(Byzantina Australiensia) Danijel Džino, Kenneth Parry - Byzantium, Its Neighbours and Its Cultures-Brill (2017) PDF

Byzantium, Its Neighbours and Its Cultures
Byzantina Australiensia
Editorial Board
Ken Parry (Macquarie University)

Amelia Brown (University of Queensland)
Meaghan McEvoy (Macquarie University)
Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides (Monash University)
Danijel Dzino (Macquarie University)
Wendy Mayer (Australian Lutheran College | University of Divinity)
Roger Scott (University of Melbourne)
Volume 20
The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/byza

Byzantium,
Its Neighbours and
Its Cultures
Edited by
Danijel Dzino
Ken Parry
LEIDEN | BOSTON
This paperback was originally published as Volume 20 in the series Byzantina Australiensia,
Australian Association for Byzantine Studies.
Cover illustration: Fol 98v of Cod. Laur. Plut. IX.28, containing the Christian Topography of
Cosmas Indicopleustes, is reproduced on the cover with the kind permission of the Biblioteca
Laurenziana, Florence.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2017940746
issn 0725-3079
isbn 978-18-76-50301-7 (paperback, 2017)
isbn 978-90-04-34491-4 (e-book, 2017)
isbn 978-1-876503-01-7 (paperback, 2014)
Copyright 2017 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands.

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Εἰ δὲ καὶ περὶ τῶν ἀντιπόδων ἐπεξεργαστικώτερον θελήσειέ τις ζητῆσαι,
ῥᾳδίως τοὺς γραώδεις μύθους αὐτῶν ἀνακαλύψει.
Cosmas Indicopleustes, I,20.
⸪
v
Table of Contents
Table of Contents v
Introduction: Byzantium, its neighbours and its cultures
Danijel Dzino and Ken Parry 1
Bunkers, open cities and boats in Byzantine diplomacy
Jonathan Shepard 11
Imperial ideology and commemorative culture in the Eastern Roman Empire,
284-450 CE
Caillan Davenport 45
Church with incomplete biography: plans for the consolidation of Byzantine
rule on the Adriatic at the beginning of the ninth century
Mladen Ančić 71
Local knowledge and wider contexts: stories of the arrival of the Croats in De
Administrando Imperio in the past and present
Danijel Dzino 89
Female virtue, Euripides, and the Byzantine manuscript tradition in the
fourteenth century
Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides 105
Exchange of palatine architectural motifs between Byzantium, Persia and the
Caliphate
Nigel Westbrook 129
Rome and Persia: rhetoric and religion
Tim Briscoe 155
Faith as a frontier: the Photian homilies on the invasion of the Rus
Dimitri Kepreotes 169
Egypt in the Byzantine imagination: cultural memory and historiography,
fourth to ninth centuries
Ken Parry 181
History of Wars: narratives of crises in power relations between Constantinople
and Italy in the sixth century
Renato Viana Boy 209
vi
The barbarians and the city: comparative study of the impact of the barbarian
invasions in 376-378 and 442-447 on the urbanism of Philippopolis, Thrace
Ivo Topalilov 223
Between the old Rome and the new: imperial co-operation ca. 400-500 CE
Meaghan McEvoy 245
Sailors, merchants and the maritime cults that sailed into the ports (and
streets) of early Byzantium
Janet Wade 269
Index 289
Introduction: Byzantium its neighbours and its cultures 1
Danijel Dzino and Ken Parry

Macquarie University, Sydney
Introduction: Byzantium, its neighbours and its cultures
Byzantium was one of the longest lasting empires in history. 1 Throughout the
millenium of its existence, the empire showed its capability to change and
develop under very different historical circumstances. Formed in Late
Antiquity, it survived the transitions of the late antique world and severe
territorial contraction in the seventh century to return in a few centuries as a
supreme political power in southeastern Europe. This remarkable resilience
would have been impossible to achieve without the formation of a lasting
imperial culture and a strong imperial infrastructure, both ideological and
geo-political. The Byzantines needed functioning imperial culture and
ideology in order to enable the continuing reproduction of imperial social
structures. Imperial ideology required, among other things, to sort out who
was ʻinsiderʼ and who was ʻoutsiderʼ, and develop ways to define and describe
ones neighbours. 2 No empire, including the Byzantine, could function and
survive without a working relationship of the imperial centre with the
periphery and frontier zones. 3 Frequent contractions and expansions of the
empire shifted these zones significantly through the centuries, changing who
the Byzantine provincials and neighbours were. Consequentially, the nature of
the Byzantine interaction with their neighbours evolved in different
directions. A peculiar geo-strategic position connected the Byzantines with
the post-Roman and early Medieval West, the South Slavic polities in the
Balkans, the Pannonian, Ukrainian and Russian steppes, the Caucasus
mountains and the world of Islam. The empire witnessed the rise (and fall) of
different competing empires and states: the Sassanids, Avars, Bulgars, Arab
caliphates, the Carolingian empire, Venice, Serbia, the Ottomans, and the Rus,
making their relationship with their neighbours diverse and perpetually
changing.
Our understanding of Byzantium’s external and internal interactions
has changed as a result of recent scholarship. The significance of this empire
to a millennium of developments throughout Eurasia has been examined
through the nature of contacts between Byzantium and its Eurasian
1
Recently on Byzantium as an empire - Cameron 2014, 26-45.
2
See Smythe 2000; 2010 for the insiders and outsiders in Byzantium; Kaldellis 2013 for
ethnography.
3
The scholarship on the creation and role of imperial cultures is perpetually growing, e.g.
Colás 2007, 116-57; Münkler 2007, 80-107; see also Haldon 2009, 236-40 for Byzantium.
2 Danijel Dzino and Ken Parry
neighbours. 4 Models for understanding Byzantium’s interactions with its

neighbours have moved from imperial centre and periphery, to the concepts
of ‘commonwealth,’ to ‘overlapping circles,’ depicting parallel and mutual
developments in political and cultural identity. 5 The Byzantine millennium
now seems more connected, by commerce, diplomacy, and common cultural
heritage, than before. Artefacts and ideologies were acquired, appropriated, or
mediated between Byzantium and its neighbours, and even prolonged conflict
did not preclude exchanges, and indeed sometimes sprang from shared
developments. At the same time, what we think of as the distinctively
Byzantine milieu of Constantinople also interacted with regional cultures that
at various times formed part of its empire. The Coptic and Syriac cultures in
Late Antiquity, the Latin and Arabic regions in later periods, displayed both
ambivalence and engagement with Constantinople and its imperial and
ecclesiastical leaders. 6 As with Byzantium’s external connections, ‘centre and
periphery’ models of intra-imperial networks are giving way to more dynamic
models seeing metropolis and provinces as parts of broader, common
developments. 7 In addition, our knowledge of the ways the Byzantines
perceived and described their neighbours has become more sophisticated and
diverse, recognizing different literary and discursive ethnographic strategies
used for their depiction. 8
There is an indefinite number of possibilities for the exploration of
relationships between Byzantium and its neighbours. The essays in this
collection focus on several interconnected clusters of topics and shared
research interests. Shepard, Davenport and Ančić look into the place of
neighbours in the context of the empire and imperial ideology. The paper of
Dzino sits in between that cluster and the following one, which is the transfer
of knowledge with neighbours, explored by Anagnostou-Laoutides and
Westbrook. The next cluster of topics focuses on the Byzantine perception of
their neighbours, which is the interest connecting the papers by Briscoe,
Kepreotes and Perry. Another field of shared interest in this volume is the
political relationship and/or the conflict with neighbours, which inspired the
papers of Viana Boy, Topalilov and McEvoy. In addition, there is the paper of
Wade, which looks into maritime cults and sub-cultures of merchants and
sailors, neighbours and ‘outsiders’ visiting Byzantium.
4
E.g. Shepard & Franklin 1992; Pevny 2001; Stephenson 2004; Pagès et al. 2005; Howard-
Johnston 2008; Shepard 2010; 2011; Laiou 2012, to mention just a few.
5
Obolenski 1971; Shepard 1992. Obolenski’s thesis of a multi-national ‘Byzantine
Commonwealth’ throughout the Balkans in the middle ages has been criticised recently,
e.g. Kaldellis 2007.
6
Magdalino 2000.
7
Holmes 2010.
8
Kaldellis 2013.
The papers
Jonathan Shepard’s overreaching study focuses on geographical width and
historical depth of Byzantine peripheries and frontier-zones. Shepard defines
Byzantium as a practical, low-maintenance empire, and recognises two types
of cities necessary for the proper function of its frontier-zones: ‘bunkers’ and
‘open cities’. The ‘bunkers’, scattered peripheral strongholds, were not
necessarily large or permanently garrisoned points. They existed mainly to
keep a watch on possible invaders, exhaust their resources and buy some time
for the Byzantine army and navy. The ‘open cities’ on the other hand were
population centres, peninsulas and islands wealthy enough, well positioned
strategically or ideologically suitable. Nevertheless, the most important thing
for these cities was that their elite preferred self-determination alongside
amity with Byzantium. ‘Open cities’ were usually left to their own devices and
they had free hands in dealing with the frontier zones and the empire’s
enemies. However, what Shepard calls ‘membership in the club’ kept the elites
of the ‘open cities’ close to the Byzantines, who would intervene if their
position was irreparably threatened from outside invaders.
In the same cluster of ‘imperial’ topics we can also place Davenport and
Ančić, who both focus on imperial ideology, display of imperial power, but
also the negotiation of that power in local circumstances. Cailan Davenport
looks into the connections between imperial ideology and the erection of
commemorative statues of the emperors in the late empire, ca. 284-450,
focusing on the eastern side. He sees commemorative culture of the late
empire as fluid and creative, when different strategies of commemoration
were employed depending on a number of factors such as: the agenda of the
dedicating authority, the potential audience, the type and location of the
statue, and the language of the inscription. What follows from Davenport’s
evidence is the conclusion that the decision to honour rulers with such
monuments was made because the dedicating local authorities felt it was the
most appropriate way to articulate their particular relationship with the
imperial government. 9 Mladen Ančić observes the western fringes of the
empire, in particular the church of the Holy Trinity (now St. Donatus) in Iader
(modern Zadar), one of Shepard’s ‘Open cities’. He argues that the rebuilding
of the older rotund church was directly related to the Byzantine plans for
imperial reconquest in the Adriatic in the early ninth century. It is known that
the Byzantine dux in Iader was replaced at that time (ca. 806-11) with an
archon, in the context of the Byzantine-Carolingian conflict in Dalmatia,
ending with the Peace of Aachen in 812. Ančić proposes the idea that the
rebuilding of the older rotund of the Holy Trinity was intended for this high-
9
The adaptation of imperial cultural (or ideological in this case) templates and practices
specifically to local circumstances was the outcome of multiplying social networks within
the Empire – see Hingley 2005, 118; Morley 2010, 125-27; Sommer 2013.
ranked representative of the emperor, as a reflection of imperial authority

and ideology in the frontier-zone.
Danijel Dzino deals both with the imperial ideological discourse in the
famous treaty De Administrando Imperio (DAI) and the transfer of knowledge
and the problems of communication between the local and the global, which is
also touched by Ančić. He points out that it is not possible to accept the stories
of the Slav and Croat arrival from chapters 29-31 of the DAI as the reflection of
‘ancestral traditions’. Yet, these stories should not be seen as complete fiction.
Some parts of the Dalmatian or Croat story might have indeed included and
reflected memory of real historical events. However, at the end, they are in
their present form de-contextualised, and their real purpose and meaning can
only be guessed. These stories were in Dzino’s opinion, reworked and
incorporated within the ‘global’ narrative of the DAI, which is a distinct
literary work with its defined purpose and ideological structures.
Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides looks into the transfer of knowledge from
the declining Byzantium to the west through Italy (in particular the city of
Florence) via the Byzantine editions of Euripides in the fourteenth and
fifteenth centuries. They gained popularity because late medieval preachers,
such as Antonino Pierozzi or Bernardino of Sienna, found numerous
paradigms of female virtue for their speeches in the plays of Euripides. As
Anagnostou-Laoutides shows, these manuscripts quickly found their way to
intellectual circles in humanist-era Italy, and reached important persons such
as Petrach and Boccaccio. Nigel Westbrook, through a comparison of the
Byzantine, Sasanian, and Umayyad and Abbasid palace architecture, detects
the likelihood of an ongoing cultural exchange, appropriation and emulation
of palace ceremonial and motifs from the third through to the tenth centuries.
He understands Sasanian architecture as an amalgam of local building
practices and formal typologies, combined with appropriated Western motifs.
However, the Byzantine palace buildings such as the Chrysotriklinos may also
owe as much to the example of their contemporary Sasanian and Abbassid
equivalents, as settings for the continual diplomatic exchange and
contestation. Westbrook concludes that the palaces were in part instruments
in the process of emulation and exchange between competing cultural circles,
in which the architecture of Hellenistic era and imperial Rome represented a
shared heritage.
The third cluster of topics in the collection looks into the perception of
Byzantine neighbours on several different levels. Tim Briscoe observes the
development of a specific religious sensibility related to the Roman
perceptions and portrayals of the Persians. He identifies and analyses a
transformation in historical identity, from Classical to Christian, a shift which
is both a result and a reflection of changes that affected the Mediterranean
world during its transition from the Classical world to Late Antiquity. For
nearly the entire period in which the Roman and Sasanian empires competed
for the Near East, Roman historiography portrayed Persians as the oriental
‘other’. Briscoe argues that while some authors displayed knowledge of

aspects of Sasanian history and society, the Roman writers choose either to
remain comfortable in long-established discourses or to develop new
(Christian) modes of expression. It seems that Classical or Herodotean
sensibility remained an important discursive influence throughout the latter
Roman empire. However, in Briscoe’s opinion it is also true that a Christian
discourse began to play an increasingly important role in the construction of
Persian portrayals in the Roman world.
Dimitri Kepreotes analyses the Photian Homilies on the invasion of the
Rus from 860, as the way its author Photios uses the invasion to reflect on his
own society. The paper explores the mismatch of blame between the invaders
and the Christian flock and society. Kepreotes attempts to show that the
biblically-couched lamentations for the Queen of Cities provide what he sees
as an almost Platonic metaphor about the need for reason to prevail over
passion. In his opinion, perhaps this too reflects the depth with which Photios
affected the relationship between Byzantine learning and Classical education,
bringing the one more vividly than before within the orbit of the other, in the
same way as the Rus would enter the orbit of the Byzantine empire in the
years following 860. Ken Parry explores another way the Byzantines perceived
their neighbours. His contribution looks into some examples of the Byzantine
perception and reception of Egypt and Egyptians from the fourth through to
the ninth century. Egypt is particularly interesting as it shifted from being an
integral part of the empire into a neighbour after the Arab conquest in the
seventh century. However, as Parry suggests, what Byzantium lost in terms of
territory and influence it retained in terms of cultural memory because Egypt
continued to inhabit the Byzantine imagination. Starting from Assmann’s
definition of ‘cultural memory’, 10 Parry applies this term in relation to
Byzantine memory culture; strategies used to construct and preserve the
memory of people, places and events in the sources. The reliance on memory
and orality in a society in which only 10% of the population were regular
readers or writers made it imperative to memorise knowledge. Thus, as Parry
argues, the authors who dropped references to Egypt in their texts, must have
had assumed their readers or listeners were familiar with such allusions and
that these would trigger a memory response.
The last cluster of research interests is related to the political
relationship and the conflict with various neighbours. Renato Viana Boy
analyses the Gothic wars of Justinian and their contemporary perceptions. He
draws upon the work of Roger Scott, which showed that the Gothic wars were
not considered ‘reconquest’ for contemporaries, but rather a punishment of
the rebels. 11 Viana Boy agrees with Scott in basic terms but reaches his
conclusions in different ways. Scott worked with a comparison between the
10
Assmann 2011.
11
Scott 2012.
writings of Procopius’ stories and the chronicle of Malalas, so his reflection

took into consideration a comparison between information extracted from not
only two different authors of the same period, but from two different genres
of writing. In his paper, Viana Boy believes that it is possible to question the
idea of ‘reconquest’ of Italy using specifically the narratives of Procopius’
Gothic War and, to a lesser extent Jordanes, another contemporary historian.
Ivo Topalilov deals with the Byzantine neighbour even more closely, looking
into their impact on Philippopolis (modern Plovdiv) in Late Antiquity. He
shows that earlier scholarship underestimated the wars with the Goths after
the Roman defeat at Hadrianopolis in 378, and overestimated the Hunnic
invasions in the 440s. Despite the sack and burning of Philippopolis, the city
not only recovered very quickly, but even became bigger around its new
monumental complexes that replaced the old traditional ones. This recovery
allowed the city to enjoy another flourishing period in the time of Justinian
when even a new aqueduct was built. Only in the late sixth century when the
city showed some decline, was the city landscape changed with the
construction of a vast new curtain wall.
Meaghan McEvoy focuses on different kinds of neighbours, exploring
the relationship between the two Roman empires in the fifth century. She
points out that the eastern imperial government was very much invested in
trying to resolve western crises, right down until the very final years of the
Roman state in the west. This commitment is reflected in expensive military
campaigns to install emperors or in attempts to reclaim territory. It also
included administrative cooperation, and dynastic alliances which continued
to interweave the affairs of both empires as long as the west endured. The east
and west were divided with their separate emperors, administrations,
territories, economic and military structures, but as McEvoy argues, the
catalogue of aid and intervention hardly reflects indifference or a desire to
sever ties. Rather it shows a determination to try to maintain and build ties,
and to maintain continuity both throughout and beyond the Theodosian era.
The repeated commitments of armies, resources and individuals from the east
to western affairs, in McEvoy’s opinion, must testify to the desire for imperial
solidarity, mutual support and neighbourly cooperation in the Roman world
of the fifth century.
Finally, Janet Wade looks into the sub-cultures of sailors and sea-
traders. Despite their presence in port cities throughout Late Antiquity, sailors
and sea-traders were usually regarded as foreigners. These men of ‘the
maritime community’, as Wade terms them, were outsiders in port cities of
the empire. Their sub-cultures were relatively independent parts of society,
and it is not surprising that some of these men held on to their old gods long
after the empire became Christian. Rough life at sea would have made many
sailors and sea-traders reluctant to give up all of their customs and beliefs,
some of which were regarded as essential for survival at sea and to guarantee
successful sailing ventures. Wade finds a variety of evidence that suggests that
traditional maritime pagan beliefs actually persisted well into the sixth
century. They were eventually displaced by Christian beliefs, but not until
later than previously imagined. Hagiographical accounts from the sixth
century frequently took place on ships, and in these stories, the protagonist
usually converts all of the heathens on board during a storm. At this late stage,
Wade argues, the sea was one environment where readers and hearers
expected to find large numbers of pagan neighbours.
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10
Bunkers, open cities and boats 11
Jonathan Shepard
University of Cambridge
Bunkers, open cities and boats in Byzantine diplomacy
Introduction: Byzantium as a low-maintenance, variable-geometry empire

The Byzantine empire is difficult to pin down in territorial terms, and modern
historical geographies wisely tend to leave its borders indistinct. One might
call it an empire of ‘variable-geometry’, capable of functioning in a wide range
of circumstances provided that its nerve-centre in Constantinople held out.
The City withstood many barbarian blockades, before falling victim to the
Fourth Crusade in 1204; but even then, Constantinople rapidly resumed the
role of imperial capital, playing that part until the Turkish assault of 1453.
These dates are uncontroversial. So is the fact that the empire’s survival owed
much to the near-impregnability of Constantinople’s walls and to its practice
of diplomacy: the gaining of foreigners’ non-aggression – and sometimes their
military aid and other forms of positive cooperation such as commerce, all
conducted in the name of peace, good works and imperial philanthropia, to cite
the rhetoric. 1 What is less clear is how the Byzantines did this: how they
managed to maintain a reputation for imperial sovereignty at least until 1204,
despite often limited resources and a formidable assortment of surrounding
aliens. Was it due to luck and inheritance – the facts that Constantinople was
on a virtual island-site astride trade-routes, 2 and that it still ‘looked the part’ of
Roman capital in the later thirteenth century? The Theodosian walls about
which Edward of England probably heard during his Crusade inspired the
castle he built at Caernarvon soon after conquering Wales in 1283, replete with
angular towers along walls of colour-banded masonry, and even a Golden
1
See Hunger 1964, 137-54; Grünbart 2005, 143-44. For a certain ‘militarisation’ in rhetoric,
at least for internal consumption, from the eleventh century on, see Kazhdan 1983, 20-21.
On the continuities (and discontinuities) between classical Greek and Roman and Byzantine
diplomatic rhetoric that are apparent in the selection, role and deportment of
ambassadors, see Koutrakou 1995; contributions to Becker & Drocourt 2012.
2
The general impression that Constantinople made on Crusaders, of being surrounded by
the sea and an “impregnable wall” on one side and a double moat and a “wall of immense size”
with towers on the other, is conveyed by Anonymous 1866, 494. Odo of Deuil, who went on
the Second Crusade, described Constantinople as “laid out in a triangle shaped like a ship’s
sail”, and “girt on two sides by the sea”: Berry 1948, 62-63. On trade-routes, see Külzer 2008,
226-31, 466-48. See also Luttwak 2009, 67-77.
12 Jonathan Shepard
Gate. 3 Or was assiduous judgement, perhaps amounting to a Grand Strategy,

responsible for Byzantium’s enduring imperial status? 4
Judgement and a fine-tuned geopolitical calculus were involved,
although one cannot deny the fortunate inheritance. While maintaining
Constantinople as a kind of tableau of Romanness, Byzantium’s ruling elite
appreciated the need to operate a ‘low-maintenance empire’, keeping close
watch on outgoings and also on tax-burdens: they might not guarantee
provincial folk ironclad protection from barbarians, but they could provide
means of venting dissatisfaction with tax-assessments, a privilege unlikely to
be available to persons under alien domination. 5 And in default of a hard
frontier or a sizable standing army, they needed to maintain myriad sensors,
barriers and deterrents to forestall invasions. We cannot, in this preliminary
sketch, consider every type, for example, the far-away militarised groupings
prepared to cooperate in thwarting other barbarians’ assaults on the empire. 6
Our focus here will be on ‘bunkers’ – scattered peripheral strongholds, not
necessarily large or even permanently garrisoned, yet often as hard for newly-
arrived aggressors to spot in advance as they were to capture; and on Open
Cities. The latter is another loose label, denoting population centres,
peninsulas and islands wealthy enough – or strategically or ideologically well-
placed – to appeal to barbarians as springboards for assaulting the empire, but
whose leading families might prefer self-determination alongside amity with
Byzantium. We shall conclude with a glance at the boats carrying
communications between them and the imperial capital. Most of our Open
Cities were accessible by water, while assaults on Constantinople needed
access by water to have any chance of success, as witness the Fourth Crusade,
when Venetian vessels played a critical role. 7 So long as an attacker could not
assure himself of Venice or any other naval base with remotely comparable
resources, the capital was safe. This gave Byzantium strong incentives for
keeping such Cities ‘Open’. And this was best done by keeping at least some
sections of their elites ‘sweet’ [Map 1].
Before amplifying on bunkers, Open Cities and boats, we shall offer
illustrations for a few of the broad generalisations just made. Firstly, the
recommendations of a Middle Byzantine text on how to receive foreign envoys
are worth pondering over. To envoys coming from very distant peoples or
from peoples who are ‘our neighbours but our inferiors in power’, one may
3
Taylor 1986, 78-79 and n.4 on 79.
4
See the stimulating advocacy of Byzantium’s maintenance of a Grand Strategy by Luttwak
2009, 414-18, 421-22.
5
For an example of the dissatisfaction of a peripheral population newly subjected to alien –
Frankish – rule, see below, n.59.
6
For a classic statement of the rationale of this aspect of Byzantine diplomacy, see
Obolensky 1994, esp. 4-10.
7
See, e.g. Nicol 1988, 132-36; Angold 2003, 141-43; Phillips 2004, 166-75, 246-51, 318.
show ‘as much and whatsoever of ours as we wish’; but if they come from
peoples who:
“… far surpass us either in the size of their army or in courage, we should
show them neither our wealth nor the beauty of our women, but rather
masses of our men, the good order of our weaponry and the height of our
walls.” 8
One could scarcely hope for a franker self-assessment: to some peoples, only
cold steel could talk, even if ostentatious wealth, sensual delights and
ceremonial flummery in Constantinople seduced many others. The text
suggests keen concern on the imperial leadership’s part as to the impression
visitors received of the City, and as to the effect this would have on their
course of action once back home.
Secondly, one should note the Byzantine authorities’ awareness of the
benefits of a tax-regime that did not involve constant heavy exactions from
provincial populations. This is summed up in a Byzantine envoy’s response to a
Baghdad official’s jibe that the emperor’s tax revenues equalled the produce of
just one estate of the caliph. The envoy replied:
“We are more resolute and wise than you concerning tax. You take
properties from people, you make them your enemies and make their
blood boil. Moreover, your agents steal money and are paid for it ... But in
our case we make our tax for (Author’s emphasis) the people so we do
not have these difficulties. And we set it to the amount I mentioned to you
so that it is taken seriously.” 9
I see no reason to doubt this story’s essential veracity, even if its tenth-century
author, Ibn al-Farra’, echoes sentiments available to both Muslims and
Byzantines through Hellenistic ‘Mirrors for Princes’. 10 Recognition of finite
financial resources and the socio-economic benefits of a low-tax regime
dictated a low-maintenance defensive policy, and this was where Byzantine
diplomacy worked in tandem with strategy. 11
8
Tr. from Lee & Shepard 1991, 30. See Peri Strategias in Dennis 1985, Ch. 43, 124-25.
9
Vaiou, forthcoming.
10
Byzantine and Muslim thinkers were more familiar than might be supposed with issues of
taxation, its impact on the economy, and the counterproductive effects of over-taxation on
the peasantry and on merchants. For example, Abu Yusuf offered advice on this to Caliph
Harun al-Rashid in his ‘Manual on Land-Tax’ (Kitab al-Kharaj): Ben Shemesh 1965, 73-76. See
also Coşgel 2009, esp. 711-12, 715-16; Baloglu 2002, 5-6. Some five centuries later, Ibn
Khaldun’s Muqaddimah discussed how the state promoted production through its spending
yet discouraged production with its taxation, and sought after a ‘fiscal optimum’, attainable
through taxes allocated equitably and collected justly (Baloglu 2002, 10-11). For fiscal
thinking among the Byzantines, see, e.g. Laiou 2002, esp. 1126-27, 1132-34, 1141-43; Laiou &
Morrisson 2007, 61-62. For comparison with Abbasid arrangements, see Haldon 2010, esp.
240-50.
11
See also Luttwak 2009, 92-94, 414-17.
14 Jonathan Shepard
Our third illustration brings us back to the sensors, barriers and

deterrents with which the Byzantines sought to nip trouble in the bud far from
Constantinople. Constantine VII describes a couple in the handbook he
compiled for his son and heir around 950. Firstly, he gives minute details about
the Dnieper Rapids, where the Viking Rus heading south had to punt their
boats past thundering cataracts – at one point even carrying them. He spells
out the importance of the Rapids as ‘barrages’ (phragmoi), which the Rus could
only cross if at peace with the Pecheneg nomads: since ‘they cannot do two
things at once’ – carry boats and fend off the Pechenegs – “they are easily routed
and cut to pieces.” 12 Accordingly, “it is always greatly to the advantage of the
emperor of the Romans to be minded to keep the peace with the nation of the
Pechenegs,” and thereby regulate the Rus’ movements. 13 Constantine uses the
same term – ‘barrage’ – of three fortresses around Lake Van, seeing that “... if
(they) … are in the possession of the emperor, a Persian (i.e. Muslim) army cannot
come out against Romania”; he recommends annexing them, counsel that later
emperors heeded. 14 Constantine thus identified sensors and barriers that could
stymie assaults on the empire, although located far beyond its borders. This
registers the disproportionate value of chokepoints in providing security for
the empire in general and Constantinople in particular. Such was our variable-
geometry empire, capable of reshaping according to circumstances,
kaleidoscopically.
These illustrations of the Byzantines’ awareness of their geopolitical
dilemma and preference for a correspondingly low-maintenance empire come
from the Middle Byzantine era. One might argue that they were merely
making the best of a bad job, trying to hold onto a few outposts after the
seventh century, when Egypt and the wealthy Levant had been lost to Arab
invaders, who already in the 650s and 660s were sending expeditions against
Constantinople, 15 and then put pressure on Carthage, which fell in 698.
Without belittling these setbacks, I would suggest that the building-blocks for
such an empire were laid before the seventh century, in the era of Justinian. It
was precisely because the empire – and Constantinople in particular – was
equipped for all seasons that Byzantium was able to hold out for so long. This
goes for our bunkers, boats – and also for the notion of Open Cities. Justinian
was, in more than one sense, Master-builder of these policies.
Variations of bunkers
Justinian’s extensive building works were ambiguous, at once a declaration of
worldwide dominance and his custodianship of true religion and a practical
12
DAI, 2.50-51.
13
DAI, 1.48-49.
14
DAI, 44.204-05. For Khliat, Arzes and Perkri see, e.g., Jenkins 1962, 167-70 (Runciman);
Felix 1981, 133, 140, 150; Whittow 1996, 200; Greenwood 2008, 361-62.
15
For the expedition of 654, see O’Sullivan 2004; for the major expedition of 667/68, see
Jankowiak (2013).
means of gearing imperial hegemony to a variety of contingencies with the aid

of fortifications. Prolonged sieges of Constantinople were envisaged, as witness
the famous cisterns. 16 Justinian geared the capital to survivalism, despite his
proclamations of reconquest and restoration of the ‘Roman empire’ in the
west, and he may not have intended all his new fortifications to be garrisoned
by ‘Romans’. Procopius, for all his fanfares, acknowledges this in the case of
the Crimean passes, which were fortified for the local Goths’ benefit. Some of
Justinian’s building works in the western Mediterranean were likewise
essentially staking a claim, which did not necessarily entail permanent
garrisoning. 17 Secondly, Justinian’s embellishment of ‘Fortress Constantinople’, 18
was in part designed to make St. Sophia and other wonders a ‘must-see’,
integral to a policy of attracting barbarians to the City, and to forging ties with
‘all his country’s potential enemies’, sending out vast sums of money: “east,
west, north and south as far as the inhabitants of Britain”, according to Procopius.
“When they heard what sort of man Justinian was, they poured into
Byzantium to get in touch with him. The emperor … delighted in the whole
business … day after day he continued to send them home, every one …
with masses of money.” 19
Caricature this may be, but Procopius’ picture is at least consistent with his
other complaints about the indispensability of attendance at Justinian’s
court, 20 and also with the codification of ceremonial carried out by Peter the
Patrician. Peter’s work did not introduce wholly new rites, but Constantinople
may now have drawn in so many client barbarians as to prompt a collection of
precedents and some new procedures. 21 And there may be a connection
16
Crow, Bardill et al. 2008, 17-19, 62-63. In this, as in so many respects, Justinian was
elaborating – with panache – upon key works undertaken by his predecessors in the fifth
century: ibid., 15-16. The city’s ‘abundance of sweet water’, brought by underground
conduits from beyond the walls, was noted by Odo of Deuil in 1147: Berry 1948, 64-65.
17
Procop. Aed. 3.7, 17. For this as a standard later tactic, see Campaign Organization in Dennis
1985, 19.294-95. In Spain, the rhetoric of conquest was all-embracing, as in the inscription
set up by the patricius Comentiolus in 589/90, which describes him as a governor (rector) in
whom “Spain may always rejoice … as long as the poles are turning”; Prego de Lis 2000, 383. The
substance of the Byzantine armed presence in Spain was, however, less commanding. The
number of well-fortified and fully garrisoned bases seems to have been small, with imperial
officials relying on constant negotiations and commerce to gain collaboration from urban
elites and local warlords: Vizcaíno Sánchez 2009, 403-09, 417-29; Wood 2010, 301-07, Fig. 1
on 304 (map), 313-15, 318-19. The fortifications erected in North Africa were mostly solid
and carefully laid out to suit local terrain (Pringle 2001, esp. 89-99, 139-40, 143-46, 166),
although the majority of members of the armed forces and the administration were of local
stock: Conant 2012, 197, 240-41, 246-51.
18
The phrase was coined by Luttwak 2009, 67.
19
Procop. Anecdota 19.6, 10, 13-15. On finds in Britain of solidi struck in the first half of the
sixth century, see Morrisson 2011, 278-80.
20
Procop. Anecdota 30.30.
21
Antonopoulos 1990, 196-97, 204-17; Kazhdan 1991, Vol. 3, 1641 (Baldwin).
16 Jonathan Shepard
between this and Justinian’s introduction of the first regular silk-production to

Constantinople, ensuring supplies of one of the main tools of Byzantine
diplomacy – as important, in its way, as were cisterns to the City’s survival. 22
Justinian, I suggest, was already envisaging a variable-geometry empire,
defended more cheaply by gifts to barbarians than by large armies.
If Constantinople acted as arch-bunker, the other bunkers are
noteworthy above all for their diversity and mutability, as befitted a flexible
geometry of empire. Some were indeed monumental, literally inheritances
from Rome’s heyday, with sizable civilian populations as well as garrisons and
governors capable of conducting diplomatic missions of first-class importance
on the emperor’s behalf. These, like most of the other bunkers playing a prime
diplomatic role, were on the coast. Prominent heavily-populated, monumental
bunkers included Thessalonica, Dyrrachium, Cherson, Syracuse and, after the
latter’s fall in 878 and the Byzantine recovery of Southern Italy, Reggio di
Calabria and Bari. 23 From these bases, governors could cultivate local and more
distant potentates, and incite them against regimes threatening imperial
interests. I will pick out just a few examples, which stand out from humdrum
contacts too routine for contemporary sources to mention. The governor of
Sicily operated a mint, virtually the only mint allowed outside Constantinople
itself and instrumental for intensive exchanges with elites in the central and
western Mediterranean. A hint of this comes from a sequence of Sicilian-struck
gold coins from the era of Constantius II to Michael III excavated at Luni in
north-west Italy. 24 This fortified settlement seems to have remained in direct
contact with Sicily long after imperial dominion ceased in, probably, the
seventh century and the coins may well represent payments by the Sicilian
governor for services rendered. On occasion, the governor of Sicily
represented the emperor in full ceremonial panoply. Thus in 787, Theodore
the strategos went to Benevento equipped with vestments and also shears and
combs solemnly to confer the title of patrikios on the Lombard prince of
Benevento and to give him the appropriate hair-cut. His aim was to forge ties
with a new ally against the encroaching army of Charlemagne. 25 Early in the
tenth century, Byzantium was anxious about an ambitious potentate much
closer to home, Symeon of Bulgaria. In an attempt to catch him in a pincer-
movement, the imperial government employed its top officials of Dyrrachium
and Cherson. The former went on a mission to the leaders of the Serbs and the
Hungarians, inciting them to attack Symeon from the west. 26 The governor of
Cherson went to the Pechenegs and persuaded them to ride down to the
22
Procop. Bell 1.20.9-12; 8.17.1-8; Muthesius 1995, 120-22, 270-74; Leppin 2011, 284.
23
On the switch to the mainland, see Gay 1904, 110-14; von Falkenhausen 1978, 20-27.
24
Murialdo, Gandolfi et al. 2011, 76-77.
25
For a pope’s report on what the mission did, besides bringing: spatam vel pectinae et forcipes
patricium eum constituendi, see Gundlach & Dümmler 1892, 617. See also Lounghis 1980, 154-
55, 329; McCormick 1994, 25-26.
26
DAI, 32.156-57.
Danube where Byzantine ships would ferry them across the river, and then
their ravaging of Bulgaria could begin. 27 Thus heavily-fortified towns,
Dyrrachium on a promontory 28 and Cherson secured by massive walls and
overlooking a superb natural harbour, 29 served as bases for major diplomatic
and strategic initiatives.
Urban bunkers such as Cherson and Dyrrachium are likely to have been
costly to maintain and the citizens of the former, at least, were wayward
enough for Constantine VII to provide instructions in his De Administrando
Imperio (DAI) on the countermeasures to take in the event of Chersonite
truculence. 30 Even Thessalonica’s fortifications were a recurring issue with the
citizens, who sometimes blamed central government for neglecting their
upkeep. 31 A more standard form of bunker was the kastron of the type that
shielded Dyrrachium – ‘the thirty forts’ of Dyrrachium which Symeon tried to
seize in 896. 32 These were generally quite small and situated on high ground or
enjoying other natural protection. The Middle Byzantine manual containing
the aforementioned passage on envoys (above, pp. 12-13) sums up the main
purposes of a kastron thus: first:
“… to observe the approach of the enemy; secondly, to receive deserters
from the enemy; thirdly, to hold back any fugitives from our side; fourthly,
to facilitate operations against the inhabitants of enemy territory, not so
much for plunder as for finding out what the enemy are doing and what
plans they are making against us.” 33
What stands out here is the explicitly non-military function of the kastron,
which served primarily as part of Byzantium’s early-warning system and for
policing the borders – and this even on the eastern borders, which are the
manual’s main concern. A key feature of a kastron, according to our text, is that
“under all circumstances (it) … must have a good supply of food and water, enough to
last through any possible siege by the enemy.” For this reason, garrison numbers
27
Bekker 1838, 6.7, 6.10, 387, 389; Shepard 1989, 24, 25, n.135 on 42 (repr. Shepard 2011a, 34-
35).
28
Ducellier 1981, 5, 26-34, map on 687.
29
On the refortification work at Cherson begun by Justinian and continued for over a
century, see Ajbabin 2010, 407, 410-11, 414, 418; Iakobson 1973, 9-11, 18-28, 63-64.
30
DAI, 53.286-87. Cherson was from the late seventh century onwards effectively an Open
City, only returning to direct rule through an imperially-appointed governor towards the
mid-ninth century. And local worthies – prōteuontes – remained prominent in the running
of the city thereafter. See now Alekseenko 2012.
31
Böhlig 1973, 16-17. Active engagement in fortification work by the secular and
ecclesiastical notables both reflected and stimulated civic pride, of not unalloyed benefit to
the imperial authorities: Bakirtzis 2010, 358-61, 367-68.
32
Kolias 1939, 112-13. For the ‘systems’ of defence in place around Dyrrachium in the
eleventh century, see Ducellier 1981, 9-25.
33
Peri Strategias in Dennis 1985, 9.28-29.
18 Jonathan Shepard
should be limited, and the men should not normally have their wives and
children with them. 34
One might usefully survey other forms of bunker, such as naturally-
protected fortresses near chokepoints. A paramount example would be
Taormina and its hinterland, containing several other strongholds in north-
east Sicily. These stayed in Byzantine hands long after the fall of Syracuse in
878, giving emperors control of the chokepoint of the Straits of Messina, and
reason to hope that they would eventually recover Sicily. 35 Rather than
embarking on such a survey here, I shall just draw attention to another kind of
bunker that enabled emperors to reconstitute Roman rule out of, literally,
building blocks of ancient fortresses, on the north-east coast of the Black Sea.
In the early eleventh century, Basil II had his eye on Tao/Tayk, the wealthy
region of south-west Georgia, and he eventually annexed it after overawing
the Georgian king, George. Attempting to ‘divide and rule’ between George’s
successors, the imperial government took over a royal residence from Alda,
George’s widow. This was an ancient port and, according to John Skylitzes, “the
stoutest fortress of Anacopia.” 36 The early 1030s, when this happened, was a
period of expansion, with emperors having their sights not only on south-west
Georgia but also on Armenia, notably the realm of Ani. 37 Their relations with
the semi-nomadic Alans were especially intensive, and Anacopia was
instrumental in this, being near a pass across the Caucasus leading to Alania.
Probably at Byzantine instigation, the Alans carried out a series of devastating
raids against Muslim emirates in the Caucasus by way of ‘softening them up’
before eventual Byzantine intervention. 38 Anacopia’s fortifications were
massively strengthened and it became the base of a governor who also
commanded a fortress along the coast, at Soteroupolis (modern Picunda). 39 At
the same time, the main church of Anacopia’s citadel was redecorated with
reliefs showing crosses, fish and lions, done by local craftsmen; two Greek
inscriptions date the work of ‘beautification’ to 1046. 40 The inscriptions, like
the reliefs, were executed on ancient spolia. 41 Here, then, is an example of
bunkers not merely providing nerve-centres for diplomacy, but flagging up a
policy whereby the emperor took long-lost strongholds under direct rule and
served notice that further annexations were on the cards.
34
Peri Strategias in Dennis 1985, 9.30-31; 28-29.
35
Von Falkenhausen 1978, 28; Prigent 2010, 63-67, 82-83.
36
Thurn 1973, 389. On Basil II’s interest in Tao, see e.g., Felix 1981, 132-37; Holmes 2005, 311-
12, 319-22, 480-84. See also Tcheishvili 2011, 233.
37
Shepard 2002, 76-77.
38
Shepard 1984/85, 240-42, 248-52.
39
Endol’tseva 2009, 240; Tcheishvili 2011, 233. An example of a seal of Nicholas, stratēgos of
Soteroupolis and Anacopia, has been found on the other side of the Black Sea, in Bulgaria.
Nicholas may well have been in post there in the 1040s: Seibt 2006, 234-37.
40
Endol’tseva 2009, 227-30, 240-42, ris. 2-6; 238, n.68 (text of one of the inscriptions).
41
Endol’tseva 2009, 229.
Variations of Open Cities

However, Anacopia, and other such ‘show bunkers’ housing sizable civilian
populations were fairly exceptional. Low-profile, secluded bunkers were the
norm, and the government was lukewarm about opportunities to take on
administering large urban populations in general. 42 There is no medieval Greek
term for cost-benefit-analysis, but it seems to me that the Byzantine policy-
makers thoroughly understood the advantages of indirect rule. They preferred
the arrangement of what may loosely be labelled Open Cities, population-
concentrations in which Byzantium had a certain strategic, economic or,
occasionally, ideological interest, but whose continuous administration and
garrisoning it did not wish to take upon itself and finance.
To try and characterise Open Cities systematically would, I think, be
unprofitable, seeing that they epitomise Byzantine recognition of the futility
of attempts at micromanaging ever-shifting affairs on the periphery. Their
chief characteristics are no less important for being obvious. They are by
definition fixed points, whether manmade settlements or natural islands
accommodating such settlements, and they involve elite families vying for pre-
eminence and sometimes entire population-clusters. Another characteristic is
that they are highly accessible, and mostly close to waterways, if not the sea
itself. In order to forge or revitalise affinities with leading members of Open
Cities, the imperial government encouraged them to visit Constantinople or
send their sons there for a spell. Whether or not they engaged in commerce,
the elites of Open Cities differed from the leaders of groupings and self-styled
kingdoms which had greater military capability but were shorter-lived, being
largely dependent on the talents and vigour of individual warlords. To that
extent, Open Cities seems to me a valid term, in that it designates geopolitical
givens, in comparison with spectacular yet relatively evanescent military
build-ups such as those of the Franks. Byzantine statesmen were consciously
playing a very long game, on the assumption that time was usually on their
side. This was where Open Cities, petulant and self-seeking as their elites often
were, had a key role, in denying such aggressive potentates the essential
wherewithal for mounting a serious assault on the capital – boats.
This may sound like a drumroll for discussing Venice, the subject of
quite a lengthy description in Constantine VII’s DAI. But one must bear in mind
that his DAI offers only a snapshot, and does not even cover all the Open Cities
that mattered to Byzantium at the time of writing. Thus Constantine has little
to say about the elites and communities on the island of Cyprus. Its
demilitarised status and accommodation of an autocephalous archbishop
ultimately under Constantinopolitan jurisdiction gave the island
characteristics of an Open City. Muslim authorities had some sort of reach
42
Thus our Middle Byzantine manual, reflecting on the merits and demerits of building a
town, insists on the need for sources of water within the walls and also for food readily
available from the surrounding countryside: “if not, it is best to abandon the project”, Peri
Strategias in Dennis 1985, 10.30-31.
20 Jonathan Shepard
there, regularly collecting tribute, but patriarchs like Nicholas Mystikos were
in touch with the clergy and ca. 913 he spoke up on behalf of the Christian
inhabitants and complained that some had been put to death, in retaliation for
their allowing an imperial expeditionary force to put in there recently. 43 This
episode implies close affiliations with the empire, even if they seldom mutated
into direct sustenance of naval forces. Constantine’s DAI has even less to say
about another island whose native population was, unlike Cyprus’, Romance-
speaking, and whose location might seem to place it ‘off the radar’: Sardinia.
Yet we have evidence of lively links between Sardinia’s socio-political elite and
the Bosporus around the time that Constantine was writing, along with hints
as to the particular role Sardinia’s ports may have then played in the imperial
calculus.
The most striking evidence comes from another of Constantine VII’s
works, the ‘Book of Ceremonies’, which Ann Moffatt and Maxene Tall have
made available in scholarly translation. Its protocols for issuing ‘commands’ to
political figures in the central and western Mediterranean begin with the
archon of Sardinia and subsequently list the archontes of Amalfi and Gaeta,
alongside the doukes of Venice and Naples. 44 And the ‘Book of Ceremonies’
contains another text, “the acclamations of the Sardinians chanted for the
emperors”, which seems to have been chanted by a corps of bodyguards,
perhaps a counterpart to the guard of Sardinians at the papal court in Rome. 45
The acclamations call for the increase in victories “of the armies of the Romans
(i.e. Byzantines)” and affirm, “We are servants (douloi) of the emperors!” 46 In the
tenth century the island’s elite consisted of local notables, who were self-
sufficient and prosperous, judging by their commissioning or embellishing of
churches and by inscriptions which commemorated this. Yet they still looked
to the eastern empire for enhancement of their pre-eminence, judging by their
use of Greek as a language of authority on seals and on the inscriptions. Most
of the inscriptions come from the general region of Cagliari, one of the two
excellent harbours on the island. Three inscriptions invoke God’s help for
members of a family of dynasts who favoured the names Torchitorius and
Salusius for its leading figures. The inscriptions describe them by the same
term that one finds in the ‘Book of Ceremonies’ protocols, archon Sardanias, and
at least two generations of the heads of family bore the title of protospatharios. 47
These alignments were tenuous and no imperial administrators or military
43
For Nicholas Mystikos’ letter: Jenkins & Westerink 1973, no. 1, 8-11. On the presence of
archontes on Cyprus, and the taxes rendered to the Constantinopolitan administration and
also to the Muslim authorities, see Jenkins 1953, 1009-10, 1013-14; Oikonomides 1972, 57
line 15 (archōn of Cyprus listed in the Taktikon Uspensky of 842/43); 353-54 (commentary);
Kazhdan 1991, 1.567 (Gregory); Browning 2005, 271-76, 279-84.
44
Reiske 1828, 1, 2.48, 690; Moffatt & Tall 2012, 2.690; Martin 2000, 617-19.
45
Reiske 1828, 1, 2.43, 650-1; Moffatt & Tall 2012, 2.650-51.
46
Reiske 1828, 1, 2.43, 651; Moffatt & Tall 2012, 2.651.
47
Guillou 1996, no. 215, 223, 231; Martin 2000, 635-37; Cosentino 2004, 349-50.
units were stationed on Sardinia permanently. Yet the imperial presence could
abruptly reify, as when Byzantine fleets laid on spectacular shows of force in
the western Mediterranean. Ships equipped with Greek Fire liaised repeatedly
with King Hugh of Arles against the Muslim pirate-base at Fraxinetum (La
Garde-Freinet, near modern St-Tropez). 48 And, in the mid-950s, a force
attacked Naples “by land and sea … so harrying the people of those parts that they
requested to return to Roman yoke and dominion,” reportedly prompting even the
Fraxinetum ‘barbarians’ to send splendid gifts and hostages to the emperor.
These operations could have been helped by the Byzantine enclave at
Taormina, but they probably owed something to safe havens at Cagliari and
Porto Torres and to the active cooperation of the local archontes. 49 They may
have followed the age-old route known as the route des îles, running from the
southern French coast down the west coasts of Corsica and Sardinia to Sicily
and the eastern Mediterranean. 50 One measure of the speed news travelled
along this route is that, according to a Byzantine chronicle, the ruler of Egypt,
“learning of this great victory (of the Byzantines in the region of Naples)
immediately sent letters” to the emperor, proposing the suspension of
hostilities. 51
Such were the benefits Open Cities could confer, giving a cutting edge to
claims of imperial ubiquity. Nikephoros II Phokas was not bluffing outright
when, in 968, he threatened the German emperor’s envoy Liudprand that
warships could sail up to his own bishopric, the town of Cremona in the middle
of the Po River plain. 52 He had, after all, Venetians in his armed services
according to Liudprand, 53 and a generation later Byzantium regularised its
recourse to Venetian naval vessels in an imperial deed granting lower fees on
passage through the Dardanelles in return for Venice’s provision of transports
for shipping troops across the Adriatic, amongst other services. 54 This is
couched in the form of a gracious concession to imperial subjects, and
Byzantine diplomatic form continued to categorise the Venetians as such in
the late twelfth century. An imperial deed of 1189 could even refer to them as
being “not foreigners but native Romans” at a time when, as Paul Magdalino has
pointed out, the Constantinopolitan patriarch was himself Venetian-born and
48
Pertz 1839, 379; Chiesa 1998b, 128, 132. For the Muslims’ activities in Provence, see Bruce
forthcoming.
49
Bekker 1838, 454; Thurn 1973, 266-67. See Gay 1904, 216-17, 246-47; Eickhoff 1966, 329-30;
von Falkenhausen 1978, 83-84; Arthur 2002, 19. Cosentino 2004, 350 very reasonably
suggests that the expeditions against Fraxinetum “were carried out from Sardinia”, and the
Naples expedition may have benefitted similarly.
50
Pryor 1988, 90-91. For the persistence of an imperial presence, in the sense of a
Byzantine-oriented local elite, on the Balearic islands, see Signes Codoñer 2007, esp. 602-04.
51
Bekker 1838, 455.
52
Chiesa 1998c, 33.201.
53
Chiesa 1998c, 45.207.
54
Pozza & Ravegnani 1993, 21-25. See Nicol 1988, 40-42; Koder 1991. See also, for an
important clarification on this text, Jacoby 2009a, 375-76.
22 Jonathan Shepard
joint-operations between the Byzantines and the Venetians in the Levant were
on the drawing-board. 55 Without elaborating on this episode or on broader
questions of Byzantium’s formal sovereignty and de facto leverage over Venice,
one may make an observation. In the DAI, Constantine says hardly anything
about trade in his description of Venice. 56 But he is almost as reticent about the
driving purpose of the annual Rus convoy to Constantinople which he
describes in Chapter 9: trade. 57 As with the Rus, so with the Venetians, it is only
from other texts – treaties and privileges – that we learn of the appeal of the
City’s markets and of the government’s interest in protecting and taxing
transactions there. Open Cities had a part to play in this process, providing
valves for commerce with Constantinople, yet requiring little or no imperial
expenditure on their defence. If Constantine does not spell this out, it is
because he takes it for granted.
Venice was sui generis in the sheer frequency of contacts between its
citizens and Constantinople’s markets from, probably, ca. 800 onward. 58 For
most other Open Cities, especially in the earlier middle ages, contacts with the
capital were more a privilege reserved for select families, with commerce
generally of somewhat lesser consequence. One may glance at urban elites in
two regions from this era, noting the manners they adopted, seemingly in the
belief that these would enhance their status at Constantinople as well as their
‘street credibility’ at home, starting with one close to Venice, the Istrian
peninsula. A text known as the Placitum of Rižana sheds light, being the record
of an enquiry convened by Frankish officials around the year 800. Leading
inhabitants had complained at the behaviour of the Frankish dux and his men
upon taking control there. They held up the relatively light-touch governance
of the Greeks’ day as a model. 59 Court-titles and local social ranking had gone
hand in hand; a foremost member of the Istrian elite had had the privilege of
accompanying the Byzantine governor to Constantinople when he delivered
their taxes, and they did not enjoy similar rights with the Frankish dux. In the
good old days, they claimed, “those wishing for a better title … would travel to his
majesty, who would confer on them the title of consul (hypatos)”. 60 The assertion that
so high a title was virtually available on demand is far-fetched, but the
intimation that Istrian notables were eager to visit the palace in hopes of a
dignity and concomitant trappings is not. The titles had certainly cut ice at
home, as Michael McCormick pointed out: in Istria under Byzantine dominion,
55
Pozza & Ravegnani 1993, 107; Magdalino 2007, 100-05. See now also Penna 2012, 200-03.
56
Emporia are mentioned, without elaboration: DAI, 27.118-19.
57
Only in passing does Constantine VII mention the ‘goods’, including slaves, of the Rus:
DAI, 9.51-2, 56. Constantine was nonetheless clearly aware of the importance of trade to the
Rus: DAI, 2.16-18. See Franklin & Shepard, 119-20; Pushkina & Eniosova 2014 forthcoming.
58
On the upsurge in trade between Venice and the east, see Gelichi forthcoming.
59
Petranović & Margetić 1983/84, 56-69; Ferluga 1978, 149; McCormick 1998, 47-51; Borri
2010, 1-2, 22-24.
60
Petranović & Margetić 1983/84, 62, ll.17-18; 64, ll.40-41, 1-4.
they had determined the sequence in which people had received Holy
Communion, and the pecking-order at dinners and other social highlights. 61
This is the background against which to view the occurrence of titles
like protospatharios on the inscriptions of tenth-century Sardinia. Of course
there are differences, too, notably the fact that Byzantium was collecting taxes
from the Istrians, whereas there does not seem to have been any such
revenue-raising from the Sardinians. A somewhat closer analogy,
geographically as well as conceptually, comes from the Dalmatian towns of the
ninth and tenth century, places like Zadar, Ragusa and Kotor. Byzantine
emperors’ interest in them is expressed clearly by Constantine VII’s DAI. He
recounts how the towns used to pay taxes to imperial governors up to the time
of Basil I, who arranged for them to be paid instead to the Slavs of the
hinterland, by way of keeping the peace and, incidentally, cutting
administrative work and thus achieving low-maintenance. 62 Constantine
regarded the townsmen as fellow-spirits although their everyday language was
Latin, and he even called them Rhomanoi – ‘Romans’, albeit not quite the same
as the Greek-speaking subjects who were under his direct rule, Rhomaioi (see
also Dzino, this volume pp. 95-97). They would seem to have styled themselves
Romani, judging by the Frankish Annals’ use of this label for them in 817. 63 But
Constantine would hardly have paid them the compliment of dubbing them, in
effect, virtual Romans or have supposed that they hailed from cities that had
been sacked by the Avars – Salona and Epidauros for example – unless they put
on a convincing show of Romanitas. Constantine also noted that the numerous
small islands offered good shelter from the winds and, after their fashion, the
finds of Byzantine amphorae from shipwrecks occurring there between the
ninth and twelfth centuries point to quite heavy commercial traffic. 64 We get a
glimpse of the frequency of visits to Constantinople paid by the towns’ leading
citizens and by the Venetians from a work written by a Frankish monk who
travelled along the coast in the mid-ninth century, Gottschalk (Godescalc). 65
He took the frequency for granted and commented on their particular Latin
terminology in describing their experiences at court: “‘we stood before (his)
majesty’ and ‘the royalty said this to us’, and ‘benevolent lordship, have pity upon
us!’” 66 Recounting conversations with ‘his majesty’ seems to have been
customary once one was back home amongst polite society in the Dalmatian
towns and Venice. And judging by the quotations offered by Gottschalk and by
the archaeological evidence, the purpose of these visits was a mixture of
petitioning, socio-political status-seeking, and self-enrichment from gifts and
61
Petranović & Margetić 1983/84, 62, ll.14-17; McCormick 1998, 48-49; Borri 2010, 22.
62
DAI, 30.146-47; Borri 2010, 24 and n.156.
63
Kurze 1895, s.a. 817, 145.
64
DAI, 29.138-39; Brusić 1976, esp. 38-39, 44-48; Borri 2010, 18 and n.121; Radić Rossi 2012,
288-89, 302-03.
65
Borri 2010, 8 and nn.48-50; 20-21. See also Ferluga 1978, 147-49.
66
Lambot 1945, 208.
24 Jonathan Shepard
commercial exchanges (the latter activities being more interchangeable than

some scholars suppose or contemporary practitioners acknowledged).
This is not to say that the position of these Dalmatian urban elites was
identical to that of, say, Sardinia’s, and commerce was probably less central to
their relationship with Byzantium than it was for the Venetians. 67 What they
have in common is a high degree of voluntarism, of positive desire to travel to
Constantinople rather than an obligation or compulsion. As we have already
seen, the notables of Istria wanted to pay their taxes there in person. The
actual amount of taxes payable was 344 solidi mancusi, according to the Placitum
of Rižana, a modest sum in comparison with the scale of taxes in Late
Antiquity, 68 and suggestive of fairly nominal payments, corresponding with
the degree of protection that Byzantium was able to give them. There is, in
other words, a certain ritual quality about the elite’s contacts, and this may,
paradoxically, be registered in the way the Venetians and Dalmatians boasted
about them. In using abstractions like ‘Majesty’ and ‘Benevolent Lordship’ they
were echoing the Byzantines’ own usage (hē basileia hemōn, for example). 69 But
for all the display of respect for the emperor, they were also in effect
attenuating the relationship by treating their ruler as an abstraction, rather
than as a living person. This, at least, is how Gottschalk interpreted their
usage, noting that ‘lordship’ (dominatio) could mean anything in heaven from
God Himself to angels ‘in the sixth class’ and was thus a very vague term. 70
That may be one reason for its appeal to Istrians and Dalmatians, too. It is as if
one were watching the functioning of a sort of club, for which the membership
fee is not inordinately high and where benefits look rather intangible to an
outsider’s eye, with an apparently non-executive chairman – yet a club which
could yield all kinds of advantages to those knowing how to work, or bend, the
unwritten rules. This seems to me the essence of the relationship of Open
Cities with the imperial capital, with the low-maintenance empire offering
minimal protection and leaving the cities largely to fend for themselves.
Occasionally, when a powerful outsider threatened to overturn the status quo
irreparably, the emperor might intervene, as he did in sending fleets against
the Franks in the northern Adriatic in the early ninth century, operations that
were, eventually, effective in so far as they led to the treaty of Aachen in 812. 71
Such undertakings were rare, but a would-be predator could never be sure that
the empire would not strike back, or abruptly reconstitute itself in the face of
military disasters like the loss of most of Sicily and the impending fall to the
Muslims of Syracuse. The shift to the mainland is surely a vintage example of
flexible geometry, and the expeditionary force operating there in the 870s
67
Note, though, the seemingly valuable boat mentioned in the 918 testament of Andrew,
prior of Zadar: Kostrenčić 1967, 27; Borri 2010, 20 n.136.
68
Petranović & Margetić 1983/84, 62, l.3; Borri 2010, 23-24.
69
Petranović & Margetić 1983/84, 62, l.18; Lambot 1945, 208; Borri 2010, 23.
70
Lambot 1945, 208; Borri 2010, 23.
71
Nicol 1988, 15-19. See contributions to Ančić, Vedriš & Shepard forthcoming.
benefitted from having the good-will, and the transport vessels, of elites in
Open Cities on the other side of the Adriatic. 72
It is tempting to pursue these topics through later centuries, considering
how the imperial capital maintained its allure even as new resource-centres
and powers emerged to qualify Byzantium’s hegemony. From the central
medieval period come the liveliest illustrations of what made goings-on at
court the talk of the town in Dalmatian, Istrian, Sardinian and, probably, other
Open Cities. There is, for instance, the acrobatic entertainment alongside
feasting with Emperor Constantine VIII that captivated Liudprand of Cremona,
as he recorded in his Tit-for-Tat; 73 or the sheer hedonism in John the Deacon’s
report of the wedding celebrated in 1004/5 in the Great Palace between the
Venetian Doge’s eldest son, John Orseolo, and Maria, a Byzantine girl of noble
birth. The emperors Basil II and Constantine VII acted as sponsors, placing
golden wedding crowns on the heads of John and Maria Argyropoulaina after
the Constantinopolitan patriarch had performed the marriage ceremony, and
then taking the pair to a splendid hall. They: “busied themselves in seeing to this
wedding-feast so sumptuously and delightfully that they did not, as family fellow-
celebrants, absent themselves for three whole days.” 74 After lavish gift-giving, the
happy couple withdrew to the palace which the ‘beautiful bride’ had received
as a dowry and soon she was pregnant, giving birth to a son ‘not many days’
after they arrived in Venice. 75 Such was the impression of earthly pleasures
enjoyed under heavenly blessing that John the Deacon, a counsellor of the
Doge, sought to purvey about life in the Great Palace.
Care was taken to offer the produce of many regions at feasts,
symbolising dominion over earth, sea and sky, in line with Cassiodorus’
recommendation in the sixth century that a king should serve all manner of
marvels at his table, including “fish from diverse ends of the earth”: “it behoves a
king to feed in such a way that he may be believed by foreign envoys to possess almost
everything”. 76 Corippus’ encomium for Emperor Justin II lists all the wines at his
table, concluding: “who will tell of all that the world brings forth for her rulers, all the
provinces that are subject to the Roman empire?” 77 The feasting carried on through
the twelfth century, with exotic fare served up for visitors, as witness
Eustathios of Thessalonica’s account of panic in the imperial kitchens, when
they received a peremptory order from the emperor to lay on a wedding-feast
at dead of night. Relief arrived from a nearby monastery in the form of
72
See Gay 1904, 91-96; von Falkenhausen 1978, 20-21; Ferluga 1978, 150-67.
73
Chiesa 1998b, 148-49.
74
Monticolo 1890, 168; Nicol 1988, 45-46.
75
Monticolo 1890, 169.
76
Fridh 1973, Book 12,12.4, 467.
77
Cameron 1976, Book 3, ll.103-04, 64 (text), 104 (tr.); see also Malmberg 2007, 76.
26 Jonathan Shepard
quantities of food and wine, including red and black caviar from the river
Don. 78
The impetuous emperor who ordered the feast, Manuel I Komnenos, was
still drawing outsiders to his court through traditional feasts, alongside new
entertainments like jousting, 79 and one can discern familiar outlines of the
strategy of Open Cities in his support for the Lombard communes against
Emperor Frederick I Barbarossa. Manuel maintained direct contacts with
factions and families on such a scale that, according to Niketas Choniates,
“there was not a town in Italy … where (Manuel) did not have his own agent and
sympathisers”, for example, in Pisa, Genoa, Milan and also Liudprand’s former
see, Cremona. 80 Just after the foundation of the Lombard League, envoys from
Milan on a mission to Constantinople appeared ready to take an oath of fealty
to Manuel and in 1167 he sent money to fund rebuilding of Milan’s walls, after
Barbarossa had destroyed them. 81 Manuel behaved in Italy as he did in the
Dalmatian towns where he was remembered “not as an exactor of tribute but as a
most generous dispenser of his wealth,” according to Thomas of Spalato. 82 Even in
Manuel’s negotiations with Pope Alexander III one can discern outlines of a
traditional policy of trying to keep Rome an Open City, notionally subject to
the basileus, but de facto left to the papacy and Roman families to oversee.
Giving up Rome alongside Ravenna had been demanded of Otto I’s envoy,
Liudprand, in 968, in return for a Porphyrogenitan bride for Otto’s son. 83 In the
1160s Manuel seems to have been aiming for some sort of Union with the
papacy, recognition as ‘emperor of the Romans’ in return for accepting papal
headship over the church. 84 Manuel nurtured contacts with Roman noble
families, marrying his own niece to Odo, a member of a highly influential
Roman dynasty, the Frangipane, in 1170. 85 Manuel, Alexander III and the
Frangipane had a common interest in keeping third parties like the German
emperor out of Rome. From this point of view, Manuel’s floating of the notion
of Church Union with the papacy was merely a variant of the policy of Open
Cities: he had no intention of actually taking up residence in Rome.
For all Manuel’s virtuosity in applying this policy to elites in the
Lombard communes and Rome, circumstances were changing, and the impact
of court-receptions and marriage-ties diminished. Manuel had to rely on
outright gifts of gold and other valuables, as when envoys of ‘various Lombard
78
Metzler 2006, 78-81. See Jacoby 2009b, 350-51. Requisitioning commodities and craftsmen
to supplement imperial resources ad hoc was a tradition in Constantinople: Herrin 2013,
168-69.
79
Jones & Maguire 2002.
80
Van Dieten 1975, 201.
81
Van Dieten 1975, 200; Magdalino 1993, 83-84; Raccagni 2010, 133.
82
Klaić 1967, 121; Magdalino 1993, 90.
83
Chiesa 1998c, 15.194.
84
Magdalino 1993, 83-92.
85
Pertz 1866, 286; Magdalino 1993, 84, 89; Bucossi 2009, 125.
cities’ arrived to declare that they were considering submitting to his

authority. According to the Chronicle of Laon, he “received (them) with great joy,
rewarded them imperially and declared that if they put this into effect, he would double
all their chattels.” 86 Even this generosity did not prevent them from
reconsidering their offer, consulting with Pope Alexander, and then retracting
their fealty. One might investigate these changes further, and consider the
implications for an empire whose strength had lain in being deliberately low-
maintenance. Taxes on the internal population were high in Manuel’s reign
and, soon afterwards, tax-payers’ revolts broke out. But the notion of Open
Cities was not yet obsolete. Across the Black Sea on the Straits of Kerch, the
cities of Tmutarakan and Bosporus seem to fit our criteria well enough.
Tmutarakan was, according to the well-informed Arabic geographer, al-Idrisi,
large and very prosperous, under the rule of ‘powerful princes’, but constantly
at war with the inhabitants of Bosporus (Rūsīa), across the Straits. 87 The
imperial presence seems to have been minimal, confined to an agent resident
somewhere near the Straits, perhaps accompanied by a small staff. We learn of
this presence from a letter of Michael Choniates from around 1180, written to
his friend, who held the post of tax-collector there. 88 There was clearly no
question of the agent being able to keep the peace, judging by the constant
strife between Tmutarakan and Bosporus, presumably reflecting commercial
rivalries. Yet this does not seem to have precluded general prosperity any
more than did the rivalries between neighbouring communes in Italy. The
archaeological data of amphorae, glazed ware and glass from Tmutarakan is
consistent with literary evidence of caviar from the River Don being plentiful
in Constantinople at this time: the shortage in the imperial kitchens was
exceptional and the neighbouring monastery was not the only religious house
to be overflowing with the stuff, judging by a satirical poem. 89 More strikingly,
the emperor could still get his way on issues of commercial and strategic
importance on the Straits. The chrysobull of Manuel I Komnenos of 1169
bestowing privileges on the Genoese granted them access to nearly all parts of
the empire. But Genoese merchantmen’s access to the two ports on the Straits
of Kerch was explicitly denied and, despite their later attempts to gain
permission to sail through the Straits, the Genoese were still being debarred in
1192. 90 Presumably, one or two imperial agents with the assistance of the
‘powerful princes’ of Tmutarakan or of boats and crews from elsewhere hired
on-the-spot sufficed to conjure up force majeure and deny access to the Straits
86
Waitz 1882, 446; Magdalino 1993, 84.
87
Jaubert 1840, 395, 400-01; Konovalova 2001, 129-35; Konovalova 1999, 168-71.
88
Kolovou 2001, 5-6.
89
For the archaeological data on the presence of Byzantine artefacts at Tmutarakan,
indicating lively commercial exchanges, see Makarova 1963, 78-94; Shchapova 1963;
Pletneva 2003, 176-78. For the satirical poem, see Eideneier 1991, 4, ll.325-26; 4, l.93; 157, 144
(text); 208, 201 (tr.); Jacoby 2009b, 350-51. See also above, n.78.
90
Miklosich & Müller 1865, 35. See also Jacoby 2007, 677-82, 697-99.
28 Jonathan Shepard
to unwelcome third parties. Here, then, were the mechanics of the Open City
still at work at a strategically significant chokepoint in the later twelfth
century.
Emperors’, and other peoples’, boats

