The Purpose of Rhetoric in Late Antiquity: From Performance to Exegesis 9783161523526, 9783161522697

Table of contents :
Foreword (Alberto J. Quiroga Puertas) ......................................................... VII
Prologue (Robert J. Penella) .............................................................................. 1
I. Words and the Word:
Rhetorical Strategies and Theology
Philip Rousseau
Homily and Exegesis in the Patristic age:
comparisons of Purpose and Effect .......................................................... 11
Nicholas Baker-Brian
Between Testimony and Rumour: Strategies of Invective
in Augustine’s De moribus manichaeorum ............................................... 31
Ilaria L.E. Ramelli
A Rhetorical Device in Evagrius: Allegory, the Bible,
and Apokatastasis ..................................................................................... 55
Josef Lössl
Profaning and Proscribing.
Escalating Rhetorical Violence in Fourth Century Christian Apologetic .. 71
II. Sacred and Profane in Late Antique Literature
Laura Miguélez-Cavero
Rhetoric for a Christian Community:
the Poems of the Codex Visionum ............................................................ 91
Manfred Kraus
Rhetoric or Law?
The Role of Law in Late Ancient Greek Rhetorical Exercises ............... 123
Aglae Pizzone
When Calasiris got Pregnant:
Rhetoric and Storytelling in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica ............................. 139
John W. Watt
Themistius and Julian:
their Association in Syriac and Arabic Tradition ................................... 161
III. Rhetoric and Political Speeches
David Konstan
Themistius’ on Royal Beauty ................................................................. 179
Guadalupe Lopetegui
The Panegyrici Latini: Rhetoric in the Service of Imperial Ideology ....... 189
Lieve Van Hoof and Peter Van Nuffelen
‘No stories for old Men’:
Damophilus of Bithynia and Plutarch in Julian’s Misopogon . ............... 209
Alberto J. Quiroga Puertas
Libanius’ Horror Silentii ........................................................................ 223
List of Authors ........................................................................................ 245
Index of Sources ..................................................................................... 247
Index of Authors ..................................................................................... 262
Index of Subjects ................................................................................... 264

Citation preview

Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity Herausgeber/Editors Christoph Markschies (Berlin) Martin Wallraff (Basel) Christian Wildberg (Princeton) Beirat/Advisory Board Peter Brown (Princeton) · Susanna Elm (Berkeley) Johannes Hahn (Münster) · Emanuela Prinzivalli (Rom) Jörg Rüpke (Erfurt)

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The Purpose of Rhetoric in Late Antiquity From Performance to Exegesis Edited by

Alberto J. Quiroga Puertas

Mohr Siebeck

Alberto J. Quiroga Puertas, born 1978; 2006 PhD at the University of Granada; 2006–09 Honorary Research Fellow at the School of Archaeology, Classics and Egyptology at the University of Liverpool; 2009 Ramón y Cajal Fellowship at the Ancient Greek Department at the University of Granada.

e-ISBN PDF 978-3-16-152352-6 ISBN 978-3-16-152269-7 ISSN 1436-3003 (Studien und Texte zu Antike und Christentum) The Deutsche Nationalbibliothek lists this publication in the Deutsche Nationalbibliographie; detailed bibliographic data are available on the Internet at http://dnb.dnb.de.

© 2013 by Mohr Siebeck, Tübingen. www.mohr.de This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that permitted by copyright law) without the publisher’s written permission. This applies particularly to reproductions, translations, microfilms and storage and processing in electronic systems. The book was printed by Laupp & Göbel in Nehren on non-aging paper and bound by Buchbinderei Nädele in Nehren. Printed in Germany.

Table of Contents Foreword (Alberto J. Quiroga Puertas) ......................................................... VII Prologue (Robert J. Penella) ..............................................................................1

I. Words and the Word: Rhetorical Strategies and Theology Philip Rousseau Homily and Exegesis in the Patristic age: comparisons of Purpose and Effect .......................................................... 11 Nicholas Baker-Brian Between Testimony and Rumour: Strategies of Invective in Augustine’s De moribus manichaeorum ............................................... 31 Ilaria L.E. Ramelli A Rhetorical Device in Evagrius: Allegory, the Bible, and Apokatastasis ..................................................................................... 55 Josef Lössl Profaning and Proscribing. Escalating Rhetorical Violence in Fourth Century Christian Apologetic .. 71

II. Sacred and Profane in Late Antique Literature Laura Miguélez-Cavero Rhetoric for a Christian Community: the Poems of the Codex Visionum ............................................................ 91 Manfred Kraus Rhetoric or Law? The Role of Law in Late Ancient Greek Rhetorical Exercises ............... 123 Aglae Pizzone When Calasiris got Pregnant: Rhetoric and Storytelling in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica ............................. 139

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Table of Contents

John W. Watt Themistius and Julian: their Association in Syriac and Arabic Tradition ................................... 161

III. Rhetoric and Political Speeches David Konstan Themistius’ on Royal Beauty ................................................................. 179 Guadalupe Lopetegui The Panegyrici Latini: Rhetoric in the Service of Imperial Ideology ....... 189 Lieve Van Hoof and Peter Van Nuffelen ‘No stories for old Men’: Damophilus of Bithynia and Plutarch in Julian’s Misopogon . ............... 209 Alberto J. Quiroga Puertas Libanius’ Horror Silentii ........................................................................ 223 List of Authors ........................................................................................ 245 Index of Sources ..................................................................................... 247 Index of Authors ..................................................................................... 262 Index of Subjects ................................................................................... 264

Foreword Rhetoric has commonly been used as an umbrella term. A quick glance at any bibliographical catalogue in the field of Humanities will suffice to note that ‘rhetoricʼ is a mercurial term that can be applied to issues relating to subjects as varied as philosophy, literature, architecture, theology, gender studies, poetics, and cinematography, to name but a few. Rhetoric has overcome all kinds of prejudices that have portrayed it as the quintessence of garrulousness and futility. In this context, the purpose of this volume is to claim the indisputable centrality of rhetoric in the religious and cultural milieu of Late Antiquity. The twelve papers of the present work deal with the role and impact of rhetoric in the fields of Theology, Literature and Politics in Late Antiquity (more specifically, in the fourth century AD). In recent decades, Late Antiquity has been approached from many perspectives, and it has been agreed that the impact of rhetoric on its cultural development was crucial. Thus, the working assumption of this volume is that rhetoric was a key element behind every single aspect of importance in this transcendental period: rhetoric was the bedrock upon which the composition of orations, speeches and sermons was built at a time when opportunities for public speaking were numerous in the religious and political arenas; rhetoric was also at the heart of Christian theology, as it provided it with a logical means of interpreting the Scriptures and with literary forms to divulge; rhetoric was, of course, at the inception of many literary works that had an extraordinary impact on the culture of Late Antiquity. Several factors influenced the advance of rhetoric as a cultural phenomenon in Late Antiquity. The massive administrative organization of the Roman Empire and its cultural system involved a number of tasks − networking, writing letters, interpreting the Scriptures, composing homilies, or delivering oratorical pieces – in which commanding rhetoric became a sine qua non by which one could remain anchored to the elites. The fact that its complex set of theoretical precepts was consolidated within the pagan culture did not prevent the protean nature of rhetoric from integrating itself into the Zeitgeist of the period of frantic religious activity that witnessed the ascendancy of Christianity.

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The prevalent scenario in the cultural milieu of Late Antiquity – a period in which sophists, bishops, philosophers and other public figures competed to be under the spotlight – shows rhetoric to be a critical element in the characterization of public personas and their religious and cultural tenets. Every single member of the cultural elites used rhetoric as a distorting mirror with which to criticise those who failed to comply with their own conception of what the real purpose of rhetoric was. Libanius of Antioch, for instance, considered rhetoric a panacea for the difficulties of his time (Or. 23.21), and the philosopher Themistius deemed it a propaedeutic discipline suitable for the learning of philosophy, yet both censured those who turned rhetoric into mere entertainment (Lib., Ep. 742; Them., Or. 28), devoid of knowledge. Ammianus Marcellinus also complained about the increasing influence of performing artists in Rome, whose presence was detrimental to those who cultivated rhetoric for fruitful purposes (14.6.18: pro philosopho cantor et in locum oratoris doctor artium ludicrarum accitur). On the Christian side, Synesius of Cyrene (Dio 12) detailed what torture it was for a sophist to prepare the delivery of a speech; Gregory of Nazianzus (Or. 2; 47) chastised those bishops whose main concern was declaiming to mesmerize their audience; in the same vein, Ambrose of Milan (De Off. 1.18.72-73; 19.84) and Jerome (Ep. 22) devoted efforts to censuring a type of anêr theatrikos that was in vogue and invaded the areas of influence dominated by the cultural elite. Concurrent with its utilization as a trivial pastime, late antique rhetoric also became the cornerstone of religious and theological debates. In this sense, it was perceived to be a hermeneutical tool, indispensable when arguing or refuting in cultural, philosophical and religious controversies. Rhetoric took refuge in theological, exegetical and polemical works, thus distancing itself from its pyrotechnical and Philostratean dimension denounced by most late antique authors. This volume opens with a prologue by Prof. Robert J. Penella, in which an account of the recent history of the study of late antique rhetoric is given, stretching from the reinvigoration of this discipline in the second half of the twentieth century to the new approaches and terminologies (‘Third Sophistic’) in the first decade of our century. After this, the volume is divided into three sections. The first, Words and the Word: Rhetorical Strategies and Theology, deals with how rhetoric became a central constituent in the making of religious writings and Christian orthodoxy. Philip Rousseau, in his work “Homily and Exegesis in the Patristic age: comparisons of purpose and effect,” provides us with a comprehensive survey of the relationship between rhetoric and semiotics based on an analysis of literary (sub)genres such as commentaries, homilies and exegesis. The implications of this relationship went beyond the realm of literature and deeper into religious themes. Thus, Rousseau surveys the place of Scrip-

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tural commentaries and homilies in the reformulation of the concept of Christian scholarship that took place in the fourth and fifth centuries. By challenging the notion that the rhetorical dimension of commentaries and homilies overshadowed the pedagogical and (less audience-dependant) philological side of such works, Rousseauʼs work aims to examine to what degree those genres were permeable. Next, Nicholas Baker-Brian, in “Between Testimony and Rumour: strategies of Invective in Augustine’s De moribus manichaeorum,” examines the rhetorical strategies deployed by Augustine in his attacks against Manichaeans in De moribus Manichaeorum. Augustine drew not only on rhetorical exaggeration, on the stereotypical portrait of the religious ‘Other,ʼ and on topics from the iambic tradition to chastise Manichaeans, but also consolidated a ‘rumour strategyʼ that made his work a piece of invective literature. Ilaria Ramelliʼs work, “A Rhetorical Device in Evagrius: Allegory, the Bible, and Apokatastasis,” studies Evagrius Ponticusʼ use of allegory in his Kephalaia Gnostika as a key instrument when interpreting this cryptic work. Evagriusʼ claims that the Scriptures were a multi-layered text helped him to develop a theological discourse concerning the spiritual understanding of things, the relationship between sensitive and intelligible perception, the unity of virtue and knowledge, and apokatastasis, a concept central to Christian eschatology. Finally, Josef Lösslʼs “Profaning and Proscribing. Escalating Rhetorical Violence in Fourth Century Christian Apologetic” explores how Firmicus Maternusʼ De errore profanarum religionum resorted to rhetorical strategies to exteriorize his conversion to Christianity. Firmicusʼ work was intended to influence emperors to implement laws against pagan culture by emphasizing the sexual and obscene nature of pagan rites. The second part of the book, Sacred and Profane in Late Antique Literature, understands rhetoric as a literary device which was essential when composing any piece of literature, a fundamental part of the internal architecture of speeches, novels or scholarly texts of a pagan or Christian nature. This second part begins with Laura Miguélez-Caveroʼs work, “Rhetoric for a Christian Community: the poems of the Codex Visionum,” a thorough analysis that deals with the form and Christian content of the Codex Visionum. Intended for the improvement of the spiritual life of a Christian community, the Codex is studied as a literary work – highly influenced by rhetoric and the genre of biography – that provides us with important insights into key Christian concepts (μετάνοια, σωφροσύνη) and their deployment within the rhetorical nature of the Codex. In the following chapter, “Rhetoric or Law? The Role of Law in Late Ancient Greek Rhetorical Exercises,” Manfred Kraus explores the great interest displayed in Law in collections of progymnasmata (mainly those by Libanius and Aphthonius), and interprets the plethora of allusions to legal traditions in

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such rhetorical exercises, not as an example of nostalgia for the glorious past of the classical tradition but as evidence of surviving and active Greek laws in the Eastern part of the Roman Empire. Aglae Pizzoneʼs work, “When Calasiris got pregnant: rhetoric and storytelling in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica,” is a meta-literary study in which analysis of rhetorical vocabulary and practices (mainly ἀφήγησις, διήγημα, διήγησις, and πλάσμα) is, in the light of a psychagogic conception of rhetoric, vital to understanding the interaction between the characters and issues pertaining to the plot (and numerous subplots) of Heliodorusʼ imbricated narrative. In “Themistius and Julian: their Association in Syriac and Arabic Tradition,” John W. Watt gives an account of the problematic relationship between Themistius and Julian in quite a different light by exploring Greek, Syriac, and Arabic texts in which the role of Themistius and Julian with regard to Christianity is based on a non-Greek set of ideas and religious beliefs, thus providing us with uncharted sources that supplement our knowledge of the emperor and the philosopher. The third part of the book, Rhetoric and Political Speeches, aims to explore those symbouletic compositions that have furnished us with relevant information and data on the state of affairs in the political arena in a period in which politics and religion were becoming increasingly intertwined. With “Themistius’ on Royal Beauty,” David Konstan explores the extent to which Themistius managed to blend rhetoric and philosophy in his panegyric to Gratian, paying particular attention to the Platonic and Aristotelian conceptions of love and beauty on which Themistius relied. Guadalupe Lopeteguiʼs “The Panegyrici Latini: Rhetoric in the service of imperial Ideology” uses that corpus of speeches in order to extract information related to the situation of the schools of rhetoric in Gaul and what was expected from the declamation of panegyrics by the authorities and the emperor himself, thus highlighting the strong bonds between rhetoric, education, and political propaganda in the Panegyrici Latini. In “‘No stories for old menʼ: Damophilus of Bithynia and Plutarch in Julian’s Misopogon,” Lieve Van Hoof and Peter Van Nuffelen reflect on the literary sources that the emperor Julian used for the composition of his Misopogon – arguably one of the most famous examples of fourth century pagan religious literature – and how such sources had an evident intertextual function. Finally, Alberto J. Quiroga Puertasʼ “Libaniusʼ Horror Silentii” investigates the importance of references to silence in the works of the sophist Libanius of Antioch in order to shed light on the political, religious and cultural significance of such allusions from an author whose bequest is one of the biggest corpus of letters, progymnasmata, and speeches of the fourth century AD. The editor wishes to thank the contributors to this volume for their enthusiasm and effort in producing the papers that compose it. My gratitude

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goes to Dr. Henning Ziebritzki, Professor Martin Wallraff, and the editors of Mohr Siebeckʼs Studies and Texts in Antiquity and Christianity, who accepted the volume and offered support and advice. Thanks are also due to Prof. Robert J. Penella, for his illustrative prologue, to Tanja Idler and Galván, for their patient guidance and advice on editorial issues, and finally to the Department of Greek Studies at the University of Granada for granting permission for research stays. Alberto J. Quiroga Puertas University of Granada

Prologue Robert J. Penella Studies of late ancient rhetoric are on the rise, and a collection of articles on late ancient rhetoric such as this one will find a more welcoming readership today than it would have done a generation or two ago. In the first place, we have witnessed a revived, sympathetic interest in rhetoric in general, which derives ultimately from the so-called linguistic turn of the twentieth century. In structuralist and post-structuralist discourse rhetoric is no longer the dirty word it had been for the Romantics. Even when recent ancient rhetorical studies are not imbued with contemporary critical theory, they surely have been encouraged and have otherwise benefited from this new interest in rhetoric.1 In the second place, late ancient studies in general have been thriving since the 1970s. Second Sophistic studies, too, which got off the ground around the same time, have aided the growth of late ancient rhetorical studies: under the influence of late ancient studies, Dio Chrysostom has pushed us to Themistius, Aelius Aristides to Libanius, Philostratusʼs Lives of Sophists to Eunapiusʼs Lives of Philosophers and Sophists. The fourth century, on which the contributions to this volume focus, is, of course, a rich period for late ancient rhetorical investigations. But it is not surprising that, in addition to a first jump from the second and third to the fourth century, there has recently also been a second jump, from Libanius to Procopius and Choricius of Gaza, the socalled School of Gaza of the fifth and sixth centuries being the next notable thickening of late ancient rhetorical activity, at least in the East and so far as our extant texts allow us to discern.2 In addition to rhetoricʼs new status and the combined influence of late ancient and Second Sophistic studies, we should also note the recently renewed interest in ancient edu-

                                                            

1 See Dugan (2007), 14–15. Similarly, feminism has encouraged studies of women in antiquity even in quarters not imbued with theoretical feminism. 2 I restrict myself to a few titles that have appeared since the turn of the millenium: Amato (2010); Greco (2010); Lupi (2010); Penella (2009); Saliou (2005); Webb (2006); Westberg (2010).

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cation: this interest encourages rhetorical studies because ancient education was so markedly rhetorical.3 The move from the Second Sophistic to an intensified interest in the sophistic of Late Antiquity has led to the introduction of a new term for the latter, the Third Sophistic, a term that does not occur in this volume.4 Although not everyone who studies imperial rhetoric would use the word ʻsophisticʼ to name his or her interest, it is nonetheless a useful designation for ʻrhetorical culture.ʼ What should and should not be included under ʻrhetorical cultureʼ is not immediately self-evident, since rhetoric bleeds into so many areas of ancient culture, but it would be advisable not to overextend the application of the term ʻThird Sophistic,ʼ as has happened with ʻSecond Sophistic;ʼ a category that embraces too much soon loses its raison dʼêtre.5 Late Antiquity is not the only scholarly area that has claimed a Third Sophistic for itself. The term has been applied to twelfthcentury Komnenian Hellenism.6 Or was a Third Sophistic ushered in by Thomas Magister in the fourteenth century?7 Or is there a postmodern Third Sophistic currently in existence?8 Unfortunately we cannot patent the term for exclusive use by late ancient enthusiasts. If we adopt the term ʻThird Sophisticʼ to name the rhetorical culture of Late Antiquity, some ambiguities do remain. First, what are its chronological boundaries? Philostratus invented the term ʻSecond Sophistic.ʼ He thought of it as beginning with the orator Aeschines in the late fourth century BC – although he is virtually silent on its membership before the late first century AD (Lives 507–511) – and extending to his own times, that is, to the publication of his Lives of Sophists, perhaps as late as 242–244.9 The Second Sophistic is peculiarly Philostratean, distinctively conceived by him; the term and his conceptualization do not appear to have caught on much in antiquity after his death.10 I would, therefore, not be inclined to                                                              3

I mention only a few studies that have been particularly helpful to me in my recent work: del Corso and Pecere (2010); Cribiore (2001; 2007); Fernández Delgado (2007); Hugonnard-Roche (2008); Kaster (1988); Lee Too (2001); Morgan (1998). Recent work on the progymnasmata and on declamation could be listed either under the rubric ʻrhetoricʼ or the rubric ʻeducation.ʼ 4 The term is discussed at length by Quiroga (2007), 31–42, and by Malosse and Schouler (2009). See also Amato (2006). 5 Cf., e.g., Whitmarsh (2001), 42–43; Heath (2004), xv. 6 Kaldellis (2007), 238. 7 Grafton et al. (2010), 935. 8 E.g., Vitanza (1991): the ʻrepresentative sophistsʼ of the Third Sophistic are Friedrich Nietzsche, Jean-François Lyotard, Michel Foucault, Jacques Lacan, and Paul de Man, with Gorgias as ʻproto-Third.ʼ 9 Jones (2002). 10 See Jones (2008).

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extend it beyond his usage.11 I would let the Third Sophistic begin in the third century – right after the last mentioned sophists in Philostratusʼs Lives – rather than with Constantine and the beginning of the fourth century.12 (Why create a gap between a Second and a Third Sophistic?) This seems also to be Eugenio Amatoʼs preference; he hopes that the term ʻThird Sophisticʼ will take hold for the ʻsiècles de lʼAntiquité tardive (iii– vi ap. J.-C.)ʼ13 – although those who see Late Antiquity ending with the rise of Islam rather than with Justinian will want to extend his formula chronologically. Secondly, although the Philostratean Second Sophistic was a Greek phenomenon, Latin figures (e.g., Fronto, Apuleius, Aulus Gellius) have been readily associated with it, and early advocates of a Third Sophistic welcomed Latin rhetorical culture into their tent.14 This is as it should be; nothing is gained by segregating Greek and Latin rhetorical developments. And thirdly should Christians be admitted? I would answer with an enthusiastic ʻyes.ʼ By Late Antiquity, Christians have mastered the traditional rhetorical skills as fully as any pagan; their religious beliefs and use of rhetoric in their own cause are not grounds for segregating them, as Laurent Pernot appears to do in his La rhétorique dans lʼAntiquité.15 Of course, assigning someone to a sophistic is properly done with reference to that individualʼs use of traditional rhetorical genres, or genres readily derivable from them (e.g., the Christian sermon), although we shall still want to explore the influence of rhetoric elsewhere (e.g., in scriptural commentary).                                                             

11 Kustasʼs definition of the Second Sophistic as (1970), 55 ʻthat movement in thought and letters which extends from the time of Augustus to the end of the ancient worldʼ is un-Philostratean on both ends. 12 Pace Quiroga (2007), 31–35. 13 Amato (2006), v. On the principle that Sophistics ʻnon multiplicandae sunt praeter necessitatem,ʼ I would resist the suggestion of Milazzo (2002), 15 that we call the fifthand sixth-century School of Gaza a ʻFourth Sophistic.ʼ Malosse and Schouler (2009), 163 n. 3, and Van Hoof (2010), 213 n. 12, erroneously report that Milazzo makes the first century AD a Third Sophistic. 14 See the contents of Amato (2006) and the papers of the session on the Third Sophistic at the annual meeting of the American Philological Association, 2009 (apaclassics.org, under ʻMeetingʼ). Three of those papers have been published in the Journal of Late Antiquity 3 (2010). 15 Pernot (2000), 271–272 also excludes Latin rhetors there: ʻLe domain grec païen connut un tel éclat que les savants modernes parlent parfois, à ce propos, dʼune ʻTroisième Sophistique,ʼ représentée par . . . Libanios et Himérios, . . . Thémistios, lʼEmpereur Julien, . . . Aphthonios. En latin . . . Cependant la rhétorique chrétienne . . .ʼ Quiroga (2007), 40–41 rightly objects to Pernotʼs exclusion of Christians. Pernot (ibid.) says of the fourth century, ʻla rhétorique chrétienne prit le pas sur la rhétorique païenne.ʼ Is there such a thing as ʻrhétorique chrétienneʼ?

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These ambiguities aside, though, the more fundamental question is this: should we adopt the concept of a Third Sophistic as a new periodization at all? A new period not only implies difference, but, once reified, it may have the effect of pushing us to see more difference in it than there actually is.16 My own sense is that, although there certainly is significant political, social, and religious change in the fourth century, in the fundamentals of rhetorical culture – the educational system, rhetorical theory, and the various rhetorical genres and modes – there is far more continuity than difference between the Second and the so-called Third Sophistic, with no ʻdisruption or dislocation in rhetorical cultureʼ during the crisis of the third century.17 Of course, in any human phenomenon, there is never continuity without change. But I am not sure that, say, a putative diminution in the sophistʼs social status or the sophistʼs taking on a greater moralizing or educative role in Late Antiquity18 would be a change that goes to the heart of the phenomenon in question. I am thus more comfortable referring to ʻimperial sophistic,ʼ which can then be fine-tuned by means of the adjectives ʻearlyʼ and ʻlate,ʼ and even ʻGreekʼ and ʻLatin,ʼ reserving the term ʻSecond Sophisticʼ for the distinctively Philostratean periodization and conceptualization. Yet, to return to the point with which I began, the recent increase in late ancient rhetorical studies, it is perfectly understandable why the term ʻThird Sophisticʼ has been proposed in the course of this development: like a new infant, a new (or newly augmented) scholarly interest begs for a name.                                                              16

I therefore share Westbergʼs worry (2010, 19) that the term Third Sophistic ʻpresupposes too large a cultural break [with the Second Sophistic],ʼ although I do not object, as he does, to ʻbundl[ing] together, on chronological grounds, authors with very different attitudes (such as Gregory of Nazianzus and Himerius).ʼ I would bundle them on rhetoric-sophistic grounds. 17 See Heath (2004) 85, and 84–89 generally on the third century. All acknowledge continuity: Amato (2006), v–vi; Quiroga (2007), 41; Malosse and Schouler (2009), 163, 165 n. 11, 186. I would question the notion that there was a reduction of extempore eloquence (Malosse and Schouler, ibid., 164) and of declamations on imaginary themes (Quiroga, ibid., 35) in Late Antiquity. Or, put differently, how could one demonstrate either of these suggestions? Philostratusʼs enthusiasm for extempore declamation testifies to the importance of both extempore eloquence and declamation in the early Empire, although this enthusiasm may have represented only one strand of the sophistic of his day (see Jones [2008], 117). Extempore declamation does not come up often in Eunapius (Lives 10.4.5–5.3 [488–489], 10.7.7–8 [492] Giangrande); but when it does, one senses an enthusiasm equal to that of Philostratus. Pernot (2006–2007), emphasizes a kind of teleological continuity between the Second Sophistic and Late Antiquity – he ventures the term ʻThird Sophisticʼ for Late Antiquity in this article only once – specifically finding in the Second Sophistic anticipations of developments of Late Antiquity. 18 Malosse and Schouler (2009), 163–164, 170. Van Hoof (2010) argues against the notion that there was a diminution in the social prestige and socio-political influence of sophists and rhetoric in Late Antiquity.

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It was only after I had completed a first draft of this prologue that I discovered Lieve Van Hoofʼs article ʻGreek Rhetoric and the Later Roman Empire: The Bubble of the ‘Third Sophisticʼ.ʼ It is the first fully argued objection to the term ʻThird Sophistic,ʼ precisely on the ground that there is far more continuity than discontinuity between early and late imperial rhetoric. But Van Hoof goes on to make another point. Those who have recently been working on late ancient rhetoric ʻhave largely failed to bring to bear the methodologies that have produced such stimulating readings of the Second Sophistic; and, as a result of this, they have confirmed the image of classicizing Greek literature in Late Antiquity as static, moribund, and no longer engaged or influential in societyʼ (p. 212). ʻRather than a new name, then, late antique rhetoric is in need of a new approachʼ (p. 224). This new approach will show late antique sophists ʻdynamically engaged in, and [seeking] to influence, the political, cultural, and religious debates of their timesʼ (p. 212) and using the past, not as an escape, but ʻas a sign of sophistication and a way of acquiring authorityʼ (p. 214).19 It will highlight identity-construction and sophistic theatricality. This call and challenge is welcome. My only criticism would be to temper the disappointment with recent late ancient rhetorical studies that one might be left with after reading this article. Van Hoof, for example, hopes that a new approach to late ancient rhetoric will make Libanius appear ʻless as a man of the past who withdrew into his classroom as he no longer mattered in fourth-century Antiochʼ (p. 224). But I find it hard to think of many Libanianists of recent decades who would have such a gloomy view of Libaniusʼs position in the fourth-century East. Conversely, not every contribution to recent Second Sophistic studies will be unanimously judged to deserve the highest marks. Rhetoric, like philosophy, is a fundamental cultural category in antiquity. Some of us began our scholarly journeys directly and consciously on rhetoricʼs, or sophisticʼs, road. Such was my experience. I came to graduate studies at Harvard University in 1967 with interests in ancient historiography, under the influence mainly of the writings of Ronald Syme and Arnaldo Momigliano, and in textual criticism, having studied at Boston College under Robert Renehan. But at Harvard I was converted to sophistic (not to philosophy!) under the influence of Glen W. Bowersock and Christopher P. Jones. I saw the page proofs of Glen Bowersockʼs Greek Sophists in the Roman Empire (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969) in the spring semester of 1969, when I also was enrolled in Christopher Jonesʼs seminar in ancient biography, in which I wrote a paper on Philostratusʼs                                                             

19 Van Hoof (2010), 219–220: ʻ[L]ate antique literature,ʼ exclaims Van Hoof, ʻis still waiting for its Maud Gleason, its Thomas Schmitz, or its Tim Whitmarshʼ – and indeed there is much to learn from these scholars.

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Lives. While I was searching for a dissertation topic in Philostratus, my mentor Glen Bowersock felicitously suggested that I work on the letters of Apollonius of Tyana, which, of course, would keep me immersed in Philostratusʼs Life of Apollonius. After I finished a critical edition of and commentary on Apolloniusʼs letters, I returned, not to Philostratusʼs Lives, but, won over to Late Antiquity,20 to those of Eunapius. Eunapius took me to Themistius (absent in his Lives) and to Himerius (a competitor of Eunapiusʼs hero Prohaeresius and only briefly treated in the Lives), and then I jumped to Choricius. Mine, then, has been a fairly steady diet of sophistic and rhetoric. Others have different trajectories, grazing rhetorical culture or entering upon its path from other starting points. A variety of scholarly trajectories have happily resulted in the articles presented in this volume. They embrace the Latin West as well as the Greek East, Christians as well as pagans, rhetorical education (the progymnasmata), and lower-register deployment of rhetorical devices (in the Codex Visionum) as well as the high-register rhetoric of the pepaideumenoi. Imperial panegyric, encomium and invective, the Christian sermon, the novel, and Julianʼs peculiar Misopogon all figure in these contributions. Aglae Pizzone alerts us to the importance of knowing the terminology of ancient rhetorical theory in reading texts whose authors took that terminology for granted. We are reminded, in an article on Evagriusʼs allegorical reading of the Bible, that allegory is nothing more (or less?) than a rhetorical trope. And John Watt explores the reception of Themistius and Julian in the Syriac and Arabic traditions. The editor of this volume, Alberto J. Quiroga Puertas, writes, meta-rhetorically, on eloquent men musing on eloquence – or rather on its unwanted opposite, silence. We are indebted to him for bringing together these studies of late ancient rhetorical culture.

Bibliography Amato, E. (2006), “Avant-Propos”, in Amato, E. et al. (eds.), Approches de la Troisième Sophistique: Hommages à Jacques Schamp. Brussels: Editions Latomus, v–viii. –. (ed., 2010) Rose di Gaza: Gli scritti retorico-sofistici e le Epistole di Procopio di Gaza. Alessandria: Edizioni dellʼOrso. del Corso, L. and Pecere, O. (eds., 2010), Libri di scuola e pratiche didattiche: DallʼAntichità al Rinascimento. 2 vols. Cassino: Università di Cassino. Cribiore, R. (2001), Gymnastics of the Mind: Greek Education in Hellenistic and Roman Egypt. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press. –. (2007) The School of Libanius in Late Antique Antioch. Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press.

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Mainly under the inspiration of the work of Peter Brown and of Alan and Averil Cameron.

Prologue

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Dugan, J. (2007), “Modern Critical Approaches to Roman Rhetoric”, in Dominik, W. and Hall, J. (eds.), A Companion to Roman Rhetoric. Malden, Mass.: Blackwell, 9–22. Fernández Delgado, J.A. et al. (eds., 2007), Escuela y Literatura en Grecia Antigua. Cassino: Università degli Studi di Cassino. Grafton, A. et al. (eds., 2010), The Classical Tradition. Cambridge, Mass.: Belknap Press. Greco, C. (ed., 2010), Coricio di Gaza, Due orazioni funebri (orr. VII–VIII Foerster, Richtsteig). Alessandria: Edizioni dellʼOrso. Heath, M. (2004), Menander: A Rhetor in Context. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hugonnard-Roche, H. (ed., 2008), Lʼenseignement supérieur dans les mondes antiques et médiévaux. Paris: J. Vrin. Jones, C.P. (2002), “Philostratus and the Gordiani”, MedAnt 5, 759–767. –. (2008) “The Survival of the Sophists”, in Brennan, T.C. and Flower, H.I. (eds.), East and West: Papers in Ancient History Presented to Glen W. Bowersock. Cambridge, Mass.: Department of Classics, Harvard University, 113–125. Kaldellis, A. (2007), Hellenism in Byzantium: The Transformations of Greek Identity and the Reception of the Classical Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kaster, R.A. (1988), Guardians of Language: The Grammarian and Society in Late Antiquity. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Kustas, G.L. (1970), “The Function and Evolution of Byzantine Rhetoric”, Viator 1, 55– 73. Lee Too, Y. (ed., 2001), Education in Greek and Roman Antiquity. Leiden and Boston: Brill. Lupi, S. (2010), Coricio di Gaza, XVII (= Decl. 4) F.-R.: Milziade. Freiburg i. Br.: Rombach Verlag. Malosse, P.-L. and Schouler, B. (2009), “Quʼest-ce que la Troisième Sophistique?”, Lalies: Actes des sessions de linguistique et de littérature 29, 157–224. Milazzo, A.M. (2002), Un dialogo difficile: La retorica in conflitto nei Discorsi Platonici di Elio Aristide. Hildesheim, Zürich, and New York: Georg Olms Verlag. Morgan, T. (1998), Literate Education in the Hellenistic and Roman Worlds. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Penella, R.J. (ed., 2009), Rhetorical Exercises from Late Antiquity: A Translation of Choricius of Gazaʼs Preliminary Talks and Declamations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pernot, L. (2000), La rhétorique dans lʼAntiquité. Paris: Librairie Générale Française. –. (2006–2007), “Seconda Sofistica e Tarda Antiquità”, KOINΩNIA 30/31, 7–18. Quiroga Puertas, A.J. (2007), “From Sophistopolis to Episcopolis: The Case for a Third Sophistic”, JLARC 1, 31–42. Saliou, C. (ed., 2005), Gaza dans lʼantiquité tardive: Archéologie, rhétorique et histoire. Salerno: Helios. Van Hoof, L. (2010), “Greek Rhetoric and the Later Roman Empire: The Bubble of the ‘Third Sophisticʼ”, AT 18, 211–224. Vitanza, V.J. (1991), “‘Some Moreʼ Notes, toward a ‘Thirdʼ Sophistic”, Argumentation 5 (1991), 117–139. Webb, R. (2006), “Rhetorical and Theatrical Fictions in Chorikios of Gaza”, in Johnson, S.F. (ed.), Greek Literature in Late Antiquity: Dynamism, Didacticism, Classicism. Aldershot: Ashgate, 107–124. Westberg, D. (2010), Celebrating with Words: Studies in the Rhetorical Works of the Gaza School. Ph.D. diss., University of Uppsala. Whitmarsh, T. (2001), Greek Literature and the Roman Empire: The Politics of Imitation. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

I. Words and the Word: Rhetorical Strategies and Theology

Homily and Exegesis in the Patristic age: comparisons of Purpose and Effect Philip Rousseau ‘Homily and exegesis’ signals an interest in the dual quality of Christian sermons – their rhetorical persuasiveness and their dependence on Scripture.1 Naturally, we have to place those sermons in a broad literary context (which we often gloss misleadingly ‘pagan’ or ‘classical,’ but which is more usefully described as ‘traditional’). There was, in the ‘patristic age,’ plenty of persuasive oratory inspired by a learned analysis of ancient texts and little touched, if at all, by Christian preoccupations. But there was a specifically Christian ‘purpose and effect’ that hints at its own social context: the interaction of the churchman’s mind and the audience’s urge or obligation to live a virtuous life. This was where the rubber of theological reflection met the road of pastoral concern – an urgent engagement on the pastor’s side and a release of spiritual energy among the people he addressed. We are concerned also with literary analysis and the dissemination of Scripture’s appeal; with learnedness and eager devotion. Encouraging a life of virtue does not cover all of that. Churchman and people faced each other within two broader frames of reference – one cosmic, the other temporal. Both the Scriptures themselves and the texts that recorded what was said about them were thought of as helping Christians to penetrate a barrier between the visible and the transcendent. They also helped to identify the temporal flow, the extended narrative, within which Christians were to place themselves. Christianity’s genius resided in making its devotees into historians, with a clear sense of the then, the now, and the yet to be.2 In this, too, they passed from the visible to the transcendent,                                                              1

An earlier version of this paper was originally presented as a Plenary Lecture to the Annual Meeting of the North American Patristics Society, Chicago, May 27, 2010. 2 Much energy has been expended on the attempt to distinguish this sense of ‘history’ from the broader ‘traditional’ concept of the mos maiorum. One thinks, for example, of Markus (1990), especially 125–136. Rather than depend on older distinctions between cyclical and linear time (which Markus avoids), it is better to focus on eschatology – on

 

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chiefly by submitting space to the demands of time. The Christian experience of God was an experience of change, of difference, of improvement, of fulfilment. The God they worshipped, changeless and timeless in himself, was nevertheless (as the Scriptures revealed) the agent of the novelties thus opened to them. A subscriber to traditional cult, therefore, venturing into a basilica, hearing the Scriptures read out and explained, witnessing a Eucharist shared in, would have sensed quite rightly something new. These Christians found themselves moving to someone else’s choreography, caught up in the forward rush of God’s purposes, beneficiaries of divine foresight and scriptural prophecy. Recollection was made the source of incentive. An individual life, wayward and wandering, was reassured and redirected by the guarantees of inspired writings and a clear vision of the future. This engagement with a durée plus longue (made available by words from the past, by the circumstances of their rehearsal, by their being heard anew, by the intervention of the preacher and the priest) acquired a dynamism, a vitality that made both text and ceremonial vibrant with hope. In the heyday of the ‘Fathers,’ the ability to achieve such a transitus depended in part on a change in Christian circumstance. Appeal to the Scriptures had long been a feature of the Church’s paideia. The Constantinian dispensation, however, had made its teaching voice more public and thereby differently related to broader traditions of moral discourse. Averil Cameron (in Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire), Peter Brown (in Power and Persuasion), and Frances Young (in Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture) have irreversibly compelled us to observe how the Scriptures, in the hands of fourth-century and fifth-century commentators and preachers, were made to validate their own culture in a new way.3 Frances Young offers a succinct expression of principle: ‘[S]cripture,’ she writes, ‘replaced the classics in the formation of a distinctive culture, which nevertheless assumed that texts were the source of cultural identity.’4 But the novelty of the situation after Constantine needs to be carefully defined. No matter, first, how ‘rhetorical’ toleration may have allowed the Church to become (sometimes to its embarrassment or misgiving), it remained resolutely ‘scholarly’: it wished to teach as much as to excite. There are no grounds for suggesting that traditions we rightly associate with Origen, for example, were suddenly abandoned in the heady days of fresh liberty. As an assessor of the scriptural text, Origen remained essen                                                             the effect of fulfillment, which reaches well beyond one’s hopes in and obligations towards posterity. 3 Cameron (1991); Brown (1992); Young (1997). 4 Young (1997), 219.

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tial to the arsenal of the post-Constantinian exegete. Jerome, to give an obvious instance, drew upon Origen’s homilies in his Commentarioli in Psalmos5 and referred to them again in his commentary on Isaiah.6 Yet, the fact that Origen seems to have been indispensable in a context very different from his own will qualify, second, the ways in which we ascribe continuity to the uses made of him. We need to be attentive not only to the debts but also to the hesitations reflected in the work, for example, of the Cappadocians and of Hilary and Ambrose, not to mention Jerome himself. Indeed, the so-called ‘Origenist Controversy’ reflected exactly the anxieties of those fourth-century legatees, as they attempted to redefine (rather than merely preserve) the notion of ‘Christian scholarship’ in relation to the sacred text – an adjustment forced upon them precisely by the opportunities and responsibilities they now enjoyed; opportunities and responsibilities that Origen himself could never have dreamed of. So, while it remains true that the teacher (and therefore the scholar) was central to the estimation of any exegete – in the words of Ineke Sluiter, ‘the commentator is essentially a teacher’7 – the ‘public’ era of the tolerated Church encouraged a freshly developed notion of what ‘scholarship’ had come to mean. Understanding the nature of this development is a major driving force behind Frances Young’s Biblical Exegesis – examining in particular what she calls ‘contexts of interpretation.’8 The shift is not away from serious learning but within new settings. She provides a ‘map’ of literary genres: a series of concentric circles, with ‘liturgy,’ ‘spirituality,’ and ‘prayer’ at the centre, and ‘doctrinal debate’ and ‘apologetics’ as it were at the frontiers of the Church. ‘Homily’ has its circle close in, ‘commentaries’ a little further out. This is a social map, therefore, but with literary labels.9 The homilist (most often a bishop) operates right next to the liturgy: homiletic texts are related to the places where homilists stood, to the audiences who listened (reactive to a greater or lesser degree, varying in their level of understanding), to different sorts of celebration (certain feasts, certain saints or martyrs, certain sacramental rites). Commentaries, on the other hand, are                                                             

5 Ea quae in tomis uel in omiliis ipse [Origen] disseruit, from G. Morinʼs edition (1959), 178. 6 The Vigintiquinque Homiliae et Sēmeiōseis, quas nos Excerpta possumus appelare, Hieron. In Esaiam, vid. Adriaen (1963), 3. 7 Sluiter (1999), 173. The commentator, she suggests, will read himself into the text in the very process of making the text didactic. (We shall see Jerome, below, doing exactly that). But, because what she calls the ‘metaphors for teaching’ did not include anything analogous to the homily, 191–202, the homily becomes, at least in its later forms, the novelty requiring explanation. 8 See her entire chapter (1997), 217–247 with that title, Biblical Exegesis, with the question clearly posed on 218. 9 Young (1997), 220.

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more remotely placed (beyond catechesis), and imply focussed reflection, the systematic analysis of a text’s historical, mythical, or rhetorical character: there is no suggestion that they were read aloud in churches. So, where were they read, and by whom? The fact that they occupy a place on Professor Young’s map at all implies that the circumstances of their composition, of their dissemination and preservation, have to be taken into account, if we are to understand what they were for, and how we should relate them to other forms of exegesis. We are faced here with what Brian Stock first called ‘textual communities;’10 but that simply forces us to rephrase our question. Are the concentric bands of ecclesial territory on Professor Young’s map textual communities in any formal sense? She talks about ‘vast areas of overlap,’ which illustrate perfectly her contention that ‘[o]ften the same person embodied scholarly interest and preacher’s concern.’11 Karla Pollmann suggests that, ‘apart from the specific didactic function of exegesis in a school context, interpretation permeated practically every other literary genre ... every mode of communication’ in Late Antiquity.12 What distinction, social in form, is being made here between ‘exegesis’ and ‘interpretation’? Marco Formisano is prepared to see the commentary as what he calls ‘a metaphor for the literary system,’ tout court. He is referring to a cultural habit that reached beyond Christianity; but, if commentary in pagan hands could analyze, dismantle, decode, and reassemble, as he puts it, the ‘classical tradition,’ then perhaps Christian commentators were doing the same to the scriptural tradition.13And while the form of the endeavour was a fresh and scholarly presentation of the scriptural text, its effect could be intentionally behavioural and social – could reach well beyond the ‘school context.’ Frances Young’s argument affords some contrast to the influential emphases of Manlio Simonetti.14 She points, as we have seen, to the endurance of a learned yet more than philological interpretation of the Scriptures well beyond the time of Constantine. ‘Often,’ she writes, ‘the use of texts in doctrinal debate presupposes typological, allegorical or Christological senses [and she is thinking not least of the Arian dispute] which had developed in the context of liturgy or apologetic, and which we would not rec                                                            

10 See, in the first instance, Stock (1983). He brought his approach firmly into the Patristic period in two works especially (1996; 2001). See also Haines-Eitzen (2000). 11 Young (1997), 219. 12 Pollmann (2009), 259. 13 Formisano (2007), 282–283. 14 With whom she engages from the very first page of Biblical Exegesis. She seems to have chiefly in mind his Profilo storico dell’esegesi patristica, (English translation by Hughes, J.A. [1994], Biblical Interpretation in the Early Church: An Historical Introduction to Patristic Exegesis. Edinburgh: T. & T. Clark).

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ognise as “literal”.’15 Simonetti, in a later paper,16 highlighted in a particularly useful way an aspect of the problem about which Professor Young has less to say. As in his longer work, Simonetti still has his own take on the ‘novità’ that came with Constantine. Toleration, and therefore the Church’s more ‘public’ persona, transformed the homily, making it more obviously ‘rhetorical,’ more part of an ecclesial spectacle, the theatre of cult (and, as with so much traditional ‘theatricality,’ such an address could be contentious and provoking). In the process, homilists gradually parted company with the didactic and therefore ‘philosophical’ associations of exegesis (pre-eminent in Origen) and the related dependence (so clearly ‘Alexandrian’) on allegory. Origen preferred discussion over conclusion, and presented that discussion as a string of inquiries (zētēseis), leaving choices to his pupils (who were obviously considered, therefore, capable of making them). Even as a preacher (and he preached often), Origen acceded to the demands of the schoolroom: he adopted a manner of expressing himself ‘more suited,’ as Simonetti puts it, ‘to awakening the understanding of his hearers than to stirring their emotions [a interessare l’intelligenza degli ascoltatori piú che a muoverne gli affetti].’17 It becomes necessary (for Simonetti), therefore, to find something different in the post-Constantinian homilies; and sure enough he uncovers more ‘emotion’ (specifically in Basil and Chrysostom, using again his own phrase ‘muovere gli affetti’). Jerome the monk plays the scholar, but in the drier philological style of his old master Donatus. Fallen by the wayside are particularly the taste for allegory (so, ‘Antioch’ triumphs) and the Christological foreshadowings of the Old Testament.18 This is an extraordinarily simplistic view of literary development. The notion that ‘intelligenza’ ceded to ‘affetti’ carries with it more than a whiff of the old prejudice according to which one deplored the decline of reason in an age of popular superstition and excitability. Because rhetoric had supposedly displaced instruction – or at least instruction as to meaning – the learned, sequential, and open-ended reading of the scriptural text, with its attention to differing levels of understanding and response, experienced a visible and irreversible decline. It is perfectly true, of course, that scholarly Christians could condescend to the supposed simplicity of their audiences. A telling prejudice appears to be lodged in a brief exchange between Jerome and Gregory of Nazianzus, probably when their paths crossed in Constantinople in the early                                                              15

Young (1997), 246. Simonetti (1995). 17 Simonetti (1995), 371. 18 Simonetti (1995), especially at 375 and 379. 16

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380s.19 Jerome genuinely wanted his praeceptor, as he called him, to explain what he should make of the phrase en sabbátō deuteroprōtō at the beginning of Luke 6. This was a learned inquiry, between exegete and exegete. Gregory, inclined to tease (eleganter lusit), replied, ‘I’ll teach you about that in church [one assumes in a homily]. There,’ Gregory continued, ‘with all the people acclaiming my words, you’ll be forced against your will to know what you don’t know [scire, quod nescis] – or certainly, if you don’t join the applause, you’ll be the one person they condemn.’ Jerome, for his part (writing to Nepotianus on the priesthood), wished his correspondent to eschew the clamor populi, but suggested nevertheless that he should draw forth their tears and groans (lacrimae and gemitus), which do sound a little like Simonetti’s ‘affetti.’ His anecdote is hardly, however, a compliment to Gregory: rather, a typical Hieronymian backhander, some ten years after the event! ‘There’s nothing easier,’ he continues, ‘than to deceive ordinary and ignorant people with a rush of words: what they don’t understand they accept with amazement’ (his words, not Gregory’s). He had no wish, in other words, to suggest that the Cappadocian’s wit should define the norm. The sermo presbyteri had always to be seasoned with the scripturarum lectio; the priest should appear eruditissimus, a mysterii peritus. There is an additional twist to Simonetti’s account of the fourth and early fifth centuries. He is interested in the way, as he sees it, that homily lapsed back, as it were, into commentary (of a different sort, therefore). He cites Gregory of Nyssa’s sermons on the Song of Songs, where revision is evident and where the result, as we have it, is a virtual commentary. Similarly, he contends, if the commentaries of Hilary of Poitiers were based on earlier sermons, revision has obscured those originals completely. He thinks, on the other hand, that Chrysostom’s comparable addresses – because they were only superficially ‘tidied up’ – retain as a consequence more the air of the pulpit. Editing and compiling could have been one of the ways, therefore, in which the lines on Frances Young’s map could be made more permeable or, perhaps better, could represent distinctions that arose only later. Simonetti also suggests that presenting sermons in series tended to weaken the distinction between homily and commentary, so that the ‘rhetorical’ and ‘emotional’ expectations of the one swamped the more ‘scholarly’ intentions of the other. But there are some disturbing assumptions here. What authorizes us to believe, for example, that the ‘commentary-like’ texts we now possess do represent what were originally sermons – as if to take for granted that they now possess qualities that could not have graced a pulpit delivery. And if what survives has acquired the air of                                                              19

Hieron. Ep. lii.8, see Hilberg (1996), 428−430.

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a ‘series,’ what rules out the possibility that that ‘series quality’ was itself a result of subsequent ‘tidying’? Let us, at this point, return to Jerome.20 As a commentator, he seems to wear his heart on his sleeve. Writing to Paulinus of Nola in the early 390s,21 he laments the way people assume that an understanding of Scripture is simple, requiring no instruction, no recourse to a master. He laments their careless indifference to the sensus of the original authors, and their contrary readiness to use the inspired words as mere corroboration of their own inclinations. They miss the mysteria, the caelestia sacramenta in the text. The prophetic voices foretell multo aliud, quam sonant in littera. We are carried here a long way beyond emotion. So, what do the prefaces to his various commentaries tell us about the connection between this ‘scholarly’ pursuit and the ‘public’ address of the Church? In the preface to his commentary on Ecclesiastes, which was addressed to Paula and Eustochium in Bethlehem,22 Jerome recalls an earlier request by the ill-fated Blesilla in Rome that he should explain the obscura in the text, with the effect, as he puts it, ‘that she would be able to understand what she read, even when I was not there [ut absque me posset intellegere quae legebat].’ As far as Paula and Eustochium were concerned, of course, he was there; and that alerts us to a crucial fact – namely, that they were not the only ones he was talking to. Jerome’s commentary on Isaiah makes the public address of such a work very obvious. At the beginning of Book 9 (he has taken up his pen after something of a gap), he attacks those who judged ill the earlier books – which had obviously found readers, therefore, well beyond Bethlehem. He talks about those readers as he does in his letter to Nepotianus: they constitute a plebs uilior, even though they think themselves eruditi and diserti. Jerome himself, however, had been writing (as he says in Book 7) for the studiosi, for those who desired to know, scire cupientibus. He expected such readers to apply themselves with diligence. In the brief preface to Book 5, he refers to a shorter ‘historical’ review of the prophet that he had sent to a certain bishop Amabilis. There is no indication of what exactly Amabilis intended to do with the document; but Eustochium, the immediate recipient of this later and fuller treatment, is tellingly described as philoponōtátē, a glutton for hard work. What she is getting, as the opening of Book 6 reveals, is a summary of older interpretations by ecclesiastici uiri. A contrast seems implied, between the no-nonsense bishop and the studious protégée.                                                              20

The broad context for a discussion of what follows has been supplied most recently by Williams (2006). 21 Hieron. Ep. liii.6–8, see Hilberg (1996), 452–462. 22 Hieron. In Eccles., see Adriaen (1959).

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In Book 7 we have a disavowal of false erudition: one should not look here for the flumen eloquentiae that characterized not only Cicero and Quintilian but even Tertullian and Hilary. ‘Our purpose,’ Jerome says, ‘is to make Isaiah intelligible, and not by any means to take advantage of Isaiah so that our own words might be praised [nobis propositum est Esaiam per nos intellegi, et nequaquam sub Esaiae occasione nostra uerba laudari]’ – the force of the phrase per nos being to emphasize the bringing to bear of a professional talent, but also to allow that Isaiah continues to be the one who speaks, albeit in Jerome’s reflections – which means, of course, that nos is not being contrasted with ecclesiastici uiri. And in Book 11, Jerome happily admits that readers will want to know what he thinks: they are not looking simply for antiquorum opiniones. Indeed, Jerome could be rather lukewarm about opiniones. It is not just that he refused to be dominated by a single authority (this in the preface to his work on Ecclesiastes): while not wishing to distress his reader with novelties, he was not going to go against his principles, ‘neglecting,’ as he says, ‘the wellspring of truth by concentrating on little runnels of personal judgement [opinionum riuulos].’ He concedes (in Isaiah) that some antiqui might be regarded as magistri ecclesiae, and he would not want his judgement to imply a condemnation of everyone else; but those magistri did not agree with one another, often enough, and he certainly did not agree with all of them. Many of these attitudes recur. In Book 6 on Ezekiel, for example,23 he claims collegiality with the Spirit who inspired the text: his may be the os, but the sensus is the Lord’s. ‘Thanks to the same Spirit,’ he says, ‘the things revealed to the prophets that we read in these writings are revealed also to us as we discuss them [nobis quoque disserentibus].’ That sense of intimacy, of proximity to the ‘well-spring of truth,’ places in a broader setting any association with exegetes of the past. It also defines the necessary lowliness not only of scriptural language but also of one’s own literary talent. In his commentary on Jonah, written for Chromatius of Aquileia,24 Jerome implies that he has no wish to show off his own disertitudo, but rather to set forth the meaning – again, the sensus – of the writer he is treating. This is, indeed, the commentatoris officium. That there were rules and obligations attached to the role is a vital assertion. Pelagius, for example, did not understand the leges commentariorum – in this instance the listing of several opiniones, so that the reader might judge which was the most compelling (precisely the practice espoused by Origen).25                                                              23

Hieron. In Hiezechielem, see Glorie (1964). Hieron. In Ionam, Adriaen (1969). 25 Hieron. In Hieremiam, Reiler (1960), 1–2. 24

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The Jerome revealed here is no enemy of interiority, of exalted insight, of the learned circle. He directed his work on Ezekiel in part to those immediately local (in Bethlehem), in part to those more widely flung (even in Gaul, enabling him to address et te – as he says to Eustochium – et ceteros qui lecturi sunt). The exercise was still resolutely ‘scholarly,’ and far from merely ‘literal’ in its modes of analysis. That also reflected upon the ‘social circle:’ Eustochium was obviously up to the mark, when it came to understanding what he said, just as Marcella and Pammachius (and her mother, for that matter) had been before her. In defining his audiences in such a way, Jerome saw himself as making a contribution to the public discourse of the Church – indeed, he regarded a more enclosed or secretive exchange as a hallmark of heresy.26 His theological opponents ‘flee,’ as he puts it, ‘the public arena, and whisper in corners among lost souls [publicum fugiunt et sussurant in angulis perditorum], claiming deceitfully to write for their own set, fearing to admit that they say no more than what they think themselves [dolentque quasi pro suis, quae sua metuunt confiteri].’ Hence the importance of opiniones that could be traced to ecclesiastici uiri. Jerome is less helpful, when it comes to softening the boundary between commentary and homily. He writes his commentary on Jeremiah for his friend Eusebius, ‘not just so that you can listen to me but so that you can teach others.’27 Like the bishop Amabilis, the beneficiary of Jerome’s plain speaking on Isaiah, Bishop Exsuperius of Toulouse receives his thoughts on Zechariah, a commentary that forges an alliance between the bishop and the ‘brothers,’ as Jerome calls them – the ascetics of southern Gaul. Jerome is thus encouraged to inject the tropologia of Christian exegesis into the historical narrative of the Jews (something useful at once to pastoral instruction and ascetic commitment).28 In the commentary on Jonah (for Chromatius), Jerome hints at another alliance: ‘it’s the task of the learned,’ he says, ‘and of those familiar with the sweat of the labourer, to extend a hand to the weary and to show the path to those who wander [uel lassis manum porrigere, uel errantibus iter ostendere].’29 Finally, in the commentary on Habakkuk, he shows Chromatius (again) ‘some steps, as it were, indeed a ladder that’ll help [you] in [your] efforts to climb higher’ –                                                             

26 It would be useful to ask in what ways Jerome shared here the habits of mind evident in non-Christian intellectuals of his time – a question well explored in the company of Neil McLynn (2006), for example, and of Williams (2006). A specific analogy is supplied by Themistius, Or. 28.341, with its reference to ‘secluded corners’ as the refuge of the less admirable ‘descendants of Socrates.’ My thanks to our editor for pointing me to this passage. The translation is Penella’s (2000), 175. 27 Hieron. In Hieremiam, praef. 28 Hieron. In Zachariam, see Adriaen (1970a). 29 Hieron. In Ionam, see Adriaen (1969), 418.

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something that even this ‘historical’ interpretation could provide.30 But that is not the same thing as finding traces of Jerome’s commentary in other people’s sermons. Chromatius receives his commentary on Jonah; but there are precious few echoes in the bishop’s own works. In his Tractatus on Matthew 27.1.6, Chromatius repeats Jerome’s point about God knowing the heart of the one who prays in silence (as one has to, when inside a whale). Beyond that, little specific trace.31 All this induces a fear that Jerome may be exceptional, even eccentric; certainly not representative enough to be taken as the archetype of a new Christian approach to the homiletic art. But perhaps we do not need him to be anything of the sort. Within that magic eighty-year period, roughly 350–430, we have plenty of writings from other figures equally as notable. On the subject under discussion, however, they seem less generous in their reflections. In a substantial commentary by Augustine – his De Genesi ad litteram, for example32 – there is little of the exchange with readers that one finds in Jerome; indeed, little explicit reflection (in this case) on what he thinks he is about, beyond the brief opening paragraph of Book 1 (although that does have a heartening defence of ‘figural’ reading, which he applies straight away to the word principium – as in in principio fecit deus caelum et terram). The only unexpected bonus, perhaps, is Book 12, with its focus on the notion of paradise as such, and on the uisiones that one might have there, Adam no less than Paul. There is also food for thought in the fact that the book took more than ten years to write (it looks more ‘single’ on the shelf than it ever was in re). Similar disappointments attend a reading, say, of Cyril of Alexandria’s commentary on John.33 We might feel able to say what kind of approach Cyril uses – straightforward, insistent, doctrinal – but less about whom the work was for. Nor is it easy to decide how it helps us to understand his later career as a bishop and polemicist.34 Ambrose, it is tempting to suppose, provides more ammunition. One feels, certainly, that Maximus of Turin had to hand a well thumbed copy of his commentary on Luke.35 In his Sermo 39.2–3, for example, Maximus is clearly aware of Ambrose (On Luke 10.140–142), eager to link the notion of tomb with that of interiority. Yet the bishop of Turin is more often inclined to reflections of his own, more suited to the thread of his thought. His dependence is displayed more in basic ideas than in particular phrases.                                                              30

Hieron. In Abacuc, see Adriaen (1970b), 580. Chromatius, Opera, see Étaix and Lemarié (1974), 326. 32 August. De Genesi ad litteram, see Zycha (1894), 4, 379f. 33 Cyril Alex., In Ioannem, see Pusey (1872). 34 See Farag (2007), and Wessel (2004). 35 Maximus Taurin., Sermones, see Mutzenbecher (1962). See Rousseau (2011). For the Ambrosian texts, see his In Lucam, see Adriaen (1957). 31

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In his Sermo 34 on hospitality, with its echoes of Ambrose On Luke 6.65– 68, what seizes the attention is the overarching transition from littera to mysterium, and (therefore) to the Church as the ‘home’ in which true hospitality is offered and experienced – not emphases made by Ambrose.36 Indeed, Ambrose’s commentary itself gives no impression that he anticipated any particular impact of such a sort, or had any particular reader in mind. He talks simply about the triplex sapientia to be found in the Scriptures – naturalis, moralis, and rationalis – and emphasizes that Luke, although essentially an ‘historian,’ has many deeper things to impart. It is possible, however, that Jerome was exceptional not as a commentator but rather in the way he identified what it was that one might comment upon. Here, Ambrose offers an arresting contrast, which immediately shifts our attention, when it comes to thinking how commentary might influence the homiletic culture. Take, for example, his short collection of commentaries on some of the psalms.37 As he introduces us to Psalm 1, we must be struck by the immediately general tone. Psalmody is, for Ambrose, a caelestis conuersatio, the endless praise of God that humanity lost touch with as a result of the fall. For humanity, therefore, music is an instrument of reconciliation, uniting earth and heaven: it engenders both a naturalis and a caelestis delectatio. Men and women of every class and condition can engage in song; each person finds a psalm suited to their temperament and need (1.1–7). This immediately throws the reader into a broad theological context (time and eternity, fall and redemption), which has nothing to do with any particular psalm or verse; and one’s choices are made, not in direct relation to the meaning of the text but in relation to one’s own circumstance. The time and place of reading are what control the extraction of the message. It quickly becomes apparent that Ambrose is not setting up his commentaries in Jerome’s style. Rather, he takes a section of the scriptural text that allows him to explore a set of ideas bound together by their own principles of coherence. One comes to the text with one’s curiosity already in place. In his various reflections on the Song of Songs, for example, he does not handle the text verse by verse: his interpretation in any one place is governed by the theme of the work in which it occurs.38 He queers the pitch, so to speak, from the word go – in the opening of the expositio on Psalm 118, for example, which plunges at once into the issue of transcendence, of resurrection, of a personal destiny (on the ‘eighth day’) that is heavenly and everlasting: all is subsumed under that insight (unitas enim cohercet omnia et regit, cui subiecta sunt omnia, 2). We know what                                                              36

For a full list of such echoes in Maximus, see the Mutzenbecher (1962), 443. Ambr. Explanatio psalmorum XII, see Petschenig (1919). 38 This is particularly evident in his Expositio Psalmi CXVIII, see Petschenig (1913). See the unpublished thesis by Marinov (2008). 37

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we are going to be looking for, in other words, and that is what we get. The technique is equally obvious in his De Noe et arca.39 This was never going to be a commentary on Genesis, or even a bit of Genesis. Ambrose is fascinated by the fact that Noah was an Adam-like figure. He starts, therefore, by trying to get to grips with the man’s altitudo mentis. Here is someone we badly need to understand. Not that it will be easy. Nothing is harder, Ambrose says (taking his cue from ‘philosophy itself’), than to understand the hominis interiora. But Noah, after all, was the one chosen by God to restart, as it were, the biological history of humankind, to give new meaning to the notion of covenant; and we need to know enough about him to imitate the man (Ambrose does something similar with Tobit),40 to enter into that degree of intimacy, and indeed to find rest in his company – rest specifically from the daily trials of life in the world (dum Noe … consideramus, reficiamur et nos). Well before we grapple with the story, we ask ourselves what Noah, what this kind of man, can do for us in our current circumstances. This, more than Jerome’s work, drags the act of commentary out of one of Frances Young’s circles and into another (more ‘public’). We reach here beyond the simplistic experiment of looking for traces of commentary in homiletic collections – even traces of someone’s personal reflections in their own homilies. Much of the material lends itself only with difficulty to such an exploration. Basil’s sermons on the creation, for example, have the air of a commentary on the opening of Genesis and yet undoubtedly were homilies, and addressed to a broader audience than one might have expected – all in a week or so.41 Calling to mind Simonetti’s categories, they were ‘scholarly’ in many respects, not what one might expect on a normal Sunday morning; and they were in some sense a ‘series,’ which presents us with problems of revision, preservation, and transmission. There is no simple path here from schoolroom (however loosely defined) to pulpit. Rather more serious, there seems little reason why there should have been: surely, that is not the right question. Other obvious gems of the homiletic genre – Cyril of Jerusalem’s Catecheses, for example – were entirely ‘occasional’ pieces, in which one could not expect a simple transfer of interpretations. Another example to place beside Ambrose (making the same point) is the set of Chrysostom’s sermons on King Uzziah (specifically 2, 3, 5, and 6, which form a unit).42 Here again, in relation to mere snippets of 2 Kings                                                              39

See (for the allusions here) Ambr. De Noe et arca, 1.1, see Schenkl (1897), 413. Ambr. De Tobia, see Schenkl (1897), 519–573. 41 In addition to the extended chapter in Rousseau (1994), 318–349, see also Rousseau (2008). 42 Dumortier (1981). 40

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and 2 Chronicles, Chrysostom has little more in mind than to explain the nature of Uzziah’s pride in venturing to offer incense in the Temple, and therefore to ruminate on what ‘entering the Temple’ might mean. ‘To read the Scriptures with attention,’ he says, ‘is to open [the door to] the heavens [hē gàr tôn Graphôn anágnōsis tôn ouranôn estin ánoixis (2.2)].’ That sudden leap to the eternal is strikingly reminiscent of Ambrose on Psalm 118, and a habit to look out for. The early assertion, in Chrysostom’s case, with its immediately preceding reference to the people’s joining the angelic choirs, is held in play right to the end of the series. Again, a single idea dominates an extended address; an address nevertheless held carefully together by constant repetitions and cross-references.43 Chrysostom ends – after discussing pride, presumption, repentance, and purification – with the same transition to the heavenly throne of God. (By now, he has switched to Isaiah, which fits the theme better!) From the opening of the heavens, we pass to the vision of God, for which those hearing him have long lived in hope. But there must be nothing soiled, nothing unworthy of the text they are considering: ‘we run a real risk here,’ Chrysostom says, ‘as we engage with a tale of mystery [μυστικῶν γὰρ μέλλομεν κατατολμᾷν διηγημάτων (6.1)].’ The altar of Isaiah’s vision (with seraphs and live coals, ‘in the year that King Uzziah died’) was the túpos of the altar that the hearers now saw before them. We are in the world of Chrysostom’s On the Priesthood.44 Indeed, the parallel is marked: in the treatise, the movement from earth to heaven in the presence of the crucified Christ is a feature of the liturgical place and moment (especially in 3.4); in the homilies, it represents the conclusion of a process of penitence and purified desire. In both instances, however, the cosmic transference of the audience is the central theme. These analogous strategies, in Ambrose and Chrysostom, do bring into greater relief the places where Jerome does work in at least comparable ways – in the commentary on Ezekiel, for example, which also ends with a vision of the Temple, for which he is anxious to prepare his reader (Eustochium) aright. Part of that anxiety is reflected in his growing concern to make clear the overriding theme of each section of the prophecy: the reader (that is, of the commentary) has to understand how the chapters are grouped and what gives each group its unity (hence the division into books). And as in Chrysostom’s homilies, there is in Jerome’s work a gathering sense of ‘mystery,’ which cannot be appreciated verse by verse. But by the same token it is clear what is not really feasible. We are not going to gain much from wondering what direct relation there may have                                                             

43 Frances Young corroborates this thematic tendency in Chrysostom, in her analysis of his treatment of Corinthians (1997), 249–257. 44 Malingrey (1980).

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been between commentaries in some limited and ‘proper’ sense and homilies that referred to the same books of the Scriptures or to words and phrases in them. We have seen how little jumps out at us in Jerome’s exercises, and Ambrose and Maximus of Turin, in relation to Luke, may be exceptional, and the mere comparison of the two of them does little justice to the broader skill of either. The notion, in particular, that one might take Augustine’s Enarrationes in psalmos, for example, and trace their impact on homilies that refer to one psalm or another founders on the fact that the Enarrationes is not a single œuvre. The coherence of the collection was achieved post factum, probably by Augustine himself (although he did not include every eligible address), but with some help perhaps from Possidius, not to mention later ‘editors.’ (It is interesting to compare Possidius’ groupings with later manuscripts that contain only sections or isolated items of the collection). Some of the reflections were conceived as written missives, taking the form of what the modern editors of the collection called sermones ficti; others were, as later manuscripts suggest, sermones ad populum from the start.45 What matters more, however, is that Augustine did not ‘deliver’ these pieces (in those cases where ‘deliver’ is the appropriate word) in the order of the psalms themselves. Not only is the probable order of composition ‘confused’ in this way, but the collection as a whole covers more than twenty-five years of Augustine’s life. When we set them up side by side with his other sermons (not all of which are easy to date, of course), we end up with little more than a picture of Augustine’s mind, and certainly no clear sense of how he might have transformed his scholarly reflections into public oratory.46 Let us return, therefore, to the concentric circles of Frances Young’s map. If we accept that the commentator is essentially a teacher – the point made with such force by Ineke Sluiter – then in what sense can catechesis and homily (two circles further in towards liturgy and prayer) be thought of as not teaching? What is the character of the lines that have to be crossed? How permeable or moveable are they? To ask those questions is to suggest – and this is deliberate – that after Constantine the teaching arena for Christians becomes bigger and actually less compartmentalized, chiefly because it is often the same people who do the different things that teaching entails or demands. There is an immediate corollary of some importance: one cannot always define the ‘context of interpretation’ by the type of text deployed within it. This will mean, among other things, that we need to reassess the character of what may seem more reticent, theoret                                                             45

Dekkers and Fraipont, (1956), v. For a reconstructed chronology of the sermons, see Dekkers and Fraipont (1956), xv−xviii. Our most authoritative guide in these matters is Hubertus Drobner in a range of volumes too extensive to be listed here. See, most recently Drobner (2010). 46

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ical works. Augustine’s De doctrina christiana, for example, may not be understood best as a book about the Christian use of classical culture, and the same would go for Basil’s Ad adulescentes or Chrysostom’s De educandis liberis. In Augustine’s case we are lucky: we have works to place alongside the De doctrina christiana – the De magistro, for example, or the De catechizandis rudibus. The latter is a particularly striking example, because there is little that is rudis about it: its attention to the interpretation of the Scriptures and its sensitivity to the psychological dispositions and needs of the pupil make it an entirely worthy companion to Gregory the Great’s Cura pastoralis (and both works are basically letters). These texts operate in a hinterland between personal reflection and the pastoral task, and the principles conveniently systematized within them flow in practice back and forth within a busy cleric’s day. It is the task rather than the document that marks the change of the hour and the intensity of the application. We are forced, finally, to think again about the documents as we now have them. Their present form on the library shelf does not tell us anything distinctly about origin or usage. Comments above about Augustine’s Enarrationes must make that clear; but we need to go further and tackle these collections as Jean Gribomont tackled the Rules of Basil, or Jean-Claude Guy the Apophthegmata patrum.47 We cannot afford to judge the degree of ascetic systematization in late fourth-century Cappadocia or in Egypt on the basis of order imposed on surviving material often centuries later. We need to make more of what Frances Young hints at – that commentaries share their circle in her map with letters (think of so many of Jerome’s letters, small exegetical treatises). Letter collections give a false impression of tidied circumstance (witness the Collectio Avellana or Gregory the Great’s Registrum or the epistolary archive of any late antique bishop), but they also match the sub-divided sections of Jerome’s commentaries, part of a culture of exchange that defines the very fabric of the Church. Faced with the preachers of northern Italy and the church archives of Brescia, Verona, and Turin, why (we have to ask) were the sermons of Gaudentius, Zeno, and Maximus preserved in the way they were (sometimes in oddly truncated fragments)? What sense did they make to collectors (and, most intriguing, subsequent users) in this form? We face again the issue raised by both Ambrose and Chrysostom: when is a commentary not a commentary? The real danger is that the frozen form that exegetical texts might now retain will blind us to the fluid endeavours that lie behind them. The very existence of unitary pieces like the De Noe et arca and the homilies on Uzziah (marked, let us not forget, by analytical curiosity and the sense of mysterium) not only makes extended and formal                                                              47

Gribomont (1953); Guy (1962).

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commentaries more problematic but also dissolves to some degree their specificity, making them as ‘public,’ as much a part of the pastoral currency, as any more ‘rhetorical’ performance. Even in the midst of his glorious periods (the Uzziah sermons are rhetorically stunning), Chrysostom struggles to excuse his busy mind, ‘my address, as with most people,’ he says, ‘barrelling its way in a great rush through the myriad thoughts that come to me.’ (6.2) But a coda on Jerome seems not out of place. There is not only a profoundly intimate but also a strikingly eschatological dimension to exegesis – qualities that spring from both the personal urgency of the pastoral enterprise and its cosmic context. It is the urgency that gives the mysterium its moral thrust (as Ambrose might have put it).48 We too often deny Jerome such sublimity. In his commentary on Hosea (dedicated to Pammachius),49 he paints a picture of final harmony and justice. ‘When the earth has sunk back into itself,’ he writes, ‘and both we who write and those who pass judgement upon us have been snatched away by pale-faced death, another generation will be born, a vigorous woodland will grow up in place of the old, as its leaves fall away. Then name and rank will count for nothing: only talent will carry weight [tunc sine nominum dignitate, solo iudicantur ingenio]. The reader will not take note of whose work he reads but of its quality alone, whether he be bishop or layman, emperor or lord, soldier or servant, whether covered in purple or silk or a simple cloak. Distinction due to honour will be judged of less account than the merit of one’s work [non honorum diversitate sed operum merito iudicabitur].’ (2) This depicts, in something close to poetic style, the restored golden age of the man of letters. It may seem unduly self-justifying; but the genuine feeling seems confirmed, with even richer tone and implication, in the commentary on Habakkuk. Jerome reflects on a late verse, which reads in a modern translation, ‘God came from Teman, the Holy One from Mount Paran;’ but Jerome, characteristically, explores many versions. ‘The Holy One – that is, the Son of God – comes,’ he says, ‘from a thickly shadowed mountain.’ This he equates with either the Father, the wise one hovering over us with protective wings, or the heavenly paradise, full of angels, full of virtues, full of fruit-laden trees. ‘And,’ he continues, ‘would that this might happen in my case also: that when I speak and lay bare my thoughts [my expositio], God might come in full light, and his Son, in whose name                                                             

48 Ambr. Expositio Psalmi CXVIII, prologue 2: the baptized Christian non offert sacrificium nisi octauum ingrediatur diem; because he is informatus agnitione sacramentorum caelestium, and rationis capax, tunc demum (Ambrose continues) suum munus altaribus sacris offerat, cum coeperit esse instructior – and then the note that Chrysostom would have appreciated (vis-à-vis Uzziah): ne offerentis inscitia contaminet oblationis mysterium, see Petschenig (1913), 4. 49 Hieron. Comm. in Osee, see Adriaen (1969).

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it is written [In Leviticus], ‘You shall be holy to me, for I the Lord am holy;’ that he might come from the height of a thickly shadowed eloquence, shot through here and there with the affirmations of the Scriptures. As Father and Son both come, may the one who listens to them [namely, Jerome] become himself a dwelling-place [fiat eorum auditor habitaculum], fulfilling what is written [in John], ‘I and my Father will come to them and make our home with them’. But because this thickly shadowed mountain,’ Jerome continues, ‘is referred to in the Hebrew as Mount Paran, and because Paran means ‘the mouth of one who sees [os uidentis]’, a beautiful interpretation presents itself for us – namely, that the coming of the Son is made known through the word of a learned man [de eruditi sermone uiri], and not just with any word but by speaking of the one who is full of light, so that he may be presented clearly and in all his purity to the ears of those who hear [manifestus et purus ad aures audientium deferatur].’ (2.3.3) The company thus formed – of God, prophet, exegete, and reader – constitutes the real intimacy of the exegetical experience. It reminds us also that the potential impact of the sacred text – its character as an instrument of engagement – is not the result of our analysis but the precondition of our understanding it.

Bibliography Adriaen, M. (1957), In Lucam. Turnhout: Brepols. –. (1959), Commentarius in Ecclesiasten. Turnhout: Brepols. –. (1963), Commentariorum in Esaiam libri I–XI. Turnhout: Brepols. –. (1969), Commentariorum in prophetas minores (Osee, Ioelem, Amos, Abdiam, Ionam, Michaeam. Turnhout: Brepols. –. (1970a), In Zachariam. Turnhout: Brepols. –. (1970b), In Abacuc. Turnhout: Brepols. Brown, P. (1992), Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press. Cameron, Av. (1991), Christianity and the Rhetoric of Empire: The Development of Christian Discourse. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press. Dekkers, E. and Fraipont, I. (1956), Enarrationes in psalmos. Turnhout: Brepols. Drobner, H. (2010), Augustinus von Hippo, Sermones ad populum: Überlieferung und Bestand. Frankfurt am Main & New York: Peter Lang. Dumortier, J. (1981), Jean Chrysostome, Homélies sur Ozias. Paris: Éditions du Cerf. Étaix, R. and Lemarié, J. (1974), Chromatius Aquileiensis Opera. Turnhout: Brepols. Farag, L.M. (2007), St Cyril of Alexandria, a New Testament Exegete: His Commentary on the Gospel of John. Piscataway: Gorgias Press. Formisano, M. (2007), “Towards an Aesthetic Paradigm of Late Antiquity”, AT 15, 277– 284. Glorie, F. (1964), Commentariorum in Hiezechielem. Libri XIV. Turnhout: Brepols. Gribomont, J. (1953), Histoire du texte des Ascétiques de S. Basile. Lovain: Publications Universitaires.

