The Syriac Legend of Alexander's Gate: Apocalypticism at the Crossroads of Byzantium and Iran (Oxford Studies in Late Antiquity) 9780197646878, 0197646875

Table of contents :
Cover
Series
The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Acknowledgments
Introduction
Part I: The Text and its Context
1. The Text, the Story, and Its Sources
2. Debates about Dating and Context of the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs
3. The 940 ag Prophecy
4. The Story of Alexander’s Gate and the Political Context of the Sixth Century
5. The Conflict with Tūbarlaq
6. The Syriac Alexander
Part II: Studies on single themes and motifs
7. Alexander, the Danielic Visions, and the Gate against Gog and Magog
8. Apocalyptic Ideology
9. Alexander’s Horns
10. The Crown, the Throne, and the Last Roman Emperor
Conclusion
Appendix 1: English Translation of the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs (According to Budges’s Critical Edition)
Appendix 2: List of Toponyms and Proposed Identifications
Notes
Bibliography
Index

Citation preview

The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate

OX F O R D S T U D I E S I N L AT E A N T IQU I T Y Series Editor Ralph Mathisen Late Antiquity has unified what in the past were disparate disciplinary, chronological, and geographical areas of study. Welcoming a wide array of methodological approaches, this book series provides a venue for the finest new scholarship on the period, ranging from the later Roman Empire to the Byzantine, Sasanid, early Islamic, and early Carolingian worlds. The Arabic Hermes From Pagan Sage to Prophet of Science Kevin van Bladel Two Romes Rome and Constantinople in Late Antiquity Edited by Lucy Grig and Gavin Kelly Disciplining Christians Correction and Community in Augustine’s Letters Jennifer V. Ebbeler History and Identity in the Late Antique Near East Edited by Philip Wood Explaining the Cosmos Creation and Cultural Interaction in Late-​Antique Gaza Michael W. Champion Universal Salvation in Late Antiquity Porphyry of Tyre and the Pagan-​Christian Debate in Late Antiquity Michael Bland Simmons The Poetics of Late Antique Literature Edited by Jas Elsner and Jesus Hernandez-​Lobato Rome’s Holy Mountain The Capitoline Hill in Late Antiquity Jason Moralee The Koran and Late Antiquity A Shared Heritage Angelika Neuwirth, translated by Samual Wilder Religious Dissent in Late Antiquity, 350–​450 Maijastina Kahlos Worshippers of the Gods Debating Paganism in the Fourth-​Century Roman West Mattias P. Gassman Rome’s Holy Mountain Jason Moralee The Homeric Centos Homer and the Bible Interwoven Anna Lefteratou

The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Apocalypticism at the Crossroads of Byzantium and Iran T OM M A S O T E SE I

Oxford University Press is a department of the University of Oxford. It furthers the University’s objective of excellence in research, scholarship, and education by publishing worldwide. Oxford is a registered trade mark of Oxford University Press in the UK and certain other countries. Published in the United States of America by Oxford University Press 198 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016, United States of America. © Oxford University Press 2024 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of Oxford University Press, or as expressly permitted by law, by license, or under terms agreed with the appropriate reproduction rights organization. Inquiries concerning reproduction outside the scope of the above should be sent to the Rights Department, Oxford University Press, at the address above. You must not circulate this work in any other form and you must impose this same condition on any acquirer. CIP data is on file at the Library of Congress ISBN 978–​0–​19–​764687–​8 DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.001.0001 Printed by Integrated Books International, United States of America

In memory of Angelo Arioli

Contents Acknowledgments 

ix

Introduction 

1

PA RT I :   T H E T E X T A N D I T S C O N T E X T 1. The Text, the Story, and Its Sources 

9

2. Debates about Dating and Context of the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs 

21

3. The 940 ag Prophecy 

30

4. The Story of Alexander’s Gate and the Political Context of the Sixth Century 

45

5. The Conflict with Tūbarlaq 

68

6. The Syriac Alexander 

91

PA RT I I :   S T U D I E S O N SI N G L E T H E M E S A N D M O T I F S 7. Alexander, the Danielic Visions, and the Gate against Gog and Magog 

105

8. Apocalyptic Ideology 

121

9. Alexander’s Horns 

137

10. The Crown, the Throne, and the Last Roman Emperor 

156

Conclusion 

168

Appendix 1: English Translation of the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs (According to Budges’s Critical Edition)  Appendix 2: List of Toponyms and Proposed Identifications  Notes  Bibliography  Index 

173 181 183 211 225

Acknowledgments This book started by accident. I was writing another book (on the relationship between the Syriac legends of Alexander’s gate and the Qurʾānic story of Ḏū-​l-​ Qarnayn) when I realized that my previous assumptions about the dating and context of the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs, a Syriac text prominently at the center of my analysis, were erroneous. My doubts, first confined to a footnote, soon claimed their place in the text. The footnote became a paragraph, the paragraph became a chapter, and the chapter became a monograph. This surprisingly fast and, honestly, painful, intellectual process could not have happened had I not been in the ideal circumstances. Most ideas in this book were conceived during my stay at the Institute for Advanced Study in Princeton, where I found the most stimulating atmosphere and the best work conditions that a researcher can dream of. I am deeply grateful to the Institute, and to Sabine Schmidtke in particular, for the opportunity that I was given. My stay at IAS was funded thanks to a Patricia Crone membership. Since I was a Ph.D. student, Patricia has represented a model for the scholar I want to be. Being awarded a fellowship in her memory was, and will remain, the highest honor of my academic life. It is hard to find the words to express my deepest gratitude to David Powers, for his friendship and for his unreasonable generosity. During the past few years David has been a constant source of support and advice, and constantly provided invaluable help with his meticulous comments on my writings. So was also the case with the present book. He has read (twice!) the entire manuscript and offered a countless number of suggestions for improvements. It is largely his merit if this study is a bit less dense and garbled than what it used to be in its earliest stages. I would not have written this book had it not been for my friend Stephen Shoemaker, whose observations on the origins of the Neṣḥānā made me hesitate for the first time about what I had until then considered as undisputable facts. Besides instilling doubts in my mind and demolishing my scholarly assumptions, Stephen is the best colleague. He has always been willing to discuss my ideas during the entire development of this book project, and I have enormously benefited from his feedbacks and comments. For these and other reasons, I thank him profusely. The research in this monograph is heavily indebted to the work of those scholars who studied the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs before me, and to Gerrit Reinink and Kevin van Bladel in particular. Both of these scholars have strongly

x Acknowledgments influenced my way of doing research, teaching me, among other things, the importance of taking the risk of making hypotheses on the historical circumstances in which ancient texts were composed. Although I ended up disagreeing with the specific contextualization of the Neṣḥānā that Reinink and van Bladel advocate in their studies, their scholarship set a fundamental example for my own, and my intellectual debt to them is enormous. Stefan Vranka and the project managers at Oxford University Press have helped me along the entire process, and the two anonymous reviewers have provided many insights from which I greatly benefited. Christopher Bonura has read a preliminary draft of this book and sent me several valuable comments that helped me in refining my ideas. Domenico Agostini, Guillaume Dye, Aaron Hughes, George Kiraz, and Sergey Minov took the time to read sections or chapters of this study and sent me useful feedback. Other scholars who contributed in various ways to the study included in this volume are Khodadad Rezakhani, Mario Casari, Andrea Piras, Lutz Greisiger, and Yuri Stoyanov, as well as those who attended my presentations at the Near Eastern Studies Seminar at IAS in 2018–​2019 and provided useful feedback for this book project, including Hasan Ansari, Marilyn Booth, Glen Bowersock, Martino Diez, Alejandro García-​ Sanjuán, Christian Mauder, Matthew Melvin-​ Koushki, Johannes Pahlitzsch, Michele Salzman, and Nukhet Varlik. The Fondazione per le Scienze Religiose Giovanni XXIII (Fscire) has given me the rare opportunity of holding a two-​day seminar, during which I could present, and receive feedback on, many of the ideas presented in this monograph. I am grateful to all these colleagues and friends for their help and support. Although this book is largely the product of my most recent research activity, my work on the Syriac Alexander texts started almost fifteen years ago, during my MA studies in Paris, and continued throughout my doctoral studies in Rome and Paris, and my five-​year-​long postdoctoral experience in Jerusalem. I am particularly grateful to Aboubakr Chraïbi, for his wise guidance and mentorship over the period of my education at INALCO. I should like to thank Prof. Gabriel Motzkin and Dr. Leonard Polonsky, who conceived and realized the visionary project of the Polonsky Academy for Advanced Study at the Van Leer Jerusalem Institute, where I could pursue my research after obtaining my Ph.D. degree. My current institution, the Duke Kunshan University, has provided a friendly environment in which to finalize the redaction of this monograph. I am grateful to the many colleagues, friends, and students who have made my new life in China so interesting and enjoyable. In particular, I would like to thank Kolleen Guy, James Miller, Ben Van Overmeire, and, last but not least, my brilliant and talented student Hajra Farooqui, who has a bright future ahead of her. I also wish to thank my parents, Isabella Cipriani and Alberto Tesei, who over the years have

Acknowledgments  xi patiently observed their son making life decisions that took him further and further away from home. This book was written over the course of four years. It was a particularly hectic period, marked by an unusual concentration of significant life events, including three relocations to three different continents, one of which happened in the middle of the global pandemic. Saying that completing a book in those circumstances was a challenge would be an understatement. Certainly, I would not have been able to achieve that goal had I not had some extraordinary companions at my side, my wife Marie Malka Shalev, who left her country and career to follow me in this journey, and our four, very much loved, dogs, Hutch, Ox, Pudding, and April, who filled my life outside the academia with joy (and chaos!). This book is dedicated to the memory of my beloved professor, Angelo Arioli, who passed away a few months before its publication. The encounter with him was one that indelibly marked my life, instilling in me the love for research that turned a confused nineteen-​year-​old student into an aspiring scholar. Among the many memories of him that I greatly cherish, Prof. Arioli was the first one who talked to me about Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn, sparking in me the curiosity that ultimately led me to write this book. Tommaso Tesei Budapest, June 1, 2023.

Introduction In 1889, Sir Ernest Alfred Thompson Wallis Budge published The History of Alexander the Great, Being the Syriac Version of the Pseudo Callisthenes, which includes critical editions and translations of four Syriac texts containing stories about Alexander the Great.1 The longest of these texts is a Syriac version of Ps.-​ Callisthenes’s Alexander Romance. The other three works are two anonymous, medium and short-​length, prose narratives, and a metric homily spuriously attributed to Jacob of Serugh (d. 521 ce). The present study focuses on the first and longer of the two prose narratives, which Budge called A Christian Legend concerning Alexander, but whose original title is Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs, literally “the victory of Alexander.” Western scholars often refer to this text as the Syriac Alexander Legend. This denomination has resulted in confusion between the latter and the Syriac adaptation of the Alexander Romance. To avoid misunderstandings, in this monograph I will use an abbreviated form of the Syriac title and will use Neṣḥānā to refer to the work in question. The confusion between the Neṣḥānā and the Syriac Alexander Romance is related to the fact that the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs has been overlooked by scholars. At present, since Budge’s 1889 work, no new critical edition or English translation of the Syriac text has been produced2—​although a French translation has recently been published by Georges Bohas.3 No monographic study dedicated to this text has been produced, and many aspects of the Neṣḥānā are misunderstood by scholars. The several articles published by Gerrit Reinink between the 1980s and the early 2000s on the topic of the Syriac Alexander texts are surely an invaluable step forward in the analysis of the Neṣḥānā, and recent studies by Kevin van Bladel and Lutz Greisiger have refined our knowledge of the Syriac work.4 However, despite their valuable contribution to the study of the Neṣḥānā, these studies embrace a theory which I myself advocated in previous studies5 but that I now consider to be fundamentally wrong, namely that the text was composed during the reign of Emperor Heraclius (r. 610–​641). One goal of the present work is to rectify current scholarly views about the dating and contextualization of the Neṣḥānā. Setting the Syriac work in a well-​established historical context and determining the exact period and circumstances in which this work was composed is an important endeavor. The Neṣḥānā is a seminal text for later Christian and Muslim apocalyptic traditions. It contains the earliest recorded versions of The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0001

2 Introduction literary motifs that would become central to the medieval apocalyptic tradition—​ the most notable being the motif of the gate erected by Alexander against Gog and Magog (hence the title of this book). The Neṣḥānā also represents an early witness to an influential political ideology that guided both Byzantine and early Islamic imperial policies. At the same time, the Neṣḥānā had an important impact on literary sources that are crucial to our understanding of the rise of Islam. Indeed, the Neṣḥānā influenced (directly or indirectly) other Syriac works that provide invaluable information about Christian reactions to early Islamic expansionism—​for example, the Apocalypse of Ps.-​Methodius. In addition, the Alexander story, as told in the Syriac text, inspired the famous Qurʾānic pericope on Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn (Q 18:83–​102), and some scholars—​including myself—​have argued that the Neṣḥānā is the source of this Qurʾānic passage.6 For all these reasons, a critical study of this text will illuminate key cultural and religious trends in Late Antiquity. While the scholarly consensus commonly dates the Neṣḥānā to the time of Heraclius, in this study I show that an earlier version of the text was produced during the reign of Justinian I (r. 527–​565). This new historical contextualization of the Neṣḥānā enables me to better delineate the development of late antique, politicized forms of apocalypticism, which assign to the Christian Roman Empire the task of establishing a cosmocratic rule in view of Jesus’s Second Coming. I argue that the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs played a decisive role in shaping this apocalyptic ideology. At the same time, by analyzing the contents and the ideology of the text, I hope to contribute to our understanding of the origins and developments of important literary motifs of medieval literature worldwide, like the characterization of Alexander as a pious prophet-​king (in both Christianity and Islam alike), and the story of the gate that he erected to confine the eschatological nations of Gog and Magog. I also hope to shed light on lesser-​known aspects of political debates in the sixth-​century Near East. Against the current scholarly wisdom, I argue that the author of the Neṣḥānā did not celebrate the Byzantine emperor, but rather criticized him and his policies. By portraying the hero of his legend—​ Alexander—​in ideal terms, the author sought to draw attention to Justinian’s shortcomings. This new reading of this Syriac apocalypse offers historians a valuable insight into important aspects of Justinian’s reign, as seen by an author who was not on the emperor’s payroll. In this regard, my study provides a new approach to aspects of political debates in sixth-​century Byzantine society that have been marginalized. Readers familiar with my previous studies may be surprised (or disappointed) by my lack of engagement with the influence of the Neṣḥānā on the story of Ḏū-​ l-​Qarnayn, and the Neṣḥānā’s significance for the study of the emergence of the Qurʾānic corpus. This is a deliberate choice. The present study focuses on the

Introduction  3 Syriac text and on historical circumstances in the mid-​sixth century ce. The few references to Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn will mainly be placed in footnotes, except for some brief remarks in the conclusion. It goes without saying that the question of the impact of the Neṣḥānā on the Qurʾānic pericope deserves a thorough investigation, especially in light of the new insights that I provide in this work. I hope to dedicate a specific study to this topic in the future.

Book Structure, Annotated Contents, and Note on Transliterations The book is divided into ten chapters, which are organized into two main parts. Part I (Chapters 1–​6) is mostly aimed at revising earlier scholarship on the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs and at determining the historical context in which the Syriac work was originally composed. Part II (Chapters 7–​10) analyzes specific themes and motifs in the Neṣḥānā at the light of the newly established historical context. Because of the character of the current analysis—​which involves a broad variety of literary and material sources from the historical environment in which the Neṣḥānā was composed—​the book includes several excursuses. Consequently, the reader might find some passages to be conceptually dense. The following annotated contents are meant to facilitate the navigation through these occasional complexities. In Chapter 1, I describe the manuscript tradition of the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs. I present the Alexander story as narrated in the Syriac work and the sources that the author used to compose his narrative. I also explore the geography behind the episode of Alexander’s gate, as this is an important element to determine the Syriac author’s historical and political context. In Chapter 2, I review earlier scholarship on the Neṣḥānā, with special attention to the debate over whether or not the Syriac work is a seventh-​century composition. In Chapter 3, I demonstrate, by means of philological analysis, that the only passage in the text that clearly indicates a seventh-​century dating—​a prophecy referring to events that occurred between 626 and 629 ce—​is in fact an interpolation within an earlier composition dating to the end of the reign of Justinian. This interpolation—​I argue—​demonstrates that several decades after its composition, the Syriac work was modified in order to connect it to new historical circumstances, and possibly to the widespread belief in the Byzantine world that the ideal emperor described in the Neṣḥānā had returned in the figure of Heraclius. In Chapter 4, I demonstrate that the author of the Neṣḥānā uses the episode of the eschatological gate erected by Alexander to address two major points of

4 Introduction controversy between the Byzantine and Sasanian empires at the time of Justinian and Khosrow Anōshirvān: (1) their dispute over the control of the Caucasian mountain passes (traditionally identified as the semi-​mythical Caspian Gates); and (2) the war between the two empires for the possession of the kingdom of Lazica. These disputes between the two rival empires provide the political framework for the author’s elaboration of the story of Alexander’s gate. I relate the author’s engagement with contemporary issues to broader political debates in the Byzantine world during the reign of Justinian. I point out that, while producing a unique representation of thorny political controversies, the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs reflects concerns and positions that are expressed in the works of several contemporary authors. In Chapter 5, I explore the section of text about the war between Alexander and his Persian rival, Tūbarlaq. Against many previous scholars, I demonstrate that themes and topoi adopted by the Syriac author do not relate to a specific understanding of the notion of holy war in the seventh century. In fact, I show that the Neṣḥānā conforms to literary trends observable in earlier Christian texts. Then, I demonstrate that the peace agreements between Alexander and the Persian king Tūbarlaq described in the Neṣḥānā reflect the reality of Roman-​ Persian peace treaties in the sixth century—​not the seventh century, as claimed by many scholars. By formulating an idealized version of the peace contracts stipulated by Justinian and Khosrow Anōshirvān, the Syriac author criticizes the Byzantine policy of buying peace with gold. I connect the author’s criticism of Justinian to broader dissatisfactions in the Byzantine world with the emperor’s poor achievements in the conflicts with the Persians. I also demonstrate that the author’s criticism of Justinian has a close parallel in the work of another sixth-​ century Syriac writer, that is, the anonymous author of the Julian Romance. Then, I analyze a prophecy uttered by Tūbarlaq at the end of the Neṣḥānā and argue against the view that this prophecy echoes themes of Heraclius’s war propaganda. Finally, I address the unsolved problem of Tūbarlaq’s identity and offer a new solution for this question. In Chapter 6, I situate the figure of Alexander in the Neṣḥānā in relation to the well-​known phenomenon of the imitatio Alexandri, adopted by Roman historiographers and imperial propagandists to relate Eastern, “Persian,” campaigns led by Roman generals and emperors to the glorious antecedent of Alexander’s war against the Achaemenid Empire. I highlight the political connotations of the image of Alexander as a kosmokrator in the mid-​sixth century. Through this peculiar characterization of Alexander, the Syriac author not only expressed his anti-​Sasanian feelings, which culminate in Alexander’s prophecy about the imminent collapse of the Sasanian Empire, but also criticized Justinian for his inability to repeat Alexander’s glorious deeds against the Persians and for his poor achievements in the conflict against the Sasanian enemy. In the

Introduction  5 Neṣḥānā the figure of Alexander is thus a nemesis of the Byzantine ruler. I also note the parallel between the Neṣḥānā and the Julian Romance, drawing attention to similarities between the characterizations of Alexander and Jovian in the two works—​both of which criticize Justinian. In Chapter 7, I analyze the peculiar and unprecedented characterization of Alexander as a pious (Christian) prophet-​king and as the founder of the Roman Empire, envisaged as an eschatological agent. I argue that the figure of the Christian, apocalyptic, Alexander in the Syriac work is rooted in the hermeneutics of the Danielic prophecies (Dan 2, 7, and 8) developed by Christians in both the Byzantine and Sasanian empires to situate the two empires in the framework of God’s plan for human salvation. I emphasize the parallels between the Neṣḥānā and the conceptualization of Alexander’s kingdom in Aphrahat’s (d. 345 ce) hermeneutic of Daniel. Finally, I argue that a better understanding of the ideology and concepts behind the elaboration of the Syriac Alexander helps us to better understand the development of the story of Alexander’s eschatological gate. I demonstrate that some of the main features of the episode of the gate are embedded with a symbolism that relates to the author’s readings of the Danielic prophecies and to his views on the role of Alexander’s empire in sacred history. In Chapter 8, I study the apocalyptic ideology presented in the Neṣḥānā d-​ Aleksandrōs and its relationship to pro-​and anti-​imperial sentiments in earlier literature. I highlight the Syriac author’s unprecedented emphasis on the eschatological role of the Roman Empire and on his innovative conceptualization of Byzantium as a kingdom destined to establish a Christian cosmocracy in preparation for the return of the Messiah and the establishment of God’s Kingdom. At the same time, I emphasize the connection between the apocalyptic vision articulated in the Neṣḥānā and that outlined two centuries earlier in Aphrahat’s Demonstrations. I argue that the author of the Neṣḥānā expanded upon the anti-​ Sasanian character of Aphrahat’s reading of Daniel not only as a consequence of the renewed hostilities between the two empires, but also in reaction to increasing rapprochement between the Sasanian crown and the Church of the East. My reading of sixth-​century sources indicates that contemporary Persian Christians developed an understanding of Daniel’s apocalyptic visions that sought to confer upon the Sasanian Empire a special role in sacred history and a dignity equal to that attributed to the Roman Empire by Byzantine authors. In reaction to these trends current among Persian Christians, I argue, the author of the Neṣḥānā developed his highly politicized and militant hermeneutic of Daniel 2, 7, and 8—​which predicts the collapse of the Sasanian kingdom. In Chapter 9, I analyze the first part of the prayer that Alexander addresses to God at the beginning of the Syriac work, with special attention to the motif of Alexander’s horns in the Neṣḥānā. This motif emerges from ancient iconographic representations of Alexander crowned with ram horns—​as in the effigies of the

6 Introduction Greco-​Egyptian god Zeus-​Ammon. Unlike late antique Christians, who typically displayed hostility toward this pagan symbolism, the author of the Neṣḥānā christianizes the image of the horned Alexander by reading it through the lens of biblical texts—​among which is the Book of Daniel. As I show, the author uses the motif of Alexander’s horns to formulate an innovative hermeneutic of the Danielic vision of the ram and the he-​goat in Daniel 8. This hermeneutic results in the attribution of an apocalyptic value to the ancient horn symbolism. I argue that this literary operation is related to the author’s willingness to address contemporary political circumstances, especially Byzantine-​Sasanian relationships. Through a sophisticated combination of biblical and Classical traditions, the Syriac author transforms the ancient representation of the horned Alexander into an element of his anti-​Sasanian polemic. In the final chapter, I address the second part of Alexander’s prayer, specifically the king’s surrender of his crown and throne as a ceremonial act prior to the return of the Messiah. I compare this motif to the well-​known Last Roman Emperor legend, and I compare the passage in the Neṣḥānā with sections from the Apocalypse of Ps.-​Methodius and the so-​called Tiburtine Sibyl where the Last Emperor theme appears. I argue that the Neṣḥānā contains the first recorded version—​although in an embryonic stage—​of this legend. I connect the scene of the surrender of the crown and throne in the Neṣḥānā to late antique allegorical representations of the idea of translatio imperii, by means of the symbols of the heavenly crown and the throne of the kosmokrator. I argue that the Syriac author draws upon this semiotic universe to again express the idea that Rome was destined to become a cosmocratic power with the goal to rebut representations of Persian dynasts as universal kings. I have limited as much as possible the use of non-​Latin characters and have included passages from the Syriac text of the Neṣḥānā only when I considered their inclusion beneficial to the analysis. In transliterating Syriac words and sentences I preferred to leave the transliterations unvocalized. I have vocalized words and sentences only when they occur within the body of the text, with the aim of not disrupting the fluidity of the reading. Unless otherwise stated, translations of the Neṣḥānā are mine. A new English translation of the full Syriac work is provided in Appendix 1 at the end of the book. I have occasionally included in the chapters excerpts from that translation whenever the analysis required a more direct access to the translated text.

PART I

T HE T E XT A N D IT S C ONT E XT

1

The Text, the Story, and Its Sources The Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs has been preserved in five manuscripts, all written in East Syriac script and produced in relatively recent times. The oldest manuscript, currently kept at the British Library in London, dates from the early eighteenth century, while the most recent dates to 1886. The three remaining manuscripts date from the mid-​nineteenth century.1 Note, however, that at least two of the five extant manuscripts were reportedly copied from samples of unknown dating. The first case is that of the manuscript dated 1844 and currently kept at Yale’s Beinecke Library.2 The manuscript was given to the American Oriental Society by Justin Perkins, according to whom it had been copied from an undated (and now unknown) manuscript found at Orūmīyeh (Urmia in modern northwestern Iran).3 The manuscript’s colophon, transcribed and translated by Budge in his book, does not tell us much about the original manuscript from which Perkins derived his copy.4 Also, it is unclear whether another manuscript provided by Perkins—​this time to the German Oriental Society (Deutsche Morgenländische Gesellschaft) in 1852—​was copied from the same sample.5 Budge informs us that he asked his friend Benjamin Labaree in Orūmīyeh to make investigations about the original manuscript (or manuscripts) from which Perkins made his copies, without, however, obtaining any information.6 The second case concerns one of the two copies of manuscripts ordered by Budge. Whereas in one case Budge tells us the date of the original manuscript (i.e., 1848), in the other case he indicates only that the copy was made from “an old Nestorian manuscript in a library at Alkôsh [Alqōš, in modern Iraq].”7 The date of the original manuscript and where is it currently located, I am not able to say. But regardless of the age in which the unknown manuscripts of the Neṣḥānā were produced, the Syriac work is certainly much older than the known material copies in which it has been transmitted. Another interesting aspect of the manuscript tradition is that the Neṣḥānā has constantly been transmitted as an appendix to the Syriac version of the Alexander Romance. When exactly the Romance was adapted into Syriac is uncertain. According to Theodor Nöldeke, the Syriac Romance was produced from a Middle Persian intermediary translation toward the end of the sixth century or the beginning of the seventh.8 Nöldeke’s study has recently been the object of increasing skepticism, but the criticism has mostly concerned his theory about the language from which the Syriac adaptation would have been produced. The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0002

10  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Claudia Ciancaglini, the most active advocate of the alternative theory, according to which the Syriac Romance was translated directly from Greek, maintains that the translation was produced around the seventh century.9 In fact, one of the most striking elements in the Syriac adaptation of the Romance is the systematic replacement of the name of the ancient Achaemenid sovereign Xerxes with that of the Sasanian king Khosrow.10 Nevertheless, it is hard to say whether this Khosrow should be identified with either Khosrow I Anōshirvān (r. 531–​579) or Khosrow II Parvēz (r. 590–​628). Thus, lacking definitive evidence for its dating, it is difficult to say whether the Syriac Alexander Romance was produced before or after the Neṣḥānā—​which, as will be argued in this book, was composed around the second half of the sixth century. Sebastian Brock suggests that the translation of the Romance into Syriac prompted the production of a series of Syriac texts about Alexander, including the Neṣḥānā.11 Yet, the process may very well have gone the other way, since the Neṣḥānā met a considerable success in the seventh century and sparked an interest for the figure of Alexander among Syriac authors. This interest may have incentivized the translation of the Alexander Romance into Syriac. This is not to say that the Romance was unknown at the time when, and in the geographical area where, the author of the Neṣḥānā was active, that is, sixth-​ century northern Mesopotamia or Roman Armenia (vide infra). The Romance widely circulated in the Roman world, and Armenian adaptations were produced from as early as the fifth century, proving that the text met an interested audience in the region.12 Moreover, as will be evident in this study, the author of the Neṣḥānā demonstrates a surprising knowledge of literary themes and motifs derived from the Classical tradition. Thus, it is likely that he also had access to some version of the Alexander Romance, or at least to some related traditions about Alexander. But regardless of whether that was the case or not, it is noticeable that only a very limited number of elements in the Neṣḥānā echo elements found in those recensions of the Romance that antedate its composition. In the end, it is important to stress that the Neṣḥānā is a completely separate work from the Alexander Romance. The fact that in the manuscript tradition it is presented as an appendix to the Syriac Romance only reflects the redactional work of later copyists.

The Text The Neṣḥānā is a medium-​length narrative that can be divided into the three main sections. (1) In the opening section, Alexander summons the nobles of his council to convey his wish to explore the outmost regions of the earth. The nobles

The Text, the Story, and Its Sources  11 warn him about obstacles that will prevent him from accomplishing his desire, especially the Ocean, also called the Fetid Sea, whose deadly waters can kill any creature. Alexander decides to proceed anyway. After addressing a prayer to God in which he promises to subjugate the earth to glorify his divine name, Alexander gathers his army and travels to Egypt, where he enrolls blacksmiths and specialist metalworkers. Afterward, the king and his army reach the shore of the Fetid Sea, which, however, proves uncrossable. The journey proceeds and Alexander reaches the “window of heaven,” namely the conduit that the sun enters to move from the place of the sunset to the place of the sunrise. (2) After Alexander’s extraordinary travel adventures to where the sun sets, we suddenly find him at the place of the sunrise, where he has probably arrived after a march along the cosmic route of the sun’s nocturnal path. From this location in the Far East, Alexander and his army travel westward and reach northern Mesopotamia and the Caucasus. After encamping at the foot of a great mountain, Alexander receives a visit from a local delegation of 300 elders, who inform Alexander that the land belongs to the Persian king Tūbarlaq. Alexander asks the elders about the people living across the great mountain, and he receives a long and detailed description of the Huns and their barbaric habits. Noticeably, Gog and Magog are listed as two of the Hunnic kings. After listening to the elders, Alexander summons his troops and informs them of his project to build a gate to close a breach in the great mountain. With the help of the blacksmiths previously enrolled in Egypt, he erects a gate made of iron and bronze. Once the task is accomplished, Alexander relays a prophecy in which he predicts the future raids of the Huns—​two of which are expected to take place in the years 826 ag (514–​515 ce) and 940 ag (628–​ 629 ce). The prophecy predicts events associated with the end of times, when at God’s command the gate erected by Alexander will collapse and the Huns will emerge from behind the side of the mountain to which they had been confined. At this moment, a general “world conflict” will begin. The conflict will end with the triumph of the Roman kingdom, which will conquer the territories until the end of the earth, with no other kingdom able to oppose its power. (3) After sealing the mountain pass against the Huns and putting in writing his prophetic vision, Alexander faces another challenge. The inhabitants of the region where he installed the gate inform Tūbarlaq of Alexander’s presence in the region. At the instigation of those people, Tūbarlaq gathers an immense army and marches against Alexander. Meanwhile, Alexander and his troops, unaware of the Persian war preparations, are recovering from the fatigues of their previous exploits. It is only thanks to

12  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate divine intervention that the hero is alerted to Tūbarlaq’s plan. God himself talks to Alexander in a dream and encourages him to call His name and to ask for His assistance. Alexander wakes up and summons his troops, who number roughly one-​tenth of Tūbarlaq’s army. The numerical disadvantage is so great that the sentinels of the Greek king express their despair. Nevertheless, Alexander orders his soldiers to burn incense to invoke divine intervention and to welcome with its fragrance God’s arrival in the encampment. Then, surrounded by his troops, Alexander takes off his crown and removes his purple vest in front of the Lord and begs him to deliver him and his army from their enemies. At the king’s words—​ “Victory belongs to the Lord!”—​the soldiers respond: “God, come to our aid!” Alexander continues his prayer and invokes God’s help. God appears on the seraphs’ chair, preceded by angels and watchers. The divine apparition instills courage in the Greek army, which then engages in combat with the Persian troops. God takes an active part in the battle, terrorizing Alexander’s enemies with His voice. The Greeks are victorious and Tūbarlaq is brought to Alexander in chains. Alexander spares Tūbarlaq’s life, and the two kings sign a peace treaty that includes an entente on the common defense of Alexander’s gate against the Huns. The Persian king then summons his astrologers and magicians, who relay a prophecy that at the end of times Persia will be destroyed and the Romans will conquer the world. Alexander travels to Jerusalem, where he bows down in front of God, and then returns to Alexandria. This study is primarily concerned with sections 2 and 3, and with the passage on Alexander’s prayer in section 1.

Sources To embellish his narrative, the Syriac author drew upon several traditions. The first section of the work includes elements from the story of Alexander’s quest for immortal life.13 Note, however, that the two main motifs of this story—​ Alexander’s attempt to reach Paradise and his failure to bathe in the source of life—​are not mentioned in the Neṣḥānā. The Syriac author clearly preferred to exclude an episode that would have shed a negative light on his hero, a clear trace of his editorial work.14 Scholars have identified several echoes of the ancient myth of Gilgamesh in the different versions of Alexander’s quest for immortality.15 Several intriguing allusions to the Babylonian Epic occur in the Neṣḥānā, suggesting that our author had access to a lost source about Alexander’s travels that contained vivid

The Text, the Story, and Its Sources  13 reminiscences of Gilgamesh’s adventures. This topic requires a dedicated investigation, which is beyond the scope of this book. The present study is primarily concerned with the other main narrative component of the Neṣḥānā, that is, the story of Alexander’s gate, to which I now turn my attention. The episode of the gate erected against the Huns ruled by Gog and Magog is the result of a combination of previous independent traditions. One tradition credits Alexander with building iron gates to confine the nomadic populations of Central Asia. This tradition goes back at least to Josephus (d. ca. 100), who describes the king of the Hyrcanians as the master of the pass that Alexander (allegedly) sealed with iron gates.16 The tradition of Alexander’s iron gates had a lasting legacy and is well attested in Late Antiquity. In the sixth century, the Byzantine historians Procopius (d. 554)17 and Jordanes (d. second half of the sixth century)18 report that Alexander decided to install iron gates to prevent the incursion of the Huns located on the other side of the Caucasian mountain chain. Both Procopius and Jordanes identify the so-​called Caspian Gates as the spot fortified by Alexander. The exact location of these gates was a matter of debate in Antiquity. In the first century the Roman naturalist Pliny the Elder (d. 79) complained about people who mistakenly confused the Caspian Gates (Caspiae portae) with the Caucasian Gates (Caucasiae portae)—​the latter are located in the Dariali Gorge, a mountain pass on the modern border between Russia and Georgia.19 Pliny’s attempt to correct this toponymic confusion did not prevent further identifications between the Caspian Gates and the Dariali pass. Five centuries later, Procopius identified the Dariali Gorge as the Caspian Gates (πύλας τάς Κασπίας) and claimed that the iron gates installed by Alexander were in that gorge.20 According to Jordanes, these gates were guarded by the Lazi on behalf of the Romans. This suggests that he too thought that the gates were near of the kingdom of Lazica, most likely at the Dariali pass,21 as did several of Procopius’s and Jordanes’s contemporaries.22 The author of the Neṣḥānā adopts some of the same narrative elements used by these sixth-​century writers in their descriptions of the Caspian Gates. For instance, his description of the great mountain where Alexander builds his gate brings to mind Jordanes’s description of Mount Caucasus—​the mountain complex which, in the Getica, includes the spot where Alexander installed the Caspian Gates.23 In fact, Jordanes locates the passage fortified by Alexander within the enormous Caucasian mountain complex: “such then is the great range, almost the mightiest of mountain chains, rearing aloft its summits and by its natural conformation supplying men with impregnable strongholds.”24 Alexander’s description of the size of the great mountain in the Neṣḥānā (“This mountain is higher and more frightening than all the mountains I have ever seen,” the hero says) recalls Jordanes’s description of the Caucasus. The geographical expanse of

14  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate the great mountain in the Neṣḥānā also matches Jordanes’s description of Mount Caucasus, which is said to cover the area from the Indian Ocean to Mesopotamia. Additional narrative details in Jordanes’s text are worth noting. It is significant that Jordanes refers to the myth of the Amazons in connection with the motif of Alexander’s gates. He affirms that Alexander installed the iron gates—​which he would have named the Caspian Gates (Pylas Caspias)—​on the site of the Rock of Marpesia, named after the Amazon Queen Marpesia.25 This detail is meaningful since the motif of the Amazons also appears in the story narrated in the Neṣḥānā. Specifically, in the Syriac work the Hunnic women have only a single breast and are more bellicose than the men. This description is clearly inspired by traditions about the Amazons, and may possibly reflect the idea also expressed by Jordanes that the Amazons were the wives of the Scythians.26 Jordanes also reports a tradition stating that the Huns were the offspring of unions between unclean spirits and witches whom Filimer, king of the Goths, had expelled to the Scythian desert. The link between Huns, witches, and demoniacal entities may be recalled in the Neṣḥānā, where the author describes the sorceries and rituals that the Huns perform before going to war in order to evoke demons. In sum, it seems that both Jordanes and the author of the Neṣḥānā had similar ideas about the Caucasus and the lore associated with the motif of Alexander’s gates. The description of Alexander’s gate in the Neṣḥānā closely resembles Procopius’s report on the Dariali mountain pass.27 Like Procopius, the Syriac author refers to a very narrow mountain pass that leads to the territories inhabited by the Huns. Like Procopius, our author credits this fortified passage with strategic importance in preventing Hunnic incursions and nomadic raids. And, of course, like Procopius, our author also believes that this breach in the mountain had been sealed by Alexander in the past. It is unlikely—​albeit not impossible—​ that the Syriac writer was aware of Procopius’s work, and it is plausible that the similarities between their descriptions of the mountain pass are a product of common knowledge about the Dariali Pass. The Neṣḥānā refers to elements of the fortifications at Dariali that are not reported by Procopius but that appear in more ancient sources. For example, the Syriac work states that the gate built by Alexander does not completely seal the mountain pass and allows incursions from the enemies. In fact, according to the Syriac author, Alexander ordered his men to pound iron bars into the earth beneath the gate to prevent attempts by the Huns to dig into the rock under the threshold. According to our author, this defensive measure was not completely effective: although preventing the passage of horsemen, foot soldiers could still pass beneath the gate. This statement is most curious. One wonders why the author would invent details about possible breaches in a defensive system that he otherwise describes as marvelous. Could it be that the inexplicable detail he provides is based on information he had about the gates allegedly built

The Text, the Story, and Its Sources  15 by Alexander? An element in Pliny’s description of the Dariali fortifications may provide an answer to this question. Pliny affirms that a river runs beneath the gates that seal the mountain pass—​as is true of the Dariali Gorge, through which the river Terek runs.28 No watercourse on the spot fortified by Alexander is mentioned in the Neṣḥānā. However, one wonders if knowledge of a river running beneath the middle of the Dariali gates may lie behind the author’s statement that it was possible for footmen to pass under Alexander’s gate. If so, the Syriac writer may have based his description on common knowledge about the fortifications at the Dariali mountain pass. Another example: according to the text, a singular divine sign corroborates the truthfulness of Alexander’s prophecy of the coming of the Huns and the final eschatological events. In the text, Alexander refers to a sponge located at the peak of the rock where the gate is situated, and from which blood pours down upon the rock. He says that the Huns wash their heads in that blood. This would be a warning sent by God, a sign that at the end of times blood will cover the earth, just as the blood pouring from that sponge covers the rock. Unfortunately, the text containing this passage is corrupt,29 and some elements may have been lost. However, a shortened reference to this divine sign is preserved in the adaptation of the story in the metric homily attributed to Jacob of Serugh (henceforth Ps.-​Jacob)—​also known as the Alexander Song. Here we read about an aqueduct flowing with blood located on the side of the mountain where the Huns live. The aqueduct is compared to a torrent flowing against humans.30 The description of this sponge/​aqueduct pouring blood may reflect a characteristic feature of the landscape at the Dariali gorge. Archaeologists identified sulfur springs on the banks of the river Terek, which passes through the gorge. Since Antiquity, reports on that natural phenomenon enriched the descriptions of the site allegedly fortified by Alexander. It has been suggested that these springs may have inspired Pliny’s report of the bad smell of the river at the Dariali Pass.31 Besides the smell of sulfuric emissions, another effect of those springs on the Dariali landscape may have caught the attention of eyewitnesses, that is, the color of the rocks at the riverbank. At the point where the spring water poured forth, the rocks would have been blood red—​no doubt, a reaction to the sulfur. This phenomenon is still observable today.32 Thus, the source of the description in the Neṣḥānā and in Ps.-​ Jacob’s homily may be reports about the curious spectacle at the Dariali Gorge, where the sulfur springs conferred on the river the color of blood. Besides earlier traditions on Alexander’s iron gates, the Neṣḥānā draws upon the biblical genealogy of the people confined behind the gate, commonly identified as the peoples of Gog and Magog mentioned in biblical and extra-​biblical sources. By the sixth century ce, the names of Gog and Magog were commonly associated with expectations of future invasions, infused with strong eschatological connotations. Ezekiel 38 and 39 contain a prophecy

16  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate about a Prince Gog of the land of Magog and the bellicose northern population whom he will lead on destructive attacks against all kingdoms. The Book of Revelation attests to the increased exacerbation of the apocalyptic character of the Gog and Magog motif over the following centuries. In Revelation 20:7–​9, the names of Gog and Magog—​now apparently designating two distinct persons or populations33—​are mentioned in connection to the final events that will follow the release of Satan from his confinement. Specifically, Gog and Magog appear among the nations that Satan will deceive and lead into an eschatological war. Nevertheless, the “apocalyptic turn” of the Gog and Magog motif may have not been popular among Eastern Christians, who had scarce access to the Book of Revelation. The situation may have changed in the sixth century, following attempts by Byzantine theologians to rehabilitate the Book of Revelation among Eastern Christians who had never recognized it as canonical scripture. At the end of that century, Andrew of Caesarea (d. 637) identified the Gog and Magog of Revelation with the Huns, thus providing a parallel case to the story narrated in the Neṣḥānā. Andrew, however, was apparently unaware of the role played by Alexander’s gates in containing the eschatological invasion. At the same time, contemporaries of the Syriac author who refer to Alexander’s iron gates, like Procopius and Jordanes, have nothing to say about the connection between the people confined by Alexander and the motif of Gog and Magog. Ostensibly, Josephus and Jerome (d. 420) knew the traditions about the genealogical identification of inhabitants of Central Asia with Gog and Magog and also traditions about their confinement behind Alexander’s gates. Nevertheless, neither of them connects these two traditions. More importantly, neither Josephus nor Jerome appears to be aware of the role that Alexander’s actions should play in a divine eschatological plan. One must say that all the ingredients of the tale were already in place but had not yet been put together in a comprehensive narration. No documentary evidence sustains the claim made by some scholars that the story of Alexander’s apocalyptic gate was already in circulation in earlier times.34 It should be noted, however, that according to Stephen Shoemaker the apocalyptic text known as the Tiburtine Sibyl was composed already in the fourth century ce.35 Since the oracular prophecy in the Sibyl refers to the enclosure of Gog and Magog by Alexander, Shoemaker’s dating—​if correct—​would establish the early circulation of this motif. However, the dating of the composition of the Tiburtine Sibyl is contested. The issue is notoriously complex and is related to complicated and hotly debated questions about the textual relationship between the Sibyl and the Apocalypse of Ps.-​Methodius (and vice versa), and the emergence of the motif of the Last Roman Emperor, which appears in both works (and which is mentioned—​albeit only in an embryonic stage—​in the Neṣḥānā).36 Thus, at present, there is no absolute consensus on the dating of the Tiburtine

The Text, the Story, and Its Sources  17 Sibyl, and no source that unequivocally predates the Neṣḥānā refers explicitly to a connection between the people confined by Alexander and the final, eschatological raids of Gog and Magog. Until the contrary is established, the Neṣḥānā is the first written documentary evidence for the apocalyptic story of Alexander’s gate. We will return to this question at the end of Chapter 7.

The Geography behind the Story of Alexander’s Gate After describing Alexander’s journey from the place of sunset to that of sunrise, the author abandons mythical cosmology and begins to refer to toponyms that can be identified on a map—​one might say that Alexander leaves the realm of fantasy and enters the real world. Alexander moves westward in the direction of a mountain named Mūsās.37 This name has plausibly been related to the Armenian Masis, a toponym that commonly designates Mount Ararat—​“Noble Masis” and “Little Masis” are the names of its two peaks.38 The Masis toponym was known to the Greek geographers Strabo39 (d. ca. 24 ce) and Ptolemy40 (d. ca. 170 ce) as Μάσιος. The similarity between the names Mūsās and Masis strengthens the association between the two mountains. In this case, it is worth noting that Mūsās appears transcribed as Masīs in Ps.-​Jacob’s metric homily, suggesting that an almost contemporary Syriac author familiar with the Neṣḥānā identified the Mūsās mentioned in the text with the Masis. The Neṣḥānā’s description of the Mūsās as a massive mountain located in inner Armenia corresponds to the actual geographical location of Mount Ararat. On their way to the Mūsās, Alexander and his troops reach a mountain named Qlaudia, where they descend to the source of the Euphrates. John of Ephesus (d. ca. 588 ce) describes the district of Qlaudia as an area of “high mountains of towering size above the river Euphrates.”41 We are thus in the proximity of Melitene. From here, Alexander moves to Halōras, where he explores the sources of the Tigris. Halōras is the village known in Armenian sources as Olor/​Olorian/​ Olorean in the canton of Haštēn.42 Then, Alexander reaches the river Kallath, which is mentioned in the Chronicle of Ps.-​Joshua the Stylite (composed in the early sixth century)43 and in the Ecclesiastical History of John of Ephesus.44 This same river is known to Greek authors as Nymphius (νυμφίος) and corresponds to the modern Batman Su, a tributary of the Tigris, which it joins near its source. Once he arrives at the Kallath, Alexander climbs a mountain named Rmt. The name Rmt is related to the term rāmtā (“height”). The location of this mountain near the river Kallath, together with the information that the mountain had a watchtower, suggests that this place corresponds to the site Akbas in the Sasanian territory of Arzanane, on the bank of the Kallath opposite Martyropolis. Indeed, according to Evagrius45 and Theophylact Simocatta,46 Akbas was a site from

  The Geography behind the Story of Alexander’s Gate

The Text, the Story, and Its Sources  19 which the entire city of Martyropolis could be observed. The description of Rmt as a mountain with a watchtower echoes these descriptions of Akbas. From the top of mount Rmt, Alexander observes the surrounding territories and decides to take “the route of the north,” which leads him through Armenia, Adharbaijan, and Inner Armenia. This last location corresponds to the Roman province of Armenia Interior, which in 536, during the reign of Justinian, had been reorganized as the province of Armenia I, with its capital Justinianopolis (former Bazanis or Leontopolis).47 Note that after visiting Adharbaijan, Alexander passes by the Mūsās/​Masis. It appears that after traveling eastward, Alexander turned around and traveled westward. Although it is clearly not the author’s intention to provide the reader with Alexander’s itinerary, the text contains several toponyms—​some of which I have been able to identify—​that confirm the route followed by the hero. The toponym Bēt Prdyʾ (after the exclusion of the Syriac locative locution “Bēt”) apparently designates a place in the area of the Paryadres (Παρυαδρής) mountains in the Pontus.48 Bēt Zmrṭ plausibly corresponds to Zimara, a fortress on the Euphrates on the border between Armenia Minor and Armenia Maior.49 Bēt Tqyl may correspond to Teucila, south of Zimara. Bēt Qṭrmn is probably the fortress of Citharizum in Asthianene, called Kitamon (Κίταμον) by Ptolemy and Kitharizon (Κιθαριξων) by Procopius.50 Kitharizon is also mentioned in Justinian’s Novella XXXI, which contains the details of the reorganization of the Armenian provinces, and according to which Kitharizon belongs to the new province of Armenia IV, with its capital as Martyropolis.51 The province of Armenia IV is important for us, since it is here that we should locate the plain of Bhy Lbtʾ, where Alexander arrives following the path along the Great Mūsās, and where, during the meeting with the elders, he receives information about the mountain that separates them from the Huns. The toponym Bhy Lbtʾ corresponds to Balahovit, known to Greek authors as Belabitenē (Βελαβιτηνή).52 Balahovit (Balaxovit/​Bałahovitin) is mentioned in the late sixth/​ early seventh-​century Armenian Geography of Ananias of Širak,53 and Procopius describes Belabitene as a minor province of no importance, ruled by a satrap loyal to Rome.54 Since the Roman-​Persian treaty of 387, the area had been a semi-​independent satrapy, and it had preserved its status even after 485, when Emperor Zeno (r. 474–​475 and 476–​491) replaced the satraps of the other five autonomous Armenian principalities with Roman officials (due to their collusion with the rebellion of Illus and Leontius).55 It was only after the reorganization of Armenian territories in 536 that Belabitene was incorporated, together with the other principalities, into Roman domains and put under the administration of Roman officials. The decree that sanctioned this administrative change, namely Justinian’s Novella XXXI, reports that these territories bear “barbarian names” and that their traditional organization into satrapies had been established by a different political power, that is, the Persians. The language adopted in the imperial decree

20  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate describes the newly incorporated territories as parts of an alien body, somehow still connected to Rome’s Eastern rivals. It is thus not surprising that in his fictitious reconstruction of the past at the time of Alexander, the author of the Neṣḥānā attributes possession of the area around Belabitene to the Persian king Tūbarlaq. Thus, the episode of Alexander’s gate is mostly centered around the regions of Roman Armenia near the sources of the Tigris and the Euphrates. This location is not coincidental. In the early sixth century the area had been raided by the Huns, as noted by the Neṣḥānā. In the geographical scenario depicted in the text, this area is directly connected to the Caucasian regions—​the traditional location of Alexander’s iron gates—​through the massive mountain complex that encompasses most regions to the east.56 It is through a breach of this otherwise insurmountable mountain—​a breach later sealed by Alexander—​that the Huns pass to carry out their raids. By representing this breach as a corridor that allows the Huns to flow into Inner Armenia, our author draws attention to the area that had been the target of a recent Hunnic incursion. This literary operation finds a parallel in the work of Evagrius Scholasticus (d. ca. 594) who, referring to the same Hunnic invasion mentioned in the Neṣḥānā, affirms that the Huns crossed the “Cappadocian Gates” (τάς Καππαδοκῶν πύλας), thus “correcting” the information reported in his source—​the Chronicle of John Malalas (d. 578)—​where the Huns pass through the Caspian Gates, thus drawing attention to an area that had been the target of raids in the early sixth century.57 As noted by earlier scholars, the author of the Neṣḥānā was probably a native of this area,58 as suggested by his accurate knowledge of the geography of the upper Tigris region (by contrast to his poor knowledge of other regions).59 However, scholars may have overestimated the author’s connection to the centers of Syriac culture in Northern Mesopotamia, like Amida or Edessa, and underestimated his connection to local Armenian affairs and culture.60 The militaristic bravado and religious fervor of the battle scenes in the Neṣḥānā are unusual in the Syriac literary tradition but find close parallels in fifth-​and sixth-​century descriptions of Armenian “national struggles” against the Sasanians.61 At the same time, our author shows an astonishing disinterest in military and political developments on the Mesopotamian border during his lifetime. Indeed, he has nothing to say about major events that shocked the region, like the siege of Edessa, the plunder of the countryside around Martyropolis and Amida, and the sacking of several Syrian cities, and of Antioch. Unlike contemporary Syriac writers, he has nothing to say about the alleged Sasanian refusal to return Nisibis to the Byzantines. By contrast, our author manifests strong interest in political matters relating to the Caucasian regions. As we will see in the following chapters, he inserts several references to issues relating to Byzantine-​Sasanian disputes over Lazica and the Caucasus, that might affect the stability of the mountain passes in Roman Armenia. His geopolitical interests appear to be those of someone well informed about the local Armenian setting.

2

Debates about Dating and Context of the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs Nöldeke’s 1890 study arguably was the first critical analysis of the Neṣḥānā. In this influential work, the German scholar dated the Syriac work to the first quarter of the sixth century ce, and specifically to the years between 515 and 521 ce. Nöldeke sought to establish both termini post and ante quem. Starting from the latter, Nöldeke’s argument is directly connected to two other elements in his analysis: (1) his assumption that the Alexander Song—​that is, Ps.-​Jacob’s metric homily—​was dependent on the Neṣḥānā; (2) his assumption that the Song was in fact written by Jacob of Serugh. Based on these two assumptions, Nöldeke concluded that the latest possible date for the composition of the Neṣḥānā was the year 521 ce, the year of Jacob’s death. In fact, according to his line of argument, the Neṣḥānā must have been composed before Jacob of Serugh used it as a source.1 Nöldeke established the earliest possible date from the passage in the Neṣḥānā that immediately follows the description of the gate erected by Alexander to confine the Huns of Gog and Magog. The gate is engraved with Alexander’s prophecy, noted earlier, which reports the dates of two Hunnic invasions expected to occur “at the completion of 826 years” and “at the completion of 940 years,” respectively. Nöldeke identified the Seleucid Era, or Anno Graecorum (henceforth ag), as the system of numbering years that lies behind the two dates mentioned by Alexander in the prophecy. When transposed into the Common Era calendar, 826 ag is the equivalent of 514–​515 ce, and 940 ag is the equivalent of 628–​ 629 ce. As Nöldeke observed, the Hunnic assault predicted for the year 826 ag corresponds to historical events that occurred in 515 ce,2 the year in which the Sabir Huns conducted raids across the Caucasian mountains.3 Sources report that, as a consequence of the devastation brought by these Huns, fortifications were strengthened in Melitene and in other Cappadocian towns.4 In any case, it is evident that the story of Alexander’s gate in the Neṣḥānā is informed by these facts relating to 515 ce, and that the raid of 826 ag predicted by Alexander in the Syriac text is a vaticinium ex eventu, that is, a reference to a historical event that has already occurred, disguised as a prediction by an authoritative figure from the past.

The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0003

22  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate In contrast, Nöldeke rejects the idea that the date indicated in Alexander’s second prediction (940 ag/​628–​629 ce) also stems from the same literary device. According to Nöldeke, the 940 ag prediction represents a real prophecy elaborated by the Syriac author. The recognition of the first prediction for 826 ag as vaticinium ex eventu, with the parallel classification of the second prediction for 940 ag as a genuine prophecy, leads Nöldeke to set a terminus post quem for the composition of the text at the year indicated in Alexander’s first prediction, that is, 514–​515 ce.5 Nöldeke’s dating is untenable. In a series of studies, Wilhelm Bousset, Carl Hunnius, Mihály Kmoskó, Károly Czeglédy, and Gerrit Reinink,6 have identified the flaws in Nöldeke’s analysis. These flaws undermine both the termini post and ante quem established by the German scholar. A first critical factor for Nöldeke’s dating of the Neṣḥānā concerns the authorship of the Alexander Song. As noted, Nöldeke uses the death of the alleged author of the metric homily to establish a terminus ante quem for the composition of the Neṣḥānā. Most later scholars agree that the attribution of the Song to Jacob of Serugh is spurious. According to the current scholarly consensus, the Syriac poem was composed in the seventh century, immediately after the conclusion of the Byzantine-​Sasanian war in 628 ce. One must cast doubts on the attribution of the Alexander Song to this specific period, since its principal argument relies on a passage of the Syriac text that may have been interpolated.7 Nevertheless, several elements suggest that the Song was not composed before the last quarter of the sixth century.8 This dating undermines Nöldeke’s conclusion that the Neṣḥānā must have been in circulation before Jacob died, since the text that it allegedly inspired was produced several decades later. Moreover, some scholars have questioned Nöldeke’s argument about the textual dependence of the Song on the Neṣḥānā, and have favored the hypothesis of a common source.9 Another flaw in Nöldeke’s study emerges from a close analysis of the second date in Alexander’s prophecy, that is, 940 ag or 628–​629 ce. Pace Nöldeke, like the first date, the second date is based on historical events. These events occurred during the final phase of Heraclius’s conflict with the Sasanians. In 624–​625 ce, the Byzantine emperor signed an alliance with the Western Turkic Kaghanate.10 In 626, his Turkic allies broke through the Sasanian fortifications on the northern Caspian-​Caucasian frontier and entered Caucasian Albania and Iberia. The Turkic raids continued after Byzantine-​Sasanian peace treaty in 628, and ended only in 629, after the Kök Turks had stormed Iberia’s capital Tfilis (Tbilisi).11 The year 940 ag/​628–​629 ce “foretold” by Alexander in the Neṣḥānā is consistent with the dates of this second wave of incursions by nomadic populations from Central Asia. Nöldeke dismisses the possibility that with the 940 ag prognostication, the Syriac author was referring to the Turkic invasion of 626–​629 ce.12 Nonetheless, the chronological overlapping between the Hunnic raids of 940 ag

Debates about Dating and Context  23 and the Turkic invasions of the late 620s is too precise to be coincidental. The second part of Alexander’s prophecy replicates the juxtaposition between prophetical and historical events already observed in the 826 ag prediction. Pace Nöldeke, it is indisputable that Alexander’s second prophecy was meant to evoke the Turkic raids of 626–​630 ce.

An Earlier Version of the Neṣḥānā? By the turn of the nineteenth century, scholars like Bousset and Hunnius had identified the major flaws in Nöldeke’s analysis.13 However, more than half a century later, Czeglédy complained that the arguments of these two scholars had not been accepted “since the authority of Nöldeke was almost unassailable in matters pertaining to Syriac philology.”14 This scholarly trend shifted during the second half of the twentieth century. Czeglédy and Reinink have made a decisive contribution to a consensus around the errors in Nöldeke’s theory. That the Neṣḥānā in its current form was written in the seventh century is an indisputable fact in current scholarship. More debated is the question of whether an earlier version of the Neṣḥānā may have circulated previously. While acknowledging that the text as we have it now should be dated to the reign of Heraclius, a number of scholars have suggested that the Neṣḥānā is not an original seventh-​century composition, but rather a reworking of a more ancient text. In addition to the possible interpolation of a passage that links the text to the seventh-​century context—​on which see below—​these scholars have sought evidence for an early dating of the Neṣḥānā in sources that have literary and thematic parallels with the Syriac work. A first attempt of this kind focuses on two apocalyptic texts traditionally attributed to the Syriac poet Ephrem (d. 373 ce). The first one is the Syriac metric homily On the End. The second is the sermon On the End of the World, preserved in a Latin translation. Elements of both texts may be compared to elements in the Neṣḥānā. The metric homily, in particular, presents a number of relevant intertexts that specifically concern the motif of the gate built against the Huns and the latter’s cruelty and barbarous customs. Building on these textual connections, Bousset argues for a fourth-​century version of the Neṣḥānā.15 His hypothesis, however, is undermined by the fact that none of the works attributed to Ephrem dates to the fourth century. At present, scholars agree that both the Syriac homily On the End and the Latin sermon On the End of the World were composed in the seventh century.16 An early date for the Neṣḥānā has also been invoked to explain the textual connection between this work and the Syriac homily of Ps.-​Jacob. As noted, Nöldeke argued that this homily is based on the Neṣḥānā. This argument has been accepted by Hunnius and, more recently, by Reinink—​although both scholars

24  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate disagree with Nöldeke’s dating of both texts to the sixth century, advocating instead for their seventh-​century composition.17 By contrast, Bousset, Franz Kampers, Czeglédy, and, recently, Wouter Henkelmann and Stephen Shoemaker, have rejected Nöldeke’s views, suggesting instead that the two Syriac texts share a common source.18 While this is possible (and even probable), none of these scholars has provided any substantive evidence in support of this theory. At the current stage of research, one risks creating a circular argument in which the idea of a source common to the two texts makes the existence of an earlier version of the Neṣḥānā plausible, and the early circulation of the Neṣḥānā confers plausibility on the hypothesis of a common source with Ps.-​Jacob’s homily. A detailed analysis of the textual relationships between the two texts remains a desideratum. A further possible textual witness to the existence of another (and potentially earlier) version of the Neṣḥānā is the so-​called Syriac Chronicle of Pseudo-​ Dionysius of Tel-​Maḥrē. Also known as Chronicle of Zuqnin, this is an anonymous historical chronicle composed in the second half of the eighth century in the monastery of Zuqnin, north of Amida.19 Section I.41.15–​45.10 of the Chronicle contains what appears to be an abbreviated version of the Alexander story in the Neṣḥānā. A question only marginally discussed by scholars is whether the author of the Chronicle—​conventionally referred to as Ps.-​Dionysius—​used the same version of the Neṣḥānā as appears in the manuscripts used by Budge for his edition, or a different version of the text that is not extant. If the Chronicle is in fact based on an alternative version of the Neṣḥānā, then one wonders whether this other version predates the one edited by Budge. According to Witold Witakowski, the difference in the names of several figures in the Chronicle and in the Neṣḥānā suggests that Ps.-​Dionysius used a different version of the Neṣḥānā from that used by Budge. Referring to the case of Alexander’s enemy, Darius, who in the Chronicle replaces the mysterious Tūbarlaq of the Neṣḥānā, Witakowski concedes that “it cannot be discounted that PD [i.e., Ps.-​Dionysius] himself changed the names to suit other data in the chronicle.” He observes, however, that “since many other names also differ from those in Budge’s text (e.g. the names of the kings of the Huns, which ethnonym itself does not occur in PD’s version), it seems more likely that all the changes are taken over from an unknown version of the Legend [i.e., the Neṣḥānā].”20 I do not find this argument convincing, for several reason. First, who was responsible for the onomastic change? Second, why, unlike Ps.-​Dionysius, would the person responsible for this change have been able to rename more than a single character in the story? Third, why did he change the names in the text? At the same time, there are good reasons to think that Ps.-​Dionysius may have introduced such changes. As we will see in following sections of this study, the name of Alexander’s enemy in the Neṣḥānā, Tūbarlaq, signals the denigratory intentions of the Syriac author and should be placed in the context of antagonism

Debates about Dating and Context  25 between Persians and Romans in the pre-​Islamic period. It comes as no surprise that an author writing in the late eighth century, and after the fall of the Sasanian Empire, may have wished to replace the unusual name Tūbarlaq with the more familiar Darius, who is mentioned several times in the Chronicle. As for the differences between the names of the Hunnic kings, it should be noted that Ps.-​ Dionysius’s list of kings is much shorter than the list in the Neṣḥānā: the author of the Neṣḥānā mentions fifteen Hunnic kings, while Ps.-​Dionysius mentions only five. Both authors mention Gog, Magog, and Gyg. The only peculiarity in Ps.-​ Dionysius’s chronicle is the onomastic couple Tmrt and Tmrtn,21 which bring to mind Tʾmrwn and Tyʾmrwn in the Neṣḥānā. The different spellings in the two texts seem to reflect the fluidity in the transcription of the “exotic” names of Hunnic chieftains, a phenomenon observed in other sources.22 A more promising research path is to compare Ps.-​Dionysius’s work with both the Neṣḥānā and Ps.-​Jacob’s homily. In a seminal study published in 1932, Andrew Runni Anderson briefly mentions that the Chronicle of Pseudo-​ Dionysius shares narrative features with both Syriac sources, without explaining, however, his view of these textual connections.23 A more articulate view was formulated by Czeglédy, according to whom the Ps.-​Dionysius version “has, in some instances, close parallels in the prose variant [i.e., the Neṣḥānā], in other instances, with the metric variant [i.e., Ps.-​Jacob’s homily], while, in a few cases, with neither of the two.” This leads Czeglédy to conclude that “the Syriac Legend concerning Alexander the Great also had an old variant which is no longer extant but was at the disposal of Pseudo-​Dionysius.”24 However, Czeglédy does not undertake any comparative textual analysis of the three sources and does not indicate any concrete elements in support of his claim. I could not find any element which suggests that this work more closely resembles Ps.-​Jacob’s homily. In my opinion, the Chronicle of Pseudo-​Dionysius is an abbreviated form of the Neṣḥānā transmitted to us. Be that as it may, as in the case of the relationship between the prose and metric versions of the Alexander story, a thorough and systematic analysis that compares these two texts with Ps.-​Dionysius’s short variant is highly desirable. Finally, a passage of the Lives of the Eastern Saints, compiled by John of Ephesus between 567 and 569, may be a witness for an early version of the Neṣḥānā. Here John reports the story of a holy man who is shown a gelyānā, that is, a “revelation,” predicting the arrival of the Huns.25 Note that the Neṣḥānā locates the Hunnic invasion of 826 ag/​515 ce near the springs of the Tigris, as stated in John’s report on the Huns’ raids in the area of Amida. It thus appears to be possible, or even plausible, that both John of Ephesus and the author of the Neṣḥānā refer to the Sabir invasion of 515. Significantly, John lived in the region affected by these invasions. Thus, it is likely that he had firsthand knowledge of these events and of the reactions of the local population to the Hunnic raids. These

26  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate reactions may have included the formulation of prophecies and oracles about the coming of the Huns. This was probably the case for the gelyānā mentioned in the anecdotal story of the holy man that John included in his Lives. Is the gelyānā mentioned by John actually the Neṣḥānā? Some scholars have taken the information provided in John’s account as evidence for the idea that an early version of the Neṣḥānā was in circulation when John of Ephesus redacted the Lives.26 To the best of my knowledge, the first scholar who tried to establish a connection between the Neṣḥānā and John’s report was Czeglédy. Referring to the date of the first Hunnic invasion in the Neṣḥānā, that is, 826 ag/​514–​515 ce, Czeglédy affirms: “we can hardly interpret this very important date in any other way than by supposing that, in the lifetime of John of Ephesus, that is, in the middle of the sixth century, the Syriac apocalyptic legend concerning Alexander, was already in existence.”27 However, several arguments can be advanced to dispute Czeglédy’s claim. First, Czeglédy translates the Syriac term gelyānā as “apocalypse,” instead of “revelation.” In other words, he interprets gelyānā as a literary work belonging to the apocalyptic genre, not as a disclosure of future events. Czeglédy does not provide a full translation of the relevant passage in the Lives of the Eastern Saints and only refers to the edition of the Syriac text published and translated by Ernest Brooks in 1923. Brooks translates the passage in question as: “a revelation was shown to him.”28 Czeglédy must have been aware of Brooks’s reading (the English translation is found to at the bottom of the same page that contains the Syriac text which Czeglédy refers), but deliberately opted for another reading. The reason for Czeglédy’s word choice can be better appreciated when seen in the context of the entire passage in the Syriac text. Following Czeglédy’s reading, the sentence etḥzi leh b-​gelyānā (‫ )ܐܬܚܙܝ ܠܗ ܒܓܠܝܢܐ‬comes to be read as “an apocalypse was shown to him.” The passage in question appears to depict a scene in which the holy man is shown a written work, an apocalypse. I suspect that Czeglédy chose to follow this interpretation to support the idea that an apocalyptic text about the Hunnic raids was circulating in the mid-​sixth century. This apocalypse would be nothing other than the Neṣḥānā. However, Czeglédy’s translation of gelyānā as “apocalypse” is neither the only possible one, nor the most appropriate. Furthermore, even if John of Ephesus understood the word gelyānā as an actual apocalyptic work, the Neṣḥānā would still not qualify as the most immediate literary candidate. One finds no references to Alexander, to the gate he allegedly built, or to the eschatological nations of Gog and Magog in John’s work. The only element that may connect the passage in the Lives of the Eastern Saints to the Neṣḥānā is the prediction of a Hunnic invasion. However, during the life of John of Ephesus, nomadic populations from Central Asia, commonly known as “Huns,” had long been identified with the biblical populations of Gog and Magog.29 The association

Debates about Dating and Context  27 of the latter with the Huns is made explicit by Andrew of Caesarea, who was probably writing a few years after John’s death in 588. In his Commentary on the Book of Revelation, Andrew writes: “Some think these are the Scythian nation, the northernmost [peoples], or, as we call them, the Huns, who among all the kingdoms on earth, as we see, [are] the most populous and warlike, whom only by the hand of God we hinder from seizing the entire civilized world until the loosening of the devil.”30 From this perspective, it might be contended that the revelation of a Hunnic invasion mentioned by John reflects the common association of the Huns with the apocalyptic theme of Gog and Magog. In this case, any text mentioning invasions by these eschatological nations—​expected to occur toward the end of times—​may have inspired the passage in John’s Lives. A possible candidate is Revelation 20:7–​8, which predicts the eschatological raids of Gog and Magog. Recall that the sixth century witnessed a renewed interest in the Book of Revelation in the Byzantine world. Is it possible that the revelation about the coming of the Huns mentioned by John of Ephesus was inspired by Revelation 20:7–​8? At present, this question must remain without an answer. However, it casts some doubt on Czeglédy’s assertions about the connection between the gelyānā mentioned in John’s Lives and the Neṣḥānā. Of course, the situation envisaged by the Hungarian scholar is still possible, and it is not my intention to dismiss it completely. However, the evidence presented by Czeglédy is much less compelling than he assumes.