The importance of boats to the various branches of diplomacy under
consideration is more or less self-evident. Foremost among their roles was that
of speedily conveying supplies and reinforcements to bunkers in emergencies,
besides the instructions and wherewithal for negotiating with external
potentates and offering gifts; and, secondly, that of keeping in touch with
members of such elites as were accessible by sea or waterway. The role of boats
in the Byzantine body politic is liable to be underestimated because their toing
and froing was too routine to attract comment in narrative sources. But the
handbook for instructing his son that Constantine VII composed in the mid-
tenth century bespeaks close attention to the subject. Roughly half the section
on home affairs is to do with boats, more precisely the command of boats: who
had outmanoeuvred whom in jockeying for command of the emperor’s galleys,
and the interplay between promotion to these and commands in the war
fleet. 91 Constantine makes clear that appointments to the imperial yacht were
highly charged, with personal loyalty to the emperor at a premium. Thus he
relates how, “when a crisis arose”, Leo VI seconded the oarsmen of his two
galleys to active service on warships and later promoted one of the steersmen
to a very senior command because of his courage, “and particularly … (his)
affection and unswerving loyalty towards the emperor.” 92
Constantine VII’s DAI is more concerned with boatmen and their
loyalties than with precise types of boat, and this close attention to the crews
is reflected in Byzantine naval terminology, which used the word ousia for
‘crew’ so often that modern scholars sometimes took it to mean a type of
boat. 93 Constantine VII’s implication is that a ‘special boat service’ was at the
emperor’s disposal, involving boats of various kinds which hand-picked crews
could operate ad hoc. Merchantmen for conveying bulky goods or warriors
could be commandeered, and one gains an idea of what was available from the
wrecks recently found in the Harbour of Theodosius, quite near the Great
Palace. They were up to 6 metres at the beam, and one was 18 metres long,
suggesting considerable carrying capacity. 94 Constantine’s interest in oarsmen
implies frequent use of rowboats, raising the broader question of whether the
two banks of rowers in the Byzantines’ swift two-masted warship, the dromon,
91
See, in particular, on the commander (‘captain-general’) of the Mardaïtes: DAI, 51; 50.240-
-43. See also DAI, 51.246-57.
92
DAI, 51.250-51.
93
For the usage of ousia to mean a ship’s crew, rather than a physical ship, see Pryor &
Jeffreys 2006, 255-60.
94
Kocabaş 2008, 168, 152 (specific vessels), 99-102 (general discussion and introduction). See
also now Kocabaş 2012, 317-18.
could, in fair weather, match the speeds of their forebears rowing two-banked
triremes. The indications of remarkable speeds in antique sources – for
example, the ‘long day’s rowing’ that took a boat some 129 sea-miles from the
city of Byzantium to Heraclea, according to Xenophon – seem to be regaining
plausibility, now that the flaws in the ‘Olympias’, a reconstructed model, have
become apparent. 95 Oarsman ship approaching this speed could explain
Constantine’s presupposition that very many communications would be by
water. One should also take into account the use in the earlier medieval
Mediterranean of sailing-boats that could hold the sea in rough weather and
tack into the wind. As I understand it, boats with square sails or, indeed,
lateen-settee rigs could manage 4-6 knots in favourable winds, with a
maximum of up to 12 knots. 96
Rather than dabbling further in these dangerous waters, one may offer
three general remarks leading back to the chokepoints and Open Cities. Firstly,
emperors were able to act fast, putting boats at the service of apparently well-
disposed potentates, as when in 932 Romanos I sent warships (chelandia) to
Rome together with an invitation to Marozia, the ‘mistress’ of the city. He
suggested, in a letter addressed to her son, Pope John XI, that she might care to
embark with her daughter and attend the latter’s wedding to the emperor’s
own son in Constantinople, and then return home with an ‘outstanding
honour’ and ‘our richest gifts’. 97 And emperors made a habit of assigning a
modest complement of crews and ships to trouble spots, both to gain
information and to nip trouble in the bud. A snapshot comes from
memorandums drawn up in 949 for the expeditionary force sent to Crete.
Some 100 vessels of the imperial fleet were assigned for the invasion, but ten
vessels and crews were assigned to stations off the bunker of Dyrrachium, the
Open Cities of Dalmatia, and the Calabrian coast, clearly because of their
strategic significance. 98 The knack of assigning a unit or two – numbers seem
often to have been very small – to the right place at the right time almost
scored an extraordinary coup for imperial diplomacy in 982. The German
emperor Otto II had invaded southern Italy, ostensibly to deal with Muslim
pirates and cross over into Sicily, but really so as to occupy Calabria, too.
Aware of this, the Byzantine government took steps to monitor developments.
It is no accident that a chelandion was cruising near Reggio di Calabria when
Otto was ambushed by the Muslims and had to ride out into the sea and board
the nearest ship. The Byzantine captain discovered his true identity and made
ready to sail straight to Constantinople. Otto successfully pleaded for his wife
to be allowed to accompany him, and the boat made for Rossano to collect her.
But as they neared the port, Otto dived overboard and swam to dry land. 99 He
95
Xenophon, Anabasis 6.4.2; Tilley 2012, 196; Tilley 2004, 47-49. See also Casson 1995, 281-88.
96
Whitewright 2012, 11-12 and Tables 1-2.
97
Darrouzès & Westerink 1978, 40; Shepard 1992, 52.
98
Reiske 1828, Vol. 1, 2.45, 664; Moffatt & Tall 2012, 2.664; Haldon 2000, 218-19.
99
Holtzmann 1935, 124, 126.
30 Jonathan Shepard
thus narrowly avoided a spell of virtual captivity in Constantinople, and

humiliation. One may note a perhaps more significant, if shadowy, feat a
century later. In 1090/91 the Pechenegs were menacing Constantinople. This
may well have been the time when the emperor’s brother-in-law, Michael
Doukas, made contact with a distant group of even more ferocious nomads, the
Cumans, judging by the find of one of his seals at the Straits of Kerch, not far
from their grazing-grounds. 100 Whether Michael went there in person or
merely sent letters is unclear, but the former is conceivable, given the gravity
of the situation. At any rate, Michael was alongside the emperor, Alexios I
Komnenos, and well-prepared to meet and liaise with the main horde of
Cumans when they arrived in southern Thrace early in 1091. 101 They soon fell
upon the Pechenegs and inflicted a crushing defeat, at the battle of Lebounion.
Without attempting to reconstruct the course of events precisely, one may see
this as an instance of boats and imperial agents implementing imperial wishes,
the extensive checks and balances being in line with what the DAI had
envisaged in the mid-tenth century. 102
Michael Doukas and his master, Alexios Komnenos, sprang into action
like this because a land-and-sea assault on Constantinople looked on the cards.
Anna Komnena reports that the Pechenegs were in league with the Turkish
emir, Çaka, who had seized Smyrna and marshalled a sizable fleet. He seems to
have constructed or commandeered some 200 vessels which he planned to sail
into the Sea of Marmara. 103 Here was the nightmare scenario that Byzantine
diplomacy strove to forestall. The prosperity of the eleventh century meant
that large fleets – of whatever precise type of boat – were getting easier to
assemble, both in the Byzantine provinces and beyond. This brings us to a
second remark, a reaffirmation of the Byzantines’ appreciation of chokepoints
– to deny potential enemies the means of establishing themselves at strategic
locations by the sea. The DAI’s details about the Dnieper Rapids illustrate this,
as does the 944 Russo-Byzantine treaty’s ban on the Rus from wintering in the
Dnieper estuary and thus potentially creating a base for themselves. 104 And, as
seen above (p. 27), the Open Cities of Bosporus and Tmutarakan were playing a
comparable role at the end of the twelfth century, although now their aim was
to keep the Genoese out of an economically valuable region, rather than trying
to regulate Rus access to the Black Sea. In fact, Genoa, Pisa and Venice
themselves served as chokepoints in persistently maintaining their own
autonomy in the face of external powers like the Franks and the Germans. On
the whole, their defiance of bumptious masters such as the Ottos converged
100
Bulgakova 2004, 102-03.
101
Reinsch & Kambylis 2001, 8.4.1-6, Vol. 1, 243-45; Bulgakova 2004, 103-04. At the time of
issuing this seal, Michael held the title of sebastos. See also Shepard 2013b, 226-30.
102
Shepard 2013b, 230.
103
Reinsch & Kambylis 2001, 8.3.2, Vol. 1, 241; letter of Alexios I to Robert I, Count of
Flanders, in Hagenmeyer 1901, 133; Shepard 1988, 107-08; Frankopan 2012, 58-61.
104
DAI, 9.58-61; Adrianova-Peretts & Likhachev 1996, 25.
with Byzantine strategic thinking: hence the two chapters Constantine VII’s
handbook devotes to Venice’s geography and its citizens’ resistance against
the Carolingians. 105 By fostering the elites of Open Cities, or at least some
members of their leading families, the emperor was effectively protecting
Constantinople, seeing that only a well-equipped fleet such as the Venetians’
had any chance of capturing it. In other words, largesse towards these
maritime cities could save the imperial treasury all the expense and risk of
maintaining garrisons in them. This largesse could take the form of reducing
the fees their merchants had to pay, as Basil II’s privilege for the Venetians did
in 992. In stipulating that Venetians must ship troops across to Italy, as and
when required, 106 Basil was effectively outsourcing a function that Byzantine
vessels would otherwise have had to perform.
This brings us to a third remark. Maritime Open Cities could themselves
perform ‘special boat services’ for the imperial government, whether as
carriers of envoys and messengers or as transporters of troops and materiel.
Emperor Theophilos assigned this role to the Venetians in 840, in a bid to
prevent the Muslims from seizing Bari. He sent an envoy, Theodosios
Baboutzikos, to persuade the Doge to marshal a war fleet and it may have been
under Theodosios’ directions that the Venetians ‘strove to complete’ work on
two chelandia for service alongside their own craft. 107 By the late eleventh
century Byzantium was having to tempt the Venetians into providing naval aid
against the Normans with generous exemptions from customs. 108 But there was
a rationale of cost-effectiveness to this, and until that time Byzantium had
shown remarkable agility in harnessing apparently menacing seafarers like the
Rus to its own interests. And, as noted above (pp. 21-22), as late as 1189 Isaac II
Angelos negotiated an agreement with the Venetians which would, had it
come to fruition, have put the Byzantines in control of the coastline of the
Levant, while the Venetians handled the commerce. A flexible-geometry
empire maintained through aligning the self-interest of a motley assortment
of Open Cities and their respective elites with the emperor’s wishes could still
abruptly conjure up material naval resources. Indeed, the practice resurfaced
after Michael VIII Palaiologos’ restoration of the empire to Constantinople in
1261, when he effectively outsourced naval duties to the Open City that had
shown itself willing to help bring this about, Genoa. 109 The later thirteenth and
earlier fourteenth centuries saw the functioning of yet another Open City,
105
DAI, 27; 28.116-19, 118-21.
106
Pozza & Ravegnani 1993, 24. See above, p. 21.
107
Monticolo 1890, 115; Jacoby 2009a, 373 and n.12; Shepard 2011b, 699-700.
108
Pozza & Ravegnani 1993, 36-45. The precise date of the extant (Latin) text granting the
Venetians privileges is not of prime concern here. Concessions, if issued at the time of the
Norman invasion of 1082, could have been amplified and renewed in 1092: see Nicol 1988,
59-61; Borsari 1988, 135-38; Jacoby 2002; Angold 2008, 625, n.35; Frankopan 2012, 76-77.
109
See on the Treaty of Nymphaion ratified between the emperor and Genoa, Geanakoplos
1959, 81-91; Nicol 1993, 33-34.
32 Jonathan Shepard
more or less under Genoese management while paying due respects to

Bulgarian kings and Tatar khans, and housing a Byzantine metropolitan:
Vicina, in the Danube delta. One cannot review here Vicina’s history or the
ways in which its metropolitan – of a see newly raised to that status – served
imperial policy, even recruiting an army of Alans for service with Andronikos
II Palaiologos around 1301. 110 But the episode testifies to the ability of Open
Cities and indeed of their boats to serve Byzantine diplomacy effectively, even
after the imperial fleet had been scrapped, as it was by Emperor Andronikos. 111
Conclusion: the components of a variable-geometry empire

We have not touched upon communications by land, which could, of course, be
rapid. But the dynamics of interaction with landlubbers were different from
those with our elites and peripheral bunkers. And we should admit the
looseness of the labels used: bunkers could slip into being Open Cities, and
back again, as was the case with Cherson. 112 But all this goes to show the
workings of flexible geometry and a certain reluctance to hold onto territories
at any price, implicit in the running of a low-maintenance empire. Byzantium
was geared to this from the sixth century onwards, its leadership encouraging
barbarians to make contact and to visit Constantinople through the fluid
mechanics of boats plying between Constantinople, bunkers and Open Cities.
Thanks to this, Byzantium was able to ebb and flow with the unstoppable tides
around it for a remarkably long time, appealing to external elites and
commercial entrepreneurs by, for example, the offer of court status and
symbols, as indicated in the Placitum of Rižana and by Gottschalk regarding the
Istrians and the Dalmatian townsmen (above, pp. 23-24). There was little
attempt to impose a binding system on them, and this seems to me key to the
effectiveness of Byzantium’s diplomacy, and to the resilience of its empire. In a
sense, Byzantium held out access to a club for the aspirational potentates,
elites and individuals of the world around, if not a Commonwealth
encompassing entire societies and peoples. 113
The essential constants of ‘good form’ (taxis), imperial order and correct
forms and formulae of worship were upheld ceremonially and liturgically in
Constantinople, the ‘God-protected city’, while ecclesiastical and monastic
libraries in and around the capital contained texts to vindicate the principal
tenets of the Byzantines’ profession of faith. The solemn enactment and
celebration of this ideal order went on unceasingly in the ‘Queen of Cities’, and
in the streets and churches as well as behind the walls of the emperor’s palace-
complexes. Glimpses of and even formal admission to this microcosm were
110
On Vicina’s location and commercial and ecclesiastical significance, see Todorova 1984,
esp. 428-41, 458-59; Atanasov 2007, 328. For the episode involving the Alans, see Failler
1999, 4.336-39; Schopen & Bekker 1829, 1.204-05; Shepard 2012, 71.
111
Failler 1999, 3.80-83; Schopen & Bekker 1830, 2.174-76, 208-09; Nicol 1993, 107-08.
112
See above, n.30.
113
For the thesis of a Byzantine Commonwealth, see Obolensky 1971.
available to those outsiders who appeared deserving – or simply useful – to the

imperial Establishment, or who had affiliations with eastern Christian religious
ways. The outsiders’ focus ranged from abstract, spiritual concerns to
downright earthly matters and opportunities for trading, mostly under the
auspices of the imperial authorities, who themselves represented all the
advantages of hierarchy and rule of law. 114 For all the apparent fixedness of the
hierarchy, especially in the ‘club-house’ of Constantinople, and the elements of
force majeure that the bunkers and boats could abruptly apply, membership of
the club was to a considerable extent voluntary. And the uses or adaptations
which local elites and Open Cities made of the dignities, symbols and gifts
received from the basileus were mostly for them to decide. At the same time,
the imperial authorities were in practice ready to make quite generous
allowances for local customs and tastes. This was partly for practical reasons
arising from employment of local craftsmen and decorators, as with
fortifications in sixth-century Spain or the ‘beautification’ of a church in
eleventh-century Georgia. 115 But emperors were, on occasion, prepared to
cater quite fulsomely for the stylistic predilections and cultural norms of other
societies, including the elites of Open Cities. This is best attested in
Byzantium’s later centuries as, for example, by the design and narrative
content of one of the first silks sent by Michael VIII to the Genoese in
accordance with the Treaty of Nymphaion ratified in 1261. 116 The silk’s
iconography and message of divine protection and leadership mediated
through the emperor is largely Byzantine. But the focus is on the Genoese
cathedral of San Lorenzo, and on the (imaginary) entry of the emperor into the
building, ushered in by the church’s patron saint, St Lawrence. 117 Not only are
the inscriptions of the textile in Latin, executed in gothic uncial script: they
denote Michael as “lord emperor of the Greeks (Grecorum)”, in breach of the
Byzantines’ reservation for themselves of the name ‘Romans’. This has given
rise to the suggestion that Latin craftsmen may have carried out the
inscriptions. 118 Indeed, without the quite full literary data bearing on this silk,
one would be hard-put to determine its place of manufacture, given the
‘influences from diverse cultural traditions, and an artistic lingua franca whose
elements can be traced in a number of comparanda from Byzantine and
Western illuminated manuscripts, wall paintings, carvings and mosaic
cycles.’ 119
Such instances of the survival of both material objects and of texts
recounting the circumstances in which they were made and then given to
external individuals or powers are very few indeed. This scarcity, compounded
114
Shepard 2013a.
115
See above, nn.17, 40.
116
Treaty of Nymphaion (Latin text) in Manfroni 1898, 795; Geanakoplos 1959, 89 and n.64.
117
Toth & Grabačić 2011, 100-04, 92-93; Fig. 6 on 101.
118
Johnstone 1976, 102, 107.
119
Toth & Grabačić 2011, 102.
34 Jonathan Shepard
by possible eclecticism in the design of goods sent from the imperial court,
complicates the task of art-historians and archaeologists at work on objects or
visual imagery coming to light in places that are far from Constantinople and
have only tenuous-looking links with the empire. Apparent anomalies in
iconography and miscellanies of motifs and techniques are a feature of several
contributions to this volume. The permutations of visual styles and imagery
from places on Byzantium’s periphery and beyond often defy tracing to a
specific centre or tradition of painting and manufacture. But they may offer, in
their kaleidoscopic variety, some illustration of the workings of a variable-
geometry empire, and of the incessant operations and compromises with
outsiders that bunkers, Open Cities and boats made possible.
35
Bunkers, open cities and boats
Map 1: Some Bunkers, Open Cities and Chokepoints*

* This map does not purport to offer a comprehensive guide to Bunkers or Open Cities, being mainly intended to show places and strategic points
mentioned in the text. It is diachronic, ranging from the sixth to the fourteenth centuries, so as to illustrate the empire’s ‘variable geometry’ and
affiliations. The status of places fluctuated over time, and some alternated between the roles of ‘Monumental Bunker’ and ‘Open City’, for example,
Cherson.
36 Jonathan Shepard
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Imperial ideology and commemorative culture 45
Caillan Davenport
University of Queensland, Brisbane
Imperial ideology and commemorative culture in the Eastern Roman

Empire, 284-450 CE *
Introduction
In the Roman world, the qualities and virtues of the emperors, and the benefits
of imperial rule, were expressed through a variety of texts and media, such as
edicts, laws, panegyrics, coins, statues, and inscriptions. 1 The existence of an
ideological justification for imperial rule was not unique to the Roman
emperors or their successors in Byzantium; such a system of ideals played a
significant part in maintaining empires throughout world history. 2 Given the
longevity of the Roman imperial state in its various manifestations from the
Augustan principate through to the Byzantine period, imperial ideology was
not static or unchanging, but underwent constant evolution, adapting to
different political, cultural, and religious circumstances. 3 This paper will
examine one manifestation of this ideological system, namely the erection of
commemorative statues in honour of emperors, accompanied by inscriptions
praising their virtues. The material to be examined will be limited
chronologically to focus on the period 284-450, and geographically to the
predominantly Greek-speaking provinces of the eastern empire, which
stretched in an arc from Thrace and Greece through Asia Minor, Syria and
Egypt. The chronological limits of the study take us from the accession of
Diocletian to the death of Theodosius II. This was a period in which many
familiar features of the Byzantine world emerged, notably the establishment of
a separate court at Constantinople, and the reconfiguration of the city’s urban
*
Standard abbreviations are used for epigraphic corpora, e.g. CIL=Corpus Inscriptionum
Latinarum, AE=L’Année épigraphique. References to the Last Statues of Antiquity database
laststatues.classics.ox.ac.uk (last access 12/8/2014) are by entry number and author, e.g.
LSA 4 (M. Bergmann), except where the entries are merely listed for statistical purposes. All
dates are CE unless otherwise noted. I would like to thank Dr. Meaghan McEvoy and Mr.
Christopher Mallan for their helpful advice and comments on this paper.
1
For the early empire, see Charlesworth 1937; Béranger 1953; Alföldi 1970; Wallace-Hadrill
1981; Noreña 2001; 2009; 2011. For Late Antiquity and Byzantium: Grabar 1936; MacCormack
1981; McCormick 1986; Kolb 2001; Dagron 2003.
2
Ando 2000; Hopkins 2009; cf. Lendon 2006, who offers a different perspective on the
legitimization of authority. For imperial systems in general, see Münkler 2007, 84-96;
Goldstone & Haldon 2009, 10-15.
3
Zimmerman 2003; Noreña 2011, 37-117.
46 Caillan Davenport
and ceremonial landscape to accommodate the imperial regime. 4 The eastern

provinces have been selected not only because they formed the core of the
later Byzantine state, but also because they possessed a particularly strong
commemorative culture inherited from the classical and Hellenistic poleis. In
this region, the ethos of reciprocal benefaction between the individual and the
state was articulated in monumental form through the inscribing of honorific
decrees and the erection of statues for local benefactors, provincial governors,
and Roman emperors. 5 As a consequence of these long-standing cultural
practices, the epigraphic and statue habits were much more vibrant in the
eastern provinces than in the west during Late Antiquity, with the notable
exceptions of Italy and North Africa. 6
In examining the erection of statues and inscriptions for emperors in
the eastern provinces, I wish to highlight the diverse interpretations of
imperial ideology that could exist within the larger commemorative culture of
the region. Imperial ideology was in reality a multivalent system that was
interpreted and refashioned by a series of agents throughout the empire. Coins
proclaiming imperial achievements and virtues might be regarded as messages
from the imperial regime, but the emperor is unlikely to have commissioned
all coin types personally, so there would have been significant levels of
independent judgment on the part of the mint officials. 7 Orators who delivered
panegyrics in honour of emperors, regardless of whether they were senators
or professional rhetoricians, did not necessarily act as mouthpieces of
propaganda, but reconfigured the messages of imperial ideology anew
depending on their audiences. 8 The same principles can be applied to the
erection of honorific statues for emperors, and the composition of the
inscriptions listing imperial titles, epithets, virtues and achievements that
accompanied them. These monuments were the product of local responses to
the ideological messages promulgated by the central administration. 9 I
4
Senate and administration: Heather 1994; 1998; Skinner 2000; 2008. Urban landscape and
ceremonial: Mayer 2002, 105-74; Croke 2010. Any date for the beginning of the Byzantine
empire will be artificial, regardless of whether one selects Constantine, Theodosius II, or
Justinian (among several possible options). For discussion, see Millar 2006, 4; Haldon 2009,
208.
5
Gauthier 1985; Rosen 1987; McLean 2000, 215-45; Ma 2007. For the continuance of this
practice in the late Roman period, see Robert 1948; Roueché 1997; Slootjes 2006, 129-53.
6
The classic work on the rise and fall of the ‘epigraphic habit’ is MacMullen 1982. More
recently, scholars have emphasised different epigraphic ‘habits’ in regions of the empire
(e.g. Bodel 2001, 6-7). For the epigraphic culture in the east, see Mango 1986; Roueché 1997;
2000; Van Nijf 2000, and on the statue habit Smith et al. 2006, 19-28.
7
See Noreña 2001; 2011 on coins and imperial virtues in general, Wallace-Hadrill 1986 on
Augustus, Wolters 2003 on the first century, and Manders 2012 on the period 193-284. On
coinage, note especially Levick 1982; 1999; Sutherland 1986; Bruun 1999; Ando 2000, 215-28.
8
Nixon & Rodgers 1994, 26-33.
9
Noreña 2011, 190-297. For individual case studies, see Frei-Stolba 1969; Witschel 2002;
Niquet 2003; Alföldy 2003; and, for imperial statue bases, Høtje 2005.
propose to examine the diverse interpretations of imperial ideology in Late

Antiquity through four case studies focusing on statues and inscriptions in the
eastern provinces: (i) the four statue monuments erected in honour of the
Tetrarchs; (ii) the role of the provincial governor as a mediator of ideology; (iii)
the choice of honorific epithets for emperors, and their Greek and Latin forms;
and (iv) a comparison of commemorative patterns in the eastern and western
regions of the empire.
The Tetrarchs: Images and inscriptions

In the first section of the paper, I will examine inscriptions and statues erected
during the years 284-324, the so-called ‘Tetrarchic period’ (even though the
empire was not consistently ruled by a college of four emperors). Today, the
most familiar image of Diocletian and his colleagues – the ‘First Tetrarchy’
(293-305) – is the porphyry group that stands in St Mark’s Square in Venice. 10
The statues depict the four emperors in identical fashion, wearing the pilleus
Pannonicus and army dress, their artistic similitudo acting as the outward
manifestation of their political and military concordia. 11 Although the St Mark’s
Tetrarchs found their way to Venice from Constantinople, where they had
been adapted to represent the sons of Constantine, their original location is
generally assumed to have been Nicomedia, Diocletian’s residence in Asia
Minor. 12 Provincial audiences would have been confronted with manifestations
of imperial power in other Tetrarchic ‘capitals’, such as Thessaloniki in Greece,
home to Galerius’ monumental arch, which commemorated his victories
against the Persians in the context of the Tetrarchic system. 13 One of the most
prominent monuments attesting the unity of the Tetrarchs was actually in
Rome. Even though the city was little visited by the emperors themselves, it
remained the ideological heart of the empire. 14 In commemoration of the
vicennalia of the Augusti and the decennalia of the Caesars in 303, the imperial
rostra in the forum Romanum was crowned with five columns, four of which held
statues of the emperors, and the fifth, a statue of Jupiter. 15 The display
functioned as a monumentalisation of Tetrarchic concordia, and its sanction by
Jupiter, Diocletian’s divine benefactor. 16
It is particularly striking that the ideology of collegiate rule was not
restricted to these imperial ‘capitals’, but was promulgated by a series of ‘four
10
LSA 4, 439 (M. Bergmann); L’Orange 1984, 103. Cf. Laubscher 1999, 235-37, who identifies
the group as a representation of the Second Tetrarchy.
11
L’Orange 1984, 3-10; Rees 1993, 182-83; Laubscher 1999, 214-19. The statues were
undoubtedly imperial commissions, carved with porphyry from state-owned quarries in
Egypt: Smith 1999, 183.
12
Verzone 1958; Laubscher 1999, 224-25; Mayer 2002, 167; Nelson 2007, 148-50.
13
Makaronas 1970; Pond Rothman 1977; Leadbetter 2009, 93-98.
14
Hekster 1999.
15
L’Orange 1938; Coarelli 1999, 27-30; Mayer 2002, 176-80.
16
Bardill 2012, 72.
statue monuments’ erected in cities throughout the empire. 17 These

monuments varied in structure and scale; their one common feature is that
they were composed of statues of all four members of the imperial college. The
bases that supported the statues were inscribed with the names and titles of
the emperors, their unofficial and official epithets, and the name of the
dedicating authority, usually the provincial governor. Such an arrangement is
found at Ephesus in Asia Minor, where the proconsul of Asia, Iunius
Tiberianus, erected statues of Diocletian and his colleagues in front of the
Temple of Hadrian. 18 These statue groups can be found throughout the eastern
provinces, at locations such as Corinth in Achaia, 19 Salamis in Cyprus, 20
Caesarea Maritima in Syria Palaestina, 21 and possibly on a tetrastyle marble
arch from Mytilene. 22 The western examples predominantly come from North
Africa, with monuments at Thamugadi in Numidia, 23 as well as Thubursicu
Numidarum, 24 Thugga, 25 and Agbia 26 in Africa Proconsularis. A possible group
has also been identified at Trier in Belgica, 27 which was the major Tetrarchic
residence in northern Europe.
It is in the east that we find the most striking manifestation of the four-
statue monuments in the form of grand tetrapyla or tetrakionia. 28 These
constructions were composed of four tall columns, each topped with a statue
of an emperor, and usually located at a crossroads. Such an arrangement can
17
Eck 2006; Thiel 2002; 2006.
18
Börker & Merkelbach 1979, no. 305.1-3=LSA 718-20 (A. Sokolicek); Roueché 2009, 158-60.
Only three statue bases remain today: the monument for Maximian has been lost. There
was also a more elaborate four-column monument in Ephesus, but the identities of the
honorands are unknown (Jobst 1989).
19
Corinth 8.2, 23, 24, 26=LSA 16, 26, 50 (U. Gehn), for Diocletian, Maximian, Galerius, in front
of the northwest Stoa and shops, erected by the praeses L. Sul(picius?) Paulus.
20
ISalamis 130-31=LSA 865-66 (U. Gehn), for Galerius and Constantius, and ISalamis 29=LSA
867, with the titles of all four emperors, from the theatre, dedicated by the governor
Antistius Sabinus.
21
Lehmann & Holum 2000, no. 14, 17=LSA 1105-06 (U. Gehn)=CIIP 1268, 1271, where the
statues for Galerius and Constantius originally stood in the governor’s palace, probably as
part of a set of four emperors (W. Eck, CIIP ad loc.). A further statue base for Galerius has
recently been found in the same location (CIIP 1272).
22
CIL 3.450=LSA 938 (U. Gehn).
23
Eck 2006, 337.
24
ILAlg. 1271-72=LSA 1176, 1181 (G. de Bruyn), for Diocletian and Constantius, from the new
forum.
25
CIL 8.26566, AE 1907, 161=LSA 1170, 1951 (G. de Bruyn), dedications to Constantius and
Galerius by the res publica, under the curatorship of the proconsul T. Flavius Postumius
Titianus.
26
CIL 8.1550=LSA 2488 (G. de Bruyn), a dedication to all four members of the First Tetrarchy
by the res publica municipi(i) Agbiensium.
27
CIL 13.3672=LSA 2610 (Anon.), a statue base for Constantius I erected by the dux Valerius
Concordius. It is assumed to be part of a larger set by Eck 2006, 337, on the basis of the
plural form in the dedication (devo|tus numini | maiestati|que eorum).
28
Thiel 2002, 310-17.
be found at the Roman army camp at Luxor in Egypt, where the western
tetrapylon was erected by Aurelius Reginus, praeses of the Thebaid, in honour of
members of the First Tetrarchy in 300/302. 29 The eastern tetrapylon was erected
with statues of the imperial college of 308/309 under the authorisation of the
dux Aurelius Marcianus. 30 Similar constructions have been identified at other
sites in Egypt, including Alexandria, Hermopolis Magna, and Antinoopolis. 31 At
Gerasa in Arabia, the statues of the First Tetrarchy were arranged in such a
way that each emperor’s image was surrounded by its own individual
tetrapylon. 32 Parallels for these tetrakionia can be found throughout the eastern
empire at Philippopolis, Palmyra, Bostra, Antioch on the Orontes, Arae
Philaenorum in Cyrenaica, and at Aphrodisias in Caria, though there is not
always firm epigraphic evidence to link them with the Tetrarchs (with the
exception of Arae Philaenorum). 33 The use of column monuments and tetrapyla
in the Roman east to commemorate Roman emperors did predate the
Tetrarchic period: 34 statues of Nerva and Trajan were erected on the frontier in
Syria, 35 and statues of Severus Alexander his mother Iulia Mamaea were placed
at the tetrapylon of Antinoopolis in Egypt. 36 However, it is clear that in the age
of the Tetrarchs, this existing commemorative practice was adapted to
articulate the ideology of the new regime.
The prevalence of the four statue monuments is especially noteworthy
given that most of them were erected to honour the First Tetrarchy during a
relatively brief period of institutional harmony between 293 and 305. These
cannot be considered ‘imperial’ monuments like the columns on the rostra at
Rome or the Arch of Galerius at Thessaloniki, although they seek to
disseminate the same messages. The epigraphic evidence shows that the
authorities responsible for the dedications were provincial governors or other
high officials. 37 It was the governor who authorised the monument, and he was
probably also responsible for the form and content of the inscription. 38 On the
statue bases from Ephesus dedicated by Iunius Tiberianus, Diocletian is styled
‘best and most merciful prince’ (optimo clementissimoque | principi), while
29
Lacau 1934, 29-33=LSA 2625-28 (U. Gehn); Thiel 2006, 290-92.
30
Lacau 1934, 22-29=LSA 2621-24 (U. Gehn).
31
Thiel 2006, 249-86.
32
I. Gerasa no. 105-06=LSA 2083, 2094 (U. Gehn), dedications to Constantius I and Galerius (or
Maximian) by the governor Aurelius Felicianus. This monument is now discussed in detail
by Thiel 2002, 300-10.
33
As argued by Jobst 1989, 252-53, and in more detail, Thiel 2002, 310-17. Arae Philaenorum:
Goodchild 1952; Thiel 2006, 304-10. Aphrodisias: Smith & Ratté 1996, 13-16.
34
Smith & Ratté 1996, 15.
35
Goodchild 1952, 101.
36
Bailey 2012, 192.
37
Eck 2006, 329-30.
38
It is a commonplace feature of imperial systems that governors and other official
representatives help to maintain connections between the centre and periphery, and this is
certainly true of the Roman empire (Münkler 2007, 22-27; Hopkins 2009, 186-90).
Constantius and Galerius are each described as the ‘most brave prince of the
youth’ (fortissimo principi | iuventutis). 39 By the late third century, such
superlative epithets, although not official imperial titles, were an accepted
part of the honorific vocabulary used to describe emperors. 40 But these were
not empty formulae: the authorities had to make a choice as to which virtues
they would highlight out of the imperial ideals currently in circulation, as
Noreña has recently shown. 41 This process could sometimes lead to unique
choices, as in the epithet consultissimus (‘most prudent’) applied to Galerius and
Constantius I by Aufidius Priscus, governor of Syria Palaestina. 42 Antistius
Sabinus, governor of Cyprus, decided to describe both Galerius and Constantius
I on statue bases as the ‘author of public happiness and all religious
ceremonies’ (laetitiae publicae | caerimoniarumque | omnium au(c)tori). 43 It is an
almost inescapable conclusion that such phraseology should be connected to
Sabinus’ approval of the Tetrarchic rhetoric of upholding traditional Roman
religion. 44 The four statue monuments thus constitute responses by provincial
governors to the ideals of concordia promoted by the administration. The use of
monumental tetrapyla for the purpose of honouring the emperors shows the
way in which existing cultural practices could be used to articulate the
Tetrarchic message of imperial unity.
Emperors, governors and the provincial audience

I will now extend this discussion by focusing on the ways in which the
language and content of imperial dedications were adapted by provincial
governors and other authorities to suit the messages they wished to convey to
their local audiences. Noreña has classified governors as ‘official’ conduits of
imperial ideology in the provinces through their role in erecting honorific
statues for the emperors. 45 On one level it is true that governors, as high-
ranking agents of the state, could act as disseminators of the imperial message.
However, I would emphasise that their intermediary position also caused them
to respond to and interpret the ideals of the central administration, as Noreña
himself realises. 46 The language of the honorific inscriptions that accompanied
imperial statues was not officially mandated, but selected from an extensive
vocabulary of praise that called to mind imperial ideals and virtues.
39
Börker & Merkelbach 1979, no. 305.1-3.
40
Frei-Stolba 1969; Rösch 1978, 50-52.
41
Noreña 2011, 190-297.
42
CIIP 1268, 1271, with the comments of Eck. For the translation ‘most prudent’, see OLD s.v.
consultus 2.
43
ISalamis 130-31=LSA 865-66 (U. Gehn).
44
For this rhetoric, see Corcoran 2000, 173-74.
45
Noreña 2011, 181-83, 214-20.
46
Noreña 2011, 218, pointing out that the designation of such inscriptions as official is “a
matter of convenience”.
We begin with the building programme of Valerius Diogenes, first

praeses of the province of Pisidia in the years 309/310-313. 47 The epigraphic
evidence from Antioch in Pisidia, expertly analysed by Christol and Drew-Bear,
demonstrates the lengths to which Diogenes went to honour members of the
imperial college as it stood prior to the death of Galerius in 311. 48 Diogenes
erected statues of Galerius, Maximinus Daza and Constantine, which may have
formed part of a larger group of four emperors, near the theatre in Antioch. 49
The text of the inscription on the base of Galerius’ statue is especially
extravagant:
... omnip[ote]nti prin|cipi florentissimo | Augusto victorio | sissimo
imperatori | domitori gentium | barbararum restau | ratori imperii
Roma|ni Galerio Valerio | Maximiano | [ae]terno beatissimo | ...
“... to the all-powerful prince, most flourishing Augustus, most victorious

emperor, tamer of the barbarian peoples, restorer of the Roman empire,
Galerius Valerius Maximianus, eternal, most blessed ...”
The rhetoric is effusive and fulsome, with its tripartite division of Galerius’
office into princeps, Augustus and imperator, and the descriptions of his military
and civilian achievements. 50 The inscription makes full use of superlative
epithets, including some of comparatively recent invention. 51 For example,
victoriossimus, although used once to describe Gallienus, only achieved wider
currency under Aurelian, and florentissimus became common in the Tetrarchic
period itself. 52 Despite being an imperial appointee, Diogenes was not ordered
to erect these statues, or to honour the emperors with such flattering
language. Instead, Diogenes’ commemoration of Galerius and his colleagues
represents an interpretation of imperial ideology designed to monumentalise
his own role as the representative of the emperors’ authority in the province.
The epigraphic evidence from Antioch shows that Diogenes’ programme
was extensive: he erected public buildings that carried imperial dedications; 53
an equestrian statue, probably of Maximinus Daza, which stood on the
decumanus of the city; 54 and a statue representing pietas Augustorum, which was
undoubtedly an act of support for the policy of persecution pursued by both
47
PLRE 1 Diogenes 8. For the date, see now Christol & Drew-Bear 1999, 43-44.
48
Christol & Drew-Bear 1999. The imperial college was composed of four Augusti in the first
months of 311: Galerius, Licinius, Maximinus Daza, and Constantine. See Barnes 1982, 6.
49
Galerius: AE 1999, 1620=LSA 2090 (U. Gehn). Maximinus Daza: AE 1967, 499=AE 1999,
1615=LSA 2088 (J. Lenaghan & U. Gehn). Constantine: CIL 3.6806=AE 1999, 1616=LSA 2089 (J.
Lenaghan & U. Gehn).
50
Christol & Drew-Bear 1999, 65-70.
51
CIL 3.6854=AE 1999, 1612=Christol & Drew-Bear 1999, 50-55.
52
Christol & Drew-Bear 1999, 67-68.
53
AE 1999, 1611=Christol & Drew-Bear 1999, 44-46.
54
Byrne & Labarre 2006, no. 157=LSA 2083 (U. Gehn).
Galerius and Maximinus Daza. 55 The connection between Valerius Diogenes

and the emperors was monumentalised in a most striking way as part of his
reconstruction of the theatre in Antioch. The inscription on the arch reads as
follows:
[Felicissim]is temporibus d]d(ominorum) nn(ostrorum) Gal(eri) Val(eri)
Maximian[i et [[Gal(eri) Val(eri) Maximini]] et Fl(avi) Val(eri)
Cons]tantini [et Val(eri) Licinniani Lic]inni piissimorum Augustorum |
arcum [... cum] porticibus e[t ... omni orn]atu a fund[amento Val(erius)
Diogenes v(ir)] p(erfectissimus) praes(es) instantia sua facere curavit |
d(evotus) n(umini) m(aiestati)q(ue) eor(um)
“In the most fortunate times of our lords Galerius Valerius Maximianus
and Galerius Valerius Maximinus and Flavius Valerius Constantius and
Valerius Licinnianus Licinnius, most pious Augusti, the arch ... with
porticoes ... and every decoration, Valerius Diogenes, vir perfectissimus,
governor, devoted to their numen and majesty, saw to it that it was
erected from its foundations on his own initiative.”
The inscription not only commemorates the achievements of the Augusti, but
also Diogenes’ own personal role in the urban renewal of Antioch. The final
testament to Diogenes’ devotion to the imperial college comes from Apamea,
where he erected a statue of Galerius’ wife, Galeria Valeria, who is styled ‘most
sacred and most pious Augusta’ (sacratissimae | ac piissimae Aug[ustae]). 56 The
exceptional nature of this dedication is emphasised by the fact that it is one of
only three extant bases for statues of Galeria Valeria found anywhere in the
empire. 57 Together with the inscription on the arch, it shows Diogenes’ wish to
be connected with the emperors and their families, and to display this
association to his provincial audience. This leads to a further question: who
was the intended audience for these inscriptions, given that they were in
Latin? Antioch in Pisidia was a Roman colony, meaning that it had a high
proportion of Latin-speaking residents. 58 While private inscriptions in Antioch
tended to be in Greek, every dedicatory inscription in honour of a Roman
emperor in the city was in Latin, 59 and thus Diogenes’ actions fit in with the
local epigraphic culture. Yet there may also have been ideological reasons for
his choice, since Latin was the official language used by the Tetrarchic
administration in the east to disseminate official letters and edicts. 60 Diogenes’
55
CIL 3.6087=LSA 2087 (U. Gehn), discussed by Christol & Drew-Bear 1999, 59-61. Diogenes’
support for the policy of persecution is well established (MAMA I, 170).
56
CIL 3.13661=LSA 392 (J. Lenaghan).
57
The other two are IG 7.2503=LSA 924 (U. Gehn) from Thebes in Achaia, IGR 4.1562=LSA 647
(U. Gehn) from Teos in Asia. These are both in Greek, rather than Latin.
58
For the history of Antioch, and other colonies in Asia Minor, see Levick 1967, with the
origin of the colonists discussed on 56-67.
59
Levick 1967, 134.
60
See the judicious discussion of Corcoran 2000, 231-32, 245-53, on the use of Latin and
Greek in different versions of the Edict of Maximum Prices.
monuments represent the convergence of local commemorative practices and

imperial authority, as they articulated his relationship with the emperors, and
the benefits of their rule, to the inhabitants of his province of Pisidia.
The governor’s role as interpreter of imperial ideology manifested itself
in different ways throughout the eastern provinces, depending on local
epigraphic practices. We now turn to the Cretan city of Gortyn, where a
number of imperial statues were erected by the consularis Oecumenius
Dositheus Asclepiodotus in the late fourth century. 61 During his tenure as
provincial governor in 382/383, Asclepiodotus supervised the reconstruction
of the praetorium in Gortyn. 62 The new monumental façade of the building
incorporated statues, with accompanying dedicatory inscriptions, of the
members of the imperial college: Gratian, Valentinian II, and Theodosius I. 63
The emperors are praised as the ‘pious Augusti’ (ευσεβεῖς σεβαστοὺς) and
Asclepiodotus himself erected the statues because ‘he was devoted to their
piety’ (καθοσιουμένος τῇ | αὐτῶν εὐσεβίᾳ). This impressive set was completed
by a fourth statue of Asclepiodotus himself, erected ‘on account of his virtue
and justice’ (ἀρετῆς ἕνεκεν καὶ | δικαιοσύνης). 64 The inscription records that
the dedication was made by two local notables, Aemilius Quintilius Pyrrhus
and Ulpius Fursidius Panhellenius, following a decree of the provincial
assembly. 65 The meaning of this arrangement is clear: Asclepiodotus not only
positioned himself as a faithful servant of the emperors, but his virtuous
administration of the province would be connected with the imperial college
for as long as the statues stood in front of the praetorium.
Asclepiodotus also erected at least seven statues of leading members of
the Roman senate in or around the praetorium at Gortyn. 66 The men so
honoured came from illustrious aristocratic families, and included Anicius
Bassus, consularis of Campania, Vettius Agorius Praetextatus, urban prefect of
Rome, and the praetorian prefect Sex. Petronius Probus. 67 The inscription on
Probus’ statue base serves as a good example of the language with which these
men were praised:
Πετρώνιον Πρόβον | τὸν λαμπρότατον | ἀπὸ ὑπάτων καὶ | ἀπὸ
ἐπάρχων πραιτωρίων | γ’ δόγματι τῆς λαμπρᾶς | Γορτυνίων
61
PLRE 1 Asclepiodotus 2.
62
De Tomasso 2000a, 341-48.
63
Only the inscriptions are now extant: I. Cret. 4.284a, 284b, SEG 45, 1292=LSA 472, 770, 950 (F.
Bigi, I. Tantillo & U. Gehn). De Tomasso 2000a, 346, suggests that the inscriptions were
incorporated into “una sorta di arco a tre fornici” rather than statue bases, while Bigi, Tantillo
& Gehn (LSA ad loc.) argue for the existence of statues.
64
I. Cret. 4.313=LSA 774 (F. Bigi, I. Tantillo & U. Gehn).
65
For this combination of public and individual dedications on statue bases, see Smith et al.
2006, 24.
66
De Tomasso 2000b lists these in full.
67
I. Cret. 4.314, 316, 318=LSA 775, 777, 779 (F. Bigi, I. Tantillo & U. Gehn).
βουλῆς | Οἰκουμένιος Δωσίθεος | Ἀσκληπιόδοτος | ὁ λαμπρότατος

ὑπατι|κὸς ἀνέστησεν
“To the vir clarissimus, consularis, and three times praetorian prefect,
Petronius Probus, by the decree of the shining council of Gortyn,
Oecumenius Dositheus Ascelpiodotus, the clarissimus consularis, erected
this.”
The text reveals that it was not only Asclepiodotus, but also the council of
Gortyn itself, which was determined to monumentalize its relationship with
Probus, and by extension, the city of Rome. 68 Yet a close reading of the
language of the inscription shows that there is no sense of inferiority on the
part of the dedicators, that the ‘periphery’ was somehow subordinate to the
‘centre’. Petronius Probus is styled λαμπρότατος, ‘most radiant’, which was the
Greek equivalent of vir clarissimus. This gave him the same status as
Asclepiodotus the local governor, even though as a former consul ordinarius and
praetorian prefect, Probus actually possessed a higher senatorial status, that of
vir illustris (ἰλλούστριος in Greek). 69 The use of λαμπρότατος for both senators
is surely designed to complement the description of the council itself as
‘shining’ (τῆς λαμπρᾶς | Γορτυνίων βουλῆς). The terminology is common in
late antique honorific statues in the Greek east, drawing a link between the
exalted or ‘radiant’ status of the honorand, the city, and the ‘shining’ marble
or bronze of the statue itself. 70 This point should encourage us to think more
broadly about forms of imperial commemoration beyond the ‘centre and
periphery’ model. Governors such as Valerius Diogenes and Asclepiodotus used
imperial statues to position themselves within the political hierarchy in a way
that would be impressive to their audience. But this commemorative process
did not make local dignitaries subservient. Indeed, the very fact that the
council of Gortyn passed a decree to honour Petronius Probus shows that they
were conferring honour on him, rather than vice versa. Such decrees had long
been used by cities in the Greek world as a way of demarcating relationships
between their polis community and higher authorities, such as Hellenistic
monarchs or Roman emperors. This rich and proud heritage provided the
cultural context in which Asclepiodotus and the council of Gortyn could use
statues and inscriptions in honour of emperors and senators as a way of
68
The much newer senate at Constantinople is ignored, even though its members would
have come from the aristocracies of the Greek east. For its membership, see Heather 1994;
1998; Skinner 2000 and 2008.
69
Bigi, Tantillo & Gehn, LSA 779 ad loc.
70
As argued by Brown 2012, 165. That this was a peculiarly Greek formulation is
demonstrated by an earlier inscription on a statue base from Gortyn which honours
Diocletian and Maximian: I. Cret. 4.281=LSA 59 (U. Gehn). Although in Latin, the dedicatory
inscription appears to employ the same concept, as the proconsul Aglaus describes the
emperors as “the shining lights of his (or their) world” (orbis sui | claris luminibus).
integrating themselves into the wider imperial system, but without any
corresponding loss of status.
Honorific terms: Diversity and interaction

The different conceptions of imperial rule articulated by Valerius Diogenes in
Pisidian Antioch and Oecumenius Asclepiodotus in Gortyn demonstrate the
variations in epigraphic commemoration that could result depending on
factors such as agent, audience, and language. The latter factor is one that I
wish to explore in further detail in this section of the paper, in order to
contextualize the choices in honorific vocabulary and ideological rhetoric
made by the dedicating authorities.
The use of official and unofficial epithets to describe Roman emperors
shows significant chronological and regional variation. The superlative
adjective providentissimus (‘most provident’) makes its first appearance in
inscriptions under Trajan, and is widely used in Latin honorific inscriptions for
emperors from the Severan to Constantinian periods, with further
appearances into the late fourth century. 71 However, the Greek equivalent of
providentissimus, προνοητικώτατος, appears only once in an honorific
inscription, even though the concept of πρόνοια was hardly foreign to
autocratic rhetoric in the Greek world. 72 A search of the Thesaurus Linguae
Graecae database shows that use of the superlative epithet is confined to late
Roman and Byzantine Greek writers. 73 Its sole epigraphic attestation is on the
base of statue of Asclepius dedicated by Diocletian and Galerius in the
sanctuary of Athena Ilias in Ilion. The inscription describes the emperors as
‘our most pious and provident lords’ (οἱ εὐσεβέστατο[ι καὶ πρ]ονοητικώτατοι |
δεσπόται ἡμῶν), and records that Iulius Cassius was the governor of Hellespont
at the time the statue was erected. 74 The monument is paralleled by a second
statue base, commemorating the dedication of a statue of Zeus in the same
sanctuary, but this time erected by all four members of the First Tetrarchy
during the proconsulship of An(nius?) Epiphanius. 75 Given the fact that
providentissimus does appear in the eastern provinces in Latin inscriptions, 76 I
71
Noreña 2011, 231-32. A search of the Epigraphik Datenbank Clauss Slaby
www.manfredclauss.de (last access 12/8/2014) reveals fifty Latin inscriptions that employ
the epithet, mostly, but not exclusively, for emperors. The term is only used once under
Trajan: CIL 9.5894=ILS 298.
72
Corcoran 2000, 246, referring to edicts in Greek by Tetrarchic provincial governors.
73
For example, Procopius uses the superlative to describe the emperor Anastasius (Anecdota
19.5.1).
74
I. Ilion 97=LSA 288 (U. Gehn). The editors cite no parallels for the term προνοητικώτατος,
except in Latin, and I could find none on the PHI Greek Inscriptions Database
www.epigraphy.packhum.org/inscriptions (last access 12/8/2014).
75
I. Ilion 96=LSA 287 (U. Gehn).
76
I. Ilion 98; I. Eph. 307; AE 1961, 88; AE 1993, 1618, all dating to the Tetrarchic and
Constantinian periods. The epithet was also used to describe Macrinus in Cappadocia (AE
would suggest that the Greek inscription on the Asclepius base is in fact a
translation of a Latin original. 77 Since we should hardly suppose the presence
of all four members of the imperial college in Ilion for the dedication of the
statues, they were undoubtedly erected under the supervision of the proconsul
and praeses, who oversaw the translation of the Latin term for a local Greek
audience. 78
The inscription on a statue base for Diocletian from Ephesus shows
similar interactions between Greek and Latin honorific forms: 79
B(ona) F(ortuna) | Piissimo atque indulgen|tissimo providentissim[o|que]
principi nostro G(aio) Aur(elio) Val(erio) | Diocletiano p(io) f(elici)
inv(icto) Augus[to] | L(ucius) Art(orius) Pius Maximus v(ir) c(larissimus)
| proc(onsul) Asiae numini mai|estatique eius dicatis|simus.
“With good fortune. To the most pious and most indulgent and most
provident one, our prince Gaius Aurelius Valerius Diocletian, pious,
fortunate, and unconquered Augustus. Lucius Artorius Pius Maximus,
vir clarissimus, proconsul of Asia, most devoted to his numen and
majesty (erected this).”
The text begins with B(ona) F(ortuna), a translation of the Greek Ἀγαθῇ τύχῃ;
such Latin adaptation of the Greek practice is found in Asia Minor in the third
and fourth centuries. 80 Other aspects have more in common with Latin
formulations: indulgentissimus (like providentissimus) is a superlative adjective
that is rarely attested on inscriptions in its Greek equivalent,
φιλανθρωπότατος (a point to which I will return below). The proconsul L.
Artorius Pius Maximus also appears on a second inscription from Ephesus,
carved into a base which carried his own statue erected by the boule and
demos. 81 It records that he ‘decorated his (or the) fatherland with works both
numerous and great’ (πολλοῖς καὶ μεγάλοις | ἔργοις κοσμήσαντα τὴν | πατρίδα).
If we accept that the text does in fact mean ‘his’ fatherland, 82 then Maximus
was a native Ephesian, who chose to honour the emperor Diocletian in Latin,
rather than in Greek. During the early empire, Roman emperors were
predominantly honoured in Ephesus by statues accompanied by Greek
1960, 36; AE 2008, 1475; AE 2009, 1527), which appears to have been part of an empire-wide
association of providentia with the emperor. See Noreña 2011, 234; Davenport 2012, 190.
77
Note in this connection I. Ilion 9 from the same city, but erected by the proconsul Aurelius
Hermogenes.
78
The comments of P. Frisch in I. Ilion 98 ad loc. suppose the intervention of an imperial
commissioner.
79
I. Eph. 307=LSA 743 (A. Sokolicek).
80
Ermatinger 1989.
81
I. Eph. 621=LSA 724 (A. Sokolicek and U. Gehn).
82
Chastagnol 1962, 31, accepted by Foss 1979, 5 and Slootjes 2006, 132-33.
inscriptions. 83 But the late third century saw a change in the primary language
of imperial inscriptions from Greek to Latin, a significant shift in
commemorative culture that can be observed in other cities of the Greek east
between the late third and late fourth century. 84 Eck has suggested the change
came about because the officials sent to govern the provinces originated from
the Danubian and Balkan provinces, like the Tetrarchs themselves. 85 However,
this is unlikely to be true in the case of the proconsuls of Asia, who continued
to be appointed from among the senatorial aristocracy, rather than the new
military elite. It is better to posit a general change in commemorative culture
in the eastern provinces from the late third century onwards. In this period, it
may have become accepted practice for Roman officials to honour the emperor
in Latin because it was perceived as a better way to articulate, or appeal to,
imperial authority. 86
We move now to a dedication by a local community in Greek, which
shows a different side to the interpretation of imperial ideology. This is an
inscription carved on the base of a statue of the emperor Julian at Magnesia on
the Maeander: 87
Ἀγαθῇ τύχῃ. | [τ]ὸν θειότατον καὶ μέ|[γ]ιστον καὶ
φιλανθρωπότα|τον βασιλέα τὸν νεικη|τὴν καὶ τροπεοῦχον | καὶ
παντὸς ἀνθρώπων | ἔθνους ἀγαθὸν δεσπό|την Φλ(άουιον)
Κλ(αύδιον) [[Ἰουλιανὸν]] | τὸν εὐσεβέστατον | ἡ Μαγνήτων
πόλις. | Εὐτυχως.
“With good fortune. To the most sacred and greatest and most
benevolent king, victorious and triumphant, the good lord of all nations
of men, Flavius Claudius [Iulianus], the most pious one. The city of the
Magnesians (erected this). With good luck.”
There are two words in this inscription that merit discussion. The first is the
superlative adjective φιλανθρωπότατος, ‘most benevolent’, of which this is the
only example of it being used as an honorific epithet for a Roman emperor in a
Greek epigraphic text. In contrast, the nearest Latin equivalent indulgentissimus
occurs widely in inscriptions honouring Roman emperors, becoming especially
common from the Severan period onwards. 88 The superlative adjective is found
in Latin inscriptions in eastern provinces, such as Asia, Cyprus, Galatia, Moesia
83
Eck 2009, 25-26. Rare exceptions from the early empire include I. Eph. 3092 (Augustus and
Tiberius), 3019 (Claudius), 283 (Matidia), 2051 (Septimius Severus and family).
84
Eck 2009, 26.
85
Eck 2009, 26-27.
86
Van Dam 2007, 184-93.
87
I. Mag. 201=Conti 2003, no. 35=LSA 613 (U. Gehn).
88
Noreña 2011, 259-60, 276-83. More than 300 inscriptions featuring the epithet turn up on
a search on the Epigraphik Datenbank Clauss-Slaby, the vast majority of them for emperors,
but some for private individuals such as governors. Benevolentia certainly features in Latin
imperial inscriptions, but the superlative epithet benevolentissimus is not attested.
Inferior, and Syria Palaestina. 89 The fact that φιλανθρωπότατος is only attested
on this one inscription is somewhat puzzling, since the concept of
φιλανθρωπία was central to the philosophy of kingship in both the Hellenistic
and Roman periods, and the noun itself is certainly used to describe imperial
benevolence. 90 The superlative adjective is also widely found in Greek
literature of the Roman period, such as the orations of Dio Chrysostom and
Aelius Aristides, 91 as well as in histories and speeches from Late Antiquity. 92
The use of φιλανθρωπότατος to describe Julian in an epigraphic text thus
represents an innovation on the part of the polis of Magnesia. 93
The second interesting adjective in the inscription is τροπεοῦχος.
Literally meaning ‘one who has gained trophies’, it is the Greek equivalent of
triumphator. 94 The Latin epithet is widely found under Constantine as an
element of imperial titulature, and becomes extremely common thereafter. 95
The formulation victor ac triumphator (or triumfator) can be found on Latin
milestones for Julian in both the western and eastern provinces. 96 It also forms
part of Julian’s titulature in an edict, probably of the praetorian prefect
Saturninus Secundus, which was designed to accompany the publication of a
letter from the emperor regarding provincial administration. The imperial
sacrae litterae and the prefect’s edict were publicly inscribed, in the original
Latin, on the island of Amorgos. 97 To the best of my knowledge, the Greek
inscription on the statue base from Magnesia on the Maeander represents the
first extant epigraphic example of the title of triumphator being converted into
Greek. This represents a key step in the dissemination and translation of an
important aspect of imperial ideology for a primarily Greek-speaking audience.
From the late fourth century onwards, τροπεοῦχος can be found in Greek
inscriptions for a range of Roman emperors, on both honorific statue bases and
89
Asia: I.Eph. 282, 307. Cyprus: I. Salamis 129. Galatia: CIL 3.6058=ILS 467. Moesia Inferior: AE
1987, 896. Syria Palaestina: Lehmann & Holum 2000, 16. This list is not exhaustive.
90
Noreña 2009, 273-76. See, for example, I. Thesp. 437, where Hadrian is lauded as “the
lawgiver of piety and justice and benevolence” (τὸν εὐσεβείας καὶ δικαιοσύνης καὶ
φιλανθρωπίας νομοθέτην).
91
Dio Chrysostom, Or. 4.24; 40.15; Aelius Aristides, Eis Basilea 61.
92
For example, Eusebius VC 1.14; 1.46; 1.50; Themistius, Protreptikos for Valentinian the
Younger 126c.
93
It may be a coincidence that two of the handful of other uses of the superlative adjective
in Greek epigraphic texts also come from Magnesia on the Maeander. Two letters, from
Antiochus III and his son, which were inscribed in the agora, make reference to the king’s
‘most benevolent attitude’ (τὴν φιλανθρωποτάτην διάλ[η]ψιν) towards the city (I. Mag. 18,
19=Welles 1934, no. 31 and 32).
94
LSJ9, col. 1826, s.v. τροπεοῦχος.
95
Grünewald 1990, 147-50. See the famous Hispellum inscription (CIL 11.5265=ILS 705),
where the imperial college begins with Imp(erator) Caes(ar) Fl(avius) Constantinus | Max(imus)
Germ(anicus) Sarm(aticus) Got(hicus) victor | triump(hator) Aug(ustus).
96
Conti 2003, 45-46.
97
CIL 3.459=AE 2000, 1370a, discussed by Salway 2012, 147-50. A second, more fragmentary
version of Julian’s letter has also been discovered on Lesbos (CIL 3.14198).
in inscribed imperial constitutions. 98 It is particularly telling that the authority

responsible for dedicating Julian’s statue, and honoring him in terms
understandable to a Greek audience, was not a Roman governor or official, but
the polis of Magnesia itself. We can therefore see that the commemorative
practices in the eastern provinces in Late Antiquity were not static and
inflexible. The use of honorific language for Roman emperors could vary
depending on the choices made by dedicators to suit their intentions and
audiences.
Imperial collegiality: East and West

In this final section, I will explore how the culture of imperial commemoration
changed in different regions of the Roman empire in the period between the
Tetrarchs and Theodosius II. I will show how statues and inscriptions played a
significant role in articulating imperial unity in the fourth and fifth centuries,
a period in which separate eastern and western courts were becoming more
firmly established. 99 But the number of imperial statues and statue groups
declined dramatically over time, even in the eastern provinces, as a result of
changes in commemorative practices. These monuments only continued to be
erected in significant numbers in Rome and Constantinople, usually by
imperial officials who wished to play their part in promoting the unity of the
Roman imperial government.
During the Tetrarchic period, the emphasis on the collegiality of the
imperial office meant that all four emperors were frequently honoured
together (as explored in the first part of this paper). It is to be expected that
Diocletian, as senior Augustus, would also be commemorated with individual
statues throughout the empire, including the western provinces. 100 However, it
is interesting that Galerius, who was primarily based in the east, and who
never even saw the city of Rome, received commemorative statues in the
western provinces. For example, as Caesar he was honoured as princeps
iuventutis by the ordo of Luna in Tuscia and Umbria. 101 Other statue bases for
Galerius have been found in Sicily and Sardinia. 102 The opposite is true of
Constantius I, Caesar and briefly Augustus in the west, who was honoured with
individual statues in the eastern empire. 103 There is a statue base for Licinius
from Tarraco, dated to 311/312, during which time he controlled the Danubian
98
Rösch 1978, 46-47. For example, I. Cret 204a, b for Gratian, Valentinian II and Theodosius,
ala2007 410, for Arcadius. Inscribed communications from Justinian: I. Didyma 596; CIL
3.13673; I. Eph. 1353.
99
The process began in the Tetrarchic period: Corcoran 2000, 266-70.
100
For example, note AE 1982, 598=LSA 1992 (C. Witschel), from Valeria in Carthaginiensis,
and AE 2004, 1093=LSA 2649 (Anon.), from Ovilava in Noricum.
101
CIL 11.6957c=LSA 1619 (C. Machado).
102
CIL 10.7505=LSA 2071 (Anon.), AE 1948, 171=LSA 2073 (Anon.).
103
For example, IG 5.2 138=LSA 355 (U. Gehn), from Tegea in Achaia; MAMA 4.59=LSA 644 (U.
Gehn), from Synnada in Phrygia Salutaris.
and Balkan provinces; he is not recorded to have ever visited Spain. 104 The
dedication of imperial statue groups continued in the reign of Constantine and
his sons in both the eastern and western provinces. 105 Individual statues of
emperors were also erected in primarily Latin-speaking regions, often at the
initiative of the provincial governor. 106 Therefore, it is clear that in the late
third and early fourth century, emperors primarily based in the east could be
honoured in the west, and vice versa, as local communities and governors
commemorated members of the imperial college on both an individual and
collective level.
This pattern changes dramatically in the middle of the fourth century. If
we take the Iberian peninsula as an example, the Last Statues of Antiquity
database reveals that over thirty imperial statues or bases for the Tetrarchs
and the family of Constantine have been found in this region. 107 In contrast,
there are only three such monuments dated after the reign of Constantius II. 108
Statue groups representing all members of the imperial college ceased to be
erected throughout most of continental Europe at about the same time. By the
late fourth century, such monuments are restricted to the Greek east, North
Africa, and the city of Rome and its environs. This is where we find statue
groups featuring Valentinian I and Valens; 109 Gratian, Valentinian II and
Theodosius I; 110 Valentinian II, Theodosius, and Arcadius; 111 and Theodosius I,
Arcadius, and Honorius. 112 But after the death of Arcadius in 408, the new
imperial college of Honorius and Theodosius II was commemorated in the
provinces by only one statue group from Erythrai in Asia. 113 Later in the fifth
century, there is an inscribed dedicatory plaque from Tarraco recording the
names of Leo and Anthemius, though on balance it is probably not from a
104
RIT 94=LSA 1980 (C. Witschel). RIT 98=LSA 1984 (C. Witschel) may also be for Licinius.
105
In the east, note the examples at Athens, discussed by Sironen 2001, and at Mytilene: CIL
3.14196-97=LSA 941 (U. Gehn). In the west, note a fragmentary statue base for Constantine I,
Constantine II and Constantius II at Aquileia, CIL 5.8269=LSA 1216 (Anon.), and a plaque for
Constantine II, Constantius II, and Constans from Augusta Emerita, AE 1975, 473=LSA 2011
(C. Witschel). Twin statue bases for Constantine II and Constantius II were erected by the
provincials of Noricum Mediterraneum: CIL 3.5207-08=LSA 1127, 1135 (U. Gehn).
106
For example, at Salona, the governor of Dalmatia, Fl. Iulius Rufinus Sarmentius, erected
statues for both Constans, CIL 3.1982=LSA 1143 (U. Gehn), and Constantius II, CIL 3.8710=LSA
1136, CIL 3.1983=LSA 1144 (U. Gehn).
107
For reasons of space, I give only their LSA numbers: 1979-1985, 1988, 1990-1998, 2001-
2002, 2004-2006, 2008-2010, 2012, 2015-2016, 2688-2691.
108
LSA 1986, 2003, 2013.
109
SEG 32, 470=LSA 931 (U. Gehn) from Delphi; CIL 8.11806-08=LSA 1756-57, 1759 (G. de
Bruyn), a group including the later addition of Gratian, from Mactar.
110
CIL 6.1184a=31255=LSA 1294 (C. Machado) from the Forum Romanum, Rome; LSA 350-02
(U. Gehn) in the Peripatos, Constantinople.
111
IK 47 6, 59=LSA 528, 529 (U. Gehn) from Heraclea Pontica in Bithynia; CIL 14.4412=LSA 1659
(C. Machado) from Ostia.
112
Corinth 8.3 506=LSA 52 (U. Gehn & A. Brown) from Corinth.
113
I. Erythrai 141=LSA 285 (U. Gehn).
statue base. 114 The dedication of collegial statue monuments in the provinces
had essentially ceased to take place by the early fifth century, just over one
hundred years after the rule of the Tetrarchs had been so strikingly
represented in this fashion.
In the fifth century, the practice of commemorating individual emperors
and the imperial college was predominantly restricted to Constantinople, now
firmly established as the residence of the eastern emperor, 115 and Rome, which
became the imperial seat in the west in preference to Milan and Ravenna. 116
Although the eastern and western courts operated as two separate
administrations in the fifth century, institutional rhetoric promoted the unity
of the empire. 117 When Honorius enlarged and extended the Aurelian Wall in
Rome, statues of him and his brother, the eastern emperor Arcadius, were
erected on no less than four gates, one of which may have represented the
emperors in a triumphal quadriga. 118 Arcadius was also honoured with three
individual statues in Rome in locations such as the Forum of Caesar, the Forum
of Trajan, and the Baths of Decius. 119 The fact that these statues were dedicated
by urban prefects of the city of Rome should not surprise us, since the brothers
Arcadius and Honorius constituted a united imperial college. The urban
prefects had a vested interest in associating their prefectures with both
emperors. Sometime between 402 and 408, the senate and people of Rome
dedicated a triumphal arch in the name of Arcadius, Honorius, and Arcadius’
son, Theodosius II, after an unspecified Gothic victory. 120 The inscription, now
lost, stated that the ‘arch was decorated with their statues and trophies’ (arcum
simulacris eorum tropaeisq(ue) decora[tum]). This monument demonstrates that
the senate in Rome likewise continued to conceive of both Arcadius and
Theodosius II as ‘their’ emperors, despite the fact that the seat of the eastern
court was actually in Constantinople. The inscription is also important because
it is the only record of any statue of Theodosius II in Rome or anywhere else in
the western empire.
Theodosius II was honoured with eight statues in Constantinople, most
of which are only known from literary sources. 121 This undoubtedly reflects the
concentration of court ceremonial and imperial monuments in Constantinople
after the reign Theodosius I. 122 Some of these monuments focused on the unity
of the imperial college in the same way as the statues in Rome: the praetorian
114
CIL 2.4109=RIT 100=LSA 1986 (C. Witschel).
115
Croke 2010.
116
Gillett 2001; McEvoy 2010.
117
Millar 2006, 1-7.
118
Gates: CIL 6.1188-90=LSA 1306-08 (C. Machado). Quadriga (?): CIL 6.31256 (C. Machado).
119
CIL 6.40798=LSA 784, CIL 6.1192=LSA 1309, CIL 6.40797=LSA 1564 (C. Machado).
120
CIL 6.1196=ILS 798=LSA 1311 (C. Machado).
121
For reasons of space, I give only the LSA numbers: 29, 30, 32, 2497, 2715, 2733, 2739, 2741
(Constantinople). Outside Rome and Constantinople, the recorded statues are LSA 285
(Erythrai), 453 (unknown provenance), 609 (Attalia).
122
Croke 2010; McEvoy 2010, 175-78.
prefect Aurelianus dedicated a statue group consisting of Honorius,

Theodosius II, and his sister, Pulcheria, in the senate house at Constantinople
in 414. 123 After Theodosius II installed his cousin Valentinian III as Augustus of
the west in 425, several statues of the young western emperor were erected in
Constantinople in locations such as the porticoes of Leontius, the cistern of
Aetius, and the forum of Arcadius. 124 The eastern regime had a vested interest
in promoting the rule of Valentinian III, who married Theodosius II’s daughter
Licinia Eudoxia in 437. 125 The statues therefore served to monumentalise the
cooperation between the eastern administration and its neighbour in the
west. 126 Although no record survives of statues of Theodosius II in Rome from
this later period, this does not mean that the approval of the eastern emperor
was any less important to the government of Valentinian III in Italy, a region
to which his administration was increasingly restricted. 127 Imperial collegiality
was monumentalised in the Colosseum, where the work carried out by the
urban prefect Flavius Paulus incorporated two new inscriptions on the
balustrade, which paid tribute to the felicitas of Theodosius II and Valentinian
III, ‘the perpetual and most unconquered princes’ ([perpet]uorum
invicti[ssi]mor[um] principu[m]). 128
Therefore, although imperial statue groups had all but ceased to be
erected in the western and eastern provinces in the fifth century, and even
individual statues had become increasingly rare in these regions, the
dedication of these monuments continued to take place in Rome and
Constantinople as a way of promoting the collegiality of the neighbouring
eastern and western courts. 129 This ideology of imperial unity was promulgated
not only by emperors, but also by urban prefects and other imperial officials
who were invested in the regimes of the emperors whom they served. The
concentration of statues in Constantinople in particular reflected its status as
the centre of imperial ceremonial in the ‘Byzantine’ empire, and the desire of
the eastern regime that it be seen as a ‘New Rome’. 130
Conclusion
This paper has argued that the commemorative culture of the eastern Roman
empire was not static and unchanging throughout the years 284-450, but that
imperial ideology was received and articulated throughout the region in a
123
Chron. Pasc. s.a. 414 (p. 571 Dindorf) = LSA 2738-2740 (Anon.).
124
LSA 36, 48, 470, 2735 (U. Gehn).
125
McEvoy 2010, 175-76.
126
For further evidence of such cooperation, see the paper by McEvoy in this volume.
127
McEvoy 2010, 188; Humphries 2012, 177-79.
128
CIL 6.32086, 32088; Humphries 2012, 171-72.
129
The most striking later example of this is the statue of Phocas in the forum Romanum,
erected in 608, CIL 6.1200=LSA 1313 (C. Machado).
130
The Last Statues of Antiquity database lists 64 imperial statues dated after 450, of which
only 16 come from outside Constantinople.
variety of different ways. The decision to erect an imperial statue, the form of
the monument, and the rhetoric of the accompanying inscription, all
depended on a wide range of factors. These included the agenda of the
dedicating authority, the potential audience, the type and location of the
statue, and whether the inscription was in Greek or Latin. Imperial ideology
was often mediated through the provincial governor, as with the ‘four statue
monuments’ and tetrakionia in the east, where imperial officials adapted
existing commemorative practices to promote Tetrarchic collegiality. Local
commemorative practices shed light on why Valerius Diogenes used Latin to
monumentalise his association with Galerius and his colleagues in the colony
of Pisidian Antioch, and why the Greek proconsul Artorius Pius Maximus
honoured the First Tetrarchy in Ephesus with Latin inscriptions. Sometimes,
the choice was made by local communities to translate honorific concepts into
Greek for their audiences, as in the statue base for the emperor Julian at
Magnesia. The most striking attempt by an eastern polis to articulate its
relationship with the Roman imperial government comes from Gortyn at
Crete. Here, the use of specifically Greek honorific terms equated the city and
its council with leading senators at Rome, but in a manner that ensured that
the ‘periphery’ was not subordinate to the ‘centre’. Finally, chronological and
geographical changes in the erection of imperial statues show that the
dedication of these monuments depended not only on regional
commemorative practices, but also on political exigencies, which ensured that
they continued to be erected in the capitals of Rome and Constantinople as
symbols of ideological unity in the fifth century.
These changes in patterns of imperial commemoration were
undoubtedly caused by the transformation of epigraphic culture during Late
Antiquity. From the mid-third century, inscribed epigrams replaced listings of
official posts on the statue bases of governors and other officials in the eastern
provinces. 131 Acclamations proclaimed in honour of governors and emperors
alike came to be inscribed in this period, as in the famous case of M. Claudius
Tacitus at Perge; 132 this practice continued until the seventh century. 133 These
trends formed part of a shift towards the commemoration of rituals in a
permanent form, although the concept was not necessarily new: 134 the
decisions of Hellenistic poleis to erect statues for benefactors had itself been a
way of preserving and memorializing the award of an honorific decree. 135 The
epigraphic habit in the western empire had never been as strong as in the
Greek east, but the decline of imperial statues in the post-Constantinian period
131
Magno 1986; Roueché 1997; Slootjes 2006, 129-53.
132
Roueché 1989.
133
Lavan 2011, 464.
134
Roueché 1984; Borg & Witschel 2001, 90-116.
135
Van Nijf 2000; Ma 2007.
nevertheless remains quite striking. 136 Inhabitants of the western regions

continued to experience imperial power in the same way as the eastern
provincials, namely through the gubernatorial and imperial adventus, and the
delivery of speeches and panegyrics. 137 The primary difference was that in the
west these ritualistic performances were not converted into permanent form
as often. Still, there were other changes that affected western and eastern
provinces alike, such as the rise in paintings and mosaics as a form of imperial
commemoration. Even as early as the Tetrarchic period, Constantine and
Fausta had been represented in a painting in the imperial palace at Aquileia. 138
For the fifth century and beyond, we need only think of imperial displays in
the churches of Ravenna, such as those of Galla Placidia and her family in San
Giovanni Evangelista, and Justinian and Theodora in San Vitale. 139 Within the
context of these long-term transformations, it becomes even more important
to examine the motivations for erecting imperial statues and their
accompanying inscriptions. The decision to honour the emperor (or emperors)
with such monuments was made because the dedicating authorities felt it was
the most appropriate way to articulate their particular relationship with the
imperial government. By assessing the diversity of commemorative practices,
we can better understand how imperial ideology was promulgated, received
and interpreted during the transformative period between the reigns of
Diocletian and Theodosius II.
136
This may be connected with wider changes in commemorative practices, which now
tended to focus on the private, rather than the public sphere: Borg 2007.
137
See MacCormack 1975; 1981.
138
Pan. Lat. 7.6.2.
139
Deliyannis 2010, 63-70, 223-50.
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in D. Boschung & W. Eck (eds.) Die Tetrarchie: Ein neues Regierungssystem und seine
mediale Präsentation (Wiesbaden), 249-322.
Van Dam, R. (2007) The Roman Revolution of Constantine (Cambridge).
Van Nijf, O. (2000) ‘Inscriptions and civic memory in the Roman east’, in A.E.
Cooley (ed.) The Afterlife of Inscriptions: Reusing, rediscovering, reinventing and
revitalizing ancient inscriptions (London), 21-36.
Verzone, P. (1958) ‘I due gruppi in porfido di S. Marco in Venezia ed il
Philadelphion di Costantinopoli’, Palladio n.s. 8, 8-14.
Wallace-Hadrill, A. (1981) ‘The emperor and his virtues’, Historia 30, 298-323.
(1986) ‘Image and authority in the coinage of Augustus’, JRS 76, 67-87.
Welles, C.B. (1934) Royal Correspondence in the Hellenistic Period: A Study in Greek
Epigraphy (New Haven NJ).
Witschel, C. (2002) ‘Meilensteine als historische Quelle? Das Beispiel Aquileia’,
Chiron 32, 325-393.
Weber, G. & Zimmermann, M. (eds.) (2003) Propaganda – Selbstdarstellung –
Repräsentation im römischen Kaiserreich des 1. Jhs. n. Chr. (Stuttgart).
Wolters, R. (2003) ‘Die Geschwindigkeit der Zeit und die Gefahr der Bilder:
Münzbilder und Münzpropaganda in der römischen Kaiserzeit’, in Weber &
Zimmerman 2003, 175-204.
Zimmerman, M. (2003) ‘Der Kaiser als Nil. Zur Kontinuität und Diskontinuität von
Repräsentation im frühen Prinzipat’, in Weber & Zimmerman 2003, 317-348.
Church with incomplete biography 71
Mladen Ančić
University of Zadar
Church with incomplete biography: plans for the consolidation of