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Guy, J.-C. (1962), Recherches sur la tradition grecque des Apophthegmata Patrum. Brussels: Société des Bollandistes. Haines-Eitzen, K. (2000), Guardians of Letters: Literacy, Power, and the Transmitters of Early Christian Literature. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hilberg, I. (1996, 2nd ed.), Sanctus Hieronymus. Epistulae. Vienna: Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Malingrey, A.-M. (1980), Jean Chrysostome, Sur le Sacerdoce. Paris: Éditions du Cerf. Marinov, D. (2008), Gregory of Nyssa and Ambrosius of Milan on the Song of Songs. Unpubl. PhD: Hebrew University of Jerusalem. Markus, R. (1990), The End of Ancient Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. McLynn, N. (2006), “Among the Hellenists: Gregory and the Sophists”, in Børtnes, J. and Hägg, T. (eds), Gregory of Nazianzus: Images and Reflections. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum, 213–238. Morin, G. (1959), Commentarioli in Psalmos. Turnhout: Brepols. Mutzenbecher, A. (1962), Maximus Taurin. Sermones. Turnhout: Brepols. Penella, R. (2000), The Private Orations of Themistius. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press. Petschenig, M. (1913), Expositio Psalmi CXVIII. Vienna: Tempsky; Leipzig: Freytag. –. (1919), Explanatio psalmorum XII. Vienna: Tempsky; Leipzig: Freytag. Pollmann, K. (2009), “Exegesis without End: Forms, Methods, and Functions of Biblical Commentaries”, in Rousseau, P. (ed.), A Companion to Late Antiquity. Chichester & Malden: Wiley Blackwell, 258–269. Pusey, E. (1872), Cyrillus Alexandrinus. In Ioannem. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Reiler, S. (1960), In Hieremiam. Turnhout: Brepols. Rousseau, P. (1994), Basil of Caesarea. Berkeley & Los Angeles: University of California Press. –. (2008), “Human Nature and its Material Setting in Basil of Caesarea’s Sermons on the Creation”, Heythrop Journal 49, 222–239. –. (2011), “Homily and Asceticism in the North Italian Episcopate”, in Beatrice, P.F. and Peršič, A. (eds), Chromatius of Aquileia and his Age. Turnhout: Brepols, 145–161. Schenkl, C. (1896), Hexameron, De paradiso, De Cain, De Noe, De Abraham, De Isaac, De bono mortis. Vienna: Tempsky; Leipzig: Freytag. –. (1897), De Iacob, De Ioseph, De patriarchis, De fuga saeculi, De interpellatione Iob et David, De apologia prophetae David, De Helia, De Nabuthae, De Tobia . Vienna: Tempsky; Leipzig: Freytag. Simonetti, M. (1981), Profilo storico dell’esegesi patristica. Rome: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum. –. (1995), “Omelie e commentari patristici”, in Moreschini, C. (ed.), Esegesi, parafrasi e compilazione in età tardoantico. Naples: D’Auria, 361–381. Sluiter, I. (1999), “Commentaries and the Didactic Tradition”, in Most, G.W. (ed.), Commentaries-Kommentare. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 173–205. Stock, B. (1983), The Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries. Princeton: Princeton University Press –. (1996), Augustine the Reader: Meditation, Self-Knowledge, and the Ethics of Interpretation. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. –. (2001), After Augustine: The Meditative Reader and the Text. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Wessel, S. (2004), Cyril of Alexandria and the Nestorian Controversy. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Williams, M.H. (2006), The Monk and the Book: Jerome and the Making of Christian Scholarship. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Young, F.M. (1997), Biblical Exegesis and the Formation of Christian Culture. Cambridge & New York: Cambridge University Press. Zycha, J. (1894), Augustini De Genesi ad litteram. Prague & Vienna: Tempsky; Leipzig: Freytag.

Between Testimony and Rumour: Strategies of Invective in Augustine’s De moribus manichaeorum Nicholas Baker-Brian

Augustine, the clever Rhetor (à la De Beausobre) Underlying the stinging accusation of the Manichaean epistolographer Secundinus, that Augustine’s attacks against Mani had repeatedly missed their mark because he knew little or nothing of the ‘unknown mysteries of [Mani’s] secret,’1 was Secundinus’ broader challenge to the credibility of Augustine’s persona as a theologian of the late antique Catholic Church. According to Secundinus, little in the way of religious truth was to be found in Augustine’s writings. Instead, it was Augustine’s skills as a rhetor that shone forth from his work, with luminosity brighter even than the marbles on the house of the famous Anicii:2 ‘… I returned again and again to [your writings] with an open mind and a quick eye. I found everywhere a consummate orator and a god of almost all eloquence. I never found a Christian, however, but a man armed against everything yet affirming nothing, though you ought to have shown yourself to be well versed in knowledge, not in speaking.’3 This contemporary Manichaean judgement on the Bishop of Hippo, that Augustine was more rhetor than theologian, proved controversial. It is telling that in the eighteenth century, Isaac de Beausobre (d. 1738), the author of the widely-regarded first ‘modern’ study of Mani and Manichaeism (published in two volumes in 1734, and posthumously in 1739) employed                                                             

1 Secundinus, Epistula ad sanctum Augustinum (Zycha [1891–1892] 895.17–20). The letter of Secundinus is usually dated to ca. AD 405–406. All translations of Augustine’s (and Secundinus’) writings are from Teske (2006), unless otherwise stated. 2 Edward Gibbon (1781), II, 170–175 cites Secundinus via Caesar Baronius in his historical summary of the Anicii, ch. 31, 172: ‘The marbles of the Anician Palace’ were used as a proverbial expression of opulence and splendour; but the nobles and senators of Rome aspired, in due gradation, to imitate that illustrious family.’ See Salzman (2002), 183–184. 3 Epistula ad sanctum Augustinum (CSEL 25.2, 895.10–15).

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Secundinus’ criticisms of Augustine as the point of departure for his own assessment of Augustine’s portrayal of Manichaeism, an inquiry which focused on the extent of Augustine’s knowledge of the religion. De Beausobre’s assessment of Secundinus’ sarcastic remark, that because of Augustine’s ignorance of the teachings of Mani he had unwittingly challenged not Mani but Hannibal and Mithridates4 (the traditional enemies of Rome predating the arrival of the ‘Persian menace’ Mani),5 was met with, for the time at least, unusual open-mindedness.6 While Augustine, opined de Beausobre, had evidently been a thinker of ‘fortunate genius’ (‘heureux genieʼ), and his writings were undeniably pious (‘je reconnois tout le mérite de ses pieux travauxʼ), it was nevertheless the case that in his portrayal of Manichaeism Augustine had disguised (‘déguiséʼ) certain aspects of the religion in order to more easily triumph over it. To be sure, noted de Beausobre, Augustine employed sophismes in his anti-Manichaean writings: he intentionally misrepresented their beliefs, giving undue weight to their myths (which naturally disadvantaged them), together with imparting unpleasant meanings to evidently innocent words and passages from Mani’s writings (in e.g. Augustine’s De natura boni 44; see below). Furthermore, de Beausobre notes, by reading attentively the accounts of Augustine’s public disputes with the Manichaean ‘priests’ (‘prêtresʼ) Felix (‘est un ignorantʼ) and Fortunatus (‘est plus habileʼ) we see Augustine operating as a ‘skilful rhetor’ (‘habile Rhéteurʼ),7 habitually attacking his opponents and setting them on the defensive: an assessment echoing the very criticisms of Secundinus himself.8 De Beausobre’s concluding assessment about Augustine on Manichaeism is even now compelling: ‘These reflections show that we are mistaken if we imagine that we can find a precise impression of Manichaeism in Saint Augustine.’9 However, little sympathy for de Beausobre’s effective condemnation of Augustine as a historical witness to late antique Manichaeism is to be found in the judgements of more recent scholars. Commentators such as John Kevin Coyle, and Johannes van Oort, regard Augustine as ‘a reliable witness’ to Manichaeism, when the information from his anti-Manichaean writings is compared with sources produced by Manichaeans themselves.10                                                              4

Epistula ad sanctum Augustinum (CSEL 25.2, 895. 19–20): … atque sub Manichaei nomine persequi te Hannibalem atque Mithridatem. 5 See Van der Lof (1974). 6 On de Beausobre, see esp. Stroumsa (2000; 2010, 113 f.). 7 Beausobre (1970), I, 227–229. 8 For Augustine as rhetor, see Finaert (1939), 55–66; Marrou (1958), 47–83 and 505– 540; cf. Sutherland (2004). 9 Beausobre (1970), I, 231: ‘Ces réflexions tendent à faire voit, que l’on se trompe, si l’on s’imagine trouver dans St. Augustin une juste idée du Manichéisme.’ 10 Van Oort (1991), 45.

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However, as Coyle highlights in an article dedicated to investigating what Augustine knew about Manichaeism at the time of his return to Africa in the late 380s, it was the eminent Manichaean scholar François Decret who noted that, while Augustine’s writings against Mani were certainly wellinformed, appearing in one sense to be the work of a historian, it remains the case that his testimony about the religion will always bear the mark of a polemicist.11 While Coyle acknowledged the sense of Decret’s observation, that ‘Augustine was deliberately selective in his presentations’12 of the religion’s beliefs and practices, he along with many other commentators (including Decret himself!) continue to utilise Augustine’s testimony as if it had been intended to be received as a historical witness of all things Manichaean, contrary to Decret’s sensible injunction. However, while over two centuries of development in studying Augustine and Manichaeism divide de Beausobre and Decret, their assessments of Augustine nevertheless sound in unison, and may in fact point the way for future research into Augustine’s relationship with Manichaeism. One such avenue concerns the investigation of Augustine as habile Rhéteur, and in particular the rhetorical-polemical strategies employed by him in challenging his former Manichaean co-religionists. Therefore, this paper will eschew the approach which looks to Augustine’s writings against Manichaeism as a way of measuring his awareness of the finer points of Mani’s theology and his church’s rituals – as evidence for his ‘unique expertness’ on Manichaeism13 (a judgement which I am not denying) – and instead will focus on Augustine’s persona as a rhetor making a case against the religion in one of his earliest treatises, De moribus manichaeorum. This paper will be concerned, therefore, with understanding how this text works as an example of fourth century Christian rhetoric.

Catholic Praise and Manichaean Invective Augustine had deserted the religion of Mani by the mid-380s.14 Mor. 2 offers a valuable insight into why Augustine had grown dissatisfied with Manichaeism. Arranged in three main divisions,15 the treatise outlines the intellectual problems raised by Mani’s theology (mor. 2.1.1–9.18), the inconsistencies of the religion’s rituals (2.10.19–18.66), and offers an anec                                                             11

Decret (1994), 8; cited in Coyle (2001b), 43. Coyle (2001b), 43. 13 Van Oort (2000), 451. 14 On the timing and circumstances surrounding Augustine’s apostasy from Manichaeism, see now BeDuhn (2010), esp. 135–192. 15 Following Decret (1978), I, 24. 12

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dotal account of the practice of the religion among its Elect (first-grade Manichaeans) and Hearers (second-grade Manichaeans)16 in Carthage and Rome during the decade-long involvement of Augustine with those communities (mor. 2.19.67–20.75). The treatise’s intensity of abuse in all three areas is noteworthy, especially in the details supplied in Augustine’s anecdotes concerning the failings of individual Manichaeans ‘to live up to’ the rigours of the religion’s precepts. In a recent monograph charting the rise and fall of Augustine’s commitment to Manichaeism, Jason BeDuhn has noted mor. 2’s tendency to rhetorical exaggeration in relating details of the moral failings of African and Roman Manichaeans. However, BeDuhn also discloses his sympathy for the apparent sincerity of Augustine’s disappointment with the less-than-immaculate behaviour of his former coreligionists, which mor. 2 seems to convey. While BeDuhn is certainly correct to suggest that the tone and contents of mor. 2 were determined by the ‘elevated antagonism of a recent apostate,’ 17 an additional explanation for the vitriolic emphasis (across all three divisions) of mor. 2 can also be found in the literary form of the treatise as an example of invective literature, and the extent to which mor. 2 is concerned with developing a ‘rhetoric of abuse’18 towards Manichaeism. To the best of my knowledge, mor. 2 has never previously been judged as a work of invective.19 While such an assessment is clearly suggested by its contents, an examination of mor. 2’s ribald slander also agrees with the lately acknowledged cultural importance of libellous language across the Greek and Roman worlds, and especially in early Christian literature.20 Previous research on mor. 2 has, nevertheless, followed traditional patterns of Augustinian scholarship. Mor. 2 has been read as one of many platforms in which Augustine expressed his discontent with the religion of Mani; its theological arguments against Manichaeism being received as examples of Augustine’s progress, during the formative decade of the 380s, towards Catholic truth (thereby adhering to the literary portrayal of his life prescribed in the Confessiones).21 The slanderous descriptions of the Mani                                                             16

Cf. Mor. 2.18.65 (CSEL 90. 146.18–19). BeDuhn (2010), 152. 18 Cf. Wilken (1983), 95–127. 19 Indeed, it is a treatise which has suffered from some neglect. However, exceptions include Coyle (1978) although with a focus on mor. 1; also, Coyle (2001a; 2001b). Also important is Decret (1978), I, 24–36; II, 33–38; and Decret (1991), 59–119, where the focus is mor. 2 alone. 20 The formative study in the field is Edwards (1993), 1–33. For early Christian approaches to the role of sexual slander in invective, see Knust (2006), passim. On the literary history of invective (which stops short of discussing its post-classical manifestations), see Koster (1980), passim. 21 E.g. Decret (1991). 17

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chaean Elect have also been judged according to an Augustine-centric model of assessment: i.e. Manichaean behaviour must have been as bad as Augustine describes it, precisely because Augustine describes it so. Thus, Augustine’s complaints against the Manichaeans, especially his excoriating of the Elect, have been understood as if there must have been a relatively substantial fire behind the production of so much smoke.22 Nevertheless, most commentators have acknowledged that mor. 2 is a work of polemic,23 although invective was more correctly the principal form in which controversial arguments were presented during Late Antiquity; invective being ‘one of the most widespread literary genres’ of the period.24 The religious and cultural transformations occurring in the late Roman world were marked by an exchange of abusive attacks between would-be prophets, philosophers, religious leaders, and religious communities of all inclinations: the single, abiding aim of abusive rhetoric being the marginalisation of the individual or party on its receiving end. Mor. 2 first and foremost qualifies as invective in its consolidation of the Manichaeans – within the confines of an ongoing Christian literary discourse against Manichaeism – as the religious ‘Other,’ and their exclusion positioned off-centre of normative religious (i.e. Christian) identity.25 This determination of the ‘Other’ in invective was achieved in a variety of ways, although one of the most important was the denigration of the subject concerned by mockery and ribald discourse: that is, ‘reproach with humour.’26 As we shall see, mor. 2 is a treatise which satirises Manichaean beliefs and practices in such a way as to abrogate the earnestness of Manichaean thought and action. In the treatise, Augustine transforms through satirical invective the religious and moral orientation of Manichaean thought into something that is fit only to be mocked. Joseph Finaert in his sadly neglected monograph from 1939, had already identified the centrality of satire and comedic expression in mor. 2’s disparaging of the Manichaeans.27 However, invective could also proceed without the necessary components of satire; indeed, at the heart of invective lay a seriousness of purpose which sought the marginalisation of an opponent through bitter – sometimes humourless, often personal – reproach. Finding one, stable definition of invective from the late antique period can prove difficult. Invective proper formed one part of epideictic rhetoric, the business of ‘blame and praise’ (in Greek, the psogos and the epainos                                                              22

Cf. Frankfurter (2006), 214. On polemic generally, see Opelt (1980), passim. For Opelt’s treatment of Christian anti-Manichaean invective, see 143–146. 24 Agosti (2001), 238. 25 See Agosti (2001), 241–243. 26 Long (1996), 25. 27 Finaert (1939), 56–57. 23

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respectively),28 the rules and conventions of which would have been very familiar to Augustine who, as chair of rhetoric in the imperial capital of Milan, delivered a high-profile speech of praise in 385 to mark the accession of Flavius Bauto to the consulship.29 However, in patristic literature, the principal components of invective were frequently utilised, although not necessarily according to the encomiastic forms laid out in the preliminary exercises (i.e. Progymnasmata) for epideictic composition. As Robert Wilken has noted about John Chrysostom’s homilies against Jews and Judaisers in late fourth century Antioch, ‘the techniques of the psogos are apparent in the use of half-truths, innuendo, guilt by association, abusive and incendiary language, malicious comparisons, and in all, excess and exaggeration,’ but not the ‘formal requirements of the fixed speeches of the rhetorical tradition.’30 Manichaeans who like Jews constituted the religious ‘Other’ for most of the fourth century and beyond, were subject to the same slanderous and accusatory challenges, and mor. 2 makes effective use of all of these standard techniques without necessarily abiding by encomiastic convention. For a start, invective tended to be directed towards an individual with the aim of causing irreparable harm to his or her reputation, for which reason invective of this kind is frequently characterised as ‘political,’ since it was aimed at opponents involved in the affairs of government. The commonplaces of political invective became enormously influential in the development of Christian heresiology as a discrete literary form in the patristic tradition. In particular Mani (d. ca. 276) had been the subject of abusive discourse in numerous instances of Christian anti-Manichaica,31 most notably in the fictive portrayal of Mani contained in the influential Acta Archelai from the early fourth century.32 Not only does the work draw intermittently on the commonplaces of political invective,33 for instance in the portrayal of Mani’s ethnically exotic (ergo peculiar) appearance, looking like ‘an old Persian magician (artifex) or warlord;’34 but, Acta also of                                                            

28 Men. Rh. I. 331.15. For a historical overview of psogos in literature, see Pernot (1993), 481–490. 29 Aug., Confessiones 6.6.9; see the commentarial note on this passage in O’Donnell (1992), II, 356–357; cf. Lancel (2002), 63–65. 30 Wilken (1983), 116. 31 For a general discussion of Christian polemics against Mani and Manichaeism, see Lieu (1994), 156–202. 32 Acta Archelai 62.1–65.9. 33 See Long (1996), 66. 34 Acta Archelai 14.3: vultus vero ut senis Persae artificis et bellorum ducis videbatur; trans. in Vermes, Lieu, and Kaatz (2001), 58. Mani’s physical imperfections, e.g. his alleged lameness, is noted in both Islamic and Zoroastrian heresiology. For the Zoroastrian work, the Dēnkart, and its reference to ‘the crippled fiend Mani,’ see the translation of Williams Jackson (1924). Cf. Puech (1949), 35.

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fered a detailed ‘biography’ of Mani, the sole aim of which was to turn Mani into an object of ridicule, and reduce to nought his achievements and those of his followers. Here, the commonplaces of invective – which rhetorical tradition considered to be the same as the commonplaces of panegyric but in jaundiced form35 – were applied attentively by Hegemonius, the putative author of the work. Hegemonius’ emphasis on the ‘ancestry and actions’ (genus et actum) of Mani inverted the commonplaces employed in panegyric to praise an individual, resulting in a wholly negative impression of Mani as a manumitted slave (i.e. impoverished roots), who was not averse to opportunism and criminality in order to advance himself, and whose egregious activities as a pseudo-prophet led to the death of the reigning Persian king’s son, whom Mani had been treating for an illness.36 While vituperative judgments of this kind against Mani’s person are largely absent in the writings of Augustine, he nevertheless became especially skilled at drawing on the model of abusive rhetoric and applying it to the Manichaean community as a whole. One reservation though about mapping mor. 2 onto a model of epideictic invective. The hybridised nature of mor. 2’s concerns – a result no doubt of the complex compositional and redactional history that arose during the process of ‘twinning’ mor. 2 with mor. 137 – makes it possibly more appropriate to view mor. 2 as a treatise which engages with the mixed concerns of the iambikè idéa (from iambos, referring to a specific type of abusive poem),38 lately proposed by Gianfranco Agosti. According to Agosti, the iambikè idéa in its late antique context comprised a range of abusive rhetorical forms and approaches, including personal and literary invective, vulgar and obscene language, and scatology.39 Mor. 2 thus draws on very many areas of iambic abuse and denigration. In its own way, the treatise makes an important contribution to the Christian practice of rhetoric in the fourth century. In the opening sections of the work (mor. 1. 1.1–2), Augustine indicates that the catalyst for the composition of his dual treatises on the mores of the Catholic and Manichaean churches arose from the ‘two traps’ (illecebrae duae) that Manichaeans set for their opponents: the first comprising their attack on the Bible (meaning the Old Testament), and the second, in their promotion of an exemplary form of asceticism.40 Augustine’s argument in mor. 1 promotes the Catholic ‘way of life’ (a ‘catch-all’ translation                                                              35

See Long (1996), 66–67. See also Arist., Rh. 1368a34. See Baker-Brian (2011), 33–60. 37 For a discussion, see esp. Coyle (1978), 66–79. 38 Well-analysed by Rotstein (2010). 39 Agosti (2001), 219. 40 Mor. 1.1.2 (CSEL 90. 4.9–13). 36

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of the term mores)41 according to a rational (i.e., philosophical) defence of Christian eudaimonianism.42 Augustine’s approach in this regard mirrors the two-fold criticisms of the Manichaeans. In the first instance, Augustine sought to overcome Manichaean censure of the religious value of the Old Testament by demonstrating that all the precepts for achieving happiness (i.e. the ‘good life’) in this world, that Catholics and Manichaeans alike find in the New Testament, were first enunciated in the Jewish Bible. Thus, reaffirming the congruity of the Bible as received according to a Catholic hermeneutic, is a major concern for Augustine in mor. 1, as indeed it was in very many of his early works, in the face of Manichaean attempts to separate the gospels and apostolic letters from what they regarded as the pernicious and demonic influence of the Jewish Bible.43 In the second instance, Augustine has chosen to offer a rational defence of the Bible and happiness, in order to counter Manichaean accusations about the excessive credulity of Catholic thought and practice. Mor. 1 is, therefore, a little masterpiece of scriptural exegesis and pastoral theology. Mor. 2, on the other hand, has slightly different concerns. An important concern for Augustine in mor. 2 was slander, especially the sexual slander of Manichaeans contemporary to him, which in part was a reaction to the invectiones that the Manichaeans had aimed at the Old Testament, alluded to by Augustine in the opening section of mor. 1.44 While almost no extant literary work by any Manichaean – excepting the letter of Secundinus – has survived from Late Antiquity outlining the nature of these censures, we do nevertheless have excerpted remains of writings by authors such as Adda (a.k.a. Adimantus), a third century Manichaean missionary, and Faustus, the fourth century Manichaean bishop of Milevis in Numidia, preserved in the replies of Augustine, and other Christian polemical writings.45 For instance, in Augustine’s Contra Faustum (d. ca. 400–402), 46 Augustine cites directly from a work written by Faustus (the Capitula) in which the sex lives of the Hebrew patriarchs as conveyed in the Pentateuch were satirised. Faustus’ attentions fell on the nefarious (and occasionally incestuous!) behaviours of Abraham, Lot, Isaac, Jacob, David, and Moses. Abraham, for instance, was characterised by Faustus as a liar and as an                                                              41

See Coyle (1978), 91, for a note on the meanings of mores in the context of the treatises. 42 For background, see Hadot (1995), 49–70. 43 See Baker-Brian (2009), passim. 44 Mor. 1. 1.1 (CSEL 90.3.1–5). The ‘other books’ against the Manichaeans discussed in this opening passage very likely included Augustine’s De Genesi contra Manichaeos, composed during the later months of 388; see the discussion in Coyle (1978), 71–76. For an overview of the work, see Decret (1978), I, 41–49; II, 39–45. 45 For both figures, see Baker-Brian (2009), 81–100 and 177–186. 46 See Hombert (2000), 25–29.

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‘utterly infamous trafficker in his own marriage’ (matrimonii sui infamissimus nundinator) for his liaisons with Hagar (Gen. 16.2–3), and his treatment of Sarah (Gen. 12.13).47 Moses is variously styled by Faustus as a murderer (cf. Ex. 2.11–12), thief (of the Egyptians’ treasure; Ex. 12.35– 36), war-monger (Ex. 17.9), and polygamist (Zipporah, Ex. 2.21; and, the ‘Ethiopian’ woman, Num. 12.1).48 In raising these controversial aspects of the Jewish Bible in this fashion, Faustus was demonstrating to the Catholic opposition a familiarity with one of the most commonly mobilised subjects of ancient political invective, namely sexual slander. Imputing to an opponent ‘reprehensible sexual practices’49 was a powerful commonplace in encomiastic composition. Thus, moral laxness was what you wanted an opponent to be guilty of, since one of the functions of such an accusation was to highlight your own moral rectitude: ‘Just as a man might boast of his wealth, his military achievements or his ancestry in his attempts to secure power and influence, so too he might parade his moral rectitude as a form of ‘symbolic capital’.’50 Immoral behaviour – in the sense of sexual licentiousness – therefore formed an important part of the ‘competitive accusations of immorality’51 exchanged during the Manichaean-Catholic debates of the fourth century. However, unlike Faustus and also Secundinus,52 whose focus was on biblical patriarchs long deceased, Augustine in mor. 2 demonstrates a particular concern with applying charges of immorality to living Manichaeans. This, however, is not to say that the invective strategies of the Manichaeans were confined to figures from the Bible. As Augustine indicates towards the end of mor. 1 (34.74–75), Manichaeans had also censured the religious practices of certain Christians – principally it seems the refrigerium,53 a recurrent area of Manichaean criticism (cf. Faustus in Contra Faustum 20.4) – which Augustine does not seem particularly keen to defend (Mor. 1.31.68 [CSEL 90. 72.10–12]): ‘Do not bring me those who make profession of the Christian name (nomen Christianum) without either knowing or exhibiting the heart of their profession. Do not pursue the crowds of the ignorant who are either superstitious in the true religion or so given to their passions that they have forgotten what they promised to God. I know that there are many worshippers of tombs and of painted images. I know that there are many who, when they drink in excess over the                                                              47

Contra Faustum 22.5. Contra Faustum 22.5. 49 Long (1996), 66. 50 Edwards (1993), 26. 51 Edwards (1993), 27. 52 For the Old Testament passages raised by Secundinus in his Epistula ad sanctum Augustinum, see CSEL 25.2. 896.14–897. 6. 53 On this practice, see most recently MacMullen (2009), 24–25. 48

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dead, offering meals to corpses, bury themselves on top of those they have buried and attribute their gluttony and drunkenness to religion. I know that there are many who have verbally renounced the world and want to be weighed down by all the burdens of this world and rejoice when they are so weighed down.ʼ54 As Coyle has proposed in his study of mor. 1, the above passage is part of a ‘bridging’ section, comprising five chapters at the end of mor. 1., from 31.65–35.80 which, Coyle suggests, drew the two treatises thematically closer together. That the two treatises had been, originally, separate works, which at some stage were brought together and redacted by Augustine in order to provide a more robust response to Manichaean polemics, is a sound proposition. In Augustine’s Retractationes (I.6.1; composed ca. 426–427), his work of literary revisionism, mor. 1 and mor. 2 are characterised as ‘two books’ (libri duo). In that work, his revisionist motive for writing the libri duo emerged from Augustine’s unwillingness (Retractiones I.6.1): ‘to endure in silence the boasting of the Manichaeans about their false and fallacious continence or abstinence because of which, in order to deceive the unlearned, they consider themselves superior to true Christians, with whom they are not to be compared.ʼ Although mor. 1 and mor. 2 may initially have been separate treatises, and while a minor disparity exists between the sole reason given for the treatises’ composition in the Retractationes and the formulation of the illecebrae duae outlined in mor. 1.1.2, the final published forms of the treatises reveal clearly Augustine’s intentions for his ‘De moribus project.’ The final supplementary chapters of mor. 1 offer an amplified portrait of Christian (Catholic) asceticism in its many guises: for instance, the solitary ascetic (31.66), male communities (31.67), female communities (31.68), communities integrated around Catholic clergy (32.69), and ascetical activity in domestic settings (33.70). Encomiastic commonplaces abound in these descriptions. They are most apparent in the language of the virtues ascribed to Christian ascetics, but also in the topoi of idealised, laudatory behaviour: for instance, Augustine portrays female Christian ascetics according to established ‘female’ virtues of antiquity, i.e. piety, charity, and fidelity to domestic duties, the latter conveyed in mor. 1 via the commonplace of wool-working (lanificium).55 By contrast, in mor. 2 Manichaean women are included as having been complicit in the nefarious antics committed by male Elect (see below). From a rhetorical perspective, therefore, mor. 1 stands as Augustine’s laus for the Catholic church. Mor. 2 is its antithetical counterpart. It is Augustine’s vituperatio of the Manichaean religion.                                                              54 55

Mor. 1. 34.75 (CSEL 90. 80. 10–81). Cf. Mor. 1 33.70.

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The placing of a speech of praise alongside a speech of blame was common in pedagogical Progymnasmata. The preliminary exercises of Libanius indicate that students were encouraged to draw out the virtues of a well-known figure in one speech (i.e. encomium), and the vices of the same figure in another (i.e. psogos).56 The Homeric Achilles seems to have been particularly well-suited for such an exercise (Lib., Prog. 8.3; 9.1). Abstract concerns (e.g. Righteousness, Poverty, and Anger) were also considered suitable practice topics. In one sense, therefore, the focus for Augustine’s dual treatises falls also on an abstract concern, namely the issue of identity, specifically ownership of the nomen Christianum (cf. mor. 1. 34.75, and retr. I. 6.1). Mor 1 demonstrates, through the association of biblical exegesis to the practice of encomiastic virtues, that Catholics are the ones to whom the Christian name correctly applies. Their mores accord with the models of Christian virtue drawn from the Old Testament, the gospel, and the letters of Paul. On the other hand, mor. 2 is a systematic demonstration of why the Manichaeans, in spite of their own protestations, have never been claimants to the Christian name. Manichaean mores, suggests Augustine, are misaligned from the virtues of a biblically-based Christianity, and in fact derive from an ‘empty and baleful myth’ (fabula vana et perniciosa),57 namely, the cosmogonic and cosmological account ascribed to Mani. Mor. 2 is a complex work, comprising layers of Catholic invective built on a detailed awareness of the operational concerns of the Manichaean church. In the remaining two sections therefore, I will offer only a small sample of Augustine’s rhetoric of abuse, although hopefully sufficient enough in order to reveal the manner of his invective against the Manichaeans.

Materialism, Scatology, Pork, and Cruelty Mor. 2 begins with Augustine’s satirical treatment of Mani’s cosmology drawn from his fabula, and the theodicy which derived from it. In developing the argument from 1.1 to 7.10, that evil is substanceless – in opposition to the Manichaean concern with evil as a nature or substance (cf. mor. 2.2.2; and 2.9.14) – and a corruption of order within creatures for which God is not responsible, Augustine recounts an explanation for the material nature of evil offered by a senior Manichaean teacher (Mor. 2.8.11 [CSEL 90. 96.19–97.2]): ‘For one of the leaders of this heresy (unus e primatibus huius haeresis), whom we listened to rather frequently and in a quite                                                             

56 See the recent edition and English translation by Gibson (2008). See also Cribiore (2007), 143–147. 57 Mor. 2. 9.17 (CSEL 90. 103.7).

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friendly context, said of a certain person who said that no substance is an evil, ‘I would like to put a scorpion in that man’s hand and see whether he would not pull his hand away. If he did so, he would show, not by words but by the action itself, that evil is a substance, since he would not deny that a living being is a substance.’ This passage raises a number of important concerns about the nature of Augustine’s invective in mor. 2. First, by choosing to privilege the explanation for the nature of evil from the primatus, above other more substantial explanations on offer in Manichaean theology,58 Augustine could establish that Manichaean theodicy is ‘childish’ (mor. 2.8.11) by contrasting the example of the scorpion against the rationalism of the Catholic position, with its basis in the fundamentals of ‘scientific’ education.59 So, Augustine counters, rather than the poison of the scorpion being evil, it is its unsuitability (inconveniens) for humans which is evil (cf. mor. 2.8.12): its venom may be harmful to the human body, but not to the body of the scorpion for whom it is a good. Augustine’s argument continues: while the Manichaean teacher’s explanation for the nature of evil is unsound because of its materialism (a feature which Augustine exploits from 15.36 onwards), it is also contrary to the laws of nature. Nature designates certain bodies and elements as being more suited to some bodies than others: e.g. direct sunlight nourishes the eyes of eagles, but harms the sight of human eyes (mor. 2.8.13). Indeed, the entire cosmology of Mani’s myth contravenes the principles of ancient thought. For instance, Mani offered descriptions of evil beings and animals in his land (terra) of evil, who nevertheless exist (esse) and are endowed with the virtues of physical strength, sight, hearing, fecundity, etc… which are nevertheless goods within themselves. The primatus’ explanation therefore constitutes a childish answer offered to children (pueriliter pueris, mor. 2.8.11). In spite of the claims of Manichaeans to rational thought, Augustine argues that the material basis for Manichaean ideas about God and nature supply only very poor quality proofs (indicia) for their arguments, which can be easily overturned by anyone with even the most rudimentary understanding of nature. From the point of view of understanding the relationship between Augustine and his vituperative treatment of the religion of Mani in mor. 2, it is also important to note the manner of Augustine’s reporting of the primatus’ words. Augustine indicates that he and his confreres had listened informally and frequently (familiarius et crebrius audiebamus) to the teacher’s discussions. Augustine’s claim in mor. 2 is one of having been a                                                              58

E.g. that ‘evil is undisciplined and its movement is disordered,’ in Alexander of Lycopolis, Contra Manichaei opiniones disputatio XIII. This explanation is raised by Augustine at mor. 2. 12.25, although summarily dismissed. See BeDuhn (2002), 75–77. 59 Mor. 2.8.11 (CSEL 90. 97.5–8).

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confidant of senior Manichaeans, and of being privy to their high-level theological discussions (also reflected at 15.36 f.). This status was evidently an important factor in the consolidation of Augustine’s public (i.e. literary) persona as a Catholic authority for Manichaeism’s refutation. However, Augustine’s testimonial claim at 8.11 contrasts sharply with the workings of the ‘rumour mill’ in the final sections of the treatise (mor. 2.19.67– 20.75). Here, Augustine expressly avows not to have witnessed nearly all of the immoral practices imputed to the Manichaean Elect. Such a sharp distinction between testimony and rumour was crucial to Augustine’s ambitions for mor. 2. While one intended consequence of rumour is to create and consolidate ‘images of frightening and dehumanized ‘others’,’60 which indeed is very much what mor. 2 seeks to do to the Manichaeans, the other concern for Augustine was to demonstrate that he himself was at the forefront of this ‘othering’ process. As a former high-profile Manichaean, Augustine needed to show that he himself was ‘leading the charge’ against the Manichaean church in order to distance himself further from his own Manichaean past,61 but also to forge a new identity for himself as the Catholics’ premier expert on the ‘errors’ of Manichaeism. Beyond the ‘science,’ childish explanations should also occasionally be challenged in kind. At mor. 2.8.12, Augustine turns to scatological abuse as a way of impugning Manichaean theodicy. The rationalism of Augustine’s argument is presented as being contingent on accepting the empirical principle that, whilst certain elements are harmful in some forms to certain bodies, they can also be beneficial in other forms to other bodies: this is an axiom of the natural world (cf. mor. 2.8.13). Thus (Mor. 2.8.12 [CSEL 90.99.2–5]), ‘[d]oes not excrement (stercus), which, if tasted or smelled, gravely offends and does injury, cool when touched in the summer and serve as a remedy for wounds caused by fire? What is more contemptible than dung? What is more lowly than ashes? But these bring such great benefits to fields that the Romans thought that they should offer divine honors to Stercutius, their inventor, from whom dung took its name.ʼ For arch-materialists like the Manichaeans, excrement was among the most reprehensible forms of matter. Their claim of being able to identify those particles of the divine which had been dispersed throughout the universe as a result of the ‘cosmic war’ between the supra-temporal elites,62 was based on the role of the senses of sight, smell, and taste in evaluating the vitality of the colour, odour, and flavour of food (or at least, as report                                                             60

Campion-Vincent (2005), 11. On the question of Augustine’s relationship to Manichaeism, see esp. Van Oort (2001, 39–53; 2006); Coyle, (2001a; 2003); Baker-Brian (2007); Eddy (2009); and BeDuhn (2010), passim. 62 See esp. Tardieu (2008), 75–90. 61

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ed by Augustine in mor. 2). During a daily ritual meal, the Elect ‘saved’ the Light particles in food through its consumption and consequent metabolisation.63 As reported by Augustine in mor. 2, only bright, sweetsmelling, and flavoursome food could be consumed by the Elect: such food being deemed as containing a higher proportion of ‘good’ matter than ‘evil’ matter. Needless to say, excrement failed to qualify as useful on all three counts. Vegan and alcohol-free, the diet of the Elect proved fertile ground for satirising in the treatise. However, scatological language was also utilised by the Manichaeans. As reported by Augustine, flesh (caro), which Manichaeans judged negatively as the outcome of sexual reproduction, was described as a ‘house of dung’ (quam cum dicitis [sc. Manichaeans] esse stercorum domum: mor. 2.16.49). The reference to excrement in mor. 2.8.12 is unlikely, therefore, to have been simply illustrative in the context of a ‘scientific’ discussion about the idea of ‘suitability’ in nature. It belongs to a spectrum of more pointed scatological remarks throughout the treatise. Thus, at mor. 2.16.38 and 39, Augustine notes that according to the Manichaean criterion of brightness for detecting the divine in food, the excrement of animals and human infants are among the most colourful, ergo divine, forms of matter in the universe: ‘Why in a spring flower do you cherish the same colour as in cabbages but hold it in contempt in the disease of those with jaundice and also in the excrement of an infant?’64 At mor. 2.16.42, the salvific value of food for the religion is satirised via a defence of cow dung: when burned in its dried form as fuel, its brightness surpasses all other substances, in which case, Augustine suggests, ‘Why don’t you [sc. the Elect] purify it, seal it, and liberate it?’ The scatology is, therefore, taken to its logical conclusion within the context of his invective, with Augustine imputing coprophagous tendencies to the ritualised diets of the Elect. As figures with reputations for purity of thought and action, Augustine’s association of the Elect with excrement and illicit sexual behaviours later in the treatise had the effect – in the words of Robert Scribner when discussing the notion of ‘the elevated’ in religion – ‘of humiliating it [sc. the elevated] so that it loses its ability to inspire awe.’65 The invective of mor. 2 thereby proceeds along its course via the accumulation of argument, counter-argument, and lampoons. Typically, Augustine focuses on an aspect of Manichaean ascetic practice or theology, and manipulates it to the point of absurdity. While the work is replete with many humorous asides, the real purpose of humour in mor. 2 is to damage the credibility of the Manichaean religion and its practitioners. For instance, parodies of the Manichaean diet, and the materialist theology that                                                              63

See BeDuhn (2002), 126–162. Mor. 2.16.39 (CSEL 90.122.17–19). 65 Scribner (1981), 81. 64

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Augustine presents as underpinning it (as above), were especially susceptible to accusatory humour. Among the most memorable instance of this approach is Augustine’s description of the Manichaean ‘God’ residing in the meat of a roast pig (porcellus assus), its ‘divinity’ detectable by its appetising colour, smell and taste (Mor. 2.16.41 [CSEL 90. 125.8–14]):66 ‘Roast suckling pig – for you force us to discuss good and evil with you not by means of writers and books but by means of cooks and bakers (hoc enim cogitis, ut de bono et de malo non scriptoribus et librariis sed coquis et dulciariis ministris vobiscum potius disseramus) – a roast suckling pig, then, is glistening in colour and attractive in odour and pleasing in taste. You have a perfect proof of the indwelling of the divine substance. The pig invites you by its threefold testimony and desires to be purified by your holiness. Attack it; why do you hesitate?ʼ Viscerally colourful satire is a characteristic of Augustine’s invective in mor. 2. It is most apparent in Augustine’s lampooning of the Manichaeans’ much-vaunted modesty and continence (cf. mor. 1.1.2) and in particular during Augustine’s efforts to undermine the rationale – the end (finis, mor. 2.13.27) – underpinning those ascetic ideals. In this regard, his use of satire participates in what Anthony Corbeill has termed the ‘ethical basis’ of invective: in other words,67 satire in mor. 2 enables Augustine to draw a clear distinction between what is (in his mind at least) the correct, efficacious practice of religion, and what is its incorrect, harmful counterpart. Satire is used to build the case that Manichaeans are practitioners of a religion which not only harms those practising it, but also humankind. Within the context of undermining the religion’s celebrated austerity, mor. 2 conveys an image of ascetic customs gone awry as a result of Mani’s subscription to a materialist explanation for God and the soul: the ultimate aim of Augustine’s invective being to demonstrate the absurdities, inconsistencies, and unethical tendencies of the Manichaean religion. In this regard, the focus of the treatise’s censure falls on the Elect. Unlike Catholic ascetics who avoid overindulging in food in order to keep ‘concupiscence in check’ (mor. 2.16.51), the Elect subscribed to a code of conduct (the ‘Three Seals’ [tria signacula], mor. 2.10.19) which prohibited involvement in anything likely to pollute their souls (i.e., inflict harm on the divine). In dietary terms, meat and wine were considered detrimental to the Elect, the former as flesh (ergo, bereft of light, but also obtained through the slaughter and suffering of the animal, cf. Augustine, De haeresibus 46.11), the latter characterised by Manichaeans as ‘the bile of the princes of darkness’ (De haeresibus 46.11). Both parties argued that biblical templates determined their ascetic ideals, with Paul’s letter to the Ro                                                             66 67

Cf. Finaert (1939), 56–58. See Corbeill (1996), 19–20.

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mans (especially chapters 13 and 14) cited extensively by Catholics and Manichaeans to justify, on the one hand, avoidance of gluttony in order to restrain appetite (the Catholic position), and on the other, in order to avoid becoming polluted by noxious foodstuffs (the Manichaean position).68 Augustine’s invective against the Three Seals thereby satirised their inconsistent effect on regulating Manichaean ascetic practices. While an Elect Manichaean could, therefore, provide a rationale for avoiding the eating of meat, the seal of the mouth did nothing to constrain gluttony, since the seal although sanctioning certain foods nevertheless did little or nothing to limit the quantity of the foods permitted to them. To illustrate the point, Augustine offers a comedic description of an unimpeachable Elect who could stuff his face on seasonal fruit and vegetables, but never be in breach of the seal of the mouth; yet, should he touch meat with an indifferent attitude, perhaps for the sake of his health, he would find himself ejected from the religion (mor. 2.16.51–52). Engaging with yet another commonplace of ancient political invective, Augustine’s hypothetical charge of gluttony served a number of purposes.69 It associated the Elect with an absence of self-control (temperantia), a classical philosophical virtue which was christianised in the context of late antique debates about Christian ascetic practice. It also highlighted that the ‘end’ of Manichaean asceticism was misplaced, serving to emphasise that the temperantia exercised by Catholics was correctly aligned with the ideal templates of self-control drawn from, for example, Paul’s letter to the Romans (Rom. 14.1–15.3, mor. 2.14.32). Additionally, it alerted readers to the ‘cognate vices’70 associated with intemperance, primarily libidinousness, which Augustine charges the Elect with in the final chapters of mor. 2. However, underlying the satire Augustine’s invective was ultimately ethical. For instance, during the daily ritual meal performed throughout all Manichaean communities, none other than the Elect were allowed to consume the food offered as alms by the Hearers: to do so was a sacrilege (mor. 2.17.54).71 It could not be given to those desperate for nourishment, for instance a beggar (mor. 2.16.53). It was also deemed sacrilegious to throw this food away. Thus, Augustine observes, during the meal the Elect gorge themselves to the point of bursting, forcing any left-over food down the throats of their attendant young protégés. Presaging the torrent of slander against the Elect in the latter part of mor. 2, Augustine reports an accusation against an Elect in Rome who force fed children under his charge to death, rather than breach the injunctions of his ‘superstition’ (mor. 2.16.52). Accusations of gluttony thus                                                              68

Mor. 2.14.31–35 (CSEL 90. 114.18–120.22). See Edwards (1993), 176 f. 70 Edwards (1993), 5. 71 On the role of food as alms in Manichaeism, see Brown (2008). 69

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serve as sign-posts in the treatise, pointing the way to more serious accusations of sexual gormandising among the Elect from mor. 2.19.68 onwards.

Rumours and Whispers The obloquies of mor. 2 indicate that Augustine was concerned with offering a portrait of Mani’s religion as irrational, contradictory and, most importantly for a work concerned with the denigration of mores, cruel (cf. mor. 2.19.67). The role played by rumour – in particular sexual rumours – in this process was fundamental, especially in the final sections of the treatise (mor. 2.19.68–20.74); indeed, although the part played by rumour in its many guises in the composition of literary invective is obvious, it remains little researched.72 While Augustine remarks that those who deny the allegations against the Manichaean Elect reveal their approach to the truth (i.e. they lie; mor. 2.20.75), it is unlikely that Augustine intended his readers to believe every single accusation raised against them. Rather, the rhetorical force of the treatise’s arguments – its overall persuasiveness – lay in the accumulation of accusatory material against the highest-ranking Manichaeans (e.g. Elect, priests, and bishops), which would in turn assist in the accumulation of doubt about the Manichaean religion as a viable alternative to Catholic Christianity. In this regard, Augustine the rhetor is adept at manipulating the essential nature of rumour as a social phenomenon: namely, its ability to play on the ambiguities of people’s attitudes towards marginalised groups in society.73 Thus, in mor. 2 not all allegations had to be true for at least some allegations to be believable. The language and vocabulary of rumour, which pervade the latter stages of mor. 2, reveal Augustine’s ability to grasp this premise. According to Augustine, Mani’s religion was open to ‘great suspicion’ (mor. 2.18.66: quantae suspicioni); indeed, Augustine is aware that much of what he reports about Manichaean mores in the final portions of the treatise is ‘more rumour than truth’ (mor. 2.19.68: magis fama quam verum). The prevalence of fama in discussions about Manichaean mores Augustine attributes, in part, to the fundamental principles of Mani’s theology, and their translation into rituals which suggest libertine practices. For instance, on account of their traducian ideas about the generation and transmission of souls through semen and food, the Elect open themselves to the slanderous inference that, in secret – away from the Hearers – they

                                                             72 73

See the important discussion of fama in Henrichs (1970). See Campion-Vincent (2005), 11–14.

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consume the semen of animals in order to liberate the entrapped souls.74 However, it is the visible customs of the Manichaeans, so Augustine suggests which lead observers to suspect other ‘darker’ things about them. Following rhetorical convention, Augustine associates the Elect’s alleged greed for rich banquets with their tendency to engage in sexual trysts (mor. 2.19.71). Instances of envy among individual Elect also led to accusations of sexual improprieties; accusations which were conducted not openly in public, but by words and whispers (mor. 2.19.71: susurri). Augustine portrays the Manichaean communities of North Africa and Rome as beset by rumour and negative inference. On the one hand, this approach enabled Augustine to shift responsibility for the final, rumourinspired sections of the treatise away from his polemical intentions and towards an imagined set of internal dynamics running through the Manichaean communities of the Roman Empire. In itself, this approach was central to the rhetorical concerns of the treatise. It presented a further opportunity to denigrate the Manichaeans, and it was not dependent on accepting all rumours as true: while the information imparted in the treatise might not be ‘secure,’ Manichaean communities were hardly the peaceful havens that Catholic communities were portrayed as being (cf. mor. 1.31.67). Indeed, the disturbed, internal dynamics – true or otherwise – of the Manichaean community known to Augustine in Rome, are cited as contributing to its failure as an experiment in communal living (mor. 2.20.74). Nevertheless, it was the sexual slander of the Elect that was Augustine’s main concern here. Beyond the role that such allegations played in exaggerating the distance between the customs of the credible and the behaviour of the ‘other’ (as above), Augustine’s accusations including, for instance, a sexual assault on a female initiate by a male Elect during a religious assembly (mor. 2.19.70: conclave), affairs between Elect and the wives of Hearers (mor. 2.19.71), and a consummated affair between an Elect and a Manichaean nun (mor. 2.19.72: virginem sanctimonialem) that led to the nun becoming pregnant, were all intended to invert the good reputations which had accrued to the Elect as a body for their prodigious continence. This is not the place to judge whether some or all of these accusations had grounds; or, indeed, whether these accusations derived from misunderstandings of Manichaean ritual or communal dynamics.75 What matters in the context of this paper is developing an appreciation of the role that rumour, in particular rumours about sexual misdemeanours, evidently                                                             

74 Mor. 2. 18.66 (CSEL 90. 147.20–23): Cur enim de tritico et de faba et de lenticular aliisque seminibus, cum his vescimini, liberare vos velle animam creditor, de animalium seminibus non credatur? For the role of the accusation of semen consumption in Christian heresiology, see Goehring (2000), 339–340, and also Baker-Brian (forthcoming). 75 See Rives (1995), 65–66.

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played in the wider strategies of invective within mor. 2, but also within Augustine’s anti-Manichaica as a whole. An important finding arising from recent academic studies of rumour is the identification of rumour’s role in consolidating the collective memories of communities and societies. Rumour, as it feeds into the consolidation of memory, can quickly become a ‘reality’ for social groups, depending on the nature of the social networks along which rumours and memories are transmitted: ‘Rumors and collective memories, sociologically understood, are both forms of knowledge that serve to define situations and social relationships and to construct reality.’76 Thus, ‘rumour begets rumour,’ and in certain instances acquires the status of ‘truth.’ With this in mind, it is worth concluding with some observations about the likely influence of mor. 2 on the direction of Augustine’s other anti-Manichaean writings. In later works, notably De natura boni (ca. after 404),77 and chapter forty-six of his De haeresibus (428–429), the disparate threads of rumour, allegation, and invective raised in mor. 2 against the Manichaeans are drawn together into much more concrete formulations. For instance, De natura boni (47) indicates a subtle shift in the allegation arising from the inference at mor. 2.18.66, that the Elect consume animal semen as part of their religious duty to apprehend the divine in material substances. By the time of De natura boni, the inference had turned into something much more scandalous. The allegation now involved the consumption of human semen, and its ‘doctrinal’ basis, rather than being inferred from ambiguities in Manichaean theology (as in mor. 2), is now said to be drawn from Mani’s own books, principally the work Thesaurus (Treasury), which contained a detailed account of the archetypal ejaculation of Light by the divine powers.78 Indeed, the Catholic rumour-mill kept pace with this development: Augustine had heard indirectly, from ‘a certain Catholic Christian’ in Rome about confessions of this crime (crimen) by individuals in Asia Minor (i.e. Paphlagonia) and Gaul.79 It is also apparent that Augustine’s rumour-inspired invective in mor. 2 began, reasonably promptly, to inform the types of judgements made about Manichaeans by Catholics and their state apparatchiks during the early decades of the fifth century. Notably, in Augustine’s catalogue of errant beliefs, De haeresibus, the language of rumour and inference disappears completely in his report of the public prosecutions of Manichaeans in Car                                                             76

Feldman-Savelsberg, Ndonko and Yang (2005), 149. See Decret (1978), I, 125–126. 78 On the Treasury, see Baker-Brian (2011), 79–80. 79 See esp. Moon (1955), 251–255; also Decret (1978), I, 130–139; and II, 91–97. The branding of Manichaeans as, e.g. immunditia, which followed for the imputation of this practice, is discussed by Adkin (1992), 11 f. 77

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thage, conducted by the tribune Ursus in the 420s. In Augustine’s account of the trials, the prosecution case against a group of Manichaeans raised an allegation about the consumption of human semen, now described as a fully-fledged ritual, ‘a sort of eucharist’ (velut eucharistiam), which the Elect were compelled (coguntur) to eat.80 Details of the ‘ritual’ are preceded by the ‘ejaculatory cosmology’ from the Thesaurus (De haeresibus 46.8). In addition, for the first time details of sexual assaults by male members of the Elect on female Manichaeans, including one described as ‘a kind of nun’ (quasi sanctimonialem), are raised not as rumours but as admissible evidence gathered from witnesses and entered into the stenographic record of the court proceedings. Again, the merits of these accounts are not a concern here.81 Rather, what is important to note is the way in which aspects of the literary invective against the Manichaeans began to influence the collective memory of Catholic communities, by determining how they responded to and judged the beliefs and practices of Mani’s followers. One final example. In the summer of 392, the Manichaean teacher Fortunatus met Augustine at the Baths of Sossius in Hippo to engage in a public debate about religion. Fortunatus’ primary concern was to discuss ‘our way of life and the false charges by which we are being pummeled;’82 arguably these charges were like or identical to the ‘sexual rumours’ voiced in mor. 2. Regrettably for Fortunatus, Augustine was not interested in the topic of mores. He knew nothing, he said, about the Manichaean way of life as he had only been a Hearer and not an Elect: a claim of agnosticism that concurs with his reliance on rumour rather than testimony in the final passages of mor. 2. In the presence of Fortunatus, Augustine announced that he had never personally seen anything amiss among the Manichaeans when he had attended prayers (C. Fort. 3). However, Augustine’s disavowal concealed a further development. That he felt no need to discuss the allegations against the Manichaeans was an indication for him and likely for the assembled crowd, that the slanderous accusations about the Manichaeans had ceased to be rumour and were now, as far as he and they were concerned, reality. It is in this regard that Augustine’s success as a writer of invective, and more broadly his talents as a ‘clever rhetor,’ become apparent. The carefully-formulated, and classically-aware invective against the Manichaeans in mor. 2 had ceased to exist within the confines of the text alone; its efficacy had shifted beyond the page, and had begun to move across the social networks along which rumours and memories were transmitted.83 Augustine’s                                                             

80 De haeresibus 46.9 (CCSL 46.314.62–83); see Decret (1978), I, 221–224; and, II, 171–174. 81 On the course of these legal proceedings, see Humfress (2007), 248–250. 82 C. Fort. 1 (CSEL 25.1. 84.10–11). 83 See esp. Buckner (1975), 93 f.

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rhetoric thus appears to have persuaded people into entertaining some very dark thoughts about their Manichaean neighbours, which undoubtedly facilitated the movement of Mani’s followers deeper into the realm of the ‘Other;’ deeper, arguably, than they had ever been before.

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Marrou, H.-I. (1958), Saint Augustin et la fin de la culture antique. Paris: E. de Boccard. Moon, A.A. (1955), The De Natura Boni of Saint Augustine: A translation with an introduction and commentary. Washington: The Catholic University of America Press. O’Donnell, J.J. (1992), Augustine. Confessions. 3 vols. Oxford: Clarendon Press. van Oort, J. (1991), Jerusalem and Babylon: A study into Augustine’s City of God and the sources of his doctrine of the two cities. Leiden: Brill. –. (2000), “Mani and Manichaeism in Augustine’s De haeresibus: An analysis of haer. 46.1”, in Emmerick, R.E.; Sundermann, W., and Zieme, P., (eds.), Studia Manichaica IV. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 451–463. –. (2001, 4th ed.), Mani, Manichaeism and Augustine: The rediscovery of Manichaeism and its influence of western Christianity. Tbilisi: Academy of Sciences of Georgia. –. (2006), “Augustine and Manichaeism: New discoveries, new perspectives”, Verbum et Ecclesia 27.2, 709–728. Opelt, I. (1980), Die Polemik in der christlichen lateinischen Literatur von Tertullian bis Augustin. Heidelberg: C. Winter. Pernot, L. (1993), La rhétorique de l’éloge dans le monde gréco-romain. 2 Vols. Paris: Institut dʼétudes augustiniennes. Puech, H.-C. (1949), Le manichéisme: son fondateur, sa doctrine. Paris: Civilisations du Sud. Rives, J. (1995), “Human Sacrifice among Pagans and Christians”, JRS 85, 65–85. Rotstein, A. (2010), The Idea of Iambos. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Salzman, M.R. (2002), The Making of a Christian Aristocracy: social and religious Change in the Western Roman Empire. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Scribner, R.W. (1981), For the Sake of Simple Folk: Popular Propaganda for the German Reformation. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Stroumsa, G. (2000), “Isaac de Beausobre Revisited: The Birth of Manichaean Studies”, in Emmerick, R.E.; Sundermann, W., and Zieme, P. (eds.), Studia Manichaica IV. Berlin: Akademie Verlag, 601–612 –. (2010), A New Science: The discovery of religion in the age of reason. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Sutherland, C.M. (2004), “Augustine, ethos and the integrative nature of Christian rhetoric”, Rhetor 1, 1–18 (available on-line at www.cssr-scer.ca/rhetor Accessed 3rd June 2011). Tardieu, M. (2008), Manichaeism (translated by M.B. DeBevoise, with an introduction by P. Mirecki). Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Teske, R.J. and Ramsey, B. (2006), The Manichean Debate. New York: New City Press. Vander Plaetse, R. and Beukers, C. (1969), Corpus Christianorum. Series Latina 46. Turnhout: Brepols. Vermes, M; Lieu, S.N.C., and Kaatz, K. (2001), The Acts of Archelaus. Louvain: Brepols. Wilken, R.L. (1983), John Chrysostom and the Jews: Rhetoric and Reality in the late 4th Century. Berkeley: University of California Press. Williams Jackson, A.V. (1924), “The so-called injunctions of Mani, translated from the Pahlavi of Dēnkart 3.200”, Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 56.2, 213–227. Zycha, J. (1891–1892), Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum [CSEL] 25.1–2. Vienna: F. Tempsky.

A Rhetorical Device in Evagrius: Allegory, the Bible, and Apokatastasis Ilaria L.E. Ramelli Allegory is, and was, a figure of speech, one of the most important in ancient rhetoric, and at the same time a powerful tool for text interpretation (which is sometimes called ‘allegoresis,’ with a modern terminological distinction), especially in ancient Stoicism and in Middle and Neoplatonism, pagan and Christian.1 The Stoics and the ‘pagan’ Platonists applied allegory to traditional myths and poems such as those of Homer and Hesiod, but also to Plato’s dialogues, at least in the case of the Neoplatonists. Christian allegorists concerned themselves mainly with the Bible.2 In the Christian field, the Middle-Neoplatonist Origen of Alexandria (d. ca. 255)3 was undoubtedly the utmost theoriser, and user, of Biblical allegorical interpretation. In Origen’s system, the allegorical level of reading did not replace the literal level, but coexisted with it in almost all cases, apart from very few exceptions (represented by ἄλογα and ἀδύνατα, logical or practical impossibilities). The most prominent of these are to be found in the biblical account of creation.4 In the late fourth century, Evagrius Ponticus, who developed Origen’s thought in many respects, followed in his footsteps also in relation to the use of allegory. Moreover, Evagrius, like the Cappadocians Basil and Gregory of Nazianzus – his mentors –, was very well versed in rhetoric, and in Constantinople had a remarkable success with his rhetorical ability, before fleeing to Jerusalem and embracing the monastic life under the influence of dame Melania and her ascetic friend Rufinus. Both of them were strong admirers of Origen. The rest of his life Evagrius spent in the Egyptian desert, and it is here that                                                              1

See my Ramelli (2004), for Stoicism, and for Middle and Neoplatonism see Ramelli (2011a). 2 There are some exceptions, though: for instance, Numenius, who was neither Jew nor Christian, did allegorise the Bible; conversely, Origen, a Christian, is likely to have allegorised Plato’s dialogues. 3 He could well be the Neoplatonist of whom Porphyry in Vita Plotini, Iamblichus and Proclus speak. See Ramelli (2009), and new arguments in (2011c). 4 Full demonstration of this point in Ramelli (2011a).

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his most remarkable works were composed, including his masterpiece, the Kephalaia Gnostika or Chapters on Knowledge.

Evagrius’s Allegorical Reading of the Bible in His Kephalaia Gnostika It is worth exploring how Evagrius employs allegory especially in his Kephalaia Gnostika, his most speculative work, originally composed in Greek, but preserved in Syriac. I shall use the non-expurgated version, S2, which is the more complete one;5 here, Evagrius’s thoughts concerning reality, God, protology, eschatology, anthropology, and allegorical exegesis of Scripture, are expressed in a full manner.6 Full, but concise and often cryptic. Indeed, what makes the Kephalaia Gnostika the most difficult text of Evagrius – closely followed by his so-called Letter to Melania – is their concision and lack of explanations. This is because these short bits were destined to Evagrius’s most advanced disciples: as a consequence, they presuppose a long path of learning (and ascetic training as a preliminary conditio sine qua non). In order to understand something of these bits, therefore, it is necessary to be very familiar with the rest of Evagrius’s works and deeply conversant with his thought as a whole. In this thought, allegory played a remarkable and even structural role. Indeed, even though the Kephalaia Gnostika are not an exegetical work, unlike Evagrius’s Scholia,7 nevertheless Evagrius, like Origen, based even his boldest theoretical speculations on Scripture. This is why even the Kephalaia Gnostika in fact bristle with references to the Bible and interpretations of biblical passages. Now, these interpretations are practically all allegorical. The theoretical justification for this praxis is put forward by Evagrius in Schol. in Ps. 76.21. Here he claims that Scripture, besides a literal meaning, also has an ethical meaning, a physical meaning – related to the contemplation of nature – and a theological meaning. Evagrius, like Origen, is convinced that the spiritual meanings of Scripture are concealed to those who are not purified and advanced. Even demons can read Scripture, but without understanding it (KG 6.37).                                                             

5 The other one, S1, seems to represent an attempt to bring Evagrius in line with ‘orthodoxyʼ such as it was conceived later, long after Evagrius’s own lifetime. 6 An English translation of the Kephalaia Gnostika, with an introduction and a commentary, will appear in Leiden-Atlanta. A French translation also is being prepared. 7 Indeed, also from his numerous scholia to many passages of Scripture it is clear that Evagrius privileged allegorical and spiritual exegesis, and generally a Christocentrical exegesis.

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This is why in KG 1.23 he declares that ‘The intellections of those realities that are on earth are “the goods of the earth.” Now, if the holy angels know them, according to the word of the woman of Thekoa, the angels of God eat the goods of the earth. On the other hand, it is said that “the human being ate the bread of the angels.” Therefore, it is clear that some among the human beings, too, know the Ideas of what is on earth.’ The goods of the earth and the bread of the angels are here interpreted allegorically as the knowledge of the Ideas of the things existing on earth. The Biblical references, which I have included in double inverted commas, are respectively to 2 Kgs 14:20 (cf. 14:1–3) and Psalm 77:25. Evagrius, like Origen, applied an allegorical exegesis to these scriptural passages. The bread of the angels, thus, in the present kephalaion is considered to refer not only to manna, but also to the knowledge of realities on earth, the ‘goods of the earth.ʼ The intellections are the acts of knowledge; their objects are the Ideas of the relevant realities.8 Evagrius interprets the goods of the earth as the knowledge of the realities that are on earth, and he draws a parallel between ‘eatingʼ those goods and ‘knowingʼ them. This knowledge belongs to the angels and to some human beings. Another interesting kephalaion in which Evagrius uses allegory for his discourse on the intellections is KG 1.31: ‘Just as Israel is among the human beings, and the land of Judah among the lands, and Jerusalem among the cities, likewise also the goal of the symbols of the intellections is the part of the Lord.ʼ Here Evagrius, properly speaking, develops allegory into a treble similitude. The ‘part of the Lordʼ (Deut 32:9) is the portion of something that the divinity has reserved for itself. But there is more to allegory here, for the very symbolical-allegorical meaning of the intellections, probably vis-à-vis their literal or more immediate meaning, is declared to be that privileged part reserved for the Lord. This is also clarified by the following kephalaion (KG 1.32), which draws a distinction between the ordinary understanding of things and their spiritual understanding. This, in Evagrius’s view, is clearly the very foundation of allegory. The distinction between the plain understanding (the ‘common sight,’ as Evagrius puts it) and the spiritual-allegorical understanding of Scripture is emphasised by Evagrius also in KG 1.32: ‘The human beings who have seen something among what is in the natures have only caught the common sight of those natures. For only the just have received the spiritual knowledge of them. Whoever argues about this resembles one who says: ‘I was together with Abraham, when he walked on the road with his two wives.’ The word of this person is true, but he has not perceived the two covenants, and has not understood (who are) those who are born from                                                              8

Sometimes, such as here, the same word in Syriac translates both ‘intellectionʼ and ‘Idea;ʼ I capitalize the latter because it is taken in a Platonic (or Middle-Platonic) sense.

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them.’ One can either know things only by seeing their exterior appearance, which is true but is limited, or else can gain a spiritual knowledge of them, which is the spiritual or symbolical understanding that is referred to in the previous kephalaion (KG 1.31, which I have analysed above). Now, Evagrius explains that this spiritual insight is typical of the just only. Indeed, it is common in Evagrius to connect very closely knowledge and justice-virtue, so that, if one is corrupt, iniquitous, or vicious in any respect, one cannot really possess knowledge. Knowledge requires purification. The scriptural references are to both Gen 16–17 and Gal 4:22–31. Indeed, it is Paul who, in the latter passage, discloses the spiritual meaning of Hagar and Sarah, Abraham’s two wives, who are the symbols of the two covenants. This was also one of the scriptural justifications that Origen adduced for his own allegorical reading of the Bible: Paul himself invites to the application of allegory to Scripture. In this way, the allegorical interpretation of the Bible was grounded in the authority of the Apostle par excellence. In the kephalaion at stake, Evagrius remarks that there are some who limit themselves to the literal meaning of this passage concerning Abraham’s wives, whereas the ‘just’ also grasp its spiritual (allegorical-typological) meaning and see that Hagar and Sarah represent the two covenants. They possess what Evagrius in KG 1.33 calls a spiritual sense, which corresponds, on a higher plane, to the sense-perception oriented to material objects (the opposition is similar to that between the body’s senses and the soul’s senses). This is what Evagrius states: ‘Just as each one of the arts needs an acute sense-perception appropriate to its own matter, likewise the intellect, too, needs a spiritual sense, in order to discern spiritual realities.’ Evagrius is here going on with the discourse that he was developing in the previous kephalaia, that is, the differentiation between the immediate sense-perception, with the relevant understanding of things, and a deeper perception, which is related to spiritual senses and brings on the spiritual understanding of things. This is the understanding that pertains, among else, to the allegorical interpretation of Scripture. Spiritual senses do not belong to the sphere of sense-perception, but rather to that of the intellect (νοῦς). The theory of spiritual senses, already present in Philo (in relation to his doctrine concerning the inner human being vs. the outer human being), was developed especially by Origen, on whose thought Evagrius heavily – although certainly not slavishly – depends. Thus, on the grounds of what I have examined so far, in a number of kephalaia within his Kephalaia Gnostika Evagrius, following in the footsteps of Origen, interprets, for example, cultic details of the Old Testament allegorically. One such kephalaion is KG 4.56, in which Evagrius allegorises Aaron’s ephod in Ex 28:4: ‘The intelligible ephod is the condition of the rational soul in which the human being has the habit of practicing his

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or her virtues.ʼ Every detail in the Bible has a correspondent on the intelligible plane. Thus, for example, there is a sense-perceptible ephod and an intelligible ephod. In the kephalaion under examination, the ephod is interpreted allegorically as a condition of the rational soul, in which it practices virtues as a habit. The same interpretation of the same object (the ephod) in terms of habitus will appear again in KG 4.75: ‘The intelligible ephod is the justice of the soul in which the human being has the habit of adorning itself with irreproachable works and doctrines.ʼ Here one virtue, justice, is especially highlighted, which has both a theoretical and a practical component: right doctrines and right works. This is consistent with Evagrius’s idea that knowledge and virtue go together, which is in turn one of the expressions of the ethical intellectualism that he shares with Origen and Gregory of Nyssa. Another example of Evagrius’s allegorical understanding of elements and figures in Scripture, and especially of the ritual prescriptions of the Old Testament, is found in KG 4.12: ‘The intelligible circumcision is a voluntary distancing from passions, which (takes places) thanks to the knowledge of God.ʼ Again, there is a sense-perceptible circumcision and an intelligible circumcision, the latter corresponding to the allegoricalsymbolical meaning of the former. The allegorical meaning of circumcision is the rejection of πάθη (an interpretation that goes back to Philo), according to the ideal of ἀπάθεια that Evagrius shared with Origen and Gregory of Nyssa. It is notable that this rejection is traced back by him to the knowledge of God, which acquires a priority in the ethical field as well: only those who know God can also renounce passions. Conversely, Evagrius also thought that knowledge is possible only for a soul that is purified from passions and vices. There is a perfect synergy between virtue and knowledge, and between the rejection of evil and the rejection of ignorance. Another of the many short kephalaia in which Evagrius, following Origen, offers an allegorical interpretation of cultic prescriptions and objects in the Old Testament, on the intelligible plane, is KG 4.72, in which the interpretation of the breeches mentioned in Ex 28:42 is particularly close to Evagrius’s interpretation of the intelligible circumcision: ‘The intelligible breeches are the mortification of the desiring faculty, which takes place thanks to the knowledge of God.ʼ Thanks to his allegorical interpretation of the breeches, Evagrius can reaffirm his principle of the synergy of virtue and knowledge. Here, as ever, he follows Plato’s tripartition of the soul. In order to overcome passions, which are located in the two inferior parts of the soul (‘desiringʼ and ‘irascibleʼ), Evagrius states that the knowledge of God is necessary. A third parallel passage in which Evagrius avails himself of the allegorical explanation of an object in the Old Testament in order to put forward his theory of the synergy between virtue and knowledge is KG 4.28: ‘The

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intelligible unleavened breads are the state of the rational soul that is constituted by pure virtues and true doctrines.ʼ Indeed, just as in KG 4.12 Evagrius has given the allegorical meaning of circumcision in ethical terms, thereby explaining what the ‘intelligible circumcisionʼ is (namely, a distancing from πάθη), so does he explain here what the ‘intelligible unleavened breadsʼ mentioned in Deut 16:8 are: the state of the rational soul characterised by both pure virtues and true doctrines. It is notable that Evagrius joins again the ethical and gnoseological goods, virtue and knowledge of truth. These two planes are never disjoined in Evagrius’s system: there cannot be virtue without knowledge, or knowledge without virtue. This is, again, an approach that is indebted to ethical intellectualism, which goes back to Socrates and Plato and occupies an important place in the thought of Origen and Gregory of Nyssa as well. The choices of human free will depend on one’s knowledge; if one’s intellect is obnubilated, one’s free will is much less free. True freedom, for Evagrius just as for Plato, Origen, and Nyssen, is the freedom to choose the Good. Yet another short kephalaion dealing with the allegorical interpretation of cultic details of the Old Testament on the intellectual plane is KG 4.79: ‘The intelligible belt of the high priest is the humility of the irascible faculty, which strengthens the intellect.ʼ Here the reference is to Ex 28:4. Evagrius relies once again on the Platonic tripartition of the soul into intellect or rational soul (λογικόν), irascible faculty (θυμικόν), and desiring faculty (ἐπιθυμητικόν). The second and third parts are prone to passions, and the way to overcome the passion of the θυμικόν is here identified with humility, which tames the irascible tendency of this faculty. At the same time, this disposition strengthens and fortifies the νοῦς, the intellectual part of the soul. Likewise, another of the several kephalaia in which Evagrius interprets details of the Old Testament in an allegorical way, in reference to the νοῦς and human soul in general, is KG 4.82: ‘The ‘refuge’ is the mortal πρακτικόν body of the soul that is liable to passions, which liberates it from the demons that surround it.ʼ Evagrius is here referring to Joshua 20:2–3, concerning the ‘cities of refugeʼ established for sinners. The intelligible refuge, which allegorises the Biblical reference, is a refuge from the demons, which torment the soul by means of passions. And it is on the plane of ascesis (Evagrius’s πρακτική) that the soul struggles in order to overcome passions. Among the many short kephalaia in which Evagrius interprets elements, figures, and cultic prescriptions of the Bible in a spiritual way, on what he expressly indicates as the ‘intelligibleʼ plane, is also KG 5.28: ‘The intelligible ‘sword’ is the spiritual word that cuts away the body from the soul, or evilness and ignorance.ʼ The allegorical interpretation allows Evagrius to return to his favourite idea of the synergy between virtue and

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knowledge, with the relevant rejection of both evilness and ignorance together. Here the scriptural reference might be to Eph 6:17, ‘the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God,ʼ and to Hebr 4:12, ‘the word of God is living and active, sharper than any two-edged sword, piercing to the division of soul and spiritʼ (RSV), but also maybe to Matthew 10:34, in which Jesus says: ‘I came not to send peace, but a sword,ʼ and above all to several references in Revelation to a two-edged sword that is attributed to Christ and is described as ‘sharpʼ: 1:16; 2:12; 2:16; 19:15. Very interestingly, these are passages that were commented on by Origen,9 whose exegesis I deem well known to Evagrius, who was probably also influenced by it. In Sch. in Ap. 6 Origen offers a positive interpretation of violence in this Biblical book, again thanks to the same allegorical exegesis of destruction therein as a reference to the eventual annihilation, not of sinners, but of sin and evil, so that this violence can be interpreted by him as salvific. For liberation from evil produces the salvation of the evildoer. Thus, he can state that the sword that projects from Christ’s mouth (Rev 1:16–17) is a source of good violence against evil and sin (τὸ πονηρόν, ἡ ἁμαρτία); it is ‘a tongue that becomes a sharp sword for the sake of salvationʼ (γλῶσσαν ἐπὶ σωτηρίᾳ μάχαιραν ὀξείαν γεγενημένην). Similarly, in Sch. in Ap. 12 Origen insists on the positive and salvific value of the violence represented in the Apocalypse. He stresses that the sword that comes out of Christ’s mouth cuts away all evil, ‘the buds and offshoots of evilʼ (τὰ τῆς κακίας βλαστήματα), and ‘false convictions in thoughtsʼ (τὰς τῶν φρονημάτων ψευδοδοξίας). Likewise, Christ’s eyes are fiery (Rev 2:18–20) because their sights dry up and eliminate evil. Once again, violence in the Apocalypse is interpreted by Origen as directed against evil, and as good precisely for this reason, in that it cooperates toward the salvific end. Evagrius’s interpretation of the ‘intelligible swordʼ is the same as Origen’s interpretation of Christ’s two-edged sword in Revelation: it is the agent of the destruction of evil and therefore of ignorance. The Logos cuts away all evilness and ignorance. Some biblical details are even interpreted by Evagrius as allegories of rational creatures, the νόες or λογικά, for instance in KG 5.13: ‘The intelligible “cloud” is the rational nature that has been entrusted by God with the task of letting those who sleep far from Him drink.ʼ Evagrius refers here to the ‘thick cloudʼ from which the Lord spoke to Moses (Ex 19:9) and – as in many other short exegetical kephalaia devoted to an Old Testament detail – in the footsteps of Origen, offers an allegorical interpretation of it. Evagrius interprets this cloud as the symbol of those more perfect rational creatures that help the others to acquire the knowledge of God. These are                                                              9

See Ramelli (2011b), also with discussion of the reliability of the Scholia in Apocalypsin as transmitters of Origen’s thought. At least some of them do seem to be reliable.

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probably angels. Elsewhere, in KG 3.62, Evagrius likewise identifies these angels with stars for their illuminative function. Another kephalaion in which a detail from the Bible – in this case, the New Testament, which Evagrius allegorises less often than the Old – is interpreted by Evagrius as a symbol of rational creatures is KG 4.46: ‘The “four corners” mean the four elements, and the object that has appeared symbolises the thick world; and the various animals are the images of the order of the human beings. And this is what appeared to Peter on the roof.ʼ The reference is clearly to Peter’s vision in Acts 10:11–16. The elements are those which constitute the material world, fire, water, earth, and air (the Syriac term is the transliteration of Greek στοιχεῖον). The animals are symbols of the various kinds of human beings. The allegory of different moral kinds of human beings represented as animals is an idea that was also dear to Origen, and to some so-called ‘apocryphaʼ such as the Acts of Philip.10 Another of the very few passages in which elements from the New Testament are allegorised by Evagrius is KG 4.40: ‘The key of the Kingdom of Heaven is a gift of the spirit, that which little by little reveals the intellections of the praktikē and of nature, and of the logoi concerning God.ʼ The scriptural reference is to Matt 16:19. In this exegetical passage Evagrius offers an allegorical reading of this ‘key.ʼ A key opens; thus, this allegorical key discloses the intellections of ethics, the knowledge of nature, and that of God, obviously in a progression toward the summit of knowledge. Evagrius’s notion that the Kingdom of God will consist essentially in contemplation is, I think, inspired by Origen: in the dubious, but probably authentic, Sel. in Ps. 144 he defined the Kingdom of God as a contemplation of the past aeons. Exactly like Origen, Evagrius too joined allegory with the so-called typology, to the point that it is difficult to separate out the one from the other. One of the most interesting examples is KG 5.1: ‘Adam is the type of Christ, whereas Eve is that of the rational nature, since because of the latter Christ went out of his paradise.ʼ The Syriac word for ‘type,ʼ twps’, is a transliteration of Greek τύπος. The exegesis that Evagrius offers here is both typological and allegorical together. That Adam is the ‘typeʼ of Christ is an example of what is traditionally called typological exegesis, in which characters and figures in the Old Testament are interpreted as prefigurations of new characters and realities. This particular typology is already found in Rom 5:14, to which Evagrius is referring here. However, the interpretation of Eve as a symbol of the whole rational nature is far more allegorical than strictly typological. Such a blending of typology and alle                                                             10

Ramelli (2007a).

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gory was already typical of Origen.11 Evagrius’ exegesis relies on the following idea: just as Adam was chased out of paradise because of Eve’s transgression, so has Christ left his own paradise – that is, his immanent life in the Father, his being God – because of the transgression of the rational creatures; thus he took up humanity and became the Saviour. Allegory is for Evagrius also a means to illustrate, or hint at, eschatological truths. For instance, in KG 2.25 Evagrius remarks: ‘Just as this body is called the seed of the future ear, so will also this aeon be called seed of the one that will come after it.ʼ Evagrius is relying on the Pauline image of 1 Cor 15, on which Gregory of Nyssa, too, commented on at the end of De Anima et Resurrectione, explaining through this symbolism of the seed and the ear the mystery of the resurrection-restoration.12 At the same time, in presenting God as the good cultivator who assists the process of development of his plants, liberating them from illnesses and weed, which represent sins and passions, Gregory was reminiscent of Philo (especially his De Agri Cultura), who was known to Evagrius as well, and of course to Origen, too, who often used agricultural imagery in an allegorical way. Evagrius extends the application of the seed-ear metaphor, employed by both Paul and Gregory of Nyssa in reference to the dead and resurrected body, to the present and the future aeon. His point is that both the present body and the present aeon are the germ and seed of, respectively, the body and the aeon to come. Both continuity and a transformation are implied. The future aeon will be the result of each rational creature’s choices and spiritual development. This represents the element of continuity. At the same time, just as the body of the resurrection will be the glorious transfiguration of the present body, so will also the future aeon be a transfiguration of the present one. Another kephalaion in which allegory is in the service of the representation of the future aeon is KG 2.26: ‘If it is true that the crops bear the symbol of virtue and the straw the symbol of evilness, the world to come is symbolised by the amber that will attract the straw to it.ʼ Evagrius is here reflecting on another agricultural metaphor: that of the separation of wheat and straw (in reference to Matt 3:12), which will take place in the world to come. The Syriac word that I have rendered ‘amberʼ is the transcription of the Latin succinum, through the corresponding Greek form σούκινος. In addition to its decorative function, in the ancient world amber (ἤλεκτρον) was known also for its power of attracting things due to its electricity. The attraction of the straw clearly means the liberation of the wheat from it. Evagrius is thus alluding to the eviction of evil that will take place in the future aeon and is the essential premise of the eventual apokatastasis.                                                              11 12

See Martens (2008); Ramelli (2006). See Ramelli (2007c).

