The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity: What Christianity Cost the Jews 0190222271, 9780190222277

Table of contents :
The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity: What Christianity Cost the Jews
Contents
Preface
Acknowledgements
Abbreviations
1 The Absence of Evidence as the Evidence of Absence
Absence of Evidence as Evidence of Absence?
Laws, Letters, and Literary Accounts: The Non- Material Sources
Why Only the (Mediterranean) Diaspora?
2 “Five hundred and forty souls were added to the church”
3 “You shall have freedom from care . . . during my reign”: From Constantine to the Death of Julian (312–363)
4. “The sect of the Jews is prohibited by no law”: Valentinian, Gratian and Theodosios I (363–395)
5 “Their synagogues shall remain in their accustomed peace”: Arkadios, Honorius, and Gamaliel VI (395–408)
6 “No synagogue shall be constructed from now on”: Honorius and Theodosios II, 408–423
Barsauma
St. Salsa and Marciana
St. Sergius
7 “We deny to the Jews and to the pagani, the right to practice legal advocacy and to serve in the state service”: Theodosios in His Majority, 423–450
Barsauma in Jerusalem I
Barsauma in Jerusalem II
8 “We do not grant that their synagogues shall stand, but want them to be converted in form to churches”: In the Aftermath of Theodosios in the East, 450–604
John Malalas on the Jews of Antioch
Justinian and the Jews
9 “In what has been allowed to them, [the Jews] should not sustain any prejudice”: In the Aftermath of Theodosios in the West, 450–604
10 “Here rests Faustina, aged fourteen years, five months. . . . Two apostoli and two rebbites sang lamentations”: The Price of (Christian) Orthodoxy
They Converted
They Emigrated
They Resisted
They Entertained Messianic Possibilities
They Adapted
Women’s Religious Offices as Adaptive Strategy?
They Retrenched
Rabbinization
Epilogue
References
Index of Persons, Places and Subjects
Index of Ancient Sources Cited
Index of Modern Authors Cited

Citation preview

The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity

The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity What Christianity Cost the Jews

zz   ROSS SHEPARD KRAEMER

1

1 Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2020 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, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. CIP data is on file at the Library of Congress ISBN 978–​0–​19–​022227–​7 1 3 5 7 9 8 6 4 2 Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America

for Julian and Eleanor

Contents

Preface

ix

Acknowledgements

xv

Abbreviations

xix

1. The Absence of Evidence as the Evidence of Absence

1

2. “Five hundred and forty souls were added to the church” The Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews, Early Fifth Century? 

43

3. “You shall have freedom from care . . . during my reign.” Letter 51, The Emperor Julian to the Collectivity of the Jews, (perhaps spurious)  (dated) March 1, 363  From Constantine to the Death of Julian, 312–​363 

75

4. “The sect of the Jews is prohibited by no law” CTh 16.8.9, Theodosios I at Constantinople, September 23, 393 Valentinian, Gratian, and Theodosios I, 363–395 

114

5. “Their synagogues shall remain in their accustomed peace” CTh 16.8.12, Arkadios at Constantinople, June 17, 397 Arkadios, Honorius, and Gamaliel VI, 395–408

159

6. “No synagogue shall be constructed from now on” CTh 16.8.25, Theodosios II, at Constantinople, February 15, 423 Honorius and Theodosios II, 408–​423

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7. “We deny to the Jews and to the pagani, the right to practice legal advocacy and to serve in the state service.” 240 Sirmondian Constitution 6, Galla Placidia, in the name of five-​year-​ old Valentinian and Theodosios II, Summer 425 Theodosios II in His Majority, 423–​450 8. “We do not grant that their synagogues shall stand, but want them to be converted in form to churches” 276 Justinian, Novella 37, August 1, 535 In the Aftermath of Theodosios II in the East, 450–​604 9. “In what has been allowed to them, [the Jews] should not sustain any prejudice.” Letter 8.25, Gregory the Great, to Victor, bishop of Palermo, June 598 In the Aftermath of Theodosios II in the West, 450–​604

315

10. “Here rests Faustina, aged fourteen years, five months. . . . Two apostoli and two rebbites sang lamentations” 342 Latin epitaph from Venosa, Italy, early sixth century The Price of (Christian) Orthodoxy Epilogue

402

References

407

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

445

Index of Ancient Sources Cited

466

Index of Modern Authors Cited

479

Preface

Can we reasonably imagine what it was like to live as a Jew in the Mediterranean region in the years from the late fourth century of the Common Era to the end of the sixth century? I grew up in the years right after World War II, in New York City and in one of its proximate suburbs. Disdain for Jews was both rife and ordinary. New York law firms were segregated. Elite colleges and preparatory schools employed admissions quotas. Social clubs, both elite and otherwise, routinely prohibited Jewish members. The deeds of homes in exclusive neighborhoods contained restricted convenants prohibiting their resale to Jews and blacks. Casual derogatory comments and rude anti-​Jewish jokes were part of ordinary social discourse. Yet as a child growing up in the New York borough of Queens, in a neighborhood that felt more overwhelming Jewish than it really was, I was largely if not entirely oblivious to all this, at least until I began reading Holocaust literature at a very early age. I started with Michel del Castillo’s Child of Our Time, a haunting short novel about a non-​Jewish child named Tanguy in a Nazi camp, published in 1958. (I had long forgotten the title and the author, but found it easily with a few strokes on Google Books.) Then I read Andre Schwartz-​Bart’s The Last of the Just and Leon Uris’s Mila 18. As an adolescent in Manhasset, a North Shore Long Island suburb with a very small Jewish population, my sense of this was only a little keener. There was the girl in my eighth-​grade class who came to our house to welcome me to town, and then retreated, although politely, when I answered her question about what church we attended by saying we went to synagogue. I knew that the realtors who showed my parents houses to buy had tried, unsuccessfully, to steer them to surrounding “Jewish” towns like Great Neck, Port Washington, and Roslyn. I knew there were houses a few blocks from ours that contained the kinds of restrictive covenants featured in the exposé novel and film Gentleman’s Agreement (which I read; it had mild sex scenes in it that were more intriguing to me than the chronicling of ordinary anti-​Semitism). I knew

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the really strange story of the day my parents went to settle on our house, only to be told by the realtor that the house had been bought at the last minute by someone else. This turned out to be either a bizarre misunderstanding or a boldfaced lie, but my parents construed it as a last-​ditch attempt on someone’s part to deter Jews from buying the house. The settlement went forward as scheduled. But unlike my mother, no one ever accused me of being a Christ killer, and apart from my parents’ experiences buying a house, I could not identify any ways in which anti-​Jewish sentiments made a meaningful difference in my life. This is not, of course, to say it didn’t—​only that I wasn’t aware of it. I do not, of course, mean to suggest that there are any easy comparisons between the experiences of Jews in the late antique Mediterranean and those of Jews in postwar twentieth-​century America; surely there are not. It has regularly been tempting, when writing this book, to think much more about the comparisons between the increasingly Christian late antique Roman Empire and Nazi Germany, even if the compression of time is much greater in the latter case. In a matter of a few decades, Germany went from being a place where Jews flourished in many ways to a place where they were almost completely exterminated. During a 2010 sabbatical devoted to this book, I spent several weeks in Germany, visiting my daughter, who was conducting fieldwork for her anthropology Ph.D. in Berlin. We intended the trip purely as vacation (which the Icelandic volcano Eyjafjallajokull extended for almost a week), and I did no specific research while there. I did, however, spend considerable time visiting the museums and memorials that Germans have erected in recent years in the wake of the horrors of the Holocaust: Daniel Liebeskind’s deeply disturbing Jüdisches Museum in Mitte; the stunningly simple and devastatingly effective Memorial to the Murdered Jews of Europe hard by the Brandenburg Gate. We saw the restored Neue Synagogue on Oranienburger Strässe in Berlin, and the entirely new hard-​edged synagogue and community center in Dresden, with its equally simple notation of the death and dispersal of the almost five thousand Jews who had lived in Dresden in 1933. On a side trip to Prague, we toured the restorations of several medieval synagogues and a burial society, now mostly museums and memorials to the vast numbers of Czech Jews slaughtered by the Nazis. None is still a functioning synagogue. I cannot say that I  learned anything truly new in these visits, although I had never before seen an actual depiction of the vicious, grotesque jüdisches sau which the Berlin Jüdisches Museum displays and which I found for some reason especially offensive and angering. But I  did find myself repeatedly reflecting on the relationship between the history of Jews in Germany and Europe more broadly, and the historical questions to which this book attends.

Preface

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On the one hand, the fourth to the sixth centuries ce were fundamentally different times from the centuries that would follow, and few Jews are known in this period to have lived in the locations where the majority of Jews come to reside in the medieval, early modern, and modern periods. To see the history of late antiquity through the lenses of later centuries seems to guarantee a serious degree of distortion. Yet it is also what virtually all scholars have done in some form or other. I do not wish to replicate those who have fought the battles of modern Jewish identity on the landscape of antiquity, and yet it seems impossible to extract the one from the other. I do not subscribe to a teleological view of history such that the events of late antiquity necessarily led to the subsequent future, but it also seems that we cannot interrogate the distant past as though the intervening past had not happened, although I regularly endeavor to do so. More recently, it’s been hard not to see the strong resemblances of ancient violence between religious groups to contemporary instances. Ironically, though, American Christians who deplore and denounce those they label “radical Islamist fundamentalists” are themselves the heirs of Christians who, in late antiquity, imposed orthodoxy on a wide range of resistant populations by precisely the same tactics:  random violence against persons, property, and cultural artifacts. Rampaging monks and Christian mobs destroyed and burned temples, shrines, and synagogues; stole the precious silver and gold cult items they contained; and terrorized the persons who worshiped there. There’s a highly compelling account of this in the preface to Eberhard Sauer’s The Archaeology of Religious Hatred, beginning with his evocation of how things might have appeared in the early 390s.1 Of this history American Christians are almost entirely unaware. So, too, they are apparently unaware of the history of intra-​religious violence in the settlement of our own country—​of, for instance, Puritans torturing religious dissidents like Roger Williams, who founded my own adopted state of Rhode Island precisely to find succor outside Massachusetts, my other adopted and much beloved state. The legacy of these centuries feels increasingly present to me. In the summer of 2014, as I  reorganized the book, the papers and the internet were full of daily reports of the escalated violence with religious dimensions. Militant Islamists calling themselves the Islamic State in Iraq and Syria, or ISIS, an acronym now so familiar it needs no explication, attacked members of a Kurdish religious minority called Yazadis, whom media accounts

1. Sauer 2003:8–​22.

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described somewhat imprecisely as members of an ancient religion that is neither Muslim nor Christian. Especially salient and harrowing were reports that the Yazadi were given the “choice” of converting or dying—​since according to the interpretations of ISIS, they are not members of one of the protected “religions of the book” that, under Islamic law, must be tolerated. These same interpretations were adduced to justify enslaving Yazadi, particularly women, who have been raped and forced to bear the children of their captors. Israel and Hamas clashed yet again in Gaza. Three hundred Nigerian girls and young women were abducted from school and subjected to similar abuse by a group, Boko Haram, that authorizes its violence with religious claims. Some of these girls eventually escaped, and others were eventually released and reunited with their families, but others are still missing, if not dead. In 2017, as I  finished years of revising, polishing, and annotating, the American political landscape, if not the larger world, shifted techtonically. Incidents of anti-​Jewish rhetoric and sometimes actual violence accelerated in the wake of an American electoral result that emboldened anti-​Jewish voices and actors banished to the margins of American public discourse, particularly after the Holocaust. A few days before I printed out a version of the manuscript to send to my editor, white supremacists marched in Charlottesburg, Virginia, chanting vile racist and anti-​Jewish slogans that explicitly invoked Nazi Germany. The American president could not bring himself to utter an unequivocal, unqualified denunciation of their actions and views, falling back instead on a false equivalence of the violence of the racists with the protests against racism. In the additional year and a half that it took for this book to go to press, anti-Jewish incidents and rhetoric have intensified, perhaps most horrifically in a mass shooting the day before my seventieth birthday, at a synagogue in Pittsburgh, a congregation where a colleague of mine studied to become a Bar-mitzvah. All are chilling evidence that the legacy of the centuries I consider here remains with us and requires of us constant vigilance. Careful historical work may not be sufficient to protect us from repeating our painful past, but its absence makes that even more likely. Although I endeavor throughout this book to maintain some degree of scholarly detachment, I  make no claims to neutrality about this particular past. As will become clear, I am a profoundly resistant reader of my ancient sources, and not simply because I  do not take their accounts at face value. I do not share the view of ancient Christian writers that the transformation of the ancient Mediterranean into a catholic Christian oikoumenē (inhabited world) was a good. My sympathies are with the Jews, the Samaritans, and all the others whose traditional, ancestral practices were under assault. Yet

Preface

xiii

I do struggle with the likelihood that these authors genuinely believed in the rightness of their efforts to conform the world to their practices, and were genuinely happy and welcoming when Jews and others joined the catholic church. I am also a resistant reader of much modern historiographic work, especially but by no means only, emic Jewish accounts. I am particularly concerned, as I develop in ­chapter 1, to challenge a narrative of Jewish history that homogenizes ancient Jews and privileges the rabbinic tradition, retrojecting its later hegemony back onto the ancient Mediterranean and obscuring, if not obliterating, the complex realities of Jews in those centuries and locations.

Acknowledgements

I owe thanks to so many people for their assistance with this project that inevitably, I  have forgotten some, whose forgiveness I  ask in advance. Although I have jokingly told him that this project is all his fault (which is not really the case), it would have been immeasurably harder without Scott Bradbury’s crucial edition and translation of The Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews, which I first encountered when, as Scott knows, Oxford University Press asked me to review the manuscript in the mid-​1990s. I am exceptionally grateful that he has been a generous colleague ever since (and which I trust really has nothing to do with the fact that he happens to teach at my undergraduate alma mater, Smith College). A Brown undergraduate, Kate Goldberg ‘07, accompanied me on a research trip to Minorca in May, 2007, after a semester’s independent study on Jews in late antiquity, and her Spanish skills, insights and companionship were invaluable. For serving as sounding boards and sources of invaluable information, I  am deeply indebted to (in alphabetical order):  Ra’anan Boustan, Robert Doran, Susan Harvey, Oded Irshai, Andrew Jacobs, Shira Lander, Nicola Denzey Lewis, Michael Satlow, David Satran, and Hagith Sivan, as well as to Josep Amengual i Batle, Cynthia Baker, Joan Branham, Bernadette Brooten, Miguel Cau Ontiveros, John Cherry, Mary Rose D’Angelo, Paula Fredriksen, Nancy Khalek, Naomi Koltun-​Fromm, Robert Kraft, Hayim Lapin, Jodi Magness, Catalina Mas Florit, Michelle Mericle, Andrew Palmer, Jessica Dello Russo, Tina Shepardson, Karen Stern, and Arthur Urbano, many of whom are also thanked at various points in the notes. The book is significantly enriched by the research and insights of Brown doctoral students in several seminars: Reyhan Durmaz, Meghan McBride, Claudia Moser, Daniel Picus, Stephen Young, Robyn Walsh, and especially Rebecca Falcasantos and Heidi Wendt.

xvi

Acknowledgements

Brown University provided me with support throughout, including undergraduate research funds to travel to Minorca with Kate Goldberg; an initial research grant from the Wendy Strothmann Fund in 2008; a Fellowship at the Cogut Humanities Center in 2012; two sabbatical leaves, and funds for an intensive two-​day Moskow workshop on Jews in the late ancient Mediterranean in May, 2015. The Center for Advanced Judaic Studies at the University of Pennsylvania welcomed me back as a guest participant at its weekly seminar during 2007-​2008, which focused on Jews in late antiquity. There I benefited yet again from the inestimable kindness of Judith Leifer in the Center’s library. I could never have written this book without the patience and expertise of Bill Munroe at the Brown University library, nor without the technological assistance of James Dorian. I had numerous opportunities to present portions of this project as it developed, and to receive thoughtful and constructive responses, from Brown colleagues and graduate students at the seminar on Culture and Religion in the Ancient Mediterranean (CRAM), from the Judaic Studies faculty seminar, and the Brown Cogut Seminar in spring, 2012. Outside Brown, I  am particularly appreciative of the audiences I had at the University of Toronto, Yale Divinity School, Brite Divinity School (Texas Christian University), and New  York University, and for the papers and conversations with the conveners and participants at a workshop on the late ancient diaspora held at the University of Haifa and Tel Aviv University in the fall of 2015. I am especially grateful to all those colleagues who came to Brown in May, 2015 for an intensive two-​day workshop I  convened on the same topic. In the spring of 2019, I taught a college-​level course on the book to a diverse and delightful group at Temple Emanuel in Providence, whose perceptive questions prompted me to make several significant edits to various chapters during the copy-​editing  stage. Several personal friends aided this project in fortuitous ways. Heather and Ronald Florence arranged for me and Kate Goldberg to stay in Heather’s mother’s beautiful house on Minorca, outside Ciutadella, where we benefited greatly from the hospitality and knowledge of Rosa and Emilio Gener. Mary and Richard Grant persuaded me and my husband Michael to accompany them on a trip to Italy, facilitating an invaluable excursion to Ravenna. My long-​time editor at Oxford, Cynthia Read, was, as ever, supportive, patient, and occasionally bracingly blunt. Julie Goodman’s perceptive suggestions substantially improved the final manuscript. And as always, I have my family to thank: my husband of almost half a century, Michael, my daughter Jordan Kraemer, and her spouse, Channing

Acknowledgements

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Moore, each of whom has contributed to this book in obvious and not-​so-​ obvious ways. It is dedicated to their children, Julian Channing Kraemer Moore, and Eleanor Hunter Kraemer Moore, both in gratitude for the joy that our grandchildren daily bring us, and in the hope that it may someday teach them some of the inheritance we leave them.

Abbreviations

AASS AJP BJS CCSL CIJ CIL CJ CPJ CSCO CSEL CTh FC GLAJJ GRBS HTR IJO

ILCV ILS JAJ JECS JIGRE JIWE

Acta sanctorum quotquot toto orbe coluntur. Antwerp, 1643–​ American Journal of Philology Brown Judaic Studies Corpus Christianorum: Series Latina. Turnhout: Brepols, 1953–​ Corpus Inscriptionum Judaicarum. Edited by J. B. Frey, 1936, 2nd ed. 1967 Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum. Berlin, 1862–​ Codex Justinianus​ Corpus Papyrorum Judaicarum. Edited by V. A. Tcherikover. 3 vols. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1957–64 Corpus Scriptorum Christianorum Orientalium Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Codex Theodosianus Fathers of the Church. Washington, DC: Catholic University Press, 1947–​ Greek and Latin Authors on Jews and Judaism. Edited by M. Stern. 3 vols. Jerusalem: Israel Academy of Arts and Sciences, 1976–​84 Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies Harvard Theological Review Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck. 2004. Vol. 1, Eastern Europe. Edited by D. Noy, A. Panayotov and H. Bloedhorn. TSAJ 99. Vol 2. Kleinasie. Edited by W. Ameling. TSAJ 101. Vol 3. Syria and Cyprus. Edited by D. Noy and H. Bloedhorn. TSAJ 102 Inscriptiones Latinae Christianae Veteres. Edited by Ernst Diehl, 2nd ed. Berlin: Druckerei Hildebrand, 1961 Inscriptiones Latinae Selectae. Edited by H. Dessau. Berlin, 1892–​1916 Journal of Ancient Judaism Journal of Early Christian Studies Jewish Inscriptions of Greco-​Roman Egypt, by W. Horbury and D. Noy. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1992 Jewish Inscriptions from Western Europe, by David Noy. 2 vols. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1993–1995

xx JLA JLSEMA JQR JRA JRIL JRS JSJ JTS MAMA MGH AA PL PLRE

PO RSJ SC SCI Sirm TSAJ TTH VC WUNT ZPE

Abbreviations Journal of Late Antiquity The Jews in the Legal Sources of the Early Middle Ages. Edited by A. Linder. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1997 Jewish Quarterly Review Journal of Roman Archaeology The Jews in Roman Imperial Legislation. Edited by A. Linder. Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1987 Journal of Roman Studies Journal for the Study of Judaism in the Persian, Hellenistic, and Roman Period Journal of Theological Studies Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua Monumenta Germanicae Historica Auctores antiquissimi Patrologia latina [= Patrologiae cursus completus: Series latina]. Edited by J.-​P. Migne, 217 vols. Paris, 1844–​1864 The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press. Vol. 1 (a.d. 260–​395). Edited by A. H. M. Jones, J. R. Martindale, and J. Morris, 1971. Vol. 2 (a.d. 395–​ 527). Edited by J. R. Martindale, 1980 Patrologia Orientalis Roma Subterranea Judaica Sources Chrétiennes (Les Éditions du Cerf ) Scripta Classica Israelica Sirmondian Constitutions Texte und Studien zum Antike Judentum/​Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism (Mohr Siebeck) Translated Texts for Historians Vigiliae Christianae Wissenschaftliche Untersuchungen zum Neuen Testament (Mohr Siebeck) Zeitschrift für Papyrologie und Epigraphik

1

The Absence of Evidence as the Evidence of Absence When the Roman emperor Constantine bestowed his patronage on an emergent catholic church in the early fourth century ce, large numbers of Jews lived outside the land of Israel, across the ancient Mediterranean. Like most inhabitants of the empire, they spoke Greek as their ordinary language, in which they conducted their ordinary affairs, including epitaphs for their dead and public inscriptions commemorating their financial contributions to Jewish communal life. They read (or at least heard) their venerated ancestral writings in Greek, and probably worshiped the God of their ancestors in this language as well. Latin appears to have been the preferred language of some smaller number of Jews, especially in Italy and North Africa. Rather curiously, these Jews also appear to have left us nothing in the way of identifiable writings.1 To write their history we have only what others said about them and an assortment of archaeological remains: synagogue buildings and mosaic floors, catacombs, tombs and sarcophagi, a corpus of inscriptions—​mostly epitaphs, but also donor plaques—​and numerous small objects, such as lamps with menorahs, beautiful gold glasses, protective amulets, and more. Yet by the fifth century, much of this evidence for Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora has begun to diminish considerably. Evidence of Jewish habitation disappears in regions where it had once been significant. Jewish use of burial catacombs in Rome ceases around the late fourth century. Where once Greek Jewish inscriptions were widespread across ancient Asia Minor (modern Turkey), few can be securely dated later than about the mid-​fifth century. Synagogues in use in the fourth (or fifth) century seem abandoned in the fifth (or sixth) century, or have become churches.

1. The term “identifiable” is critical here. For further discussion, see below, pp. 22–24. The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190222277.001.0001

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What accounts for this? A simple answer might be that the eventual absence of evidence constitutes reliable evidence of absence:  Jews no longer lived in these regions, or at least far fewer of them did. Many scholars would argue that this is precisely what happened in Egypt in the second century ce, when a disastrous lesser-​known revolt against Rome (around 115–​117) resulted in the death, enslavement, and relocation of much of the Egyptian Jewish population.2 Only in the fifth century are Jews briefly somewhat better attested again in the city of Alexandria. And a similarly simple explanation for this wholesale decline in data might be sought in the momentous changes in the Roman Mediterranean that begin in the early fourth century, when Constantine aligned himself with what would become the orthodox catholic church. As bishops attained considerable power, and the apparatus of the empire was placed at the disposal of Christian interests, much of the empire’s populace embraced Christianity, including, presumably, diaspora Jews. Certainly, diverse Christian authors and late Roman legal codes suggest that from the early fourth century on, the pressures and constraints on Jews became substantial. A work claiming to be composed by one Severus, bishop of Minorca, narrates how all 540 Jews on that small Mediterranean island converted during one week in the early fifth century, after Christians burned their synagogue.3 Gregory, bishop of Tours in the sixth century, tells a chilling and somewhat similar story of the conversion of the Jews in what is now Clermont-​Ganneau, in central France, after the city’s bishop, Avitus, forced them to choose between joining the church or leaving the town.4 In his fifth-​ century history of the church, Sokrates of Constantinople includes a detailed account of how Cyril, the bishop of Alexandria, expelled the entire Jewish population of the city a few years before the events on Minorca, after a violent confrontation between Jews and Christians.5 A few chapters later, he relates how the Jews of Crete end up accepting Christ en masse after their kind Christian neighbors rescue them from the untimely death urged on them by a false Jewish messiah.6 Ambrose, bishop of Milan in the late fourth century, recounts how Christian monks and their bishop attacked and burned a 2. On this revolt, see Ben Zeev 2005. For an overview of scholarly hypotheses about the fate of Alexandrian Jews, see Stroumsa 2012:258–​59. 3. See c­ hapter 2, this volume. 4. Gregory, Hist. Franks 5.11; see ­below, pp. 327–33. 5. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.13; see ­below, pp. 215–25. 6. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.38; see ­below, pp. 353–56.



The Absence of Evidence as the Evidence of Absence

3

Jewish synagogue in a small town, Callinicum, on the frontier of the Roman border with Persia.7 His contemporary, Epiphanios, the bishop of Salamis, on Cyprus, tells a somewhat different story of the conversion of a well-​connected Jew in the Galilee, in which the only coercion comes in the form of miraculous interventions by Christ himself: humans play no part.8 Accounts of violence against synagogues are supported by late Roman imperial legislation prohibiting such attacks and often mandating restitution. Other legislation imposed intensifying diverse restrictions on Jews. Over time, Jewish men were prohibited from the legal and teaching professions, from holding numerous public offices, and from serving in the military and the imperial administration. Jews were prohibited from entering into poly­ gynous marriages or contracting marriages according to Jewish rather than Roman law, and directed to utilize Roman rather than Jewish courts for numerous disputes. Scant as it is, the existing evidence raises questions about Jews living in the late antique Mediterranean diaspora that have received far less attention than they deserve. It’s often been assumed, even by scholars, that these Jews ultimately became Christians, whether voluntarily or under duress. Their conversion was aided and abetted by centuries of acculturation (often called assimilation) into the dominant culture. In the Roman orbit, only their counterparts in Palestine, buffered and sustained by rabbinic traditions and practices, remained faithful to their ancestral culture and religion. Although this formulation may overstate common perceptions, it is not a scenario I  have ever found compelling, for a multiplicity of reasons. In part, this particular narrative too conveniently reinscribes onto antiquity the debates about assimilation that raged among Jewish intellectuals and others in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. It assumes that accommodation to the dominant culture ultimately leads to the demise of Jewishness, and even Jews themselves, in both modern and ancient times. But more substantially, such a thesis cannot be supported by the available evidence, which, as I shall demonstrate through this book, is distressingly paltry and inadequate, and not merely because no identifiable literature produced by Jews in Greek (or Latin) survives for the centuries in question. For much of my scholarly career, my curiosity about these questions remained just that—​curiosity. About ten years ago, having largely finished a

7. For full references see ­below, p. 131n102. 8. Epiphanios, Panarion 30; see b­ elow, pp. 147–52.

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major project on religion, gender, and history in the ancient Mediterranean (which appeared in late 2010), I was finally able to turn my full scholarly attention to the fate of Jews living in the ancient Mediterranean diaspora in the wake of the increasing Christianization of the Roman Empire. As a result, I think it is possible to offer a better account, although one that will never be as satisfying as we might wish. It is my contention, fleshed out in the remainder of this book, that Jewish populations did decline in some places, for the same reasons other populations declined in these centuries, so that some of the absence of evidence is likely to be evidence of absence. Jews were unquestionably subject to many of the same events that affected, and afflicted, the late antique Mediterranean population as a whole. All kinds of disasters brought death and dislocation to people everywhere, without regard to their ethnicity and particular cultural practices. Earthquakes and plague epidemics (themselves perhaps related, according to some current epidemiological research) decimated villages, towns, and significant portions of cities, particularly in the sixth century.9 Frequent warfare with various northern invaders (Goths, Lombards), on the one hand, and the Persians in the East, on the other, had devastating effects on the populace as a whole, although undoubtedly with differing localized consequences.10 Ecological changes resulted in the depopulation of cities like Ephesos as harbors silted over and commerce and agriculture declined.11 A peculiar climatological disaster in the mid-​sixth century resulted in diminution of sunlight for at least eighteen months, apparently from two massive volcanic eruptions.12 Crops throughout much of the world were devastated, including those in the Mediterranean. Incalculable numbers of persons died.13 As this book lays out in substantial detail, Jews in the ancient Roman Mediterranean really were also subject, from the fourth to the early seventh centuries, to extensive pressure from a Christianizing empire. This pressure took many forms. The laws sketched here provided both disincentives 9. See c­ hapter 8, this volume. 10. As I will consider later, some sources envision that Jews allied themselves with invading Goths against the orthodox Byzantines. See below, pp. 295, 324–25. 11. Damaged by Goths in the late third century, and then rebuilt, Ephesos never entirely recovered from severe silting of its harbor that ultimately left the city no access to the Aegean coast. It was further damaged by an earthquake in the early seventh century. 12. See b­ elow, p. 299. Harper 2017 is a particularly valuable account of the role played by climate both in the flourishing of Rome and its eventual downfall. 13. See b­ elow, pp. 302–3.



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to remaining Jewish—​inheritance penalties, burdensome public services, restrictions on occupations, on slaveholding and slave trading—​and related incentives to convert—​reduced taxes, cash payments, prestigious public appointments, and more. Christian bishops preached sermons aimed at firing up their Christian parishioners against local Jews. Mobs of Christian men, often under the direction, or at least with the tacit support, of bishops, attacked synagogues and sometimes Jews themselves. Such pressures unquestionably did lead some Jews to convert or relocate in an effort to evade or reduce those pressures. Regrettably, the direct evidence for much conversion, and the extent of such conversions, is quite poor. Some Jews seem to have become Christians under serious duress, including actual or threatened violence. Some probably chose to become Christians with little or no sense of compulsion, while many did so under complex circumstances that are inaccessible to us. Jews were neither the first, nor the only, nor the greatest targets of this pressure. On the contrary, it is one of the arguments of this book that the pressures on Jews were part of a larger project to transform the entire Roman Empire (if not the entire known world) into a homogeneous orthodox catholic polity.14 The many implementers of this project (Christian bishops and their associates; compliant emperors and their administrations) first concerned themselves primarily with the suppression of intra-​Christian difference and the eradication of traditional religions, and only then with the containment (and/​or conversion) of Jews and their cultural cousins, Samaritans.15 Significantly, the laws of Christian emperors, and the actions of Christian bishops (who lacked the direct authority to issue empire-​wide legislation), aimed at the total eradication of dissidents and traditionalists, but never at the total elimination of Jews (and perhaps Samaritans, this last being a bit more complicated to assess). Jews retained the legal rights, remedies, and protections they had held earlier in the empire, while traditional practitioners and their cult sites had none, nor did many dissenting Christians. One reasonable explanation for this difference may lie in the differing threats each posed to the project of a homogenized Christian empire.

14. In saying this, I am not suggesting that there was anything like a master plan to do this. Rather, it seems clear that Nicene Christian bishops sought such transformation, for which they had the increasing acquiescence, enthusiasm, and ultimately the whole-​hearted involvement of various emperors, especially Theodosios I, Theodosios II, and Justinian. 15.  Lander argues that in North Africa, the sequence was even more precise:  internecine Christian conflicts preceded conflict with Hellenes, and then Jews (Lander 2013, 2016:7).

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Practitioners of traditional Mediterranean religions failed to worship the true god, and worshiped the wrong gods entirely. Dissident Christians worshiped the right god in the wrong ways, or followed the wrong leaders, or held erroneous ideas about that god. Jews, too, worshiped the right god in the wrong ways, and held erroneous beliefs (or failed to hold the right beliefs).16 They were singularly responsible for the death of Christ (even if, of course, the death of Christ was essential to the divine plan and carried out by traditionalists). Nevertheless, Jews had a special place in the orthodox cosmology that neither other group had. Having initially received and transmitted the scriptures on whose prophecy of Christ Christians relied, they were essential guarantors of their truth. They were also key players in Christian eschatological scenarios, especially, although certainly not only, that of Paul in Romans 9–​11, in which the conversion of all the Jews was a prerequisite to the final coming of Christ. Converting them was thus essential to the fulfillment of God’s plan. Yet at the same time, the complete conversion of the Jews implied the imminent end of the world in a manner that many of those in power, at the very least, might not have wished to see fulfilled quite yet. The stance of Augustine, bishop of Hippo in North Africa in the late fourth and early fifth centuries, that Jews must remain as unwitting testimony to the truth of the divine scriptures that prophesied Christ seems to have prevailed over the view of the author of the Letter of Severus, for whom the total conversion of the Jews was to be fervently pursued.17 One can see the desire to conform the entire inhabited world easily enough in the history of legislation against dissident Christians, practitioners of other traditional Mediterranean religions, and the laws pertaining to Jews and Samaritans. The self-​styled orthodox derided their Christian competitors as “haeretici”—​usually translated as “heretics”—​and homogenized and denigrated traditionalists under the category of “pagani”—​usually translated as “pagans”—​whom they also sometimes classed as Hellenes, which literally meant “Greeks.” I try diligently in this book not to reproduce their strategy with such language, preferring whenever possible the somewhat more neutral phrasing used here of dissidents and traditionalists.18 Although some scholars

16. This may have facilitated the classification of Jews and Samaritans as heretics in some heresiological classifications. 17. Augustine, City of God 18.46; see Fredriksen 2008; Letter of Severus 31.2–​4. 18. For a helpful discussion of the difficulties with the English terms “pagan” and “paganism,” and the alternative proposed by some scholars—​“polytheism”—​see Cribbiore 2013:7–​8, who



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are well aware that dissidents and traditionalists were regularly targets of the Christianizing empire, most scholarly accounts are content to do little more than briefly note the legislation pertaining to Jews, often construing it as part of a broader Christian anti-​Jewish project. I know of virtually no other accounts that endeavor, as I do here, both to lay out the history of this legislation and to contextualize it within a larger narrative of ancient politics and power strategies.19 Close scrutiny of these laws, and of what we know from various other sources of the persons and processes responsible for their formulation and dissemination, produces a far more nuanced account than I initially anticipated. It becomes much more apparent that complex social dynamics underlie these laws and their consequences, so that an unnuanced appeal to Christian anti-​Jewish sentiment is wholly inadequate to understand the changing world in which late antique diaspora Jews found themselves. These pressures to impose orthodox Christianity were sufficiently effective, especially in the eastern Roman Empire, that by the sixth century there is far more evidence for Jewish habitation at the geographic margins of the empire than at its center:  at the eastern edges, in proximity to the Persian borders, and in the west, where the remains of the older Roman Empire were often under Ostrogothic Arian control. We might read this as evidence that while some Jews may have remained in place, but now became Christians, and

notes that even the term “Hellenismos,” or Hellenism, was utilized by Julian to mean “a religion with regulations, rites, and priests,” in opposition to Christianity, as well as used by Libanios with somewhat less belligerence (Cribbiore 2013:8). She ultimately concludes that “pagan” and “paganism” remain “the most serviceable.” In my own view, their chief advantage is their brevity, but the disadvantages of replicating their ancient connotations are substantial. 19. An important exception to this is the detailed study of Nemo-​Pekelman 2015, which Hagith Sivan brought to my attention only after I had written a complete draft of this book. Engaging her work set me back several months. Juster 1914’s monumental study, written before his premature death at 34, remains a breathtaking assemblage of the sources. I benefited enormously from Parkes 1934, surveying much of the legislative and literary (but not the epigraphic) material that I treat here. It was first published as the Nazi machinery was ramping up, and is in that sense eerily prescient. Parkes was a fierce critique of scholars like Adolph von Harnack, author of a major account of the spread of Christianity (von Harnack 1904), whom he calls out regularly for his anti-​Judaism; and somewhat less so of Emil Schürer, author of a major account of Jews in the first centuries ce (Schürer 1890). Both, he says “reproduce almost the same conception of the Jews as the theologians of the early centuries of the Church” (Parkes 1934:xvi). Noethlichs 2001 assembles many of the literary sources, with some discussion. Cohen 2018 is a very short (118 pages) overview of Jews in late antiquity, which came to my attention during the production of this volume, and which I  have not seen. Stern 2018 appeared too late to consider. The numerous shorter accounts of the material I treat in this study include Millar 1992 and 2004; Fredriksen and Irshai 2006; Fredriksen 2013: see also Braun, 1998. In addition, MacMullen 1997 offers a particularly chilling account of Christian targeting of traditionalists. My own shorter treatments include Kraemer forthcoming c and forthcoming d.

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thus no longer visible as Jews, others were less likely to proclaim themselves as Jews in the material record, and other still imemigrated to locations where these pressures may have been weaker. For some readers, including those well versed in these centuries, this brief introduction may suffice. Others, however, may find helpful some further discussion of both practical considerations and theoretical concerns. After exploring when the absence of evidence for Jews is evidence of the absence of Jews (and when it might not be), I offer a more detailed overview of the sources that constitute that evidence and some of the challenges they pose. I follow this with some justification for focusing primarily on Jews in the late antique Mediterranean diaspora, as well as further consideration of the uses, utility, and contestations over the category of diaspora itself. I attend briefly to some of the theoretical framing of this project, including definitions of Jews and underlying models of history and historiographical work.

Absence of Evidence as Evidence of Absence? Early on in my formulation of this project, a colleague whose judgment I value vehemently insisted that the whole premise of my inquiry was misguided. The disappearance of material evidence—​primarily inscriptions—​for the presence of Jews was misleading, and was more about the vagaries of the evidence than the facts on the ground. She was not, in principle, inherently wrong. Setting up inscriptions is not a cultural constant, and this waxed and waned in the ancient Mediterranean, as Ramsay MacMullen argued in an important article some years ago.20 Certainly, while burial inscriptions index the presence of a population, their absence hardly indexes the opposite. Because my inquiry is premised to some extent on the apparent decrease in the material evidence for Greek-​(and Latin-​) speaking Jews, and its potential explanations, it seems appropriate to pursue this a bit further here. As I observed earlier, the Roman catacombs which contain the burial sites of hundreds of Jews do not seem to be later than the fourth century.21 (When the catacombs were first used by Jews is somewhat debated, but it is not essential to my project.)22 Since Christian catacombs also decline in use after the 20. MacMullen 1982; see also Meyer 1990; Ameling 2009; Lloris 2015. 21. Rutgers 1995; JIWE 2., pp. 1–​9 (Monteverde), pp. 173–​81 (Vigna Randanini), p. 322 (Vigna Cimarra), pp. 337–​38 (Via Casilina, previously Labicana), pp. 341–​46 (Villa Torlonia); more generally, Rutgers 2013; see also Denzey Lewis, forthcoming. 22. Rutgers et al. 2002; I thank Nicola Denzey Lewis for this reference.



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fourth century, conceivably this reflects not so much a declining Jewish population in Rome as a change in burial practices. But while we have ample other evidence for the presence of Christians in Rome in the fifth century and later, and occasional literary evidence for Jews there, material indication of Jewish residence becomes increasingly thin. Of the Jewish inscriptions thought to come from Rome, inside or outside the catacombs, less than 1 percent are possibly dated to the fifth century or later, often on uncertain grounds.23 For Asia Minor, the situation is more complex.24 Many of the approximately 250 inscriptions thought to be by or about Jews are difficult to date with any precision. This includes ninety or so from Sardis, mostly donor inscriptions from a building presumed to be a synagogue, and about whose dating (and thus the dating of its inscriptions) there is considerable debate.25 On the assumption that the latest phase of this building was erected in the fourth century, Kroll, and subsequently Ameling, assigns most of the Sardis inscriptions a date broadly in the fourth to sixth centuries.26 Magness has since argued that the building itself was not a synagogue until the mid-​sixth century, although her arguments have not found universal acceptance.27 Notwithstanding the debates about Sardis, about half the remaining evidence (from more than sixty sites in Asia Minor) is assigned a date no later than the third century, including plentiful evidence for places like Akmonia, 23. E.g., JIWE 2.530, 2.539, 2.551, 2.562; possibly also 2.550. JIWE 2.401 appears to date from 501 ce, but there is considerable debate over whether it is a Jewish inscription. 24. On Jews in Asia Minor, see now the interesting but uneven study by Stebnicka 2015, which focuses primarily on the earlier centuries (before the fifth). The older monograph of Trebilco 1991 similarly focused on earlier evidence. 25. For an overview and bibliography of the site, see IJO 2.209–​11, 217–​20, 224–​30; see also Mitten and Scorziello 2008; Levine 2012:294–​310; and Burkhardt 2014. The Sardis inscriptions run from IJO 2.53–​145: the synagogue inscriptions begin with IJO 2.60. They were previously published by Kroll 2001. 26. Kroll 2001:7; see also the various Sardis entries in IJO 2 for further discussion of dating. 27. Magness 2005, relying especially on the dating of coins found under the synagogue floor. Levine objects that Jews at Sardis have titles of office that Jews were forbidden to hold by the sixth century (Levine 2012:313; more fully 311–​14). His argument is not dispositive:  as discussed in subsequent chapters, these laws were not uniformly upheld across the empire, and these inscriptions may be further evidence of the weakness of such regulations. Levine doesn’t note that Magness’s date would have the earlier building renovated as a synagogue precisely at the time that John of Ephesos claimed to have had a mandate from the emperor Justinian to wipe out remaining traditional religion in the region, and to have destroyed not only traditional sites but also a number of synagogues, on which, see ­below, pp. 300–303. Burkhardt 2014 repeatedly cites Magness, and acknowledges her redating, but largely accepts earlier assessments of the synagogue as dating from the fourth–​early seventh centuries, without really engaging Magness, except briefly (Burkhardt 2014:196).

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Eumeneia, and Hierapolis in Phrygia. While Ameling dates a considerable number of inscriptions “fourth century or later,” without discussion of how much later they might be, only about 10 percent of this smaller set have been assigned dates in the fifth century or later, often on less than secure grounds.28 Many are not indisputably Jewish. A  stele from Aphrodisias found in the late 1970s contains two important inscriptions pertaining to Jews, the later of which probably dates to the fifth century.29 Similarly, only about 5  percent of the 140 or so inscriptions catalogued from eastern Europe (including the Roman provinces of Pannonia, Dalmatia, Moesia, Thrace, Macedonia, Achaia, Crete, and the north coast of the Black Sea), are assigned a date of the fifth century or later.30 While most of the inscriptional evidence from these areas dates thus between the second and fourth centuries, with considerably fewer inscriptions likely to date from the fifth century or later, the just under 200 inscriptions from Western Europe outside the city of Rome itself are quite different.31 Just about three-​fourths (142) are from various locations in Italy, with another fifty from Sicily, Malta, Spain, and Gaul (France). Strikingly, where the inscriptions from Rome seem no later than the fourth century, many of these are dated no earlier than the fourth century, with many dated to the fifth and sixth centuries, and sometimes later.32 Half of all the inscriptions from Italy come from a single trove of seventy-​four epitaphs from a burial gallery in Venosa, in the south, for which there is, at least currently, no archaeological or 28.  “Fourth or later”:  IJO 2.17, 2.31, 2.159, 2.160, 2.161, 2.232, 2.241, 2.242, 2.245, etc. Approximately 14 of the 166 inscriptions not from Sardis are dated fifth or later, including: IJO 2.5A, 2.14A, 2.15, 2.16, 2.25, 2.30(?), 2.41, 2.147, 2.148, 2.153, and several sarcophagus inscriptions from Corykos in Cilicia: IJO 2.234, 2.235A and B, 2.241. (On these, see Williams 1994; see also below, p. 385.) Quite a few of these are problematic for various reasons: IJO 2.230, from Diokaisareia in Cilicia, is a fragmentary votive inscription whose Jewishness is uncertain; IJO 2.248, from Tarsus, sometimes construed as a synagogue dedication, is not, in my view, definitively Jewish (although it may be), let alone a synagogue dedication, nor so late. As Dagron and Feissel noted, it shares many features with Christian inscriptions from the area (Dagron and Feissel 1987:81–​82). See also the individual discussions and bibliography in IJO 2. 29. IJO 2.14, discussed further below, pp. 383–85. 30. At least 10 inscriptions of these 140 are Samaritan, and perhaps more, if the building on Delos sometimes thought to be a Jewish synagogue was actually Samaritan (that it was neither, see below, p. 13n44). Of these, one is explicitly dated to the sixth century ce (IJO 1 Dal14). One is dated vaguely to the fourth–​sixth centuries:  the others are first century ce or even earlier. The eight non-​Samaritan inscriptions dated to the fifth century or later include IJO 1 Ach24, 28, 30, 57; BS2, 3, 16; and Mac16. 31. JIWE 2. 32. JIWE 1.189 is a Latin epitaph from Narbonne, explicitly dated to 688–​669.



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epigraphic evidence for Jews until the fourth century. The Venosa inscriptions appear to date mostly from the fifth and early sixth centuries, including one which is, unusually, explicitly dated to 521, facilitating the somewhat more reliable dating of some other inscriptions.33 In contrast to Asia Minor, at Venosa material evidence for Jews persists demonstrably into the early medieval period. A  different cemetery in Venosa contains burials dating through 840, suggesting that Jews were either wiped out at that point or fled and didn’t return after Saracen raids in the 850s.34 At the same time, it is unclear whether these later inscriptions, in Hebrew, are evidence for continuous Jewish habitation in Venosa, or for sporadic residence by Jews whose relation to prior inhabitants is unknown (and probably unknowable). Particularly instructive is a smaller set of sixteen inscriptions from Taranto dated to the seventh and eighth centuries, but neither earlier nor later. These hint, although by no means prove, that Jews may have settled in Taranto in the seventh century and ceased to reside there after the eighth century. Together, the inscriptions from Venosa and Taranto constitute slightly over 40 percent of the inscriptions from Western Europe,35 and more than half (56%) of the inscriptions from Italy outside Rome. Of the remaining fifty inscriptions (from Sicily, Malta, Spain, and Gaul), almost all are assigned dates in the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries. Collectively, then, over two-​ thirds of inscriptions from western Europe, excluding the Roman catacombs, are primarily dated no earlier than the fifth to sixth centuries.36 Few are meaningfully earlier, again hinting that Jews may have taken up residence in these locations relatively late.37 Most problematic for these purposes are the inscriptions from North Africa, not the least because they have never been systematically collected and edited. In 1981, Le Bohec published a long article in French, reproducing “Jewish and 33. JIWE 1.107. The Venosa inscriptions are discussed at length in ­chapter 10. See also Noy 1994 and Williams 1999. 34. So, JIWE 1. p. xviii. 35. 80 of 192. 36. 130 of 192 (68%). 37. Noy gives a slightly broader dating range (third–​fifth) to two amulets: JIWE 1.156, 1.159, which are, in any case, not necessarily evidence of Jewish residence. JIWE 1.161 is a Samaritan inscription, in Greek, from Sicily, dated perhaps to the first century ce. JIWE 1.178 is an amphora from Ibiza, Spain, with two letters that seem to be Hebrew, perhaps first century ce. JIWE 1.179 is a Latin epitaph from Abdera, Spain, tentatively dated to the third century based solely on letters forms. A Latin epitaph from Villamesías, apparently for a Jewish freedman, is tentatively dated first–​third century ce.

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Judaizing” inscriptions from North Africa.38 It contains a little over eighty inscriptions, mostly epitaphs, as well as another forty or so lamps, amulets, and inscribed protective curses. Many of these inscriptions fall into Le Bohec’s rather loosely defined category of “Judaizers.” By this, he meant non-​Jews who engaged in some Jewish practices, for which he often had little indication other than their fondness for names such as Sabbatius, Sabbatis, and the like, which he presumed came in some fashion from the Jewish term “Sabbath.”39 A  handful, in both Greek and Latin, are demonstrably Jewish, but Le Bohec offers dates only for a small number, none later than the fourth century, even those from the synagogue at Hamman Lif, which is far more likely to be sixth century. In addition to the inscriptions, remains of more than a dozen likely synagogue sites have been identified across the Mediterranean diaspora, out of what may have been at least seventy-​five attested buildings.40 The largest number of synagogue sites (five to date) are either in Asia Minor (Sardis, Priene, Andriake, and perhaps Limyra) or on a nearby island (Chios).41 A church in Mopsuestia, in Cilicia, has also sometimes been thought to have been a synagogue.42 Three 38. Le Bohec 1981. The best study of Jews in North Africa is now Stern 2008a, which considers much of this material, but is still not a critical edition of the inscriptions themselves; see also Lander 2013, 2016. 39.  He was not alone in seeing such names as indications of non-​Jewish affinity for Jewish practices: for the general issue, see Tcherikover et al. CPJ 3. pp. 43–​56. See also the discussion to JIGRE 58. 40. For general surveys, see Hachlili 1998; Levine 2005, 2012; see especially also the introductions to the locations of synagogues excavated before the preparation of the IJO volumes, including IJO 1.  pp.  39–​40 (Plovdiv), pp.  57–​62 (Stobi), and pp.  202–​205 (Aegina); IJO 2. pp. 224–​32 (Sardis); IJO 3. pp. 84–​85 (Apamea). The “Diaspora Synagogue Checklist” of Rutgers 1998:127–​30 lists a little over a hundred instances of synagogues known from inscriptions, archaeological remains, and literary references, although some of these are less certain than he acknowledges. The fortuitous discovery of several additional synagogue sites in Turkey, Eastern Europe and North Africa just in the last two decades strongly suggests that there are many more such sites still to be identified, and that the real number is probably many hundreds. 41. On Andriake, see Çevik et al. 2010. On Limyra, see Seyer and Lotz 2013. There is considerable debate on whether the building reported by them, discovered in excavations in 2012, was at any point a synagogue: see the essays in Collela et al. 2014. On reassessment of the earlier dating of Priene to later centuries, see, e.g., Burkhardt and Wilson 2013; Burkhardt 2014. On Chios, see the brief discussion in Panayotov 2014a and the amateur blog, with excellent photographs:  www.naturedigital.blogspot.com/​2010/​09/​old-​synagogue-​chios.html. I  thank Alexander Panayotov for this last reference. 42. See, e.g., Hachlili 1998:51–​52, 209–​216. She concludes that it was a synagogue, which she dates to the second half of the fifth century (Hachlili 1998:216), which would place its construction after an explicit prohibition on the construction of new synagogues in 423 ce (CTh 16.8.25), discussed at length below, pp. 241–48. Levine excludes Mopsuestia from classification as a synagogue (Levine 2005:251n3).



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sites are on the Balkan Peninsula (Plovdiv, in modern Bulgaria; Stobi, in Macedonia; and Saranda, in Albania). Two are in Italy (Ostia, Bova Marina); two in North Africa (Hamman Lif, Kelibia);43 one or perhaps two on Aegean Greek islands (Aegina and perhaps Delos).44 One has been excavated in Syria (Apamea) and another in Jordan (Gerasa).45 A  church in Elche, Spain, was probably initially a synagogue, while a building at Leptis Magna in North Africa remains disputed.46 Architectural elements and inscriptions thought to have come from as yet undiscovered synagogue buildings are documented for numerous locations in Asia Minor (Akmonia, Bithynia, Myndos, Pergamom, Side, and Deliler), as well as Porto outside Rome, Corinth, Tarragona in Spain, Chersonesus on the Black Sea, and others.47 Of the extant diaspora synagogue sites, only a few, including Stobi and Ostia, can be shown to have been synagogues prior to the fourth century. Most seem to have been in use in the late fourth and sometimes the fifth centuries, including Andriake, Bova Marina, Hamman Lif, Kelibia, Ostia, Plovdiv, Priene, Saranda, Stobi, and perhaps also Limyra and Chios, the latter whose find is too recent to have facilitated a full assessment. Most scholars also think Sardis was in use as a synagogue in the fourth century, despite Magness’s arguments to the contrary.48 Four or five synagogues were subsequently converted into or replaced by churches: Apamea, Gerasa, Saranda, Stobi, and Elche (assuming the building was earlier a synagogue).49 The original excavators of the synagogue at Aegina 43. On Kelibia, see Fantar 2011. I thank Karen Stern for this reference. 44. Matassa 2007 makes a strong argument that the evidence identifying a site on Delos as either a Jewish or a Samaritan synagogue is wholly insufficient. I thank Jodi Magness for the reference. 45. Kraeling 1938:234–​41 (on the site), 318–​24 (on the mosaics); see now Dvorjetski 2005. 46. On Elche, see Walsh 2016, cited prepublication by Levine as further support for the position that the site was initially a synagogue (Levine 2012:239n47). 47. For a helpful catalogue, as of the late 1990s, see Hachlili 1998:85. For the report of a probable synagogue at Chersonesus, on the Black Sea, see Edwards 1999. 48. See esp. above, p. 9n27. 49. On Saranda, see, e.g., Nallbani 2003. In the late sixth century, the whole site was destroyed by fire and much of Saranda, including the larger region of Butrint, seems abandoned in the early seventh century (Greenslade 2013). The excavators at Chersonesus suspect that a synagogue underlies a later Christian basilica, but have apparently been unable to pursue the possibility. For a helpful treatment of the various ways synagogues might be transformed into churches (including total destruction and new construction; removal of distinctive Jewish furnishings and consecration as a church, or renovation of a damaged or abandoned site), see Dilley 2010b.

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surmised that it was destroyed in the fifth century, partly based on the presence of Christian graves in the cavities of its north wall, itself subsequently part of a Christian necropolis adjacent to a Byzantine church.50 Although the synagogue at Plovdiv was in use in the fourth century, it became a different building in the fifth, and was not in use in the sixth.51 Several synagogues, including those at Ostia, Priene, and Sardis, seem neither to have been destroyed by the sixth century nor converted into churches.52 Scholars often presume that this means these sites were still functioning as synagogues, although none contain dispositive evidence that this was the case, such as dedicatory inscriptions firmly dated to these centuries. The rest, like the synagogue at Andriake, seem to have ceased being used by the late fifth or perhaps early sixth centuries, for reasons that archaeological evidence can rarely disclose. The entire area of Bova Marina was abandoned around 600 ce.53 On the commonly held position that Sardis itself was destroyed by the Persians in 616, many scholars think that the synagogue, with its marble seating, eagle table, eastern niches, wall and floor inscriptions, and forecourt installations, was also either destroyed or at least abandoned at this point.54 Magness, however, proposes that the evidence for a Persian assault is not definitive, and argues instead that “Sardis underwent a gradual process of decline and decay” extending well into the seventh century, thus allowing for the possibility that the synagogue itself continued to function longer than generally recognized.55

50. See the discussion and further references in IJO 1. pp. 202–​205. 51. See, inter alia, the discussion in IJO 1. pp. 38–​40. The discussion on IJO 1. p. 61 dates the conversion of the synagogue at Stobi to a church to late fourth–​early fifth century, with fuller discussion of the synagogue on pp. 56–​62. 52. Still, a menorah plaque found at Priene in the floor of an early Byzantine Christian basilica suggests the destruction of a synagogue by the sixth or seventh century. On the plaque, see Wiegand and Schrader 1904:481, fig. 582; additional references in Rautman 2015:434n14. 53. Levine 2005:279. Noy dates it earlier, to the late fifth century, and dates the use of the synagogue to the fourth/​fifth centuries ce (JIWE 1. p. 180). 54.  Levine 2012:309 dates the termination of the synagogue to 616, when the city was destroyed by the Persians, relying on Seager and Kraabel 1983:174 and Kraabel 1983:180; see also Hanfmann and Buchwald 1983:191. Hachlili just says that the whole area is abandoned in 616, without saying why (Hachlili 1998:63). The fact that the synagogue was still standing in the early seventh century, and was not converted into a church, does not guarantee that it was still in use by a Jewish community. 55. Magness 2005:466. Magness here relies on the work of Russell 2001. Interestingly, this same study is cited by Burkhardt in support of her claim that “the building was finally destroyed by a fire in a sudden general destruction of the city in the early 7th cent. C.E.” (Burkhardt 2014:196, esp. n118).



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Those inscriptions and architectural elements that were found well outside their original contexts shed little additional light on the fate of the synagogues of which they were once a part. Even when we can date these remains, we have little way to know how, when, and why the buildings were destroyed and the remains themselves came to be detached from their original sites. Abandonment, earthquakes (especially in Asia Minor), and malevolent human actions are all possible explanations for the destruction of ancient synagogues. Given how substantial a role inscriptions play in these arguments, it’s also appropriate to offer some warnings about the use of inscriptions in this particular project, and perhaps more generally for the study of Jews in the ancient Mediterranean.56 The total corpus of inscriptions pertaining to Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora, whether epitaphs, donor inscriptions, or anything else, is on the order of two thousand.57 We have them from certain places, like Rome, in certain periods but not others. There are numerous places which we know to have had substantial Jewish populations, such as Antioch in Syria, from which we have no inscriptions.58 Because inscriptions frequently mention other persons—​dedicators, ancestors, descendants, siblings, spouses, and other household members—​they enable us to reconstruct a database of perhaps three or four times that many people (sometimes called a prosopography). This constitutes a tiny percentage of the total population of Jews who lived in the Mediterranean diaspora, against even the most conservative population estimates.59 If, for instance, the Roman catacombs were used by Jews over a period of three centuries, their less than six hundred inscriptions would represent just a few deceased persons for each year.60 These inscriptions come 56. For some other discussions of the uses and perils of epigraphy in the study of Jews in the ancient Mediterranean, see Ameling 2009; see also van der Horst 1991, 2014. 57. Based on the inscriptions published in JIGRE, JIWE 1, JIWE 2, IJO 1, IJO 2, and IJO 3. Van der Horst notes that the total corpus of Jewish inscriptions, including those from the land of Israel, is now closer to 4000 (van der Horst 2014:33). 58. See, e.g., the discussion in IJO 1. p. 258. 59. In reality, it is impossible to offer any well-​founded estimate of the actual population of Jews in the Greco-​Roman Mediterranean, and I will not offer numbers here. But unquestionably, these inscriptions are still de minimis. 60. The actual number of burials in these catacombs, as opposed to recovered epitaphs, was unquestionably greater. Levine notes that the sixty or so Christian catacombs contained approximately 750,000 burials in roughly the same period as the catacombs usually characterized as Jewish, although it’s not clear we should extrapolate a similar size for these: Levine 2012:143–​ 44, with some discussion of general catacomb usage peaking in the late third–​early fourth centuries, then dropping significantly in the fifth and sixth centuries. For most recent discussions

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from a small slice of the ancient Jewish population, those with the social and economic capital to commission epitaphs, receive honors, and contribute to buildings and other communal enterprises. They are thus hardly representative, and yet tremendously valuable. Our knowledge of these inscriptions is in many ways inadequate. They have been found randomly, rather than systematically, in ways that are often totally deceptive. Amateur explorers and archaeologists, for instance, first came across the Roman catacombs containing Jewish burials in the sixteenth century.61 Their excavations, if we may call them that, were haphazard and poorly documented, and they thought nothing of rearranging the stones they found in ways that totally confound careful scholarly investigation and reconstruction. Conversely, there have been virtually no deliberate initial excavations of diaspora Jewish sites, catacombs, and cemeteries, although there have been subsequent excavations of Jewish sites that come to light fortuitously, including Ostia, Priene, Plovdiv, and especially Sardis. Determining which inscriptions are either by or about Jews is far more difficult than one might think. Many inscriptions are almost certainly Jewish, as when, for instance, they contain a menorah, or some other representation that seems to us distinctively Jewish or utilize some apparently unambiguous index of Jewishness, such as the term “synagogue” or the designation of a person in Greek as Ioudaia (f.) or Ioudaios (m.), or Hebrea (f.) or Hebraios (m.), or the Latin equivalents, or the use of Hebrew script and phrases.62 Personal names may sometimes signal Jewishness, although even the most “Jewish” of biblical names come eventually to be used by Christians as well.63 But many other inscriptions are far more ambiguous, at least from our vantage point. This is not a trivial matter. When identifying inscriptions as Jewish, we only detect those persons who signal their Jewishness in some way discernible to us.

of catacombs with Jewish burials, including the extent to which marble slabs (with epitaphs) would have been removed over many centuries, see Dello Russo 2010a, 2010b, 2011, 2012. 61. For references, see above, p. 8n21. 62. Although as I noted years ago (Kraemer 1991), this presumes, probably erroneously, that only Jews (and Samaritans) knew and used Hebrew. For further discussion of these terms in late antique usage, see ­below, pp. 373–87. 63. On the classification of inscriptions, see, inter alia, Kraemer 1991; van der Horst 1991:16–​18; van Henten and van der Horst 1994:1–​8; Bij de Vaate and van Henten 1996; Williams 1997; Price and Misgav 2006. See also the chilling observations of Denzey Lewis, forthcoming, on the artificial construction of Roman catacombs as exclusively Jewish, significant especially because catacomb provenance is often invoked as evidence for the Jewishness of an inscription even in the absence of any other indicators of Jewishness.



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We cannot discern Jews in inscriptions that lack such distinctive markers. Since it is implausible to think that all Jews flagged their Jewishness when they generated inscriptions, what we have is, at best, a database of Jews who displayed their Jewishness in a way that we can now recognize—​hindered, perhaps, by our ignorance of social clues that were apparent to them. For this project, this deficiency is significant. The absence of identifiable inscriptional evidence for Jews might mean not that Jews are altogether absent but only that we are unable to see them. Nevertheless, to the extent that at certain points in time and locales we could discern Jews and subsequently we cannot certainly raises the possibility that this absence of evidence really now is evidence of absence. As the tentative language I regularly use for dating suggests, many if not most inscriptions are extremely difficult to date with precision, and not only because they rarely contain actual dates. It is especially true for inscriptions not found in situ (where they were originally placed), in carefully documented excavations, but it is not limited to these. In numerous cases, the range of dates proposed by different scholars for a particular inscription is fairly large. This makes it very difficult to utilize them in any kind of historical narrative. Many inscriptions end up published with very broad dating ranges (such as “2nd–​4th centuries” or “4th–​6th centuries”), often relying on criteria that are less than definitive: letter forms, names, and the like. These broad ranges may be intellectually honest and reasonable, but they also often fail to acknowledge the implications of such dating. Intentionally or not, dating inscriptions with such wide ranges runs the risk of implying that not much changed over several hundred years. Yet the situation of many Mediterranean Jews in the early fourth century was, in all likelihood, significantly different from that of Jews in the early fifth century, let alone the later fifth century or the sixth century. As we shall see throughout this study, precise dating really does matter. In too many instances, we lack adequate information about the original location of inscriptions. Not knowing the provenance of an inscription has particular implications for this project. As with synagogues, burial sites fell into disuse for diverse reasons. Destruction and abandonment from natural disasters or economic decline provided materials for reuse by persons whose intentions may at least sometimes have been neutral, and who may often have been unable to read the inscriptions on the stones they repurposed.64 In March

64. On the ancient reuse of building and other materials, see Alchermes 1994; Kinney 1997; Saradi 1997. On the inattention to the implications of the find sites of Jewish inscriptions and other material remains, see Fine 2014. See also Mitten and Scorziello 2008 on reused materials in the Sardis synagogue.

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2017, several news media reported the excavation of some Jewish graves in Rome dating to the late medieval and early modern period. Although these graves themselves are not relevant to this study, I was particularly struck by the notation that Urban VIII, pope from 1623 to 1644, ordered that Jews had to be buried without identifying grave markers, and that existing Jewish grave markers should be destroyed. What implications this may have had for the desecration and lack of preservation of ancient Jewish epitaphs seems worth considering further.65 Regardless, the presence of Jewish epitaphs and other inscriptions in ancient churches, or in close proximity, raises the real possibility that Christians in late antiquity (and after) deliberately destroyed or desecrated Jewish burial areas and intentionally reused the stones in ways that expressed Christian triumph and supersession over Jews. A story circulating in the sixth century related how a faction of Byzantine charioteers dug up the bones of Jews buried alongside a synagogue in Antioch and desecrated them by burning them, an act that could be construed as an attempt to deny Jews the possibility of physical resurrection.66 At least half a dozen Jewish inscriptions seen from the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries, but now lost, appear to have come from churches in the Trastevere section of Rome.67 The atrium of the ancient basilica of St. Ambrose, in Milan, yielded two demonstrably Jewish epitaphs, probably dating to the fifth century or later.68 Two inscriptions from Brescia were transcribed (and last seen) in the fifteenth century in different churches: a Greek inscription, perhaps fourth century, in the church of St. Andrea; and a Latin inscription, perhaps fourth century or earlier, in the church of St. Salvatore.69 An inscription for a Jewish woman named Eutychia, dating perhaps to the fourth or fifth centuries, was found in Athens in the

65. Inter alia, in the New York Times, March 29, 2017. More precisely, in 1625, he prohibited Jews from erecting tombstones in a large cemetery assigned to them in front of the ancient Porta Portuensis, close to the Monteverde catacombs: Denzey Lewis, forthcoming. 66. John Malalas, Chron. 15.15; see ­below, pp. 279–80. 67. E.g., JIWE 2.543, probably in the church of St. Cecilia; JIWE 2.544, a sarcophagos seen in the Monastery of St. Cecilia, perhaps used for plants; JIWE 2.545 in the floor of the church of St. Crisogono; JIWE 2.547 in the church of St. Maria; JIWE 2.549, in the church of St. Salvatore de Curtis. Noy notes all this, but never opines on just why and how these inscriptions and burial containers might have ended up in these churches, including embedded in their floors. 68. JIWE 1.1, 1.2. 69. JIWE 1.4, now lost; JIWE 1.5, now in a museum in Brescia.



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mid-​nineteenth century, incorporated over the gate of a Marian church.70 A burial stele with a menorah was incorporated into the entrance steps of the church of St. Basil in Plataea (Boeotia), in Greece.71 A plaque commemorating a donation to a synagogue, perhaps third or fourth century, was found in the ruins of a Byzantine chapel at Mantinea, Greece.72 An inscription that seems to refer to a Jewish archon named Jonathan was recovered from the excavation of a sixth century church of St. Peter near Kyparissa, Greece.73 Whoever embedded the epitaph of one Maria, daughter of Tertia and Leontius, of Beroea, in the floor of the church of the Holy Mother of God, near the altar, was not deterred by its explicit warning that violators of her grave were liable for a fine to the most holy synagogue.74 An inscription venerating the Jewish piety of a woman named Aurelia Soteria was allegedly found in the church of St. Vito in Pola (Aquileia).75 Known only from early antiquarian reports, it is difficult to date, although her name and those of her sons suggest a range from the third to fifth centuries. A menorah plaque that probably came from a synagogue in Priene (Aegean Turkey) was excavated from a Byzantine Christian basilica, where it had been embedded in the floor in the sixth or seventh centuries.76 Curiously, scholars who study these inscriptions rarely attend to the implications of find sites even when these are sufficiently documented, preferring to move immediately to what the inscriptions may say about the persons who commissioned them.77 Some of the challenges inscriptions pose to scholars are actually facilitated by the very printed collections in which most scholars access them. Before the 1930s, scholars interested in Jewish inscriptions were dependent on a fairly motley assortment of scholarly and not-​so-​scholarly collections, which were far from comprehensive and which relied on highly idiosyncratic methods for classifying and dating them. The first effort at a more systematic compilation

70. IJO 1 Ach28. 71. IJO 1 Ach46. 72. IJO 1 Ach54. 73. IJO 1 Ach56. Interesting, this stone itself seems to have been reused for this purpose. 74. IJO 1 Mac7, found in 1855. 75. JIWE 1.9. 76. See above, p. 14n52. 77.  This is only a sampling of such inscriptions:  I have not yet attempted to compile a comprehensive one.

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came with a two-​volume set by a French scholar, Jean-​Baptiste Frey, in the mid-​nineteen-​thirties, that was still woefully inadequate for Asia Minor and contained no inscriptions from North Africa.78 Subsequently, six more comprehensive volumes have appeared, covering inscriptions from Egypt, Rome, the remainder of Western Europe, Eastern Europe, Asia Minor, and Cyprus/​ Syria.79 These volumes have made inscriptions accessible to a wide scholarly audience, but they come at a price. Isolating Jewish inscriptions is efficient, and facilitates comparison of Jewish inscriptions in one location with those in another, but the absence of local comparanda in the same volumes hampers our ability to see the ways in which Jewish inscriptions in any particular region are like, or unlike, non-​Jewish inscriptions from that same region. The diachronic reading enabled by such collections presumes that what is most important about these inscriptions is that they are by or about Jews, and that Jews in some particular place and time have more in common with other Jews elsewhere than with the other persons in the places where Jews live. This then supports the construction of historical narratives that reinforce such perceptions without sufficient scrutiny. Inscriptions are exceptionally easy to misread. They tempt us to take them as straightforward indications of the intentions, purposes, and interests of those who were responsible for their wording and production. Nevertheless, these intentions, interests, and meanings are often deeply obscured, even when we think they are obvious. We lack knowledge of the real social circumstances behind their production—​of the real social relations that they both reveal and conceal.80 It’s also distressingly easy to read inscriptions as transparent windows into ancient Jewish practices, often without sufficient awareness of our own theoretical lenses and interpretative frameworks. We hazard guesses about all this at our peril. Scholars who work extensively with literary productions know these challenges well, but it’s easy to think that inscriptions avoid these, when they do not.

78.  CIJ 1 and CIJ 2.  A  revised and expanded 1963 edition by a well-​respected epigrapher, Baruch Lifshitz, greatly improved the first volume, but did not extend to the second: CIJ 12. 79. JIGRE; JIWE 1 and JIWE 2; IJO 1, IJO 2, IJO 3. To this day, there is still no comparable careful and thorough scholarly edition of inscriptions from North Africa, although Stern 2008a is extremely valuable. 80. For helpful recent discussion of these issues, see Duncan 2012b.



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Laws, Letters, and Literary Accounts: The Non-​Material Sources Were the material evidence, especially inscriptions, to be all that we had, it might not be possible to write this book. Fortunately, there are other sources at our disposal, although all have their particular deficiencies. For all intents and purposes, the literary sources in Greek and Latin for Jews in this period all come from others. Most are the work of Christians: the ecclesiastical histories of Sokrates of Constantinople, Sozomen, Theodoret, Rufinus of Aquileia, Philostorgios, and John of Ephesos; the chronicles of John Malalas and John of Nikiu; the history of the Persian Wars by Prokopios and the history of the Franks by Gregory of Tours; the letters of Ambrose, bishop of Milan, and of Gregory the Great, the sermons of John Chrysostom, the lives of various saints (some anonymous, some attributed), the bureaucratic papers of Cassiodorus from the court of Theoderic, and various others. Just a few come from traditionalist authors, particularly the letters of the fourth-​century rhetor Libanios, a letter attributed to his famous pupil, the “apostate” emperor Julian, and excerpts from the “new” history of Zosimos, in the late fifth or early sixth century. Especially valuable is the small but significant amount of late antique Roman legislation pertaining to Jews, preserved particularly in the Theodosian Code and the Code of Justinian.81 The literary sources as a whole are regularly couched in polemical rhetoric, often enmeshed in various ancient contestations, and rarely provide neutral reports of anything. But the historiographic sources, whether Christian or not, are particularly striking for how rarely they mention Jews. Sokrates of Constantinople provides the lion’s share of episodes pertaining to Jews. Sozomen, who drew extensively, without acknowledgment, from Sokrates, appears to have omitted virtually all of them.82 Liebeschütz’s analysis of the primary interests of these historians suggests one possible reason, although there may well have been others. Both traditionalist and Christian late

81. Laws pertaining to Jews are conveniently collected in JRIL and JSLEMA. For the religious legislation of the Theodosian Code and some of the Code of Justinian, see the edition and French translations of Rougé and Delmaire 2005, 2009. The most convenient English translation of the Theodosian Code is Pharr 1952. See also Linder 2006; Rabello 1980, 2000, 2006; Mathiesen 2014, and ­chapter 8, below, esp. pp. 282–83nn23–24 (on the Code of Justinian). 82.  For a helpful introduction to these and other late antique historians, see Rohrbacher 2002, who comments that “there is no precedent in ancient literature for two works [Sokrates and Sozomen] written nearly at the same time which share so much detail” (2002:122–​23). Presumably he excludes the synoptic gospels from his sample.

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antique historiographers sought explanations for the numerous calamities that had befallen the once proud and prosperous Roman Empire. Zosimos, for instance, sought to demonstrate that Rome had suffered because it abandoned its gods and its ancestral religion (adopting Christianity instead). Christian historiographers offered an alternative history in which Rome was punished for its failure to sufficiently adopt and promote the proper form of Christianity, although precisely what that form was depended somewhat on the historiographer. If this was a major motivation for these works, it’s not surprising that Jews figured relatively little in any of them. Jews were at best bit players in the cosmic dramas envisioned here. They cannot have been blamed for the failure of Rome to maintain its traditional piety. Their own failure to sufficiently embrace Christianity could have been seen as contributing to divine displeasure, but their recalcitrance would still have paled in comparison to that of the larger non-​Christian populace.83 In subsequent chapters I will come back to several other challenges these various sources pose. No one really knows why no identifiable writings in any language survive from diaspora Jews. In the late Hellenistic and early Roman periods, Judean intellectuals and religious experts composed numerous literary works in Greek. Best known among these are the philosophical, exegetical, and political treatises of Philo of Alexandria (who died by the middle of the first century ce), the letters of Paul (who also probably died mid-​century, and whom some might find surprising to be included in a catalogue of Jewish religious experts writing in the first century), and the historical and autobiographical accounts of Flavius Josephus. The last known producer of Jewish literary writing in Greek, Josephus’s latest writings date around the end of the first century and are the major source for much of what we know about Jews in the first century ce. Jews may have composed works in Greek, and perhaps in Latin after Josephus, but all the possible candidates are either anonymous (unattributed) or pseudonymous (attributed to a fictitious author), and none is of much use for writing the history of Jews in the Roman Empire in the second century or later.84

83. Liebeschütz 1993, 2003. Rohrbacher (2002:122) notes that Sozomen’s history opens with its author’s puzzlement that so few Jews have converted to Christianity despite the obvious prophecies of Christ in the scriptures (Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 1.1.1). 84. These include various works usually classed together as “pseudepigrapha,” of which some of the more interesting candidates for Jewish composition after the first century are 4 Maccabees and (Joseph and) Aseneth, although both the dating and the authorial identity of these are uncertain and much disputed (see, e.g., Davila 2005; see also Kraemer 1998). Rutgers has argued



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It seems implausible that no Jews composed anything in the way of literary works in Greek and Latin from the second to the seventh centuries.85 More plausibly, literary productions in Greek or Latin that were known (or thought) to have been authored by Jews failed to be transmitted, perhaps deliberately. Christians, orthodox or otherwise, had many reasons to impede the transmission of such writing, not the least because such writing had the potential to undercut a major Christian narrative that, with the coming of Christ, Jewish interpretations of scriptures, and Jewish practices, had served their divine purposes and were no longer either necessary or efficacious. So, too, ironically, did the rabbinized Jews whose traditions and writings came to predominate and who may not have wished to perpetuate the perhaps alternative views of Jews who wrote in the languages of the Christian majority. Works known to have been composed by Jewish authors may simply not have been copied, but they have also been subject to more deliberate elimination. Eusebios’s Life of Constantine recounts how the emperor took special care to seek out and burn the books of dissident Christians and critics of Christianity, including the third-​century Neoplatonic philosopher Porphyry. The Life of Porphyry of Gaza, who was a fifth-​century Christian bishop, claims that his minions searched the homes of traditionalists for religious images and books, and then burnt them in bonfires or trashed them in public toilets.86 Although for the Jewish composition of a late work, the Collatio Legum Mosaicarum et Romanorum (a comparison of Jewish and Roman law) and a fictitious letter, Annas to Seneca (Rutgers 1995:210–​59); see also Stebnicka 2015:5–​6, who accepts Rutgers’s arguments. Simonsohn 2014:340–​43 is more agnostic than Rutgers. Some scholars think that the last Jewish Patriarch, Gamaliel VI, may have authored a medical treatise that no longer survives (see van der Horst 2002a). A few scholars have suggested that a woman known as Maria the Jew wrote an early alchemical treatise: Alic 1981; Patai 1982; van der Horst 2002b. Kurtzer 2008:303–​304 reports a conference paper by Tal Ilan proposing that the Biblical Antiquities attributed to an author known as Pseudo-​Philo was composed by a Jewish author in Rome in the fourth century or so, but the paper does not yet appear to be published. Some might also add to this list the translations of Hebrew scriptures into Greek by (apparently) Jewish translators including Aquila and Symmachus. Unfortunately, their translations survive only in the compilations and citations of ancient Christian writers, primarily Origen, in the third century (who thus sets the upper limit for the dates of such translations). 85. The editors of a handbook on Jewish literature have recently proposed that the absence of such literature reflects a deliberate decision by Jewish scholars and authors in Palestine to avoid writing in Greek (Ben-​Eliyahu et al. 2012:7–​8, reviewed by Boustan and Gruber 2014). But even if they are right about this, their arguments shed no light on the absence of compositions in Greek or Latin by Jews living elsewhere. Stroumsa claims that the famous historian A. Momigliano told him orally that “Jews stopped writing in Greek ‘because of the Christians,’ ” a position he has never found in print: Stroumsa 2012:259; see also Tcherikover 1963. 86. Eusebios, Life of Constantine 3.63–​66; Life of Porphyry 70–​84, both cited and discussed in Sarefield 2006:289. Sarefield makes the useful if not original point that “[t]‌he compounded

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there do not appear to be any explicit claims that Christians burned books written by Jews, it seems conceivable that they did so, given that orthodox Christians regularly burned the writings of their competitors as part of larger programs of suppression and intimidation.87 In precisely this larger period, of course, Jews did produce a substantial portion of what became classical rabbinic literature, including the Mishnah, Tosefta, the Talmud of the Land of Israel, and various midrashic collections, as well as the Babylonian Talmud.88 This literature represents the perspectives and interests of Jews living in the Galilee and environs, as well as much farther east and afield, in Persian-​controlled Babylonia. It is composed in the languages of Hebrew and Aramaic, in which virtually no late antique Mediterranean diaspora Jews appear to have had any meaningful fluency. Rabbinic writings contain only a handful of references to the Mediterranean diaspora, most if not all of which are problematic in varying respects.89 Evidence for possible rabbinic presence or influence west of the land of Israel is all but nonexistent until quite late, and as I shall consider later, virtually all of that evidence is ambiguous at best. Recent research on Palestine in late

effect of these actions, and presumably others left unrecorded, would be that many of these books ceased to exist in Greek and Latin, while on the fringes of the Empire and beyond copies continued to circulate in Syriac and other languages” (Sarefield 2006:292). As he also notes, the effort to destroy all known copies of books ultimately “may have worked to drive forbidden texts out of open circulation and, ironically, to preserve them for rediscovery and republication in the more recent past” (2006:295). But so far, the best instance of this is the cache of gnostic and other non-​orthodox literature discovered near Nag Hammadi in 1945, and no comparable trove of Jewish writings, in Greek or Latin, has yet surfaced. On book burning, see also Herrin 2009. 87.  MacMullen writes evocatively “both secular and ecclesiastical authorities repeatedly destroyed unedifying texts, in well advertised ceremonies. . . . Non-​Christian writings came in for this same treatment, that is, destruction in great bonfires at the center of the town square. Copyists were discouraged from replacing them by the threat of having their hands cut off ” (MacMullen 1997:4–​5). At the same time, it’s interesting that the Letter of Severus of Minorca, on the conversion of the island’s Jews, discussed in depth in the next chapter, emphasizes that when Christians took over the Jewish synagogue, they took great care not to harm the books they found there. But it is impossible to assess what readers should presume these “books” to be, whether copies of common Scripture (which Christians might understandably be reticent to damage) or a larger library. On laws requiring the burning of the books of disfavored Christians, see b­ elow, chapters 4 (on Eunomios) and 7 (on Nestorios), as well as the additional references in MacMullen 1997:162n5. 88. The literature in this area is vast: for a helpful start, see Fonrobert and Jaffee 2007; Ben-​ Eliyahu et al. 2012. 89. These are noted in Newbauer 1868; see more recently Langer 2014, on rabbinic references to Asia Minor.



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antiquity suggests that rabbinic practices and ideas may have been confined largely to the rabbis and their immediate circles, making it unwise to extrapolate from rabbinic sources to diaspora Jews themselves.90 Further, the ahistorical nature of rabbinic literature makes it difficult enough to use it to write the history of its own producers, let alone the historical or social circumstances of Jews in the late Roman Mediterranean.91 Regrettably, then, it is largely unhelpful for the purposes of this project.

Why Only the (Mediterranean) Diaspora? With a very few specific exceptions, this book does not attend, intentionally, to what befell Jews living inside late Roman Palestine and its immediate environs, let alone Jews in the Persian orbit. This last is easy enough to justify, if on somewhat artificial grounds: Jews in neo-​Babylonia in the centuries considered here were largely beyond the reach of the Christianizing Roman Empire. Cultural pressures and competition in Sassanid Persia were significantly different. But why focus on certain geographic regions within the Roman orbit when, for instance, it’s abundantly clear that Jews living throughout the Mediterranean were subject to many of the same pressures, regardless of the languages they spoke? How salient were these categories in antiquity? The surviving legal and non-​Jewish literary sources do not seem to employ any distinction between Jews living inside the notional Jewish homeland and those living elsewhere, either at some practical level or at some conceptual level. Laws pertaining to Jews do not distinguish between those living in Palestine and those living elsewhere in a way that affirms or authorizes an emic Jewish conceptualization of Eretz Israel and galut/​diaspora. They do occasionally seem to distinguish certain Jews over others, but in doing so they seem to invoke other distinctions that correspond more to Roman/​Byzantine conceptualizations: those who live in the West or the East; those who may have certain civic status. But they give virtually no indication that in the legal imagination of late antiquity, Jews are differentiated by whether they live in a state of dispersion or not. (This being said, many, and perhaps even all, late antique 90. Here again, the literature is vast: see Goodman and Alexander 2010; see also, e.g., Goodman 1983; Schwartz 2001; Lapin 2012. 91. For a lovely discussion of Jewish sources for late antiquity, and why they are often not helpful for historical projects, see Sivan 2008:362–​65. Goodman also affirms that rabbinic sources are generally not applicable: 2005:235. See also pp. 29–30n103, on the views of Simonsohn 2014.

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Christian authors presume that all Jews live in a state of dispersion and expulsion, their just punishment for their role in the death of Christ. The reality that Jews had not lived in Jerusalem itself for centuries might have seemed confirmation of this presumption). How Jews living outside the homeland themselves may have thought about this is exceedingly difficult to assess.92 At another level, the very need to justify such a project speaks to larger issues. Scholars routinely write books on the Jews of ancient Palestine, or on rabbinic literature and its producers, without justifying their limited focus. Certainly, one justification is practical. We have considerable evidence both for and from Jews in Palestine in late antiquity, starting with the rabbinic productions in Hebrew and Aramaic that appear to coalesce by the early third century. As already noted, rabbinic writings are not especially conducive to historical work, but they nevertheless constitute the self-​representations of at least a small portion of the late antique Jewish population of the land of Israel and its immediate environs. The archaeological data for Jewish habitation of late antique Palestine is also of a whole different order from that for the rest of the Mediterranean. Not only was there a dense, substantial Jewish population in parts of ancient Palestine, but also the modern state of Israel has facilitated and supported extensive archaeological excavation of these areas. As a result we now have excellent evidence for at least fifty late antique synagogues in Palestine compared to less than a third of that number for the rest of the late Roman Empire, as well as extensive excavation of towns with substantial Jewish populations, such as Sepphoris.93 For many cultural and political reasons, no such support exists for the systematic survey and excavation of Jewish sites in the ancient Mediterranean diaspora. A book on the diaspora attends to a neglected subject, something that often appeals to scholars (myself included) who hope to contribute something new. 92. As I will discuss further in c­ hapter 7, the Life of a Christian monk named Barsauma contains a letter allegedly written by Jews in the land of Israel in the mid-​fifth century, to their co-​ religionists in both Persia and the Roman Empire, announcing that “the time of the dispersion of our people has ended” and that they should all assemble in Jerusalem at Sukkoth for the restitution of Israel. But the letter is almost certainly the work of Christians, and unlikely to be useful evidence of how contemporaneous Jews thought about their residence outside Palestine. In the Letter of Severus of Minorca On the Conversion of the Jews, considered in chapter two of this volume and subsequently, a Jewish man named Meletius expresses the view that people forced to leave the patria, the ancestral homeland, cannot practice the ancestral religion (Letter 18.19). In the context of this text, that ancestral homeland is not the land of Israel, but the island of Minorca. The speech, however, is likely to be a Christian invention, and is unreliable as an indication of views Jews actually held. 93. See, e.g., the map in Levine 2005:178, which does not include discoveries much after the late 1990s, such as that at Huqoq; see also Werlin 2015.



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But the inattention to the diaspora is not simply a function of a disparity in historical sources. The study of Jews in late antiquity has long been conflated with the study of rabbinic literature, itself mistaken for the study of Jews, and then often harmonized and homogenized in service to numerous modern ideological projects. Narratives of Jewish history from the nineteenth century onward regularly write out (or at least write over) the Mediterranean diaspora, subsuming its history under the rise of rabbinic hegemony. Early in my research, I spent at least a month perusing comprehensive histories of the Jews in the library of the Katz Center for Advanced Judaic Studies at the University of Pennsylvania, with particular attention to the narrative implicit in their tables of contents and chapter subheadings.94 The vast majority followed a periodization succinctly expressed in two works of the 1920s. Ismar Elbogen's History of the Jews, After the Fall of the Jewish State, published under the auspices of the American Reform Jewish movement,95 divided Jewish history into four periods:  Ancient Times (70–​600 ce); The Middle Ages (600–​1500); The Jews after the Discovery of America (1500–​ 1750); and The Jews in Modern Times. (For Elbogen, this last category obviously excluded both the horrors of the Holocaust and the subsequent creation of the modern state of Israel.) Elbogen further divided “Ancient Times” into three incommensurate subsections: Palestine, Babylonia, and the Talmud. Since they lived neither in Palestine nor in Babylonia, the Jews of the Mediterranean diaspora fell, if anywhere, rather awkwardly into the third category, that of the Talmud. Similarly, the first three chapters of Gotthard Deutsch's History of the Jews96 covered “From the Babylonian Captivity, 586 b.c. [this is not my typographical error—​it said “b.c.”] to the Destruction of the Second Temple, 70 c.e.”; “From the Destruction of Jerusalem, 70, to the Completion of the Mishnah, 200”; and

94. Most of these were written by Jews, with a few exceptions of which my favorite was Adams 1887. The title page identifies the author as the Vicar of Old Shoreham, and the preface makes clear that “this work does not profess to be anything more than a popular history, with just so much reference to Jewish learning and controversy as may be necessary to a due comprehension of the facts related, and the character of the people treated of.” His goals were clearly what he called “mercy and toleration” and he bitterly descries Christian persecution of Jews as fundamentally wrong and misguided even while he thought that Jews continued in their blindness (Adams 1887:11). Like many histories of this period, Adams virtually never cites his sources (nor is it always clear that he knew what they were), but his account draws, if second-​hand, on many of the sources treated in this study. 95. Elbogen 1926. 96. Deutsch 1921.

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“The Era of the Talmud, 200–​600.” Here, too, Jews of the Mediterranean diaspora were subsumed into a rabbinized narrative. Elbogen, Deutsch, and many other such surveys can hardly be faulted for replicating a conceptualization that had appeared already in far more finely grained form in the multi-​volume History of the Jews by Heinrich Graetz. Published over several decades, beginning in the mid-​1850s, it was subsequently translated into English, and revised and reprinted in multiple editions.97 Consider volume 2: From the Reign of Hyrcanus (135 b.c.e.) to the Completion of the Babylonian Talmud (500 c.e.), in the English edition published by the Jewish Publication Society, the press of the American Conservative Jewish movement. Its twenty chapter headings themselves constitute a narrative in which the history of all Jews is organized around the rabbis. The first revolt against Rome is followed by the rabbinic assembly at Yavneh.98 The second revolt, led by Bar Kokhba against Trajan, is followed by the Patriarchate of Judah I  (traditionally taken to be the compiler of the Mishnah), the First Amoraim (sages of the Talmud); The Patriarchate of Gamaliel IV and Judah III and The Last Amoraim.99 The extensive subheadings of these and other chapters make clear both Graetz’s awareness of many of the sources that figure prominently in this study and how he subordinated and subsumed Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora into his larger rabbinic narrative. Drilling down into these and other accounts only confirms their narrative of amalgamation and homogenization:  all Jewish history in antiquity is the history of a unified, linked, singular, fundamentally rabbinic “Jewish

97. An English translation of the volume dealing with late antiquity was published in 1873: a full translation was published beginning in 1891 (Graetz 1873, 1891). 98.  For this, I  consulted the 1893 edition, vol. 2:  ­chapters  11 (“Destruction of the Judaean State”), 12 (“The After-​throes of the War”), and 13 (“The Synhedrion at Jabne”). On the implausibility of the Yavneh account, see Cohen 1984. 99. Chapter 15 (“Revolt of the Jews against Trajan and His Successors”). Chapter 17 is titled “The Patriarchate of Judah I,” under which Graetz subsumes “Condition of the Jews under Marcus Aurelius, Commodus, Septimius Severus, and Antonius Caracalla.” Chapter 18, titled “The First Amoraim,” included discussions of the “Friendliness of Alexander Severus towards the Jews,” “Hillel instructs Origen in Hebrew,” “The Hexaple,” and “[the Neoplatonist philosopher] Porphyry comments on the Book of Daniel.” Chapter  20 was more fully titled “The Patriarchate of Gamaliel IV and Judah III,” and included not only a discussion of “The Amoraim in Palestine” but also of “The Emperor Diocletian,” “Complete Separation from the Samaritans,” “Huna in Babylonia,” and more. Under the heading “The last Amoraim,” ­chapter  22, Graetz subsumed “The decline of the Roman Empire,” “The Jews under the Emperor Theodosius I and his successors,” “The extinction of the Patriarchate,” “Chrysostom and Ambrosius,” “Fanaticism of the Clergy,” “Jerome and his Jewish Teachers,” India (!), and Babylonia. Chapter 19 constitutes a digression of sorts on “The Jews of the Parthian Empire.”



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community.” Some accounts are more responsible than others in acknowledging at least the presence of Jews in the diaspora, while often obscuring basic facts like the pervasive use of Greek and the minimal evidence for knowledge of Hebrew (let alone Aramaic). A charitable reading of such older scholarship would acknowledge that historians in the nineteenth and even the first half of the twentieth centuries actually knew very little about Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora, and they had relatively little reason to doubt the emic account in which Jews everywhere in late antiquity adhered to rabbinic norms and submitted to the authority of the rabbis. For this, as we shall see, they could point not only to rabbinic sources themselves. They could also adduce the letter ascribed to the emperor Julian; letters between his teacher, Libanios, and one or more patriarchs unidentified by name; and various late Roman laws that supported the authority of the patriarch in Palestine, until they no longer did.100 In the absence of the substantial material evidence that surfaced from the late nineteenth century on, and has been published extensively in critical scholarly editions from the 1930s on, they might be forgiven for overlooking the evidence to the contrary. While there is now a substantial body of scholarship that has deconstructed, critiqued, and discredited this internal Jewish narrative, it remains remarkably tenacious. A recent compact Jewish history (by an orthodox rabbi with a doctorate from Yeshiva) goes from the revolt against Rome to the rise of the rabbis (The Talmudic Period: 225–​700), to the Gaonim and Saadyah (700–​1040).101 As recently as 2008, the introduction to a volume of essays on Homelands and Diasporas contained the startling statement that upon its codification by Judah the Prince, “the Mishnah was accepted all over the diaspora, thus maintaining at least the Land of Israel’s centrality as a spiritual center.”102 A study of Jews in ancient Italy published in 2014 bluntly asserts that “the Jews of Italy were Hellenistic in language but mostly rabbinic in the observance of Judaism and in constant touch with the Patriarchs and the rabbis.”103 Nemo-​Pekelman’s recent important study of Jews in Roman imperial

100. On which, see ­below, esp. pp. 112–13, 136, 144–45, 165–66, 227–31, 358–62. 101. Weiss 2004. 102. Emphasis mine; Rozen 2008:56. Rozen, a professor of history at Haifa University, also states that the Mishnah was codified “in 232 c.e. by Rabi Yehudah Ha-​Nasi in Sephoris,” something for which there is simply no reliable historical support. 103.  Simonsohn 2014:8. Published posthumously, this book is the culmination of decades of work by a scholar in his nineties. Interestingly, despite this claim, Simonsohn makes clear

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legislation presumes a widespread knowledge of and adherence to rabbinic positions throughout the late ancient Mediterranean.104 As Moshe Rosman illuminates in several insightful essays on postmodernism and the project of Jewish history, these characterizations of Jewish history, and their stance toward Jews of the late antique Mediterranean diaspora, are not accidental.105 Rather, the meta-​narratives produced by Jewish historians have been profoundly shaped by concerns for Jewish rights and status in nineteenth-​century Europe. Rosman offers a compelling account of how, as the category of “nation” supplanted other ideas of groupness in the nineteenth century (such as “religion, local political organization, region, culture, feudal or clan ties”106), historians saw their task particularly in terms of writing the history of nations and “the grounding of national identity in that history.” Jewish historians (in the double sense of Jews who were writing the history of Jews) also endeavored to define “the Jews as a nation analogous to other nations with a history that could provide the foundation for a national collective identity.”107 Writing historical accounts of the “nation” of the Jews had significant implications, allowing Jews to be positioned as comparable to other nations, with comparable rights, rather than as a minority living precariously among other people. This was, of course, of particular salience for the emergent Zionist movement in the late nineteenth century. The classification of Jews as a nation met with resistance from both Jews and non-​Jews, not the least because in the nineteenth century, Jews lacked common territory, polity, vernacular, and even, to a significant extent, a common history, by virtue of centuries of residence in diverse places.108

that he thinks rabbinic writings are of virtually no use for historical work (2014:7), even as he later takes seriously their claim that various rabbis visited Rome (2014:322–​30). He is similarly dismissive of the utility of Christian accounts of the lives of saints for the study of Jews (2014:5n6). Even the otherwise impressive studies of Fergus Millar lay out the possibility of a “relatively integrated and homogenous Jewish world, in which all or most of the communities in the provinces of the Roman Empire observed a Judaism closely resembling the “rabbinic” Judaism of Palestine . . . an integration achieved by active contacts and supervision from Palestine”: Millar 1992:98. 104. Nemo-​Pekelman  2015. 105. Rosman 2007. 106. Rosman 2007:24. 107. Rosman 2007:24. 108. Rosman 2007:25.



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But as Rosman further elucidates, the concept of nation itself has subsequently come under attack as a modern construction—​one which “provid[ed] the modern industrial state with an indispensable standard culture that it could promote as a means of uniting all of its citizens and directing their efforts toward the good of the collective.” This required defining selective, if not arbitrary, communal links that enable members to “imagine” themselves as a community.109 The production of modern historical meta-​narratives ( Jewish and otherwise) was one means by which to inculcate this identity. Yet this critique of “nation” as a modern invention had certain implications. It meant that claims to nationalist rights based on ancient history were defective “because there were no nations before modernity.”110 Specifically, it undercut the legitimization of Zionism, which was vulnerable to charges that it was “imagining” a nation using precisely these techniques, including the reinterpretation of ancient holidays in service to nationalist interests, reviving the use of Hebrew as an ordinary vernacular, and many others.111 Rosman’s analysis throws into sharper relief why Jewish historians have either ignored the late antique Mediterranean diaspora or have subsumed it into a larger homogenized narrative. In historiographic accounts supportive of Zionism, Jews were envisioned as a homogeneous, stable nation whose roots went firmly back to the centuries of their autonomous existence in their ancient homeland. They had maintained autonomous political institutions from antiquity on, even after the destruction of the second temple and the failure of the Bar Kokhba revolt to reestablish an autonomous state, particularly through the institution of the patriarch in Palestine. A depiction of Jews as fragmented, disconnected, un-​unified groups in different places, speaking the languages of the larger Mediterranean culture and relatively ignorant of the traditional vernacular, undercuts the notions of continuity and identity on which Zionist arguments relied. Further, as Rosman himself develops, some Zionist authors positioned Jewish history between the destruction of the Second Temple in 70 and the establishment of the modern state of Israel in 1948 as an aberration (of almost two millennia), “when the Jews led an abnormal, anomalous existence as a powerless minority, which could not be an agent of its own history, but only 109. Rosman 2007:28. Rosman here cites the well-​known work of B. S. Anderson 1983 and Hobsbawm and Ranger 1992. 110. Rosman 2007:29. 111. Rosman 2007:29. He also notes that for American Jews, the idea of Jews as a nation ran counter to their strong self-​understanding as citizens only of the American state.

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a marginal object in the history of others.” It was thus “a history to be overcome, perhaps forgotten; not to be carefully researched, recorded, and celebrated.”112 In this view, what happened to Jews outside the land of Israel was meaningless: “there was no strength, no creativity, no achievement worthy of mention outside the Land.”113 In a much more sensationalist and controversial book published a year after Rosman’s collection, Shlomo Sand proposed a related but somewhat different argument. 114 As does Rosman, Sand sees the account of a continuous, unified Jewish people/​nation as a modern invention that supports a Zionist national project. But whereas Rosman focuses on the ideological utility of a narrative of cultural and religious homogeneity, together with at least some degree of continuous self-​governance, Sand argues that the concept of galut—​ with its multiple resonances of exile, expulsion, and dispersion—​is central to the establishment of the modern Israeli state precisely because it envisions the ancient departure of Jews from their ancestral homeland as involuntary (as exile and expulsion), rather than intentional. As such, that departure does not and cannot constitute a relinquishing of rights to the land. An alternative narrative, whereby Jews consciously and deliberately chose at some point to leave their ancestral lands for whatever reasons, undercuts modern nationalist narratives. So, too, a historical narrative in which, having left the homeland, Jews were happy (or happy enough) in their new residences, did not seek to return to the homeland, and even began to think of themselves not as aliens but as at home, has tremendous currency in current contestations between Israelis and Palestinians.115 In a study plagued by sloppy historical work, Sand then attempts to demonstrate that the narrative of voluntary departure, and of contentment in at least some subsequent places of residence, is more historically accurate than the narrative of exile, expulsion, and displacement. His counternarrative makes several key claims. First, not that many Jews were expelled after the destruction of either the first temple, in 587/​6 bce, or the second temple, in 70 ce. Second, the ancient Jewish population expanded significantly—​growth 112. Rosman 2007:39. 113. Rosman 2007:40. 114. Sand 2009. 115. Rosman also acknowledges that not all Zionist historians take such a negative view of diaspora, and that the characteristics of diaspora, being “urban, mobile, literate, articulate, intellectually intricate, physically fastidious, and occupationally flexible,” are precisely the attributes of modernity (Rosman 2007:41).



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that can only be explained by large influxes of outsiders and through mass conversions, as well as small-​scale ones. Third, in the fourth century, many Jews converted to Christianity, and subsequently to Islam. All of these points are far more problematic than Sand suggests, but the real difficulty lies elsewhere. Just as the narrative of exile, expulsion, and displacement serves one set of ideological interests, so does Sand’s equally problematic narrative serve others. If the Jewish population in the ancient Mediterranean grew exponentially as a result of conversions, then many late antique Mediterranean Jews lacked biological Jewish ancestry, while many others were of “mixed” ancestry. If, subsequently, many of those Jews became Christians, then the remaining Jews had themselves only tenuous claims to Jewish ancestry and thus rights to the ancestral homeland. And if those Jews-​ become-​Christians then became Muslims, everyone’s ancestry is confounded. The longstanding, continuing population of contemporary “Palestine” turns out to be descended from a mixture of indigenous Jews, many of whom were absorbed into the present Arab and Palestinian communities centuries ago, and non-​Jews who themselves became Jews. Many contemporary Jews in the so-​called diaspora are themselves the descendants of people who became Jews at various historical points, and so have little if any ancestral or historical ties to Jews living in the ancient homeland. Some of this may even be true. But the upshot, of course, is that everyone’s claims to the land are compromised and confused. Despite the flaws of Sand’s counterargument, his analysis further illuminates the potential discomfort produced by the contemporary study of Jews in the late ancient Mediterranean diaspora and their incorporation into larger narratives of Jewish history. Not only does it challenge a narrative of rabbinic hegemony (an issue for orthodox scholars and orthodox readers) but it also challenges a pro-​Zionist narrative that construes life in the diaspora as inferior to life in the homeland, and as coerced and defective. In suggesting that Jews might have either left the homeland intentionally or found life outside the homeland to be pleasant, or existentially meaningful, the study of diaspora Jews comes to play a part in specific contemporary contestations. Of course, modern Jewish historians are not solely to blame for the inattention to Jews in the ancient Mediterranean diaspora. Non-​Jewish scholars have also generally paid little attention to the subject, if for somewhat different reasons. Some of these reasons may well be benign neglect of a sort, but it’s worth noting that the study of Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora has the potential to complicate Christian master narratives, as well. For ancient Christian authors (and many subsequent ones), the presence of Jews outside

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the land of Israel was generally construed as divine punishment for the death and rejection of Jesus, which could be remedied only by accepting Christ. These same authors relied heavily on essentialist constructions of Jews as homogeneous and unchanging in their negative characteristics, in which, at least from the time of Jesus on, Jews were frozen in their blindness and stubborn refusal to see the truth of their own scriptures. A more variegated representation of Jews in the ancient Mediterranean undercuts this narrative. Thus, one justification for this project is precisely to remedy the inattention paid, for whatever reasons, to the Jews of the late antique Mediterranean diaspora, and to challenge the subordination of their history to that of Jews in the land of Israel, and more narrowly, to that of the rabbis and their close circles. Yet in focusing on Jews in the late ancient Mediterranean diaspora to the neglect of Jews in the homeland, and furthermore, in using the language of diaspora to designate the subject of this study, I do not wish to endorse the bifurcated, oppositional categories of Jewish homeland and diaspora that are so pervasive in both internal Jewish discourse and scholarly work as to seem entirely natural, in need of no justification or theorization.116 The presumption that diaspora is a meaningful distinction, both in the lives of those who resided in those locations and in the conceptualization of scholars who study them, is rarely challenged. Dividing Jews into those of the diaspora (regularly capitalized for further ideological effect) and homeland heightens the construction of difference between the two, while simultaneously obscuring or minimizing difference within each (including increasingly heightened differences between the Latin West and the Greek East). The defining attribute of Jews outside the homeland becomes precisely their external residence, while those within it are above all else defined by their internal residence. (The common contemporary dichotomization of American and Israeli Jews does similar work, obscuring deep differences among both Jews in America and those in Israel, as well as commonalities across both populations.) Distinctions of practices, not to mention class and other categories of status difference including age, enslavement, and gender, are all subordinated and effaced. Further, as we have already seen, and as with dichotomies generally, the categories of diaspora and homeland are not value-​neutral, whether they are emic or etic. It is the rare (indeed, perhaps chimeric) modern scholar who sees these simply as distinct phenomena worth investigating on their own.

116. On the ancient Jewish diaspora as the paradigm for the category more generally, see Safran 1991, 2005; Clifford 1994; Brubaker 2005.



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To the extent that it challenges the dichotomy of homeland and diaspora, I appreciate Lee Levine’s observation at the end of his rewarding 2012 study, Visual Judaism in Late Antiquity, that the idea that Judaism was radically different in Palestine and the diaspora has been “discredited.”117 Still, what Levine really appears to mean by this is that “Judaism” in the diaspora wasn’t really all that different from that of the rabbis and those in the rabbinic orbit in Palestine.118 A year or so after Levine published his book, I attended a large public symposium of scholars in the field and interested nonspecialists, where a prominent scholar took this position one step further, (re-​)assuring the audience that Greek-​speaking diaspora Jews were really not very different not only from their co-​religionists in the land of Israel but also from today’s observant Jews.119 For many reasons, I  am profoundly skeptical of the position that there were no significant differences among Jews in late antiquity, for whom we should rather envision a fundamental commonality. Levine, for instance, clearly recognizes that there was local diversity in the diaspora, but nevertheless seems to conceptualize this as groups of Jews who differed in particular localized practices from Jews in other places, but who were themselves relatively unified and uniform in those practices. It’s also striking how different this model is from current scholarly constructions of ancient Christianity, which draw on plentiful evidence for Christian difference and contestation at numerous scales, along with discerning certain overarching commonalities among ancient Christians. Any given village, town, or city might contain oppositional groups of Christians. That Jews might have differed from one another in those same places, and in ways that created conflict and contestation, analogous to conflict between divergent localized groups of Christians, seems much more difficult to imagine, even when, as we shall see, there is at least occasional evidence for precisely such situations. (And this is not even to adduce the significant evidence that rabbinic practices were at significant odds with those of other proximate Jews, let alone conflicts among groups of rabbis and their disciples.)120

117. Levine 2012:400. 118. See also his comments about Jewish commonality in this period (Levine 2012:401–​402). 119. For perhaps obvious reasons, I prefer not to identify the scholar, or the event, although persons who were present will probably recognize this account. 120. These scholarly categories replicate emic Christian and Jewish categories already evident in antiquity, while also to some extent operating in comparable ways: orthodoxy and heresy

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At the same time, I do not presume either that differences among Jews fell neatly along the fault lines of homeland and diaspora or that linguistic facility reliably indexes such differences. Rather, I think that these are matters to investigate. Jews in late Roman Palestine utilized Greek extensively in epitaphs and synagogue donor inscriptions, although as I have already remarked, the converse is not the case. Diaspora inscriptions contain very little Hebrew (let alone Aramaic) until at least the late fifth or early sixth century, and even then, its use is modest.121 Despite the limitations of our evidence, what we do know points to significant differences among Jews across the ancient Mediterranean, some of which are regional. The study of Jews in the Roman orbit outside Palestine critically interrogates, rather than uncritically reproduces, narratives that too easily erase differences and amalgamate all Jews in these regions in these years.122 Although this might suggest that it would be better to dispense with the terminology of diaspora (and its implicit polar opposite, homeland), I have found myself unable to do so, if only because I do wish to focus on persons who lived in certain parts of the ancient Mediterranean, and for which the only alternative seems to be awkward, lengthy circumlocutions. Hence, I retain the term, in lowercase, stripped of as many theoretical implications as possible. Rosman’s reflections on Jewish historiography and Jewish history have a few other implications for this project. The postmodern critique of meta-​ narratives, and their ideological uses, has generated a multitude of micro-​ histories, even while, as he points out, such micro-​histories themselves contribute to a counter meta-​narrative, one of difference, rather than the meta-​narrative of homogeneity exemplified by Graetz. This project might easily be seen, if not as one of those micro-​histories, then at least (given its scope) a mini-​history which participates precisely in that meta-​narrative of difference that continues to trouble Rosman. But it seems important to point out that this study is not intended to be about “the Jews,” with all the

are the basic paradigms of Christian difference, while homeland and diaspora are the basic paradigms of Jewish difference. 121. For further discussion, see ­below, pp. 373–77. 122. For helpful discussion of some of these issues, see, e.g., Lightstone 2008, where he is particularly concerned with a scholarly debate about whether, as he argues here, there is a singular “Judaism” in this period, rather than multiple “Judaisms.” If there is a singular “Judaism,” then distinctions between the diaspora and the homeland become less salient in certain respects. See also Lightstone 2007.



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definitional difficulties that entails, as Rosman enumerates. That is, in asking what happened to Jews in the emerging Christian empire, I do not feel compelled to make comprehensive claims. It is enough to sketch the parameters of what may have happened to many Jews, without wondering whether it was true for all Jews, let alone offer a definition of who counted, for these purposes, as a Jew. This is not, of course, to say that ancient persons would not have had to worry about these issues—​they may well have. Yet if this project is not an attempt to write even a partial history of “the” Jews in the late ancient Mediterranean, it is very much a project about what happened to real people at particular times and places. In contrast to the work of some other scholars, which I admire greatly, it is not a project about Christian anti-​Jewish rhetoric, and the constructions of “the Jew” or “the Jews” in such rhetoric. As I acknowledge throughout the chapters that follow, the evidence we have makes it far easier to write accounts of Christian rhetoric, anti-​Jewish and otherwise, and far more difficult to make historical claims. And of course this distinction is not entirely productive, since anti-​ Jewish rhetoric was produced precisely with the intent of “doing things to Jews.” But as it has never been my desire to write histories of ancient male rhetoric about women, so, too, here it is not my desire to write a history of late antique Christian rhetoric about Jews, insofar as I can avoid doing so. Anti-​ Jewish rhetoric unquestionably contributed substantially to the social climate in which Jews lived, but like racist and sexist/​misogynist rhetoric in contemporary America, that rhetoric is a poor source for the lives of the persons it disparages, marginalizes, and seeks to dominate. Studies of anti-​Jewish rhetoric in antiquity, like studies of ancient rhetoric about women (and gender), substitute the study of the marginalizing for that of the marginalized. In part, then, I  see this project as meeting a responsibility to the Jews of the late antique Mediterranean, whose lives and fate have long been obscured and subordinated to the history of some imaginary and homogenized persons. I recognize that my ability to fulfill this responsibility is greatly constrained, but that is insufficient reason not to do it. The story I tell of them is in many ways profoundly chilling and dismaying. As Ramsay MacMullen argued in his short evocative book, Christianity and Paganism, millions of people paid a steep price for the Christianizing of the Roman Empire, in the loss of their traditional practices, the destruction of their shrines, the disruption of their social relations, and sometimes the loss of their lives. The tactics deployed in these centuries, including laws, presage the measures taken against Jews in subsequent centuries, right up through the twentieth century:  prohibitions on social relations between Jews and

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Christians; severe restrictions on Jewish occupations, designed to keep Jews in poverty and incentivize them to convert; the removal of Jews from the medical, legal, and educational professions; the bans on Jewish employment of Christian servants (to prevent Jews from being in positions of authority over Christians). In the remains of the late Roman Empire, Jews were not (yet) restricted to certain locations, nor wholly constrained from various economic endeavors, but for all intents and purposes, these laws laid both the legal and the practical groundwork for centuries of particular forms of repression.123 Martin Luther’s call to burn the houses, books, schools, and synagogues of Jews had its antecedents in anti-​Jewish violence in late antiquity, even if such violence was never legally condoned.124 This book thus constitutes a counternarrative to centuries of Christian accounts (beginning, arguably with the Acts of the Apostles, and continuing in the numerous histories of the church considered here) positioning the growth of Christianity as not only divinely authorized but also an unequivocal good. Jewish historians have never, of course, acceded to such a narrative, and for some time fostered a different narrative in which the history of the Jews after the destruction of the second temple was largely a saga of persecution and sorrow, with occasional respites. In particular, some Jewish historians saw the experiences of Jews in the later Roman diaspora as “inherently tension-​ filled . . . [with] severe constraints on Jews’ ability to develop institutions that could ensure their survival.”125 In the twentieth century, Salo Baron, a professor at Columbia University, was particularly instrumental in branding this Jewish narrative the “lachrymose” (or tearful) model of Jewish history, and in replacing it with a more balanced account that saw the history of Jewish and Christians relations as more complex and less unremittingly hostile. As Steven Fine points out, the lachrymose model, exemplified by Graetz, was particularly useful to the nineteenth-​century Jewish struggle for emancipation, while Baron’s more nuanced narrative was far more appealing to “his upwardly mobile first-​generation Americanizing Jewish audience.”126 123.  I  was reminded of this when rereading parts of David Kertzer’s devastating account of the treatment of Jews at the hands of the Vatican in the years leading up to World War II (Kertzer 2001). 124. Luther, On the Jews and Their Lies, written in 1543. A convenient English translation may be found in Helfferich 2018:298–​301. Helfferich’s contextualization of the vitriol of the tractate is helpful. See also Kaufmann 2017. 125. S. Schwartz 2016:225, an essay aptly subtitled “Why Salo Baron Still Matters.” 126. Fine 2014, to whom I am indebted for this overview of Graetz and Baron.



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In recent years, much work on social relations between Jews and Christians through the end of late antiquity has hewed to a Baronian model, arguing in more depth the position already articulated, if in highly gendered language, by Parkes in 1934: A picture of continuous local hostility, such as the historians or Church Fathers might suggest, is not borne out by any facts that we know of the lives of ordinary men. Alexander the sausage seller, the unknown rag merchant, Theodosius the local rabbi, probably lived on excellent terms throughout their uneventful lives with Philip the orthodox silversmith, Callistus the Arian, and the rest of their different communities.127 Couching the issue in the language of contemporary theory, a small conference held at Munster in the fall of 2017 proposed that the Christian narrative of Jewish decline in late antiquity is just that:  a Christian master narrative that says more about Christian identity formation than about the realities of Jewish lives.128 Fine argues that much recent historiography has downplayed Christian anti-​Jewish violence and destruction.129 When I began this project, I probably would have not have concurred, but I find myself more sympathetic now to this reading. While, as I will argue throughout the book, many accounts of such violence are not necessarily reliable in their specifics, the cumulative evidence is distressing, and difficult to disregard. Parkes may have been right that the writings of ancient historians and bishops (who are disproportionately the source of much anti-​Jewish rhetoric) misrepresent the realities of ordinary life, at least for the second through the fourth centuries. The late antique

127. Parkes 1934:193. For Fine, a seminal instance of this is the essays gathered in Becker and Reed 2003, themselves the product of a conference at Princeton in 2002; Fine 2014:205. Fine sees Boyarin 2004 as another instance (Fine 2014:206n42). 128. I think Shira Lander, one of the attendees, for sharing materials about the conference, also available online. 129. He singles out Levine for his minimal consideration of Christian destruction of Jewish synagogues (Levine 2005:210–​11); and the anthology edited by Drake 2006, for a disproportionate emphasis on violence against Christians that neglected the violence of Christians (Fine 2014:202). To this, one might add various recent discussions of the Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews that minimize what Carlo Ginzburg called “the human costs” of these events: see, e.g., Ginzburg’s own critique of Peter Brown’s treatment of the episode and his work more generally: Ginzburg 1996; Brown 1992; Bovon 2003.

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Christian narrative of Jewish decline and “Judaism” as moribund may have more about Christian self-​positioning than about the realities of Jewish lives. Nevertheless, it seems naïve to argue that hostile Christian rhetoric, even if fashioned primarily for internal consumption, had no impact on the lives of Jews, any more than we would argue now that racist rhetoric has no effect on the lives of people of color or that misogynistic and sexist rhetoric has little or no impact on the lives of women. Christian accounts of attacks on Jews and the persecution of Jews are by no means reliable historical evidence, but neither are they total fantasy. As the interests and practices of the governments and the orthodox church increasingly aligned, the negative consequences for Jews intensified. Forced to choose a century in late antiquity in which to have lived as a Jew in the Mediterranean diaspora, I would choose neither the fifth nor the sixth. Three last preliminaries. The first is some further terminological housekeeping. I  have argued elsewhere for the utility of the term “Judeans” as a translation of the Greek and Latin terms (Ioudaios/​a, Iudeus/​a) earlier ancient writers use for the persons with whom I am primarily concerned. In this book, however, with few exceptions, I use the terms “Jew” and “Jews.” I do so because I think that by the fourth century, most ancient authors and all legal edicts really intended to position Jews not as a ethnicity comparable to the Romans, the Egyptians, and others but, rather, in contradistinction to all Christians, and to those lumped together as “pagani.” As I shall discuss later, it has been argued that as the Greek and Latin terms took on increasingly negative valences, their use as self-​designators, at least in inscriptions, seems to wane, while the term Hebreus (Hebrew) becomes more frequent.130 I try, however, to minimize the use of the term “Judaism,” finding generally persuasive the arguments of my colleague, Michael Satlow, that there are Jews, and those Jews have practices and ideas that are distinctively “Jewish,” but that there is no such fixed “thing” as Judaism per se.131 I have also struggled occasionally with the optimal language to describe the Christian position that ultimately prevailed. I vacillate between the use of the term “orthodoxy” (in lowercase); references to the emergent catholic church (again in lowercase); “Nicene,” derived from the location (Nicaea) of the council convened by Constantine, where a central statement of its tenets was put forth; Nicene/​Chalcedonian (in recognition of the reformulation of the Nicene position at the Council of Chalcedon in the fifth century), and occasionally even homoousian, for the 130. The hard data, however, is ambiguous: for discussion, see ­below, pp. 377–82. 131. Satlow 2013. On this terminology, see also Mason 2007 and Baker 2017.



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central Christological principle articulated there concerning the relationship between God and Christ, discussed further later. Second, astute readers may notice that some ancient names, whether of persons or places, are unexpected: Sokrates, rather than Socrates: Cappadokia rather than Cappadocia. Rather than subordinate Greek to Latin, many scholars of Mediterranean late antiquity now prefer to more closely reproduce the underlying Greek when transliterating into modern languages. (In the era of electronic searching, this comes at a cost, of course.) I have endeavored to do this regularly, but not universally. I have retained Latinized spellings in some instances, particularly for famous places like Constantinople, and I have, of course, retained Latinized spellings when used in quotations and references. Finally, to write this book, I had to immerse myself both in ancient sources and in scholarship that were largely unfamiliar to me when I began. The experience was both exhilarating and unnerving. The more I read, the more I realized how much more I could have read, if only I had the time and ability to read everything. I am fairly sure that I have read (either in the originals or in translations for the languages, like Syriac, that I do not read) virtually all the relevant ancient literary, legal, and epigraphic materials, although there are some I did not incorporate into the discussions here. But there is a massive amount of scholarly literature on much of the material I consider in this project, as well as sizable scholarly reflection on many of the larger theoretical issues. I have read a great deal of it in the last ten years or more, but I have by no means read all of it. If I had even attempted to do so, I would never have been able to begin writing this book, let alone complete it. As I read much of this literature, I was struck by how, despite the significant presence of Jews in the ancient Mediterranean, they get short shrift in the vast majority of these books—​sometimes a sentence or two, sometimes a few paragraphs, sometimes no mention at all. Perhaps it is only a small instance of scholarly justice that in a book that foregrounds Jews, I can devote only a small amount of space to many complex and interesting topics, whether the textual challenges of my sources; the complexities of ancient economic systems or ancient demography; the intrigues in the many courts of the fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries; or the horrors of ancient epidemics of plague and other natural disasters. At the very last stages of editing, I kept coming upon yet more recent publications I might have pursued. Eventually I had to stop. There will unquestionably be readers, and reviewers, who will take note of what I have missed or do not cite. They are welcome to do so, but I trust that I have read enough, at least to begin the inquiry and to encourage others to continue the work that remains.

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In the chapters that follow I try to demonstrate my arguments through detailed discussions of the available sources. I begin with a recap and dissection of an important work from the fifth century, known as the Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews, which exemplifies and encapsulates many of the issues to which this project attends. Subsequent chapters attempt to trace and contextualize, in chronological sequence, the increasing pressures brought to bear on Jews from Constantine’s ascension in the early fourth century to the very beginning of the seventh century. This choice of an endpoint was to some extent arbitrary, especially since the conditions of Jewish life deteriorated considerably after this point—​in Visigothic Spain, for instance. The beginning of the seventh century marks the death of Pope Gregory the Great, and the start of the last war between the Sassanid Persians and the Byzantines, after which the victorious Byzantine emperor, Heraclius, is said to have ordered the conversion of all Jews in the empire in 630, perhaps in response to their apparent support for the Persians. Clearly, no such total transformation transpired.132 This endpoint also brings me to the eve of the beginnings of Islam, which would have very different implications for Jews living in those many regions where Muslims assumed dominance. All these seem sufficient justification for stopping there. In ­chapter 10, by way of a lengthy conclusion, I consider what the evidence surveyed throughout this book suggests about the effects of Christian pressures on various aspects of the lives of Jews during these three centuries. A brief epilogue offers some final reflections.

132. On which, see Olster 1994:84–​87 and Kaegi 2003:216, with the extensive references in nn91–92. One of the major sources for this claim is the Teachings of Jacob the Newly Baptized 35. For the text and French translation, see Déroche 1991: see also van der Horst 2009 and Jacobs 2019; see also the Epilogue, this volume.

2

“Five hundred and forty souls were added to the church” The Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews, Early Fifth Century?

Some of this may really have happened.1 In 418 ce, the recently appointed bishop of the Mediterranean island of Minorca orchestrated the conversion of the entire Jewish population of the island in the space of one week in February. So, at least, claims a work known as the Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews, which encapsulates many of the issues I raise in the chapters to come.2 The events depicted in the Letter are said to be triggered by the very recent discovery of the bones of the first-​century martyr, St. Stephen (Acts 6.8–​7.60), in the holy land.3 Numerous miracles attended the distribution

1. Portions of this chapter are taken, sometimes verbatim, from my earlier work on the Letter of Severus, where my primary interest was the Letter’s representation of women as the last to accept Christ (Kraemer 2009, 2011:153–​78, with permission of Oxford University Press). 2.  Critical edition, lengthy introduction, translation, and brief notes in Bradbury 1996, on which I have relied; also Amengual i Batle 1991, and most recently Amengual i Batle 2018, a trilingual edition (Latin, Catalan and Castilian) with introduction and detailed notes in both Catalan and Castilian. I thank the author for sending me the book in PDF, and regret that the late date of its publication and my minimal Catalan prevented me from taking full advantage of the work. For additional references to earlier editions, see Bradbury 1996:72–​77. A fuller title occurs in some manuscripts: Epistula Severi episcopi de conversione Iudaeorum apud Minorciam insulam meritis sancti Stephani facta (The Letter of Bishop Severus on the Conversion of the Jews on the island of Minorca accomplished by the merit of St. Stephen). 3. According to the Revelation of St. Stephen (Revelatio Sancti Stephani) PL 41.807–​81, as the Letter of Lucianus (Epistula Luciani), a Christian priest named Lucianus had a dream in which the first-​century rabbi Gamaliel appeared to him and revealed the location of his bones, those of Stephen, and of two others: Vanderlinden 1946; see Jacobs 2003:29–​32; see also Irshai 2011. For further discussion of the possible connections between the role of the elder Gamaliel in The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190222277.001.0001

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of Stephen’s relics across the Mediterranean.4 According to the Letter, shortly after Severus became bishop, a priest whom the author does not name, but whom other sources identify as Orosius,5 brought the relics to the church in one of Minorca’s two towns, Magona (modern-​day Mao in Minorquin, or Mahon in Castilian), the other being Jamona (the modern-​ day Ciutadella). Shortly thereafter, the local Christian community was seized with a desire to convert the substantial and influential Jewish community there. This desire ruptured the previously cordial relations between individual Christians and Jews.6 Although, as we shall see, the author is somewhat evasive on this and many other points, it appears that the Christians and the Jews had agreed to a public debate, whose topic is not immediately apparent.7 In relatively short order, word of the turmoil was sent to the head of the Jewish community, a man named Theodorus, whom the Letter calls both a “doctor of the laws” and a “father of fathers,” who was on the larger neighboring island of Majorca attending to the business of his estates.8 Theodorus returned quickly and temporarily restrained the Christians, although the author does not specify how.9 Nevertheless, both sides continued to gird for conflict. The Jews not only consulted their scriptures but also allegedly amassed weapons in the synagogue, fearing physical attack by the Christians.10 The Christians’ preparation was cloaked in evasive language, but the author

this narrative and that of the last Jewish Patriarch, Gamaliel VI, demoted in rank in October 415, see b­ elow, pp. 230–31. 4. E.g., Evodius, On the Miracles of St. Stephen, the First Martyr (De miraculis sancti Stephani protomartyris), PL 41.833–​54; The Passion of St. Stephen, translated in van Esbroeck 1984:101–​ 105. See Bradbury 1996:16–​25. Particularly interesting are the accounts in Augustine, City of God 22.8 (CCSL 48:815–​27) of miracles effected at shrines of St. Stephen in North Africa almost a decade after the events of the Letter of Severus. Interestingly, they do not mention Minorca. For discussion, see Lander 2016:221–​22. 5. The identification of Orosius as the bearer of the relics comes from elsewhere, including a letter of Avitus of Braga, who gave him the relics, and correspondence with Augustine concerning Orosius’s travels in these years. Several writings of Orosius survive, although none speaks to the events on Minorca. For details, see Bradbury 1996:20–​25 and Fear 2010:1–​7. 6. Letter 5.1. 7. Letter 6.6. 8. Letter 6.1–​2: the title “father of fathers” occurs also at Venosa: see below, p. 367. 9. Letter  7.1–​2. 10. Letter 8.5.



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suggests that the Jews’ weaponry would be of no avail, since the Christian “battle line” was defended by the power of the Holy Spirit.11 The coming events were prefigured in several dreams whose similarity the author offers as evidence of their divine origins and trustworthiness. A dedicated Christian virgin named Theodora and the bishop himself had an identical dream in which an elite widow begged Severus to sow all her fields.12 The author is explicit that the woman symbolizes the synagogue, widowed by her own impious murder of Christ and now repentent.13 Seemingly anticipating objections to recounting such dreams after the fact, the author insists that Severus had this dream thirty days prior to its fulfillment, and recounted it publicly without understanding its meaning at the time.14 Theodorus had a different dream, which the author claims Theodorus, too, recounted publicly before its fulfillment. On his way to the synagogue, twelve men barred his path, warning him of a lion in the synagogue. Frightened, Theodorus nevertheless managed to peer into the synagogue, where he saw monks singing terribly sweetly.15 The sight of monks in the synagogue terrified him even more, and he ran first to the house of a Jewish man named Reuben, then to an unnamed female relative (“mater propinqua”), who soothed him and rescued him from his terror. The Letter declares that this “propinqua” is explicitly the church.16 Inspired by the power of Stephen, Christians from Jamona now traversed the thirty miles over the mountains to Magona with miraculous speed, setting up camp in a church just outside the town, on a Saturday.17 Upon their arrival, Severus invited the Jews to come to the church, apparently for a disputation

11. Letter 8.5: “Ut Christianorum aciem virtute Sancti Spiritus praemunitam.” Amengual i Batle 2018 reads Spiritus Sancti. 12. Letter 10.1–​4. 13. Letter 10.4–​5. 14. Letter 10.6. 15. Letter 11.4: “monachos illic mira suavitate psallentes.” 16. Letter 11.5–​6. She is “that one of whom it is written, ‘una est propinqua mea.’ ” Bradbury notes that there is no such line in the Vulgate, although he thinks it’s similar to Song 6:8: “una est columba mea perfecta mea” (“one is my dove, my perfect one”) (Bradbury 1996:127n10). The figure of the otherwise unidentified “propinqua” thus represents the orthodox church as a female relative who clasps Theodorus to her bosom and provides him complete solace, contributing to the author's representation of the synagogue and church as close kin. 17. Bradbury dates this to February 2, 418 (Bradbury 1996:6, 12, 127n11).

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on the Law.18 The Jews, however, refused, claiming that to do so would violate the Sabbath. Severus scoffed, pointing out that the Jews were hardly being forced into “menial labor on the Sabbath” but, rather, were being invited to a calm debate. Suggesting that their refusal is a ruse to avoid the debate altogether, Severus even challenged the Jews to show “the rule by which it was prohibited for them to engage in discussion on a holy day.”19 For whatever reasons, the Jews then showed up at the house where Severus was staying in Magona. Rather than begin a disputation, he immediately asked them why they had stored weapons in the synagogue. The Christians, he said, have brought books to instruct; the Jews have brought weapons to commit murder. You, he said, “thirst for our blood; we for your salvation.”20 The Jews denied this was the case, and offered to swear an oath, but Severus brushed them off, pointing out that an oath is pointless when the truth can be easily discerned by going to the synagogue itself. Jews and Christians alike then set off for the synagogue, where along the way a particularly strange scene ensued. The Christians chanted Ps 9.7–​8, “Their memory has perished with a crash, and the Lord endures forever.”21 Although this is obviously a pointed refrain whose referent is understood (by both the author and his Christian readers) to be the Jews, they also join the singing, with “a wondrous sweetness.”22 While they were walking, violence broke out. Once again the author is evasive, particularly on the culpability of the Christians. The instigators were allegedly “certain Jewish women,” who threw down stones on the Christians from some higher vantage point.23 God, the author claims, used the women as a vehicle to rouse the Christians from their so far gentle behav­ ior. The Christians then picked up the stones to throw at the Jews, although the author distances himself from their behavior, suggesting that they were motivated more by zeal for Christ than by (inappropriate) anger. Just as, miraculously, none of the stones thrown by the women hurt anyone, so, too, none of the Jews were hurt, nor do any even pretend that they had been so,

18. Letter 12.6. 19. Letter 12.6: “praeceptum quo in die festo sermonem his conferre prohibitum sit.” 20. Letter 12.10: “Vos vero . . . sititis nostrum sanguinem, nos vestram salutem.” 21. Letter 13.2: “Periit memoria eorum cum strepitu et Dominus in aeternum permanet.” 22. Letter 13.2: “mira iucunditate.” 23. Letter 13.3: “quaedam Iudaeae mulieres.”



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although they might have been expected to feign injury to stir up ill will.24 The author concedes, however, that one man among the Christians did throw a stone. Although that man had intended to hit a Jew, in fact, he hit the slave of one of the Christians, who had come, not out of love of Christ but out of greed for plunder. The story of the greedy slave serves as the context (or perhaps the pretext) for one of the Letter’s most evasive passages. Hit on the head, the slave recalled his true head, Christ, and “put fear in everyone lest they lapse in a similar way. Therefore, after the [ Jews] had retreated and we had gained control of the synagogue,” the author relates, no one stole or looted anything.25 What, however, caused the Jews to retreat and how the Christians gained control of the synagogue are glossed over quickly in six Latin words.26 With similar brevity and avoidance of agency, human or otherwise, the author tells us that “fire consumed the synagogue itself ” and all its ornaments. Who set, or what caused, the fire passes unremarked. All that survived was the silver and the sacred books. The Christians dutifully returned the first to the Jews, lest they be accused of taking spoils, but they kept the sacred books to prevent the Jews from harming them.27 With the Jews now in shock at the devastation of the synagogue, the Christians retreated to the church and prayed for their conversion. The very next day,28 part of Theodorus’s dream was fulfilled: a Jew called Reuben (the name of the patriarch Jacob’s first-​born son) did indeed accept Christ. Although the author does not remark on the significance of the interval, three days then pass while the Christians prayed and the Jews “persevered in faithlessness.”29 Theodorus then30 came with his supporters to the ruins of the synagogue, where he offered various arguments, conveniently unreported, 24. Letter 13.7. 25. Letter 13.11–​12. 26. Letter 13.12: “posteaquam Iudaeis cedentibus synagoga potiti sumus.” 27. This is a particularly peculiar claim that might be grounded in the Christian theory that the Jews altered their copies of scripture to delete or revise readings favorable to Christian interpretation. But alternatively, it may relate to ideas that the presence of the books made the space of the synagogue holy, or sanctified, so that removing them de-​consecrated the space as a synagogue, on which see ­below, p. 136n116. On the destruction of books as a tactic of intimidation, see above, p. 22. 28. Thus Sunday, February 3, following Bradbury’s dating (1996:7). 29. Letter 16.1: “in perfidia perstiterunt.” 30. Monday, February 4.

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that the Christians were unable to refute on their own, leading them to pray to God for assistance. The author represents what happens next as a miracle. The Christians shouted aloud the Latin words: “Theodore, credas in Christum” (“Theodorus, believe in Christ!”).31 Miraculously, though, the Jews mishear this as “Theodorus in Christum credidit” (“Theodorus has believed in Christ”),32 and although the author insists they have no cause for fear, they nevertheless become terrified. “Racing together” in a state of disarray, Jewish women shrieked “Theodorus, what have you done?”33 Some of the men tried to hide in town while others fled to the groves and mountains. More of Theodorus’s dream was then fulfilled. Finding himself abandoned by his companions, he, too, sought refuge, standing on the very spot where in his dream he had been terrified by the thought of the Lion in the synagogue. As in his dream, someone appeared and comforted him, inviting him to accept Christ, although it is Reuben, and not the “propinqua.” Ultimately, Theodorus agrees, but asked for time to address his people and bring them with him.34 At the news of Theodorus’s acceptance of Christ, the Christians were overjoyed. In a somewhat remarkable scene, “Some ran to him affectionately and caressed his face and neck with kisses, others embraced him in gentle arms, while still others longed to join right hands with him or to engage him in conversation.”35 Still apparently following the outline of Theodorus’s dream, the Letter relates that Theodorus set out for his own home, not completely calmed by Reuben, for he had yet to come to the house of the female relative who would completely free him from all confusion and fear. The Christians, however, set out for the church again singing hymns, this time a concatenation of 2 Cor 1.3 and Jer 9.1: “Blessed is the father of mercies and the God of all consolation: who granted water for our heads and a font of tears for our eyes, in order that we might lament the wounded among our people.” And lo and

31. Letter 16.4. 32. Letter 16.7. Pace Sivan’s droll remark here that “One wonders at the level of elementary Latin on the island” (Sivan 2013:131), this seems either a deliberate insult to the Jews, who are so ignorant that they misconstrue basic Latin or, perhaps more likely, are so hearing impaired that they make what is obviously an impossible mistake. 33. Letter 16.8. 34. Letter 16.16. 35. Letter 16.18: “Alli in eum amabiliter irruentes, os ipsius osculis et colla mulcebant; alii eum ulnis mollibus complectebantur; alii autem dexteram dexterae adiungere aut sermonen conserere gestiebant.” Amengual i Batle 2018 reads “os ipsum osculis.”



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behold, coming out after services, they found a large group of Jews (gender unspecified, but presumably “the wounded among our people”), asking for “the symbol of Christ,” so the bishop returned inside the church and “marked the sign of salvation on their foreheads.”36 At this point, the author returns to those men who had fled the town earlier. Remarking that each person had his own, individual conversion story, he offers just a few examples, whose authenticity is guaranteed by the trustworthiness and character of his sources.37 First, he tells the story of two leading Jewish men, Theodorus’s own brother, named Meletius,38 and one Innocentius, a refugee from the recent barbarian invasions of Spain. Although they initially hid out in the rocky areas above the town, a series of minor, even somewhat humorous, miraculous events compelled them to accept Christ and return to Magona, where contrary to their expectations they found Theodorus safe and sound, and still a Jew (although not for very much longer). Then he narrates the experiences of several Jews who resisted Theodorus’s plan to bring the Jews to Christ himself, since they had themselves already felt the divine call to conversion. These included a young man conveniently named Galilaeus,39 and two “fathers of the synagogue,”40 an elder named Caecilianus and his brother, Florianus, who collectively urged their fellow Jews to “abandon the error of our misguided way, if it can be done, and unite together in the faith of the church.” Even if they could not persuade others, they themselves, together with their households, would “join in alliance with the faithful ranks of the Christians.”41 The author then narrates several miracles evocative of the Exodus from Egypt, which he proffers as evidence that the Jews were now making an exodus from the Egypt and slavery of their unbelief, under divine guidance.42

36. Letter 17.1–​3. 37. Letter 18.1, 18.3. 38. Bradbury dates the episode to Wednesday, February 5 (as does Amengual i Batle 2018:50) but leaves open when they actually converted (Bradbury 1996:7). 39. Bradbury 1996:37 finds it somewhat odd that a Jew in the early fifth century ce would have been given a name long associated with Christians (just one instance of which is Julian’s Letters Against the Galileans). 40. The title is attested in nine Greek inscriptions from Rome, but is rarely found elsewhere. On the title itself, see Levine 2005:429–​31. Several women at Rome are titled “mother of the synagogue” (on which see, e.g., Brooten 1982:57–​72; Levine 2005:431–​32; Kraemer, forth­ coming b). See also below, p. 364. 41. Letter 19.8–​9. 42. Letter 20.15.

