Bronwen Neil - Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides - Dreams, Memory and Imagination in Byzantium-Brill (2018)

Dreams, Memory and Imagination in Byzantium
Byzantina Australiensia
Editorial Board
Ken Parry (Macquarie University)

Bronwen Neil (Macquarie University)
Amelia Brown (University of Queensland)
Meaghan McEvoy (Macquarie University)
Danijel Dzino (Macquarie University)
Wendy Mayer (Australian Lutheran College | University of Divinity)
Roger Scott (University of Melbourne)
VOLUME 24
The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/byza

Dreams, Memory and
Imagination in
Byzantium
Edited by
Bronwen Neil
Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides
LEIDEN | BOSTON
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.
Εἰ δὲ καὶ περὶ τῶν ἀντιπόδων ἐπεξεργαστικώτερον θελήσειέ τις ζητῆσαι, ῥαδίως τοὺς γραώδεις μύθους αὐτῶν
ἀνακαλύψει
Cosmas Indicopleustes, I.20
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Neil, Bronwen, editor.

Title: Dreams, memory, and imagination in Byzantium / edited by Bronwen Neil,
Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides.
Description: Leiden ; Boston : Brill, 2018. | Series: Byzantina
Australiensia, ISSN 0725-3079 ; Volume 24 | Includes index.
Identifiers: LCCN 2018028901 (print) | LCCN 2018031578 (ebook) | ISBN
9789004375710 (E-book) | ISBN 9789004366862 (hardback : alk. paper)
Subjects: LCSH: Dreams—Byzantine Empire. | Memory—Byzantine Empire. |
Imagination.
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154.6/309495—dc23
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isbn 978-90-04-37571-0 (e-book)
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Contents
Acknowledgements ix
List of Illustrations x
Abbreviations xi
Contributors xiii
An Introduction to Dreams, Memory and Imagination in Byzantium 1

Bronwen Neil
part 1
Dreams, Memory and Imagination in the Byzantine
Philosophical Tradition
1 The Dangers of Purity: Monastic Reactions to Erotic Dreams 17

Inbar Graiver
2 Locating Memory and Imagination: From Nemesius of Emesa to John of

Damascus 35
Ken Parry
3 Daydreaming and Lusting after the Divine: Clement of Alexandria and

the Platonic Tradition 57
4 The Inner Source of Dreams: Synesius of Cyrene’s Reception in the

Palaiologan Era 82
Francesco Monticini
part 2
Prophetic Dreams and Visions in Imperial Contexts
5 Dynastic Dreams and Visions of Early Byzantine Emperors

(ca. 518–565 AD) 99
Meaghan McEvoy
vi Contents
6 Dreaming of Treason: Portentous Dreams and Imperial Coups in

Seventh-Century Byzantine Apocalyptic Discourse 118
Ryan W. Strickler
7 Desire, Dreams, and Visions in the Letters of Emperor Konstantinos VII

Porphyrogennetos and Theodoros of Kyzikos 136
Mark Masterson
8 The Dream Come True? Matthew of Edessa and the Return of the
Roman Emperor 160
Maximilian Lau
part 3
Dreams and Memory in Byzantine Chronicles and Encomia
9 Dreams and Imaginative Memory in Select Byzantine Chronicles 183

Roger Scott
10 Dream Portents in Early Byzantine and Early Islamic Chronicles 208

Bronwen Neil
11 Psellos’ Use and Counter-Use of Dreams, Visions and Prophecies in His

Chronographia and His Encomium for His Mother 227
Penelope Buckley
part 4
Remembering the Saints in Hymns and Hagiography
12 Loyalty and Betrayal: Villains, Imagination and Memory in the

Reception of the Johannite Schism 249
Wendy Mayer
13 “As if in a Vision of the Night …”: Authorising the Healing Spring of

Chonai 265
Alan H. Cadwallader
Contents vii
14 Dreaming Liturgically: Andrew of Crete’s Great Kanon as a Mystical

Vision 293
Andrew Mellas
15 Divine Fantasy and the Erotic Imagination in the Hymns of Symeon the
New Theologian 315
Derek Krueger
General Index 343