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Evagrius’s Astronomical Allegory in the Service of his Doctrine of Apokatastasis and Origen’s Inspiration As I shall soon show, Evagrius also utilises astronomical allegory in order to refer to the last things, to eschatology. Astronomical allegory is employed by him in support of his doctrine of apokatastasis, which he developed on the basis of that of Origen. This use of astronomical allegory in reference to the ultimate destiny of rational creatures is consistent with his repeated use of astronomical allegory in reference to the logika or rational creatures. I shall now examine two examples. In KG 3.52 Evagrius draws the following equation: ‘The intelligible moon is the rational nature, which is illuminated by the ‘Sun of Justice.’ʼ This kephalaion, like KG 3.62 and KG 3.60, which I shall discuss next in this essay, displays an astronomical allegory. Christ is called, according to Malachi 3:20, ‘Sun of Justiceʼ (this expression, Sol Iustitiae, has a long story in Patristic exegesis; Origen too used it in reference to Christ); thus, the moon, in that it reflects the light of the sun, is the symbol of the rational creatures, who receive knowledge and illumination from Christ-Logos. This is why this symbolic moon is called ‘intelligible moon.ʼ Another kephalaion that revolves around astronomical terminology and imagery in reference to rational creatures is KG 3.62: ‘Intellectual stars are rational natures who have been entrusted with illuminating those who are in darkness.ʼ Stars were actually considered to be rational or semi-divine beings in antiquity, but here Evagrius is not drawing on that conception. For he is explicitly speaking of intellectual stars, identified with rational creatures, thus making it clear that these rational creatures have allegorically the same illuminating function as the stars that are seen in the sky. However, they illuminate not the earth, but those intellects that are in darkness. The illumination metaphor is indeed applied by Evagrius to the gnoseological field in several other kephalaia, especially KG 1.35, in which it is the Godhead to have an illuminating function, in that ‘it is light in its very essence;ʼ KG 3.52, in which Christ, qua Sun of Justice, is said to illuminate the rational nature seen as a sort of moon, as I have already highlighted, and KG 3.58, in which spiritual love is assigned the illuminating role of light in the dispensation of ‘the wisdom of beingsʼ to rational creatures. In the light of Evagrius’s extensive use of astronomical allegory in reference to rational creatures, the rationale for his use of astronomical allegory in reference to the eschatological destinies of these creatures becomes clearer. I shall now adduce again two examples of this use. One first passage in which this astronomical imagery is referred to eschatology is KG 4.29: ‘Just as, if the earth were destroyed, then the night would no more

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exist on the face of the firmament, likewise, once evilness is removed, then ignorance will no longer exist among rational creatures. For ignorance is the shadow of evilness: those who walk in it, as in the night, are illuminated by the (lamp-)oil of Christ, and see the stars, in accord with the knowledge that they are worthy of receiving from him. And they too, the stars, will ‘fallʼ for them, unless they immediately turn toward the ‘Sun of Justiceʼ.ʼ The synergy of virtue and knowledge, which Evagrius has stressed in many kephalaia, has its negative counterpart in the synergy of evilness and ignorance, which is the focus of the present kephalaion. Just as the night is the shadow of the earth, as Evagrius explains with a simile, so is ignorance the shadow of evilness. This kephalaion in fact concerns the telos, the eschatological consummation, which, according to Evagrius, just as to Origen and Gregory of Nyssa, will be characterised by the complete eviction of evil.13 And this will go together with the elimination of ignorance and the shining of knowledge among all the logika. A key role in this eventual abolition of ignorance is played by Christ, the Anointed, whose lamp-oil illuminates the logika. Indeed, Christ-Logos, according to Evagrius just as to Origen, has a fundamental gnoseological illuminative function for the logika (this point is developed by Evagrius not only in the Kephalaia Gnostika, but also in his so-called Letter to Melania or Great Letter, CPG 2438, where he claims that the Son and the Spirit communicate knowledge to the intellects of the rational creatures, but with some intellects they communicate directly, although Evagrius does not explain how, whereas with other intellects, less advanced, they communicate indirectly, by means of God’s creation, namely the sense-perceptible creation, what Evagrius calls the ‘secondary creationʼ with a terminology that repeatedly appears in the Kephalaia Gnostika, and is the object of ‘natural contemplation,ʼ φυσικὴ θεωρία). The blending of virtue and knowledge is evident in the present kephalaion, too, from the very characterisation of Christ as Sol Iustitiae (from Malachi 3:20), which already appeared in KG 3.52: Christ enlightens rational creatures both with knowledge and with virtue, of which justice is the representative. The fall of the stars in the kephalaion at stake is a reference to Rev 6:13 (or Jdg 5:20), which here is allegorised in the sense of a loss of intellectual illumination. The illuminative function of the stars has been declared, in an allegorical way, by Evagrius in KG 3.62 and KG 3.84, in which he speaks of intellectual stars. Their enlightening task is parallel, albeit inferior, to that of Christ as Sol Iustitiae; this is why they are said to fall for those logika who do not turn to Christ-Logos, the Sun of Justice. These are those                                                              13

See Ramelli (2007b), and Ramelli (“Evil,” forthcoming).

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who refuse to be illuminated and acquire knowledge and virtue at the same time. In KG 3.60, the use of astronomical allegory in reference to the telos and to the eschatological destiny of rational creatures is especially notable, all the more so in that the exact meaning and full implications of this passage in relation to the doctrine of apokatastasis have so far escaped scholars: ‘The morning star is the symbol of the saints, whereas the evening star is the symbol of those who are in hell. But the restoration of the orbit of all is the holy Trinity.ʼ This is another kephalaion that makes use of astronomical allegory and more precisely, like KG 4.29 which I have examined beforehand, applies this allegory to rational creatures in an eschatological framework. In the original Greek, now lost, the term ἀποκατάστασις, ‘return,ʼ ‘restoration,ʼ was almost certainly employed in this passage. This is evident from the allegorical reference to the return of the stars to their original position, which was precisely called ἀποκατάστασις, using an astronomical terminus technicus that here is applied to the restoration of all, both the saints and those who will be in hell. Also, the Syriac term for ‘signʼ most probably reflects the Greek σημεῖον, which was often used in reference to stars, heavenly bodies, and constellations: thus, the ‘sign of the Eastʼ and the ‘sign of the Westʼ are the morning and the evening star, representing respectively the saints in Paradise (which in the Bible is a garden ‘toward the Eastʼ) and the prisoners in Sheol, those who are spiritually dead, that is, sinners in hell as opposed to the saints in their place/condition of beatitude. It seems remarkable to me that Basil, too, the one who made Evagrius a lector, and who surely exerted an intellectual influence on him, in his own most Origenian work, his Commentary on Isaiah, likewise used the astronomical notion of apokatastasis (the return of heavenly bodies to their original places) as a metaphor of the apokatastasis of human beings to their original condition (Enarr. in Is. 1.30):14 ‘Because ‘the fool is mutable like                                                             

14 ἐπειδὴ Ὁ ἄφρων ὡς σελήνη ἀλλοιοῦται, τὴν πρὸς τὸ φῶς ἐπάνοδον, ὅπερ ἐξέλιπεν ὁ ἄφρων, καὶ τὴν διὰ μετανοίας εἰς τὸ ἀρχαῖον ἀποκατάστασιν ἑορτὴν ἡγεῖσθαι τὸν φιλάδελφον καὶ συμπαθῆ, ὁ λόγος βούλεται· οἱονεὶ νουμηνίαν ἄγων τὴν ἀρχὴν τοῦ ἐν φωτὶ βίου· ἐπειδὴ ἐξέλιπε μὲν τὸ φῶς διὰ τὴν εἰς τὸ χεῖρον τροπὴν ἐπαλινδρόμησε δὲ πάλιν πρὸς αὐτὸ διὰ τῆς ἐπιστροφῆς. The Commentary on Isaiah is an authentic work by Basil, which not only in this ʼastronomicalʼ passage, but also in others, indicates that Basil has sympathy for the doctrine of apokatastasis. See my Apokatastasis (forthcoming), the section on Basil, with thorough analysis of the passages that support the theory of apokatastasis in this Commentary. Basil’s Commentary is attested by an abundant manuscript tradition, in which the attribution to Basil is unanimous. Its authenticity has been questioned (see, e.g., CPG 2.2911), but on no solid grounds. This work is recognised as Basil’s by St. Maximus the Confessor, John of Damascus, Simeon Logothetes, Antony Melissa, Tarasius, and the Greek scholiast on the Letters of Paul, who is supposed to be Oecumenius. Its authenticity has been convincingly defended by Lipatov

 

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the moon,’ the Logos wants that the person who loves her brothers and has sympathy for them considers the return to the light – which was abandoned by the fool – and his restoration/apokatastasis/return to his original condition/position thanks to repentance to be a feast. This person will regard the beginning of the life in the light as a feast for the new moon, since the fool left the light because of his change toward what is worse, but by returning back he went back to it again.ʼ The French translation of Evagrius’s KG 3.60 offered by Guillaumont, facing his Syriac edition, the English versions based on the French translation, by Dysinger and by Fr. Theophanes, and the modern retroversion into Greek, all miss this fundamental reference to the astronomical lexicon, and thus also the reference to the apokatastasis, which is instead apparent here. This is Guillaumont’s rendering (p. 123): ‘le signe de l’orient est le symbole des saints, le signe de l’occident des âmes qui sont dans le Schéol, mais l’accomplissement du retour de la course de tout est la Trinité sainte.ʼ Dysinger translates: ‘The “sign of the East” is the symbol of the saints, and the “sign of the West” of the souls which are in Sheol. But the achievement of the return from “the race” by all is the Blessed Trinity.ʼ Fr. Theophanes has: ‘The sign of the east is the symbol of the saints, and the sign of the west, the souls which are in Sheol. But the accomplishment of the return of the “course” of all is the Holy Trinity.ʼ Likewise the Greek retroversion: Σύμβολον τῆς ἡμέρας ἀνατολῆς ἐστι τὸ τῶν ἁγίων σύμβολον, τῶν δὲ δυσμῶν αἱ ἐν ἅιδου ψυχαί, τελείωσις δὲ τοῦ τοῦ παντὸς δρόμου ἐστιν ἡ ἁγία Tριάς. All of these translations in fact miss the main point of this kephalaion, namely, the astronomical allegory, which introduces the notion of astronomical apokatastasis as a symbol of the eventual universal restoration to the Trinity. In this kephalaion, indeed, the reference is first of all to the astronomical sense of the Greek term ἀποκατάστασις (which most probably was in the Greek original text instead of the retroversion’s τελείωσις), but it immediately acquires also the eschatological meaning. The ‘courseʼ, which I translate as ‘orbitʼ and in Greek must have been δρόμος, is usually understood as a reference to 2 Tim 4:7, but it is the course of the stars, the orbit that they were thought to run. The distance between the morning and the evening stars, East and West, which essentially symbolises the distance between Paradise and hell (Sheol as the place of those who are spiritually dead, as opposed to the place of the saints), is overcome by the eventual return of all stars to their original position, in the final apokatastasis, which will bring all to their original state, in conformity with God’s original plan                                                              (1993; 2001) on the basis of close methodological similarities between this commentary and Basil’s Hexaëmeron in theology, exegesis, biblical textual discussion, expressions, and use of philosophical and scientific knowledge.

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– and with the identity between the morning and the evening star, which are the same heavenly body. The apokatastasis was expressly related to the Trinity already by Origen, as the perfect unity of all in the unity of God, after the reign of Christ and the handing over of all by him to the Father, when God will be ‘all in allʼ (1 Cor 15:28). It is now possible to wholly and exactly appreciate a kephalaion whose full import has been misunderstood so far. Only one detail is still to be added at this point. Origen already used allegory in connection with his notion of apokatastasis and played on the various meanings of the term ‘apokatastasisʼ in Greek. This is patent in many passages related to his notion of apokatastasis,15 but I would like to cite at least one in which the double meanings, literal and spiritual, of apokatastasis are expressly declared by him. In Hom. in Ier. 14,18, he links Acts 3:21 to another Biblical passage in which the vocabulary of ἀποκατάστασις / ἀποκαθίστημι appears (Jer 15:19): ‘if you return / repent, I shall restore [ἀποκαταστήσω] you.ʼ Origen offers here a remarkable explanation of what ἀποκατάστασις means, explaining that it indicates a return to what is proper and original to someone (ἡ ἀποκατάστασίς ἐστιν εἰς τὰ οἰκεῖα). A person is not restored to anything but a condition that is original and natural to her. Origen interestingly offers some examples, which are all instances of literal meanings of restoration that can function as allegories of spiritual restoration: the therapeutic meaning, the reintegration of someone after an exile, and the reintegration of a soldier into the military unit from which he was chased. The astronomical apokatastasis is a perfect parallel to these. It is notable that all of these meanings – medical, military, civic, astronomical – are attested in authors of the first century BC and the first century AD, and, above all, that all of them can be applied metaphorically to the apokatastasis in the Christian sense of universal restoration. Then, Origen relates the Jeremiah passage to Peter’s reference (in Acts 3:21) to the universal restoration eventually operated by God: ‘If we return, God will restore [ἀποκαταστήσει] us: and, indeed, the end of this promise is the same as is written in the Acts of the Apostles, in the following passage: ‘until the times of the restoration of all beings [ἀποκαταστάσεως πάντων], of which God spoke through his holy prophets from time immemorial,’ in Jesus Christ.ʼ The exploitation of the astronomical meaning of apokatastasis as an allegory and prefiguration of the eventual universal restoration was to be the brilliant work of Evagrius, the closest and most insightful follower of Origen after Gregory of Nyssa.

                                                             15

See my Apokatastasis, section on Origen.

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Bibliography Lipatov, N. A. (1993), “The Problem of the Authorship of the Commentary on the Prophet Isaiah Attributed to St. Basil the Great”, SP 27, 42–48. –. (2001), St. Basil the Great, Commentary on the Prophet Isaiah. MandelbachtalCambridge: Editions Cicero. Martens, P. (2008), “Revisiting the Allegory/Typology Distinction: The Case of Origen”, JECS 16, 283–317. Ramelli, I. (2004), Allegoria I: L’età classica. Milan: Vita e Pensiero. –. (2006), “Origen and the Stoic Allegorical Tradition: Continuity and Innovation”, Invigilata Lucernis 28, 195–226. –. (2007a), “Mansuetudine, grazia e salvezza negli Acta Philippi”, Invigilata Lucernis 29, 215–228. –. (2007b), “Christian Soteriology and Christian Platonism. Origen, Gregory of Nyssa, and the Biblical and Philosophical Basis of the Doctrine of Apokatastasis”, VChr 61, 313–356. –. (2007c), Gregorio di Nissa Sull’Anima e la Resurrezione. Milan: Bompiani-Catholic University. –. (2009), “Origen, Patristic Philosophy, and Christian Platonism: Re-Thinking the Christianisation of Hellenism”, VChr 63, 217–263. –. (2011a), “The Philosophical Stance of Allegory in Stoicism and Its Reception in Platonism, Pagan and Christian: Origen in Dialogue with the Stoics and Plato”, International Journal of the Classical Tradition 18.3, 335–371. –. (2011b), “Origen’s Interpretation of Violence in the Apocalypse: Destruction of Evil and Purification of Sinners”, in Verheyden, J. (ed.), Interpreting Violent Texts – Ancient Christian Commentators of the Apocalypse. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck und Ruprecht, 46–62. –. (2011c), “Origen the Christian Middle/Neoplatonist”, Journal of Early Christian History, olim APB 1, 98–130. –. (forthcoming), “Evil”, in Di Berardino, A. (ed.) the English edition of Nuovo Dizionario Patristico e di Antichità Cristiane. –. (forthcoming), Apokatastasis.

Profaning and Proscribing. Escalating Rhetorical Violence in Fourth Century Christian Apologetic Josef Lössl Iulius Firmicus Maternus iunior was vir clarissimus,1 of senatorial rank.2 Born and resident in Sicily,3 perhaps Syracuse,4 he practised law at Rome until the early 330s. After embarking – between 334 and 337 – on writing his monumental Eight books on Astrology (Matheseos libri VIII) he abandoned his legal career, of which, it seems, he had begun to grow tired: too much trouble, conflict and risk, on a daily basis.5 There were clearly better                                                              1

See the subscriptions found in the main manuscript witnesses of the two works attributed to him, the astrological Matheseos libri VIII (math.) and the Christian apology, or, perhaps better, anti-pagan polemic, De errore profanarum religionum (De Err.). The sole manuscript witness of De Err., Rome, BAV, Pal. lat. 165 (ninth–tenth century), reads on fol. 33r Julii Firmici Materni u. c. de errore profanarum religionum explicit. Venice, St. Mark, Marcianus lat. VI 156 (15th c.) 279r, a major witness of the complete text of Math., has I. F. M. Iunioris Viri Clarissimi Matheseos Liber Octavus et Ultimus explicit. Laus deo. In some early printed editions of De Err. ‘u. c.ʼ is (mistakenly) interpreted as ‘vir consularis.ʼ The epithet ‘iuniorʼ is only found in the transmission of Math. See for this Müller (1908), 1–2; seminal for the identity of the author of Math. and De Err. already Herschel Moore (1897); Boll (1909). For more recent literature, especially on De Err., among others, see Forbes (1970); Turcan (1982); Herzog and Divjak (1989), V, 84–104; Holthaus (2002), 267–268. 2 Though the title, if authentic, seems to have related more to Firmicus’ social standing (his ‘classʼ) than to a career in public service. Still, his standing would have influenced his attitude towards certain issues of public relevance. His dedication of Math. to (the pagan) Lollianus Mavortius, governor of Campania from 328 to 335 and later (under Constantius II) prefect of the city of Rome, Consul (355), and Praetorian prefect of Italy (355–356) (PLRE 1, pp. 512–514), as well as his dedication of De Err. to the emperors Constantius II and Constans must be seen in this light. Firmicus Maternus seems to have been a less obscure figure than any of the second-century apologists who dedicated works to emperors, such as Athenagoras, whose Legatio pro Christianis was addressed to Marcus Aurelius and Commodus. 3 Math. I prooem. 4: …totius Siciliae situm, quam incolo et unde oriundo sum… The Mathesis is usually dated in the second half of the 330s (336–337). 4 Math. VI 30,26: …Syracusanus Archimedes civis meus… 5 Math. IV prooem. 1–2: Patrocinia tractantes tenuerunt causarum conflictationes et caninae, ut ita dicam, contentionis iurgiosa certamina, ex quo studio nihil mihi aliud per

 

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things in life to do. It was, according to his own account, the then governor of Campania, Lollianus Mavortius,6 who had suggested to him to compose a work like Matheseos combining historical and scientific (astronomical) with philosophical and religious elements.7 Firmicus may have been living through a personal crisis. He writes that his visit to Lollianus took place in the freezing cold of winter and that he felt exhausted in body and fragile in mind, doubting his ability to complete the task.8 There could be a symbolic dimension to this story. The hand of friendship (amicitia) which Lollianus seemed so keen to offer him – perhaps a combination of intellectual, spiritual and material succour – helped Firmicus towards his decision to abandon his legal career and to devote himself entirely to his momentous mission.9 The religious (especially liturgical) elements in Matheseos have long been recognised and in the past sometimes interpreted in terms of a possibility of Christian influence already at this stage in Firmicus’ intellectual development.10 This has more recently been ruled out,11 and more recent scholarship has increasingly become aware of the extent to which intellectual movements in Late Antiquity employed ritual techniques performatively to teach and more deeply to explore their often philosophically quite well founded teachings.12 There is no need to assume any Christian influence here,13 on the contrary: it is precisely a characteristic of pagan intel                                                             dies singulos nisi periculorum cumulus et grave onus invidiae conferebatur … deserui itaque hoc studium… 6 For further details on him see above note 2. 7 The achievement of Math. should not be underestimated (against Potter [1996], 598), despite weaknesses in astronomical technicalities (referring to fragilitas ingenii sui Firmicus seems to have had a realistic sense of the limits of his mental powers). Math. remains, alongside Ptolemy’s Tetrabiblos, the most comprehensive extant treatment of Classical (‘Graeco-Romanʼ) astrological teaching (i. e. the influence of the stars on human life and the causal inter-connection between humanity and the universe), and apart from Manilius’ Astronomica and the astrological sections of the Chronographer of 354 it is the only astrological textbook from Antiquity extant in Latin; Herzog and Divjak (1989), 85–86. 8 Math. I prooem. 1–6: Olim tibi hos libellos, Mavorti decus nostrum, me dicaturum esse promiseram … cum fragilitas ingenii mei nihil se scire tale posse conciperet … Nam cum esses in Campaniae provinciae fascibus constitutus … occurri tibi rigore hiemalium pruinarum et prolixi itineris diversitate confectus … Scrutatus a me es… 9 Compare Math. I prooem. 2: Illic tu languentis et fatigati corporis mei senium enisus es fidis et religiosissimis amicitiae relevare fomentis. 10 See the seminal paper of Skutsch (1910). 11 See Ziegler (1969), col. 949. 12 An interesting new study exploring this feature is Addey (2009); relevant for what follows below also Addey (2010), 165. 13 See for this Belayche (2010), 166 n. 144 cites Math. V Proem. 3–4: quicumque es, deus, qui per dies singulos caeli cursum celeri festinatione continuas, qui maris fluctus

 

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lectual religion, e. g. as represented by Porphyry, with whom Firmicus associates himself in Math.,14 to ask how one should worship, not whom or what. It is this characteristic of pagan religion which Firmicus ca. ten years later, after his conversion to Christianity, held against Porphyry,15 when, in his De errore profanarum religionum (De Err.), he misinterpreted pagan divination and theurgy as techniques to manipulate the gods, techniques which in his view were ultimately doomed to failure, because they were aimed at the ‘false godsʼ instead of acknowledging the one true God and rejecting all other gods. From this perspective one might consider it problematic to distinguish (all too ‘naïvelyʼ) between a ‘polytheisticʼ (or ‘henotheistic,ʼ or even ‘syncretisticʼ) pre-Christian and a ‘monotheisticʼ Christian period in Firmicus; for such a distinction may prove less objective than it may appear at first glance.16 In De Err. at any rate this very distinction is used in a highly targeted way as a polemical tool to profane pagan religion.17 From an outside perspective the quality of Firmicus’ Paganism is no better than that of his Christianity and vice versa. The differences are not intrinsic, they depend on Firmicus’ changing attitudes and circumstances. They are changes of opinion, of faith. This is why we are dealing here with rhetoric rather than philosophy. Whatever motivated Firmicus to devote himself to writing Matheseos and abandoning his legal career already constituted a serious development in his religious life. The zeal with which he later attacked pagan religion (in De Err.) and his meticulous efforts especially in De Err. 18–28 to replace certain significant pagan symbols and rituals with similar or equivalent Christian ones merely underlines the remaining power and strength of his paganism over against his Christianity.                                                              mobili agitatione perpetuas … tu omnium pater paritum ac mater, tu tibi pater ac filius uno vinculo necessitudinis obligatus … da veniam quod siderum tuorum cursus eorumque efficacias explicare conamur… 14 Math. VII.1.1: …Platonici … Pythagoras etiam et noster Porphyrius religioso putant animum nostrum silentio consecrari: ‘The Platonists … and also Pythagoras and our Porphyry believe that our soul is sanctified by sacred silence.ʼ The emphasis here is on religious practice and technique, the how rather than the who or what. Note that consecrare is the opposite of profanare. 15 Compare De Err. 13.4–5: Nam ita esse Porphyrius, defensor sacrorum, hostis dei, veritatis inimicus, sceleratarum artium magister manifestis nobis probationibus prodidit … Gratias agimus Porphyri libris tuis … Didicimus per te quatenus dii tui hominibus iubentibus serviant. 16 Already in 1953 Konrat Ziegler wrote that as author of math. Firmicus held an albeit somewhat diffuse (‘verwaschenenʼ) monotheism, Ziegler (1953), 53. 17 At the same time, as Addey (2010), 165 has pointed out, it is possible to apply polytheism, henotheism and monotheism as heuristic categories, in her case to Porphyry’s theology, precisely because the emphasis is on religious practice and not on an exclusivist doctrinal consistency.

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This was no ageing religion that would peacefully fade away or naturally progress towards Christianity as some higher form of faith. There was no natural or rational development of Firmicus’ paganism into Christianity. What we are looking at is a struggle, an internal (‘civilʼ) war, within Firmicus himself and within the society and the political system which he inhabited. This is reflected in his rhetoric, which is simultaneously spiritual, theological, rhetorical and political. Clearly, Firmicus Maternus converted to Christianity at some point after finishing Matheseos (around 337) and before writing De Err. (between 343, or better, 346 and 350),18 roughly ten years later. Unlike in Matheseos there is no indication in De Err. what motivated him to do so. He simply announces to his addressees, the two emperors, Constantius II and Constans, that he is now ready – also in intellectual terms, i. e. ‘strengthened by his study of Holy Scriptureʼ – to preach (religioso sermone) his newfound faith to his opponents (those ‘lostʼ souls).19 He assumes as a matter of course that the two are in agreement with him, or rather, he has the audacity to exhort them that they should be; for in De Err. 29 he reminds them of their duty to persecute pagans, not even to spare members of their close family, and, if necessary, to annihilate them, be it individuals or whole cities.20 De Err. 29 has attracted significant interest in scholarship. Does the passage reflect imperial legislation against pagan cults which had already

                                                             18

The dates of De Err. are determined as follows: Constans, who is addressed by name (De Err. 20.7), died in January 350 (terminus ante quem). His expedition to Britannia, alluded to in De Err. 28.6, fell in 343 (terminus post quem). However, if the words Persica vota conlapsa sunt in De Err. 29.3 allude to the end of the Persian siege of Nisibis under Shapur II, 346 is more likely as terminus post quem; see Turcan (1982), 24–25, 353. 19 De Err. 8.4: At ego nunc sacrarum lectionum institutione formatus perditos homines religioso sermone convenio. Note the similarities and differences to the corresponding passage in Math. VII.1.1: …Platonici meum perpetuum a se eum frequenter convenit … Patiuntur enim haec omnia iacturam, cum perditis ac desperatis animis ingeruntur … Pythagoras … et noster Porphyrius religioso putant animum nostrum silentio consecrari … Unde et ego … convenio te …, Mavorti decus nostrum… The Platonists considered the revelation of their mysteries to ‘lost and desperate soulsʼ a waste. Pythagoras and Porphyry thought that the soul is sanctified by sacred silence (religioso silentio). The Christian Firmicus in contrast wants to talk (religioso sermone) to the lost souls. 20 De Err. 29.1: Audite et commendate sanctis sensibus vestris quid de isto facinore deus iubeat. There follows a quotation from Deut. 13:6–10 and 12–18 that those who worship other gods, whether individuals, even family members, or whole cities, should be killed and destroyed. A sentence earlier he had already pointed out to the emperors that they are forced by necessity (necessitas imperatur) to act in this way.

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been implemented by the time Firmicus writes?21 The earliest laws of this kind originate from the early 340s.22 Is Firmicus arguing for further, stricter, legislation?23 Or is his plea to the emperors to act decisively and even brutally an expression of disappointment and frustration at a continuing willingness on their part to tolerate – or perhaps better, ‘forbearʼ –24 nonChristians in the public sphere?25 Obviously, it was still politically expedient for the emperors to act in this way. The Christian emperor Constantine, whom the ‘pagan monotheistʼ Firmicus had praised in Math.,26 had done so, and for quite some time his sons too continued in this vein. There were still some highly influential pagan figures holding public office, not least Firmicus (former?) friend Lollianus.27 The pressure on the emperors to show a more radical and intolerant stance against pagans came from a religious party, bishops and influential converts. De Err. represents such an initiative.28 It did not (yet) set the pace of imperial policy, but it influenced it by ‘endorsingʼ it, ‘nudgingʼ it towards more autocracy and religious control. In the end it took several more decades – until Theodosius I in the 390s! – for the emperors to catch up with this new attitude towards religion, and even then their measures were by far not as radical as Firmicus’ rhetoric seemingly demanded.29 Meanwhile, under Julian in the early 360s, there was even an anti-Christian counter-movement. Perhaps the newly converted Christian Firmicus feared something like that to happen if a still vigorous pagan religion, as he himself had experienced and represented it, was not decisively enough suppressed. Thus De Err. is among other aspects also a highly political speech. It reflects imperial policy and by doing so at least purports to attempt to influence it.                                                             

21 For a range of laws that could be reflected in De Err. see Herzog and Divjak (1989), 90; Kahlos (2009a), 92 and n. 70. 22 E. g. CTh. 16.10.2 from 341; compare Herzog and Divjak (1989), 90. 23 For this possibility see Piganiol (1972), 87. Further literature is discussed in Kahlos (2009a), 92 note 71. 24 For this expression Kahlos (2009b). 25 Thus Barnard (1990), 512–513; discussed in Kahlos (2009a), 93, who, as a witness for the ‘ambiguities in Constantius’ religious policyʼ (ibid. note 75), cites also Heather and Moncur (2001), 48–57. 26 See Math. I Prooem. and 10.13–14. 27 Compare above note 2. 28 Paraphrasing Drake (2000), 431; Kahlos (2009a), 93 n. 73, suggests that ‘Firmicus’ requests endorsed, rather than prompted, the legislationʼ (scil. against Paganism). 29 Kahlos (2009b), 90–92. And, as Kahlos shows, even under Theodosius increasing intolerance against pagans was not so much the result of proactive imperial policy as of political pressure applied to the emperor to legalise acts of Christian intolerance. Emperors had no choice in that regard but to (91) ‘make conciliatory gestures in order to satisfy hard-line ecclesiastical circles.ʼ

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In this respect it is different from second-century apologies such as Clement of Alexandria’s Protrepticus, on whom Firmicus seems to have drawn,30 or Tatian’s Ad Graecos, with which it shares to some extent a rude sarcasm, although Tatian never goes as far as Firmicus, who covers pagan religion comprehensively in savage sexual slander.31 Tatian’s attack was directed far more broadly at Greek culture, not at pagan cults in particular. It was more cultural-critical, attacking pagan intolerance and trying to make a case for the need of a Christian presence in that culture, which would renew or even ennoble it. Firmicus Maternus’ perspective is quite different. By any standard of early Christian apologetics his rhetorical violence is exceptional. Apologetics here has given way to ‘categorics,ʼ32 systematic profaning with the aim to proscribe and annihilate. This seems to have been a new, far more intolerant, form of Christianity than had hitherto been known. Leaving aside for the moment concerns about the consistency of this attitude with Christian ethical standards: what about the rhetorical strategies pursued in De Err.? Are there traditional models for such verbal savagery? Obviously, this represented a new and excessively radical form of Christian apologetics. But is it sufficient to explain it by suggesting that Firmicus’ purpose was ultimately to endear himself to new patrons, more powerful than his previous pagan ones,33 or to persuade his local bishop of the sincerity of his conversion?34 While such motivations may indeed have played a role, are they sufficient to explain Firmicus’ excessive and escalating rhetoric? Could he not have achieved his goal – perhaps much more                                                             

30 Compare e. g. Clem. Alex. Protr. 2.16 and Firm. Mat. De Err. 12.4 on the Corybantes. 31 Tatian’s sexually most slanderous and explicit remarks were not aimed at contemporary religion, but at the aestheticism of Classical Greek statuary, which in his view demeaned the dignity of women; Orat. 33–34. This is broadly in line with Tatian’s focus on wider cultural rather than narrower religious issues. E. g. in Orat. 29 he only mentions in passing the presence of eunuchs in contemporary cults and falsely asserts that the contemporary Jupiter and Diana cults were still practising human sacrifice. Thus while many of the elements across these ‘apologiesʼ may have been ‘tediouslyʼ similar, their function would have been very different in the changed cultural and political circumstances of the mid-fourth century; against Geffcken (1907), 317. 32 Thus Kahlos (2009a), 79. 33 Compare Drake (2000), 426. 34 See the discussion in Kahlos (2009a), 87 n. 43. The comparison with Arnobius, suggested by Drake (2000), 427, is revealing. Arnobius, just as Lactantius, got away with a lot less violent rhetoric. Why would that have been the case? One can, of course, psychologise and think of Firmicus as a more violent and unstable character than Arnobius and Lactantius. But if we focus on his rhetoric, we may find that he draws on some very ancient, traditional Roman features of talking about political religion, which would have been well comprehensible to contemporaries.

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effectively – with a more measured approach? In the past scholars have sometimes pointed to Firmicus’ state of mind as a possible explanation and speculated about his emotional volatility and inclination to violence (at least of a rhetorical kind).35 Tatian has been judged in a similar manner.36 But idiosyncrasy alone, albeit closely wedded to individual style, cannot explain the broad rhetorical programme of De Err., the systematic sexual slander of a carefully listed series of ancient religions in De Err. 1 to 17, the sophisticated Christian reinterpretation of key symbols and rituals in De Err. 18 to 27 and the exhortation of the two emperors in De Err. 28 and 29. There is method in Firmicus’ ‘madnessʼ which strongly suggests that De Err. is not exclusively motivated by opportunism. The question is therefore whether Firmicus’ rhetoric can be shown to represent a specific traditional approach to religious conflict in connection with political change, and what might be the ultimate purpose of this approach in Firmicus’ case. Profaning and proscribing were functions and applications of political rhetoric that were known and used throughout classical antiquity. It is intriguing to think that after abandoning his ‘profaneʼ craft and giving up his forensic legal career in favour of an ivorytower pursuit of writing a monumental work on astrology, Firmicus, a mere ten years later, recovers his canine skills and puts them to use to thrash the very religious universe which he had previously embraced, to profane it in the vilest manner and to ask the emperors effectively to proscribe its adherents.37 The word profanus occurs sixteen times in De Err., not counting its occurrence in the title. Modern translators usually render the expression in the title with the relatively neutral word ‘pagan.ʼ But the same translators also tend to acknowledge that the way in which profanus is used in the text is much less neutral or harmless. There it usually means something like ‘profaneʼ in the sense of ‘unholy, godless, impious, shameful, mean, nefariousʼ even ‘perverse.ʼ38 There is no sign here of the meaning, sometimes found in other post-classical authors, of profanus as ‘ignorant or un                                                            

35 For a discussion of this approach see Kahlos (2009b), 69. Gregory of Nazianzus’ speech against Julian the Apostate is usually cited in this context, where Gregory says that new converts can be more fanatical than seasoned Christians (Greg. Naz. Or. 5.37). 36 See e. g. Whittaker (1982), xiv–xv: ‘The harshness and obscurity of his [scil. Tatian’s] style seem to mirror his arrogant and intransigent personality.ʼ 37 The terms proscribing and profaning are here understood analogous to the way Flower (2006) has analysed their interconnections in a number of significant events in Roman history, to some of which (e. g. the Bacchanalian scandal of 186 BC) Firmicus even refers. 38 See De Err. 4.3 profanum studium; 6.1 profanae religiones, 7.7 profanus error, 8.1 profana nefaria cupiditas (repeated in 20.7), 8.2 profanae persuasiones, 8.5 profana improbitas, etc.

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educated,ʼ even implying innocence.39 Firmicus stands here firmly on classical ground. He shares an ethical understanding of the condition: there is no excuse for profanitas; positioning oneself outside the sphere governed by the gods is wicked and deserves punishment.40 The classic Roman example, typically also cited – approvingly! – by Firmicus,41 with an allusion to Cicero’s Catilinarian,42 is the trial against and punishment of the socalled Bacchanalian conspirators of 186 BC. Both references – to the Bacchanalian and to the Catilinarian conspiracies – are to political crises in ancient Rome which were traditionally interpreted, at least in part, also in terms of crises of religion, be it that imported foreign (peregrinae) cults had begun to corrupt part of Roman society, or that indecencies had been committed in the name of religion. Such religion did not deserve the name. It was superstition, profanitas in the guise of religion and rightly eliminated from the core of society.43 The profaning of cults, both their rhetorical detraction and their physical removal and destruction, was not something that would have struck a Roman audience as new or surprising. Livy frequently drew these links. Firmicus knew Livy. His knowledge of the Bacchanalian trial was based on Livy’s account.44 And there are many similar accounts. For example, referring to a series of events during the second Macedonian war in the early second century BC, Livy, describing how the mood in Athens became more openly anti-Macedonian as the Romans gained the upper hand writes as follows: Athens ‘never lacks tongues ready to incite the populace. This kind of behaviour is known in all free societies, but especially in Athens, where rhetoric reigns supreme and enjoys popular favour. Thus they im                                                             39

E. g. Min. Fel. Oct. 5; Lact. Div. Inst. 2.15.2; 2.16.13, et al. See e. g. Ovid. Met. 2,833 mens; Trist. 3.5 verba; Stat. Theb. 1.1 odia, etc. 41 De Err. 6.9: Nam sicut in libris annalibus invenimus, Bacchanaliorum scelera Aebutio quodam adulescente deferente detecta sunt. Erant adhuc in urbe Roma integri mores, nec quisquam peregrinas superstitiones dissolutis moribus appetebat. Tunc nec senatus consuli nec leges rei publicae nec consul legibus defuit, sed investigatis omnibus qui huius sacri scelerata commenta tradebant, contra omnes severo immo Romano quaestionis examine capitalis poena de consilii sententia decreta est, nec tam diu vindices gladii consulis conquierunt, quamdiu hoc malum fuisset radicitum amputatum. O digna Romani nominis animadversio. O priscae virtutis laudanda constantia. Nec civibus suis consul parcere voluit, cum ob purgandam patriam peregrina vitia corriguntur. 42 Cic. Cat. 1.3: non deest rei publicae consilium neque auctoritas huius ordinis: nos, nos, dico aperte, consules desumus. 43 There is a link here between the reference to Livy 39.9f. in De Err. 6.9 and to Deut. 13:6–10.12–18 in De Err. 29.1. Ancient Roman law and custom command the same as the Bible. Just as the consul did not spare his fellow citizens, thus the follower of God’s commandment will spare neither son nor brother, nor even his wife (De Err. 29.2). 44 For details see the densely packed notes in Turcan (1982), 230. 40

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mediately proposed a motion, passed by the people, that all statues and images of Philip, and all inscriptions, including those of this ancestors, male and female, are to be removed and destroyed, and all feast-days, religious holidays and priesthoods (diesque festi sacra sacerdotes), which had been established in honour of him and his ancestors, should be profaned (profanerentur),ʼ i. e. ‘abolished.ʼ45 All relevant elements are here connected: a rhetorical culture that brings down an existing regime, or, at least, rids itself symbolically of that regime by removing and destroying its symbols, both political and religious; and that is not enough: Livy goes on to say that the places from where such symbols (statues, inscriptions etc.) had been removed were officially cursed. Nothing new could be erected on them until further notice; and whenever from now on the Athenian priests performed a sacred act they were to invoke solemn curses on Philip and everything which he represented.46 Thus getting rid of odious cults was a highly active process. They were not quietly dropped but violently and durably suppressed and rhetorically profaned. Firmicus’ ‘cursingʼ (or profaning) in the first part of De Err. (cc. 1–17) consists in the systematic application of (mainly) sexual slander against the cults which he lists, and this becomes all the more visible as it contrasts with the praise which he heaps on the judges of the Bacchanalian trial (De Err. 6.9). These, we might think, were no less pagan than all the other ancient Romans. However, Firmicus says of them that their morals were pure (integri mores), they were not affected by foreign superstition (peregrinas superstitiones) and moral dissolution (dissolutis moribus), and the punishment which they meted out was worthy of the Roman name (digna Romani nominis). How strong and praiseworthy that ancient virtue was, he exclaims in admiration (o priscae virtutis laudanda constantia!), holding it up to his imperial addressees.

                                                            

45 Liv. 31.44: nec umquam ibi desunt linguae promptae ad plebem concitandum; quod genus cum in omnibus liberis civitatibus tum praecipue Athenis, ubi oratio plurimum pollet, favore multitudinis alitur. Rogationem extemplo tulerunt plebesque scivit ut Philippi statuae imagines omnes nominaque earum, item maiorum eius virile ac muliebre secus omnium tollerentur delerenturque; diesque festi sacra sacerdotes, quae ipsius maiorumque eius honoris causa instituta essent, omnia profanerentur. 46 Liv. 31.44: loca quoque in quibus positum aliquid inscriptumue honoris eius causa fuisset detestabilia esse, neque in iis quicquam postea poni dedicarique placere eorum quae in loco puro poni dedicarique fas esset; sacerdotes publicos quotienscumque pro populo Atheniensi sociisque, exercitibus et classibus eorum precarentur, totiens detestari atque exsecrari Philippum liberos eius regnumque, terrestres naualesque copias, Macedonum genus omne nomenque.

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Praising Roman virtue was not unusual for early Christian writers.47 Citing pagan exempla was acceptable, yet it may come as a surprise in the middle of a sustained slander attack against pagan religion. How does Firmicus lead up to this key passage (De Err. 6.9)? After the opening of his speech, which is not extant, Firmicus states the purpose of his work: to prove that pagan religion was invented by the Devil to lead humankind astray and to perdition.48 Nobody doubts, he then continues, that nature consists of four elements, fire, water, air and earth. But these are diverse and behave naturally, i. e. their power derives from their interaction with each other, according to the principle of contraries (potestate contraria; 1.2). It is therefore wrong to ascribe to them supernatural powers or to declare one of them as supreme God (summus deus), as some nations do with the fire.49 The following paragraphs then discuss in some detail which nations worship which elements: the Egyptians water (2), the Phrygians earth (3), the Africans and Assyrians air (4), and the Persians fire (5). What is most noticeable in Firmicus’ presentation of these cults is the way in which it is permeated with strong images of (mainly sexual) deviancy and violence including incest, rape, adultery, genital mutilation and many other kinds of physical violence, ritual murder, necromancy, etc. All these religions, according to Firmicus, are either founded on revered memories of such acts or still ritually perpetuating them. His account peaks (De Err. 6.7–8) in a citation, in Greek, of Iliad 6.135–137, after which follows in sharp contrast a seemingly sober and prosaic summary reference to the Bacchanalian trials of 186 BC (De Err. 6.9). The scandal linked to the Egyptian water-worship is the incest between Isis and her brother Osiris, and Osiris’ gruesome murder at the hand of

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Note in connection with this the popularity of Sallust and his take on Roman history; see Lössl (2004), 180 n. 5 for earlier writers (Tertullian, Minucius Felix, Cyprian) and their influence. 48 De Err. 1.1: In(de ista [sacra omnia]) manifestis rationibus exempl(orumque [diligenti] signifi)catione probabimus per diabolum ([et daemones esse] conficta) ut per hos spiritus maculata cogita(tione) spe (fals)ae felicitatis perversa discretione perversa (ratio) miseros homines perpetuis calamitatibus implicaret. The text here (especially everything in brackets) is very uncertain and cited as presented by Turcan (1982), 76–77. 49 The last allusion is to the Zoroastrians. For further details on the passage see Turcan (1982), 167–168. With this opening salvo Firmicus aims generally at all ancient cultures (except the Biblical one). His choice of the four elements is also symbolic. It signals universality. In Firmicus’ view all pagan religions deify natural things, which should be more properly considered as creation (habent fabricatorem deum) and explored in a natural scientific way. This is the first fundamental step with which Firmicus ‘profanesʼ pagan religion: by ‘naturalizingʼ or ‘secularizingʼ it.

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Typhon, who according to Firmicus was Isis’ husband (De Err. 2.2).50 Firmicus assumes that he is dealing here – as also in all the cases below – with myths derived from historical events that happened in a remote past.51 Why, Firmicus asks, add incest, adultery and its miserable results to a religion which could be explained much more innocently, as an annual fertility rite?52 Why pretend that the latter reason is secret when it is widely known and easily comprehensible?53 The Phrygians, he continues in De Err. 3.1, worship the earth (terra) as universal mother (mater omnium).54 However, they too add to this myth a titillating story of a wealthy woman, their queen, who fell in love with a beautiful young man, for whose rejection of her advances she took revenge by castrating, mutilating and killing him,55 aspects which are still in part ritually re-enacted by the eunuchs and transvestite priests of her cult.56 The Assyrians and some Africans, thus the next paragraph, worship the air under the name of Juno or Venus the virgin, ‘if Venus ever enjoyed virginity that is.ʼ57 The salacious parenthesis sets the tone. Firmicus is not

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Firmicus is, of course, mistaken here. According to the main traditions Osiris was both Isisʼ husband and brother. According to Turcan (1982), 174, Firmicus deliberately ‘deformedʼ the myth in order to be better able to denounce its immorality and to distract from its obvious similarities with the death and resurrection of Christ. However, in De Err. 2.5 Firmicus does contrast the Egyptians’ (in his view misplaced) hopes in the salutary effects of the waters of the Nile with the Christians’ hopes in Baptism; for further details regarding sources and implications see Turcan (1982), 181. 51 That is, he is subscribing to Euhemerism, so-called after Euhemeros, a Greek mythographer of the fourth century BC, who is usually credited with ‘inventingʼ the idea, which is even more clearly stated in De Err. 2.6, where Firmicus writes that the funeral rites which accompany the annual rituals of Osiris’ festival are actually based on a real funeral that took place long ago: …quae vere sunt funera quae facta sunt... 52 De Err. 2.7: Quid addis incestum, quid adulterium, quid miserandae animadversionis exitium? 53 De Err. 2.7: Physica ratio quam dicis alio genere celetur. Quid autem celari oportuit quod omnibus notum est? 54 The reference is to the cult of Cybele and her lover Attis, which was represented at Rome since the late third century BC. Turcan (1982), 188–189. 55 Here, too, Firmicus distracts from the possibility of drawing parallels between Attis’ death and resurrection with Christ’s by depicting Attis’ death as sexually shameful and the fertility ritual linked to it as superfluous. De Err. 3.4: Dicant mihi quid hoc frugibus profuit ut fletus suos annuis ululatibus renovent…? 56 De Err. 3.1: Deinde ut et ipsi annuum sibi sacrorum ordinem facerent mulieris divitis ac reginae suae amorem, quae fastus amati adulescentis tyrannice voluit ulcisci, cum luctibus annuis consecrarunt … quod irata mulier pro iniuria spretae fecerat formae, hoc ordinatos a se pati volunt sacerdotes. 57 De Err. 4.1: …eundem, id est aerem, nomine Iunonis vel Veneris virginis – si tamen Veneri placuit aliquando virginitas – consecrarunt.

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interested in depicting the relevant cults in a remotely fair manner,58 his emphasis is once more on incestum, in this case between Juno and Jupiter,59 not exactly a central feature of the cult of Caelestis.60 He also dwells on the fact that in these cults the air, aer, a masculine noun, is personified as a woman. He draws conclusions from this as to the effeminising effects of this step on men involved in the cult, culminating in female sexual behaviour of such men: ‘Tell me: Is that a goddess, who looks for a woman in the man [who worships her], whom the choir of her priests cannot serve in any other way but by effeminising their faces, smoothing their skins and dishonouring (dedecorent) their virility through female finery? In the temples, no less, outrageous displays can be seen, accompanied by the screams of the public: men let themselves be used (pati) as women and openly display this shame … with boastful ostentation. They publicly perform their shameful acts and … with the most outrageous expression of pleasure. Like women they let their hair grow long and do it up. Dressed in luxurious robes they can hardly hold their heads upright … How monstrous is that? They deny their virility … they want to be seen as women…ʼ61 The most significant aspect of this passage to begin with is that Firmicus seems to have made it all up. In fact there was no tradition of eunuchs and transvestites in the Caelestis-cult, as there was in the cult of Cybele.62 All this rhetorical display erupted from the tenuous starting point that by declaring aer a female deity her worshippers are guilty of effeminizing, corrupting, and in some sense even sexually abusing and raping Roman men. Losing decorum (dedecorunt) and accepting the passive role in sexual encounters (pati) – nothing could be more shameful.                                                              58

Though his ‘crime’ is not exactly the conflation of the Syrian Venus-Astarte and the African Tanit-Juno. It was possible to identify both combinations with Urania-Caelestis, see Turcan (1982), 197. 59 De Err. 4.1: Iunonem sane ne et huic deesset incestum, Iovis volunt ex sorore coniugem factam. 60 Note for this Ziegler (1953), 55: ‘Mit Jupiter hat die Caelestis nichts zu tun. Die Beziehung zu ihm hat Firmicus, weil sie gelegentlich auch der Juno angeglichen wurde, willkürlich aus der griechisch-römischen Religion auf sie übertragen, um wieder ein incestum konstatieren zu können.ʼ 61 De Err. 4.2: Dic mihi: hoc numen est quod in viro feminam quaerit, cui aliter servire sacerdotum suorum chorus non potest, nisi effeminent vultum, cutem poliant et virilem sexum ornatu muliebri dedecorent? Videre est in ipsis templis cum publico gemitu miseranda ludibria viros muliebria pati … Publicant facinora sua … cum maxima delectationis macula confitentur. Exornant muliebriter nutritos crines et delicatis amicti vestibus vix caput lassa cervice sustentant … Quod hoc monstrum est quodve prodigium? Negant se viros esse … mulieres se volunt credi… Note in De Err. 16 the list of women who want to be men. 62 See the note in Turcan (1982), 199: ‘Aucun témoignage n’attribue des eunuques au culte de la Caelestis carthaginoise, non plus qu’à l’Astarté phénicienne.’

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Finally, the Persians, Firmicus continues, worship the fire and see it represented in the sexual division, with man and woman as its plastic manifestations.63 Again, it is doubtful to what extent Firmicus’ depiction of Persian religion as a combination of a Sol-Mithras and a Luna-Hekate cult is correct. Interestingly, however, here he is not scandalized by the sexual aspects of the cult but rather by the fact, as he relates, that Mithras is worshipped as a cattle-thief: repugnant figment of a Barbarian religion.64 However, this is not quite the end yet of this part of Firmicus’ work. ‘Those,ʼ he concludes, ‘were the religions by which those who are lost (perditi) deify the four natural elements. But there are yet other superstitions (superstitiones), for example that of Liber and Libera...ʼ65 Liber, he explains, in Euhemerist fashion, was a son of Jupiter (who was a king of Crete) and the outcome of an adulterous relationship. He was therefore hated by Jupiter’s wife, Juno, who ordered her bodyguards, the Titans, to kill him. Having committed the deed they cut him up, cooked and ate him in order to dispose of the body. In commemoration of the crime, but also to assuage the rage of his bereaved father, various cults were introduced whose rituals are basically re-enactments of funerals. But Firmicus also knows of another Liber, a tyrant of Thebes, who seduced women with love-potions and magic spells and, when they were mad with love, ordered them to commit the most horrendous atrocities; for he wanted above all noble women as accomplices administering to his deviant pleasures and his crimes.66 Eventually he was ousted. Effeminate as he was, someone who enjoyed unnatural sex (cinaedus) and served the pleasures of his lovers, he could not resist those who attacked him.67 Accompanied only by those who shared his addiction to prostitution, crime and lust he ended his life among inebriated girls and drunken old men, thrown off a cliff into the boiling sea by his nemesis Lycurgus so that his                                                              63

De Err. 5.1: …ignem in duas dividunt potestates, naturam eius ad utriusque sexus transferentes et viri et feminae simulacro ignis substantiam deputantes. 64 De Err. 5.2: Virum vero abactorem bovum colentes … O barbaricae legis fugienda commenta. 65 De Err. 6.1: Sic sunt, sacratissimi imperatores, elementa a perditis hominibus consecrata. Sed adhuc supersunt aliae superstitiones quarum secreta pandenda sunt: Liberi et Liberae… Once more Firmicus conflates two cults, that of Dionysos-Bacchus and that of Demeter-Ceres, Turcan (1982), 217–218. 66 De Err. 6.6: Fuit etiam alius Liber apud Thebas tyrannus magicae artis potestate perspicuus. Hic cum muliebres animos venenis quibusdam et carminibus occupasset pro arbitrio suo crudelia facinora furentibus imperabat, ut mente captas nobiles feminas et libidinum ministras haberet et scelerum. 67 De Err. 6.7: Neque enim effeminatus consensum virorum potuit diutius sustinere … cinaedum enim eum fuisse et amatorum servisse libidinibus Graecorum gymnasiis decantatur.

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shattered body could for a long time be seen drifting in the surf – a warning to humankind.68 It is this event, Firmicus concludes, to which Homer refers, when he writes in Iliad 6.135–137: ‘Dionysos, stricken by terror, plunged into the boiling sea. Thetis took him to her bosom; for he was terrified. Fear and trembling had taken hold of him because of the threat that came from the man.ʼ69 Upon which follows the already mentioned reference to the Bacchanalian trials of 186 BC (De Err. 6.9). This, as already indicated, functions as an exhortatory exemplum put before the two imperial addressees, who in De Err. 29 will be asked directly to act analogously against the adherents of the various cults presented in De Err. Obviously, we are here focusing only on a small section of Firmicus’ text. A fuller enquiry would multiply examples.70 We also concentrated mainly on polemic through sexual slander and how this could be used to underpin demands for stricter application of existing laws and for new legislation.71 We have seen that Firmicus amassed such motifs for rhetorical effect, often at the risk of grossly misrepresenting the cults which he reviewed.72 Our focus was therefore not on how far Firmicus went in this respect. Undoubtedly his account may also include a lot of useful infor                                                             68

De Err. 6.7–8: …soli enim eum secuti sunt stuprorum et flagitiorum ac libidinum socii … inter ebrias puellas et vinolentos senes … a Lycurgo comprehensus per proximam rupem … in mare praecipitatur, ut lacerum corpus marinis diu iactatum fluctibus errantium populorum animos ad sanitatis ac sobrietatis ordinem severa animadversione revocaret. 69 Il. 6.135–137: Διώνυσος δὲ φοβηθεὶς δῦσεν ἁλὸς κατὰ κῦμα. Θέτις δ᾽ ὑπεδέξατο κόλπῳ δειδιότα· κρατερὸς γὰρ ἔχεν τρόμος ἀνδρὸς ὁμοκλῇ. 70 Especially De Err. 7–17 contains a lot more: E. g. rape and murder in the story of Persephone (7); Adonis’ totem animal a lustful boar (9); Christ makes demons enter pigs, who fall down a cliff (Mk 5:1f.; compare De Err. 6.8!) and lust dies with them (9.3); temple prostitution in the cult of Venus on Cyprus and worshippers of Jupiter Sabazius satisfy their lust using snakes (10); fratricide among the Corybantes (11); further examples of Jupiter’s adultery (with Leda, Europa, Antiope, Danae, though nobody is interested in Daphne, who escaped the ordeal) and incest (with his mother, no less), and more men who want to be used as women (12); finally Minerva and at least five other women who want to act as men (16). 71 Note in De Err. 20.7 the exclamation that just a little more time and effort is needed before the laws will have killed off the Devil. The ‘war against pleasureʼ is almost won: Modicum tantum superest ut legibus vestris [scil. Constantius II. and Constans] funditus prostratus diabolus iaceat, ut exstinctae idololatriae pereat funesta contagio. Veneni huius virus evanuit et per dies singulos substantia profanae cupiditatis exspirat. Note here also once more the use of profanus. 72 For examples see above notes 50, 55, 60 and 62. One might even argue that Firmicus artificially constructs a synthetic pagan religion by arranging a set of cults according to the four elements and also conflating a number of cults. His aim is to refute the system which he thus creates comprehensively, but also individual cults in detail.

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mation on the relevant cults, but this could not be considered in this essay. Nor have we considered the many examples of Christian exhortation interwoven with the polemic, which can suddenly change the character of a passage.73 It may well be worth studying these protreptic characteristics of De Err. in their own right. One might consider them the carrot to the stick of polemic, slander and persecution (profaning and proscribing), which on the whole can be said to predominate in the work. Firmicus’ strategy of using sexual slander for his profaning purpose is not unlike that used by many early Christian writers against heretics.74 The cultural background is largely the same: Classical rhetoric provided means, models and precedents for this kind of polemic. Praise and blame, thus the leading authors, should consider, among others, the moral fabric of the targeted subjects: Are they involved in bad behaviour, adultery, siring of illegitimate offspring, sexually violent or deviant behaviour? Sins against nature (natura) are most grave (men wanting to be women and vice versa).75 Are festivals celebrated with due splendour and moderation? Having fun, eating and drinking well is fine, but wallowing inebriated in the mud and losing one’s decorum – unforgivable.76 The modest aim of this chapter was to indicate that despite the escalating character of his rhetoric in his De errore profanarum religionum Firmicus Maternus still moved within the possibilities of rhetorical practice in his time. The former lawyer, who was clearly trained in delivering sharp invective, used his skills uncompromisingly in the service of his newfound faith. His social status might suggest that his address to the emperors was not just a contrivance but had a fundamentum in re, no matter whether it was ultimately effectual or not. Finally, the accepted fact that Firmicus Maternus is the author of both De Err. and Math. should be taken seriously in any attempt to study the intellectual and religious profile of the man. His language and style have undoubtedly their limitations, but his sincerity should not be underestimated. He clearly should be considered a not insignificant representative of Latin rhetoric in the fourth century.                                                             

73 For example, in De Err. 4.3–4 the polemic against the effeminate and sexually deviant (‘unnaturalʼ) male followers of Caelestis is suddenly interrupted by a call to consider how God had created them (erubescite, o miseri, summitatem: aliter vos deus fecit), followed by allusions to two parables from Lk. 15 (the Lost Sheep and the Prodigal Son) and an assurance that through his son Jesus Christ God saves all those from the influence of the devil who show remorse and faith in him. 74 See for this Wright Knust (2006). 75 See Wright Knust (2006), 25–50 (on, among others, ‘natural gender,’ the shame or inferiority of passive sexual behaviour, ‘failed men,’ ‘wild women,’ excess etc.) 76 See Wright Knust (2006), 19–20 citing, among others, Cic., De Inv. 177–178; Men. Rh. 364, 375, 376, 380, 384; Apht., Prog. 8.

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Bibliography Addey, C.J. (2009), Oracles of the Gods. The Role of Divination and Theurgy in the Philosophy of Porphyry and Iamblichus. Unpublished PhD dissertation: Bristol. –. (2010), “Monotheism, Henotheism and Polytheism in Porphyry’s Philosophy from Oracles”, in Mitchell, S. and van Nuffelen, P. (eds.), Monotheism Between Pagans and Christians in Late Antiquity. Leuven: Peeters, 149–165. Barnard, L.W. (1990), “L’intolleranza negli apologisti cristiani con speciale riguardo a Firmico Materno”, CrSt 11, 505–521. Belayche, N. (2010), “Deus deum … summorum maximus (Apuleius): ritual expression of distinction in the divine world in the imperial period”, in Mitchell, S. and van Nuffelen, P. (eds.), One God: pagan monotheism in the Roman Empire. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 141–166. Boll, F. (1909), “Firmicus,” PRE 6, cols. 2365–2379. Drake, H.A. (2000), Constantine and the Bishops. The Politics of Intolerance. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Flower, H.I. (2006), The Art of Forgetting. Disgrace and oblivion in Roman political culture. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Forbes, C.A. (1970), Firmicus Maternus: The Error of the Pagan Religions. New York: Paulist Press. Geffcken, J. (1907), Zwei griechische Apologeten. Leipzig: Teubner. Heather, P. and Moncur, D. (2001), Politics, Philosophy, and Empire in the Fourth Century. Select Orations of Themistius. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Herschel Moore, C. (1897), Julius Firmicus Maternus – der Heide und Christ. München: Mühlthaler. Herzog, R. and Divjak, J. (1989), Handbuch der lateinischen Literatur der Antike, vol. 5. München: Beck. Holthaus, H. (2002), “Firmicus Maternus”, in Döpp, S. and Geerlings, W. (eds.), Lexikon der antiken christlichen Literatur. Freiburg: Herder, 267–268. Kahlos, M. (2009a), “The Rhetoric of Tolerance and Intolerance: From Lactantius to Firmicus Maternus”, in Ulrich, J.; Jacobsen, A.-C., and Kahlos, M. (eds.), Continuity and Discontinuity in Early Christian Apologetics. Frankfurt a. M.: Peter Lang, 79–95. –. (2009b), Forbearance and Compulsion. The Rhetoric of Religious Tolerance and Intolerance in Late Antiquity. London: Duckworth. Lössl, J. (2004), “Sallust in Julian of Aeclanum”, VCh 56, 179–202. Müller, A. (1908), Zur Überlieferung der Apologie des Firmicus Maternus. Tübingen: Heckenhauer. Piganiol, A. (1972), L’Empire Chrétien 325–395. Paris: Presses universitaires de France. Potter, D.S. (1996), “Firmicus Maternus”, in Hornblower, S. and Spawforth, A. (eds.), The Oxford Classical Dictionary (3rd edtn.). Oxford: Oxford University Press, 598. Skutsch, F. (1910), “Ein neuer Zeuge der altchristlichen Liturgie”, Archiv für Religionswissenschaft 13, 291–305. Turcan, R. (1982), Julius Firmicus Maternus: L’erreur des religions païennes. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Whittaker, M. (1982), Tatian. Oratio ad Graecos and Fragments. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Wright Knust, J. (2006), Abandoned to Lust. Sexual Slander and Ancient Christianity. New York: Columbia University Press.

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Ziegler, K. (1953), Julius Firmicus Maternus – Senator. Vom Irrtum der heidnischen Religionen. München: Hübner. –. (1969), “Firmicus Maternus”, RAC 7, cols. 946–959.

II. Sacred and Profane in Late Antique Literature

Rhetoric for a Christian Community: the Poems of the Codex Visionum Laura Miguélez-Cavero The fourth century AD does not at first seem an attractive proposition as regards Greek epic poetry. There is a temptation to consider it as a gap between the riches of the third century (Oppian’s Cynegetica, the Sack of Troy by Triphiodorus, and Quintus of Smyrna and his Posthomerica) and the grand presence in the fifth century of Nonnus of Panopolis, who wrote the Dionysiaca in forty-eight books and the Paraphrase of the Gospel of John in twenty-one. Palladas and the abundant poetic production of Gregory of Nazianzus do of course stand out in this period, but in terms of the epic the Lithica, attributed to Orpheus,1 and the poem by Naumachius2 seem to be no more than poor relations of the genre, even if we bear in mind the information we have about lost poems.3 If we restricted our view of the fourth century to this evidence, we would be confining our analysis to highbrow epic poetry. Fragments of smaller compositions extant on papyri4 prove however that the genre appealed to versifiers of all levels, and the Codex Visionum provides evidence of the use of epic poetry in a Christian context. In the Codex Visionum, dated from the turn of the fifth century AD,5 six different hands copied Visions 1–4 of the Shepherd of Hermas (P.Bodmer 38),6 along with                                                              1

Halleux and Schamp (1985), 82–123. Heitsch (1963–1964), no. 29. 3 Such as those copied in codex 279 in Photius’ Library, on which see Hammerstaedt (1997). 4 See Miguélez-Cavero (2008), nos 19–39, to which we should add: P.Oxy. 72.4852 Hexameter verses on Meleager (= LDAB 13267); P.Oxy. 72.4853 Book-Title: Areios (?), Theogamia (= LDAB 13268). 5 Dating of the copy of the Codex: early fifth century (Hurst, Reverdin and Rudhardt [1984], 117; Cavallo ap. Carlini [1991], 123–124), second half of the fifth century AD (Van Haelst, ap Carlini [1991], 124). Full description of the Codex in Carlini (1991), 103–128; Crisci (2004), 115–122. 6 Editio princeps: Carlini (1991). The Ποιμήν, probably written in Rome in the second AD, is divided into five ὁράσεις (visiones), twelve ἐντολαί (mandata, ethical instructions) and ten παραβολαί (similitudines, parables). The author narrates four Visions given 2

 

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a series of poems of which no other copy survives and which were probably composed during the fourth century.7 The codex was part of a rich library which included Greek, Latin and Coptic books of Christian and nonChristian content.8 Its design and the poems included in it make it an oddity which apparently had no impact on the practice of poetry either locally or on a wider scale. The Shepherd was a popular text in antiquity, and the first four Visions, narrated in prose and simple in linguistic terms, provide a general introduction on how to be a Christian, focusing on a spiritual progression towards complete obedience to God in order to secure salvation. Christian life is seen as a long trial during which different events test the participant and help him to grow in faith and closeness to God. The first of the poems is the Vision of Dorotheus (Ὅρασις Δωροθέου, P. Bodmer 29),9 in which Dorotheus10 recounts his vision of the palace of God. There he commits a double error for which he is judged and punished, and later purified and baptised so as to gain the necessary strength to complete his task of vigilance over the palace of God. The purpose of the poem is to honour God. The 360 hexameters are difficult to understand due to the poor preservation of the codex and the lack of clarity in the narrative. At first the poem was related to the figure of the lapsi, who had denied their faith and offered sacrifices to save their lives in a context of persecution: Dorotheus had not given proof of his faith when it was requested of him, but, after experiencing the renovation of the baptism, he became strong enough to embrace martyrdom.11

                                                             to him by an old woman (the Church). For the fifth vision she is substituted by a messenger dressed as a shepherd. The Codex Visionum originally contained Visions I–IV, but Vision IV went missing with the loss of the central folio. 7 They seem to be copies of poems composed earlier, though in the [Eulogy] of the Lord Jesus there are significant corrections in the margins of lines 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, proposing new versions of the lines, which Carlini (2002), 137 suggests are authorial corrections. The poem may simply have been recent enough to admit improvements, or else members of the community where the Codex was copied may have known different versions of the text. 8 Description in Miguélez-Cavero (2008), 218–223. 9 Ed. pr.: Hurst, Reverdin and Rudhardt (1984). Ed. altera: Kessels and van der Horst (1987). 10 On the identity of Dorotheus, see Hurst, Reverdin and Rudhardt (1984), 33–36, 43– 49; Vian (1985), 47–48; Hurst and Rudhardt (1999), 13–14, 68–70; Gelzer (2002). The ed. pr. and Kessels and van der Horst (1987) date him from the turn of the fourth century; van Berchem (1986), a little later; Livrea (1986), 688–702 at 342–362; Bremer (1988; 1993) from the latter part of the fourth century. 11 Hurst, Reverdin and Rudhardt (1984), 33–36, 43–49.

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Subsequent readings have explored metaphorical interpretations,12 assuming that, after the end of the violence against Christians, martyrdom had remained in the Christian imaginary as an image for mortification and the ultimate surrender of life for the sake of God (especially in the context of ascetic rigorism). According to Lukinovich,13 Dorotheus dreams that he is a novice deacon serving in the court of God, so that when he commits the sin of arrogance and fails to complete his duties he is not failing his fellow churchmen, as he would have done by attending a church on earth, but God himself.14 His sinful nature is only atoned by the mercy of God and a severe physical punishment. The Vision would thus serve as a warning about their duties for both Dorotheus and any ecclesiastical officer (deacons in particular). Morard (2002) points out the possibility of reading the Vision in an ascetic context as an exhortation to a community to be vigilant regarding the dangers of sin. The second poem is On Abraham (Πρὸς Ἀβραάμ, P.Bodmer 30).15 Including a prelude (lines 1–3), an alphabetic acrostic (lines 4–27) and a conclusion (lines 28–31), it juxtaposes the speeches of Abraham, Sarah and Isaac to welcome the sacrifice of the latter. The earliest reference for this episode is Gen. 22:1–19, but P.Bodmer 30 deviates from this markedly, incorporating resonances of the figure of Isaac as found in the books of the Maccabees and the New Testament, and in early Christian tradition.16 The closest parallel is the prayer or liturgical hymn about the sacrifice of Isaac, also an alphabetic acrostic, copied in the fourth-century miscellaneous codex now at the Abbey of Montserrat,17 which belonged to the same library as the Codex Visionum. The Speech to the Righteous (Πρὸς δικαίους, P.Bodmer 31)18 follows the On Abraham. The 164 elegiac distichs address a community of right                                                             12

Allegorical readings of the Vision are uncertain because even the elements which seem closest to the contemporary world are never clear enough: the vestments of Dorotheus see him classified as an Imperial palace guard (Van Berchem [1986]; Bremmer [1988], 86) or as a deacon (Lukinovich [2002], 44–45). See also Bremmer (1988) on the poem as a key source on military organisation at the imperial court in the second half of the fourth century. 13 Lukinovich (2002), esp. 38–47. 14 On the duties of deacons in fourth century Alexandria, see Martin (1996), 193–195. 15 Ed. pr.: Hurst and Rudhardt (1999). Proekdosis: Livrea (1994). English translation: van der Horst and Parmentier (2002), 157–159. Van der Horst and Parmentier (2002), 156 translate ‘On Abrahamʼ understanding πρός as ‘with regard to,ʼ as it appears in the New Testament. Hurst and Rudhardt (1999) translated Adresse à Abraham. 16 See Hurst and Rudhardt (1999), 38–42; van der Horst and Parmentier (2002), 159– 172. 17 Roca-Puig (1994), 117–126. Description of the codex in Torallas-Tovar and Worp (2006), 15–24. 18 Editio princeps: Hurst and Rudhardt (1999). Ed. alt. Livrea (2006–2008).

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eous men (δίκαιοι) and remind them of the perils of sin in a strongly paraenetic tone, focusing on the attraction of worldly possessions. The context is that of divine judgement and of the importance of a full conversion (μετάνοια), which might lead to martyrdom. Dorotheus thus becomes something of a test case, given that, in spite of his previous failings, he was taken to paradise after suffering martyrdom for obeying God’s commandments. The remaining poems are considerably shorter. The [Eulogy] of the Lord Jesus (or [Works] of the Lord Jesus, [ ] τοῦ δεσπότου Ἰησοῦ, P. Bodmer 32) is another alphabetic acrostic. It celebrates the figure of Christ and mentions key concepts such as his divine filiation, his kingship and ἀρετή (virtue and power, which includes bringing peace on earth and freeing humanity from sin and death). Words of Cain (‘What would Cain say when killing Abel?,ʼ Τί ἂν εἴποι ὁ Καιν ἀποκτείνας τὸ[ν Ἀβελ;, P.Bodmer 33) is an ethopoea,19 a reconstruction in 19 lines of the words which Cain might have said after killing Abel, in accordance with the general spirit of Genesis 4:9–19. This piece focuses on the pain of Cain when he realises that he has been condemned for his sin. The Lord to those who suffer (Ὁ δεσπό[τ]ης πρὸς τοὺς πά[σχο]ντας, P.Bodmer 34) consists of an introduction of three lines, where God addresses humanity, and an alphabetic acrostic (24 lines), with standard Christological content. The poem addresses the good and righteous whose lot is to suffer for the Lord, who will then reward them in the afterlife. Words of Abel (‘What would Abel say after being killed by Cain,ʼ Τ[ί ἂν εἴπ]οι ὁ Ἀβελ ἀναιρηθεὶς ὑπὸ τοῦ Καιν; P.Bodmer 35) is an eidolopoea (a speech pronounced by a dead character) which paraphrases Psalm 102 (101) on the subject of the sufferings of the righteous. The final two poems are too poorly preserved to allow extensive conclusions. P.Bodmer 36 is composed in hexameters and, according to Norelli,20 contained a description of the Last Judgement, focusing on the importance of the care of the widow, the orphan and the poor (lines 13–24). At one point (lines 40–65) it refers to Psalm 148, stressing the importance of the praise of God. P.Bodmer 37, which follows this, could be a hymn. From a literary point of view, the metrics are rather poor,21 as is the vocabulary used, an amalgam of epic phrases and words unsuitable for epic

                                                             19

Already identified as such in Fournet (1992). Norelli (2002). 21 Hurst and Rudhardt (1999), 24–29; Agosti (2002), 87–88; Agosti and Gonnelli (1995–1996), 310–354. 20

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composition (technical terms, Latin words, prosaic words)22. Agosti23 reflects on the links of some of the poems with psalmic literature and hymns ([Eulogy] of the Lord Jesus, Words of Cain, Words of Abel, P.Bodmer 36, P.Bodmer 37) and of others with paraenetic literature (The Lord to those who suffer), biblical paraphrases (On Abraham, Words of Cain, Words of Abel), visionary literature (Vision of Dorotheus)24 and elegies in distichs (Speech to the Righteous). With the editing complete and several studies now published,25 we can be sure that the codex was designed as the shared project of a male religious community.26 The continuous emphasis on the struggle against the passions and the reflections on the presence of the devil in daily life provide clear proof that the codex was not designed as a tool for the conversion of pagans, but to improve the spiritual life of the Christian community.27 The risk for the Christians to whom the Codex is addressed is not attacks from outside, but a lukewarm faith: martyrdom is not approached from the perspective of the aggressor and the victim, but as an oblation back to God of the life given by Him. As regards the raison d’être of the Codex Visionum, this community seems to have chosen and ordered the texts carefully, intending to use them as a tool for personal and community instruction28 and meditation.                                                             

22 Not in the same degree in all the poems. Latin words are frequent in the Visio Dorothei (Hurst, Reverdin and Rudhardt [1984], 23–26, 39), but absent from The Lord to those who suffer. On the vocabulary of P.Bodmer 30–37, see Hurst and Rudhardt (1999), 31–35. 23 Agosti (2001a), 200–216. 24 See also Rudhardt (2002), 120–122. 25 Especially those edited in Hurst and Rudhardt (2002). 26 Early sources divided the monastic movement into eremitic (Life of Antony), semieremitic (Apophthegmata Patrum) and coenobitic (Life and Rule of Pachomius) forms, but these terms can be misleading, and a comparison with other sources of information reveals a more complex picture: see Goehring (2007). For an overview of the general context, see Martin (1996), 746–763; Rousseau (2000); Caner (2009). Lukinovich (2002), esp. 47–55, 58–59 prefers a community of diocesan priests and deacons. For fourth century AD Egyptian priests, see Martin (1996), 646–662. 27 For sin and penitence in monastic contexts, see Kofsky (1999) and BittonAshkelony (1999). 28 According to the Rule of Pachomius, after the instruction given three times a week by the housemasters (20), the monks shall discuss among themselves what they have heard before going back to their quarters (19, 138) to continue to reflect on it individually in silence (122). The Rule also states that books can be borrowed from the main library of the monastery, and that these should be returned at the end of the week (25), and that the individual houses have a room where books are kept (82) and locked in a case at the end of the day (101). Each monk has a book which he should lock up when he goes to the synaxis or the refectory (100 – see also Apophthegmata Patrum 16.29, where the monk Paphnoutios is unjustly accused of having stolen another monk’s book after the book has

 

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The Codex may also have been used in the liturgy, since the Shepherd of Hermas had become a canonical text29 and the shorter poems also have hymnic resonances (the On Abraham has been related to the prayer published by Roca-Puig in 1994).30 Even the structure of the Codex itself has been described as liturgy-based.31 The order in which the texts were copied was not a random matter.32 The Shepherd of Hermas was copied first because it was considered to be an authoritative text,33 a declaration of attachment to the tradition of the Church. The Shepherd and the Vision of Dorotheus share the focus on the μετάνοια or definitive conversion,34 as well as certain images, such as that of the Church as a tower,35 which reappear in other poems in the Codex. Together these outline the Codex’s character, so that the following poems contribute more thoughts on conversion and martyrdom and add nuances to the requirements of the metanoia. The Codex Visionum reflects the religious identity of a community of δίκαιοι, but also their cultural identity. This was an established community, which already owned a rich library and decided to copy a composite book to gather together texts that had already been composed, chosen because together they create a coherent discourse, with clear mottos and easily recognisable language and rhetoric.36 It is on the different areas where rhetoric37 is present in the poems of the Codex38 that this paper will focus.                                                              been hidden in Paphnoutios’ cell while the community was at the synaxis). More on this in Sheridan (1997), 211–215. 29 Carlini (1991), 26. 30 See the historical overview of early Christian hymns in Starowieyski (1992). 31 Lukinovich (2002), 56: ‘Le tout est construit comme une liturgie où une première partie consacré à l’écoute d’une parole inspirée et à la commémoration d’un saint homme est suivie d’une deuxième partie homilétique, pour terminer avec une célébration (méditation de la parole biblique en relation avec le contexte particulier, psaumes, cantiques, louanges finales à Dieu).ʼ The Rule of Pachomius clearly states that all monks have to attend several prayers every day (23, 121, 125, 126), as well as a weekly Eucharist and a smaller weekly service performed in the individual houses (15). On the Pachomian monastic liturgy, see Rousseau (1985), 80–82, 85–86; Veilleux (1968), 195–196, 226–248, 276–323. 32 See Agosti (2001a), 197–198; Carlini (2002), 134–135. 33 Carlini (1991), 25–27; Brox (1991), 55–71. On its diffusion in Egypt, see Carlini (2008); Bagnall (2009), 40–48. On the common ground between the Shepherd and Pachomius, see Rousseau (1985), 136–138. 34 Μετάνοια is a key concept in the Shepherd of Hermas from its very beginning, see Vis. 1.1.8. 35 On which see De Spirito (2002). 36 Hurst-Rudhardt (1999), 31–33 analyse what they call the ‘vocabulary proper of the group’ or ‘mots de la tribu’ in P.Bodmer 30–37. 37 Rhetoric is to be understood here in a broad sense, as in Cameron (1991), 20: ‘What we might call the ‘rhetoric’ of early Christianity is not… rhetoric in the technical sense;

 

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Starting with the general rhetorical discourse (1), I shall then go on to analyse the rhetorical structure of the Codex and its links with the genre of biography (2), the influence of the rhetorical rules of biography (3) and the presence of rhetorical micro-structures (4). To this I will add some notes on the reasons for and the consequences of the choice of poetry as the vehicle of expression of Christian ideas in the Codex (5), and, in manner of a conclusion (6), some remarks on the attitude towards paideia in the Codex, within the general framework of Christian attitudes towards classical paideia.