The Debate over the Seventh-​Century Neṣḥānā In the past four decades, attempts to identify indisputable evidence for the existence of an early version of the Neṣḥānā have attracted little scholarly attention. This lack of interest in possible antecedents of the Syriac text coincides with increasing affirmation of the idea that the Neṣḥānā was composed at the time of Heraclius. The numerous studies dedicated by Reinink to the Syriac text since the 1980s have been a decisive factor for the spread of the theory of a redaction under Heraclius.31 Reinink’s main hypothesis is that the Neṣḥānā was composed soon after 628 ce, at the end of the conflict between the Byzantines and the Sasanians, which had begun in 602. According to him, the Neṣḥānā was designed as a pamphlet that celebrated Heraclius’s accomplishments in the conflict. The author was a native of the area around Edessa and a fervent supporter of the emperor. The main addressees of his work were members of the North-​ Mesopotamian Miaphysite community, who, at that time, strongly opposed Heraclius’s attempts to reconcile Miaphysites and Chalcedonians through the monenergist formula.32 Reinink identifies another aim of the Neṣḥānā: the need to answer chiliastic anxieties and pessimistic feelings that were current among

28  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Byzantine subjects, and to provide a firm answer to expectations about the advent of the eschaton and the imminent collapse of the empire. The strong emphasis placed by the Syriac author on Byzantium’s eschatological mission and its destiny to establish a cosmocratic rule by the end of human history supported this purpose.33 Reinink’s contextualization of the Neṣḥānā has been widely accepted in modern scholarship,34 and several scholars have refined his research approach and have identified additional connections between specific elements in the Neṣḥānā and events around the time of Heraclius. In an article published in 2007, van Bladel lists a series of arguments relating the episode of Alexander’s eschatological gate in Neṣḥānā to the 630s.35 In his view, the Syriac text reflects the point of view of a seventh-​century witness of the Kök Turks’ invasion of 626–​629 ce. Van Bladel supports this idea by referring to reports of those events, transmitted in the seventh century Latin Frankish Chronicle of Ps.-​Fredegar and in the tenth-​century Armenian History of Movsēs Dasxurancʿi. Both authors mention Heraclius’s involvement in the destruction provoked by his Turkic allies. Specifically, the emperor facilitated their incursions by opening the gates of Darband, a Sasanian fortified town in the Caspian area. Intriguingly, Ps.-​Fredegar identifies the gates of Darband with the legendary iron gate built by Alexander to repel the bellicose nomad populations of Central Asia.36 This element bears witness to the existence of a seventh-​century narrative relating Heraclius to the gate allegedly erected by Alexander in the Caucasus. The Neṣḥānā—​van Bladel argues—​reflects this same cultural trend by connecting the Turkic invasion promoted by Heraclius to the Hunnic raids prophesied by Alexander for the year 940 ag.37 In general, van Bladel presents the story of Alexander’s wall in the Neṣḥānā as a product of seventh-​century culture.38 Similarly, Greisiger connects the episode of Alexander’s gate in the Neṣḥānā to the events of 626–​629.39 In general, Greisiger accepts Reinink’s hypotheses. His work represents the clearest example of the impact on recent scholarship of Reinink’s theory on the date of composition and character of the Neṣḥānā. Following Reinink, Greisiger considers the Neṣḥānā to be a work of pro-​ Heraclius propaganda, composed shortly after the end of the conflict against the Sasanians. He adds that the Neṣḥānā reflects propagandistic attempts to represent Heraclius as a messianic king. Greisiger connects this representation to what he considers to have been the emperor’s millenarian ambitions.40 While repeating and elaborating some of the axioms of Reinink’s theorem, Greisiger offers some interesting (although dubious) philological observations on the section of the Neṣḥānā concerning Alexander’s 940 ag prediction (see below).41 The widespread acceptance of the Heracleian dating of the Neṣḥānā has tempered interest in exploring earlier contexts for the composition of the text. Only recently have scholars started to challenge Reinink’s arguments.

Debates about Dating and Context  29 Henkelman has disputed Reinink’s assertion that the Neṣḥānā inspired the composition of Ps.-​Jacob’s homily, and has reactivated the idea that the two Syriac works derive from a common source—​albeit without achieving completely satisfying results.42 Shoemaker has pointed out several flaws in Reinink’s analysis. Specifically, Shoemaker observes that most of Reinink’s evidence for a seventh-​century context can be used with equal validity for the previous century.43 Most critically, he argues, Reinink does not adequately analyze the first date in Alexander’s prophecy (i.e., 826 ag/​514–​515 ce) and its connection to the sixth century, nor does he adequately explain the problems evoked by the second date in the prophecy (i.e., 940 ag/​628–​629 ce), which was considered by several earlier scholars as a seventh-​century interpolation.44 In the following chapter, I will re-​engage with the question of the twofold Hunnic invasion mentioned in Alexander’s prophecy. Specifically, I will address the specific passage of the 940 ag prophecy, and I will argue that a few important words in this passage (including the date of 940 ag) are an interpolation inserted during the reign of Heraclius to update the Neṣḥānā and to connect it to the recent historical context.

3

The 940 ag Prophecy The prophecy that Alexander utters after erecting the gate against the Huns reads as follows: King Alexander brought [a scribe] who wrote on the gate: “The Huns will come out and will subjugate the lands of the Romans and of the Persians. They will shoot arrows b’rmgsṭ’,1 then they will turn around and return to their country. I have also written that at the completion of 826 years the Huns will come out through the narrow path that ends in front of Halōras, from where the Tigris gushes like a stream that makes a millstone grind. They will take prisoners from among the population, they will cut off the roads and make the earth tremble with their raids. I have also written, announced and prophesied that hwyʾ2 at the completion of 940 years another king, when the world will end by the commandment of God, Governor of Creation. Creatures will enrage God. Sin will grow and wrath will reign. Human sins will increase and will cover the skies. In his anger the Lord will stir up the kingdoms that are behind this gate. For when the Lord seeks to kill men, he sends men against men so that they slay one other. And the Lord will gather the kings and their companies that are behind this mountain. At his signal they will all gather. They will come with their spears and their swords. They will stand behind the gate and, looking at the skies, they will call the name of the Lord: “Oh Lord! Open this gate for us!” And the Lord will send his sign from heaven and a voice will shout against this gate, which will be destroyed and will fall at the sign of the Lord. It will not be by the key which I created for it that this gate will be opened. And through this gate which I have made an army will go out. From the lower iron threshold an entire span will be consumed by the hoofs of the horsemen [sic] and of the horses with which they go out to destroy the land by the commandment of the Lord. And from the higher threshold a span will be consumed by the edges of the spears of those who run and go out through the gate. And when the Huns will come out as God has commanded, from the ends of heavens the kingdom of the Huns, the kingdom of the Persians, and the kingdom of the Arabs will come. The twenty-​ four kingdoms which are inscribed in this writing. They will fall one upon the other. The earth will curdle in the blood and the excrements of men. Then the kingdom of the Greeks will move and come. It will hold a hammer of iron in its right hand and a hammer of bronze in its left hand. The kingdom of the The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0004

The 940 ag Prophecy  31 Greeks will strike the hammers against each other and like iron dissolving in the fire and like bronze that boils in the flame, so will dissolve the strength of the kingdoms facing the kingdom of the Greeks, which is that of the Romans. And the kingdoms of the Huns and of the Persians will be destroyed each by its own comrade. Only a few will escape among those who fled to their country, while the kingdom of the Romans will destroy the rest. And my kingdom, which is called of the house of Alexander, the son of Philip the Macedonian, will go out and destroy the Earth and the ends of heaven. And none among the people and the nations that dwell in the creation will be able to stand before the kingdom of the Romans.3

The double reference to the dates 826 ag =​ 514–​515 ce and 940 ag =​ 628–​629 ce in Alexander’s prediction has led scholars to wonder whether the work was composed around the time of the first of the two dates (with specific reference to the Sabirs’ invasion of 515 ce) and subsequently re-​updated by the insertion of a second prognostication—​this time referring to the events of 626–​629 ce. The insertion would have been motivated by the intent to connect Alexander’s prognostication to the Kök Turks’ invasions of 626–​629 ce. This possibility was explored by Bousset, Kampers, Kmoskó, and Czeglédy.4 With the exception of Shoemaker, however, recent scholarship mostly favors the idea that the text of Alexander’s prophecy represents a single unity dating to the time of Heraclius. As noted, this position is largely based on Reinink’s studies concerning the context of the origins of the Neṣḥānā. However, Reinink pays only marginal attention to the text of Alexander’s prophecy and does not provide an extensive analysis of its contents. What most troubles Reinink is the way in which the 940 ag prediction connects to the following part of Alexander’s prophecy, and the way in which this potentially contradicts his overall hypothesis. Reinink seems to accept the connection between the 940 ag prediction and the Kök Turks’ invasions of 626–​629 ce—​ with specific reference to the last wave of raids in 629.5 At the same time, Reinink understands that the acceptance of the equation “940 ag prophecy =​Turkic invasions of 629” opens the door to an “apocalypse now” interpretation of the text—​in which the raids of the Kök Turks would designate the final attack of Gog and Magog. This interpretation of Alexander’s prediction is not consistent with a major tenet of Reinink’s hypothesis. According to him, the author of the Neṣḥānā locates the eschatological triumph of Alexander’s/​Heraclius’s kingdom at an undetermined point in the future, since proclamations about an immediate triumph would negate the peace policies promoted by Heraclius, which were aimed at re-​establishing the status quo ante bellum. Thus, Alexander’s prophetical description of Byzantium’s conquest of Persia and establishment of a Christian cosmocracy would reveal the author’s hopes and expectations for the future,

32  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate not for the present. The identification of the Turkic raids of 626–​629 ce with the final attacks led by Gog and Magog contradicts Reinink’s hypothesis about the author’s projection of the eschatological era in the future. These possible complications lead Reinink to argue against the idea that the 940 ag prediction refers to the final eschatological flood of nations predicted in the subsequent part of Alexander’s prophecy. In doing so, Reinink rebuts the possibility that the author of the Neṣḥānā identified the Turkic raids of 626–​629 ce with the final attacks led by Gog and Magog.6 At the same time, he fails to bring solid evidence in support of his contention, which is based only on the claim that the author of the Neṣḥānā did not intend to predict the imminent arrival of the End. Admittedly, the text here contains syntactic ambiguities (analyzed below) that make the understanding of the passage difficult. However, nothing in the text clearly indicates that the 940 ag prophecy is separated from the subsequent prediction of Gog and Magog’s final invasions, nor is there unequivocal evidence that the prediction of the events following those of 940 ag marks the beginning of a new vaticinium. Indeed, the sentence “when the world will end by the commandment of God, Governor of Creation,” immediately following the mention of the “other king,” points to a direct relationship between the two sets of events. Had the author not been convinced, as Reinink claims, that such a direct relationship existed, he likely would have inserted an intermediary sentence to mark the distinction between what would then appear as two separate prophecies, one about the events of 940 ag and one about events to occur toward the end of days. Had this been his intention, one would expect the transition between the two prophecies to be marked by a phrase such as, “I have also written that,” which introduces the 826 ag prophecy; or, better, “I have also written, announced, and prophesied that,” which precedes the 940 ag prophecy. However, the fact that there is no phrase signaling the transition casts serious doubt on Reinink’s reading. Of course, since—​as we will see—​something appears to be missing in this passage, one may speculate that a similar transitory element originally existed but was lost during the text’s transmission. However, this position is difficult to uphold. The only plausible explanation for such an omission is that the hypothetical phrase that marked the separation between what were originally meant as two different prophecies was removed by a redactor who believed that the invasion of 940 ag would coincide with the final sorties of Gog and Magog. This scenario, however, is implausible. Such a redactor would have had to be active in the immediate aftermath of the Turkic invasions of 626–​629 in order to understand those events as an unequivocable sign of the impending End; and yet the rest of the text lacks any content that might link the prophecy to the dramatic developments of the late 630s (such as the Arab capture of Jerusalem). Indeed, if this was the case,

The 940 ag Prophecy  33 how should we understand the overall process of textual transmission? Should we imagine that the text was produced in ca. 630 and that it was almost immediately manipulated by our hypothetical redactor? This seems highly unlikely. It is more likely that the person who composed the 940 ag prophecy believed that the historical events behind that vaticinium coincided with the eschatological invasions described in the subsequent part of Alexander’s prophecy. And this raises a second possibility. One may imagine that the prediction about the final eschatological events was not meant to address the events of 940 ag because the 940 ag prophecy was not part of the original core of the text; that is, it was interpolated. Someone who thought that the Turkic invasions of 626–​629 represented the realization of the final part of Alexander’s prophecy might have projected his conviction into the text by inserting the 940 ag prophecy. Reinink seems to accept the possibility that the reference to these events is an interpolation,7 and this assumption would remove the problematic overlapping of historical and eschatological eras that Reinink tries to dismiss. Indeed, once we treat the 940 ag prediction as a secondary interpolation, the final eschatological raids described in the last part of Alexander’s prophecy are no longer identifiable with any actual historical event. It is noticeable, however, that when addressing the possibility of an interpolation, Reinink maintains that the Neṣḥānā must have been composed after the events of 626–​629 ce, and, specifically, after the Turkic raid of 629. According to him, even if the sentence about 940 ag was added later, the Neṣḥānā should still be dated to that same period.8 This reading raises several problems. If the 940 ag prediction was interpolated by someone who believed that the final events predicted by Alexander had been realized by the Turkic invasions, then this person must have altered the text during or in the immediate aftermath of those events. But then how should we reconstruct the history of the text’s development? Was the text composed ca. 630, as Reinink maintains, and shortly after interpolated by a reader who held a different position than the author about the actual relationship between the raids of 626–​629 and Gog and Magog’s final incursions? This scenario is not plausible. It is much easier to assume that the text was composed several decades earlier and then updated in the late 620s or early 630s. Reinink does not consider the possibility that the sentence describing the events of 940 ag may have been interpolated to update a text composed in an earlier period in order to adapt it to a new historical context. Rather, he asserts that the Neṣḥānā was conceived as a manifesto of pro-​Heraclius propaganda. The reading of the Syriac text as a document produced during Heraclius’s reign is an indisputable corollary of Reinink’s theory. As a consequence, the only support provided by Reinink in his analysis of the passage is to reiterate the same hypothesis that would be weakened by the interpretation he seeks to refute. This

34  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate situation creates a circular argument in which the outcomes of the hypothesis are used to dismiss possible counterarguments. Nevertheless, apart from the date of 940 ag, there is nothing in the text that unequivocally connects the Neṣḥānā to the period immediately after the end of the Byzantine-​Sasanian conflict in 628 ce. As will become evident over the course of this study, all other elements that Reinink advances in support his theory of the “Heracleian” dating make as much (or even more) sense if situated in an earlier context. I have already mentioned the textual cruxes in the sentence related to the 940 ag prophecy. With few exceptions, most scholars have completely overlooked the issue.9 Even Reinink, who has the merit to have pointed out what had passed almost completely unnoticed in previous studies, does not carefully examine of the syntactic ambiguities in the sentence.10 He analyzes the sentence containing the 940 ag prediction only in passing in the two studies where the question is raised. In general, Reinink does not solve the problem that he highlights, nor does he adequately address the issue at stake, namely, whether an earlier version of the Neṣḥānā was in circulation in earlier times. The presence of a textual complication in the very sentence that may have been interpolated is a crucial factor. Indeed, textual disruptions may have arisen as a result of the manipulation of the text. Let us have a closer look at the passage in question. The sentence reads as follows: ‫ܘܬܘܒ ܟܬܒܬ ܘܐܘܕܥܬ ܘܐܬܢܒܝܬ ܕܗܘܝܐ ܠܫܘܠܡܐ ܕܬܫܥܡܐܐ ܘܐܪܒܥܝܢ‬ 11.‫ܫܢܝܢ ܡܠܟܐ ܐܚܪܢܐ ܡܐ ܕܫܠܡ ܥܠܡܐ‬

The sentence may tentatively be translated word by word as: “I have also written, announced and prophesied that hwyʾ at the accomplishment of 940 years another king, when the world will end.” The meaning of hwyʾ is unclear, while the syntax of the sentence is ambiguous. Hwyʾ is usually understood as a verb that signifies “it will happen” or “there will be.” However, as we will see below, if hwyʾ is a verb, grammatically it does not connect with the only possible subject of the sentence, that is, malkā ḥrēnā, “another king.” Consequently, the subordinate clause appears to be incomplete. Oddly, nothing is said about the actions that this other king will accomplish. One has the impression that something is missing. Budge noted the syntactic problems in the sentence. In a footnote, he observes that “there seems to be something wrong here in the text,” and proposes to emend the text as: d-​hwā malkā ḥrēnā, that is, to replace hwyʾ by hwā (hwʾ).12 Accordingly, he translates as follows: “And again I have written and made known and prophesied that it shall come to pass, at the conclusion of nine hundred and forty years, . . . another king.”13 Budge’s emendation is followed by Bohas who, unlike Budge, understands malkā ḥrēnā as the subject of hwʾ and translates the sentence as follows: “Et j’ai aussi écrit, annoncé et prophétisé qu’il y aurait un

The 940 ag Prophecy  35 autre roi, à la fin des neuf cent quarante années, quand le monde viendra à son terme.”14 Neither translation offers a satisfactory understanding of the complex sentence that contains the 940 ag prediction. Whatever interpretation one follows, the passage still presents several ambiguities. For instance, who is the other king mentioned in Alexander’s prophecy, who will appear in the year 940 ag? Moreover, it is not clear whether the prediction relates to the arrival of this other king, or if it refers to unspecified acts that he is expected to accomplish—​no details are given about him, or about whether he will accomplish any deeds upon his arrival. The reader is left wondering whether the description of the actions that this king was expected to perform were lost in the transmission of the text. Of course, one should not expect too much clarity in the passage under investigation. Logical or linear developments in the narrative are often not the main issue at stake in the text of a prophecy. Apocalyptic texts frequently (and intentionally) adopt an ambiguous language to allow for different possible interpretations. And yet, this does not seem to be the case in the present instance. The 826 ag prediction is constructed around the reference to a precise date and provides a detailed description of facts that relate to well-​identifiable circumstances. Clearly, the author sought to dispel doubts about the events he is referring to. Much the same observation applies to the nebulous 940 ag prognostication. In spite of all the complications raised by this passage, the reader can still understand the reference to the Turkic invasions of 940 ag/​626–​629 ce. In summary, the interpretive problems with the second prediction in Alexander’s prophecy do not appear to be related to any attempt by the author to keep the sentence ambiguous or open to different interpretations. The observed difficulties in understanding the text of the prophecy are rather a direct consequence of the syntactic oddities of the passage, which in its present form does not appear as self-​standing. It is evident that something in the text was altered during the process of textual transmission. The only attempt to solve the riddles of Alexander’s ambiguous prediction about the year 940 ag has been made by Greisiger. In short, he identifies Heraclius as the “other king” mentioned in the prophecy, and connects his acts to the final Hunnic raid described in the rest of Alexander’s prophecy.15 Like other scholars, Greisiger relates the 940 ag prediction to the events of 626–​ 629 ce. In particular, he refers to reports about the Kök Turks’ attacks as they are transmitted in the already mentioned Chronicle of Ps.-​Fredegar and in the History of Movsēs Dasxurancʿi. As noted, both authors saw a connection between the passage of Heraclius’s Turkic allies through the Caucasus and the classical motif of Alexander’s iron gates.16 On this basis, Greisiger speculates that the missing information in the Neṣḥānā about the acts to be accomplished by the “other king” in the year 940 ag coincides with the actual actions of Heraclius at

36  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Darband. According to him, the sentence predicting the events of 940 ag originally included a description of the opening of Alexander’s gate by a Greek king, who is none other than Heraclius. The predicate describing this act, however, was later erased to exculpate the Byzantine emperor from the accusation of having colluded with barbarians who brought destruction in the region.17 Greisiger supports his argument by referring to two other passages in the Neṣḥānā, both found in the continuation of Alexander’s prophecy. In the first passage, Alexander predicts that the key forged when the gate was first built will not open the door: “And the Lord will send his signal from heaven. A loud word will be proclaimed against this gate, which will be destroyed and will fall at the signal of the Lord. It will not be by the key which I have made for it that this gate will fall.”18 Greisiger speculates that this narrative detail is intended to refute contemporary claims that Heraclius had the keys to Alexander’s gate and used them to let his Turkic allies pass through the fortified limes.19 In the second passage, Alexander predicts that at the outset of his kingdom’s final triumph over the other world empires, the kingdom of the Huns and the kingdom of the Persians will destroy one another: “The kingdoms of the Huns and of the Persians will be destroyed, one by the other. Among those who will flee to their country, only a few will escape, and what remains of them will be destroyed by the kingdom of the Romans.”20 Greisiger does not explain how this passage relates to the others that are relevant for his hypothesis, but one assumes that he also detects here the author’s desire to remove any possible connection between the kingdom of the Romans (i.e., Byzantium) and the kingdom of the Huns.21 Greisiger’s analysis presents several problems. As for his identification of the “other king” as Heraclius, it should be noted that there is no unequivocal indication in the text that this king is a Roman emperor, and even less evidence that he is Heraclius. Based only on the nebulous information found in this passage, the text might very well be alluding to another Hunnic king. Or the other king might be an apocalyptic figure. Alternatively, the text may be alluding to Jesus, who in Acts 17:7 is identified as “another king,” words that the Peshitta translates as malkā ḥrēnā, the same expression used by the author of the Neṣḥānā. Thus, there are wide variety of possible hypotheses to explain the identity of the “other king” mentioned in the 940 ag prophecy. Of course, one cannot completely rule out that it refers to a Roman emperor, and to Heraclius in particular, as Greisiger maintains. However, this is only one of many possible readings. Moreover, even if one wants to accept the Heraclius hypothesis, it may be posited that the words malkā ḥrēnā were interpolated by a person who regarded Heraclius’s military victory against the Sasanians as a repetition of Alexander’s victory over the Persian Empire, and who wanted to emphasize the parallel between the two sovereigns by having Alexander predict the arrival of Heraclius. This possibility gains credibility in the light of scholarly suspicions about the

The 940 ag Prophecy  37 possible interpolation of the entire sentence about the year 940 ag, and in light of the fact that the “other king” does not have a well-​defined function in the narrative. As noted, the role of this figure is mysterious: the text says nothing about what acts—​if any—​he is expected to accomplish. Moreover, there is no reason to rule out the possibility that the words malkā ḥrēnā function as a direct object instead of subject. As I will explain below, the only apparent verb in the sentence, hwyʾ, does not concord grammatically with a masculine subject like malkā. Thus, no element in the text unequivocally indicates that the “other king” is an active agent in the sentence, nor that the actions hypothetically attributed to him concerned the opening of Alexander’s gate. As for the other passage analyzed by Greisiger, and specifically the description of the key, this motif may be taken as a statement of God’s control over sacred history. The author may have wanted to remind his readers that the final Hunnic raids are part of God’s plan for human salvation, and they are thus an event that mankind can neither prevent nor facilitate. Even if Alexander’s gate is a human artifact, in the end it is God and only God who can decree its opening for the accomplishment of Gog and Magog’s eschatological invasion. That said, even if one accepts Greisiger’s interpretation and reads the passage as an assertion of Heraclius’s innocence about the Kök Turks’ offensive, there is another complication: if this were the case, how can one reconcile the author’s belief that the gate will not be opened by a human hand and Greisiger’s claim that the text originally portrayed “the other king” as opening that very same gate? Following Greisiger, in its original form the text would have informed us that “the other king” opened Alexander’s gate, but then claimed that the gate could not be opened with the key made by Alexander. Why would the author insert two contradictory statements in his narrative? The problem is not solved by Greisiger’s assumption that the omission of the verb was accomplished only at a second stage by the “redactor of all the extant manuscripts’ prototype,” as it still implies that the text originally included two mutually contradictory elements. The only way to solve the problem would be to postulate that the redactor also introduced the motif of the key into the text. However, this possibility is improbable. In fact, the motif of Alexander’s key is mentioned in another passage of the Neṣḥānā. Specifically, after erecting of the gate and before declaring his prophecy, Alexander is said to have anchored to the rocks a key twelve cubits long. Nothing in the text suggests that any of these mentions of the key motif was inserted in the narration at a later point. As for Greisiger’s claim that the prophecy about the final destruction of the kingdom of the Huns was inserted to exculpate Heraclius from his involvement with the Kök Turks, nothing in this passage points to such an intention. Rather, the prediction signals the author’s expectations about the future and his hope that Byzantium’s Turkic and Persian rivals will destroy each other. As we will see later in this study, this expectation has its roots in the political and military

38  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate situation of the sixth century. In the end, Greisiger has the merit to have drawn attention to a passage of the Neṣḥānā that had been little investigated by previous scholars. However, his solution to the problem does not stand the scrutiny of textual analysis. Let us return to hwyʾ. Hwy’ may be read as hāwyā, feminine active participle of hwā (“to be”), in which case it may refer to some future happening. For instance, the Peshitta on Matthew 12:45 and James 5:3 adopts hāwyā to translate ἔσται (“it will be”); in Matthew 13:22, 32, Mark 4:19, 32, and Luke 11:26, hāwyā is used to translate γίνεται (“it becomes”); whereas in Luke 21:13, hāwyā is used to translate ἀποβήσεται (“it will result”).22 The problem with understanding hwyʾ as hāwyā is that there is no appropriate subject in the syntagm. The only possible subject in the sentence would be malkā ḥrēnā, “another king,” which, as a masculine noun, does not agree with hāwyā, a feminine verbal form. Thus, even if one accepts the equation hwyʾ =​ hāwyā, one must still speculate that the original subject of the sentence—​a feminine noun—​was lost in the process of textual transmission. As for the relationship between the hypothetically lost subject and the “other king” mentioned in the sentence, it depends on whether one wants to understand the words malkā ḥrēnā as part of the original core of the text or as an interpolation, for the reasons discussed above. In the former case, the loss of an additional syntactic element—​a verb or a preposition—​would explain the relationship between the two components. Alternatively, we may read hwyʾ as a misreading of hwnyʾ (‫)ܗܘܢܝܐ‬, “Huns,” caused by a scribal failure in writing the “n.” This reading is supported by the fact that the word hwnyʾ figures in the previous prophecy about year 846 ag. If this reading is correct, then the Huns would also be the subject of the second prophecy. But what about the verb? What are the Huns supposed to do? We do not know. In this scenario, we must still speculate that a component of the text was lost in transmission. Perhaps, the prophecy originally implied that the Huns would return; or that they would accomplish actions affecting the “other king,” who in this case would be the direct object of the missing verb. The only thing that is sure is that if hwyʾ =​ hwnyʾ, then the sentence lacks a verb. Be that as it may, either a subject or a verb is missing from the text. Up to this point I agree with Greisiger that the syntactic ambiguities of the sentence about 940 ag result from the omission of a key component of the text. However, I disagree about the reason for this omission. The text contains no indication whatsoever that the missing element was excluded to exculpate Heraclius for his involvement with the Turks. Moreover, my analysis has identified weaknesses and contradictions in Greisiger’s reconstruction. What then are the events that led to the loss of some key elements, in the absence of which the sentence about 940 ag has no full meaning? I think that the answer is found in the very same temporal construct that characterizes this sentence.

The 940 ag Prophecy  39 Like scholars before me, I am inclined to consider the reference to the year 940 ag as an interpolation. The structure of the 940 ag prediction invites this interpretation. Indeed, the prediction nearly repeats the syntactic structure of the 826 ag prognostication. One finds the same temporal construct “at the accomplishment of . . . years” (l-​šwlmʾ d-​. . . šnyn) appearing in both sentences. It is easy to imagine how someone could formulate the temporal expression “at the accomplishment of 940 years” on the model of the sentence “at the accomplishment of 826 years,” already present in the text. This textual manipulation resulted—​I believe—​in the omission of a verb or a subject. There are two possibilities for the hypothetical original sentence, depending on how one understands hwyʾ and whether one treats malkā ḥrēnā as belonging or not to the original core of the text: ‫ ] ܡܐ‬. . . [ ‫ܘܬܘܒ ܟܬܒܬ ܘܐܘܕܥܬ ܘܐܬܢܒܝܬ ܕܗܘܝܐ‬ ‫( ܕܫܠܡ ܥܠܡܐ‬1) “I have also written, announced and prophesied that [something] will occur when the world will end” +​rest of the prophecy on the final events. ‫ ] ܡܐ‬. . . [ ‫ܘܬܘܒ ܟܬܒܬ ܘܐܘܕܥܬ ܘܐܬܢܒܝܬ ܕܗܘܢܝܐ‬ ‫( ܕܫܠܡ ܥܠܡܐ‬2) “I have also written, announced and prophesied that the Huns [will do something] when the world will end” +​rest of the prophecy on the final events.

This reading is supported by several considerations, literary and historical. Let us start by investigating the performativity of the individual components of Alexander’s prophecy. Attention should be focused on the 826 ag prediction and on its function in the text in its current shape. One must consider the extent to which this prophecy would be functional or dysfunctional in the overall narrative and in the author’s agenda, if the text were a single narrative block with no interpolations—​and thus originally including also the 940 ag prediction. Van Bladel, who considers the text of Alexander’s prophecy as a coherent textual unit, observes that the first date “holds no importance in the narrative.”23 According to him, the 826 ag prophecy “serves just as a key for the contemporary audience of the text that they can use to verify the accuracy of the second, more elaborate prophecy, associated with a later date.”24 In other words, the first prophecy increases Alexander’s prophetic credentials and thus enhances the persuasive power of his second prophecy. If this is so, several questions arise.

40  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate The enhancement of prophetic credentials comes at a price, likely higher than what the author of the 940 ag prophecy would have probably felt compelled to pay. Indeed, the 826 ag prediction carries with it the unpleasant implication that the magnificent gate erected by the mighty Alexander would not hold water. The gate would not be able to contain the Hunnic incursions, and other invasions would precede the one predicted for the End of Time. Our author acknowledges this embarrassing situation, but he struggles to account for it. In the description of the construction of the gate, our author adds the odd detail about the space left for the passage of foot soldiers beneath the gate. Although this breach in a defensive system may echo ancient descriptions of the fortifications at Dariali, the author’s justification for including this detail might have been his desire to explain why Hunnic invasions would occur, notwithstanding Alexander’s erection of marvelous fortifications. The same motivation lies behind the opening of Alexander’s prophecy, namely, with a prediction of an undated Hunnic incursion which, just like that of 826 ag, will conclude with the invaders returning to their homeland. Our author wanted to make it clear from the beginning that other invasions would precede the one expected to happen toward the End of Time, when God will decree the collapse of Alexander’s gate. This uncomfortable explanation for what appears to be the mediocre capacities of Alexander’s defensive system most likely points to an author in a specific circumstance: someone aware of Hunnic incursions happened during, or slightly before, his lifetime, invasions that did not (literally) open the door to the beginning of the eschatological process. This author knew that the final invasion expected for the End of Time had not yet taken place. This is not the profile of the author of the 940 ag prophecy drawn by van Bladel, who considers the second prediction to be related to the more general vaticinium on the final events that follows in the text. According to him, the author of the prophecy believed that the Turkic invasions of 626–​629—​which allegedly occurred only a few months or years before the time the author was writing—​coincided with Gog and Magog’s final raids. In this case, however, why would the author insert a prophecy about a Hunnic invasion that happened more than a century earlier, an invasion that did not play any role in the realization of the eschatological drama? Such a prediction has more disadvantages than advantages. As a matter of fact, the date provided for the second prophecy (i.e., 940 ag) is accurate enough to convince the reader that the invasion predicted by Alexander was the invasions of 626–​629 ce, whereas the earlier prophecy puts the author in the embarrassing situation highlighted above. In other words, within the text in its current form, the 826 ag prophecy is highly dysfunctional. Someone convinced that the current invasion was the last one would likely prefer to bury any mention of earlier incursions that might cause the reader to question Alexander’s achievement of building his gate. Of course, one might argue that the author still felt compelled to provide an

The 940 ag Prophecy  41 explanation for the Hunnic invasions that occurred in previous centuries. One should consider, however, another problematic element of the single authorship hypothesis, namely the accuracy of the author’s historical memory. Consider the words that open Alexander’s prophecy: “The Huns will come out and will subjugate the lands of the Romans and of the Persians. They will shoot arrows b’rmgsṭ’, then they will turn around and return to their country.” This first prediction probably refers to the great Hunnic invasion of 395. Like the raids of 515, the invasion of 395 ravaged the native land of the author of the Neṣḥānā.25 Unlike the events of 515, however, the author cannot precisely identify the time of the first invasion to which he alludes, as is suggested by the fact that he leaves the prediction undated. The vagueness surrounding this first prophecy is not surprising, since the author was writing at least twelve decades after the events, that is, after 515. From this perspective, however, one wonders how plausible it is that a person living after 626, that is, after the date indicated in the 940 ag prediction, would have dated with precision a Hunnic incursion occurring eleven decades earlier, in 826 ag/​515 ce, an invasion whose impact was a pale reflection of the great invasion of 395. It is more likely that the original author of the text was writing only a few decades after the events of 515 (as was the author of the 940 ag prediction, which was interpolated shortly after the Turkic invasion of 626). Other arguments support this reading. Heraclius’s Turkic allies targeted Sasanian Transcaucasia. During the first wave of the invasion, in 626, the Turks raided Albania and Atropatene.26 A year later, in 627, the Turks broke through the Sasanian fortifications at Darband and, after joining forces with Heraclius’s army, they laid siege to Tiflis (Tbilisi), the capital of Iberia. The city was not conquered, but the joint Roman-​Turkic coalition ravaged the surrounding area before departing.27 The armies of the Khagan reappeared in front of the city walls the following year, in 628. The city could not repel this second siege and was captured and plundered by the Turkic soldiers. The Turks only withdrew in 629, when, after a brief attempt to annex Albania, they were recalled to the Central Asian steppes to deal with a dynastic crisis.28 Unsurprisingly, in 626–​629 the fury of Heraclius’s Turkic allies was directed against those Transcaucasian territories traditionally tied to the Sasanians, but spared the Transcaucasian provinces traditionally under Roman administration. This scenario is not consistent with the information received by Alexander from the old men in the Neṣḥānā, who repeatedly report that the Huns targeted both Persian and Roman territories. More important, in the Neṣḥānā the narrative about the Hunnic incursions focuses on the tributary rivers of the Tigris in the Roman province of Armenia Quarta, with a specific focus on the region around Olor and Bahalot/​Belabitene. These are not the lands reached by the raids of 626–​629. These are the territories ravaged by the Sabir Huns in 515. It is to these raids that the author of the Neṣḥānā refers when he describes the old men

42  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate answering Alexander’s question as to whether the Huns had invaded their territories during their lifetime: “these fortifications which were destroyed in our land and in the land of the Romans were destroyed by them; by them were uprooted these towers.”29 In the mind of the author, these raids must have happened in the recent past, and, as a native of the area, it is likely that he personally witnessed the devastations wrought by the Huns in 515. The text contains other indications that the events of 515 or shortly after serve as the background of the story of Alexander’s gate. In addition to Gog and Magog, the Neṣḥānā lists the names of other thirteen Hunnic kings. Most of these names are not identifiable, and one has the impression that at least some of them are literary fabrications of the author. However, one or two names seem to be based on actual historical figures. The first is a certain Hunnic chieftain—​probably a Sabir—​who conducted diplomatic relations between both the Romans and the Persians shortly after the Sabir incursions of 515.30 This chieftain acquired a certain notoriety among Byzantine historians for accepting money in exchange for military services from both the Romans and the Persians. His duplicity resulted in his execution by the Sasanians in 520.31 His name is reported in the sources as either Zilgibis (Ζιλγίβις) or Ziligdes (Ζιλίγδης)—​both names are spelled in a variety of ways in the manuscript tradition.32 The second case is another Hunnic chieftain whose name is reported by Byzantine chroniclers in reference to events occurring around 527. This Hun, an ally of Kavadh, was defeated in battle by the Sabir queen Boa, an ally of Justinian.33 The name of the chieftain is once again reported differently in sources, either Glom (Γλώμ) or Glones (Γλώνης).34 The fluidity in the transcription into Greek of the names of these Hunnic leaders is not an isolated case. Many variations are reported in sources for the names of other North Caucasian Hunnic chieftains. Apparently, it was difficult for Greek chroniclers to transcribe these foreign names. It is hard to establish the original names behind the transcriptions examined above. Peter Golden suggests Oğulom for Glom/​Glones, but he finds no satisfactory explanation for Zilgibis/​Ziligdes.35 Be that as it may, Hellenized calques of these names seem to be echoed in the Neṣḥānā as the names of two of the fifteen Hunnic kings. The name Slgdw recalls that of Zilgibis/​Ziligdes and the name Gmly recalls that of Glom/​Glones. Since the author was aware of the Sabir invasion of 515, it is not surprising that he may have had knowledge of two North Caucasian Hunnic leaders who became (in-​)famous in the immediate aftermath of those events. These references to contemporary Hunnic chieftains support the hypothesis of a sixth-​century contextualization of the text. The above observations about geographic and onomastic elements in the Neṣḥānā indicate that hints to early sixth-​century Hunnic invasions are not confined to the passage containing the 826 ag prediction. References to those events in other passages of the text would exclude the possibility—​about which the

The 940 ag Prophecy  43 reader might have been wondering—​that the passage containing the 826 ag prediction was interpolated as well. At the same time, for the reasons exposed in the following pages and chapters, the sixth century appears as the context in which the story of Alexander’s eschatological gate against Gog and Magog was shaped. In fact, sources suggest that the motif of Alexander’s iron gates had already been associated with the Sabir invasions of 515 in the sixth century. John Malalas reports that the Sabir Huns broke into Byzantine provinces after passing through the Caspian Gates.36 Malalas does not mention Alexander in relation to the Gates, but it is plausible that he was familiar with the traditional attribution of their construction to the Macedonian king, which was widely known in the sixth century. Malalas’s contemporaries, Procopius37 and Jordanes,38 attribute the construction of the Caspian Gates to Alexander, although neither mentions his gates in relation to the Sabir invasion of 515. It stands to reason, however, that this connection could arise in the mind of a contemporary writer like the author of the Neṣḥānā, who witnessed those events, who may plausibly have thought that the Sabir forces had passed through the iron gates built by King Alexander in the past. The reference by John of Ephesus to a gelyānā “foretelling” of these Hunnic raids represents another piece of the puzzle.39 Despite the doubts that I have expressed above about John’s report, the fact that he associates the invasion of 515 with a prognostication of future events suggests that his contemporaries understood those events in apocalyptic terms. It is likely that John’s contemporaries associated Hunnic attacks of 515 to the New Testament motif of Gog and Magog. Recall that it was specifically during the sixth century that writers like Andreas of Caesarea and Oecumenius started the rehabilitation of the Book of Revelation in the Eastern Christian hemisphere, that is, the principal scriptural promulgator of the apocalyptic image of Gog and Magog. In a period of acute chiliastic anxieties, as during the reign of Justinian, a retroactive examination of the recent Sabir invasion easily may have generated apocalyptic interpretations. The story of Alexander’s gate in the Neṣḥānā reflects mid-​sixth-​century cultural ideas. At the same time, the episode of the gate in the Neṣḥānā not only situates the recent Hunnic invasion within the framework of sacred history, but also addresses specific historical events that were unfolding during his lifetime (see below). Most recent scholars have paid little attention to the first prognostication in Alexander’s prophecy (i.e., the 826 ag prediction), no doubt because they prefer to set the text within the framework of Heraclius’s reign. The previous century as a possible context for the Syriac composition has been almost completely ignored. The reference to a Hunnic invasion that occurred in the sixth century has mostly been considered a memory of the past, inserted in the text to provide prophetical authority according to the mechanism of the vaticinium ex eventu. Nonetheless, as noted, for many reasons, the events of 515 provide a much better

44  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate background for the narrative than those of 626–​629. In my view, the ambiguous sentence about 940 ag represents an attempt to adapt the story narrated in the Neṣḥānā to the events of the third decade of the seventh century. The 940 ag prediction was added by someone who wished to insert a reference to the Kök Turks’ invasions of 626–​629 ce. This task was facilitated by the fact that the text of Alexander’s prophecy addressed a similar invasion that occurred in the previous century, that is, the Sabir incursion of 515 ce. The original text of Alexander’s prophecy must have included only one prediction ex eventu—​concerning the invasion of 515—​which was followed by a genuine prognostication about the final raids of the Huns, inspired by the motif of Gog and Magog. The prediction about this great Hunnic invasion that was expected to occur at the End of Time likely prompted the interpolation. It is plausible that the author of the 940 ag prediction understood the recent Turkic raids as a realization of Alexander’s prophecy and identified the Kök Turks’ invasion of 626–​629 with the final attack of Gog and Magog predicted by Alexander. Van Bladel has carefully reconstructed the cultural and historical scenario in which the motif of Alexander’s eschatological gate first achieved wide circulation, that is, in the seventh century.40 In general, I welcome his insights as a sign of renewed interest in the Neṣḥānā in that period. However, the story of Alexander’s wall and the related prediction in the Neṣḥānā originally had nothing to do with the events of Darband and with the Turkic invasions of 626–​629. It was due to later developments that the episode of Alexander’s gate in the Neṣḥānā came to be read in light of the context of Heraclius’s reign. The events of 626–​629 made the Neṣḥānā attractive reading, since the narrative elements in the text could be “recycled” to address the current political situation. It was at this time that the passage of Alexander’s prophecy concerning the Hunnic invasion of 940 ag (i.e., 626–​629 ce) was interpolated into the text. Once the interpolation is excluded, there is nothing in the Syriac work that can be unequivocally linked to the 630s. By contrast, the previous century represents a much more suitable context for the episode of Alexander’s gate described in the Neṣḥānā. As we will see in the following chapters, the Syriac text addresses the military and political situation at the time of Justinian.

4

The Story of Alexander’s Gate and the Political Context of the Sixth Century By the time the author of the Neṣḥānā was writing, the area traditionally identified as the location of Alexander’s iron gates had become a matter of contention between Byzantines and Sasanians. In particular, a dispute emerged in the fifth century over Sasanian control of the Caspian Gates and, specifically, over Sasanian claims to be defending both empires against Hunnic raids. In exchange for this (alleged) service, the Sasanians repeatedly demanded payments from the Romans, while the Romans repeatedly rejected their requests. These quarrels over the surveillance of the Caucasian passes intensified in the sixth century and became a major source of contention. The lack of well-​defined agreements on this issue came to represent a primary cause—​or at least a pretext—​for the outbreak of conflicts between the two empires.1 The premise of the conflict, however, originated in earlier times, probably in the last part of the fourth century. It is useful to retrace the principal stages through which this dispute evolved in order to achieve a better understanding of the context in which the Syriac author was writing and to focus on the political issues that he meant to address. What follows is a long (albeit necessary) excursus on this question.

Claims, Conflicts, and Treaties over the Defense of the Caspian Gates Recent archaeological investigations and radiocarbon dating analyses have shown that fortifications were erected at the Dariali Gorge between 390 and 396 ce—​probably on the bases of an earlier fortress that was demolished to make room for the new one.2 In all likelihood, the establishment of this defense system is connected to the great Hunnic invasion of 395 ce. It is not clear, however, whether the pass was fortified in response to the raids, or if the Huns broke through it before the fortifications were completed. Archaeological data do not indicate what political entity promoted the (re-​)fortification of the Dariali Gorge at the end of the fourth century, but sources indicate that it was the Persians who built the fortress there. John Lydus (d. after 552) mentions talks held between Byzantines and Sasanians at this time, to seek an agreement on the defense of The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0005

46  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate the pass from “the barbarians who were overrunning it.”3 Lydus talks about a project to jointly patrol the area by establishing two fortresses—​one built by each empire. No agreement was reached, however, and only the Persians would eventually erect fortifications to guard the pass “insofar as they were more exposed to the barbarians’ incursions.”4 As we will see below, there are good reasons to doubt the historicity of most elements in Lydus’s report. However, the information that he provides about the construction of a Persian fort at the Dariali Pass seems to be accurate. According to him, the fortress bore the name of Biraparakh (βιραπαράχ), a toponym that occurs (with slight variations) in other contemporary sources. Priscus (d. after 472) mentions a Persian fort called Ioureiopaach (Ἰουροειπαάχ) located at the Caspian Gates,5 and in the Syriac translation of the Alexander Romance Darius writes to the Indian King Porus, asking him to send soldiers to the Caspian Gates, here called Vīrūphagar.6 Moreover, Lydus records that the Biraparakh fort was built to stop ongoing incursions of barbarians, here probably referring to the Hunnic invasion of 395.7 If so, then his indication matches the dates and the data established by the archaeological excavations at the Dariali Gorge. Other sources confirm the establishment of a Persian fortress in the area from at least the first half of the fifth century. The Armenian historian Łazar P‘arpec‘i (second half of the fifth century) reports a letter from the Armenian noble Vasak Siwni (d. 452) to the Armenian leader Vardan Mamikonian (d. 451). In the letter Vasak confirms that he had been in control of the “Alan/​Albanian Pass” (i.e., the Dariali Pass) when he was marzpān of Albania.8 From the letter reported by Łazar, we can ascertain that in the mid-​fifth century a Sasanian officer was entrusted with the administration of the Dariali Gorge. Sasanian control over the Pass in that period finds further confirmation in a notice reported by Priscus, according to whom an attack of the Saraguri was diverted in 463, when the nomadic people arrived at the Caspian Gates and “found that the Persians had established a fort there.”9 Earlier in his work, Priscus informs us about the Ioureiopaach fort located at the Caspian Gates, and in the subsequent lines he reports that the Persians demanded a Roman subvention to defend this fortress, probably in 467, after an attack of the Saraguri—​who, in spite of the fortifications that they encountered at the Gates, advanced along another route and raided Iberia and Armenia.10 When putting together all the information provided by Priscus, it stands to reason that the fortifications encountered by the Saraguri at the Caspian Gates were none other than the Ioureiopaach fort, and that by the term “Caspian Gates,” Priscus means the Dariali Gorge, where the fortress of Biraparakh/​Ioureiopaach was located. It thus appears that by the mid-​fifth century—​but likely by the end of the previous century—​Persian defense systems had been erected to seal the Dariali Pass. Material evidence confirms a Sasanian presence in the fort beginning in

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  47 the following century. Grave objects found at Dariali include Persian objects probably dating to the sixth century, including a coin featuring Kavadh I (r. 488–​ 496, 498–​531) dated to 529 ce.11 At the same time, the Sasanians may not have exercised continuous control over the pass, and they may have lost possession of the Biraparakh fort for a certain period of time. Procopius reports that during the reign of Anastasius I (r. 491–​518) the area was ruled by a Hun chieftain named Ambazuces. He adds that, toward the end of his life, Ambazuces offered to hand over the fortress and the Caspian Gates to the Romans, but Anastasius declined the offer because of the challenges of sustaining an army in that remote area. At this point, the Sasanians seized the occasion to regain control of the fortifications, and upon the death of Ambazuces, Kavadh I overpowered the latter’s sons.12 Sasanian interest in controlling the Dariali fortress was no doubt part of wider efforts by the Sasanian kingdom to secure the Caucasian passes against nomadic incursions. These efforts were not limited to the construction of the Biraparakh fortress. Archaeological excavations conducted during the 1970s at the site of the Khumara fortress, in the Kuban valley north of Karachayevsk, have exposed the ruins of a Zoroastrian fire temple, located at the gate of the fort and dating to the Sasanian period. Subsequent archaeological excavations in the early 1980s resulted in the discovery of further evidence of a Sasaninan presence in the area, specifically an inscription in Middle Persian attributing the construction of the fortress to a certain Bahrān.13 According to János Harmatta, Bahrān was a commander in chief of the Persian king Pērōz I (r. 459–​484) and the fort should be dated to the mid-​fifth century.14 By contrast, Gadjiev Murtazali argues that the Sasanian fortifications in the Kuban River valley were erected in the 560s, during the reign of Khosrow Anōshirvān.15 While the debate about its dating remains open, the Khumara fortress points to the presence of a Sasanian outpost in the northwestern Caucasus. Harmatta correctly regards these fortifications “as a faraway advanced military post that inhibited the approach to the Alān Gate [i.e., the Dariali Gorge].”16 The Persian fortresses at the Dariali Pass and in the Kuban valley were part of a complex system of fortifications built by the Sasanians on their northern limes. The walls at Darband are probably the most famous and best documented example of this defensive complex in the Caucasian area. Archaeologists have dated them to the reign of Yazdegard II (r. 438–​457), and specifically to the period between 439 and 450, the first Persian attempts to seal the pass between the western shore of the Caspian Sea and the eastern end of the Caucasus.17 These fortifications were destroyed in 450 during a rebellion of Armenians and Albanians. On that occasion, rebel troops marched to the Chor pass at Darband and killed the Sasanian garrison.18 The Armenian historian Ełishe (fifth or sixth century)19 reports that when Yazdegard received notice of the rebellion, he “was

48  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate exceedingly chagrined, not only over the ravaging of the lands and the loss of troops, but even more at the destruction of the Pass: only with difficulty over a long time had they been able to fortify it, but then it had been taken easily and razed, and there was no likelihood of its being rebuilt.”20 New walls were reconstructed during the second reign of Kavadh I (498–​531), and subsequently three building phases have been identified by archaeologists, the last one dating to the end of the reign of Khosrow Anōshirvān.21 This new, more extended, complex of fortifications may also have been motivated by the recession of the Caspian Sea by mid-​sixth century—​a natural phenomenon that arguably intensified the need to seal the passage exposed by the declining sea level.22 In sum, it appears that from at least the fifth century onward the Sasanian kingdom engaged in considerable efforts to secure its northern frontiers in the Caucasus.23 During the reign of Pērōz I (r. 459–​484), the extension of Sasanian control to almost the entire Transcaucasus redoubled the importance of exercising close control over the mountain passes to prevent nomadic raids.24 At the same time, control of the Caucasian routes also was important for the prevention or suppression of rebellions. At several stages in their clashes against the Sasanian occupiers, the local populations of Armenia, Iberia, and Albania sought the military support of Hunnic tribes from beyond the Caucasian rocky barrier. Similar circumstances are described in several sources. According to the fifth-​ century History of the Armenians, attributed to a certain Agat‘angełos, during a conflict against the founder of the Sasanian Empire, Ardashir I (r. 224–​242), the Armenian king Khosrov led a force of Armenians, Iberians, and Albanians against the Gates of the Alans (i.e., the Dariali Pass) and against the Guard of Chor (i.e., the Darband wall). This attack was directed at the mountain passes to provide access to Hunnic troops for raids into Persian territory. Similarly, Ełishe and Łazar P’arpec’i mention that after destroying the fortifications at Darband in 450, the leaders of the Armenian-​Albanian rebels sent an embassy to the Huns to stipulate an alliance against the Sasanians.25 Ełishe also reports that a few years later, ca. 459, during an anti-​Persian rebellion led by Vače, ruler of Albania, the Albanian rebels breached the Chor pass at Darband and encouraged Mazkʿutʿkʿ’s troops to raid Sasanian territory. At this point, however, probably between 461 and 463, the Persians enlisted the aid of a contingent of nomadic warriors to retaliate against the rebels, and Pērōz fomented the Xaĭlendur’s raids on Albanian territory through the Dariali Gorge.26 Thus, the fortresses that blocked the Caucasian passes not only prevented nomadic incursions, but also regulated them according to political needs. By establishing control of the mountain passes, the Persians could allow or block, at their convenience, the passage of allies or enemies. Once they achieved monopoly on these strategic corridors, the Sasanians had in their hands a powerful card to play at the foreign policy table, especially in their relationship

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  49 with the Byzantine Empire, whose eastern territories were also susceptible to Hunnic raids. Throughout the fifth century, the Sasanians sent ambassadors to Byzantium to demand financial and military contributions toward the defense of the Caspian Gates and to patrol the area against nomadic incursions. While it has occasionally been claimed that these excursions resulted in written agreements between the two empires, it is likely that no such entente was ever reached.27 Rather, the two superpowers engaged in frequent negotiations that in some periods resulted in temporary payments by the Byzantines in support of Sasanian military activities against the Huns on the northern frontiers. The passage cited above from John Lydus suggests that inconclusive talks were held from the last quarter of the fourth century. Lydus also reports that “this affair dragged on until the reign of our Emperor Anastasius [r. 491–​518], being talked over, decreed about and, in short, having been prevaricated over.”28 Other sources confirm that the Roman contribution to the defense of the Caucasian passes remained an open issue over the period of time indicated by Lydus. Priscus records that in 464–​465, Pērōz’s emissaries claimed that “the Romans, through a contribution of money, should show interest in the fortress of Ioureiopaach, situated at the Caspian Gates, or they should at least send soldiers to guard it.”29 As noted, the same request was repeated two years later, following the Saraguri raids in Iberia and Armenia, when the Sasanians asked for Roman subsidies to defend the Dariali Gorge. Priscus affirms that the Persian ambassadors “repeated what had often been said by their embassies, that since they were facing the fighting and refusing to allow access to the attacking barbarian peoples, the Romans’ territory remained unravaged.”30 The Sasanian requests were rejected, with the Romans claiming that each empire must defend its own lands. However, a few years later, during the reign of emperor Zeno (r. 474–​491), the Roman position apparently changed. According to Ps.-​Joshua the Stylite, Pērōz received Byzantine payments for his wars against the Hephtalite Huns.31 Indeed, Zeno provided money to pay the ransom of the Persian king, who, in 469, was captured in combat after suffering a major defeat by the Hephtalites. In the following years, Pērōz conducted other ill-​fated campaigns against the Huns, culminated in the disastrous battle of Herat in 484, during which the Sasanian sovereign died on the battlefield. Ps.-​ Joshua reports that after Pērōz’s death, Zeno ended the payments, rejecting the requests for money advanced by Pērōz’s brother, the new Persian king Balash (r. 484–​488). According to Ps.-​Joshua, Zeno rejected Balash’s demands because of the Sasanian refusal to surrender Nisibis, in disregard of a treaty that stipulated the return of the city to the Byzantines at the end of 120 years from its occupation by the Persians in 363.32 It is doubtful, however, that such a treaty ever existed. As Blockley observes, it is more likely that Zeno exploited the difficulties that the Sasanian empire was facing during the reign of Balash and during the first reign

50  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate of Kavadh (488–​496).33 One wonders whether the Byzantine decision to end the subsidies to the Persians for their military activities against the Huns was also connected to the Sasanian loss of control of the fortifications at Dariali, which probably occurred in that same period. Notably, it was only during the second reign of Kavadh (498–​531), and arguably after the Persians had reacquired control over the Dariali Gorge in the circumstances described above, that the Byzantines renewed payments for guarding the Caspian Gates. Either way, after being deposed by a court conspiracy in 496, Kavadh was restored to the throne with the help of the Hephtalites two years later, in 498.34 Kavadh reportedly approached Anastasius to ask for the money he needed to repay his Hunnic allies. According to Procopius, Anastasius’s advisors recommended against the concession of such payments, as they would further improve the relationship between Byzantium’s Sasanian rivals and the Hun Hephtalites. Instead, “it was better for the Romans”—​the advisors observed—​ “to disturb their relations as much as possible.”35 The Roman rebuttal of Persian demands provoked Kavadh’s decision to lead an expedition against the Byzantine Empire. War broke out in 502 and a seven-​year truce was proclaimed four years later, in 506.36 John Lydus informs us that the question of a Roman contribution to the defense of the Biraparakh fortress figured prominently in the truce negotiations. According to the Byzantine historian, “the strife came to an end when certain modest favours were granted to Kavadh by Anastasius.”37 As Blockley observes, “if Lydus is referring to the truce payments, then Kawad had achieved what his predecessors had failed to do by obtaining regular payments for seven years from the Romans, which were earmarked for the upkeep of the Caspian Gates.”38 However, Blockely points out that there is no unequivocal evidence indicating that the truce payments were formally linked to the defense of the Caucasian passes.39 Anastasius probably considered those payments as the price of the truce, as he likely preferred to avoid the establishment of a precedent for the payment of an annual subsidy to the Persians. Be that as it may, the agreement ended with the expiration of the truce in 513. The lack of a well-​defined agreement over the issue of the Caspian Gates would provide the Sasanians with the pretext to reopen hostilities fourteen years later, in 527. Zachariah of Mytilene (d. after 536) informs us that in that year, Kavadh sent an ambassador who “insistently made demands for the payment of the tribute of five gold centenaria which was given to him by the king of the Romans on account of the cost of the Persian army guarding the gates facing the Huns.”40 When the Roman refused, the Persian king ordered his Arab allies to plunder Byzantine territory. The Byzantines retaliated by attacking Arzanene. Hostilities continued for five years. The question of the Caspian Gates was brought up during the negotiations of 530. According to Procopius, during these talks, Kavadh reminded the Byzantine ambassador Rufinus about Anastasius’s refusal

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  51 to purchase the Caspian Gates because of the high cost of maintaining a garrison there. The Persian king then complained that the Romans were benefiting from the Persian efforts to secure the pass, but that the expenses were paid entirely by the Sasanians.41 Furthermore, since 505 the question of the defense of the Caucasian passes had intersected with another thorny issue in the relationship between the two empires. In that year, Anastasius ordered the construction of fortifications at the frontier village of Dara.42 As Kavadh complained to Byzantine diplomats, two armies were now required to defend the Persian borders: one against the Huns at the Caspian Gates, and one against the Byzantines in Dara. During the talks of 530, Kavadh demanded that either the fortifications at Dara should be dismantled, or the Byzantines should contribute to the maintenance of the defense of the Caspian Gates—​by sending either money or soldiers to guard them.43 Two years later, in 532, Justinian and the new Sasanian king, Kavadh’s son Khosrow Anōshirvān, signed a peace agreement. The treaty stipulated that the Romans withdraw the base of the dux of Mesopotamia from Dara to Constantia, that is, into Byzantine territory, further from the Sasanian border. The Romans also committed to pay the Sasanians the amount of 110 centenaria (ca. 11,000 pounds of gold). According to Procopius, Khosrow insisted that the purpose of that payment was to avoid compelling the Romans to either dismantle the fortifications at Dara or share the costs of the patrol of the Caspian Gates.44 It thus appears that Khosrow was continuing his father’s attempts to link the peace between the two empires to the Byzantine payment of subsidies—​ideally in the form of annual tributes—​for the Sasanian defense of the Caucasian passes. This disputed issue, however, was not solved by the treaty signed by the Persian king and Justinian. As noted, the title of “Eternal Peace” masked a fragile agreement that could not fulfill such optimistic expectations. In fact, the peace was ephemeral and short. A few years later, when the two empires reopened hostilities, the question of the Caspian Gates would still figure as a main source of contention. In 540, after the sacking of Antioch, Khosrow tried to extort additional money from Justinian for securing the Caucasian passes against the Huns. Procopius reports that Khosrow asked the Romans to pay an annual amount of gold, in return for which “the Persians will maintain a constant peace with them, guarding the Caspian Gates themselves and no longer feeling resentment towards them on account of the city of Dara.”45 An agreement was reached and the Sasanians retired from Antioch with fifty centenaria and the promise of an annual tribute of five centenaria to come. Twenty-​two years later, in 562, when the two emperors signed the so-​called Fifty-​Year Peace, the defense of the Caucasian passes again occupied a prominent position, appearing as the first clause of the treaty. According to Menander Protector (mid-​sixth century), the clause read as follows: “Through the pass at the place called Tzon and through the Caspian

52  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Gates the Persians shall not allow the Huns or Alans or other barbarians access to the Roman empire, nor shall the Romans either in this area or on any other Persian borderlands send an army against the Persians.”46 In the preliminary negotiations, the Romans had agreed to pay an annual amount of 30,000 gold numismata (ca. 400 pounds of gold).47 Notably, the Romans appear to have managed once again to keep this payment separate from the question of the defense of the Gates. As Blockley observes: “The yearly payments were not towards the defense of the Caucasus but for peace, on condition that the terms of the treaty were adhered to on both sides. The Persians, who had perhaps at this point completed a program of military colonization in the Caucasus, agreed to defend the area without designated remuneration; and this issue was never raised again.”48 This was indeed the last time—​at least according to sources—​that the Sasanians advanced demands for contributions to the defense of the Caspian Gates. In sum, the defense of the Caucasian borders from Hunnic incursions was a main point of contention between the two empires during the fifth and sixth centuries. The situation appears to have been exacerbated since the beginning of Kavadh’s second reign, in 498, when the Sasanians increasingly adopted the Roman refusals to provide subsidies as casus belli. Both Kavadh and his son Khosrow reportedly initiated hostilities when their demands for funds were declined. What is certain is that Sasanian attempts to extort money for the defense of the Caspian Gates preoccupied Justinian for most of his reign. One dispute between the two rivals concerned the manner in which the Roman payments to the Sasanians should be formally presented. Sources suggest a dynamic in which the Persians tried to establish a connection between the defense of the Gates and the gold received as part of the peace treaties, while the Romans tried to keep the two elements separate. Byzantine emperors were probably trying to avoid any agreement that would formalize the guarding of the Caucasian passes as a unilateral Persian endeavor funded by Roman gold, and rebutted Sasanian attempts to obtain regular payments by insisting on the extraordinary and time-​limited character of the subsidies.49 The main issue was probably the Roman desire to prevent these subventions from becoming permanent annual payments, since that might expose Byzantium to the risk of being represented as a tributary state of the Persians. The Romans had good reason to fear this outcome. Such humiliating conditions had already materialized in the third century, when the Roman purchase of peace was represented in Sasanian inscriptions and coins with Rome in a state of capitulation and submission.50 Tributes played a prominent role in Sasanian political culture, in which the payment of gold was equated to a status of subordination. This idea was refined at the Persian court during the late Sasanian period and found expression in the complex political cosmology of the Book of Kings. As Richard Payne observes: “In its mythologized representations

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  53 of Roman–​Iranian relations, the Book of Kings identified the payment of tribute as the means through which the reunification of the world could be realized without eliminating the rival systems of political leadership with which the Iranian kings had to contend.”51 Most likely the Byzantines did not understand the complexities of this ideological system, but they understood that payments to the Sasanians might be represented as a sign of political subjugation. Byzantine authors engage with this risk, which no doubt animated lively political discussions in Byzantine society. Ps.-​Joshua the Stylite categorically rebuts the idea that the subventions paid to the Persians at the time of Zeno were equivalent to tributes. He writes: “The kings of the Persians have been sending ambassadors and receiving gold for their needs; but it was not in the way of tribute that they received it, as many thought.”52 Ps.-​Joshua mentions a treaty between Byzantines and Sasanians that stipulated mutual assistance on the two empires in case of need. He also says that Romans respected this treaty by providing the Persians with money, even if they never found themselves in need of Persian help.53 Ps.-​Joshua clearly tries to attribute the Sasanian collection of Byzantine money to their weakness, not to their political superiority. In spite of the report’s underlying agenda, Ps.-​Joshua’s reference to a mutual aid agreement has some credibility. In chapter XVIII of his Chronicle, John Malalas twice refers to a similar arrangement. The author quotes a letter that Khosrow allegedly sent to Justinian in 529. In the letter, the Persian king refers to a written document—​purportedly found among the Sasanian records—​stating that the two empires committed to provide mutual military or financial help upon request. Khosrow complained that the Roman emperors Anastasius and Justin (r. 518–​527) did not observe this agreement, and he affirmed that this was the reason that the Persians had opened hostilities.54 Later in the same chapter, Malalas reports that, in 532, when Justinian and Khosrow signed the Eternal Peace, “the two rulers agreed and said explicitly in the treaty that they were brothers according to the ancient custom and that if one of them needed military assistance in money or men, they should provide it without dispute.”55 The broad outlines of the entente mentioned by Malalas are similar to the agreement reported by Ps.-​Joshua the Stylite. It may be that both authors refer to actual contemporary arrangements on the table of “international” relations between the two empires. If the Eternal Peace did in fact include such a clause, it would have given the Persians the right to ask for financial or military subsidies in case of necessity, and the Sasanians would have been authorized by law to demand payments for the defense of the Caucasian passes. Such a compromise may have functioned to prevent the payments made to the Persians from being turned into regular tributes and, ultimately, to avoid the risk of being presented as tributary vassals. As Blockley observes, “the form would not be offensive to the Romans, since, providing the payments did not become regular, the Persians

54  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate could not represent them as a one-​sided commitment.”56 However, it is also possible that similar arrangements never existed and that both Ps.-​Joshua and Malalas report a similar literary artifact, which was elaborated in order to provide a semblance of legal legitimacy to the Roman payments and to avoid the portrayal of these payments as tributes to the Persians. Be that as it may, fears of being reduced to a tributary status continued to pervade Byzantine political discourse. Procopius articulates this fear in the reported dialogue between the Byzantine ambassadors and Khosrow during the negotiation of Antioch in 540. After hearing Khosrow’s request for annual payments, the Roman diplomats said: “So the Persians desire to hold the Romans liable to the payment of tribute to them.”57 Khosrow responded: “No, but the Romans will have the Persians as their own soldiers for the future, providing them with a fixed payment for their service; for you provide an annual payment of gold to some of the Huns and to the Saracens, not as tributary subjects to them, but in order that they may guard your land unplundered for all time.”58 It is unlikely that Khosrow ever uttered these words or that he compared the annual tribute he demanded to the payments made by the Romans to Hunnic and Arab tribes. Rather, the ideology described above, which represented the Roman Caesar as a subject or a tributary partner of the Persian king of kings, provided the intellectual framework for Khosrow’s insistence in demanding a tribute from Byzantium. The words that Procopius puts in Khosrow’s mouth can hardly represent the rationale of the Sasanian king. Clearly, the Byzantine historian is addressing a Roman audience and he has a specific agenda. He wants to reassure the reader that the annual payments by the Byzantines for the liberation of Antioch would not turn into a permanent tribute to the Sasanians. To this end, Procopius makes Khosrow himself argue against this possibility, and he even inverts the situation. In his dialogue, the Persian king offers the services of his army to the Romans, as if they were mercenary troops. The dialogue puts the Sasanians on the same level as the Arab and Hunnic contingents that patrolled Byzantine border territories in exchange for money. Procopius goes to great lengths to present the issue of the Caspian Gates in a way that does not shed negative light on Byzantine policy. The above-​mentioned report about Anastasius’s refusal to purchase control over the Dariali Pass from the Hun Ambazuces functions as an explanation for the Romans’ lack of direct involvement in the defense of the Caucasian passes. The text represents Anastasius’s decision as a wise, rational choice dictated by the emperor’s awareness of the logistical difficulties in sustaining a garrison stationed far from Roman territory. One suspects that Procopius may have sought to deflect criticisms from elements in Byzantine society who may have wanted to see the empire pursuing a more aggressive policy in the Caucasus and not to leave the Persians with a monopoly over the control of the strategic mountain passes.

