 2, 279–80, 284, 292–3 see also Plato, Platonism; Plotinus; Proclus Nero  106 Nestorius of Constantinople  16, 148, 157, 323 Nicander  198 Nicholas I Mystikos  279 Nicholas of Methone  279 Nicomachus Flavianus  97, 117 Nigidius Figulus  75 Nikephoros Blemmydes  280 Niketas Stethatos  279 Nonius Marcellus  7–8, 20, 22, Ch. 3 passim Nonnus  4, 17, 195–7, 199–209, 215, 217–18 Novius  72 Numenius  252, 254 Odysseus  18, 212–13, 215–16 Old Latin Bible  10, 15, 137, 141, 144, 160 Oliver, R.P.  73 Oppian   198 oppositio in imitando  108 see also Kontrastimitation

Optimus, centonist  209, 217, 223 n. 103 Origen  4, 15, 16, 21–2, 45, 153, 159, 234, 239, 285–8, 300, 306 Origenist controversy  13, 306, 319 n. 9, 320 n. 32 Orosius  6, 37, 51–6 Ovid  39, 104, 154 Pachomius, Pachomian monasticism 326–7, 331–2 Pacuvius  72 ‘pagan revival’ see ‘classical revival’ Palladius  331–2 Pammachius  313 Pamprepius  200 panegyric  8–9, 98–106, 115, 119–21, 151, 207 Panegyrici Latini  110, 123 n. 22 Panegyricus Messallae  106, 123 n. 24 paraphrase  17, 197–9, 207–8 see also biblical epic, biblical paraphrase Pasquali, G.  265 Patricius, centonist  208–9, 217, 219, 223 n. 100 Paul, apostle  150, 306, 309–10, 313, 328 Paul the Deacon  73 Paula  302, 311–12 Paulinus of Nola 135, 177, 198, 313 Peripatetics  70–1, 250–1, 253–4, 270, 283–5 see also Aristotle persecution  16, 145 see also Great Persecution Philippians  150 Philo of Alexandria  23, 327–9, 332–3 Philon of Heraclea  256 Photius  197, 207–8, 247–8, 251, 279 pilgrimage literature  6, 41–2 Pindar  197 Planudes  199 Plato, Platonism  vii, 18–22, 70, 197, 205, 207, Chs. 8–11 passim Axiochus  256 Cratylus  19–20, 252, Ch. 10 passim Gorgias  257, 283 Laws  235, 248, 280–1, 283 Meno  271

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Index Parmenides  264 Phaedo  251–2, 256, 266, 271, 283, 288 Phaedrus  18, 235, 250–2, 257, 264, 273, 282–3, 285, 288, 290, 292 Philebus  238, 249, 253 Republic  21, 249, 252–3, 255, 257, 269–70, 274 n. 1, 281, 287, 290, 293 Symposium  18, 234–6, 238–41, 266, 281 Timaeus  22, 249, 252–3, 257, 264, 267, 270, 281, 283–4, 289–90, 292 see also Middle Platonism; Neoplatonism Plautus  72, 90 n. 94 Pliny the Elder  6, 35–6, 38–40, 44, 52, 54, 77 Plotinus  4, 18–20, 207, Ch. 8 passim, 254–5, 261–2, 265, 284, 292–3 Plutarch  213, 234, 248, 254, 285 Pomponius, L., Republican writer  72, 90 n. 94 Pomponius Mela  40, 44 Porphyry  20, 234, 242, 247–8, 250, 252–4, 256–8, 262, 292 Posidonius  283 Praetextatus, Vettius Agorius  305 ‘predestined terms of life’  279–80 Presocratics  233 Priscian  69, 82–4 Proba, Anicia Faltonia  103, 174, 186 n. 3 Proba, Faltonia Betitia see Cento Probae Probus, Fl. Anicius Petronius  174 Probus, M. Valerius  72 Probus, Sextus Petronius  97, 101–3 Proclus  19–20, 207, 223 n. 100, 234, Ch. 10 passim, 279, 293 Procopius of Gaza  198 Prohaeresius  300 Prosper of Aquitaine  97 providence  21–2, 248–9, Ch. 11 passim see also fate Prudentius  117, 135, 158 Psalms  145, 149–50, 196, 286, 290, 302, 328, 330–3 Greek paraphrase of  195–7, 200