The Rhetorical Discourse of the Codex Visionum To understand the construction of the Codex Visionum, it is necessary to enumerate the elements which make up its general discourse. We notice the recurrence of a male character who often goes under the name of δίκαιος (‘righteous’),39 and who experiences μετάνοια (complete conversion), defeats sin (the main impediment to reach eternal life), and then commits himself fully to God. Metanoia was in fact the constant companion of the monk from the very moment he discovered his vocation.40 St. Antony says in his first letter that those who draw near to the love of God (i.e., those who seek an ascetic life) have in common a spirit of repentance or change of mind (paenitentia),41 the Latin equivalent of μετάνοια, which, according to the rest of                                                              rather, the word is used in its wider sense, denoting the manner and circumstances that promote persuasion.ʼ 38 The Visions of Hermas and the last two poems will only be mentioned at certain junctures. 39 Hurst and Rudhardt (1999), 22–24, 70–73. 40 On metanoia as ‘repentance’ and ‘conversion,’ see Bitton-Ashkelony (1999), 179– 180. 41 Antony differentiates between three types of ascetic hopefuls: 1) ‘those who are called by the law of love which is in their nature, and which original good was implanted in them at their first creationʼ [I. Quidam enim per testamentariam legem et inditum in eis semel bonum, a prima sui conditione pertingere verbo Dei ad eos morati non sunt, sed perrexerunt parati cum eo]; 2) those ‘who hear the written Law testifying of pains and torments prepared for the wicked and of the promises prepared for those who walk worthily in the fear of God; and by the testimony of the written Law their thoughts are roused up to seek to enter into the callingʼ [I. Qui audiunt scriptam legem testificantem eis universa supplicia quae peccatoribus praeparantur, et annuntiantem de sanctis promissionibus ad eos qui proficiunt, quibus et per testimonia inscriptae legis sobria voluntas exsistit, et per hanc quaesierunt intrare in vocatione vocantis]; and 3) ‘there are souls which at first were hard of heart and persisted in the works of sin; and somehow the good God in his mercy sends upon such souls the chastisement of affliction, till they

 

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the letter, will guide them throughout the different stages of purification of soul and body.42 The initial μετάνοια was considered to develop into a constant quest for the love of God, the necessary state of mind of the monk,43 which is why it is the central concept of the Codex, which was designed as a spiritual aid for the monks. The metanoia provides the δίκαιος with the strength to fight sin and to face the suffering allotted to him, in the most extreme cases in the form of physical martyrdom. The poems of the Codex therefore introduce a variety of characters confronting sin: while Dorotheus accepts physical punishment for his failure to perform his duties and his sin of arrogance, the Speech to the Righteous deals with greed and avarice in the context of the Last Judgement. The descriptions of the virtue of Jesus in the [Eulogy] of the Lord Jesus can be understood as a source of inspiration for the fight against sin, and Words of Cain describes in detail the pain of the sinner. In P.Bodmer 36, the sins punished in the Last Judgement are balanced with the charity towards the weakest members of society. These poems also present the righteous dealing with suffering: Dorotheus endures physical punishment, in On Abraham Isaac and his family face the martyrdom of Isaac with joy, Abel cries aloud to God in Words of Abel, and the Lord himself consoles those who put up with suffering in The Lord to those who suffer. δίκαιος is frequently used in reference to godly men, both in the Old and the New Testament.44 The title was also given to Egyptian monks by the local communities who believed that their righteousness lent their prayers a special force and enabled them to heal the sick and dying even                                                              grow weary, and come to their senses, and are converted, and draw near, and enter into knowledge and repent with all their heart, and they also attain the true manner of lifeʼ [I. duris cordibus saepe inter vitia et in peccati operibus permanentibus, aliquoties benignus Deus infert labores ad increpandum, donec sentiant per aerumnam, et poenitentes ex toto, accipientes et ipsi virtutes]. Latin text: Migne, PG XL.977–8. English translation: Chitty (1975). 42 The vocation of Antony as narrated by Athanasius contains both elements of metanoia, the repentance and conversion from an old way of life to a new one, focused solely on God. According to Athanasius (VA 2–3), he experienced a deep desire to follow the model of sanctity provided by the Apostles and the first Christian communities of the Acts of the Apostles as a means to go to heaven. Greek text: Bartelink (2004), 124–376; English translation: Vivian and Athanassakis (2003). 43 According to St. Paul (1Cor. 9:24, Phil. 3:12), all are called to pursue perfection. Though none will attain it in this life, all are ordered to strive to obtain the prize. The ascetic’s constant striving towards God implies that sanctity is not necessarily the result of innate virtue. See Vita Pachomii (Vita prima Graeca 25, ed. Halkin), on which Rousseau (1985), 129. 44 Hurst and Rudhardt (1999), 22–24, 70–73.

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without physical contact.45 The Codex Visionum would therefore serve as a guide to δικαιοσύνη (‘righteousness’) for monks, who were to discern the implications of the virtue from the different characters depicted in the texts. On the spiritual path towards God, the Christian cursus honorum, Christ was the ultimate referent, but as mortal men they also turned their eyes to earlier believers (Abel, Isaac, Hermas, Dorotheus), all of whom fitted the archetype of the righteous man willing to sacrifice his life. In earlier, rougher times, μετάνοια implied a display of Christianity in public, which would prove a Christian’s full commitment to faith, as such a display was frequently followed by martyrdom, the ‘express route’ to heaven and a confirmation of Christian perfection. With growing tolerance of Christianity, martyrdom was no longer an option for those aiming at sanctification, and ascetic life became an attractive alternative for those seeking total observance of the teachings of the Gospels. In fact, the Fathers often assimilate the merit of asceticism to that of martyrdom.46 The context would explain the links between metanoia, martyrdom and asceticism.47                                                              45

E.g. in the fourth century Paulos and Tapiam write to Nepheros, Ophellios and the brothers of the Monastery of Hathor, asking to be cured by their prayers, in the knowledge that they are going to be listened to because they are righteous, P. Neph. 1.1015: ἐγὼ γὰρ ἡ Ταπιὰμ᾽ ἐνόσησα καὶ ἔτι ἀνάκειμαι. παρα-/ καλοῦμεν οὖν, εὔξασθαι ὑπὲρ τῆς ὁλοκληρίας / ἡμῶν· καὶ γὰρ πρὸ τούτου τὰ παιδία ἡμῶν ἐνόσησαν / καὶ διὰ τὰς εὐχὰς ὑμῶν ἐπαύσαντο. πιστεύο-/ μεν γὰρ ὅτι ὁ κύριος ὑμῶν δικαίων ὄντων / ἀκούσεται (‘Because I, Tapiam, have been ill and I am still in bed. Thus we ask you to pray for our good health, because, before this our children were ill and thanks to your prayers were cured. Hence, we believe that the Lord will listen to you, because you are righteousʼ – referring to Letter of James 5:16 πολὺ ἰσχύει δέησις δικαίου ἐνεργουμένη ‘The earnest prayer of a righteous man is powerfully effective.ʼ) Greek text: Kramer and Shelton (1987), 36. To be read with Martin (1996), 748–750. δίκαιος was also the name used in some texts to differentiate between those living according to justice and those living according to grace (the ‘perfect ones’): see Neri (2010). 46 See Markus (1990), 69–72, including references to late antique Christian literature in 71, n. 27. See also Rousseau (1985), 122–134; Girardi (1990), 27–28. The fourth and fifth centuries saw an extraordinary flowering of the cult of martyrs and the Fathers paid particular attention to them in their homilies: see those gathered in Leemans et al. (2003). 47 However, asceticism and martyrdom did not always mix well. In particular, Pachomius seems to have given more importance to metanoia than to physical mortification or martyrdom. In the Vita Pachomii (Vita prima Graeca 85, ed. Halkin), a monk captured by men from the desert is tortured until he makes a libation of wine to their gods. Pachomius regrets the fact that he has refused the crown of martyrdom which was offered to him, but says that in the end God wants all men to be saved and that metanoia is the key to salvation, not martyrdom. Rousseau (1985), 122–127 reads this anecdote in the context of moderation (σωφροσύνη) and practicality, which seems to have been the hallmark of Pachomian monasticism and ascesis. On the different interpretations of monastic life beyond the link with martyrdom, see Markus (1990), 72–83, 157–179.

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The rhetorical discourse of the Codex Visionum is that of a male community in search for models not for a one-off conversion, but for continuous conversion as a way of life. The pillars of the Codex are the Christian detachement from sin and temptation, and the use of μετάνοια as the ultimate tool to become a δίκαιος.

2. Structure and Genre We can agree that the Codex Visionum was copied by a Christian community of hopeful δίκαιοι as a tool for meditation on and a guide to the fundamental μετάνοια. Together, the Shepherd of Hermas and the poems of the Codex offered the readers different variations on the motif of the metanoia to help them grasp the concept and apply it to their own lives. This rhetorical pattern of repetition of the central element in a series of lives also operates in the collective biographies of Late Antiquity, both pagan (such as the Vitae philosophorum et sophistarum of Eunapius of Sardes) and Christian (such as the anonymous Historia monachorum).48 In Eunapius’ case, the repetition of the biographies builds up an image of the ideal philosopher, while the Historia does the same with the ideal monk, and both collections use different metaphors to tell what is essentially the same story.49 It would be excessive to call the Codex Visionum a collective biography of righteous men, but it definitely does work on similar principles to the Historia monachorum. In the first place, Christian collective biographies50 tend to be selective as regards the elements narrated about each individual: personal details such as ancestry or circumstances of birth and death, physical descriptions or references to the socio-cultural context, all of them conventional in                                                              48

On all of these, see Miller (2000). A similar pattern of repetition and variation occurs in heresiological writings: see Cameron (2003), 472–482; Kim (2010, the collection of biographies of the heresiarchs builds a composite image of unholy life). 49 Miller (2000), 229: ‘When the interest of a collection is in depicting human identity by means of its exemplars, the result is a parade of metaphors each of which tells essentially the same ‘story.’ That is, each part of the whole that is the collection functions as a metaphor of the whole… the individual ‘lives’ that make up the Vitae sophistarum and the Historia monachorum can be seen as a series of icons that function as anthropological images, repeatedly picturing understandings of human identity in such a way as to bring out the religious vision of the collection as a whole.ʼ 50 The Historia monachorum, but also Palladius’ Lausiac History and Theodoret’s Historia religiosa. These three works are also referred to as collections of diegeseis, a Christian term for an anecdote or story of edifying character, a way of storytelling that finds its preferred application in hagiographical writing, typically featuring brevity of content, simplicity of syle and attention to detail. See Rapp (1998).

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biographies and encomia,51 are often omitted. Christian narratives focus on the details or stories which function as a metaphor for the whole life (βίος) of the individual or, more precisely, for the way of life (πολιτεία) which (s)he has chosen.52 The narrative aims to illustrate the presence of Christ as the backbone of the saint, who becomes an icon by losing his personal traits. In the poems of the Codex Visionum (esp. Visio Dorothei, On Abraham, Speech to the Righteous, Words of Cain and Words of Abel), the removal of all references to birth, origins, family background and education is extreme: of Dorotheus we know only his vision (Visio Dorothei) and general notions about his fight against sin (Speech to the Righteous 76–162), while in On Abraham, the life of Isaac (and of his parents) is reduced to the moment when they say yes to the oblation of his life to the Lord (there are no recollections of the earlier life of Abraham and Sarah and no references to the sacrifice of Isaac and his life later on). Similarly, we are told nothing of the lives of Cain and Abel beyond their reactions to Abel’s death. As regards the inclusion of the usual topics of biography and encomium, there are two elements of comparison. On one hand, the panegyrics of the martyrs by the Church Fathers expose the tension between the structure of the encomium and its Christian content. Their usual solution was to reformulate the standard topics from a Christian point of view:53 for instance, the element of the fatherland and birthplace may be substituted by the contemptio mundi (it does not make sense to refer to the origins of the saint, given that he has rejected this world) or by a referral to the authentic Christian fatherland, the celestial Jerusalem.54 The poets and scribes of the Codex Visionum, however, did not feel the pressure of the genre as the Church Fathers did. It is possible that the difference in the quality of the final result has much to do with this: they did not attempt to comply with the rules of the genre because rhetorical quality was not important enough                                                              51

See the scheme proposed by Men. Rh. (368.1–377.30) for the encomium of the emperor (βασιλικὸς λόγος): proem (προοίμιον), country (ἐπὶ τὴν πατρίδα), people (ἔθνος), family (γένος), birth (τὰ περὶ γενέσεως), physique (περὶ φύσεως), upbringing (ἡ ἀνατροφή – usually combined with the paideia), occupations/attitudes (ἐπιτηδεύματα), actions (ὁ περὶ τῶν πράξεων λόγος), fortune (τύχη), full comparison (τελειοτάτη σύγκρισις), epilogue (ἐπίλογος), and prayer (εὐχή). 52 Theodoret accounts for this selection in his prologue, HR pro. 8: ἀλλ᾽ ὀλίγα τῶν ἑκάστῳ βεβιωμένων ἢ πεπραγμένων διηγησάμενοι, καὶ διὰ τῶν ὀλιγών τοῦ παντὸς βίου τὸν χαρακτῆρα παραδείξαντες (‘We shall narrate only a little of the life of and actions of each man, and shall represent the character of the whole life through these few indicators.ʼ) Full analysis in Miller (2000), 230–232. 53 Cf. Bartelink (1986), 30–36. See also Fatti (2004). 54 A version of the latter occurs in Speech to the Righteous 111–112.

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for them. Of course, there is no way of knowing how conscious they were of the poor quality of their poetry. On the other hand, the rendering in verse of contents usually formulated in prose, such as lives, can lead to a disfigurement of the content due to the metric and linguistic difficulties of the genre. Take the case of the panegyric of the Patriarch Eutychius by Paul the Silentiary (Ekphr. St. Sophia 978–1029):55 Paul elevates the commonplace topics of hagiographic literature to epic stature by using epic phraseology, which means that the underlying hagiographic material is sometimes transformed beyond comprehension and can only be understood when contrasted with the prose Life of Eutychius by Eustathius. In all probability, neither the poets nor the scribes of the Codex Visionum paid so much attention to the difficulties of the transposition of the material which would later affect Paul the Silentiary. The main reason for this was the Codex was aimed at a community which was already converted and had full background knowledge of the subject, which meant that they sought in the poems a renewal of their experience of conversion, and not a complete account of the subject. The keys for achieving this were the authority of the figures invoked and the capacity of the text to arouse emotion.56 The humble dikaioi had nothing to do with the sophisticated elite that attended the performance of Paul’s poem in Constantinople. There is also another shared element by the Codex Visionum and Christian collective biographies. In the Historia Monachorum, the natural development of the life of the monks from birth to death is substituted by a rapid succession of anecdotes, primarily stories of action, whether performative (such as miracles) or dialogical (like quotations of conversations of teachings). These anecdotes describe the constant spiritual advancement of the monk in his imitation of Christ.57 The biographical details of the monks are irrelevant because, as the writer clearly states in the prologue, the collection aims to bring particular benefits both to the

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I refer to Whitby (1987), esp. 299. For more general comments on Christian rhetoric, see Kennedy (1980), 123: ‘It is… frequently the case that the Judeo-Christian orator is addressing an audience on whom the Spirit has worked in the past and for whom the prerequisite grace has been provided earlier, but whose experience of conversion is no longer vivid. There is a possibility of reminding such an audience of the religious experience it has already known, recalling individuals to the truth through rational or emotional means… Under these circumstances… the character of the speaker, the evidence he can present in his speech and the extent to which he can arouse feelings of emotion, including hope of future reward or fear of punishment, become crucial to the success of his speech.ʼ 57 Miller (2000), 233–235. 56

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readers and to the writer in the form of an imitation of their edifying way of life.58 The individuals of Christian collective biographies are not embedded in history, but in humanity’s salvation history.59 This was particularly important in the fourth and fifth centuries, when the triumphant postConstantinian Church was aware of the generational gulf with its persecuted predecessor and needed to highlight the patterns of continuity to confirm that theirs was still the Church of the martyrs. Markus60 identifies two chief means of bridging this divide: through the work of ecclesiastical historians (especially Eusebius), who offered continuous narratives stressing the permanent features inherited by the contemporary Church, and, with broader support, the cult of the martyrs, i.e. the celebration of the martyr as a living and intercessory presence in the community.61 Those who had succeeded in their approach to the Lord (the prophets of the Old Testament, the apostles and the first communities of the New Testament, and more recently the martyrs and the saints) were the obvious models for fourth-century Christians.62 The path of salvation of one person became a pattern of salvation for all Christendom, which explained the interest in writing down the Lives of the saints. They were composed as a mirror to the life of a saint, and also used by ascetics and Christians in general as images of the state of mind they wanted to achieve.63 This                                                              58

Historia monachorum, Prol. 2: ταῖς αὐτῶν εὐχαῖς καταπιστεύσας ἐτόλμησα πρὸς τὴν διήγησιν ταύτην τραπῆναι, ἵνα κἀμοί τι κέρδος γένηται τῆς αὐτῶν ὠφελείας, μιμησάμενον αὐτῶν τὴν πολιτείαν καὶ τὴν παντελῆ τοῦ κόσμου ἀναχώρησιν καὶ ἡσυχίαν διὰ τῆς ὑπομονῆς τῶν ἀρετῶν, ἧς μέχρι τέλους κατέχουσιν (‘I have therefore trusted in their prayers [those of the community that lives on the Mount of Olives who have asked him to give testimony of what he saw in his voyage to the Egyptian desert] and presumed to apply myself to the composition of this narrative so that I too should derive some profit from the edifying lives of these monks through the imitation of their way of life, their complete withdrawal from the world, and their stillness, which they achieve through the patient practice of virtue and retain to the end of their lives.ʼ) English transl.: Russell (1981). 59 On what follows see Markus (1990), 87–95. 60 Markus (1990), 91–93. 61 More on this in Markus (1990), 97–106. 62 After all, martyrs too could be reduced to Biblical archetypes: Girardi (1990), 19– 22, 34–41, 79–144. 63 Cameron (1991), 57: ‘written Lives provided the guidelines for the construction of a Christian life, and the ascetic model… provided the guidelines for the construction of a specifically Christian self… Written Lives were mimetic; real ascetic discipline in turn imitated the written Lives. Like visual art, early Christian discourse presented its audience with a series of images. The proclamation of the message was achieved by a technique of presenting the audience with a series of images through which it was thought possible to perceive an objective and higher truth.ʼ On the Lives as an image, ibid. 141– 147.

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movement of reenactment64 and the repetition of models of behaviour made them all the more powerful. The adult lives of the characters of the Codex Visionum operate on a similar premise. Hermas, Dorotheus, Isaac, Abel and the anonymous δίκαιοι to whom the texts are directed, are divested of birth, place of origin and other personal circumstances which do not illustrate their initial or constant μετάνοια. The δίκαιοι become members of the eternal community of God’s beloved, because of their constant quest for the love of God and for the fulfilment of God’s law. After death they are all freed from suffering and personal circumstance. The lives of the characters of the Codex Visionum, like those of the monks of the Historia Monachorum, are chapters of humanity’s history of salvation, always focused on the afterlife. This concentration on metanoia and the constant quest for God is the Christian adaptation of the principle of the genre according to which the biographer concentrates on the deeds and events which best reveal the character of the protagonist of his biography.65 Metanoia is always considered from the perspective of the afterlife: the lives of Dorotheus, Isaac and Abel are worth the poetic investment of the Codex because their metanoia guarantees them a place at God’s side after their death.66 Recompense in the afterlife and the notion that the only important moment in the life of a saint is his death, because the rest of his life is void of chronological markers,67 establishes a fundamental difference with the classical tradition of biography. For instance, Plutarch needed to face the problem that virtuous men did not always win, and had to play with posthumous recognition, τύχη and of his characters’ failure to adapt to their situations to resolve the problem.68 Links with collective biographies are not restricted to the general structure of the Codex Visionum. Events in the adult lives of some of the char                                                             64

Cameron (1991), 123: fourth-century ‘Christian writers and speakers… claimed the past… through the writing and reading of Lives – the continual reworking and reenactment of idealized Christian biography, the pattern of Christian truth in action.ʼ 65 Cf. Duff (1999), 22–30, on Plutarch in his Parallel Lives. The Parallel Lives are sustained by a value system or moral framework: ibid., 72–98 (‘[72] transgression of, or adherence to, these norms both determines the moral status of the subject and reinforces the norms themselves. The value system implicit in the Lives can be related to Plutarch’s background in Platonic thought: in particular, Platonic conceptions of human psychology.ʼ) Miller (1983), 12 calls this a ‘pars pro toto technique.ʼ 66 Cf. Speech to the Righteous 1–4, 55–56, 67–75, 157–162; The Lord to those who suffer 1–3, 15–19. 67 Harl (1993), 319: ‘Le seul moment qui sera considéré comme un véritable kairos où tout peut basculer est le moment de la mort: la mort, naissance à la vie véritable, est la seule référence temporelle qui oriente la conscience du saint.ʼ 68 See Duff (1999), 135–141.

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acters may be linked to patterns present in other biographies, such as Dorotheus’ dream in the Visio Dorothei, or his poetic investiture in the manner of Hesiod. Dorotheus’ vision displays clear parallels with one of Jerome’s visions as recounted in his Letter to Eustochium (Ep. 22.30.2–5).69 Jerome was so much in love with secular literature that he found the style of the Scriptures crude and distasteful. He then fell ill and dreamt that he was dragged to a tribunal where he was judged for holding Cicero in higher esteem than Christ, and subsequently flogged as a punishment, whereupon he promised to give up his beloved books and regained consciousness, physically bruised but very much transformed. In both dreams we find the trial, the physical punishment, repentance and conversion, as well as the explicit reference to the saving mercy of God. The Visio is unusual in restricting the narrative to the visionary element,70 without describing its consequences in the dreamer’s life. For instance, Hermas leads a better and wiser life after each of his visions and uses what he has learnt for the benefit of his community (he has been ordered to inform the elders and priests) and his household (encouraging them to convert). Jerome, too, gives up his non-Christian reading. On the contrary, in the Visio Dorothei the only purpose of the dreamer is to sing to the glory of God, although the end of the poem is not the end of Dorotheus’ experience, since the references to his later life in Speech to the Righteous confirm that readers of the Visio knew more about him. As regards the three references to the investiture of Dorotheus as a poet in the Visio Dorothei,71 the author makes him into a Christian counterpart of the inspired poets of the past. He alludes both to the poetic initiation of                                                              69

Analysed in Miller (1994), 211–215. On the links between the Visio Dorothei and visionary literature, see Rudhardt (2002), 120–122; Agosti (2001a), 205–208. 71 VD 3: ἵμερον ἐν στήθεσσι διδοὺς χαρίεσσα[ν ἐπ᾽ οἴ]μην (‘while putting in my heart a desire for graceful song;ʼ) 172–177 [to Gabriel] ὥς σύ [μ᾽ ὄνησας // δείξας σήματα πάντα, βαλὼν χαρίεσσαν ἀοι[δὴν] // ἐν στήθεσσιν ἐμοῖσιν, ὄπιν χέα[ς] ωγ[...]ε̣φ[ // ἐν λιμέσιν μαλακοῖσιν ἐφεζόμενον λιτα[νεύειν. // τοῖα δ᾽ ἐνὶ στήθεσσιν ἐμοῖς ποτικάμβαλες αὐδ[ὴν // θέσπιν, ἵνα κλείοιμι τά τ᾽ ἐσσόμενα π[ρ]ό τ᾽ ἐόντα̣ (‘so did you help me / by pointing out all the signs and by putting graceful song / into my heart, you have poured out a voice… / for me to pray sitting in a peaceful harbour. / Such were the things that you have laid into my heart as subject / of divine song, that I may celebrate all that has been and will come;ʼ) 339–343 εὐξάμην ὑψίστοιο θεοῦ ἕνεκ᾽ ἄγγε[λος εἶναι // πάντων ὧν μ᾽ ἐφέηκε. καὶ ἐν στή[θεσσιν ἀ]οιδὴ̣ν̣ // παντοῖην ἐνέηκε παρεστάμενα[ι καὶ ἀείδ]ειν[ // ἔργων δικαίων ἠδ᾽ αὖ Χρηστοῖο ἄνακτος // εἰς ἔτος ἐξ ἔτεος γλυκερώτερον αἰὲν [ἀοιδ]ῷ (‘I prayed to be a messenger in the service of God Most High / of all the things that he laid upon me. And in my heart he / has laid songs of various kinds as to keep guard and sing / about the deeds of the righteous and also of Christ the Lord, / year after year ever more delightful for a singer.ʼ) Greek text and English translation from Kessels and van der Horst (1987). Retaken in Speech to the Righteous 154–156. 70

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Hesiod72 and to the conclusion of the Argonautica by Apollonius Rhodius.73 Through the repetition of recognisable patterns, Dorotheus becomes a recognisable dikaios, who not only had personal contact with God through a vision, but was invested by Him as an inspired poet. Divine investiture made poetry innocent and pious enough to cite pagan authors at will. As a collection of lives transformed by metanoia, the Codex Visionum invites its readers to become part of the catholic (i.e. universal) community of the saints, all the more interesting because the Codex functioned as the spiritual guide of a specific community. In this context, rhetorical rules mattered only if they boosted the authority of the protagonist, or the emotional drive of the text. This detachment would have been unthinkable for the Greek Fathers, who had had a thorough classical paideia, but it made sense within the walls of a secluded community. Life here was organised to promote spiritual advancement and the social conventions of the surrounding world mattered less than the rules which organised personal and community life. The quality of the Christian life of the δίκαιοι was the main concern, whereas literary genres were considered to be marginal categories and rhetorical structures were welcomed only through a Christian prism. The δίκαιοι who copied the Codex Visionum are connected to the rhetorical trends of contemporary Christian communities as expressed in collective biographies, and not to the path chosen by the more sophisticated Fathers.

3. More on the Rhetorics of Biography The connection between the Codex Visionum and Christian collective biographies affords a method to interpret the structure of the Codex, as does biography as a genre.74 Many of the characteristics of Christian biography, the archetype of which is the Vita Antonii by Athanasius,75 are already present in the classical genre (e.g. in Plutarch’s Parallel Lives). In Christian biographies there is only a minimal historical intent, given that they do not aim to record what happened, but to establish a connection with sacred history, and such biographies were written mainly for the edification of                                                             

72 VD 176-177 ~ Hes. Theog. 31–32: ἐνέπνευσαν δέ μοι αὐδὴν / θέσπιν, ἵνα κλείοιμι τά τ᾽ ἐσσόμενα πρό τ᾽ ἐόντα. Rephrased also by Quintus of Smyrna (Posthom. 12.308– 310) and in the ethopoea of Hesiod extant in P.Oxy. 50.3537r. Analysis in Agosti (1997); Agosti (2002), 94; Miguélez-Cavero (2008), 321–322. 73 VD 343 ~ AR 4.1743–4 ἀοιδαὶ / εἰς ἔτος ἐξ ἔτεος γλυκερώτεραι εἶεν ἀείδειν. See Agosti (2002), 94, 109. 74 On the history of the genre, see Miller (1983), 5–16, 45–65, 134–149. See Duff (1999), 13–51 on the programmatic statements in Plutarch’s Parallel Lives. 75 Bartelink (1986), 37–40.

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writer and readers.76 In this they amplify the trend already present in classical biographies, which were written within the boundaries of historiography and encomia,77 and aimed to reveal the character of the subject to help the reader to improve his own character.78 The amalgam of revelation of character and moral knowledge, already present in the classical genre,79 recurs too in the Codex Visionum. The lives of Hermas, Dorotheus, Abraham, Sarah, Isaac, Jesus, Cain and Abel, and the anonymous righteous teach readers about human nature and personal growth. The Christian context in which the Codex was produced leads readers towards spiritual contemplation, but it was the recognition of the genre of the Codex which triggered in them a disposition to learn, so necessary for personal growth. There is another aspect, too, in which the Codex Visionum relates clearly to classical tradition. In the prologue to the Lives of Demetrios and Antony, Plutarch justifies the inclusion in the Lives of bad men: he compares himself to two flute players who took their pupils to see both bad and good flautists, concluding that readers would be more enthusiastic in their imitation of the better Lives if they could also examine the lives of the base and castigated (Demetr. 1.6). Demetrios and Antony are thus to be seen as negative or ‘deterrent’ examples.80 The Codex Visionum seems to work from a similar starting point. Words of Cain functions as the deterrent, with a clear focus on the pain of the sinner, while the [Eulogy] of the Lord Jesus and The Lord to those who suffer illustrate the opposite extreme of the line of salvation, presenting the life of Christ as the ultimate salvific model. The Visio Dorothei and the Speech to the Righteous, On Abraham and the Words of Abel help readers to visualise the intermediate points. The figures of the Old Testament (Isaac in On Abraham and Abel in Words of Abel) make the ultimate oblation of their lives by accepting the physical cost of salvation: Isaac will be spared,                                                              76

See Harl (1993), 314–316. Miller (1983), 7–8; Duff (1999), 17: ‘The boundaries between history, political biography, and related forms of writing such as enkomion and the so-called historiographical monograph, were never clearly drawn; rather, generic differences were open to construction by individual authors in order to distinguish their work from those of rivals.ʼ 78 Duff (1999), 30–45, on the calling to imitate the good aspects of characters in Plutarch’s Parallel lives. 79 Duff (1999), 39: ‘The Lives… not only instil a desire for imitation but actually change or ‘mould’ the character… This is achieved by the observer not simply looking, but also investigating, considering, testing; applying, as Plutarch might have put it, philosophy and reason.ʼ In other words, ‘[39] a desire for imitation which follows upon full moral knowledge.ʼ See also 66–71. On the encomiastic tradition of biography, see Billault (2009). 80 Cf. Duff (1999), 45-49. More on positive and negative lives in Duff (1999), 53–65. See also Miller (1983), 13 on Suetonius. 77

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whereas Abel dies and cries out to the Lord for justice. Closer to the reality of the readers of the Codex, Dorotheus strives to follow God’s designs, with sin and temptations as his obstacles (pride in the Visio Dorothei, worldly possessions in the Speech to the Righteous), and the mercy of God and the intercession of the saints on his side. The reader of these poems is asked to learn from the examples provided and to find his way towards the angelical life offered by Christ, bearing in mind the pain of those who, like Cain, fail. The Codex Visionum functions as a poetic and spiritual guide to δικαιοσύνη for the hopeful δίκαιοι, but it will only be used as such if the readers understand the rhetorical links with the genre of biography, as seen from a Christian perspective but not disconnected from the Classical tradition. This should serve as a warning against a hasty disregard of Classical referents even within the enclosed world of the cloister.

4. Other Rhetorical Structures The presence of rhetoric in the Codex Visionum is not restricted to the general discourse and the design of the book, but it is also noticeable in the links which bring the poems together into pairs and threes and in the construction of individual poems. 4.1 Comparison The connection between different modes of comparison and the collective biography is obvious in Plutarch’s Parallel lives.81 In his analysis of Plutarch’s use of synkrisis, Duff notes that when two men are chosen for a pair it is because Plutarch thought that they ‘had enough similarities, combined with some significant differences, for their Lives, when told side-byside, together to demonstrate or explore a common moral issue or set of issues.ʼ82 The cultural and chronological distance between the two men (one Greek, one Roman, and from different periods) would help readers to focus their attention on the shared elements, none other than character and moral status.83 The fact that Plutarch added a formal comparison of the two figures, evaluating their lives and characters, encouraged the reader to make his own judgement about them.84 The case of the Codex Visionum is different in that there is no explicit comparison between all the figures, but they all fit into the timeline of sal                                                             81

Duff (1999), 243–309. Duff (1999), 249. 83 Duff (1999), 250–251. 84 Duff (1999), 256. 82

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vation history, which would lead the readers to see them as different patterns of salvation. Two of the poems, Words of Cain and Words of Abel, are naturally set up in opposition, since they are both the reconstructed speeches of the participants in one event, the killing of Abel by Cain: both suffer, but whereas Abel can turn to the Lord for help85 and expect to be listened to because He has always cared for his people (lines 28–44), Cain realises that no land will receive him (lines 1–15a) and that the anger of the Lord will pursue him for all eternity, the fate of all sinners.86 The alphabetical acrostic The Lord to those who suffer, copied between the two ethopoeae, guides the reader towards the correct interpretation: those who suffered in this world will be received in Paradise after death,87 while those who harmed the righteous will be thrown out of God’s presence.88 More than this, the three poems (Words of Cain, The Lord to those who suffer, Words of Abel) can be said to respond to the theoretical explanation previously given in Speech to the Righteous (55–57, 71–90), where the outcome of the lives of the righteous and of the evil ones is contrasted. The pair formed by Abel and Cain necessarily come into comparison with the family of Abraham in On Abraham: for Abel, his family (i.e. Cain) is the cause of pain and martyrdom, whereas Isaac’s parents support him when he is granted the possibility of giving his life back to the Lord. The broken family of Adam and Eve comes into contrast with the saintly one of Abraham, in which all the members are intent on following God’s law. In particular, the role of Sarah (which can only be read partially in lines 10–12) is reinforced by the existence of the Biblical paradigm of the spirited mother of the martyr, discernible when the Maccabean brothers face martyrdom with dignity encouraged by their mother (2 Macc. 6–7; 4 Macc. 14–16).89 As in the case of the Parallel lives, the different background of all the characters allowed the readers of the Codex Visionum to focus on what all the protagonists of the Codex have in common. When they learnt about several figures from the Old Testament (Abraham’s family, Abel and Cain), the protagonist of the New Testament ([Eulogy] of the Lord Jesus, The Lord to those who suffer), and more recent individuals who have lis                                                             85

Words of Abel 1–2: Κέκλυ[θί μοι] πάσχοντι πάτερ θεὲ δημιοεργέ, // καὶ φω[νῆς ἐ]π̣άκουσον ἐς αἰθέρα κεκληγῶτος. 86 Words of Cain 15b–17: καὶ δέ κεν ὕψιστος χ[ ]α̣ι̣ χόλον[ ] ὄπασσε[ν // ἴφθιμος αἰωνίοιο̣[ ἄνα]ξ.....[].[ ]. // ὅς τε κακ̣ορρέκτ[ην ἀ]ποτίνυται, ὅς κεν ἁμάρτηι. 87 The Lord to those who suffer 17–19: ξηρ]ὸς δ᾽α[ὖθ᾽] ὅδε κόσμος, ὑμῖν δ᾽ ἀγαθὸς πάλιν ἔσται· // ο]ὕν[ε]κ̣α̣ μ̣[ο]χ̣θήσαντ᾽ ἱερὸν ποτὶ χῶρον ἵκοισθε // π̣ύργ[ον ἔσ]ω̣ δικαίων, τεθραμμένοι ἐν παραδείσωι. 88 The Lord to those who suffer 20–21: ῥί]ψω̣[ γὰρ] κακοεργοὺς ἑκάς τ᾽ ἔμεν, οἵ τε φερίστοις // σύμπιπτο]ν κλονέοντες ἔριν καῦσαν δέ τε β[ί]βλου[ς. 89 Analysis in Hurst and Rudhardt (1999), 39.

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tened to the Lord (Hermas, Dorotheus), the readers would recognise that all the texts in the Codex refer to metanoia and the path to salvation. Furthermore, two of the poems (Speech to the Righteous and The Lord to those who suffer) are sufficiently paraenetic to lead readers to the conclusion that the parallels between all the figures in the Codex are there to help them to design their own route to salvation. There are elements for comparison in the Codex, but the comparisons are not drawn as explicitly as, for instance, in the Parallel Lives. This was probably left for additional explanations and commentaries in the case of community readings and for personal interpretation in the case of individual readings. After all, the Church Fathers made use of the synkrisis both in the rhetorical criticism of the Bible and in more philological exegesis,90 which implies that anybody who was familiar with Bible analysis and homiletics (as the dikaioi surely were) would have learnt how it worked. The correct interpretation of the poems of the Codex implied therefore knowledge of a specifically Christian rhetoric, from which we can deduce that spiritual growth required some sort of rhetorical training and understanding. 4.2 Paraphrase and ethopoea The lives of monks and hermits revolved around a constant iteration of the Scriptures. Not only did they read them constantly, but they learnt them by heart so as to meditate on them when they were performing their daily chores or to quote them as an instrument to fight temptation, to help others or to answer the questions that arose from the way of life they had chosen.91 The study of the Bible with a view to discerning its spiritual mean-

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See the overview in Sheerin (1998). Burton-Christie (1993), 61–62, 107–133. Illiterate novices of the Pachomian monasteries were taught to read and had to memorise parts of the Scriptures (Rule of Pachomius 139, 140). On the attitude of the Desert Fathers towards books in general and the Scriptures in particular, see Burton-Christie (1993), 43–48. The monks were expected to know the Scriptures by heart so as to spend the day reciting them as they performed their daily chores, in a process of constant meditatio which would help them to achieve purity of heart: see Rousseau (1985), 143–144. Similarly, Antony listens so intently to Scripture readings that he remembers everything: Athanasius VA 4.1. For the declarations which presbyters and deacons wrote when they were ordained, committing to learning Biblical passages by heart, see Wipszycka (1996, 186–188; 2007, 343). Also, Evagrius Ponticus suggests in his Treatise on the Eight Thoughts (Antirrhetikos) that the best way to fight the eight demons which attack the monk (gluttony, fornication, love of money, sadness, anger, listlessness, vainglory and pride) is to respond to them with the appropriate passage from the Scriptures. 91

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ing and as a means of spiritual nourishment was known as φιλολογεῖν, with monks and hermits thus becoming φιλόλογοι.92 In this context it is not surprising that the Bible provides the starting point for three of the poems in the Codex Visionum,93 which can be also studied as ethopoeae (imaginary speeches composed to fit a given context):94 – On Abraham: the juxtaposition of the three speeches of Abraham, Sarah and Isaac when the latter is about to be sacrificed takes the Biblical narrative (Gen. 22) as a flexible starting point. It does not paraphrase one particular text, but refers to the exegetical tradition of the event, both in the Bible and among Judaic and Christian commentators. – Words of Cain: Cain becomes aware of the consequences of the crime he has committed in Gen. 4:1–16 and pronounces a lamentation, based on Ps. 139 (138): 7–10, a passage on the impossibility of escaping the eyes of God. It can also be seen as a variation of the topos πῇ φεύγω, developed in the example of ethopoea included in Aphthonius’ Progymnasmata (36.14).95 – Words of Abel: this is the speech pronounced by Abel after being killed by Cain. The cue for the poem is Gen. 4:10–11, where God complains to Cain because Abel’s blood cries out to him for vengeance, but it also reads as a paraphrase of Ps. 102 (101), on the suffering of the righteous.

These poems were not composed to exhaust the interpretation of the Biblical text or to replace it – the centre of the life of a religious community will always be the Bible – but to appropriate the patterns of the chosen texts and adapt them to contemporary needs and tastes. The three poems complete the original text by revealing the reactions of the characters involved, so that this more comprehensive (and vivid) account of the event enhances the spiritual benefit for the reader. To complete the text the poet resorts to other passages in the Bible which are of easy and coherent application (two psalms in the case of Words of Cain and Words of Abel) or to the exegetical tradition (On Abraham). The chosen form – direct speech – is intended to carry more pathos and thus have a stronger effect on the reader than plain narrative would, especially considering that the people these poems were addressed to knew the Bible passages by heart. What we are seeing here is the application to the Bible of methods used at school for Homeric texts:96 the students were given a Homeric situation                                                              92

Sheridan (1997), 185 n. 29, 199–201. On their stance in the history of Christian paraphrastic literature, see Agosti (2001a), 203–205; Agosti (2002), 90–91. On the rhetorical treatments of the paraphrase, see Miguélez-Cavero (2008), 309–312. 94 Agosti (2005), 43–45; Miguélez-Cavero (2008), 330–336. On the precepts for the ethopoea, see the anthology in Ventrella (2005). 95 See Agosti (2009), 316–317. 96 Examples of combination of paraphrase and ethopoea in verse with a Homeric subject appear on papyri from the second century AD onwards: 93

 

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and they were asked to write a composition in Homeric style, both in terms of form and content, for which they used the methods of paraphrase.97 Depending on their level and ability, they were either capable of producing something original or simply resorting to an amalgam of Homeric phrases. The poets of the Codex had acquired expertise in the initial compositions of the classical paideia (progymnasmata), and made use of the techniques in a Christian context. The question is whether the members of the community of the Codex Visionum were given any training to fully appreciate these compositions once they had become part of the community, and the fact that there were educational texts in their library speaks in support of this hypothesis.98 The specific use of ethopoea and paraphrase in some of the poems of the Codex, mirrored in contemporary practice in schools and an extended literary trend, proves that the community behind his Codex was not isolated from the pedagogical and literary developments of the outside world.

                                                            

P.Oxy. 42.3001 (= MP3 1843.1 = LDAB 4840), second century AD: the ghost of Patroclus appears to Achilles (Il. 23.65-107). Half of the lines are taken from Il. 16–24. PSI 6.722 (= MP3 1834 = LDAB 5243 = Miguélez-Cavero (2008), cat no. 12), third century AD: Priam’s inner deliberation about what to do, after being visited by Iris and told of the ransom of Hector’s body (Il. 24.159–187). P.Oxy. 42.3002 (= MP3 1857.31 = LDAB 2124 = Miguélez-Cavero (2008), cat. no. 29), fourth century AD: rephrases Il. 1.207–214, speech of Athena to Achilles, whom Agamemnon has just threatened with the requisition of Briseis. TCD Pap. inv. D6, no 2 (= Heitsch 26 = MP3 1844 = LDAB 6151 = Miguélez-Cavero (2008), cat. no. 52), fifth–sixth centuries AD: [Καλλιόπ]η παραμυθουμέ(νη) τὴν Θέτι[δα], after Il. 18.95 and 24.540. Heitsch 38 (= MP3 1857.3 = LDAB 3534 = Miguélez-Cavero (2008), cat. no. 53), ca. 500 AD: words of Achilles when he appeared on his tomb requesting the sacrifice of Polyxena as his geras (Eur. Hec. 109–115, QS 14.185–222). 97 See Ureña Bracero (2005). 98 Greek mathematical exercises (Chester Beatty ac. 1390), a Greek grammar and a Graeco-Latin lexicon (Chester Beatty ac. 1499), scholia to Odyssey 1 (P.Rob. inv. 32 and P.Colon. inv. 906 – ed. Henrichs [1971], no. 8), a cahier d’écolier (P.Bouriant 1), a livre du maître (Clarysse and Wouters [1970]); and a handbook of Greek stenography (P.Monts. Roca 1 – ed. Torallas Tovar and Worp [2006]).

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5. Why Poetry and not Only Prose? At first sight the rhetorical elements of the Codex Visionum seem to make more sense in prose: there is the construction of a rhetorical discourse for a community striving for δικαιοσύνη, the rhetorical structure of collective biography and Christian (divestiture of personal circumstances and sociocultural context, insertion of the characters into salvation history) and Classical connections (roots of the genre, combination of positive and negative characters, use of comparison). However, with the exception of the Shepherd of Hermas, the texts gathered in the Codex Visionum are all poems, and so there is a need to look again at the functions of poetry among the Christians of Late Antiquity.99 The choice of epic hexameter for some of the poems of the Codex Visionum can be associated with the forms employed in some of the poems, in particular ethopoea and paraphrase. This combination of epic forms and rhetorical structures was inextricably linked to an educational background where Homer was always centre stage.100 The community of the dikaioi could have used the Codex Visionum as an educational tool for young members,101 but we need to be cautious here, since the introduction of Christian elements into school material was very slow and often restricted to the copying of Christian names and Biblical texts.102 We also need to bear in mind that we are not dealing with a pedagogical community focused solely on youngsters, but with a community of adults. In this respect, we know that some Christian authors composed poetry to offer their fellow believers an acceptable counterpart to non-Christian literary heritage.103 Reading (and writing) poetry can be considered an inal                                                             99

On the uses of poetry in late antiquity see Agosti (2002), 75–76. Cribiore (2001), 140–143, 194–197, 204–205. In his Address to young men, St. Basil concludes that Homer and Hesiod are appropriate to a school curriculum, though adults should prefer the truths proclaimed by the Scriptures. Gregory of Nazianzus too justifies his poetry for its pedagogical function: Carm. 2.1.39 (In suos versus, PG 37.1329–1336); Carm. 2.1.1.96–101 (De Rebus suis, PG 37.977). In suos versus offers a more complex scrutiny of the relationship between classical literary form and Christian content: overview in Bezarashvili (2008). 101 Rey (2002), 192–193 explores this possibility. 102 This refers to education in Greek. Pupils studying in Coptic practiced exclusively on Christian religious texts. See the Coptic educational texts gathered in Hasitzska and Harrauer (1990), and the comparison of Greek and Coptic education by Cribiore (1999). 103 See e.g. Demoen (1993), 239 on Gregory Nazianzen: ‘According to his own saying, Gregory’s purpose was not merely to place the profane logoi (culture, literature, rhetoric, …) in the service of Christian logos (doctrine, the Word, …), but also to offer an equivalent counterpart to the non-Christian poetical tradition, also from a formal point of view (Carm. 2.1.39, In suos versus, v. 50, PG 37, 1333).ʼ Demoen (ibid., 251–252) suggests that Gregory’s sporadic rejection of Greek culture is conventional and a proof 100

 

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ienable leisure activity of the cultured, and the Christian poet might have felt the obligation to offer something suitable so that the Christian élite did not need to resort to pagan poets.104 The poems of the Codex Visionum are poor in quality, but could have brought solace to the poetically adventurous souls of the community, who otherwise would only have eyes for the copies of Homer (P.Bodmer 48 and 49; P.Köln Gr. 1.40) and Menander (MP3 1298) which were kept in the library. In a dream, Jerome was severely admonished to give up his love for Cicero (Letter to Eustochium, Ep. 22.30.3–5), whereas the members of this community were given a Christian alternative, though of clearly poorer quality. In the context of the religious community, we should also take into account the liturgical and devotional uses of poetry. In fact, the library of the Codex Visionum included liturgical hymns in three different languages.105 The presence of hymns (On Abraham, [Eulogy] of the Lord Jesus, The Lord to those who suffer, P.Bodmer 37) and the insertion of hymnic parentheses in the longer poems106 suggest that these poems were read and understood as a celebration of God and of thanksgiving. In the monastic context, liturgy went beyond the boundaries of prayer times to seep into and indeed flood daily life with its resonances. In this sense, liturgical texts became instruments of the continuous prayer of the monks,107 and the same could have occurred with the Codex Visionum in the community of δίκαιοι. The longer texts (the Visio Dorothei and the Speech to the Righteous) would have to be divided up in order to be used for personal or communal teaching or meditation, but the shorter poems (On Abraham, [Eulogy] of the Lord Jesus, Words of Cain, The Lord to those who suffer and Words of                                                              that the adoption off non-Christian literary heritage was still disputed in Christian milieu, which forced Gregory to yield sometimes to more cautious postures in order to entice sceptics into his camp. 104 We should also remember Biblical poetry (Paraphrase of the Gospel of John of Nonnus, Metaphrase of the Psalms by Apollinaris, Eudocia’s paraphrases of the Octateuch, Zecchariah and Daniel – now lost). See the overview in Agosti (2001b). 105 P.Bodmer 12 (Greek, third–fourth centuries); Mississippi Coptic Codex 1 (also known as the Crosby Codex, Sahidic, fourth century), and the Barcelona codex (LDAB 552) including a Psalmus responsorius (P. Barc. inv. 150b–154a – ed. pr. Roca-Puig [1965], Latin, fourth century) and a Greek Eucologius edited by Roca-Puig (1994) (P. Barc. Inv. 154b–5a Anaphora or Eucharistic Prayer; 155b.1–18 Thanksgiving after communion; 155b.19–156a.5 Laying-on of hands on the sick; 156a.6–b.3 Exorcism of the oil for the sick; 157a–b alphabetic acrostic hymn – English translation and commentary in Stewart [2010], 22–38). 106 The hymn to Christ-Gabriel in the Visio Dorothei 170–178, Speech to the Righteous 42, 67–68, 125, 155 and P.Bodmer 36.22 f., on which see Agosti (2001a), 201–202. 107 On the continuous prayer of the Pachomian monks, see Veilleux (1968), 287–292.

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Abel) could easily be learned by heart108 and used in the constant recitation and meditation of spiritual texts that nourished the daily life of ascetic communities. The choice of verse as the vehicle of expression of the Codex, then, is directly related to the cultural and spiritual context of the community which produced it. The dikaioi were aware of the cultural innovations of the world around them and engaged with them in their own texts. They responded to their cultural and spiritual needs through the use of poetry, aided by rhetoric.

6. Conclusions: Rhetoric and Paideia in the Community of the Codex Visionum Rubenson explores the different strategies used by early Christian biographers as regards classical education.109 At one extreme, Athanasius presents Antony in his Life as uneducated and illiterate, capable of defeating pagan philosophers because of his God-given wisdom achieved through visions, ascetic combat and an intimate knowledge of the Scriptures. Jerome generally maintains that a Christian should detach himself from classical heritage and stick to the simple faith of the Bible. In his presentations of the ideal life of a saint, there is no tension between faith and the knowledge acquired through classical education. In the biographies by Gregory of Nyssa, the revelation of true wisdom (i.e. the mysteries of God) is only achieved after a long training either in secular education (in the cases of Gregory Thaumaturgos and Moses) or by a thorough study of the Scriptures (Macrina). Finally, in the Vita Pachomii (Vita Prima Graeca), Pachomius is a holy man by virtue of his discernment, his interpretation of the Scriptures, and his profound insight. He encourages education, literacy and the study of the Scriptures, but there seems to be no place for classical tradition in his communities: paideia, part of the monk’s previous life, is dropped on entering the monastery. But how is the Codex Visionum related to any of these approaches? The mere existence of these poems contradicts the image of the uneducated and illiterate monk, whose knowledge and authority depended solely on his intimacy with God and the Holy Scriptures (such as Antony in Athanasius’ Life). The poems are also a far cry from the literary achievements of the Church Fathers, empowered by a thorough classical paideia. What we read in the Codex Visionum is generally unaccomplished, but never ill at ease or                                                             

108 The use of alphabetical acrostics in On Abraham, [Eulogy] of the Lord Jesus, The Lord to those who suffer and Words of Abel could also be a mnemonic strategy. 109 Rubenson (2000).

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uncomfortable about the mish-mash formed by the amalgamation of elements that came from different sources. The poets of the Codex are experimenting with classical forms, but with no purist intent to resurrect the classical past.110 With the selection, copying and use of these texts, it is clear that the scribes and readers of the Codex are making use of Greek and classical paideia, with a heavy dose of rhetoric. The visions of Hermas and Dorotheus, as well as the constant references to both the Old and New Testament in all the poems, support the notion that for the community of the Codex God is the ultimate source of knowledge about himself, but the composers of the poems (and, we can surmise, also the dikaioi to whom they were addressed) were competent both in the wisdom of Christ (the natural wisdom generated by the saving influence of Christ111 and a deep knowledge of the foundational texts of Christianity112 and of the history of the Church)113 and in the deployment of classical poetry, with a clear Homeric referent.114 The solution for the Codex was then to be fully Christian in terms of content, while adapting the forms of classical tradition, sometimes rather

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In contrast with later authors, such as Agathias and Paul the Silentiary, who systematically avoided loan words and technical terms and excluded references to Christianity wherever possible: Cameron (1970), 75–88; Whitby (1987). 111 See esp. [Eulogy] of the Lord Jesus line 8 (Θεσπεσίην δ᾽ ἐπέθηκε σοφοῖς σοφίην ἅμ᾽ ἕπεσθαι), with the commentary in the note ad loc. of the ed. pr. and in Hurst and Rudhardt (1999), 108. In the Apophthegmata Patrum, experience is always superior to the knowledge that comes from books (see several examples from Chapter 10, on discernment: 7, 24, 54, 99, 104, 147, 167, 191), and the ownership of books is a temptation against the poverty desirable for monks (6.7, 6.16). There are also references to the use of books in the communities represented in the Apophthegmata: 10.25, 16.2, 16.29. For a more general analysis, see Kennedy (1980), 132: ‘In place of worldly philosophy there exists a higher philosophy, only dimly apprehended by man. Much of the work of Christian exegesis in the following centuries is built on the assumption that there is a wisdom in the Scriptures, deliberately obscure, which man can, in part, come to understand with God’s help.ʼ 112 The Old and New Testaments, but also the different exegetical traditions of the Bible: e.g. On Abraham presupposes not only the account in Genesis, but also later links between the figure of Isaac and other martyrs (in particular the Maccabees) and with Christ. 113 The Speech to the Righteous refers to the outcome of Dorotheus’ life without narrating it, but the inclusion of the Vision of Dorotheus in the Codex only makes sense if Dorotheus triumphed. 114 Rey (2002), esp. 180–189; Hurst (1997); Agosti (1989); Hurst, Reverdin and Rudhardt (1984), 36–39.

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poorly. The poets seem to have experimented with different forms,115 most of which existed previously but had not always been applied to Christian poetry earlier or in this manner. What the adaptation of rhetorical structures tells us is consistent with the enclosed environment of the monastery. Whether acquired before the arrival of the δίκαιος or nurtured with the help of the institution’s library, the ability to produce and appreciate literary forms was secondary to the spiritual quest, and yet the use of the texts of the Codex Visionum for the purpose of spiritual advancement also required knowledge of the rhetorical rules of composition and interpretation. To be real δίκαιοι, the members of the community needed rhetoric, though never to the extent of prominent Christians such as Basil or the two Gregories.116

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Agosti (2001a), 199–200 relates the polymorphism or πολυείδεια of the Codex to the renovation and re–systematisation of the genres in post-Tetrarchic times, especially in Christian contexts, referring particularly to Fontaine (1977; 1988). 116 Research for this paper received financial support from the Spanish Ministry of Science and Innovation, which funded the project FFI2010-21125 (FILO). I should like to thank Alberto J. Quiroga for all his patience, encouragement and suggestions.

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Fatti, F. (2004), “‘In ossequio alle leggi dell’encomio’. Retorica e ideologia in Gregorio Nazianzeno”, in Comunicazione e ricezione del documento cristiano in epoca tardoantica. Roma: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 612–658. Fontaine, J. (1977), “Unité et diversité des genres et des tons chez quelques écrivains latins de la fin du IVe siècle”, in Christianisme et formes littéraires de l’antiquité tardive en occident. Vandoeuvres-Genève: Fondation Hardt, 425–482. –. (1988), “Comment doit-on-appliquer la notion de genre à la littérature latine chrétienne du IVe siècle”, Philologus 132, 53–73. Fournet, J.-L. (1992), “Une éthopée de Caïn dans le Codex des Visions de la Fondation Bodmer”, ZPE 92, 254–266. Gelzer, T. (2002), “Zur Frage des Verfassers der Visio Dorothei”, in Hurst, A. and Rudhardt, J. (eds.), Le Codex des visions. Genève: Droz, 139–154. Girardi, M. (1990), Basilio di Cesarea e il culto dei Martiri nel IV secolo. Scrittura e tradizione. Bari: Università di Bari. Goehring, J. E. (2007), “Monasticism in Byzantine Egypt: Continuity and Memory”, in Bagnall, R.S. (ed.), Egypt in the Byzantine World 300–700. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 390–407. Halleux, R. and Schamp, J. (1985), Les lapidaires grecs: lapidaire orphique, kérygmes lapidaires dʼOrphée, Socrate et Denys, lapidaire nautique, Damigéron-Évax. Paris: Belles Lettres. Hammerstaedt, J. (1997), “Photius über einen verlorenen Codex mit Autoren des vierten Jahrhunderts n. Chr. aus Mittel- bzw. Oberägypten”, ZPE 115, 105–116. Harl, M. (1993), “Les modèles d’un temps idéal dans quelques récits de vie des Pères cappadociens”, in Harl, M. (ed.), Le déchiffrement du sens: études sur lʼherméneutique chrétienne dʼOrigène à Grégoire de Nysse. Paris: Institut dʼétudes augustiniennes, 313–334. Hasitzka, M. R. M., and Harrauer, M. (1990), Neue Texte und Dokumentation zum Koptisch-Unterricht. Wien: Österreichische Nationalbibliothek. Heitsch, E. (1963–1964), Die griechischen Dichterfragmente der römischen Kaiserzeit. Band I (2. Auflage), Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Band II, Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Henrichs, A. (1971), “Scholia minora zu Homer III”, ZPE 8, 1–12. van der Horst, P. W., and Parmentier, M.F.G. (2002), “A new early Christian Poem on the Sacrifice of Isaac”, in Hurst, A. and Rudhardt, J. (eds.), Le Codex des visions. Genève: Droz, 155–172. Hurst, A. (1997), “Hexamètres homériques du Codex des Visions de la Bibliotheca Bodmeriana”, in Létoublon, F. (ed.), Hommage à Milman Parry. Le style formulaire de l’épopée homérique et la théorie de l’oralité poétique. Amsterdam: J. C. Gieben, 237–249. Hurst, A.; Reverdin, O., and Rudhardt, J. (1984), Papyrus Bodmer XXIX. Vision de Dorothéos. Cologny-Genève: Fondation Hardt. Hurst, A. and Rudhardt, J. (1999), Papyri Bodmer XXX–XXXVII. «Codex des Visions». Poèmes divers. München: K. G. Saur. –. (2002), Le Codex des visions. Genève: Droz. Kennedy, G. A. (1980), Classical Rhetoric and its Christian and Secular Tradition. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press. Kessels, A. H. M., and van der Horst, P.W. (1987), “The Vision of Dorotheus (Pap. Bodmer 29). Edited with Introduction, Translation and Notes”, VChr 41, 313–359. Kim, Y. R. (2010), “Reading the Panarion as Collective Biography: The Heresiarch as unholy Man”, VCh 64, 382–413

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Kofsky, A. (1999), “Aspects of sin in the monastic school of Gaza”, in Assmann, J. and Stroumsa, G.G. (eds.), Transformations of the Inner Self in Ancient Religions. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 421–437. Kramer, B., and Shelton, J.C. (1987), Das Archiv des Nepheros und verwandte Texte. Mainz am Rhein: P. von Zabern. Leemans, J. et alii (2003), ‘Let Us Die that We May Live’: Greek Homilies on Christian Martyrs from Asia Minor, Palestine and Syria (c. AD 350–AD 450). London: Routledge. Livrea, E. (1986), Review of Hurst, André, Olivier Reverdin, and Jean Rudhardt. 1984. Papyrus Bodmer XXIX. Vision de Dorothéos. Cologny-Genève: Fondation Hardt. Gnomon 58, 687–711. –. (1994), “Un poema inedito di Dorotheos: Ad Abramo”, ZPE 100, 175–187. –. (2006–2008), “Dorothei Carmen Ad Justos (= P. Bodmer XXXI)”, Analecta Papyrologica 18–20, 27–43. Lukinovich, A. (2002), “Le Codex des Visions: une œuvre de clercs?”, in Hurst, A. and Rudhardt, J. (eds.), Le Codex des visions. Genève: Droz, 35–60. Markus, R. M. (1990), The End of Ancient Christianity. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Martin, A. (1996), Athanase d’Alexandrie et l’Église d’Égypte au IVe siècle (328–373). Roma: École Française de Rome. Miguélez-Cavero, L. (2008), Poems in Context. Greek Poetry in the Egyptian Thebaid 200–600 AD. Berlin-New York: De Gruyter. Miller, P. C. (1983), Biography in Late Antiquity. A Quest for the Holy Man. Berkeley: University of California Press. –. (1994), Dreams in Late Antiquity: Studies in the Imagination of a Culture. Princeton: Princeton University Press. –. (2000), “Strategies of Representation in Collective Biography. Constructing the Subject as Holy”, in Hägg, T. and Rousseau, P. (eds.), Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity. Berkeley-London: University of California Press, 209–254. Neri, C. 2010, “Tra ‘l’uomo di Dio’ e ‘l’uomo santo’: teoria e prassi dell’ascesi”, in Bonamente, G. and Lizzi Testa, R. (eds.), Istituzioni, carismi ed esercizio del potere (IV– VI secolo d.C.). Bari: Edipuglia, 323–329. Norelli, E. (2002), “Quelques conjectures sur le Poème au titre mutilé”, in Hurst, A. and Rudhardt, J. (eds.), Le Codex des visions. Genève: Droz, 203–217. Rapp, C. (1998), “Storytelling as Spiritual Communication in Early Greek Hagiography: The Use of Diegesis”, JECS 6, 431–448. Rey, A.-L. (2002), “Le traitement du matériau homérique dans l’Adresse aux Justes”, in Hurst, A. and Rudhardt, J. (eds.), Le Codex des visions. Genève: Droz, 173–193. Roca-Puig, R. (1965, 2nd ed.), Himne a la Verge Maria: “Psalmus Responsorius”, Papir llatí del segle IV. Barcelona: Asociación de Bibliófilos de Barcelona. –. (1994), Anàfora de Barcelona i altres Pregàries (Missa del Segle IV). Barcelona: Grafos. Rousseau, P., (1985), Pachomius: The Making of a Community in Fourth-Century Egypt. Berkeley-Los Angeles-London: University of California Press. –. (2000), “Monasticism”, in Cameron, Av.; Ward-Perkins, B. and Whitby, M. (eds.), The Cambridge Ancient History. Volume 14, Late Antiquity: Empire and Successors, A.D. 425–600. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 745–780. Rubenson, S. (2000), “Philosophy and Simplicity. The Problem of Classical Education in Early Christian Biography”, in Hägg, T. and Rousseau, P. (eds.), Greek Biography and Panegyric in Late Antiquity. Berkeley-London: University of California Press, 110–139.

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Rudhardt, J. (2002), “Brèves remarques sur le Codex des Visions”, in Hurst, A. and Rudhardt, J. (eds.), Le Codex des visions. Genève: Droz, 115–122. Russell, N. (1981), The Lives of the Desert Fathers: the Historia monachorum in Aegypto. London; Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications. Sheerin, D. (1998), “Rhetoric and Hermeneutic Synkrisis in Patristic Typology”, in Petruccione, J. (ed.), Nova et Vetera: Patristic Studies in Honor of Thomas Patrick Halton. Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 22–39. Sheridan, M. (1997), “Il mondo spirituale e intellettuale del primo monachesimo egiziano”, in Camplani, A. (ed.), L’Egitto cristiano. Aspetti e problemi in età tardoantica. Roma: Istituto Patristico Augustinianum, 177–216. Starowieyski, M. (1992), “Le origini della poesia cristiana”, in Lirica greca e latina (Annali dellʼIstituto universitario orientale di Napoli (A.I.O.N.), Sezione filologicoletteraria 12). Roma: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 239–255. Stewart, A. C. (2010), Two Early Egyptian liturgical papyri: The Deir Balyzeh papyrus and the Barcelona papyrus: with appendices containing comparative material. Norwich: Hymns Ancient and Modern. Torallas Tovar, S., and Worp, K.A. (2006), To the Origins of Greek Stenography. P. Monts. Roca 1. Barcelona: Publicacions de lʼAbadia de Montserrat, and Madrid: Consejo Superior de Investigaciones Científicas. Ureña Bracero, J. (2005), “El uso de fuentes literarias, recursos retóricos y técnicas de composición en etopeyas sobre un mismo tema”, in Amato, E. and Schamp, J. (eds.), ἨΘΟΠΟΙΙΑ. La représentation de caractères entre fiction scolaire et réalité vivante à l’époque impériale et tardive. Salerno: Helios, 93–111. Veilleux, A. (1968), La Liturgie dans le cénobitisme pachômien au quatrième siècle. Roma: Libreria Herder. Ventrella, G. (2005), “L’etopea nella definizione degli antichi retori”, in Amato, E. and Schamp, J. (eds.), ἨΘΟΠΟΙΙΑ. La représentation de caractères entre fiction scolaire et réalité vivante à l’époque impériale et tardive. Salerno: Helios, 179–212. Vian, F. (1985), “À propos de la Vision de Dorothéos”, ZPE 60, 45–49. Vivian, T. and Athanassakis, A.N. (2003), The Life of Antony. Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications. Whitby, M. (1987), “Eutychius, Patriarch of Constantinople: an Epic Holy Man”, in Whitby, M. et alii (ed.), Homo viator. Classical Essays for J. Bramble. Bristol: Bristol Classical Press, 297–308. Wipszycka, E. (1996), “Il vescovo e il suo clero. A proposito di CPR V 11”, in Wipszycka, E. (ed.), Études sur le christianisme dans l’Égypte de l’antiquité tardive. Roma: Institutum Patristicum Augustinianum, 177–194. –. (2007), “The Institutional Church”, in Bagnall, R.S. (ed.), Egypt in the Byzantine World 300–700. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 331–349. .

Rhetoric or Law? The Role of Law in Late Ancient Greek Rhetorical Exercises Manfred Kraus In order to assure themselves and their students of their cultural identity as Greeks under Roman rule, Greek rhetors and sophists of the late imperial period constantly looked back on the grand past of the classical period of Greece, and of Athens in particular. This backward-looking perspective, which can be described under various headings as classicism, Hellenism, or Athenocentrism, was central to their teaching. In the course of taking lessons in rhetoric, students would also imbibe the time-honored values and ideas of Greek national identity, even if these conceptions were often and progressively at odds with the real world they were living in. Regardless of their original national provenances, they were all educated to be ‘Hellenes,ʼ as students of Greek rhetoric would regularly be called. A type of text in which this educational objective is especially reflected is classroom exercises, of which two generic types exist, the so-called progymnasmata or preliminary exercises, and declamations. In this chapter I will mainly focus on the preliminary exercises. Progymnasmata textbooks come in two different kinds: theoretical handbooks and collections of model examples for imitation. From the late fourth century AD, two major collections of such model examples of progymnasmata survive, the one attributed to the famous sophist Libanius of Antioch, and the other composed by his compatriot and student Aphthonius. In both these collections there is a rather conspicuous emphasis on law and the rule of law. I will argue that this emphasis on topics of law in the classroom exercises of Libanius and his student Aphthonius can best be explained against the backdrop of a special situation teachers of rhetoric found themselves caught in near the end of the fourth century, a period in which, especially in the Greek-speaking Eastern part of the Roman Empire, rival disciplines aspired to compete with rhetoric for the position of key qualification for prestigious careers in imperial and provincial administration or as advocates. One of those disciplines was Roman law. I will first set out the ways and contexts in which law prominently figures in the collections of exercises by Libanius and Aphthonius. Next, I will describe how, in the later part of his life, Libanius felt his own position and the position of rhetoric in the educational system progressively

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threatened by the soaring new discipline of Roman law and by the attractiveness of the close-by law school of Berytus in Phoenicia. Finally, I will submit that the rhetors’ appeals to Greek law traditions may not be pure classicist nostalgia, but that there may have been a real strand of local Greek law traditions still surviving especially in the Greek-speaking East until Libanius’s days, even after the imposition of Roman law on the whole Empire in the Constitutio Antoniniana of 212.

1. Law in the Progymnasmata Before looking at the text of the exercises, we need to begin with a caveat. Libanius’s Progymnasmata is by far the largest collection surviving from antiquity, but the authenticity of his exercises is debatable in many cases and for various reasons.1 The collection as such may have been compiled only after Libanius’s death and spurious texts may have crept in afterwards. Based on evident parallels, a number of them can be confidently attributed to Libanius’s student Severus of Alexandria or to a certain Nicolaus (or Pseudo-Nicolaus), a fifth-century imitator. Since our argument is about a problem specific to the fourth century, we must make sure that we base it on such exercises only as can be confidently regarded as genuinely Libanian, which considerably reduces the textual basis. Yet in this respect the smaller collection by his student Aphthonius, which is undoubtedly genuine, roughly contemporary, and clearly influenced by his master’s work, can help us out as a supplement. The exercise that would most naturally evoke a connection with law would be the one called Proposal of Law (νόμου εἰσφορά, an argument for or against a proposed, mostly fictitious, law). Yet in the whole Libanian collection there is only one single example for this exercise, and precisely that one is almost certainly spurious since it apparently alludes to a motive from Scripture. It argues in support of a law prohibiting men from marrying their deceased brothers’ wives.2 Scholars have attributed it to PseudoNicolaus.3 Yet there is still a lot about laws to be found in Libanius’s genuine collection. With respect to political matters, a striking feature that can be observed in Libanius’s thought is his strict opposition to any kind of despotism or tyranny. Tyrants and tyrant-slayers, to be sure, are well-known stock char                                                            

1 Contrast, for instance, the fairly optimistic view of Schouler (1984), 27 n. 138; 51– 138, especially 138, with the overall agnosticism of Ureña Bracero (2007), and the intermediatory view of Gibson (2008), xxiii–xxv. 2 Cf. Deut. 25:5–10. 3 See Gibson (2008), 527.

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acters in declamations. But their strong presence in Libanius’s preliminary exercises is no less remarkable. Libanius’s fourth example (out of five) of a commonplace (κοινὸς τόπος) is against a tyrant, and so is Aphthonius’s sole example, which is actually almost an abridged version of Libanius’s. In both versions, the tyrant’s regime is constantly contrasted with a democratic system of government modelled on classical Athens. The catchwords that characterize this contrast model are freedom (ἐλευθερία), democracy (δημοκρατία), constitution (πολιτεία), but, above all, law (νόμος).4 Inversely, what characterizes the tyrant is his disrespect for the law. ‘Consider what sort of constitution this man was destroying and what sort he tried to introduce in its place,ʼ says Libanius, ‘[o]ur ancestors handed democracy down to us […] we enjoy good things and avoid difficulties and use laws with each other,ʼ5 the greatest of which are those that hold democracy together,6 whereas the tyrant, ‘who thinks that he is greater than the established laws, was raised in the laws but despised the laws […].ʼ7 In even worse manner, in Aphthonius the tyrant says: ‘I shall seize the acropolis and put aside the laws, curse them, and thus I shall be a law to the many […],ʼ8 but he is made to face justice: ‘Since laws have been established and courts of justice are part of our government, let one seeking to annul the laws be subject to the laws for punishment.ʼ Mankind ‘sought out laws to balance the vagaries of fate by the equal application of the laws.ʼ For the law is for cities ‘a rectification of the evils that accidents create.ʼ Hence the fall of the tyrant ‘will make the laws stand up.ʼ9 What is more, Libanius even features a complementary commonplace in favour of a tyrant-slayer,10 which is a rare item, since commonplaces are as a rule directed against evil stock characters such as murderers, adulterers or the like. Hence, this corresponding piece notably underscores the prominence of the tyrant issue. The tyrant-slayer is praised as the restorer of democracy and the law. For under the tyrant, ‘none of the laws was in force, and in place of the laws there was the tyrant.ʼ11 The tyrant-slayer shall hence be granted ‘the gift which the laws order, the laws which this man has re-

                                                             4

On the ideology of freedom in eastern Greek poleis under Roman rule, see Nörr (1966); (1980), 10–14. 5 Lib., Prog. 7.4.4; trans. Gibson (2008), 179. 6 Lib., Prog. 7.4.6; trans. Gibson (2008), 181. 7 Lib., Prog. 7.4.10; trans. Gibson (2008), 183. 8 Aphth., Prog. 7.6, in Patillon (2008), 129; trans. Kennedy (2003), 107. 9 Aphth., Prog. 7.3; 5; 11, in Patillon (2008), 127; 128; 130; trans. Kennedy (2003), 106–107. 10 Lib., Prog. 7.5; Gibson (2008), 186–193. 11 Lib., Prog. 7.5.4; trans. Gibson (2008), 189.

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stored.ʼ12 In this manner, democracy is almost identified with the rule of law. Since the tyrant is at no point contrasted with the character of the good and wise king, some criticism of autocratic monarchy in general (perhaps also including the Roman emperors) may be involved here on the part of the freedom-loving and law-revering Greek, particularly so since Libanius states elsewhere in an example of Refutation that ‘in a kingship (ἐν βασιλείᾳ)ʼ, as opposed to democracy, ‘the will of the sovereign is the law for his subjects,ʼ13 and since both sophists also individualize this generic criticism in exercises of vituperation (ψόγος) of king Philip of Macedonia (even if Libanius consistently denies him the title of king and calls him a tyrant throughout).14 These pieces revisit almost all the stereotypes expounded in Commonplace, focussing them on Philip. In the same vein, in Libanius, a praise of Demosthenes, a vituperation of Aeschines, and a comparison of both orators do in fact praise Athenian democracy and its laws, which Demosthenes established and revered, and Aeschines despised.15 Aphthonius’s parallel piece is a praise of Thucydides, who was born and raised ‘under a constitution and laws that are by their nature better than others,ʼ a fact that puts him in a perfect position to praise Athens.16 In all these examples, it is the rule of law and the constitutional state that appears as the ideal form of government, superior to autocratic regime on the one hand and to a state of lawlessness on the other. This ideal of the rule of law is particularly prominent in Aphthonius’s example for Proposal of Law, in which he argues against a law that would allow an adulterer to be killed on the spot when caught in the act. In this piece, it is repeatedly underlined that law must be the true sovereign, that absolutely no-one must be exempted from the law, and that it is the prerogative of the judges, and of no-one else, to administer justice. The difference between killing an adulterer and handing him over to the judges is described as identical to the difference between tyranny and law, or between monarchy and democracy.17 Other commonplaces in Libanius exhibit the very same pattern. In a commonplace against a murderer, the power of homicide laws is being praised, which the city has established to punish murderers.18 Disdain for                                                              12

Lib., Prog. 7.5.8; trans Gibson (2008), 191. Lib., Prog. 5.1.7; trans. Gibson (2008), 111. 14 Lib., Prog. 9.3; trans. Gibson (2008), 283–289; Aphth., Prog. 9.4–9, in Patillon (2008), 138–140. 15 Lib., Prog. 8.5; 9.4; 10.3; trans. Gibson (2008), 237–245; 289–295; 335–343; on Demosthenes as a law-giver, see also Prog. 3.3.33; trans. Gibson (2008), 75. 16 Aphth., Prog. 8.6, in Patillon (2008), 133; trans. Kennedy (2003), 109. 17 See Aphth., Prog. 14, esp. 9, in Patillon (2008), 160; trans. Kennedy (2003), 125. 18 Lib., Prog. 7.1.2 and 5; trans. Gibson (2008), 143 and 145. 13

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and mockery of the laws are also characteristic of a murderer,19 and hence the laws even judge mere personal acquaintance with a murderer as a crime.20 A murderer’s victim will invoke the laws on the spot of the crime,21 and the fact that a murderer is executed in accordance with the law will actually bring comfort to his children.22 Likewise, a traitor violates the laws which all good citizens should revere, annuls them and disdains them as nonsensical,23 which makes him worse than a tyrant,24 so he needs to be punished severely, lest the laws become powerless.25 In a vituperation of the passion of anger, there is also a warning addressed to jurors not to indulge their passions such as wrath when listening to litigants’ speeches, because this will keep them from closely observing the law, as is their duty.26 What is more in a collection of rhetorical exercises, not even rhetoric must ever dare aspire to be more powerful than the law, since by that urban wisdom ‘that makes it possible to speak, […] many have destroyed many, overpowering the laws with clever speaking.ʼ27 Why is there so much emphasis on law in the progymnasmata by Libanius and Aphthonius?28 What is striking in all these examples is that it is not a contemporary system of law, let alone Roman law, that is used as a model, but exclusively the ideal of law and jurisdiction by popular courts associated with Athenian democracy of the classical period. Was this simply a mark of unrestrained classicism, or can it be explained in a different way?

2. Libanius, Rhetoric and the Study of Law When Libanius was a young man, rhetoric was still the queen of disciplines and the unrivalled number one key qualification that would assure a young man of a career in the imperial or provincial administration. Yet                                                              19

Lib., Prog. 7.1.14 and 19; trans. Gibson (2008), 149 and 151. Lib., Prog. 7.1.16; trans. Gibson (2008), 151. 21 Lib., Prog. 7.1.31; trans. Gibson (2008), 157. 22 Lib., Prog. 7.1.29; trans. Gibson (2008), 155. 23 Lib., Prog. 7.2.5–7; trans. Gibson (2008), 159. 24 Lib., Prog. 7.2.16; trans. Gibson (2008), 163. 25 Lib., Prog. 7.2.21–22; trans. Gibson (2008), 165. 26 Lib., Prog. 9.7.20; trans. Gibson (2008), 309. 27 Lib., Prog. 10.5.9; trans. Gibson (2008), 349. 28 For further references to νόμος in Libanius’s Progymnasmata, see Fatouros; Krischer, and Najock (2000), 2060–2061. There is an even greater abundance of references to law in the Declamations (see 2051–2060), which, however, by their very nature are more likely to address legal topics. 20

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during the course of his life, things began to change, and rhetoric found itself more and more on the defensive. At least in the eastern part of the Roman Empire, in the later fourth century other disciplines emerged that began to compete seriously with rhetoric for this leading position in higher education as the stepping stone into administrational careers. Three disciplines mainly aspired to that position: shorthand writing, the acquisition of the Latin language, and the study of Roman law.29 Some of the more wellto-do families came to think that, for their sons, ‘whereas a touch of rhetoric was useful, a combination of various skills brought more tangible results. Knowledge of shorthand writing, of the Latin language, and of Roman law appeared to improve the chances of getting coveted posts.ʼ30 Skills in shorthand were certainly useful in an administrative job, and particularly during the reign of Constantius (337–361) top administrators were often appointed solely on the basis of that qualification.31 Since administrative work at least partly involved reading and writing texts in Latin, a good or at least basic mastery of that language would of course also be helpful.32 And there can certainly be no doubt about the fact that knowledge of Roman law was extremely useful. It was not required for working as an advocate, though. It was not until the year 460 – under emperor Leo I – that advocates were required to have legal qualification, and even then only for litigation at the court of the praetorian prefect.33 In the beginning, Libanius was not at all hostile to the new disciplines. During the 350s, his intention was rather to integrate them into the program of his own school at Antioch.34 In the years 355 to 357, he repeatedly tried to persuade a law teacher from Constantinople called Silanus to settle in Antioch, yet to no avail.35 When in 360 a civic chair of Roman law (νόμων μάθησις) was about to be established in Antioch, Libanius was involved in the search for a candidate, yet again unsuccessfully. He proved unable to persuade the law teacher Domnio (or Domninus)36 to move to Antioch from Berytus.37 The same thing occurred with the study of Latin.                                                             

29 Cf. Lib., Or. 2.44; see Festugière (1959), 411–412; Liebeschuetz (1972), 242–255; Hose (2000), 291; Heath (2004), 293–294; 327–328; Cribiore (2007), 205–213 ; Stenger (2009), 219. 30 Cribiore (2007), 206; see also 6. 31 Cf. Lib., Or. 62.8–10; 18, 131 and 158; Ep. 1224; Heath (2004), 259–261; 263– 266. 32 See Millar (2006), 84–93. 33 Cf. Corpus Iuris II.7.11.2; see Kunkel (1966), 144; Liebeschuetz (1972), 251; Heath (2004), 293 n. 32. 34 See Liebeschuetz (1972), 243; Cribiore (2007), 81. 35 Cf. Lib., Ep. 433; 478; 486; 507; see Bradbury (2004), 200–201; Cribiore (2007), 75 and 212. 36 The form of his name varies in Libanius’s letters. 37 Lib., Ep. 209.