Byzantine rule on the Adriatic at the beginning of the ninth century *
The precious little that we know about what happened on the east Adriatic
coast and its hinterland in the eighth and ninth century is based on meager
written sources, which are, to make matters worse, often less than completely
reliable. When historians write about this subject, they usually, after some
initial hesitation articulated through special formulas (“it seems”; “as can be
deduced” etc.), base their conclusions on the narrative framework expressed in
the eight chapters of the famous De Administrando Imperio (29-36), a text
configured in its present form somewhere around mid-tenth century. 1 They
are also prone to using another set of formulas (“as Constantine says”; “emperor
writes” etc.) which pose a striking contradiction to what is known about the
text; namely, that Emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus authored only a
small portion of it, and was definitely not the author of chapters 29-36 (see also
Dzino, this volume p. 92). 2
* I would like to express my gratitude to the Croatian Studies Foundation from Sydney for
funding my trip to Australia.
1
An edition of the original Greek text with an English translation is to be found in DAI,
while the commentaries were published separately as Jenkins 1962. In the impressive body
of work dedicated to DAI I found the singularly impressive and thought-provoking the
paper of Howard-Johnston (2000). His idea of four separate ‘files’ forming the main body of
text seems very convincing, but I think that his denomination of one of them needs to be
changed – while Howard-Johnston speaks about chapters 29-36 as ‘the Balkans file’, it
seems more appropriate to speak about those eight chapters as forming ‘the Dalmatian file’
whose subject is the fate of the former Roman province of Dalmatia after 600 (see also
Dzino, this volume p. 95 n.27).
2
See e.g. Borri 2008, 87-88: “Abbiamo i famosi scritti dell'imperatore Costantino Porfirogeneto, che
nella sua ampia produzione si occupò spesso di Croazia e Dalmazia, anche se facendolo riferì
informazioni di difficile interpretazione”. In the more or less same vein Fine 2006, 18, states:
“Constantine also makes many errors in his depiction of later Croatian events, about which we do
have other sources. However, despite these drawbacks, most historians, admitting that Constantine
may have erred in details, have now come to accept him as reliable for a general picture ...
Constantine, combined with other Byzantine writers, provides a picture of a large-scale migration
which brought Slavs into all of what became Yugoslavia, whereas he alone describes a later Croat
migration into certain parts of it”. As a matter of fact, Yugoslavia was formed as a patchwork
of former imperial (Habsburg, Ottoman) territories ‘only’ 1,300 years after the alleged
massive influx of Slavs. On the other hand, it is hardly possible to ‘combine’ statements
form the relevant chapters of DAI with what other earlier Byzantine authors are saying
simply because they usually speak about central Balkan provinces and never mention the
72 Mladen Ančić
Introduction: Church with incomplete biography

Nevertheless, there has recently been a steady stream of works concerned with
the early medieval history of the east Adriatic coast and its hinterland, mainly
focusing on identity problems. These works, however, have yielded uneven
results. The authors more or less familiar with the ‘local (historical)
knowledge’, 3 meaning that they are able to read Croatian and Serbian, usually
fare better. 4 In addition, a lot of archaeological material and architectural
remains are usually overlooked as far as the narrative of past events is
concerned, or, what is even worse, they are haphazardly used for otherwise
unsubstantiated large-scale generalizations. But some of the physical remains
can still give an account of that long gone world if they are put in their proper
context, applying what is happily termed ‘local knowledge’. One such object is
the well-known rotund Church of St. Donatus in Zadar. If we disregard the
modern use of St. Donatus as a powerful symbol connected to the city, and to
the concept of national history, 5 we might be surprised to discover an object
with an ‘incomplete biography’. 6
The present day edifice was formally desacralized in 1789, and at one
moment in the nineteenth century it was turned into a military warehouse,
finally to be transformed into an archaeological museum in 1880. 7 In the
twentieth century it was the subject of two modern processes of restoration,
one done by Italian conservators between WWI and II, the other done
relatively recently by a local team of conservators. In the first campaign of
restoration the Italian conservators brought down everything not belonging to
the walls of the rotund, and gave the building its distinctive, shall we say
‘modern’, outlook [Figs. 1-2]. The second campaign in the 1980s was preceded
by thorough research, technical as well as versed in art history. The leader of
the local team of conservators, an architect and art historian, Pavuša Vežić,
published the results of his research concerning the original plan and outlook
of the church not too long ago. 8 His findings showed two phases of building;
the first rotund [Fig. 3] was built in the second half of the eighth century, with
a relatively simple central plan and three horseshoe apses on the eastern part.
Croats (Serbs stay on the margin of their interest), while the focus of the chapters 29-36 is
on the province of Dalmatia and on the arrival of the Croats and Serbs.
3
This is a paraphrase of ‘local knowledge’, a concept made famous long time ago by Geertz
1983.
4
Budak 2008; Dzino 2010.
5
Here it is enough to draw attention to the fact that the recently published edited volume,
which aims at being an authoritative and definitive’synthesis of medieval history of Croats’,
has the picture of the church on its front page (see Šanjek 2003). The picture of the church
can even be found on page 19 of the current Croatian passport.
6
The phrase ‘monuments with incomplete biography’ was coined and used by Rapanić
1996/97.
7
For the history of the building and its transition from church to museum see Vežić 2002,
134.
8
Vežić 2002.
Conclusions regarding the date of the first phase reached by Vežić through art
historical analysis can now be stated with more precision with regard to the
date of felling the trees that were used to make beams [Fig. 4] in the first
phase, and later reused in refurbishing the building. According to
dendrochronological analysis, those trees were felled at the end of the eighth
century, making the last decade of the same century the most probable time
frame of the first phase. 9
It seems that in the original construction there were certain technical
errors, resulting in the walls showing signs of cracking. In the second, decisive
stage of building, at the beginning of ninth century, the walls of the original
rotund were scaled down and then rebuilt. They were now part of the complex
plan that included two outward wings – one of them provided a connection to
the new element inside the church [Fig. 5]. This new element was the upper
gallery (matroneum), which rested on six pylons and two columns, forming the
inner circle of the building. The new gallery [Fig. 6] extended into the outward
wings and was connected to the nearby building through one of them. That
building was later to become the palace of the local archbishop.
All the elements of the new building, technical as well as functional,
were well above what is considered local architectural knowledge, exemplified
by the plan and technical proficiency in the first phase of building. The church,
originally dedicated to the Holy Trinity, was described in some detail in the
tenth century in the DAI, or to be more precise in its ‘Dalmatian dossier’. The
anonymous author of what is now considered the 29th chapter of DAI speaks of
the “… church, a domed one, Holy Trinity, and above this church again is another
church, like a triforium, domed also, into which they mount by a spiral staircase.” 10
Modern art historians compared the Church of Holy Trinity/St. Donatus to the
Palatine Chapel of Charlemagne in Aachen, or to San Vitale in Ravenna, long
before the results obtained by the research of Pavuša Vežić were published. 11
Richard Krautheimer, on the other hand, spoke of the Byzantine influence and
9
Obelić & Sliepčević 1999/2000.
10
DAI, 29.282-84.
11
See Vežić 2002, 57-59, for the overview of literature. Curta 2006, 102 reaches quite an
unusual conclusion, stating: “A date earlier than ca. 800 could also be assumed, albeit only
hypothetically so far, for a number of other churches, such as the Rotunda of St. Donat and the
Church of St. Vitalis in Zadar, the St. Andrew Church in Zaton (near Nin), and small church in the
city of Osor on the island of Cres.” The author, unaware of the results of Vežić’s research, is
trying to connect ‘the Rotunda’ with very different types of churches: a across-shaped
building or a six-conch rotunda, both of which have a tromp. These types are truly an
integral part of the local architectural knowledge and tradition (for one of these local types
of churches see Vežić 2012, especially p. 43, where the author stresses that the elements of
the first phase of ‘the Rotunda’ are of crucial importance for the architectural type of the
six-conch churches in Dalmatia). Later on, citing the work of Vežić, Curta 2010, 269,
changed his opinion stating that: “the bishop (sc. Donatus) appears to have been the only sponsor
for the refurbishing of the Church of the Holy Trinity, one of the most impressive examples of
circular-plan architecture in the Adriatic region.”
74 Mladen Ančić
dated the building of the church to the beginning of the ninth century. 12 But
before saying anything on the subject here, we need to establish the fact that
the construction of such an edifice was far above the means of the local
community – for all we know today, the church as it stood when it was finished
must have been the work of someone whose horizons were much wider than
those obtainable in early medieval Iadera/Zadar.
Early medieval Zadar

If we are to have the answers to questions such as whose work it was and for
what purpose the church of Holy Trinity was built, we need to understand
what the early medieval Iadera/Zadar was. We must proceed from the fact that
this was one of only two places on the east Adriatic coast where ancient,
completely urbanized forms of life survived into the early Middle Ages. All the
other later medieval cities, except for the Arbe/Rab on the island of the same
name, were just small outposts hardly deserving to be called urbanized at the
beginning of the ninth century. Rausion/Dubrovnik and Tetragurion/Trogir
were former castra, now harboring a few hundred refugees at most;
Aspalathon/Split was built as retirement palace for the Emperor Diocletian at
the turn of the fourth century, only to become the refuge for the (probably
very small) fraction of nearby Salona populace from the beginning of the
seventh century. Together with Nona/Nin, which endured ‘hard times’ in the
seventh and eighth century under the shadow of nearby Zadar, all they could
boast was a few hundred inhabitants, or at best, a population between one and
two thousand in the case of Aspalathon/Split. 13 At the same time, Zadar
preserved its late antique perimeter of the city walls intact, and it seems that
the community of citizens was even able to strengthen the defense walls on
the side facing the mainland in the seventh or eighth century. 14 As far as the
12
Krautheimer, 1965, 222, with the drawing of the plan of the church showing what was left
after the radical ‘restoration’ campaign of Italian conservators.
13
The vicissitudes of Dalmatia and its coastal region from the beginning of sixth up to the
mid-ninth century are briefly discussed in Dusa 1991, 29-40. The author cleverly decided to
cite the otherwise widely diffused narrative of Jadran Ferluga (Ferluga 1957, in Serbian and
Ferluga 1978, in Italian) in the bibliography, instead of using it, relying really on the body of
local, mainly archaeological knowledge concerning the trajectory from late antique to early
medieval period. A detailed discussion of extant sources with extensive information on
wide-scope literature, but without the element of ‘local knowledge’ obtainable from works
in Croatian or Serbian languages may be found in Borri, 2009. This flaw is then visible in the
omission of Zadar and Rab from his conclusion that “l’unico centro dela costa orientale
dell’Adriatico a mantenere un modello abitativo simile a quello antico fu probabilmente Durrës-
Dyrrachion”, Borri 2009, 37. For an opposite example of treating all the later medieval cities
(bishopric seats) as belonging to the same type of agglomeration in the eighth and ninth
century, see Curta 2010.
14
Portions of the new wall, built a few meters away from the still standing late antique one,
for which various spolia were used, were uncovered during archaeological excavations in
the 1950s and 1960s – Petricioli 1965.
results of the campaigns of archaeological excavations revealed inside the old

city walls, there was no serious loss of population during the ‘hard times’ of
the seventh and eighth century. 15 So it comes as no surprise that in the second
half of the eighth century the local community was capable of building the
first rotunda. In spite of its technical misgivings, when compared to what was
built at the same time in other locations on the east Adriatic, it was
magnificent. The city was the seat of the dux and the bishop who in the winter
of 805/6 travelled to Aachen, together with two Venetian duces, in order to
regulate the status of Dalmatia and Veneto under the new rule of the Frankish
emperor. 16
Before that, and even before the Franks seized Istria, Zadar, and the
islands of the north Adriatic, the Istrian peninsula and the marshy coast and
lagoons of the north Adriatic arch up to the estuary of river Po, formed a
coherent and territorially contiguous, westernmost Byzantine outpost [Map 1].
It was the last remnant of a much wider territory under the administration of
the exarch stationed in Ravenna, itself seized by the Lombards in 751. After the
fall of Ravenna there was no one administrative center; instead power shifted
to magistri militum (there were officials with this title in Comacchio and Istria)
and duces (Veneto and Dalmatia). At the same time the marshy coast and
lagoons of the arch of the north Adriatic provided a zone where the emporia for
the trade between the Eastern Mediterranean and Western Europe now started
to flourish (Comacchio, Torcello, Rivo Alto – Rialto). This loose administrative
structure started to crumble after the Franks took Comacchio and overran
Istria at the beginning of the 780s, but its remnants were still functioning at
the very end of the century. This can be discerned in the fact that the Frankish
Duke Erich of Friuli was killed in 799 at the Byzantine outpost of Tersato/Trsat
(modern Rijeka in Croatia). The last vestiges of the old Byzantine
administrative structure were done away with when the earlier mentioned
duces of provintia Venetiarum and Dalmatia submitted to Charlemagne’s rule in
15
Klaić & Petricioli 1976, 117-18.
16
The mission of the two duces Veneciarum and dux and episcopus of Iadera is dully reported
in Frankish Annals s.a. 806 (Kurze 1895, 120). From there, the information about the mission
entered modern narratives covering the period, but it is usually pushed into a brief
overview of Franco-Venetian relations (e.g. McKitterick 2008, 117-18; Costambeys, Innes &
MacLean 2011, 370-71), where dux et episcopus Iadre are totally ignored. Contrary to that, the
Veneto-Dalmatian mission to Aachen is thoroughly discussed in Venetian historiography
(e.g. Ortalli 1992, 728-730); but even here, the significance of the title dux Iadre is casually
dismissed. In the same vein Borri 2009, 46, dismisses this information with a casual remark
“anche se il termine proviene unicamnete da fonti franche”, without referring to the fact that
there exists at least one other source mentioning a very similar title. Namely, in the
Dumbarton Oaks collection there exists a preserved seal of one Euthimius Dalmatian dux;
see Nesbitt & Oikonomides 1991, 47. Therefore, it is true that in the Frankish Annals the title
used for Paul is dux Iaderae, but at the same time he and the bishop of Zadar are called legati
Dalmatarum, which gives quite a different meaning to the title used in the narrative.
76 Mladen Ančić
the winter of 805. 17 But the submission of the Veneto and Dalmatia was a
turning point – after this challenge the imperial administration in
Constantinople under Nikephoros I finally decided to intervene. The maritime
expedition was sent from Constantinople in 806, and after further delays, the
death of Charlemagne’s son Pepin and a few years of varying luck on both
sides, the conflict was settled in 812. This, however, did not happen before the
Byzantines could regain effective control over the Dalmatian coast and
Venetian lagoons. This was reflected even in the provisions of the treaty of
Aachen, which was concluded there in 812. The treaty assigned the coastal
‘cities’ to the Byzantine rule, while the rest of (continental) Dalmatia was
allotted to the Frankish emperor. 18 The Frankish delegation, headed by the
bishop Amalarius, travelled in 813 with the written version of the treaty to
Constantinople in order to obtain its approval by the Emperor. For obviously
political reasons the Frankish delegation travelled by land up to Zadar, and
here embarked on a ship travelling by sea from this point. Amalarius
composed a poem about his mission later on in life, but even more
importantly, he remembered his sojourn in Zadar some fifteen years later in a
letter addressed to his friend in Rome. In the letter he speaks of the archbishop
of Zadar as his host on the occasion, which seems a bit strange because we
know the bishopric of Zadar was not elevated to the seat of archbishopric until
17
This short narrative sequence covers the period otherwise poorly registered in extant
sources. The splendour of Ravenna as the center of the exarchate and its successive take-
over by the Lombards are very well covered in extensive literature (see recent overview
with rich bibliography in Mauskopf Deliyannis 2010. Whether Dalmatia was under the
jurisdiction of the exarch in Ravenna in the seventh century is still an open question to
which an answer formulated recently by Borri 2009, 29, seems convincing. The rump
provincial administrative structure left after the Lombard takeover of Ravenna is usually
reconstructed on the basis of the statements recorded in 803, in a document known as
Placitum of Risana (Petranović & Margetić 1983/84), but that reconstruction becomes
questionable once it is considered that the picture of the past drawn from what contentious
Istrians said on this occasion is not necessarily ‘the one and only truth’. The role of the
newly emerging emporia on the northern coast of the Adriatic (together with the
emergence of the position of magister militum in Comacchio) is recently amply discussed in
numerous papers of Sauro Gelichi (e.g. Gelichi 2007; 2008, Gelichi et al. 2012), while the
reasons for their emergence right here at this point of time are dealt with in McCormick
2012. The death of Duke Erich of Friuli iuxta Tharsaticam maritimam civitatem through the
action of local oppidani is reported in Frankish Annals as well as in Einhard’s Vita Caroli Magni
and amply discussed on at least three occasions in modern works (Ross 1945, 225-27; Labus
2000, Turković & Basić 2013, 60-67). The Byzantine context of that episode can be gauged
from the narrative of the Venetian chronicler from the eleventh century, John the Deacon
(Fedalto & Berto 2003, 73), who, in an otherwise ambiguous passage, renders the story of
how Tersato/Trsat (Tharsaticum) was destroyed in the rebellion against the Emperor
Nicephorus (802-811).
18
See contributions to Ančić, Vedriš & Shepard forthcoming. The story of the conflict of the
two Empires over the eastern and northern Adriatic is recounted by historians on
numerous occasions (e.g. Ortalli 1992), but my point here is on the provisions of the Aachen
Treaty, which recognizes the Byzantine rule of the Dalmatian coast and Venetian lagoons.
1151. 19 One plausible explanation of the error might be that the mental image
of the city remembered by the learned bishop, probably together with what he
remembered he heard in Constantinople, was such that it conformed to the
image of a city that is a seat of an archbishop.
Amalarius does not name his host in Zadar, but we can guess that it was
Donatus, the same one who travelled to Aachen in 805/6 and later on to
Constantinople on more than one occasion. Although he was not canonized,
the bishop Donatus, or rather, the different local legends connected to his
name, were the reason for the construction of the altar of St. Donatus in the
Church of the Holy Trinity, and the reason why it was regularly called St.
Donatus from the fifteenth century on. 20 The main legend connected to the
name of bishop Donatus is the one depicting the arrival of the remains of St.
Anastasia to Zadar. Those remains were the reason why the Cathedral, where
the saint was buried, got the name of St. Anastasia. According to the legend
narrated in a text called Translatio sancte Anastasie, and preserved in a
manuscript dated to the seventeenth century, Donatus travelled to
Constantinople together with the Venetian doge Benenatus as ambassadors of
peace in 804. While in Constantinople they met a group of refugees from
Sirmium in Pannonia who were carrying the relics of the ‘martyr and saint
Anastasia’. Upon realizing that the bishop and doge were ambassadors of
peace, the refugees decided to go with them to Dalmatia, bringing with them
the precious relics. 21
Apart from the name of Donatus and the title of the Venetian ruler,
everything else in the story is corrupted – Donatus was not an archbishop, the
name of the doge was not Benenatus but Beatus, etc. Even the year 804 only
roughly points to the beginning of the ninth century as a time of arrival of the
relics. 22 On the other hand, not long ago John Osborne discussed the politics of
granting the relics from Constantinople to the westernmost provinces of
Empire, 23 yet failing to note the difference between granting the relics of St.
Anastasia to Zadar, from granting the relics of St. Theodore to the then newly
established community on the Rivo Alto (Rialto) in the Venetian lagoons.
While St. Theodore was a military saint, bringing protection to the
westernmost outpost of the Empire, St. Anastasia was the ‘main saint of
Illyricum’ and as such brought protection for the new administrative center
located now in Zadar, thus reestablishing the relationship with the glorious
imperial past. Here we need to remember that in the winter of 805/6 both the
Venetian province and the Zadar/Dalmatian province were still ruled by the
duces. The dux stationed in Zadar at the time was called Paulus, but we know
19
Vedriš 2005.
20
Vežić 2002; Vedriš 2010.
21
Edition of the text in Rački 1887, 306-10.
22
For the detailed discussion of the legend as historical source and pertinent ambiguities
see Vedriš 2008.
23
Osborne 1999.
78 Mladen Ančić
the name of at least one more dux, Euthimius, whose seal is now in the
collection of seals in Dumbarton Oaks. In this collection there are two more
seals of the administrators of the Dalmatian province, but with different titles
– belonging to persons who bore the title of archon. 24
It is not at all clear when this change occurred, but it seems plausible to
date the change somewhere between the 806 and 811, when the deposed
Venetian doge Beatus was confined in Zadar. The story about Beatus’
deposition is preserved by a Venetian chronicler, John the Deacon, who wrote
his magnum opus some two hundred years later. The story of the deposition of
the two brothers, the Venetian duces Obelerius and Beatus and their respective
confinement in Zadar (Beatus) and Constantinople (Obelerius) is rendered in
the following way by John the Deacon:
Hac quidem tempestate nuncius Constantinopolitanus, nomine
Ebersapius, Venetiam adivit et Veneticorum consilio et virtute hoc
peregit, ut utrique duceset dignitatem et patriam amitterent: unus, id
est Obelerius, Constantinopolim, alter vero Iateram petiit. 25
Taking into account the ambiguity towards intervention of central power in

the Venetian local affairs discernible in John the Deacon’s chronicle, 26 it is still
clearly visible that the deposition of the brothers duces was provoked by, and
arranged from, Constantinople.
In his narrative John also notes that in 820 another deposed dux called
John, son of Agnellus, was also confined to Zadar. On this occasion the
confinement was ordered and arranged by governing dux, Agnellus, for his
own son, John. 27 Those facts, like most of his narrative concerning the ninth
century, were gathered by John the Deacon from an unknown source. But what
is of importance here is that he shed them of their original context, meaning
that he never provided a reason why the deposed doges were confined
specifically to Zadar. The most plausible explanation would be that Zadar was
the nearest imperial administrative center where the deposed dignitaries
could be held under systematic surveillance.
Rebuilding of Holy Trinity in its historical context

The presumed promotion of Zadar into the seat of archon provides the context
for the rebuilding of the older rotund of Holy Trinity into a new complex
church that was more or less left intact until the campaign of Italian
conservators in the 1930s. But before we return to the Church of the Holy
Trinity, we need to address another question; namely, the difference between
the duces, such as those of Venice or Zadar (Dalmatia), and the unknown archon
who was sent to administrate the province after ca. 811. Duces, such as those
24
Nesbitt & Oikonomides 1991, 47.
25
Fedalto & Berto 2003, 74.
26
On this, see Berto 2001, 80-82.
27
Fedalto & Berto 2003, 76.
who headed the provincia Veneciarum or early medieval Dalmatia, were local
notables who were chosen amongst and by the local elite. They represented
the local elites, and after they were enthroned they were eventually able, if
circumstances allowed it, to go to Constantinople. There they usually received
confirmation of a newly acquired position, eventually even a court title. 28
Archon, on the other hand, and we have to presume this regarding this specific
situation, was a representative of the imperial court. There is always a cloud of
ambiguity about the term archon and its use in Byzantine sources. Generally
the term is used in the meaning of ‘governor’, 29 but this ‘governor’ could
equally be representative of central power, as well as a more or less
autonomous ruler of a province or even a statelet on the fringes of the Empire.
Here it is presumed that at least for some time after the signing of the Aachen
Treaty, the ‘governor’ stationed in Zadar was the fully empowered
representative of central power able to safeguard the imperial interests and
mediate between local powers and imperial government.
The archon was sent from Constantinople to rule the coastal region of
Dalmatia and, without doubt, to oversee the newly established point of
controlled exchange between two empires on the Rivo Alto, which soon
expanded from an emporium to a proper city, Venice. 30 Therefore, he was to
answer directly to the imperial court while using the already existing
administrative structure – hence the role of the Venetian dux. In a word, he
was to represent the emperor in every possible way in this westernmost part
of the Empire. And that he did – for years after the Treaty of Aachen was
finally ratified in 813, the new ‘governor’ tried to implement its provisions in
the field. But, it was not an easy task, and it is exactly here that the role of the
imperial center in backing up its ‘governor’ can be vividly discerned. In 817, a
special envoy of the Emperor Leo V arrived at the court of the Emperor Louis
at Aachen in order to discuss the problem of the ‘Dalmatians’ regarding the
border between the ‘Romans’ and the ‘Slavs’. The story about the mission of
Nicephorus is rendered in the Frankish Annals s.a. 817. 31 The author of the
Annals is quite precise in saying that envoy's mission was pro Dalmatinorum
causa ... quia res ad plurimos et Romanos et Slavos pertinebat, but on this occassion
the focus is not on the question of identity. What is important here is the fact
that the imperial center in Constantinople intervened by sending an envoy
directly to the court of Emperor of the West. This goes to show that the
problems of the part of Dalmatia under the new ‘governor’ were regarded as
something serious enough to deserve the intervention of the political center.
28
A thorough discussion of the title dux and the development of its meaning in Byzantium’s
Italian possessions, albeit without reference to the title of dux Iadrae or Dalmatiae, may be
found in Borri 2005. I briefly summed up all the relevant conclusions.
29
Kazhdan 1991.
30
The transtition from Rivo Alto emporium to the city of Venice after 811 can be gauged
from Ammerman 2003; McCormick 2007; 2012; Gelichi 2010.
31
Kurze 1895, 145.
80 Mladen Ančić
If we now look at the Church of the Holy Trinity as it was built in the
beginning of the ninth century, there is one very specific element connecting
it to what I just said. Namely, its upper gallery matroneum or triclinium, was, as
is attested by the anonymous author of the ‘Dalmatian file’ of the DAI, seen and
treated as another church. This upper part of the old rotunda was functionally
redefined with the construction of the gallery and with the addition of two
wings connected to it. The church now had two different liturgical spaces, the
lower and the upper one. The lower liturgical space was plain and ordinary,
while the upper had the specific imperial connections in imitation of the
Constantinopolitan churches of St. Sergius and Bacchus as well as the
Chrisotriklinos in the Imperial Palace. 32 In other words, we can presume that
this was a church specifically built for the representative of the Emperor,
whose palace was probably appended to the already existing episcopal
complex.
The whole scheme, which included administrative reshuffling, and as a
part of it the construction of the palace and the church for the imperial
representative, ran out of steam during the third decade of the ninth century.
What happened can be vaguely deduced from the words of the anonymous
author of the 29th chapter of the DAI who states:
“But when the Roman Empire, through the sloth and inexperience of
those who then governed it and especially in the time of Michael from
Amorion, the Lisper, had declined to the verge of total extinction, the
inhabitants of the cities of Dalmatia became independent, subject
neither to the emperor of Romans nor to anybody else.” 33
Behind those harsh words we can discern that during the reign of the Emperor
Michael II, the central government was probably not in the position to send
and then effectively back up the imperial representative in order to rule
Dalmatia, and appended provincia Veneciarum in the same way it had done
previously. How and why this happened is another and different story, and as
the anonymous author of the 29th chapter of the DAI implies, it was connected
to the politics of the imperial center. This state of affairs provided an
opportunity for the inhabitants of Rivo Alto, but also those of Iader/Zadar, to
develop autonomous power and develop into fully-fledged autonomous
communes. On the other hand, what happened to the imperial official in Zadar
and his newly built palace and rebuilt Church of the Holy Trinity is a hard to
discern local story. All that is known is the fact that under unknown
circumstances, 34 the palace and church were appropriated by the bishop and
finally included into the episcopal complex. In the recent discussion, T. Vedriš
points out a few facts that may shed some light on the problem. If his ideas are
32
The connection is elaborated on in Lončar 1999.
33
DAI, 29.58-63.
34
Local sources shed some light on what was going in the city only from the end of the
tenth century – see Ančić 2009.
followed, it could be concluded that the bishop appropriated not only the
Church but also the relics of St. Anastasia, originally enshrined in the Rotunda.
But even if those suppositions are regarded as convincing they do not tell us
anything regarding the circumstances involved. 35 When this change occurred
is a question that remains unanswered, and so does the question whether the
newly appointed strategos of the Dalmatian thema, which was organized in the
870s and centered in Zadar, 36 was in a position to use the palace and the
church. Be that as it may, it seems that a century or so after the Church of Holy
Trinity was rebuilt and refurbished, nobody knew why, how and for what
purpose the whole project was carried out. It also seems that the only
connection with the original context of the whole project was the name of the
legendary figure of the bishop Donatus.
Map 1: The Byzantine Northern Adriatic . .
35
.
36
An attempt to reestablish a direct imperial administration in Dalmatia during the reign of
Basil I through the organization of thema whose strategos resided in Zadar is discussed,
together with .
material that covers these events is scarce and ambiguous, a possibility for great
differences in interpretation emerges – . .
opinion of the present author) tried to develop the idea that thema was organized in 840s.
82 Mladen Ančić
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Figure 1: Tearing down of walls during the first phase of ‘reconstruction’ – the 1930s.
Courtesy of Pavuša Vežić.
Figure 2: The Church of St. Donatus in Zadar today. In foreground are remains of the
Roman Forum and in the background bell tower of the church of St. Anastasia.
Courtesy of Pavuša Vežić.
Figure 3: The layout of the original building of St. Trinity. Co .
Figure 4: The beam used in the first phase (visible) and later on reused in the second
phase (not visible). .
88 Mladen Ančić
Figure 5: The layout of the gallery. Courtesy of Pavuša Vežić
Figure 6: The gallery as seen from the apse. Courtesy of Pavuša Vežić.
Local knowledge and wider contexts 89
Danijel Dzino
Local knowledge and wider contexts: stories of the arrival of the Croats
in De Administrando Imperio in the past and present
Introduction 1
What we know of the past is inevitably affected by different historical
narratives, constructed in the more or less remote past. Besides the
information these narratives supply, their particular value is in what they tell
us about their presents; dominating paradigms, identity-, political-, and
ideological discourses which influenced the organization of knowledge into
these particular narratives. 2 Understanding how preserved information has
been transmitted and incorporated into our knowledge of the past is
increasingly attracting the attention of fellow historians, regardless of period
or region under consideration. This paper looks into one important aspect of
the transmission and organization of knowledge in the past: the dichotomy
and interaction between the global, macrohistorical narratives and regional
‘local knowledge’ in the past and present. 3 The case-studies chosen for this
are the stories of the arrival of the Croats in Dalmatia in the Byzantine
treatise from the mid-tenth century known as De Administrando Imperio (DAI).
They are chosen for two reasons. First, to point out that their modern
interpretations lack a balanced approach because they deal only with one
side of the problem, analysing either their ‘global’ or ‘local’ significance. Not
enough attention has been devoted to the issues of transmission and
contextualization of knowledge in the development of these stories. Second,
we will argue that the original functions of these stories was to justify and
regulate power-relations, first in local settings and later in an imperial centre
of power, playing different roles in ‘global’ and ‘local’ contexts. The problems
with their later interpretation thus stem primarily from the fact that they
were relocated from their original local contexts, where their significance
was well defined, and embedded into the very different political, ideological
and cultural settings of the DAI.
1
The research for this paper was sponsored by a postdoctoral research grant provided by
the Australian Research Council.
2
There is voluminous literature on the subject, see for example Megill 1997; Clark 2004,
86-105 or Munslow 2007.
3
The term ‘local knowledge’ derives from the famous concept of Geertz 1983. On
macrohistories see Galtung & Inayatullah 1995; Collins 1999 or Stokes 2001.
90 Danijel Dzino
The problem of local and global in early medieval scholarship

Global narratives are, by their very nature, focused on political and/or
cultural centres, regardless of whether we talk about Rome, Byzantium,
Greece, the West, etc. One important characteristic which made these centres
what they were was their ability and power to gather knowledge and
dominate the written discourse, thus projecting the ideological and identity-
narratives of imperial elites. In other words, the role of these centres was to
create, reproduce and maintain imperial cultures and ideologies - an essential
cohesive force necessary for the longevity of imperial dynamics. 4 The
organization of knowledge in imperial centres and the creation of imperial
cultures impacted the quality and nature of written evidence that modern
historians have at their disposal from certain periods. For that practical
reason the focus of modern macrohistories is firmly placed on these centres,
while the regions considered as ‘peripheral’ in political and cultural contexts
received generally much less scholarly attention. Nevertheless, knowledge
gathered at centres also comprised information about ‘peripheral’ regions.
This knowledge played an important role for contemporaries, showing
different ‘others’ who must be ‘civilised’ or be resisted, thus helping to define
the ways in which intellectual elites in imperial centres perceived and
defined themselves. Knowledge of ‘periphery’ was gathered in different ways
– most frequently through a combination of knowledge passed by previous
authorities and information gathered in different ways by direct contact. The
information gathered by direct contact was supplied first or second hand by
people who had enough familiarity with the cultures of both the imperial
centre and its ‘periphery’. 5 This enabled more efficient deciphering and
transmission of ‘local knowledge’ in global cultural contexts, but also resulted
in the de-contextualisation of ‘local knowledge’, taken from its original
context and placed within different identity- or ideological- narratives of the
imperial centre.
In contemporary historiography dealing with European and
Mediterranean history, regardless of the period, the division and even
tension between local (regional, national) historiographies and global (supra-
regional, macrohistorical) historical narratives is unavoidable. That is exactly
what Chris Wickham properly diagnoses with the term ‘cultural solipsism’ –
self-sufficiency and fragmentation of historical debates within European
4
The scholarship on the creation and role of imperial cultures is perpetually growing, e.g.
Said 1993; Colás 2007, 116-57; Münkler 2007, 80-107 (esp. 84-88). A great case-study for
Rome is Hingley 2005, 49-71; see also Haldon 2009, 236-40 and Cameron 2014, 26-45 for
Byzantium and the contribution of Davenport in this volume. Not many authors paid
attention to the organization of knowledge – an important exception being Woolf 2011,
59-117 for organisation of ancient knowledge.
5
See Woolf 2011 who shows how ancient ethnographic knowledge about ‘periphery’ was
gathered and processed in antiquity. For the Byzantine ethnographic writing see most
recently Kaldellis 2013.
national historiographies. 6 Often, local and global aspects of historiography

are concerting their efforts – on one hand local scholarship supplies global
narratives with specialized knowledge, which is integrated into
macrohistorical narratives. However, in some cases such as eastern and even
more southeastern Europe, which are of particular interest for the present
paper, there are significant problems to overcome in order to establish a
mutually beneficial relationship of national/regional scholarships with these
macrohistorical narratives. 7 There are a few reasons for this disconcerting
relationship. Firstly the political circumstances of 1945-1990 made national
scholarships in these regions more isolated from general paradigm-shifts
occurring in the West which, combined with a lack of access to local
publications and literature written in languages not widely spoken in the
West, made western historical narratives much less aware of ‘local
knowledge’. An additional problem is the particularism and fragmentation of
southeastern European national scholarships, which often develop their
historical narratives and research-focus separately from each other. 8
Secondly, the importance of history, especially medieval, for the construction
of national identity-discourses made use of ‘local knowledge’ from these
regions by default less desirable or even irrelevant in Western scholarship,
which made significant efforts to de-nationalise its research approaches,
especially outside continental Europe. 9
The problem is, however, two-sided and it is not only the limited ability
of regional scholarships to engage in wider debates that is to blame for this
lack of communication. The perceptions of medieval eastern and
southeastern Europe as peripheral for the construction of European culture
and civilization are connected with ongoing Orientalist and Balkanist
discourses in the West, best captured by the critique of Said, and sensu stricto
the work of Todorova, and the scholarship arising from these seminal
works. 10 Thus, these regions and their national scholarships were often
brushed away and less readily incorporated into scholarly syntheses of
medieval history in the past. 11 Another, equally important problem is the
6
Wickham 1994, 203; 2005, 1-3; 2006.
7
For example Brunnbauer 2004 for post-socialist historiographies and American Historical
Review 97(4) (1992), 1011-117 dedicated to historiographies of eastern Europe. In the
present context of southeastern European scholarship on Middle Ages cf. Curta 2006, 29-
38.
8
It is worth quoting Wickhamʼs honest admission: “I excluded the Slav lands (from his
recent monumental synthetic study of Late antique/Early medieval Europe and
Mediterranean), both in the Roman Empire (the Balkans) and outside it, because of my own
linguistic weaknessesˮ, Wickham 2005, 5.
9
Vedriš 2010, 26-27.
10
Said 1978; Todorova 1997.
11
E.g. Curta 2006, 28; 2008, 1-3. See also Cameron 2014, 7-25 on cultural bias and exoticism
that was introduced by colonial-era western (especially British) historians who first
constructed historiographical discourse on the Byzantine world for their readers.
92 Danijel Dzino
transfer of knowledge through mediators. As said before, ‘local knowledge’

from Eastern and southeastern European historiographies has been poorly
communicated to wider audiences until the last decade or two. Its
distribution to wider scholarly audiences was managed through a small
number of these mediators, scholars whose linguistic knowledge enabled
access to ‘local knowledge’ and its transfer. 12 However, a small number of
mediators minimized the scope of scholarly debate and monopolization of
their perceptions and interpretations of the past as dominant historical
narratives. It is important not to forget that contemporary scholars were also
under the influence of their Zeitgeist and that personal experience and
ideological-political discourses also influenced their selection of ‘local
knowledge’, its manipulation and shaping into specific historical narratives. 13
Interpreting DAI in local and global contexts

Let us return to DAI. In short, DAI is a treatise composed in the mid-tenth
century at the court of Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus. The Emperor
actively participated in its making, and personally wrote some of its parts,
but we cannot ascribe to him sole authorship or editorship of the treatise (see
also Ančić, this volume p. 71). DAI was intended for his son Romanus II as a
type of diplomatic manual. It supplied information on Byzantine neighbours
and basic foreign policy, showing how the Mediterranean world had changed
after the demise of the Roman Empire. While it was obviously not intended
for a wide audience, DAI was useful for Byzantine diplomats to deal with the
outside world. 14 Most authors broadly agree that available information was
gathered from different sources (diplomacy, informers on the ground,
existing documents) and was pieced together in Constantinople. This
editorial work which connected ‘raw’ material into the narrative structures
of DAI was much more complex than just making a simple patchwork of
available sources. It must have included some substantial alterations and re-
arrangements of the original material in accordance with the political and
ideological purposes of the treatise. 15
The stories of the arrival of the Croats in post-Roman Dalmatia in
chapters 29-31 are a particularly interesting part of DAI, which is one of the
12
The perceptions of southeastern European past (excluding, certainly, Greece) in
Anglophone literature were significantly shaped by, for example, Wilkes 1969; 1992
(prehistory and antiquity) or Fine 1983; 1987 (Middle Ages).
13
See criticism of the authors cited in n.12 from local perspective in Periša 2002 (Wilkes)
and Budak 2009 (Fine) – also Ančić, this volume pp. 71-72.
14
The older scholarship on DAI as a whole is rather modest. The foundation for modern
works is the study of Bury 1906 and extensive commentary of DAI in Jenkins 1962.
15
See the analysis of Howard-Johnston 2000, 304-30 who implies that the core of the
treaty was gathered between 900 and 910, in the time of Leo VI, and later revised ca. 948-
952 to form the text we know today as DAI. Howard-Johnston’s insistence that
Constantine himself authored most of the revisions remains questionable, see Ševčenko
1992, 183-88 and criticism of Howard-Johnston in Ančić 2010, 141-42.
earliest written sources to mention these groups, and the earliest source that
provides an ‘explanation’ for their origins. They are also intertwined with
stories of the origins of the Serbs (Chapter 32) and other smaller
contemporary Slavophone groups from the eastern Adriatic, perceived by DAI
as related to the Serbs (Chapters 33-35). The discussions of these
contradictory stories in global and local scholarship started from the
appearance of DAI to a wider audience in the sixteenth century, and are still
very alive. As said earlier, these stories have particular appeal because they
appear to give a direct answer to the problem of the appearance and
historicity of Croatian identity, which was not recorded in antiquity. It is not
to say that the idea of their migration and arrival did not exist in the Middle
Ages, but without these passages from DAI it would not have been possible to
properly define. 16 The early modern historian Iohannes Lucius (Ivan Lučić) of
Trogir incorporated these stories in his influential narrative of regional
history De Regno Dalmatiae and Croatiae in the seventeenth century, and they
remained part of historical ‘knowledge’ until today. The idea of Slavic
migrations in southeastern Europe worked particularly well within pan-
Slavic discourse of the nineteenth century, and the idea of joint settlement
and origins of the Croats and Serbs, which is implied by these stories, played a
vital part in the formation, manipulation and maintenance of Yugoslav
ideology in the nineteenth and twentieth century. 17
A perpetual problem of interpretation of these stories is that they
depict different, sometimes mutually exclusive events and chronology
surrounding the settlement and origins of the Croats but also Serbs and other
related groups. They also have a special importance: these chapters in
modern Croatian and Serbian historiographies act as the foundation-stone of
national historical narratives, historical ‘biographies’ of these nations.
Therefore, it is not surprising that these historiographies focus on the
attempts to classify information from DAI as ‘right’ and ‘wrong’, maintaining
the idea that the stories had certain elements of historical value. Both
historiographies generally accept the idea that some parts of these stories
from DAI after all have some degree of historical validity, providing decisive
evidence for either the migration of both groups in the seventh, or the later
Croatian migration in the late eighth/early ninth century. 18 This widely held
perception has further implications: it is, for example, visible in Croatian
16
The story of the Croat arrival from Poland is present in the thirteenth century, as we
can see in chapter 7 of Historia Salonitanorum by Thomas Spalatensis, Perić et al. 2006, 34-
39. It is unarguably one of several genuine local narratives of the past existing in his
times, see Dzino 2010a, 101-04; 2010b, 156-57 with literature.
17
Ančić 2008; 2011b, 218-20; Dzino 2010a, 18-20.
18
The scholarship on this particular problem is very extensive, see the overviews in
Lončar 1990; Švab 1995; Margetić 2002; Živković 2012b, 201-04. An important
methodological problem of local scholarly discourse on DAI is its focus on chapters 29-35
and lack of interest in research of the whole treaty.
94 Danijel Dzino
archaeology, which dates the finds from post-Roman Dalmatia to the seventh,
or less frequently the early ninth century, according to these stories from
DAI. 19 The most recent works on these stories from DAI in a local context thus
remains divided between a more or less positivist reading of this source, and
dissenting attempts to read the text ‘between the lines’, analyzing tenth-
century contexts and ideological discourses affecting earlier
interpretations. 20
With some exceptions, global scholarship in the last two decades
shifted the approach towards the analysis of DAI as an integral literary work
rather than just a collection of information. It is today well established that
DAI has a clear political purpose to construct the historical rights of the
Byzantines over the areas of their political interest, showing the clear
ideological purpose and method behind its “seemingly random and tendentious
antiquarianism”. 21 Literary criticism of DAI also resulted in the development of
further arguments which challenged a positivistic reading and the notion of
historicity of the stories of the arrival and baptism of the Croats and Serbs. 22
While performing the important and long overdue task of deconstructing the
notion of historicity of these stories, and their ideological and practical
function in literary structures of DAI they rarely engaged in attempts to
explain the ideological and practical function of the stories in local contexts.
The challenge to the historicity of these stories did not remove the need to
explain their origins and the transfer of knowledge from local contexts to
Constantinople.
Two very recent studies of DAI enriched the debate in both of these
contexts, providing intriguing conclusions. Deconstructing the story of the
Croat arrival, Francesco Borri assumes that there was no direct source for the
stories of the Croat migration from White Croatia. According to his
meticulous scholarly analysis inspired by a post-modern reading of the
original text, these perspectives are essentially Byzantine constructions. The
stories are the attempt to explain the appearance of different groups with a
similar name in Dalmatia, modern Ukraine and Poland through migration
using literary topoi established in ancient Greek ethnographic literature. In
addition, he argued that the idea of the Croat migration was additionally
mixed with the Bulgar origo gentis, known from Theophanes and Nikephorus,
which was available to the compilers of DAI. While acknowledging that the
19
Bilogrivić 2010.
20
A good example of these diverse approaches in local scholarship are the papers from
Radovi Zavoda za hrvatsku povijest 41 (2010), 13-168, especially the outline of the problems
in existing interpretations of DAI by Vedriš 2010. A dissenting voice against a positivistic
reading of DAI in Croatian scholarship was first successfully articulated by Ančić 2010;
2011a; 2011b.
21
Shepard 1997, 96-98, the quote from 98. See also Yannopoulos 1987; Ševčenko 1992;
Howard Johnston 2000; Shepard 2003, 109-12.
22
Curta 2008; Alimov 2008; 2012; Todorov 2008; Dzino 2010a, 104-17; 2010b; Borri 2011.
stories on the Croat arrival must have been based on already existing
information, Borri does not discuss the origins of the information, or the way
the stories were transmitted to Constantinople. 23 Tibor Živković on the other
hand claims that DAI used a now lost single source he calls De Conversione
Croatorum et Serborum, which was in his opinion authored by Anastasius the
Librarian. 24 Space limitation forces me to make a small injustice towards the
argument of Živković and avoid debate with his otherwise very interesting,
imaginative and elaborated argument. The complexities of the stories in DAI
and the discussion below, in my opinion, by default challenges and seriously
undermines the idea of a single source being used. 25
The stories of the Croat arrival in DAI and ‘local knowledge’

There are two stories about the arrival of the Croats in Dalmatia from White
Croatia, one in chapter 30, 26 and one in chapter 31, regarded as Byzantine
interpretations of the original story. These two stories cannot be viewed
separately from the story in chapter 29, known as the ‘Dalmatian dossier’. 27 It
describes the fall of Salona and the origins of the early medieval inhabitants
of the Byzantine-ruled Dalmatian cities who perceived themselves as
‘Romans’ (see also Shepard, this volume p. 23). Scholarship on the subject
usually assumes, after the pioneering analysis of Bury from 1906, that chapter
30 was placed within the already existing narrative formed by chapters 29
and 31-35. 28
Chapter 29 entitled Of Dalmatia and of the adjacent nations in it starts with
the story of the mythical foundations of Salona by emperor Diocletian and
23
Borri 2011. The story in Theophanes is very similar to the Croat origo gentis, see n.33
below.
24
Živković 2012a – I need to note here personal sadness for recent and premature passing
of this talented Serbian scholar, which regrettably deprives future debate on early
medieval southeastern Europe of his contribution.
I agree with Vedriš 2010, 21-22 that Živković’s argument in essence presents a traditional
approach to interpretation, focusing on text rather than on the contexts in which the text
was compiled and its purpose. Živković (2012b, 204) even confirms that himself, saying
that historians must follow and criticize their sources but not dare to reject them. This
sacrosanctity of the text in Živković is an important characteristic of ‘local’ scholarship,
which was heavily isolated from developments in historiographical treatment of the text
before the 1990s (see above).
25
Sf. Dzino 2010b.
26
This story is sometimes referred to in literature as the ‘Croat origo gentis’. White Croatia
was traditionally located either in modern Ukraine or in modern Poland. However, DAI
never mentions White Croatia, just White or Unbaptized Croats living in the north. Recent
powerful criticism of the concept ʻWhite Croatiaʼ can be found in Borri 2011.
27
This story is sometimes referred to in literature as the ‘Dalmatian dossier’. It is also
important to notice that Howard-Johnston 2000, 314-16 refers to chapters 29-36 as the
‘Balkan dossier’, which is a very questionable definition, with hints of modern-day
balkanising discourse – see also Ančić, this volume p. 71 n.1.
28
Bury 1906, 522-25.
96 Danijel Dzino
colonists from Rome, 29 its fall and capture by the Slavs and subsequent exile
of the Salonitans on the Dalmatian islands and other coastal cities (DAI, 29.1-
53). 30 After that, the narrative focuses on the role of the emperor Basil I,
Constantine’s grandfather, in bringing local groups back to Byzantine power
and a longer excursus of the capture of Bari from the Saracens during the
reign of Basil I (DAI, 29.58-216). The chapter ends with the description of the
Dalmatian coastal cities, remaining nominally under Byzantine sovereignty
(DAI, 29.217-95). Between the story of the fall of Salona and the part dealing
with Basil’s achievements, the text mentions the narrative (συγγραφῇ, DAI,
29.56) of the Croats and the Serbs, which would ‘explain’ how these nations
and smaller groups around them (Zachlumi, Terbounites, Kanalites,
Diocletians and Arentani) initially came under Byzantine power during the
rule of Heraclius and remained there until they gained independence because
of the ‘incompetence’ of the predecessors of Basil I (DAI, 29.54-58).
Chapter 30, Story of the province of Dalmatia, repeats the story of the fall
of Salona, in a slightly abbreviated and changed way. Salona is captured in
this narrative by the Avars, not Slavs, and as a consequence, the Avars settled
in Dalmatia. However, a splinter group separated from the White Croats
(located ‘beyond Bavaria’) and came into Dalmatia led by five brothers and
two sisters and after long fighting submerged the Avars. The story further
stated that the Croats were subject to the Franks but after seven years they
prevailed, remaining independent. As a consequence of this independence
the Croats asked for baptism from Rome and were baptized during the rule of
one Porinos (DAI, 30.6-90). The chapter further describes the country of the
Croats and its neighbours. Finally, it ends with precise information about the
tribute paid by Dalmatian cities to Croats and Slavs from the hinterland (DAI,
30.90-142). Chapter 31, Of the Croats and of the country they now dwell in,
describes the arrival of the Croats from White Croatia at the time of the
emperor Heraclius. Heraclius permitted them to settle and baptized them,
after the Croats under his leadership defeated the Avars who ravaged
Illyricum (DAI, 31.1-30). Subsequent stories are chronologically and logically
aligned with this narrative, especially one from chapter 32 which describes
the arrival of the Serbs in very similar settings under the protection of
Heraclius (32.1-30), but also shorter chapters 33-35 describing smaller groups
which were, in the Byzantine perception, related to the Serbs.
The story from chapter 29 is easiest to interpret, as in this case we have
corroborating information from other sources. There is no doubt that the
story of the fall of Salona, the wandering of the Salonitans through the
29
Salona was established as a Roman colony in the second part of the first century BCE,
long before Diocletian. Živković (2010, 131-32) thought that the information about
Diocletian’s colonisation reflected real events – the settlement of veterans at the turn of
fourth century. This opinion was successfully refuted by Basić (2013, 94-101).
30
The Avars are mentioned only once, indirectly, in the expression “Slavs, also called
Avarsˮ, DAI, 29.33.
Adriatic islands and the foundation of Spalatum (Split), was part of regional
historical memories. In a much more elaborated form they are told by
Thomas Spalatensis in the thirteenth century, and they are also preserved in
elite-narratives from the central Dalmatian islands. 31 It is in essence a
historical biography for the Dalmatian Romans, the inhabitants of Dalmatian
coastal cities who recognized Byzantine rule, and the description of their
cities. It also contains an explanation why these regions were lost from the
empire (‘sloth of Basil’s predecessors’) and how they were recovered by Basil
I, Constantine’s grandfather. Mythological parts of the story, such as
foundation of the cities by emperor Diocletian, play a role in preserving
memory and justifying the power of existing elites in Spalatum and the
islands, who wanted to justify their position by claiming their descent from
ancient Salona. It is part of ‘local knowledge’; a story of doubtful historicity
which was actively used in a context of local power-relationships. Yet, the
dating of this story to the seventh century in Croatian scholarship - on
account of a now lost written note of historian Lucius and the inscription
from the church of the Holy Ghost in Škrip on the island of Brač (recently
shown to be forgery) mentioned by De Cranchis in Braciae Descriptio - is at
best, based on very suspicious evidence. 32 Whatever the origin of the story,
and it is not excluded that it might have comprised local historical memories
of events in the sixth century, 33 its purpose is very clear. It is there to ‘prove’
the origins of the Spalatan and island elites from ancient Salona, and through
the myth of Diocletian’s foundation, stretch those ‘origins’ even further to
Rome. 34 However, the transmission of knowledge and its incorporation in DAI
31
For Thomas it is a biblical story of sin and punishment, Historia Salonitana 7-10; Perić et
al. 2006, 32-53. The story was used by the elites from the central Dalmatian islands, such as
Brač, to claim their ancestry from ancient Salona, as late as the fifteenth century. There
are two historians from the island of Brač who mentioned it: Domnius de Cranchis (Dujam
Hranković) in Braciae Descriptio written in 1405 (Gligo & Morović 1977, 218-19) and Vicko
Prodich (Prodić) in Cronica dell’isola della Brazza published in 1662 (Gligo & Morović 1977,
234-36).
32
Dominant opinion stems from the influential analysis of Katičić 1988 (recently Buzančić
2003, or Basić 2005, 21-23), whose key argument is based on this lost note of Lucius (see
Dzino 2010a, 103) and the inscription. The inscription from Škrip mentions the exiled
Salonitans and neighbouring Epetians from the mainland who built the church at the time
of pope Vitalianus and the emperor Heraclius Constans (ca. 659-72). The inscription
(considered to be lost) was discovered recently, but both its language and the shape of the
letters reveal late Renaissance forgery – possibly even done by De Chrancis himself, Cambi
2007, 100-04; 2013, 55-57.
33
Speculated to be from Justinian’s Gothic Wars, when Salona was taken by the Byzantines
and retaken by the Ostrogoths, Ivić 2004, 139-40, or related to the raid of the Sclavini in
Dalmatia in 550/51, described in Procopius, Dzino 2010b, 157.
34
The stories linking the Romans from Dalmatian cities and Rome were also present in
identity-narratives of the Ragusians, see Kunčević 2004 and Živković 2007 on foundation
legends of the Ragusians.
98 Danijel Dzino
decontextualise it and now it is used to present Byzantine strong-points and

possessions in the eastern Adriatic.
As said earlier, the ‘narrative of the Croats and Serbs’ mentioned briefly
in chapter 29 almost certainly relates to the narrative from chapters 31-35.
The story from chapter 29 and the ‘narrative of the Croats and Serbs’ deal
with two different units of analysis, from the point of view of Byzantine
diplomacy – Dalmatian cities which remained part of the empire, and
neighbouring polities which were imperial zones of interest, imperial
frontiers, but not part of the empire in an administrative sense. They are
compatible with each other and it is perfectly logical for them to follow each
other, indirectly confirming that chapter 30 must be a ‘foreign body’ to the
original composition. The ‘narrative of the Croats and Serbs’ presents
Byzantine perceptions of the past: it establishes these two groups as recent
arrivals, settling under Byzantine auspices and rule. The narrative uses
elements of the story from chapter 29 (the Romans settled by Diocletian,
expelled by the Avars) with some new additions, about the groups migrating
from the north (White or Unbaptized Croats, Pagan Serbs) and information
which constructs a power-hierarchy dominated by the Byzantines as
historical subjects (the Croats baptized by Heraclius with priests sent from
Rome, settlement under Byzantine auspices). The same formula is used in
chapter 32, with the story of the Serb arrival.
Yet, still nothing explains the position and role of chapter 30. The
structure of this story has narrative elements familiar to chapters 29 and 31:
the Dalmatians migrated from Rome and settled in Dalmatia, the Avars
defeated the Dalmatians, the Croats migrated from the north and defeated
the Avars. However, while using the same narrative elements, this story is
ideologically completely different – it provides an active role to the Croats as
subjects, rather than objects of the narrative, as they are in chapter 31 where
the real subjects are the Byzantines. For this reason it seems compelling to
assume that this story must have originated in a local context amongst the
Croats, not in Byzantine intellectual circles. It seems that this story had a
very similar purpose to that from chapter 29. It used historical memories in
order to help a contemporary group to claim the past in the context of local
power-relations. We can even speculate that it might have originally
developed as a result of competition in claiming the past between the
‘Romans’ from Dalmatian cities and the Croats – a new elite group appearing
in Dalmatia in the ninth century. The Croat existence as ‘rightful’ successors
of late-antique Dalmatians is legitimized through the victory over the Avars,
who earlier defeated the Dalmatians. 35
It is impossible to determine the origins of the Croat story of arrival
from chapter 30. A few scholars pointed out that it is remarkably similar to
the Bulgar origo gentis given by Theophanes, so it is very probable that both
35
Dzino 2010b, 156-59, 161.
were drawing upon a common pool of cultural tradition from the time of the
Avar khaganate. 36 The Croat story should therefore be seen as a product of a
defined elite-group which legitimized their social position by constructing
their origins and homeland in an undetermined past. It was a very skilfully
made blend of indigenous historical memories with legends of immigrant
groups which sporadically settled in post-Roman Dalmatia, used for the
political narrative of the Croat elite which is attested there in the ninth
century. 37 Chapter 30 must have been included in DAI when the Croat duchy,
later kingdom, appears as a relevant international subject, significant enough
for Byzantine foreign policy – most certainly in the tenth century. It might
have been deemed appropriate to have an alternative to the συγγραφῇ and
start to use a new historical narrative more adjusted to altered historical
circumstances, and that can be clearly seen from the focus of this chapter. In
time, chapter 30 becomes integrated in subsequent versions of the DAI as its
integral part, losing its original function of updated historical narrative. 38
The use of the Croat story from chapter 30 in chapter 31, i.e. in the
συγγραφῇ unmistakably shows Byzantine agency in the same way as it utilizes
the Dalmatian story from chapter 29, establishing the Byzantines as historical
subjects. As there are no reasonable grounds to dispute the conclusion of
Bury about the later authorship of chapter 30, it is possible to conclude that
the Croat story was available to the author of the συγγραφῇ. The συγγραφῇ
from chapter 31 onwards thus places together the local story of the fall of
Salona and the arrival of the Croats and Serbs and brings it from the
mythological, undetermined ‘once upon a time’ into defined history. The
Byzantine agency embeds the Dalmatian Croats in the ethnography of Europe
through connection with groups of similar names, such as the Chruuati from
southern Poland, or Хървати from the upper Don. 39 The choice of Heraclius
as agent of Byzantine power in this story is also not surprising. Heraclius was
a popular generic ruler, while the stories of the baptism of ‘barbarians’ from
that time, such as the one concerning the baptism of the Huns, could easily be
found in the ninth book of Nikephorus’ Breviarium. What this narrative
establishes is not only a narrative of imperial power, but also historical
36
Theophanes, 357-60 (AM 6171/AD 679/80); Nichephorus 22.1; 35.5 ff.; Borri 2011, 224-26,
see earlier Pohl 1985; 1988, 269 ff.; Budak 1994, 68-69.
37
There are three pieces of evidence that confirm Croat identity in Dalmatia in the ninth
century – two charters of the Croat dukes (Trepimirus/Trpimir and
Muncimirus/Muncimir) and the inscription of duke Branimirus/Branimir from Muć, see
Dzino 2010a, 196-98; Borri 2011, 222 n.71. I am not convinced that their validity should be
discarded, as Borri suggested perhaps too rashly in his study, before comprehensive
analysis is made and showed otherwise.
38
See Ančić 2010 who points out the late tenth century as a possible date. The earlier-
mentioned analysis of Howard-Johnston 2000, 304-30, who assumed that the eoriginal
material was collected between 900 and 910, and subsequent additions made in 948-952,
can also be taken into account for determining when chapter 30 was inserted in DAI.
39
Dzino 2010, 113, cf. Borri 2011, 223-24, 228.
100 Danijel Dzino
justification for the political claims of the Byzantines in this region. Repeated
claims that the Croats and Serbs were never ruled by the Bulgars also show
the political motivation behind the Byzantine claims, which is to define the
area as their zone of interest and prevent the spread of Bulgar influences.
Thus, we can see the συγγραφῇ not as history or historical fiction, but as
creative use of ‘local knowledge’ and information from Heraclius’ age and its
placement within a new context in which DAI functioned.
Conclusion
Modern historical scholarship has always accepted, more or less suspiciously,
the stories of the arrival of the Croats, and more generally, the arrival of the
Slavs in post-Roman Illyricum in the DAI, as codified reflections of historical
realities. As we saw in this paper, the meaning and interpretation of these
stories was very different if watched from a local or global perspective. Even
today, fragmentation of research and knowledge about history, ‘cultural
solipsism’, creates a problem in attempts to include this wider region in
contemporary historical meta-narratives. It remains hanging in the
perception of modern scholarship somewhere between East and West,
Carolingian and Ottonian Europe and the Byzantine Commonwealth,
belonging to both worlds and being excluded from both.
It seems from the earlier analysis that the account from DAI is the
result of connection and reinterpretation of three stories, two coming from
the local context – the narratives of Spalatan and Croat elite(s) – and the
Byzantine version, which integrated two stories and recontextualized them
in discourse of imperial power-narrative. All three stories result from power-
relations and claims on the past. The Roman elite from the Dalmatian cities
claimed the past by putting claims on ‘Roman’ origins and being the original
settlers. The Croat elite claimed the past through their rights as conquerors,
by defeating the Avars. The Byzantines established an imperial narrative of
domination in chapter 31, which creatively interprets local stories in a global
context.
It is not possible to accept these stories as representing ‘ancestral
traditions’ or comprising parts of historical ‘truth’. Yet, we cannot take them
as complete fiction, invented in either global or local contexts. Some parts of
the Dalmatian or Croat story might have included reflecting memory on real
historical events, but they are in their present form de-contextualised, and
their real purpose and meaning can only be guessed. They were all taken
from their original contexts, where they played a role and had certain
significance for the local population, most certainly by justifying local power-
structures. They were reworked and incorporated within the ‘global’
narrative of DAI, which is a distinct literary work with its defined purpose and
ideological structures.
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Female virtue, Euripides and the Byzantine manuscripts 105
Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides
Monash University, Melbourne
Female virtue, Euripides, and the Byzantine manuscript tradition in

the fourteenth century
Introduction
This paper investigates the demand for Byzantine editions of Euripides in
fourteen and fifteen century Florence where, amid the proto-capitalist spirit
that ruled the city, the battle of the genders was renewed and female virtue
was persistently discussed by local, influential church officials. 1 In Byzantium
interest in Euripides and his unique appreciation of the female psyche never
diminished with numerous Greek Orthodox priests and scholars drawing on
Euripidian heroines in order to stress the investment of the empire and its
holy mission with patriarchal values. 2 The ideal woman was defined
characteristically in the eleventh century by Michael Psellos who in praise of
his mother said that she “…wanted to know nothing, not what was happening in
the marketplace, nor in the palace.” 3 Psellos, who found Euripides “full of delight
and charming in all of his dramas” (Euripides or Pisides 64-65), 4 is likely to have
been inspired by Andromache’s speech in the Troades (645-55) where the
heroine discusses appropriate female conduct as follows:
ἃ γὰρ γυναιξὶ σώφρον’ ἔσθ’ ηὑρημένα,
ταῦτ’ ἐξεμόχθουν Ἕκτορος κατὰ στέγας.
πρῶτον μέν, ἔνθα – κἄν προσῇ κἄν μὴ προσῇ
ψόγος γυναιξίν – αὐτὸ τοῦτ’ ἐφέλκεται
κακῶς ἀκούειν, ἣτις οὐκ ἔνδον μένει,
τούτου παρεῖσα πόθον ἔμιμνον ἐν δόμοις …
γλώσσης τε σιγὴν ὄμμα θ’ ἥσυχον πόσει
παρεῖχον.
N. B. I am grateful to Frances Muecke and Andrea Nanetti for their bibliographical

suggestions. I would also like to thank Luke Riley whose Honours thesis on Rape in Terence
I supervised in 2007; Luke’s work on Danae in Terence sparked my interest in the topic.
1
See, among others, Rusconi 1996, 182-96; Benson 1999, 1-15; 2004, 136-56; Syson &
Thornton 2001, 37-77; Kirshner 2002, 79-109; Brown 2002, 113-42; Kent 2003, 25-48.
2
The Byzantine ideal of womanhood drew on Xenophon’s Oeconomicus and Plutarch’s
extant corpus; Psellos was an avid reader of both; see Laiou 2001, 265; Papaioannou 2013,
22 n.60, 159, 167 with n.4.
3
See Sathas 1876, 5, 24 also discussed in Laiou 2001, 263.
4
Dyck 1986, 23-73; Kambylis 1994, 203-15; Papaioannou 2013, 116.
106 Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides
“I (who) in Hector’s house worked out all custom that brings

discretion’s name to women. Blame them or blame them not, there is one
act that swings scandalous speech their way beyond all else: to leave the
house and walk abroad. I longed to do it, but put the longing aside, and
stayed always within the enclosure of my own house and court ... I gave
my lord’s presence the tribute of hushed lips and eyes downcast ...” 5
By the thirteen century, the consistent weakening of the Byzantine Empire,

marked by the Fall of Constantinople to the Franks in 1204, witnessed an
exceptional influx of texts in the Byzantine capital. Access to old manuscripts
was renewed 6 and new editions of ancient authors were prepared by scholars
such as Manuel Moschopoulos, Thomas Magister, and Demetrios Triklinios.
Their editions attracted the interest of manuscript collectors in the West
where Euripides’ fame was already widespread among intellectual circles. 7
His admirers included the Florentines Petrarch (1304-1374) and Boccaccio
(1313-1375), both of whom were actively involved in the manuscript trade
which gained pace at this time; 8 likewise, Giovanni Aurispa, who held the
chair of Greek studies in Florence from 1425-1427, managed to purchase in
his two trips to Greece in 1413 and 1421 as many as 238 Greek manuscripts
containing among others the works of Sophocles and Euripides. 9
The same circles were also frequented by famous Florentine preachers
such as Antonino Pierozzi (1389-1459) and Bernardino of Sienna (1380-1444)
whose theological concerns did not dissuade them in the least from using
classical sources for their fiery preaching. 10 On the contrary, Euripidian
heroines provided them, as I will argue, with a rich source of moral lessons
5
Cohen 1989, 3; Vellacott 1975, 97.
6
Browning 1960, esp. 12.
7
Of course, overall knowledge of Greek tragedy remained obscure in the West for a long
time; hence, based on Donatus, tragedy was thought of as a poem dealing with bloody
deeds, often instigated by women, and, based on Isidore de Seville, its exemplification of
bad rulers was noted. See Di Maria 2005, 428-29.
8
Pertusi 1960, 101-02; both men were hugely influenced by Dante (1265-1321).
9
See Stinger 1977, 36. Vittorino da Feltre (1378-1446), who borrowed at least a manuscript
containing Plutarch from Aurispa, referred to Euripides’ as iucundus, though he preferred
Sophocles; Woodward 1996, 50.
10
See Oppel 1987, 258 for the tendency of “assimilating intellectuals to clergy and vice versa”
in the work of Alberti; Howard 2008, 330 comments on “the crowds that were drawn to
preachers [such as Fra Francesco] who belonged to orders that combined religious duties and
engagement with the studia humanitatis.” Hankins 2003, 1.248-49 argues that the Florentines
became interested in pagan religious texts and poetry only in the fifteenth century,
limiting themselves at first to the study of prose – probably owing to mistrust of the
moral messages of lustful ancient Greek verse. However, the records of the first public
library of San Marco paint a different picture; thus, Ullman & Stadter 1972, 82 refer to a
manuscript of Euripides that came from Boccaccio’s library; cf. Lesnick 1990, 208-25 on
the Dominican promotion of Christian community based on civic ideals; also, Howard
2009, 212.
for their congregations 11 who overall welcomed the comparison of their city
with ancient Athens. 12 Taking start from the plethora of classical sources that
became available to the Florentines through the library of San Marco, I glance
at the manuscript tradition of Euripides arguing that impetus for his works
prompted cultural agitations between the Byzantines and their Florentine
neighbors, earlier than usually assumed, setting the backdrop of Italian
humanism.
Euripides At Sea: Examples of Female Virtue from Byzantium to Florence