Acknowledgements
Our volume grew out of papers offered at the 19th Biennial Conference of
the Australian Association for Byzantine Studies, on 24–26 February 2017, at
Monash University Law Chambers, Melbourne. Selected and revised confer-
ence papers have been supplemented by others to cover the three-fold theme
of Dreams, Memory and Imagination in Byzantium. The conference, con-
vened by Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides, Bronwen Neil and Ken Parry (current
president of the Association), brought together 45 scholars from the United
States, Japan, New Zealand, Italy, and Australia. We are grateful to the con-
ference host, Monash University, and our employer, Macquarie University, for
their financial support. The editors are also grateful to the Australian Research
Council for funding their individual projects. Bronwen Neil holds a Senior
Future Fellowship on “Dreams, Prophecy and Violence from Early Christianity
to the Rise of Islam” (FT 140100226). Eva Anagnostou holds a Senior Future
Fellowship on “The History of Inebriation and Reason from Plato to the Latin
Middle Ages” (FT 160100453).
A broad-ranging volume like this one, whose sources stretch from Byzantine
Greek and Latin to Hebrew, Arabic and Armenian, requires expert linguistic
help along the way. We particularly thank Natalie Mylonas for her help with the
Hebrew in Chapter 6, Nicholas Matheou for his aid with reading the Armenian
cited in Chapter 8, and Aydogan Karz for his correction of transcribed Arabic
names in Chapter 10.
Various colleagues gave generously of their time to read and comment on
the draft chapters. Each chapter has been anonymously peer-reviewed. We
thank the members of the editorial board of Byzantina Australiensia for their
helpful suggestions, and editorial assistants Kosta Simic and Sandra Sewell for
proofreading. Our colleagues at Brill, Marjolein van Zuylen and Loes Schouten,
brought the volume safely through the publication process with their careful
oversight.
BN and EA
List of Illustrations
Map
8.1 Map of Cilicia and the Near East, c. 1140 164
Illustrations
2.1 Illustration of the brain ventricles. The University Library, Cambridge,

MS Gr.g.1.1, ca. 1300 50
2.2 Illustration of the sensus communis. Gregor Reisch, Margarita philosophica
(Freiburg im Breisgau 1503), 461 51
Abbreviations
AE l’Année épigraphique
ANF Ante-Nicene Fathers
APh Acta Philippi (Bovon et al.)
BMGS Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies
ByzA Byzantina Australiensia
ByzZ Byzantinische Zeitschrift
CCSG Corpus Christianorum series graeca
CFHB Corpus fontium historiae byzantinae
CSEL Corpus scriptorum ecclesiasticorum latinorum
CSHB Corpus scriptorum historiae byzantinae
FC Fathers of the Church
GCS Die griechischen christlichen Schriftsteller der ersten Jahrhunderte
GRBS Greek, Roman and Byzantine Studies
HE Historia ecclesiastica
IG Inscriptiones graecae, vols 1–14
IGLR Inscripţiile greceşti şi latine în România (Popescu)
IGLS Inscriptions grecques et latines de la Syrie (Jalabert et al.)
IGR Inscriptiones graecae ad res romanas pertinentes (Cagnat)
IGUR Inscriptiones graecae urbis romae (Moretti)
IK Inschriften griechischer Städte aus kleinasien (Egelmann)
IK Iznik Katalog der antiken Inschriften des Museums van Iznik (Nikaia) (Şahin)
IMT Kaikos Inschriften Mysia und Troas (Barth & Stauber)
IStrat Die Inschriften von Stratonikeia (Şahin)
ITralles Die Inschriften von Tralleis und Nysa (Poljakov)
LCL Loeb Classical Library
MAMA IV Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua (Buckler et al.)
MAMA IX Monumenta Asiae Minoris Antiqua (Levick et al.)
MDAI(A) Mitteilungen des deutschen archäologischen Instituts. Athenische
Abteilung
NF Neue Folge
ODB Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, 3 vols (Kazhdan)
PG Patrologiae cursus completus. Series graeca
PLRE The Prosopography of the Later Roman Empire, vols 1–3
POxy Oxyrhynchus Papyri
PTS Patristische Texte und Studien
RECAM Regional Epigraphic Catalogues of Asia Minor
RPC Roman Provincial Coinage online
xii Abbreviations
SEG Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum

SNG Sylloge Nummorum Graecorum
SC Sources chrétiennes
TAM 2.1 Tituli Asiae Minoris 2 (Kalinka)
TAM 5.1 Tituli Asiae Minoris (Herrmann)
TAM 5.2 Tituli Asiae Minoris (Herrmann)
TTH Translated Texts for Historians
Contributors
Macquarie University, Australia
Penelope Buckley
University of Melbourne, Australia
Alan H. Cadwallader
Charles Sturt University, Australia
Inbar Graiver
Tel Aviv University, Israel
Derek Krueger
University of North Carolina at Greensboro, United States
Maximilian Lau
Hitotsubashi University, Japan
Mark Masterson
Victoria University of Wellington, New Zealand
Wendy Mayer
Australian Lutheran College, University of Divinity / University of South Africa
Meaghan McEvoy
Andrew Mellas
University of Sydney, Australia
Francesco Monticini
Roma Tre University, Italy / EHESS, France
Bronwen Neil
Macquarie University / University of South Africa
xiv Contributors
Ken Parry
Roger Scott
University of Melbourne, Australia
Ryan W. Strickler
An Introduction to Dreams, Memory and
Imagination in Byzantium
Bronwen Neil
The value placed on dreams, memory and imagination in Byzantine commu-

nities of the 4th to 15th centuries may appear strange to the modern mind.
Unlike the post-Enlightenment view of dreams as one of many products of
the imagination, all of which hold a secondary place in relation to “the real”,
in Byzantium dreams and other imaginary sense perceptions carried a social
significance that made them more important than mundane reality. Even more
strangely, dreams and memories were given equal weight as the imaginary in
Byzantine histories, literature, art, and liturgical texts. While we are familiar
with dreams and miracles in hagiography, modern readers might not expect to
find the same in histories and chronicles. Byzantine readers were not phased
by the inclusion in these narratives of events that we might consider prod-
ucts of the imagination; rather they accepted them as lending spiritual weight
to a narrative of God’s intervention in human affairs, and Byzantine affairs in
particular.
The authors of this volume seek to go beyond the modern disjunction be-
tween the rational and the irrational, to appreciate the layers of social and in-
dividual meanings that the imaginary had in the lives of Byzantine dreamers,
writers, chronographers, hymnographers, traders and artists, and to consider
how their writings and art were taken up and viewed, read and heard by both
ordinary and elite Byzantine citizens. In doing so, they build upon the recent
work of scholars who have studied various aspects of dream interpretation and
dream narratives in classical Greco-Roman, patristic, medieval and Byzantine
literature.1 However, our authors seek to extend previous analyses of such texts
beyond dreaming to the linked cognitive fields of imagining and remembering.
Our fields of reference also include studies of holy places and holy objects, in
recognition of the fact that the material world was permeated by the imagi-
nary in Late Antiquity and the Byzantine era, and had an important function
in creating community memories.
Dreams and their corollaries, memory and imagination, may seem an amor-
phous subject of study, and of limited application to the current day. However,
1 See especially Gerok-Reiter and Walde 2012; Graf 2010; Harris 2009; Harrisson 2013; Mavroudi
2014; Miller 1994; Näf 2004; Scioli and Wade 2010; Weber 2000.
© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/9789004375710_002

2 Neil
the interpretation and study of dreams is a living tradition in the post-Byzantine

world, whether Orthodox, Catholic or evangelical Christian, Jewish or Muslim.
The cultural import of remembering dreams is evident in the survival of dream
key manuals, which have been studied in detail elsewhere,2 and are still in use
in some Christian, Muslim and Jewish communities. Comparative studies of
early Byzantine Greek and Arabic dream manuals by Oberhelman, Mavroudi
and others3 have revealed the concerns of ordinary dreamers, both Christian
and Muslim.
The textual sources mined here contain less well known descriptions
of dreams, memory and the imagination, some more popular (for example,
chronicles, hymns, and saints’ lives) and others intended for an elite audience,
for instance: Michael Psellos’ funeral orations, philosophical tracts on dream
interpretation and the location of the memory, and the letters exchanged be-
tween an emperor and his beloved. We also include the study of depictions in
icons, which can shed light on dreams, memory and imagination and how they
reinforced each other in establishing community identities.
1 Methodological Considerations
Our main methodological consideration is the need to respect context, wheth-