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First, two monks lying in a field outside the church saw a ball of brilliant light. The same sight was also seen from an upper story by several Jewish women who had not yet converted, including Meletius’s wife. Shortly before this, a fine dusting, redolent of honey, had fallen on the island, prompting the people to draw an explicit connection to the manna God provided the true Israel and the fiery column that accompanied them out of Egypt.43 On the day that Theodorus was expected to fulfill his promise to convert, and bring the remaining unconverted Minorcan Jews with him, he again demurred, offering a new rationale for a further postponement. He feared that if his wife, who was still back on Majorca, “learned that her husband had converted without her agreement,” she would “remain firm in her faithlessness, as usually happens. Further, she might become confused in her judgment, and at the instigation of her mother in particular, who was still alive, abandon both the marriage and the religion.”44 The final part of Theodorus’s dream was now fulfilled, as “he flew swiftly to the bosom of his kinswoman,” now explicitly identified as the church.45 He was followed by the whole synagogue, whose abandonment of disputation the author takes as marvelous, if not indeed miraculous. Even some Jews who had just stopped on the island while waiting for favorable winds to resume their journey, and were completely free to go, chose, the author claims, to become Christians.46 The author saves for the final portion of the narrative the conversion accounts of three Jewish women who held out until the very end. The first of these was Artemisia, wife of Meletius, whose actual conversion was prompted by yet another minor miracle. After Meletius converted to Christianity as a result of a trying encounter in the hills outside Magona with Innocentius, his distressed wife fled their house and took refuge in a vineyard that the author interprets as a demonstration of Luke 5:37: “the Jews have received the ‘must’ of the New Testament not like ‘old wineskins,’ but like ‘new wine-​vats.’ ”47 She took with her a small group of women: an otherwise unidentified female

43. Letter 20.15–​21. 44. Letter 21.2. I have slightly altered Bradbury’s translation of “et a coniugio et a religione discederet,” which reads “abandon both the marriage and her husband’s religion” (Bradbury 1996:115). 45. Letter 21.3. 46. Letter 23. 47. Letter 24.4.



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friend, a nurse, and a few female servants. For two days she remained in the vineyard, implacable and furious at her husband.48 On the morning of the third day, she ordered one of her servants to draw water for her to wash her face. The water which the servant brought her from a wine-​vat tasted and smelled like honey; in fact, the entire water supply had turned into the sweetest honey. The miraculous transformation of ordinary water into something terribly sweet impelled her conversion. The author writes that “Meletius’s wife was compelled by the honey to cast away the bitterness of her unbelief,” construing this event as a type of the transformation of the biblical bitter waters associated with the Exodus story.49 The two other holdouts were the unnamed wife of Innocentius, the refugee from Spain who accompanied Meletius during his brief flight, and her sister, “a widow of excellent reputation.”50 Unlike Artemisia, the wife of Innocentius did not flee her husband’s house, but on the contrary, appears to be confined there for “nearly four days” with her husband and “the whole crowd of the brethren” gathered at their house, dismayed that “so great an abundance of happiness was being opposed by a single woman.”51 Like Artemisia, Innocentius’s wife remained stubborn and unmoved by the pressures applied to her. She was “overwhelmed by the incurable sickness of her unbelief ”52 and refused the “medicine” offered by the Christians.53 In his typical fashion, the author is somewhat oblique about precisely what transpired during those four days. Innocentius appears to have tried everything, from threats, to tears, to prayers to move his resistant wife, who remained unmoved by the torrent of verbal pressures. Ultimately, the Christians resorted to prayer, prostration, and weeping, which finally worked. Innocentius’s wife confessed belief in Christ and her desire to become a Christian.

48. Letter 24.5, “a viro suo offensa inexorabilis permansisset.” 49.  Exod 15:23–​25; which follows on the Miriam story  .  .  .  which may or may not be significant here. 50. Letter 26.1: “sorore sua venerabili, sicut fama testis est, vidua.” 51. Letter 27.1–​3. 52. On the imagery of Jewish and other non-​orthodox Christian beliefs as illness, see Escribano Pano 2009 and ­below, pp. 87–88. One might also argue that the depiction of Artemisia’s behavior corresponds to the representation of these beliefs as insanity, so that the letter here draws on both strategies to depict these women. 53. Letter 27.2.

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The final conversion is that of Innocentius’s widowed sister-​in-​law. The author claims that on hearing of her brother-​in-​law’s conversion, she boarded a ship to leave Minorca. He notes that in the face of her resistance to either miracles or verbal arguments, the Christians not only allowed but also encouraged her to do so. On the eighth day, as the jubilant Christians were preparing to return to Jamona, having apparently converted the entire Jewish population of Minorca, Innocentius’s sister-​in-​law was blown back to the island. How she came to find herself at the bishop’s feet is unclear, but the author claims that she “wrapped herself about [his] knees and begged with tears for the assistance of our faith.” They then engaged in a brief but fascinating exchange. The bishop asked her why she wished to abandon her brothers.54 In reply, the woman portrays herself as Jonah, who also fled God (on a ship, as did she), and was forced to abandon it and obey the will of God, after a divinely orchestrated storm. (The biblical Jonah, however, actually abandoned the ship in order to save his innocent Gentile shipmates.) She begs Severus to accept both her and her two young twin daughters, which he happily agrees to do. And with this, the conversion of the Jews of Minorca was complete. The narrative ends with a few details and summations. Five hundred and forty Jews, the author claims, were added to the church. As proof of the fruits of righteousness produced by their conversion, the Jews now bore the expense not only of leveling what remained of their synagogue but also of building a new basilica, whose stones they even carried on their own shoulders.55 Yet again, the author says nothing about just how these events came about. He closes with an exhortation to his reader(s) to “take up Christ’s zeal against the Jews, but do so for the sake of their eternal salvation.” For perhaps, he writes, the fullness of the Gentiles and the salvation of all Israel predicted by the apostle (Paul) has finally come.56 In the very last line, the author may issue a subtle call for the tactics Severus himself used—​namely arson: “And perhaps the Lord wished to kindle this spark from the ends of the earth, so that the whole breadth of the earth might be ablaze with the flame of love in order to burn down the forest of unbelief.”57

54. Letter 28.5: “deserere”: the same verb is used of Artemisia’s departure from Meletius. 55. Letter 30.2. 56. Letter 31.2–​3. 57. Letter 31.4.



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Debates about the authenticity of the Letter, as the work of a fifth-​century Minorcan bishop, raged already in the nineteenth century, as Juster noted over a century ago. Juster himself thought it both authentic and generally reliable, providing “precious information about Jewish life on Minorca.”58 In the twentieth century, Blumenkranz in particular argued that the Letter was a later forgery, and not a contemporaneous composition by the island’s bishop.59 More recent scholars have argued, however, that the Letter is definitively a fifth-​century work, citing in particular the discovery of two letters to Augustine from a Spanish bishop named Consentius (who was on Minorca in these years), one of which explicitly refers to “certain miraculous things” recounted in some narrative by Severus.60 How much of the Letter is the work of Severus (for whom no other writing is known) and how much is that of Consentius continues to be a subject of debate.61 For reasons I have offered in my earlier work, I find persuasive the argument that the Letter is

58. Juster 1914:1.76, joined by Dahn. Among those who thought it spurious were Graetz and Kayserling: for a fuller history and bibliography, see Bradbury 1996:9–​14. Among the other surveys of Jewish history of the late nineteenth century, Adams 1887:74–​75 also took it as unproblematically authentic and reliable. 59. Blumenkranz 1948; for other references, see Bradbury 1996:11n15. 60.  These are catalogued among the correspondence of Augustine (Divjak 1981, 1987; Eno 1989; Teske 2005) as Letters *11 and *12. In Letter *12, Consentius claims that he himself had sworn off writing, so that he could devote himself to reading Scripture. Severus, however, allegedly prevailed on Consentius to write something of these events, which Severus then incorporated into his own Letter: “he [Severus] borrowed from me [Consentius] words alone in order that he himself might write a letter containing a narrative of the events” (“ut epistolam quae rei gestae ordinem contineret ipse conscriberet, sola a me verba mutuatus est”); Letter *12.13.3–​6, in Bradbury 1996:59. 61. Bradbury critiques scholars who have suggested that Consentius actually intended to write his own narrative, but was preempted by Severus (e.g., Wankenne in Divjak 1987; cited in Bradbury 1996:58n153). Fontaine 1991 argues that Severus reworked Consentius’s version, intentionally using a simpler style that functioned to critique the larger literary culture of which Consentius was a representative. After a detailed discussion of Consentius’s Letter *11, where Consentius argues, against Augustine, for a coercive response to Priscillianists in Tarragona, Bradbury concludes that “the similarities between the accounts of events on Minorca and in Tarragona raise the possibility that Consentius was more deeply involved in the composition of the Epistula Severi than we had suspected” (Bradbury 1996:69). Hillgarth supports the thesis that Consentius “must at least have been responsible for the organization of the circular, if he was not in fact its real author” (Hillgarth 1994:730). Ultimately, Bradbury concludes that the Letter of Severus is “exactly what it claims to be: an encyclical letter composed by Severus, bishop of Minorca, in 418 to describe the conversion of the island’s Jews” (Bradbury 1996:15); see also the bibliography amassed in Josep Amengual i Batle 2001. Still, the precise literary relationship between whatever Consentius wrote and the present Letter remains unclear; see also the recent arguments of Amengual i Batle 2011 that Consentius is also responsible for the prologue to the Letter, and most recently Amengual i Batle 2018:62–​66.

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a fifth-​century production. Because, however, I  continue to have reservations about its actual composition, I try throughout this book to maintain an agnostic position on the identification of the author, consistent with my conclusion that the actual authorship of the Letter is less essential than its composition in the early fifth century. Yet assuming that the Letter is an authentic fifth-​century composition, whether by Severus, or Consentius, or some complex constellation of the two, still leaves a multitude of issues unresolved.62 Authenticity of authorship is, by itself, no guarantor that the text conveys accurate historical data. However ancient readers might have read it, to a contemporary reader the authorial figure of Severus appears at the very least repeatedly disingenuous. His representation of the Christians as uniformly kind, loving, and joyously welcoming of the new Jewish converts stands in tension with his own descriptions of the great fear and anxiety that overcame many of the Jews, a tension heightened by the bishop’s insistence that their fears were completely ungrounded. The author omits several key pieces of information that one might have expected him to divulge, such as whether weapons were, in fact, found in the synagogue. Since the Letter earlier stated that the Jews were amassing weapons in the synagogue, perhaps the reader is expected to presume their discovery, but it is nevertheless somewhat surprising that the author neglects the opportunity to drive home this point when he describes the combined mass of Christians and Jews proceeding to the synagogue to investigate the charge and its refutation. The author also deftly sidesteps the issue of who caused the fire that destroyed the synagogue and provides no explanation for how it was that newly Christian Jews shouldered (apparently both literally and figuratively) the burden of dismantling the synagogue walls and erecting a new basilica.63 The Letter claims that the Christians applied only moral suasion; in the final account of the conversion of Innocentius’s unnamed sister-​in-​law, the author even insists that the Christians were quite willing to allow her to leave. Yet the language of permitting her to do so makes clear that they could have prevented her. Further, given the hazards of a February passage off the island, the Christians’ encouragement of the journey may be even more disingenuous than it appears, not to mention the fact that, as Sivan notes, Spain was

62. For a nice overview of the historiographic problems, see Ginzburg 1996. 63. Bradbury 1996:130 takes this to mean on the site of the old synagogue, which is possible, but not definitive. Nothing in the text conclusively identifies the location of the synagogue, although it and the church seem to be at some distance from one another. See below, pp. 67–71.



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overrun by invading Visigoths by 418, making it extremely difficult for Jews (or anyone else) to leave Minorca safely.64 Yet another puzzling feature is the actual process by which Minorca’s Jews became Christians. Many sources from the late fourth and early fifth centuries indicate that baptism was generally reserved for adults, had to be performed by a bishop, and typically took place only at Easter (or perhaps Pentecost), although exceptions might be made for persons in danger of dying before then.65 The exact amount of instruction required before baptism, as well as the specific baptism rites themselves, appears to have varied somewhat across the empire. In late fourth-​century Milan, for instance, under its famous bishop Ambrose, catechumens registered for baptism at Epiphany and were signed with the cross. From then until Easter, they received instruction. The elaborate baptism ceremony, conducted by the bishop, entailed a renunciation of sin and the Devil, proclaimed while the initiate faced west, an acceptance of Christ, recited facing east, and an actual immersion in the baptismal pool, followed, atypically, by a footwashing ceremony.66 Under Augustine in North Africa, new Christians underwent a lengthy process of transformation that included extensive instruction and penitence, particularly during Lent. Baptism there was ordinarily performed at Easter, although there might be exceptions.67 64. Bradbury 1996:130 (n. to ch. 23); Sivan 2013:304n30, who observes that Consentius was among those Spanish bishops who fled Spain, and was on Minorca precisely from 410 to 420 as a result. Still, such a crossing is related to, and perhaps even required by, the Jonah story that provides the paradigm for her experience. 65. For a comprehensive survey of ancient Christian baptismal practices and theologies, see Ferguson 2009. Basil of Cappadocian Caesarea, writing in the 370s, says that while Easter was the most suitable time, all times were suitable (Basil, Exhortation 1, in Ferguson 2009:583). According to Sokrates of Constantinople, it was the custom in Thessaly to baptize only at Easter, with the result that people died without baptism (Eccl. Hist. 5.22, in Ferguson 2009:618). Elsewhere, Sokrates gives an account of how the Burgundians, seeking baptism, went to a bishop in Gaul, who baptized them on an abbreviated schedule. He had them fast for seven days, during which time he gave them basic instruction, and then baptized them on the eighth day (Eccl. Hist. 7.30, in Ferguson 2009:618). But obviously, this was unusual. Siricius, bishop of Rome at the end of the fourth century, also affirmed the practice of baptizing only at Easter or perhaps Pentecost, with a “registration” period of at least forty days, during which time the “elect” were to fast and pray (Letter to Himerius of Tarragona 2.3, in Ferguson 2009:760). In the writing of Cyril of Jerusalem, baptism was usually at Easter, with those to be baptized given instruction during the forty days of Lent (Ferguson 2009:474–​78). 66. Ambrose, On the Mysteries and On the Sacraments, esp. Myst. 2.5. For detailed references and discussion, see Ferguson 2009:635–​40; see also Deliyannis 2010:88–​89. 67.  Ferguson 2009:778–​89 has a detailed survey of baptism practices in the writings of Augustine.

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The Letter of Severus claims that at the Jews’ own request, the bishop initially marked them (presumably with the sign of the cross), a first step in their transformation.68 But the text offers virtually no indication of how and when the Jews received the requisite instruction and subsequent baptism to effect their conversion. One elderly man (aged 102!) “presented to us his limbs, by now feeble with decay, that he might be renewed through baptism as quickly as possible,” implying but not explicitly stating that the bishop baptized him.69 His prompt baptism might be explained as one of those exceptions made for persons in immediate danger of dying without baptism. Nevertheless, it would seem at the least highly unusual for Severus to have instructed and baptized the entire Jewish population of Minorca by the end of the week, long before the customary occasion of Easter, or even Pentecost.70 Conceivably, some of the Letter’s evasiveness stems from the author’s awareness of various imperial legislation prohibiting violence against Jews, the burning of synagogues, and the misappropriation of synagogue prop­ erty, which I treat at length in subsequent chapters. A law of 393 ce, for instance, in the name of Theodosios I and his sons, Arkadios and Honorius, protected synagogues from precisely the things that appear to have taken place on Minorca: the physical destruction of the building and the damage or removal of its furnishings and contents.71 Four years later, Arkadios, now emperor in the East, ordered the prefect of Illyricum (modern Albania, Croatia, and Slovenia, on the Adriatic coast) to protect Jews and their synagogues from attacks.72 Much closer to the date of events on Minorca, a law issued at Ravenna in 412, by Arkadios’s brother, Honorius, decreed that synagogues were not to be damaged or seized.73 Relying on a short entry in the later Chronicle of Edessa, many scholars see this edict as a response to the recent transformation of a synagogue in Edessa and its conversion to a church by the city’s bishop, Rabbula.74 68. Letter 17. 69. Letter 22. 70. Conceivably, of course, he didn’t baptize them at all, in which case the Jews were not yet Christians, but catechumens at best, and perhaps liable to rescind their decisions to convert. 71. CTh 16.8.9, JRIL 21, discussed below, pp. 143–44. 72. CTh 16.8.12, JRIL 25, discussed below, pp. 164–65. 73. CTh 16.8.20, JRIL 40, discussed below, pp. 213–15, 224–25. 74. E.g., Linder, JRIL, p. 263, who gives no further details or references here; for further discussion, see c­ hapter 6, this volume. Interestingly, in his English translation of the text, Cowper



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It’s difficult to know whether a bishop on Minorca in these years would have felt constrained by any of these edicts, whether those issued in the East, or at Ravenna.75 The Letter does at one point comment that Magona was under Roman law, when Severus accuses the Jews of having weapons in the synagogue.76 Sivan thinks that Severus took advantage of the preoccupation of Honorius’s government with the barbarian invasions to engage in conduct that might otherwise have merited more scrutiny.77 Nevertheless, it’s particularly interesting that the edict of 412 explicitly prohibited summoning Jews on the Sabbath for any reason whatsoever, “for that day of their religion must not be perturbed by any legal accusation.”78 Further, very soon after the Minorcan episode and the apparent composition and dissemination of the Letter, several edicts issued in the name of Theodosios II at Constantinople in 420 and 423 explicitly prohibited the burning of synagogues, the appropriation of synagogue property, and other offenses against Jews.79 The edict of June 8, 423, specified that Christians shall not “raise their hands” against “peaceful Jews and pagans [“pagani”] who are not attempting anything seditious or unlawful.”80 Some scholars again see these laws as responses to various other attacks on synagogues in the early fifth century, although most of these instances are quite historically complex.81 Whether they also respond to the comments: “This adaptation of a Jewish synagogue for Christian worship at the emperor’s bidding, was probably an act of spoliation perpetrated upon the Jews,” a characterization that itself refers, perhaps in a circular fashion, to the language of the edict (Cowper 1864:42). 75. For more discussion of questions about the dissemination of imperial legislation, see b­ elow, p. 83. 76. Letter, 12.8. 77. Sivan 2013:122. Sivan recognizes that Consentius may have composed some portion of the Letter, but refers to its author as Severus. 78. Linder, JRIL, p. 265. 79.  CTh 16.8.21 (August 6, 420?), JRIL 46; CTh 16.8.25 (February 15, 423), JRIL 47; CTh 16.8.26 (April 9, 423), JRIL 48, which also contains several other laws with the same date, concerning dissident Christians and traditionalists; CTh 16.8.27 ( June 8, 423), JRIL 49, which again contains several other laws issued the same day. For further discussion, see b­ elow, chapter 7. 80. CTh 16.10.24, which while concerned primarily with dissident Christians (Manichaeans and Pepyzitae), contains the clause forbidding Christians to attack peaceful Jews and “pagani”; translation from JRIL, p. 299. 81.  Linder thinks these edicts represent not only a late imperial response to the attacks in Edessa (JRIL, pp. 263, 284), and in Alexandria in 414 (JRIL, p. 284) but also to the rampages of the Syrian monk Barsauma in 419–​422 (JRIL, p.  288). For the problems with these, see below, pp. 195–201.

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Minorcan account is similarly unclear, but certainly they would have been quite germane. The Letter’s evasive account thus lends itself to being read as a preemptive defense against claims that the actions of the Minorcan Christians were in any way illegal.82 The Jews were not summoned on the Sabbath but merely invited for a friendly exchange. No one set the synagogue on fire—​it just happened to burn. The Christians stole nothing: they only removed certain valuables from the synagogue to protect them. No Jews were ever physically harmed or even at risk. Instead, apart from one criminally inclined Christian slave, the only violent perpetrators appear to be Jews, and Jewish women at that; and in any case, the Christians had reason to believe that the Jews were stockpiling weapons, an unresolved charge which could easily have been construed as seditious or unlawful, or at least as evidence of their intent to commit crimes against the peaceful Christians. The evasiveness of the Letter may also have had other purposes. By advocating the efficacy and divine authorization of coercing the Jews to accept Christ, the Letter took a position that not only came perilously close to legal jeopardy but also conflicted with the views of at least one highly influential bishop, Augustine of Hippo, whose role in these affairs was not immaterial. As Fredriksen illuminates, in the years leading up to the events on Minorca, Augustine had been wrestling with the problem of the morality and justification for coercive violence to bring the non-​orthodox to the true faith. He had concluded that it was permissible in the case of traditionalists and dissenting Christians, but ultimately concluded that the Jews were to be left unmolested.83 Orosius was likely aware of Augustine’s views on this matter, having spent extensive time with him and having corresponded with him frequently. We have no correspondence between Augustine and Severus, so it is impossible to be sure what the bishop of Minorca knew of Augustine’s position. When Orosius arrived on Minorca with the relics of Stephen, he had just come from a visit with Augustine in North Africa. It thus also seems possible, if not likely, that Orosius discussed these issues with Severus.

82. Bradbury summarizes these edicts in his survey of religious coercion in the fourth and fifth centuries (Bradbury 1996:53–​57), but does not comment on the consonance between the imperial prohibitions and the Letter. 83.  See Fredriksen 2008. Augustine’s argument was epitomized in his exegesis of Ps 59:11 (Vulgate 58:12): “Do not kill them”—​that is, the enemies of the Psalmist, now understood to be the Jews.



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Consentius clearly knew Augustine’s views on coercion generally (which he considered too lenient). His own are set forth in a letter detailing the tactics taken by Fronto against Priscillianists in Tarragona, which commends terror and violence as the only appropriate stance. An account with some rather startling resonances to the Letter of Severus,84 Consentius’s letter was, in Bradbury’s words, “a rebuke of Augustine’s ‘soft’ treatment of Donatists in North Africa.”85 Given the likelihood of Consentius’s participation in the composition of the Minorca account, Consentius probably thought that violence and coercion were warranted in the case of Jews as well.86 At the same time, however, Severus himself may have wished to tone down the argument of the Letter, aware of Augustine’s distaste for violence and coercive tactics applied to Jews. The posturing of the Letter might also have provided its author with a kind of plausible deniability, not only against legal prosecution but also against intra-​Christian debates. No actual coercion or violence took place, the Jews themselves (at least for the most part) voluntarily accepted Christ, and any destruction was the result of divine intervention. The actual events underlying the Letter were, in all likelihood, quite different. The Jews were compelled to convert by a combination of pressures orchestrated by the bishop, including actual physical violence (to the synagogue), the threat of violence (against their persons), and various forms of intimidation, including but not limited to the burning of the synagogue and the confiscation of copies of Jewish scriptures. The rhetorical strategies of the Letter complicate efforts to extract historically reliable information from its account.87 In her doctoral dissertation on the transformation of Constantinople into an orthodox Christian city,88 Rebecca Falcasantos engages some recent theorizing of violence that helps 84. Augustine, Ep. 11* (Divjak 1981; Eno 1989): see Bradbury 1996:66–​69. 85. Bradbury 1996:66. See also now Amengual i Batle 2018:59–​60. 86. Fredriksen considers what impact Consentius’s views may have had on Augustine, conceding that the chronology of the relevant letters makes it difficult to sort out the sequence of these arguments (Fredriksen 2008:361). 87. Elsewhere, I have argued that the stories about the conversion of elite Jewish women are shaped by the author’s desire to depict them as previously insubordinate to their husbands, but now transformed into properly subordinate Christian wives, and considered some of the power dynamics implicit in the Letter (Kraemer 2009; 2011:153–​78). Sivan 2013 illuminates further uses of female figures in fifth-​century Christian accounts of mass conversions (in the case of Porphyry, the Gazan population of practitioners of traditional religions), reading the Letter in tandem with the Life of Porphyry of Gaza. 88. Falcasantos 2015.

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illuminate the Letter’s representations of what transpired on Minorca, and the extent to which coercion and the implicit threat of violence is masked, rhetorical, symbolic, and efficacious. Such theorizing observes that while violence is often the illicit infliction of physical harm (as well as psychic or symbolic harm), those who inflict violence often see their acts as legitimate, while the recipient—​and sometimes witnesses—​may contest this.89 Drawing on the work of David Riches on the dynamic between the performer of violence and the victim and observers or witnesses (who are sometimes also the victims), Falcasantos notes that “[i]t is through these interactions between performer, victim, and witness that meaning is generated and judgments are made about right and wrong, the socially acceptable, and power relations.” Particularly germane to an analysis of the Letter is her observation that “witnesses could be created through the mediation that occurred through story telling, homilies, hagiographies, visual depictions, and historical narratives,” and that textual production itself can be a means of violence.90 The Letter creates witnesses even as it authorizes the symbolic and implicit violence against the Jews, while utterly denying both actual violence (itself literally illegal) and the threat of violence, and taking control of the interpretation of these events, which in a Jewish account would look completely different. As Falcasantos writes, “the meaning of [an act of violence is] negotiable and depend[s]‌on a number of further factors: the relationship between the performer of violence and recognized authorities: the success of the act; and subsequent reinterpretation.”91 Among other things, the Letter, in a multiplicity of ways, preempts alternative interpretations of Christian actions as violence. It credits Christians’ zeal to divine inspiration, initiated by the arrival of the relics of Stephen, himself depicted in Christian scripture and retelling as the “victim” of illicit Jewish violence against Christians. It positions Christians as the exemplars of self-​control, refraining from physical acts that would nevertheless have been totally justifiable (response to Jewish attacks), and thus not even “violence”—​at least violence defined as illicit infliction of harm. The effect of Christian violence here is to change the power relations between the parties, subordinating all the Jews of Minorca, including

89.  Falcasantos 2015:93–​142. The licit infliction of harm (warfare, corporal punishment by the state, parental discipline of children, men hitting their wives) is rarely what is meant by violence. 90. Falcasantos 2015:126. 91. Falcasantos 2015:127.



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Theodorus, to their new bishop. Defense against any charges of illegality is thus only one element of the utility of these rhetorical representations. Falcasantos’s discussion of memorialization similarly suggests that the Letter’s account of the replacement of the synagogue with a church does more than simply report a historical “fact.” Replacing synagogues with churches not only rewrites the natural and built landscape. Placing the church on the site of the synagogue (or at least, since the Letter is a bit elusive about this, building the church out of the stones from the synagogue) serves to memorialize the destruction and erasure of the synagogue. Rather than a total effacing that completely removes the synagogue and any knowledge of it, the new church retains the memory of the synagogue precisely through the evidence of its destruction. The new building thus becomes an enduring reminder of Christian triumph. Part of the point here is that although we do not know, at least in this case, whether the converted Jews did indeed help to build a new church with the stones from their devastated synagogue, even the story of such actions provides an interpretive template both for those who saw the church and for those who merely heard of it.92 Falcasantos further observes that “[m]‌emorialization . . . provided a mechanism by which groups could seize the landscape from formerly hegemonic groups, even to create a new normative landscape by rewriting the old one as one would a palimpsest.”93 The Letter’s account of the destruction of the synagogue and the erection of a church unquestionably participates in authorizing a new landscape on Minorca, perhaps on multiple levels, both for persons on Minorca itself in the aftermath and for those elsewhere who received the Letter. It encapsulates the problems the Letter poses for historical reconstruction. Did Jews actually build a church out of the stones of their demolished synagogue? Did they do so voluntarily, whatever that might mean, or were they coerced, by whatever means? The Letter seems to suggest that prior to the arrival of Stephen’s relics, Jews, led by Theodorus, dominated the social and political life of Minorca, at least in Magona, and disentangling this from the Letter’s rhetorical interests is impossible, especially in the absence of any other evidence for Jews on Minorca in this period. It serves the Letter well to depict Jews as flourishing, and to depict Christians as to some extent temporarily 92. In this case, it is impossible, at least for now, to distinguish between the actual practice of building churches on the site of and with the materials of the destroyed synagogues; and the story of such actions, which may or may not reflect what actually happened. Both may have comparable effects. 93. Falcasantos 2015:141.

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subordinate, even if doing so creates a kind of theological dissonance, which the tale itself ultimately resolves precisely through the conversion of the Jews and the suggestion that their conversion presages the eschaton, as imaged in Paul’s Letter to the Romans. This may in fact be a reasonable representation of the social realities on Minorca in the early fifth century, but it is extremely difficult to tell. These difficulties extend to many further details of the Letter, beginning with the arrival of the relics on the island. In the Letter, the presence of Stephen’s bones triggers an immediate desire on the part of Christians in Magona and then in Jamona to effect the conversion of the Jews, dating Orosius’s visit to sometime shortly before February 418.94 But this is almost certainly wrong, and not merely because it would have Orosius arrive during the perilous winter sailing season that begins in the late fall. Bradbury argues that Orosius’s visit actually took place at least a year and a half before the events narrated by Severus—​in the late summer, or perhaps the fall of 416. Orosius had been in Jerusalem in the summer of 415 for a synod examining the orthodoxy of Pelagius, and was still there in December 415, when the remains of Stephen were first dug up. Avitus of Braga gave him some of the relics to take back to their native Spain. But since Orosius had promised to stop off to see Augustine on his way home, he went first to Carthage in 416, attending a council that met in the late spring, and took up the matter of Pelagius. He then set out for Spain, stopping at Minorca. But the conflicts raging on the Spanish mainland made it too difficult to continue home, so he returned to North Africa and Augustine.95 He left the remains of Stephen on the island, although we have no idea why he did so.96 Perhaps he hoped to resume his journey home shortly, and planned to retrieve the relics from Minorca then. Perhaps Severus persuaded him they would be safer on Minorca than at risk

94. So, for instance, Hillgarth dated it to 417 in his review of Amengual i Batle 1991, noting that Amengual i Batle also thought that the arrival of the relics was a pretext, not the actual instigation of Christian pressure on Jews (Hillgarth 1994:730). Despite Bradbury’s arguments, Amengual i Batle still dates both Severus’s appointment as bishop, and Orosius’s visit to the fall of 417 (Amengual i Batle 2018:50). In the Letter, these two events are roughly contemporaneous (Letter 4.1). 95. The Letter refers to all this, if obliquely: “the [unnamed] priest came from Jerusalem and sojourned for a brief time in Magona. After he was unable to cross over to Spain, as he wished to do, he decided to go back to Africa” (Letter 4.1). 96. The Letter claims that he did so “doubtless at the inspiration of the saint” (“ipso sine dubio martyre inspirante”) (Letter 4.2). But this tells us nothing about what actually motivated Orosius to leave relics he had intended to take to the mainland.



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during another sea voyage. Perhaps he left some of the relics on Minorca and kept the rest. Regardless, if Bradbury is right, which seems likely, there was a substantial time lag between the arrival of the relics in 416 and the events of February 418. In the interim, Severus had been endeavoring for some time to pressure the Minorcan Jewish community,97 although what really led him to move in February 418 remains unknown.98 This may also help explain why the Letter coyly never identifies Orosius by name; Orosius, after all, could have put the lie to some of its claims, undermining its credibility. Orosius is best known for a work commissioned by Augustine, an assemblage of the calamities experienced by “pagans” and Jews as divine punishment for their respective idolatry and failure to recognize and accept Christ.99 It’s unclear whether he wrote it before or shortly after he went to Minorca, but it seems likely that he was well schooled in orthodox discussions about Jews. It’s hard to imagine that he simply handed the relics of Stephen to Severus and stepped on the gangplank of a ship back to North Africa. More plausibly, he played at least some role in setting these events in motion over the next year and a half. Omitting his name may thus conceal other aspects of Orosius’s involvement that Severus (or even Consentius) wished to obscure. The Letter takes pains to point out that prior to the arrival of Stephen’s relics, relations between Jews and Christians in Magona were quite cordial. Whether they actually were is impossible to assess apart from this text, and the larger historical questions of social relations on the ground between Jews and Christians in this period are quite complicated. This claim also conflicts, to some extent, with the text’s representation of Jews as the evil “other,” as well as with the anxieties of the Jews that Christians hate them and their religion and wish to kill the Jews. But for numerous reasons, it serves the author well 97. Bradbury 1996:25. 98. Bradbury thinks that the arrival of the relics focused Christian attention on the story of Jews stoning Stephen and thus exacerbated tensions between Christians and Jews, which intensified when Theodorus left for Majorca (Bradbury 1996:5). Rose 2002 proposes that events on Minorca were precipitated by the conversion of a single Jew (presumably Reuben), based on a comparison of the Letter of Severus with the sixth-​century account in Gregory of Tours about the conversion of the Jews of Clermont by its bishop, Avitus (Hist. Franks 5.5.). Part of her argument rests on Bradbury’s observation that the relics of Stephen had arrived on Minorca well over a year before these events, so that despite the Letter’s claim, the actual trigger had to have been something else. This presumes, of course, that one can discern the actual historical events behind the Letter’s rhetorical fashioning. For further discussion of Gregory’s account, see below, pp. 327–32. 99. Orosius, Seven Books of Histories Against the Pagans (Fear 2010).

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to represent these relations as amicable, not the least of which is that doing so furthers the representation of both Severus and other Christians as gentle, mild, sociable, and nonviolent.100 The same is true for the Letter’s depiction of the Christian response when Theodorus finally converts. He is embraced both physically and symbolically by men who “caress his face and neck with kisses,” “embrace him in gentle arms,” long to join “right hands” with him, or converse with him. Following Andrew Jacobs, as I have noted elsewhere, one might read such actions as Christian fantasizing about their own desires, but whether or not that is the case, this scene furthers the representation of Christians as kind and nonviolent, motivated only by love, which they instantly demonstrate when Jews convert.101 Another instance of these difficulties concerns the rather startling scene in which, en route to the synagogue to see whether the Jews have concealed weapons there, the Jews join with the Christians who are chanting a hostile verse from Ps 9:7–​8.102 A  somewhat similar scene occurs in Ambrose’s account of the discovery of the bones of two Christian saints in Bologna, in 393.103 After the bishop of Bologna had a dream that the bones of Vitalis and Agricola were buried, unrecognized, in a Jewish cemetery, Ambrose was present at their exhumation. As the Christians dug up the remains, Jewish spectators ironically chanted verses from the Song of Songs in some antiphonal or responsive fashion with the Christians. As McLynn puts it, the singers sounded “for all the world like the choirs that [Ambrose] had trained in Milan.”104 These scenes of Jews and Christians singing in concert raise questions not only about the possible verisimilitude of Jews and Christians chanting ensemble but also about the larger accuracy of either account. In the Letter of Severus, their ability to chant the same psalm, presumably in Latin and

100.  This claim is evocative of one in Philostorgios, Eccl. Hist. 3.14, who writes that “when Aetius came on the scene and initiated dissension in these matters as well, the members of his sect broke off all ties, friendships and customs that had joined them to those of differing beliefs and set up a party that stood in opposition to them” (cited in Falcasantos 2015:102n20). 101. Jacobs 2003:29–​32, cited in Kraemer 2011:177. 102. Letter 13.1–​3. 103. Ambrose, Exhortation to Virginity 2–​8 (PL 16, 351–​52), a sermon preached in Florence not long after, on the occasion of the consecration of a church; see also Paulinus, Life of Ambrose 29.1, which says just that Ambrose raised the bodies of the saints “inter corpora Iudeorum,” “from among the bodies of the Jews.” 104. McLynn 1994:348.



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presumably with the same melody, envisages common liturgical practices, and perhaps even some larger communal processions in Magona. It’s easy for modern scholars who want to envision the possibility of decent relations on the ground to see such details as evidence of shared practices and, thus, possibly of generally peaceful social relations.105 At the same time, the implied Christian reader of the Minorcan Letter surely understands that the referent of the Psalm, those whose memory will perish, is the Jews, even if for modern readers there is the real possibility that any actual Jews chanting this hymn would have intended Christians as the referent. But it’s not the chanting Jews who prevail and who are here oblivious to the impending fulfillment of this particular prophecy. As in the account of the discovery of Stephen’s relics, in Ambrose the Jews of Bologna function as guarantors of the truth of the martyrs, and their chanting contributes to their construction as friendly and trustworthy witnesses. In McLynn’s assessment, Ambrose is deeply deceitful, masking the true nature of what McLynn nevertheless takes to be actual historical events.106 “The operation was not so much a peaceful transfer from one community to another of items whose preciousness was recognized by both as it was a sacrilegious commando raid. . . . The Christians trampled the burial ground of the Jews, ransacked a particular section of it and carried off their spoils.”107 It’s certainly quite possible that Ambrose radically reconfigures an actual event in which Christians in Bologna desecrated a Jewish cemetery in search of martyr relics. If there was such a raid, of course, one has to wonder what, exactly, the Christians actually removed in their quest for the bones of Christian martyrs. If they took human remains, we may presume that these were almost certainly those of Jews, whose decomposed bodies are now repurposed for Christian propaganda and triumphalism. This is particularly disturbing, even if one is willing to grant that the degree of Christian misrecognition was sufficiently high that they truly believed they were simply reclaiming the bones

105. So Bradbury 1996:128, who writes “No detail in the letter reveals so clearly the intimacy of the two religious communities as the fact that they can sing the same hymns.” Bradbury here also adduces the account of Ambrose. Cf. McLynn’s critique of Cracco Ruggini’s assessment (1974:441) of this episode (McLynn 1994:347). 106. For further consideration of the function of Jews as unwitting guarantors of Christian truth, see ­below, pp. 266–67, on the legend of Judas Kyriakos. 107. McLynn 1994:348. Yet he also notes that this aggression was far more moderated, and did not trigger a governmental response that burning a synagogue might: see his further discussion on 348–​50.

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of true Christian martyrs somehow mistakenly deposited in a Jewish cemetery.108 But in any case, there are strong reasons to be extremely cautious in the use of either of these scenes, whether as something that actually transpired during whatever events underlie the accounts or as the kind of verisimilitude that enables a more general historical reconstruction. Yet for all the doubts one may have about the historical reliability, at both macro and micro levels, of the Letter on the conversion of Jews on Minorca, it is of the utmost salience for this project. It is by far the most thorough, detailed description we have for a community of Latin-​speaking Jews in the early fifth century (or, for that matter, any time after the writings of Josephus at the end of the first century), whose representations of economic, civic, personal, and religious life invite the most careful scrutiny. As I shall develop in subsequent chapters, the Letter encapsulates numerous probable aspects of Jewish experiences in late antiquity, despite the layers of rhetoric in which they are enmeshed: coercion of various forms, including violence and threats of violence; synagogue burning; the appropriation of synagogue treasures; large-​scale conversion; the building of a church on the site of a desecrated synagogue; and even emigration. Although the Letter never explicitly mentions late antique legislation regarding Jews, its details are thrown into much sharper relief both by some of this legislation and by the historical events elsewhere that relate to that legislation. In the social constructions of the Letter, the conversion of the Jews and their apparently seamless incorporation into the existing orthodox Christian community are facilitated in no small part by social commonalities. Like their Christian neighbors, Jews are fluent in Latin; indeed, whether they know or speak any language other than Latin is unclear. Innocentius is said to be learned not just in Latin literature but also in Greek, which appears to be unusual, although it may be significant that he is said to be a Jew from the Spanish mainland.109 They have close economic and even social relations with the Minorcan Christians, both before and after the events of the Letter. Despite the rhetorical utility of these representations, they provide tantalizing data for inquiries into the kinds of social processes that may have facilitated or impeded the conversion of Jews. Although the Letter of Severus suggests that Jews had lived on Minorca for some time, no definitive archaeological evidence of their presence has yet

108. I have yet to see anyone point this out. 109. Letter 18.15.



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come to light. We have no evidence of any Jewish burial sites, nor have any Jewish inscriptions been found on the island, funerary or otherwise.110 In the Letter, Severus refers repeatedly to a single Jewish synagogue and to two churches. One church was already there when he and other Christians from Jamona arrived in Magona. It was the church where Orosius left the relics of Stephen, and it now serves as a base of operations for the Jamonan Christians. The other is the new basilica which he says the Jews subsequently helped to build, reusing the stones from the now-​destroyed synagogue. In the Letter, the synagogue is located somewhere in Magona itself, while the existing church is outside the town.111 On the day that the Christians first arrived from Jamona, messengers are said to have gone back and forth numerous times between the synagogue and the house where Severus was lodged, whose exact location is never specified.112 Severus initially sends clerical messengers to invite the Jews to come out to the church. The messengers return with the report that the Jews have declined his invitation, claiming it to be a Sabbath violation. Severus sends them back to say that the Jews could wait for him at the synagogue, if they prefer not to enter the church. Thus, messengers go back and forth between Severus and the synagogue twice, for a total of four trips between locations. Subsequently, the Jews appear at the house where Severus is staying, after which Jews and Christians alike walk to the synagogue to see whether the Jews have in fact stored weapons there. Remains of six early Byzantine Christian churches, dotted across the island, have been known for some time.113 Only two are close to modern Mahon (Magona): a basilica on a tiny island in the large deepwater harbor of the town, known as the Isla del Rey,114 and a basilica known as Es Fornás de Torelló (for a prehistoric tower just down the road), located about four kilometers southwest of Mahon, just off the Mahon–​Sant Climent road,

110. A few Aramaic inscriptions on lead sheets were found on Majorca in the nineteen thirties. Their dating is uncertain: they may be fourth or fifth century, but they may also be considerably later; JIWE 2.177, with discussion of the various issues. On these, see also Amengual i Batle 2018:48n20. 111. Letter 12–​13, 20.5; Bradbury 1996:40. 112. Letter 12.3–​7. 113.  Together with a Brown undergraduate research assistant, Catherine Goldberg, I  visited Minorca in May 2007; some of these observations are a result of that trip. 114. The name King’s Island, apparently comes from Alphonse III, who reconquered the island from the Muslims in the thirteenth century, although the website of the Museu de Menorca refers to it in Catalan as the Illa del rei, and translates it as “Bloody Island.”

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extremely close to the present airport. Considerably further from Mahon, about nineteen kilometers by the present roads, are ruins at So’n Bou, right on the beach at a small resort. There are also remains of a church just inland from the present southern tip of the northern port of Fornells, known as Cap de Port de Fornells, about eighteen kilometers from Mahon. The other two sites are some modest remains northwest of Fornells, near the fourth-​century Roman settlement of Sanisera (now Sanitja) and others on a second island, this one presently off the cove at Es Grau, a nine-​kilometer drive northwest of Mahon. Most recent scholarship on the Letter of Severus has paid little if any attention to whether any of these sites was previously the synagogue.115 In the 1950s, Seguí and Hillgarth proposed that So’n Bou was the new basilica built on the site of the older synagogue.116 Bradbury noted that the remains at So’n Bou had been thought to be the earliest of the six sites, perhaps as early as the fourth century.117 This might account, at least in part, for considering them as a possible site for the synagogue. Nevertheless, this seems virtually impossible. Even if one could have taken a more direct route from Magona to So’n Bou than the present modern road, the absolute distance between the two is still on the order of twelve kilometers, and the terrain is fairly hilly and inhospitable. That Jews in Magona would have had their synagogue there seems incomprehensible (as well as inconsistent with the Letter’s representation of the synagogue’s location).118 The location of the basilicas at Fornells and Es Grau are also sufficiently far from Mahon that neither could have been the synagogue of the Letter. This leaves the two basilicas within easy distance of the ancient town: Es Fornás de Torelló and Isla del Rey. The mosaic floor of the first is still on site, while part of the second has been on display in the town museum: a photograph of it can be seen on the museum’s website.119 The decorative programs of both utilize elements found in numerous late antique synagogues and 115. Bradbury 1996:26 devotes half a page to a discussion of the surviving basilicas, and a sentence to the possible site of the synagogue. 116. Seguí and Hillgarth 1955; cf. de Palol 1967a:16n32, cited in Bradbury 1996:26n63. On So’n Bou, see also Orfila and Tuset 1988. 117. Bradbury 1996:26. 118. Whether the site could have been a different synagogue is, of course, a different question, but there is no evidence so far to suggest that there was a second synagogue on the island. 119.  See https://​www.museudemenorca.com/​en/​activities/​read/​mosaic-​of-​the-​la-​basilica-​of-​ the-​illa-​-​del-​rei-​/​61. See also Guardia 1988.



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churches, although none that is unequivocally explicitly Jewish or Christian. Neither site has yielded inscriptions. Various scholars have seen more particular similarities between the Minorca mosaics and those of various synagogues (and occasionally churches) in ancient Palestine, including Gaza. De Palol also saw clear affinities between the motifs of the mosaic found on the Isla del Rey in the late nineteenth century, and those at Es Fornás de Torelló, which itself, he argued, resembled the mosaics from Hamman Lif, including pairs of lions, peacocks, and the tree of life. For Palol, this was evidence that these and other Minorcan basilicas had been built by former Minorcan Jews conversant with these Jewish decorative programs.120 Blázquez and others, however, have argued for Palestinian models, known either directly through craftsmen and other contact or through the presumed use of pattern books and the like. All these discussions, however, seem to presume that the Minorca mosaics were commissioned for Christian usage. No one has ever suggested that the current basilica at Es Fornás de Torelló was previously the synagogue, although it has been suggested that it was previously a villa, and that the mosaics were not necessarily installed as part of a church. It seems possible that it was the site of the older church to which Severus invited the Jews. Its location is completely consonant with the Letter’s references to this church: it is outside the ancient (and modern) city, yet just off an ancient Roman road that ran from Mahon through Sant Clement, and would have been an easy, relatively level walk to the town, about four kilometers away.121 From the current lane that leads to the site, it is possible at points to see the town and the sea beyond. But none of this is disposive, either, and conceivably there was a Christian church elsewhere for which no trace survives. The site on the Isla del Rey is most intriguing. In the nineteenth century, it housed a military hospital consisting of a few buildings which still stand, no longer used, and which is currently being professionally excavated.122 As one can now see easily on Google Earth, the basilica site occupies a relatively small plot on the eastern side of the island.123 After

120. De Palol 1967a:133–​50; de Palol 1967b:223–​33, cited in Blázquez 1998:169. 121. Letter of Severus 12.3, 14.1, 16.20–​17.3. 122. Smith 2015; Pérez-​Juez et al. 2015. 123. Google Earth was not available in 2007: I thank Robyn Walsh for subsequently downloading an image of this for me, which is now easy to obtain.

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the discovery of its mosaics, but prior to its excavation in the 1960s by M.  L. Serra, the suggestion was floated that the site might have been a synagogue.124 Beyond the similarity of its mosaics to those of late antique Palestine, it has a few intriguing features that might be consistent with its having once been a synagogue, including its location by the sea, and the floor plan of the basilica remains.125 Many, but by no means all, diaspora synagogues were built in close proximity to open or running water, including Aegina, Hamman Lif, Kelibia, and Ostia. Centuries earlier, Josephus cited a first century bce decree of the people of Halicarnassos that authorized Jews to keep the Sabbath and other ancestral practices, including a somewhat ambiguous phrase that some scholars translate as “and to build synagogues by the sea” and others “and to make prayers by the sea.”126 Not inconceivably, of course, this is integrally related to Exod 15, and the worship by the sea after the destruction of the Egyptians: how relevant it is for Jewish practices in the late fourth century or so is far from apparent. While the basilical layouts of So’n Bou and Es Fornas de Torello are immediately apparent, the plan of Isla del Rey seems more consistent with the designs of several diaspora synagogues that contain a complex of rooms of various sorts.127 But in and of itself, this proves nothing. The plan of Es Cap de Fornells is somewhat hybrid: it contains a clearly basilical form with numerous adjacent rooms. Other diaspora synagogues sometimes have a strikingly basilical form, including Elche (presuming it was a synagogue), and most notably Sardis, although there the basilical form seems a function of the earlier building which subsequently became a synagogue. Nevertheless, the difference between the plans of the harbor site and the other sites on Minorca is interesting and is consistent with (but not demonstrative of ) the thesis that it could have been a synagogue. 124. Serra Belabre 1967; Mas Florit et al. 2008; Cau Ontiveros et al. 2012. For the synagogue proposal, Dúran Cañameras 1943. I am most grateful to Catalina Mas Florit and Miguel Cau Ontiveros for clarifying these issues and for the reference to Dúran Cañameras. 125. For recent reproductions of the mosaic and plans of the site, see Florit et al. 2008. 126. Josephus, Jud. Ant. 14.256–​58. 127. In the presentation she assembled following our trip to Minorca, Goldberg observed that “Of the four structures in Menorca [So’n Bou, Es Fornas de Torello, Isla del Rey, and Cap de Fornells], only Illa del Rei [Isla del Rey] lacks the hierarchical structure that characterized churches in late antiquity. It shares the square form of the synagogues at Hamman-​Lif and Ostia, while the other three possess an apse tailed by a long nave, indicative of the hierarchical liturgy of Christianity in late antiquity” (Goldberg 2007). Her analysis was premised in part on the arguments of Levine 2005 that late antique diaspora synagogues were significantly distinct in layout from Byzantine churches, partly as a result of liturgical differences.



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Nevertheless, it now seems clear that this was not the case. The most recent work by Cau Ontiveros, Mas Florit, and others has found no evidence of an earlier building—​on the contrary, the basilica rests on bedrock.128 They now believe that the basilica was built in the late sixth or even early seventh century—​further evidence that it is not the early fifth-​century edifice depicted in the Letter of Severus.129 Further, it appears that the building was constructed at the site of a single, special grave that was eventually emptied, which suggests that it was built as a martyrium or similar shrine. This makes sense of its location on a small island in the harbor, which was no more accessible from the mainland in antiquity than it is today.130 If the Letter of Severus is accurate in its representation of a synagogue in Magona in the early fifth century, it seems most likely to have been in the town itself. After the bishop accused the Jews of storing weapons in the synagogue, a procession of Christian and Jewish men walked from wherever Severus was staying to the synagogue to adjudicate the accusation. Along the way they passed by a spot from which some Jewish women were able to throw stones down at the passing Christians. The terrain immediately outside Mahon, to the west, is relatively flat, sloping down gradually to the town, but the port itself is considerably lower than the town walls, which appear to have been built against existing cliffs. Several present streets in the town afford precisely the vantage point for the stone-​throwing episode the Letter narrates, suggesting that the synagogue was fairly close to the harbor itself. If this is the case, we are unlikely ever to find the remains of either the synagogue or a church built on its smoldering ruins. We have no idea what may have happened after the events the Letter narrates, although the author does tell us that Theodorus continued to be “patronus,” and Caecilianus was still so eminent among the Minorcans that “even now he has been elected ‘defensor.’ ”131 Despite the author’s hope that the account of the conversion of the Jews of Minorca would be widely read

128. Mas Florit et al. 2008. I am grateful to Michelle Mericle for reading the full Spanish article and providing me with a substantial report. 129. Cau Ontiveros et al. 2012. 130. I am grateful to Prof. John Cherry at Brown, an expert in island geography and archaeology, and especially to Alexander Smith, an archaeologist excavating the hospital site on the Isla del Rey, for educating me on these issues. Assuming its late date is correct, it seems unlikely to be the church in Magona where Orosius first deposited the relics of Stephen (Letter 4.2). We might wonder whether the relics were subsequently relocated. 131.  Letter 19.6. For a helpful overview of the office, see Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:212–​14, who notes that while the position of “patronus” was somewhat informal, that of “defensor civitatis” was increasingly strictly regulated: see also below, pp. 212–13, 257, 365. The “defensores” were increasingly co-​opted in the enforcement of laws against dissident Christians and traditionalists.

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and emulated across the empire, it seems to have had little discernible impact. It was apparently read by the bishop of Uzalis in North Africa a few years later, but we have no other reports of its receipt or recitation. The earliest surviving manuscript dates to the tenth century.132 Augustine is silent, perhaps tellingly, on the events in Minorca, although Consentius’s letter to him makes clear not only that Augustine knew about them but also that he knew more than the letter itself lays out. Fredriksen observes that unlike the bishop of Uzalis, Augustine did not read the Letter to his congregation, nor did he ever praise Severus, or even Consentius (at least so far as the surviving sources allow). He dedicated a chapel in Hippo to St. Stephen, but his account of the miracles effected by Stephen makes no mention of those on Minorca.133 In Fredriksen’s analysis, these silences are consistent with Augustine’s position that the Jews were not to be coerced: they would come to Christ when the time was right.134 As we shall see, though, reminiscences of the Letter may be discerned in various later accounts of similar events, including the account of the conversion of the traditionalist inhabitants of Gaza and Gregory of Tours’s account of the conversion of the Jews of Clermont.135 We cannot tell whether some Jews on Minorca might have subsequently regretted or resisted their Christianization. Bradbury argues that after the events of February 418, Consentius composed a tract of arguments to be used in debates with Jews that suggests these disputes continued and that Severus has overstated the extent of Jewish acquiescence.136 If this was the case, and if Minorca’s Jews did have second thoughts, they would not have been unique:  various later authors, from Gregory of Tours to Gregory the Great, indicate that forcibly converted Jews sometimes subsequently returned to Jewish practices.137 A law issued in 416 from Ravenna by Honorius, shortly 132. On the manuscript tradition, see Bradbury 1996:72–​77; see also now Amengual i Batle 2018:77–​78. 133. Augustine, City of God 22.8. 134. Fredriksen 2008:363. 135.  Life of Porphyry (Sivan 2013); Gregory of Tour, Hist. Franks 5.5. Rose 2002 argues that Gregory had read the Letter of Severus and actively drew on it for his own account, although her argument is circumstantial:  there is no direct evidence for this. She speculates that Artemisia’s father, Litorius, might have been the vector for knowledge of the story in Gaul (Rose 2002:316n36). below, pp. 327–32. 136. Bradbury 1996:71–​72. 137. On which, see below, pp. 331–32, 337. These claims are made, sometimes, in service to arguments that it is better to persuade Jews to convert than to force them to do so, since forced conversions are not genuine and do not stick.



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before the Minorcan episode, explicitly permitted Jews who had converted for suspect reasons (such as for financial gain, to escape debt, or criminal punishment) to return to the practice of their ancestral religion, although alleging coercion on the part of Christians doesn’t seem to meet these criteria.138 Vandals began incursions onto the Balearics only a few years after the likely composition of the Letter, in 425, establishing control of the islands in 455.139 One account of the Vandal invasion of North Africa accuses them of horrific violence against the orthodox populace, and their churches in particular: “they burned houses of prayer with fires greater than those they used against all the cities and towns.”140 They subjected bishops and priests to hideous forms of torture, and spared neither women nor infants.141 Many orthodox bishops were expelled, and their congregations were deprived of replacements.142 Much of the work narrates at length the cruel torture and martyrdom of numerous orthodox Christians. How much of it reflects Vandal practices and how much is orthodox anti-​Arian rhetoric is difficult to assess. Still, although we have no direct evidence for what transpired in the Balearics during the Vandal incursions, it seems reasonable to think that local orthodox Christians would have been subject to similar harsh treatment. The last known orthodox bishop on Minorca appears to have been one Makarios, named in a list of those bishops summoned to a synod of Arians and orthodox Christians in Carthage in 484, convened by the Vandal king Huneric.143 What implications this had for Severus’s (former) Jews is similarly unknown. As I will discuss in subsequent chapters, though, there are enough indications 138.  CTh 16.8.23, JRIL 43, on which see ­below, pp. 233–34. An earlier law in 397 from Constantinople (CTh 9.45.2, JRIL 26) seems to respond to a related issue. It forbid churches from granting asylum and thus protection from debts or judicial proceedings to Jews who were in the process of converting, requiring them to resolve these legal issues before being accepted into the church. 139. Hydatius, Chronicle 77 (Burgess, 1993). But on the difficulties of Hydatius’s chronology, see Burgess 1988:73–​97. 140. Victor of Vita, Hist. 1.4. 141. Victor of Vita, Hist.  1.5–​7. 142. Victor of Vita, Hist. 1.23. 143. According to the Notitia provinciarum et civitatum Africae (The Notice of the Provinces and Cities of [Roman North] Africa), which included also the bishops of Majorca and Ibiza, cited in Mas Florit and Cau Ontiveros 2013:224–​25. The list is attributed to Victor of Vita, often identified as the bishop of Vita in Byzacena, North Africa. Moorhead 1992b:xv argues that the author of the History of the Vandal Persecution to which this list was appended, is not demonstrably a bishop, although he may subsequently have become one: he is identified as such, however, in Moorhead’s reconstructed introit (Moorhead 1992b:1).

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of alliances between Jews and Arians that we might wonder whether the orthodox loss of control might have enabled some former Jews to resume their Jewish practices—​or at the very least, to reposition themselves politically and align themselves with the anti-​orthodox Arians.144 But wonder is the best we can do. The islands were retaken by a Byzantine general, Apollinarius, sent by Justinian’s general, Belisarios, in 533–​34.145 The reestablishment of Byzantine control may perhaps be visible in the remains of those half dozen churches thought to date to the early sixth century (or perhaps later).146 Minorca was sufficiently depopulated and repopulated as a result of the Christian reconquests of Spain from Muslim control that there appears to be no meaningful continuity between its current residents and its late antique population.

144. Some gauge of the impact of Vandal control may be seen in recent archaeological studies, finding that imports between the Balearics and Tunisia flourished up until the Vandal incursions, then seem to have ceased, and resumed again in the early to mid-​sixth century; in the years of Vandal control, there’s evidence for Vandal exports to the Balearics (Reynolds 2005:418–​19). 145. Prokopios, Hist. 4.5.1–​10; see Amengual i Batle 1991:330 (to whose work all later studies refer). 146. See, e.g., de Palol 1967a, although as noted earlier, the excavation of these sites has been quite uneven, and it’s not clear how confident we may be about these dates. On the excavation of churches on Majorca from the same period, see Mas Florit and Cau Ontiveros 2013.

3

“You shall have freedom from care . . . during my reign.” —​Letter 51, The Emperor Julian to the Collectivity of the Jews, (perhaps spurious) (dated) March 1, 363

From Constantine to the Death of Julian (312–​3 63) It might seem obvious, in retrospect, that Constantine’s early and ardent patronage of an emergent orthodox Christian church would quickly have resulted in pressure on Jews around the ancient Mediterranean to abandon their traditional practices and beliefs. Early Christian writings express both considerable interest in the conversion of Jews and extensive antagonism to Jews and their religion. As the Letter of Severus still manifests a century later, this antagonism had long held in considerable tension both a strong desire to turn Jews to Christ and absorb them into Christian churches, and pernicious beliefs about the irremediable negative qualities of Jews that could easily hamper such actual incorporation. The Christian desire and the pressure to convert Jews came, of course, from an internal and internalized discourse whose roots may be traced back as far as Paul himself. His letter to persons at Rome, especially, infused the conversion of Jews with an eschatological element that may have complicated late antique Christian views, since the total conversion of Jews could easily be construed to signal the imminent end, as the Letter of Severus itself makes explicit.1 While obvious, it still bears emphasizing that the drive for Christian proselytism of Jews, Samaritans, and “Hellenes” alike may be easily characterized as endemic.

1. Rom 9–​11; Letter of Severus 31.3. The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190222277.001.0001

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Prior to the fourth century, though, Christians had only a restricted repertoire of options to realize these desires, which included intellectual argument and social strategies both positive and negative. They might entice, they might persuade, they might incentivize, but they lacked the means or the authority to force Jews to convert, as well as the authority (and for the most part the means) to prevent Jewish practice or to penalize Jews who (still) resisted their overtures. Once a Roman emperor, however, professed Christian beliefs, internal Christian discourse and impetus to convert Jews began to meld with the imperial apparatus (administrative, legislative, and military) that increasingly enabled Christians to limit the rights of Jews, constrain their ancestral practices, and radically alter the calculus of conversion. Yet in the early fourth century, newly empowered Christians appeared far more focused on two different threats to the project of a homogenous Christian empire:  other Christians, and those still practicing traditional Mediterranean religions. Prior to Constantine, Christians similarly had limited means for resolving their differences with one other, including application of social pressures and illicit violent contestations. Once, however, there was a Christian emperor, it became possible for competing Christian factions to seek the support, patronage, and authorization of the emperor, with the attendant powerful means of enforcing conformity. And this is precisely what happened on numerous fronts. In the early fourth century, for example, Christians in Constantinople and elsewhere held competing views about the relationship between God the Father and Jesus the Son. Some maintained that God the Father and Jesus the Son were entirely of the same substance (in Greek, homoousios), while others, particularly an Alexandrian priest named Arius, and his followers, considered God and Jesus to be of like (homoios)—​but not identical—​substance, and that the Son was subordinate to the Father.2 Just a few decades earlier, such seemingly arcane theological disagreements were not easily amenable to definitive resolution. Now, different pressures could be brought to bear on persons and groups with competing positions and practices. In 325, Constantine convened a council of bishops at Nicaea, a town outside Constantinople, which ultimately approved the Nicene Creed—​a statement of correct belief (orthodoxy) that affirmed the homoousian position. Nevertheless, the controversy continued. Followers of Arius and other like-​minded teachers continued to 2. For a helpful introduction, see Lyman 2008, with useful additional bibliography; see also Rankin 2000. For a far more thorough discussion, see Ayres 2004 and the various essays in HTR 100 (2007) 2:141–​75 (all cited in McEvoy 2013:117–​18n72).



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put forth competing beliefs and supported different bishops who taught instead the homoian position. Although the Nicene theology ultimately became the doctrine of the Roman Catholic Church, in the fourth and fifth centuries, those who held Arian beliefs, and who aligned themselves with Arian bishops, were not only numerous but also sometimes the majority, and it was by no means clear whose position would prevail. While Constantine himself supported the Nicene position, several of his successors were Arians. By the late fourth century, laws from the eastern imperial court targeted Arians and the related Eunomians, named for another Arian teacher. Western laws focused on other dissidents. One primary target was the Donatists, so named for their allegiance to a Carthaginian bishop, Donatus, whose legitimacy was contested. In the early fourth century, conflicts arose over what to do with those persons who succumbed to pressure during the prosecutions under Diocletan (and who came to be called traditores), but who wished to return to the church once these ceased. A newly elected early fourth-​century bishop of Carthage, Caecilianus, was challenged over his ordination by a bishop accused of being a traditor, and another candidate, Majorinus, was elected in his stead. Nevertheless, Caecilianus refused to yield, resulting in two competing bishops in Carthage. Ultimately, the conflict came before Constantine, resulting in the approval of Caecilianus and the condemnation of Donatus, who had by then succeeded Majorinus. The subsequent conflict, sometimes violent, lasted over a century.3 Another regular target was the followers of a Persian teacher named Mani (the Manichaeans), whose devotées at one point included a young Augustine, not yet the bishop of Hippo.4 Laws formulated in both the eastern and western parts of the empire targeted, under diverse names, the followers of a late second-​century charismatic prophet named Montanus, which is perhaps unsurprising considering the literary and sometimes epigraphic evidence for such groups both in Montanus’s natal Phrygia (the East) and its subsequent spread to North Africa (the West).5 Converting or persecuting Jews seems to have been a far lesser priority. So, too, was the case with converting or persecuting Samaritans, a group often 3. There is an extensive bibliography on what is often couched as the “Donatist controversy.” For a helpful brief introduction, see Rebillard 2008:302–​22, esp.  311–​15; see also Alexander 2000 and Engberg 2017. For an extensive assessment, see Shaw 2011. The classic study, now much critiqued, is Frend 1952. 4. For an introduction, see Lieu 2008; pp. 231–​33 consider Augustine’s association with the Manichaeans. 5.  For a short overview, see Trevett 2002; for extensive treatment, see Tabbernee 2007. Montanist sources are conveniently assembled in Tabbernee 1997.

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neglected in these discussions, but who were also increasingly targeted in imperial legislation. Christians may initially have been somewhat less concerned with Samaritans, or at least less antagonistic to them, since Samaritans play no role in the death of Jesus in the Synoptic Gospels (Mark, Matthew, and Luke), are actively allies of Jesus in the Gospel of John, and do not figure in the eschatological scenarios of Paul. In the real world of late antiquity, of course, Samaritans were similarly problematic for their disinterest in Christianity, even if there were far fewer Samaritans than Jews, especially in the Mediterranean diaspora.6 By the end of the fourth century, there is evidence not merely for anti-​ Jewish arguments in the writings of Christian elites but at least some evidence for attacks on physical synagogues, as well as evidence for Jews converting to Nicene Christianity and legislation aimed at the protection of such converts from violence by other Jews. Curiously, there are almost no accounts of Jews who joined non-​Nicene Christian churches. One notable exception comes from Sokrates of Constantinople’s account of a Jewish man, Sabbatios, who became a Novatian—​a group with roots in mid-​third-​century conflicts over proper responses to Christians who recanted during Roman prosecutions.7 To the extent that Jews did become Christians, it seems hard to imagine that they would not at least sometimes have joined such churches, so that the lack of evidence seems best explained by the suppression of such accounts, including the failure to transmit them, as part of a more general orthodox suppression of Arian, Donatist, Manichaean, and other so-​called heretical writings already sketched in the first chapter.8 In this and subsequent chapters, I will show that the process by which Jews were increasingly subject to restrictions and pressure to become Christians appears to have been long and slow, and that what seem as though they should have been obvious turning points may not have been, whether the premature death of Julian, who briefly revived traditionalist practices, or the eventual

6. For further discussion of Samaritans, including bibliography, see b­ elow, chapter 8, esp. pp. 287–91. 7. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 5.1, 7.5. Interestingly, there seem to be no contemporaneous accounts of Jews who join groups of natal Jews worshiping Jesus but continuing in various ancestral practices (like the Ebionites). 8. See above, pp. 23–24. The apocryphal Acts of Philip, perhaps dating to the fourth century, set in Hierapolis in Asia Minor, contains fictional accounts of the conversion of Jews to the distinctive teachings of Philip and his colleagues (including a woman named Mariam). It is impossible to assess whether these accounts are related to the conversion of actual Jews to any fourth-​century Christian groups: for the text, see Bovon et al. 1999; Bovon and Matthews 2012.



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staunch orthodoxy of Theodosios I.9 While the level of anti-​Jewish rhetoric of orthodox Christian bishops and other influential figures may have been quite high, throughout the fourth century imperial attention appears primarily focused elsewhere, giving Christian bishops, monks, and mobs only moderate support and cover for their desires to convert Jews or otherwise neutralize the threat Jews were thought to pose to the creation of a wholly orthodox Christian inhabited world. As numerous scholars have pointed out, in the fourth century (and surely subsequently), emperors and bishops had competing motivations or interests. Bishops and their networks of allies pressured emperors to impose their favored form(s) of Christian belief, practice, and lines of authority, precisely because they lacked the means to impose uniformity on their own. They lacked control of the military, of the legislative process, of the judicial system, and of the administrative system of the empire more generally—​systems whose reach, as many scholars have commented, was itself far greater at the center(s) than at the peripheries. Some, at least, were by no means adverse to the use of force and violence, as we shall see, but they had nothing like the structure, resources, and staffing of the Roman army and judiciary, and had no authority or legal means to impose their rules on those who resisted. Emperors had to balance the pressures of bishops, monks, and others to impose their particular form of Christian orthodoxy against their own needs: to preserve order and the rule of law (including property and citizenship rights); to demonstrate their right to rule and their ability to fend off usurpers, of which there were many, and remain in power; and generally to exercise the expected functions of the emperor, military, religious, and otherwise.10 I will make this argument in this and subsequent chapters by dissecting, mostly in chronological order, the legislation from Constantine on that concerns not only Jews but also the suppression of other forms of Christianity and of traditional religion. Many discussions of Jews in the late Roman Empire offer fairly cursory summaries of legislation concerning Jews whose

9. MacMullen makes a similar argument regarding the suppression of traditional religion. In the fourth century, legislation facilitated both persecution and protection, but by the mid-​ fifth century, it was almost entirely a means of persecution (MacMullen 1997:30). Interestingly, MacMullen doesn’t really consider the similarities with the treatment of Jews. See, too, Escribano Pano 2009, who points out that Roman legislation generally had been a means of social integration; under Theodosios I and subsequently, it became an instrument of exclusion (Escribano Pano 2009:40). 10.  Explored extensively in McEvoy 2013, a fascinating study of child emperors in the late Roman Empire.

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recitation often neglects the larger context of this material, similar to discussions of apparent Christian attacks on Jews and their synagogues.11 In this and the following six chapters, I try to offer a more complex account that situates this legislation in the larger program of imperial and ecclesiastical efforts to impose a particular form of Christian orthodoxy (and orthopraxy) onto the entire Roman Empire, a program that targeted all other Christians, together with Jews, Samaritans, and remaining practitioners of traditional religion, especially Roman but also Egyptian, as David Frankfurter has shown.12 In pursuit of this goal, I also try to attend to specific and local power dynamics between, for instance, particular bishops and emperors, between particular imperial officials and others. While not minimizing either the short-​term or the long-​term consequences of Christian hostility to Jews, I am wary of constructing a teleological narrative, in which what happened in the fourth and fifth centuries had to lead inevitably to its subsequent horrific history. In those centuries, life may have looked very different. In doing so, it’s important to be clear at the outset that the interests behind Roman laws—​including those of the fourth and fifth centuries—​were multiple and complex. Some emperors appear to have taken a strong lead in the formulation of various laws, but the explanation of any individual law can rarely if ever be located solely in the intentions of a particular emperor. This is all the more true for the several child emperors of the late fourth and early fifth centuries, Honorius, Theodosios II, and Valentinian II, as well as the somewhat older but still quite young Gratian and Arkadios, who surely cannot have played any meaningful role in the formulation and implementation of laws in their names, at least in their early years. The governments that ruled in their names were, in reality, run by others, including generals, praetorian prefects, and occasionally female family members. A fuller picture of the pressures applied to Jews, Samaritans, dissident Christians, and practitioners of traditional religions requires more intensive scrutiny of these diverse interests or, at the very least, continued awareness of the multiplicity of those interests, even when they are somewhat concealed from us by the limitations of the sources. It’s particularly important to emphasize that late antique Roman law, including those laws pertaining specifically to Jews, was not—​ at least 11. See a­ bove, p. 8n20. As I will demonstrate in this and subsequent chapters, many of these reports are less reliable than they are frequently taken to be. An important exception, already noted in ­chapter 1, is the work of Nemo-​Pekelman 2015. 12. Frankfurter 1998, 2010, 2018.



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yet—​dictated by Christian theological principles, Nicene or otherwise. As Nemo-​Pekelman both illuminates and critiques, older scholarship had often seen laws pertaining to Jews in the Christianizing empire as the legal instantiation of a hostile Christian theological construction of Jews as wholly apart and “other.” In this reading, through laws that regularly made “exceptions” (privilegia) for Jews, late imperial Roman legislation marked Jews as a separate but negative category, concretizing Christian theology in a judicial-​political status of “exception,” ultimately providing the basis for anti-​Semitism in the modern period.13 Recent scholarship has, by contrast, emphasized the extent to which late Roman law was both situational and strategic, which applies equally to the laws pertaining to Jews.14 Many (although not all) of the laws pertaining to Jews can be seen not so much as attempts to mark Jews off from an increasingly Christianized society but, rather, as we shall see, as an attempt to resolve tensions in legal matters pertaining to Jews that had larger implications for a coherent and consistent legal system. Thinking about these laws as instances within a larger framework of late ancient Roman laws produces very different analyses than thinking about them primarily as the legal correlate of Christian theological constructions of Jews. Perhaps ironically, reading Roman imperial laws as a deliberate establishment of Jews as a separate class, either consistent with Christian theological desires or even motivated by those desires, tends to reproduce that categorization, rather than to deconstruct and dismantle it. As Nemo-​Pekelman argues, this will increasingly change. Imperial governments, and their laws, ultimately worked to implement the emerging view that the citizenry of the now Christian empire needed to be Christian, and that adopting a non-​Christian religion was thus a form of political transgression—​a view expressed in the edict of Thessalonika.15 But despite this, there continued to be a tension between desires for a unified Christian empire and interests in consistent and just laws. The legislation considered in this chapter was all issued in the name of a sole reigning emperor (Constantine, Constantine II, Constantius II, and Julian). But subsequently Roman laws of these centuries—​until Justinian—​were 13. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:11–​15. She singles out in particular the older work of Juster 1914 and Simon 1948. In using the term “anti-​Semitism,” I here reproduce the language both of Nemo-​ Pekelman and of the scholars whose work she describes. I generally avoid the term myself, for various reasons. 14. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:10–​11. 15. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:276.

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issued in the names of the several current emperors, “speaking as a college,” as a particularly lucid overview of the process by John Matthews helpfully illuminates.16 In practice, however, these laws were regularly the work of the court of some particular emperor and may have been applicable only to part of the empire.17 The initial impetus for laws came from many sources. Honoré shows that many general laws were first proposed in some form by praetorian prefects, while others were suggested by imperial treasurers and various other officials.18 Laws might be prompted by reports, litigation, and, of course, initiatives by the emperor himself. The imperial quaestor might be instructed to draft a law, but not all legislation was initially drafted by quaestors.19 Just as modern lobbyists regularly offer draft legislation to sympathetic legislators, so, too, interested persons, including bishops, may well have lobbied for legislation with prepared drafts. Honoré comments that while laws concerning Christian churches “read as if the emperor had thought of the idea himself . . . presumably the proposals came from bishops or holy men, perhaps filtered through pious imperial ladies.” In this last group he has in mind particularly Sozomen’s account of Theodosios’s older sister, Pulcheria, who took over the management of the imperial household in her early teens,20 but she would have been in good company. Proposed legislation was discussed in the consistory—​essentially the emperor’s cabinet,21 or more informally among imperial advisors. Honoré argues that quaestors were ultimately responsible for the language of a law, “converting it into imperial speech.”22 His draft

16. Matthews 2000:171–​99; see also Honoré 1998; Harries 1999, especially 1999:36–​55; Harries and Wood 1993; see also Mathisen 2001. Honoré’s work presumes that quaestors were generally responsible for the final language of laws, and that unique differences in their styles make it possible to identify individual quaestors with reasonable confidence, even when their actual identities remain unknown. 17. Honoré 1998:130. 18. Honoré 1998:133, based on laws for which we have this information. Nemo-​Pekelman notes that the disproportionate number of laws directed to praetorian prefects may be partly because the collators of the Code had access to their archives (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:27n24). Whether there is a correlation between the person who proposed a law and the person to whom it is directed seems more difficult to assess, although such a connection sometimes seems likely. 19. Matthews 2000:172–​80; see also Harries 1988; Honoré 1998, esp. 11–​18 on the role of the quaestor. 20. Honoré 1998:133, citing Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 9.1.5–​6. 21. In Latin, the “consistorium.” Nemo-​Pekelman usually terms this the “chancellery.” See also Harries 1999:38–​42. 22. Honoré 1998:134.



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might be emended as necessary by the consistory, and the revised version read out to them. The proposed law was then put before the emperor in writing, in special letters, and special ink, for his official approval.23 The actual promulgation of laws was a complex process that depended to some extent on who needed to know its contents. Laws were disseminated with administrative letters that contained additional instructions, and their language might not be identical with that of the signed law.24 Once sent to the addressee (either an individual or a corporate body), the law was accepted, read out, and publicly displayed.25 This combination of public reading and public posting was designed to ensure that no one could claim ignorance of the law as a defense to violation.26 In reality, many persons may have remained unaware of their contents. To the extent, however, that many of these laws implied a limited set of actors (free adult persons and, often more specifically, free adult males), it’s possible that those persons were much more likely to be cognizant of the laws. Here, too, though, distance from the sites where such laws were published may have affected how widely they were really known. A few other caveats are in order. Our actual knowledge of these laws remains frustratingly incomplete, for numerous reasons.27 We owe the transmission of most laws from Constantine to Theodosios II to the Theodosian Code, a collation ordered by Theodosios II himself in 429, and first published in 438.28 One of the major goals of the Code was to facilitate the determination of Roman law as it stood at the time of the Code’s publication, for lawyers, judges, and others in need of a reliable and definitive source.29 The full form of a law would ordinarily have included the names of the reigning

23. Matthews 2000:171; Honore 1998:135. 24. Matthews 2000:180. 25. Matthews 2000:185, who cites Ulpian that they must be displayed at eye level, the better to be visible. 26. Matthews does not here engage questions about literacy, social class, and gender—​he writes merely: “A whole range of legal liabilities is founded on the assumptions that a notice was put up in an accessible and relevant place, that it remained there in legible condition for an appropriate period, and that it was read by and known to interested parties. Ignorance was no excuse” (Matthews 2000:187). 27. On which see, inter alia, Matthews 2000; Harries and Wood 1993; Honoré 1998; and Rougé and Delmaire 2005:14–​35. 28. CTh 1.1.5; for a thorough overview of the production of the Code, see Honoré 1998:123–​53; see also Harries 1993. 29. Honoré 1998:149.

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emperor(s); the name and office of the addressee (an individual or corporate body); an account of the reasons for giving the law, including what, specifically, prompted the law (such as a petition or a matter brought to the attention of the emperor); the law itself; instructions for its dissemination; its date and place of issue; and sometimes the date of its acceptance and display.30 The collators were instructed to strip away much of this content, leaving only the general operative law, together with the name of the emperor, and the date and place of issuance.31 Yet as Honoré makes clear, the collators of the Code found this difficult to implement in practice, so that some laws in the Code retain some of this information, while many do not. The collators also sometimes divided a single law into several parts, if different portions of the law pertained to diverse legal matters, assigning the parts to different titles or chapters of the Code. Although Honoré thinks that the collators made a good-​faith effort to locate all laws from Constantine on, it’s clear that the Code is not comprehensive. Some of this may result from a desire to exclude laws that were subsequently effectively repealed by later contradictory laws, although there is debate about this.32 Whether laws known only from other ancient sources were omitted from the Code for political purposes is possible, but by no means certain. Some of these, such as Gratian’s famous “edict of toleration,” discussed later, may have been left out because they were, in fact, subsequently repealed. Laws given by emperors considered usurpers, such as Magnus Maximus and John, were clearly excluded, doubtless because they were deemed invalid.33 Versions in later collections sometimes allow us to see that later editors may have redacted the earlier laws not only for practical purposes but for ideological ones as well.34 The dates of many of these laws are not necessarily reliable, owing to various kinds of errors, both early on, and in later transmission. 30. Matthews 2000:168. 31. Honoré 1998:143. 32. See, e.g., Honoré 1998:143–​49. On the whole, the collators included inconsistent laws, although perhaps not those that had been explicitly repealed, while excluding laws to which they could not assign a date, and forged or suspect laws (Honoré 1998:149). Trombley 1993–​ 94:1.196 maintains that many rescripts were not included to avoid repetition, although obviously this was an inconsistent principle. 33. Honoré notes that Theodosios annulled the acts of Maximus with CTh 15.14.7, October 10, 388, although he argues that one law of Maximus may nevertheless have been included: CTh 9.36.1 (Honoré 1998:187). 34. See, e.g., the instructive discussions of the Sirmondian Constitutions, which reveal the deficient transmission of particular laws in the Code (Matthews 2000:121–​67); see also Vessey 1993.



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Casual readers of the more accessible forms of the Theodosian Code (such as an English translation available in print, in electronic download, and in considerable part on Google Books)35 will not be aware of these many deficiencies in the texts of the laws as we now have them, which confound all but the most highly specialized scholars of ancient Roman law. Keenly aware that I am not one of these, I try in the discussions that follow to attend to these issues to the extent that they affect the arguments I construct. Only a relatively small portion of the Code pertains to religious practices. Most of these laws were assigned by the Code’s compilers to Book 16, which contains just under two hundred laws dating back to Constantine, arranged in eleven titles (or chapters). The largest percentage of its laws (40%) are devoted to dissidents and dissidence. The orchestration of orthodoxy warrants a little more than a fourth (27%), while laws pertaining to Jews constitute a little less than a fourth (22%), and perhaps surprisingly, only 12.5 percent pertain directly to traditional religious observances. The headings of its eleven titles (or chapters), their order, and the numbers of laws in each (ranging from two to sixty-​six) are especially telling. The first three titles concern the regulation of orthodoxy: 1. “The Catholic Faith” (four laws); 2. “Bishops, Churches and Clerics” (forty-​seven laws); 3. “On Monks” (two laws). The next four concern Christian dissidents:  4. “Those Who Contend about Religion” (six laws); 5.  “Heretics” (sixty-​six laws); 6.  “That Baptism Shall Not Be Repeated” (seven laws); 7. “Apostates” (seven laws). Two titles concern Jews and those closely aligned with them: 8. “Jews, Caelicoli, and Samaritans” (twenty-​nine laws); 9. “No Jew Shall Have a Christian Slave” (five laws). One title concerns traditionalist religious practices and practitioners: 10. “Pagans, Sacrifices, and Temples” (twenty-​five laws). The final title, 11, concerns itself again with “Religion” (three laws). A small amount of legislation pertaining to Jews is found in other titles, as I will note later. The raw data already suggest that much of the legal energy of imperial administrations concerning religion was focused on imposing and enforcing Nicene orthodoxy, suppressing dissident Christians, and eliminating traditional worship and promoting conversion. Relative to these, Jews (and Samaritans) received considerably less attention. Although the Code contains well over a thousand laws, Amnon Linder’s frequently consulted anthology

35. Pharr 1952. For the Code itself, I have relied primarily on the edition of Rougé and Delmaire 2005, 2009. See also above, p. 21n81.

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of laws pertaining to Jews in imperial Roman legislation contains just forty-​ seven entries for the years between the ascension of Constantine and the promulgation of the Code.36 What the raw data do not, however, even hint at is the discrepant content of these laws. The laws regarding both dissident Christians and practitioners of traditional religions had much in common. They endeavored to eliminate the places of such practices by closing temples and shrines and depriving non-​ orthodox Christians of churches and other places in which to assemble, often transferring control of their buildings to the imperial treasury or to orthodox churches. They criminalized gatherings of the non-​orthodox and sometimes ordered the removal of non-​orthodox persons altogether from the cities, relegating them at best to remote, isolated places. Sacrifice, especially animal sacrifice, was outlawed quite early, while other traditional devotional practices were increasingly also forbidden. Few laws prohibited specific worship acts by the non-​orthodox, perhaps because so much of the difference between groups of Christians was envisioned as theological rather than practical. A notable exception was second baptism (a key component in the disputes with Donatists), to which—​as noted earlier—​an entire separate chapter of Book 16 was devoted. Numerous laws, however, forbid the non-​ orthodox from ordaining clergy or using the title “bishop” for their leaders. Others confiscated not only the property of persons who engaged in such practices, whether traditional or non-​orthodox, but also the property of those on whose lands such activities took place, with provisos sometimes that landowners who were unaware of these activities, and immediately reported them on discovery, might be spared the dire consequences. The legislation regarding Jews is quite different. No laws prohibit Jewish worship by Jews (by others being a different matter). No law orders the blanket closing of synagogues, which are, on the contrary, legally protected from attacks.37 No laws expel Jews from the cities, towns, and villages where they live or compel Jewish relocation. The legislation regarding Jews concerns such things as Jewish clerical exemptions from the financially onerous obligations of certain public offices. Laws from Constantine onward demarcate and police boundaries between Jews and Christians, including sometimes new 36. JRIL  7–​53. 37. Two possible exceptions are CTh 16.8.22, JRIL 41, which demoted the patriarch, Gamaliel VI, and seems to order the destruction of synagogues in remote areas (on which, see ­below, pp. 227–32), and Justinian’s Novella 37, which expresses the imperial desire that synagogues should be refashioned into churches (on which, see ­below, pp. 294–96).



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Christians who were recently Jews, such as two early laws prohibiting Jews from stoning or otherwise attacking fellow Jews who became Christians, or other laws penalizing Christians who took up Jewish practices, discussed further later in the chapter.38 Laws about Jews and dissident Christians may have differed in content, but they seem to have had other similarities. As the recent work of Escribano Pano illuminates, the laws regarding dissidents deploy a cultural logic that constructs them as infected with demonically generated illness and insanity, as well as victims of demonic poisoning.39 Such cultural logic depends upon an underlying implicit equivalence of the individual body with the social body.40 This imagery permeates other discourses as well, such as Epiphanios’s famous Panarion (or Medicine Chest) of remedies against the illness and madness of heresies. Laws regarding traditionalists similarly envision them as sick and crazed. Dissidents and traditionalists alike are seen to threaten the health of the social body (itself implicitly Christian and orthodox), requiring at the larger social level the same kinds of treatments as applied to infectious individuals. Unless cured by orthodoxy, they needed to be contained, quarantined, excised, and expelled from all civilized places, relegated to uninhabited spaces or spaces inhospitable to human habitation, where they would have no further opportunity to infect and contaminate the pure Christian body. Escribano Pano argues that the rhetorical characterization of religious dissidence (and dissidents) as a social danger that threatened the unity of the empire provided a warrant for state intervention whose necessity was not inherently obvious. Positioning dissent as demonic activity, illness, and madness, rather than, for instance, ethnic difference or reasoned choice, facilitated public assent to such laws. Who would not concur that curing others of their demon-​inflicted illness, even coercively, was in everyone’s best interest?41 This strategy also transferred to the “haeretici” some of the older Roman rhetoric about public enemies, and equated dissident Christian ideas with the older Roman concept of “sacrilegium,” itself akin to “crimen maiestatis.”

38. CTh 16.8.7, JRIL 12; CTh 16.9.2, JRIL 11. 39. Escribano Pano 2009. 40. This equivalence is central to the work of the anthropologist Mary Douglas 1966 and 1970, which Escribano Pano invokes without articulating this particular point. This equivalence may also explain the disproportionate later interest in testamentary rights—​a means of effecting social death through the deprivation of inheritance, cutting dissidents out of their lineages. 41. Escribano Pano 2009:50–​51.

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Her analysis offers some useful tools for thinking generally about the similarities and differences of legislation regarding Jews. The rhetoric of demon possession, illness, madness, and poison occurs in some laws pertaining to Jews, although perhaps fewer than one might expect: it also characterizes anti-​Jewish writing by Christian authors, such as John Chrysostom’s often-​cited accusation that to dance with Jews at their festivals is to dance with the Devil.42 Yet the legal remedies for Jews are sufficiently different to require some explanation. One may be that many Jewish religious practices were authorized by the same scriptures venerated by Christians, so they could not be as easily proscribed without also threatening the authorization both for Christianity as a whole and for certain Christian practices. Another may be the role, explicit in the Letter of Severus, that Jewish conversion played in Christian eschatological expectations, necessitating that they remain in sufficient proximity to Christians.43 At the same time, however, this may have necessitated the differential concern that we see in the legislation for drawing, maintaining, and policing the boundaries between Jews and Christians, precisely because removing them altogether was theologically inadvisable. Constantine’s legislation included a small number of laws pertaining to Jews.44 Among the earliest of these are two laws regulating clerical exemptions from the financially onerous obligations of certain public offices, particularly the decurionate (service on municipal councils), an issue that arose regularly in the fourth century with regard as well to Christian clerics and those who

42. Chrysostom, Against the Jews 2.3.5 (on this translation, see below, p. 135). Many laws pertaining to Jews actually contain little disparaging language. Those that do include CTh 16.8.1, JRIL 8 (Constantine in 329), where Jews are a “feralis secta” and a “nefaria secta”; they are elsewhere a “nefanda . . . superstitio” (CTh 16.9.4, JRIL 44; Theodosios II in 417). Slaves who become Jews are “contaminated with the Jewish pollution” (“inquinatus . . . pollutione Iudaica”) in CTh 3.1.5, JRIL 17; Theodosios I  in 384). Other examples include CTh 16.5.44, JRIL 37; Honorius in 408), where the audacity (“audacia”) of Jews (and others) is a contagious plague (“pestis . . . contagione”); CTh 16.8.19, JRIL 39; Honorius in 409), where Christians who join the Caelicoli (“Heaven-​fearers”) have become “polluted” with Jewish “incredulity” (“incredulitas”); CTh 15.5.5, JRIL 50; Theodosios II, 425) denigrates “the madness of Jewish impiety” together with “the error and insanity of senseless paganism” (“vel Iudaeae impietatis amentia vel stolidae paganitatis errore adque insania detinetur”). All these are discussed further in subsequent chapters. 43. On this, see Fredriksen 2008 on Augustine’s view that Jews had to be protected and not eliminated; see also a­ bove, pp. 58–59. 44. In the Code, these appear as six distinct laws, but Linder sees them as only four: JRIL 7 contains CTh 16.8.3; JRIL 8 contains CTh 16.8.1; JRIL 9 contains CTh 16.8.2 and 16.8.4; and JRIL 10 contains CTh 16.8.5, CTh 16.9.1, as well as Sirm 4.



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held traditional priesthoods. A law dated to 321, addressed to the decurions of Köln (Cologne), permitted municipal senates to nominate Jews to municipal councils (with their attendant onerous financial obligations), but also allowed two or three persons to be exempted in perpetuity from these nominations.45 The specificity of the law suggests that such nominations had been challenged.46 The outcome here seems to be a kind of compromise: Jews can be compelled to serve, but a few, perhaps in any given locality, might be exempted. As we shall see, later laws seem to extend these exemptions to larger numbers of persons. A law dated to November 29, 330, affirmed the continued exemption of patriarchs and presbyters47 who “live in the [ Jewish] sect” and “preside over the administration of their law” from “all compulsory public services,” including municipal services. It also exempted those who were decurions from having to serve as “official escorts,” forced into compulsory travel, perhaps on the presumption that forcing them to travel impeded their ritual 45. CTh 16.8.3, JRIL 7. Parkes thought that prohibitions on animal sacrifice by Christian emperors would have had the effect of removing Jewish objections to serving in public offices that entailed the performance of such sacrifices, and thus made them liable for service, although he argues this more with regard to later laws (Parkes 1934:201). The legal chronology does not support this common sense logic: a law of 323 made it illegal to force Christian clerics to participate in sacrifices in connection with an imperial celebration (CTh 16.2.5), but the first explicit prohibition of sacrifices generally comes twenty years later, in 341. 46.  Nemo-​ Pekelman thinks that some Jews in Köln claimed immunity to decurial service, based on some ancient exemption, and that the curia appealed to the emperor (Nemo-​ Pekelman 2015:28). The specificity of the law also suggests that it might be a rescript, with limited application, but Nemo-​Pekelman thinks it is, in fact, a more general law that effectively abolished any prior blanket exemption for Jews. 47.  Pharr 1952 renders “presbyteri” as “priests,” perhaps because the Greek term presbyteros often designated a Christian priest: the ordinary meaning of the term is “elder” or “older.” The language of CTh 16.8.4, discussed later, suggests that the legislator(s) knew that the correct (Greek) term for Jewish priests was hiereis: Rougé’s French translation renders the Latin “presbyteri” as “elders,” and “hiereis” in CTh 16.8.4 as “priests.” Linder transliterates “presbyteri” as “presbyters,” perhaps (as I have done here) deferring the problem of translation. Nevertheless, he problematically asserts that the Jewish office holders were “subordinate to the jurisdiction of the patriarchs and the Sanhedrin in Palestine,” here qualifying the law of 321 (Linder, JRIL, p.  133), although the laws never mention the Sanhedrin. Against this reading, see Levine’s blunt refutation (2005:463):  “it is quite certain that no Sanhedrin existed in the third and fourth centuries.” Nemo-​Pekelman concurs with Levine’s position, and denies the identification of the patriarchs with the Patriarch in Palestine (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:38). Kurtzer 2008 speculates provocatively, but not persuasively, that presbyter was the diaspora equivalent of rabbi: Nemo-​Pekelman takes presbyters to be the leaders (“chefs”) of local synagogues (Nemo-​ Pekelman 2015:38). Although I agree that we cannot assign precise roles and functions to these titles, I disagree with her presumption that the persons enumerated here may be equated generally with “the Jewish rabbinate [le rabbinat juif ]” (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:26). For further discussion, see below, pp. 388–90.

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services.48 Another law (or perhaps the same law, from a difference source, dated a day later), addressed to the “priests (“hiereis”) and heads of synagogues and fathers of synagogues and others,”49 relieved them of all “corporali munere,” although it remains unclear what services are here intended.50 Nemo-​Pekelman takes this to be a further delimiting of the exemption in the law of 321, restricting it to a Jewish clerical class. In her reading, these new provisions may be seen as part of Constantine’s larger efforts to stabilize the curias, and presumably to temper the burdens of curial service enough to obtain reasonable compliance. Constantine, she argues, needed a stable community with which he could negotiate. Immunizing not only current Jewish religious leaders but also their sons in perpetuity created little “dynasties of privileges, heredity and stability” on which the emperor (and perhaps his own heirs) could rely for cooperation in future difficult situations.51 Importantly, granting exemptions to Jewish religious leaders was entirely consistent with the exemptions that had been traditionally granted to priests of Roman and other religions, and that had been more recently granted to “catholic” (Nicene) priests early in Constantine’s reign, in language similar to that of the laws pertaining to Jews.52 These exemptions, however, would have unintended consequences, incentivizing those who wished to escape curial service to take refuge in clerical offices. Later laws strongly suggest that this became a serious issue for Christians. Although there’s much less evidence that Jewish men specifically sought synagogue positions as a means of escaping curial obligations, Nemo-​Pekelman thinks Jews were similarly tempted to exploit this particular loophole.53

48. CTh 16.8.2, dated November 29, addressed to the praetorian prefect of the East; on the technicalities, see Rougé and Delmaire 2005:373. 49. CTh 16.8.4, dated December 1. Interestingly, it uses a combination of Latin and Greek in Latin transliteration: “hiereis et archisynagogis et patribus synagogarum.” 50. See, e.g., JRIL, pp. 135–​36n5; Rougé and Delmaire 2005:375n2. 51. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:39. 52. CTh 1.1.2, dated October 31 of either 313, or 319, but in either case, well before the laws of 321 and 330. 53. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:42. As evidence that persons liable for curial service somehow “dedicated” themselves to God and then claimed exemption, she cites a law in the name of Gratian (CTh 12.1.99, dated April 18 or 19, 383), requiring that those obligated to the decurionate who were truly consecrated to God had to supply a replacement who would then replace the cleric. Crucially, the consecrated person had to transfer his wealth to the replacement. A law of Jovian from 364 (CTh 12.1.59) required that the curias and the people themselves had to authorize exemption for ordained clerics (except bishops): otherwise, those liable had to transfer property



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The laws concerning the decurionate perhaps hint that the circumstances of Jews under a Christian emperor might be changing, if they should be construed to have abolished a previous blanket exemption and if the abolition of that exemption was motivated by animus, rather than a desire for more consistent policy of curial obligations. (These need not, of course, have been mutually exclusive.) Other early laws of Constantine point, however, to heightened tensions between Jews and Christians, and some might be read as seeking to impose certain constraints on Jews. Whether intentionally or otherwise, they served both to demarcate and to police boundaries between Jews and Christians, including Christians who had recently been Jews.54 The first of these is a law of Constantine that probably dates to October 18, 329.55 It began by prohibiting Jews from stoning or otherwise attacking fellow Jews who had become Christians. The punishment for such behavior was death by “crematio”—​burning at the stake. This part of the law raises several significant questions. Does it reflect actual or even specific incidents of such violence, reported to the emperor? The law was given while Constantine was traveling between Trier (at the end of 328)  and Nikomedia (where he arrived after late October 329).56 These travels would have given him ample opportunity to hear such allegations (true or otherwise) from any number of sources, although this is only one possibility. Despite his detailed discussion of Constantine’s itinerary, Linder proposes only that Constantine could have learned about Jewish attacks on converts from Joseph of Tiberias, a Jew in the court of the patriarch of Palestine, whom Epiphanios claims converted to Christianity and ultimately became a favorite of Constantine.57 This may to a parent, or the curia itself, in such a way as to ensure the continuation of their obligations (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:4). See also her more detailed discussion of what, precisely, these obligations entailed, including the exemption from the obligation of escort (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:38–​40). 54. For some discussion of Constantine’s laws pertaining to Jews, see Edwards 2015:168–​69, who characterizes them as “temperate compared with that of his mediaeval and modern epigoni” (Edwards 2015:168). 55. CTh 16.8.1, JRIL 7. The editors of the Code dated it, erroneously, to October 18, 313; see JRIL, pp. 124–​15 (Linder dates it to 329); also Rougé and Delmaire 2005:486–​88. As Delmaire notes, a few scholars have argued for a date of 339. Linder notes that this form of execution was especially humiliating (JRIL, pp. 130–​31n14). One imagines it was also especially painful. If this was a form of de facto cremation, it may also have imposed a transgressive form of disposal of the dead. 56. For a discussion and defense of the details of his travels, see JRIL, p. 125, esp. pp. 127–​29nn4–​5. 57. JRIL, p. 125, citing Epiphanios, Panarion 30, discussed in detail below, pp. 147–52, including problems of its historicity.

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place too much faith in Epiphanios’s tendentious account and seems to suggest that much (even all?) of this activity took place in Joseph’s native Galilee. While Linder says nothing about the specific accusation of stoning in this law, Nemo-​Pekelman speculates that the law was precipitated by a specific instance where a Jewish convert to Christianity had been killed by other Jews, perhaps after a rabbinic court had ordered the person stoned to death, although she concedes there is no way to know.58 Her argument here attends to the emperor’s opening demand that “we wish Jews, and their ‘maiores’ and patriarchs to know” these prohibitions and their dire consequences. Why do they, specifically, need to know? In part she thinks this is because Jewish courts had transgressed their authority by imposing the death penalty on a new convert, when only Roman courts could impose capital punishment. But she also proposes that more generally, this law demands that Jewish authorities discipline their agitated co-​religionists, a demand that might be construed as part of the complex client–​patron relationship between the emperor and the leaders of Jewish communities. He had given them decurial immunity: they needed to keep the members of their communities in line, specifically by restraining those who would attack Jews who had become Christians.59 Much about this scenario, however, seems unwarranted. While recognizing that we lack the contextual account that the law may once have contained, it seems unnecessary to presume that an actual death precipitated the law. Even if it had, it is unnecessary to envision such a death as the consequence of a rabbinic trial judgment, and not only because there is virtually no evidence for rabbinic courts functioning outside limited regions in Palestine in the early fourth century.60 Delmaire observes that several biblical passages prescribe stoning as the punishment for what he calls apostasy.61 Jews outside rabbinic orbits could thus easily have thought that stoning new Christians

58. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:125. 59. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:40. Given her assumption that the ruling of a rabbinic court precipitated the stoning of a convert, she may also think that the Jewish leaders should restrain such courts. 60.  Delmaire also presumes that actual Jewish agitation against converts underlies the law; it would have been impossible in the West, since it would have required a town where Jews were the majority, and thus able to impose their own laws (Rougé and Delmaire 2005:487). Whether there may have been independent but not necessarily rabbinic courts elsewhere is possible, but again without useful evidence. 61.  Rougé and Delmaire 2005:369n3, citing Deut 13:7–​10; 17:2–​5, Lev 24:14–​16, and Acts 7:57–​58 (the stoning of Stephen).



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was the divinely mandated response. Further, Christians also already had a convenient paradigm around which to fashion narratives of Jews enraged at the conversion of their co-​religionists—​the stoning of Stephen in Acts 7. And as the Letter of Severus and other accounts make abundantly clear, stoning was a common (and easy) form of ancient violence. Those who knew its associations with biblical condemnations of religious offenses might construe it that way, but that hardly limited its practice to such situations. On balance, it seems difficult to reach any conclusions about what provoked the law or to assess how isolated or widespread such violence might have been.62 Its repetition six years later might suggest a perception, at least, that such situations continued.63 At the same time, it’s interesting to note that the law of 335 is not identical to that of 329: it makes no mention of stoning and does not spell out the punishment applicable to Jews who attack or injure one who has become Christian. The last sentence of the law of 329 is usually read as a broad prohibition on non-​Jews becoming Jews.64 Brief and seemingly straightforward, it is nevertheless not exactly transparent. It reads in full: “si quis vero ex populo ad eorum nefarium sectam accesserit et conciliabulis eorum se adplicaverit, cum ipsis poenas meritas sustinebit.” It is often translated something like: “If, however, one of the people enters into their impious sect and attaches himself to their assemblies, he shall, with them, suffer the punishments merited.”65 The Latin “quis . . . ex populo” is usually taken to designate just any non-​Jew (one of the people), and the phrases “ad eorum nefarium sectam accesserit et conciliabulis eorum se adplicaverit” are taken to describe, in some fashion, the acts of becoming Jews, and thus “converting to Judaism.” However, this is probably incorrect: this last line probably does not penalize non-​Jews who became Jews. Rather, the entire law probably pertains to those persons who

62. For another account of Jews attacking new converts to Christianity , see below, p. 328. 63. Sirm 4; CTh 16.8.5, JRIL 10. We have only the form in which it was sent to the praetorian prefect of Africa. 64. CTh 16.8.1.2, JRIL 8. The argument that I make here is distilled from Kraemer 2018, with more detailed support of various points. 65. E.g., “But if one of the people shall approach their nefarious sect and join himself to their conventicles, he shall suffer with them the deserved punishments” (JRIL, p. 127); “Moreover, if any person from the people should betake himself to their nefarious sect and should join their assemblies, he shall sustain with them the deserved punishments” (Pharr 1952:467); “Si par ailleurs quelqu’un du peuple entre dans leur secte néfaste et se mêle à leurs conciliabules, il supportera avec eux les peines mérités” (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:125).

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took part in physical attacks on Jews who had become Christians, and the final sentence of the law extends the penalties applicable to Jews for these crimes to others who joined in these attacks.66 The interpretation of CTh 16.8.1.2 as a blanket prohibition of conversion is regularly enhanced by reading it in tandem with CTh 16.8.7, in 353, in the name of Constantine II.67 Like the law of 329, some of this law is straightforward: “We have decreed that, once the venerable law has been set forth, if someone ‘ex Christiano Iudeus effectus sacrilegis coetibus adgregetur,’ his assets will be vindicated to the imperial treasury, once the charges have been proven.” Scholars routinely presume that the Latin phrases here left untranslated criminalize conversion to Judaism, here by Christians. Linder sees this law as “a partial return to the legal rule established at the end of the third century,” according to which a (male) Roman citizen who became a Jew was subject to a twofold penalty of exile and confiscation of property.68 CTh 16.8.7, by comparison, pertains only to Christians and imposes only confiscation, not exile.69 The interpretation of the law of 353 as a prohibition of conversion is facilitated by supplying a conjunctive that the Latin text lacks, at least as we now have it, so that “ex Christiano Iudeus effectus” becomes one act and “sacrilegis coetibus adgregetur” becomes another.70 In my view, the insertion of a conjunction between these two phrases comes at least in part from the 66. My argument here was prompted by a rereading of Rougé’s French translation. Rougé, who died in 1991, left no notes to explain his translation choices (Rougé and Delmaire 2005: “Avant Propos,” [n.p.]). Still, his construal of this law seems clear. Rabello, too, saw this possibility, but seems to think it more likely that the law prohibits conversion (Rabello 1999). But importantly, whereas I think that the last line extends the penalties to anyone who joined with Jews in such assaults, Rabello thought “quis . . . ex populo” would then designate converts: those who were formerly of the people, but now join themselves to the Jews and participate in these attacks. Like Nemo-​Pekelman, discussed later, he thought this might include both “partial” and “full” proselytes. 67. “Si quis, lege venerabile constituta, ex Christiano Iudeus effectus sacrilegis coetibus adgregetur, cum accusatio fuerit conprobata, facultates eius dominio fisci iussimus vindicari” (CTh 16.8.7, JRIL 12). For discussion of the date and other matters, see JRIL, pp. 151–​52; also see Rougé and Delmaire 2005:380. 68. The Sentences of Paul 5.22.3–​4; JRIL 6. 69. JRIL, p. 152. 70. Pharr 1952:467: “If anyone should be converted from Christianity to Judaism and should join their sacrilegious gatherings”; JRIL, p. 153n4: “if someone shall become Jew from Christian and shall be joined to sacrilegious assemblies”; Rougé and Delmaire 2005:381: “si un chrétien se convertit au judaïsme et participe à leurs réunions sacrilèges. Only Nemo-​Pekelman supplies “or”:  “si un chrétien s’est fait juif ou a rejoint leurs assemblées sacrilèges” (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:129). Whether “effectus” (as opposed to “factus est”) implies that others have played a determinative role in this change is immaterial to my point here.



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perception that the two laws are analogous. If the earlier law specifies two acts or processes of some sort, the later should as well. Syntactically, however, the insertion of any conjunction seems unnecessary. The law reads perfectly well by taking “quis ex Christiano Iudeus effectus” as the transgressor of the law and “sacrilegis coetibus adgregetur” as the transgression: “If one (who has) become Jew from Christian is joined to their sacrilegious gatherings.” The phrase “ex Christiano Iudeus effectus” (“one become Jew from Christian”) is comparable to the phrase “ex Iudaeo Christianum factum” as the term for a Jew who has become a Christian in the restatement of the law of 329 in the Sirmondian Constitutions in 335 and in numerous other examples.71 This suggests that the construction “x become y” functions in these laws as a nominative, rather than as the description of a second action. If such phrasing does function as a complex nominative, it might suggest that, in fact, becoming “Iudeus ex Christiano” is not what the law here prohibits. It may intend to distinguish such a person from other non-​Jews who subsequently became “Iudeus.” In this law, the “ex Christiano Iudeus effectus” was liable for a specific act: “sacrilegis coetibus adgregetur,” whatever precisely that entailed. In Linder’s reading, however, these now separate clauses reflect a two-​stage model of conversion, in which the putative convert first somehow “becomes” a Jew and then is accepted in the Jewish assembly (described not, however, as a synagogue, but in more derogatory terms). Somewhat differently, Nemo-​ Pekelman reads into the two verbal clauses of the earlier law a subtle allusion to two different social processes for adopting Jewish practices and ideas. “[A]‌d eorum nefarium sectam accesserit” denotes “full proselytism” while “conciliabulis eorum se adplicaverit” denotes a looser association of non-​ Jews with Jewish practices, “partial proselytism.”72 This is not, of course, how she translates the passage, which she renders fairly literally: “entre dans leurs secte nefaste et se mêle à leurs conciliabules” (“enter into their nefarious sect and join oneself to their ‘conciliabula’ ”).73 But she thinks this really means

71. Sirm 4, JRIL 10. CTh 16.8.5 contains a brief extract from that law: it is unlawful for Jews to disturb or injure “eum, qui ex Iudaeo Christianus factus est” (“one who has become Christian, having been a Jew”). See also CTh 16.7.1 (Theodosios I in 381), depriving “qui ex christianis pagani facti sunt” (“those who have become ‘pagan’ from Christian”) of their right to make wills; CTh 16.8.19, a law of Honorius at Ravenna in 409, targeting persons called “quis ex christiana fide” for taking up “the name of Jews.” 72. My use of this language, as well as the language of “conversion” to reproduce the ideas of others, should not be mistaken for assent to the accuracy of these categories; see Kraemer 2014. 73. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:125.

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“anyone of the people [who] formally enters into the Jewish sect, or hangs out informally in their gatherings” will be liable as described. She does not appear to see that this creates a significant problem that her translation masks. In her view, this law actually describes two separate and mutually exclusive acts, since one cannot be both a semi-​proselyte and a full proselyte at the same time. Yet the syntax of the text says something different: it says that the transgressor engages in two distinct illicit actions:  “ad eorum nefarium sectam accesserit” and “conciliabulis eorum se adplicaverit.” A  third alternative, of course, would be to take these clauses as two different ways of describing the same transgression, although this does not solve the problem of the circumlocutious language. I have argued at length elsewhere that the model of “conversion” and “godfearing” is neither historically accurate nor theoretically sound.74 Here I think that Nemo-​Pekelman’s acceptance of this problematic paradigm leads her to overread the law, an overreading that I think is weakened by the language of the later law, which lacks such a clear distinction.75 At the same time, I am dubious about Linder’s assumption that there was such a two-​stage process for non-​Jews who became Jews (whatever that meant), and that it was practiced across the ancient Mediterranean in the early fourth century. Reading CTh 16.8.1.2 as a prohibition against conversion sits uneasily with various aspects of the law. Nemo-​Pekelman expresses some puzzlement that a blanket prohibition of non-​Jews becoming Jews would seem to be a violation of the “spirit” of the Edict of Milan in 313, which she takes to have granted citizens the right to their chosen religious practices. Her solution is to propose that this law was among those “conceived and formulated” not by Constantine, nor his professional legal advisers, but “by the church hierarchy” for whom, presumably, such an inconsistency was not troubling.76 But this seems the least of the problems with this reading. If CTh 16.8.1.2 is a ban on conversion, the two sentences of the law are concerned with substantially different matters. The first makes it a capital

74. E.g., Kraemer 2015; also Kraemer 2011:186–​200. 75.  Despite the enormous bibliography on this subject, Nemo-​Pekelman cites here only the work of Feldman 1993:342–​83, which is by no means authoritative (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:126n47). 76.  Nemo-​Pekelman relies on Volterra’s analysis of laws written by expert jurists and those probably composed by Christian lobbyists; for references, see Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:126n49. Volterra did not identify this law as the work of Christian lobbyists, but Nemo-​Pekelman proposes it was (2015:127). See also the notes in Rougé and Delmaire 2005:487.



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offense for Jews to assault other Jews who had become Christians. The second pivots to a different offense, that of the “quis . . . ex populo” who has become a Jew. Scholars who read the law to prohibit conversion do not see any dissonance here, and they appear to presume that the unifying interest of the law is in conversion—​protecting Jewish converts to Christianity from angry Jews in the first sentence, and forbidding non-​Jews from becoming Jews in the second. Although such a combination is not impossible, neither is this self-​evident. A hint that, on the contrary, both sentences pertain to the same transgression may be found at the outset of CTh 16.8.1.1, when the legislator says that the provisions of the law are in force “post hanc legem”—​that is, “after this law [has been given].” Such language is not repeated in the second sentence, which is at least consistent with the interpretation that it is all one law and that both sentences pertain to the same activity—​attacks on Jews who had become Christians. First and perhaps foremost, if CTh 16.8.1.2 is a prohibition on conversion, why is it so coy and circumlocutious? Why doesn’t it simply say “it is forbidden for anyone to become a Jew”? A similar question may be posed about CTh 16.8.7:  If it prohibits Christians from becoming Jews, why not simply say “quis ex Christiano Iudeus effectus facultates eius dominio fisci vindicari” (with or without provisions for proving the accusation)? If it is a broad prohibition of conversion, why is it necessary to specify that the “quis” is “ex populo?” Who, precisely, does this designate? Why doesn’t either law refer to the assemblies of the Jews as “synagogues?” Why does the law of 329 say that the offenders will receive, with them, those merited punishments? Who is the referent of “them”? and why do “they” merit punishment(s)? And why does it not specify the “punishments deserved” (“poenas meritas”) for whatever transgression it envisions (which the law of 353 does)? Because Nemo-​ Pekelman takes both laws to pertain to conversion, she proposes that the second law may have been a rescript—​a response to a judge who sought clarification of the (otherwise unspecified) “merited punishment(s)” prescribed for a Christian who became a Jew in CTh 16.8.1.2. This law provides an answer:  total confiscation of assets.77 Were this to be correct, it might suggest that “quis . . . ex Christiano Iudeus” similarly clarifies who, exactly, was intended by the earlier phrase “quis . . . ex populo.” She also thinks that the entire phrase “ex Christiano Iudeus effectus sacrilegis coetibus

77. She thinks the forfeiture must be all assets, because the law does not specify a proportion (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:129).

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adgregetur” provided a basis for establishing the guilt of the person accused. It had to be shown both that the person had become “Iudeus” and had been joined to the sacrilegious “assemblies.”78 In my view, all these difficulties may be resolved by reading the end of the law of 329 quite differently, in line with the translation of Rougé.79 In the first sentence, Jews are sternly warned of the punishment for assaulting other Jews who have become Christians. In the second, the legislator makes clear that this punishment extends equally to anyone else who dared to join with the Jews in such assaults. The phrase “Si quis . . . ex populo” is the complement to the earlier “si quis” in CTh 16.8.1.1, which must, by virtue of the opening address of the law, as well as its content, implicate Jews. The use of the preposition “ex” here simply designates membership in a class and “populus” itself almost certainly means persons who were neither Christians nor Jews, since it seems virtually inconceivable that the legislator would imagine Christians to have joined in attacks on Jews who had now joined their own ranks. But it may not simply be a synonym here for “pagani,” since it might also have included Samaritans. The clauses scholars take as circumlocutious descriptions of conversion are not, as Linder thought, a vaguely worded reference to a dual process of conversion, nor, as Nemo-​Pekelman envisions, an equally vague depiction of two separate forms of alliance with Jews. Rather, as Rougé seems to have discerned, they are more straightforward descriptions of joining with the Jews in their nefarious behavior against their former co-​religionists. This makes by far the most sense of the law’s insistence that these persons are to be punished “cum ipsis”—​that is, with the Jews who engage in these assaults. This interpretation is strengthened by the last phrase in that sentence, which mandates that any Jew found to have attacked former co-​religionists will be burnt “cum omnibus suis participibus”—​with all those who participated with them (in these acts). It is thus the immediate lead-​in to the second sentence, a juncture 78. She offers a fascinating if speculative consideration of how a judge or arbitrator might have established this (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:130). 79. “Si quelqu’un du peuple se joint à leur secte impie et participe à leurs groupements séditieux, il supportera, avec eux, les châtiments mérités” (“If any one of the people joins up with their impious sect and participates in their seditious bands, he will suffer, with them, the merited punishments”) (Rougé’s translation in Rougé and Delmaire 2005:369, my English translation of the French). Consistent with the implication of Rougé’s translation, the Sources Chrétiennes volume titles the entire law “contre les juifs qui lapide ceux d’entre eux qui sont devenus chrétiens” (“against the Jews who stoned those among them who had become Christians”), with no other reference to conversion, and it’s not clear that Delmaire, who wrote the notes, even recognized this as an issue.



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ignored by scholars who see here two separate transgressions. But if CTh 16.8.1 is a complete unit, all of which pertains to attacks on Jews who have become Christians, CTh 16.8.1.2 now makes explicit just who those “omnes” are. No penalty is specified because none is necessary: it is already explicit in the first sentence of the law. However we might parse the laws of 329 and 335, they have been seen as indexing the real threat that attraction to Jewish practices posed to Christians in the early fourth century. Nemo-​Pekelman asserts this at some length, while acknowledging that hard evidence for such attraction is difficult to find.80 This particular absence of evidence is not altogether surprising, given the lack of literary accounts by Jews, the socially transgressive nature of such attraction (at least from a Christian perspective), and its increasing criminalization.81 Regardless, it seems likely that this and several other laws demonstrate the influence that prominent Christian leaders and theologians were able to exert on now sympathetic emperors. They have struck some scholars as significantly different from laws written by expert jurists, in their language, in their apparent disregard for legal precedent and consistency, and in their obvious Christian interests. The law of 329, for instance, seems inconsistent with Constantine’s Edict of Milan, guaranteeing Roman citizens the right to practice the cult of their choice, and thus unlikely to have been the work of jurists attentive to legal precedent and coherence.82 The penalty of “crematio” was ordinarily reserved for egregious crimes and seems disproportionately severe here, again suggesting that it emanated from Christian circles and not relatively neutral Roman jurists.83 Being burnt to death carried connotations of public humiliation and was probably especially painful, but it may also have

80.  Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:119, who cites Simon 1948 that the absence of evidence proves nothing. Regrettably, many of the few scholarly studies she cites are outdated, and she relies far too heavily on the problematic work of Feldman. Her discussion of possible Jewish epigraphic evidence for persons called proselytes comes second-​hand from Simon 1948 (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:118), and she does not cite the best editions of Jewish inscriptions, nor the important Aphrodisias inscriptions mentioning proselytes and theosebeis (IJO 2.14A, B), on which see Kraemer 2015 and below, pp. 383–85, 392–94. She does not engage questions about whether many of the Christian sources she cites reflect Christian fantasy, rather than reality on the ground, on which see ­esp. below, pp. 190–206. 81. See, however, the discussion of CTh 16.8.6 below, pp. 102–11; 152–53. 82. See above, p. 96n76. Delmaire notes that before the Council of Nicaea in 325, Constantine had no adversarial relationship with Jews, and would not have used the negative language of the law, which conflicts with the position of the edict of Milan (Rougé and Delmaire 2005:487). 83. Linder remarks on this as well (JRIL, p. 130n14).

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had a specifically theological resonance. Effectively a form of cremation, it might have been seen to deny the deceased person a chance at bodily resurrection, although any such implication is absent in the law.84 Linder thought that both this law and an encyclical letter of Constantine announcing the position of the Council of Nicaea on the proper date of Easter might have been drafted by the same Christian cleric, who lacked legal specialization.85 Nemo-​ Pekelman argues that Constantine’s laws prohibiting Jews from circumcising (male) slaves, purchasing Christian slaves, and marriages between Christians and Jews all stem from Christian lobbying and language, enshrining into imperial law actions that the state had no prior interest in regulating. Together, these laws envision diverse underlying social processes for how non-​Jews, especially Christians, might affiliate with Jews and take up Jewish practices: the voluntary choice of free persons, the coercion of enslaved persons, and spouses adopting the practices of their marriage partners. The bulk of Constantine’s law of 335 dealt not with the punishment of Jews who attacked new Christians but, rather, with the prohibition of the circumcision of (male) slaves.86 The punishment for the owner circumcising a Christian (or other) slave was loss of the slave. But there was also an upside for the circumcised slave, who was immediately freed, without manumission by the slaveholder. Noting that this provision contradicted traditional Roman law, by which the slave without a master nevertheless retained the status of an enslaved person,87 Nemo-​Pekelman sees yet again evidence of Christian formulation and authorship. Since it seems unclear that the freedom of the circumcised slave would inflict more damage on the Jewish slaveholder than the loss of the slave, it may also be that the point here was to compensate the enslaved Christian for the damage, both physical and otherwise, done by circumcision. A second law in 339 intensified the restrictions on Jewish slaveholders.88 There is some disagreement about whether it was issued by Constantine II,

84. For another, later, account of Christian desecration of Jewish dead by burning exhumed bodies, see above, ­pp. 64–65 and below, pp. 279–80. 85. JRIL, pp. 125–​26; Nemo-​Pekelman thinks an alternative possibility was Ossius of Cordova, based partly on de Clercq’s 1954 argument that Ossius served as a legal advisor to Constantine between 313 and 325 (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:128). 86. Sirm 4; abbreviated in CTh 16.9.1, JRIL 10. 87. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:145. 88. CTh 16.9.2, JRIL 11.



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as the manuscripts read, or by his brother, Constantius II.89 It appears to prohibit Jews from buying anything other than Jewish slaves. Any such slave purchased is immediately vindicated to the imperial fisc. But if the slave is circumcised, the owner not only loses the slave, as prescribed in the earlier law, but is now subject to capital punishment. (Executing the slaveholder would seem to eliminate the consequence of losing the slave, except perhaps to the slaveholder’s heirs.) If the slave is Christian, all other slaves already in the owner’s possession are immediately taken away (perhaps to determine whether they are also Christian), and the slaveholder loses all the Christian slaves without delay. Purchasing a Christian slave cost the Jewish slaveholder not only that slave but all other previously purchased Christian slaves as well. For the slave, however, this law contains a significant change from the earlier law, which granted the slave immediate liberty. The slave now remains enslaved; only his ownership changes, to the imperial fisc. Because this difference brings the laws concerning such slaves back into line with earlier Roman precedent, Nemo-​Pekelman sees it as the work of a functionary in the chancellery.90 Both laws imply that Jewish slaveholders were imposing Jewish observance on their slaves, who lacked the legal capacity (and practical ability?) to resist. In the ancient Mediterranean, it largely went without saying that enslaved persons were expected to follow the cult devotions of their owners. As Hezser demonstrates, late antique rabbinic sources mandate both the conversion of slaves through circumcision and purificatory immersion, and the securing of the manumission of enslaved Jews.91 Although Nemo-​Pekelman simply presumes that rabbinic texts reliably index the views and practices of Jews across the ancient Mediterranean, it’s virtually impossible to say whether or not Jews outside immediate rabbinic circles were aware of these rabbinic

89. Linder argues that it was initially one law, divided into two and catalogued in different locations in the Code as CTh 16.8.6 and 16.9.2 (by Constantine II, JRIL, pp.  144–​46; by Constantius II, Stemberger 2000:178n39). Nemo-​Pekelman follows Linder (and does not cite Stemberger). The assignment to Constantius II coheres slightly better with the likelihood that CTh 16.8.6 pertained to situations in the West, rather than the East (on which, see later). But Linder thinks that precisely because the anti-​circumcision law was issued by Constantine II, it is unlikely that it was subsequently implemented by Constans’s administration after the death of Constantine II in early 340 (JRIL, pp. 145–​46). 90. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:147–​48. 91. Hezser 2005, esp. 34–​44. Nemo-​Pekelman notes that in some rabbinic sources, the consent of the slave was required, and that slaveholders could not continue to own a slave who refused consent (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:145).

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positions and felt bound by them. But they could easily have arrived at similar positions independently, based, for instance, on their own readings of biblical texts concerning non-​Israelite slaves.92 Precisely what prompted this particular law is unknown, as is its precise connection to CTh 16.8.6, given at the same time, if not simply as the other half of one law. The second law addresses a particular situation whose specifics are nevertheless frustratingly imprecise.93 Women who had previously worked in an imperial weaving workshop in some unspecified location had left that establishment under circumstances that are unspecified and had apparently been associating in some fashion with Jews. (These workshops produced textiles and uniforms for the imperial administration and the military, and the women and men who worked in them were effectively slaves, bound to the workshop for life.)94 The edict orders the women returned to the establishment. No punishment is prescribed for the Jews involved, but the law is explicit that in the future, Jews who “join” Christian women to their “shameful acts” will be subject to capital punishment.95 Scholars have generally read this law to prohibit either inducing Christian women to become Jews (or facilitating such change in some way) or marriage between Jewish men and Christian women. These divergent readings are fueled by the law’s vague language. A particularly ambiguous key phrase is the opening sentence: “as pertains to the women whom the Jews led to ‘consortium’ in their ‘turpitudo’ ”(or perhaps, “the women whom the Jews, in their ‘turpitudo,’ led to ‘consortium’).”96 Similarly unclear is the use of “flagitium,” to which the Jews must not “join” Christian women, and perhaps the verb “iungo” (“join”) itself.

92. This problematic presumption holds for Nemo-​Pekelman’s entire study. Hezser also points out that enslaved persons lacked the capacity for ethnicity, so merely imposing on them the household religion of their owners did not confer on them personhood or ethnicity (Hezser 2005:27–​29). The second was perhaps less of an issue for Christian slaveholders who could disambiguate ethnicity and religion. 93. CTh 16.8.6, JRIL 11. It reads in full: “Post alia: quod ad mulieres pertinent, quas Iudaei in turpitudinis suae duxere consortium in gynaeceo nostro ante versatas, placet easdem restitui gynaeceo idque in reliquum obseruari, ne christianas mulieres suis iungant flagitiis uel, si hoc fecerint, capitali periculo subiugentur” (Rougé and Delmaire 2005). 94. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:148; Rougé and Delmaire 2005:377n3; JRIL, p.149n8. 95. “Iungo” for “join”; “flagitium” for “shameful acts.” 96. So Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:148: other translators generally follow the first translation.



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Modern translations typically reproduce the ambiguity of the Latin, sometimes even just translating “turpitudo/​inis” with the equally vague English “turpitude,” and “flagitium” with standard but similarly vague translations such as “villany” and “infamie.”97 Those who believe that the precipitating event entailed marital unions rely in part on the ordinary meaning of “consortium” as sexual union, while those who argue that the central offense here was related to conversion construe “consortium” more generally.98 These are not, of course, mutually exclusive. Weavers adopting Jewish practices might not necessarily have entered into marital relationships with Jewish men, but they might have. As I will consider further, the question of formal marital unions between Jewish men and the women weavers is complex, but any marriage between the two that Jews considered licit would presumably have entailed the women adopting Jewish practices. Further, although most scholars presume that the weavers were Christians, this is at best implicit in the law as transmitted, and it’s not impossible that the ban against some future association with Christian women is a specific provision not entirely related to the precipitating event. What one thinks the law prohibits in the future depends significantly on what one thinks transpired in the immediate past, both of which depend on some clarification of these terms. Several decades ago, Bernard Bachrach argued that the precipitating event was an attempt by Jewish missionaries to proselytize Christian women workers in an imperial weaving factory in Syrian Antioch, in the tumultuous period immediately after the death of Constantine. Once the women became Jews, he speculated, they refused to continue to work in the factory because it produced fabric with mixed fibers, which Jewish law prohibited. Nevertheless, they remained in the area.99 The law compelled the women to return to the factory and prohibited Jews from any future proselytizing among Christian 97. E.g., Pharr 1952, who translates “consortium . . . in turpitudinem” as “association of their turpitude” and “flagitium” as “villany.” Linder translates “consortium . . . in turpitudinem” as “fellowship in turpitude” and “flagitium” as “deeds of disgrace.” Rougé and Delmaire 2005:379 reads “l’association de leur turpitude” and “infamies.” Stemberger 2000:179 translates the first phrase as “society of their shame” and the “flagitium” similarly as “shame.” Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:148 renders the whole first phrase slightly differently, as “les femmes que des juifs, dans leur turpitude, ont emmenées dans leur communauté” and translates “flagitium” as “ignominies.” 98.  Delmaire notes that “consortium” ordinarily means an illegitimate union under Roman law . . . in contrast to “justes noces” (citing CTh 4.12.7, 10.19.15, 10.20.10, passim; Rougé and Delmaire 2005:377n1). For additional bibliography, see Rougé and Delmaire 2005:378–​79. For Linder’s defense of consortium as nonmarital in this instance, see JRIL, p. 150n9, with extensive citations and further bibliography. 99. Bachrach 1985:408–​12.

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women, on pain of death. Stemberger has more recently critiqued various elements of Bachrach’s reconstruction, including the lack of evidence for a state weaving facility in Antioch and the improbability that Jewish missionaries could have proselytized in such a facility, especially over an extended period of time.100 Although Linder does not subscribe to the details of Bachrach’s reconstruction, he, too, thinks that the law prohibits Jewish proselytizing of Christian women, in response to an episode among female workers in some imperial workshop.101 In his view, both this law and its companion prohibition of circumcising male slaves share a common concern to inhibit the conversion of Christians.102 Other scholars have considered the law to respond to marriages between Jewish men and the women weavers.103 In the more nuanced analysis of Nemo-​Pekelman, the underlying events remain uncertain, and the law hints at sexual relations between the men and the women that may, nevertheless, not qualify as “marriage.”104 In her reading, one possibility is that Jews encountered slaves fleeing the workshop, and they sheltered them. Alternatively, perhaps some Jewish men bribed the administrator of the factory, and they took the slaves to their private textile factories. Either way, she thinks the men were subsequently accused of engaging in improper sexual relations with the women.105 In her view, “duxere consortium” means that the men led the women not to “marriage” but to some other arrangement, partly because the women of the workshop were not free women but, rather, were “mancipia” (enslaved laborers), and sexual cohabitation with 100. Stemberger 2000:179–​81. Others have similarly argued that Jewish men were unlikely to have been able to make inroads into a state workshop anywhere except towns in Palestine, where they were the majority (e.g., Delmaire in Rougé and Delmaire 2005:377n3). Stemberger’s discussion here is part of a longer chapter on a possible Jewish revolt against Gallus (who died in 354) (2000:161–​84), in which he dismantles the older hypothesis of Avi-​Yonah 1976, invoked by Nemo-​Pekelman, that Jewish textile manufacturers in Palestine initiated the revolt here (2000:176–​81). 101. E.g., JRIL, pp. 149–​50n4: “Our law obviously dealt with proselyting of women-​slaves, in analogy to the preceding paragraph, which dealt with the proselyting of male-​slaves.” Although the English edition appeared in 1987, JRIL was originally published in Hebrew in 1983, and Linder probably did not know the arguments of Bachrach 1985. 102. CTh 16.9.2 (JRIL, pp. 149–​50n8). 103. E.g., Bowman 2006:1042; Heszer 2005:42n54. 104. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:146–​50. 105. Here her translation is most significantly different from that of others: “concerning the women whom the Jews, in their turpitude, have brought into their community”; cf. Rougé and Delmaire 2005: “whom the Jews have introduced into the association of their turpitude” (my English translation of the French).



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them was, under Roman law, at best legally “contubernium”—​union with a slave. Her slight repunctuation of the opening sentence, in which the phrase “in their turpitude” characterizes the state of the Jewish agents, rather than modifying “consortium,” supports this interpretation, particularly if “turpitude” here carries a connotation of sexual immorality. A loose but perhaps more accurate English rendering of Nemo-​Pekelman’s position might be “the women whom the Jews, in their despicable lustfulness, lured into debased union.” In her view, what was most transgressive about these relations was not that they involved free men and enslaved women—​something that was generally of little interest to Roman legislation—​but, rather, that the men were Jewish and the women were Christian, which she infers from the final prohibition articulated in the law.106 Although Nemo-​Pekelman is often quick to invoke rabbinic law to illuminate the circumstances of late antique imperial legislation pertaining to Jews, here she does not do so. Instead, her objection to seeing connubial relations between the men and the women as marriage rests on the provisions of Roman law. Yet a Roman law at the end of the fourth century, and even the occasional papyrus, makes clear that Jews entered into marital arrangements according to their own practices and were governed by their own perceptions of what fidelity to the Jewish God required.107 These arrangements were sometimes merely different from Roman marriage practices, and sometimes apparently were at odds with them. In saying this, I am by no means arguing for the presumption that these practices were identical to those advocated by ancient rabbis, whether Palestinian or Babylonia.108 Various scholars have argued that these events took place in Palestine, and while I am, in fact, dubious that this is likely, it is worth briefly considering the status such relationships might have had in the view of late antique Palestinian rabbis.109 Michael Satlow argues that for both Palestinian and Babylonian rabbis, liaisons between a Jewish man and a non-​Jewish woman could not have the status of marriage, since the children of such liaisons are, by rabbinic definition, not Jewish. Palestinian rabbis, he observes, express little concern for 106. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:150. 107. CJ 1.9.7, JRIL 22; discussed at length in the next chapter; the Cologne marriage contract from Antinoopolis (Sirat et al. 1986), discussed below, pp. 394–97. 108. See Satlow 2001 for a thorough explication of these issues. 109. E.g., Bachrach 1985; cf. Stemberger 2000 (below, p. 107n113): Delmaire asserts that these women were doubtless (“sans doute”), in Scythopolis, a conclusion he derives from a law of 374 (CTh 10.20.8), discussed later (Rougé and Delmaire 2005:377).

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sexual liaisons of this sort, since they could have little consequence.110 Whereas Nemo-​Pekelman thinks that the enslaved status of the women disqualified such unions as licit marriage under Roman law, for the rabbis the crucial impediment to such marriages was that the women were not Jewish. Satlow also argues that in contrast to their Babylonian counterparts, Palestinian rabbis seem far less concerned about other sexual relations between Jewish men and non-​Jewish women, here seeming to reject the concerns of Second Temple Jewish literature that all sexual relations with non-​Jewish women are unwise because they could entice the man away from Jewish practices, and because all contact with non-​Jews is inadvisable.111 Hypothetically, at least, if the weavers had forsaken their prior religious practices and agreed to become Jews and live as such, they might have been able to contract marriages that would have been deemed licit among other Jews. But the law as it stands does not enable us to determine that this is what transpired. Nothing in the law supports the conclusion that the women were punished for adopting Jewish practices. All that happens to the weavers is that they are returned to their forced labor in the workshop. No other punishment, corporal or otherwise, is prescribed for them, which implies (but does not guarantee) that their only offense was ceasing to labor at the workshop. This is consistent with Nemo-​Pekelman’s observation that laws pertaining to fugitives from such establishments (all, however, later) penalize those who harbored them, and not the weavers themselves, whose valued skills seem to have protected them from excessive punishment.112 I will consider these laws shortly. Conceivably, enslaved persons could not be prosecuted for taking up Jewish practices. As we have seen, the law of 329 had made it a crime for “one of the people” to join with the Jews, for which the “merited punishments” are prescribed. Did, however, “quis . . . ex populo” include enslaved female workers in this particular imperial weaving establishment, or were they not considered liable, perhaps by virtue of their sex, their status as slaves, their geographic location, or some other disqualification? The law of 335 had made it illegal for Jews to circumcise male slaves, but as I have already noted, such prohibitions did not apply to women; and in any case, it was the Jews who performed such circumcisions who were liable, not the enslaved men. 110. Satlow 2001:158–​59. 111. Satlow 2001:159. 112. The earliest law concerning weavers in CTh 10.20 dates to 357 or perhaps 358.



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Alternatively, one might argue that the weavers were liable under the law of 329, but that this and any other offenses were overlooked because of their economic value to the workshop. The lack of any punishment for the men involved in this incident is quite curious, especially given that the law prescribes capital punishment for whatever it is that Jewish men might do in the future with Christian women. Either the law aims to criminalize something that was previously not explicitly unlawful, or what the men did was not the same as what the law prohibits going forward. We could imagine that the disposition of the case against the men was handled elsewhere, in a rescript or edict we do not have, and that this law deals only with the disposition of the women, and the future prohibition. But it is an argument from silence. With the exception of Nemo-​Pekelman, few scholars have paid much attention to other laws pertaining to imperial weavers.113 Even for her, though, the significance of these laws is especially the contrast between the fines they prescribe as the penalty for persons who harbored imperial weavers and the death penalty prescribed in our law. The earliest of these laws postdates the law of 339 by almost twenty years, making it difficult to discern what law, if any, the Jewish men might have violated.114 Between the date of these laws and the absence of any apparent consequence to the Jewish men, it is tempting to argue that they were not accused, or at least not found guilty, of harboring imperial weavers. Despite their later dates, eight laws pertaining to imperial weavers in two consecutive sections of the Code may be somewhat instructive. Dating from 357 or 358 to 382, most were issued in the West.115 They address two somewhat 113.  Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:149–​50. Linder cites CTh 10.20.10 (Gratian, at Aquileia, 379 or 380), but only as an instance where consortium connotes connubial union (JRIL, p. 150n9). Delmaire cites CTh 10.20.8 in support of the claim that these events took place in Scythopolis (Beth She’an) (Rougé and Delmaire 2005:377). The law specifically orders persons who “retain” imperial linen weavers to return them by a certain date, on penalty of heavy fines. It further warns that in the future, fines will be imposed on those who attempt to employ linen workers from Scythopolis who were technically free, but required to provide raw materials to the state. Characterizing this law as evidence for an imperial “intervention in the . . . textile industry in Palestine,” Stemberger nevertheless notes that the law does not demonstrate that there was an imperial workshop in Scythopolis, nor that the textile industry there was necessarily Jewish, although it might have been (Stemberger 2000:180). 114. CTh 10.20.2. 115. They are CTh 10.20.2 (357 or 358), from Milan; CTh 10.20.3 (365), also from Milan; CTh 10.21.1 (369), from Noviodunum (Romania?); CTh 10.20.6 ( June 372), no location of promulgation is extant; in the surviving version it is addressed to Modestus, praetorian prefect (of the East) by Valentinian, Valens, and Gratian. CTh 10.20.7 (August 372) was sent by the

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different situations reminiscent of the debates about the law of 339. Four consecutive laws concern persons who harbor (or more literally conceal or hide)116 imperial weavers, and they require that the weavers be returned by a certain date, on penalty of heavy fines.117 One, dated to June 372, explicitly states that weavers are solicited by many persons, presumably to work in private workshops (and presumably under more favorable conditions and better wages).118 One law, however, of 365, concerns cases of freeborn women who “unite themselves” (“se sociaverint”) to imperial weavers.119 If the women do not give up such unions, they will be reduced to the status of slaves themselves, and the union will legally be “contubernium.” A much fuller law of 379 or 380 speaks to the same situation of unions between freeborn women and imperial minters.120 What’s striking about all these laws is how relatively unambiguous they are, at least in comparison to the law of 339. The law pertaining to the union between a free woman and a male imperial weaver is unquestionably about the legal status of their union. The several laws about those who harbor imperial weavers (which apparently means to employ, rather than simply to provide refuge) are similarly straightforward, although only the law of June 372, is more direct that these weavers are now working for others, and not simply given shelter as fugitive slaves. Two laws issued in the East in 369 and 382 further illuminate some of the issues here.121 The first forbids private persons from making fabric borders with gold: such garments can only be made in imperial establishments. The second prohibits private persons from having (and presumably wearing) such garments. same emperors to Philomathes, comes of the Imperial Largesses at Cilicia, although Pharr, at least, thinks this is erroneous, and that the law was issued in the West (Pharr 1952: 286n14). It reads like a summary of the June law, but it specifies a fine of five pounds of gold, rather than three. The others are CTh 10.20.8 (August 374), the same emperors, from Antioch; CTh 10.20.9 (February 380), from Carthage; and CTh 10.21.2 (March 382), from Constantinople. The remaining laws pertaining to imperial weavers date from considerably later during the reign of Theodosios II and seem less germane. 116. In CTh 10.20.2 and 10.20.8, the verb is “celo,” more literally to hide or conceal (Lewis and Short s.v.). 117. CTh 10.20.6, CTh 10.20.7, CTh 10.20.8, and CTh 10.20.9. 118. CTh 10.20.6. 119. CTh 10.20.3. 120. CTh 10.20.10 (March 379 or 380), Gratian (and Valentinian and Theodosios I) at Aquileia. 121. CTh 10.21.1, CTh 10.21.2. A third law, CTh 10.21.3, is the fullest law to ban private possession of clothing reserved to the imperial household, but it dates to 424.