In this part, I discuss the familiarity of St Antonino Pierozzi and St
Bernardino of Sienna, two of the most influential Florentine preachers, 13 with
Euripides at a time before the documented circulation of the main
manuscripts of his works in Italy. Given Pierozzi’s emphasis on education as a
means of creating virtuous citizens, 14 and his role in the establishment of the
library of San Marco in Florence under the patronage of Cosimo de’ Medici, 15
the echoes of classical texts in his Sermons seem hardly accidental. 16 Similarly,
Bernardino belonged to a circle of friars that appreciated classical
scholarship, even though he chose to emphasize the moral distance between
decadent, pagan antiquity and the salvation-gaining truth of Christian life. 17
Euripides offered a particularly apt source of moral guidance to the
Florentines of Pierozzi and Bernardino’s time when the role of women in
society became increasingly problematic. The economic rise of Florence in
the late thirteenth and fourteenth centuries – enhanced by the end of the
Francocracy in the Byzantium in 1261 and the restoration of trade routes in
the eastern Mediterranean – brought about a number of social changes.
Typically, the contribution of women in economy (primarily through their
dowries) was taken up in tandem with the issue of female virtue by influential
members of the Church who often referred to the sins of avarice, luxury, and
11
See Herlihy 1977, 3-24 and Kirshner 2002, 83-84 for the association of brides and
marriage with expense in fourteen century Florence which was a major preoccupation of
contemporary preachers.
12
The similarities between the medieval republic of Florence and classical Athens, are
discussed in an impressive amount of scholarship; i.e. Kent 1987, 77 writes: “The governing
class was, after all profoundly imbued by its education with the literature, morality, and ideals of
the classical republics, and with the conviction that in both the cultural and the political spheres
Florence was the modern heir of Athens and Rome.”
13
The sermons of Antonino Pierozzi attracted an audience of merchants, lawyers and
politicians; Howard 1995, 227-30; 2008, 331; cf. Howard 2009, 210-11. For his economic
theories, see de Roover 1967, 18-23; contra Spicciani 1987, 93-120.
14
Howard 1995, 227-37; 1998, 283-307; Polizzotto 2004, 21.
15
For Cosimo’s role in the invention of the humanities, see Hankins 2003, 427-28; cf.
Ullman & Stadter 1972, 24-26 on the small Greek part of the library.
16
Ullman & Stadter 1972, 3-5.
17
Stinger 1977, 39; Mormando 1999, 10.
lust and the particular susceptibility of women to them. 18 As expected, praise

was reserved for those exceptional females who dedicated themselves to
facilitating the lives of their male relatives. 19
The debate was all too familiar among Byzantine intellectuals and
theologians who discussed frequently the issue of female virtue vis-à-vis the
ability of women to influence the domestic, but, also, the political scene of
the Empire, especially during the eleventh century when the tendency of
Byzantine emperors to accept foreign wives had led to a generic prejudice
against Latin, especially, wives. 20 At that time of crisis, traditionalists, such as
Ioannis Skylitzes, had turned to classical sources, particularly Xenophon and
Plutarch, 21 for models of female modesty. Notably Skylitzes’ work enjoyed
wide circulation from the time of its composition to the fifteenth century
inspiring numerous other chronographers. 22 Anticomformists, on the other
hand, such as his contemporary Michael Psellos, had turned to Euripides.
Hence, the Byzantine contribution to the discussion over female virtue
influenced the type of ancient texts that were copied and edited in the east
and strongly informed the debate when transplanted in the west in the early
fourteenth century.
Thus, the Latin preachers, capitalizing on the generosity of their
patrons and their obsession with Byzantine manuscripts, also relied on a
close reading of the classical sources, mainly Aristotle and Xenophon. 23 In
addition, Plutarch became available in the early fifteenth century. Around
1400, Palla Strozzi (1372-1462), who played a seminal role in the
establishment of the chair of Greek in Florence and insisted on summoning
Manuel Chrysoloras to it, sent to Greece for books that were not then
available in the city. Plutarch’s Lives (=BAV Urb. gr. 96) were completed “on
3/1/1416 at the Monastery of St John Prodromos at Petra in Constantinople by Stephan
of Mydia and another monk.” 24 We know that Filelfo, who executed the will of
Chrysoloras (his father-in-law), presented this manuscript to Stozzi some
18
See Howard 1998, 335 on the sumptuary laws of fifteenth century Florence, esp. those
concerning female dress. For Antoninus’ De Ornatu Mulierum, see Izbicki 2004, 147;
D’Onofrio 1998, 91.
19
Franklin 2006, 77.
20
Laiou 2001, 265f.; Kaldellis 2006, 23 nn.55-57; cf. Connor 2012, 270-76 on dowry in
Byzantium.
21
Ševčenko 2011, 102.1, 61.16, 75.5; cf. McGrath 2011, 95.
22
Wortley 2010, xxx-xxxi. Skylitzes’ most famous manuscript dates from 12th century
Sicily.
23
For Pierozzi’s use of Aristotle and other classical sources, see Howard 2008, 335 and 339-
40 where he mentions that Bruni’s translation of the pseudo-Aristotelian Economics (1419)
was in the collection of the San Marco library; cf. Ullman & Stadter 1972, 21. For
Xenophon’s Oeconomicus, see Furlan 2004, 27-31. Cicero’s translation of Oeconomicus was a
main influence of Boccaccio’s Famous Women. See Bocc. FW 353 where he attacks female
love for luxuries; cf. Xen. Oec. 10.3-5.
24
Pade 2007, 261.
thirty years later. 25 However, the all-important Conjugalia Praecepta which was
included in the Moralia and which cited Euripides’ Andromache 930 (Mor. 143 D-
E) was not included. 26 Still, already around 1400 Plutarch’s Lives and some of
his Moralia had been brought in this manuscript to Florence by Iacopo Angeli,
the first Italian humanist to visit Constantinople in order to learn Greek;
Angeli, who translated some of Plutarch’s Lives in Latin, albeit unsatisactorily,
had commissioned a copy of the text from the scribe Andreas Leantinos in
1398, for his friend Colluccio Salutati, who, like Strozzi, was a student of
Chrysoloras. 27 Furthermore, the Conjugalia were consulted 28 and almost
verbatim translated (Lib. 2 De Uxoris Officio. D4; cf. Plut. Mor. 143 D-E) by
Francesco Barbaro (1390-1454) in his De Re Uxoria (first published in 1513)
which he dedicated to his good friend Lorenzo de’ Medici on the occasion of
his marriage to Clarice Orsini in 1469.
Plutarch’s numerous references to Euripides probably confirmed to the
Florentines the moralizing value of the Greek playwright, while Chrysoloras
introduced both authors to his Florentine students critically influencing their
opinions. 29 Hence, Archbishop Antonino Pierozzi (1389-1459), in his
compendium of canon law, published in 1474, asserted at a wife:
debet esse rara in discurrendo extra domum … non debet esset in plateis
ad tripudianum, in ostio domus ad confabulandum vel murmurandum,
in finestra ad procandum … prodire extra domum nescia nisi cum ad
ecclesiam conveniret, et tunc non sola.
“(A wife) ought but rarely to wander around outside the home … and
she should not go leaping about in the piazza, nor stand telling stories
and murmuring in the doorway, nor talking at the window … and she
should go outside the house only to church, and then she should not go
by herself.” 30
25
See Pade 2007, 263 where she argues that Strozzi received the manuscript in 1430 rather
than 1432.
26
Pade 2007, 103-04 where she notes that Vaticanus graecus 2175 containing the Lives and
some Moralia was bought in 1416 by Piero d’Agnolo at Constantinople. It eventually came
into the possession of Cardinal Giovanni Salviati and then into that of the Colonna family.
27
Leantinos also copied a manuscript containing some of the Moralia; see Pade 2007, 122.
Also, see her page 118 for the reaction of Niccoli to Angeli’s translation of Plutarch’s
Cicero, sometime in the first decade of the fifteen century. Niccoli was decisively not
impressed by it.
28
Kohl 1978, 181-82; Pade 2007, 192-93.
29
Pade 2007, 93. Awareness of Greek tragedy was certainly on the rise because in 1480
Poliziano composed his vernacular Fabula di Orfeo inspired by Euripides’ Cyclops; see
Fantazzi 2001, 124. Martelli 1995, 93-95 argues that Poliziano retains many elements of the
sacra rappresentazione following the model promoted by Pierozzi; cf. Pallen 1999, 14. By
1493 Sophocles’ plays were performed by noble women in the Medici palace. See Bryce
2001, 1102, 1087-88.
30
Saint Antonino, Tractatus de sponsalibus (Lyons, 1511), Fol. e viii recto; King 1998, 28-29;
cf. Franklin 2006, 77-78.
His lines almost echo Andromache’s speech in the Troades – cited above in
relation to Psellos’ understanding of ideal womanhood. Like most of his
contemporaries, Pierozzi rarely acknowledges his classical sources, 31 yet he is
keen to educate his congregation by their didactic values.
Pierozzi enjoyed a close relation with the Medici and was prior of San
Marco from 1439-44; during that time, Cosimo de’ Medici, impressed by his
ecclesiastical reform and its enthusiastic reception by the Florentines, 32
became the founding patron of the Dominicans who were eventually allowed
to move into the convent of San Marco in 1436. Cosimo and his friend, Niccolò
Niccoli, another of Chrysoloras’ Florentine students: 33 “took those concrete
measures which permitted the convent of San Marco to be the site of the first public
library in modern times.” 34 His books, more than 400 volumes, were eventually
consigned in the library of San Marco in July 1441. 35 Niccoli’s library
contained at least two manuscripts with the works of Euripides: gr.226, s.XIV
(which does not appear in the inventory of the San Marco library), 36 and
gr.31,15, s.XIV. It also contained three manuscripts of Plutarch: BML, gr.69,6
(a.997), gr.69,34 (s.XIV-XV), both containing the Lives, and gr.80,30 (s.XV),
containing some Moralia. The library was augmented by Cosimo with frequent
donations (though not from his private library), 37 private citizens, as well as
the friars themselves, who in the seventies and the eighties started buying
books from alms. 38 Crucially, the library also hosted the famous codex L
(=Laur.32,2) containing the works of all three tragedians and Hesiod. Codex L,
which was created by Nicolaus Triklinius and was reviewed by Demetrius
Triklinius in the latter’s scriptorium in Thessaloniki around 1310, probably
belonged to Petrarch and then to Niccoli. 39 The manuscript which arrived in
Italy either through Bishop Simon Atumanus who owed it in 1348 (cf. his
notes on f.1 referring to his consecration) or, most probably, through his
predecessor Barlaam, 40 was recorded as being part of the San Marco library in
31
Weinberg 1992, 114; cf. Wenzel 1995, 128-34 for the competition between English friars
of the late middle ages regarding their use of classical sources in their preaching.
32
Ullman & Stadter 1972, 5; Howard 2008, 341.
33
Niccoli was also the owner of the famous Laur. 32.9, the tenth century manuscript of
Aeschylus (transcribed in Constantinople and brought to Italy by Aurispa).
34
Ullman & Stadter 1972, 82.
35
36
Pertusi 1960, 123-24.
37
For the private library of the Medici and its Euripidean holdings, see Pertusi 1960, 117-
24.
38
39
Wilamowitz 1875, 5.
40
See Turyn 1957, 224-27, 242-54. Although Turyn suggested that L was brought to
Calabria in about 1348 by Simon Atumanus, Zuntz 1965, 283-85 counter-suggested that it
was in fact his predecessor Barlaam of Seminare, known for his close connections with
Thessaloniki, who brought the manuscript in south Italy and from whom Atumanus
inherited a part of it (the bit containing Aeschylus). Also, see Pertusi 1960, 104-14 for the
1500. Between 1510-22 it was brought to Rome, where it was studied by Ianos
Laskaris, who in 1492 had brought 200 Greek manuscripts from Mt Athos for
Lorenzo de’ Medici.
Unfortunately the Troades are missing from all the aforementioned
manuscripts, although Laur. 31,9 which contained some currently
unidentified tragedies of Euripides and Sophocles was also known to have
been shelved at San Marco library. 41 Nevertheless, the play was included, in
the codex Palatinus Graecus 287 (=P) which was based on L (albeit being
clearly inferior to it) and was also created in the scriptorium of Triclinius. 42
The codex belonged to the Cretan scholar Marcus Musurus until 1511 and
then to a friend of his, named Carlos. Musurus, like many Greek literati of his
time, sought to further his studies in the West and from 1486-1493 he studied
in Florence under Ianos Laskaris. Although the Palatinus Graecus was later
kept in Rome, its original other half, the Conventi Soppressi 172 never left
Florence: after being owned by Antonio Corbinelli (1376-1425), the
manuscript was kept in the Badia Fiorentina. 43 Hence, probably Musurus
acquired the manuscript, which was in Italy for some time, while in Florence.
Perhaps then both L and P were kept in Florence from an early time and
could have been consulted by Pierozzi, always keen on classical authors, 44 at
least twelve years before Musurus’ arrival. After all, our inventories only
record 146 Greek manuscripts at the most, a number which does not reflect
the large number of books contained in Niccoli’s library or later donations. 45
Furthermore, St Bernardino of Sienna, preaching to a Florentine
audience in 1424, made it clear that: “the duty of the wife was to grease the wheels
that allowed the machinery of men’s lives to operate smoothly.” 46 His audience
relationship of Atumanus with Barlaam and Petrarch and 110-14, 117, 120 on Laur.32.2; cf.
Smith 1975, 13-14.
41
Ullman & Stadter 1972, 265 (manuscript 1215); also see their p. 62 on a Euripides
manuscript in the Biblioteca Mediceo-Laurenziana originally belonging to Niccoli. Pertusi
1960, 122-24 and 148-49 assumes this to be the original manuscript from which L was
copied, but Zuntz 1965, 257-67 raised objections.
42
Zuntz 1965, 10 suggested that the original P used L as its model during a definitive, but
not its final stage of production; cf. his pp. 21-27 and 38 for the treatment of L by
Triclinios and its effect on P. Another manuscript Q (the London, British Museum, Harley
5743), dated late in the fifteenth or sixteenth century, was claimed by Turyn 1957, 254 to
have used the common source of L and P, from which these two subsequent manuscripts
were copied independently. However, the scribe of Q had at his disposal only lines 1-610
of the Troades, and supplemented his text considerably later, from the Palat. 98=Va (itself
a copy of V). Vaticanus Graecus 909, written under the Palaeologi ca. 1280, was marked by a
fourteenth century hand (Fol. 315v) with the Greek word νικηφόρος which probably
indicates ownership by a Greek person or someone who knew Greek.
43
Pertusi 1960, 120.
44
See Howard 2008, 335-36 on Antonino’s melding of “the legacy of Aristotle, Cicero,
Macrobius, Seneca, and the syntheses fashioned by a range of Christian authors.”
45
Ullman & Stadter 1972, 60 and 119-20.
46
Franklin 2006, 78.
included women by their thousands because St Bernardino was famous for his
eloquence and his fiery, inspirational speeches. 47 He counselled husbands
thus:
“Your wife gives you children, raises them, takes care of them … what’s
more I tell you she is the caretaker and guardian of your possessions.
You go out and make money, while she stays home and takes care of
things … If you, the husband, make money but have no one to take care
of it, the household goes to pieces.” 48
In Euripides’ Melanippe Desmotis, now in fragments, the title character says: 49

νέμουσι δ’ οἴκους καὶ τὰ ναυστολούμενα
ἔσω δόμων σώιζουσιν, οὐδ’ ἐρημίαι
γυναικὸς οἶκος εὐπινὴς οὐδ’ ὄλβιος.
τὰ δ’ ἐν θεοῖς αὖ. πρῶτα γὰρ κρίνω τάδε·
μέρος μέγιστον ἔχομεν…
πῶς οὔν χρὴ γυναικεῖον γένος
κακῶς ἀκούειν; οὐχὶ παύσεται ψόγος
μάταιος ἀνδρῶν, οἵ τ’ ἄγαν ἡγούμενοι
ψέγειν γυναῖκας, εἰ μι’ εὑρέθηι κακή,
πάσας ὁμοίως;
“Women manage homes and preserve the goods which are brought from
abroad. Houses where there is no wife are neither orderly nor
prosperous. And in religion - I take this to be important - we women play
a large part . . . How then can it be just that the female sex should be
abused? Shall not men cease their foolish reproaches, cease to blame all
women alike if they meet one who is bad?”
Melanippe’s impressive defence of women was often quoted by ancient

authors. 50 The play was included in papyri –in its entirety and not in
anthologies- well into the fourth and fifth centuries. 51
Melanippe’s first three lines were long known from a biography of
Euripides contained in some medieval manuscripts, but Bernardino seems to
have been familiar with more than three lines of the play. 52 The entire speech
was discovered in a Berlin papyrus (9772=Frg. 660M) which allowed scholars
to link these lines with Melanippe Desmotis’ fragment 494 (Kropp-Collard) –
until then known only from citations in Stobaeus (Flor. 69) and Porphyry. 53
47
Bernardino had studied Latin oratory in his early life although he rejected it as
unsuitable for the Christian life. See Mormando 1999, 11.
48
Cannarozzi 1934, 1.419 (sermon 25); Rusconi 1996, 182.
49
Page 1942, 112 (Frg. 14).
50
Cf. Plut. Mor. 756 B-C, albeit only with reference to Euripides’ religious anticomformism.
51
Turner 1968, 123.
52
These lines were taken from the Bioi of Satyrus, partially preserved in P.Oxy. 1176 which
apparently cited the whole text. See Butrica 2001, 611.
53
Note that Stobaeus has been transmitted in codex Laur. 8, 22; cf. Eur. Frg. 16 (493).
The play was popular since antiquity because Naevius had translated
Euripides’ Melanippe and Danae and, before him Ennius had written tragedies
inspired by the playwright. 54 Ennius had even composed a Melanippa which,
according to Webster, relied on Melanippe Sophe (not Desmotis). 55 Although
Ennius survived in the Middle Ages, Petrarch, who called himself Ennius alter
(Africa, 2.443), had in his possession the Annales, and not Melanippe. 56 Melanippe
Desmotis is not included either in L or the two parts of P; yet, Boccaccio briefly
mentions the heroine as the sister of Antiope in his Famous Women (19-20.2)
which indicates that knowledge of her probably derived from other available
sources or manuscripts. 57
Given Chrysoloras’ tendency to compare Rome and Constantinople, a
tendency he also instilled in his pupils, thus shaping definitively the
rapprochement between the Byzantines and their neighbours, 58 the
Florentines’ interest in Euripides’ Melanippe should come as no surprise. The
play’s preoccupation with legitimate succession and especially its potential
contribution to the major debate on matrimonial expense that had
overwhelmed the Florentines during the fourteen and early fifteen century
suited effortlessly the speeches of Bernardino, who lamented in one of his
sermons that parents made their daughters “marry in usury.” 59 In Melanippe
Desmotis we read: 60
ὅσοι γαμοῦσι δ’ ἢ γένει κρείσσους γάμους
ἢ πολλὰ χρήματ’, οὐκ ἐπίστανται γαμεῖν‧
τὰ τῆς γυναικὸς γὰρ κρατοῦντ’ ἐν δώμασιν
δουλοῖ τον ἄνδρα, κοὐκέτ’ ἔστ’ἐλεύθερος.
πλοῦτος δ’ἐπακτὸς ἐκ γυναικείων γάμων
ἀνόνητος αἱ γαρ διαλύσεις οὐ ῥᾴδιαι.
“... those who marry a superior woman because of her social status or
wealth, do not know what it means to marry; the goods of the woman
rule the house and enslave the man and he is not free. Riches acquired
through marriage are useless; for dissolving (the marriage) is not
easy.”
54
Duckworth 1994, 43; the similarities between Melanippe Desmotis who is blinded and
imprisoned and Danae are hard to miss; see Hyg. Fab. 186.1-3.
55
Webster 1967, 147.
56
Galligan 2007, 86.
57
Sansone 1996, 43 n.35 hinted at Boccaccio’s knowledge of Melanippe Sophe through the
Apology of Socrates and Plato’s Theaetetus, but the possibility that Melanippe became known
to the Florentines through Aristophanes is very plausible.
58
Cf. Pade 2007, 92-93.
59
D’Elia 2002, 399. For Bernardino’s quotation, see Debby 2001, 175; also, see her page 135
for Domenici’s fiery speeches on the very topic of men preferring to marry according to a
wife’s wealth rather than her character.
60
Frg. 502 (Cropp-Collard); cf. Eur. Frg. 503: μετρίων λέκτρων, μετρίων δὲ γάμων μετὰ
σωφροσύνης κῦρσαι θνητοῖσιν ἄριστον (it is best for mortal to seek moderate unions,
moderate marriage with good judgement).
Bernardino could have also become familiar with Melanippe through

Aristophanes, who, along with Plutarch and Euripides, was among the first
selection of classical authors that Chrysoloras taught in Florence. 61
Aristophanes refers to Melanippe in his Thesmophoriazusae (544-48), 62 a play
regarded as rather indecent for teaching and published by Euphrosynus
Boninus in Florence in 1516; notably, the play survived only in a tenth
century manuscript from Ravenna, a city which had remained under
Byzantine influence until the late eleventh century. Nevertheless, the San
Marco library hosted a copy of Aristophanes’ Ecclesiazusae, originally
belonging to Niccoli, 63 which also referred to Euripides’ lines of Melanippe in
defence of women. In lines 214-15 of the Ecclesiazusae Praxagora, pretending
to be a man at the Ecclesia, declares that she “will also show that they [women]
have better qualities than we do” (ὡς δ’εἰσὶν ἡμῶν τοὺς τρὸπους βελτίονες ἐγὼ
διδάξω) echoing Euripides’ Melanippe: 64
μάτην ἄρ’εἰς γυναῖκας ἐξ ἀνδρῶν ψόγος
ψάλλει κενὸν τόξευμα καὶ λέγει κακῶς
αἱ δ’ εἲσ’ἀμείνους ἀρσένων. Δείξω δ’ἐγώ.
“…vainly, it seems, does men’s censure twang an idle shaft against

women and speak badly of them. In fact, they are better than men and I
shall prove it.”
Therefore, the spirit of Euripides’ lines in Melanippe Desmotis was available to

Bernardino, who saw no contradiction between studying the classics and
leading a Christian life 65 and would often attend the Greek classes of his
friend Guarino at Verona (who had studied Greek under Chrysoloras but in
Constantinople) who was notably preoccupied with the issue of female
virtue. 66 The Franciscan missionary was also a close friend of the great
humanist Leonardo Bruni, who had translated Aristophanes’ Plutus (1440) 67
61
Pade 2007, 93.
62
The text reads: οὐ γάρ σε δεῖ δοῦναι δίκην; ἥτις μόνη τέτληκας/ ὑπὲρ ἀνδρὸς ἀντειπεῖν,
ὃ ἡμᾶς πολλὰ κακὰ δέδρακεν/ ἐπίτηδες εὑρίσκων λόγους, ὅπου γυνὴ πονηρὰ/ ἐγένετο,
Μελανίππας ποιῶν Φαίδρας τε Πηνελόπην δὲ/ οὐπώποτ’ἐπόησ’, ὅτι γυνὴ σώφρων ἔδοξεν
εἶναι. “Shouldn’t you be punished? You the only one who had the nerve to speak in defence of a
man who has done so much evil, inventing arguments on purpose in order to cast women as wicked,
creating Melanippas and Phaedras; but he never presented Penelope because he deemed her to have
good judgement”.
63
Ullman & Stadter 1972, 279.
64
Frg. 499N=660.1-3 M; cf. Ar. Ecc. 372-477 which, according to Butrica 2001, 612, echo
Melanippe’s speech in Euripides.
65
Thomson 1988, 154. Bernardino who was erudite enough to point to Niccoli a Greek
bible preserved at Rimini. See Ullman & Stadter 1972, 97 n.3 citing Di Stolfi 1950, 2.133.
66
Pade 2007, 165-66 and 185; Guarino was the teacher of Francesco Barbaro who wrote the
De re Uxoria.
67
Hankins 2003, 553.
and who in his translation of St Basil’s treatise on the profit to be drawn from
learning Greek he wrote: “For several hundred years no one in Italy has known any
Greek; yet it is the source of all doctrine.” 68 Bruni who had benefited from
Chrysoloras’ teaching while in Florence, had close relations with Giovanni
Aurispa and Francesco Filelfo, both of whom held the chair of Greek studies
in Florence in the fifteen century, Aurispa from 1425-1427, as mentioned
above, and Filelfo from 1429-1434. It seems that Aurispa had provided Niccoli
with a number of the Greek volumes we later find in his possession (and
eventually in the San Marco library) and that he apparently owned a
manuscript with works of Aristophanes. 69 Therefore, given the fact that a
certain number of manuscripts and Latin translations containing the works of
Euripides (as well as works of Plutarch and Aristophanes that cite Euripides’
verses) were accessible through the library of San Marco (with a number of
them confirmed as missing or never properly catalogued) and that the
leading priests of fourteen century Florence were devoted to the study of
classics as an infinite source of moral lessons, it seems possible that
awareness of Euripides’ plays arose earlier than previously believed.
In urging women to behave like Andromache and employing
Melanippe’s list of female virtues, Pierozzi and Bernardino were not only
introducing the spirit of Chrysoloras’ teaching into the Florentine theological
circles, but, they were effectively serving the economic model to which the
city subscribed under the leadership of Cosimo de’ Medici. Their society
placed special emphasis on the seclusion of its women as a way of protecting
their virtue upon which relied the prosperity of the then rising Italian
republics. Euripides’ plays, which Psellos criticised for allowing the voices of
women to outperform those of men, 70 characteristically problematize notions
of female conduct and the social dimensions of their ability to procreate.
However, in the Middle Ages, fecundity was gradually monopolized by men
who competed at two novel aspects of it: fecundity of the spirit and material
lushness. Ambitious representatives of the Church and the State both in the
Byzantium and the emerging Italian states had to demonstrate an abundance
of both types of fecundity by being generous patrons of the arts and by
securing wealthy marriages. And although this model became widespread,
notable voices did express their opposition: hence, in the Byzantium, Psellos
disliked ascetic hypocrisy and dared to defend sensual beauty, 71 while, in the
West, Boccaccio grew to dislike the hypocrisy of the clergy and held that
68
Dialogus ad Petrum Histrum 52-56; Origo 1962, 188, 190-92; cf. Pocock 2003, 88. Bernardino
also attended sometimes Greek lessons at Guarino’s school at Verona.
69
Stinger 1977, 36-38. Also, note that Aristophanes was extremely popular since antiquity
for as school text and that during the Middle Ages he had totally supplanted Menander.
70
Euripides and George of Pisidia, 95-99.
71
Letter 7, 134-36 cited in Papaioannou 2011, 48.
preaching against sexuality meant preaching against human nature. 72

Boccaccio rebuked the Florentine merchants and their wives, depicted in
very unflattering light in the Decameron, and believed that desire for beauty
could be understood metaphorically as the power that can urge someone to
“contemplative meditation.” 73 In addition, he included Danae –a notorious
Euripidian heroine– among his examples of corruptible ladies of the classical
period, thus bringing once more to the fore the playwright’s exceptional
popularity for negotiating female virtue.
The Fortunes of Danae: Examples of Female Lust from Byzantium to Florence

In this part, I discuss Euripides’ Danae vis-a-vis the Byzantine and Florentine
debates on female virtue. Although views on Danae varied significantly
already since antiquity, 74 Euripides had conclusively stressed her willingness
to exchange her body for fiscal rewards. His verses were echoed by both
Lucian (D.Mar. 12) 75 and Seneca (Epist. 115.14) who had access to early and
authentic copies of the playwright. Hence, although the view that Danae was
a pagan rendition of Virgin Mary was aired sufficiently among Christian
theologians, 76 the heroine’s profile as a prototype of female lust and
prostitution seems to have been by far more prevalent. 77 The prostituting
aspects of Danae –illustrating the idea that all women can be bought by gold,
were often stressed by the later epigrammatists in the Palatine Anthology,
including Paulus Silenitiarius, who worked in sixth century Constantinople as
an officer in the service of the emperor Justinian (AP 217). 78 Similarly in the
72
Boccaccio’s alleged misogynism derives precisely from his will to show women as sexual
beings full of shortcomings; Kolsky 2005, 7 and 171-92.
73
Ruvoldt 2004, 99; also, see her pages 73 and 85 for the Platonic premises of equating the
pleasures of love with those of contemplating life. In the Decameron Boccaccio presents a
very sensual Iphigenia who lies asleep allowing Cymon to observe her naked beauty:
Cymon, we are told, gazes intensely at Iphigenia’s limbs with exceeding admiration as if
he had never cast eyes on a woman before. The pattern, echoed in the Carmina Burana
with reference to Danae’s beauty (no. 56 and 168), was very common in medieval poetry;
see Allen 1908, 164-65.
74
Ure 1953, 247 noted a series of Boeotian representations of Danae in which she appears
in a less decorous fashion; for the tradition that Danae was not visited by Zeus but
seduced by her uncle, see Apollod. Bibl. 2.4.1 and Schol. D. 14.319; for the similarities of
these accounts, see Cameron 2005, 98-99.
75
Rein 1926, 115ff. suggested that Lucian was inspired by Euripides, but did not consult
the original hypothesis; cf. Karamanou 2006, 52 and her appendix (225-237) on Lucian and
[E] Frg. 1132 (Kn.).
76
From a Christian viewpoint, Danae’s unorthodox impregnation confirmed the Catholic
notion of Mary’s Immaculate Conception; Sluijter 1999, 6. The idea is supported by Justin
Martyr, Dial. cum Tryph. 67, 2 and Franciscus de Retza, a Dominican monk and near
contemporary of Boccaccio, in his Defensorium Inviolatae Virginitatis Marie; cf. Kahr 1978, 44.
77
Kahr 1978, 44-45; Santore 1991, 412.
78
Cf. AP 5.31, 33-34; 217; also see Ter. Eun. 583-91; Fulgent. 1.19 and the prologue to his
Mythographer; Lactant. 1.11. Danae is mentioned in Nicetas Choniates’ Annals 56, where
West, Augustine (Conf. 26.1-4) had emphasised the lasciviousness of Danae

rather than her virtue. Her infamous predilection for gold was ideal for
discussing the issue of prostitution, often the only solution for women
without dowries, which concerned deeply the Florentine Council in the
fourteenth century. 79 But could Boccaccio, Petrarch’s close friend and
executor of his will, have had access to a copy of Euripides?
Antonino and Bernardino were both aware of Boccaccio’s work, at least
his Decameron (started in 1349, revised in 1370/71, published in Florence in
1481) and the Corbaccio, and had urged their audiences to choose different
readings for their salvation. 80 For, whereas the Christian preachers focused
on examples of virtuous wives, Boccaccio chose to render women in bleak
colours in order to note his objection against the unrealistic expectations of
the church. Especially in The Genealogy of the Gods, a work written from about
1350 until his death in 1375, 81 Boccaccio cast Danae as a model of female lust
and avarice which proved extremely influential with Renaissance artists.
Boccaccio took the view that Danae had made a bargain with Jove to
escape from her prison – a prison imposed by her father, who did not want to
share his treasure with any possible descendants. 82 She did that at the price of
intercourse with him and he also understood the golden shower as a symbol
of her chastity which was eventually corrupted by gold – a view that
Silentiarius had already, as we saw, advocated in Byzantium. Although
Boccaccio was undoubtedly familiar with Danae’s depiction in Terence
(where a painting of her rape by Zeus is placed in a brothel and inspires a
young man to commit a similar rape), his version of the heroine implies a
wider familiarity with Danae’s tradition. 83 Also, although Boccaccio was
heavily influenced by Ovid’s Metamorphoses for the representation of several
emphasis is given on the avarice of her father, Acrisius; cf. Nikephoros Basilakes, Rhetores
graeci 1.476.
79
Brackett 1993, esp.285-87.
80
San Bernardino attacked Boccaccio in sermons of 1420s about his crisis of faith in his old
age and his conversion, but avoided direct references to the Decameron which was burned
in Savonarola’s bonfire of “vanities” in 1497 and ordered to be expurgated in 1559. Debby
2001, 110-111. Cosimo de’ Medici sent an ambassador to the Council of Trent to plead for
the book, which was reprieved until corrected; Burke 1997, 88. For Antonino’s criticism of
Boccaccio’s work, see Grendler 1995, 516.
81
Kahr 1978, 44. For Danae’s greed in Boccaccio, see Santore 1991, 413, esp. n.5.
82
Seaford 2004, 313. For marriage as commercial transaction see Soph. Frg. 583.7; Dem.
24.202-03; cf. Foley 2002, 67. The combination of female sex and money/treasure is at the
heart of Plautus’ Aulularia (and likely its Greek model); cf. Seaford 2004, 98; Stockert 1983,
13-16 on Aul. 731-57.
83
Terence stressed the frenzy the painting instilled in Chaerea but did not refer to any
agreement between Zeus and Danae. See Boccaccio’s Genealogie 15.9.12: “Sinner that I am, I
am not by grace of Christ like young Chaerea, in Terrence, who by looking at a picture of Jove falling
in a shower of gold from the roof to the lap of Danae, was inflamed to desire of a similar misdeed.
Any weak susceptibility of that sort, if it ever existed – and I am not sure at all that it did – left me in
my youth;” trans. Osgood 1956, 127 also cited by Gittes 2008, 28.
of his Famous Women, he does not seem to follow Ovid’s version of the tale of
Danae. 84
In fact, his understanding of Danae accurately echoes Acrisius’
conviction of his daughter’s corrupted chastity in Euripides’ Danae, indicating
Boccaccio’s familiarity with Euripidian drama. 85 Boccaccio had read
previously Lactantius, Eusebius, and Servius by his own admission and had
formed his opinion on Danae accordingly. 86 Kahr claims that:
“Boccaccio gave wide circulation not only to the assumption that money
was the key to Danae’s prison, but also to the acute psychological insight
that she deliberately chose a sexual liaison as a means to escape the life
imprisonment to which her father had condemned her.” 87
In addition, Boccaccio was among the first scholars to study ancient Greek in
the fourteenth century when Euripides’ dramas were in demand. 88 In fact,
Niccoli came to possess arguably ca. 1401 the very translation of Euripides’
Hecuba which Boccaccio had commissioned from Leontio Pilato 89 and which
was subsequently consigned to the library of San Marco. Boccaccio had
befriended Barlaam of Calabria whom he met in person in Naples in 1339 –
Boccaccio remembered him as “small in stature but very great in knowledge” 90 –
and his pupil Leontio Pilato, who was invited to teach Greek in Florence in
1360. 91
Barlaam was the owner of the Euripides’ manuscript that travelled with
him in Avignon in 1347 and appeared in Florence in 1457. 92 Despite arguing
that codex P is probably later than L, Turyn admitted that P might be as early
as 1340 indicating that this may have been the very manuscript that Barlaam
had with him when he arrived in Italy. Codex L did not include the Danae.
84
Ov. Met.6.407ff. focuses on Acrisius’ irreverence toward the gods manifested by his
unwillingness to accept Danae’s story that Perseus was the son of Zeus. Ovid seems to
introduce elements from the Bacchae in his version of Danae; Franklin 2006: 36. For
Boccaccio and Ovid, see Gittes 2008, 309 n.33; Hardie 2002, 287-90.
85
Osgood 1956, 145-56; Zuntz 1965, 286; McWilliam 2003, 1; Mann 2006, 15-16.
86
Servius only mentions the heroine’s fleeing to Italian Ardea (Serv. Ad Verg. 7.372, Thilo-
Hagen). Karamanou 2006, 16; Gittes 2008, 211 and 256 n.49.
87
Kahr 1978, 44.
88
Standardized manuscripts of Euripides appeared already in the third century BCE and
were kept at the library of Alexandria. These attracted the interest of Byzantine scholars
in the seventh and eighth centuries and were traded from Thessaloniki to the Roman
Catholic Church in Florence between 1348 and 1457. Karamanou 2006, xvi; also, Pertusi
1960, 102 and 144-46 on Euripides and Leontius Pilatus who had been responsible for a
number of Greek manuscripts finding their way to the West.
89
Ullman & Stadter 1972, 90-91, 99; Pertusi 1960, 122-25, 134; also, 144-46 as in previous
note.
90
D’Onofrio 2008, 493-94.
91
Zuntz 1965, 285-86; Coulter 1948 on Boccaccio’s possession of some Cassinese
manuscripts and Gaisser 2008, 95-96.
92
Pertusi 1960, 107-09.
Codex Palatinus Graecus 287 (so not the part of the manuscript permanently
kept in Florence) did include a prologue from the Danae which has been
regarded as spurious and was attributed to Ioannes Katrares, a view not
shared by D’Alfonso who argued that the prologue is likely ancient. 93 The
hypothesis seems to rely on Lucian’s rendering of the Euripidian Danae or, at
least, use the same ancient source as Lucian; the latter was widely accessible
by this time 94 and had also reasoned Danae’s golden shower as an allegory for
having been bribed: “(Zeus) οὐκ ἔχων … ὅπως ἄν διαφθείρειε τοῦ Ἀκρισίου
τὴν φρουράν – ἀκούεις δήπου ὡς χρυσίον ἐγένετο.” (“Zeus not being able … to
find ways to corrupt the guards of Acrisius –therefore, one hears that he turned
himself to gold.”). This seems to suggest that Boccaccio could have consulted
the manuscript during his meeting with him and, in all probability, he
acquired the manuscript which he brought to Florence in 1341; this is also
compatible with the suggestion that later Musurus came to possess the
manuscript (or at least part of it) during his stay in Florence.
It has been suggested that Boccaccio’s Greek was rather poor and that
he could not appreciate Euripides in the original; however, he could enjoy his
Homer in the original and after all, his proficiency in Greek would not
preclude him from being part of the manuscripts’ trade that was so
fashionable at the time and even despite his poor finances since he had
powerful friends. Boccaccio was a close friend of Petrarch, who had a leading
role in the rediscovery of Seneca during the Middle Ages. Seneca had
translated the famous fragment on the power of gold (Frg. 324 Collard-Cropp)
which, as we now know, belonged to Euripides’ Danae (not included in P) and
could further convince Boccaccio of the playwright’s intention to stress the
heroine’s perceived avarice. 95 Petrarch thought that Seneca was a Christian, 96
just like Jerome, another reluctant admirer of Euripides particularly with
regard to his accurate depictions of women. 97 Petrarch had been taught
briefly Greek by the very Barlaam, mentioned above, and thanks to him both
Boccaccio and Petrarch refer to a Polidorus as a play attributed to Euripides. 98
Petrach also quoted a sentiment from a Tresphontes of Euripides. We also
know that later Boccaccio and Petrarch assigned to Leontio Pilato to bring
from Greece additional manuscripts containing the works of Sophocles and
93
Zuntz 1960, 139; Smith 1982, 326, esp. n.1; Karamanou 2006, 55; but see contra, D’Alfonso
2006, 59-60.
94
Karamanou 2006, 52-56; Copenhaver 1990, 81. However, it is worth noting that the
anonymous copyist clearly expected to include the rest of the play in his work because he
had left enough space in the manuscript to do so.
95
As Karamanou 2006 argued (see n.75 above), it is impossible to determine whether
Lucian relied on the original Danae. Gittes 2008, 275 n.49 argued that Boccaccio did not
have access to Euripides and Sophocles, but was most familiar with Seneca, Statius and
Lactantius’ commentary of Statius.
96
Von Albrecht & Scmeling 1996, 1306.
97
Kelly 1993, 81.
98
Pertusi 1960, 134-43.
Euripides. When Pilato was struck by lightning on his way back to Italy in
1366, 99 Petrarch took the shabby volumes found in his suitcases and inquiri
faciam an sit in eis Euripides Sophoclesque et alii, quos mihi quesiturum se
spoponderat (De Reb. Sen. Opp. P. 807). Loomis 100 speculated that these were
perhaps the books that Boccaccio later brought to Florence and that they may
also have been the source for the books that Chrysoloras used when teaching
in Florence from 1396 to 1400. Although Chysoloras was known for his
technique of teaching Greek by first focusing on Christian texts with which
his students were already familiar, he was clearly not indifferent to poetry,
and, particularly, as we saw, to Euripides. In addition, when he arrived in
Florence he brought with him a large codex, the present-day Vaticanus graecus
87, containing nearly all of Lucian’s works. 101 Hence, the possibility that
Boccaccio came in possession of codex P must be given more thought,
especially as Petrarch mentions that Boccaccio on his deathbed thought of
selling his own library but was dissuaded by his friend. The least that this
means is that P was in Florence for some time before the arrival of Musurus
when Boccaccio was also interested in Euripides and his Danae as a means of
reacting to the oppressive preaching of the Florentine Church on female
sexuality. Crucially, Euripides’ impressions of the female psyche enthralled
Byzantine scholars and theologians as much as their western counterparts
with both parties struggling to come to terms with the economic dimensions
of female fecundity and their need to control it.
Conclusion
Although we have little new knowledge about the Greek manuscript trade
between Byzantium and fourteenth century Italy, a closer inspection of our
evidence can offer us some insights regarding the early dissemination of
Greek plays, particularly those of Euripides. The emphasis that medieval
preachers placed on female conduct as the corner-stone of a state’s success
had profound influence on the Florentines who imagined their city as the
Athens of the middle ages. Under the decisive influence of Manuel
Chrysoloras who introduced Euripides to the Florentines at the end of the
fourteenth century, medieval preachers found in his works numerous
paradigms of female virtue for their fiery speeches. Antonino Pierozzi was
within close reach of one of the manuscripts of Euripides, hosted at the
library of San Marco from 1441, when he was still the prior of the library.
Codex P possibly arrived in Florence through Boccaccio and his connections.
Similarly, Bernardino, a keen learner of Greek, seems to have had at his
99
Pertusi 1960, 150.
100
Loomis 1906, 94.
101
Marsh 1998, 13-15. Giovanni Aurispa did acquire a codex of Lucian from his trip to
Constantinople in 1423. A few years later Francesco Filelfo returned from a similar trip to
the East and wrote to Traversari on 13 June 1428 that he brought back aliqui sermones
Luciani.
disposal a number of sources for Euripides’ Melanippe Desmotis. 102 Besides he

had access to a number of other ancient works that cited famous verses of
Euripides on female virtue. To the models the clergy systematically posed to
the citizens, Boccaccio, always looking back to Euripides, counter-proposed
his Danae whom he cast in venal light. Despite the gaps in our knowledge,
Euripides and his heroines secured an unexpected bridge of communication
between Byzantium and its neighbours which warrants further investigation;
in addition, the issue of female virtue as debated in eleventh century
Byzantium and fourteenth century Florence offers a novel lens through
which to re-examine longstanding debates such as the circulation of ancient
manuscripts in the West.
In addition, indirect knowledge cannot be precluded; for example, Corrigan & Glazov-
102
Corrigan 2004, 40 pointed out Melanippe Sophe as quoted by Plato in Symp. 177a.
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128
Exchange of palatine architectural motifs 129
Nigel Westbrook
University of Western Australia, Perth
Exchange of palatine architectural motifs between Byzantium, Persia

and the Caliphate
In the Late Antique, and Early and Middle Byzantine periods, the great
empires of the West and East encountered the cultural forms and practices of
their neighbours, resulting in a rich interplay that exceeds any simple
characterization of Western or oriental culture. Previous studies of cultural
interaction between Byzantium and the East have been undertaken in
relation to the Arabic-influenced Palace at Bryas and the Moorish-style
Mouchroutas hall of the emperor Manuel I Komnenos. Early Byzantine
Imperial and Governors’ palaces served a political function in communicating
the power and prestige of the state, even when the reality might sometimes
be otherwise. Architectural forms and decorative motifs acquired significance
in this respect, and certain elements, such as gate, passage, and reception
halls, became amplified in scale and spatial effects. Thus, there developed
extensive decorative mosaic programmes, rectangular, circular and
semicircular forecourts, monumental covered walks and loggias, and central-
plan, domed halls of state. Here, I will adopt a more specifically architectural
analysis in examining the exchange of such motifs in the palace architecture
of Byzantium, Persia and the Caliphate, arguing for a specifically symbolic
reading of Byzantine palace architecture, and its relation to Eastern palatine
architecture. I will conclude by discussing the function and probable
appearance of two buildings in the Great Palace, the sixth-century
Chrysotriklinos, and the ninth-century Triconch and Sigma of the emperor
Theophilus.
Introduction
Cultural interactions between the Byzantines and their neighbours occurred
both diachronically and synchronically. These cultures possessed the legacy
of Roman architecture, still visible in great monuments, and the example of
their respective building forms and motifs, as revealed and exchanged
through trade and diplomatic exchange. The extent of cross-cultural
interactions, particularly between West and East, in the development of
palace architecture in the Early and Middle Byzantine periods has remained
an enticing question, not least because of the paucity of surviving textual
sources. In examining this issue, I will follow on the lead provided by
Ettinghausen’s study of the interplay between Byzantium, Iran and the
130 Nigel Westbrook
Caliphate, and Canepa’s recent study of the ideological function of

ornamental and artistic motifs in relation to an agonistic mutual influence of
practices of kingship between Rome and Iran, in examining interactions in
the palace architecture of Byzantium and Iran. 1 It will be argued here that
architectural types and motifs acquired, or were ascribed, significance
through their association with kingship, a significance that resulted in
reciprocal emulations.
Cultural interaction in palace architecture between the Byzantine
Court and the Caliphate is evidenced in the account of the Abbasid-influenced
palace of Theophilus at Bryas, 2 and Mesarites’ description of the ‘Persian’,
that is Seljuk, style Mouchroutas hall of the emperor Manuel I Komnenos,
which appears to have possessed a Muqarnas ceiling. 3 Here, I will examine
the other major, but less documented interaction between, on the one side,
Rome and Byzantium, and on the other, Iran and the Caliphate. Pertaining to
such interaction is the question of kunstwollen, or artistic volition, underlying
the motifs of Late Antique and Early Mediaeval palatine architecture that was
addressed by Swoboda, while the issue of symbolic iconography in mediaeval
architecture was discussed by Krautheimer in a seminal article. 4 Early
Byzantine Imperial and Governors’ palaces served a political function in
communicating the power and prestige of the state through monumental
architecture, dazzling decorative effects and elaborate ceremonial. 5 Thus, in
the period from the third through to the sixth centuries, there developed
rectangular, circular and semicircular forecourts, monumental covered walks
and loggias, and centralized halls of state with extensive decorative mosaic
programmes and lavish use of silk curtains embroidered with symbolic
devices.
It will be argued, following Mathew Canepa, that at least part of the
explanation for the increasing elaboration of the architectural language in
the Late Antique and Early Byzantine period lies in the active rivalry between
Rome and Iran. Thus, for example, the motival source for the Byzantine Great
Palace as it had developed by the reign of Heraclius (r. 610-41) may lie as
much in the complex cultural exchange with Persia as in imperial Roman
architecture. In particular, as Canepa has noted, one may compare the late
sixth-century Chrysotriklinos, a centrally-planned crown hall, with the group
of great Sasanian palaces, which also served as a model for early Islamic
1
Canepa 2009; Ettinghausen 1972.
2
Alless Ricci 1998, 131-49.
3
On the Mouchroutas: Mesarites, ‘The palace revolution of John Komnenos’ in Mango,
1986, 228-29; Walker 2010, 79-101. On the question of its cultural borrowing from Islamic
architecture: Asutay-Effenberger 2004, 313-29; Magdalino 1978, 101-14; Tabaa 2008; 2001,
124, 127; Walker 2012, and review of the same by Eastmond 2012.
4
Swoboda 1961, 78-89; Krautheimer 1971, 115-50.
5
Baldini Lippolis 2001.
palaces. 6 Through the exchanges of diplomacy, warfare and conquest,

cultural forms and practices crossed boundaries and propagated new
developments.
Sasanian palaces formed a symbolic counterpoint to Roman palaces in
the Late Antique and Early Byzantine periods. The two centres were aware of
each other through long-standing diplomacy and military encounters.
Canepa argues that there was, from the period of Shapur I (r. 240/42-270/72)
until the Arab invasions of the seventh century, a two-way exchange of ritual
and artistic motifs between Rome and Iran appears in literal form in the gift
exchanges that took place at court between emperors and Sasanian
ambassadors. 7 However, the cultural exchange between Iran and early
Byzantium in architecture has remained under-explored.
What were the origins, and interrelation of, Roman and Iranian
architectural types and motifs? To explore the question of the origins of the
centrally planned reception hall, one runs up against the problems of
symbolic meaning and social utility raised by these terms. 8 While MacDonald
has attributed them to the example of Nero’s Golden House and Hadrian’s
Pantheon, 9 it is within the fourth and early fifth centuries that there is an
apparent proliferation of central-plan halls, 10 raising the question of whether
such halls were an innovation, perhaps an adaptation of earlier funeral
structures, or whether they had derived from a cultural exchange with the
other great power, Sasanian Iran, which had been a focus of Roman
contestation since the third century.
On the function and significance of Sasanian palaces, there is a relative
silence imposed by the Arab invasions, and an overlay of myths and
traditions disseminated by Ferdowsi and other early-Islamic writers. The
necessary degree of inference is thus greater- is a particular room a reception
hall or fire temple for example? We must, in the main, depend upon
comparative formal analysis. Prior to the Sasanian period, during the
Parthian Arsacid dynasty, Iranian palaces were established on platforms as
they had during the Achaemenid period, but now incorporated the Iwan,
(ayvān), a barrel-vaulted, open-ended structure built of baked bricks, rather
than open, colonnaded halls. The Iwan was based upon earlier local traditions,
and enabled the creation of imposing reception halls. 11 These elements were
also used in the succeeding Sasanian palace architecture, but, at least in the
6
Bier 1993, 57-66.
7
In the account of a reception for the Persian ambassador of Chosroes I (531-578), the
Consistorion is mentioned as being used for the ceremony of gift exchange. Moffatt & Tall
2012, 398-408. On exchange of artistic motifs, see Canepa 2009, and review of same: Cutler
2011, 873-79. On gift-giving at ambassadorial receptions: Bauer 2006, 135-70.
8
Lavin 1962, 1-27 and Figs. 1-26.
9
MacDonald 2002.
10
Baldini Lippolis 2001.
11
Keall 2011, 327-29.
132 Nigel Westbrook
earlier cases, in combination with domed halls, such as the third-century

palaces of Ardashir (d. 242): Qalʿa-ye Doktar, and Atashkada (‘Palace of the
Fire Temple’) built after 224 in Ardashir-Xwarrah (Firuzabad), and the palace
of Bishapur, founded by his son Shapur I, possibly after 260.
Qalʿa-ye Doḵtar, which served also as a fortress, comprised a square
audience hall with squinched dome, and encased in a circular wall, that was
symmetrically aligned with a west-facing iwan [Fig. 1]. Ardashir’s second
palace of Atashkada was more elaborate, with three iwans on each side of the
entrance courtyard, and three square audience chambers, again with
squinched domes, symmetrically arranged in relation to the axis of entry.
What would appear to be a domestic wing was arranged around a courtyard
with two iwans, again aligned with the axis of entry.
The building works of his son Shapur I (r. 240/42-270/72), notably his
palace at Bishapur, may have been aided by Roman engineers and craftsmen
known to have been captured by Shapur when he defeated the Roman
emperor Valerian in 260 at the Battle of Edessa. 12 Although certain details
demonstrate a western influence, such as a Greek decorative stucco frieze in
the main ‘hall’, which – given its lack of structural support – was probably
unroofed despite earlier reconstructions depicting it as domed, 13 the overall
layout and the relation to the nearby water temple are local in derivation. 14 In
particular, the central ‘hall’ possesses four iwans that were lined with niches
for statuary and connected to passages and domestic rooms. Later Sasanian
palaces, while perpetuating the iwan structure, are more recognisably
‘western’ in character – thus Palace II, possibly built by Shapur II in the late
fourth century, possesses an apsidal, ‘basilican’ hall opening onto an axially-
aligned courtyard, recalling a Roman peristyle courtyard house. These
complexes formed a precedent for the later Sasanian palaces constructed in
the period from the fourth to the early seventh centuries, culminating in the
great garden palace of Kosrow II at Qasr-e Shirin that was sacked by Heraclius
in 627 during his military campaign against Persia. At Qasr-e Shirin, despite
uncertainties regarding the definitive plan, a high platform was raised up,
upon which a square central hall, again with a squinched dome, aligned
axially with a rectangular entrance courtyard and inner courtyard.
Surrounding the palace were ornamental pools and gardens, constructing an
image of Paradise, as the Byzantine Great Palace was intended to do. 15 Finally,
there is the example of the main Sasanian palace at Ctesiphon, a complex in
existence at the time of Heraclius’ campaign [Fig. 2]. The surviving portion of
the structure has a monumental iwan, the Tāq-e Kesrā, axially facing what
would have been the entrance courtyard, and behind which was originally
12
Keall 2011, 56.
13
For the reconstruction with dome, see Ghirshman 1956, Plan 2. For interpretation as
square court with four iwans, see Keall 1989, 287-89.
14
Bier 1993, 58.
15
Hirschfeld 2008, 23. On the Great Palace as an image of Paradise, see Carile 2007.
located a vast hall, almost certainly used for banquets and receptions. These
palaces developed synchronously with Roman palaces – for example, the
masonry phase of the circular temple-palace complex of Takt-e Solayman
built by Chosroes I after 531 is contemporary with the reign of Justinian I. It is
certain that, through their embassies, the two courts were aware of each
other’s architecture. 16
The royal capital at Ctesiphon, later occupied during the Arab
conquest, has been associated with Byzantine influences. Simocatta wrote in
his seventh century History that:
“Ctesiphon is the greatest royal capital in Persia. It is said that the
emperor Justinian provided Chosroes son of Kabades with Greek marble,
building experts, and craftsmen skilled in ceilings, and that a palace
situated close to Ctesiphon was constructed for Chosroes with Roman
expertise.” 17
Ctesiphon was, however, the capital city, and it possessed a number of palace
complexes in addition to the partially surviving Taq-e Kesra, and it is
unlikely, that the latter was the structure described, given its very different
construction technique to known sixth-century Byzantine buildings. Its date
of construction has, furthermore, been disputed by scholars: Herzfeld placed
it in the third century and the reign of Shapur I, while Kurz uses Byzantine
and later Iranian sources to argue for the sixth century, and the reign of
Chosroes I (r. 531-79). Keall does not side with either dating, but downplays
the contribution of Byzantines to its construction, while admitting a
Hellenistic and Roman influence at Taq-e Kesra. 18 Indeed its façade, with its
superimposed storeys of blind pilastered arcades built in mud-brick, appears
to be a peripheral emulation of a Roman structure, but here the tectonic logic
is abandoned in the apparent attempt to construct an image of order, rather
than to order the structure. 19 It might be added that the possible sources for
this emulation are more likely to be earlier than sixth century – there is, for
example, a resemblance to the decorative, superimposed orders of the
Colosseum and the Porta Nigra in Trier. Also, unlike the interior focus of
Roman architecture, here the emphasis is upon positive external spatial
volumes: the overall site plan indicates the possibility that two iwans opposed
one another, while a third complex stood to the south. 20 A second possibility
is that the iwan faced a rectangular court. The surviving iwan, an uncentred
arch, is of enormous proportions – 43.5 m. deep by 25.5 m. wide – and a
technical triumph in itself. The flanking wall, and the parallel internal walls,
serve more to retain the lateral thrust of the vault. Its outward-directed
16
Canepa 2009, 127 ff.
17
Whitby & Whitby 1986, 175.
18
Herzfeld 1935, 94 ff.; 1943, 59-61; Kurz 1941, 37-41; Keall 2011, 155-59.
19
On dating of Ayvān-e Kesrā, see n.18 above.
20
On a possible matching building, see Kröger 2011, 446-48.
134 Nigel Westbrook
architecture is thus very different in construction and concept to the

essentially introverted nature of Byzantine building. Taq-e Kesra may thus be
interpreted as superficially Roman in its decoration, but fundamentally
Persian in its typology. The structure referred to by Simokatta may instead
have been the White Palace at Ctesiphon, which was still standing at the time
of the Arab invasions. 21
In all these examples, there is a clear hierarchy of entrance and
reception established by the palace layouts, one which would have created a
strong impression of grandeur and distantiation of client or ambassador, on
the one side, and the ruler and his courtiers on the other. The axial sequence
of entrance gate, courtyard and high reception hall does have similarities to
descriptions of parts of the Great Palace in the Book of Ceremonies. 22 On the
basis of records of diplomatic exchanges between Byzantium and Sasanian
Iran, these palaces were used as competitive settings for emulative spectacle.
Despite obvious differences – the hot climate in Iran led to the development
of the iwan, or outdoor room and to domestic quarters being arranged on an
upper floor – nonetheless the elaboration of ceremonial entrance into the
palaces does bear comparison, even if knowledge of the extent of cultural
exchange is limited by the available evidence. 23 It is clear that in both the
Byzantine and Sasanian examples there is an association of the complex with
religious structures and symbolism- they are ‘sacred’ palaces.
We have several examples of the Byzantine encounter with these
Sasanian palace halls. George Cedrenus relates Heraclius’ encounter with the
audience hall at Takht-e Soleyman (originally Šiz) in 624 during his invasion
of the Persian heartland:
“When [Heraclius] entered [the throne room] he found the foul image
(eidolon) of Kosrow, and his image in the spherical roof of the palace as if
he was enthroned in heaven. And around him were the sun and moon
and stars, which the pagans worship as gods, and sceptor (sic)-bearing
angels stood around him. There the enemy of God had contrived with
machines to sprinkle down rain like a thunder-shower and noise to
clamor forth like thunder.” 24
Here, as Canepa has observed, the resemblance to Byzantine references to the

domed, central-plan interior of the Byzantine sixth-century palace hall, the
Chrysotriklinos, is striking, as will be discussed below – while the Sasanian
hall, probably also dating to the sixth century, possessed a depiction of what
Canepa suggests was the god Ohrmazd, the contemporary Chrysotriklinos
21
Kröger 2011, 446-48.
22
Moffatt & Tall 2012, 2.15, 566-98.
23
Canepa 2009, 135-36.
24
Canepa 2009, 148. On Heraclius’ campaign, see Kaegi 2003, 127.
possessed, at least in its post-Iconoclasm phase, an icon of Christ above the

imperial throne. 25
The emphasis upon monumental enclosing walls, iwan-type entrance
vestibule, courtyard and monumental centralized-plan reception halls was to
be continued into the Islamic period in examples of Umayyad palace
architecture such as Khirbat al-Mafjar, Qasr Mshatta, and the Abbasid palaces
of Al-Ukhaidir and the vast Dar al-Khilafa at Samarra. 26 Central plan halls
were equally a feature of Early Byzantine palaces of the fourth to seventh
centuries, as evidenced by several examples that have been excavated and
recorded in Turkey. These consist of two types: centrally-planned reception
halls, sometimes with semicircular forecourts, such as the Palace of
Antiochus, the circular hall proposed to belong to the Palace of Arcadia, and
the unidentified hexagonal hall with semicircular forecourt in Gülhane
Park. 27 The earliest example of this type known at Constantinople is the
Palace of Hormisdas, built by Constantine I in the early fourth century for the
exiled nephew of the Persian king. 28 It is known to have possessed a
heptaconch hall. The second grouping of palaces is the circular forecourt
attached to a reception hall, seen in the early fourth-century Roman palace
adjoining the contemporary circus at Milan, (overall diameter 20m.) and the
fifth- to sixth-century Governor’s palace at Eliaussa Sebaste.
The best-known example of the central-plan reception hall with
semicircular forecourt is the so-called ‘Palace of Antiochus’, the ruins of
which were excavated north-west of the Hippodrome in Istanbul [Fig. 3], but
have now partly been destroyed by the construction of the new law courts.
This complex, which has been extensively analyzed, and even (erroneously)
proposed as the Great Palace itself 29 was probably built by the Persian eunuch
Antiochus, who occupied high office under Theodosius II (402/3 to perhaps
439). 30 It is distinguished by its elaborate reception halls, the functions of
which have, however, not been determined. 31 Excavations revealed an
elaborate series of centrally-planned rooms arranged around a hemicyclical,
colonnaded portico and forecourt. The large, hexagonal central hall was
found to have been converted into a church, associated by Schneider with
that of St. Euphemia. Given its five apses, massive walls and central plan, it
may have had a domical roof, and is possibly depicted in Lorck’s great
25
Canepa 2009, 147; Cameron 1981, 62-84.
26
For early Islamic palaces, see Grabar 1993, 93-108; Ettinghausen & Grabar 1994; Bloom
2002.
27
Demangel & Mamboury 1939.
28
Bolognesi notes that a heptaconch room is mentioned in the account of a meeting of a
religious council at Constantinople in 536, held in this room: in venerabili palatio ... quod
cognominatur Hormisdae... in... heptaconco triclinio, Bolognesi Recchi-Franceschini 2005, 53-
62.
29
Bek 1983, 81-107.
30
Greatrex & Bardill 1996, 171-97.
31
Naumann & Belting 1966; Mango et al. 1992, 89-98; Bardill 1997, 67-95.
136 Nigel Westbrook
panorama of the city, to the right of Hagia Sophia and the Hippodrome [Fig.
4]. 32 The awkward, flattened dome roof may have been a later repair to the
building which is also plausibly associated with the ‘Palatio ritondo di
Costantino’ depicted and thus labeled in the prospect of Constantinople by
Braun and Hogenberg of 1572, also depicted in the earlier, similar view by
Vavassore of ca. 1520. 33 The church of St. Euphemia appears to have been
partially restored after the Byzantine reoccupation of the city in 1261, the
frescoes being dated by Naumann and Belting to the thirteenth century. The
building is not mentioned in sources after 1400, but may have existed into the
sixteenth, and possibly the early seventeenth century. 34 The Palace of
Antiochus was highly elaborate, with polylobate reception halls, baths and
private quarters flanking the main hall, as also found at a fifth-century palace
complex at Rhegion. 35 Further north of the proposed ‘Palace of Antiochus’
was found a circular structure also with a semicircular forecourt that led into
a monumental, seven-apsed reception hall, that was reconstructed as 52.5 m.
long by 12.4 m. wide. Its form has recently been associated by Luchterhand
with the Hall of 19 Akkoubita in the Great Palace, and the eleven-apsed
reception hall in the Lateran Palace. 36 The circular feature, interpreted as a
domed vestibule may in fact have been a circular colonnaded forecourt of the
type found at Milan. 37
The fifth-century Byzantine residence, possibly a governor’s palace, at
Elaiussa Sebaste, south-west of the modern-day settlements of Mersin and
Adana on the Mediterranean coast in southern Turkey, repeats this motif of
the circular forecourt. 38 The palace, built in several stages, completed in the
mid-fifth century and destroyed in the mid-sixth, was thus close in date to
the Theodosian palaces of Antiochus and Arcadia. This very large complex
32
Asutay Effenberger & Effenberger 2004, 51-94 and Figs. 1-14. Anderson argues that parts
of the palace of Antiochus may have been used as a prison for Arab prisoners in the ninth
and tenth centuries. See Anderson 2009, 92-93. On the Lorck prospect of Constantinople,
see most recently Fischer et al. 2009; Westbrook 2010, 43-61.
33
Byzantium nunc Constantinopolis from Braun and Hogenberg, Civitates Orbis Terrarum
(Cologne, 1572); Vavassore, Byzantium sive Costantineopolis, Venice c. 1520. Jonathan Bardill
(1997, 67-95) disputes its identification with St. Euphemia. However, he omits to mention
the building depicted in the Lorck Panorama.
34
Naumann & Belting 1966a, cf. 33 and Fig. 3. They suggest that at some point in the
sixteenth century the building was demolished. Certainly, there is no evidence that it was
demolished prior to the execution of the Lorck Panorama (ca. 1559/62). The fill of up to 4
m. was of the Late Ottoman period.
35
For discoveries east of Bin Bir Direk cistern, see Istanbul: ‘Palace of Justice’ in Mamboury
archive. The Mamboury archive provides a unique, but fragmentary, record of the
Byzantine city. It is held in the library of the Deutsches Archäologisches Institut in
Istanbul, and consists of 30 years of journal notes, field drawings, and measured drawings.
36
Luchterhandt 1999, 109-22; 2006, 171-211.
37
Duval 1990, 204-06.
38
Early Byzantine palace at Ayaş: Equini Schneider 2003, 303-16 and Figs. 9-10; 2005, 195-
204; 2008.
consists of a grouping of two wings of halls arranged on multiple levels,