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  55 Among the Byzantine authors who wrote about the Caspian Gates controversy, John Lydus is the one who adopts the most polemical tones. Willingness to address and reject Sasanian attempts to extort Roman money surely shaped his hostility. This agenda is clearly at play in the passage of the De magistratibus populi romani in which Lydus describes the talks allegedly held by Byzantines and Sasanians in the late fourth century to establish an entente for the defense of the Caucasian area. Lydus not only explains how the Caspian Gates issue originated, but also demonstrates the groundlessness of Sasanian requests. In fact, Lydus attributes the entire problem of the defense of the Caucasian mountain passes to Sasanian ineptitude and inability to guard a territory that—​before Julian’s ill-​ fated Persian campaign of 363—​belonged to the Romans. According to Lydus: as long as the Romans controlled Artaxata and the regions even beyond, they were able, since they were on the spot, to resist them [the barbarians who might come through the Caspian Gates]. But when they evacuated these and other regions under Jovian, the Persians were unable to defend both their own and the former Roman territory, and unbearable turmoil constantly gripped the Armenians subject to each state.59

Here Lydus implies that responsibility for preventing Hunnic invasions through the Caucasian passes lay upon the shoulders of the political entity in control of the area—​a role that the Romans had performed as long as they were present in the region. He also emphasizes that the Sasanian interest in establishing a garrison at the Dariali Gorge was motivated by their exposure to the risk of attack through the Gates. Implicitly, he dismisses the benefits that the Romans would derive from the Persian fortification and defense of the pass. Finally, when acknowledging that Roman payments were made at the time of Anastasius, he emphasizes that the emperor conceded these payments “for the sake of peace” and not to honor agreements previously stipulated with the rival empire. Lydus apparently considered any kind of treaty covering the issue raised by the Sasanians as illegitimate in the first place. When he describes the events allegedly occurring in the fourth century, Lydus keeps an eye on the present, as clearly emerges—​among other things—​from his reference to Kavadh’s attempts to obtain payments from Justin, which immediately precedes his report on the beginning and developments of the Gates controversy.60 His attention to contemporary circumstances, however, calls into question the historical accuracy of the situation he describes. Apart from what he tells us about the establishment of a Persian fortress at the Dariali Gorge—​ which, as we have seen, seems to be reliable—​several elements of his report are suspect and find no confirmation in other sources.61 In fact, no other author mentions any diplomatic discussion over the defense of the Caspian Gates for

56  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate the period indicated by Lydus. Although early talks may very well have occurred, the way in which they are presented is clearly influenced by the political discourse of the mid-​sixth century. More critically, it appears that several “facts” provided by Lydus do not relate to actual events that occurred in the late fourth or early fifth century, but are instead a back-​projection of contemporary historical circumstances. Consider, for instance, what Lydus says about the Sasanian attack on Syria and Cappadocia as a retaliation for the Roman failure to build their fortress and to seal the Caucasian pass. This information is dubious for several reasons. First, Lydus reports that the Byzantine emperor Theodosius I (r. 379–​395) sent a certain Sporacius (whom he identifies as “the first Sporacius”) to negotiate with the Persians. This name is not attested in other sources—​although it has been conjectured that the Roman diplomat sent by Theodosius was an ancestor of Flavius Sporacius, consul in 452.62 Second, no other source refers to any Persian aggression on Byzantine territory in the period indicated by Lydus. Andreas Luther suggests that Lydus may be referring to the great Hunnic invasion of 395.63 If so, the circumstances described by the Byzantine author still appear suspect. In fact—​and third—​the idea that the Sasanians opened hostilities to retaliate for the Roman refusal to contribute to the defense of the Caspian Gates appears to be informed by events that were happening during Lydus’s lifetime. Specifically, it recalls Kavadh’s and Khosrow’s policy to consider as casus belli the Byzantine rejections of their demands for funds. Thus, it appears that Lydus is rewriting the past in light of the present. Other elements in Lydus’s report strengthen this conclusion. For instance, the claim that the two empires contemplated a project to join forces to construct two fortresses at the Dariali Gorge is dubious. The talks in which this project would have been discussed allegedly occurred at a time when the two superpowers had just reached an agreement about the reciprocal spheres of influence in the Caucasus—​notoriously, the treaty of 363, which sanctioned the Roman expulsion from Armenia.64 It is doubtful that any of the contenders would have encouraged any kind of military presence of the rival in the region. As Blockley observes: “It is hard to see why the Persians, one of whose objectives in the treaty of 363 was to get the Romans out of Armenia and who complained strongly when they began to interfere in 369–​370, would have been willing to recognize a legitimate Roman interest in the area at such an early date.”65 Rather than referring to events that occurred in the fourth century, Lydus likely modeled his report on contemporary events. The idea of a joint defense of the Caucasian passes echoes the agreements described by Ps.-​Joshua the Stylite and Malalas about the commitments of the two empires to provide mutual military assistance.66 And Lydus’s words find partial parallels in the above-​mentioned passage of Procopius’s Wars, in which

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  57 Kavadh complains to the Roman ambassador Rufinus about the Roman refusal to either dismantle the Dara fortifications or “that the army sent to the Caspian Gates should be sent by both of us.”67 It thus appears that the idea of a shared defense of the Gates was in the air at the time of Justinian and it is probable that Lydus projected this idea backwards to the time when the dispute over the Caucasian passes originated. His report on the Caspian Gates is therefore a product of historical revisionism that weaves together notices of past events and elements of contemporary political discourse in a description of the origins and the developments of the controversy, with the clear intention of rejecting the Sasanian demands for subsidies.

Back to the Neṣḥānā Clearly, the defense of the Caucasian passes and the Sasanian demands to obtain Roman subventions figure as prominent elements in relations between the two empires during the fifth and, especially, the sixth centuries. This unsolved political problem also generated much controversy and gave rise to an intense debate in Byzantine society, as attested by the authors analyzed above. The circumstances relating to the disputes over the defense of the Caspian Gates should be considered as background for the emergence of the story of Alexander’s gate in the Neṣḥānā. This is apparent from a passage in the Syriac work, toward the end of the text, which describes the peace talks between Alexander and Tūbarlaq after a battle fought by the Greeks and the Persians. After defeating Tūbarlaq and agreeing to a peace treaty, Alexander reaches an agreement with the defeated enemy in order to establish a joint defense of the gate that he erected in the Caucasus. According to this entente, the two kings agree to send six thousand soldiers each to guard the gate, and to share the costs of provisions for these troops—​with each sovereign committing to provide food and drink for his soldiers. This passage of the Neṣḥānā echoes the long and controversial attempts between Constantinople and Ctesiphon to reach an agreement over the defense of the Caspian Gates from attacks by the nomads from Central Asia. Several aspects of the agreement stipulated by Alexander and Tūbarlaq point to the influence of Byzantine political discourse. For instance, the mutual entente is presented as a supplement to the conditions which Alexander accepts to end to the conflict and to let Tūbarlaq live. It is only after the terms of the peace have been established that the two kings sit and discuss the possibility of a joint defense against the Huns. Notably, the author of the Neṣḥānā does not connect the entente reached by the two former enemies over the question of the gate to the fifteen-​year tribute that the Persian king committed to pay to Alexander in exchange for peace (and for his life). For the author of the Neṣḥānā, the defense of

58  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Alexander’s gate is independent from the maintenance of peace with his Persian adversary. The author’s position appears to reflect precisely the Byzantine point of view on the much-​debated issue of the Caspian Gates and follows the way in which the Byzantines tried to deal with it during their negotiations with the Sasanians, that is, their efforts to keep the question of the Caucasian passes separate from payments made to end hostilities. As a person ostensibly familiar with contemporary events and political discussions, our author models his representation of agreement between Alexander and Tūbarlaq on common Byzantine reactions to Sasanian demands for money for the defense of the Gates. Despite attributing the fortification of the Caucasian defensive systems to Byzantium’s ancestor, Alexander, and despite describing a situation in which Persia is at the mercy of the Greco-​Roman Empire, the Syriac writer does not portray his hero demanding any payment for the defense of the gate from his defeated enemy, Tūbarlaq. As we will see later, in the description of the treaty between Alexander and Tūbarlaq, our author inverts the clauses of actual peace agreements signed by Byzantines and Sasanians over the course of the sixth century, and presents the Persians as paying the Romans a tribute that in fact was paid by the Byzantines. The fact that the author does not invert the historical reality for the defense of the Gates may be taken as a (not so veiled) criticism of ongoing Sasanian requests for money for the patrol of the Caucasian passes. The perceived unreasonableness and groundlessness of the pretensions advanced by Sasanian sovereigns are highlighted by the contrast with the virtuous example of Alexander and his rational policies about the gate that he constructed. His agreement with Tūbarlaq is meant to represent a model of cooperation between the two empires, which sought to defend their respective borders against the danger of Hunnic incursions. The Syriac writer’s description of the Greco-​ Persian entente was also influenced by the sixth-​century political debate surrounding the Caspian Gates. The idea of a shared patrol, with shared costs, recalls pacts of mutual financial and military assistance reported by Malalas and Ps.-​Joshua the Stylite, and the alleged project of a simultaneous, “bi-​imperial” military presence in defense of the Caucasus reported by Lydus. These kinds of agreements or projects may have never been in actual use or development, but they were surely features in the contemporary discussion about how to solve the old dispute of the Gates. The author of the Neṣḥānā was ostensibly familiar with the elements of this debate and modeled his text on these patterns. The entente reached by Alexander and Tūbarlaq idealizes how the two empires should deal with the attacks of nomadic warriors through the Caucasian passes, and also represents the Syriac author’s proposed solution to the Roman-​Persian quarrels over this issue. His literary elaboration may also reveal his dissatisfaction with the pacts stipulated under Justinian and may reflect an intent common to many of his contemporaries, that is, to call on

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  59 Byzantine emperors to play a more active role in the Transcaucasian arena. As we will see in the following chapters, this would not be the only critique of Justinian in the Syriac work. Some seventy years ago, Czeglédy observed that the understanding reached by the two kings in the Syriac work recalls actual historical agreements between Byzantines and Sasanians about the defense of the Gates.68 In fact, the situation is more complex than that envisaged by the Hungarian scholar. Pace Czeglédy, Persian-​Roman talks over the defense of the Caspian Gates never resulted in “the custom of the Roman and Persian rulers to join in the maintenance of the Caucasian fortifications.”69 As noted, Roman-​Persian ententes over this thorny issue were reached on different occasions, but mostly as temporary agreements that never fully solved the problem—​with the exception, perhaps, of the Fifty-​ Year Peace of 562, after which the Caspian Gates issue was never raised again. The conflictual character of the negotiations over the question of the Caucasian passes and the difficulties encountered by the two empires in reaching a lasting compromise are key factors in understanding the exact historical scenario behind the Neṣḥānā. The reference to this particular element of the Byzantine-​ Sasanian peace talks clearly indicates that at the time when the Syriac author was writing, the Gates still represented a sensitive question in the relationship between the two empires, contrary to Czeglédy’s claim that this section of the Neṣḥānā addresses the historical context of the 630s, and specifically the conflict between Heraclius and Khosrow Parvēz. In fact, nothing suggests that Heraclius (or any Byzantine emperor who ascended the throne after the Fifty-​ Year Peace) ever faced Sasanian recriminations over the defense of the Caucasian passes. Moreover, the peace agreements stipulated by Heraclius at the end of the conflict do not include any clause about the defense of the Caucasian passes.70 By contrast, the Neṣḥānā specifically recalls a proviso which, as we have seen, figures in various peace settlements between the two empires during the sixth century, which appears as the most likely context for the composition of at least this section of the Syriac work. Moreover, as we will soon see, the author of the Neṣḥānā specifically links his position on the issue of the Caspian Gates to another disputed point of contention between the two empires in the sixth century.

The Story of the Blacksmiths from Egypt in the Context of the Sixth-​Century Lazic War At the beginning of the Syriac work, before starting his journey to the edges of the earth, Alexander briefly visits Egypt. Here, the chiefs of his army advise him to recruit blacksmiths who specialize in iron and bronze. Alexander thus asks the king of Egypt, Sarnaqōs, for seven thousand smiths. The recruitment of the

60  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate workers comes with an agreement between the two kings. Alexander commits to return the blacksmiths to Egypt once he completes his tour. However, if the blacksmiths request not to be returned to their country of origin, Alexander and Sarnaqōs agreed that they would inhabit a territory that Alexander would grant them. In this case, the blacksmiths would not pay tribute to Alexander, but they would give him customs duties (ṭyrwnʾ). The terms of the agreement are oddly specific but, as will become clear later in the text, have a specific function. In fact, at the end of the Neṣḥānā, after the blacksmiths have helped Alexander to build the gate against the Huns, and after Alexander’s victory in battle over Tūbarlaq, we learn that Alexander gives the blacksmiths the lands of Bēt Dmʾ and Bēt Dwšr to cultivate and dwell in. On this occasion, the author reiterates the terms of the agreement with Sarnaqōs according to which the blacksmiths do not pay tribute to Alexander. While it may appear as a secondary element in the narrative, the story of the Egyptian blacksmiths allows us to better understand key elements of the text. First, the story clarifies the geography behind the episode of Alexander’s gate. I have not been able to establish the exact location of Bēt Dmʾ, one of the two territories that the blacksmiths receive from Alexander, while Bēt Dwšr, the other territory assigned to the blacksmiths, may correspond to Dioscurias (Διοσκουριὰς), the ancient name of Sebastopolis, a Roman city in the Colchis. In fact, this is exactly the geographical location that emerges from the study of the literary background of the story of the Egyptian blacksmiths. Previous scholars have not identified in the episode of the Egyptian blacksmiths a readaptation of an older legend already reported by Herodotus (d. ca. 425 bce) and, subsequently, by Diodorus Siculus (d. ca. 30 bce). According to the former, the semi-​mythical Egyptian pharaoh Sesostris embarked upon a military campaign in Asia Minor and Europe, where he defeated Scythians and Thracians. On his way back to Egypt, Sesostris arrived at the Phasis River (the modern Rioni River, in Western Georgia), where he divided his army and left some soldiers to settle the region. Herodotus uses this story to advocate for his theory that the inhabitants of the Colchis are of Egyptian descent.71 Diodorus Siculus reports the same story and affirms that the Colchians descend from the soldiers left by Sesostris near lake Maeotis (i.e., the Sea of Azov). As support for this theory, Diodorus mentions that the Colchians, like the Egyptians, practice circumcision. Significantly, Diodorus Siculus affirms that Sesostris’s expedition reached the same territories that would later be conquered by Alexander. In doing so, he provides an early example of overlap between the military campaigns of the two mythical kings. The association between the two characters is not peculiar to Diodorus; it is explicitly formulated in the oldest recension of the Alexander Romance (α). Here, Alexander encounters Sesostris, whose name is spelled as Sesonchosis. The pharaoh, divinized and sitting among

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  61 the gods, bears the same title, kosmokrator, that is applied to Alexander.72 As Krysztof Nawotka observes: “In the Egyptian logos of the Alexander Romance, which found its origin in Hellenistic times, Sesonchosis became the ideological predecessor of Alexander the kosmokrator.”73 These earlier overlappings between the two characters may explain how the story of Sesostris’s soldiers came to be incorporated within a tradition concerning Alexander.74 The story of Sesostris’s campaigns was known to a number of sixth-​century historians, including Jordanes, who mentions this story in the section of his work that immediately precedes the description of the Caspian Gates.75 His version of the legend, however, differs slightly from those found in Herodotus and Diodorus Siculus, as Jordanes adapts the story of the Egyptian settlers to his main narration about the Goths. Jordanes affirms that Sesostris was defeated by the Gothic king Tanausis, that Tanausis later subjugated most of Asia, and that some of his soldiers settled the conquered provinces. The descendants of these soldiers, according to Jordanes, are the Parthians. A more faithful report of the legend is provided by Agathias, who uses the story of Sesostris’s soldiers to explain the ethnogenesis of the people of Lazica. Agathias affirms that “the inhabitants of Lazica were called Colchians in ancient times, so the Lazi and the Colchians are the same people.”76 His version of the legend is a foundation myth for the establishment of the Lazi kingdom, which at the time he was writing occupied the entire Colchian area.77 The legend of the Egyptian soldiers who arrived in Colchis with Sesostris’s army and settled in that region is the basis for the episode of the blacksmiths from Egypt in the Neṣḥānā. The name of the Egyptian king, Sarnaqōs, is clearly an adaptation of the alternative name under which Sesostris appears in the sources, that is, Sesonchosis. The Syriac version of the Alexander Romance attests to the instability of the name Sesonchosis in the Syriac tradition. In the Syriac Romance, Sesonchosis is spelled as either sysnqws,78 sysnqwsys,79 sysyqwss,80 sysyqwnws,81 sysnyqws,82 or sywsynyqws.83 Clearly Sarnaqōs (srnqws) represents still another variation of Sesonchosis, or is intentionally derived from this. Even if, for narrative purposes, in the Neṣḥānā the Egyptian soldiers are turned into blacksmiths—​while Alexander plays the role of Sesostris—​the broad outline of the stories is still similar. The Syriac author has reformulated the story of Sesostris’s Egyptian settlers in order to portray the Colchians/​Lazi as the descendants of the Egyptian blacksmiths who reached the area with Alexander and who built his gate against the Huns. This portrayal brings to mind the claim made by Jordanes that the Lazi controlled the Caspian Gates on behalf of the Romans. In the Neṣḥānā, Alexander’s blacksmiths are the ancestors of the Colchians/​Lazi, just as Sesostris’s soldiers are the ancestors of that same people in Herodotus, Diodorus Siculus, and Agathias. Importantly, the story’s literary background confirms what has been posited above, namely, that the imagery

62  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate used by the author in the episode of Alexander’s gate is related to the Caucasus. Clearly, the author has conflated the traditions about Alexander’s iron gates and the Colchians’ Egyptian origins, both of which were associated with the same geographical area. Even after reconstructing the literary background of the story, the episode of the Egyptian blacksmiths remains puzzling, as it lacks any clear role in the narration. Of course, the enrollment of workers specializing in iron and bronze explains why Alexander is able to erect a gate made of these materials after arriving in the Caucasus. However, the story could have been told without any mention of the blacksmiths’ country of origin. Indeed, Alexander’s brief visit to Egypt and encounter with Sarnaqōs does not generate any other narrative development. If the author made his hero pass by Egypt, where the only thing he does is to hire local workers, it is because he really wanted to relate these workers to that country. For what purpose? Why did the author want us to believe that the inhabitants of Lazica are the descendants of the workers enrolled by Alexander in Egypt? The Syriac writer explains the enrollment of workers from Egypt by making Alexander’s generals say: “King Alexander, since the army cannot travel without smiths, command that they come with us from Egypt, since there are not on the surface of the Earth smiths like those from Egypt.”84 This explanation, however, is hardly satisfying. Even if the author wants to convince the reader that Alexander’s gate was made by the finest blacksmiths on earth, one wonders why he provided so many details about the workers’ status, the country in which they decided to settle, and the king to whom they would pay taxes. Nothing of the sort occurs in any version of Sesostris’s story, which provides no information whatsoever about the “administrative” status of the Egyptian settlers. Clearly, the Syriac author added these to emphasize the conditions in which Alexander’s blacksmiths agreed to settle the Lazi region. But why was it so important for him to highlight the blacksmiths’ decision to settle in the lands that they received from King Alexander and to pay him customs duties? The sixth-​century historical context of the story helps us to explain this point. I now turn to the historical events that lay behind the episode of Alexander’s gate. To this purpose, we must return to Agathias. When referring to the alleged Egyptian origins of the inhabitants of Lazica, Agathias affirms: “these Lazi, Colchians, Egyptian migrants or what have you, have become a bone of contention in our day and age, and innumerable battles have been fought for the sake of their land.”85 Here, Agathias refers to the tensions between Byzantines and Sasanians over the control of the kingdom of Lazica, over which both imperial powers asserted a claim in the sixth century. Disputes over the reciprocal spheres of influence in Lazica resulted in a series of wars, interrupted by precarious truces and diplomatic agreements. The longest

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  63 of these armed confrontations lasted more than two decades, from 541 to 562, with the Lazi rebelling at different stages against both the Byzantines and the Sasanians and fighting on both sides of the battlefield according to the mood of the moment.86 The quarrels had already begun when, in 524/​525, an Iberian uprising against the Persians and their defection to the Romans brought the two empires to confrontation in the Caucasus.87 As a consequence of the so-​called Eternal Peace, signed by Justinian and Khosrow Anōshirvān in 532, the Romans retained full control over Lazica.88 The peace, however, was not destined to be eternal. In 541, dissatisfaction with Roman rule and anger at the thievery committed by imperial officials led the Lazi to request Persian intervention. The Lazian king Gubazes II (r. ca. 541–​555) formally handed over his kingdom to Khosrow.89 However, six years later, dissatisfied with Khosrow’s policies in Lazica and concerned by the missionary activities of the Zoroastrian priests, Gubazes switched back to the Roman side and reconciled with Justinian. The Byzantine emperor then sent an army to support the renewed alliance with the Lazian king.90 Nevertheless, suspicions of conspiracy and defections persisted in the background of the Byzantine-​Lazic alliance. Tensions between Byzantium and the Lazi were exacerbated in 555, when the Lazian king was murdered by order of Roman commanders. Two years later, in 557, hostilities in Lazica ceased as part of a general armistice signed by the Romans and the Persians.91 In 561/​ 562 emissaries of both empires met in the Byzantine fortified city of Dara, on the northern Mesopotamian border, to discuss the terms of a stable peace. The status of Lazica figured prominently in the negotiations.92 In sum, the conflict in Lazica was long and complex. It started with issues of political influence; it proceeded with alternate demonstrations of loyalty and disloyalty, in a climate of suspicion and fear of treason; and it ended with unsolved questions related to legitimacy and sovereignty. It is fair to say that the “Lazic question” was one of the most debated and contested matters in Byzantine-​ Sasanian relations in the mid-​ sixth century. Unsurprisingly, when describing the origins of the Lazic conflict, Agathias offers a blatantly pro-​Roman explanation that attributes the causes of the war exclusively to the Sasanian shah Khosrow: The Persian Emperor Chosroes had already appropriated and occupied much of their territory, including some of the most strategically important positions. Far from entertaining any idea of relaxing his hold on the place, he was intent on completing its subjugation. On the other hand the Roman Emperor Justinian thought it unbearable and quite immoral to abandon Gubazes, the then king of the Lazi, and the whole of his nation, seeing that they were subjects of the empire and linked by a common bond of friendship and religion. Instead he did his utmost to drive out the enemy as quickly as possible.93

64  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Agathias highlights the status of the Lazi as “subjects of the empire and linked by a common bond of friendship and religion.” In a context such as the Lazic War, these claims of traditional and cultural bonds were invoked to justify an armed imperial intervention. From this perspective, a subtle political implication emerges from Agathias’s reference to the legend of Lazi’s alleged Egyptian origins. By emphasizing Lazica’s ancestral connection with a country currently part of the Byzantine Empire, he claims Byzantium’s right to intervene in the politics of a region against its Eastern rival.94 The author of the Neṣḥānā extends this claim and further politicizes the legend of the Lazi’s Egyptian lineage. He models aspects of the story of the Egyptian settlers on the events of the war in Lazica to create a connection between a fictitious past and an actual present. In fact, the regulations of the blacksmiths’ settlement in Alexander’s lands coincide with the administrative situation of Lazica under Roman influence in the 530s. Procopius informs us that Roman control over the Lazi was mostly manifested through Byzantium’s official recognition of the Lazian king at the moment of his ascent to the throne. Besides this act of ceremonial investiture, the Lazi “dwelt in the land of Colchis as subjects of the Romans, but not to the extent of paying them tribute or obeying their commands in any respect.”95 However, according to Procopius, the situation changed in the years immediately following the signing of the Eternal Peace in 532. Roman presence in Lazica morphed into a real protectorate, with the deployment of Roman troops in the region and the establishment of the fortified city of Petra. From Petra, the Roman magister militum per Armeniam, John Tzibus, established control over trade and imposed import duties and other trade taxes on the Lazi.96 Procopius indicates Lazian anger for Roman rapacity as a major cause for Gubazes’s decision to invoke to Khosrow’s intervention in 541. The Neṣḥānā reflects this historical reality in at least three narrative elements. (1) The agreement between Alexander and Sarnaqōs (according to which the Egyptian blacksmiths would not pay tribute to Alexander but they would give him customs duties) remarkably reflects the situation of Lazica described by Procopius, in which the Lazi are not asked to pay tribute to the Romans but are subject to the payment of trade duties. (2) The malevolent behavior of the inhabitants of the region, who summon Tūbarlaq’s intervention against Alexander, likely represents the author’s critique of the Lazic defection in favor of the Persians. (3) The number of Egyptian blacksmiths recruited by Alexander in the Neṣḥānā (i.e., 7,000) is identical to the number of soldiers that Justinian sent to support the Lazi’s anti-​Persian uprising in 547, when Gubazes decided to return to Roman alliance. In fact, according to Procopius, Justinian sent 7,000 soldiers to Lazica, under the command of the magister militum per Armeniam Dagisthaeus, accompanied by a local contingent of 1,000 Tzani.97

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  65 More important, however, are the political implications of the author’s rewriting of the legend of the Egyptian origins of the Lazi. According to him, not only are the people of Lazica descendants of the Egyptian blacksmiths who accompanied Alexander on his expedition; but also their ancestors decided to settle in the territories that Alexander conceded to them and to pay customs duties to him. The ancestors of the Lazi were Alexander’s vassals, whom the author portrays as the mythical founder of the Byzantine Empire. By stressing Alexander’s possession of the territories given to the Lazi’s ancestors and their decision to pay him taxes, the Syriac author affirms the legitimacy of Byzantium’s claim to rule over these lands and people. His point of view does not differ much from Justinian’s claims in his Novella XXVIII for near-​complete control over Lazica.98 It thus appears that the author of the Neṣḥānā has rewritten the story of the Egyptian settlers of the Colchis in order to address Roman-​Persian disputes over the control of Lazica in the second half of the sixth century. At the same time, the events of the Lazic War are not the only ones that frame the episode of Alexander’s gate narrated in the Neṣḥānā. As seen, the Syriac author also points to tension between the two empires over the issue of the Caspian Gates. His decision to combine two earlier traditions—​that of Alexander’s iron gates in the Caucasus and that of the Egyptian settlers of Colchis—​clearly was driven not only by the fact that both legends refer to the same geographical area, but also by his willingness to address two major political problems that concerned those very same regions during his lifetime. The author masterfully reworks previously independent literary materials and adapts them to contemporary historical circumstances. The author’s decision to connect the two disputes over the Lazian kingdom and over the Caspian Gates ostensibly reflects the influence of contemporary Byzantine political discourse. There is evidence that these two points of contention between the two empires were closely related. This, of course, comes as no surprise, given the geographical proximity of the Lazian kingdom to the controversial Caucasian passes. But it was not a mere matter of geography. Lazica and the Caucasian passes were also connected by questions of political influence and military considerations. Procopius informs us that before their desertion in favor of the Persians, the Lazi had collaborated with the Byzantines in securing imperial borders. It is noteworthy that Procopius emphasizes that the Lazi would guard the Roman borders against Hunnic incursions without receiving either military or financial support from the Romans.99 It is difficult not to see in this assertion an allusion to Sasanian demands to receive money or, less frequently (and less insistently), troops from the Romans as a contribution to the defense of the Caspian Gates. Procopius connects this passage to the other passages in his work in which he describes the claims advanced by several Persian sovereigns to

66  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate provide a service that the Romans already received for free from their collaboration with the Lazian kingdom. Equally important, the loss of Roman influence over Lazica would result, among other things, in leaving the Persians in full control over the regions that could secure the empire from Hunnic attacks. Procopius gives voice to these fears in the same section of his work. He claims that one of Khosrow’s main interests in securing Sasanian control over Lazica was connected to the region’s strategic location and its possible role in containing Hunnic attacks if the Caucasian defense systems were overcome. Controlling the area would also have allowed the Persians to redirect Hunnic raids toward the lands of the Romans, according to their own needs. In the words of the Byzantine historian: “The Persian empire would be forever free from plunder by the Huns who lived next to Lazica, and he would send them against the Roman domains more easily and readily, whenever he should so desire. For he considered that, as regards the barbarians dwelling in the Caucasus, Lazica was nothing else than a bulwark against them.”100 Whether or not these claims are true, Procopius’s attribution of similar plans to Khosrow shows that in the eyes of a contemporary Byzantine war commentator, the disputed control over the Lazian kingdom was closely related to the defense of the Caucasian passes against the Huns. The evidence provided by Procopius about the Lazi’s role in securing the Byzantine frontiers against Hunnic raids brings to mind the report by Jordanes, according to whom the Lazi controlled the Caspian Gates on behalf of the Romans. The reliability of this claim is questionable, as no other source, as far as I know, describes the Lazi as in control of the Gates. It is possible that Jordanes was confused on this point by the role that the Lazi had traditionally played in securing the Byzantine northern frontiers as part of their agreements with the empire. At the same time, one wonders whether Jordanes—​who probably resided in the imperial capital during the Persian wars—​could have been unaware of the ongoing dispute surrounding the Caspian Gates or uninformed about the political situation in the Caucasus. Rather than a sign of his ignorance, the information he provides about the Lazi’s alleged role in patrolling the Gates may reveal his intention to rebut the Sasanian demands for Roman money. By attributing to the Lazi control over the Caspian Gates and by emphasizing the collaboration of the Lazian kingdom in securing the imperial borders, Jordanes may have wanted to suggest (without directly entering into the discussion) the groundlessness of Sasanian claims to defend Byzantium from Hunnic incursions. Be that as it may, the information reported by Jordanes about Lazi’s control of the Gates on behalf of the Romans corroborates the idea that in sixth-​century Byzantium, the two issues of Lazica and the Caspian Gates were intertwined. This provides the intellectual framework for the choice made by the author of the Neṣḥānā to link together two independent narrative traditions in order to

the Political Context of the Sixth Century  67 address those very same questions of political controversy. In his eyes, the ongoing disputes over Lazica and over the defense of the Caucasian passes were interconnected, as they were in the eyes of Procopius, Jordanes, and, most likely, many other witnesses to those events who did not leave written records of their points of view. Thus, the sixth century appears as the most plausible date for the narrative of Alexander’s gate described in the Neṣḥānā. The historical context of the sixth century indeed appears as the ideal scenario for an author to write a story about Alexander’s erection of a formidable gate against the Huns—​a barrier that most contemporaries identified with the disputed Gates in the Caucasus—​ with the help of loyal blacksmiths who are presented as the ancestors of a population inhabiting a very contested region. A better understanding of the historical context in which the author adapted the legend of Alexander’s iron gates also helps us to better understand the circumstances that brought him to insert this story into the narrative. The Syriac writer does not only use this motif to introduce his apocalyptic vision of Byzantium’s glorious future. He focuses not only on the future and the eschatological era, but also on the present. Against the Sasanian claim to play an exclusive role in defending the Caucasus mountain passes from Hunnic raids, our author revives the ancient legend according to which, long before the Persians, Alexander had erected fortifications in the area. The construction of majestic defense systems was a source of prestige for the political authority that could claim it.101 Sasanian achievements in erecting monumental walls at Darband were no doubt much celebrated by Sasanian propagandists. The legend of Alexander’s iron gates offered the author of the Neṣḥānā an opportunity to assert counterclaims in favor of the Roman Empire. Our author reminds us that through the efforts made by their mythical ancestor, Alexander, to erect a defensive structure in the Caucasus, the Romans had made an everlasting contribution to the safety of the two empires, and of humanity in general. Alexander’s barrier was destined to resist the final storm of Gog and Magog until God’s decree. Against Sasanian claims to be defending both empires from the Hunnic incursions, our author asserts Byzantium’s historical merits in dealing with those very aggressors. When situated in the historical context that it was intended to address, the author’s elaboration of the motif of Alexander’s gates acquires its full meaning. Besides its undeniable eschatological value—​which will be examined in further detail later in this work—​the story of Alexander’s gate told in the Neṣḥānā also bears strong political connotations.

5

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq The struggle between the Greco-​Roman and the Persian empires described in the Neṣḥānā is widely regarded by scholars as an allegorical representation of the seventh-​century conflict between Byzantines and Sasanians. This idea was expressed in the 1950s by Czeglédy, who published the notes of the late Hungarian scholar Mihály Kmoskó in 1954, and then expanded upon them in an article of his own in 1956.1 Czeglédy follows Kmoskó in considering the Neṣḥānā in its present form as a seventh-​century adaptation (together with Ps.-​ Jacob’s metrical homily) of a previous text composed during the sixth century. He observes: “an adaptation of this kind is a natural phenomenon in apocalyptic literature: after the passing of the date foretold in the latest vaticination, the subsequent adapters insert new prophecies into the text.”2 As we have seen in Chapter 3, this was surely the case for the text of the Neṣḥānā that concerns the 940 ag prophecy. This interpolation is also highlighted by Czeglédy in his study. By contrast, the Hungarian scholar is vague about the period to which the section of the text describing the war between Alexander and Tūbarlaq should be attributed. Is this also a seventh-​century insertion? Or was this section already present in the sixth-​century prototype of the text and only later was identified with the conflict in which Heraclius opposes Khosrow Parvēz? Was the equation promulgated by Czeglédy—​“Alexander vs. Tūbarlaq =​Hercalius vs. Khosrow Parvēz”—​intended in the original text, or was it only in the later period that the two enemies in the Neṣḥānā came to be identified with the Byzantine and Sasanian rival emperors? Czeglédy never addresses these questions. However, several elements in his analysis suggest that he considers the war between Alexander and Tūbarlaq to be largely a literary reproduction of the seventh-​century Byzantine-​Sasanian conflict. In fact, when describing the entente between Alexander and Tūbarlaq on the joint patrol of Alexander’s gate, Czeglédy refers to (undocumented) post-​629 renewals of previous Byzantine-​Sasanian agreements on the defense of the Caspian Gates.3 Moreover, Czeglédy considers the fifteen-​year-​long tribute that Tūbarlaq committed to pay to Alexander as an unfulfilled prophecy through which the Syriac author expressed the expectation of a Roman conquest of Persia in 643.4 This position is untenable. Several elements suggest that the sections about the conflict between Alexander and Tūbarlaq go back to the historical period when the primordial The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0006

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  69 version of the text was composed, that is, the sixth century. As we have seen, the agreement between the two kings on the defense of Alexander’s gate can only refer to the context of the wars between Justinian and Khosrow I. Similarly—​as will become clear later in this chapter—​the tribute paid by Tūbarlaq to Alexander is also connected to the peace agreements signed by Byzantines and Sasanians in that same period. Pace Czeglédy, the payment of a tribute described in the Neṣḥānā is not a prognostication of events expected to occur in the seventh century.5 Finally, secondary editorial interventions in the text of the Neṣḥānā are detectable. This is the case for the 940 ag prophecy—​the insertion of which is betrayed by the syntactic ambiguities in the text—​or for the removal of an episode, which I have illustrated elsewhere.6 Nothing in the text suggests that the description of Alexander’s conflict against Tūbarlaq was partially or completely modeled on a historical context different than that of the original prototype of the text. In other words, this section of the Neṣḥānā is not an interpolation. At best, the triumph of Alexander over Tūbarlaq described in the Syriac work may have come to be associated with Heraclius’s victory over the Sasanians when, several decades later, the text attracted the interest of readers who had just witnessed the end of another Roman-​Persian conflict. However, the idea that the war scene in the Neṣḥānā was inspired by Heraclius’s Persian campaigns is entrenched in scholarship. Reinink considers the section of the Neṣḥānā on the conflict against the Persians to be an allegorical representation of Heraclius’s campaigns against the Sasanians. The goal of the author, according to Reinink, was to convince his audience that the deeds accomplished by Alexander in the past had been repeated by Heraclius in the present.7 Reinink adds that the description of the war between Alexander and Tūbarlaq reflects the views of court propagandists who wanted to celebrate Heraclius’s success against the Sasanians. If so, many literary elements in the section of the Syriac work about the conflict with the Persians reflect acts performed by Heraclius and are ultimately connected to the high sacralization of warfare promoted by the emperor. He argues that the holy war topos adopted by the Syriac author echoes similar representations of Heraclius’s campaigns endorsed by imperial propagandists.8 In general, Reinink builds his argument on the corollary assumption that the Syriac work is a unitary document composed soon after the end of the conflict in 628. As we have seen, this argument is untenable. However, even if we ignore the problems with dating the Neṣḥānā to the 620s, Reinink’s reading of the war scene in the Syriac text is still problematic because there are no specific elements that connect the text to the time of Heraclius. Most points of contact between the Neṣḥānā and the reign of Heraclius indicated by Reinink can be traced back to earlier times. Heraclius’s policies during and immediately after the conflict no doubt included an unprecedented degree of religious rhetoric and a previously

70  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate unparalleled mélange of religion and warfare.9 During the reign of Heraclius, sacred language is embedded in militarism to an extent unparalleled in earlier times. As Walter Kaegi observes, “it is important to use caution about the notion of Holy War prior to the seventh century.”10 Indeed, it is only under Heraclius that we observe an unequivocal commitment by an emperor and his entourage to promote the idea of a sacred combat, which previously had appeared largely as an idealized representation made by Christian literati. The real difference concerns the way and the extent to which official court propaganda adopted the topos of divine protection over Roman armies. Heraclius’s entourage surely brought this rhetoric to extreme levels, reaching the dialectical tones of a crusade. The description of the war scene in the Neṣḥānā may bring to mind the rhetoric adopted by Heraclius’s propagandists. However, two points may be raised against Reinink’s reading. First, it is not necessary to postulate that the author of the Neṣḥānā was a participant in imperial propaganda, as Reinink and his followers seem to believe. As we will see later, the Syriac author likely composed his work to criticize, rather than celebrate, a Byzantine emperor—​specifically Justinian. Second, the attempt to connect Christian military tropes with the warfare of Roman emperors is hardly a peculiarity of the seventh century. The author of the Neṣḥānā uses literary topoi that circulated previously in Christian society. These topoi were intended to celebrate the recently converted Roman Empire as the protector of the true faith. It is in this intellectual framework that we should trace the origins of the idea expressed by the Syriac author that Byzantium enjoyed divine favor in its struggle against its enemies because of its special relationship with God. Efforts to confer an aura of divine investment on Roman military activities are documented from the outset of the Christianization of the Roman Empire under Constantine (r. 306–​337 ce).11 The sources mention numerous cases of miraculous intervention on the battlefield in favor of the Roman Christian army. Unsurprisingly, divine aid in favor of the empire is also reported to have occurred during battles fought against Sasanian armies, since the more the empire was depicted as a blessed Christian kingdom, the more its Zoroastrian rivals became unfaithful enemies.12 Documented since at least the fourth century, the blend of Christianity and warfare in the representations of Roman military activities intensified during the reign of Justinian. Even if most Byzantine authors who wrote in this period adopted a Classical style and, as Michael Whitby observes, “may have underplayed the religious aspects,”13 there are clear indications that an ideology centered around the idea of God’s support for the Roman armies was an important component of Justinian’s propaganda. Even the classicizing author par excellence, Procopius, did not refrain from referring to miraculous events aimed at proving the idea of divine assistance for the emperor’s campaigns.

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  71 Frendo has pointed out that the promise of God’s assistance in favor of Byzantium’s ruler figures most prominently in the sections of Procopius’s work that refer to the wars against the Sasanian rival.14 For example, consider the passage of the Wars about the exchange of messages between the Byzantine generals Belisarius and Hermogenes and the Sasanian commander Pērōz, which reportedly occurred in June 530. Procopius describes the Byzantine generals expressing the idea that the justness of their war will guarantee that the Christian God will come to their aid. As Frendo observes, “what is perhaps most remarkable about all of this is Procopius’ determination to drag religion into Byzantine-​Iranian relations and to give it such prominence in a series of diplomatic exchanges aimed ostensibly at averting a confrontation with the enemy but in reality leading inexorably to battle and to a Roman victory.”15 In other sections of his work, Procopius mentions miraculous events that prevented the Sasanians from conquering a number of Byzantine cities. For instance, he connects the failure of the Persian attack on Edessa in 544 to a miraculous divine intervention. Procopius attributes this miracle to the promise of eternal protection for the city allegedly made by Jesus in a letter to its king Abgar.16 As Frendo rightly observes, Procopius’s elaboration of the legend of Abgar is strongly influenced by anti-​Sasanian feelings, with the idea of “divine support in a struggle against the unbeliever” that came to be “added as a further weapon to the panoply of Roman invincibility.”17 A similar goal lies behind the notice reported by Evagrius Scholasticus (d. 590 ce), according to which the Byzantine general Narses (d. 573 ce) would not engage in battle without receiving a sign from the Holy Virgin—​divine signs which, according to Evagrius, were regularly sent due to the general’s piety and his habit of honoring Mary.18 The representation of Narses here does not differ very much from that of Alexander in the Neṣḥānā. In this case, it clearly appears that the Syriac work displays the common topos of the pious ruler or general who, in reward for his devotion, receives divine assistance on the battlefield. The scene in the Neṣḥānā, in which Alexander is visited by God in a dream and then proceeds to organize prayers and votive offerings before the battle against Tūbarlaq, relates to the idea common among Byzantine authors that miraculous events and heavenly interventions would secure victory for the Romans on the battlefield. It thus appears that in shaping the scene of the battle between the Greco-​ Roman Empire and the Persians, our Syriac author follows a well-​established literary tendency that sought to increase the religious dimension of military activities of the Christian armies and to confer on them the benevolence of God. Neither the ideological assumptions nor the specific description of the battle scene in the Neṣḥānā are peculiar to the time of Heraclius. In light of these considerations, scholarly attempts to use these general concepts to strengthen the connection between the Syriac work and the reign of Heraclius appear to be shaking at their foundations, since the parallels between Alexander’s and

72  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Heraclius’s wars can easily be applied to most conflicts between Byzantines and Sasanians. This is also true for a very specific element in the narration, indicated by Reinink as an echo of Heraclius’s war propaganda.

“God, Come to Our Aid!” Before engaging in combat against the Persian enemy, Alexander’s soldiers exclaim: “God, come to our aid!” (ʾlhʾ tʾ l-​ʿwdrnn).19 According to Reinink, these words echo the Latin exclamation Adiuta Deus. This is the battle cry prescribed to Byzantine soldiers in the Strategikon of Maurice, a military treatise composed between the end of the sixth century and the beginning of the seventh.20 Reinink also connects the words uttered by Alexander’s army in the Neṣḥānā to the Latin inscription Deus Adiuta Romanis, which appears on the silver hexagram introduced by Heraclius in 615 ce.21 While this theory is accepted in the most recent works dedicated to the study of the Neṣḥānā,22 there are reasons to doubt its validity. Three arguments can be brought against this claim. First, the battle scene in the Neṣḥānā appears to be based more on biblical topoi than on actual Byzantine military practices. The analysis of the vocabulary in the description of God’s intervention on the battlefield in the Neṣḥānā, demonstrates that the Syriac author borrowed from the Peshitta on 1 Samuel 7:10. Neṣḥānā: “And the voice of the Lord moved along, thundering among them (w-​ʾzl hwʾ qlh d-​mryʾ  kd rʿm bynthwn), so that the kings and their troops trembled in front of God’s camp.”23 1 Samuel 7:10: “And the Lord thundered with a mighty voice (w-​rʿm mryʾ b-​qlʾ rmʾ) that day against the Philistines and threw them into confusion”;

In addition to the reference to 1 Samuel 7:10, the sequence of events described in the Syriac work is clearly an elaboration of 1 Samuel 7:7–​11, which describes the Philistines’ attack on the Israelites. Samuel’s invocation of God’s intervention and the sacrifice of a lamb are recalled in the Neṣḥānā by Alexander’s prayer and by his order to the troops to burn incense to invoke divine assistance. In both cases, the request is granted and God comes to the aid of the supplicants and destroys their enemies. It thus appears that the situation depicted by the Syriac author, including the way in which Alexander and his troops prepare for the battle in the Neṣḥānā, is based on a literary model, not on Byzantine military practice. Alexander’s invocation of divine aid and his offer of incense to the Lord reflect narrative material drawn from the biblical passage, not the prescriptions of the Strategikon.

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  73 Admittedly, the scene described in the Neṣḥānā may contain some elements derived from the contemporary historical context and may reflect practices common among Byzantine soldiers. If so, however, this does not resolve the discrepancy between the actions performed by Alexander’s soldiers in the Neṣḥānā and the prescriptions in the Strategikon—​and with this we arrive at my second point of contention against Reinink’s hypothesis. The Strategikon prescribes that before the army leaves the camp, all soldiers, led by the priests, the general, and the commanders, recite the Kyrie eleison in unison. After this, each meros (“division”) shouts three times the formula Nobiscum Deus. Soldiers are then instructed to be silent and to shout and cheer only when the clash with the enemy is imminent.24 At this moment, the officers are instructed to shout: adiuta, “help us,” and the soldiers respond in unison: Deus, “oh God.”25 Note the significant difference between the acts performed by Alexander and his soldiers before the combat in the Neṣḥānā and the prescriptions found in the Strategikon. In the Syriac work, Alexander first instructs his soldiers to burn incense as an offering to request God’s assistance. Then he deposes his crown and his purple robes and lays down in front of God as he invokes his help against the enemy. During his prayer, Alexander is surrounded by his soldiers. Once he completes his prayer, Alexander shouts: “Victory is the Lord’s!” and his soldiers answer: “God come to our aid!” The differences between the Neṣḥānā and the scene described by the author of the Strategikon are substantial. None of the acts performed by Alexander coincides with those prescribed in the Greek military treatise. Notably, Alexander’s soldiers shout their battle cry while they are still in the camp and not immediately before the fight—​as prescribed in the Strategikon. Apparently, unlike the author of the Strategikon, the Syriac author had no direct military experience. At best, he may have had a vague knowledge of the praxis adopted by Byzantine soldiers and of their battle cry—​and this consideration leads us to my third contention against Reinink’s analysis. Battle cries with religious connotations predate the end of sixth century, that is, the time when the military treatise attributed to Maurice was composed. For example, the battle cry Nobiscum, “[God is] with us,” was shouted at the beginning of the charge from at least the late fourth century, as certified by Vegetius in the Epitoma rei militaris.26 The author of the Strategikon devotes an entire section of his second book to the negative effects of this battle cry. He affirms that “the battle cry, ‘Nobiscum,’ which it was customary to shout when beginning the charge is, in our opinion, extremely dangerous and harmful.”27 As for the formula adiuta . . . Deus, which the author prescribes elsewhere in his manual,28 this more likely reflects a common practice than an innovation—​although these specific words are not reported in earlier sources. In the end, it is difficult to relate the scene described in the Neṣḥānā to a specific historical period (or to a

74  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate specific military treatise) on the basis of allusions to the soldiers’ instructions, which could have been common praxis over a much larger time span.

The Peace Treaty between Alexander and Tūbarlaq After his defeat in battle by Alexander, the Persian king Tūbarlaq lies in chains in front of his victorious rival. When Alexander wants to execute him, Tūbarlaq protests that no benefit will be derived from his execution. He instead proposes that Persia pay Alexander a tribute for the next fifteen years. Alexander accepts the offer. The two kings then reach an agreement in order to establish a joint defense of the gate that Alexander has erected in the Caucasus. Alexander’s peace arrangement with Tūbarlaq is odd, to say the least. One wonders why Alexander would commit to any agreement with a defeated enemy who pleads to have his life spared. Recall that the historical Alexander annihilated and annexed the Achaemenid Empire without signing any peace agreement with his rival Darius III—​who was assassinated by his own soldiers without ever meeting with Alexander. It is highly improbable that the Syriac author was unaware of Alexander’s conquest of Persia, an event that was celebrated in both historical chronicles and in the romanticized traditions of the Alexander Romance. Curiously, instead of depicting Alexander’s glorious conquest of the Persian Empire, our author portrays an event that never occurred, that is, Alexander’s reduction of his rival neighbor to tributary vassal—​and not even permanently, but only for a limited period of time. At first glance, it appears that the author has downplayed the achievements of his hero: the collection of a tribute constitutes a lesser accomplishment than the takeover of the Persian empire. Nonetheless, as I will demonstrate in the following pages, this situation is clarified when it is placed in the political context of the mid-​sixth century. First, however, I must briefly address the sentence in the text that follows Tūbarlaq’s offer to pay tribute to Alexander for fifteen years. The sentence has generated much discussion in modern scholarship. In his edition, Budge gives the sentence as follows: ‫ܘܟܢ ܡܢ ܒܬܪ ܚܡܫܬܥܤܪ ܫܢܝܢ‬ ‫( ܬܗܘܐ ܒܒܠ ܘܐܬܘܪ ܕܢܦܫܟ‬w-​kn mn btr ḥmštʿsr šnyn thwʾ bbl w-​ʾtwr d-​ npšk),29 which he translates as: “and then, after the fifteen years, Babylon and Assyria shall be. . . .”30 Note that Budge does not translate the last part of the sentence, specifically the word d-​napšāk, literally “of yourself.” Budge does not provide any explanation for his decision to leave the sentence partially untranslated, but this choice is probably related to the fact that the manuscript tradition reports a different reading: d-​napšāh (‫ ܕܢܦܫܗ‬/​ d-​npšh), “of herself,” instead of d-​napšāk.31 This alternative reading appears in four out of five manuscripts of

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  75 the Neṣḥānā (i.e., A, B, C, and E), whereas the d-​napšāk reading appears only in D. Budge does not explain the philological criteria that dictated his privileging of the minority reading and relegating the majority reading to the apparatus criticus. Whatever it may be, most scholars have ignored the variae lectiones in the manuscript tradition and have accepted the d-​napšāk reading. Nöldeke interprets the treaty as implying that Babylon and Assyria will be ceded to Alexander at the expiration of the fifteen-​year period of paying tribute.32 Clearly, Nöldeke interprets d-​napšāk here as referring to Alexander, with the result that the sentence signifies: “and then, after the fifteen years, Babylon and Assyria will be yours [Alexander].” Hunnius follows suit. According to him, Tūbarlaq’s commitment to give Alexander sovereignty over Persia at the expiration of the fifteen years proves that the Neṣḥānā was composed around 626 ce—​that is, in the year indicated in the 940 ag prediction. In fact—​Hunnius argues—​the author’s expectation about the annexation of the Sasanian kingdom does not make sense in the context that followed the peace treaty of 628, which re-​established the status quo ante bellum.33 As we will see later, Hunnius’s argument is erroneous, as the treaty in the Neṣḥānā has nothing to do with the treaty signed by Heraclius in 628. Czeglédy, who also follows the lectio selected by Budge, interprets d-​napšāk as indicating that Persia will be delivered to Alexander after the agreed period of fifteen years. However, contrary to Nöldeke and Hunnius, Czeglédy regards this clause as a genuine vaticinium that the author of the Neṣḥānā puts into Tūbarlaq’s mouth. Through the words pronounced by the Persian king, the Syriac author expressed his hope that Byzantium would soon subjugate Ctesiphon. In his mind, this would take place in 643, that is, fifteen years after the conclusion of Heraclius’s victorious campaign in 628. According to Czeglédy, the author’s wish was thwarted by the unexpected Arab expansion in the area and the Arabs’ defeat of the Sasanian Empire.34 Czeglédy’s reading is implausible. It should be observed that the author of the Neṣḥānā makes a clear distinction between (pseudo-​)historical time and prophetical time. Consider, for example, the prophecy that Tūbarlaq proclaims after signing the peace treaty. According to his prognostication, Alexander’s kingdom will plunder Persia toward the End of Time—​a prediction that corroborates the prophecy of Alexander engraved on the gate that he erected. The predicted subjugation of Persia clearly belongs to the eschatological era and is rendered part of the process that will culminate in the cosmocratic rule of the successors of the house of Alexander (i.e., Byzantium). By contrast, the terms of the peace treaty between Alexander and Tūbarlaq make no reference to the final conflict. What will happen to Persia at the end of the fifteen years of tributary status is not a prognostication for the future: it is what the author wants us to believe to have happened in the past.

76  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate The interpretations proposed by Nöldeke, Hunnius, and Czeglédy have been criticized by Reinink, who objects that these scholars have blindly followed Budge’s critical edition without taking into account the prevailing lectio d-​ napšāh. This reading, he argues, is the preferred reading. Reinink suggests that the text originally signified that: [a]‌fter this period of fifteen years Persia will be d-​napšāh, “of herself,” again, that is, independent and no longer tributary of Alexander. Until the end of these fifteen years Alexander can assert his claim on Persia, should Persia be negligent of her duty to pay tribute. Through the peace-​treaty between Alexander and Tūbarlaq, although she will temporarily pay tribute to Alexander, she will remain an independent state.35

In fact, nothing in the Neṣḥānā suggests that the treaty between the two kings included the details described by Reinink. No element suggests that “Alexander can assert his claim on Persia, should Persia be negligent of her duty to pay tribute.” The only thing that can be extrapolated from the Syriac text is that Tūbarlaq will pay tribute to Alexander for a period of fifteen years, at the end of which his kingdom will either be annexed by Alexander or regain its full independence, depending on the lectio that one follows. In addition, Reinink does not explain why the reading of d-​napšāh should be preferred over d-​napšāk. He asserts that d-​napšāh is the “better reading,” without specifying the criteria that led him to this assertion.36 One suspects that Reinink considers d-​napšāh qualitatively superior to d-​napšāk because it is reported in a majority of manuscripts. But the fact that a lectio appears more often can hardly be taken as proof of its originality. Of course, it may be that the author of the Neṣḥānā used the expression d-​napšāh to clarify that Persia would regain its independence after the agreed-​upon period of tributary status—​although one wonders why he would have inserted a clarification that adds nothing to the narrative. But the reading d-​napšāk makes as much sense or even better sense. There is indeed a more plausible explanation than the one provided by Reinink for the correct understanding of the sentence in question. The insertion in the narrative of the fictitious historical event of the Persian tribute to Alexander raises a problem for the author; namely, it contradicts the common knowledge about Alexander’s conquest of the Persian Empire. The author could hardly have expected his readers to be ignorant of this historical event, broadly reported in historiographical and literary traditions alike. As a consequence, he may have felt the need to answer a question that likely would have occurred to anyone who read his work: How could Alexander have made Persia a tributary if he annexed that very same kingdom? The Syriac writer solves the problem by creating a fictional historical reality in which Alexander first

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  77 obtains a tribute from Tūbarlaq for a period of fifteen years and then takes possession of his kingdom. If my interpretation is correct, then the reading d-​napšāk relates to the author’s need to reconcile historical knowledge and the pseudo-​ historical element of the tribute. Of course, this reading implies that the Syriac writer wanted to persuade his audience about the occurrence of an event that never occurred: that is, Persia’s payment of a tribute to Alexander. As will become clear in the following pages, this was indeed the case, since the tribute paid by Tūbarlaq to Alexander plays a very important role in the agenda of the Syriac author. Reinink’s focus on the reading d-​napšāh is directly connected to the historical contextualization that he seeks to establish for the Neṣḥānā. His reading of the treaty signed by Alexander and Tūbarlaq brings to mind the stipulations established in the peace treaty of 628 signed by Heraclius and Kavadh II (r. February–​ September 628). According to Reinink, this treaty restored the status quo ante bellum, and this general idea is reflected in the Syriac text.37 However, Reinink provides no detailed discussion of the conditions and terms of the peace treaty of 628 that he claims to be similar to those described in the Neṣḥānā. This is not a minor oversight, since reconstruction of the clauses of the peace agreements made by Heraclius (not only in 628, but also in the following year) are far more complex than Reinink indicates. The negotiations that resulted in the suspension of hostilities and the peace arrangements did not follow a linear development. Rather, they were strongly conditioned by the absence of a political entity strong enough to implement the clauses of the treaty on the Persian side. While we can reconstruct with a certain degree of confidence the timing and dynamics of the negotiations, the sources are frustratingly silent about the exact provisos of the various peace treaties. The dramatic events that were about to occur, culminating in the collapse of the Sasanian state and its replacement by the early Islamic and then Umayyad Empire, made the peace agreements reached by Heraclius irrelevant. Arguably, it is because of these extraordinary circumstances that so few specific details have been transmitted about the treaties signed by the Byzantine emperor. It appears that contemporary and later commentators paid more attention to the abrupt establishment of a new geopolitical scenario than to failed attempts to perpetuate the old world order. Be that as it may, it seems that none of the (three) treaties stipulated by Heraclius in 628–​630 has much in common with the dynamic described in the Neṣḥānā. The peace talks opened in an atmosphere of political instability in the Sasanian state following Heraclius’s decisive victory on the plain of Nineveh on December 12, 627. This military success led to the deposition of Khosrow Parvēz during the night of February 23–​24, 628, and his replacement by his son Shērōē, who assumed the dynastic name of Kavadh II. Negotiations seem to have been

78  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate concluded by May 15, 628, when a dispatch sent by Heraclius to Constantinople was read publicly in Saint Sophia. The treaty proved hard to apply, however.38 The Persian commander-​in-​chief in Egypt, Shahrbarāz (d. 630), refused to acknowledge Shērōē’s authority and to implement the peace decree. Things took a more complex turn when Shērōē suddenly died in September 628 and his eight-​ year-​old son Ardashir (r. September 628–​April 630) took the throne as his successor with the dynastic name of Ardashir III. At the same time, Shērōē’s death allowed for a resolution of the political impasse created by Shahrbarāz’s refusal to surrender the Byzantine provinces under occupation. Heraclius opened new negotiations directly with the Persian warlord, whom he met at the Arabissus Tripotamus Pass in the summer of 629. The entente between the two military leaders was sealed through the marriage of Heraclius’s son, Theodosius, to Shahrbarāz’s daughter, Nike, and the peace was celebrated through the building of a church that the two leaders named Eirene (“Peace”).39 Again, things did not go as planned. Shortly after the meeting at Arabissus Tripotamus, Shahrbarāz seized power in Ctesiphon and executed the young shah Ardashir III. However, the warlord sat on the Persian throne for little over a month. On June 9, 630, he was assassinated. Shahrbarāz’s regime managed to survive temporarily and the power passed to his wife, Boran, who was Khosrow’s daughter. It was Boran who secured the continuation of the peace negotiations by sending a delegation led by the catholicos Ishoʿyahb II to meet Heraclius in Aleppo. The meeting resulted in the drafting of a new treaty. It was only during the third round of negotiations that Heraclius obtained the re-​establishment of the limes of 591–​602. From what we can discern, negotiations with Shērōē resulted in a return (with some adjustments) to the 360 frontier, whereas Shahrbarāz proved to be a much tougher peace partner, who succeeded in retaining possession of the Roman provinces of Mesopotamia and Orhoene and of the cities of Amida and Edessa. Arguably, the unstable position of Boran as the regent of the Sasanian state strengthened Heraclius’s negotiation position and provided him the opportunity to obtain what he had failed to achieve during the previous negotiations.40 Thus, if there ever was a return to the status quo ante bellum, this happened only toward the end of 630, and not in 628, as Reinink maintains. But even if we leave aside these problems in Reinink’s historical reconstruction, it appears that almost nothing in the historical scenario that he traces matches the situation described in the Neṣḥānā. For instance, if one follows Reinink in reading d-​napšāh, then the Syriac text implies that Tūbarlaq’s kingdom would recover its full independence at the end of a period of fifteen years, during which it would pay tribute to Alexander. In this case, there are two major discrepancies with regard to what seems to have been the historical reality. First, in the Neṣḥānā, the restoration of the status quo is planned for the future. This differs from what Heraclius and Shērōē, Shahrbarāz,

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  79 and Boran possibly agreed upon, that is, the restoration of the frontiers of pre-​ 591 and of 591–​602, to take immediate effect after the signing of the peace treaty. Second, the central element of the treaty in the Syriac work is the fifteen-​year-​ long tribute that Persia commits to pay, an element that has no parallel in the treaty of 628, in which neither of the two signatories—​Heraclius or Shērōē—​ agreed to pay any amount of money to the rival in exchange for peace. As reports of the peace agreements signed in 628, 629, and 630 do not include the payment of any tribute, this marks a significant difference between the Syriac text and the historical reality of the 630s. The only element in Roman-​Persian negotiations that may compare to the tribute described in the Syriac work is found in a notice about the treaty that Heraclius signed the year later, in 629 (which Reinink does not mention). In the Breviarium, Nikephoros of Constantinople (d. 828) reports that Shahrbarāz’s allegedly promised to give Heraclius “money from Persia with which he might repair whatever he had destroyed in the land of the Romans.”41 It is significant, however, that in no Byzantine source, not even in the ideologically oriented poems by Heraclius’s panegyrist George of Pisidia (d. 634), do we find any claims that the Sasanian was forced to pay a tribute. This is surprising, as one would expect to portray Shahrbarāz’s offer of war reparations as a sign of Persia’s subjugation by Heraclius’s propagandists. This was not the case, and Shahrbarāz’s offer—​if it was ever made—​did not resonate among Byzantines, as indicated by the fact that it is reported only once and in a later source. It is thus difficult to relate the dynamic described in the Neṣḥānā and, in particular, the fifteen-​year tribute that Tūbarlaq commits to pay to Alexander, to this dubious aspect of the negotiations held between Heraclius and Shahrbarāz in 629.