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This constellation of laws suggests that in the mid to late fourth century, particularly but not only in the western part of the empire, an extensive market for restricted fabric (especially that made with gold and/​or purple dyes) flourished outside the control of the imperial administrations. (The geographic locus of these laws might lend support to the likelihood that the specific weaving establishment in the law of 339 was somewhere in the West, but this seems difficult to determine.)122 The skills of those trained in imperial workshops were in high demand by private entrepreneurs, presumably to serve a market for these goods among elite persons who otherwise had limited if any access to them (as well as other markets). While all these laws postdate the law of 339 by at least two decades, it seems reasonable to suppose that these conditions were not entirely new when we first see them in the late 360s. Skilled imperial weavers of both sexes could presumably find lucrative employment and perhaps freedom from some of the strictures of their imperial servitude in private workshops. The managers of imperial establishments were particularly concerned to get these workers back. How does this help us to read the law of 339? It seems obvious that whatever else had transpired, a central interest of the law was the restoration of the women weavers to the imperial establishment where they had previously worked. The later laws dealing with such situations may provide some clue as to why the Jewish men were not penalized: they may, in fact, have produced the women within a specified time frame, avoiding fines with which they had been threatened. The several later laws that deal with the status of connubial relations between imperial weavers and free persons may support those who read the law of 339 as pertaining to such unions, although it is curious that the later laws are unambiguous on this point, while the law of 339 is annoyingly imprecise. The issue in the later laws is explicitly the legal nature of the union, and the subsequent status of the freeborn person. The law of 339 addresses neither of these: it does not pronounce on the standing of unions between any of the Jewish men and the errant weavers, nor does it speak to the status of such Jewish husbands. If whoever drafted it meant to allude to such relationships with the phrase “duxere consortium,” the person has chosen a particularly circumlocutious way of putting it. Similarly, if the law intends to prohibit Jewish men from entering into relationships with Christian women (weavers or

122. See above, p. 107n113, for arguments that the workshop was in Palestine, about which I am unconvinced.

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otherwise?), its drafters have chosen particularly elusive language with which to say this. Laws several decades later will have no trouble saying explicitly that a Jewish man cannot marry a Christian woman, nor a Christian man marry a Jewish woman.123 Perhaps the issue here is the enslaved status of the woman, but if that is the real issue, why not say that? The law prohibiting the circumcision of enslaved Christian males is unambiguous in this regard. Why would this law not be similarly clear that in the future, Jewish men were not to have connubial relations with Christian women, enslaved or otherwise? Nemo-​Pekelman proposes that the presence of Christian women in imperial weaving establishments was somewhat embarrassing to the imperial administration. According to Sozomen, whom she cites here, during the Diocletian persecutions, Christians had been “condemned to serve in the women’s workshops or the fabrication of linen” and were subsequently freed by Constantine.124 The presence of Christians in such workshops several decades after the persecutions ended might have been somewhat difficult to explain. This might help account for the generally evasive language of the law and the lenient treatment of all concerned. It’s also possible that, as Nemo-​ Pekelman proposes for various other laws whose phrasing seems poorly attuned to subtleties of Roman legislation, the imprecise language of the law reflects the input of Christian lobbyists, who were more outraged by the transgressive nature of relations between Jewish men and Christian women than they were with the issue of private employment of imperial weavers. Still, ultimately this doesn’t help us assess what the law intends to prohibit in the future. Facilitating, encouraging, or even soliciting the participation of Christian women, enslaved or otherwise, in Jewish practices? Connubial relations with such women? Any and all of the above? It seems most likely that this law reflects an episode in which women compelled to work as weavers in an imperial establishment at some unidentifiable location, more likely in the West, went to work for one or more private workshops owned (or perhaps just managed?) by Jews. How they came to do so cannot be determined. Nemo-​Pekelman speculates that Jews may have given refuge to fugitive weavers, but the later laws, especially that of 372, suggest that private employers actively solicited weavers, and thus it may be more likely that the same thing transpired here. Regardless of whether these particular women were actively solicited or just randomly encountered, Jewish workshop agents

123. E.g., CTh 3.7.2, Theodosios I, in 388, discussed below, p. 131. 124. Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 1.8.3, in Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:150.



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were more likely to have been most interested in their valuable weaving skills, rather than in either their attractiveness as possible spouses or as targets of proselytism. Jewish “turpitude” may be just another Christian fantasy. Once in the social environment of such workshops, however, it seems quite possible that sexual relations, formalized or otherwise, might have occurred between (some of ?) the women and (some?) Jewish men, and that (some of ?) the women took up at least some Jewish practices. Any of this may have been voluntary or coerced, or some complex combination of both. But again, the failure of the law to punish the Jewish men for their past actions suggests that, other than the employment of the weavers outside imperial establishments, whatever transpired was not illegal. All this speculation presumes, further, that whatever the law implies is what actually transpired, and none of this can be verified. In the end, then, I find myself concurring with Stemberger’s conclusion that it’s impossible to be certain what precisely the law presumes to have taken place, and therefore what precisely it intends to prohibit in the future. No early laws targeted Jews for practicing their ancestral religion, but other traditional religious practices were targeted early on by both Nicene and Arian emperors. Constantine banned the taking of private haruspices in 319,125 although in 321, after lightning had struck the Colosseum in Rome the previous year, he allowed the taking of auspices after such events by private persons as well, provided only that no domestic sacrifices accompanied such acts.126 Twenty years later, in 341, Constans proclaimed that “superstitio” should cease, and he abolished sacrifice.127 A law of Constantius II, an Arian, closed temples in all cities, made entry into such places illegal, and ordered abstinence from sacrifices, specifying both capital punishment and the confiscation of the offender’s property to the imperial treasury.128 Provincial governors were liable if they failed to prosecute such cases. Several decades elapsed before the next law against sacrifices and temples in this title of the Code, an early law of Theodosios I, in 381, reiterating the older prohibition on sacrifice, elaborating on even approaching a temple or shrine with the intention of performing a sacrifice (to which I will return).129

125. CTh 9.16.1–​2. 126. CTh 16.10.1. 127. CTh 16.10.2. Despite the regular characterization of Judaism as “superstitio,” this law is not seen an effort to outlaw Jewish practice of Judaism. 128. CTh 16.10.4. The dating of this is problematic; it may be 356. For discussion, see Rougé and Delmaire 2005:432; in any case, CTh 16.10.6 reasserts these prohibitions in truncated form. 129. CTh 16.10.7.

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Much more energy seems to have gone into internecine struggles for authority and power. Controversy over the teachings of Arius not only provoked the Council of Nicaea but also continued to engender substantial conflict. Writing from the vantage point of the mid-​fifth century, Sokrates subsequently characterized the reign of Constantius II (337–​361) as a “continual civil war among Christians,”130 including an ongoing conflict between the Nicene Paul and the Arian Makedonios, who competed for imperial patronage and appointment as bishop. Sokrates and Sozomen both claim that when Makedonios was finally installed as the imperial bishop at the church called Saintly Peace (Hagia Eirene) in Constantinople, he inserted wooden blocks into the mouths of Nicene men to force them to take communion and mutilated Nicene women.131 Whether this was, in fact, the case seems difficult to assess, and others have suggested that such accounts seem better read as remembrances of violence that serve to authorize the power of the Nicene church.132 The ascent of Julian in 361 offered Jews and traditionalists alike a reprieve. The famously “apostate” emperor, who as a young man renounced his natal Christianity and took up traditionalist practices, reopened temples closed twenty years earlier, and restored sacrifices to various gods. A “Letter” attributed to Julian, addressed “to the community (koinon) of the Jews,” granted them relief from various taxes, including those collected for the support of the patriarch, a move that if true would clearly would have earned him the emnity of the patriarch and his associates.133 Although most scholars tend to accept this “Letter” as genuine, its authenticity is by no means certain, and my arguments do not presume that it is.134

130. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 2.12.6; see Falcasantos 2015:121–​22. 131. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 2.16.7–​16; Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 3.9.3–​4. 132. A point I owe to Falcasantos 2015:128, here citing Connerton 1989 (and others) that “these memories of violence against the current hegemonic party help construct the new party’s legitimacy.” 133.  Letter 51, in, e.g., JRIL 13, where it is titled “Policy on Jews”; GLAJJ 486a (2:559–​68); from W.  C. Wright, LCL (1923) 3:176–​80; Hoffman 2004, 177–​83. The sources for Julian are extensive and the secondary literature massive, for which see Levenson 2004, updating Levenson 1980. 134. I am here particularly influenced by the judgment of Scott Bradbury against authenticity, in personal correspondence and conversation, and conference presentations. Linder, JRIL, pp. 154–​ 55 accepts its authenticity, as does Levine 2012:251n44; for further discussion, see GLAJJ 2.508–​ 11; van Nuffelen 2001 and Levenson 2004, with extensive bibliography (2004:414n15).



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Most significantly, the “Letter” promised to rebuild Jerusalem and allow Jews to worship there again.135 Whether or not the “Letter” is authentic, it does seem to reflect an actual endeavor of Julian’s, as evidenced in various sources. Why Julian chose to do so remains unknown, although it is often seen as part and parcel of his desire to re-​open temples and restore traditional sacrifices. But the “Letter” implies a more complex possible motive. In the “Letter,” Julian appears intentionally to drive a wedge between Jews elsewhere in the Empire, and the Patriarch and his supporters. Might this have been because the Patriarch opposed Julian’s plan to rebuild the temple, which would have re-​instated the hereditary Jewish priesthood as a power base in opposition to the Patriarch? If so, one might see Julian’s prohibition of the patriarchal tax as retribution for that opposition. In Sokrates’s brief, compelling, and obviously Christianized account, the endeavor came to a miraculous end, after Cyril, bishop of Jerusalem, predicted its failure.136 The next day, an earthquake destroyed the construction and fires from heaven destroyed the metal tools.137 A third portent followed: the Jews found “luminous impressions” of the Cross “imprinted on their garments,” which they could not rub off or wash out. But, in a detail consistent with numerous Christian engagements with Jews, none of this induced them to convert.

135. This comes at the end of his Letter 51. Levine 2012:252, who takes this to be genuine, also thinks Julian’s intention to rebuild the temple “was a sudden and unexpected gesture of support and respect for Judaism,” although he concedes that Julian’s anti-​Christian sentiments were a factor as well. 136.  Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 3.20:  Rufinus, Eccl. Hist. 10.38–​ 40; for other accounts, see Levenson 2004. 137. For evidence for an earthquake in the region in 363, see Garfunkel et al. 2014:239; also Meimaris and Kalliopi Kritikakou 2005:116–​21nn22–​24 for relevant inscriptions. I  thank Scott Bradbury for the reference.

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“The sect of the Jews is prohibited by no law” —​CTh 16.8.9, Theodosios I at Constantinople, September 23, 393

Valentinian, Gratian, and Theodosios I (363–395) Julian’s premature death in June 363, during the Persian campaign, brought his efforts to relieve pressures on Jews to a crashing halt. Yet the resumption of Christian imperial administrations after the death of Julian did not instantly result in new anti-​Jewish legislation. Nor are there surviving reports of consequent attacks on Jews or Jewish communal buildings. Under Valentinian I in the West and his Arian brother and co-​emperor Valens in the East, the only surviving legislation pertinent to Jews appears to be a law issued from the western court, at Trier, sometime between 368 and 373.1 The terse one-​sentence order stated that the right to commandeer housing for soldiers applied only to private residences and not to “places of religion,” and that any soldiers housed in synagogues of Jews were to be evacuated. The law may have been prompted by particular local conditions, especially the presence of significant numbers of troops and military activity on the German border from 367 to 373.2 Conceivably, the edict was a response to Jewish objections to such involuntary billeting. There seems to be no way to know whether synagogues were any more likely than other religious spaces to be commandeered, nor if they were, whether anti-​Jewish sentiment is the best explanation. Interestingly, the archaeological evidence for the association of some synagogues with domestic spaces might suggest that some synagogues 1. CTh 7.8.2, JRIL 14; also CJ 1.9.4. The consular dating (to the consulships of the two emperors) applies to three different years: 368, 370, and 373. 2. See JRIL, p. 161. The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190222277.001.0001



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were more likely to be targeted precisely because they could be seen to fall within the parameters of “domus privatorum,” the homes of private persons.3 In 366, Valentinian named his seven-​year-​old son, Gratian, consul, elevating him the following year to co-​Augustus.4 In 375, while at Brigetio in Illyricum, Valentinian died suddenly, apparently of a burst blood vessel. This precipitated a major crisis of succession. His brother, Valens, was presumably unable to seize total power for himself. Neither of his sons was yet of an age to rule on their own. Sixteen-​year-​old Gratian was at Trier, and initially unaware of his father’s death. His younger half-​brother, Valentinian II—​by a different mother, Justina—​was only four at the time, and also far away. Six days later, apparently under a plan formulated by Valentinian’s advisors at court,5 Gratian was proclaimed Augustus, and Valentinian II was proclaimed co-​Augustus. Valens died only a few years later, in August 378, at the catastrophic defeat by the Goths at Adrianople, a defeat enabled perhaps by the failure of Gratian and his troops, for various reasons, to arrive in time to provide assistance.6 Five months later, in January 379, Gratian, now all of nineteen, appointed a general named Theodosios (son of the older general by the same name) as Augustus in the East. Having been either in retirement in Spain or at least not at Adrianople, Theodosios was untainted by the defeat there.7 McEvoy notes that it’s unclear whether Theodosios was appointed as a result of support from a court faction, or perhaps by a military usurpation that Gratian, still only nineteen, was forced to accept.8 Regardless, Theodosios’s elevation 3. Linder, at least, does not make this connection in his discussion in JRIL. Possible germane instances of synagogues–​domestic compounds include Stobi, Priene in southwestern Turkey (Burkhardt 2014); and perhaps, very preliminarily, a possible synagogue at Limyra, in Turkey, reported in Colella et al. 2014. 4.  For extensive, fascinating treatment of this, and of the issue of child emperors far more broadly, see McEvoy 2013, to which some of this discussion is heavily indebted. I thank Rebecca Falcasantos for pointing me to this work. For Valentinian’s possible motivations for these novel appointments, including the possible insecurity of his regime, and his concern for dynastic succession, see McEvoy 2013:50–​53. 5. Diverse sources, including Ammianus Marcellinus, Zosimus, and others, identify the Frankish general, Merobaudes, Flavius Equitius, the magister militum in Illyricum, and Valentinian II’s maternal uncle, Cerealis, as well as Petronius Probus: (McEvoy 2013:56). McEvoy offers considerable discussion of the complex politics here, which, while fascinating, are not germane to my concerns here. 6. McEvoy 2013:76–​77. 7. McEvoy 2013:77. 8. McEvoy 2013:77–​79; see also McLynn 1994:90n38, who himself cites Barnes 1990:162 and Sivan 1993:121, for the view that a military clique was responsible.

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would have profound significance for Christian orthodoxy:  its impact on Jews was, as we shall see, somewhat more complicated. Sokrates and Sozomen report that after Adrianople, Gratian welcomed back those persons who had been expelled under the Arian Valens, and he issued an edict—​not preserved in the Theodosian Code—​that guaranteed a right to assemble for religious rites without fear, with the explicit exception of the Eunomians, the Photinians and the Manichaeans.9 In Theodoret’s account, Gratian issued a law recalling bishops exiled under Valens and returning church buildings to Nicene control, but there is no mention of a provision of free cultic assembly.10 Gratian also handed over a basilica in Milan for the use of homoian Christians, perhaps when his Arian stepmother, Justina, arrived there.11 Although this law is often characterized as an “edict of toleration,”12 the language of both Sokrates and Sozomen suggests that it regulated only Christian worship, and McLynn points out that it concerned only the East.13 Despite the reports of its seemingly universalizing language in Sozomen and Sokrates, the edict would thus seem to have no bearing on or implications for the legitimacy of traditional Roman practice or of Jewish and Samaritan assemblies. Its absence from the Theodosian Code is also worth some comment. Given that some version of it was known to historians writing not long after the collation of the Code, it seems difficult to imagine that the collators simply omitted it because they lacked a reliable copy. Conceivably, they left it out because they considered it repealed by an edict of August 379 that seems

9.  Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 5.2.1; Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.1.3. In Sokrates, the right of unhindered gathering and worship seems to be granted to diverse corporate entities (each of the thrēskeia), whereas in Sozomen, it appears to be individuals who have the right to worship and assemble as they wish. For several reasons, Sozomen’s account may be closer to the actual edict. Sokrates does not appear to have consulted legal sources, while Sozomen did; Sozomen had legal expertise while Sokrates probably did not, and Sozomen is generally thought to have drawn on (and emended) Sokrates (on these differences, see Leppin 2003). But for my purposes, these subtle and intriguing differences are immaterial. For further analysis, see, e.g., the discussion to each passage in the Sources Chrétiennes editions of these authors. 10. Theodoret, Eccl. Hist. 5.2.1. 11. Between 378 and 381: see McEvoy 2013:119, with references in 119n81. 12. E.g., McEvoy 2013:119. 13. McLynn 1994:91. Although Theodoret ascribes the recall of the bishops to Gratian, Rufinus attributes this to Valens, shortly before his death. McLynn thus argues, somewhat in opposition to McEvoy’s subsequent position, that the law was actually a response to these Nicaeans (bishops, priests, and monks) who now sought clarification of their status under Gratian. This, too, while fascinating, is not germane to my larger argument here.



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both to refer back to it and to nullify it.14 Yet since there are instances in which laws that were later repealed (including those pertaining to the collection of funds for the patriarch in Palestine) are nevertheless retained in the Code, we may wonder whether its absence was strategic.15 Gratian’s seeming “tolerance,” though, was not long-​lived with regard to either non-​Nicene Christianity or traditional Roman religion. The edict of 379 not only rescinded the protection of non-​Nicene churches but it also returned the basilica in Milan to Nicene control.16 Gratian’s “evolving” policies have often been explained as the result of his contact with Ambrose, the Nicene bishop of Milan, after the young emperor moved his court there in 381.17 Born in Trier in 339, Ambrose practiced law in his late twenties, and was provincial governor of Aemelia-​Liguria in 370, residing in Milan. When the Arian bishop of Milan, Auxentius, died in 373, Ambrose was sent to maintain order at the election of Auxentius’s successor. The precise events are disputed (and irrelevant here), but Ambrose ultimately ended up being himself acclaimed and appointed bishop. Until his death in 397, he would be a prolific and fierce defender of Nicene orthodoxy, and an opponent of all non-​Christian religion. The bishop and the emperor had initially met in the summer of 379, shortly before the August edict.18 The extent of Ambrose’s relationship with Gratian and the degree of his influence on the young emperor remain disputed, all the more so because the evidence for a close association between the two comes largely from Ambrose, who might well have had his own motivations for depicting himself as close to the young emperor. McEvoy argues that although Ambrose was not always effective, he came to have increasing influence on Gratian, especially by 381 or so.19 If Ambrose did have Gratian’s ear, we might perhaps expect to see some

14. CTh 16.5.5. McEvoy 2013:199 thinks that in both, Donatists were the primary targets. See also McLynn 1994:102. 15. On this larger question of whether the collators of the Code deliberately omitted inconvenient laws, see ­above, p. 84n32. 16. Ambrose, On the Holy Spirit i.I.19–​21, cited in McEvoy 2013:119. 17. See, e.g., McLynn 1994:79–​157, esp. 79–​80, 98–​106, 151–​52. There is a massive bibliography on Ambrose; Liebeschütz 2011 provides a helpful introduction. 18. CTh 16.5.5. 19.  McEvoy 2013:120–​21, who cites as instances where Ambrose failed to prevail both the Priscillianist controversy and the conflict over the Altar of Victory discussed further, pp. 121–22 and p. 137. Still, she does think that Ambrose came to have increasing influence over Gratian, especially by 381 or so (McEvoy 2013:121), for which she adduces especially the council

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evidence of that in anti-​Jewish legislation or other actions, but it seems difficult to discern a strong and specifically anti-​Jewish agenda behind the legislation emanating from Gratian’s court.20 Much more apparent are the court’s concerns both with internal Christian controversies and, to some degree, constraints on traditional Roman practices, while balancing imperial needs for the support of Roman senators and powerful figures. Gratian seems to have issued legislation against traditional practices in 381 or 382, which is, like the “edict of toleration,” also absent from the Theodosian Code. Its specifics must be reconstructed from accounts several years later by both Ambrose and the powerful Roman senator, Symmachus.21 Most famously, it included the removal of the Altar of Victory from the senate building in Rome, which ultimately precipitated a conflict between Symmachus (and other Roman senators) and Ambrose that played out over many years, including a famous public confrontation between the two men.22 Gratian’s legislation regarding Jews seems mild, and not only by comparison. A law of April 383 issued at Milan rescinded the earlier exemption of certain Jewish men—​here rather generically designated “men of Jewish law” (“Iudaeae legis homines”)—​from serving in the municipal councils.23 This does not appear to have been an inherently anti-​Jewish law.24 By the late

at Acquileia in September 381, whose scope Ambrose was able to limit, helped perhaps by the support, or at least the Nicene commitments of, Theodosios. On this, see also McLynn 1994:124–​49. McEvoy does see some correlation between Gratian’s move to Milan, Ambrose’s presence there, and the emperor’s increasing support for Nicene orthodoxy (McEvoy 2013:85). Like McLynn, though, she is cautious: “Ambrose is unlikely, however, to have been the only individual influencing Gratian in this respect at this time,” and suggests that he may also have been influenced by the actions of Theodosios (McEvoy 2013:119). 20. It’s always possible, of course, that Ambrose did lobby for such actions unsuccessfully. 21. Ambrose, Letter 72.10, in McEvoy 2013:122n100: Symmachus, Relatio 3.1. This would play out after Gratian’s death, when Valentinian refused to see a delegation led by Symmachus, while Ambrose delivered a petition from Damasus of Rome protesting restoration of what McEvoy terms “pagan privileges.” 22. It may also have included restrictions on the college of Vestal Virgins and, possibly, his refusal to accept the traditional imperial title of Pontifex Maximus or to wear the priestly robes associated with that office, but McEvoy offers a helpful discussion of recently scholarly reservations about these last (McEvoy 2013:122–​24); see also McLynn 1994:151–​53. 23. CTh 12.1.99, JRIL 15; see also Mathiesen 2014:44–​45. The earlier exemption occurs in CTh 16.8.2, JRIL 9, discussed above, pp. 89–90. 24. So rightly, JRIL, p. 164. By comparison, in his classic work on ancient conflicts between Jews and Christians, James Parkes suggested that it was Gratian in particular whose policies produced new problems for Jews—​for instance, by no longer exempting Jewish clergy from the burdensome decurionate, and reenacting various other prohibitions against conversion from



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fourth century, curial duties had become exceptionally onerous, both financially and perhaps socially. An entire title of the Theodosian Code is concerned with decurions, and many laws pertain to persons who sought to evade these responsibilities through various strategies, including illicit service in imperial administration and military service, not to mention physical flight.25 Eliminating the clerical exemptions for Jews may just have been one of the many efforts made to require as many men as possible to fulfill these duties.26 Immediately following the rejection of Jewish immunity, the law declares that even Christian clerics are not exempt; those who wished to avoid such service have to provide a substitute and furnish that person with financial resources to meet curial obligations. This might be construed as providing Christian clerics with an option apparently unavailable to Jews, but the financial condition of providing a substitute was a double-​edged sword that might have been a severe disincentive for doing so.27 The last legislation in Gratian’s name that relates to Jews appears to have been issued a month later, at Padua, in May 383.28 It penalized Christians who participated in traditional temple cults, Jewish rites, or Manichaean practices by depriving them of the right to bequeath their property through wills. Simultaneously, it encouraged heirs contesting such actions to file timely suits proving they objected to these practices while the deceased was still living. Various penalties were also prescribed for persons who instigated such

Christianity to Judaism (Parkes 1934:181). Parkes also did not take into account Gratian’s age and the likelihood that these laws reflected the agendas and agency of various persons other than the emperor. 25.  CTh 12.1. For a discussion of the office and its burdensome obligations, see Jones 1964:748–​60. 26. Linder notes that a law of 382 repealed the exemptions of traditional priests, but he does not provide the citation (JRIL, p. 167n3). He may have intended to note a law from the court of Arkadios in 386 (CTh 16.10.14), which completely abolished such ancient privileges. Nemo-​ Pekelman gives its date as September 7 (2015:41n79): in the edition of Rougé and Delmaire 2009, it is dated to December 7. Ironically, a law of Constantine affirming such rights contained an order to inscribe it on bronze tablets so that it might be in effect in perpetuity (CTh 12.5.2). It appears to have been received in Carthage on the eve of the emperor’s death, May 21, 337. 27. So, too, CTh 12.1.115, in 386, to Cynegius. CTh 12.1.121 (issued at Milan) exempted the patrimony of decurions who were priests, deacons, and exorcists before 388, but not after. 28. CTh 16.7.3, JRIL 16, where Linder notes that a similar law was passed simultaneously in Constantinople (CTh 16.7.2). It’s interesting to note that the compilers of the Code included this law in Title 7 of Book 16 as “pagani,” not Jews or “haeretici.”

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participation.29 Read broadly, the law targeted not only Christians but also Jews who induced their participation in Jewish rites.30 Read more narrowly, it targeted only Christians and the Manichaeans who enabled them.31 But regardless, the law did not restrict Jews who practiced Jewish rites; what it implies about the fluidity of religious practice on the ground is another intriguing matter.32 It might also have provided some legal cover for claims that Jewish practices were more generally proscribed, thus authorizing attacks on Jewish communal sites (if not persons), but there is no direct evidence that this was the case. No other legislation concerning Jews in Gratian’s name survives. The still young emperor died in the summer of 383, at the hands of Magnus Maximus, commander of the British troops, whose revolt and usurpation of imperial office was facilitated in no small part by the support of one of Gratian’s key advisors, the Frankish general Merobaudes.33 While Magnus initially set up court in Trier, Gratian’s baby brother Valentinian II, now all of twelve, nominally reigned at Milan, surrounded by handlers with somewhat different interests from those of either Gratian or, as we shall see, Theodosios in the East. Not the least of these was Valentinian’s mother, Justina, a staunch Arian who continued to exercise considerable power over her son and his court.34 Others included traditional Roman aristocrats who seem to have seen in the death of Gratian an opportunity to press their cause and regain some of the ground they seemed to be losing.35 Neither consul for 384 was a Christian.36 Ambrose’s nemesis Symmachus 29. “Auctores vero persuasionis huius”(CTh 16.7.3.8). 30. E.g., Linder, who seems to read this to encompass “pagans [his term] Jews, or Manichaeans” who instigate Christian participation (JRIL, p. 169). 31. The use of the singular, “persuasionis huius,” supports the claim that it applies only to the last—​namely the Manichaeans. 32. Notably, these laws date just a few years before Chrysostom’s impassioned pleas against his flock in Antioch to stop attending synagogues in 386 and 387, on which see below, pp. 135-36. 33. On which, see again McLynn 1994:149–​57; McEvoy 2013:83–​86; and doubtless many other accounts. 34. On the complexity of this, see McEvoy 2013:124–​25. 35. On which, see McEvoy 2013:68–​69. For my purposes, it’s not critical whether this was an indication of the weakness of Valentinian’s claims to power (and thus his need to seek the support of the traditional aristocracy) or, as McEvoy suggests, a larger effort on the part of that aristocracy to press its case more broadly. 36. Richomeres and Clearchus; see McEvoy 2013:68. McEvoy notes that these appointments were actually made by Theodosios.



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became prefect of Rome, while Vettius Agorius Praetextatus became praetorian prefect of Italy. Slated to be consul for 385, Praetextatus died before he could assume the office. His lengthy epitaph, which survives together with that of his wife, Paulina, elaborates on his many priesthoods—​of Vesta, Sol, and Mithras, as well as initiations in the rites of Liber and Eleusis. Paulina’s epitaph, which commemorates her service to Cybele and Attis, Hecate, and Ceres, calls her husband “a holy man and priest of the mysteries,” and repeatedly thanks him for initiating her into various divine cults.37 It may be the last surviving epitaph to valorize traditional Roman religious offices.38 Both Arian interests and those of the traditional aristocracy became flashpoints for the boy’s administration, with Ambrose playing a major role in each conflict. In 384, traditionalist senators petitioned the twelve-​year-​old Valentinian to rescind Gratian’s removal of the Altar of Victory, in a famous relatio by Symmachus often considered “the classic statement of late Roman pagan ideals.”39 Ambrose countered aggressively.40 One might have thought the Arian antipathy of Valentinian’s court both to Ambrose particularly and to Nicene Christians more generally, coupled with their need for the support of powerful Roman senators and aristocrats, might have made his handlers more receptive to their request, but this was not the case. Conceivably for his mother Justina, any Christianity, even that flawed form advocated by Ambrose, was preferable to something that could be construed as favoring worship of the traditional gods. McEvoy proposes, though, that the calculus was more complex. Valentinian had to be seen to demonstrate his ability to fully execute the “religious function” expected of all emperors—​ namely to unify the empire under one religion, with divine endorsement and favor.41 To grant Symmachus’s petition and restore the Altar of Victory risked undermining the young emperor’s claims to proper exercise of office. Ambrose explicitly suggested that Valentinian’s homoian allegiance could be seen as evidence of his illegitimacy and lack of divine favor, in contrast not only with the Nicene piety of his deceased brother, Gratian, but also that

37. CIL 6.1779; ILS 1259. English translation in Maas 2010:278–​29: for a translation of her epitaph, see WRGRW 117A. 38. Rougé and Delmaire 2005:90. 39. Symmachus, Relatio 3 (Barrow 1973:34–​47; McEvoy 2013:124). 40. Ambrose, Letters 72 and 73 (Letters 17 and 18, Maur.). In addition to the discussion in McEvoy 2013:122–​24 (also 68–​69 and elsewhere), see Liebeschütz 2011:91–​94; see also McLynn 1994:166. 41. McEvoy 2013:125.

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of the usurper, Magnus, who positioned himself as a defender of Nicene orthodoxy.42 Valentinian’s handlers chose Christianity, apparently even if this meant yielding to the homoousian enemy. Valentinian refused to see the delegation led by Symmachus, and the edict remained in force.43 Yet this hardly constituted a rapprochement between Ambrose and the homoian court. Conflict between the two continued for the next several years, particularly over several major basilicas that Ambrose then controlled and the homoians sought to appropriate.44 None of the religious legislation enacted by Valentinian’s court pertained directly to Jews. Rather, it either provided protection for homoians45 or it furthered the observance of Christianity generically, such as pardoning crimes on Easter and requiring the emperor’s subjects to refrain from work on Sundays.46 These laws may have had some impact on Jews—​and Samaritans—​ (for instance, economic consequences to the inability to work not only on Saturdays but now also, if enforced, on Sundays), but these are difficult to discern with the available evidence. In 387, Magnus finally invaded Italy, and Valentinian fled east to Thessalonika, dependant on Theodosios for his survival.47 Zosimos and Theodoret claim that in exchange for Theodosios’s support and protection, Valentinian ultimately renounced his Arian beliefs and embraced Theodosios’s 42. Ambrose, Letter 72.15, cited in McEvoy 2013:69, also n110. McEvoy notes that despite his implicit threats to support Magnus, Ambrose went to him as an ambassador for Valentinian both in 383 and again in 386 (suggesting that at least the second time, he did so in acknowledgment of Valentinian’s denial of Symmachus’s petition) (McEvoy 2013:70, also n111). 43. Interestingly, McEvoy does not here consider what role Justina may have played in this first conflict, although she goes on to discuss the role of Justina in the subsequent direct conflict between homoians and Ambrose. 44. McEvoy 2013:124–​25, with additional useful references at 124n117. There is also a useful short discussion of this episode in Salzman 2008:192–​93, in part with regard to competing models of relations between traditionalists and Christians in the fourth century (conflict versus accommodation and assimilation). While conceding that separating out religion from other aspects of late antique identity is complicated, Salzman argues that religion was not always “the primary causal factor” in events (Salzman 2008:193), but see also McEvoy’s rejoinder (2013:97n168). On the same larger issue of framing, see also Salzman 2010. 45. CTh 16.1.4, dated January 386, which grants assembly rights to homoians (and which is rescinded by Theodosios in 388; CTh 16.5.15); other laws focus more on a generic promotion of Christianity. 46. E.g., CTh 9.38.7, dated March 22, 384; CTh 9.38.3, dated February 25, 385; CTh 8.8.3, dated November 24, 386. 47. On the details, see, e.g., McLynn 1994:158–​219. Fascinating as these events are in their own right, they concern Jews only indirectly at best.



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homoousian orthodoxy, although some contemporary scholars are skeptical.48 Magnus was quickly defeated and executed, while Theodosios’s marriage to Valentinian’s sister, Galla, cemented their familial ties. She would have been no more than about seventeen at the time, and one wonders whether the marriage required Justina’s presumptively Arian daughter to renounce her allegiance as well.49 Banished to Gaul in 389, Valentinian was effectively rendered powerless, and Theodosios assumed de facto control of the entire empire.50 Where Gratian’s administration had, at least briefly, been more accommodating of certain Christian diversity, Theodosios moved immediately to assert his Nicene bona fides. What Theodosios’s own theological commitments, if any, were at this point is simply not clear. At the time, he was not yet baptized. Falling seriously ill at Thessalonika later that year, he underwent the rite at the hand of Acholios, the city’s Nicene bishop, after which Theodosios then recovered.51 Sokrates claims that Theodosios was already a homoousian, and that he interrogated Acholios prior to being baptized to assure himself that the bishop held the proper beliefs, while Sozomen claims only that Theodosios rejoiced to learn that Acholios subscribed to the Nicene position and that all the Illyrians were strangers to the Arian stance.52 Just six months after Gratian’s administration nullified the edict of toleration, Theodosios issued an edict at Thessalonika, on February 27, 380, expressing the imperial desire that the whole populace (“cunctos populus”) under imperial rule conform to the practice transmitted by the apostle Peter to the Roman people and currently exemplified in the teachings of the Nicene bishops, Damasus of Rome and Peter of Alexandria.53 Those who did so 48. Zosimos, New Hist. 4.44.2–​4; Theodoret, Eccl. Hist. 5.15.1, although McEvoy 2013:91n121, notes the contrary position of McLynn 1994:293. For text and French translation of Zosimos, see Paschoud:1971–​86; English translation in Ridley 1982. 49. On all this, see McEvoy 2013:86–​95. Galla’s parents, Justina and Valentinian, married in 370: her father having died in 375, she could have been as young as twelve. Zosimus attributes the marriage to a deliberate scheme of her mother. The account of the Arian Philostorgios, Eccl. Hist. 10.7, contains a somewhat ambiguous statement that attributes Arian proclivities to either the mother or the daughter, but says nothing about Galla’s allegiance once she married Theodosios. For some discussion, see des Places et al. 2013:498n3. 50. Arkadios was nominally emperor in the East, but he was ten years old in 387. 51. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 5.5.6; Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.4.3. McLynn 1994:109–​10 rejects the supposition of some modern historians that Theodosios was actually baptized in anticipation of his imminent death, and then, having unexpectedly recovered, found himself subject to episcopal authority. The account of Sozomen does not compel such a reading. 52. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 5.5.6; Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.4.3. 53. CTh 16.1.2. A great deal has been written on this law.

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warranted the name “catholic Christians”; all others were deemed “demented and insane,” recalling precisely the analysis of Escribano Pano.54 Sozomen says explicitly that Theodosios gave this law in preparation for his arrival in Constantinople, relying on information from Acholios, the orthodox bishop in Thessalonika.55 Theodosios’s motivations for seeking Christian unity are unknown. Honoré thought that although Christians may have been a minority when Theodosios became emperor, they were an increasingly influential one, whose support he needed. Whereas a non-​Christian emperor might have played off differing Christian factions against each other, especially Arians and Nicenes, Theodosios was better served by a unified church, and he did what he could to effect this, beginning with this edict.56 Similarly, why Theodosios threw his support to the Nicenes, rather than the Arians, remains an open question. Some have seen Acholius as a major instigator.57 McEvoy notes that gaining the support of homoousian lobbyists might have been appealing to Theodosios if the circumstances of his accession were open to challenge.58 One might easily conclude that Theodosios’s embrace of homoousian Christian ideas was expedient and perhaps strategic, rather than rooted in deep religious commitments he held prior to becoming emperor. Regardless, the precise scope of “cunctos populus” is not exactly clear.59 Ordinarily, “populus” referred to the entire population of the empire, or to residents of particular places, although, as Linder notes, “populus” sometimes had Christian connotations (implying the “populus dei,” the “people of God”). Interestingly, in Sozomen’s later Greek account, the law applied to pantas tous archomenous (“all those ruled [by him]”).60 Despite this phrasing, the law was 54. Escribano Pano 2009; see also Berzon 2016. 55. Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.4.6. 56. Honoré 1998:5. So, too, Errington, who argues that at the time of his ascent, Theodosios had no strong doctrinal commitments, but thought that it was imperative to unite the empire under one theology held by the emperor himself (Errington 2006:215–​20). 57. E.g., Errington 2006:215–​20. 58.  McEvoy 2013:80, with various references on 80 and 81; McEvoy 2013:81n63; see also McLynn 2005. 59. JRIL, p. 131n15, where he concludes that in CTh 16.8.1, “populus” had “its traditional Roman political content.” What, precisely, its use in this law implies remains somewhat ambiguous. 60. Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.4.6, translated by Festugière and Grillet quite broadly as “tous les sujets” (Sabbah et al. 1983–​2008:85). The language of the law is absent in Sokrates (as usual; Leppin 2003:227). Theodoret says nothing about it (see Sabbah et al. 1983–​2008: 84n2).



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almost certainly aimed entirely at imposing conformity on Christians, and perhaps even more narrowly on Christians in Constantinople.61 Its real target may only have been Arians, who had substantial control over the churches in the imperial city. Contrary to considerable other evidence, Sokrates claims that the emperor did not actually persecute Arians, Novatians, Macedonians, or Eunomians, although he did send Eunomios himself into exile.62 The emperor, he writes, did not force anyone to be in communion with him but, rather, permitted the rest of these persons to assemble in their own places (topous—​a term that can have resonances of religious buildings) and to have their own opinions on matters of Christian belief. He also gave them the right to construct “houses of prayer”63 outside the cities, while the Novatians were granted the security of their churches within the cities, since they were in accord with his own beliefs.64 Yet from the language of this law, it might not have been difficult to infer desire for more than just a unified church. One might also have discerned an imperial desire for the “whole populace” to now be Nicene Christians, and not Jews, or Samaritans, or adherents of any of the other traditional Mediterranean religions. So construed, it could have given cover to subsequent violence against non-​Christians and was perhaps liable to the interpretation that Judaism and other non-​Christian religions were, in fact, now prohibited. If so, it might also have prompted, among others, a law of 393, discussed further later, declaring that “the sect of the Jews is prohibited by no law.”65 Regardless of its initial intent, the edict presaged a Theodosian program to impose far greater conformity of religious practice empire-​wide. Arriving in Constantinople in late November of 380, in the elaborate formal ceremony known as an adventus, Theodosios promptly expelled the resident Arian bishop, Demophilos, and installed Gregory of Nazianzos as imperial bishop instead.66 Although the Thessalonika edict had “invited” the Arians to unite with the 61. So Errington 2006:218 and Falcasantos 2015:50. Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.4.5, describes the edict as addressed to the people (the dēmos) of Constantinople. 62.  Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 5.20, for the entire account; here, 5.20.4. On the evidence to the contrary, see, inter alia, the mildly acidic note of Maraval in Périchon and Maraval 2007:211n3. 63. εὐκτηρίους οἴκους. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 5.20.6. 64. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 5.20.5. 65. CTh 16.8.9, JRIL 21. 66.  Gregory, Carmina 2.1.11; Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 5.6.1, 5.7.1–​2; Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.5.1–​3, 7.7.8–​9; see also Elm 2012b:6–​9 for a helpful dissent from the representation of Gregory as a reluctant participant in these contestations; see also Falcasantos 2015:99.

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Nicenes, the alternative, as McEvoy observes, was hardball. Demophilos could either capitulate to the Nicene position or give up possession of the churches in the city. He chose the (more principled) second. Theodosios also relocated the relics of the Nicene bishop Paul to a site built by Paul’s Arian competitor Makedonios, transforming it into a shrine known as Hagios Paulos (holy or saint Paul).67 According to Philostorgios, an Arian whose Ecclesiastical History, perhaps unsurprisingly, only survives in fragments, the various Arian bishops were dispersed to different places, sometimes their hometowns.68 Yet despite this, Sozomen claims that Arians remained numerous in Constantinople, assembling without fear and seeking influence at court.69 In January 381, Theodosios issued a major edict condemning in particular the “contamination of the Photinian stain,” the “venom of the Arian sacrilege,” and the “crime of the Eunomian perfidy.”70 The impetus for this may well have been his bishop, Gregory, who had asked Theodosios publicly for a law silencing Arian preaching. “Cut away the Arian impiety; cut away the false opinion of Sabellius,” he urged: “Come to the aid of the Word, all of you to whom God has given power to aid. It is a great thing to check murder, to punish adultery, to chastise theft; much more to establish piety by law, and to bestow sound doctrine. My word will not be able to do as much in fighting for the Holy Trinity as your Edict.”71 Escribano Pano sees it as an effort to “amend from a doctrinal point of view” Gratian’s so-​called “edict of tolerance,” which had lacked explicit reference to Arians. The emperor now defined heresy as the rejection of specific Nicene tenets, perhaps using language drafted by the bishop himself. Gregory had, it seems, means, motive, and opportunity to do so: he was present at court, his Oration 37 explicitly appeals to the emperor, and the trinitarian language resembles his own language elsewhere.72 In the

67. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 5.9.1–​2; Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.10.4. I thank Rebecca Falcasantos for calling these to my attention. Sozomen notes, as an aside, that some persons, especially women and “most of the people” (μάλιστα δὲ τὰς γυναῖκας καὶ τοῦ δήμου τοὺς πλείους), mistakenly took the site to contain the relics of the apostle Paul, a particularly interesting observation. 68. Philostorgios, Eccl. Hist. 9.19, also noted in Escribano Pano 2009:44. 69. Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.6.1, also noted in Escribano Pano 2009:44. 70.  CTh 16.5.6:  “fotinianae labis contaminatio, arriani sacrilegii uenenum, eunomianae perfidiae crimen.” 71. Gregory, Oration 37.22–​23, from NPNF, Ser. 2, vol. 7. 72. Escribano Pano thinks that the trinitarian formula of CTh 16.5.6 was unlikely to be the work of the quaestor, whom, following Honoré (1998), she thinks probably was a Christian. Rather, it was more likely to be that of its proposers, probably Gregory (Escribano Pano 2009:52–​53).



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edict, a true catholic is defined as one who “confesses in one name the all-​ powerful God and Christ the Son of God, God from God, Light from Light, who does not violate by denial the Holy Spirit which we hope for and receive from the supreme creator of (all) things: that one who, with the perception of pure faith, holds in esteem the undivided substance of the incorrupt Trinity, which those who correctly believe call, employing a Greek word, ousia.”73 Escribano Pano notes that this definition established a legal basis for prosecution, as does a law four months later against Manichaeans.74 As we now have it, the first law contains no instructions for its publication, nor any information about its receipt, prompting her to speculate that bishops may have been major players in its dissemination—​something that could not be acknowledged in the law itself.75 Since the law also returned churches held by Arians to Nicene control, Escribano Pano proposes that it may have responded to a query regarding Arian rights to churches in Illyricum, from Eutropios, the prefect of Illyricum to whom it is addressed. Late in 381, in December, Theodosios issued another law at Constantinople reiterating the prohibition on sacrifice, last legislated a quarter century earlier, specifying that it was forbidden even to approach a temple or shrine with such intentions.76 Persons who do so were “mad” (“vesanus”) or “sacrilegious.” In May of 381, he had issued a law depriving Christians who had become “pagani” of testimentary rights, while a second law, a year later, addressed various complex related scenarios, such as the situation of persons who were only catechumens when they lapsed.77 Throughout his eighteen-​year reign, Theodosios walked a tightrope, endeavoring to maintain power, order, and a just legal system, while conforming the empire to Nicene orthodoxy, suppressing (and penalizing) other forms of Christian devotion and traditional religious practices, and incentivizing conversion, including that of Jews and Samaritans. Unquestionably, 73. CTh 16.5.6.2: “qui omnipotentem Deum et Christum filium Dei uno nomine confitetur, Deum de Deo, lumen ex lumine, qui Spiritum Sancum, quem ex summo rerum parente speramus et accipimus, negando non uiolat: apd quem intemeratae fidei sensu uiget incorruptae trinitatis indiuisa substantia, quae Graeci adsertione verbi οὐσία recte credentibus dicitur” (my translation, from the text in Rougé and Delmaire 2005). 74. CTh 16.5.7. 75. Although as we have seen, it’s not easy to discern the criteria used by the compilers of the Code for removing the prefatory and supplemental material of any given law. 76. CTh 16.10.7. 77. CTh 16.7.1, 16.7.2. For additional discussion of all this legislation, see Errington 2006:231–​ 33. See also Errington 1997.

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he began his reign with a strong assertion of his commitment to Nicene Christianity. Yet some of his early religious legislation seems to reflect divergent, conflicting interests: to contain, and perhaps constrain, traditional religion, while not losing the support of key traditionalist senators and aristocrats, and to enforce Nicene orthodoxy and suppress its major opponents, while maintaining stability and not jeopardizing his own legitimacy. In 382, for instance, he reopened a temple in Osrhoene, on the Euphrates, acknowledging that the statues there could be appreciated for their artistic value, and festivals celebrated there, so long as the images were not worshiped and no sacrifices were performed.78 Not inconceivably, this law constitutes a retreat of sorts from the law of December 381, or at least a clarification of its prohibition against even approaching temples and shrines (with intent to perform sacrifices). Holum reasonably took this to be an effort to placate the significant eastern population, especially the aristocracy, that remained devoted to traditional religion.79 Expedient as it may have been, it may also have been legally consistent with an earlier law that abolished the practice of “superstitio” but protected temples outside the city walls, used for public entertainments.80 Much of Theodosios’s early religious legislation was directed against Eunomians.81 In 383, having tried without success to convene a council of diverse leaders, including Eunomios, to “restore religious concord through debate,”82 Theodosios signed further anti-​Eunomian legislation, classing them with various other dissidents, including the Arians, the Macedonians, and the Manichaeans. One law banned their gatherings and forbid them to assemble in private homes.83 A second prohibited their meetings in cities, fields, or villages, and both banned their ceremonies and the ordination of their priests.84 A third deported them to their hometowns and restricted their subsequent ability to travel.85 This conflict continued for at least another decade.

78. CTh 16.10.7, discussed above, p. 127. 79. CTh 16.10.8; Holum 1982:19. 80. CTh 16.10.3, dated to 342 or 343. 81. For a fascinating discussion of this conflict, see Escribano Pano 2009. 82. Escribano Pano 2009:54. 83. CTh 16.5.11. 84. CTh 16.5.12. 85. CTh 16.5.13.



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According to Philostorgios, in 388, Eunomians infiltrated the eunuchs in the imperial palace.86 Escribano Pano speculates that they also participated in disturbances that took place when Theodosios left Constantinople to deal with Maximus. After the war, Theodosios issued an edict punishing the eunuchs by depriving them of the right to make or receive bequests, and to own or acquire property, appropriating their property to the fisc.87 Having expelled the eunuchs, Theodosios had Eunomios himself arrested and deported. He was ultimately allowed to retire to an estate in Dakora.88 Philostorgios claims that after Theodosios’s death, Arkadios ordered the damnation of Eunomios’s memory and the burning of his writings.89 This might suggest that in his efforts to impose unity and demonstrate his own piety, Theodosios was initially focused primarily on dissident Christians and traditionalists, while Jews and Samaritans were of little concern. But life on the ground seems to have been considerably more complex. Clearly, others at court and around the emperor could and did also have considerable interest in exerting pressure on the non-​orthodox. Not the least of these were bishops, especially Gregory and Ambrose. In these early years, Theodosios did authorize legislation that might seem not just to delineate boundaries between Christians and Jews but also to impose some punitive limitations on Jews. Among these was a law concerning Jewish slaveholding, whose date of reception is said to be September 384.90 As Linder discusses at some length, there are some unusual problems with the received text, which appears to join two regulations regarding Jewish ownership and conversion of Christian slaves.91 The first part forbid Jews from purchasing or converting Christian slaves and prescribed penalties both of the loss of the slaves and other unspecified

86. Philostorgios, Eccl. Hist. 10.6. 87. CTh 16.5.17. 88. Philostorgios, Eccl. Hist. 10.6; Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.17, Escribano Pano 2009:56–​57; see also McLynn 1994:305. 89. Philostorgios, Eccl. Hist. 11.5; Escribano Pano 2009:56 observes that this is consistent with CTh 16.5.34, which made the writings of heretics the legal equivalent of magical codices and thus to be burnt. Their possession is “crimen maleficii” and punishable by death. 90. CTh 3.1.5, JRIL 17. 91. As preserved, the law lacks the place where it was issued, specifying only its reception at Regium, which would appear to be in Italy, and thus somewhat odd for a law directed to the prefect of the East. Linder notes that Juster suggested that this Regium was in Thrace; for alternative explanations, see JRIL, p. 175.

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punishment. The second part required Christians to redeem Christian slaves owned by Jews by paying the appropriate price for them. Various scholars have noted that these provisions seem somewhat contradictory in the penalties and consequences they specify: loss of the slaves and other punishments, on the one hand, and the manumission of slaves, on the other. Further, if Jews could not own Christian slaves in the first place, they should have had no opportunity to convert them, while, conversely, banning Jewish slaveholders from converting Christian slaves seemed to grant their tacit ownership.92 Regardless, this law was directed to Maternus Cynegius, now Theodosios’s praetorian prefect of the East, which may suggest that Cynegius was its actual instigator and drafter, although this is by no means definitive. Cynegius had been Theodosios’s quaestor before becoming prefect, and Honoré thinks he held that post for at least parts of the year 383.93 Both in antiquity and modernity, Cynegius is reputed to have been an aggressive advocate of homoousian orthodoxy (a virtue or a vice, depending on the perspective of the reader).94 The illustrious rhetor Libanios accused Cynegius of deploying the services of monks for a program of attacks on eastern cult centers a few years later (386–​87), including perhaps the Osrhoene temple reopened by Theodosios in 382.95 He has also been seen as being anti-​Jewish, although the direct evidence for this is a combination of his fervor for orthodoxy and two laws. One was the law just noted, penalizing Jews who bought Christian slaves or endeavored to make such slaves into Jews.96 92. On which, see Linder’s discussion (JRIL, pp. 174–​75) and Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:151–​52. One possible explanation is that the second portion was a later addition by the editors of the Breviary of Alaric, who failed to perceive the contradiction. 93. Honoré 1998:48–​53: Honoré thinks that although Cynegius was no longer quaestor, he was the impetus for the law (Honoré 1998:51). 94. In modernity, Linder describes him as “[a]‌militant Christian, [who] adopted an aggressive policy toward pagans, Jews and heretics in the Eastern provinces” (JRIL, p. 177n3); he also implies that such propensities ran in the family, noting that he had a relative with the same name who was responsible for the closing of a temple in Gaza in 401, citing Matthews 1967. See also Escribano Pano 2013. 95.  Holum 1982:19; Libanios, Oration 30, 8–​23, 44–​49. For some discussion, see Matthews 1967; Fowden 1978, with additional references in Rougé and Delmaire 2005:252; see also Nesselrath 2011. These attacks occurred at precisely the time John Chrysostom was writing his homilies against Christians who took up Jewish practices, and against Anomeans (Shepardson 2007, 2014), discussed further below, pp. 135–36. Watts 2013 thinks there was a causal relationship between these attacks and the composition of the Oration; van Nuffelen 2014 is less sure (with thanks to Rebecca Falcasantos for the references). 96.  Honoré 1998:51 notes that the PLRE cites these laws to support its judgment that the “anti-​Jewish tendency” of these laws was “contrary to Theodosios’ ‘usual policy.’ ” He is



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The other was a law of March 388. Around the time of the palace eunuch crisis, Theodosios issued one more edict addressed to Cynegius concerning Jews, which prohibited Jewish men from marrying Christian women and Christian men from marrying Jewish women.97 Such marriages were liable for prosecution as adultery.98 Behind this, Linder sees the influence of Ambrose’s attacks on Christian intermarriage generally, although the actual date and the possible role of Cynegius may point to a more complex dynamic.99 Sivan argues that Jews opposed to intermarriages might themselves have sought such a law, but Nemo-​Pekelman thinks that the impetus was surely Christian.100 Cynegius died only a few days after the edict on intermarriage was issued, and Theodosios replaced him not with another fervent Christian but with a traditionalist, Flavianus Eutolmios Tatianus. Theodosios’s balancing act was tested both by the violent agitation of orthodox monks and bishops and the far more militant stance of Ambrose, who had already jousted with Gratian and his court over the rights of Arians and traditionalists alike.101 This time, however, the matter concerned Jews as well, for which the source is two letters of Ambrose.102 Apparently, that summer

himself somewhat more cautious about whether these laws reflect Cynegius’s particular hostility to Jews. 97. CTh 3.7.2, JRIL 18. This particular law is extant in several iterations, whose precise distinctions of terminology for the spouses are of considerable interest, although they are irrelevant here. See also the discussion by Nemo-​Pekelman, who contextualizes this law against various church canons from the fourth century (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:155–​62). See also Sivan 2001. 98. Nemo-​Pekelman points out that equating such marriages with adultery denied the spouses the alternative arrangement of concubinage, for it criminalized the sexual act between them, the penalty for which was death (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:162). 99.  Linder (JRIL, p.  178), citing Ambrose, Letter 19 (Maur.; PL 16)/​now Letter 62 (CSEL 82.2:121–​42), from 385. Linder does note, though, that prohibitions against various kinds of intermarriage had a longer history, on which see also Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:155–​64 and more generally Sivan 1997. 100. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:155–​56. So, too, Escribano-​Pano 2013:7. 101.  Ambrose’s contestations with Theodosios have generally been of more interest for the insights they afford into the complex power dynamics in the early Christian empire; see, e.g., the discussions in McLynn 1994:298–​309; and Brown 1992:108–​12, in the context of bishops now exerting the role of speaking truth to power (my redescription of parrhēsia); Sizgorich, 2009:81–​84; see also Drake 2011. 102. Ambrose, Epistulae extra collectionem (Letters outside the collection) 1a, subsequently revised as Letter 74 (CSEL 82.3:162–​77 [ed. M. Zelzer 1982]) to Theodosios; Ambrose, Letters outside 1 (CSEL 82.3:145–​61), to his sister, Marcellina. These letters were previously catalogued as Letters 40 and 41, respectively, first in the seventeenth century Maurist edition (Paris) and then in the PL 16, cols 1101b-​1113A (Letter 40); 1113B-​1121A (Letter 41). Ambrose revised the

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(388), an unnamed bishop in the remote town of Callinicum, on the banks of the Euphrates (now modern Raqqa, in Syria), instigated the burning of a synagogue103 there, around the same time that some monks also burnt a Valentinian (gnostic) cult site. McLynn notes that Ambrose conflated these two attacks, which did not in fact occur at the same time.104 After the comes in the East reported these events to the emperor, Theodosios ordered the perpetrators of both events punished and the synagogue rebuilt at the bishop’s expense. When Ambrose learned of this, he wrote Theodosios the first letter, strongly urging him to reconsider. He excused and justified the Christian behavior, and argued that restitution provided the Jews with favors they did not deserve, given their rejection of Christ. He countered with a litany of Jewish attacks on Christians. During Julian’s reign, he claimed, Jews burned two Christian basilicas in Damascus, at least one of which had still not been restored and for which they were not required to pay recompense, not to mention Jewish attacks on basilicas in Gaza, Ascalon, Beirut, Alexandria, and elsewhere, none of which had been avenged.105 Marshaling a multiplicity of arguments, he also proposed that the town of Callinicum was so minor and poor that it had no value, and thus the Jews deserved no financial recompense. Although Ambrose acknowledged that Theodosios had drafted a second order to the comes canceling the fine on the bishop of Callinicum, he nevertheless attempted to persuade the emperor to drop all the charges related to these incidents.

first letter after Theodosios quickly rescinded his order that the bishop should rebuild the synagogue. Liebeschütz’s English translation (2005:93–​123) indicates the differences between the initial and revised letters. He points out that although Letter 74 is written as though it is the first time Theodosios has heard these arguments, in fact Ambrose had already protested, suggesting that Ambrose intended the letter to have a broader audience (Liebeschütz 2005:96). There is also an account of these events in Paulinus of Milan, Life of Ambrose 22–​23, that cites the Letters as its source. Interestingly, there is no mention either of the synagogue’s destruction or of Ambrose’s subsequent contestation with Theodosios in any of the usual historiographers (Sokrates, Sozomen, Theodoret, Philostorgios). Nauroy 2001:38–​39n4 provides an extensive bibliography on the incident. 103.  Interestingly, at one point Ambrose calls the synagogue a “templum,” but in a highly charged way: if the Christians are forced to pay for the rebuilding of the synagogue, Ambrose says the Jews will erect an inscription at the front that reads “Templum impietatis factum de manubiis christianorum” (“the temple of impiety was made by the hands of Christians”) (Letter 74.10). 104. McLynn 1994:301; his discussion of the episode runs from 298–​309. 105. Parkes 1934:188 questioned whether this was true, since no other ancient authors mention it, although several contemporaneous writers do mention these places. On Gaza, see below, p. 174, esp. n63 and below, p. 200, esp. n65; see also Sivan 2013.



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Ambrose then went on to wield Theodosios’s own recent defeat and execution of Magnus as a cautionary tale. He reminded the emperor that after Christians in Rome burnt a synagogue there (obviously after 383, and perhaps even quite recently), Magnus ordered its restitution, just as Theodosios was then doing with the synagogue at Callinicum.106 And just as Magnus was then defeated in battle and executed, so, too, would God requite Theodosios if he did not bow to the bishop’s urgings. Despite this dire threat, Ambrose’s initial appeal seems not to have been entirely effective. In a letter written a few months later, in December, to his sister, Marcellina, Ambrose relates that soon thereafter, Theodosios came to the basilica in Milan. The bishop took the opportunity to lambast the emperor in his sermon, and then came down from his elevated ambo to confront Theodosios in the basilica itself. The emperor apparently took the position that withdrawing the penalty against the bishop preserved the rights of the church against the synagogue, and that, as McLynn puts it, “nothing in Ambrose’s sermon had exculpated the monks who had attacked the Valentinians.”107 Ambrose told his sister that he then refused to continue the service, including the Eucharist, until Theodosios gave in on all points and rescinded all the penalties, including the order to rebuild the synagogue.108 He thus casts this second encounter as a total victory. But McLynn points out that those in attendance would not necessarily have been able to hear what transpired between the two, and that although their encounter has often been cast as a humiliating defeat of the emperor by the bishop, it might just as easily have been perceived by those present as “the emperor grant[ing], after due consideration, the bishop’s fulsome plea for mercy [for the perpetrators].”109

106. Based partly on Ambrose’s account of the death of Magnus, Cracco Ruggini argued that a synagogue at Aquileia was destroyed that same year: Cracco Ruggini 1977:365, cited in JIWE 1. pp. xiii–​xiv. Cracco Ruggini also relied on donor inscriptions from a basilica in Monastero, a suburb of Aquileia, whose somewhat Semitic names seemed to suggest that the basilica had previously been a synagogue. As Noy notes, this is all conjecture and has garnered no meaningful scholarly support; see also CIJ 12 “Prolegomenon,” p.  50. The names themselves are completely comprehensible as Christian, and there is no evidence that the building had ever burned. In addition to Noy’s discussion, even if the basilica had been a synagogue, there would not necessarily be a connection between its transformation into a church and Magnus’s position regarding Jews (for which the only evidence still seems to be the claim of Ambrose). 107. McLynn 1994:307, 307n49. 108. McLynn 1994:307, esp. n49. 109. McLynn 1994:307.

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Although the precise historical events that underlie Ambrose’s letters remain unclear, they do suggest that in the late fourth century, Jews were subject to at least sporadic violence against Jewish sites. Ambrose says nothing about violence against persons, for which there are various possible explanations:  there was none or, alternatively, there was, but such violence was clearly illegal and therefore not in Ambrose’s interest to share. But at least as Ambrose chooses to relate it, the crimes involved are those of property, not persons. It seems unlikely that Ambrose has fabricated the key events of his dispute with Theodosios—​namely the burning of a synagogue at Callinicum and the comparable attack on the Valentinian site—​although the account of a synagogue burnt at Rome seems somewhat more amenable to fabrication.110 Despite their utility for his case before Theodosios, Ambrose’s claims about Jewish attacks on Christian churches under Julian may also have some truth behind them, which, presumably, Theodosios must have been willing to concede in order for Ambrose’s appeal to have had much force.111 Perhaps some churches were attacked, while other accusations are fabrications, either by Ambrose or by others, whose claims he takes to be true. Whether his account of a synagogue burned in Rome is historically reliable is anyone’s guess; we know nothing more about it than what Ambrose, its only source, tells us. Certainly, this provides Ambrose with a creative orthodox theological explanation for Magnus’s defeat that is absent from the surviving contemporaneous historiographers. It is, of course, plausible; and to accuse Ambrose of fabricating it is to suggest that he would have risked 110. The letter to Theodosios has sometimes been to refer also to the burning of a synagogue at Milan itself (e.g., JIWE 1. p. 1). In section 8 of the letter, Ambrose argues that under circumstances such as these, a bishop might well take responsibility for inciting such actions (even when he had not actually done so), in the process martyring himself. So, too, he now claims responsibility for ordering the burning of the synagogue at Callinicum. “I declare that I burnt the synagogue, or at any rate that I instructed them that there should be no building where Christ was denied.” Cognizant that this position should also require him to call for the destruction of synagogues closer to home, at Milan, he continues, “[i]‌f I am faced with the further question why I have not burnt the synagogue here, [I reply that] since it had already caught fire by act of God, my participation was not required” (transl. Liebeschütz). Far from claiming here that Christians had burned a synagogue at Milan, Ambrose seems to suggest only that a synagogue in Milan had caught fire (perhaps from lightning?), and that such events were attributed to divine retribution against Jews. While one might argue that here Ambrose deliberately masks Christian responsibility, the whole tenor of his argument here is the opposite—​that bishops should take responsibility for the destruction of synagogues even when they have not authorized it, both because synagogues should be destroyed, and those who do so are martyrs. 111. Here, too, though, it seems possible that one or more churches were attacked, while other attacks are fabricated, about which Theodosios might not have had complete knowledge: the addition of invented claims to accurate ones strengthening the argument.



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an easy refutation of his clever argument had Theodosios known it was false. Then again, it’s interesting that this attack is set far enough away in space (Rome) and time (itself not precisely specified, but during Magnus’s contested reign) for which Theodosios might not have had sufficient reliable intelligence. Additionally, like the accusations of Jewish attacks on churches, it might have been false, but Ambrose might himself have believed it to be true. Regardless, the dispute between the bishop and the emperor seems to presume that such attacks were illegal and liable for punishment, although, as I shall shortly discuss, the earliest surviving legislation specifically protecting synagogues dates to several years later. Different evidence for Christian agitation against Jews in the late 380s comes from the sermons of John Chrysostom (the “golden-​mouthed”), then preaching in Syrian Antioch, who a decade later became archbishop of Constantinople. During the same year that his former teacher, Libanios, wrote an impassioned protest against Cynegius’s orchestration of attacks on traditional cult centers in the East,112 Chrysostom preached a much-​dissected series of sermons around the time of the Jewish high holidays (Yom Kippur and Rosh Hashanah, followed by Sukkot and Simchat Torah), in the fall of 386 and again in the fall of 387.113 Their title, Adversus Iudaeos (Against the Jews‌,) has sometimes been rendered in recent years as Against Judaizing Christians or just Against Judaizers, which while in some ways historically precise, has the unfortunate effect of downplaying their anti-​Judaism.114 Railing vehemently against Christians who attended synagogue festal celebrations, and who sought out the services of Jewish magical practitioners, casting Jews and their synagogues alike as demon possessed and deeply dangerous to Christians, these sermons strike contemporary scholars as inadvertent testimony to the actual porous social boundaries in late fourth-​century Antioch. But it’s interesting to note that at least in his extant sermons, Chrysostom did not advocate what the bishop of Callinicum shortly allegedly did—​attacking

112. Libanios, Oration 30. 113.  For this precise dating, see Shepardson 2014:93–​95, with important references in 93n2, including Pradels et al. 2002. 114. E.g., the regularly consulted translation of Harkins 1979. See the incisive discussion and extensive bibliography in Shepardson 2014:100–​101n25; see also Falcasantos 2015:94n2. Mayer and Allen 2000 utilize the more literal translation, “Against the Jews,” but this volume contains only a translation of Homily 1 (Mayer and Allen 2000:148–​67). I have in the past used this translation as well, but would not do so now. For further discussion, see Shepardson 2014:92–​ 128; see also Wilken 1983 and Mayer 2005.

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synagogues—​nor did he agitate for their closing.115 Rather, his homilies took a different tack:  he endeavored to keep Christians away from synagogues through various strategies that are fascinating, although not directly germane here.116 Whether this is simply a practical concession on his part—​that in Antioch, the best Christians could do was keep away from Jews, whereas elsewhere, attacks were a more productive strategy—​is difficult to assess, although perhaps a reasonable enough possibility. One other tantalizing fragment of evidence comes from a letter of Chrysostom’s early teacher, Libanios. It is addressed simply “to the Patriarch,” thought to be a reference to the Jewish patriarch in Palestine, a figure I will revisit subsequently.117 One of several such letters (considered further later), its date and actual addressee are unknown, although the letter seems to have been written toward the end of Libanios’s life (in 392).118 In it, Libanios expressed his sadness over something grevous that had befallen the genos (the “people”?) of the recipient, but he offers no specifics. He denies that he had received letters “on behalf of those who wronged you” and assures the patriarch that even if he had received such letters, he would not have given them his support. Both he and the patriarch have been deceived by false information, but he now knows the truth, as he hopes the patriarch does as well. The letter seems to make reference to an impending change of rulership in Syria, which some take to be the governorship.119 Older scholarship saw in this imprecise account some allusion here to the events in Callinicum. But Libanios’s letter seems to envision a substantial affront greater than the burning of a synagogue in a remote border town, although perhaps it refers more to the disposition of the matter than to the attack itself. Nothing in Ambrose’s account suggests that the Jewish patriarch in Palestine played any role in the fallout after the attack, although this may 115. Then again, to do so might also have been illegal, and there’s no indication that the bishop in Callinicum preached such violence from his pulpit, only that he actually engaged in it. 116. Apart from casting synagogues as demon-​filled sites, he seeks, as Shepardson 2014:107–​108 argues, to refute the apparent position of Christians who went to synagogues: because they contained the holy books, synagogues were thus themselves holy spaces (Chrysostom, Ag. Jews. 6.6). This same logic seems to undergird the actions of some Christians seeking to transform synagogues into churches—​namely that the introduction of certain Christian objects made the space Christian; for a discussion of the larger cultural logic here, see Lightstone 1984. 117. Libanios, Letter 914 (GLAJJ 2.496). 118.  In addition to Stern’s comments in GLAJJ, see Stemberger 2000:241–​48 on this correspondence. 119. E.g., GLAJJ 2.590.



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say more about Ambrose’s strategies than about the historical realities. In the end, it seems impossible to know.120 In 389, Theodosios moved his court to Valentinian’s former capital, Milan, installing his now twelve-​year-​old son, Arkadios, in Constantinople. (Theodosios had previously elevated Arkadios to co-​Augustus in 383). He and Ambrose would spar yet again over Theodosios’s efforts to negotiate some rapprochement with traditionalist senatorial aristocrats, a rapprochement that may be seen in the invitation to Virius Nicomachus Flavianus to be imperial quaestor at Milan:  he subsequently became praetorian prefect of Italy, Africa, and Illyricum in 390. Symmachus was pardoned for having written panegyric for the usurper Magnus, and became consul in 391.121 Perhaps encouraged by these gestures, in 391 Roman senators again sought the restoration of the Altar of Victory, although without success, petitioning Valentinian II, in Gaul, after apparently seeking Theodosios’s approval.122 McEvoy speculates that the senators thought Valentinian was enough in need of support to be willing to yield on this, but that he was sufficiently powerless at this point (and in need of Theodosios’s support himself ) that he couldn’t yield. She also suggests that had he accepted Nicaean orthodoxy as part of the deal for Theodosios’s help against Magnus, he would be even more compelled to resist the senatorial request.123 This petition failed as well. Between February 391 and November 392, Theodosios issued a series of decrees aimed at the elimination of traditional religions and the imposition of orthodox conformity. Some scholars see a connection between this legislation and an incident in 390, during which Butheric, the commander of troops garrisoned in Thessalonika, was killed by civilians rioting over the imprisonment of a popular charioteer.124 In response, or perhaps revenge, the emperor allowed a military massacre of civilians in the hippodrome there.

120. Interestingly, no account of conflicts with Christians implicates the patriarch. 121. For details, see McEvoy 2013:94, esp. n141. 122.  Ambrose, Letters Outside 10.5; Paulinus, Life of Ambrose, 30, both cited in McEvoy 2013:95n149. 123. McEvoy 2013:95. 124. Ambrose, Letter 51 (Maur; also Letters Outside 11); Rufinus, Eccl. Hist. 11.18; Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 7.25.1–​7; Theodoret, Eccl. Hist. 5.17–​18. Holum characterizes this as an assassination (1982:20). The charioteer had been accused of making improper sexual overtures to Butheric’s wine pourer. As is regularly the case, the differences between the extant sources are fascinating, but beyond the purview of this study. On the incident and its aftermath, see McLynn 1994:317–​30; see also Liebeschütz 2011:89–​91.

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An outraged Ambrose ultimately compelled Theodosios to perform public penance for this in the basilica in Milan, and some suggest that Ambrose’s public forgiveness came at the price of imperial support for Ambrose’s orthodox agenda.125 The most extensive of these laws was issued in November 392,126 specifying at length that these laws applied to persons of all ranks. It prohibited not only sacrifices in temples and shrines, which were prohibitions already enacted in numerous previous laws,127 but also a long list of private household devotions: the veneration of household deities (the “lares,” the “genii,” and the “penates”), burning lights to these, placing incense before them, and suspending wreaths to them. The law specifies at length other forbidden worship practices: burning incense before images, binding trees, erecting altars out of turf, and even offering the most modest gifts to the gods. Provided there is proof of such acts—​even the mere burning of incense—​the properties on which such acts have been performed were to be confiscated to the imperial treasury. Presumably this meant acts by the landholders themselves, since persons who did so on such land without the knowledge of the owners were themselves fined but the land apparently was not appropriated by the imperial treasury. Judges, “defensores,” and decurions were all liable for enforcement of these laws. “Defensores” and decurions had to report what they knew to the courts for investigation, and were themselves vulnerable if, through favoritism or just inattention, they failed to report such crimes (although of course this would only have been obvious after the fact). How much these laws were enforced remains, of course, difficult to determine, but it is certainly possible to see these penalties as a strategy for major imperial appropriation of private property. In Ambrose’s funeral oration for Valentinian, he related that in the spring of that year, barbarian troops were reported in the Italian Alps, outside Milan.128 Theodosios dispatched the bishop to Vienne to seek assistance from Valentinian and his long-​time minder, the general Arbogast, whose forces were closest to the imperiled populace. Before Ambrose arrived, however, Valentinian was found dead, either murdered by Arbogast or perhaps a

125. Holum 1982:20. 126. CTh 16.10.12; CTh 16.10.10 was issued in February 391; CTh 16.10.11 was issued in June 391. 127. E.g., CTh 16.10.2, a prohibition against sacrifices in 341 by Constantius; CTh 16.10.4, the closing of temples by Constans in 354, etc. 128. Ambrose, Oration for Valentinian 2; see McEvoy 2013:96.



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suicide.129 Three months later, Arbogast proclaimed a usurper, Eugenios, as emperor. In a victory soon deemed literally miraculous, Theodosios defeated them at the river Frigidus in September of 394, when strong favorable winds propelled his troops to victory.130 In the interim, in January 393, he proclaimed his younger son, Honorios, then age eight, as co-​Augustus. During these years, then, Theodosios seems to have been focused on staving off challenges both from barbarian invaders and from Arbogast (with Valentinian), and on implementing restrictions on traditional religious practices (and correspondingly on the authority and power of the traditional Roman aristocracy). He issued little legislation pertaining to Jews, and all but one of those few do not seem aimed at any way at constraints on Jews. On the contrary, as detailed, they addressed specific situations and affirmed various Jewish rights. They have been seen as evidence of Theodosios’s larger commitment to the rule of law and order, and the preservation of civil society, a commitment that might be construed as in tension with his commitments to the advancement of Nicene orthodoxy. A law of February 390, addressed to the prefect of Egypt, invalidated the imposition of maritime transport obligations on the Jewish and Samaritan “bodies” (“corpora”) of Alexandria, ruling that these obligations could only be imposed on individuals of sufficient economic means.131 The compilers of the Code classed this not in the laws dealing with religion (Book 16), but in Book 13, a compendium of laws on taxes, professions (including physicians), and shipping. A law of April 392, explicitly in response to a petition from (some) Jews, affirmed the right of Jewish authorities to determine who was to be considered part of the Jewish “sect” and denied jurisdiction over such matters to imperial authorities.132 This law and the circumstances that prompt it are actually 129.  Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 5.25 and Zosimus, Hist. Nov. 4.54.1–​4 conclude he was murdered (McEvoy 2013:97n162), who herself thinks suicide more likely. Rufinus, Eccl. Hist. 11.31, reports both explanations but takes no position, although he observes that those who think it was suicide still think it was a response to Arbogast’s treatment of him. 130.  The primary ancient account of the miraculous nature of the victory comes from Theodoret, Eccl. Hist. 5.24.4.7. For a lovely account, see Holum 1982:6–​7, with various references; also 1982:50–​51: Leppin 2003:231–​33 compares the accounts of Sokrates, Sozomen, and Theodoret. 131. CTh 13.5.18, JRIL 19, with useful discussion of the maritime supply system and references to Jewish shipowners. 132. CTh 16.8.8, JRIL 20. As we have it, the law is dated to April 17, 392, and names Theodosios, Honorius, and Arkadios, but this seems to be an error. Valentinian was still alive then, and is cited in another law given the same day (CTh 2.8.20); see both JRIL, p. 186, and Rougé and Delmaire 2005:380n2.

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quite intriguing, if somewhat puzzling. Some Jews, cast as “a zealous group in their superstition” (“eorum in ea superstionem sedulus coetus”), were cast/​ thrown out (“proiciunt”)133 by Jewish authorities, called here “primatibus suis,”134 but were then restored “to their sect” (“in sectam suam”) by imperial authorities. The law prohibited imperial authorities from intervening in such matters against the will of the “primates,” who were granted authority by the patriarchs, who held the elite rank of “clarissimimus” and “inlustrius.” As transmitted, however, the law gives no indication of what led to the exclusion, nor what the petitioners hoped to accomplish by appealing to Roman courts for restoration. Neither the consequences of being thrown out nor the consequences of being returned to the group are apparent. What is clear, however, and fascinating on its own, is a conflict between competing groups of Jews. One group had been excluded by the other through some internal Jewish legal procedure, and was sufficiently aggrieved by that exclusion that it sought legal recourse in the Roman courts. To scholars predisposed to read this evidence through a rabbinic lens, the law seems to allude both to rabbinic practices of “excommunication” and to imperial recognition of the authority of the patriarchate to impose and relieve such bans.135 Nemo-​Pekelman imagines that the law reflects a case in which some Jews had been excommunicated by a rabbinic court—​the beth din—​of their community.136 Taking Talmudic discussions of excommunication as a reliable account of what must have happened here, she conjectures that the injured persons had been subjected to the most extreme forms of rabbinic ostracizing. In her reconstruction, the ousted Jews appealed to the Roman courts. They obtained a favorable rescript from the provincial 133.  “Excommunicated,” in Linder’s translation. The French translation lacks this connotation:  “des gens qu’ils avaient eux-​mêmes voluntairement exclus à la suite d’un jugement” (“those persons whom the ‘primates’ have themselves voluntarily excluded in the wake of [or, following] a judgment”) (Rougé and Delmaire 2005:381). The English translation of Pharr 1952 has the relatively neutral “cast out.” 134.  JRIL, p.  188 translates this as “the Primates of their Law” and then notes (188n3) that these are probably “the office-​holders in the synagogue and the community, such as the Archsynagogue and the ‘Father of the Synagogue.’ ” Delmaire notes, by contrast, that this term occurs only in the law(s), and does not correspond to any technical terms known to have been used by Jews themselves (Rougé and Delmaire 2005:381n3). The term seems comparable to other ancient terminology for those who are “the first ones” of a city. 135. E.g., Linder (JRIL, p. 188) deems the law a recognition “of the exclusive right of the Jewish authorities in Palestine and in the Diaspora, headed by the patriarchs, to excommunicate and to revoke excommunications.” Against this, see Levine 1996; Levine 2005:463. 136. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:54; see also 2015:25.



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governor, ordering their restoration to the community, based on a selective recitation of the events in question—​specifically, by omitting that their grievance stemmed from excommunication by a “rabbinic tribunal.” Those who had expelled them appealed and won, a validation of their authority to impose such expulsions. In her reading, the provincial governor was also excoriated for not having properly investigated the matter—​in which case he would have realized the problems with the representations of the excluded Jews—​ but, rather, having immediately ordered the execution of the rescript.137 Although I think Nemo-​Pekelman unnecessarily imposes a rabbinic paradigm on the case, her basic legal analysis seems plausible:  ostracized Jews presented a selective account of their grievance in order to obtain a favorable hearing from a Roman court of first recourse, only to have it overturned. Whether or not this is precisely what transpired, one point of the law seems obvious: Jewish authorities (of some sort) had jurisdiction over inclusion in the Jewish “sect” (whatever, precisely, that entailed) and persons who contested the judgments of those authorities could not appeal to the Roman courts, which lacked such jurisdiction. Some scholars have seen this law as pro-​Jewish, in the sense that it seems to affirm the legal autonomy of Jewish communities, their duly constituted authorities, and their structures of governance.138 We don’t know why the ostracized Jews lost their case. It may be significant that the law was addressed to Flavius Eutolmios Tatianus, the Roman traditionalist aristocrat whom Theodosios appointed as praetorian prefect after Cynegius died. Tatianus came from Lycia, and initially had an illustrious career.139 He served as governor of the Thebaid, prefect of Egypt, consulaire of Syria, and comes of the East, perhaps until about 380. He may have been in retirement back in Lycia when Theodosios recalled him to be praetorian prefect of the East, from the spring of 388 until September 392. That fall, he was disgraced and condemned to death after he lost a power struggle with Rufinus,140 who replaced him as prefect. His sentence was commuted and he was exiled back to Lycia, where 137. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:56–​57. 138. Linder (JRIL, p. 188) also writes that this law “enunciated a clear and comprehensive recognition of the organizational and legal autonomy of the Jews throughout the Empire, under the rule of the patriarchs, in all matters related to their religion,” for which position he then cites a raft of rabbinic references. 139.  For the sources, including Libanios, see Tatianus 5, PLRE 1:876–​78; see also Hedrick 2000:128–​29 and Rougé and Delmaire 2005:174. 140. Rufinus 8, PLRE 2:953.

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he died soon after. Ultimately, he was posthumously rehabilitated in 396: a Greek inscription survives, by his grandson, honoring him and subtly alluding to his tribulations.141 Several things are intriguing about Tatianus’s years as praetorian prefect. First, he held this office when Theodosios was embroiled in the conflict over the attacks in Callinicum, in the summer and fall of 388. It seems plausible that he was among those Theodosios consulted about the disposition of the affair, perhaps even recommending Theodosios’s initial judgment against the bishop and in favor of the Jews and the Valentinians. Second, and in contrast to the years of Cynegius’s prefecture, no laws restricting Jews were promulgated during his tenure as prefect. As we have seen, the only two laws concerning Jews issued in these years were those just discussed, one of which protected the interests of Jewish and Samaritan “corpora” from onerous shipping responsibilities, and the other of which denied that Roman courts had jurisdiction over (certain kinds of ) internal Jewish disputes. Third, and perhaps most tellingly, we know of no new legislation against traditional religious practices issued from Constantinople in these same years. Yet shortly after Rufinus replaced Tatianus, in November of 392, Theodosios issued the fullest and harshest prohibition of traditional practices of his entire reign. It seems quite reasonable, then, to see in these correlations some causal connections between the positions and interests of these prefects, Tatianus and Rufinus, and the religious legislation issued in Theodosios’s name in these years. Yet at the same time, the ruling concerning jurisdiction in the law of April 392 does not point in any simplistic way to the sympathies that Tatianus, as a non-​Christian, might have had for Jewish interests. This law reads as “pro-​ Jewish” only in limited ways, if, for instance, one conflates the interests of Jews more generally with the interests of the Jewish authorities here associated with the patriarchs. Surely, the Jews who initially appealed to the Roman courts would not have been happy with this disposition. One might just as easily argue that the formulation and promulgation of this law had at least as much to do with complex alliances between certain factions of Jews (those aligned in some fashion with the patriarchs) and persons of power in the imperial court, including Tatianus, that remain obscured from our view. More telling, in my view, is the lack of legislation against either Jews or traditionalists issued from Constantinople during Tatianus’s tenure, and the promulgation of a harsh law targeting traditional practices immediately after his

141. Robert 1948; Roueché and Reynolds 1989:no. 37; Sharf 1971:53–​7.



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downfall, which taken together hint at his sympathies (or at least the lack of antagonism). Additionally, however, it may be that the disposition of this case was consistent with larger legal positions taken by the court.142 Nemo-​Pekelman points out that when the consistory affirmed that Jews could not bring grievances concerning Jewish religion before public courts, which lacked jurisdiction, it granted to Jewish courts (which she here presumes were “rabbinic courts”) the same solution it had applied to episcopal tribunals. Since Constantine, she writes, the consistory had understood that the bishop had exclusive authority over matters concerning faith and church discipline.143 In the case of Jews, then, their authorities similarly had jurisdiction over internal Jewish matters. But whereas the realm of ecclesiastical authority was reasonably well delineated, it was far more ambiguous in the case of Jews, whose laws governed many aspects of ordinary life that were hardly considered the realm of ecclesiastical jurisdiction. With Linder, Nemo-​Pekelman presumes those authorities must have been rabbis. But even Jews outside any rabbinic circles might easily have thought that Torah regulated aspects of life far beyond what Roman law and church courts took to be matters of religio. The following fall, September 393, with Eugenios not yet eliminated, Theodosios issued a major law protecting Jews, Jewish religion, and Jewish synagogues.144 Ambrose must have hated it. Given at Constantinople, it was addressed not to Rufinus, now praetorian prefect, but to Addeus, comes and Master of Two Services in the East.145 It declared that no law prohibited the “sect [“sectam”] of the Jews,” and expressed grave dismay that Jewish assemblies (“conventus”) were being impeded in some places. Addeus was instructed to take action against those who, in the name of the Christian religion, engaged in illegal activities (“inlicita”) and attempted to destroy (“destruere”) or despoil (“expoliare”) synagogues. Linder takes the law as evidence that “acts of destruction and spoliation of synagogues were still being

142. Honoré 1998:38 notes that Theodosios regularly invalidated rescripts that were seen as contrary to imperial law—​conceivably this was a factor in this instance. 143. Here she cites a letter of 386 from Ambrose to Valentinian II (cited as [Maur.] Letter 21. 2, PL 16, col. 1002; it is also Letter 72: Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:57n138). 144. CTh 16.8.9, JRIL 21. 145. Addaeus, PLRE 1:13. It’s tempting, if speculative, to think that its address to Addaeus, not Rufinus, reflects something of the politics behind the law, including perhaps Rufinus’s opposition or hostility to such a law. The address to Addaeus may reflect a responsibility for prohibiting violence better borne by his office.

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perpetuated” after 388, and he may well be right, although what precisely prompted this law in 393, five years after the Callinicum episode (and the episode in Rome, if there was one), is unknown. The law as we have it does not identify who exactly was impeding Jewish assembly nor how, although it did strongly imply that some Christians had engaged in attacks on synagogues in the name of piety. It also did not prescribe specific penalties for such behavior, which suggests to some scholars that it was relatively toothless. Like all of Theodosios’s legislation concerning Jews, this law seems less about his particular support for or opposition to Jews and their religion, and more about his commitments to stability and civility. But as my discussion of Tatianus suggests, this law, too, may say something about the sympathies and networks of his ministers. One might further wonder whether the Jewish patriarch in Palestine played any role in the issuance of this edict. Who held the post in the early 390s is uncertain.146 Many scholars think that these years were precisely those when the patriarch exercised the greatest authority and had the most influence in imperial circles. These are the same years, for instance, in which Libanios, a prolific correspondent, may have written a handful of letters to a person (or persons) identified only as “the patriarch.”147 The implied recipient(s) of these letters was a person of considerable power and prestige, on intimate and warm terms with Libanios. Cribbiore points out that Libanios has long been accused of flattering some of his correspondents in letters while attacking them in orations, so perhaps we should be cautious about Libanios’s praise for the patriarch’s many virtues, typical of the patriarch’s people as well.148 Libanios’s incorporation of subtle Greek

146. See, e.g., van der Horst 2002a, who thinks that whoever was the patriarch in these years had a good relationship with Theodosios. Several of the letters between Libanios and a patriarch never explicitly named seem to date from these years, including one discussed. 147.  Libanios, Letters 914, 917, 973, 1084, and 1105 are addressed “to the patriarch.” Letter 1097 is addressed “to the patriarchs.” Letter 974 is addressed “to the same (one),” probably also the patriarch then in office. Letter 1251, addressed to the consularis Palestina, Priscianus, may also refer to the patriarch, although not explicitly (all in GLAJJ 3:496–​504. Many anthologies of Libanios’s letters lack any of these. Useful recent studies include van Hoof 2004 and Cribbiore 2014, especially her overview of Libanios’s correspondence, including issues of dating (Cribbiore 2014:17–​20). That these letters never explicitly name the recipient enabled the ancient supposition that these were addressed to one or more Christian patriarchs, and thus may even have facilitated their transmission, letters between Libanios and a Jewish patriarch being perhaps somewhat less likely to be retained by Christian custodians. 148. Libanios, Letter 1084; see also Letter 1105 (Cribbiore 2014:3, 21, 127–​31).



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literary allusions implies a recipient fluent in late antique Greek language and rhetoric, and steeped in its literary culture. Most of these letters seek the support of the “patriarch” for some person favored by Libanios himself. Sometimes we know nothing of these persons, but in a few, Libanios wrote in support of prominent officials. He asked the patriarch to be forgiving of Hilarios, the disgraced governor of Palestine, whose removal from office the patriarch may have orchestrated (or at least supported).149 He sought the patriarch’s friendship for Philippianos, newly arrived in Palestine in the entourage of Siburios, the governor there.150 The persons for whom Libanios seeks favor are not, for the most part, Jews—​or, if they are, they are excellent examples of persons we would not otherwise recognize as Jews by their names and apparent social locations. They are persons seeking to be formal “friends” of the patriarch, with the assumption that this will place them in positions of mutual advantage and obligation. But while these letters strongly suggest that their recipient(s) had considerable influence and prestige, it appears here to be confined to Syria and Palestine. None of these letters implicates officials at either imperial court. Conceivably, this says more about Libanios’s own networks than about those of the patriarch(s), but alternatively, it suggests that the patriarch’s greatest reach was closer to home and did not extend far into the diaspora. Nothing in these letters nor in other surviving sources demonstrates that patriarchal lobbying played a part in the law of 393. Theodosios’s last surviving legislation concerning Jews came three months later, on December 30, 393, and is preserved only in the Code of Justinian.151 Given at Constantinople and addressed to Infantius, comes of the East, it prohibited Jewish marital customs (“mos”) or the application of Jewish marriage law (“lex”), and forbid Jewish polygyny.152 Like all these laws, it is susceptible to multiple readings. Since we do not know what provoked the drafting of this legislation, it’s impossible to know the motivations of those who initially proposed it (nor, for that matter, whether just as the law three months earlier

149. Libanios, Letter 1105: so also Sivan 2008:26n37. 150. Libanios, Letter 973. 151.  CJ 1.9.7, JRIL 22; Rougé and Delmaire 2009:410–​11. It, too, has problems of attribution: for the details, see JRIL, p. 191. 152. To characterize this as polygamy, as Linder and pretty much everyone else does, is to obscure the fact that polygamy was only polygyny—​a man with multiple wives. It was never a woman with multiple husbands.

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protecting synagogues hints at patriarchal influence, this law hints at the opposite). Nemo-​Pekelman thinks the most likely trigger was a case of polygyny (which she characterizes as polygamy).153 But assuming the law was instigated by a specific situation, there are other possibilities. At this point, marriages between Jews and Christians were explicitly prohibited,154 but interestingly, not marriages between Jews and (non-​Jewish) non-​Christians—​marriages that would have been subject to contradictory legal practices.155 Linder considers this to be anti-​Jewish legislation, an attack not only on the specifics of Jewish marital law but also more generally on “the Jewish marriage ceremony in itself and the entire Halachic corpus on marriage.”156 And it may well have seemed that way to at least some Jews themselves. But if it is indicative of the emperor’s own positions, it may say less about Theodosios’s antipathy to Jews (for which there is in fact relatively little evidence), and more about his concerns for consistency between civil and ecclesiastical law. To the extent that Jewish marriage customs and laws differed from those of Roman law (regarding marriage contracts, divorce, and especially in allowing polygynous marriage), they allowed Jews to have a different legal system and practice.157 Such difference may have been permissible in matters of religious practice and community boundaries (as, for instance, the law of 392), but not in matters that authorized different laws for different groups. A law from Constantinople in February 398, discussed in the following chapter, states quite explicitly that Jews are subject to Roman law and the jurisdiction of Roman courts, except in matters that pertain specifically to Jewish religion,

153. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:61. She spins out the conflicting inheritance rights two sons of the same father would have under Roman and rabbinic law. She does not cite Satlow 2001, nor the actual case of the aftermath of a polygynous Jewish marriage in Roman Arabia in the early second century (P. Yadin 26). 154. CTh 3.7.2, JRIL 18 (March 388). 155. This is my own hypothetical. Noy, Panayotov, and Bloedhorn think that an inscription from Larissa (IJO 1 Ach6), may reflect such a marriage, although they date it considerably earlier (second/​third ce) (IJO 1. p. 118). The inscription is either the epitaph of Boukolion, who was the son of Hermias and Pontiana, a Judean, or the joint epitaph of Boukolion, son of Hermias, and Pontiana, the Judean. Regardless, Pontiana’s designation as Judean suggests that she is Judean while her husband (whether Hermias or Boukolion) is not. The inscription lacks either a menorah or a formula, “greetings to the people,” found on other Achaean inscriptions and often taken to be distinctively Jewish. 156. JRIL, p. 192. 157. Nemo-​Pekelman also notes that Jews may have contracted marriages that would have been impermissible under Roman law (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:63).



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which are adjudicated by Jewish courts.158 Here we see an instance of the ambiguity that Nemo-​Pekelman notes. Some Jews, at least, may have thought that their marriage laws did pertain to religion, and it seems conceivable, although not demonstrable, that the law of 398 constituted a response to the legal implications of the law of 393.159 To assess the actual impact of all this on Jews is difficult, given the legislative and literary evidence reviewed here, which offers us little ability to say much about the actual experiences of Jews in places like Milan and Constantinople,160 or Rome, or even Antioch (for which the evidence is perhaps slightly better), during these years. None of the surviving evidence speaks to the kinds of events and experiences to which the Letter of Severus and later sources gesture. If Jews were being pressured to convert in significant numbers to Christianity of whatever sort, neither the surviving legislation nor the literary accounts offer much illumination. Yet various laws of the early fourth century presume that Jews were converting and that some who did were subject to hostile treatment by other Jews, which various laws address by penalizing the Jewish offenders. None of these laws even hints at coercion behind such conversions, although we might not expect them to do so. One lengthy account of the conversion of two prominent Jews in the early fourth century comes from the heresiological catalogue of Epiphanios, the Nicene bishop of Salamis on Cyprus.161 Although his Panarion, or Medicine Box (of remedies against heresies) was composed in the mid-​370s, Epiphanios claims that he heard this tale first-​hand from Joseph of Tiberias,

158. CTh 2.1.10; The law does allow Jewish courts to adjudicate certain other cases, by agreement of the parties, and considers that adjudication to be arbitration. See below, pp. 166–68. 159. Nemo-​Pekelman thinks that the problem of conflicting legal systems was inconsistently addressed, and that emperors were willing to overlook discrepant practices in some situations; see her discussion of competing systems in the empire (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:64–​69). One solution, under certain circumstances was simply to make exceptions (“privilegia”), which is how she understands Roman laws allowing Jews to circumcise their own sons, but no one else. 160. On the complex question of whether there were Jews in Constantinople itself during these years, see Falcasantos 2015, who points out that there is no reliable evidence, literary or archaeological, for their presence. This doesn’t, of course, mean that there were no Jews in the city; this may yet be a case where the absence of evidence is not the evidence of absence. See below, pp. 267–70 for more discussion, especially of Theophanes the Confessor’s ninth-​century account of the conversion of a synagogue in the Copper Market into a church in the mid-​fifth century. 161.  Epiphanios, Panarion 30.4.1–​12.9. Jacobs points out that by the mid-​fourth century, Salamis had been rebuilt as Constantia, and that Epiphanios of Cyprus might be more accurate (the title of his article, apparently, notwithstanding) ( Jacobs 2012:27n1).

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then about seventy, who recounted his own experiences during the reign of Constantine. Epiphanios sets the tale of Joseph within his account of the Ebionites—​ Christians characterized by their observance of various distinctive Jewish practices and their self-​identification as Jews devoted to Jesus.162 A mention of the Gospel of Matthew prompts him to digress on the role of that gospel in the conversion of Jews, especially Joseph. Epiphanios claims to have met Joseph sometime in the mid-​350s, when he went to visit Eusebios, bishop of Vercelli, who had been exiled by the Arian Constantius and had taken lodging with Joseph on his estate in Scythopolis (Beth She’an). Somewhat curiously, Epiphanios describes Scythopolis as an Arian stronghold, where Joseph was the only orthodox Christian in the entire town, protected by his imperially conferred rank as comes. (He then admits that there was at least one other orthodox Christian, also “from the Hebrews,” but who was concealing his affiliation.) Joseph had been a high-​ranking associate of the Palestinian patriarch named Hillel, in the early part of the fourth century. As Hillel lay dying, he enlisted Joseph’s help to be secretly baptized by the orthodox bishop in Tiberias, a secret he endeavored to conceal even from Joseph himself, who nevertheless chanced to observe the patriarch’s baptism through a crack in the door. Somehow, this prompted Joseph to break into the local sealed Jewish treasure house, where he found not money but Hebrew translations of the Gospel of John and the Acts of the Apostles, as well as the Gospel of Matthew, in its (allegedly) original Hebrew. He read all of these. But Epiphanios, invoking Christian tropes of the stubbornness of Jews, comments that neither the books nor the baptism of Hillel persuaded Joseph to convert. When Hillel died, he entrusted to Joseph the care of his young son, Judah, who grew up to be somewhat of a roué. Falling into bad company, Judah exemplified Christian tropes of the immorality of Jews and non-​Christians generally, engaging in illicit sex and utilizing magical incantations to seduce married women, most notably a beautiful Christian woman whom he encountered in the baths during a festival at Gadara. It’s worth remarking that Jews and Christians, at the very least, are here represented as celebrating such festivals together, including attendance at public baths, and Epiphanios seems to feel obligated to explain the presence of a chaste married Christian woman

162. For recent discussion with extensive bibliography, see Luomanen 2012; see also Skarsaune 2007a; and Häkkinen 2011.



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in such a setting. Because she was protected by Christ both from daimones and from the general dangers mixed bathing posed to chastity, none of Judah’s magic was efficacious.163 Still, Joseph was not persuaded by this third event. So stubborn was Joseph that even when Christ himself appeared to him in a dream, he remained unconvinced. Christ appeared to him a second time, while he was ill, and promised Joseph that he would recover if Joseph would only accept him. Joseph agreed, then reneged, and fell ill a second time. As he despaired, an elder of the Jews came to him and whispered in his ear a form of the Nicene Creed. “Believe Jesus, who was crucified in the time of the governor Pontius Pilate, who pre-​existed as Son of God and later was born of Mary, who is God’s Messiah and rose from the dead, and who will come to judge the living and the dead.”164 This went on several times before Christ, presumably somewhat exasperated, finally offered to perform any miracle Joseph chose. Eventually, Joseph performed an exorcism of a madman who ran around Tiberias naked. He made the sign of the cross over some water, sprinkled it over the man, and adjured the demon to come out in the name of Christ and leave the man healed.165 Whereas the magic of Judah and his devious accomplices had failed, unsurprisingly Joseph’s performance in the name of Christ was efficacious. Now cured, the man walked around the city praising Joseph, and leading Jews to think that Joseph had gained his healing powers when he opened the treasure house and found the name of God written there. Of course, both to Epiphanios and to his implied readers, the name of God was precisely what Joseph found when he discovered the gospels and Acts, but this is not exactly what the Jews of the text imagine. Still, Joseph refused to acknowledge Christ. Oddly, Epiphanios never exactly explains the circumstances of Joseph’s actual conversion, although it seems to have come about when Judah, now himself the patriarch, sent Joseph to nearby Cilicia, in adjacent eastern Asia Minor, to collect revenues for the patriarchate.166 Being, so Epiphanios claims, rather

163.  Satran 2006 demonstrates the similarities between the adjurative practices at the bath, designed to get the pious Christian matron to accept Judah’s advances, and the nonliterary evidence for such formulas. 164. Epiphanios, Panarion 30.9.3. 165. Alluding to several gospel accounts of Jesus curing the ailments of various persons by ordering demons to leave them, see, e.g., Mark 1:21–​28; Luke 4:33–​37: Mark 5:1–​20;​Matt 8:28–​34;​ Luke 8:26–​39: Mark 9:14–​29; M ​ att 17:14–​20; ​Luke 9:37–​43a. 166. These collections figure in Letter 51, attributed to Julian (above, p. 112), and in various laws discussed below, esp. pp. 170–72, 177–80, 358–62.

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zealous for correct observance of the law, Joseph removed various men from their synagogue posts, earning himself enemies. He also befriended a local bishop, who gave him copies of the gospels to read (apparently now in Greek). Joseph, it seems, was at least bilingual in Hebrew and Greek, if not fluent in yet other languages such as Aramaic or Latin. When his enemies entered his house and found him reading the books, they seized them, beat him in his house, dragged him off to the synagogue, and whipped him, before the bishop came and rescued him. “Shortly after,” Epiphanios relates, “he was granted the holy bath” and soon went to Constantine’s court, where the emperor befriended him and gave him the title of comes. Joseph in turn asked the emperor’s permission to build churches in his native Galilee, including Tiberias, Diocaesarea (Sepphoris), Nazareth, and Capernaum, where, Epiphanios claims, there were neither “Hellenes, nor Samaritans nor Christians.”167 Although the Jews in those towns resisted his efforts, Joseph managed to build part of a “temple” in Tiberias, a small church, and some other construction in Sepphoris. Is there any historical utility in this tale?168Its claims to historical reality are greatly compromised by its heavy imitation of the gospels and Acts, on the one hand, and its rhetorical deployment of Christian tropes of Jewish stubbornness, on the other. It casts Joseph as an imitator of Jesus (in, for instance, his healing of the demon-​possessed naked man) and especially of Paul. Like the self-​styled apostle in Acts, Joseph was zealous for the law of his ancestors and self-​righteously persecuted other Jews in Cilicia. Just as “Saul” in Acts initially resisted Jesus’s appearances, so, too, Joseph stubbornly resists Jesus’s overtures to him. Like Paul, Joseph suffers beatings and lashes at the hands of fellow Jews in Asia Minor.169 The tale of Joseph has some intriguing resonances 167. Epiphanios, Panarion 30.11. 168. Goranson thinks Joseph was a historical person who did convert, undertook a modestly successful building program in the Galilee, and may have been the author of a work known as the Hypomnestikon (Goranson 1990, 1999). Linder, too, considers Joseph as a possible if not a likely source for Constantine’s knowledge of Jewish persecution of converts, and thus an impetus for the laws outlawing and penalizing such behavior (JRIL, p. 125). Skarsaune 2007b:528–​ 40 offers a mostly positivist reading that is especially interested in what Epiphanios may here tell us about the actual experiences of those persons whom Skarsaune’s volume positions as “Jewish believers in Jesus,” a highly freighted category. See also Thornton 1990 and the dissection of Epiphanios’s rhetoric of conversion in Jacobs 2012, esp. 42–​44. 169.  These elements suggest a close intertextual relationship between Acts and Epiphanios here. Satran 2006 raises the intriguing possibility that Joseph himself saw and narrated his own conversion experience through a paradigm or script derived from accounts of Paul. Ample research demonstrates that contemporary conversion accounts often hew closely to formulaic scripts, but we have too few instances of accounts of Jews who voluntarily became Christians to assess this for antiquity.



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with the later accounts of the discovery of Stephen’s bones, most notably the story that the first-​century Gamaliel (and others) were secretly sympathetic to Christians, and were crypto-​Christians of a sort.170 Dilley notes that Epiphanios’s account “turns an older discourse on its head: Christianity becomes an esoteric scribal tradition, a Jewish heresy transmitted in secret by the elite rabbis through Hebrew versions of canonical gospels.”171 This offers Christian readers assurances that the most knowledgeable Jews do, at least secretly, recognize the truth of their claims, even if they are often forced to hide it out of fear of their fellow Jews. Is there at least some useful verisimilitude here, or is even that (orthodox) Christian fantasy? What may be made of its representation of Jews as converting entirely of their own volition or at least without any pressure or incentives—​positive or negative—​from Christians? What about its representation of Jews who do convert as subject to hostility from their fellow Jews? As already observed, early fourth-​century legislation does imply that some Jews converted and encountered hostility from other Jews when they did so, even if it is actually silent on the possibility that some of those conversions were coerced in some form.172 But whatever Epiphanios’s interests may have been in telling this tale, an account of coerced conversion seems unlikely to have had much utility for him, and it’s worth recalling that even in the far more complex tale of the Letter of Severus, the real coercion taking place is repeatedly obscured through artful rhetoric. It’s also interesting to note that as in that Letter some four decades later, relations between Jews and Christians, both in the Galilee and in Cilicia, are imagined in Epiphanios as cordial, if not genuinely warm. Or perhaps to put it more carefully, it’s only Jews who are hostile to their Christian neighbors. Christians welcome friendships with Jews, a representation that is more than somewhat at odds with the virulent anti-​Jewish rhetoric of many Christian bishops and other writers. Epiphanios himself has many terrible things to say about Jews generally, even

170. See, e.g., Bradbury 1996:17; Dilley 2010a: 597. 171. Dilley 2010a: 598n27. Dilley also notes that “Joseph’s conversion, like that of Ananias and Gamaliel, assures him of maintaining his privileged status by choosing connections in the Christian empire over prominence in the Jewish community” (Dilley 2010a:598). While this may also be the case in the Letter of Severus, the dynamic there may different because the whole community converts, maintaining its internal hierarchical social order while now gaining the advantages of Christian power networks, as Reuben says to Theodorus (Letter of Severus, 16.14–​15). 172. E.g., CTh 16.8.1; ­discussed above, pp. 91–100 and in Kraemer 2018; CTh 16.8.7, JRIL 12.

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in this story, where tropes of Jewish stubbornness and resistance to the truth play starring roles. Similarly puzzling is the claim that Joseph made his way to Constantine’s court, where the emperor was so impressed that he gave him the title of comes and granted his request to build churches. One might also argue that if the story is true, it suggests just how unique Joseph was to gain the favor and support of the emperor, who could, one imagines, hardly have wished to honor and finance the building programs of all that many Jewish converts. Of equal relevance are the laws that presume that non-​Jews, Christian and otherwise, were still becoming Jews, although they are often transmitted without the full explication of the precipitating circumstances.173 Here I want to return to the circumstances behind a law of 339, discussed at length in the previous chapter, concerning women in a state establishment, who appear to have taken up Jewish practices and left the workshop, not necessarily in that order.174 As we saw, the surviving law does not address the weavers’ continued Jewish practices, but prohibits the subsequent conversion of Christian women in the establishment. It’s simply not, or at least no longer, obvious whether the law’s specific prohibition against converting Christian women (“christianas mulieres”) implies that Jews could, however, proselytize among non-​Christian women—​and thus that the returning weavers had not been Christians. The law prompts intriguing questions about proselytism and gender. Even while scholars know that only men could be circumcised, many tend to read the earlier laws prohibiting circumcision as general rather than sex-​specific proscriptions against taking up Jewish practices and identifications. But if that were true, why was it necessary for this particular law to bar Jews from converting Christian women, on pain of death? Is it possible that precisely because the early laws were all couched in terms of prohibitions against circumcision, they did not, in fact, apply to women—​or at least were not so construed? If so, then even after this law, it might still have been licit to persuade non-​Christian women to take up Jewish practices. It’s also worth noting that subsequent laws prescribing penalties for Christians who became Jews implicitly construct the offender as male,

173. A law of 335 prohibits the circumcision of enslaved non-​Jews (CTh 16.9.1; Sirm 4; JRIL 10). A pre-​Constantinian law prohibited the circumcision of non-​Jewish men (Sentences of Paul 5.22:3–​4, in JRIL 6), including slaves. 174. See a­ bove, pp. 100–111; see also Kraemer 2018.



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such as a law of Constantius in 353, decreeing the confiscation of their property.175 The apparent events behind the weavers’ episode are consistent with certain ancient accounts of the social dynamics of conversion, such as Celsus’s much earlier accusation that Christians sought (women) converts in workshops and other similar contexts,176 or the (admittedly fictional) accounts of conversions of both enslaved and free women in various apocryphal Acts of the Apostles, which are frequently set in domestic contexts.177 Modern studies of conversion and of new religious movements have also shown that the adoption of new religious practices often begins in such social milieux.178 What’s much harder to determine is just how common and frequent such situations were. The case of the women weavers might have been exceptional, meriting imperial intervention, or routine and rarely coming into the purview of imperial decree.179 And in any case, as I suggested in the previous chapter, the real issue here may have been less about changes in religious practices and more about the regulation and control of highly specialized producers of a rarified commodity (purple and gold cloth). These particular sources hint at a great deal of religious fluidity throughout the fourth century, a position espoused now by many other scholars of the period.180 The surviving literary evidence, especially the predominantly orthodox Christian writings (as well as rabbinic writings), both mask this fluidity and attempt to reposition it, as Eusebios and Chrysostom both demonstrate. But it remains clear that some Jews adopted Christian practices and professed acceptance of Christ, as did former practitioners of traditional Roman and other Mediterranean cults. Deeply distressing to Christian bishops and others, some Christians (and non-​Christians) took on Jewish practices, while other new Christians abandoned those practices and returned to their natal traditional worships, or perhaps even

175. CTh 16.8.7, JRIL 12. 176. Origen, Against Celsus, 3.44. 177. Kraemer 2012; Kraemer 2019b; Eyl 2019. 178. On which, see, e.g., Jacobs 2012; Kraemer 2012, with additional bibliography. 179. The numerous laws pertaining to the sheltering of imperial weavers suggest that this was a larger problem (CTh 10.20, especially 10.20.2, 7–​9, etc.). Perhaps the additional element of Jewish practice made it of further imperial interest. 180. For a few examples, see Becker and Reed 2003; Boyarin 2004; MacMullen 1984, 1997; Mitchell 1993, with ample examples from the inscriptions of Asia Minor.

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took up such practices for the first time.181 Most would seem to have taken up these new practices under the kinds of social conditions demonstrated by contemporary studies—​that is, more like the weavers in the imperial workshop, and less like Joseph of Tiberias. At the same time, such changes came at social costs and, increasingly, with legal disabilities and disincentives for those who chose to reject Christianity, or even adopted the wrong forms of it. It remains similarly difficult to assess the frequency or regularity of attacks on synagogues in the fourth century. The surviving legislation, and even the account of Ambrose, does not allow us to know whether these attacks were sporadic and infrequent, or were, as Ambrose suggests, part of a larger pattern of mutual violence that has to be set within the context of the well-​documented religious violence in late antiquity much more broadly.182 Certainly, the existing evidence hardly requires the conclusion that in the fourth century, attacks on synagogues were widespread geographically, or frequent, or both. One might argue, at least on the basis of the surviving evidence, that they were, on the contrary, few and far between and met with firm responses on the part of various emperors, whose commitments to the rule of law, order, and civility did not allow any other. As I pointed out in the first chapter, there is a striking mismatch between the literary accounts and the archaeological evidence. We have no literary evidence for any of the synagogues that have been excavated so far. Nor, at least so far, has there been any excavation of synagogues said in the surviving sources to have been subject of attacks. It is rarely possible to discern why excavated synagogues ceased to be used, even when those synagogues were subsequently turned into churches. There are similar mismatches in the epigraphical data. Several fourth-​century laws, for instance, pertain to Jewish decurions, but no Jewish decurions are identifiable in contemporaneous inscriptions from Western Europe.183 181. These are presumed by a relatively small set of laws gathered in CTh 16.7, most of which take the form of testamentary restrictions on those who do so; e.g., CTh 16.7.1 in 381 and CTh 16.7.2 in 383, both at Constantinople; but most extensively in CTh 16.7.3, from Padua in 383, discussed above, pp. 119–20. 182. See, inter alia, Gaddis 2005; Drake 2006; Sizgorich 2009; Shaw 2011; Geljon and Roukema 2014; all with extensive additional bibliographies. 183. The only possible Jewish decurion in JIWE 1 (Western Europe outside Rome) is a pantomime whose fragmentary honoric inscription was found at Ostia, dated to the mid-​third century ce. His identity as Jewish is uncertain, although not impossible (JIWE 1.15, with extensive discussion). No decurions are found in JIWE 2 (the City of Rome). Neither IJO 1 (Eastern



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Significantly, a similar disparity exists for Christian replacement of temples with churches and martyr shrines. The most extensive evidence is literary, and is weakly corroborated by the archaeological record, which suggests that Christians took over traditional sites starting more in the fifth century, and then only after such sites had been abandoned for some time.184 Still, there are probably significant differences in the dynamics here. Traditional sites were abandoned in part because they were shut down; their use was criminalized, and it became illegal even to visit them, although these laws were enforced unevenly at different times and places in the empire. In the fourth and fifth centuries, synagogues were never actually criminalized.185 The most effective strategy, then, for eliminating synagogues was physical violence and destruction, all the more so because it was eventually illegal to renovate or expand synagogues, and repairs were limited to those necessary for safety, as laws discussed in chapter 7 articulate.186 If synagogues were abandoned, or fell into disuse, it should be either because their users moved elsewhere, or the population declined to an unsustainable level (owing to everything from epidemics to war, to other causes), or—​to some degree—​became Christians and ceased to use the synagogues. Although little surviving epigraphic evidence is directly germane to this chapter, one inscription is worth remarking here for its presumably inadvertent intersection with the persons and issues of the late fourth century. From Catania, in Sicily, it is the epitaph of a man called Aurelius Samohil (Samuel, in Hebrew), mostly in Latin, with one line of fairly formulaic

Europe) nor IJO 3 (Syria and Cyprus) indexes any persons designated bouletēs (member of the muncipal council). There are slightly more than a dozen inscriptions in IJO 2 (Asia Minor), mostly from Sardis, which designate individuals as members of the Boulē: these are generally dated late fourth–​early fifth centuries. This may only mean that Jewish decurions are not identifiable in the epigraphic record. Those whose inscriptions mark them as Jewish might not have wished to include this identification, while Jews who did so might not be identifiable as Jews (a subset of the larger problem of so-​called dark Jews—​those not visible as such in epigraphical and other data). The question of how many decurions are identifiable in late antique inscriptions is beyond the scope of this project. 184.  Falcasantos 2015:106n30; Fowden 1978; Trombley 1993–​94; Caseau 2004; Chaniotis 2008; Hahn et al. 2008; see also Larson 2008. 185.  CTh 16.8.22, the demotion of the patriarch Gamaliel VI, orders the destruction of certain synagogues, but this does not constitute criminalization per se; see b­ elow, pp. 227–28. In the sixth century, Justinian issued a law (Novella 37) expressing his desire that synagogues be refashioned into churches (on which, see below, pp. 294–96), but even this seems to stop short of rendering synagogues themselves illegal. 186. See below, pp. 241–42; 245–46; 257–58.

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Hebrew at the top.187 It is another instance of a Jewish inscription found in a disturbing location—​near the church of Saint Teresa, close to the western walls of Catania, an area of late imperial burials, in 1928.188 It reads: [in Hebrew] Peace to Israel. Amen Amen. Peace Samuel. [in Latin] I, Aurelius Samohil purchased the memorial for myself and my wife, Lasia Eirene189 [?]‌, who completed her fated time on the 12th of the kalends of November, on the day of Venus, in the eighth month, Merobaudes being again consul and Saturninus being consul, who lived 23 years in peace. I adjure you by the victories who reign, I adjure you by the honors of the patriarchs, I adjure you by the law [light?] which the Lord gave to the Jews, that no one open the memorial and put another body over our bones. If someone should nevertheless open, that one shall give ten pounds of silver to the (imperial) treasury. [Two menorot].190 It is explicitly dated to Friday, October 21, 383, the year when Saturninus and Merobaudes, the Frankish general who defected to Magnus Maximus, served as consuls.191 Consular dating is quite unusual for Jewish inscriptions, and it may be nothing more than coincidence that Aurelius Samohil died the 187. JIWE 1.145, which gives its current location as the museum in Catania (Museo del Castello Ursino), room 7, no. 540. Noy thinks that the fairly formulaic Hebrew, ‫ש]לו[ם על ישראל אמן‬ ‫אמן שלום שמואל‬, may derive at some point from the last lines of Ps. 128, ‫ שלום על ישראל‬and Ps. 72, ‫אמן ואמן‬. 188. The find site of this and other inscriptions is germane to questions about what eventually happens both to Jewish burial sites and to their commemorative markers, on which see ­chapter 1, this volume . 189. Millar 1992 reads this as Lasiferina, but his discussion antedates the edition of JIWE 1. He also reads her age as twenty-​two. 190. ‫ש]לו[ם על ישראל אמן אמן שלום שמואל‬ ego Aurelius Samohil conparabi | memoriam mi et oxsoris maee Lasi Eri| ne, que fatum conplebit XII Kal(endas) Novebr|es, diae Veneris, luna octaba, Mero||baudes iterum et Satornino con|sulibus, quae vixit annos XXIII |cum pace. adiuro vos per victorias qui in|perant, item adiuro vos per honor|es patriarcarum, item adiuro vos ||per licem quem Dominus dedit Iu|deis ni quis aperiat memoriam et mi|ttat corpus alienum supra ossa nostra. | si quis autem aperiverit, dit fisco argendi pondo | (menorah) dece(m). (menorah). 191. It is also explicitly dated to the 12th of the calends of November (which Noy simply renders as October 21), a Friday (the day of Venus), in the eighth month of the year when Merobaudes (for the second time) and Saturninus were consuls, thus 383. October 21, 383, was apparently, though, a Saturday; an inscription from 382 has October 21 on a Friday. Noy postulates that a



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same year that Merobaudes himself may have been executed by Theodosios for his role in the usurpation of Magnus.192 Particularly noteworthy is the inscription’s imprecations against tomb violation and the burial of unauthorized persons. Aurelius Samohil adjures passersby—​and potential tomb violators—​by the “victories who reign,” the “honors of the patriarchs,” and “the law (‘licem’)193 which the Lord gave to the Jews,” a rather interesting combination. It’s unclear which patriarch(s) are meant. Noy emphasizes that this is exactly when “the patriarchs in Palestine were at the height of their prestige and influence,” and writes: “In 383, it seems likely that patriarcae would be understood as the Jewish leaders in Palestine, and that their prestige would be sufficient to impress non-​ Jews as well.”194 In the law of 392, less than a decade later, the patriarch of Palestine appears to have the highest titles of “clarissimus” and “inlustrius.” But other scholars demur, including Schwartz, who thinks it more likely that the reference is to local authorities, or even perhaps to the biblical patriarchs.195 If this is a reference to the office of the patriarchate in the fourth century, this inscription would, in fact, suggest that its reputation, at least, extended to Catania, if perhaps ironically more as a mystical force to be invoked in the protection of tombs than as persons able to intervene in cases of tomb violation. Similar invocations occur in an inscription from Argos. There, one Aurelius Ioses invokes the divine and great powers of God, and the powers of law and the honor of the patriarchs, and of the ethnarchs and the wise ones/​sages and the service which is offered daily to God, against prospective violators.196 Unfortunately, the language of this second inscription does not

Jew would have known this correctly, so this must be an error by the stonecutter or the writer when writing “XII.” 192. For a helpful discussion of the complex historical issues here (which fortunately are not crucial to this project), see Rodgers 1981. 193. Presumably for “legem”: Noy cites as comparanda a much earlier inscription from Naples (JIWE 1.26), with the spelling “licim.” But he also notes that Millar thought “licem” might also be a misspelling of “lucem,” which he thinks “would be a strange concept in this context” (JIWE 1. p. 191n11). It might be a reference to the giving of light in Genesis, or, in this context, the equation of “lex” (law) and “lux” (light). 194. JIWE 1. p. 191; see also Millar 1992:98–​99, who reviews the possibilities without coming to a firm conclusion about the intended referent of these patriarchs. 195. Schwartz 1999. 196. IJO 1 Ach51.

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resolve the question of which patriarch(s) are meant, even more so because of the invocation here of ethnarchs, wise men, and the temple, which had been destroyed several centuries earlier.197

197.  In IJO 1. pp. 191–​93, the editors date it, with little firm support, to the third–​early fourth ce, although from the Aurelian name, the master epigrapher, Louis Robert, dated it to the third century. Their preference for a later date derives mostly from the inscription of Aurelius Samohil, and their reading “the honor of the patriarchs” as most likely a reference to the patriarchs in Palestine, and thus before the cessation of the office in the early fifth century (IJO 1. p. 191, notes to l.5, where they note, however, that both Frey, CIJ, and Jacobs 1995 prefer a reference to the biblical patriarchs). They recognize that this leaves unresolved the referent of the ethnarchs: after a review of various ancient occurrences, they concede that its meaning is simply unclear, which has, of course, implications for the interpretation of “patriarchs” as well. Similarly, they leave unresolved the reference of the sophoi, the wise men.

5

“Their synagogues shall remain in their accustomed peace” —​CTh 16.8.12, Arkadios at Constantinople, June 17, 397

Arkadios, Honorius, and Gamaliel VI (395–408) Where the two prior chapters together survey the sweep of almost a century, this one considers the much shorter time span beteween the death of Theodosios I in early 395 and the ascent of his seven-​year-​old grandson, Theodosios II, thirteen years later, in 408. For all non-​orthodox, much would change in these thirteen years, including the passage of increasingly restrictive legislation against dissident Christians, those still not Christian, and, to some extent, Jews—​setting the stage for the events narrated in the Letter of Severus of Minorca. Theodosios’s relatively sudden death left his eighteen-​ year-​ old son Arkadios as emperor in the East, and ten-​year-​old Honorius as emperor (Augustus) in the West. If the older son was barely, perhaps, old enough to play some role in the policies of his court, the younger son clearly was not. Any assessment of the legislation issued in their names during these early years must thus take into account the interests and agendas of diverse persons and groups in the imperial circles. Arkadios was well beyond the age when he required a guardian. In the several months’ interval between Theodosios’s death and his funeral, Arkadios’s marriage to Eudoxia was contracted and celebrated. Her Frankish father, Bauto, was a prominent figure in the western court and their wedding may have served as further assertion of Arkadios’s adult status and right to rule.1 Yet he was quite young, and clearly much under the influence of various

1.  Holum suggests that the marriage was effected by Arkadios’s handlers. According to Zosimos, New Hist. 5.3, the praetorian prefect, Rufinus, had hoped to marry his own daughter The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190222277.001.0001

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powerful advisors, if not necessarily quite the same degree of control, as his younger brother. As for Honorius, only a few years earlier Theodosios had presented his then seven-​year-​old son as the future emperor at a formal ceremony outside Constantinople on January 23, 393, shortly before he departed for the campaign against the usurper Eugenios. McEvoy characterizes this as the emperor’s “making a pointed dynastic statement in a time of political crisis.”2 Theodosios sent for the child right after he defeated Eugenios and his general Arbogast at the river Frigidus, in a victory effected by a massive favorable wind, that came almost immediately to be seen as literally miraculous.3 According to Paulinus’s Life of Ambrose, he welcomed Honorius to Milan at Ambrose’s cathedral, entrusting him there to the care of the bishop.4 Zosimos claims that Theodosios then went to Rome, where he proclaimed Honorius as emperor, and the general Stilicho as the boy’s guardian.5 Whether Theodosios did, in fact, make these arrangements at this time is disputed. As McEvoy explores, Ambrose’s funeral oration for Theodosios makes no explicit mention of Stilicho, let alone his guardianship of the new emperor. It’s only in a speech written for Stilicho by his client poet, Claudian, for the joint consulship of Honorius and Arkadios in 396, that Theodosios is said to have expressed his dying wish, to Stilicho alone, that the general have guardianship not only over Honorius but also over his older brother, Arkadios.6

to Arkadios. The marriage to Eudoxia, who was allegedly raised in the household of Rufinus’s nemesis, Promotus, was thus represented as a clear political defeat for the prefect (Holum 1982:52–​53); see also Mayer 1999, 2002. 2. McEvoy 2013:139, on whom I have relied for much of this material. 3. Holum argues that construed as demonstration of Theodosios’s piety and God’s favor, this victory supported an ideology that proper piety and divine favor, not military might, secure imperial power, an ideology that already had roots with Constantine, if not earlier (Holum 1982:51). At this particular point in time, this ideology, tied to Theodosios, enabled Honorius and Arkadios to survive and reign until their natural deaths, so long as they were perceived to be sufficiently pious; neither had reputations as stellar military men, and both were assailed in contemporaneous writers for various weaknesses. Holum doesn’t here note that this was an ideology with strong biblical roots, which Christians could easily have exploited if desired. 4. Paulinus, Life of Ambrose 32.1, cited in McEvoy 2013:139n16. For a more skeptical take, both on the interpretation of the Frigidus victory and the anointing of the child in the cathedral, see McLynn 1994:355. 5. Zosimos, Hist. Nov. 4.59.1, cited in McEvoy 2013:140. 6.  McEvoy 2013:142, who cites as the most thorough discussion Cameron 1969. Nemo-​ Pekelman 2015:45 accepts the claim that Theodosios had given Stilicho guardianship of Honorius.



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Whatever Theodosios may have intended, Stilicho quickly emerged as Honorius’s guardian, and effectively as the primary power in the boy’s administration until his removal from office and execution in 408. (McEvoy’s chapter on the decade when Honorius might still be considered a child emperor is tellingly titled, “The Regime of Stilicho.”7) The extent of his influence and control in the eastern court of Arkadios, however, seems considerably less clear. What also looms large in the early reign of Honorius is the role of Ambrose. As McEvoy makes clear, Ambrose’s oration for Theodosios was carefully constructed to bolster support for a child emperor whose authority (although perhaps not legitimacy) was certainly vulnerable. Unquestionably, by delivering it, Ambrose also put himself into the position of king maker, throwing his own considerable power behind Honorius, even while the oration’s failure to recognize Stilicho explicitly suggests that Ambrose, at least, was not entirely sure how this would all play out.8 Fascinating and complex as the ascension of Honorius thus was, it is most relevant here for what it implies about who was really behind the religious legislation issued in Honorius’s name, including, of course, that pertaining to Jews. Yet another player whose role is more difficult to discern is that of the Jewish patriarch, based in Tiberias, in Palestine. As I have already remarked, there is tremendous scholarly disagreement about the history of this position, as well as about the nature and extent of the patriarch’s authority, control, and influence over the lives of some Jews both in the homeland and in the diaspora.9 Part of the difficulty is that the majority of evidence 7. McEvoy argues persuasively that scholarly characterizations of Stilicho as “regent” are inaccurate insofar as no such position ever existed in ancient Rome and that legally, Stilicho could only have been Honorius’s guardian, a position that did not allow him control of the government. Nevertheless, she writes: “[i]‌n effect, the extent of the power that Stilicho would exercise between 395 and 408 certainly does amount to what we would recognize in modern terms as a regency.” Her own preferred redescription is, as noted, the concept of “regime” (McEvoy 2013:143). 8. See McEvoy 2013:144; the observation about Ambrose as kingmaker is, however, my own. 9. Lee Levine astutely remarks that “the depiction of the Patriarchate” in the extant (rabbinic) sources “is riddled with diverse and often contradictory information,” facilitating vastly divergent imaginings of the office and its inhabitants (Levine 2005:454). Similarly, in a harsh review of Appelbaum 2013, Hezser emphasizes that the minimal evidence for patriarchs (assembled in Jacobs 1995) doesn’t permit much historical conclusion (Hezser 2014). J. Schwartz 2016 offers a more charitable read of Appelbaum, but still calls the attempt to extract historically reliable evidence from rabbinic sources for the patriarch naïve and unpersuasive. So, too, Goodman 2005: 240–​41; see also the judicious treatment by Lapin 2012:21–​25; the important study of Schwartz 1999; and the detailed discussion of Stemberger 2000:230–​68. See also Sivertsev 2002:204–​54.

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for the office and its holders comes from rabbinic sources, whose historical utility is severely challenged. Nevertheless, it is precisely during the several decades from the 380s onward that we have the strongest intimations from non-​Jewish evidence that the patriarch and his associates played some significant role in the legislation issued from both courts concerning Jews. Although we do not know for sure who served as patriarch in 395, it may well be that for this entire period, the office was held by the last patriarch, Gamaliel VI.10 As McEvoy emphasizes, emperors routinely issued new religious legislation, designed to demonstrate the reciprocal relationship between their own piety and the divine favor bestowed on them, and thus the empire itself. Ambrose’s oration had already stressed both the relationship between Theodosios’s orthodox piety and his military success, and the piety of the young Honorius, which continued to inspire the troops and thus ensured the continuing security of the empire. Almost immediately, legislation against dissident Christians accelerated, especially from Constantinople, such as a law of April 394, to Victorius, proconsul of Asia, which prohibited “haeretici” from appointing bishops.11 Quite a few early laws were issued to Rufinus,12 on whose watch this acceleration began. In a law from Constantinople in March 395, he was instructed to bar Eunomians from public service and from receiving testamentary bequests.13 A few weeks later, he received a law that prohibited “haeretici” from illicit gathering, and from contaminating the divine mysteries whether in public or in private, in secret or in plain view.14 They were also forbidden to arrogate the title of bishop or other ecclesiastical orders. A law from Constantinople of August 395 reasserted prohibitions on access to temples and sanctuaries, and on the performance of sacrifices, and reiterated the force of prior legislation against both “haeretici” and “pagani.” It specified at length the penalties not only for persons who do such things but also for various officials deemed 10. For the argument that Gamaliel VI may well have been from 385 until at least 415, when he was demoted, see van der Horst 2002a, who is rightly skeptical of the claim that Gamaliel was proceeded in office by Judah IV, a tradition found only in a medieval chronicle. Less clear is whether Gamaliel V was patriarch just before Gamaliel VI, or held office in the earlier fourth century. 11. CTh 16.5.22. 12. Rougé and Delmaire 2005:264; Rufinus 18, in PLRE 1. 13. CTh 16.5.25. 14. “[P]rofanaque mente omnipotentis dei contaminare mysterium,” CTh 16.5.26.



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responsible for their enforcement.15 Among these initial laws is precisely the major prohibition of extensive traditional practices discussed in the previous chapter, addressed by Theodosios in 392 to Rufinus, when the latter was both praetorian prefect, and consul.16 Rufinus was assassinated on November 27, 395, suspected of seeking the throne for himself. Just three days earlier, a law issued at Constantinople instructed Marcellus, the master of offices in the East, that “haeretici” were to be dismissed from various public bureaus.17 No legislation concerning Jews was issued in either of the young emperors’ names until early 396, shortly after the death of Rufinus. This may hint at an alliance of sorts between Rufinus and the presiding patriarch that came to end with Rufinus’s assassination.18 Still, a considerable amount of what they did then legislate may be considered sympathetic to Jewish concerns, affirming the rights and privileges of Jews in various situations, even as the enactment of such laws hints at encroachments against such rights. A law given in Constantinople late that February, preserved only in the Code of Justinian, protects the autonomy of Jewish merchants to set prices for their goods, and prohibits provincial governors from appointing officials known as “discussori” or “moderatori” over them.19 The more detailed account of what precipitated the edict does not survive. The law was addressed simply “to [the] Jews” (“ad Iudaeos”) and implies that it was a response to a petition brought by Jews somewhere in the East. Linder took the law to be intended, at least initially, only for Palestine, and speculated that “moderatori” might refer to the agoranomos, or the supervisor of the market, which he characterized as “a functionary appointed by the patriarchs for the Jewish population of Palestine.”20 Yet the law itself made no reference whatsoever to the patriarch, and gave no

15. CTh 16.10.13. 16. CTh 16.10.12; see ­above, p. 138. Rufinus had been Theodosios’s master of offices from 388 to 392, and was consul in 392. 17. CTh 16.5.29. 18. A suggestion made by Hillel Newman in 1997, cited briefly in Lapin (2012:21n70, text on 207); Schwartz calls Newman’s “guess . . . almost inescapable” (2014:123). 19. CJ 1.9.9, JRIL 23. 20. Linder (JRIL, p. 194) translates these terms as “controller” and “supervisor,” respectively, and cites the Palestinian Talmud, Demai 2:1, 7:2, for his argument about the agoranomos, a title that is in fact far broader. He also notes the argument of Juster 1914:1.362, who thought it might apply to specialized Jewish markets, unknown, however, from late antique sources. See also Nemo-​Pekelman, who takes the law to give exclusive control of setting prices in Jewish markets to the patriarchate (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:45).

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hint that he or his associates might have played any role in its formulation or promulgation. In April 396, however, the patriarch was explicitly invoked in a law given in the name of Arkadios to the comes of the East, penalizing anyone who insulted the “illustrious patriarchs” in public.21 Here, too, the law as preserved lacks an indication of what prompted it and just which critics or enemies of the patriarch(s) might have been envisioned. We should not be too quick to presume that insults against the patriarch(s) came from non-​Jews, including those hostile to the influence of the patriarch on the imperial court, although certainly this is possible. Just as conceivably, they were other Jews, perhaps even those on the other side of the conflict underlying the law of 392 discussed in the prior chapter. Either way, we may imagine that the patriarch or his allies had lobbied for this edict. At the same time, the court of Arkadios continued to issue legislation against dissident Christians. Several laws were aimed specifically at Eunomians, such as two from March and April 396, which expelled Eunomian clerics and teachers (“doctores”).22 Somewhat ominous in its implications is a terse law of June 17, 397, at Constantinople, ordering Anatolios, praetorian prefect of Illyricum (the eastern Adriatic), to instruct the local governors to protect Jews from assaults and their synagogues from attacks.23 Precisely what occasioned the law is unknown, but it implies that Jews and one or more synagogues somewhere in the eastern Adriatic had been the targets of violence. Remains of a probable late antique synagogue were found under a Byzantine-​era church in Saranda, Albania, on the Adriatic coast, several decades ago. The synagogue is usually dated to the fifth century, and there’s no definitive evidence that its eventual transformation into a church could be correlated with this law.24 It seems significant that the law was aimed not at the perpetrators of such acts but, rather, at the officials responsible for enforcing existing laws against perpetrators. Linder takes it as evidence for weakened imperial control resulting from the extreme conflict between Stilicho and Rufinus, precipitated by Alaric’s invasions a few years earlier (in 395), themselves apparently prompted by the perception that Theodosios had not been sufficiently grateful for

21. CTh 16.8.11, JRIL 24. 22. CTh 16.5.31, duplicated in CTh 16.5.32. 23. CTh 16.8.12, JRIL 25. 24. On the site, see Nallbani 2003; Netzer and Foerster 2005; Levine 2012:237. For further discussion of Jews at Saranda, see ­below, pp. 350–51.



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Alaric’s support against Arbogast at the Frigidus.25 It is important, of course, to note that the law maintains the illicit nature of such attacks and appears to endeavor to protect Jews from future occurrences, even while it prescribes no penalties either against the perpetrators (which it may presume) or against officials who fail in their obligations. That same day, Arkadios issued a second law, addressed to the prefect in Egypt, which penalized Jews who feigned the desire to convert in order to seek asylum from debt or other legal charges in churches.26 Churches were prohibited from receiving such prospective converts until they had resolved these outstanding liabilities. Linder somewhat curiously construes the law to deal “an unmistakable blow at the missionary efforts directed at the Jews,”27 implying that it was Christian missionaries who held out the promise of debt relief, and who had now lost a major tool in their arsenal, rather than Jews who themselves exploited this particular legal strategy. The address to the prefect in Egypt might suggest that the law was prompted by a particular situation there, but it is nevertheless consistent with Christian anxieties, better documented in later sources, that Jewish conversions were often expedient. It is tempting to speculate that taken together, the laws represent an attempt to mollify competing lobbies in the imperial court, issuing legislation that rebuked those who attack Jews and their synagogues, while chastising Jews who expediently feigned Christian piety for personal financial gain. That some of these lobbyists were aligned with the patriarch seems both plausible and unknowable. The patriarch figures prominently in a law two weeks later ( July 1, 397), still in the name of Arkadios. Directed to the praetorian prefect of the East, now Caesarius, it reaffirmed the rights of various Jewish officeholders to be exempt from the curial obligations (and attendant expenses) discussed earlier.28 The law specifically exempts “those who are subject to the illustrious patriarchs,” including “archisynagogis,” presbyters, and others “who are occupied in the

25. JRIL, p. 197. Delmaire also similarly observes that the invasion of Alaric precipitated substantial conflict between the western and eastern empires, with Honorius’s general Stilicho pursuing Alaric into Greece, which was under eastern control. Arkadios declared Stilicho a public enemy and urged Gildo to revolt in North Africa (Rougé and Delmaire 2005:389n5). 26. CTh 9.45.2, JRIL 26. 27. JRIL, p. 199. Sanzo and Boustan 2014:363 write that Christians “relied heavily on the appeal of asylum” as a proselytizing tool, but their only support for this is Linder’s discussion, which itself seems more of a presupposition than an historical datum. 28. CTh 16.8.2, above pp. 89–90.