Pythagoras, Pythagoreans  207, 248–50, 253, 257 Quadratus, Christian apologist  300 Quintilian  76 Ravenna Cosmography  44 Reitzenstein, R.  73 Remmius Palaemon  75 Revelation, book of  50 Rey, A.–L.  196, 208–9, 211, 218–19 Rhabanus Maurus  324 Richard of Haldingham  36 Roberts, M.  111 Roma, personification of  8, 84, 102–3, 104, 110, 112–13, 117 Roma, shield of  8–9, 102, 105, 110–114, 119 Rome, idea of  1 Rome, sack of  1, 37, 51 Romulus and Remus  9, 102, 105, 111–14, 116–17, 119 Rougé, J.  46 Rufinus of Aquileia  13, 300, 306 Sacerdos, M. Plotius  82 Sallust, historian  52, 54, 72, 76, 90 n. 94 Sallustius, philosopher  293 Salvina  14, 301, 316 Samuel, books of  45 Santra  75 Schembra, R.  218–19 Schnapp, J.T.  211, 216–17 secularity  25 n. 20 Sedulius  10, 16–17, 135–8, 141, 144–51, 155–9, 161, 163, 195, 199 Septimius Serenus  72 Septuagint  15, 196, 306 Servius  8, 72, 79–80, 83–4, 116, 120, 143 Sherry, L.F.  200, 204, 206 Sidonius Apollinaris  122 n. 11 Silius Italicus  104 Simon Peter  16, 154–5, 157 Simplicius  247 Sisenna  72, 90 n. 94 Smolak, K.  211 Socrates, ecclesiastical historian  197, 207

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Index Sodom  135 Solinus, C. Iulius  44 Sopater  198 Sophocles  204 Sorabji, R.  247, 264 sortes Vergilianae  13, 163 Sozomen  197 Statilius Maximus  75 Statius  9, 72, 100–1, 104–7, 120, 143, 145, 150, 153 Steel, C.  270–1 Stilicho  99, 118 Stobaeus see John of Stobi Stoicism, Stoics  21, 69, 252, 254, 283–4, 286 Strabo  37–9, 40, 56 n. 7, 250 Strzelecki, W.  73 Succoth  16, 155 sun, prayer to  101, 105–7, 110, 119 Symmachus, Q. Aurelius  3, 6, 33–4, 36–7, 84, 110, 305 Syrianus  259 n. 8, 264 Tacitus   39, 54, 71 Taegert, W.  99, 104–5, 115 Tatian  198, 208, 223 n. 99 Telfer, W.  289 Terence  71–2, 83, 313 Terentianus Maurus  71, 86 n. 9 Tertullian  3, 81–2, 85, 162, 300–1 Thales  249 Themistius  20, 198, 247–8, 259 n. 8 Theocritus  198 Theoderic  44 Theodore Metochites  280 Theodosius I  2, 10, 12, 25 n. 19, 84, 97, 102–4, 113, 117, 119–20 Theodosius II  17, 136, 186 n. 6, 186 n. 10, 195, 207–8, 216–17, 224 n. 128 Theognostos  279 Theophanes of Medeia  280 Theophylact Simocates  279 Thesleff, H.  253 theurgy  20, 268, 274, 275 n. 4 Thubursicum  70–2 Tiber, personification of  8, 103–5, 108,

112–17, 119 Titinius  72, 90 n. 94 topographical writing  6, 41–2 Transfiguration, the  10, 16, 137, 151–8, 205 transformation and late Antiquity  vii, 1–4 Turpilius  72 Usher, M.D.  196, 208–9, 211, 215, 218–19 Valentinian II  6, 33–4, 84, 305 Valentinian III  136 Vandals  85 Varro, M. Terentius  7, 69, 72–3, 75–6, 77–9, 81–2, 90 n. 94 ‘Verona List’  45 Verrius Flaccus  73, 75 Vibius Sequester  42 Victorinus, C. Marius  71 Virgil  vii, 2, 8–15, 17–18, 22, 39, 72, 76, 79–83, 90 n. 94, Ch. 4 passim, 136, 140, 142–5, 153–5, 160–3, Ch. 6 passim, 211, 216–17, 299, 301–2, 307, 309, 313–18 Aeneid  8, 14–15, 18, 39, Ch. 4 passim, 142–5, 150, 153–5, 157, 173, 175, 178, 211, 313–17 Eclogues  8–10, 100, 105, 107–10, 115–16, 119–21, 173 Eclogue 4, Christian interpretation of 9–12, 107, 110, 117–18, 176, 178, 188 n. 31 Georgics  8, 80, 105, 108, 114–16, 154, 173 see also sortes Vergilianae Vivarium  45 Vulgate  15, 45, 137, 159 Wachsmuth, C.  249, 258 Xenarchus of Seleucia  250 Xenocrates  249 Zechariah, book of  197

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