Alexander’s Peace Treaty and the Political Context of the Mid-​Sixth Century It appears that none of the treaties signed by Heraclius has much in common with the scene described in the Neṣḥānā. By contrast, as I will now demonstrate, the terms of the treaty described in the Syriac work are informed—​although in an idealized way—​by the terms of several peace agreements between the two empires during the sixth century. More broadly, these terms reflect the political situation of that period. We begin by observing that in the Neṣḥānā the peace treaty is followed by the agreement between Alexander and Tūbarlaq to establish a joint patrol at Alexander’s gate. Reinink tries to connect this element of the Syriac text to the historical reality of the 630s.42 Recall, however, that none of the treaties reportedly signed by Heraclius between 628 and 630 contains any clause about the defense of the Caspian Gates that resembles the arrangements

80  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate between the two kings in the Neṣḥānā. By contrast, I argued in the previous chapter that the entente between Alexander and Tūbarlaq about the defense of Alexander’s gate against the Huns reflects the political reality of the sixth century and reveals the author’s intent to address a main point of controversy in Byzantine-​Sasanian relationships. The manner in which the author describes the agreement to share the costs of guarding the gate is informed by contemporary Byzantine political discourse and represents an idealized solution to thorny political quarrels over the control of the Caucasian passes. The peace treaty between Alexander and Tūbarlaq follows a similar pattern of “historical revisionism,” that is to say, it ascribes conditions more favorable for the Romans than the actual historical circumstances. In fact, the main proviso of the treaty, which obligates Persia to pay tribute to the Romans for fifteen years, inverts the terms found in peace agreements between Constantinople and Ctesiphon throughout the sixth century. As noted, at several stages of the conflicts between Byzantines and Sasanians in the sixth century, the former made payments to the latter. Gold disbursements were part of the peace settlements in 532 and 562, while additional sums of money were given to the Persians to secure the cessation of hostilities in 545 and 551, for which the Romans granted Khosrow Anōshirvān twenty centenaria of gold.43 Tributes played an important role in Sasanian political culture, which regarded countries subject to annual payments of gold as vassals of the Persian shah. It thus comes as no surprise that the Sasanians did not miss an opportunity to portray Roman payments for peace as proof of political subjugation and to assert that the Byzantines were tributaries of the Persian kingdom. John of Ephesus reports that during an official visit to the Turks, the Byzantine ambassadors accidentally learned about similar claims made by Sasanian diplomats at the Turkic court. On that occasion, the Turkic king reportedly asked the Roman legates: “Is it true what the Persians say, that the king of the Romans is their slave and pays yearly tribute as a slave?”44 At these words the Roman ambassador Zemarchus would have expressed his indignation and reminded them of the time “when Trajan, a Roman king, invaded them, he overthrew and vanquished them, that to this very day they tremble and shake before the statue of himself which he set up in their land.”45 The words that John of Ephesus puts in the mouth of the Roman ambassador expose his attempt to mitigate the humiliation provoked by the Sasanian claims and to seek comfort in the memory of past times when the Romans had invaded Persian territories.46 John was not the only writer in Byzantine society who tried to rebut Sasanian allegations of having subjugated the Roman state to tributary conditions. As noted, several authors, from Ps.-​Joshua the Stylite to Procopius, addressed the risk that Byzantine war payments be portrayed as tributes. This was also the official imperial position. The goal of Justinian’s policy was not

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  81 to allow the money he had disbursed for peace appear as yearly tributes to the enemy. As Procopius indicates with regard to the armistice of 551: “The Romans gave the Persians outright the entire amount of gold agreed upon, in order not to appear to be paying them tribute each year.”47 To the dismay of the Byzantine emperor and despite all of his efforts, many of his subjects appear to have thought otherwise. Procopius reports that the people of Constantinople were particularly dissatisfied with the fact that Persians had successfully imposed a tribute on the Romans, as “they perceived that they had in no hidden sense become tributary to the Persians.”48 Manifestations of dissatisfaction with Justinian’s praxis of exchanging money for peace help us to better understand the treaty signed by Alexander and Tūbarlaq in the Neṣḥānā. The author of the Neṣḥānā was one of many in Byzantine society who expressed discontent at the provisions of the peace agreements stipulated by Justinian. Similar to his contemporary John of Ephesus, he reacted to the deplorable conditions accepted by the emperor by reminiscing on the glorious past in which it was Persia that was subjugated by the Romans, and not vice versa. To emphasize this point, he devised a fictional scenario in which Alexander coerces his Persian enemy to pay the humiliating tribute. The decision to make Alexander collect the payment of a tribute from the Persian king, instead of immediately subjugating his empire, clearly reveals the author’s desire to reverse the current political situation, in which the Sasanians could claim to have reduced Byzantium to a tributary state. The way in which he rewrites history is very telling of his feelings. In other sections of the work, it appears that the author had no doubt that one day a Byzantine emperor would repeat the deeds of his mythical ancestor, Alexander, and take over the Sasanian Empire. However, it was not enough for him to emphasize Persia’s previous enslavement to Alexander and its unavoidable return to a subject condition in the future. In his artificial historical reality, Persia must pass through the payment of a yearly tribute that would offset the current humiliating conditions of Justinian’s kingdom. But this was not the only issue at stake. Through this revisionist reading of the Macedonian hero’s accomplishments, our author also sets an example for current rulers to adopt more aggressive policies toward the Sasanian enemy. The author of the Neṣḥānā was not the only writer of his time to use this kind of literary strategy in reference. A close parallel to the model of the tribute paid by Tūbarlaq in the Neṣḥānā is found in contemporary Syriac literature. The anonymous author of the work known as The Julian Romance engages in a rewriting of past history—​specifically addressing the Roman emperors Julian (r. 361–​363) and Jovian (r. 363–​364)—​which is very similar to the rewriting found in the Neṣḥānā. In his romanticized and revisionist presentation of events, the author of the Julian Romance mentions a future and unspecified period in which Persia will be economically subjugated to the Romans. The relevant passage occurs in

82  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate the prophecy brought to Jovian by an angel who, among other things, announces that Constantinople will force Ctesiphon to pay a ten-​ year-​ long tribute.49 Scholars have offered different explanations for the specific historical events that the Syriac writer had in mind with this prophecy. The most convincing explanation is the one advanced by Nöldeke, and recently revisited by Philip Wood, according to which Jovian’s prophecy should be dated to 504–​532.50 According to this reading, the prophecy addresses several events and political issues and, as Wood rightly observes, its overall tones “can be seen as a general desideratum for Roman-​Persian relations.”51 This passage of the Julian Romance and the Neṣḥānā share many elements. Like the Syriac Alexander, the Jovian of the Romance is represented as a pious Christian emperor who receives divinely inspired prophecy. As Wood intriguingly suggests, Jovian’s prophecy may contain a polemical answer to Sasanian attempts to extort money for the defense of the Caspian Gates52—​a controversial question that also interested the author of the Neṣḥānā. Finally—​and most importantly for the present discussion—​the ten-​year tribute that Persia is committed to pay in the Romance recalls the fifteen-​year tribute that Tūbarlaq commits to pay to Alexander in the Neṣḥānā. The similarity is particularly striking if one takes into account that historically the Sasanians were never compelled to pay any tribute to Byzantium. Thus, the situation described in the two Syriac works cannot have been informed by actual historical events. Wood suggests that the payment of the tribute prophesied in the Romance reflects “the author’s own hopes for the outcome of Roman-​Persian warfare.”53 This strikes me as unlikely since it implies that the prophecy was composed in wartime, before the treaty signed by Justinian in 532. However, the specific mention of a tribute recalls (although inversely) a prominent clause of that exact peace agreement. In this case, it is more probable that the ten-​year-​long tribute in Jovian’s prophecy represents an overturning of the conditions accepted by Justinian in the Eternal Peace, and expresses the author’s wish that the situation be reversed in the near future. From this perspective, the author of the Julian Romance shared the disappointment expressed by the author of the Neṣḥānā for the mediocre military achievements of the Byzantines in the sixth century, and like the latter, he reacted by designing an ideal image of Byzantine-​Sasanian power relationships that included the reduction of the Persian neighbor to the status of tributary vassal. It is not impossible that one of the authors knew the other’s work and used it as a model for his idealized scenario in which Ctesiphon, not Byzantium, was compelled to pay tribute to its rival. However, it is more probable that the literary solution adopted by both writers reflects broader political debates current among sixth-​century Syriac intellectuals. The main centers of Syriac culture at the time were directly exposed to Sasanian invasions due to their geographical

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  83 location. Thus, it is understandable that these intellectuals were disappointed by Justinian’s inability to solve the problem represented by the “Oriental” threat. I therefore find extremely problematic the view predominant in modern scholarship that the Neṣḥānā was intended as a pamphlet of pro-​imperial propaganda—​ a view that is largely dictated by the incorrect attribution of the Syriac work to the time of Heraclius’s successful campaign against the Sasanians. During the seventh century, the work may very well have been read as a celebratory allegory of Heraclius’s military achievements. However, its original goals must have been different. When the Neṣḥānā is situated in its true period of composition, that is, the mid-​sixth century, the author’s real agenda emerges. His rewriting of key points of the treaties signed by Justinian was not designed to celebrate the emperor by whitewashing his failed diplomacy, but rather to reproach his lack of assertiveness during the negotiations by comparing him with the illustrious example of Alexander. Justinian’s ineptitude—​our author implies—​brought the empire to a condition that was the polar opposite of the political dominance achieved during the time of Alexander, who defeated the Persians and imposed a humiliating tribute on them. Far from serving as official imperial propaganda, as Reinink and other scholars maintain, the author of the Neṣḥānā was criticizing the contemporary political power. The Julian Romance provides an important parallel case. As Wood emphasizes, its author intended for his work to serve as a criticism of Justinian, rather than praise.54 The Neṣḥānā and the Romance may thus be treated as examples of a common literary tendency that was current in the centers of Syriac culture at the time: criticism of the faults of the current political leadership through fictional re-​elaborations of the past. In light of Justinian’s repression of political opponents and dissident intellectuals (e.g., Procopius, who likely published his Secret History only after the emperor’s death due to fear of imperial retaliation), it should come as no surprise that these Syriac authors adopted similar literary techniques to express their disappointment with the emperor’s policies. As I will argue in the following chapter, the virtuous figures of Alexander in the Neṣḥānā and of Jovian Romance are also intended to endorse the authors’ negative assessments of Justinian’s leadership. In the case of the Syriac Alexander, his portrayal as a victorious and flawless king was not intended to provide a flattering parallel to the current ruler, but rather to highlight by means of comparison the latter’s flaws.

Tūbarlaq’s Prophecy After signing the peace treaty with Alexander and coming to an agreement with him about the shared defense of the gate erected against the Huns, Tūbarlaq

84  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate makes a prediction that, in its broad outline, corroborates the contents of Alexander’s prophecy: toward the End of Time the kingdom of the Romans will subjugate the other world kingdoms; the king of Persia will be killed; Babylon and Assyria will fall; and the kingdom of the Romans will reign until the End of Time, when it will relinquish its power to the Messiah. Some scholars relate Tūbarlaq’s prophecy to another prophecy that Heraclius’s rival, Khosrow Parvēz, allegedly relayed during his escape to Byzantine territory, after being dethroned by Bahrām Chōbin in 590. Theophylact Simocatta reports that on his way to Constantinople, Khosrow replied to mocking remarks made by the Byzantine general John Mystacon as follows: Be assured that troubles will flow back in turn against you Romans. The Babylonian race will hold the Roman state in its power for a threefold cyclic hebdomad of years. Thereafter you Romans will enslave Persians for a fifth hebdomad of years. When these very things have been accomplished, the day without evening will dwell among mortals and the expected fate will achieve power, when the forces of destruction will be handed over to dissolution and those of the better life hold sway.55

Tūbarlaq’s and Khosrow’s prophecies present the remarkable similarity of a Persian king who predicts the future defeat of his kingdom by the Romans. However, that both texts refer to the same historical circumstances, as is often maintained, is doubtful. In light of my proposed historical contextualization of the Neṣḥānā, doubts may be cast on the hypothesis that Tūbarlaq’s prophecy refers to the context of the 630s.56 Similarly debatable is whether the two prophecies pursue the same goals. Clearly, the goal of Tūbarlaq’s prophecy is to predict the future advent of a golden age for the Roman kingdom. By contrast, several doubts surround the intentions behind the prophecy reported by Simocatta. A first question is whether Khosrow’s prophecy was composed before or after the conclusion of the Byzantine-​Sasanian conflict in 628/​629, and to which events it refers. The question affects our understanding of the original intent of the author of the prophecy. The hebdomadal chronological system used by Khosrow in his divination is complex and leaves the door open to a wide range of interpretations. P. J. Alexander and Cyril Mango take the year 591—​that is, the year in which Khosrow would have spoken these words—​as a starting point of the prophecy. In this case, the three hebdomads of Persian supremacy would correspond to 591–​612, whereas the fifth hebdomad of Roman supremacy would correspond to 619–​626.57 These dates do not fit well in the context of the seventh-​century Roman-​Persian wars, since the conflict started only in 602 and concluded in 628/​629. Alternatively, Mary and Michael Whitby

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  85 argue that the period of Roman supremacy corresponds to the last years of the conflict (i.e., 622–​628), when Heraclius was indeed able to reverse the course of the war through a series of counteroffensives. The two scholars understand the predicted period of Roman supremacy as a prophecy of a messianic Golden Age and compare it to the predictions found in the Neṣḥānā—​which, they say, was a work revised shortly after Heraclius’s victory in 629/​630.58 It follows from this reading that Khosrow’s prophecy was composed after the conclusion of the conflict, and this is the solution indicated by Michael Whitby in another study.59 The problem with the Whitbys’ reading is their identification of the period of Roman hegemony as the fifth hebdomad: if this period covers the years 622–​628, then the previous four hebdomads lead us back to 594, when the conflict had not yet started. The two scholars circumvent the problem by postulating that the prophecy implies an unmentioned first hebdomad of peace that preceded the conflict.60 Although clever, this solution is not convincing, and as Reinink points out, is overly sophisticated.61 As for Reinink, he suggests that the year 603, in which the Persian offensive started, or the year 604, in which the Persians achieved their first successes, may be taken as the starting point of the threefold hebdomad of Persian supremacy. This gives 603/​604–​624/​625—​although Reinink expresses caution in fixing exact dates through the hebdomad system.62 From this point onward, however, it is not clear how Reinink understands the two further hebdomads of the prophecy. One assumes that the year 625/​626 marks the beginning of a new hebdomad that follows the threefold hebdomad of Persian supremacy. But to which one of the two remaining hebdomads does it correspond? Is it the beginning of the fourth hebdomad not mentioned by Khosrow? Or is it the fifth hebdomad of Roman supremacy, as suggested by Reinink’s recognition that the year 626 was a turning point in the conflict? No explanation is given. To complicate matters, Reinink does not adopt a clear position on the related question about when the prophecy was composed and, thus, whether or not it is a vaticinium ex eventu—​although he seems to lean toward a date that precedes the end of the conflict.63 Reinink largely focuses on rejecting the Whitbys’ reading of Khosrow’s prophecy as a prediction of Byzantium’s glorious future, similar to the one found in the Neṣḥānā. In his view, the final sentence of the prophecy can hardly be interpreted as a description of a messianic Golden Age. Since phraseology and imagery of this closing pronouncement express common Christian topoi about the imminence of the End, the prophecy can only signify that after a conflict in which the balance of power would shift back and forth, the world would come to an end. The intended message of the prognostication was the opposite of the message expressed in the Neṣḥānā, since the author of Khosrow’s prophecy did not have any expectation about a period of Roman cosmocracy.64 Reinink’s skepticism about the Whitbys’ reading is legitimate. Not much in Khosrow’s prophecy

86  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate suggests the kind of Golden Age depicted in the Syriac work. Alternatively, Reinink suggests that the author of Khosrow’s prophecy intended to point out the ephemeral character of both Roman and Persian successes in the war given the imminent arrival of the End. However, it is difficult to reconcile this view with the idea expressed by Reinink that Khosrow’s prophecy served as a tool of pro-​Byzantine propaganda to captivate popular support in favor of Heraclius during the conflict against the Sasanians.65 One wonders how the author’s views about the imminent collapse of the two empires could have served the goals of Heraclius’s propaganda. One possibility not yet been explored is to situate the date of composition of Khosrow’s prophecy, or at least its final revision, to the period immediately following the conclusion of the conflict. Scholars have suggested that Simocatta did not complete his History before the first Arab conquests in the late 630s.66 If so, then one can envisage an alternative explanation for the hebdomad system in the prophecy. The most reasonable starting point for Khosrow’s prediction is 602, that is, the beginning of the Persian campaign. This year inaugurates the first cycle of a threefold hebdomad, that is, the years 602–​622, during which the Persians would be victorious over the Romans. Historically, this fits well with the developments of the conflict until 622, a year that coincides—​possibly not accidentally—​with the beginning of Heraclius’s first counteroffensive. The years 623–​629 would correspond to an unmentioned fourth hebdomad, during which the odds progressively turned in favor of the Romans culminating in the peace treaties of 628/​629. Heraclius’s successes in the war and the conditions that he imposed on the Sasanians generated hope for a period of Roman supremacy, discernible in the fifth hebdomad of the prophecy, which would correspond to years 630–​636. With the fifth hebdomad we arrive at the apocalyptic imagery that follows the hebdomad of Roman dominion. Notably, the year 636/​637 coincides with the Arab siege and conquest of Jerusalem, an event that easily could have been interpreted as a sign of the imminence of the Eschaton. Contemporary sources attest to the fact that the Arab conquests generated apocalyptic anxieties in the Christian communities of the Near East. These anxieties are reflected in the final gloomy scenario predicted by Khosrow. This is—​I think—​a plausible alternative scenario for the elaboration of Khosrow’s prognostication, as reported by Simocatta. The prophecy may also have begun as an instrument of pro-​Heraclius propaganda that did not originally include the final apocalyptic closure, as suggested by the odd silence over the fourth hebdomad (recall that the text addresses the events of the first three hebdomads and those of the fifth hebdomad, but makes no reference to anything that happened during the fourth hebdomad). It is possible that the prophecy originally included only four hebdomads, a period that incidentally coincides with the roughly twenty-​eight years of the duration of the conflict. Perhaps the period of Roman supremacy

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  87 was originally included in the fourth hebdomad and was later delayed to a fifth hebdomad in order to accommodate the new historical developments and to reach the annus horribilis of 636/​637. The dramatic events of that year may have prompted a re-​elaboration of Khosrow’s prophecy to turn it into a prediction of the approaching of the End. Khosrow’s prophecy in Timocatta’s History shares several common features with Tūbarlaq’s prophecy in the Neṣḥānā. Reinink maintains that the two prophecies are contemporary expressions of Byzantine propaganda disseminated during the reign of Heraclius,67 an opinion that is favored by Greisiger.68 Shoemaker (though apparently not persuaded) explores the possibility that Tūbarlaq’s prophecy was added in the seventh century to the original core of the text with the specific aim of celebrating Heraclius’s victories.69 In my view, it is improbable that Tūbarlaq’s prophecy refers to events of the reign of Heraclius. Of course, the similarities with Khosrow’s prophecy reported by Simocatta are evident. However, one should also consider a meaningful difference between the two texts. Specifically, the description of alternating cycles of Persian and Roman supremacy in Khosrow’s prophecy is clearly identifiable with the course of events in the seventh-​century Byzantine-​Sasanian conflict, which saw the Persians prevailing at first, only to be eventually defeated by the Romans. As I have illustrated elsewhere, this specific description is peculiar to several prophecies composed in the first half of the seventh century that retrospectively describe the specific dynamic of that conflict, which was initiated by Khosrow Parvēz in 602 and which concluded with Heraclius’s victorious campaign in 628.70 Now, nothing related to this specific literary description can be identified in the prophecy uttered by Tūbarlaq in the Neṣḥānā, where we only read about a future Roman victory over the Persians. The difference is not a marginal one. But even if one decides to ignore this significant point of discrepancy between the two prophecies and to focus only on their similarities, a larger literary and historical contextualization would still mitigate the temptation to trace a straight line between the two texts. Predictions about the victory of the Romans over the Persians are not peculiar to Heraclius’s war propaganda. The miraculous goose egg bearing the words “Romans will conquer,” reported by Ps.-​Joshua the Stylite, is a fine example of the kind of oracular prognostications circulating at the time of the Anastasian War (502–​506).71 Moreover, the apocalyptic ideology that the Roman Empire would be the last world kingdom and would remit its power to Jesus after his Second Coming had been circulating since at least the fourth century. As we will see below, it already occurs in Aphrahat’s Demonstrations with which the Neṣḥānā shares several thematic connections. More importantly, however, the common motif of a Persian king uttering a prophecy relates to the more general trope of the Persians as the descendants of the Chaldean diviners. According to Simocatta, Khosrow “was well versed in the burdensome folly of the Chaldaeans

88  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate concerning the stars.”72 Similarly, in the Neṣḥānā, Tūbarlaq summons a circle of sorcerers and astrologers who help him to divine the future. Syriac sources contain numerous references to this motif, and several Sasanian rulers are credited with mastering astrology. For instance, The Cave of Treasures, an anonymous Syriac work composed in the Sasanian Empire during the sixth or the seventh century, portrays Ardashir as a priest of the era of Nimrod to whom demons teach the illicit arts of astrology and divination.73 In the Julian Romance we read that Shapur sent a message to Jovian, who was serving as Julian’s ambassador to the Sasanians. In the message, the Persian king predicts the future glory of Jovian and “anticipated the entire order and the manner of your warfare by means of the course of the stars of the astronomical sphere.”74 The king’s divination approximately describes Julian’s ill-​fated Persian campaigns and their aftermath.75 On the literary level, the prophecy brings to mind the prophecy related by Tūbarlaq in the Neṣḥānā and the prophecy attributed to Khosrow by Simocatta. In all three cases, a Persian king discloses to a Roman general or king, by means of divination, the outcome of a future conflict between Persians and Romans. Of course, Shapur’s vaticinium lacks the eschatological dimension that characterizes Tūbarlaq’s and Khosrow’s prediction. Nevertheless, it demonstrates that the author of the Neṣḥānā adopted a motif that was current well before its appearance in Simocatta’s History. But there is more. Both the Neṣḥānā and the Julian Romance attribute prophetical abilities to the Roman heroes of their stories, that is, Alexander and Jovian, and to their Persian rivals (i.e., Tūbarlaq and Shapur). This is a remarkable and peculiar narrative element: two rival Persian and Roman kings are credited with the gift of clairvoyance—​either by divination or prophecy, respectively. As far as I know, no other text has this narrative feature. Given the parallels between the Neṣḥānā and the Julian Romance, the convergence of the two Syriac works on this additional point is particularly meaningful. Equally important, this distinguishing double prognostication would appear to exclude the possibility that one of the two prophecies in the Neṣḥānā was added at a later date. Tūbarlaq’s prophecy must belong to the original sixth-​century text.

The Identity of Tūbarlaq One unsolved problem in the Neṣḥānā is whether the Tūbarlaq figure is a literary representation of a specific historical figure. To the best of my knowledge, no other source mentions the name Tūbarlaq—​with the exception of Ps.-​Jacob’s metrical homily, which is related to the Neṣḥānā by a direct and common textual link. The name Tūbarlaq is an unsolved riddle. As far as I know, the only recent attempt to establish the identity of the mysterious Persian king of the Neṣḥānā has been made by János Harmatta in a 1996 article. Harmatta proposes that the

The Conflict with Tūbarlaq  89 Syriac ‫( ܬܘܒܪܠܩ‬twbrlq) may be a misreading of the cursive Pahlavi script. The Pahlavi name Khosrow was mistakenly read “Tūbarlaq” as result of the similarity in the shape of several letters in that writing system. Harmatta refers specifically to the name of Khosrow Parvēz as it is inscribed on Sasanian coins, which “may be read more as twbrlkʾ than ḥwslwy, inasmuch as the cursive ḥ, written carelessly, may be read as t because its loop-​like head was often negligently left open.”76 If Harmatta is correct, one may observe that if the name Tūbarlaq is a misreading of Khosrow, then this Khosrow may very well have been Khosrow Anōshirvān, and not Khosrow Parvēz. In his study, Harmatta considers the possibility that a previous version of the Neṣḥānā may have been in circulation in the sixth century.77 However, he does not consider the hypothesis that Tūbarlaq is Khosrow Anōshirvān. This is unfortunate, as the “Tūbarlaq equals Khosrow Anōshirvān” hypothesis would resolve a complication in Harmatta’s theory. If one maintains that the Neṣḥānā was composed in the sixth century, that Tūbarlaq is a misreading of Khosrow, and that this Khosrow is Khosrow Parvēz, then one must assume that all instances in which the name Tūbarlaq occurs in the Syriac text are seventh-​century emendations of an earlier version. However, this does not seem to be the case, or at least it is not necessary, since a misreading of Khosrow fits perfectly with the original context of the Neṣḥānā. At any rate, it is hard to believe that the author of the Neṣḥānā, who generally appears to be well informed about the political situation and contemporary events, did not know the name of the Sasanian king and mistakenly read the inscription on Persian coins. A different explanation is in order. Harmatta pays no attention to the singular piece of information provided by the author of the Neṣḥānā about Tūbarlaq’s genealogy, that is, his description of Tūbarlaq as a member of the house of ‫( ܐܚܫܘܪܚ‬ʾḥšwrḥ). Who is this ʾḥšwrḥ? Budge suggests that the name ʾḥšwrḥ is a corruption of the biblical Ahasuerus (‫)אחשורוש‬.78 This suggestion is accepted by Bohas.79 This reading is appealing. In the Book of Daniel, Ahasuerus is identified as the father of Darius the Mede,80 an obscure character that in several sources, including the Peshitta, is confused with Darius III and is identified as Alexander’s adversary in the prophecy of the ram and the he-​goat in Daniel 8:3–​7.81 If one accepts the equation ʾḥšwrḥ =​ Ahasuerus, then the description of Tūbarlaq as a member of the house of ʾḥšwrḥ echoes the description of Darius the Mede as the son of Ahasuerus. If so, then the author of the Neṣḥānā is reproducing the confusion between Darius the Mede and Darius III that was current among Syriac intellectuals. There is a problem, however. In the Peshitta, the name Ahasuerus is rendered as ‫( ܐܚܫܝܪܫ‬ʾḥšyrš), and this is the spelling used by most Syriac authors.82 The name ʾḥšwrḥ used by the author of the Neṣḥānā is sufficiently similar to ʾḥšyrš to suggest a correlation, but is sufficiently different to ask why the author did not report the “correct” spelling of

90  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Ahasuerus. This misspelling goes hand in the hand with the absence of the name Darius. Did the author of the Neṣḥānā misspell ʾḥšyrš out of ignorance? Was he not familiar with the real name of Alexander’s rival, Darius? I do not think so, insomuch as our author demonstrates a very good knowledge of Scripture. I doubt that he was not familiar with the “correct” spelling of Ahasuerus. It is similarly implausible that he was unaware of the name Darius (III or the Mede), who in sources—​including the Peshitta—​is unequivocally indicated as the Persian opponent of the Macedonian king. For these reasons, I suspect that we are dealing with a deliberate distortion of the figure of Darius, the son of Ahasuerus—​not a mistake by the author. My hypothesis is that the names twbrlq and ʾḥšwrḥ are both puns. ʾḤšwrḥ clearly appears to be a distortion of ʾḥšyrš. Through the phonetic passage ʾḥšyrš →ʾḥšwrḥ the author may have sought to evoke negative concepts related to the root š-​r-​ḥ—​such as immoderation and luxury. As for Tūbarlaq, note that the final letter -​q in the name is a transposition into Syriac of the final syllable -​ag found in several Iranian names, for example, Āb-​dānāg, Ābrōdag, Ādur-​Ardag, Mihr-​bādag, Vahnāmag, and, of course, Papag, the father of the founder of the Sasanian dynasty, Ardashir (r. 211–​224).83 That said, rather than a marker of its Iranian origin, the final -​q of Tūbarlaq may represent an attempt to Iranize, that is, to make sound Iranian, a name invented by the author. It might be no coincidence that this name bases on the Syriac root t-​b-​r, which signifies to break, to fragment, to ruin, and so on.84 As for the addition of the letter [l] between the root t-​b-​r and the final “Iranizing” syllable -​q, this may be explained as a consequence of assonance. Indeed, the final element of Tūbarlaq (i.e., -​brlq) brings to mind, for instance, the Middle Persian word bandag (“servant”), which is found in several composite names, for example, Dād-​bandag, Vēh-​bandag, Vīrāz-​ bandag, Yazdān-​bandag.85 But why would the author have elaborated this derisory name for Alexander’s enemy? Because—​I believe—​Tūbarlaq of the house of ʾḥšwrḥ is a parody, a caricature forged on the calque of Darius the son of Ahasuerus, who was commonly confused with the historical Darius defeated by Alexander. The name “Tūbarlaq of the house of ʾḥšwrḥ” was conceived by the Syriac author as a deliberate attempt to ridicule the Sasanian crown by producing the laughable image of an ancient Persian sovereign. Notably, this caricature distorts the image of the dynasty with which the Sasanians were associated by Khosrow’s Christian propagandists: the Achaemenians.86 Probably, the function of the Tūbarlaq figure is to sarcastically dismiss representations current among Persian Christians of the Sasanians as the heirs of that glorious imperial Persian past. As we will see, this is not the only element in the Syriac work that indicates the author’s polemic attitude toward Christians living in the Sasanian Empire.87

6

The Syriac Alexander According to the conventional scholarly wisdom, the figure of Alexander in the Neṣḥānā functions as an avatar of Heraclius and his exploits in the Syriac work are allegorical representations of the Byzantine emperor’s military successes in his campaigns against the Sasanians in the late 620s. This idea has been advanced by Reinink in several publications. According to him, the Neṣḥānā is based on an implicit parallel between the figures of Alexander and Heraclius, the ultimate goal of which is to exalt the latter by comparison to the former.1 The Syriac author sought to persuade his audience that Alexander’s deeds in the past would be repeated by Heraclius in the present.2 In the Syriac work, Reinink says, Heraclius is “a new Alexander.”3 According to Greisiger—​ who fully embraces Reinink’s reading—​ the Alexander-​Heraclius typology reflects the permanent trace left by Alexander’s glorious deeds in the collective imagery of the people of the eastern Mediterranean.4 It is certainly possible that in the eyes of many contemporaries, Heraclius’s successes in the conflict against the Sasanians evoked the memory of Alexander’s conquests. However, only few literary sources from the time of Heraclius draw connections between Heraclius’s and Alexander’s campaigns. The only contemporary recorded comparison between the two sovereigns occurs in two poems of George of Pisidia, that is, Heraclias (I.110–​21) and Expeditio Persica (III.48–​53). In neither of these poems, however, does George present Heraclius as a new Alexander. Rather, he uses the well-​known rhetorical device of the syncresis to diminish the figure of Alexander and to exalt Heraclius.5 Furthermore, in George’s poems, Alexander is not the only figure used to exalt the virtues of Heraclius. The emperor is also compared to the biblical Noah6 and Elias,7 and to classical heroes like Heracles8 and Timotheus.9 Thus, in literature, comparisons between Heraclius and Alexander did not play a major role, and imperial propagandists did not endorse the parallel between the two sovereigns on a large scale. This does not mean, however, that the model of Alexander was not used at all to celebrate the emperor. Possible examples of the propagandistic employment of the image of the Macedonian are found in material evidence. The most striking example is a marble stele with the bust of Alexander bearing horns, found in the atrium of the ruins of a transept basilica excavated at the archaeological site of Katalymata ton Plakoton in Cyprus.10 The complex monument includes The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0007

92  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate mosaic decorations featuring symbols which archaeologists have associated with Heraclius’s propaganda. These include the shield of David (which recalls the famous representation of Heraclius as the new David), the two pumpkins (a symbol of a sinful nation, arguably Persia), and a pair of Persian sandals.11 In this context, the bust of Alexander was probably meant as a celebratory allusion to Heraclius’s successful campaign against the Sasanians. Charles Anthony Stewart finds further examples of Heraclius’s representation as a new Alexander in contemporary textile production. He draws attention to a cloth preserved at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London, which contains the image of an equestrian Byzantine emperor flanked by two Persian prisoners. The museum curators identify the emperor as Heraclius. Stewart points out some common features between the iconography on the cloth and the bust at Katalymata ton Plakoton and infers that the London textile reflects contemporary Byzantine equestrian representations of Alexander.12 If so, then we would have another example of Heraclius’s comparatio Alexandri. Less convincing is the case—​also mentioned by Stewart—​of a fabric rondel at the Textile Museum in Washington, D.C., which features two specular equestrian figures and an inscription identifying them as Alexander of Macedonia. Relying on Reinink’s Alexander-​Heraclius typology, Stewart speculates that the double representation of the same Alexander-​like horseman suggests a connection between the Macedonian conqueror and Heraclius. If so, one wonders, however, why the name of Heraclius does not appear alongside that of Alexander.13 Be that as it may, there is sufficient evidence to posit that parallels with the Macedonian king were features of Heraclius’s contemporary propaganda—​albeit not as widespread as other encomiastic comparisons, like the one with King David that figures in both literary sources and objects.14 How should we situate this evidence in relation to the present investigation? Both Eleni Procopiou, who supervises the excavations at Katalymata ton Plakoton, and Stewart, who published an analysis of the Alexander statue found in the complex, connect the marble bust to the figure of Alexander in the Neṣḥānā, with special reference to Reinink’s Alexander-​Heraclius typology.15 While there may be an indirect connection between the Cypriot bust and the Neṣḥānā—​especially the representation of Alexander bearing horns—​the question should be revised in light of what has so far emerged in this study. The most immediate consequence of my findings in the previous chapters is that Reinink’s Alexander-​Heraclius typology in the Neṣḥānā is fundamentally wrong. The image of the protagonist of the Syriac work could not have been modeled on that of Heraclius for the simple reason that the text was composed approximately half a century before the reign of this emperor. Of course, one cannot exclude the possibility that, after witnessing Heraclius’s exploits in the conflict against the Sasanians, seventh-​century readers sought in the Neṣḥānā a prefiguration of those contemporary events. In that

The Syriac Alexander  93 case, the hero of the Syriac apocalypse may have come to be regarded as an alter ego of Heraclius. Contemporary propaganda that promoted Heraclius as a new Alexander may have supported this interpretation of the Syriac work. At the same time, the propagandistic exploitation of Alexander’s conquest of Persia with reference to contemporaneous politics on the eastern frontier of the empire are by no means a peculiarity of the seventh century. For centuries, the well-​known phenomena of imitatio Alexandri, comparatio Alexandri, and aemulatio Alexandri circulated in Roman political discourse, while the figure of Alexander had long figured at the center of meta-​historical representations of clashes between Roman and Persian dynasties.16 In many cases, it was the very people whom the sources compare to the Macedonian who themselves sought this comparison. Roman generals and emperors actively embraced the Alexander model, especially when engaged in campaigns against enemies on the eastern borders. The imitatio Alexandri became a prominent motif of imperial propaganda, especially during conflicts against the late Arsacid and early Sasanian dynasties. It was in relation to clashes against Iranian dynasties that the appeal of the figure of Alexander exercised its greatest influence on Roman politicians. Cases of imitatio Alexandri are increasingly reported beginning at the end of the first century, when direct confrontations began between the empire and the Arsacids. Trajan (r. 98–​117) seems to have deliberately pursued the parallel with Alexander during his Parthian campaign.17 It was under the Severan dynasty, however, that the employment of the imitatio Alexandri as a propaganda tool in conflicts against the Arsacid enemy reached its highest levels. Caracalla developed an obsession with the image of Alexander,18 and Severus Alexander (r. 222–​235) was the first to adopt the use of the Alexander motif in anti-​Sasanian propaganda.19 Publicists of both Tetrarchic emperors and Constantinian dynasts did not fail to recall elements of the Alexander theme in connection with the Sasanian challenge.20 It was, however, only during the campaign led by Julian against the Sasanians in 363 that the Alexander imagery reacquired major prominence. Writings by the emperor in his own hand, as well as those by his friend Libanius, point to deliberate attempts to draw a comparison as part of more general propaganda aimed at undermining Sasanian claims to legitimacy.21 Julian was assassinated during the retreat that followed the Roman defeat at the battle of Samarra, in June 363. His ill-​fated campaign against Shapur II also marked the beginning of a long lull in hostilities between the empires. With the exception of two brief interruptions in 421–​422 and in 440, peace lasted until the beginning of the sixth century, when a new series of conflicts broke out. Other consequences of Julian’s fatal defeat included the acknowledgment of the power of the Sasanian dynasty and the increasing acceptance of coexistence, which would culminate in the Byzantine-​Sasanian mutual acknowledgment later

94  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate represented by the image of the Two Eyes of the Earth. It is not surprising that in this new context the imitatio Alexandri lost its appeal for Roman emperors, who now understood that it would be impossible to reproduce the glorious deeds of the Macedonian conqueror.22 At the same time, the long peace did not encourage Roman politicians to adopt models that might trigger militaristic dreams among their subjects. Even in the sixth century, when the two empires returned to a quasi-​permanent conflict, imperial publicists did not turn to the model of Alexander to promote hope of complete victory over the Persian rival and annexation of its empire. During the reign of Justinian, the example of the Macedonian functioned as a negative model: a model to criticize—​rather than celebrate—​the emperor’s military activities and his expansionist policies. A few passages in Procopius’s Wars, in which Justinian’s campaigns are associated with the deeds of Alexander, attest to this tendency. The first passage contains the report of a delegation sent by Vitiges (r. 536–​ 540), king of the Ostrogoths, to Khosrow, urging him to take up weapons against the Romans. Vitiges reportedly warned Khosrow about Justinian’s expansionist goals, saying: “He [i.e., Justinian] has conceived the desire of seizing upon the whole earth, and has become eager to acquire for himself each and every state.”23 Similar charges against the Byzantine emperor are made in our second passage. Here we read about a delegation, led by a certain Bassaces, that the Armenians sent to Khosrow in 539, after Justinian sent his general Bouzes (d. 556) to suppress an uprising in Roman Armenia. Like Vitiges’s ambassadors, members of the Armenian cohort accused Justinian of harboring cosmocratic ambitions: “The whole earth is not large enough for the man [i.e., Justinian]; it is too small a thing for him to conquer all the world together. But he is even looking about the heavens and is searching the retreats beyond the ocean, wishing to gain for himself some other world.”24 Clearly Procopius’s reports on the Ostrogoth and Armenian visits to Khosrow are based on the same literary model. Procopius uses a well-​known topos commonly associated with Alexander, that is, the hero’s ambition to reach and conquer the limits of the globe. The implicit association with the Macedonian conqueror is evident in the description of the Armenian delegation. Behind Justinian’s desire to explore heavens and oceans to find new areas to conquer lies the infamous motif of Alexander’s attempt to ascend the heavens and to explore the regions beyond the ocean—​a motif that is prominent in the traditions related to the Alexander Romance and that is also found in the Neṣḥānā. In another passage of his work, Procopius rebuts the charges allegedly advanced against his patron on the basis of the same comparison with the Macedonian—​this time, however, presented in a positive way: “Yet they were bringing as charges against Justinian the very things which would naturally be encomiums for a worthy monarch, namely that he was exerting himself

The Syriac Alexander  95 to make his realm larger and much more splendid. For these accusations one might make also against Cyrus, the King of the Persians, and Alexander, the Macedonian.”25 When portraying the perspective of Justinian’s detractors, Procopius adopts literary motifs elsewhere attributed to Alexander and draws a connection between the two emperors’ expansionist policies. The association with Alexander consequently results in a negative assessment, as it builds on the motif of the Macedonian’s extravagant aspirations. Although Procopius’s reports on the Ostrogothic and Armenian embassies to the Sasanian king are ostensibly literary constructs, they nonetheless attest to contemporary anti-​militaristic sentiments in Byzantine society and opposition to Justinian’s policy of territorial expansionism. In this framework, the example of Alexander sheds a negative light on the Byzantine emperor. This was not the first time (nor would it be the last) that this rhetorical strategy was used to criticize an emperor. In earlier centuries, Christian authors had drawn unflattering parallels between Julian and Alexander.26 In these polemically oriented comparisons, the figure of Alexander was regularly denigrated and his conquests were portrayed as vain and ill-​fated adventures—​in sum, a real nemesis of the imitatio Alexandri. Critics of expansionism seem to have adopted these very arguments, and they would continue to do so after the emperor’s death: a few decades later, the negative example of Alexander was still presented against possible dreams of universal imperialism. Theophylact Simocatta reports a speech allegedly delivered by emissaries of Khosrow Parvēz to the senate in Byzantium in 590, asking for Roman support against the usurper Bahrām Chōbin (d. 591). According to Theophylact, Khosrow’s ambassador advocated maintenance of the status quo between the Byzantines and the Sasanians and warned the Senate against any alteration of the international order, with specific reference to the possible triumph of one empire over the other. To strengthen this claim, the ambassador mentioned Alexander and his excessive ambition: “He attempted to subjugate the temporal universe to a single unitary power. But, sooner than this, ambition was quenched along with power, and affairs proceeded once more divided up into a leadership of multiple tyranny, so to speak.”27 Howard-​Johnston argues that the ambassador’s speech does not fit the context of 590. Instead, he suggests that the Persian ambassador’s words reflect the historical situation of 628, following Heraclius’s military success, when the Sasanian Empire was at the mercy of the Byzantines.28 The report may very well reflect the political discussion at the time of Heraclius. However, the rhetorical device used by Theophylact to construct the discourse of the Sasanian emissaries is the same used by Procopius in the previous century to represent the perspective of opponents of Justinian’s expansionist policies.

96  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate

The Syriac Alexander: Justinian’s Nemesis Justinian did not pursue the model of Alexander. This is what we can deduct from the sources. Besides the short comparison with Alexander and Cyrus made by Procopius in the passage mentioned above, neither literary sources nor iconographic representations of the emperor indicate any attempt to establish an imitatio Alexandri. This is not to say that imperial propagandists did not celebrate Justinian’s (alleged) achievements in the wars against the Sasanians. Indeed, we have traces of an intense propagandistic campaign, probably aimed at hushing the critiques against the emperor’s war policies on the eastern borders. Reports on two (or more) equestrian statues that once adorned the streets of Constantinople witness to this kind of imperial propaganda. The first statue, which was probably erected to celebrate the victory over the Sasanians at Dara in 530, was placed in the hippodrome of Constantinople. The monument no longer exists, and we must rely on notes and descriptions in sources. The Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai, composed between 785 and 843, mentions an equestrian statue of Justinian in the area of the Kathisma that was erected to celebrate a victory over the Persians.29 Reference to the same statue likely occurs in the text known as the Anthology of Planudes, a collection of Greek poems and epigraphs compiled in the tenth century and supplemented two centuries later by the Byzantine monk Maximus Planudes (d. ca. 1305 ce). Here, mention is made of an equestrian statue in the hippodrome. The Anthology mentions two epigrams that were originally engraved on the monument and that connect the erection of the monument to a victory against the Sasanians. The text of the first inscription reads as follows: O Emperor, slayer of the Medes, these gifts does Eustathius, the father and son of thy Rome, bring unto thee: a steed for thy victory, a second Victory holding a wreath, and thyself seated on this steed that is as swift as the wind. May thy might, O Justinian, stand high, and may the defenders of the Medes and Scythians remain forever chained to the ground.30

One finds similar proclamations in the second epigram: Bronze from the Assyrian spoils has fashioned, all at once, a steed, an emperor and Babylon destroyed. It is Justinian, and Julian, who bears the yoke of the East, has set him up as a witness to the slaying of the Medes.31

Whether this second epigram was originally attached to a different equestrian monument is a matter of scholarly debate.32 What seems plausible is that both epigrams refer to the victorious battle of Dara, the only occasion in the course

The Syriac Alexander  97 of the almost uninterrupted conflicts against the Persians during the reign of Justinian, in which the Romans won an indisputable victory on the battlefield.33 Be this as it may, the two inscriptions reported in the Anthology of Planudes both manifest propagandistic tones. Justinian is portrayed as the subjugator of the Persians and the destroyer of Babylon—​a metaphor that bears strong biblical connotations. According to the first epigram, the statue probably included representations of “Medes and Scythians” (i.e., Sasanians and their Hunnic allies) “chained to the ground.” The opening sentence of the second epigram, according to which “bronze from the Assyrian spoils” was used to fashion the statue, provides us with another insight into the monument. Its sculptors probably constructed it by melting bronze items seized as booty following the battle. As Canepa observes, “the material from which the statue was made provided tangible proof of Justinian’s dominance over the Sasanians, as it was taken as booty in battle.”34 The propaganda message that the sculptors were commissioned to communicate with this statue (or these statues) surely made sense in the immediate aftermath of the victory at Dara. But one year later, in 531, when the Persians inflicted a disastrous defeat on the Romans, and in the years to come, when Justinian suffered further humiliations on the Eastern front, more than one Constantinopolitan arguably started to see the statue(s) and its(/​their) epigram(s) as a blatant exaggeration of what the emperor had really achieved at Dara. Nevertheless, imperial propagandists continued to promulgate the image of a victorious Justinian by means of sculptural representations. There is another, and more famous, equestrian statue erected a few years later, probably in 543, and placed on the top of a massive column that crowned the Augustaeum. The statue itself was demolished by the Ottomans in the early sixteenth century. However, Procopius, who was a contemporary, describes the statue in his panegyrical composition, The Buildings (I.2.1–​12).35 This report helps us to understand how imperial propaganda intended the statue to be understood, if not upon its erection, at least in the context of the late 550s when the first book of The Buildings was composed. The passage that describes the horseman on the column reads as follows: He looks toward the rising sun, directing his course, I suppose, against the Persians. And in his left hand he holds a globe, by which the sculptor signifies that the whole earth and sea are subject to him, yet he has neither sword nor spear nor any other weapon, but a cross stands upon the globe which he carries, the emblem by which alone he has obtained both his Empire and his victory in war. And stretching forth his right hand toward the rising sun and spreading out his fingers, he commands the barbarians in that quarter to remain at home and to advance no further.36

98  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate According to Procopius, the statue in the Augustaeum celebrated what Byzantine subjects were called to recognize as the emperor’s victories against the Persians. Whether this was the original message that the sculptors were commissioned to communicate or merely Procopius’s interpretation is irrelevant for us. Our interest is in the emphasis that Procopius puts on the “Persian reading” of the monument. He focuses largely on Justinian’s campaigns against the Sasanians, rather than his more successful military activity in North Africa and in the Italian Peninsula. This suggests that propaganda regarding the Persian campaigns was badly needed to rebut criticism of Justinian’s mediocre performances against Khosrow Anōshirvān. Exaggerating Justinian’s achievements, Procopius depicts the emperor as the subjugator of the barbarians on the imperial eastern limes, that is, the Persians. But that is not all. Procopius connects Justinian’s alleged successes against the Sasanians to the role of divinely appointed kosmokrator, represented by the globe surmounted by the cross that Justinian holds in his left hand. This characterization of the emperor brings to mind another equestrian figure engraved in the famous Barberini ivory, and usually identified as Justinian.37 In the central panel, a crowned emperor riding a horse holds a spear in his right hand and points it to the ground. Below the horse, seated on the ground, is a woman, commonly identified as a personification of Terra. Terra holds the emperor’s right foot, thereby indicating the willing subjugation of the entire earth to Byzantine power. Near the tail of the emperor’s horse is a man wearing traditional Iranian garments who touches the emperor’s spear and raises his left hand in a gesture of submission. Two more figures in Iranian costume appear in the lower panel, portrayed as presenting gifts—​including a diadem—​to the emperor. The three Iranian figures obviously represent the submission of Persia to the Byzantine emperor. In an upper panel, Christ is at the center and two angels are at his sides. As Canepa observes, “the vertical axis running between the beardless apocalyptic Christ in the center of the top celestial panel and the victorious emperor on horseback in the central terrestrial panel implies that the emperor’s actions are functionally linked with the apocalyptic appearance of Christ above.”38 The message communicated by the sculptor of the Barberine ivory is the same message communicated by Justinian’s equestrian statues. In all these objects the emperor is portrayed as kosmokrator and subjugator of Persia, appointed by divine authority. In all likelihood, this kind of propaganda was very much needed to rebut the critiques of the many of Roman subjects who were not ready to forgive the emperor for lack of success in the conflicts against the Sasanians. In the previous chapters we have already heard the voices of these dissenters, which were expressed in reaction to Justinian’s policy of using gold to purchase peace on the eastern front. Now, the question to ask is how we should situate the representation

The Syriac Alexander  99 of the Alexander in the Neṣḥānā vis-​à-​vis these propagandistic skirmishes. Was the Syriac work just another piece of pro-​imperial propaganda that aimed to disguise Justinian’s mediocre achievements with a glorious narrative? My answer to this question is negative. As I have argued, the author of the Neṣḥānā was one of the dissenters disappointed by the course of events on the eastern limes. His profile coincides with that of someone belonging to the circle of people who expressed dissatisfaction with Justinian’s peace treaties with Khosrow, which were perceived by many Byzantine subjects as a reduction of Byzantium to a tributary vassal of Ctesiphon. The militaristic tones that the author uses in his work leave little room for doubt about his personal convictions. His prefiguration of Persia’s future destruction by the Romans signals his dreams of expansion on the eastern border and the dissolution of the current political order. It is easy to imagine what he thought about Justinian’s attitude toward his Sasanian rival—​no doubt too soft. The figure of Alexander was an obvious channel through which to express his criticism. As seen, in sixth–​seventh-​century Byzantium, Alexander was often invoked as a model of deplorable behavior in the arguments advanced by critics of expansionism. This is not surprising. In previous centuries, his example had already been used to make both celebratory and defamatory comparisons.39 In Byzantine society, Alexander’s ambivalent image could serve as either a positive or a negative model for partisans of militarism and anti-​militarism alike. It is therefore reasonable to assume that at the time of Justinian, critics of expansionism were not the only ones who might find the figure of Alexander appealing. For those who dreamed of a different course of action on the Persian border, the figure of Alexander would have come to mind as the most obvious example of a sovereign who had solved the “Oriental question.” This explains our author’s choice to adopt the Macedonian conqueror as a model. However, for our author a simple comparison with the glorious achievements of the Macedonian conqueror against Persia was not sufficient. He constructed an ideal image of Alexander, who, unlike Justinian—​according to the author’s revisionism—​successfully subjected the Persians to a tribute, and not vice versa. As seen, the description of the peace terms imposed by Alexander on Tūbarlaq in the Syriac work is indeed a revisionist rewriting of the clauses in the Byzantine-​ Sasanian treaties of both 532 and 562, and in the armistice of 551. In this section of the Neṣḥānā, the author reverses in favor of the Romans what he considered to be the humiliating conditions accepted by Justinian. One of his goals was to criticize the emperor for his lack of assertiveness toward the enemy. By attributing to Alexander an event that never occurred, that is, the reduction of Persia to a tributary state, the author emphasized the parallel with Justinian and the distance between the glory of the former and the misery of the latter.

100  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate With his historical revisionism, the author may have wanted to rebut, and even ridicule, the efforts of official court propagandists to present Justinian as the subjugator of Persia. One imagines that such depictions of Justinian were fairly common in the areas reached by imperial propaganda—​for instance, the Barberine ivory was produced in the East but was probably sent to the western provinces by the seventh century. The author of the Neṣḥānā was likely aware of these representations of the emperor, which must have been regarded as shameless gloating and a flagrant distortion of the situation on the Oriental limes. Against these vain imperial claims, our writer portrayed Alexander as a divinely appointed world conqueror. In the Syriac work, the hero receives a mandate from God to enslave the other kingdoms, and it is by grace of divine intervention that he defeats Persia. The author highlights the groundlessness of Justinian’s cosmocratic claims by comparing him to Alexander. Unlike Justinian, the Macedonian hero not only saved his empire from a humiliating tributary condition, but also imposed a tribute on, and eventually enslaved, Persia. Unlike Procopius, our writer does refer to anything that might remind the reader of Justinian’s successes in North Africa and Italy. This is striking: Had he wanted to celebrate the emperor’s achievements in those regions, he easily could have adopted traditions found in the Alexander Romance—​also in its Syriac translation40—​that depict Alexander as traveling to and subjugating both Rome and Carthage. However, this was not the case. At the same time, with his description of Alexander’s travel to the far West and his astonishing journey to the terrestrial limits, the very place where the sun sets, he may have wanted to overshadow Justinian’s military activities in the Western provinces. Our author contrasted the glorious image of Justinian disseminated by imperial propagandists with that of Alexander, the real kosmokrator. In sum, in the Neṣḥānā, Alexander does not appear as an avatar of Justinian, but as his nemesis. Through this image of Alexander, our author offers his audience an ideal alternative to the current ruler: the model of an emperor who embodies the virtues necessary to lead the Christian Roman Empire in its divinely sanctioned mission. His point of view does not differ from that of many Syriac intellectuals, who could question the person of the emperor but not the institution of the emperor.41 Although they might disagree with the policy of a certain emperor, these intellectuals would still identify with the Christian Empire.42 The comparison with contemporary Syriac literature offers perhaps the strongest argument in support of the reading proposed above. In fact, our author was not the only Syriac writer of his time to adopt this literary approach to criticizing Justinian. The Julian Romance presents an interesting parallel. Philip Wood has argued that the author of the Romance compares the reign of Julian to that of Justinian, with the goal of criticizing the latter.43 An obvious extension of Wood’s reading is that the critique of Justinian is achieved via the contrast

The Syriac Alexander  101 between Julian and Jovian. The association with Julian, impious and pagan monarch, generates a characterization of Justinian that is antithetical to the ideal of the just and devout sovereign, personified by Jovian in the Julian Romance. In the eyes of the author of the Romance, Justinian is as similar to Julian as he is dissimilar from Jovian. His proximity to the former’s flaws distances him from the merits of the latter. The author of the Neṣḥānā elaborates the same literary operation through the character of Alexander, who also embodies the concepts of an idealized monarch, serving as a virtuous example against Justinian. This ideological convergence among the two works is not surprising, especially when considering the many narrative, thematic, and ideological parallels between the Neṣḥānā and the Julian Romance that I have analyzed in the previous chapter. When it comes to their protagonists, the two works present the two heroes of their narration, that is, Alexander and Jovian, in a similar manner. The idealized figure of Alexander constructed by the author of the Neṣḥānā brings to mind the image of Jovian in the Julian Romance. Both figures are flawless Christian sovereigns who receive divine support and prophetic visions, and who perform the same pious act of deposing the royal crown in front of their Lord. Unsurprisingly, the characterization of both Alexander and Jovian reflects the similar political agendas of the two Syriac authors, especially their criticism of Justinian’s policies. As noted, it is not impossible that the author of either the Neṣḥānā or the Julian Romance knew the work of the other and used it as a source of inspiration. It is more likely, however, that the common elements in the two texts reflect broader political debates among contemporary Syriac intellectuals. Unsatisfied with Justinian’s policies, but still loyal to the Christianized Roman Empire, these intellectuals could oppose to the current ruler the typological figure of a divinely inspired monarch.

PART II

ST UDIE S ON SINGLE T H E M E S A N D MOT I F S

7

Alexander, the Danielic Visions, and the Gate against Gog and Magog As observed in the previous chapter, the choice by the author of the Neṣḥānā to adopt Alexander as the protagonist of his anti-​Sasanian epic is likely indebted to the centennial tradition of the imitatio Alexandri, which provided a well-​defined model of a military leader who tamed Rome’s Persian enemies. At the same time, however, the traditional figure of Alexander as the subjugator of Persia in the Syriac work was combined with an ideal of the pious and just monarch, peculiar to the author’s cultural environment. The result is the introduction of a significant element of innovation into the historiographical and propagandistic model of the imitatio Alexandri, namely the characterization of Alexander as a Christian sovereign. In the Neṣḥānā, Alexander is then portrayed as a devout monarch who derives his power from the Christian god. He prays that this god will expand the borders of his kingdom and commits to welcome the arrival of his Messiah. He benefits from divine warnings about imminent dangers—​specifically, in the dream on the eve of the battle against Tūbarlaq—​and God himself enters the battle at his side and ensures his victory over the Persians. After his triumph, he travels to Jerusalem to pray, and it is in Jerusalem that his silver throne is brought after his death in order to accommodate Jesus’s coming. The author of the Neṣḥānā thus portrays the Macedonian hero as a real ante Christum natum rex christianissimus, arguably for the first time.1 This characterization of Alexander as a pious Christian ruler is a literary innovation. Previously, the particular features of the protagonist in the Syriac text were not found in most traditions about Alexander. The typological model of the just king, also expressed in the representation of Jovian in the Julian Romance, helps us to trace the development of the Christian Alexander that appears in the Neṣḥānā. But to fully grasp the genesis of this complex character, his role as future subjugator of Persia and as the prophet of Rome’s glorious, eschatological destiny, we must consider the insertion of biblical prophecies into anti-​Sasanian polemics. The study of earlier hermeneutics of the Book of Daniel, in particular, and their interpretations of Alexander’s role in sacred history will provide crucial elements to delineate the development of the character of Alexander in the Neṣḥānā. To this end we must move back in time a few centuries to the moment of the Christianization of the Roman Empire. The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0008

106  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate

Alexander and the Danielic Visions In 311, the Roman emperor Galerius (r. 305–​311) issued the so-​called Edict of Serdica, which put an end to the great Diocleation Persecution of Christians that Galerius himself had inspired and encouraged in 303. With the Edict of Milan in 313, which followed Constantine’s conversion to Christianity in 312, Christianity was declared religio licita, and Christians living in the empire were granted religious tolerance. These events represent a watershed in the history of the Roman Empire. They were harbingers of a process that culminated in the adoption of Christianity as state religion in 380 under Theodosius I (who reigned over the Eastern Empire from 379 to 392 and over the whole empire from 392 to 395). Constantine’s conversion to Christianity inaugurated the production of literary works by Christian authors, like Eusebius and Lactantius, who began to represent the empire as a Christian kingdom and the emperor as the protector of Christians. It was at this time that an image of Alexander that was largely unknown to the Roman audience now entered the anti-​Persian political discourse. A few decades after Constantine’s adoption of Christianity, Christian polemists referred to Alexander to ridicule Julian’s own attempts to emulate the conqueror.2 This instrumental use of the image of Alexander was related to previous Christian oratory. As Christian Thrue Djurslev has pointed out, early Christian authors extracted from the Classical tradition about Alexander a variety of themes that they developed and deployed in polemical discourse against paganism.3 At the same time, Alexander figured in the writings of intellectuals engaged in another area of Christian thought, that is, scriptural exegesis. Interpretations of biblical prophecies developed by Christian exegetists in the pre-​Constantinian period provided an alternative and significantly different framework for the memory of the Macedonian conqueror. The most influential of these scriptural prognostications is found in ­chapters 2, 7, and 8 of the Book of Daniel. All three books contain visions that describe, by means of allegorical images, the rise and fall of different worldly kingdoms. Cross-​reading these prophecies, exegetes elaborated a schematic representation of sacred history articulated around the succession of four different global powers—​to be followed by a fifth and everlasting world kingdom established by God. At the same time, the obscure imagery of the visions left enough room for speculation about the identity of the four world kingdoms. Alexander was repeatedly associated with one of the four political entities described in the Danielic schema, but there was disagreement over which of these four superpowers he represented. Doubts mostly concerned the visions in Daniel 2 and 7 and whether Alexander should be identified with the third or the fourth kingdom mentioned in the two texts. The confusion arose as a consequence of the adaptation of the Danielic prophecies—​which had been composed around

Alexander, the Danielic Visions, and the Gate  107 the time of the persecution of the Jews by Antiochus IV Epiphanes in 167–​164 bce—​to the circumstances surrounding the emergence of the Roman Republic as a hegemonic political entity. Whereas an early interpretive approach identified Alexander’s empire with the final worldly kingdom—​which likely was the original intention of the Danielic authors—​a later exegetical view attributed the last position of the Danielic schema to Rome, thereby “relegating” Alexander to the third slot. The two views persisted side by side, and the place of Alexander in the four kingdoms schema remained fluid and fluctuated between the last two slots. As for the role of Alexander in the Danielic prophecy in Daniel 8, which contains the vision of the ram and the he-​goat, most Christian exegetes had no hesitation in identifying the he-​goat as Alexander.4 Exegesis provided an alternative source of information about Alexander than those to which the Roman audience were accustomed. As Djurslev observes, “what went on in Biblical exegesis mattered as much for Alexander’s legacy as some of the more popular receptions in the Alexander Romance and oratory in the pre-​Constantinian phase of Christian thought.”5 Scriptural interpretation contributed to the spread of a new image of Alexander, that was significantly different from the image emerging from the Classical tradition. With conversions to Christianity rising and an associated increase in familiarity with biblical texts, a substantial number of people came to regard Alexander as a king whose actions were dictated by divine providence.6 The Macedonian conqueror now began to play a role in sacred history and in God’s plan for human salvation. In the immediate aftermath of Constantine’s conversion, this new image of Alexander resulted in a surprising merger of the Classical topos of the imitatio Alexandri and Christian interpretations of the Danielic prophecies. The emperor’s conversion in 312 dramatically changed the living conditions of Christian communities. The effect was felt—​positively—​not only by Christians in the Roman Empire, but also—​less positively—​by their co-​religionists in the Sasanian Empire. After the events of 312–​313, Christians under Sasanian rule came to be regarded as a possible fifth column. When persecutions began in 338 ce under Shapur II (r. 309–​379 ce), Persian Christian communities began to look to Roman emperors as potential protectors. A direct witness to these circumstances was the Syriac intellectual Aphrahat (d. ca. 345), a Christian living in Sasanian territory at the time of Shapur’s persecutions. Like many of his co-​religionists subject to Persian sovereignty, Aphrahat directed his hopes at Constantine, whom he saw as the legitimate protector of Christians under the Sasanian yoke. Aphrahat’s anti-​Sasanian sentiments are observable in his Demonstration V, “On War” in which he provides a highly politicized interpretation of the Danielic prophecies in Daniel 2, 7, and 8. Here, Aphrahat follows the widespread hermeneutic according to which the Roman Empire represents the last kingdom in the

108  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Danielic schema. Reflecting the spirit of the time and the enthusiasm with which Christians received the news of Constantine’s conversion, Aphrahat identifies Rome as the last world power, destined to triumph over all other kingdoms. At the same time, his reading of the Danielic visions was motivated by anti-​Sasanian feelings. Importantly for our analysis, the figure of Alexander would come to play a pivotal role in his ideologically oriented hermeneutics. Central to Aphrahat’s hermeneutical reading is a peculiar interpretation of the Danielic scheme, which is characterized by ideological continuity between the third and fourth empires: those of the Greeks and the Romans. Analyzing the vision of the four beasts in Daniel 7, Aphrahat describes the identity of the third beast—​a leopard with four wings and four heads—​and the fourth beast—​a mighty beast with large iron teeth and ten horns—​which represent the empire of Alexander and the empire of the children of Esau (i.e., the Romans), respectively: Concerning the third beast, [Daniel] said, “It resembled a leopard, but it had four flying wings on its back, and that beast had four heads.” [This] third beast was Alexander the Macedonian, for he was as strong as a leopard. [ . . . ] [Daniel] said that the fourth beast “excelled in strength and might and power, eating and devouring. And whatever was left over it trampled with its feet.” It represents the kingdom of the descendants of Esau. For after Alexander the Macedonian became king, the kingdom of the Greeks was his, since Alexander was also one of the Greeks. The vision of the third beast was fulfilled in him, since the third and the fourth [beasts] were one.7

This combination of the Greek and Roman kingdoms has a strong political connotation. The centrality of this interpretation appears clearly in the passage of Aphrahat’s work in which he engages with the vision in Daniel 8:3–​8. The vision describes the victorious attack of a one-​horned he-​goat on a two-​horned ram. The biblical text reveals the allegory behind the vision: the he-​goat represents the king of Greece, and the ram represents the king of Media and Persia (Dan 8:20–​21). Following a widely accepted reading, Aphrahat identifies the ram with Darius III and the he-​goat with Alexander. He explains the he-​goat’s striking the ram as an allegorical image of the defeat of the Achaemenids by the Macedonians.8 At the same time, departing from mainstream hermeneutic, Aphrahat develops an original interpretation of the passage. He connects the vision in Daniel 8:3–​8 to the vision in Daniel 7 and creates a meta-​historical (or better, trans-​scriptural) reality in which, after being defeated by the he-​goat, the ram of Daniel 8 will be defeated again by the fourth beast of Daniel 7: Thus, the horns of the ram were broken. However, though his horns have been broken, he raises himself up and exalts himself against the fourth beast, who

Alexander, the Danielic Visions, and the Gate  109 is strong and powerful, with teeth of iron and hooves of bronze. [This beast] devours and breaks [things] into pieces, and whatever is left over he tramples with his feet. O ram, whose horns have been broken, draw back from the beast and do not irritate it, or it may devour you and grind you into pieces! The ram was not able to stand before the young goat; how will it stand before the terrible beast, whose mouth utters mighty words and who crouches over whatever it finds like a lion over its prey?9

Aphrahat uses this complex hermeneutic to address the contemporary political situation. In his eyes, the ram represents Shapur II, who now confronts the Christianized Roman Empire: the fourth beast of Daniel’s vision. The rhetorical question posed by Aphrahat (“the ram could not stand before the he-​ goat; how shall it stand before that terrible beast?”) has strong political and ideological implications. Craig Morrison notes: “This question is not posed in the book of Daniel—​the ram and fourth beast never meet. But the issue is central to Aphrahat’s application of this biblical text to his historical moment: how can the ram—​now, no longer Darius, but Shapur II—​stand against the fourth beast—​Rome!”10 The parallel drawn by Aphrahat between the past conflict between Alexander and Darius and the present confrontation between Constantine and Shapur II is key to his interpretation of sacred history.11 The Persian kingdom, routed by Alexander in the past, is destined to be defeated once again in the present, this time by the Romans. The ideological continuity between Alexander’s kingdom and the Roman Empire finds its practical expression in their common destiny to confront and prevail over the Persian enemy. Thus does Constantine become a new Alexander who will annihilate Shapur in the same way that the Macedonian had annihilated Darius III. To an extent, Aphrahat follows previous generations of intellectuals in treating Alexander as a model for Roman emperors who engaged in military campaigns against the Persians. At the same time, he never explicitly develops the classical model of the imitatio Alexandri and he expresses the parallel between past and present circumstances only by means of biblical interpretation. This is the most innovative aspect of Aphrahat’s exegesis, in which the Macedonian conqueror comes to be associated with a pro-​Roman and anti-​ Sasanian reading of the Danielic visions. Thus, Constantine’s conversion to Christianity and Shapur’s persecution of Christians in the Sasanian Empire created the conditions for a revival of the Alexander figure. The powerful combination of Classical knowledge and scriptural authority was put to use as a propaganda instrument against the Persian enemy. Aphrahat appears to have been the first author—​or at least the first extant author—​to have used this new Danielic-​Alexandrian paradigm to pursue an anti-​Sasanian agenda. He would not be the last.