er that of the original work, or its reception sometimes centuries later. In all
the Byzantine texts considered here, whether private letters, poems, hymns or
treatises, the audience is the key to their interpretation. It is therefore impor-
tant to establish for whom they were intended at the time of composition, and
who later interpreted them for readers of their own day. The readers of court
poetry undoubtedly held different views on homoerotic desire from the monks
whom Evagrius sought to instruct.4 A philosopher-bishop like Synesius placed
a different value on dreams and their prophetic potential from those who saw
dreams as an index of virtue and moral progress, or its opposite, a demonic
hindrance to spiritual progress.5
As well as the criterion of audience, two other criteria stand out as deter-
minative for understanding Byzantine conceptions of dreams, memory and
2 See Guidorizzi 1980; Mavroudi 2002; Oberhelman 1991, 2008, 2014.

3 Oberhelman 1991; Mavroudi 2002; Bulkeley, Adams and Davis 2009.
4 On Evagrius of Pontus’ dream theory and particularly his approach to erotic dreams, see
Chapter 1 below.
5 See Neil, Costache and Wagner forthcoming on the virtue ethics of Synesius in relation to
dreaming, in his early fifth-century work De insomniis. On the reception of Synesius, see
Francesco Monticini’s chapter below.
Introduction to Dreams, Memory and Imagination in Byzantium 3
imagination. They are genre and temporal location. Penelope Buckley shows
how a single Byzantine author (Psellos) can make different use of dreams and
express different attitudes towards them, depending on whether he is writing
historiography or an encomium. Roger Scott and Bronwen Neil both focus on a
single genre, chronicles, but taken together their chapters show how the use of
dreams became more frequent over the centuries. Scott rightly observes that
the chroniclers reported various miraculous portents, such as extreme weather
events and astronomical phenomena, alongside dreams.6 These are indicative
of a changing thought world in early Byzantium, one that differed in interest-
ing ways from the Greco-Roman one that preceded it. Freudian dream analy-
sis, with its recognition that many dreams stem from the unconscious mind,
where repressed desires are processed, is of little use here.7 The Byzantine
world, like all pre-modern cultures, did not priviledge the rational over the
irrational.
1.1 Dreams, Memory and Imagination in the Byzantine Philosophical

Tradition
Given the defining importance of literary and intellectual context for these
studies of dreams, memory and the imagination, the volume has been divided
into four major parts. The first pertains to the Byzantine philosophical tradi-
tion, where the major dividing line is between Christian monks and others,
such as Clement and Origen of Alexandria, Synesius of Cyrene and Nemesius
of Emesa, who considered themselves philosophers like any other in the pre-
Christian tradition.8
The connection between dreams and desire is something that is accepted
in today’s post-Freudian world. However, for Byzantine Christians to come
to terms with illicit dream images, without the benefit of a theory of the un-
conscious, was a different matter entirely. Three of our authors deal with ho-
moerotic imagery, first of monastic dreams (Graiver); second, the dreams and
fantasies described in the letters between an emperor and a favoured monk
(Masterson); and third, in Symeon the New Theologian’s hymns, where the
divine is addressed as a male lover (Krueger). Each author shows that dreams
and fantasies held an ambiguous place in Byzantine literature: were they simply
metaphors of human and divine longing, or something more?
Monastic writings from Egypt, Gaza, and Sinai indicate the practical chal-
lenges that dreams posed to eastern monks in their attempts to implement
6 Scott’s chapter in this volume.