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In 356–357 Libanius tried to call back his erstwhile student Olympius, who was then living in Rome and had acquired perfect Latin, to be a Latin teacher in his school; but again his efforts failed.38 The next year, in 358, another Latin teacher named Celsus did establish himself in Antioch, but he appears to have taught independently.39 As a result, whenever Libanius’s students felt the need to acquire Latin or knowledge of Roman law, he would inevitably lose them to some other school. Not only did this seriously affect his pride as a teacher and schoolmaster, but it also affected his budget, since tuition fees accounted for a considerable part of his living. As far as Roman law was concerned, there were only two law schools that were absolutely unsurpassed in fame in that period: Rome itself, and Berytus (which is now Beyrouth) in Phoenicia.40 Rome was sufficiently far away (although, as we shall see, it also attracted a number of students from Antioch), but the law school in Berytus, second only to that of Rome,41 founded at a unknown date (most probably in the late second or the early third century), was situated only at a linear distance of about 170 miles from Antioch and connected by frequent maritime transport, which made it all too easy for Libanius’s students to board a ship and sail there. In the beginning, students would go there to acquire Roman law as a kind of postgraduate course, after they had successfully completed their education in rhetoric. But later on, they more and more tended to take a law course instead of reading rhetoric with a sophist, as had earlier been the custom. In rhetoric, conversely, they rather wished to take the ‘short roadʼ instead of the long and arduous one associated with the full program.42 Even though it has recently been contested that in Berytus Law was taught in Latin in the fourth century (by the fifth century at the latest, lectures had definitely switched to Greek),43 the growing interest in the study of Latin may ultimately have been aimed at the same goal.                                                              38

Lib., Ep. 534 and 539; trans. in Cribiore (2007), 300; see also 210. Lib., Ep. 363; see Cribiore (2007), 210. 40 The law school of Constantinople, which Libanius also still had good connections with, was clearly lower in rank. 41 Cf. Lib., Or. 48.22–25; 49.27–28; see Schemmel (1923), 236–240; Collinet (1925); Hall (2004), 195–220. 42 See Cribiore (2007), 176–183. 43 See Cribiore (2007), 209–210, with references to earlier opinions; for the traditional view, see Stenger (2009), 219; on the role of Latin in Berytus see Hall (1999); on learning Latin and studying Roman law in the Greek East, see Millar (2004), 460–464; see also Kaldellis (2007), 70: ‘The fourth century in particular saw the widespread availability of Latin instruction in the East, focused on centres of legal studies like Berytos, which was a largely Roman and Latin city […].ʼ 39

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Again, Libanius at first tried to be helpful to his students, whenever they felt the need for a change. He obviously was on very good terms with several professors of Law in Berytus, especially with Domnio/Domninus, Scylacius, and a certain Sebastianus.44 To those and others, in the decade from 355 to 365, he addressed a considerable number of letters of introduction on behalf of his students, a number of which survive;45 several of those ‘dossiersʼ have been assembled by R. Cribiore in the Appendix to her 2007 book.46 We even have names to assign to those migrant students, such as Artemon,47 Theodorus,48 Silvanus,49 Paeonius,50 Hilarinus,51 Apringius,52 or Peregrinus,53 apart from some anonymous students.54 His standard language is that they wish to ‘acquire the lawsʼ (νόμους κτήσασθαι),55 but occasionally also that they desire to join ‘the mother of lawsʼ (τὴν τῶν νόμων μητέρα),56 or that they wish to ‘grappleʼ (ἅπτεσθαι) the laws to expand their armory by adding a new weapon (sc. law) to the old (sc. rhetoric) (ὅπλον ἐφ' ὅπλῳ κτώμενος).57 In one case (Paeonius), however, Libanius expresses his great satisfaction at the fact that the student ‘also honored me by leaving after making me part of his decision (κοινωνήσαντά μοι τῆς γνώμης);ʼ for, he adds in a downhearted tone, ‘those who attempted to conceal it offended us (ἠσέβουν, note the iterative imperfect!) insofar as they feared our opposition.ʼ58 This seems to indicate that there have been cases of concealment. That this was in fact not at all unusual can be seen from the case of a young student, a certain Theodotus, son of the rhetor Olympius, who, having been doing well in his studies of rhetoric and being almost considered fit for the bar, in the year 363, after a petty quarrel                                                             

44 See Jones; Martindale and Morris (1971–1992), vol. I, 266, s.v. Domnio 1; 811, s.v. Scylacius 2; 813, s.v. Sebastianus 3; Cribiore (2007), 75; Hall (2004), 208. 45 See Collinet (1925), 85–91; Liebeschuetz (1972), 244; Hall (2004), 208–209; on letters of reference in general, see Cribiore (2007), 213–222. 46 See the dossiers in Cribiore (2007), 243–244 (Apringius); 244 (Artemon); 302 (Paeonius I); 309 (Silvanus). 47 Lib., Ep. 533 (year 356). 48 Lib., Ep. 339 (year 358); see Jones; Martindale, and Morris (1971–1992), vol. I, 897, s.v. Theodorus 11. 49 Lib., Ep. 87 (year 359). 50 Lib., Ep. 117 (year 359). 51 Lib., Ep. 652–653 (year 361). 52 Lib., Ep. 1170–1171; 1203 (year 364); see Jones; Martindale, and Morris (1971– 1992), vol. I, 86, s.v. Apringius. 53 Lib., Ep. 1539 (year 365) 54 Lib., Ep. 1131 (year 364) and 1431 (year 363). 55 Lib., Ep. 339.6; 1171.1; 1431.6. 56 Lib., Ep. 652.1. 57 Lib., Ep. 1539.1. 58 Lib., Ep. 117.2; trans. adapted from Cribiore (2007), 302.

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with his father over a lost book, dashed straight down to the harbour in hot-tempered rage and boarded the next ship to Berytus to join the law school, even though his father had designated him for the study of rhetoric, while his elder brother, Hermogenes, had been sent to law school.59 From the letter (Ep. 1375) Libanius instantly sent to Gaianus, then governor of Phoenicia, who had most probably studied law in Berytus,60 his infuriation is clearly visible. In an ‘imperious tone,ʼ61 he resolutely and unmistakably demands from the governor that the boy be sent back instantly, no matter ‘whether he praises the study of laws or says that he loves Berytus or pours forth tears or says anything else.ʼ62 This is clearly an extreme case, but even in the more placable letters of those years, in the various metaphors Libanius uses for the studies of law at Berytus his hyperbolic tone has a strangely sarcastic, ironic ring. In the course of subsequent years, Libanius’s general attitude changes thoroughly. With more and more students opting for Law in Rome or Berytus instead of rhetoric in Antioch, Libanius begins to see rhetoric and his own profession threatened. His tone gets progressively acrimonious. As early as in Letter 1203, a letter of reference for Apringius from 364, he grouches: ‘I’ll be amazed if I’m not myself one of those racing off to Berytus! That’s where children and grown men and old men too are sailing and walking and flying, since some notion has triumphed, I presume, that an advocate is powerless who doesn’t drink from that source.ʼ63 He starts to complain about defections (ἀποστάσεις) and a veritable ‘flight from the logoiʼ64 that needs to be stopped.65 The reasons for this recent development, however, he does not seek in the rhetorical curriculum itself, which he deems impeccable, but in the people’s recent greed for wealth, which they believe other studies can boost more effectively than rhetoric does.66 ‘Rhetoric had landed on the rocks, and many recognized that it was not the path to worldly success (eudaimonia),ʼ as Raffaella Cribiore has put it.67 A few examples out of many may illustrate the change in tone and attitude.                                                              59

On this particular case, see Collinet (1925), 88; Liebeschuetz (1972), 243–244; Hall (2004), 198–199; Heath (2004), 293; see also Jones; Martindale, and Morris (1971– 1992), vol. I, 424, s.v. Hermogenes 5; 645, s.v. Olympius 8. 60 See Collinet (1925), 87–88; Jones; Martindale, and Morris (1971–1992), vol. I, 378, s.v. Gaianus 6. 61 Hall (2004), 198. 62 Lib., Ep. 1375.5; trans. Hall (2004), 199. 63 Lib., Ep. 1203.1; trans. Bradbury (2004), 204; see Hose (2000), 291; see also Ep. 1539. 64 See Liebeschuetz (1972), 246; Cribiore (2007), 191–193 and 206. 65 Cf. especially Lib., Or. 43; 1.214. 66 Cf. Lib., Or. 1.154; 62.8–23; see Heath (2004), 282–283; Stenger (2009), 218–219. 67 Cribiore (2007), 206

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In Oration 40 (from the years between 375 and 377), Libanius accuses his friend Eumolpius of dishonoring his chair and the Greek language that was already ‘covered with mireʼ (προπηλακιζομένην), by advising his brother, the praetorian prefect Domitius Modestus, to nominate as his assessor a young man who had just returned from law school in Rome, but knew neither Greek nor rhetoric. He sarcastically makes Eumolpius proclaim this slogan: ‘Fathers, most foolish of all, avoid these rocks [sc. the rhetorical curriculum] on which you waste your seed. Send your sons instead to rich Rome, where one can reap fruits that bring success.ʼ68 Likewise, in a later oration (Or. 43, from the year 386), ‘the migration of students to Italy is given as evidence of the low esteem into which Greek letters had fallen.ʼ69 In vitriolic comments, Libanius now mocks the young men who return from Italy, ‘little better than sheepʼ in their boastful ignorance.70 In Oration 62 (most probably from the year 382), Libanius identifies a third factor (in addition to the general political turmoil and his own undue kindliness towards his students) that had ruined his profession: in earlier times it had been predominantly youngsters from the lower classes who went to Berytus to get legal training for earning their daily bread, while those from more prosperous and illustrious families had stayed home in Antioch and had studied rhetoric. ‘But now,ʼ he states rather scornfully, ‘there is a mass stampede (πολὺς πολλῶν ὁ δρόμος) towards it [sc. the study of law], and lads who know how to speak and are able to move an audience race to Berytus with the idea of getting some advantage.ʼ71 Yet, he adds, what they do get is just an exchange; for ‘[t]he intellect is incapable of acquiring something fresh and, simultaneously, of retaining the other; whoever concentrates on the one, relinquishes the other […].ʼ72 Hence, while acquiring knowledge of law, students will necessarily forget all their rhetoric: ‘the eloquence instilled by earlier studies must inevitably be ruined by the effects of the later, and these must prevail, while the former vanishes […].ʼ73 Whether or not aging Libanius (he was almost seventy then) really believed in this strange argument, it is evident that in the meantime he saw himself in a position in which he must fight the study of Roman law to defend rhetoric and its rank in the curriculum. The new and popular trend toward law studies also threatened the social position of a sophist. By the                                                              68

Lib., Or. 40.5, trans. Cribiore (2007), 206. Lib., Or. 43.5; trans. Liebeschuetz (1972), 245. 70 Lib., Ep. 951.2 (year 390); see Cribiore (2007), 211 n. 72. 71 Lib., Or. 62.21; trans. Norman (2000), 95. 72 Lib., Or. 62.22; trans. Norman (2000), 95. 73 Lib., Or. 62.23; trans. Norman (2000), 95; see Liebeschuetz (1972), 244; Heath (2004), 293–294. For a case in point, see Or. 40.6–8; Cribiore (2007), 211. 69

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year 384, sailings to Italy or Berytus by drop-out rhetoric students had reached such dimensions that people had actually suggested to Libanius that he should retire from teaching, as he reports in his autobiography.74 By contrast, under the traditional curriculum, it had very clearly and undoubtedly been the rhetorician who had been regarded as the true expert on anything legal, and compared to whom lawyers had at best been in an ancillary position.75 Not even advocates needed any legal training, but the best education available in rhetoric. As a consequence, in his awkward situation it would only be natural for Libanius to reaffirm the rhetoricians’ expertise in legal issues, and to reaffirm it above all as a message to freshmen, who might perhaps still be deliberating on which course of studies to take. He would need to tell them: ‘It’s us, the rhetoricians, who know best about law. In fact, we’ve been the true experts in that domain since the fine days of classical Athens. Hence it is with us that you will get the best education in legal matters. So stay with us! There is no need to study Roman law. We are Greeks, anyway!ʼ This may be the most plausible explanation for the fact that, in the later part of the fourth century, topics of law, legal constitution, and the rule of law suddenly figure so prominently and abundantly in the preliminary exercises devised for beginners in rhetoric by Libanius and his master student Aphthonius.

3. Roman Law and Local Greek Law Traditions But why promote Greek law? Wasn’t this an anachronism? What sense would there be in claiming expertise in the Greek law traditions in a world that was uniformly organized, regulated and governed according to the principles of Roman law? A popular communis opinio holds that ever since the conferment of Roman citizenship upon all provincials and the consequent imposition of Roman law upon the whole Empire by the Constitutio Antoniniana of 212, it was Roman law, and Roman law only, that was in force, while all previous legal traditions had vanished or died out. Other late ancient rhetoricians seem to confirm this. Menander, for instance, notes that it is pointless to praise a city for its excellent laws ‘now thatʼ all cities are governed by the same Roman law; and John Chrysostom even anachronistically projects that legal situation back onto the Athens of the times of St. Paul.76                                                              74

Cf. Lib., Or. 1.214. Cf. Lib., Or. 2.44; Ep. 1170.1. 76 Men. Rh., 60.10–16; 66.11–14; 68.10–14 Russell/Wilson; Chrys., Homily on Acts 38.2 (PG 60.269); see Kaldellis (2007), 48–49; Buraselis (2007), 138–141. 75

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But would it really be reasonable to assume that throughout the Empire all regional and local legal traditions had disappeared so promptly and effectively? Historians of law have raised serious doubts about such an oversimplified view. Bernhard Kübler, for instance, writes that ‘apart from cities of Latin or Roman law, in the provinces, and particularly so in regions of long-standing culture, there was a great number of city-states (civitates) that retained their earlier, time-honored constitutions […].ʼ77 Wolfgang Kunkel points to papyrus finds from Egypt that demonstrate that particularly that province, both before and after the Constitutio, lived under an unbroken legal tradition that was composed of Greek and Egyptian national elements, a situation that would not have been much different from that which obtained in most of the Greek-speaking Eastern parts of the Empire, so that ‘the legal life of the Greek half of the Empire, even after the Constitutio Antoniniana, was in fact very largely dominated by native patterns of legal thought. The ‘national law’ of the Greek East thus asserted itself in the face of the Roman imperial law.’78 Detlef Liebs, too, adds that nonRoman legal traditions will at the very most have been reduced to local customs – at least in theory.79 All this must certainly also have been true for fourth-century Antioch. Wolf Liebeschuetz in fact asserts that there were problems with implementing Roman law in Antioch, since most probably ‘neither judge nor litigants in a lawsuit knew Latin, nor could they read the Roman Law according to which the case should have been decided.ʼ80 As a consequence, ‘we cannot expect that Roman Law was dispensed in the courts of the governors at Antioch in a very pure form.ʼ81 Law as administered in Antioch would at best basically have been Roman law, but with a considerable amount of Greek elements. If that was so, Libanius’s and Aphthonius’s emphasis on classical Greek law in their progymnasmata may have been their way of taking sides in an enduring conflict between the imposed Roman law and the more local Hellenic legal traditions, which were still alive. As ‘Hellenes,ʼ sophists would naturally side with the Greek tradition, particularly so since, as we have seen, they felt their social position threatened by the newly popular discipline of Roman law. Besides that, as professional rhetoricians, they would also be naturally suspicious of Roman law for the reason that Roman procedural                                                              77

Kübler (1925), 229; my translation. Kunkel (1966), 76 (cf. also 166); on the survival of local traditions, see also Mitteis (1891), 180–188; Sherwin-White (1973), 312; on the contest between Roman imperial law and local Hellenistic law traditions in Egypt in particular and in the Greek-speaking East in general, see also Arangio-Ruiz (1937), 310–322; (1947); Taubenschlag (1955), 586–595; for a general assessment of the problem, see Wolff (1979), 7–13. 79 Liebs (1975), 64. 80 Liebeschuetz (1972), 248. 81 Liebeschuetz (1972), 249. 78

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law as implemented in the East by Roman civil administrators in the Late Empire tended to severely curtail the part judicial oratory played in court proceedings. History has proven that their struggle for superiority of rhetoric over law was at least partly successful. In the East, the Greek rhetorical tradition survived way into Early Byzantine times. In the sixth century, for instance, in the Secret History of Procopius of Caesarea, who was himself both an advocatus and a rhetor,82 advocates (the technical term for whom is συνήγοροι) are still regularly called ῥήτορες,83 which in modern translations is often rendered as ‘lawyers,’ perhaps inaccurately so.84 In the context of this struggle, which appears to have been a pretty fervid one in the fourth century, Libanius’s persistent emphasis on the benefits and advantages of Greek law may have been his personal contribution to this primordial ‘quarrel of the faculties.ʼ

Bibliography Arangio-Ruiz, V. (1937), Storia del diritto romano. Napoli: E. Jovene. –. (1947), L’applicazione del diritto romano in Egitto dopo la costituzione di Caracalla. Napoli: E. Jovene. Bradbury, S. (2004), Selected Letters of Libanius from the Age of Constantius and Julian. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Buraselis, K. (2007), Θεία δωρεά: Das göttlich-kaiserliche Geschenk. Studien zur Politik der Severer und zur Constitutio Antoniniana. Wien: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Collinet, P. (1925), Histoire de l’école de droit de Beyrouth. Paris: Sirey. Cribiore, R. (2007), The School of Libanius in Late Antique Antioch. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Fatouros, G.; Krischer, T. and Najock, D. (eds., 2000), Concordantiae in Libanium, Pars Tertia: Declamationes, Progymnasmata, Argumenta orationum Demosthenicarum. 5 vols. Hildesheim, Zürich, and New York: Olms-Weidmann. Festugière, A.-J. (1959), Antioche païenne et chrétienne: Libanius, Chrysostome et les moines de Syrie. Paris: Boccard. Gibson, C. (2008), Libanius’s Progymnasmata: Model Exercises in Greek Prose Composition and Rhetoric. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Studies. Hall, L.J. (1999), “Latinitas in the Late Antique Greek East: Cultural Assimilation and Ethnic Distinctions”, in Byrne, S.N. and Cueva, E.P. (eds.), Veritatis Amicitiaeque Causa: Essays in Honor of Anna Lydia Motto and John R. Clark. Wauconda: Bolchazy-Carducci Publishers, 85–111.

                                                            

82 See Jones; Martindale and Morris (1971–1992), vol. III B, 1060, s.v. Procopius 2; Suda P 2479. 83 Cf. Procop., Arc. 26.2 and 35 (Hephaestus); 30.18–20 (Evangelius of Caesarea). 84 See, for instance, Williamson and Sarris (2007), 87–88 and 97; Kaldellis (2010), 118–119 and 131 more accurately translates ‘advocates.ʼ

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–. (2004), Roman Berytus: Beirut in Late Antiquity. London and New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis. Heath, M. (2004), Menander: A Rhetor in Context. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hose, M. (2000), “Die Krise der Rhetoren: Über den Bedeutungsverlust der institutionellen Rhetorik im 4. Jahrhundert und die Reaktion ihrer Vertreter”, in Neumeister, C. and Raeck, W. (eds.), Rede und Redner: Bewertung und Darstellung in den antiken Kulturen. Kolloquium Frankfurt a.M., 14.–16. Oktober 1998. Möhnesee: Bibliopolis, 289–299. Jones, A.H.M.; Martindale, J.R. and Morris, J. (1971–992), The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire. 3 vols. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kaldellis, A. (2007) Hellenism in Byzantium: The Transformation of Greek Identity and the Reception of the Classical Tradition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. –. (2010), Prokopios. The Secret History; with related texts. Indianapolis: Hackett. Kennedy, G.A. (2003), Progymnasmata: Greek Textbooks of Prose Composition and Rhetoric. Atlanta: Society of Biblical Studies. Kübler, B. (1925), Geschichte des Römischen Rechts: Ein Lehrbuch. Leipzig and Erlangen: Deichert. Kunkel, W. (1996), An Introduction to Roman Legal and Constitutional History (trans. J.M. Kelly). Oxford: Clarendon Press. Liebeschuetz, J.H.W.G. (1972), Antioch: City and Imperial Administration in the Later Roman Empire. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Liebs, D. (1975), Römisches Recht: Ein Studienbuch. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht. Millar, F. (2004), Rome, the Greek World, and the East, vol. 2: Government, Society, and Culture in the Roman Empire. Chapel Hill and London: University of North Carolina Press. –. (2006), A Greek Roman Empire: Power and Belief under Theodosius II (408–450). Berkeley: University of California Press. Mitteis, L. (1891), Reichsrecht und Volksrecht in den östlichen Provinzen des römischen Kaiserreichs. Leipzig: Teubner. Norman, A.F. (2000), Antioch as a Centre of Hellenic Culture as Observed by Libanius. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Nörr, D. (1966), Imperium und Polis in der hohen Kaiserzeit. München: C.H. Beck. –. (1980), “Zur Herrschaftsstruktur des römischen Reiches: Die Städte des Ostens und das Imperium”, in Temporini, H. (ed.), ANRW, vol. II. 7. 1. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter, 3–20. Patillon, M. (ed.) (2008), Corpus Rhetoricum, vol. 1: Anonyme: Préambule à la rhétorique; Aphthonios, Progymnasmata; en annexe: Pseudo-Hermogène, Progymnasmata. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Russell, D.A., and Wilson, N.G. (1981), Menander Rhetor. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Schemmel, F. (1923), “Die Schule von Berytos”, Philologische Wochenschrift 43, 236– 240. Schouler, B. (1984), La tradition hellénique chez Libanios. 2 vols. Lille and Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Sherwin-White, A.N. (1973, 2nd ed.), The Roman Citizenship. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Stenger, J. (2009), Hellenische Identität in der Spätantike: Pagane Autoren und ihr Unbehagen an der eigenen Zeit. Berlin and New York: Walter de Gruyter. Taubenschlag, R. (1955, 2nd ed.), The Law of Greco-Roman Egypt in the Light of the Papyri 332 BC–640 AD. Warsaw: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe. Ureña Bracero, J. (2007), “Algunas consideraciones sobre la autoría de los progymnasmata atribuidos a Libanio”, in Fernández Delgado, J.A.; Pordomingo, F.

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and Stramaglia, A. (eds.), Escuela y Literatura en Grecia Antigua. Actas del Simposio Internacional (Universidad de Salamanca, 17–19 Noviembre de 2004). Cassino: Università degli Studi, 645–690. Wolff, H.-J. (1979), Das Problem der Konkurrenz von Rechtsordnungen in der Antike. Heidelberg: Carl Winter. Williamson, G.A. (trans.) and Sarris, P. (ed.) (2007), Procopius, The Secret History. London: Penguin.

When Calasiris got Pregnant: Rhetoric and Storytelling in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica Aglae Pizzone ‘At the beginning (of the reading) the reader fancies that the most elements are superfluous, but as the narrative progresses, he comes to admire the author’s organization. The beginning of the work itself resembles a coiled snake: the snake conceals its head inside the coils and thrusts the rest of its body forward; so the book makes a beginning of its middle, and the onset of the story, which it has, so to speak, inherited, slips though (to end up) in the middle (Psellos, Essays on Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius, 91–92, 22– 28 Dyck).ʼ In the last decades classical scholars have basically endorsed Psellos’ assessment of Heliodorus’ narrative and hermeneutical cunningness.1 Modern readers have become increasingly aware of the sneaky tricks molding the novel. Heliodorus’ romance entails a wide array of subplots, embedded in the main story like Chinese boxes.2 At each level, the reader comes across intradiegetic narrators and narratees endowed with different levels of authorial and critical awareness. He is faced with shifting perspectives, leading him to question over and over again the likelihood of the recounted deeds. Such an underlying (and conscious) ambiguity is also a feature of the main extradiegetic narrator, that is to say, of Heliodorus himself. As Morgan has shown almost thirty years ago, Heliodorus’ discourse as a whole is imbued with a constant interplay between a ‘historiographical poseʼ and a vivid, dramatic, emotional style, which can be read as intrinsically anti-historical.3                                                              1

See Hilton (1998), 80; Morgan (1982; 1989; 1991, see 98 for a remark on the novel’s arrangement and the pleasure of the reader, close to Psellos’ conclusions); McLaren (2006) shows how Psellos’ analysis suitably emphasizes the dynamic of excess and lack at stake in Heliodorus’ narrative. Cf. also Morales (2004), 227–228; Whitmarsh (2011), 168–170. 2 On the architecture of the novel see Futre Piñeiro (1991), 71; Morgan (2004). 3 Such a contrast has been outlined in Morgan (1982), 227–234. Cf. Winkler (1999), 325–326.

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In what follows I argue that the author’s attitude toward the novelistic discourse is also reflected in the rhetorical vocabulary he and his secondary narrators use to label their own narratives and storytelling. To prove my point, I consider Cnemon’s and Calasiris’ interaction against the background of contemporary rhetorical practices and literary criticism. From this starting point I try to shed new light on some widely discussed issues, such as the hierarchical relationship between Cnemon and Calasiris, their behavior as narrator/listener and the way their accounts respond to each other.4 The assessment of Cnemon as a character has always been controversial. On the one hand Winkler reads him as a figure imbued with ‘romanticism,ʼ an over-emotional persona, almost a parody of the novel-reader.5 On the other hand, Morgan construes him as a double of the reader, interacting with the plot and its narrative tricks.6 Hunter points out the pros and cons of both approaches.7 In his most recent book, finally, Whitmarsh advocates a more nuanced reading, whereby Cnemon’s ‘hyperaffectivityʼ is construed as a means of satisfying the desiring gaze of Heliodorus’ reader.8 For my part, I would argue that such contradictory critical responses to Cnemon’s performance as a narratee rest upon a basic misunderstanding. It has always been assumed that Cnemon’s sensibility somehow influences Calasiris’ narrative. Yet, as I hope to prove, his ‘narrative attitudeʼ and his emotional tone change depending on his interaction with the Egyptian priest. The style of the priest’s speech affects Cnemon’s approach to Calasiris’ narrative,9 by making him gullible. More importantly, however, Calasiris is so cunning as to shape Cnemon’s psychological involvement, by making him ‘romantic’ or ‘desiring’ as well. Cnemon’s lust for pathetic and vivid discourses can be viewed as an acquired taste. From book II through book V, the Egyptian priest leads him on a journey bound to mould his perception of reality. Cnemon’s sensibility, as Winkler described it, is actually there, yet not from the beginning. It is Calasiris who leads his young listener up to that point, taking advantage of his curiosity – his actual inborn trait. It is not Cnemon that ‘accommodatesʼ Calasiris’ narrative ‘to his taste,ʼ ‘misconstructing it.ʼ10 Quite the contrary. The priest’s speech turns out to be ‘psychagogicʼ in the double sense that it both manipulates and distracts the listener while pleasing him.                                                              4

Cf. Winkler (1999), 286–345; Morgan (1989); Hunter (2008). Winkler (1999), 331, 333. 6 Morgan (1991), 95–100. 7 Hunter (2008), 820–823. 8 Whitmarsh (2011), 173. 9 Whitmarsh (2011), 234. 10 Winkler (1999), 339. 5

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In light of this basic conclusion, in the last part of the paper I investigate the ‘Socraticʼ blueprint underlying the interaction between Calasiris and Cnemon. The setting of the encounter between the priest and the Athenian prepares the reader for what has to come. In echoing some features of the Phaedrus, Heliodorus invites the reader to bear in mind Socrates’ manipulative technique. As far as we are concerned, as modern readers we should never forget the principal quality of rhetoric: it is ψυχαγωγία τις διὰ λόγων (Phaedrus, 261a8).

Subduing Cnemon: the Trap of ἀφήγησις and Calasiris’ Controlling Technique As I have anticipated, Cnemon appears to be very often a dynamic and interactive listener,11 who both urges on and cuts Calasiris off when the old priest’s narrative does not fit his requirements. I shall start by analyzing Cnemon’s exhortations and intrusions at the very beginning of Calasiris’ story (II 22–24), after they settle down in Nausikles’ house. At first Cnemon declares that he will be content with some basic information:12 a. the reasons for Calasiris’ wanderings: ‘And why all this wandering, father, that you mention?’ (II 22, 4); b. the circumstances leading to the brigands’ assault after which he was separated by his ‘children:ʼ ‘Then will you please relate,’ said Cnemon, ‘How and when you were a victim of the grievous assault?’ (II 22, 5); c. Theagenes’ and Charikleia’s whereabouts: ‘I shall consider myself amply repaid if you will please make clear to me whence that pair came, of what parentage they are, how they arrived here, and what manner of experience have been their lot’ (II 23, 4).13 Yet Calasiris keeps delaying his tale,14 and when Cnemon sees his hopes frustrated for the third time under the pretext of the dinner, he eventually proves to have more complex narrative needs. In fact he ends up asking Calasiris for a veritable piece of theater:                                                              11

See Morgan (1991), 97. Cnemon uses the same technique when he wants to divert Calasiris’ attention from the subject matter of Thisbe (II 24, 2). 13 Heliodorus’ translations are from Morgan (1998). 14 Calasiris is a master in deferring his narrative, thus increasing Cnemon’s expectations: first he suggests he and Cnemon should leave the banks of the Nile and the midday sun (II 21, 6); then he wants to pour libations to the gods, before starting his tale (II 22, 5); finally he decides to eat, in order to prepare himself to the narration (II 23, 4). Each delay gives to Calasiris the chance to spill the beans by revealing some partial and apparently incidental details. 12

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d. ‘The latter, after a little while, said – ‘Dionysus, as you know, father, delights in tales, and loves comedies: he has now taken up his abode in me, and disposes me to be a hearer of something, and he impels me to claim the payment that you promised me; so it is time for you to produce the drama of your story, as it were, upon the stage.’ (II 23, 5) Thus, Calasiris’ diversion induces a change in Cnemon’s point of view. It is the first adjustment in his attitude toward the priest. In the paragraph quoted above and marked with d) the mention of Dyonisus is nothing else but a metaphor of the new penchant for stories developed by Cnemon. Needless to say, Cnemon’s changing response to his interlocutor also implies a shift in the way he construes the story to which he is listening. After the dinner at Nausicles’, Cnemon starts longing for a kind of narrative that is poles apart from what he was expecting upon first meeting the Egyptian priest. The kind of story the Athenian had in mind during his first exchange with Calasris emerges very clearly in the old man’s reply to Cnemon’s requests at II 24, 4: ‘But for the moment let us taste a few morsels of food; for the tale will require a lengthy spell of listening on your part and of relating (ἀφηγέσεως) on mine.ʼ The word used by Calasiris to describe his recounting (ἀφήγησις) is well known from late antique rhetorical treatises.15 The fifth Century rhetor Nicolaus, author of a book on Progymnasmata, provides one of the best and most telling explanations, revolving around the opposition between ἀφήγησις and ἔκφρασις (Prog. 69.18–70.6):16 ‘There being five sections of a speech, as I have frequently said – proemion, narration, antithesis, lusis, epilogue – ekphrasis will prepare us for the narrative section except that it does not give a plain exposition (ψιλὴ ἀφήγησις) but makes use of those elements that create enargeia and bring the subjects of the speech before the eyes and almost make the audience into spectators.ʼ17 Ἀφήγησις and ἀφηγοῦμαι refer to the idea of ‘accouting,’ ‘relating,’ and could be used to denote a historical narration.18 This being the basic meaning of ἀφήγησις, Calasiris seems to claim that he is going to offer a ‘report,ʼ a tidy story, a summary of the facts, accounting for the paradoxes experienced sofar by Cnemon and the reader alike. Such objectivity is of                                                             

15 In what follows I will try to demonstrate that ἀφήγησις is not ‘just a precious variant of διήγησις,ʼ as Tilg (2010), 231 has recently argued. 16 On this passage see Webb (2009), 51–55. 17 Webb (2009), 203. Novelists were keen of such a narrative device. Heliodorus often resorts to it, as we shall see. On this topic see Bartsch (1989), chapter 4 ‘Spectacle,ʼ 109– 143; Bowie (2006), 60–82; Graverini (2007), 173–185. 18 Cf. Lucian, How to Write History 30. Cf. Agapitos (1991), 43–44. Although his focus is on medieval romances, Agapitos shows how flexible the two word groups connected to διηγoύμαι and ἀφηγούμαι were.

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course impracticable, not least because Calasiris is part of the novel itself; he is one of its πρόσωπα. Although he poses as the master of the plot – and he can in fact be seen as Heliodorus’ alter ego – he cannot know all the details and outcomes of the story. As we shall see, ἀφήγησις is indeed granted only to external narrators. Surely enough Calasiris can play the omniscient narrator with Cnemon, who has no clue as to Theagenes’ and Chariclea’s past. Yet, the reader knows all too well that his character is just a pawn among the others on the plot’s chessboard. With the help of Nicolaus, we can better understand the double role played by Calasiris and the unlikelihood of his claims to offer an objective ἀφήγησις to Cnemon (Prog. 12.7–18): ‘There are three different kinds of narratives (τῶν δὲ διηγημάτων): some are narratives in the third person (ἀφηγηματικά), some are dramatic accounts and some are a blend of the two. We have a narrative in the third person when there is just one author’s persona, as it happens with Pindarus; we have a drama,19 when the narrative is not uttered by the author but by one of the charachters in the story as it happens in tragedy and comedy; we have a blend of the two when both elements are present, as it happens in Homer and Herodotus and in other similar narratives, which are partly recounted by the author’s persona and partly by others characters.ʼ So, from the perspective of the reader, both the novel in itself and Calasiris’ speech, with their blend of primary and secondary narrators, appear to be good examples of μικτὰ διηγήματα. But Calasiris is also a character in the novel, therefore performing a δραματικὸν διήγημα. Finally, as a character, the priest tends to present his story as an objective ἀφήγησις, narrated in the third person. Consequently, the term ἀφήγησις provides some insight on how Calasiris as a character assesses his own narrative. There is more. In commenting the first passage by Nicolaus quoted above, Ruth Webb points out that ψιλὴ ἀφήγησις has a lot in common with the more widespread rhetorical notion of διήγησις.20 This latter term used to denote the narrative part of judiciary speeches. However it can also refer to a variety of factual narratives, all basically bound to the truth. In outlining the difference between διήγημα and διήγησις,21 Nicolaus reports an array of different definitions.                                                             

19 As to δραματικὸν διήγημα and the origins of the ancient novel, see Tilg (2010), 202–213. Cf. also Agapitos (1998). 20 Webb (2009), 55. 21 If we adopt Nicolaus’s point of view, the two terms have an English equivalent in ‘reportʼ (διήγησις) / ‘narrativeʼ (διήγημα). Tilg (2010), 208 also proposes the pair narration/narrative. According to my interpretation, in Heliodorus διήγημα represents the rhetorical expansion of a basic narration. Cf. Nicolaus, Prog., 68.11, where διήγησις ψιλὴν ἔχει ἔκθεσιν πραγμάτων. On διήγησις and the novel (and further on πλάσμα) see Morgan (1993), 186–197.

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Sometimes – he says – διήγησις, put in its judicial context, is viewed as a narration representing facts of the judicial case favorable to the speaker. Alternatively, διήγημα is understood as related to a single fact while διήγησις is construed as allied to a chain of events. This last definition surely fits Calasiris’ account. Nevertheless, Nicolaus also adds a third explanation (the issue was subject of discussion in ancient times), running as follows (Prog. 11, 14–12, 2): ‘A narrative (διήγημα) is, as we have already said, an account of events that actually happened or as they could have happened. (…) Other people labeled the account of actual events as report (διήγησις), whereas they called narrative (διήγημα) an account of events as they could have happened.ʼ According to this last passage, διήγησις is interpreted as a report of events which actually happened, in contrast with what is likely or probable. Although likelihood plays a crucial role in the narrative functioning of Heliodorus’ novel as a whole,22 this notion of διήγησις matches very well with Cnemon’s first requests. In order to prove this point, I shall resort again to the texts I have marked with a), b) and c). Here Cnemon asks Calasiris to abide by the rule of the five W’s (and one H):23 he wants to know the reason of Calasiris’ wanderings (why), the place (where) and the time (when) of the attack he underwent, the identity of Theagenes and Chariclea (who) and the events they went through (what), in the way they happened (how). In other words Cnemon is interested precisely in the kind of narrative treatment teachers of rhetoric recommended to students dealing with διήγησις. Let us read again Nicolaus’ account (Prog., 13.14–15): ‘The elements of an account are six: the character, the occurrence, the location, the time, the cause, the manner.ʼ Cnemon himself describes Calasiris’ account as a διήγησις at III 4, 10 and V 1, 4 although at I 8 its own story was depicted as a διήγημα (I 8, 7). Amusingly enough, Cnemon employs the term διήγησις just once when not referring to Calasiris’ speech. After finding the dead body of Thisbe and the tablets with her story, Cnemon expresses his satisfaction as follows (II 11, 1): ‘Thisbe, you have done well to die, and to be yourself the informant of your own misfortunes by delivering the relation of them to us through the very wound of which you died (αὐτάγγελος τῶν ἑαυτῆς συμφορῶν ἐξ αὐτῶν ἐγχειρίσασα τῶν σῶν σφαγῶν τὴν διήγησιν). Thus an avenging Fury, it would seem, has driven you from land to land, not ceasing to ply the scourge of justice until I, chancing to be in Egypt, am here the injured person made a witness of your punishment.ʼ                                                              22 23

See Hunter (2008), 808, 823–824. See Hunter (2008), 818–819.

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Thisbe’s fatal wounds make her passing away a ‘factual and reliable report,ʼ a διήγησις which can be fully trusted because it relies upon eyewitness testimony and tangible evidence.24 Clearly, in this passage Cnemon uses διήγησις to express the notion of ‘objective account.ʼ Further on, he compares the credibility of Thisbe’s and Demaenete’s deaths, the latter having been reported to him by his friend Charias (II 11, 2): ‘For I, even when you lie dead, still hold you suspect, and greatly fear that the death of Demaenete is a mere fiction (πλάσμα), and that I was deceived by those who reported it, while you came far across the ocean to enact even in Egypt another scene of Attic drama for my undoing.ʼ As a matter of fact, going back to Book I, it appears that Thisbe was the ultimate source for Demaenete’s whereabouts. Charias, as he explains to Cnemon, had gained knowledge about the woman’s story precisely thanks to the young slave.25 As the girl was ‘on intimate terms with himʼ (I 14, 5), she had recounted to him ‘every least detail about what was said and done.ʼ26 Given the unreliability of the source, Cnemon has every reason to think that the death of his step-mother might have been completely made up. It could be a veritable fiction, plotted by Thisbe and surviving her death. In the light of the two passages the antithesis διήγησις / πλάσμα surfaces quite clearly. In order to understand Cnemon’s rhetorical awareness, a further point should be made. In rhetorical discourse, πλάσμα is indeed one of the most common ways to describe fictional tales, sharing with myths and fables the fact of being made up, even though πλάσματα diverge from myths as they depict possible events.27 Now, in introducing his doubts about Charias’ story, Cnemon describes Thisbe as a sly sophist at work, a professional liar (II 11, 2): ‘But what, I wonder, was the further artful scheme which you were devising against me in writing this letter (τεχναζομένην καὶ σοφιστεύουσαν διὰ τοῦ γράμματος)?ʼ Interestingly enough, we find here the same verb, σοφιστεύω, employed by Calasiris in his reply to Cnemon, at first protesting against the long –

                                                            

24 From this point of view, although introduced in a similar way (in both cases we find a mention of what is probable εἰκός), as remarked by Hunter (2008), 810 n. 22, Thysbe’s letter and Persinna’s embroidered shawl (IV 5, 1) are radically different. I shall enlarge on this issue in the next pages. 25 On Charias’ narrative, see Nimis (2009), 83–87 (in particular 87). 26 I 14, 5: Ἔλαθε δέ με τῶν γεγονότων ἢ λεχθέντων οὐδέν, τῆς Θίσβης, ὡς οἶσθα, κατὰ τὴν πρός με συνήθειαν πάντα διηγουμένης. 27 See again Nicolaus, Prog., 13.9–13, with Webb (2009), 169 (see also on πλάσμα 175–77; 180).

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and seemingly superfluous – digression on herdsmen (II 24, 5):28 ‘I will relate to you my own history, first quite briefly (ἐπιτεμῶν), not complicating (σοφιστεύων) my narrative (ἀφήγησιν) as you imagine, but providing (παρασκευάζων) an orderly, consecutive account for your hearing.ʼ Thus, Calasiris deceptively complies with Cnemon’s narrative needs29 and promises a true, linear and well arranged ἀφήγησις. Calasiris, moreover, starts precisely by answering Cnemon’s first question about the priest’s wanderings. However, his description of the narrative he plans to offer is not devoid of irony. As a matter of fact, Calasiris begins a story that will represent him as constantly busy ‘cheatingʼ (σοφιστεύων). The self-portrait Calasiris outlines is that of a manipulative fellow, using his own ability as raconteur to reach personal goals. Moreover, one of Calasiris’ favorite techniques is to simulate submission to his interlocutor. He ostensibly accepts Cnemon’s conditions just as with Charicles, who had asked him to cure Chariclea’s secret pain. According to his own words (III 18, 3): ‘I acknowledged my remissness, artfully dissembling (σοφιστεύων) with him also; and I requested him to allow me the space of that day, since I had to concoct something to apply as a remedy.ʼ Again, as he does in storytelling, Calasiris uses delays to lead astray his listener, while pretending to meet his wishes. Later on, he recommends the very same method to Chariclea (VI 9, 7). So, in like manner, the Egyptian priest is well aware that the narrative desires of Cnemon cannot be so easily fulfilled. Accordingly, his tale is anything but short and concise. In fact Calasiris’ statement at II 24, 5 is self-contradictory. He suggests the idea of a brief summary, by resorting to the verb ἐπιτέμνω. Yet, ἐπιτέμνω recurs again in book 5, when Calasiris decides to retell his story to Nausicles, in order to gain his favour and to manipulate him (V 16, 5). Here Heliodorus overtly states that in this latter version the priest glosses over irrelevant details and provides just a synopsis of his own wanderings (ὡσπερεὶ κεφαλαιούμενος). Calasiris cuts a long story short (ἐπιτεμνόμενος), summarizing what he had previously told Cnemon. The account heard by Nausicles – actually short and concise – is depicted as the opposite of the long and elaborate tale Calasiris had told Cnemon, thus disclosing once again the priest’s ‘mendacity.ʼ To sum up, it is quite obvious that the interwoven stories of Calasiris, Theagenes and Chariclea are too complicated and convoluted to be fully                                                              28

On Cnemon’s allegation and this passage, see Whitmarsh (2011), 234–235. Whitmarsh thinks that Calasiris’ narrative is influenced by Dio of Prusa (see the paragraph “The wandering narrative,” 231–235). 29 Cf. Hunter’s words (2008), 818 about Cnemon as conceiving of “̔narrative’ as a journey in a straight line.” Hunter (2008), 819 also underlies that Calasiris’ opening words recall the beginning of Cnemon’s tale.

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recounted according to the simple διήγησις requested by the Athenian.30 Equally obvious is the fact that Calasiris is not the kind of character that would overtly contradict Cnemon’s desires. So, although he constantly describes his speech as a ‘reportʼ or ‘account,ʼ31 he cleverly pilots his listener toward a more sophisticated variety of narrative.

Emotions on Stage: The Visual Spell of διήγημα As Ruth Webb suggests, Cnemon is ‘a listener avid for spectacle; he represents a type of sensuous involvement in the narration that would (…) not have seemed (…) incongruous to the ancient reader.ʼ32 This portrait surfaces very well also in the text quoted above and marked with d). However, as accurate as such description may be, Cnemon’s visual needs were, as we have seen, induced by Calasiris’ rhetorical skillfulness. The priest is aware that he is not going to perform an objective διήγησις but rather a διήγημα in its own right.33 In fact, as I have anticipated, διήγησις is attested in Heliodorus only in relation to Calasiris’ speech. Otherwise both the external and the many internal narrators use διήγημα to describe and refer to the events and episodes shaping the novel.34 It is far from surprising. Already Chariton had elected this very same word to designate the novel’s plot. Moreover, the title featuring in the manuscript speaks volumes: Τὰ περὶ Χαιρέαν καὶ                                                              30

On the contrary, Cnemon had built his story exactly on these structural pillars. As Hunter (2008), 805 has described it, it is a story told ‘in a sequential, non-digressive style, a model of the kind of ‘romance’ which Heliodorus set out to bury forever.ʼ Cp. Winkler (1999), 300–301. 31 See II 23, 4; II 23, 6; II 24, 5 (ἀφήγησις makes the verb διηγέομαι more specific, clarifying the narrative typolgy Calasiris refers to); III 1, 2. Remarkably, among Heliodorus’ secondary narratives, Calasiris’ story is the only one to be labeled as ἀφήγησις. 32 Webb (2009), 184 33 What is more, it is a διήγημα with a peculiar ‘ekphrasticʼ character. As a matter of fact, Calasiris replies to Cnemon at II 23, 5, by saying ‘You will hear what you wantʼ and then he mentions ἀφήγησις again. Yet, Cnemon asked to τὸ δρᾶμα καθάπερ ἐπὶ σκηνῆς τῷ λόγῳ διασκευάζειν. The key word here is διασκευάζειν, pointing to the rhetorical device of διασκευή or διατύπωσις (Ps.-Hermog., Inv. 3, 15), which has to do with a visual and convoluted variety of narration. See Webb (2009), 71 f. Thus, in promising to Cnemon to produce an ἀφήγησις, Calasris turns out to be self-contradictory. He seems not to acknowledge the change in Cnemon’s desires, by pretending to stick to his first request (a clear, tidy narrative). 34 See for instance II 30, 1 (Charicles about his own story); II 31, 2 (the mysterious men approaching Charicles in Catadoupa, about Chariclea’s childhood). The fact that διήγημα is not a very reliable form of narration surfaces when Calasiris addresses the tales about Egypt so dear to the Greeks (II 27, 3). See also Whitmarsh (1998), 119 with further bibliography and some remarks concerning Persinna’s swathe.

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Καλλιρόην ἐρωτικὰ διηγήματα. Were that not enough, Chariton’s characters refer over and over again to their own misadventures as διηγήματα. In the few authorial interventions scattered throughout the story Chariton himself uses the verb διηγέομαι to describe his own storytelling.35 A closer look at the novel of Chaereas and Callirhoe can help us better to understand the key features of Calasiris speech. In particular I would like to focus here on a couple of examples of διήγημα in Chariton. Starting from these cases in point, I endeavour to explain 1) what Heliodorus understands under the word διήγημα and 2) how Cnemon gets gradually involved in Calasiris’ vivid story.

Hidden under the Coils: Calasiris’ διήγημα Let us start with the first point. In Chariton’s novel, the barely credible misfortunes of the heroine (Scheintod, kidnapping, slavery etc.) are repeatedly described as a διήγημα, both by Callirhoe herself and by the other characters of the novel. Thus, when first asked by Dionysius to relate her origins, Callirhoe alleges that her own story is too hard to believe. Although offended by Dionysius, who suspects she might have done something terrible, she does not enlarge upon her story (II 5, 8–9): ‘Do not insult me! I have no crime on my conscience. But since my past history is so much more worthy of respect than my present lot, I do not want to appear boastful or tell a story which those who do not know me would not believe (διηγήματα ἄπιστα τοῖς ἀγνοοῦσι), for my early life does not match my condition now.ʼ36 Dionysius’s reply stresses the role of Callirhoe as a catalyst of the novel. The girl is represented as embodying, or better, exceeding the vividness and the vibrancy of any kind of narrative (II 5, 9–10): ‘I already understand you, even if you say no more. But do tell about it. You can say nothing about yourself which compares with what we see. Any story, however vivid, is bound to fall short of you.ʼ

                                                            

35 See for instance I 1, 1 and V 1, 2 (and cf. II 5, 8 Dionysius asks Callirhoe to recount her story and IV 2, 15, again about Callirhoe’s story). On historiographical narrative patterns in Chariton’s novel see Alvares (1997; 2000). Tilg (2010), 213–230 has recently provided a summary of all the occurrences of διήγημα and διηγέομαι in Chariton’s novel. See also Hunter (1994). 36 Cf. Callirhoe’s words at II 9, 3 (talking to her still unborn child and mentioning the story of her hardships: τῶν περὶ τῆς μητρὸς διηγημάτων); V 5, 3 (after a short summary of her misfortunes, she complains by saying: διήγημα καὶ τῆς Ἀσίας καὶ τῆς Εὐρώπης γέγονα). Chariton’s translations are from Goold (1995).

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Dionysius’ admiring words tend to represent Callirhoe’s body as a selfevident revelation, one that no word could match.37 However, both her physical appearance and her story deeply affect the listener/viewer, by eliciting a wide array of mixed feelings.38 Thus, rumors always both anticipate and follow Callirhoe’s deeds when she arrives in new places.39 It is as if Φήμη prepared the audience for the sight of her beauty, setting up the right emotional tone and providing the crowd with a sort of ‘mental preview.ʼ Emotions are brought about by a διήγημα that fosters visualization through its pathetic overtones and paves the way to the actual show. As a result the audience is prey to astonishment (ἔκπληξις) and upheaval. This narrative pattern surfaces quite clearly in the passage where Fame brings Callirhoe’s story back to Sicily (III 4, 1): ‘But rumor arrived there first: naturally swift, on that occasion she made extra speed to report this extraordinary situation. So everyone quickly assembled on the seashore, and every kind of emotion was expressed at the same time: people wept, marveled, inquired, and disbelieved, astounded by the strange tale (ἐξέπληττε γὰρ αὐτοὺς τὸ καινὸν διήγημα).ʼ The crowd gathered on the seashore reacts to the news concerning Callirhoe as if they were in a theater.40 The tale becomes a visual performance, enthralling the spectators. It should also be noted that, during his first dialogue with Callirhoe, Dionysius shows the same kind of response as the people assembled in Syracuse. In this case, though, the girl need not talk: her physical presence is powerful enough to get Dionysius flabbergasted (καταπλαγείς) and speechless (II 5, 4). A few words from Callirhoe and he finds himself in tears (II                                                              37

On Callirhoe’s body and its connection to cultual visuality see Zeitlin (2003), also dwelling on the novel’s theatricality. 38 Under the spell of her loveliness, Dionysius finds himself in turmoil and goes through contrasting emotions, sharpened by memory (II 3, 3–4). When he thinks of her mysterious story, he feels the same mental confusion, as he says to Leonas (II 4, 7): ‘You have brought fire into my house, or rather, into my heart. The very mystery which surrounds the woman worries me (ταράσσει). You tell me a fairy story (μῦθον) about some merchant whom you do not know, nor where he came from, nor where he has gone to.ʼ In as much as it lacks the essential details (again who, where, why), Leonas’ story cannot be believed and is therefore labeled as a μῦθος. The same word, μῦθος, together with ὄνειρος, is employed later by Callirhoe to describe her past, which would appear inconceivable to Dionysius (II 5, 7). Her personal history, yet, overlaps with the novel’s plot. On the astonishment brought about by Leucippe’s body in Achilles Tatius’ novel see Morales (2004), 156–165. 39 See for instance II 3, 9; III 2, 7; III 4, 1; Ι 7, 5 with Tilg (2010), 242–254 (in particular 246–252). 40 The same happens before the actual ‘beauty contestʼ between Callirhoe and Rhodogune (V 3, 5–9): see IV 7, 5–7; V 3, 1–2. On theatricality in the ancient novel see again Morgan (1991), 86 (with further literature) and Morales (2004), 60–77.

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5, 7). The spectacle of διήγημα is therefore a substitute for the visual wonder represented by the heroine’s body – and vice versa. Going now back to Heliodorus, we may notice that his novel shows a very similar pattern. The extraordinary nature of the heroine’s body is inscribed in and reflected by the text, with all its twists and unbelievable paradoxes.41 Moreover, the nodal point of Chariclea’s origins, i.e. the explanation of her white color embroidered by Persinna on the swathe, is a reified διήγημα (IV 8).42 Persinna’s account is in fact the core of the novel, the crucial and triggering story. Accordingly, when decoding the swathe, Calasiris eventually transforms himself from narrator into reader. At a metadiegetic level we see the priest reading a tale that, like the whole novel, rests mainly on the tricks of visualization and imagination.43 Persinna’s stare sets in motion the events of a plot where the gaze always plays a central role. Here we watch Calasiris as he envisages – and so do we – Persinna sewing the διήγημα of her own misfortunes. As readers we go through a genuine Chinese boxes visual game, since we observe Calasiris who interprets an account that describes Persinna staring at the naked Andromeda. Obviously, just as in the case of Callirhoe’s incredible trials, Persinna’s account is barely plausible. Besides, the tale of the Ethiopian queen is even more subjective, in as much as it is based on her personal interpretation of the power of φαντασία and she is also the only witness of the truth. So, with its mindboggling subject matter, the swathe, as an objectified διήγημα, elicits strong emotions and mixed feelings. That is why, when Chariclea is requested to provide evidence that she is the king’s daughter, she decides to produce the drape immediately, rather than to recount the story again, as one would have expected.44 As far-fetched as it may be, the swathe is nevertheless the ultimate proof, the written tale of Chariclea’s strange fate, bequeathed by her mother (X 12, 4): ‘For my written evidence                                                              41

Parallels between the text and the feminine body are not unusual: for a telling example see Pozzi (2004) and Höschele (2012) on Aristaenetus, with further literature. On the ‘diverseʼ character of such an embroidered text (it is a letter, an inscription, a defense speech, and, I would add, a tale worthy of paradoxographical collections), see Slater (2009), 73. 42 On this narrative trick, see Hilton (1998) and again Whitmarsh (1998), 118–122. 43 Chariclea owes her color to Persinna’s visual φαντασία (X, 14, 7) and visualization is one of the mean features of Calasiris’ story. See Núnez (2006). On the role of φαντασία in Persinna’s story see Reeve (1989), 84 and Dilke (1980), 264–266. See also Whitmarsh (2002) and Elmer (2008), 429–433 with further literature. I intend to dwell on the issue of the ‘affecting gazeʼ in my next monograph on imagination and the beholder in late antique and Byzantine aesthetics. 44 Thus Heliodorus can also avoid retelling a story already known by the reader.

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I present here a narrative of both my and your fortunes (τάδε τύχης τῆς ἐμῆς τε καὶ ὑμῶν διηγήματα).ʼ However, the objectified tale triggers exactly the same response as a proper, verbal διήγημα. Hence, when Calasiris finally comes to answer Cnemon’s crucial question (‘What are Chariclea’s origins?ʼ), the way the priest presents his reaction45 to the discovery reminds us of the astonished crowd in Chariton’s novel (IV 9, 1):46 ‘When I had read these words, Cnemon, I recognized and admired the wise dispensation of the gods. Filled with mingled feelings of pleasure and pain, I went through the singular experience (πάθος τι καινότερον) of weeping and rejoicing at the same moment. My soul felt relaxed by the discovery of the unknown facts and the conclusive explanation of the oracle; but I was greatly harassed with thoughts of what result the future might bring, and stirred with pity for the instability and infirmity of human life.ʼ Furthermore, in Persinna’s intentions the embroidered account should function, as an alternative for direct vision and actual intercourse.47 The swathe plays the same role as Charitonʼs Φήμη, anticipating presence and vision. The tale is a substitute for mutual gaze and dialogue in person (IV, 8, 8): ‘This account I have given you, availing myself of the service of script since the deity has deprived me of living and visual converse with you (τὰς ἐμψύχους καὶ ἐν ὀφθαλμοῖς ὁμιλίας).ʼ Not surprisingly, right after acknowledging Chariclea as his daughter, Hydaspes invites her to rush to Persinna’s tent and cheer her up with her physical presence. The mother wants to enjoy Chariclea’s company, and, of course, to be paid back with a good share of stories (X 18, 3): ‘You will not only fill her heart with gladness, for she labours now more with yearning for the enjoyment of your company than with pain when she was bearing you; but you will also soothe her with the relation of your adventures (καὶ τοῖς κατὰ σαυτὴν διηγήμασι παρηγοροῦσα).ʼ

                                                             45

On Calasiris’ response see again Hunter (2008), 807. See Winkler (1999), 318–319. In Heliodorus the crowd may become a substitute for the reader. It happens for instance with the Ethiopians at the end of the novel: X 9, 1; X 15, 1; X 17, 3; X 30, 5; X 32, 3; X 38, 3. The relevant passages have been listed and analyzed by Morgan (1991), 91. On the mixed feelings prompted by the novelistic tale see Repath (2007). In the ancient novel, the response of the characters often mirrors that of the reader as shown by Luca Graverini in a paper on the metamorphosis of the hero in the ancient novel: see http://www.griseldaonline.it/percorsi/metamorfosi/graverini.htm. 47 Hunter (2008), 810: ‘It is not hard, I think, to move from Persinna’s hopes for her narrative of ‘Charikleia’ to Heliodorus’ for his.ʼ The swathe also functions as a letter: see Whitmarsh (1998), 119. 46

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Losing Track, Finding the Snake To sum up, when starting his account, Calasiris already knows that the story will end up in a highly emotional and dramatic διήγημα. Persinna’s tale is the ultimate answer to Cnemon’s questions. Nothing could be more different from an objective report. That is why, through consecutive delays, Calasiris prepares his listener to accept – and even expect – a truth which is actually very hard to believe.48 He softens Cnemon, leading him to ask for a vivid and theatrical narrative. Therefore, little by little, we watch the young man while he yields to Calasiris’ manipulative technique. Cnemon does not fall immediately in Calasiris’ trap. Admittedly, he changes his mind about his own ‘narrative needsʼ quite early in the second book, when he asks for a veritable ‘piece of theaterʼ: see text d) above. Yet, in the early stages of the story he still demonstrates himself to be a fairly critical listener. In fact, at first he does not appear to be fully under Calasiris’ spell. The ongoing change surfaces very clearly in Cnemon’s response to digressions and descriptions, two major features of the story uttered by the priest. Cnemon’s reaction to Calasiris’ rambling style repays close attention. The first digression we come across is right at the beginning of Calasiris’ speech. It is related to the herdsmen-subplot and, in fact, prompted by Cnemon himself, which is further evidence that the young man has still some control of the narrative. However, when the priest starts expanding too much on the secondary narrative, Cnemon blames him for being like a proteiform sophist, trying to lead the listener astray through unnecessary trivia49. He brings Calasiris back to the point and the priest seems to comply with his requests, by promptly resuming his ἀφήγησις. A couple of paragraphs later, Calasiris even points again to the fact that he shall gloss over irrelevant details about the middle stages of his wanderings, as they have nothing to do with Cnemon’s requests (II 26, 1). Nevertheless, Calasiris’ taking such an ‘ossifiedʼ storytelling to the extreme produces the opposite result. At the beginning of book III he gives a cursory account of the big festival in Delphi, cutting his story extremely short and leaving out all details. Yet, in doing so, he arouses the curiosity of Cnemon, who now wants to become a spectator of the procession (III 1, 1). Not surprisingly, as Tim Whitmarsh puts it, Calasiris ‘turns the tables on Cnemonʼ and points out that his ἀφήγησις is intended to dwell only on the crucial points of the story (III 1, 2): ‘I am far for whishing, Cnemon (…) to pester you                                                              48

Relating this scene, see Elmer (2008), 414–416. Heliodorus himself adopts the very same ‘procrastination technique:ʼ see IX 24, 4 and Whitmarsh (1998), 114–115. 49 Shapeshifting Proteus was deemed to be the embodiment of rhetorical ποικιλία (Tissoni [1998], 80–84).

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with incidental matters such as these; I am for pressing on to the more momentous points in my relation [ἀφήγησις], and to the questions that you raised with me at the beginning.ʼ From this moment on, Cnemon will not question the digressive style of the Egyptian any longer. It is quite the contrary, in fact. In at least two cases, while Calasiris is willing to go straight to the point, Cnemon asks him to suspend his narration in order to expand on minor issues. Accordingly, the priest embarks on two long digressions on the meaning of divine visions and on Homer’s Egyptian birth (III 12–14). The roles of the two characters are now completely reversed. Calasiris has successfully cast his spell. Cnemon’s response to Calasiris’ vivid narrative follows precisely the same blueprint. At I 26, when the priest describes Delphi and mount Parnassus for the first time, Cnemon responds to the ἔκφρασις as an educated listener should do. He does not yield to the vividness of the depiction, but wisely compares it with what he previously knew. He admires Calasiris’ rhetorical skillfulness, but, so to say, from a distance (II 26, 3):50 ‘Admirably spoken,ʼ said Cnemon, ‘as by one who actually felt upon him the Pythian afflatus. So it was that my father used to describe the position of Delphi, after the citizens of Athens had sent him as recorder to oversee the ceremonies.ʼ Cnemon weights up the precision and carefulness of Calasiris’ words, without falling victim of imaginative delusions.51 Yet his coolness will not last long. In Book III he surrenders unconditionally to the evocative power of Calasiris’ discourse. I am thinking here of the well-known scene where, under the influence of Calasiris’ speech, Cnemon addresses Theagenes and Chariclea, as if they were present in person (III 4, 7):52 ‘It is they – Chariclea and Theagenes!ʼ cried Cnemon. ‘And where in the world are they? By the gods, I beg you, tell me!ʼ said Calasiris, fancying that they were visible to Cnemon. ‘I thought that I had sight of them, father,ʼ he replied, ‘although they were not there, so vividly, so truly as I recall seeing them, has your description brought them before me.ʼ This scene represents the apex of a crescendo, in which Calasiris keeps representing his tale as a theatrical work (III 1–2): at the end he himself falls – or pretends to fall – prey to his own ploy. Be that as it may, one can appreciate the adjustment in Cnemon’s behavior as a narratee: wary at                                                              50

See Hunter (2008), 816. Cnemon behaves like a well educated listener, conscious of the rhetorical tricks inherent to the ekphrastic discourse. See for counterexamples Whitmarsh (2011), 173 f. 52 A great deal of studies has been devoted to this passage. Suffice it to mention Whitmarsh (2011), 172–176 and Graverini (2007), 176–178, summarizing all previous literature. 51

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first, he yields to the visual power of Calasiris’ speech later on during the long storytelling night. Now, I would like to go back to my opening quotation. The kind of changes Cnemon undergoes is exactly the same as that outlined many centuries later by Psellos. The Byzantine reader was affected in the same way as the fictional listener. The first response to digressions and lengthy descriptions is one of annoyance and irritation. But then the reader understands very quickly that detours are functional to the story. They lead straight to its hidden core. In order to understand the rationale of the story, the reader must diligently follow all the twists of the text.53 He has to be amazed (θαυμάσεται)54 – just like Cnemon – giving himself up to the master of the tale. Fighting against the storytelling snake – as Cnemon initially tries and Psellos is tempted to do – may backfire, since the reader finds himself all the more entangled in the beast’s coils.

Cnemon: a Phaedrus in Disguise? In dealing with the opening scene between Leucippe and Clitophon, Luca Graverini has recently shown how the attitude of the external narrator/novelist falls within the traditional ‘willing suspension of disbelief.ʼ55 Pleasantness, amazement, wonder are the main components of the novel’s ideal listener/reader, eager to poke his nose in barely credible stories. I would argue that this is precisely the mind-set that Calasiris tries to induce in Cnemon. As Graverini and others have pointed out, the setting which frames Achilles Tatius’ novel is shaped according to Plato’s Phaedrus, to the extent that the novel as a whole has been labeled as a ‘Phaedran text.ʼ56 Not surprisingly hints at the Phaedrus and more in general at Socrates can be detected also in the encounter between Cnemon and Calasiris encounter.57 The two characters meet at noon on the banks of a river (here the Nile, there the Ilyssus); Calasiris addresses Cnemon with the same words Socrates uses with Phaedrus;58 when asked to report his own story Calasiris re                                                             53

See Whitmarsh (2011), 121–122. Wonder is also the first feeling elicited in Cnemon by Calasiris’ words and appearance (II 21, 4 and 5). 55 Graverini (2010), 68. See also Tilg (2010), 223. 56 Ní Mheallaigh (2007), 232. See also Repath (2007), 70. 57 On Calasiris as something in-between the charlatan and the philosopher see also Sandy (1982). On Calasiris’s philosophical attitude see also Morgan (2007), 35; 39 f. and Dowden (2007), 144–148. 58 Cf. Phdr. 227a1 (ὦ φίλε Φαῖδρε, ποῖ δὴ καὶ πόθεν;) and Hel. II 21, 5 (Ἀλλὰ ποῖ δὴ πορεύῃ καὶ πόθεν, ὦ νεανία). At 257c8 Socrates calls Phaedrus νεανία: it is the only 54

 

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sorts to a Platonic ‘formula,ʼ the very same one we find in Achilles Tatius’ overture;59 just like Phaedrus, the young Athenian is described as an insatiable listener (through the Platonic keyword φιλήκοος).60 Furthermore, at some point Calasiris declares to be ‘pregnantʼ with the story (II 21, 6): ‘You are filled with a desire to hear my story, and I on my part am with child (ὠδίνω) to relate it to somebody.ʼ It goes without saying that the verb ὠδίνω immediately brings to mind the well known portrait of the pregnant philosopher in the Symposium61 and Alcibiades’ subsequent image of the ‘stuffedʼ Silenus,62 as a simile describing Socrates himself. What is more, the pregnancy-image is also used in the Phaedrus. In describing the growth of the soul’s wings under the effect of beauty, Socrates resorts to medical terms associated with childbirth.63 Significantly, later on in the novel Calasiris seems to echo precisely this passage. In narrating the moment when Theagenes and Chariclea exchange their gazes and fall in love, he hints at the effluence of beauty mentioned in the Phaedrus (III 5, 4).64 True to his multifaceted style, Heliodorus also provides Calasiris’ portrait as Socrates with a witty touch of mockery. Thus, when the priest debates with Cnemon the ideal location for their discourses, he ends up subverting the model, by pointing out that the noon sun is in no way apt to long discourses (II 21, 6): ‘Let us leave these banks of the Nile, and the Nile itself, for there can be no pleasure (ἡδύ)65 in listening to narrations of some length in a place that is being burnt up by the midday sun.ʼ In contrast, Socrates in the Phaedrus (258e–259d) claims that he cannot but keep on talking under the burning mid-day heat. And so does his interlocutor, as they are both fond of speeches. Although pregnant with λόγοι, Calasiris proves to be less committed to λόγος than Socrates. In the Phaedrus, at some point Socrates is tempted to cross the river, leaving its banks,                                                              passage in the genuine dialogues where his character employs this form of address. It shall also be noted that Cnemon is not so young as to actually earn the name of ‘νεανίας.ʼ 59 See Hel. II 21, 5 (καὶ σμῆνος κακῶν καὶ τὸν ἐκ τούτων βόμβον ἄπειρον ἐπὶ σεαυτὸν κινεῖς) and R. 450a10–b1 (ἃ νῦν ὑμεῖς παρακαλοῦντες οὐκ ἴστε ὅσον ἑσμὸν λόγων ἐπεγείρετε). Cf. also Achilles Tatius I 1, 2 (Σμῆνος ἀνεγείρεις, εἶπε, λόγων· τὰ γὰρ ἐμὰ μύθοις ἔοικε, Clitophon to the external narrator). On this topic see again Graverini (2010), 61–63. 60 See Hel. III 4, 11 and Phdr. 228a–b (as to φιλήκοος cf. inter alia R. 535d5 or Euthd. 304b6: it is one of the prerequisites for the aspirant philosopher). 61 208e–209d: it is Socrates’ (i.e. Diotima’s) discourse. In Tht. 148e–151d, Socrates helps pregnant Theaetetus give birth to his thoughts. On tales of pregnancy used as metaphors for mimesis and literary creation see Hunter (2009), 107–127. 62 215a–b. 63 251a–252a. 64 See Graverini (2010), 80. 65 Cfr. Phdr. 230c2.

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because he feels that there is no need of long discourses (241e6–242a2). He eventually stays just because Phaedrus urges him to do so. Calasiris, on the other hand, eventually leaves the banks of river, crossing the Nile together with Cnemon, because he feels that the place is unsuitable for extensive conversation (II 21, 6; II 22, 1). These differences point to the underlying similarity: both Calasiris and Socrates in the Phaedrus share the same dialectical technique. They seemingly comply with their interlocutors, influencing them and altering their vision of the world. Socrates appears to be literally elusive, when he wraps his head before uttering his first speech, in ‘Lysianʼ style (237a4–5). In so doing he meets Phaedrus’ ‘narrative needsʼ – as he explicitly declares.66 Yet we know all too well that this first compromise with Phaedrus’ taste is only designed to subvert the youngster’s uncritical gusto for rhetoric. Thus Socrates fully exploits for his own purposes the definition of the ῥητορική τέχνη he gives at 261a7–b2: ‘Is not rhetoric in its entire nature an art which leads the soul (ψυχαγωγία; cf. 271c10) by means of words, not only in law courts and the various other public gatherings, but in private companies as well? And is it not the same when concerned with small things as with great, and, properly speaking, no more to be esteemed in important than in trifling matters? Is this what you have heard?ʼ In what follows Socrates goes on to describe the sneakiness of rhetoric, emphasizing its shifting perspectives (261d), resemblances (261e), and deception (262a–b). We have here what might work as an accurate description of Calasiris’ modus operandi. What is more, both Calasiris and Socrates (227c5; 263d7) dwell on ἐρωτικοὶ λόγοι – as does Clitophon in Achilles Tatius, for that matter.67 Similarly, both Phaedrus and Cnemon (under the influence of Calasiris’ spell) are eager to hear speeches about love, as Cnemon declares at IV 4, 3 – and both end up hearing ‘something completely differentʼ with respect to what they expected. Socrates complies with Phaedrus’ lust for speeches and decides to endure the heat (242a7– b5). Yet, at the same time, he presents his friend with a radically new variety of discourse (242c–d). In a way he covertly seduces his listener in order to lead him astray. Similarly Cnemon ascribes a spelling and charming quality to the love story of Theagenes and Chariclea (IV 4, 3: θέλγεσθαι).68 The same ‘psychagogicʼ trait is to be found in Achilles Tatius. Yet in Leu                                                             66

Socrates says that he is ‘forcedʼ by Phaedrus’ requests to produce a myth (237a9– b1): τοῦ μύθου, ὅν με ἀναγκάζει ὁ βέλτιστος οὑτοσὶ λέγειν, ἵν’ ὁ ἑταῖρος αὐτοῦ, καὶ πρότερον δοκῶν τούτῳ σοφὸς εἶναι, νῦν ἔτι μᾶλλον δόξῃ. 67 Quite accurately Whitmarsh (2011), 175 characterizes them as erotikoi, while he underlines that this fact does not imply an erotic relationship with Theagenes and Chariclea. I would add that they are erotikoi in a Platonic-Phaedran sense. 68 The novel’s discourse is quintessentially sweet, as shown by Graverini (2007), 1– 55.

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cippe and Cleitophon, as I have already said, the references to the Phaedrus are way more explicit and so is the vocabulary employed by Achilles Tatius. Therefore the erotic discourse is straight away labeled as ‘psychagogicʼ at least twice.69 The psychological change undergone by Cnemon right through Calasiris’ account must be read against the background of the interaction between Socrates and Phaedrus in the Platonic dialogue. Not surprisingly, yet, the relationship between Heliodorus and his model is far from straightforward. In the preamble of the Phaedrus we see Socrates busy rejecting rationalistic explanations of olds myths (229a–e: the starting point is the legend of Borea and Oreithyia).70 In particular he refuses to deal with fabulous creatures, hybrids like Chimaera, Pegasus, the Centaurs. He also rejects the idea that unbelievable tales be rearranged according to a principle of likelihood (229e2: κατὰ τὸ εἰκός). Now, as we have seen, εἰκός represents the rationale of Heliodorus’ novel. In fact, the Phaedran subtext is appropriated by Heliodorus and by the other extant ancient novelists, precisely by advocating the kind of wonderous narrative discarded by Socrates. However pregnant with λόγοι, Calasiris does not lead Cnemon toward philosophical discourse. He prepares him to enjoy (and believe in) the pleasures of paradox. He appropriates Socratic means to altogether different ends. If we think back to the core story in Calasiris’ tale (Chariclea’s ‘fantasticʼ origin), we soon realize that it is nothing but a rationalistic – and bearly credible, for that matter – explanation (an enactment of Persinna’s imaginative power) of the birth of a hybrid creature, half white and half black.71 Calasiris’ cunningness works wonders indeed: by bending the old Socratic method to the novel novel’s μυθολόγημα, he makes the impossible sound possible.

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–. (2000), “Chariton’s Use of Thucydides’ History in Introducing the Egyptian Revolt (Chaireas and Callirhoe 6.8)”, Mnemosyne 53, 1–11. Bartsch, S. (1989), Decoding the Ancient Novel: The Reader and the Role of Description in Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Bowie, E. (2006), “Viewing and Listening on the Novelist’s Page”, in Byrne, S.N.; Cueva, E.P. and Alvares, J. (eds.), Authors, Authority, and Interpreters in the Ancient Novel. Groningen: Ancient Narrative Suppl. 5, 60–83. Dick, A. R. (1986), Michael Psellus, The Essays on Euripides and George of Pisidia and on Heliodorus and Achilles Tatius. Vienna: Verlag der Österreichischen Akademie der Wissenschaften. Dilke, O. A. W. (1980), “Heliodorus and the Colour Problem”, PP 193, 264–271. Dowden, K. (2007), “Novel Ways of Being Philosophical or a Tale of Two Dogs and a Phoenix”, in Morgan, J.R. and Jones, M. (eds.), Philosophical Presences in the Ancient Novel. Groningen: Ancient Narrative Suppl. 10, 137–149. Elmer, D. F. (2008), “Heliodoros’s ‘Sources’: Intertextuality, Paternity, and the Nile River in the Aithiopika”, TAPhA 138, 411–450. Futre Piñeiro, M. (1991), “Calasiris’ Story and its Narrative Significance in Heliodorus’ Aethiopica”, in Hofmann, H. (ed.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel, vol. IV. Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 69–83. Goold, G.P. (1995), Chariton, Callirhoe. Loeb Classical Library: Cambridge, Mass. Graverini, L. (2007), Le Metamorfosi di Apuleio. Letteratura e identità. Ospedaletto: Pacini Editore. –. (2010), “Amore, ‘dolcezza’, stupore. Romanzo antico e filosofia”, in Uglione, R. (ed.), Lector, intende, laetaberis. Il romanzo dei greci e dei romani. Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso, 57–88. –. “Metamorfosi dell’eroe, dall’epos al romanzo. Il caso di Achille Tazio” http://www.griseldaonline.it/percorsi/metamorfosi/graverini.htm Harris, M. (2001), “Not Black and/or White: Reading Racial Difference in Heliodorusʼs Ethiopica and Pauline Hopkinsʼs Of One Blood”, African American Review 35, 375– 390. Hilton, J. (1998), “An Ethiopian Paradox: Heliodorus, Aithiopika 4.8”, in Hunter, R. (ed.), Studies in Heliodorus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 79–92. Höschele, R. (2012), “From Hellas with Love: The Aesthetics of Imitation in Aristaenetus’ Epistles”, TAPhA 142, 157–86. Hunter, R. (1994), “History and Historicity in the Romance of Chariton”, in Haase, W. and Temporini, H. (eds.), ANRW II 34.2. Berlin-New York: de Gruyter, 1055–1086 –. (2008), “The Aithiopika of Heliodorus: Beyond Interpretation?”, in Hunter, R. (ed.), On Coming After. Studies in Post-Classical Greek Literature and Its Reception, vol. 2, Comedy and Performance. Greek Poetry of the Roman Empire. The Ancient Novel. Berlin: de Gruyter, 805–828. –. (2009), Critical Moments in Classical Literature. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. MacLaren, C. A. (2006), “A Twist of Plot: Psellos, Heliodorus and Narratology”, in Barber, C. and Jenkins, D. T. (eds.), Reading Michael Psellos. Leiden: Brill, 73–94. Morales, H. (2004), Vision and Narrative in Achilles Tatius’ Leucippe and Clitophon. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Morgan, J. R. (1982), “History, Romance, Realism in the Aithiopika of Heliodorus”, ClAnt 1.2, 221–265. –. (1989), “The Story of Knemon in Heliodorosʼ Aithiopika”, JHS 109, 99–113. –. (1991), “Readers and Audiences in the ‘Aithiopika’ of Heliodorus”, in Hofmann, H. (ed.), Groningen Colloquia on the Novel, vol. IV. Groningen: Egbert Forsten, 85–103.