110  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Two centuries later, John Malalas made a similar—​ though less well articulated—​use of the figure of Alexander in conjunction with the prophecies in Daniel, specifically in Daniel 7. At the beginning of Book VIII of his Chronographia, Malalas writes: In the fourth year of the reign of Dareios the Mede, son of Assalam, God raised up Alexander, toparch of the emperor of Macedonia, the son of Philip, against the Assyrians, Persians, Parthians, and Medes [ . . . ]. Alexander immediately set out like a leopard and captured many lands with his generals. He defeated Dareios, emperor of the Persians, the son of Assalam, and captured him, all his empire, all the land of the Assyrians, Medes, Parthians, Babylonians and Persians and all the empires on earth [ . . . ]. Alexander freed the cities and territories and all the land of the Romans, Hellenes and Egyptians from subjection and slavery to Assyrians, Persians, Parthians and Medes; he restored to the Romans all that they had lost.12

Malalas’s description is strongly influenced by the Danielic schema of the four kingdoms and its vision of history based on the idea of the succession of world empires. The opening of Book VIII of the Chronographia refers to the transition from the Persian to the Macedonian empire. As mentioned, depending on how one interprets the Danielic schema, the Persian/​Macedonian translatio imperii may represent the passage from either the third to the fourth empire or the second to the third empire. The earliest interpreters of the Danielic schema identified the Macedonian Empire as the last world kingdom, whose ascent would follow the decline of Persians, who had occupied the third slot in the schema. However, a later interpretive model—​also embraced by Aphrahat—​identified the Romans as the last world kingdom, with the consequential downgrading of the Macedonians and Persians to the third and second slots in the schema. Malalas, who follows the later interpretation, identifies Alexander’s kingdom with the third empire. This clearly appears in the identification of Alexander with the leopard—​the animal that in Daniel 7 represents the third world kingdom. Malalas adopts the same interpretive line as Aphrahat, who also identifies Alexander as the Danielic leopard. The opening statement of the passage by Malalas (“God raised up Alexander [ . . . ] against the Assyrians, Persians, Parthians, and Medes”) has strong ideological implications. Malalas places Alexander’s campaigns within the framework of God’s plan for sacred history, with the rise of Alexander occurring in accordance with a divine plan. In addition to reflecting an understanding of human history as a process that is directed by divine intervention, Malalas proposes that the fall of Darius’s empire at the hands of the Macedonians is a consequence of divine

Alexander, the Danielic Visions, and the Gate  111 will. At this point, one wonders whether Malalas adopted the same strategy as Aphrahat in creating a meta-​historical pattern in which the events of the past are destined to be repeated in the present, with the Byzantines and Sasanians now playing the roles of the Macedonians and Persians. The answer seems to be affirmative, as appears from the final statement of the quoted passage. The reference to the Romans as a people freed by Alexander, together with Hellens and Egyptians, is odd, as is the statement that Alexander “restored to the Romans all that they had lost.” No historical events can be associated with Malalas’s words: Alexander never freed the Romans from any oppressor, nor had the Romans, at the time when Malalas was writing, reacquired any possession that had been seized by the Persians. While it is possible that Malalas was relying on inaccurate historical knowledge, his claims are in open contradiction to information he reports elsewhere in the Chronographia. At the end of the previous chapter (i.e., Book VII), Malalas states that at the time of Darius the Mede, “the Romans became dominant and extended the boundaries of their territory.”13 This information contradicts the claim that when Alexander defeated Darius, he restored the territories that the Romans had lost. Malalas’s reference to the Romans in his description of Alexander’s campaigns is not historically accurate. Rather, the author is constructing a meta-​historical reality in which present and past are superimposed, and contemporary concepts and ideas are projected backwards to the time of Alexander. Malalas had a specific reason for crediting Alexander with restoring Roman sovereignty over lands that had never belonged to the Romans. The Romans that he mentions in this passage are not the inhabitants of Rome at the time of Alexander, but rather the Byzantines, whom he considers the heirs of Alexander. Implicitly, the author assigns to Byzantium the legacy of Alexander and the right to rule over the “Asian” territories that once belonged to the Macedonians. Behind his statement lies the same concept of ideological continuity between Macedonians and Romans/​Byzantines constructed by Aphrahat. Like Aphrahat, Malalas locates the Macedonian hero in the framework of an anti-​Sasanian propaganda. The idealized connection between the reign of Alexander and the reign of the Romans, related to one another by their common opposition to the Persian kingdom, also appears in another curious claim made by Malalas, according to which the Romans supplied Alexander with an army to fight against Darius.14 Here, Malalas attributes to the Roman Empire an active role in the defeat of Achaemenid Persia. His description of the rise of Alexander against Darius reflects an aggressive expansionistic agenda regarding contemporary events. It looks forward to the eventual restoration of Roman control over the Eastern territories of Alexander’s empire, which were then under Sasanian occupation.

112  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate

Back to the Neṣḥānā The Neṣḥānā shares several elements with Aphrahat and Malalas concerning the political use of Alexander in relation to the Danielic visions. The author of the Neṣḥānā describes the same kind of ideological cohesion between Alexander’s empire and the Roman Empire that we have observed above. In the Syriac work, it is Alexander himself who expresses this cohesion, which repeatedly occurs in his prophecy about the events expected to happen after the collapse of his gate. In the prophecy, Alexander gradually replaces the mention of the kingdom of the Greeks with that of the kingdom of the Romans, until he explicitly affirms: “The kingdom of the Greeks which is the kingdom of the Romans.”15 Subsequently, Alexander describes the kingdom of the Romans as “my kingdom, which is called the kingdom of the house of Alexander the son of Philip.”16 This conflation of the Roman Empire and Alexander’s kingdom brings to mind Aphrahat’s hermeneutic of Daniel 7 and his claim that the third and the fourth beasts—​which he identifies with the kingdom of the Greeks and the kingdom of the Romans, respectively—​are the same. The unity between the empire of the Greeks and that of the Romans is fundamental to the agenda of the author of the Neṣḥānā and to the vision of sacred history that he wants to promulgate. The scenario that he describes is close, in both its images and goals, to the one observed in Aphrahat’s Demonstration V. Like Aphrahat, our author wants to send a clear message that addresses fears about the future of Byzantium caused by the aggressiveness of its Persian neighbor: the kingdom of Alexander, which is now the powerful Roman Empire, cannot be defeated. In Aphrahat’s treatise, Rome’s destiny to be unvanquished (“to this day it continues, and will continue forever”)17 is based on the interpretation of the Danielic prophecies, according to which Roman rule will endure until Jesus’s Second Coming and the establishment of the eternal kingdom of the “Son of Man.” At this moment, the “ancient of Days” will sit on the throne.18 The Neṣḥānā adheres to this pattern and manifests much the same vision of sacred history. The author assigns to Alexander the role of predicting the future fortunes of the empire. At the beginning of the Syriac work, in a prayer addressed to the Lord, the hero mentions that his kingdom will be handed to the Messiah, who will sit on a silver throne, the throne that he—​Alexander—​established in Jerusalem. Then, in the prophecy which he declares after erecting the gate against the Huns, Alexander asserts that the kingdom of the Romans will prevail over the other worldly kingdoms and conquer the earth.19 In the background of Alexander’s prayer and prophecy lies the same concept of sacred history found in Aphrahat’s Demonstrations—​a concept that is based on a similar reading of Daniel and on the idea that the Greco-​Roman Empire is the final kingdom, destined to endure until Jesus’s Second Coming.

Alexander, the Danielic Visions, and the Gate  113 There is much in common between the views expressed by the author of the Neṣḥānā and those expressed by Aphrahat and—​to a lesser extent—​Malalas. These common elements help us achieve a better understanding of the development of the figure of Alexander in the Neṣḥānā—​especially its intersection with biblical prophecies. The evolution of the figure of the Macedonian king can be better appreciated when one compares the Neṣḥānā to the older tradition of Alexander’s visit to Jerusalem. This tradition is recorded in Jewish sources, that is, Josephus’s Antiquities, the Megillat Ta‘anit, and Babylonian Talmud (Yoma 69a), but is also included in a later recension (ε) of the Pseudo-​Callisthenes,20 and was known to a number of early Christian writers.21 Josephus reports that during his campaign against Darius, the Macedonian king paid a visit to Jerusalem. Disappointing his Phoenician and Chaldean allies, who thought they would be allowed to plunder the city, Alexander greets the procession of priests and citizens that came to meet him at the entrance of Jerusalem. The king even salutes the Jewish high priest before receiving his greetings (a break with royal protocol) and magnifies the name of God engraved on a plate. To the dismay of one of his generals, Parmenion, who asks him why he was admiring the Jewish high priest, Alexander answers that he is not praising the man, but the god that he represents. Alexander explains that when he was still in Macedonia, he had a dream in which that priest exhorted him to invade “Asia,” promising him dominion over those territories. Upon his arrival in the city, Alexander goes to the Temple and offers sacrifices to the Jewish god, in accordance with the high priest’s directions. He is then shown the passage in the Book of Daniel which predicts that a man from the land of the Greeks will destroy the empire of the Persians—​a clear allusion to the vision of the he-​goat and the ram in Daniel 8:3–​12. Alexander embraces the prediction with joy.22 The situation described by Josephus lacks any historical basis. The most obvious indication of its fictional character is the fact that the vision of the ram and the he-​goat was composed almost two centuries after Alexander’s death. The prophecy is based on a vaticinium ex eventu and represents a description a posteriori of Alexander’s victory over Darius. At the same time, the account of Alexander’s visit to Jerusalem represents an early testimony to a motif that we also find in the Neṣḥānā, that is, the hero’s awareness of biblical prophecies predicting the success of his empire. The Syriac work, however, differs on at least three points. These differences point to the peculiar features that the literary figure of Alexander absorbed during its development in the cultural context of the late antique Near East. First, in the Neṣḥānā, Alexander is not shown any scriptural prediction about the glorious future of his kingdom. It is he himself who predicts that his kingdom is destined to rule over the other kingdoms. The hero of the Syriac work is a prophet whose words are consistent with those of the prophetic biblical tradition.

114  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Second, in contrast to Josephus’s account of Alexander’s visit to Jerusalem, the Alexander of the Neṣḥānā is aware not only of his immediate success in the war against Persia, but also of the glorious destiny of his kingdom. In his prophecy, the empire of which he is the founder is the kingdom destined to endure until Jesus’s Second Coming. Third, in the Neṣḥānā, Alexander’s familiarity with biblical prophecies has strong anti-​Sasanian connotations. The vision that he has engraved over the eschatological gate emphasizes that the Persian power will be uprooted by the Greco-​Roman Empire as the latter marches toward world hegemony. Alexander’s awareness of Rome’s role as the last and lasting world power is used to communicate the fact that the Romans will repeat his success in subjugating Persia. In the Neṣḥānā, the Alexander figure functions very differently from the same figure in the time of Josephus. In contrast to Josephus, in the Syriac work the Macedonian hero is an openly monotheistic (Christian) sovereign with prophetic skills and a mission in accordance with God’s plans for human history. It is difficult to say to what extent these developments are original elaborations of the author of the Neṣḥānā or whether they reflect wider imagery about Alexander among his contemporaries. Certainly, the Syriac apocalypse is the first recorded document in which the Alexander figure possesses the features of a Christian prophet-​king. However, this characterization was the culmination of a long and continuous process in which many elements and cultural tendencies came to be associated with the figure of the Macedonian king. The Christianization of the Roman political apparatus was a decisive step in this process. It is from this moment onward that the use of the imitatio Alexandri as an instrument of anti-​Persian propaganda was combined with biblical prophecies commonly associated with Alexander. Roman citizens could now hope that the empire would prevail over Persian dynasties not only by repeating the glorious deeds of Alexander, but also by accomplishing the prophecies described by the prophet Daniel. This “biblicization” of the anti-​Persian, and specifically anti-​Sasanian, use of the Alexander figure was apparently inaugurated by Aphrahat in the fourth century. Similar references to this type of propaganda occur in the work of Malalas, who was probably of Syriac origins, but not in the works of other historians writing in Greek. This suggests that the process of exchange between the imitatio Alexandri and the anti-​Sasanian readings of the Danielic prophecies was current mostly (if not exclusively) among Syriac speakers. It is no coincidence that it is in a Syriac text, and not in a Greek one, that this process found its culmination. The figure of Alexander in the Neṣḥānā is a combination of these earlier developments with concepts about the idealization of the royal figure that also appear to have been peculiar to the Syriac cultural environment. The prophetic turn in the characterization of Alexander and his Christianization points to the

Alexander, the Danielic Visions, and the Gate  115 influence of the typology of the sovereign-​prophet that also characterizes the Jovian figure in the Julian Romance. At the same time, the process that resulted in the representation of Alexander as a Christian, apocalyptic character is fundamental to a better understanding of the genesis of, and ideology behind, the central narrative episode in the Neṣḥānā, that is, the story of the gate against the Huns of Gog and Magog. We are now in a better position to return to this narrative element and try to address some unsolved questions about it.

The Gate against Gog and Magog As mentioned in Chapter 1, the story of the gate that Alexander erects against the Huns of Gog and Magog combines two previously independent elements: (1) the idea that Alexander erected iron gates in the Caucasus to prevent the attacks of nomads from Central Asia; (2) the identification of these people with the biblical Gog and Magog. To these two elements, one may add a third one, that is, the idea—​witnessed from the Book of Revelation onward—​that toward the end of time the Antichrist will rally the people of Gog and Magog to participate in an eschatological battle against “the camp of the saints and the beloved city” (Rev 20:7–​10). The Neṣḥānā is the first extant document in which these elements are combined. It states that the Huns are governed by fifteen kings, the first two of whom are Gog and Magog. Alexander builds a gate to contain their incursions until God’s decree. The idea that the Huns will be rallied by the Antichrist is not mentioned by the Syriac author. Also not mentioned is the motif of their final battle against Christianity. In the Neṣḥānā, the Huns of Gog and Magog are an instrument of divine providence who engage in the “global” conflict that will precede the rise of the Roman kingdom. In fact, our author appears to have modified the canonical unfolding of the eschatological drama in the Book of Revelation to make room for the idea that the Roman kingdom will establish a cosmocratic dominion to prepare the world for Jesus’s Second Coming. References to other biblical passages and exegetical concepts external to Revelation are inserted in the text. The Hunnic invasion is explained by the prophecy of Jeremiah in Jeremiah 1:14 (“out of the north disaster shall break out on all the inhabitants of the land”), a prophecy to which Alexander explicitly refers in his own prediction engraved on the gate. The global conflict involving twenty-​four kingdoms evokes the final eschatological war of nation against nation and kingdom against kingdom prophesied by Jesus in Matthew 24:6–​7. The idea that only one of these kingdoms will endure until the End of Time is inspired by the Christian receptions of the Book of Daniel—​although the Neṣḥānā does not refer to the translatio imperii, since several world kingdoms appear to coexist until the final accomplishment of sacred history.

116  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Tropes in two passages of the episode of Alexander’s gate refer directly to the imagery of the Book of Daniel. In the prophecy that the Macedonian king engraves over the gate, the kingdom of the Greeks is described as carrying in its hands two hammers—​one made of iron, the other of bronze—​and striking one against the other. The meaning of this image is explained in the text: “And the kingdom of Greece shall smite the hammers one upon the other, and as iron which is melted by fire, and as bronze which bolts in the flame, so shall the power of the kingdoms melt away before the might of the kingdom of the Greeks which is that of the Romans.”23 The smiting of the two hammers and the melting of the two metals represent the capacity of the Greco-​Roman Empire to destroy the other kingdoms of the world—​which the text identifies as the Persians, the Huns, and the Arabs. The choice of iron and bronze as the two metals of which the hammers are made is not coincidental. It refers to two elements of the Danielic eschatological imagery: (1) the representation of the last two world kingdoms as bronze and iron, respectively, in the metaphoric description of the four kingdoms as a statue composed of four different metals in Daniel 2:32–​33; and (2) the representation of the fourth beast as an entity with iron teeth and bronze claws in Daniel 7:24.24 Like Aphrahat and most Christian exegetes, the author of the Neṣḥānā likely identified the third and the fourth kingdoms of Daniel 2 with the empires of the Macedonians and the Romans, respectively, and the fourth beast of Daniel 7 with Rome. If so, the two hammers made of bronze and iron held by the kingdom of the Greeks would appear as an intentional representation of: (1) the continuity and unity of the last two world kingdoms according to the pattern already described by Aphrahat and embraced by the author of the Neṣḥānā (it is hardly a coincidence that the allegorical image of the two hammers is immediately followed by the author’s announcement to the readers that the kingdom of the Greeks is that of the Romans); (2) the destiny of the kingdom of the Romans to fulfill the Danielic prophecy of the mighty fourth beast, and to prevail over the other world kingdoms until the arrival of the Son of Man and the establishment of God’s heavenly dominion. The picture that emerges from the use of these tropes brings to mind the hermeneutic of Daniel developed two centuries earlier by Aphrahat, who had promulgated the ideological identity of the third and the fourth kingdoms and identified this unified kingdom (founded by Alexander) with the mighty fourth beast. The author of the Neṣḥānā adopts the Danielic metaphor of the two metals also in the description of Alexander’s gate, which is said to have been crafted from a combination of bronze and iron components. Earlier references to the mythical gates erected by Alexander refer only to iron gates. The introduction of bronze as an additional component is an innovation that apparently was dictated by the author’s desire to strengthen the ideological cohesion between the third

Alexander, the Danielic Visions, and the Gate  117 and fourth empires of the Danielic schema, and to recall once again the identification of the kingdom founded by Alexander with the mighty fourth beast.25 From this reference to the Danielic imagery, Alexander’s gate emerges as another symbol of the unity of the Greek and Roman empires, and of its status as the final human kingdom of world history before the coming of the Messiah. The allegorical fusion of the two metals into the barrier erected by Alexander, mythical founder of the two kingdoms, also signals the crucial role that the Greco-​Roman Empire is destined to play in God’s plan for human salvation, namely to contain the eschatological invasion from the other side of the rampart until God’s final decree. Thus, the gate is a symbol of the empire’s commitment to the role that God assigned it. This is a crucial point to our understanding of another scriptural reference made by the Syriac author. The reference is to the katéchon, the withholding power which, according to 2 Thessalonians 2:6–​7, prevents the coming of the Antichrist until God’s decree. Beginning at least with Tertullian (d. ca. 220 ce), Christian exegetes identified this katéchon with the Roman Empire and attributed to it the role of delaying Satan’s arrival.26 A further refinement of this reading, in conjunction with the exegetical line that identifies the Roman Empire as the fourth beast of the Danielic vision, is the idea that toward the end of human history the katéchon would be removed and the Antichrist would arrive in concomitance with the fall of the last world kingdom.27 From the perspective of Christian eschatology, the removal of the katéchon also entailed the coming of those fierce nations of Gog and Magog which, according to Revelation, the Antichrist would gather and send to battle after his release. This complex of ideas is very much at play in the story of Alexander’s gate. In restraining the Huns of Gog and Magog until the moment of their final sorties, the gate serves the same function as the katéchon in the Roman Empire. The collapse of Alexander’s gate coincides, both thematically and ideologically, with the removal of the katéchon. The Syriac author’s allusion to 2 Thessalonians 2:6–​7 is perfectly integrated in the eschatological scenario that he is describing. The gate erected by Alexander is not merely a barrier to stop the incursions of nomadic people thought to be involved in an eschatological invasion. By means of the gate, the Roman Empire will fulfill its task as the withholding force designated by God to prevent those dramatic events from happening until a divine decree. God’s removal of the gate initiates the cycle of conflicts from which Rome will emerge victorious and confirmed in its status as the last world kingdom, the fourth beast destined to remit its power to Jesus—​as promised by Alexander in his prayer. The goal of the apocalyptic vision about Alexander’s gate is to magnify the role of Rome in sacred history.28 This message is communicated through explicit claims put in the mouth of Alexander in the form of vaticinia. In

118  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate addition, however, the very idea of a barrier erected to postpone the starting of the Apocalypse—​which is at the core of the Alexander story—​evokes the concept of katéchon and exegetical speculations about the role of the Roman Empire in performing that same task. The allusion to these specific ideas raises another set of questions: Was the original intent of the story of Alexander’s eschatological gate29 to emphasize Rome’s divine mission? Or was that motif only added at a later date? What was the role of the author of the Neṣḥānā in this development? Did he report or build upon an earlier tradition according to which Alexander constructed a gate to delay the apocalyptic invasions of Gog and Magog? Or did he invent the story out of whole cloth? And when did the story originate? As briefly mentioned in Chapter 1, some scholars have posited that the story of Alexander’s eschatological gate existed before the time of the Neṣḥānā. At what exact time these supposedly early versions of the episode started circulating, however, is a matter of debate. Friedrich Pfister suggested that the story originated among first-​century Alexandrian Jews.30 His argument is based largely on the information provided by Josephus in two different works: (1) the report that the Alans, identified by Josephus as a Scythian people, broke through the iron gates erected by Alexander;31 (2) the fact that Josephus indicates the Scythians as the progeny of Magog.32 Pfister concluded that the legend of Alexander’s gate was already part of Jewish culture at the time of Josephus. This view, however, was rejected already by Anderson, in his classical studies on Alexander’s gate, and is now considered obsolete.33 In fact, Josephus does not attach any eschatological significance to either the mention of Alexander’s iron gates or the identification of the Scythians as the descendants of Magog, a claim largely motivated by ethno-​historical speculations inspired by the genealogy list in Genesis 10:2.34 According to Anderson, the story originated in the late fourth century, in the aftermath of the great Hunnic invasion of 395.35 Theoretically, it is possible that the disastrous incursions of those fierce nomadic people through the Caucasian mountain passes—​traditionally identified as the location of Alexander’s iron gates—​may have inspired the legend of the eschatological gate. However, no documentary evidence suggests that those events were associated with the apocalyptic motif of Gog and Magog.36 No mention of Gog and Magog occurs in the writings of the Syriac poet Cyrillona, a contemporary of the Hunnic raids, who dedicated a poem to those events, whereas Jerome, who identified the invaders with the people confined behind Alexander’s gates, does not attribute any apocalyptic significance to the invasion. As Christian Djurslev has argued, the only two references to Alexander’s gates in the late fourth century, namely by Jerome and by the anonymous Latin writer known as Ps.-​Hegesippus, suggest that the story had not yet acquired the character of a legend about the End. As Djurslev observes, these earlier accounts “were rather used as a topic of ethnographical, geographical, and social discourse.”37

Alexander, the Danielic Visions, and the Gate  119 This leaves us with the cursory reference in the Tiburtine Sibyl to the release of the unclean people of Gog and Magog from the North, where they had been confined by Alexander. However, as noted, the dating of the text to the late fourth century is disputed, and most scholars still think that the passage in the Sibyl is derived from either the Neṣḥānā38 or from the Apocalypse of Ps.-​Methodius.39 This last possibility is suggested by a small detail in the Sibyl, that is, the odd description of Alexander as rex Indus, “Indian king,” in the earliest version of the work.40 The phrase rex Indus can hardly be taken as a reference to Alexander’s Indian campaign. Rather, it should be interpreted as an indication of the king’s alleged ethno-​geographical origins. But why describe Alexander as an Indian king? I think that the reason is to be found in the Ps.-​Methodius, which presents the Macedonian hero as the son of an Ethiopian princess. The description of Alexander in the Sibyl reflects this bizarre genealogy, with the transformation of the hero’s Ethiopian descent into an Indian origin, as a consequence of the common confusion between India and Ethiopia attested in several late antique sources.41 In sum, there are serious doubts about the possibility that the story of Alexander’s eschatological gate was already in circulation in the late fourth century and, indeed, before the date of its first recorded version dates (i.e., the mid-​ sixth century). Let us now return to our main question: What role did the author of the Neṣḥānā play in shaping the narrative of this episode? Besides the absence of earlier versions, two elements suggest that the Syriac author not only was the first one to record the story, but also was its inventor. As noted in Chapter 4, the story originated to fulfill a specific function, that is, to address the political context of Roman-​Persian disputes over the Caspian Gates. The episode of the eschatological gate, with its references to the role that Rome would play in the divine plan for human salvation, is fully consistent with that political goal. Of course, one may object that the legend may have already existed as a general prediction of events of the End and that our author adapted it to his agenda. An important indicator points in the opposite direction. The story of Alexander’s eschatological gate emerges from a specific literary practice: the adoption of a motif from the Classical tradition and in its re-​ reading through the lens of biblical exegesis. This practice gave rise to the belief that the nomadic peoples enclosed by Alexander behind iron gates are the very people whose arrival is prophesied in the books of Ezekiel and Jeremiah, and in Revelation. This is not an isolated case in the Neṣḥānā. The same practice is at the core of the author’s re-​reading of the Classical motif of Alexander’s horns, which, as we will see, is interpreted through a variety of biblical passages, and which, like the motif of the iron gates, is transformed into an element of anti-​Sasanian polemic.42 A similar case is that of the story of the blacksmiths from Egypt, which, as we have seen, is also borrowed from the Classical tradition, specifically from

120  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate the story of Pharaoh Sesostris, which was adapted in a way to address the political context of Roman-​Persian disputes over the king of Lazica. The similarity in the literary practice behind these three passages in the Neṣḥānā suggests that the story of Alexander’s gate did not originate as an independent episode, but rather was a product of the very same pen that conceived the adaptation of the other two motifs drawn from the Classical tradition. The simplest explanation is that it was the Syriac author himself who adapted these ancient motifs to a new and different purpose.

8

Apocalyptic Ideology The conventional wisdom holds that the apocalyptic atmosphere permeating the Neṣḥānā reflects the reaction of the inhabitants of the Roman Near East to the historical events of the early seventh century. According to this reading, the vivid descriptions of the destructions caused by the Huns and of their horrific customs and practices echo the traumatizing experiences endured by the inhabitants of the lands raided by Heraclius’s Turkic allies in 626–​629.1 Accordingly, apocalyptic anxieties current among Roman subjects during and after the Byzantine-​ Sasanian conflict are identified as one of the main factors that prompted the writing of the Neṣḥānā. A wave of pessimistic feeling about the future of the Roman Empire, which many believed was destined to collapse with the coming of the End, prompted the Syriac author to develop a reassuring story about the glorious role that the empire was still to play in the development of the eschatological drama.2 The author was engaging with pious believers who had to be persuaded that God’s eschatological promise would not be fulfilled anytime soon, and that its fulfillment would be preceded by a period of prosperity, which Heraclius’s victory had inaugurated but which was still to come to its full fruition. The proponents of this view maintain that the targets of our author’s efforts were not only the skeptics and God-​fearing monks resigned to the unavoidable fall of established human societies. Our author had an even more practical goal. The (probably fictitious) episode of the diplomatic incident that occurred in Edessa in 628, when purportedly Heraclius was denied communion by the Miaphysite metropolitan Isaiah, demonstrates—​according to this view—​that pro-​imperial propaganda was badly needed to restore the emperor’s glory and prestige in a hostile milieu ripped apart by sectarian religious quarrels. The author of the Neṣḥānā would also have written his work to perform this task.3 According to Reinink and the scholars who follow him, the goal of the author’s literary initiative should be sought in his pro-​Heracleian agenda. By celebrating the emperor’s military achievements, the author sought to reduce doubts about what the future held for his reign and simultaneously to call reluctant clergymen to embrace the policies of religious union that Heraclius was promoting at that time. In the background lay the concept of Byzantine imperial eschatology, that is, the idea that toward the end of human history the Byzantine Empire would prevail over the other world kingdoms. Partisans of the Heracleian contextualization of the Neṣḥānā relate the apocalyptic vision about the glorious kingdom founded by The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0009

122  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Alexander to this imperial ideology. The prophecies in the Syriac text that predict the advent of a Christian cosmocratic kingdom reflect the eschatological policies (allegedly) pursued by Heraclius in the years immediately following the end of the conflict. In my view, the conventional wisdom is untenable. The Neṣḥānā was composed several decades earlier than the events that served as a background to the text according to the advocates of the Heracleian hypothesis. As noted, key elements in the text address the political scenario of the mid-​sixth century. Conversely, most elements adduced in favor of a seventh-​century redaction have been shown to make as much sense, and frequently better sense, when transposed into the context of the sixth century. The strong eschatological inclinations of the text and its focus on the final events can easily be related to the circumstances of the reign of Justinian. Apocalypticism was not invented ex nihilo during the time of Heraclius. A century earlier, strong waves of apocalyptic anxieties shook the minds of many people in Byzantine society. In the late fifth century, an anonymous author, probably a native of Bythinia, wrote an apocalyptic text known as The Seventh Vision of Daniel, in which he portrays a sorrowful scenario for the empire. Here, the (fictionalized) murder of the emperor Zeno (r. 474–​491) is followed by a period of violence and chaos that precedes the coming of the Antichrist and the Final Judgment.4 Fears about the imminence of the End spiked during the reign of Justinian. In a passage of his Histories, Agathias reports that an earthquake that devastated Constantinople in 557 generated apocalyptic responses.5 Wars, plagues, and natural disasters during Justinian’s reign raised the expectation that scriptural predictions of the End were being confirmed in the present. Political speculation and propaganda may also have contributed to eschatological fears and chiliastic anxieties. The subject has been discussed recently by Shoemaker and does not need to be addressed here.6 It is sufficient to say that an apocalyptic atmosphere permeated the reign of Justinian. Although I am not fully convinced that eschatological piety played a substantial role in the formulation of imperial policies,7 expectations of the End were surely common among the emperor’s subjects and possibly also among Christian communities in the Sasanian Empire. This is a perfect scenario in which to situate the emergence of a text like the Neṣḥānā. Similarly, imperial eschatology was not invented ex nihilo during the time of Heraclius. Beginning with Constantine’s conversion to Christianity, the sacralization of politics and the politicization of the sacred became a cornerstone of the ideology of the new Byzantine Christian empire. Christian literates began to regard Roman emperors as protectors of the true faith and increasingly engaged in efforts to link the destiny of the empire to God’s plan for human salvation. The extent to which these ideas formed a coherent ideological system is debatable.

Apocalyptic Ideology  123 We also do not know the extent to which these ideas had an actual impact on imperial politics or represented an idealized framework through which Christian literates tried to conceptualize the role of the newly converted empire in sacred history. Be that as it may, ideas concerning Rome’s positive eschatological role were current in Roman society. And if it is true that these ideas had achieved unprecedented popularity in the seventh century, it is also true that this only happened in the last years of Heraclius’s reign, in the aftermath of the early Arab conquest, as a reaction to this new threat. With regard to eschatology and apocalypticism, the question is where to situate the Neṣḥānā in the transmission and development of the idea of Roman Christian cosmocracy, from its earliest written witnesses in the fourth century to its most popular examples (e.g., the Apocalypse of Ps.-​Methodius) in the late seventh century. How does the Neṣḥānā relate to the ideas expressed by authors like Aphrahat? In which environments did those ideas primarily circulate? How did the author encounter them? In which context? To what kinds of readers and religious communities did the author address these ideas? And to what end? How does his formulation of these ideas compare to contemporary understandings of sacred history? And to what extent did the Neṣḥānā influence those in later times who dealt with the same problems and questions? In what follows I will try to provide some answers.

The Background of the Author’s Apocalyptic Ideology In the late second century, writing in Carthage, in the Roman province of Africa, Tertullian stated that Christians should pray for the stability of the Roman Empire in order to delay the arrival of the Antichrist.8 Referring to Rome’s alleged role as katéchon, Tertullian concluded that a strong empire would be able to fulfill its eschatological mission. At the same time, it was probably not eschatological concerns that motivated Tertullian to take this position. Rather, his statement should be understood within the literary framework of a work like the Apologeticus, which is mostly addressed to Roman provincial authorities as a plea for religious tolerance for the Christian community. Despite their obvious underlying utilitarian reasons—​above all the need to prove the loyalty of Christian subjects—​Tertullian’s words are one of the earliest manifestations of a pro-​imperial attitude based on the attribution to the empire of a positive eschatological function. Of course, we are still very far from the kind of speculation that would lead to conceptualizing the empire as a fundamental actor in sacred history that was invested with a divine mandate. We begin to see, however, how the entanglement of Christian eschatology and political considerations might result in the expression of sympathetic feelings toward a political authority that

124  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate previously had been regarded as a hostile entity. After all, the identification of Rome as the Pauline katéchon secured, if nothing else, the survival of the empire until the final moments of sacred history, as did its identification with the fourth and last kingdom of the Danielic schema. And if it is true that its identification as the last power before the End signaled its unavoidable downfall and thus fueled pessimistic or even anti-​imperial feelings,9 it is also true that the role of last kingdom in sacred history opened the door to more positive interpretations. This is exactly what happened at the time of the Constantinian dynasty. Aphrahat’s Fifth Demonstration on War contains one of the earliest exegeses of the Danielic prophecies that seeks to establish the empire’s divine mission. This divinely sanctioned mission was to institute a kingdom that would prevail over the other rival kingdoms and that, enduring until the beginning of the eschatological drama, would deliver its power to Jesus at the moment of his Second Coming. As we have seen, behind Aphrahat’s pro-​Roman reading of the Danielic prophecies lies the delicate situation of his religious community in the Persian Empire. Facing a wave of persecution by the Sasanian authority, the Syriac writer put his hopes in the newly converted Roman emperor, Constantine, and describes an idealized scenario in which, due to its divine mission, Rome will soon defeat Persia and guarantee protection to the Eastern Christians persecuted by Shapur. Aphrahat was not the only author in the 320s/​330s to attribute to Constantine a special role in God’s plan for human salvation. Some of his contemporaries on the other side of the Roman-​Sasanian border engaged with similar theological speculations. To different extents, and in different ways, Eusebius, Lactantius, and Ephrem sought to present the sovereigns of the Constantinian dynasty as God’s mandated representatives on earth and as enforcers of divine will.10 However, none of these authors articulated a vision of the empire’s eschatological role like in the one articulated by Aphrahat. In fact, none of Aphrahat’s contemporaries attempted to portray Roman victory over Persia as an unavoidable step in the accomplishment of Rome’s divinely sanctioned mission. If, in the case of Eusebius and Lactantius, the lack of interest in this theme was motivated by the fact that they were not directly exposed to the Sasanian threat, the same cannot be said in the case of Ephrem, who was an inhabitant of Nisibis at the time of Shapur’s three sieges of the city (in 338, 346, and 350). And yet, Ephrem never expresses a vision of sacred history like Aphrahat’s and never suggests that the empire will destroy the Persian kingdom on its way to cosmological supremacy. At least two centuries would pass before we would find such a view expressed again, and in even stronger terms, by the author of the Neṣḥānā. As observed in the previous chapter, the eschatological visions articulated by Aphrahat and the author of the Neṣḥānā have much in common. Let us recap here the most striking points of comparison. Both authors posit a conceptual

Apocalyptic Ideology  125 unity between the empires of the Greeks and that of the Romans and present Alexander as the founder of this Greco-​Roman kingdom—​although Aphrahat specifically mentions the last two powers of the Danielic schema, whereas the author of the Neṣḥānā does not. Both authors believe that this kingdom is destined to last until Jesus’s Second Coming. Finally, both authors agree on the fact that the Roman Empire will repeat the deeds of its mythical founder Alexander and defeat Persia once again. However, whereas Aphrahat seeks to reassure his audience that Shapur’s army cannot defeat the Romans, the author of the Neṣḥānā describes a scenario in which Rome’s eschatological destiny means that it will annihilate Persia and annex its territory. Even more than in Aphrahat’s Demonstration, in the Neṣḥānā the focus is on the Roman-​ Persian conflict. Our author’s insistence on the idea of Roman eschatological cosmocracy is indissolubly connected to his interest in proving that at some point in the future, Alexander’s kingdom will subjugate Persia once again, and this time for good. Now, two centuries elapsed between the moment when Aphrahat produced his anti-​Sasanian hermeneutic of Daniel and the time when our author was writing. In the intervening period, Aphrahat’s work did not receive much attention: it was rarely mentioned by later authors, sporadically translated to other languages, and appears to have been mostly unknown to subsequent generations.11 Interestingly, however, his Demonstrations were translated in the late fifth century into Armenian.12 The closeness between Aphrahat’s ideological system and that of the author of the Neṣḥānā may be explained by the fact that the work of the former circulated in the geographical area in which the latter probably lived. Nevertheless, it is still unclear to what extent Aphrahat’s Demonstrations had an actual impact on writers in the Armenian region.13 It is not necessary to posit that the author of the Neṣḥānā based most of his eschatological views on Aphrahat to explain the commonalities between the two texts. It is certainly possible that our author independently formulated similar ideas based on a shared heritage of Christian theological and eschatological ideas. Be that as it may, neither alternative explains the fact that no other author in the period between Aphrahat and the Neṣḥānā formulated a scenario like Aphrahat’s, in which the status of the Roman Empire as divinely favored eschatological agent functions as an expression of anti-​Sasanian feelings. The question arises: How was this understanding of the role of the Roman Empire in sacred history transmitted from the fourth to the sixth century? Early fourth-​ century readings of Rome’s glorious eschatological mission seem not to have outlived the dynasty that had inspired them, that is, the Constantinids. Church fathers writing in the late fourth and early fifth centuries show little interest in pro-​imperial ideology. Authors like Cyril of Jerusalem (d. 386), John Chrysostom (d. 407), Jerome (d. 420), and Theodoret of Cyrrhus (d.

126  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate 457), who identify Rome as the fourth Danielic kingdom and the katéchon, do not have much to say about the empire’s divine mandate.14 As we move forward in time, the number of elements glorifying Rome’s eschatological role decreases. In his Commentary on Daniel, Jerome emphasizes that the empire is destined to fall.15 When analyzing the vision of the fourth kingdom in Daniel 2, represented by the iron and clay feet of the statue seen by Nebuchadnezzar in a dream, Jerome observes: “But its feet and toes are partly of iron and partly of earthenware, a fact most clearly demonstrated at the present time. For just as there was at first nothing stronger or hardier than the Roman realm, so also in these last days there is nothing more feeble, since we require the assistance of barbarian tribes both in our civil wars and against foreign nations.”16 Similarly, Theodoret explains the iron-​clay blend as a trope for the initial strength and later weakness of the empire: “The soles of the feet are also of iron, but mixed with clay. Now, in this he [i.e., Daniel] is not referring to another kingdom but to the same one, that would be weaker than itself and mixed with the weakness of clay.”17 Theodoret mentions the decadence of the empire several times in his commentary on Daniel 2, and he describes a scenario in which Jesus himself will provoke its unavoidable collapse: “At his second coming he will strike the image of its clay feet—​that is, he will appear at the very end of the iron kingdom, already rendered weak. He will destroy all governing powers, consign them to a kind of oblivion, and provide his eternal kingdom for the worthy.”18 There is very little glory in the role that Rome plays in the eschatological vision of these authors. We are far from the glorifying tones used less than a century earlier by Eusebius and Lactantius. The difference in the approach to Roman invincibility or vulnerability is evident when we compare Jerome’s and Theodoret’s hermeneutic to Aphrahat’s. In his Fifth Demonstration, Aphrahat struggles to explain the presence of an apparently weak component—​clay—​in the representation of what he otherwise believed to be a kingdom made invulnerable by the divine favor bestowed upon it. His solution is as shaky as the statue with fragile feet whose image he analyzes, but it clearly betrays his intention to prevent any interpretation of the passage that would shed an iota of weakness on the empire.19 It is exactly the opposite procedure from the one implemented by Jerome and Theodoret, who interpret the clay as a sign of the troubled circumstances experienced by the Roman state during their lifetimes. In general, the available textual evidence suggests that after a first wave of enthusiasm created by Constantine’s conversion to Christianity, the reading of the empire as the favored eschatological player faded. It is difficult to discern whether or to what extent ideas like those formulated in the wake of Constantine’s conversion continued to circulate. If they did, they left few traces in written documents, which otherwise attest to ignorance of, or a systematic choice to disregard, pro-​imperial interpretations. This tendency

Apocalyptic Ideology  127 probably emerged in conjunction with the increasing difficulties faced by Roman emperors in the second half of the fourth century. The political scenario between the late fourth and the early sixth centuries accounts for the lack of recorded attempts to predict Roman subjugation of Persia by means of scriptural interpretation. After Julian’s disastrous Persian campaigns, and the tough terms that Shapur II imposed on Jovian in the treaty of 363, the two empires managed to maintain a status of almost permanent peace which, with the exception of sporadic disruptions (in 421 and in 440), endured until the Anastasian war of 502–​506. This period of peace witnessed the emergence of the complex ideological systems summarized in the metaphor of the Two Eyes of the Earth, invoked by Roman and Persian courts to conceptualize their mutual existence and mutual recognition.20 It is not surprising that in this atmosphere, aggressive and militaristic interpretations of sacred history did not proliferate. For sure, apocalyptic tendencies continued to emerge, especially in the context of large-​scale events, like the great Hunnic invasions of 395, or in preparation for the turning of the century in 500 ce, which many believed to coincide with the world’s sixth and final millennium.21 Nevertheless, people were more concerned with finding in biblical prophecies explanations for the events that would precede the fall of the Roman Empire, rather than corroborations of any fantasy of glorious eschatological war against Persia. The above-​mentioned Seventh Vision of Daniel is a witness to this tendency. In the meantime, much had changed in the religious community that had produced the only recorded precursor of the Neṣḥānā. Since the time of Aphrahat, the conditions of Christians in the Persian kingdom had improved steadily.22 Over the fifth and sixth centuries, Christian elites came to occupy prominent positions in the Sasanian society, and Persian Christianity increasingly articulated its Iranian identity. The conspicuous number of converts from Zoroastrianism enhanced the Persian character of Christianity in the Sasanian Empire.23 Although converts were often the target of persecutions by Zoroastrian clergy—​the catholicos Mar Abā (d. 552) is a notorious case—​many were loyal to the Sasanian authorities. The most striking example is that of a certain Grigor, who, during the reign of Kavadh I (r. 488–​531), served as a Sasanian general in the war against the Romans.24 At the same time, Christian ecclesiastical authorities provided theological support for their loyalty to the Sasanian crown, as exemplified by Mar Abā’s glorification of Khosrow through means of biblical imagery.25 The evidence to be discussed below demonstrates that East Christian clergymen began producing interpretations of Daniel that reflect these tendencies and that attribute to the Sasanian state a more positive role in sacred history. In sum, in the two centuries that followed Aphrahat’s composition of his militant anti-​Sasanian Demonstration on War, several factors worked as deterrents

128  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate to the circulation of ideas similar to those expressed in that work. If so, how can we explain their re-​emergence in the Neṣḥānā, a work that in all likelihood was composed in the mid-​sixth century? Indeed, in the Neṣḥānā the anti-​Sasanian component is even more prominent than in Aphrahat, with Roman subjugation of Persia appearing as the most prominent element of our author’s eschatology. Our author dedicates two distinct prophecies to the prediction of the collapse of the Persian kingdom. One suspects that other crucial events in the narrative, like the final Hunnic invasion that will weaken Persian military capacity, and the idea that Rome is destined to establish a cosmocracy to endure until Jesus’s return, serve to corroborate the idea that Persia will fall and suffer Roman predominance. How else can we explain the author’s invocation and intensification of ideas that enjoyed a limited circulation at the time of their first formulation and that had passed out of circulation? First, the two empires had returned to a state of permanent belligerency. As discussed in Chapters 5 and 6, the author of the Neṣḥānā reacted to the situation by constructing an idealized reading of the past that serves as both a critique of the Romans’ poor achievements in the current conflict and as an expression of hope for greater success in the future. The conviction that at some point Byzantium would annihilate Persia, as proclaimed in Alexander’s and Tūbarlaq’s prophecies, suggests that the author probably lived in precarious conditions, similar to the ones experienced by Aphrahat during his lifetime. Indeed, he was probably living in an area exposed to or directly affected by military activities. However, unlike Aphrahat, he could not address his hopes to a Roman emperor like Justinian who had failed to effectively protect the Christians in the eastern regions of the empire and beyond. He thus created the image of a past sovereign who predicted that Rome would emerge once again as a hegemonic power. Our author drew the image of a glorious future still to come as a reaction to the bitterness of his current circumstances. Whether he took inspiration from Aphrahat’s work in describing the irresistible eschatological march of the Roman armies is impossible to ascertain—​although I find this possibility likely. What is certain is that the historical circumstances of his lifetime made possible the re-​emergence of similar ideas. The radical character of the Neṣḥānā in matters of Persian affairs can be explained by the reignition of Roman-​Persian conflicts over the course of the sixth century and by the fact that our author in all likelihood lived in an area that was directly affected by these military operations. But this is only a partial explanation. Many other authors wrote under the threat of Sasanian armies without manifesting the level of aggression displayed by the author of the Neṣḥānā. Indeed, I am not aware of another literary work from Late Antiquity that so unequivocally calls for the eradication of the Persian dynasty from the surface of the earth and for the annexation of the Persian kingdom to the Roman Empire. What

Apocalyptic Ideology  129 prompted our author to elaborate such extreme predictions (i.e., expressions of wishes for the future) that are so focused on the defeat of the rival kingdom? As I will suggest below, he felt the need to answer and rebut the increasingly pro-​ Sasanian inclinations of the Church of the East. To understand this point, we must focus on the only other sixth-​century author who left us an interpretation of the developments of sacred history in which the role of the two empires is clearly formulated. This author is the extraordinary character known to us under the name of Cosmas Indicopleustes.

Cosmas’s Interpretation of Daniel Cosmas was an Alexandrian merchant who claimed to have traveled to India (hence his appellative, Ἰνδικοπλεύστης, lit. “the one who sailed to India”). At some point in his life, Cosmas abandoned his business in trade and took monastic vows. Circa 540s–​550s, he composed a descriptio orbis, the so-​called Christian Topography, in which he sought to prove the truth of biblical cosmology against the spread of Aristotelian cosmological models. A particularly interesting aspect of this work are Cosmas’s extensive references to the Danielic visions, in which he provides a detailed interpretation of those scriptural passages, focusing on the role of the Persian and Roman empires in sacred history. In many ways, Cosmas’s interpretation of the Danielic idea of the translatio imperii does not differ much from Aphrahat’s. Like Aphrahat, Cosmas assigns the most prominent position in the succession of world kingdoms to the Roman Empire. Like Aphrahat, Cosmas presents the Roman Empire as the last and lasting power of human history, predestined to play a pivotal function in God’s plan for human salvation. In Cosmas’s interpretation, however, the Roman Empire acquires an even higher status than in Aphrahat’s.26 Unlike Aphrahat, Cosmas understands the kingdom of the Romans to be neither a continuation of that of the Macedonians, nor the entity that will transmit its power to the Son of Man on his return. According to Cosmas, the Roman Empire is not the fourth kingdom in the Danielic schema, the one that precedes the establishment of God’s fifth and eternal kingdom. For Cosmas, the Roman Empire is the fifth kingdom. “The empire of the Romans thus participates in the dignity of the Kingdom of the Lord Christ,” Cosmas tells us, “seeing that it transcends, as far as can be in this state of existence, every other power, and will remain unconquered until the final consummation, for he says that it shall not be destroyed for ever.”27 Cosmas has no doubt about the empire’s privileged condition and its destiny to endure, overcoming even the toughest threats to its existence.28 It is a widely held scholarly conviction that Cosmas’s interpretation of the Danielic visions relates to pro-​ imperial hermeneutics elaborated by Roman propagandists. Paul Magdalino

130  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate argues that the broad outlines of Cosmas’s reading of Daniel follow Justinian’s official propaganda.29 However, a closer examination of the relevant passage in the Christian Topography casts doubt on this argument. Indeed, most scholars have focused only on what Cosmas tells us about the extraordinary identification of Rome as the fifth blessed kingdom, but have ignored what he has to say about the Persians. The fact that Cosmas, while expressing a flattering depiction of Roman emperors, depicts Sasanian kings in almost as favorable terms has passed largely unnoticed. Let us take a look at his position toward the other major power of the sixth-​century great power system. Cosmas addresses the role of the Persian kingdom in sacred history immediately after his discussion of the Romans. He starts by informing us that the royal family ruling over Persia is not of Persian lineage and does not descend from the ancient rulers of Persia (i.e., the Achaemenians, whose kingdom was destroyed by Alexander). Rather, the Sasanians emerged from another power, that of the Magi.30 At first glimpse, the identification of the Sasanian crown with the empire of the Magi and the simultaneous negation of its Persian lineage bring to mind some elements of Roman propaganda. Indeed, in the fourth century, the Roman emperor Julian and his protégé Ammianus Marcellinus rebutted the Achaemenid lineage (allegedly) claimed by Sasanian sovereigns, and, conversely, attributed to the latter a Parthian (i.e., Arsacid) descent.31 Thus, Cosmas may be following pre-​established patterns of Roman anti-​Persian propaganda. This, however, does not seem to be the case. Cosmas’s remarks on the dynasties that ruled over Persia do not bear any polemical connotation, as becomes clear from the rest of his passage on the Persians. Unlike Roman propagandists, Cosmas’s description of the Sasanian kingdom as a new entity, with no connection to Persia’s Achaemenid past, has no derogatory intentions.32 According to him, the kingdom of the Magi occupies a place of honor in sacred history, second only to the kingdom of the Romans, because the Magi traveled westward to pay homage to Jesus at his birth.33 By connecting the Sasanian dynasty to the Magi, Cosmas seeks to exalt, rather than discredit, the Iranian rulers. By developing this fictitious image of the Sasanians’ ancestors, Cosmas emphasizes the high moral stature of the Sasanian Empire, which he attributes to the Magi’s adoration of Jesus. This puts him at odds with Roman propagandists. It is difficult to believe that this expression of sympathy toward the Sasanian kingdom originated in the environment of Roman propaganda, especially when we consider that Byzantine-​Sasanian relations had newly deteriorated at the time when the Christian Topography was composed. Against the background of these renewed, large-​scale hostilities, it is surprising that Cosmas’s attitude toward Byzantium’s rival is so meek and lacking in militaristic tones. Had his interpretation of the Danielic visions been inspired by the axioms of Roman imperial propaganda, one would expect the passages of

Apocalyptic Ideology  131 his work dealing with the Sasanian dynasty to be characterized by a completely different kind of rhetoric, far more polemical and aggressive than what we find in the Topography. Cosmas’s respect for the Sasanian state can hardly reflect the official position of Justinian’s government. These doubts are reinforced by his reference to the story of the Magi and the nativity of Jesus. In the Byzantine world, the legend of the Magi’s adoration of Jesus served a specific political message. Consider the sixth-​century Justinian mosaics in the churches of Sant’Apollinare Nuovo and San Vitale in Ravenna. In Sant’Apollinare, the three Magi—​wearing trousers and Phrygian hats, symbols of their Persian origins—​offer their gifts to Jesus (enthroned with the Virgin Mary). At first glimpse, the image does not appear to have particular political connotation. Upon closer examination, however, one notices an attempt to model the iconography of the adoration of the Magi on “the convention of the Sasanian envoys rendering proskynēsis in front of the earthly emperor to express this subordination.”34 Similarly, in San Vitale, the adoring Magi appear on the brim of Empress Theodora’s chlamys. According to Matthew Canepa, this curious representation of the adoration was meant to suggest the “subjection of the Iranian religion and sovereign to the Roman religion—​Christianity—​and Christ’s earthly representative, the Roman emperor.”35 However, a different reading of the Magi narrative circulated among Persian Christians, who added Iranian features to the story.36 The version of the story in the Cave of Treasures has recently been analyzed by Sergey Minov, who highlights the significance of the Magi narrative in the context of Christian communities in the Sasanian world. According to Minov, the attribution of Iranian origins to the Magi mentioned in Matthew 2:1–​12 (where the Magi narrative is first attested) prompted a “local [i.e., Persian] patriotism,” which he characterizes as “a marked propensity for putting additional emphasis on and treating positively those themes or figures that are related in one way or another to the regional context of the author or of his intended audience.”37 This observation is not new.38 What is new in Minov’s analysis is his insistence on the political implications of the Magi for Christians living under Sasanian sovereignty. The names of the Magi in the Cave of Treasures, Hormizd, Yazdgird, and Pērōz, correspond to those of three Sasanian sovereigns: Yazdgird I (r. 399–​ 420), Hormizd IV (r. 579–​590), and Pērōz I (r. 438–​457). These three sovereigns adopted—​or at least were said to have adopted, as in the case of Pērōz—​policies of religious tolerance toward Persian Christians.39 Minov connects the obvious anachronism in the Syriac text (the Sasanian dynasty rose to power only two centuries after the birth of Jesus) to a tendency common in Persian Christianity and well attested in sources from the sixth and early seventh centuries: the representation of Sasanian monarchs as figures benevolent toward local Christian communities and, in some cases, even guided by divine inspiration. In other

132  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate words, these sources Christianize the Persian rulers.40 Minov concludes that the Magi narrative in the Cave of Treasures reflects the efforts of Persian Christians to create a paradigmatic image of a Christian-​friendly Iranian dynasty. Thus, during the sixth century, the legend of the Magi was adopted in various forms in Byzantine and Sasanian contexts to convey different political messages. On the one hand, Byzantine artists portrayed the motif of the Adoration as an example of the subjugation of an Eastern kingdom to Rome’s moral and political superiority. On the other hand, Persian Christians invoked the Magi narrative to signal their increasing loyalty to the Sasanian Empire, in an effort to endear themselves to its leaders. Minov is certainly right in relating the different political uses of the story in the Roman and Persian kingdoms to the different sociopolitical conditions of Christian communities in the two empires. Which one of these positions is reflected in Cosmas’s reference to the legend of the Adoration? Note, first, that some elements in Cosmas’s work are consistent with contemporary Syriac exegesis on the story of the adoration, for example, the reference to the royal status of the Magi in the Topography. In Late Antiquity, Greek-​speaking Christians did not attribute royal dignity to the Magi. By contrast, beginning around the second half of the fifth century, representations of the Magi as a political authority became prominent in certain circles of Syriac Christianity.41 Thus, Cosmas adopted an imagery that was alien to the Greek culture of the time and that, by contrast, was acquiring increasing prominence among contemporary Eastern Christians. In addition, the attribution of royal status to the Magi had implications in the specific context of Persian Christianity, where the story of the Magi was used to Christianize the ruling dynasty. This tendency is easily identified in Cosmas’s words. The connection that he draws between the Sasanian dynasty and the Magi who adored Jesus replicates the same anachronism that in the Cave of Treasures leads the Magi to acquire the names of Sasanian dynasts. Put in different terms, both Cosmas and the author of the Cave of Treasures identify the Magi of the nativity of Jesus as members of the Sasanian dynasty. The political implications of this choice by the two authors are likely the same and coincide with the tendency described above. This picture is at odds with the scholarly hypothesis that Cosmas’s work reflects the propaganda of Justinian’s regime. The reason for this inconsistency, in my view, is that this hypothesis is incorrect. Remarkably, unlike the case of the Magi iconographies in Byzantine mosaics, one finds no representation of the Sasanian dynasty as subject to Rome in Cosmas’s words. Quite the opposite, indeed. Through the Adoration of the Magi, Cosmas exalts the Sasanian Empire as an entity with a status almost equal to that of the Roman Empire. Also remarkable is the literary context in which Cosmas inserts his reference to the story of the Magi, that is, his interpretive reading of the Danielic schema of the

Apocalyptic Ideology  133 succession of world kingdoms. His Sasanian-​friendly approach to the Magi narrative goes hand in hand with his similarly conciliatory interpretation of the Danielic visions, exemplified, as noted, by its contrast with Aphrahat’s militant, pro-​Roman, and ultimately anti-​Sasanian hermeneutic of Daniel. In my view, these arguments speak against the hypothesis that Justinian’s propagandists influenced Cosmas’s ideological intellectual system. His source of inspiration must be sought elsewhere. But where? At the beginning of book II of his Topography, Cosmas claims that what he is about to discuss is based on the teachings of a man from the land of the Chaldeans, named Patrikios. At the time he was writing—​Cosmas informs us—​this Patrikios was appointed catholicos of the Christians living in Persia.42 Scholars agree that the Patrikios met by Cosmas is the person whom we have briefly encountered on the previous pages and whom we will meet again in the following chapter: Mar Abā.43 After his conversion to Christianity and before his appointment as catholicos, Abā traveled widely in the Byzantine world. He visited Constantinople and Alexandria, and studied in Edessa and Antioch, both major centers of Christian culture. Between 525 and 530, Abā met Cosmas in Alexandria. The latter soon became one of his pupils. The importance of Cosmas’s tutelage under Patrikios/​ Abā for the formulation of his interpretation of the Danielic schema has been discussed by Christopher Bonura.44 Based on the similarity between Cosmas’s and Aphrahat’s understanding of the Daniel prophecies, and on their common affiliation with the Church of the East, Bonura concludes that the ideas expressed in the Christian Topography most likely derive from a Persian, rather than Greek, environment.45 I find this hypothesis compelling. As Vittorio Berti has shown, it is possible to recover passages of Abā’s lost writings from the Christian Topography.46 In the present case, Cosmas likely derived his understanding of the succession of the kingdoms from Abā’s teachings. However, the line of continuity traced by Bonura between Aphrahat’s and Cosmas’s/​Abā’s interpretations of Daniel is less convincing, because it leaves aside a very important aspect that emerges from a comparative analysis, namely, the substantial differences between the rationales behind the interpretations of the two (/​three) authors. In fact, Cosmas’s attitude toward the Sasanian dynasty is at odds with Aphrahat’s trenchant and unambiguous condemnation of Shapur’s regime. His understanding of the role of the Sasanian Empire in sacred history lacks the aggressive rhetoric deployed by Aphrahat. More importantly, Cosmas’s reading of the Danielic prophecies undermines Aphrahat’s militaristic hermeneutic. Thus, if one sees a line of continuity between Cosmas’s and Aphrahat’s attribution of a noble status to the Roman Empire, the same is not true when it comes to the kingdom of the Persians. This difference calls for an explanation. Cosmas’s benevolent attitude toward the “empire of the Magi” reflects the better conditions and deeper integration of

134  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Christians in the Sasanian Empire. His attempt to promote an idealized Iranian political entity, almost a peer of the Roman Empire, and occupying a prominent position in sacred history, reflects the local patriotism that lays behind the adoption of the legend of the Magi by Persian Christians. His hermeneutic of Daniel is consistent with the tendency highlighted by Minov to represent Sasanian sovereigns as benevolent rulers toward local Christian communities. Lying behind Cosmas’s approach to the Danielic schema, we can see the teaching of his mentor Mar Abā. Abā’s intellectual background makes him an obvious candidate for the elaboration, or at least the transmission, of the ideas reported by Cosmas. Abā was a Zoroastrian who converted to Christianity; he was born to a family of Persian origins near Radan, in the province of Bēt Arāmāyē. He was an educated and learned man who, prior to his conversion, worked as a government functionary in his native province—​where he was the secretary of the local marzpān. As a Christian of Persian origins, Abā would have shared the view that conferred on the Persian Empire considerable dignity and prominent status in God’s plan for human salvation. Like many Zoroastrians who converted to Christianity, he would have taken pride in those figures of his ancestral religion—​the Magi—​ who first acknowledged and adored Jesus. Abā’s understanding of sacred history likely reflected what must have been the attitude of many Christians in the Sasanian Empire, situated between patriotic feelings toward their ancestral land and, at the same time, the unavoidable charm of a fully Christianized Empire. Cosmas’s effort to present the Sasanian crown as a Christian-​friendly entity anticipates the policies that Abā would later pursue as catholicos, when, however, he probably had to recalibrate his views. Emphasizing their lineage with the Magi of Jesus’s adoration might captivate the imagination of his Christian fellows, but it could hardly impress Khosrow, the sovereign whose benevolence he was trying to secure. As we will see in the next chapter, it was rather to the memory of the Achaemenians that the catholicos eventually resorted to celebrate his sovereign. Moreover, if at the time of his tenure as catholicos Abā still held sympathetic feelings toward the Roman Empire, he would have been reluctant to disclose them, especially since his critics among the Zoroastrian clergy would not miss the opportunity to accuse him of siding with the enemy. Thus, it is doubtful that at the peak of his career Abā would have openly declared the same views of sacred history as those reported by Cosmas.