around a monumental two-storied circular courtyard with portico, the
external dimension of which is 29.70 m. and that forms the focus of the
palace, off which a monumental hall on two levels was accessed. Both hall
and court and would have presented an imposing spectacle during
receptions. 39 The motif of the circular courtyard with reception hall
reappears in the later, ninth-century Abbasid palace of Dar al-Khilafa at
Samarra, but here as a vast sunken pool, faced by reception chambers. 40
The secular rotunda in the foundations of the Myrelaion in Istanbul,
has recently been re-proposed by Niewöhner as the early fifth-century
residence of the princess Arcadia, the daughter of Arcadius, and sister of the
emperor Theodosius II. 41 It appears to have possessed a portico entrance and
semi-circular forecourt facing the street of Mese and the Capitol and
Philadelphion further to the north-east. Built over the large rotunda are the
foundations of the tenth-century palace of the emperor Romanus I Lecapenus
(r. 920-944), with the church of Myrelaion to the east. 42
From where did these building types originate? Kostenec has advanced
the theory that there was an Iberian origin for the hemicycle-shaped
forecourt, evidenced by an early fourth-century ‘palace’ at Cercadilla, near
Cordoba in Spain, which he associates with the Theodosian clan. 43 However
the Iberian origin is speculative, indeed the same forms can be seen in the
earlier Villa dei Quintili, on the Via Appia, a vast aristocratic villa built
between the second and fourth centuries, and infamously appropriated by
the emperor Commodus (r. 180-192). In particular, a recently excavated
hemicyclic (‘sigma’) courtyard preceding a circular and probably domed
representational hall of 12 m. diameter may be noted [Fig. 5]. 44 This may,
however, be a later phase of building than the peristyle phase. What becomes
apparent, however, is that in the fourth and fifth centuries, there was a shift
away from, or elaboration beyond, the Greek-inspired peristyle villa typology,
and toward a language of introverted, volumetric and massive structures, in
which there was no apparent overall architectonic cohesion, and in which a
preference for central-plan structures replaced the previous, relatively
simple rectangular halls.
39
The circular courtyard phase of the palace, which was destroyed in the mid-sixth
century, is of similar date to the Palace of Antiochus. Equini Schneider 2005, 107, 181-96.
40
Northedge 1993, 148 and Figs. 1-2, 10: ‘The Large Serdab’. The Dar al-Khilafa also
possesses a circular reception hall, the so-called ‘Rotundabau’.
41
On excavations at the Myrelaion: Naumann 1966b, 199-216; Niewöhner 2010, 412-59.
42
Niewöhner 2010, 414, 425-31 and Figs. 10-17.
43
Kostenec 2004, 4-36.
44
Villa dei Quintili: Paris 2000; Andreina Ricci 1986, 607–15; 1998; Schädler 1998. The
recently excavated semicircular forecourt and circular reception hall do not appear in
Paris’ monograph, but are clearly visible in recent aerial photography.
138 Nigel Westbrook
In his analysis of the origin of Late Antique central plan and ‘sigma’
courtyard buildings Irving Lavin concluded that these types originated in the
West. Iran is not mentioned at all, and his argument seems, in part, to be a
refutation of Strzygowski’s earlier, racially-based theories of an eastern,
aryan origin for Late Antique and Early Mediaeval central-plan forms such as
the triconch. 45 However there are parallels with Sasanian palace halls –
domed, central-plan and tripartite arrangements of axially-central reception
rooms that chronologically precede the Roman examples, such as the central
domed reception hall at Firuzābād, Qalʿa-ye Doḵtar, with symmetrically
flanking side rooms, and the palace of Ātaškada at Firuzābād, with three
domed halls – one on either side of the central hall which is axially aligned
with the entrance. 46 In spite of a lack of material and textual evidence for a
mutual influence, the use of common motifs at a time of intense political
contestation does support the thesis of a cultural exchange.
The Chrysotriklinos, or golden hall, the second crown-hall within the
Great Palace, probably constructed by the sixth-century emperor Justin II (r.
565-78), does appear to resemble the Iranian examples, and may have been
conceived in direct response to them. Its name is suggestive of a conflation of
Christian and solar symbolism which invites comparisons with Iranian
imperial rituals associated with worship of sun and moon deities. 47 The Book of
Ceremonies provides sufficient information for us to be able to reconstruct the
Chrysotriklinos in its general, schematic form [Figs. 6 & 7]. The building
possessed eight vaults (καμάραι) screened by curtains, a great cornice, and
sixteen lantern windows, presumably between the springing piers supporting
the domical roof. Thus, it would appear that an octagonal base supported a
do]me with sixteen segments, probably with expressed scalloping of the
‘pumpkin dome’ type, as was used in the earlier church of Ss. Sergius and
Bacchus, which had a similar division of segments. On the eastern vault, an
icon of Christ was located above the imperial throne. 48 To the west, outside
the building and probably facing an entrance courtyard, was an entrance
vault, the Tripeton which may have possessed a similar appearance to a
Sasanian iwan, and is associated in the itineraries with a clock (horologion). 49
Offices were located to the north, 50 and to the south-west, a vault led through
to the emperor and empress’ private quarters, from where they could
45
Lavin 1962, 1-27.
46
The palace at Ctesiphon is insufficiently preserved to indicate whether a similar
arrangement existed here. Bier notes, too, that Reuther’s reconstruction of Chosroes II’s
palace at Qasr-e Shirin with a triconchal audience hall is a fabrication, unsupported by
evidence. See Bier 1993, 58-59.
47
Solar symbolism in early Constantinople: Dagron 2000; 2011. On the syncretic basis of
Constantine the Great’s incorporation of Solar and Christian elements into state religion,
see Bardill 2011. On solar worship in Iran, see Gnoli 2012.
48
Chrysotriklinos: Featherstone 2005, 845-52; 2006, 47-61.
49
Moffatt & Tall 2012, 1.14, 91.
50
Featherstone 2010, 162-74.
communicate directly with the (later) Hodegetria church of the Pharos. This
configuration, combined with the iconographical programme, although
superficially similar to earlier Roman pavilions, may more closely resemble
the Sasanian examples discussed above, where a central reception room,
axially aligned with a forecourt, is flanked by ancillary halls, then leads
through to a further, more private courtyard.
Cultural Exchange between East and West in the Middle Byzantine period
In the Middle Byzantine period, a further resemblance between the Byzantine
and Eastern courts can be seen in the use of automata as spectacular
instruments in the imperial ritual. Liutprand of Cremona, in the tenth
century, describes the operation of an automaton in the Magnaura, or ‘Great
Hall’, which may be located north of the Great Palace, and would have been
accessed from the Augusteion. 51 It is likely that this device was constructed in
emulation of similar spectacles in the court of the Abbasid Caliphs in Baghdad
and Samarra, such as the House of the Tree within the Dar al-Khilafa palace
complex on the banks of the Tigris river, which had a gold and silver tree
fronting a reception room which had birds that were designed to sing when
activated by breezes, and automata of mounted warriors. It was viewed by the
Byzantine ambassadors of Constantine VII Porphyrohennitus on their visit to
Baghdad in 917. 52
While in the post-Islamic invasion period there was, according to Cyril
Mango, a shift away from classical cultural forms, within the Palace
anachronistic survivals of earlier cultural practices should be expected to be
encountered, given the concentration of scholarship necessitated by the
imperial bureaucracy, and appeals to tradition motivated by the ideological
imperative of legitimacy of rulership. Mango’s argument for cultural
disjunction focuses on Byzantine culture from the eighth century onwards.
Indeed, it is true that in this period many of the Late Antique ‘Roman’ urban
institutions and structures had transformed or disappeared. 53 Architectural
form and decoration also changed – thus, for example, Theophilus (r. 829-42)
apparently built the Bryas Palace in imitation of the palaces of the new
Abbasid caliphs ruling from Baghdad. A passage in Theophanes Continuatus
describes the visit of the imperial envoy, John the Grammarian, to the court
at Baghdad and on his return convincing the emperor Theophilus to build the
Bryas palace, in the Asian suburbs of Constantinople, in the style of a Abbasid
palace. 54 However Theophilus is also recorded in Theophanes Continuatus as
51
Squattriti 2007, 197.
52
Dolezal & Mavroudi 2002, 129; Al-Samarrai 2002. Al-Samarrai associates the origins of
these Baghdad gardens in the fusion of Mesopotamian, Persian and Byzantine traditions.
53
Milojević 1996.
54
Theophanes Continuatus, 160. On Bryas Palace: Alless Ricci 1998, 131-49. Ricci takes
issue with Eyice’s identification of a large subterranean structure at Küçükyalı with the
palace of Bryas, associating it instead with the monastery of Satyros.
140 Nigel Westbrook
having constructed the Sigma and Triconch in the Great Palace [Fig. 8], a
complex that was by the period of his reign already five centuries old. Even if
the chronicler’s attribution of the complex entirely to Theophilus may have
been a case of gilding the lily it would, nevertheless, seem that he had at the
least refurbished it. Although the formal arrangement of this complex
resembles Roman structures, and here the Villa dei Quintili in Rome may be
cited along with the villa at Piazza Armerina, the immediate influence may
have been Islamic. 55 In this period it was the Abbasid Caliphate, in its wealth
and cultural richness exemplified by the capitals at Baghdad and Samarra,
that formed a contemporary exemplar for emulation. The Sigma and
Triconch in the Byzantine Great Palace, as described by Theophanes
Continuatus, does indeed seem anachronistic for the ninth century. Is it, as
Ken Dark has recently argued, evidence of the survival in Constantinople of
classical culture through to the ninth century? 56
The cultural context during this period of contestation between
Abbasid East and Christian West recalls however, the earlier contestation and
cultural exchange between Rome and Sasanian Persia. Could Theophilus’
palace complex owe more in inspiration to the Abbasid pleasure palaces of Al
Mansour and his successors in Baghdad and Samarra? While one might
reasonably attribute the origin of such complexes in Late Antique pavilion
types, there may perhaps have been a functional similarity to the Large
Serdab of the Dar al-Khilafa palace of Al Mu‘tasim in Samarra, founded in 836,
which possessed four sunken, symmetrical pavilions facing in to a circular
pool. 57 Similar complexes are, as noted above, known to have existed in the
now-vanished palace at Baghdad, of Al-Mansour, ca. 762, and laid out, in all
likelihood, in emulation of earlier Iranian circular cities such as Nehbandan
castle in southern Khorasan, the round city of Jundi-Shapur in Kuzestan,
Darabgird Gur (near modern-sday Darab in south-west Iran) and Firuzābād, or
Gur in Fars, of the third century.
The Sigma and Triconch, on the basis of the Theophanes Continuatus
description, comprised a pavilion on two levels facing a semicircular enclosed
space, which could apparently be flooded on special occasions, and could
supply wine from its fountains. There thus appears to be, at least on the
sketchy details available to us, some functional similarity to the Large Serdab
at Samarra. The Byzantine emperor Theophilus would presumably, on this
analogy, have used the lower level of the Triconch as a cool, sunken residence
in mid-summer, the air further freshened by breezes passing over the basin
within the Sigma courtyard. We know from the Book of Ceremonies that the
complex had both public and private functions, hosting acclamations from
the circus factions, while also serving as a pleasure pavilion for the
55
An earlier Islamic example is the Umayyad Palace of Qasr al-Mshatta, Jordan, possibly
built in 743/44 for Caliph al-Walid.
56
Dark 2007, 102-05.
57
Northedge 2001, 29-67.
Emperor. 58 Did it also perhaps serve as a new space for the reception of
ambassadors, notably the emissaries of the Abbasid caliphs? At this time
there was considerable diplomatic activity related to the exchange of military
and other prisoners. 59 No mention of this is found in the Book of Ceremonies
where, by the tenth century, the renovated Magnaura served this role. But
what purpose would a show-palace serve if it lacked an audience to
appreciate it?
The Sigma and Triconch complex formed a pivotal connecting role
between the Lower and Upper Palaces, as evidenced by descriptions in the
Book of Ceremonies. 60 The evidence for this complex has been restricted to two
kinds: typological comparisons and textual descriptions. 61 While a lack of firm
evidence has resulted in a diversity of theories for its location, there has been
to now an absence of architectural interpretations. The description of the
Sigma and Triconch in Theophanes Continuatus refers to the upper level of the
Triconch and balcony, and a lower, courtyard level with phiale, but does not
permit an assumption of levels. 62 Nor does the Book of Ceremonies provide
conclusive evidence. The chapter ‘On what is necessary to observe on the
Holy and Great Saturday’ makes clear that the emperor proceeds by the
Passages of Forty Saints to the Hemicycle of the secret phiale of Triconch
then leaves by way of the Apse and the Daphne. 63 Reference here to ‘Apse’
and ‘Daphne’ seems to refer to toponymic passages. Ascent to the Daphne
Palace is not mentioned, but would seem to have been required. It would
appear, therefore, that the vertical connections are assumed as common
knowledge by the writer. Theophanes Continuatus suggests that a domed
triconchal reception hall faced onto a two-storey, porticoed loggia, off which
branched two curving arcades, again on two levels. The upper level may have
directly communicated with the upper range of the Great Palace, and the
lower level with the Lower Palace. Within the semi-circular courtyard, a
nymphaeum with fountains faced the Triconch and the two-storey
semicircular colonnade, 64 the lower level of which is described in Theophanes
Continuatus as possessing the same shape as the upper level. 65 The enclosed
fountain-court of the Triconch would, according to the interpretation
presented here, be an enclosed courtyard, with central fountain with pina
58
Moffatt & Tall 2012, 1.62, 278-80; 1.66, 295-301.
59
Anderson 2009, 93-94.
60
Moffatt & Tall 2012, 1.14,91-92; 1.35,180-81; 1.52,263-64; 1.55,269-70; 1.66,297-98.
61
Lavin 1962, 1-27; Baldini Lippolis 2001.
62
Theophanes Continuatus (trans. Mango 1986, 161-65).
63
Moffatt 2012, 1.35,180.
64
65
By comparison, the brick-vaulted cryptoportici of the Flavian Palace are about 5 m.
wide.
142 Nigel Westbrook
framed by the arch and two columns, and separated from the Triconch by the
Hemicycle and nymphaeum. 66
The Book of Ceremonies describes a reception with the senior members of
the factions standing on steps on either side of the fountain, facing the
emperor who is enthroned under a baldachin before the Triconch, 67
apparently very different from the uses given to similar reception buildings
in the Late Antique period, for dining in a formal setting, with the central
space reserved for servants and performers. The Book of Ceremonies only refers
to the Sigma and Triconch in relation to formal ceremonies that took place
there. However, the description of Theophilus’ building works in Theophanes
Continuatus states that Theophilus: “… took such pleasure in (the ceremonial) that
he performed at the Triconch both the conduct of his normal affairs and the daily
processions.” 68 Here we are not told what constituted ‘normal affairs’, but they
may have included the banquets at which the emperor received members of
the court, high dignitaries and ambassadors – the question of a continuity
with the Late Antique period is, however, impossible to determine. Similar to
the triconchal hall at Aachen, too large to effectively serve as a dining hall,
the triconch form may well have been appropriated more at the Great Palace
for its associations with rulership, than because of any functional
consideration.
If the Bryas Palace were constructed in emulation of the splendor of
the Abbasid court of Caliph Al Mu‘tasim at Baghdad, then was the Sigma and
Triconch, together with the other halls of Theophilus in the Great Palace,
imaged in emulation of Imperial Rome or of Abbasid Samarra and Baghdad? 69
Perhaps both – consider the recorded renovation of the possibly fourth-
century reception hall of Dekanneakkoubita in the tenth century by
Constantine VII Porphyrogennitus (r. 913-59), his actions suggesting a desire
to emulate and revive the old forms that was made clear in his preface to the
Book of Ceremonies. 70 Given this complex interplay between emulation,
continuity of old practices and revival, it is clear that considerable further
research remains to be undertaken into the complex question of the cultural
exchange between Byzantium and the centres of Iran and the Caliphate. 71
In summary, through a comparison of Byzantine, Sasanian and
Umayyad and Abbasid palace architecture we can thus detect the likelihood
66
67
Moffatt 2012, 1.62,278-79.
68
Theophanes Continuatus (trans. Mango 1986, 162).
69
Madinat al’Zahra: Krüger 2006, 233-71.
70
Moffatt & Tall 2012, Preface, 3-5.
71
Bryas Palace: Alless Ricci 1998, 131-49; 2012, 202-16; Eyice 1959a, 79-104; 1959b, 245-50.
The extensive Damatrys palace complex, attributed to the emperor Maurice (r. 582-602),
and located in the Asian hinterland of the Bosphorus, has been surveyed by Ricci, but
remains unpublished. Maurice fostered good relations with the Sasanians, and this palace
might be expected to reveal the extent of cultural exchanges in this period. On the survey
of the Damatrys palace, see Akyürek et al., 2007.
of an ongoing exchange, appropriation and emulation of palace ceremonial

and motifs from the third through to the tenth centuries. While Sasanian
architecture could be understood as an amalgam of local traditional building
practices and formal typologies, combined with appropriated Western motifs,
Byzantine palace buildings such as the Chrysotriklinos and the Triconch and
Sigma may also owe as much to the example of their contemporary Sasanian
and Abbasid equivalents, as spectacular settings for the continual diplomatic
exchange and contestation, as to their classical precedents. They were in part
‘show-palaces’, to use Thomas Mathews’ term, 72 instruments in the process
of emulation and exchange between competing cultures, in which the
architecture of Hellenistic Greece and imperial Rome could be seen as a
common heritage.
72
Mathews 2006, 241.
144 Nigel Westbrook
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152 Nigel Westbrook
Figure 5: Villa dei Quintili (House of the Quintilii), Appian Way outside Rome,
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Figure 6: Hypothetical reconstruction of Chrysotriklinos in the Byzantine Great Palace,

Constantinople, after references in the Book of Ceremonies ( uthor). The dimension and
details of the Chrysotriklinos are based upon textual descriptions and comparison with
the early sixth-century church of Sts. Sergius and Bacchus nearby. The Lausiakos
(probably the site of the later Mouchroutas) is dimensioned in proportion to the
Chrysotriklinos and by comparison with the similar-functioning St. Stephen’s Hall,
Westminster. The Pharos church is based upon the late eighth-century church of St.
Sophia, Thessalonica.
Legend to Figure 6:
1. Central octagonal space; 2. Eastern apse behind throne and silver doors to terrace; 3.
Vault of Tripeton and Horologion; 4. Diatarikion (steward’s room); 5. Chapel of St.
Theodore; 6. Possible location of Aristeterion (breakfast room); 7. Patriarch’s disrobing
room; 8. Western silver doors; 9. Southern silver doors; 10. Door to Empress’ chamber; 11.
Empress’ chamber; 12. Hypothesized vestibule to private chambers; 13. Emperor’s
chamber; 14. Hypothesized attendants’ room; 15. Pantheon (vestibule); 16. Phylax (palace
treasury); 17. Monothyros (single gate); 18. Terrace of Pharos; 19. Imperial Baldachin; 20.
Church of Hodegetria of Pharos; 21. Hypothesized forecourt to Chrysotriklinos, where the
court would assemble prior to entry; 22. Bronze gate of Lausiakos; 23. Hall of Lausiakos;
24. Stairs of Lausiakos; 25. Stairs leading up to Passage of 40 Saints; 26. Hypothesized stairs
leading down to Boukoleon palace; 27. Hypothesized stairs leading down to Sea Gate; 28.
Route to Hall of Justinianos and Skyla Gate; 29. Approximate location of Phiale (fountain
court) of the Blue circus faction.
Figure 7, Hypothetical reconstruction of Chrysotriklinos in relation to adjacent

palace archaeology ( uthor).
154
Rome and Persia 155
Tim Briscoe
Rome and Persia: rhetoric and religion
Introduction
The Sasanian dynasty, which ruled the Persian empire between the third and
seventh centuries, proved to be the most persistent and dangerous threat to
Roman/Byzantine dominance of the Near East before the Arab invasions of
the seventh century. Both the region itself (i.e. the Roman Near East) and the
relationship between the two great empires, Rome/Byzantium and Sasanian
Persia, have been increasingly important areas of study in recent decades. 1
This paper focuses upon Roman/Byzantine perceptions and representations
of their Persian enemy between the third and seventh centuries, particularly
in the extant literary corpus. 2 Recently, Canepa 3 has analysed:
“…how Sasanian Persia and Late Roman/Byzantine rulers acted as rivals
in securing claims of universal sovereignty while at the same time
recognising each other’s right to exist”, which “had profound
ramifications for the shaping of images, rituals and discourse(s) of
legitimacy at the courts of each power.” 4
In other words, by the last centuries of Romano-Persian rivalry in the Near

East, both empires employed discourses which emphasised their own right to
rule the known world while also recognising, albeit grudgingly, a certain
equality between these powers. However, to date, this and other studies of
Romano-Persian relations have downplayed or ignored the role religion and
religious interaction played in the formulation of Roman responses to their
Sasanian rivals. 5
This paper examines the ways in which the emergence and
development of Christianity as the imperially patronised and dominant
religion within the Roman empire affected the perceptions and
1
For a selection, see Ball 2000; Dignas & Winter 2007; Edwell 2008; Howard-Johnston 2011.
2
The term ‘Roman’ is used throughout this paper, rather than phrases such as ‘Romano-
Byzantine’ or ‘Roman/Byzantine’. This is in order to maintain consistency throughout, as
well as recognition of several continuities in ‘classical’ culture. There is, of course, much
that changes within Romano-Byzantine culture between the third and seventh centuries,
a point emphasised in this paper itself.
3
Canepa 2009.
4
Edwell 2011.
5
For an analysis of the interaction between Christianity and Zoroastrianism and its effect
on Romano-Persian relations, see Dignas & Winter 2007, Chapter 7.
156 Tim Briscoe
representations of the Persian enemy. I would stress at this point that

religion or religious changes were by no means the only agents affecting
Roman perceptions and portrayals of the Sasanians, but one that is important
and has thus far received less attention in scholarship than political or
military factors.
The contention of this paper is that, as the centuries passed and
Christianity established itself as the principal religion of the Roman empire,
as Christian writers became the primary agents of historical recording,
Christianity, and its complex and diverse relationship with Persian
Zoroastrianism, shaped portrayals of the Persians in identifiable and
important ways. These religious factors, while existing alongside as well as
interacting with long-established classical or Herodotean discourses on
Persia, become the key to understanding the construction of Roman
perceptions and representations of Persian identity in Roman literary
discourse.
Classical perceptions of the Sasanians

When examining Roman portrayals of Sasanian Persia in the past, there has
been a clear scholarly focus on what might be termed the classical or
Herodotean tradition. The legacy of Herodotus has been rightly identified as a
key factor in the shaping of Roman perceptions and representations of the
Sasanian Persians, and of Persia and the East more generally. 6 In this
historiographical tradition, descriptions of Sasanians are couched in terms
that are reminiscent of, if not identical to, accounts we have of Achaemenid
Persia. 7
The first Roman sources we have which describe the rise of the
Sasanian dynasty make this link explicit. Cassius Dio and Herodian of Antioch,
contemporaries of the rise of Sasanian Persia, detail the overthrow of the
Parthian dynasty by the first Sasanian Shahanshah, Ardashir. Both historians
make explicit links between the emergent Sasanian dynasty and the
Achaemenid rulers of antiquity. Specifically, both sources, as well as a later
reference in the work of Ammianus Marcellinus, claim the Sasanian kings
styled themselves explicitly as heirs to their Achaemenid forebears. This was
done partly by laying claim to their ‘ancestral’ lands, the lands which had
once been under Achaemenid dominion, Syria, Asia Minor, and the like. 8
6
For instance, see Momigliano 1975, particularly Chapter 6, ‘Iranians and Greeks’; Gruen
2011; Spawforth 1994. The latter reference outlines a similar process in reference to the
Parthians.
7
For example, Kuhrt 2012: “But the former are heavily dependent on the earlier Greek accounts
so that for someone like Ammianus, for instance, the contemporary Sassanian Persians have become
timeless figures, interchangeable with those of Herodotus’ day.” Ammianus, of course, was also
in direct contact with the Sasanians, a factor discussed below.
8
Cassius Dio, 80.3-4; Herodian, 6.2.1-2; 6.4.4-5; Ammianus Marcellinus, 7.5.5-6; Zonaras,
12.15.
Rome and Persia 157
Admittedly, the accuracy of these claims is not unproblematic, and has

been much-debated in recent decades. 9 However, for our purposes here this
debate itself is not important. What is important is the fact that Roman
historians connected Sasanian and Achaemenid Persia, linking the dynasties
as well as the rhetorical assumptions and baggage associated with each. In
these early sources, the Persians appear in a thoroughly classical role: these
are the Persians of Herodotus, of Alexander. As Potter contends:
“…while precise knowledge of Persian affairs was available (to the
Romans), it tended to be exploited in a context saturated by the history
of classical Greece: nonsense and knowledge could coexist, the available
tools of learning would not necessarily supersede cultural
assumption.” 10
Ammianus Marcellinus, in the surviving portions of his Res Gestae, devotes

considerable space to detailing the Sasanian Persians, both as part of his
historical narrative and in several geographic and ethnographic digressions.
Ammianus’ firsthand experience as a soldier in the Roman east, as well as in
Persia itself, provided him with access to detailed information about Persian
culture and customs. However, loyal to his classical historiographical
heritage, Ammianus more closely follows the stereotypes set out in
traditional descriptions of Persia and the Persians. 11 His longest digression is
located at 23.6, and is summarised by Drijvers as follows:
“(He) describes the appearance, character, and customs of the Persians.
They are slight in build, have a darkish and bloodless complexion, goat’s
eyes, and a grim expression. They have beards, wear their hair long, and
their eyebrows are curved in a semicircle and meet in the middle. Most
are inordinately addicted to sex and have, according to their means,
several wives or concubines, but do not practice pederasty. … On the
other hand they are so careless and undisciplined in their movements
that one might think them effeminate. … They are cunning, proud, and
cruel… They have great respect for their laws, which are severe. Persian
judges are men of experience and integrity, and need no others to advise
them. … They are formidable warriors and could have put many other
peoples under their yoke besides those whom they had fully subdued,
had they not been constantly harassed by domestic and foreign wars.” 12
It has been rightly observed that the picture Ammianus paints of the
Sasanians is more nuanced than his treatment of other foreign peoples in his
Res Gestae. 13 This is neatly illustrated by the fact that nowhere does Ammianus
9
For a sample of scholarship on this question of Sasanian awareness of Achaemenid
history and heritage, see Yarshater 1971; Daryaee 1995; 2006.
10
Potter 1999, 100.
11
Drijvers 2011, 71-72.
12
Drijvers 2011, 69-70.
13
Drijvers 2011, 68.
158 Tim Briscoe
employ the term ‘barbarian’ (barbarus) to describe them, unlike, for instance,
the Huns, Germans, or Sarmatians. In addition, Ammianus makes no mention
in the extant books of the Res Gestae of Zoroastrian religion, beyond several
comments on the Magi. 14 Indeed, as discussed by den Boeft, Ammianus’
portrayal of the ‘antique’ knowledge of the Magi is rather positive, and is part
of a larger favourable tradition regarding ancient knowledge in general. 15 But
Ammianus’ interest in contemporary Zoroastrian religion and religious
practice is limited.
In contrast, Procopius, despite the relevant theme of his work (i.e. The
Persian War), does not show nearly as much interest in Persian society and
customs as Ammianus did. Indeed, in some ways, one might consider the
inclusion of Procopius’ ethnographic observations as merely the result of the
classical expectations of his audience. Admittedly, he is complimentary of the
Sasanian sense of justice, and he, like Ammianus, avoids the term ‘barbarian’
when describing the Persians. 16 Interestingly, Procopius’ most vehement
criticism is levelled against an individual, the Persian king Khusro I, who was
in general more positively portrayed as an enlightened and tolerant ruler in
Roman sources. 17
From the emergence of the Sasanian dynasty to the age of Justinian,
the classical, Herodotean emphasis on Persian portrayal was strong, but was
not the only factor which influenced the development of Roman
historiography on their eastern neighbours. Parallel to and in competition
with this classical tradition, a Christian historiographical discourse
concerning the Sasanians emerged.
14
Ammianus Marcellinus, 23.6.32-36. Ammianus, it is true, makes little reference to
Christianity in the Res Gestae either; religion was not the stuff of classicising
historiography.
15
den Boeft 1999.
16
For a selection of references to the Sasanians in Procopius, see Bell. Pers. 1.11.33; 1.14.25;
1.18.32; 2.28.25-6. For a discussion of Procopius’ portrayal of the Sasanians, see Drijvers
2011, 72-73. His summary Procopius “dedicated a few antiquarian comments to Persian
(Zoroastrian) religion, the rites Magi perform at fire temples and the exposure of the bodies of the
dead to dogs and birds. Since Herodotus these subjects had been standard features of Gr[a]eco-
Roman writings about the Persians. Furthermore Procopius considered the Persians singular in their
ways and rigid with regard to the routine of daily life: he called their officials arrogant, their
infantry a crowd of pitiful peasants, but considered their bowmen very good yet not as good as the
Roman archers; the requirements of the Persians’ laws were intolerable.”
17
On Khusro I, see Procopius, Bell. Pers. 2.9.8; 2.11.26; Anecdota, 18.26ff. See below for
further discussion of this Sasanian king. Procopius, however, is not consistently critical of
Sasanian leaders; for examples of more positive portrayals of such individuals, see Bell.
Pers. 1.2.1-10 (in which he recounts the placement of the emperor Arcadius’ son,
Theodosius II, under the guardianship of the Persian king, Yazdgard I; during these
events, the Sasanian king is praised for his “nobility of character”.), 1.2.11-15; 1.7.29-35;
1.11.1-35. For further discussion see McDonough 2011, 58. There is a distinction to be
drawn between Procopius’ portrayal of individual Persians and Persian society in general.
Rome and Persia 159
The position of Lactantius

The Sasanian Persians make their first appearance in explicitly Christian
literature in Lactantius’ De Mortibus Persecutorum. This highly polemical
account of the deaths of those Roman emperors who persecuted Christians
from the first century onwards is filled with all manner of gruesome
suffering. 18 Unsurprisingly, these persecuting emperors play the role of
villain in Lactantius’ work, and because of this, the Sasanians do not, indeed
cannot, play their ‘classical’ role, as the ultimate threat to the civilised,
Graeco-Roman world. Instead, the Persians here perform another function in
the narrative – as agents of God’s vengeance, in the defeat, capture, or killing
of certain pagan emperors.
The imperator Valerian (r. 253-260) serves as our first example. 19 While
Lactantius does utilise the term barbarus when labelling the Persians, his
moral focus lies elsewhere. For instance, the Persian practice of flaying and
displaying the dead emperor is not judged too explicitly here, merely
described in relatively neutral language – his vitriol and moral comment are
all directed at Valerian the persecutor. Lactantius’ judgment is reserved for
him and the deserved nature of his punishment. There is no explicit criticism
here of the Persians, despite their differing religious practices, their strange
gods, their ‘barbarity’ – they are agents of God’s will against the sacrilegious
(de sacrilegis) Valerian.
In a later episode, Lactantius is forced to recount the Roman victory
under the Caesar Galerius against the Persian king Narses, grandson of Sapor
I. 20 This victory, which resulted in the capture of Narses’ household, was
hugely significant, and the treaty signed as a result cemented Roman
dominance in the region, including the transfer of several eastern territories
to the Romans, 21 until the death of Constantine almost four decades later.
18
It is interesting to note, as Creed has done, that Lactantius in his attacks on the
persecuting emperors focuses his criticism less on an emperor’s particular attitude
towards Christians and more on other ‘qualities’. While emperors are included based
primarily upon their attitude to Christians, they are subsequently criticised for a whole
variety of faults, including “cruelty, lust, avarice, hostility to culture, and barbarisation of the
empire”; see Creed 1984, xliv.
19
Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum 5.1-7. A sample of the language used by Lactantius
to describe Valerian in this section: “his shameful life” (pudendam vitam); “the imperial office
which he had arrogantly misused” (imperium, quo fuerat insolenter usus). Eusebius, too, links
the humiliating defeat of Valerian with his persecution of Christians: Vita Constantini, 4.11.
20
Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum 9.1-5.
21
On the peace treaty of 298 between Diocletian and Narses, see Dignas & Winter 2007,
122-30; on the complexities of identifying the regiones Transtigritanae, see 126-29.
160 Tim Briscoe
However, in order to maintain his appropriate religious theme,

Lactantius downplays the significance of Galerius’ victory. 22 It is Narses’
ambition, and the army that he gathers, which strike fear in the Romans. The
Diocletian of Lactantius’ account is, amongst other criticisms, a coward, a
craven man, fearful not only of the real or perceived threat of his ‘barbaric’
Caesar, Galerius, but also of the renewed threat of Persian invasion under
Narses, mindful of the dire precedent of Valerian described above. As a result
of this ‘cowardice’, Diocletian sends his Caesar, Galerius, not because this is
strategically intelligent, but because he dare not face the Persians himself.
Lactantius here clearly downplays the significance of the victory of Galerius,
whom he characterises as “more evil than all the evil men who have ever lived … a
beast, with a natural barbarity and a wildness quite foreign to Roman blood.” 23
Galerius, the harshest persecutor of the Christians among the
Tetrarchs, is subject to attack by Lactantius regarding his legacy, a clear
attempt to lessen the significance of his victories. The Persians act as the
necessary foil for this purpose; on the one hand, ambitious and dangerous
when used to stress Diocletian’s cowardice; on the other, naïve and less
impressive when used to downplay Galerius’ success.
From Eusebius to Agathias

By the reign of the emperor Constantine, the situation for Christians within
the Roman empire had improved dramatically. Persecutions had ended with
the defeat of the eastern emperor Licinius, and Constantine had adopted the
Christian god as his deity. 24 With relative safety secured within the empire,
Constantine turned his eye to Christians living externally, specifically to the
Christians of Persia.
Whether this was a real and legitimate attempt at securing the safety of
Christians within the Zoroastrian empire, or merely a pretext for a Persian
campaign which was to be launched in the period around 337, is the subject
of much debate. 25 What is clear, according to the writings of the theologian
and historian Eusebius, is that Constantine began to utilise Christianity as
part of his propaganda programme against the Persian enemy. Eusebius
records a letter, purportedly sent by Constantine to the Persian king Sapor II,
effectively demanding the safe treatment of Christians within Persian
22
Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum 9.5-7. See also, for instance, Creed 1984, 91:
“Lactantius’ tendentious account, aiming to belittle Galerius’ achievement and to underline
Diocletian’s timidity, should not be allowed to obscure the solidity of the Roman success.”
23
Lactantius, De Mortibus Persecutorum 9.1-2: omnibus qui fuerunt malis peior. Inerat huic
bestiae naturalis barbaries, effertitas a Romano sanguine aliena.
24
For detail of these events, see, for instance, Odahl 2010; Lenski 2012, particularly
Chapters 5-6. This, of course, is not to ignore the fact that the Church faced significant
doctrinal division during and after this period.
25
For a discussion of such questions, see Fowden 1994, particularly 146-53 on
Constantine’s planned Persian campaign.
Rome and Persia 161
territory, and, in addition, claiming them as his legitimate subjects. 26 Here the
roles are reversed: the Persians are now the persecutors, the Roman emperor,
Constantine, the defender of the faithful; and, most importantly, defender of
the faithful in the world as a whole, not merely those within the bounds of
the terrestrial Roman empire. The specific rhetoric utilised by Eusebius
deserves more discussion, but I wish merely to highlight the way in which
these real or invented religious tensions act as a precursor to the more
explicit tensions and conflicts which occur in later centuries, to which I now
turn.
By the middle of the sixth century, despite the rather traditionally
ambivalent portrayal of the Persians by an historian like Procopius, 27 for
instance, it seems true to say that a more positive current was flowing east.
Amongst the intellectual elite attached to the court of Justinian and his
immediate successors, it is possible to identify a sense of respect, if not
admiration, for the achievements of the Sasanians. McDonough has gone so
far as to characterise this feeling as a streak of Persophilia, as an expression of
political opposition from the ‘dissident circles’ of Constantinople. 28
It is in this milieu that the Constantinopolitan scholasticus Agathias
constructed his Histories, which included several important excurses on the
Persians. Despite his access to Persian sources and eyewitness accounts,
Agathias’ depiction of the Sasanians is firmly negative and in many ways
stereotypical. For instance, he criticises belief in the antiquity and distinction
of Persian civilisation, and condemns assertions of Persian superiority, moral
and intellectual, over the Romans. For the purposes of this paper, I wish to
highlight in particular the strong anti-Neoplatonist discourse in operation in
his work. The Sasanian king Khusro I was portrayed in many Roman sources
as the embodiment of Plato’s philosopher-king, an image cemented after
Justinian’s closing of the Neoplatonic Academy in Athens led to the migration
of these philosophers to the safety of the Sasanian king’s court in Ctesiphon. 29
In addition, while the true nature of Agathias’ Christianity has been
questioned, 30 it did not stop him utilising strong anti-Zoroastrian rhetoric to
undermine the pro-Persian sentiment prevalent in his time. For instance, he
declaimed Zoroastrian religion as an immoral mixture of customs borrowed
26
The letter is recorded in Eusebius’ Vita Constantini, 4.8-13; for a discussion of its contents
and implication, see Barnes 1985, particularly 131-32. For an analysis of the relationship
between Constantine and Eusebius, see Barnes 1981. For discussion of the Christians living
within Persian territory, see Brock 1982.
27
See my comments above concerning Procopius’ portrayal of Persian individuals versus
Persian society collectively.
28
McDonough 2011, 59. For a discussion of these ‘dissident circles’, see Kaldellis 2004.
29
Agathias himself (at 2.30.3) records this view of Khusro I, but also reports the
Neoplatonist philosophers’ disappointment at the superficial nature of the Persian king’s
engagement with such philosophy. As a result, according to Agathias, the philosophers
asked to return to the Roman empire.
30
See, for instance, Kaldellis 1999.
162 Tim Briscoe
or stolen from neighbouring peoples. 31 This anti-Zoroastrian rhetoric helped

to strengthen his own orthodox Christian sensibility (implicit rather than
overt, as argued by Cameron), 32 linked so explicitly to the rigid religious
policies of the emperor Justinian. 33
Whatever positive perceptions and portrayals of Persia managed to
survive the sixth century were overwhelmed by the escalation of war in the
first decade of the seventh and the increasingly explicit Christian rhetoric of
the Heraclean age. It is during this, the last period of Romano-Persian
conflict, that anti-Zoroastrian rhetoric finds its ultimate expression.
The emperor Heraclius

This Romano-Persian war waged by the emperor Heraclius (r. 610-641),
known popularly as the ‘last great war of antiquity’, proved to be the final
conflict between these two great empires. 34 In the years leading up to
Heraclius’ accession, with the empire rent by civil war, and during the early
years of his reign, the Sasanians scored a series of significant victories,
victories which threatened the very survival of the Roman empire. The
wealthy provinces of Syria and Egypt were lost, the holy site of Jerusalem was
captured, and Constantinople and the remaining territories of Asia Minor
were threatened. In 624 Heraclius launched a counterattack deep into Persian
territory in order to relieve pressure on his struggling empire. His campaigns,
fought between the years 624 and 628, were hugely successful, cementing
Heraclius’ hold on the imperial throne as well as contributing significantly to
the deposing of the Persian king, Khusro II.
For the purposes of this paper, this war is significant for the religious
rhetoric and propaganda utilised by the Romans, for purposes of pretext and
justification, as well as for the encouragement of troops during the conflict
itself. Most significantly, as related above, the holy city of Jerusalem had been
captured in 614, during which time the Church of the Holy Sepulchre had
been sacked and the True Cross taken. This event, viewed by contemporaries
to be as shocking as the sack of Rome had been in the early fifth century,
became an explicit and repeatedly employed justification for this new bellum
iustum. 35
Historians have generally argued against the existence of an explicit
concept of ‘holy war’ in the late antique and Byzantine periods, at least when
31
Agathias, 2.24.5; 2.24.9; 4.23.8; discussed further by McDonough 2011, 61.
32
Cameron 1970, 89-111.
33
McDonough 2011, 62-63.
34
For a more detailed account of the course of Heraclius’ Persian campaigns, as well as a
discussion of the major sources which recount them, see Howard-Johnston 1994, 57-61;
Howard-Johnston 1999, 1-44; Haldon 1999, 19-21; Whitby 2002, 157-73.
35
For accounts of the sack of Jerusalem, see Strategius, 14-24; 32-41; Chronicon Paschale,
704-05; Sebeos, 68-69. For a discussion of the propaganda value of this disaster, see
Howard-Johnston 1999, 36-37.
Rome and Persia 163
compared to the more explicit concept of Islamic jihad, for instance. However,
as Haldon indicates, the rhetorical justification for warfare and bloodshed,
explicitly un-Christian practices, became increasingly common in the
Byzantine period. 36 In imperial proclamations and Byzantine liturgy, the
rhetoric of Christian versus pagan (in this case Zoroastrian), God’s Chosen
People against the infidel, became explicit. As Haldon states, “enemies of the
empire could be portrayed as enemies of Christianity.” 37
Importantly for this paper, this rhetoric of justification became the
mechanism by which Persians were now portrayed; that is, late antique
discourse shifted from ethnographic interest to Christian propaganda,
although this is not to say that a classicising historiographical tradition no
longer existed. There are numerous examples of the use of this explicitly
Christian rhetoric in accounts of Heraclius’ wars. During his first campaign of
counterattack in 624, Heraclius’ forces caught Khusro II by surprise, forcing
him to flee back across the Zagros Mountains, allowing Roman forces to
devastate large tracts of Atropatene, including the destruction of the premier
Zoroastrian fire-temple of Atur-Gushnasp at modern Takht-i-Sulaiman. 38 The
religious retribution here is made explicit in accounts of the campaign. In
addition, during the early years of this campaign, Heraclius encouraged the
enrolment of specifically Christian auxiliaries in Transcaucasia by employing
anti-Zoroastrian rhetoric. 39
Our most detailed contemporary source, the Expeditio Persica of George
of Pisidia, was a poem commissioned by the emperor and composed not long
after the war. This account, breaking from the classical historiographical
tradition so long dominant in the Roman empire, mixed prose and verse. 40
More importantly for this paper, George also broke down the traditional
barriers between religious and secular themes in an account of this sort,
meaning that his political and military analysis could be shaped by religious
convictions. 41 For George, as Howard-Johnston has put it:
“Exposition of military operations was not an end in itself, but a means
towards interpretation. He sought to find a moral pattern beneath the
ruffled surface of events and was more interested in Heraclius’ role as
God’s vice-gerent on earth championing the cause of the true faith
against the challenge of Zoroastrian Iran than in his generalship.” 42
36
Haldon 1999, 13-23.
37
Haldon 1999, 17.
38
On the destruction of the fire-temple, see George of Pisidia, Heraclias 2.167-230. For
further discussion, see Howard-Johnston 1999, 16-17.
39
Theophanes, Chronographia 441; Howard-Johnston 1994, 58; Howard-Johnston 1999, 17.
40
For further discussion of this structural innovation, see Howard-Johnston 1994, 78.
41
Howard-Johnston 1994, 81.
42
For further discussion of George’s writing, including his use of mythological and biblical
analogies, see: Howard-Johnston 1994, 69; Whitby 1994, 197-225.
164 Tim Briscoe
Examples of this can be found throughout the work. For instance, in

concluding his account of military operations in 622, George offers a prayer
for Heraclius, imploring God to make the emperor a faithful guardian of His
commandments and to allow him to conquer his twin enemies, his passions
and the Persians. 43
Heraclius himself, in his own dispatches to Constantinople from the
battlefield, seems to have set the tone of religious rhetoric: the one dispatch
to survive intact accuses Khusro of blasphemy and portrays the Romans as
Christian soldiers fighting under the aegis of God. This protection manifested
itself as a snowfall which blocked the Zagros passes once Heraclius’ army had
reached the safety of Gaznak. 44 This is one of many similar episodes where
God’s hand is clearly seen leading Heraclius to victory. 45 The ultimate return
of the True Cross to Jerusalem by Heraclius served as an appropriate climax
to the emperor’s crusade. 46
There is, of course, a real danger of anachronistically applying the
rhetoric of later ‘holy wars’ to earlier conflicts; however, it seems clear from
the material that we have that Heraclius explicitly promoted his war as a
form of religious conflict. It is interesting to consider the possible factors
which led to this shift: whether it be Heraclius’ quest for internal imperial
legitimacy through a promotion of divine support and divinely-inspired
success, the truly dire situation in which the empire found itself during the
early years of Heraclius’ reign, or religious changes taking place within the
Sasanian empire itself under the rule of Khusro II. 47
Conclusion
To conclude, this paper has traced the development of a specific religious
sensibility regarding Roman perceptions and portrayals of the Persians. Each
43
George of Pisidia, Expeditio Persica 3.385-410. For further discussion of this episode, see
Howard-Johnston, 1994, 71. Other examples of the religious imagery and rhetoric
employed by George in his works on Heraclius include: Heraclius’ divine protection –
Expeditio Persica, 1.126-129; 2.70-78; 2.170-74; 3.293-304; 3.385-427; Heraclias, 1.177-87; the
recovery of the Holy Cross from the ‘Persian furnace’ – In Restitutionem S. Crucis, 47-63; the
contrast between true Christian religion and that of Persia, “whose custom it is to worship
created things above you, the Creator” – Expeditio Persica, 1.19-20.
44
Chronicon Paschale, 728/4-12; 729/1-14; 729/18-21; 731/18-732/11; Howard-Johnston
1994, 81-82.
45
The Chronographia of Theophanes the Confessor is another source which stresses the
religious flavour of Heraclius’ campaigns and the rhetoric employed therein. There is no
room in this paper to discuss Theophanes in any detail, but one example might suffice to
illustrate: the command of Heraclius for his troops to pray for three days while on
campaign in order to purify themselves spiritually – Theophanes, Chronographia 440. See
Haldon 1999, 297-98 for further discussion.
46
For a discussion of the sources and dating of the return of the True Cross, see Greatrex
& Lieu 2002, 227-28.
47
For a discussion of Khusro II’s reign, see Daryaee 2008, 86-91.
Rome and Persia 165
one of the episodes I have analysed clearly deserves further comment and
individual analysis. But it seems fruitful to identify and analyse a
transformation in historical identity, from classical to Christian, a shift that is
both a result and a reflection of changes that affected the Mediterranean
world during its transition from classical antiquity to its late antique form.
As Vincent contends in An Intelligent Person’s Guide to History, “history is
hopeless on love, but excellent on hatred.” 48 For nearly the entire period in which
the Roman and Sasanian empires dominated the Near East, Roman
historiography portrayed Persians as the oriental ‘other’. While some
expressed interest in and displayed knowledge of aspects of Sasanian history
and society, it was all too easy for Roman writers either to remain
comfortable in long-established classical discourses or to develop new, in this
case Christian, modes of expression. And in the latter case, what began with
the relative neutrality of Lactantius could eventually become the patent anti-
Zoroastrianism of George of Pisidia. It is clear that a classical or Herodotean
sensibility remained a potent discursive influence throughout the latter
centuries of the Roman empire. However, it is also true that a Christian
discourse began to play an increasingly important role in the construction of
Persian portrayals in the Roman world. This religious sensibility was only to
gain strength as the Roman and Sasanian Near East became the newly Muslim
Arab empire.
48
Vincent 1996, 15.
166 Tim Briscoe
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Faith as a frontier 169
Dimitri Kepreotes
Faith as a frontier: the Photian homilies on the invasion of the Rus
Introduction
The Russian invasion of Constantinople in 860, while Emperor Michael III was
absent on campaign against the Arabs, left Patriarch Photios to paint the
vivid picture of desperation in two homilies, providing the contemporary
historical source of the event, as well as a theological interpretation of its
underlying causes. One sees in both homilies a clear distinction between the
City of the Mother of God, on the one hand, and the realm of the 'barbarian'
on the other.
Yet, the frontier between these two worlds is to be traced not so much
on political borders, as upon a stated moral order. In effect, faith is a frontier
of its own. For, we are told that other nations “whose religion is at fault, are not
increased in strength ...” Furthermore, the application of religious faith, or lack
thereof, prompted Photios to be surprisingly critical of his own society and
flock, rather than of the invaders. In this regard many parallels are drawn
between the old and new Jerusalem, as between the old and new Israel.
The self-critical approach - made more striking by its timing amidst the
turmoil of the invasion and its aftermath - provides a commentary on
Byzantine life that is far from triumphalist, in spite of the miraculous and
favourable outcome for the inhabitants of the imperial capital. This paper
therefore explores the reasons for which blame was apportioned to the flock
rather than to the invaders, based both on biblical precedents and the
philosophical or spiritual need for reason to prevail over passion.
Photios, the renowned Patriarch of Constantinople in the ninth
century, was a ‘frontier’ figure in many ways. His turbulent relations with
Pope Nicholas I, forming the core of the so-called ‘Photian Schism’, his
exhortations towards Boris-Michael of Bulgaria, the sending of Cyril and
Methodius into eastern Europe during his patriarchy, and his alleged embassy
to Baghdad while still a layman, not to mention his contribution towards
bridging the medieval world with its classical past through scholarship, make
for a multifaceted life that is reflected in a multitude of his own writings,
from the Myriovivlos and Amphilochia through to biblical commentaries and
homilies.
A collection of 18 homilies have been translated by Cyril Mango. Of
these, 11 deal with feast days (such as Palm Sunday and Holy Saturday), two
pertain to the Arian heresy, one to the Council in Constantinople of 867, one
170 Dimitri Kepreotes
to the inauguration of a church, one to the icon of the Virgin Mary in Hagia
Sophia, and two to the invasion of Constantinople by the Rus around the year
860. This paper will attempt to offer some insights into that invasion, and
Photios’ treatment of it in his homilies, with special reference to the
Patriarch’s faith perspective. It will hopefully be shown that Photios avoided
the vocabulary of triumphalism, to illustrate that the borders of faith – and
their violation – are of greater importance than the political borders that had
been crossed by the Rus.
Background and Context

First, it is necessary to say something by way of background about the ‘when’,
‘where’ and ‘why’ of the invasion. Alexander A. Vasiliev had written an entire
book on the invasion, called The Russian Attack of Constantinople in 860, and so
he has obviously suggested an answer to the question in the very title of his
book. There appears to be little debate about this dating today, and any past
debate has only ranged between a variation of just a few years, between 860
and 865 approximately. 1 Sealing a pre-865 date quite convincingly is the
letter of Pope Nicholas I addressed to Emperor Michael III, dated September
28, 865, as it refers to a recent raid upon the suburbs of the great City by a
barbarian force which left unpunished.
Basing his opinion on the preceding work of Goubinski (1880) and the
Life of Ignatius written by Nicetas Paphlagon (also known as Nicetas David),
Vasiliev goes further by giving the exact date of June 18, 860. The Emperor
Michael III had just left for his campaign against the Arab threat in Asia
Minor, probably in the early part of that month, following the loss of the
Lulon fortress to the Arabs in March of that year. The Byzantine navy, with
its lethal Greek fire, was also absent from the capital to confront Arab and
Norman forces in the Mediterranean Sea. Therefore the opportune timing of
the Russian attack could hardly have been a strategic coincidence. The
question remains as to how the Russians could have known all this in advance
and from such great geographical distance. Vasiliev offers the explanation
that certain Russians or Tauroscythians were in Constantinople before the
invasion, as part of the imperial guard. With their intimate knowledge of the
comings and goings of forces and officials in the great City, he postulates that
they may have acted as informants for their compatriots.
In his Vita Ignatii, Nicetas gives some further details concerning the
timing of the invasion. In spite of his obvious character attack and bias
against Photios in this work, the order of events that he presented should at
least inform our understanding of the historical background more reliably. It
1
This is not to say that there were not other raids upon Constantinople (Tsargrad) by the
Russians in the ensuing decades, but only that the first known raid occupied Photios’
contemporary homilies.
recounts that the invasion occurred after the six-month exile of Ignatius on
the island of Mytilene.
Where did these ‘Russians’ come from? We know little more about this
than we do about who these ‘Russians’ in fact were ethnologically. 2 The
writings of Photios possibly provide the earliest mention of the name ‘Rus’
(Rhos, Greek: Ρώς) in a Greek source; 3 previously the dwellers of the lands to
the north of the Black Sea were referred to archaically as ‘Tauroscythians’.
However, as Mango points out, 4 Photios’ reference to the “fact that the invaders
were sundered off from us by so many lands and kingdoms, by navigable rivers and
harbourless seas” lends itself to the idea that they may have come from Kiev
rather than from the Crimea or other parts of the Black Sea coast.
Furthermore their description by Photios as a “Scythian tribe” (Ar. 2.17) is not
of great ethnographical significance for, as Mango also observes, 5 such
descriptions were often used to denote the ‘barbarous’ in general. 6
Why did the Russians come? This is a matter of speculation, as we have
no evidence of any particular motive. However it would stand to reason that
the City’s reputation for wealth 7 would have been a sufficient incentive.
Whether they came merely to plunder over the period of a few months, or to
conquer the region for themselves, must remain a matter of conjecture.
Russian Archbishop Porphyrius Uspenski, who Vasiliev calls the first
editor of Photios’ two sermons, wrote in 1864 that:
“… they (the sermons) are the first pages of our history, the first brief
accounts of the faith and people of our remotest ancestors, of their military
strength on land and at sea, of their plans, courage, fame, and relations with
Tsargrad, the accounts of a contemporary, who saw the Russians face to face
and heard their insulting cries.” 8
2
For more on the debate concerning the origin of the ninth and tenth century Rus, I am
grateful for the references provided by Theotokis, 2012, 129, n.11, namely: Vernadsky
1959, 198-201; Blöndal 2007, 1-14; Davidson 1976, 57-67; Carile 1988/89.
3
The first mention of the Rus in Greek is also contested by the hagiographic Life of St
George of Amastris, although the date of this work has not been precisely determined.
4
Mango 1958, 88.
5
Mango 1958, 89.
6
It is important to remember Photios’ description of the Rus, as a “fierce and barbarous
Scythian tribe” could be a slightly misleading translation of τό δέ σκυθικόν τοῦτο καί ὠμόν
ἒθνος καί βάρβαρον, which sees greater potential in the invader who is part of an ‘ethnos’.
7
The Homilies do not make clear what exactly was the outcome of the Russian invasion,
however it does appear from sentences such as the following that the invaders received, if
not victory, considerable material gain: “An obscure nation (again, the invaders are
described as an ‘ethnos’) … humble and destitute, but now risen to splendid height and immense
wealth …” (Ar. 2.35).
8
Vasiliev, 1946, 93.
Some commentators maintain that the homilies of Photios are the only
contemporary historical source of the events. 9 This is not accurate. The
second contemporary historical source of the invasion is that of Nicetas
Paphlagon. In his already-mentioned biography of Patriarch Ignatius, 10
written in approximately 880, Nicetas also makes reference to the invasion
upon the Princes Islands within the Bosporus Sea, as having come from the
Black Sea. 11 The three monasteries founded by Ignatius on three of the
Princes islands were plundered by the Russians. 12 Nicetas gives a poignant
description that deserves to be quoted at length:
“[The] bloody race of the Scythians, the so-called Ros, having come
through the Euxine to the Stenon and plundered all the places and all
the monasteries, overran likewise the islands around Byzantium,
carrying off all the sacred vessels and property, and slaughtering all the
captives. In addition, in their barbarous drive and spirit, they overran
the monasteries of the Patriarch, took away the property, seized twenty-
two of his devoted servants, and cut all of them in pieces with axes on
the stern of the ship.” 13
In the tenth century the Continuator of Theophanes wrote that the Russians
devastated the shores of the Euxine and surrounded Constantinople, that the
Emperor was at the time out of the city and at war with the Arabs, that
Photios appeased God, and that the Russians “left for home”. In presentation of
facts, the Continuator of Theophanes is in complete accordance with the
contemporary evidence of the Patriarch Photios. 14 There are other, much
later, chronicles which shall not be of concern here. 15 One account, however,
written by John Skylitzes as late as the end of the eleventh century, is worth
quoting in so far as it echoes certain aspects of the attackers and the attack
itself which have an obvious correlation to the contemporary accounts:
“The Russian fleet was ravaging and overrunning what lies within the
Black Sea and all its coastline. The Russians are a merciless and savage
9
Such as Detorakis 2003.
10
Vita Ignatii, 488-574.
11
Vasiliev 1946, 95.
12
Vita Ignatii, 516-17.
13
Quoted in Vasiliev 1946, 188-89. The original text of Migne reads: Κατ᾽ἐκεῖνον γαρ τόν
καιρόν τό μιαιφονώτατον τῶν Σκυθῶν ἒθνος, οἱλεγόμενοι ῾Ρώς, διά τοῦ Εὐξείνου πόντου
προσκεχωρηκότες τῷ Στενῷ, καί πάντα μεν χωρία, καί πάντα δέ μοναστήρια διηρπακότες,
ἒτι δή καί τῶν τοῦ Βυζαντίου περιοικίδων κατέδραμον νησίων, σκεύη μέν πάντα
ληιζόμενοι καί χρήματα, ἀνθρώπους δέ τούς ἀλόντας πάντας ἀποκτείνοντες. Πρός οἷς καί
τῶντοῦ πατριάρχου μοναστηρίων βαρβαρικῷ καταδραμόντες ὀρμήματι καί θυμῷ, πᾶσαν
μέν τήν εὑρεθεῖσαν κτῆσιν ἀφείλοντο, εἲκοσι δέ καί δύο τῶν γνησιωτέρων αὐτοῦ
κεκρατηκότες οἰκετῶν, ἐφ´ἑνί τροχαντῆρι πλοίου τούς πάντας ἀξίναις κατεμέλισαν.
14
Vasiliev 1946, 100.
15
For more details about references in chroniclers of subsequent centuries, see Vasiliev
1946, 101-06.
race of Scyths living to the north of the Taurus mountains. They

presented a severe danger to the very capital, but before long they
experienced the wrath of God themselves and went back home.” 16
The purpose of this paper is to see Photios’ reaction to the invasion both
spiritually and rhetorically. In this regard, it is important to make an
intellectual division between Homily III which centres upon the attack just
after it had taken place, and Homily IV which was delivered after the retreat.
Given that the attack occurred while Michael III was away on a military
campaign, there is speculation about whether he hurried back and assisted in
the repulsion of the invaders by the time Photios delivered his second
homily. 17 Ostrogorsky maintains that the emperor returned swiftly to the
“beleaguered city … and, with the help of the Patriarch, to bring encouragement to the
trembling population”, 18 although it is not clear how he supports this position
according to the sources. 19 For this possible player in the drama that Photios
outlines and reflects upon, we do not however possess the best character
references, probably due to the Macedonian dynasty, that commenced with
Basil I (his eventual murderer), wishing to justify his ousting:
“No Byzantine emperor has been so badly treated, both in Byzantine
tradition and in later literature, as Michael III ‘The Drunkard’ … A
miniature of the famous Madrid Skylitzes manuscript … represents
Michael III chasing a woman who is leaving a bath!” 20
Michael’s skill in military affairs has been acknowledged more widely than
his moral strengths. He was successful against the Arab threats in 855 and
859. The fate of the City was not totally dependent on his return in any case.
This, as Vasiliev points out, would have been due purely to the degree of
protection and fortification afforded to the City by its great walls.
Unfortunately, of course, not everything that needed protection was within
the confine of the walls, and for this reason it is likely that the devastation
was inflicted upon the outer rims of Constantinople by the Rus,
“… who had neither equipment for nor experience in surmounting such
a barrier. Much more exposed to the Russian aggression were the
suburbs of the capital, the coastline along the Bosphorus and the Sea of
Marmara, and the islands.” 21
16
Skylitzes, Synopsis 107-08.
17
This seems unlikely, as the idea of the second homily dealing with the retreat of the
Russians, but without mention of the Emperor’s contribution to this, would have been an
uncharacteristic oversight in such matters by Photios.
18
Ostrogorsky 1969, 228.
19
S. Tougher (2008, 299) also maintains that Emperor Michael returned hurriedly to
defend the capital.
20
Vasiliev 1946, 152-53.
21
Vasiliev, 1946, 151.
Let us now turn to a brief survey of each homily.
Homily III
In this, the first of the two homilies (which are published in Mango’s
translation as Homily III and IV respectively), we are given the following
important details:
a) The raid was completely unexpected.
b) The suburbs of the City were pillaged.
c) The emperor and the army were absent, dealing with another barbarian
threat.
d) The Russians were not a well-organized force, and
e) The inhabitants of Constantinople were encouraged to seek divine help,
especially through the intercession of the Mother of the Word (τὴν μητέρα
τοῦ Λόγου).
The dramatic opening of the Homily with the immediate rhetorical question
“What is this?”, was undoubtedly to arouse and stir a spiritual awakening as
much as to alert the flock concerning immediate physical danger. Photios’
aim “was not to chronicle events which were all too familiar to his audience, but to
draw from them a moral and religious lesson”, 22 as this paper seeks to underline.
The spiritual emphasis is amply illustrated in straightforward phrases,
such as: “Is it not for our sins that all these things have come upon us?” (Ar. 2.6).
And so, in these two homilies, everything the inhabitants of the great City
were experiencing was due to their own hardness of heart and ingratitude for
what God had already done for them. In short, the problem they were
experiencing in the present was due to their past:
“We were delivered from evils which often had held us; we should have
been thankful, but we showed no gratitude … Nor did we pity our
neighbours because we had pardoned ourselves. But in being freed from
the impending fears and dangers, we became yet more cruel to them …”
(Ar. 2.7)
At this point Photios clearly states the moral duty of the Byzantines towards
their neighbours (τοὺς πλησίον) who were located, not within the borders,
but without. 23 This duty was neglected, and it is claimed that the
neglectfulness produced certain consequences:
“We enjoyed ourselves and grieved others; we were glorified and
dishonoured others …For this reason there is a sound of war and great
destruction in our land (cf. Jeremiah 27:22) … For this reason a nation
22
Mango, 1958, 75.
23
Photios’ concern is best appreciated in the context of the perennial Christian question
of ‘Who is my neighbour?’ To this question, the reply of the patriarch is in line with the
parable of the Good Samaritan, wherein the neighbour is the one in need, regardless of
tribal or creedal differences.
has crept down from the north, as if it were attacking another

Jerusalem…” (Ar. 2.8)
Thus there are concrete reasons, according to his theological interpretation,

for which certain events unfold, no matter how terrible those events may
have appeared to be. The Photian approach towards the world and one’s
neighbour is both spiritual and rational in nature.
Photios introduces fairly early in this homily the notion of
Constantinople as the ‘new Jerusalem’. There is one important difference
however between the old and the new:
“Come unto me, O most compassionate prophets, bewail Jerusalem with
me – not the ancient one, the metropolis of one nation, which grew up
from a root with twelve offshoots, but the metropolis of the entire
universe (οἰκουμένη)…” (Ar., 2.18)
The imperial capital, the new Jerusalem, is therefore the metropolis of more
than one nation. It is the centre of the inhabited world, the oikoumene. One
might read between the lines of Photios that Constantinople had in some
sense a responsibility for the inhabitants of the world.
Finally Photios concludes the homily with his exhortation to the
faithful to seek the assistance of the Mother of the Word, as he refers to the
Virgin: “Let us cry out to her: save thy city …” (Ar. 2.27). So in the homily, the
City, as the new Jerusalem, belongs to God, yet it is also the City of the Mother
of God. These views concerning the centrality of the City within the inhabited
world, and its protection by the Virgin Mary herself, are not peculiar to the
patriarch; they are part of the Byzantine worldview.
Homily IV
Whereas Vasiliev claimed that Photios’ description: “differs in no way from what
we know about the Norman incursions and raids all over Western Europe”, 24 the
homily itself contradicts this:
“Nor did it resemble other raids of barbarians, but the unexpectedness of
the attack, its strange swiftness, the inhumanity of the barbarous tribe,
the harshness of its manners and the savagery of its character proclaim
the blow to have been discharged like a thunderbolt from heaven.” (Ar.
2.32)
In both homilies, there are very many references to the invaders as

‘barbarians’ or ‘barbaric’. It would be a hollow detail to list each of these, but
suffice it to say there are some 20 references to barbarians. 25 Furthermore, it
24
Vasiliev 1946, 202.
25
The number of quotations from the Bible is much greater; Mango footnotes some 47
biblical quotes and allusions in Homily III alone, while Homily IV has approximately 24.
These are taken mainly from Jeremiah and Lamentations.
was the suddenness of their attack that strikes at the heart of Photios’
sermons and, presumably, of his faithful audience. The imagery of a
thunderbolt from heaven expresses swiftness as well as a higher purpose. It is
in addition most interesting that the account of the horrible massacre of
men, women and children goes on to include cruelty to animals, an
extraordinary feature of any ninth century document:
“Nor did their savagery stop with human beings, but over all speechless
animals, oxen, horses, fowl and others, which they fell upon, did their
cruelty extend. There lay an ox and a man by its side, a child and a horse
found a common grave, women and fowl stained each other with their
blood.” (Ar. 2.36)
And how did the retreat take place?

“When, moreover, as the whole city (no mention of the emperor
here) was carrying with me her (the Virgin Mary’s) raiment for the
repulse of the besiegers and the protection of the besieged, we offered
freely our prayers and performed the litany, thereupon with ineffable
compassion she spoke out in motherly intercession … It [the raiment]
embraced the walls, and the foes inexplicably showed their backs…” (Ar.
2.41) 26
The miraculous nature of the withdrawal of the enemy is articulated clearly

here, thereby showing not only the faith of the speaker, but also that of the
audience whose openness to the possibility of being delivered by a miracle is
implied: “For immediately as the Virgin’s garment went round the walls, the
barbarians gave up the siege and broke camp…” (Ar. 2.42). The suggestion by some
that the miraculous delivery of the City was an interpolation of later
chroniclers overlooks this internal testimony to the miraculous occurrence,
especially as the authenticity of the text is not brought into serious question.
The text of the homily goes on to proclaim in Ar. 2.50:
“So if one slips away from the good and from virtue, one also, of
necessity, slips away from God’s assistance; but if one embellishes one’s
life with good works, and wears virtue like a corselet, 27 then one has His
invincible help as ally against the foes.” 28
26
Ar., 2.40-41: “…when we invoked God in litanies and hymns, when we offered our repentance
with affliction of the heart, when, extending our hands to God all night long, we implored His
compassion, and placed in Him all our hopes – then we were delivered from the calamity … For we
beheld our enemies retiring … at the time when, denuded of all help, and deprived of all human
alliance, we were spiritually led on by holding fast to our hopes in the Mother of the Word of God,
our God, urging her to implore her Son…”
27
This sounds like an echo of Homer’s description of Odysseus who “wore virtue like a
garment”, such that his nakedness was not counted against him (Homer, Od. 6.135).
28
Consider also Ar. 2.49-50: “For indeed, whenever Israel of old was convicted of having
surrendered to the passions, then it was delivered to the edge of the sword – that famous Israel, not
an ordinary nation, nor a disregarded people … That very nation then, when it sinned, was chastised
In many statements such as this, too many to reproduce here, almost

mathematical precision is given concerning the physical consequences of
spiritual malaise. 29 Without wishing to evaluate these writings
anachronistically, such precision in spiritual principles of cause and effect
seem akin to today’s ‘prosperity Gospel’. It would be very difficult, in other
words, to imagine Photios as the author of a book having a title such as ‘Why
do bad things happen to good people?’ Yet any (facetious) comparison with
the prosperity Gospel is perhaps unfair. For, Photios is not speaking about
material or financial prosperity, but rather about progress of a different kind.
Moreover, he goes on to acknowledge that dysfunctionality of the inner
psychological-spiritual state of a person in turn makes mastery of a sound
society simply impossible:
“How could a man even venture to prevail over the foe, when he
cherishes within himself inward enemies and factions that are defeating
him, when senseless anger rules over the empire of reason (τοῦ
αὐτοκράτορος 30 λογισμοῦ)…” (Ar. 2.51)
Furthermore:
“It is impossible, utterly impossible, for a man who has been fettered and
subjugated by intestine enemies and who has sold himself to his
passions, to be able to overcome outside enemies.” (Ar. 2.52)
Interestingly, the word Photios chose to describe these ‘intestine’ foes is

ἐμφύλιος, which is a term that is normally applied to a civil war, one which
occurs within the same φυλή. He therefore employs this startling phrase to
indicate the futility of overcoming external enemies without the prior
subjugation of internal foes. “Let reason be the complete ruler of the passions”,
says Photios verbatim, and this is not too different to Plato’s wish that the
logistikon may rule over the epithymitikon. “How canst thou despoil the munitions
of thy foes, thou whose mind (νοῦν) is constantly despoiled by internal revolts and
conspiracies?” One sees here – quite clearly – the analogy that is presented in
Plato’s Republic. That is to say, the harmony and health of the State is
achieved in the same way as the harmony of the soul: through the proper
relationship of the rational, spirited and appetitive ‘parts’ of each. 31 We could
with enemies, but when it was righteous, won and prevailed over them; when it earnestly observed
the commandments, it was rewarded in war with alien land and enjoyed other men’s toils, but when
it despised the Law, it was taken captive…”
29
Ar. 2.50 is an extraordinary case in point – “While then God’s people waxes strong and
triumphs over its enemies by His alliance, the rest of the nations, whose religion is at fault, are not
increased in strength as a result of their own good works, but on account of our bad ones, through
which they are made powerful and exalted to our detriment.”
30
This is of course the same word for ‘emperor’.
31
What Plato names as logistikon, Photios calls logismikon.
paraphrase this in simple terms approximately as: how can one expect to be
free of external foes, without first being master of internal dysfunction? “Let
us first expel the intestine enemies from our thoughts, and then we shall easily despoil
the might of aliens.”
Although Homily IV is delivered after the retreat of the Russians, there
is not a hint of triumphalism in it, nor even vindictiveness. No greater blame
is apportioned to one sector of his own society over another. All should offer
a “… common hymn. We have enjoyed a common deliverance: let us offer common
thanks” (Ar. 2.56). 32
General comments
The Photian Homilies on the invasion of the Rus are remarkable also because
of what they do not say. They do not, for example, cast any aspersions upon
the emperor who was away at that critical time. They do not mention any
local resistance battle as such. They do not mention whether the naval fleet
had returned from the Aegean Sea in time. Finally, they do not state whether
Photios was forced to help organize some desperate defence of the city, given
the absence of the emperor.
Furthermore, the sermons of Photios offer no clue as to the exact
outcome of the invasion and the reasons why the Rus withdrew to their own
country – other than the miraculous. Whatever the cause, something much
better appears to have ensued. In the famous Encyclical of Photios to the
Patriarchs of the East, written in 866, one sees the great progress made in
Byzantine-Russian relations within just six years of the invasion. After
mentioning the Bulgars the author writes:
“And not only the Bulgarian people, 33 but also all of the formerly terrible
people, the so-called Rus, for even now they are abandoning their
heathen faith and are converting to Christianity, receiving from us
bishops and pastors as well as all Christian customs.”
There were over forty years of peace between the Byzantines and Russians
until the incursion of Prince Oleg in 907. 34 Unquestionably, the entire mindset
of the Byzantines remained squarely on the notions of borders and frontiers,
which is typical of empires throughout history. Hence Photios’ telling phrase
“The emperor endures long labours beyond the boundary (ὑπερορίους πόνους)…”
(Ar. 2.17). On the rhetorical level at least, there is for the Byzantines a
continuation of the classical Greek notion of the ‘barbarian’ who is beyond
the border. However, to bring the ‘other’ into the orbit of Byzantine cultural
32
This quote goes on to state: “Let us say to the Mother of the Word with rectitude of mind and
purity of soul: Do thou save thy city, as thou knowest how and willest. We put thee forward as our
arms, our rampart, our shield, our general: do thou fight for thy people…”
33
Boris, the Bulgar leader, received the name Michael upon his baptism, apparently in
honour of the Emperor Michael.
34
Vasiliev 1946, 231.
influence was of paramount importance, superseding the state borders

themselves.
Tied inextricably to that cultural influence was the correct formulation
and manifestation of Christian faith, on account of which the barbarian Rus of
860 can become the ‘formerly terrible people’ of 866. So at that time, although
outside the political borders, they were in fact already entering within the
religio-cultural borders of Byzantium. Faith itself, therefore, constituted a
border. Orthodox Christianity, the prevalent social force of the eastern
empire, formed a culture of its own. Although dominant in relation to other
faith groups within the empire, it arguably formed a subculture according to
the degree of adherence to Christian principles and values.
Conclusion
Abundant examples have been cited from both homilies that show a clear
distinction between the City of the Mother of God, on the one hand, and the
realm of the ‘barbarian’ on the other. Moreover, the application of religious
faith, or lack thereof, prompted Photios to be critical of his own society and
flock, rather than of the invaders. In this regard he draws strong parallels
between the old and new Jerusalem, as between the old and new Israel.
The self-critical approach during the devastation of the invasion and
its aftermath provides a fairly scathing account of Byzantine life and the lack
of social compassion that had been displayed therein. By implication, the
Christian citizen who has failed to thank God or to offer charity to his fellow
human being is more reprehensible, morally speaking, than the so-called
barbarian. That was an astounding position to have been taken, this paper
would like to suggest, by any public figure in the Middle Ages. The absence of
triumphalism or vindictiveness is also a striking feature of these texts,
particularly in relation to a figure, who was regarded for centuries by the
West as the ‘haughty’ instigator of the so-called ‘Photian Schism’, until the
work of Francis Dvornik corrected much of that outdated image of the man.
This paper has explored the mismatch of blame between the invaders
and the truly accused (i.e. the Christian flock and society), and it has
attempted to show that the biblically-couched lamentations for the City
provide an almost Platonic metaphor about the need for reason to prevail
over passion. Perhaps this too reflects the depth with which Photios affected
the relationship between Byzantine learning and classical education, bringing
the one more vividly than before within the orbit of the other, just as the Rus
would enter the orbit of Byzantine spiritual life in the years following 860.
Bibliography
Primary sources
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(Cambridge, 2010).
Mango, C. (1958) The Homilies of Photius Patriarch of Constantinople (Harvard).
Vita Ignatii=S.P.N. Ignatii archiepiscopi Constantinopolitani vita sive certamen auctore
Niceta servo Jesu Christi, cognomento Davide Paphlagone, in J.-P. Migne (ed) Patrologiae
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Egypt in the Byzantine imagination 181
Ken Parry
Egypt in the Byzantine imagination: cultural memory and

historiography, fourth to ninth centuries
Introduction
This paper examines some examples of the Byzantine perception and
reception of Egypt and Egyptians from the fourth through to the ninth
century. 1 During this period the land and its inhabitants were subject to
major political and religious changes. On the one hand, it was the land of
ancient wisdom associated with Old and New Testament persons and events,
the cradle of Christian monasticism and the grain hub of the empire, a see of
the pentarchy at Alexandria, and a beneficiary of Justinian’s building
program. 2 On the other hand, it was a land of anti-Chalcedonian sentiment, a
territory lost to the Sasanians under Heraclius (r. 610-41), and then regained
by him, only to be lost again by him to the Arabs, 3 this time resulting in its
permanent loss and the establishment of Muslim rule. However, what
Byzantium lost in terms of territory and influence it retained in terms of
cultural memory because Egypt continued to work its magic on the Byzantine
imagination.
My use of the term ‘cultural memory’ is derived from Jan Assmann,
especially his Cultural Memory and Early Civilization: Writing, Remembrance, and
Political Imagination, first published in German in 1992 and in English in 2011. 4
Assman is well known as an Egyptologist who has for many years applied the
idea of cultural memory to the study of the ancient world. Here I am using
the term in relation to Byzantine memory culture, that is, to the way the
memory of people, places and events was constructed and preserved in the
sources. In Byzantium cultural memory played an important role in relation
to literary and artistic expression. 5 Authors who interspersed their texts with
references to Egypt, for example, assumed their readers or listeners were
familiar with such allusions and that these would trigger a memory response
that would make the necessary connections.
1
See the earlier assessment with some chronological overlap by Koutrakou 2004.
2
Procopius, Buildings 6.1.
3
See Kaegi 2003; Howard-Johnson 2010.
4
Assmann 2011. German title: Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische
Identität in frühren Hochkulturen.
5
See Papalexandrou 2010, 108-22.
182 Ken Parry
Pyramids and obelisks