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rites of that religion,” just as Christian clerics are also exempt.29 Interestingly, neither rabbis nor teachers of any kind are specifically named here. The law explicitly notes that these privileges were previously affirmed not only by Constantine but also by Constantius, Valentinian, and Valens, although, as Linder notes, those laws are no longer extant (itself somewhat telling). Linder further comments that this law lacks the hostile characterization of Jews and their religion found in some legislation, without proposing any explanation. Just as the hostile language of Christian lobbyists seems apparent in the actual language of some laws, conceivably we have here an instance of legislation drafted by Jewish lobbyists, including the patriarch or his allies, and accepted by those who approved the final version. In Linder’s reading, this law also implies the recognition of the imperial government that “all Jewish men of religion throughout the empire came under the jurisdiction of the patriarchs.”30 As I  will return to in the last chapter, this seems to be a substantial overstatement of the relationship between the patriarch and those with communal authority in Jewish groups. Yet at the same time, it may point to a more complex contingent situation in which the patriarch sought to assert such jurisdiction at precisely a time when the question of these exemptions had become acute. A law of February 3, 398, given at Constantinople to the praetorian prefect of the East, now Eutychianos, elaborated at some length that Jews were subject to Roman law and must use Roman law in all matters except those that pertain specifically to Jewish religion.31 The law allowed for the adjudication of civil disputes “before the Jews or the patriarchs” (“apud Iudaeos vel patriarchas”), provided all the parties agreed to such adjudication, which then had the legal status of arbitration, to be honored and upheld by provincial governors and others. Based particularly on the rather imprecise phrase “before the Jews or the Patriarchs,” scholars have envisioned diverse disputes behind this law. Some have seen it as a reference to a court of the patriarchs authorized by the 29. CTh 16.8.13, JRIL 27. The law also exempts “patriarchisque,” which Linder concludes must be a corruption, probably of “patribusque,” since patriarchs subject to “the Patriarchs,” listed after the “archisynagogis” (a Latinization of the Greek archisynagōgoi—​literally, “synagogue rulers,” often translated as “heads of the synagogue”), makes no sense, a view supported further by the fact that Fathers of the synagogue are specifically mentioned in Constantine’s earlier legislation (JRIL, p. 203, referencing JRIL 9). Particularly of interest here is the meaning of the term “presbyteri,” which also occurs in the earlier law of 330, see above, p. 89n47. 30. JRIL, p. 202. 31. CTh 2.1.10, JRIL 28.



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imperial government(s) and a (competing) court of the rabbis in Palestine. Others have posited a conflict between Jews who were Roman citizens and those who were not, or between Jews in the East and Jews in the West.32 While this law might be construed to limit the circumstances under which Jews could resort to Jewish courts (of whatever sort), it may also be construed to affirm the legitimacy of Jewish courts not only for religious matters disputed between Jews (as in the law of 392)  but also for other civil matters, provided only that all parties consented to their authority. Otherwise, such disputes had to be aired in the secular courts, under Roman law. In its current form, it is unclear whether the law envisioned that Jewish courts could resolve non-​religious civil disputes not only between Jews but also between Jews and non-​Jews. That ancient readers found the law ambiguous may be suggested by the language of the Code of Justinian, which seems to make it clearer that it pertained only to disputations between Jewish parties.33 Reading it in tandem with the earlier law of 392 repudiating the authority of secular courts over the dispute between two groups of Jews, Linder takes it as evidence that only “Jewish authorities subject to the jurisdiction of the patriarchs” had “judicial power” over Jews regarding religious matters.34 If the law refers to two different court systems, this would seem to disenfranchise that “of the Jews.” Nemo-​Pekelman, however, takes it to demonstrate that disputes between Jews could be resolved in various venues, and notes that arbitration in local systems (including Jewish courts) was particularly appealing to ordinary people who were rightly suspicious that Roman courts favored the wealthy and the powerful. Thus she thinks that the edict does not emanate from a desire to create separate laws for Jews in order to marginalize them but, rather, reflects larger ancient concerns about judicial integrity.35 32. See JRIL, pp. 206–​207 for details. 33. Significant changes occur in the version of this law in the Code of Justinian. First, the Jews must now litigate all matters before Roman courts, including (but not limited to) those that pertain to their “superstitio.” Second, the persons who may choose arbitration are not the generic “some” (“sane si qui”) but, rather, “some from this community” (“si qui vero ex his communi”), so that the first law appears to allow for arbitration of civil matters between Jews and non-​Jews, while the Justinian version requires Jews to litigate everything in the Roman courts, but then allows for consensual arbitration among Jews. Third, the Justinian version omits the reference to the patriarchs, which is usually seen to be an obvious correction after the demise of the patriarchate, see below, pp. 252, 359–62. 34. JRIL, p. 205. 35. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:71. See also her technical discussion of the law’s provision that provincial governors had to execute the decisions of Jewish courts as though they had been pronounced by a judge (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:74–​75).

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Linder notes that a similar law was given in Arkadios’s name almost six months later, which stated that bishops had legal authority in all religious matters, while non-​religious disputes were the purview of the secular courts.36 This suggests a larger interest in clarifying the relationship between Roman law and religious law more generally, whether that of Jews or of churches.37 Such an interest is consistent with the classification of this law in Book 2 of the Theodosian Code, on jurisdiction, and not in Book 16, on religion, where the majority of laws pertaining to Jews were subsequently placed. Interestingly, no extant legislation pertains to jurisdictional disputes regarding Samaritan law. A month later, in March 398, the court of Arkadios issued an especially lengthy and harsh law against the “superstitions” of the Eunomians and Montanists, ordering the expulsion of their clerics from all cities and villages, and forbidding their subsequent gatherings, on pain of permanent exile.38 Those who allowed such gatherings on their property were liable to the same punishment. Once the law was in force, those who gathered for such rites risked both the confiscation of their property and permanent expulsion, while the houses in which such rites were held were subject to confiscation by the state. Householders were liable unless they immediately ejected the Eunomians and Montanists as soon as they discovered the infractions. In addition, the law ordered the books of the dissidents to be sought out and publicly burnt. Hiding such books and failing to deliver them for destruction were punishable by death.

36. CTh 16.11.1, from the western court, in August 399. See also CTh 16.2.23, from 376, a seemingly narrower law pertaining to the courts that have jurisdiction over clerics; in their cases, bishops have jurisdiction unless the charges are criminal, in which case the secular court has jurisdiction. 37. See, e.g., CJ 1.4.7 ( July 398), discussed at length in JRIL, pp 205–​206. Nemo-​Pekelman sees this as an extension of the ruling in February of that same year to episcopal courts. But she notes that it allowed bishops to arbitrate cases by anyone, not merely Christians, which she sees as a contrast to the February law (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:73). However, the law of 398 does not explicitly say who may resort to the use of Jewish arbitrators. Nemo-​Pekelman takes the accusation against Gamaliel VI in 415 (discussed at length below, pp. 227–31) to demonstrate that the patriarch (and other Jewish courts) could not arbitrate cases concerning Christians (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:73–​74). That very case suggests to me that the law was either ambiguous or liable to misinterpretation in this regard. 38. CTh 16.5.34, March 4, 398; CTh 16.5.36, July 6, 399, confirms these prohibitions, but allows Eunomians testamentary rights which CTh 16.5.25 (March 395) had taken away, and nullifies an earlier change of their legal status to that of “peregrini,” which would have deprived them of inheritance rights. One imagines that these laws reflect competing lobbyists before the consistory and the emperor(s).



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If the legislation from Arkadios’s court in these years seems largely supportive of certain Jewish interests, the legislation issued from the western court during these same years defies easy characterization. Sometime in 398,39 the court of Honorius at Milan instructed the praetorian prefect of Italy and Africa, Theodorus, that persons legally obligated for curial duties could not evade such responsibilities by claiming religious exemption, in particular (although not only) Jews. Unlike many of the laws discussed here, this one contains some account of the circumstances that prompted it. It had come to imperial attention that some Jews liable for curial service in Apulia and Calabria were claiming to be exempt on religious grounds, on the basis of “some law” passed in the East.40 The edict insisted that if the prior law did in fact exist, it was now abrogated, and that all persons legally required to do so must serve in the city curias, regardless of their “superstitio.” Another law in 398 stated the requirement in a much more general way, compelling to service “all who are obliged . . . no matter what superstition they may be,” without specific mention of Jews.41 The law concerning Jews may be a repudiation of Arkadios’s legislation of 397, although some scholars have take the more general wording of Honorius’s edict in 398, omitting mention of a more specific clerical exemption, as an indication that some other law, no longer extant, was intended.42

39. CTh 12.1.158, JRIL 29. For discussion of the dating issues, including whether 157 and 158 were issued on the same day, see JRIL, pp. 212–​13. A similar edict issued in 388 charged that the emperor(s) had learned that persons in several towns in Bithynia had been evading their curial duties by fleeing. The edict ordered them to return and serve, or face the loss of their patrimonies and permanent exile from their home towns (CTh 12.1.119). 40. Scholars offer divergent translations. Parkes (1934:200) took the law to mean that Jews in these regions were wandering (“vacillare”) about southern Italy, evading their obligations. In Pharr’s translation, it is the “senates of the municipalities throughout Apulia and Calabria” which were “tottering” on account of the delinquent Jewish decurions (Pharr 1952:365). So, too, JRIL, p. 213, and Rougé and Delmaire 2009:331. In this interpretation, the city councils of these regions are largely if not entirely composed of Jews, who maintain that they are exempt, leaving the councils in an unstable condition—​“tottering.” Like Parkes, Nemo-​Pekelman takes the law to pertain to individuals (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:47). But unlike the law of 388 discussed in the prior footnote, this edict only insists that the obligation of Jewish decurions remain in force regardless of any eastern legislation that might seem to say otherwise. All laws were issued in the name of both eastern and western emperors. In practice, they may have applied only in the part of the empire from which they were issued (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:47), but Honoré argues that even so, they might legally be valid everywhere. Hence he thinks the law of 397 must have been considered valid precisely because the law of 398 repeals it: if it weren’t valid, it would not have required repeal (Honoré 1998:130–​31). 41. CTh 12.1.157. 42. E.g., Juster 1914:1.164n1, 2:260n2, and others, discussed in JRIL, pp. 213–​15. A broader exemption of all Jewish men seems somewhat unlikely.

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Linder considers the conditional phrasing concerning an eastern law to be a rhetorical device intended to downplay the actual affront of this legislation to the court of Arkadios. In actuality, he thinks, the court of Honorius here took aim at the eastern court, which seems quite plausible, both because of the law itself and because of the larger context of hostility between the two in the final years of the fourth century.43 Regardless of its implications for conflicts between the two imperial courts, this law is one of many that point to tensions around curial obligations, and that may in fact reflect widespread resistance and attempted evasion of curial liturgies on the part of many persons liable for such service. An entire section of the Theodosian Code is devoted to the subject of curial obligation.44 But at the same time, this law and others, such as one targeting Montanists and Priscillianists, issued at Constantinople to Anthemius in February 410, suggests that such accusations were effective ways to target opponents of various sorts.45 Thus, assuming for the sake of argument that the law does not manufacture the complaint, while Honorius’s law might be read as an instance of anti-​Jewish sentiment in the western court, it might alternatively, or at least additionally, reflect the interests of whoever brought such complaints to the attention of the court. These interests might encompass not merely hostility to Jews generally but also to particular Jews. Interestingly, while Arkadios’s law of 397 explicitly exempted those Jewish clerics who were under the authority of the patriarch, the western law contained no such reference. This raises the possibility that not all clerics were, in fact, under patriarchal authority or appointment, and that the absence of such authorization threatened their exemption, a hypothesis to which I will shortly return. The patriarch surfaces again in a law the following year, in April 399, addressed to Messala, praetorian prefect of Italy. It prohibited delegates of the patriarchs and synagogue officers from collecting funds for the patriarch from synagogues, and confiscated those funds already collected to the imperial treasury. Like the perhaps spurious letter of Julian, it pitched itself as protective relief for Jews from a burdensome obligation (literally a depredatory

43. The law of 387 was, of course, issued in the names of both Augusti, and it seems hard to imagine that Honorius’s court could plausibly claim to have been unaware of such legislation (so, too, Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:47). 44. CTh 12.1; see above, p. 167n35; below, p. 171n47 and n48. 45. CTh 16.5.48.



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tax—​“depraedationis functionem”), imposed by “that despoiler of the Jews” (“illo depopulatore Iudaeorum”).46 Was there really Jewish opposition to such collections? The lack of contemporaneous Jewish sources deprives us of any internal evidence for actual Jewish resistance to such collections, but such resistance is not difficult to imagine. The confiscation of funds already collected does suggest some misrepresentation, if not outright duplicitousness or expediency, on the court’s part, and couching the law as the protection of Jews could easily have been rhetorical cover for other motivations. Parkes, for instance, thought that Honorius was in need of funds, and saw this as an opportunity to divert the collection to the imperial treasury.47 Parkes seems not to have noticed that Honorius was all of fourteen when this law was issued, and thus its intentions are probably best ascribed to others, rather than to the teenaged emperor. Demougeot suggests more precisely that Stilicho had little interest in seeing the assets of Jews in the West find their way into the coffers of the eastern government, managed by his rival, Eutropios.48 Regardless, if such a motivation has merit, it also implies that the funds were substantial enough to warrant diversion, perhaps to support Stilicho’s campaign against Gildo, although conceivably there were other factors. Whether, as Linder proposes, the law was a kind of pandering—​“an expression of the government’s interest in gaining the goodwill of the Jews,”49 seems less clear to me. But if this was true, it was clearly a positing of conflicting interests of the Jewish populace and the leaders to whom they allegedly submitted or professed allegiance. Nemo-​Pekelman thinks that Stilicho might, in fact, have been inspired by complaints from Jews themselves, seeking to resist pressures on them to contribute to the patriarch’s coffers.50 At the very least, the law points to a conflict between persons at the court and the patriarch and his allies, who must have been infuriated by a law that appropriated and curbed his revenues. Still, we might wonder 46. CTh 16.8.14, JRIL 30. Letter 51, attributed to Julian, also expressed considerable dismay that Jews were subject to such harsh taxation by their own leaders see above, pp. 112–13. 47. Parkes 1934:200. 48. Summarized in Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:180–​81. 49. So JRIL, p. 215. 50. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:50. Conceding that we have no idea what really happened, she thinks it possible that the annual tour of the apostoli resulted, in 399, in a crisis opposing the envoys of the patriarch with a party of members of Jewish communities who resisted the demands of the envoys.

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whether the real target of this law was not so much the patriarch as the court at Constantinople, whose policies toward Jews in general, and the patriarch in particular, had so far been relatively supportive.51 If this is right, then the prohibition of the collection seems quite clever: it punished the patriarch for his alliance with Constantinople and enriched the court of Honorius in the process, while casting the prohibition as a protection of Jews, perhaps in an effort to head off Jewish resistance to the law (whether general, or specifically that of particular lobbyists). If one conflates the interests of the patriarch with the interests of the rest of ancient Mediterranean Jews, one might construe a conflict between the court and the patriarch as evidence for anti-​Jewish sentiment. But alternatively, what underlies this law is a much more complex dynamic involving multiple players and interests that should not be misread as a kind of generic and insufficiently nuanced Christian anti-​Judaism. A year or so later, in late December of 399, Arkadios also issued a brief edict to the praetorian prefect, Eutychianos, reiterating that Jews who were demonstrably obligated to curial service must perform it.52 It made no mention of the patriarch’s role in any of this.53 At the same time, Arkadios also issued a more general law pertaining to men who were liable for curial service but failed to perform it.54 Since delinquent decurions were barred from certain state offices, those who were found to be holding such offices were liable to be tried before provincial governors. A law issued a few days earlier dealt with decurions who had taken ecclesiastical orders, presumably to avoid liability for the office.55 The legislative record is silent on how these disputes played out over the next several years. The court of Honorius also issued numerous laws against Manichaeans, Donatists, and traditional worship in 399, including three from Padua on August 20.56 It then issued no legislation concerning dissident Christians or traditionalists until 405. In this same interval, the court of 51. So, too, Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:49–​50, who sees this law as a proxy fight of sorts between Stilicho and Eutropius in the East. 52. CTh 12.1.165, JRIL 31. 53. Linder does not consider this an abrogation of Arkadios’s earlier legislation in 397 exempting Jewish clergy from curial obligations, nor an affirmation of Honorius’s law in 398, seeing it as merely a restatement of the “the legal situation in force” (JRIL, p. 218). 54. CTh 12.1.164, JRIL 31. 55. CTh 12.1.163. 56. CTh 16.10.17, 16.10.18, and 16.11.1. On these groups, see ­esp. above, pp. 77, 119, 124, 128 and below, pp. 181–82 and 207–10.



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Arkadios addressed a law to Clearchus, prefect of Constantinople, directed to dissidents (“haeretici”) generally, which confiscated their buildings and private places in the city to the imperial treasury, expelled their clerics from the city, and forbid their returning to gather within the city limits, day or night.57 Although it seems to date to 396, it is probably more accurately dated to 402.58 But for the most part, in the years between the western law of 399 and its repeal, perhaps only shortly before the law of 404, the attention of both courts seems much focused elsewhere. Much has been written on the momentous military and political crises of these years, during which generals and other key players (Stilicho, Rufinus, Eutropios) jockeyed for power in both courts.59 Alaric wrought devastation both in the West and in the East, while an Ostrogoth named Tribigild invaded Pamphylia and Pisidia in Asia Minor. The Gothic general Gaïnas, once a top military commander for Theodosios I, was tasked with either defeating Tribigild or negotiating with him. Failing to dislodge Tribigild, Gaïnas managed to deflect blame onto Eutropios, who was deposed and exiled in August 399.60 Briefly claiming the imperial throne, Gaïnas returned to Constantinople with his troops in 400, inciting a riot in July in which 7000 Goths are said to have been slaughtered.61 When Gaïnas retreated to Thrace, John Chrysostom is said to have been sent as an emissary. By early 401, the crisis was resolving. Gaïnas was dead and his head on display in Constantinople. The horror of these conflicts was exacerbated by natural catastrophes, graphically depicted by Philostorgios and others: a massive earthquake in 399, torrential storms, famine, plague, and other disasters.62

57. CTh 16.5.30. In CJ 1.5.3, the imperial treasury is changed to the catholic church. 58.  Based on the evidence that Clearchus was only prefect of the city from May 400 until March 402 (Rougé and Demaire 2005:294). 59. E.g., Holum 1982:59–​78; Cameron and Long 1993, with extensive additional bibliography. 60. Cameron and Long 1993:229. Gaïnas is accused in Zosimus of collaborating with Tribigild, but Cameron and Long are dubious. 61. The figure comes from Zosimos, Hist. Nov. 5.19.4, in Cameron and Long 1993:231, who provide a fascinating discussion of whether the riot was at the behest of Eudoxia (who that same year is crowned Augusta) and whether Gaïnas might have had her support, which they think unlikely. 62. Philostorgios, Eccl. Hist. 11.7; for additional references, see Holum 1982:62n59. How much of this is reliable and how much is a depiction of quasi-​apocalyptic disasters are difficult to assess.

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In these same tumultuous years, Arkadios and Eudoxia had four of their five children: Pulcheria in January 399, Arkadia in April 400, Theodosios II in April 401, and Marina in February, 403. (Their eldest daughter, Flaccilla, had been born in June 397.)63 Theodosios II, the emperor responsible for the collation of the legal code in his name, and during whose long reign much would change for Jews in the late Roman Empire, was declared co-​emperor with his father when he was only nine months old. Later accounts claim that even before his birth, the infant was embroiled in the complex religious politics of the Constantinopolitan court. According to the Life of Porphyry, bishop of Gaza, attributed to his deacon, Mark,64 Porphyry and others had come to Constantinople when Eudoxia was pregnant with Theodosios, seeking imperial support for Porphyry’s program to eliminate traditional temples (especially one to Marnas) and traditional worship in Gaza. After the chamberlain, Amantius, arranged an audience with the empress, Eudoxia pressed their cause with Arkadios, who, given the extensive tax-​paying, non-​Christian population there, was reluctant to do anything to threaten his tax revenues. Instead, he proposed a gradual strategy of stripping the traditionalists of their honors and closing their temples.65 In a subsequent audience, Porphyry promised Eudoxia that after having had three daughters, God would now give her a son were she to support their cause.66 In

63.  These dates come from the Chronicle of Marcellinus:  on their probable accuracy, see Cameron and Long 1993:170–​71. Mayer 2002 suggests that the empress had not one but two additional stillbirths, in 403 and 404 (the latter fatal). 64. The authenticity of the Life has been disputed, partly reliant on arguments about the relationship between the extant Greek and Georgian texts. Holum took it to be adequately reliable, citing the arguments of Grégoire and Kugener 1930 (Holum 1982:55n31). Cameron and Long 1993:155 consider it a sixth-​century forgery, citing Peeters 1941 and MacMullen 1984:86–​89, the latter who concludes that “Mark and Porphyry themselves may well never have existed at all” (1984:87). Trombley 1993:1:246–​82 argues for a fifth-​century date for the Greek, against Peeters, and deems the Life a “near contemporary document and eyewitness account” (Trombley 1993:1:187). Barnes 2010:260–​84 argues for a sixth-​century composition (obviously not by Porphyry’s deacon), based on various previously undetected anachronisms. Citing both, van Nuffelen 2012:191n35 defers judgment and considers the text’s verisimilitude sufficient. I  disagree; a sixth-​century forgery is even less likely to have any historical utility than a demonstrably fifth-​century text. Rapp 2001:55–​56 acknowledges the difficulties but concludes that the story has a “historical core” whose “general storyline merits our confidence.” See also Sivan 2008:162n57, who also notes the disputes without weighing in. On conditions in Gaza, see Trombley 1993:1:188–​245. 65. Life of Porphyry 41. 66. Life of Porphyry 42.



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Holum’s view, once Eudoxia did finally have a male heir, she was indebted to the bishop and her husband was indebted to her.67 As the Life of Porphyry tells it, when the emperor and his infant son came out of the church where Theodosios was baptized in January 402,68 Porphyry approached, and handed his petition to the chamberlain carrying the baby, who took it, read it out, and rolled it back up. When, guided by the chamberlain, the baby’s head nodded, the official then announced that the imperial power had granted the petition, a seemingly miraculous event that effectively forced Arkadios’s hand.69 As van Nuffelen points out, the Life concedes that the ruse of miraculous approval by the infant heir apparent was insufficient, and that Eudoxia then had to persuade her husband to issue the requisite authorizing edict,70 drafted by Porphyry and his associates. A member of the consistory named Cynegius (perhaps a relative of Maternus Cynegius) was sent to Gaza with troops, destroying in particular the temple to Marnas and erecting a church on the site, generously funded by the empress. It was dedicated to her posthumously, after she died of complications from her final pregnancy, in 404. In these same years, Eudoxia was engaged in an ongoing conflict with John Chrysostom, who had been appointed bishop of Constantinople in 398.71 As in the perhaps fictitious incident with Porphyry of Gaza, some of John’s antagonists seem to have found the empress sympathetic to their efforts to gain imperial support.72 Eudoxia intervened in a conflict between John and Severian, bishop of Gabala in Syria, forcing John to reconcile reluctantly with his opponent, who had the support of the empress as patron.73 In another instance, four monks from Egypt, known as the “Talls,” had been expelled by Theophilos of Alexandria on charges of advocating the controversial 67. Holum 1982:54. The discussion of the episode is pp. 54–56. 68. On some difficulties in the dating of Theodosios’s birth, see Holum 1982:55n31. 69. Life of Porphyry 48, from van Nuffelen 2012:191–​92, using the (abbreviated) translation of Rapp 2001. 70. Van Nuffelen 2012:192, who dissects this episode as part of his analysis of the uses of public performances in late antique Constantinople, including as stages for conflicts between emperors and bishops; on this generally, see now Falcasantos 2015. 71. On which, see both Holum 1982:69–​78 and Mayer 2002, the latter expressing reservations about some of this. 72. For general discussion and references, see, inter alia, Holum 1982:69–​78; Allen and Mayer 2000:1134–​35; Mayer 2002; van Nuffelen 2012. 73. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 6.11.1–​7, 11–​21; see Holum 1982:70–​71.

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christology of the third-​century teacher Origen, and who sought redress both from Arkadios and John Chrysostom. Failing to get John’s full support, they turned to the empress, who promised to see that a synod would be convened to resolve the matter.74 But when it took place, its focus was not the “Talls” but on John himself, by then under fire for a sermon against women he had given that was construed as an attack on the empress.75 John was deposed and exiled in 403. Violent popular support for the bishop, together with the sudden death of Eudoxia’s first child, Flaccilla (easily construed as divine displeasure with the empress) led to his recall not long after. Nevertheless, the conflict between John and Eudoxia continued, and he was forced out of office for the last time in June 404.76 In late 405, he was replaced as imperial bishop by Attikos, who figures prominently in several fifth-​century stories about the conversion of Jews, discussed both later in this chapter and in the next chapter. The extant sources give no indication that anything in the disputes between John (who died a few years later in 407)  and the imperial couple, especially the empress, pertained to Jews. On the contrary, the evidence suggests that their conflicts were political, personal, and deeply gendered.77 But given John’s demonstrated antipathies to Jews and Judaism, especially in the sermons of 386–​87 (themselves invoking associations of Jews and femaleness), one might wonder whether Eudoxia and Arkadios would have been less receptive to any anti-​Jewish efforts on the bishop’s part than they might otherwise have been. Alternatively, of course, they were all simply far more preoccupied with these conflicts to attend much to Jews.

74. Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 8.13, on which see Holum 1982:73–​74; van Nuffelen 2012; Cameron and Long 1993:234–​35. 75. E.g., Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 6.15.1–​3. Van Nuffelen points out that although Holum and others take this to be reliable, Sokrates may reflect the vantage point of John’s opponents, and no authentic sermons survive, apart from critiques of aristocratic women more generally (Holum 2012:198, esp. n62, on a falsely attributed sermon). Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 6.18.4–​5 alleges that Chrysostom preached a sermon against Eudoxia that began by casting her as Herodias, while other sources claim that he characterized Eudoxia as the biblical Jezebel (see Holum 1982:72). 76. See, e.g., Liebeschütz 1985. 77. This is quite complicated, though. Chrysostom had strong views about appropriate female piety and propriety, but sought the support of powerful women patrons, including but not limited to Olympias. His conflicts with the empress may have been more about what he perceived to be her inappropriate exercise of power (if not authority). Holum sees the conflict as in part a struggle between the church (in the person of John) and the emperor over access to the fortunes of wealthy women such as Olympias (Holum 1982:70–​72). On Chrysostom’s views of women, and on his complex relationships with various elite women, see, e.g., Mayer 1999; and Allen and Mayer 2000, esp. 1132–​33 and bibliography, 1149–​50.



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Legislation pertaining to Jews surfaced again in 404. In February, Arkadios issued a brief law to Eutychianos, praetorian prefect of the East, which again affirmed the privileges of the patriarchs and their appointees, and that might be taken as a further rebuke of the western court. The timing of this law and the final throes of Chrysostom’s travails may be entirely coincidental. Two months later, in April, a law in the name of Honorius instructed the praetorian prefect in Gaul that Jews and Samaritans “who delude themselves with the privilege of the Executive Agents [“agentum in rebus privilegio”]” were to be deprived of any position in the “militia” (which consisted of three services, including the army proper and the imperial administration).78 The bureau of “agentes in rebus” was instituted in the early fourth century and dealt with the transmission of imperial orders and documents, as well as the flow of information to the court and various policing. At least one scholar has characterized it as a late Roman “Secret Service,” or secret police force.79 That Jews and Samaritans held such positions in the first place is worth remarking. Dissident Christians had been banned from such appointments already in 395.80 It seems to be unclear whether the law prohibited Jews and Samaritans from serving as these agents (Linder argues that it does not), or merely penalizes some unarticulated abuse of office by prohibiting those specific offenders from serving in any of the “militiae.”81 Still, why only Jews and Samaritans are singled out here may be of some concern, and we may wonder who brought these matters to imperial attention. What relationship this law had to Arkadios’s affirmation of patriarchal privileges is also unclear. Linking this law to the law of 399 prohibiting the patriarchal collection,82 one scholar has proposed that this law targets Jewish “agentes in rebus” who had opposed the ban and had

78. CTh 16.8.16, JRIL 33, including Linder’s defense of his translation of “omni militia privandos esse” as broad exclusion from any “state office.” 79.  On this and other offices held by Jews, see Mathiesen 2014:44–​47. Linder argues that this “bordered and not infrequently turned into espionage and secret control” (JRIL, p. 223–​ 24n4). For the designation “Secret Service,” see Sinnigen 1959, cited in JRIL, p. 224n5. See also the overview in Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:179–​81. 80. CTh 16.5.29, above, p. 163; On Jews in the military, see Castritius 2002. 81. Juster 1914:2.253–​54 observed that the law must have had little effect, since it was renewed fourteen years later, in 418 (CTh 16.8.24, JRIL 45, discussed below, pp. 237–38), although this is not the only explanation for the repetition of laws, and in any case the later law is more than a renewal of the earlier one. Linder takes the sweeping scope of the law of 418 to support his view that the earlier law was not, in fact, a blanket prohibition of Jews or Samaritans serving as “agentes in rebus.” 82. CTh 16.8.14.

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undermined its enforcement (which would have been part of their duties).83 This does not, of course, explain the inclusion of Samaritans, nor why it took so long to uncover and address the treachery of these agents. While conceding that it is impossible to know what happened, Nemo-​Pekelman proposes an alternate scenario in which the offending Jewish and Samaritan “agentes in rebus” had duplicitously evaded their curial obligations by pretending not to be liable for curial service and enrolling instead in a different office. Honorius’s consistory, run by Stilicho, then opportunistically targeted Jews and Samaritans who similarly evaded curial obligations by enrolling in the “militiae,” including the army.84 Later that same year, in July, a western law issued to Hadrian, the praetorian prefect of Italy and Africa, acknowledged that the previous order prohibiting the collection of contributions to the patriarchs from Jews “of these regions” had been revoked, and reaffirmed the right of Jews to transmit these funds, consistent with their earlier imperial privileges. The actual law rescinding the prohibition of 399 does not survive and its precise date is unknown, as is its relationship to Arkadios’s law earlier that year.85 At the very least, it seems obvious that the patriarch and his allies had prevailed.86 Ironically, of course, the revocation of the earlier law put the western court in the rather odd position of apparently now imposing on the Jews precisely the depredatory tax from which it claimed to have relieved them just a few years earlier. Despite the absence of dispositive evidence, it’s worth speculating what might have transpired during these years. It seems likely that in the late fourth and early fifth centuries, the patriarch (either Gamaliel VI or both he and his predecessor[s]‌) attempted generally to expand his power and financial resources, relying on his relations with the various emperors and their courts to extend the reach of his authority and his ability to obtain payments from Jews in diverse locations. This is consistent with the position of Seth Schwartz that in the fourth century, the patriarch in Palestine effectively taxed at least some 83. E. Demougeot, summarized in Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:180–​81. 84. Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:181–​82, who also notes several other instances of similar language in laws concerning those who sought to evade curial duties. 85. CTh 16.8.17, JRIL 34. That such a revocation does not appear in the extant legal codes is an important general caveat (assuming that reference to such a law is not a rhetorical strategy). 86. See also Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:51–​52, including discussion of whether the patriarchal tax collection violated laws concerning the circulation of funds between the two parts of the empire.



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diaspora Jews, with at least some ensuing resentment. Schwartz notes that the emperors never enforced these demands: at best, they allowed the patriarchs to keep whatever they could extract.87 The conflicts over exemptions from curial obligations and taxes suggests that one strategy deployed by the patriarch was intensified control over synagogue appointments. The law of 330 already affirmed that certain Jewish clerics were exempt from various onerous obligations88 and represented that exemption as having existed for some time. Exempted clerics were specifically described as “those who dedicated themselves with complete devotion to the synagogues of the Jews, to the patriarchs or to the presbyters.”89 Nevertheless, it does not describe these clerics as appointed by or authorized by the patriarch, speaking at best of those who devote themselves to the patriarchs as also exempted. When the preface to Honorius’s edict of 398 explicitly claimed that there were Jews who falsely claimed exemption, might we imagine that not all synagogue officers were authorized by the patriarch, a lack that threatened their exemption?90 It seems quite plausible that as increasingly large numbers of Jewish men claimed exemption, the patriarch inserted himself into this situation by guaranteeing the appointments of some but not all Jews. Doing so would have had numerous consequences. It would have strengthened the relationship between the patriarch and both emperors, enabling them to determine with greater ease which Jews were exempt. At the same time it would have given the patriarch additional leverage over both individual Jews whose exemptions were at stake and Jewish groups more broadly. Such moves on the part of the patriarch might easily have provoked resistance from Jews, particularly those who had not previously either been under 87. Schwartz 1999:218. He further suggests that the origins of the fourth-​century tax lay in voluntary fundraising in the third century, and he speculates that the patriarch solicited from diaspora Jews because its merchants and artisans had more cash than Palestinian peasants. The ability to raise funds came, he suggests, from the patriarchs “offering their services, or the services of their agents, as intermediaries between the communities and the city governments, the governors, and eventually the emperors” (Schwartz 1999:220). But if so, it remains somewhat curious that the patriarchs seem singularly absent in late fourth-​and early fifth-​ century accounts as intermediaries in the kinds of situations where one might have expected them to intervene (Ambrose’s contestation with Theodosios, the conversion of the Jews on Minorca, etc.). 88. For details and discussion, see JRIL, pp. 135–​36n5. 89. CTh 16.8.2, 1.1; JRIL 9, addressed to the praetorian prefect. CTh 16.8.4 (whose exact chronological relationship to CTh 16.8.2 is debated) addresses the “Priests (‘Hiereis’) and Heads of synagogues (‘archisynagogis’) and Fathers of Synagogues and Others who serve in the same place.” 90. CTh 12.1.158, JRIL 29.

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his authority or might previously not have found some nominal allegiance to the patriarch to have been oppressive. The conflict between two disparate groups of Jews which culminated in the law of 392 might be seen either as a product of, or a response to, such opposition from other Jews. Such opposition might itself have been exacerbated by the imperial support for the patriarch and his representatives expressed in that law. Read without a larger context, the law of 396 prohibiting public insults against the patriarch might be understood as a response to general anti-​Jewish sentiment. Read in the context of this cluster of legislation, it seems more likely to reflect the hostility of Jews aggrieved by the intrusion of the patriarch into aspects of Jewish lives previously outside the realm of his power. And although the western rationale for prohibiting the collection of funds for the patriarch might seem self-​serving, as discussed earlier, it seems quite plausible that the law was prompted by Jews aggrieved at this involuntary burdensome taxation. It’s also rather striking that the language of this law, which casts the unnamed patriarch as “that despoiler of the Jews,” might be construed as precisely the kind of public insult prohibited in the earlier law of 396. The harsh characterization of the patriarch in the law of 399 might also suggest that its target was not Gamaliel VI but, rather, a predecessor. If so, the ascension of a new patriarch might have then made it possible for Honorius to rescind the law and restore the revenue collection to the new patriarch, quite plausibly Gamaliel VI. Regardless, not inconceivably, the interests of the aggrieved Jews here coincided and/​or conveniently aligned with those of the court of Honorius, which sought either to rein in the amount of funds funneled to patriarchal rather than imperial coffers or perhaps even actively to seek additional revenues in the wake, for instance, of the campaign against Alaric. One might also wonder whether an outraged (or at least strategic) patriarch played the respective courts against each other, ultimately obtaining redress from Arkadios in the form of the edict of 404 which affirms the privileges of the patriarchs and those “set by them over others.” The western law issued just two months later, against Jewish and Samaritan men holding appointments as “agentes in rebus,” could be construed as a punitive response of sorts. But that July, the order by Honorius conceded that Jews now had the right to convey funds to the patriarch, the previous order against these conveyances by Jews in the west having been revoked (at some perhaps conveniently unspecified point).91 We might easily envision a conflict between 91. JRIL, p. 224 briefly notes here a thesis that this reflected a conflict between the more anti-​ Jewish stance of Stilicho, the primary power in the western court, and a more favorable stance



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Gamaliel and Stilicho, and even Honorius himself, now close to twenty, such that when Honorius moved to deprive Gamaliel of the right to collect funds, the patriarch pressured the court of Arkadios for support, perhaps playing on the conflicts of the two courts, especially over Alaric and the rebellion of Gildo. Eventually, Gamaliel prevailed and, probably with the support of the eastern court, was able to force Stilicho and Honorius to repeal the edict of 399 and once again allow the collection of revenues. In the process, of course, he exposed the weakness of their claim to be protecting the financial interests of western Jews. Alternatively, Gamaliel was himself a proxy for conflicts between Stilicho and (whomever), and various other dynamics and scenarios may have been forces that our sources obscure.92 In any case, starting in early 405, the western court seems far more preoccupied with different religious matters, issuing a raft of laws aimed at non-​orthodox Christians, reflecting in particular the intensified conflict with Donatists in North Africa. On a single day, February 12, 405, at least three laws were issued at Ravenna (which had become the seat of the court after the advances of Alaric forced it out of Milan). The first of these condemns the memories of members of the two major dissenting churches in North Africa—​Manichaeans and Donatists—​asserting the truth of only one catholic worship.93 Another law railed at great and unusual length against Donatist rebaptism, articulating various theological objections along with lengthy penalties. It further refuted the Donatist claim to be a schism, not a heresy, since their theology of baptism made them “heretics.”94 A  third short law targeted Donatists and any rebaptism.95 Another law issued about two weeks later repudiated an anti-​Nicene rescript apparently obtained on petition from Julian and invoked by the Donatists in support of their legal rights.96 Still another edict in March 405 ordered that the law previously sent of Eutropios, the eunuch who had assumed control of the eastern government in 395; but since Eutropios was deposed in 399, this seems problematic. It is also insufficiently nuanced, conflating the interests of Jews in the West with the interests of the patriarch (JRIL, p. 224). 92. This account attempts a more nuanced and complex account than van der Horst’s broad assessment that Gamaliel VI had very good relations with Theodosios I, Honorius, and Arkadios (van der Horst 2002a:27). His assessment is also problematic in its conflation of the young emperors both with their various advisers and minders and with the legislation issued in their names when their roles in the issuance of these laws remain uncertain. 93. CTh 16.5.38, February 12, 405, at Ravenna, during the consulates of Stilicho and Anthemius. 94. CTh 16.6.4, February 12, 405, at Ravenna. 95. CTh 16.6.5, February 12, 405, at Ravenna. 96. CTh 16.5.37, February 25, 405, at Ravenna.

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to North Africa should be affixed everywhere, so that all should know the necessity of accepting the one true catholic faith.97 Legislation against Donatists was repeated yet again at the end of the year.98 Late in 407, a lengthy edict was issued at Rome covering “haeretici, caelicoli (Heaven-​fearers) and pagani.”99 Preserved most fully in the Sirmondian Constitutions, it contains a long preface, and one part that reiterates prior laws against the Donatists, Manichaeans, Priscillianists, and Gentiles, as well as against a “new doctrine,” the Caelicoli. Their properties were to be vindicated to the churches, and punishments against confessed Donatists were to be enforced. A second part contains regulations against “pagani,” many of which were already in force.100 The grain distributions in temples were to be immediately released and distributed to others, including soldiers (whose salaries were paid in kind). Statues which had been worshiped now or in the past were ordered pulled out of their foundations. Temple edifices (“templa”)—​on imperial estates—​were now to be made available for public use, and all altars on such estates were to be destroyed by the proprietors or tenants.101 Feasts and cult activities were forbidden, and local bishops were given the authority to prohibit them. Governors who failed to enforce these were liable to a massive fine of twenty gold pounds. Nothing in this law was directed against Jews.102 Yet at the same time, it is not difficult to imagine that this law might easily have served not only as a 97. CTh 16.11.2, March 5, 405, at Ravenna. For whatever reasons, the compilers of the Code placed this law in a relatively short title (“de religione”), which consists of only two other laws, CTh 16.11.3, an affirmation of catholic privilege (October 410, at Ravenna), and perhaps most interestingly, a law of 399, CTh 16.11.1, that all disputes regarding religion are to be adjudicated by bishops, with all other matters handled by the civil authorities. 98. CTh 16.5.39, December 8, 405, at Ravenna. 99. CTh 16.5.43, 16.10.19; both fairly brief. They are far more fully in Sirm 12, JRIL 35; and Matthews 2000:147–​51. For discussion of some difficulties of the precise dating and other issues, including a delay in promulgation, see JRIL, pp. 226–​29. 100.  E.g., CTh 16.10.4–​7, closing temples, prohibiting sacrifices, etc., all before 356; CTh 16.10.10, the closing of temples in 391 ce under Theodosios; and CTh 16.10.12, the extension prohibition of traditional practices in 392, discussed above, pp. 111 and 138. 101. For this interpretation, see Matthews 2000:148. 102. Although scholars sometimes equate the Caelicoli (“Heaven-​fearers”) with “God-​fearers,” and thus affiliated in some way with Jews, the version of the law found in CJ 1.9.12 is actually quite explicit that the Caelicoli are dissident Christians, not Gentiles interested in Jewish practices (Kraemer 2014:82). Its inclusion in JRIL is predicated on this association. Nemo-​Pekelman, drawing on Simon 1948, presents arguments that the Caelicoli were in fact linked to Jews in some fashion, but does not seem aware of the extensive contrary arguments of Shaw 2011: (Nemo-​ Pekelman 2015:186–​88). For further discussion of the Caelicoli, see ­below, pp. 211–12.



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justification but also as an impetus for attacks on synagogues, not the least because of its usage of the terminology of “templum,” the distinction between a “templum” of the “pagani” and a cult building of the Jews being perhaps a very fine one that could easily and intentionally be overlooked or misconstrued. Viewed both in total and in the context of other imperial religious legislation, the laws issued regarding Jews in these thirteen years do not, in fact, suggest that Jews were under much pressure from the state. Most of the laws passed were more concerned with affirming Jewish rights, although as noted previously, the need to affirm those rights implies that they were being challenged in some quarters. Some of the situations addressed were hardly unique to Jews, such as laws requiring those liable for curial liturgies to perform them and laws clarifying the jurisdiction of religious courts and authorities. The one law ordering the protection of synagogues and Jews themselves implies, of course, the need for such protection, at least in some specific situations, as the case of Callinicum and perhaps a synagogue at Rome suggest. The law regarding the collection of funds for the support of the Palestinian patriarch hints at a complex and fraught dynamic between the patriarch and his supporters and the court of Honorius, a dynamic that will become much more visible in subsequent years.103 The law of 397 requiring prospective Jewish converts to discharge their debts before converting, and forbidding churches from accepting them, or from offering them asylum until they had done so, does not seem to allude to imperial pressures on Jews to convert.104 On the contrary, this law would have had the effect of negating a possible incentive or inducement for conversion, regardless of whether heavily indebted Jews themselves might have expediently seen conversion as a form of relief, or whether Christians held out such relief as one among many inducements. The interests of the state here would appear to be primarily eliminating a means by which some persons (in this case, prospective converts) could illicitly evade liability for properly incurred debts or avoid rightful criminal prosecution. That the law is tailored specifically to Jews may or may not imply anything about how widespread such practices were, but it seems unlikely that the government would have targeted Jewish abuse of the asylum system while tolerating similar abuse by others in the process of converting.105 The law regarding

103. See ­below, pp. 227–31. The law forbidding insults to the patriarch was issued by the eastern court (CTh 16.8.11). 104. CTh 9.45.2, JRIL 26. 105. I am unaware of a comparable law aimed at other non-​Christians.

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Jewish and Samaritan members of the secret service might be read as imperial restrictions on Jewish and Samaritan participation in certain prestigious and powerful offices, although its wording is sufficiently ambiguous to obscure the precise circumstances and consequences of this law. At the same time, as noted earlier, the law simultaneously acknowledged their presence in such positions, a presence that the literary sources tend to mask. With many of these laws, the precipitating factors are both highly relevant and frustratingly inaccessible. To the extent that many of these laws may have been contingent on particular cases and complaints, the omission of such details from the Theodosian Code (and later collations) has the effect of concealing those specifics and thus generalizing them, their scope, and their impact. At the very least, this lends itself to the perception that they may be motivated by a general hostility to Jews and Judaism. It is then instructive to compare the legislation concerning Jews in these years with the legislation issued regarding dissidents and traditionalists, culminating in the law of late 407. The laws discussed at least briefly in this chapter, and numerous others passed prior to 407, seem intent on eliminating all non-​orthodox forms of Christian worship and on taking possession of the buildings and other resources both of dissident churches and of traditional temples and cults. By contrast, the practice of Jewish religion by those born Jews remained lawful and protected. Its practice by anyone else was, however, criminal, and various laws aimed at protecting Christians from Jewish encroachments, both social and cultic. Despite Ambrose’s efforts to persuade Theodosios that, at the very least, there should be no consequence for Christians who attack synagogues, it remained illegal to attack or destroy synagogues, or to take property from synagogues, or to vindicate synagogues to churches; and these differences are tremendously significant. In these years, Jews continued to serve in numerous imperial offices (perhaps more so than we are able to discern), and the laws regarding the decurionate are aimed not at excluding Jewish decurions but, rather, at compelling them to serve. This was the case, of course, because that service met the fiscal needs of the government, not because of any inclusive impulse on the part of either court. Yet the absence of imperial legislation directed at the suppression of Jewish religion or aimed at incentivizing conversion by no means undercuts the evidence for considerable hostility to Jews on the part of orthodox Christians. Curiously, the evidence for anti-​Jewish sentiment among Arians, Donatists, and other major Christian groups is less apparent. This may have more to do with the extant sources than with actual sentiments, even while there is some evidence, considered in other chapters, that Jews and Arians could and did



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make common cause against their orthodox Nicene antagonists.106 In the late fourth and early fifth centuries, orthodox Christian bishops such as Ambrose, Augustine, John Chrysostom, Cyril of Alexandria, and many others both wrote extensive treatises against Jews and Judaism and regularly preached anti-​Jewish homilies (and/​or anti-​Jewish exegesis of scripture). Sometimes, as in the case of Chrysostom, these homilies themselves point to complex social dynamics on the ground, as does, of course, the Letter of Severus. As Ramsay MacMullen (and others) have pointed out, it’s by no means clear just how many people attended church regularly and thus heard this anti-​Jewish invective. MacMullen’s calculations suggest, for instance, that churches themselves were far too small to accommodate more than a tiny percentage of the Christian population, and thus that few people would actually have heard any bishop on a consistent basis.107 Yet to the extent that people did attend, or did hear about these sermons from others who did, regular exposure to such preaching surely had the potential for all kinds of invidious consequences, naturalizing and normalizing anti-​Jewish sentiment and undercutting civil social relations.108 As we have seen, only one law deals directly with issues relating to conversion—​namely the legislation concerning the possible abuse of asylum laws by potential converts. Apart from this, neither the laws nor the literary sources for these years offer much information. In the mid-​fifth century, Sokrates relates a story about Attikos, the Nicene imperial bishop of Constantinople, converting a paralytic Jew. One of several conversion accounts Sokrates weaves into his history, this one is set in 408, early in Attikos’s tenure.109 An unnamed paralytic Jewish man initially tried without success to heal his affliction by prayers and other Jewish remedies. Ultimately, he resorted to Christian baptism, which worked immediately. Sokrates takes pains to emphasize that Attikos first instructed the man in basic Christian

106. See below, pp. 295 and 324–25. See also the discussion of Nemo-​Pekelman on possible alliances between Jews and other non-​orthodox groups (2015:188–​91). 107. See MacMullen 2009 for a detailed examination of the sizes of physical churches compared to the likely population of Christians across the empire, which concludes that very few persons (perhaps 5–​7 %) could have attended these churches and heard these sermons, with some particularly useful summary statements on 2009:101 and 111–​112. A  lengthy appendix (MacMullen 2009:117–​41) assesses the capacity of all known churches built before 400. 108. On the impact of sermons, as well as of pamphlets (“libelli”) that largely do not survive, see Shaw 2011:409–​40. 109. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.4.

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teachings, so as to guarantee the sincerity of his baptism. Nevertheless, this miraculous cure had limited impact: it failed to entice other Jews to convert, although Sokrates claims that, unlike Jews, such miracles regularly persuaded traditionalists (“Hellenes”). Despite its brevity, this account encodes numerous themes found in other late antique Christian accounts of Jewish conversion, and it may, in fact, point to some of the underlying social dynamics. The initial trigger for the conversion was an uncured paralysis (which may allude to the account of Jesus healing a paralytic man in the Synoptic Gospels),110 for which Jewish prayers and remedies are ironically ineffective, despite their widespread reputation for efficacy among practitioners of the magical arts. A similar motif underlies Epiphanios’s account of the deathbed conversion of the patriarch Hillel, in his much more extensive story of Joseph of Tiberias.111 As a last resort, the Jew turns to Christian baptism, whose immediate efficacy would hardly surprise a sympathetic Christian reader. Yet the story also reflects a persist­ ent Christian anxiety that Jews (often?) convert out of expediency, without true conviction—​an anxiety that Sokrates endeavors to assuage with his claim that Attikos, alert to such possibilities, first insisted on basic pre-​baptismal instruction that would strengthen the Jew’s faith. As the legislation concerning converts and asylum implies, such anxiety may have been merited, although here the issue is not miraculous healing but, rather, far more pragmatic economic and financial interests. Particularly telling is Sokrates’s aside that although this particular Jew was miraculously, instantly, healed by baptism, his cure did not impress other Jews. This is similarly so in the case of Epiphanios’s account of both Hillel and Joseph, neither of whom manages to effect anything like wholesale conversions of other Jews, and both of whom are, on the contrary, under considerable pressure from other Jews. Hillel dies a crypto-​Christian, even unaware that Joseph has witnessed his transgressive deathbed baptism, while Joseph is (like Paul, of course) persecuted by other Jews who find him reading the New Testament, and fails to persuade them of the truth. Anti-​Jewish tropes loom large in these accounts, especially tropes with biblical and exegetical antecedents. As in the time of Jesus, most Jews are unconvinced even when miracles are performed right in front of them, so stubborn are they in their resistance to divine truth. This, after all, is the not very subtle message of Epiphanios’s account of the multiple times that Joseph witnesses miracles, only to resist 110. Mark 2:1–​12; Matt 9:1–​8; Luke 5:17–​26. 111. See above, pp. 147–52.



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crediting them to Christ and accepting him. Gentiles, by contrast, are far more amenable to such demonstrations (as they are, for instance, in Acts and implicitly in Paul’s letters), lacking that distinguishing intrinsic Jewish blindness and stubbornness.112 Yet at the same time, stories of miraculous conversion carried their own risks, pointing to the possibility of expedient conversions that lacked the requisite depth of faith. Sokrates’s account here achieves a delicate balance: miracles are efficacious, and baptisms literally work wonders, but they also require underlying faith. Yet beneath these tropes may well be an inconvenient social reality that Jewish converts were at this point generally few and far between, and that the occasional Jew who did convert rarely managed to persuade others to do so. By contrast, both the laws and the narratives gesture at the considerable ostracism faced by such converts and perhaps the pressures exerted on them to renege. Such tropes were then useful, providing Christians with explanations for why so few Jews converted (their stubbornness and blindness make them generally impervious to miracles) but also for expressing and resolving another social reality—​that such conversions could be undertaken out of expediency, as we see both in later legislation and literary sources, including the Letter of Severus, and could sometimes fail. On May 1, 408, Arkadios died at age thirty, more or less,113 apparently of natural causes. He left his seven-​year-​old son Theodosios II as rightful emperor, reminiscent of Arkadios’s own ascent to the throne at age fourteen when Theodosios I died at age forty-​seven. As Stilicho had hastened to declare himself the guardian not only of Honorius but also of Arkadios, so too the general sought to move once more for control of the eastern court, hoping to make himself protector of Theodosios II. But if Stilicho’s designs on control of Honorius’s court had been difficult to fend off, thirteen years later things were different. Before the general could effect this plan, Honorius had him executed at Ravenna.114 In the West, Honorius now increasingly came into his own, while Anthemios became the new child emperor’s protector, effectively becoming ruler in the East. The ramifications of these changes will become apparent in the next chapter. 112. Whether, of course, traditionalists converted at different rates than Jews is an entirely different, difficult question; there continue to be identifiable numbers of Jews and Jewish communities, whereas in the long run, practitioners of traditional religions are all but invisible, if not truly extinguished. This being said, see MacMullen 2009 for arguments about the modest numbers of Christians in the third–​fifth centuries. 113. There is some uncertainty about whether he was born in 377 or 378. 114. Zosimos, Hist. Nov. 5.34, in late August 408.

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“No synagogue shall be constructed from now on” —​CTh 16.8.25, Theodosios II, at Constantinople, February 15, 423

Honorius and Theodosios II, 408–​4 23 As the prior three chapters have shown, the surviving literary sources for the decades between Constantine’s commitment to Christ and the elevation of Theodosios II provide relatively little evidence for a sustained imperial program aimed at Jews, despite the vitriol and lobbying of various Christian bishops. In the fifth century, however, anti-​Jewish legislation and other constraints on Jews increased, perhaps dramatically. Discernible already after the death of Theodosios I in 395, this shift may have had various causes. At some general level, projects, programs, and strategies to eradicate traditional worship were increasingly effective, if much less so than their proponents hoped. The early death of Julian ended the prospects for any official restoration of sacrifice which, together with the public performance of most traditional cult, was now illegal. Temples were dismantled or at least off-​limits. Although later laws demonstrate that this was at best wishful hyperbole, in April of 423 Theodosios II could issue an edict whose brief surviving text reads:  “The regulation of constitutions formerly promulgated shall suppress any pagani who survive, although we now believe that there are none.”1 Christian bishops and their allies had had considerable

1.  CTh 16.10.22. A  law several months later punishing “pagani” found engaged in sacrifices implicitly conceded that they were not quite all gone (CTh 16.10.23). Perhaps simplistically, Holum thinks this reflects the strategies of Asklepiodotos, who “purposely misled [Theodosios] in order to prevent further legislation against paganism” (Holum 1982:124). On the continuation of traditional practices, see, e.g., Trombley 1993/​2001; MacMullen 1997, 2009; Frankfurter 1998. The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190222277.001.0001



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success obtaining legislation against dissident Christians, although like the legislation targeting traditional worship, such legislation appears to have been considerably less effective in eliminating Christian difference than its instigators undoubtedly wished. These successes, together with the failure of Julian’s plans to rebuild the temple in Jerusalem as part of his program to restore sacrifices, may have encouraged Christian bishops to pursue a more vigorous anti-​Jewish agenda. Although there seems to be no way to assess this, we might wonder whether some Christians in the fourth century were initially at least somewhat optimistic about the voluntary conversion of Jews once Christian practice became licit. By the end of the century, it may have been increasingly apparent that this was unrealistic. We know, however, that some Christians differed on whether “strong” or “weak” tactics were more effective in bringing about the conversion of Jews.2 Such discussion implied both a low rate of conversion and the ability to exert pressure on Jews. That is, to decide just what tactic to use implies having the means to do so, although our evidence for such debate comes from Christian bishops, who do not appear to have had the ability to compel the government to do this for them. The politics of this were still often quite local. Sokrates claims that with the death of Stilicho (and his designs on the eastern court), complete power in the East was quickly consolidated in the hands of Anthemios, the praetorian prefect.3 Holum suggests that while Anthemios’s real religious proclivities are unknown, he must have at least feigned Christian orthodoxy.4 In the six years he was prefect, from 408 until 414, very little legislation regarding religion was directed to him, which may suggest that religious conformity was not his priority. Anthemios received a law in February 21, 410, which excluded Montanists, Priscillianists,5 and other members of “nefarious superstitions” from service in any branch of the “militiae,” while still requiring them to serve as decurions and other obligatory positions.6 He was also the recipient of a

2. See above, pp. 58–59. 3. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.1.1. 4. Holum 1982:86–​87. 5. For the argument that these Priscillianists are Montanists (named for the prophet Priscilla), rather than followers of the fourth-​century Spanish dissident Priscillian, see Rougé and Delmaire 2005:301n3 and 484. 6. CTh 16.5.48. The law is reminiscent of the law of 404 regarding Jewish and Samaritan “agentes in rebus” (CTh 16.8.16; discussed above, pp. 177–78).

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law a week later, on March 1, 410, against Eunomians inheriting.7 While he was prefect, only one law regarding Jews was passed. Addressed to him, it did not restrict Jewish rights.8 Rather, it addressed their apparent anti-​Christian behavior, for which there may have been some basis, forbidding Jews from mocking Christians on Purim. Sokrates claims that during these years, Jews regularly mocked Christians, although there is no way to assess the particular incident he details—​an appalling account of drunken Jews at Immestar, Syria, hanging a young boy on a cross and abusing him until he died.9 As I  will pursue in detail in this chapter, anti-​Jewish legislation in the name of the young Theodosios II may reflect the piety and interests of his older sister, Pulcheria. Her ascetic devotion, shaped by the thinking of men like John Chrysostom, may well have contained considerable anti-​Jewish elements that are visible first in a single law issued to Anthemios’s successor, Aurelian, in 415, considered at length later.10 Conversely, subsequent more favorable legislation concerning Jews may reflect the position and sentiments of Asklepiadotos and his niece, who took the name Eudokia on the occasion of her marriage to the teenage Theodosios II. In Constantinople, conflict between the two women and their allies may have worked itself out in part on the interests of Jews. Elsewhere, in Alexandria, for instance, Jews continued to be caught between the agendas of Christian bishops, monks, and mobs, on the one hand, and imperial governors and administrators whose interests were more about law, peace, and stability than about the pursuit of Jews, on the other hand. While literary accounts of attacks on Jewish synagogues are exceedingly rare in the century between Constantine’s adoption of Christianity and the death of Arkadios, such narratives become more common in the fifth century. Many such stories occur in the Lives of various saints, whose historicity is dubious. The fullest account comes in the evasive Letter of Severus. The anonymous Syriac Life of Barsauma imputes to him multiple attacks on synagogues in Palestine and environs that seem to occur in the second decade of

7. CTh 16.5.49. 8. CTh 16.8.18, JRIL 36. 9. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.16, in 415, some years after this law. Juster 1914:2.204 thought the account unlikely; Parkes 1934:234 thought it credible precisely because the Christians do not subsequently use relics of the child’s body for miracles. For more recent treatments, see Tolan 2013; Stebnicka 2014. 10. CTh 16.8.22, JRIL 41.



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the fifth century. A fifth-​century monk named Sergius is said to have attacked a synagogue in Amida, in Mesopotamia, roughly contemporaneous with the rampages of Barsauma. The Martyrdom of St. Salsa, set in the mid-​fourth century but composed at some later but indeterminable date, recounts how a thirteen-​year-​old convert to Christianity effected the transformation of a synagogue into a church in Tipasa, North Africa. The sixth-​century Chronicle of Edessa briefly notes that Rabbula became the bishop of the city in 411/​ 412(?), and that, at the order of the king, he built a church for St. Stephen where there had formerly been a “sabbath-​house” of the Jews.11 Generations of older scholars took these texts as dependable evidence for Christian attacks on synagogues, even as they regularly discounted the specific miraculous elements of these narratives.12 Despite the dubious historical value of much of this literature, these narratives are regularly invoked in modern historical accounts, often to illuminate the otherwise murky contexts of imperial legislation, including those laws regarding Jews. Thus it seems useful to begin a discussion of the increasing legislative and other pressures on Jews in the fifth century with some consideration of these tales.

Barsauma The Syriac Life of Barsauma relates the ascetic discipline, travels, and miraculous acts of a Syrian monk who seems to have been born in the late fourth century and died around 459. A little over a century ago, François Nau published a lengthy “résumé” of the Syriac Life, consisting of extensive Syriac excerpts with French translation, together with summaries of the additional Syriac text.13 11. Chronicle of Edessa 51, for the year 723. The work dates sometime between 540 ce (the last events chronicled) and its sole surviving seventh-​century Syriac manuscript (numbering here from Cowper 1864). 12. Some classic examples include Juster 1914; Parkes 1934; Graetz 1891. Less known are Adams 1887 (thorough and sympathetic, although lacking ancient source citations) and Deutsch 1921, which, unusually, explicitly acknowledged a need for critical historical judgment and argued that the entire episode of Julian’s attempt to rebuild the temple was a Christian fabrication designed to demonstrate the impossibility of doing so (Deutsch 1921:33). 13. Nau 1913:170–​76, 379–​89; Nau 1914:113–​34, 278–​89 for large sections of the Syriac Life, with some translation and some paraphrasing into French. For the Ethiopian Life, see Grébaut 1908, 1909. A new critical edition is being prepared (see Palmer 2016 and forthcoming; see also Hahn and Menze, forthcoming b). I thank Andrew Palmer for graciously providing me with an advance copy of his translation of the text. All numbering in my discussions are taken

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The Syriac Life is a lengthy work divided unevenly into “signs” and “wonders,” the terms used for what God did when the Israelites were in Egypt.14 It begins with an account of Barsauma’s childhood and entry into a rigorously ascetic, monastic life, followed by numerous episodes of the miracles wrought by Barsauma. Although it is constructed sequentially (Barsauma did this and then this, and then this), the Life is largely devoid of chronological references, or even intervals of time. Among the only episodes that may be associated with known historical events and dates are two stories concerning Eudokia, who visited Palestine in 438 and took up permanent exile there after 443. I will return to one of these, which involves Jews extensively, in the next chapter. Many of the “signs” and “wonders” attributed to Barsauma are clearly constructed around episodes from both the Hebrew Bible and Christian scriptures, casting Barsauma as everyone from Moses, Joshua, and other prophets to Paul and Jesus himself. In the third sign, a loaf of bread suffices to feed Barsauma and his disciples for a week, echoing Jesus’s miracles of the loaves and fishes.15 In the fifth sign, Barsauma, as yet uneducated, bests even a bishop’s exegesis, a recasting of Jesus’s astonishing the teachers in the temple.16 In the sixth and seventh signs, Barsauma turns bitter roots into sweet ones and sour wild grapes into sweet ones, recalling the Exodus account of Moses’s transforming bitter waters into sweet.17 In the eleventh sign, like Joshua, he stops the sun in its tracks until he and his disciples can reach his cave in daylight.18 (At the end of this account, Barsauma, like Mark’s Jesus, instructs his amazed disciples not to tell anyone.) In the fifteenth sign, he brings rain to relieve drought. In the sixteenth sign, like Moses, he ascends Mount Sinai, prays there, and then descends.19 In the seventeenth sign, he and his disciples drink from a pitcher of wine that continuously refills, recalling Jesus’s first sign in the Gospel of John, the transformation of water into wine at the wedding in

from Palmer, as are all English translations, except that where Palmer has translated the Syriac as “distinctions,” I have used the English term “wonders,” so as to make clearer the repeated biblical allusion. 14. Deut 6:22; also Ps 135:9; Jer 32:20; Neh 9:10. I thank Robert Doran for his assistance with the Syriac here. 15. Life of Barsauma 9.1; cf. Mark 6:30–​44; Matt 14:13–​21; Luke 9:10–​17; John 6:1–​15. 16. Life of Barsauma 12.1–​3; cf. Luke 2:41–​52. 17. Life of Barsauma 14.1–​4, 18.1–​3; cf. Exod 15:22–​25. 18. Life of Barsauma 29.1–​6; cf. Josh 10:12–​14. 19. Life of Barsauma 36.7.



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Cana.20 Like Jesus and his disciples, Barsauma exorcizes numerous demons. In an additional imitation of Christ, he curses a vineyard, which then dies.21 In other accounts, he curses individuals, who either die or repent and are healed. In a recasting of the birth of the prophet Samuel to Hannah and Elkanah,22 he heals a woman of infertility, with the added twist that the resulting child is a daughter. In a recasting of John 4, he heals a Samaritan woman, whose husband and children then convert.23 Although the designation of his works as “signs” and “wonders” clearly alludes to the Egypt account in Deuteronomy and elsewhere, it may also evoke the language and format of the Gospel of John, as does the structuring of his travels around three trips to Jerusalem, which may have more to do with portraying his Life as an imitation of Christ than as a factual account of his travels and activities. The stories of his attacks on Jewish sabbath-​houses, Samaritan synagogues, and traditionalist temples may also owe much both to the Gospel of John (where Jesus is especially at odds with Judean synagogues)24 and to paradigms for the lives of saints, who were expected to demonstrate their piety in part by battling all the enemies of the orthodox. The Life places the birth of Barsauma in the late fourth century near Samosata. In a narrative that recalls the infancy stories of the gospels, he is raised by his mother and her second husband (after his father dies while he is quite young).25 As a small child, he was subject to vicious attacks by dogs that nevertheless left him miraculously without marks, foretelling attacks by the Devil in response to his future combat with dissident Christians

20. Life of Barsauma 37.1–​3; cf. John 2:1–​11. 21. Life of Barsauma 52.1–​2. Jesus curses a fruitless fig tree, which then withers (Mark 11:12–​14 and Matt 21:18–​22). 22. Life of Barsauma 64.1–​4 (the thirty-​ninth sign); cf. 1 Sam 1. 23. Life of Barsauma 80.1–​5. 24. The invocation of the Gospel of John is also apparent in the heading of Life of Barsauma 97: “the many signs which are not written in this book”; cf. John 20:30, “Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples which are not written in this book,” and John 21:25. 25. A prologue of sorts constructs Barsauma as an even more righteous type of John the Baptist, whose coming is foretold by a “good man” living in the desert (like the canonical John), in a speech that resembles that of John the Baptist in the Gospel of John 1:19–​34. Conveniently, that man is named Joseph. The text later applies to him a prophetic saying that he was abandoned by his father and mother in his youth: “My father and my mother abandoned me and the Lord gathered me up” (Life of Barsauma 10.4). The quotation is from Ps 27:10: “if my father and mother abandon me, the Lord will gather me up.”

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and traditionalists.26 Reminiscent of Jesus’s staying behind in the temple in Jerusalem while his parents set out for home,27 the child Barsauma then ran away from his family when they took him to a fair in Samosata. As he traveled, crying, along the Euphrates, he encountered a holy man named Abraham, who took him to live in a monastery.28 As a young child, the Life relates, he became convinced that he should go to Jerusalem to pray, setting off, like the disciples in the Gospel of Matthew, without shoes, sandals, purse, stick, or food, and entering no villages or cities.29 The text claims that at this (unspecified) time, Palestine, Phoenicia, and Arab lands were full of traditional worshipers. (Obviously, this antedated the assurance of Theodosios II’s edict in 423 that there were no longer any such persons.)30 Jews and Samaritans were rich, and they persecuted Christians. Because Barsauma was a child without adult protection, they treated him abusively, beating him and driving him out—​presumably not from the villages and cities he didn’t enter, but, rather, from Jerusalem itself, or the countryside. After praying in Jerusalem, Barsauma set out for a desolate region, and lived for some time under conditions of great hardship, perhaps evocative of Jesus’s temptations in the desert. Reminiscent of John the Baptist, whom the gospels depict as eating only locusts and wild honey, he eats only grass, roots, and fruits from wild trees, and lives in a cave throughout the winter, surviving only because of God’s care for him.31 Like Jesus, he acquired a disciple, and then a few more.32 Subsequently, his ascetic practices came to include perpetually standing and never sitting or lying down for the next fifty-​four years of his life,33 as well as extreme fasting. The Life explains his name, Barsauma,

26. Life of Barsauma 3A.1–​6, the second sign. 27. Luke 2:43–​44. 28. Life of Barsauma 3B.7–​8. 29. Life of Barsauma 4.1; cf. Matt 10:8–​9, where Jesus instructs his disciples to set out without money, spare tunics, sandals, or staffs. Where Barsauma avoids towns and cities, in Matt 10:5, Jesus instructs his disciplines to “go nowhere among the Gentiles, and enter no town of the Samaritans.” 30. CTh 16.10.22. 31. Life of Barsauma 5.1–​2; cf. Mark 1:6 and Matt 3:4. 32. Life of Barsauma 6.2. 33. Life of Barsauma 7.1.



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as “Son of Fasting.” 34 Eventually, he wore clothing of leather and metal that caused him to broil in the summer and freeze in the winter.35 Apart from the short notice that Jews and Samaritans persecuted him as a solitary child, the first account of Barsauma and Jews comes many stories later, with the twenty-​sixth wonder.36 Jews figure prominently in the account. Having, like Jesus, wrought numerous miracles and gathered disciples, Barsauma now headed again to Jerusalem. When he came to “Phoenicia, Arabia and Palestine, he began to demolish the Jewish sabbath-​houses, destroy the Samaritan synagogues, and burn down the pagan temples.”37 The Life gives no details of these attacks, nor any specific indication of when, exactly, they happened. A long story then follows in which Barsauma headed into the desert en route to Mount Sinai, where there were many cities under the control of practitioners of traditional religions.38 He came to a great walled city, Reqem d-​ Gaya, whose gates were closed and whose armed inhabitants were standing on the walls. It may be Petra.39 Barsauma claimed to come in peace, with only forty men, clearly unable to fight against the “thousands and tens of thousands” of the armed residents. The “chief priest of the idols” replied that, indeed, one of Barsauma’s Christians is able to put a thousand of them to flight, and two to ten thousand.40 The numbers allude to the might of David and Saul (1 Sam 18:7). The real intertext, though, given the Sinai association, may be Deut 32:28–​30, part of a long song recited by Moses and Joshua as they stand at the base of Mount Nebo, poised to cross the Jordan and enter Cana’an. “They are a nation void of sense: there is no understanding in them. If they were wise, they would understand this: they would discern what the end would be. How could one have routed a thousand, and two put a myriad to flight, unless their Rock had sold them, the Lord had given them up?” The song goes on to promise that “vengeance” is the Lord’s and closes with the promise that God “will repay those who hate him and cleanse the land for

34. Life of Barsauma 10.1–​2, 10.4. 35. Life of Barsauma 17.1. 36. Life of Barsauma 34. 37. Life of Barsauma 34.1. 38. Life of Barsauma  34–​36. 39. Nau 1927a:187, 190. Palmer notes that several ancient authors, including both Josephus and Eusebios, identify it as Petra. 40. Life of Barsauma 34.4–​5.

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his people,” anticipating and authorizing Barsauma’s subsequent actions.41 At the conclusion of this episode, Barsauma persuaded all the inhabitants to renounce their idols, shatter them with hammers and mallets, and become Christians.42 The most substantial account of Barsauma attacking Jewish buildings comes soon after this account, and bears some affinity with it.43 Barsauma traveled south, working miracles as he went, until he came to a city called Rabbat Mo’ab (an ancient city, also known as Areopolis, in what is now Jordan). The Jewish “sabbath-​ house” there was unlike any other except the temple of Solomon in Jerusalem, which it seems to resemble: it was built of large hewn stones, with walls coated in bronze, decorated with gold and silver, with doors hung with golden bells. Siege-​ proof walls with great iron gates surrounded it; its internal gates were bronze.44 Barsauma was soon confronted by a large number of armed Jewish men—​about fifteen thousand. The eighteenth sign begins here: “On the Jews who came out to do battle with Barsauma and he routed them on his own.”45 Routed by the spirit of God, the Jews fled back to the city, and Barsauma entered the sabbath-​house precincts (which might be read as a violation of the temple precincts). The Jews bolted the iron gates and took up positions on the walls around the synagogue, as the traditionalists had similarly done when Barsauma entered their city. The Jews shot arrows and threw stones at Barsauma, but they failed to find their mark. Then they threw a particularly large stone at Barsauma and his disciples as they stood by the gate, which broke into four pieces but did no harm to the man it hit. At the sight of this miracle, the Jews wailed and fled. The twentieth sign is that the iron gates opened of divine accord, allowing Barsauma to see into the interior of what is now called explicitly a temple.46 Inside it, the Life shortly relates, were

41. Deut 32:35, 32:43. 42. Life of Barsauma 36.5. 43. Life of Barsauma 38. 44. Life of Barsauma 38.2. An account of a great synagogue in a city in the south might make one think of traditions about the synagogue in Alexandria, but this seems to play on accounts of Solomon’s temple, explicitly mentioned in the story. On the rabbinic accounts of Alexandria, see t. Sukkah 4, 6; y. Sukkah 5, 1, 55a–​b ; b. Sukkah 51b; and the discussion in Levine 2005:91–​96. 45. The whole episode runs from 39.1 to 43.2. Here I have used Palmer’s initial more literal translation; his smoother translation reads “Barsauma alone routs 15,000 Jews who offer him battle.” 46. Life of Barsauma 42.



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precious objects consistent with biblical descriptions of the temple: a golden ark and menorah, torches, lamps, and chains of gold, gold on the doors, walls, and elsewhere: precious fabrics of embroidered linen and silk, as well as silver, bronze, and precious stones.47 As he did so, Barsauma cautioned his disciples not to take anything from the house of sabbath, placing a curse on anyone who did so. At the same time, he prayed that “this temple and all that is in it be fed to the fire.” The temple, then, is devoted to destruction by fire, invoking various biblical admonitions requiring the Israelites to utterly destroy persons, places, and objects associated with the worship of other gods.48 Although much of this account seems drawn from diverse biblical narratives, what follows next seems a bit more jarringly drawn from a manual on how to burn a building. The disciples of Barsauma (but not explicitly the monk himself ) brought naphtha and sulfur, and made them into firebombs that they then threw at the walls and ceiling (which were presumably made of wood and thus more combustible). Instantly, fire seized the entire interior—​the beams of wood, the stones, the bronze, the iron, the silver, the gold, and the fabrics, down to the foundations of the temple—​totally destroying it.49 As the disciples were preparing to torch the temple, a foreign man dressed to look like a Christian disregarded Barsauma’s curse and surreptitiously removed some little gold bells hanging from the temple curtains, stashing them in a shoulder bag. One of Barsauma’s disciples saw this and reported it to the monk, excoriating him as Achor [sic], the thief who stole a golden cloak at Jericho.50 Although the thief ultimately repented in language explicitly evoking Judas Iscariot, Barsauma drove him out, after releasing him from the curse.51

47. Life of Barsauma 42.1. 1 Kgs 6–​7 describe the temple built by Solomon at divine behest. These features of the temple are also represented in Exod 25–​30 as God’s instructions to Moses for the Tabernacle. 48. Life of Barsauma 42.1; cf. Exod 22:20; Deut 13:12–​17; Judg 21:5–​11; 1 Sam 15:1–​9. Other Christians may have similarly construed the burning of synagogues as a divinely sanctioned “devotion to destruction,” but if so, it is not explicit in the Letter of Severus or Ambrose’s defense of the burning of the synagogue at Callinicum, etc. 49. Life of Barsauma 42.2. Here the building is called a naos, the Greek term for “temple.” 50. Palmer notes that the thief in Josh 7 is actually Achan; the valley where he and his family were stoned and buried was called Achor. 51. Life of Barsauma 42.3–​6.

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The story of the destroyed sabbath-​house/​temple ends here. A  similar story, the twenty-​second sign, follows immediately, titled “Fire, produced by a stone, consumes a house of idols.”52 The very brief twenty-​eighth sign is titled “Destruction of the idol-​houses and the sabbath-​houses of the Jews,” and says only that Barsauma journeyed to the East, uprooting idol-​houses and burning and destroying Jewish sabbath-​houses as he went. Although Barsauma and his Life were known prior to Nau’s work, scholars have subsequently relied heavily on Nau’s representation of the Life as evidence for the claim that the monk and his disciples were responsible for numerous attacks on Jewish synagogues in Palestine and environs, as well as on Samaritan synagogues and traditionalist temples.53 In particular, scholars have regularly bought into a narrative constructed by Nau in two brief articles,54 where he asserted that these attacks illuminate the particular historical circumstances behind Theodosian legislation of 423 and 438. Many of the flaws in this reconstruction could have been discerned from a more critical reading of Nau’s work and the Theodosian evidence, but were not. However, a new English translation of the Syriac Life makes it much easier to see the hagiographic artifice of much of the Life, and thus to reassess both the claims that Barsauma and his small group of disciples attacked and destroyed numerous Jewish (and Samaritan) synagogues and other cult cites and that these attacks account for the Theodosian legislation of both 423 and 438.55 To begin with, there are chronological difficulties, although perhaps not fatal, to Nau’s reconstruction of a relationship between imperial legislation and Barsauma’s rampages. Older scholars, including Nau and Parkes, incorrectly dated a key edict here, which protected synagogues against attacks.56 As Linder discusses, the surviving subscription dates it to August 6, 412. This is, however, inconsistent with its address to Philippus, prefect of Illyricum, who held office in 421 and perhaps also in 420. Linder hypothesizes that the editors of the Code had only an abbreviated inscription that referred to a ninth 52. Life of Barsauma 44.1–​6. 53. See, e.g., Palmer 2013:405n25, who points out that virtually all scholars except Vööbus have depended on Nau’s summary, with consequent inaccurate conclusions and representations. I thank Susan Harvey for alerting me to the centrality of Nau’s reconstruction in subsequent scholarship (before I read Palmer). 54. Nau 1927a, 1927b. 55. Palmer, forthcoming. Especially helpful for the historiography of the Life is Palmer 2013, a somewhat apologetic but still valuable article. 56. CTh 16.8.21, JRIL 46.



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consulate, which they could either have taken to mean that of Honorios (412) or of Theodosios II (420). Although this would have been more consistent with the designation of Philippus, they (wrongly) chose 412.57 The date of 418 given by Parkes (who notes parenthetically the alternative dating of 412)58 seems to have come from Juster or possibly Godefroy.59 This then led Parkes to locate Barsauma’s attacks in a three-​year period beginning the year after the law (so presumably from 419 on), citing Nau.60 Conveniently, of course, this slotted these attacks just before the second law of 423, which protected both Jews personally and synagogues specifically from destruction and burning.61 But if the first law was issued in the summer of 420, it seems unlikely to be the provocation for attacks that had already begun before its promulgation. Alternatively, of course, one might just argue that, the messiness of dating aside, Nau was at least right that the attacks of Barsauma are reflected in the law of 423. More important, even apart from this, the extensive intertextual relationship of the Life as a whole with biblical accounts strongly suggests that much of it was fabricated to demonstrate how the monk was the exemplar of piety and the imitation of Christ.62 Why, then, the accounts of attacks on temples and synagogues should be given historical credence, rather than seen as similarly fashioned for ideological purposes, requires a more substantial argument than simply slotting Barsauma into the Theodosian legislation. This seems particularly true of the account of Barsauma’s attack on the Rabbat Mo’ab synagogue, which seems quite conducive to reading as a fabricated account of the monk’s destruction of the temple in Jerusalem, which the sabbath-​house closely resembles, an equivalence supported by the regular designation of the site as a temple. Barsauma’s attack is then evocative of Jesus’s prediction of the

57. JRIL, pp. 283–​84. 58. Parkes 1934:235. 59. As noted in JRIL, p. 284, who also indicates that Demougeot 1960 took the dating of 412 at face value. 60. Parkes 1934:235n2, citing Nau 1927a:184. 61. CTh 16.8.25, JRIL 47. 62. Menze 2016 argues that the Life was the work of a disciple named Samuel, trying to rehabilitate Barsauma after the Council of Chalcedon and reassure his non-​Chalcedonian followers of the righteousness of their views. The fictional depiction of a Jewish Jerusalem ultimately destroyed by Barsauma serves this goal. Menze thinks the letter of the Jews is forged, but that Eudokia might have agreed to let Jews enter Jerusalem (below, pp. 260–67) (Menze 2016:243n51).

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Temple’s ultimate destruction,63 as well as of subsequent Christian interpretations of the destruction of the Second Temple as divine retribution for the death of Jesus. Further, the account of the attack on the synagogue at Rabbat Mo’ab bears some intriguing similarities to the Letter of Severus, which the Life of Barsauma postdates. Both feature Jews throwing stones that miraculously fail to harm Christians; a concern not to take any of the riches of the synagogue; a single deviant whom the Christian leader punishes for daring to violate the prohibition against theft from synagogues; and the burning itself, described in more detail in the Life, as opposed to the Letter's minimal account. Quite conceivably, the author of the Life of Barsauma actually knew the Letter of Severus (which explicitly claims to be an encyclical) and shaped his own accordingly. Similarly feasible is the possibility that such stories, circulating orally and in writing, tended to contain common elements. These particular elements, which also appear in the Life of Porphyry of Gaza,64 contribute to the representation of Jews as materially complicit in any violence, and Christians as relatively restrained and even innocent of violating at least certain imperial restrictions against violence. Many other claims of the Life of Barsauma are implausible, at best. The representation of Palestine in the fifth century as populated largely by rich and prosperous Jews and Samaritans, and by other non-​Christians, while Christians were a marginalized minority, seems more likely to be a Christian rhetorical imagining that conflicts with a wealth of historical data.65 Gaddis proposes both that the biblical figure of Joshua slashing his way through the idolatrous land of Canaan provided a useful paradigm and implicit authorization for Barsauma’s hagiographer, and that the characterization of Palestine in this period as having few Christians and lots of Jews, Samaritans, and traditional practitioners conforms it to the idolatrous land of Canaan that Joshua transforms.66 The Letter of Severus makes a comparable claim that Christians are the minority (or at least the socially disadvantaged) on

63. E.g., Matt 24:1 and Luke 21:5–​6, both of which are more explicit than the comparable passage in Mark 13:1–​2. 64. Sivan 2013, who explores in more detail the comparison between the Life of Porphyry and the Letter of Severus. 65. Stroumsa 1999; Ashkelony and Kofsky 2004; Sivan 2008; Champion 2014:21–​28. 66. Gaddis 2005:189, who also cites Stroumsa in support of his argument that this characterization of the region is historically erroneous.



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Minorca.67 The explanation that Barsauma was persecuted by Jews and Samaritans because he was an unprotected child seems pure Christian fantasy, evoking perhaps Jesus’s welcome and the blessing of little children in the gospels.68 Like the claim that Barsauma and his tiny band of forty monks defeated an army of fifteen thousand Jews, these details draw on biblical paradigms of “Israel” as small and powerless in the presence of idolators, yet prevailing against great odds and physical strength with the help of God. David and Goliath and Judah and the Maccabees come quickly to mind. These and other difficulties have led some recent scholars, especially Lucas van Rompay, to conclude that little if any historical value may be found in this account.69 While that “little” might, conceivably, be the bare-​bones report of attacks on Jewish synagogues, it may also be that such attacks were part and parcel of the piety expected and thus remembered of such venerated monks. Barsauma is further implicated in another story about Jews some twenty years or more later, which I will consider in the next chapter, whose historicity has similar problems.

St. Salsa and Marciana Another account often alleged as evidence for a particularly early instance of synagogue destruction is the Martyrdom of St. Salsa. Set in the early fourth century, it seems to say that a Jewish synagogue in Tipasa, North Africa, had been built on the site of an ancient temple to a dragon deity, and had subsequently been turned into a church.70 Salsa was herself a rather devout and precocious fourteen-​year-​old who was murdered by outraged townspeople after she attacked an image of the local serpent deity and threw it into the sea. The location and transformation of the synagogue comes almost as an afterthought in the Martyrdom: “Where not long ago a temple of the Gentiles had 67. Sivan 2013 takes this as historically accurate. 68. Mark 10:13–​16; Matt 19:13–​15; Luke 18:15–​17. 69. Van Rompay writes: “The historical value of this Life [whose earliest manuscript is 11th century] is doubtful” (van Rompay 2011:59). I thank Susan Harvey for the reference. Levine 2012:182 notes the account without saying whether he considers it reliable. Palmer 2013 considers it to have some historical utility, although he demurs on Barsauma’s attacks on synagogues and temples. S. Schwartz is blunt: although the events in accounts exemplified by the “adventures of Barsauma the monk” are literally “incredible, they are often repeated as fact by modern historians” (S. Schwartz 2014:124, esp. n1). See also Menze 2016. 70. Piredda 2002; Fialon and Piredda 2015, on which see Lander 2013 and 2016:232–​35. I thank Professor Lander for sharing this article in advance, and for other helpful bibliography on the account of Salsa.

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been erected, afterwards—​in that very place—​the devil built a synagogue of the Jews. But now it is better that the quarter turned to Christ instead, so that in the place where twin blasphemies prevailed before, now the Church shall triumph in honor of the martyrs.”71 What, exactly, this passage envisions, is not entirely clear. As Shira Lander notes, most commentators have read the text to say that the synagogue was built on the site of the earlier temple and then transformed into a church. Yet the text is somewhat more ambiguous and might be read to envision twin sites (“gemina”), side by each (as they say in my adopted state of Rhode Island). If so, pairing the temple and the synagogue heightens their identification as twinned demonic opponents of Christianity. The claim that Jews in North Africa at some point knowingly built a synagogue on the same site where a temple to another deity recently stood certainly feels counterintuitive. No literary or material evidence suggests that any late antique diaspora synagogue was built on such a site. At the same time, Josephus quotes from what he claims is correspondence between a disenfranchised high priest, Onias (IV), and the current Egyptian rulers, Ptolemy VI and his wife, Cleopatra II, authorizing Onias to build a temple to the Judean god on the site of a temple to the Egyptian deity, Bubastis, which had fallen into disuse.72 Conceivably, Onias did so.73 Still, it seems highly likely that locating the temple of Onias on the site of a temple to an Egyptian goddess is the height of insult, whose effect, if not also intent, is a harsh critique of the sanctity and legitimacy of the Oniad building. Some form of comparable rhetoric strategy might be at work in the Martyrdom of St. Salsa as well. By the mid-​fifth century, there is a church to St. Salsa in Tipasa, whose older excavation found no evidence of an underlying synagogue.74 Whether this church is the site envisioned in the text is uncertain; one other site in Tipasa is also considered a candidate, although it, too, has so far yielded 71. Martyrdom of St. Salsa 3 (trans. Lander 2013:412): “ubi enim dudum templa fuerant instituta gentilicum, postmodum ibidem diabolus synagogam constituit Iudaeorum:  sed nunc meliore uice migrauit ad Christum, ut in loco in quo gemina regnabant ante sacrilegia, nunc in honore martyris triumphet Ecclesia.” 72. Josephus, Jud. Ant. 13.66–​67, 70; in a corresponding account elsewhere, he says nothing about Onias building his temple on a cult site of Bubastis (War 7.424–​31, an account of the temple’s destruction during the first revolt). 73. For the view that Onias’s temple was at Heliopolis, rather than at Tel-​el Yehoudieh, and was probably built out of reused materials from the now-​destroyed temple to Bubastis, see Hata 2011. 74. See MacMullen 2009:55; see also Lander 2013:413.



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no archaeological confirmation.75 Conceivably, the Martyrdom, whenever it was composed, reflects the reality of a local synagogue reconsecrated as a Christian church, and the claim that the synagogue was previously the temple of a local serpent deity serves more as a critique of Jews and an authorization of the Christianization of the space than anything else. Yet as Lander notes, it is also possible that the entire reference to a synagogue of Jews is an ideologically driven artifice of the author and/​or a late insertion into an earlier martyrdom narrative.76 Less frequently invoked is the account of another young African Christian woman named Marciana, whose Life claims that she was martyred during the Diocletan persecutions in 304.77 In its initial form, the account resembles numerous other stories of young virgin converts to Christianity who found themselves prosecuted by the state. The young virgin converted to Christianity, left her rural home in Rusguniae, and traveled west to the big city of Caesarea. There, driven by her great piety, she attacked a statue of Diana, tearing off its head and smashing its body to pieces. Enraged, the local citizens arrested her and turned her over for official prosecution. Her vaunted virginity was then at great risk when she was imprisoned in a local training school for gladiators. In many such accounts, the story would end with some gory account of the virgin’s martyrdom and ultimate glorification, and its original version may well have done so. But in the surviving accounts, at this point, the local Jews inserted themselves into the action. Perhaps mildly attentive to the fact that Jewish interest in a young woman’s attack on an idol is somewhat inexplicable, the narrative attributes the Jewish presence to the coincidence that there was a synagogue in the neighborhood, whose head, a man named Budarius, apparently lived either within the complex or close by.78 He, his 75. See Lander 2013:413–​14n58, who notes both that there may never have been a synagogue and later evidence that synagogues could be consecrated as churches without any discernible alteration. Gregory the Great’s Letters, discussed in ­chapter 9, would seem to suggest that this was easy if not also common—​with interesting implications both for what synagogues looked like and for contemporary identification of synagogue sites. 76. Lander 2013:412n51, thanking Oded Irshai for the first possibility; and 2013:411n 42 for the second possibility, following Shaw 2011:267 that the anti-​Jewish material in the Acta Marcianae, set in Tigzirt, Algeria, and discussed next, may be a late insertion. For the concurrence that the Passio Sanctae Salsae is largely fictitious, see also Shaw 2011:262n11, who nevertheless doesn’t clarify what aspect might not be fictitious. 77. AASS 1, Januarius, tomus primus, 568–​70, cited in Shaw 2011:265. This recapitulation is from Shaw 2011:265–​67. 78. On the possible allusion of the name Budarius to a garment (“buda”) associated with humiliating one’s opponents, see Shaw 2011:688.

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children, and other Jews rushed out and demanded that Marciana be burnt. In response, Marciana prayed that the synagogue/​house itself be destroyed by fire, so that it could never be rebuilt. Subsequently, she endured her punishments with such bravery that the local populace was ready to relent. The Jews, however were not. In a scene mildly reminiscent of the Acts of Thecla and the Martyrdom of Perpetua and Felicitas,79 they prevailed on the governor to let a bull loose against her, but even this did not kill her; it took a leopard’s bite to the neck to ultimately dispatch the martyr. Marciana’s curse against the Jews then came to pass: the “domus” (house/​synagogue) of Budarius burnt, and efforts to rebuild it always failed. Thus, the death of the martyr and the burning and destruction of a synagogue in Caesarea are linked. That the Jews called for the otherwise somewhat inexplicable burning of the saint may draw on a perverse logic in which, aware that some Jewish synagogues have been burnt, a narrative is constructed in which Jews bring this upon themselves by calling for the burning of the innocent saint.80 Shaw considers this whole episode involving Jews to be an insertion into an earlier Christian narrative, and thinks it is no earlier than the early fifth century.81 This would certainly make it consistent with other hagiographic compositions of this date. Whether, however, it alludes to any actual attacks on a synagogue in Caesarea seems impossible to determine, and it seems just as likely, if not more so, that it is yet another instance of a saint’s Life in which piety is demonstrated by attacks on both traditional forms of worship and on Jews, including the destruction of their respective cult sites.

St. Sergius In yet another, often-​cited instance from the sixth century, John of Ephesos recounts an incident, set around the same time as the putative assaults of Barsauma, when the saintly monk Sergius attacked a synagogue in the territory of Amida, capital of the province of Mesopotamia.82 According to John, 79.  Barrier 2009 (Thecla); Amat 1996 (Perpetua):  for translations, see, inter alia, Kraemer WRGRW, nos. 105 and 114; see also Kraemer 2019b; Lander and Kraemer 2017. 80.  The burning of pious virgins is a fairly early element of Christian hagiography: Thecla’s own mother calls for her to be burned to death in the theatre for failing to marry her fiance, Thamyris (AThe 20). 81. Shaw 2011:267. 82. Life of St. Sergius, PO 17.90. Millar 2011b reads this episode as useful evidence for a rural Jewish community in late Roman Mesopotamia.



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Sergius had built a hut in a village where there were many Jews, in order to dispute with them. Unsuccessful in this attempt, he and some of his associates burned down the village synagogue, with all its books and furnishings. John claims that the Jews had paid bribes to the men of the local church, who thus supported them in their grievance against Sergius. While the Jews were away bringing charges against Sergius, he and the others put out the smoldering synagogue fire and quickly built and consecrated a small chapel to Mary on the site. When the Jews returned and saw this, they burned down Sergius’s huts, which the monks then easily rebuilt—​huts, presumably, being no major construction project. More interestingly, John claims that the Jews then built a new synagogue; when Sergius pulled that down by himself in one night, they built yet a third one. Only when Sergius’s collaborators burned that one, too, did the Jews finally give up. Yet again, the point of these tales is to demonstrate the piety of the monk and his ability to vanquish the opponents of the true faith; any resemblance to actual historical events is both dubious and entirely coincidental. The same may be true for various other hagiographical accounts, including stories about the famed holy man, Simeon the Stylite (who spent much of his life on a pillar outside Syrian Antioch), which credit him with compelling Theodosios II to rescind laws protecting synagogues against Christian violence, discussed further in the next chapter.83 Beyond the specific difficulties of individual texts lie larger conceptual problems. In an important study on religious violence in late antiquity, Thomas Sizgorich argued that stories of violence provide narratives in which people not only remember the past but also live their lives in the present, so that narratives of violence remembered become warrants for violence enacted. Precisely because these are constructed remembrances, they are best analyzed as evidence for how things are remembered in any given present, and considerably less useful for investigating what actually happened.84 He argues that Christians living in the imagined world of such narratives

83. Evagrios, Eccl. Hist. 1.13; Syriac Life of Simeon Stylites 122–​23 (see Doran 1992), see below, pp. 243–47; for text and translation of Evagrios see Sabbah et al. 2011–​2014; Whitby 2000. 84. Sizgorich 2009. Sizgorich’s study, focusing on how early Muslims created a distinctive identity that refashioned traditions of ascetic monasticism, rests on semiotic theory—​a set of symbols and signs serves a variety of literary and social usages, relying on a set of meanings that are not explicitly expressed, but are unconsciously used by storytellers and are unconsciously understood by their audiences, drawing in part on the influential work of Clifford Geertz. It’s also insufficiently attentive to issues of gender in the culture of violence.

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seem only to have been capable of interpreting contemporary episodes as further episodes within such narratives. . . . Accordingly, as genuine Christians, it was the duty of members of such imperiled communities to defend themselves, often aggressively. Moreover, it was antithetical to the sense of genuine Christianness engendered by imitation of the early Christian martyrs that members of these communities should compromise or seek consensus with their enemies. Rather it was their duty to defend the boundaries and essential truths in accordance with which their communities had cohered at the cost of everything else.85 This seems particularly applicable to narratives such as that of Barsauma, which construct conflict with Jews, dissident Christians, and traditionalists alike as inevitable and irreconcilable, and as instances of the hatred these others have for Christians. Thus his Life depicts Jews and Samaritans as rich and powerful, who hate and mistreat Christians, especially a solitary child, and thus deserve any misfortune which befalls them (which it regularly attributes to God). It repeatedly represents Barsauma and his small band of pious and virtuous monks as vulnerable and persecuted, misrecognizing both the degree of Christian power and hegemony in the Christianized empire, and the extent of their own antagonism toward outsiders of all kinds. So, too, the Letter of Severus of Minorca accuses the Jews of thirsting for Christian blood while Christians have only loving, peaceful intentions, shortly before those same Christians burn the synagogue, constructing their actions as divine retribution.86 All this suggests that scholars would thus be wise to exercise considerable caution before including any of these in accounts of actual attacks on ancient synagogues. Yet if many specific accounts of synagogue attacks are questionable, a raft of evidence from the early fifth century envisions conflicts between Jews and orthodox Christians, and points to intensifying restrictions on Jews. In May 408, an edict was issued from Constantinople, in the name of the young Theodosios II. It was, as customary, at least nominally issued in the name of Honorius, as well. It instructed Anthemios, in turn, to order provincial governors to prohibit Jews from burning Haman’s effigy during what is usually presumed to be Purim, although the festival is not identified by name. The law specifically says that Jews are not to burn “with sacrilegious intent a form

85. Sizgorich 2009:202 (emphasis added). 86. Letter of Severus, 12.10.



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made to resemble the holy cross.”87 An account in Sokrates of Constantinople set a few years later in Syria accuses Jews not only of mocking Christ while drunk but also of the more serious crime of torturing and killing a Christian child.88 Whether Jews were, in fact, engaging in such practices during the celebration of Purim remains uncorroborated by other contemporaneous sources, and some scholars have suggested that this law is better read as part of a larger program of Christian mythmaking that contrasts Jewish practices unfavorably with those of orthodox Christians, and constructs Jewish practice as illegitimate.89 While such caveats are appropriate, I think it equally problematic to presume that Jews would not, under certain circumstances, have engaged in actions that expressed their own antagonism toward Christians. The hanging and burning of an effigy apparently would easily have been construed, both by Jews and by Christians, as a mockery of the death of Jesus, and thus an occasion for hostile confrontations in which Jews may not have been wholly innocent parties. Outbreaks of violence between orthodox Christians and non-​Jews are perhaps better attested in contemporaneous sources. Letters of Augustine recount a violent episode in Calama (Guelma), stretching over a week, in June of 408, when, in contradiction of a recent law, traditionalists celebrating the festival of June 1 passed, dancing, directly in front of the local church.90 When the local clergy attempted to intervene (Augustine conveniently does not say how, exactly), the celebrants threw stones at the church. A  week later, the local bishop, Possidius, endeavored to get the local secular government to enforce the law, which prompted another attack on the church. A hailstorm (which Augustine construes as divine punishment for these attacks) was followed by yet another attack that escalated into an effort to burn the church. During this last assault, a cleric was killed and Possidius himself was forced to hide in a most ignominious manner. The authorities failed to intervene. Subsequently, Possidius went to Honorius in Ravenna for redress. Anti-​ orthodox riots and violence are said to have followed the death of Stilicho in August of that same year in North Africa. These have been seen, perhaps

87. CTh 16.8.18; trans. JRIL 36, emended. 88. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.16, noted above, p. 190; see also Stebnicka 2014. 89. E.g., Bonesho 2016; Kattan Gribetz 2011. 90. Augustine, Letter 91.8, to Nectarius. The law appears to be Sirm 12, CTh 16.5.43, and CTh 16.10.19; see a­ bove, pp. 182–83, for discussion.

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without sufficient historical support, as a response to a decade of repression of Donatists after relatively lenient treatment under Gildo, who had been appointed by Theodosios I  as commander of all Roman forces in Africa, but who fell from western imperial grace after Theodosios’s death.91 In November 408, the western court issued a fairly brief edict instructing Donatus, the proconsul of Africa, to severely punish anti-​Catholic behavior.92 Although Augustine’s letter identified the perpetrators at Calama as “pagani,” the law denounced the “audacity of Donatists, heretics and Jews,” consistent with the view of some modern scholars that in Augustine’s rhetoric, “pagan” is often a cipher for Donatists.93 (This being said, the behavior Augustine relates as the trigger for this episode is depicted as the celebration of traditional rites.) Two months later, Honorius addressed a much lengthier law to the praetorian prefect, Theodorus, whose extensive prologue details both the outrages against Catholic priests and the alleged complicity of African courts in failing to prosecute such crimes—​a charge Augustine had also leveled in his letter to Nectarius.94 The perpetrators of such acts are explicitly said to have been Donatists, others who cannot be persuaded to join the Catholics, Jews, and Gentiles (explicitly said to be popularly known as “pagans”). The punishment for those found guilty of outrages against the Catholic clergy, its churches, and cult was death; the punishment for those judges and other officials who failed to prosecute the offenders included loss of rank, fines, banishment, and loss of property. As Brent Shaw demonstrates, this legislation was the culmination of years of African Catholic bishops’ lobbying a somewhat reluctant court at Ravenna to intervene in an African sectarian conflict that had raged for almost a century. Whether, in fact, the conflict really involved anyone other than Donatists and Catholics is difficult to determine. Shaw argues that the association of the dissident sectarian (but not technically heretical) Donatists with heretics and 91. For a detailed critical assessment of these events, see Shaw 2011:46–​50. 92. CTh 16.5.44, JRIL 37. Linder notes that while Donatus understood the law to authorize him to execute perpetrators, Augustine urged him to interpret it more leniently (Augustine, Letter 100:2, to Donatus); JRIL, p. 241n7. 93. E.g., O’Donnell 2005:184–​85, with a larger discussion of his use of the term “pagan” (usually the Latin “paganus”) on 182–​84. He notes (2005:184) that some of the “distinguished figures we encounter in Augustine’s later career who are commonly spoken of as ‘pagans’ prove to be churchgoing Christians of whom Augustine has reason to disapprove,” including Nectarius himself, to whom Letter 91 is addressed (O’Donnell 2005:185). 94. Sirm 14; CTh 16.5.43, 16.10.19. For discussion of the discrepancy in dating, see JRIL, pp. 241–​44; Matthews 2000:150–​51. On this law, see also Escribano Pano 2013.



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Jews reflected a carefully crafted rhetorical strategy developed in years of sermons. For his parishioners, Augustine (and perhaps other bishops) regularly constructed Jews as the paradigmatic enemies of the church, truth, and God, drawing on tropes that are almost tedious to detail here.95 To most effectively vilify the Donatists (who were, after all, close both in theology and in practice to the Catholics themselves), Augustine had only then to demonstrate the similarities between the dissidents and the wicked Jews. Shaw points out that in fact, by the early fifth century, there was already plenty of legislation against both “heretics” and Jews, rendering it even more transparent that the real targets here were the Donatists.96 In Shaw’s reading, the anti-​Judaism of Augustine and his comrade bishops was actually aimed more at Donatists than at Jews themselves, suggesting that the inclusion of Jews in this legislation might say little about their participation in any of the anti-​Catholic activities. Rather than reflect a dispassionate knowledge of events in North Africa, these laws parrot, at least in Shaw’s account, the perspectives of the African bishops and their envoys.97 Although we might imagine that Jews were sympathetic to the Donatists if for no other reason than they shared a common opponent in the Catholics,98 Shaw also points out that there is, in fact, little evidence for actual violence between Christians of any stripe and Jews in North Africa. Augustine’s writings, especially his sermons, are filled with vicious anti-​Jewish characterizations and accusations, yet they contain virtually no references to actual violence. One sermon makes passing reference to an unspecified episode in which Jews “staged a minor riot against Christians,” with predictable but again unspecified negative consequences for the Jews.99 Elsewhere, Augustine implies that Jews insult Christians in public, with phrases such as “May you be crucified 95. E.g., Shaw 2011:281ff. 96.  Shaw 2011:279. I  agree with Shaw that there was substantial legislation against “heretics,” but the legislation directed at Jews up until this point is more complex than Shaw here acknowledges. 97. Shaw 2011:278–​79. 98.  Augustine alludes to collusion between Jews, “pagans,” and “heretics” in Sermon 62.18, whose date is uncertain, but might be close to the events of 408; similarly, the law of November 408 might be construed to make a similar representation. But both may reflect a convenient rhetoric of collusion, rather than any actual alliance between such persons. Nemo-​Pekelman, who does not cite Shaw, takes these allusions to reflect probable alliances (2015:183–​88). 99. Augustine, Sermon 5.5, dated between 405 and 410. Another sermon maintains that when Jews are disciplined for unspecified reasons, they accuse Christians of being to blame (Sermon 62.18); see also Fredriksen 2008.

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like him”—​insults one might imagine leading to public disturbances. But Shaw remarks that even in 402, when Jerome’s new translation of the Bible provoked an intra-​Christian riot, Jews do not seem to have been drawn into the violence and were instead consulted as “outside” experts on Jerome’s choices.100 We might, perhaps, be suspicious of this claim. In the same sermon accusing Jews of attacking Christians, Augustine construes Jewish knowledge of Hebrew scriptures as God’s rationale for their survival and dispersal among Christians, while couching their expertise as the service of educated slaves for their masters.101 This might suggest that the role he gives them in disputes about Jerome’s translation is more a function of that representation than of their historical role. But alternatively, they did play such a role, and Augustine (and others) sought to diminish any authority and prestige that might accrue to Jewish scholars by this particular rhetorical strategy. For Shaw, at least, the correlation between anti-​Jewish polemic and anti-​ Jewish violence in North Africa is weak. “There is very little evidence to indicate that Christians in Africa of the period actively engaged in violent attacks on Jews as such or even against Jews in combination with others.”102 In his reading, this particular absence of evidence is actually reasonably reliable evidence of absence. Because Christian writers were obsessed with Jews, “[a]‌ny significant violent encounters between Jews and Christians, had they existed, would surely have been reported or at least alluded to in their writings.”103 Augustine’s anti-​Jewish rhetoric actually did its real dirty work elsewhere, on Minorca. Shaw points out that subsequently, the Letter of Severus found its way to Africa, where it was read to Evodius’s parishioners in 420, to applause and cheers. Shaw leaves unsaid the significance of the fact that when Evodius asked (if he did) whether they were ready to do the same, the question appears to remain rhetorical. Consistent with his argument, there is no evidence that similar events transpired in Uzalis.104 The degree to which the court of Honorius was dependent on (North African) Catholic lobbyists not only for their information but also for the very rhetoric and terminology of the subsequent laws is illustrated in the curious details of two other laws, one from November 100. Shaw 2011:285. 101. See above, p. 209n99. 102. Shaw 2011:261. 103. Shaw 2011:261. 104. Shaw 2011:437.



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407,105 discussed in the prior chapter and a second from April 409, which are usually of interest to scholars of ancient Jews for somewhat different reasons. The law of 407, given at Rome and promulgated at Carthage, was a lengthy screed against non-​orthodox Christians and their cult sites in North Africa, including Donatists, Manichaeans, Priscillianists, unspecified “heretics,” and “Gentiles.” Rather strikingly, Jews appear nowhere on this list of persons to be disciplined, sites to be destroyed, and places to be vindicated to the catholic church. However, the law does contain a brief reference to persons called “Caelicoli” (literally, “heaven-​fearers”), “who have meetings of a new doctrine unknown to me.” Sixteen months or so later, on April 1, 409, Honorius issued another law, giving the Caelicoli, here called a new “superstitio,” a year to return to proper Christian worship or be subject to laws imposed on “haeretici.” The law also prescribed punishments for persons who forced Christians to become Jews.106 As Linder’s own titling of these laws (“Against God-​Fearers”) reflects, the prohibition of the “heaven-​fearers” has been taken by numerous scholars as a somewhat cryptic allusion to a wider ancient phenomenon of Gentile persons who adopted some but not all Jewish practices and beliefs, who are sometimes thought to have been called “God-​fearers” (from the Greek theosebēs, “one who fears” or reveres God”).107 It’s very clear in this instance that the Caelicoli are Christians, whose precise offensive practices and/​or beliefs are not specified. It’s only because the second law then references Christians who are compelled to become Jews that Linder argues for a connection between the Caelicoli and Gentile theosebeis, choosing to translate Caelicoli in both texts as “God-​fearers,” despite its obvious translation as “heaven-​fearers.”108 Since Linder takes the Caelicoli to be just another form of God-​fearers, he presumes that what’s “new” about them is only that now it’s Christians, not Gentiles, who are engaged in some partial practices of Judaism. As Linder also acknowledges, Augustine mentions in passing a “major” (“maior”) of the Caelicoli in Thubursicum Numidarum in a letter dated to 396–​97, which, Linder writes, was a title also given in Roman laws for leaders 105. Sirm 12, JRIL 35. 106. CTh 16.8.19, JRIL 39. 107. On the larger problems here, see Kraemer 2014. 108. Shaw commendably writes: “Why Linder translates this term as ‘God Fearers’ escapes me, unless this is linked to some of [Marcel] Simon’s arguments” (Shaw 2011:278n59). But nevertheless, he seems here unaware of the extensive debates about theosebeis and gentile interest in Jewish practices, which makes Linder’s translation more comprehensible, if still erroneous.

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of Jewish communities, thus implying a further connection to Jews.109 More intriguing is Shaw’s suggestion that Honorius’s source for the existence of the Caelicoli is almost certainly Augustine himself, at least indirectly.110 Honorius’s court relied on the African lobbyists for their information and characterization of these persons, which may or may not have been accurate, and which served in any case primarily to further denigrate the Donatists as dissident Christians who are here, like the Caelicoli, “labeled as a small and odd new sect with a name derived from their own heresiarch.”111 Shaw concludes that in the long conflict between the Catholics and the Donatists, Jews were especially rhetorically useful, as were, at least occasionally, small (even fictive?) groups like the Caelicoli. Legislation against both might say far more about the delicate balance between Christian bishops and imperial courts, and much less about Jews, let alone the Caelicoli. This is not, of course, to minimize the egregiousness and ultimate results of Augustine’s vituperative anti-​Jewish rhetoric, but it does suggest that at some level, his real opponents were not so much actual Jews, and that legislation pressed by (and often written by) African bishops and lobbyists spoke primarily to different concerns.112 In 409, from Ravenna, the court of Honorius also decreed that the office of defensor could henceforth only be held by men “imbued with the sacred mysteries of orthodox religion,”113 after nomination by the local bishop, 109. JRIL, p. 257, although he provides no reference for such laws here. The title appears, however, in several instances: CTh 16.8.1, JRIL 8; CTh 16.9.3, JRIL 42; and CTh 16.8.23, JRIL 43. The last two are each addressed to a Didasculus (teacher) named Annas and the “maioribus Iudaeorum.” For further discussion, see below, pp. 360–61. 110.  “The same communications channels to Italy that connected ‘the Donatists’ with heretics  .  .  .  ran vertically from a small coterie of bishops  .  .  .  in the region of Thubursciu Numidarum—​that is, Augustine, Alypius, and others” (Shaw 2011:278), and the laws of 408 and 409 were part of this chain of petition and response . . . pointing to “an African Catholic lobby in the court at Ravenna” (Shaw 2011:279). 111. Shaw 2011:279. 112. Parkes thought that Caelicoli were involved, with Jews, in the attacks by Donatists against the Catholics in North Africa in 408–​409 (Parkes 1934:202). For evidence of non-​Jews taking up Jewish practices at this point, he also adduces Canon 89 from the Fourth Council of Carthage, set in 398 (see now JLSEMA 565), expelling “those clinging to Jewish superstitions and festivals.” He also proffers Augustine’s Letter 19, critiquing Christians “who call themselves ‘Jews.’ ” Since Caelicoli are never mentioned again in the legal corpus (or elsewhere), except as a chapter title in the Theodosian Code, he concludes they must have disbanded (Parkes 1934:203). 113. “Sacris orthodoxae religionis imbutis mysteriis.” The law only survives as CJ 1.55.8. In 408, another law was issued at Ravenna (CTh 16.5.42) that barred non-​Catholics from serving in the palace.



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the local clergy, local landowners, and town decurions. Given the timing of this law and its provenance, it seems quite possible that it was part of the African lobbyists’ legislative package, whose primary target was non-​ orthodox Christians in North Africa, especially Donatists. This is all the more likely if its language refers not just to orthodox beliefs or general practices but also to actual orthodox baptism (one of the primary components of the Donatist–​Catholic conflict). Enforced broadly, it would have excluded a significant number of otherwise suitable candidates, including Jews, but although this may have been its ultimate effect, its wording suggests that Jews were not, again, its primary target. The appointments of both Theodorus and Caecilianus as defensores on Minorca a decade later may suggest that it was not (yet) that widely enforced, and perhaps tacitly understood to be aimed at non-​orthodox Christians, but this depends on when, precisely, Theodorus held the office and whether Caecilianus’s appointment was in fact contingent on his conversion.114 The issuance of surviving anti-​Donatist legislation that implicated Jews came to an end in 411, with the imperial hearing often known as the Council of Carthage, that declared the Catholic church “the sole legitimate Christian community in Africa,” largely bringing to a close the century-​long conflict between Catholics and Donatists.115 The following year, in July 412, Honorius’s court issued an edict to Johannes, the praetorian prefect of Italy, which protected the rights of Jews in several respects.116 The first part prohibited seizing or occupying synagogues, while the second forbid summoning Jews to appear on the Sabbath, or on other Jewish holidays, since there was sufficient time to do so on other days. As transmitted, these laws contain no context or 114. See above, p. 71. This law only applies to “defensores”: it does not require that all civic offices be held by orthodox (baptized) Christian men, perhaps suggesting a more local context. Nemo-​Pekelman notes that a law of 387 mandated that “defensores” be elected by all (male) citizens of the city and thinks that the election of Theodorus and other Jews on Minorca had to have the support of Christians: like many other “defensores,” these may have had training in Roman law (as well as Jewish law) (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:212–​13). 115. On the Council itself, see Shaw 2011:544–​86. Shaw considers it more an imperial hearing, with a predetermined outcome, than a church council (Shaw 2011:555). Several laws followed: CTh 16.5.52, January 30, 412, from Ravenna, prescribed substantial fines (commensurate with rank) for all those who did not “return” to the catholic faith, including “circumcelli.” A subsequent provision explicitly held the wives of estate householders separately liable for the same fines as their husbands: no such provision appears in the prior portion. CTh 16.6.6, March 21, 413, from Constantinople, contained a long order against rebaptism, reasserted in CTh 16.5.54, June 17, 414. 116. CTh 16.8.20, 16.8.8; CJ 1.19.13. A version also appears as CTh 2.8.26 (a title devoted to holidays), JRIL 40.

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explanation for their promulgation at this particular time, although it seems reasonable to envision the involvement of pro-​Jewish lobbyists.117 Linder notes that a law of 389 had already made it illegal to issue summons for court appearances on either Christian or imperial holidays, and thus sees the second part of the law as an extension of that protection to Jewish holidays (at least for Jews), although why it becomes necessary to rectify this almost twenty years later is unclear.118 Many scholars have presumed a connection between this law and a brief notice in the Chronicle of Edessa. According to the Chronicle, Rabbula became the bishop in the year 723 (by Macedonian dating), and he built a church dedicated to St. Stephen that had previously been a “sabbath-​house” of the Jews, at the command of the king. Presuming that the year 723 corresponds to the year 411/​412, these scholars have then dated the transformation of a synagogue to the same year. There are, of course, various problems here. First is whether 723 really was 411/​412, which seems to depend on Cowper’s analysis, in 1864, that although the difference between the Macedonian dating system and Christian dating appears in some instances to be 309 years, it is actually 311 years. The difference here is significant:  if 723 were really 413/​414, Rabbula’s actions could be no earlier than the year 414, after the edict of Honorius. But even if Rabbula did become bishop in 411/​412, the Chronicle is not explicit that Rabbula dedicated the church to St. Stephen in that same year.119 The dedication of a church to Stephen could, certainly, have taken place at that date, but the veneration of Stephen seems to have proliferated only after the presumptive exhumation of his relics in 415 and their subsequent distribution across the Mediterranean. Further, the attribution of Rabbula’s actions to an imperial command is inconsistent with all the evidence for the early fifth century.

117.  Nemo-​Pekelman thinks an actual case might have prompted the law (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:68). Non-​Jewish litigants could place Jewish parties in an untenable position by scheduling a court appearance on the Sabbath or on a festival. A Jew who refused to appear would violate the legal requirement to appear in court at a set time and date, but appearing would violate Jewish prohibitions. 118. CTh 2.8.19, which is actually phrased somewhat differently. Issued from Aquileia in the names of Valentinian, Theodosios I, and Arkadios to Albinus, prefect of the city (of Rome), it declares all days to be court days, with numerous exceptions, from harvest and vintage days to Christian holidays. See also CTh 2.8.22, Arkadios at Constantinople in 395; CTh 2.8.23, also Constantinople, in 399; CTh 2.8.25. CJ 1.19.13 also prohibited Jews from summoning orthodox Christians on such days, although it seems odd that Jews would summon Christians to court on days they would themselves not wish to appear. See also Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:68. 119. The Syriac Life of Rabbula does not appear to give an explicit date for Rabbula’s appointment; see Peeters 1928.



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Nothing suggests that either Arkadios or Honorius ever ordered such acts. It is, however, consistent with various reports about Justinian, who is said to have ordered the transformation of synagogues into churches in the mid-​ sixth century, around the time of the composition of the Chronicle. Although Drijvers, who writes extensively on Rabbula, seems to take this account as reliable, he does also note that the Syriac Life of Rabbula does not contain this story, although it does depict Rabbula as an active builder of churches more generally.120 The Life does, however, claim that Rabbula converted many Jews and that the Jews mourned his death bitterly, a claim that seems rather suspect.121 Last, it seems rather odd that legislation stemming from these events would have been issued by Honorius in Ravenna and directed to officials in Italy, rather than emanating from the eastern court. All this suggests, then, that we might look elsewhere for the impetus for the law of 412. Far more intriguing may be the relationship between this legislation and Sokrates’s account of the expulsion of Jews from the city of Alexandria no later than 415 ce.122 As with the Letter of Severus, and with the various hagiographies, rhetoric and historical reality are difficult to disentangle.123 According to Sokrates, these events began when Orestes, the governor of Alexandria, issued an edict regulating the popular pantomimes performed in the city theatre, apparently in an attempt to control the disorder these performances often elicited. Sokrates blames the popularity of these events on the Jews themselves, who were so fond of them that they even attended on the Sabbath, preferring these entertainments to listening to the law. To have that effect, of course, Sokrates must construct Jews as quite numerous. Orestes’s initial promulgation of the edict was first read in the theatre itself, in the presence of supporters of Cyril, the orthodox bishop of Alexandria. Among these was a teacher named Hierax, who had a reputation for stirring up support for Cyril in public venues. Hierax’s presence allegedly outraged the Jews, who took him to be there solely to instigate trouble. Orestes himself was apparently no fan of the Christians, or of Cyril, whose encroachments on the “power of those appointed to rule” Sokrates says Orestes resented. Taking 120. Drijvers 1985:89, 1996:241, see also J.W. Drijvers 1997:307; Juster 1914:1.464n3. 121. Drijvers 1996:241. 122. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.13. Sokrates gives no actual dates: the death of Hypatia, in 415, provides a terminus ante-​quem. Maraval thinks Cyril violated laws protecting Jews, including that of 412 (Périchon and Maraval 2007:52n2). Other scholars date it to 414—​e.g., van Loon 2014:118. 123. See, e.g., Irshai 2013.

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Hierax to be a spy for the bishop, Orestes ordered him tortured right there in the theatre. An outraged Cyril subsequently blamed the Jews for the episode, and apparently summoned the leading Jews,124 and threatened them with severe actions unless they desisted from their violence against Christians. According to Sokrates, these threats had the opposite effect. The Jews then plotted and carried out an attack against Christians. On a prearranged night, Jews went through the city shouting that the Church of Alexander was on fire, drawing out Christians to save the church. Wearing special rings made of palm fronds to distinguish themselves from the Christians, the Jews then attacked and killed the Christians.125 In the morning, Cyril went to Jewish synagogues126 with a massive mob took the synagogues away from the Jews,127 then drove them out of the city and “allowed” (for which read “instigated”) the Christians to plunder their possessions. Sokrates then remarks that thus were the Jews, who had lived in Alexandria continuously since the time of Alexander, expelled, stripped of everything, and dispersed in several directions.128 But Orestes was unwilling to tolerate this; Sokrates claims that he was irritated that such a large percentage of the population was suddenly expelled from the city (how large, exactly, is not specified, although this is consistent with Sokrates’s depiction of the Jewish population as substantial). Both Orestes and Cyril appealed to the emperor (presumably Theodosios II). Sokrates claims that Cyril defended his actions as the appropriate response to those of the Jews and, at the same time, sent a delegation to mediate with Orestes, thus making himself look like the peacemaker. Cyril also presented Orestes with a copy of the gospels, perhaps with the intention of shaming Orestes in some fashion, but none of this persuaded or mollified Orestes. 124. τοὺς τῶν ’ιουδαίων πρωτεύοντας. The phrase might be the equivalent of the Latin “primates Iudeorum,” which occurs in CTh 16.8.29, below, p. 252. The term “primates” is used in CTh 16.8.8, above, p. 139–40. 125. Interestingly, this suggests that Jews and Christians would have been indistinguishable by appearance and not necessarily known to each other on sight. 126. Sokrates writes as though this term will be meaningless to his readers, for he explains it as the term Jews use for their house of prayer (Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.13.15). For further discussion of the usage of the term “synagogue” in late antiquity, see ­below, pp. 370–73. 127. This is the plain meaning of the Greek: τάς [συναγωγάς] μὲν ἀφαῖρειται, and this is the translation in the NPNF edition:  “he took them away from them.” Nevertheless, Périchon and Maraval take it to mean that Cyril destroyed the synagogues of the Jews (“ils les détruit”). 128. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.13.16. The claim of continuous Jewish habitation is curious, given evidence for the decimation of the Alexandrian Jewish population after the revolts of 115–​117; see, e.g., Tcherikover 1963; CPJ 1. p. 93; Ben Zeev 2005; Stroumsa 2012; Ilan 2016.



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Their violent contestation continued.129 Orestes was subsequently molested by a mob of monks from Nitria, which he apparently attempted to deflect, initially, by proclaiming that he was a Christian baptized by Attikos, the orthodox bishop of Constantinople. Unmoved by Orestes’s protestation, a monk named Ammonios hit the governor in the head with a stone. The people came to Orestes’s defense, put the mob of monks to flight, and seized Ammonios, subsequently torturing him to death. Once again, Orestes and Cyril both appealed to the emperor. Cyril rather cleverly attempted to position Ammonius as a martyr for his Christian faith, depositing his body in a church and giving him a new name of Thaumasios (“Amazing/​Miraculous/​ Wondrous”). But this strategy apparently failed: Sokrates claims that “sober-​ minded Christians” knew that Ammonios had not been martyred for his faith but, rather, punished for his attack on the prefect, and Cyril ultimately allowed the veneration of Ammonios as a martyr to languish. In Sokrates’s telling, their conflict culminated in the horrific murder of the philosopher Hypatia,130 for whom Sokrates has nothing but generous praise and whose death he found supremely offensive and un-​Christian. After extolling her wisdom and virtues, Sokrates briefly describes the circumstances of her death. Because Hypatia had frequent audiences with Orestes, Christians spread the false reports that she was instrumental in blocking a reconciliation between Orestes and Cyril. In March, during Lent, a Christian mob led by a reader named Peter attacked Hypatia in her chariot on her way home, dragged her out of it, took her to a church called Caesareum, stripped off her clothing, and brutally sliced her to death with shells. They then tore her body to pieces, took them to a place called Cinaron, and burned them. This atrocity, Sokrates lamented, brought opprobrium on Cyril and the whole church. This account presents contemporary historians with numerous dilemmas, not the least of which is what, if anything, of the story reflects actual events in early fifth-​century Alexandria. It does not help that Cyril makes no mention of any of these events in his own considerable writings.131 Sokrates clearly endeavors to make the Jews the principal actors, ultimately responsible for their own expulsion, beginning with their initial impiety by attending the theatre instead of the synagogue on the Sabbath, and their subsequent choice to attack the Christians despite clear warnings by the bishop to desist. But 129. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.14. 130. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.15. 131. Irshai 2013:149; van Loon 2014:111.

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it seems obvious that this is Sokrates’s deliberate shaping of a somewhat different situation. What role Jews really played in these events is difficult to determine. They were unlikely to be the instigators of the conflict between Cyril and Orestes, whose competition appears largely, although perhaps not entirely, independent of the specific incident of the Jews. Rather, as emerges in Sokrates’s account of the subsequent events, the Jews here appear caught in the middle of a complex power struggle between Orestes, who had the civil authority on his side, and Cyril, who relied primarily on the power of the mob of Christian monks and allies. A subset of the contest between Orestes and Cyril took place between Cyril and Hypatia, as Cyril sought to displace Hypatia as the philosopher-​critic speaking parrhēsia (bold free speech) to the power represented by the governor.132 It’s quite tempting to suggest that by casting the expulsion of the Jews as the deserved response to Jewish attacks on Christians, Sokrates expediently distances Christians, including himself, from any involvement in these matters and deflects blame away from Christians, much as the rhetoric of the Letter of Severus effects similar displacement. One suspects the reality is that Christians did more than simply avail themselves of the convenient opportunity to expel Jews. That Sokrates might have been well aware of his own rhetorical strategy is suggested by his relatively blunt discussion of the strategic nature of Cyril’s response to the Ammonios episode. Sokrates explicitly acknowledges that Cyril’s valorization of Ammonios as a martyr was nothing more than an attempt to evade responsibility for his own violence, an attempt that he tacitly admits failed.133 Although scholars regularly cite this passage as evidence for the expulsion of the Jews from Alexandria,134 it seems to appropriate to exercise some 132. Peter Brown argues that Christian bishops increasingly assumed this role, displacing actual philosopher-​critics, and eventually constructing a narrative in which Christians are the true heirs to the Greek philosophical tradition; see also Urbano 2013. In Brown’s reading of this episode (1992:115–​17), the Jews are tangential to the contestation between Cyril and the Hypatia, seeking to play the time-​honored role of philosopher-​critic, speaking truth to Orestes’s power. 133. Relying on this passage, Brown 1992 and Haas 1997:312 consider Orestes a Christian. I am not wholly persuaded. His claim to have been baptized by a conveniently different distant bishop, Attikos, may indict him as disingenuous, feigning orthodoxy to escape danger. Haas 1997:305 and Stroumsa 2012:264 take Cyril’s presentation of a set of gospels to Orestes as an effort to make the presumptively Christian Orestes swear on the Gospels, although Sokrates is vague about Cyril’s alleged motivation; for Haas, Orestes’s failure to do so contributed to the perception that he was a “crypto-​pagan.” 134. Citing (tenuous?) evidence for later presence of Jews, Haas’s positivist analysis concludes that the Jewish community in Alexandria was not entirely wiped out (Haas 1997:127, 304): see also Tcherikover 1963; CPJ 1. pp. 98–​99 and Stroumsa 2012, the latter who takes the expulsion



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caution, if not skepticism, about its accuracy. On the one hand, Sokrates’s claims that Cyril went to the synagogues, confiscated them and chased Jews out of the city might imply that those expelled were the persons (perhaps even just the men?) he found in those synagogues. On the other hand, Sokrates envisions that a massive number of Jews are expelled from Alexandria by the bishop, who clearly relied on the coercive violence of the mobs under his control, rather than the enforcement arms of the imperial government, to accomplish this.135 When Orestes complains to the emperor, it is because of his irritation that so large a percentage of the city had been forced out. The actual disposition of these events goes unreported by Sokrates, who never says how the emperor responded to the dueling petitions of Orestes and Cyril. What Sokrates represents as three distinct episodes (the expulsion of the Jews, the attack on Orestes, and the death of Hypatia) are far more closely interwoven in the subsequent seventh-​century account of John of Nikiu. John claims that the Christians “marched in wrath to the synagogues of the Jews and took possession of them, and purified them and converted them into churches,” one of which they named after St. George. John’s account may also offer a different account of who, precisely, was expelled: “And as for the Jewish assassins they expelled them from the city and pillaged all their possessions and drove them forth wholly despoiled.”136 But it’s not actually clear from Charles’s translation (if not from the actual Ethiopic) whether John is saying that only the actual assassins were expelled or is characterizing all the Jews as assassins. Haas argues that despite some of its distortions, John’s account here “preserves the context of Alexandrian politics better.”137 He writes, “Cyril and the Christians held Hypatia responsible for creating a political climate in which the violence perpetrated by elements of the Jewish community as symbolic—​expelling leaders but not the populace (2012:265). Brown’s similarly positivist reading (1992) accepts Sokrates at face value, unaware of debates about whether Alexandrian Jews in the fifth century represent a subsequent resettlement after the second-​century revolt. Wilken 1971:57–​58 thought Sokrates exaggerated the extent of the expulsion. Tcherikover cautioned that “the passage says no more than that the number of Jews expelled was considerable” (CPJ 1. p. 99n14). Irshai 2013 is more skeptical, as am I. Van Loon notes some earlier discussion, but offers little assessment of the historicity of any of these events (van Loon 2014:111n48). 135. Whether, however, this is all the Jews is not explicit in the Greek text, despite the NPNF translation of 7.13.11 that these events “caused their entire expulsion.” On Cyril’s possible legal authority to do so, see Irshai 2013:34, discussed below, p. 224. 136. John of Nikiu, Chron. 84.95–​98. The work survives only in an Ethiopic manuscript, probably a translation of an Arabic abridgment of an earlier Coptic. See Zotenberg 1883 (with French translation); Charles 1916 (English translation). For a lucid primer on John, see Booth 2012. 137. Haas 1997:469n73.

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against the Christians might otherwise have gone unpunished” and goes on to suggest that Hypatia might even have advised Orestes that the Jews were a useful counterbalance to growing Christian power.138 This account sounds more like the highly embellished rhetoric of late antique hagiography, whose stock elements now include the routine demolition of synagogues and their conversion to churches. In John, Hypatia is accused of satanic magic and the Jews are routinely wicked, while Hierax is a devout and knowledgeable Christian who only attended the theatre to learn about Orestes’s edict. There seems to be little useful material evidence. There are, for instance, very few ancient Jewish inscriptions from Alexandria—​about twenty in all.139 Four are generically dated to the late Roman period, but just how late is unclear.140 Two of these, otherwise in Greek, end with the word shalom (peace) in Hebrew letters, which is sometimes a characteristic of relatively late inscriptions. Four of the later inscriptions are thought to be commemorative donations for the building or rebuilding of synagogues.141 Were this demonstrably the case, and were it possible to date them precisely, we might have some useful evidence for the claims made by Sokrates and John. As it stands, however, none of these inscriptions are dispositive; the tiny amount of evidence from Alexandria just means that while positive evidence would be useful, the absence of evidence is meaningless.

138. Haas 1997:469n73. Unfortunately, much of Haas’s discussion of Jews in his chapter “The Jewish Community” (1997:91–​127) relies on an uncritical and sometimes undocumented use of rabbinic sources. 139.  JIGRE 1–​21, although the provenance of 19 is not secure. There are a few papyri from Egypt (but not specifically Alexandria) dated to the fourth–​seventh centuries; e.g., CPJ 3.504–​ 512. See also Ilan 2016. CPJ 3.505 makes reference to the possible arrival of a Jewish man coming from Alexandria to wherever the letter writer is (itself unknown). 140. JIGRE 15–​17, 19–​20 (but see prior footnote). Horbury and Noy offer various dating comparanda for JIGRE 16, a votive stele, from the fourth century on, including letter forms similar to CIJ 2.964, from Ascalon, dated precisely to 604 ce. Their citation of IJO 2.14 (see below, pp. 392–94; see also pp. 383–84) as third century is moot in light of its persuasively redating to the fourth and fifth centuries, more in line with their other comparanda. A Jewish identification rests particularly on supplementing the visible τῷ ἁγίῳ with τόπῳ to produce the reading “to the holy [place],” a documented late antique designation for Jewish synagogues. A second inscription on a lintel, also from Alexandria, similarly contains the partial phrase τῷ ἁγίῳ τό . . . , the Greek formula θ(εὸς) β(οηθός)—​an abbreviation for “God the helper”—​and ends with the Hebrew word “shalom.” The more obvious Jewish identification of JIGRE 17 supports the reading of JIGRE 16 as similarly a Jewish inscription, although it contains no Hebrew and the formula θ(εὸς) β(οηθός) is well documented for Christian inscriptions. 141. JIGRE 15, 16, 17, and 19.



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Interestingly, however, there are a handful of epitaphs for Jews from Alexandria across the Mediterranean.142 The most salient might be two for men both (coincidentally?) named Ioses/​Joses. One comes from Macedonia, for a Ioses of Alexandria, son of Paregorius, and is provisionally dated to the fifth century or later, primarily on paleographic grounds.143 The second was found in the atrium of the basilica of Ambrose at Milan, another instance of a Jewish epitaph found in a disturbing secondary site.144 A Latin inscription with a small fragment of Hebrew and a menorah, it is worded almost identically to another inscription also found in the atrium, without any Hebrew, but which contains numerous symbols associated with the temple: an amphora (perhaps), then a shofar, a menorah, perhaps an ethrog, and then a lulav.145 Cracco Ruggini dated both of the Milan inscriptions to the fifth century, but Noy rightly notes that the comparanda (from Venosa, for the lineup of images) are better for the sixth and seventh centuries.146 Either way, though, these are suggestive, if hardly dispositive. Jews might have emigrated for any number of reasons, but if these inscriptions are from the fifth century, they might reflect Jews who left Alexandria because of the conflicts Sokrates describes. If they are later, as seems likely at least for the Milan inscription, they may alternatively provide evidence that Jews did in fact continue to live in Alexandria after the early fifth century, since it seems unlikely that an Alexandrian identification would continue to hold significance long after the contestation. Most of the other inscriptions for Alexandrians buried elsewhere are assigned the all too typical default range of second–​fourth century, although were they to date from the early to mid-​fifth century, they, too, might constitute further possible evidence for Alexandrian refugees.147 142. Noy et al. (IJO 1. p. 78) identify eight sites for Alexandrian Jews elsewhere: Beroea, Rome, Milan, Jaffa, Khirbet Hebra, Tiberias, and Jerusalem. Not all are contemporaneous. 143. IJO 1 Mac6; dated on the basis of letter forms to the fifth century ce; it is also JIGRE 143. 144. JIWE 1.2/​ JIGRE 142; also CIJ 12.644, with photo. The main text, in Latin, uses formulas common to Jewish and Christian inscriptions, but it is marked with a menorah in between the Hebrew letters ‫שלום‬: hic requiesc[et] | in pace b(ene)m(emoriae) I[os]|es Alexandinus | qui vixet ann ||os plus menus | [-​-​]. The name Ioses is an editorial proposal. The original location of the epigraph is unknown: it was found in the atrium of the basilica of Ambrose. On the secondary site, see ­above, pp. 18–19. 145. JIWE 1.1. 146. In 1959: see JIWE 1. p. 2. 147. From Jaffa, JIGRE 146, for Hezekiah, son of Isa, phrontistēs of Alexandria; JIGRE 148 commemorates one Justus, son of Reuben, Alexandrian, rag dealer; JIGRE 150, the memorial of Cyril and Alexander, Alexandrians. Horbury and Noy provide no specific dates for two

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Most tantalizing, however, is a marriage contract found in the Egyptian town of Antinoopolis, whose editors date it with considerable confidence to just a few years after the events in Sokrates, namely 417.148 Written in Aramaic and Greek, using Hebrew characters, the contract unquestionably records the union of a Jewish couple. The birthplace of the groom, Samuel, is not entirely legible, although he is now resident in Antinoopolis.149 His bride, Metra, is described as the daughter of Leazar of Alexandria—​now residing in Antinoopolis. While the contract gives no indication of when Metra and her family came to the town, it seems quite possible that they did so in the wake of the events under Cyril.150 Sokrates recounts just one instance of the subsequent experience of an expelled Jew. A Jewish author of medical treatises named Adamantios fled to Attikos in Constantinople (the same Attikos said to have baptized Orestes), and professed Christ. Subsequently, he surfaces back in the city of Alexandria. Seemingly, this highlights the apparent efficacy of Cyril’s tactics: pressuring Jews leads to confessions of Christ, which in turn allows converted Jews to resume their lives, now as members of the Christian community. That Sokrates can only provide this one instance might suggest that Cyril’s tactics did not, in fact, induce Jews in Alexandria to convert. But Oded Irshai proposes that the story plays into one of what he thinks are Sokrates’s rhetorical aims—​ namely to criticize Cyril and his tactics, and to represent Attikos as the good bishop, whose kind strategies produce better results (converts, not exiles). Equally important, though, Irshai thinks that Adamantios might actually have been Sokrates’s source for some of this, so that naming him here participates in Sokrates’s positioning of Adamantios as an eyewitness.151 It’s equally

other inscriptions. JIGRE 144 (CIJ 12.696) from Thebes in Thessaly has various Jewish symbols, and the phrase “farewell/​greetings to the people,” characteristic of some Jewish inscriptions, commemorating Eusebius the Alexandrian and Theodora, his wife, well attested late antique names. JIGRE 151, from Tiberias, is the memorial of Vitus, son of Eliabus, son of Vitus, from (apo) Alexandria. 148. Sirat et al. 1986; for the date, 1986:23–​32; for additional discussion of the significance of the contract, see ­below, pp. 394–97. 149. Only the last three letters are readable: “sos.” The editors comment that a genitive ending would be expected, and that it is impossible to guess the name of the place of origin (Sirat et al. 1986:34). It is interesting, however, that they presume he was not a native of Antinoopolis. 150. So also, Sirat et al. 1986:9. 151. See esp. Irshai 2013:307n6 that Sokrates’s account rests on Orestes’s written complaint to Theodosios and on Adamantios; see also Périchon and Maraval 2007:55n2.