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–. (1993), “Make-believe and Make Believe: The Fictionality of the Greek Novel”, in Gill, C. and Wiseman, T.P. (eds.), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World. Austin: University of Texas Press, 175–229. –. (1998), Heliodorus, An Ethiopian Story. Everyman Paperbacks: London. –. (2004), “Heliodorus”, in de Jong, I.; Nünlist, R. and Bowie, A. (eds.), Narrators, Narratees, and Narratives in Ancient Greek Literature. Leiden: Brill, 523–543. –. (2007), “The Representation of Philosophers in Greek Fiction”, in Morgan, J.R. and Jones, M. (eds.), Philosophical Presences in the Ancient Novel. Groningen: Ancient Narrative, Suppl. 10, 23–51. Ní Mheallaigh, K. (2007), “Philosophical Framing: The Phaedran Setting of Leucippe and Cleitophon”, in Morgan, J.R. and Jones, M. (eds.), Philosophical Presences in the Ancient Novel. Groningen: Ancient Narrative, Suppl. 10, 231–244. Nimis, S. (2009), “Cite and Sound: Quotation in the Ancient Novel”, in M. Paschalis (ed.), Readers and Writers in the Ancient Novel. Groningen: Barkhuis, 79–90. Núnez, L. (2006), “Fantaisie d’une voix narrative: Héliodore”, in Cristante, L.P. (ed.), Phantasia: il pensiero per immagini degli antichi e dei moderni. Atti del convegno internazionale. Trieste: Università degli Studi, 81–98. Pozzi, S. (2004), Laida tēn emēn erōmenēn: idea del bello e tecnica letteraria nell'epistolografo Aristeneto (5.–6. sec. d. C.). Milano: Università degli Studi (unpublished PhD thesis). Reeve, M.D. (1989), “Conceptions”, PCPhS 215, 81–112. Repath, I. (2007), “Emotional Conflict and Platonic Psychology in the Greek Novel”, in Morgan, J.R. and Jones, M. (eds.), Philosophical Presences in the Ancient Novel. Groningen: Ancient Narrative, Suppl. 10, 53–84. Sandy, G. N. (1982), “Characterization and Philosophical Decor in Heliodorusʼ Aethiopica”, TAPA 112, 141–167. Slater, N. (2009), “Reading Inscription in the Ancient Novel”, in M. Paschalis (ed.), Readers and Writers in the Ancient Novel. Groningen: Barkhuis, 64–78. Tilg, S. (2010), Chariton of Aphrodisia and the Invention of the Greek Love Novel. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tissoni, F. (1998), Nonno di Panopoli: I canti di Penteo (Dionisiache 44–46): commento. Firenze: La Nuova Italia. Webb, R. (2009), Ekphrasis, Imagination and Persuasion in Ancient Rhetorical Theory and Practice. Farnham: Ashgate. Whitmarsh, T. (1998), “The Birth of a Prodigy: Heliodorus and the Genealogy of Hellenism”, in Hunter, R. (ed.), Studies in Heliodorus. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 93–124. –. (2002), “Written on the Body: Ekphrasis, Perception and Deception in Heliodorusʼ Aethiopica”, Ramus 31, 111–125. –. (2011), Narrative and Identity in the Ancient Greek Novel. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Winkler, J. J. (1999), “The Mendacity of Kalasiris and the Narrative Strategy of Heliodoros’ Aithiopika”, in Swain, S. (ed.), Oxford Readings in The Greek Novel. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 236–350. Zeitlin, F. (2003), “Living Portraits and Sculpted Bodies in Chariton’s Theater of Romance”, in Panayotakis, S.; Zimmerman, M. and Keulen, W. (edd.), The Ancient Novel and Beyond. Leiden: Brill, 71–94.

Themistius and Julian: their Association in Syriac and Arabic Tradition John W. Watt In the great tenth century catalogue of the books in Baghdad known to its Arabic author, Ibn al-Nadīm, there are several accounts describing how the Arabs became acquainted with Greek philosophy. In one of these it is reported that philosophy was manifested among the Greeks and Romans before the advent of Christianity, but when the Romans became Christians it was forbidden to them. Part of the philosophical literature (according to this account) was burnt and part preserved in libraries, but philosophical discussion of anything contrary to Christianity was not allowed. Later, however, the Romans lapsed from Christianity and turned again to the teachings of the philosophers, the reason being that the Roman emperor was Julian, ‘he whose minister was Themistius, the interpreter of the books of Aristotle.ʼ After Julian’s death in Persia, Constantine was made emperor (by the Persian emperor Shapur) and the Roman empire became Christian once again. Philosophical works were again prohibited and merely stored in libraries ‘until the present day.ʼ The account ends by claiming that in olden times some works on logic and medicine had been translated into Persian, and these were further translated into Arabic by Ibn al-Muqaffa‘.1 Students of fourth century Late Antiquity may be forgiven for raising a few eyebrows on reading this account, while detecting some genuine historical nuggets within it. Arabic scholarship on the efflorescence of classical learning in the Abbasid caliphate has identified a ‘political narrativeʼ serving the hellenophilic caliphs, probably originating in the time of alMa’mūn and directed at internal opponents of the Greek sciences, which attributed the decline of the Romans (Byzantines) to their acceptance of Christianity and rejection of the ancient Greek heritage of wisdom. This narrative, whose connection with historical reality is clearly quite tenuous,2                                                             

1 Flügel (1871), 241.16–242.6. English translations in Dodge (1970), II, 579–581; and Rosenthal (1975), 45–47. 2 This will doubtless be clear to readers in relation to its statements about late antique history. It may be useful to note, however, that it also applies to the assertion in the account about pre-Arabic translations of Greek works of logic and medicine into Persian.

 

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can be seen in a number of Arabic accounts.3 The time frame of these alleged events, and the personalities involved, is in most accounts unspecified, but the one presented above identifies two great fourth century orators, Julian and Themistius, as the key figures championing philosophy against its implied incompatible alternative, Christianity. An exploration of the way in which this account might have arisen may or may not tell us much about the historical Julian and Themistius – although an Arabic translation of a lost Greek text, to be mentioned below, could well be of real significance in this respect – but it should certainly give us some insight into the impact of these men on the minds of subsequent generations. This presentation of Themistius as a close associate of Julian and, by implication, his association in the restoration of the ‘teachings of the philosophersʼ in opposition to Christianity, represents however only one side of the later oriental tradition about him. The absence of any mention of him in the pagan historians Eunapius and Zosimus is well known, and although the reason for it is hardly certain, antagonism towards him on account of his association with several Christian emperors is likely to have been a significant factor.4 By contrast, he makes an appearance in the Ecclesiastical History of Socrates, who records with favour his plea for tolerance.5 Neither Christians nor Muslims could (according to our current evidence) read any of Julian’s works in Syriac or Arabic, but they could read some of Themistius’, and not just his Aristotelian paraphrases. From many sources Christian Syrians, even if they could not read Greek, could be in no doubt about Julian’s opposition to Christianity, but they did not implicate Themistius in it. On the contrary, there is evidence that by some of them he was rather admired. The one extensive text of indubitable authenticity connecting Julian and Themistius in their own lifetimes is Julian’s Letter to Themistius.6 This is a response by Julian to a preceding letter from Themistius – like all Themistius’ correspondence (bar possibly the one discussed below) now no longer extant – on Julian’s accession to a position of political power, whether that of Caesar in 355 or Emperor in 361. Some information about that lost letter, and certainly its central thrust, can be garnered from Julian’s reply.                                                              Ibn al-Muqaffa‘’s work on logic was not translated from an ancient Persian version, but was influenced by Graeco-Syriac logical works from the sixth century or later. Cf. Hugonnard-Roche (1991), 203–204. 3 Gutas (1998), 83–95. Cf. his pithy summary, 85: ‘the Byzantines turned their back on ancient science because of Christianity, while the Muslims welcomed it because of Islam. Anti-Byzantinism thus becomes philhellenism.ʼ 4 Cf. Leppin and Portmann (1998), 26. 5 See further below. 6 Text, translation and commentary in Fontaine, Prato, and Marcone (1987), 1–39 and 255–268.

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The central thrust was clearly an exhortation to Julian to ‘put away all thought of leisureʼ (254a) and ‘exchange the philosophy of the portico for the open airʼ (262d). This is entirely consistent with what is known of Themistius from his numerous extant orations. He was the leading exponent in the fourth century of the doctrine of the philosopher-king, and the foremost critic of those philosophers who considered that philosophy should be kept separate from the public realm. For the same reason he considered oratory a noble activity and necessary to the true vocation of a philosopher; only through oratory could the philosopher lead the masses to virtue. What is more, according to Themistius this was the teaching of both Plato and Aristotle. Thus in an oration defending his right as a philosopher to speak in public, he argues that ‘in the judgement of the divine Plato … the terms “statesman,” “popular speaker,” and “sophist” are not synonymous (and) if the person who appears before the masses and publicly addresses them at length does so out of concern for the welfare of his audience, Plato considers him a statesman.ʼ7 Similarly Aristotle recognised that ‘the same writings are not beneficial both to the general public and to philosophersʼ and produced some ‘that are of general utility and designed for a broad audience (and) are truly full of light and radiance.ʼ8 So Themistius claims to be doing nothing new when he ‘takes philosophy – cooped up in her house, ill-humoured, and avoiding gathering places, as the poets say Justice does – and persuades her to come out into the open and not to deprive the multitude grudgingly of her beauty.ʼ9 Julian, however, had a conception of philosophy ‘cooped up in her houseʼ– certainly not ‘ill-humoured,ʼ but on the contrary an Attic way of living, the recollection of which gave him much pleasure. While Themistius had (in his letter) railed against Epicurus for advising one to live in obscurity, Julian commended him and maintained that Socrates and Glaucon cautioned against forcing into public life anyone who lacked the appropriate natural aptitude. In Julian’s estimation Socrates ranked above Alexander, and success in public life is determined not by virtue or wisdom, but by Fortune. Themistius himself, according to Julian, is no general or public orator (!), but as a teacher of philosophy he is more effective in making men act virtuously than the statesmen who urge them to do so by commands. Nevertheless, while professing to be no expert in philosophy, Julian dares to claim that Themistius misinterpreted Aristotle when he argued

                                                             7

Them. Or. 26.314d–315a in Schenkl, Downey, and Norman (1965–1974). English translation in Penella (2000), 143–144. 8 Them. Or. 26.319b–c; translation Penella (2000), 149–150. 9 Them. Or. 26.320b; translation Penella (2000), 151.

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that Aristotle’s architects of public actions in his Politics were kings; according to Julian they were lawgivers and political philosophers.10 Greek manuscript tradition gives us no clue whether or not Themistius replied to this. Julian’s Letter has been interpreted either as closing off further discussion,11 or as inviting some compromise.12 Similarly, there is continuing difference of opinion as to whether or not Themistius held any public office under Julian. There is, however, in Arabic a risāla (possibly ‘letter,ʼ but see below) which might be just such a response. It is extant in two manuscripts, in one of which it is entitled ʽRisāla of Themistius the philosopher to the emperor Julian, On government and the administration (tadbīr) of the empire,ʼ in the other ʽRisāla of Themistius, minister of Ilian, that is of the emperor Julian, On government (fī al-siyāsa), translated by Ibn Zurʽa from Syriac.ʼ13 Thus both manuscripts connect the two figures, but differently: one designates Julian as the addressee, the other Themistius as his minister. A Syriac version clearly existed prior to the Arabic. The two Arabic texts are so similar it is hard to avoid the conclusion that one is a revision of the other. The translator of the former is named in the subscription as al-Dimashqī, but the language from which he translated is not specified.14 The likelihood is that the latter is a revision of the former using the lost Syriac as a control, and the former probably, but not certainly, likewise made from, or at least with the aid of, the Syriac. alDimashqī belonged to the circle of translators around Ḥunain in the ninth– early tenth century, Ibn Zurʽa to the Baghdad Syro-Arabic school of philosophers in the late tenth. 15 Both the Themistian authorship and the Julianic connection of the risāla have been questioned. Neither Julian nor anyone else is mentioned by name in the body of the text, but only in the superscription and subscription. In favour of authenticity, however, are two significant considerations.16 One is that the risāla is capable of interpretation as a remarkably astute response to Julian’s Letter. Julian had referred to the myth of Kronos in Plato’s Laws, at first accepting the allegorical interpretation as referring to a mortal, human by nature but divine by conduct, but later using the myth while abandoning or forgetting the interpretation and arguing that ruling is ‘beyond a manʼ and requires ‘a more divine nature.ʼ17 The latter                                                              10

Ad Them. 253b, 254b, 255b–c, 256c–257d, 263c–264a, 266a–c. Bouffartigue (2006). 12 Brauch (1993). 13 Shahid (1965–1974), III, 82. 14 Shahid (1965–1974), III, 118. 15 Watt (2004), 128–129. 16 Watt (2012). 17 Ad Them. 259a–b, 260c–d with reference to Plato, Lg. 4, 713a–714b. Cf. Bouffartigue (2006), 130. 11

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interpretation justifies his ‘abdicationʼ of political responsibility, but as he had earlier indicated, Plato had used the myth to assert that a human ruler could be divine in his conduct and totally expel from his soul what is mortal and brutish, except what is necessary for the survival of his body. But that is exactly the core of the risāla’s argument, which falls into two parts: an exposition of human psychology and society, followed by an account of the virtues of the most excellent king.18 In the background, of course, is the close parallel in Plato’s thought between the state (composed of elite philosopher-rulers and the ruled multitude) and the soul (composed of ruling reason and the ruled multitude of irrational passions and desires),19 and the link between psychology and government had already been cited by Julian. The argument of the risāla is thus that an individual man in whom the rational faculty is in full control (and therefore is a philosopher, although this is not made explicit) becomes divinised (kāna muta’allahan)20 and therefore fit to rule. The second significant consideration in favour of authenticity lies within the title. It is difficult to see why an anonymous text should have been ascribed to Themistius, whether in the Greek, Syriac, or Arabic tradition. Some of his orations were indeed known in Syriac tradition,21 but he was hardly so prominent that it would have been natural to ascribe an anonymous text to him. In Arabic, in fact, we have an example of just the opposite, namely the ascription of a piece genuinely by him (a paraphrase of a passage from Oration 22, On Friendship) to Socrates.22 In Arabic, and no doubt also in Syriac, he was known as a commentator on Aristotle, but so were many others, and the risāla is no commentary. Neither was there any particular reason to add the name of Julian to a text which originally made no mention of him. It is in fact hard to see why in the Christian Syriac tradition a text which (because it was translated and transmitted) was evidently considered of value should be connected for no reason to the notorious opponent of Christianity.23                                                              18

99.

19

There are summaries of the contents in Watt (2004), 135–138, and Watt (2012), 96–

R. 4, 435a–436a; Lg 3, 689a–c. Shahid (1965–1974), III, 84–85. 21 See below. 22 See below, at nn. 44–45. 23 Dagron (1968), 222–224, argues that it is reasonable to suppose that Syriac and Arabic traditions, knowing Themistius above all as a commentator on Aristotle and a contemporary of Julian, systematically associated the two names in works of the philosopher addressed to an emperor. Such a supposition does not strike me as at all reasonable. Dagron (1968), 224 n. 35 notes that ‘Julian was the emperor best known to the Arabic and especially the Syriac sources,ʼ but especially in the Syriac sources he was well known because he was so greatly hated! 20

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Two arguments against authenticity however have some weight, one to do with content, the other with form. Absent from the risāla are some of the key doctrines of Themistius known from the orations, in particular the theocratic conception of kingship encapsulated in the idea of the king as the animate law (nomos empsychos), and the explicit assertion of the doctrine of the philosopher-king.24 To this the counter argument was made long ago that the absence of these concepts is explicable precisely because this work is a response to Julian.25 Themistius grasped that he could never convert Julian to his theocratic conception of kingship or his idea of the philosopher-king,26 and so chose to respond on different terrain in which he had some hope of success, namely Platonic-Aristotelian psychology and the rule of the man in whom the rational faculty is in full control. Possibly more problematic is the issue of form. The risāla does not have the formal structure or style of an epistle, but looks more like a short treatise. While one may assume that the original letter of Themistius was in proper epistolary form in the advisory-exhortatory style,27 and clearly, as PseudoLibanius advised, used fables (Heracles, Dionysius) and venerable figures of old (Solon, Pittacus, Lycurgus) as well as philosophers’ doctrines, but not in a dialectical manner,28 the risāla is devoid of epistolary form or grace. If it is indeed a response to Julian’s letter, we must probably assume therefore that Themistius chose to give this response in the form not of a letter, but of a short treatise.29 Alternatively, the present text could be an                                                              24

The latter can however be seen implicitly in the risāla, as noted above. Croissant (1930), followed by Dvornik (1966), 666–669. 26 Since Julian had himself claimed he was no philosopher, but had only fallen in love with it (Ad Them. 254b), there was no point in Themistius renewing in an explicit fashion his exhortation to him to pursue his vocation as a philosopher-king. The argument needed to be rephrased (and for tactical purposes de-personalised), even if ‘divinisationʼ was still included in it. 27 For these styles, see Pseudo-Demetrius and Pseudo-Libanius: Weichert (1910), 7 [11] and 18 [32]; Greek texts with English translation in Malherbe (1988), 36–37, 70–71. 28 Ad Them. 253c–254a. Pseudo-Libanius, see Weichert (1910), 19–21; ed. and trans. Malherbe (1988), 72–73. 29 Cf. Croissant (1930), 9. Vanderspoel (1995), 126–134 considers that the risāla, while an authentic work of Themistius, is not a response to Julian’s Letter to Themistius, but nevertheless expounds a conception of kingship (133) ‘more in terms of the emperor’s philosophy than of his own.ʼ Vanderspoel instead equates the risāla with the panegyric of Julian by Themistius mentioned by Libanius (Ep. 1430). One section of the risāla, 102.6–104.9 Shahid, could make one think of a panegyric, but it is hard to imagine that the work as a whole could be so described, even allowing for some transformation or abbreviation in transmission. If in the risāla Themistius effectively adopted the psychology of Plato and Libanius praised him for doing this in the panegyric (Vanderspoel [1995], 128–30), that does not prove that the two are the same work; it could be rather that Themistius used the same idea in two different works. However, that the ‘beautifully-yoked three-horse chariot of daimones and the necessities by which they 25

 

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epitome or redacted version of a longer letter, but its sheer distance from the kind of literary letter one might have expected of Themistius makes the suggestion of an original treatise more likely. The change of form would be entirely understandable. Themistius wrote the original letter for an exhortatory purpose, probably not supposing that it would elicit such a negative response from Julian. Stung, or at least challenged, by Julian’s reply, and wishing to make clear his ability to defend his position as a philosopher, his reaction could well have been not to pen a further letter, but rather to dedicate a short philosophical treatise to him. The Arabic term covers both meanings,30 as does, for example, the Syriac ktībtā, from which it might have been translated. Given the indifference to or suspicion of Themistius, as noted earlier, in the pagan Greek historians, it is unlikely that he would have been linked with Julian by pagans without good reason. Similarly, given the rather favourable attitude to Themistius in Christian tradition, the creation of a secondary link there would also seem unlikely. On these and the above grounds, the balance of probability appears to lie in favour of the assumption that the superscriptions in the Arabic manuscripts preserve authentic information from the original provenance of the text. It is of course possible that because – whether rightly or wrongly – it was believed that Themistius was prefect of Constantinople under Julian,31 the risāla was secondarily taken to be addressed to him. Alternatively, if the superscription of the risāla is authentic or at least early, it may have encouraged or at least supported the idea that Themistius held office under Julian. Whatever the case, it was considered by Syro-Arabic Christians and Arabic Muslims in Baghdad to be an authentic work of Themistius connected to Julian. By the tenth century, with the decline of knowledge of Greek in the Near East, it seems unlikely that any of them knew Julian’s Letter to Themistius. The Fihrist, however, (which knows nothing of any writing of Julian) in its section on the works of Themistius knows not one but two addressed to Julian: a kitāb (‘treatiseʼ? ‘letterʼ?) to Julian on administration (tadbīr), and a risāla to Julian the emperor (malik). It also states that Themistius was a minister (kātib, ‘secretaryʼ) of Julian, ‘the renegade from Christianity to the teaching of the philosophers.ʼ32 The extant Arabic treatise is no doubt one of these, but which of them is hardly certain. If the coincidence with the term risāla in the title of the extant treatise leads one to favour the                                                              are boundʼ cited by Libanius from the panegyric refer to the three faculties of the soul in the risāla is by no means certain; Croissant (1930), 28 n. 1 and Dagron (1968), 224–225 are sceptical of such an equation. 30 Cf. Bouyges (1924), 17. 31 Suda, s.v. Θεμίστιος, cited in the Testimonia in Themistii Orationes, III, 135. 32 Flügel (1871), 253.24–27. Translation in Dodge (1970), II, 610–611.

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latter, that of tadbīr could contrariwise be held to point to the former. Whatever the answer may be, the intriguing point is that the Fihrist mentions two works. If we reject the supposition that these are simply different editions of the same one, which Ibn al-Nadīm has mistakenly taken to be two separate writings, we are bound to wonder what the other might have been. It is tempting to suppose that it was an Arabic version of the original letter of Themistius to Julian,33 but that of course remains only a speculation. The notice of Barhebraeus (died 1286) on these writings is somewhat longer: ‘Julian had a minister (kātib, ‘secretary’) named Themistius, an esteemed philosopher in his time, who interpreted many of the books of Aristotle and wrote a kitāb to Julian on administration and the government of empires (fī al-tadbīr wa-siyāsat al-mamālik) and also a risāla to him which includes refraining from the persecution of the Christians.ʼ34 On the ground that the extant risāla says nothing about stopping the persecution of Christians, it has been argued that it should be identified not with the risāla of Ibn al-Nadīm and Barhebraeus, but with the kitāb.35 If Barhebraeus’ statement about the risāla is accepted, it could hardly be argued that it is the lost original letter of Themistius to Julian; whatever else that contained in addition to what we can deduce from Julian’s reply, it is not credible that (at the time of its composition) it contained a plea to stop persecuting Christians. However, Barhebraeus’ notice must be regarded as extremely suspect. Or rather, there is a strong suspicion that he has added a comment here which is based on something he recorded elsewhere which is of considerable importance to his evaluation, and indeed to the evaluation by the Christian tradition generally, of Themistius vis-à-vis Julian. In his Ecclesiastical Chronicle Barhebraeus reported that Themistius, defending non-Arian Christians, ‘defused the anger of the emperor (Valens) by the oration he produced,ʼ maintaining that the divisions among Christians are no more remarkable than ‘the three hundred cults among pagans,ʼ and that God wishes to be worshipped in various ways. His (probably direct but certainly ultimate) source was the same report in the Ecclesiastical History of Socrates, of which there was a Syriac version.36 The tolerance, indeed advocacy, of religious diversity was seen by Barhabraeus as characteristic of Themistius, and it is understandable if therefore, believing Themistius to have written works for Julian, the least tolerant of                                                              33

This is the suggestion of Vanderspoel (1995), 243. Ṣāliḥānī (1890), 139.12–15; also Mansur (1997), 74.17–19. 35 Bouyges (1924), 304–305. 36 Abbeloos and Lamy (1872–1877), I, 107.13–109.2; Socrates, HE IV.32 (cited in Themistii Orationes, III, 134); on the Syriac version of Socrates and its users, cf. Hansen (1995), xxxi–xxxiii. 34

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emperors towards Christians, he consciously or unconsciously added the point that he dissuaded him from their persecution. Themistius’ reputation for tolerance and diversity of worship was probably of great importance to the esteem in which he was held among some Christians, not least among those who as ‘outsidersʼ stood to benefit from the tolerance or philanthrōpia of an emperor or caliph. That was the case with Christians living under Muslim rule, and Syrian Orthodox (‘monophysite,ʼ ‘miaphysiteʼ) Christians in the Byzantine Empire. There are therefore grounds to believe that at least one reason for the transmission of information about the pagan Themistius among the Syrians, despite evidence from the risāla of a connection to Julian, was his tolerance of Christianity. Of course, the Syrians transmitted the writings of several pagan thinkers, notably Aristotle and Galen, but only Themistius had been apparently closely associated with an outspoken opponent of Christianity.37 Syriac Christian transmitters or translators of his works (other than his Aristotelian paraphrases) may be assumed to have read anything in his work they thought related to Julian in the light of a basic disagreement between the two of them in relation to Christianity, even if that was only made explicit by Barhaebraeus. That hermeneutical standpoint would certainly be confirmed if they knew, as many probably did, that Gregory Nazianzus, the most admired theologian and orator among all the Greek Fathers, not only mounted powerful attacks on Julian in two great orations, but by contrast in two letters to Themistius addressed him in a most friendly manner.38 Only two of Themistius’ orations are currently extant in Syriac, and neither of them deals with the themes of religious toleration or the philanthrōpia of the philosopher-king. On the face of it, therefore, this suggestion that Themistius was well known to the Syrians and that this theme was important to them may be thought to lack credibility. Discussion around ‘the Syriac traditionʼ is however frequently misled by a failure to realise that many Syriac-speakers were bilingual. Within the ‘Syriac tradition,ʼ encompassing the totality of Syriac speakers, there was a significant subgroup of bilinguals, which maintained a tradition which may be termed ‘Graeco-Syriac.ʼ Many Greek works were translated into Syriac by these bilinguals for the benefit of their less linguistically endowed compatriots, but many were also read in the original without ever, to the best of our                                                              37

Syrian Christians transmitted writings on non-religious matters of pagans, such as Galen and Porphyry, who wrote against Christianity, but Julian, on account of his imperial actions against Christians in the educational realm, was in a different category, and none of his writings, to the best of our knowledge, was ever translated into Syriac. 38 Or. 4 and 5 (Contra Julianum 1 and 2); Ep. 24 and 38. Cf. Ruether (1969), 162– 166; Watt (2004), 127–130.

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knowledge, being translated. This situation prevailed from the fourth to at least the eighth century, at the end of which we find the East Syrian Patriarch Timothy I in Baghdad declaring that while his own language was Syriac, he had studied Greek and Arabic, and comparing the Syriac translation of Aristotle’s Posterior Analytics by Athanasius of Balad (no longer extant) with the Greek.39 The contrast is particularly evident in philosophy between what Graeco-Syrians knew of Greek writings and what was translated (or what translations have survived), but the same is true, if less markedly so, in other fields such as mathematics and rhetoric.40 The major orations of Themistius on the theme of religious tolerance could have been known, therefore, among hellenophilic Graeco-Syrians. Barhebraeus’ comment about Themistius’ plea for tolerance comes from Socrates’ account of his (lost) oration to Valens, but it fits perfectly with the text of an (extant) oration delivered before Jovian: ‘You alone have clearly understood that the king cannot exercise force on his subjects in all matters, and that there are areas which are immune to pressure and resistant to menace and compulsion, namely piety in general and religion in particular … You prescribe that the form of cultic worship belongs (not to you, but) to all men, imitating in this respect the Divinity, who has made a disposition to piety a common trait of all men, but has left the mode of adoration to the decision of the individual … “Each sacrificed to a different god” (Il. 2.400) is older than Homer. Perhaps God does not wish such agreement on this to arise among men. … You can believe that the Creator of all rejoices at this diversity. He wills that the Syrians lead a different life from the Greeks and Egyptians, and that not even among the Syrians is everything unified, but he has divided them into small groups.ʼ41 On account of their relatively free translation style, the two orations which are extant in Syriac are indicative of an early respect for Themistius among Graeco-Syrians, for this free style was characteristic of the fifth or sixth century, rather than later, when the ‘mirrorʼ style of translation became dominant. One is a translation of Oration 22, On Friendship, and while dedicated to a subject which is more personal than political, it does include mention of the all-important leitmotiv of Themistius – the very one, indeed, at the heart of his original letter to Julian – namely, the duty of philosophy to engage the general public (which of course leads on to the                                                              39

Cf. King (2010), 11–14. On Euclid, cf. ibid., 13. More generally on mathematics, cf. Saliba (2007), 8, 58– 64; and on rhetoric, cf. Watt (1994), 248–256. Most Syriac translations of Galen’s medical treatises have not survived and are only known through Ḥunain’s famous risāla; cf. Bergsträsser (1925) or their further translation into Arabic. The latter of course also applies to Themistius’ risāla. 41 Or. 5.67b–70a. German translation of the complete passage in Leppin and Portmann (1998), 107–110. ‘Syriansʼ probably denotes Christians; cf. ibid., 110 n. 45. 40

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necessity of combining philosophy with rhetoric). A translation of the Syriac version of this passage will serve as an example of the general character of the version.42 Syriac Orations (mellē) by which men may become virtuous are not often delivered in your presence, and this is not the fault of yours, but of those who are philosophers in name only and think it sufficient that someone present his wisdom in secret before his disciples, and not before the gaze of the whole city.

Greek Of orations (logoi) by which men may live better, you seem to me not to have plenty, not by fault of yours, but of the so-called philosophers, those who have assumed it sufficient to whisper to the young in a solitary corner. They thought, as Callicles put it in his criticism, that they could avoid the centre of the city and those gathering places wherein the poet says that men gain distinction.

But leaving them to teach how they wish, we will send our doctrine (malpānūtā) out into the light and accustom it to endure the assembly and its commotions, and the clamour of the populace seated to hear it. Indeed, if it can be of value to everyone individually, it can also bring benefits to all its listeners. For doctrine is not like nourishment of the body which, when sufficient for one or two cannot be adequate for many, but is like light itself, which, just as easily as it gives light to two eyes, similarly does so also to eyes without number.

Leaving them to stay where they want to stay; it will be our duty to bring speech (logoi) out into the light and to accustom it to tolerate the crowd and to put up with noise and with the clamour of the seated assembly. Indeed, if it is capable of acting beneficially individually, it will also be able to do so on many at once. For it is not, one might say, like provisions that are enough for one or two diners but cannot satisfy more than that number; rather it is more like the rays of the great god, which shine down on thousands of eyes no less than on any two.

Those I have termed ‘Graeco-Syrians,ʼ or some of them, may of course have preferred to read Themistius in Greek rather than in translation. Nevertheless, any substantive modifications of the translator may well be thought to reflect the kind of ‘reservationsʼ that could be held among bilingual Syrians about some of Themistius’ statements, whether such reservations implied some criticism (of paganism), or merely a belief that the readers would not understand the allusion. In the passage cited above, one notes that the translator dropped the allusions to ‘a cornerʼ and Callicles and ‘the poet’sʼ (Homer’s) words about the ‘gathering places wherein … men gain distinction,ʼ43 and substituted ‘light itselfʼ for ‘the rays of the great god,ʼ i.e. the Sun. It is also noteworthy that the version ends at the conclusion of Themistius’ remarks about Aesop’s wily fox (279b), omitting the subsequent material about Scylla and the allegory, ‘as Prodicus                                                              42

Or. 22.265b–d. Syriac in Sachau (1870), 49. The translation of the Greek is taken from Penella (2000), 89, with light modification for the purpose of comparison with the Syriac. 43 Pl, Grg. 485d; Hom., Il. 9.441.

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tells the story … (about) Heracles,ʼ of Virtue and Vice. These observations remind us that we should not dismiss the authenticity of the risāla simply on the ground of the absence of classical allusions. As mentioned earlier,44 part of this oration was known in an Arabic paraphrase, derived from the Syriac version, but attributed not to Themistius but to Socrates.45 The second oration of Themistius extant in Syriac, and in the same unique manuscript, Add. 17.209 of the British Library (probably of the ninth century), is entitled ‘On aretē (virtue), which is excellence (myatrūtā) of soul.ʼ Although not extant in Greek, there is no reason to doubt its authenticity.46 It opens by calling on those who consider there is something more excellent than aretē to purify their hearts of this stain and follow his words. Earlier he had shown them the way of Plato and Aristotle, but that was a hard way; now he will show them another way, simpler but ‘full of goods and abundance.ʼ47 He identifies three groups of listeners: one glorifies pleasures, another maintains that the life of man is intermediate between the animals and the spiritual beings and therefore requires many things, while the third claims that human good is exclusively found in what man has in himself, and not from what he gains from outside of himself. The first takes Epicurus as its guide, the second could be persuaded by Aristotle that virtue is the highest good, above the goods of the body and external possessions, or by Plato, who also recognised the fact of other goods but designated virtue the highest.48 Many of the philosophers do wish to place human excellence outside of a man, but while one may ask whether it is to be sought in the soul, the body or in both, the answer is that human excellence resides not in hands, feet or eyes, but in wisdom, reason                                                              44

Cf. above, at n. 22. Cf. Rosenthal (1940), 402–405. The passage cited is the beginning of the oration (264b–265a). Rosenthal noted (similarly to our observation on the Syriac above) that the Syriac translator omitted many Greek names, while the Arabic translation ‘can be styled but a paraphrase.ʼ He also noted it to be ‘a yet unsolved and unexplainable riddle, just where and how the most appropriate name of Socrates might have been introduced into this quotation in the Arabic version.ʼ The frequent citation of alleged words of Socrates in the oration discussed immediately below might point in the direction of an answer. But however that is to be explained, in our context the more significant point is that in the Arabic the genuine name of Themistius was eliminated. 46 Syriac in Sachau (1870), 17–47. Annotated German translation with brief introduction: Gildemeister and Bücheler (1872), 438–462. Syriac with Latin version: Mach (1965–1974), III, 7–71 (reproduction page-by-page of the Syriac of Sachau with facing Latin translation). 47 Sachau (1870), 17–18; Mach (1965–1974), 10–13; Gildemeister and Bücheler (1872), 439–440. 48 Sachau (1870), 18–31; Mach (1965–1974), 12–39; Gildemeister and Bücheler (1872), 440–449. 45

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and subtlety.49 ‘The nature of man complies with rationality and with excellent and goodly reason … (not) the things of the world.ʼ50 Therefore, contends Themistius, ‘Socrates’ words were not misleading when, asked by someone if in his estimation the great king of the Persians was happy (ṭubbānā, makaraios), he answered, “I do not consider him to be happy, for I am not persuaded that he cares about wisdom.”51 And when reminded of the Persian king’s wealth and power, ‘(Socrates said,) “I know and hear all these things, but I do not deduce from them that he is good, nor (that they constitute) human excellence.” By what then is it constituted, Socrates? “By knowledge, true insight and truth, inasmuch as someone knows over what he has power and over what he has no power, and what it is right for him to endeavour to bring about and what it is right for him to work so that it does not come about” … But because the Athenians could not tolerate Socrates saying these things, like children who find an opportunity and occasion to harm their teacher they removed him from their presence by poison.ʼ52 The remainder of the oration is largely devoted to countering any misperception that Themistius maintains that ‘virtue is sufficient for life;ʼ rather his argument is that ‘it is sufficient for the good life.ʼ53 Similarly to everyone who is serious about leadership, he argues, the philosopher teaches that it is not appropriate for anyone to become a leader, but (only) for him who exercises leadership with wisdom.54 Striking evidence of Themistius’ subsequent acceptance in Christian circles is provided by a Syriac monastic anthology in a manuscript, Sinai syr. 14, probably of the tenth century. In addition to excerpts from Christian writers, the compilation includes several short pieces from pagan writers. The pagan pieces are from Aristotle (the pseudonymous On Virtues and Vices), sayings attributed to Plato, Dandamis, Stomathalassa, ‘Pythagorean philosophers,ʼ ‘a philosopher,ʼ ‘the sages,ʼ and ‘Themistius the philosopher.ʼ55 The five extracts from Themistius56 are from this oration on                                                              49

Sachau (1870), 31–32; Mach (1965–1974), 38–41; Gildemeister and Bücheler (1872), 449. 50 Sachau (1870), 33; Mach (1965–1974), 42–43; Gildemeister and Bücheler (1872), 450–451. 51 Sachau (1870), 34; Mach (1965–1974), 44–45; Gildemeister and Bücheler (1872), 451–452. 52 Sachau (1870), 35; Mach (1965–1974), 46–47; Gildemeister and Bücheler (1872), 452–453. 53 Sachau (1870), 38; Mach (1965–1974), 52–53; Gildemeister and Bücheler (1872), 455. 54 Sachau (1870), 47; Mach (1965–1974), 70–71; Gildemeister and Bücheler (1872), 462. 55 Brock (1999), 48–50.

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aretē, and consist of the two passages mentioning Socrates cited above, together with a story about the Ephesians under siege, a remark of Plato about the nature of dogs,57 and a story about Lysimachus.58 Between Themistius and Julian in their lifetimes there was clearly an element of distrust, or at least reserve,59 but in subsequent Christian tradition this became an unbridgeable incompatibility. While Themistius was received into the select group of pagan thinkers held in high esteem among some Christians, Julian, already subjected in the fourth century to the withering invectives of Gregory of Nazianzus and Ephrem Syrus, was subsequently pilloried in texts such as the Julian Romance.60 The connection between the two of them in the superscription of the Arabic risāla, which we have no reason to doubt was also present in the Syriac (and Greek) exemplars,61 is therefore likely to be no secondary addition, but rather to be firmly anchored in the tradition from the outset.62 Christians must have read this work as a piece of valuable teaching given by a philosopher of whom they approved to an emperor of whom they did not. However, in the ideological narrative from the Abbasid era identifying Christianity with a rejection of philosophy, Julian’s apostasy from Christianity to ‘the teaching(s) of the philosophersʼ63 would be cause not for vituperation, but for

                                                             56

The name is spelt twmsṭyws (‘Thaumastiosʼ) in the two orations and the monastic anthology. In the risāla it is spelt t’msṭyws or d’msṭyws, in the Fihrist t’msṭyws, in Barhebraeus t’mysṭws in Syriac and t’msṭyws in Arabic. Despite these variations, it is clear that we are dealing with the same person. 57 Cf. Pl., R. 2, 375e. 58 Sachau (1870), 40–41, 44, 45–46; Mach (1965–1974), 56–59, 64–65, 66–69; Gildemeister and Bücheler (1872), 456–457, 459, 460–461. The stories are designed to demonstrate (1) that one can be of assistance through silence as through admonition, (2) that a philosopher should not befriend him who gives him something, or hate him who gives him nothing, but should look on as a friend him who has virtue in his life, (3) that a philosopher can create peace among warring factions by his courage. 59 Cf. Leppin and Portmann (1998), 11–13 and the literature cited there. 60 Drijvers (2007), 19–20: ‘The narrative (of the Julian Romance) is an invective in the tradition of the Hymns against Julian by Ephrem Syrus and the Orations 4 and 5 by Gregory of Nazianzus and is therefore of prime importance for the Christian image of Julian’s reign.ʼ 61 The ‘kingʼ is directly addressed at 98.5–6 Shahid (‘you, that is, O blessed kingʼ). It is likely, therefore, that the ‘of Themistius the philosopher to the emperor Julianʼ in the superscription of one of the manuscripts is the more original, and the ‘of Themistius, minister of Ilian, that is of the emperor Julianʼ of the other is secondary. 62 For different reasons Vanderspoel (1995), 244–249 considers that ‘all in all, the Risālat is much more likely to have been addressed to Julianʼ (than to Theodosius). 63 madāhib/madhab al-falāsifa (Fihrist 241.22 and 253.25 Flügel). Cf. above, nn. 1 and 32.

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praise.64 When therefore the risāla was read by Muslims familiar with the anti-Byzantine narrative, the connection between Themistius and Julian would appear in a quite different light. In Baghdad it would only be among Christian Syrians that Themistius’ tolerance of Christianity was known. For Muslim Arabs receptive to the anti-Byzantine narrative, on the other hand, the risāla of Themistius to Julian showed that the former was the guiding light in the latter’s praiseworthy espousal, against Christianity, of ‘the teachings of the philosophers.ʼ

Bibliography Abbeloos, J. B. and Lamy, T. J. (1872–1877), Gregorii Barhebraei Chronicon ecclesiasticum. Louvain: Peeters. Bergsträsser, G. (1925), Ḥunain ibn Isḥāq über die syrischen und arabischen GalenÜbersetzungen. Leipzig: in Kommission bei F.A. Brockhaus. Bouffartigue, J. (2006), “La lettre de Julien à Thémistios: histoire d’une fausse manœuvre et d’un désaccord essential”, in González Gálvez, A. and Malosse, P.-L. (eds.), Mélanges A. F. Norman. Lyon: Topoi Orient-Occident, Supplément 7. Paris: De Boccard, 113–138. Bouyges, M. (1924), “Note sur des traductions arabes III. Épitre de Thémistius à Julien sur la politique”, Archives de philosophie 2, 15–23. Brauch, T. (1993), “Themistius and the Emperor Julian”, Byzantion 63, 79–115. Brock, S. P. (1999), “Stomathalassa, Dandamis and Secundus in a Syriac Monastic Anthology”, in Reinik, G.J. and Klugkist, A.C. (eds.), After Bardaisan. Studies on Continuity and Change in Syriac Christianity in Honour of Professor Han J.W. Drijvers. Leuven: Peeters, 35–50. Croissant, J. (1930), “Un nouveau discours de Themistius”, Serta Leodiensia 44, 7–30. Dagron, G. (1968), “L’empire romain d’Orient au IVeme siècle et les traditions politiques de l’hellénisme. Le témoignage de Thémistios”, Travaux et mémoires 3, 1–242. Dodge, B. (1970). The Fihrist of al-Nadīm. 2 vols. New York: Columbia University Press. Drijvers, J. W. (2007), “Julian the Apostate and the City of Rome: Pagan-Christian Polemics in the Syriac Julian Romance”, in van Bekkum, W.J.; Drijvers, J.W., and Klugkist, A.C. (eds.), Syriac Polemics. Studies in Honour of Gerrit Jan Reinink. Leuven: Peeters, 1–20. Dvornik, F. (1966), Early Christian and Byzantine Political Philosophy: Origins and Background, vol. II. Washington, D.C.: Dumbarton Oaks Center for Byzantine Studies. Flügel, G. (1871), Kitāb al-Fihrist. Leipzig: Verlag von F.C.W. Vogel. Fontaine, J; Prato, C., and Marcone, A. (1987), Giuliano Imperatore. Alla madre degli dei e altri discorsi. Milan: Mondadori. Gildemeister, J. and Bücheler, F. (1872), “Themistios Perì aretês”, RhM 27, 438–462. Gutas, D. (1998), Greek Thought, Arabic Culture. London and New York: Routledge.

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The vituperative anti-Julian Christian literature was presumably not known to, or at least not influential among, Muslims.

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Hansen, G. C. (1995), Sokrates. Kirchengeschichte. Berlin: Akademie Verlag. Hugonnard-Roche, H. (1991), “L’intermédiaire syriaque dans la transmission de la philosophie grecque à l’arabe: Le cas de l’Organon d’Aristote”, Arabic Sciences and Philosophy 1, 187–209. King, D. (2010), The Earliest Syriac Translation of Aristotle’s Categories. Leiden: Brill. Leppin, H. and Portmann, W. (1998), Themistios. Staatsreden. Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann. Mach, R. (1965–1974), “Themistii philosophi Oratio de virtute, quae est praestantia animi”, in Schenkl, H.; Downey, G., and Norman, A.F., Themistii Orationes. 3 vols. Leipzig: B.G. Teubner, vol. III, 7–71. Malherbe, A. J. (1988), Ancient Epistolary Theorists. Atlanta: Scholars Press. Mansur, Khalil (1997), Taʼrīkh mukhtaṣar al-duwal. Beirut: Dār al-Kutub al-‘Imlīya. Penella, R. J. (2000), The Private Orations of Themistius. Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press. Rosenthal, F. (1940), “On the Knowledge of Plato’s Philosophy in the Islamic World”, Islamic Culture 14, 387–422. –. (1975), The Classical Heritage in Islam. London and New York: Routledge. Ruether, R. R. (1969), Gregory of Nazianzus. Rhetor and Philosopher. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Sachau, E. (1870), Inedita Syriaca. Vienna: Verlag der Buchhandlung des Waisenhauses in Halle. Saliba, G. (2007), Islamic Science and the Making of the European Renaissance. Cambridge, Ma.: MIT Press. Ṣāliḥānī, Anṭūn (1890), Taʼrīkh mukhtaṣar al-duwal. Beirut: Catholic Press of the Jesuit Fathers. Schenkl, H.; Downey, G., and Norman, A. F. (eds). (1965–1974), Themistii Orationes quae supersunt. 3 vols. Leipzig: B.G. Teubner. Shahid, I. (1965–1974), “Epistula de re publica gerenda”, in Schenkl, H.; Downey, G., and Norman, A. F. (eds), Themistii Orationes quae supersunt. 3 vols. Leipzig: B.G. Teubner, vol. III, 73–119. Vanderspoel, J. (1995), Themistius and the Imperial Court. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Watt, J. W. (1994), “Syriac Rhetorical Theory and the Syriac Tradition of Aristotle’s Rhetoric”, in Fortenbaugh, W.W. and Mirhady, D.C. (eds.), Peripatetic Rhetoric after Aristotle. New Brunswick: Transaction Publishers, 243–260. –. (2004), “Syriac and Syrians as Mediators of Greek Political Thought to Islam”, Mélanges de l’Université Saint-Joseph 57, 121–149. –. (2012), “Julian’s Letter to Themistius – and Themistius’ Response?”, in Baker-Brian, N. and Tougher, S. (eds.), Emperor and Author. The Writings of Julian ‘the Apostate’. Swansea: Classical Press of Wales, 91–103. Weichert, V. (1910), Demetrii et Libanii ΤΥΠΟΙ ΕΠΙΣΤΟΛΙΚΟΙ et ΕΠΙΣΤΟΛΙΜΑΙΟΙ ΧΑΡΑΚΤΗΡΕΣ. Leipzig: Teubner.

III. Rhetoric and Political Speeches

Themistius’ on Royal Beauty David Konstan In the year 376 or early in 377 (in all likelihood), shortly before the fatal battle at Hadrianopolis in which the Roman co-emperor Valens suffered a drastic defeat at the hands of the Goths, Themistius pronounced an oration in honor of Gratian, Valens’ nephew, who had been appointed Augustus or junior ruler at the age of eight years by his father Valentinian and, at the death of Valentinian, had risen effectively to the status of sole ruler of the Empire.1 The speech, which was delivered before the Senate in Rome and in the absence of Gratian himself, is remarkable for its praise not just of the young emperor’s virtues but also of his physical beauty, and indeed it bears the title Erôtikos in the only manuscript in which this oration survives, along with the subtitle or alternative title, On Royal Beauty (περὶ κάλλους βασιλικοῦ).2 The titles are well chosen: Themistius presents himself in this discourse as nothing short of Gratian’s lover. He compares his journey westward to Rome to the hardships a lover endures, such as camping out before the door of his beloved.3 Till then, he complains, he had never been aware of experiencing so difficult a trip, spending a night in the open air, or, to sum                                                              1

For a discussion of the historical circumstances of this speech, see Vanderspoel (1995), 179–184. 2 The speech has received relatively little scholarly attention, and most of that has been devoted to its date and the historical circumstances under which it was delivered. The only work devoted exclusively to this discourse, to my knowledge (apart from a onepage article on a textual point), is Audergon (2001), containing text, translation, and commentary, and submitted as a Mémoire de Licence to the Faculté des Lettres de lʼUniversité de Fribourg (Suisse). The only copy of this seems to be located in the library of the University of Fribourg, and I am immensely grateful to Mr. Audergon for kindly sending me an electronic version of his book. Translations of the speech are available in French, German, Italian and Spanish, but not in English, unless some early version has escaped me. 3 The description of a long journey was a common topic in rhetorical compositions; we may compare John Chrysostom’s account of the difficulties endured by the bishop Flavian on his voyage to Constantinople to defend the people of Antioch (On the Statues, or Ad populum Antiochenum homily 3). Themistius has put this topic to a new use, by comparing it to a lover’s travails.

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it up, ʻthe devices entailed in the pursuit of beautyʼ (163B: μηχανὰς ἐπὶ τῇ θήρᾳ πεπλεγμένας τοῦ κάλλους), although he considered himself to be no mean enthusiast for amorous exercise, even if still far from an accomplished athlete or champion. Now, however, he has experienced all the trials of lovers, and more (163C): ʻa run along a route almost equal to that of the sun from the Tigris to the Atlantic Ocean, a scarcity of resources, a difficult passage ..., sleepless days upon sleepless nights.ʼ Themistius insists that he has slept outdoors and on the road, barefoot and uncovered, without the wherewithal to sustain life, but he never gave up. In other words, he was in the grip of pure Eros, and, he adds (163D), ʻI do not know if the nature of this daimon has ever appeared or shone so brightly in any other human being.ʼ Themistius goes on to affirm that his hair had already begun to turn white, and yet he never before had expected to experience love. The reason, he explains, was not so much torpor or want of passion (ἀνεραστία) on his part, but rather the fact that he never encountered the initial access that a lover (ἐραστής) requires, namely, ʻa fine soul in a fine bodyʼ (164A: καλὴ ψυχὴ ἐν καλῷ σώματι), a soul young and flowering in a body similarly so, a soul already aglow but with the promise that it will develop still further with time. Themistius declares that he had sought this kind of boyfriend (παιδικά), and had haunted the gymnasia and wrestling arenas, in search especially of poor and humble youths, since he had heard that poverty is more likely to result in wisdom whereas satiety breeds arrogance (ὕβρις); but these turned out to be ʻcamping out far from the true beauty that is worthy of a lover.ʼ (164C: μακράν που ἀποσκηνοῦντας κάλλους ἀληθινοῦ καὶ ἀξιεράστου) Thus, Themistius suffered for a long while and ʻendured pangs over the passion for that beauty which philosophy had portrayed for him, for a youth noble and attractive, who blended both beauties, those of the soul and the body.ʼ (164C: ὠδίνων μὲν τὸν ἔρωτα ἐκείνου τοῦ κάλλους, ὃν φιλοσοφία μοι ὑπεγράψατο, νέου καλοῦ καὶ ἐρασμίου, τὰ κάλλη ἄμφω κερασαμένου, τῆς τε ψυχῆς καὶ τοῦ σώματος) His vain aspirations for such a love led Themistius to conclude, he avows, that such an ideal was exclusively in the sphere of the mind, and ʻimpossible to grasp with the sensesʼ (165A: ἑλεῖν δὲ αἰσθήσει ἀμήχανον), like the perfect circle or triangle, which cannot be reproduced in materials such as wood or stone or drawn as figures. Unable to free himself from the desire to bring to birth such an ideal love, Themistius was suddenly reminded of the passage in Plato’s Phaedrus (the manuscript erroneously has the Phaedo) in which Socrates affirms that there are different kinds of beauty (κάλλος), and he realizes that for intellectuals (φιλολόγοι) the object that attracts them is that pertaining to Zeus, namely the royal kind. He therefore abandoned the palaistra and betook himself to the imperial court, and there indeed he found suitably virtuous and Zeus-like men in Constantius II and Julian, the son and broth-

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er (ἀδελφός, but more loosely here signifying ʻrelativeʼ) of Constantine, but their beauty was already overripe (165C: ὑπέρωρόν γε ἤδη τὸ κάλλος αὐτῶν) and no longer at a suitable age to inspire ἔρως; clearly, Themistius has in mind not the bond of friendship or φιλία between adult males but rather the one-sided passion of an adult male for an adolescent boy. What he needed, he realizes, was someone – he uses the term μυσταγωγός – to initiate him into the mysteries of ἔρως (165C: τῆς ἐρωτικῆς τελετῆς), someone not far from the age of youth (παιδικά) but near it and at its threshold. And this, as he reveals with a flourish, he found in Gratian, as he drops all indirection and addresses himself directly to his young king, ʻthe blessed object of his huntʼ (165D: μακάριον θήραμα τῆς ἐμῆς ἰχνηλασίας); (165D) ʻfor I am not able to have before my eyes that beauty [κάλλος] for the sake of which I travelled from one end of the earth to the other ..., without directing and fixing my eyes upon you.ʼ Once found, Themistius adhered to his beloved prince, and travelled the world to see him, the unique example of a combination of kingship and philosophy. His beauty, moreover, is so outstanding as to render the barbarian virtuous (166C: τοσοῦτον ἄρα αὐτῷ κάλλος περίεστιν ὥστε καὶ βάρβαρον ποιεῖν καλόν), the Gete tame, the Persian humane, the Armenian Roman, the Spaniard Greek and the nomad sedentary, ʻmetamorphosing each from its previous ugliness into the contrary beautyʼ (166C: ἕκαστον ἐκ τοῦ πρόσθεν αἴσχους εἰς τὸ ἐναντίον κάλλος μεταμορφοῦν). Themistius goes on to insist that even if he is a lover of royal waistlines (166C: τῆς ζώνης καὶ τῶν βασιλέων ἐπαινέτης καὶ ἐραστής), he really prefers the head and eyes, as the seat of intelligence, and the place from which Athena sprang; Themistius portrays her as filling the heavens with beauty (κάλλος), and rendering all things ʻfine and lovely thanks to good orderʼ (167A: διὰ τὴν τάξιν καλὰ καὶ ἐραστά). Good kings do the same within their own sphere, and whatever they touch they too render fine and lovely. Themistius announces, however, that this is not the occasion on which to speak about those other beauties (167B: τὰ μὲν ἄλλα κάλλη οὔ μοι καιρὸς ἐπεξιέναι), for example that of cities and villages, their buildings and bays and the bridges that cross their rivers, so that they have cast off their age and are now rejuvenated (the connection between youth and beauty is subtly suggested here as well).4 Themistius goes on to describe the beautification of Constantinople, and in particular the more useful construction of its aqueduct, before entering on a fulsome eulogy of Gratian’s virtues, which, he says, are comparable to those of Alexander the Great and Hercules, both sons of gods, and he surpasses them in youth, power, and self-control. Gra                                                            

4 The praise of cities was a standard rhetorical topic, and earns a chapter in Menander Rhetor’s handbook (Men Rh. 342–351); Libanius calls Theodosius the ἐραστής of Antioch (Or. 19.1).

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tian is disposed to heed the counsels of philosophers, is clement and generous, and his victories are achieved by the beauty of his person (176B: τῇ τῆς ψυχῆς καλλονῇ καὶ εὐμουσίᾳ), rather than by force of arms: ʻnot only philosophers, it seems, but even barbarians are now in love with [ἐρῶσι] Gratian’s brilliance and willingly yield and submit to him, bested by his wisdom [γνώμῃ].ʼ What prevailed against the barbarians were, Themistius insists, ʻGratian’s beauty and the gracefulness of his soulʼ (176C: τὸ Γρατιανοῦ κάλλος καὶ ἡ τῆς ψυχῆς εὐμορφία). The message that love conquers all is indeed inscribed in a bronze representation of the Gigantomachy, in which only the Giant who stands opposed to Eros is represented has having let his weapons fall and submitting joyfully to his opponent. Themistius has gone some way toward shifting the focus from Gratian’s physical beauty to his moral character as the basis for the erotic attraction he exerts on the orator and others, but there is no question that Gratian’s appearance is a major element in his charm, as Themistius chooses to represent it. It is true that Themistius begins the speech by recollecting that Socrates himself declared, according to Plato’s Symposium, that the only subject in which he considered himself an expert was that of erotic love, and he continues by rehearsing the myth that Socrates recounts concerning the origin of Eros as the offspring of Poverty and Provision. But Themistius’ attitude toward Gratian scarcely conforms to the vision of Diotima in the Platonic dialogue. Physical beauty in the Symposium is construed as a worldly manifestation of higher beauty, and its purpose is to draw the soul upward, so that it transcends the attachment to any single beautiful individual and indeed to all perceptible or material things: one must leave behind the false attractions of this world and gaze fixedly on the noetic ideal, which is absolute and unchanging. Themistius has no wish to rise above the sensible attractions of Gratian; as he explicitly affirms, he was wrong to have supposed, before he met the juvenile emperor, that ideal beauty was accessible only to the intellect and ʻimpossible to grasp with the senses.ʼ Gratian unites perceptible and moral beauty; neither is sacrificed to the other. Themistius’ position may become clearer when we consider a point of vocabulary that has been largely ignored in modern discussions of the classical conception of beauty. The word κάλλος – a neuter noun with accent on the first syllable – occurs some twenty-two times in this speech, along with καλλονή which appears three times. This represents a very high concentration for a word which, though not rare, is relatively sparse in its distribution, certainly in comparison with the adjective καλός. What is more, in texts of the archaic and classical periods, the term refers almost exclusively to physical beauty, and more particularly that of human beings, and it carries as well a connotation of sexual attractiveness. That the substantive and the adjective have distinct meanings can be seen in Themistius’

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own language, when he affirms that Gratian’s beauty (κάλλος) was so outstanding that it could render even a barbarian virtuous or noble (καλός, 166C; full Greek text cited above). We find a similar contrast in Theocritus (23.32), when he declares: ʻa boy’s beauty [κάλλος] is a fine thing [καλόν], but it endures a short while.ʼ Indeed, the difficulty of rendering the term καλός as ʻbeautifulʼ has often been noted by students of ancient philosophy. Thus, Aryeh Kosman writes: ʻwe will only be perplexed by Aristotle’s remarks [in a variety of texts] to the degree that we render kalon as ‘beautiful’ and the kalon as ‘beauty’ or ‘the beautiful’,ʼ and he adds: ʻwhen Aristotle writes that a courageous person endures and acts as he does kalou heneka (Eth. Nic. 1115b23), translators frequently portray him as meaning that he does so not for the sake of the beautiful, but for the sake of the noble.ʼ5 Kosman goes on to observe that ʻthere is a deep history of uncertainty about how properly to translate kalon,ʼ this time in reference to Plato’s dialogue, Hippias Major, which is dedicated precisely to understanding the meanings of this word. These problems, Kosman affirms, ʻleave me with the urge, an urge that I will of course resist, to say that the Greeks had no concept of beauty. But this much is right: the concept of beauty is sufficiently different from that of the kalon to make the urge understandable.ʼ6 And Kosman goes on to note that there are two features of the modern idea of beauty that ʻare not found in a comparable sense in the notion of the kalon: (1) Beauty critically involves the world of Art; (2) Beauty critically involves the world of nature.ʼ7 It is well to bear in mind Aristotle’s own definition of καλόν in the Rhetoric (1366a33–34), which runs: ʻκαλόν is whatever is choice-worthy for its own sake and praiseworthy, or that which is good [agathon] and pleasing because it is good.ʼ Nothing in this definition suggests that what is καλόν possesses sexual allure. As for the noun κάλλος, however, the sexual associations are clear from Homer onward. In the Iliad, for example, Achilles describes a womanʼs consummate beauty as rivaling that of Aphrodite (Il. 9.389). The young companions of Nausicaa possess beauty granted by the Graces (Od. 6.18), whereas Nausicaa herself derives her κάλλος from the gods (Od. 8.457): Nausicaa is a potential bride (she has gone to the beach to wash her wedding garments), and her beauty underscores her desirability. So too, we are told that Neleus married Chloris because of her beauty (Od. 11.281–282). Helen is, of course, the paradigm case of beauty. In Euripides’ Helen, Helen recalls the judgment of Paris concerning the κάλλος of the three god                                                             5

Kosman (2010), 344–345. Kosman (2010), 346. 7 Kosman (2010), 351; this issue of CP, edited by Elizabeth Asmis, is devoted to the topic, “Beauty, Harmony, and the Good.” 6

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desses (v. 23), and her own fatal beauty (v. 27; cf. 261, 304; Isoc. Helen 16, 58–60). Electra, in Euripides’ tragedy by that name, denounces a woman who beautifies herself as wicked. This is not to say that only women are said to possess κάλλος. It may be attributed to men as well. Thus, Bellerophon is described as having been granted by the gods κάλλος and ἠνορέην ἐρατεινήν, ʻdesirable manhoodʼ in Richmond Lattimoreʼs literal translation (Il. 6.156); the adjective is telling, since his hostʼs wife will fall passionately in love with him – a characteristic response to beauty, as Themistius’ oration makes clear. In the Homeric Hymn to Aphrodite, the goddess falls in love with Anchises, who has his beauty from the gods (77), whereas she herself possesses ʻimmortal beautyʼ (174); Zeus, for his part, seized Ganymede because of his κάλλος (203). And indeed male κάλλος is often associated with youth; Athena bathes Odysseus in κάλλος in the Odyssey, she also rejuvenates him, turning his hair dark as hyacinths (Od. 6.237; cf. Od. 23.156), thereby making him attractive first to Nausicaa and later to Penelope. In the classical period, when the love of boys came to be more fashionable, or at least more referred to in the surviving literature, κάλλος is typically ascribed to youths, as in Xenophon’s Symposium 1.9, where the κάλλος of Autolycus is said to attract all eyes to him. Grown men who are described as possessing κάλλος are often of dubious moral standing, like Alcibiades, for example, who is said to have been pursued by many women on account of his beauty (X., Mem. 1.2.24); his self-described effort to seduce Socrates in Plato’s Symposium is notorious. Themistius, reflecting this sensibility, is careful to emphasize Gratian’s youth, and to note that such a passion as he professes would have been entirely out of place with respect to an older man, such as Constantius or Julian.8 This is not to say that the noun κάλλος cannot be applied to non-human entities, for indeed it can. The term is applied to handsome animals (e.g., sheep and bulls, Diodorus Siculus 40.26.2, 40.27.1) as well as to landscapes (Diodorus Siculus 2.35.3, 30.10.1) and to natural features such as caves (Diodorus Siculus 30.69.1), rivers (Hermog., Inv. 2.2), and often to cities (Plu., Marc. 19.2; Cat. Ma. 12.5, etc.). Themistius himself notes that there are different kinds of beauty (167B: τὰ μὲν ἄλλα κάλλη), as we have seen, and he dwells at some length on the visual attractiveness of Constantinople. By extension, beauty can be attributed to literary style, though mainly in respect to the harmony or balance of phrases, which is most nearly akin to visible form. Thus, Hermogenes, in his treatise On Style 1.12 (second century AD), writes: ʻIn general, beauty is a symmetry of limbs and parts [συμμετρία μελῶν καὶ μερῶν], along with a good complex                                                             8

Further examples of the use of κάλλος in all periods of ancient Greek, are collected in a series of articles that I am preparing for publication.

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ion [εὐχροίας], and it is through these that a speech [λόγος] becomes [beautiful], whether entire types [of style] are combined into the same [speech] or they [i.e., the elements] make up each type individually, for these are, as it were, their limbs and parts. It is necessary, then, if a speech is to be beautiful [καλός], whether it is variegated or uniform, that it have symmetry among these, that is, harmony [εὐαρμοστία], and that a kind of good complexion bloom upon it, which takes the form of a single quality of character throughout, and which some indeed naturally call the color [χρῶμα] of a speechʼ (my translation). But the principal association is still with the sense of sight. Plotinus, who was of course interested above all in the supra-sensory realm, begins his essay on beauty (Enneads 1.6.1): ʻτὸ καλόν is principally in sight [ἐν ὄψει],ʼ but he immediately adds: ʻbut it is also in hearing in respect to the composition of words, and in every kind of music as well; for melodies and rhythms are καλοί. And, as we proceed higher and away from sensation [αἴσθησις], there are habits that are beautiful [καλά], and actions, and characters, and kinds of knowledge [ἐπιστῆμαί], and there is a beauty [κάλλος] of virtues.ʼ Plotinus himself shortly afterwards inquires whether all things are beautiful by virtue of one and the same beauty (ἑνὶ καὶ τῷ αὐτῷ καλῷ) or whether there is one kind of κάλλος in the body, and another in other things. The phrasing here is similar to Themistius’ language concerning ʻother beauties.ʼ Mention of the beauty of the body, in turn, eases the metaphorical application of κάλλος to the soul. Thus, Aristotle, noting that physical beauty is not necessarily a sign of excellent character, observes that it is (Pol. 1254b38–39) ʻnot equally easy to perceive the κάλλος of the soul and that of the body.ʼ So too Plato, in the Symposium (210B), declares that one must value more highly beauty in souls than in the body. Most often, however, the contrast between corporeal beauty and spiritual qualities is clear, as in Plato’s Philebus (26B 5–7), where Socrates affirms: ʻI am leaving out thousands of other things in my comments, such as strength and κάλλος together with health, and in turn many other lovely [πάγκαλα] things in the soul [ἐν ψυχαῖς].ʼ9 Themistius, then, was writing within a tradition in which beauty, which was unambiguously identified by the word κάλλος, was associated first and foremost with the human form, and its ability to arouse sexual desire. The extensive use of this term confirms Themistius’ intention to represent himself as the lover of the young Gratian, and Gratian, who at the time the speech was delivered would have been about seventeen years old (he is believed to have been born in or around 359), as his beloved (ἐρώμενος or παιδικά). This rhetorical strategy may strike the modern reader as bold or presumptuous on the part of Themistius, and conceivably insulting to the                                                              9

See also Nicol., Prog. 50.7.

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young emperor. This, of course, is to risk projecting our own values and expectations onto a different culture. Yet even by classical standards, Themistius’ representation of his relationship to Gratian seems unusual. It may, of course, reflect a genuine intimacy between the wise rhetorician and the youthful ruler, which might naturally find expression in terms of the classical model of love for boys. Amy Richlin has argued convincingly that the letters exchanged between the young Marcus Aurelius and his tutor, Marcus Cornelius Fronto, are cast in the language of pederasty.10 Indeed, Fronto several times refers to the beauty (κάλλος) of the young emperor. To be sure, this was a private correspondence, though the fact that the letters survive (in a palimpsest, to be sure) to this day indicates that they must have circulated beyond the writers themselves. Still, Themistius’ public assumption of the role of ἐραστής in a speech delivered to the Roman Senate seems to be a step beyond Fronto’s pretentions. A model of a different sort may be found in the famous hymn which the Athenians sang in honor of Demetrius Poliorcetes. Athenaeus (6.62) reports that ʻDemochares, in the twenty-first book of his Histories, says: “And the Athenians received Demetrius when he came from Leucas and Corcyra to Athens, not only with frankincense, and crowns, and libations of wine, but they even went out to meet him with hymns, and choruses, and ithyphallic mummers, and dancing and singing, and they stood in front of him in multitudes, dancing and singing, and saying that he was the only true god, and that all the rest of the gods were either asleep, or gone away to a distance, or were no gods at all. And they called him the son of Poseidon and Aphrodite, for he was eminent for beauty [κάλλος], and affable to all men with a natural courtesy and gentleness of manner. And they fell at his feet and addressed supplications and prayers to him”.ʼ11 The actual hymn, as recorded by Athenaeus, in ithyphallic meter and composed by Hermocles, did indeed describe Demetrius as the son of Poseidon and Aphrodite but did not specifically mention his κάλλος, though Plutarch (Demetr. 2.2) does note his beauty (ἰδέᾳ δὲ καὶ κάλλει προσώπου θαυμαστὸς καὶ περιττός).12 Demetrius was well known for his sexual exploits, which were thought to have distracted him from properly military activities, and it is not impossible that the allusion to Aphrodite concealed a touch of irony, with the implication of a certain resemblance between its honorand and Paris in the Iliad. Irony of this sort would hardly suit the context of Gratian’s speech, however. Themistius may have wished to cast himself as the philosophical adviser of Gratian, a posture that philosophers such as Plato took to be the noble                                                              10

Richlin (2006). Translation from Yonge (1854). 12 For text and discussion of the hymn, see Marcovich (1988), 8–19. 11

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purpose behind the love of boys. He praises Gratian for his willingness to heed the advice of others, and philosophers in particular, and he may have conceived of himself as offering a kind of mirror for princes. Beyond the effort to define and defend his personal status as royal counselor, Themistius may also have wished to promote the ideal of leadership through love rather than through conquest and control by force of arms. Themistius was an enthusiastic exponent of cosmopolitanism under the aegis of Rome. Thus, in one speech (34.XXV), he expatiates upon the gentleness of the Romans, who do not hate their enemies but ʻdeem them worthy of being spared, as human beings.ʼ He goes on to affirm that ʻhe who proceeds to the utmost against arrogant barbarians makes himself king of the Romans alone, but he who conquers and yet spares knows himself to be king of all human beings, and one might justly call this man truly humane [φιλάνθρωπος].ʼ Playing on the root sense of philanthrôpos as ʻlover of mankind,ʼ Themistius states that Cyrus was a lover of Persians (φιλοπέρσης), not of humanity, Alexander a lover of Macedonians, Agesilaus of Greeks, Augustus himself a lover of Romans; but a true lover of mankind and a king in the unqualified sense (ἁπλῶς) is he who inquires simply whether a person who begs for clemency is a human being, irrespective of nationality (it is worth noting that Themistius, unlike his contemporary Libanius, was in favor of integrating barbarians into the empire, a policy followed by Theodosius).13 Themistius’ exploitation of the topos of lover and beloved to define his relationship to Gratian was a daring move, I believe, and may have served several purposes at once. I wish to call attention in this study to the fact that the language of lover and beloved is fully erotic, and is not denatured or watered down by the appeals to Plato’s Symposium or the high-minded references to Gratian’s spiritual qualities. There is, no doubt, an element of metaphor involved, but Themistius has gone out of his way to represent his passion for the beautiful young emperor as authentically erotic. Among other things, the use of the term κάλλος is a sign of his intentions.

Bibliography Audergon, S. (2001), Themistios: Discours 13, Sur l’amour ou la beauté du prince. Université de Fribourg. Unpublished Μémoire de Licence. Konstan, D. (2009), “Cosmopolitan Traditions”, in Balot, R. (ed.), A Companion to Greek and Roman Political Thought. Oxford: Blackwell’s, 473–484. Kosman, A. (2010), “Beauty and the Good: Situating the Kalon”, CP 105.4, 341–357.

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On cosmopolitanism, see further Konstan (2009), 473–484, on which this paragraph draws.

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Marcovich, M. (1988), “Hermocles’ Ithyphallus for Demetrius,” in Marcovich, M. (ed.), Studies in Graeco-Roman Religions and Gnosticism. Leiden: Brill, 8–19. Richlin, A. (2006), Marcus Aurelius in Love: Marcus Aurelius and Marcus Cornelius Fronto. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Russell, D.A. and Wilson, N.G. (1981), Menander Rhetor. Oxford: Oxford Clarendon Press. Vanderspoel, J. (1995), Themistius and the Imperial Court: Oratory, Civic Duty, and Paideia from Constantius to Theodosius. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press. Yonge, C.D. (1854), Athenaeus. The Deipnosophists. London: Henry G. Bohn.

The Panegyrici Latini: Rhetoric in the Service of Imperial Ideology Guadalupe Lopetegui

Introduction The Panegyrici Latini, a collection of eleven speeches addressed to the Emperors Diocletian, Maximian, Constantius, Constantine, Julian and Theodosius and preceded by the gratiarum actio of Pliny to Trajan, has been analyzed from very different perspectives.1 Some studies have fully or partially defended their use as historical sources in spite of the political ideology and flattering language that characterize them.2 Others have addressed formal, cultural or ideological issues in a somewhat exclusivist way. Such approaches have contributed to generating a fairly simplistic view in regard to these speeches because they have encouraged a kind of divorce between linguistic, stylistic or literary questions and those relating to the contents.3 In my opinion only studies that integrate both aspects into                                                             

 This work is part of the Project ‘Aspectos lógicos y retóricos de la argumentaciónʼ (MICIN FFI2010-20118). 1 At the end of the fourth century, a Gallic professor of rhetoric in Bordeaux collected eleven epideictic speeches (289–389) preceded by Pliny’s Panegyric of Trajan. According to Ronning (2007), 139–140 it seems that the compiler was the author of the last speech of this corpus, Pacatus Drepanius, a rhetor who became proconsul of the province of Africa after having been a teacher of rhetoric in Gaul. This collection was used by rhetoricians as model of epideictic rhetoric, which explains many borrowings of one panegyrist from another. 2 Some recent works that offer a general overview are Mause (1994) or Nixon and Saylor (1994). Given the dimensions of this paper and the extensive literature on the subject, I recommend the edition I have used here since it presents a useful bibliographical classification by topics and authors: Lassandro and Micunco (2000), 39– 58. 3 As Sabbah (1984), 366–369 states, the works of Klotz (1911) and Mesk (1912), 366–367 summarize the main assumptions that have been listed in studies on the rhetorical and stylistic aspects. Mesk thinks that late Ancient Greek rhetorical handbooks, not precisely Menander, are the sources on which the rhetoric of praise is based. On the other hand, Klotz believes that the most influential models in the PL are Latin writers, namely, Cicero, Pliny and Fronto. For my part, I consider more appropriate

 

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the historical background of that period will allow us to evaluate correctly the propagandistic purpose of such rhetorical products, their social function, the greater or lesser weight of the literary tradition and, briefly, the specific nature of the Latin epideictic genre in late Antiquity. In my approach to the texts, I have considered the integrating perspective adopted by C. Ronning in his work on praise of the sovereign in the times of Trajan and Constantine4 as well as Guy Sabbah’s consideration of the panegyrics as a vehicle for the spread of ideas throughout an Empire of immense proportions as basic reference points. Therefore, I start from the consideration that the Panegyrici are, above all, a means of political communication between the emperors and their people through members of an educated and privileged elite who plays this role by means of epideictic rhetoric. In line with this, my aim in this paper is twofold. First, I intend to emphasize the great social and political significance of rhetoric and rhetoricians at Tetrarchic period relying on Eumenius’ speech about the restoration of Scholae Maenianae. Although the authors of the PL are not ‘court oratorsʼ but professional teachers, their speeches show the decisive weight of rhetorician’s labor in an ideological scope. Eumeniusʼ discourse proves the social and political aim of the training received in schools and the high consideration awarded to rhetors by the emperors. Secondly, I mean to demonstrate how the mentioned ideological purpose conditions language and formal devices as well as conceptual issues underlining the general shape and topics used by Mamertinus in speeches X and XI. In spite of negative judgments due to conventional character of the PL, I think that this collection is a clear proof of the social role of rhetoric in Late Antiquity. In contrast to the enormous popularity that epideictic genre enjoyed in the Greek tradition of the same period, in the field of Latin it is almost a unique case of the genus epideicticum and his political or ideological role.

                                                             broader studies such as Vereecke (1975) and Maguinness (1932; 1933), who attribute to the authors a broad rhetorical and literary culture allowing them to use different models and resources depending on the objectives and circumstances. 4 See note 2. I find particularly remarkable how Ronning examines the Gratiarum Actio of Pliny at the same time as certain aspects mentioned in the fifth discourse of the PL composed by Eumenius on the occasion of the reopening of the Scholae Menianae. Ronning’s work includes a detailed and individualized analysis of speeches VII and VIII (dedicated to Constantin) in which formal, social and ideological aspects are considered together as a whole. This kind of analysis helps us understand the political aim of these rhetorical texts.

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Eumenius of Autun, the dignity of the rhetor and the ideological function of Rhetoric To develop the first of the abovementioned issues, I am going to analyze the fifth discourse of the PL delivered by Eumenius of Autun in 296 on the occasion of the restoration of Scholae Menianae that were closed during the disorders of the third century and that had suffered a siege of the city in the year 269. Flavius Constantius aimed to rehabilitate the schools and to restore their former prestige. For this purpose, he appointed as their director Eumenius, magister memoriae at Court and previously rhetorician by profession in Autun. This discourse was delivered in the presence of the governor of the province of Lyon.5 Of all the speeches included in the PL, this is the only one that did not take place in front of the emperor. Eumenius’s discourse differs from all the rest, although it might formally be considered as belonging to the gratiarum actio subtype, given that Eumenius accepts his appointment as director of the schools and thanks Emperor Constantius for this. What characterizes this speech is, in my view, the perspective from which the author develops the subject. Although it is a public and official gratiarum actio pronounced in the presence of the provincial prefect, Eumenius not only thanks the emperor for the appointment and praises him but also makes use of this opportunity to highlight, using himself as an example, the dignity and importance of the rethorician’s labor. Thus, from the same prologue, the author manages to attract the reader’s attention by underscoring the discrepancy between the discourse type expected on that occasion and the type of speaker chosen by the emperor. Eumenius bases his captatio benevolentiae on how surprising it might be to find a professor accustomed to private teaching and not skillful at public declamation. The customary false modesty in a preface ornated by ciceronian echoes6 proves a covert compliment to the brave and generous attitude of a speaker who accepts the emperor’s commission as a challenge. The confession of inexperience in public oratory at court does not imply any recognition of a lack of talent, but is instead the rhetorical prelude to a brilliant speech that, of course, in no way detracts from the solemnity and importance of official speeches. Meanwhile, the aforementioned discrepancy between the solemnity of the occasion and the speaker’s professional trajectory serves as a pretext for Eumenius to introduce                                                              5

Eumenius addresses to the Vir Perfectissimus Galliae Lugdunensis. The Perfectissimatus (as well as the Clarissimi, the Egregii or the Illustrissimi) was an office created by the emperors during the late imperial period, see Lassandro and Micunco (2000), 164 n.1. 6 The preface contains borrowings from the exordia of two of Cicero’s discourses: Man. 3 and Deiot. 1 and 5.