A least from the fourth century Christian pilgrims reported that the Egyptian
pyramids were granaries constructed by Joseph while in exile. 6 They appear
to have been depicted as such in the fifth-century Cotton Genesis, 7 and this in
turn (as a result of the Fourth Crusade) was the prototype for the thirteenth-
century mosaics of them at San Marco’s in Venice. 8 Five pyramids are
represented in two scenes in the San Marco Joseph cycle, one showing Joseph
gathering corn and another showing him selling corn [Figs. 1 & 2]. 9 The
Christian interpretation is quite different from what Herodotus tells us that
his guides told him concerning their purpose, 10 and seems to be based in part
on Josephus who states that the Egyptians set the Israelites to build
pyramids. 11 Interestingly this difference is noted in a sixth-century
Commentary on Sermon 43 of Gregory of Nazianzus attributed to Nonnus of
Panopolis (fifth century) in Upper Egypt and reads as follows:
“The Pyramids are themselves worthy of viewing, and were built in
Egypt at great expense. The Christians say they are the granaries of
Joseph, but the Greeks, among them Herodotus, that they are the tombs
of certain kings.” 12
Once the pyramids established themselves as grain silos in the Byzantine

mind this became the standard way to remember them. Also, taking a cue
from Exodus 1.14 the craft of brick-making became associated in Byzantium
with the Israelites in Egypt. 13 What we recognise as rhetorical topoi are often
embedded cultural memories handed down and perpetuated.
One physical reminder of ancient Egypt in Constantinople was the
obelisk of Theodosius I (r. 378-95) that stood on the spina in the Hippodrome.
The town planners of Constantinople copied the arrangement of monuments
in the Hippodrome 14 in imitation of the Circus Maximus in Rome. That is why
there were two obelisks, the Theodosian and the built obelisk, both of which
are still in situ [Figs. 3 & 4]. The built obelisk was known as the ‘bronze
Colossus’ after the Rhodian Colossus. 15 The Theodosian obelisk, really the
obelisk of Tuthmosis III (1490-1436 BCE), was taken from the Temple of Amun
at Karnak (ancient Thebes) by Constantine the Great (r. 324-37). In fact he
6
Egeria’s Travels to the Holy Land, 204.
7
Weitzmann & Kessler 1986, 114, 217; Ills. 458, 459.
8
Demus 1984a, 136-37.
9
Demus 1984b, Pls. 291, 295.
10
The History, 2.124-36.
11
Antiquities, 2.9.1. Procopius refers to the pyramids as a ‘useless show’, Buildings, 2.1.
12
Commentary on Sermon 43,18. Nonnus’ fellow Panopolite poet Cyrus became urban prefect
of Constantinople in 439 under Theodosius II, Miguélez Covero 2008, 29-30.
13
Photios, Homily 14.231.
14
Iversen 1972, 2.9-33.
15
Mango 1993, 17-20.
took two, one for Rome and one for Constantinople, and while the one for
Rome was erected under Constantius II (r. 340-61) in 357, 16 the one for
Constantinople appears to have remained at Alexandria and not shipped until
later and finally erected in 390. 17 The obelisk in Rome stands in the Piazza S.
Giovanni in Laterano and is unique in that it is not one of a pair. We know
from the letters of Julian the Apostate (r. 361-63) that he wrote to the citizens
of Alexandria requesting the Tuthmosis obelisk be sent to Constantinople
because he considered it a sacred object that should adorn the city and give
pleasure to Egyptians sailing to Byzantium. 18
The four-sided base of the Theodosian obelisk has several reliefs, the
most well-known showing the emperor standing in the imperial box
(κάθισμα) holding a victory wreath [Fig. 5]. There are inscriptions both in
Latin and Greek and the Greek inscription in the lower panel of the north-
west face of the base reads:
Κίονα τετράπλευρον, ἀεὶ χθονὶ κείμενον ἂχθος
Μοῦνος ἀναστῆσαι Θευδόσιος βασιλεὺς
Τολμήσας Πρόκλος ἐπεκέκλετο καὶ τόσος ἒστη
Κίων ἠελίοις ἐν τριάκοντα δύο
“It was only the Emperor Theodosios who undertook to raise the four-
sided column which had ever lain a burden on the earth. He committed
the task to Proclus (the urban prefect at the time), and so great a
column stood erect in thirty-two days.” 19
The phrase “had ever lain a burden on the earth” alludes to previous failed
attempts to raise the obelisk, while “so great a column stood erect in thirty-two
days” refers to the length of time it took to raise it under Theodosius. The
obelisk itself is shown being raised on a relief in the lower panel of the north-
east face of the base. It is thought to be about two-thirds of its original height
with the hieroglyphic inscription broken off, but exactly when this happened
is not clear. 20 However, the unbroken obelisk with the complete inscription of
the south-east face is depicted in relief in the Hall of Annals at the Temple of
Amun at Karnak [Fig. 6]. 21 According to the ninth-century hagiographer
Niketas David Paphlagon it had a bronze pinecone (στροβίλιον) on the top
16
Ammianus Marcellinus, Res Gestae 17.4.
17
Bassett 2004, 219-22.
18
The Works of the Emperor Julian 3, 152-55.
19
The Greek Anthology 3, 682.
20
Bassett’s argument that it was broken at the time it was raised because the relief
depicting its erection shows the sequence of hieroglyphs ending at the same place as on
the obelisk itself is not convincing. It could have been broken at this place during one of
the earlier attempts to raise it, see Bassett 2004, 220.
21
Iversen 1972, Vol. 2, Fig. 2. My thanks to Dr Susanne Binder for her photograph of the
relief.
184 Ken Parry
which fell and broke into pieces during an earthquake in 869. 22 This took
place after the so-called Fourth Council of Constantinople convened on 5th
October that year, while an earlier earthquake on 9th January, the feast of St.
Polyeuktos, caused damage to the dome of Hagia Sophia. 23 In the drawings of
the sixteenth-century Danish-German diplomat and draughtsman Melchior
Lorck the obelisk is clearly shown with an orb at the apex. 24 Rome had eight
Egyptian obelisks and more are known to have been erected in
Constantinople, but their location and subsequent history is uncertain. 25
The bronze cladding covering the built obelisk was restored during the
reign of Constantine VII Porphyrogennitus (r. 912-59), 26 but appears to have
been removed during the Fourth Crusade. 27 Niketas’ reference to a bronze
pinecone is interesting as no such object was ever placed on top of an obelisk
in Egypt. It is not known if the pinecone was added to the Theodosian obelisk
at the time of its erection in 390, but in the seventh century Isidore of Seville
gives a description of what topped an obelisk in the circus. He writes:
“Moreover, the obelisk, set up in the midpoint of the space of the
racetrack equidistant from the two turning-posts, represents the peak
and summit of heaven, since the sun moves across it at the midpoint of
the hours, equidistant from either end of its course. Set on top of the
obelisk is a gilded object shaped like a flame, for the sun has an
abundance of heat and fire within it.” 28
The apex or pyramidion was sometimes covered in copper or other metal

which caught and reflected the sun thus making it appear like a flame.
According to Pliny the Elder an Egyptian obelisk set up in Rome by Augustus
acted as the gnomon of a large sundial to which the mathematician Novius
Facundus added a gilded ball to accentuate its shadow. 29 Later some obelisks
in Rome had crosses stuck on top and one wonders whether this was also the
case in Constantinople.
If I might be allowed a brief digression, I should like to mention a small
obelisk that stands at Macquaire Place in Sydney erected by the governor of
New South Wales, Lachlan Macquarie, in 1818, after whom Macquarie
University is named. 30 It bears an inscription on its base that reads: “This
obelisk was erected in Macquarie Place in AD 818 to record that all public roads
leading to the interior of the colony are measured from it. L. Macquaire Esq.,
22
Vita of Ignatios, PG 105: 550B.
23
Vita of Ignatios, PG 105: 550A.
24
Iversen 1972, Vol. 2, Fig. 37.
25
Although concerned with Rome see the useful comments by Parker 2007, 209-22.
26
Mango 1995, 20.
27
Pierre Gilles witnessed someone climb up it safely and another fall off it, The Antiquities
of Constantinople, 2.12.
28
The Etymologies 18.31.
29
Natural History 36.72-73. See further Miles 2008, 243-46.
30
The Macquarie obelisk is discussed by Parker as a modern example, see above, n.25.
Governor.” Like the Milion in Constantinople the Macquarie obelisk served as a

mile marker for the new colony. The Milion, a tetrapylon constructed by
Constantine the Great situated at the start of the Mese and in imitation of the
Miliarium Aureum in Rome, had inscribed on it the distances of all the major
cities of the empire from Constantinople. 31
Historians and other sources

As I say, Egypt continued to work its magic on the Byzantine imagination
because Egypt along with Persia maintained its reputation for magic and
soothsaying. The historian Agathias (ca. 532 - ca. 581) writing in the sixth
century has this to say:
“According to the ancient oracles of the Egyptians and to the leading
astrologers of present-day Persia there occurs in the course of endless
time a succession of lucky and unlucky cycles. These luminaries would
have us believe that we are at present passing through one of the most
disastrous and inauspicious of such cycles: hence the universal
prevalence of war and internal dissension and of frequent and persistent
epidemics of plagues.” 32
Here Agathias evokes cultural memory of the ancient Egyptians and

contemporary Persians to help explain the apparent turbulent times in which
he lives. He uses his knowledge of the ancient world to show its relevance for
his own times. The astrological wisdom of the Egyptians and Persians
provides an interpretative lens through which to view and understand the
present. As an historian he is conscious of needing to explain that what
happens in human societies may be influenced by forces outside the control
of those societies, and that a deterministic view of events may offer an
explanation. John Lydus also writing in the sixth century in his De Mensibus
acknowledges certain superstitions surrounding unlucky days (dies nefasti or
dies atri) in the Roman calendar. 33 The Zoroastrian Persians were well-
established in the Byzantine psyche as astrologers, due at least in part to the
role of the Magi in witnessing the birth of Christ and the depiction of this
event in iconography.
Alchemy in particular became associated in Byzantium with the
Egyptians Zosimus of Panopolis (fourth century) and Stephanus of Alexandria
(seventh century), 34 and Egyptians figure in Byzantine books of dream
interpretation. In the ninth or tenth century Oneirocriticon or Treatise on the
Interpretation of Dreams of Achmet, an Arab-Byzantine compilation, we learn
that it is advantageous to dream of drinking water from the Nile.
31
Reconstruction of the Milion at: www.byzantium1200.com (last access 17/8/2014).
32
The Histories 5.10.5.
33
De Mensibus 2.23.
34
See Mertens 2006 and Papathanassiou 2006.
186 Ken Parry
“If someone dreams that he drank water from the Nile river and became
drunk, he will receive power from a king or a very great feeder of the
poor … If he dreams that he diverted a moderate amount of the Nile’s
water to his own house, both he and his clan will receive proportionate
wealth from a very great man or king.” 35
Achmet writes at the start of his treatise that he has discovered that among
the best dream interpreters were the Egyptians, and he names the greatest
Egyptian interpreter as Tarphan. Further oneirocritica from our period are
attributed to the iconophile patriarchs Germanus I and Nikephorus I but
neither includes much material relating to Egypt. 36 Drinking water from the
Nile may not have been a good idea, however, especially during the seasonal
inundation, because Palladius mentions that many became ill at that time. 37
Also associated with Egypt in the Byzantine mind was the figure of
Hermes Trismegistus. John Malalas writing in the sixth century discusses him
in the following terms:
“He declared that the name of the ineffable creator comprised three very
great essences, but he said that they were one divinity. And so he was
called Hermes Trismegistos (that is, Hermes Thrice-greatest) by the
Egyptians … These things are recorded in the material collected by the
most holy Cyril (of Alexandria) in his work Against the Emperor Julian,
where he says that, even though Hermes Trismegistos was ignorant of
what was to come, he confessed the consubstantiality of the Trinity.” 38
The appropriation of Hermes Trismegistus into the monotheistic and

trinitarian fold is a found in a number of Byzantine sources, 39 and the
writings of Cyril of Alexandria reflect his knowledge of Hermetic material and
the Isis cult as well as his efforts to Christianize them. 40 The assimilation of
the Greek goddess Artemis with the Egyptian Isis was important for Cyril’s
promotion of the cult of the Theotokos and the subsequent triumph of
Alexandrian christology in the Byzantine world. 41
We can discern a difference in attitude towards Egypt in the pagan and
Christian sources of our period. For example, the fourth-century pagan orator
Themistius in his Oration 5 says:
“He (the Creator) wishes the Syrians to organise their affairs in one
way, and the Greeks in another, the Egyptians in another, and does not
35
The Oneirocriticon of Achmet, 185.
36
See Oberhelman 2008.
37
Palladius: The Lausiac History, 99.
38
The Chronicle of John Malalas, 12-13.
39
See Fowden 1993. Photios in his Bibliotheca fol. 170 reviews an otherwise unknown
compilation of ancient wisdom in five volumes that foreshadowed the message of
Christianity.
40
Fowden 1993, 180-82; McGuckin 1994, 16-19.
41
Limberis 1995, 321-40.
wish there to be uniformity among the Syrians themselves but has

already fragmented them into small sects.” 42
The sectarian nature of Christianity is commented by pagan writers as early

as Celsus in the second century. 43 Themistius is here using the label ‘Syrians’
for Christians based upon their original location, and compares them with
Greeks and Egyptians as an ethno-religious group. In the pre-Constantinian
period the Christians, unlike the Jews, did not take the option under Roman
law of being classified as an ethnos, although this did not preclude debate
about race being part of their self-identity. 44 Pagan intellectuals in fourth-
century Egypt had their own non-Christian religious faith centred on the
writings attributed to Hermes Trismegistus, the Corpus Hermetica, a work that
influenced the Neoplatonist Iamblichus in his exploration of Egyptian
wisdom, De Mysteriis.
The Egyptian poet Christodorus of Coptus who flourished during the
reign of Anastasius I (491-518), composed Patria on the origins of various
cities as well as other poetic works. However, only a collection of poetic
ekphrases on 80 statues in the Baths of Zeuxippus in Constantinople has
survived. 45 The Baths of Zeuxippus were destroyed during the Nika riots in
532, 46 so Christodorus is an important witness to the literary preservation of
the statues in the cultural memory of the city. The historian John Lydus (d. ca.
565), who studied in Constantinople with Agapius, the last pupil of the
Neoplatonic philosopher Proclus, mentions a poem entitled On the Disciples of
the Great Proclus written by Christodorus. 47 Agapius became known as Agapius
of Athens as a result of studying with Proclus sometime after 480, but he was
in fact from Alexandria and on returning there was caught up in the
persecution of pagan philosophers by the emperor Zeno. 48 After his release he
decided to leave Alexandria for Constantinople where he started a
philosophical school at which John Lydus was later to study. 49
Returning to Agathias for a moment he spent part of his youth in
Alexandria studying rhetoric and he reports experiencing earth tremors
while he was there. He notes that this was unusual for the city as such a
phenomenon was rare for the Nile Delta because it did not have a history of
seismic activity. 50 This appears to be a reference to the earthquake of 551
whose epicentre was in the Jordan Valley region and was felt over a wide area
of the Eastern Mediterranean. According to Agathias it had a devastating
42
Oration 5, 70a.
43
On the True Doctrine, 70.
44
See the important study by Buell 2005.
45
The Greek Anthology Vol. 1, bk. 2; Bassett 2004, 51-58, 160-85; Kaldellis 2007.
46
Procopius, The Wars 1.24.9.
47
Lydus, De Magistratibius 3.26; Parry 2006, 224.
48
Kosiński 2010, 157-63.
49
Damascius: The Philosophical History 257.
50
For earthquakes in Egypt, see Ambraseys 1994, 24-29.
188 Ken Parry
effect on the city of Beirut where he had earlier studied law and where many
of its architectural treasures were destroyed. As someone who had spent time
in both Alexandria and Beirut he was familiar with the geographical locations
of the Nile Delta and the mountainous region of the Lebanon. 51
A theme discussed by the historians is the annual inundation of the
Nile and the various explanations for it. 52 Writing in the early seventh
century Theophylact Simocatta, has a long digression on the Nile inundation
in the course of which he informs us that he was Egyptian born. 53 The
digression itself is based on versions by earlier historians, notably Diodorus of
Sicily from the first century BCE, who is thought to have travelled to Egypt in
pursuit of information for his Library of History. 54 However, Theophylact
includes a tale concerning the apparition of two anthropomorphic Nile
creatures, one male and the other female, who rose up out of the river to
reveal themselves to Menas, the governor of Egypt around 599. 55 The male
creature is said to be the god of the Nile with a female companion whose
nudity Theophylact describes in some detail. The apparition is recorded by
several others historians, such as John of Nikiu in the seventh century, 56 and
Theophanes Confessor in the ninth century. 57
In his Philosophical History Damascius describes an episode in which
three Neoplatonic philosophers, Heraiscus, Asclepiades and Isidore, were
picnicking on the banks of the Nile when there arose from the river an
exceeding long lock of hair. 58 Heraiscus and Asclepiades were the sons of
Horapollo the Elder from the Panopolite nome and author of the
Heiroglyphica. 59 Horapollo the Younger, the son of Asclepiades, apostatised to
Christianity. The mention of a lock of hair is clearly a reference to Isis the
goddess of the Nile. The Isis-lock was a lock of hair tied with ribbon and worn
behind the left ear by young girls, while the Horus-lock was worn behind the
right ear by young boys. Such locks showed they were devotees of Isis and
her son Horus because Isis had dedicated a lock of her hair to her husband
Osiris. We can see some examples among the Egyptian mummy portraits,
several of which also show young boys with their heads shaved but with two
tufts of hair at the front [Figure 7]. 60 Ammianus Marcellinus appears to refer
51
The Histories 2.15.1-10.
52
See the comprehensive study by Bonneau 1964.
53
History 7.17.1-46. On the birthplaces of our historians, see Treadgold 2007, Map 2.
54
Library of History 1.30-41.
55
History 7.16.1-9. On these creatures as omens see Efthymiadis 2010.
56
Chronicle 97. 34-37.
57
Chronography 404.
58
Damascius: The Philosophical History 187. See Bonneau 1964, 259-63.
59
Fowden 1993, 184-86.
60
Doxiadis 1995, colour Illus. 26, 77, b & w Illus. 7, 15, 36; Walker & Bierbrier 1997, Illus.
94,109, 116.
to the cutting of the Horos-lock of pagan boys by Christians because it was a

feature of their dedication to Isis and Osiris. 61
An aspect of the inundation theme was the Christianization of the Nile
cult. Theophanes Confessor informs us that Constantine legislated that in
Egypt a measure of the Nile flood was to be offered to the Church and not to
the Serapeum as was the pagan custom. 62 And to demonstrate that the
inundation of the Nile was due to the providence of the Christian God, and
not to the favour of the Egyptian gods, he tells us:
“In the year 390/91, when the river Nile did not rise in the usual way, the
pagans rejoiced claiming that the reason for this was that they had been
prevented from sacrificing to their gods. When the pious emperor
(Theodosius I) learned of this, he replied, “May it never happen that a
river, which rejoices in sacrifice, should flood the land.” And God gave
His assent and blessed the rising of the river to such an extent that
everyone in Egypt feared lest the flooding of the water submerge even
Alexandria itself.” 63
A similar concern with ending pagan rituals associated with the Nile flood is
found in the History of the Monks of Egypt. Here a monk halts a religious
procession to the Nile, holding the crowd in suspended animation until he
releases them and they convert to Christianity, while another is credited with
predicting the rise and fall of the inundation. 64 But Anastasius of Sinai in the
seventh century is sceptical of those who:
“… having seen heavy rainfall in the area of the Upper Nile, they tell
some Egyptian people in advance that the Nile’s rising will be high. But if
somebody questions these people about the exact number of cubits or
inches of the rise, they have problems about giving an answer, and are
convicted of being completely ignorant.” 65
Unfortunately for some monks who predicted future events such as the rise
and fall of the Nile their prognostications could be evidence of their
possession by evil spirits. An example is given in the Coptic Life of Macarius the
Great in which a monk and follower of Hieracas of Leontopolis acquires the
ability to predict events because the spirit of divination entered into him. 66
The Nile is depicted in Byzantine art of our period in a variety of media
as a personification or as one of the four rivers of paradise. The biblical river
61
Res Gestae 22.11.6.
62
Chronography 27
63
Chronography 111; also Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History 7.20.
64
Historia Monachorum in Aegypto 53, 74. Also Frankfurter 1998, 42-46.
65
Questions and Answers 194.
66
Four Desert Fathers 109ff. On the Hieracites, see Epiphanius, The Panarion 67 and
Sophronius of Jerusalem, The Synodical Letter 2.6.3.
190 Ken Parry
Gehon was identified with the Nile, 67 and the four rivers became associated
with the four evangelists, and although no inscription explicitly links the
rivers with the names of the evangelists, Gehon would point to St. Mark. In
his study of Nilotic imagery in Byzantine art Henry Maguire has
demonstrated the transformative symbolism of the Nile from pagan fecundity
to Christian baptism in floor mosaics of the fifth and sixth centuries. 68
According to the ninth century Diegesis or Narratio de S. Sophia the four rivers
were represented by Justinian in the opus sectile floor of Hagia Sophia in
Constantinople. 69 The sixth-century mosaic map at Madaba in Jordan depicts
the Nile Delta in Lower Egypt, but unlike other regions shown on the map it is
not rendered in an accurate manner. The main literary source, apart from the
Bible, for the Madaba map was Eusebius’ Onomatisicon, but when it came to
Lower Egypt the mosaicists seem to have relied more on their imagination
than geographic knowledge in representing its cities. 70
The change from representing the Nile as a personification to depicting
it as a river is commented on by Choricius of Gaza in his sixth-century
ekphrasis on the Church of St. Stephen when he writes:
“The river itself is nowhere portrayed in the way painters portray rivers
(i.e. in the form of a personification), but is suggested by means of
distinctive currents and symbols, as well as by the meadows along its
banks. Various kinds of birds that often wash in that river’s streams
dwell in the meadows. This charming site is offered by the walls of the
aisles which, furthermore, are well ventilated, there being two breezes
that blow into them from two directions …” 71
The personification of the Nile continued to be shown on Egyptian textiles of

the sixth and seventh centuries as well as depictions of nilometers. 72 The
sixth-century mosaic floor in the so-called Nile Festival House at Sepphoris in
Galilee shows a nilometer with inscribed measurements in Greek letters
standing on an arched structure, similar to its representation on the Egyptian
textiles just mentioned [Fig. 8]. 73
Writing in the early sixth century Zachariah of Mytilene in his Life of
Severus of Antioch gives an account of the Isis cult at Menouthis still
operating in 484. 74 He tells us that he joined a band of anti-Chalcedonian
67
A sixth-century capital from Phthiotis in Central Greece depicts the four rivers of
paradise, three of which are inscribed by name, including Gehon, see Lazaridou 2011, 137.
68
Maguire 1999, 179-84.
69
Mango 1986, 101.
70
Donner 1992, 79-86. On the dating of the mosaic, see Madden 2012.
71
Laudatio Marciani 2.50, see Mango 1986, 72. See further Polański 2009, 169-80.
72
Maguire, 1999, Fig. 9.
73
Hachlili, 1998, Figs. 4, 6c.
74
Trombley 2001, 2.219-25. Watts 2010.
brethren (φιλόπονοι) from Alexandria along with some Tabennesiote monks

from Canopus bent on destroying the temple idols:
“We arrived at a building which was completely covered with pagan
hieroglyphs. In one corner there was built a double wall. The idols were
hidden behind this wall. A narrow entrance in the shape of a window led
there, and it was by this means that the priest got inside to perform the
sacrifices. Hoping that our investigation would come to nothing, the
pagans … blocked the entrance with stones and lime. In addition, lest
anyone see the recent character of the masonry and discover the artifice,
they placed directly in front of it a small stand full of incense and round-
cakes (πόπανα), and they had suspended a lamp, which burned as
bright as broad daylight.” 75
He relates how they broke into the secret chamber and destroyed some of the
idols while making an inventory of others. However, as Alan Cameron has
pointed out, 76 this could not have been the temple of Isis itself because it had
been demolished by Cyril of Alexandria in 427, who installed relics of the
unmercenary SS Cyrus and John from St. Mark’s in Alexandria, in the shrine
consecrated to the Evangelists his uncle Theophilus had built opposite the
temple. 77 In the early seventh century Sophronius of Jerusalem was healed of
an eye complaint, most probably Nilotic bilharzia or river blindness, while
visiting the shrine of SS Cyrus and John and as a result he promoted the cult
of these saints by composing their Miracula. 78
In addition to his History Theophylact is credited with a work called On
Terms of Life. The work is cast in the form of the question-and-answer
dialogue and may be compared with a similar composition attributed to the
patriarch Germanus I in the eighth century. 79 The main thrust of the work
centres on the relation of human free-will to divine providence and whether
the time of our death is contingent upon on our actions. If God is omniscient
then he knows the time of our death, and if he knows when we are going to
die, then our death may be said to be predetermined. However, this does not
mean that we should adopt a laissez-aller attitude that says because God has
foreknowledge of when we shall die, we do not need to concern ourselves
with acting for the good. My reading of Theophylact is that he demonstrates
an existential concern and not simply rhetorical showmanship as suggested
75
Trombley 2001, 2.221; Frankfurter 1998, 164-65. The offering of cakes (κόλλυβα) in the
Isis cult is confirmed by an inscription from Magnesia ad Sipylum from the first or second
century CE in which an Isiac priest is listed as ἱερόσ Κολλυβᾶσ, see Vidman 1969,
inscription 307. Note that Epiphanius’ female Collydrians offered κόλλυβα to the Virgin
Mary, The Panarion 79.
76
Cameron 2007, 21-46.
77
See McGuckin 1992, 191-99.
78
Neil 2006, 183-93. On Sophronius see Allen 2009.
79
See Garton & Westerink 1979.
192 Ken Parry
by the translators of his work. 80 The Christian genre On Terms of Life (περὶ
ὅρων ξωῆς) took its inspiration largely from Basil the Great. 81
Apropos of this theme I should like to mention the fifth-century pagan
historian Olympiodorus from Thebes who studied philosophy in Athens
where he formed a friendship with his fellow Egyptian, the Neoplatonist
Hierocles of Alexandria. After his studies in Athens he returned to Thebes
where he married and adopted a son, but later he went to Constantinople
where he became a court official and was sent on various diplomatic
missions, including at least one to the Huns. 82 In 419 he was despatched to the
Oasis Magna in the Western Desert of Egypt where he brokered a treaty with
the local Nubian tribesmen (Blemmyes) with whom he seems to have been on
good terms. However, on his return to Thebes he found that his adopted son
had died and in order to console him his friend Hierocles composed a treatise
On Providence and Fate, extracts from which are preserved by Photios in his
Bibliotheca, 83 who also provides us with extracts from Olympiodorus’ own
History. 84 This work by Hierocles and that by Theophylact focus on free-will
and determinism, reflecting the general preoccupation with fate and
providence in late antiquity. 85
The Byzantine fathers

A less than positive image of Egypt emerges from the writings of the
Byzantine fathers because of its idolatrous worship of animals. For example,
Epiphanius of Salamis writes in the early fifth century:
“In any case, the Egyptians went even more astray in that they not only
deified their own passions as the Greeks did, but also animals, feathered
birds and four-footed beasts, land animals as well as those living in
water, some of the wild beasts and animals that the holy God had given
them to be of service to them …” 86
Eusebius maintains it was from the Egyptians that the Greeks acquired the
habit of polytheism, 87 while Cyril of Jerusalem suggests that it was the cross
that gave the Egyptians knowledge of God instead of the worship of cats and
dogs. 88 This may be a reference to the ankh hieroglyph or crux ansata, known
as the Key of Life or Key of the Nile. The shape of the ankh shown in ancient
80
Garton and Westerink’s characterisation of Theophylact’s work as ‘a rhetorical
showpiece’ in which ‘advancement of the question at issue was hardly his principal aim’
does not do justice to the genre, Garton & Westerink 1978, xi.
81
Homily Explaining Why God is Not the Cause of Evil, PG 31.333B.
82
Gillett 1993.
83
Bibliotheca, Fols 214, 251.
84
Bibliotheca, Fol. 80.
85
See, for example, Proclus On Providence 2007, and Parry 2006.
86
Smelik & Hemelrijk 1986, 1852-2000.
87
The Tricennial Orations 13.
88
Catechesis 13, 40.
Egyptian art underwent a modification in the early Christian period with the
upper triangular or oval section becoming circular. 89 It is shown in this form
being held by women on two painted shrouds from Antinoopolis dated to the
late third century [Fig. 9]. 90 Antinoopolis was a centre of early Christianity in
Egypt and the local adaptation of the ankh may have been made in imitation
of the Christogram based on the Greek chi-rho.
A further reference to the ankh is suggested by the fifth-century
church historian Socrates who reports that stone blocks with hieroglyphs,
including some cruciform in shape, were discovered when the Serapeum was
being dismantled. 91 He writes as follows:
“Both the Christians and pagans on seeing them, appropriated and
applied them to their respective religions: for the Christians who affirm
that the cross is the sign of Christ’s saving passion, claimed this
character as peculiarly theirs; but the pagans alleged that it might
appertain to Christ and Serapis in common; ‘for’, said they, ‘it symbolizes
one thing to Christians and another to heathens’.”
Socrates goes on to say that the Christians interpreted the ankh as a sign of
Christianity’s foreshadowing in the phaoronic religion, just as Paul had
interpreted the Athenian inscription to the unknown god(s) as anticipating
the Christian religion (Acts 17:23). The episode at the Serapeum is also
mentioned by the church historian Sozomen who relates how the discovery
of the ankh hieroglyphs led to the conversion of the pagans and the
transformation of the building into a church dedicated to the emperor
Arcadius (r. 395-408). 92
In the History of the Monks of Egypt the monk Apollo provides an
explanation for why the Egyptians held animals to be gods:
“Our pagan predecessors … deified the ox … because by means of this
animal they carried on their farming and produced their food. They
deified the water of the Nile because it irrigated the whole countryside.
They also venerated the soil because theirs was more fertile than any
other land ... As for the remaining abominations, dogs and apes and the
whole loathsome collection of animal and vegetables, they worshipped
these because their preoccupation with them was the cause of their
salvation in the time of Pharaoh, keeping the people busy when Pharaoh
was drowned in his pursuit of Israel.” 93
He goes on to suggest that each person deified whatever preoccupied them at

the time and that this prevented them from following Pharaoh. Egypt for the
89
Doresse 1960, 25-26.
90
Walker & Bierbrier 1997, 160-61; Doxiadis 1995, colour ills. 90, 91.
91
Ecclesiastical History 5.17.
92
Sozomen, Ecclesiastical History 7.15. But on this note McKenzie 2007, 246-47.
93
The Lives of the Desert Fathers 8.21
194 Ken Parry
fathers was the land of idolatry per se because by turning animals (and even
vegetables?) into gods the worst kind of idolatry was committed.
For John of Damascus in the first half of the eighth century the
Egyptians were the ‘Monophysites’ par excellence, because they were the first
to adhere to this heresy. As a Melkite and champion of Chalcedon John
disparages the likes of Severus of Antioch and John Philoponus of Alexandria,
although he includes passages from Philoponus’ The Arbiter in his Book of
Heresies, and in doing so preserves two chapters of the original Greek text. 94
Elsewhere John criticises the ‘Monophysites’ for there use of Aristotelian
terminology, while in his own Dialectica he provides an introduction to such
terminology. 95 Philoponus wrote a treatise against Proclus’ views on the
eternity of the world, but without resorting to Christian arguments, relying
instead on opposing views within the Neoplatonic tradition. 96 The memory of
Philoponus in Byzantium was limited because of his reputation as an anti-
Chalcedonian and tritheist, but his influence continued in the East through
translations of his works into Syriac and Arabic. 97 His nickname ‘φιλόπονος’
meaning ‘lover of work’ from his membership of the lay anti-Chalcedonian
brotherhood, was condemned as ‘ματαιοπόνος’ or ‘worker in vain’ by
Sophronius of Jerusalem. 98
A different attitude to Egypt is detectable in the Byzantine exegesis of
certain passages from Genesis and Exodus dealing with the despoliation of
the Egyptians. 99 The scriptural context of the motif concerns the plundering
of Egypt by the Israelites as compensation for their forced labour and by
extension the appropriation of pagan culture. It is explicated by Origen in his
Letter to Gregory as well as by Basil the Great in his Letter to Young Adults, but it
is a theme echoed in several other Christian fathers. 100 For example Gregory
of Nyssa in his The Life of Moses writes;
“Our guide in virtue commands someone to ‘borrow from the wealthy
Egyptians to receive’ such things as moral and natural philosophy,
geometry, astronomy, dialectic, and whatever else is sought by those
outside the church, since these things will be useful when in time the
divine sanctuary of mystery must be beautified by the riches of
reason.” 101
And again:
94
Liber de haeresibus 83.
95
Contra Jacobitas 10.13; Parry 2013.
96
Parry 2006.
97
See Sorabji 1987.
98
Allen 2009, 143.
99
The passages in question are Gen 15:14, Exod 3:21-22; 11:2-3 and 12:35-36.
100
See Allen 2008.
101
The Life of Moses 81.
“For many bring to the church of God their profane learning as a kind of
gift: such a man was the great Basil, who acquired the Egyptian wealth
in every respect during his youth, and dedicated this wealth to God for
the adornment of the church, the true tabernacle.” 102
This is not the occasion to draw out the full implications of these passages,
but simply to remark that Gregory is here building upon a tradition already
utilized by Justin Martyr and others in the pre-Constantinian period, and
which continued through to the ninth century. Most Christian writers of our
period subscribe to an assimilative but selective attitude towards pagan
learning and to the idea of scholarship in the service of the Church.
We have only to think of Photios with his Christian humanist agenda in
compiling his Bibliotheca and Amphilochia in the ninth century. The same
encyclopaedism is reflected in the writings of John of Damascus in the eighth
century, who as we have seen in his Dialectica, demonstrated the need for
philosophical and logical precision as an introduction to theologizing. The
preservation of knowledge and the love of learning had a practical purpose in
promoting the Christian faith, because in Byzantium Christianity was
considered a product of culture and history as well as of divine intervention.
The historicising of the religious consciousness is one of the most notable
aspects of Byzantine intellectual history in the period under discussion. It is
already apparent in the New Testament that historicity is central to the
Christian religion and Christianity without history would have been
unthinkable to the Byzantines. 103
Hagiographical sources
In the eighth century Andrew of Crete composed the Vita of St. Patapius at
the request of the nuns at the Aigyption or Monastery of the Egyptians in the
north-west district of Constantinople founded by the saint. 104 Patapius came
from Thebes and began his monastic life in Egypt and was one of the few born
overseas to establish a monastery in the imperial capital [Fig. 10]. Andrew
writes that he was modest and unassuming and ‘lived in the city without ever
leaving behind the desert’. In a picturesque passage on Egypt he tells us that
the land contained many cities, but the emphasis of his ἐνάργεια is on the
countryside and the fertile soil that produces good grass for raising horses
and sheep and other domestic animals. He mentions the irrigation system
and boats sailing on the Nile in close proximity to men ploughing in the
102
The Life of Moses 81.
103
Byzantine theology was more than a ‘patristic form of Biblical fundamentalism’ as
suggested by Garton & Westerink 1978, xii. Quoting scripture was fundamental to the
theology of the Byzantine fathers but it was not their only source of authority, see Pelikan
1973, 277-88.
104
BHG 1424-28, PG 116: PG 97: See Hattlie 2007, 190-94 and the miniature of St. Patapios
from the Menologion of Basil II, Fig. 9.
196 Ken Parry
fields. 105 Yet there is no evidence that Andrew himself visited Egypt so he may
have relied on cultural memory to compose this passage. He informs us that
he was already bishop of Crete when asked to write the life of the saint, but
was reluctant to undertake the task. However, Patapius appeared to him in a
dream and reproached him for his lack of faith and commanded him to write.
During the Ottoman period the saint’s relics were translated to Loutraki near
Corinth in Greece where there is a convent dedicated to him and where those
with dropsy or oedema go to be healed.
Also in the eight century the cult of Mary of Egypt became popular in
Byzantium with an early Vita being attributed to Sophronius of Jerusalem and
a kanon to patriarch Germanus I. 106 The Vita relates the legend of the
prostitute Mary from Alexandria who took a boat to the Holy Land by
granting sexual favours to the ship’s crew in return for her passage, and who
subsequently repented to become a hermit in the desert near the River
Jordan. As a result her story established itself as a leading example of female
asceticism in the Byzantine hagiographical and iconographic tradition. The
site of a Byzantine church dedicated to Mary has recently been located near
the Jordan River. 107 Sophronius informs us that the voice of the Virgin Mary
told Mary of Egypt to cross the Jordan River where she was to live as a
solitary for forty-seven years, 108 while his travelling companion, John Moscus,
writing in his Spiritual Meadow, claims to have met a certain Mary the Harlot
in Cilicia. 109 Mary tells us in the Vita that she went to the church of John the
Baptist on the Jordan River, probably the one built by the emperor Anastasius
I on the site traditionally associated with Christ’s baptism by John the
Baptist. 110 Sophronius and John Moscus also wrote a joint biography of John
the Almsgiver, the Chalcedonian patriarch of Alexandria, which was
supplemented by Leontius of Neapolis. 111
Conclusion
Space has permitted only a few examples to be discussed of Byzantine
perceptions of Egypt and things Egyptian during the period from the fourth
through to the ninth century. The displacement of Egypt from the Byzantine
imagination after the Arab conquests of the seventh century, and the
redirection of Byzantine interests to the north in the second half of the ninth
century, appears to have curtailed further direct concern, although the
scholar-bishop Arethas of Caesarea was anxiously awaiting a shipment of
105
See Kazhdan 1999, 52-54.
106
For Sophronius’ Life see Kouli 1996 and for Germanus’ kanon see Kazhdan 1999, 65-67.
107
MacDonald 2010, 107.
108
Life of Mary of Egypt, Ch. 25.
109
The Spiritual Meadow, 31.
110
MacDonald 2010, 106.
111
Three Byzantine Saints, 199-270.
papyrus from Egypt in the late ninth or early tenth century. 112 We have seen
that for the Neoplatonists Egypt continued to inspire their interest in its
ancient wisdom, but that for Chalcedonian Christians it was a land lost to the
anti-Chalcedonian heresy and then to the Arabs and Islam. For the citizens of
Constantinople the Theodosian obelisk with its hieroglyphs was a material
reminder of the ancient Egyptian world which was also evoked through the
Old Testament in the liturgical life of the Byzantine Church. 113 Perhaps
Theodore the Stoudite in the early ninth century had the obelisk of
Theodosius in mind when he cited Egyptian hieroglyphs as an example of
secular knowledge that would not save a monk from the sin of pride. 114 The
reliance on memory and orality in a society in which perhaps only 10% of the
population were regular readers or writers made it imperative to memorise
knowledge and information. We still do not know much about the art of
memory in Byzantium, but the historical sources indicate reliance on cultural
memory as well as on documents, so that in their own way they stand as
memorials to that reliance. 115 It is evident that what has been retained in the
sources must represent only a fraction of what the Byzantines once knew and
imagined about Egypt.
112
Lemerle 1986, 257-58.
113
Millar 2010, 55-76.
114
Catechesis, cited by Cholij 2002, 33.
115
Papalexandrou 2010, 108-22.
198 Ken Parry
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History of Wars 209
Renato Viana Boy

University of São Paulo
History of Wars: narratives of crises in power relations between

Constantinople and Italy in the sixth century
Introduction
This paper is part of a doctoral research project focusing on the History of the
Wars, written by the Byzantine historian Procopius (490-562). We aim to
discuss the importance and the historiographical place of these narratives
within the context of crises, tensions, and disputes of power between the
Roman Empire in the sixth century – the so-called Byzantine Empire by
modern historians – and the ancient imperial domains in the Mediterranean,
particularly, the Italian Peninsula. To study this period, which was marked by
the transition from what historiography has traditionally entitled the ‘End of
the Ancient World’ and the beginning of the ‘Middle Ages’, the History of the
Wars turns out to be an important document, containing records relating to
the military campaigns of the Emperor Justinian, who endeavoured to get
back political control over the ancient Western and Eastern Roman borders,
then dominated by people characterized by the historian as ‘barbarians’.
These texts form a kind of secular history, conceived from the military events
contemporary to the historian. Although it is a document used for studying
the government of Justinian, Procopius’ descriptions focus mainly on the
wars for recovering the imperial rule over the old boundaries, and not on a
general political history of this period.
Procopius was a witness in many of the imperial campaigns in North
Africa and Italy, acting as an adviser to the General Belisarius. Thus, the
historian would have witnessed many of the campaigns which he proposed to
describe. Seven of the eight volumes of the History of the Wars were published
around the year 551, divided into three parts: two volumes dedicated to the
Persian War, another two to the Vandal War, and three volumes dedicated to
the Gothic War. In an eighth volume, published around the year 554,
Procopius resumed the questions concerning the three great wars. In
Procopius’ work, the wars have been organised separately from one another,
meanwhile in some periods they overlap in time. 1
1
Evans 1970, 221.
210 Renato Viana Boy
The writings of Procopius

The writings of Procopius follow the models of the Greek classics, such as
Herodotus and Thucydides, having war as the main theme, describing the
great events from his time, so that they would never be forgotten by future
generations, and writing about events of which he would have personal
knowledge, since his position as eye-witness was part of the imperial
structure of the campaigns. 2 It was this official position near the imperial
troops that made Procopius believe himself to be privileged and qualified to
register such important events. In his own words, it was his position as
witness that could engender a greater degree of accuracy and reliability to his
narratives:
“Furthermore he (Procopius speaking of himself) had no doubts to be
especially competent to write the history of those events, if not for other
reasons, it was because it came for his luck when he was appointed as an
adviser of the general Belisarius, to be an eye-witness of practically all
the events to be described.” 3
Procopius’ position in the imperial troop during the wars, as adviser to

General Belisarius, makes us think that the elaboration of the History of the
Wars was a text used for the political and military project of Justinian in the
Mediterranean regions, especially in Italy. Thus, their narratives constitute
not only in descriptions of battles. More than this, they were also texts
elaborated to serve this imperial project, presenting a justification and an
ideological basis, fundamental to this undertaking. Due to the position of
proximity of Procopius to the structure of government of the Empire, as well
as his closeness to the command of armies in war, it is unlikely that he
experienced great freedom to express personal opinions diverging from the
imperial policy in his texts.
Besides the accordance of his writings with the military intentions of
the Emperor in Italy, the composition of the History of the Wars still
maintained others precepts, which were highlighted by the historian Averil
Cameron. Expert in Byzantine historiography of Late Antiquity, Cameron says
that Procopius wrote his narratives combining traditionalist, conservative,
and Christian visions, with an imitation of a kind of ancient classical style of
writing. 4
Cameron also says that the History of the Wars show an artificial vision of
the historian, carefully composed in the ancient historiographical tradition
that in addition to setting a style of writing, also conditioned the content that
2
On the connection between Herodotus and Thycidides’ models and Procopius, see Evans
1970, 219; Adshead 1993, 13; Momigliano 2004, 74; Brown 1971, 139 and 180; Kaldellis 2004,
17-61.
3
Procopius, 1.1.3: οὐδέν, ὅτι δὲ αὐτῷ ξυμβούλῳ ᾑρημένῳ Βελισαρίῳ τῷ στρατηγῷ σχεδόν
τιἅπασι παραγενέσθαι τοῖς πεπραγμένοις ξυνέπεσε.
4
Cf. Cameron 1996a, 5 and 45.
History of Wars 211
was permitted in a secular history text. 5 In this sense, the narratives of

Procopius were subordinated to the precepts and conventions of both his
own historiographical style and the period of its composition. That is, for
Cameron, what the History of the Wars reveals, a subtle mix of personal and
imitative material, a combination of the traditional and the contemporary in
Procopius’ work. 6
In our research, we pay special attention to these comments made by
Cameron. In fact, there is no denying the presence of personal aspects (like
the conservative and traditional character of Procopius, typical of the
aristocratic social group to which the historian belonged), and the peculiar
stylistic composition of the History of the Wars. To these aspects, we add that
this work should be also treated as a narrative prepared by and for the
imperial project of Justinian, presenting arguments for legitimate military
intervention in the Byzantine Italian territories.
The period of Justinian’s wars

From the eight volumes of the History of the Wars, in this study we will focus
on the analysis of the three concerning the Gothic War. This choice is due to
the fact that these volumes are those in which Procopius narrated the
gradual loss of Roman rule in the Mediterranean to the barbarian
governments. These narratives have great importance in the work, since the
historian bases his justifications for Justinian’s campaigns in the sixth
century, both on descriptions of the loss of imperial power in Rome, after 476,
and on the fact that these ancient lands had passed since then into the hands
of governments characterized as ‘barbarian’. Because of this, these volumes
have also been used extensively by historians to understand the goals and
consequences of the wars of Justinian in the sixth century.
It is noteworthy that in attempting to define more clearly the nature of
imperial attacks in the Mediterranean, some important works about this
period categorize the sixth-century campaigns of Justinian as a process of
‘Reconquest’ or as a ‘Restoration’ of the former boundaries of the Roman
Empire. Such expressions have been widely used by the majority of historians
who work on this subject, many of them of course making use of the History of
the Wars as a source.
For Averil Cameron, for example, the pursuit of expanding the
frontiers was only part of an even wider imperial project, which sought to
restore the whole glorious past, having consequences on intellectual, artistic,
religious and legal issues. In another work, the historian writes:
5
Cameron 1996a, 24.
6
Cf. Cameron 1996a, 45.
“... they were to establish a kingdom which despite some Byzantine

success in the context of Justinian’s Reconquest (Author’s emphasis)
lasted until the arrival of the Arabs in the early eighth century”. 7
In this same book, there is a chapter entitled ‘Justinian and Reconquest

(emphasis mine).’ 8 Georg Ostrogorsky regards the period of Justinian as a
‘Restoration of a universal Roman Empire’, motivated largely by what the
author considers a ‘constant dream’ about the idea of a universal Empire. 9 For
Ostrogorsky, the wars constituted an attempt to recover a glorious past, not
only restricted to territorial issues, but also covering an even wider cultural
field, highlighting, for instance, the codification of the law and the pursuit of
a Roman Christian unity. 10
Peter Brown, describing the government of Justinian, concludes by
talking about the meaning and consequences of what would have been the
imperial (re)conquest in the West. 11 J. A. S. Evans has written a chapter in his
book The Age of Justinian, entitled ‘The Restoration of the Empire: the Wars of
Justinian’. 12 Charles Pazdernik says, in a more recent article, that the goal of
Justinian to restore the Roman power over the former possessions was only
part of an even wider ideal, which not only sought the recovery of territories,
but also the recovery of a great past and common Roman identity, completely
‘free’ from the submission to a barbarian and enemy government. 13
As noted in the examples above, it is possible to observe the existence
of a historiographical consensus over the fact that the campaigns of Justinian
have constituted a great process of ‘Restoration’ or ‘Reconquest’ of the old
imperial borders, once under the authority of barbarian governments. It is
important to emphasise that all these works used the History of the Wars as a
document for their studies and conclusions.
An important view that presents itself as a counterpoint to this
consolidated historiographical view is found in the studies of the historian
Roger Scott. Scott does not question the fact that Procopius is the best and
most important source for the study of Byzantium in the sixth century. 14
However, he claims that the vision of the campaigns sent to Italy changes
profoundly when the History of the Wars is compared to texts by contemporary
chroniclers of Procopius. Using the chronicler Malalas to support his
argument, Scott asserts that the wars of Justinian, although being a dominant
theme in the study of the sixth century, do not seem to have been the main
7
Cameron 1996b, 42.
8
Cameron 1996b, 104-27.
9
Cf. Ostrogorsky 1956, 64.
10
Ostrogorsky 1956, 68-69.
11
Brown 1971, 158-59.
12
Evans 1996, 112.
13
Pazdernik 2000, 149-87.
14
Cf. Scott 2012a, 2.
History of Wars 213
concern of the Emperor. Scott justifies his statement accentuating basically

two points in relation to the government of Justinian.
Firstly, the historian says that the Emperor must not have had the war
for reconquering the former Roman domains as his main interest. Otherwise,
Justinian’s main objective must have been to carry out a process of religious
‘purification’ and doctrinal Christian unity for the Empire. Scott states that
Justinian sought to receive divine favours and to prepare the territory under
his authority for the Second Coming of Christ. 15 In order to justify his
argument, the author mentions that before worrying about the war in Italy,
Justinian performed the re-construction of the Church of Hagia Sophia and
the closure of the Academy of Athens, the very centre of philosophical
studies. The preoccupation with the war on the Peninsula started only eight
years after the beginning of his government. 16
Secondly, Scott believes in the fact that both for the Italians and for
Constantinople the Ostrogoths ruled Italy as part of the Empire, not as an
enemy population. In this sense, the troops of General Belisarius would have
been sent to the Italian Peninsula in order to affirm or reaffirm the imperial
authority over dissident regions, in a period of conflicts for the succession in
local government, rather than to reconquer or to restore the imperial
frontiers, as suggested by most of historians. 17
To support this argument, Scott emphasises that after the victory at
Ravenna in 540, or even after the final victory of the war in 554, there is no
further reference in Justinian’s legislation mentioning a sanction concerning
the Reconquest of the Roman Empire in Italy. 18 Furthermore, the small
number of soldiers sent to the Peninsula in the Gothic War (around seven and
a half thousand men), and the fact that it had only started eight years after
the beginning of Justinian’s government, suggest that the acclaimed
‘Reconquest’ was definitely not part of the Emperor's main aims when he
obtained the throne in 527. 19
Scott also emphasises that the image of a great conqueror and restorer
of the Empire given to Justinian is due to the fact that historians has been
using the History of the Wars as a primary source of studies, neglecting the
work of chroniclers, such as Malalas, because their writing style in Greek is
seen as ‘inferior’. For having been written in the classical style, the narratives
of the History of the Wars presented the military campaigns as the main object
for their narratives, to the detriment of other topics, such as the construction
of Hagia Sophia or the codification of laws. When using Procopius of
Caesarea, historians dealing with the government of Justinian would have
taken the author’s classical view in which war has always been the main
15
Cf. Scott 2012a, 6.
16
Scott 2012a, 7.
17
Scott 2012a, 11 and 20.
18
Scott 2012a, 13.
19
Scott 2012a, 15.
theme for historical narratives, consolidating the government of Justinian as

the restorer of the ancient Roman Empire. 20
Considerations about the Gothic War of Procopius

We agree with Roger Scott when he states, from the chronicles of Malalas,
that the classification of the wars commanded by Belisarius in Italy as a
process of a ‘Reconquest’ or a ‘Restoration’ was not the most important
objective of the Emperor in this period. However, we believe that it is possible
to re-evaluate the issue of ‘Reconquest’ from an analysis of the texts from the
Gothic War. It is evident that the comparison with other sources is always
more enriching. But our purpose is to attempt to relativize the idea of a
‘Reconquest’, by working only with the narratives from the Gothic War, for the
following reason: it is these texts that have been widely used by historians to
discuss Justinian’s wars through the prism of an Imperial ‘Reconquest’. In this
sense, it would be pertinent to ask: for Procopius, did the military campaigns
sent to Italy have a clear goal of Restoration of the old imperial borders?
The main reason for this question is that we do not find in Procopius’
narratives any classification of Justinian’s military campaigns as a process of
‘Reconquest’, ‘Restoration’, or even a kind of ‘Recovery’ of former Roman
territories. Such expressions are not even mentioned by Procopius. It seems
to us that such definitions which are present in the historiographical
tradition about Justinian’s wars (as in the examples cited), would result in a
historiographical construction that uses the History of the Wars, despite them
not being in the Procopian texts.
But there is a complicating factor in our analysis: on the one hand,
Procopius does not speak about the wars in the terms which we find in
historiography, and on the other, we do not find in his writings any
nomenclature for classifying the nature of the wars promoted against the
Goths by Justinian in Italy. So the question is: would the objectives of the
Emperor, as described in the History of the Wars, offer grounds for the idea of
‘Restoration’ or ‘Reconquest’ of the old Roman borders, as suggested by the
authors cited above? If the answer to this question is negative – on which our
initial hypothesis is grounded – what meaning could we extract from these
wars in the narratives of Procopius?
By analyzing the History of the Wars, it is possible to perceive that
notions such as ‘Restoration’ or ‘Reconquest’ would be inconceivable to the
author. This is so because in Procopius’ view the territories in the
Mediterranean, and particularly Italy, still seemed to be subordinate to
imperial power in the sixth century. This can be seen, for example, in some
passages from the narratives of the Gothic War.
The first passage is taken from the narratives of Procopius on the
government of Theodoric in Italy, king of the Ostrogoths, who had defeated
20
Scott 2012a, 25.
History of Wars 215
and killed Odoacer in 493. In this passage, Procopius states that Theodoric
had fought against Odoacer and his followers with the support of the
Byzantine Emperor Zeno. The suggestion for this confrontation had even
been suggested by the autocrat in Constantinople:
“But the Emperor Zeno, who knew how to take advantage of any
situation in which he found himself, advised Theodoric to proceed to
Italy, to attack Odoacer, and obtain the western dominion for him and
the Goths, because it was better for him, he said, especially as he had
attained the senatorial dignity, to force the leaving of a usurper and to
be ruler over all Romans and Italians than run the great risk of a decisive
struggle against the Emperor.” 21
Besides Procopius, another important historian of the sixth century,

Jordanes, also notes the relationship of subordination of the government of
Theodoric to the Byzantine Emperor Zeno. On the one hand, Procopius says
that the Emperor himself had suggested that Theodoric be the ruler over
‘Romans and Italians’, and on the other hand, Jordanes reports the favours
obtained by the new ruler of Italy:
“The Emperor Zeno received with joy the news that Theodoric had been
proclaimed king by his people, who received him in the capital with due
honours and placed him among the main in the court.” 22
Later on, Jordanes makes clear that the gladness cited for the reign of
Theodoric is also accompanied by the consent given to the Gothic ruler of
Italy by the Emperor in Constantinople:
“It was in the third year after his coming into Italy that with the consent
of the Emperor Zeno, Theodoric took off the garb of a particular man and
assumed the illustrious royal robe that identified him as king of the
Goths and Romans.” 23
After describing the relationship between Theodoric and Zeno, Procopius

proceeds to the narrative of power succession in the Italian Peninsula,
reaching the regency of Amalasuntha, in 526, who exercised the power in
favour of his son Atalarich, who was then only eight years old:
“After his death [of Theodoric] the kingdom was taken by Atalarich,
the son of Theodoric’s daughter; he had reached the age of eight years
old and was being reared under the care of his mother Amalasuntha. For
21
Procopius, 5.1.10-11: Ζήνων δὲ βασιλεύς, τὰ παρόντα εὖ τίθεσθαι ἐπιστάμενος,
Θευδερίχῳ παρῄνειἐςἸταλίαν πορεύεσθαι καὶ Ὀδοάκρῳ ἐς χεῖρας ἰόντι τὴν ἑσπερίαν
ἐπικράτησιν αὑτῷ τε καὶ Γότθοις πορίζεσθαι. ἄμεινον γάρ οἱ εἶναι, ἄλλως τε καὶ ἐπ̓
ἀξίωμα βουλῆς ἥκοντι, τύραννον βιασαμένῳ Ῥωμαίων τε καὶ Ἰταλιωτῶν ἄρχειν
ἁπάντων ἢ βασιλεῖ διαμαχομένῳ ἐςτόσον κινδύνου ἰέναι.
22
Jordanes, 57. 289.
23
Jordanes, 57. 295.
his father had already departed from among men. And not long
afterward Justinian succeeded to the imperial power in Byzantium. Now
Amalasuntha, as guardian of her child, administered the government,
and she proved to be endowed with wisdom and regard for justice in the
highest degree, displaying to a great extent the masculine temper.” 24
Fearing that her son’s power would be usurped, Amalasuntha turns back to
Emperor Justinian, requesting protection. This appeal to the Emperor
Justinian was thus narrated by Procopius:
“Sending to Byzantium she enquired of the Emperor Justinian whether it
was his wish that Amalasuntha, the daughter of Theodoric, should come
to him; for she wished to depart from Italy as quickly as possible. And the
Emperor, being pleased with the suggestion, bade her come and sent
orders that the finest of the houses in Epidamnus should be put in
readiness, in order that when Amalasuntha should come there, she
might lodge in it and after spending such time there as she wished might
then betake herself to Byzantium.” 25
Not only does the fact that Amalasuntha has turned back to imperial
protection at a time of imminent threat, but also the acceptance of Justinian
to assist her in the government of Italy show us that in Procopius’ perception,
and certainly also in the Emperor’s, the deposition of Romulus Augustulus in
476 would not have put a definitive end to the political relations between
Italy and Constantinople. And such a relationship was not just for military
protection, but would at the same time exist at the level of political
subordination, which can be perceived since the time of the governments of
Theodoric and the Emperor Zeno.
In another passage from the Gothic War, the regent ruler threatened by
the Goths, and still fearing the lack of loyalty of her son Atalarich, looks to
save herself once more, pleading for imperial protection: “For this reason she
was desirous of handing over the power of the Goths and Italians to the Emperor
Justinian, in order that she herself might be saved.” 26 And the historian concludes,
24
Procopius, 5.2.1-3: Τελευτήσαντός τε αὐτοῦ παρέλαβε τὴν βασιλείαν Ἀταλάριχος, ὁ
Θευδερίχου θυγατριδοῦς, ὀκτὼ γεγονὼς ἔτη καὶ ὑπὸ τῇ μητρὶ Ἀμαλασούνθῃ τρεφόμενος. ὁ
γάρ οἱ πατὴρ ἤδη ἐξ ἀνθρώπων ἠφάνιστο. χρόνῳ τε οὐ πολλῷ ὕστερον Ἰουστινιανὸς ἐν
Βυζαντίῳ τὴν βασιλείαν πα έλαβεν. Ἀμαλασοῦνθα δέ, ἅτε τοῦ παιδὸς ἐπίτροπος οὖσα, τὴν
ἀρχὴν διῳκεῖτο, bξυνέσεως μὲνκαὶ δικαιοσύνης ἐπὶ πλεῖστον ἐλθοῦσα, τῆς δὲ φύσεως ἐς
ἄγαν τὸ ἀρρενωπὸνἐνδεικνυμένη.
25
Procopius, 5.2.23-24: πέμψασα ἐς Βυζάντιον Ἰουστινιανοῦ βασιλέως ἀνεπυνθάνετο εἴπερ
αὐτῷ βουλομένῳ εἴη Ἀμαλασοῦνθαν τὴν Θευδερίχου παῤ αὐτὸν ἥκειν: βούλεσθαι γὰρ
αὐτὴνἐξ Ἰταλίας ἀπαλλάσσεσθαι ὅτι τάχιστα. βασιλεὺς δὲ τῷ λόγῳ ἡσθεὶς ἐλθεῖν τε τὴν
γυναῖκα ἐκέλευε καὶ τῶν. Ἐπιδάμνουοἴκων τὸν κάλλιστον ἐν παρασκευῇ ἐπέστελλε
γενέσθαι, ὅπως ἐπειδὰν Ἀμαλασοῦνθα ἐνταῦθα ἴοι, καταλύοι τε αὐτόσε καὶ χρόνον
διατρίψασα ὅσον ἂν αὐτῇ βουλομένῃ εἴη, οὕτω δὴ κομίζηται ἐς Βυζάντιον.
26
Procopius, 5.3.12: διὸ δὴ τὸ Γότθων τε καὶ Ἰταλιωτῶν κράτος ἐνδιδόναι Ἰουστινιανῷ
βασιλεῖ, ὅπωςαὐτὴ σώζοιτο, ἤθελεν.
History of Wars 217
reaffirming the wish of Amalasuntha: “... but secretly she agreed to put the whole
of Italy into his hands (of the Emperor Justinian).” 27
The examples above show us that the relationship between the new
governments of Italy, now occupied by the barbarians, and Constantinople,
was still alive even in the middle of the sixth century. It is even possible to
say that these relationships reflected a true political linkage between the two
governments, with the superposition of the Emperor over the king of the
Goths. In the Gothic War we find another passage that shows this idea. In it,
Theodatus sought to justify to the emperor the imprisonment of
Amalasuntha, which he ordered:
“But fearing that by this act he had given offence to the Emperor, as
actually proved to be the case, he (Theodatus) sent some men of the
Roman senate, Liberius and Opilio and certain others, directing them to
excuse his conduct to the Emperor with all their power by assuring him
that Amalasuntha had met with no harsh treatment at his hands,
although she had perpetrated irreparable outrages upon him before.” 28
Therefore, following the narratives from the Gothic War, Procopius might see
in the relationship between Constantinople and Italy in the sixth century,
interplay in terms of military protection and even political subordination. If
that was not the case, there would be no need to inform the Emperor about
what happened in Italy, seeking approval for the acts of a government that
should otherwise be considered completely independent. Averil Cameron
notes that the relationship between some of the new kingdoms of Western
Europe with the Emperor would be even in terms of patronage. 29
This brief reflection is necessary, since it is from these events that
Procopius begins the narrative of the war against the Goths in the History of
the Wars. The culminating point for the beginning of the conflicts would have
been, according to Procopius, the murder of Amalasuntha by Goths in
retaliation for the deaths of their relatives caused by the action of the regent
ruler. The result of this action is well narrated by Procopius:
“Now Peter 30 protested openly to Theodatus and other Goths that
because this action which had been committed by them, there would be
war without truce between the Emperor and themselves. But Theodatus,
27
Procopius, 5.3.28: σῆς βασιλείας οὖσα ἐτύγχανε.’ ταῦτα μὲν ἐκ τοῦ ἐμφανοῦς
Ἀμαλασοῦνθα βασιλεῖἔγραψε: λάθρα δὲ αὐτῷ ξύμπασαν Ἰταλίαν ἐγχειριεῖν ὡμολόγησεν.
28
Procopius, 5.4.15: ἐνταῦθα Θευδάτος τὴν Ἀμαλασοῦνθαν καθείρξας ἐτήρει. δείσας δέ,
ὅπερ ἐγένετο, μὴ βασιλεῖ ἀπ̓ αὐτοῦ προσκεκρουκὼς εἴη, ἄνδρας ἐκ τῆς Ῥωμαίων βουλῆς
Λιβέριόν τεκαὶ Ὀπιλίωνα στείλας σὺν ἑτέροις τισί, παραιτεῖσθαι πάσῃ δυνάμει βασιλέα
ἐπήγγελλεν, ἰσχυριζομένους μηδὲν πρὸς αὐτοῦ ἄχαρι τῇ Ἀμαλασούνθῃ ξυμβῆναι, καίπερ
ἐς αὐτὸν ἀνήκεστα δεινὰ εἰργασμένῃ τὰ πρότερα.
29
Cf. Cameron 1996b, 43.
30
Citizen of Thessalonica rhetorician and orator, sent from the Byzantine Empire to Italy.
Cf. Procopius, 5.3.30.
such was his stupid folly, while still holding the slayers of Amalasuntha
in honour and favour kept trying to persuade Peter and the Emperor
that this unholy deed had been committed by the Goths by no means
with his approval, but decidedly against his will.” 31
Later, we can read about the beginning of the war of the Empire against the
Goths itself: “And the Emperor, upon learning what had befallen Amalasuntha
immediately entered upon the war, being the ninth year of his reign.” 32
Conclusion
The passages analysed above lead us to state that Procopius definitely does
not understand the imperial campaigns against the Goths on the Italian
Peninsula as a process of an Imperial ‘Restoration’ or ‘Reconquest’, as
suggested by most historians on this subject. So here we return to the
question raised in the beginning of this study: what meaning could be
extracted from Justinian’s wars in Italy from Procopius’ own narratives?
Although Procopius has not classified the nature of these campaigns,
clearly in the History of the Wars, we believe that, for the historian, Justinian
had sent his troops to Italy to promote a kind of reorganization of the
imperial power and a punishment against those who had murdered a ruler,
described as protected, subordinated or even dependent on the Byzantine
government. Thus, we can conclude that, according to the analyses of the
Gothic War, Justinian would not want to send his armies to promote territorial
and political ‘Reconquest’ or ‘Restoration’ in Italy, since, in Procopius’ view,
this area did not seem to have been definitely lost from the imperial power
with the deposition of Romulus Augustulus in 476. What the historian tells us
in the Gothic War resembles rather a process of reorganization or a
restructuring of the power relations which still existed between the political
capital of the East Roman Empire, Constantinople, and their instances of
political activity in Italy. Thus, in the History of the Wars, and more specifically
in the Gothic War, the military policy of the Emperor Justinian does not seem
to be indeed a political Reconquest, but a process of reorganization or
rearrangement of one instance of Byzantine power in the Western
Mediterranean.
In this sense, our conclusion agrees with that proposed by Roger Scott,
quoted above. However, we emphasise here the difference in the way that we
arrived at our conclusion. Scott, in his analysis, worked with a comparison
31
Procopius, 5.4.30-31: Πέτρος μὲν οὖν Θευδάτῳ ἄντικρυς ἐμαρτύρετοκαὶ Γότθοις τοῖς
ἄλλοις ὅτι δὴ αὐτοῖς τοῦ δεινοῦ τούτου ἐξειργασμένου ἄσπονδος βασιλεῖ τε καὶ σφίσιν ὁ
πόλεμος ἔσται. Θευδάτος δὲ ὑπὸ ἀβελτερίας τοὺς Ἀμαλασούνθης φονεῖς ἐν τιμῇ τε καὶ
σπουδῇἔχων, Πέτρον τε καὶ βασιλέα πείθειν ἤθελεν ὡς αὐτοῦ οὐδαμῆ ἐπαινοῦντος, ἀλλ̓ὡς
μάλιστα ἀκουσίου, Γότθοις ἐργασθείη τὸ μίασμα τοῦτο.
32
Procopius, 5.5.1: βασιλεὺς δὲ τὰ ἀμφὶ Ἀμαλασούνθῃ ξυνενεχθέντα μαθὼν εὐθὺς
καθίστατο ἐςτὸνπόλεμον, ἔνατον ἔτος τὴν βασιλείαν ἔχων.
History of Wars 219
between the writings of Procopius’ stories and the chronicle of Malalas. In

other words, his reflection took into consideration a comparison between
information extracted from not only two different authors from the same
period, but from two different genres of writing.
In our proposal, we believe that it is possible to question the idea that a
war of ‘Reconquest’ was Justinian’s purpose for Italy using specifically the
narratives of the Gothic War and, to a lesser extent, another important
contemporary historian of Procopius, Jordanes. We do not disagree that
works like Scott’s enrich and make the study of Justinian’s period even more
plentiful of possibilities for analysis and are more effective in raising
questions and reaching conclusions. However, by using the History of the Wars
to question a consolidated view of historiography about the sixth century,
which was developed using the same books, we want to highlight the
importance that a more careful consideration of this document may have on
the study of historiographical problems even wider and more complex, such
as discussions regarding the ‘Fall of Rome’ or ‘The End of the Roman Empire
in the West’.
The questions posed here about historiographical assumptions
consolidated for this conflicted period of Byzantine history, do not have the
goal to determine, once and for all, a new approach to this subject, which
would be too pretentious. However, we believe that the exercise of
questioning the document, to relativize the knowledge, the act of
constructing and deconstructing, are intrinsic functions of the historical
profession, which makes the past a dynamic object of study in a constant
state of elaboration.
Bibliography
Primary sources
Procopius, De Bello Gothico. History of The Wars. The Gothic War 3, transl. H.B. Dewing
(London & Cambridge MA, 2006).
Jordanes, Getica. The Gothic History of Jordanes, transl. Ch.C. Mierow (Princeton &
London, 1915).
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Adshead, K. (1993) ‘The Secret History of Procopius and its Genesis’, Byzantium 63,
5-28.
Brown, P. (1971) The World of Late Antiquity. AD 150-750 (New York & London).
Cameron, A. (1996a) Procopius and the Sixth Century (London).
(1996b) The Mediterranean World in Late Antiquity: AD 395-600 (London & New
York).
(2004) ‘Justin I and Justinian’, in Eadem, B.Ward-Perkins & M. Whitby (eds.)
The Cambridge Ancient History 14: Late Antiquity: Empire and Successors, A.D. 425–600
(Cambridge) 63-85.
Evans, J.A.S. (1970) ‘Justinian and the Historian Procopius’, G&R, 218-223.
(1996) The Age of Justinian. The circumstances of imperial power (New York).
Haldon, J.F. (1997) Byzantium in the seventh Century. The Transformation of a Culture
(Cambridge).
Kaldellis, A. (2004) Procopius of Caesarea: Tyranny, History, and Philosophy at the End of
Antiquity (Philadelphia PA).
Marincola, J. (ed.) (2007) A Companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, 2 Vols.
(Oxford).
Marasco, G. (ed.) (2003) Greek and Roman Historiography in Late Antiquity. Fourth to
Sixth Century A.D. (Leiden).
Mass, M. (2005) Age of Justinian (Cambridge).
Momigliano, A. (2004) As raízes clássicas da historiografia moderna (Bauru).
Ostrogorsky, G. (1956) History of the Byzantine State (Oxford).
Pazdernik, C. (2000) ‘Procopius and Thucydides on the Labor of War: Belisarius
and Brasidas in the Field’, TAPhA 130, 149-187.
Scott, R. (2012a) ‘Chronicles versus Classicizing History: Justinian’s West and
East’, in Idem, Byzantine Chronicles and the Sixth Century (Collected Works)
(London), VI-1-25.
History of Wars 221
(2012b) ‘Justinian’s new age and the Second Coming’, in Idem, Byzantine
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Treadgold, W. (2010) The Early Byzantine Historians. (London).
222
The barbarians and the city 223
Ivo Topalilov
Shumen University
The barbarians and the city: comparative study of the impact of the
barbarian invasions in 376-378 and 442-447 on the urbanism of
Philippopolis, Thrace
Introduction
The decision of Constantine to rename Byzantion as a new capital
Constantinopolis in 330 had an immense effect on the Balkan provinces,
particularly Thrace. This province and its capital Philippopolis were in close
proximity to the new city; in fact we can say that they were the hinterland of
Constantinopolis, which was a good ground for flourishing life in all aspects. It
is even possible to argue that the cities in this province, part of the diocese of
Thracia, faced their second period of growth, after that of the Antonines and
Severi almost a century earlier. In the time of Constantine and afterwards,
most of the cities reached their former limits of urban space, and some of
them even expanded and become bigger than before. It is not by accident
that this period was also called the ‘Constantine Renaissance’. A typical
example of this period is Serdica (modern Sofia), the capital of Dacia
Mediterranea, whose urban area of almost 84 hectares was as much as twice
bigger than the area of Roman Serdica from earlier centuries. 1 Among these
cities was the capital of the province of Thracia – Philippopolis (modern
Plovdiv) which slowly recovered from middle of the third century, when the
Goths plundered the city and took away more than 100,000 citizens. 2 It seems
that in the time of Licinius (308-324), Constantine (307-337) and his
successors, Philippopolis not only recovered and populated the area of the
old Roman city, but at some point its urban area even exceeded the earlier
urban space, 3 which is estimated at about 80 hectares. 4
The new situation increased the importance of the Thracian region.
The new status quo, however, had a double effect on this region since it
became a buffer zone between the Constantine’s city and the chaotic world of
the barbarians that settled in the Lower Danube area from the second half of
the fourth century onwards. 5 From this time on, Thrace suffered frequently
after the barbarian invasions headed to the capital of the Empire, or its rich
1
Dinchev 2001, 224.
2
Iord. Get. 18.101-03; Dexipp. Frg. 20; Zossimi 1.23; Amm. Marc. 31.5.15
3
Topalilov 2012b, 415 ff.
4
Mateev 1993, 91; Dinchev 2001, 224.
5
Velkov 1988, 147-48; 174-80.
224 Ivo Topalilov
vicinity. Large masses of barbarians in some periods, as for example 375-