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possible, however, to see Adamantios here as a rhetorical guarantor of a typical sort: Jews who testify to the truth in spite of themselves. One other literary source deserves comment, The Dialogue of Timothy and Aquila, although its relevance here may be thin, at best. Part of a genre of Christian compositions that purport to be transcripts of actual debates between a Christian and a Jew (always men),152 Timothy and Aquila is of interest here because several manuscripts set the debate in Alexandria, while Cyril was in office. The title given in three of the longest manuscripts styles Cyril as “most holy archbishop of Alexandria.153 At the conclusion of the dialogue, the Christian interlocutor goes to Cyril, now just called bishop, and reports on the outcome of the disputation.154 Present only in the title and at the close of the debate, the references to Cyril are almost certainly later additions to an earlier dialogue,155 which does not itself constitute a useful source for any actual Jewish–​Christian contestations in Alexandria. But the association of the Dialogue with Cyril and Alexandria does prompt some interesting speculation. Whoever set it there seems to have thought it plausible to imagine Jews in Alexandria during Cyril’s time. The later they did so, of course, the less this says about fifth-​century Alexandria, and the more it says about the otherwise unknown redactor’s interests and imagination. If there really were no Jews in Alexandria after 415 or so, we might just conclude that the redactor of Timothy and Aquila was quite misinformed on this point. Alternatively, 152. The earliest of these appears to be Justin Martyr’s Dialogue with Trypho. Other instances include Jason and Papiscus, Athanasius and Zacchaeus, and Simon and Theophilus. See Pastis 2002; Kraft 2009; see also Lahey 2007. Text and translation of Timothy and Aquila and Athanasius and Zacchaeus are in Varner 2004 (who dates Timothy and Aquila to the sixth century). Scholars of Timothy and Aquila rarely connect it with the episode in Sokrates and John of Nikiu; conversely, scholars of Alexandria often do not engage Timothy and Aquila. Kraft does not, for instance, discuss the setting in Alexandria under Cyril, nor does Pastis note the episode in Sokrates. Haas dates Timothy and Aquila to the late second century (Haas 1997:123) without engaging the extensive debates here, although he does note that Athanasius and Zacchaeus (which he dates to the fourth century) purports to be a contestation between the Alexandrian patriarch, Athanasius, and an Alexandrian Jew. An intra-​Christian instance of this genre survives as The Debate Between a Montanist and an Orthodox, perhaps dating from the fourth century, around the same time as at least some of these. 153.  Manuscripts V, P, and O; ∆ιάλογος Χριστιανοῦ καὶ Ἰουδαίου ὧν τὰ ὀνόματα τοῦ μὲν Χριστιανοῦ τιμόθεος, τοῦ δὲ Ἰουδαίου Ἀκύλας, γενόμενος ἐν Ἀλεξανδρέιᾳ ἐν ταῖς ἡμέραις Κυρίλλου τοῦ ἁγιωτάτου ἀρχιεπισκόπου Ἀλεξανδρέιᾳς: “Dialogue of a Christian and a Jew, the name of the Christian being Timothy, that of the Jew being Aquila, which occurred in the days of Cyril, the most holy archbishop of Alexandria.” See Pastis 2002:175. In another manuscript, Timothy is styled presbyter of Alexandria. 154. Pastis 2002:175. 155. Pastis 2002:171.

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setting the debate there might possibly indicate that at some point after Cyril died in 444, there were Jews in Alexandria, whether still or again. What, then, really did happen in Alexandria, and how, if at all, does it relate to the legislation of 412? Irshai sees in Sokrates’s account a local power dynamic that is structurally similar to that in the Letter of Severus. In both instances, a Christian minority, led by an aggressive bishop, is at odds both with the Roman prefect and with the local (and substantial, perhaps powerful) Jewish community.156 He thinks it feasible to see a link between Cyril’s acts and the law of early 409,157 which required prosecution of violence against orthodox churches and their clerics, and whose penalties included deportation. As Irshai observes, what Cyril is said to do comports closely with that law. In response to Jewish violation of the law—​namely premeditated aggression against Christians, and specifically against a Christian building—​ Cyril acts as enforcer of the law, exiling Jews and pillaging, but not actually destroying synagogues.158 Attempting to extract actual historical kernels from Sokrates’s rhetorical framing, Irshai proposes that Jews did engage in some anti-​Christian violence, which he thinks likely to have been spontaneous rather than premeditated, and that some Jews may subsequently have fled the city on their own, although he is not specific about how large a group this would have been.159 Sokrates’s account, then, recasts that flight as “a quasi-​ licit, punitive act of mass deportation, albeit by an unauthorized party.”160 If this is a reasonable reading of the evidence, what we have is a complex situation of contestation and confrontation in Alexandria in which both Christians and Jews were complicit, although perhaps to varying degrees. Irshai argues that Sokrates’s casting, several decades later, has several aims. It seeks to persuade the imperial administration to abandon the legal protections of Jews and synagogues and to demonstrate that, despite imperial protection of Sabbath observance, Jews themselves violate the Sabbath, preferring

156. Irshai 2013:145. 157. The entire law is transmitted as Sirm 14: portions of it are also distributed as CTh 16.2.31; 16.5.46, and CJ 1.3.10, all in JRIL 38. An earlier law in 407 gave bishops the power to enforce edicts against various Christian dissidents: CTh 16.5.43/​Sirm 12. 158. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.13.15. Interestingly, however, Maraval comments that permitting the mob to plunder Jewish property was illegal (Périchon and Maraval 2007:52–​53n2). 159. One might read this as Irshai’s own generous rationalization of Jewish behavior, but it’s neither impossible nor demonstrable. 160. Irshai 2013:147.



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theatre performances.161 Further, it endeavors to lay the blame for precipitating the death of Hypatia (which Sokrates abhors) on the bad behavior of Jews (even though, of course, they played no actual role in those events).162 How whatever transpired in Alexandria relates to the law of July 412 remains obscure. Although nothing in Sokrates’s account specifies when, precisely, these events occurred, Cyril did not become bishop until October of 412, so the law cannot possibly be a response to the situation in Alexandria, nor would we expect such a response to come from Honorius, at Ravenna, rather than from the court of Theodosios II, in Constantinople. Interestingly, though, the two foci of the law—​the sanctity of synagogues and Sabbath observance—​figure prominently in Sokrates’s account, but whether this reflects some correlation between the law and the events, or only Sokrates’s recasting, is impossible to determine. At the time of the contestation between Cyril, Orestes, and Jews in Alexandria, changes were taking place in the court in Constantinople that had, I argue, significant repercussions for Jews. At the age of thirteen, Theodosios II’s older sister, Pulcheria, took charge of the household. Having persuaded her brother to dismiss the “praepositus,” Antiochos, with whom she apparently quarreled, she earned herself the title of epitropos—​that is, governor of the imperial household.163 According to Sokrates, she instituted a household regimen of monastic piety that included regular chanting and recitation of scripture, with fasting two days a week. She and her younger sisters dressed modestly and without adornment, and took up weaving, avoiding the attendant dangers of idleness. According to Sozomen, Pulcheria took on herself the role of instructing her brother in the appropriate practices of

161.  Dilley 2010a makes a similar argument about the purpose of various fourth-​and fifth-​ century Christian apocryphal accounts of the apostles and other foundational figures. Their anti-​Jewish rhetoric was intended to argue for imperial policy that called for Jews to convert or be expelled, and to show that Jews had deserved this treatment by behavior that began with their treatment of Jesus and his followers; see also ­below, pp. 338–39n84, for his argument that the Story of Joseph (of Arimathea) has some deliberate relationship to the episode in Gregory the Great about the Jews of Cagliari. 162. Irshai 2013:149. He also thinks that the representation of Cyril, who certainly doesn’t come out of this well, reflects Sokrates’s own pro-​Constantinopolitan, anti-​Alexandrian position (Irshai 2013:150–​51), which seems persuasive or at least quite feasible. 163. I am indebted in this section to Holum 1982, which relies extensively on both Sokrates and Sozomen, although I recognize that neither of these is necessarily trustworthy (see, e.g., van Nuffelen 2004; Liebeschütz 1993; see also the useful introductions in Rohrbacher 2002; see also Chesnut 1977; Urbainczyk 1997), nor is all of Holum’s analysis necessarily correct. For the title of Pulcheria, see Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 9.1.2–​3.

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imperial rule, as well as his religious training. Holum suggests that she also kept him from the (corrupting?) influences of other women.164 These practices closely resemble those advocated especially by John Chrysostom (although Pulcheria’s mother, Eudoxia, was an adversary of his). Holum argues that what prompted Pulcheria’s quarrel with Antiochos was his effort, probably in concert with the praetorian prefect, Anthemios, and perhaps others, to arrange her marriage. In 413, at the age of fourteen, Pulcheria took a public vow of virginity and imposed the same on her younger sisters. In so doing, she not only effectively refused marriage for herself but also prevented the incursion of husbands into the imperial household, eliminating a major possible source of competition for power in the household.165 Some fifty years earlier, the emperor Jovian had made soliciting marriage with a “sworn” virgin a capital crime, which Honorius mitigated somewhat. By taking a public vow of virginity, Pulcheria actually made it a serious crime for anyone, including her ministers, to attempt to marry her off. Anthemios is last attested as prefect in a law of April 18, 414.166 While Holum concedes that he may simply have died, he thinks it more likely that Pulcheria dismissed him. Regardless, Pulcheria next appointed Aurelian, who had served her mother, Eudoxia. Shortly thereafter, on July 4, Theodosios (himself only thirteen) proclaimed his sister Augusta. As Holum details, Pulcheria subsequently became a major player in the court of her younger brother. Sozomen writes that “she took control of the government, reaching excellent decisions.”167 Holum argues that her ability to do so was facilitated in large part by an ideology that divine favor is the result not of military might but of proper piety, as demonstrated particularly by Theodosios I’s victory over Eugenios and Arbogast at the Frigidus river in 394. Such an ideology was initially especially useful for Theodosios I’s sons, Honorius and Arkadios. Although neither was known for his military prowess, both could aspire to sufficient piety.168 One could argue that such an ideology emerges already with the story of Constantine’s success at the Milvian Bridge, and has considerable biblical roots as well—​roots that 164. Holum 1982:92–​93. 165. For details, see Holum 1982:93, based on Sozomen, who explicitly sees it this way: Eccl. Hist. 9.1.3–​4. 166. CTh 9.40.22. 167. Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 9.1.5–​6, cited in Holum 1982:97. 168. Holum 1982:51.



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Holum does not consider. But it proved especially useful as a means of authorizing the power of women in the imperial Theodosian household.169 While Megan McEvoy’s study of child emperors suggests that the basic standards for imperial legitimacy were developed earlier, including an emphasis on piety, and the notion that military prowess was not essential, Holum is still right that an increasing emphasis on piety, rather than military prowess, had great utility for legitimating women’s power in the imperial court. The consequences for Jews may have been substantial. Holum notes that Pulcheria’s policy innovations would have been less apparent with regard to Christian dissidents, since legislation against them would simply have continued earlier precedents. He sees, however, a change in policy in a law issued at Constantinople on October 20, 415, directed to Anthemios, which he attributes directly to Pulcheria.170 Prior imperial policy saw synagogues as “private property entitled to protection against attacks” by nonstate agents, and Anthemios in particular opposed the use of violence to instill orthodoxy.171 This law, in Holum’s characterization, now took a new position, forbidding the construction of new synagogues and requiring the destruction of those in remote areas (if this could be accomplishing without too much conflict).172 Somewhat oddly, Holum does not acknowledge that this particular legislation was not generic.173 As Linder’s titling of the law—​“Demotion of Gamaliel VI and Restriction of His Authority”—​accurately reflects, this edict appears entirely devoted to stripping the Jewish patriarch, Gamaliel, of his (senatorial) rank, privileges, and powers, an event whose causes and

169.  Holum 1982:50–​51. While both Sozomen and Theodoret attribute the survival of the eastern empire during Theodosios’s early years to the piety of the imperial children (part of their larger explanatory model), Sokrates offers a different explanation—​the beneficent oversight of Anthemios (Holum 1982:95). Sokrates’s patron was probably Theodosios’s wife, Eudokia, whose power struggles with his sister, Pulcheria, were substantial (see the next chapter). Sozomen and Theodoret wrote after 443, when Eudokia had fallen into disgrace, and cultivating the favor of Pulcheria seemed wiser (Holum 1982:95–​96). 170. CTh 16.8.22/​CJ 1.9.15, JRIL 41. Linder (JRIL, p. 268) notes that this is the first law to prohibit construction of new synagogues, although he then writes, somewhat oddly, that “[t]he first law on this subject was promulgated by Theodosius II after 15 February 423,” by which he presumably means the first law explicitly directed to the topic. 171. Holum 1982:98. 172. Holum 1982:98. 173. He writes: “In 415 Theodosius II issued a constitution to Aurelian which for the first time forbade construction of new synagogues and in addition required the destruction of synagogues” without mentioning Gamaliel at all (Holum 1982:98). His index contains no listing for Gamaliel.

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consequences are much debated.174 It is perhaps one of the most significant laws pertaining to the institution of the Jewish patriarch in the entire Theodosian corpus. It begins with a brief statement that Gamaliel was being demoted to the rank he previously held, for having thought that he could engage with impunity in some transgression the preserved law does not explicitly delineate.175 In consequence, Gamaliel was forbidden from causing new synagogues to be founded (“faciat”). Those synagogues that are “in solitudine” are to be destroyed (“perficiat”), if this can be accomplished without causing “seditione.” This has been construed in diverse ways: Linder sees this as a requirement to destroy synagogues in “deserted” places if this can be accomplished without provoking riots.176 Delmaire, however, reads this very differently, as permission to demolish abandoned synagogues without being subject to laws against the destruction of synagogues.177 Although a law from Arkadios in 398 had allowed Jews and non-​Jews to litigate disputes in Jewish courts with the provision that the resolution by such courts constituted arbitration,178 this law prohibited Gamaliel from adjudicating cases involving Christians. It further specified that cases involving Jews and non-​Jews must be tried before provincial governors. Additionally, Gamaliel was forbidden to attempt to circumcise any man, free or enslaved. In its preserved form, the law extends this prohibition to any of the Jews (“quisquam Iudaeorum”). Last, it requires Gamaliel to hand over any Christian slaves he might have to the church, in accordance with the law of Constantine. Although this law is often read quite broadly as, among other things, a prohibition on synagogue construction, I am inclined to read it more narrowly as 174. E.g., Jacobs 1995; Levine 1996; Schwartz 1999; Stemberger 2000:230–​68; van der Horst 2002a; de Bonfils 2009; Appelbaum 2013; Schwartz 2016. It’s uncertain when the patriarch first obtained the rank from which Gamaliel was demoted; Stemberger thinks it may date to Theodosios in 392 (Stemberger 2000:235): Aitken suggests that Julian may have elevated the patriarch to senatorial rank (Aitken 2017:88). For further discussion of the significance of the cessation of the office, see ­below, pp. 358–62. 175. “Estimavit se posse inpune delinquere.” Linder translates this as “transgress”: Pharr translates it as “do wrong.” 176. JRIL, p. 268. So, too, it seems Pharr, who translates “if there are any synagogues in desert places which can be destroyed without sedition, he shall have it done.” 177. “Il ne s’agit pas d’une constrainte, comme on pourrait le croire à première vue, mais d’une autorisation qui permit au patriarche de faire détruire des synagogues abandonnées sans tomber sous le coup des lois qui interdisent de s’attaquer à ces bâtiment, ce que ôte aux chrétiens la tentation de les annexer” (Rougé and Delmaire 2005:403n6). 178. CTh 2.1.10, JRIL 28, discussed above, pp. 166–68.



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a strong rebuke to Gamaliel personally, in which Pulcheria may have played some significant part. Conceivably, several if not all the prohibitions point to Gamaliel’s unspecified but presumptive offenses: facilitating the construction of synagogues; judging Christians in legal disputes; circumcising non-​ Jewish males; and owning Christian slaves. Given that all these acts were already prohibited in prior legislation,179 why a general prohibition of these practices would be necessary at this particular moment is unclear. If, however, Gamaliel was himself now egregiously flaunting these laws, the edict makes more sense. Not inconceivably, Gamaliel had engaged in illegal construction, presided over legal proceedings involving Christians,180 circumcised his own male slaves, and/​or purchased Christian slaves. Alternatively, of course, all these are a pretext for demoting Gamaliel.181 Further support for the hypothesis that this law was intended only to apply to Gamaliel himself may be found in a law given just a few weeks later, on November 6, at Ravenna by Honorius. Addressed to the Teacher (Didasculus) Annas and the “maioribus Iudaeorum,”182 it proclaims that Jews may continue 179. Linder comments that it had long been illegal to circumcise non-​Jews or convert them to Judaism, acts which are, of course, not identical, since women could not be circumcised; in any case, see ­above, pp. 99–100, for my argument that the law he cites in support of this may be construed somewhat differently (CTh 16.9.1, Sirm 4, JRIL 10; Constantine in 335); see also Kraemer 2018. A law of 339 had detailed the penalties for Jews who purchase non-​Jewish slaves, including, explicitly, Christian slaves, but it may still have been permissible for Jews to possess such slaves (CTh 16.8.6, 16.9.2; JRIL 11). For the complexities, see JRIL p. 271n13; Linder seems to think that it might still have been licit for Jews to hold, but not purchase Christian slaves. In the version of the law of 339 in CJ 1.10.1, Jews may not purchase or otherwise acquire a Christian slave as a gift. They may also not circumcise any slaves they hold, which implies they could legally hold such slaves. Later laws suggest this continues to be the case. See also JRIL, pp. 82–​85. 180. Nemo-​Pekelman surmised that Gamaliel had found for a Jew in a case he heard between a Jew and a Christian. When the Christian lost, he appealed to the governor, who refused to uphold Gamaliel’s judgment. But she also raises the possibility that the Christian had been forced to appear before Gamaliel (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:74). Such a scenario is possible, but by no means required. 181. Linder notes the argument of Solazzi, with which he does not seem to concur, that the reference to “quisquam Iudaeorum” in the prohibition against circumcising a Christian (man) or a (male) member of any other sect (“Christianum vel cuiuslibet sectae hominem”), is an addition by Theodosian editors to make this more general. Given the otherwise highly individual character of this law, this seems quite possible (JRIL, p. 271n10, citing Solazzi 1936–​37:399 and de Dominicis 1953:436). 182. Here maior seems to be a generic title for Jewish leaders. Linder translates it as “heads of the Jews” and takes these persons to be probably, “representatives of the Jewish communities.” As noted earlier (above, p. 207n90) it was the title Augustine gave to a leader of the Caelicoli. Linder also claims that the designation “Didasculus” was “purely honorific” (JRIL, p. 273n1) and rarely attested in inscriptions.

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to hold Christian slaves, provided they allow them to practice Christianity.183 Oddly, Linder doesn’t make any connection with the edict confiscating the slaves of Gamaliel, although he recognizes that this law must respond to a petition by Jews in response to “practical measures . . . adopted in the West as well as in the East on the principle that possession of Christian slaves was illegal.”184 The short interval between the two laws makes it unlikely that Honorius’s law is a direct response to the edict demoting Gamaliel,185 but it does support the position that the restrictions on Gamaliel were restrictions on him specifically, and that other Jews could continue to hold Christian slaves. Subsequent legislation, discussed later, similarly supports the view that it is only Gamaliel who is here barred from holding Christian slaves.186 If Holum is too quick to see this law as a general assault on Jews and synagogues,187 he may, however, be correct that, far more so than has been recognized, Pulcheria played a significant role in its formulation, emanating from her escalated piety.188 One might hypothesize that Pulcheria was offended by the patriarch’s flagrant disregard of regulations pertaining to Jews, or at least that she was sympathetic to others who sought to take down Gamaliel (and who, perhaps, had previously had a less sympathetic audience in Anthemios).189 Alternatively, or perhaps just additionally, her hostility to Gamaliel had something to do with her conflicts with men who sought to control her life in ways that we now cannot see. The demotion of Gamaliel and the restrictions on his authority seem implicated in various other events in these couple of years in ways that are nevertheless difficult to discern or disentangle. Gamaliel’s downfall at the

183. CTh 16.9.3, JRIL 42. 184. JRIL, p. 272. Nor does Nemo-​Pekelman, who considers the law a response to false accusations against Jews, prompted by the profit to be made by accusing Jewish slaveholders of illegally converting Christian slaves (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:153). 185. This depends in part, though, on when the edict was known in Ravenna. 186. CTh 16.9.4, JRIL 44; see below, p. 236. 187. Holum argues that “this constitution was an invitation to fanatics to go about their work of intimidation and destruction” (Holum 1982:98). 188.  Fortuitously, I  came across Ada Teetgen’s 1907 biography of Pulcheria (not cited by Holum) on the internet. Teetgen directly attributes Gamaliel’s downfall to Pulcheria, although with no discussion or supporting evidence (Teetgen 1907:184). 189. Stemberger speculates that in addition to Pulcheria, Gamaliel’s enemies may have included the bishops of Jerusalem and/​or Caesarea, as well as the governor of Palestine (Stemberger 2000:263).



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court of Constantinople comes not long after the conflict between Orestes and Cyril in Alexandria, a conflict that in Sokrates’s telling extends to Attikos in Constantinople. According to the Revelation of St.  Stephen, it was just weeks after Gamaliel’s demotion, in December 415, that the bones of St. Stephen were dug up in the holy land, after Lucian was shown their location by the first Gamaliel, in a dream that reveals him to have been a crypto-​Christian.190 Some scholars have seen both the law and the discovery of the bones as Christian responses to Jewish proselytizing and synagogue building—​responses that included attacks on synagogues authorized by the saint, and the power of Lucian’s newly recovered bones of Stephen, themselves legitimated by the original Gamaliel.191 At the very least, it is tempting to read the invocation of the pious first Gamaliel as a rebuke to his namesake, who seems, in the edict of 415, to be guilty of various acts, including converting Christian slaves and building synagogues. It seems further reasonable to suspect that Gamaliel had lost his own patrons in the court at Constantinople, and perhaps also at Ravenna. Also of possible relevance is Pulcheria’s own reported devotion to St. Stephen. A  few years later, for instance, in circumstances resembling the events in Callinicum, a Christian bishop in Persian Khuzestan destroyed a Zoroastrian fire-​altar. The Persian king, Yazdgard, who was also Theodosios’s guardian in his minority, executed the bishop and other Christian perpetrators. Persian Christians sought refuge (and revenge?) in Constantinople, and Theodosios’s government sent Roman troops against Nisibis. The ninth-​century account in Theophanes the Confessor claims that, at the same time, Theodosios, under the influence of Pulcheria, sent the archbishop of Jerusalem a generous gift and a gold jeweled cross, in exchange for which the archbishop sent some relics of St. Stephen to Chalcedon (part, presumably, of those found in 415).192 Pulcheria went to Chalcedon with the emperor, and processed with the relics to the palace, where she installed them in a new chapel that she herself had built. Holum observes that the adventus of Stephen into Constantinople was “contrived to strengthen the ideological underpinnings of Pulcheria’s basiléia.”193 Based on his interpretation of an 190. See a­ bove, pp. 43–44n3. 191. E.g., Ginzburg 1996, who notes that scholars had not, at that time, drawn a connection between these two events (1996:32). On the connection between the two Gamaliels, see Bradbury 1996:17; Dilley 2010a:597; Irshai 2011. 192. Theophanes, Chron., year 5920, cited in Holum 1982:103n111. 193. Holum 1982:121.

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ivory in the Trier Cathedral,194 Holum concludes that “St. Stephen arrived in Constantinople in principle to intercede not for Theodosius but for Pulcheria herself,” and that Pulcheria conceived the war [with the Persians] to be a test and confirmation of her own ability to inspire victory.”195 It’s important to note that the laws concerning religion received by Aurelian early in his term were by no means only focused on Jews. On October 31, 415, he received a law prohibiting Montanists from assembling, holding meetings and appointing clerics, punishing their clergy with deportation in the event of such assemblies, and vindicating Montanist churches to the Orthodox.196 A law a week later confiscated the houses belonging to Eunomian clerics used for illicit assemblies or for a second baptism.197 Subsequent scholars have argued that Holum may overstate the effect of the individual willfulness and agency of a very young woman.198 In his reconstruction, it was a precocious Pulcheria who, already at age thirteen, effectively made numerous adult men carry out her policies (not to mention her much younger brother). Unless her interests and views meshed with those of others, such as Aurelian, this seems difficult to see as a sufficient explanation for these complex historical situations; even then, attributing all of this to Pulcheria certainly resembles the well-​documented habit of ancient historiographers to critique powerful men by casting them as overly influenced by women (even worse when the offensive woman is a fourteen-​year-​old virgin). Still, Pulcheria’s public devotion to Stephen strengthens the possibility that she had a considerable interest in intensifying anti-​Jewish policies and legislation, and the means to implement it, even if this was not Pulcheria’s own construal of the installation of Stephen in Constantinople. Yet another connection to consider is Pulcheria’s relationship with Attikos, who became bishop in Constantinople at the end of 408, only months after the death of Arkadios. It’s obvious that Attikos was one of Pulcheria’s major advisors outside the court, whose position on Jews is thus pertinent. Attikos appears to have been a supporter of the view that the Virgin Mary redeemed 194. Holum 1982:104–​10. 195. Holum 1982:108. 196.  CTh 16.5.57; one provision endeavors to protect private individuals from having their property confiscated under the pretext that it belongs to the Montanists, which may say something about the potential abuses of such laws. 197. CTh 16.5.58. 198. Similar reservations are expressed by Harries 2013 and Kelly 2013:14–​15; see also Cooper 1998, 2009; Cameron 2004.



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the cursed state of Eve and all women. His Marian theology authorized Pulcheria’s claims to basileia. None of Attikos’s writings survive, but he is said to have addressed a work “On Faith and Virginity” to Pulcheria and her sisters, in which he “presented Mary as the archetypal virgin whose chastity the three imperial sisters should emulate” and, anticipating Nestorios, apparently attacked the designation of Mary as Theotokos.199 Although Chrysostom had apparently opposed Pulcheria’s basileia, his views on virginity and on the proper performance of piety also seem to have had an outsized influence on Pulcheria. One might wonder, then, whether, being familiar with those positions, Pulcheria might also have been aware of and influenced or persuaded by Chrysostom’s anti-​Jewish positions. As we shall see in chapter 8, Theophanes also attributes to Pulcheria a role in the destruction of a synagogue in the Copper Market quarter of Constantinople.200 Meanwhile, in Ravenna, a Jewish lobby apparently led by Annas continued to press Honorius on matters of concern. Less than a year after they obtained his agreement that Jews could continue to hold Christian slaves as long as the slaves were permitted to remain Christians, they obtained a second law from him, this time permitting Jewish converts to Christianity to return to Judaism, if they had converted not out of sincere faith but out a desire to avoid criminal prosecution (for unspecified crimes).201 As Linder notes, this law is consistent with an earlier law of 397 by Arkadios, that prohibited Jews from converting to Christianity to avoid debt payment or criminal liability.202 It is regardless an odd law, in which Annas and those same “maiores Iudaeorum” appear to concede that some Jewish converts were criminals (again, of some vague unspecified sort)—​either in fact or at least in allegation—​who ought to be able to return to Judaism because of the insincerity of their conversions. The actual social dynamic behind this law is, as usual, difficult to discern, although it is easy to imagine that the law does not accurately reflect the social reality. Since converting from Christianity to anything else was itself illegal, Jews who regretted their acceptance of Christianity may have sought

199. Holum 1982:139. He also notes that either Attikos or Sisinnios had an image of Pulcheria painted above the altar in the Great Church in Constantinople (Holum 1982:133). 200. See b­ elow, pp. 267–70. That these reports come only from Theophanes, and not from contemporaneous reports, is somewhat of a concern. 201. CTh 16.8.23, JRIL 43. 202. CTh 9.45.2, JRIL 26; see also ­above, pp. 165 and 183.

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some legal means by which to return to the practice of Judaism.203 While it may be that some Jews did convert to escape legal liabilities, and then regretted it, it seems hard to imagine that such persons were the only ones who experienced buyer’s remorse. Claiming to have become Christian for illicit, even criminal reasons may have been an acceptable price to pay, although one also has to wonder whether this rendered them liable to prosecution or judgment of some sort. That the law says nothing about this might (or might not) imply a tacit recognition of the underlying ruse, akin to annulling a marriage by claiming it was contracted under false pretenses. A story in Sokrates set in these same years supports the perception that Christians were concerned about the possibility (if not necessarily the actuality) of Jews who sought baptism for nefarious purposes and illicit gains, although it does not specifically speak to conversions motivated by the desire to avoid criminal prosecution. During the episcopate of a pious, ascetic bishop named Paul,204 who succeeded the Novatian bishop Chrysanthus and served from 419 to 438,205 an unnamed Jewish man repeatedly presented himself for Christian baptism to different sects, including the Arians and the Macedonians. In the process he enriched himself, presumably through the cash payments and other benefits Christians extended to converts, although Sokrates doesn’t specify. Having run through virtually all the possibilities, he came to Paul, who tried initially to insist on a lengthy period of instruction, prayer, and fasting. The Jewish man, however, insisted on a more immediate baptism. But when the baptismal font was prepared, the water drained out; when it was refilled, it drained yet again. The first time, Paul took it for an ordinary defect of the plumbing, but the second time he realized that this was a divine sign, indicating that the Jewish man was either an imposter or had been baptized previously (both, of course, being true). Someone in the crowd then recognized him as having been previously baptized by Attikos. Linder notes that the law was at odds with the theological position (if not also the legal position) that baptism effected an irrevocable transformation that made it impossible for a Christian to become anything else. Seemingly, Jews who had been baptized under false pretenses were not actually permanently transformed by that baptism. This assumes, of course, that these Jews 203. JRIL, p. 275. 204. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.7. 205. Van Nuffelen 2010:432.



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had undergone baptism, but the wording of the law seems to me somewhat ambiguous on this point. The law calls for provincial judges to allow the return of persons whom they observe “not to be imbued with the faith and mysteries of venerable baptism” (“neque venerabilis baptismatis fide et mysteriis inbutos esse”). Linder appears to take this to mean that these persons have been baptized, but are perceived not to have been appropriately transformed (imbued). The question here is whether this language refers only to having been baptized or, rather, to the baptism having taken proper effect (a position itself somewhat at odds with Linder’s redescription of the theology of baptism).206 Is it possible that this law envisions Jewish converts in the window before Easter, awaiting baptism? In any case, one wonders how precisely such a law was to be implemented. It makes no reference to persons petitioning the court for release, and it appears to leave it up to the discretion of judges who observe the inconstancy and insincerity of converts to allow them to return to “their own law.” And the law makes clear that this is not done to benefit the Jews but, rather, to benefit “Christianity,” presumably by removing from the church persons who in some manner compromise its purity. Regardless of our inability to determine the underlying historical situation, these several laws do suggest that Jews actively petitioned the emperor in Ravenna for redress on issues of concern. It’s unclear whether lobbyists like Annas and the “maiores” were resident in Ravenna or had traveled there for the purposes of petitioning the court. The other evidence for Jews in Ravenna at this point is minimal. That they appear in two edicts within eighteen months’ time, but never before or again, might be better explained by the latter, but we may imagine various other scenarios.207 What are we to make of the fact that the surviving laws pertain only to the holding of Christian slaves and to relief from insincere conversion? These issues seem far more likely to reflect Christian interests than to represent the probable range of Jewish petitions before the court. Petitions which failed to secure a favorable outcome would leave no record in the Theodosian Code, while even other petitions that were successful might have subsequently been omitted from the Code, as we

206. See a­ bove, pp. 55–56. 207. Stemberger speculates that Annas might have been “head of an internal Jewish administration covering more than one province” or a “representative of the Jews in the western Roman empire,” or “speaker for a number of local Jewish congregations” (Stemberger 2000:264). But it’s obvious that we have no way to assess this.

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know to be the case with various anti-​orthodox laws promulgated by emperors with non-​orthodox proclivities.208 The issue of Jewish slaveholding was hardly limited to the West. If the law of Honorios in 415 may have been too close to the demotion of Gamaliel to be a direct response, a law of 417 from the court of Theodosios II in Constantinople is more plausibly read in association with those events.209 A law in the name of Theodosios II—​now sixteen—​directed Monaxius, who had replaced Aurelian as praetorian prefect of the East, to allow Jews to inherit and own Christian slaves, with certain restrictions. Jews may not purchase Christian slaves, nor acquire them as gifts, but they may inherit such slaves (and apparently may continue to legally hold those whom they already have), provided they do not convert them to Judaism, with or without the slaves’ consent. Just how such conversion could be effected without the consent of the individual is problematic, so this text might allude to forcible circumcision of male slaves, which would not, of course, apply to women.210 In this instance, then, it seems quite possible that the edict against Gamaliel created confusion, whether among Jewish slaveholders or perhaps among court officials themselves, who saw the possible contradictions and sought to clarify the imperial position.211 If the Letter of Severus is at least minimally truthful, in February of 418, the entire Jewish community on the island—​all living in the eastern town of Magona—​accepted Christ within the space of one week, after a mob of Christians from the western town of Jamona descended on them and burned their synagogue. Although I argued earlier that the Letter itself suggests that its author(s) was quite aware of the laws concerning summoning Jews on 208. E.g., the laws passed under John and other “usurpers” (?), which are sometimes known only by their subsequent rescission. 209. CTh 16.9.4, JRIL 44; see also the discussion of Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:150–​55, who concludes that all these laws regarding Jewish ownership of Christian slaves sought to combat Jewish proselytism (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:155). 210. Interestingly, the version in the Code of Justinian (CJ 1.10.1) is phrased in exclusively masculine language that seems to exclude female slaves altogether and to raise questions about whether it might not have been illegal to convert enslaved females. Still, it’s challenging to imagine why Christian lawmakers would exempt female slaves from forcible conversion. 211. Linder thinks that Theodosios was “probably influenced . . . by the similarly limited permission granted by Honorius on 6 November 415” and notes that “the case of Gamaliel VI in 415 seems to have been unexceptional,” but does not explicitly link it with this particular law (JRIL, p. 277). Theodosios’s court may well have been aware by then of the western law, which was, of course, nominally issued in the name of both emperors, but that doesn’t guarantee a connection between the two.



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the Sabbath, desecrating synagogues, and engaging in violence against Jews themselves, no surviving legislation is explicitly connected to the Minorcan episode. The events on Minorca may have been related in some manner to the demotion of Gamaliel VI little more than two years earlier. The “discovery” and distribution of the relics of Stephen beginning in 416 may have had some connection with Gamaliel’s downfall, either directly or indirectly, in the sense that the same events and climate led both to his demotion and to the rise of the anti-​Jewish cult of Stephen.212 Yet on this, as on many things, the Letter is (suspiciously?) silent. It gives no indication that Jews across the empire were linked in a powerful network. It lacks any acknowledgment even of the existence of a patriarch to whom Minorcan Jews had been in the habit of sending tribute annually—​and whose monies his church might have been happy to appropriate. If the author of the Letter is aware of any of this, he fails to exploit an interpretation of the patriarch’s fall from favor as, for instance, a sign of Christ’s power.213 Perhaps the author says nothing about the patriarch because Gamaliel no longer had any power, Jews on Minorca were no longer paying those taxes to anyone, and he was unconcerned that representatives of the patriarch might conceivably soon come calling on the island. Perhaps he says nothing because he’s the newly appointed bishop and is simply ignorant of these matters. Regardless of these connections, the following month, in March 418, Honorius issued an edict explicitly excluding Jews from all branches of the “militiae” (the state service), including the office of “agentes in rebus” (part of the office of provincial governors), the palace administration, and the army. Those currently in the first two branches were permitted to serve out their terms, but those in the actual military were dismissed immediately.214 This law comes several years after traditionalists were barred from imperial service, and from the rank of administrator of judges, in a law received by Aurelian at Constantinople.215 Honorius had also previously limited palace service to orthodox Christians, in 408.216 Jews were permitted to continue serving as

212. See a­ bove, p. 44n4; see also pp. 62–63. 213. I’m doubtful that Severus deliberately delayed moving against the Jews while Gamaliel was in power, partly because Stephen’s relics themselves don’t seem to arrive until 416. 214. CTh 16.8.24, JRIL 45. 215. CTh 16.10.21, December 7, 415 or 416. 216. CTh 16.5.42; see also the law of 404 (CTh 16.8.16, JRIL 33) regarding Jewish and Samaritan “agentes in rebus.”

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legal advocates (sometimes translated as “practicing law”), as well as to perform curial service. Although the second is construed here as an “honor” due to certain Jews by virtue of birth (since the office passed from father to son) and family stature, the empire had a clear financial interest in allowing them to continue in this capacity. The edict concludes with the statement that having been allowed to retain these two privileges, Jews “must not consider the prohibition of imperial service as a mark of infamy.”217 In Nemo-​Pekelman’s view, Jews were right to be concerned that their exclusion from the state services might make them “infames,” a legal status that carried with it significant legal disabilities. She sees the provision that Jewish men could continue as legal advocates to be a recognition of the reality that the legal profession was a springboard for men of modest social position to gain access to the cursus honorum. Jews were thus here assured that while Jewish men might now no longer aspire to the higher ranks, they were not also barred from the law. The law, however, was disingenuous on this point: even though curial Jews technically remained in the category of “honestiores,” by now, eligibility for curial service was in fact no longer a sign of civic honor. More tantalizing is the edict given at Constantinople to Philippus, the praetorian prefect of Illyricum, discussed at the beginning of this chapter. It protected innocent Jews,218 and prohibited the burning or vandalizing of either their homes or their synagogues.219 It concluded with a warning to Jews not to engage in anti-​Christian acts. Linder sees the law as an official if somewhat belated response to attacks elsewhere, including those at Edessa and Alexandria discussed earlier. Interestingly, he does not include

217. Trans. Pharr 1952. For further discussion, see Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:191–​94, including the contrast between the immediate termination of military service and the application of the ban on other services only to future appointments (Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:194). 218.  CTh 16.8.21, JRIL 46. From precisely what is unclear:  “Nullus tamquam Iudaeus, cum sit innocens, obteratur nec expositum eum ad contemuliam religio qualiscumque perficiat.” Linder translates this as “No one shall be destroyed for being a Jew, though innocent of crime, nor shall any religion whatsoever execute him while he is exposed to contumely.” Pharr 1952 gives “No person shall be trampled upon when he is innocent, on the ground that he is a Jew, nor shall any religion cause any person to be exposed to contumely.” Rougé gives: “Qu’aucun innocent ne soit opprimé parce qu’il est juif, et que la religion quelle qu’elle soit ne l’expose pas aux outrages” (Rougé and Delmaire 2005:401). For the complexities, see JRIL, pp. 285–​86n2 and 286n3. 219. CTh 16.8.21, JRIL 46. The prosopographical data and the dating on the subscription do not mesh: Linder opts for the latter as dispositive, as did Juster and others, including Pharr (see JRIL p. 283).



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Minorca, perhaps because the island fell under the jurisdiction of Ravenna, not Constantinople.220 But if, as I have already considered, the law does in fact date to August of 418, rather than to 420, it seems quite possible that it is prompted by awareness of the events on Minorca—​and an interest in preventing their repetition in the Constantinopolitan orbit.221 This law is the first extant imperial edict to specifically mention the burning of synagogues. In protecting individual Jews, as well as cautioning them against anti-​Christian acts, the provisions of the law accord broadly with the Letter of Severus. We do not know why Philippus, prefect of Illyricum, was the recipient of this particular edict. Conceivably, it alludes to disturbances in Illyricum for which we have no other evidence. Whether dated to 418 or to 420, the law would have been issued while Aurelian was praetorian prefect of the East. The only other law pertaining to Jews issued from Constantinople between 414, when Aurelian took office, and 420, is the law of 415 chastising and demoting Gamaliel. It’s certainly tempting to speculate that while the law of 415 reflected the interests of Pulcheria and her circle, this law reflects different interests in the court, including concerns for the maintenance of law and civility, and perhaps even some sympathy for the rights of Jews. Its receipt by Philippus rather than by Aurelian might point in that direction. It may also be worth noting that by 418, Theodosios was old enough to assert his voice in imperial affairs. In August of that year, he would have been seventeen: in 420, he would have been nineteen. Conceivably, this assertion that laws protecting both property and persons from nonstate violence included Jews reflects his emerging voice. Further support for this will come in subsequent legislation discussed in the next chapter. On January 2, 423, Theodosios II’s wife, Eudokia, was proclaimed Augusta, elevating her to the level of her sister-​in-​law, Pulcheria, and setting the stage for their further contestations. Shortly thereafter, Eudokia’s uncle, Asklepiodotos, was installed as praetorian prefect, creating a powerful duo in the court of the still young emperor. Finally, that August, Theodosios II’s uncle Honorius died. Although he was succeeded by Valentinian III, his death left Theodosios II in a vastly strengthened position, with significant consequences for Jews in the mid-​fifth century and beyond. 220. Linder compiled JRIL well before the publication of Bradbury 1996, which brought the Letter of Severus to a broader scholarly audience. 221.  For discussion of the dating issues, see above, pp. 198–99. Bradbury 1996:54 takes the dating of the law at face value (412), without engaging the discussion in Linder, and thus does not connect it with the Minorcan episode.

7

“We deny to the Jews and to the pagani, the right to practice legal advocacy and to serve in the state service.” —​Sirmondian Constitution 6, Galla Placidia, in the name of five-​year-​old Valentinian and Theodosios II, summer 425

Theodosios II in His Majority, 423–​4 50 The death of Honorius empowered not only Theodosios II but also his sister, Pulcheria, and his recent bride, Eudokia, whom he had married little more than a year earlier. His sister and his wife appear to have been somewhat at odds with one another for the rest of their lives, including several conflicts apparently played out on the rights of Jews. Although various ancient writers claim that Pulcheria orchestrated the marriage, and won Theodosios over with the exceptional beauty and intellect of his bride,1 Kenneth Holum argued, in an important study of the early Byzantine empresses, that the marriage was actually orchestrated by powerful men opposed to Pulcheria and her outsized influence on Theodosios.2 Theodosios’s bride, a philosopher’s daughter whose birth name seems to have been Athenaïs, converted to orthodox Nicene Christianity and took the new name of Eudokia. Whatever role Pulcheria played in the match, she continued to exercise tremendous influence and power, as well as authority, by virtue of her brother’s elevation of her as Augusta. Pulcheria and Eudokia were, for starters, on opposite sides of the major theological controversy in the second quarter of the fifth century concerning

1. Many are later Byzantine chronographers, including John Malalas, Chron. 14; John of Nikiu, Chron. 84.25–​37; Evagrios, Eccl. Hist. 1.20. For a fuller list, see Holum 1982:114n2. 2. Holum 1982:120–​21. The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190222277.001.0001



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the veneration of the Virgin Mary. The positioning of Mary as the “new Eve” was particularly useful for Pulcheria’s claims to authority. Through her disobedience, the first Eve had condemned women to subordination, both to husbands and to male authority more generally. Through her obedience, the new Eve, Mary, undid the error of the first Eve and thus made it possible for women to be freed from subordination (and marriage), and to exercise some authority, precisely through imitation of Mary’s virginity and chastity. Pulcheria was deeply invested in the veneration of Mary and supported her designation as Theotokos, literally more like “God-​birther,” but usually translated “Mother of God.” Attacks on Marian veneration were thus attacks on Pulcheria’s own devotion and the underpinnings of her power.3 Theodosios and Eudokia were initially supportive of the imperial bishop, Nestorios, who had declared the title Theotokos heretical. Eventually, however, Pulcheria appears to have prevailed on her brother to abandon support for Nestorios, while her pro-​Marian theology, which authenticated her own basileia, triumphed.4 Shortly after Theodosios II elevated his young wife to a position of parity with his sister, Eudokia’s uncle Asklepiodotos was appointed praetorian prefect of the East. During Asklepiodotos’s relatively short time in office (423–​425), Theodosios II promulgated several important laws that, among other provisions, affirmed the protection of synagogues from Christian attacks. Those protections hint strongly at sympathies on the part of the prefect and perhaps his niece for Jews, while other aspects of the laws hint at Asklepiodotos’s support for traditionalists, of which he was still apparently one, although Eudokia had become a Christian. The first of these laws, concerning the protection of synagogues, was given immediately, on February 15, and must therefore have been in preparation for some time beforehand.5 It specified that, henceforth, synagogues might neither be “indiscriminately” taken nor set on fire. Jews were to be given places for the construction of replacement synagogues, apparently of the same size as the old ones, to compensate for buildings that had previously been seized, vindicated to churches, or consecrated as churches after the passage of a prior

3. As Holum puts it: “Those who resisted Pulcheria resisted Mary as well. Any who challenged Pulcheria’s basiléia on the ground that she was a woman risked insulting the New Eve. This was the gravest risk for, like Pulcheria, the pious multitudes of Constantinople and the Empire believed that Mary was Theotokos, the ‘Mother of God’ ” (Holum 1982:146). 4. Some sources report that the crowds in Constantinople acclaimed Pulcheria as the defender of faith, and the orthodox one (Holum 1982:170). 5. CTh 16.8.25, JRIL 47.

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law protecting synagogues.6 Votive offerings (“donaria”—​apparently various portable furnishings and ornaments) seized from synagogues were to be returned unless they had been consecrated for use in Christian churches, in which case the Jews should be given fair fiscal compensation. (Presumably, once so consecrated, they could not be used for other purposes.) But Jews could not construct completely new synagogues (which seems to mean additional synagogues, given that the law allows for the construction of new synagogues to replace those that have been expropriated or destroyed), and existing synagogues had to remain in their current states, apparently meaning that they could not be expanded, renovated, or repaired. Much may be said about this law. On the one hand, it affirmed the protection of synagogue buildings from illicit seizure and vandalism, and it gave Jews the right to replace buildings that had been destroyed or usurped by Christians, as well as to recover or be compensated for tangible property stolen from synagogues. Yet the very protections it provided strongly suggested that they were necessary—​that in recent years, Christians had engaged in precisely the kinds of arson, vandalism, and pillage that the Letter of Severus describes for 418. Additionally, it points to a different strategy on the part of Christians, in which rather than destroy synagogues outright, they confiscated them, sometimes quickly reconsecrating them as churches. The law of 420 had explicitly prohibited vandalism and arson, but this law seems to be the first legal reference to the tactic of confiscation and/​or reconsecration. Such actions may have been perceived by Christian perpetrators as a more effective means of eliminating synagogues, on the premise that Jews had no right to build new ones.7 This law was followed on April 9 by another addressed to Asklepiodotos, now preserved as various individual fragments in diverse chapters within Book 16 of the Theodosian Code, but which Linder takes to have originally all been one law.8 The preamble asserted the longstanding imperial suppression of “the arrogance and the audacity of the abominable pagani, as well as

6. Linder takes this to be a reference to CTh 16.8.21, from August of 420, although he notes that Mommsen and others identified it with an older law of 393 (JRIL, p. 289n3). Delmaire does not comment (Rougé and Delmaire 2005). 7. This argument hinges, though, on the assumption that the provision against synagogue construction in the law concerning Gamaliel either was intended or at least was construed to apply to persons other than the patriarch. As my discussion above, pp. 227–30, suggests, I think it less likely that it was so intended. How it was construed is harder to assess. 8. JRIL 48.



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of the Jews and the haeretici.” But having established the imperial bona fides, the first fragment affirmed the protections of the February edict, with the addition of a reaffirmation of older laws prohibiting Jews from circumcising Christian men or ordering their circumcision, a crime punishable by confiscation of property and permanent exile. It casts this repetition as a response to the “pitiful supplications” of the Jews.9 A second fragment repeated older prohibitions against Jews purchasing Christian slaves.10 A third proclaimed that any “pagani” who might still remain continued to be bound by previous legislation against them.11 A fourth asserted the continued force of laws against various dissident Christian groups, including Manichaeans, Frygians, Arians, Macedonians, Eunomians, Novatians, Sabbatians, and others.12 A third law, also addressed to Asklepiodotos, was issued on June 8, again from Constantinople. Like the April law, it appears to have been preserved in fragments ultimately catalogued in diverse parts of Book 16 of the Code.13 The first fragment explicitly reasserted the force of the February law that Jews could never build new synagogues, but could not be deprived of those they already had.14 The second specified that although any remaining traditionalists caught sacrificing were properly subject to capital punishment, they were instead only liable to have their property confiscated and to be exiled.15 The third fragment confirmed (but did not actually specify) the penalties for heresies.16 A  fourth reasserted punishments against dissidents, especially Manichaeans and Pepyzitae (presumably Montanists), and demanded that “Christians, genuine as well as false  .  .  .  shall not dare to raise their hands . . . against peaceful Jews and pagans who are not attempting anything seditious and unlawful.”17 Perpetrators were liable to pay triple or quadruple

9. CTh 16.8.26. 10. CTh 16.9.5. 11. CTh 16.10.22. 12. CTh 16.5.59. 13. All in JRIL 49. 14. CTh 16.8.27. 15. CTh 16.10.23. 16. CTh 16.5.60. 17. CTh 16.10.24. In the reception of this law in the Code of Justinian, the penalty is only double damages (CJ 1.11.6).

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damages, while governors and other officials who permitted such outrages were themselves as liable.18 Some of what transpired between February and June of 423 may be reconstructed from the suggestive language of the edicts themselves. The need to reaffirm the February law only weeks later, in April, implies some resistance, perhaps even violent, to its implementation, as does the reference to a “pitiful” petition by Jews. (It also points to the feasibility of fairly speedy communication between Constantinople and points east.) The derogatory preface is easily read as a rhetorical bone thrown to the opponents of the law, which nevertheless refuses to relent regarding Jewish rights. The provision of the third law concerning the liability of government officials hints at their initial failure to implement the law.19 Contemporary scholars have supplemented the bare outlines of conflict implicit in the three laws with accounts in Evagrios’s Eccl. Hist. and the Life of Simeon Stylites.20 Linder, for instance, cites the Life of Simeon for the story that “militant Christians” beseeched Simeon to spearhead efforts to have the first law rescinded, which initially inhibited its implementation in the East. Jews, on the other hand, relied on bribes and the support of Asklepiodotos, resulting in the affirmation of the law.21 Holum, however, here connects the “pitiful” petition of the Jews with the accounts of Barsauma’s attacks, discussed in the prior chapter, which he takes to be historically plausible.22 In his reading, Simeon does not get involved until considerably later, after the June law, which the prefect ultimately promulgated and enforced widely. What the Syriac Life of Simeon actually says is that sometime when Theodosios II was emperor and John was bishop of Antioch (428–​441), a “wicked and evil man” who hated Christians and “was of the same mind as pagans and Jews” opposed the church in a “tempest of sin,” and “a storm of evil.” This was Asklepiodotos,23 whom the Life correctly notes was the

18. CTh 16.10.24. 19. So, too, JRIL, p. 296. 20. Evagrios, Eccl. Hist. 1.13. Older scholars drew on earlier editions of the Life of Simeon: I have here relied on Doran 1992, which contains translations of three different versions of the Life, including the Syriac Life. 21. JRIL, p. 287; this is presumably the Syriac Simeon 121. 22. Holum 1982:124n57, citing the scholarship of Nau; see also Holum 1982:187, esp. n53. For the difficulties with Nau, see the prior chapter, especially pp. 198–99. 23. Here Asclepiades.



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uncle to the empress and chief “procurator,” who issued an edict ordering that Christians should return all the “knessets and synagogues of the Jews” which they had taken from the Jews or pay fair compensation for the ones they wanted to keep. This law greatly distressed the Christians, all the more so when they saw the Jews and pagans “clothed in white, rejoicing and merry.”24 Various bishops, greatly dismayed at the edict, brought copies of the laws to Simeon. From his pillar outside Antioch, the holy man wrote a caustic letter to Theodosios, accusing the emperor of being “friend, companion, and protector to unbelieving Jews,”25 and warning of impending divine retribution. A terrified Theodosios II immediately retracted the laws, dismissed Asklepiodotos, and beseeched the saint to bless him, pray for him, and reconcile with him.26 The Jews “lost the bribe they gave and became a laughing-​stock in the world as their sabbaths and synagogues remained deserted and empty,”27 while “the holy church and all her children rejoiced.”28 The account in Evagrios is similar, but not identical. Among other things, it envisions the legislation to pertain to synagogues in Antioch.29 What role did Simeon play in this contestation? Slotting the laws of 423 into the account in Simeon is not a simple matter, as the divergent reconstructions of Linder and Holum (among others) make clear. The account in the Syriac Life does not precisely accord with the laws as we currently have them. It suggests that there was only one law, to which Christians objected, followed by a second edict rescinding the first. Its account of this law only resembles the law of February 423 in certain respects.30 That law did require that Jews should be compensated for synagogues seized or vindicated to the

24. Life of Simeon 121. 25. Life of Simeon 121. 26. Life of Simeon 123. 27. Life of Simeon 121. 28. Life of Simeon 123. 29. Evagrios writes: “On this man the power of divine grace had settled to such an extent that when Theodosius the emperor had decreed that the Jews in Antioch should receive back their synagogues which had previously been taken away by the Christians, he wrote in such frank language and censured him so vehemently, since he only reverenced his own emperor, that the emperor Theodosius even revoked his own commands, fulfilled everything in favour of the Christians, dismissed from office the prefect who had recommended this, and begged the all-​ holy and aerial martyr, in these words, both to supplicate and pray on his behalf and to give him a share of his own blessing” (Evagrios, Eccl. Hist. 1.13; trans. Whitby 2000:36). 30. CTh 16.8.25, JRIL 47.

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churches, but it did not restore them to the Jews. It did not require Christians to pay for synagogues they wished to keep, but only for those votive offerings that could not be returned because they had been consecrated to the church. The law was at best a partial victory for Jews: it prohibited the “indiscriminate seizure” and burning of synagogues in the future, but it provided only modest compensation for those seized recently (since the protective law of 420), and it prohibited the construction of new synagogues, as well as the renovation of existing ones. The law of April 423 stated quite explicitly that it was a response to a Jewish petition, and it upbraided those “who . . . under cover of the venerable Christianity” had injured and persecuted Jews, repeating the provisions of the February law that in the future synagogues shall not be occupied or set on fire.31 It did not reiterate the provisions concerning compensation for votive offerings. Contrary to what the Life of Simeon might lead one to expect, the law of June 423 did not rescind the laws of February or April: it insisted that “what we legislated recently concerning the Jews and their synagogues shall remain in force,” and then repeated only part of those laws, namely the provisions that Jews could not build new synagogues, but also should not fear the loss of those they currently had.32 No subsequent preserved law of Theodosios II abrogates these, nor do we have any other confirming evidence either that the laws were actually rescinded, or that Asklepiodotos was dismissed as a result of Simeon’s intervention. Significantly, the story of Simeon and Theodosios II closely resembles Ambrose’s representation of his conflict with Theodosios II’s grandfather and namesake over the synagogue in Callinicum. In each, a Christian emperor issues edicts punishing Christian attacks on synagogues and holding Christians responsible for financial restitution. An outraged defender of the faith upbraids the emperor in a letter, speaking truth to power, warning that God will shortly punish the offending ruler. Assuming—​as seems reasonable—​the authenticity of the law, Theodosios II did instruct Asklepiodotos that it was illegal to attack, burn, pillage, loot, confiscate, or reconsecrate Jewish synagogues. It may well be that Christians in some areas, perhaps especially Syria, resisted the implementation and enforcement of these laws, and attacked synagogues in open defiance of the law, while local officials declined to prosecute them. Jews may well have petitioned the

31. CTh 16.8.26, JRIL 48. 32. CTh 16.8.27, 16.8.14; JRIL 49.



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court to both promulgate and enforce the laws. News of Asklepiodotos’s relatively tolerant treatment of Jews (and perhaps of traditionalists, although the extant laws actually seem far more favorable to Jews) may well have reached Simeon on his pillar, and he may have articulated his antipathy concerning the prefect and his policies. Theodosios II may soon, or eventually, have retreated from efforts to enforce laws protecting synagogues.33 But if he did so, it remains uncertain that the determinative factor was an outraged letter from a holy man on a pillar far from Constantinople, even if, as Doran and Harvey make clear, Simeon was a major patronal figure, even from his pillar.34 The ultimate failure to enforce these laws is more likely to have resulted from Asklepiodotos’s fall from power and dismissal, which may indeed have had something to do with Christian opposition to his support for Jews and traditionalists. Such opposition undoubtedly existed far closer to home than Simeon, including with Pulcheria. Subsequent prefects appear to have had much less interest in legislation that favored, or at least did not further disadvantage, these constituencies. Whoever produced the Syriac Life of Simeon may well have found it useful to attribute Asklepiodotos’s eventual dismissal not to complex court politics but, rather, more directly to the authority and efficacy of the holy man, through a story that resonated closely with the paradigmatic Life of Antony, and with the conveniently comparable story of Ambrose and Theodosios I. The role of Eudokia in all of this remains obscured. Many scholars, including the influential work of Parkes, cite Nau’s argument without critical assessment: that Eudokia was sympathetic to the Jews when she came to court, and once married, used her influence to produce the laws of 423. While this is not impossible, it attributes to a very young woman tremendous influence over the men who held the actual decision-​making power, both her uncle and perhaps to a lesser extent, her still fairly young husband. As I noted in the previous chapter,35 in ancient writers, characterizing women as having undue influence over men is regularly a rhetorical device both for impugning the masculinity of those men and for denigrating the women, subtly or otherwise.36 Contemporary scholars who envision Eudokia as wielding such

33. E.g., Parkes 1934:237. 34. Doran 1992:18–​23; Harvey 1992:9–​12. The descriptions of relations between Simeon and the populace closely resemble relations between deities and humans in ancient West Asia, including treaty and covenant agreements. 35. See above, p. 232. 36. E.g., Cooper 1992, 1996; Matthews 2001.

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influence may have better intentions, hoping to take more seriously the real political effect at least a handful of elite women may really have had, but the truth remains elusive. Recognizing that we lack sufficient evidence, it still seems more likely to me that at best, Eudokia and her uncle shared these proclivities. Such sympathy for traditionalists surely came from the fact that until recently, neither one had been a Christian (and Asklepiodotos never was). Perhaps that had also made them more sympathetic to Jews, given the extent to which both groups had been the targets of Christian antipathy and imperially supported programs of homogenization. Eudokia’s marriage to Theodosios II may have facilitated her uncle’s appointment as prefect and enabled Asklepiodotos to persuade Theodosios II to issue these laws, whose rightness the young empress may well have praised or affirmed. The legislation of 423 itself seems clearly correlated with Asklepiodotos’s own sympathies, including with Jewish lobbies. Whether there were other networks involved that are here obscured by the sources is impossible to know, by definition. But one imagines there were. The accusations of bribery cut both ways: on the one hand, it serves well as an explanation for outcomes ancient writers disapproved; on the other, it was probably a regular practice, or at least regular enough to be plausible to ancient audiences.37 Apart from “the enemy of my enemy being my friend,” it’s not obvious why Eudokia might have been particularly supportive of Jews. One might speculate that it bore some relation to Pulcheria’s hostility to them and Eudokia’s conflict with her sister-​in-​law, a more specific form of “the enemy of my enemy is my friend.” Later sources, discussed further later, attribute to Eudokia some support for the Jews several decades later, and it may be that modern scholars (and perhaps even ancient writers) project this back on accounts of earlier events, where it’s much less clear how much of a player she might have been at this point. There may also be other networks and factors we do not know. In 425, Theodosios II signed a law that prohibited public entertainments and theatre on the grounds that such entertainments distracted Christians from proper observance and attention to Christian rites and celebrations.38

37. A much later Byzantine source, the Chronicle of Theophanes the Confessor, will attribute the building of a synagogue in the Copper Market in Constantinople to funds supplied to the prefect; see below, pp. 267–70. 38. CTh 15.5.5, JRIL 50. The law was not apparently sufficiently concerned with “religion” to be catalogued in Book 16 of the Code.



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It pertained to Jews only somewhat indirectly. Cognizant, obviously, that this rationale didn’t justify depriving Jews and traditionalists of such entertainments, it contained a brief statement that even they should know “that there is a time for supplications and a time for entertainment.”39 But if the law itself did not target Jews as such, its language for both Jews and traditionalists is particularly deprecating, invoking the theme of insanity thoughtfully analyzed by Escribano Pano: “If some are even now detained either by the madness of the Jewish impiety or the error and insanity of the senseless paganism.”40 In the West, Jews may have had somewhat of a legal reprieve in these same few years. Honorius had died in August 423, succeeded by a usurper named John, who held power for less than two years. During that time, John seems to have issued legislation that was more favorable to Jews (or perhaps to have abrogated legislation that was detrimental to Jews).41 Unsurprisingly, that legislation is not transmitted in the Theodosian Code, but is reflected in legislation given after John’s execution, in the name of Valentinian III.42 This legislation actually came from Honorius’s sister, Galla Placidia, at Aquileia, in the name of her son, who was all of five at the time and was technically still only Caesar and not yet Augustus.43 Galla is a fascinating figure in her own right. Following the sack of Rome in 410, she was in the camp of the Goth commander Athaulf, voluntarily or otherwise, whom she married in January 414. A  few weeks after their son, Theodosios III, died, Athaulf was assassinated and Galla returned to Italy. Compelled by her brother, she married his military commander, Constantius, in January 417, with whom she had a daughter, Justa, and a son, Valentinian III. She wielded considerable power

39. Linder takes this to be an allusion to Eccl 3:1–​8; JRIL, p. 304n10. 40. Escribano Pano 2009; ­above, pp. 87–88. 41. See Simonsohn 2014:138: John “abolished the privileges of the Catholic Church [and] had favoured Christian sects other than Catholics, and had apparently restored some of the privileges of the Jews.” 42. Like several other laws discussed in this section, it is reconstructed from laws now found across the Theodosian Code and elsewhere, collected in JRIL 51. They include Sirm 6 (the only portion to pertain directly to Jews); CTh 16.5.62, 16.2.46, 16.2.47, 16.5.63, 16.5.64, and 16.7.7. 43. Linder (JRIL, p. 305) notes that under these circumstances, Valentinian III lacked the authority to legislate, and that this legislation “reflects . . . [Galla] Placidia’s confidence in the forthcoming recognition by the Eastern Court of her son as the Western Augustus.” Theodosios II did elevate him to Augustus on October 23, 425.

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over the western court once her son became emperor in 425, following the deaths of his father, his uncle (Honorius), and John.44 Much of the surviving law concerns itself with restoring “the privileges of all the churches and clerics, which the tyrant denied to our times,” including exemption from secular jurisdiction (which John appears to have revoked). Other portions restate (or reinstate) various regulations against “heretics, schismatics  .  .  .  astrologers and every sect hostile to the Catholics.”45 Various heretical groups were given limited time to return to orthodox communion or be expelled from Gaul and from Rome, suggesting that under John, restrictions on their residence had been relaxed or unenforced. Yet other portions reiterate older laws that invalidate the wills of Christians who engage in traditional sacrifice.46 Only one small portion of the law explicitly pertained to Jews, at the end of the fairly lengthy law now found in the Sirmondian Constitutions. It denied both Jews and traditionalists the right to bring lawsuits (“causas agendi”) and to serve in the state services (“militiae”).47 As Linder comments, an interdiction on Jews in the “militiae” had already been decreed by an edict of Honorius in 418.48 As we have seen, that law permitted Jews currently serving as “agentes in rebus” or in the imperial administration (“palatini”) to serve out their terms, but forbid any such appointments in the future.49 Those serving in the army were immediately dismissed. We might wonder whether John had either abrogated or disregarded that law. The prohibition against bringing lawsuits (“causas agendi”) appears to be new, and there seems to be some question of what precisely this entailed. Various translators take it narrowly as a specific prohibition against Jews or traditionalists bringing lawsuits on behalf of others.50 Linder’s broader translation of “causas agendi” as “the

44. Unfortunately, our sources for her are especially deficient, on which see Sivan 2011, and the bibliography in her notes on pp. 1–​4. Sivan writes that Galla “controlled” the court in the years of Valentinian’s minority (Sivan 2011:184). 45. CTh 16.5.52. 46. CTh 16.7.7, Sirm 6, JRIL 51. The date of the law (the summer of 425) is uncertain: see Rougé and Delmaire 2009:494. 47. For details, see JRIL, p. 306; see also a­ bove, pp. 237–38. 48. Linder, JRIL, p. 306, citing CTh 16.8.24; also JRIL 45. 49. See a­ bove, pp. 237–38. 50. Rougé translated it as “plaider des causes” (Rougé et Delmaire 2009:495). Nemo-​Pekelman argues that the law forbid Jews and “pagani” the right to bring suit on behalf of others, but not to bring such suits on their own individual behalf (a position proposed by others) (Nemo-​ Pekelman 2015:201).



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practice of law” would make the law a negation of the assurances of the prior law (CTh 16.8.24) that Jews could continue to practice legal advocacy even if they were excluded from higher levels of service.51 The following spring (April 426), legislation at Ravenna was addressed to the praetorian prefect of Italy in the name Valentinian III, who, although still a child, was now Augustus.52 The portion pertaining to Jews (and Samaritans) contains one of the strangest provisions of the entire corpus of such legislation. It began by prohibiting Jews and Samaritans from disinheriting their children or grandchildren who became Christians. Wills that disinherited converts were rescinded, permitting the Christian child or grandchild to inherit as though there were no will, except that testamentary manumissions of slaves remained valid, provided they were otherwise lawful. The law then went on to specify that even converts who were found guilty of having murdered either a parent or grandparent were still entitled to a minimal obligatory inheritance. They remained, however, liable for the prescribed punishment for the murder. The law does appear to be gender-​specific, envisioning sons and grandsons, but not daughters and granddaughters, as potential parricides. The law lacks any indication of what prompted it. The first part seems simple enough:  Jewish and Samaritan families sometimes disowned and sought to disinherit children and grandchildren who became Christians. But the second part is far more startling, raising the specter of male converts to Christianity who murdered their parents, and who then still claimed their inheritances, or perhaps whose own heirs did so. Given the rather concrete nature of other laws pertaining to converts, it seems less likely that this law is merely hypothetical.

51.  JRIL, p.  306. In the earlier law, CTh 16.8.24, the Latin reads “exercendae advocationis.” Nemo-​Pekelman argues that this law was grounded in the desires of African bishops, especially Augustine, to prohibit the non-​orthodox, including Jews, from using the law as a weapon against Christian clerics. She sees these desires explicitly articulated in Canon 129 of the Council of Carthage in May 419, which included “heretics, pagans, and Jews” as among those “infames” who could not bring charges against clerics in front of episcopal tribunals (Nemo-​ Pekelman 2015:195–​99). The link with infamy here comes from the earlier law of 418, which assured the Jews that their expulsion from the “militiae” did not place them among the “infames.” But it seems uncertain at best that the subsequent revocation of their ability to practice law now placed Jews in the ranks of the “infames”: the law itself does not say this. Further, the law of 418 did not explicitly link the question of infamy with the practice of law but, rather, with the exclusion from the other services. To the contrary, the earlier law explicitly stated that it was precisely the continuing Jewish eligibility for curial obligations (which this law does not alter) that demonstrated their better status. 52. CTh 16.8.28, 16.7.7; CJ 1.7.4; JRIL 52.

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Two years later, on May 30, 429, the court of Theodosios II issued a law with potentially significant implications for many issues concerning Jews.53 It required persons designated as “primates Iudeorum” to turn over to the imperial treasury whatever funds they have received as taxes since the cessation of the patriarchate. More precisely, it identifies these persons as those particular “primates” who were nominated in the synhedria of either of two of the provinces of Palestine or living in other provinces.54 It further directs all synagogues to make an annual payment to the treasury just as they paid the “aurum coronarium” to the patriarch in the past.55 Those same “primates” are responsible for its collection, under the supervision of officials of the imperial treasury. Last, it specifies that “what used to be transmitted from the western regions to the patriarchs should be entered into our Largesses.”56 This law is the first indication that fifteen years after Gamaliel was demoted—​perhaps at the instigation, or at least with the participation, of Pulcheria—​there is no longer a functioning office of the patriarch. The law implies that despite that vacuum, Jews were still paying (equivalent?) sums to Jewish collectors. Why Theodosios II moved at this point to appropriate those funds and to compel Jews to pay them going forward goes unexplained. This came twenty-​five years after Honorius had reinstated the right of the patriarch to collect these funds, after having previously revoked his right to do so, positioning the revocation as protection of Jews.57 Numerous scenarios seem possible. We might imagine that this latest law was wholly anti-​Jewish, endeavoring to impose an onerous financial burden on Jewish communities that could be avoided by converting. Certainly this may have been its impact, although one could also argue that these taxes were equally burdensome whether they were paid to the emperor or paid to the patriarch (as apparently envisioned both by the initial law of Honorius and Letter 51, attributed to Julian). A more apologetic position, of course, might 53. CTh 16.8.29, JRIL 53. 54. Linder remarks that there were actually three such provinces, not two (JRIL, p. 322–​23n6). 55. Linder seems to takes this to apply to all synagogues everywhere, although he doesn’t quite say this. If so, the final requirement that “what used to be transmitted from the western regions to the patriarchs should be entered into our Largesses” is a bit odd. If the phrase “all synagogues” is truly comprehensive, why is it necessary to specify that what had previously come “de occidentalibus partibus” (in Linder: “Western regions”) is now appropriated to “our Largesses.” Was Theodosios now making a claim on revenues that once went to the West? 56. The “palatini sacrarum largitionum.” 57. See a­ bove, pp. 178–81.



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envision that Jews were happy to provide support to the patriarch, just not to the emperor). The timing of this law, when Valentinian III was still a young child, might well reflect Theodosios’s increasing sense of power and the weakness of the western court. At this point, the Theotokos controversy was heating up in the East.58 It had, on its face, little to do with Jews. In 428, after the death of Attikos in 425 and his brief succession by Sisinnios, Theodosios II appointed the virulently anti-​Arian Nestorios as imperial bishop. A  fervent ascetic, the new bishop apparently made a lot of enemies in short order. He angered the gen­ eral populace by shutting down entertainments such as the circus, the theatre, mimes, games, and dances, and he antagonized monks by insisting that they confine themselves to monasteries, avoiding public settings. He moved quickly against dissident Christians; a lengthy edict of May 30, 428, may have been his work.59 It targeted by name virtually every dissident Christian group imaginable, conjuring an empire awash in “heretics”: Apollinarians, Arians, Borborians, Donatists, Euchites, Eunomians, Macedonians, Manichaeans (“the lowest depth of wickedness),” Marcellians, Marcianists, Messalians, Montanists, Novatians, Priscillianists, Phrygians, Photinians, Paulians, Sabbatians, and Valentinians (the alphabetic ordering is mine). Among its many provisions were reiterations of older laws against the assembly of such persons, their possession of churches, their appointment of clergy, their performance of baptisms, and their inability to bequeath or inherit. Manichaeans in particular were ordered expelled from cities and denied imperial employment, with a few exceptions. It even forbade the emperor himself from granting special exceptions to the testate prohibitions. Like John Chrysostom before him, Nestorios also sought, in Holum’s words, “to keep the prominent women of Constantinople under control; he put an end to female participation in evening psalms and prayer and in watches for the dead, claiming that this led to promiscuity.”60 According to some sources, Nestorios targeted Pulcheria herself in various ways. He accused her of violating her vows of chastity; failed to honor her with her accustomed title of “bride of Christ”; refused to dine with her and her female companions 58. As the footnotes indicate, I am (again) indebted to Holum’s lucid account of this conflict for much of what follows here. 59. CTh 16.5.65. Holum attributes the law of 428 to Nestorios himself (Holum 1982:150). His anti-​Arian stance caused problems for Theodosios, since many of his generals were Arians, allowed the right to worship in recent years (1982:151). 60. Holum 1982:152.

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after Sunday communion, as Sisinnios had done; and effaced her portrait in the Great Church and removed her robe from the altar, where it had served as a communion covering.61 One ancient account claims that shortly after his ordination as bishop, Nestorios refused to allow Pulcheria to take communion in the Great Church.62 When, invoking her Marian self-​identification, she protested that she was entitled to do so because she “had given birth to God,” he replied that she “had given birth to Satan” and was not entitled to “ceremonial equality with her brother.”63 Needless to say, this did not go over well. Although it’s unclear that Nestorios had always had a theological position in this debate, he ultimately proclaimed, with the initial support of Theodosios II and Eudokia, that to call Mary Theotokos was heretical. Unsurprisingly, Pulcheria sided with his opponents. The conflict came to a head in 431, at an ecumenical council called by the emperor for June 7, 431.64 It was held at Ephesos, a major center of Marian devotion (perhaps linked in some way to its ancient history of devotion to the virgin Artemis). Holum argues this location already stacked the deck against Nestorios. Its bishop, Memnon, was a supporter of Cyril of Alexandria, with whom Nestorios had also quarreled,65 and his “lower clergy, monks and other roughnecks would be available for service as shock troops to intimidate the opposition.”66 The council quickly declared Nestorios a heretic, and excommunicated and deposed him. But a few days later, the bishop’s supporter, John of Antioch, arrived and convened a counter-​synod, which condemned and deposed Cyril and Memnon.67 Each side sent lobbyists and reports to the emperor, hoping for his validation. The ultimate outcome was, in Holum’s characterization, a “stalemate.”68 The council was dissolved. Nestorios’s request to return home to

61. Holum 1982:153, with sources and references in the footnotes. 62. The Letter to Cosme, cited in Holum 1982:153n35, with discussion of questions of dating, historicity and so forth. 63. Holum 1982:154. 64. The date was Pentecost (the Jewish festival of Shavuoth—​fifty days after Pesach). In Acts 2:1–​4, this is the occasion when the divine spirit descended on the followers of Jesus assembled in Jerusalem after his death, taking the form of tongues of fire that enabled them to speak languages they did not previously know. 65. Holum 1982:152. 66. Holum 1982:164. 67. Holum 1982:167. 68. Holum 1982:171.



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Syria was granted. Cyril and Memnon were allowed to return to their respective sees, while at the same time, Theodosios II refused to condemn John of Antioch. A new bishop was appointed for Constantinople itself. Perhaps ironically, Nestorios and his followers were ultimately condemned in a stinging edict of August 3, 435, that made it illegal to have or read Nestorios’s writings, and ordered his books to be sought out and publicly burned.69 In certain ways, the real victor here was Pulcheria, whose influence over her brother seems to have prevailed and whose pro-​Marian theology, which authenticated her own basileia (her imperial status and authority), triumphed. Some sources report that the crowds in Constantinople acclaimed Pulcheria as “defender of faith” and “the orthodox one.”70 Given that this controversy seems entirely an internal Christian contestation, it may be no more than expedient that one of the invectives hurled against Nestorios was the epithet “Jew.” It hardly seems a representation of his specific positions, and more a strategic use of the label to signal heresy and opposition.71 At the same time, it does not seem to have been a rhetorical move deployed equally on both sides. Nestorios was taunted and tainted with the label, but does not seem to have wielded it against his opponents. Nevertheless, as we shall shortly see, Eudokia continued to be associated with kindness toward Jews, while Pulcheria is represented as their staunch opponent. Around the same time that Christians in Constantinople were engaged in this particular theological war, another episode of Jewish mass conversion is said to have occurred on the island of Crete.72 But unlike the account of events on Minorca a decade or so earlier, there’s not even a hint that Christians in any way instigated or orchestrated these events, let alone engaged in violence or coercion. According to Sokrates, during the prior year (perhaps even the year of the Council of Ephesos), the Jews on Crete had been deceived by a messianic pretender claiming to be Moses, who persuaded a significant number of men, women, and children to throw themselves off a promontory on an appointed date. Some died when they hit the rocks or drowned in the 69. CTh 16.5.66; the last in the title against “haeretici.” 70. Holum 1982:170. 71. Holum 1982:170 for the label, which comes from an account in the Coptic Acts, on which, see Holum 1982:168, 170, and passim. Holum paraphrases the claim in that Acts that the crowd demanded that “the treasures with which Hellenes and Jews had worked against the orthodox should be returned, or distributed among the poor” (Holum 1982:170). 72. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.38. On the date, see van der Horst 1988:191.

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sea. Providentially, Sokrates claims, some Christian fishermen and merchants happened to be present. They both rescued some of the Jews from drowning and warned those who had not yet leapt of the fate of those who had. The combination of being rescued by Christians and the prompt disappearance of the pretender (which some apparently took as evidence that he was a malevolent being) led many Jews to become Christians. While the events depicted for Minorca can be fruitfully read against political and legal machinations in the preceding (and following) years, little if anything in the Crete episode lends itself to such analysis. I will return to this episode again in the last chapter. From 429 to 438, Theodosios II apparently issued no legislation concerning Jews, or any religious legislation except for the condemnation of Nestorios in 435. In January 438, however, just two weeks before the promulgation of the Theodosian Code on February 15, 438, he issued a major piece of legislation. One of the “new” laws, or Novellae, not included in the Code, it reiterated and amalgamated much previous legislation concerning Jews, Samaritans, “pagani,” and “haeretici,” with some noteworthy additions and emphases.73 It is the last piece of Theodosian legislation concerning Jews before the emperor’s death in 450. The law opens with a rather lengthy prologue asserting that among the emperor’s central obligations was to facilitate the pursuit of “true religion” (“verae religionis”), which guaranteed human prosperity. In language that seems to evoke Cicero’s On the Nature of the Gods 2.38, it asked rhetorically what sane persons, faced with the wonders of the natural world, would not seek out “the author of so great a mystery, so great a fabric?”74 The answer, of course, was Jews, Samaritans, “pagani,” and “other kinds of monstrous heretics.”75 Characterizing all these persons with the by now familiar rhetoric of insanity and incurable illness, the law proclaims its intent to protect the “people” from contamination and contagion.76 73. Novella 3; JRIL 54. For discussion of the transmission of this law in the Code of Justinian, with various errors of dating and consular ascriptions, see JRIL, pp. 323–​24. Pharr 1952 gives the same date. Linder also dismisses the thesis of Nau and Demougeot that the law dates to 439, and reflects anti-​Jewish sentiments on the part of Eudokia, on which see below, pp. 260–67. See also the discussion in Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:209–​15, who attributes the language of the law to Martyrius. 74.  “Tanti secreti, tantae fabricae non quaeret auctorem?” Linder provides the reference to Cicero, although the passage also evokes biblical imagery—​e.g., Ps 8; JRIL, p. 334n4. 75. Novella 3, l. 14: “Iudaeos Samaritas paganos et cetera haereticorum genera portentorum” (trans. Linder, JRIL); Pharr 1952 gives “other breeds of heretical monsters.” 76. Escribano Pano 2009.



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Six sections of the law then reiterated restrictions on the participation of Jews and Samaritans in civic life. The first of these prohibited Jews and Samaritans from serving in the imperial administration, or from holding offices of “dignity” in municipal governments, including the office of “defensor.”77 Those currently in such offices were to be dismissed. On the express concern that it was improper for such impious persons to avenge Roman laws or judge Christians (including even bishops), they were not permitted to serve in judicial capacities. The much briefer second section prohibited the construction of new synagogue buildings, but allowed the repair of synagogues on the verge of ruin. Perhaps tellingly, it addressed activities that might in some instances have been necessitated by attacks on synagogues, including repairs and new construction, but failed to reiterate the earlier prohibitions on those attacks. Next, the law prescribes capital punishment and forfeiture for anyone who induces a Christian to engage in impious rites. In language that recalls the law of 415, demoting Gamaliel VI, the following section stripped Jews and Samaritans of any dignities they may have held and returned them to the lowest possible ranks. Those who undertake to build a synagogue (rather than repair it) would both be subject to a massive fine (50 gold pounds) and forfeit the property itself. The law identifies the few exceptions to these prohibitions. Jews and Samaritans were nevertheless still bound by their obligations to public welfare, and thus had to continue to serve as decurions, and could not claim exemptions from compulsory services. Further, they (as well as the others covered by this law) could also continue to hold the lesser administrative position of “apparitor,” but could only execute judgments in private suits. They could not supervise prisons (which held persons awaiting trial), in order to prevent the possibility that they might have control of Christians who might not have been rightfully incarcerated.78 One lengthy section then reiterates the constraints on those who continued to practice traditional religion, particularly sacrifice. The professed optimism of Theodosios II’s younger self that such persons were virtually eliminated here became great exasperation at their tenacity.79 Despite “the thousand terrors of

77. A law of 407 from Ravenna had already barred non-​Catholics from imperial service in the palace (CTh 16.5.41), issued the day before an edict affirming earlier laws against Donatists, Manichaeans, Priscillianists, “Gentiles,” and the Caelicoli; see above, pp. 182–83, 210–211. 78. For a helpful overview of the office, see Nemo-​Pekelman 2015:214–​15, who notes that persons accused of certain crimes were remanded to the custody of apparitors until trial, a situation rife for potential abuse. 79. CTh 16.10.22, in 423; see ­above, pp. 188–89.

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the laws that have been promulgated” and the threats of exile, such persons persisted: “Our patience is so assailed by the attempts of these impious persons that even if we desired to forget them, we could not disregard them.” Those who were caught sacrificing were to forfeit both their fortunes and their lives. A somewhat shorter section expressed, in general terms, comparable concern about failures to enforce laws against Christian dissidents. “All inaction shall cease and  .  .  .  the regulations shall be put into swift execution which have been issued in innumerable constitutions,” against a list of by now quite familiar subjects:  Ascodrogians,80 Borboritae, Eunomians, Hydroparastae, Manichaeans, Montanists, Ophitans, Phrygians, Photinians, and Priscillianists (again, the alphabetical order is mine). It’s interesting, though, to compare it with the longer list drawn up a decade earlier in the law of 428, perhaps by Nestorios. The later list lacks some major groups from the fourth century (Arians and Donatists), as well as many smaller ones (Macedonians, Marcianists, Paulians, Sabbatians, and others). It seems unwise, however, to read either list as a reliable indication of the actual prevalence, strength, and political power of any of these, let alone, in at least some cases, their existence. The law preserves a lengthy justification for its formulation, the extent to which the non-​orthodox of all stripes continued in their own practices and ideas, despite numerous prior laws intended to coax or compel them otherwise. (It also suggests that synagogues continued to be built, renovated, and expanded, and not only when they were in derelict states, which some archaeological evidence corroborates.)81 It seems highly plausible that some if not many of these various restrictions were at least partially intended to induce, if not coerce, Jews and Samaritans (as well as traditionalists and dissident Christians) into becoming orthodox Christians, at which point they would be relieved of these various legal liabilities.82 Dilley, for instance, argues that the retroactive element of this particular law effectively forced Jews who wished to remain in office to convert, presumably immediately. But of course, 80. Linder’s reading in JRIL; Pharr gives their name as Tascodrogians (Pharr 1952:490n15). 81. The archaeological evidence for the renovation (and/​or repair) of late antique synagogues is ample, both in the homeland and in the Mediterranean diaspora; see, e.g., Levine 2012; see also above, ­chapter 1 and below, chapter 10. But the data set for the Mediterranean diaspora also is much smaller, and the evidence for the construction of entirely new synagogues from the late fourth century on is modest, at best. 82. Dilley 2010a:593. By comparison, as noted earlier, the edict of 418 permitted Jewish executive agents and palatini in office at the time to serve out their terms, presumably allowing them a grace period in which to become Christian. Those in actual military service were immediately terminated.



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if the edict really were retroactive, converting might not help, since the men would have been Jews at the time of their appointment regardless. Yet none of this helps to identify the precise trigger for the promulgation of the law. For at least a century, scholarly discussions of its impetus have been shaped by two stories about the monk Barsauma and Eudokia in the Syriac Life of Barsauma, whose veracity I have already challenged in the previous chapter. One story has nothing to do with Jews, but sets the stage for a second encounter between the monk and the empress in which Jews play a starring role.

Barsauma in Jerusalem I The first story is a long account titled “[Barsauma] refuses the gifts which the empress Eudokia offers him.”83 Barsauma was again in Jerusalem, where Eudokia, having herself come to the city, now heard reports of him. She sent him gifts of gold which he refuses (without explanation). He does, however, accede to her plea to come and speak with her. The Life provides a lengthy account of their conversation. She asks him what she should do to “live,” and he replies “I shall say what Daniel said to King Nebuchadnezzar of Babylon: ‘Pay for your sins with almsgiving and for your wickedness with mercy for the weak.’ ” 84 When Eudokia counters that her almsgiving would not redeem her from her sins because it does not come from the work of her hands, Barsauma responds with a complex reading of the gospels, concluding that “if the rich act mercifully toward the poor . . . together with the poor, they will inherit the Kingdom which is prepared for them.” Persuaded, Eudokia resolves henceforth to give much wealth to the poor.85 Once again, Eudokia then tries to give the monk gifts, which he still refuses. As he starts to leave her house, where this conversation had taken place, she grabs at his cloak and begs him instead to leave it for her. “I want it,” she cries, “I need it to obtain salvation.” Taking the garment, she allows him to leave. Subsequently, she sends him her own expensive cloak, asking him to offer it to God on her behalf. Reluctantly, he does so, “adapt[ing] it to the service of God’s altar.”86

83. Life of Barsauma 83. As in the prior chapter, text numbering and English translation are taken from Palmer, forthcoming. 84. Life of Barsauma 83.4; Dan 4:27. 85. Life of Barsauma 83.21–​24. 86. Life of Barsauma 83.26–​30.

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This episode is quite different from the rest of the Life in its specificity and seeming historicity, as well as in the detailed speech of both the monk and the empress. Scholars of the Theodosian household, like Holum, seem to take it as containing basic useful information. Eudokia met with Barsauma, he gave her his cloak, and she gave him hers to use an altar cloth, although the text doesn’t exactly attribute that intention to her, but, rather, suggests that he repurposed her gift in an appropriately pious way, refusing to benefit personally from the empress’s wealth and refusing to be indebted to her. It is reminiscent of the story of Jesus and the rich man,87 but may also have another ideological use. By crediting Eudokia’s extensive almsgiving during her time in Jerusalem to the saint’s instruction, the text demonstrates the great power and authority an impoverished ascetic monk had over a ruler of the Roman Empire, much like the story of Simeon and Theodosios discussed earlier.

Barsauma in Jerusalem II The second, more germane story comes during Barsauma’s fourth journey to Jerusalem, and is titled “The Jews who assemble en masse and meet their deaths.”88 The Jews of the Galilee and surrounding areas had told Eudokia that Constantine had forbidden them from living in the environs of Jerusalem and ask her for permission to pray at the ruins of the temple built by Solomon. “You are the Mistress of the World and we are the slaves of your Royal Highness. Without you, we are unable to live. . . . Have mercy on your slaves.”89 When she agrees, they send letters to Jews in the provinces of Persia and the great cities of the Roman Empire. The Life provides the alleged text verbatim: To the great and mighty people of the Jews, from the priests and Leaders of the Galilee. Warm greetings. We write to inform you that the time of our people’s diaspora is past. The day has come for our tribes to be reunited. The Roman emperors have decreed that our city, Jerusalem, is to be restored to us.

87. Mark 10:17–​31; Matt 19:16–​30; Luke 18:18–​30. 88. Life of Barsauma  91–​96. 89. Life of Barsauma 91.1.



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Make haste, then, to come to Jerusalem for the feast of [Sukkoth]. Our kingdom is going to be reestablished in Jerusalem.90 On the first day of Sukkoth, Barsauma, who was staying at a monastery outside the city, enters Jerusalem in secret. He goes to pray at the pool of Siloam,91 and then returns to the monastery where he is staying. A group of twenty of his disciples leave and go to the ruined temple, where they see a vast multitude of Jewish men and women (103,000), dressed in black and weeping. The Jews tear their clothing and cover themselves in ashes.92 At this sight, one of the disciples of Barsauma warns the others to flee because the anger of the Lord would be falling on the Jews—​and presumably on them if they remained to watch. The disciples leave, while the Jews see troops from heaven descend against them, hurling stones.93 Most Christians also see nothing, although one or two disciples do see a cloud of sand obscure the Jews from sight. Unaware of the true, divine identity of those who stoned them, the Jews blame the Christian monks. First, they seize the monk who issued the warning,94 calling for him to be stoned as the leader, and identifying the others as “the Christian monks who have killed us.” Misled by the Jews, Roman soldiers and some Christian clerics arrest the disciples of Barsauma and inflict many blows on them, since harming the Jews had been forbidden by the empress. A group of Roman soldiers, clerics, and Jews then got out to the empress’s palace at Bethlehem, six miles from Jerusalem. Paying honor to her with olive branches, they allege that many monks had come from Mesopotamia and attacked Jerusalem, slaughtering many people and leaving their bodies littered in public places, including courtyards and cisterns. In response, Eudokia sends many Romans to seize the murderers. Realizing that they would—​wrongly, of course—​be put to death as murderers, the disciples of Barsauma decide not to

90. Life of Barsauma 91.4. 91. In the Gospel of John 9:1–​11, Jesus puts mud and saliva on the eyes of a man blind from birth, and sends him to the Pool of Siloam to wash it off. When the man does so, he gains his sight. Conceivably, this detail alludes to the blindness of the Jews. 92. Life of Barsauma 91.8–​9. 93. Life of Barsauma 92.3–​4. 94. Life of Barsauma 93.1–​2.

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admit their identity.95 Nevertheless, Eudokia’s men arrest, beat, and imprison eighteen of them, while the empress decrees that the next day they will be judged and put to death. The Jews carry their dead to the doors of the prison and the empress orders that the murderers should die the same death—​beaten, stoned, or stabbed. But when the bodies of the dead are undressed, no sign of such traumas can be found, putting the lie to the Jewish accusations. The innocent disciples are saved by yet more miracles.96 A Jewish woman falls down by the cadavers, dies, and shrivels up immediately. Agents of the empress then arrest and interrogate the heads of the Jews about who had really killed their people, and they become convinced that it had not been the monks but a heavenly chastisement. Terrified of dying like that woman—​whose death and desiccation was presumably construed as divine punishment for the false accusation—​the crowd demands the release of the brothers. Eudokia then releases the disciples, imploring them to forgive her this sin. The Christians, however, still doubt that heaven had killed the Jews. While the dead Jews are being buried, though, five more Jews fall down dead, which is reported to the empress.97 She then orders that the disciples be given something to eat and drink, but they respond that they could not eat without their master. Asked about who this is, they reply that their master is Barsauma, staying at the monastery of Photina of Zion. Everyone then runs to Barsauma and Eudokia asks him to judge the disciples, since the Jews had not accused him of partiality. She then sends to the Roman governor, in Caesarea, to come and release the disciples from prison. Because it takes six days to travel to Caesarea and back, it appears that the empress wants to side with the Jews. The Christians then tell each other that Eudokia sought to kill the Christians by a ruse, and that she would burn them and all who accompanied them. Unspecified bishops who happened, conveniently, to be in Jerusalem just then, write letters to various cities and towns to rally a multitude, who come and fill the city. They wait to see what the empress will do, with the intent to do to her what they thought she would do to them. When the governor arrives on the sixth day, he is afraid to enter Jerusalem for fear of being stoned himself, and takes up residence some distance outside the city. Sending to the imprisoned men, he requests that they come out and calm the assembled multitude, so that they can be blessed by the disciples. The disciples, 95. Life of Barsauma 93.6, reminiscent of the disciples, especially Peter, who disavowed Jesus to avoid arrest and punishment, although whether that allusion is intentional is impossible to determine. 96. Life of Barsauma 94.1. 97. Life of Barsauma 95.1.



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however, think this is a ruse, and that the governor really came to put them to death. Instead, they request that he come to the prison with Barsauma. When the two men arrive, the governor assures them that he has not come to judge them, and asks that the eldest among them tell him “in no more than ten sentences how it all began.”98 No sooner does Barsauma open his mouth to do so than, at his second word, an earthquake erupts, which nevertheless kills no one and demolishes no houses. Clearly vindicated by this latest miracle,99 Barsauma orders the heralds to cry: “The Crucified has overcome” (an allusion, perhaps, to Constantine’s famous “in hoc vincit”—​“with this sign, conquer”). The multitude repeats the refrain, shouting so long and loudly that the children of the city tremble at the clamor. At Barsauma’s command, one of his disciples intones a psalm: “Let God arise and let  all his enemies be scattered.”100 Barsauma then proceeds into the city. Many “poured out before him fine wines and select oils on the ground in front of him, scattered expensive spices in his direction as he walked, or sprinkled him with expensive perfumes,” liturgical imagery that invokes Jesus’s entry into Jerusalem.101 At the great church constructed on Mount Zion, Barsauma offers up the Eucharist. At the end of this episode, everything is reported to Theodosios, while Eudokia is filled with fear and bows before him.102 Barsauma takes the route to the sea, everyone comes before him, and he continues to perform miracles. In the influential short article published almost a century ago, based on the presumption that Theodosios’s law dated to 439, rather than 438, Nau saw an integral connection between the law and these two accounts.103 He wove them together in the following reconstruction.104 98. Life of Barsauma 96.2. 99. Life of Barsauma 96.6. 100. Life of Barsauma 96.9; Ps 68 (Heb). 101. Life of Barsauma 96.11. 102. Life of Barsauma 96.13–​17. 103. For the date, see the appendix in Nau 1927a, which argued (1) that were the law really to date to January 438, it should have been included in the Theodosian Code; (2) that the Code of Justinian dates it to 439; and (3) it’s far easier to explain as a result of the events related in the Life of Barsauma. 104.  In Nau 1927a and 1927b, the latter a very short article, only part of which deals with Eudokia.

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Barsauma went to Jerusalem early in 438, where he ultimately encountered Eudokia, as depicted in the thirtieth “wonder.” Nau thought that Eudokia already had somewhat of a reciprocal relationship with the Jews. He presumed that Jews must have been among those at Antioch who received the empress so favorably prior to her visit to Jerusalem, precisely because of her support for them in the law of 423, and in Theodosios II’s subsequent granting of their “pitiful” petition after that law initially provoked resistance from many Christians, including Simeon Stylites. He then seems to have conflated the events of 438 with the second account of the riots resulting from Eudokia’s agreement to let the Jews pray on the site of the temple ruins, partly because neither envisions Eudokia as yet disgraced.105 Nau next relied on Graetz’s famous History of the Jews for the claim that the Jews were everywhere promoting the belief that “the prophet Elijah had announced that the Messiah would come in 440.”106 The events narrated in the Life were thus triggered by heighted Jewish messianic expectations—​438 being, presumably, close enough to 440. Theodosios II’s law, dated to 439, was the response to the mayhem that ensued, an attempt to keep Syria and Palestine from uprising, and to pacify Barsauma. The difficulties with this reconstruction are substantial, even apart from the fact that scholars now generally concur that the law was issued in January 438, too close to the publication of the Theodosian Code to be included there. Although Nau’s reliance on Graetz was perhaps understandable, it was, for starters, not exactly accurate. What Graetz actually says was only that in the fifth century, “an ancient sibylline saying, attributed to the prophet Elijah, was current, according to which the Messiah would appear in the eighty-​fifth jubilee (between 440 and 470 of the common era).”107 Graetz’s comments come within a discussion of the efforts to restrain Jewish messianic hopes by the Babylonian amora Ashi, himself thought to have worked in the fifth

105. Nau 1927a:191. 106. Nau here cited the 1888 German edition of Graetz’s famous History of the Jews:1888:3.230; in the English edition:1891:610. As noted shortly, this isn’t exactly what Graetz said. 107. Graetz does not cite the specific Sibylline text, but goes on to adduce the instance of a false messianic pretender in Ashi’s own time, in Crete, paraphrasing at some length the account in Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.38 (above, pp. 255–56; below, pp. 353–56). Tellingly, Graetz not only fails to indicate the Christian source of the account but also omits the role of Christians in preventing many Jews form jumping to their death, as well as the final result in which most of the Jews convert to Christianity. Van der Horst 1988 also notes this tradition about Ashi, but does not cite Graetz’s use of it or Nau’s connection of it to the uproar in Jerusalem.



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century. Graetz provided readers with no references here, but he presumably had in mind several passages from the Babylonian Talmud which calculate the messiah’s appearance as somewhere between 365 and 400 years after the fall of Jerusalem in 70,108 including the saying ascribed to Ashi that one should not expect the messiah before the eighty-​fifth jubilee—​that is, 440–​490 ce.109 More substantively, whether any part of the accounts of Barsauma and Eudokia is historical remains dubious, although certainly not impossible. They may both have been in Jerusalem at the same time, and Eudokia may well have desired to meet a monk with a reputation for stringent asceticism.110 But whether Eudokia then triggered a messianic eruption in Palestine remains uncertain, and even if she did, there are reasons to suspect that it took place not in 438, but sometime after 443, when the empress moved permanently to the palace at Bethlehem.111 Such a date, for what it’s worth, would actually be more consistent with the alleged prophecy. Why Eudokia might have been amenable to a petition from Jews to gather at the site of the temple remains uncertain. Scholars from Nau onward have connected this later account with her presumed support for Jews fifteen years earlier, at the time of her marriage to Theodosios II. But even if that was initially the case, there are other indications that at this point in her life, Eudokia was not necessarily so kindly disposed toward Jews. During her first tour of Jerusalem, where she built up a résumé of pious public actions,112 Eudokia attended the consecration of a church to St. Stephen, whose strong associations with anti-​Judaism were considerably heightened in the fifth century, as we have seen throughout this study.113 The consecration was said to have been

108. b. Avoda Zara 9a–​b ; b. Sanhedrin 97a–​b and 99a; on which, see van der Horst 1988. 109. b. Sanhedrin 97b. Afterwards one may expect him (b. Sanhedrin 97b). 110. One might wonder a bit at the likelihood of an empress desiring to meet with someone associated with so much unlawful violence, although that, too, is entirely derived from the Life, and may owe much to hagiographic conventions, such that Eudokia’s perception of Barsauma was quite different. 111. For the circumstances of Eudokia’s disgrace, see Holum 1982:193–​94, which he sees as part of a larger (and effective) intrigue by a palace eunuch, Chrysaphios, to dislodge both Pulcheria and Eudokia from power. Holum thus dates the Sukkoth episode to the early 440s (Holum 1982:217–​18). 112. For the circumstances of Eudokia’s program of piety, see Holum 1982:ch. 6, “Two Empresses who Refused to be One.” 113. Holum 1982:187n51, citing The Life of Peter the Hibernian. Although I do not feel competent to determine the reliability of these particular sources, my experience with comparable works makes me skeptical.

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conducted by Cyril of Alexandria, whom, as we have seen, Sokrates claims expelled Jews from Alexandria several decades earlier and whose reputation for antipathy to Jews is considerable. Eventually, Eudokia enhanced the church and added additional martyrs’ relics.114 If one grants some credence to a depiction of Barsauma as fervently anti-​Jewish, Eudokia’s apparent patronage of the monk further links her to Jewish antagonists. On the other hand, many of these actions, including devotion to Stephen and currying favor with stringently ascetic monks, may have had a different purpose—​namely to assert Eudokia’s own piety in the face of that long claimed by her sister-​in-​law, Pulcheria. Schooled early in traditional philosophy and religion, the young Eudokia may well have had little sympathy for Christians, and even some sympathy for Jews (and Samaritans) who were also the targets of Christian antagonism, although this remains little more than speculation. Whether she still retained any such sentiments after years of performing the role of a pious orthodox empress at the court at Constantinople is simply impossible to say from the sources that survive. Interestingly, Holum sees behind the January law the hand of Pulcheria, whom he thinks hated Jews, and that her hostility was compounded by the (mis)perception of the Nestorian heresy, which she also detested, as somehow Jewish in origin.115 The law was addressed to Florentius, now praetorian prefect of the East, to whom the condemnation of Nestorios had also been directed. Relying partly on the Life of Simeon, he thinks that it did generate riots between Jews and Christians, with Jews bribing judges not to enforce the provisions that limited their participation in imperial offices.116 According to Paul Dilley, a reminiscence of this event may possibly be found in a Syriac text known as the Story of Judas Kyriakos. Set in the lifetime of Constantine’s mother, Helena, it narrates the recovery of the true cross from Jews, a recovery that is also narrated in various sources from the late fourth century on.117 On a visit to Jerusalem, Helena interrogated local Jews about the location of the cross. A Jew, conveniently named Judas, initially told her that the cross’s location was contained in ancient documents transmitted in his family,

114. Holum 1982:219. 115. Holum 1982:188. 116. Holum 1982:188. 117. E.g., Ambrose, Oration for Theodosios 43–​51; Rufinus, Eccl. Hist. 10.7–​8; Theodoret, Eccl. Hist. 1.17; Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 1.17; Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 2.1.2–​10.



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which his father had told him he must hand over in order to avoid torture. Subsequently, though, threatened with both torture and loss of salvation, he retracted this claim. Ultimately, in response to prayers, he received a revelation about the cross’s location, after which Helena led a team to the site and recovered the cross. Subsequently, Judas converted and became bishop of Jerusalem, and Helena banned the Jews from the city. Dilley proposes that the depiction of Helena as a strong interrogator of the Jews is intended as an implicit contrast to, and rebuke of, the permissiveness of Eudokia.118 Helena’s banishment of Jews from the now Christian city represents the proper stance, one not taken by Eudokia. Although he does not discuss the differences between this and other ancient accounts of the discovery of the true cross in any depth,119 Dilley’s analysis depends on those differences for the argument that this new account of Helena’s role is based on a critique of Eudokia in the light of the Sukkoth episode.120 He may be right, but if so, the critique is particularly subtle, requiring highly knowledgeable hearers. We know of no further legislation pertaining to Jews issued from Theodosios’s court after the extensive edict of 438. But several late Byzantine sources contain accounts of the confiscation of a synagogue in Constantinople in the so-​called Copper Market quarter, and its transformation into a Marian

118. Dilley 2010a:600–​601; for the text itself, see Drijvers and Drijvers 1997. Dilley dates the law to January of 438 (Dilley 2010a:593) and the Sukkoth episode to the following fall (Dilley 2010a:600), but as noted earlier, the later dating seems more likely. 119. Dilley 2010a:599n30, where he briefly notes the account in Sozomen. In the common story line, Helena went to Jerusalem and found that Christian persecutors had covered over the site of the cross and erected a temple of Aphrodite there, so that Christians who wished to venerate the site of Jesus’s crucifixion would instead seem to be worshiping the goddess. After a divine revelation of some sort, Helena had the site cleared and ultimately discovered three crosses. In Ambrose, Jesus’s cross was identified by its inscription. In other accounts, especially Rufinus, the true cross was identified only when it effected the cure of a noble woman close to death. Sozomen interjects into this tale what seems to be a reference to the story of Judas, which he then refutes. Some unspecified persons, he says, claim that a “Hebrew man” living in the eastern regions had revealed the location of the cross based on writings held in the possession of his family (literally “fathers”). Sozomen counters that in truth, it was because God showed it to the man by miracles and dreams (Eccl. Hist. 2.1.4). As Sabbah points out (1983:230n1), this account is absent in Ambrose, Rufinus, and Sokrates. 120. Regardless, Dilley’s focus on the elements of verification for these texts, which they shared with relics (such as those of Stephen, or of the Christians wrongly buried in a Jewish cemetery in Bologna), is illuminating: multiple visions, interviews by bishops or imperial authorities, confirmation through excavation; miracles, themselves confirmed by first-​person testimonials recorded by authoritative clerics, etc. (Dilley 2010a:603). On the interesting issue of imitatio Helena, he cites Brubaker 1997.

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church, some of which are set at the end of Theodosios’s reign.121 The Chronicle of Theophanes the Confessor, who died in the early ninth century, contains two entries for this transformation. According to the first, in 449–​450, after Pulcheria returned to the palace in Constantinople, Pulcheria erected a Marian church in the Copper Market, which had previously been a synagogue of the Jews.122 According to the second, Justin II confiscated a synagogue “of the Hebrews” and built the Marian church there in 576–​577.123 The novels of Justinian attribute the building of this Marian church to Verina, wife of Leo I (sometime between 457 and 474).124 A tenth-​century Byzantine account associates a Jewish presence in the Copper Market area as early as Constantine, and claims that Theodosios II “built the church, having banished the Jews from the place (topos) and purified the place.”125 This passage makes no explicit reference to a synagogue, unless the use of topos is actually an allusion to a well-​documented technical term for synagogues (the holy place).126 Particularly striking is a story in the twelfth-​century Chronicle of John Zonaras, which conflates the story of the Copper Market synagogue with Ambrose’s account of the Callinicum synagogue and his contestation with Theodosios I.127 In this tale, while Theodosios was away in the West, the Jews “paid honor” to the city prefect, one Honoratus (for which, presumably, read bribed) for permission to build an expensive synagogue in the quarter. Honoratus, being a Hellene, agreed. The irritated populace eventually reacted by burning down the synagogue. Informed of this by Honoratus, Theodosios II ordered that the arsonists pay for the cost of rebuilding it. 121. For a more detailed discussion of the extant sources and some of the historiography, see Panayotov 2002; see also his shorter discussion in IJO 1. p. 38. There is also a lengthy discussion of the sources and the incident in Juster 1914:1.471–​72n2, see also Lathoud and Pezaud 1924. 122. Theophanes, Chron., for the year 5942 = 449/​50 (Mango and Scott 1997; de Boor 1883). 123. Theophanes, Chron., for the year 6069 = 575/​6. 124. Novella 3.1, from 535, which concerns the duties of clergy in various churches, including the Marian church in the Chalcoprateia (Panayotov 2002:327n29). 125.  πάτρια Κωνσταντινουπόλεως III.32:  Greek text and English translation of the passage in Panayotov 2002:321, with further references in n9. 126. Panayotov does not note this, and his English translation of the phrase “Theodosius the Little banished them from that place, [and] cleared the site,” obscures the possible connotation of τόπος. 127. Linder conflates the account in Theophanes with that in John, claiming that Theophanes’s account refers to the collusion with the prefect, and takes it to be accurate, dating the event to 442 (JRIL, p. 326).



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Because the emperor was now living in Milan, “Ambrose” heard about this and confronted him during church services. Evoking Ambrose’s actual account of the Callinicum affair, the bishop pleaded the case of the Christians against the murderers of Christ, while the emperor feebly protested that bishops and lawless crowds should not be able to do as they liked in well-​ordered cities.128 “Ambrose” retorted that it was not right for Jews to have a synagogue “in the center of a pious city,” nor to whisper blasphemies in the ears of the pious. Theodosios II relented, rescinded the judgment against the arsonists, and forbid the Jews from having a synagogue in Constantinople. Although a Marian church was built in the Copper Market at some point, the historical utility of any of these sources seems dubious, at best. It’s unclear who built the church (the various ancient candidates being Pulcheria, Theodosios II, Verina, and even Justin II), let alone whether a synagogue previously existed on the site. Evidence for Jews in Constantinople in this period is actually quite thin.129 No inscriptions place Jews there, and as Panayotov remarks, this story is the only literary evidence for Jews anywhere in Thrace.130 As considered earlier, Sokrates claims that Attikos converted a Jewish author of medical treatises named Adamantios to Christianity in Constantinople after Cyril expelled the Jews from Alexandria, but Adamantios then returned to Egypt, and the story sheds no light on whether there were otherwise Jews in Constantinople. Nevertheless, many accounts of the Jews in early Byzantium contain the claim that either Theodosios or perhaps Pulcheria erected the church on the site of a synagogue. Some scholars have attempted to reconcile these competing late sources with scenarios in which Pulcheria was responsible for the conversion of a synagogue into the church, while Verina redid it, and Justin II built a new church after an earthquake destroyed the initial site.131 Even Panayotov’s judicious review of the “meagre and sometimes

128.  Panayotov suggests that it is very similar to the dialogue between the two related in both Sozomen (Eccl. Hist. 7.25.1–​7) and Theodoret (Eccl. Hist.5.17–​18) after the massacre in Thessalonika, in 390 (Panayotov 2002:326). He also cites Ambrose, Letter 51 (Maur.; also Letters Outside 11), to Theodosios I, after the massacre. 129. I thank Rebecca Falcasantos for her thoughts about this. 130. IJO 1. pp. 37–​38 (prefacing the discussion of inscriptions from Thrace). 131.  Panayotov 2002, summarizing David Lathoud:  he notes that Mango 1992 has more recently argued that the initial transformation was in fact done under the auspices of Verina, not Pulcheria. Panayotov himself proposes that Pulcheria’s church was destroyed in a massive fire in 476, starting in the Copper Market, and then rebuilt by Verina, but he concedes that no ancient accounts of the fire say this.

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contradictory” sources132 concludes with an effort to extract some historical data about Jewish copper artisans in Constantinople. Despite the impoverished evidence, he seems persuaded that there was a synagogue transformed into a Marian church, and is more concerned with exactly who ordered it, when, and whether the synagogue was converted or demolished. He points out that while it’s not impossible that Pulcheria was the instigator, acting out of anti-​Jewish sentiments of some sort, it’s difficult to determine “her personal predilections” from the available evidence—​something that’s similarly true for Verina.133 Partly because the site, now a mosque, has yielded no evidence of a synagogue, he thinks it possible that the original synagogue was demolished, similar to those at Stobi and Apamea (to which one might add Minorca). He sees this as consistent with the new imperial policies of the fifth century concerning synagogues, suggesting that the synagogue was an especially good target not only because of its central location but also because its replacement by “one of the most venerated churches of Constantinople under the auspices of an Augusta explicitly underlined the new policy towards Jews and Judaism in the Eastern Roman Empire.”134 While none of this is impossible, it seems a great deal of weight to place on such exceptionally weak evidence. The sources for the years when Theodosios II was emperor may then be read to suggest that the situation of Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora (and the homeland as well) continued to decline significantly in numerous respects. Several laws, for instance, further limited the rights of Jews and restricted their participation in the life of an increasingly Christianized empire. A western law of 418 excluded Jews from the offices of executive agents and palace officials, as well as from the military.135 Another western law in 425 prohibited Jews from engaging in legal advocacy.136 Laws such as these might be seen as designed to encourage conversion, by imposing legal disabilities on Jews that would be removed if they converted. It became illegal for Jews to construct entirely new synagogues. Older laws prohibiting Jews, on pain of death, from either purchasing Christian slaves or circumcising male slaves were repeated. In 415, the Jewish patriarch, Gamaliel 132. Panayotov 2002:329. 133. In the discussion in IJO 1. p. 38, he writes that the synagogue was converted into the Marian church “most probably by Pulcheria, in 449 ce.” 134. Panayotov 2002:334. 135. CTh 16.8.24, JRIL 45. 136. Sirm 6, JRIL 51.



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VI, was demoted from his elevated rank and the office itself lapsed forever.137 A law of 429 compelled Jewish leaders not only to turn over funds they had already collected but also to continue the mandatory collection of such funds from synagogues, now redirected to the imperial coffers.138 Other laws, however, protected certain rights of Jews. An edict of 412 made it illegal to summon Jews to court on the Sabbath or on other Jewish festivals.139 Jews who had converted to Christianity to avoid criminal prosecution were allowed to return to the practice of Judaism without being liable for the charge of illicit conversion to Judaism.140 Both the western and the eastern courts eased up the restrictions on Jewish ownership of Christian slaves, allowing Jews to hold enslaved Christians as long as the slaves were allowed to practice Christianity.141 A major law of 423 protected “innocent” Jews and prohibited the burning or vandalizing of synagogues.142 Yet, as I have attempted to show throughout, these same laws may also be read as evidence of repeated contestations between Christians and Jews, as well as an escalating struggle between those who sought to authorize and implement such restrictions and those who, for diverse motivations, defended the rights of Jews under existing Roman laws and customs. A law of 409 punished those who forced Christians to become Jews.143 A law of 408 forbid Jews from mocking Christians, apparently on the occasion of religious festivals, especially Purim, where the practice of hanging an effigy of Haman seemed particularly apt as an expression of Jewish resistance to Christianity.144 Limitations were placed on synagogue renovations and repairs that were themselves surely necessitated, at least on some occasions, by Christian vandalism. The very laws that explicitly prohibited the burning or vandalizing of Jewish synagogues seem necessitated by the actuality of such attacks, most fully depicted in the Letter of Severus of Minorca.

137. CTh 16.8.22, JRIL 41. 138. CTh 16.8.29, JRIL 53. 139. CTh 16.8.20, 2.8.26; JRIL 40. 140. CTh 16.8.23, JRIL 43. 141. E.g., CTh 16.9.3, JRIL 42. 142. CTh 16.8.26, JRIL 48. 143. CTh 16.8.19, JRIL 39. 144. CTh 16.8.18, JRIL 36.

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In the fifth century, narratives of Christian anti-​Jewish violence seem to proliferate. The nature of these accounts makes it difficult to assess how often and widespread such attacks may have been. Virtually all the information about those attacks comes from suspect sources, particularly the later hagiographical accounts of figures such as Salsa, Simeon, and Barsauma. Contemporaneous historiographic sources contain no accounts of attacks on synagogues. (With the notable exception of Sokrates, they rarely mention Jews at all.) Even in Sokrates’s account of the expulsion of Jews from Alexandria by the new orthodox bishop, Cyril and his supporters are not said to have attacked Jewish synagogues. Cyril is said only to have gone to the synagogues, and taken them away from the Jews.145 This absence by no means implies that such attacks did not take place, and we can envision numerous reasons for this absence—​not the least of which was their continued illegality. The agents of this violence appear overwhelmingly to be Christian bishops, monks, and the mobs they could mobilize. State agents do not appear as the official instigators, sponsors, or authorizers of violence against Jews. State actors hostile to Jews (Cynegius, Pulcheria, Galla Placidia, and many others) seem to have favored the use of law, rather than official state violence, to implement their programs. Conceivably, of course, this is simply because such evidence is obscured from us for this period. Conversely, however, there is substantial evidence that the state generally responded to nonstate violence among religious groups with efforts to quell and penalize it.146 By contrast, as we shall see, sources for the sixth century charge Justinian with precisely such state-​authorized attacks on Jewish synagogues and formal pressure to convert. The legislation pertaining to violence against synagogues provides virtually no indication of where such attacks may have occurred. The literary evidence, such as it is, pertains primarily to synagogues in Palestine and environs, Edessa, Callinicum, and perhaps Syrian Antioch. A disproportionate amount is attributed to Barsauma, who, as we have seen, is depicted attacking Jews, Samaritans, and traditional sites with equal fervor. The only synagogues said to have been the targets of violence in the Mediterranean diaspora more narrowly are those on Minorca, in Rome (if one accepts the account of Ambrose), and in North Africa (if one credits the Martyrdom of St. Salsa). Although we have no archaeological evidence for these particular instances, four or

145. For discussion of this reading, see above, p. 216n127. 146. At the same time, however, the closing of temples and other traditional cult sites may have meant that violence against such buildings was less of a legal risk for perpetrators.



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five diaspora synagogues were subsequently converted into or replaced by churches: Apamea, Gerasa, Saranda, Stobi, and Elche (assuming the building was earlier a synagogue), as noted in c­ hapter 1.147 The synagogue on the Greek island of Aegina may have been destroyed in the fifth century.148 Although all these sites eventually ceased to function as synagogues, it’s difficult to determine why (and sometimes when) that occurred.149 Laws from the first half of the fifth century continue to envision Jewish converts to Christianity, such as the law of 426 that forbade Jews and Samaritans from disinheriting children and grandchildren who became Christians, and gave converts a portion of their family estates even in cases of parricide. Sokrates, like the Letter of Severus before him, recounts a story of mass conversion, this time on Crete in the mid-​fifth century. But hard evidence for actual converts remains thin, and Sozomen could begin his own history of the church with the (puzzling) observation that despite the obvious predictions of the Christ, few Jews had accepted their truths. One intriguing exception comes from a mosaic panel found at Grado (northern Italy) in 1946, in a small building under the central nave of the Duomo, itself built in 579. The panel bears some resemblance to mosaics found in the floor of a Christian basilica on the Isla del Rey in the Minorca harbor, noted in ­chapter  2. On it, an inscription reads:  “Here rests Petrus, also called Papario, son of Olympius the Jew, and the only one of his ‘gens’ who deserved to reach the grace of Christ. In this holy building he was buried worthily on 14th July in the fourth-​year of the indiction cycle.” 150 Noy makes a reasonably good case for dating the inscription no later than the first half of the fifth century.151

147. If, as Walsh 2016 has argued most recently, the basilica at Elche in Spain was first a synagogue, it would constitute a third instance. 148. See a­ bove, pp. 13–14. 149. Additional ancient synagogues are attested by donor inscriptions and architectural elements found away from their original sites, (see above, p. 13), but with these as well, it’s virtually impossible to determine what happened to the synagogues of which they were once a part. 150.  “hic requiescit | Petrus qui Papa|rio fi(lius) Olympii Iu|daei solusque|ex gente sua|| ad Xri(stou) meruit|gratiam perveni|re et in hanc s(an)c(t)am |aulam digne sepul|tus est sub d(ie) pr)id(ie)|| Id(us) Iul(ias) ind(ictione) quarta” JIWE 1.8, with plate (V). The inscription is shown on the cover of this volume. 151. Based in part on the fact that “the building was surrounded by the Basilica of S. Eufemia begun . . . after 452” and subsequently transformed into the Duomo. The fourth year(s) of indiction cycles in the early fifth century included 406, 421, 436, and 451 (JIWE 1.14), but see also his acknowledgment that Kajanto thought that “the use of indictio without a consular

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To the best of my knowledge, this is the only inscription that explicitly identifies someone as a convert from Judaism to Christianity in this period.152 This may be unsurprising. Those who commemorated converts would have had little reason to memorialize their transformation and previous Jewishness—​ and perhaps strong reasons not to. Many Christian writers, including perhaps the author of the Letter of Severus of Minorca, held that Jewishness inhered in a person even after conversion, so that a continuing stigma attached to converted Jews. But what is equally of interest is that the inscription explicitly positions Petrus (probably his baptismal name) as “alone of his ‘gens’ to have deserved to reach the grace of Christ.” In what sense was Petrus the “only one”? Whoever commissioned his inscription surely did not intend to say that he was the only Jew ever to deserve baptism, so what was the scope of this claim? As Noy notes, the Latin “gens” might be construed either as “family,” in a somewhat narrow sense, or more broadly as “race.” In his translation of “gens” as “race,” Noy opts for the broader reading, although given the problematic current (American) English connotations of “race,” perhaps a better translation would be “people.”153 But perhaps realizing how sweeping a statement this seems, Noy adds that if “gens” does here signify a broad category, “it presumably means the Jews of Grado rather than all Jews everywhere.” This would be an interesting proclamation, that at some point perhaps in the early fifth century, when pressures on Jews to become Christians were intensifying, only one man in the whole town was actually baptized. The reference to Petrus’s father, though, might suggest that a narrower reading is closer to the intentions of the commemorators. Given the praise for his apparently solitary choice to become a Christian, it seems unlikely that his natal family put up the inscription, since they were presumably still Jews. Petrus might be designated as the son of a particular Jewish father to distinguish him from other Christians named Petrus (but presumably not from other Jewish converts so named, since he is here said to be unique). Perhaps

date” was more consistent with a sixth-​century dating.” Noy does not actually say that this seems somewhat inconsistent with the archaeological data here, although this is implicit. 152. An inscription from North Africa may commemorate a convert, but it does not explicitly say so (Le Bohec 1981:192, no. 75); CIL 8.8640: Memo (cross) ria in|nocenti| Istablici qu|i et Donati. P(osuit) frater ip|sius Pereg|riniu(s) q(ui et) Mos|attes, de Iude[i]‌s, SVIS EIV. Funerary monument of the pure Istablicus, also known as Donatus. His own brother Peregrinus, also known as Mosattes, put (this up), from the Jews. 153. His support for this is largely comparative epigraphy from the fifth century, adducing one instance—​ILCV 1778a.4.15n5.



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Olympius was a prominent man in Grado, and the conversion of his son carried with it some prestige for the local Christian church. Invoking him might then suggest that in this particular case, Petrus was singled out not among the Jews of Grado, but among the members of a prominent family. If so, the epitaph undercuts its own pretensions to that prestige in conceding that Petrus alone became a Christian. And although Noy proposes that the language of “meruit” is common in Christian verse epitaphs at this time, and is a circumlocution for baptism, one might wonder whether in this instance it signals a response to the dissonance caused by the failure of Jews to become Christians. Only Petrus became a Christian because only he was truly worthy. Regardless of the specific dynamic behind this epitaph, about which we can only speculate (if carefully), it alludes to a dynamic supported by other data that Jews were regularly unreceptive to Christian efforts to convert them, creating a dissonance for Christians at which this inscription hints.

8

“We do not grant that their synagogues shall stand, but want them to be converted in form to churches” —​Novella 37, Justinian, August 1, 535

In the Aftermath of Theodosios II in the East, 450–​6 04 In the years after Theodosios II’s death, the evidence for Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora wanes considerably. In the West, the remains of the Roman Empire were disintegrating.1 The court at Ravenna had maintained at least the appearance of an empire since the early fifth century, but the illusion ultimately failed. Much of Europe was under the control of various Germanic tribes. Italy, where a considerable number of Jews lived, was under Arian Ostrogothic rule, nominally in allegiance to the court of Constantinople. In the mid-​sixth century, Justinian had some success in reasserting the reach of Constantinople, but this too, would ultimately fail. His reign was marked not only by warfare and political intrigue but also by major earthquakes and several devastating outbreaks of plague. In the late sixth century, a series of somewhat linked catastrophes were easily construed as signs of impending apocalypse: Lombard invasions, floods, crop failures, famine, and plague.2 Laws pertaining to Jews decreased significantly. The only entry in Linder’s comprehensive collection between the death of Theodosios II in 450 and the ascension of Justinian in 527 is a law under Marcian, in 452, prohibiting public

1. Much has been written on the numerous crises of these years. O’Donnell 2008 is informative and lively. 2. See, e.g., Martyn 2004:1.18–​46. The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190222277.001.0001



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debates about Christian doctrines.3 Its relevance to Jews appears primarily to be the assertion that such public debate was offensive in part because it aired Christian dirty laundry in front of Jews and “pagani.” While it may be that at this point, the corpus of law pertaining to Jews (and Samaritans) sufficed, the multiple military, political, economic, and theological crises of the late fifth and early sixth centuries may have resulted in little further imperial attention to Jews, or at least in little legislation concerning Jews.4 The material evidence for Jews in this period is, for the most part, similarly sparse. Very few inscriptions from Asia Minor, North Africa, or most areas in Italy—​including Rome—​securely date later than the mid-​fifth century, with the significant exception of the trove of epitaphs from Venosa.5 Similarly, by the late fifth century, very few of the archaeologically attested diaspora synagogues still seem to have been in use—​perhaps those at Ostia and Bova Marina (both in Italy)6, those at Priene and Sardis (in Asia Minor), and perhaps the synagogue at Hamman Lif in North Africa. At least four had become churches: Saranda (Albania), Stobi (Macedonia), Gerasa ( Jordan), and Apamea (Syria)—​so, too, the basilica at Elche (Spain), assuming it was initially a synagogue. Others appear to have been destroyed (Aegina) or fallen into disuse (Plovdiv).7 Still, while the decrease in archaeological evidence requires some explanation, it may be important to differentiate between locales for which material evidence diminishes or even disappears (much of Asia Minor, but also Rome), but where literary evidence persists, and those places where Jews are better attested in literary and other sources, but for

3. JRIL 55. This and a related edict survive as edicts of the Council of Chalcedon; for details, see JRIL, pp. 337–​40. 4. In the sixth century, a relatively small number of canons of various church councils in Gaul regulate relations between Christians and Jews, although in most instances, these govern what Christians can and cannot do, since they are ecclesiastical laws. They tend to focus on issues of particular concern to church authorities, including intermarriage and Christian participation in Jewish rites. Many of these canons restate regulations long asserted in Roman law, and often repeat regulations found in earlier councils: for texts and translation, see JLSEMA nos. 810–​829. Bachrach 1977 relies extensively on these canons as evidence of actual social relations between Christians and Jews in these years. 5. The significant corpus of inscriptions from Taranto in JIWE 1 are likely to date to the seventh or even eighth centuries, outside the scope of this project; see above, p. 11­. 6.  See Nongbri 2015 for arguments that Ostia may have been in use as late as the mid-​fifth century. 7. In the case of more recently discovered sites, such as Chios, Kelibia, and perhaps Limyra, it seems too early to tell; see ­above, esp. p. 12n41.

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which little or no epigraphical or other archaeological evidence has ever been found, such as Syrian Antioch, Ravenna, or late antique Alexandria. Most of the evidence for Jews in the late ancient Mediterranean diaspora from the mid-​fifth century to the start of the seventh century comes, fortuitously, from a handful of mostly contemporaneous sixth-​century writers and officials. For the West, these include Cassiodorus, the quaestor for the Arian Theoderic in the very early fifth century;8 Gregory, bishop of Tours in the Loire Valley (538–​594); and Gregory the Great, born around 540, and bishop of Rome from 590 until his death in 604. For the East, they include the chronicler John Malalas (491–​578); Prokopios of Caesarea in Palestine (writing in the mid-​sixth century);9 and John of Ephesos (507–​588; sometimes also known as John of Asia). Only Cassiodorus and John Malalas were born before the sixth century, and only Malalas writes about Jews before the sixth century, but all provide at least some evidence for constraints on the lives of Jews. The legal scaffolding of the prior five chapters thus gives way now to the caprice of these literary sources, with the significant exception of the additional and substantial legislation pertaining to Jews issued by Justinian and the evidence for several major natural catastrophes. Further, because these sources, together with the Justinian legislation, are sufficiently rich, I  have also chosen to diverge somewhat from the chronological framework of the prior chapters. This chapter will focus on the sources of the East, including Malalas, the legislation of Justinian, and the writings of John of Ephesos. The following chapter focuses on those from Italy and Gaul, including the writings of Cassiodorus, Gregory of Tours, and Gregory the Great.

8.  On the difficulties of determining the birth and death of Cassiodorus, see O’Donnell 2008:13–​32, who favors a birthdate around 484, or a few years later. 9. In this chapter, I have no opportunity to consider a curious account in Prokopios, Hist. 5.9.1–​ 7, but it is worth noting briefly here. Under siege by Justinian’s general, Belisarios, the Goths at Naples send to Theodatus (Theoderic’s nephew and now king at Rome), for reinforcements. Unsure whether to send his forces, Theodatus consults a Hebrew with a great reputation for discerning the future. The seer has Theodatus put three groups of pigs into tents, each named after one of the contending groups: the Goths (at Naples), the Romans, and the Byzantines. The fate of the pigs reveals the outcome were Theodatus to send his troops, which turns out to be the death of many Romans (and Goths), but not many Byzantines. Theodatus declines to send aid. The effect of the story may be to blame the Hebrew’s divination for Theodatus’s decision, and thus for the fall of Naples, although this is never explicit. Of course if it was a truthful divination, Theodatus made the right choice. Had he sent his forces, they would have suffered great losses and the Byzantines still would have prevailed, as they ultimately did. Prokopios is explicit that he does not believe the story, although he neither explains his skepticism, nor his decision to include it, except to enable his readers to decide for themselves.



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Like the literary accounts scrutinized in prior chapters, those considered in both these chapters are generally difficult to substantiate. Nevertheless, cumulatively, they support various observations made about the earlier centuries. Under Arian Ostrogothic rulers, particularly Theoderic, the pressures on Jews appear to lessen. The subsequent subjugation of Italy and other regions under the authority of Justinian reimposes the pressures of orthodoxy and homogenization on Jews, Samaritans, dissident Christians, and those clinging (more and more tenuously, perhaps) to traditional practices, although yet again, in various ways and with various degrees of severity.

John Malalas on the Jews of Antioch The Chronicle of John Malalas contains numerous accounts pertaining to Jews in the early Byzantine period. Here I  focus on two related accounts of violence against synagogues in and around Syrian Antioch at the turn of the sixth century, returning to the others later.10 According to the major Greek manuscript of the Chronicle, in 489 or 490—​late in the reign of the eastern emperor Zeno—​the competitive charioteers’ association known as the “Greens” murdered Jews in Antioch, “sparing no one.” When Zeno, in Constantinople, learned of the “impious” acts of the Greens against the Jews, he was irritated at the Greens and responded: “Why did they only burn the dead Jews? Rather they should also have burnt the living Jews.”11 But in the old Slavonic translation of the Chronicle, a fuller account appears which supplies a back story for Zeno’s response. The Greens burned and plundered a synagogue in Antioch, called after Asabinos, because the Jews were supporters of their opponents, the “Blues.” The Greens also “dug up the remains of the Jews who were buried along the length of the synagogue,” then built a pyre out of brushwood and burned the bones of the Jews.12 The

10. English translation in Jeffreys et al. 1986 (essentially of ms. Baroccianus Graecus 182); subsequent critical edition in Thurn 2000. 11. Malalas, Chron. 15.15. A short version of this story occurs in John of Ephesos, Eccl. Hist., in Nau 1897:462: “at this time, the Green party set fire to the synagogue of the Jews and burned it, together with all the bones that were around the synagogue. When Zeno learned of it, he was irritated and said, ‘why didn’t they burn all the living Jews at the same time as the dead?’ And that was the end of the matter.” 12. Trans. Jeffreys et al. 1986:219. Burning the decayed remains might be construed as a deliberate form of cremation, offensive to Jews who (like Christians) buried the dead, perhaps in anticipation of their eventual physical resurrection. If so, burning the remains of deceased Jews could also be construed as an act intended to deny them the possibility of resurrection.

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resulting fire spread to nearby houses and churches. Zeno learned of it only when the Jews themselves sought redress from him. In this version, his response is similar but fuller. In addition to burning the dead Jews, Zeno says, the Greens should have burned the living Jews as well, throwing them on the fire with the dead. In his account of the year 507, when Anastasios was now emperor, John claims that a crowd of Antiochenes led by the new Green charioteer Kalliopas went on a major rampage after his overwhelming victories in the Olympic Games at Daphne, a suburb of ancient Antioch. They attacked the synagogue of the Jews, burning and plundering it, and killing many. Installing a cross on the site, they turned it into a martyrium for St. Leontios.13 When the emperor learned of the rampage, he attempted to punish and rein in the Greens, but doing so proved to be costly and bloody. Although these episodes regularly figure in recitations of late antique Christian anti-​Jewish violence, they need to be interrogated with care, even assuming one or both actually occurred. In the first instance, for example, the representation of Jews interred “along the length of the synagogue” seems somewhat anomalous. No excavated ancient synagogue has yielded burial sites immediately adjacent, which would potentially have incurred ritual pollution. The description seems more consistent with church practices, although even if this detail is a fabrication, it does not speak to the larger historicity of the attack. Were Jews in fact supporters of the Blues against the Greens? Juster asserted this more than a century ago, although he also took Anastasios’s subsequent repression of the Greens to be more about calming the conflicts between the Greens and their competitor Blues than about avenging the Jews.14 Several inscriptions unknown to Juster provide possible independent attestion of some alliance between Jews and the Blue circus faction. One from the theatre at Miletus seems to designate the place of the “Blue Jews.”15 A second inscription, from the Odeon at Aphrodisias, reads similarly and more

13. Malalas, Chron. 16.6. John of Nikiu, in the late seventh century, has a truncated version of this story, in which the more generic “inhabitants” of Antioch burn the synagogue of the Jews in Daphne, put up a cross, and transform the synagogue into a church ( John of Nikiu, Chron. 89.23, Charles 1916:124). 14. Juster 1914:2.469. On the conflicts between the Blues and Greens, see, inter alia, Cameron 1976; Whitby 1999; Liebeschütz 2001; Booth 2012. On Jews and Blues, see van der Horst 2003; see also Várhelyi 2000. 15. IJO 2.39.



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explicitly “place of the Blue Hebrews.”16 The full wording of this inscription, though, gives rise to some debate among scholars about whether these designate the seating area for Blues, formerly the seating area for “Hebrews,” or the seating area for those Jews associating themselves with the Blues.17 A third inscription, found under the Blues seating area of the circus in Tyre, seems to advertise the stall of a woman named Matrona, and is marked with a graffito menorah.18 A fragment of Malalas claims that the Blues in Antioch irritated the Greens by seating the Jews with themselves, which coheres in practice, although not explanation, with these inscriptions.19 In his extensive study of the circus factions forty years ago, Alan Cameron contested older arguments that the conflicts between the Blues and the Greens were a function of their respective theological positions (the Blues associated with Chalcedonian orthodoxy and the Greens with the miaphysites), and that an alliance between the Jews and the Blues was somehow related to the moderation of the Blues and the extremist positions of the Greens. Instead, he argued that it would be a mistake to see factional rivalry in Antioch revolving around the Jews, even while he thought that sympathy for Jews offered the Blues a means of aggravating the Greens. He points out that the attack in 507 on the synagogue and the apparently adjacent cemetery was parasitic on the larger hippodrome riot. Once the charioteer Porphyrios brought the Greens victory in Antioch, they were “inflamed . . . to the pitch where they were capable of such atrocities,”20 analogous perhaps to the Canadians who trashed the city of Vancouver after the Canucks beat the Boston Bruins in the hockey championships at a home game in 2011, a riot I happened to witness firsthand. Cameron’s arguments are critiqued somewhat by van der Horst, who thinks that Cameron downplayed the possible role of religious dimensions to these conflicts. Assuming that the reports of Malalas, together with the epigraphical evidence, do in fact attest to some alliance between Jews and 16. IJO 2.16. The full reading is τόπος Βενέτων Ἐβρέων τῶν παλειῶν. It’s the last term that creates the ambiguity. 17.  See especially the discussion accompanying IJO 2.39, pp. 114–​15:  see also van der Horst 2003:53–​58. 18. IJO 3 Syr10. The inscription is fascinating for numerous reasons, although it hardly constitutes definitive evidence for an alliance between Jews and Blues. See the extensive discussion in IJO 3, as well as van der Horst 2003. 19. Fragment 35, Exc. de Insid, 167.7–​11, cited in Cameron 1976:79, but not considered in, e.g., van der Horst 2003. 20. Cameron 1976:151; his discussion of the question runs 149–​52.

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Blues, attributing such an alliance solely to the Blues’ interest in aggravating the Greens fails to explain the Jewish side of the equation. He concedes that scholars who think it was simply safer for Jews to align themselves with the faction more closely allied with imperial authority—​namely the Blues—​ may be right. But he also gives some credence to the suggestion of Charlotte Roueché that the inscriptional evidence for some association between the Jews and the Blues may have been more a matter of coincidence than ideological or even intentional affiliation. Groups who had long sat in particular areas of public arenas came to be associated with one or another of the circus factions.21 Nevertheless, he points out that such a hypothesis fails to explain the consistent literary representation of Green violence against Jews in the larger context of Blue–​Green rivalries. For his own part, van der Horst floats the possibility that however the association between Jews and Blues may have begun, it took on a psychological life of its own, with the result that attempts to offer a more rational explanation are unlikely to succeed.22 At the very least, it does appear that there was some association of Jews with Blues in several locations. While the accounts of anti-​Jewish violence on the part of the Greens are somewhat problematic, it also seems unwise to dismiss them entirely, given the evidence for considerable violence between Greens and Blues in various locations from the fifth century onward. But whether the Greens really did destroy either a synagogue in Antioch or in Daphne remains uncertain.

Justinian and the Jews In the spring of 527, the childless eastern emperor Justin made his nephew and adopted son his co-​emperor. Four months later, in August, Justin himself died, and Justinian became the sole ruler of the East.23 The reign of Justinian entailed an intensified broad assault against all non-​orthodox persons and institutions. Some of this involved the use of military force, notably campaigns to defeat the Arian Goths in Italy and the Vandals in North Africa, and to subject them again to the power of the orthodox state in Constantinople. Prominent among Justinian’s mechanisms for the creation of a universal

21. Van der Horst 2003:57, citing Roueché 1993:130–​31; see also Roueché and Reynolds 1989. 22. Van der Horst 2003:57–​58. 23. The literature on Justinian’s reign and impact is extensive: for a helpful introduction, see Maas 2005, which includes de Lange 2005 on Jews; see also the volume bibliography, 535–​81.