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the second theme developed in the prologue: the contrast between rhetorical schooling and public oratory. After highlighting his inexperience in court affairs, he mentions the main subject of his discourse (V.3.2: ut Maenianae scholae quondam pulcherrimo opere et studiorum frequentia celebres et inlustres iuxta cetera quae instaurantur opera ac templa reparentur),7 a subject that he links explicitly to the restoration of the city in which the speech takes place and to the praise of education and culture (V.3.2: omnes potius quibus divina principum liberalitas, quibus urbis istius restitutio, quibus optimarum artium celebratio grata et iucunda est, summo gaudio et favore suscipiant). The importance of the issue justifies the audacity of a speaker not accustomed to public declamation but anxious to please the confidence of an emperor who has become aware of the fundamental function of rhetorical training. In any case, the opposition between the educational experience of the speaker and his alleged inexperience in public oratory leads to a greater interest among the audience regarding the discourse subject, unusual in the typology of an epideictic speech and its brilliant style and performance. Eumenius introduces a bright comparison between school training and playing in court through imagines evoking the hardness of court declamation and the brilliance of school rhetoric.8 Beyond the strength attributed to public oratory, the author qualifies the school as the place where armantur ingenia, where teachers cultivate young talents in order to make them qualified professionals to be bound to court and to imperial or religious service.9 The rhetor demonstrates here that delivering at court is only one of the options that young boys can access if they become armed with the weapons of rhetoric and are well-prepared in humanistic education. Teaching activity, though more discrete, plays a fundamental role: to educate young boys to handle any oratorical situation. A clear example of this is Eumenius’ discourse. At the end of the exordium, he announces the division of the remaining paragraphs of the speech into two parts. In the first (4–10), the key issue is

                                                             7

All quotations are taken from Lassandro and Micunco (2000). V.2.3: Neque enim tanta me aut neglegentia aut confidentia tenet ut nesciam quanta sit inter hanc aciem fori et nostra illa secreta studiorum exercitia diversitas. Ibi armantur ingenia, hic proeliantur; ibi prolusio, hic pugna committitur. Hic plerumque velut sudibus et saxis, illic semper telis splendentibus dimicatur. Hic sudore et quasi pulvere sordidus, illic insignis ornatu laudatur orator ut si uterque experiundi causa officia commutent, alium quidam tubarum sonus et strepitus armorum, alium quaedam triumphi deterreat. 9 V.5.4: (…) ad spem omnium tribunalium aut interdum ad stipendia cognitionum sacrarum aut fortasse ad ipsa palatii stipendia provehi oporteret (…). 8

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the restoration of the Menianae Scholae and of the city of Autun,10 a process that is taking place thanks to the emperor’s generosity. In the second part (11–21), the dominant topic is the zero cost of such restoration to the citizens since all costs are borne by Constantius and Eumenius himself. Without doubt, the idea that pervades and gives coherence to the speech is that of restoration, a huge process that encompasses the city of Autun, but in a symbolic way also the whole empire. Two periods of great length and solemnity describe the magnitude of this task and the richness and variety of resources it involves.11 The restoration of the once famous schools is located in this general context. As far as the Caesares are concerned, they act generously like parents in regard to their children (V.5.3: quos ego ... liberorum nostrorum appellare parentes non dubito) and for that reason, they appoint a competent supervisor.12 Because Eumenius’s changing role (from magister memoriae in the imperial court to supervisor of the Scholae in a town far from Rome) could be perceived by the audience as a decline in status, the author is quick to dismiss this idea: the reconstruction of the Schools is a fundamental part of the restoration process and involves, as we will see, ideologically evoking Rome’s former greatness and consolidating empire building. Eumenius continually emphasizes the dignity of the post he has been offered, therefore he assumes the leadership of the schools as a challenge. In V.6.3 he replays some possible objections from the audience in the sense that the change of position offered by the emperor should not be regarded as degrading, but rather as a way to elevate the dignity of the rhetorician’s profession (non utique quia mihi ... vellet aliquid imposita ista professione detrahere sed ut professioni ipsi ex eo honore quem gessi adderet dignitatem). The emperor’s offering to Eumenius is presented as an important step in the process of restoration of Autun                                                              10

Gaul had long been a center of rhetoric. In the Tetrarchic and early Constantinian periods, Autun and Trier had loomed large and in the course of the fourth century Bordeaux became the leading center. On the other hand, Maenian Schools seem to be celebrated as early as the reign of Tiberius, see Tac., Ann. 3.43: Augustodunum caput gentis armatis cohortibus Sacrovir occupaverat ut nobilissimam Galliarum subolem, liberalibus studiis ibi operatam et eo pignore parentes propinquosque eorum adiungeret. 11 V.4.2–3: Itaque maximas pecunias et totum, si res poscat, aerarium non templis modo ac locis publicis reficiundis sed etiam privatis domibus indulgent; nec pecunias modo sed etiam artifices transmarinos et ex amplissimis ordinibus provinciarum incolas novos et devotissimarum hiberna legionum, quarum invicta robora ne in his quidem quae nunc cum maxime gerunt bellis requirunt, ut commodis nostris studio gratiae hospitalis operentur et resides aquas et novos amnes veluti aridis fessae urbis visceribus infundant. 12 In V.5.3 Eumenius states that the emperor has chosen whom he considered to be best preceptor (suo potissimum iudicio praeceptorem ei moderatoremque) and in doing so, he demonstrated the same concern for cultural issues as he did for other important tasks of government (et inter illas imperatorias dispositiones, longe maioribus summae rei publicae gubernandae provisionibus occupatas, litterarum quoque habuere dilectum).

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and, to a great extent, all the empire. The chief idea in the first part of the speech is that rhetoric and rhetoricians like Eumenius are the main agents of the imperial renovation: instruction based on rhetoric is an essential tool for the accomplishment of the emperors’ political purposes. To develop this idea it is worth noting the link Eumenius establishes between the activity of the rhetor and sacred rites. As Christian Ronning observes, one might say that education understood as paideia has become a sacred formative process.13 Learning rhetoric is conceived as a ritualized process that the rhetorician, like a priest, teaches and practices in a quasisacred building. In fact, Eumenius has already been able to interpret the emperor’s caelestia verba et divina sensa during his employment as magister memoriae; now, as he himself says, the emperor has moved him ab arcanis sacrorum penetralium ad privata musarum adyta (V.6.2). In the prologue Eumenius refers also to the secret nature of the education provided by the school (V.2.3: nostra illa secreta studiorum exercitia) when comparing public oratory and school rhetoric. Such a view considers the learning process as an initiation into a quasi-religious knowledge that attributes to whoever masters it a degree of power and the dignity to become an ideological spokesman for the emperor before the community as a whole. This conception raises the task of teaching to a position close to the divinity, as is explicitly expressed in the core of the first part of the discourse, namely in paragraphs 7–10 in which Eumenius underscores the interest demonstrated by Constantius in the reconstruction of the schools’ headquarters. The place elected for the school building is a sacred space as evidenced at the beginning of the seventh paragraph in the mention of three passages of Greek and Roman history: the construction of the altar of Pity in Athens; the temple dedicated to Value and Honor in Rome (in 234 BC by the consul Q. Fabius); and, above all, that built by M. Fulvius Nobilior in 187 BC in honor of Hercules and the Muses. Eumenius attaches special importance to this act of patronage by a censor and friend of poets (he refers to Ennius) influenced by the cult of Hercules Musagetes in Greece, a cult that he first became aware of during a military stay and that he wanted to introduce on Roman soil. The author is quick to emphasize the symbolic value of this old passage: the censor Fulvius Nobilior wanted to gather the strongest of the gods and the most charming deities so that                                                              13

Ronning (2007), 156–157. The same author notes that, in line with the consecration of the emperor, the rhetorician expresses imperial attributes and facts by using religious and symbolic language. For example, Eumenius describes his own activity with the term praedicare V.10.2: Ibi adulescentes optima discant…ubi ante aras quodammodo suas Iovios Herculiosque audiant praedicari Iuppiter pater et Minerva socia et Iuno placata; IV.1.1: Si mihi, Caesar invicte, post diuturnum silentium sola esset vincenda trepidatio…praesertim cum apud maiestatem tuam divina virtutum vestrarum miracula praedicarem.

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the former would protect poetry and the latter sing the exploits of heroes. From this episode, Eumenius draws an implicit parallel between Athens, Rome and Autun and points to the central and strategic place (between the temple of Apollo and the Capitol) in which the Menianae Schools are situated: indeed, they are like the eyes of the city. The author strongly suggests that Schools are encircled by the protective deities of the arts and culture. The designation of the Schools as sedes sacrosanta and the reference to the practice of quasi-religious rites, in which rhetoricians act as servers of a temple (V.10.2: Ibi adolescentes optimi discant nobis quasi solemne carmen praefantibus, maximorum facta principum celebrare), is particularly striking. Moreover, the function and purpose of education is mentioned by Eumenius with resounding clarity: to praise emperors’ actions since that is the best use of eloquence.14 Therefore, the school is a seat of worship to the divine acts of emperors, a sacred place where rhetoricians teach through ritualized training the key aspects of epideictic oratory: this genus orationis has become the main and most socially valued discourse genre of the age. This explicit link between the role of the school and imperial propaganda is particularly evident in certain metaphors that identify the temples with being the eyes of the city and the school with its mouth (V.9.1: ut ingenia…non intra privatos parietes sed in publica ostentatione et in ipso urbis istius ore vegetentur. Quid autem magis in facie vultuque istius civitatis situm est quam haec eadem Maeniana in ipso transitu advenientium huc invictissimorum principum constituta): Eumenius means that the school is the voice of people before the Caesares and at the same time, a voice that sings the emperors’ exploits. In short, the school is a vehicle of communication between political authority and the people of the city, a cultural and political tool that helps to legitimize the imperial institution and bind it together through the proselytizing activity that takes place in the ideological field. But this is not just propaganda activity. Its teaching also has a moralizing purpose and thus it ensures the assimilation of basic ethical values (V.8.2): credo…litteras omnium fundamenta esse virtutum, utpote continentiae, modestiae, vigilantiae patientiae magistras. In addition, Eumenius enumerates the main careers that the select youth soon to attend such schools will have at their disposal (a judicial career or imperial administrative posts). These young people will become the administrative and ideological framework of the empire. Thus, the first part of the speech (4–10), dramatically emphasizes the role of the rhetorician as servant of Sacred Emperors, youth educator, instructor of future imperial officials, moral and ideological guide and vehicle of communication between the emperors and the citizens.                                                              14

V.10.2: Quis enim melior usus est eloquentiae?, says Eumenius emphatically.

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The aim of the second part (11–21) is to explain that the reconstruction of the Scholae will involve no cost to the public treasury. The rhetor is quick to say that he will devote the wage assigned by Constantius for his new public office as headmaster to the costs for reconstruction. The author uses most of paragraphs (11–16) to explain the reasons supporting his decision and includes in chapter 14 the full text of the imperial letter notifying him of his appointment. It can be said without exaggeration that the speaker’s ethos, his magnanimous personality, is the central feature that brings the arguments of the second part together through to the epilogue. Eumenius, as he has already mentioned in the first part, underlines the great honor the emperor has given to him: Constantius has not removed him from his post in the imperial secretariat but, rather, has rewarded him with another position as headmaster in view of his experience in rhetorical teaching and his moral integrity: the imperial appointment is not granted to just anyone, but instead to someone with a proven reputation that means the educator has to be a vir bonus dicendi peritus, as Cicero and Quintilian required. Nevertheless, Eumenius adds a new nuance to this traditional old requirement, namely the sacred nature attributed to the post of rhetorician: if his work as Constantius’s magister memoriae already had all the traits of a religious service (V.11.2: memoriae sacrae magister; V.13.2: epistulae sacrae commemoratio), now, the religious nature of the work is underscored even more in all the allusions to the new post. In fact, Eumenius refers to the Schools as templis ac sedibus litterarum. Furthermore, he will allot the remuneration he is to receive for rebuilding the schools in the same way that sacrifices and perks dedicated to the gods are offered in a temple. The inclusion of the imperial epistle is strong proof of Caesar’s will to raise the social dignity of the rhetorician as educator and moral instructor of young boys through Eumenius (V.14.4): nec putes hoc munere ante partis aliquid tuis honoribus derogari, cum honesta professsio ornet potius omnem quam destruat dignitatem. The tone of the letter is an expression of praise for the figure of Eumenius and for his work, that is, he is rewarded monetarily and socially with the grant of this second office. Demonstrating his generosity and liberality, the rhetorician accepts the request and decides to allot his salary to the reconstruction of the Schools.15 The decision is decisively influenced by the memory of ancestors, especially that of Glaucus, a famous rhetorician of Greek origin who, attracted by the renown of the Schools of Autun came to town and taught there into his old age. But the main reason for his decision is his gratitude toward Constantius, whose attitude is propitiating a revival of the ancient                                                             

15 V.16.4: videor enim mihi id quod sacris litteris continetur, ut salvo honoris mei privilegio doceam, hoc manifestius atque inlustrius retenturus ut me dignum talibus aeternorum principum iudiciis probem amore reipublicae.

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grandeur of Rome thanks to his huge reconstruction efforts. This labor, worthy of praise, is based, according to Eumenius, on two pillars: the effective management of military campaigns and the impetus given to the cultivation of letters (V.19.1): nihil est tamen hac admirabilius liberalitate honorandisve quam litterarum fovendis studiis impartiunt. In fact, none of the earlier Caesares can be compared in this regard with the current emperors (V.19.2: quippe, ut initio dixi, nulli umquam antehac principes pari cura belli munia et huiusmodi pacis ornamenta coluerunt). The exalted virtues of the emperors are favoring the union between Mars and the Muses, between military and physical courage and oratorical culture. This combination of pragmatism and wisdom that Eumenius embodies in the Caesares represents a return to the old Ciceronian ideal of union between political action and philosophic-rhetorical culture. Recovering the culture of the golden age of Roman history is the key to the revival of the empire.16 In short, praising the emperor had become an emphatic praise of oratorical culture and of its agents, rhetoricians like Glaucus and Eumenius: they made the cultivation of virtues possible and fostered the cult of the emperors, necessary requirements in order to consolidate imperial power. The end of the speech clearly shows the importance of the school as a means of propaganda for imperial ideology: the author notes in the penultimate paragraph of the speech the effectiveness of visual communication when mentioning the existence of maps on the school walls. Vast regions and provinces of the Roman Empire and the physical geography of the known world at that time are represented there: Eumenius uses this scene to list the geographic areas of the empire and to remind us which of them have been assigned to each of the tetrarchs. Finally, the author points out the vast imperial power (V, 21.3): nunc enim, nunc demum iuvat orbem spectare depictum, cum in illo nihil videmus alienum. An analysis of this speech, the only one referring to a scholarly institution and rhetorical training among all those collected in the PL, clearly shows the process of rebirth that schools and oratorical culture were experiencing in certain cities in the empire. It also highlights the important role played by rhetoricians in the ideological and moral education of youth, as well as in the communication established between the people and the emperors: using one of Eumenius’s metaphors, schools and rhetoricians are the mouth of the city and also the spokesmen of the imperial desiderata. This communicative function is essential to spreading ideals and values legitimating the imperial institution among the youth. Elsewhere, clearly                                                             

16 As noted by DʼElia (1961), 354 the reactionary culture that characterizes the fourth and fifth centuries is reflected in the influence of Cicero, Virgil, and Livy in the rhetorical-philosophical works of that time.

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Eumenius wants to emphasize the dignity of the rhetorician, a profession that should be the equal of any other administrative or imperial position and that might even be considered of a higher standing because of its key communicative role between people and imperial authorities. An indication of the rhetorician’s superior dignity is the insistence on presenting the subjects taught in schools as ritualized instruction in a sacred site: rhetoricians may be compared to pontiffs who initiated novices in the cult of emperor-gods through rhetorical training. Panegyrics, oratorical products resulting from this initiation process, must be directed, of course, to extolling the imperial deities. Taking into account the above mentioned issues, in the following paragraphs I analyze two discourses of the PL, composed by Mamertinus in order to show the most important features that characterize the praise of emperors according to Eumenius: the sacred, quasi-mystical essence of the teaching provided by rhetoricians, the intermediary role that rhetores play between the emperors and the city and the standardized and scholarly nature of late antique panegyrics.

Rhetorical devices at the service of an ideological aim: Speeches II and III of the PL The first clearly perceptible feature of the speeches integrating the PL is their standardized nature: they are more or less established products adapted to the conventions of the social event that has produced them. The direct intervention of emperors in the management of administrative, judicial and military proceedings and the consolidation of the cult towards their divine nature, had multiplied the occasions on which to deliver panegyrics. Thus, as in the Greek-speaking environment, so in the Latin West praise also became an essential discursive form in the various ceremonies connected with the imperial institution. In fact, both the rhetor and the grammarian (although the latter to a lesser extent) became part of the imperial framework17. On the other hand, the rhetoric of praise, subject to ethical values18 had become a standard and systematized theory that we know about thanks to                                                             

17 As Kaster states (1997), 207f. the acquisition of knowledge between the second and fourth centuries was a social phenomenon that was influenced by personal relationships of educators with upper class members. Furthermore, as Tim Whitmarsh (2005) says with respect to Second Sophistic, language’s discriminatory use became the principal mark of the social status: at Late Antiquity rhetoric was a conservative discipline which helped to keep the social order and recreate the greatness of the past. 18 Grammatical-rhetorical teaching was the main way to acquire a moralizing and ideologically directed education based on certain virtues: good learning and good manners were considered inseparable as Eumenius clearly states in V.8.2: pro divina

 

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theoretical works of late Greek rhetores such as Menander and the PseudoDionysius.19 In the Latin world Quintilian (Inst. orat. III.7.10) recognized the existence of a Roman epideictic eloquence that is reflected in the practice of the encomium in rhetorical exercises called progymnasmata and the popularity of the laudationes funebres, especially those dedicated to emperors and to other well-known people during the imperial era. The epideictic subgenus most elaborate in the Latin world is the gratiarum actio, of which the most imitated models are the Panegyric of Trajan and the speech delivered by Fronto before the senate in 143.20 This subgenus continued to be developed in the following centuries and, although it did not receive any specific treatment in rhetoric manuals, Pernot assumes that it was considered to be attached to the epideictic genre. According to this scholar, Roman writers offer us the most refined examples of gratiarum actio in the first centuries AD. Meanwhile, these Latin models are clearly influenced by the rhetoric of praise developed in the Greek world.21 As for the rhetorical theory we have at our disposal, as stated above, there are late contributions that attempted to systematize a rich, varied and well established practice. The standardized nature of this teaching can be deduced from the style and the framework itself of speeches and from statements such as the following by Mamertinus in the exordium of discourse III: when mentioning the event that gives rise to the exordium, the author, who had prepared a speech on the occasion of the fifth anniversary of the proclamation of both emperors as Augusti (Quinquenalia), remarks that he will deliver it in celebration of the tenth anniversary.22 Without any doubt, the                                                              intellegentia mentis aeternae sentiat litteras omnium fundamenta esse virtutum utpote continentiae, modestiae, vigilantiae, patientiae magistras. Quae universa cum in consuetudinem tenera aetate venerunt, ad omnia deinceps officia vitae et ad ipsa quae diversissima videntur militia atque castrorum munia convalescunt. 19 Two treatises from the late Empire ascribed to Menander (Russell and Wilson, [1981]) are of interest, particularly the section devoted to the βασιλικὸς λόγος. J. Mesk has analyzed the extent to which the PL conformed to the schema set out in Menander’s section about the praise of emperors. On the other hand, Klotz and Vereecke have insisted that panegyrist were familiar with a wide range of Latin and probably Greek literature. Therefore, they would have drawn for inspiration from a variety of sources (Cicero, Pliny, Sallust, Seneca…). 20 Although Fronto’s discourses are not extant, see concerning the speech on praise of his consulship, Ep. 4.2. 21 Pernot (1993), I, 108–110. On the other hand, the Panegyrici Latini are practically the only source that allows us to verify the diverse social events that might give rise to a praise discourse addressed to the emperor. Depending on such events, different epideictic subgenera were delimited by late Greek rhetoricians. These classifications are a logical consequence of the rich social practice that was being consolidated at the same time as the ritual of the court was becoming more grandiose and ornate. 22 III, 1, 3: Neque enim orationis eius quam composueram facio iacturam, sed eam reservo ut quinquenio rursus exacto Decennalibus tuis dicam, quoniam quidem lustris

 

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rhetorical framework of the panegyrics – the subject of numerous studies – is the best proof of their scholarly nature. Starting with the prologue, a commonplace in the two speeches in question, as in the rest of the collection, is the mention of the event for which they were composed: the anniversary of the founding of Rome (II) and the anniversary of the appointment as Iovius and Herculeus of Diocletian and Maximian (III).23 Besides mentioning the event, the author stresses the relevance of the occasion by amplifying it with the insertion of mythical passages drawn from the history of Rome and related to the aforementioned gods, or through evoking the solemn acts that commemorate the event in question. Such accounts allow him, above all, to dwell on the emperors’ divine filiation and to emphasize hyperbolically the greatness and uniqueness of imperial acts. Furthermore, the inclusion of rhetorical devices typical of progymnasmata is a proof of the standardized nature I referred to above. Among these, I should mention the legendary storytelling of the foundation of Pallantium by Evander, the story of Hercules and Cacus and Hercules’ fight with the Giants (II.1 and II, 4) or an exaltation of spring used to recreate a new golden age in the world (IV.3.1). The evocation of mythical characters and passages helps the author to underline the contrast between the fictional nature of such stories and the reality of empire. The claim to truthfulness typical of historical accounts is an idea repeated in the panegyrics, both in the prologue and throughout the speech. This topic, which might be understood as ‘truth surpassing fiction,ʼ24 enables its creator to enhance the figure of the emperor and to emphasize his divinity. Both the recreation of the celebratory framework surrounding the speech and the amplificatory accounts are expressed in a solemn and brilliant style that makes the debut a sort of hymn of thanksgiving dedicated to imperial divinity. In fact, the ultimate purpose of any epideictic discourse, as the author recalls, is that of laudes canere et gratias agere. In this line,                                                              omnibus praedicandis communis oratio est. The anonymous author of the fourth discourse affirms in IV.1.2, regarding his labor as a rhetorician: Quo in genere orationis quanta esset cura, quantus labor, quam sollicita veneratio, sensi etiam cum in cotidiana illa instituendae iuventutis exercitatione versarer…possem tamen recensere numerando. 23 II.1.4: Iure igitur hoc die quo immortalis ortus dominae gentium civitatis vestra pietate celebratur, tibi potissimum, imperator invicte, laudes canimus et gratias agimus. 24 II.2.5: Finguntur haec de Iove, sed de te vera sunt, imperator; III.8.4: Sed removeamus istinc fabulas imperitorum, verum loquamur: vestra vobis pietas, sacratissime imperator, volucres dedit cursus; III.9.4 and 10.1: Eant nunc rerum veterum praedicatores et Hannibalem illum multis laboribus magnaque exercitus sui diminutione Alpes penetrasse mirentur!...Tum, si fortunae causaeque Hannibalis ac vestrorum itinerum comparentur, quanto haec vestra dis hominibusque acceptiora sunt, quanto laude ac sempiterna memoria digniora!

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the author takes advantage of his mention of the event and of the divine character of his interlocutor to highlight the grandeur of Rome and the unity of the huge empire that the emperors manage. Although the two speeches were delivered in Treveris, Mamertinus mentions places and symbolic buildings in Rome together with the legendary stories linked to them.25 Mentioning or describing external symbols, whether architectural or celebratory-ritual or stylistic and making allusion to imperial exploits and military campaigns helps to emphasize the following idea: the emperors are managers of vast territories and saviors of an empire that has become unified thanks to their divine acts: in short, they are founders of a new Rome. Another commonplace typical of the exordia of epideictic discourses is the enumeration of the loci a persona (place of birth, race, education, etc). In this regard, it should be noted that this topos is not mechanically applied in both speeches. Rather the author develops it in a personal way and tries to adapt it to the personality and the biography of the person worthy of praise. On the other hand, reworking this topic is subject to the objective pursued by the author. For example, in II.2.1 Mamertinus introduces, with an emphatic unde ordiar?, four rhetorical questions in order to praise Maximian’s homeland, divine ancestry and education. Most striking in the use of this topic is the way the author adapts it to a reality that does not fit the usual patterns of epideictic discourse: the country is not Rome nor a city of special significance, but a province without reputation or a known past; the lineage is not noble or illustrious, so Mamertinus decides to remember the divine descent of the emperor and his link to Hercules; his education is not based on solid humanistic culture but instead consists of military training in a frontier land exposed to many dangers.26 In fact, the most diverse cir                                                            

25 In II.1 Mamertinus mentions the Palatium and describes how Evander founded the city Pallantium and how he received Hercules hospitably when he returned from Hispania after having defeated Geryon: the Ara Maxima would be a memory of that event. The place that gave hospitality to Hercules would become the Caesars’ home. In III.3.7 Mamertinus refers to the solemn games to celebrate the emperors’ divine birth (His quidem certe diebus quibus immortalitatis origo celebratur, instigat, ut videmus, illos [a] sacris certaminibus accitos ut pertinaci animositate certandi multa faciant ipsius similia Victoris). 26 II.2.2–4: Unde igitur ordiar? Commemorabo nimirum patriae tuae in rem publicam merita? Quis enim dubitat quin multis iam saeculis, ex quo vires illius ad Romanum nomen accesserint, Italia quidem sit gentium domina gloriae vetustate, sed Pannonia virtute? An divinam generis tui originem recensebo quam tu non modo factis immortalibus sed etiam nominis successione testaris? An quemadmodum educatus institutusque sis praedicabo in illo limite, illa fortissimarum sede legionum, inter discursus strenuae iuventutis et armorum sonitus tuis vagitibus obstrepentes; III.3.9: Non enim in otiosa aliqua deliciisque corrupta parte terrarum nati institutique estis, sed in his provinciis quas ad infatigabilem consuetudinem laboris atque patientiae fracto licet oppositus hosti, armis tamen semper instructus limes exercet, in quibus omnis vita militia

 

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cumstances can be manipulated according to the laudatory purpose so that almost anything can become a source of praise. Other loci communes typical of the prologue are invoking the Muses or some deity and mentioning the main theme of the speech as well as a brief enumeration of the contents to be developed. The request for divine inspiration appears in the form of a petition to the emperor and on more than one occasion is combined with the topic of false modesty: the author is not equal to the occasion or he has not composed speeches for a long time, but anyway he invokes the aid of imperial divinity.27 Anyway, the most striking conceptual and formal feature is the rise of the speech to a sacred scope, a feature characterizing late praising discourses as noted in the commentary to discourse V of the Panegyrici. According to the divine nature attributed to the emperors at that time, the authors of panegyrics can be considered priests serving imperial gods, professionals transmitting an institutionalized knowledge that offered the youth a route to prestige and social success. This is the logical consequence of the process of sacralization that the figure of the sovereign had experienced since the beginning of the imperial regime,28 and one that is fully consolidated in the third and fourth centuries. The cult of imperial divinity (numen) and panegyric had become a part of official ceremonies and rituals. Along the same lines, rhetoricians and poets are considered spokespersons of the imperial gods, a conception reflected primarily in the religious language that characterizes not only the prologue but the whole speech. Invocations with the adjective sacer are constant, as is the evocation of rituals and ceremonies by which the author tries to raise the emperor to a higher and deified plane.29 Even the learning transmitted by rhetoricians is                                                              est, quarum etiam feminae ceterarum gentium viris fortiores sunt …; III.4.1: Ex istis ergo causis stirpis vestrae patriorumque institutorum illa veniunt quae saepe miramur. 27 III.5.1: Sed de rebus bellicis victoriisque vestris, sacratissime imperator, et multi summa eloquentia praediti saepe dixerunt et ego pridem, cum mihi auditionis tuae divina dignatio eam copiam tribuit, quantum potui praedicavi; cf. IV.1.5–6: (…) praesertim cum favente numine tuo ipse ille iam pridem mihi, qui me in lucem primus eduxit, divinarum patris tui aurium aditus evenerit. Quo facilius maiestatis tuae recordatione confisus, possim illa quae tunc dicta sunt praeterire atque hunc sermonem ab his quae secuta sunt inchoare; IV.2.2: Det igitur mihi, Caesar invicte, hodiernae gratulationis exordium divinus ille vestrae maiestatis ortus ipso quo inluxit auspicio veris inlustrior. 28 Horace considered Augustus as representative of Jupiter on the Earth and described him as a praesens divus. This divine notion was becoming more typical with the course of time so that it became customary to attribute divine qualities to the sovereign. Thus, by the third century this literary representation had become a locus communis presenting sovereign power as granted by Jupiter, see Starbatty (2007), 142–143. 29 II.3.2–3: Trabeae vestrae triumphales et fasces consulares et sellae curules et haec obsequiorum stipatio et fulgor et illa lux divinum verticem claro orbe complectens,

 

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revealed in some contexts as secret knowledge reserved only for a select group of the initiated.30 But more significant than religious vocabulary and imagery is the need to show how the sacred conception of the emperor and his political significance condition the conceptual and rhetorical structure of discourse itself. Mamertinus’s first panegyric (PL II) was delivered to commemorate the anniversary of the founding of Rome and the second (PL III), to celebrate Maximian’s dies natalis. In the first, Mamertinus considers the principal subject of the discourse the presentation of the emperors as restorers and founders of a new empire whose capital city is still Rome. This is possible thanks to the fraternity and harmony that characterize the close relationship between the two emperors and that they have received from the gods. Therefore, although the panegyric is intended only for Maximian and praise of his exploits extends to over four paragraphs (4–8), the author does not fail to emphasize Maximian’s subordination to Diocletian and the full brotherhood of both in their running of imperial affairs. The enumeration of Maximian’s exploits is intended to underline the main idea or propositio with which the author initiates the narration (II.3.1): omittam cetera et potissimum illud adripiam quod multis fortasse mirum videbitur (…): te, cum ad restituendam rem publicam a cognate tibi Diocletiani numine fueris invocatus, plus tribuisse beneficii quam acceperis. From chapter 8, the authorʼs interest turns to another point: the description of a meeting in Germany (Mainz) between both Augusti after having led different military campaigns. This meeting is described as a special occasion in which the emperors offer each other their victories and virtues and become brothers, more so than the Heraclides (II.9.3): ambo nunc estis largissimi, ambo fortissimi atque hac ipsa vestri similitudine magis magisque concordes et, quod omni consanguinitate certius est, virtutibus fratres. As stated by DʼElia,31 the epithets Herculeus and Iovius were probably formalized at that meeting in order to legitimize the sacred and divine source of imperial power. From this passage until the end of the speech, Mamertinus emphatically emphasizes union and military successes, in short, the felicitas prevailing throughout the whole empire. This is all unequivocal proof of the                                                              vestrorum sunt ornamenta meritorum…sed longe illa maiora sunt quae tu impartito tibi imperio vice gratiae rettulisti; III.1.1: Omnes quidem homines, sacratissime imperator, qui maiestati vestrae laudes canunt et gratias agunt…sentio tamen a me praecipue hoc piae vocis officium iure quodam sacrosanct fenoris postulari…et dicendi munus quod tunc voti promissione susceperam, nunc religioni debiti repraesentem; IV.1.1: praesertim cum apud maiestatem tuam divina virtutum vestrarum miracula praedicarem. 30 See the use of the adjective arcanus in V.6.2: (…) ut mediocrem quidem pro ingenio meo naturaque vocem, caelestia tamen verba et divina sensa principum prolocutam, ab arcanis sacrorum penetralium ad privata Musarum adyta transtulerit. 31 D’Elia (1961), 198–220.

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protection granted by the supreme gods to their delegates on Earth. The speech ends with two paragraphs in which the rhetorician invokes and praises Rome and the Tetrarchic institution, whose legitimacy and strength are, according to the author, a guarantee of peace and prosperity (II.14.2): Non necesse erit Camillos et Maximos et Curios et Catones proponere ad imitandum; quin potius vestra illi facta demonstret, vos identidem et semper ostendat praesentes et optimos imperatoriae institutionis auctores. As can be seen, the arrangement of imperial exploits and other topics does not follow a chronological order.32 The speech is organized from certain virtutes, those having a clear ideological and political meaning: pietas, concordia, felicitas. With this goal in mind, the author makes a selection of deeds that serves to highlight the superhuman qualities of the emperors and combines it with stories and mythical allusions concerning the dyad Jupiter-Hercules or with historical facts related to the place or event in question. These magnified tales are expressed in a language full of religious evocations and terms. This cocktail of elements helps transmit to the citizens an image of unity and harmony among the highest agents of the Tetrarchic system, who are also imbued with the divine qualities of Jupiter and Hercules as reflected in their superhuman virtues (ubiquity, speed, constant movement, clemency, liberality ...). The second of the discourses analyzed (PL III) can be considered a more emphatic development of the key subjects mentioned in the first. In the former the author evokes the concordia and the felicitas as virtutes generated from the divinity of the emperors, while in the latter, he attempts to celebrate the anniversary of the appointment of both as Iovius and Herculeus. Thus, from the very beginning, Mamertinus gets ready to demonstrate that pietas is a principal virtue that allows the emperors to carry out all theirs actions successfully. This virtue takes shape in an attitude of respect and observance of the divine order. On the other hand, it is also manifested in the fraternity and harmony between the two sovereigns and generates felicitas, namely peace and prosperity, throughout the empire. The exordium of the speech III is longer than its predecessor and also contains a reference to the occasion giving rise to the speech as well as a magnification of the same basic idea (III.2.4): siquidem vos dis esse genitos et                                                             

32 As Chicca (1985), 82 f. observes, the theory on the epideictic genre was systematized in Late Antiquity by Menander II and the Pseudo-Dionysius. In the late imperial panegyric the arrangement of the speech per virtutes, proposed by Menander, prevailed over other types of organization based on a chronological account of res and facta (Quintilian in the section III.7.10 of his Institutio Oratoria said that an orator had to decide which of these two methods will be the more serviceable according to the nature of the subject). Anyway, Galletier (1949–1955) I, XXXI states that, although several of the PL adopted the biographical method and PL ΙΙΙ the scheme per virtutes, the rest do not fit either mold.

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nominibus quidem vestris sed multo magis virtutibus adprobatis. Through the evocation of certain mythical passages (Jupiter and the Titans, Phaeton and the chariot of the Sun, various labors of Hercules) and mention of the emperors’ incessant movement and speed, Mamertinus stresses again their divine nature.33 After having briefly mentioned some of Maximian’s exploits, the rhetorician focuses on the key issue (III.5.5): novam mihi propono dicendi legem ... ostendam inesse laudibus vestris alia maiora. (III.6.1) Quae sunt igitur illa? ... Pietas vestra…atque felicitas (III.5.5–6). The central paragraphs of the speech are designed to highlight imperial pietas. In order to do so, the author describes in detail the meeting that took place in Milan between the two Augusti (III.8–12) after having emphasized the brotherhood and unity that the empire enjoys thanks to them (III.6.3): Qui germani geminive fratres indiviso patrimonio tam aequabiliter utuntur quam vos orbe Romano? Mamertinus does not enumerate wartime events and feats following a chronological or thematic order but instead selects and magnifies those facts that stress the ideological and moral values with which the discourse deals. After having introduced the subject, chapters 6 and 7 intend again to emphasize the fraternity and harmony that characterize the relationship between the Augusti. In this line, paragraphs 8–12 narrate the meeting between the two of them in Milan in terms of religious exaltation: the emperors are the epitome of Jupiter and Hercules, therefore people offer sacrifices and libations with the veneration due to the gods.34 Then paragraph 13 stresses the transition toward the latter part of the speech devoted to the exaltation of the felicitas due to the divine emperors’ pietas. The following chapters up to paragraph 18 depict the fertility of the field and the military successes as a result of the enemiesʼ fear of the Roman armiesʼ effectiveness and the internal struggles that are destroying the Barbarian. With a language full of religious terms and expressions, the panegyrics extol the divine virtues of pietas and fraternitas because they ensure the peace and unity of the empire, and the continuity of the imperial regime.                                                             

33 Mamertinus reveals in both the prologue and throughout the speech philosophical ideas that were loci communes in the philosophical literature of the time, especially in the neo-Platonic philosophical sphere. Nevertheless, it is difficult to ascribe such ideas to concrete philosophical or religious flows since, as pointed out by DʼElia (1961), 353–389 the religious-intellectual atmosphere of that time was characterized by an eclecticism that had popularized certain beliefs such as the perpetual motion of the soul as proof of its immortality, the fiery nature of the soul and its relationship with the body conceived as a prison, the existence of a cosmic year or annus mundanus, the influence of the stars on human life ... 34 III.10.5: (…) concursare inter se agricolae, nuntiare totis vicis visa…non opinione traditus sed conspicuus et praesens Iuppiter cominus invocari, non advena sed imperator Hercules adorari.

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Conclusions In short, the following conclusions can be underlined from the discourses studied. First, detailed works have demonstrate that rhetoricians had at their disposal a standardized technique for praising, based on handbooks about epideictic rhetoric that offered them precepts for content as for form. The rhetorical structure of the panegyric is the feature best reflecting such a technique. The inclusion of commonplaces such as mentioning the occasion of speech delivering, the ‘incompetenceʼ of the orator or the use of mythological accounts underlines the traditional nature of these speeches. However, selecting and developing of certain commonplaces and principles of arrangement of material by panegyrists can be focused as a way to analyze the political and ideological aim that imperial policy pursued. Secondly, panegyrists emphasize the emperors’ divine filiation, their connection with Jupiter and Hercules. This deification also conditions the language used, its symbolism, style and even the exploits narrated. At that time, rhetoricians became quasi priests in the service of the imperial gods who offered their speech as a religious gift. Finally, this religious dimension had an evident political goal and could also condition the thematic disposition of the speech. In the Mamertinus’ speeches the arrangement of subjects is not based on chronological or purely thematic criteria but, rather, on stressing those political and moral values that the imperial regime wanted to transmit. Along the same lines, rhetoricians were spokesmen of imperial ideology before the city and their dignity and prestige relied on this role. Panegyrics are, therefore, a propaganda tool that, in combination with other architectural, artistic and financial means, contributed to the transmission of a certain moral and political ideology from the emperors toward the citizens by means of rhetoricians. As Nixon and Saylor state, ‘The late Latin panegyrics are both manifestations of the political and intellectual control of the educated classes by the central government and an important tool in the process of that political and intellectual control: that is, in the education of youth.ʼ35

Bibliography Chicca, F. del (1985), “La struttura retorica del Panegirico latino tardoimperiale in prosa: teoria e prassi”, Annali della Facoltà di Lettere e Filosofia dell’Università degli studi di Cagliari 6, 79–113.

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Nixon and Saylor (1994), 33.

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D’Elia, S. (1961), “Ricerche sui Panegirici di Mamertino a Massimiano”, Annali della Facoltà di Lettere e Filosofia dell’Università di Napoli 9, 121–391. Galletier, E. (1949–1955), Panégyriques latins I–III. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Herzog, R. (1993), “Les Panégyriques”, in Herzog, R. et alii (eds.), Restauration et renouveau. La littérature latine de 284 à 374 après J.C. Tournhout: Brepols, 185–198. Kaster, R. (1997, 2nd edt.), Guardians of Language. The Grammarian and Society in Late Antiquity. Berkeley: University of California Press. Klotz, A. (1911), “Studien zu den Panegyrici Latini, III”, RhM 66, 513–572. L’Huillier, M.C. (1986), “La figure de l’empereur et les vertus impériales. Crise et modèle d’identité dans les Panégyriques Latines”, in Levècque, P. and Mactoux M.M. (eds.), Les grandes figures religieuses. Fonctionnement pratique et symbolique dans l’Antiquité. Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 529–582. Lassandro, D. (2000), Sacratissimus imperator. L’imagine del princeps nell’oratoria tardoantica. Bari: Edipuglia. Lassandro, D. and Micunco, G. (2000), Panegirici Latini. Torino: UTET. Lomas, F.J. (1988), “Propaganda e ideología. La imagen de la realeza en los Panegíricos Latinos”, in Candau Morón, J.M.; Gascó, F., and Ramírez de Verger, A. (eds.), La imagen de la realeza en la Antigüedad. Madrid: Coloquio, 141–163. Maguinness, W.S. (1932), “Some Methods of the Latin Panegyrists”, Hermathena 47, 42–61. –. (1933), “Locutions and formulae of the Latin Panegyrists”, Hermathena 48, 117–138. Mause, M. (1994), Die Darstellung des Kaisers in der lateinischen Panegyrik. Stuttgart: F. Steiner. Mesk, J. (1912), “Zur Technik der lateinischen Panegyriker”, RhM 67, 569–590. Nixon, C.E.V. and Saylor Rodgers, B. (1994), In praise of later Roman emperors. Berkeley-Los Angeles-Oxford: University of California Press. Pernot, L. (1993), La rhétorique de l’éloge dans le monde gréco-romain. 2 vols. Paris: Institut d’Études Augustiniennes. Rodríguez Gervás, M.J. (1991), Propaganda política y opinión pública en los Panegíricos Latinos del Bajo Imperio. Salamanca: Universidad de Salamanca. Ronning, C. (2007), Herrscherpanegyrik unter Trajan und Konstantin. Tübingen: JCB Mohr. Russell, D. and Wilson, N. (1981), Menander Rhetor. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Sabbah, G. (1984), “De la rhétorique à la communication politique: les Panégyriques Latins”, Bulletin de l’Association Guillaume Budé 43, 363–388. Starbatty, A. (2007), “Kaiser und Gott in den Panegyrici Latini”, Antike und Abendland 53, 141–165. Vereecke, E. (1975), ‟Le corpus des Panégyriques Latins de l’epoque tardive: problèmes d’imitation”, AC 44, 141–160. Whitmarsh, T. (1995), The Second Sophistic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

‘No stories for old Menʼ: Damophilus of Bithynia and Plutarch in Julian’s Misopogon Lieve Van Hoof and Peter Van Nuffelen Chapter 29 of the Misopogon, the text with which Julian settles his accounts with the city of Antioch just before his departure for his Persian campaign,1 introduces the exemplum of Cato the Younger. According to an anecdote that could be found in a compilation of Damophilus of Bithynia but that was ultimately derived from the Life of Cato the Younger of Plutarch (13), Cato was once approaching Antioch when he saw the ephebes lined up outside the city. Ostensibly embarrassed as befits the modesty of a philosopher, but also flattered, he reproached his friends for having secretly announced his arrival to the city and thus caused this formal welcome. Yet when he came close, the gymnasiarch ran up to him and asked ‘Stranger, where is Demetrius?’ The welcome was thus intended not for the modest and austere Cato but for a rich ex-slave of Pompey. Cato could only utter ‘o unhappy city’ and turned his heels. For Julian, the Antiochene fervor for a rich ex-slave is additional proof of the innate depravity of Antioch, which clearly predated his own presence in the city. The chapter has been cited as proof for the view that the Misopogon is a work of haste: the anecdote is spread over an entire chapter and interrupted by an exposé on the identity of Demetrius and Damophilus, and on the ultimate source of the story (Plutarch). The pointe of the story is thus postponed, unduly so to the mind of these interpreters.2 The Misopogon obviously was written fairly quickly, being composed and published as Julian’s satirical word of farewell to Antioch between late February and early March 363,3 and scholars have been on the lookout for infelicities and dis                                                            

1 For background and interpretation of the Misopogon, see Gleason (1986); Long (1993); Wiemer (1995), 189–245 and 269–356 and 1998; Janka (2008); Quiroga (2009); Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen (2011). For our overall interpretation of the work, we refer to the latter contribution. 2 Müller (1998), 235. See also Prato and Micalella (1979), 134 who describe the chapter as a digression. 3 Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen (2011), 174–175.

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continuities in the work.4 Such assessments derive partially from the discomfort that the Misopogon continues to inspire as at least an uncommon way of imperial self-expression, which used to be explained by Julian’s psychological state of mind.5 Going against this trend, Maud Gleason has argued in a seminal article that the Misopogon represented one of the few preserved instances of an ‘edict of chastisement’ or even a ‘festive satire,ʼ but in any case a normal mode of communication between emperor and subject.6 In an earlier article,7 we have suggested that, while this interpretation points the way to a better understanding of the text, it underestimates the degree to which the Misopogon differs in tone from other such edicts and does not take into account the fact that the text was not perceived as a light-hearted response by the Antiochenes who read it. Rather, it is a carefully construed attempt by Julian to create a moral gap between himself and Antioch, with the aim of offering this as the explanation for his failed relationship with the city, for which he himself was as much to blame as the Antiochenes. The Misopogon is thus not an ordinary text designed to have an impact in the specific Antiochene context, but aims at imposing Julian’s interpretation of the events on a wider audience and indeed posterity. Julian was very successful in that respect: the earliest accounts of the events in Antioch, Libanius’ orations, engage closely with the Misopogon and try to remove the stigma from the city, the sophist, and, after Julian’s death, the emperor. These orations, together with the Misopogon itself, form the basis of later accounts of the events in Antioch, which have had an impact until today: the moral gap between Julian and Antioch, in fact construed by Julian, still is considered as one of the key reasons why emperor and city did not get along.8 Whereas our earlier article offers an overall interpretation of the Misopogon and its reception, this contribution is a micro-study of a single chapter of the work, aiming to show that even seemingly incongruous details contribute to the construction of an opposition designed by Julian to allow himself, notwithstanding his apparent self-depreciation, to take the moral high ground. At first sight, the purpose of Chapter 29 is straightforward: Cato, an example of moral rectitude, offers classical authority for Julian’s assertion that Antioch has always been dissolute. On closer inspection, however, some elements raise questions: Why does Julian elaborate the story in the way he does? Why does he refer to both Damophilus and Plutarch as                                                              4

Wiemer (1998). For a different assessment of the structure, see Long (1993). Festugière (1959), 63–89; Lacombrade (1964), 141–155; Browning (1976), 158; Bowersock (1978), 103. See Bouffartigue (1989). 6 Gleason (1986). 7 Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen (2011). 8 See, e.g., Alonso-Nuñez (1979); Wiemer (1995), 190; Rosen (1998); Stenger (2009), 265. 5

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sources of the anecdote? In what is a rather erudite text, opening with references to Anacreon and Alcaeus (1), and containing numerous allusions to Plato,9 the mention of Damophilus, a compiler, seems remarkable. Moreover, why does Julian also explicitly refer to Plutarch? We shall argue that these apparent oddities have their specific function within the overall argument of the Misopogon, which conspires to stage Julian as the paragon of virtue and learning in contrast with the boorish and shallow Antiochenes. The opposition between the levity of the Antiochenes and the seriousness of the philosophically-minded philosopher that was Cato, as expressed in the anecdote, clearly helps to make that point. But the various details and the way Julian tells the story are all intended to contribute to that wider aim.

Cato, Plutarch, and Julian: Amongst Philosophers As Julian indicates towards the end of chapter 29, the anecdote about Cato he is narrating is not his own, but derived from Plutarch (359A: οὐκ ἔστιν ὁ λόγος ἐμός ... Ταῦτα οὖν ἐκεῖνος ἔφρασεν.) By telling the story and mentioning his source, Julian clearly aims to underscore his philosophical credentials. Plutarch uses the anecdote about Cato and Antioch twice, in the Life of Cato the Younger (13) and in that of Pompey (40). Julian’s version is closer to the former, as Cato’s cry of despair, Ὢ τῆς κακοδαίμονος πόλεως, is the one found there, and not Ὢ τῆς ἀθλίας πόλεως as reported in the Life of Pompey.10 As it appears in the Life of Cato, the anecdote fits into a section that contrasts Cato’s sophrosyne with Asia’s legendary tryphe. This, of course, suits well with the contrast Julian evokes throughout the Misopogon of himself as a virtuous emperor in contrast with the deprived Antiochenes. Through a series of parallels, Julian first of all seeks to capitalize on his association with Cato. To start with, there are a number of striking parallels between Julian’s and Cato’s life and philosophical career in general. In the Life of Cato, Plutarch states that Cato thought of himself as a philosopher but duty drove him back into politics (20), that he was strict and just in service of the state (15–19), and that he sought to raise the morality of his subordinates (9). These are all traits that Julian claims for himself in

                                                             9

See now Janka (2008). Wiemer (1998), 746 argues for Plut. Pomp. 40 as the source, on the grounds that Cato’s cry in the Life of Cato regards Rome and not Antioch. It is unclear on what that judgment is based. Prato and Micalella (1979), 136 do not pronounce on the issue. 10

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the Misopogon and elsewhere.11 In Themistius, Julian’s contemporary and another philosopher involved in politics, Cato functions twice as the example of a philosophically inspired politician, an image Julian sought for himself too.12 Julian’s reference to Cato in the Misopogon thus draws out their similarity as philosophers engaged in politics. This general similarity is then, as it were, cashed in immediately with respect to the particular situation of a visit to Antioch. Just like Cato, Julian visited the city and felt rejected by it. The reason for this, so it is implied, will therefore be the same in both cases: the Antiochenes are not interested in philosophy, but merely in pump and circumstance, as epitomized in Cato’s damning reaction. The anecdote about Cato, then, underpins the impression Julian wishes to convey in the Misopogon of an ideological clash between himself and the Antiochenes. As all exempla, this anecdote thus has a clear moral message.13 This ideological opposition is further underlined by the reference to Plutarch, from whom Julian states to have taken the story. Plutarch is introduced in the ironical way that is typical for the Misopogon. Julian first fakes reticence in quoting Cato’s desperate reply (29, 358D): ‘may you not accuse me of insulting the city; for the story is not mine.’14 He then pinpoints Plutarch as the author of the story with the circumlocution ‘a man from Chaeronea from that mean stock that is called philosopher by the impostors’ (29, 359A: παρὰ τῶν ἀλαζόνων). Indeed, in Late Antiquity, Plutarch was not just widely read as a source of moralising anecdotes but also as a philosopher.15 Ironically, then, Plutarch is abased to the level Julian suggests philosophers have in the eyes of the Antiochenes. Then the same procedure is applied to himself: ‘I myself never got to that level, although out of ignorance I once wished to belong to that group and take part in it.’ This self-rejection from the community of philosophers in fact serves to enhance the aura of philosophy: the Antiochenes may not appreciate philosophy, but Julian at least knows its value and is hence aware of his own shortcomings. The irony of the Misopogon thus contrasts a self-indulgent city that lacks the philosophical insight to consider its own vices and thus to mend its ways with an emperor who is crucially aware of his weakness                                                             11

See, in addition to the Misopogon, the Letter to Themistius and that to the Atheni-

ans.

12

Them. Or. 17.215B and Or. 34.VIII. Julian’s initial emphasis on the sophrosyne, megalopsychia and andreia of Cato (29, 358A) suggests indeed that Damophilus collected anecdotes that could illustrate specific virtues that an orator needed to highlight in a speech. On exempla, see, e.g., David (1998), Chaplin (2000), Felmy (2001). 14 One can also understand οὐκ ἔστιν ὁ λόγος ἐμός more limited as referring to Cato’s bon mot that condemns the city. 15 Ziegler (1948), 950–960. 13

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es and hence vastly superior to the city. As such, the ironical denial of philosophical wisdom can be read as a covert claim to its actual possession: conscience of one’s lack of knowledge is, at least in the Socratic tradition, the beginning of true wisdom. It is hence possible to detect in this passage another trace of the Platonic subtext that pervades the Misopogon.16

Demetrius, Damophilus, and the Antiochenes: Diverted by Trivialities The anecdote about Cato, taken from Plutarch, thus confirms the contrast between a virtuous ruler and an uncivilized city that Julian seeks to construct throughout the Misopogon. That contrast is strengthened by the obvious self-referential value of the anecdote, and the ironic but firm claim to philosophical status for Julian. This interpretation does not yet answer one of the questions we raised at the beginning, though: the middle section of the chapter, in which Julian mentions Damophilus of Bithynia, still seems odd. Indeed, whilst dependency on handbooks and compilations for rhetorical exempla is quite common, Julian’s explicit reference to a compilation is quite unique and could give credence to the hypothesis of hasty and sloppy work on Julian’s part. Careful reading, however, suggests otherwise. The reference to Damophilus comes halfway through, and in fact interrupts, the anecdote about Cato as told by Plutarch. Having referred to the fortune of Demetrius, Julian sneers that the Antiochenes probably ardently long to learn the size the freedman’s fortune. If they wish to learn about that, they can find it in Damophilus: ‘Damophilus of Bithynia has written such works, in which he, harvesting from many places, composed stories most pleasant to the ears of those, young and old, who are eager to hear gossip’ (29, 358C-D: Δαμοφίλῳ τῷ Βιθυνῷ πεποίηται συγγράμματα τοιαῦτα, ἐν οἷς δρεπόμενος ἐκ τῶν πολλῶν εἰργάσατο λόγους ἡδίστους νέῳ φιληκόῳ καὶ πρεσβυτέρῳ). Damophilus’ popularity among young and old alike is justified with the fact that old age makes the old return to curiosity (philekoia) of young age.17 We possess some further information on Damophilus, which may help to contextualize Julian’s remark.18 According to a notice in the Suda, Damophilus of Bithynia is to be situated under the emperor Marcus Aure                                                             16

Janka (2008). Mis. 29, 358D: φιλεῖ γὰρ τὸ γῆρας ἐπανάγειν αὖθις εἰς τὴν τῶν νέων φιληκοΐαν τοὺς ἀφηλικεστέρους. Note the pun φιληκοΐαν - ἀφηλικεστέρους. 18 Schwartz (1901), 2076. 17

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lius. He is qualified as a philosopher and sophist, and the author of numerous works. The original author of the notice states that he still was able to find the following works on the shelves: the first book of the Philobiblos, that is a list of books worthwhile to possess, On the lives of the ancients (Περὶ βίου ἀρχαίων), and many more.19 The enduring popularity of Damophilus implied in this notice is confirmed by the fact that he is relatively well attested in late Antiquity. He is mentioned by John the Lydian,20 Stephanus of Byzantium,21 and Evagrius Scholasticus.22 The titles of his works indicate that he provided a sort of reader’s digest of earlier classics. It is impossible to form a clear view of the contents of specific works of Damophilus. It is likely that the Lives of the Ancients drew heavily on Plutarch, and may thus have contained the anecdote about Cato, including the extent of Demetrius’ fortune. Since Julian indicates that Damophilus collected stories from many places, it is unlikely, though, that Plutarch was the single source for the work. The extent of Demetrius’ fortune is indeed absent from Plutarch. Nevertheless, we can form some opinion of what Damophilus’ works looked like from a similar work by Sopater of Apamea, summarized by the patriarch Photius.23 Sopater was, just like Damophilus, a philosopher and a sophist: as a pupil of Jamblichus, he was executed under Constantine.24 The work read by Photius advertised itself explicitly as a compilation (ἐκλογαὶ διάφοροι), and, according to the introduction, the collection of virtuous stories was destined for the practice of rhetoric and sophistry, including their use as exempla.25 The first books of Sopater focused on the arts and relied heavily on earlier compilations, such as Athenaeus, or the Symmikta hypomnemata of Aristoxenus. From the sixth book onwards, history became prominent: book seven was a florilegium of Herodotus. For Books 8 to 11, Plutarch is the most prominent source, with extracts drawn from his entire oeuvre, Moralia and Lives alike, although Sopater never just stuck to a single author. Photius gives no hint that there was a discernible order in all this: the twelfth and last book discussed lives of artists but also constitutions of cities. We cannot know if Damophilus was equally eclectic and seemingly disordered as Sopater, and his title Lives of the Ancients may suggest a clearer focus on anecdotes making moral points; nevertheless, Damophilus’ work is likely to have been a compilation roughly comparable to Sopater’s.                                                              19

Suda D 52. Joh. Lyd., De mens. 4.2. 21 Steph. Byz. sv Psittakon. 22 Evagr. Schol. HE 6.1. 23 Phot. Bibl. 161. 24 PLRE I p. 846, Sopater (1). 25 Phot. Bibl. 161 105a, p. 128.11 Henry. 20

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As is clear from his suggestion to the Antiochenes, Julian knew what Damophilus had written about Cato. Whilst he suggests that his main source for the anecdote about Cato is Plutarch, there are, in fact, details that do not appear in Plutarch: besides the size of Demetriusʼ fortune, there is the fact that the old man running up to Cato to inquire about Demetrius is a gymnasiarch. In all probability, Julian derived this detail from Damophilus. The closest parallel for the use made of Damophilus by Julian is to be found in the church history of Evagrius Scholasticus, composed in the late sixth–early seventh century AD. In a discussion of the wedding procession of the emperor Maurice and Constantina, he remarks that ‘Damophilus says, when writing about the affairs of Rome, that Plutarch of Chaeronea clearly states that for her sake alone did virtue and chance make a truce with each other. But I would say that in Maurice alone religion and good fortune have thus come together, since religion constrained good fortune and did not permit her to be diverted at all.ʼ26 Damophilus’ source clearly was Plutarch’s De fortuna romanorum (2). Evagrius may have drawn the reference from Damophilus’ Lives of the Ancients, although another lost work is not be excluded, given Evagrius’ reference that he quotes from a discussion of Roman history by Damophilus. Moreover, the De fortuna romanorum is not a biography, and would, at first sight, not rank among the primary sources for the Lives of the ancients. Further speculation will not lead us further. Nevertheless, the use of Damophilus by both Evagrius and Julian allows for two conclusions. First, it seems that Damophilus was, in crucial ways, instrumental in the transmission of Plutarch’s oeuvre to later Antiquity and early Byzantium, as he turns up as an intermediary in both the fourth and the sixth century. The slight differences one can often note when Julian refers to Plutarch may thus be due to Damophilus as an intermediary.27 Second, Damophilus could occupy this position precisely because of the fact that he produced an abbreviated work, maybe just of Plutarch’s oeuvre but possibly also drawing from other works as Sopater did, with trainee orators as the target audience. Both Julian and Evagrius clearly use an anecdote or saying from Plutarch in a rhetorical argument, Julian to create an ideological opposition between himself and the Antiochenes, Evagrius to show the superiority of his own age with the happy marriage of religion and good fortune, over earlier Rome. If one needed additional argument for the continued vitality of                                                              26

Evagr., HE 6.1 (tr. Whitby [2000], 290–291). See, e.g., Jul. Ep. 12 and Plut. Alex 12; Ep. 50 and Plut. Alex 55; Ep. 74 and Plut. Thes. 14; Or. 1.36 and Plut. Lys. 24, Ages. 7; Or. 3 and Plut. Mor. 63b; Or. 3 and Plut. Per. 38; Or. Adv. Heracl. Cyn. 4 and Plut. Ant. 28. It is very likely that Mis. 17, 347a– 348a is drawn from Plut. Dem. 38 via Damophilus. For divergences concerning the anecdote about Cato, see below. 27

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Greek rhetorical education well into late Antiquity,28 Damophilus’ enduring usefulness can provide it. The use of an intermediate source by Evagrius will not be seen as surprising: his account of the historiographical tradition in HE 5.24 includes many a compiler, such as Charax of Pergamon (FGrHist 103). It may accurately reflect how many educated sixth-century authors acquired their information about earlier periods. That Julian refers to Damophilus in his Misopogon may seem more surprising. Not only does Julian consciously situate himself in the grand tradition of Hellenism by explicitly citing Plutarch as his source, but his view of Damophilus is rather dim. As we have seen, he dismisses Damophilus explicitly as a compiler of stories for lovers of gossip, whether they be young or old. This dismissal of Damophilus has three aspects that are important in the context of the Misopogon. First, the apparent throw-away remark that Damophilus’ compilations are of interest to young as well as old – at least to the extent that the old share in the youngsters’ love of gossip – skillfully picks up an element present in the anecdote itself: the welcome committee for Demetrius is composed of ephebes and a gymnasiarch, who is obviously an older man.29 The fact that this gymnasiarch is the first one to run up to the approaching Romans suggests that the old man is at least as fond of hearing about Demetrius’ fortune as the ephebes. As opposed to the topos of the reticent and clear-minded elderly man, elaborated in relation to listening for example in Plutarch’s How a young man should listen to poetry (1.14E–16A), this anecdote thus suggests that in Antioch the old and young alike are besotted by stories about riches. Similarly, the Antiochenes of Julian’s day are all equally keen on light-hearted stories of the kind that can be found in Damophilus. Second, philekoia is clearly presented here as a vice. Whilst the word could be used in a neutral or even positive sense to refer to a fondness of conversation,30 it here denotes the desire to hear about trivialities at the expense of learning what is truly important. Plutarch’s oeuvre contains several striking parallels. In On curiosity, Plutarch condemns curiosity because it detracts people from more important subjects or activities. In On listening to lectures, he underlines that it is not enough for the young man to be willing to listen to all possible stories (philekoia), but to listen to important ones.31 We do not wish to suggest that Julian explicitly used these                                                             

28 Fundamental still Marrou (1965). Recent work includes Heath (2004), Cribiore (2007) and Penella (2009). 29 In Plutarch’s version the leader of the ephebes is explicitly an old man. 30 E.g. Pl., R. 7, 535d. 31 Opposition of philekoia and φιλομαθέω: cf. also Plb. 7.7.8; condemnation of interest in trivialities in Plutarchʼs On curiosity, see Van Hoof (2010), 204–207; philekoia as a vice: Plut. On listening to lectures 6.40B. In 44a the term is used in a neutral sense.

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treatises of Plutarch here; rather the parallels show that Julian draws on well-established views on the nature of good listening and how certain social attitudes betrayed a limited interiorization of philosophical advice.32 The devastating effects of such negative philekoia are, as it were, embodied in the text: the story about Cato, clearly designed to convey a moral lesson, is interrupted by the Antiochene question about the extent of Demetrius’ fortune. Finally, Julian’s suggestion that Damophilus is an author appropriate for the intelligence and education of the Antiochenes again highlights the distance between the emperor and the city. Indeed, Julian refers to Damophilus when he supposes that the Antiochenes will inquire after the futile detail of Demetrius’ wealth, but he refers to Plutarch as his own source for quoting Cato’s malediction of Antioch: the anecdote as a story is referred to Damophilus, sophist and compiler, but as a moral exemplum and condemnation of Antioch, it is ascribed to Plutarch, belonging to the ‘maligned guild’ of philosophers. Thus, the skilful deployment of source quotations allows Julian again to oppose Antioch and himself, superficiality and philosophical depth.

Julian, Plutarch, and the Over-reader: Layered Meanings Thus far, then, we have noted a relatively straightforward opposition between Julian’s moral point in telling an anecdote concerning Cato taken from the philosopher Plutarch on the one hand, and the gratuitous Antiochene interest in Demetrius’ fortune for which Julian refers them to the compiler Damophilus on the other. Whilst this is definitely a contrast Julian wished to evoke, his text also holds two further messages. It is to these that we now turn. First, Julian truncated the anecdote about Cato’s visit to Antioch. Indeed, at the end of the story, Plutarch informs the reader extensively of Cato’s reactions to the events: whilst at first he was greatly disturbed (ἰσχυρῶς διατραπείς) and made his famous cry of despair concerning the city, he later used to laugh at it (ὕστερον εἰώθει γελᾶν). In Julian’s version, Cato condemns the city with his famous cry and then immediately leaves (Ὢ τῆς κακοδαίμονος πόλεως, ἀπιὼν ᾤχετο). To an extent, Julian’s ending makes the story fit better in the Misopogon: whilst the omission of the laughter sharpens the contrast between the austere Cato and the frivolous Antiochenes, Cato’s departure from the city mirrors Julian’s own situation, for the Misopogon is his farewell address to the Antiochenes just before leaving the city. Yet as opposed to Julian’s Antiochene addressees, whom                                                              32

See Van Hoof (2010) for the nature of Plutarch’s philosophical advice.

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he refers to the compiler Damophilus, the author and his highly educated over-readers33 all over the Roman Empire would probably have had in mind the ending of the story as recounted by Plutarch, who was, after all, a widely read author amongst late antique elites.34 For them, then, the intertextual message is that Julian, just like Cato, may have been angry at the Antiochenes at first, but is now laughing at the situation: the Misopogon’s satirical and self-deriding set-up is indeed intended to mask the author’s anger, a most unkingly emotion which was strongly detected by the first readers of the Misopogon,35 even if some modern scholars have sought to deny it.36 If this first variation on Plutarch’s theme thus confirms Julian’s selfpresentation in the Misopogon, the second one as it were reveals Julian’s true face. At the beginning of the Life of Cato, Plutarch states that Cato had an inflexible, insensible, and in all respects steadfast character (ἦθος ... ἄτρεπτον καὶ ἀπαθὲς καὶ βέβαιον ἐν πᾶσιν) that made him harsh and repellent towards flatterers (τοῖς κολακεύουσι τραχὺς). In the course of the Life, Plutarch suggests that this strictness was the cause of Cato’s failure (30, 32, 50). As we have demonstrated elsewhere, it is precisely such an austere pose that lay at the basis of Julian’s problems in Antioch in 362–363: Julian’s insensitivity to publicly voiced demands concerning the food shortage and his unwillingness to participate in well-established forms of ritualized communication led to a short-circuit between emperor and city. The Misopogon was Julian’s post-factum attempt to clear himself of all fault by eulogizing his inflexibility as philosophical steadfastness and the crisis of communication as an ideological opposition. In so far as the Plutarchean intertext points out the setbacks of an austere philosophical attitude, it therefore deconstructs Julian’s carefully constructed self-image in the Misopogon. There are two possible ways of accounting for these two differences between Plutarch’s Life of Cato and Julian’s Misopogon. A first possibility is that Julian himself did not know or use Plutarch, but based himself on Damophilus’ compilation: Damophilus may well have left out Cato’s eventual reaction as he contaminated the version of the anecdote as it appears in the Life of Cato with that in the Life of Pompey, and his version will almost certainly have lacked Plutarch’s complex and nuanced philosophical ex                                                             33

On the concept of the over-reader, a target reader other than the addressee, cf. Oliensis (1998), 6–7; on the over-readers of Julianʼs Misopogon, see Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen (2011). 34 Hirzel (1912), 74–90. 35 Lib., Or. 15.1 and Or. 16; Amm. 22.14.2, 23.2.4. The more positive judgements of Zos., 3.11.4, and Soz., 5.19.3 are later and have been influenced by succesive reinterpretations of the events, as set out in Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen (2011). 36 Gleason (1986), 107–108.

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ploration of Cato’s character.37 Speaking against this, however, is not only Julian’s explicit statement that he got the story from Plutarch, but also Plutarch’s already mentioned popularity in late Antiquity. Taken together, these two factors mean that Julian would have dangerously exposed his lack of education to his readers if he referred to Plutarch without actually knowing Plutarch’s version of the anecdote.38 Although Julian had also read Damophilus – witness his references to the gymnasiarch and to the extent of Demetrius’ fortune, discussed above – it therefore seems likely that he also had direct knowledge of Plutarch’s Life of Cato. In this second scenario, Julian’s reference to the philosopher from Chaeronea can be considered a cue to the well-educated over-reader to bring the ending of the anecdote as told by Plutarch to bear on his interpretation of the Misopogon in the way set out above. Things are different, of course, for the second divergence between Julian and Plutarch identified above: far from shoring up the self-image Julian wishes to project, the reasons for Cato’s failure according to Plutarch unwittingly expose Julian’s true motivations. In so far as Julian failed to see that his reference to Plutarch would bring these elements too to bear on the reader’s interpretation of the Misopogon, he unconsciously resembles Plutarch’s Cato in a very ironic way. Indeed, as Plutarch implicitly but clearly suggests by mentioning the laughter it immediately provoked in his companions, Cato’s assumption that the welcome committee was for him laid bare that his inner humility is clearly not at the same level as his outward show – a message reinforced at other points in the Life.39 In the same way, Julian’s learned reference to Plutarch, intended to distinguish himself and his elite overreaders from his Antiochene addressees, ultimately exposes his thorough yet incomplete mastery of this great classic, as Julian turns out to resemble Cato more than he himself would like to admit. Yet there is an important difference between both texts. Plutarch’s Cato is as it were redeemed by his capability of selfcriticism: by eventually laughing at the episode, he recognizes that his expectations were unjustified. Ostensibly, Julian’s Misopogon is all about self-criticism and self-satire. Unfortunately for him, however, his rhetorical tricks shimmer through: far from being a humble acknowledgement of personal failure, self-criticism in the Misopogon serves the sole aim of glorifying Julian at the expense of the Antiochenes.40 As a philosopher,                                                              37

For Plutarch’s moral strategies in the Lives, see Duff (1999). Compare Julianʼs sneers at Nilusʼ bluff in referring to philosophers whom Julian shows him not to have understood correctly. Cf. Van Hoof (2013). 39 Plutarch clearly wanted to show Cato as someone who has not achieved the calmness of mind that real philosophers possess. E.g. Zadorojnyi (2007) for the almost botched suicide of Cato. See also Plutarch’s comments on Cato’s repsonse to the death of his brother (11). 40 Long (1993); Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen (2011). 38

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then, Julian can pretend to be Cato’s equal; as a philosophical writer, however, he failed to match Plutarch’s subtlety.

Conclusions When Julian set out to write the Misopogon, Cato the Younger’s visit to Antioch offered itself as an obvious parallel ready for rhetorical exploitation: both philosophical statesmen were badly received by the same city that is not interested in philosophy. Telling the anecdote about Cato’s visit thus allowed Julian to shore up his interpretation of the events as the result of the ideological opposition between himself as a virtuous emperor and a lascivious city. Yet chapter 29 goes much further than that in contributing towards the general aim of the Misopogon. Indeed, the distance separating emperor and city is highlighted not only through the anecdote itself, but also through the references to different sources for it: whereas the Antiochenes are referred to the compilor Damophilus, Julian himself claims to draw the moral lesson he wishes to convey from the philosopher Plutarch. The fact that the anecdote conveying Julian’s philosophical message is interrupted by the imagined Antiochene inquiry into the fortune of Demetrius illustrates Julian’s very point that the Antiochene interest in trivialities impedes the city from understanding what is truly important in his eyes. Dismissed by one critic as a series of divagations without clear purpose,41 all elements of the chapter, including the unusual source references, thus fulfill a specific goal within the architecture of the work: rather than infelicities or sloppy work, they are conscious contraventions of normal practice in rhetorical texts, precisely with the aim of highlighting the contrast between the emperor and Antioch and of ironically supporting the status of Julian as a philosophically trained and properly educated monarch. Yet whilst Julian thus aimed at displaying his philosophical credentials by pointing out similarities with Cato as well as by referring to Plutarch, he may have overplayed his hand: if the anecdote about Cato as told by Plutarch is brought to bear on Julian’s situation, it has some unintended negative connotations. Plutarch’s aim, as a philosopher, was precisely to incite his readers to reflect on the ambiguous effects of certain character traits. Julian’s aim, on the other hand, was much more rhetorical: the Misopogon is a post factum attempt to guide people’s interpretation of the Antiochene crisis of 362–363. Whilst Julian thus used philosophy in order to convey a well-defined impression of himself, careful examination of these philosophical and intertextual references may ultimately reveal more                                                              41

Müller (1998), 235.

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about Julian’s rhetorical aims and strategies than he would have hoped for. As others have shown, the Misopogon is consciously constructed as the deliberate antipode of many a convention.42 This does not, however, make the text any more an authentic philosophical document: the contravention and denial of rhetoric was as much a rhetorical pose as would have been the careful following of the guidelines of Menander Rhetor. Indeed, the Misopogon constructs a careful image of two contrasting beings, a virtuous and misunderstood emperor and a frivolous city. Even if it seems to contravene rhetorical habits and claims to be fully philosophical, it still remains a profoundly rhetorical construct that should not be taken at face value. Even the glimpses that Julian seems to allow us onto his writing desk are rhetorical constructs.

Bibliography Alonso-Nuñez, J. M. (1979), “The Emperor Julian’s Misopogon and the Conflict Between Christianity and Paganism”, AncSoc 10, 311–324. Bouffartigue, J. (1989), “L’état mental de l’empereur Julien”, REG 89, 529–539. Bowersock, G. (1978), Julian the Apostate. London: Duckworth. Browning, R. (1976), The Emperor Julian. Berkeley: University of California Press. Chaplin, J. D. (2000), Livy’s Exemplary History. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cribiore, R. (2007), The school of Libanius in late antique Antioch. Princeton: Princeton University Press. David, J.-M. (1998), “Les enjeux de l’exemplarité à la fin de la République et au début du principat”, in David, J.-M. (ed.), Valeurs et mémoire à Rome. Valère Maxime ou la vertu recomposée. Paris: De Boccard, 9–17. Duff, T. (1999), Plutarch’s Lives: Exploring Virtue and Vice. Oxford: Clarendon. Felmy, A. (2001), Die römische Republik im Geschichtsbild der Spätantike. Zum Umgang lateinischer Autoren des 4. und 5. Jahrhundert mit den exempla maiorum. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Festugière, A.-J. (1959), Antioche païenne et chrétienne. Libanius, Chrysostome et les moines de Syrie. Paris: Ecole française de Rome. Gleason, M. W. (1986), “Festive Satire: Julian’s Misopogon and the New Year at Antioch”, JRS 76, 106–119. Heath, M. (2004), Menander. A Rhetor in Context. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Hirzel, R. (1912), Plutarch. Leipzig: Dieterich. Janka, M. (2008), “Quod philosophia fuit, satura facta est. Julians Misopogon zwischen Gattungskonvention und Sitz im Leben”, in Schäfer, C. (ed.), Kaiser Julian ‘Apostata’ und die philosophische Reaktion gegen das Christentum. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter, 177–206. Lacombrade, C. (1964), Julien. Oeuvres complètes. Tome II – 2e partie. Paris: Les Belles Lettres. Long, J. (1993), “Structures of Irony in Julian’s Misopogon”, AncW 24, 15–23.

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Marcone, A. (1984),“Un panegirico rovesciato. Pluralità di modelli e contaminazione letteraria nel Misopogon giulianeo”, REAug 30, 226–239. Marrou, H.-I. (1965), Histoire de l’éducation dans l’Antiquité. Paris: Seuil. Müller, F. L. (1998), Die beiden Satiren des Kaisers Julianus Apostata. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner Verlag. Oliensis, E. (1998), Horace and the Rhetoric of Authority. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Penella, R. (2009), Rhetorical exercises from Late Antiquity: a translation of Choricius of Gaza’s Preliminary talks and Declamations. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Prato, C. and Micalella, D. (1979), Giuliano imperatore. Misopogon. Rome: Ateneo e Bizzarri. Quiroga, A. (2009), “Julian’s Misopogon and the Subversion of Rhetoric”, AT 17, 127– 135. Rosen, K. (1998), “Julian in Antiochien oder Wie eine Theorie in der Praxis scheitert”, in Schuller, W. (ed.), Politische Theorie und Praxis im Altertum. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 217–230. Schwartz, E. (1901), “Damophilus”, RE IV.2, 2076. Stenger, J. (2009), Hellenische Identität in der Spätantike: pagane Autoren und ihr Unbehagen an der eigenen Zeit. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Van Hoof, L. (2010), Plutarch’s Practical Ethics. The Social Dynamics of Philosophy. Oxford: Oxford University Press. –. (2013), “Performing paideia. Greek culture as an instrument for social promotion in the fourth century A.D.”, CQ 63. Van Hoof, L. and Van Nuffelen, P. (2011), “Monarchy and Mass Communication. Antioch 362–363 revisited”, JRS 101, 1–19. Whitby, M. (2000), The Ecclesiastical History of Evagrius Scholasticus. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Wiemer, H.-U. (1995), Libanios und Julian. Studien zum Verhältnis von Rhetorik und Politik im vierten Jahrhundert n. Chr. Munich: Beck. –. (1998), “Ein Kaiser verspottet sich selbst. Literarische Form und historische Bedeutung von Kaiser Julians ‘Misopogon’”, in Kneissl, P. and Losemann, V. (eds.), Imperium romanum. Studien zur Geschichte und Rezeption. Festschrift für Karl Christ zum 75. Geburtstag. Stuttgart: Steiner, 733–755. Wirth, G. (1978), “Julians Perserkrieg. Kriterien einer Katastrophe”, in Klein, R. (ed.), Julian Apostata. Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 455–507. Zadorojnyi, A. (2007), “Cato’s suicide in Plutarch”, CQ 57, 216–230. Ziegler, K. (1948), “Plutarchos von Chaironeia”, Realencyclopädie der klassischen Altertumswissenschaften 21:1, 363–962.

Libaniusʼ Horror Silentii Alberto J. Quiroga Puertas The dynamic forces that operated in Late Antiquity generated more than one paradox, for instance that fourth century AD rhetoric was abound with countless references to silence in a period when logos was ubiquitous and had the ability to become transformed metaphorically into a sword, or a magical spell, or even a drug: John Chrysostom writes ʻI have a word thatʼs sharper than a sword (…) I have a teaching thatʼs hotter than fire, which is able to burn more fiercely;ʼ Libanius of Antioch calls rhetoric ʻa magic stronger than the governorʼs power;ʼ and Himerius wondered ʻwhat drug is there in my words that is capable of stilling strife.ʼ1 On the surface this may seem contradictory. Yet the oxymoronic rhetoric of silence coupled to a plethora of rhetorical idiosyncrasies, resulted in an alternative form of communication, one which enabled sophists and public personas to articulate their ideologies within the social and cultural milieu of Late Antiquity. In this regard, the sophist Libanius of Antioch, ʻthe greatest orator and teacher of the fourth century,ʼ2 was no stranger to the notion of transforming an allusion to silence into a consciously sought figure of speech capable of effectively conveying information and of modelling an ethos. However, although Libaniusʼ prose style is usually discussed in terms of flamboyancy, these references to silence were far from a chink in the sophistʼs armour. Primarily for the sake of his own personal gain in the social and political arena, Libanius deployed those allusions pragmatically, most notably in his speeches and private letters. Here silence was part of an arsenal of rhetorical strategies, used to raise concerns pertaining issues of magic, sophistic rivalries, social competition, and personal allegiances and enmities.                                                              

My gratitude goes toward Dr. Tim Whitmarsh, Dr. Nicholas Baker-Brian and Mr. Mark Hunter for their suggestions and criticisms. 1 Chrys. Adv. Lud et The., 269. Translation from Allen and Mayer (2000). Lib., Or. 11.141. Translation from Norman (2000), 35. Him., Or.16. Translation from Penella (2007), 77. 2 Russell (1983), 5.

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The prominence of references to silence in Libaniusʼ works mirrors the literary and rhetorical topics which elite etiquette demanded as part of the customary code of communication in Late Antiquity. R. Cribiore reminds us how Libanius tended to open his speeches by following ʻthe topos of the speaker forced to break silence under necessity.ʼ3 Likewise the sophistʼs letters echo epistolographic leitmotifs, such as the Pythagorean silence in which he commends his namesake Libanius,4 a philosopher in the Pythagorean tradition, for his ability to follow (Ep. 460)5 τὰ τοῦ Πυθαγόρου καλὰ, i.e., the right moment to speak and to be silent;6 he goes on to recall the assimilation of the arrival of spring in helping break silence (Ep. 489);7 along with mild reproaches directed at his addressees for their silence and somewhat apathetic attitude towards replying to his letters (Ep. 20, 28, 39, 245, 552, 264, 391). Furthermore, silence is also used as part of a nonnegotiable strategy particularly in such cases where cultic and religious issues are concerned (Or. 10.6; 18.114), as well as serving as a compliment to those who are able to self regulate their speaking (Ep. 61, 95, 270). Indeed the conspicuous presence of σιγή, ἀφωνία and σιωπή in the corpus of such a prolific author merits further attention. Yet literary commonplaces and the study of silence as a rhetorical trope8 and conscious omission aside,9 the aim of this paper is to examine some references to silence in the speeches and letters of Libanius. In what follows I will reflect upon Libaniusʼ references to silence from three different perspectives, namely 1) its impact in the context of narrating governors and emperorsʼ deeds, 2) its effectiveness as an obstacle in helping fulfill the sophistʼs duties, and 3) its place within the competitive milieu of late antique rhetoric.