425/450, the second half of sixth century and a first half of seventh century,
regularly plundered Thracian cities and villages. Yet, in the end it was the
barbarian invasions of the first half of seventh century, more precisely the
Avaro-Slavs, who put an end to the civic life in Thrace. Various aspects of the
impact of these invasions on the civic life in the Balkans 6 and the diocese of
Thracia in particular have been discussed in earlier literature. 7 The study of
the latter is mostly linked to the names of V. Velkov, V. Dintchev, K. Stanev,
and A. Poulter. Velkov’s attention was concentrated on ancient urbanization
in the territory of modern Bulgaria, focusing on written and epigraphic
sources, and monuments. 8 His study was completed by Dintchev’s dealing
with the terminology, and the immediate effect of urbanization on the cities
as revealed by the archaeological excavations. The next step in research
should be seen in the studies of K. Stanev. 9 Major problems of this transitional
period have also been discussed by Poulter, whose recent studies have
concentrated on society in the regions north of the Balkan mountain range. 10
Philippopolis (Plovdiv) and the archaeological evidence

It is not surprising that one of most important and largest cities in the
Balkans, Philippopolis and its vicinity was the target of many barbarian
actions, some of which are mentioned in the written sources. 11 As one of the
main strongholds, however, its importance prevailed throughout the
centuries and it was abandoned by the Romans only when the very existence
of the Empire was in question, in the times of Heraclius (r. 610-641). Until that
time the city was well-maintained and well fortified. The existing walls were
repaired in the times of Julian (r. 361-363), 12 and the building of the new walls
is dated in the reign of Justinian I (r. 527-567) 13 and later. In the period when
almost all of the cities in Thrace were in decline, Philippopolis was able to
host the whole western imperial army as shown in the case of the winter of
601. 14
The Late Antique Philippopolis and the problems of its development
and urbanization have been studied many times. 15 Despite its importance,
however, no study has been made on the impact of the Barbarian invasions
on the civic life in Philippopolis, in particular those prior to the Avaro-Slav
6
On the cities in the Balkans that time cf. Dunn 1994; Dagron 1984; Poulter 1992.
7
For the literature in Bulgarian see recently K. Stanev 2012.
8
See the studies cited in Velkov 1988.
9
K. Stanev 2012.
10
Poulter 2007a, 174-75; 2007b, 164.
11
See Velkov 1959, 31-55 with comments
12
Amm. Marcell. 22.7.7.
13
Proc. De aedif. 4.11.
14
Theoph. Sam. 8.4.3-8.
15
See for instance Kesjakova 2001, 165-72 and literature cited in this article
invasion. This may be due to archaeological excavations in Plovdiv not being

fully published or just short reports appearing in inaccessible periodicals etc.
Lack of any particular studies on this topic represents a significant gap in the
Bulgarian and Philippopolitane archaeology. The prevailing opinion among
scholars is that the Gothic invasions in 376-378 did not affect the city, since
the Barbarians were “in peace with the curtain walls”, 16 while most damages to
the urban life happened during the Hun invasions in the middle of the fifth
century, when the city’s landscape changed dramatically. 17 It might be so,
since the archaeological excavations in Plovdiv attested a clear distinction of
a burnt layer dated to the middle of the fifth century, connected with the
Hunnic invasions of the 440s. If we study, however, more meticulously the
results of the excavations in Plovdiv, a different picture is revealed. In this
respect this paper is the first attempt to explore how the barbarian invasions
of the third quarter of the fourth century, and second quarter/middle of the
fifth century affected the space within the urban area directly and indirectly.
The Gothic wars of 376-378 have been repeatedly discussed in the earlier
scholarship, and there is no need to discuss them here in more detail. 18 Some
general remarks, however, are needed in connection with their impact on the
cities. Our best source, Ammianus Marcellinus, clearly reveals that during
these wars it was only the rural settlements and buildings that suffered
heavily. 19 This evidence is well-attested also in the other sources, such as
Jerome, who mentioned that the Goths destroyed churches, and that the
relics were taken. 20 He also informs us elsewhere about devastated cities
(vastatis urbibus) in Thrace and Illyricum. 21 Jerome was followed in this part
by Rufinus, 22 but such a statement contradicts what Jerome himself
mentioned elsewhere: that what was left after the Goths were only de
semirutis villulis. 23 The message is clear: everything that was unprotected and
available was destroyed. Complete destruction was not the main aim of the
Goths, but rather a search for plunder, which is important to underline since
it reveals the character of the Goths’ vastationis.
Despite the lack of any written sources testifying that the vicinity of
Philippopolis suffered during the Gothic wars, it is logical to assume it, given
the results provided by archaeological excavations and the coin hoards dated
to that time. The hoards found at localities such as Boretz and Trud, 24 with
16
Velkov 1959, 37-38; also Velkov 1977, 147-48; 174-80.
17
Dinchev 2001, 223 ff.
18
See for instance Kulikowski 2007; Heather 2003; Wolfram 1990.
19
Amm. Marcell. 31.8.6; 31.16.3.
20
Eus. Hier. Epist. 60.16.
21
Eus. Hier. Comm. 12.
22
Per idem tempus in Orientis regno Gothorum gens sedibus suis pulsa, per omnes se Thracias
infudit, armisque urbes et agros vastare feraliter coepit (Rufin, Hist. eccl. 2.13).
23
Eus. Hier. Epist. 66.14.
24
Kolev 1977, 125-28.
226 Ivo Topalilov
latest coins dated to the reign of Constantius II (r. 337-361), may well be
connected with the Goth invasions in Thrace. The archaeological excavations
also attributed the end of the villages in Thrace to these invasions. 25 One such
village, located in close proximity to Philippopolis, had its storage building
destroyed after the time of Constantius II, as the excavation reveals. 26 The
other villages attested in the vicinity shared the same destiny. 27
The archaeological excavations in Plovdiv reveal that some of the
buildings ceased to exist, destroyed by fire in the late fourth century. One
such building is situated in the southern periphery of the Late Antique city,
extra muros, interpreted as a storage building [Fig. 1.1]. It is built after the
middle of fourth century when this area of the necropolis ceased to exist. 28
Three construction-periods were attested in the course of excavation. The
first one ended with almost total destruction of the building in the late fourth
century. 29 Yet, the building was later restored and used until the sixth
century. 30 One more building with a similar function was discovered close to
the earlier mentioned building, also extra muros, and dated to the fourth
century [Fig. 1.2]. 31 Some other building structures were also discovered extra
muros, such as the furnaces of a pottery workshop and these also ceased to
exist towards the end of fourth century [Fig. 1.3]. 32
Three more buildings are believed to have ceased to exist sometime
near the end of the fourth century. One of them is another pottery workshop
located in the eastern periphery of the Late Antique city extra muros [Fig. 1.4].
It is clear that this building was set on fire. It is not, however, quite clear
when the fire occurred, since the excavator dates it to the time of
Constantine I (r. 306-337), 33 but the pottery, including lamps, is dated to the
late fourth century, or even the beginning of the fifth century. 34 After the
workshop was destroyed, a Christian necropolis dated to the late fourth
century appeared in its place, 35 again within the pomerium of the city. The fact
25
See the examples in Dinchev 2002a.
26
Djambov 1954, 298-99.
27
See Tsontchev 1948, 35-47; 1954, 273-80.
28
Chronologically the latest coin in the graves found in this part of the pomerium is dated
to the reign of Constans (337-350) – see Botušarova & Kesjakova 1983, 264. The same is the
date of a painted tomb found in the vicinity – Mavrodinov 1927, 21-53; on the date of the
painting – see Pillinger, Popova et al. 1999, 42-46.
29
Botušarova & Tankova 1982, 56, no.42.
30
Kesjakova 1975, 111-15.
31
See Botušarova & Tankova 1982, 57, no.49; Botušarova & Kesjakova 1980, 126, 128, Fig. 5.
32
Кolev 1971, 104-05.
33
Bospatchieva 1991, 87-109; 2004, 89 ff., 93. It remains unclear the ground for such date
since no coins were found.
34
Some other examples of the production of this workshop were found in other
excavations in Plovdiv where the stratigraphic sequence is clearer and well dated –
Topalilov 2007, 387-90.
35
On the necropolises – see Bospatchieva 1998.
that these Christian graves did not appear earlier, as is the case everywhere
else in Philippopolis, shows the site was not occupied until the late fourth
century.
Another building has been discovered recently. Despite the
fragmentary nature of the excavation, it seems clear that it had been a
peristyle-type building whose atrium and part of the surrounding rooms
were excavated. The building is located within the space protected by the
suspended wall area [Fig. 1.5]. The excavation reveals that the building was
destroyed by fire and the numismatic evidence dated it to the last quarter of
the fourth century. 36 The fire that caused the end of the so-called eastern
thermae is dated towards the end of the fourth century [Fig. 1.6]. It was after
the excavation of an area with a rich mosaic floor that it was said to be a part
of this thermal construction and where the last coins found in the burnt layer
can be dated to the reign of Constantius II. 37 The excavation of the other,
main part, however, shows that the end of the construction should relate to
the middle of the fifth century and the Huns’ invasions. 38
After this short review one may conclude that the evidence supports
the idea that these barbarian invasions did affect Philippopolis, and that
destruction of these buildings was a consequence of invasion. It is
noteworthy, that almost all of the buildings, with two exceptions, were
located outside the city walls, which makes them unprotected and easily
accessible in time of war. The possible demolishment of these buildings
should not be surprising, bearing in mind the character of Gothic wars. Two
of the buildings discovered were in fact grain storages (horreum). As the
written sources clearly reveal the Goths were “inexperienced in conducting a
siege”, and their leader Fritigern “kept peace with walls”. He advised the Goths
“to attack and devastate the rich and fruitful parts of the country, which were still
without protectors and could be pillaged without any danger”. 39 It is said also by
Ammianus that:
“… advancing cautiously they spread over every quarter of Thrace,
while their prisoners or those who surrendered to them pointed out the
rich villages, especially those in which it was said that abundant
supplies of food were to be found.”
The Goths were shown “hidden stores of grain, and the secret refuges and hiding-
places of the inhabitants.” 40 This is proven by the already mentioned
36
Bozhinova & Hristeva 2012, 334-35.
37
Bospatchieva 2002b, 304.
38
See Tsontchev 1950, 137; Kesjakova 1999, 43.
39
Tunc Fritigernus frustra cum tot cladibus conluctari, homines ignaros obsidendi contemplans,
relicta ibi manu sufficiente, abire negotio inperfecto suasit, pacem sibi esse cum parietibus
memorans, suadensque ut populandas opimas regiones et uberes, absque discrimine ullo, vacaus
praesidiis etiam tum adorerentur (Amm. Marcell. 31.6.4).
40
Amm. Marcell. 31.6.3-6.
228 Ivo Topalilov
archaeological evidence from Thrace revealing a devastating effect on the

small and unfortified villages. 41
Philippopolis: specific sites

More puzzling is the destruction of the two buildings found within the
curtain walls of Philippopolis, since they reveal at first glance that some parts
of the fortified city also suffered. However, the small scale excavation of the
perystile-type building where the atrium was mainly discovered is not
sufficient for a precise date of the fire that caused the end of the construction
itself. The same is also valid for the eastern thermae of Philippopolis. The
destruction of this building near the end of the fourth century with
subdivision of the initial large complex into smaller units could be explained
by the urbanistic changes that occurred in Philippopolis near the end of the
fourth century, caused not by the Gothic wars, but by the development of the
Christian landscape.
It is well known that in the time of Theodosius I (r. 379-395) two very
important Christian buildings were built in Philippopolis. Their appearance
affected seriously the Christianization of the city and its acceptance of
orthodoxy over Arianism. On the one hand, we have the construction of the
martyrium of 38 saints said to have been martyred during the Great
Persecution in 304 near the eastern gate of Philippopolis [Fig. 1.15]. 42 On the
other hand, a new Episcopal basilica was placed in the very centre of the city.
It immense proportions clearly demonstrate the rising importance of
Christianity and its leader in the city – the bishop [Fig. 1.8]. 43 The link
between these two new dominant landmarks is provided by a special
colonnaded street which is the largest and most richly decorated example not
only in Philippopolis, but in the whole province [Fig. 1.7]. 44 This street
connected two sacred Christian places, the martyrium and the Episcopal
basilica and as such was used no doubt for the so-called stational liturgy. 45
The colonnaded street itself is straight and the only way to reach the
Episcopal basilica was by going through the eastern thermal complex [Fig.
1.6], which seems to have been subdivided for this purpose into two smaller
buildings. So, we should keep in mind these observations, as well as the
official attitude of the Christian authorities towards the thermal buildings
41
A full list of the vici plundered and destroyed by the third quarter of 4th c. – see the
examples in Dinchev 2002a.
42
On the martyrium, its construction, phases, dates – see Bospatchieva 2001b, 59-69;
Topalilov & Ljubenova 2010, 59-70; Popova & Topalilov 2013; on the martyrs – Delehaye
1912, 192-94.
43
On the Episcopal basilica – its construction, phases, mosaics etc. – see Kesjakova 1989a,
2535-59; 1994, 165-70.
44
On this street, architectural decoration and date – see Botušarova & Kesjakova 1983,
266-69; Martinova-Kjutova & Pirovska 2011, 211-34; Topalilov 2012a, 137-42.
45
On this kind of liturgy – see Baldovin 1987.
shown in the answers of Pope Nicholas I to the Bulgar khan Boris in the ninth
century. 46 Thus, it is plausible to suggest that the eastern thermal complex of
Philippopolis was reduced initially in size, not because of the Gothic sack of
the city in 376-378, but because of the dominant position of Christianity and
the city bishop. This might be regarded as a direct effect of Christianization
on the urban area. 47 In fact, no signs of any other destruction related to the
Gothic wars are attested in the other excavations in Plovdiv where life
continued undisturbed.
It seems that the cases described were not only the consequence of the
Gothic wars and its impact on the urbanistic development of Philippopolis. It
is true that in some cases the constructions were recovered, but in some
others they were not. Instead, the archaeological excavations reveal that
some new buildings with almost identical features were built within the
fortified area. They were clearly distinguished with their massive mortar
floors and immense size and are usually interpreted in the literature as
storage buildings, mostly for grain. One such building made in opus mixtum
was partly excavated on ‘Makgahan’ Street. The excavations revealed one of
the rooms had walls more than 11 m in length, and a floor made of 10 cm
thick hydrophobic pink mortar. The building is dated to the fourth/fifth
century and no small finds were found [Fig. 1.9]. 48
Another similar building located to the southern part of the city was
also partly excavated. Seven rooms were located situated around a big room
covering a space of more than 20 m2, covered with massive hydrophobic pink
mortar [Fig. 1.10]. Special small holes were also attested in the floor, identical
with those found in the storage building discovered close by. 49 There were no
small finds in the large room, but finds from the other rooms enabled dating
of the building to the fourth/middle of the fifth century, when it was
destroyed by fire. 50 One more building of this type was discovered in the
eastern part of the city, having a specially designed room with big pythoi and
grain storage. It is dated to the late fourth/beginning of the fifth century [Fig.
1.11]. 51
It is obvious that the construction of those buildings within the
fortified area was made in order to prevent the disaster that occurred in 376-
378. It is also possible that the Gothic wars in fact acted as a catalyst for this
typical Late Antique urbanistic process of change, which happened not only
in Philippopolis, but also in other cities in Thrace. There is also, however,
another process going on simultaneously with that at Philippopolis. The
archaeological excavations in Plovdiv reveal the appearance of abundantly
46
See Nic. Papae, Resp. Cap. 6.
47
A special study is to be devoted to this process.
48
Kesjakova, Tankova et al. 2004, 284, 301, Fig. 17.
49
Kesjakova 1975, 114-15.
50
Topalilov 2009, 237-40.
51
Martinova-Kjutova 2008, 398.
230 Ivo Topalilov
decorated houses with expensive mosaic floors, during the last quarter of the
fourth/beginning of the fifth century. One such building was discovered at
the foot of the Three Hills area, which had been the ancient Acropolis of
Philippopolis. It was restored in the second half of the third century, 52 but as
early as the late fourth century the main room was richly decorated with a
marine mosaic floor, 53 while wall-paintings were painted in some of the
rooms [Fig. 1.12]. 54 There is one more building on the Three Hills originally
made in the third century, with rich floor mosaic decoration dated to the late
fourth/beginning of the fifth century [Fig. 1.13]. 55
The so-called ‘EIPHNH’ building, which spread over almost the whole
insula from the earlier period is also very important in this context [Fig. 1.14].
On the basis of the date provided by the mosaic floor from the aula of the
complex, it is clear that the reception room received its mosaic floor in the
380s. 56 The personification presented in the pseudo-emblem of the mosaic is
that of EIPHNH 57 presented with veil and cross, i.e. clearly distinguished as a
Christian saint. The date of the mosaic and known divisions in the Christian
community in Philippopolis between the Arians and the Orthodox led Popova
to believe that this image has a close connection with the Second Ecumenical
Council held in the Church of St Eirene in Constantinople in 381. She is
inclined to accept that this building is in fact the episcopeion of Philippopolis
in that period. 58 Its importance can be clearly observed by a cardo, made to
gain access between that complex and the Episcopal basilica located about
50m away, 59 paved with disregard to the existing street network.
The existence of the episcopeion within the limits of the fortified city at
the start of Theodosius’ rule might protect it from barbarian attacks in the
future. This goes in line with the main features of such kind of buildings. 60 In
the case with Philippopolis, as we may notice, it was not only the episcopeion
that moved into the fortified area. The houses with rich mosaic floor
decorations, mentioned earlier, were not the only ones of their kind in
Philippopolis. 61 The main reason for the appearance of the ‘EIPHNH’ building
in the centre of the city may have also displayed the power of the Christian
bishop in Philippopolis. The appearance of this building, as well as two more
52
Botušarova 1977.
53
Tankova 1980, 27 ff.
54
Tankova 2009, 390.
55
Botušarova 1960, 165-68; Popova-Moroz 1987, 265-66; Koranda 1992, 86.
56
For the excavation - see Karov & Bospatchieva 1989, 129-64; Bospatchieva 2003, 83-105.
On the mosaic – Bospatchieva 2005, 47-51; Popova 2013.
57
On this personification – see Pillinger 2010, 145 ff.
58
Popova 2013.
59
The date of the cardo is still under discussion – see Karov & Bospatchieva 1989, 136, 149,
but it is accepted recently that it was made before middle of 5th c. – Dinchev 2002b, 223,
n.15.
60
Muller-Wiener 1984, 103-45.
61
For the others – see recently Kesjakova 2009b, 137-62.
with rich decoration at the same time is unlikely to be an accident. I think it

can be established that there is a close link between the Gothic wars and this
process that went on in Philippopolis.
As was shown above, the Gothic wars heavily affected Thracian
villages. As a consequence, fortified havens appeared where the population
might have sought some protection. The archaeological excavations reveal
that those fortifications started to appear in the second half/late fourth
century. 62 The barbarian invasions, however, made also a great impact on the
villa rustica spread over the province. In fact, it is believed that it was exactly
the Gothic wars that put an end to the villa economy in Thrace. 63 So, it is
possible to speculate that the owners of the villas destroyed by the Goths
moved to the cities, where they found protection and safety behind the
curtain walls. Since the villas were not restored afterwards, as was the case
elsewhere, I am inclined to advance the idea that in fact the richly decorated
houses in Philippopolis, which appeared in the late fourth/beginning of the
fifth century might have belonged to these rich owners of destroyed villas
who moved and settled in the city. If so, we can assume that some of the
changes that appeared in the urbanistic development of Philippopolis in the
late fourth century were in fact occurring after 376-378.
We have more certain data on numerous Hun invasions and their
impact on the topography of Philippopolis during the 440s. The most
devastating was the raid in 447, when Attila launched his most powerful
attack against the Empire. The main targets were the cities in the dioceses of
Thracia and Dacia. The written sources provide information that more than
70 towns suffered. 64 Among them was Philippopolis, besieged and captured by
the Ostrogoths, under the leadership of Valamer, Tuidimir and Vidimir. 65
Throughout its history Philippopolis has been sacked and plundered
many times. Two of these sackings are quite visible in almost all excavations
in Plovdiv. One of them is from the middle of the third century when the city
was plundered by Kniva’s Goths, and the other one – the sack by the Huns in
the 440s. They are both attested by a clearly distinguished burnt layer. The
archaeological excavations reveal that during the second sack the insulae
located south of the Three Hills suffered 66 [Fig. 2.1], including the ‘EIPHNH’,
residential building and surrounding areas, the south quarters of the city [Fig.
2.2-6], 67 the eastern quarters including the Synagogue [Fig. 2.7] 68 and the
62
Dinchev 2006, 45-46.
63
Dinchev 1997, 125.
64
Marcellinus Comes, Chron. Min. (447) 15.2-4 - Ingens bellum et priore maius per Attilam regem
nostris inflictum paene totam Europam excisis invasisque civitatibus atque castellis conrasit; also
Prisk. Hist. Byz. Frg. 16.
65
A. Stanev 2012, 24.
66
The most recent Tankova 2011a, 338-39.
67
See the sites in Topalilov 2009, 237-40; Tankova & Garbov 2012, 339-41; Kesjakova 2008,
241-42; Kesjakova, Tankova et al. 2004, 282-83.
232 Ivo Topalilov
martyrium of 38 martyrs [Fig. 2.8], 69 as well as western quarters and those

located on the Three Hills [Fig. 2.9]. 70 The Agora [Fig. 2.10] ceased to exist
after this event, 71 and it seems that the Episcopal basilica also suffered [Fig.
2.11], as a burnt layer from that time was discovered beneath the mosaic floor
dated to the second quarter of the fifth century. It seems that almost all of
the fortified and unfortified territory of Philippopolis had been affected while
the Huns plundered the city. Therefore, it is not surprising that scholars
arrived at the conclusion that after the middle of the fifth century
Philippopolis changed radically its urbanistic landscape. 72 It is also supposed
that after these invasions the Roman urbanization with its street network,
Agora etc. effectively ended. 73 Some scholars even tend to believe that “a
common tendency of reduction of the cities” was undergone after the Hunnic
invasions, which caused the abandonment of already existing buildings. 74
The archaeological excavations reveal that in some cases a dramatic
change occurred in the residential architecture. It is to be seen within the
ruins of the old huge complexes where some humble dwellings were built
reusing the remains of the old buildings. In some cases, the functions of the
old rooms were changed as, for instance, with the so-called ‘Narcissus
building’, named after the mosaic in one of the rooms [Fig. 2.12], located in
the eastern quarters of the city. Here, the remains from the fifth-sixth
century building were constructed from stone and mud. In the old impluvium
an oval grain storage was found and also some furnaces nearby. It seems that
the storage part of the building excavated here had been situated within the
old atrium. 75 The new construction technique used reveals economical
decline, since it was mostly mud-bricks used in the superstructure of the
walls over the stone bound with mortar remains in the substructure and
lower part of superstructure. In some cases, the floors were made with clay.
The ‘Narcissus building’ was not the exception of what was happening
elsewhere in Philippopolis. It seems that the same thing happened to the
eastern part of the so-called eastern thermae, where the remains of the walls
of this monumental structure were adapted for dwelling houses and
workshops. 76 Here, and in the ‘Narcissus building’, the appearance of these
workshops can be easily explained by the water supply that made this
location very convenient for a workshop. This is not new and we are aware of
68
Kesjakova 1989b, 29, 31.
69
Bospatchieva 2001b, 59-69; Popova & Topalilov 2013.
70
Tankova 2011b, 340-41.
71
Most recently Topalilov 2012b, 382.
72
Dinchev 2002, 223, n.15; see also Botušarova 1977, 100 who believes that Philippopolis
reduced its territory after 5th c.
73
Kesjakova 1993, 94; 1994a, 197.
74
Tankova & Garbov 2012, 341.
75
Kesjakova 2009a, 115-29; 2004, 59-68.
76
Bospatchieva 2002b, 304.
some more examples where the ruins of thermal buildings were reused in
this way. 77
In some other cases, it seems that the buildings were not restored since
the date of their existence is cited as late as the fifth century. One such site is
the residential complex in the south suburb [Fig. 2.6]. 78 It seems that this is
also the case with some other sites located here [Fig. 2.4], 79 as well as the
eastern one especially the area where in the third quarter of the fifth century
a new basilica was built instead of reconstructing old buildings [Fig. 2.13]. 80 In
most of these cases, the dating to the fifth century is due to absence of
material for precise dating, such as coins and other small finds, 81 which to my
mind is not an accurate argument for such dating. Nonetheless, it is clear that
some places remained in ruins and some of the old structures were not
rebuilt in the same size and manner in the second half of the fifth century.
Still, the conclusion that Philippopolis changed radically its urbanistic
landscape, and that the old urbanization, including the street network,
ceased to exist seems forced and overestimates the known up-to-date
archaeological data.
It is not the intention here to discuss all currently known
archaeological data, but it is quite clear that the ancient street network
continued to exist after the second half of the fifth century. There are
numerous cases of these streets used after that time and buildings such as the
basilica built over it, but not in the fifth, but in the sixth century, 82 which is
well attested by the latest archaeological excavations. 83 The excavations also
reveal that despite destructions the houses in the insulae were recovered
soon, using the old layout in most cases. The only difference is the decline of
the technique with the use of white mortar mixed up with pieces of pottery
instead of pink mortar, as well as more extensive use of mud. We are aware of
numerous buildings which have existed within the broader frame of the
second-sixth century, 84 or fourth-sixth century. This means that they were
either undisturbed or quickly recovered after the destruction. We can even
observe an expansion of the city outside the curtain wall as is the case with
the buildings located in the northern part of the southern necropolis, which
existed in the fifth-sixth century. 85
The quick recovery of the city in its old shape is visible in the rich
residential houses. A good example can be obtained in the case of the
77
See the examples cited in Leone 2003, 269.
78
Kesjakova 2008, 241-42.
79
See for instance in Tankova 2011c, 340-41; Tankova & Garbov 2012.
80
On this basilica – see Bospatchieva 2002a, 55-76; Gerassimova 2002, 77-82.
81
Kesjakova 2008, 242.
82
See for instance the basilica in the eastern slope of the Three hills – Tankova 2001, 116.
83
See the case in Bozhinova 2012, 337.
84
Botušarova & Tankova 1982, 53, no.28.
85
Botušarova 1956, 111-40; Kesjakova, Tankova et al. 2004, 278-80.
234 Ivo Topalilov
‘EIPHNH’ house, which was destroyed as the burnt layer indicates. The aula of
the residence, i.e. the room with the ‘EIPHNH’ mosaic continued to exist, and
the mosaic itself was partly mended or ‘pieced up’. In fact, some new mosaics
were laid out in the second half of the fifth century. 86 An easily identified
burnt layer, 5-10 cm thick, was found only in the rooms 9 and 10, beneath the
mosaic floor. 87 It seems that this building did not suffer much and recovered
quickly. The thick burnt layer might well indicate that it was mostly the
wooden roof and, if it existed, the second storey wooden floor that was
affected by fire. The new reconstructed building was richly re-decorated and
continued to exist until the beginning of the seventh century. 88
Another similar case may be found in the so-called ‘Aristocratic house’
located just off the Agora, in close distance to the ‘EIRHNH’ building [Fig. 2.5].
The excavations reveal that during its last (fourth) period the building
covered an area of more than 2,100 m2 with a triclinium and large aula richly
decorated with mosaic floors. A decumanus passing by was closed and a
monumental entrance was built. It is attested that this period, dated between
the beginning of the fourth and second half/late sixth cenutury, saw many
reconstructions and repairs without major change of layout and features. As
with the ‘EIPHNH’ building, there is also a new mosaic floor laid out in the
triclinium. 89 The case of the so-called ‘Residential complex’ located in the
eastern quarter of the city is similar. Its aula was also decorated with a mosaic
floor of the fifth–sixth century, but in the sixth century its own thermal
complex on a small scale was built. The latter was also decorated with
mosaics. 90
The Hunnic invasions have been used for a while in scholarship as an
explanation for the fact that after the middle of the fifth century, the
complex of the Agora ceased to exist. It has only been suggested recently that
the Agora was abandoned, rather than destroyed by the barbarian
invasions. 91 Such an explanation is acceptable, not only because there is no
sign of a burnt layer on site, but also due to the fact that as the archaeology
and epigraphy reveals the centre of the Christian Philippopolis in the second
half of the fifth century actually moved to the eastern gate. 92 The Episcopal
86
This period was identified as fourth one by Popova 2013. Until this moment it is widely
accepted that this is in fact the second mosaic period – Bospatchieva 2003, 88-89, 100-02.
87
Bospatchieva 2003, 88, 102.
88
The last coin is minted during the reign of Phocas (602-610), found in burnt layer – see
Bospatchieva 2003, 102.
89
Kesjakova 2008, 235-40; on the mosaic- see Kesjakova 2009b, 137-62; Bospatchieva 2005,
52-53.
90
For the complex - Kesjakova 1998, 159-71; Kesjakova 2008, 242; on the mosaics –
Kesjakova 1999, 88-92; Bospačieva 2005, 52-53.
91
Dinchev 2009, 63-81. The case of the Agora in Philippopolis is not an exception; there
are numerous examples of agoroi and fora that ceased to exist in the same manner – see
Lavan 2003, 318.
92
A special study will be devoted to this process.
basilica also recovered fast. The lower mosaic was not that badly damaged
and therefore the appearance of another mosaic should be connected to some
other reason, but not to the Hunnic invasions. The new mosaic covered more
than 700 m2. The same situation is recorded in the Synagogue, which was
restored and received a new mosaic floor. The Episcopal basilica as well as the
Synagogue both continued to exist until the end of the sixth century. 93
Quick recovery of the city, which followed the invasions, suggests that
the Gothic sack of the city was not so extensive in its destruction. 94 Most of
the buildings were not only restored, but received new and more expensive
decoration. In the case of the Episcopal basilica the new mosaic floor is strong
evidence of the economic power of the Christian community and the city
itself. On the other hand, the written sources do not mention anything
particular about Philippopolis and its suffering, as it is the case with Naissus,
for instance. 95 This means that the Hunnic invasion also did not affect the city
on such a great scale as was assumed in the earlier scholarly literature.
Despite burning houses and other buildings, we are unable to see any signs of
spolia, 96 i.e. any specific destruction made on purpose and even the written
sources use ordinary terms for the effect of the Huns’ invasions on the cities.
Philippopolis not only recovered quickly, but it also received new richly
decorated buildings. The city even extended over the territory of the
necropolises which shows more or less a period of prosperity. The city walls
were rebuilt so they were used in 469 by the emperor Zeno in his conflict
with Aspar, reinforced by a ditch. 97
Conclusion
In this paper I have tried to show two quite opposite views about the impact
of the barbarian invasions on the topography and urbanization of
Philippopolis during the late fourth to the middle of the fifth century that
dominates existing scholarship. On the one hand, we have the speculation of
the Gothic wars, which I believe are still not well recognized as one of the
main reasons for some changes that occurred in the Late Antique city in
Thrace. On the other hand, we have the overestimation of the Hunnic
invasions in the 440s. Despite the sack and burning of Philippopolis, the city
not only recovered very quickly, but even became bigger and more splendid
around its new monumental complexes that replaced the old traditional ones
93
Kesjakova 1989a, 29, 31; on the mosaic – see Koranda 1988/89, 218-38; Koranda 1990,
105-10; Popova 2006, 47-48.
94
Unlike the sack of the city in the middle of third century when the recovery was
possible as early as the 270s and continued up to the time of Licinius and Constantine I, cf.
Topalilov 2012a, 182-83.
95
Prisc. Frg. 5. FHG 4. 75 f.
96
See for instance the study of Coates-Stephens 2003.
97
Bospatchieva 2001a, 173-83. This means that the curtain wall which enclosed a space
south of the Three Hills was built not earlier than the middle of the sixth century.
236 Ivo Topalilov
– the Christian basilicas and the eastern gate complex. This recovery allowed
the city to enjoy another flourishing period in the time of Justinian I when
even a new monumental aqueduct was built. And it is as early as the late sixth
century when the city showed some decline, that a vast construction of a new
curtain wall, which at that time reduced the fortified area almost by half,
fundamentally changed the city landscape.
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открития и разкопки през 2010 година, 338-339.
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242 Ivo Topalilov
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Figure 1: Locations of the sites in LA Philippopolis linked to the Gothic wars.

244 Ivo Topalilov
Figure 2: Locations of the sites in LA Philippopolis linked to the Hunns’ invasion.

Between the old Rome and the new 245
Meaghan McEvoy
University of Adelaide
Between the old Rome and the new: imperial co-operation

ca. 400-500 CE
Introduction
Traditional scholarship on the fifth century once viewed it as a period of
decisive separation, not only between the two halves of a previously whole
empire, but also between eastern and western emperors, seen as ‘hostilely
indifferent’ to one another’s fortunes, especially in the case of the prospering
east towards the beleaguered west. 1 Although the unity of the empire
continued to be proclaimed on coinage and imperial documents down to the
470s, the traditional line has been that there was little to this other than an
ideological gloss, and that the east was in general unconcerned about the
disasters besetting the west and made little effort to provide genuine
assistance. 2 This view has been challenged, and rightly so, by the more
considered studies of Jones, Kaegi, and more recently by Gillett, among
others, emphasising the frequent instances of cooperation between eastern
and western courts in the fifth century under the Theodosian emperors, and
especially their joint military campaigns. 3 This paper aims to add further to
this picture however: for when closely examined, the sources reveal
considerable evidence for substantial eastern commitments to the west in
fifth century beyond the Theodosian period, highlighting that eastern
concern for its west Roman neighbour was in fact a continuous feature of
their relationship right down to the 470s, and that the aid provided, although
frequently military, often extended into other areas as well. 4
The issue of imperial cooperation or hostile indifference between east
and west Roman realms in the fifth century is of particular significance to a
study of ‘Byzantium and its neighbours’, in terms of thinking of Byzantium
both as empire and as city. The question arises: did the western Roman
empire of the fifth century constitute a neighbour, a partner, or simply
1
I am very grateful to Paul Tuffin, Jan Willem Drijvers, Caillan Davenport and Hartmut
Leppin for their careful reading of this paper and corrections and suggestions made: all
errors remain my own.
2
E.g. Demougeot 1951; Goffart 1981; Blockley 1992.
3
Jones 1964; Kaegi 1968; Gillett 1993. For a general summary of the views of modern
scholarship on eastern attitudes to western disintegration, see Kaegi 1968, 11-13.
4
Heather describes the east’s efforts to aid the west in the fifth century as “perfectly
respectable”: Heather 2005, 385.
246 Meaghan McEvoy
another part of the great whole of a still ‘Roman’ world? 5 Furthermore, did a
‘neighbour’ to Byzantium denote only those groups who were beyond Roman
frontiers, or should we interpret the term as encompassing non-Roman
subject peoples within those frontiers also? At what point did ‘barbarian’
peoples moving onto former Roman territory in Gaul, Spain and North Africa
become ‘neighbours’ to the Byzantine empire? Amidst the turmoil of the late
fifth century it can be difficult to discern at what point fledgling successor
kingdoms in the west came to be viewed as official neighbours rather than
temporary illegal settlers to be removed when enough resources could be
spared for the task – the Vandals in North Africa represent a particularly
complicated example of such a scenario. Undeniably by the 420s the balance
of power between east and west had tilted decisively towards the east as the
more able and prosperous region, and it is noteworthy that discussion of
relations between the two realms invariably approaches the issue from the
point of view of the attitude of east to west, rather than vice versa: but
certainly the west Roman empire could look for real assistance to no one else,
while its depleted finances and military offered little in the way of disposable
resources to offer the east at this point. 6 The essentially arbitrary nature of
476 as the moment of the ‘fall’ of the western imperial government adds a
further layer of complexity to this picture: as demonstrated by Croke, it is
unlikely the longer-term significance of events of 476 were apparent to
contemporaries in either the eastern or western Roman empire, and it is only
in eastern sources of the sixth century that the suggestion of the deposition
of Romulus Augustulus as a pivotal moment begins to appear. 7
One of the main aims of this paper is to demonstrate that, while the
eastern and western Roman governments were undeniably separated in their
political, administrative, military and economic structures from 395 onwards
(or even earlier), a considerable degree of close neighbourly cooperation
continued. 8 Roman imperial ideology played a key role in the advertisement
of this cooperation, through widely circulated media such as coinage,
legislation, panegyrics and distributed imperial images, media which modern
studies have highlighted as crucial to many imperial cultures through the
centuries in the dissemination of imperial ideals and achievements of rule. 9
5
As Blockley has pointed out, already in the fifth century eastern sources, though calling
themselves ‘east Romans’, begin to refer to their neighbouring Romans as ‘westerners’,
‘Italians’ and ‘Gauls’, among other names: Blockley 1992, 46-47.
6
Kaegi 1968, 16.
7
Croke 1983, esp. 114-15.
8
As Millar observes, though “real and significant” commitment to the unity of the empire
remained, the reality was of “twin empires”: Millar 2006, 3. Jones similarly writes of the
relationship between the eastern and western Roman empires of the fifth century as
essentially a traditional alliance of two sovereigns of largely independent kingdoms: Jones
1964, 1.325.
9
E.g. Burbank & Cooper 2010; Scheidel 2009; Chase-Dunn & Hall 1997; Haldon & Goldstone
2009; Haldon 2012, 1111-47; Mutschler & Mittag 2008.
But there was more to this advertisement of imperial collegiality than hollow
rhetoric: in fact these advertisements were reinforced by solid and expensive
joint activities, all too frequently overlooked in modern scholarship, but
which endured right down to the 470s.
To begin, therefore, I will briefly survey the major military aid
provided by the east to the west across the course of the fifth century and
also highlight the expenses involved in these efforts, a crucial point not
always taken into account in considerations of whether the government of
Constantinople concerned itself with the fate of Rome. Secondly, some
instances of likely administrative cooperation between the two courts
throughout the same period will be highlighted, which suggest at least
regular communication, as well as the sharing of resources and common
purpose. And finally, the familial and dynastic alliances between east and
west in the fifth century, represented particularly by eastern efforts to
provide the west with suitable emperors in its final decades, will be examined
briefly. 10
Military campaigns and their costs

To begin with military campaigns and their costs, therefore, as already noted
there were a number of important instances of eastern military commitment
to the west during the long reign of Theodosius II (sole emperor of the east
408-450), and most obviously from 424 onwards. In fact these eastern
interventions continued a fourth century Theodosian tradition: in 388 and
394 Theodosius II’s grandfather Theodosius I had personally led major
military campaigns from Constantinople to the west to restore ‘legitimate’
Roman authority there. 11 In the first few decades of the fifth century,
relations between eastern and western courts had at times been strained,
largely due to the conflicting agendas of dominant advisers of the two
courts. 12 Yet even in spite of this, 4,000 troops are reported by Zosimus and
Sozomen to have been sent by the eastern government to aid the western
emperor Honorius in 410, not a huge number perhaps, yet enough to turn the
tide of events at Ravenna in favour of the western emperor against his
Visigothic enemy at that point, and in fact logistically, a not inconsiderable
amount of soldiers to provision, equip and support. 13 The arrival of these
10
Ecclesiastical affairs also represent another major field of joint imperial activity
between east and west – at times (such as the Council of Chalcedon in 451) presenting a
united front, but not always – unfortunately constraints of space mean this further
important area cannot be discussed here.
11
As Clover points out, the tradition of eastern intervention in western matters developed
under the Theodosian dynasty would outlive the dynasty itself: Clover 1978, 171.
12
On tensions between the two courts in the first decade of the fifth century, see:
Cameron & Long 1993, 165-67; 246-50; 323-36; McEvoy 2013, 171-72; 175-76.
13
Sozomen, 9.8.6; Zosimus, 6.8.2; see also Procopius, BV 1.2.36. Additionally, as Socrates
reports, their arrival may have caused Alaric to believe Theodosius II would send further
troops: Socrates, 7.10. See further Kaegi 1968, 16-17.
248 Meaghan McEvoy
eastern troops did not prevent the sack of Rome, but did allegedly reassure
Honorius enough to cause him to remain at Ravenna with this reinforced
garrison (whom he apparently trusted more than the western troops in the
city), rather than taking ship to Constantinople himself. 14
In the later years of the 410s and early 420s relations between the
courts were again to plummet due to the rise to power of the general Fl.
Constantius, who married into the western imperial family and in 421 was
declared co-Augustus by Honorius, a move which Olympiodorus reports was
rejected by Theodosius II and the eastern court. 15 However in 423, upon the
death of Honorius (who was predeceased by Constantius), east-west imperial
relations took a distinct turn for the better, perhaps not least because from
the 420s to the 450s the respective ages and powers of the two emperors and
their realms better reflected the realities of their positions: a dominant and
paternalistic east over a weakened and junior west. 16 Upon his death, the
western emperor Honorius’ only heir was his nephew Valentinian, the son of
his half-sister Galla Placidia (and thus also the cousin of Theodosius II). And,
as luck would have it, the child Valentinian and his mother had only recently
taken refuge at Constantinople following a dispute with Honorius, and were
thus conveniently on hand in 423 for the eastern emperor to take up their
cause. 17 Theodosius, after some initial hesitation, did so with enthusiasm,
sending the five-year old Valentinian to the west in 424 with both a naval and
a military escort, led by three eastern generals (Aspar, Ardaburius and
Candidianus), to oust the usurper who had arisen there after Honorius’
death. 18 Following the defeat of the usurper John, whose ritual humiliation
and execution in the hippodrome at Aquileia show clear signs of eastern
ceremonial influence, the six-year old Valentinian III was elevated as
Augustus of the west in 425, crowned by the eastern emperor’s
representative, the magister officiorum Helion. Olympiodorus, who was
probably present at the event, reports: “Helion, the master of offices and
patrician, went to Rome and, when all had assembled there, he placed the robe of
Emperor upon Valentinian.” 19 The victory over the usurper was also celebrated
in Constantinople, we hear from Socrates: the news came while Theodosius II
14
Sozomen, 9.8.6. As Kaegi points out, Theodosius II also cooperated with his western
colleague in the closure of ports to western travellers, intending to prevent the
movement of individuals favourable to Alaric or the usurper Attalus: Kaegi 1968, 18, citing
CTh 7.16.2.
15
Olympiodorus, Frg. 33.2; see further McEvoy 2013, 214-15.
16
As Millar notes in the 410s there had been a real discordance over the relative seniority
of the emperors and the strength and stability of the two empires: Millar 2006, 53.
17
On Placidia and her children taking refuge at Constantinople, see McEvoy 2013, 216.
18
The most detailed source on the campaign is Olympiodorus, Frg. 43.1 and 43.2.
Philostorgius (13) also provides some helpful information; see further Gillett 1993 and
McEvoy 2013, 223-34.
19
Olympiodorus, Frg. 43.1. On eastern ceremonial influence, see McCormick 1986, 59-60;
and McEvoy 2010, 176-78. On Helion, see PLRE 2.533.
was attending games in the hippodrome, whereupon he stopped the

entertainment and led the populace to the great church, singing hymns. 20
As Gillett has pointed out, Valentinian was not so much restored to the
west as installed by the east, and the substantial commitment made by
Theodosius II in establishing his young cousin as the new western emperor
was not a commitment which would end in 425. 21 In 429 the Vandals under
their king Geiseric invaded North Africa, and this new western military crisis
brought with it a fresh wave of eastern military support. 22 From 431-435 until
a peace treaty was agreed, an eastern army under the general Aspar was
working in conjunction with western military forces (for some time under
the general Boniface) in north Africa, fighting the Vandals, admittedly with
limited success. 23 In 439 when the Vandals took Carthage itself, a further
major military expedition was launched by the east, arriving at Sicily in late
440, composed of a fleet twice the size of that which would retake North
Africa a century later under Belisarius, and led by no less than five eastern
generals. 24 But this eastern fleet was never to reach North Africa: in early 442
the force was recalled following major attacks on east Roman territory by the
Hunnic king Attila to deal with this more pressing eastern crisis. 25
For the next decade or so, while the east was plagued by Hunnic raids
and demands, in the west a further peace treaty with the Vandals allowed a
brief respite on the North African front. 26 When Attila swung his army
westwards, however, again the eastern government supplied aid – possibly in
the form of troops, and certainly in the form of a diversion. In 450 Theodosius
II had died, and been succeeded by the emperor Marcian, who became
essentially an honorary member of the Theodosian house through his
marriage to the late emperor’s sister Pulcheria. 27 As scholars have noted,
Marcian’s accession saw a swift reversal of east Roman attitudes towards
20
Socrates, 7.23.
21
Gillett 1993, 20.
22
On the Vandal invasion of North Africa, see Hydatius 80 (90), and Courtois 1955, 155-71;
and for a recent analysis: Merrills & Miles 2010, 52-54;.
23
Procopius, BV 3.3.34-6; Kaegi 1968, 27; Heather 2009, 9; McEvoy 2013, 255-56.
24
On the Vandal taking of Carthage, see Marcellinus comes s.a. 439 (3); Hydatius, 107 (115),
110 (118); Prosper, 1339; Chron. pasch. p. 583.5-7; and Merrills & Miles 2010, 55. On the
eastern fleet launched to deal with this crisis, see: Theophanes, AM 5941; Priscus, Frg. 9.4;
and Merrills & Miles 2010, 112; Courtois 1955, 173; Kaegi 1968, 28-29; Heather 2005, 288-91.
25
On Attila’s invasion and the withdrawal of the eastern fleet, see: Priscus, Frg. 9.4.1–20;
10; Theophanes, AM 5942; Chron. pasch. p. 583; and further on the east’s Hunnic problems:
Blockley 1992, 62.
26
On the Vandal peace treaty of 443, see Merrills & Miles 2010, 112; Blockley 1992, 62;
Jones 1964, 1.190.
27
On Marcian’s accession, see Marcellinus comes, s.a. 450 (1, 2); also Chron. pasch. p. 590;
Procopius, BV. 3.4.7; Evagrius, 1.22; Theophanes, AM 5943; Zonaras, 13.24.1-3; Hydatius,
139. On his marriage to the dedicated virgin Pulcheria, see Holum 1982, 208-09.
250 Meaghan McEvoy
dealing with the Huns. 28 Marcian not only refused to pay to the Huns the
subsidy they had become used to receiving under Theodosius II, but
according to Hydatius, while Attila and his men were busy wreaking
destruction in Gaul and Italy, an eastern imperial force, possibly under the
leadership of Marcian himself, led an army into the Hunnic heartland,
causing enough disturbance to bring about Attila’s return. 29 This daring
action by the eastern government resulted in dire threats from Attila of
reprisals against Constantinople the next summer, which surely would have
eventuated had the Hunnic king not died of over-exertion in the winter of
452 on his wedding night. 30 Marcian’s efforts to divert Hunnic attention away
from the west are all the more remarkable given that the incumbent western
emperor, Valentinian III, refused to acknowledge his accession for several
years. 31
The record of Theodosian military aid to the west in the first half and
especially the second quarter of the fifth century is certainly considerable.
The assassination of Valentinian III in 455 saw the beginning of a period of
rapid rise and fall of western emperors for the next 20 years, down to the
deposition of Romulus Augustulus in 476. 32 The short-lived nature of many of
these reigns and the manner of some of their accessions often meant that
these western Augusti went unrecognised by eastern emperors: negotiating
the acceptance of a western emperor appointed without the prior agreement
of the eastern government was often a slow and torturous business, and in
some cases even if the east had been willing to provide assistance, they barely
had time to reach a state of acceptance of their new colleague before he was
replaced by another. 33 Yet there were still a handful of western emperors
28
See e.g. Jones 1964, 1.218; Blockley 1992, 67 and most recently Kelly 2008, 186 ff.
29
Hydatius, 146 (154) for further details, see Blockley 1992, 68. Blockley also suggests that
one of Marcian’s envoys visited Valentinian III in Rome in 450 to discuss their joint
activity regarding the Huns. It must be admitted that imperial efforts to deal with
barbarian threats in the Balkans or territories essentially between the two Roman realms
were not often so concertedly aimed at the well-being of both parts of the empire; see e.g.
eastern and western wrangling over Stilicho’s attempts to deal with the Visigoths in the
390s – Cameron 1970, 63ff.
30
Attila’s threats against the east and his subsequent death are reported by a number of
sources, e.g. Priscus, Frg. 24.2.1 ff.; 25.1-6; Jordanes, Get. 254-58; Chron. pasch. p. 588;
Marcellinus comes, s.a. 454 (1); Hydatius, 146 (154); Malalas, 14.10; Theophanes, AM 5946.
See generally Maenchen-Helfen 1973, 141-43; Heather 1995, 20 ff.
31
Burgess 1993/94, 63–64. There is also a suggestion in one source that Marcian was
contemplating war with the Vandals at the time of his death: see Theodor Lector, HE 367;
see further Mathisen 1981, 242; also Clover 1978, 194. As Jones points out however,
Marcian’s attitude towards the Huns was aimed at more than simply gaining western
recognition; it was probably also intended to win senatorial favour in Constantinople:
Jones 1964, 1.219.
32
See for one useful survey of this period: Heather 2005, 425-30.
33
On the recognition or non-recognition of western emperors from 455-476, see Croke
1983, 84-85. For a look more specifically at the wrangling over the recognition or non-
whom the east both recognised and committed aid to, particularly during the
reign of the eastern emperor Leo I, from 457-474. Leo had succeeded Marcian
upon the latter’s death, though he bore no relation either to the Theodosian
house or to the dead emperor. 34 In 467, following a two-year interregnum in
the west, Leo nominated the eastern patrician Anthemius as the new western
emperor, and as Hydatius reports: “... Anthemius, emperor of the west... proceeded
to Italy with Marcellinus [the magister militum of Dalmatia], other counts and
selected men and a numerous and well-supplied army.” 35 Once Anthemius was
successfully established in the west, in 468 another joint eastern-western
campaign for the reconquest of Africa was launched, with a massive fleet
(allegedly composed of 1,100 ships) sent from Constantinople, and military
forces from both Dalmatia and Egypt. 36 This immense campaign seems to
have been planned by Leo even before his nomination of Anthemius as the
new western Augustus: in recent years Vandal raids in the Mediterranean had
been increasing, and though the western magister militum Ricimer had met
with some success against them previously, more recently the western
military had shown little ability to contain them. 37 Additionally, according to
Priscus immediately following Anthemius’ accession Leo had sent a further
envoy to Geiseric, warning him to cease his raids against Roman territories (a
warning which was ignored). 38 Unfortunately the joint east-west campaign of
468 was a complete disaster: despite some initial success, the eastern general
Basiliscus agreed to a truce with Geiseric, a respite the Vandal king used to
prepare fire-ships which were then unleashed on the Byzantine fleet with
catastrophic results, leading to the defeat and abandonment of the entire
expedition. 39
recognition of the Emperor Majorian by the east, see Max 1979, 232-33. Similarly for
debates on the acceptance (in some form) or non-acceptance by the east of Libius Severus
as western emperor, see Nagy 1967, 179-80. Heather suggests that as western emperors
rose and fell, the east attempted to identify and support those with prospects of survival
and regeneration of the west: Heather 2005, 391-92.
34
On the accession of Leo, see Croke 2005, 150-51; Jones 1964, 1.242.
35
Hydatius, 234, 237. See further, in particular on the role of Marcellinus in the accession
of Anthemius: MacGeorge 2002, 52; and on Marcellinus’ background and the question of
his allegiance to eastern or western powers: Kulikowski 2002, 117-90; also Wozniak 1981,
359-61. MacGeorge (2002, 54) suggests that the fleet Anthemius and Marcellinus took to
Italy was likely to have been largely or even entirely eastern.
36
See on the ‘Byzantine Armada’, Heather 2005, 399-407.
37
Ricimer had won victories over the Vandals at Agrigentum in Sicily and off Corsica
(Mathisen 1981, 243-44) but since the death of Libius Severus in 465 Vandal attacks on the
Italian coast had been increasing again – see also Harries 1994, 142. For background on
Ricimer in general, see O’Flynn 1983, 104-28. For Leo’s early planning of the campaign
against the Vandals, see Croke 2005, 179; also Kaegi 1968, 36.
38
Priscus, Frg. 32, 40, 42.
39
On the campaign itself, see Hydatius, 241 (247). On the various reasons for the defeat,
see Croke 2005, 44-45; and also MacGeorge 2002, 58.
252 Meaghan McEvoy
Although the campaign failed utterly in its objectives, nevertheless it

did represent a considerable commitment of resources to aiding the west in
attempting to claim a vital territory. It is also significant as a campaign for
which we have a number of sources detailing costs, mainly, it seems, because
they were so horrifically high. According to John Lydus, writing in the 6th
century:
“Because Leo embarked upon ten thousand warships called liburnae a
host such as time for all its length had never yet wondered at, he brought
the [praetorian] prefecture to uttermost penury, by putting it under
strain and compelling it to meet the expenses of four hundred thousand
fighting men engaged upon a campaign to be fought overseas ... There
was expended upon that ill-fated war ... sixty-five thousand pounds of
gold and seven hundred thousand of silver... After all this, the entire
state suffered shipwreck...” 40
Even allowing for exaggeration, these figures are an important reminder that
the commitment of eastern resources to western campaigns was a serious and
costly business – and as it was in 468, so it must also have been (with
variations, of course) in 410, in 425, in 431 and in 440. 41 Though destruction of
the Vandal kingdom, which was the chief aim of a number of these
expeditions, would have brought many benefits to the east as well as to the
west (as indeed it did when finally achieved under Justinian in the sixth
century), the ultimate object, particularly in view of eastern commitments to
the west’s new emperor Anthemius, was surely the return of this territory to
the western realm and the hope of western regeneration to follow.
Even after this particularly spectacular failure, eastern military aid was
not quite at an end yet. In 474 Leo chose another emperor for the west, Julius
Nepos, then magister militum of Dalmatia, and sent him with troops to oust
Glycerius, a western-proclaimed Augustus whom Leo I regarded as a
usurper. 42 Nepos, with his eastern support, succeeded in claiming the western
throne, though was himself deposed by his general Orestes in 475, who
promptly proclaimed his own son Romulus as Augustus. 43 It was only at this
point, coinciding with the death of Leo that eastern aid finally dried up.
Thereafter Leo’s successor Zeno was too distracted with his own problems in
the east to offer Nepos, who had fled to Dalmatia, more than theoretical
support, and Odovacer’s takeover of Italy in 476 would be left unchallenged
40
Lydus, Mag. 3.43-4. See also Candidus, Frg. 2. See also Kaegi 1968, 44-45; Jones 1964, 1.224.
41
According to Bury 1923, 1.337 and nn.1-2, the expedition of 468 left the eastern empire
hovering on the edge of bankruptcy for the next three decades. On the immense cost of
naval expeditions particularly, see Hendy 1985, 221-22.
42
Nepos’ cause was endorsed first by the emperor Leo, who died before Nepos became
Augustus, but his position was confirmed by Leo’s successor Zeno: see Mathisen 1991, 205-
06; also Wozniak 1981, 361-62.
43
See Anon. Val. 7; John Ant., Frg. 209(2). For sources on the short reign of Julius Nepos, see
MacGeorge 2002, 31.
by the east until the following decade. 44 Yet as this record of eastern military
aid to the west highlights, such costly eastern efforts extended well beyond
the death of Theodosius II in 450.
Administrative Cooperation
Significant instances of administrative cooperation between the two courts,
again both during the Theodosian era and beyond, can be added to this
catalogue of military assistance. The most famous example of collaboration in
administrative matters between the two courts in the fifth century must of
course be the compilation of the Theodosian Code. In 429 Theodosius II had
announced the great project of the codification of all imperial constitutiones
since AD 313, and in 437 the project was complete and the Codex was handed
over to the western court upon the occasion of Valentinian III’s visit to
Constantinople for his marriage. 45 Henceforth this collection was to be the
cornerstone of Roman law, and further laws passed in each half of the empire
were to be valid in the other half if accepted by both emperors. 46 Though
compiled in the east and named for Theodosius II, with an undeniable air of
eastern dominance about it, the project did incorporate substantial
contributions from the western archives and was intended as a clear
expression of the unity of the Roman empire and its government. 47
Furthermore, cooperation over the Theodosian Code is not the only
instance of administrative collaboration between eastern and western courts
in this era. The establishment of the young Valentinian III as western
emperor had been a substantial eastern commitment, as we have seen, and it
is unsurprising therefore that for a number of years after 425 there are signs
of eastern involvement in western government. The magister officiorum,
Helion, who had crowned Valentinian III as Augustus, is not attested back in
Constantinople until December 426 and it seems likely he remained in the
west for at least some of the 12 months following Valentinian’s accession;
with him, perhaps, stayed other members of the eastern bureaucratic
44
Nepos fled to Salona after his deposition, from whence he continued to assert his claim
to be western emperor, a claim which Zeno theoretically supported but did not provide
any active assistance in pursuing; Zeno granted Odovacar the title of ‘patrician’, and
Odovacar himself continued to acknowledge Nepos until the latter’s death in 480: see
Malchus, Frg. 14; MacGeorge 2002, 61; Croke 1983, 115; Kaegi 1968, 49. Odovacar even
continued to mint coins in Nepos’ name down to 480: Kent 1966, 147-50. Apparently when
Nepos was assassinated in 480 Odovacar used his death as an excuse to take ‘revenge’ and
invade Dalmatia to restore it to western sovereignty: Wozniak 1981, 363; McCormick 1977,
215-16.
45
On the Code and its promulgation in the west, see Matthews 2000, 1–9; 31–54; also
Matthews 1993, 22 ff.; Gillett 1993, 20–21; Millar 2006, 56-57.
46
Although as later legislation noted, laws were not being circulated between eastern and
western courts in the aftermath of the promulgation of the Code nearly as frequently as
had been promised: see NTh. 2 (1st of Oct. 447) and Millar 2006, 1-3.
47
Millar 2006, 4-5; Gillett 1993, 21-22.
254 Meaghan McEvoy
contingent who had travelled to Rome (including potentially the bureaucrat

and historian, Olympiodorus). 48
The legislation of the early years of Valentinian III’s reign also suggests
eastern input, as scholars such as Harries and Honoré have observed. For
example, the so-called ‘Law of Citations’, (CTh 1.4.3), a western law of 426, a
sort of mini-code, focused on systematising the law in relation to sources of
judgement, seeming to foreshadow the task of the soon-to-be assembled
Theodosian Code commission. 49 But besides this particular law, the legislation
rate of Valentinian’s government in its early years may be significant. After
the first few years of the regime, the rate of legislation issuing from
Valentinian III’s court declines rapidly, and one suggestion which has been
made by Honoré for this change of pace is that the surviving western laws of
425-426 should be attributed to a single quaestor, and that that quaestor was
another easterner who had travelled with the expedition from
Constantinople and was appointed to serve the new government of
Valentinian III in its first few years before returning to the east. The
individual suggested is Antiochus, who would in the 430s be chairman of the
Theodosian Code project in its first stages. 50
As the fifth century progresses, our store of legislative evidence for the
west dwindles, and thus the chance to see potential eastern involvement in
western government declines also. Occasionally eastern and western
emperors referred to each other directly in their legislation – such as at
moments of crisis in 410 and 440 when collaborative military action was
being undertaken, as in CTh 7.16.2 (“between Me and my Lord and uncle,
Honorius”) or the 9th Novel of Valentinian III (“the army of the most invincible
Emperor Theodosius, Our Father, will soon approach”) – but such references are
not frequent. 51 As Millar has demonstrated, the personal relationships of
emperors to colleagues or predecessors do appear occasionally in laws such
as these, and in other cases, as in 416 when Theodosius II refers “to my uncle
Honorius”, or in 424 to “my father and uncle [Honorius] of sainted memory,”
references which added to the picture of ideological solidarity between the
two courts. 52 In one of the few novels surviving from the reign of Anthemius,
significantly he refers a matter to his colleague Leo I in Constantinople for
decision, and declares Leo’s decision will be valid in Italy: a further important
illustration of the collegiate nature of their joint rule. 53 As Millar also points
out, other records preserve one instance of a significant disagreement
48
See Honoré 1999, 255; Helion’s return to Constantinople is confirmed by CTh 6.27.20.
49
See CTh 1.4.3; Honoré 1999, 249-50; also Harries 1999, 37.
50
Honoré 1999, 253-57. See also on the input of Constantinople into Valentinian III’s early
legislation, Millar 2006, 56.
51
CTh 7.16.2; NVal. 9.
52
For a full list of such references, see Millar 2006, 12. These particular examples are: CTh
14.16.2 (CJ 1.11.6) (23th of July, 423) and CTh 11.20.5 (13th of May, 425).
53
NAnth. 1; NAnth. 3; see Harries 1994, 159.
between the emperors Honorius and Theodosius II in 421, which was not
incorporated into the official record of the Theodosian Code, thus further
highlighting the emphasis placed on preserving the appearance of imperial
concord at all times. 54
Another important area from which we can still gain some sense of the
nature of imperial relations across the course of the fifth century is in the
appointment of eastern and western consuls. The sharing of the consulship
between emperors is frequently seen as evidence for good relations between
the two courts – thus between Arcadius and Honorius in 396 and 402,
between Honorius and Theodosius II seven times between 407-423, and
numerous times also between Theodosius II and Valentinian III between 425-
450. 55 After 450, there are far fewer instances of joint imperial consulships, or
at least mutually recognised ones. Non-recognition of eastern or western
consuls by either court is persuasive evidence of bad relations – as in 399 and
400 between the courts of Arcadius and Honorius, or in 451 when Valentinian
III, who, as mentioned, for a time refused to acknowledge the accession of
Marcian, also refused to recognise his consulship that year. 56
What seems less often to be noted as an insight into relations between
the two courts, however, is the frequent occasions in the course of the fifth
century when both consuls were appointed from one half of the empire, but
were recognised in both. 57 The implications of these arrangements are worth
thinking about. In some cases, while both consuls might be from one realm,
one might be in the other during the year of their consulships – thus for
example in 427 when 2 easterners, Hierius and Ardaburius, were the chosen
consuls, it is possible (though by no means certain) that Ardaburius was still
in the west following the campaign to establish Valentinian III in 425; in 434
when two easterners were again joint consuls – Aspar and Areobindus, Aspar
was certainly in the west leading the North African campaign against the
Vandals. 58 But this was not always the case: in 446 when Aetius and
Symmachus, two westerners, shared the consulship, there is no indication
that either was in the east during that year. 59 What appears to have happened
was that in certain years the two imperial courts agreed to allow one or the
54
For further detail see Millar 2006, 54.
55
Although in fact it would be highly offensive for an emperor to refuse to accept the
consulship of his acknowledged imperial colleague, so such occasions may tell us less
about imperial unity than is sometimes assumed. For full details on the different holders
of the consulship in this period, see CLRE.
56
See McEvoy 2013, 171-72; Burgess 1993/94, 63–64. Similarly intermittent non-
recognition of western consuls by the eastern court is seen as indicative of bad relations
during the reign of Libius Severus in the west (see Nagy 1967, 179-81; Mathisen 2009, 320).
57
Zaccagnino et al. (2012, 440) note 22 such years between 417-530 CE, which witnessed
either two western or two eastern consuls.
58
See Kaegi 1968, 23; also CLRE 402-03; and particularly on Aspar’s consulship: Zaccagnino
et al. 2012, 440 ff.
59
CLRE 426-27.
256 Meaghan McEvoy
other of them to designate both consuls for the year, rather than one each.
The point is simply that a fair amount of communication and negotiation
between the two courts must have been involved in these arrangements –
more certainly than merely sending notification of each respective court’s
chosen individual for the year. Unsurprisingly, the list of consuls for the
period shows increasing eastern dominance as time progresses, yet even so,
the nomination of two consuls from one realm could, in a sense, be seen as an
even greater indication of good relations between the courts than joint
imperial consulships: accepting that over a certain year two consuls from the
west, for example, jointly reigned for the whole empire. This must also have
been in case in 468 when Anthemius was sole consul for both halves of the
empire, surely a particular mark of the favour with which his western regime
was regarded by the east; the eastern emperor Leo had similarly been sole
consul in 466. 60 Furthermore, although the nature of the consulship was little
more than symbolic by this point, these wholly eastern or wholly western
consular years should be added to our picture of imperial unity in this era:
there is an organisational aspect of the interaction between the courts which
needs to be taken into account as a realistic indicator of relations.
Although there is not sufficient space to discuss this area thoroughly
here, the matter of imperial coinage should also be briefly considered as a
part of the argument on administrative cooperation. As we would expect,
Theodosius II is known to have minted coins at Constantinople for his uncle
Honorius in the first decades of the fifth century, while in the 420s and 430s
especially, the eastern emperor struck a series of solidi emphasising his
partnership in rule with his cousin Valentinian III. 61 Of particular note is the
wedding solidus struck by Theodosius II for Valentinian III and Licinia
Eudoxia in 437, displaying all three imperial figures, the eastern emperor
joining the hands of his daughter and his colleague. As Kaegi has noted, this
coin was the last issued by an eastern emperor to depict him with his western
colleague. 62
From the 450s onwards, while the western coinage (and in particular
that issued by the western government under Anthemius), continued to
emphasise cooperation with the east, following the coinage Marcian struck
for Valentinian III at Constantinople, no further issues for western emperors
emanated from the eastern mints. 63 After 430, even consular issues in the east
showed only one consul; in contrast, in the west, both Majorian and
60
On the sole consulship of Anthemius in 468, see CLRE 470-471; for Leo I’s sole consulship
in 466: CLRE 480-81.
61
Kaegi 1968, 18-26.
62
Kaegi 1968, 28.
63
On Marcian striking for Valentinian III, see Kaegi 1968, 29. On Anthemius’ emphasis on
his cooperation with Leo, see Kaegi 1968, 42-43; RIC 10, 191.
Anthemius issued their consular coins displaying two enthroned consuls. 64