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orthodox state was the law, both specific legislation and the legal system as a whole. Not long after Justin’s death, in February 528, Justinian inaugurated a project to further codify and rectify existing Roman laws. This resulted in the promulgation of the first edition of the Code of Justinian in 529, which does not survive. The threefold Code, Digest, and Institutes was completed by 534: subsequent laws were designated as such (the Novellae, or “new” laws).24 O’Donnell observes that the Code removed much of the contingent features of its Theodosian predecessor, rendering it “more timeless, less historically rich.”25 But even more than this, as Humphress emphasizes, the new legal collection explicitly melded Roman law with Christianity, a major innovation. “By ascribing the completion of this monumental volume [the Digest] to the ‘inspiration of heaven and the favor of the Supreme Trinity,’ . . . Justinian effectively Christianized all the non-​Christian classical juristic books contained within it.”26 “[T]‌he Digest was a Christian lawbook, inspired by God, aided by God and promulgated in the name of Christ.”27 Justinian’s accomplishments were many, from the impact of the Code of Justinian on subsequent western law, to magnificent building projects that still stand (Hagia Sophia in modern Istanbul, especially).28 Many modern accounts of the emperor reproduce, self-​consciously or otherwise, the view that the dominance of orthodox Christianity was largely a cultural good, even when they recognize that it came at a high price for dissident Christians, Jews, Samaritans, and practitioners of (other) traditional religions.29 Yet these accomplishments must be balanced against the devastation he wrought on the non-​orthodox, Christians and otherwise. The sweeping breadth of Justinian’s program against all non-​orthodox is immediately perceptible in the laws promulgated early in his reign. Whereas 24. Greek and Latin text and English translation of the Code of Justinian now in Frier 2016, based on a translation prepared by F. H. Blume in the 1920s. For the text of the whole legal corpus of Justinian, see Krueger et al. 1989–​97. The Code itself is volume 2. See also the many resources available at http://​droitromain.upmf-​grenoble.fr, including Blume’s translation, and an older edition of Krueger. Some excerpts pertaining to religion may also be found in Rougé and Delmaire 2009. There is also a 1932 English translation by S. P. Scott, available both online and in print but Kearley makes clear that both Pharr and Blume considered it highly flawed (Kearley 2016:lxxvii). 25. O’Donnell 2008:209. 26. Humphress 2005:168–​69. 27. Humphress 2005:169. 28. E.g., Harper 2017:203–​206. 29. E.g., Maas 2005, an anthology of recent scholarship.

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many prior laws pertaining to Jews were targeted entirely or primarily at Jews, facilitating the collection of twenty-​nine edicts in a single location in the Theodosian Code,30 Justinian’s early laws take aim at Jews only as one among many offending groups. Linder’s comprehensive collection contains only eleven entries for all of Justinian’s almost four-​decade reign.31 At least eight of these have broad targets, with Jews sometimes mentioned only in passing. Only one clearly pertains solely to Jews, the famous Novella 146, concerning which Greek translations of the Bible Jews may read in synagogues, as I shall consider further.32 Under Justinian, constraints of many sorts on Jews intensified the incentives to convert, but it’s not clear that Jews were targeted any more than other non-​orthodox persons. Accounts of Justinian’s reign are full of accounts of the emperor slaughtering the non-​ orthodox and Samaritans (as a result of several Samaritan revolts considered later), but interestingly, not Jews. These constraints seem part of his larger program to impose his favored form of orthodoxy throughout the areas now in his control, a program succinctly and unflinchingly vilified—​not necessarily accurately—​in Prokopios’s Secret History, a vicious brief against what Prokopios ultimately came to see as the despotic reign of Justinian and his wife, Theodora. Years ago, Parkes emphasized that where Theodosios I  had explicitly affirmed the lawfulness of Judaism, Justinian failed to retain the law which did so,33 thus depriving Jews, at least in theory, of any legal rights at all.34 Parkes also detailed the ways in which Justinian diminished the legal rights of Jews by eliminating from his new law code many of the Theodosian laws that

30. CTh 16.8, with 29 individual edicts, discussed in prior chapters. 31. JRIL  56–​66. 32. JRIL 57 is a brief notice, CJ 1.9.2, perhaps a rescript, that instructs an unidentified provincial governor to make sure that the petitioners will not be compelled to violate their practice of doing no work on a day of worship. Conceding that it may not come from Justinian (JRIL, p. 367), Linder presumes that it pertains to Jews. The petitioners could have been Samaritans. JRIL 63 is another quite narrow law, Novella 139, which Linder dates to 537, in response to Novella 12 of May 535. That law prohibited marriages between persons of certain kinship relations, but it does not seem to have been aimed solely at Jews (on which, see below, pp. 299–300). 33. CTh 16.8.9; Parkes 1934:246. 34. Parkes 1934:249, who also notes that Justinian left in place laws requiring respect for synagogues, and Sabbath observance. Yet as discussed later, Justinian would ultimately attempt to convert at least the synagogues of North Africa into churches and forbid all non-​orthodox religious observance (see below, pp. 293–98).



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protected Jews to varying degrees.35 Further, in various initial edicts against the non-​orthodox, Justinian reaffirmed earlier legislation disadvantaging Jews,36 disadvantages which he subsequently expanded. I have already briefly noted a sweeping prohibition against the service of any non-​orthodox men in the imperial and municipal administrations, issued in the brief interval in 527 when Justinian was co-​Augustus with his uncle Justin, barring such men as well from legal advocacy. Such appointments were said to be offensive precisely because they wrongly gave the non-​ orthodox power and authority over the orthodox. The edict acknowledged that such laws had been on the books for years, unenforced, but no longer.37 Manichaeans were further singled out for expulsion, making them liable for execution if they were found living within Roman borders. A  substantial portion of the law pertained to the situation of orthodox parents married to non-​orthodox spouses and their rights to raise their children as orthodox. Jews and Samaritans are explicitly named only twice, once in the section concerning public offices and once in the prohibition on bringing lawsuits.38 It’s not entirely clear when Justinian issued a law that neither “Hellene,” nor Jew, nor Samaritan, nor anyone who was not orthodox could hold an enslaved Christian, although it cannot be earlier than his assumption of office in 527, or later than 534. Older laws had prohibited Jews from purchasing Christian slaves, but not necessarily from having obtained such slaves by other means (through inheritance, for instance, or having held them from birth).39 The law required the manumission of such slaves and payment of a substantial sum to the private imperial treasury, 40 which might support Prokopios’s

35. Parkes notes that Justinian removed more than half the fifty Theodosian laws dealing with Jews. Among the excluded laws were those that granted immunity from liturgies to synagogue officials, the law concerning internal Jewish jurisdiction, and others (Parkes 1934:246–​49). 36. In JRIL 56, 58–​63. Prokopios accuses Justinian of tampering constantly with Roman law, as well as abolishing the laws of the Hebrews (Prokopios, Secret History 28.16–​19). He singles out Justinian’s law that Jews could not celebrate Passover, if Passover and Easter fall on the same date, and the prosecution of Jews for consuming lamb meat, punished by heavy fines. 37. Linder claims (JRIL, p. 365n12) that prior to 535, there was no known oath of orthodoxy for such persons, when an actual oath of orthodoxy is specified in Novella 8. 38. See a­ bove, p. 250. 39. E.g., CTh 16.9.4, from Theodosios II, April 417, discussed earlier, which forbid Jews from purchasing Christian slaves, but allowed them to inherit and possess such slaves, provided they allowed them to remain Christian; see above, p. 236. 40. CJ 1.10.2, JRIL 59. Linder points out that the term for an enslaved person is here neuter, “indicating the slave’s legal status” as a “thing” (JRIL, p. 371n4). Linder does not note that the

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accusations in the Secret History that Justinian’s laws were often to his own financial advantage.41 According to John Malalas, Justinian’s reign was marked by various calamities, including earthquakes, epidemics of plague, and frequent deadly riots.42 John chronicles at least a dozen earthquakes between 528 and 558, most of them in Asia Minor, including several in Constantinople itself.43 Particularly interesting is John’s account of an earthquake in Laodikea (on the Mediterranean coast not far from Antioch) in 528.44 Half the city was destroyed—​something he often claims. But only in this instance does he write that many of the 7,500 people who died were Hebrews, while only a few were Christians. Jewish synagogues were destroyed, he claims, but God preserved the churches of the Christians. These details envision Laodikea with a large Jewish population and multiple synagogues in the early sixth century. Malalas’s accounts of earthquakes routinely present such events as indications both of divine anger and of divine mercy, but this is the only one that applies this scheme specifically to the experience of Jews. John of Ephesos seems to describe the same event, although he dates it to 540–​541, says nothing about slaveholders here are in the masculine singular, but I doubt the law was intended only to apply to male slaveholders. 41. E.g., Prokopios, Secret History 11.3, where Prokopios suggests that Justinian persecuted the Arians because their holy shrines (hiera) were full of riches; 14.7, where he accuses Justinian of easily bribed to issue new laws that contradicted earlier laws; 14.16–​22, where he relates what he claims was the first instance of Justinian taking bribes in legal matters; 27.33, “without any hesitation, he shattered the laws when money was in sight.” 42. On plague, see the helpful overview in Horden 2005, who thinks that 20–​30 percent of the population may have died. Whether the disease was bubonic plague is immaterial here. These outbreaks occurred in 541–​542, 556, and 558, perhaps related to impact of frequent earthquakes on rat ecology. See also Harper 2017; Little 2007; and the assessment of Rosen 2007:3, that the Justinian plague of 542 “killed at least twenty-​five million people; depopulated entire cities; and depressed birth rates for generations.” On the earthquakes, see especially Guidoboni 1994. 43. These include Pompeiopolis in Mysia (formerly Yugoslavia), Malalas, Chron. 18.19 in 528 (Guidoboni 1994:no. 205, who dates it to 527); Antioch, Chron. 18.27, in 529 (no. 206, dated to 528); Amaseia in Pontus and Myra in Lycia, Chron. 18.35, in 529 (nos. 207 and 208, which dates Myra to 530); widespread earthquakes in 530, Chron. 18.55 ( no. 209); Constantinople, Chron. 18.77 in 532 (no. 210, dated to November 533); Antioch, Chron. 18.29, in 533–​534 (no. 209); Kyzikos, Chron. 18.93 in 543 (no. 213); continual earthquakes, Chron. 18.102, in 547 (no. 216, dated to 548); an especially severe earthquake in Palestine, accompanied by a tsunami, Chron. 18.112, in 550–​551 (no.  218); and two more earthquakes in Constantinople in 554 and 557, Chron. 18.123–​24 (nos. 219 and 225). Other chronographers contain comparable notations, conveniently collected in Guidoboni 1994. For a general discussion of why the dating varies somewhat between Malalas and Guidoboni, see Guidoboni 1994:31–​42; see also the discussions for individual earthquakes. 44. Malalas, Chron. 18.28.



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Jewish synagogues, and claims only that far more Jews than Christians were found hurt.45 The law of 527 appears to have had major repercussions, although interestingly, none of the extant accounts pertain specifically to Jews. John Malalas directly connects it to a massive persecution of “Hellenes.” Their property was confiscated and many were massacred. His account of the precipitating law is brief: “those who held Hellenic beliefs should not hold any state office . . . those who belonged to the other heresies were to disappear from the Roman state, after they had been given a period of three months to embrace the orthodox faith.”46 He says nothing about Jews or Samaritans. However, an undated law ordained the destruction of Samaritan synagogues and punishment for attempted rebuilding; its order in the Code, and subsequent quotation, places it in the late 520s. Samaritans themselves were forbidden to dispose of their property either by gift or by sale to anyone except orthodox Christians. They were similarly denied the right to make wills, here too except leaving valuables to orthodox Christians (possibly their own children if converted). The rest of their estates were to be confiscated and turned over to bishops.47 Both Prokopios and John Malalas narrate a Samaritan revolt in June 529.48 Malalas gives no indication that Justinian laws precipitated the revolt, although Prokopios’s account does suggest that the anti-​Samaritan law provoked the uprising, and another account of the revolt, in Cyril of Scythopolis’s Life of Saba, explicitly claims that the law was retribution for Samaritan rampages.49 In the Secret History, Prokopios provides a lengthy account of Justinian’s contestations with the Samaritans,50 as part of his larger

45. From his Eccl. Hist., preserved in the Chronicle of Zuqnin (Harrak 1999:90–​91). Two hundred (or 274) Jews are found with severe injuries, but only four Christians. 46. Malalas, Chron. 18.42. 47. CJ 1.5.17, described at length but not quoted in Rabello 1997. 48. For discussion of the revolt and its sources, see Pummer 2002:259–​69 and the rather critical review of di Segni 2006; see also di Segni 1998. 49.  In the case of CJ 1.5.17, either seems hypothetically plausible:  the law provokes the revolt (e.g., Rabello, who does not here consider Prokopios’s account 1997:732). Alternatively, the revolt provokes the retaliatory law. In Cyril of Scythopolis, Life of Saba 70–​73 (Pummer 2002:no. 140), the Samaritans wreak havoc across the region of Neapolis, crown Julian king, slaughter the bishop of Neapolis, and seize, butcher, and roast some priests together with the remains of martyrs. The saint plays a role in this when he is sent to Constantinople to ask Justinian for remission of taxes in the wake of the Samaritan rampages, which the emperor grants, along with decreeing the law against the Samaritans. See also Pummer 2002:306–​308. 50. Prokopios, Secret History 11.24ff.

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narrative of Justinian’s crackdown on all non-​orthodox.51 It began, he says, with Justinian’s requirement that all those who held “rejected” Christian doctrines,52 called “heresies,” must change their beliefs, by forbidding them to bequeath property to their children. In the case of the Arians, especially, Prokopios suggests that the real reason was money (not piety, although he doesn’t say that explicitly here). The shrines (hiera) of the Arians were full of valuables (gold, silver, precious stones), and they owned a great deal of land, houses, and villages, which in turn provided a living for many persons. Pressed to give up their ancestral religious practices, many traditionalists fled their homelands, while the Montanists, in Phrygia, even burned their own churches.53 Farmers were especially aggrieved, apparently at policies that deprived them of their livelihood and ability to pay necessary taxes. When Justinian then enacted a similar law concerning the Samaritans, those in Caesarea understandably capitulated and, duplicitously, took the name of Christians to protect themselves from these laws.54 While prudent persons, Prokopios says, seem to have at least feigned orthodox loyalty, the resentful majority “inclined” toward the Manichaeans and those called “polytheists.”55 The farmers put forth a royal pretender, the brigand (lēstēs) Julian, son of Savarus, in a rebellion that ultimately failed, leaving 100,000 men dead and the land destitute of farmers. The landowners were then required to pay the emperor their customary taxes, even though they had no one to farm the land and produce those revenues. John Malalas’s account of this same revolt reveals his sympathies for Justinian and his orthodox Christianity.56 Shortly after Justinian became emperor, in June of what seems to be 529, a local riot broke out in Scythopolis 51. Prokopios, Secret History 11.14ff. 52. δόξαι ἀπόβλητοι. 53. This account is reminiscent of the claims of John of Ephesos that Justinian sent him in the early 540s to convert the populace of Asia Minor, discussed below, pp. 300–301. 54. The law may be CJ 1.5.17, just discussed: “the residents of my own Caesarea [which must mean the Samaritan residents, unless the whole populace was Samaritan: ὅσοι μὲν ο῏υν ἔν τε Καισαρείᾳ] thinking it foolish to suffer for a ‘senseless’ [ἀνοήτου] dogma” (Prokopios, Secret History 11.24–25). 55.  This seems to mean they inclined toward rebellion, not to the practice of dissident Christianity, as the subsequent narrative indicates. Averil Cameron, however, thinks that Prokopios is saying that the wiser Samaritans became Christians; the rest gave up their ancestral practices and took up either traditionalist religion, or that of the Manichaeans (Cameron 1985:66). 56. Malalas, Chron. 18.35. The account here draws from accounts in the surviving manuscript of Malalas and of other later chronographers who incorporated Malalas, which are conveniently



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(Beth She’an) in the Galilee, when the Samaritans fought with Christians and Jews, and set much of the city on fire. Justinian relieved the governor, Bassus, of office and had him beheaded. The Samaritans then “crown[ed] a bandit chief,” named Julian (son of one Sabaron), burned estates and churches, and massacred Christians. On the Sabbath, Christian children were accustomed to leaving the church after the gospel reading, and going to play near the Samaritan synagogues, where they threw stones at Samaritan houses. Ordinarily, anticipating this, Samaritans would withdraw and keep to themselves. But on this occasion, they attacked the children with swords. Although many children fled to St. Basil’s altar, the Samaritans still pursued them and slew the children there. In the account in John of Nikiu, Julian also explicitly claimed that he had been sent by God to “re-​establish the Samaritan kingdom.” Entering Neapolis (ancient Nablus, still a Samaritan center), Julian, with many Samaritans in attendance, then presided over chariot races, an act that may signal his pretensions to rule. A Christian conveniently named Nikeas was victorious in the first race, defeating both Samaritan and Jewish charioteers. When Julian learned that Nikeas was a Christian, he took it as an ill omen and immediately beheaded the charioteer. Word of all this was sent to Justinian, and to the dux, Theodorus, who was dispatched against Julian. Twenty thousand Samaritans were killed, while others fled to Mount Gerizim and Trachon. Julian was captured and decapitated, and his head sent to the emperor. Another twenty thousand young Samaritans, male and female, were taken captive and sold into slavery in Persia and India. Still, Justinian was displeased that the dux did not put down the revolt before the Samaritans were able to burn estates and attack the city, so he relieved Theodorus and appointed one Eirenaios of Antioch instead, who went after the Samaritans who had fled, killing many.57 Terrorized Samaritans converted, and were baptized. But the Chronicle accuses them of being duplicitous: when the governors came down hard on them, they pretended to be Christians; when the governors let up, they showed their (true) hatred of Christians. Even this, though, was not the end of the revolt; it continued later that year.58 The Persians withdrew from a peace agreement with the Romans,

identified in Thurn 2000 and in Jeffreys et  al. 1986. Pummer 2002, a helpful collection of Samaritan sources, gives the text (and translation) of each chronographer separately. 57. Malalas, Chron. 18.35. 58. Malalas, Chron. 18.54.

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because fifty thousand Samaritans had fled to the Persian emperor, Koades, and agreed to fight for him, promising to deliver to him their own land, Palestine and “the holy places.” Their treachery was discovered and reported to Justinian. Malalas’s account is of particular interest for its tantalizing tidbits about Jews in late antique Palestine, at least. Here the Jews seem to side with Christians, against the Samaritans, in public brawls. There were Jewish charioteers in the hippodrome in Nablus. (Who knew?) Yet much of Malalas’s version seems suspect, both on its own and when read together with Prokopios’s account in the Secret History, and that of Cyril. Malalas’s account of the revolt under Justinian has some striking similarities to his portrayal of a previous Samaritan revolt under Zeno, almost a half century earlier.59 Both accounts claim, in identical language, that the Samaritans “rebelled and crowned a bandit-​chief ” named either Justasas (in the earlier instance) or Julian (in the later).60 Even the similarity of their names is intriguing. Justasas is said to have burned a church dedicated to St. Prokopios and killed many persons. Julian’s rebel forces are said to have burned churches and estates and killed many Christians. Justasas entered Caesarea and watched (etheōsen) chariot races: Julian entered Neapolis, watched (etheōsen) chariot races, and had the victorious charioteer beheaded when he learned that the conveniently named Nikeas was a Christian. Justasas was pursued by the dux of Palestine, the lēstodioktēs, and various forces; Julian was pursued by the dux and the phylarchon of Palestine. Both were apprehended and executed, and their decapitated heads, with their crowns, sent to the emperor. Malalas’s account of the revolt under Justinian differs from his account of that under Zeno particularly in its framing and its conclusion, related earlier. At the very least, these similarities and differences justify some skepticism about Malalas’s accounts of both. Where Prokopios explicitly attributes the revolt to the far more historically and sociologically plausible cause of Justinian’s repression of both the Samaritan religion and the beliefs and practices of the traditionalist farmer class, Malalas removes any suggestion of imperial culpability. Instead, the rebels are shown to be motivated by inappropriate anger and lack of self-​control, a pervasive ancient rhetorical strategy. Taunted by children throwing rocks to entertain themselves while their parents finish attending church services, 59. On which see Kraemer 2019a. Fascinating as this earlier revolt is, it is not directly pertinent to questions about Jews. 60. The name seems plausible enough for a Samaritan (if not so much a Christian?); it is, in any case, evocative of the “apostate” emperor Julian.



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they respond wholly out of proportion by attacking the children with swords, going so far as to pursue them into a holy space, ignoring the sanctuary of such places, and killing them beneath its very altar. Similarly, the account of Julian and Nikeas seems contrived, yet another element that demonstrates Samaritan hatred for Christians. In Malalas’s account, Julian’s beheading is conveniently both foreshadowed by and retributive justice for his unjust beheading of Nikeas. Prokopios and Malalas agree on a few elements of the situation, such as the leadership of Julian and the feigned conversion of the Samaritans. But here, too, the valences are different. The account of Malalas found in John of Nikiu contains the rather interesting detail absent in Prokopios—​namely the claim that Julian proclaimed himself a messianic figure sent to restore the Samaritan kingdom, which seems plausible enough. But while both agree that the Samaritans only pretended to be Christians, they locate the Samaritan conversions at different points in the story, with different assessments. In Prokopios, the Samaritans convert under great pressure, and their pretense is a wholly reasonable response to Justinian’s malevolent persecution of Samaritans, traditionalists, and dissidents. In Malalas, the Samaritans convert after the revolt fails, out of terror, not because of imperial coercion and persecution. And where Prokopios represents Samaritan attachment to their ancestral religion as irrational, he does not construe it as hatred of Christians, which Malalas does. All this suggests, then, that the presence of Jews in the version in Malalas may be historically unreliable, whether their participation in the violence between Samaritans and Christians (on the side of the Christians, which really does seem counterintuitive in the sixth century ce), or even their presence in the hippodrome.61 At the same time, however, it’s precisely at this point that a ( Jewish) synagogue at Gerasa (in modern Jordan) was replaced by a church, whose (highly fragmentary) dedicatory inscription dates its consecration to 530–​531.62 How if at all the replacement of the synagogue relates to these events is unknown, but the timing is suggestive. In Prokopios’s account in the Secret History, with the revolt put down, Justinian turned his attention to the Hellenes, targeting both their physical persons and their possessions. These, too, feigned Christianity, only to 61. On this, see also Fishman-​Duker 2012, who notes that although Jews are implicated in the Samaritan revolts in 529 and 555, some scholars think this unlikely (2012:789n44); and also notes that the Chronicon Paschale doesn’t mention Jews in this connection. 62. The highly fragmentary inscription is Kraeling 1938:484n323.

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be discovered later performing their customary libations and sacrifices.63 Subsequently, Justinian prohibited sodomy, but prosecuted offenders highly selectively and with questionable legal procedures, taking aim especially at his enemies, including members of the Greens and persons of wealth.64 Astrologers, too, were targeted, with no respect for their age or social standing. The result, Prokopios claims, was a massive migration of persons seeking relief from persecution. One of the mechanisms by which Justinian fused Roman law and orthodox Christianity entailed putting copies of gospels in courtrooms, in 530,65 and copies of imperial legislation in churches. The following year, Justinian decreed that all participants in litigation, whether the parties or the court officers, must touch a copy of the gospels and swear their fidelity to Christianity, the antecedent of the oath still sworn in contemporary western legal proceedings, now stripped of its most explicit Christian referents.66 By Justinian’s reign, bishops had long been able to adjudicate cases of Roman private law, but now the emperor expanded the jurisdiction and participation of clerics in various aspects of the legal system. Bishops were enlisted in the dissemination of the laws by reading them to their congregations, and sometimes in their enforcement.67 Subsequently, Justinian gave church canons the status of civil law, with the emperor as the “executor” for such laws.68 The implications of these court practices were substantial. Such practices would seem to effectively remove Jews, Samaritans, and remaining traditionalists as participants in the legal system, since they could not swear such an oath. It clearly was a disincentive for such persons to pursue civil cases, although it’s less clear what happened if others sued them. This would seem to relate closely to the law of July 28, 531, concerning the validity of legal testimony given by dissident Christians, traditionalists, Jews, and Samaritans.69 Linder notes that two councils at Carthage, in 419 and 421, allowed Jews to 63. Prokopios, Secret History 11.32. On the one hand, Prokopios clearly condemns Justinian in this account, but his view of the Samaritans and Hellenes is far from positive; he calls the rites of the Hellenes “not pious” and the beliefs (dogma) of the Samaritans “senseless.” 64. Prokopios, Secret History 11.34. 65. CJ 3.1.14.1–​2; Humphress 2005:180. 66. CJ 2.58.2; Humphress 2005:180. 67. Humphress 2005:178–​79. 68. Novella 131.1, March 18, 545. 69. CJ 1.5.21, JRIL 60, addressed to the praetorian prefect of the East, Johannes.



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bring charges against clerics or to testify against them only in cases in which Jews were personally involved.70 This law not only implemented ecclesiastical desires concerning Jewish witnesses in cases involving clerics but also prohibited Jews and dissident Christians from testifying against any orthodox Christian litigants, clergy or otherwise. They could still testify in cases that did not involve orthodox litigants, as well as in disputes concerning testaments and contracts. The law of 531 then goes on to name a long list of dissident Christians, including Manichaeans, Montanists, and, interestingly, Samaritans,71 who were barred not only from ever testifying but also from taking other legal actions. In 534, Justinian not only reissued the law prohibiting Jews and other non-​orthodox persons from owning Christian slaves, discussed earlier, but extended the prohibition to unbaptized slaves considering becoming orthodox.72 He brought such slaves under the protection of both provincial governors and church officials. Further, even if the slaveholders themselves later became orthodox, they could not reclaim the freed slaves. The edict explicitly acknowledged that this had been a problem especially in North Africa. That same year, the second edition of the Code appeared. Based on exceptions spelled out in a Novella of 537, Parkes noted that the original law of 531 had proved somewhat unworkable. Jews were now allowed to give testimony in favor of the orthodox party in a suit between an orthodox and a dissident Christian, as well as for the state in a suit between the state and an orthodox.73 In 535, Justinian issued a particularly noxious and much discussed edict, said in its prologue to be the emperor’s response to petitions from Reparatus, bishop of Carthage, after a council earlier that year.74 A substantial portion of the law is aimed at giving to the orthodox property and churches that had been taken from them during the years of Arian control of North Africa. The law then imposes further sanctions on all non-​orthodox persons with respect to religion. On its face, it excludes Arians, Donatists, Jews and other 70. JRIL, p. 372: he gives the text of Canon 129 in JLSEMA 67. See also ­above, esp. p. 251n51, for Nemo-​Pekelman’s argument on the impact of these canons on CTh 16.8.25 in 423. 71. Both the implicit characterization of Samaritans as heretics and their subordination to Jews here are quite interesting. Linder’s introduction to this law, JRIL, p. 372, discusses later disputes by jurists as to whether Jews were themselves to be considered a “heresy,” but does not note whether this same question pertained to Samaritans. 72. CJ 1.3.54, JRIL 61. 73. Novella 45; JRIL 64; Parkes 1934:249. 74. Novella 37; JRIL 62.

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non-​orthodox persons from participation in ecclesiastical rites.75 It then denies these same persons permission to ordain bishops or clerics, or to baptize anyone. The law then goes on to remove dissidents (“haeretici”) from public offices, because doing so put them in the position of ruling over the orthodox. Even those who were rebaptized (in the orthodox church) were prohibited from public office, while conceding that their repentance was acceptable. The edict then repeats the earlier prohibitions against Jews owning Christian slaves, and warns against circumcising those who are not yet baptized. The most egregious yet unquestionably novel part of the law comes next: an imperial desire that synagogues be converted in form to churches. “But neither do we grant that their synagogues may stand, but rather we wish that they be refashioned into the form of churches.”76 Interestingly, this is phrased somewhat obliquely. Not actually an order to destroy synagogues, it is couched, rather, as the expression of Justinian’s desire to have Jewish synagogues turned into (orthodox) churches.77 Some scholars have suggested that this entire law was really aimed at Arians, and that the inclusion of others, especially Jews, was somewhat of a smokescreen to make it seem more

75. “[N]‌eque Arianis neque Donatistis nec Iudeis nec aliis qui orthodoxam religionem minime colere noscuntur aliqua detur communio penitus ad ecclesiasticos ritus” (ll.40–​43); Linder translates this as “there shall be no participation at all of Arians, Donatists, Jews or the others who are known not to observe the Orthodox religion in ecclesiastical rites.” 76. “Sed neque synagogas eorum stare concedimus, sed ad ecclesiarum figuram eas volumus reformari” (ll.61–​62). 77. Although we might presume it was still illegal in 535 to destroy Jewish synagogues, this is not entirely obvious. The Code of Justinian did not retain all of the Theodosian laws protecting synagogues from destruction. It did not reproduce the portion of CTh 16.8.20 (in 412) that protected synagogues from violation, seizure or occupation. The Code of Justinian retained only, in 1.9.13, the requirement that Jews could not be summoned to court on the Sabbath. The Code also retained CTh 16.8.21, which, however, qualified the protection for synagogues. They could not be harmed for no reason—​which of course implied that they could be harmed if there was a (good) reason. Tellingly, CTh 16.8.25 (February 423)  was not retained in the Code of Justinian, even though another law passed the same day was (see JRIL p. 287). The Theodosian law re-​affirmed that it was illegal to seize or burn synagogues, and that in the future, Jews would get restitution in the form of a different “place” where they could rebuild. CTh 16.8.26 (April 423) repeated this, in response to Jewish supplication: synagogues cannot be occupied or burned. The Code of Justinian retained only the portion of this law that went on to punish Jews who circumcised Christian men with confiscation of property and permanent exile. CJ 1.11.6 did not retain the Theodosian law of June 423, reiterating the prohibition on seizing existing synagogues. Only CTh 16.10.24 was incorporated, namely the portion of the law on that same day which prohibited Christians from acting violently against peaceful “pagani” or Jews. CJ 1.9.18 also retained Theodosios II’s Novella 3, prohibiting the construction of new synagogue buildings. The Theodosian laws protecting synagogues are discussed above in ­chapters 6 and 7.



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general.78 This would explain the otherwise somewhat anomalous inclusion of Jews in ll.40–​58, the first set of restrictions, which otherwise pertain quite specifically to the practice of Christianity. Other scholars, however, have taken the law to be quite deliberately inclusive of Jews, as payback for Jewish support of the Arians, particularly at the battle of Naples.79 The evidence for this comes entirely from linking two accounts in Prokopios. In the History of the Wars, when the citizens of Naples were considering the surrender offer from Justinian’s general, Belisarios, Neapolitan Jews came forth to promise that if the populace resisted, they would guarantee the city’s supplies, while the Goths promised to guard the city’s walls.80 Subsequently, Jewish fighters played a significant role in the attempt to defend Naples. They guarded the walls facing the sea and continued to resist81 even when Belisarios’s forces had already taken the city itself. Some scholars have characterized these soldiers as Jewish military units whose existence seems to violate (or contradict?) earlier legislation prohibiting Jewish men from serving in military capacities, although Prokopios does not actually describe them as such.82 But regardless, there appears to be a chronological impediment to this argument, since the siege, dated to 536, postdates the law. The desire to refashion synagogues could, nevertheless, be seen as the logical extension of barring all non-​orthodox persons from the performance of anything other than orthodox religious rites, and denying them access to any non-​orthodox cultic facilities, which is precisely what the next lines do. They prohibited Jews, traditionalists, Donatists, Arians, and all other dissident Christians from engaging in anything resembling an ecclesiastical rite,83 or from having cultic sites, here denigrated as “caves,” possibly an allusion to 78. E.g., Saumagne 1913, cited in JRIL, pp. 381–​82. 79.  Bachrach 1977:33, with references only to secondary scholarship. Lafferty 2013:33 similarly thinks that Theoderic’s relatively positive treatment of Jews explains their support for the Arians against the troops of Justinian’s general Belisarios. 80. Prokopios, Hist. 5.8.41. 81. καρτερῶς, which Dewing (1916–​1940) translated as “stubbornly.” This translation may reflect a notion of Jews as stereotypically stubborn, here resisting the inevitable capture of the city as they resist the truth of Christ; in Lampe, s.v. the term connotes steadfastness and the capacity to endure. It’s less clear that this is Prokopios’s intent. 82. E.g., Bachrach, who characterizes them as Jewish garrison units organized by the Goths, praised by Prokopios for their prowess (Bachrach 1977:33); Bachrach 1977:148n26 does not cite Prokopios directly, but the relevant passage is Hist. 5.10.24. Bachrach notes that Prokopios nowhere comments that such soldiers violated the law. 83. “[V]‌el quaedam quasi ritu ecclesiastic facere patimur” (JRIL 65, ll.64–​65).

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the characterization of the Jerusalem temple as a cave of thieves.84 “For it is perfectly absurd to permit impious men to deal with sacred matters.”85 The remainder of the law deals with aspects of the sanctity of orthodox churches, including their use as sanctuaries for fugitives. With this edict, then, Justinian appears to be abolishing the practice of anything but orthodox Christian rites, anywhere but in orthodox churches, and this is more or less precisely the accusation Prokopios levels against him in the Secret History 11.14–​41. It’s difficult to know how much Justinian’s desire to turn synagogues into church was fulfilled. In Buildings,86 Prokopios relates that Jews had, from antiquity on, lived near a North African city called Boreium, where they had had a temple (naos) said to have been built by Solomon, when he was ruling “the ethnos of the Hebrews.”87 Boreium was the westernmost city of the Pentapolis in Africa, in what is now Libya.88 But Justinian “brought it about”89 that the Jews changed their “ancestral practices”90 and became Christians, and he transformed their naos into a church. Prokopios says nothing about the transformation of buildings other than the one in Boreium, whereas the law seems to envision wide-​scale transformations. The synagogue at Gerasa had already been transformed into a church several years earlier. Although we know from archaeological evidence that synagogues were replaced by churches in Stobi

84.  The term here is “speluncas,” literally “caves.” Linder notes that the designation of the Jerusalem temple as a “robber’s cave” (σπήλαιον ληστρῶν) occurs in the Synoptic Gospels (Mark 11:17; Matt 21:13; Luke 19:46), and that it occurs in numerous instances in late antique Christian writers, ultimately becoming a derogatory term for the churches of heretics, as well as of Jews (JRIL, pp. 388–​39n11). 85. Trans. Linder, JRIL 65, ll.65–​66. 86. Prokopios, Build. 6.2.21. 87. Prokopios, Build. 6.2.21. The designation of the Jewish place of worship as a naos (more literally, “temple”) is rather striking; the more usual terminology would have been either synagōgē (“assembly”) or proseuchē (“prayer place”). It is, however, the term used in a Jewish inscription currently on prominent display in the medieval galleries of the Metropolitan Museum in New York, perhaps from Asia Minor, although the Museum does not actually specify its provenance (Ameling 2003); see also below, pp. 371–72. In the Acts of Philip 11.5–​8 (perhaps fourth century; see Bovon and Matthews 2012:29–​30), demons who once built the temple of Solomon now build a church for Philip and his companions. 88. Its exact location seems to be uncertain: Stern 2008a:196n2; see also the note by Downey in Dewey 1916–​40, 7.367 who places it as on the coast, possibly modern Tabilbe? 89. διαπραξάμενος. 90.  τὰ πάτρια ἔθη. Elsewhere, Prokopios claims that Justinian commanded Montanists, Sabbatiani, and various other “heretics” to change their old beliefs, threatening them with the inability to make bequests to their descendants (Prokopios, Secret History 11.15).



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in Macedonia, Apamea in Syria, and Saranda in Albania, we do not know precisely when these transformations occurred.91 The archaeological evidence for synagogues in North Africa is tantalizing, but not dispositive. For many years, only one synagogue had been definitively identified in the region, a relatively large floor mosaic with a central dedicatory inscription by its female donor, at Hamman Lif.92 The dating of the site is still somewhat disputed; Levine recently noted that it could have been as early as the fourth century and perhaps as late as the sixth, a date which would, of course, place it squarely in the time of Justinian.93 The identification of a second site, at Leptis Magna, has been much disputed, but even if it were to have been a synagogue, it is clearly a church by the sixth century.94 Most interesting is the discovery in 2009 of a synagogue at Kelibia (Clipea), in far northeastern Tunisia, on the coast not far from Hamman Lif, with a substantial dedicatory inscription and an unusual mosaic floor featuring multiple menorot.95 The excavator dates the second stage of the synagogue to the fifth century, and thinks it was either destroyed or abandoned at the end of the fifth or perhaps the sixth century. The latter dating would obviously align somewhat with the Justinian legislation, but it’s difficult to argue for a firm connection on the present evidence. Unquestionably, Justinian did not forcibly convert all the Jews of the empire. Whether all the Jews in Boreium were coerced into converting (perhaps like the Samaritans at Caesarea) is simply unknown. As Juster and Linder, following him, observed, the anti-​Jewish clauses were not included in subsequent

91. Hachlili 1998:34 ventures that the synagogue at Apamea was “probably” replaced by the Atrium church around 420 ce, but she provides no support for this. It may, however, rely on the assumption that the synagogue was among those targeted by Barsauma in precisely these years (on which, see ­above, chapter 6, esp. pp. 198–200. See also Brenk 1991. 92. On which there is extensive bibliography, most importantly now Stern 2008a; see also the treatments in Levine 2005, 2012; and others. 93. Levine 2012:238, but without further elaboration. 94. For the view that Leptis Magna was a synagogue converted into a church, see, e.g., Hachlili 1998:93, who offers a sixth-​century date for the change, relying on the initial assessment of Ward Perkins 1952. Levine 2005 excludes it from his survey of diaspora synagogues. In a thoughtful critique of “conversion” as a useful paradigm for the alteration of ancient spaces, Lander argues that whether or not Leptis Magna was initially a synagogue, the process by which it became a church was most likely to reflect “decline by the forces of nature rather than some malevolent human power” (Lander 2013:416; see also Lander 2016:229–​31). 95. Fantar 2011, who thinks that a second stage of construction on the synagogue took place during the fifth century.

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summaries of this legislation, and may thus have been quickly repealed, but what that might have meant for synagogues affected by it is unclear.96 In any case, like the law of 527, the law of 535 generated tremendous violent resistance. Roman soldiers mutinied against Solomon, the praetorian prefect of Africa, in Libya. Prokopios’s account of this contains two very different trigger episodes.97 One is quite an odd story in which Roman soldiers were given the wives and daughters of the Vandals as “legitimate” wives (as opposed to sex slaves, presumably), and those women now pressed their new husbands for ownership of the lands on which they had previously lived. They argued that it was wrong for them to have held those lands while living with Vandals, but now to be deprived of them while married to the conquerors of the Vandals. The numerous misrecognitions of this posturing aside (including the deflection of responsibility onto the singularly compliant new “wives,”), it serves as the pretext for the soldiers’ refusal to cede the lands to Solomon, “who wished to register them as belonging to the commonwealth and to the emperor’s house.”98 Far more salient is Prokopios’s second account. The Roman army, he reports, had at least one thousand Arian soldiers, many of whom were “barbarians.” The law Justinian had issued in August of 535  “did not allow any Christian man who did not profess the right doctrine to receive baptism or any other mystery.”99 Hence, these soldiers were now “unable to worship in their accustomed way, and were excluded both from the mysteries and from all holy rites.”100 This became a particular issue during the next Easter, in 536, since these men were now prohibited from baptizing their children or partaking in any other Easter rites. These men were joined by four hundred or so Vandal soldiers who had been sent to Constantinople, but had managed to escape and sail back to Libya. But as Prokopios tells it, the plot against Solomon ultimately failed, and Solomon escaped. The conflict, however, continued for several years, until the imperial forces finally prevailed in 539, at which point Justinian again sent Solomon to govern Libya.101 96. Juster 1914:2.251. 97. Prokopios, Hist. 4.14. 98. Prokopios, Hist. 4.14.10, trans. Dewing 1916–​40 (LCL). 99. Prokopios, Hist. 4.14.15, trans. Dewing 1916–​40 (LCL), modified. 100. οὐ γὰρ σφίσιν ἦν δυνατὰ τῷ θεῷ ἐξοσιοῦσθαι τὰ εἰωθότα̩ ἀλλὰ ἀπεκέκλειντο καὶ μυστηρίων καὶ ἱερῶν ἁπάντων. Prokopios, Hist. 4.14.13, trans. Dewing 1916–​40 (LCL), modified. 101. Prokopios, Hist. 4.15–​18.



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The year 536 was horrific for other reasons, with far-​reaching consequences. Prokopios, Cassiodorus, John of Ephesos, and others relate that for between a year and eighteen months, the sun was as dim as the moon, a portent followed by war, pestilence, and the threat of famine.102 Recent research has confirmed that its cause was a massive volcanic eruption somewhere in the Northern Hemisphere that threw massive amounts of sun-​blocking particulate into the atmosphere.103 The populace might have recovered from one such instance; scholars note that the harvest the prior year had been plentiful enough to compensate somewhat for the immediate agricultural damage. But its impact was compounded by a second eruption elsewhere, in 540, and by a precipitous drop in solar output at virtually the same time. Collectively, these marked the abrupt beginning of a period of several hundred years of significantly colder weather known as the Late Antique Little Ice Age (LALIA). Recent research has also confirmed that these eruptions were probably the precipitating factor in the devastating outbreak of bubonic plague often known just as the Justinianic plague, that first appeared in 541 and ravaged the empire for several years, partly because cooler temperatures created a literally favorable climate for the growth of the plague bacterium, Yersinia pestis. The results were catastrophic, although their true extent was not yet apparent.104 In 537, Justinian issued two laws pertaining at least partly to Jews. In 535, Justinian had prohibited unlawful marriages, including incestuous unions, although the law does not explicate these terms.105 Subsequently, Justinian granted a petition for exemption from “those of the village of Syndus” and the “Hebrews of Tyre,” who had contracted “abominable marriages,” whose precise nature is not specified.106 Those from Syndus are not identified either as Jews or as Samaritans. A second law, dated to August, positions itself as Justinian’s response to Johannes of Cappadokia, the praetorian prefect of the East, on two matters: first, whether Jews, Samaritans, and dissident Christians

102.  Noted in ominous terms in Prokopios, Hist. 4.14.5–​6, where he explicitly sets it in the tenth year of Justinian’s reign, and at much greater length in Cassiodorus, Variae 12.25, etc. John of Ephesos sets this event in 530–​531, Eccl. Hist., in Chronicle of Zuqnin (Harrak 1999:87). 103.  For the most comprehensive accessible overview, see now Harper 2017, which resolves some of the uncertainties in earlier work (e.g., Gunn 2000; Horden 2005:152–​53); see also the somewhat more popular but thoughtful treatment in Rosen 2007:201–​203. 104. See Harper 2017. 105. Novella 12. 106. Novella 139, JRIL 63.

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were obligated to serve on town councils; and second, whether the testimony of dissident Christians was valid in those cases where the state was prosecuting orthodox Christians for dodging their curial obligations. Justinian’s reply affirmed older laws that Jews, Samaritans, and dissident Christians were required to fulfill these civic obligations. They may not, however, have the honors attendant on such performance. The emperor also affirmed that while dissidents could only testify in favor of the orthodox (and not against them), they could here testify for the state against those orthodox persons who claimed not to be liable for curial duties, because the state itself is orthodox.107 In the spring of 542, plague reached Asia Minor, including Constantinople. It had first appeared the summer before, in Pelusium, east of Alexandria, and quickly spread both west to that city and east and north. Justinian himself contracted the disease, but survived. According to John of Ephesos, that same year, Justinian sent him to four provinces in Asia Minor—​Asia, Lydia, Caria, and Phrygia—​to convert those still practicing traditional religion.108 Four deacons—​Abraham, Cyriac, Barhadbshabba, and Sergius—​“toiled and labored with us with joy and great earnestness in building ninety-​two churches and ten monasteries in four provinces.”109 Subsequently, while detailing the persecution of dissident monks, John claims that in four years, “eighty thousand were converted and rescued from paganism, and ninety-​eight churches and twelve monasteries [built].”110 To do so, he spent massive amounts of 107.  Novella 45, part  1, ll.60–​65. Linder’s titling of this law, “The Curial Duty of Jews and Heretics,” misleads; it omits the inclusion of Samaritans in the first part of the law, while not indicating that the second part of the law does not appear to apply to Jews, but only to dissident Christians. That they are not included in the category of such dissidents seems obvious from the fact that they are explicitly named, together with Samaritans, in the first half. 108. John of Ephesos, Lives of the Eastern Saints 43, PO 18.660; 47, PO 18.681. Also John of Ephesos, Eccl. Hist. 3.2.44; Eccl. Hist., 2, in Chronicle of Zuqnin (Harrak 1999:92). There is to date no single, convenient edition or translation of the works of John of Ephesos, sometimes also known as John of Asia. For this project, I have relied for the Lives of the Eastern Saints on the Syriac text and English translation of E. W. Brooks PO 17–​19 (1923–​26) and for Hist. 2 on Harrak 1999: I also consulted Nau 1897. I am especially thankful to Susan Harvey for helping me through this particular thicket; see Harvey 1990, 2001; also van Ginkel 1995. 109. John of Ephesos, Lives of the Eastern Saints 43, PO 18.660. 110. John of Ephesos, Lives of the Eastern Saints 47, PO 18.681. Ancient sources offer contradictory accounts of John’s successes: he converted eighty thousand people and built ninety-​nine churches and ten monasteries (Eccl. Hist. 3.2.44), or converted seventy thousand people and facilitated the building of twelve monasteries and ninety-​six churches (Chronicle of Zuqnin, Harrak 1999:92–​93); Chronicle of Denis of Tell Mahre, Nau 1897:481). See also John of Ephesos, Eccl. Hist. 3.3.36–​37. MacMullen takes either figure to imply a much larger figure of 200,000 converts, presuming that the smaller figures included only adult males (MacMullen 1997:199,



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money, both as gifts to the baptized and for the actual building programs.111 In the later chronicles that preserve substantial portions of John’s Ecclesiastical History, he is said to have “launched a major pogrom against Pepuza, the Montanist spiritual centre, in the mid-​sixth century,” in 550, and to have “destroyed their sacred writings and burnt to the ground the church where the remains of [the Montanist prophets Priscilla, Maximilla, and Montanus] had been preserved.”112 Last, in a second account of his time in Asia, John indicates that he was also responsible for “seven other churches transformed from Jewish synagogues” in these four provinces, although he says nothing about converting actual Jews.113 It’s impossible to identify any specific synagogues that may have been targeted by John’s campaign in the early 540s. But it is suggestive that John’s campaign roughly coincides with the decline in the material evidence for Asia Minor as a whole. At the same time, moreover, both the campaign and the material evidence dovetail with the massive outbreak of plague which reached Asia Minor already by late 541. John was in Palestine when the plague, having devastated Alexandria, then broke out there. He claimed it had depopulated Egypt, especially Alexandria, and entire villages and towns in other regions.114 He wrote graphically and at length of the effects of the pandemic on the villages, cities, and towns through which he traveled on his way back to Constantinople, including that city itself, where he ultimately calculated the dead at over three hundred thousand.115 Although it’s easy to suspect this is an exaggeration, it turns out to be fairly consistent with the better known rates of mortality from the Black Death in the fourteenth century.116 The 67n123). John claims to have composed the Ecclesiastical History while imprisoned, smuggling out chapters piecemeal that he could no longer consult once they were gone (Eccl. Hist. 3.2.50), which might help account for these discrepancies. On this, see also van Nuffelen 2017. Here again I thank Susan Harvey for this observation. 111. MacMullen notes that three triens per person was three times the sum a poor person lived on for a year (MacMullen 1997:67). 112. Mitchell 2005:208. The sources, which include the Chronicle of Pseudo-​Dionysius of Tell Mahre; Michael the Syrian, Chronicle. 9.33; and the Zuqnin Chronicle (for the Seleucid year 861 = 550 ce), are all in Tabbernee 1997:27–​47; for Pseudo-​Dionysius see also Witakowski 1996. 113. John of Ephesos, Lives of the Eastern Saints 47. 114. Michael the Syrian 2.236–​38, 4.306, in Morony 2007:72n98; Incertis Auctoris 2.82–​83; the Zuqnin Chronicle 96–​97; Anecdota Syriaca 2.307, in Morony 2007:72n99. 115. See, e.g, the Zuqnin Chronicle (Harrak 1999:94–​117). For the various sources for his accounts, see both the notes in Harrak 1999:94n1 and Morony 2007:63n38. 116. For discussion, see Harper 2017:226.

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possibility of a connection between John’s commission to root out traditional religion in Asia Minor and the outbreak of the plague is intriguing (although it may be immaterial to questions concerning Jews). He says that he left for Mesopotamia while the plague was still raging in Palestine. In the Zuqnin Chronicle, the plague is dated to 543–​544, later than John’s missionary trip, but the plague in fact broke out in Alexandria in 541 and had spread to Palestine and beyond by the spring of 542. If so, John’s travel to Asia Minor took place in the same year. But when John recounts his travel to Asia Minor at Justinian’s behest, he says nothing about the presence of plague. The omission is significant because the timing may speak to Justinian’s motivation in sending John. Conceivably, Justinian’s efforts to convert the remaining Jews and traditionalists in Asia Minor were an attempt to appease God and mitigate the disaster, as some of his legislation in the wake of the plague similarly seems to have been. Yet if so, the choice of John as Justinian’s agent strikes many scholars as puzzling, since John was an opponent of Justinian’s Chalcedonian orthodoxy, and himself a target of the emperor’s persecution of miaphysite Christians.117 But for my purposes, it’s less critical to know Justinian’s motivations and more important simply to consider whether there is some causal relationship between John’s travels and the decline in evidence for Jews in parts of Asia Minor. The regions where John claims to have been sent are precisely those for which ample epigraphic and archaeological evidence testifies to the presence of substantial Jewish communities up through the mid-​fifth century. Although for many parts of Asia Minor we have no inscriptions reliably dated after the third or fourth century, it is striking that there are no inscriptions thought to date later than the sixth century, and even those inscriptions dated to the fifth century or later are generally done so on less than definitive grounds. For instance, the latest inscription from the province of Asia seems to be one from Ikaria, dated on the basis of letter forms (themselves notoriously unreliable) to the fifth or sixth centuries.118 Several inscriptions from Caria are perhaps dated this late, including several inscriptions from Aphrodisias and a chancel screen dedicated by a woman named Theopempte, who seems to call herself “head of the synagogue.”119 This is, however, quite consistent with the evidence for a substantial and precipitous decline in population in the mid-​sixth 117. Here again I thank Susan Harvey for her insights into this puzzle; see also Harvey 2001. 118. IJO 2.5a. 119. From Aphrodisias, IJO 2.15, 2.16, and perhaps one face of 2.14, the relatively well-​known theosebeis inscription, discussed further below, pp. 383–84; 392–94. On Theopempte, IJO



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century attendant on these natural catastrophes of volcanic eruption, solar diminution, and plague, as well as numerous earthquakes.120 The well-​studied building discovered in Sardis in the early 1960s, and generally thought to have been a Jewish synagogue,121 was still standing when Sardis fell to the Persians, who devastated the city in 616. It may have still been functioning as a synagogue—​or at the very least, there is no evidence it was being used for other purposes. If it was, it would suggest that Justinian’s efforts were not as successful or comprehensive as he intended.122 On the basis of re-​excavation in 2009–​2010, a much smaller synagogue in Priene, on the Aegean coast, has been redated to the fourth century or later, based on the discovery of coins, which have led the excavators to think the synagogue might have been in use as late as the seventh century.123 At the same time, the extensive evidence for massive population decline after the mid-​sixth century makes these arguments more tenuous. Further afield, in modern-​day Turkey, two other synagogue sites have been identified in the last few years. A building in Andriake, the port of Myra, in ancient Lycia, was found in 2009, yielding a chancel screen with a large menorah, various inscriptions, and other small finds.124 Most significantly, the filling of the apse of the building, a later addition, contained coins from the reign of Valentinian II (375–​392), which the excavators note supplies the terminus for the addition of the apse, although not the latest date of use for the synagogue, which they seem to think was fifth or sixth century.125 Subsequently, in 2012, archaeologists uncovered a building elsewhere in Lycia, in Limyra, whose floor contained two reused slabs decorated with

2.25; on women called archisynagōgos (head of the synagogue), see Kraemer 2011:232–​41 and Kraemer forthcoming b. 120. Harper 2017:295–​71 surveys the evidence by region: 265–​66 consider Anatolia. 121.  For the provocative thought experiment that it might have been a synagogue of God-​ fearers (theosebeis), generally not taken seriously in the scholarly literature, see Goodman 2005. 122. This does not even consider the evidence for the land of Israel, where various synagogues are dated to the sixth century; see, e.g., Levine 2005, 2012; Milson 2007; Hachlili 2013, especially 583–​608. Interestingly, Beth Alpha, one of the synagogues often noted as sixth century, is dated in part by an Aramaic inscription referring to the reign of Justinian. An inscribed lintel in the synagogue at Nabratein dates it to 494 years after the destruction of the Jerusalem temple, which would be 564 (see Hachlili 2013:584, with additional references). 123. See now Burkhardt 2014. 124. Çevik et al. 2010. 125. Çevik et al. 2010:337.

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menorot (broken, face-​down) and a water feature that some have suggested could have been a ritual bath (a mikveh).126 The dating of the building is still very much under discussion, although the range seems to be fourth to seventh centuries, and the preliminary stratigraphy actually supports a seventh-​ century date.127 It is by no means clear that the building in which these slabs were found was a synagogue. The primary evidence for identifying the site as a synagogue is the menorot, which appear consistent with chancel screens in size and design. The primary reason for identifying the water feature as a possible mikveh is also the menorot slabs. In their absence, it seems unlikely anyone would propose that the water feature was a mikveh, although it does seem likely to have been a bath of some sort.128 Linking the two creates a seemingly stronger identification of a synagogue, although mikvaot are hardly a common feature of ancient synagogues anywhere, let  alone Asia Minor, where, like elsewhere in the Mediterranean diaspora, no mikvaot have so far been identified. Even if this were to be a mikveh, many or most mikvaot were actually in non-​synagogue buildings.129 Often overlooked or minimized in the discussion of these sites is both the extensive presence of spolia—​building materials reused in subsequent construction—​and its implications.130 The archaeological evidence suggests not only the presence of Jews and synagogues in many locations but also hints at their demise. A lime kiln was eventually built on the site at Andriake, using stones from the synagogue, and the excavators speculate that the elements missing from the synagogue were burned in the kiln, although they do not yet indicate when this may have occurred.131 The chancel screens at Limyra were found upside down in a floor—​a clear and perhaps negative reuse, which points to the destruction or at least the transformation of whatever building in which they were originally installed. At Limyra, the demise of the excavated 126. Collela et al. 2014. 127. See, e.g., Weiss 2014:161. 128. See, e.g., Pülz, who makes the important point in a footnote that “[w]‌ithout the menorah slabs in Room 2 nobody would have proposed a mikveh, but rather a baptismal font or a pool for daily use (cistern, basin in a workshop, etc.)” (Pülz 2014:164n10). 129. For additional arguments against the likelihood that there was a mikveh here, see Pülz 2014. 130. The use of such materials in ancient construction has been construed both as an economic strategy and as a more symbolic practice; for some discussion, see Alchermes 1994; Saradi 1997; Leone 2013. In Leone, spolia refers to the reuse of marble, but my discussion here envisions that it might easily extend to other materials and even objects. 131. Çevik et al. 2010:341.



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building seems to have been catastrophic enough to shatter the windows and bring down the building, but not to have involved fire, one option for which is an earthquake.132 But the particular reuse of the chancel screens strongly implies that Jews were not involved. In other instances, a menorah plaque from Priene found in the late nineteenth century was discovered not in situ but, rather, in a Christian Byzantine basilica.133 Subsequent study of the church indicates that the plaque was reused in the floor, undercutting suggestions that it was either a Christian appropriation of the menorah as symbol or that it constituted an expression of valorization of Judaism.134 This is further supported by the fact that the pavement of the basilica incorporated inscriptions from the temple of Athena, surely not intended as an ecumenical gesture.135 As Saradi notes, in the Life of Porphyry of Gaza, the saint ordered that the front yard of the church built on the site of the destroyed temple of Marnas should be paved with marble from the temple, precisely so that people (and animals!) could step on them.136 In another particularly striking example, in 2006, a Turkish archaeologist published a brief note on the discovery of a column fragment with a menorah in the ruins of a nymphaeum at Laodikea ad Lycum, near Hierapolis (modern Pammukale).137 Jarringly, there is a well-​articulated cross superimposed on the upper portion of the menorah and extending beyond.138 The menorah is fairly graffiti-​like and poorly executed, while the cross appears somewhat better executed. The excavator dated the menorah before the fourth century and the cross to sometime after Constantine, but without offering any significant evidence other than supposition.

132. Guidoboni 1994 catalogues just one earthquake for these centuries at Myra, in 530. 133. Wiegand and Schrader 1904:481, cited in Fine 2014:207, fig 58. I thank Professor Fine for sharing the manuscript of this paper read at the 2010 meeting of the Association for Jewish Studies, in advance of its publication. 134. Murray 2005:209, cited and critiqued in Fine 2014:209–​10. Hypothetically, an earthquake might have destroyed a synagogue, and Christians might later have taken the plaque to the church without having taken part in whatever led to its initial dislodging. But it remained in the church, embedded in the floor, rather than being returned to Jews. Murray’s article also antedates the re-​excavation and redating of Priene. 135. Saradi 1997:401–​403, cited in Fine 2014:n57. 136. Life of Porphyry 76. 137. Şimşek 2006. For further discussion, see Fine 2014, with a photographic image on 195: Şimşek’s article also provides photographs. 138. Şimşek 2006:346.

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There is only one inscription known from Laodikea, which is reasonably well dated to the second or third centuries ce.139 An inscription from the Monteverde catacomb in Rome for a woman named Ammias, from La(o)dikia, is of uncertain date, and might or might not refer to the same Laodikea. One item in the Canons of Laodikea, before the end of the fourth century, forbids Christians from accepting holiday gifts from Jews (or dissident Christians), or celebrating with them. A second canon proscribes more specifically receiving unleavened bread for Jews.140 Such prohibitions may be as evidence for precisely the practices they attempt to regulate, to what effect we cannot determine. Şimşek hypothesized that the cross might “imply that part of the Jewish community at Laodikeia had accepted Christianity. The fact that the two motifs are virtually united may point to the presence of Jewish Christians in the town and suggest that the two groups co-​existed peacefully.”141 But Fine argues to the contrary, with some justification, that the fragment is best explained as an instance of Christian anti-​Jewish violence, which he sees as the outgrowth of “the kind of social distancing given expression by the Council of Laodicea.”142 Although such iconography is inherently indeterminate, I am inclined to concur with Fine’s critique that irenic readings of these remains may be more a reflection of our contemporary desires for such a peaceful history, and that the superimposed cross is more likely than not to augur poorly for Jews in Laodikea. The nymphaeum was (apparently) destroyed by an earlier earthquake in 494, so at the very least, it is quite possible that this particular column came from a building, perhaps a synagogue, destroyed decades earlier.143 This evidence is by no means limited to Asia Minor. As I  remarked in ­chapter  1, numerous Jewish burial inscriptions have been found ex situ in Christian churches, church yards, and other locations that hint at their intentional dislocation. Still, while the presence of spolia may point to active hostile Christian involvement, it is sometimes somewhat more complicated. 139. IJO 2.213. 140. Canons 37 and 38, in JLSEMA 66. 141. Şimşek 2006; Fine 2014. 142. Fine 2014:214. 143.  The earthquake is catalogued in Guidoboni 1994:no.  192, relying on the Chronicle of Marcellinus, which calls it a serious earthquake affecting Laodikeia, nearby Hierapolis and several other locations. It would be interesting to know whether the cross was imposed while the menorah was in its original position, or whether it was done after the column fell.



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Much of the Sardis synagogue was itself built from materials taken from local temples. This included not only the famous large Eagle table in the center of the west end of the building but also all kinds of other materials that were either put face down, if they were sufficiently “offensive,” or perhaps used as is, if they could be worked acceptably into the decorative program of the synagogue.144 While it may be that the use of spolia was somewhat constant in antiquity,145 it seems likely that its presence in late antique buildings relates to the closing of temples and Christian attacks on such sites from the fourth century on, ramping up in the late fourth and early fifth centuries. But even so, Jewish use of such material is interesting, as is the use of synagogue materials for Christian buildings, as, for instance, the Letter of Severus of Minorca claims for the church in Magona. In 545, as the plague seemed to have receded and John’s campaign had presumably concluded, Justinian issued a lengthy law pertaining to various issues about ecclesiastical properties. Like much of Justianian’s legislation pertaining to Jews, it was broad in scope, targeting Jews together with other non-​orthodox persons. Directed to the praetorian prefect of the East, it prohibited all sorts of land transfers from churches to dissident Christians, punishing the land managers who did so by removal from office, exclusion from communion, and confinement in a monastery. Similarly, it prohibited orthodox persons from transferring any property that included a church to any non-​orthodox person, whether Jew, Samaritan, Hellene, Montanist, Arian, or “other” dissident. The penalty for this was the vindication of the entire prop­ erty to the church. If dissidents, including now also Nestorians, Acephalians, and Eutychianists, dared to build a cult building (here again denigrated as “caves”), or Jews dared to build any new synagogues, the property was to be confiscated by the local church.146 It is not hard to imagine that this law worked in tandem with the destruction wrought by John of Ephesos and presumably others. It not only reiterated the ban against the construction of new synagogues and other places of worship precisely when they had just been destroyed or converted into orthodox churches, but it also transferred the property on which these might be built to local orthodox churches. We might also wonder whether these laws hint at the massive social dislocations caused 144.  Burkhardt 2014. See also Levine 2012:304–​306, who thinks that the reuse of spolia at Sardis was a kind of creative appropriation of available materials. 145. See above, p. 304n130. 146. Novella 131, JRIL 65, which notes that the Greek version is preserved in several sources, including the Collection of 168 Novels, and the Latin translation in the Authenticum and elsewhere.

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by the death of so many people in such a short period of time, leaving prop­ erty without owners and disrupting testamentary arrangements. In February of 553, Justinian issued his most famous, and in many ways most puzzling, law concerning Jews, Novella 146.147 Unlike most of those considered so far, this one pertained only to Jews, specifically in what language the Jews should hear the holy books (ta hiera biblia)—​Hebrew or Greek—​ and if Greek, which translation. It was promulgated in Constantinople, with explicit instructions for its distribution to the provincial governors and from there to every city. It begins with a prologue whose truthfulness is a matter of considerable scholarly dispute. The emperor acknowledges that when listening to these books in their synagogues, the Hebrews should not take them literally but, rather, attend to the prophecies that (of course) foretell the coming of Christ. He has now learned, from their own petitions, that the Hebrews are disputing among themselves over the language in which to read the holy books. Some Hebrews read the books only in Hebrew, while others consider it proper to accept the Greek, and he cannot bear to leave them with this controversy unresolved. Hence, he has looked into the matter closely, and decided that those who accept the Greek have the better argument. In fact, it is proper to hear the holy books in any language “that is the more suited and the better known to the hearers in each locality.” As the law subsequently indicates, this included Latin (“the Italian language”). By this time, of course, Christians were already hearing their holy books in numerous translations, including Latin, Coptic, Syriac, and Gothic languages. Justinian thus now ruled that Hebrews who wished to do so could read the holy books in Greek, in Latin, or in any other language they wished. Those who read in Greek were instructed to use the Septuagint translation, because of the total agreement of its multiple translators, thus implying its divine legitimation. This accorded with its authorizing myths, particularly in the Letter of Aristeas, which Justinian does not cite. He conceded, however, that the translation of Aquila could also be used, even though it differed, sometimes meaningfully, from the Septuagint. What the Hebrews could not read, however, is something called the Deuterosis (or the second tradition), “for it is not included among the holy books, nor was it handed down from above by the prophets, but it is an invention of men . . . having in it nothing of the divine.” Various provisions in the

147. JRIL 66.



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law take aim at Hebrew commentarial tradition that falsifies the holy books and/​or obscures what is in them (Christ, of course). In c­ hapter 1, Justinian made clear that Hebrew commentators used their knowledge to misinterpret the text to an audience ignorant of the language and thus unable to discern the truth. In ­chapter  3, the emperor expressed his desire that the Hebrews “shall avoid the evil of the commentators” as well as reading the text in a plain manner, “the naked letter,” invoked also in the prologue, since doing so impedes their ability to properly understand the truth of the text. The law then prohibits officers called archipherekitai, presbyters or didaskaloi (teachers), and anyone else from anathematizing those who read in Greek or other languages, under penalty of corporal punishment and the deprivation of property. In the epilogue, the emperor instructed those responsible for the enforcement of the law that anyone who resisted the law or attempted to impede its implementation would be subject first to corporal punishment and confiscation, and then to banishment. A short middle chapter is especially peculiar. It orders the banishment of any persons among the Hebrews who might deny the resurrection, the last judgment, or the existence of divinely created angels, all positions attributed to the Sadducees both in first-​century Jewish writings and in subsequent rabbinic sources. Many scholars have read this law as a useful window into actual Jewish disputes and practices in the sixth century.148 In the whole affair, some have seen evidence of the westward movement of Hebrew-​speaking Jews, flexing their muscles against the Greek-​speaking Jews of the diaspora.149 In Justinian’s attack on the Deuterosis, “the naked letter,” and Hebrew commentary, some have seen clear evidence for the widespread authority of rabbinic traditions empire-​wide. The Deuterosis must be the Mishnah: the banned commentarial tradition a clear indication of “the Talmudic method of biblical comment.”150 The didaskaloi who are apparently anathematizing those who read in Greek are surely not just teachers, but actual “rabbis.” The term “anathematize”

148. For references, see Rutgers 2003:49–​50. See also Kurtzer 2008:286–​93. 149. Especially Colorni, as cited in Rutgers 2003:50n2. 150.  Parkes 1934:252. Linder actually titles this law “Permission to Use All Languages in Synagogue, and Prohibition of Sadducean Opinions and of the Mishna” (JRIL, p. 402). Levine 2012:184, esp. n27, argues against the likelihood that the deuterosis is the Mishnah. See also the more extensive analysis of Schwartz 2002, with a stronger conclusion (also see ­below, p. 382). Kurtzer 2008 concurs that deuterosis is unlikely to designate the Mishnah (2008:293). Kurtzer underestimates Schwartz’s skepticism about the Novella as an index of rabbinic presence.

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refers clearly to the rabbinic practice of “herem.” Even Justinian’s banning of “Sadducean” tenets has been seen as an indication that these ancient views were still (or perhaps again) in vogue among some Jews in the sixth century. While some scholars construed Justinian’s law as simply his support for Greek speakers, more recent scholarship has seen his support for those who wished to read Torah in Greek as opportunistic. In this view, Justinian conveniently availed himself of a request to resolve a dispute between groups of Jews to impose a decision designed to facilitate his own desire to have them convert to orthodox Christianity—​something his prior harsh policies had failed to accomplish. Parkes even read this law relatively charitably. He saw Justinian’s ban on rabbinic commentary and his imposition of the Septuagint as evidence that Justinian had come to think (or perhaps been led to believe) that faulty exegesis was the real reason Jews had not yet converted in sufficient numbers, and that if he could only facilitate their proper understanding of the biblical texts, they would come to acknowledge what was, for Justinian, so evidently the prediction of Christ in their still-​mutual scriptures.151 Yet taking this law at face value poses numerous challenges.152 It would have us believe that an emperor who had spent the past thirty years suborning and condoning the destruction of synagogues, their replacement with churches, and the forced conversion of Jews now presented himself as the even-​handed mediator of a dispute between clashing groups of Jews over their liturgical practices in the very synagogues he had tried (but apparently failed) to eradicate. Even more, it would have us believe that he did so only in response to a petition from the Jews themselves, who sought imperial adjudication of a conflict they were unable to resolve on their own. More recently, Leonard Rutgers has proposed that Justinian’s real purpose here was neither the adjudication of Jewish liturgical practices, nor even the facilitation of Jewish conversion, but something more insidious:  the eradication of Hebrew altogether. Rutgers argues that the law is less useful as a window into what Jews did or thought, and far more useful as an indication of how Christians thought about Jews, as quarrelsome and resistant to the truth even when it was right in front of them.153 As Rutgers points out, much of what this law envisions is historically implausible. Although he acknowledges that in 534, Jews were required to use 151. Parkes 1934:251–​55. 152. See also the different phrasing of these same general problems in Rutgers 2003:53. 153. Rutgers 2003:54–​55.



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Roman courts for religious disputes, he thinks it unlikely that Jews would have done so to resolve a dispute like this, particularly because by the 550s, they knew all too well that Justinian was not a champion of the Jews.154 More important, he points out that there is little if any evidence for Jews insisting on a Hebrew-​only position, and considerable evidence to the contrary. Certainly, the use of both Hebrew and Greek in various late antique synagogue and funerary inscriptions, often at the same time, supports this. He argues further that the law’s representation of Jews as clinging to literal readings of scriptures which prevented them from perceiving the truth of Christ is an odd argument, for several reasons. First, late antique Jewish exegetes were quite capable of allegorical interpretations.155 Second, it is by no means obvious how reading in Greek, rather than in Hebrew, would facilitate the kinds of nonliteral readings that would lead Jewish readers to see Christ in the scriptures.156 Third, the translation of Aquila, which Justinian permitted, was known even in antiquity to be literal to a fault. In Rutgers’s view, by the 550s, Justinian had seen enough conflict among Christians to understand that conflicts of interpretation were far more than debates over translations. Rather, Justinian’s real purpose here was to eradicate Jewish use of Hebrew in order to eliminate their privileged access to the scriptures, for as long as Jews knew the Hebrew text (and Christians did not), “Christians could never hope to win the exegetical war they had been waging against Jewish contemporaries” by now for centuries.157 In his view, the law’s attack on Hebrew commentary is part and parcel of this larger attack on Hebrew. For Rutgers, the very title of the law, “concerning the Hebrews,” and the designation of Jews only as “Hebrews,” bolster his argument. This usage is, in fact, not the normal designation in Justinian’s other legislation, which regularly uses the Greek Ioudaioi. He concludes, then, that the Jews did not bring this conflict to Justinian but, rather, the emperor himself initiated this law as part of his program to sever the Jews from the scriptures and remove their claims to

154. CJ 1.9.8, revising CTh 2.1.10 from 398. 155. Rutgers 2003:58, with, unfortunately, no references to such interpretations. 156.  Conceivably, the issue here isn’t narrowly about allegory, but (also?) about typological and other forms of nonliteral reading in which the text says one thing but means another. Whether Justinian also has in mind the tradition of allegorical interpretation of scripture in Greek dating at least back to Philo of Alexandria is also impossible to determine, although certainly imaginable. 157. Rutgers 2003:59.

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have privileged knowledge of the original revelation.158 He further concludes that if his reading has merit, the law doesn’t say anything about Jewish use of Hebrew in the sixth century, only that Justinian thought Jews read in Hebrew and wanted to put a stop to it.159 I concur with Rutgers that much of the law invites skepticism, from the circumstances that prompted it, to the emperor’s own motivations, to the practices of Jews that it describes or implies. Nevertheless, Rutger’s thesis that Justinian’s real intent was to eradicate Hebrew is somewhat undercut by the fact that the law doesn’t actually prohibit Jews from reading the Bible in Hebrew, although it does make the public reading of commentaries illicit. Jews who read the scriptures in Hebrew could clearly continue to do so; what they could not do was interfere with the reading of scriptures in Greek or other vernacular languages. In Rutgers’s reading, the available evidence for Jewish reading practices undercuts Justinian’s presentation of this law as the response to a petition by Jews fighting over the language in which to read scripture. While I agree that it may be a pretext, it seems less clear to me that Jews might not have had serious disagreements on this subject. Because he rejects this as fictitious, Rutgers gives no further consideration to the possible reality of such a conflict. The scenario conjured by the law entailed conflict between Jews who attended different synagogues, but in its failure to indicate where these synagogues were, it constructs the perception that this conflict involved Jews empire-​wide. In some ways, of course, this representation of Jews looks suspiciously like a mirror image of Christian differences, supporting Rutger’s skepticism. At the same time, it seems to me possible that Justinian has not entirely fabricated a local dispute among some Jews, and that they might in fact have sought relief in the courts. What might that have looked like? Surely we are not supposed to imagine that Hebrew-​reading Jews—​in Palestine, for instance—​were traveling long distances to coerce their Greek-​reading co-​religionists to stop doing so. Such a dispute, then, requires a locale where there were both Greek-​speaking Jews and Jews competent in reading Hebrew. (What language the Jews reading in Hebrew might otherwise have spoken, including Greek, Latin, Aramaic, and other possibilities, is impossible to determine.) Further, we must then 158. Rutgers 2003:67. Rutgers sees a possible context for Justinian’s concern with allegorical interpretation in the condemnation of Theodore of Mopsuestia, whose fondness for literal rather than allegorical interpretation was stigmatized as “Jewish” (Rutgers 2003:72). 159. Rutgers 2003:74.



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imagine that such a change in practices was feasible—​that Jews who up until then were reading in Greek could now begin to hear (and presumably comprehend) Hebrew.160 For this, Palestine itself, or nearby environs, clearly qualified. Another might be certain locations in Italy, such as Venosa, where as I will pursue further in the next chapter, by the sixth century, we begin to have epigraphical evidence for the use of something slightly more than minimal Hebrew. Interestingly, in an account (discussed further in the next chapter) of Jews in Orleans in the late sixth century, Gregory of Tours claims that Jews greeting the appearance of King Guntram hailed him in something called the “language of the Jews” which appears, from the rest of the passage to be neither the “language of the Latins,” nor that “of the Syrians.” But whatever it is, Guntram clearly understood it, for he quotes it back to his dinner companions that evening.161 But even if we envision that Jews had different practices in different but proximate synagogues, and had the linguistic facility to go either way, we would also have to imagine that some Jews attempted to coerce others into doing it their way, again imagining Jews as behaving much like Christians. Yet as I discussed in c­ hapter 4, there is some evidence not only for such disputes but also for the use of Roman courts to adjudicate the conflict (as well as resistance to such adjudication). In the late fourth century, a group of Jews who had allegedly been “cast out” by certain Jewish authorities petitioned imperial authorities to restore them to whatever status and rights they had lost. After they were initially successful, the Jewish authorities who had expelled the dissidents succeeding in getting the court of Theodosios I  to rule that imperial authorities had no jurisdiction over these kinds of internal Jewish matters.162 Now, however, those authorities apparently did. Further, Rutger’s argument that Jews would not have sought restitution from the imperial court because of Justinian’s hostility to Jews overlooks the fact that both parties were Jews. And as with every instance of laws pertaining to Jews treated in this study, there are inevitably players, interests, and dynamics we cannot know. Thus it seems to me not quite as impossible as Rutgers presumes that in some specific locale, Jews who advocated reading Torah only in Hebrew had attempted to anathematize Jews who read in

160. If they can’t comprehend the Hebrew and need a translation, we are back to Jews “reading” in Greek, or another vernacular. 161. Gregory of Tours, Hist. Franks 8.1 (translation Brehaut 1916). See also b­ elow, pp. 332–33. 162. CTh 16.8.8, discussed ­above, pp. 139–43.

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Greek, and subjected them to various forms of harassment and violence, compelling the Greek readers to seek relief from the courts. But alternatively, such a dispute might have come to Justinian’s attention, and he, or one or more of his advisors, might have seen in such a dispute an opportunity to intervene.163 Although I  disagree with much of Kurtzer’s analysis of this edict, his discussion offers a plausible explanation for Justinian’s interest in such a dispute—​namely a desire to support Jewish reading of the Septuagint Greek translation of the Bible. For Justinian (and others), this translation anticipated and facilitated the allegorical interpretation needed to undergird orthodox Christian readings of Jewish scriptures. Justinian’s real goal here was to prohibit readings of scripture that countered Christian interpretations, which were themselves necessarily either allegorical or figurative, since the (Hebrew) texts don’t literally say what Christians claimed they said, or meant. Jews could read in any language they wanted so long as their reading didn’t provide fodder for exegetical mischief.164 Ultimately, what’s most useful about Novella 146 is that it seems to concede, against itself, that Justinian’s programs of eradication had failed. Jewish populations must have declined in this period, at the very least due to the same earthquakes, the plague of 541–​543, food shortages, and other disasters that took a massive toll on the general population of the ancient Mediterranean in the mid-​sixth century. The remaining Jewish populations may also have relocated, fleeing both natural disasters and the pressures of the Christian empire. Conceivably, such migration may even have facilitated these disputes. Their legal rights may have been constricted, their economic opportunities diminished, and some of their synagogues damaged or even destroyed. Yet despite Justinian’s intensive efforts, there were still, apparently, many Jews who resisted pressures and incentives to convert and didn’t find Christian exegetical arguments terribly persuasive—​something that would never really change, to the perpetual dismay of Christians.

163. For a somewhat different critique of Rutgers, and further discussion of Justinian’s edict, see Levine 2012:184–​85, especially 184n27 and 185n29. Levine ultimately concludes that we really have no idea what prompted Justinian here. Rutgers’s argument might have been bolstered by consideration of possible additional instances in which Justinian invented petitions in order to justify legislation, but it seems hard to know how we could tell in the absence of ancient contestations of these petitions. See also Schwartz 2002, who indicates that he disagrees with virtually every element of Rutgers’s position, and the brief critique by Stebnicka, who concludes that “It is still easier to accept the traditional interpretation [by which she means the text itself ]: the emperor reacts to a real dispute” (Stebnicka 2014:213). 164. Kurtzer 2008:292–​93.

9

“In what has been allowed to them, [the Jews] should not sustain any prejudice.” —​Letter 8.25, Gregory the Great, to Victor, bishop of Palermo, June 598

In the Aftermath of Theodosios in the West, 450–​6 04 In 488, the eastern emperor Zeno sent a young Gothic general named Theoderic to bring Italy back under Constantinopolitan control. After executing its current ruler, Odovacer, the Arian Theoderic set himself up in Ravenna, styling himself as king (rex) and ruling Italy from 493 until his death in 526.1 Although the Ostrogoths, Theoderic included, issued no new legislation, they did affirm older laws in the form of edicts.2 Toward the end of his lengthy public career, Theoderic’s quaestor, the catholic Cassiodorus Senator, collected 468 edicts and letters from the years 506 to 538, which he had drafted either under his own name as praetorian prefect of Italy or in the names of five Ostrogothic rulers (including one queen, Theoderic’s daughter Amalasuintha) and the Roman Senate.3 Regrettably for the interests of later 1. For a general history of Theoderic, see Heather 1995, 2013 (which contains no discussion of Jews); see also, e.g., Moorhead 1992a. 2. See, e.g., Barnish 1992:xli. 3. Cassiodorus, Variae, preface, 13, in Barnish 1992. The relevant excerpts are conveniently in JLSEMA 30. Critical editions include Mommsen 1894 and Fridh 1971. Selections of the Variae often include only one text pertaining to Jews. E.g., Barnish 1992, which includes only 2.27, on Genoa; or Viscido 2004, which has only 4.33, the other Genoa decree. An older, more comprehensive English translation, Hodgkin 1886, is also available online but should be used with caution; Hodgkin was also somewhat selective, and condensed some passages. Helpful studies of Cassiodorus include O’Donnell 1979, 2008:272–​77; Gillett 1998; Harries 1988; Momigliano 1955. See also the briefer treatment in Parkes 1934:206–​209; and in Lafferty 2013. Moorhead The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190222277.001.0001

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historians, Cassiodorus stripped these documents of much specificity, including dates and details.4 Cassiodorus’s dossier is likely neither to be comprehensive nor to be ideologically neutral. A recent study argues that Cassiodorus extensively edited these documents in the light of his concern that Italy was about to fall under eastern control, threatening his own position and interests.5 Bjornlie proposes that Cassiodorus’s purpose was the creation of “a composite image of Amal rule in Italy for a particular audience.”6 He sought to blunt the perception of the Italian palace bureaucracy as enablers of a “ ‘barbarian’ regime,” and to facilitate their continued power in the government of a Ravenna now ruled from Constantinople. The resulting assemblage constitutes, in Bjornlie’s view, not so much “a collection of entirely genuine artefacts from the Ostrogothic chancery” as a “literary enterprise,” at least some of whose documents have not only been edited but also sometimes composed de novo.7 Exactly five of Cassiodorus’s many documents associated with Theoderic pertain explicitly to Jews.8 (One other petition from Cassiodorus’s collection concerns Samaritans—​a dispute over a house in Rome, purchased by Rome’s bishop, Simplicius, but claimed by Samaritans as the site of their synagogue.9) Collectively, these documents suggest that under Theoderic’s reign, the pressures on Jews in Italy were somewhat mitigated, both legally and on the ground. The preserved edicts consistently upheld Jewish rights under prior

1992a on Theoderic; Macpherson 1989 on the Variae; and Barnwell 1992 have almost no consideration of Jews. 4. Barnish 1992:xiv, xviii; JLSEMA, p. 201. 5. Bjornlie 2013, who begins with the intriguing framing “that the Variae act as a piece of polemical literature in a manner comparable to that of the visual medium of the mosaics [at Sant’ Apollinare]” (Bjornlie 2013:2), specifically a mosaic in which portraits of key persons were removed and replaced with depictions of draperies and colored brick. For the argument that the Variae were less ideological, see Gillett 1998. 6. Bjornlie 2013:3. 7. Bjornlie 2013:5. Unfortunately, Bjornlie does not address any of the documents pertaining specifically to Jews. 8. On Jews, Variae 2.27 (Genoa), 4.33 (Genoa), 4.43 (Rome), 5.37 (Milan), and an edict usually attributed to Theodoric, but on which see JLSEMA, p. 200; one more pertains to Samaritans (3.45). 9.  Cassiodorus, Variae 3.45. Intriguingly, Theoderic here says that the opponents of the Samaritans claim that the architectural style (that of a house) refutes their claim that it was a synagogue, perhaps relevant for modern scholarly debates about how to distinguish private houses from synagogues.



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Roman law.10 How much of this accurately characterizes Theoderic’s policies and practices, and how much of it is Cassiodorus’s deliberate refashioning (as well as for what purposes) is obviously difficult to assess. To the extent, though, that this represents a departure from Constantinopolitan policies, it might seem to be less contrived. Of equal interest, perhaps, is that early in his reign, Theoderic compiled a summary of Roman law governing conflicts between Romans and non-​Romans that omitted older laws curtailing Jewish rights, including the holding of high offices and slaveholding.11 In this regard, Theoderic may be contrasted with Justinian, who deleted Theodosian laws protecting Jews and their religion, and those granting tax immunities to synagogue officials, while retaining precisely the laws disadvantaging Jews.12 An edict promulgated in the name of a king Theoderic affirmed the rights of Jews under existing laws and stipulated that when Jews litigate among themselves according to their own laws, they must have knowledgeable observant judges,13 although there is still some debate about whether the Theoderic of this decree is the Ostrogothic ruler.14 Regardless, Theoderic seems not to have enforced many of the restrictions on Jews that he inherited from the Theodosian Code, including constraints on slaveholding, occupations, military service, and holding higher public offices.15 This seems apparent from several episodes addressed in Cassiodorus’s files. In a letter that Linder dates to 509, Theoderic wrote to Jews at Genoa, granting them permission to “superimpose a roof on the old walls of your synagogue.”16 10. See especially Bachrach 1977:32–​33. 11.  Bachrach 1977:29. Linder (JLSEMA, pp.  217–​18) notes that Alaric’s new legal code, the Breviarium, excised much of the legislation of the Theodosian Code that could be used against Arians, as well as a significant portion of the Theodosian Code regulating Jews in CTh 16.8. 12. E.g., CTh 16.8.2, 16.8.20, 16.8.13; see Parkes 1934:246. 13. “[O]‌bservantiae praceptores.” 14.  See JLSEMA, p.  200; also Bachrach 1977:153nn6 and 7 (to his ch. 2)  for overview and bibliography. 15. Bachrach 1977:29. 16.  Cassiodorus, Variae 2.27, trans. JLSEMA, p.  202. Although Cassiodorus deleted dates from the Variae, various editions now provide either dates or a range of dates, based in part on what office Cassiodorus held at the time. Linder (JLSEMA, p. 201n3) relies especially on the dating of Krautschick 1983 for placing three of the four edicts pertaining to Jews to the years 508–​511, when Cassidorus was Theodoric’s quaestor, and the last to 523–​526, when he was “magister officiorum.” Following Krautschick, Linder dates Book 2 to 509 and Book 4 to 511 (JLSEMA, p. 203n7); cf. the slightly different range (508–​511) in Bachrach 1977. Barnish 1992

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He specifically prohibited them from adding any ornament or enlarging the existing building, consistent with the earlier Theodosian laws against such improvements, but in a manner that upheld the privileges of the Jews as much as the law would allow. The precise circumstances that prompted the Jews’ petition and Theoderic’s response are lacking. The edict speaks opaquely of “those who are destitute of the grace of the divinity,” who “behave insolently in their elation,” which may be an oblique reference to persons responsible for the condition of the synagogue. Nothing allows us to determine whether the building required a roof because it had been vandalized, or burned, by such persons or had simply suffered from the ordinary disrepair into which ancient buildings routinely fell, and to which some of Theoderic’s other papers attest more generally.17 At the end of the response, Theoderic offered a somewhat gratuitous comment, asking rhetorically why the Jews should wish to retain the synagogue when they should have escaped it. Noting his disapproval of their “deviant” desire, he concluded that he cannot command them where religion is concerned, since people cannot be forced to believe against their will.18 A year or so later, in 511, Theoderic again responded to a petition from Jews in Genoa which makes no mention of a synagogue and whose circumstances, in fact, are completely obscured.19 Most of what is preserved here expressed the ruler’s commitments to observance of just laws and the civility that follows such fidelity. Hence the king willingly conceded the Jews’ request that “laws in favor of the Jewish way of life”20 be “observed inviolate.” We do not known which laws may have been at issue. In a third instance, Theoderic wrote to the Jews of Milan sometime between 523 and his death in 526, responding to their complaints that they were “frequently afflicted by the presumption of some people, and assert that the rights pertaining to [their] synagogue have been rescinded.”21 Here, again, the gives 507–​512 as the range of dates for Variae 2.27, the only edict pertaining to Jews he includes. For my purposes, the precise dates are immaterial. 17. E.g., Cassiodorus, Variae 1.25. O’Donnell 2008:50–​51 also notes the extensive renovations Theoderic funded in Rome on the occasion of his visit there in 499. 18.  “[R]‌eligionem imperare non possumus, quia nemo cogitur ut credat invitus” (ll.16–​ 17). Parkes proposed that these jibes at Jewish unbelief might have come from the catholic Cassiodorus rather than the Arian Theoderic (Parkes 1934:207). 19. Cassiodorus, Variae 4.33, dated as with 4.43, to 511; see above, pp. 317–18n16. 20. “Iudaicis institutis legum” (ll.10–​11). 21. Cassiodorus, Variae 5.37. See Krautschick 1983:48 for dating. All translations here are from JLSEMA.



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king acceded to their request, proclaiming that “for the sake of the civilized life (“civilitate”), the benefits of justice shall not be denied even to those who are known to be still deviating in faith.”22 His ensuing assurance, “no ecclesiastic shall forcefully encroach on what pertain legally to your synagogue nor intervene harshly and grievously in your way of life,” seems to suggest that such actions are precisely what prompted the Jewish petition. Further on, he ordered that “you should not be subjected to unreasonable interest costs,” although for what, precisely, the text does not now say, if at one point it did. Theoderic then cautioned the Jews that they, too, should refrain from appropriating “unjustly what is known to pertain by law to the right of said church, or assuredly, to religious persons.” This hints at a confrontation between two competing groups, a synagogue and a particular church, although whether this accurately represents the underlying conflict or seeks to construct a kind of parity that exists only in rhetoric cannot be gauged. As with his earlier reply to the Jews of Genoa, this one ended with a lament for continuing Jewish perversity: “Why,” he chided them, “do you seek and supplicate for temporal repose when you are unable to find eternal peace?” Particularly noteworthy here is Theoderic’s insistence that Jews should be “separated in the practice of your way of life just as you are separated in your religious cult,” hinting at boundary transgressions of various sorts. The fourth edict of Theoderic pertaining to Jews was an order he sent to the Roman Senate, concerning an attack on a synagogue, perhaps around the time of the second incident in Genoa, in 511.23 Theoderic had learned from Arigernus, the governor of Rome, that some servants had murdered their Jewish masters, with no further details given about that event. When the perpetrators were subsequently punished, an angry mob (“plebis inflammata”) then burned the synagogue to the ground. Theoderic instructed the recipients of the letter to conduct an investigation and punish the arsonists, while allowing anyone who felt aggrieved by Jews to bring the matter before the court for adjudication. The extant edict devotes considerable space to Theoderic’s outrage at the disproportionate nature of the response—​if one of the Jews had been proved to have transgressed, he alone should have undergone punishment—​as well as to his general condemnation of arson (and its

22. “[I]‌n fide noscuntur errare” is perhaps a little stronger than Linder’s translation. 23. Cassiodorus, Variae 4.43. Linder notes that a reference to “your court” at the end of the decree suggests that the superscription to the Senate is erroneous, and that a magistrate would have been a more likely recipient (JLSEMA, p. 205n10).

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links to sedition), and of the destruction of buildings as a violation of civic beauty and civility. Given the nature of these documents, it is tempting to see this decree as reliable evidence for the burning of a synagogue in Rome in the early sixth century. But this truncated account conceals much of what we wish to know, while hinting at various complex possibilities. As we have already seen numerous times, many instances of violence against synagogues are constructed, both by ancient accounts and more contemporary historiography, within frameworks of religious contestation. In the Letter of Severus, Christians on Minorca burned the synagogue in Magona in order to coerce Jews to accept Christ. In Ambrose’s argument to Theodosios, Christians destroyed the synagogue in Callinicum as God’s rightful punishment of their denial of Christ. This account is different. First, and quite importantly, the text does not ever explicitly say that the arsonists were Christians.24 Modern interpreters presume that they were, perhaps on the assumption that by the early sixth century, they could not have been anything else; but nevertheless, the decree as we have it fails to identify the arsonists as anything other than “plebs.” One might imagine that Cassiodorus has deleted further identification, perhaps because the perpetrators were catholics rather than Arians. They could, of course, even have been Samaritans, although this never occurs to anyone, or perhaps they were traditionalists. Not only does the decree unequivocally denounce arson of whatever sort as an affront to Roman civility, and to the reputation of the city, but it also offers no theological framework for the motives of the arsonists. Whether the edict here reproduces the voice of Theoderic, inscribes the views of Cassiodorus, or perhaps both, here as elsewhere in these documents arson is the uncivil reaction of disorderly non-elites. Its perpetrators seem to have ties to amorphous seditious groups.25 Regardless of how many Jews were or were not culpable for something, burning the synagogue was never an appropriate response, since it was an affront to civility and to the beauty of public buildings that benefited the whole city. Whatever transgressions had taken place, they were to be remedied by the rightful and just actions of the king and courts, not the violence of mobs.

24. I have not seen this point in any of the literature I have consulted. Hodgkins’s translation explicitly reads “some Christian servants” (Hodgkin 1886:257), but this is not in the text. 25.  “Fickleness of sedition and the desire to burn one’s proper city are not Roman wishes” (4.43. ll.4–​5); “it was quite unjust to run to a seditious league” (ll.14–​15; trans. JLSEMA).



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In Hodgkin’s nineteenth-​century translation (which, given its easy availability online, many modern English readers are likely to consult), it appears that Theoderic even-​handedly instructed the Senate to look into allegations against the Jews and adjudicate them properly. But the text and translation in Linder make clear that this move is more conditional, and perhaps conceals some sense that there was, in fact, no basis for the prosecution of Jews: “if anyone should believe”26 that he has cause against Jews, he shall present himself and expect justice. Whether this is a challenge contrary to fact (that is, no one has rational basis for such claims) remains unclear, as do any charges themselves. Theoderic’s statement that “if one of the Jews had been proved to have transgressed, he alone should have undergone punishment” seems to imply that even this was not the case. What charges might have been brought against Jews remain obscured. Bachrach thought that Jewish possession of Christian slaves, illegal under existing Roman law, was a possibility, but in fact not only does the text not specify that the murderers were Christians, but it also may not be explicit that the murderers were enslaved.27 The larger evidence for intergroup mob violence in the late antique Mediterranean suggests many possibilities. One might wonder whether something the Jewish masters did had somehow provoked their own murders, or that Jews had attacked the murderers, or the arsonists, themselves.28 The ultimate outcome of the matter remains unknown. The decree speaks only to the punishment of the arsonists, and perhaps to the adjudication of counter charges against Jews; it is silent about whether the synagogue was rebuilt. Perhaps the most interesting episode concerning attacks on synagogues on Theoderic’s watch comes not from Cassiodorus, but from a different source, the Anonymus Valesianus II, named after its seventeenth-​century editor, Henri Valois.29 It appears to be an excerpt from what may have

26. “[S]‌i aliquid sibi contra Ioudaeos rationabiliter quispiam crediderit suffragari” (ll.22–​23). 27.  “[Q]‌uod in dominorum caede proruperit servilis audacia.” The question hinges on the meaning of “servus,” which in Lewis and​Short, drawing from late enough Latin authors, can mean either a servant or an enslaved person. 28. It’s tempting to suggest that this decree implicates class, if not also gender. Properly masculine citizens avail themselves of the rightful system of justice, while the “plebs” do not, but this is somewhat more implicit here than in, for instance, the account of Severus. 29.  Valois, also known as Henricus Valesius (1603–​1676), published it in 1636. Editions include Rolfe 1935, from the text of Mommsen 1884; Moreau 1961; Bracke 1992, König 1997, and Excerpta Valesiana, pars posterior: Theodericiana, Centre Traditio Litterarum Occidentalium. [S.l.]:  Brepols Publishers, 2010 (no editor or translator identified); see also Barnish 1983; Navarro and Hernando 2009. Parkes, who would not have had access to any of these editions

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been a lost history of the Ostrogoths, or at least a history of Theoderic, by Maximianus, bishop of Ravenna, written in the mid-​sixth century, perhaps 540–​550. Why the episode is absent from Cassiodorus’s collection is unclear; in 525, Cassiodorus had long been out of office as quaestor and was now master of offices.30 According to the excerpt, while Theoderic was away at Verona, conflict broke out between Jews and Christians back in Ravenna.31 Apparently, resistant to Christian efforts to baptize them, Jews were in the habit of throwing holy water into the river.32 An infuriated populace then set fire to several synagogues, showing disrespect for Theoderic, Eutharic (his son-​in-​law, who held secular office), and the reigning bishop, Peter. Something similar is also said to have happened at Rome.33 Subsequently, Jews went to Theoderic at Verona to seek restitution, aided by the head chamberlain Triwane, about whom the author says: “he favored the Jews, being himself a heretic.”34 Treating the fires as arson, Theoderic ordered the entire Roman population (presumably only Christians) of

apart from Mommsen, discusses the episode (Parkes 1934:207–​208); it is also noted in Juster 1914:1.467n3, who dates the episode to 519. In some editions, including Rolfe 1935, the work is titled Excerpta Valesiana. 30. See, e.g., Barnish 1992:xlviii–​xlvix. 31. Anonymus Valesianus II.81.l.14: “inter Christianos et Iudaeos Ravennates.” 32. In Rolfe 1935, this reads “Quare Iudaei baptizatos nolentes, dum ludunt frequenter oblatam acquam in acquam fluminius iactaverunt” (“Accordingly, being unwilling to be baptized, the Jews then jokingly (mockingly: “ludunt”) frequently threw the consecrated water (“oblatam acquam”) into the river water” (my translation). The first “acquam” is missing in the two surviving manuscripts and was added by Warmington. The subsequent 1961 edition of Moreau prints the unemended text. The difference is significant. Parkes reconstructed a scenario in which Jews baptized against their will (“baptizatos nolentes”) were given pieces of consecrated bread (“oblata”), which they then threw into the river in protest, marching in concert (“frequenter”). Rolfe’s edition seems to make more sense of both the text and the story: Jews resisting baptism mock the Christians by throwing water into the river. In Bachrach’s retelling, the Jews of Ravenna were accused either of throwing holy water into the river or of throwing baptized Christians into the river (Bachrach 1977:31). He gives the same Latin as that of Rolfe in his notes (Bachrach 1977:154n17–​p. 31), but does not indicate the edition he used, nor discuss the various corrections of “ludunt” noted by Rolfe, nor the textual problem of the double “acquam.” His note speaks only to debates about whether “ludunt” signifies playfulness or mockery (his position). 33. Here, too, there are textual difficulties. Simonsohn 2014:76–​77n56 states that the reading “at Rome” was actually Mommsen’s emendation of a corrupt text. Rolfe merely noted that for the reading, “Quod et in Roma in re eadem similiter contigit,” Mommsen had supplied “re” where the two extant manuscripts for the second part of the excerpts read “cena.” 34. “Ipse haereticus favens Iudaeis.”



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Ravenna35 to pay for the cost of rebuilding the burned synagogues. Those (Roman Christians) who could not pay were to be dragged through the city streets and whipped, while a herald proclaimed their offense. The order, given to two secular officials, Eutharicus and Cilliga, and to the catholic bishop, Peter, was duly executed. Nothing is said about any disposition of affairs at Rome.36 Like every other account of synagogue destruction, this one is hard to assess. It seems to encompass the burning of multiple synagogues in Ravenna, and perhaps also at Rome. If the reference to Rome is not a subsequent textual fabrication,37 its brevity raises questions about whether it is really evidence for particular incidents, or whether it constitutes some sort of conflation on the author’s part. Intriguingly, the representation of the synagogue burnings here gestures toward a rather complex social dynamic, at least in Ravenna. Jews felt sufficiently safe not only to resist Christian efforts to baptize them but also to mock Christians by throwing their holy water into the river. They were not safe enough to prevent Christians from retaliating by torching synagogues, but they were sufficiently empowered to seek and obtain legal redress from both secular and orthodox catholic church authorities. This is a very different scenario than that presented in the Letter of Severus, where the Jews’ only recourse when Christians burned their synagogue was to be baptized or to attempt, without success, to flee the island. Whether this points somehow to its greater plausibility, though, is, as always, difficult to say. Although both Cassiodorus and the author of the excerpt from the Anonymus Valesianus were unquestionably catholic, the latter is far more critical of the king than the former, deriding Theoderic both for his Arianism and for various personal deficiencies. In this particular instance, the Anonymous Valesianus claims that the king was not only illiterate but also so stupid38 that for ten years he had been unable to learn even how to write the affirmative formula “legi” (literally: “I read [it]”).39 Instead, he used a golden stencil to trace the letters. Despite the anti-​Arian overlay of the episode—​it asserted 35. “[O]‌mnis populus Romanus Ravennates.” 36. Which might support the thesis that the reading “at Rome” is erroneous. 37. See above, p. 322n33. 38. “[I]‌lliteratus erat et sic obtuso sensu.” 39. O’Donnell 2008:55–​56 points out that this same accusation was leveled against Justin but provides no references.

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that Triwane supported the Jews only because he was an Arian anti-​catholic, and perhaps implied that Theoderic’s judgment of arson was unwarranted—​ its representation of Theoderic is consistent with that of Cassiodorus’s dossier. Theoderic responded sympathetically to the Jews’ petition, enforced the laws against arson, and did so in a way that provided restitution for the damaged synagogues. Still, this might not be a reliable gauge of the experiences of Jews in Gothic Italy in the early sixth century. The excerpt from the Anonymus Valesianus undercuts the likelihood that Cassiodorus’s collection was comprehensive. In service to an apologetic agenda showing the Goths as religiously tolerant, and greatly respecting of legal precedent and social order, Cassiodorus might easily have omitted documents that contradicted this representation. Yet documents pertaining to more attacks on Jews and synagogues would have undermined Cassiodorus’s apologetic only if Theoderic had not responded favorably to the Jewish petitioners, as he did in all these instances. Cassiodorus is likely to have been far less concerned with documenting the experiences of Jews than with representing the policies and responses of Theoderic and his Gothic successors, all of whom had more ability to adjudicate grievances after the fact than to control the actions of those they ruled. Given how difficult it proves to assess the accuracy of accounts of attacks on ancient synagogues, let alone their frequency in any particular location, we should be cautious about concluding that during Theoderic’s reign there really were relatively few attacks on synagogues in Italy. Still, as some scholars have suggested, it does seem to be the case that Theoderic and other Gothic rulers were less inclined to enforce the Theodosian restrictions on Jews, more supportive of Jewish rights, and much less interested in the more active anti-​ Jewish programs of their catholic counterparts. In addition, it seems possible that such attacks were less frequent under the Ostrogoths precisely because earlier attacks were instigated by orthodox bishops and other leaders who, under the Ostrogoths, no longer had the cover of the imperial court, while Arian church leaders really were less likely to foment anti-​Jewish violence. To the extent that the Arian Ostrogoths may be said to have supported Jews, their stance might be read as an instance of politics making strange bedfellows. Arians made common cause with Jews over their mutual antipathy toward catholic Christians. As we have repeatedly seen, a substantial amount of legislation directed against Jews under Theodosios I and his heirs was also directed against Arians—​and other dissident Christian groups. For Theoderic and his successors to affirm restrictions on Jews ran the risk of an inconsistent position in which legal precedent was invoked when it was directed against



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Jews, but ignored when it was directed against Arians. Conversely, enforcing the privileges of Jews may have contributed to defanging not only anti-​Jewish legislation but also anti-​Arian legislation. Conceivably, the more Arian rulers disabled earlier anti-​Arian legislation through a failure to repeat it, let alone enforce it, the less likely it was to come back to haunt them in the future. While various scholars have seen a connection between the religious positions of the Gothic rulers and their relatively lenient treatment of Jews, Bachrach considered such an explanation far too vague.40 In Bachrach’s view, Ostrogothic protection of Jews was pragmatic and in their own best interest, since educated Jewish men served the government, Jewish military units fought on the side of the Goths, and bands of armed Jewish citizens supported their positions.41 Bachrach seems to have preferred explanations of anti-​Jewish policies that aren’t primarily a function of theological stances, but it’s not clear that these are mutually exclusive positions.42 Regardless of whether Arians were more favorably disposed to Jews on specific theological grounds (for which there seems to be no evidence), if they had practical interests at stake here, these seem unlikely to have been related to the advantages of Jewish government officials, soldiers and local armed citizenry. Catholic rulers, after all, might easily have benefited from those same services had not their anti-​Jewish stances made this difficult, if not impossible. Rather, Arian interests in supporting Jews might have had more to do with protecting their own legal positions. At the same time, theology and practical needs were more interrelated than Bachrach seems to acknowledge. More favorable Arian treatment of Jews might have created the conditions under which those allegiances were strengthened in various ways. Appreciative Jews supported the Arians because it was in their own best interests to do so. Further, any arguments about relations between Jews and Arians need to attend to the fact that Arians were hardly monolithic: Jews seem to have fared considerably better under Ostrogothic rulers than under Visigoths and Vandals.43 In prior chapters, I  have argued that the surviving sources greatly impede our ability to assess networks of influence behind these sorts of events.

40. Bachrach 1977:32–​33, where he cites as examples only Parkes 1934:207 and Baron 1953–​ 67:3.241. Subsequent scholars continue to assert an affinity between Jews and Arians without much consideration of its basis; e.g., JLSEMA, p. 218; Simonsohn 2014:73. 41. Bachrach 1977:32–​33. 42. Nor why he might prefer nonreligious explanations. 43. Deliyannis 2010:142, citing Luiselli 2005.

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Here, too, the dynamics of Theoderic’s court are only partially perceptible. Still, relatively little attention is usually paid to the implications of an account concerning the events that led to the death of Theoderic. In the Anonymus Valesianus 94, Theoderic’s death results directly from heightened conflicts between Arians and catholics. A year or so earlier,44 Theoderic had executed his master of offices, the philosopher Boethius, who may have hoped to succeed him after Theoderic’s son-​in-​law died young, upending Theoderic’s succession plan. He then compelled Boethius’s friend and ally, Pope John, to travel from Ravenna to Constantinople bearing Theoderic’s request to the emperor Justin that Arians who had been forced to become orthodox could return to their Arian practice. When John arrived in the imperial city, Justin received him with great honor, and supported his position that the former Arians must remain orthodox. In John’s absence, Theoderic contrived the execution of Boethius’s father-​in-​law. On John’s return to Ravenna, Theoderic made clear his anger at the pope’s failure to secure protection for the Arians. Within days, thereafter, John himself died.45 The catholic author of the Anonymus Valesianus attributes Theoderic’s death directly to his subsequent hostility to the orthodox. On Wednesday, August 26, 526, an edict was issued at Ravenna that the coming Sunday, August 30, catholic churches would be given over to Arians.46 This transgression was soon requited by God: as had Arius himself, Theoderic suffered a major intestinal illness and died after three days of intense diarrhea. The edict was issued by one Symmachus, called “scholasticus Iudeus.” Symmachus’s role here has more often been invoked in discussions about the mutual interests of Arians and Jews, or proffered as one more piece of evidence that Jews continued to practice law and hold public offices long after Roman laws had officially barred them from doing so. Interestingly, as I noted in the prior chapter, the following year, in 527, shortly before Justinian became sole emperor, he 44.  I  am indebted here to the lucid account of O’Donnell 2008:164–​69, who comments (2008:168) that the dates of these events are uncertain, but 524–​525 seems reasonable. 45. O’Donnell 2008:168. 46. E.g., O’Donnell, whose treatment of the episode does not mention that the person who issued the edict is said to be a Jew (2008:168–​69). There are no references to any of this material in Bonfil 2012. Simonsohn notes this episode in a footnote (Simonsohn 2014:76), where he calls him “scholarius” and “a Jewish advisor of Theodoric,” and notes that Theoderic died before the order could be carried out. In the text, Theoderic died three days after the diarrhea set in, but when that happens is unclear. Simonsohn invokes the example of Symmachus in his discussion of Jewish lawyers (Simonsohn 2014:164, also 348). Conversely, Deliyannis 2010:143 notes Symmachus’s role in this affair, but does not otherwise discuss its implications for Jews in Ravenna.



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issued a law together with his predecessor, Justin, reaffirming the older law that only orthodox men could serve in the imperial and city administrations or bring lawsuits.47 The edict makes clear that the older prohibitions had not been enforced for some time and specifically names Manichaeans, Jews, and Samaritans as offenders. At the very least, the law would seem to target persons like Symmachus, and not inconceivably, Symmachus himself. Less attention has been paid to the implications of Symmachus’s position for understanding Theoderic’s response to Jewish petitions. We seem to know nothing else about Symmachus: who he was, how long he had been at court, and what his relationship to Theoderic may have been. Hard-​core skeptics might even argue that Symmachus, or at least his identification as a Jew, is fictitious slander by a hostile catholic author, an instance of the useful stereotype of the malevolent Jewish advisor who urges otherwise pious rulers to harm the true church.48 But assuming it is not, it is instructive to consider whether Symmachus’s presence implies that there may have been other Jews among the king’s advisors. These could have mediated between Theoderic and Jewish petitioners, and might have recommended the generally gracious positions he took: they might also, or even, account in part for his sympathies to Jews, and his reluctance to pressure them to convert. There is, of course, no way to know, but the prospect is tantalizing. In any case, Theoderic was not alone in having Jewish advisors. Early in his reign, the bishop of Rome, Gelasius (492–​496) also had close Jewish associates, including Telesinus, called “vir clarissimus” (a title of highest rank) and Antonius.49 These, too, may have been in positions to mediate between local Jewish groups and Christian rulers. Such fragmentary references hint at far more complex social realities and power dynamics than the surviving sources permit us to identify. Christian sources from the late sixth century continue to evince interest in the conversion of Jews on the part of others. Both Gregory, bishop of Tours, and Venantius Fortunatus recount a mass conversion of Jews in 576, in Clermont (now Clermont-​Ferrand), in central France. Gregory’s prose account in his History of the Franks may actually postdate the poetic version he commissioned from (his friend) Venantius Fortunatus.50 The story may sound somewhat familiar.

47. CJ 1.5.12, JLSEMA 56. 48. On which, see Fishman-​Duker 2012:795. 49. Gelasius, Col. 146, cited in Bachrach 1977:28. 50. Gregory of Tours, Hist. Franks 5.11 (Krusch and Levison 1951; Thorpe 1974; Brehaut 1916). Fortunatus, Opera Poetica 5.5 (Reydellet 1998); Pucci 2010 does not contain this particular

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In Gregory’s telling, Avitus, his childhood teacher and mentor, and now the bishop of Clermont, had always desired to convert Jews. In a passage evocative of Justinian’s plaint in Novella 146, Avitus regularly extended Jews the offer to put aside the veil that impeded their proper interpretation of scripture and join the church, and he prayed often for their conversion. How much success he had up to that point goes unremarked, but in 576, an unnamed Jewish man did convert and asked to be baptized on Easter Sunday, often the time for baptisms. Dressed in white baptismal robes, he joined the procession of similarly garbed Christians. As they were passing through the city gates, an unconverted Jew, prompted by the devil, poured rancid oil on the new convert’s head, perhaps a symbolic counter to the fragrant oil of baptismal anointing. Although the Christian crowd wished to stone him in response, Avitus forbid it. But several weeks later, on the day of Christ’s ascension, a crowd of Christians rushed to the synagogue and leveled it to its foundations. Avitus, however, was elsewhere, processing from the cathedral to the church, singing psalms and thus, presumably, playing no part in the devastation. Soon thereafter,51 Avitus sent a message to the Jews, emphasizing that he was not compelling them to convert by force. Rather, he invited them to be one flock with him. If they declined, they would be compelled to leave Clermont.52 In turmoil, the Jews contemplated their options for three days. On Pentecost, the Jews then appeared en masse before Avitus, prostrating themselves submissively before him and “begging” for baptism. Gregory opined that the bishop’s prayers played a decisive role. Their brief collective speech included a confession of their belief in Christ, their recognition that the scriptures prophesy his coming, and their desire to abandon their prior guilt. Avitus was overcome with joy, as were all the Christians, and the Jews were promptly baptized and anointed with oil. Only at this point did Gregory concede that while more than five hundred Jews were baptized, they were not quite the “whole multitude” said to have appeared before Avitus. Some, apparently, declined baptism, choosing instead to leave the city and return to Marseilles, from which they had apparently previously come. Fortunatus’s poetic account, which Gregory may have commissioned to be read in public in support of Avitus, differs in some intriguing ways. poem). For studies, see Brennan 1985; Breukelaar 1994; Keely 1997; George 1992, 1998; Coates 2000; Moreira 2000; Heinzelmann 2001; Rose 2002; Roberts 2009; Szprech 2013. 51. Gregory is a bit vague on the timing here: “On another day.” 52. “I do not compel you by force . . . if you are willing to believe as I, be one flock . . . but if not, depart from the place.”



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In Fortunatus, Clermont was explicitly divided by religious difference, Christians and Jews. When the synagogue was destroyed, a field appeared in its place. After Avitus offered the Jews the choice of converting or leaving Clermont, the Jews then gathered in a house, where the Christians, seeing them all assembled in one place, attacked. Imperiled, the Jews sought the protection of the bishop, entreating him to convert them instantly to spare them from the attackers. Fortunatus appears to compress the time sequence into a single day, whereas in Gregory, these events clearly take place in the interval between Easter and Pentecost. What if anything actually transpired in Clermont is uncertain. At the time this allegedly happened, Gregory was living in Tours (in the Loire Valley), and whatever he knew of these events must have been secondhand. Although both are far briefer than the Letter of Severus, Gregory’s narrative and Fortunatus’s poem each bear some intriguing resemblances to that account. Both Fortunatus’s Hymn and the Letter of Severus tell a similar story, with four key components.53 First, in the beginning, a single location (Minorca or Clermont) is divided into two religious communities—​Christians and Jews—​with formerly amicable relations. Second, somehow, these tranquil relations are fractured:  a Jewish synagogue is destroyed, and the Jews have two choices:  convert or leave. In Clermont, this is choice is explicit. On Minorca, Severus never actually issues an ultimatum. Because they live on a Mediterranean island and it’s February, leaving is not a practical option for the Jews, although Severus at one point claims that a group of Jews sailing by the island were free to depart, but instead chose to join the Christians. Third, the Jews are besieged by the Christians, and they call on the bishop for help. In Fortunatus, this is encapsulated in one episode where the Jews gather in a single house and are attacked. In Severus, it is worked out through numerous small stories, but the Christians never actually attack the Jews. Finally, the Jews ask the bishop to baptize them, with some unusual elements in each instance, including precipitous baptism, at an unusual time of year, with apparently no provision of the customary catechismal instruction. All then become one community, with the converting Jews numbering approximately the same five hundred persons. Fortunatus’s account thus bears some structural similarities to the Letter of Severus that are not quite so obvious in Gregory’s version. 53. These four elements in Fortunatus come from Goffart 1985, who does not consider the similarity to Severus (which he calls “pseudo-​Severus”). He wrote before Bradbury 1996, as did Brennan 1985, who notes the Minorca account but not any similarities with that at Clermont. Rose 2002 does draw some comparisons with Severus.

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The Letter of Severus claims to have been written to various church leaders around the Mediterranean. It seems conceivable that either Gregory or Fortunatus had read it, or were at least indirectly aware of its contents, although we have no direct evidence that this was the case. At the very least, late antique accounts of the conversion of Jews draw on common motifs for various purposes. Jewish refusal to accept Christ impedes a universal unity. Sermons and public disputation generally fail to persuade Jews,54 which is sometimes explicitly explained as a consequence of their stubbornness or inherent blindness. Prayer, particularly that of powerful bishops, can be efficacious; so, too, are miracles. And, of course, coercive violence and threats of violence are demonstrably efficacious, although all the texts go to significant lengths to misrecognize the role such coercion might actually play in the conversion of Jews. In the Letter of Severus, Gregory, and Fortunatus, the Jews only convert after the Christians have destroyed their synagogue, and these texts go to significant lengths to position Christian violence as a comprehensible and defensible response to Jewish provocation. In Gregory, it is a Jewish attack on a new convert that prompts Christians to level the local synagogue some six weeks later. In the Letter of Severus, it is Jewish women stoning an otherwise peaceful procession of Christians (and Jews) en route to see whether the Jews have engaged in another act of provocation—​namely storing weapons in the synagogue. The Letter of Severus, Gregory, and Fortunatus endeavor to distance the bishops themselves from direct culpability for violence. Gregory positions Avitus as restraining the first Christian crowd from stoning the Jew who attacked his converted confrère, and as conspicuously absent, peacefully processing from the cathedral to the church on Pentecost while an unruly Christian mob was tearing down the synagogue. In Gregory, over five hundred Jews in Clermont convert in one moment; in the Letter of Severus, five hundred and forty join the church in the space of a few days. In the Letter of Severus, this is the entire Minorcan community, whereas in Clermont, some unspecified number of Jews depart for Marseilles instead. Gregory’s account of Avitus’s successful conversion of Jews in Clermont should be read in concert with his account of the attempt of the Frankish king, Chilperic, to convert the Jews in or around Paris in 582.55 Chilperic forced “many” Jews to be baptized, but these coercive actions bore little fruit. Many of those so baptized subsequently resumed Jewish practice (having, in Gregory's characterization, “lied” to God), and ended up observing both Saturday and 54. See Goffart 1985:480–​82. 55. Gregory, Hist. Franks 6.17.



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Sunday as holy days. He illustrates this with the story of Priscus, the king’s purser of sorts, who had resisted Chilperic’s inducements to convert.56 In a subterfuge that moderately resembles the tactic of Theodorus’s postponing his promised conversion because his wife was off-​island on Majorca, Priscus attempted to postpone his baptism because his son was about to marry a Jewish woman from Marseilles. Although, like Theodorus, he did, in fact then convert, Priscus was ultimately murdered by Phatir, another Jewish convert to Christianity with whom he had a dispute, assisted by Phatir’s slaves. When the slaves were held liable, but Phatir was not, Priscus’s relatives avenged his death, so the result of Chilperic’s actions was a complex blood feud. Gregory manifestly disapproved of the fact that Chilperic undertook these conversions without the aid of a bishop, so it clearly served his rhetorical purposes to depict these baptisms as failures and the cause of excessive bloodshed.57 The inefficacy of Chilperic’s forced baptisms contrasts pointedly with the success of Avitus, the licit bishop, who seemingly denounced and avoided coercive strategies (even if he availed himself of the coercions of others), and “genuinely” rejoiced in the conversion of the Jews of Clermont. At the same time, Gregory’s own motivations here may be complex:  he was himself accused of treason in the court of Chilperic, and had engaged in a public debate with Priscus in which his own arguments were (at least initially) ineffectual.58 Brennan reads the account in the context of ecclesiastical Christian contestations over power in Clermont that played out in part in disputes about Jews, including both relations with individual Jews and willingness to pressure them to convert. Gregory, Avitus, and their allies disdained social relations with unconverted Jews and actively sought their conversion, while others, including both Avitus’s predecessor, Sidonius Apollinarius, and his competitors for the episcopate, were more tolerant and accommodating.59 Despite the rhetorical utility to Gregory, it may also be that he here does provide us a revealing glimpse of the complexities of forced conversions,

56. Gregory, Hist. Franks 6.5. In some retellings, Priscus is represented as Chilperic’s jeweler (Parkes 1934:334; Brennan 1985:323). In the translation by Brehaut 1916, Priscus helped the king buy “costly articles.” A contestation between Priscus and the bishop provides a possible glimpse into Jewish counterclaims about Christ: e.g., God never married, never had offspring, and said, through Moses, “See that I am the Lord, and except me there is no God.” 57. Goffart 1985; Moreira 2000. 58. See Keely 1997:110–​11. 59. Brennan 1985. He notes that Jews in sixth-​century Gaul had fewer legal protections than they had under Roman law and argues that under Merovingian law, Jews lost their rights as

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which may often have been protective shams, of limited duration. As I shall shortly consider further, his approximate contemporary, Gregory the Great, similarly evinced concerns that converted Jews regularly returned to Jewish practice when the pressures on them receded. Here, Gregory’s implicit contrast of the success of Avitus’s baptisms—​the legitimate bishop fashioning one unified Christian community in Clermont—​with Chilperic’s failures, resulting in fragmentation and the disorder of murder and blood feuds, may sort into tidy camps the social messiness of baptizing Jews, some of which produced lasting transformations, and some of which did not.60 Gregory of Tours also relates the destruction of a synagogue in Gaul in 585.61 On July 4, King Guntram entered Orleans in an elaborate ceremony, greeted by throngs of people singing his praises, in what some scholars characterize as a formal adventus.62 Among these people were Jews, whose praise of the king seems, perhaps peculiarly, to echo the language of the Alenu prayer, substituting “Guntram” for “God”: “May all the nations honor you and bend the knee and be subject to you.”63 Subsequently, at dinner, the king explained that the Jews were praising him only because they wanted him to rebuild their synagogue at public cost—​something Guntram insisted he would never do. But of the actual circumstances, Gregory says only that the synagogue had been torn down by the Christians,64 without providing any specifics. Some

persons, initially retained in the Visigothic law and various protections they had had under Roman law (Brennan 1985:333–​35). 60. A somewhat similar account about the conversion of Jews in Uzés, who are forced to be baptized, or else expelled, is set two decades earlier (in 558), but comes from a much later collection of stories about the bishops of France (see e.g. Parkes 1934:334). As with the account of Clermont in Gregory, the Jews of Uzés are caught between a bishop with the proper kindly disposition toward Jews, and a king, Childebert, who favored forced baptisms. These similarities, and the late dating suggest that, although set earlier, the Uzés account depends either on common tropes, or on the Clermont story itself. 61. Gregory, Hist. Franks 8.1. 62. E.g., Goffart 1985:477. 63. Trans. Brehaut 1916:189, of “Omnes gentes te adorent tibique genu flectant adque tibi sint subditi.” Goffart provides his own slightly different translation: “The Jews who participated in these chants of praise said, ‘All peoples adore you, bend their knees to you and are subject to you’ ” (Goffart 1985:477). For discussion of what language the Jews were using, see ­below, pp. 382–83. 64.  Here, too, Goffart’s translation differs:  he has it “cast down  .  .  .  a little while ago” (1985:477). Brehaut 1916 is “long ago” for “ut synagoga eorum, quae dudum a christianis deruta est.”



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scholars have seen this offhand reference as indicative of many other such instances and thus deeply disturbing.65 But as with all these accounts, it is hard to know how to read this passage. Its evasiveness resembles that of the Letter of Severus, whose author may have been motivated by a desire to avoid saying explicitly that Christians had committed the illegal act of destroying a synagogue. Gregory, writing in the late sixth century, may have very different motivations. Scholars who take the episode as historically reliable attempt to locate both the Jews’ petition and Guntram’s response within the context of late antique law, arguing that the Jews petitioning Guntram had the law on their side, at least for compensation from the aggressors, if not from the public till.66 Goffart thought that the intertext of Gregory’s account might be the earlier story of Ambrose and Theodosius, but here Guntram, unlike Theodosius, resists rather than supports the Jewish request for restitution. But from the story Goffart concluded that the real debate here was not whether the synagogue could be restored but, rather, who would have to pay, presumably because Guntram says only that he will not rebuild it, not that it cannot be rebuilt.67 Whether the story reliably attests a synagogue in Orleans destroyed by Christians seems, on the one hand, possible and, on the other, unverifiable. Writing only a few years after Gregory of Tours, between 591 and 602, Gregory the Great, bishop of Rome—​and usually called Pope Gregory—​ provides some fascinating glimpses of the lives of Jews in late antique Italy and Gaul. Of his voluminous surviving correspondence, only a small fraction pertains to Jews. Those letters that do, however, illuminate conflicts and tensions around the conversion of Jews, while hinting at the limited efficacy of earlier efforts to convert Jews. In the late sixth century there are at the very least Jews living in Agrigento (Sicily), Caglieri (Sardinia), Luni, Naples, Palermo

65. “The ominous feature of the passage is its casual report of the destruction of the Orleans synagogue. A  subordinate clause is all we shall hear of it, as though Christian violence toward synagogues were too common to rate special notice” (Goffart 1985:478, citing Juster 1914:1.462–​72 for numerous other accounts). 66.  Barnwell 1992:96 takes this whole depiction as generally accurate because sixth-​century readers were close enough to these events to have recognized fabrications when they saw them. In the aftermath of the U.S. presidential election in 2016, that’s an especially hard argument to find compelling. Brennan argues, though, that Jews lacked these legal protections in the sixth century, and points out that Gregory recounts the destruction of synagogues both in Clermont and Orleans without any hint that this might have been illegal (Brennan 1985:335). 67. Goffart 1985:479–​80, who then pointed to the Anonymus Valesianus, discussed earlier, as evidence for Jews in Ravenna obtaining such redress.

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(Sicily), Rome, and Terracina, as well as in Marseilles and Gaul, and even, apparently somewhat to Gregory’s surprise, on some church estates.68 In his letters, Gregory exemplified a stance of moderation. He appears genuinely to have opposed violent coercive strategies, preferring nonviolent forms of persuasion, including economic incentives and disincentives, with regard both to Jews and to dissident Christians and traditionalists.69 At the same time, his letters suggest that pressures on Jews to convert were substantial. In June of 591, only fifteen years after Avitus’s baptisms and expulsions at Clermont, Gregory wrote to Virgil of Arles and Theodorus of Marseilles that he had received complaints from Jews in Gaul, who traveled around Marseilles on business, that “many” Jews had been forced to convert. Gregory argued that persuasion, not coercion, was the right way.70 Assuming we can extract anything reliable from Gregory of Tours, we might wonder whether such coercion played some role in the movement of Jews from Marseilles to Clermont, where Avitus’s apparent toleration and amicable relations between Christians and Jews may have seemed, at least initially, more attractive.71 Two letters document an ongoing conflict in Terracina over the provision of a place for a synagogue. According to a letter of March 591,72 a Jew named Joseph had told Gregory that Peter, the bishop of Terracina, had forced the Jews living in the castle compound of Terracina out of the place where they were accustomed to conduct their meetings and festival celebrations. With his knowledge and consent they had moved to another place, but now they complained he was expelling them from this place as well. In this letter, carried back to Peter by Joseph, Gregory wrote the bishop that he wanted the Jews to be “allowed to gather together as their custom was, at that place which they obtained for their meetings with your consent.” It’s clear from the letter, though, that the issue was not simply harassment of Jews:  the harassment was aimed at pressuring them to convert. Gregory continued: “For one must bring those who disagree with the Christian religion to the unity of the faith,

68.  For Agrigento:  Gregory, Letter 8.23; Caglieri:  Letters 4.9, 9.196; Gaul:  Letter 9.214, 9.216; Luni: Letter 4.21; Marseilles: Letter 1.45; Naples: Letter 13.13; Palermo: Letters 8.25, 9.38; Rome: Letter 8.25; Sicilian estates of the church: Letters 2.50, 5.7; Terracina: Letters 1.34, 2.45. 69. These appear regularly in Gregory’s letters. 70. Gregory, Letter 1.45. English translation in quotations are generally from Martyn 2004. 71. For further discussion of immigration in response to such pressures, see b­ elow, pp. 347–52. 72. Gregory, Letter 1.34, March 591.



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with clemency and kindness, by making suggestions and being persuasive. Otherwise they may be repelled by threats and terrors, when they could be invited to believe in Christian through the sweetness of preaching and the coming terror of the future judge.” Further, the letter’s next line suggests that Jews in Terracina were being coerced to listen to Christian preaching:  “it should be seen to that they come together to hear the word of God from you in a friendly manner, rather than be scared off by harshness that is extended beyond moderation.” In another letter, Gregory indicated that the Jews of Terracina had petitioned him to keep a place they had so far had for their synagogue: it says nothing about a second relocation.73 But Gregory had learned that this place was sufficiently close to the church that the sounds of Jews singing psalms could be heard there, which he found unacceptable. Consequently, he wrote to Bacauda, bishop of Formia, and to Agnellus, bishop of Fundi, to inspect the place itself, along with Peter, to whom he had also written. If they found that the synagogue was indeed too close, they were to provide another place within the castle area itself where the Jews could celebrate unmolested. They should be allowed to “arrange their own activities as they know best, with nobody stopping (them).” The only constraint on them should be on owning Christian slaves, something now outlawed for a long time, although its mention here suggests a continuing practice.74 Although Martyn dates the first letter to March 591 and the second to sometime between September 591 and August 592 (perhaps because Peter died sometime before November 592), the relationship of the two letters to the actual events is somewhat murky. If this sequence is correct, it seems that in the interval, Peter (or someone else) had written back to Gregory, offering a rationale for moving the Jews that didn’t explicitly pertain to pressuring them to convert. Rather, the (new) site offended Christian sensibilities, compelling them to listen to the chanting of the Jews. Still, it seems a little odd that the apparently earlier letter explicitly indicated that the Jews were relocated twice, and it was the second relocation that the Jews protested, whereas 73.  Gregory, Letter 2.45, dated between September 591 and August 592, but see the next paragraph. 74. Katz 1933–​34:122 envisioned a law forbidding Jews to have a synagogue near a church and specifying that if the prayers and chants of Jews could be heard in a church, the synagogue was to be converted into a church and Jews removed to a more remote place where they could build a new synagogue. This seems odd, given the prohibitions against new construction. No such law is extant. In support, he notes only that the Canons of Narbonne (JLSEMA 77, in 589) forbid Jews from chanting psalms at funerals.

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the apparently later letter implied only one (“they should have a license to keep the place that they have had so far”), although it may in fact be that the second letter concerned only the response to Peter’s second relocation. Regardless, the dynamics implicit in the correspondence are telling. Gregory and Peter are clearly not in accord on this matter, and Gregory enlists other bishops to compel Peter to behave as Gregory wishes. Jews appear to have sufficient clout to keep pressing their rights, even while Christians keep maneuvering to restrict them. Although Joseph’s identification and stature are at best implicit in the letters, presumably he has sufficient standing to get an audience with Gregory, and to serve as the bearer of the letter back to Peter. Also implicit in the correspondence as a whole is the possibility, if not the likelihood, that these were relatively modest places turned into assembly spaces for Jews fairly quickly, rather than substantial buildings. This would be consistent with prohibitions against building new synagogues from Theodosios II on; that is, these are not so much “new” buildings as they are the provision of space that Jews could use for assembly and ritual performances. At the same time, the first letter implies, if quite subtly, that the provision of such space came at a price—​namely that Jews must also assemble to hear Christian preaching. Also implicit in the address of the second letter to two additional bishops may be Gregory’s concern that Peter has not handled the situation appropriately. In any case, Gregory clearly affirmed the right of Jews to assemble for ritual performances in accordance with Roman law. Similarly, in November 602, Gregory responded to the complaints of Jews in Naples that Christians were attempting to prevent Jews from celebrating “their solemn festivals and holidays,” with no details. Gregory insisted that Jews should be given free license to observe these, and reiterates his view that kind speech, not attacks, was more likely to win Jews for Christ.75 Two letters from the early-​mid 590s illuminate Gregory’s strategies for incentivizing Jewish conversion through tax and rent relief. In the summer of 592, Gregory sent a lengthy letter to Peter, subdeacon in Sicily, regarding numerous matters, from disputes over the property of a convent of nuns to the payment of funds for various projects.76 The second matter in the letter ordered a tax reduction for the many Jews living on church lands, should they wish to become Christians. Here it seems couched both as a reward for those who might already wish to convert and an incentive to other Jews who,

75. Gregory, Letter 13.13. 76. Gregory, Letter 2.50, July–​August 592.



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“impressed by this generosity, may rise up with the same desire.” In a letter in the fall of 594, Gregory wrote to Cyprian, a deacon in Sicily, which opens with an admonition to persuade the Manichaeans on church estates to become catholic.77 The letter quickly turns, then, to Gregory’s apparently recent discovery that there are Jews on these same estates who resist becoming Christians. Gregory authorized Cyprian to offer them a tax reduction should they convert, with detailed instructions on the amounts. Seemingly sensitive to concerns about the financial consequences of this policy, Gregory added that it will ultimately profit the church: even if it results in somewhat dubious conversions and reduced revenues, the church will gain by having the children of such converts properly baptized and raised as Christians. In May 598, Gregory wrote Domina, abbess of the convent of St. Stephen in Agrigento, in response to her letter that many Jews there wished to convert, but the traditional time for such baptisms, at Easter, was almost a year away.78 Gregory approved their baptism after forty days of penitence and abstinence, either on a Sunday or at some festival, and also authorized the provision of baptismal robes for those who could not afford them. Conceivably, the issue here was that a delay would allow the Jews (whose motivations were not specified, including whether they are under duress) to change their minds and/​or to be pressured by other Jews. This approval of baptism at an irregular time resembles what Avitus is also said to have done. Conceivably, from a Christian perspective, there were differing threats to the ultimate efficacy of the conversion of Jews, with the same outcome. Jews might come to regret their decision to be baptized, and/​or might be persuaded to abandon Christianity before they were baptized, an argument to baptize them quickly. A prompt conversion might only be superficial and thus ultimately result in the same abandonment, which is what some conversion narratives such as the Letter of Severus suggest. Another significant possibility is fear that Jews might die if the interval between their conversion and their baptism was lengthy. Given the frequent epidemics of plague in the middle to late sixth century, such concerns seem well founded. In the case of Domina’s letter, outbreaks of plague are attested for Rome several years before she wrote to Gregory (590–​591), as well as in North Africa and elsewhere in Italy shortly thereafter, in 599–​600 and 600–​601, respectively.79 Well before 77. Gregory, Letter 5.7, October 594. 78. Gregory, Letter 8.23. 79. Horden 2005:138.

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the first outbreak of plague in the mid-​sixth century, this issue was articulated at the Synod of Agde (on the Mediterranean coast near Narbonne), in 506, which proclaimed that Jews must be catechumens for eight months, to test the sincerity of their conversions, unless they were in danger of dying before they were baptized.80 That same year, Gregory responded to complaints by Jews in Rome on behalf of Jews in Palermo. In an initial letter in June, Gregory sent a somewhat elliptical letter to Victor, bishop of Palermo, concerning a petition from Jews in Rome, that had apparently been attached to the letter, but is no longer preserved.81 Only the last line, instructing Victor to suspend the consecration of Jewish “places”82 until the matter was resolved, hints at the actual allegations. In a subsequent letter that October,83 it becomes apparent that the Jews of Palermo specifically claimed that “the bishop had occupied their synagogues, together with their hostelries, quite unreasonably.” Later, their accusations were confirmed by Gregory’s notary, Salerius, that synagogues had been “consecrated rashly and without due consideration.” Still, once properly (as opposed to improperly) consecrated, synagogues could not be returned to Jews, so Gregory ordered financial compensation for “these synagogues, together with these guest houses that are under their walls or attached to them, together with the adjoining gardens.” He also indicated that the Jews were seeking the return of manuscripts and ornaments removed at the same time (a theme common from the Letter of Severus on). If they were stolen, they must be restored and the laws observed. A letter dated July 599 detailed events the prior Easter.84 A day after his baptism, a new Jewish convert named Peter (presumably his baptismal name),

80. JLSEMA 811 (p. 467); also in Katz 1933–​34. 81. Gregory, Letter 8.25 (Martyn 2004:2.521). 82. Here and elsewhere, the use of “place” correlates with Jewish usage of topos in Greek for synagogues, although in Letter 2.45, the Terracina letter, both “place” and “synagogue” are used. 83. Gregory, Letter 9.38 (Martyn 2004:2.568–​69). 84. Gregory, Letter 9.196 (Martyn 2004:2.662–​63). On this episode, see also Dilley 2010a and 2010b, relating the episode to a work called the Story of Joseph (of Arimathea). There, Joseph returns to Lydda after providing for Jesus’s burial and (pretends to) agree to renovate the synagogue there and supply its “liturgical instruments.” But once there, he has the apostle Peter come from Jerusalem and consecrate the synagogue as a church. Outraged Jews appeal to the governor at Caesarea, who closes the synagogue building for forty days, and then enters it. Seeing that an image of Mary has miraculously appeared there, he gives the building to the Christians. For Dilley, the similarities (the character named Peter, the image/​icon of Mary, the contestation over the site) suggest more than coincidental links. Dilley understands many



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aided by an unruly mob, attempted to desecrate and reconsecrate his former synagogue in Cagliari by placing in it a cross, an icon of the Virgin Mary, and his baptismal robe. In his letter to Januarius, bishop of Cagliari, Gregory made clear that witnesses had informed him that this had been planned in advance. Moreover, Januarius was aware of these plans and had forbidden Peter to do this. Praising the bishop for his right restraint (including, apparently, not participating in the outrage), Gregory now expected Januarius to remove the offending Christian items, and restore unspecified things that were “violently removed” (perhaps as at Palermo, Minorca, and elsewhere, sacred books and expensive ornaments?). Gregory reiterated that while the law prohibited Jews from erecting new synagogues, it permitted them to retain existing synagogues in peace.85 Gregory maintained that Peter and his mob could not assert a defense that “they did this with Christian zeal, thus forcing the Jews to be converted”—​language that is itself reminiscent of the Letter of Severus in its account of why Christians first came to Magona from Jamona. Gregory concluded by expressing concerns that disagreement over these events and these issues divided the local populace, and thus distracted them from the real imminent danger, the Lombards. In all these episodes, Gregory consistently upheld the rights of Jews under the law, although he may have had other motivations, as well. One concern may have been that only bishops might legitimately consecrate churches, through the appropriate ritual performance. Installation of a cross, an image of the Virgin, and a used baptismal robe by a rogue convert did not and could not transform a synagogue into a consecrated church. One wonders, as well, whether the depiction of the crazed convert who desecrated his own synagogue was, rather, a convenient cover for larger-​scale Christian mob attacks on synagogues, including those authorized by local bishops. Gregory’s letter painted Januarius as innocent of participation in either the planning or the execution of the attack, and praised his efforts to dissuade Peter (just as Gregory of Tours depicted Avitus as wholly innocent of the attacks on Jews in Clermont). But if Januarius was in fact a party to the plan, and then

Christian apocryphal texts as “invented tradition,” which, in the fourth and fifth centuries especially, sought to influence imperial policy with timely stories of authoritative figures in the foundational first century. The anti-​Jewish rhetoric of these texts was intended to argue for imperial policy that called for Jews to convert or be expelled, and sought to show that Jews had deserved this treatment by behavior that began in the formative period, with their treatment of Jesus and his followers. 85. Martyn here cites CJ 1.27.1.12 (Martyn 2004:2.663n533).