7 See Neil 2016, 49–52, for a summary of modern methodological approaches to dreams.
8 See Chapters 2, 3 and 4 below.
4 Neil
ideals of purity in their ascetic regimen. The eastern tradition of Evagrius of

Pontus was mediated to the West by John Cassian of Marseilles, among others.
Although the classical background to the notion of “yearning for the divine” in
Cassian and other writers of the western Christian tradition has attracted an
impressive amount of scholarship, the oneirological theories of ancient phi-
losophers and their influence on Byzantine thought have been given consider-
ably less attention.
Chapter 1, by Inbar Graiver, treats erotic desire as a problem in monastic
life. Graiver considers the ways in which theological ideals of spiritual perfec-
tion conditioned the reactions of Byzantine monks to experiences of erotic
dreams. Her point of departure is a case study on erotic dreams suffered by the
monk Moses in Palladius’ Lausiac History (Historia Lausiaca), which was writ-
ten in 419–20. The second case study is reported by John Cassian in book 22
of his Conferences, entitled De nocturnis illusionibus. Here, Cassian describes
an anonymous monk who, over a long period, “used to be sullied in his sleep
by an unclean emission” whenever he was preparing to receive communion.
It seems that, the harder these two monks tried to avoid impure thoughts in their
waking hours, the more they kept cropping up in the dreaming state. Graiver draws
on social psychologist Daniel Wegner’s research into the paradoxical effects of
suppression of sexual thoughts, and relates Wegner’s findings to reports on the
problematic dreamlife of Byzantine monks in Late Antiquity.
The link between dreams and the imagination was at the heart of
Neoplatonist deliberations on the value of dreaming. In Chapter 2, Ken Parry
introduces the larger questions surrounding memory and the imagination as
they were understood from the 4th to 8th centuries. The physical location of the
functions of memory and imagination was a matter for debate in the ancient
world, when there was no consensus on where these faculties were located. For
some, including Aristotle, the heart was the seat of memory and imagination,
while for others, following Galen, it was the head. In the early Byzantine pe-
riod, the doctrine of ventricular localisation was promoted by Aëtius of Amida
(6th century). This theory subsequently gained widespread acceptance in the
Greek, Latin and Arabic medieval worlds. Parry compares the treatise On the
Nature of Man by Christian philosopher Nemesius of Emesa (4th/ 5th century)
and the writings of John of Damascus (d. c. 750) on the physical and anatomi-
cal location of memory, cognition, and imagination in the human person.
Chapter 3, by Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides, concerns the relationship be-
tween evil intention (yetzer hara) and the problematic concept of “lusting
after the divine” in Clement of Alexandria. The author cites the recent work
of Ishay Rosen-Zvi, who has argued that Clement of Alexandria and other pa-
tristic thinkers in Late Antiquity employed the Jewish concept of yetzer hara
(“inclination to evil”) when discussing destructive sexual desire, which was

construed as demonic.9 Clement discusses the lustful gaze as a most dangerous
affliction that causes people to “daydream.” Daydreaming is understood to be
the same as sinning since imagining sexual intercourse is as unlawful as acting
on this impulse. However, Clement argues that those who look on beauty in
chaste love use the body as a vehicle to contemplate the true, spiritual beauty.
Based on this distinction, Anagnostou-Laoutides examines Clement’s familiar-
ity with Platonic definitions of phantasia and the role of beauty in visionary
spiritual ascents. She then focuses on the role played by Origen, Dionysius
the Areopagite, and Maximus Confessor in transmitting the Byzantine vision-
ary experience (“daydreaming” to use Clement’s phrase) of an ecstatic union
with God.
Conflicting receptions of ancient oneirological theories are the subject of
Francesco Monticini’s chapter on Synesius of Cyrene (d. c. 410) and his treatise
On Dreams. Synesius, a contemporary of Evagrius but a philosopher-bishop
rather than a monk, assumed that dreams were cognisable, and argued that
they must be perceived in the same way as sense perceptions: thus, they pass
through the centre of human self-consciousness, designated by Synesius the
“imaginative pneuma” (πνεῦμα φανταστικόν). This is only the beginning of a
philosophical demonstration aimed at proving that all images belonging to
the realm of Becoming, including oneiric ones, reside in the human soul and
do not have their source in the material realm. In this manner, Synesius com-
pletely reversed the traditional Greek conception of dreams. However, any at-
tempt to interpret his work demands recourse to the Byzantine commentaries
on this work. Monticini adduces two commentaries: the first composed by
Nicephorus Gregoras at the beginning of the 14th century, and another of a
similar date, anonymous and as yet unedited. Both commentaries are found
to present new elements that improve our understanding of Synesius’ unique
philosophical approach to dreams.
1.2 Prophetic Dreams and Visions in Imperial Contexts

In the second part, we present four chapters on prophetic dreams in court
poetry and historiography. Dreams and visions played an important role in
Byzantine historiography, where they could be used to move the narrative
along or signal plot changes, operating in a similar way as in the Byzantine
novel, as Suzanne MacAlister has shown.10 Dreams were particularly useful for
promoting dynastic succession: they could be used to legitimate unpopular or
9 Rosen-Zvi 2011, 38.