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Cribiore (2007), 231; Criscuolo (1995), 85. Little is known about this Libanius, see Jones, Martindale and Morris (1971–1992), 507 (Libanius 3); Seeck (1966), 198 (Libanius II). 5 Letters are numbered following Försterʼs (1967) edition. 6 References to the Pythagorean silence were numerous, e.g. Philos., VA. I.1,14; Ambrose Ex. Ps. 38.2; De Off. I.10.31; Greg. Naz. Or. 27.10; Iambl., VP 72. Silence as an epistolographic topic in Hunger (1978), 221: ʻEiner der beliebtesten Briefanfänge bezieht sich auf das lange Schwiegen des Korrespondenten.ʼ 7 Allusions to winter as a period of silence and spring as a loquacious season in Procop. Gaz., Dial. II, IV; Ep. 138. 8 On reticentia, interruptio and dubitatio see Cic., De Or. 3.205; Quint., Inst., IX.2.54; Rhet. ad Herenn. 4.40–41. 9 Malosse (2000). 4

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Res Gestae In a letter to a lifelong friend, Priscianus, Libanius reveals his friendʼs unease about such matters like the desire for promotion and other such rewards. ʻYou longed to learn if I consider it likely,ʼ he confesses, ʻthat youʼll get from your present activities a good reputation with men of influence. There is hope of it since what you are doing isnʼt kept in silence (ἅ τε γὰρ ποιεῖς, οὐ σιγᾶται) and admiration follows the report.ʼ10 (Ep. 142) This paragraph illustrates just how important the spread of information came to be since Priscianusʼ concerns were not with his ability to perform but rather with making known his achievements, as Libanius concludes at the end of the letter, ʻthe emperor, in all likelihood, will have pleasure and you will have a reward.ʼ Simply put, had Priscianusʼ activities remained silent, one could conclude, his political career would have been doomed. The art of networking lay at the core of a complex system of letter exchange in the Roman Empire. In becoming a master of networking, Libanius was able to maintain his privileged status for several decades. This was quite a feat for the sophist given the large networks of influence which were created during a period of growth within the imperial government alongside the fierce competition posed by the honoratii and local aristocracies.11 Within this context, letter-writing became part of what has been termed as ʻgames of power and etiquette,ʼ12 and an essential part of social and political progress, through which oneʼs skills could facilitate assimilation into a network, and thus becoming an important part of it. Disseminating rulersʼ exploits however formed part of a do ut des practice in which a conscious and deliberate avoidance of silence was latent, such is the case of the prefect Strategius Musonianus, who asked Libanius to compose a panegyric (Or. 1.111) ʻas a repayment of the debt I owed himʼ in which ʻnone of the possible topics to be passed over in silence – τῶν ἐνόντων ῥηθῆναι σιωπηθῆναι μηδὲν ἐβούλετο.ʼ13 Strategius’ desires to have his accomplishments recognized and duly praised were eventually satisfied by Libanius on one condition: the prefect should come to the city hall to listen to the speech, the delivery of which eventually took three days, with Libanius boasting (Or. 1.112) ʻand now it is on everyone’s lips about us both, the speaker and the auditor, and about the speech and whereabouts in the city it took place.ʼ14 This is a clear example of friendship reciprocated based on the grounds of publicizing the prefectʼs deeds:                                                              10

Translation taken from Bradbury (2004a). Petit (1955), 71–91, 370–382. 12 Trapp (2003), 41. 13 Translation from Norman (1965). 14 Translation from Norman (1965). 11

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Musonianus had honoured Libanius with gifts and a few years prior had even offered him a chair of rhetoric in Athens, whilst the sophist repeatedly praised Musonianusʼ incorruptibility.15 It was only fair therefore that before leaving his post in 358, Strategius demanded that τῶν ἐνόντων ῥηθῆναι σιωπηθῆναι, since right after the mid 350’s, Libanius was reputed as a gifted sophist and had gained his rightful place amongst the cultural elite. Nevertheless, eulogizing governorsʼ achievements was minimized by the social and political resonance of praising the emperorʼs deeds. The rupture of silence, among the numerous rhetorical commonplaces used when addressing an emperor, provided the perfect springboard from which to dive into the encomium, as suggested by Menander Rhetor (437.15: ʻto sing the praises of the powers above and never be neglectful in their praise.ʼ)16 Other authors in fact also followed suit, such as Themistius in his proemium of his oration 15 addressed to the emperor Theodosius (184b–185b); Claudius Mamertinusʼ panegyric to Julian (III.2.4: silere me non sinunt;) and in a whole host of Himeriusʼ speeches where it became a recurrent theme (Or. 38.20–25; 40.7–8; 62.2–11; 63.50–52). Yet silence was more than a mere strand in Libaniusʼ speeches to emperors. It embodied a strategic attitude, adopted for the purpose of maintaining his public image and supporting his political agenda. He himself was very aware of this and thus could not let any opportunity to speak pass. In fact when asked by Florentius, magister officiorum under Constantius, to prepare a panegyric for the emperor, the sophist replied that (Ep. 48) ʻif our worthy emperor should ever appear for us, perhaps Iʼll look upon him not in silence – οὐ μετὰ σιγῆς.ʼ17 Although in the end Libanius did not address the emperor, he knew that remaining silent was not an option. Given this, his treatment of silence may seem purely rhetorical, regardless of the addressee. For instance, Libanius leads us to believe that the emperor Julian was most disappointed at the sophist’s silence (Or. 15.7: ἀχθόμενος σιγῶντος). In another speech which commemorates Julian being appointed consul, the sophist tells us how lucky he is, since Fortune ʻhas not set me here, like the average person, a dumb spectator expressing myself with silent feelings of pleasure (Or. 12.2: τὴν μετὰ σιγῆς ἡδονὴν).ʼ18 Rhetorically speaking, Libanius adds that against the odds and Julianʼs heroic deeds ʻwhat might have been expected to induce silence is what                                                              15

Drijvers (1996), 533. Translation from Russell and Wilson (1981). 17 Bradbury (2004a). 18 Translation from Norman (1969–1977). 16

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actually inspires their [i.e., other sophists] venture (Or. 12.5: ἔστι δ' ὅ τις ἂν ἠξίωσεν εἶναι τῆς σιωπῆς αἴτιον, τοῦτ' αὐτὸ καὶ τὸ πεῖθον τολμᾶν).ʼ Alongside these stereotypical remarks, Libanius hints at a theoretical development of the destructive power of silence for governors, emperors and even for a public figure like himself. Rhetoric, in his opinion, is the counterpart of victories and heroic performances, the bedrock of imperial propaganda that publicly retributes both the orator and the recipient of encomiastic words. For instance, the proemium of his funeral oration on Julian sees Libanius state that (Or. 18.6) ʻhad I not before now observed your awareness of the fact that victory belongs to the world of action, while you yet derive pleasure from oratory, it would be best for me to stay silent (καλῶς ἂν εἶχέ μοι σιωπᾶν). However, since on those occasions you were prompt to praise and remained in enjoyment of my orations, I feel that there is no just cause for silence (οὐκ εἶναι πρόφασιν ἡγούμενος τῇ σιωπῇ), and so I will attempt to do justice to my emperor and my friend.ʼ Libanius wholeheartedly believed that speeches were needed to amplify the magnitude of the emperorsʼ achievements, and constituted (Or. 18.159) ʻa gift more acceptable than the boars, birds and bucks that used to be offered to the emperors without a word said – ἃ σιγῇ τοῖς βασιλεῦσιν ἤγετο.ʼ19 If silenced, a real damnatio memoriae would fall upon the emperorsʼ actions (Or. 17.31; 18.267) and potentially short-circuit the process of communication at all levels: a terrifying idea for someone as devoted to the cultural status quo as Libanius since it would have entailed a profound change in the cultural, social and political context: ʻchanging the educational system would have entailed changing the definition of culture, which would have meant nothing less than the definition of the elite.ʼ20 Most noticeably, the collateral effect of this alteration would of course result in a loss of status for the sophist. Much effort was invested by orators and sophists in promoting themselves. Eloquence therefore became something of a requisite demanded by late antique cultural elite in the Roman Empire. The many references in Latin Panegyrics to the prevalence of speeches over silence in society (II.2.1–2; III.20.1–2; IV.3.1; XI.5.2; XII.1.3) reflect a pressing concern over the correct maintenance of the imperial propaganda system. After all, regardless of the accuracy or veracity of the texts, they were part of the formalised process of communication in the public arena. In fact Julian’s Misopogon and the crisis of 362–363 AD in Antioch can be surmised as a confrontation in which the emperor fails to communicate in a ritualized way, as noted recently by Lieve van Hoof and Peter van Nuffelen, who go on to cite Julianʼs disinterest in the theatre, games, spectacles, and public                                                              19 20

Translations from Norman (1969–1977). Cameron (1999), 119–120.

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appearances, all of which helped culminate in a fissure between him and the Antiochenes. Nevertheless Julianʼs Misopogon ʻcompensates his earlier silence by the length of the satire, his refusal to communicate properly by the insertion of dialogues between himself and the Antiochenes.ʼ21 Delivering panegyrics and orations to emperors of course help secured the budding sophist’s passage into the upper echelons of Antiochʼs ruling elite, yet as a sophist and spearhead of fourth century paganism, public silence was not an option for Libanius. Public speaking allowed him not only the perfect platform from which to broadcast his political agenda, one which strongly criticized the new Christian order and the teaching of disciplines unrelated to rhetoric,22 but also a chance to reclaim his role as one of the cultural heirs of a long tradition of public speakers that defined, championed and supported the legacy of rhetoric as was understood by Isocrates.23 Libanius however sought to defend classical rhetoric as a key instrument designed to help perpetuate the sound functioning of the hierarchical system as well as to help cement civic relationships.24 Most notably imperial celebrations and public events served to encourage its deployment while contrasting the Christian view on the practice; one in which such occasions were frequently disregarded by many.25 Arguably, Libanius was a predictable, unoriginal author. His allusions to silence in a rhetorical context were in fact not too dissimilar from many of his fellow fourth century contemporaries. Yet what seems to distinguish such references from the rest of his peers was his awareness of the events of his times, in particular the seismic impact that the emergence of the bishop and the growing sense of competition amongst the pagan cultural milieu had on the society around him. On the one hand Libanius had to confront bishops and Christian public figures in the Antiochene cultural scene. As Av. Cameron says, ʻin the revived urban culture of the fourth century, Christian bishops succeeded to the place of the epideictic orators                                                              21

Van Hoof and Van Nuffelen (2011), 10. Lib. Or. 39.17; 49.29; Lieu (2004), 18–19; Young (1997), 218–220. 23 López Eire (1996), 163–164. 24 Criscuolo (1995), 88–89: ʻSe sul piano generale si può concordare con la critica moderna e affermare che la religione nel nostro retore fu piuttosto una scelta da erudito che una fede nel senso che noi intendiamo, e nel senso che intendevano allora cristiani e neoplatonici, una religione, insomma, da ʻprofessoreʼ di antichità, va tuttavia precisato che tale posizione non va in direzione di uno scetticismo, ma esclude solamente Libanio dallʼesigenza del rinnovamento del paganesimo tradizionale: la religione che egli professa è quale poteva essere quella di un ateniese del V–IV secolo a.C., concepita in stretta connessione con la πόλις: egli è un ʻmunicipaleʼ anche sotto questo aspetto.ʼ 25 MacCormack (1975), 170: ʻImperial celebrations of the kind where panegyrics were customary could produce strong Christian reactions: they provided an opportunity for both sides to assert themselves, and may have produced in Christians an innate distaste for speeches of imperial propaganda.ʼ 22

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of the Second Sophistic; and their speeches were more political than the earlier ones ever could be.ʼ26 Moreover those new competitors were also developing an apophatic theology in which silence was privileged.27 Libaniusʼ share of the stage, on the other hand, has been thrown into jeopardy amidst the strong competition from public figures within the pagan sector. In this regard, Themistiusʼ concern over the Neoplatonicʼs disengagement with society – irrespective of the degree of veracity, Or. 21.246b; 26.312b, 318b–319d; 34.XII – serves to only reaffirm how the issue of participation in the civic life had become a concern very much at the forefront of the cultural and political agenda. Allusions to silence therefore became Libaniusʼ weapon of choice, a means by which he could manipulate and exaggerate such allusions in order to help promote himself as the principal figure within Antioch and one of the epicenters of western Hellenism. An identitarian marker in the political milieu throughout the second half of the fourth century AD, the fact that references to silence were to initiate many of Libaniusʼ speeches served a twofold purpose.28 While they form an aspect of rhetorical convention, they more deliberately acted as a marker of power and selfcomposure, a way in which the sophist could reinforce his own ethos by implying that the emperorsʼ or governorsʼ deeds would be left unaccounted for if he were to not break his silence. Indeed whilst it may seem hard to believe how deploying the argument of silence could surprise or even outflank his rivals, given that it was a highly conventional practice, interwoven and indebted to texts from the Second Sophistic period (Aristid. Or. 22.1; 28.9; 42.2; D. Chr. Or. 37.42, 46; 47.8; 71.1; 72.2), Libaniusʼ real flair owes itself to his ability to turn such references to silence into a political instrument used for the sole purpose of helping to propel himself into the spotlight, and in his case, the brighter that light the better. In essence, his rejection and avoidance of silence when praising rulersʼ deeds was the result of new problematics in Late Antiquity, that is, the appearance of the bishop as a new rival to the figure of the sophist in the urban context, and the rivalry amongst cultural pagan elites. In this context, the fourth century AD was a period in which there was a strong tendency to create models of the ideal self: while John Chrysostom (De Sacerdocio), Gregory of Nazianzus (Or. 1–6, 42–43), and Ambrose of Milan (De Officiis) devoted their efforts to the making of the perfect priest; and                                                              26

Cameron (1991), 135. See also Chadwich (1993), 50–51; Mayer (2001), 60. Williams (2000), 28–36, 86–87. See also Storin (2011), 226 on Gregory of Nazianzusʼ forty-day silence: ʻit acted as a keystone in the architecture of his broader project of self-presentation.ʼ 28 Lib., Or. 3.1; 4.1; 11.4–5; 12.2–5; 22.2–3; 24.2; 27.1; 33.2; 34.2; 41.1–4. 27

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while Themistius and the Neoplatonic philosophers fought to adapt their philosophical agenda to their age, for Libanius the foundation stone of the ideal sophist was a highly developed sense of ubiquitousness and a permanent avoidance of silence.

The Sophistʼs Duty Branding rhetoric a mere repository of Hellenic culture’s glorious past would have perhaps belittled a discipline for a man who acknowledged that his (Or. 11.1) ʻlife has been spent in oratory – ἐμοί τε τῷ ζῶντι περὶ τοὺς λόγους.ʼ29 Libanius granted rhetoric the status of panacea, a cure for some of the cultural and social maladies that plagued his time (Or. 2.10; 11.140– 141; 12.92; 15.10; 23.21; 49.32). Therefore it does not strike as odd that his punishments took the form of a rebuking silence (Or. 3.1–5). He also frequently reproached the silence of those who did not break it, either colleagues engaged in the public arena (Ep. 15), students (Ep. 137, 139, 202, 437), or high rank officials (Ep. 412). In his seminal monograph on Libanius in fact, Schouler divides Libaniusʼ duties as a sophist into four different aspects: ʻla function esthétique, la fonction épidictique, la function éthique et la function politique.ʼ30 Remaining silent was liable to cause any one of those aspects to malfunction and, in doing so, endanger the transmission of a semiotic code – i.e., classical rhetoric – fully prevalent in Libaniusʼ inner circle. Aesthetically speaking, silence had its own gesture. When embarrassment, shyness or respect took a hold on a speaker, he would theatrically κύπτειν εἰς γῆν, hanging his head in shame. In one instance, Libanius found himself unable to answer when asked about the whereabouts of Iamblichus, one of his students who wandered around the Western part of the Empire. ʻSince I can neither say,ʼ Libanius confessed (Ep. 385), ʻthat you are disobeying me, nor that I havenʼt summoned you, I hang my head low and am compelled to remain silent – κύπτων εἰς γῆν ἀναγκάζομαι σιγᾶν.ʼ31 On another occasion, Libanius expresses his joy at the honour of having been visited by several generals, declaring (Or. 2.9) ʻI kept my eyes fixed on the ground and made it clear by so doing that I was embarrassed at the compliment – ἐγὼ δὲ εἰς γῆν ὑπ' αἰσχύνης ἔβλεπον, ἔργῳ δῆλον ποιῶν, ὅτι τῇ τιμῇ βαρυνοίμην.ʼ32 In what was one of his many pretentious                                                             

29 Translation from Norman (2000). See also Basilius of Caesarea, Ep. 344: ἐν λόγοις σε βιοῦντα. 30 Schouler (1984), 895. See also Pernot (1993), 615. 31 Bradbury (2004a). 32 Translation from Norman (1969–1977).

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remarks however, the sophist goes on to portray the emperor Julian (Or. 1.123) with ʻhis eyes on the ground (εἰς γῆν ἔκυπτεν)ʼ timid at the realisation of how wrong his initial attitude towards Libanius had been. The many examples33 in which Libanius himself or any other person hung their head (κύπτειν εἰς γῆν) and fixed their eyes on the ground prove that when words failed non-verbal communication was needed. Libaniusʼ conception of communication, therefore, required that language and gestures – either as a supplement or a substitute for words – left nothing unexpressed. Regarding the ʻfonction épidictiqueʼ however, Libanius came to understand silence to be the true enemy of a sophist. In the long proemium of his oration 11, Antiochikos, the theme of silence is ubiquitous. In taking recourse to communicatio and licentia as rhetorical tropes to help him gain the audienceʼs captatio benevolentiae, Libanius initially blames his fellow citizens and himself for his delay in composing a panegyric to his native city, yet on reflection however he then excuses the public, deducting that it is not they who have to ask for such a composition34 and apologizes for having taken for so long. ʻMy mind was made up to speak,ʼ the sophist justifies, ʻbut I hoped somehow that my abilities would improve as time went on, and that the passage of time would take some addition to my skill.ʼ35 (Or. 11.4). The underlying issue is that he is yet to pay his debt to his city (Or. 11.2: χρέα πάντων ἐντιμότατα καταθεῖναι), and since his sophistic immunity excluded him from financially fulfilling the office of choregus he needed to put an end to his τῷ φόβῳ τῆς σιωπῆς (Or. 11.9) and pay his debt through oration.36 Antiochikosʼs premium indeed proves how silence could affect Libaniusʼ career both at the municipal and imperial level. On the one hand, Libanius believed that the first Olympia after his return in 364 AD was the right occasion in which to pay homage to Antioch whilst also allowing him to prove himself as the representative of his city. As L. Pernot has pointed out, ʻlʼorateur épidictique se présente ainsi comme le porte-parole dʼune collectivité large, unanime, abstraite, définie par ses caractéristiques politiques, sociales ou culturelles, et dont lʼassistance réelle est le symbole.ʼ37 Libaniusʼ sincere feeling towards his city in fact owes itself to the strong competition among sophists within the cultural elite, which in turn became the driving force behind encouraging him not to shy away from his τῷ φόβῳ τῆς σιωπῆς. On the other hand however, the sophistʼs epideictic                                                              33

Lib., Ep. 256; 354; 482; 1259; Or. 14.41; 18.77, 190; 25.47, 68; 32.20; 38.13; 39.22; 47.12; 55.15. 34 A different treatment of the same topic in Aristid., Or. 33.7–18. 35 Translation from Norman (2000). 36 For his rhetorical services as a form of payment, Lib. Or. 2.54; 15.85. 37 Pernot (1993), 615.

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function helped facilitate his depiction of Antioch as a city whose Hellenic origins were still visible and tangible in the fourth century AD. Nevertheless, it was perhaps his own silence on the various aspects of social life in Antioch and his own displeasure from which Libanius draws a real sense of pride. Indeed he manages to tiptoe through the Roman domination and the overwhelming presence of Christianity in the Syrian city.38 Yet here was a sophist who could not afford to be silent, and so distorted Antiochʼs image and modelled it on an anachronistic version of the city that suited his traditionalistic views on both politics and religion.39 Incidentally, it was in fact the right moment to present publicly his agenda since Julian had just been made Caesar by the time Libanius composed this oration.40 In much the same way, silence was also to be avoided in networking along with the composition of letters to be sent across the Empire41 regardless of the type of epistle.42 In his Ep. 33, a letter which is central in terms of helping corroborate the extent to which he could control the diffusion of his works,43 Libanius asks Demetrius, a fellow sophist, if he could send him a copy of the monody composed after the death of his brother: ʻI believe that you too have composed something similar upon your brother, for it would not suit one of your eloquence to allow a man like him to go to his last resting place in silence (οὐ γὰρ ἦν τοῦ σοῦ στόματος σιγῇ θάψαι τὸν ἄνδρα ἐκεῖνον).ʼ44 What Libanius means by ʻone of your eloquenceʼ concerns the private dimension of the epideictic function of a sophist, that is, composing private speeches that eventually came to be published and circulated45 among the cultural elite for personal or professional purposes (Ep. 26, 42, 72, 98). In Libaniusʼ eyes, rhetoric was at the core of what it meant to be a Hellene in the fourth century AD and some of these examples themselves were indicative of the ʻfunction éthiqueʼ of the sophist. In his letter 347, in which we are told that the sophist Dionisius is sent back to the addressee, Ecditius, Libanius confesses that such restitution must be supplemented by a letter, since remaining silent would be uncharacteristic of Hellenic codes                                                              38

Criscuolo (1993); Salvo (2000). Petit (1983), 148: ʻEs wäre schwierig, in ihm nicht ein Manifest der heidnischen und traditionalistischen Partei, einen Akt der Propaganda für Julian zu sehen, und damit einen heftigen Angriff gegen das bürokratische.ʼ 40 Stenger (2009), 307–309. 41 Sandwell (2009), 131–137. 42 Malherbe (1988); Stowers (1986), 49–173. 43 Petit (1956), 486–489. 44 Translation from Norman (2000). 45 I adopt Petitʼs definition of publishing in Libaniusʼ time (1956), 454: ‘Publier, cʼest à cette époque répandre parmi ses amis un certain nombre de copies.ʼ 39

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of behaviour (ἔδοξεν οὐχ Ἑλληνικὸν εἶναί μοι διὰ σιγῆς ποιήσασθαι τὴν ἀπόδοσιν). Maintaining oneʼs silence was regarded by the sophist as a type of ῥᾳθυμία (sluggishness, laziness), an illness that affected slaves (Or. 3.4: Εἰ μὲν οὖν ἀργίᾳ καὶ ῥᾳθυμίᾳ σιωπῶν ἠλεγχόμην, ᾐσχυνόμην ἂν κακοῦ τινος ἀνδραπόδου νόσημα τοῦτο ἡγούμενος) and a most undesirable attribute that was to be repressed in networking (Ep. 155: ἥκοντος δὲ τοῦ καιροῦ καὶ ἔργων καὶ λόγων πῶς ἔμελλες ἢ σιγῇ χρήσασθαι πρὸς ἡμᾶς ἢ ῥᾳθυμίᾳ). Indebted to passages from classical and Second Sophistic authors,46 the numerous instances in which Libaniusʼ took recourse to accusations of ῥᾳθυμία (Ep. 11; 19; 25; 38; 41; 44; 68; 155; 159; 372; 390) reveal the extent of the tension which permeated the competitive environment in which the sophist lived.47 In addition, the professional ethics of a teacher such as Libanius would be compromised if his students failed to put the rhetoric he had taught them into practice (Ep. 137: οὐ γὰρ ὅπως σιγῴης, οὔτε σὺ περὶ τοὺς λόγους ἐπόνεις οὔτ' ἐγὼ περὶ σέ).48 His main concern was whether his students could spread the ethical values that he attached to rhetoric, even if this involved preaching from a pulpit. In spite of his unmistakable distaste for Christianity, Libanius remained undeterred in his efforts to encourage his students to compose and deliver speeches. Most notably, in his Ep. 1543, a heartfelt letter to his former pupil Amphilochius, Libanius confesses his distress upon witnessing a student of his retire from the public arena (ἐπυθόμην ἐφ' ἕτερά σε ἥκειν, καὶ σεσιγηκέναι καί μοι τοῦτο). However three years later, once Amphilocius became bishop of Iconium, the prospect of him again making the most of the rhetoric he learnt under his tutelage seems to please the sophist as he rejoices at hearing such news. Deploying rhetoric in order to help combat silence of course was at the heart of Libaniusʼ conception of Hellenism, quite akin to Isocratesʼ understanding of this idea (Pang. 50): language, speeches and education left the criterion of race and consanguinity outdated when it came to defining what a Hellene was.49 In Libaniusʼ mind, Hellenism was a cultural and suprareligious conceptualization which excluded silence from the public sphere. To a great extent he considered himself a paladin who enjoyed a good deal of parrhesia when addressing governors and emperors (Or. 2.55; 47.2; 48.1). Parrhesia, of course, being another exemplary concept that he reck                                                            

46 Aristid. Or. 33.6, 16; D.Chr. Or. 20.2, 7; Isoc., Ad Dem..6; Contra Soph. 1; Evag. 35, 42, 75; Antid., 244, 286; Plu., Lib. Educ. 2C, 13A 47 On John Chrysostomʼs interpretation of rathumia, Leyerle (2001), 13–15; Sandwell (2010). 48 Similar remarks in Ep. 139, 262, 387, 410, 412, 437. 49 Festugière (1959), 220; López Eire (1995), 372; Norman (2000), 4–5; Schouler (1991), 278; Whitmarsh (2001), 272–274.

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oned naturally incompatible with silence (Or. 15.13: τοσαύτης τοίνυν ἀδείας ἀνεῳγμένης τῇ παρρησίᾳ τῷ σιγᾶν οὐδαμόθεν ἀπολογία). It must be borne in mind that without that parrhesia he could not have performed his ʻfunction politique,ʼ although in some instances he boasted an unreal influence over the powerful. Such was the case during the Riot of Statues in Antioch 387 AD50 in which Libanius did not leave the city for as long as the riot and its consequences lasted (albeit he pretended otherwise, Or. 19). It was one of the bishops of Antioch, Flavian, who travelled to Constantinople to ask the emperor Theodosius for forgiveness, a meeting in which in spite of Libanius being at a clamorous disadvantage to another public figure – the bishop Flavian – he knew that he could not allow himself to be perceived to be voiceless. He made sure that his studentsʼ parents knew that he had not been overwhelmed by the circumstances and that his voice had not been silenced (Or. 3.29: κατενεχθέντες τῷ μεγέθει τῶν κακῶν ἐν ἀφωνίᾳ κείμεθα). In doing so, he attempted to depict himself as the political saviour of Antioch, an onerous task by all accounts which involved the narration of unpleasant events, since silencing what happened was a strategy that could easily backfire (Or. 22.3: ἃ γὰρ μηδὲ συμβῆναι τὴν ἀρχὴν ἔδει, σιγᾶσθαι, φαίη τις ἄν, προσῆκεν). As Schouler argues, Libanius’ actions here were not only part of his efforts to exert his actual influence within the political hotbed of Antioch but also to help prolong a rich tradition of intellectuals whose works and interventions had an immediate impact at all levels.51 If, in the epideictic realm, silence could sometimes play well as a rhetorical device or figure of speech, in politics silence meant powerlessness and almost a complete ostracism. Note for instance, Ep. 1058, in which Libanius states that the one who is silent is ἄτιμον (οὐδὲν θαυμαστὸν ἄτιμον ὄντα σιωπᾶν), which, as Norman accurately interprets is a reference to the deprivation of rights in a civic and municipal context.52 In his sharp invective Against Tisamenus however, Libanius claims that it was his duty to officially complain about Tisamenusʼ government. The thirty years that elapsed between the composition of his Antiochikos and this speech (386 AD) saw a great change in the sophistʼs attitude. While in the Antiochikos he had acknowledged the suffering he experienced to overcome his fear of silence – τῷ φόβῳ τῆς σιωπῆς (Or. 11.9) –, his strong statement of intent in Against Tisamenus (Or. 33.2: ʻit will be comfort enough for me not to have kept silence through fear upon matters of which you should have properly been informedʼ) is reinforced by the assertive τὸ μὴ φόβῳ σεσιγῆσθαι τὰ ῥηθέντα.                                                              50

Browning (1952); French, (1998); Van de Paverd (1991); Quiroga (2007). Schouler (2004). 52 Norman (1992), 427. 51

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Silence and Rivalry The last set of examples deal with the most dreadful silence for a sophist, the kind that fell upon him and left him speechless on occasions of public speaking. The wrong gesture or inadequate tone of voice in rhetorical delivery, as modern scholarship has recently explored,53 had social implications that were liable to ruin a sophist’s career, with failure to find the words when performing posing the worst case scenario. Furthermore remaining silent could severely compromise the sophistsʼ ethos to such an extent that even under disadvantageous circumstances they felt compelled to speak regardless of a predictably disastrous outcome. Acacius,54 for instance, a staunch rival of Libanius, is rendered as thoughtless when competing with his declamations; for in daring to confront Libanius ʻhe suffered in silence, and when he did not, he soon found out that silence is golden.ʼ55 Similarly his inability to remain silent is said to have caused desertions among his own group of students (Ep. 405: δείσας δὲ μὴ γυμνωθείη εἰσῆλθε μὲν ὡς καθέξων τὰς ἀποστάσεις, ἐκίνησε δὲ καὶ τὰς οὐκ ἄν, εἴπερ ἐσίγα, συμβάσας). The aggressive terms that Libanius uses in his rhetorical agones to deride his rival’s silence56 are evidently designed to characterize Acacius as trapped, caught up in dead end situation wherein remaining silent would have undermined his status equally as much as his poor intervention would have led to certain ridicule. Indeed Libanius digs his claws in to help secure his own position as the most influential teacher soon after his return to Antioch (354 AD), a crucial period for the sophist in which antagonizing Acacius would help attract as many students as possible.57 As Festugière has rightly pointed out,58 this whole affair is linked to Libaniusʼ oration 43, a speech that looked for an agreement among teachers to prevent their students from defecting. For Libanius, student recruitment and retention was not a matter of financial retribution but was inextricably linked to social status and prestige in a highly competitive environment.59                                                              53

The main references are Corbeill (2004); Gleason (1995); Gunderson (2000). Festugière (1959), 526; Jones, Martindale and Morris (1971–1992), 6 (Acacius 6); Seeck (1966), 39–43 (Acacius II). 55 Lib., Or. 1.110. Translation from Norman (1965). 56 Norman (1965), 178; (1992), 369. 57 Bradbury (2004b), 75: ʻalthough Libanius does not openly recruit students via letters, recruitment and promotion of his studentsʼ careers are a fundamental motive behind the extraordinary breadth of his connections (...) As we would expect, his epistolary network and the home regions of his known students overlap to a considerable degree.ʼ 58 Festugière (1959), 459–466. See also Lib. Or. 1.17–21; Eun., VS. 485 f. 59 Lib., Or. 58, 18. Cribiore (2007), 229; Kaster (1983); Lieu (2004), 19–21; Watts (2006), 4–7. 54

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Early retirement, loss of social influence and exile became the common end for unsuccessful teachers who did not manage to display ʻan eloquent non-oratory that may take the form of a speaking silence.ʼ60 If remaining silent at the appropriate moment proved detrimental in an educational context, maintaining a position of power and influence within the cultural elite was far from easy or assured in itself. Accusations, particularly those surrounding the use of magic and spells used in order to silence rivals, were rife and Libanius for one was frequently accused of jeopardizing his enemiesʼ performances by magical means, being held responsible for (Or. 1. 98) ʻcutting off the heads of a couple of girls (keeping) them for use in magic,ʼ or by taking recourse to an astrologer (Or. 1.43) ʻwho controlled the stars and through them could bring help or harm to men.ʼ As Faraone has stated, these incidents illustrate how orators, sophists and entertainers found the perfect scapegoat in laying the blame on mysterious witchcraft and magic for lapses in memory or stage fright.61 Nevertheless Libanius hypochondriac character and the competitive environment of the cultural milieu may help explain one particular passage of homeopathic magic which involved silence. After having a dream in which he (Or. 1.245) ʻsaw two boys sacrificed, and the dead body of one was put in the temple of Zeus, behind the door,ʼ Libanius came upon a twisted and mutilated chameleon buried in his lecture room (Or. 1.249): ʻit was an old specimen and had been dead for several months, and we saw the thing with its head tucked in between its hind legs, one of its front legs missing, and the other closing its mouth to silence it.ʼ At first sight, this may seem like another episode, merely part of his rivalsʼ efforts to undo his competitive power. Magic papyri and tabulae defixiones from that period confirm that such practice was not unusual,62 and although modern bibliography on this episode is extensive with great difference in opinion, some consensus on its essential meaning has been reached:63 the chameleonʼs front leg used to close its mouth represented the sophistʼs rhetorical flow whilst the cuttingoff of the chameleonʼs forefoot has been regarded as ʻthe crippling of the hand with which the orator gesticulated.ʼ64                                                              60

Fitzgerald (2007), 203. On the consequences of unsuccessful teaching see Watts (2006), 56–59. 61 Faraone (1991), 11–15. 62 Similar examples in Audollent (1904), 111–112, 139, 219, 222, 241. A comprehensive overview in Heintz (2000); Korenjak (2000), 111–114; Tremel (2004); Trzcionka (2007). 63 Cracco Ruggini (1996); González Gálvez (2002); Maltomini (2004); Marasco (2002); Sandwell (2005). 64 Bonner (1932), 39. Similar examples in Betz (1986), VII.396–404; IX, 1–14; Faraone (1991), 11–15.

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Aside from Festugièreʼs opinion, who considers the incident to be ʻune farce de collégiens,ʼ65 the apparent explanation of this episode (gaining advantage in such a ruthless milieu) must be supplemented by an insight into the political circumstances surrounding the event. Cracco Ruggini has underlined the fact that the chosen animal for this spell was a chameleon instead of a cat, a more frequently used animal in this kind of magic.66 The reason, the historian argues, was because of Libaniusʼ reputation as an opportunist and his good relationship with Christian emperors such as Theodosius. Ruggini considers that the chameleon was used ʻcome metafora (per lo più denigratoria) corrente fra gli intellettuali per caratterizzare persone influenzabili o ambigue, opportuniste, bugiarde, capaci di mutare con estrema facilità di opinione, atteggiamento e scelte, a seconda della convenienza.ʼ67 Not in vain, Eunapius identified Libaniusʼ ingenuity in dealing with the elite and political power (VS 523): ʻhe was so clever in adapting and assimilating himself to all sorts of men that he made the very polypus look foolish.ʼ Libanius in fact rancorously wrote about this event that (Or. 36.3) ʻpeople at some future time (…) upon hearing of sorcerers, spells, and chameleons, will conceive this as the revenge of persons who believe themselves injured by me and whose behaviour, though illegal, is a natural reaction, in the resentment they feel against me.ʼ68 Ignoring for a moment the increasingly illegal dimension of magic in Late Antiquity which Libanius refers to,69 what becomes clear from the chameleon episode is that by the time the sophist wrote this section of his autobiography (386 AD, if we are to follow Normanʼs dating)70 he was an active player in the late antique political arena, otherwise a spell of silence would not have been cast upon on him. Reform speeches (Or. 28, 29, 30, 46, 50, 51) and orations dedicated to governors and high rank officers (Or. 21, 22) were composed in the 380s, thus proving that he still had connections and an affinity with the imperial power. Silence in an antagonistic context, therefore, equated to social death. The disquieted sophist that Synesius of Cyrene depicts in his Dio reveals how his sleepless nights and efforts to please result in unrewarding endeavours as the audience (Dio 12) ‘would like him merely to open his mouth and gape with uplifted hand like a statue, and then become more voiceless than a statue, for thus they could leave, as they have long de                                                             65

Festugière (1959), 113. Cracco Ruggini (1996), 163–164. 67 Cracco Ruggini (1996), 163. Maltomini (2004) strongly criticizes Rugginiʼs view. Gregory of Nazianzus (Or. 4.62) also compared the emperor Julian to a chameleon. 68 Translation from Norman (2000). 69 Sandwell (2005). 70 Norman (1965), XIV. 66

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sired.ʼ71 Similarly in a rhetorical agon a rival Greek sophist could not upstage Libanius for he (Or. 1.256) ‘was tongue-tied immediately and fell dumb at the very start; he was better off for his silence, but he still tried to wag his failing tongue – and yet it remained speechless.ʼ The plethora of archaeological evidence and original sources from the fourth century AD indicates that it was indeed a particularly noisy period, as R. Cribiore attests: ‘horse races and festivals in Antioch were boisterous performances, and the popular, silent pantomime dances went on amid the loud acclaim of various claques. Reading was often done aloud both in private and in public.ʼ72 Thus, Libaniusʼ concern over silence seems to somewhat echo the taste and cultural preferences of late antique people. John Chrysostomʼs homilies, for instance, contain many reprimands against peopleʼs lust for theatre and games, and also bitterly denounced chattering during his sermons.73 Likewise Themistius complained about singing sophists who emptied out their compositions and were happy to oblige with the audiencesʼ preferences.74 On the whole Late Antiquity, it seems, produced its own θεατρομανοῦντες.

The Pragmatics of Silence Historically speaking, many of Libanius’ letters and speeches, read at face value, reflect his political and cultural agenda: thus their validity as entirely reliable sources may seem questionable. His allusions to σιγή, ἀφωνία and σιωπή for example have to be read cautiously. Yet silence, on the other hand, played an exceptional role as a polysemic element in the literature and development of a new religious and political order of the Late Antiquity, a time in which politics and religion had become theatricalised and public figures such as sophists, philosophers and even bishops were compelled by their audiences to conjure up mesmerizing performances.75 With these two caveats and the above-mentioned examples in mind, I conclude this paper by arguing that Libanius’ silence became an identitarian marker, one which contributed towards helping shape his set of ideas on a number of important issues.                                                              71

On silence in response to a performance or public intervention, Korenjak (2000), 82–83. 72 Cribiore (2007), 229. See also Festugière (1959), 113; Haubold and Miles (2004); Petit (1955), 126–136. 73 A thorough analysis in Leyerle (2001), 63–67; Sandwell (2009). 74 Them., Or. 23.283; 26.330; 28.341. 75 See for instance Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 42.24: Οὐ γὰρ ζητοῦσιν ἱερεῖς, ἀλλὰ ῥήτορας.

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What clearly emerges from Libaniusʼ texts is that there were no subtleties or a speculative or mystical approach involved in his concept of silence. His understanding of living in a period in which self-display was of the utmost importance and why the alibi of silence was not accepted when competing for social status is evident after reading much of his work. Indeed few things were held more sacred for Libanius than rhetoric itself, (Or. 62.8: οἰκεῖα γάρ, οἶμαι, καὶ συγγενῆ ταῦτα ἀμφότερα, ἱερὰ καὶ λόγοι), silence in contrast was accorded less esteem. Yet silence evidently possessed several important dimensions, one of which was religious. The Graeco-Roman pantheon for instance had more than one divinity that advocated silence (Harpocrates, Tacita, Angerona),76 yet it was in Late Antiquity that Christianity and late classical philosophy placed an enormous emphasis on silence as a means of communication. Not only did it imbue the Christian idea of rhetoric: Augustine, Gregory of Nazianzus and Ambrose theorized about it,77 but the Cappadocian Fathers and Neoplatonic philosophers saw silence as a theological propaedeutic used to guide the believers in the right direction.78 It represents what R. Mortley deemed the last stage of the Greek philosophical tradition, the progress ‘from logos to sige.ʼ79 Incorporated into the rhetorical arena as an initial form of divine apprehension, silence soon took its place in the religious sphere; as C. M. Chin has explained, ‘the teaching of language in late antiquity shaped the ability of late ancient readers and writers to have concepts that they call religious (...) the conventions of the discipline of grammar transformed linguistic work into incipient religious practice.ʼ80 Libaniusʼ mindset of course did not contemplate the practice in these terms; it was rather, to all intents and purposes, responsible for hindering the mobility of social status, an activity strongly based on a letter exchange which, in turn, was regulated by an epistolary decorum that both sender and recipient should respect if a proper understanding was to be reached. Indeed the sphere of the public and the private were closely interconnected in late antique letter-writing, and consequently failure to reply to a letter implied a number of issues. Ausonius for one, a coetaneous author, believed that refusing to answer a letter was unnatural (Ep. 21: nil mutum natura dedit).81                                                              76

Bettini (2006); Dubourdieu (2003). Aug., De Magistro 2; Quaest. in Hept., 2.52; Trin., 8.6.9; Ambr. De Off., I.5–23; Greg. Naz. Carm. 2.1.34; 2.1.38. 78 Mortley (1986), II, 160–191. 79 Mortley (1986), I, 162. 80 Chin (2008), 1–2. 81 Ebbeler (2007), 307: ‘Ausonius cites numerous examples of ‘natural’ dialogism: enemies in battle greet each other; rocks echo; streams murmur; musical instrument 77

 

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The paternal tone that part of Libaniusʼ epistolary corpus adopted reminds us that he aimed to build up his relationships in hierarchical terms, hence silence in the form of not replying to a letter was not only unacceptable but also represented an explicit refusal to respect a hierarchical structure that Libanius contemplated from the top. Yet if silence were to poison the minds of his students, coupled with the implications of one of his addresses feeling too lazy to reply to a letter, the sophist’s reputation as a teacher along with the risk of losing a link in his network would pose a serious threat. In any case, therefore, silence would make the social system stumble. The other end of the spectrum – loquacity – was also dealt with by Libanius in so far as the demonstration of self-moderation and temperance when speaking duly merited praise for such restraint (Ep. 61, 95, 270). In Late Antiquity talkativeness and silence were at opposing ends of the communication process entailing different attitudes towards public engagement,82 hence a feeling of an ‘urgenza di communicareʼ83 was shared amongst many public figures as the multiplication of occasions for public speaking grew inexorably. The proliferation of games and spectacles84 also added to a real baroque-like atmosphere in which being out of the spotlight could ruin a professional career or short-circuit the social hierarchy, for as Leyerle has stated out, ‘Late Antiquity was a time in which oneʼs place in society was constantly ratified by ceremony and display.ʼ 85 Yet in a cultural milieu in which speech was practically demanded, there was no metalinguistic, theological, metapoetic or transcendental interest in Libaniusʼ references to silence. Silence evoked all sorts of unHellenic values in Libaniusʼ mind. His conception of speech was akin to Aristotle in that speech had no deficiencies that made it unable to be at the centre of the political organization and cultural communication. In fact Libanius thought of speech and rhetoric in classical terms, as ‘a touchstone, an instrument of checking and measuring the validity of the sensedata and notions generated in the human mind.ʼ86 Silence in contrast was an identitarian marker, one which annulled any attempt of communication among cultural elites and tied the hands of the cultural elite as mediators between the administration and the people. In                                                             clang. Response, Ausonius implies, is part of the natural order and Paulinusʼ silence is unnatural.ʼ 82 See for instance Sirens as the stereotype for attractive but shallow rhetoric Them. Or. 24.301, 28.341; Him. Or. 30; 62.46; Iamb., VP 82; Porf., VP 39. 83 Martino (2006), 98. 84 Casella (2007), especially 111–112 where she defines Antioch as a ‘ville de divertissements;ʼ Cribiore (2007), 229–230; Lugaresi (2008). 85 Leyerle (2001), 50. 86 Mortely (1986), I, 159.

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deed perhaps the extent of Libanius’ scorn can be surmised in the contrast between Christian authors like Augustine whose attitude of ‘true rhetoric culminates in silenceʼ87 set against Libanius rather disdainful perspective of it being like ‘a personal defeat.ʼ88

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List of Authors Robert J. Penella Fordham University, New York. Philip Rousseau The Catholic University of America. Nicholas Baker-Brian Cardiff University. Ilaria L.E. Ramelli The Catholic University of the Sacred Heart, Milan. Josef Lössl Cardiff University. Laura Miguélez-Cavero University of Oxford. Manfred Kraus University of Tübingen. Aglae Pizzone University of Durham. John Watt Cardiff Univertsity. David Konstan Brown University / New York University. Guadalupe Lopetegui University of the Basque Country Lieve van Hoof University of Leuven Peter van Nuffelen University of Ghent. Alberto J. Quiroga Puertas University of Granada.

Index of Sources Achilles Tatius

Ammianus Marcellinus

Leucippe and Clitophon I 1, 2 155 n. 59

36 n. 34 36 n. 32

Aelius Aristides Orations 22.1 28.9 33.6, 16 33.7–18 42.2

Epistulae I

97–98

Aphthonius 229 229 233 n. 46 231 n. 34 229

Alexander of Lycopolis Contra Manichaei opiniones disputatio XIII 42 n. 58

Progymnasmata 7.3 7.5 7.6 7.11 8 8.6 9.4–9 14.9 36.14

125 n. 9 125 n. 9 125 n. 8 125 n. 9 85 n. 76 126 n. 16 126 n. 14 126 n. 17 11

Apocrypha

Ambrose

Acts of Philip

De Noe et arca 1.1

22 n. 39

De officiis I.10.31 I.5–23

224 n. 6 239 n. 77

De Tobia

22 n. 40

Explanatio psalmorum XII 1 21 Expositio psalmi 21, 26 In Lucam 6.65−68 10.140–142

218 n. 35 218 n. 35

Antony the Great

Acta Archelai 14.3 62.1–65.9

22.14.2 23.2.4

21 20

62

Apollinaris Metaphrase of the Psalms 114 n. 104

Apollonius Rhodius Argonautica 4.1743–1744

106 n. 73

Apophthegmata patrum 10 16

116 n. 111 95, 116

248

Index of Sources

Aristotle Nicomachean ethics 1115b23

De Genesi contra manichaeos 38 n. 44 183

On virtues and vices 173 Politics 1254b38–39

185

Posterior analytics

170

Rhetoric 1366a33–34 1368a34

183 37 n. 35

Aristoxenus Symmikta hypomnemata 214

Athanasius of Alexandria Vita Antonii 2–3 4.1

98 n. 42 110 n. 91

Athenaeus Deipnosophistae 6.62

186

Athenagoras Legatio pro christianis 71 n. 2

Augustine Confessiones 6.6.9

36 n. 29

Contra Faustum 22.5 20.4

39 39

Contra Fortunatum 1 3

50 50

De catechizandis rudibus 25 De doctrina christiana De Genesi ad litteram

25 20

De haeresibus 46.8 46.9 46.11

50 50 45

De magistro 2

25 239 n. 77

De moribus manichaeorum 1.1.1 38 n. 44 1.1.2 37, 40, 45 1.31.65–35.80 40 1.31.66 40 1.31.67 40, 48 1.31.68 39–40 1.32.69 40 1.33.70 40 1.34.74–75 39–41 2.1.1–9.18 33 2.2.2 41 2.8.11–13 41–44 2.9.14 41 2.9.17 41 n. 57 2.10.19 33, 45 2.10.19–18.66 33 2.13.27 45 2.14.31–35 46 n. 68 2.14.32 46 2.15.36 42–43 2.16.38–39 44 2.16.41 45 2.16.42 44 2.16.49 44 2.16.51–52 45–46 2.16.53 46 2.17.54 46 2.18.65 34 n. 16 2.18.66 33, 47–49 2.19.67 34, 43, 47 2.19.67–20.75 34, 43 2.19.68 47 2.19.68–20.74 47 2.19.70–72 48 2.20.74 48 2.20.75 34, 43, 47

249

Index of Sources

De natura boni 44 47

32 49

Enarrationes in psalmos 24 Quaestiones in heptateuchum 2.52 239 n. 77 40–41

De trinitate 8.6.9

239 n. 77

Protrepticus 2.16

Codex Theodosianus

94–95, 98, 114

Eulogy of the Lord Jesus

94–95, 98, 107, 109, 114–116

239

On Abraham

93, 95–96, 98, 101, 107, 109, 111, 114–116

25

Shepherd of Hermas

91, 96–97, 100, 107, 113

Speech to the Righteous

93, 95, 98, 101, 104–105, 107– 110, 114, 116 n. 113

The Lord to those who suffer

94–95, 98, 104 n. 66, 107, 109–110, 114– 115

Vision of Dorotheus

92, 95–96, 116 n. 113

Words of Abel

94–95, 98, 101, 107, 109, 111, 115 n. 108

Words of Cain

94–95, 98, 101, 107, 109, 111, 114

Collectio Avellana

25

Enarrationes in Isaiam 1.30 66–67 230 n. 29

Barhebraeus Ecclesiastical chronicle 168–170

Charax of Pergamon FGrHist 103

216

Chromatius Tractatus on Matthew 27.1.6

20

Cicero In Catilinam 1.3

75 n. 22

Codex Visionum

Basil of Caesarea

Epistulae 344

76 n. 30

P. Bodmer 36 and 37

Ausonius

Ad adulescentes

191 n. 6

Clement of Alexandria

16.10.2

Retractiones I.6.1

Epistulae 21

Pro rege Deiotaro 1, 5

78 n. 42

Constitutio Antoniniana 124, 133–134

De inventione 177–178

85 n. 76

Pro lege Manilia 3

191 n. 6

Corpus Iuris II.7.11.2

128 n. 33

250

Index of Sources

Cyril of Alexandria In Ioannem

Evagrius Ponticus 20 n. 33

Cyril of Jerusalem Catecheses

22

Damophilus Lives of the ancients 214–215

Diodorus Siculus 2.35.3 30.10.1 30.69.1 40.26.2 40.27.1

184 184 184 184 184

Dyo Chrysostom 20.2, 7 37.42 37.46 47.8 71.1 72.2

233 n. 46 229 229 229 229 229

Eudocia Paraphrases of the Octateuch, Zecchariah, and Daniel 114 n. 104

Antirrhetikos

110 n. 91

Kephalaia gnostika 1.23 1.31–33 1.35 2.25–26 3.52 3.58 3.60 3.62 3.84 4.12 4.28 4.29 4.40 4.46 4.72 4.75 4.79 4.82 5.1 5.13 5.28 6.37

57 57–58 64 63 64–65 64 64, 66–67 62, 64–65 65 59–60 59–60 64–66 62 62 59 59 60 60 62 61 60 56

Letter to Melania

56, 65

Scholia in psalmos 76.21

56

Eunapius

Evagrius Scholasticus

Lives of philosophers and sophists 485 235 n. 58 488–489 4 n. 17 492 4 n. 17 523 237

Ecclesiastical history 5.24 6.1

Euripides

Capitula

Electra

184

Hecuba 109–115

112 n. 96

Helen 23, 27

183–184

Eustathius Life of Eutychius

102

216 214 n. 22, 215 n. 26

Faustus 38

Firmicus Maternus De errore profanarum 1.1 1.1–17 1.2 2.2 2.5–7 3.1

religionum 80 77, 79 80 81 81 81

251

Index of Sources 3.4 4.1 4.2 4.3 4.3–4 5.1–2 6.1 6.6–7 6.7–8 6.8 6.9 7.7 7–17 8.1–2 8.4 8.5 12.4 13.4–5 16 18–27 18–28 20.7 28 28.6 29 29.1 29.2 29.3 Matheseos libri VIII I proem I proem. 2 I proem. 4 I proem. 1–6 I.10.13–14 IV proem. 1–2 V proem. 3–4 VI.30.26 VII.1.1

81 n. 55 81 n. 57, 82 n. 59 82 n. 61 77 n. 38 85 n. 73 83 n. 63 and 64 83 n. 65 83 n. 66 and 67 80, 84 n. 68 84 n. 70 78–80, 84 77 n. 38 84 n. 70 77 n. 38 74 n. 19 77 n. 38 76 n. 30 73 n. 15 82 n. 61 77 73 74 n. 18, 77 n. 38, 84 n. 71 77 74 n. 18 74, 77, 84 74 n. 20, 78 n. 43 78 n. 43 74 n. 18

Cura pastoralis

25

Registrum

25

Gregory of Nazianzus Carm. 2 1.1.96–101 1.34 1.38 1.39

113 239 239 113 103

n. 100 n. 77 n. 77 n. 100 and

Epistulae 24 38

169 n. 38 169 n. 38

Orations 1–6 4 4.62 5 5.37 27.10 42.24 42–43

229 169 n. 38 237 n. 67 169 n. 38 77 n. 35 224 n. 6 238 n. 75 229

Gregory of Nyssa Sermons on the song of songs 16 On the soul and the resurrection 63

Heliodorus 75 n. 26 72 n. 9 71 n. 3 72 n. 8 75 n. 26 71 n. 5 72 n. 13 71 n. 4 73 n. 14, 74 n. 19

Fronto Epistulae 4.2

Gregory the Great

199 n. 20

Aethiopica I 1, 1 I 7, 5 I8 I 14, 5 I 26 II 3, 3–4 II 3, 9 II 4, 7 II 5 II 9, 3 II 11, 1–2 II 21, 4–5 II 21, 5

148 n. 35 149 n. 39 144 145 153 148 n. 38 149 n. 39 149 n. 38 149–150 148 n. 36 144–145 154 n. 54 154 n. 58, 155 n. 59

252 II 21, 6 II 22, 1 II 22, 4 II 22, 5 II 22–24 II 23, 4 II 23, 5 II 23, 6 II 24, 2 II 24, 4 II 24, 5 II 26, 1 II 26, 3 II 27, 3 II 30, 1 II 31, 2 II 35, 1 III 1, 1 III 1–2 III 2, 7 III 4, 1 III 4, 7 III 4, 10 III 5, 4 III 12–14 III 18, 3 IV 2, 15 IV 4, 3 IV 5, 1 IV 7, 5–7 IV 8 IV 9, 1 V 1, 2 V 1, 4 V 3, 1–2 V 3, 5–9 V 16, 5 VI 9, 7 VIII 4, 4 IX 24, 4 X 9, 1 X 12, 4 X 14, 7 X 15, 1 X 17, 3 X 30, 5 X 32, 3 X 38, 3

Index of Sources 141 n. 14, 155–156 15 141 141 141 141, 147 n. 31 142, 147 n. 33 147 n. 31 141 n. 12 142 146, 147 n. 31 152 153 147 n. 34 147 n. 34 147 n. 34 157 n. 69 152 147 n. 31, 152–153 149 n. 39 149 153 144 155 153 146 148 n. 35 156 145 n. 24 149 n. 40 150–151 151 148 n. 35 144 149 n. 40 149 n. 40 146 146 157 n. 69 152 n. 48 151 n. 46 150–151 150 n. 43 151 n. 46 151 n. 46 151 n. 46 151 n. 46 151 n. 46

Hermogenes On invention 2.2

184

On style 1.12

184

Hesiod Theogony 31–32

106 n. 72

Himerius Orations 16 30 38.20–25 40.7–8 62.2–11 62.46 63.50–52

223 n. 1 240 n. 82 226 226 226 240 n. 82 226

Historia Monachorum Prol. 2

103 n. 58

Homer Iliad 1.207–214 2.400 6.135–137 6.156 9.389 9.441 16–24 18.95 23.65–107 24.159–187 24.540

112 n. 96 170 80, 84 184 183 171 n. 43 112 n. 96 112 n. 96 112 n. 96 112 n. 96 112 n. 96

Odyssey 6.18 6.237 8.457 11.281–282 23.156

183 184 183 183 184

Hymn to Aphrodite 77 174 203

84 84 84

253

Index of Sources

Iamblichus Vita Pythagorae 72 82

in Zachariam 224 n. 6 240 n. 82

Isocrates Encomium of Helen 16 58–60

Ad Demonicum 6

233 n. 46

Contra sophistas 1

233 n. 46 233 n. 46 233 n. 46 233 n. 46 233 n. 46 233 n. 46

Jerome Commentarioli in psalmos 13 Commentariorum in Esaiam 13, 17–19 Commentariorum in Hiezechielem 18–19, 23 Commentariorum in Ionam 18–20 Commentarius in Ecclesiasten 17–18 Epistulae XXII LII

Against the games and the theater 223 n. 1 179 n. 3

184 184 233

Antidosis 244 286

John Chrysostom

Homilies on the statues

Panegyricus 50

Evagoras 35 42 75

19

105, 114 16 n. 19, 17 n. 21

In Abacuc

20 n. 30

In Hieremiam

19

In Osee

26

Homily on acts

133 n. 76

On the education of children 25 On king Uzziah

22–23, 25–26

On priesthood

23, 229

John Lydus De mensibus 4.2

214 n. 20

Julian Epistulae 12 50 74 Ad Themistium 253b 253c–254a 254a 254b

215 n. 27 215 n. 27 215 n. 27

255b–c 256c–257d 259a–b 260c–d 262d 263c–264a 266a–c

164 n. 10 166 n. 28 163 164 n. 10, 166 n. 26 164 n. 10 164 n. 10 164 n. 17 164 n. 17 163 164 n. 10 164 n. 10

Ad Athenienses

212 n. 11

Misopogon 347a–348a 358a 358c–d 358d 359a

215 n. 27 212 n. 13 213 212, 213 n. 17 212–213

Orations 1.36

215 n. 27

254 3

Index of Sources 215 n. 27

Julian Romance 174

Lactantius Divinae institutiones 2.15.2 2.16.13

78 n. 39 78 n. 39

Libanius Orations 1.17–21 1.43 1.98 1.110 1.111–112 1.123 1.154 1.214 1.245 1.249 1.256 2.9–10 2.44 2.54 2.55 3.1 3.1–5 3.4 3.29 4.1 10.6 11.2 11.4–5 11.9 11.140–141 11.141 12.2–5 12.92 14.41 15.1 15.7 15.10 15.13 15.85

235 n. 58 236 236 235 n. 55 225 231 131 n. 66 131 n. 65, 133 n. 74 236 236 238 230 128 n. 29, 133 n. 75 231 n. 36 233 229 n.28 230 233 234 229 n.28 224 231 229 n.28 231, 234 230 223 n. 1 226–229 230 231 n. 33 218 n. 35 226 230 234 231 n. 36

16 17.31 18.6 18.77 18.114 18.159 18.267 19 19.1 21 22 22.2–3 22.3 23.21 24.2 25.47 25.68 27.1 28–30 32.20 33.2 34.2 36.3 38.13 39.17 39.22 40.5 40.6–8 41.1–4 43 43.5 46 47.2 47.12 48.1 48.22–25 49.27–28 49.29 49.32 50–51 55.15 58.18 62.8 62.8–10 62.8–23 62.18 62.21–23 62.131 62.158

218 227 227 231 224 227 227 234 181 237 237 229 234 230 229 231 231 229 237 231 229 229 237 231 228 231 132 132 229 131 132 237 233 231 233 129 129 228 230 237 231 235 239 128 131 128 132 128 128

n. 35

n. 33

n. 4

n.28

n.28 n. 33 n. 33 n. 38 n. 33 n. 28, 234 n. 28 n. 33 n. 22 n. 33 n. 68 n. 73 n. 28 n. 65, 132 n. 69

n. 33 n. 41 n. 41 n. 22

n. 33 n. 59 n. 31 n. 66 n. 31 n. 71–73 n. 31 n. 31

255

Index of Sources Epistulae 11 15 19 20 25 26 28 33 38 39 41 42 44 48 61 68 72 87 95 98 117 137 139 142 155 159 202 209 245 256 262 264 270 339 347 354 363 372 385 387 390 391 405 410 412 433 437

233 230 233 224 233 232 224 232 233 224 233 232 233 226 224, 240 233 232 130 n. 49 224 232 130 n. 50 and 58, 230, 233 230, 233 n. 48 225 233 233 230 128 n. 37 224 231 n. 33 233 n. 48 224 224, 240 130 n. 48 and 55 232 231 n. 33 129 n. 39 233 230 233 n. 48 233 224 235 233 n. 48 230, 233 n. 48 128 n. 35 230, 233 n. 48

460 478 482 486 489 507 533 534 539 552 652 653 951 1058 1131 1170 1171 1203 1224 1259 1375 1430 1431 1539 1543 Progymnasmata 3.3 5.1 7.1–2 7.4 7.5 8.3 8.5 9.1 9.3–4 9.7 10.3 10.5

224 128 n. 35 231 n. 33 128 n. 35 224 128 n. 35 130 n. 47 129 n. 38 129 n. 38 224 130 n. 51 and 56 130 n. 51 132 n. 70 224 130 n. 54 130 n. 52, 133 n. 75 130 n. 52 and 55 130 n. 52, 131 128 n. 31 231 n. 33 131 166 n. 29 130 n. 54 and 55 130 n. 53 and 57, 131 n. 63 233 126 n. 15 126 n. 13 126 n. 18, 127 n. 19–25 125 n. 5–7 125 n. 10–11, 126 n. 12 41 126 n. 15 41 126 127 n. 26 126 n. 15 127 n. 27

Lucian How to write history 30

142 n. 18

256

Index of Sources

Manilius Astronomica

72 n. 7

Maximus of Turin Sermones 34 39.2–3

21 20

Menander Rhetor 60.10–16 66.11–14 68.10–14 331.15 342–351 364 368.1–377.30 375–376 380 384 437.15

133 n. 76 133 n. 76 133 n. 76 36 n. 28 181 n. 4 85 n. 76 101 n. 51 85 n. 76 85 n. 76 85 n. 76 226

Minucius Felix Octavius 5

Galatians 4:22–31

58

Ephesians 6:17

61

Philippians 3:12

98 n. 43

2 Timothy 4:7

67

Hebrews 4:12

61

James 5:16

99 n. 45

Revelation 1.16–17 2.12 2.16 2.18–20 6.13 19.15

61 61 61 61 65 61

Nicolaus 78 n. 39

Gospel of Matthew 3:12 10:34 16:19

63 61 62

Progymnasmata 11.14–12.2 12.7–18 13.9–13 13.14–15 50.7 68.11 69.18–70.6

Gospel of Mark 5:1

84 n. 70

Nonnus of Panopolis

Gospel of Luke 6 15

16 85 n. 73

Paraphrase of the gospel of John 91, 114 n. 104

Acts 3:21 10:11–16

68 62

Old Testament

Romans 5:14 13–14 14:1–15:3

62 46 46

1 Corinthians 9:24 15

98 n. 43 63

New Testament

Dionysiaca

Genesis 4:1–16 4:9–19 12:13 16–17 16:2–3 22 22:1–19

144 143 145 n. 27 144 185 n. 9 143 n. 21 142

91

111 94 39 58 39 111 93

257

Index of Sources Exodus 2:11–12 2:21 12:35–36 17:9 28:4

39 39 39 39 58–60

Numbers 12:1

39

Deuteronomy 13:6–10 13:12–18 16:8 25:5–10 32:9

74 n. 20 74 n. 20 60 124 n. 2 57

62

[Orpheus] Lithica

91

Ovid

Joshua 20:2–3

60

Judges 5:20

65

2 Kings 14:20

22 57

2 Chronicles

23

2 Macabees 6–7

109

4 Macabees 14–16

109

Psalms 77:25 102 139:7–10 148

57 94 111 94

Jeremiah 15:19

68

Malachi 3:20

64–65

Metamorphosis 2.833

78 n. 40

Tristia 3.5

78 n. 40

Pachomius Rule of Pachomius 15 19 20 23 25 82 100 101 121 122 125 126 138 139–140

96 n. 31 95 n. 28 95 n. 28 96 n. 31 95 n. 28 95 n. 28 95 n. 28 95 n. 28 96 n. 31 95 n. 28 96 n. 31 96 n. 31 95 n. 28 110 n. 91

Palladius Lausiac History

100 n. 50

Panegyrici Latini

Oppian Cynegetica

Selecta in psalmos 144

91

Origen Homilies on Jeremiah 14.18

68

On the apocalypse 6, 12

61

II.1 II.1.4 II.2.1 II.2.1–2 II.2.2–4 II.2.5 II.3.1 II.3.2–3 II.4 II.4–8 II.9.3 II.14.2

200, 201 n. 25 200 n. 23 201 227 201 n. 26 200 n. 24 203 202 n. 29 200 203 203 204

258 III.1.1 III.2.4 III.3.7 III.3.9 III.4.1 III.5.1 III.5.5–6 III.6.1 III.6.3 III.6.6–7 III.8.4 III.8–12 III.9.4 III.10.1 III.10.5 III.13 III.20.1–2 IV.1.1 IV.1.2 IV.1.5–6 IV.2.2 IV.3.1 V.2.3 V.3.2 V.4.2–3 V.4–10 V.5.3 V.5.4 V.6.2 V.6.3 V.7–10 V.8.2 V.9.1 V.10.2 V.11.2 V.11.11–21 V.13.2 V.14.4 V.16.4 V.19.1–2 V.21.3 XI XI.5.2 XII.1.3

Index of Sources 203 n. 29 204, 226 201 n. 25, 26 201 n. 25 and 26 202 n. 26 202 n. 27 205 205 205 205 200 n. 24 205 200 n. 24 200 n. 24 205 n. 34 205 227 194 n. 13, 203 n. 29 200 n. 22 202 n. 27 202 n. 27 200, 227 192, 194 192 193 n. 11 195 193 192 n. 9 194, 203 n. 30 193 194 195, 198 n. 18 195 194 n. 13, 195, 196 196 196 196 196 n. 15 197 197 190 227 227

Paul the Silentiary Ekphrasis St. Sophia 978–1029

102

Philo De agricultura

63

Philostratus Life of Apollonius of Tyana I.1, 14 224 n. 6 Lives of the sophists 507–511

2

Photius Library 161

91 n. 3 214 n. 23

Plato Euthydemus 304b6

155 n. 60

Gorgias 485d

171 n. 43

Hippias Maior

183

Laws 3, 689a–c 4, 713a–714b

164 165 n. 19 164 n. 17

Phaedo

180

Phaedrus 227a 227c 228a–b 229a–e 230c 237a–b 241e–242d 251a–252a 257c 258e–259d 261a 261a–e 263d 271c

180 154 156 155 157 155 156 156 155 154 155 141 156 156 156

Philebus 26b

185

n. 58 n. 60 n. 65

n. 63 n. 58

259

Index of Sources

Republic 375e 450a–b 535d

208e–209d 210b 215a–b

174 n. 57 155 n. 59 155 n. 60, 216 n. 30 155, 182, 184, 187 155 n. 61 185 155 n. 62

Theaetetus 148e–151d

155 n. 61

Symposium

Pliny the Younger Gratiarum Actio

189–190, 199

Plotinus Enneads 1.6.1

185

Marius 19.2 Pericles 38

215 n. 27

Pompeius 40

211 n. 10

Theseus 14

215 n. 27

De fortuna romanorum 2 215 How a young man should listen to poetry 1.14e–16a 216 On curiosity

216

On the education of children 2c 233 n. 46 13a 233 n. 46 On listening to lectures

Plutarch

184

Parallel lives

216 104 n. 65, 106–110

Agesilaus 7

215 n. 27

Alexander 12, 55

215 n. 27

Antonius 28

215 n. 27

Porphyry

Cato Maior 12.5

184

Vita Pythagorae 39

Cato Minor 9 13 15–20 30 32 50

211 209, 211 211 218 218 218

Demosthenes 38

215 n. 27

Demetrius 1.6 2.2

Dialexeis II IV

224 n. 7 224 n. 7

107 186

Epistulae 138

224 n. 7

Lysander 24

215 n. 27

Polybius 7.7.8

216 n. 31

240 n. 82

Procopius of Caesarea Historia Arcana 26.2, 35 30.18–20

135 n. 83 135 n. 83

Procopius of Gaza

Ptolemy Tetrabiblos

72 n. 7

260

Index of Sources

Quintilian Institutio Oratoria III.7.10 IX.2.54

Themistius 199, 204 n. 32 224 n. 8

Quintus of Smyrna Posthomerica 12.308–310

106 n. 72

Rhetorica ad Herennium 4.40–41

224 n. 8

Secundinus Epistula ad sanctum Augustinum 895.10–20 31 n. 1 and 3 895.19–20 32 n. 4 896.14–897.6 39 n. 52

Socrates Ecclesiastical History 4.32

168 n. 36

Sozomenus Ecclesiastical History 5.19

218 n. 35

Statius Thebaid 1.1

78 n. 40

Suda D 52 P 2479

214 n. 19 135 n. 82

Synesius Dio 12

237

193 n. 10

Tatian Oratio ad Graecos

34.VIII 34.XII 34.XXV

170 n. 41 226 212 n. 12 229 165, 170 172 n. 45 171 n. 42 171 238 n. 74 240 n. 82 229 163 n. 7 229 163 n. 8 163 n. 9 238 n. 74 19 n. 26, 238 n. 74, 240 n. 82 212 n. 12 229 187

On aretē Add. 17.209

172

On Royal Beauty 163b–165d 166c 167a 167b 176b–c

180–181 181–183 181 181, 184 182

Risāla

164–175

Theocritus 23.32

Tacitus Annales 3.43

Orations 5.67b–70a 15.184b–185b 17.215b 21.246b 22 22.264b–265a 22.265b–d 22.279b 23.283 24.301 26.312b 26.314d–315a 26.318b–319d 26.319b–c 26.320b 26.330 28.341

76–77

183

Theodoret Historia Religiosa

100 n. 50

Proem. 8

101 n. 52

Titus Livius Ab urbe condita 31.44 39.9

79 n. 45 and 46 78 n. 43

261

Index of Sources

Triphiodorus Sack of Troy

Symposium 1.9 91

Memorabilia 1.2.24

Zosimus 3.11.4

Xenophon 184

184

218 n. 35

Index of Authors Achilles Tatius 139, 149 n. 38, 154–157 Adimantus 38 Aelius Aristides 1 Aeschines 2, 126 Agathias 116 n. 110 al-Dimashqī 164 Alcaeus 211 Alexander of Lycopolis 42 n. 58 Ambrose of Milan 13, 20–26, 229, 239 Amphilochius of Iconium 233 Anacreon 211 Aphthonius 111, 123–127, 133–134 Apollinaris 114 n. 104 Apollonius Rhodius 106 Apuleius 3 Aristotle 161, 163–165, 168–170, 172– 173, 183, 185, 240 Aristoxenus 214 Arnobius 76 n. 34 Athanasius of Alexandria 98 n. 42, 106, 110 n. 91, 115 Athenaeus 186, 214 Athenagoras 71 n. 2 Augustine 20, 24–25, 31–51, 239, 241 Aulus Gellius 3 Ausonius 239 Barhebraeus 168, 170, 174 n. 56 Basil of Caesarea 15, 22, 25, 55, 66, 113 n. 100, 117, 230 n. 29 Charax of Pergamon 216 Choricius 1, 6 Chromatius 18–20 Cicero 18, 78, 105, 114, 189 n. 3, 191 n.6, 196–197, 199 n. 19 Claudius Mamertinus 226 Clement of Alexandria 76 Cyprian 80 n. 47 Cyril of Alexandria 20

Cyril of Jerusalem 22 Damophilus 209–221 Dio Chrysostom 1, 146 n. 28 Diodorus Siculus 184 Donatus 15 Dorotheus 92–96, 98–99, 101, 104–108, 110, 116 Ephrem the Syrian 174 Epicurus 163, 172 Eudocia 114 n. 104 Eumenius 190–198 Eunapius 1, 4 n. 17, 6, 100, 162, 237 Euripides 183–184 Eusebius of Caesarea 103 Eustathius 102 Evagrius Ponticus 6, 55–68, 110 n. 91 Evagrius Scholasticus 214–216 Faustus 38–39 Firmicus Maternus 71–85 Fronto 3, 186, 189 n.3, 199 Galen 169–170 Gaudentius 25 Glaucus 196–197 Gregory the Great 25 Gregory of Nazianzus 4 n. 16, 15–16, 55, 77 n. 35, 91, 113 n. 100 and 103, 169, 174, 229, 237 n. 67, 238 n. 75, 239 Gregory of Nyssa 16, 59–60, 63, 65, 68, 115 Gregory Thaumaturgos 115 Heliodorus 139–157 Hermogenes 131, 184 Hesiod 55, 105–106, 113 n. 100 Hilary of Poitiers 13, 16, 18 Himerius 4 n. 16, 6, 224, 226

Index of Authors

Homer 55, 84, 111–114, 116, 143, 153, 170–171, 183 Iamblichus 55 n. 3, 214, 230 Ibn al-Muqaffa‘ 161–162 Ibn al-Nadīm 161, 168 Ibn Zur‘a 164 Isocrates 228, 233 Jerome 13, 15–27, 105, 114–115 John Chrysostom 36, 133, 179 n. 3, 223, 229, 233 n. 47, 238 John the Lydian 214 Julian 6, 75, 77 n. 35, 161–175, 180, 184, 189, 209–221, 226–228, 231–232, 237 n. 67 Lactantius 76 n. 34 Libanius 1, 5, 41, 123–135, 166, 181 n. 4, 187, 210, 223–241 Lucian 142 n. 18 Manilius 72 n. 7 Maximus of Turin 20–21, 24–25 Menander 114 Menander Rhetor 133, 181 n. 4, 189 n. 3, 199, 204 n. 32, 221, 226 Minucius Felix 80 n. 47 Naumachius 91 Nicolaus 124, 142–145 Nonnus of Panopolis 91, 114 n. 104 Oppian 91 Origen 12–13, 15, 18, 55–66, 68 [Orpheus] 91 Pacatus Drenapius 189 n. 1 Pachomius 95 n. 26 and 28, 96 n. 31 and 33, 99 n. 47, 110 n. 91, 115 Palladas 91 Palladius 100 n. 50 Paul the Silentiary 102, 116 n. 110 Paul of Tarsus 41, 45–46, 58, 63, 66 n. 14, 98 n. 43, 133

263

Paulinus of Nola 17 Philo 58–59, 63 Philostratus 1–6 Photius 91 n. 3, 214 Plato 55, 59–60, 154–155, 157, 163–166, 172–174, 180, 182–187, 211 Pliny the Younger 189–190, 199 n. 19 Plotinus 185 Plutarch 104, 106–108, 186, 209–221 Porphyry 55 n. 3, 73–74, 169 n. 37 Possidius 24 Proclus 55 n. 3 Procopius of Caesarea 135 Procopius of Gaza 1 Prohaeresius 6 Ptolemy 72 n. 7 Quintilian 18, 196, 199, 204 n. 32 Quintus of Smyrna 91, 106 n. 72 Sallust 80 n. 47, 199 n. 19 Secundinus 31–32, 38–39 Seneca 199 n. 19 Severus of Alexandria 124 Socrates 162, 168 Sopater of Apamea 214–215 Stephanus of Byzantium 214 Suetonius 107 n. 80 Synesius 237–238 Tatian 76–77 Tertullian 18, 80 n. 47 Themistius 1, 6, 19 n. 26, 161–175, 179– 187, 212, 226, 229–230, 238 Theocritus 183 Theodoret 100 n. 50, 101 n. 52 Titus Livius 78–79, 197 n. 16 Triphiodorus 91 Virgil 197 n. 16 Xenophon 184 Zeno 25 Zosimus 162

Index of Subjects Allegory 6, 14–15, 55–68, 93 n. 12, 164, 171 Apokatastasis 55–68 Arabic 6, 161–175 Ascetism 19, 25, 37, 40, 44–46, 55–56, 93, 97–99, 103, 115

Law 50 n. 81, 71–73, 75, 77, 84, 97 n. 41, 123–135, 156, 164, 166, Law School 124, 129, 131–132 Liturgy 13–14, 23–24, 72, 93, 96, 114

Biography 5, 37, 97, 100–108, 113, 115, 201, 204 n. 32, 215 – autobiography 133, 237 – collective 49–50, 100–106, 108, 113

Magic 36, 83, 223, 236–237 Manichaeism 31–51 – elect 34–35, 40, 43–50 – hearer 34, 46–48, 50 Martyrdom 13, 92–103, 109, 116 n. 112 Metanoia 96–100, 104, 106, 110

Coptic 92, 113 n. 102

Neoplatonism 55, 229–230, 239

Declamation 2 n. 3, 4 n. 17, 123, 125, 191–192, 235

Oratory 11, 24, 132, 163, 169, 191–192, 194–195, 197–198, 227, 230

Education 2, 4, 6, 14–15, 22, 42, 101, 111–113, 115, 123, 128–129, 133, 190–198, 201, 206, 217, 219, 227, 233, 236 – progymnasmata 2 n. 3, 6, 36, 41, 111– 112, 123–124, 127, 134, 142, 199– 200 Ekphrasis 142, 147 n. 33, 153 n. 51 Ethopoea 94, 106 n. 72, 109–113 Exegesis 11–15, 19, 26, 38, 41, 56–57, 61–64, 67 n. 14, 110, 116 n. 111

Paganism 3, 6, 11, 72–77, 79–80, 95, 168, 171, 228–229 Paideia 12, 97, 106, 112, 115–116, 194 Paraphrase 91, 94–95, 110–114, 162, 165, 169, 172 Philosophy 5, 15, 22, 72–73, 154 n. 57, 157, 161–175, 180–183, 186–187, 205 n. 33, 211–214, 217–221, 230, 239 Political Propaganda 195, 197, 206, 227–228

Hellenism 2, 123, 134, 161–162, 170, 216, 229–233, 240 Homily 11, 13, 15–16, 19–25, 36, 99 n. 46, 110, 238

Religious Conversion 73–77, 95–96, 100, 102, 105 Rhetoric – epideictic 35–37, 189–190, 192, 195, 199–202, 204 n. 32, 206, 228, 231– 232, 234 – modern studies on 1–6, 12–16, 22–25 – rhetorical culture 2–4, 6, 79, 197 – rhetorical strategies, structures and devices 6, 55–69, 76, 97, 106, 108,

Invective 6, 34–39, 41–42, 44–47, 49– 50, 85, 174, 234 Judaism 19, 36, 38–39, 55 n. 2

Index of Subjects

113, 117, 147 n. 33, 185, 198–200, 203, 206, 223, 234 – rhetorical training and education 6, 110, 192, 197–198, 216 Rumour 43, 47–50, 149 Scriptures 3, 11–18, 21–27, 38, 56–62, 74, 105, 110, 113 n. 100, 115, 124 Second Sophistic 1–5, 198 n. 17, 229, 233

265

Sermon 3, 6, 11, 16, 20, 22–27, 74, 238 Silence 6, 20, 40, 72 n.14, 74 n. 19, 95 n. 28, 174 n. 58, 223–241 Socrates 19 n. 26, 60, 141, 154–157, 163, 165, 170, 172–174, 182–185 Syriac 6, 56, 62–63, 66–67, 161–174 Theatricality 5, 15, 149 n. 37 and 40, 152–153, 230, 238 Third Sophistic 2–5