Back to the Neṣḥānā It is hard to say how widespread were interpretations of Persia’s virtuous role in sacred history, as described by Cosmas. What is likely is that in the mid-​sixth

Apocalyptic Ideology  135 century many Persian Christians, especially converts and intellectuals, would have related more to the theories taught by Mar Abā than to those taught by Aphrahat two centuries earlier. The safest assumption is to consider the ideas circulated by the catholicos as reflections of a community that was trying to make sense of its role within the larger framework of Sasanian society. That is not to say that every individual in that community was ready to embrace a rosy picture of Sasanian-​Christian relations. Not everyone would have been satisfied with the representation of the Sasanian dynasty as an early acknowledger of Jesus, supposedly attested by the story of the Magi’s adoration, nor would they have been enthusiastic about Abā’s complaisant (if not complicit) praise of Khosrow as a sovereign inspired by the Messiah. Several Persian Christians, like those who participated in Anōshazād’s revolt in Gundeshapur in 550, surely aligned themselves on the opposite side of the ideological spectrum. We have no evidence suggesting that any of the rebels had access to Aphrahat’s Fifth Demonstration on War and to the anti-​Sasanian interpretations of Daniel contained therein. If they did, they no doubt would have found Aphrahat’s ideas far more convincing (or convenient) than Abā’s. At the same time, not many people on the other side of the border, in the Roman Empire, would have been as keen as Cosmas about an interpretation of sacred history that conferred honors on the rival kingdom that were greater than what even the most fervent partisan of the coexistence of the two empires would have been willing to concede. The author of the Neṣḥānā was arguably such a person. Animated by strong anti-​Sasanian sentiments, our writer would have felt outrage at the friendly attitude displayed by authorities of the Church of the East toward the Sasanian dynasty—​a dangerous inclination that was spreading from Persia to Roman territory. Persuaded that this situation required a strong reaction, our author formulated a concept of sacred history whose anti-​Sasanian traits are even more accentuated than the already militant eschatological vision elaborated by Aphrahat. A main element accounting for this radicalization is to be sought in our author’s willingness to rebut conciliatory visions of sacred history spread in Sasanian, and even in Byzantine, society by influential clergymen such as Abā. If so, his work would have been addressed not only to the Christians of Roman Armenia and northern Mesopotamia, hostile to the centralizing power of Constantinople. Nor would his main aim have been to conciliate the recalcitrant Miaphysites with the Chalcedonian policies—​and indeed the author’s lack of any interest in Christological matters argues against this reading. Important addressees of the Neṣḥānā are—​I believe—​Christians in the Persian Empire, who are encouraged not to be loyal to their current rulers who, at some point in the future, will be defeated by the Christian Roman Empire, according to divine will. As we will

136  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate see in the following two chapters, the author’s desire to react to the exceedingly Sasanian-​friendly attitude of the Church of the East emerges from other elements in the narration. These include several of his literary choices, such as the attribution to Alexander of elements of royalty commonly associated with Persian sovereigns and the simultaneous derogatory characterization of Tūbarlaq as an inept king.

9

Alexander’s Horns The prayer that Alexander addresses to God at the beginning of the Neṣḥānā may be viewed as the ideological manifesto of the author. The prayer starts with Alexander declaring an awareness of his divine mission. The horns that grow out of his head manifest the power that God gave him to subjugate the other world kingdoms, and it is to God that the king turns to request support before starting his glorious march of conquest. His goal is not personal glory or political power, but the glorification of the Lord’s name and securing the legacy of His memory. It is a truly religious and global campaign, a program to establish an empire that is the representation of God’s will on Earth. Alexander’s prayer reaches its climax when the hero promises to relinquish his power to the Messiah upon his arrival, symbolized by the pledged offer of Alexander’s throne and crown. This promise binds not only Alexander, but all future Greco-​Roman emperors. Alexander understands that the arrival of the Messiah may not materialize during his lifetime, so he swears that his throne will be brought to Jerusalem after his death and that his crown will be raised upon that throne. These acts set a precedent for all future Roman kings and emperors, who are obligated to send their crowns to Jerusalem after their deaths to be raised over the throne that Alexander appointed for the Messiah. In this chapter I will analyze the first part of the prayer and its reference to Alexander’s horns.

Alexander’s Horns King Alexander bowed, and worshipping said: “Oh God, master of kings and judges, you who raise up kings and dismiss their power, I perceive with my mind that you made me great among all kings, and that you caused horns to grow on my head, so that I may gore with them the kingdoms of the world. Give me the power from the heavens of your sanctity so that I may receive strength greater than the kingdoms of the world, and I will humiliate them and glorify your name forever, oh Lord!1

The reference to horns on Alexander’s head occurs twice in the Neṣḥānā. Toward the end of the Syriac work, in the section that describes Alexander’s prophetic dream of Tūbarlaq’s imminent attack, we find words similar to those uttered The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0010

138  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate by Alexander in his prayer. Here, however, it is God who speaks these words to Alexander: “I made you great among all kings, and I caused horns of iron to grow on your head, so that you may gore with them the kingdoms of the world.” The two sentences about Alexander’s horns are almost identical. There are two main differences, however. The first difference is that Alexander and God switch the roles of speaker and listener. The second difference is a detail that is reported only in the passage at the end of the Neṣḥānā, that is, the material from which Alexander’s horns are made, namely, iron—​a detail that is missing from Alexander’s prayer. This detail and its absence at the beginning of the Syriac work are important elements for our analysis.2 Horn symbolism appears in ancient iconographic representations of Alexander as the son of the Egyptian god, Ammon. In these representations, Alexander is crowned with ram horns, as is typical in Ammon effigies. The association between Alexander and the Egyptian god probably occurred after Alexander’s conquest of Egypt. The sources report that Alexander visited Ammon’s oracle at the oasis of Siwah, where he was “adopted” as the son of that god. What motivated Alexander to visit Ammon’s sanctuary in the Egyptian desert is not clear. Was it to acquire legitimacy to rule over the country? Or was it for other reasons? The debate is open.3 What seems certain is that Alexander’s acquisition of the title of Ammon’s son is connected to his elevation to the status of pharaoh. It is with the iconographic traits typical of pharaonic regalia that Alexander is represented in the temple reliefs at Luxor. Representations of the horned Alexander may have served propagandistic and political purposes. As Fulińska observes: “it might seem a logical step to ‘translate’ this exaltation and its political impact into Greek terms by employing the long-​established syncretic image of the horned Zeus-​Ammon.”4 However, there is no compelling evidence that during his lifetime Alexander himself adopted or endorsed the symbolism of Ammon’s horns—​although this is possible. The only mention of Alexander wearing Ammon’s horns occurs in the words of Alexander’s contemporary, Ephippus of Olynthus, which are quoted by the Greek grammarian Athenaeus (third century ce). According to Ephippus, Alexander used to appear at symposia disguised as Ammon, wearing ram horns and other emblems of the god.5 Nevertheless, scholars are skeptical about the value of Ephippus’s testimony because of his notorious hostility toward Alexander and his resentment of the latter’s wearing exotic garments.6 The most ancient material evidence for the image of the horned king are coins minted by Alexander’s successors, the Diadochi, and, especially, in Lysimachus’s Thrace (r. 301–​281 bce) and Ptolemy’s Egypt (r. 305–​282 bce). These coins circulated from 297 bce. Their dissemination was so conspicuous as to provoke the minting of imitations by rulers in the Arabian Peninsula.7 The numismatic typology featured on the Diadochi’s coins was not as enduring. Representations

Alexander’s Horns  139 of the horned Alexander were not promulgated by later Hellenistic rulers, while representations of the horned Ammon also appear to have been rare. The horn symbolism still appears on octadrachms minted by Ptolemy’s daughter, Arsinoe Philadelphos, who ruled Egypt from 275 to 268 bce.8 However, over the following two centuries no verified numismatic example of this kind has been found. It is only during the reign of Mithridates VI Eupator of Pontus (r. 120–​63 bce) that Ammon’s horns reappear on coins produced in a Hellenistic royal mint9—​a revival that probably should be attributed to Mithridates’s notorious imitatio Alexandri. This is the last time that this numismatic model appears to have been adopted by a ruler. Thus, it was probably not through coins that the iconic image of the horned Alexander was transmitted to the late antique world, but rather by means of artistic and literary expression. The historical records attest to the persistence of this imagery as a common cultural model in the Roman world. Several artworks from Late Antiquity display the iconography of the Alexander Magnus corniger. Among these are a gold pendant preserved at the Walters Art Museum in Baltimore10 and an onyx cameo preserved at the British Museum in London.11 It is, however, sculptural portraiture that provides us with the best examples of this iconographic phenomenon. One example is a life-​size marble head representing Alexander with Ammon’s ram horns, preserved at the Nationalmuseet in Copenhagen. The head is possibly a Roman copy of a Greek original, produced around the second half of the second century ce.12 Another example is the already mentioned bust of a horned man—​in all likelihood Alexander—​found at Katalymata ton Plakoton in Cyprus.13 Although it is not clear whether this marble bust was produced at the same time as the building in the archaeological complex—​which probably dates to the seventh century—​or if it was later added as a decorative element,14 it demonstrates that the image of the horned Alexander was still relevant in Late Antiquity. Statues of this kind may have been more common than the extant material evidence suggests. Clemens of Alexandria (d. ca. 215 ce) attests to the popularity of the horned Alexander sculptures when he affirms: “Alexander wished to be thought the son of Ammon and to be modeled with horns (κερασφόρος) by sculptors, so eager was he to outrage the beautiful face of a man by a horn.”15 The hostility displayed by Clemens of Alexandria toward this iconography was not an isolated case, but is representative of common Christian antipathy toward such pagan symbolism. It is in light of the tensions that accompanied the transmission of elements from the Classical heritage to an increasingly Christianized world that we should understand the efforts made by the sculptor of the Katalymata ton Plakoton to emphasize the anthropomorphic features of the statue. As Stewart convincingly argues, the sculptor’s departure from previous models of naturalistic iconographies of Alexander’s horns, and his decision to represent them as some kind of horned diadem, were intended to emphasize Alexander’s humanity

140  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate and thereby discredit pagan tendencies to venerate the Macedonian as a god. By representing Alexander as a man wearing a horned diadem, the sculptor was able to de-​paganize, so to speak, the pagan symbol—​Ammon’s horns—​and to remove any element relating to the deification of Alexander.16 Sculpture is not the only medium in which Ammon’s horns continued to be connected to the person of Alexander in Late Antiquity. Literature also played a major role. The horn symbolism appears as an important feature of the rec. α of the Alexander Romance. Here ram horns are worn by the Egyptian high priest Nechtanebus, who, in the Romance, is described as Alexander’s biological father. It is by wearing these and other regalia associated with Ammon that Nechtanebus appears to Alexander’s mother, Olympias, in the guise of the god and has intercourse with her.17 For the author of the rec. α, Alexander’s alleged descent from the Egyptian god was a consequence of the stratagem through which Nechtanebus convinced Olympias that she had intercourse with Ammon and that she bore the god’s child. In the Romance, most references to Ammon’s horns are about Nechtanebus, not Alexander. There is only one passage in the text that explicitly associates Alexander with the horns. This occurs toward the end of the Romance when, after Alexander’s death, Macedonians and Persians quarrel over the place of the king’s burial: whereas the Macedonians wish to bring Alexander back to Macedonia, the Persians want to carry his body to Persia and to venerate him as a god together with Mithra. It is at this point that Alexander’s general, Ptolemy, consults the oracle of the Babylonian god (as Mithra is described in the Romance) about the appropriate burial place for Alexander. The oracle instructs Ptolemy to carry Alexander’s body to Alexandria and the king is here identified as “the horned king” (βασιλέα κερασφόρον).18 The passage describing Alexander as a horned king is preserved in the Armenian version of the Alexander Romance,19 which is based on the rec. α, but not in the Syriac version, which is a translation of that same recension. Even if we cannot establish whether the Syriac translation of the Romance was produced before or after the time when the author of the Neṣḥānā was writing, the absence of the passage describing Alexander as a horned king may indicate hostility in the Syriac-​speaking world toward the image of Alexander bearing the horns of the Egyptian god Ammon. Like the sculptor of Alexander’s bust at Katalymata ton Plakoton, our author may have lived in a community that did not look kindly on representations of the horned Alexander. If so, it comes as no surprise that the author of the Neṣḥānā had to find a way to adjust the ancient pagan symbolism of Ammon’s ram horns in his portrayal of Alexander. The strategy he followed differed from the one adopted by the sculptor of the Cypriote bust, however. Instead of representing Alexander’s horns as a human feature, our author stresses their divine origins while advancing a conceptual re-​elaboration of the motif.

Alexander’s Horns  141 As apparent from the analysis of other components of the text, the Syriac author is very skilled at using previous traditions and in conferring new meanings on them. In this case, our writer Christianizes the horn symbolism and removes any element that may connect it to the topos of Alexander’s descent from Ammon. The author reworks the image of the horned Alexander so that the horns symbolize the authority, conferred upon him by a Christian God, to conquer other worldly kingdoms. The horn symbolism is reconceptualized as the source of regal authority that flows from the true Christian God. The Syriac author’s attitude toward the horn symbolism may be compared with that displayed three centuries earlier by Clemens of Alexander. In contrast to Clemens’s haughty remarks about what he considered deplorable representations of Alexander, the author of the Neṣḥānā embraces the pagan symbolism of Ammon’s horns and turns it into a symbol of God’s power. According to him, Alexander’s horned crown does not indicate that he was the progeny of a pagan god, but rather that he was appointed by the real God. In connection with Alexander’s horns, our author makes several references to scripture. In fact, the literary work performed by the author in connection with the motif of Alexander’s horns was complex, involving some subtle, intertextual connections to the biblical tradition.

1 Kings 22:11/​2 Chronicles 18:10 Two parallel passages in the Hebrew Bible, in 1 Kings 22 and 2 Chronicles 18, describe how, following the advice of his ally King Jehoshaphat of Judah, Ahab, the king of Israel, summons a council of 400 prophets and consults with them about the expedition that he is preparing against the Aramaean city of Ramoth Gilead. The prophets give the king a favorable verdict and encourage him to proceed with the attack. The leader of the council, Zedekiah son of Kenaanah, endorses the suggestion through a curious mise-​en-​scène: Zedekiah son of Chenaanah made for himself horns of iron, and he said, “Thus says the Lord: With these you shall gore the Arameans until they are destroyed.” (1 Kings 22:11/​2 Chronicles 18:10)

Zedekiah’s announcement contains two elements that are features of the passages in the Neṣḥānā under investigation: (1) the iron horns; and (2) God’s incitement to use those horns as weapons against an enemy. A brief look at the language of the two biblical passages in the Peshitta makes the correspondence between the Syriac text and the story of Zedekiah even more intriguing. The expression “horns of iron” (qrntʾ d-​przlʾ) is identical in the two texts. Almost identical are the words “you will gore with them” in the Neṣḥānā (tdqr

142  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate b-​hyn)20 and “you will gore with these” in the Peshitta (b-​hlyn tdqr). The linguistic connections between this passage and the Neṣḥānā are evident. The Syriac author clearly meant to evoke the scriptural passages. But why did the author chose to transfer elements from these specific biblical passages into the story of his hero’s crowning by God? The episode of Zedekiah’s masquerade has a very negative connotation. Zedekiah’s vision of Ahab’s success turns out to be wrong, and the king of Israel dies in battle against the Aramaeans. The Alexander of the Neṣḥānā appears as a sort of nemesis to Zedekiah. Unlike the iron horns worn by Zedekiah, those worn by Alexander are not a human artifact; they have grown on Alexander’s head by God’s decree. Alexander’s horns have a divine origin. The different origins of Zedekiah’s and Alexander’s horns typify another point of contrast between the two characters, that is, their falsely inspired (Zedekiah’s) and divinely inspired (Alexander’s) prophecies. In fact, contrary to the ill-​fated campaign of Ahab, wrongly advised by the false prophet Zedekiah, Alexander is destined to achieve victory in battle because he is divinely inspired and is provided by God with the necessary means to defeat his enemies. But why did the author contrast the case of Alexander with that of a marginal character in the Bible? An obvious answer is that the Syriac author was trying to make sense of the ancient motif of Alexander’s horns through a biblical text that also features horns worn by a human. The author of the Neṣḥānā reverses the situation described in the biblical episode and turns a negative element in the narrative—​ Zedekiah’s artificial horns—​into a positive feature of the story of Alexander. But there might be more, if we accept the (plausible) hypothesis that our author had knowledge of the Alexander Romance, or at least of related traditions. In this case, as a connoisseur of biblical stories, our author certainly would not have overlooked the narrative similarity between the mise-​en-​scène of Zedekiah in the Bible and that of Nechtanebus in the Alexander Romance. The story of Nechtanebus’s seduction of Alexander’s mother, Olympias, through the ruse of wearing Ammon’s regalia—​including ram horns—​to disguise himself as the god, is similar to the episode of the false prophet Zedekiah. By reversing the situation described in 1 Kings 22:11/​2 Chronicles 18:10, the author of the Neṣḥānā produced a virtuous version of the story to contrast that of the Egyptian priest described in the Romance. Unlike the author of the Alexander Romance, who explains Alexander’s claims to be the son of Ammon through the story of Nechtanebus’s fraud, the author of the Neṣḥānā brings the question of the hero’s alleged divinity—​already controversial among early Christians21—​into a Christian context, replacing the theme of Alexander’s divine lineage with that of his divine appointment. This paradigmatic shift is reflected in the different nature of the horn symbolism in the Romance and in the Neṣḥānā, which replicates the dichotomy that the Syriac created between his work and the biblical story of Zedekiah. Unlike the horns worn by Nechtanebus in the Romance (and by Zedekiah in the Bible), Alexander’s

Alexander’s Horns  143 iron horns in the Syriac work are not a carnivalesque accessory. The horns that the hero bears on his head are the symbol of the power that God gave him and of his destiny to conquer the world. According to the Syriac author, Alexander understood the meaning of the horns that God made grow on his head (“I perceive with my mind that you caused horns to grow on my head”).

Micah 4:13 Another biblical reference behind the description of Alexander’s iron horns in the Neṣḥānā are the final verses of Micah 4 (vv. 11–​13). These verses are framed as a conclusive remark on God’s promise to rescue the Jewish people and to restore them to their land (vv. 6–​10): v. 11: Now many nations are assembled against you saying, “Let her be profaned, and let our eyes gaze upon Zion.” v. 12: But they do not know the thoughts of the Lord; they do not understand his plan, that he has gathered them as sheaves to the threshing floor. v. 13: Arise and thresh, O daughter Zion, for I will make your horn iron and your hoofs bronze; you shall beat in pieces many peoples, and shall devote their gain to the Lord, their wealth to the Lord of the whole earth.

The militaristic bravado in v. 13 finds clear resonances in the Neṣḥānā, specifically in the words that God addresses to Alexander before the battle with Tūbarlaq. The parallel is further emphasized when we compare the Neṣḥānā passage with the Peshitta’s rendition of the relevant words, “for I will make your horn iron and your hoofs bronze; you shall beat in pieces many peoples.” The Peshitta’s words: “I will make your horns22 of iron” (qrntky ʾ ʿ d d-przlʾ) bring to mind the Neṣḥānā’s words: “and I caused horns to grow on your head” (qrntʾ d-​przlʾ ʾwʿyt b-​ršk),23 while the Peshitta’s: “and you will pound many people” in the Peshitta (w-​tdqyn ʿmmʾ sgyʾʾ) resembles the Neṣḥānā’s: “so that you may gore with them the kingdoms of the earth” in the Neṣḥānā (d-​tdqr b-​hyn mlkwtʾ d-​ʾrʿ   ʾ).24 The language used by the author of the Neṣḥānā clearly signals that of the Peshitta, especially “horns of iron” (qrntʾ d-​przlʾ) in the Neṣḥānā, and “your horns . . . of iron” in the Peshitta (qrntky . . . d-​przlʾ), and “you will gore” (tdqr) in the Neṣḥānā, and “you will pound” in the Peshitta (tdqyn). In addition to linguistic affinities, the passages in Micah 4 and in the Neṣḥānā display close thematic affinities. In both cases, God encourages his protégés not to fear their enemies, and he reassures them that he will provide the means to achieve

144  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate victory on the battlefield. In both cases, the divinely sponsored weapons are horns made of the same material, that is, iron. By referring to Micah 4, the Syriac author draws a parallel between Israel and Alexander’s kingdom in the Neṣḥānā as two divinely favored political entities, both benefiting from God’s military assistance in battle. This is not the only occasion on which the author characterizes Alexander’s kingdom in a manner that is ultimately based on biblical representations of the exclusive relationship between Israel and God. A similar transfer to Alexander’s kingdom occurs in the scene of the battle against Tūbarlaq, which immediately follows the dialogue between God and Alexander. As noted in Chapter 5, the Syriac author draws another parallel between the aid that Alexander receives in the combat against his enemy and that received by the Israelites from God in their battle with the Philistines, as described in 1 Samuel 7:10. In two consecutive scenes, our author refers to scriptural passages that describe divine favor for the people of Israel engaged in battle. The author adopts this topos of divine military aid to Israel and transfers it to his hero, Alexander. These cursory references to the Scripture hint at the status of Alexander’s Greco-​ Roman Empire (i.e., Byzantium) as the New Israel—​apparently anticipating a topos that would become commonplace in later Byzantine imperial discourse.25 Through the words in Micah 4:13, and the image of Zion’s iron horns in particular, the author of the Neṣḥānā reconceptualizes ancient, pagan representations of the horned Alexander, and turns Alexander’s horns into a symbol of the alliance between him and the Christian God. The ram horns of Amon’s effigies become the emblem of Byzantium’s special relationship with God.

Daniel 8:3–​7 To this point, we have focused on the second mention of Alexander’s horns in the Neṣḥānā, which occurs in the words that God addresses to Alexander before the latter goes to battle against Tūbarlaq. Let us now turn to the first mention of Alexander’s horns in the prayer that the hero addresses to God before undertaking his journey to the edges of the Earth. Compared to the second passage, Alexander’s prayer lacks an important element, that is, the information that the horns that God makes grow on Alexander’s head are made of iron. The absence of this information is very relevant. Indeed, because of the location of Alexander’s prayer at the beginning of the narrative, the reader learns that Alexander’s horns are made of iron only several pages later, toward the end of the text. As the previous analysis has demonstrated, the specification of the material of which Alexander’s horns are made is a signal to the reader of the biblical passages that the Syriac author wants to evoke. As seen, the words “horns of iron” function as a cursory reference to Micah 4:13 and to 1 Kings 22:11/​2 Chronicles

Alexander’s Horns  145 18:10. Without reference to iron, the hint to these scriptural passages is lost. This is exactly what happens in Alexander’s prayer at the beginning of the Neṣḥānā. But what does the reader understand, then, when reading Alexander’s claim to have been crowned with horns by God, if the specification of “iron horns” is missing in the passage? It is unlikely that the author forgot to include this important detail, while nothing suggests that anything was lost in the transmission of the text.26 Is it possible, then, that the author inserted cursory references to Micah 4:13 and to 1 Kings 22:11/​2 Chronicles 18:10 at the end of the text, because with his first mention of the motif of Alexander’s horns he wanted to direct the reader’s attention to other biblical passages? The answer to this question—​I think—​is affirmative, and the author’s scriptural allusion fits perfectly with other important aspects of his agenda. As a starting point of our analysis, let us briefly observe how earlier scholars have analyzed the passage in Alexander’s prayer where the hero confirms having received horns from God. Both Reinink and Bohas connect the first mention of Alexander’s horns in the Neṣḥānā to the Danielic prophecies in Daniel 7 and 8.27 Bohas does not specify the exact section of the two biblical passages supposedly recalled by the Syriac text. By contrast, Reinink links the horns of the Syriac Alexander to either the fourth beast of Daniel 7 (vv. 7–​8) or to the he-​goat in Daniel 8 (vv. 5–​8, 21). As Reinink rightly observes, biblical exegetes often identified in Alexander those two specific “characters” of the Danielic prophecies—​the fourth beast and the he-​goat.28 Reinink does not specify which specific element in the Syriac text is reminiscent of the biblical passages. I assume, however, that the intertextual link is the horn symbolism, which may indeed relate the horned Alexander in the Neṣḥānā to the fourth beast in Daniel 7, or to the he-​goat in Daniel 8—​both biblical beasts are characterized by the horn(s) on their heads. Upon closer examination, however, the connection may be only apparent. The distinguishing feature of the fourth beast in Daniel 7 are the ten horns that crown its head, and the eleventh horn that suddenly grows, causing three of the ten other horns to fall. This imagery alludes to the fragmentation of Alexander’s empire into the Diadochi kingdoms—​represented by the ten horns—​and to the rise of Antiochus Epiphanes—​the eleventh horn—​as clearly appears from the explanation of the prophecy found in the subsequent lines of the Danielic text itself (vv. 24–​25). Now, besides the fact that the Alexander of the Neṣḥānā also has horns, nothing of the complex symbolism associated with the fourth beast in Daniel 7 can be found in the Syriac text. As seen in Daniel 7, the fluctuating number of the beast’s horns (10 +​1–​3) is a trope for the political scenario that followed the death of Alexander. The Peshitta reports that the fourth beast has ten horns and refers to the eleventh horn as “one horn” (qrnʾ ḥdʾ). No connection to this biblical passage can be detected in the Neṣḥānā, where the plural form “horns” (qrntʾ) represents a pair (i.e., “two horns”).

146  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate Another crucial difference between the two texts is that there is no indication in Daniel 7 that the horns of the fourth beast function as weapons against the beast’s enemies, or that the beast will use them to destroy other kingdoms. In this regard, a closer parallel to the Neṣḥānā may be found in Daniel 8, specifically, in the description of the he-​goat attacking the ram—​presumably with the single horn between his eyes. As noted, in Daniel 8 the he-​goat and the ram represent two rival kingdoms that biblical exegetes usually (and correctly) identify as the Persian and Macedonian empires. From this perspective, it is attractive to find in the Neṣḥānā an allusion to the he-​goat that will defeat the Persian ram in Daniel 8. However, this reading does not stand up to the scrutiny of textual analysis. In describing the he-​goat, the Danielic prophecy clearly refers to a single horn.29 Had the Syriac author wished to associate his horned Alexander to the he-​goat of the prophecy, why did he not describe his hero as crowned with one horn, instead of two? Consider that, as much as the single horn motif characterizes the he-​goat in Daniel 8, the two horns motif characterizes the ram at v. 3 of the same passage.30 Surprisingly, the Alexander of the Neṣḥānā finds a closer parallel in the ram of the Danielic prophecy than in the he-​goat. Like the ram, Alexander has two horns—​with the term ‫( ܩܪܢܬܐ‬qrntʾ, “two horns”) appearing in both the Peshitta on Daniel 8:3 and in the Neṣḥānā. This is not the only element that connects Alexander and the ram. The mission to which Alexander commits in his prayer, that is, uprooting all world kingdoms and subjugating their territories, brings to mind Daniel 8:4, where the ram attacks westward, northward, and southward to submit the other beasts. An element unnoticed by previous scholars further exposes the analogy between Alexander’s world campaigns and the ram’s furious attacks. In Daniel, the ram charges ( ַ‫מ ַנ ֵגּח‬/​ ְ mənaggêaḥ) against the other beasts. In the Peshitta, mənaggêaḥ is rendered as ‫( ܡܕܩܪ‬mdqr), that is, “goring.” This peculiar rendition of the biblical text in Syriac is important. Indeed, the author of the Neṣḥānā uses the same verb ‫( ܕܩܪ‬dqr), “to gore,” that occurs in the Peshitta.31 The image in the Neṣḥānā of Alexander using his two horns to gore the other world kingdoms thus reflects an understanding of Daniel 8:4 common in Syriac circles, where the ram was imagined as using its two horns as weapons against its enemies. Thus, it appears that with his first mention of the motif of Alexander’s horns, the Syriac author was alluding to Daniel 8. Contrary to previous scholarship, however, the allusion refers to the ram, not to the he-​goat of the prophecy.

An Innovative but Not Unthinkable Association The association made by the author of the Neṣḥānā between Alexander and the ram of the prophecy has no antecedents in earlier literature. As seen in the

Alexander’s Horns  147 previous chapter, Alexander was an important figure in the exegeses of the Danielic prophecies. While exegetes did not unanimously agree about the role of the Macedonian within the prophetic visions in Daniel 2 and 7—​Alexander was associated with either the third or the fourth empires in Daniel 2, and with either the third or fourth beasts in Daniel 7—​there was no uncertainty surrounding the vision of the ram and the he-​goat in Daniel 8. In the latter case, Alexander’s role appears to have been well defined, and his identification with the he-​goat seems to have been unequivocal among biblical exegetes. To the best of my knowledge, no exegete identifies the he-​goat with any historical person other than Alexander. This identification is attested since at least Hippolytus of Rome (d. ca. 235 ce) and is repeated by later theologians, including Origen (d. ca. 253 ce), John Chrysostom (d. 407 ce), and Jerome (d. 420 ce).32 In the Syriac tradition, this interpretation was indisputable, since the Peshitta on Daniel 8:5 contains a gloss that identifies Alexander as the he-​goat of the vision.33 This clarification within the scripture itself surely exercised decisive influence on those Syriac authors who wrote about the vision in Daniel 8. We have already seen that Aphrahat had no doubts about identifying the he-​goat with Alexander; and the same may be said about a commentary on Daniel ascribed to Ephrem.34 More doubts seem to have surrounded the identity of the ram. Aphrahat, like most Christian exegetes, identifies the ram as Darius.35 This identification, however, raises several problems. It is well known that three different Persian sovereigns bore the name Darius: Darius I, also known as Darius the Great (r. 522–​486 bce); Darius II (r. 423–​404/​5 bce); and the last Achaemenian king, Darius III (r. 336–​330 bce). Although numerous exegetes identify Darius as the ram,36 virtually none of them clarifies whom among those three sovereigns they intend. For sure, exegetical requirements often prevailed over historical accuracy. For instance, Hippolytus infers that “the ram is Darius, the king of the Persians, who prevailed over all nations [ . . . ] Alexander after he had engaged with Darius in war, overpowered him and prevailed over all his army.”37 Hippolytus appears to conflate the identities of Darius I and Darius III—​the former was known for his “global” military campaigns, the latter for having been overthrown by Alexander. To complicate matters, exegetes had to take into account a fourth Darius: the mysterious Darius the Mede, whom we have already met in Chapter 5. Jerome identifies Darius the Mede as the uncle of Cyrus and, following Josephus,38 describes him as the son of Astyages.39 Jerome also reports that the Greeks call this Darius Cyaxeres,40 which is how Darius the Mede is identified by Theodoret of Cyr (d. ca. 458). Both authors demonstrate awareness of the confusion surrounding the name Darius and try to dissipate doubts. Theodoret explicitly broaches the question: “We must distinguish between the reign of Darius son of Ahasuerus and that of Darius the Persian.” Jerome goes even further: “We are not

148  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate to think of that other Darius in the second year of whose reign the temple was built [ . . . ]; nor are we to think of the Darius who was vanquished by Alexander, the king of the Macedonians.”41 Despite these efforts to clarify the matter, confusion persisted. Probably because of the several mentions in the Book of Daniel, the figure of Darius the Mede entered exegetical explanations of the vision in Daniel 8. Jerome identifies the ram exclusively with Darius, the uncle of Cyrus, that is, Darius the Mede. However, the most blatant case of confusion occurs in the Peshitta. As in the case of the he-​goat of the prophecy, the Peshitta adds a gloss to shed light on the historical figure behind the obscure character of the ram. In the gloss (which is repeated twice, at vv. 3 and 7) the ram is identified as Darius the Mede. The Peshitta’s identification of Darius the Mede attests to possible confusion between the biblical figure and the Persian king Darius defeated by Alexander. The inclusion of the second gloss in the text of v. 7 seems to confirm this confusion. The inserted words “the ram is Darius the Mede” immediately follow the he-​goat’s defeat of the ram. What is certain is that the very presence of a gloss identifying the ram as Darius the Mede endorsed the conflation between the latter and Darius III. This is evident in a passage of Malalas’s Chronicle, quoted in the previous chapter, in which we read: “In the fourth year of the reign of Dareios the Mede, son of Assalam, God raised up Alexander [ . . . ]. He defeated Dareios, emperor of the Persians, the son of Assalam, and captured him, all his empire. . . .”42 Here Malalas mistakenly identifies the Darius defeated by Alexander as the biblical figure of Darius the Mede. Some exegetes further complicated the question of the ram’s identity. After identifying the ram as Darius the Mede, Jerome identifies Cyrus as the person represented by one of the two ram’s horns, especially the highest horn.43According to Theodoret, the two horns refer to the double nationality, Mede and Persian, of the ram: He perceived two horns on the ram because Cyrus was the first to reign over it and transmitted the empire only to his sons; when his son Cambyses died, soothsayers held power for a few months, but shortly afterwards Darius son of Hystaspes, who passed the empire on to his offspring and theirs up to the last Darius, whose empire Alexander the Macedonian took over after slaying him.44

In sum, attempts by exegetes to identify the historical person behind the figure of the ram in Daniel 8 have produced contradictory conclusions. Although several commentators identified the ram with some king from the past, of either Median or Persian origins, the exact identity of this king remained open to debate. Much confusion seems to have surrounded figures named Darius. At the same time, some exegetes—​Jerome and Theodoret are the only ones recorded, but the list

Alexander’s Horns  149 may have been longer—​also included a second figure, Cyrus, in their attempts to explore the historical reality behind the ram. As is often the case, uncertainty opens the door to flexibility and sometimes creates room for new, and even surprising, innovations. For instance, when in the mid-​seventh century an anonymous Syriac author, now commonly identified as Ps.-​Ephrem, wrote his homily On the End, he affirmed that the arrival of the sons of Ishmael was occurring “in the name of the ram.” In other words, Ps.-​Ephrem read the recent Arab territorial expansion into Byzantine provinces through the Danielic vision and made a connection between the Ishmaelites—​as he defined them—​and the ram. Although unprecedented—​or at least previously unrecorded—​Ps.-​Ephrem’s interpretation of the Danielic prophecy continues the process of reinterpretation of the Daniel texts that had begun in previous centuries. As the reader may recall, the scheme of the four world kingdoms had come to be interpreted in two different ways, with the Persian and the Roman empires alternating in the role of the last world kingdom. Both interpretations circulated side by side, thus further endorsing the uncertainty surrounding the Danielic prophecies. This uncertainty forced the exegetes to speculate over the verses in question. To bring another example from the seventh century, the anonymous author known to scholars as Ps.-​Sabeos advanced a new interpretation of the Danielic scheme in which the third slot is allocated to the Huns of Gog and Magog, and the fourth slot is reserved for the kingdom of Ishmael.45 In a nutshell, few biblical texts were as open to exegetical interpretations as the Danielic texts were. In these circumstances, the connection established by the author of the Neṣḥānā between Alexander and the ram of the Danielic vision would not have surprised his contemporaries. For sure, it was an innovation, but an innovation set in the framework of a blurry, and hence fluid, exegetical framework. At the same time, the association of Alexander with a literary figure who had been identified with ancient Persian rulers would hardly have seemed odd in the cultural context of Late Antiquity. Since Antiquity, Alexander had been associated with a prominent figure of the Persian, Achaemenid heritage: Cyrus the Great. As noted, Procopius presents Alexander and Cyrus as a pair of exemplar monarchs against Justinian’s detractors. However, the association between the two figures goes further back in time. Parallels between them were already extant during Alexander’s lifetime and were probably encouraged by Alexander himself.46 Alexander’s esteem for Cyrus left a trace in later representations of the Macedonian conqueror, who earned the appellation of φιλόκυρος, coined by Strabo in his Geography.47 At the same time, the association with Cyrus played an important role in the dynastic claims of Hellenistic and post-​Hellenistic rulers. It is well known that Mithridates Eupator claimed a double line of descent from Cyrus and Darius I, on his father’s side, and from Alexander, on his mother’s side. Less known are the assertions made by Mithridates’s contemporary, Antiochus

150  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate I of Commagene (r. 70–​38 bce), who claimed that his paternal and maternal lineages could be traced back to Darius the Great and Alexander, respectively.48 These examples from the first century bce give credibility to the information reported by Tacitus (d. 120 ce), according to which the Arsacid King Artabanus II (r. 12–​38/​40 ce) sought legitimization for his territorial claims by asserting the twofold heritage of both the Achaemenian and the Macedonian empires.49 The connection between Cyrus and Alexander appears to have been a common feature of the Roman rhetoric since at least the late Republican period. In a funeral lamentation on the death of Publius Crassus, who died along with his father, the triumvir Marcus Licinius Crassus, in the disastrous battle fought against the Parthians at Carrhae in 53 bce, Cicero (d. 43 bce) laments Publius’s desire to follow the example of Cyrus and Alexander.50 This duo of great sovereigns from the past appears to have been a cliché among late antique authors who wished to celebrate current rulers through their comparison with earlier models. For example, in the eulogy to Constantine, Eusebius of Caesarea (d. 339 ce) exalts the prominence of the Roman emperor by comparing him to Cyrus and Alexander—​together with a series of arguments to prove how Constantine not only epitomized great leadership, but also prevailed over the two illustrious kings of the past.51 However, it is again Christian exegesis that provides us with the most significant elements. For these exegetes, the figure of Alexander explained the obscure prophecy of the four chariots in the sixth book of Zechariah (Zec 6:1–​8). Influential Christian hermeneutists like Jerome and Cyril identified Alexander with the third chariot of the prophecy. According to this reading, Alexander’s rise immediately follows that of Cyrus the Great, who is represented by the second chariot. According to Cyril’s interpretation, Alexander performs the same task performed by Cyrus, that is, to attack and to subjugate the Babylonians in order to punish them for the suffering they brought on the people of Judea. Cyril’s interpretation gives us an idea of the kind of speculations that late antique authors could develop around the figures of Cyrus and Alexander, starting from the notion that both sovereigns fulfilled biblical prophecies.

An Association Full of Political Implications The author of the Neṣḥānā lived in a cultural environment that included the complex ideas that shaped Cyril’s representation of Cyrus and Alexander as a pair of divinely guided sovereigns. In such a context, the association that he makes between the Macedonian hero and a biblical “character” traditionally understood to represent the power of ancient Persian sovereigns (i.e., the ram) would have been unusual but not absurd. Still unusual, and one wonders why

Alexander’s Horns  151 he decided to depart from a more conventional exegesis of the Danielic passage and formulated that unusual association instead. Of course, in his eyes the ram in Daniel 8 must have appeared as an appealing figure through which to read and then reconceptualize the pagan symbols of Zeus-​Ammon’s ram horns in light of scriptural knowledge. However, this observation alone does not explain why our author draws other parallels with the Persian sovereigns elsewhere in his work. In fact, over the course of the text, our author strengthens this association. As we will see in the following chapter, in the section of Alexander’s prayer that immediately follows the king’s statement about the horns he received from God, the author attributes to Alexander the possession of two other precious items—​ the crown and the throne of the kosmokrator—​traditionally associated by Syriac Christians with Cyrus and other Persian sovereigns of the Bible. The connection to these Persian kings is reflected by the way our author adapts to Alexander the motif of the charge of the ram in the Book of Daniel. In the Neṣḥānā, Alexander marches in a westward direction (unlike the historical Alexander, who attacked Darius’s empire from the west). The image of Alexander marching from the east and goring the rival kingdoms with his horns brings to mind the charge of the ram from the east in the Book of Daniel. The hero of the Neṣḥānā accomplishes the same deeds that biblical exegetes had traditionally attributed to Darius/​ Darius the Mede, or to Cyrus. Our author draws an implicit connection between Alexander and these glorious Persian sovereigns when he tells the reader that after defeating Tūbarlaq, the Macedonian became the master of Babylon and Assyria. Alexander’s subjugation of Babylon recalls Cyrus’s glorious conquest, which, in the Book of Daniel, is incidentally attributed to Darius the Mede, that is, the ram of the Peshitta.52 In sum, it appears that the parallel that the author draws between Alexander and the rulers of ancient Persia is not limited to the curious identification of the former with the ram of the Danielic prophecy. At the same time, one should observe that the attribution to Alexander of symbols and deeds otherwise attributed to the kings of ancient Persia correlates with the already observed attempts to dissociate Alexander’s archenemy, Tūbarlaq, from those very same rulers. Indeed, the construction of the fictitious character of Tūbarlaq of the house of ʾḥšwrḥ, whose patronymic, as noted, is a distortion of the name Ahasuerus (ʾḥšyrš), has the effect of denying any connection between the kingdom of Alexander’s rival and the ancient Persian rulers of the biblical tradition. The overall picture described by the Syriac author may at first seem surprising. In anti-​Persian polemical discourse, early writers almost never missed the opportunity to depict an ideological scenario in which they juxtaposed the positive comparatio Alexandri, applied to Roman emperors, with a negative comparatio Achaemenidorum.53 Each Alexander redivivus who appeared on the Roman political scene was regularly provided with an Achaemenid counterpart

152  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate in Ctesiphon. “Achaemenid programs,” that is, the intention to rebuild the Achaemenid Empire, were commonly attributed to Persian sovereigns. Writing about the reigns of Ardashir I (r. 224–​242 ce) and Shapur II, Roman historians Herodian (d. 240 ce),54 Cassius Dio (d. 235 ce),55 and Ammianus Marcellinus (d. ca. 397 ce)56 reported that these sovereigns sought to restore the territorial integrity of the empire of their alleged ancestors (i.e., the Achaemenians). The scholarly doubts about the accuracy of these reports are not relevant here.57 What interests us is how these claims, which were attributed to Sasanian kings, functioned in Roman political discourse. The representation of Persian rulers as pursuers of an Achaemenid revival were indeed functional in the idealized reproduction of the ancestral fight between Alexander and Darius. Roman propaganda spread the idea that the clash between the two rivals was being repeated in a new political context—​with the implication that Persia would be defeated once again. Such an ideological paradigm can be identified in Aphrahat’s anti-​Sasanian exegesis of the Danielic prophecies. As seen, Aphrahat presents Shapur as a reincarnation of the ram in the prophecy. The rationale behind this association is the creation of a meta-​historical reality in which the ram represents both past and present Persian dynasties. Aphrahat’s aim was to spread the message that just as the ram was once defeated by the he-​goat, Alexander, it will be vanquished again by the fourth beast, Rome. The triptych association of “ram/​Darius–​ram/​ Shapur–​Darius/​Shapur” contributes to Aphrahat’s elaboration of a complex scenario in which the ram stands for a meta-​historical entity engaged in a perpetual struggle with the political powers from the west, the he-​goat, Alexander, and the mighty fourth beast, Rome. Through his peculiar reading of the prophecy, Aphrahat expresses his hope that in the near future Shapur will be defeated by a Roman emperor, just as Darius was defeated by Alexander in the past. Why does the author of Neṣḥānā dissociate Tūbarlaq from the ram of the Danielic prophecy, thus missing the opportunity to produce a powerful hermeneutic like the one elaborated by Aphrahat? And why does he attribute the emblem of the ram horns—​together with other symbols of royalty commonly associated with Persians kings (see next chapter)—​to Alexander instead? The explanation, I believe, is found once more in the contemporaneous political context. It is reported that in December 543 (or January 544) the catholicos Mār Abā summoned a synod in Ctesiphon. In his opening blessing dedicated to Khosrow, Abā hailed Khosrow as a second Cyrus and portrayed him as a blessed sovereign inspired by the Messiah—​something that brings to mind the representation of Cyrus as anointed king in the Bible (Isa 45:1).58 Abā probably was not simply trying to obtain royal benevolence. The reign of Khosrow Anōshirvān witnessed the increasing influence of Christians at the Sasanian court and a

Alexander’s Horns  153 growing intimacy between the catholicoi and the shah. Abā was particularly close to Khosrow, with whom he reportedly collaborated, to the point of providing his assistance to suppress the revolt of Christians in Gundeshapur, led by Khosrow’s Christian son Anōshazād.59 One wonders whether the words with which Abā opened the synod are related to Sasanian court propaganda. The question is difficult to answer. We know very little about the Sasanians’ level of awareness of ancient Persian history, and Cyrus is nowhere mentioned in Middle Persian sources.60 Surely, however, Khosrow did not lack opportunities to acquire information from his Jewish and Christian subjects about the memory of a king like Cyrus who plays such a prominent role in the biblical tradition. And one imagines that even if he had only a vague understanding of the implications of the comparison made by Abā, Khosrow would have welcomed the catholicos’ attempt to revive the memory of Cyrus to address the specific environment of Persian Christians. This kind of exercise may have been futile among Zoroastrian subjects, who most likely ignored the figure of Cyrus, but would have been extremely useful to secure the loyalty of Christian subjects. Exalting Khosrow as a second Cyrus might also dispel the currency among Eastern Christians of negative comparisons with the Achaemenians, of the kind elaborated two centuries earlier by Aphrahat. It is possible that in Abā’s days, Christian dissidents in the Sasanian Empire—​like those who participated in the Gundeshapur revolt—​ understood the downfall of the ram described in Daniel 8 as an encouraging precedent for a collapse of a Persian dynasty. By making a comparison between the current ruler and a more positive figure from the Achaemenid past, also present in the scripture, Abā may have wanted to imply that Khosrow would repeat the glorious deeds of Cyrus—​the righteous Persian king of the Bible—​not the catastrophic fall of Darius III—​the ram. Be that as it may, the powerful image of Khosrow as a second Cyrus elaborated by Abā crossed the borders of the Sasanian kingdom. Rumors about Abā’s pro-​ Sasanian propaganda likely reached the ears of the Byzantine emperor, who launched a campaign of counterpropaganda. Indeed, during Justinian’s reign we witness unprecedented attempts by imperial publicists to associate the figure of the Roman emperor with that of the glorious Achaemenid king—​something that appears as a personal competition with the Sasanian sovereign. As seen, in his Histories Procopius makes a direct comparison between Justinian and Cyrus (and Alexander). The Byzantine historian repeats the comparison in The Buildings, where, however, he diminishes the achievements of Cyrus to exalt those of Justinian: “If one should examine his reign [i.e., that of Justinian] with care, he will regard the rule of Cyrus as a sort of child’s play.”61 Procopius was not the only one in Byzantine society to make parallels between Justinian and the founder of the Achaemenid dynasty. Another witness to this propaganda is found in the afore-​mentioned Anthology of Planudes and,

154  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate in particular, in one of the two epigrams originally engraved on the equestrian statue of Justinian erected in the hippodrome of Constantinople—​probably to celebrate the victorious battle of Dara of 530. The second epigram, which refers to the “bronze from the Assyrian spoils” and the “Babylon destroyed,” merits our attention. The image signals a great victory over the Sasanians. Of course, Justinian’s armies never penetrated Sasanian territory far enough to reach Babylon. The phrase “Babylon destroyed” in the epigram evokes in the mind of the reader another glorious historical event, i.e., Cyrus’s eradication of the Babylonian Empire.62 Justinian thereby emerges as a Cyrus redivivus, legitimate successor of the forefather of the Achaemenid dynasty that was inherited by the Sasanians, according to Roman political discourse.63 Referring to the epigram in the Anthology of Planudes, Canepa observes: “there is a subtle irony in the portrayal of Justinian as a ‘New-​Cyrus’ in his destruction of Babylon, given the Nestorian hierarchy’s acclamation of Kosrow I with this title.”64 But it was more than ironic; it was political. This kind of propaganda was most likely aimed at Christians living under Sasanian rule and had as its ultimate goal to claim the fidelity of the Church of the East to the Christian emperor.65 By representing the Roman emperor as Cyrus redivivus, propagandists implied that Justinian would free Eastern Christians from the Sasanian yoke, just as the Achaemenid king had rescued the Jews from Babylonian captivity. After Justinian’s death, Roman intellectuals continued to rebut encomiastic parallels between Khosrow and the dynasts of ancient Persia. Agathias, for instance, compares Khosrow to Cyrus, Darius, and Xerxes, claiming, surprisingly, that the former’s military achievements were greater than the latter.66 The praise, however, immediately reveals its real intent. Despite his glory, Agathias observes, Khosrow suffered an ignominious end through a mortal disease that followed his unsuccessful war against Maurice in the last years of his reign.67 Here, Agathias suggests that a man’s success should be evaluated only after his death, a possible allusion to Croesus, the king of Lydia, who was thought to be the happiest and most successful of men until he was defeated by none other than Cyrus.68 In Agathias’s eyes, then, more than Cyrus-​like, Khosrow was a Croesus-​like character. Moreover, the attentive observer will note that Agathias places special emphasis on the parallels with Xerxes, who—​unlike Cyrus and Darius, both identified only by their patronymic—​is described as the one “who opened up the seas to cavalry and the mountains to shipping.”69 In this case, the comparison with Khosrow has the malicious and not so hidden agenda of evoking in the mind of the reader the memory of Xerxes’s defeat in the war against the Greek poleis. Together with the attribution to Alexander of deeds and symbols commonly associated with the Persian kings of the Bible, these propagandistic skirmishes provide us with a better understanding of the curious identification of Alexander

Alexander’s Horns  155 with the ram of the Danielic prophecy made by the author of the Neṣḥānā. The appropriation of the legacy of eminent Persian biblical figures is not unlike what Roman propagandists were doing when drawing comparisons between Justinian and Cyrus.70 Like Justinian’s propagandists, the author produces the image of a king who can compete with Khosrow in appealing to Eastern Christians. He opposes the image of Alexander as an anointed king to that of Khosrow, as portrayed by the authorities of the Church of the East. Alexander emerges as the only legitimate, divinely inspired king to whom Christians in Persian territory should pay their allegiance. By contrast, the author portrays Khosrow, through the parodistic figure of Tūbarlaq, as an ignominious king who has no share in the glory of the Persian kings celebrated by the biblical tradition. This glory—​our author suggests—​belongs to Alexander, the subjugator of Babylon, the bearer of the ram horns of the Danielic prophecy,71 and, as we will soon discover, the one king who sits on the throne of the kosmokrator that once belonged to Cyrus, and the one king who wears a crown that once belonged to Nimrod, putative ancestor of the Sasanian dynasty.

10

The Crown, the Throne, and the Last Roman Emperor In the final part of his prayer, Alexander addresses the following words to God: Your remembrance will stay forever and ever. I will write your name, oh God, on the papers of my kingdom so that there may be always a memorial for you. And if the Messiah, who is the son of God, comes during my days, I will bow in front of him, me and my troops. And if he does not come during my days, once I will have gone and defeated kings and seized their lands, I will bring and set in Jerusalem this throne that is a chair of silver on which I sit. And when the Messiah comes from heaven he will sit on my throne, because his kingdom will stand forever. And seven hundred pounds of gold will be the gift put before the Messiah at his arrival. And whether I die in one of the regions of the world or here in Alexandria, the crown of my kingdom will be taken and lifted upon the throne, which I offer to the Messiah.1

The final part of Alexander’s prayer in the Neṣḥānā clearly shares thematic features with the story of the Last Roman Emperor, whose earliest recorded versions are to be found in the Tiburtine Sibyl and in the Apocalypse of Ps.-​Methodius.2 In the Sibyl we read that when the Antichrist arises and the people of Gog and Magog who had been restrained by Alexander are released, a Roman king will gather an army and wage a successful war on the impious nation. Then “he will come to Jerusalem and deposit there the diadem from his head and all royal garments; He will surrender the kingdom of the Christians to God the Father and to his Son Jesus Christ.”3 The scene is more elaborate in the Ps.-​Methodius. Here, at the moment of the release of the people confined in the North and at the appearance of the Antichrist, the Roman emperor will perform a complex ritual and hand over his kingdom to the Messiah: The king of the Greeks shall go up and stand on Golgotha and the holy cross shall be placed on that spot where it had been fixed when it bore Christ. The king of the Greeks shall place his crown on the top of the holy cross, stretch out his two hands towards heaven, and hand over the kingdom to God the Father. And the holy cross upon which Christ was crucified will be raised up to heaven, The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0011

the Last Roman Emperor  157 together with the royal crown [ . . . ]. And the moment the holy cross is raised up to heaven, and the king of the Greeks yields up his soul to his Creator, then all rule, sovereignty and power will be rendered void.4

Note the clear similarities between the story of the Last Emperor and Alexander’s grandiose proclamations in the Neṣḥānā. In both traditions we read that the king will depose the symbol of his royal power—​a crown or a diadem. And in both traditions a Roman king hands over his kingdom to God and his Messiah. In the Neṣḥānā, we discern only the outline of the Last Emperor theme, but it is clear that at some point a Roman king will welcome Jesus and let him sit on Alexander’s royal throne. Note also that all three texts, the Tiburtine Sibyl, Ps.-​Methodius, and the Neṣḥānā, feature traditions about both the confined nations and the Last Emperor. Already in their earliest recorded versions, the two traditions were related to one another. Establishing the relationship between Alexander’s prayer in the Neṣḥānā and the story of the Last Emperor in the Sibyl and the Ps.-​Methodius is not an easy task. The task is complicated by the animated scholarly debate over which of the two sources antedates and thus influenced the other. There are three principal positions. According to the first position, the primitive episode of the Last Emperor is the one found in the Tiburtine Sibyl, which was composed in the late fourth century and, in the second half of the seventh century, was picked up by Ps.-​Methodius.5 The second position maintains that the Tiburtine Sibyl inspired the Ps.-​Methodius but contends that the story of the Last Emperor was composed shortly after Heraclius’s victories over the Sasanians, during the reign of his grandson Constans II (r. 641–​668).6 The third position reverses the relationship between the Sibyl and Ps.-​Methodius, suggesting that the former depends on the latter.7 This debate bears on our understanding of the position of the Neṣḥānā vis-​à-​vis the development of the Last Emperor motif. While scholars seem to agree that the Neṣḥānā influenced—​directly or indirectly—​Ps-​Methodius,8 there is less agreement about the dating of the Sibyl and its relationship to the Neṣḥānā. Whereas Podestà regards the Last Emperor episode in the Sibyl as directly inspired by the Neṣḥānā,9 Shoemaker argues that Alexander’s prayer in the Neṣḥānā echoes the Last Emperor story in the Sibyl.10 The whole matter is further complicated by disagreements about the relationship between the Last Emperor story and Heraclius’s restitution of the True Cross. Did the story inspire the emperor’s actions or the other way around? The episode about Alexander’s throne in the Neṣḥānā has little in common with Heraclius’s restoration of the holy relic.11 However, one may turn the question on its head and ask whether the Neṣḥānā is an early witness to a story that inspired Heraclius’s ceremonial return of the Cross. All these questions merit a detailed study, perhaps even an entire

158  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate monograph. In the present context, I will stay as far as possible from the debate over the development of the Last Emperor legend. By focusing on the motif of Alexander’s crown in the Neṣḥānā, I will try to explain its ideological significance in the context of sixth-​century Roman-​Persian antagonism.

The Crown Crowns hanging in holy places was an important ritual practice in late antique culture. Shoemaker draws attention to two meaningful sixth-​century examples of this custom. The first concerns the Axumite king Kaleb who, in the first half of the sixth century, reportedly sent his royal crown to be hung in the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem as part of the ceremony of his abdication from the throne of Ethiopia. The second example is that of an anonymous pilgrim of Piacenza who, in the late sixth century, visited Jerusalem, where he saw several royal crowns hung in the Holy Sepulcher (one wonders if Kaleb’s crown was one of them).12 The practice of hanging royal crowns in sacred areas, especially in Jerusalem, surely represents one of the elements that lay behind the scene described in Alexander’s prayer. At the same time, the wider literary context provides us with additional elements. The motif of the crown over the throne brings to mind the crown hung upon the cross in the Ps.-​Methodius.13 In both texts, the surrender of the crown and its symbolic hanging is the act that sanctions the delivery of power to God and his Messiah. Scholars have related the scene of the deposition of the crown in the Ps.-​Methodius to a passage in the Julian Romance.14 At the moment of his coronation, Jovian initially refuses the crown previously worn by the pagan Julian. He then performs a ritual purification. He instructs his soldiers to put the crown on the top of the cross that accompanied the Roman army.15 He prostrates in front of the cross (his soldiers prostrate as well) and, after praying to God, the crown miraculously descends on his head with no human hand touching it.16 The similarity between this passage of the Julian Romance and the Ps.-​Methodius may be extended by analogy to the surrender of the crown in the Neṣḥānā. Notwithstanding the difference between the object upon which the crown is suspended, the analogy between the acts performed by Alexander and Jovian is meaningful and is heightened by the commonality of the prayers recited by the two sovereigns at the moment of their surrender/​refusal of the crown. And yet, when compared, the scene of Alexander’s prayer in the Neṣḥānā and of Jovian’s coronation in the Julian Romance display a lexical difference regarding the common element of the lifted crown. Whereas in the Romance the crown is referred to as klīlā, in the Neṣḥānā it is designated as tāgā. The fact that the word tāgā also occurs in the scene of the deposition of the crown in the Ps.-​Methodius

the Last Roman Emperor  159 may undermine Reinink’s claim that the Julian Romance and the Ps.-​Methodius use exactly the same language.17 The lexical differences are not negligible and may have a deeper ideological significance. Tāgā is an interesting term. It is borrowed from the Middle Persian tāg18 and occurs several times in the Julian Romance, but with a meaning quite different from klīlā. The Syriac author appears to attribute a different scale of value to the two words. Klīlā signifies a crown as an object. This object must be purified not only because it was worn by the idolatrous Julian, but also because of its fabrication. The Julian Romance relates the polemical story of a group of Jews who attracted the benevolence of the impious emperor by offering him a klīlā bearing the image of seven idols.19 At the moment of the coronation, Jovian exclaims, referring to this abominable effigy: “Far be it from me, that the crown of the pagan who worshipped idols in it should be placed upon my head before it is placed on top of the cross.”20 Unlike klīlā, in the Romance tāgā often signifies royal authority. Examples of this usage in the Syriac work are the following: Julian shouts: “our royal crown has been insulted, and the gods were blasphemed”;21 the people of Edessa write to Julian: “The king of our city [i.e., Jesus], the one to whose crown all crowns of creation are subjugated, dwells within its walls”;22 and, more importantly, Jovian prays to God during his coronation ceremony: “Your Divinity called me to the imperial crown while I was unworthy.”23 In this last example there is a clear distinction between the crown as an object that Jovian is about to receive after its purification (klīlā), and the crown as a symbol of imperial authority (tāgā). This distinction is also articulated by the Sasanian king Shapur, who first refers to Jovian as the one who inherited Julian’s tāgā and the throne,24 and later during their encounter, tells Jovian to wear the klīlā that he had removed from his head as a sign of humility.25 The Julian Romance uses tāgā systematically as a reference to the Sasanian crown. “May your crown be set upon your head!”26 the nobles and chiefs of Persia say to Shapur. “If you do not have the strength to fight a war with us, throw down your weapon and bow to our crown,”27 Shapur challenges Julian through his ambassador. But the most interesting occurrences of tāgā as a designation of the Sasanian crown appear as part of a tradition that makes the Sasanians the descendants of Nimrod. In the Julian Romance, Sasanian territory is repeatedly described as the Land of Nimrod,28 and the Sasanian dynasty as the House of Nimrod.29 After initial successes in his war against Shapur, a vainglorious Julian tells his soldiers, “Who will not call you heroes? The exalted race of the House of Nimrod was vanquished before you.”30 These initial successes seem to confirm the assurance given by the demons to Julian at the beginning of the march into Sasanian territory, according to which he “would have dominion over all of the empires of the world from heaven downwards, and he alone would be the ruler of

160  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate the world, that is to say, when he had destroyed and won a victory in Persia and put the crown of the House of Nimrod [tgʾ d-​byt nmrwd].”31 Elsewhere in the work, Shapur refers to the tāgā of Nimrod. As the heir of the mythical king, the Persian sovereign proudly refers to a tradition according to which Nimrod received his crown from heaven. In the passage of the Romance in which he predicts the coronation of Jovian by means of astrology,32 Shapur explains to the future Roman emperor that the teaching of the art of divination “is from on high, and it was given with its sacrifices and mercy to the House of Nimrod. When he received the crown with this revelation from heaven by this heavenly wisdom which the God of heaven has deemed fitting for Our Majesty.”33 Shapur also refers to the heavenly origins of the Sasanian crown in a letter sent to the Romans between Julian’s defeat and Jovian’s coronation: “You should know that in the hour of your destruction, you have cast scorn upon a great race, even upon a divine kingdom which received a crown from heaven.”34 References in the Julian Romance to Nimrod’s tāgā are part of a larger tradition common to several contemporary (i.e., sixth-​century) Syriac sources. In his Homily on the Star That Appeared to the Magi, Jacob of Serugh (d. 521 ce) refers to the crown of Nimrod (tgh d-​nmrwd) in reference to the Persian Magi.35 More complex is the scenario described in the Cave of Treasures, a work composed by an anonymous Eastern Christian author living in the Sasanian Empire.36 Here the ideological link between Nimrod—​described as the first king on earth37—​and the Sasanian dynasty is highlighted by the presence in the story of Nimrod’s weaver, who bears no other name than Sasan.38 The episode is related as follows: “[Nimrod] saw the miracle of a crown [klyl] in heaven. So he called Sasan the weaver who weaved one like the one [he had seen] and he39 put it on his head. Because of that they say that the crown [tg’] descended upon him from heaven.”40 According to Bonura, these Syriac traditions seem to echo actual Sasanian claims to have received their crowns from the Zoroastrian God Ahura Mazda, and likely represent a Christian understanding of these claims.41 Bonura argues that the deposition of the crown in the Ps.-​Methodius brings to mind these stories about Nimrod’s crown, with the aim of proving that the kingship of the first cosmocratic ruler, Nimrod, passed through several different empires—​the four Danielic kingdoms—​until falling into the hands of the Romans, who would eventually return it to Christ. The crown that descended from heaven on the head of the first king would return to heaven, together with the cross on which the Last Emperor will place it.42 This view is strengthen by Ps.-​Methodius’s use of the term tāgā instead of klīlā. As I will now illustrate, this complex symbolism and ideology are also at play in the Neṣḥānā. In fact, the Apocalypse of Ps.-​Methodius articulates the transmission of cosmocratic rulership from one kingdom to another in the same manner as the author of the Neṣḥānā did, long before the fall

the Last Roman Emperor  161 of the Sasanian Empire. This becomes evident when attention is focused on the second main element of Alexander’s surrender of the crown in the Neṣḥānā, that is, the throne. It is upon this throne—​the reader will recall—​that Alexander promises to have his tāgā lifted after his death.