This lack of direct eastern endorsement of western consuls and emperors on
coinage seems surprising in some respects, in view of substantial eastern
efforts to aid the west during this period; yet perhaps reflects a separation in
such matters which was apparent already under the Theodosian dynasty and
need not necessarily indicate any greater division between east and west
after 450.
Dynastic alliances
Finally, the issue of dynastic alliances should be added to this picture of
imperial cooperation: in some senses such alliances were certainly an aspect
of the propaganda of imperial unity, but nevertheless they represented a real,
tangible connection. Once again in the fifth century the Theodosian era
represents the time of the closest familial bonds between east and west. In
437, the western emperor Valentinian III travelled to Constantinople to wed
his cousin Licinia Eudoxia, daughter of the eastern emperor Theodosius II,
and brought her back to the west as his bride. 65 Yet even after the deaths of
Theodosius II and Valentinian III, through the final decades of the western
empire, attempts were being made to forge dynastic links with genuine
potential to lead to the establishment of a single ruling dynasty once more.
Valentinian and Eudoxia had only daughters, and when Valentinian III
was killed, the Vandal king Geiseric sacked Rome and ‘rescued’ the emperor’s
widow and two daughters, the elder of whom Eudocia, had long been
promised in marriage to Geiseric’s son Huneric. 66 The Theodosian women
were taken to Carthage, and both Marcian and Leo are known to have sent
ambassadors to attempt to recover at least the empress Eudoxia and her
younger daughter Placidia, a result eventually achieved by the emperor Leo
in ca. 461-62 when the two women were returned to the eastern empire. 67 Yet
although a Theodosian emperor was no longer ruling in either east or west,
this was by no means the end of the Theodosian house itself.
64
RIC 10, 57. As Kent points out (RIC), this is particularly unexpected given that Majorian
probably was not recognised as Augustus in 468 by the east, and Anthemius, consul in 468,
had no colleague at all.
65
On the marriage, which took place on October 29th, 437, see Merobaudes, Carm. I.10;
Gesta 2; Socrates, 7.44 (who gives the wrong year); Marcellinus comes, s.a. 437; Evagrius,
1.20.2; Prosper 1328; Chron. Gall. 593; Cassiodorus, Chron. 1229; Malalas, 14.7; Theophanes,
AM 5926. Cf. Holum 1982, 183.
66
On the betrothal of Huneric and Eudocia in the 440s, see Merobaudes, Pan. 2.27-29;
Procopius, BV 3.1.4.12-14; Clover 1971, 23-28; 52-54. On the kidnap of the Theodosian
women at Rome and their transportation to Carthage: Marcellinus comes s.a. 455 (3).
67
For Marcian’s envoys to Geiseric requesting the return of the Theodosian women, see
Priscus, Frg. 24, and 29-31; Hydatius, 167; 216; John Ant., Frg. 204; Procopius, BV 1.5.3-7;
also Blockley 1992, 68-69. On Leo’s envoys and the return of Licinia Eudoxia and Placidia
to the east, see Croke 2005, 180.
258 Meaghan McEvoy
The emperor Marcian, who died in 457, had seen his only daughter
Euphemia married to the patrician Anthemius (ca. 453), the same man who
would be sent to the west as its new Augustus in 467. 68 In fact, of course, Leo’s
choice of Anthemius for the west was hardly disinterested: as Marcian’s son-
in-law, not to mention a successful general, descended from an illustrious
family, when Marcian died in 457 it might reasonably have been expected
that Anthemius would be the next eastern emperor, rather than Leo. 69 Leo,
and indeed his all-powerful magister militum Aspar were undoubtedly in part
simply finding a suitable means of disposing of a potential eastern rival in
generously bestowing Anthemius upon the west. But even so, the eastern
support offered to Anthemius as western Augustus was genuine, and the new
imperial unity represented by Anthemius’ taking up the western throne at
Leo’s direction was celebrated by Sidonius Apollinaris in his panegyric for
Anthemius’ consulship of 468 when, addressing Constantinople, he declared
“farewell to the division of empire!”, asserting that: “Rome was finally possessed by a
ruler of her choice.” 70 Leo’s perspective is preserved in the tenth century Book of
Ceremonies of Constantine Porphyrogenitus, where he is recorded, upon the
arrival of Anthemius’ imperial image in Constantinople, to have declared:
“We are made very glad that the picture, long awaited, of the most
gentle emperor Anthemius has now been delivered. Therefore, with
divine approval, we order that this picture be joined with our images, so
that all cities will know in joy that the governments of each region have
joined and that by his clemency we are united.” 71
To cement the ties between Leo and his western colleague, at some point
after 471, Leo (whose only surviving children were girls), gave his daughter
Leontia in marriage to Anthemius’ son (and therefore Marcian’s grandson), Fl.
Marcianus. 72 And in an attempt to tie in the interests of the powerful magister
militum Ricimer more closely in to these eastern-western imperial interests,
68
On the marriage of Anthemius and Marcian’s daughter (Aelia Marcia Euphemia), see
Sidonius, Carm. 2. 193-97.
69
On Anthemius’s claim to the throne and expectations that he would succeed Marcian,
see Croke 2005, 149-50; Clover 1983, 194; Heather 2005, 392-93. Anthemius was the only
patrician created by Marcian during his reign: Mathisen 1991, 195. On Anthemius’
previous military career, see Croke 2005, 175.
70
Sidonius, Carm. 2.64-66; 522-23. On the theme of imperial unity in Sidonius’ panegyric,
see: Harries 1994, 148-49; O’Flynn 1991, 124; Watson 1998, 187.
71
Constantine Porphyrogenitus, De Cer. 1.87.
72
Leontia had been married to Patricius, son of the eastern general Aspar in ca. 470/71,
therefore her marriage to Marcianus must have occurred after this point (and thus also
some time after the accession of Anthemius). See PLRE 2.667 for Leontia; on Marcianus’
life and career, see PLRE 2.717-18.
Anthemius bestowed his only daughter, Alypia, upon the general in 472, as
Sidonius wrote, in “a hopeful guarantee of the safety of the state.” 73
When Anthemius and his western generalissimo Ricimer fell out in 472,
the senator Anicius Olybrius was sent west, purportedly to mediate between
them, though this may have been a somewhat mischievous choice on the part
of the eastern government. For Olybrius, a westerner in origin, had married
the younger daughter of Valentinian III, Placidia – the last available
Theodosian princess, and his perhaps less-than-desirable relative-by-
marriage Geiseric had some years earlier demanded that the western throne
be given to Olybrius. 74 There is no indication from our surviving evidence
that Leo had planned or intended Olybrius’ accession – yet it surely was a not
unforeseeable outcome of sending him to Rome. 75 Again, it looks suspiciously
as if Leo had decided to try to dispose of another potential rival, and indeed
one report from John Malalas asserts that Leo wrote to Anthemius telling him
to kill Olybrius upon his arrival (and indeed Ricimer too). 76 Whether this was
the case or not, 77 Olybrius was certainly a danger to Anthemius, who found
himself deposed in the newcomer’s place, though Olybrius himself died of
natural causes only a few months after his accession as emperor, having
remained unrecognised by the eastern court. 78 The original choice of Leo to
send Anthemius to the west in 467, given the existence of Olybrius, is also an
interesting one: we cannot know whether it was prompted by a belief that
Anthemius’ undeniably impressive military career made him a better
candidate for the task at hand, or indeed more of a threat if he remained in
the east; or if the choice of Olybrius would have seemed too much of a
concession to Geiseric.
And finally, the last eastern nominee for the western throne, Julius
Nepos, also had imperial connections, having married a relative of Leo’s wife
73
Sidonius, Ep. 1.5.10-11. Also Sidonius, Carm. 2.478-490. On Alypia, see PLRE 2.61-2. A
coinage issue bearing the word ‘PAX’ issued under Anthemius may also refer to the
marriage: RIC 10, 194-95.
74
Olybrius had also been nominated by the eastern court as the western consul for 464:
Croke 2005, 159; O’Flynn 1983, 113. On Olybrius’ background see Clover 1978 generally. On
Geiseric’s support for Olybrius’ claim to the throne, see John Ant. Frg. 204; Procopius, BV
3.6.9.
75
Though it is sometimes assumed Olybrius travelled west of his own accord, a number of
sources report that Leo chose to send Olybrius: Theophanes, AM 5964; Chron. pasch. p. 594;
Paul Diac. HR 15.3; Malalas, 14.45.
76
Malalas, 14.45.
77
Scholarly opinion has diverged on whether Leo ever intended Olybrius to become
emperor - O’Flynn (1983, 122) for example, thinks he did not - and whether Leo would
have intended Olybrius to be killed by Anthemius. Bury (1886, 507-09) thinks this is likely
to have been the case.
78
On the acclamation of Olybrius, see John Ant. Frg. 209.1-2; Malalas, 14.45. Anthemius
was killed shortly after Olybrius’ acclamation – see PLRE 2.96-98.
260 Meaghan McEvoy
the Empress Verina. 79 MacGeorge even suggests, on the basis of Jordanes, that
there is an indication Nepos was not yet married to this imperial relative
when he was sent to claim the west, but that the wedding took place in
Ravenna as part of his accession process. 80 If this were indeed the case, that
Nepos was chosen not for any imperial connection but that a dynastic link
was forged after his accession, we would see a similar pattern emerging to the
emperor Leo’s attempt to build such dynastic connections between east and
west with the family of Anthemius.
Looking a decade or so further ahead, it is not hard to imagine that the
emperor Zeno also saw in the west a suitable new destination for another
worrying individual when he sent Theoderic and the Ostrogoths off to claim
Italy from Odovacer in 488. 81 Perhaps despatch to the western empire had
become the eastern emperor’s official solution for what to do with potentially
dangerous rivals. Nevertheless in such cases, the eastern government was
prepared to send such rivals off with supportive equipment to try to help
them succeed in their task, and moreover to choose individuals with whom
they had or soon made, serious ties of kinship and who had genuine claims to
imperial rank. 82
Conclusion
Far from being indifferent or hostile to western problems in the fifth century,
the eastern imperial government was in fact very much invested in trying to
resolve western crises, right down until the very final years of the existence
of the west Roman state as a political entity. This commitment took the form
repeatedly of immensely expensive military campaigns to install emperors or
to attempt to reclaim territory, of administrative cooperation, and of
dynastic alliances which continued to interweave the affairs of both realms as
long as the west endured. This is not to say that east and west were not, in
practice, divided – undeniably they were, with their separate emperors,
administrations, territories, economic and military structures. But the
catalogue of aid and intervention assembled here hardly reflects indifference
or a desire to sever ties – rather it reflects determination to attempt to
maintain and build ties, and continuity both throughout and beyond the
Theodosian era.
Perhaps inevitably, the desire to help did not always mean the
assistance took the most suitable form or recognised all problems in need of
address: eastern interventions in favour of the west almost uniformly focused
ultimately on North Africa, while other regions such as Gaul and Spain were
79
On Nepos’ connections, see Malchus, Frg. 14; also Handley 2010, 117-18.
80
See MacGeorge 2002, 60, on the basis of Jordanes, Rom. 338; and Malchus, Frg. 10.
81
Croke 1983, 115.
82
As O’Flynn (1991, 125) notes, in the case of Leo and Anthemius in particular, the eastern
emperor had been active in forming genuine connections and offering real support to the
western colleague he created. See also Kaegi 1968, 37-42; Heather 2005, 393.
already experiencing fragmentation and a sense of separation from the

central government based in Italy. The case of Arvandus, the Gallic prefect
who was charged in 468 with dictating a letter to the king of the Goths urging
him not to make peace with the ‘Greek emperor’ (meaning Anthemius, the
eastern-sponsored new western emperor) but to make war on the Bretons
and then divide Gaul up with the Burgundians, clearly reveals that for some
at least, an emperor imposed on the west by Constantinople was simply an
outsider, who could not be accepted nor was expected to grasp the full range
and complexity of west Roman problems. 83
Furthermore, it is also clear that the east was only prepared to help,
reasonably enough, when not facing absolutely pressing military or internal
problems of its own. 84 As noted above, launching military campaigns, and
especially naval campaigns, was a horrendously expensive business. It was
not easy for the east to commit large numbers of its own troops to western
operations, and there were occasions, as in 441, when an eastern crisis struck,
and troops deployed to the west simply had to return home. At times, as in
476 when Julius Nepos requested assistance, the east refused; but more often
over the course of the fifth century, and despite considerable costs of men
and resources, it did act to aid the west. 85
The perfect harmony of imperial unity celebrated in imperial
documents, declarations and other media across the course of the fifth
century may well have reflected an increasingly hollow optimism as time
went on, and ultimately eastern efforts were unable to save the west.
Nevertheless, the repeated commitments of armies, resources and individuals
made by the east to the west during this period, must testify to the desire (if
not the reality) for imperial solidarity, mutual support and neighbourly
cooperation between east and west in the Roman world of the fifth century.
83
Arvandus’ letter is described by Sidonius in Ep. 1.7.5. On Arvandus’ trial generally, see
Harries 1994, 159-66; Kaegi 1968, 46. On Gallic disaffection, see also Fanning 1992;
Rousseau 2000. Anthemius did in fact attempt to broaden his support base through
distribution of offices to leading figures in Gaul such as Sidonius and Ecdicius, not to
mention sending his eldest son, Anthemiolus, to campaign in Gaul, but it was all
ultimately to no avail: see O’Flynn 1983, 118; Heather 2005, 394. As Harries points out,
Gallic senses of alienation from the central Roman government did not begin with
Arvandus but stretched back several generations already by the 470s: Harries 1992, 303;
also Bury 1923, 1.330.
84
Kaegi 1968, 56. For the first eight years of his reign, for example, Leo was too
preoccupied with eastern problems and internal issues to take much interest in western
affairs: see Wozniak 1981, 359.
85
Kaegi 1968, 54-56; Heather 2005, 387-88. It has been suggested (Max 1979, 232-33) that
Majorian is likely to have sought eastern aid for his North African campaign in 460, but we
have no clear evidence that this was the case, still less that such aid was granted.
262 Meaghan McEvoy
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CLRE Consuls of the Later Roman Empire, (ed. R.S. Bagnall et al.)
CTh The Theodosian Code
PLRE The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, (ed. A.H.M. Jones et al.)
RIC Roman Imperial Coinage (J. Kent)
NAnth. The Novels of Anthemius
NTh. The Novels of Theodosius II
NVal. The Novels of Valentinian III
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268
Sailors, merchants and the maritime cults 269
Janet Wade
Sailors, merchants and the maritime cults that sailed into the ports
(and streets) of early Byzantium
Introduction
According to Jordanes, when the Gothic King Athanaric visited
Constantinople in the year 381 he was enthralled:
“‘Now I see what I have often heard of with unbelieving ears’…Turning
his eyes hither and thither, he marvelled as he beheld the situation of the
city, the coming and going of the ships, the splendid walls, and the
people of diverse nations gathered like a flood of waters streaming from
different regions into one basin.” 1
Themistius tells us that Constantinople was the hub of the earth, linking the
continents and providing an anchorage for the world’s maritime trade. 2
Recent finds from the excavations of the Theodosian Harbour in Istanbul
confirm that ships were sailing into Constantinople from the fourth century,
carrying products with them from all over the world. 3 Throughout Late
Antiquity, merchants and sailors were attracted to Constantinople, and
wandering through her bustling harbours and markets, one would have
encountered seafarers from Italy, North Africa, Greece and the Aegean
islands, the Balkans, Asia Minor, Cyprus, Syria, Palaestine, Egypt, and even
farther afield. 4 By the mid-sixth century, Procopius notes that there were so
many men coming to the city “from the whole world” that a large hostel was
built by the sea as temporary lodging for them. 5 From the time that
Constantinople was founded until the late sixth century it became an ever
larger Christian imperial city. Yet it was still predominantly a city by the
water, with all of the harbours, marketplaces, taverns, hostels and brothels
that existed in any port city. 6 There were sailors, merchants, migrants, and
1
Jord. Get. 28.143 (trans. Mierow 1908, 45).
2
Them. Or. 6.83c-d.
3
Asal 2007, 183-84.
4
Asal 2007, 183; Rautman 2006, 85.
5
Procop. Aed. 1.11.23-27.
6
On Byzantium as a port city pre-Constantine, see Ath. Deipnosophistae 12.526d-e (trans. Meijer
& van Nijf 1992, 14) and Bassett 2004, 19; On harbours, marketplaces and other commercial
facilities in Constantinople, see Mango 2000, 189-98. On the popularity of taverns, brothels and
other leisure establishments in maritime communities, see Rauh, Dillon et al 2008, 197-242.
270 Janet Wade
itinerants; people from all over the ancient world with their different
cultures, languages, beliefs and practices.
In antiquity, sailors lived their lives at the mercy of nature and were
exposed to greater risks than those who lived off the land. Many sources talk
of the hazardous nature of sea travel, and the number of ancient shipwrecks
found confirms the risks. 7 Yet, for the brave there was work on board ships
and the opportunity to make money through maritime trade. There was also
the allure of the sea; the adventure and camaraderie of the sailing life which
has always been an important aspect of life at sea. These elements of sea
travel led sailors and merchants to develop their own customs, associations
and cults in the ancient world. The maritime community was in many ways a
community unto itself, irrespective of cultural and religious differences.
Synesius of Cyrene captures this when he recalls the crew of a ship that he
was on in the late fourth century. The crew were of different religious
affiliations and they called on a variety of gods when in stormy seas. Yet
despite their differences, the crew passed their time amiably, constantly
jesting with one another. 8
This paper will explore the maritime community, or sub-community,
which was ever-present in port cities like Constantinople. In particular, it will
focus on religious beliefs and practices, as these were an expression of the
distinctive and foreign character of the maritime community during Late
Antiquity. To date, there have been few modern studies that deal with the
social practices and religious beliefs of mariners in the Late Antique period.
Modern scholarship that does deal with seafaring customs in Byzantium has
focused on evidence from the seventh century onwards, and this is
predominantly Christian in nature. It is often simply assumed that this
evidence is also indicative of mariners of the fourth to sixth centuries. 9 Based
on the large number of sailors who were employed in the imperial grain fleet
and their reported role in church disputes, there is also a widespread
assumption that Christians overwhelmingly dominated the maritime trades
in Late Antiquity. 10 Certainly, many mariners were Christian by this time, and
the spread of Christianity was facilitated by sailors and merchants travelling
far and wide. However, this paper will demonstrate that, contrary to these
assumptions, not all seafarers had converted to Christianity by the sixth
century, and that many of those who became Christians still retained some
traditional maritime beliefs.
7
Parker 1992; Ballard & Ward 2004.
8
Synesius, Ep. 4.
9
McCormick 2001; Rautman 2006; Vitaliotis 1998, 88-91.
10
Examples include Gregory 1979; Haas 1997, 59; Trombley 1993, 184, 192. Also see footnotes
27-29.
Constantinople
Firstly, I will look at the presence of sailors and merchants in Constantinople
and discuss the impacts that these men had on the broader community. One
of the largest groups of sailors present in Constantinople during this period
were the men of the Alexandrian imperial grain fleet. As such, I will discuss
the shipowners, sailors, and cults of Alexandria and its surrounding region in
order to disprove general assumptions made regarding men of the fleet. I will
briefly investigate other ports and hinterlands with evidence of non-
Christian populations, as it is likely that there were non-Christian sailors in
and from these areas. I will then present some of the extant evidence that
shows that traditional Graeco-Roman deities like Isis, Poseidon, and
Athena/Minerva — to name only a few — continued to be favoured by the
maritime community through to the late sixth century. In particular, Isis in
her maritime role will be examined, as there is a range of evidence that
attests to her continued popularity amongst sailors. Finally, I will consider
the ways in which seafarers made supplications to their respective gods. The
risks and fears of sea travel did not diminish with the decline of the non-
Christian maritime cults. Supplications to Mary and the Christian maritime
saints were much like those that had been made for centuries — only the
names of the deities had changed.
The number of ports and harbour facilities along the coast of
Constantinople leaves us in no doubt that there was a strong maritime
presence in the city in Late Antiquity. 11 This presence was a necessary part of
everyday life in a thriving port city, despite the bad reputation that these
men often had and their status as outsiders. There are a number of
contemporary sources that mention the sordid nature of the types of
establishments frequented by sailors and merchants. 12 The laws also suggest
that fighting, theft, and a general lack of discipline were common problems
amongst sailors in the Late Antique and Early Byzantine periods. 13 When
Nestorius arrived at the Council of Ephesus in 431 he had a mob of supporters
with him from Constantinople who, according to his opponents, were of the
same ignoble social stratum as sailors and had probably been recruited at the
public baths. 14 Many contemporary sources agree on the avarice and
unscrupulous nature of the men involved in sea trade. A law of 417 refers to
shippers as “men of the worst quality.” 15 Gregory of Nazianzus warns that a love
of money makes greedy navigators brave the wintry seas, 16 and Libanius says
simply that seafaring corrupts men, and sea-traders “sail to every city with evil
11
Notitia Urbis Constantinopolitanae (trans. Matthews 2012, 86-98).
12
Examples include Palladius, Hist. Laus. 26.4; Dig. 11.5.1, 4.9.1.1 & 47.5 (trans. Watson 1985);
Amm. Marc. 14.1.9; Rautman 2006, 105; Stavroulaki 1998, 29.
13
Dig. 4.9, 14.1; Rhodian Sea Law, 3.1, 3.2, 3.3, 3.5, 3.6, 3.7 (trans. Ashburner 2001).
14
Epistula Memnonis 101 (in Acta Conciliorum Oecumenicorum, 1.1.3, 101, 46-7)=Duchesne 1924, 240.
15
Cod. Theod. 14.4.9 (trans. Pharr 1952).
16
Anth. Pal. 8.209.
272 Janet Wade
intentions, lying, misleading and cheating.” 17 It seems that the imperial

administration did seek to control the corrupting influence of maritime
society on the city, especially in later periods, with regulations on who and
what could come in, how long merchants could stay in the city, and even
restrictions on men leaving their ships overnight. 18 But there was substantial
use of privately owned and chartered vessels even for the important grain
trade, especially by Justinian’s reign. 19 So it is unlikely that the authorities
had complete control over sailors coming into port cities like Constantinople,
or the morals, practices and beliefs that they brought with them. These men
must have had a huge impact on society in port cities of Late Antiquity.
There is both literary and archaeological evidence of Christian sailors
in and around Constantinople and other major ports in Late Antiquity. These
men are, of course, the ones we hear of most often in the predominantly
Christian sources. Finds from the excavations of the Theodosian Harbour in
Istanbul confirm that many sailors, merchants and shipowners in this busy
port were Christian. The finds include objects dated from the fourth to
seventh centuries that have been inscribed with crosses or other Christian
inscriptions, such as anchors, lamps, and amphora lids. 20 However the
excavations in Istanbul have also brought to light a number of non-Christian
or pagan-inspired finds. Examples include lamps, relief sculpture, icon
fragments, lead plaques containing figures and inscriptions, and a steelyard
weight in the form of the goddess Athena. 21 Steelyard weights of Athena have
been found at a range of sites throughout the empire, particularly in the East,
and it is worth noting that they were extremely popular with merchants
between the fifth to seventh centuries. 22 There is a tendency in modern
scholarship to ignore the intriguing ‘pagan’ connotations of these weights,
despite their manufacture, distribution and popularity in this late period. 23
Yet Athena was still a widely recognised goddess in Constantinople in Late
Antiquity, and it is difficult to imagine that the merchants carrying these
17
Lib. Progymnasmata, Comparationes (trans. Dudden in Meijer & Van Nijf 1992, 18-19).
18
Procop. Anecdota 25.1-10; Rautman 2006, 98-100; Balaska & Selenti 1998, 57, 62-63;
Oikonomides 1997, 146, 157-58; Jones 1964, 827.
19
Balaska & Selenti 1998, 60; Jones 1964, 829; Sirks 1991, 35, 211. Sirks, 35 lists a host of legal
texts that show that private commerce and trade in grain was sizable by Justinian's rule.
20
Pekin & Kangal 2007, catalogue items include Y57, Y68 & Y20.
21
Pekin & Kangal 2007, catalogue items include Y9, Y36 & Ü24 (pottery lamps with non-
Christian iconography), Y43 (amulet-like lead plaque covered with inscriptions & figures), Y58
(icon sherd depicting a Nike), Y61 (ceramic sherd depicting a temple and bust), Y18 (Athena
steelyard/counterpoise weight).
22
Franken 1994, 83-114 provides a catalogue of known Late Antique steelyard weights. Of the
total 162 Late Antique weights listed, 74 are of empresses and 61 of Athena. Interestingly, the
Athena weights with a secure or suspected provenance were part of shipwreck finds.
23
James 2001, 117; McClanan 2002, 29-64. McClanan has interesting ideas on the possibility that
the steelyard weights are representations of Roma or Constantinopolis.
weights did not identify her as such. 24 The number and variety of non-
Christian objects dated to between the fourth and ninth centuries that have
been found in the Istanbul excavations have led archaeologists to state that:
“Pagan beliefs, dominant before the arrival of Christianity, maintained their influence
through subsequent epochs” and “the pagan influence appears to have been
prevalent almost everywhere.” 25
The location of large granaries and other facilities near the Theodosian
Harbour in Constantinople suggest that it was the port that dealt with grain
ships and other merchant vessels from Alexandria. 26 The evidence of non-
Christian seafarers at this port is interesting because many of the
ecclesiastical sources imply that all Alexandrian sailors were Christian. These
sources describe several occasions where the captains and sailors of the
Alexandrian grain fleet showed their support for the city’s patriarch. This
political support ranged from the relatively innocuous act of carrying letters
abroad to the provision of intimidatory force where required. 27 On one
occasion in 336, Socrates records that the patriarch Athanasius was accused
of threatening the supply of grain from Alexandria to Constantinople. 28 This
accusation gives the impression that the Alexandrian patriarch wielded
considerable power over the imperial grain fleet. There are also accounts of
Alexandrian sailors in the ports of Constantinople, cheering various church
leaders as they entered the city. 29 However this could as easily have been a
display of pride for their home city as a show of support for the Alexandrian
patriarch, and it does not prove the religious allegiance of these sailors.
Modern scholars tend to concur that the imperial fleet was dominated by
Christians, ergo all shipowners, captains and sailors were Christian. 30 There
is, however, a range of evidence that suggests that not all seafarers had
adopted Christianity at an early stage.
A law of 371 from Constantinople records that the guild of shipmasters
was filled by ex-administrators, decurions, senators, and veteran
shipmasters. 31 Until the early fifth century, many of the men in these
prominent positions were not Christian, including the prefect Themistius
who was responsible for drawing senators to the new imperial city. 32 A law of
Theodosius from 438, also promulgated in Constantinople, deals with the
24
For statues of Athena in Constantinople see Jenkins 1947, 31-33; Procop. Goth. 5.15.9-14.
Statues and festivals of Athena/Minerva are also attested elsewhere in the mid-late fifth
century.
25
Toksoy 2007, 230-31.
26
Kocabaş 2008, 19-20; Magdalino 2000, 211.
27
Athanasius, Hist. Ar. 81: Gregory of Nyssa, Ep. Encyl. 5 col. 233b, 7 col. 238b (in Haas 1997, 59);
Epistula Memnonis 101=Duchesne 1924, 242, 290.
28
Socrates, Hist. eccl. 1.35.
29
Socrates, Hist. eccl. 6.15; Sozom. Hist. eccl. 8.16-17.
30
See n.10 above.
31
Cod. Theod. 13.5.14.4.
32
Vanderspoel 2012, 223-24; Limberis 1994, 44-45.
274 Janet Wade
many Jews, Samaritans, heretics, and pagans that still existed at that time.
This law notes that men employed in imperial and public service were to
maintain their compulsory duties regardless of their religion, so that there
would be no injury to the public welfare. 33 The supply of grain was of the
utmost importance to the welfare of the people of Constantinople, and it is
highly likely that this is one of the public services referred to in this law. If
not all of the shipowners and captains of the imperial grain fleet were
Christian by the early fifth century, there is certainly no reason to assume
that only Christian sailors were admitted onto their crews. Also, as important
as the grain fleet was, these ships were not the only vessels on the seas in
Late Antiquity. There were other merchant ships, shipowners and sailors,
both in Alexandria and in ports all over the Mediterranean.
Alexandria and other ports

There was a definite non-Christian presence in Alexandria in Late Antiquity.
The travelling merchant who wrote the Expositio Totius Mundi et Gentium in the
mid-fourth century found Alexandrian altars “glowing with fire and piled high
with sacrifices and incense, and their fillets and spice-filled censers giving off a
wonderful odor.” 34 He praises Alexandria and Egypt for their reverent worship
of the gods in his own day, and such reverence cannot simply have been
stamped out overnight. 35 There are frequent references in the ecclesiastical
histories to crowds of pagans in the city, and when the Sarapeion was
destroyed at the end of the fourth century, it was amidst public outrage. 36
Just outside of Alexandria at the smaller ports of Canopus and Menouthis,
there was a complex of Hellenic shrines that Rufinus of Aquileia confirms
were extremely popular in his day. 37 In fact, Cyril of Alexandria had to go to
great lengths to expel the still very popular Isis of Menouthis there in the
first half of the fifth century. 38 Hers was a healing shrine at Menouthis, but an
inscription from Ostia shows that she was also a favourite of seafarers. 39
Before Cyril intervened, sailors would have passed Isis’ shrine at Menouthis
when sailing in and out of Alexandria. It is easy to imagine some of them
making a quick prayer of thanks or supplication to her as they went by (even
if it was only muttered under their breath). Despite Cyril’s efforts, the cult of
Isis continued in this region, with people worshipping at a ‘secret’ temple.
According to several sources, this temple enjoyed a Mediterranean-wide
reputation until the end of the fifth century. 40
33
N.Th. 3.6.
34
Expositio 8 (trans. Woodman 1964, 35).
35
Expositio 7-8.
36
Rufinus, Hist. eccl. 11.22-23 (trans. Amidon 1997); Eunap. VS. 472; Socrates, Hist. eccl. 3.3 & 5.16;
Sozom. Hist. eccl. 7.15.
37
Rufinus, Hist. eccl. 11.26.
38
Athanassiadi 1993, 15; MacMullen 1997, 124; Montserrat 1998, 257-59; Witt 1971, 186.
39
VS403, 556a (trans. Vidman 1969).
40
Eunap. VS. 471; Zachariah of Mytilene, Vita Severi, 17-45; Trombley 1994, 7-19.
As already mentioned, Synesius of Cyrene wrote an engaging account

of a sea voyage that he made from Alexandria. Synesius highlights traditional
shrines near Alexandria like the Temple of Poseidon and the Tomb of Osiris,
which were clearly still important landmarks for mariners in his day. He tells
us that the captain and more than half of the crew of his ship were Jewish,
and the remainder were “a collection of peasants who up to last year had never
gripped an oar.” The crew and passengers (who numbered well over fifty) were
not predominantly Christian, and Synesius says that they all invoked
different gods when their lives were in danger. 41 There is an imperial edict
from 390 that also mentions Jewish shipmasters/shipowners in Alexandria.
This edict states that Jewish navicularii were not compelled to perform the
compulsory public duties of other shipowners, most likely the transport of
grain to Constantinople and Rome. 42 This law demonstrates that there were a
significant number of Jewish shipowners in eastern Mediterranean commerce
at this time. 43 These few examples of the sailing community and religious
situation in Alexandria demonstrate that not everyone in Alexandria and its
neighbouring ports had converted to Christianity by the late fourth century.
Clearly, at least some of the many seafarers sailing from these Egyptian ports
were not Christian.
There are also other major ports that the archaeological and written
record suggest still had relatively strong non-Christian populations, even
though Christianity had spread to coastal cities quite quickly. Most of the
sailors going to and from these ports may have been Christian, yet it is highly
likely that there were small pockets of non-Christian sailors everywhere.
Many Palestinian and Near Eastern coastal cities with important ports in
antiquity, like Gaza, Ascalon 44 and Berytus, 45 have evidence of non-Christian
populations. Gaza still had a substantial number of inhabitants who
worshipped Graeco-Roman gods in the fifth century. There were perhaps
more Christians in the port of Gaza compared to the city and its hinterland,
yet their numbers even there must have been low. 46 The Life of Porphyry,
despite its hagiographical purpose, demonstrates that the total number of
Christians in Gaza’s city, port and hinterland was less than five percent of the
total population, even after Porphyry’s successful conversions to
Christianity. 47 When Isidore and Damascius sailed into Gaza in the late fifth
century, they still found a strong, welcoming pagan contingent there. 48 It is
also interesting that Arcadius was loath to destroy the temples of Gaza for
41
Synesius, Ep. 4.
42
Cod. Theod. 13.5.18.
43
Haas 1997, 116-17.
44
Trombley 1993, 197.
45
Dam. Isid. 8.142B (trans. Athanassiadi 1999); Jones Hall 2003, 167-81; Trombley 1994, 30-31, 44.
46
Mark the Deacon, Vita Porph. 58 and 65 (trans. Head 2001); Trombley 1993, 192.
47
Vita Porph. 72 and 95; Head 2001, 54; Trombley 1993, 227-28.
48
Dam. Isid. 8.133.
276 Janet Wade
fear of losing the substantial public taxes that were generated by this thriving
trading city. 49 One wonders how many other ports and coastal trading cities
— without corresponding hagiographical accounts — were in a similar
situation in Late Antiquity. 50 Indeed, prominent scholars have convincingly
shown that non-Christian beliefs and practices continued in the East up until
the seventh century. 51 We only need look at the continuous, renewed anti-
pagan legislation to see that these beliefs persisted well into Justinian’s reign,
even in Constantinople. 52 It is true that much of the surviving evidence for
continued pagan practice is for rural areas (including the countryside around
Constantinople), rather than coastal regions. 53 However, since men from rural
areas often sought seasonal work as dockworkers and sailors (remember
Synesius’ account of the young peasants who manned his Alexandrian ship), 54
this evidence is not entirely irrelevant to a study of the men of the maritime
community.
There are other clues of a more maritime nature that demonstrate that
traditional deities still played a role in the lives of seafarers in Late Antiquity.
After the earthquake of 551 destroyed the city of Berytus, John Barbucallus
wrote a beautiful epigram warning mariners to avoid the city’s harbour, a
place no longer watched over by Poseidon and the hospitable gods. 55 The
epigram captures the superstitious nature of mariners perfectly, whether or
not John himself believed in these gods. There are also inscriptions from the
northern Aegean island of Thasos which record ships named after deities like
Poseidon, Asklepios, Herakles and Sarapis. 56 One of these inscriptions
requests “Fair sailing to the Poseidon and Asklepios” with a cross inscribed at the
start of the text. 57 The inscription suggests that there was a mixed religious
sentiment to this supplication. 58 A story told by Gregory of Tours also
illustrates the range of beliefs held by seafarers in Late Antiquity. Gregory
49
Vita Porph. 41; Trombley 1993, 24.
50
Trombley 1993, 34.
51
Two examples are Cameron 1993, 10-13, 20, 69-70, 143-44; Trombley 1994.
52
Harl 1990, 7 provides a summary of anti-pagan legislation from Theodosius I to Justinian (391
to 535); Trombley 1993, 2; Cameron 1993, 143-44.
53
Trombley 1994, 76-95 provides evidence from Callinicus’ Life of Hypatius for the survival of
Hellenic cults in rural Bithynia and areas around Constantinople including Chalcedon; Constas
2003, 18; John Eph. HE. 3.244 and 3.36.
54
Synesius, Ep. 4; Haas 1997, 131.
55
Anth. Pal. 9.427: Ναυτίλε, μὴ στήσῃσ δρόμον ὀλκάδοσ εἳνεκ᾽ἐμεῖο; λαίφεα μὴ λύσῃσ; χέρσον
ὁρᾶσ λιμένα. τύμβυσ ὃλη γενόμην; ἕτερον δ᾽ἐσ ἀπενθέα χῶρον δοθπήσεισ κῶπῃ νηὸσ
ἐπερχομένησ. τοῦτο Ποσειδάωνι φίλον, ξενίοισ τε θεοῖσιν; χαίρεθ᾽ ἁλιπλανέεσ, χαίρεθ᾽
ὁδοιπλανέεσ.
56
IG 8,8 581 (Herakles of Thessalonike, owned by Epiktetos and Zoilos, president of the
merchant guild); IG 8,8 582 (Poseidon and Asklepios); IG 8,8 583 (Asklepios); IG 8,8 584 (Demeter
and Sarapis); IG 8,8 585 (Artemis).
57
IG 8,8 582: ☩ εὔπλοια τῷ Ποσειδ[ῶνι], [κ]α̣ὶ τῷ Ἀσκληπιῷ...
58
Trombley 1993, 184 suggests that these ships were manned by Christian sailors with pagan
owners, but the crews could have been both Christian and pagan, or the ship-owners may have
been hedging their bets by invoking both Christian and Hellenic gods.
tells of a Gallic man who boarded a crowded ship bound for Italy in the sixth
century. This man was the only Christian on the ship. In a storm, the others
on board invoked gods which included Jupiter, Athena/Minerva, Mercury and
Venus. 59 Indeed, it is likely that some Christian sailors also called on these
deities when faced with impending shipwreck. Church leaders like Augustine
of Hippo often mention Christians who dismissed their God in times of need,
preferring to call upon Mercury or Jupiter or some other 'daemon' for help
instead. 60 Many of the rituals performed at sea would have become so
ingrained in maritime custom that most sailors would have considered them
essential to their livelihood, and not at all antithetical to the Christian faith.
Isis and Mary

One of the maritime deities still being invoked by sailors was Isis. As Isis
Pelagia (‘Isis of the Sea’), she had guided ships into Roman ports and protected
the grain trade for centuries, and the evidence suggests that many sailors
were loath to give up her protection. The Roman emperors restored a temple
of Isis at the port of Ostia around 376. The man in charge of the temple
restoration was responsible for Rome’s corn supply that year — so clearly Isis
still watched over the fleets transporting grain into Rome at that stage. 61 Isis
continued to be worshipped openly in Rome right through to the end of the
fourth century. We glimpse her festivals in the Roman Calendar of 354, in
inscriptions, and in the writings of men like Claudian, so it should be no
surprise that she was still popular in Roman ports at this time. 62 Damascius
mentions that the locals of Canopus and Menouthis used Isis’ assistance to
keep their harbour fit for navigation until her cult statue was destroyed in
the late fifth century. 63 Haas believes that this cult statue was that of Isis of
the Sea. 64 Isis was still associated with Tyche as late as the sixth century in
some parts of the empire as well. On a sixth century ivory relief from
Alexandria, the goddess is depicted as the conflated Isis-Tyche. 65 She holds
several symbols which represent the good fortune granted to her city. One of
these symbols is a merchant vessel, demonstrating her role in the protection
of Alexandria’s maritime trade. Also in Egypt (albeit a good distance away
59
Gregory of Tours, Vitae patrum 17.5 (trans. James 1991, 112).
60
August. Enarratio in Psalmum 62.7 (in Benko 1993, 37); Macmullen 1997, 121; Cameron 1993, 69
notes that as late as 692, the Council in Trullo was condemning pagan practices, especially
amongst those who identified themselves as Christians.
61
VS 562 (trans. Vidman 1969); Witt 1971, 180.
62
Salzman 1990, 77-8 & 170-72; Vidman VS434, 436, 447, 450 & 457; Claud. On the Fourth
Consulship of the Emperor Honorius, 8.597-616.
63
Dam. Isid. 3.53B.
64
Haas 1997, 329, n.118.
65
Haas 1997, 133, Fig. 11. The ivory relief from Alexandria is now in the Aachen cathedral in
Germany. Isis-Tyche wears a modius as a crown and holds a cornucopia surmounted by a
temple of Horus and a merchant vessel. She is surrounded by dancers, musicians and a figure
of Pan.
278 Janet Wade
from the ocean), Isis worship still occurred at the temple of Philae until
Justinian had it closed down. 66 As part of the annual celebration at Philae, the
image of Isis was carried across the Nile on a boat, and this is widely
recognised as one of the major forerunners of the Isidis Navigium or
Ploiaphesia. 67 This was a Graeco-Roman festival which launched the sailing
season each year by dedicating a symbolic ship to Isis, the mistress of
navigation and inventor of the sail. 68 It is in this festival that we see the most
evidence of the enduring popularity of Isis amongst sailors.
The Isidis Navigium was a sailing festival of great fanfare. We know a lot
about the festival from a description by Apuleius in his Metamorphoses. 69 A
revised version of this work was produced by Sallustius in Rome and
Constantinople in the late fourth century, so it was still a relatively popular
work then. 70 Fulgentius, writing in the late fifth century in North Africa also
mentions Apuleius’ Metamorphoses as though it was still widely available in his
time. 71 The Isidis Navigium is also depicted on commemorative coins. In fact, it
became linked with the annual public vows of the emperor, and a series of
‘Festival of Isis’ coins were minted in Rome to celebrate it. The first series of
these coins was minted until 380, and they had imperial busts on the obverse,
showing that they were imperially sanctioned by Christian emperors. After
this, the coins continued to be produced with the bust of Isis or Sarapis in
place of the emperor. 72 The majority of the coins show the Isidis Navigium or
Isis Pelagia on the reverse, and many of the surviving coins have been pierced,
suggesting that they were worn or used as amulets or votives. 73 Thus, the
sailing festival of Isis was still state-sanctioned until around 380, and it
continued to be commemorated on coins after this time. The Isidis Navigium
was definitely an official Roman festival in 354 as it is mentioned in an extant
Codex-Calendar of that year. It seems to have been removed from the official
calendar around the same time as the imperial coins were stopped. 74 Of
course, the removal of the festival from the official calendar does not mean
that it stopped being practiced, especially by those most personally reliant on
a successful sailing season each year. Indeed, there are other references to
the Isidis Navigium that demonstrate that it continued to be a popular festival
in many places.
In his military manual, Vegetius mentions Isis’ sailing festival as a
contemporary event. He was writing at the end of the fourth century or
66
Procop. De bello Pers. 1.19.35-7; Marinus, Vita Procli, 19; Trombley 1993, 314-15; Trombley 1994,
225-31; Witt 1971, 62.
67
Witt 1971, 62, 165-66.
68
Isidorus Hymn 1 (trans. Vanderlip 1972, 17-19).
69
Apul. Met, 11.7-17.
70
Alföldi 1937, 46; Sandy 1997, 233.
71
Fulg. Myth. 3.6.
72
Alföldi 1937, 11-17, 27-30.
73
Alföldi 1937, 25-30, 46.
74
Salzman 1990, 170, 240-45.
perhaps even a little later. Vegetius was widely travelled, and he says that the
festival was still celebrated with annual games and public spectacles in many
cities. 75 The poet Ausonius mentions that the festival was still celebrated in
Rome. 76 Fulgentius makes an interesting digression in his late fifth century
Mythologiae when he comments — probably to his patron —“As you certainly
know for a fact, the Egyptians worship the barge of Isis.” 77 This comment could be a
reference to the contemporary Isidis Navigium or to the celebration still
practiced at Philae. Isis’ role in navigation was well known even by the sixth
century, with Cassiodorus still crediting her as the inventor of the sail. 78 John
Lydus, writing in Constantinople in the mid-sixth century, also mentions the
Isidis Navigium (Ploiaphesia) as a festival that was still popular in his day. 79 The
fact that John Lydus — a civil servant under a very Christian administration —
even knew about the contemporary popularity of this festival, tells us that it
was still practiced by sailors at this time, perhaps even in the ports of the
imperial capital itself.
Regardless of their religion, the supplications made by seafarers at the
start and end of every voyage and in times of trouble at sea, were basically
the same. These prayers were just addressed to different beings. Before
embarking on a ship to Constantinople, Gregory of Nazianzus prayed for God
to send him an angel who would travel by his side, guide and protect him. 80
Similar requests for divine aid had been made by seafarers for centuries.
Prayers and religious symbols were often inscribed on rocks or other natural
objects on the shoreline. This practice continued amongst Christian sailors,
and can be seen in the crosses and Christograms found on quarry rocks on
the Island of Proconnesus in the Sea of Marmara. 81 As the inscriptions from
Thasos demonstrate, supplications for fair sailing were common amongst
Christians and non-Christians alike. 82 In the ancient world, sailors had always
practiced a range of acts to protect themselves and their ships from danger.
Illustrations, names of gods, and apotropaic eyes were carved, painted or
attached to the hulls of ships. Coins were placed under the mast-steps, and
amulets and votive objects were carried. 83 Christian sailors did exactly the
same types of things. Crosses or other symbols were carved or painted on the
hulls of their ships or on other objects, and amulets and votives were still
75
Veg. Mil. 4.39 (trans. Milner 1993).
76
Auson, De feriis Romanis 23.23-4.
77
Fulg. Myth. 1.20 (trans. Whitbread 1971).
78
Cassiod. Var. 5.17.
79
Lydus, Mens. 4.45: Τῇ πρὸ τριῶν Νωνῶν Μαρτίων ὁ πλοῦσ τῆσ Ἴσιδοσ ἐπετελεἶτο, δν ἔτι καὶ
νῦν τελοῦντεσ καλοὖσι πλοιαφέσια. ἡ δὲ Ἷσισ τῇ Αἰγυπτίων φωνῇ παλαιὰ σημαίνεται,
τοθτέστιν ἡ σελήνη. καὶ προσηκόντωσ αὐτήν, ὡσ ἐλέγομεν, τῇ φύσει τῶν ὑδάτων ἐφεστάναι.
80
Greg. Naz. Prayer before a Journey to Constantinople (in Daley 2006, 169).
81
Karagianni 2011/12, 20.
82
See n. 56-57 above.
83
Casson 1971, 132, 354-59, Figs. 119, 125, 129, 130 and 132; Carlson 2009, 347-65; 2007, 317-24.
280 Janet Wade
carried. 84 John Chrysostom reports that the sign of the cross could be seen
everywhere in marketplaces, on ships, and in ports. 85 In short, the fear and
reverence that mariners had for the sea did not change with their religion,
nor did the risks of sea travel abate. The maritime saints that came to act as
patrons for seafarers, such as Saints Phokas, Stephen, and Nicholas of Sion,
were not a new phenomenon. 86 These saints became very popular amongst
seafarers for the same reasons that maritime deities had always been
important, and they were able to assume the protective roles of the old gods.
The sea was unrelenting — sailors needed someone to pray and offer votives
to on every single one of their voyages.
As demonstrated, Isis seems to have held a place in the hearts of sailors
until well into the sixth century. She was a difficult goddess to displace. To
sailors she was, after all, the all-powerful mistress of navigation. 87 For Isis to
be superseded in her role as the Lady of the Sea 88 there needed to be someone
for this devotion to be transferred to — someone who could do everything
that Isis had been able to do. This is where Mary, the Theotokos, stepped in.
Other scholars have convincingly shown that Mary was heavily influenced by
the cults of Isis and other important goddesses of the Graeco-Roman world in
which she was born. 89 It is Mary’s role as a protector of seafarers that is of
most interest for this discussion. In the Akathistos Hymn — probably written in
Constantinople in the fifth or sixth century — Mary is the ship for those who
seek salvation and “a haven for all life’s seafarers” as Isis had been before her. 90
Proclus of Constantinople says
“See how both the earth and the sea serve as the Virgin’s escorts: the one
spreading forth her waves calmly beneath the ships, the other
conducting the steps of travellers on their way unhindered.” 91
Seafaring imagery did become very popular in the language of early

Christianity. Yet, in the case of Mary, this was not just rhetoric. She became a
protector of sailors, and they left votive offerings to her in thanks for
successful voyages, just as they had for Isis before her. 92 Mary’s role in
protecting the waters around Constantinople had been cemented by the early
seventh century. Legend has it that she intervened in a naval attack on the
city, 93 and when Heraclius sailed from Africa to Constantinople he placed an
84
Vitaliotis 1998, 90-91; Bass & van Doorninck 1982, 212-18, 267.
85
John Chrys. Jud. et. gent. 9.8 (in Schatkin & Harkins 1983).
86
Rautman 2006, 153-54; Vitaliotis 1998, 90-91; Macmullen 1997, 96, n.58.
87
Brady 1978, 7-8, 43.
88
Bruneau 1961, 435-46. Bruneau uses the term ‘Isis of the Sea’ (Isis Pelagia) for all of Isis'
incarnations as a maritime goddess (Pelagia, Euploia, Pharia, Fortuna).
89
Benko 1993; Limberis 1994, 122; Witt 1971, 273-78; see Peltomaa 2001 for a different view.
90
Akathistos Hymn, 17 (trans. Limberis 1994, 156).
91
Procl. Homil. 1, 10-12 (trans. Constas 2003, 136-37).
92
Witt 1971, 272.
93
Chron. Pasch. 626.
icon of the Theotokos on his ship’s mast. 94 The placement of the icon on the
mast is interesting, because the standard iconography of Isis Pelagia has the
goddess standing in place of the mast of a ship, with her mantle billowing out
behind her as the sail. Whether or not it was intentional, followers of Isis
would have easily identified their goddess with Mary. It must have been
much easier for sailors to give up their worship of Isis with Mary there to take
her place. The cult of Mary spread rapidly, as the cult of Isis had done
centuries earlier. Sailors and merchants played an important role in the
dissemination of the cult of their new ‘Lady of the Sea’. By the seventh
century, Mary stood in Isis’ place on the decks of ships sailing into
Constantinople.
Conclusion
In conclusion, despite their familiar and substantial presence in port cities
throughout Late Antiquity, sailors and sea-traders were regarded as
foreigners. The men of the maritime community were outsiders — misfits,
adventurers, entrepreneurs, and anyone else who chose the sea as a way of
life. Theirs was a relatively independent community, and it is not surprising
that some of these men held on to their old gods long after the
Christianisation of the empire. The realities of life at sea would have made
many sailors and sea-traders reluctant to give up all of their maritime
customs and beliefs, some of which were regarded as essential for survival at
sea and to guarantee successful sailing ventures. John Chrysostom tells us
that in his day, Christianity had successfully spread to the marketplaces,
islands, ship basins, and harbours of the whole world, and his view has been
accepted unreservedly for centuries. 95 Although John is undoubtedly right
about the success of Christianity, he failed to mention that there were still
non-Christian beliefs existing in those markets, harbours, islands, and ships.
If we look further than the accounts of sailors and shipowners of the imperial
grain fleet who were involved in ecclesiastical disputes, we find a variety of
evidence that suggests that traditional maritime beliefs actually persisted
well into the sixth century. Hagiographical accounts from the sixth century
were frequently set on ships, and in these stories, the protagonist often
converts all of the heathens on board during a storm. At this late stage,
perhaps the sea was one environment where readers expected to find large
numbers of pagans. Of course, the traditional maritime cults were eventually
comprehensively displaced by Christianity, but not until later than previously
imagined. Even then, I believe that what was at the heart of those cults
remained in the hearts and minds of mariners, and life at sea carried on much
as it had for centuries.
94
George of Pisidia, Exped. Pers. 1.139-54, 2.86 (in Kaegi 2003, 113); Caseau 2001, 44.
95
John Chrys. Jud. et. gent. 2.1 and 9.8.
282 Janet Wade
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Index 289
Index
Asia Minor, 45, 47-48, 52, 56, 156, 162, 170,
269
A Atashkad, 132
Aachen, 3, 73, 75-77, 79, 142, 277 Athanasius, 150, 273
Abbasid, 4, 13, 130, 135, 137, 139-43 Athena, 55, 271-73, 277
Achaemenid, 131, 156, 157 Athens, 60, 107, 120, 161, 187, 192, 213
Adriatic, 3, 21, 24, 37, 71-76, 81, 93, 97 Attila, 231, 249-50
Aelius Aristides, 58 Augustine of Hippo, 277
Africa Proconsularis, 48 Augustus, 46, 57, 184, 258
Agathias, 160-61, 185, 187 Aurelian, 51, 61
Agbia, 48 Aurelius Marcianus, 49
Al Mansour, 140 Avars, 1, 23, 96, 98-100
Al Mu‘tasim, 140, 142 Avignon, 118
Alans, 18, 32
Alexander III, 26 B
Alexandria, 49, 118, 181, 183, 185-87, 189,
191, 194, 196, 271, 273-75, 277 Baghdad, 13, 139, 140, 142, 169
Alexios I Komnenos, 30 Balkan provinces, 57, 60, 71, 223
Amalarius, 76-77 Balkanist discourse, 91
Amalasuntha, 215-18 Balkans, 1, 71, 91, 224, 250, 269
Amalfi, 20 Bari, 16, 31, 96
Ammianus Marcellinus, 156-57, 183, 188, Barlaam of Calabria, 118
225 Basil I, 23, 81, 96-97, 173
Anacopia, 18-19 Basil II, 18, 25, 31, 195, 208
Anastasius I, 187, 196 Baths of Zeuxippus, 187
Anastasius the Librarian, 95 Belgica, 48
Andrew of Crete, 195 Belisarius, 209, 210, 213-14, 249
Andronikos II Palaiologos, 32 Benevento, 16
Anthemius, 60, 251-52, 254, 256-61 Bernardino of Sienna, 4, 106, 107, 111, 114-
Antinoopolis, 49, 193, 208 15, 117
Antioch in Pisidia, 51 Berytus, 275-76
Antioch on the Orontes, 49 Bishapur, 132
Antonino Pierozzi, 4, 106-07, 109, 115, 117, Black Sea, 18, 27, 30, 171-72
120 Boccaccio, 4, 106, 108, 113, 115-20
Aphrodisias, 49 Book of Ceremonies, 20, 134, 138, 140-42,
Aquileia, 60, 64, 248, 274 152, 258
Arab, 1, 5, 14, 131, 133-34, 136, 155, 165, Boris Michael, 169, 178, 229
170, 173, 185, 196 Bosporus, 20, 27, 30, 172
Arabia, 49 Bostra, 49
Arabic, 2, 27, 129, 194 Brač, 97
Arbe (Rab), 74 Branimirus, 99
Arcadius, 59, 60-62, 137, 158, 193, 255, 275 Bulgar, 32, 94, 98, 100, 178, 229
Ardashir, 132, 156 Bulgaria, 17, 18, 169, 224
Arentani, 96 Bulgars, 1, 100, 178
Aristophanes, 113-15 Byzantine army, 3
Aristotle, 108, 111 Byzantine navy, 170
Armenia, 18
Ascalon, 275
Asclepiodotus, 53-55
C
Asclepius, 55 Caernarvon, 11
Caesarea Maritima, 48
290 Index
Cagliari, 20, 21 D
Calabria, 29, 110, 118
Caliphate, 129-30, 140, 142 Dalmatia, 3, 4, 23, 25, 29, 60, 71, 73-81, 89,
Campania, 53 92-99, 251-53
Caria, 49 Dalmatian dossier, 73, 95
Carolingian, 1, 3, 100 Dalmatians, 24, 32, 79, 98
Carolingians, 31 Danube, 17, 32, 223
Carthage, 14, 249, 257 Danubian, 57, 59
Cassiodorus, 25, 279 Dar al-Khilafa, 135, 137, 139-40
Caucasus, 1, 18 Dardanelles, 21
Chalcedonian, 181, 190, 194, 196, 197 De Administrando Imperio, 3, 17, 22, 28, 71,
Charlemagne, 16, 73, 75 73, 89, 92, 94, 96, 100
Cherson, 16, 17, 32 Demetrios Triklinios, 106
Christian, 4, 5, 6, 20, 33, 106-07, 111-12, Dio Chrysostom, 58
114, 116-17, 119, 138, 140, 156, 158-59, Diocletian, 45, 47-48, 50, 54-56, 59, 64, 74,
160-65, 174, 178-79, 181-82, 186-87, 189- 95-98, 159-60
90, 192-95, 210, 212-13, 226, 228, 230, Diocletians, 96
234-36, 269, 270-79, 281 Diodorus, 188
Christodorus of Coptus, 187 diplomacy, 2, 11-13, 16, 18, 28-30, 32, 92,
Chronicle of Laon, 27 98, 131
Chrysotriklinos, 4, 129-30, 134, 138, 143, Dnieper, 14, 30
152-53 Domnius de Cranchis, 97
Commodus, 137 Don, 26-27, 99
Constantine I (the Great), 22, 46-47, 51, 58, Donatus, 72-73, 77, 81, 106
60, 64, 135, 138, 159-60, 182, 185, 189, Dyrrachium, 16-17, 29
223, 226, 235, 258
Constantine II, 60
Constantine VII, 14, 17, 19-20, 22, 23, 25,
E
28, 31, 71, 92, 139, 142, 184 Early Byzantine, 129-31, 135-36, 271
Constantine VIII, 25 Eastern Mediterranean, 75, 187
Constantinople, 2, 11-16, 19, 22, 23, 24, 26- Edessa, 132
27, 29-32, 34, 45, 47, 54, 59-63, 76-79, 92, Egypt, 5, 14, 21, 45, 47, 49, 162, 181-82, 184-
94-95, 106, 108-10, 113-14, 116, 120, 135- 90, 192-96, 251, 269, 274, 277
36, 138-39, 152, 161-62, 164, 169, 170, Egyptians, 5, 181-82, 183, 185-87, 192-95,
172-75, 182, 184-85, 187, 190, 192, 195, 279
197, 209, 213, 215-18, 230, 247-48, 250- England, 11
51, 253-54, 256-58, 261, 269-73, 275-76, Ennius, 113
278-80 Ephesus, 48, 50, 56, 63, 271
Constantius, 16, 48-50, 52, 59-60, 183, 248 Epidauros, 23
Constantius II, 16, 60, 183, 226-27 Erich of Friuli, 75-76
Coptic, 2, 189 Erythrai, 60-61
Corinth, 48, 196 Euripides, 4, 105-16, 118-20
Corsica, 21, 251 Eusebius, 118, 159-60, 190, 192
Cosimo de’ Medici, 107, 110, 115, 117 Eustathios of Thessalonica, 25
Cremona, 21, 25-26, 139
Crete, 29, 63, 196
Crimea, 15, 171 F
Croats, 4, 71-72, 74, 89, 92-96, 98-100 Florence, 4, 105-08, 111, 114-18, 120
Ctesiphon, 132-34, 138, 161 Fourth Crusade, 11-12, 182, 184
cultural memory, 5, 181, 185, 187, 196-97 Francesco Barbaro, 109, 114
Cumans, 30 Frankish Annals, 23, 75-76, 79
Cyprus, 19-20, 48, 50, 57-58, 269 Franks, 19, 24, 30, 75, 96, 106
Cyrenaica, 49 Fraxinetum, 21
Cyril of Alexandria, 186, 191, 274 Frederick I Barbarossa, 26
Index 291
G Ibn al-Farra, 13
ideology, 1, 48-49, 62, 93
Gaeta, 20 Ilion, 55
Galatia, 57-58 Illyricum, 77, 96, 100, 225
Galerius, 47-52, 55, 59, 63, 159-60 imperial ideology, 2-3, 45-46, 50-51, 53, 57-
Galla Placidia, 64, 248 58, 62-64, 246
Gallienus, 51 Ioannis Skylitzes, 108
Gaul, 246, 250, 260-61 Iohannes Lucius, 93, 97
Gaza, 190, 275 Iran, 129-31, 134, 138, 140, 142, 163
Genoa, 26, 30-31 Isaac II Angelos, 31
Genoese, 27, 30-33 Isidore of Seville, 184
George of Pisidia, 163 Isis, 186, 188, 190-91, 271, 274, 277-78, 280
Georgia, 18, 33 Isis Pelagia, 277-78, 280-81
Gerasa, 49 Istanbul, 135-37, 151, 205-06, 269, 272
Germans, 30, 158 Istria, 22-25, 75
Germanus I, 186, 191, 196 Istrians, 23-24, 32, 76
Giovanni Aurispa, 106, 115, 120 Italian Peninsula, 209, 213, 215, 218
Golden Gate, 12 Italy, 4-5, 16, 26-27, 29, 31, 46, 62, 107, 110-
Gortyn, 53-55, 63 11, 115, 118, 120, 209-10, 212-19, 250-52,
Gothic wars, 5, 225, 227-29, 231, 235 254, 260-61, 269, 277
Goths, 6, 15, 214-18, 223, 225, 227, 231, 261 Iulia Mamaea, 49
Gottschalk (Godescalc), 23-24, 32 Iunius Tiberianus, 48, 50
Gratian, 53, 59-60
Greece, 45, 47, 90, 106, 108, 119, 143, 157,
190, 196, 269
J
Gregory of Nazianzus, 182, 271, 279 Jerusalem, 162, 164, 169, 175, 179, 189, 191-
Gregory of Nyssa, 194 92, 194, 196
Gregory of Tours, 276 Jews, 187, 274
John Barbucallus, 276
H John Chrysostom, 280-81
John Lydus, 185, 187, 252, 279
Hadrianopolis, 6 John of Damascus, 194-95
Harbour of Theodosius, 28 John the Deacon, 25, 76, 78
harbours, 20, 269, 281 John XI, 29
Hellenistic, 4, 13, 46, 54, 58, 63, 133, 143 Jordan, 140, 187, 190, 196
Hellespont, 55 Jordanes, 6, 215, 219, 260, 269
Heraclius, 96-99, 130, 132, 134, 162-64, 181, Julian, 57-58, 63, 183, 186, 224
224, 280 Julius Nepos, 252, 259, 261
Hermes Trismegistus, 186-87 Jundi-Shapur, 140
Hermopolis Magna, 49 Jupiter, 47, 277
Herodotus, 156-58, 182, 210 Justin II, 25, 138
Hesiod, 110 Justinian, 5, 14-15, 17, 46, 59, 64, 97, 116,
Hierocles of Alexandria, 192 133, 158, 161, 181, 190, 209-14, 216, 218-
Holy Trinity (church), 3, 73-74, 77-78, 80 19, 224, 236, 252, 272, 276, 278
Homer, 119, 176
Honorius, 60-62, 247-48, 254-56
Hugh of Arles, 21
K
Hungarians, 16 Kanalites, 96
Hunnic, 6, 225, 232, 234-35, 249 Khirbat al-Mafjar, 135
Huns, 99, 158, 192, 227, 231, 235, 250 Khusro I, 131, 133, 158, 161
Khusro II, 162-64
I Kotor, 23
Iberian peninsula, 60
292 Index
L Niccolò Niccoli, 110-11, 114

Nicholas I, 169-70, 229
Lactantius, 118-19, 159, 160, 165 Nicholas Mystikos, 20
Lady of the Sea, 280-81 Nicomedia, 47
Late Antiquity, 1, 2, 4, 6, 24, 45-47, 58-59, Nika riots, 187
63, 210, 269-72, 274, 276, 281 Nikephoros I, 76
Lebanon, 188 Nikephoros II Phokas, 21
Leo I, 251-52, 254, 256-57, 259 Nikephorus (historian), 94, 99, 186
Leo V, 79 Niketas Choniates, 26
Leo VI, 28, 92 Nile, 185-90, 192-93, 195, 207, 278
Levant, 14, 22, 31 Nin, 73-74
Licinia Eudoxia, 62, 256-57 Normans, 31
Licinius, 51, 59-60, 160, 223, 235 North Africa, 15, 46, 48, 60, 209, 246, 249,
Liudprand of Cremona, 21, 25-26 260, 269, 278
‛local knowledge’, 72, 74, 89-92, 95, 97, 100 Numidia, 48
Lombards, 16, 26, 75-76
Louis the Pious, 79
Luni, 16
O
Luxor, 49 Odovacer, 252, 260
Old Testament, 197
M Oleg, 178
Olympiodorus, 192, 248, 254
Madaba, 190 Ostrogoths, 97, 213-14, 231, 260
Magnesia, 57-58, 63, 191 Otto I, 26, 29
Malalas (John), 5, 186, 212-14, 219, 259
Manuel Chrysoloras, 108, 120
Manuel I Komnenos, 26-27, 129-30
P
Manuel Moschopoulos, 106 pagans, 134, 189, 191, 193, 274, 281
Marcus Musurus, 111 Palaestine, 269
Mary (Virgin), 116, 170, 175-76, 191, 196, Palla Strozzi, 108
271, 277, 280 Palmyra, 49
Maximinus Daza, 51 Pannonia, 1, 77
Mediterranean, 4, 21, 29, 90-92, 107, 136, Peace of Aachen, 3, 24, 76, 79
165, 170, 209-11, 214, 218, 251, 274-75 Pechenegs, 14, 16, 30
Menouthis, 190, 274, 277 Perge, 63
Mercury, 277 Persia, 129-30, 132-33, 140, 155-57, 160,
Michael Choniates, 27 162, 164, 185
Michael Doukas, 30 Persian, 4, 47, 156-61, 163-65, 185
Michael III, 16, 169-70, 173 Peter the Patrician, 15
Michael Psellos, 105, 108 Petrarch, 4, 106, 110-11, 113, 117, 119
Michael VIII Palaiologos, 31, 33 Philae, 278-79
Middle Byzantine, 12, 14, 17, 19, 129, 139 Philippopolis, 6, 49, 223-25, 227-35, 239,
Milan, 26, 61, 135-36 243-44
Moesia, 57-58 Photios, 5, 169-79, 182, 186, 192, 195
Muncimirus, 99 Pisa, 26, 30
Muslims, 13, 18, 21, 24, 29, 31 Pisidia, 51-52, 115, 163, 165
Mytilene, 48, 60, 171, 190 Pisidian Antioch, 55, 63
Placitum of Rižana, 22, 24, 32
N Plato, 113, 121, 161, 177
Pliny the Elder, 184
Naissus, 235 Plutarch, 105-06, 108-10, 114-15
Naples, 20, 21, 118 Po, 21, 75
Nerva, 49 Poland, 93-95, 99
Nestorius, 271 Porta Nigra, 133
Index 293
Porto Torres, 21 Shapur II, 132, 160

Poseidon, 271, 275-76 Sicily, 16, 18, 21, 24, 29, 59, 108, 188, 249,
Priscus, 50, 251 251
Probus, 53-54 Sirmium, 77
Procopius, 5, 15, 55, 97, 158, 161, 181-82, Škrip, 97
187, 209-19, 269 Slavs, 4, 23, 71, 79, 91, 96, 100, 224
Smyrna, 30
Socrates (historian), 113, 193, 247-48, 273
Q Sophocles, 106, 109, 111, 119
Qalʿa-ye Doktar, 132 Soteroupolis, 18
Qasr Mshatta, 135 South Slav, 1
southeastern Europe, 1, 91, 93, 95
Sozomen, 193, 247
R Spain, 15, 33, 60, 137, 246, 260
Ragusa, 23, 74, 97 Split, 74, 97
Ravenna, 26, 61, 64, 73, 75-76, 114, 213, St. Anastasia, 77, 81, 86
247, 260 St. Donatus (church), 3, 72-73, 77, 86
Reggio di Calabria, 16, 29 St. Sophia (church), 15, 136, 170, 184, 190,
Rivo Alto, 75, 77, 79-80 213
Romanness, 12 St. Theodore, 77, 153
Romanus I Lecapenus, 29, 137 Straits of Kerch, 27, 30
Romanus II, 92 Straits of Messina, 18
Rome, city, 20, 26, 29, 47, 49, 53, 54, 59-63, Symeon of Bulgaria, 16
76, 96-98, 111, 113, 140, 152, 162, 182, Synesius of Cyrene, 270, 275
184-85, 211, 248, 250, 254, 257, 259, 275, Syracuse, 16, 18, 24
277-79 Syria, 45, 48-50, 58, 156, 162, 269
Rome, empire, 4, 16, 90, 107, 130-31, 140, Syria Palaestina, 48, 50, 58
142-43, 155, 219, 245, 247, 258 Syriac, 2, 194
Romulus Augustulus, 216, 218, 246, 250,
252 T
Rus, 1, 5, 14, 22, 30, 169-71, 173, 178-79
Tao, 18
Taormina, 18, 21
S Taq-e Kesra, 133
sailors, 2, 6, 269-77, 279-81 Tarraco, 59, 60
Salamis, 48, 58, 192 Tatar, 32
Salona, 23, 60, 74, 95-97, 99, 253 Tauroscythians, 170-71
Samarra, 135, 137, 139-40, 142 Terbounites, 96
San Vitale, 64, 73 tetrapylon, 48-49, 50, 185
Saracens, 96 Tetrarchic, 47-52, 55, 59, 63-64
Sarapis, 276, 278 Tetrarchs, 47, 49, 57, 59-60, 160
Sardinia, 20-21, 23-24, 59 Tetrarchy, 47-49, 55, 63
Sasanian, 1, 4, 130-32, 134, 138, 140, 142, Thamugadi, 48
155-159, 161, 164-65 Thasos, 276, 279
Sasanians, 142, 156-59, 161-62, 181 Theodore the strategos, 16
Saturninus Secundus, 58 Theodosian, 6, 11, 136-37, 182-84, 197, 205-
Sea of Marmara, 30, 173, 279 06, 245, 247, 249-50, 253, 255, 257, 259-
Seljuk, 130 60, 272
Seneca, 111, 116, 119 Theodosian Code, 253-55
Serbs, 16, 71, 93-94, 96, 98-99 Theodosian Harbour, 269, 272-73
Serdica, 223 Theodosius I, 53, 60-61, 182, 228, 247, 276
Severus Alexander, 49 Theodosius II, 45-46, 59, 60-61, 64, 135, 137,
Shapur I, 131-33 158, 182, 247-49, 253-57
294 Index
Theophanes, 94-95, 98-99, 139, 140-42, 164, Valerian, 132, 159-60

172, 188-89 Valerius Diogenes, 51-52, 54-55, 63
Theophanes Continuatus, 139, 141 Vandal kingdom, 252
Theophilus, 129-30, 139-40, 142, 191 Vandal War, 209
Theophylact Simocatta, 188 Vandals, 246, 249-51, 255
Thessalonica, 16-17, 25, 47, 49, 110, 118, Vegetius, 278
152, 217 Venetians, 21, 23-24, 31
Thomas Magister, 106 Veneto, 75
Thomas of Spalato (Spalatensis), 26, 93, 97 Venice, 1, 12, 19-23, 25, 30, 47, 78-79, 136,
Thrace, 30, 45, 223-29, 231, 235 182, 204
Thubursicu Numidarum, 48 Vicko Prodich, 97
Thucydides, 210 Villa dei Quintili, 137, 140, 152
Thugga, 48
Thycidides, 210
Tmutarakan, 27, 30
W
Trajan, 49, 55, 61 Wales, 11
Trepimirus, 99 western Mediterranean, 15-16, 20
Trier, 48, 133 White Croatia, 94-96
Trogir, 74, 93
Trsat, 75-76
Turkey, 135-36 X
Tuthmosis III, 182, 206 Xenophon, 29, 105, 108
U Z
Ukraine, 1, 94-95 Zachlumi, 96
Umayyad, 4, 135, 140, 142 Zadar, 3, 23-24, 71-75, 77-78, 80, 81, 86
Umbria, 59 Zeno, 187, 215-16, 235, 252-53, 260
Zeus, 55, 116-19
V Zoroastrians, 156, 158, 160-63, 185
Zosimus, 185, 247
Valentinian II, 53, 59-60
Valentinian III, 62, 248, 250, 253-57, 259

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What is the book about?

What is the book about?

What places are mentioned in the text?

What places are mentioned in the text?

Byzantium, Its Neighbours and Its Cultures

Ken Parry (Macquarie University)

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/byza

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017940746

Copyright 2017 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands.

This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

Cosmas Indicopleustes, I,20.

Danijel Dzino and Ken Parry

Introduction: Byzantium, its neighbours and its cultures

neighbours. 4 Models for understanding Byzantium’s interactions with its

ranked representative of the emperor, as a reflection of imperial authority

‘other’. Briscoe argues that while some authors displayed knowledge of

writings of Procopius’ stories and the chronicle of Malalas, so his reflection

(2010) ‘Imperial outliers: building and decorative works in the borderlands’,

Bunkers, open cities and boats in Byzantine diplomacy

Introduction: Byzantium as a low-maintenance, variable-geometry empire

Gate. 3 Or was assiduous judgement, perhaps amounting to a Grand Strategy,

Our third illustration brings us back to the sensors, barriers and

means of gearing imperial hegemony to a variety of contingencies with the aid

between this and Justinian’s introduction of the first regular silk-production to

Variations of Open Cities

commercial exchanges (the latter activities being more interchangeable than

cities’ arrived to declare that they were considering submitting to his

Emperors’, and other peoples’, boats

thus narrowly avoided a spell of virtual captivity in Constantinople, and

more or less under Genoese management while paying due respects to

Conclusion: the components of a variable-geometry empire

available to those outsiders who appeared deserving – or simply useful – to the

Map 1: Some Bunkers, Open Cities and Chokepoints*

Ducellier, A. (1981) La façade maritime de l’Albanie au moyen âge: Durazzo et Valona du

Makarova, T.I. (1963) ‘Polivnaia keramika Tamanskogo gorodishcha’, in B.A.

(1993) The Last Centuries of Byzantium 1261-1479, 2nd edn. (Cambridge).

(2012) ‘Imperial Constantinople: Relics, Palaiologan Emperors and the

Imperial ideology and commemorative culture in the Eastern Roman

and ceremonial landscape to accommodate the imperial regime. 4 The eastern

propose to examine the diverse interpretations of imperial ideology in Late

The Tetrarchs: Images and inscriptions

statue monuments’ erected in cities throughout the empire. 17 These

Emperors, governors and the provincial audience

We begin with the building programme of Valerius Diogenes, first

“... to the all-powerful prince, most flourishing Augustus, most victorious

Galerius and Maximinus Daza. 55 The connection between Valerius Diogenes

monuments represent the convergence of local commemorative practices and

βουλῆς | Οἰκουμένιος Δωσίθεος | Ἀσκληπιόδοτος | ὁ λαμπρότατος

Honorific terms: Diversity and interaction

in inscribed imperial constitutions. 98 It is particularly telling that the authority

Imperial collegiality: East and West

prefect Aurelianus dedicated a statue group consisting of Honorius,

nevertheless remains quite striking. 136 Inhabitants of the western regions

Church with incomplete biography: plans for the consolidation of

Introduction: Church with incomplete biography

Early medieval Zadar

results of the campaigns of archaeological excavations revealed inside the old

Taking into account the ambiguity towards intervention of central power in

Rebuilding of Holy Trinity in its historical context