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found himself having to cover his flank, he would be neither the first nor the last bishop to distance himself from such illegal actions while covertly sanctioning them. In the century and a half from the death of Theodosios II to the death of Gregory, both in the East and the West, pressures on Jews appear to have waxed and waned, often by virtue of the positions and interests of bishops, emperors, and others whose participation remains obscured. Under the Arian Theoderic, anti-​Jewish laws were enforced laxly, if at all, and the legal rights of Jews upheld, although the very need to assert those rights points to their precariousness. As I will argue further in the next chapter, these seemingly more favorable policies of Ostrogothic Arians may have induced Jews to move into those portions of Italy under Ostrogothic control. When the Arians were defeated, and Italy brought back into the Byzantine orbit under Justinian, the legal situation of Jews worsened considerably, as presumably did the cultural climate. But as under the Theodosians, this was true for all the non-​orthodox, whether dissident Christians or traditionalists. Literary sources of diverse forms, from Prokopios, to Malalas, to the lives of various saints, depict regular violence and contestation, often explicitly couched in religious terms. Justinian’s campaigns to unify the disintegrated empire brought the inevitable consequences of warfare. Natural disasters devastated the populace, regardless of political positions and religious identifications: the year without summer and subsequent famine, earthquakes, and virulent epidemics of plague. It’s difficult to imagine that Justinian’s repressive practices and policies, considered in the previous chapter, had no effect, yet the last law he promulgated concerning Jews suggests that these were not nearly as efficacious as he wished. In it, he appears to implement a very different strategy, in the process conceding that there are still synagogues, with Jews not only worshiping in them but also actively contesting the exegetical arguments of Christians.86 A similar portrait emerges in the decades after Justinian, in Gaul. The stories in Gregory of Tours envision synagogues in major towns such as Orleans and Clermont, with Jews still very much participating in public life and politics.

86. The various late antique dialogues between a Christian and a Jew similarly depict Jews as contesting Christian biblical interpretations, although many scholars read these as primarily Christian constructions of such contestations; see, e.g., Lahey 2007; Kraft 2009:173–​95 (with helpful bibliography).



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The letters of Gregory the Great at the end of the sixth century depict a landscape still populated by unconverted Jews, dissident Christians, and practitioners of the ancient ancestral religions.87 At the same time, these letters hint at the circumstances of newly converted Jews. Conversion severed former Jews from the kinds of social supports and networks they previously had, and brought with it financial repercussions and hostility from natal family members and former co-​religionists. The relatively irenic stance of Gregory the Great would not prevail. Already in Spain in the late sixth century, beginning with the conversion of Reccared, Visigothic Arian kings aligned themselves with catholic orthodoxy, auguring poorly for the positions of Jews. The tactics Gregory of Tours narrates for both Avitus and Chilperic—​compulsory baptism or exile—​would become routine, even as debates about the best tactics for converting Jews—​ persuasion or compulsion continued, in authors such as Isidore of Seville, whose writings are largely outside the scope of this study.88 When Jews did accept baptism rather than leave, Christians were still suspicious and anxious about the reliability of these baptisms, and they continued to devise strategies for making these conversions stick. Subsequent Visigothic legislation not only continued the older Roman laws but also endeavored now to criminalize, if not extinguish, Jewish practices previously protected (circumcision, dietary practices, and many more).89

87. MacMullen argues that efforts to convert the traditional population to Christianity had been similarly ineffectual in much of Spain and Gaul—​e.g., MacMullen 1997:68–​69. 88. Drews 2006; Wood 2014. 89.  See, e.g., JLSEMA 45 (“The Laws of the Visigoths”). For older discussion, see Parkes 1934:345–​70; Bachrach 1977. More recently, see Bradbury 2006; briefly, Fredriksen 2013; and Tolan et al. 2014, including Fuentes 2014, focusing on the impact of Visigothic anti-​Jewish legislation on women in laws from the seventh century especially.

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“Here rests Faustina, aged fourteen years, five months. . . . Two apostoli and two rebbites sang lamentations” —​Latin epitaph from Venosa, Italy, early sixth century

The Price of (Christian) Orthodoxy As the prior chapters have amply illuminated, from the fourth century onward, Jews were subject to increasing pressures intended to effect their conversion to Christianity, preferably the Nicene (and subsequently Chalcedonian) form favored by Constantine and his ideological successors. Prompted often by zealous Christian bishops, imperial authorities issued laws that imposed various legal and economic disabilities on Jews (mostly Jewish men) that could be mitigated by the simple act of conversion. Jewish men who had been previously exempt from the costly office of decurion were compelled to serve.1 They were progressively excluded from remunerative, prestigious professions, such as teaching and the law, and from the upper echelons of government and the military, including those that put them in positions of authority over Christians.2 Their ability to maintain slaves was increasingly restricted, as they were forbidden to impose Jewish practices on their slaves (as slaveholders had long done under Roman customs) or to purchase enslaved Christians.3 Forbidding Jews to buy, sell, or hold non-​Jewish slaves was an effective means of diminishing the economic capital of Jews in an 1. CTh 12.1.165, JRIL 31; see above, p. 172. 2. CTh 16.8.24, in 418, JRIL 45 (see above, pp. 237–380); Sirm 6, JRIL 51 (see above, pp. 249– 51); Theodosios II, Novella 3, JRIL 54 (see above, pp. 256–59). See also CTh 16.8.16, JRIL 33 (see above, pp. 177–78), and CTh 12.1.158, JRIL 29 (see above, p. 179). 3. E.g., CTh 16.9.2, JRIL 11 (see above, pp. 102–11); CTh 16.9.5, JRIL 48 (see above, pp. 246–47); CJ 1.10.2, JRIL 59 (see above, pp. 285–86). Eusebios claims that Constantine himself decreed a law The Mediterranean Diaspora in Late Antiquity. Ross Shepard Kraemer, Oxford University Press (2020). © Oxford University Press. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780190222277.001.0001



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economy where enslavement continued to play a significant role. It deprived them both of the services of such persons and the social capital associated with slaveholding. Christian bishops orchestrated or otherwise enabled mob violence against Jews, and parried attempts by Jews to obtain legal redress. Most of the incidents depicted in literary accounts involve attempts to destroy synagogue buildings, but some involved attacks on Jews themselves, and even Jewish graves.4 None of this was unique to Jews, as I have stressed throughout. Similar and sometimes far worse pressures were exerted on others who clung to their ancestral religious practices, as well as those who had different views of proper Christian practices, beliefs, and lines of authority. Monumental temples and smaller shrines were destroyed, defaced, and sometimes repurposed. Ancient landscapes were overwritten with monumental Christian edifices. The prop­ erty of non-​orthodox persons was confiscated and arrogated to others. The violence extended, to varying degrees, to persons as well. What, then, happened to Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora after the fourth century, in the wake of Christianization? As I have argued throughout this book, in the end we know frustratingly little, partly because we have no accounts from Jews themselves, and the accounts of others, especially Christians, are generally disingenuous, unreliable, and minimal at best. Still, the options are clearer. Some Jews succumbed to these pressures and became Christians, although we cannot reliably estimate how many. Of those who did not, there are multiple scenarios. They emigrated—​perhaps to regions where they leave no trace for us now—​or perhaps to parts of the empire that seemed more favorable, including regions under the control of Arian rulers whose antipathy to Jews, as we saw in the last chapter, seems to have been milder, at the very least. They actively resisted their Christian antagonists, with violence of their own, and strategies to leverage their own networks of political and social relations in their favor. They entertained the possibility of divine intervention, in the form of messianic episodes. They adapted and retrenched, retreating from the common cultural practices they had long shared with both Christians and that no Christian slave could be held by Jews, specifying that any such slaves were to be freed and their Jewish owners fined (Eusebios, Life of Constantine 4.27). As transmitted in the Theodosian Code, laws by Constantine pertain only to the circumcision of Christian slaves. Linder thinks that if Eusebios was correct, the provision was part of CTh 16.8.1 and somehow omitted in the codification process (JRIL, p. 126). But the earliest law that survives in the Theodosian Code that addresses Jewish ownership of Christian slaves is by Constantine II, in 339. 4. Attacks on synagogues are discussed in each of the preceding chapters. For the desecration of Jewish graves, see above, pp. 18–19, 64–66, 279–80.

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non-​Christians. They embraced forms of Jewish practice that constructed tighter social boundaries around them, including an increased use of Hebrew (and Aramaic) and a heightened interest, perhaps, in rabbinic practices. And unquestionably, in the middle to late sixth century, some significant percentage of Jews died, like everyone else, from the perfect storm of natural catastrophes: volcanic eruptions, earthquakes and several ensuing waves of bubonic plague that decimated on the order of half the Mediterranean population.

They Converted From the fourth century on, increasingly large numbers of persons appear to have abandoned their particular ancestral practices for some semblance of Christian devotions. Yet in the mid-​fifth century, Sozomen could still open his Ecclesiastical History with a declaration of astonishment at how little the Jews—​in comparison to the nations—​had accepted Christ, despite the obvious prophecies in their own scriptures.5 I am inclined to think that at least up until the late sixth or even the early seventh century, Sozomen may have been right, and the actual numbers were relatively small. Most literary accounts are highly suspect. The Letter of Severus on the Jews of Minorca, Sokrates’s account of the conversion of the Jews on Crete, Gregory of Tours’s story of Avitus and the Jews of Clermont, and Prokopios’s vignette of Justinian and the Jews of Boreium, in North Africa, all seem either an aberration or fiction, or some combination of the two.6 Epiphanios’s story of Joseph the Comes is noteworthy precisely because it is so unusual, and is in any case set in Palestine (if that distinction matters here). Just one or two inscriptions attest to actual converts: Papario of Grado, now called Petrus, and one inscription from North Africa.7 The occasional references to Jewish converts in the letters of Gregory the Great are probably reliable, but on the whole, his letters seem better evidence for Christian frustrations in these efforts, and in any case, may not be applicable outside Italy.

5. Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 1.1.1. 6. On Minorca, see above, chapter 2; on Crete, see above, pp. 255–56 and below, pp. 353–56; on Clermont, see above, pp. 327–32; on Boreium, see above, pp. 296–98. For various reasons, I have not in this study discussed a story in Syriac about the conversion of Eugenia of Tyre to anti-​Chalcedonian Christianity in the fifth century, from John Rufus’s Life of Peter the Iberian, on which see, however, Horn 2006. 7. See above, pp. 147–52 on Joseph, and pp.273–75 on Petrus.



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Nevertheless, if Jews largely resisted Christian pressures to convert, it’s because they could. Although Justinian’s failure to retain the explicit Theodosian statement proclaiming Judaism licit may have left Jews legally vulnerable, most Jewish practices by Jews remained lawful, as did synagogues themselves, at least through the early seventh century.8 Practitioners of other traditional religions had far fewer options. Their central practices and their cult spaces had been outlawed already in the fourth century, and the penalties for engaging in such practices, and even visiting such spaces, were severe, including confiscation of property, loss of inheritance rights, and even death. Contemporary sociological studies of conversion suggest that Christians in late antiquity employed deficient tactics to convert Jews. Forced baptism, public debates, compulsory attendance at Christian sermons, and other such strategies rarely produced the results Christians desired. Although some bishops, like Gregory the Great, really did seem to understand that coercion never produced real transformation, their alternatives, including displays of kindness, financial incentives, and attempts at intellectual persuasion, were still ineffectual. Perhaps misled by their own scriptures, with their plethora of accounts of instantaneous conversions, they lacked awareness that conversion is an ongoing process, rather than a single transformative event.9 Social networks are crucial, both for drawing individuals into new movements and for maintaining their new commitments. Converts oscillate between old and new beliefs, gradually eliminating elements of their prior practices, taking up new practices to replace those abandoned, and sometimes even reverting back to their earlier ones—​as Gregory himself acknowledged.10 In the Letter of Severus, individual Jews are said to play instrumental roles in converting one another. After his own decision to accept Christ, Reuben implores Theodorus to join him, explicitly articulating the social advantages to doing so.11 Theodorus himself undertakes to persuade all those Jews who have not yet accepted Christ, although before he can do so, several men proclaim their 8. As noted earlier, I don’t think that the prohibition of distinctive Jewish marriage customs in the late fourth century constitutes an attack on the right of Jews to practice their religion; see ­above, pp. 145–47. Prokopios accuses Justinian of prohibiting Jews from celebrating Passover if it fell on a date before Easter, and says that magistrates fined Jews found to have eaten paschal lamb under such circumstances, but he also represents this as another instance of Justinian’s flagrant disregard for Roman law (Prokopios, Secret History 28). 9. See, e.g., Sanders 2002; Kraemer 2012. Some scholars prefer the language of “transformation,” or even of “commitment,” rather than “conversion,” at least for contemporary instances. 10. Sanders 2002:629. 11. Letter of Severus 16.14–​15.

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own intentions and urge others to join them.12 Theodorus’s young cousin, the too-​aptly named Galilaeus, issues a somewhat more dispiriting appeal: he fears that Christian partners on his estate will kill him if he continues to observe Jewish practices.13 Two “fathers of the synagogue,” Caecilianus and his brother, Florianus, declare the necessity of everyone converting, and proclaim their intention to do so, together with their whole households.14 But when Jews did relinquish their natal practices and take up Christian ones, the impact could be substantial, as the Letter envisions. There, conversion initially disrupted families, as when Artemisia and other women resisted the desires of their husbands to give up Jewishness and accept Christ. In each of the stories the Letter tells, this rupture was quickly healed when the women came to their senses, for whatever reasons. Yet in at least one instance, the Letter hints that things might sometimes go differently. Theodorus initially deferred his formal conversion because his wife was still on Majorca and would react poorly to the news that he had converted before telling her. But ultimately he did convert, without her knowledge, consent, or presence. In the narrative, at least, she never returned from Majorca and never herself joined her husband. Whether or not this is what really happened on Minorca, it may well reflect what did happen elsewhere at other times. Various sources envision that Jews who converted engendered the hostility of others, including their families. A law of Constantine in 329 made it a capital crime for Jews to attack other Jews who converted to Christianity.15 In Epiphanios’s telling, Joseph of Tiberias was beaten by fellow Jews who discovered him reading Christian texts (although the similarity of this to the treatment of Paul in Acts renders it suspect).16 A Jewish man on his way to be baptized on Easter was attacked, in the account of Gregory of Tours, by other Jews who poured rancid oil on his head, forcing Avitus of Clermont to restrain the Christians who wished to stone the attackers.17 Gregory the Great suggests that converts might find themselves impoverished, as seems to be the case when he instructed a church official in Campania to provide funds for three formerly Jewish children of a 12. Letter of Severus 19.1. 13. Letter of Severus 19.4–​5. 14. Letter of Severus 19.8–​10. 15. CTh 16.8.1, JRIL 8. See above, pp. 91–93; see also Kraemer 2018. 16. Epiphanios, Panarion 30.11.5 discussed above, pp. 149–50. 17. Gregory, Hist. 5.11; see above, p. 328.



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woman named Justa.18 The epitaph of Papario, now called Peter, hints at the social costs of conversion, describing him as the only one of his “gens,” probably his family, to become a Christian.19 A different instance hints that such tensions were not inevitable. Another letter of Gregory the Great adjudicated the legal plight of a slave trader named Basileus who, as a “Hebrew,” could not legally hold Christian slaves, but whose Christians sons could do so.20 The sons became the legal owners of the slaves, while the father continued to have the benefit of their services. The sons were probably converts, not the product of a mixed marriage, which had been illegal since the late fourth century.21 Still, Gregory’s letter itself acknowledges the reality of strategically motivated conversions, and there is no way to know whether the sons’ conversions were the outcome of religious persuasion or simply a sham related to their business interests. But there are more nuanced possibilities. Like the various Jewish men of the Letter of Severus, Basileus may have come to understand that it was in the family’s best interests, financial and otherwise, for the sons not simply to feign becoming Christian but, rather, to do so with or without regard to their self-​understandings about their new practice. And this by no means exhausts the complex dynamics that may underlie this snapshot of a family at the turn of the seventh century.

They Emigrated When the going gets tough, the tough sometimes get going—​somewhere else. More precisely, some Jews may have emigrated to locations that might have seemed more hospitable, or at least, less inhospitable. This is one way to envision how Jews came to live in Clermont in the account of Gregory of Tours. Occasionally, the evidence is large scale. The absence of evidence for Jews in places like Venosa—​before the fourth century, or before even later centuries, as at Taranto—​might suggest that Jews moved to these places around the time they become visible in the epigraphic record, and that they did so because these locations seemed appealing at the time. Such suppositions are at

18.  Gregory, Letter 4.31, July 594, regarding two daughters, Juliana and Fortuna, and a son, Redemptus. It’s not absolutely clear that the mother herself converted, but this seems reasonable. 19. JIWE 1.8, above, pp. 273–75. 20. Gregory, Letter 9.105. 21. CTh 3.7.2, JRIL 18, by Theodosios I, in 388. See Parkes 1934:217.

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best plausible and at worst, a misreading of the absence of evidence as the evidence of prior absence. Unsurprisingly, perhaps, there is minimal literary evidence for Jews relocating voluntarily, as a response to Christian pressures. Sokrates recounts the apparent expulsion of some significant portion of Jews living in Alexandria in the early fifth century by its orthodox bishop, Cyril, but says virtually nothing about where those Jews went (and for how long).22 Perhaps they fled to more rural locations up the Nile. A  Jewish marriage contract from Antinoopolis, dated to 417, explicitly states that the bride resides in the village, while her father was from Alexandria.23 Or perhaps some fled to cities like Constantinople, as Sokrates’s own story of Adamantios, the Jewish physician who became a Christian, suggests.24 Tantalizing hints may occasionally be glimpsed in the epigraphic record. A Jewish man identified as an Alexandrian seems to have been buried somewhere in the Milan area in the fifth century (or later).25 A man more clearly called Ioses the Alexandrian, son of Paregorius, is commemorated on an epitaph found in Beroea, dated tentatively to the fifth century.26 If one or both date to the early part of that century, it might reflect the consequences of the conflict Sokrates narrates. Several other inscriptions seem to refer to Alexandrian Jews buried elsewhere, but none of them can be reliably dated to the early fifth century.27 Several Greek inscriptions from a necropolis at Jaffa memorialize Jews from Alexandria, but almost all of these are dated broadly to the second to fourth centuries.28 Inscriptions like these

22. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.13; see ­above, pp. 215–25. 23. Sirat et al. 1986; see above, p. 222 and below, pp. 394–97. 24. See a­ bove, pp. 222–23. 25. JIWE 1.2/​JIGRE 142; see above, p. 221. 26. IJO 1 Mac6; JIGRE 143; see above, p. 221. 27. E.g., the epitaph of a married couple, Eusebios and Theodora, from Thebes in Thessaly; IJO 1 Ach16, of uncertain date. Because the inscription can be read to identify Eusebios as an Alexandrian, it is also catalogued as JIGRE 144, but the IJO editors think it is probably a patronymic—​Eusebios, the son of Alexander, in which case it is no longer germane to this discussion (IJO 1. p. 129). 28. E.g., JIGRE 145, 146, 148, 150. Most contain some minimal Hebrew as well. An inscription from Tiberias also commemorates an Alexandrian Jew, Vitus (or perhaps Avitus; JIGRE 151), whose editors assign it an “uncertain date.” The name Vitus occurs several times at Venosa for members of the Faustini family in the fifth and sixth centuries, discussed below, pp. 365–68, 375–77, 385–86. The 1912 editor of JIGRE 149 proposed that it memorialized a priest “from Egypt,” but the editors of JIGRE call this “questionable.”



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might reflect a desire on the part of some diaspora Jews to be buried back in the land of Israel, but such inscriptions might simply reflect instances of travelers who died and were buried away from home.29 Unlike the Antinoopolis marriage contract, these inscriptions are highly ambiguous.30 Other inscriptions, similarly ambiguous, may also allude to relocation. A late antique Greek inscription from Spain refers to an archisynagōgos originally from Cyzikos in Asia Minor.31 Several inscriptions allude to immigration to Naples, where Jews are said to have supported the Arian Goths against the Byzantines in the sixth century, and which may have been relatively more hospitable to Jews, at least at times.32 A Latin and Hebrew epitaph of a young man named Barbarus, dated perhaps to the fifth or sixth century,33 describes either him or his father Cumanus (or perhaps both) as from Venafrum, about sixty miles from Naples. Another inscription from the same site, and probably the same date, memorialized an eight-​year-​old girl named Irene, daughter of Telesinus of Rome.34 A man named Benjamin, from Caesarea, is commemorated in an epitaph from a nearby site, dated perhaps to the fourth or fifth century.35 Although this may refer to the coastal city in Palestine, it might

29. A terse inscription from Beth Shearim (IJO 2.217) identifies the burial site of one Jacob of Caesarea, archisynagōgos, from Pamphylia. If Caesarea here refers to the coastal city in Palestine, he would seem to have emigrated from Pamphylia and then been buried at Beth Shearim. 30.  E.g., JIGRE 146, from a necropolis at Jaffa, for Hezekiah son of Isa, phrontistēs of Alexandria. The editors offer a broad dating range, but still before the early fifth century. So too JIGRE 148, also from Jaffa, for Justus, son of Reuben, Alexandrian, rag dealer, with the same general dating. 31. IJO 2.148/​JIWE 1.186. On the same stone, above these lines is a Latin inscription. Various matters are unclear: whether the Latin and Greek portions are related, or two separate inscriptions; whether the archisynagōgos is the deceased or someone else; whether the man held this title in Tarragona or back in Cyzikos. Noy thinks it likely to date to the fifth or sixth century, based partly on what appears to be a mention of Visigoths in line 3 of the Latin inscription; he also notes that parallels with JIWE 1.183, from Tortosa, which he guesses to be fifth or sixth century, support a later date (JIWE 1. p. 259). Ameling, however, thinks it might be even a little later (IJO 2. p. 310). 32. Prokopios, Hist. 5.8.41; see also ­above, p. 295. 33. JIWE 1.27. Noy remarks that the names of both father and son are well attested in North Africa (JIWE 1. p. 47). 34. JIWE 1.28. Noy comments that the Latin form “Romeus must indicate someone who had moved from Rome to Naples” (JIWE 1. p. 48), where he also notes that the name Telesinus derives from the town of Telesia (about sixty kilometers from Naples). We can only guess whether this says anything else about the family history. 35. JIWE 1.30; he bears the title prostatēs.

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also be the Caesarea in Mauretania, North Africa.36 An epitaph for a community leader found at Kissamos, Crete, calls her Sophia of Gortyn, a larger town on the island, raising questions about why she apparently moved from the one to the other.37 Another hint of geographic movement comes from the epitaph of a woman named Augusta, from a trove of Jewish inscriptions found at Venosa, in southern Italy, which I  will explore further shortly. Dated explicitly to 521, it proclaims that Augusta’s father, Isa, called by the title patēr, was from Anciasmon, now Saranda, on the Albanian coast. Her grandfather, Symonas, held the same title at Lypiae, modern Lecce, across from Anchiasmon on the Italian Adriatic coast.38 Perhaps we have here attestation of two exogamous marriages.39 Augusta might have moved from Anchiasmon to Venosa, to marry Bonus, who has the same name as a fourth-​generation member of a large Jewish family at Venosa and might have been a relative.40 Similarly, perhaps, her own mother had moved across the Adriatic from Lypiae to Anciasmon to marry Isa. If so, this inscription also testifies to the considerable reach of social networks among elite Jewish families in southern Italy and coastal Albania. Saranda is about three hundred miles from Venosa, with Lecce more or less equidistant between the two. But the inscription may be read less benignly. Saranda is the site of a synagogue discovered in 1984 and subsequently more fully excavated in 2003. It was transformed into a church at some point before the end of the sixth century, when it was destroyed by fire.41 Did Isa move with his family from Saranda to Venosa in the late fifth or early sixth century in the wake of Christian hostilities against the local Jewish community, including perhaps its synagogue?42 Did Symonas similarly move his family from Lypiae across 36. Noy thinks this possible partly because several other inscriptions from Naples have connections to North Africa, especially JIWE 1.27 (JIWE 1. p. 50). If the motivation was Christian pressure, North Africa would seem to be more plausible. 37. IJO 1 Cre3; see also Kraemer forthcoming b. 38. On these identifications, see JIWE 1. p. 139. 39. For this interpretation, see JIWE 1. p. 140; Noy notes that Colafemmina took these titles as evidence for “small immigrant communities” at Venosa itself. 40. JIWE 1.85, the epitaph of this other Bonus’s two small children. We do not (currently) have his epitaph. 41. See a­ bove, esp. p. 13n49; see also p. 164. 42. Augusta’s epitaph gives her age as XX . . . , older than twenty, but no more than thirty nine (forty or more would read XL . . . ).



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to Anchiasmon seeking relief from Christian pressures? Perhaps Venosa was a relatively “safe” haven for Jews in the fourth, fifth, and early sixth centuries, for a complex of social reasons no longer visible. A particularly intriguing instance of epigraphic testimony to possible Jewish relocation comes from a group of six inscriptions from Nevşehir, in Cappadokia (central Turkey), originally published in an obscure Turkish journal in the early twentieth century.43 The four more complete inscriptions all end with a formula, “in peace [be] her (his/​your/​their) sleep,” pervasive in Jewish epitaphs from the Roman catacombs but rarely found elsewhere.44 Apart from the Nevşehir inscriptions, only one inscription from Asia Minor uses this phrase, from Sebastopolis (modern Sulusaray) about 150 miles away.45 It opens with a version of the phrase “here lies,” similarly characteristic of Roman Jewish inscriptions,46 and ends, more unusually, with a Hebrew version of the sentiment “rest in peace.”47 Given how pervasive these formulas are at Rome, and how rare they are in Asia Minor, it seems likely that these persons were connected to one another in some fashion, and that all had some ties to Jews in Rome.48 Inscriptions from both towns have several other similarities, including the occurrence of some form of the female name Despoina, not otherwise attested for Jews in Asia Minor. Perhaps these persons were immigrants from Rome, or the descendants of Roman Jews who had moved east in response to one or more of the many crises facing inhabitants of the city

43. IJO 2.252–​57; one of these commemorates an archisynagōgissa (IJO 2.255). 44. The index to JIWE 2 (the city of Rome) lists about 185 complete or reconstructed instances. Cf. the index to JIWE 1, which lists only seven instances. Four (JIWE 1.46, 1.48, 1.53, 1.56) are from a cluster of graves from Venosa dated by Noy to, probably, the fifth century. 45. IJO 2.159, an epitaph for one Lampetis, an archon, assigned a date of fourth century or later by its recent editors. 46. The Greek here is ἔνθα κατάκιτη, which never occurs in precisely this form at Rome. Most common in the Roman inscriptions is the formula ἐνθάδε κεῖτε, with almost 100 instances indexed for JIWE 2, followed by ἐνθάδε κεῖται (more than 60 instances) and ἐνθάδε κῖτε (41 instances). JIWE 1 indexes only a handful of comparable formulas for all of Western Europe outside Rome. 47. The use of Hebrew here is highly unusual in Asia Minor and conceivably functions, as does the menorah, to signal Jewishness visually. 48. A converse example occurs with JIWE 2.360 (also IJO 2.178), an inscription that uses burial formulae common in Asia Minor and otherwise virtually unknown at Rome. It seems to attest a family that had come from somewhere in Asia Minor to Rome recently enough to retain the burial practices and language of the former. But it may not pertain to Jewish emigration as a response to Christianization, since it is no later than the fourth century, and may well be third century.

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generally, or facing Jews more specifically. Both Sebastopolis and Cappadokia were far from the imperial center in Constantinople, but Cappadokia is particularly remote, and one might wonder whether living there offered some respite from the pressures exerted on Jews emanating from the imperial center in Constantinople. If only we could tell.

They Resisted In the Hellenistic and early Roman period, Jews engaged in several revolts whose goals seem to have been actual overthrow of existing governments, including the successful Maccabean revolt against Antiochus IV Epiphanes, and three disastrous revolts against Rome. The Roman revolts resulted in the destruction of the Jerusalem temple and a smaller temple in Egypt, the end of an independent Judean polity, and the enslavement and death of many Jews.49 After the last of these, Jews appear to have lost their taste for anti-​Roman revolts, although there is sketchy evidence for a Jewish revolt in the mid-​fourth century in Palestine, centered in Diocaesarea, Tiberias, and Diospolis. Initially noted by Jerome, it is subsequently mentioned by Sokrates, Sozomen, and Theophanes.50 Several Samaritan revolts against Christian governments, discussed in ­chapter 8, are attested for the late fourth and mid-​fifth centuries.51 Why Samaritans engaged in active revolts while Jews do not seem to have done so is a fascinating question, if extremely difficult to assess. The evidence for Jewish resistance to the rising dominance of Christians may nevertheless be discernible in various accounts. In Sokrates and subsequent chronographers, Jewish and Christian men engaged in substantial physical confrontations in Alexandria in the early fifth century that culminated in the Christian bishop, Cyril, ordering Jews out of the city, over the opposition of the imperial governor, Orestes. In Sokrates’s account, Jews were not at the mercy of larger, more powerful Christian mobs, but, rather, were significant

49.  On the extensively discussed first revolt against Rome, chronicled in the writings of Josephus, see Goodman 2005; see also Schwartz 2001. On the less well-​known revolts, see, e.g., Ben Zeev 2005, 2006 (on the Cyrene revolt of the early second century ce); Schäfer 2003; Eshel 2006; Mor 2016 (all on the Bar Kokhba revolt). 50. Jerome, Chronicon for the 282nd Olympiad 15; Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 2.33; Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 4.7.5; Theophanes, Chron. for the year 5843 = 350/351 (see Nathanson 1981; see also Stemberger 2000:161–84; Schwartz 2014:124–25). 51. See above, pp. 287–91.



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rivals and the primary instigators of the violence.52 While these claims may serve Christian rhetorical interests, they may also reflect the willingness and political ability of Jewish men in Alexandria to confront their Christian antagonists.53 Other accounts of Jewish violence against Christians may similarly point to complex dynamics, such as Jewish resistance in fifth-​century Ravenna to Christian efforts to baptize them, or Jewish public mockery of Christians during Purim, using a customary hanging of Haman in effigy to denigrate Christ. Especially intriguing are reports that Jews supported Arian military efforts against their Byzantine opponents, as well as Arian administrations, particularly those which seem to have either defanged or failed to enforce legislation by orthodox emperors targeting Jews.54 Prokopios claims that Jews fought on the side of the Arian Ostrogoths at Naples against Justinian and the Byzantines.55 In the Anonymous Valesianus, it’s the Jewish “scholasticus,” Symmachus, who issues an anti-​orthodox edict in the name of the Arian Theoderic that ultimately leads to the king’s downfall.56

They Entertained Messianic Possibilities Jewish resistance to Christian pressures and dominance may have also found expression in several episodes of Jewish messianic or end-​time expectations narrated in Christian sources.57 While their Christian authors never impute such episodes to the pressures of Christianization, it seems quite plausible to see some connections. These include both the account in Sokrates and another in the anonymous Life of Barsauma, narrating different episodes that appear to date within a few years of each other, between about 432 and 443. Sokrates’s story, noted briefly earlier, comes as part of his short account of a mass conversion of Jews on Crete, sometime soon after 431.58 The prior year,

52. See a­ bove, pp. 215–18. 53. See above, pp. 224–25. 54. On this, see above, pp. 321–23 (Ravenna) and 206–207 (Purim). 55. Prokopios, Hist. 5.8.41; 5.10.24: see above, p. 295. 56. See above, pp. 326–27. 57. A portion of this discussion is also found, with some minor differences, in Kraemer 2019a. 58. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.38. On the date, see van der Horst 1988.

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a Jewish man had appeared on Crete who claimed to be Moses, sent again from heaven to lead the Jews safely through the sea to the promised land. On an appointed day, he led a substantial number of Jews (women, children, and men) to a promontory overlooking the sea and ordered them to throw themselves off. Those who did so died when they hit the rocks or drowned in the sea. Some Christian fishermen and merchants rescued some Jews from drowning, and warned those who had not yet leapt of the fate of those who had. The story ends with the conversion of many Jews, who “as a result of this experience . . . saying farewell to the Jewish way of life (Ioudaismos), surrendered themselves to faith in the Christian way of life (Christianismos).”59 Since Sokrates’s account is the only literary evidence for Jews on Crete in the later Roman period, there’s no way to corroborate any element of this account.60 Nevertheless, scholars who have written on this episode often argue for some historical kernel.61 The fifth century seems to have been a time rife with end-​time speculation on the part of Samaritans, Jews, and Christians.62 The various restrictions imposed on Jews by Christian emperors in the late fourth and early fifth centuries may well have increased Jewish suffering and heightened Jewish interest in millennial offerings. Van der Horst hypothesizes that the timing of the Crete episode, precisely three hundred years after the messianic Bar Kokhba revolt, might reflect renewed messianic hopes in the early to middle 430s.63 Intriguingly, Sokrates’s story lacks many of the stereotypical elements found in the Letter of Severus and in other Christian conversion narratives. It has no Jewish resistance to Christ, no conflict or scriptural contestations with Christians, no (subtly masked) coercion, no references to the guiding hand of Christ, and no miraculous occurrences, unless one wishes to count here the Jews’ attribution of the disappearance of the false Moses to his demonic

59.  Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.38.12 (my translation). On the possible valences of the terms Ioudaismos and Christianismos, see Mason 2007. 60. Van der Horst 1988. 61. The three late antique Jewish inscriptions from Crete, with contested dates, come from several sites, coincident with Sokrates’s claim that the imposter sought followers across the island (IJO 1 Cre1–​3). For discussion of other inscriptions see van der Horst 1988, who was unaware of IJO 1 Cre2. See also Spyridakis 1992. 62. Bradbury 1996:47–​53; on the general theme, see also de Lange 2007. 63. Van der Horst 1988:191. His arguments here were based on a rather cursory assessment of the situation in the fifth century, for which he appears to have relied heavily on Juster 1914; Simon 1948 and others, without critique.



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identity.64 Stripped of its opening and closing frames, nothing in the story anticipates a denouement in which, solely as a result of their disillusionment with the false Moses and the kindness of their Christian neighbors, Jews convert to Christianity. At the same time, the episode bears considerable resemblance to episodes in many other contexts which are often categorized as millenarian.65 A person appears in a community we perceive to be under duress (although Sokrates does not acknowledge this aspect), claiming to have divine authorization and promising to deliver followers into a better realm. He offers not a pragmatic solution to their situation66 but, rather, an other-​worldly one, drawing on a highly valued culturally specific paradigm—​in this case, a reenactment of the liberation from Egypt. Members of the community are urged to divest themselves of their earthly possessions (perhaps as the Israelites in Egypt were thought to have done) in preparation for their coming salvation. Although Sokrates gives no indication of when “the appointed day” was, we might envision it to have taken place on Pesach, or perhaps Shavuoth. It is particularly interesting that the person whom Sokrates claims instigated these events is said to have represented himself not as a claimant to the Davidic throne but, rather, as a new Moses.67 Centuries earlier, Josephus narrated an instance of an “impostor” named Theudas, who “persuaded a majority of the masses to take up their possessions” and follow him to the Jordan River, which he would 64. Sokrates calls him a δαιμῶν ἀλάστωρ, 7.38.11, literally an avenging spirit or daimon, sent to destroy them (on Crete). By this he might imply that the destruction which the false Moses wrought on the Jews was punishment for their persistence in Ioudaismos, which some of them now abandon, but this is, at best, quite subtle. In a version of this story in Isidore of Seville, the pseudo-​Moses is now explicitly identified as the devil (Isidore, Chronicle, 379 [CCSL 112, 180– 83] cited in Drews 2006:226; see also Wood 2014:206, for Isidore’s source for this account. Wood argues that while Isidore’s history includes few accounts of Jews after Hadrian (and thus the Bar Kokhba revolt), both Julian’s failed effort to rebuilt the temple, and the Crete account serve as instances of God intervening in history to punish Jews who refuse to convert, and serve as precursors to the efforts of Sisebut to convert the Jews in the mid-​seventh century. 65. I have in mind here a paradigm analyzed by Burridge 1969. See more recently Wessinger 2011, with extensive bibliographies. Despite this volume’s many contributions on historical instances, James Tabor’s chapter “Early Jewish and Christian Millennialism,” considers no instances after 200 ce and a search of the entire volume for “Samaritans” produces no results. 66. For instance, actual overthrow of the current government, or emigration to a less-​pressured locale, although I recognize that neither of these is likely to have been feasible, if for different reasons. 67.  These expectations might, hypothetically at least, be seen to coalesce in a single person, but this is not the case in the Crete episode, where the pseudo-​Moses seems to make no claims to royalty or political transformation. Appeals to a prophet like Moses (Deut 18:18) figure in Samaritan messianic movements, but Sokrates is explicit that these are Jews.

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then part. This seeming symbolic reenactment of a reverse Exodus evoked the figure of Moses, and perhaps also Deut 18:18, that God would ultimately send the Israelites a “prophet like Moses.”68 Nevertheless this paradigm is far less well attested among Jews than that of persons aspiring, like Bar Kokhba in the second century, to reinstitute the theocratic monarchy. In the end, though, the expectations of Jews on Crete were proven false, at a cruelly high price, and those who survived were forced to address the resulting cognitive dissonance.69 The episode might plausibly be construed as a response to Christian pressures from which Cretan Jews, living on a small Mediterranean island, had few viable options for escape or relief. The account from the Syriac Life of Barsauma of the empress Eudokia, wife of Theodosios II, granting Jews—​who were forbidden to live in Jerusalem—​ permission to pray at the ruins of the temple built by Solomon, is another episode of Jewish restoration.70 The Jews sent letters to the Persian and Roman diasporas, announcing that the end of the dispersion and the day of reunion of the Jewish people had arrived. They urged their fellow Jews to hasten to Jerusalem for Sukkoth, when Jerusalem would be returned and the Jewish kingdom reestablished.71 Eudokia, of course, had apparently said no such thing. The disappointed Jews were attacked by stoning, and blamed the disciples of Barsauma, who were exonerated, blaming “heavenly troops” for the violence. The story seems to concede the death of some significant number of Jews assembled at the temple site. An outbreak of violence by Christian monks against Jewish pilgrims seems entirely plausible, given the prevalence of such occurrences throughout the late antique Mediterranean.72 Yet we might also imagine that some Jews did, in fact, anticipate the restoration of the kingdom on the site of the temple, 68. Josephus, Jud. Ant. 20.97–​98. The several similarities here are mildly provocative, especially since Sokrates appears to have known at least some of Josephus’s writings. 69.  The classic work here is Festinger et  al. 1956. For some application of these analyses to earliest Christianity, see Gager 1975. Other particularly salient historical instances include the seventeenth-​century movement around Shabbetai Zvi and more recently the messianic candidacy of the Lubavitcher rebbe Menachem Schneerson, on which see, inter alia, Dein 2011. 70. For a fuller account, with bibliography and additional discussion, see a­ bove, pp. 260–65. 71. The Life of Barsauma claims to quote the letter in full; see ­above, pp. 260–61. 72. Palmer proposes that the story of the stoning might be attributed to embellishment by the author of the Life: “Scholars state blandly that the Vita boasts of a massacre of Jewish pilgrims in the time of the empress Eudokia . . . [hearing a story about stones falling out of the sky] the author perhaps embroidered his own fantasy that the stones struck the Jews, who in his view ought not to have hoped for the restoration of the Temple” (Palmer 2013:410).



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during Sukkoth, and did attempt to garner support from Jews outside the immediate region. The Jewish letter in the Life of Barsauma, however, contains no mention of a messianic candidate or the person who would be crowned when the kingdom was restored. As noted in ­chapter 7, the timing of both these episodes might be related to a tradition in the Babylonian Talmud, a saying ascribed to R. Ashi that one should not expect the messiah before the eighty-​fifth jubilee—​that is, 440–​ 490 ce. Afterwards, however, one may expect him.73 Ashi, who is typically assigned a fifth-​century date, appears in these traditions to have sought to tamp down messianic speculation rather than to support it. Claiming that the messiah would not come before the 85th Jubilee (that is, not before 440 ce) might contest a messianic moment in 438, a date often assigned to the Sukkoth episode. It would, however, provide support for one only a few years later (as the date of the Sukkoth contestation may well be).74 The connections are tantalizing, but by no means dispositive. As for Eudokia’s role in all this, scholars routinely accept that Jews did petition her to pray on the site of the temple at Sukkoth, and that her consent stemmed from a general sympathy to Jews tracing back to her youth, which I have laid out in c­ hapter 7.75 Holum suggested that the specific incident in Jerusalem might reflect Eudokia’s longstanding competition with her sister-​in-​law Pulcheria, both of whom held the position of empress (Augusta). The emperor’s sister was, in his reading, deeply antagonistic to Jews, and either orchestrated or supported numerous Theodosian edicts restricting Jewish rights, including the law of January 438. Whether out of genuine sympathy, or desire to contest Pulcheria, or some other motive, Eudokia may have nourished the hopes of Jews for the alleviation of their oppression. Some scholars have seen evidence for late antique Jewish messianic behavior in a short letter of Gregory the Great, dated to May of 593.76 Gregory wrote to Libertinus, praetor of Sicily, instructing him how to deal with a case against a Jewish man named Nasas. According to Gregory, Nasas (whom he 73. b. Sanhedrin 97b. See above, pp. 264–65. 74. Many scholars think that this episode was triggered by the law of January 438, and thus must date to the following fall (439). There are, however, good reasons to think that a date after 443 is more likely, when Eudokia moved permanently to a palace at Bethlehem; see ­above, esp. p. 265n111. 75. As argued by Nau 1927a and 1927b, discussed in depth above, pp. 198–99 and 247–48. 76. Gregory, Letter 3.37.

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calls “one of the most wicked of the Jews”) had built an altar in the name of “Saint Helias” (presumably Elijah) and had persuaded Christians to pray at the altar. Nasas was also accused of purchasing Christian slaves and using them for unspecified but clearly transgressive purposes. Despite these obvious crimes, Nasas had gone unprosecuted during the term of Libertinus’s predecessor, Justinus, apparently because he had been bribed. Gregory admonished Justinus to investigate properly, execute Nasas if he is proven guilty, and free the enslaved Christians, “so that the Christian religion is not polluted . . . in subjection to Jews” (the fairly standard rationale against Jews owning Christian slaves). Because Nasas’s altar was allegedly dedicated to “Saint Helias,” some scholars have suspected that his actions had messianic overtones, Elijah being the traditional forerunner of the messiah.77 But Gregory makes no such accusation and nothing else about the account suggests that this was anything other than an isolated event that we cannot assess from this chronological distance.

They Adapted Many accounts envision that Jews in late antiquity were relatively homogeneous and tightly networked. The Jewish patriarch in Palestine is often envisioned to have been the head of all Jews in the ancient Roman Mediterranean, both those living in the homeland and those living in the Mediterranean diaspora, analogous in some ways to the emperor himself (if not also to later catholic popes78). Some of the surviving laws discussed in prior chapters provide support for this view insofar as they collectively construct the patriarch as the head of an empire-​wide network of Jewish synagogues, appointing various clerics who derived their authority from these appointments and from imperial recognition of the system as a whole. They depict Jews as subject to the authority of those leaders, and ultimately to the patriarch himself, at least with regard to internal Jewish matters. These laws represent

77. Katz thinks it was not a Jewish messianic movement (1933–​34:127n67); Simonsohn 1997 briefly notes the episode without real comment. Bachrach’s paragraph-​long footnote sees this as an instance “of governmental impotence and connivance as well as of Jewish influence” (Bachrach 1977:157n74). 78. This similarity is my own observation, but I was gratified to see Lapin’s suggestion that the organization of patriarchal authority by the Roman government may, in fact, have been modeled on ecclesiastical lines of authority (Lapin 2012:21).



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Jews throughout the Mediterranean sending funds in gold and silver annually to the patriarch—​funds that in 429 were now diverted to the imperial coffers.79 In such an imagining, all Jews across the region were thus connected in significant ways. Were this to have been the case, the demise of the office of the Jewish patriarch, in the early fifth century, might have been as a momentous event, requiring substantial adaption on the part of Jews across the empire. Its dissolution could be seen to mark the end of any ancient Jewish political autonomy and unity. In some scholarly imaginings, the demise of the patriarchate resulted in the dissolution of Jewish self-​government and the deterioration of strong intra-​community ties, splintering Jews into fragmented, disconnected smaller communities with little political clout, weakening Jewish identity, and thus presumably facilitating conversion to Christianity. The reality is undoubtedly far more complicated, with regard to both the authority and power of any holder of the office and the consequences of its dissolution.80 Although Jewish patriarchs unquestionably had some power and influence in the imperial courts, particularly in the middle to late fourth and early fifth centuries, they are unlikely ever to have had the kind of empire-​ wide control often presumed in certain scholarly narratives.81 The law of 415 demoting the last patriarch, Gamaliel VI, from his senatorial rank, did not explicitly remove him from office, perhaps because the patriarch owed his power and prestige to the emperors, but not his position as patriarch.82 Nor

79. E.g., CTh 16.8.1, 16.8.2; see also above, pp. 91–100; CTh 16.8.11; see above, p. 164; CTh 16.8.13, 2.1.10 (above, pp. 165–66); 16.8.14 (above, pp. 170–72); 16.8.16 (above, pp. 177–78); 16.8.17 (above, p. 178); see also above, pp. 178–81. 80. For discussion and references, see ­above, pp. 144–45, 161–62 (esp. p. 345n9), 165–66, 170– 72, 176–81, 227–31. 81. See, e.g., GLAJJ 3.564; Stern writes “In the fourth century C.E. πατριάρχης was undoubtedly the official title of the Jewish nasi . . . the head of the Jewish community.” Simonsohn exemplifies the position of certain scholars when he writes: The Sanhedrin and the Patriarchs were the chief source of power and authority of the communities. The Palestinian Jewish authorities were in constant touch with the Jewish communities in Italy, chiefly through the apostoli, but also by direct contact, such as when rabbis went on visits to Rome or other Italian towns to collect money, or for other reasons. They passed on their religious norms and legal decisions to the communities, appointed their officers and/​or approved their election/​appointment, at times or always, depending on who you ask. Simonsohn 2014:354–​55 Even the more judicious discussion by Stemberger 2000:230–​68 sometimes veers in this direction. 82. See a­ bove, pp. 227–31.

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did it abolish the office itself. Yet as the law of 429 makes clear, by then the office was defunct.83 Schwartz observes that we know nothing about who, if anyone, replaced the patriarch.84 If by this Schwartz envisions a person who could be construed as the notional leader of all ancient Jews, the answer would appear to be no one. But at the same time, only a few weeks after Gamaliel’s demotion by Theodosios II, in Constantinople, Honorius, in Ravenna, responded to petitions brought by a didaskalos (teacher) named Annas and an amorphous group of persons called the “maiores Iudaeorum.” The title “maior” is particularly enigmatic. It is attested in the various laws,85 where it occurs in several forms: the “maiores,” with no qualification; the “maiores” of the Jews; the “maiores” of their religion; the “maiores” of their laws.86 “Maior” is unattested as a Jewish communal title in either funerary or donor inscriptions, but the grandparents of a young woman buried at Venosa are called “maiures civitatis,” which appears to be a recognition of their status in Venosa, rather than a statement of their position among Jews in the city.87 (Interestingly, this suggests that the term could apply in some instances to women as well as men.)

83. CTh 16.8.29. 84. Schwartz 2014:123. 85. CTh 16.8.1, JRIL 8; CTh 2.1.10, JRIL 28. As noted in ­chapter 5, maior also appears as a title for a leader of the Caelicoli, in a letter of Augustine dated to 396–​397; see ­also above, esp. p. 212n109. 86. “religiones suae maiores” and “maiores legis suae” occur in the interpretation of CTh 2.1.10. In JRIL 28, Linder does not identify the source of the commentary, but in JRIL 8, he describes it as Visigothic. Interestingly (if not oddly), Rouge translated it as “les anciens de leur religion” and “les Anciens de leur loi,” while the note by Delmaire simply states, without argument, that these are the heads of councils of elders (so presumably gerousiarchs), citing also CTh 16.8.1 and 16.8.23:  “Ils dirigent le conseil des Anciens (seniores) des communautés juives” (Rougé and Delmaire 2009: 37n2). 87. JIWE 1.86, CIJ 12.611. Frey translated this generically: “first ones of the city,” and construed the grandparents as Faustina’s grandfather, Vitus, and a grandmother named Acella (CIJ 12, pp. 438–​39). Despite this generic translation, he construed the position as part of the organization structures of the Jewish community in Venosa. Lifshitz has them erroneously as Faustina’s parents and thinks they were not, as Frey thought, Jewish office-​holders but city fathers: “The honorary title πατὴρ τῆς πόλεως (maior civitatis) had been transformed—​probably in the fourth century—​into a function” (Lifshitz 1975:48, citing Robert 1948:130–​32). Noy takes the grandparents to be Faustina’s grandfathers, Vitus and one otherwise unattested Acellus, and understood their title—​“leaders of the community”—​to be civic (including it in his list of civic titles, not Jewish communal titles) (JIWE 1. p. 116). Williams takes them to be Faustina’s paternal grandparents (Williams 1999:44n34), where she briefly cites CIJ 12.611, but does not acknowledge that Frey also read the name as Asella, and cites in support van der Horst 1991:147



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Precisely who the “maiores” at Ravenna were and whom they represented are unclear. But they seem to have had both knowledge of issues raised by the edict demoting and disciplining Gamaliel and the standing to seek their clarification.88 And that they could do so in such short order suggests either that these persons were already in a position to negotiate on behalf of Jewish interests or that they were able to move into such positions with impressive speed. If the patriarchs of the late fourth and early fifth centuries (and perhaps their associates) were really significant players in the courts at Ravenna and Constantinople, Gamaliel’s fall could have left Jews without a powerful patron, to their substantial detriment. Annas and the “maiores Iudeorum” appear in precisely two laws, after which they disappear from the legislative record. It is easy enough to marshal an argument that Jews were increasingly subject to attacks on synagogues (and occasionally on their persons), to intensified legal restrictions on their participation in civic life, and to amplified pressures to become Christians only after 415. The two major messianic episodes (on Crete and in Jerusalem) both take place several decades after Gamaliel’s demotion. Still, it is somewhat more difficult to argue for a causal relation—​that the cessation of the patriarchate left Jews at the mercy of agents and interests that otherwise might not have had the same effects. Rather, it seems likely, as I have suggested in c­ hapter 6, that the same persons and interests that led to Gamaliel’s demotion and the cessation of the patriarchate were responsible for the increasing pressures on Jews on all these fronts. Subsequent sources of various sorts indicate that numerous persons, like Annas and the “maiores,” continued to lobby on behalf of Jewish interests, even if it is difficult for us to identify them with any precision. It’s really not clear how tightly Jews across the empire were ever networked, with or without the activity of patriarchal emissaries seeking funds. Jews in some locations may have been more closely linked to Jews elsewhere in certain places but not others. In the account of the Letter of Severus, Jews on Minorca had close ties to those on neighboring Majorca, which seems unremarkable, but how far we might imagine those networks to have extended is another matter. Most of the evidence alludes to regional networks—​such as connections between Jews in Rome and Jews in Naples in the letters of Gregory the Great, (who here reproduces the reading and interpretation of Frey). On the title πατὴρ τῆς πόλεως see also Roueché 1979. 88. CTh 16.9.3, JRIL 42. Stemberger 2000:264–​65 is unusual in noting the possible connection between these two events; he translates “maiores Iudaeorum” as “elders” of the Jews, without sufficient exploration.

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or between Jews in Venosa, Saranda, and Lecce, or Jews in Sebastopolis and Nevşehir in Asia Minor.89

Women’s Religious Offices as Adaptive Strategy? Another underexplored consequence of Christianization and even the demise of the patriarchate may be an apparent increase of women designated as synagogue officers in late antique inscriptions. Scholars have long known that a handful of inscriptions designate women with the titles of certain synagogue offices, particularly “elder” and “head of the synagogue.” These were generally, but not universally, thought (by the entirely male scholars who studied them) to designate women honored by virtue of the standing of their fathers or husbands.90 But in 1982, Bernadette J. Brooten published her Harvard dissertation on these inscriptions, arguing that in the absence of compelling evidence to the contrary, scholars should presume that women with such titles exercised the same authority and performed the same kinds of communal roles thought to have been the case for men with the same titles.91 While many readers found Brooten’s arguments highly convincing (and highly relevant to debates then current about the ordination of both Jewish and Christian women), some scholars continued to maintain that women designated as synagogue officers acquired such titles primarily by virtue of financial or other patronage, or by family associations, and were unlikely to have exercised actual functions of office.92 In my judgment, these inscriptions, taken as a whole, reflect the engagement of some women in the affairs of Jewish groups and

89. On networks of Christian bishops (a possible analogy?), see Sotinel 2004. 90.  There were a few interesting exceptions:  Solomon Reinach, who first published the inscription of Rufina of Smyrna (IJO 2.43) accepted her self-​designation as archisynagōgos at face value; see Kraemer 2015. 91. Brooten 1982; see also Brooten 2000. 92. For an overview and analysis of these responses, see Kraemer 2011:232–​41, which focuses especially on the discussion in Horbury 1999; Levine 2005:499–​518; Rajak 1992:22–​24; and Rajak and Noy 1993. To this should be added the relatively brief but ascerbic critique of Williams 1999. For an important new assessment of these inscriptions, see Duncan 2012a, 2012b: she argues that women (and men) might have been remembered with titles on their epitaphs that bear no necessary relation to titles they held or offices they exercised during their lifetimes. See also my most recent reconsideration of these inscriptions, and my response to Duncan, in Kraemer forthcoming b.  On the more general topic of Jewish women, see the helpful overview of Marks 2008.



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communal associations.93 Like their male counterparts, women generally attained such positions by virtue of their family positions and benefactions. In most instances, these titles were not directly parasitic on the titles and positions of fathers and husbands, but they signify something about the positions and prestige of the women so designated. It’s not my intention here, though, to relitigate these issues in any detail; my positions on them are clear and articulated in depth elsewhere.94 Instead, I want to focus on one issue that was unavoidably obscured in Brooten’s project, and to which subsequent scholarship has poorly attended—​namely the clustering of these inscriptions in the fifth and perhaps even sixth centuries, and apparently in certain locations.95 We presently know of at least twenty-​three women with a title of synagogue office, either a self-​identification or a remembrance by others.96 One woman from Asia Minor calls herself archisynagōgos—​a title well attested for male synagogue officers in the same grammatical form—​in the only inscription that is likely to date no later than the third century.97 At least two, and probably three, women are remembered as archisynagōgissa,98 two from Asia Minor. Sophia of Gortyn, on Crete, was called by both titles.99 All these also probably date relatively late. A poorly scratched inscription from Phthiotic Thebes, in Thessaly, that is probably no earlier than the third century and perhaps more likely to be fifth or sixth century, seems to remember a woman named Peristeria with the designation archēgissa. This might be a form of the

93. Here I appreciate but do not entirely share the position of Duncan 2012b, which I consider at length in Kraemer forthcoming b. 94. Kraemer 2011:232–​41; Kraemer forthcoming b. 95. This last may, however, be a function of the capriciousness of the archaeological record, and not indicative of any actual ancient geographic differences. 96.  Brooten identified nineteen:  Duncan 2012b:v gives the total as twenty-​four; her list of “dated women’s title bearer inscriptions” contains twenty-​three (Duncan 2012b:55–​56). Among those Brooten did not include are JIWE 1.163 (Kraemer 1985); IJO 2.255; de Spagnolis 1993, 2000. Brooten also later argued that Ia’el, the patron of the dekania association at Aphrodisias (IJO 2.14A; see also below, pp. 383–84 and 392–94), was a woman, which has convinced many scholars, including Duncan, but by no means all (see e.g., Ilan 2007). Brooten is probably right, but it’s impossible to be certain. Everyone else associated with the dekania is male. 97. Rufina, IJO 2.43; see Kraemer 2014. 98. IJO 1 Cre3, Sophia, from Gortyn on Crete; and IJO 2.255 (an archisynagōgissa whose name is not preserved). In IJO 2.25, a donor inscription by Theopempte, from Myndos in Caria, the self-​designation archisynagōgos is a plausible but not certain reconstruction; see both the discussion to the inscription and Kraemer forthcoming b. 99. IJO 1 Cre3, Sophia, from Gortyn on Crete.

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title archisynagōgissa, but it is otherwise unknown and its precise derivation is disputed.100 Four women are remembered as “mother of the synagogue,” three from Rome—​no later than the fourth century—​and one from elsewhere in Italy, also thought to be perhaps fourth century.101 A  woman buried in Venosa, in the fifth century, has the unusual title of “pateressa” (literally, a female father).102 The masculine version “father of the synagogue (or perhaps, of the ‘community’),” is widely attested in inscriptions and legal sources. Eight women were designated as “elders”—​usually some form of the Greek term presbytera, whose masculine form, presbyteros, is uniformly taken, in Jewish contexts, to signify a synagogue position.103 Virtually all appear to date no earlier than the fourth century and several are clearly fifth century or later. It is not only the most numerous title but also the most widely distributed. Three women from Venosa have this title, including two buried in extremely close proximity to each other and to the “pateressa.”104 All three may have been relatives. Others come from Nocera (Italy), Thrace, Malta, Tripolitania (North Africa), and Crete.105 No women elders, however, have yet been found in Asia Minor. Among the almost six hundred epitaphs from Rome, “mother of the synagogue” is the only title attested for women, with the possible exception of one Greek inscription for a woman called presbyt(e)s, rather than presbytera, and which may signify her advanced age rather than a position.106 As we have repeatedly seen, numerous laws in the Theodosian Code demonstrate that men eligible for service on municipal councils regularly sought

100. IJO 1 Ach18. So the editors of IJO, who leave it untranslated as “archegissa.” 101. JIWE 2.251, 2.42, 2.577; JIWE 1.5. A woman named Faustina from Venosa, Italy, is called “mother” in an inscription (JIWE 1.116) that is guesstimated to be fourth or fifth century, and that is not definitively Jewish, although it might be. But the titles of her husband, both in her epitaph and his (JIWE 1.115), appear to index their civic prestige and not their specific status among the Jews of Venosa. For further discussion, see Kraemer forthcoming b. 102. JIWE 1.63. 103. JIWE 1.59, 1.62, 1.71, 1.163; SEG 27 (1977) 1201; IJO 1 Thr3; IJO 1 Cre3; de Spagnolis 1993, 2000. JIWE 2.24, from Rome, calls a woman named Sara Ura by a slightly different term, presbytis, and might connote age; so, too, IJO 2.161, for another Sara, from Sebastopolis. For more discussion, including the proposal of Kurtzer 2008 that it could be the Greek equivalent of rabbi, see ­above, p. 89. 104. Berenike, JIWE 1.59; Mannine, JIWE 1.62; see Kraemer forthcoming b; Williams 1999. 105. See above, p. 363n94. 106. JIWE 2.24; see the discussion of Noy on whether the term signifies age.



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to evade it, sometimes by moving away from the towns where they were liable.107 Men who left town to avoid these obligations would also have deprived associations like synagogues of full staffing and leadership, which in historically analogous situations has sometimes resulted in women taking on such roles. Additionally, the availability of men to fill these positions in the sixth century may have been further diminished by various military campaigns and attendant violence against civilians, as well as by the devastations of contagious illnesses at which, in particular, the Venosa inscriptions and burials themselves hint. Further, Theodosios’s edict of 438 prohibited Jews (and Samaritans) from “honors and dignities,” including the office of defender of the city (“defensor”).108 Persons who illegally obtained such honors were to be demoted to the lowest ranks. The revision of this in the Code of Justinian, in the sixth century, prohibited Jews not only from holding the office of “defensor civitatis” but also from the “honor of father.”109 Is the clustering of inscriptions for Jewish women with synagogue office titles related in some way to these restrictions? As far as we can tell, the ban on Jewish men holding most civic positions never extended to positions in Jewish synagogues. It continued to be permissible for men to serve as patrons and leaders of Jewish associations. There is less epigraphic evidence for such persons that dates to the mid-​fifth century or later than we might wish, but there are also generally far fewer inscriptions dated reliably after the middle of the fifth century. But it seems at least possible that the incidence of women presbyters in the fifth century, and perhaps also synagogue heads, reflects changing social circumstances that enabled women to take on communal roles that earlier were far less likely. It may also be significant that inscriptions for archisynagōgissae and women elders have been found mostly in fairly small, somewhat isolated locations, including Myndos in Caria (on the Aegean coast of Asia Minor), Nevşehir in Cappadokia, and the Mediterranean islands of Malta and Crete. The three women elders at Venosa, together with the “pateressa,” may constitute a somewhat different case.110 All are likely to have been members of

107. E.g., CTh 12.1.158, JRIL 29; see above, p. 179. 108. Nov. 3, JRIL 54. 109. CJ 1.9.18, JRIL 54. 110. Williams 1999 works out the genealogy of the family she calls the Faustini, in at least the fifth and sixth centuries.

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an extended elite family which begins with the founder Margaret Williams designated Faustinus I, and which cannot be traced beyond his seventh-​ generation descendant, Sarmata.111 Many Faustini men also have titles of synagogue or civic office (or both) in the first several generations. Several women do not appear to hold those titles simply because of their relationships to titled men. One elder, Mannine, is remembered as the daughter of Longinus, for whom we have no title.112 The epitaph of a second elder, Beronike, buried in the same grave with Mannine, identifies her father as Ioses, but gives him no title.113 Neither woman appears to have been married. The epitaph of the “pateressa,” Alexsan(d)ra, buried close to the two elders, names no relatives, male or female, and we have no idea why she was so designated.114 The third woman elder, Faustina, is buried in a different section of the galleries, and although her name suggests some relationship to the family, there’s no evidence that her title derives directly from that of a husband or father.115 Conversely, we have at least one instance of a titled husband whose wife has no such recognition. A different Faustinus (again perhaps a relative, but perhaps not) is remembered as gerousiarch and archiatros116 by his wife, Asella, who has no title.117 The only dated Jewish inscription found so far at Venosa commemorates a young woman named Augusta as the wife of Bonus, a “vir laudabilis,” and as the granddaughter of two men both with the title “pater.”118 Augusta herself is untitled. Yet the absence of evidence for titles—​whether held by the male relatives of any of these women or by anyone else—​is hardly definitive. The case of Faustinus’s son, Vitus, is highly instructive and cautionary. Vitus’s own Hebrew epitaph has no titles,119 nor does the epitaph of his daughter, 111.  JIWE 1.61, JIWE 1.88. Sarmata, buried with his grandparents, is the only identifiable member of this generation. 112. JIWE 1.62. That said, we know of him only from her epitaph; like many others who apparently married into the Faustini family, we lack his own epitaph. 113. JIWE 1.59. A man named Ios(es) is buried elsewhere in the galleries (JIWE 1.43). He, too, has no title in his epitaph. 114. JIWE 1.63. 115. JIWE 1.71. 116. JIWE 1.76. 117. JIWE 1.76–​78. 118. JIWE 1.107, dated to 521 ce. 119. JIWE 1.82–​82a.



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Pretiosa.120 But other inscriptions remember him with several different titles, which perhaps he held at different points in his life. When Faustinus died, Vitus was remembered as gerousiarch.121 When his great-​grandchildren died in infancy, Vitus was remembered with the title “pater patrum” but not gerousiarch.122 When his granddaughter, Faustina, died at age fourteen, perhaps while he was still alive, Vitus and his wife, Asella, were called “maiores civitatis,” perhaps translated as “leaders of the city.”123 Inscriptions are thus at best a partial index of offices and titles, memorialized for reasons we cannot ascertain. Both for men and for women, the absence of titles in any particular epitaph is not evidence that the person held none, and this suggests that epigraphic habits were far more complex than we can perceive. In a few cases, however, married couples do appear to have held comparable titles, perhaps indexing their joint social standing and position as community patrons. This is clearly true for Vitus and Asella, whose designation as “maiores civitatis” may gesture to the several positions Vitus held at various points in his life, and perhaps Asella as well. It also seems true for yet another Faustina and her husband, Auxianos, whose epitaphs date perhaps to the fourth or fifth century. His epitaph remembers him as both patēr and patron of the city: hers remembers her as mētēr, and his wife, repeating his titles of father and patron of the city. Both epitaphs were found in a different small burial site in Venosa, and it’s not completely certain that they are Jews, although it’s quite possible.124 In two other instances, married couples had distinct titles. At Noccere (near Pompeii), Myrina, the presbytera, was married to a scribe named Pedoneious. On Malta, a presbytera named Eulogia was married to a gerousiarch. If, as is generally assumed, the title designates the head of a council of elders, we might speculate that husband and wife sat on such a council together.125

120. JIWE 1.84; Hebrew/​Latin. 121. JIWE 1.87. 122. JIWE 1.85. 123. JIWE 1.86. 124. JIWE 1.115, 1.116. For discussion of dating and identification, see especially JIWE. 1, pp. xvii–​xviii. 125. Over a dozen men are commemorated as gerousiarch in Roman inscriptions. But the title is so far unattested in Jewish inscriptions from Asia Minor, although eighteen men from the region are called by the title presbyteros.

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Writing before the discovery of additional epitaphs from Venosa, including the dated epitaph of Augusta that has enabled a better sequencing of the main burial galleries, Brooten took the totality of titled women at Venosa as evidence for a possible local “tradition of granting women official functions.”126 If tradition here means a longstanding practice, I  am somewhat skeptical, partly because three of Brooten’s titled women—​Mannine, Beronike, and Alexsan(d)ra—​seem likely to be both relatives and perhaps contemporaries. The third woman called presbitera, Faustina, may also be a rough contemporary, although this isn’t certain. And while I agree with Williams that all these titles index the prestige of the Faustini family, and perhaps other, even interrelated, families at Venosa, such correlation is insufficient to explain precisely who held which titles at particular times, including why some women have titles and other female members of the family do not.127 But given the number of men who appear to held offices contemporaneous with these women, I think it harder to argue that in this instance at Venosa, women with what appear to be titles of synagogue office held these titles because it had become more difficult for men to do so. Several inscriptions from elsewhere in southern Italy tantalizingly suggest that the appointment of women as “elders” was not unique to Jewish women. A Greek inscription from Centuripae in Sicily, thought to be fourth or fifth century, memorializes a fifty-​year-​old woman named Kale, who is designated with the abbreviation preb (presbytis, presbyteris, presbytera?).128 An inscription from Salona, in Dalmatia, explicitly dated to 425, commemorates the purchase of a burial site from a Christian “matrona” named Flavia Vitalia, designated with the abbreviation prb.129 A  Latin inscription from Tropea (Bruttium), also dated to the fourth or fifth century, explicitly memorializes a 126. Brooten 1982:44. On the additional inscriptions, see Colafemmina 1978. 127. Against Brooten, Williams argued that women at Venosa had titles only because the men in the family had synagogue appointments. “Women such as Mannine . . . far from being important figures in their own right, owed their titles to the fact that they belonged to a family whose male members currently held high office in the synagogue” Williams 1999:51. Part of her argument relied on her observation that when the men ceased to hold offices, as the epigraphic evidence seems to suggest, the women did as well. For a more detailed assessment see Kraemer forthcoming b. 128. Eisen 2000:128–​29, with further epigraphic references. It is presumed to be Christian. 129. Eisen 2000:131–​32, with further epigraphic references. Eisen proposes that Vitalia’s sale of burial sites was part of her responsibilities as a presbyter. I have recently proposed that Rufina of Smyrna may have had similar responsibilities in her position as archisynagōgos, but the probable date of Rufina’s dedication, in the third century makes the comparison interesting, but perhaps nothing more (Kraemer 2015).



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forty-​year-​old woman named Leta as a presbitera.130 The epitaph was erected by her husband, who omits his own name and any indication of whether he himself held some comparable position. Applied to Christian men, the term presbyteros is generally taken by scholars to signal a priest, making the interpretation of these inscriptions even more germane to debates about women’s ordination in contemporary contexts. As was true in the case of Jewish inscriptions, some epigraphers and historians have seen these women as the wives of male presbyters, while others, often following Brooten’s lead, have seen them as indications of actual women priests, bolstered by provocative comments in a few contemporaneous Christian authors. In the later fourth century, Epiphanios of Cyprus accused various Christian groups of ordaining women as bishops and presbyters.131 The Canons of the Council of Laodikea (in Asia Minor), thought to date also from the later fourth century, attest both to women presbyters and to the opposition they provoked.132 Most tellingly, a letter of Gelasius, bishop of Rome, to bishops in southern Italy and Sicily, in 494, complained about women being allowed to minister at the altar.133 It is at least curious that evidence for both Jewish and Christian women “elders” comes from roughly the same time frame (the fourth and fifth centuries) and geographic location (southern Italy).134 In the absence of better evidence, it seems impossible to know what if any historical and social connections there might have been between the Christian evidence and the Jewish inscriptions. Nevertheless, it seems reasonable to wonder whether some larger local factors are at work that we cannot now detect.

130. Eisen 2000:129–​31, with further epigraphic references. 131.  In particular, he levels this accusation against the New Prophecy (also known as Montanism) (Epiphanios, Panarion 49) and against a group he calls the Kollyridians (Panarion 79). Epiphanios also gestures to a distinction between presbytis and presbyteris in his account of the Kollyridians, when he claims that older widows were called presbytis, but not presbytera (Panarion 79.3.6, 79.4.1). See Eisen 2000:119. 132. Canons 11 and 44; discussed in Eisen 2000:121–​23. 133. Gelasius, Letter 14.26. For detailed discussion, see Otranto 1982 (the same year Brooten’s dissertation was published), and subsequently Rossi 1991. The larger bibliography on women priests in early Christian churches is extensive and beyond the scope of this discussion. 134.  Rather oddly, in an article on a possible Montanist inscription from perhaps the fifth century with some interesting similarities to the Ia’el inscription from Aphrodisias, Stephen Mitchell asserted that Montanists and Jews shared the practice of women priests. His evidence for this seems to be Epiphanios, on the one hand, and Jewish inscriptions for women presbyters, on the other (Mitchell 2005).

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Intriguingly, with the exception of Rufina of Smyrna, who called herself archisynagōgos, virtually none of the inscriptions for women elders and archisynagōgissai, from Italy or elsewhere, may date before the cessation of the patriarchate. Even if the patriarch exercised control or significant influence over just some appointments in some locales, the appointment of women might have been anything from transgressive to impractical. Were these inscriptions to date securely to the late fourth and early fifth centuries, and were it to be the case that at least in these decades, the patriarch approved all such appointments, it would imply that the appointment of women had patriarchal approval. Alternatively, of course, the appointment of women might suggest precisely the opposite—​that the patriarch did not, in fact, approve all such positions. There is no way to know, but it certainly is tempting to envision that either way, the appointment of women synagogue officers became more feasible in the later fifth century, once there was no mechanism for patriarchal authorization, and appointments were now made only at the local level. One possibility, then, for the clustering of inscriptions that designate women with titles of synagogue office, is that the pressures experienced by Jews in these centuries, in the wake of orthodox Christianizing, opened up options for women—​options that had previously been far less feasible. To suggest this, of course, is to undercut arguments that these inscriptions simply demonstrate the egalitarian possibilities for women, at least in diaspora synagogues, throughout the Greco-​Roman period, as Brooten wanted to argue. Another, not mutually exclusive possibility is that such appointments became more feasible with the cessation of the patriarchate, and an increase in local authority without interference from Jews from elsewhere with different ideas about what titles and positions women might hold. And at least in the case of southern Italy, especially in the fifth century, other local factors may have been at work in facilitating the designation of both Jewish and Christian women with the title (and associated responsibilities) of elder.

They Retrenched From the fourth century on, the linguistic practices of Jews in the diaspora begin to exhibit some shifts, including an increased use of Hebrew in inscriptions, a preference for the self-​designation “Hebrew” (as opposed to “Jew”), and possibly an avoidance of the term “synagogue.” At the same time, hints of rabbinic presence and influence also increase. It is certainly possible that both may be seen as a strategic and defensive tightening of Jewish social boundaries in response to the heightened pressures of an ever more Christianized world.



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Leonard Rutgers has argued at length that as Christians increasingly imputed a highly negative valance to the term “synagogue,” Jews increasingly relinquished the term in favor of the expressions “holy place” or “most holy place.”135 Most epigraphic instances of “synagogue” appear to date no later than the fourth century, although there are a few inscriptions that are probably later, including the synagogue dedication of Julia(na) at Hamman Lif, probably sixth century, and a votive dedication from Side.136 But pace Rutgers, there are very few inscriptions that demonstrably refer to synagogue buildings in the diaspora by other terminology.137 And in the mid-​fifth century, Sokrates claims that “synagogue” is what the Jews call their “prayer-​houses.”138 If Jews did deliberately avoid the term “synagogue,” particularly in donor inscriptions, it seems possible that they did so to avoid proclaiming synagogue construction projects that were technically unlawful starting in the late fourth century.139 Consider an unprovenanced inscription currently on display in the main hall of the medieval galleries of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New  York City. It commemorates the donation of the forecourt 135. Rutgers 2009:79–​115; for this specific claim, 2009:110, although the data he cites in n75 does not support his argument. Only one diaspora inscription that he lists uses solely the phrase ὁ ἅγιος τόπος—​a fragment that may have been part of a synagogue in Alexandria at some point in the later Roman period (JIGRE 17). In some of his examples, the term “synagogue” is qualified with the adjective “holy” or “most holy.” These inscriptions date from as early as the third century, well before Christians came to power in the empire, making it difficult to determine what may have prompted this usage; see IJO 2.20, 2.49, 2.158, and 2.191B, which specify a fine for tomb violation, payable to “the most holy synagogue,” that seems to designate the corporate community, rather than a building, and may mirror the language of the “most holy treasury” often specified as the recipient of fines for tomb violation; see also IJO 1 Ach23. Only two may date to the fourth or fifth centuries (IJO 1 Mac7 and IJO 2.219). And although Rutgers claims, citing particularly Augustine (Rutgers 2009:91n26), that the term “synagogue” had come to serve as “a proper name for the Jewish people,” “synagogue” appears in a demonstrably Christian context in an inscription from southern Syria in a Marcionite church (le Bas and Waddington 2558, cited in the discussion of IJO 3 Syr34 (pp. 52–​53)—​itself a synagogue dedication presumed to be Jewish, and thought to date from the fourth century. Rutgers notes the inscription, but not the Marcionite usage. 136. Le Bohec 1981:178, no. 13; on the date, see Stern 2008a:233; IJO 2.219. 137. See above, p. 371n135. The index to IJO 1 (Eastern Europe) contains no instances. IJO 2 (Asia Minor) includes one donor inscription from Nysa, commemorating the construction of “the place” to the east of the inscription, but it’s not entirely clear whether τόπος here designates part of the building or the entirety. The inscription is not thought to be all that late. There are no inscriptions from Rome known to have come from actual synagogue buildings. The indices to JIWE 1 (Western Europe) and JIWE 2 (City of Rome) contain no instances of the Greek phrase ὁ ἅγιος τόπος or its Latin equivalent. 138. Sokrates, Eccl. Hist. 7.13, his account of the Alexandrian conflicts: εὐκτηρίους. 139. E.g. CTh 16.8.25, 16.8.26, 16.8.27 (above, pp. 241–44); Novella 3 (Theodosios II) (above, pp. 256–27).

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(pronaos) of “the most holy [place]” by a man whose name was contained on the top of the inscription, now partly broken off, together with his unnamed wife and unnamed children.140 If, as Ameling argues, the inscription dates to the fifth or sixth century, probably somewhere in Asia Minor, and if it commemorates new construction (rather than repair or renovation), it would be tantamount to proclaiming an illegal act. Nothing in the inscription allows us to verify this, nor to know what might have prompted any repair or renovation. Earthquakes, Christian attacks, or simply the ravages of time are all possibilities. The second is an inscription on a column from Cyprus, by one Ioses, son of Synesios, that seems to be a dedicatory inscription “renew[ing] the whole Hebraic ‘work.’ ”141 Probably coincidentally, Ioses, like the unnamed donor to the previous project, also identifies himself as a presbyteros, an elder. The editors date it to the fourth century or later, based less on the column itself, and more on their view that since Jews are unlikely to have built synagogues on Cyprus before the third century, any renewal implies a date of at least the late third century, and probably later. Given the uncertain dating, it remains just speculation that this inscription, too, may point to the strategies by which some Jews in late antiquity may have commemorated donations to synagogue building projects without explicitly proclaiming an illicit act. And in both cases, it seems counterintuitive that merely using a different term for 140. Ameling 2003. The Greek term ἁγίασμα is not attested in this nominal form elsewhere in Jewish inscriptions, but occurs regularly in late antique Christian usage (Lampe, s.v.). The donor identifies himself as a presbyteros (elder) and epoikos (steward). Although the museum curation of the plaque describes it as “Marble plaque for Donation to a Temple| Roman| carved early 100s,” much of this is inaccurate. It is a marble plaque and it does commemorate a donation. But Ameling argues thoroughly and persuasively that it is most likely to date from the fifth or sixth century and commemorates a contribution to a Jewish prayer-​house, for which the translation “Temple” is anachronistic. One presumes that the museum here chose a terminology familiar to many of its likely visitors, for whom “temple” is a synonym for American Jewish synagogues, especially Reform and Conservative. If Ameling is right that it dates to the fifth or sixth century, with which I concur, it is “Roman” only in the sense that the late antique Christian empire still thought of itself in those terms. Together with the unlikely date of “early 100s” (with no indication of whether this is bce or ce), this easily misleads viewers to think that the plaque may have come from Rome. But the museum provides no indication of where (or when, or by whom) the plaque was found, and it seems more likely, based on its physical and linguistic features, that it came from somewhere in Asia Minor. See also the brief notice in IJO 1. p. 197 (a discussion of IJO 1 Ach54, also a donation of a pronaos), which also identifies it as a fifth-​or sixth-​century inscription from Asia Minor. 141. IJO 3 Cyp3. τὸ πᾶν ἔργον τῆς ἑβραϊκῆς. The editors translate this as “the whole building of the Hebrew (community)” and note that “the use of Hebraikê without an accompanying noun is unique in ancient inscriptions” and probably implies “synagogue” (IJO 3. p. 219). On the Jews of Cyprus, see van der Horst 2004.



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a synagogue would suffice to protect its users from charges that they had illicitly built a synagogue or performed excessive renovations and expansions. As the term Hebraikē hints, from the fourth century on, Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora appear both to use Hebrew more frequently in inscriptions, particularly epitaphs, and to refer to themselves in Greek or Latin, not by terms we might translate as “Jew” but with forms of the term “Hebrew.”142 Some scholars have seen the increased use of Hebrew, both in the diaspora and in late antique Palestine, as evidence for “a change in self-​ identification connected to the emergence of (rabbinic) particularism.”143 But it seems helpful to disambiguate these two: changing self-​identifications and the spread of rabbinic ideas promulgated in Hebrew and Aramaic. While the spread of rabbinic ideas would unquestionably have been facilitated by greater competence in Hebrew and Aramaic, it’s not necessarily the case that increased interest or competence in either language was directly tied to rabbis or rabbinic practices.144 Of the approximately six hundred inscriptions catalogued from Rome, mostly dated to the fourth century or earlier, only about eighteen have any Hebrew or Aramaic.145 Most simply have the word shalom, or occasionally the phrase shalom al yisrael (peace upon Israel), often at the conclusion of a Greek or Latin inscription.146 A few inscriptions from North Africa are just a word or two of Hebrew (shalom or b’shalom (in peace) and considerably predate the fourth century. Only one somewhat longer Hebrew epitaph from Volubilis

142. In Greek, Ioudaios (sm.) or Ioudeia (sf.); in Latin “Iudeus” (sm). or “Iudea” (sf.); in Greek Hebraios (sm.) or Hebraia (sf.); in Latin “Hebreus” (sm.) or “Hebrea” (sf.), with corresponding plural forms. 143. Kurtzer 2008:305 is just one formulation of this view. He disagrees, however, with the view of some scholars, especially Simonsohn, that this was specifically the result of “rabbinic power emanating from Palestine into the diaspora.” 144. Kurtzer, for instance, argues both that increased use of Hebrew needn’t point to the presence of rabbis, with which I concur, and that Hebrew isn’t necessary for rabbinization, which could transpire in whatever vernacular Jews used (Kurtzer 2008:308). In theory, this is possible, but in practice, a lot of rabbinic material depends heavily on Hebrew and Aramaic for the very interpretive process, and doesn’t translate easily, as one can see in the very nature of contemporary English translations that require extensive explication to make sense of the deeply implicit nature of much rabbinic formulation. 145.  JIWE 2.33, 2.53, 2.58, 2.92, 2.153, 2.161?, 2.183, 2.186, 2.193, 2.203.xviii (all from the Monteverde catacomb); JIWE 2.529, 2.535, 2.539, 2.545, 2.546, 2.550, 2.560, 2.596 (mostly from elsewhere in Rome, or of unknown find site). 146. E.g., JIWE 2.53, 2.183, 2.535, 2.539 (‫ שלום‬four times); 2.550 (‫ ;)בשלום‬2.596 (a circular gold glass epitaph).

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might be fourth century.147 Similarly, only ten inscriptions from Asia Minor contain any Hebrew, usually, as at Rome, the word shalom, or a brief formulaic phrase. Half of the inscriptions with Hebrew come from donor plaques in the building complex at Sardis, where the vast majority of inscriptions are in Greek.148 If it did, in fact, come from Asia Minor, the fairly large marble plaque currently in the Metropolitan Museum has the most Hebrew of any inscription known so far from that region. A seven-​branched menorah is centered at the bottom of the plaque, underneath the Greek inscription, with a lulav and an ethrog on the left, and probably a shofar on the right. On either side of the menorah are two Hebrew words. Reading them top to bottom across the menorah, three may be taken as the phrase “made this prayer house. Peace.”149 The fourth word may be the name of the donor, but Ameling offers no transcription of these letters, although they are mostly legible.150 As with the other inscriptions known to come from Asia Minor, the presence of Hebrew on this donor plaque is difficult to parse. The Hebrew conveys only minimal information and seems almost an afterthought, if not even a subsequent addition. Almost certainly, both the donor and the intended readership of the inscription were much more competent and at home in Greek.

147. Le Bohec 1981:nos. 22, 23, and 24. No. 18 is Hebrew and Greek; nos. 111 and 112 are seals with Hebrew writing (Le Bohec 1981:no. 80). 148. E.g., IJO 2.41, 2.56, 2.105–​109 (Sardis), 2.160 (Sebastopolis), 2.170 (Ameling 2003). Cross dated the Sardis inscriptions to the later third or perhaps the fourth century, based entirely on their letter forms, which he compared, of necessity, to Hebrew scripts from elsewhere (Cross 2002). Four other inscriptions included in IJO 2 are actually for persons from Asia Minor buried elsewhere, either in the land of Israel or in one case, at Rome (IJO 2.3, 2.184, 2.212 [also JIWE 2.183], and 2.217). IJO 2.41, a Greek donor inscription that ends with ‫ שלום‬may be from a synagogue in Smyrna, although this is not explicit. Some of its linguistic features suggest a relatively late dating. 149.  The plaque at the Metropolitan Museum reads in Hebrew:  “established the house of prayer. Peace.” (from personal inspection). Ameling transcribes it as ‫ﬠשה תפלות שאלם‬. The ‫ש‬ in the ‫ שאלם‬is clear, but the form in ‫ ﬠשה‬looks to me more like ‫ם‬. I’m also not sure that ‫תפלות‬ connotes the building; the word is unusual, and seems a somewhat odd translation of ἁγίασμα. It might be more comprehensible as a translation of εὐχή (meaning both prayer and vow, and often used in synagogue donative inscriptions as the latter). Rather than reading the four Hebrew terms top to bottom, it might be possible to each side independently. The left could then read ‫ﬠשה שאלם‬, the one who makes peace—​an epithet for God (for which suggestion I thank Michael Satlow). That might leave the right side as a donative phrase whose first word is the donor’s name, now undecipherable. 150. They appear to me to be ‫ואלשא‬. There is clearly something else after the second ‫ א‬that may be one additional letter. The Metropolitan curators provide no transcription or translation of these letters.



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Whoever inscribed it was clearly less skilled in the formation of Hebrew characters. Here, too, there seems little reason to think that it indexes a significant linguistic shift among the Jews who built and utilized this facility. In contrast, Hebrew is common among many inscriptions from Italy and Western Europe outside Rome itself. Of a little fewer than two hundred inscriptions collated by Noy, almost half contain some Hebrew:  seventeen are entirely in Hebrew.151 A third of the inscriptions from Venosa have some Hebrew, as well as more than half the inscriptions from Taranto.152 Still, given how little Hebrew there is among inscriptions from elsewhere, and how much of that is limited to the word shalom, or to a very brief formulaic sentiment for the dead, it’s difficult to argue that this points to a major resurgence of Hebrew in the diaspora more broadly. Rather, it suggests that we think first in terms of possible local explanations. Williams noted that at Venosa, most of the inscriptions with Hebrew occur in the epitaphs for members of the Faustini family. Of the eleven inscriptions from one section of the galleries where several generations of Faustini were buried, all but one contain some Hebrew.153 Drawing on her reconstruction of the family genealogy, Williams saw a pattern in their linguistic usages. The Faustini began by using Greek to memorialize their dead, even though they were presumably speaking Latin. The epitaphs of later generations are predominantly in Latin, with more instances of Hebrew, more extensive Hebrew phrases, and increased use of menorot.154 Williams argued that Jews of Venosa initially used Greek as a sign of Jewish identity. She saw the shift to Latin as a sign of “receptivity to local (i.e., Gentile) influences,” noting that some of their funerary elements then incorporated usages found in Christian inscriptions.155 Yet in the next generation, Hebrew receded and is absent in the Latin epitaph of the sixth-​generation descendant, Agnella, and her husband Gesua.156 The epitaph of two other sixth-​generation cousins,

151.  Seventy-​two contain Hebrew together with Greek or Latin; one of these is trilingual (JIWE 1.185). 152. Twenty-​five out of 74 for Venosa; 9 out of 151 for Taranto. 153. The gallery is D7. JIWE 1.88 is entirely in Latin; it commemorates a fifth-​generation descendant, Ioses, his wife, Maria, and their grandchild, Sarmata. 154. Williams 1999:50. 155. Such as ages at death, the use of the numeric modifier “plus minus” (more or less) and even the designation of certain women as virgins (Williams 1999:49–​50). 156. JIWE 1.90; Williams 1999:50–​51.

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Sarra and Asella, still contains a final phrase in Hebrew, perhaps undercutting Williams’s point. Williams denied, however, that this pattern reflected a meaningfully enhanced knowledge of Hebrew. Rather, she saw it as a “compensatory device for expressing Jewishness,” replacing the once distinctive use of Greek in another Latin environment, a practice she thinks elite Venosan Jews abandoned when they took up the practices of their non-​Jewish neighbors in the late fifth or early sixth century, as part of their increased social status in the city.157 Although Williams’s scenario of acculturation might seem sensible, there is no way to test it, nor to assess the assumptions on which it rests, such as the argument that the use of elements common to Christian inscriptions was a result of “gentile influence” (often code for the negatively charged term “assimilation”). Williams offers an explanation for the cultural use of Hebrew by members of the Faustini family, but not for why, having abandoned the less prestigious use of Greek, they now chose Hebrew to do this (along with, perhaps, the visual representation of the menorah). She does not consider why Venosan Jews needed to display any sign of their Jewishness in burial galleries that appear to contain only the graves of Jews (although this is not completely certain) and thus would be seen only by other Jews. Where did they learn to do this? Did they always know Hebrew and just now chose to deploy it on epitaphs? If her reconstruction is correct, why did they then cease to do so? Williams imagines only broad and vague cultural patterns, without consideration of contingencies, like the appearance of wandering specialists whose influence quickly fades, or where some family members found these practices appealing and others did not. In this regard, it is interesting to think about the “rebbites” and “apostoli” said to have attended the funeral of Faustina (probably in the early sixth century), whose lengthy Latin epitaph contains two lines of Hebrew before the final lines.158 Did they, or persons associated with them, play some role in the introduction or expansion of these practices? Faustina’s epitaph appears to be among the first family epitaph to display these elements—​perhaps actually

157.  Williams 1999:50–​51. It’s interesting to contrast this to the assertion of Reynolds and Tannenbaum: “It is clear that a knowledge of Hebrew became widespread, and may have been compulsory, in the western diaspora from c. A.D. 400” (Reyolds and Tannenbaum 1987:22, with further elaboration on 82–​84). That it could have been “compulsory” rests on their understanding of Justinian’s Novella 146 (see ­above, pp. 308–14). 158. JIWE 1.86. See also below, pp. 388–89.



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the first. The epitaph of her great-​grandfather, Faustinus I, is equally in Greek and Hebrew, and the placement of their graves suggests that he predeceased her. Other early-​generation Faustini epitaphs, such as that of Faustinus I’s daughter, Pretiosa, who seems to have died young, and her niece, Mannine, said to have been thirty-​eight, are both in Greek.159 The epitaph of Faustina’s grandfather, Vitus (also Pretiosa’s brother), however, is in Hebrew alone. But we should not presume that Vitus predeceased Faustina; they are buried just one grave apart, and his prominence in her epitaph may suggest that he was still alive (or had only recently died) when she died. In my view, the two “rebbites” and two “apostoli” were not residents of Venosa, and their presence at Faustina’s funeral seems highly unusual. No such persons are mentioned in any other epitaph, either as funeral participants or as the deceased themselves, suggesting that they might have been outside “experts” whose reasons for being in Venosa at the time are unknowable.160 It’s tempting to imagine that, not unlike modern-​day Chabad members, they were itinerants seeking to spread their particular special practices, which may have included increased use of Hebrew in funerary practices, both epitaphs and rituals.161 (In what language, we might wonder, did they chant at her funeral?) Perhaps they had been in Venosa for a while and became sufficiently close to members of the family that they came to perform part of the rites for Faustina. But the failure to name them suggests that their individual identities were less important than their titles, and that they did not remain long enough for their names to become significant. As their memories and impact faded, and as, perhaps, no others came to Venosa to reinforce these practices, the use of Hebrew waned. Whether this is true is impossible to know, but it seems as likely a possibility as the more general processes Williams proposed, and it endeavors to account for the unusually specific evidence from Venosa. In addition to the greater use of Hebrew in certain late antique Jewish inscriptions, scholars have noted what seems to be a greater preference for the term Hebraios (and related forms) as a self-​identifier, apparently replacing 159. JIWE 1.66, 1.62. 160. Williams presumes that they were still representatives of the successors of the patriarchate in Palestine, there to collect taxes (Williams 1999:58). 161. Kurtzer suggests that fragments of Hebrew epigraphically might just attest “one or two Hebrew specialists in a community otherwise ignorant of the language.” I’m not sure how this would work in practice if one envisions resident specialists, who presumably then somehow train only a small number of replacements (Kurtzer 2008: 307).

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internal use of the Greek and Latin terms Ioudaios and “Iudeus.”162 Such usage is not entirely new. A synagogue “of Hebrews” is explicitly mentioned in one Roman epitaph and is implicit in several others.163 The date of such a synagogue can only be determined by dating these inscriptions themselves, which are typically thought to be third and/​or fourth centuries. But whether these names signal the linguistic expertise of their members or even their preferred liturgical language is unknown, and the inscriptions themselves are Greek. Noy cautions against assuming that the members of a synagogue “of the Hebrews” spoke Hebrew or Aramaic (rather than Greek or Latin).164 Another “most holy synagogue of [the] Hebrews” is attested in a Greek dedicatory inscription from Deliler, in Lydia (Asia Minor). Some scholars date it to the third century, others perhaps to the fourth.165 Whether it also attests a congregation whose members used Hebrew (or Aramaic) in any context is unclear, although some scholars have noted that the inscription appears to use a Hebrew term, maskel, for the object donated.166 A very fragmentary Greek inscription from Corinth might have read “[syna]gogue (of the) He[brews].167 It seems almost impossible to date—​estimates have ranged from the first century ce (based partly on problematic assumptions that it dates to the time of Paul) to the fifth century ce.168 It also seems unwise to assume that many terms used in inscriptions had fixed meanings over many centuries, in different geographic regions.169 Years 162. This is, however, difficult to map chronologically; the designator occurs in three Greek inscriptions from the Monteverde catacomb in Rome, dated (as all of these are) tentatively to the third or fourth century (JIWE 2.44, 2.108, 2.112). There are only two other instances in JIWE 2 for Rome. 163. It is explicit only in JIWE 2.578: the Greek epitaph, of unknown provenance, for Salo, daughter of Gadias, called “father of [the] synagogue of [the] Hebrews.” A  second epitaph commemorates what appear to be two of her sisters, daughters of Gadias, here called just “father of the Hebrews” (JIWE 2.579). Two epitaphs from the Monteverde catacomb memorialize Gelasius, called “archon of [the] Hebrews” (JIWE 2.2). JIWE 2.33 commemorates, in Aramaic and Greek, one Isidora, daughter of an archon of [the] Hebrews. They may or may not be father and daughter. 164. JIWE 2. p. 12. 165. IJO 2.49. 166. IJO 2. p. 206. 167. IJO 1 Ach47. 168. See the helpful discussion in IJO 1. pp. 131–​32, where the editors conclude only that it is unlikely to be earlier than the third century. 169. See, e.g., the discussion in IJO 1. pp. 82–​83, including the reference to the similar view of de Lange.



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ago, I argued that the Greek and Latin terms Ioudaios and “Iudeus” could have diverse signification, and the same seems to be true for Hebraios/​“Hebreus.”170 As a descriptor of individual persons, some form of “Hebrew” occurs already in a handful of inscriptions from the Roman catacombs that are rather broadly dated to the third or fourth century. In two of these, both Greek, it explicitly signals geographic origins, which in some cases might also include linguistic competence.171 Its implications are unclear in several inscriptions from Naples dated, without much precision, to the fourth and fifth centuries. The inscriptions themselves are Latin and contain brief Hebrew phrases similar to those found at Venosa.172 A  Greek inscription from Beroea (in Macedonia) for one Theodosius, styled “future presbyter,” also calls him Hebraios: it dates perhaps to the fourth century or even later.173 An inscription from Sardis, dated rather broadly between the fourth and sixth centuries, commemorates a woman named Getiores as Hebrea.174 One Jewish epitaph from Corykos in Cilicia, dating perhaps to the fifth or sixth century, identifies the deceased as Hebraios, but four other epitaphs from the same site, thought

170. Kraemer 1991; for additional bibliography, see above, p. 16n63. Unfortunately, my arguments in this article have sometimes been misrepresented. Interesting, in the Roman inscriptions, there are only four instances of any form of Ioudaios or Judeus: JIWE 2.183, 2.233, 2.489, and perhaps 2.567. I was unaware at the time of inscriptions from Hierapolis in Phyrgia (many published in 1999)  that identified the owners of burial containers and sites as Ioudaios, including IJO 2.188B, 2.190, 2.191A, 2.191B, 2.192–​95, 2.197, 2.198, 2.199C, 2.203, 2.204, 2.206–​ 209. All seem to date from the third century (based especially on the Aurelian names of the owners). Jews were not buried in a separate necropolis at Hierapolis: the identification of all these family burial sites as belonging to Ioudaioi might have been intended to aid in the identification of Jewish graves in the larger necropolis, or reflect the activity of burial societies. On these inscriptions, see Ilan 2006; on the Jews of Phrygia, see also van der Horst 2008. 171. JIWE 2.112, from the Monteverde catacomb in Rome, a Greek epitaph which commemorates Macedonius, son of Alexander (both Greek names). Called “the Hebrew from Caesarea in Palestine,” Macedonius might have had facility in one or more Semitic language. A second Greek inscription now in Rome commemorates “Alypius of Tiberias [Palestine] and his sons, Justus and Alypius” called Ἑβρε̑οι. Its original location is unknown, and Noy assigns it a fairly large dating range (second to fourth century ce), with uncertainty. Less explicit is JIWE 2.559, a sarcophagus inscription of unknown provenance for Caelius Quintus, called “a [H]‌ebrew child (παῖς).” Given his Latin name in a Greek epitaph, it seems likely that the designation “Hebrew” is an ethnic identifier, but as we have it, there’s no indication of geographic origins. JIWE 2.108, found at Monteverde in 1906, calls a ten-​year-​old boy Ἡεβραῖος. 172. E.g., three inscriptions from Naples, perhaps fifth century: JIWE 1.33, Numerius; JIWE 1.35, Criscentia, “ebrea”; JIWE 1.37, Flaes “ebreus.” In his discussion of the first instance, Noy considered that it might index Jews who spoke Hebrew or Aramaic (JIWE 1. p. 52). 173. IJO 1 Mac8. IJO 1 Mac9 contains a reference to the “hymns of the Hebrews.” 174. IJO 2.54.

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to be roughly contemporaneous, identify the deceased as Ioudaios.175 One of the inscriptions from the Odeon at Aphrodisias linking Jews with the late antique charioteers faction known as the Blues designates the seating place of “Blue Hebrews.” The reference to the Blues guarantees a relatively late date.176 The papyrological evidence is similarly ambiguous. There are relatively few demonstrably Jewish papyri reliably dated to the fifth and sixth centuries, but among these are several that explicitly use the terminology of Ioudaios, not Hebraios. In a document dated explicitly to 542 (the year after plague broke out in parts of Egypt), a wine seller named Aurelios Peieuous, son of Apollos and Thekla, acknowledges that Aurelios Josephios, son of Sourous, has paid him in full for a number of jars of high-​quality wine. Josephios is called Ioudaios tēn thrēskeian, translated perhaps as “a Jew by religion.”177 An estate account from Oxyrhynchus records the payment of a Ioudaios named Enoch.178 In a particularly germane document from the second half of the sixth century ce, a Jew named Peret, son of Iouab, takes a lease for a dyeworks. Peret calls himself Ioudaios, but his mother is identified as Rhosyne, a “Hebrew by ethnicity.”179 In yet another wine contract, dated to the sixth century or later, a merchant named Apollos, son of Antonius, promises to make good on the quality of wine delivered to one Abraham, son of Theodotos, here called Hebraios.180 It seems hard to argue for any consistent pattern here. At the same time, it is not impossible, as some scholars have argued, that at least in certain situations, the self-​designation “Hebrew” responds to the increasing negative valence of the term Ioudaios in Christian discourse and also constitutes a desire to resist or contest Christian efforts to co-​opt the

175. IJO 2.240 (Hebraios); IJO 2.235A, 2.241 (Ioudaios). All these were found in section C of the necropolis, which appears to be the latest. The deceased man in IJO 2.237, from section B, was also called Ioudaios. Two persons buried in the oldest section, A, are also described as Ioudaios, but these appear to date no later than the early third century ce. 176. IJO 2.16. The inscription reads in full: τόπος Βενέτων Ἑβρέων τῶν παλειῶν. A similar inscription from the theatre at Miletus, however, designates a seating area for Blue “Jews” (IJO 2.39). For discussion, see ­above, pp. 280–81. 177. CPJ 3.508. Analogously, in CPJ 3.513, the parties to a Samaritan divorce document dated to 586 ce are described as ∑αμαρῖται τὴν θρησκείαν (Samaritans by worship/​religion). 178. CPJ 3.509. 179. CPJ 3.511: Ῥοσύνης Ἑβραίου τῷ ἔθνει. The editors remarked on these differences, but offered no explanation for the differing terminology (and translated τῷ ἔθνει as “by nationality”). 180. CPJ 3.512.



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identification of “Hebrew.”181 One instance of such co-​optation may be visible in the story about Justinian and the Jews of Boreium, discussed earlier.182 According to Prokopios, Jews (Ioudaioi) had from antiquity lived near the city, in North Africa, where they had had a temple (naos) said—​perhaps by the Jews themselves—​to have been built by Solomon when he was ruling “the ethnos of the Hebrews.” Justinian, however, saw to it that the Ioudaioi changed their ancestral ways and became Christians, and he transformed their naos into a church. In this story, the designation of the residents as Ioudaioi but the ethnos Solomon ruled as Hebraioi draws on a Christian construction of certain ancient Israelites as “Hebrews,” to distinguish them from the later Jews, and to claim those same select Hebrews as the notional ancestors of Christians.183 Arthur Urbano has shown that in early Christian art, there is no depiction of contemporaneous Jews, but only “Hebrews”—​that is, valorized biblical figures with whom Christians felt kinship. In fourth-​and fifth-​ century Christian art, these biblical Hebrews wear the distinctive garments of the philosophers, whom Christians themselves valorized.184 If Jews increasingly came to designate themselves as “Hebrews,” perhaps they did so as a deliberate strategy to contest Christian appropriation of that identification. Ironically, it is Justinian himself who complicates any narrative that Jews increasingly came to prefer the self-​designation of “Hebrew” while Christians sought to differentiate between the ancient Hebrews they positioned as their ancestors and the contemporary Jews they sought to excise from that lineage.185 His much-​dissected edict of 553, considered in ­chapter 8, is titled “Concerning the Hebrews” and uses this designation throughout for contemporaneous persons, whether for those who, he claims, wanted to read scripture in Hebrew or for those who wanted to read in Greek or any other language (thus demonstrating that it cannot be taken as a signifier of linguistic preference).186 So, too, if in a less polemical way, in his correspondence concerning the slave trader, Basilius, Gregory the Great calls the trader himself a Hebrew,

181. Williams 1994:244n51 notes that Juster had argued this: Juster 1914: 1.174, 2.233. 182. Prokopios, Build. 6.2.21. See ­above, pp. 296–98. 183. Parkes 1934:161–​62 already observed this with regard to Eusebios’s use of the distinction. 184. Urbano 2013:90. 185.  Fishman-​ Duker writes that several Byzantine chronographers distinguish between Hebrews (the patriarchs) and Jews (the tribe of Judah), but most are not fastidious and use these interchangeably (Fishman-​Duker 2012:782). 186. Novella 146, discussed above, pp. 308–14.

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while Basilius’s associates are all called “Iudei.” Whatever distinction Gregory intended is not obvious to us. In Sozomen’s reflection on why, among all the nations, only the Jews have remained so adamant in their refusal to believe their own scriptures, he vacillates between calling them Hebraioi and Ioudaioi.187 A letter of Synesios in the early fifth century narrates a dangerous voyage he took on a ship captained by one Amaranthus, whom he calls by several designations: Jew, Maccabee, and “the Syrian.”188 In an account of an earthquake that struck a town in Asia Minor in 528, John Malalas describes its major victims as 7500 “Hebrews” but only a few Christians.189 In the ninth-​ century Chronicle of Theophanes the Confessor, the seventh-​century emperor Justin II is said to have confiscated a synagogue “of the Hebrews.”190 Justinian’s Novellae are sometimes adduced as evidence that by the sixth century, Jews, at least in the western part of the Mediterranean diaspora, had increasingly come to use Hebrew as their ordinary language. But little hard evidence supports such a conclusion. Most inscriptions which contain Hebrew are bilingual, almost always with more Latin or Greek than Hebrew, and typically with Latin or Greek first. Regardless of whether Jews described themselves as Ioudaioi/​“Iudei” or Hebraioi/​“Hebrei,” the inscriptions in which they did so are themselves in Latin or Greek.191 The Novella, in Greek, speaks specifically to the use of Hebrew for liturgical purposes and does not demonstrate that Jews who did so used Hebrew as an ordinary spoken language. It may also allude to the study and use of Hebrew (and Aramaic) interpretative practices, here called deuterosis, although the very designation of these traditions with a Greek name might undermine the presumption that such traditions were known only in Hebrew and Aramaic.

187. Sozomen, Eccl. Hist. 1.1.1. In the opening sentence, they are Hebraioi. In 1.1.3, they are first Hebraioi, and then τοˋ τῶν Ἰουδαίων ἔθνος (in the time of Herod and Augustus). Josephus had a great reputation among the Ioudaioi (1.1.5). Returning to the question of their conversion, they are again Hebraioi (1.1.6, 1.1.8). Both Festugière (Sabbah et al. 1983–​2008) and the NPNF translation easily available online translate these inconsistently: Ioudaioi is in all cases translated as “Jews,” but Hebraioi is sometimes translated as “Jews” and sometimes as “Hebrews.” 188. Synesios, Letter 4, perhaps in 402 or 407. GLAJJ 3.51–​58 reprints portions of the text of Garzya 1979 with the English translation of Fitzgerald 1926, and identifies the Letter as no. 5 (V). Simonsohn quotes an excerpt at length (Simonsohn 2014:165–​66). See also Lacombrade et al. (2003). 189. Malalas, Chron. 18.19. 190. See a­ bove, p. 268n123. 191. The lack of such self-​identification in Hebrew may suggest that the use of the language itself served a similar purpose.



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Most literary accounts of Jews say nothing about their linguistic preferences. They generally presume that Jews can communicate easily in the language of their neighbors, whether Latin or Greek, and rarely even hint that Jews spoke anything else. The Letter of Severus praises Innocentius for his knowledge of both Latin and Greek literature—​fluency in Greek here being presumably the more remarkable in the Latin-​speaking West.192 It says nothing about other languages. Describing the adventus of King Guntram into Orleans, Gregory of Tours suggested that Jews in sixth-​century Gaul had a language of their own. The throng of people were singing Guntram’s praises in multiple languages, “the Syrian language”; “that of the Latins”; and “even of the Jews.”193 He seems to presume either that his audience would know what this was or that they would simply accept that Jews had their own language, without knowing what, specifically, it might be. The rest of the story seems to presume that Guntram and the Jews are able to communicate easily and Gregory himself understands the specific chanting of the Jews in their praise of the king.194 One other indicator of a shift in self-​identifications might be a preference for names. Because we have so few Jewish inscriptions and other evidence for nomenclature from the Mediterranean diaspora that reliably dates to the later fourth, fifth, and sixth centuries, it’s difficult to know whether Jews in late antiquity now preferred to give their children Hebrew names, as opposed to Latin or Greek. The Letter of Severus actually names few individual Jews, but the only person with a Hebrew name is Reuben, and the utility of his name raises questions about whether this is fictitious (assuming, of course, that the other persons named are historical persons, which is not necessarily the case). In the papyri considered earlier, some Jews demonstrably have Hebrew names (or Grecized versions of these): Abraamios, Enoch, Josephios, perhaps Iouab (if this is really the Hebrew Job). But Abraamios’s father has a Greek name, Theodotos, and Iouab and his wife, Rhosyne, named their son Peret, while Aurelios Josephius’s father was named Sourous. More germane may be the prosopographical evidence from Aphrodisias, Venosa, and Taranto. In the first, untitled, list on the older (fourth century) face of the important stele from Aphrodisias, thirteen or fourteen men have

192. Letter of Severus, 18.15. 193. “[L]‌ingua Syrorum,” “hinc Latinorum,” “hinc etiam ipsorum Iudaeorum” (Gregory, Hist. 8.1; Brehaut 1916:189) 194. See also above, pp. 332–33.

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Hebrew names, all of them associated with the biblical patriarchs: two Jacobs, two or three Josephs, six Judahs, a Manasseh, a Ruben, and a Simeon.195 Scholars have routinely presumed these men to be Jews, as well as most if not all of the other men on the list. If so, it is rather curious that virtually all the men with patriarchal names have fathers with non-​biblical Greek names common in ancient Asia Minor, including Zenon, Zosimos, and Zotikos, as well as names with somewhat of a Christian tinge (Eusebios and Paulos). Another five men are called Eusabbatios, which isn’t a Hebrew name, but is often presumed to be a riff of sorts on the Hebrew Shabbat. The three fathers whose names are recorded have similarly non-​biblical names—​Diogenes, Eugenios, Oxycholias. In fact, of the twenty-​three fathers’ names, only two are Hebrew, and the sons of these two men do not have Hebrew names.196 It’s certainly possible that the prevalence of Hebrew names among the sons, but not their fathers, indexes a new interest in patriarchal names among certain Jewish families, although if we had more of the fathers’ names we might have a better sense of these trends. The evidence from elsewhere in Asia Minor is ambiguous and does not really permit much in the way of well-​ supported generalization about widespread shifts in nomenclature. The vast majority of personal names in Jewish inscriptions from the region are Greek, not Hebrew.197 Some Greek names may be the equivalent of Hebrew names, and others may reflect qualities valued by Jews, but even so, these other names are not unique to Jews in the region.198 At the same time, most of the instances of certain patriarchal men’s names (other than in the Aphrodisias stele) seem to date relatively late, especially Jacob. Instances of the name Judah, on the other hand, are dated as early as the third century.199

195. IJO 2.14B: One man has both a Greek and a Hebrew name, Ailianos, also called Samuel. 196. Judah, father of Eutarkios, and Jacob, father of Zenon. 197. One can see this in the index of personal names to IJO 2, pp. 582–​96. 198.  For more detailed consideration of the names at Aphrodisias, see Reynolds and Tannenbaum 1987:93–​105; see also Mussies 1994:255–​64. 199. Apart from the Aphrodisias stele, there are about ten instances of the name Jacob, with various spellings; all are dated relatively late, although not always with much certainty: IJO 2.2, 2.57A, 2.57B, 2.59, 2.150, 2.162, 2.220, 2.248. In IJO 2.183, from Dokimeion in Phrygia, thought to be fourth century or later, two brothers and their father all have biblical names:  Joshua, Samuel, and Jacob. Other patriarchal names occur with less frequency, such as Isaac (IJO 2.219, 2.249); Joseph (IJO 2.23, 2.51, 2.225, 2.228); Sim(e)on (IJO 2.24, 2.232). The repertoire of Hebrew names is actually quite small. The patron of the Aphrodisias dekania was named Ia’el—​the biblical name for the woman who assassinated Sisera in Judg 4–​5. As noted above, p. 363n97, Brooten 1991 argued that Ia’el was a woman; for discussion and additional bibliography,



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Margaret Williams has argued that a handful of Jewish epitaphs from a large public necropolis in Corykos, a city in Cilicia on the southeast coast of Turkey, also evidences a resurgence of Jewish preference for biblical names as a marker of identity. The necropolis has yielded almost six hundred epitaphs, with a remarkably high percentage of what seem to be adult males, most demonstrably Christian and regularly identified by their trade. Interspersed among these are a dozen Jewish inscriptions, mostly dating from the fourth to the sixth centuries. But only a few of the Jewish men in the later inscriptions have biblical names (Simon, Jacob, perhaps Moses) and the Jewish sample is so small that it seems highly unwise to generalize from it.200 Conversely, biblical names at Corykos seem to have been quite popular for Christians; at least ten men are named Abraham, while sixteen are named Jacob. Three are named Daniel, and one is named David. At Aphrodisias, an alternative possibility might be that the men with limited biblical names reflect not a new preference for Hebrew names, but a spate of conversions to Jewish religion, in which men either took on the names of the patriarchs and their sons, or gave those names to their own sons. Numerous late antique laws prohibit precisely such conversions, but by themselves those laws do not constitute evidence against such a reading. But it may also be that there is no way for us to account for this particular cluster of names in this inscription. By comparison, the prosopography of Jews at Venosa does not suggest a resurgence of Hebrew names, even when the use of Hebrew on epitaphs increases—​at least among the Faustini. No one in the family has a Hebrew see IJO 2. pp. 92–​93. In Asia Minor, only a few women have Hebrew biblical names: Esther (IJO 2.162); Rebeka (IJO 2.12); and Sara (IJO 2.161, 2.166). 200. Williams 1994. The inscriptions themselves are collected in MAMA III.200–​788. In the seven Jewish inscriptions that Williams thinks likely to be fourth century or later, twelve men are named, either as the deceased or as their fathers. A Jewish bootmaker was named Jacob, a name popular among Christians in the same necropolis (IJO 2.234, CIJ 2.787, MAMA III.237). A Jewish priest waseither named Abas, son of Simon, or perhaps Aba Simon(os); in any case the name Simon occurs nowhere else in the necropolis (IJO 2.232, CIJ 2.785, MAMA III.205). A chief goldsmith may have been named Moses (although it is rarely attested for Jews in late antiquity (IJO 2.240, CIJ 2.793, MAMA III.607) and one is called Samoes (IJO 2.241, CIJ 2.794, MAMA III.679). The remaining men have a variety of names. Jacob was buried together with one Anastasios, a name unsurprisingly also popular among Christians at Corykos. Another was called Damianos, which Williams takes to reflect the popularity of the Christian saint by that name, although if so it’s curious that none of the Christians in the necropolis bear that name (IJO 2.235A, CIJ 2.789, MAMA III.295). Damianos was buried with a man called Philonomios (IJO 2.235B), which although not a biblical name, Williams takes a reflection of a characteristically Jewish value, love of the ( Jewish) law.

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name until the fifth generation, when a son of Bonus is called Ioses.201 Overall, of the approximately eighty persons mentioned in the inscriptions from Venosa, about twenty-​one have a select set of Hebrew names—​Jacob, Joseph, Joses, Maria, Anna. These are scattered across epitaphs thought to date from the late fourth century through the early sixth, with no discernible pattern of frequency or generational patterns. A man named Isa (perhaps a biblical name) had a son named Faustinus; a man named Ioses had a son named Marcellus.202 A little girl named Sarra had a father named Vitus.203 Joseph the archisynagōgos had a father with the same name and title.204 In the smaller set of about seventeen inscriptions from Taranto, the use of Hebrew is more pronounced205 and a greater percentage of persons have Hebrew names, including Azaria, Elias, Iaa(kov), Samuel, Ezechiel, Jacob, Sosana, and probably Esther.206 But there are also several Greek and Latin names:  Erpidia; Anatolius, son of Justus; Daudatus, son of Azaria and Sosana.207 Although they are difficult to date with any real certainty, almost all the inscriptions from Taranto are thought to be at least seventh and possibly eighth century, considerably later than the rest of the evidence considered

201. His other children, however, were named Andronicus, Rosa, and Catella. Ioses and his wife, Maria, had a daughter called Agnella. The granddaughters of Bonus by Catella were named Sarra and Asella. 202. JIWE 1.103. 203. JIWE 1.111. 204. JIWE 1.70. 205.  JIWE 1.118–​ 33, counting 1.29 and 1.29a as two inscriptions. Four are entirely in Hebrew: JIWE 1.125 and 1.131–​33. Nine begin with several lines of Hebrew, followed often by a shorter Latin epitaph. Only two inscriptions have no Hebrew at all: JIWE 1.119, is solely in Greek, and perhaps dating to the fourth century; JIWE 1.124 is a fragmentary Latin inscription for someone whose name is not decipherable. Noy notes, however, that the inscription is known only from an 1882 transcription, and there is no way now to know whether it also contained Hebrew (JIWE 1. p. 163). 206. As is the case elsewhere (JIWE 1.47, Venosa; JIWE 2.91, Rome), her name is written in Latin as Aster (JIWE 1.130), usually taken as a form of the Hebrew Esther. It is also the (masculine) Greek term for “star.” It may also be noteworthy that the masculine Hebrew names here are somewhat more diverse than the patriarchal names at Aphrodisias (IJO 2.14B), including now David, Azariah, and Ezekiel. 207. JIWE 1.127, 1.120, 1.118. The inscription of Daudatus may be earlier than the others; it is in Greek and Hebrew, whereas almost all the others are either Latin and Hebrew or just Hebrew. It uses the Greek formula “in peace [be] his sleep,” highly prevalent in Jewish inscriptions from Rome but much less common elsewhere. Noy notes that the name might be a form of the well-​ attested Christian name Adeodatus, itself the equivalent of the Hebrew Jonathan. But in any case, parents with Hebrew names here have a son with a Latin(ized) name.



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here. Although they provide only a small sample, they nevertheless suggest that by the seventh century or so, Jews in this region of Italy were now using significantly more Hebrew, and perhaps more regularly giving their children Hebrew names, although obviously not always.208 On balance, then, it seems difficult to draw any strong conclusions from the limited evidence for increased Jewish usage of the Hebrew language, Hebrew names, or the terminology of Hebraios/​“Hebreus” instead of Ioudaios/​“Iudeus” from the late fourth century through the end of the sixth. As I will consider next, new or increased use of Hebrew in places like Venosa might index increasing rabbinization, but it also might not. It might have been a strategy for Jews to draw tighter boundaries against Christian attempts to induce Jews to become Christians—​and make themselves less “readable” to Christians—​without requiring the presence or influence of rabbis. In any case, the use of Hebrew in Jewish epitaphs, primarily in Italy, and more specifically in Taranto, is much more pronounced. Certainly it suggests an increasing degree of competence in Hebrew, well beyond the use of the word shalom, and the few highly stock formulas found in earlier inscriptions. But before then, it is difficult to gauge both the extent of such changes and the particular social processes involved.

Rabbinization Eventually, rabbinic ideas and practices became dominant among Jews across the Mediterranean. Partly because the reliable evidence for rabbinic preeminence doesn’t emerge until the beginning of the ninth century, precisely when, and how this happened is largely beyond the scope of this study.209 But we may still consider the possibility that whatever spread of rabbis and rabbinic practices we can identify in late antiquity might be understood as a form of response to the pressures of Christianization.

208. Names are now missing from about half the inscriptions. The gender balance is strikingly disproportionate in comparison to the corpus of Jewish inscriptions as a whole, where about 40 percent of the deceased are female. Of the nineteen persons identifiable by name, three are female: two deceased persons and the mother of a third. 209. See the sane observation of Schwartz 2014:99; and his fuller exploration of some of these issues in Schwartz 2002, although there is actually little overlap in the data we each consider. Schwartz focuses especially on the emergence of the liturgical poetry known as piyyutim in the sixth century, on the increasing emergence of Hebrew, and on the archaeological evidence (from Palestine) for increasing discomfort with figural representation, although he concedes that none of these is a definitive index of rabbinic ideas or persons.

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The limited evidence for rabbis themselves is well known. Shaye Cohen showed years ago that men designated as rabbis are rare in the Mediterranean diaspora epigraphic record.210 Although the several Roman catacombs contain by far the largest single cache of Jewish inscriptions from any one geographic site, no men are called “rabbi” in those epitaphs, nor in any inscriptions found in Asia Minor. A  Greek inscription of uncertain date, found in Jerusalem, commemorates one “Rabbi” Samuel, from a region of Asia Minor called Phrygia, who is also called archisynagōgos.211 We don’t know whether Samuel was called rabbi while he lived in Phrygia or whether, perhaps, he acquired the designation after moving to Jerusalem. If his remains were subsequently sent to Jerusalem for final burial, as seems to have been done on occasion, he most likely was called rabbi in Phrygia, but there is no way to know.212 An inscription from Cyrenaica, in Libya, reads somewhat cryptically: “Lord, help the Rabbi.”213 It is also of uncertain date—​perhaps third or fourth century. Men called what appear to be some form of the word “rabbi” (rebbe, rab; the abbreviation “r”) occur in five inscriptions from Italy and Spain. Four date to the fifth century or later.214 The Hebrew epitaph of Matrona from Volubilis calls her the daughter of Rabbi Judas. Le Bohec thought it might be fourth century, but he offered little serious support for this supposition.215 An inscription from Naples, perhaps fifth or sixth century and now lost, commemorated another rabbi’s daughter: Venus, the seventeen-​ year-​old daughter of one Rabbi Abundantius.216 The inscription that has elicited the most discussion about rabbis in the diaspora is the epitaph of Faustina of Venosa, for whom two “apostoli” and two

210. Cohen 1981, updated and reassessed by Lapin 2011. On rabbis in the epigraphical data from Palestine, see the lucid discussion in Millar 2011a, who also offers an extensive engagement with Cohen’s arguments. 211. IJO 2.184. As noted earlier, this epitaph is one of the few from Asia Minor to contain any Hebrew, although there are several fragmentary dedicatory inscriptions from Sardis in Hebrew. 212. On this, see Cohen 1981:14, IJO 2. p. 391. 213. SEG 31. 1578 (b), 37. 1702; discussed in van der Horst 1987. 214. From Italy, JIWE 1.22 (the only inscription earlier than the fifth century): 1.36, 1.86. From Spain, JIWE 1.183, 1.186. This last, found at Tarragona, identifies the deceased as from Cyzikos in Asia Minor, and thus is also included as IJO 2.148. There are various technical problems with this inscription, but interestingly, the deceased is also called archisynagōgos. 215. Le Bohec 1981:195, no. 80. 216. JIWE 1.36. The choice of her name is itself provocative.



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“rebbites” performed lamentations.217 As I have argued earlier, it’s extremely unlikely that the “apostoli” were representatives of the Jewish patriarch, since the inscription almost certainly postdates both the demotion of Gamaliel VI in 415 and the subsequent cessation of the patriarchate itself by 429.218 Whether the “rebbites” were rabbis, Palestinian or otherwise, is a somewhat different question. As I noted earlier, it seems unlikely that they were long-​ time residents of Venosa. No other epitaph from Venosa, especially those of Faustina’s illustrious male ancestors, makes such a claim, nor does any commemorate a rabbi—​or an apostolos. It seems unlikely that they would have been invited from far away, given that the period between Faustina’s death and her funeral was likely to have been short. As I suggested earlier, they may have been itinerant religious specialists, perhaps from Palestine, perhaps from elsewhere, who happened to be in Venosa at the time.219 Regardless, as Cohen argued, it’s by no means obvious what the term meant in these inscriptions. It’s easy to forget that the term does not, in fact, literally designate a teacher; etymologically, at least, it simply means “my great one,” as Millar points out.220 Whether the men called “rabbi” in these few inscriptions were in some way connected to Palestinian or Babylonian rabbis is impossible to tell.221 The title “rabbi” is conspicuous by its absence in the Theodosian Code.222 There are no “rabbis” in the Letter of Severus, either on Minorca or elsewhere, nor in any of the other writings considered throughout this study.223 Rabbis do appear in a late antique legend in which a debate 217. JIWE 1.86. 218. See above, pp. 376–77. 219. Kurtzer 2008 also thinks they were foreigners, for a somewhat circular reason, predicated on his hypothesis that local “rabbis” would have been called presbyteroi. 220. Millar 2011a:391–​92. 221. Millar argues that men designated as rabbis in inscriptions from Palestine should be presumed to have had the “same social and religious role as those who appear in ‘rabbinic’ literature,” at least in the absence of strong evidence to the contrary, but he does not extend this argument to inscriptions from the diaspora (Millar 2011a:394). 222. Nor its reception into the Code of Justinian. Kurtzer 2008 proposed that the Greek term πρεσβύτερος (usually translated as “elder”) was the diaspora equivalent of the title rabbi, in which case we should not expect to find it in these legal collations. I am unpersuaded. Kurtzer does not address the fact that if this is correct, there appear to be more than half a dozen women remembered as “rabbis” in the diaspora (IJO 1 Thr3, Cre3; SEG 27 [1977] 1201; JIWE 1.59, 1.62, 1.71, 1.163; de Spagnolis 1993, 2000). See above, pp. 362–70, esp. p. 364. 223. Millar concedes that no one writing in Greek or Latin, “whether pagan or Christian . . . ever used the term ‘rabbi,’ ” although he cites a few instances of Christian authors who refer to Jewish teachers called ὁι σοφοί—​literally “wise ones” (which could be envisioned as a translation of the

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between a dozen Jewish experts and the fourth-​century bishop, Sylvester of Rome, ends with the conversion of Constantine, his mother, and three thousand Jews, as well. But its textual history (as part of the Life of St. Sylvester) is so uncertain that it seems unwise to adduce it as useful evidence for the presence of, or even knowledge of, rabbis in late antique Rome or elsewhere.224 Conversely, rabbinic collections themselves give little indication that any contemporaneous rabbis had much contact with Jews living in the Mediterranean diaspora.225 A  handful of rabbinic accounts envision rabbis traveling to towns in the Mediterranean. Some of the examples cited most frequently concern rabbis thought to have lived well before the fourth century. The Babylonian Talmud contains a tradition that R. Mattiah b. H.eresh established a school in Rome in the early second century ce.226 In an often-​ cited example from the Tosefta, Rabbi Meir went to “Asia” to intercalate the year, where, finding no scroll of Esther in Hebrew, he wrote one out from memory.227 But the geographic referent of “Asia” is unclear, and it is by no means obvious that it refers to ancient Asia Minor.228 The Babylonian Talmud and other midrashic collections narrate a trip to Rome by four famous rabbis thought to have lived in the late first century or so: Akiba, Gamaliel, Joshua b.  Hananiah, and Eleazar b.  Azariah.229 While some rabbis may well have rabbinic term “sages”)—​or as νομοδιδάσκαλος, teacher of law (Millar 2011a:390). The latter term occurs occasionally in inscriptions, including probably JIWE 2.307, from the Randanini catacomb in Rome, although only the letters νομοδ are actually legible. 224. For a helpful discussion of the textual traditions, including a summary of the legend, see Lieu 1998. An edition of the Life of St. Sylvester was published by Mombritius in 1660, but a forthcoming critical edition by W. Pohlkamp noted by Lieu two decades ago seems still not to have appeared. In the legend, Constantine’s wife, Maximiana, persuaded him to persecute Christians, while his mother, Helena, urged him to accept Judaism. In response, he convened a debate between Jews and Sylvester, adjudicated by traditionalists. The twelve Jewish participants are first all said to be “rabbis,” but two are then just called “rabbis,” two “scribes,” two “teachers of the synagogue,” two “interpreters,” two “elders,” and two by an uncertain title (“legisperiti”). Whether any of this is useful data for Jewish names and titles in the fourth century is uncertain, but it’s interesting that the list differentiates between “rabbis,” synagogue teachers, and elders (cf. Kurtzer 2008, who argued that the Greek presbyteros designated rabbis; he does not discuss this text). 225. For an attempt to read these sources as indicative of some actual rabbinic travel, see Kurtzer 2008, who argues more generally that rabbis were more present in the diaspora than is usually thought, although he is cautious about the extent of the authority given to their positions. 226. b. Sanhedrin 32b. 227. t. Megillah 2.5. 228. On some of this, see Langer 2014. 229. On which, see Noy 2005. On rabbinic travel more generally, see also Hezser 2010, 2011: on travel and communication generally, see Leyerle 2017.



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undertaken such travel, such stories may also constitute a rabbinic envisioning of how their views might be spread abroad, and the historicity of any of these particular accounts is minimal, at best. If real rabbis are difficult to discern outside the land of Israel (and nearby locations), there are other possible indications of the knowledge of rabbinic traditions and some assent to their practice. The Letter of Severus may allude to knowledge of contemporaneous interpretation of Jewish law when the bishop challenges the Jews to show him precisely the rule that prohibits them from participating in a calm debate on the Sabbath, although there is no indication that he has specifically rabbinic teachings or teachers in mind.230 Conceivably his point is only that they cannot possibly adduce biblical support for their position. Synesios of Cyrene claims that a Jewish ship captain, Amaranthus, relinquished control of his ship when the Sabbath began and only retook the helm when a storm became life-​threatening, because that’s what the law required him to do.231 This seems consistent with the discussion in the Babylonian Talmud that life-​threatening dangers override Shabbat prohibitions. Still, it seems easy enough to imagine that other Jews could have come to a similar position, so that it is impossible to tell whether the account in Synesios reflects knowledge of (Babylonian) rabbinic positions, or some other interpretative process.232 Two Greek inscriptions from Catania on the island of Sicily, dating perhaps to the fourth or fifth centuries, have prompted some scholars to see the possibility of rabbinic influence. Both memorialize the purchase of a burial

230. Letter of Severus, 12.6. It may also be worth noting that when the bishop invites the Jews to the church, they decline, claiming that they cannot attend because it is the Sabbath; the author opines that this is because they would be “polluted.” But they do not claim that they can never enter the church. Bradbury takes this to be based only on the biblical prohibitions against “menial” labor on the Sabbath (Bradbury 1996:127n12). Ancient rabbinic writings do not expressly prohibit Jews from entering churches, although doing so is eventually taken to be illicit, with various justifications based on the notion that churches (but not mosques) are sites of idolatry. 231. Synesios, Letter 4. 232. b. Yoma 84b. There is no comparable discussion here in the Mishnah. b. Shabbat 132a similarly declares that the saving of life overrides the Sabbath, an idea that is not unique to rabbinic sources. It occurs in 1 Macc (part of the Jewish scriptures in Greek), where Jews attacked by the forces of Antiochus on the Sabbath refuse to defend themselves, and so they and their families die (1 Macc 2:29–​38). Subsequently, Matthias and his fighters vow to defend themselves even on the Sabbath (1 Macc 2:39–​41). Traditions about the Maccabees, including 1 and 2 Macc themselves, were well known. In the Letter of Severus 8.4, the Jews of Minorca explicitly invoke the exemplar of the Maccabees in their contestations with the Christians.

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site, without “offending” or “infringing” the “commandment.” 233 Neither inscription is irrefutably Jewish; both are presumed so on the basis of the invocation of the “commandment,” and the identification of both men as presbyters, the title well-​attested for Jews, but common among Christians as well.234 Noy notes that since this formulation occurs nowhere else at Catania, the “law” (or commandment) to which it refers does not seem to be local. While expressing caution about whether either or both are Jewish, he proposes several possible distinctively rabbinic regulations, including the prohibition of burial within fifty cubits of a town; burying the wicked next to the righteous, or the prescriptions for the arrangement of family tombs.235 While we might have here some allusion to rabbinic burial norms, it remains speculative, and it is impossible to assess the referent implicit in these inscriptions.236 Another instance of rabbinic presence in the late antique diaspora was initially proposed by Reynolds and Tannenbaum, the editors of the inscriptions on the Aphrodisias stele.237 The later inscription on the narrower side of the stele contains a list of what appear to be eighteen members of an association, called a dekania, of the “lovers of the law.” Their names—​Samuel, Benjamin, Joseph, Judas, Ioses, Sabathios—​and other qualifying details strongly suggest that most if not all of these persons were Jews, although the inscription does not state this explicitly and lacks any Jewish symbols. It opens with an invocation that scholars have struggled to explain. The first two words are clear and relatively straightforward: theos boēthos, a fairly common phrase that can be translated either as “God the helper” or “[may] God help [whomever].” It’s the last term in this phrase, whose legible letters are patellad—​that has

233. JIWE 1.148, 1.149. In the first, a presbyter named Irenaeus purchased a “place” (τόπος), “μη(δ)ὲν βλάψας τὴν ἐντολήν.” In the second, another presbyter, named Jason, bought a κοῦπα (which Noy takes to be the Greek transliteration of the Latin “cupa”), for himself and his children, also without infringing (here ζημιώσας) the commandment: again τὴν ἐντολήν. On the Jews of Sicily see van der Horst 2006. 234. Noy notes Ferrua’s uncertainty (JIWE 1. p. 195). 235. b. Baba Batra 25a; b. Sanhedrin 47a; b. Baba Batra 100b–​101a. 236. Kurtzer 2008 does not specifically note that these two inscriptions associate men called presbyters with fidelity to the “commandment,” although he does note the older inscription of Aurelius Samohil (dated to 383) that explicitly invokes the “honors of the patriarchs” as part of an imprecation against tomb violators (JIWE 1.145). See above, pp. 155–58. 237. IJO 2.14; Reynolds and Tannenbaum 1987. The initial editors thought that the stele contained one inscription running down two faces of the stele, but scholars now generally concur that the stele contains two different and unrelated inscriptions (IJO 2.14A and IJO 2.14B).



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prompted considerable debate. Reynolds and Tannenbaum reconstructed this as patella dō and proposed, if with some trepidation, that was a usage of the relatively common Latin term patella, meaning a dish or serving platter, as an equivalent for the rabbinic term tamhui, or soup kitchen.238 They construed the existence of a rabbinic charitable organization in central Asia Minor as evidence for the presence and effectiveness of rabbis in the region around the turn of the third century, the date they (somewhat tentatively) assigned to this particular inscription.239 To read the inscription in this way, the editors had to minimize the funerary resonances of the inscription, which represents the donors’ purpose as “for the relief of grief,”240 instead reading this phrase as a reference to the alleviation of more general suffering or poverty. Their reading of the inscription was quickly challenged by other scholars on numerous grounds, not the least of which was the absence of any other indication of rabbinic presence or influence in the inscription itself, as well as the seeming oddity of a rabbinic charitable institution in a part of the ancient world for which there was otherwise virtually no indication of rabbinic presence. Most scholars now accept that this inscription dates not to the beginning of the third century but to the fifth century, at least, with the inscription on the main face of the stele dated probably to the fourth century.241 This later dating, by itself, neither supports nor precludes a rabbinic component, and one might even argue that a later dating would be more consistent with the possibility of rabbinic contacts. But many scholars also doubt that the association was a soup kitchen and many now think that it was a funerary

238. Reynolds and Tannenbaum 1987:26–​28; see also 78–​84. 239. They initially considered both an earlier and a later date, something many scholars tend to overlook (Reynolds and Tannenbaum 1987:19–​24). Chaniotis 2002 contains a helpful and charitable discussion of why they made the (erroneous) choice they did. 240. εἰς ἀπενθησίαν. They were well aware, however, that the term dekania was subsequently often used to denote burial associations. Koch 2006:86nn37–​38 is a helpful discussion of their efforts to minimize these implications. The term dekania also occurs in an inscription from Rome (JIWE 2.440). Frey, who catalogued the Rome inscription as CIJ 1. 11, took it as possibly “an association of ten” (even perhaps the prayer quorum of a minyan), although he thought it more likely to be a proper female name (Decania). Noy, however, thinks that dekania, like decuria, was a broad term for “a variety of groups and committees,” but prefers the comparison to the Christian use of δεκανοί as members of a burial society (JIWE 2. p. 363). 241. See especially Chaniotis 2002 and the discussion in IJO 2.14, with extensive bibliography; see also Botermann 1993, Koch 2006 and above, p. 393n239.

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organization of some kind.242 An inscription for another dekania found subsequently in Phrygia, similarly dated to the fifth century, strengthens the likelihood that the Aphrodisias dekania was a burial or memorial association, not a soup kitchen, undercutting the principal argument for seeing the inscription as an instance of rabbinic practices in Asia Minor.243 Particularly intriguing is the fifth-​century Aramaic and Greek papyrus marriage contract from Antinoopolis, Egypt, noted briefly earlier.244 The fragmentary contract opens with a double dating, first according to the civil calendar, then a Jewish calendar. It identifies the geographic location of the groom and bride, and declares, in the first-​person of the groom, that he takes his wife of his own free will according to the law of Israel.245 Only then does the contract identify her. The groom pledges that he will support the bride and proclaims that (in return) she will honor him in purity and holiness. The bulk of the contract is then devoted to an enumeration of the dowry items (and their monetary value) which the mother of the bride furnishes.246 A much shorter clause describes the wedding gifts which the groom gives the bride. The groom then promises that all his possessions, current and future, serve as guarantee that he will maintain and clothe the bride. The papyrus ends with a fragmentary statement that two contracts have been written, one for the groom and one apparently for the father of the bride, although this is not definitive.