The Throne In the Neṣḥānā, Alexander’s throne is referred to as kursyā and qatedrā. In the prayer, Alexander explains that his royal kursyā is a qatedrā of silver. The two terms appear to be synonyms, and at the end of the Neṣḥānā the author refers to Alexander’s throne as a royal kursyā of silver. It is only with the term qatedrā, however, that the throne is referred to in relation to the motif of a crown suspended upon it. Qatedrā is a loanword from the Greek καθέδρα and is extremely rare in sources. To the best of my knowledge, it appears in only one source besides the Neṣḥānā, in a Life of Saint Irene included in the hagiographic collection edited by Agnes Lewis and Margaret Gibson.43 The way in which qatedrā is used in this text, however, does not provide a close parallel to its use in the Neṣḥānā. To find a closer term of comparison, we must look to Jewish rabbinical literature. The word ‫( קתדרא‬qtdrʾ) is documented in Palestinian Aramaic, and it occurs in the late antique collection of midrashim entitled Pesikta de-​Rav Kahana, where we find ‫( קתדרא דמשה‬qtdrʾ d-​mšh), “the seat of Moses.”44 The phrase “the seat of Moses” also occurs in Matthew 23:2, which states that scribes and Pharisees sit on the seat of Moses (ἐπὶ τῆς Μωϋσέως καθέδρας).45 In Late Antiquity, the seat of Moses probably signified a seat upon which the head of a Jewish congregation would sit.46 What is more relevant for us is the context in which the phrase qtdrʾ d-​mšh is used in the Pesikta de-​Rav Kahana. In one statement attributed to the fourth-​century Palestinian rabbi Aha, the seat of Moses is referred to while explaining the throne of Solomon mentioned in 1 Kings 10:19: “ ‘And the top of the throne was round behind’ means, according to R. Aha, that the throne resembled the seat of Moses.”47 These words suggest that the seat of Moses must have been an element of sacred architecture sufficiently familiar to serve as a term of comparison and to provide the reader with a familiar image that could help to shape in her/​his mind the iconography of the throne of Solomon mentioned in the Bible. What is more interesting for our analysis, however, are the subsequent words in the statement attributed to rabbi Aha. “How was the throne decorated?”—​the text continues—​“A golden scepter was suspended behind it, and on top of the scepter was a dove. In the dove’s mouth there was a crown of gold, and when the king sat under it on the seat of the throne, the crown all but touched his head.”48

162  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate The description of the throne of Solomon in the Pesikta de-​Rav Kahana is remarkably similar to that of Alexander’s throne in the Neṣḥānā. Both texts use the same word, qatedrā, to signify a seat made of a precious metal—​gold in the case of Solomon, silver in that of Alexander. In both texts, a crown is suspended upon the throne. The language and “iconography” leave no doubt that the author drew upon the same imagery that lies behind the midrashim on Solomon’s throne.49 But to what end does the author of the Neṣḥānā point to a connection between the thrones of Alexander and Solomon? What other meaningful elements in the traditions associated with the throne of Solomon help us to elucidate the rationale behind the description of Alexander’s throne in the Neṣḥānā? Two of the frescos found in the synagogue of Dura-​Europos, the frontier city on the bank of the Euphrates, on the Roman-​Parthian border, represent a sovereign enthroned. The two thrones are identical, while the two kings differ. One is Solomon, the other Ahasuerus. Why this curious couple? In Esther Rabbah, a midrash on the Book of Esther,50 Ahasuerus is not allowed to sit on Solomon’s throne because only a universal ruler, a kosmokrator, has that privilege. Ahasuerus had to content himself with sitting on a copy of that throne.51 The midrash also mentions two kosmokrators who were allowed to sit on that throne, Nebuchadnezzar and Cyrus.52 But what were these two sovereigns doing on Solomon’s throne? How did they gain access to this precious object? The midrash also answers this question. When Solomon died, his throne was captured by the Egyptian pharaoh Shishak, who later lost it to the Ethiopian king Zeraḥ. The throne was subsequently returned to its homeland by the king of Judah, Asa, and it was taken to Babylon by Nebuchadnezzar after the sack of Jerusalem. The throne was later taken to Media, to Greece, and finally to Rome (Edom), where Rabbi Elezar b. Yose reportedly saw fragments of it.53 The midrash implies that the throne ultimately fell into the hands of a Roman emperor. A related tradition preserved in the Targum Sheni reports that Alexander took possession of Solomon’s throne and brought it to Egypt. The chronology in this tradition is clearly confused, as Alexander is identified as the owner of the throne immediately after Nebuchadnezzar and before the Pharaoh Shishak, who is followed by Epiphanes, son of King Antiochus, and by Cyrus the Great. The Targum replicates the motif expressed in Esther Rabbah about the unworthiness of some rulers to sit on the precious throne. When Shishak tried to sit upon it, one of the golden lions on the throne bit his left foot and reduced him to a cripple. Epiphanes could not sit on the throne either, since none of the goldsmiths he had hired could repair one of the legs of the throne that was broken. The honor of sitting on the throne, by contrast, was reserved for Cyrus as a reward of his efforts to rebuild the Temple. Curiously, the text does not say anything about Alexander’s ability or inability to sit on the throne. One wonders

the Last Roman Emperor  163 if, in related traditions that were not transmitted to us, the Macedonian was also allowed to sit on the throne due to his status as kosmokrator.54 The peregrinations of Solomon’s throne in these traditions clearly appear to represent the transmission of universal kingship from one kingdom to another. The stories in Esther Rabbah and Targum Sheni lack any eschatological connotation. However, it is not unreasonable to assume that a similar understanding may have surrounded the motif of the wandering throne, as other midrashim set the concept of the translatio imperii into an eschatological framework. The so-​ called Midrash of the Ten Kings lists a series of kings who allegedly ruled over the entire world. In what appears to be the most ancient version, reported in Pirkei de-​Rabbi Eliezer, the list is as follows: God, Nimrod, Joseph, Solomon, Ahab, Nebuchadnezzar, Cyrus, Alexander, the king Messiah, God.55 The list is based on a cyclical understanding of sacred history in which different sovereigns assumed the title of kosmokrator, with God as the first and the last ruler, to whom universal kingship ostensibly will be returned by the ninth ruler, the Messiah. The Midrash does not mention a wandering throne inherited by the kosmokrator, but it is possible that in the larger semiotic universe to which these traditions belong, the idea that the throne would serve as a seat for the final universal ruler may have been current. A fresco at Dura-​Europos that portrays an empty throne surrounded by eschatological symbols corroborates this idea—​although, to the best of my knowledge, the possibility that this throne corresponds to that of Solomon in the other frescoes has not been explored by art historians.56 Be that as it may, the idea that the throne of the kosmokrator would be the seat upon which the Messiah will sit upon his return is clearly expressed in the Neṣḥānā. Before addressing this point, one more element is worthy of attention. Ory Amitay dates the composition of the ten kings list in the Midrash of the Ten Kings to the period between the reign of Alexander (336–​323 bce) and the destruction of the Jerusalem Temple in 70 ce.57 The frescoes at Dura-​Europos indicate that the tradition of Ahasuerus sitting on Solomon’s throne was in circulation by the mid-​third century—​the city was abandoned after it was sacked by the Sasanians in 256—​while the story of the wandering throne in Esther Rabbah may date to the sixth century.58 As for Targum Sheni, the prevailing consensus dates the text to the late Byzantine or early Islamic period.59 In any case, traditions about Solomon’s throne must have been current at the time when the author of the Neṣḥānā was writing. But were these traditions known outside the circles of Jewish intellectuals? As a matter of fact, yes. The story of the wandering throne is mentioned in Syriac sources. According to Apocalypse of Daniel, the prophet Daniel informed King Cyrus about the booty that Nebuchadnezzar brought to Babylon from Jerusalem. Among the precious items, particular attention is paid to the golden throne (trwnws) on which Solomon used to sit. After Cyrus sacked Babylon, the throne was brought

164  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate to Persia and Elam. The man who murdered Cyrus, Germath the Magus, sat on the throne, and after his short-​lived reign, the new king, Darius, astonished by the beauty of the throne, forced Daniel to show him where the rest of treasure brought by Cyrus from Babylon was hidden.60 This is the last time that we hear about the throne in the Apocalypse, and nothing is said about its future destiny, probably due to the narrative framework of the story, which concludes with the reign of Darius. It is significant, however, that in the Apocalypse of Daniel the motif of the wandering throne is directly associated with the prophetical figure, Daniel, who discloses the mysteries of the succession of the four world kingdoms. The passage of the Solomon’s throne from Nebuchadnezzar’s to Cyrus’s hands reflects the passage of universal kingship from the Babylonians to the Persians, which appears in all interpretations of the Danielic schema. Even if the Apocalypse of Daniel does not identify the next ruler who will take possession of the wandering throne, the reader can easily complete the sequence. The next kosmokrator, according to the Danielic prophecies, will be Alexander. The Apocalypse of Daniel indicates that circulation of the story of the wandering throne was not confined to Jewish circles. Yet, the dating of the text is problematic. One cannot trust overly simplistic manners in which its last editor established a terminus post quem of ca. 630s,61 and its composition might be slightly earlier. It is likely, however, that the Apocalypse postdates the Neṣḥānā, as the episode of the gate erected against Gog and Magog—​mentioned in the text—​in all probability originated with the Neṣḥānā itself. Be that as it may, the Apocalypse demonstrates that during Late Antiquity the story of Solomon’s throne was current among Syriac-​speakers and, more importantly, that it was set in the context of apocalyptic traditions surrounding the prophet Daniel. The author of the Neṣḥānā arguably was familiar with this literary motif. Although the text does not refer to Solomon, the language and imagery used by the author to describe Alexander’s throne strongly suggest that he was alluding to the throne of the mythical biblical king. The complex of late antique traditions that imply that the throne at some point fell into Alexander’s hands supports this reading. Moreover, the statement in the Neṣḥānā that after Alexander died the throne was sent from Alexandria to Jerusalem is consistent with Jewish traditions, like the one preserved in the Targum Sheni, indicating that Solomon’s throne was brought to Egypt by Alexander. But if our author is in fact referring to the wandering throne—​our pending question—​why did he do so? The author of the Neṣḥānā places the scene of Alexander’s throne in a semiotic universe that evokes the idea that universal kingship belongs to the Roman Empire. To this same semiotic universe belongs the motif of Alexander’s royal crown, which carries the same ideological connotation. Like the throne upon which it is lifted, the crown signifies that over the course of human history, cosmocratic rulership passed through different kingdoms until reaching its final

the Last Roman Emperor  165 recipient: the Roman Empire. Alexander’s ownership of both the throne and the crown is the proof of this axiomatic reading of sacred history. At the same time, the ideas evoked by this symbolic universe acquire a specific connotation in the context of sixth-​century political debate and in light of the author’s anti-​Sasanian agenda. The idea of the translatio imperii underlying the motif of the wandering throne and crown emphasizes the transition of universal kingship from the Persians to the Romans. The author uses two literary elements that his Christian readers would have understood as symbols of the cosmocratic sovereignty that had belonged to the Persian kingdom. Alexander’s current possession of these two precious effigies of power demonstrates that the reign of the Persians has come to an end.62 By referring to the crown and the throne, the author of the Neṣḥānā hints at the fact that the right to rule over the world had been transferred from the Persians to the Romans. These political claims are made in the context of the broader role that our author believes the Greco-​Roman kingdom was destined to play in sacred history. As in the eschatological scenario described by Aphrahat in the fourth century, the author emphasizes that Alexander’s conquests of the other worldly kingdoms are not acts of human ambition, but rather acts that glorify the name of God, to whom the blessed empire will remit its power at the end of times. The throne left vacant by the pious king seals his promise—​binding any future Roman king—​to renounce his throne of universal kingship. This universal kingship will not pass to any other kingdom before the completion of sacred history. No other ruler after Alexander will sit upon the throne with the royal crown suspended over his head. Only with the coming of the Messiah will that vacant throne be occupied again. The Roman Empire is the last cosmocratic kingdom of world history. In the Neṣḥānā, we find an explicit formulation of an idea that can only be glimpsed in earlier traditions and in the frescoes at Dura-​Europos, that is, that the throne of universal rulership, transmitted from one kosmokrator to another, is also the throne upon which the Messiah will sit upon his arrival. This idea may have awakened in the readers’ minds the iconography of the hetoimasia (ἑτοιμασία), the empty throne prepared to welcome Jesus’s return. These figural representations are documented from the fourth century onward; beginning in the eleventh century, the motif was increasingly inserted in representations of the Final Judgment.63 There is an ongoing debate among scholars about whether early representations of empty thrones carry an eschatological connotation.64 Those scholars who reject the eschatological valence of the empty thrones emphasize that no sources provide textual support for the eschatological interpretation.65 This debate goes beyond the scope of the present study and my scholarly competences. However, I suggest that the vacant throne in the Neṣḥānā is an important textual witness to the hetoimasia, and it supports the hypothesis that the

166  The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate empty throne had acquired eschatological valence from at least as early as the sixth century. In much the same way, the Neṣḥānā is an early witness to another motif that became popular in later Byzantine religious-​imperial discourse, that is, the Last Emperor’s deposition of the regalia. Untangling the origins and the development of this complex tradition is beyond the parameters of this study. However, some comments are in order. While acknowledging the influence of the Neṣḥānā on the Ps.-​Methodius, scholars have underestimated the impact of Alexander’s deposition of the crown on the related episode in the Ps.-​Methodius. Indeed, the scene described in the Neṣḥānā is a better parallel to the scene described by Ps.-​ Methodius than Jovian’s hanging of the crown in the Julian Romance. Of course, the Jovian episode must be taken into account, insofar as Ps.-​Methodius (and, possibly, even the author of the Neṣḥānā) was familiar with this text. The hanging of the royal crown on the cross (instead of the throne) in the Romance closely resembles the situation described in the Ps.-​Methodius and suggests that the Jovian episode played a role in the elaboration of the complex scenario depicted by Ps.-​Methodius. At the same time, however, Jovian’s hanging of the crown over the cross is an act of purification that has little to do with the surrender of the effigies of cosmocratic rulership. By contrast, Alexander’s delivery of his royal crown serves exactly the same function as in the Ps.-​Methodius, that is, to symbolize the transmission of power from the Roman ruler to the Messiah. Like the Neṣḥānā, the Ps.-​Methodius uses the term tāgā to designate the crown that is surrendered. This detail emphasizes the ideology, common to the two texts, about the transmission of cosmocratic kingship from the last kingdom to the Messiah. But why in the Ps.-​Methodius is the throne replaced by the cross as the object over which the crown is lifted? First, within the symbolical conceptualization of the transmission of universal kingship, the motif of the crown over the throne appears to antedate that of the crown over the cross. As noted, the throne is a main element in the elaboration of the idea that the last king of the last earthly kingdom will surrender his power to the Messiah. Apparently, the motif of the cross entered this conceptual universe at a later point in time. But why? And when? A plausible explanation is that the replacement of the throne by the cross in the scene described by Ps.-​Methodius was inspired by Heraclius’s restoration of the True Cross. Writing at a time when the new Arab Empire was establishing its presence in Jerusalem through monumental constructions on the site of the holy places, Ps.-​Methodius invoked the memory of Heraclius’s glorious deeds. The presence in the Julian Romance of a scene, which is similar to the one described in the Neṣḥānā, but which features a cross instead of a throne, may have inspired Ps.-​Methodius’s readaptation of the episode of the crown raised over the throne.

the Last Roman Emperor  167 A final consideration concerns the general relationship between Alexander’s crown and throne in the Neṣḥānā and the Last Emperor tradition. As noted, the Last Emperor motif is only sketched in the Neṣḥānā. In the text, Alexander does not assume the role of the Last Emperor—​although he appears willing to play the role: “And if the Messiah, who is the son of God, comes during my days, I will bow in front of him,” the king states in his prayer. With his vow, Alexander binds subsequent Roman emperors to having their crown hung over the throne that he left vacant in Jerusalem and to keep his promise to let the Messiah sit upon that throne and beneath those crowns at the moment of his arrival. The text implies that the moment will come when a Roman king, the last Roman king, will hand over his power to the Messiah. Thus, even if the Last Emperor motif is not fully developed in the Neṣḥānā, it is already present in the text. It is hard to determine if the author was referring to traditions that already featured the story of the Last Emperor, or was creating a new idea of his own. In my opinion, either hypothesis is valid, as I do not find convincing the argument that the Last Emperor legend was current since the fourth century. In the absence of a solid consensus on this question, the Neṣḥānā presents the earliest recorded version of this legend, albeit only in an embryonic stage.

Conclusion In this book I have argued that the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs was composed sometime during the second and the third quarter of the sixth century. The political scenario behind the Syriac work is the long series of conflicts between the two superpowers of the time, the Byzantine Empire and the Sasanian Empire. The wars affected, inter alia, northern Mesopotamia and Roman Armenia, the likely homeland of the Syriac author, as is reflected in the geopolitical interests he manifested in his work. As seen, conspicuous sections of the narrative in the Neṣḥānā, and arguably its most salient episodes, take place in the area between the Upper Tigris region and the western Caucasus. In fact, the author uses the Alexander story to address some thorny political issues that concerned those contested territories. Prominent on the author’s agenda were the dispute over the kingdom of Lazica, and Sasanian demands that the Romans contribute to the maintenance of Persian fortifications in the Caucasus against the incursions of nomads from Central Asia. The author uses the theme of Alexander’s gate, and the motif of the blacksmiths hired in Egypt, to address these issues. He has the Egyptian blacksmiths settle in the territory allocated to them by Alexander, and pay customs duty to the latter, in order to support Byzantium’s claim to Lazica as its sphere of influence. Similarly, by having Alexander erect a gate against the Huns, the author rebuts Sasanian claims to be the defenders of sedentary populations against the bellicose nomads on the other side of the semi-​ mythical Caspian Gates. The agreement between Alexander and Tūbarlaq over the defense of Alexander’s gate is a fictional solution to the problem of how the two empires should cooperate to defend their territories against “Hunnic” raids. At the same time, the author also addresses the not entirely satisfactory achievements of the Romans at the peace negotiations. The peace treaty signed by Alexander and Tūbarlaq, and especially the fifteen-​year tribute that Persia will pay to the Romans, reverses the humiliating clauses that Justinian accepted in several attempts to terminate hostilities and assure the maintenance of a non-​ belligerent status on the eastern borders of the Empire. The Neṣḥānā’s tone is strongly anti-​Sasanian, and the choice of Alexander as the protagonist of the work is part of the author’s anti-​Persian agenda. Building on the Roman paradigm of the imitatio Alexandri, the author designs a meta-​historical reality in which Alexander’s subjugation of Persia in the past is destined to be repeated in the future. The author supports this paradigmatic The Syriac Legend of Alexander’s Gate. Tommaso Tesei, Oxford University Press. © Oxford University Press 2024. DOI: 10.1093/​oso/​9780197646878.003.0012

Conclusion  169 reading of history with references to biblical prophecies that he interprets in a way that corroborates his ideology. This ideology is most clearly expressed in the prophecy uttered by Alexander (and subsequently confirmed by Tūbarlaq’s divination) about Rome’s destiny to destroy Persia toward the end of human history and to establish a cosmocratic kingdom to welcome the arrival of the Messiah. This militant and militaristic understanding of the role of Rome in sacred history is unusual but not completely unprecedented. There is a clear precedent for the author’s views in the work of Aphrahat, who, two centuries earlier, elaborated a similar hermeneutic in response to Sasanian persecutions of Christians. The Roman triumph envisaged by the author of the Neṣḥānā was not destined to be achieved during the author’s lifetime. Alexander’s prophecy clearly indicates that the final events will begin only after God’s removal of the gate that the hero built to contain the Huns. The text contains no indication that the author believed that this watershed event had already occurred or would occur anytime soon. In fact, there are good reasons to believe that the author understood the beginning of the eschatological drama as something far away. His reference to a recent Hunnic raid, which occurred only a few decades earlier, strongly suggests that he did not regard the Hunnic final invasion as an imminent event. As a consequence, the beginning of the process that would lead to Rome’s victory over Persia is postponed to an undetermined future. This reading reflects the author’s disillusion with the present. The precarious situation on the Roman-​Persian border and the aggressive policy pursued by Khosrow Anōshirvān pushed the author of the Neṣḥānā to seek comfort in scripture, where he found evidence that, in spite of the current difficulties, the Christian Roman Empire could not be defeated by the Persians. Contrary to what many scholars have argued, I do not believe that the Neṣḥānā was originally composed to celebrate the deeds of a Roman emperor. The author clearly does not consider the contemporaneous Byzantine-​Sasanian conflicts to be part of the final conflict that would lead to Persia’s final defeat and to the establishment of a Roman cosmocracy. More than an allegory of contemporary campaigns, Alexander’s victory over Tūbarlaq represents a model victory that provides a precedent for the ultimate victory yet to come in the future. By juxtaposing glorious events that happened in an idealized past and the circumstances of the author’s lifetime, the author highlights the inability of the current ruler to achieve against the Persians the same results as those of his glorious ancestor. The author’s criticism of Justinian’s handling of the Persian problem finds close parallels in the work of a contemporary Syriac writer, the anonymous author of the Julian Romance. Among the many narrative elements shared by the two works is the ahistorical narrative of a time period in which Persia is subjugated to a tributary status. This narrative reverses contemporary

170 Conclusion historical circumstances and clearly echoes the voices of many in Byzantine society who criticized Justinian’s decision to buy peace with gold. It was only several decades after its composition that the Neṣḥānā came to be read as a work of pro-​imperial propaganda. Someone must have seen the events of the late 620s as a confirmation of Alexander’s prophecy. This person left a trace of his interpretation by interpolating a passage in the text that sought to connect the last of the Hunnic invasions foretold by Alexander to the raids of Heraclius’s Turkic allies in the Transcaucasian region. We cannot exclude the possibility that Heraclius’s spectacular successes over the Sasanians at the conclusion of a three-​decades-​long conflict was in fact regarded as a repetition of Alexander’s glorious deeds in the Syriac work and as the beginning of the Roman cosmocracy predicted by Alexander in the Neṣḥānā. Contemporary attempts by court propagandists to depict Heraclius as a new Alexander may have facilitated the connection. What is certain is that the specific historical circumstances of the seventh century guaranteed an interested audience for the Syriac work. This audience included not only the interpolator, but also the several writers who used the Neṣḥānā as a source of inspiration. The first of these writers is the composer of the homily traditionally attributed to Jacob of Serugh, and sometimes referred to as the Syriac Alexander Song. Although recent scholarship dates the homily to the period immediately following Heraclius’s termination of hostilities with the Sasanians, there is good reason to think that this metric adaptation of the Alexander story was composed several decades earlier. Like the Neṣḥānā, Ps-​Jacob’s homily was probably updated during the reign of Heraclius, as is suggested by the list of provinces that appear (with slight variations) in two of its three extant versions (rec. I, 415–​420, and rec. III, 484–​488).1 Be that as it may, Ps-​Jacob’s homily confirms that the narrative initiated in the Neṣḥānā attracted interest in the 630s. Other witnesses to the influence of the Syriac work are the two anonymous Syriac authors conventionally known as Ps.-​Ephrem and Ps.-​Methodius. These two authors adapted the story of Alexander’s gate against Gog and Magog to address Arab territorial expansion in Byzantine Syria and Mesopotamia. Although the specific textual relationship between Ps.-​Ephrerm’s homily and Ps.-​Methodius’s Apocalypse, on the one hand, and the Neṣḥānā, on the other hand, has not been thoroughly investigated, it is clear that the former are connected (either directly or indirectly) to the latter.2 A closer comparative analysis between all these texts (including Ps.-​Jacob’s homily) is a scholarly desideratum. Nonetheless, it is clear that the Neṣḥānā enjoyed remarkable popularity throughout the seventh century. Its success is probably due to two main elements: (1) the story of Alexander’s gate served as an appealing tool to periodize sacred history; and (2) the idea that no matter how difficult the current circumstances were, the Roman Empire would endure until the end of days. This

Conclusion  171 second element proved to be useful for those authors who had to make sense of the sudden and apparently unstoppable expansion of a new wave of nomadic invaders, this time emerging not from the north but from the south. The favorable and wide reception of the Neṣḥānā in the century following its composition helps us to understand how the Alexander legend in the Syriac work entered a corpus of Arabic documents assembled in the same historical period. The connection between the Neṣḥānā and the Qurʾānic pericope of Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn was signaled already by Nöldeke in his classical study of 1890.3 Notwithstanding its ostensible importance for scholarly understanding of the genesis of the Qurʾānic corpus, this information has frequently been neglected by scholars. Only recently has the relationship between the Syriac and Qurʾānic texts become the object of renewed investigations.4 These new analyses, which corroborate Nöldeke’s hypothesis that the Qurʾānic pericope is dependent on the Neṣḥānā, have generated (unconvincing) counterarguments.5 Marco Di Branco finds the source of the Alexander story in the Neṣḥānā in (allegedly) pre-​Islamic traditions about Himyarite kings, that (allegedly) circulated among Arab Christians at the Naṣrid court of al-​Ḥīra.6 However, the sources on which Di Branco bases his reconstruction have been demonstrated to postdate the composition of the Qurʾān.7 For her part, Marianna Klar has tried to confute the textual relationship between the Syriac and the Arabic texts on the grounds that the details in the two texts do not always coincide.8 Her argument is not convincing. Admittedly, the details in the Qurʾānic story of Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn do not always match the narrative lines of the Neṣḥānā, but these differences are negligible compared to the substantial coherence between the two texts. In general, Klar seems to dismiss the scenario that an author sat at a table with a written copy of the Neṣḥānā to his left and a Syriac-​Arabic dictionary to his right.9 This—​ we can be confident—​did not happen. Yet no scholar has ever claimed that the Syriac text was translated into Arabic, but only adapted. The Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn pericope displays a number of narrative elements that are unique to the Neṣḥānā. The structure of the Qurʾānic narrative, for example, reflects the Syriac author’s blending of previously disparate traditions—​that of Alexander’s iron gates and that of the hero’s travels to the ends of the earth. Further editorial choices made by the Syriac author, such as his exclusion of Alexander’s unsuccessful attempt to reach Paradise, are also reflected in the Qurʾānic pericope.10 At the same time, the Qurʾān mirrors the way in which the author of the Neṣḥānā understood and adapted the ancient tradition of the gates allegedly erected by Alexander in the Caucasus. Specifically, it reproduces the reading of this motif through the lens of scriptural passages about Gog and Magog and the consequential attribution of an eschatological valence to the gate erected by the hero. That the Qurʾānic narrative specifically elaborates on the Alexander story in the Syriac work is confirmed by an important detail that

172 Conclusion has escaped the attention of previous scholars, namely, the material composition of the gate erected by the two protagonists, Alexander and Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn, in the Syriac and Arabic texts, respectively. Like Alexander in the Syriac work, Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn constructs his barrier from iron and bronze11 components. This coincidence is significant, since all references to the motif of Alexander’s (non-​ apocalyptic) gates in sources earlier than the Neṣḥānā mention only iron as the metal from which the barrier was made. This literary development is not coincidental and relates to the broader apocalyptic and political ideology expressed by the Syriac author in his work. The introduction of bronze as an additional material in the narrative reflects the author’s intention to evoke Danielic imagery on the succession of the world kingdoms, with the ultimate goal of strengthening his reading about the special role that the Greco-​Roman Empire would play in sacred history. These ideological nuances are not reflected in the Qurʾānic account, which nonetheless preserves the literary transformation of Alexander’s iron gates into an apocalyptic barrier composed from the melting of iron and bronze. The position advocated by some scholars, namely, that elements of the Ḏū-​ l-​Qarnayn story relate to broader Alexander traditions rather than to a single source,12 is untenable. The Qurʾānic pericope and the Syriac work share much more than a common theme and some literary components. Those listed above are only a selection of elements that demonstrate the relationship between the Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn story and the Neṣḥānā. In the future, I hope to dedicate a specific study to clarify this important issue. For now, it is sufficient to say that the link between the two texts can hardly be denied, although the modality of transmission—​direct or indirect—​of the Syriac work to the environment from which the Qurʾānic corpus emerged and their broader connection to the Alexander apocalyptic literature generated by the Neṣḥānā merit further investigation. Through its adaptation in the Qurʾān, the story of Alexander’s gate against Gog and Magog, elaborated by the author of the Neṣḥānā, became prominent in Muslim societies until today—​as is proved, among other things, by the splendid 14th century Persian miniature that appears on the cover of the present volume. At the same time, Ps.-​Methodius’s reworking of that same motif, and its inclusion in later recensions of the Alexander Romance, contributed to its wide popularity among Western and Eastern Christians. In the centuries following its first appearance, the legend of Alexander’s apocalyptic gate became one of the most common elements in world apocalyptic literature. Although often neglected in scholarship, the Neṣḥānā contributed to the start of a literary and cultural process that left permanent traces on the evolution of religious ideas. In the present study I have attempted to clarify a few elements relating to the genesis of this extraordinary Syriac text.

APPENDIX 1

English Translation of the Neṣḥānā d-​Aleksandrōs (According to Budges’s Critical Edition) The victory of Alexander, son of Philip the Macedonian. How he went out to the ends of the world and made a gate of iron, which he closed in front of the wind of the north so that the Huns could not come out and plunder the countries. From the writings in the archives of the kings of Alexandria. In the second or the seventh year of his reign, Alexander put the crown on his head and clothed with the garment of his kingdom. He dispatched to summon the knotters of the crowns of his kingdom,1 the commanders, the patricians, the guards,2 and the entirety of his army. He asked them and said: “Listen, you all, members of my palace.” They told him: “Speak, wise king of the Greeks, and whatever you command us will be accomplished.” Alexander told them: “This thought came to my mind, and I am seized by amazement: what is the extent of the earth and what the height of heaven? How many are the countries of the other kings? And on what are heavens based? Are perhaps clouds and winds that lift them up? Or are rather columns of fire rising from the earth that support the skies so that they do not move?3 Or are they hung to God’s nod and do not fall? And this is what I desire to go and see: upon what the heavens lie and what surrounds the whole creation.” The nobles answered telling the king: “Command us to speak.” Alexander gave command and they spoke and told him: “My lord, concerning the thing that your majesty or your greatness wants to go and see, upon what the heavens lie and what surrounds the earth, the frightening seas that surround the world will not allow the way. Because there are eleven shining seas on which the ships of the men travel. After beyond there is dry land for about ten miles, beyond which is the fetid sea, the Ocean, that surrounds the whole creation. Men cannot approach this fetid sea, neither ships can travel on it, nor can birds fly over it. If a bird fly over it, it is hunted, it falls down, and is suffocated in it. Its waters are like pus and if men swim in it they die. The leaves of the trees bordering it are burnt by the smell of those waters, like as fire had consumed them.” The nobles said these things to King Alexander, who told them: “Have you gone by your feet and seen that the sea is so?” They replied: “Yes, wise king. Because the same thought that came to your majesty’s mind also came to ours. We went to see what the heavens lie upon. But the fetid sea did not allow us crossing.” Alexander told them: “I do not think you are lying. But even if you went and the fetid sea did not allow you the crossing, I will also go and see by myself all the ends of heavens. And if there is a king whose lands are more than mine, I will seize his lands and kill him, even if he was from the regions from where the pillagers come out.” All the members of his palace accepted what Alexander had told them. At once the horns resonated in Alexandria and the army that was going to leave with him was numbered. It included three hundred and twenty thousand men. King Alexander bowed, and worshipping said: “oh God, master of kings and judges, you who raise up kings and dismiss their power, I perceive with my mind that you made

174  Appendix 1 me great among all kings, and that you caused horns to grow on my head, so that I may gore with them the kingdoms of the world. Give me the power from the heavens of your sanctity so that I may receive strength greater than the kingdoms of the world, and I will humiliate them and glorify your name forever, oh Lord! Your remembrance will stay forever and ever. I will write your name, oh God, on the papers of my kingdom so that there may be always a memorial for you. And if the Messiah, who is the son of God, comes during my days, I will bow in front of him, me and my troops. And if he does not come during my days, once I will have gone and defeated kings and seized their lands, I will bring and set in Jerusalem this throne that is a chair of silver on which I sit. And when the Messiah comes from heaven he will sit on my throne, because his kingdom will stand forever. And seven hundred pounds of gold will be the gift put before the Messiah at his arrival. And whether I die in one of the regions of the world or here in Alexandria, the crown of my kingdom will be taken and lifted upon the throne, which I offer to the Messiah.” And they went out and moved to Mount Sinai where they encamped and rested. And they put the ships to the sea and crossed over to Egypt, that is, Aegyptus.4 Watchmen went up to observe whether the seas and their waves could be seen or not. And the commanders of the army said: “King Alexander, since the troop cannot proceed without blacksmiths, command that they come with us from Egypt, because on the surface of the earth there are not such blacksmiths as those from Egypt.” Alexander called Sarnaqōs, king of Egypt, and told him: “Give me seven thousand blacksmiths, workers in bronze and iron, who may come with me. And when I come back from the regions where I am going, if they desire to be returned hither, I will send them back. And if they desire to remain in one of the regions under the rule of my kingdom, I will allow them. They will not pay tribute to the king, but they will give us a customs duty.” Sarnaqōs, king of Egypt, selected seven thousand men, workers of bronze and iron, and gave them to Alexander. Then the two kings ate bread together. Then they put the ships down to sea and traveled over it for four months and twelve days, until they arrived at the dry land that is beyond the eleven bright seas. Alexander and his troops encamped. And he sent and summoned the commander who was in the camp and told him: “Are there any men here who are sentenced to death?” The commander told him: “There are thirty-​seven men among our prisoners who are sentenced to death.” And the king told the commander: “Bring here those evildoers.” When they brought them, the king commanded them and said: “Go to the shore of the fetid sea and pitch poles to tie the ships. And arrange everything which is required for an army that is crossing over the sea.” The men went and arrived at the bank of the sea. Alexander had thought: “If it is true, as they say, that everyone who gets close to the fetid sea dies, then it is better it be those who are sentenced to death to die.” The prisoners went and when they reached the seashore they died at once. Alexander and his troop were watching them dying since he and his nobles had mounted on their horses to see what would happen to them. And they saw that they died at once when they reached the sea. King Alexander was frightened and withdrew, for he knew that they could not cross to the ends of heavens. The whole camp mounted. Alexander and his troop set out between the fetid sea and the shining sea until reaching the place where the Sun enters the window of heaven—​ because the Sun is the servant of the Lord and never interrupts its journey, at neither night nor day. The place from where it rises is above the sea. When it is about to rise the people who dwell there flee and hide in the sea in order of not being burnt by its rays. It then crosses over the middle of heavens until reaching the place where it enters the window of heaven. Where it passes by are terrifying mountain peaks. Those who dwell there have

English Translation of the Neṣḥānā   175 caves dug in the rock. As soon as they see the Sun rising, men and birds flee from before it and hide in the caves, because the stones burnt by its flames roll down and incinerate at once whatever they touch, be it humans or beasts. As soon as the Sun enters the window of heaven it prostrates before God and venerates his creator. He then travels and descends the entire night in the skies until it finds itself at the place where it rises.5 Alexander watched toward the sunset and saw a mountain that descends, whose name is great Mūsās. They went down across that mountain and reached the mount Qlaudia, where they ate bread. They descended to the source of the Euphrates and they found that it pours out of a cave. Then they arrived at Halōras where the Tigris gushes like a stream that makes a millstone grind. After eating bread at Halōras they left from there and went to the river Kallath. Then they went up to a mountain which is called Rmt, where there is a watchtower. Alexander and his army stood on the top of the mountain watching the four winds of heaven6. And Alexander said: “Let us take the way of the North.” They reached the limits of the North and they entered Armenia, Adharbaijan, and inner Armenia. They passed by the lands of Ṭwrngyws, Bēt Prdyʾ, Bēt Tqyl, Bēt Drwbyl, Bēt Qtrmn, Bēt Gbwl, and Bēt Zmrṭ. Alexander passed by all these lands, and after passing by the mount Mūsās he entered a valley which is called Bhy Lbtʾ. He went and encamped at the entrance of the great mountain. There is in that place a way by which the merchants access the inner regions. Alexander encamped there and dispatched heralds of peace, who rode around and proclaimed in the whole land: “The king of the Greeks has come to this land without killing, burning, or destroying. May each one remain in peace! ‘Let three hundred men elder in age be selected and let them come to my presence’—​said King Alexander—​‘so that I may learn from them what I seek. And may each one remain in peace!’ ” When the people of that land heard what the heralds of peace proclaimed they were not afraid. They choose three hundred old men who went to the presence of Alexander as soon as he had encamped in the country and commanded the people not to flee before him. And when the old men of that land came before him, he asked: “Who are you? To whom do you pay tribute? And who is the king who rules over this country?” The old men answered and told the king: “This land belongs to Tūbarlaq, the king of the Persians, who is of the family of the house of ʾḥšwrḥ.7 It is to him that we give gold.” Alexander told them: “And for how long does this mountain descend that way?” They replied: “This mountain goes forth without breach. It passes by the sea of Bēṯ Qṭryʾ and it proceeds until coming to an end towards Persia exterior and towards India. And from this way and upward the mountain reaches to a big river which is on this side of the sea. And there are in that area narrow paths through which a man cannot go unless he is mounted on a horse. And no one can go through those paths without (carrying) ringing bells, because animals coming up from the sea and the rivers and descending from the mountains crouch down the paths, so that if someone goes through them without carrying ringing bells he dies at once.” Alexander said: “This mountain is higher and more frightening than all the mountains which I have ever seen.” The old men of the region told the king: “Your majesty, my lord the king, neither us nor our fathers have ever been capable of making a single step through it. And men cannot go up from either this or that side, as this is the boundary that God has placed between us and the people who are on its other side [lit. inward from it].” Alexander said: “Who are the people who are on the other side of this mountain that we are observing? [ . . . ].”8 The people of the land told him: “It is the Huns.” Alexander told them: “And who are their kings?” The old men replied: “God and Magog. And Nwl, the kings of the sons of Japhet. And the king Gyg. And Tʾmrwn and Tyʾmrwn. And Bēṯ Gmly, Ypwʿbr, Šwmrdq, Glwsyqʾ, ʿqšpr, Slgdw, Nyslyq, ʾmrpyl, Qʿwzʾ. These are the kings of the

176  Appendix 1 Huns.” Alexander said: “And what is their like? What their clothes and languages?” The old men responded and told the king: “Among them there are some who have blue eyes, and their women have only one breast each. And the women are more bellicose than men because they fight men with their knives. At their flanks, arms, and necks they hang knives so that if one of them goes into combat wherever [s]‌he extends her hand [s]he can pull out a knife.9 They wear worked skins, eat the raw flash of whatever dies, and drink the blood of men and animals.” They do not besiege cities and fortresses, nor they attack them; instead, they run10 to the roads and to the gates of fortresses and cities, surrounding the men who run11 and face them on the roads.12 Quicker than the blowing wind, before than the rumor of them going out to battle is heard, they spread over the world; because they are sorcerers and they run between heaven and earth. Their chariots, their swords, and their spears shine like terrible lightnings. They pull prwyʾ13 in their hands and each of them has two or three horses. [Each one of them leads with him]14 fifty or sixty men who go before or after him, and the noise of the lamentation of each of them is more terrible than the noise of a lion. Because it is God to deliver the nations, the one in the hands of the other. The fear of the Huns is terrifying for all creatures who see them. And when they go to battle, they bring a woman who is pregnant and, binding her in front of a fire that they heap up, they cook her child within her until her womb splits and the child comes out when it is cooked. And they place it in a bowl and throw water on its body, which dissolves into it. Then they take their swords, their bows, their arrows, and their spears, and dip them into this water. And to whomever this water touches it appears as if there were around him a hundred thousand horsemen; and a troop of a hundred thousand demons appears to stand by the side of each hundred men. Because their sorceries are greater than those of all kingdoms. And also of this, oh Lord, we want to persuade your greatness,” the old men said to Alexander. “The Huns do not go out to plunder except where the punishment of the Lord raises, so that the Lord kills fathers and sons and strikes the earth with his wrath, as in their battles they are more dangerous than all kings.” Alexander told the natives of that place: “Did they go out to plunder during your days?” The old men told Alexander: “My lord the king, may God strengthen your kingdom and your crown! These fortifications which were destroyed in our land and in the land of the Romans were destroyed by them; by them these towers were uprooted. When they go out to plunder, they destroy the lands of the Romans and the lands of the Persians, then they enter their region.” Alexander told them: “Who are the nations who are next to them?” The old men told him: “The nation of Pygmies15 and the Dog-​Men. And next to the Dog-​Men is the nation of Mnynʾ. And next to the nation of Mnynʾ there are no humans, but only frightening mountains, hills, valleys, plains, and frightening caves in which are serpents, ʾšwp,16 and vipers, so that men do not go there without being eaten at once by the serpents. Because those regions are deserted and there is nothing there but wilderness. And among all these mountains God’s Paradise appears at distance. Indeed, Paradise is close to neither heaven nor earth. Like a noble and strong city, it appears between heaven and earth. The clouds and the fog that surround it can be seen from distance, and the horn of the wind of the north leans on it.” And Alexander told them: “How do the four rivers come forward?” The old men said: “My lord, we will instruct your majesty. God made four rivers to go out from the paradise of Eden and since he knew that men would dare and seize the rivers to go by them and enter Paradise, he drew the rivers within the earth. He made them pass through valleys, mountains, and plains. He made them pass through many mountains and he made them come out from the mountains. And there is one that he made flow from a cave. He surrounded Paradise with seas and rivers, and with the Ocean, the fetid

English Translation of the Neṣḥānā   177 sea. Men are unable to approach Paradise and cannot see where the rivers go out. All they can see is that they go out from either the mountains or the valleys.” When Alexander heard what the old men said he wondered very much at the great sea that surrounds the entire creation. He asked his troops: “Do you wish that we make something wonderful in this land?” They answered: “As your majesty commends.” The king said: “Let us build a gate of bronze and block up this breach.” His troops said: “We will do as your majesty commands.” And Alexander commanded to bring three thousand blacksmiths, able to work iron, and three thousand men, able to work bronze. They molded bronze and iron like a man who works the clay. Then they brought it and he made a gate of twelve cubits of length and eight cubits of width. He made a lower threshold of twelve cubits of length from one mountain to another. He pitched it in the rocks and sealed with bronze and iron. The height of this lower threshold was three cubits. And he made an upper threshold of twelve cubits of length from one mountain to another. He pitched it in the rocks and fixed in it two bolts of iron of twelve cubits each and going two cubits up into the rocks. He made two bolts17 from one crag to the other on the back of the gate, sealing the heads of the bars into the rocks. He fixed the gate and the bars and placed extremities of iron, trampling them one by one. In that way, if the Huns were to come and dig through the rock beneath the iron threshold, although a footman could still cross through, a horseman on his horse could not, as long as the gate, anchored to the soil with bars,18 stood. He then brought pivots for the gate and embedded them into the lower threshold.19 He put on them iron bars and made them move around on the side like the gates of Susa brmdyʾ.20 The men brought and kneaded iron and bronze like a man who works the clay, and they smeared them over the gate and its posts one by one. And he made a bolt of iron in the rocks and pitched a key of iron long twelve cubits, which he surrounded with bolts of bronze. Thus, the gate was lifted up and stood. King Alexander brought [a scribe] who wrote on the gate: “The Huns will come out and will subjugate the lands of the Romans and of the Persians. They will shoot arrows b’rmgsṭ’,21 then they will turn around and return to their country. I have also written that at the completion of 826 years the Huns will come out through the narrow path that ends in front of Halōras, from where the Tigris gushes like a stream that makes a millstone grind. They will take prisoners from among the population, they will cut off the roads and make the earth tremble with their raids. I have also written, announced and prophesied that hwyʾ  22 at the completion of 940 years another king, when the world will end by the commandment of God, Governor of Creation. Creatures will enrage God. Sin will grow and wrath will reign. Human sins will increase and will cover the skies. In his anger the Lord will stir up23 the kingdoms24 that are behind this gate. For when the Lord seeks to kill men, he sends men against men so that they slay one other. And the Lord will gather the kings and their companies that are behind this mountain. At his signal they will all gather. They will come with their spears and their swords. They will stand behind the gate and, looking at the skies, they will call the name of the Lord: “Oh Lord! Open this gate for us!” And the Lord will send his sign from heaven and a voice will shout against this gate, which will be destroyed and will fall at the sign of the Lord. It will not be by the key which I created for it that this gate will be opened. And through this gate which I have made an army will go out. From the lower iron threshold an entire span will be consumed by the hoofs of the horsemen and of the horses [sic.] with which they go out to destroy the land by the commandment of the Lord. And from the higher threshold a span will be consumed by the edges of the spears of those who run and go out through the gate. And when the Huns will come out as God has commanded, from the ends of

178  Appendix 1 heavens the kingdom of the Huns, the kingdom of the Persians, and the kingdom of the Arabs will come. The twenty-​four kingdoms which are inscribed in this writing. They will fall one upon the other. The earth will curdle in the blood and the excrements of men. Then the kingdom of the Greeks will move and come. It will hold a hammer of iron in its right hand and a hammer of bronze in its left hand. The kingdom of the Greeks will strike the hammers against each other and like iron dissolving in the fire and like bronze that boils in the flame, so will dissolve the strength of the kingdoms facing the kingdom of the Greeks, which is that of the Romans. And the kingdoms of the Huns and of the Persians will be destroyed each by its own comrade. Only a few will escape among those who fled to their country, while the kingdom of the Romans will destroy the rest. And my kingdom, which is called of the house of Alexander, the son of Philip the Macedonian, will go out and destroy the earth and the ends of heaven. And none among the people and the nations that dwell in the creation will be able to stand before the kingdom of the Romans. Behold! I, Alexander, have written and announced through my own handwriting. Truly I have not lied in what I have written. Perhaps men and people will not believe that the things which I have written will happen. And if you do not accept my word, then accept the word of the prophet Jeremiah, who in his prophecy already symbolized this kingdom and spoke as such in his book: ‘From the North evil will be opened over all inhabitants of the Earth.’25 Behold! I have a miracle which is the work of God. On the peak within the gate on the one edge [ . . . ]26 and when it goes up from the peak it is narrow. On the other edge hangs a sponge soaked with blood which descends over the peak. The Huns come to wash their heads in that blood and to drink from it; then they return home. This is a testimony of God set there so that men will see and fear: Like that blood descends from that sponge, so the blood of men will pour over mountains and hills.” Alexander and his army were astonished at the gate they created. The people of that land went down and told Tūbarlaq, king of the Persians: “The king of the Greeks, Alexander, the son of Philip the Macedonian, has come here and has made a gate of iron against the Huns. But rise, lead your army; come and slay him, and seize whatever belongs to him!” Tūbarlaq rose and dispatched to Mšzbry, king of Inner India, and to Bar Ṣydq, the king of Qādēš, and to Hwdzd, king of Greece. And dispatched to Armenia and to all countries which obeyed to him. He hired and brought eighty-​two kings and their armies; one hundred and thirty myriads.27 They consulted before Tūbarlaq and before all the kings. And the kings and their troops were compelled to come. It was summer and the entire camp of Alexander was lying and rested. As soon as the king had lied down the Lord came to him and found him asleep. He called him and told him: “Behold! I made you great among all kings, and I caused horns of iron to grow on your head, so that you may gore with them the kingdoms of the world. You relied on me when you left to war to see the countries. But behold! Many kings and their armies are moving against you to kill you. Invoke me to come to your aid, because I am the Lord and I aid those who invoke me.” The Lord went away from Alexander and the king awoke his army and told them: “Behold! The plunderers are moving against us. Let the watchmen go to the top of the mountain to observe and watch them, for the Lord has appeared to me in this hour.” And the watchmen went up and saw the army and their kings, an endless multitude of men. They ran and told the king: “Oh king, we are going to die! But God who knows their number will slaughter them.” King Alexander immediately ordered the strength of the army to be counted, how many had died and how many were alive. The army was counted, and it was found that it contained three hundred and sixteen thousand men, while four thousand were dead—​for when they left from Alexandria they were three hundred twenty thousand men. And Alexander ordered his army and all men over whom he ruled: “Let

English Translation of the Neṣḥānā   179 every man who is here lay a censer of perfume28 on potsherd or on stone for the Lord, who will come to aid us. He will come and find the camp perfumed with the fragrance of the smoke of the parfum.” Alexander took off his crown and his purple garments and deposed them in front of the Lord saying: “You, Lord, have power over my life and my kingdom, to you royalty belongs. Deliver your servant and his army from his enemies.” And as Alexander was praying, the kings and their armies surrounded him. And Alexander intoning said: “Victory belongs to the Lord!” And the army loudly said: “God, come to our aid!” And Alexander said: “Lord who appeared to me in this land, aid us!” Then the Lord appeared coming on chariot of the seraphs. Watchers and angels praising were coming before him, and he led his army over Alexander’s camp. The Lord appeared from the West standing and Alexander’s entire camp watched towards the Lord who was their helper. People became strong as the Lord had come to their salvation. A frightening battle arose, and people were shouting: “This is the Lord’s battle! He descended to stand in it.” And the Lord appeared again to Alexander and told him: “Do not fear the kings, not their troops, since I am with you.” And the voice of the Lord moved along thundering among them so that the kings and their troops trembled in front of God’s camp. Alexander and his army killed sixty kings and their troops, and those who fled, fled, and those who were dispersed, got dispersed. And Alexander took Tūbarlaq, the king of Persia, but he did not kill him. Alexander and his army stood and Tūbarlaq, the king of Persia, was bound and [so were] the nobles of all Persia. Tūbarlaq brought forth gold, silver, beryl, pearls, precious stones of sapphire, and he gave them to King Alexander, who subjugated the entire Persia and the lands over the Sea of Darkness. And he was preparing to kill Tūbarlaq when the latter told him: “What will be the benefit if you kill me? Take for yourself the gold which is mine and I am giving you as a pledge Persia, which will give you gold for fifteen years. Thus, after fifteen years, Assur and Babylon will be yours.”29 Tūbarlaq and Alexander sat, consulted, and said about the gate of iron and bronze which is in the North that six thousand men from among the Romans, and six thousand men from among the Persians, should go and guard it, and that every man should be provided with food and drinks by the king who sent him. Tūbarlaq, king of Persia, brought magicians and incantations reciters, the signs of the zodiac, fire and water, and all of his gods; and through them he practiced divination. They made him aware that towards the end of the world the kingdom of the Romans would go forth and subjugate all the kingdoms of the earth; that the king of Persia will be killed, wherever he is found; and that Assur and Babylon will be destroyed by the commandment of God.30 In this manner Tūbarlaq practiced divination and he gave his handwriting to King Alexander. And through this writing it was recalled to Alexander what was to happen to Persia, as the king and his nobles had prophesized that Persia would be destroyed by the hand of the Romans, and all kingdoms would be destroyed, besides that of the Romans, which would stand and rule until the End of Times, and would hand over the rulership of the earth to the Messiah who is to arrive. Alexander and his troops stood and left Persia. They set out toward the desert and went and dwelled at the mountain of the Romans. Alexander summoned those blacksmiths whom he had brought from Egypt, and he gave them Bēt Dmʾ and Bēt Dwšr to cultivate and to dwell in without paying tribute to the king. And Alexander went up to worship in Jerusalem. Then he put the ships in the sea and went to Alexandria. And when he died, he surrendered the silver throne of his kingdom in Jerusalem. The tale of the victories and the battles of Alexander, king of the Greeks, son of Philip, is concluded.

APPENDIX 2

List of Toponyms and Proposed Identifications Toponym

Proposed Identification

Bēt Dmʾ Bēt Drwbyl Bēt Dwšr Bēt Gbwl Bēt Prdy’ Bēt Qṭrmn Bēt Tqyl Bēt Zmrṭ Bhy Lbt’ Halōras Rmt Ṭwrngyws

? ? Dioscurias (?) ? Mt. Paryadres1 Kitamon/​Kitharizon2 Teucila3 Zimara4 Belabitenē/​Balahovit5 Olor/​Olorian/​Olorean Akbas6 ?

Notes Introduction 1. Budge 1889. 2. An earlier translation of the text, based on one single manuscript of the Neṣḥānā, was published in 1854 by Justin Perkins (Perkins and Woolsey 1854: 416–​28). 3. Bohas 2009. Muriel Debié is currently working on a new French translation. 4. Van Bladel 2007a; Greisiger 2014, 2016. 5. Tesei 2010, 2013–​2014, 2018. 6. See recently van Baldel 2007a and Tesei 2013–​2014.

Chapter 1 1. See Budge 1889: xv–​xxxiv; Monferrer-​Sala 2011: 45–​7. 2. See Depuydt 2006: 181. 3. Perkins made a translation of the text of the Neṣḥānā contained in this manuscript, published in 1854, which is currently the only one available in English, besides Budge’s and the one that I provide in the Appendix to this study. Perkins’s manuscript appears to be one of the five manuscripts used by Budge for his edition and translation (see Budge 1889: xvii), not a sixth, additional manuscript, as suggested by Monferrer-​Sala (2011: 47). 4. Budge 1889: xx–​xxv. 5. The letter sent by Perkins to Fleischer reported in the 1851 issue of Zeitschrift der Deutschen Morgenländischen Gesellschaft (ZDMG 5: 393) does not help to clarify the question. 6. Budge 1889: xvii. 7. Ibid.: xxxii. 8. Nöldeke 1890: 11–​17. 9. Ciancaglini 2001: 139. 10. See Budge 1889: 119, n.2; Nöldeke 1890: 13, n.4; Ciancaglini 2001: 139. 11. Brock 1997: 114. 12. On the Armenian Alexander Romance, see Traina 1997 and 2016. 13. The different versions of this story are reported in recension β of the Alexander Romance (text L: II, 39–​41), in the Babylonian Talmud (Tamīd, 32b), in Ps.-​Jacob’s homily, and in a Qurʾānic passage on Moses in Q 18:60–​82. 14. Tesei 2013–​2014: 277–​9.

184 Notes 15. See in particular the recent analysis in Henkelman 2010. See also van Bladel 2007a: 197, n.6 and Tesei 2010. 16. Bell. Iud., VII.7. 17. Hist. I.10. 18. Get. VII.50. 19. Nat. Hist., VI.12. 20. Hist., I.10. 21. Get. VII.50. 22. See the chart in Anderson 1928: 136–​7. It was only in the seventh century, probably as a consequence of the events of 626–​629 illustrated by van Bladel (2007a: 186–​8), that the motif of Alexander’s iron gate came to be connected to the Darband Pass, which is otherwise not associated with the Caspian Gates in previous sources (Anderson 1928: 154). 23. Get. VII.53–​56. 24. Get. VII.55. Trans. Mierow 1915: 65. 25. Get. VII.50. 26. Get. V.44. 27. Hist. I.10. 28. Nat. Hist., VI.12. On this element of Pliny’s description see Sauer et al. 2020: 861: “The Tergi/​Terek River is of a width that it indeed could have been bridged by timber gates, perhaps opened when water levels were high and closed when they were lower, to make any break-​through attempts even more difficult.” 29. Budge 1889: 271. 30. Reinink 1983 (text): 62–​3. 31. Sauer et al. 2020: 860–​1. 32. See the picture of the sulfur springs in ibid.: 861. 33. On these developments, see van Donzel and Schmidt 2010: chap. 1. 34. E.g., Anderson 1932: 19; Pfister 1956: 30; Mӧhring 2000: 44. 35. Shoemaker 2016; 2018: 42 ff. 36. See the discussion in the Chapter 10 of this book. 37. The Mūsās has been the subject of a long scholarly debate, especially its possible connections to the Mount Māšū mentioned in the Gilgamesh Epic. See Meissner 1894: 13; Hunnius 1904: 11, n.2; Czeglédy 1957: 242, n.39, 245; Pfister 1976: 148; Jouanno 2002: 293, n.173; van Baldel 2007a: 198–​9, n.12; Bohas 2009: 31, n.58, 49, n.114; Henkelman 2010: 335–​6. 38. Masis can designate two other mountain complexes in Armenia: the Nex Masis, north of Lake Van, and a branch of Taurus north of Nisibis. See Russel 1985: 456–​7. 39. Geog. XI.5.6, 12.4, 14.2. 40. Geog. V.18.2. 41. Brooks 1923: 296. 42. See Adontz 1970: 13; Stone 2012: 247, 250, 253. 43. Chron. LXVI. 44. Eccl. Hist. VI.36. 45. Eccl. Hist. VI.15.

Notes  185 46. Hist. I.12.1–​7. 47. See Adontz 1970: 133–​4; Hewsen 1992: 18. 48. Talbert 2000: 1226. 49. Pliny, Nat. Hist. V.83.1; Ptolemy, Geog. V.6.19; Itinerarium Antonini, 208.5; Tabula Peutingeriana, 11.7. See Adontz 1970: 45, 61–​2, 65–​6; Talbert 2000: 985, 991. 50. Geog. V.13.6; Aed. III.3.7. See Adontz 1970: 13–​20, 112–​4, 134. 51. See Adontz 1970: 134; Greenwood 2017a: 154; Greenwood 2017b: 201–​2. 52. As far as I know, the first transposition into Syriac of the Hellenized version of the name, i.e., Βελαβιτηνή →‫ܒܝܠܐܒܝܛܝܢܐܣ‬, occurs in a record of episcopal sees that surely postdates the sixth century (see Voobus 1975: 189, 193). John of Ephesus refers to Belabitene as “the satrapy in the districts of Siria and Armenia” (see Brooks 1923: 284). This description, as well as John’s omission of the name of the principality, suggests that the toponymic designation of the area had not yet been fixed. 53. See Hewsen 1992: 59. 54. Aed. III.1.26. 55. See Adontz 1970: 87–​8, 93. 56. The text states that it borders the sea of Bēt Qatraye—​in all likelihood the Persian Gulf—​and reaches “external Persia” and the limits of India, while in the other direction it extends toward unspecified “inner regions” until “a great river from this side of the sea.” Most puzzling is the connection between the formidable mountain complex described by the elders and the Great Mūsās that dominates the plain of Bhy Lbtʾ. The elders do not provide any details about the name of the majestic mountain they describe. One wonders if this mountain is the Mūsās, which, in the text, is also described as “the great mountain.” 57. Eccl. Hist., II. 43. On Evagrius’s use of Malalas’s work, see Whitby 2000: xxvii–​iii. 58. Czeglédy 1957: 245; Reinink 1985: 267–​8, 280; Reinink 2003: 161; van Bladel 2007a: 179, 199, n.13. 59. See Czeglédy 1957: 245. 60. See Reinink, who proposes that one of these two cities was the author’s homeland. Reinink 1985: 267–​8, 280; Reinink 2003: 161. 61. The anti-​Sasanian insurrections led by the Mamikonian family from 450 to 484 are narrated at great length in Łazar P’arpec’i’s History and in Ełishe’s History of Vardan. Both works are known for their peculiar blend of religion and warfare in descriptions of the Armenian uprisings. There is much in common—​from the religious fervor of the soldiers to the piety of the commanders—​between the battle scene described in the Neṣḥānā and those found in the works of the Armenian historians. One element that stands out is the recurrent theme of the multitude of the enemy’s troops and of God’s intervention.

Chapter 2 1. Nöldeke 1890: 30–​1. 2. Nöldeke 1890: 31.

186 Notes 3. On these events, see Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 78; Sauer et al. 2020: 880. 4. See Malalas, Chronicle 406; Procopius, De Aedificis, III, 4.19–​20. 5. Nöldeke 1890: 31. 6. Bousset 1889; Hunnius 1904; in Czeglédy 1955, 1957; Reinink 1983, 1985, 2003. 7. See my comments in the Conclusion of this study. 8. I plan to address the question of the dating of the Alexander Song in a future study. 9. Bousset 1889; Kampers 1901; Czeglédy 1957; Henkelman 2010; Shoemaker 2018. 10. On the identity of Heraclius’s allies and their relationship with the Khazars who are mentioned in sources, see Zuckerman 2007: 403 ff.; see also Golden 1980: 50 ff.; Golden 1992: 135 ff., 236 ff. 11. Howard-​Johnston 1999: 17, 22–​3, 40–​2; Kaegi 2003: 142–​5; Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 202ff; and, above all, the recent periodization of the events provided in Howard-​ Johnston 2021: 288–​90, 295–​303, 340–​1, 353–​4. 12. Nöldeke 1890: 31. 13. Bousset 1899: 114–​5; Hunnius 1904: 20ff. 14. Czeglédy 1957: 246. The situation described by Czeglédy can be observed in the second edition of Geschichte des Qorāns (an updated version of Nöldeke’s monumental work, by his younger collaborator Schwally) which dismisses Hunnius’s analysis on the dating of the Neṣḥānā without any argument or evidence. See Nöldeke et al. 2013, 142, n.137. 15. Bousset 1899: 117–​8. 16. See Reinink 2002: 152–​4. Against Bousset’s idea that only one section in the Syriac homily (namely, that concerning the Arab invasion) dates to the seventh century, and that the rest of the work was composed in the fourth century, see Reinink 1993a. The dating of the Latin sermon is disputed. Reinink argues that the work was influenced by the Ps.-​Methodius and sets a date of composition at the end of the seventh century (see Reinink 1993a). This dating is contended by Shoemaker, who argues that the sermon was composed soon after the end of the seventh-​century conflict between Byzantines and Sasanians (see Shoemaker 2015: 547, n.90; Shoemaker 2018: 193, n.55). 17. Hunnius 1904; Reinink 2002: 152–​5, 165–​71. 18. Bousset 1899: 155ff. 19. See Witakowski 1996: xix–​xx. 20. Witakowski 1987: 128–​9. 21. Text in Harrak 2017: 85. 22. See Chapter 3. 23. Andreson 1932: 27–​8. 24. Czeglédy 1957: 247, n.56. 25. See Brooks 1923: 78. 26. Czeglédy 1957: 240–​1; Shoemaker 2018: 83. 27. Czeglédy 1957: 240–​1. 28. Brooks 1923: 78. 29. For a general overview, see van Donzel and Schmidt 2009: chaps. 1–​2. 30. Trans. Scarvelis Constantinou in Andreas of Caesarea 2011: 212.

Notes  187 31. The broad outlines of his theory were traced in his article of 1985 (Reinink 1985), and are repeated in his article of 2003 (Reinink 2003, esp. 155–​65). Other elements of his analysis of the Neṣḥānā are explored in an article of 1999 (Reinink 1999, esp. 151–​5), and his article of 2002 (Reinink 2002, esp. 84–​91). 32. Reinink 2003, 164. 33. Reinink 2002: 82–​6. 34. Including my previous studies: Tesei 2010, 2013–​2014, and 2018. 35. Van Bladel 2007a: 183–​5. 36. Ps.-​Fredegar’s report contains an obvious anachronism that leads the author to describe the involvement of Byzantine Turkic allies in a conflict against the “Saracens” instead of against the Sasanians (on which, see Greisiger 2014: 236; Greisiger 2016: 76–​7). 37. Van Bladel 2007a: 186. 38. Van Bladel 2007a: 188. 39. Like van Bladel, Greisiger brings into his analysis elements derived by the chronicles of Ps.-​Fredegar and Movsēs Dasxurancʿi. Greisiger 2014: 231–​42; Greisiger 2016: 73–​6. 40. See, in particular, Greisiger 2017: 102ff. 41. Greisiger 2014: 234ff.; Greisiger 2016: 77–​8. 42. Henkelmann 2010: 345. 43. Shoemaker 2018: 80ff. 44. Ibid.: 82.

Chapter 3 1. On the word b’rmgsṭ’, see note 21 in Appendix 1. 2. On hwyʾ (‫ )ܗܘܝܐ‬and this sentence, see below. 3. Text in Budge 1889: 268–​70. 4. Bousset 1889; Kampers 1901; Czeglédy 1955, 1957. These scholars’ opinions about the genesis, evolution, and readaptation of the text, however, differ considerably. For instance, Kmoskó suggests that the final form of the Neṣḥānā was produced soon after the fall of Byzantium in 1455 (Kmoskó’s study is described in Czeglédy 1955: 19–​90). 5. Reinink 1985: 270, n.27. 6. Reinink 1983: 10–​1; Reinink 1985: 269–​70, n.27. 7. Reinink 1983: 10–​11. 8. Ibid. and Reinink 1985: 270, n.27. 9. On which, see Shoemaker 2018: 81ff. 10. Reinink 1983: 10–​1; Reinink 1985: 268–​70, n.27. 11. Budge 1889: 268–​9. 12. Ibid.: 269, n.1. 13. Ibid.: 154. 14. Bohas 2009: 38. 15. Greisiger 2014: 234.

188 Notes 16. See Greisiger 2014: 236–​7; Greisiger 2016: 76–​7. 17. Greisiger 2014: 235–​7; Greisiger 2016: 77. 18. Text in Budge 1889: 269. 19. Greisiger 2016: 77. 20. Text in Budge 1889: 270. 21. Greisiger 2016: 77. 22. More examples are found in Acts 2:43, 12:9, 27:10; 1 Cor 15:21; Gal 3:21; 2 Thess 2:10; Heb 6:8; 1 Pet 1:20, 2:20. 23. Van Baldel 2007a, 183. 24. Ibid. 25. See Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 17–​19; Sauer et al. 2020: 874ff. 26. Howard-​Johnston 2021: 288–​90. 27. Ibid.: 295–​303. 28. Ibid.: 340–​1, 353–​4. 29. Budge 1889: 265. 30. This is also the earliest mention of a North Caucasian Hunnic leader in Byzantine sources. 31. On this episode reported, among others, by Malalas and Theophanes, see Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 80–​1. 32. See Moravcsick 1958: II, 131; Golden 1980: 260. In these studies, the variation “Ziligdes” is attributed to the late seventh-​century Chronicle of John of Nikiû. However, the Ethiopic text in which the Chronicle survives reports yet another variant: Zeqā. It seems that the form “Ziligdes” in the text results from a correction imported by the first editor of the Chronicle, Zotenberg, who imposed on the Ethiopic text one of the known Greek spellings of the name. This correction was then perpetuated by R. H. Charles, author of the first and only English translation available (see Rodinson 1968–​1969: 117). 33. The story is reported, among others, by Malalas (XVIII.13) and Theophanes (AM 6019). 34. Golden 1980: 260. 35. Ibid. 36. Chron. XVI.17. Trans. Jeffreys et al. 1986: 227. Malalas’s report circulated among contemporary intellectuals. Evagrius Scholasticus derived his notice on the Sabir incursions from Malalas’s Chronicle (Ecclesiastical History III.43; see Whitby 2000: 194, n.171). 37. Procopius, Hist. I.10. 38. Jordanes, Get. VII.50. 39. On which, see the discussion in the previous chapter. 40. Van Bladel 2007a: 186–​8.