242. Williams soon argued that for “the term for a domestic utensil [to be] taken to be the equivalent for a communal building is unparalleled, strained and unconvincing” (Williams 1992a:303. See also Chaniotis 2002, who favors the burial or memorial association; so, too, Koch 2006, who reads the opening line as θέος βόηθος πάτελλα δο.[ῖ]: “May (?) God the helper provide meals (?).” Ameling translates it as “Gott (ist) der Helfer der Imbissinhaber” (IJO 2. p. 75). 243. Mitchell 2005. Recently, however, Stebnicka 2014 champions the rabbinic interpretation. Kurtzer also notes this inscription as a possible index of rabbinic presence, but does not offer an argument for or against (Kurtzer 2008:239). He cites the critique of Williams 1992a, but also notes that her position accords with her “consistent skepticism about the relevance of rabbinic models and terminology to these kinds of archaeological analyses,” and thus implies that she may be predisposed to discount the possibility (Kurtzer 2008:239n5). 244. Sirat et al. 1986; see above, p. 222 and pp. 348–49. 245. Perhaps the law “of the daughters of Israel” [l.8]. 246. This seems to have caused the scribe some pause, since the scribe first wrote the name of the bride’s father, Leazar, and then crossed it out and wrote instead the name of her mother, Esther, which is confirmed by the following specific designation of the donor as “her mother.” Nevertheless, the editors note that the following verb is still the masculine singular (Sirat et al 1986:41).



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The editors of the papyrus argued that various of its Aramaic clauses are typical of Palestinian marriage contracts known from the Cairo genizah, including the formulation of the intention to marry and the affirmation that the groom does so of his own free will, which they note is absent in the Babylonian tradition.247 Other features of the contract are found both in Palestinian Jewish contracts and in Egyptian contracts following Greek law, such as the statement of the mutual obligations of bride and groom.248 But the contract has various distinctive features that distinguish it from other known rabbinic contracts, Palestinian or Babylonian. Crucially, it lacks a provision for a mandated minimum payment to the bride in the event of the dissolution of the marriage or the death of the groom, often called the ketubah or mohar.249 Instead, the groom gives the bride marriage “gifts,” using the technical Greek term hedna. Nothing in the surviving contract speaks to any payment to the bride in the event of his death or the dissolution of the marriage. Further, as the editors note, the enumeration of the dowry precedes the description of the groom’s gift to the bride, which they consider “extraordinary,” given that, in their view, the ketubah/​mohar payment “is the basis of the contract of Jewish marriage.”250 The contract has other non-​rabbinic and/​or non-​Jewish features that they attribute to “local” customs,251 such as the order of the dating (imperial, then Jewish) and the role of the mother as the donor of the dowry, which they find particularly puzzling.252 They write that no other Jewish contract known to 247.  Sirat et  al. 1986:37. The basis of their analysis is a corpus of sixty-​seven contracts, at least nine of them from Egypt, although they note that most Egyptian contracts follow the Babylonian form. They think that the similarity with Palestinian forms is not surprising, given the proximity to Palestine, but they think that the absence of any Babylonian elements is still surprising, and suggests that the Babylonian presence or influence doesn’t begin until the gaonic period (Sirat et al. 1986:11). 248. Sirat et al. 1986:39. 249. Sirat et al. 1986:12–​13. Satlow 2001:216 also discusses this. 250. Sirat et al. 1986:13. They note that Jewish law prescribes the minimum acceptable sum for the ketubah payment, but doesn’t stipulate a minimum dowry (although these were typically the custom), hence the ketubah payment is listed first. 251. “Other elements resemble no known ketubah and are incompatible with the tradition of the ketubah familiar to us” (Sirat et al. 1986:12). 252. Sirat et al. 1986:41–​42. Their puzzlement seems partly a function of their conclusion that the father, Leazar, is probably still alive (because he seems to receive a copy of the contract), and partly of their surprise that the mother had the financial wherewithal to do so, given that in their construal, Jewish law gave husbands jurisdiction over the property of wives. But they conclude that although it would have been unusual for the mother to have provided the dowry,

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them pledges the possessions of the husband as guarantee for the support of the wife; rather, the husband is personally responsible.253 But they note that this practice is found in Greek and demotic contracts from the second century bce. They also note that although “generally” a ketubah was only made for the wife or her family, as they reconstruct the end of the papyrus, it indicates that two copies of the contract were made: one for the groom, Samuel, and one for the bride’s father, Leazar.254 To explain this apparent oddity, they suggest that because Palestinian contracts contain a statement of the obligations and rights of both parties, it would make sense for each to receive a copy. They note two examples of contracts executed in duplicate from Egypt.255 Despite these differences with all known rabbinic prescriptions and exemplars, the editors consider this contract clear testimony to “the vitality of Palestinian rabbinic Judaism,”256 a conclusion that seems somewhat of a stretch. In his detailed discussion of ketubah payments in a variety of ancient sources, including surviving marriage contracts, Michael Satlow argues that although the early rabbis known as tannaim wanted all marriage contracts to include a ketubah payment provision, this was in fact a fantasy. Instead, he concludes that Jews in antiquity made the same kinds of marriage payments as their non-​Jewish neighbors. Palestinian Jews generally used dowries as their main marriage payment, while Babylonian Jews used a combination of mohar and dowry.257 The provisions of the Antinoopolis contract may well suggest that some Jews in upper Egypt in the early fifth century were acquainted with Palestinian practices, some of which were in accord with those of Palestinian rabbis. But it seems unwise to conflate the practices of (some) Jews in Palestine with those of Palestinian rabbis.258 The dissimilarities between this contract and any ideal it would not have constituted a violation of Jewish law, since wives could retain control over their own property, if it came from their dowry or from other sources (Sirat et al. 1986:42). 253. Sirat et al. 1986:57–​58. 254. Sirat et al. 1986:58–​59. 255. It is, of course, not necessary to explain this with reference to Palestinian practices, since as they note, such reciprocal clauses appear in Egyptian non-​Jewish contracts (Sirat et al. 1986:59). 256. Sirat et al. 1986:9. They are explicit that while the contract reflects Palestinian practices (and Palestinian Aramaic), it shows no signs of Babylonian influence (Sirat et al. 1986:12). 257. Satlow 2001:216, who briefly notes this papyrus but does not discuss it in any detail. 258. Interestingly, despite his desire to read the evidence for rabbis in the diaspora maximally, Kurtzer concedes that the language of the contract doesn’t make it rabbinic, and he doesn’t make an argument for its contents as rabbinic (Kurtzer 2008:240).



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rabbinic version, and its affinities with local Egyptian practices, further suggest a more complex cultural dynamic. Some Jews in the villages of the upper Nile in the early fifth century obviously knew and used both Aramaic and Greek, and it seems entirely plausible to posit some contacts between these Jews and Jews in Palestine. Whether the Greek elements of the contract index the customary practices of the family of the bride, who is said to come from Alexandria,259 or whether this bilingual melding was already the custom in Antinoopolis is impossible to know, although it’s interesting to see the use of Aramaic among late antique rural Jews in upper Egypt.260 We might certainly wonder what the language of the contract implies about the linguistic competences of Metra and her family (and by extension, perhaps, those of other Jews from Alexandria in the early fifth century). Did they know Aramaic or was this contract the ancient equivalent of the Hebrew ketubah many American Jewish couples sign without any ability to read it? The specificity of the contract certainly suggests that someone representing Metra knew what it said. If Metra, or one or both of her parents, knew Aramaic, had they known it when they came from Alexandria, or did they learn it when they took up residence in Antinoopolis (or somewhere else)? But even if we imagine that this contract points not just to knowledge in upper Egypt of Palestinian marriage arrangements but also more specifically to certain rabbinic practices, it is by no means definitive evidence for the wider spread of rabbinic practices and authority among Jews in the late antiquity diaspora. It does suggest contact of some sort between Jews in Palestine and those in upper Egypt, itself not especially surprising given the geo-​cultural realities. It may or may not point to larger social realities. Antinoopolis may have been typical of similar towns, or it may have been the residence of Jews with distinctive local practices. We might have here the ancient equivalent of evidence for the Satmar Hasidim in contemporary Brooklyn, masking the much greater diversity of American Jews in that borough. Or not. Without further evidence, we cannot tell. Many scholars have seen an explicit prohibition of the central rabbinic compilation of the Mishnah in Justinian’s Novella 146, from 553.261 There, as

259. On the further implications of this, see ­above, p. 222. 260. See Ilan 2016. 261. JRIL 66; see above, pp. 308–14.

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we have already seen, the emperor declared that, to settle a dispute between Jews themselves, he permitted the “Hebrews” to read the scriptures in any language they chose, Hebrew, Greek, or otherwise, although if they chose to read in Greek, they had to read the Septuagint translation. He prohibited the public reading of something called the Deuterosis (or the second tradition), which he derided as not “among the holy books,” but, rather, a human invention. The relevant question here is whether this deuterosis is a clear reference to rabbinic interpretation, whether specifically the Mishnah or anything else, or whether it is a more generic reference to Jewish interpretive traditions that Justinian found offensive. As I also noted earlier, some scholars (especially those predisposed to proj­ ect rabbinic presence back as far as possible), have simply asserted that the deuterosis must be the Mishnah, relying in part on the use of the term in a passage in a letter of Jerome attacking and mocking Jewish scriptural interpretation apparently familiar to him in Palestine.262 Others, however, are far more skeptical. Seth Schwartz, in particular, has demonstrated that what Jerome describes here is not the Mishnah, expounded by tannaim, but interpretative traditions taught by expository preachers, some of which might also be found in rabbinic traditions.263 In Jerome, “all extra-​scriptural tradition and practice [is called] by the name deuterosis,” whether rabbinic or otherwise. While the term may have had rabbinic associations, “it corresponds to no rabbinic corpus” and its transmitters and expositors, whom Jerome designates the deuterotai, correspond neither to rabbis nor to tannaim.”264 The passage in Jerome, then, provides no basis for concluding that the deuterosis in Justinian must be the Mishnah, and Schwartz remains skeptical on this point as well.265 Even Kurtzer, who argues at length for greater rabbinic 262.  Jerome, Letter 121.10, to Algasia. Linder actually titles this law “Permission to Use All Languages in Synagogue, and Prohibition of Sadducean Opinions and of the Mishna” (JRIL, p. 402); see also Parkes 1934:252. The question of how much Christian interpreters, including Jerome, knew about Jewish interpretive traditions, and how they acquired this knowledge, is a somewhat different matter. Most of the evidence for such exegetical contacts comes from Christian writers in the Palestinian orbit, such as Origen in the third century and Jerome and Eusebius in the fourth and early fifth; see, e.g., Baskin 1985, updated by Kamesar 2006, cited in Kurtzer 2008. 263. Schwartz 2002:63–​64. This may also apply to its use by Augustine, Against Adversaries of the Law and the Prophets 2.1.2 who says that Jews transmit the deuterosis orally. 264. Schwartz 2002:64. He does think that the persons Jerome called sophoi might be, or at least might include, “our” rabbis (Schwartz 2002:64–​65). 265. Similarly, Levine 2012:184, especially n27, argues against the likelihood that the deuterosis is the Mishnah. Kurtzer suggests that Schwartz’s arguments are similar to his, but in fact, Schwartz is much more skeptical than Kurtzer about the Novella as an index of rabbinic presence.



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presence in the diaspora, thinks that deuterosis is unlikely to specifically designate the Mishnah. He does, however, think it provides “clues to the ubiquity of rabbinic teachings,”266 and suggests that it might more precisely refer to targumic forms of interpretation practiced in synagogues—​that is, interpretation embedded within translation (my formulation).267 In my own view, the arguments of Schwartz are highly persuasive. Both in Jerome, and in Justinian’s Novella, deuterosis refers to interpretative traditions, which, as Kurtzer elaborates, seem to have acquired a negative valence in Christian writers beginning in the fourth century. It is not here a precise reference to some specific rabbinic compilation, and it seems unlikely that it was meant to target rabbinic forms of interpretation but not others. At the same time, it seems reasonable to think that it reflects an awareness of developing Jewish interpretation that was either deliberately anti-​Christian, or at least inimical to Christian scriptural interpretations, some of which was possibly rabbinic. If there were significant numbers of rabbis visiting or residing in the Mediterranean diaspora, particularly from the fourth to the early seventh centuries, they are largely invisible to us, and their impact on other Jews is difficult to discern. The evidence suggests that rabbis associated particularly with Palestinian circles may have occasionally found their way to villages, cities, and towns in the diaspora, although explicit instances are almost impossible to identify. The “rebbites” and “apostoli” who participated in the funeral of Faustina at Venosa in the sixth century might be one instance, but if so, it seems to have been an unusual and perhaps fortuitous event. One might argue that the epitaph of Venus, daughter of one rabbi Abundantius, from Naples and perhaps roughly contemporaneous with that of Faustina, or even that of Matrona, daughter of Rabbi Judas, points to the occasional presence of other similar experts, perhaps itinerant, perhaps more settled. Assuming that these accidental rabbis spoke enough Greek or Latin, or a local Jew knew enough Aramaic for them to converse, the rabbis may have shared some of their particular interpretations of how Jews should live. Their ideas and practices may have intrigued some of the persons with whom they came into contact, at least in the short run. 266. Kurtzer 2008:287–​88. 267. Kurtzer 2008:293. For Kurtzer, the references to presbyters strengthen his reading of this as an allusion to rabbinic practices, since he thinks that the Greek term presbyter was the diaspora equivalent of the Palestinian usage of rabbi, a position which, as noted earlier, I do not find compelling. He similarly construes the enigmatic term archipherekitai as related to the Aramaic rosh perekh (Kurtzer 2008:290).

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I concur, then, with the sage observations of Schwartz that there is little evidence at any point in late antiquity that a “large group of Jews outside rabbinic circles ever looked to rabbinic literature as interpreted by its formulators or expositors as the sole expression of an authoritative cultural, social, intellectual or religious ideal.” To the extent that rabbis (particularly those from Palestine) attempted to spread their practices elsewhere, “rabbinic norms were always in tension with other norms, many of them marked as Jewish and called in the Middle Ages minhag [customs without rabbinic legal authority].” What historians should seek to identify is not the “victory” of rabbinic Judaism but, rather, the emergence of these tensions.268 Some scholars would take the bits and pieces of evidence reviewed here as indications of far greater rabbinic presence.269 It seems to me more likely that these reflect the occasional and sporadic presence of men called rabbis, who may or may not have had some direct social relationships with Palestinian rabbis (much less likely Babylonian rabbis), as well as occasional instances of practices that may reflect the positions of such persons. Although the late antique diaspora data offer little indication of the kinds of tensions Schwartz anticipates, these may be visible in the episode underlying the law of 392, discussed in ­chapter 4, when Theodosios I intervened in a dispute between two groups of Jews.270 If rabbinic interpretations and practices began to find increasing favorable reception in the late antique diaspora, might we see this as somehow related to the pressures of Christianization? Did rabbinic programs offer late antique Jews appealing ways of responding to the consequences of imperial restrictions on their lives, and Christian efforts to persuade them to abandon Jewishness? It’s certainly tempting to envision that this might have been the case. Increased use of Aramaic and Hebrew, both liturgically and perhaps in other contexts, might have had the effect of drawing tighter social boundaries around Jews. Such increased use may not have been solely a result of rabbinic views, but it seems reasonable to think that the converse was true: increasing interest in rabbinic practices is likely to have increased interest in the acquisition and use 268. Schwartz 2002:55. 269. E.g., Reynolds and Tannanbaum 1987 and many others. Kurtzer argues that just as there were far more Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora than the evidence enables us to see (a position with which I  agree), so, too, the scant evidence for rabbis masks their much greater presence, a position I  find less compelling, although obviously not impossible. See, e.g., his question of “whether our finite data circumscribes the boundaries of the rabbinic movement, or whether rabbinic culture should be assumed to be larger than the extant evidence indicates” (Kurtzer 2008:247). 270. CTh 16.8.8; see ­above, pp. 139–41.



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of these languages in various venues. Further, the many distinctive rabbinic practices (regulations for Shabbat and festival observance, for the purchase, preparation, and consumption of food, for sexual relations between spouses, for commercial relations with non-​Jews, and many others) would have tightened the social boundaries around Jews while making it even harder for Jews to engage in social relations with their Christian neighbors. Such tightened communal boundaries may have enhanced the value of remaining Jewish for some persons while also increasing the cost of leaving—​effects that have been studied in more contemporary examples. David Frankfurter has made the intriguing suggestion that rabbis positioned themselves as efficacious religious experts, offering other Jews practices and relationships that were in various ways both comparable to and competitive with the developing Christian cults of saints and holy men.271 The limited evidence we have does not allow us to do more than engage in interesting and perhaps plausible thought experiments.

271. Frankfurter 2010.

Epilogue

The Christianizing of the ancient Mediterranean came at a tremendous cost to many persons. It entailed the suppression and eradication of all traditional Mediterranean religious practice except that of Jews, Samaritans, and of course, Christians themselves. Temples and other cult sites were closed. Entering them for religious purposes was criminalized, and the penalties (threatened) for such acts were dire: banishment, deprivation of the right to bequeath property to one’s heirs, confiscation of property to state coffers, and even death. That such strategies may not have been entirely effective is immaterial; traditional Mediterranean religions were sufficiently decimated by the alliance of Christian bishops and Roman emperors that they would never recover. Theodosios I may have been optimistically premature in his perception that there were no more “pagani” in the late fourth century, but this would ultimately prove true enough. According to the Pew Research Center, in the twenty-​first century, there are over 2 billion Christians, if of varying persuasions; there are no functioning temples to the ancient Mediterranean gods.1 Ancient Christians and their descendants would, of course, cast this as the triumph of truth and the one true God, even if many in the twenty-​first century would concede that the harsh tactics of their ancestors were excessive. For Christians in the early fourth century, Constantine’s patronage brought a welcome end to periodic Roman efforts to suppress and even eradicate

1. Pew ranked Christianity as the world’s most populous religion in 2015, with 2.3 billion adherents, 30.1 percent of the world’s population; see http://​www.pewresearch.org/​fact-​tank/​2017/​ 04/​05/​christians-​remain-​worlds-​largest-​religious-​group.

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Christian worship. Ironically, of course, this would prove to be only partially true. While being a Christian would no longer itself be a sufficient basis for prosecution, whichever Christians held power continued to oppress other Christians with differing theologies and practices. Nicene emperors, goaded by Nicene bishops, regularly deployed the powers of the state against non-​ Nicene Christians, confiscating their churches and criminalizing their rites, writings, assemblies, and ideas with sanctions as harsh as those prescribed for practitioners of traditional Mediterranean religions. Arian emperors may have been similarly inclined to use the powers of state to restrain their Nicene opponents, but this is harder to see in the surviving sources, since the ultimate success of the Nicene church facilitated the suppression of everything from Arian legislation to the writings of Arian thinkers and historiographers.2 In suppressing religious difference, Nicene Christians, and their Chalcedonian successors, were hardly unique, although the irony of this is hard to miss, given the degree to which all Christians before the early fourth century were themselves targeted by imperial administrations. New religions, especially those which advocate the worship of only one particular deity—​imprecisely called “monotheist” religions—​have a long history of such tactics, at least when their proponents had the wherewithal to do so. But this would be cold comfort at best to the millions of ancient persons coerced to abandon their religious practices to satisfy the desires of an orthodox Christian minority. One might conclude that Jews—​and Samaritans—​came through late antiquity less scathed than those who tried to cling to other traditional religions. Their numbers may have been diminished partly by conversions (and by the same forces that devastated the late antique Mediterranean population as a whole), and their place in ancient civic life greatly compromised, but on the eve of Islam, there were still plenty of Jews and a Samaritan population whose size is even more difficult to assess than that of Jews. One might even argue that the emergence of Islam in the early seventh century provided a reprieve to both populations in those regions where Islam quickly prevailed, although in musing about this, I concede I have more than reached the limits of my professional expertise. In those parts of the Mediterranean where Muslims did not immediately conquer, especially in Visigothic Spain, the lives of Jews 2. This is not entirely true, of course, but the exceptions here generally do prove the rule: most of the late antique Christian histories are the work of Nicene writers, or at least those who do not reveal strong Arian sympathies. A prominent exception here is the Ecclesiastical History of Philostorgios, an Arian whose work survives only in fragments, noted at various points earlier. It’s been suggested that Sokrates of Constantinople was either a Novatian, or at least sympathetic to Novatian positions, but the fact that this is disputed reinforces my point.

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would become even more precarious, presaging, perhaps, conditions in later medieval and early modern Christian Europe. In the late sixth century, the Visigoths abandoned their long-​held Arian commitments and joined the Catholics. Isidore, bishop of Seville, claims that in 612, Sisebut, newly king of the Goths, compelled the conversion of the Jews, although given the continuing presence of Jews in Spain, the efficacy of his action seems dubious.3 It remains to reflect on to what extent, if any, the experiences of Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora were meaningfully different from those of their co-​religionists in late Roman and early Byzantine Palestine and environs, who were also still under the aegis of Christian emperors. Other scholars have written extensively on Jews in late antique Palestine, although few, if any, have addressed precisely the question I raise here—​partly because, of course, to do so requires the results of the inquiry I have undertaken here. The natural disasters of late antiquity, particularly those of the sixth century, would have taken a significant toll on the residents of Palestine and environs, Jewish or otherwise, comparable in many respects to its impact on residents throughout the empire. But the pressures exerted on Jews by Christians seeking their conversions might have played out differently in Palestine and parts of Syria on the border with the Persian Empire. The laws issued in Constantinople would, in theory, have been equally applicable in all parts of the eastern empire, but their enforcement may have been a very different matter, as several episodes considered in this book illustrate, such as Arkadios’s reluctance to destroy the temple of Marnas in Gaza. Several stories of Jewish hostility to Christians are set in Syria-​Palestine, such as the tale of Jews burning Christ in effigy on Purim or abusing a Christian child (at Immestar). We lack the hard demographic data to know whether Jews in the Mediterranean diaspora were actually any more likely to become Christians than Jews in Palestine. We might well wonder whether some greater social cohesion of Jews in the Galilee and elsewhere might have offered Jews in Palestine greater protection against Christian incentives and disincentives, and thus made them less likely to become Christian than Jews

3. Isidore of Seville, Hist. 60 (Donini and Ford 1966, using the text from MGH AA 11:241–​ 303); see esp. Wood 2014, on its efficacy and other matters (Wood 2014:196–​97). Isidore’s (relatively mild) critique of Sisebut (“who forced them by power when he should have roused them by the doctrine of faith”) sounds a familiar refrain:  bishops who advocate persuasion (like Avitus of Clermont or Gregory the Great) had it right, while kings who exercised the blunt instrument of coercion got it wrong, resulting in superficial conversions that failed to take. Church authorities, like Isidore himself, found themselves wrestling with the difficult question of what to do with such Jews (Wood 2014:197–​99).

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elsewhere. Such lines of reasoning run the risk of arguing, or seeming to argue, that “assimilation was bad for Jews,” or, to nuance it a bit, that acculturation leads naturally to—​or at least facilitates—​abandoning ancestral practices. Such arguments are made already in antiquity by the authors of the entire Maccabean corpus (1, 2, 3, and 4 Macc), and repeatedly in the modern era. But they remain impossible to test with the ancient evidence. If the account of the fifth-​century conversion of Jews on Minorca has some historical veracity, strong social cohesion was an inadequate defense there against Christian pressures. And it is, in any case, not my desire to engage those debates here, given their centrality to internal Jewish debates about authenticity and legitimacy. It is interesting to consider that the relationships between the patriarch and his allies with the various emperors may, in fact, have afforded Jews in Palestine greater protection. If so, this would have ceased with Gamaliel’s seemingly spectacular fall from imperial grace in the early fifth century. Did Samaritan resistance to Christian emperors in the fifth and sixth centuries, if it was significant, provide cover for Jews or deflect interest in Jews? How much did Roman administrations worry that Samaritan revolts might spread to Jews, or that Jews might join Samaritan resistance (as some chronographers posit)? The emergence of the Byzantine Empire in the seventh century brought changes whose early contours may already be perceptible in the reign of the emperor Heraclius, who had reclaimed Palestine from the Persians in 630.4 The Teachings of Jacob for the Newly-​Baptized ( Jews) claims that Heraclius soon decreed the involuntary baptism of all Jews everywhere.5 Just as Sisebut is said to have done in Spain, a letter of Maximus the Confessor from Carthage claims that Heraclius forcibly converted all the Jews and Samaritans in Africa, while a chronographer named Fredegar claimed that Heraclius pressured the Frankish king Dagobert to do the same for Jews in his realm.6 There is considerable debate about the historicity of all of these accounts, as well as the possible motivations and consequences of such decrees, including an amplification of hostility toward Jews after their 4.  On the situation of Jews in the subsequent Byzantine orbit, see the other essays with Bonfil 2012; see also Cameron 1996; de Lange 1992, 2006; Kaegi 2003:216–​18, especially 216n91 and 217n94; see also Sharf 1971. 5. Text and French translation in Déroche 1991:47–​229; see also Dagron and Déroche 1991; van der Horst 2009; Jacobs 2019. 6. Dagron and Déroche 1991:31–​32; see Kaegi 2003:216.

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support for the Persians in the Byzantine–​Persian conflicts. But regardless, the seventh-​century rise of Islam in the East would shift the balance of power radically, removing the pressures on Jews to become Christian, yet introducing very different dynamics that are beyond the scope of this study, compelling as these matters may be.

References

In 2019, it seems mostly gratuitous to provide a comprehensive list of editions and translations of relatively well-​known ancient authors and sources. All these and more are now easily found through internet search engines and the online catalogues of college and university libraries. In the book, I focused on providing references for editions and translations of less well-​known works, as well as those editions and translations on whose notes or unusual readings I drew. This should suffice for most readers, while scholars who wish to pursue further research will be able to avail themselves of the extensive digital research tools. Works cited in the book are given here in one integrated list of editions, translations, and secondary studies. Adams, H. C. (1887). The History of the Jews from the War with Rome to the Present Time. London: Religious Tract Society. Aitken, J. (2017). “Jewish Tradition and Culture.” In The Early Christian World, edited by P. F. Esler, 2nd ed., 73–94. London and New York: Routledge. Alchermes, J. (1994). “Spolia in Roman Cities of the Late Empire: Legislative Rationales and Architectural Reuse.” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 48: 167–​78. Alexander, J. (2000). “Donatism.” In The Early Christian World, edited by P. F. Esler, 2nd ed., 952–74. London and New York: Routledge. Alic, M. (1981). “Women and Technology in Ancient Alexandria: Maria and Hypatia.” Women's Studies International Quarterly 4, no. 3: 305–​12. Allen, P., and W. Mayer. (2000). “John Chrysostom.” In The Early Christian World, edited by P. F. Esler, 2nd ed., 1128–​50. London and New York: Routledge. 2nd ed., 2016. Amat, J., ed. (1996). Passion de Perpétue at de Félicite suivi des Acts: Introduction, Texte Critique, Traduction, Commentaire et Index. SC 417. Paris: Les Éditions du Cerf. Ameling, W. (2003). “Eine jüdische Inschrift im Metropolitan Museum, New York.” SCI 22: 241–​55. Ameling, W., ed. (2004). Inscriptiones Judaicae Orientis. Vol 2: Kleinasien. TSAJ 101. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck.

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Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

This index is intended to enable readers of the print edition to find discussions of major topics, as well as references to major ancient persons and places. For those wishing to search it more comprehensively, the book is available in several searchable electronic formats, including Oxford Scholarship Online. The Index of Ancient Sources Cited provides more specific references to individual ancient sources cited in the book.   Acholios, 123–​124 Amaranthus, 382, 391 Adamantios, 222–​223, 269, 348 Ambrose Addeus, 143 defense of burning of synagogue at Adrianople, 115–​116 Callinicum by, 132–​137, 197n48, advocacy, legal, exclusion of Jews from, 246, 320, 333 251, 270, 285 in the Chronicle of John Aegina, synagogue at, 12n40, 13, 70, Zonaras,  268–​69 273, 277 exhumation of martyr bones from Jewish Agde, Synod of, 338 cemetary at Bologna and, 64–​65 “agentes in rebus”, 177–​78, 180, 189n6, Gratian and, 117–​118, 131 237, 250 Honorius and, 160–​162 Agnella, 375 Nicene orthodoxy promoted by, 117, Agrigento, 333, 334n68, 337 121–​122, 129, 131 Akmonia, 9, 13 religious intermarriage opposed by, 131 Alaric, 164–​165, 173, 180–​181, 317 Symmachus and, 120–​121 Alexandria Theodosios I and, 131–​135, 138, 143, expulsion of Jews from, 215–​219, 221, 161–​162, 179n87, 184, 246–​247, 223–​224, 266, 269, 272, 348, 352 269n128, 333 Jewish inscriptions from, Ammonios, 217–​218 220–​221,  278 Anastasios, 280 plague outbreak (541 CE) in, 301–​302 Anchiasmon. See Saranda synagogue in, 196n44, 371n136 Andriake, synagogue at, 12–​14, 303–​304 Alexsan(d)ra, 366, 368 Annas, 23n84, 212, 229, 233, 235, 360–​361 allegorical interpretation, 311–​12, 314 Anonymus Valesianus, 321–​324, 326, 353 Altar of Victory, 117n19, 118, 121–​122, 137 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited

446

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Anthemios, 187, 189–​190, 206, 226–​227,  230 Antinoopolis, Jewish marriage contract from, 105n107, 222, 348–​349, 394, 396–​397 Antioch (Syria) Chrysostom’s preaching in, 120n32, 135–​136 desecration of Jewish cemetary in, 16,  279–​80 Eudokia received by Jews in, 264 John Malalas on Jews in, 279–​282 Simeon the Stylite and, 205, 245 Antiochos, 225–​226 Apamea (Syria), synagogue at, 12n40, 13, 270, 273, 277, 297 Aphrodisias, 10, 99n80, 280–​281, 302, 363n97, 369n135, 380, 383–​385, 386n207, 392, 394 Apulia, 169 Aquila (translator), 23n84, 308, 311 Aquileia, 19, 21, 107n113, 108n120, 133n106, 214n118, 249 arbitration, decisions of Jewish courts as, 166–​167,  228 Arbogast, 138–​139, 160, 165, 226 archisynagōgis, 90n49, 165, 166n29, 179n88 archisynagōgissa/​ai, 351n43, 363–​365, 370 archisynagōgos, 302–​303n119, 349, 363n90, 363, 368n129, 370, 386, 388 See also head of the synagogue Argos, 157 Arians forced to become Nicene Christians,  77–​78 Jews and, 73–​74, 184–​185, 295, 324–​ 325, 343, 353 Justinian’s suppression of, 288, 298 Ostrogoths and, 7, 276, 279, 315, 340, 353

Theodosios I’s suppression of, 125–​126 Valentinian II and, 120–​121 Arkadios arbitration in Jewish courts and, 228 dissenting Christian sects suppressed by, 129, 159, 168, 173 law pertaining to Jewish merchants and, 163–​164 law punishing false Christian converts from Judaism seeking asylum and, 165–​166,  233 laws against anti-​Jewish violence and, 56, 159, 164–​165 law against insulting Jewish patriarchs by, 164 laws exempting clerics from decurial service and, 119n26, 170, 172–​173 privileges of the patriarchs and their appointees affirmed by, 177–​178, 180–​181,  228 Artemisia, 50–​51, 346 Asella, 360, 366–​367, 376, 386 Ashi, R., 264–​265, 357 Asia Minor earthquakes in, 15, 286, 382 Hebrew names attested in, 384 Jewish inscriptions in, 1, 9, 20, 153n180, 155n183, 277, 296n87, 351, 367n126, 371n138, 372, 374, 388 synagogue sites in, 12–​13, 304 Asklepiodotos, 188n1, 190, 239–​248 Attikos, 176, 185–​187, 217–​218, 222, 231–​ 234, 253, 269 Augusta, 350, 366, 368 Augustine anti-​Jewish characterizations in writings of, 185, 209–​210, 212 belief that Jews must remain unmolested, as testimony to Christ, of, 6, 58 Consentius’s letters with, 53, 72



Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

on violence between Jews and Christians at Calama, 207–​208 opposition to conversion through coercive violence of, 58–​59, 72 Aurelian (praetorian prefect), 158, 190, 226–​227, 232, 236–​237, 239 Aurelius Samohil, 155–​158, 392n237 Avitus attacks on Jews in Clermont and, 339, 346 Chilperic contrasted with, 330–​331 Jews compelled to convert by, 328–​332, 334, 337, 341, 344, 348 support for persuasion as means of converting Jews to Christianity of, 331–​332, 334   baptism of Jews by Avitus of Clermont, 328–​39 by Heraclius, forcibly, 405 on attenuated schedules, 329, 337 under false pretense, 234, 328–​29 mocked by Jews at Ravenna, 322 rites of, 55 second, laws against, 85–​86, 181, 213n115, 232 theology of transformation by, 234–​35 Bar Kokhba revolt, 28, 31, 354, 356 Barsauma attack on Jews in Jerusalem at Sukkoth and, 193–​195, 259–​266 attacks on practitioners of traditional religions and, 195–​96 Eudokia and, 192, 259–​266, 357 signs and wonders of, depicted in biblical imagery, 192–​95 synagogues destroyed by, 190–​191, 193, 195–​201, 206, 244, 272, 297n91 Basileus (slave-​trader), 347, 381–​382 Belisarios, 74, 278n9, 295 Beroea, 19, 221n142, 348, 379 Beronike, 366, 368

447

Beth She’an. See Scythopolis bishops, Arian, 126 bishops, Nicene advocacy for a religiously homogeneous empire of, 5 anti-​Jewish actions of, 5, 79, 185, 189, 209, 262, 272, 324, 339, 343 competing interests with emperors of, 79–​80, 175n70, 190 enhanced legal powers of, under Justinian, 292 lobbying for legislation of, 82, 127, 129, 131, 189, 208, 342 opposition to Gamaliel VI of, 230n189 women ordained as, 369 See also Acholios; Ambrose; Augustine; Cyril; Damasus; Donatus; Epiphanios; Eusebios; Gelasius; Gregory of Nazianzos; Gregory of Tours; Gregory the Great; Memnon; Nestorios; Paul (bishop); Peter (bishop of Terracina); Porphyry of Gaza; Sisinnios Bithynia, 13, 169n39 blindness, of Jews, Christian characterization of, 27n94, 31, 187, 261n91, 330 Blue charioteers, Jews’ associations with, 279–​282,  380 Bonus, 350, 366, 386 book burning, 23–​24, 38, 129, 168, 205, 255, 330 Boreium, synagogue at, destroyed by Justinian, 296–​297, 344, 381 Bova Marina, synagogue at, 13–​14, 277 Brescia, 18   Caecilianus, 49, 71, 77, 213, 346 Caelicoli, 182, 211–​212 Caesarea, 203–​204, 262, 288, 290, 297, 338n84

448

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Caglieri, 333–​334 Calabria, 169 Calama, 207–​208 Callinicum, 3, 132–​134, 136, 142, 197n48, 246, 268, 269, 272, 320 Cap de Port de Fornells, 68, 70 Cappadokia, 351–​352, 365 Caria, 300, 302, 363n99, 365 Carthage, 62, 73, 77, 213, 251n51, 292–​293 Carthage, Council of (398 ce), 212n112 (411 ce), 213 (419 ce), 251, 292 (421 ce), 292 Cassiodorus, Senator, 21, 278, 299, 315–​324 catacombs, Jewish, at Rome, 1, 8–​9, 15–​16 See also Monteverde, catacomb of; Randanini, catacomb of; Villa Torlonia, catacomb of Catania, 155–​157, 391–​392 Chalcedon, 231 Council of, 40, 199n62, 277n3 Chalcedonian orthodoxy, 281, 302 chancellery, 82n21, 101 See also consistory Chersonesus, 13 Chilperic, 330–​332, 341 Chios, synagogue at, 12–​13, 277n7 Chronicle of Edessa, 56, 191, 214 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Circumcelli, 213n115 circumcision, 341 of enslaved males, by Jews, 101, 106, 236 prohibitions against, 100, 110, 152, 228–​229, 243, 270, 342–​343n3 Clearchus, 120, 173 Clermont, 2, 63, 72, 327–​334, 339–​340, 344, 346–​347, 404 Code, Theodosian (Codex Theodosianus), 21

absence of the term “rabbi” from, 389 goals and production of, 83–​86, 256 omissions from, 184, 235, 249 on decurions, 119, 170, 364 religious practices in, overview of,  85–​88 Theoderic’s apparent disregard of, 317 See also the Index of Ancient Sources Cited Code of Justinian (Codex Justinianus), 21 goals and production of, 283 comparison with Theodosian Code, concerning Jews, 283–​85, 294n77, 365 See also the Index of Ancient Sources Cited Consentius, 53–​54, 55n64, 57n77, 59, 63, 72 consistory, 82–​83, 143, 168n38, 178 See also chancellery Constans, 101, 111, 138n127 Constantine I dissenting Christian groups suppressed by, 23, 79 emergent catholic orthodoxy and, 1–​2, 40, 75–​77, 342, 402 Joseph of Tiberias and, 152 legislation exempting clerics from decurial service and, 88–​91 legislation pertaining to Jews and, 79, 88–​94, 100, 111, 346 traditional Mediterranean religious practices suppressed by, 79 Constantine II, 81, 94, 100–​101, 343n3 Constantinople Adamantios’s flight from Alexandria to, 222, 348 Arians in, 125–​126 devotion to St. Stephen in, 231–​232 earthquakes in, 286 Jews in, 147, 172, 225, 270



Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

plague outbreak (542 CE) in, 300 synagogue in the Copper Market, transformation into a church in, 233, 267–​269 women in, 253–​254 Constantius II, 81, 101, 111–​112 conversion of Hillel the patriarch, 148 of Jews accounts of miracles as impetus for, 185–​187 by Avitus, bishop of Clermont, 2, 63n98, 72, 327–​332, 334, 337, 339, 341, 344, 348 by Chilperic, 330–​332, 341 by Heraclius, 405–​406 Christian anxieties about the sincerity of, 165, 186, 233, 235 Christian desires for, 44, 62, 64, 75–​76, 79, 81, 125, 155n185, 294–​297,  310 Christian incentives offered for, 5, 38, 76, 127, 183, 284, 314, 334, 336–​337,  404 coercion and, 5, 58–​59, 72, 78–​ 80, 147, 151, 189, 258–​259, 320, 331–​332,  345 infrequency of, 187, 273, 344, 382 inscription for, 273–​275 Jews’ resistance to, at Ravenna, 322–​323 laws penalizing those who attacked Jewish converts to Christianity and, 91–​94,  98–​100 of Boreium, by Justinian, 296–​98 on Crete, 2, 255–​256, 273, 343, 353–​356 on Minorca, 43–​56, 64, 66, 88, 151, 179n97, 344–​346, 405 Paul’s Letter to the Romans 9–​11 and, 6 persuasion as strategy for, 76, 189, 215, 331–​332, 334–​335, 337, 345

449

social dynamics of, 345–​46 to non-​Nicene forms of Christianity, 78 of Joseph of Tiberias, 147–​154 to Jewish practices by women weavers in an imperial workshop, 102–​111,  152–​54 prohibitions against, 93–​111, 152, 211 See also circumcision: of enslaved males, by Jews; prohibitions against Copper Market synagogue. See Constantinople: synagogue in the Copper Market, transformation into a church in council(s), city. See decurions, decurionate “crematio”, as form of execution, 91,  99–​100 Cumanus, 349 “cunctos populos”, 123–​125 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited (CTh 16.1.2) Cynegius, Maternus, 119, 130–​131, 135, 141–​142, 175, 272 Cyprian, 337 Cyril (bishop of Alexandria) anti-​Jewish treatises and homilies of, 185, 266 devotions to St. Stephen and, 265–​266 The Dialogue of Timothy and Aquila and, 223–​224 Hypatia and, 217, 219 Jews expelled from Alexandria by, 2, 215–​219, 224–​225, 272, 348, 352–​353 Marian devotion controversies and, 254–​255 Orestes and, 215–​219, 225, 231, 352 Cyril (bishop of Jerusalem), 113

450

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Dagobert, 405 Damasus, 118n21, 123 Daphne (Syria), 280, 282 decurions, decurionate, 88, 90–​91, 119, 138 efforts to evade service by, 119, 169, 172 exemptions from requirements to serve as, 89, 90n53, 118–​119 in Jewish inscriptions, 154, 154–​155n183 obligations to serve as, 184, 189, 257, 299–​300,  342 See also Laws, late Roman, exemptions...; Index of Ancient Sources Cited (CTh 12.1.165) “defensor(es)” obligations of, 138 office of held by Jewish men on Minorca, 71, 213 Jewish men prohibited from, 257, 365 restricted to orthodox men, 212–​13 Deliler, 13, 378 Delos, synagogue on, 10n30, 13 Demophilos, 125–​126 Despoina, 351 deuterosis, as reference to the Mishnah, 309, 382, 397–​399 The Dialogue of Timothy and Aquila, 223–​224 See also the Index of Ancient Sources Cited diaspora, category of, 34–​35 diaspora, Mediterranean Jewish inattention to, explanations for, 27–​34 lack of known writings from, 22–​24 didaskaloi, as rabbis, in Justinian’s Novella 146, 308–​309 Diocletian, 77, 109, 203 dissident Christians Anthemios’s suppression of, 189–​190 Arkadios’s suppression of, 129, 159, 168, 173

burning of books authored by, 23 Constantine I’s suppression of, 23, 79 dismissal from public bureaus of, 163 forced conversion to Nicene Christianity among, 5, 77–​78 Gratian’s “edict of toleration” and, 84, 116–​117, 123, 126, 131 Honorius’s suppression of, 162–​163, 172, 211–​213 illness and madness metaphors regarding, 87–​88, 124, 249, 256 inheritance legislation and, 119–​120 Justinian’s suppression of, 279, 283–​285, 287–​289, 292–​298, 300–​303,  307 land transfer laws and, 307 Marcian’s law prohibiting public debate regarding, 276–​277 Nicene Creed as means of discouraging, 76–​77, 402–​403 second baptism and, 86, 181, 232 Theodosios I’s targeting of, 79, 123–​ 129, 137, 139, 324 See also Arians; Caelicoli; Donatists; Ebionites; Eunomians; Kollyridians; Manichaeans; Montanists; Novatian(s); Photinian(s); Priscillianists Domina, 337 Donatists Augustine and, 59 catholics’ efforts to eliminate, 181–​182, 212–​213 forced conversion to Nicene Christianity and, 77–​78 Honorius’s suppression of, 172 Jews and, 184, 208–​209, 212 second baptism and, 86, 181 Donatus, 208   earthquake(s), 4, 15, 276, 286, 303, 314, 340, 344



Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

construction of new Jerusalem temple under Julian and, 113 kills many Jews but few Christians, 382 signals divine favor for Barsauma, 263 Easter, baptisms at, 55–​56, 235, 298, 328–​ 329, 337–​339 Ebionites, 148 Edict of Milan, 96, 99 Elche, synagogue at, 13, 70, 273, 277 emigration, of Jews in late antiquity, 347–​352 Ephesos, 4 Council of, 254–​55 Epiphanios (bishop of Salamis) anti-​Jewish stereotypes deployed by, 151–​152 conversion of Joseph of Tiberias, recounted by, 3, 91, 147–​152, 186–​ 187, 344, 346, 369 Panarion (Medicine Chest) of, 87, 147 Es Fornás de Torelló, 67–​70 Es Grau, 68 ethrog, symbol of, 221, 374 Eudokia Barsauma and, 192, 259–​266, 357 devotion to Mary of, 240–​241, 254–​255 devotion to St. Stephen of, 265–​266 Jews and, 190, 199n62, 247–​248, 255, 260–​262, 266–​267, 356–​357 marriage to Theodosios II of, 190, 239–​ 240, 248, 265, 356 Pulcheria and, 226, 239–​241, 266, 357 Eudoxia, 159–​160, 173n61, 174–​176, 226 Eugenios, 139, 143, 160, 226 Eumeneia, 10 Eunomians, 24, 125, 128–​129, 164, 168, 190, 232 Eusebios (of Caesarea). See Index of Sources, Life of Constantine Eutropios, 127, 171, 173, 181n91

451

Eutychianos, 166, 172, 177 Evagrios, 244–​245 excommunication, of Jews by other Jews, 140–​141    famine, 173, 276, 299, 340 father of the synagogue, 140n134, 364 Faustina epitaph of, 342, 360n88, 376–​377, 388–​389 extended family of, 366–​368, 375–​376,  389 funeral of, 376–​377, 399 Faustinus, archiatros, 366 Faustinus I, 366–​67, 377 Florianus, 49, 346 Fortunatus, Venantius, 327–​330 Frigidus River, battle of, 139, 160, 165, 226   Galilaeus, 49, 346 Galla Placidia, abrogates laws of John favoring Jews, 249–​251 Gamaliel I, reveals location of bones of St. Stephen in a dream, 231 Gamaliel V, 162n10 Gamaliel VI arbitration of cases involving Christians and, 168n37 as last patriarch of Palestine, 162 circumcision bans and, 228–​229 demotion from senatorial rank of, 227–​231, 237, 239, 252, 257, 359–​ 361, 389, 405 enslaved Christians and, 229–​231, 236 events on Minorca and, 236–​237 financial resources of, 178 Pulcheria and, 229–​230, 252 Stilicho and, 181 Gaul church councils on relations between Jews and Christians in, 277n4 dissident Christians expelled from, 250

452

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Gaul (cont.) Jewish inscriptions from, 10, 31 Jews during sixth century in, 334, 340, 383 Jews’ loss of rights under Merovingian law in, 331n59 synagogue destroyed (585 CE) in, 332 Gaza, 69, 72, 130n94, 132, 404 Gelasius, 327, 369, 378n164 gender antipathy to Jews and, 176 proselytism and, 152–​53 gender-​specific inheritance laws, 251 Genoa, 315n3, 316n8, 317–​319 Gerasa, synagogue replaced by a church at, 13, 273, 277, 291, 296 gerousiarch, 360n86, 366–​367 godfearing, as conceptually unsound, 96 See also theosebeis Gratian Ambrose and, 117–​118, 131 “edict of toleration” of, 84, 116–​117, 123, 126, 131 inheritance laws and, 119–​120 legislation exempting clerics from decurial service and, 90n53, 118–​119 traditional Mediterranean religious practices suppressed by, 118, 121 graves, Jewish, desecration of by Christians, 18–​19, 64–​66, 267n120, 279–​280, 306 Green charioteers, attacks on Jews in Antioch by, 279–​282, 292 Gregory of Nazianzos, 125–​127, 129 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Gregory of Tours Avitus of Clermont’s friendship with, 327–​328 Letter of Severus and, 330 on the conversion of Jews in Clermont by Avitus, 2, 72, 327–​329, 331, 339, 346

on converted Jews’ return to Jewish practices, 72, 332 on Jews’ linguistic practices, 313 synagogue destructions recounted by, 330, 332–​333 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Gregory the Great Caligari synagogue and, 339 converted Jews’ return to Jewish practices and, 72, 337, 344–​345 evidence for Jews in Italy and Gaul and, 278, 333–​334, 341 Jewish messianic behavior and, 357–​358 Jews of Naples and, 336, 362 Jews of Palermo and, 338 persuasion as means of converting Jews to Christianity supported by, 334–​335,  337 protections for Jews supported by, 315, 337–​339 poverty among Jewish converts to Christianity and, 346–​347 slave laws and, 335 Terracina synagogue and, 334–​336 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Guntram, denial of Jewish petition to restore destroyed synagogue by, 332–​333   “haeretici” (heretics). See dissident Christians Hamman Lif, synagogue at, 12–​13, 69–​ 70, 277, 297, 371 head of the synagogue, 302–​303n119,  362 women titled as, 302–​303 n119, 351n43, 362 n90, 363–​64, 368n129, 370 See also archisynagōgis; archisynagōgissa; archisynagōgos heaven-​fearers. See Caelicoli



Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Hebrew diaspora inscriptions in, 16, 36, 220–​ 221, 348n28, 349, 370, 373–​376 diaspora use of, 29, 310–​313, 376–​377, 382–​387 preference for names in, 383–​88 Hebrew(s), as designation for Jews, 16, 40, 267n119, 278n9, 308–​309, 347, 351, 370, 373, 377–​82 Helena, 266–​267, 390n225 Hellenismos, meaning of, 6–​7n18 Heraclius, 42, 405 Hierapolis (Phrygia), 10, 78n8, 305, 306n143, 379n171 Hierax, 215–​216, 220 Hippo, 72, 77 homoousian, 40, 122–​124, 130 homoousios, 76 See also Nicene, definition of Honorius Ambrose and, 160–​162 Annas and, 360 dissident Christians suppressed by, 162–​163, 172, 211–​213 Jews banned from state service by, 237–​238, 250, 252 Jews’ holding of enslaved Christians and, 229–​230, 236 law on Jewish and Samaritan “agentes in rebus” and, 177–​178 laws against anti-​Jewish violence and, 56, 206–​208, 225 laws on patriarchal revenue and, 180–​ 181, 183, 252 laws permitting converted Jews to return to Jewish practices and,  72–​73 laws pertaining to Jewish merchants and,  163–​16 laws protecting rights of Jews and, 213–​215,  233 legislation exempting clerics from decurial service and, 169–​170, 179

453

prohibitions on collecting funds for the patriarch from synagogues and, 171–​172 Stilicho and, 160–​161, 178, 181, 187 traditional Mediterranean religious practices suppressed by, 172 Hypatia, 215, 217–​220, 225   Illyricum, 56, 115, 127, 137, 164, 198, 238–​239 Immestar (Syria), 190, 404 Innocentius, 49–​52, 54, 66, 383 inscriptions Jewish, 1, 8–​12, 15–​20 methodological issues in the use of,  17–​20 criteria for Jewishness of, 16–​17 dating of, 1, 8–​12, 17 Christian desecration and re-​use of, 18–​19, 306 (see also Rome: Jewish inscriptions from, and the Index of Ancient Sources Cited) Samaritan, 10n30, 11n37 Ioses of Alexandria, 221, 348 Ioses of Cyprus, 372 Isidore of Seville, 341, 404 Isla del Rey, 67–​70, 71n130, 273 Islam, 403, 406   Januarius, 203n77, 339–​340 Jerome, 28, 210, 352, 398–​399 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Johannes (prefect), 213, 292, 299 John (usurping emperor), legislation favorable to Jews and dissident Christians by, 236n208, 249–​250 John Chrysostom anti-​Jewish writings of, 88, 130n95, 135–​36,  185 Arkadios and Eudoxia and, 175–​176 Pulcheria and, 190, 226, 233, 253 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited

454

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

John Malalas attacks on Jews in Antioch in, 278–​282 earthquakes in, 286–​287, 382 Samaritans in, 287–​291 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited John of Ephesos Justinianic plague in, 301–​302 sent by Justinian to convert remaining traditionalists in Asia Minor, 300–​302 transforms synagogues in Asia Minor into churches, 301 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited John of Nikiu burning of a synagogue in Antioch in, 280n13 expulsion of Jews from Alexandria in, 219–​220, 223n152 Samaritan revolt in, 289, 291 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited John Zonaras, on the Copper Market synagogue, 268 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Jonah, 52, 55 Joseph of Arimathea, 225, 338 Joseph of Tiberias, 91, 147–​154, 186, 346 historicity of, 150–​151 modeled after Paul in Acts, 150 Josephus, Flavius, 22, 70, 195n39, 202, 352n49, 355–​356, 382 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Jovian, 90n53, 226 Judah (patriarch, son of Hillel), 148–​149, 381n185, 384 Judas Kyriakos, Story of, 266–​267 Julian (emperor) anti-​Nicene rescript and, 181

Christian practices renounced by, 112 elevation of patriarchs to senatorial rank and, 228n174 possible spuriousness of Letter 51 (to Jews) of, 112 proposal to rebuild Jerusalem temple by, 189, 191n12, 355n65 relief from taxation promised to Jews by, 75, 112–​113, 170–​171 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Julian (Samaritan royal pretender), 288–​291 Justasas, 290 Justin I, 282–​283, 285, 326–​327 Justin II, 268–​269, 382 Justina, 115–​116, 120–​123 Justinian codification of Roman law into the Codex Justinianus by, 283 conversion of all synagogues to churches desired by, 294–​298 earthquakes during the reign of,  286–​87 John of Ephesos sent to make converts in Asia Minor by, 300–​303 land transfers from churches to all non-​orthodox prohibited by, 307–​308 laws “of the Hebrews” abolished by, 285n36 laws pertaining to Jews of, 284–​285, 299–​300, 307–​314,  397–​99 contrasted with those of Theoderic, 317 efficacy of, 340 plague outbreaks during reign of, 286, 299–​303, 307, 314 program against non-​orthodox persons of, 283, 285–​287, 289–​292, 298, 300, 307–​308 Prokopios’s criticism of, 284–​286, 296



Index of Persons, Places and Subjects regulation of Jewish reading and interpretation of Scriptures by, 308–​314 retribution against Jews for support of Arians in the battle of Naples by, 295 Roman law and orthodox Christianity fused by, 292–​93 Samaritans suppressed by, 284, 288–​292

  Kelibia, 13, 70, 277n7, 297 Kollyridians, 369n131 Kyparissa, 19   Laodikea, 286, 305–​306 Council of, 369 Late Antique Little Ice Age (LALIA), 299 Law, Jewish contemporary interpretation of, 391 manufacture of mixed fibers prohibited by, 103 on marriage contracts, 394–​97 See also deuterosis, as reference to the Mishnah; Mishnah Law, late Roman attacks by Jews on other Jews who become Christians prohibited by, 91–​94,  98–​10 boundaries between Jews and Christians demarcated in, 86–​87,  91 Christian theological principles and,  80–​81 construction of new synagogues prohibited by, 227–​230, 242–​ 244, 246, 270–​271, 307, 336 conversion to Judaism and, 94–​99,  152–​53 disinheritance of converted Jews and Samaritans prohibited by, 251

455

exemptions of Christian clerics from decurial service affirmed by, 90, 166 exemptions of Jewish clerics from decurial service affirmed by, 86, 88–​91,  179 exemptions of Jewish clerics from decurial service rescinded by, 118–​ 119, 169–​170 feigned conversion by Jews to evade debt or legal charges penalized by, 165–​166 gatherings of dissident Christians criminalized in, 86, 128, 168, 232, 253, 403 gatherings of traditionalists criminalized in, 86, 182, 403 insincere converts’ return to Jewish practices allowed by, 233–​235 marriage between Jews and Christians and, 102–​106, 109, 131, 146 marriage laws and customs of Jews prohibited by, 145–​146 obligation of Jews to serve as decurions affirmed by, 89, 169, 172, 184, 257, 299–​300, 326–​327,  342 participation of dissident Christians and traditionalists in civic life restricted by, 285 participation of Jews in civic life restricted by, 257, 285 pertaining to dissident Christians and traditionalists, commonalities of in, 86 possession of enslaved Christians by all non-​orthodox prohibited by, 285 possession of enslaved Christians by Jews prohibited by, 321, 342–​43, 285, 293, 347 privileges of patriarchs in Palestine affirmed by, 165–​66, 177, 180

456

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Law, late Roman (cont.) protection of synagogues affirmed by, 227, 242, 246, public entertainments and theatre prohibited by, 248–​249 purchase of any non-​orthodox enslaved persons by Jews prohibited by, 101, 285, 293, 347 purchase of enslaved Christians by Jews prohibited by, 229–​230, 236, 243,  342–​43 rhetoric of demon possession, madness and illness in, 87–​88 rights of dissident Christians and traditionalists to serve in State Services denied by, 189 rights of Jewish merchants to set prices in markets affirmed by, 163 rights of Jews to bring lawsuits denied by, 250–​251 rights of Jews to serve in State Services (militiae) denied by, 237–​239, 250 rights of the patriarchs to collect funds rescinded by, 170–​172, 252 rights of the patriarchs to collect funds restored by, 178 second baptism criminalized in, 85–​86, 181, 213n115, 232 seizure of synagogues prohibited by, 241–​42, 245–​46,  294n77 subjection of Jews to Roman law affirmed by, 146, 166–​168 summoning Jews to court on Shabbat and festivals prohibited by, 57, 213–​214,  271 See also circumcision: of enslaved males, by Jews; prohibitions against Law, Samaritan, 168 Leptis Magna, 13, 297 Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews authenticity of, 53–​54, 64–​66

authorship of, 53–​54 charges of Jews hiding weapons in synagogue in, 44–​46, 54, 57–​58, 64–​65, 67, 71 disingenuousness of, 54 Evodius and, 210 Exodus account in, 50 family divisions described in, 346 Gregory of Tours and, 330 Jewish violence against Christians recounted in, 46, 218 laws against anti-​Jewish violence and, 57–​58,  66 Life of Barsauma and, 200 mass conversion recounted in, 43–​56, 64, 66, 88, 151, 179n236–​237, 239, 273–​274, 320, 329–​330, 337, 344–​ 347, 354, 405 rabbis’ absence from, 389 relation to demotion of Gamaliel VI and, 43–​44n3,  230–​31 rhetorical strategies of, 59–​65 Sabbath law and, 391 St. Stephen’s relics and, 43–​44, 62–​63 stoning as form of punishment in, 93 summary of, 43–​52 synagogue destruction recounted in, 47, 54–​55, 58–​60, 66–​72, 190, 197n48, 200, 206, 224, 242, 271–​272, 307, 320–​321, 323, 329–​330,  333 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Libanios, 7n18, 21, 29, 130, 141n39 correspondence with the patriarch in Palestine of, 136–​37, 144–​145 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Life of Barsauma. See Barsauma; Index of Ancient Sources Cited Limyra, synagogue at, 12–​13, 115n3, 277n7, 303–​305 Litorius, 72n135



Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Lucianus, 43n3 Luni, 333–​334 Lydia, 300, 378 Lypiae, 350   Maccabees, 201, 391n232 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Magnus Maximus, 84, 120, 122–​123, 133, 137, 156 “maior(es)”, 92, 211, 360–​361 “maior(es) civitatis”, 360n87, 367 “maior(es) Iudeorum”, 212n109, 229, 233, 235, 360–​361 Majorca, 44, 50, 63n98, 67n110, 74n146, 331, 346, 361 Manichaeans, restrictions against, 57n80, 77–​78, 116, 119–​20, 127, 172, 181–​ 182, 211, 243, 257–​258, 285, 293 Mannine, 366, 368, 377 Marcellina, 131, 133 Marcian, 276–​277 Marciana, 203–​204 Mark the Deacon, 174 See also Porphyry of Gaza Marnas, temple of, 174–​175, 305, 303 marriage between Jews, 350 between Jews and Christians, 100, 102–​106, 109, 131, 146, 277n4, 347 contract for, from Antinoopolis, 222, 348–​349, 394–​397 incestuous, 299 prohibition of Jewish customs for, 145–​147,  345n8 Marseilles, 328, 330–​331, 334 Mary (mother of Jesus) images of used to consecrate synagogues as churches, 338–​339 venerated as “Mother of God,” 232, 241, 254 Matrona (daughter of Rabbi Judas), 388, 399 Meletius, 26n92, 49–​52

457

Memnon, 254–​255 menorah, menorot, 14n52, 16, 19, 146n155, 156n190, 190, 197, 221, 281, 297, 303–​306, 351, 374–​376 Merobaudes, 115, 120, 156–​157 messianic episodes, Jewish, 255, 264–​65, 343, 353–​358, 361 See also Barsauma; Crete messianic episodes, Samaritan, 291 See also Samaritan revolts Metra, 222, 397 mikveh/​mikvaot, 304 Milan edict (313 CE) in, 96, 99 Jewish inscriptions in, 18, 221 synagogue possibly destroyed in, 134n110 Theoderic and Jews in, 318–​319 Miletus, 280, 380n177 “militia(e)” exclusion of Jews from (see Law, late Roman: rights of Jews to serve in State Services denied by) Minorca Byzantine church remains in, 67–​68 Byzantine re-​establishment of control (534 CE) in, 74 Gamaliel VI and, 237 mosaics in, 69–​70 possible location of Jewish synagogue on,  66–​71 regional Jewish networks and, 361 St. Stephen’s relics in, 44, 62–​63 Vandal invasions of, 73–​74 See also Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews Mishnah, 24, 28–​29, 391n232 See also deuterosis, as reference to the Mishnah Montanus, 77, 168, 301 Monteverde, catacomb of, 8n21, 18n65, 306, 373n145, 378nn162–​163, 379n171 See also catacombs, Jewish, at Rome

458

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Mopsuestia, synagogue at, 12, 312n158 Moses (messianic pretender on Crete), 255, 354–​356 Myndos, 13, 363n99, 365 Myrina, 367   Nabratein, 303n122 names, as indicator of shifts in Jewish self-​identification, 383–​387 Naples Gregory the Great affirms right of Jews to celebrate holidays in, 336 Jewish inscriptions in, 157n93, 349, 350n6, 379, 388 Jews’ defense of city against Byzantine forces and, 295, 349, 353 regional Jewish networks and, 361–​362 Narbonne, 10n32, 335n74, 338 Nasas, 357–​358 Nestorios, 24, 233, 241, 253–​256, 258, 266 Nevşehir, 351, 362, 365 Nicaea, Council of, 40, 76, 99n82, 100, 112 Nicene Creed, 76, 149 Nicene, definition of, 40 See also homoousios; homoousian Nikeas, 289–​291 North Africa Donatists in, 59, 181, 212–​213 inscriptions in, 11–​12, 20, 274n152, 277, 344, 373 synagogue sites in, 13, 191, 201–​202, 284n34, 297 Vandals in, 73, 282 violence between Christians and Jews in, 209–​210 Novatian(2), 78, 125, 243, 253, 403  Odovacer, 315 Onias IV, 202 Orestes, 215–​220, 222, 225, 231, 352 Orleans, 313, 332–​333, 340, 383

Orosius, 44, 58, 62–​63, 67, 71n130 Osrhoene, 128, 130 Ossius of Cordova, 100n85 Ostia, synagogue at, 13–​14, 16, 70, 154n183, 277 Ostrogoths, 7, 276, 279, 315, 324–​25, 340, 353 Oxyrhynchus, 380   Padua, 119, 154n181, 172 “pagani.” See traditional Mediterranean religions, practitioners of paganism, critique of category of, 6–​7n18 Palermo, 333, 334n68, 338–​339 Palestine attacks on synagogues in, 198 earthquakes in, 286n43 Eudokia and, 192, 265 Greek language in, 36 Hebrew language and, 23n85, 312–​313, 373 Jewish revolt in mid-​fourth century in, 352 mosaics in, 69–​70 plague outbreak (541 CE) in, 301–​302 rabbinic traditions in, 3, 24–​26, 35, 89n47, 92, 167, 252, 396–​397, 400 textile industry in, 107n113 Pamphylia, 173, 349n29 Passover, 285n36, 345n8 See also Pesach patriarch(s), Jewish absence of, from the Letter of Severus, 237 adjudication of civil disputes by, 166–​167 authority over Jewish clerics of, 89n47, 179–​181 cessation of the office of, 359–​62 collection of funds for, 112, 117, 178–​ 179, 252–​253 correspondence with Libanios of, 29, 136,  144–​45



Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

extent of authority of, 161–​162, 178–​ 181, 358–​362 height of influence of, 144–​145, 157 in narratives of Jewish autonomy, 31 invoked in tomb violation formulas, 157–​158 law criminalizing public insults of, 164 senatorial rank of, 157, 228, 252 See also Gamaliel VI; Libanios Paul (apostle), eschatological scenarios for conversion of the Jews and, 6, 62, 75, 78 Paul (Nicene bishop), 126, 234–​235 Paulina, 121 Pentecost, baptism and, 55–​56, 328–​330 Pergamom, 13 Peristeria, 353–​354 Pesach, 254n64, 355 See also Passover Peter (bishop of Terracina), 334–​336 Peter (of Cagliari), 338–​339 Petra, 195 Petrus of Grado, 273–​275, 344 Phatir, 331 Philippus, 198–​199, 238–​239 Philo of Alexandria, 22, 311n156 Philostorgios, 126, 129 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Photinian(s), 116, 126, 253, 258 Phrygia, 10, 77, 288, 300, 379n171, 384n200, 388, 394 Pisidia (Asia Minor), 173 plague, 4, 41, 173, 276, 286, 299–​303, 307, 314, 337–​338, 340, 344, 380 Plovdiv, synagogue at, 12n40, 13, 14, 16, 277 Pola, 19 Porphyry (bishop of Gaza), 23, 28, 59n87, 72, 174–​175, 200, 305 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited (Life of Porphyry of Gaza)

459

Porto, 13 presbytera, presbyteros. See presbyter(s) presbyter(s), Christian, 369 women titled as, 368–​369 presbyter(s), Jewish, 165, 166n29, 179, 309, 364 diaspora equivalent of rabbis as, 89n47, 389n222, 390n224 women titled as, 364–​369 Priene, synagogue at, 12–​14, 16, 19, 115n3, 277, 303, 305 priests, Jewish, 89n47, 90, 179n89, 369n134 “primates (Iudeorum),” 140, 216, 252 Priscillianists, 59, 170, 182, 189, 211, 253, 258 Prokopios Justinian criticized by, 284–​286, 296 Justinian’s abolition of Jewish law recounted by, 285n36 revolt against praetorian prefect Solomon recounted by, 298 Samaritan Revolt (529 CE) and, 287–​ 288, 290–​292 support of Jews for Arians at battle of Naples recounted by, 295 See also Boreium, synagogue at destroyed by Justinian; Index of Ancient Sources Cited “propinqua” (of Theodorus of Minorca), 45, 48 proselytes, Jewish, 94n66, 99n80 proselytizing, proselytism by Christians, 75, 165n27 by Jews, 103–​104, 111, 152, 231, 236n209 See also conversion of Jews; gender and conversion Pulcheria Attikos and, 232–​233 Copper Market church on site of a synagogue in Constantinople and, 268–​270

460

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Pulcheria (cont.) devotion to St. Stephen of, 231–​232 devotion to Mary as “Mother of God” of, 240–​241, 254–​255, 268 Gamaliel VI and, 229–​230, 252 imperial household controlled by, 82, 225–​226,  232 John Chrysostom and, 233 Nestorios and, 253–​254 power struggles with Eudokia and implications for Jews of, 226, 239–​241, 266, 357 Theodosios II and, 225–​226, 240–​241, 255 virginity vow of, 226, 232–​233, 241, 253–​254 Purim, as occasion for Jews mocking Christians, 190, 206–​207, 271, 353, 404 quaestor, imperial, roles in drafting legislation, 82 See also Cynegius, Maternus; Cassiodorus   Rabbat Mo’ab, 196, 199–​200 Rabbi Abundantius, 388, 399 Rabbi Akiba, 390 Rabbi Eleazar b. Azariah, 390 Rabbi Joshua b. Hananiah, 390 Rabbi Judas, 388, 399 Rabbi Mattiah b. Heresh, 390 Rabbi Meir, 390 Rabbi Samuel, 388 rabbis in diaspora sources, 388–​390 performing funeral lamentations at Venosa, 376–​377, 389, 399 spread into diaspora in late antiquity of, 399–​401 term absent in Theodosian Code for, 389 travel to the diaspora in rabbinic sources of, 390–​391 See also presbyter(s), Jewish: diaspora equivalent of rabbis as

rabbinic literature lack of relevance for the study of the diaspora,  24–​25 rabbinic traditions, in the diaspora, 391–​399 Rabbula, 56, 191, 214–​215 Randanini, catacomb of, 8n21, 390 See also catacombs, Jewish, at Rome Ravenna absence of archaeological evidence for Jews in, 278 conflict between Jews and Christians under Theoderic in, 322–​323 Gamaliel VI’s loss of support at, 231 Jewish petitions to Honorius in, 233, 235 “maiores” in, 360–​361 “rebbites.” See rabbis Regium, 129n91 Rome Christian historiography of, 22 Gregory the Great on Jews in, 338 Jewish burial practices in, 1, 9, 18 Jewish inscriptions from, 10, 15, 49n40, 277, 306, 371n138, 374, 378n163, 379n172, 386n208, 393n241 Jewish revolts against, 28–​29, 352 rabbinic travels to, 390 regional Jewish networks in, 361–​362 synagogue destruction in, 133–​135, 320, 322–​323 women with titles of synagogue officers in, 364 Rosh Hashanah, 135 Rufina of Smyrna, 362n91, 368n130, 370 Rufinus (praetorian prefect), 141–​143, 159–​160n1, 162–​164,  173 Rusguniae, 203   Sabbath decrees relating to, 57, 70, 213–​214, 225, 236–​237, 271, 284n34, 294n77



Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

sabbath-​house(s), 191, 193, 195–​196, 198–​199,  214 See also synagogue(s) Sabbatios, 78 sacrifice, banning of, 86, 89n45, 111, 127–​128, 138, 162, 182n100, 188, 250, 257 Sadducees, Sadducean, 309–​310, 398 Salsa (St.), 191, 201–​202, 272 Samaritans civic service obligations and, 299–​300,  327 end time speculations during fifth century among, 354 forced conversions to Christianity and, 5, 75, 77–​78, 80, 258–​259, 403 incentives for conversion to Christianity and, 127 Justinian’s suppression of, 284, 288–​292 land sale restrictions regarding, 287 maritime transport obligations and, 139, 142 prohibitions against service in imperial administration by, 257, 365 restriction of inheritance rights of, 251, 287 revolts by, 287–​292, 352, 405 Sabbath laws and, 122 See also Julian (Samaritan royal pretender); Justasas Samosata, 193–​194 Sanhedrin, 89n47, 359n81 Sanitja, 68 Saranda (Anchiasmon), 13, 164, 273, 277, 297, 350–​351, 362 Sardis excavation of, 16 Jewish inscriptions from, 9–​10, 154–​ 155n183, 374, 379, 388n212 synagogue in, 12–​14, 17n64, 70, 277, 303, 307 Scythopolis (Beth She’an), 105, 107, 148, 287–​289

461

Sebastopolis (Sulusaray), 351–​352, 362, 364n104, 374n149 Septuagint, 308, 310, 314, 398 Sergius, 191, 204–​205 Severus. See Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews shalom, in inscriptions, 220, 373–​375,  387 Side, 13, 371 Simeon Stylites, 205, 244–​247, 264, 272 Sisebut, 404–​405 Sisinnios, 253–​254 slaves Jewish sheltering of, 104–​105 slaveholders, slaveholding, Jewish restrictions on, 100–​102, 129–​130, 228–​239, 233, 235–​236, 243, 270–​ 271, 285–​286, 293–​294, 317, 321, 335, 342–​343, 347, 358 See also circumcision: of enslaved males, by Jews; prohibitions against Sokrates of Constantinople Attikos’s healing and conversion of a paralytic Jew recounted by, 185–​187,  269 conflicts between Jews and Christians in Alexandria recounted by, 352–​353 “cunctos populos” decree of Theodosios I recounted by, 125 expulsion of Jews in Alexandria recounted by, 2, 215–​219, 222, 224–​225, 231, 272 general lack of interest in Jews of,  21–​22 Hypatia’s murder recounted by, 217, 225 Jewish man who became a Novatian recounted by, 78 Jewish man who deceitfully sought conversion to Christianity recounted by, 234–​235

462

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Sokrates of Constantinople (cont.) Jews mocking Christians in Syria recounted by, 190, 207 mass conversion of Jews on Crete recounted by, 255–​256, 353–​356 Novatian sympathies of, 403n2 on the piety of Pulcheria, 225–​226 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited So’n Bou, 68, 70 Sophia of Gortyn, 350, 363 Sozomen general lack of interest in Jews of,  21–​22 Gratian’s “edict of toleration,” in, 116 omission of Sokrates of Constantinople’s episodes on Jews by, 21–​22 minimal acceptance of Christ by Jews in, 22n83, 273, 344, 382 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited spolia. See stones, re-​use of Stephen (St.) anti-​Judaism of cult of, 265–​266 churches named for, 191, 214 connection with demotion of Gamaliel VI of, 237 Eudokia’s devotion to, 265–​266 Hippo basilica and, 72 miracles attributed to, 44n4, 72 Pulcheria’s devotion to, 231–​232 relics of, 43–​44, 58, 60–​64, 67, 71n130, 72, 151, 231, 237 Stilicho, 160–​161, 164–​165, 171–​173, 178, 181, 187, 189, 207 Stobi, synagogue at, 12n40, 13, 14n51, 115n3, 270, 273, 277, 296 stones, re-​use of, 17–​18, 19n73, 67, 202n73, 303–​307 stoning in accounts of ancient violence, 93, 200, 207, 217, 289, 328, 330, 346

of Barsauma, by Jews, 196 as biblical punishment for apostasy, 93 of Christians on Minorca, by Jewish women, 46, 71, 330 of Jews, by heavenly troops, 261, 356 of Jews who became Christians, by other Jews, 87, 91–​93, 98n79 Sukkoth, redemptive gathering in Jerusalem during, 26n92, 261, 265n111, 267, 356–​357 Sulusaray. See Sebastopolis “superstitio,” 88n42, 111, 128, 167, 169, 211 Symmachus (Roman senator), 118, 120–​122,  137 Symmachus (“scholasticus Iudeus” in court of Theoderic), 326–​327, 353 synagogue(s), Jewish as demon-​filled in Christian rhetoric, 135–​136 attacks on Ambrose and, 2–​3, 132–​137, 154, 184, 197n48, 246–​247, 268–​269, 272, 320, 333 at Amida, by Sergius, 191, 204–​205 anti-​traditionalist legislation as justification for, 182–​183 Barsauma and, 190–​191, 193, 195–​ 201, 206, 244, 272, 297n91 bishops’ support for, 5, 135–​136 at Caesarea, by Marciana, 204 at Callinicum, 2–​3, 132–​136, 142, 144, 183, 320 by Christians burning, 2, 47, 54, 56–​58, 133n106, 134–​136, 197, 205, 236, 279–​280, 319, 322–​23 at Daphne, 280 earthquakes and, 15, 113 frequency of, 154, 324, 361 Gamaliel VI and, 86n37, 155n185 Gregory of Tours’s accounts of, 330, 332–​333 justified by Jewish attacks on Christian sites, 132–​135



Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

on Minorca, 47, 54–​55, 58–​60, 66–​ 72, 190, 197n48, 200, 206, 224, 242, 271–​272, 307, 320–​321, 323, 329–​330,  333 at Rabbat Mo’ab, 196–​201 Ravenna and, 322–​323 rhetoric of, 205–​206 at Saranda, 164, 350–​351 strategies and methods for, 155, 197 Theoderic’s condemnation of, 319–​321,  324 Theodosios I and, 131–​135, 142, 246–​247,  333 at Tipasa, by St. Salsa, 191, 201–​202,  272 churches on the sites of, 86n37, 155n85, 191, 215, 219, 242, 268, 272–​273, 276, 294–​296, 301, 303–​307, 310, 350–​351,  381 in disuse after late fifth century, 277 located by the sea, 70 modest sizes of, 336 soldiers housed in, 114–​115 term relinquished by Jews in favor of “holy place,” 371–​373 too close to churches, 335–​336 See also Law, late Roman: construction of new synagogues prohibited by; Law, late Roman: protection of synagogues affirmed by; Law, late Roman: seizures of synagogues prohibited by Synesios, 382, 391 Synod of Agde, 338   Talmud, 24, 27–​29, 140, 265, 357,  390–​91 See also deuterosis as reference to the Mishnah; Mishnah; rabbinic literature: lack of relevance for the study of the diaspora Taranto, 11, 347, 375, 383, 386–​387 Tarragona, 349n31, 388n214

463

Tatianus, Flavianus Eutolmios, 131, 137, 141–​144 Telesinus (Jewish associate of Gelasius), 327 temple(s) Jewish in Jerusalem, built by Solomon, 196, 197n47, 260, 356 of Onias, 202, 352 see also Boreium; Julian (emperor): proposal to rebuild Jerusalem temple traditionalist attacks on, 201–​203 prohibitions on, 111, 119, 182 see also Gaza; Marnas, temple of as synonym for synagogue, use of, 196–​ 97, 296, 372n140 terminology, choices of, 36, 40–​41 Terracina, 334–​336 Theoderic, 278–​279, 295n79, 315–​324, 326–​327, 340, 353 Theodoret, 21, 116, 122–​123, 131–​132n102, 139n130, 227n169 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited Theodorus (of Minorca), 44–​45, 48–​ 50, 61, 64, 71, 151n171, 213, 331, 345–​346 Theodosios I Ambrose and, 131–​135, 138, 143, 161–​162, 179n87, 184, 246–​247, 269n128, 333 comparison with laws of Justinian pertaining to Jews, 284, 313, 345 laws pertaining to Jews authorized by, 56, 129–​131, 139, 143–​146, 284, 313, 345 Nicene orthodoxy promoted by, 79, 123–​129, 137, 139, 324 prohibition of sacrificial rites by, 127, 138 synagogue destructions and, 131–​135, 142, 246–​247, 333

464

Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Theodosios I (cont.) traditional Mediterranean religious practices and, 128, 137–​139, 163, 188–​189,  402 Theodosios II Eudokia’s marriage to, 226, 239–​241, 266, 357 expulsion of Jews from Alexandria and, 216 Gamaliel VI demoted by, 360 laws against dissenting Christian sects and, 243, 253, 256–​258 laws pertaining to Jews authorized by, 57, 188, 190, 198–​199, 205–​206, 225, 236, 239, 241–​244, 246–​248, 252, 257–​258, 268, 270–​271, 294n77, 318, 324, 336, 357, 365 Marian devotion and, 254–​255 Nestorios and, 241, 253 public entertainment ban proclaimed by, 248–​249 Pulcheria and, 225–​226, 240–​241, 255 tax legislation and, 252 Theodosian Code and, 83–​84, 199, 235–​236, 242–​243, 256, 264, 283–​ 284, 317, 389 traditional religious practices prohibited by, 257–​258 Theodosios III, 249 Theophanes the Confessor, 231, 233, 268, 352, 382 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited theosebeis, 99n80, 302–​303 See also Caelicoli; God-​fearers Tiberias, 148–​150, 161, 221n142, 221–​ 222n147, 348n28, 352, 379n171 See also Joseph of Tiberias Tipasa, 191, 201–​202 Tosefta, 24, 390 traditional Mediterranean religions, practitioners of abandonment of sites of, 155

attacks on, 195–​196 attacks on sites of, 201–​203, 343, 402 characterization in Christian rhetoric of, 87 Christian opposition to, 5–​7, 58, 71n131, 76, 79n9, 80, 85, 127–​129, 204, 206, 288, 290–​291, 345, 402–​403 conversion to Christianity of, 59n87, 72, 80, 153, 187n112, 300, 302 legislation against, 79, 111, 118–​119, 121, 128, 137, 139, 142–​143, 163, 172, 174, 182n100, 188–​189, 237, 243, 249–​250, 257–​258, 285, 292, 295, 300–​302,  402 compared to legislation pertaining to dissident Christians, 86 compared to legislation pertaining to Jews, 184 reprieve under Julian for, 78, 112–​113 writings by, 21–​22 See also temples: traditionalist Tribigild, 173 Trier, 91, 114–​115, 117, 120, 232 Triwane, 322, 324   unnamed sister-​in-​law of Innocentius, 54 unnamed wife of Innocentius, 51 Urban VIII, 18 Uzalis, 72, 210   Valens, 107n115, 114–​116, 166 Valentinian I, 114–​115, 166 Valentinian II, 80, 115, 120–​123, 137–​139, 143, 303 Valentinian III, 239, 249, 251, 253 Vandals, 73, 74n144, 282, 298, 325 Venosa, 10–​11, 44n8, 221, 227, 313, 347–​ 348, 350–​351, 360, 362, 364, 368, 375, 379, 383, 385–​389, 399 Venus (daughter of Rabbi Abundantius), 388, 399 Verina, 268–​270



Index of Persons, Places and Subjects

Verona, 322 Vettius Agorius Praetextatus, 121 Victor (bishop of Palermo), 255, 315, 338 Visigoths, 55, 325, 341, 403–​404 Vitus, 366–​367 volcanic eruptions, 4, 299, 303, 344   women weavers. See conversion: to Jewish practices: by women weavers in an imperial workshop women with titles of synagogue office, 362–​370

465

women, Christian, with title of “elder,” 368–​369   Yazdgard, 231 Yom Kippur, 135   Zeno (emperor), 279–​280, 290, 315 Zosimos, 21–​22, 122, 159n1, 160, 173n61, 187n114 See also Index of Ancient Sources Cited

Index of Ancient Sources Cited

This index is intended to assist readers seeking to locate the citation of specific inscriptions, laws, and texts. For sources discussed at length, readers should also consult the main index.

Inscriptions CIJ 12 11 (JIWE 2.240), 393n240 611 (JIWE 1.86), 360n87 644 (JIWE 1.2, JIGRE 142), 211n144 696 (JIGRE 144), 221–​222n147 CIJ 2 785 (IJO 232, MAMA III.205), 385n200 787 (IJO 234, MAMA III.237), 385n200 789 (IJO 235A, MAMA III.295), 385n200 793 (IJO 240, MAMA III.607), 385n200 794 (IJO 241, MAMA III.679), 385n200 964, 200n140 CIL 6.1779, 121n37 8.8640 (ILS 1259), 274n152 IJO 1 Ach6, 146n155 Ach16, 348n27 Ach18, 364n100 Ach23, 371n135

Ach24, 10n30 Ach28, 10n30, 19n70 Ach30, 10n30 Ach46, 19n71 Ach47, 378n165 Ach51, 157n196 Ach54, 19n72, 372n140 Ach56, 19n73 Ach57, 10n30 BS2, 10n30 BS3, 10n30 BS16, 10n30 Cre1–​3,  354n61 Cre2, 354n61 Cre3, 350n37, 363nn98–​99, 364n103, 389n222 Mac6, 221n143, 348n26 Mac7, 19n74, 371n135 Mac8, 379n173 Mac9, 379n173 Thr3, 364n103, 389n222 IJO 2 2, 384n199 3, 374n148 5A, 10n28



Index of Ancient Sources Cited 12, 384–​385n199 14, 10n28, 220n140, 302n119, 392n237, 393n241 14A, 10n28, 99n80, 363n96, 392n237 14B, 99n80, 384n195, 386n206, 392n237 15, 10n28, 302n119 16, 10n28, 281n16, 380n176 17, 9n25 20, 371n135 23, 384n199 24, 384n199 25, 10n28, 302–​303n119, 363n98 30, 10n28 31, 9n25 39, 280n15, 281n17, 380n176 41, 10n28, 374n148 43, 362n90 49, 371n135, 378n165 51, 384n199 53–​145,  9n25 54, 379n174 56, 374n148 57A, 384n199 57B, 384n199 59, 384n199 60, 9n25 105–​109, 374n148 147, 10n28 148 (JIWE 1.186), 10n28, 349n31, 388n214 150, 384n199 153, 10n28 158, 371n135 159, 9n25, 351n45 160, 9n25, 374n148 161, 9n25, 364n103, 384–​385n199 162, 384–​385n199 166, 384–​385n199 170, 374n148 178 (JIWE 2.360), 351n48 183, 384n199 184, 374n148, 388n211

188B, 379n170 191A, 379n170 191B, 371n135, 379n170 192–​195, 379n170 197, 379n170 198, 379n170 199C, 379n170 203, 379n170 204, 379n170 206–​209, 379n170 209–​211,  9n25 212 (JIWE 2.183), 374n148 213, 306n139 217, 349n29, 374n148 217–​220,  9n25 219, 371nn135, 136, 384n199 220, 384n199 224–​230,  9n25 225, 363nn96, 98, 384n199 228, 384n199 230, 10n28 232, 9n25, 384n199, 385n200 234, 10n28, 385n200 235A, 10n28, 380n175, 385n200 235B, 10n28, 385n200 237, 380n175 240, 380n175, 385n200 241, 9n25, 380n175, 385n200 242, 9n25 245, 9n25 248, 10n28, 384n199 249, 384n199 252–​57,  351n43 255, 351n43 IJO 3 Cyp3, 372n14 Syr10, 281n18 Syr34, 371n135 JIGRE 1–​21, 220n139 15, 220nn140–​141 16, 220nn140–​141

467

468

Index of Ancient Sources Cited

JIGRE (cont.) 17, 220nn140–​141, 371n135 19, 220nn140–​141 20, 220n140 58, 12n39 142, 221n144, 348n25 143, 221n143, 348n26 144, 221–​222n147, 348n27 145, 348n38 146, 221n147, 348n28, 349n30 148, 221n147, 348n28, 349n30 149, 348n28 150, 221n147, 348n28 151, 221–​222n147, 348n28 JIWE 1 1, 18n68, 221n145 2 (JIGRE 142), 18n68, 221n144, 348n25 4, 18n69 5, 18n69, 364n101 8, 273–​75, 347n19 9, 19n75 14, 273n151 15, 154n183 22, 388n214 26, 157n193 27, 349n31, 350n36 28, 349n34 30, 349n35 33, 379n172 35, 379n172 36, 388n216 37, 379n172 43, 366n113 46, 351n44 47, 386n206 48, 351n44 53, 351n44 56, 351n44 59, 364nn103–​104, 366n113, 389n222 61, 366n111

62, 364nn103–​104, 366n112, 377n159, 389n222 63, 364n102, 366n114 66, 377n159 71, 364n103, 366n115, 389n222 76, 366nn116–​117 77, 366n117 78, 366n117 82, 366n119 82a, 366n119 84, 367n120 85, 350n40, 367n122 86, 360n87, 367n123, 376n158, 388n214 87, 367n121 88, 366n111, 375n153 90, 375n156 103, 386n202 107, 11n33, 366n118 111, 386n203 115, 364n101, 367n124 116, 364n101, 367n124 118, 386n207 118–​133, 386n205 119, 386n205 120, 386n207 124, 386n205 125, 386n205 127, 386n207 130, 386n206 145, 156n187, 392n236 148, 392n233 149, 392n233 156, 11n37 159, 11n37 161, 11n37 163, 389n222 170, 386n204 178, 11n37 179, 11n37 183, 349n31, 388n214 185, 375n151



Index of Ancient Sources Cited

186 (IJO 2.148), 349n31, 388n214, 389n217 189, 10n32 307, 389–​90n223 JIWE 2 2, 378n163 24, 364nn103, 106 33, 373n145, 379n163 42, 364nn101, 106 44, 378n162 53, 373nn145–​146 58, 373n145 91, 386n206 92, 373n145 108, 378n162, 379n171 112, 378n162, 379n171 153, 373n145 161, 373n145 177, 67 183 (IJO 2.212), 373nn145–​146, 379n170 186, 373n145, 374n148 193, 373n145 203.xviii, 373n145 233, 379n170 251, 364n101 307, 389–​90n223 360 (IJO 2.178), 351n48 401, 9n23 530, 9n23 535, 373nn145–​146 539, 9n23, 373nn145–​146 543, 18n67 544, 18n67 545, 18n67, 373n145 546, 373n145 547, 18n67 549, 18n67 550, 9n23, 373nn145–​146 551, 9n23 559, 379n171 560, 373n145 562, 9n23

577, 364n101 578, 378n163 579, 378n163 596, 373nn145–​146 Laws Codex Justinianus (CJ) 1.3.10, 224n157 1.3.54, 293n72 1.4.7, 168n37 1.5.3, 173n57 1.5.12, 327n47 1.5.17, 287nn47, 49, 288n54 1.5.21, 292n69 1.7.4, 251n52 1.9.2, 284n32 1.9.4, 114n1 1.9.7, 105n107, 145n151 1.9.8, 311n154 1.9.9, 163n19 1.9.12, 182n102 1.9.15, 227n170 1.9.18, 294n77, 365n109 1.10.1, 229 n179, 236n210 1.10.2, 285n40, 342n3 1.11.6, 243n17, 294n77 1.19.13, 213n116, 214n118 1.27.1.2, 339n85 1.55.8, 212n113 2.58.2, 292n66 3.1.14, 292n65 Codex Theodosianus (CTh) 1.1.2, 90n52 1.1.5, 83n28, 382 2.1.10, 147n158, 166n31, 228n178, 311n154, 359n79, 360nn85–​86 2.8.19, 214n118 2.8.20, 139n132 2.8.22, 214n118 2.8.23, 214n118 2.8.25, 214n118 2.8.26, 213n116, 271 3.1.5, 88n42, 129n90

469

470

Index of Ancient Sources Cited

Codex Theodosianus (CTh) (cont.) 3.7.2, 131n97, 146n154, 347n21 4.2.7, 103n98 7.8.2, 114n1 8.8.3, 122n46 9.16.1–​2, 111n125 9.36.1, 84n33 9.38.3, 122n46 9.38.7, 122n46 9.40.22, 226n166 9.45.2, 73n138, 156n26, 183n104, 233n202 10.19.15, 103n98 10.20, 106n112, 153n179 10.20.2, 107–​108n115, 108n116, 153n179 10.20.3, 107–​108n115, 108n119 10.20.6, 107–​108n115, 108nn117–​118 10.20.7, 107–​108n115, 108n117, 153n179 10.20.8, 105n109, 107n113, 107–​108n115, 108nn116–​117, 153n179 10.20.9, 107–​108n115, 108n117, 153n179 10.20.10, 103n98, 107–​108n115, 108n120 10.21.1, 107–​108n115, 108n121 10.21.2, 107–​108n115, 108n21 10.21.3, 108n121 12.1, 119n25, 170n44 12.1.59, 90n53 12.1.99, 90n53, 118n23 12.1.115, 119n27 12.1.119, 169n39 12.1.121, 119n27 12.1.157, 169n41 12.1.158, 169n39, 179n90, 342n2, 365n107 12.1.163, 172n55 12.1.164, 172n54 12.1.165, 172n52, 342n1 12.5.2, 119n26 13.5.28, 139n131 15.5.5, 88n42, 248n38 15.14.7, 84n33

16.1.2, 123n53 16.1.4, 122n45 16.2.3, 168n36 16.2.5, 89n45 16.2.31, 224n157 16.2.46, 249n42 16.2.47, 249n42 16.5.3.4, 129n89 16.5.5, 117nn14, 18 16.5.6.2, 126nn70, 72, 127n73 16.5.7, 127n74 16.5.11, 128n83 16.5.12, 128n84 16.5.13, 128n85 16.5.15, 122n45 16.5.17, 129n87 16.5.22, 162n11 16.5.25, 162n13, 168n38 16.5.26, 162n14 16.5.29, 163n17, 177n80 16.5.30, 173n57 16.5.31, 164n22 16.5.32, 164n22 16.5.34, 168n38 16.5.36, 168n38 16.5.37, 181n97 16.5.38, 181n93 16.5.39, 182n98 16.5.41, 257n77 16.5.42, 237n216 16.5.43, 182n99, 207n90, 208n94, 224n157 16.5.44, 88n42, 208n92 16.5.46, 224n157 16.5.48, 170n45, 189n6 16.5.49, 190n7 16.5.52, 213n115, 250n45 16.5.54, 213n115 16.5.57, 232n196 16.5.58, 232n197 16.5.59, 243n12 16.5.60, 243n16



Index of Ancient Sources Cited 16.5.62, 249n42 16.5.63, 249n42 16.5.64, 249n42 16.5.65, 253n59 16.5.66, 255n69 16.6.6, 213n115 16.7.1, 95n71, 127n77, 154n181 16.7.2, 119n28, 127n77, 154n181 16.7.3, 119n28, 120n29, 154n181 16.7.7, 249n42, 250n46, 251n52 16.8, 284n30, 317n11 16.8.1, 88nn42, 44, 91–​100, 124n59, 151n172, 212n109, 342–​343n3, 346n15, 359n79, 360nn85–​86 16.8.2, 88nn42, 48, 90n48, 118n23, 165n28, 179n89, 317n12, 359n79 16.8.3, 88n44, 89n45 16.8.4, 88n44, 89n47, 90n49, 179n89 16.8.5, 88n44, 93n63, 95n71 16.8.6, 177n78, 229n179 16.8.7, 87n38, 94, 97, 151n172, 153n175 16.8.8, 139n132, 213n116, 216n124, 313n162, 400n270 16.8.9, 56n71, 125n65, 143n144, 284n33 16.8.11, 164n21, 183n103, 359n79 16.8.12, 56n72, 164n23 16.8.13, 166n29, 317n12, 359n79 16.8.14, 171n4 6, 177n82, 246n32, 359n79 16.8.16, 177n78, 189n6, 237n216, 342n2, 359n79 16.8.17, 178n85, 359n79 16.8.18, 190n8, 207n87, 271n44 16.8.19, 88n42, 95n71, 211n106, 271n143 16.8.20, 56n73, 213n215, 271n139, 294n77, 317n12 16.8.21, 57n79, 198n56, 238nn218–​219, 242n6, 294n77 16.8.22, 86n37, 155n185, 190n10, 227n170, 271n137 16.8.23, 73n138, 212n109, 233n201, 271n140, 360n86

471

16.8.24, 177n81, 237–​238n214, 250n48, 251, 270n135, 342n2 16.8.25, 12n42, 57n79, 199n61, 241n5, 245n30, 293n70, 294n77, 371n139 16.8.26, 57n79, 243n9, 246n31, 271n142, 294n77, 371n139 16.8.27, 57n79, 243n14, 246n32, 371n139 16.8.28, 251n51 16.8.29, 216n124, 252n53, 271n138, 360n63 16.9.1, 88n44, 100n86, 152n173, 229n179 16.9.2, 87n38, 100n88, 101n89, 104n102, 229n179, 342n3 16.9.3, 212n109, 230n183, 271n141, 361n88 16.9.4, 88n42, 230n186, 236n209, 285n39 16.9.5, 243n10, 342n3 16.10.1, 111n126 16.10.2, 111n127, 138n126 16.10.4, 111n128, 138n127, 182n100 16.10.5, 182n100 16.10.6, 111n128, 182n100 16.10.7, 111n129, 127n76, 128n78, 182n100 16.10.8, 128n79 16.10.10, 138n126, 182n100 16.10.11, 138n126 16.10.12, 138n126, 163n16, 182n100 16.10.13, 163n15 16.10.14, 119n26 16.10.17, 172n56 16.10.18, 172n56 16.10.19, 182n99, 207n90, 208n94 16.10.21, 237n215 16.10.22, 188n1, 194n30, 243n11, 257n79 16.10.23, 188n1, 243n15 16.10.24, 57n80, 243n17, 244n18, 294n77 16.11.1, 168n36, 172n56, 182n97 16.11.2, 182n97 16.11.3, 182n97

472

Index of Ancient Sources Cited

Justinian, Novellae 3.1, 268n124 8, 285n37 12, 284n32, 299n105 37, 86n37, 155n185, 276n105, 293n74 45, 293, 300n107 131, 307n146 131.1, 292n68 139, 284n32, 299n106 146, 284, 308–​314, 328, 376n157, 381n186, 382, 397–​399

Sirmondian Constitutions (Sirm.) 4, 88n44, 93n63, 95n71, 100n86, 152n173, 229n179 6, 249n42, 250n46, 270n136, 342n2 12, 182n99, 207n90, 211n105, 224n157 14, 208n94, 224n157 Theodosios II, Novellae 3, 256nn73, 75, 268n124, 294n77, 342n2, 365n108, 371n139

Texts Acts of the Apostles, 7.57–​58, 92n61 Acts of Philip, 78n8 11.5–​8,  296n87 Acts of Thecla, 204 Alaric, Breviary, 130 Ambrose Exhortation to Virginity 2–​8,  64n103 Letters 10.5, 137n122 21.2, 143n143 72.10, 118n21 72.15, 122n42 74.10, 132n103 outside the collection 1 (Letter 74), 131–​132n102 1a, 131n102 11 (Letter 54), 137n124, 269n128 On the Holy Spirit, 117n16 On the Mysteries, 55n66 On the Sacraments, 55n66 Oration for Theodosios, 266n117 Oration for Valentinian, 138n128 Anecdota Syriaca, 301n114 Anonymus Valesianus II, 321, 324, 333n67 81.l.14, 322n31, 323 94, 326 Augustine Against Adversaries of the Law and the Prophets 2.1.2, 398n262 City of God

18.46, 6n17 22.8, 44n4, 72n133 Letters 91.8, 207n90 b. Avoda Zara 9a-​b, 265n108 b. Baba Batra 25a, 392n235 b. Sanhedrin 32b, 390n226 47a, 392n235 97a-​b, 265n108 97b, 265n109, 357n73 99a, 265n108 b. Shabbat 132a, 391n232 b. Sukkah 51b, 196n44 b. Yoma 84b, 391n232 Cassiodorus, Variae Preface, 13, 315n3 1.25, 318n17 2.27, 315n3, 316n8, 317n16 3.45, 316nn8–​9 4.33, 315n3, 316n8, 318n19 4.43, 316n8, 318n19, 319n21 5.37, 316n8 12.25, 299n102 Chronicle of Denis of Tell Mahre, 300n110, 301n112 Chronicle of Edessa, 56, 191, 214–​215 51, 191n11 Chronicle of Marcellinus, 174n63



Index of Ancient Sources Cited

Chronicle of Zuqnin, 287, 299n102, 300nn108–​109 Cicero, On the Nature of the Gods 2.58, 256 Collatio Legum Mosaicarum et Romanorum, 22–​23n84 Consentius Letter*11, 53n60 Letter *12, 53n60 12.13.3–​6,  53n60 2 Corinthians 1:3, 48 Council of Carthage (398), Canon 89, 212n112 Council of Carthage (419), Canon 129, 251n51, 293n70 Council of Laodikea, Canons, 306, 369 11, 369n132 37, 306n140 38, 306n140 44, 369n132 Council of Narbonne, Canons, 335n74 Cyril of Scythopolis, Life of Saba, 287 70–​73,  287n49 Daniel 4:27, 259n84 Deuteronomy 6:22, 192n14 13:7–​10,  92n61 13:12–​17,  197n48 17:2–​5,  92n61 18:18, 355n67, 356 32:28–​30,  195 32:35, 196n41 32:43, 196n41 Dialogue of Timothy and Aquila, 223 Epiphanios of Salamis (Cyprus) Panarion (Medicine Box), 87, 147 30, 3n8, 91n57, 147–​150 30.4.1–​12.9, 147n161 30.11, 150n167 30.11.5, 346n16 49, 369n131

473

79.3.6, 369n131 79.4.1, 369n131 Epistula Luciani (Letter of Lucianus), 43n3 Eusebios of Caesarea Life of Constantine, 23 3.63–​66,  23n86 4.27, 343n3 Evagrius, Ecclesiastical History, 244 1.13, 205n83, 244n20, 245n29 1.20, 240n1 Evodius, On the Miracles of the Holy Stephen, the First Martyr, 44n4 Exodus 15, 70 15:22–​25,  192n17 15:23–​25,  51n49 22:20, 197n48 25–​30,  197n47 Fortunatus, Venantius, Opera Poetica 5.5, 327 Gospel of John, 78, 148, 192–​193 1:19–​34,  193n25 2:1–​11,  193n20 4, 193 6:1–​15,  192n15 9:1–​11,  261n91 20:30, 193n24 21:25, 193n24 Gospel of Luke, 78 2:41–​52,  192n16 2:43–​44,  194n27 4:33–​37, 149n165 5:17–​26, 186n110 8:26–​39, 149n165 9:10–​17,  192n15 9:37–​43a, 149n165 18:15–​17,  201n68 18:18–​30,  260n87 19:46, 296n84 21:5–​6,  200n63 Gospel of Mark, 78 1:6, 194n31 1:21–​28, 149n165 2:1–​12, 186n110

474

Index of Ancient Sources Cited

Gospel of Mark (cont.) 5:1–​20, 149n165 6:30–​44,  192n15 9:14–​29, 149n165 10:13–​16,  201n68 10:17–​31,  260n87 11:12–​14,  193n21 11:17, 296n84 13:1–​2,  200n63 Gospel of Matthew, 78, 148 3:4, 194n31 5:17–​26, 186n110 8:28–​34, 149n165 9:1–​8, 186n110 10:5, 194n29 10:8–​9,  194n29 14:13–​21,  192n15 17:14–​20, 149n165 18:15–​17,  201n68 18:18–​30,  260n87 19:13–​15,  201n68 19:16–​30,  260n87 19:46, 296n84 21:5–​6,  200n63 21:13, 296n84 21:18–​22,  193n21 24:1, 200n63 Gregory of Nazianzos Carmina, 2.1.11, 125n66 Oration 37.22–​23, 126n71 Gregory, bishop of Rome (the Great), Letters 1.34, 334n68, 334n72 1.45, 334n68, 334n70 2.45, 334n68, 335n73, 338n82 2.50, 334n68, 336n76 3.37, 357n76 4.9, 334n68 4.21, 334n68 4.31, 347n18 5.7, 334n68, 337n77

8.23, 334n68, 337n78 8.25, 334n68, 338n81 9.38, 334n68, 338n83 9.105, 347n20 9.196, 334n68, 338n84 9.214, 334n68 9.216, 334n68 13.13, 334n68, 336n75 Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks 5.5, 63n98, 72n135 5.11, 2, 327–​328, 346n17 6.5, 331n56 6.17, 330n55 8.1, 313n161, 332–​333, 383n193 Jeremiah 9.1, 48 John Chrysostom, Against The Jews, 135–​136,  185 2.3.5, 88n42 6.6, 136n116 John Malalas, Chronicle 14, 240n1 15.15, 18n66, 279–​80 16.6, 280n13 18.19, 286n43, 382n189 18.27, 286n43 18.28, 286n44 18.29, 286n43 18.35, 286n43, 288n56, 289n57 18.42, 287n46 18.54, 289n58 18.55, 286n43 18.77, 286n43 18.93, 286n43 18.102, 286n43 18.112, 286n43 18.123–​124,  286n43 John Zonaras, Chronicle, 268 John of Ephesos (also, of Asia) Ecclesiastical History, 301–​302 3.2.44, 300n108



Index of Ancient Sources Cited

3.2.50, 300–​301n110 3.3.36–​37, 300n110 Lives of the Eastern Saints 43, 300nn108–​109 47, 300n110, 301n113 John of Nikiu, Chronicle, 219 84.25–​37,  240n1 84.95–​98, 219n136 89.23, 280n13 (Joseph and) Aseneth, 22n84 Josephus Judean Antiquities 13.66–​67,  202n72 13.70, 202n72 14.256–​258,  70n126 20.97–​98,  356n68 War 7.424–​32,  202n72 Judges 21:5–​11, 197n48 Julian (emperor) Against the Galileans, 49n39 Letter 51, 112–​113, 149n166, 171n46, 252 Letter of Aristeas, 308 Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews, 42–​74, passim 4.1, 62n95 4.2, 62n96, 71n130 5.1, 44n6 6.1–​2,  44n8 6.6, 44n7 7.1–​2,  44n9 8.4, 391n232 8.5, 44n10, 45n11 10.1–​4,  45n12 10.4–​5,  45n13 10.6, 45n14 11.4, 45n15 11.5–​6,  45n16 12–​13,  67n111

12.3, 69n121 12.3–​7,  67n112 12.6, 46nn18–​19 12.8, 57n76 12.10, 46n20, 206n86 13.1–​3,  64n102 13.2, 46nn21–​22 13.3, 46n23 13.7, 47n24 13.11–​12,  47n24 14.1, 69n121 16.1, 47n29 16.4, 48n31 16.8, 48n33 16.14–​15,  345n11 16.16, 48n34 16.18, 48n35 16.20–​17.3,  69n121 17, 56n68 17.1–​3,  49n36 18.1, 49n37 18.3, 49n37 18.5, 66n109, 383n192 19.1, 346n12 19.4–​5,  346n13 19.6, 71n131 19.8–​9,  49n41 19.8–​10,  346n14 20.15, 49n42 20.15–​21,  50n43 21.2, 50n44 22, 56n69 23, 50n46 24.4, 50n47 24.5, 51n48 26.1, 51n50 27.1–​3,  51n51 28.5, 52n54 30.2, 52n55 31.2–​3,  52n56 31.2–​4,  6n17

475

476

Index of Ancient Sources Cited

Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews (cont.) 31.3, 75n1 31.4, 52n57 Letter to Cosme, 254n62 Leviticus 24.14–​16, 92n61 Libanios Letters, 21, 29, 144 914, 136n117 917, 136n117 973, 136n117, 145n150 974, 136n117 1084, 136n117, 144n148 1105, 144n148 1251, 136n117 Oration 30, 130n95, 135n112 Life of Barsauma, 190–​201, 259–​265, 356–​357 3A.1–​6,  194n26 3B.3–​8,  194n28 4.1, 194n29 5.1–​2,  194n31 6.1, 194n32 7.1, 194n33 9.1, 192n15 10.1–​2,  195n34 10.4, 193n25, 194n34 12.1–​3,  192n16 14.1–​4,  192n17 17.1, 195n35 29.1–​6,  192n18 34, 195n36 34.4–​5,  195n40 34–​36,  196n42 36.7, 192n19 37.1–​3,  193n20 38, 196n43 38.2, 196n44 42, 196n46 42.1, 197nn47–​48 42.2, 197n49 42.3–​6,  197n51

44.1–​6,  198n52 52.1–​2,  193n21 64.1–​4,  193n22 80.1–​5,  193n23 83, 259n83 83.4, 259n84 83.21–​24,  259n85 83.26–​30,  259n86 91–​96,  260n88 91.1, 260n89 91.4, 261n90 91.8–​9,  261n92 92.3–​4,  261n93 93.1–​2,  261n94 93.6, 262n95 94.1, 262n96 95.1, 262n97 96.2, 263n98 96.6, 263n99 96.9, 263n100 96.11, 263n101 96.13–​17, 263n102 97, 193n24 Life of Marciana, 203 Life of Porphyry of Gaza, 59n87, 72n135, 174–​175,  200 41, 174n65 42, 174n66 48, 175n69 70–​84,  23n86 76, 305n136 Life of Rabbula, 214–​215 Life of St. Sylvester, 390 Life of Simeon Stylites, 244–​247, 266 121, 244n21, 245nn24–​25, 27 122–​23,  205n83 123, 245nn26, 28 1 Maccabees, 405 2.29–​38, 391n232 2.39–​41, 391n232 2 Maccabees, 391n232, 405



Index of Ancient Sources Cited

3 Maccabees, 405 4 Maccabees, 405 Marcellinus, Chronicle, 174n63, 306n143 Martyrdom of Sts. Perpetua and Felicitas, 204 Martyrdom of St. Salsa, 191, 201–​203 3, 202n71 Origen, Against Celsus, 3.44, 153 Orosius, Paul, Seven Books of Histories Against the Pagans, 63n99 Paulinus, Life of Ambrose, 160 22–​23, 131–​132n102 29.1, 64n103 30, 137n122 32.1, 160n4 Philostorgios, Ecclesiastical History 3.14, 64n100 9.19, 126n68 10.6, 129n86, 129n88 10.7, 123n49 11.5, 129n89 11.7, 173n62 Prokopios Buildings, 296 6.2.21, 296nn86–​87, 381n182 History of the Wars 4.5.1–​10,  74n145 4.14, 298n97 4.14.5–​6, 299n102 4.14.10, 298n98 4.14.13, 298n100 4.14.15, 298n99 4.14.15–​18, 298n101 5.8.41, 295n80, 349n32, 353n55 5.9.1–​7,  278n9 Secret History, 284, 286–​287, 291 11.3, 286n41 11.14, 288n51 11.14–​41,  296 11.15, 296n90

477

11.24, 287n50 11.24–​25,  288n54 11.32, 292n63 11.34, 292n64 28, 345n8 28.16–​19,  285n36 Psalms 9:7–​8, 46, 64 27:10, 193n25 59:11, 58n83 68, 263n100 72, 156n187 128, 156n187 135:9, 192n14 Pseudo-​Philo, Biblical Antiquities, 22–​23n84 Revelation of St. Stephen, 43n3, 231 Romans 9–​11, 6, 75n1 Rufinus, Ecclesiastical History 10.7–​8, 266n117 10.38–​40, 113n136 11.18, 137n124 11.31, 139n129 Sentences of Paul 5.22.3–​4, 94n68, 152n173 Severus of Minorca, Letter on the Conversion of the Jews see Letter of Severus of Minorca on the Conversion of the Jews Siricius (bishop of Rome), Letter to Himerius of Tarragona 2.3, 55n65 Sokrates of Constantinople Ecclesiastical History 2.12.6, 112n130 2.16.7–​16, 112n131 2.33, 353n50 3.20, 113n136 5.1, 78n7 5.2.1, 116n9 5.6.1, 125n66

478

Index of Ancient Sources Cited

Sokrates of Constantinople (cont.) 5.7.1–​2,  125n66 5.9.1–​2,  126n67 5.20, 125n62 5.20.5, 125n64 5.20.6, 125n63 5.22, 55n65 5.25, 139n129 6.11.1–​7,  175n73 6.11.11–​21,  175n73 6.15.1–​3,  176n75 6.18.4–​5,  176n75 7.1.1, 189n3 7.4, 185n109 7.5, 78n7 7.7, 234 7.13, 2n5, 215–​217, 348n22, 371n138 7.13.14, 217n129 7.13.15, 216n126, 217n130, 224n158 7.13.16, 190n9, 207n88, 216n128 7.30, 55n65 7.38, 2n5, 255–​256, 264n107, 353n58 7.38.12, 354n59 Sozomen Ecclesiastical History 1.1.1, 22n83, 344n5, 382n187 1.1.3, 382n187 1.1.5, 382n187 1.1.6, 382n187 1.1.8, 382n187 1.8.3, 110n124 2.1.2–​10, 266n117 2.1.4, 267n119 3.9.3–​4, 112n131 4.7.5, 352n50 7.1.3, 116n9

7.4.3, 123nn51–​52 7.4.5, 125n61 7.4.6, 124n55, 124n60 7.5.1–​3,  125n66 7.6.1, 126n69 7.7.8–​9,  125n66 7.10.4, 126n67 7.17, 129n88 7.25.1–​7, 137n124, 269n128 8.13, 176n74 9.1.2–​3, 225n163 9.1.3–​4, 226n165 9.1.5–​6, 226n167 Story of Judas Kyriakos, 266–​267 Symmachus, Relatio 3, 118n21, 121n39 t. Megillah 2.5, 390n226 t. Sukkah 4, 196n44 Teaching of Jacob for the Newly-​Baptized, 405 Theodoret Ecclesiastical History 1.17, 266n117 5.2.1, 116n10 5.15.1, 123n48 5.17–​18, 137n124 5.24.4.7, 139n130 Theophanes the Confessor, Chronicle, 231n192, 248n37, 268, 3352n50 y. Sukkah 5, 1, 55a-​b, 196n44 Zosimos, New History 4.44.2–​4,  123n48 5.3, 159n1

Index of Modern Authors Cited

Persons cited solely as editors and/or translators are not indexed. Adams, H., 27n94, 53n58, 191n12 Aitken, J., 228n174 Alchermes, J., 17n64, 304n130 Alexander, J., 25n90, 77n3 Alic, M., 23n84 Allen, P., 135n114, 175n72, 176n77 Ameling, W., 8n20, 9–​10, 15n56, 296n87, 349n31, 372, 374, 394n243 Amengual i Batle, J., 43n2, 45n11, 48n35, 49n38, 53n61, 59n85, 62n94, 67n110, 72n132, 74n145 Anderson, B., 31n109 Appelbaum, A., 161n9, 228n174 Ashkelony, B., 200n65 Avi-​Yonah, M., 104n100 Ayres, L., 76n2   Bachrach, B., 103–​104, 105n109, 277n4, 295n79, 295n82, 317nn10–​16, 321, 322n32, 325, 327n49, 341n89, 358n78 Baker, C., 40n131 Barnes, T., 115n8, 174n64 Barnish, S., 315nn2–​3, 316n4, 317n16, 321n29, 322n30 Barnwell, P., 316n3, 333n66 Baron, S., 38–​39, 325n40 Barrier, J., 204n79 Barrow, R., 121n39 Baskin, J., 398n263

Becker, A., 39n127, 153n180 Ben Zeev, M., 2n2, 216n128, 352n49 Ben-​Eliyahu, E., 23n85, 24n88 Berzon, T., 124n54 Bij de Vaate, A., 16n63 Bjornlie, M., 316 Blázquez, J., 69 Bloedhorn, H., 146n155 Blumenkranz, B., 53 Bonesho, C., 207n89 Bonfil, R., 326n46, 405n4 Booth, P., 219n136, 280n14 Botermann, H., 393n242 Boustan, R., 23n85, 165n27 Bovon, F., 39n129 Bowman, S., 104n103 Boyarin, D., 39n127, 153n180 Bracke, W., 321n29 Bradbury, S., 43n2, 44nn4–​5, 45nn16–​ 17, 47n28, 49nn38–​39, 50n44, 53nn58–​61, 54n63, 55n64, 58n82, 59, 62–​63, 65n105, 67n111, 68, 72, 112n134, 113n137, 151n170, 231n191, 239nn220–​221, 329n53, 341n89, 354n63, 391n231 Braun, T., 7n19 Brenk, B., 297n91 Brennan, B., 328n50, 329n53, 331, 333n66 Breukelaar, A., 328n50

480

Index of Modern Authors Cited

Brooten, B., 49n40, 362–​363, 368–​370, 384n200 Brown, P., 39n129, 131n101, 218nn132–​133, 219n134 Brubaker, L., 267n120 Brubaker, R., 34n116 Buchwald, H., 14n54 Burgess, R., 73n139 Burkhardt, N., 9n25, 9n27, 12n41, 14n55, 115n3, 303n123, 307n144 Burridge, K., 355n66   Cameron, Al., 160n6, 173nn59–​61, 174nn63–​64, 176n74, 280n14, 281 Cameron, Av., 232n198, 288n55, 405n4 Caseau, B., 155n184 Castritius, H., 177n80 Cau Ontiveros, M., 70n124, 71, 73n143, 74n146 Cauderlier, P., 105n107, 222nn148–​ 150, 348n23, 394n245, 394n247, 395nn248–​253, 396nn254–​257 Çevik, N., 12n41, 303nn124–125, 304n131 Champion, M., 200n65 Chaniotis, A., 155n184, 393n240, 393n242, 394n243 Chesnut, G., 225n163 Clifford, J., 34n116 Coates, S., 328n50 Cohen, R., 7n19 Cohen, S., 28n98, 388–​389 Colafemmina, C., 350n39, 368n127 Colella, A., 115n3 Connerton, P., 112n132 Cooper, K., 232n198, 247n36 Cracco Ruggini, L., 65n105, 133n106, 221 Cribbiore, R., 6–​7n18, 144 Cross, F., 374n149  Dagron, G., 10n28, 405nn5–​6 Davila, J., 22n84 de Bonfils, G., 228n174 de Clercq, V., 100n85

de Dominicis, M., 229n181 de Lange, N., 282n23, 354n62, 378n169, 405n4 de Palol, P., 68n116, 69, 74n146 de Spagnolis, M., 363n97, 364n104, 389n223 Dein, S., 356n70 Deliyannis, D., 55n66, 325n43, 326n46 Dello Russo, J., 16n60 Delmaire, R., 21n81, 83n27, 85n35, 90n48, 90n50, 91n55, 92, 94n70, 94nn66–​67, 96n76, 98n79, 99n82, 102nn93–​94, 103nn97–​ 98, 104n100, 104n105, 105n109, 107n113, 111n128, 119n26, 121n38, 127n73, 130n95, 139n132, 140nn133–​ 134, 141n139, 145n151, 162n12, 165n25, 169n40, 189n5, 228, 238n218, 242n6, 250n46, 250n50, 283n24, 360n97 Demougeot, É., 171, 178n83, 199n59, 256n73 Denzey Lewis, N., 8nn21–​22, 16n63, 18n65 Déroche, V., 42n132, 405nn5–​6 des Places, É., 123n49 Deutsch, G., 27–​28, 191n12 Dewing, H., 295n81, 298nn98–​100 di Segni, L., 287n48 Dilley, P., 13n49, 151, 225n161, 231n191, 258, 266–​267, 338n84 Donini, D., 404n3 Doran, R., 192n14, 205n83, 244n20, 247 Douglas, M., 87n40 Drake, H., 39n129, 131n101, 154n182 Drews, W., 341n88, 355n65 Drijvers, H., 215nn120–121, 267n118 Drijvers, J., 215n120, 267n118 Dukan, M., 105n107, 222nn148–​150, 348n23, 394n245, 394n247, 395nn248–​253, 396nn254–​257



Index of Modern Authors Cited

Duncan, C., 20n80, 362n93, 363n94, 363n97 Duran Canameras, F., 70n124 Dvorjetski, E., 13n45   Edwards, D., 13n47 Edwards, M., 91n54 Eisen, U., 368nn129–​130, 369nn131–​133 Elbogen, I., 27–​28 Elm, S., 125n66 Engberg, J., 77n3 Eno, R., 53n60, 59n84 Errington, R., 124nn56–​57, 125n61, 127n77 Escribano Pano, M., 51n52, 79n9, 87, 124, 126–​127, 128nn81–​82, 129, 130n94, 131n100, 208n94, 249, 256n76 Eshel, H., 352n49 Eyl, J., 153n177   Falcasantos, R., 59–​61, 64n100, 112n130, 112n132, 115n4, 125n61, 125n66, 126n67, 130n95, 135n114, 147n160, 155n184, 175n70, 269n129 Fantar, M., 13n43, 297n95 Fear, A., 44n5, 63n99 Feissel, D., 10n28 Feldman, L., 96n75, 99n80 Ferguson, E., 55nn65–​67 Festinger, L., 356n70 Festugière, A., 124n60, 382n188 Fine, S., 17n64, 38–​39, 305nn133–​137,  306 Fishman-​Duker, R., 291n61, 327n48, 381n186 Fitzgerald, A., 382n189 Foerster, G., 164n24 Fonrobert, C., 24n88 Fontaine, J., 53n61 Fowden, G., 130n95, 155n184 Frankfurter, D., 80, 188n1, 401

481

Fredriksen, P., 6n17, 7n19, 58, 59n86, 72, 88n43, 209n99, 341n89 Frend, W., 77n3 Frey, J., 20, 158n197, 360–​361n88, 393n241 Fuentes, M., 341n89   Gaddis, M., 154n182, 200 Gager, J., 356n70 Garfunkel, Z., 113n137 Geljon, A., 154n182 George, J., 328n50 Gillett, A., 315n3, 316n5 Ginzburg, C., 39n129, 54n62, 231n191 Goffart, W., 329n53, 330n54, 331n57, 332nn62–​64,  333 Goldberg, C., 67n113, 70n127 Goldberg, P., 69n122 Goodman, M., 25nn90–​91, 161n9, 303n121, 352n49 Goranson, S., 150n168 Graetz, H., 28, 36, 38, 53n58, 191n12, 264–​265 Grébaut, S., 191n13 Greenslade, S., 13n49 Grillet, B., 124n60 Gruber, H., 23n85 Guardia, M., 68n119 Guidoboni, E., 286nn42–​43, 305n132, 306n143 Gunn, J., 299n103   Haas, C., 218nn133–​134, 219, 220n138, 223n152 Hachlili, R., 12n40, 12n42, 13n47, 14n54, 297n91, 297n94, 303n122 Häkkinen, S., 148n162 Hanfmann, G., 14n54 Harkins, P., 135n114 Harper, K., 4n12, 283n28, 286n42, 299nn103–​104, 301n116, 303n120 Harrak, A., 287n45, 299n102, 300n108, 300n110, 301n115

482

Index of Modern Authors Cited

Harries, J., 82n16, 82n19, 82n21, 83nn27–​ 28, 232n198, 315n3 Harvey, S., 198n53, 201n69, 247, 300n108, 301n110, 302n117 Hata, G., 202n73 Heather, P., 315n1 Hedrick, C., 141n139 Heinzelmann, M., 328n50 Helfferich, T., 38n124 Herrin, J., 24n86 Hezser, C., 101, 102n92, 161n9, 390n230 Hillgarth, J., 53n61, 62n94, 68 Hobsbawm, E., 31n109 Hodgkin, T., 315n3, 320n24, 321 Hoffman, R., 112n133 Holum, K., 128, 130n95, 137n124, 138n125, 139n130, 159n1, 160nn1–​3, 173n59, 173n62, 174n64, 175, 176nn74–​77, 188n1, 189, 225n163, 226, 227, 230–​ 232, 233n199, 240, 241nn3–​4, 244–​ 245, 253–​254, 255nn70–​71, 260, 265nn111–​113, 266, 357 Honoré, T., 82, 83nn27–​29, 84, 124, 126n72, 130, 143n142, 169n40 Horbury, W., 220n140, 221n147, 362n93 Horden, P., 286n42, 299n103, 337n79 Horn, C., 344n6 Humphress, C., 283, 292nn65–​67   Ilan,T., 23n84, 216n128, 220n139, 363n97, 379n171, 397n261 Irshai, O., 7n19, 43n3, 203n76, 215n123, 217n131, 219nn134–​135, 222, 224, 225n162, 231n191  Jacobs, A., 42n132, 43n3, 64, 147n161, 150n168, 153n178, 405n5 Jacobs, M., 158n197, 161n9, 228n174 Jones, A., 119n25 Juster, J., 7n19, 53, 81n13, 129n91, 163n20, 169n42, 177n81, 190n9, 191n12, 199, 215n120, 238n219, 268n121, 280, 297,

298n96, 322n29, 333n65, 354n64, 381n182   Kaegi, W., 42n132, 405n4, 405n6 Kamesar, A., 398n263 Kattan Gribetz, S., 207n89 Katz, S., 335n74, 338n80, 358n78 Kaufmann, T., 38n124 Kearley, T., 283n24 Keely, A., 328n50, 331n58 Kelly, C., 232n198 Kertzer, D., 38n123 Kinney, D., 17n64 Koch, D.-A., 393nn241–​242, 394n243 Kofsky, A., 200n65 König, I., 321n29 Kraabel, A., 14n54 Kraeling, C., 13n45, 291n62 Kraemer, R., 7n19, 16nn62–​63, 22n84, 43n1, 49n40, 59n87, 64n101, 93n64, 95n72, 96n74, 99n80, 151n172, 152n174, 153nn177–​178, 182n102, 204n79, 211n107, 229n179, 290n59, 303n119, 345n9, 346n15, 350n37, 353n58, 362nn91–​93, 363nn94–​99, 364n102, 364n105, 368nn128–​130, 379n171 Kraft, R., 223n152, 340n86 Krautschick, S., 317n16, 318n21 Kroll, J., 9 Kurtzer, J., 23n84, 89n47, 309n148, 309n150, 314, 364n104, 373nn144–​ 145, 377n162, 389n220, 389n223, 390n225–​226, 392n237, 394n244, 396n259, 398–​399, 400n270   Lafferty, S., 295n79, 315n3 Lahey, L., 223n152, 340n86 Lander, S., 5n15, 12n38, 39n128, 44n4, 201n70, 202–​203, 204n79, 297n94 Langer, G., 24n89, 390n229



Index of Modern Authors Cited

Lapin, H., 25n90, 161n9, 163n18, 358n79, 388n211 Larson, S., 155n184 Lathoud, D., 268n121, 269n131 Le Bohec, Y., 11–​12, 274n152, 371n137, 374n148, 388 Leone, A., 304n130 Leppin, H., 116n9, 124n60, 139n130 Levenson, D., 112nn133–​134, 113n136 Levine, L., 9n25, 9n27, 12n40, 12n42, 13n46, 14nn53–​54, 15n60, 26n93, 35, 39n129, 49n40, 70n127, 89n47, 112n134, 113n135, 140n135, 161n9, 164n24, 196n44, 201n69, 228n174, 258n81, 297, 303n122, 307n144, 309n150, 314n163, 362n93, 398n266 Leyerle, B., 390n230 Liebeschütz, J., 21, 22n83, 117n17, 121n40, 132n102, 134n110, 137n124, 176n76, 225n163, 280n14 Lieu, S., 77n4, 390n225 Lifshitz, B., 20n78, 360n88 Lightstone, J., 36n122, 136n116 Linder, A., 21n81, 56n74, 57n78, 57n81, 85, 88n44, 89n47, 91–​92, 94–​96, 98, 99n83, 100, 101n89, 103nn97–​98, 104, 107n113, 112n134, 115n3, 119n26, 119n28, 120n30, 124, 129, 130n92, 130n94, 131, 140n133, 140n135, 141n138, 143, 145–​146, 150n168, 163–​168, 170–​171, 172n53, 177, 198, 208n92, 211, 214, 227–​228, 229n179, 229nn181–​182, 230, 233–​235, 236n211, 238, 239n220, 242, 244–​245, 249n39, 249n43, 250, 252nn54–​55, 256nn73–​75, 258n80, 268n127, 276, 284, 285n37, 285n40, 292, 293n71, 294n75, 296nn84–​85, 297, 300n107, 309n150, 317, 319nn22–​23, 321, 343n3, 360n87, 398n263 Little, L., 286n42 Lloris, F., 8n20

483

Long, J., 173nn59–​61, 174nn63–​64, 176n74 Lotz, H., 12n41 Luiselli, B., 325n43 Luomanen, P., 148n162 Lyman, J., 76n2   Maas, M., 121n37, 282n23, 283n29 MacMullen, R., 7n19, 8, 24n87, 37, 79n9, 153n180, 174n64, 185, 187n112, 188n1, 202n74, 300n110, 301n111, 341n87 Macpherson, R., 316n3 Magness, J., 9, 13–​14 Mango, C., 268n122, 269n131 Maraval, P., 125n62, 215n122, 216n127, 222n151, 224n158 Marks, S., 362n93 Mas Florit, C., 70nn124–​125, 71n128, 73n143, 74n146 Mason, S., 40n131, 354n60 Matassa, L., 13n44 Mathiesen, R., 21n81, 118n23, 177n79 Matthews, J., 78n8, 82, 83nn23–​27, 84n30, 84n34, 130nn94–​95, 182n99, 208n94, 296n87 Matthews, S., 247n36 Mayer, W., 135n114, 160n1, 174n63, 175n1, 175n72, 176n77 McEvoy, M., 76n2, 79n10, 115, 116nn11–​13, 117, 118nn19–​22, 120n33–​36, 121, 122nn42–​44, 123nn48–​49, 124, 126, 137, 138n128, 139n129, 160, 161, 162, 227 McLynn, N., 64–​65, 115n8, 116, 117n14, 117n17, 118n19, 118n22, 120n33, 121n40, 122n47, 123n48, 123n51, 124n58, 129n88, 131n101, 132, 133, 137n124, 160n4 Meimaris, G., 113n137 Menze, V., 191n13, 199n62, 201n69 Meyer, E., 8n20 Millar, F., 7n19, 30n103, 156n189, 157nn193–​ 194, 204n82, 388n211, 389, 390n224 Milson, D., 303n122

484

Index of Modern Authors Cited

Misgav, H., 16n63 Mitchell, S., 153n180, 301n112, 369n135, 394n244 Mitten, D., 9n25, 17n64 Momigliano, A., 23n85, 315n3 Mommsen, T., 242n6, 315n3, 321n29, 322n29, 322n33 Moorhead, J., 73n143, 315n1, 315n3 Mor, M., 352n49 Moreira, I., 328n50, 331n57 Morony, M., 301nn114–​115 Murray, M., 305n134 Mussies, G., 384n199   Nallbani, E., 13n49, 164n24 Nathanson, B., 352n50 Nau, F., 191, 195n39, 198–​199, 244n22, 247, 256n73, 263–​265, 279n11, 300n108, 300n110, 357n76 Nauroy, G., 132n102 Nemo-​Pekelman, C., 7n19, 29, 30n104, 71n131, 80n11, 81, 82n18, 82n21, 89nn46–​47, 90, 91n53, 92nn58–​59, 93n65, 94n66, 94n70, 95–​101, 102n92, 102n94, 102n96, 103n97, 104–​105, 106, 107, 110, 119n26, 130n92, 131, 140, 141, 143, 146–​147, 160n6, 163n20, 167, 168n37, 169n40, 170n43, 171, 172n51, 177n79, 178, 182n102, 185n106, 209n98, 213n114, 214nn117–​118, 229n180, 230n184, 236n209, 238n217, 250n50, 251n51, 256n73, 257n78, 293n70 Nesselrath, H., 130n95 Netzer, E., 164n24 Newbauer, A., 24n89 Noethlichs, K., 7n19 Nongbri, B., 277n6 Noy, D., 11n33, 11n37, 14n53, 18n67, 133n106, 146n155, 156n187, 156n191, 157, 220n140, 221, 273–​275, 349nn31–​34, 350n36, 350n39, 351n44, 360n88, 362n93, 364n107,

375, 378, 379nn172–​173, 386n206, 386n208, 390n230, 392, 393n241   O’Donnell, J., 208n93, 276n1, 278n8, 283, 315n3, 318n17, 323n39, 326nn44–​46 Olster, D., 42n132 Orfila, M., 68n116 Otranto, G., 369n134   Palmer, A., 191–​192n13, 195n39, 196n45, 197n50, 198n53, 198n55, 201n69, 259n83, 356n73 Panayotov, A., 12n41, 146n155, 268n121, 268nn124–​126, 269, 270n132, 270n134 Parkes, J., 7n19, 39, 89n45, 118–​119n24, 132n105, 169n40, 171, 190n9, 191n12, 198–​199, 212n112, 247, 284, 285n35, 293, 309n150, 310, 315n3, 317n12, 318n18, 321–​322n29, 325n40, 331n56, 332n60, 341n89, 347n21, 381n184, 398n263 Pastis, J., 223n152–​155 Patai, R., 23n84 Pérez-​Juez, A, 69n122 Périchon, P., 216n127, 222n151 Pezaud, P., 268n121 Pharr, C., 89n47, 93n65, 94n70, 103n97, 108n115, 140n133, 169n40, 228nn175–​176, 238nn217–​219, 256n73, 256n75, 258n80  Pradels, W., 135n113 Price, J., 16n63 Prieur, J., 123n49 Pülz, A., 304n128 Pummer, R., 287nn48–​49, 289n56   Rabello, A., 21n81, 94n66, 287n47, 287n49 Rajak, T., 362n93 Ranger, T., 31n109 Rankin, D., 76n2 Rapp, C., 174n64, 175n69



Index of Modern Authors Cited

Rautman, M., 14n52 Rebillard, E., 77n3 Reed, A., 39n127, 153n180 Reynolds, J., 376n158, 384n199, 392–​393 Reynolds, P., 74n144, 142n141, 282n21, 400n270 Robert, L., 142n141, 158n197, 360n88 Roberts, M., 328n50 Rodgers, B., 157n192 Rohrbacher, D., 21n82, 22n83, 225n163 Rose, E., 63n98, 72n135, 328n50, 329n53 Rosen, W., 286n42, 299n103 Rosman, M., 30–​32, 36–​37 Rossi, M., 369n134 Roueché, C., 142n141, 282, 361n88 Rougé, J., 83n27, 89n47, 90n48, 90n50, 91n55, 92n60, 94n66–67, 94n70, 96n76, 98, 102nn93–​94, 103nn97–​ 98, 104n105, 105n109, 107n113, 111n128, 119n26, 121n38, 127n73, 130n95, 139n132, 140n133, 141n139, 145n151, 162n12, 169n40, 173n58, 189n5, 228n177, 238n218, 250n46, 250n50, 360n86 Roukema, R., 154n182 Rozen, M., 29n102 Russell, J., 14n55 Rutgers, L., 8nn21–​22, 12n40, 22–​ 23n84, 309nn148–​149, 310–​313, 314n163, 371   Sabbah, G., 124n60, 267n119, 382n187 Safran, W., 34n116 Salzman, M., 122n44 Sand, S., 32–​33 Sanders, J., 345nn9–​10 Sanzo, J., 165n27 Saradi, H., 17n64, 304n130, 305 Sarefield, D., 23–​24n86 Satlow, M., 40, 105–​106, 146n153, 374n150, 395n250, 396 Satran, D., 149n163, 150n169 Sauer, E., xi

485

Saumagne, C., 295n78 Schäfer, P., 352n49 Schrader, H., 14n52, 305n133 Schürer, É., 7n19 Schwartz, J., 161n9 Schwartz, S., 25n90, 38n125, 157, 161n9, 163n18, 178–​179, 201n69, 228n174, 309n150, 314n163, 352nn49–​50, 360, 387n210, 398–​400 Scorziello, A., 9n25, 17n64 Seager, A., 14n54 Seguí Vidal, G., 68 Serra Belabre, M., 70n124 Seyer, M., 12n41 Sharf, A., 142n141, 405n4 Shaw, B., 77n3, 154n182, 182n102, 185n108, 203nn76–​78, 204, 208–​ 210, 211n108, 212, 213n115 Shepardson, C., 130n95, 135n113–​114, 136n116 Simon, M., 81n13, 99n80, 182n102, 211n108, 354n64 Simonsohn, S., 23n84, 25n91, 29n103, 249n41, 322n33, 325n40, 326n46, 358n78, 359n82, 373n144, 382n189 Şimşek, C., 305nn137–138, 306 Sinnigen, W., 177n79 Sirat, C., 105n107, 222nn148–​150, 348n23, 394n245, 394n247, 395nn248–​253, 396nn254–​257 Sivan, H., 7n19, 25n91, 48n32, 54–​55, 57, 59n87, 72n135, 115n8, 131, 132n105, 145n149, 174n64, 200nn64–​65, 201n67, 250n44 Sivertsev, A., 161n9 Sizgorich, T., 131n101, 154n182, 205, 206n85 Skarsaune, O., 148n162, 150n168 Smith, A., 69n122, 71n130 Solazzi, S., 229n181 Sotinel, C., 362n90 Spyridakis, S., 354n62

486

Index of Modern Authors Cited

Stebnicka, K., 9n24, 23n84, 190n9, 207n88, 314n163, 394n244 Stemberger, G., 101n89, 103n97, 104, 105n109, 107n113, 111, 136n118, 161n9, 228n174, 230n189, 235n207, 352n50, 359n82, 361n89 Stern, K., 7n19, 12n38, 13n43, 20n79, 136n118, 296n88, 297n92, 359n82, 371n137 Stroumsa, G., 2n2, 23n85, 200nn65–​66, 216n128, 218nn133–​134 Szprech, R., 328n50   Tabbernee, W., 77n5, 301n112 Tannenbaum, R., 376n158, 384n199, 392–​393 Tcherikover, V., 12n39, 23n85, 216n128, 218–​219n134 Teetgen, A., 230n188 Thornton, T., 150n168 Tolan, J., 190n9, 341n89 Trebilco, P., 9n24 Trevett, C., 77n5 Trombley, F., 84n32, 155n184, 174n64, 188n1 Tuset, F., 68n116   Urbainczyk, T., 225n163 Urbano, A., 218n132, 381   van der Horst, P., 15nn56–​57, 16n63, 23n84, 42n132, 144n146, 162n10, 181n92, 228n174, 255n72, 264n107, 265n108, 280n14, 281–​282, 353n59, 354, 360n88, 372n142, 379n171, 388n214, 392n234, 405n5

van Esbroeck, M., 44n4 van Ginkel, J., 300n108 van Henten, J., 16n63 van Hoof, L., 144n147 van Loon, H., 215n122, 217n131, 219n134 van Nuffelen, P., 112n134, 130n95, 174n64, 175, 176nn74–​75, 225n163, 234n205, 301n110 van Rompay, L., 201 Vanderlinden, S., 43n3 Várhelyi, Z., 280n14 Vessey, M., 84n34 von Harnack, A., 7n19   Walsh, R., 13n46, 69n123, 273n147 Wankenne, L., 53n61 Ward Perkins, J., 297n94 Watts, E., 130n95 Weiss, M., 29n101, 304n127 Weiss, Z., 304n127 Werlin, S., 26n93 Wessinger, C., 355n66 Whitby, M., 280n83 Wiegand, T., 14n52, 305n133 Wilken, R., 135n114, 219n134 Williams, M., 10n28, 11n33, 16n63, 360n88, 362n93, 364n105, 365n111, 366, 368, 375–​377, 381n182, 385, 394n243–​244 Wilson, M., 12n41 Wood, I., 83n27 Wood, J., 82n16, 341n88, 355n65, 404n3   Zotenberg, H., 219n136