Chapter 4 1. Vide infra. 2. Sauer, Chologauri, and Naskidashvili 2016: 21–​22. For a much more detailed (and impressive) study of these archaeological findings, see Sauer et al. 2020, esp. chaps.

Notes  189 1–​4, 7, and (above all) 25. Sauer et al. 2020 fills an enormous gap in research about the history of the Caspian Gates. Regrettably, due to the COVID-​19 epidemic, I was only able to consult (an electronic version of) this study at a late stage in the preparation of the present volume. Had I been able to consult it at an earlier stage, the drafting of this chapter would have been much easier! 3. De Mag. 3.52–​3. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 20. 4. Ibid. 5. Frg. 41.1.3–​27; 47. 6. Text in Budge 1889: 140. 7. See Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 252, n.3. 8. Hist. II.83. See Thomson 1982: 299; and Thomson 1991: 129. 9. Frg. 47. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 58. 10. Ibid. On the Persian demand for money to secure the mountain passage, see Blockley 1985a: 55. See also the discussion below. 11. Sauer, Chologauri, and Naskidashvili 2016: 20. On the archaeological site at Dariali, see Sauer et al. 2020: chap. 25 (esp. part 3). 12. Hist. I.10 13. See Harmatta 1996: 82–​4. 14. Ibid.: 83. 15. Murtazali 2016. 16. Harmatta 1996: 83. 17. See Kettenhofen 1994: 4 and bibliography. See further bibliographical references in van Bladel 2007a: 201, n.42. 18. See Ełishe, History of Vardan, p. 78; Łazar P’arpec’i, History, I.35. 19. The composition date of Ełishe’s History of Vardan is contested. Thomson has argued in favor of a late sixth-​century dating. Thomson 1982: esp. 19–​29. 20. History of Vardan, p. 129. Trans. Thomson 1982: 181. 21. Kettenhofen 1994: 4. 22. On which, see van Bladel 2007a: 186, with reference to Hewsen 2001: 89. 23. Further fortifications were erected on the eastern shore of the Caspian Sea, with the impressive example of the great wall of Gorgan, which covers a distance of almost 200 km. On the Wall of Gorgan and other fortifications in northern Iran, see Nokandeh et al. 2006. 24. See Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 58. 25. Ełishe, History of Vardan, p. 78; Łazar P’arpec’i, History, I.35. 26. Ełishe, History of Vardan, p. 198. Cf. Movsēs Dasxurancʿi, History, I.10. On this expedition, see Braund 1994: 274; Bíró 1997: 53–​6; Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 262, n.11. 27. See Blockley 1985a; Blockley 1992: 50–​1; Braund 1994: 269–​70. See also the discussion below. 28. De Mag. 3.52–​53. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 20. On John Lydus’s report, see Blockley 1985a: 64–​66. 29. Frg. 41.1.3–​27. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 57. 30. Frg. 47. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 58. 31. Chron. VIII–​X. Procopius reports that a Byzantine ambassador named Eusebius accompanied Pērōz during his first campaign against the Hepthalites (Hist. I.3).

190 Notes 32. Chron. VII and XVIII. 33. See Blockley 1985a: 67. 34. Ps.-​Joshua the Stylite, Chron. XXIII. Cf. Chron. XX, which reports Kavadh’s earlier demands for funds. Procopius, Hist. I.7. 35. Procopius, Hist. I.7. Trans. Dewing 1914: 49–​51. 36. Ibid. 37. De Mag. III.53. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 74. 38. Blockley 1985a: 69. 39. Ibid. 40. Eccl. Hist., VIII.5 (77.9–​24). Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 84. 41. Hist. I.16. 42. See Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 74ff. 43. Hist. I.16. 44. See Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 96. 45. Hist. II.10. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 106. 46. Frg. 6.1.314–​97. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 132. 47. Frg. 6.1.145–​50. 48. Blockley 1985a: 72. 49. This dynamic in Roman-​Persian negotiations is illustrated in passages by Menander Protector, which describe the talks that preceded the peace of 562: “The Persians wanted a treaty without a time limit and a fixed amount of gold every year from the Romans in return for their not taking up arms [ . . . ]. The Romans for their part wanted the treaty to be a short one and proposed to pay nothing for peace” (Frg. 6.1.130–​40. Trans. Blockley 1985b: 61). 50. See Payne 2013: 10 and bibliography reported in n.31. 51. Payne 2013: 12–​13. 52. Chron. VIII. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 59. 53. Ibid. 54. Chron, XVIII.44. 55. Chron. XVIII.76. Trans. Jeffreys et al. 1986: 282. 56. Blockley 1985a: 71. 57. Hist. II.10. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 106. 58. Ibid. 59. De Mag. III.52. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 20. 60. “A host of wars proceeded to disturb the empire of the Romans inasmuch as the Persians kept demanding their ever talked-​of outlay over the Caspian Gates.” De Mag. III.51 (trans. Bandy 1983: 213). 61. Blockley 1985a: 63–​6. 62. See ibid.: 66. 63. Luther 1997: 106 n.30. 64. On this treaty see Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 1ff. 65. See Blockley 1985a: 65. 66. As suggested above, both Ps.-​Joshua and Malalas refer to this element of imperial foreign policy (independently of whether it was ever in use or not) to mitigate the

Notes  191 embarrassing situation created by the payments given to the Persians. Lydus, however, makes a different use of the idea of a Byzantine-​Sasanian “joint venture” in the Caucasus. His goal is not to shed positive light on the Roman role in the defense of the Caspian Gates, but to reject in toto the rivals’ pretensions. 67. Hist. I.16. Trans. Dewing 1914: 141. 68. Czeglédy 1957: 248. 69. Ibid. 70. See the discussion below. 71. Hist. II.104. 72. On Sesonchonis/​Sesostris in the Romance, see Nawotka 2017: 67–​9, 110–​1. 73. Ibid.: 69. 74. Bibl. I.55.4. On the Colchians’ alleged Egyptian origins, see also Strabo, Geo. XI.2.17. 75. Jordanes refers to Sesostris as Vesosis. Get. V. 44. 76. Hist. II.18.4. Trans. Frendo 2011: 52. Cf. Procopius’s statement: “the Colchians have [ . . . ] changed their name at the present time to Lazi, just as nations of men and many other things do.” Trans. Dewing 1962: 61. 77. Talking about the inhabitants of Lazica, Agathias refers to Herodotus and Diodorus Siculus as authorities from the past who already knew the story of Lazi’s Egyptian origins. 78. Budge 1889: 225–​6, 252. 79. Ibid.: 70. 80. Ibid.: 70. 81. Ibid.: 71. 82. Ibid.: 76. 83. Ibid.: 173. 84. Text in Budge 1889: 258. 85. Hist. II.18.6. Trans. Frendo 1975: 52. 86. On the Lazic War, see also Braund 1994: 287 ff. 87. See Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 82. 88. Ibid.: 96–​7. 89. Ibid.: 115. 90. Ibid.: 116–​9. 91. Ibid.: 120–​2. 92. Ibid. 93. Ibid. 94. Menander Protector (mid-​sixth century) also refers to the story of Sesostris in reference to Roman-​Sasanian hostilities (Frg. 6.1205–​35). Menander makes Sesostris’s campaign an example of the “shifting and unstable nature of fortune” (trans. Blockley). According to Menander, the Sesostris story was told by the Roman ambassador Peter during the preliminary talks that led to the peace of 562 (on this peace treaty, see the discussion in the following chapter of this study). Even if Menander does not mention the legend of the Egyptian settlers of the Colchis, his work testifies to the widespread knowledge of the Sesostris story among late antique authors. Like Agathias, Menander colors the story with anti-​Sasanian tones.

192 Notes 95. Hist. II.15.1–​2. Trans. Dewing. 96. Hist. II.15–​22–​24. As Braund observes: “In addition to import duties, that payment also included the provision of supplies at low prices and, it is claimed, the forced purchase of unwanted imports. Hitherto the relationship between Byzantium and Lazica had been underpinned by vigorous trade. Now trade had ceased to be an advantage to the Lazi and had instead become a burden” (1994: 295). 97. Hist. II.29.10–​12. On these events, see Braund 1994: 297–​8. 98. See Braund 1994: 290–​1. 99. Hist. I.15.7. 100. Hist. II.28. Trans. Dewing. 101. Georgian chronicles attribute the fortification of the Dariali Gorge (named Darubal) to the mythical king Mirvan. See Thompson 1996: 41.

Chapter 5

1. Czeglédy 1955: 31–​36; Czeglédy 1957: 246–​8. 2. Czeglédy 1957: 247. 3. Ibid. 4. Ibid. 5. See the discussion in the next chapter. 6. See Tesei 2013–​2014. 7. Reinink 1985: 276–​7; Reinink 1999: 153; Reinink 2003: 162. 8. Reinink 1985: 276–​7. 9. Some scholars argue that Heraclius’s conduct of the conflict against the Sasanians can be seen as a model of a proto-​crusade. Others maintain that the concept of holy war was alien to the Byzantines, as suggested by their failure to develop their own model of crusade in response to the challenge of Islamic expansionism. On this academic debate, see Stouraitis 2012: 235ff.; Kolia-​Dermitzaki 2011: 121–​32; Stoyanov 2012: 33–​6 and 42–​4; Laiou 2006: 33–​4; Dennis 2001: 34–​5. 10. Kaegi 2012: 21. 11. Eusebius (d. 339 ce) and Lactantius (d. 320 ce) present Constantine’s clash with Licinius as a religious conflict, with the former representing the Christian God against the latter’s pagan beliefs. See Whitby 1998. 12. A good example is found in the story about the siege of Nisibis by the army of Shapur II (r. 309–​379 ce), reported in three distinguished sources: the Historia Ecclesiastica (II.26) of Theodoret of Cyrus (d. ca. 458 ce); Historia Ecclesiastica, the Syriac text known as the Historia Sancti Ephraemi (6–​7); and the Syriac Chronicon (VII.3) of Michael the Syrian (d. 1199 ce). All these reports agree about two miraculous events that took place during the Sasanian offensive against Nisibis. 13. Whitby 1998: 194. 14. Frendo 1997. 15. Ibid.: 107. 16. Wars II.12.20–​30.

Notes  193 17. Frendo 1997: 112. 18. Eccl. IV.24. 19. Text in Budge 1889: 273. 20. Reinink 1985: 275–​6; Reinink 1999: 151–​2; Reinink 2002: 81; Reinink 2003, 155–​6. 21. Reinink 1985: 275–​6; 2003: 155–​6. 22. Greisiger 2014: 239; Greisiger 2016: 72. 23. Budge 1889: 274 (text). 24. Strategikon II.18. 25. Strategikon XII.10. Cf. Strategikon XII.24. 26. Epitoma rei militaris (III.5). 27. Strategikon II.18. Trans. Dennis. 28. The author is probably referring to this same formula when he discusses the inappropriateness of shouting Nobiscum at the beginning of the charge (II.18). 29. Budge 1889: 274 (text). 30. Ibid.: 158. 31. Ibid.: 272, n.3. 32. Nöldeke 1890: 29. 33. Hunnius 1904: 15. 34. Czeglédy 1957: 248. 35. Reinink 2003: 157–​8. The same claim was expressed in Reinink 1985: 270–​1, n.28. 36. Reinink 2003: 157. 37. Reinink 2003: 158. 38. On the peace negotiations of 628–​629, see Howard-​Johnston 1999: 26–​9. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 223–​7; Kaegi 2003: 178–​91; and, above all, the recent reconstruction of the events in Howard-​Johnston 2021: 322ff. 39. On this second round of negotiations, see Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 226–​8 and Howard-​Johnston 2021: 336ff. 40. Howard-​Johnston 2021: 327–​8, 342–​3, 354. 41. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 226. I find speculative the suggestion by Howard-​ Johnston, according to whom Heraclius “seems to have obtained a promise of some war reparations (in the form of generous presents).” Howard-​Johnston 1999: 28. In fact, the presents that Shahrbarāz reportedly gave the Byzantine ambassadors were likely part of diplomatic court ceremonies, not compensation for war damages. 42. Reinink 1985: 271, n.29. 43. See Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 113 and 123ff. 44. Ecc. Hist. VI.23. Trans. Payne Smith 1860: 426–​7. 45. Ecc. Hist. VI.23. 46. Ibid. 47. Hist. VIII.15.1–​7. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 128–​9. 48. Hist. VIII.15.16–​18. Trans. Greatrex and Lieu 2002: 129. 49. Julian Romance, p. 179. Trans. Sokoloff 2016: 364. 50. Nöldeke 1874: 281–​4; Wood 2010: 141–​2, 158–​61. 51. Wood 2010: 142. 52. Ibid.: 141.

194 Notes 53. Ibid. 54. Wood 2010: 159–​60. See also Schwartz 2011. 55. Hist. V.15.3–​7. Trans. Whitby and Whitby. 56. Reinink 1984: 277–​8; Reinink 2002: 85–​9; Reinink 2003: 161; Greisiger 2014: 240–​3. 57. Alexander 1969: 4–​5; Mango 1980: 205. 58. Whitby and Whitby 1986: 150, n.81. 59. Whitby 1988: 240, n.35. 60. Whitby and Whitby 1986: 150, n.80. 61. Reinink 2002: 88. 62. “The hebdomad system requires some flexibility on our part in fixing dates, and one cannot exclude the possibility that they indicate the period of Persian successes and military supremacy only roughly.” Reinink 2002: 87. 63. Reinink 2003: 159–​60. 64. Reinink 2002: 89. See also Reinink 2003: 159–​60. 65. Reinink 2003: 159, with reference to Reinink 1984: 279, n.47. 66. Schreiner 1985: 2–​3 n.591; Olajos 1988: 11; Kaegi 2003: 84; Efthymiadis 2010: 180. See also Bonura 2019: 145–​6. 67. Reinink 1985: 278–​9; Reinink 2002: 85–​91; Reinink 2003: 159–​63. 68. Greisiger 2014: 242. 69. Shoemaker 2018: 85. 70. See Tesei 2018. 71. Chron. LXVIII. 72. Hist. V.15.3. Trans. Whitby and Whitby. 73. CoT, XXVIII.13–​17. 74. Julian Romance, p. 103. Trans. Sokoloff. 75. Ibid., p. 104. 76. Harmatta 1996: 80. 77. Harmatta talks about “the preserved form of the Syrian Alexander Romance.” Harmatta 1996: 80. 78. Budge 1889: 150, n. 1. 79. Bohas 2009: 32, n.62. 80. The figure of Darius the Mede is a scholarly riddle. In the Book of Daniel, he is identified as a king of Babylon, between the Chaldean Belshazzar and the Persian Cyrus the Great, and as the son of the equally obscure Ahasuerus (Dan 5:31; 6:1; 9:1). However, no Darius the Mede is recorded in historical sources, nor is there historical evidence for the biblical report that a Median seized the Babylonian throne. The few details that the Book of Daniel provides about his reign and genealogy do not match the profile of Darius I, the only Persian sovereign bearing that name who also reigned in a period close to the chronological framework described in the Danielic books. Unlike Darius the Mede, Darius I reigned after Cyrus, and was the father, not the son, of Xerxes—​a detail that is not consistent with his designation as the son of Ahasuerus. Finally, he was not Median, but Persian by birth. Insomuch as the Book of Daniel is not considered to be historically accurate, the character of Darius the Mede should be considered fictional.

Notes  195 81. On which see the discussion in Chapter 9. 82. E.g., Aphrahat (Dem V.12). 83. I owe this observation to Khodadad Rezakhani. Private conversation, February 13, 2021. On Middle Persian names, see Gignoux 1986. A few examples (among many) of -​q as a transposition into Syriac of the final -​g are: bhrqʾ from bahrag; bzyqʾ from bāzīg; blylqʾ from balīlag; dnqʾ from dāng; wsqʾ from wāzag (see Ciancaglini 2008). 84. The particular word tubbārā (‫)ܬܘܒܪܐ‬ means breaking/​fracture, whereas tbārā ܿ (‫ ) ܬܒܪܐ‬is used in the Peshitta to indicate a breaking (e.g., Isa 30:13–​14), a calamity (e.g., Nahum 3:19, Prov 17:7), or even a prey (e.g., Job 4:11, Am 3:4). 85. See Gignoux 1986. 86. See Chapter 9. 87. See Chapters 8 and 9.

Chapter 6 1. Reinink 1985: 277; Reinink 1992: 167, n.73; Reinink 1999: 153; Reinink 2002: 86; Reinink 2003: 162. 2. Reinink 1985: 276–​7; Reinink 1999: 153; Reinink 2003: 162. 3. The title for one of Reinink’s studies is: “Heraclius, the New Alexander” (Reinink 2002). 4. Greisiger 2014: 183. 5. Herac. I.110–​121. 6. Herac. I.84–​88. 7. Herac. II.133–​137. 8. Herac. I.69–​71. 9. Herac. I.133–​135. 10. See Procopiou 2015: 201; Stewart 2018. On the representation of Alexander crowned with the horns of Ammon, see Chapter 9. 11. See Procopiou 2015: 210, n. 37. 12. Stewart 2018: 167 and fig. 21 at p. 194. 13. Ibid. and fig. 22 at p. 195. 14. One thinks of the so-​called David Plates. 15. Procopiou 2015: 201; Stewart 2018: 156–​7. Stewart mistakenly identifies the Neṣḥānā with the Syriac translation of the Alexander Romance. 16. On the analytic categories of comparatio Alexandri, imitatio Alexandri, and aemulatio Alexandri, see Green 1978, 1998, and, more recently, Welch and Mitchel 2015. 17. Trajan’s fascination with Alexander was closely connected to a renewed interest in the ancient king among contemporary Roman intellectuals. Both Arrian’s Anabasys Alexandri and Plutarch’s Life of Alexander date from this historical period (see Monaco Caterine 2017). 18. On Caracalla’s imitatio Alexandri, see Bruhl 1930, 214ff.; Baharal 1994; Kühnen 2008, 176ff.; van Bladel 2009: 59; Shayegan 2011: 342ff. 19. See Shayegan 2011: 343ff.

196 Notes 20. See the cases of Diocletian (r. 284–​305) and Constantine (r. 306–​337) in Smith 2011: 50, and that of Constantius II (r. 337–​361) in Lane Fox 1997: 239–​47. 21. See Shayegan 2011: 361 ff. On Julian’s imitatio Alexandri, see Smith 2011; Lane-​ Fox 1997. 22. In this case, the flattering prediction by Claudian (d. 404) that the teenage emperor Honorius (r. 393–​423) would become “as great [as Alexander], lording it over the Indians, worshipped by the Mede” (IV Cons. Hon., 257–​8) should not be read as an exhortation to emulate Alexander’s Persian campaigns, but as an encomiastic comparison adopted by the panegyrist to celebrate his protector. Cited in Smith 2011: 50. 23. Wars II.2.3–​9. Trans. Dewing 1914: 267. 24. Wars II.3.41–​49. Trans. Dewing 1914: 283. 25. Wars II.2.9–​15. Trans. Dewing 1914: 269–​71. The mention of Cyrus the Great as another model of ideal sovereign reflects a more complex idealization and propagandistic dynamic, to which we will return later. 26. See Smith 2011: 73–​85. See also Lane Fox 1997: 249ff. 27. Hist. IV.13.4–​26. Trans. Whitby and Whitby 1986. 28. Howard-​Johnston 2010: 146. 29. See Cameron 1977: 43. 30. Anthol. Graeca XVI.62. Trans. Mango 1986: 117–​8. 31. Anthol. Graeca XVI.63. Trans. Mango 1986: 118. 32. See Cameron 1977: 44–​46; Mango 1986: 118, n.318. The two epigraphs mention two different names, Eustathius and Julian, as the dedicator(s) of the statue. Mango and Cameron have successfully identified the Julian of the second epigram with the praetorian prefect of the East between March 530 and February 531. The Eustathius mentioned in the first epigram, however, remains unidentified, although the title of “father of Rome” (γενέτηϛ Ῥώμηϛ) suggests that he was the city prefect of Constantinople. Mango wonders whether the two names reported in the Anthology of Planudes belonged to the same person, who held both offices, or to two different officials who dedicated the same statue to the emperor. The first hypothesis is rejected by Cameron, who argues that it is more likely that “Eustathius was city prefect while Julian was praetorian prefect, namely 530/​1” (Cameron 1977: 45). At the same time, Cameron emphasizes that it was unusual for a statue to bear a double dedicatory epigram. On these grounds, he asks whether the two epigraphs originally may have belonged to two different statues. Ultimately, however, Cameron considers that “on balance it is probably easier to accept two prefects erecting one statue in collaboration than two apparently identical monuments commemorating apparently identical achievements” (ibid.: 46). Feissel is skeptical about the ascription of the two epigrams to the same statue and, commenting on the second epigram, affirms that “rien n’autorise à confondre cette statue avec celle de l’Hippodrome” (2000: 90). By contrast, the two epigrams are treated as part of a single inscription in a recent study by Canepa (2009: 169). 33. Cameron makes this point in Cameron 1977: 43. 34. Canepa 2009: 169. 35. Cf. the information reported by Malalas (Chron., 408, 22–​3), according to whom Justinian modified a statue originally that depicted Arcadius (r. 383–​408 ce).

Notes  197 36. Build. I.2.10–​12. Trans. Dewing 1940. 37. See Weitzmann 1977: 35; Canepa 2009: 115. I do not agree with Stewart’s suggestion that the figure represented in the ivory is the idealized person of the apocalyptic kosmokrator described, inter alia, in the Pseudo-​Methodius. Stewart 2018: 171. 38. Canepa 2009: 115. 39. On which, see Smith 2011: 73–​85. See also Lane Fox 1997: 249ff. 40. I.28–​29. See Budge 1889: 35–​6. 41. See van Ginkel’s remarks about John of Ephesus’s position toward Justinian (van Ginkel 1995: 109). 42. See the detailed study by Jack Tannous (2018). 43. Wood 2010: 159–​60.

Chapter 7 1. Interestingly, the Middle-​Persian apocalyptic text entitled Zand ī Wahman Yasn depicts Alexander not only through the common epithet of hrōmāyān, “the Roman,” but also through that of kilīsāyīg, “the ecclesiastic” (III.26. See Cereti 1995: 165 and Gignoux 2007: 95). This peculiar definition of Alexander has puzzled scholars, and some have questioned the identification of Alexander with the epithet kilīsāyīg (Cereti 1995: 185; Gignoux 2007: 95; Daryaee 2015: 9). I would suggest that the description of the Macedonian king as “the ecclesiastic” relates to the process of Christianization of the character of Alexander that is first certified in the Neṣḥānā. This characterization of Alexander became widespread in later Syriac literature. The new evolution of the figure of Alexander into a pious Christian sovereign arguably contributed to the elaboration among Zoroastrians of the image of an evil Roman, and now also Christian, king. 2. See Smith 2011: 73–​85. See also Lane Fox 1997: 249ff. 3. Djurslev 2020: chap. 2. 4. The most recent study of Alexander in the Danielic schema is Djurslev 2020: 99–​128. 5. Ibid.: 122. 6. As Djurslev observes: “The sudden absence of the Fortune topos in the early Christian tradition is striking. The topos is never associated with Alexander across a wide range of historiographical texts, even those that seek to criticize him” (ibid.: 120). 7. Dem. V.18–​19. Trans. Lehto: 161. On this passage of Aphrahat’s Demonstrations, see Ubierna 2012: 150ff. 8. This explanation reflects a standard interpretation among Syriac Christians, as suggested by the fact that the Peshitta on Daniel 8 contains glosses in which the ram is identified with “Darius the Mede” and the he-​goat with “Alexander the son of Philip.” See Taylor 1994: 219. 9. Dem V.6. Trans in Lehto 2010: 152. 10. Morrison 2004: 68–​9. On Aphrahat’s interpretation of the Danielic prophecy, see also Ubierna 2012: 149–​54.

198 Notes 11. When Aphrahat was writing his Demonstration V, he did not know that Constantine had recently passed away (see Morrison 2004: 57). 12. Chron. VIII.1. Trans. Jeffreys et al. 1986: 102. 13. Chron. VII.19. Trans. Jeffreys et al. 1986: 101. 14. One wonders if Malalas is referencing fictional information about alleged relationships between Alexander and Rome, like those found in the Alexander Romance, where Alexander forces the Romans into submission (rec. α I.26.5; rec. β I.29.2–​3). 15. Text in Budge 1889: 270. 16. Ibid. 17. Dem V.10. 18. Dem V.6. 19. Vide infra. 20. On this tradition, see Goldstein 1993. 21. See Djurslev 2020: 129–​36. 22. Ant. XI.317–​345. 23. Text in Budge 1889: 155. 24. The terms ‫ ܦܪܙܠܐ‬/​ parzlā (“iron”) and ‫ ܢܚܫܐ‬/​ nḥāšā (“bronze”), which in the Neṣḥānā designate the materials from which the two hammers are made, are the same terms that the Peshitta uses to translate the words ‫ ּפ ְר ְזלָא‬/​ parzəlā (iron) and ‫ נְחָ ׁשָ ֜א‬/​ nəḥāšā (“bronze”) in Daniel 2 and 7. 25. For sure, this innovation had a lasting legacy, since later versions of the story—​ including the Qurʾānic pericope of Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn—​describe the gate against Gog and Magog as made of iron (ḥadīd) and brass (qiṭr). 26. Tertullian, Apologeticus, xxxii. On other authors who embraced this idea, see Shoemaker 2018: 40–​1. 27. See Bonura forthcoming. 28. From this perspective, it is not surprising that the author omits the motif of the coming of the Antichrist, which might have raised fears among Christians about the collapse of Rome (cf. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catecheses 15.11–​13) or—​even worse—​ the idea elaborated by some exegetes that Satan would take control of the empire, which would then be destroyed by God (cf. Theodoret, Commentary on Daniel, PG 1431–​1432). 29. I emphasize the word “eschatological” in order to distinguish the episode in the Syriac work from those early references to the motif of Alexander’s iron gate that do relate to the theme of the Eschaton. 30. Pfister 1956: 30 and Pfister 1976: 325. 31. Bell. Jud. VII.7.4. 32. Ant. Jud. I.122. 33. Anderson 1932: 19–​20. 34. See, among others, Greisiger 2016: 64 and Djurslev 2018. 35. Anderson 1932: 16–​20. 36. See the criticism already made by Barry 1933: 265. 37. Djurslev 2018: 203.

Notes  199 38. Potestà 2011. 39. Bonura 2016. 40. Sackur 1898: 186. 41. See Mayerson 1993. 42. The symbiosis of the two motifs of Alexander’s horns and of the iron gate into the elaboration of the legend of the eschatological gate is reflected in the Qurʾānic pericope of Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn.

Chapter 8 1. Van Bladel 2007a: 187–​8. 2. Reinink 2002. 3. Reinink 2003: 163ff. 4. The Seventh Vision of Daniel was originally composed in Greek, but it survives only in Armenian. On the dating and contents of the text, see DiTommaso 2005: 100ff., DiTommaso 2014, and La Porta 2013. 5. Hist. V.5. 6. Shoemaker 2018. 7. Shoemaker 2018: 70ff., with reference to Scott 1985: 108 and Scott 2012: 6–​9. 8. Apologeticus, xxxii. 9. See Shoemaker 2018: 38–​9. 10. On Eusebius, see Chesnut 1986: 170, 173–​4; Thielman 1987; Shoemaker forthcoming. On Lactantius, see Digeser 2014; Shoemaker forthcoming. On Ephrem, see Papoutsakis 2017; Shoemaker forthcoming. In his PhD dissertation and in a recent article, Bonura questions the eschatological enthusiasm attributed to the reign of Constantine (Bonura 2019, 2021). See, however, Shoemaker’s counterarguments in Shoemaker forthcoming. 11. Lehto 2010: 22ff. 12. See ibid. 13. See the remarks by Lehto in ibid.: 22–​23, n.42. 14. Cyril of Jerusalem, Catecheses XII.18, XV.11–​13; John Chrysostom, Commentary on Daniel 2; Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Commentary on Daniel 2 & 7. 15. Jerome, Commentary on Daniel 7. 16. Jerome, Commentary on Daniel 2 (trans. Archer). 17. Theodoret of Cyrrhus, Commentary on Daniel 2 (trans. Hill). 18. Ibid. 19. See Morrison 2007: 72–​73. 20. See Canepa 2009. 21. See Shoemaker 2018: 64ff. 22. On the (perhaps too rosy description of the) integration of Eastern Christians in the Sasanian Empire, see Payne 2015. 23. See Buck 1996.

200 Notes 24. See Brock 1982: 11. 25. See Chapter 9. 26. Christian Topography II.74–​75. 27. Christian Topography II.75. Trans. McCrindle. Greek text and French translation in Wolska-​Conus 1970, I: 390. 28. Ibid. 29. Magdalino 1993: 10. 30. Christian Topography II.76–​77.3. 31. See Gariboldi 2016 and Shayegan 2017: 439–​40. 32. Cosmas’s distinction between Sasanians and Achaemenids implicitly denies polemical forecast of the future, like the one elaborated by Aphrahat, about the former’s destiny to repeat the catastrophic fate of the latter. 33. Christian Topography II.76–​77.3. 34. Canepa 2009: 118. 35. Ibid.: 120. 36. See, among others, Witakowski 2008; Debié 2008; Minov 2021. 37. Minov 2014: 191. 38. See, for instance, Brock 1982: 15, with reference to the classical study of Monneret de Villard (1952). 39. See Minov 2014: 174ff. One case of this cultural phenomenon discussed by Minov will be analyzed at the end of this chapter. It concerns Abā’s encomiastic opening words of the synod of 544, and his hailing Khosrow as the second Cyrus. 40. Minov 2014: 193. See Jullien 2009. 41. See Minov 2014: 169ff. 42. Christian Topography II.2. 43. Wolska-​Conus 1968: 63–​85; Berti 2017. 44. Bonura 2019 and Bonura forthcoming. 45. Ut supra. 46. Berti 2017.

Chapter 9 1. Text in Budge 1889: 257. 2. The question of Alexander’s horns has generated a long and often inconclusive academic debate around a mysterious figure who appears in the Qurʾān under the epithet of Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn, literally “the Two Horned One.” In what follows, I deliberately refrain from engaging with scholarship dedicated to the figure of Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn or any questions relating to Qurʾānic origins. 3. See Collins 2014. 4. Fulińska 2012: 385–​6. 5. FGrHist 126.5. 6. Anderson 1927: 103; Fulińska 2012: 386.

Notes  201 7. These “Arabian Alexanders” began to appear in the eastern Arabian Peninsula in the third century bce, and were probably produced in two different periods: between the late third and early second centuries bce, and between the first century bce and the third century ce. On this numismatic evidence, see Van Alfen 2010: 563–​4 and bibliography. For further details, see Mørkholm 1973; Potts 1991: 13–​62; Potts 2010: 70ff. 8. See Anastasiades 2009: 262–​4. 9. See Fulińska 2012, 396. 10. See Stewart 2018: 147 and image at p. 188. 11. See Dalton 1901: 16; Stewart 2018: 147–​8. Whereas Dalton dates the cameo to the fourth-​sixth centuries ce, Stewart dates it to the fourth-​seventh centuries ce. Neither offers any explanation for the suggested dating. 12. Fulińska 2012: 393–​4. 13. See Procopiou 2015: 201. 14. See the discussion in Stewart 2018: 143–​52. 15. See Anderson 1927: 103–​4; Stewart 1993: 41, 411; Nawotka 2017: 261–​2. On Clemens’s condemnation of Alexander’s attempted deification, see Djurslev 2020: 71–​2. 16. Stewart 2018: 152. On early Christian discussions regarding Alexander’s alleged divine origins, see Djurslev 2020: 70ff. 17. On this episode, see Jouanno 2002: 57–​68. 18. Alexander Romance, III.34. The adjective κερασφόρον is the same used by Clemens of Alexandria in the above quoted passage. 19. See Wolohojian 1969: 158. 20. Text in Budge 1889: 272. 21. See Djurslev 2020: 70ff. 22. Significantly, the Peshitta refers to the horns in the plural. 23. Text in Burge 1889: 272. 24. Ibid. 25. On Byzantium as the elected nation, see the recent monograph of Shay Eshel (Eshel 2018). See also Magdalino and Nelson 2010: 25–​30; Sivertsev 2011: 1ff. 26. All extant manuscripts seem to be consistent on this passage, at least according to Budge’s critical edition (Budge 1889: 257). 27. Reinink 1985: 273, n.37; Bohas 2009: 28, n.53. 28. Reinink 1985: 273, n.37. However, exegeses on Daniel 7 more often associate Alexander with with the third beast of the prophecy. 29. The sentence “the he-​goat had a horn between its eyes” is rendered in the Peshitta as: w-​ṣpryʾ qrnʾ mtḥzyʾ byt ʿ ynwhy. 30. “[The ram] had two horns. Both horns were long, but one was longer than the other, and the longer one came up second.” 31. Text in Budge 1889: 272. 32. See Djurslev 2020: 99ff. 33. The gloss reads: “the he-​goat is Alexander, son of Philip.” 34. Text in Assemani 1743: 217. 35. Dem V.5, 10, 18. 36. See Djurslev 2020: 99ff.

202 Notes 37. Commentary on Daniel IV.26. Trans. Djurslev 2020: 99–​100. 38. Antiquities X.11.4. 39. On Daniel 8:3. 40. Ibid. 41. On Daniel 9:1. Trans. Stevenson et al. 2008: 259. 42. Chron. VIII.1 (Trans. Jeffreys et al.). 43. According to Jerome, Cyrus and his (alleged) uncle Darius the Mede reigned together. On Daniel 8:3. 44. On Daniel 8:3. Trans. Stevenson et al. 2008: 248. 45. History XLIV.142. 46. See Lane Fox 2007: esp. 279–​80 and 284–​5. 47. XI.11.4. 48. See Shayegan 2017: 426–​33; Facella 2005. 49. See Shayegan 2017: 433–​6. 50. Brutus 282. See Nabel 2018: 217. 51. Vita Constantini I.7–​9. See Peltonen 2018: 486ff.; Djurslev 2020: 199ff. 52. As for Alexander’s control over Assyria, this should be related to traditions examined in the next chapter that characterize the Sasanians as the heirs of Nimrod. 53. The exception is the propaganda operated by Julian during his campaign against Shapur II. Unlike previous Roman emperors and his contemporary Aphrahat, Julian promoted a denialist strategy centered around the rebuttal of alleged Sasanian claims of an Achaemenid lineage. See Gariboldi 2016 and Shayegan 2017: 440. 54. Hist. VI.2.1–​2. 55. Hist. LXXX.3.4. 56. Res Gestae XVII.5.5–​6. 57. On the (un-​)historicity of the information provided by Roman authors, see Huyse 2002; Frendo 2002; Shayegan 2011: chap. 2. 58. The proclamation: “by the care of the second Cyrus (‫”)ܘܝܨܝܦܘܬܗ ܕܝܠܗ ܕܟܘܪ ܕܬܪܝܢ‬ occurs in the report of the synod found in the anthology of the texts of Eastern Christian synods published in Chabot 1902 (p. 69). 59. See Payne 2015: chap. 3. On Abā’s possible role in suppressing the revolt of Gundeshapur, see Jullien 2011: 112–​3. 60. For an extensive bibliography of the scholarly positions on this debate, see Shayegan 2011: 1–​2, nn.2–​7. See also a recent important contribution in Canepa 2018: chap. 12. The possibility of Achaemenian recollections has been debated—​without reaching a full consensus—​only with reference to early Sasanian period, while not much scholarship has specifically focused on the reign of Khosrow. 61. Buildings I.14. Trans. Dewing. 62. See Canepa 2009: 311, n.53. 63. See also Whitby 2008: 131. 64. Canepa 2009: 311, n.53. 65. On Justinian’s attitudes toward the Eastern Church, see Guillaumont 1969. 66. Hist. IV.29.5–​7. 67. Ibid. IV.29.8–​10. 68. Herodotus, Hist. I.26–​94.

Notes  203 69. Trans. Frendo 2011: 133. 70. Noticeably, the reference in the Neṣḥānā to Alexander’s subjugation of Assyria and Babylon finds a precise parallel in the epigram reported in the Anthology of Planudes. 71. I owe to Domenico Agostini the observation that, with the motif of Alexander’s ram horns, our author may want to appropriate another element of Sasanian political culture, that is, the ram as a symbol of royalty. Depictions of sovereigns wearing helmets decorated with ram horns appear on Sasanian coins and artworks (Dmitriev 2017: 115). Shapur II is said to have worn a golden headgear shaped in the image of a ram’s head (Ammianus Marcellinus, Res Gestae XIX.1.3.). These representations are likely related to the symbolic value of the ram in Zoroastrian religious tradition. In Zoroastrianism, the ram appears as a manifestation of the xwarrah, the divine force of royal glory. Perhaps the best-​known example of the xwarrah epiphany is described in the Kār-​Nāmag ī Ardašīr ī Pāpakān, where a ram accompanies Ardashir I, seated on his horse behind him (see Shenkar 2014: 131, 138–​40; Dmitriev 2017: 118).

Chapter 10 1. Text in Budge 1889: 257–​8. 2. Reinink 1993b: 21 n.4, 67 n.2.; Potestà 2011: 282ff.; Shoemaker 2018: 58; Bonura 2016: 56ff. 3. Text in Sackur 1898: 186. 4. Ps-​Methodius, XIV.2–​5. Trans. Palmer 1993: 240. Text in Reinink 1993b: 44. 5. Shoemaker 2018: chap. 2. 6. Potestà 2011. 7. Bonura 2016. 8. Reinink 1993b: 21 n.4, 67 n.2; Potestà 2011: 282ff.; Shoemaker 2018: 58; Bonura 2016: 56ff. 9. Potestà 2011: 280ff. 10. Shoemaker 2018: 84. 11. Scholars have identified Heraclius’s ceremonial reinstallation of the True Cross in Jerusalem as the historical background to the scene of Alexander’s visit to the holy city and his promise to have his throne transferred to Jerusalem after his death (Reinink 1985: 279–​80; Reinink 2003: 164–​5; Stoyanov 2011: 63; Greisiger 2016: 216). However, there are several discrepancies between the dynamics depicted by the Syriac author and the historical reality of the 630s. For instance, in the peace negotiations between Alexander and Ṭūbarlaq, we find no mention of any precious object returned to the Romans that could represent the holy relics recovered by Heraclius. Moreover, in the Syriac work, we read that Alexander’s throne is relocated to Jerusalem after Alexander’s death, something that significantly differs from Heraclius’s return of the Cross at the end of the conflict. As for the motif of Alexander’s visit to Jerusalem, the author of the Neṣḥānā certainly did not need the example of Heraclius to assert the centrality of Jerusalem for the Christian kingdom that, in his view, Alexander founded. Alexander’s journey to the holy city is intimately connected to the image of

204 Notes the pious, divinely inspired emperor that our author depicts. To produce this image, the author adopted a number of tropes and topoi of the Jewish and Christian tradition, including the one that had the Macedonian king visiting Jerusalem during his invasion of the Achaemenid Empire. 12. Shoemaker 2018: 61. 13. At the same time, the deposition of the crown and the regalia in the Tiburtine Sibyl brings to mind another passage in the Neṣḥānā, namely, the section immediately before the battle against Tūbarlaq in which Alexander takes off his crown and his purple robes and lays them in front of God in a display of humility. 14. See the bibliography in Shoemaker 2018: 196, n.94. 15. The Syriac author here struggles somewhat to explain (not very convincingly) why the pagan emperor Julian did not abolish the practice established by Constantine of having a cross at the head of the army (Julian Romance, p. 199). 16. Ibid., pp. 200–​1. 17. Reinink 1992: 174. 18. Ciancaglini 2008: 266. 19. Julian Romance, pp. 108ff. 20. Ibid., p. 200 (trans. Sokoloff). 21. Ibid., p. 85 (trans. Sokoloff). 22. Ibid., p. 127 (trans. Sokoloff). 23. Ibid., p. 201 (trans. Sokoloff). 24. Ibid., p. 210. 25. Ibid., p. 213. 26. Ibid., p. 209 (trans. Sokoloff). 27. Ibid., p. 183 (trans. Sokoloff). 28. Ibid., pp. 102, 107, 159, 163, 165. 29. Ibid., pp. 74, 103, 172. 30. Ibid., p. 172 (trans. Sokoloff). 31. Ibid., p. 74 (trans. Sokoloff). 32. Vide infra. 33. Julian Romance, p. 103 (trans. Sokoloff). 34. Ibid., p. 193 (trans. Sokoloff). 35. Text in Bedjan 1905–​1910: I.93, 120. 36. See Minov 2021. 37. CoT, XXIV.4. 38. Ibid., XXIV.25–​26. 39. Here it is not clear whether the subject is Nimrod or Sasan. 40. CoT XXIV.25–​26, rec. 1. Text in Ri 1987: I.194. 41. Bonura forthcoming. 42. Ibid. 43. Lewis and Gibson 1900: 704. 44. PRK I.7. The dating of the Pesikta de-​Rav Kahana is contested. 45. The Peshitta translates καθέδρα as kursyā. 46. Newport 1990. 47. PRK I.7. Trans. Braude 2002: 22.

Notes  205 48. Ibid. Trans. Braude 2002: 22–​3. 49. According to a tenth-​century report, the Ottonian ambassador at the Byzantine court, Liutprand of Cremona, saw a representation of the throne of Solomon in the imperial palace of Constantinople (Liutprand of Cremona, Retribution, VI.5). As Ra’anan Boustan argues (Boustan 2013: 173), the throne described by Liutprand does not predate the reign of Leo VI (r. 887–​912). In this case, the scene in the Neṣḥānā appears to be an early testimony to the tendency to deploy the motif of Solomon’s throne in imperial discourse, one that became prominent in later centuries. 50. For a (not completely satisfying) analysis of the relationship between the motif in the Neṣḥānā and these Jewish traditions, see Greisiger 2014: 212–​6. 51. On the relationship between this midrash and the frescoes at Dura-​Europos, see Siverstev 2011: 22. 52. EsthR I.12. On this midrash, see Boustan 2008: 363–​4; Siverstev 2011: 22; Boustan 2013: 179. 53. EsthR I.12. 54. Targum Sheni I.2. 55. In later versions, the Midrash appears to have been updated in order to include more recent historical figures, such as Caesar Augustus, Vespasian, Ardashir, and the Umayyad caliph Hišām b. ʿAbd al-​Malik. Of the eight kings, some almost always appear in all variations of the list. They are: Nimrod, Joseph, Solomon, Nebuchadnezzar, Cyrus, Alexander, and the king Messiah. See Amitay 2010: 116. 56. On the empty throne at Dura-​Europos, see Mera 2014: 141. 57. Amitay 2010: 115. The repeated updating of the kings’ list indicates the continuous circulation of the Midrash in Late Antiquity. The last historically recognizable figure interpolated in the list is the Umayyad caliph Hišām b. ʿAbd al-​Malik (r. 724–​743 ce). 58. See Strack and Sternberger 1996: 318–​9. 59. Amitay 2010: 115. 60. Apocalypse of Daniel 2, 9–​10. 61. Henze 2001: 14. 62. One even wonders if, by means of the peculiar description of the crown suspended over the throne, the author of the Neṣḥānā was seeking to compete with Sasanian court ceremonies. According to later Arab historians, the practice of suspending the crown from the ceiling over the throne was inaugurated during the reign of Khosrow Anōshirvān (see Ettinghausen 1972: 28–​9). 63. Weyl Carr 1991. 64. For a recent discussion, with reference to previous scholarship, see Bergmeier 2020: 88–​90. 65. Ibid.: 97, 100.

Conclusion 1. The provinces are enumerated by the angel who instructs Alexander about the terms of the peace that he must dictate to Tūbarlaq. The angel tells the king to establish

206 Notes the frontier between the two empires on the Tigris and to take possession of several territories. As observed by Reinink, these territories correspond to the Byzantine prefectures occupied by the Persians during the seventh-​century conflict and restored to Byzantium after the peace treaty signed by Heraclius and Kavadh II in 628 (Reinink 2003: 153). Thus, Reinink argues that the homily was composed in the immediate aftermath of those peace agreements. However, the absence of the list of provinces in one of the three recensions of the homily suggests that the list was not part of the original text. If so, it is easy to imagine that a similar addition was made in order to connect the story of Alexander’s victory over the Persians to Heraclius’s campaigns. 2. On the sections of the Neṣḥānā that may have been borrowed by Ps.-​Ephrem, see Reinink 2003: 170, n.117. 3. Nöldeke 1890: 4. Van Bladel 2007a; Tesei 2013–​2014. 5. Di Branco 2011; Klar 2020. 6. Di Branco 2011: 71. 7. The traditions about Ṣaʿb Ḏū Marāṯid are likely the product of post-​ Islamic elaborations by the Yemenite intellectual elite (Friedländer 1913: 285ff.). According to Horowitz, Alexander’s Qurʾānic epithet of Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn was transferred to a Yemenite king in the post-​Qurʾānic period (Horowitz 1926: 111). Nagel identifies the origins of the legends about Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn/​Tubbaʿ in the circle of the Himyarites who settled in Egypt after the rise of Islam. He argues that the South Arabian saga of Ṣaʿb Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn is based on legends about Alexander/​Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn produced by post-​Islamic Yemenite intellectuals with propagandistic purposes (Nagel 1978). Inexplicably, Di Branco mentions the outcomes of Nagels’s study in support of his analysis (Di Branco 2011: 301–​2), although his theory is contradicted by those very same outcomes. Similarly odd is Di Branco’s reference to the saga of “il grande monarca sudarabico costruttore della muraglia contro Gog and Magog” as the source of inspiration for the Syriac seventh-​century texts about Alexander. This description suggests that the Syriac authors derived the motif of Alexander’s eschatological gate from the Yemenite epic of Ṣaʿb Ḏū-​l-​Qarnayn, and not—​as one would expect—​from earlier traditions about the Macedonian sovereign. Postulating a South Arabian origin for this literary motif, however, would be hardly possible, since Greek and Latin sources credit Alexander with the construction of fortifications in Central Asia since at least the times of Josephus—​as the present study has documented. In fact, Di Branco does not explain how the story of the wall erected against Gog and Magog, usually attributed to the figure of Alexander, came to be associated with a Himyarite literary figure. These are only two of the several problematic aspects of Di Branco’s analysis. 8. According to Klar, “the Qurʾānic exemplum is highly allusive, and makes no reference to vast tracts of the narrative line attested in the Nesḥānā. Where the two sources would appear to utilize the same motif, there are substantial differences in the way these motifs are framed. These differences are sometimes so significant as to suggest that the motifs might not, in fact, be comparable at all.” Klar 2020: 134. Cf. Zadeh 2015: 333.

Notes  207 9. For instance, Klar dismisses the relationship between the fetid waters in the Neṣḥānā and the boiling water in the Qurʾān on the basis of the argument that the Arabic term ḥāmiya does not exactly translate the Syriac sryʾ (Klar 2020: 135). 10. Tesei 2013–​2014. 11. Note that Syriac language does not distinguish between bronze and brass. Consequently, the Arab term qiṭr (“brass”) in Q 18:96 appears as an exact translation of the Syriac word nḥšʾ (“bronze/​brass”). 12. Zadeh 2015: 333.

Appendix 1 1. For a possible explanation for the curious image of the knotters of crowns, see Bohas 2009: 25–​6, n.47. 2. Here I follow Bohas’s understanding of the words pryqyws and prglʾ as corruptions of the Greek terms patríkios and fulakai (Bohas 2009: 26, n.48). The word ‫ܦܪܝܩܝܘܣ‬ (pryqyws), in particular, appears to be a misspelling ‫( ܦܛܪܝܩܝܘܣ‬pṭryqyws), that is, πατρίκιος (patríkios). 3. Literally “they reach nothing.” I prefer to literally translate mṭyn l-​mdm rather than glossing mṭyn into myṭyn as suggested by Budge (1889: 256, n.2). 4. Curiously, the author uses the two toponyms, Mṣryn and ʾgbṭwṣ, to designate Egypt. 5. Van Bladel suggests a different interpretation of this passage, according to which it is Alexander, and not the Sun, to prostrate in front of God and to travel along the cosmic path (van Bladel 2007a: 198, n.12). 6. The expression “the four winds of heaven” is reminiscent of Daniel 7:2: “I, Daniel, saw in my vision by night the four winds of heaven stirring up the great sea.” The Peshitta displays the same formula ʾrbʿ rwḥy šmyʾ that occurs in the Neṣḥānā. 7. On the nameʾḥšwrḥ see at the end of Chapter 5. 8. Budge does not translate the words ‫( ܘܗܘܝܘ ܟܕ ܗܘ ܗܢܐ‬Budge 1889: 150, text p. 263). Bohas opts for what he defines as a “traduction conjecturale”: “telle que nous la voyons devant nous” (2009: 33). I prefer to leave the sentence untranslated, as the meaning is unclear. 9. As Budge of observes, one would expect to find the feminine, rather than the masculine, forms of the verbs here (1889: 263, n.11). 10. Budge notices that the verb rhṭyn is strange in this context and proposes to emend it with d-​npqyn (“that come out”) (1889: 264, n.1). 11. Ut supra. 12. Here I accept Budge’s suggestion to read brytʾ as b-​brytʾ (Budge 1889: 264, n.3). See also Bohas 2009: 34, n.71. 13. Budge translates the prwyʾ word as “maces,” and compares it to the term prwnʾ which appears in the Chronicle of Joshua the Stylite (1889: 264, n.4). Prwnʾ is the word that appears at v. 277 of Pseudo-​Ephrem’s homily, which reproduces the passage in the Neṣḥānā almost ad litteram (see Beck 1972: 66). Noticeably one of the manuscripts

208 Notes used by Beck reports the same reading prwyʾ that is found in the Neṣḥānā). Prwnʾ also poses interpretation problems, however. Several emendations have been proposed: qrwnʾ (“clubs”), pdwʾ ʿ (“axes”), krwkʾ (“lassoes”). For these various emendations see Trombley and Watt 2000: 81, n.387. Trombley and Watt translate the word as “thongs” (ibid.). Bohas seems to follow a similar reading and translates prwyʾ in the Neṣḥānā as “rênes” (“reins”) (2009: 34). It is possible that the form prwyʾ in the Neṣḥānā is a distortion of one of these words provoked by assimilation with the personal name prwyʾ that appears in the Peshitta on Nemeiah 7:57. 14. As Budge observes, some words must be missing here in the text (1889: 264, n.2). However, as Bohas notices, it is possible to recover the missing words from the homily of Ps.-​Ephrem, who almost literally reproduces the same passage found in the Neṣḥānā (2009: 34, n.73). The words I indicate in brackets come from John C. Reeves’s translation of Ps.-​Ephrem’s homily (I thank Reeves for sharing with me this unpublished translation of the text). 15. The Bēṯ ʾmrdt mentioned in the Neṣḥānā corresponds to the ʾmzrtʾ (the Pygmies) which are mentioned together with the Dog-​Men in the Geographical appendix in Pseudo-​Zachariah Rhetor’s Ecclesiastical History (XII.10) (on which see Greatrex et al. 2011: 451). 16. Probably the name of a snake (the term ʾšwpʾ, meaning snake charmer). 17. As Bohas suggests, the word swkrʾ (“bolt”) should be probably replaced here with mwklʾ (“bar”) (2009: 37, n.80). 18. Lit. “which was trampled with bars.” 19. The text here is not completely clear. In my interpretation, I follow Bohas’s suggestions (Bohas 2009: 37, nn.82–​83). 20. Budge suggests reading brmdyʾ as byrtʾ (1889: 268, n.3). In this case the reference in the Neṣḥānā would be to Esther 1:2, where the same expression šwšn byrtʾ (“the citadel of Susa”) appears. Bohas translates brmdyʾ as “en Médie,” that is, “in Media” (2009: 37). I prefer to leave the word untranslated. 21. The term b’rmgsṭ’ is problematic. Budge does not translate the word (1889: 154). Bohas (following a suggestion by Reinink) understands it as a corruption of the late Latin arcuballista and translates it as “arbalètes” (2009: 37, n.85). The same possible reading is reported by Czeglédy (1957: 244). I prefer to leave the term untranslated. 22. The problems with interpreting hwyʾ (‫ )ܗܘܝܐ‬and this sentence in general is analyzed in Chapter 3. 23. The verb ndyl is reminiscent of Jeremiah 50:9: “For I am going to stir up (mdyl) and bring against Babylon a company of great nations from the land of the north.” 24. The text reads “and the kingdoms” (Budge 1889: 269). 25. This is an exact quotation from the Peshitta translation of Jeremiah 1:14. 26. Budge notes that some words seem to be missing here (1889: 271, n.4; 155, n.2). See my analysis of this passage in Chapter 1. 27. That is, one million, one hundred thirty thousand. 28. In Budge’s edition bsmʾ is misspelled as bsbʾ (1889: 273). 29. As explained in Chapter 5, I privilege the reading d-​npšk over d-​npšh. 30. I follow Bohas’s suggestion and read ʾyn as ʾyk (2009: 42, n.99).

Notes  209

Appendix 2

1. Talbert 2000: Map 87 (Pontus-​Phasis), C4. 2. Ibid.: Map 89 (Armenia), C2. 3. Ibid.: Map 64 (Caesarea-​Melitene) G2. 4. Ibid.: Map 64 (Caesarea-​Melitene) G2. 5. Ibid.: Map 89 (Armenia), C2. 6. Ibid.: Map 89 (Armenia), D2.

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Index For the benefit of digital users, indexed terms that span two pages (e.g., 52–​53) may, on occasion, appear on only one of those pages   Agat‘angełos, 48 Cicero, 150 Agathias, 61–​63, 64, 122, 154 Clemens of Alexandria, 139–​40, 141 Ahasuerus, 89–​90, 147–​48, 151, 162, 163 Constans II (r. 641–​668), 157 Alexander Romance, 1, 9–​10, 46, 60–​62, 74, 94, Constantine I (r. 306–​337), 70, 106, 107–​8, 109, 100, 107, 140, 142–​43, 172 122–​23, 124, 126–​27, 150 Alexander Song. See Ps.–​Jacob of Serugh Cosmas Indicopleustes, 128–​31, 132–​36 Ambazuces, 46–​47, 54 Cyril of Jerusalem, 125–​26, 150–​51 Ammianus Marcellinus, 130, 151–​52 Cyrillona, 118 Ammon, 5–​6, 138–​41, 142–​43, 150–​51 Cyrus the Great (r. 559–​530 bce), 94–​95, 96, Anastasius I (r. 491–​518), 46–​47, 49, 50–​51, 53, 147–​51, 152–​55, 162–​64 54, 55 Czeglédy, K 22, 23–​24, 25, 26, 27, 31, 59, 68–​69, Andrew of Caesarea, 16, 26–​27 75–​76 Anōshazād, 134–​35, 152–​53   Anthology of Planudes, 96–​97, 153–​54, Darband, 28, 35–​36, 41–​42, 44, 47–​48, 67 196n.32 Dariali pass, 13, 14–​15, 40, 45–​48, 49–​50, 54, Antiochus I of Commagene (r. 70–​38 bce), 55–​56 149–​50 Darius I the Great (r. 522–​486 bce), 147 Antiochus IV Epiphanes (r. 175–​164 bce), Darius II (r. 423–​404/​5 bce), 147 106–​7, 145 Darius III (r. 336–​330 bce), 74, 89–​90, 108, 109, Aphrahat, 5, 87–​88, 107–​8, 109, 110–​13, 114–​15, 147–​48, 153 116, 123, 124–​25, 126–​28, 129, 132–​33, 134–​ Darius the Mede, 89–​90, 110, 111, 147–​48, 151, 36, 146–​47, 152, 153, 165, 168–​69 194n.80 Apocalypse of Daniel, 163–​64 Diodorus Siculus, 60–​61 Apocalypse of Ps.–​Methodius. See Ḏū–​l–​Qarnayn, 1–​3, 171–​72, 199n.42, Ps.–​Methodius 206n.7 Ardashir I (r. 224–​242), 48, 88, 90, 151–​52 Dura–​Europos, 162, 163, 165–​66 Ardashir III (r. September 628–​April 630),   77–​78 Ełishe, 47–​48   Ephippus of Olynthus, 138 Bahrām Chōbin, 84, 95 Ephrem the Syrian, 23, 124, 146–​47 Belabitene, 19–​20, 41–​42 Esther Rabbah, 162–​63 Bohas, G 1, 34–​35, 89, 145 Eusebius of Caesarea, 106, 124, 126, 150 Boran (r. June 631–​June 632), 77–​79 Evagrius Scholasticus, 17–​19, 20, 71 Budge, E A Wallis 1, 9, 24, 34–​35, 74–​75, 76, 89     Galerius (r. 305–​311), 106 Caracalla (r. 211–​217), 93 George of Pisidia, 79, 91 Caspian Gates, 3–​4, 13–​14, 20, 43, 45, 46–​47, Glom/​Glones, 42 48–​52, 54–​59, 61–​62, 65–​67, 68, 79–​80, 82, Gog and Magog, 1–​2, 11, 13, 15–​17, 21, 24–​25, 119, 168 26–​27, 31–​33, 37, 40–​41, 42–​44, 67, 114–​15, Cassius Dio, 151–​52 117–​19, 149, 156, 164, 170–​72 Cave of Treasures, 88, 131–​32, 160 Greisiger, L 1, 28, 35–​38, 87, 91 Chronicle of Zuqnin. See Ps.–​Dionysius Gubazes II (r. ca. 541–​555), 62–​63, 64

226 Index Harmatta, J 47, 88–​89 Heraclius (r. 610–​641), 1, 2, 3, 4, 22–​23, 27–​29, 31–​32, 33–​34, 35–​38, 41–​42, 43–​44, 59, 68–​ 70, 71–​72, 75, 77–​80, 82–​83, 84–​88, 91–​93, 95, 121–​23, 157–​58, 166, 170 Herodian, 151–​52 Herodotus, 60–​61 Hetoimasia, 165–​66 Hormizd IV (r. 579–​590), 131–​32   Jacob of Serugh, 1, 15, 21, 22, 160, 170 Jerome, 16, 118, 125–​26, 146–​49, 150 John Chrysostom, 125–​26, 146–​47 John of Ephesus, 17–​19, 25–​27, 43, 80–​81 John Lydus, 45–​46, 49, 50, 55–​57, 58–​59 John Malalas, 20, 43, 53–​54, 56–​57, 58–​59, 110–​ 12, 113, 114–​15, 148 Jordanes, 13–​14, 16, 43, 61–​62, 66–​67 Josephus, 13, 16, 113–​14, 118, 147–​48 Jovian (r. 363–​364), 4–​5, 55, 81–​82, 83, 88, 100–​ 1, 105, 114–​15, 127, 158–​59, 160, 166 Julian (r. 361–​363), 55, 81–​82, 88, 93, 95, 100–​1, 106, 127, 130, 158–​60 Julian Romance, 4–​5, 81–​82, 83, 88, 100–​1, 105, 114–​15, 158–​60, 166, 169–​70 Justinian I (r. 527–​565), 2, 3–​5, 19, 42, 43, 44, 51–​52, 53, 56–​57, 58–​59, 62–​63, 64–​65, 68–​69, 70, 80–​81, 82–​83, 93–​97, 98–​101, 122, 128, 129–​31, 132–​33, 149–​50, 153–​55, 168, 169–​70   Kavadh I (r. 488–​496, 498–​531), 42, 46–​48, 49–​51, 52, 55–​57, 127 Kavadh II (r. February–​September 628), 77–​79 Katalymata ton Plakoton, 91–​93, 139–​40 Khosrow I Anōshirvān (r. 531–​579), 3–​4, 9–​10, 47–​ 48, 51–​52, 53, 54, 56, 62–​63, 64, 66, 68–​69, 80, 89, 90, 94, 98, 99, 127, 134–​35, 152–​53, 154–​55, 169 Khosrow II Parvēz (r. 590–​628), 9–​10, 59, 68, 77–​78, 84–​88–​, 95 Kök Turks, 22–​23, 28, 31–​32, 35–​36, 37–​38, 41–​42, 43–​44   Lactantius, 106, 124, 126–​27 Last Roman Emperor, 6, 16–​17, 156, 157–​58, 166, 167 Łazar P‘arpec‘i, 46, 48 Lazica, 3–​4, 13, 20, 61, 62–​63, 64–​67, 119–​20, 168 Libanius, 93   Mar Abā, 127, 133–​35, 152–​53 Menander Protector, 51–​52 Midrash of the Ten Kings, 163

Mithridates VI Eupator of Pontus (r. 120–​63 bce), 138–​39, 149–​50 Movsēs Dasxurancʿi, 28, 35–​36   Narses, 71 Nebuchadnezzar, 125–​26, 162–​64 Nechtanebus, 140, 142–​43 Nikephoros of Constantinople, 79 Nimrod, 88, 154–​55, 159–​61, 163 Nöldeke, T 9–​10, 21–​24, 75, 76, 81–​82, 171   Origen, 146–​47   Pērōz I (r. 459–​484), 47, 48, 49–​50, 71 Pesikta de–​Rav Kahana, 161, 162 Pliny the Elder, 13, 14–​15 Priscus, 46, 49 Procopius, 13, 14–​15, 16, 19–​20, 43, 46–​47, 50–​52, 54, 56–​57, 64, 65–​67, 70–​71, 80–​81, 83, 93–​96, 97, 98, 100, 149–​50, 153–​54 Ptolemy (geographer), 17, 19 Ptolemy (Alexander’s general and king of Egypt), 138–​39, 140 Ps.–​Ephrem, 23, 148–​49, 170–​71 Ps.–​Dionysius, 24–​25 Ps.–​Fredegar, 28, 35–​36 Ps.–​Hegesippus, 118 Ps.–​Jacob of Serugh, 15, 17, 21, 22, 23–​24, 25, 28–​29, 88–​89, 170–​71 Ps.–​Joshua the Stylite, 17–​19, 49–​50, 53–​54, 56–​57, 58–​59, 80–​81, 87–​88 Ps.–​Methodius, 1–​2, 6, 16–​17, 119, 123, 156, 157–​59, 160–​61, 166, 170–​71, 172 Ps.–​Sabeos, 149   Reinink, G J 1, 22, 23–​24, 27–​29, 31–​34, 69, 70, 72–​73, 76, 77, 78–​80, 83, 84–​86, 87, 91, 92–​ 93, 121–​22, 145, 158–​59   Sabir Huns, 21, 25–​26, 31, 41–​44 Sarnaqōs, 59–​60, 61–​62, 64 Sesostris/​Sesonchosis, 60–​62, 119–​20 Seventh Vision of Daniel, 122, 127 Severus Alexander (r. 222–​235), 93 Shahrbarāz, 77–​79 Shapur II (r. 309–​379), 88, 93, 107, 109, 124–​25, 127, 133, 151–​52, 159–​60 Shērōē. See Khavad II Shoemaker, S., 16–​17, 23–​24, 28–​29, 31, 87, 122, 157–​58 Solomon, 161, 162–​64 Strabo, 17, 149–​50 Strategikon of Maurice, 72–​74

Index  227 Targum Sheni, 162–​63, 164 Tertullian, 117, 123–​24 Theodoret of Cyrrhus, 125–​27, 147–​49 Theodosius I (r. 379–​395), 56, 106 Theophylact Simocatta, 17–​19, 84, 87–​88, 95 Tiburtine Sibyl, 6, 16–​17, 119, 156, 157–​58 Trajan (r. 98–​117), 80, 93 Tūbarlaq, 4, 11–​12, 19–​20, 24–​25, 57–​60, 64, 68–​69, 71, 74, 75, 76–​77, 78–​80, 81–​82, 83–​84, 87–​89, 90, 99, 105, 128, 135–​36, 137–​38, 143–​44, 151, 152, 154–​55, 168–​69

van Bladel, K., 1, 28, 39, 40–​41, 44 Vegetius, 73–​74   Xerxes, 9–​10, 154   Yazdegard II (r. 438–​457), 47–​48 Yazdgird I (r. 399–​420), 131–​32   Zachariah of Mytilene, 50–​51 Zedekiah, 141–​43 Zeno (r. 474–​475 and 476–​491), 19–​20, 49–​50, 53, 122 Zilgibis/​Ziligdes, 42