10 MacAlister 1996, 115–152.
6 Neil
morally suspect actions and events in the imperial sphere, such as violent re-
gime change. Their other literary functions included authenticating prophetic
traditions, revealing divine intervention in history, and establishing the au-
thority of the chronicler.
Meaghan McEvoy demonstrates that the dynastic imperial dream was an
important subset of the dream accounts found in historiography, as well as
panegyric. She takes five examples from these two genres: the court poetry of
Claudius Claudianus at the end of the 4th century; the Anonymus Valesianus
in the early 6th century; the panegyrist Corippus in the same century; and
the Chronicles of both Theophanes Confessor (9th century) and Theophylact
Simocatta (10th century). Each of the dreams she studies concerns impe-
rial heirs—the desire for them, the need to choose between them, or their
execution—and points to the preoccupation of emperors and indeed commen-
tators of the time with issues of dynasty and succession in the early Byzantine
world. The author explores the discourse of imperial dreams and visions in the
early Byzantine period against the contemporary politics of the era.
Ryan Strickler takes up another motif of early Byzantine imperial histories:
the treasonous dream in apocalyptic discourse. Several recent studies have il-
luminated the previously neglected field of Byzantine apocalyptic.11 However,
much of their work has focused on middle and late Byzantine sources and
little consideration has been given to the intersection between dreams and
apocalyptic. Strickler explores the intersection between them in seventh-
century Byzantine literature, this being a time when dreams and visions were
frequently used to foretell and explain disaster. Dreams related in the Historiae
of Theophylact Simocatta predict the overthrow of the emperor Maurice. The
Apocalypse of Zerubbabel (Sefer Zerubbabel), a Jewish text, predicts the advent
of a messiah who will defeat the diabolic figure of Armilos. Other literary evi-
dence, such as the Trial of Maximus the Confessor, suggests that dreams were
used to justify attempted coups d’état, even if such attempts were ultimately
abortive, as in the case of Gregory the exarch’s plan to overthrow Constans II in
646. Such dreams, by their nature, Strickler argues, claim to reveal the hidden
will of God, and are by definition apocalyptic.
Continuing with prophetic traditions in imperial politics, Maximilian
Lau takes up the prophetic tradition in the Armenian Chronicle of Mattʿēos
UṙhayecʿI, more commonly known as Matthew of Edessa, which dealt with
eleventh-century predictions of the triumphant return of the Roman emper-
or in lands under Armenian control in the 12th century. By and large, these
11 Alexander 1985; McGinn 2003; Kraft 2012; Shoemaker 2016. See the bibliography of
Chapter 6 below.
prophecies had failed to materialise, until the eastern campaigns of John II

Komnenos in the 1130s and 40s. The victory of John was by no means assured
and the prophecy, as quoted by the pro-Byzantine Matthew, was wishful think-
ing rather than a portent of victory. This chapter highlights how Matthew’s
Armenian Cilicia was a dynamic region where aspirations for Armenian in-
dependence competed with the hopes of factions who supported a return to
the universal rule of the Roman Empire. It illustrates how prophecy could be
re-purposed from one generation to the next as the political climate evolved in
the broader Byzantine world.
Like Inbar Graiver and Derek Krueger, Mark Masterson treats homoerotic
desire in dreams, but in the context of an epistolary correspondence between
lovers. His chapter examines the eighteen letters, notable for their frequent
homoerotic warmth, that passed between Konstantinos VII Porphyrogennetos
(945–959) and Theodoros of Kyzikos. Scholars have traditionally shied away
from analysing these letters (probably composed in the 940s) on this basis,
dismissing the erotic language as mere metaphor.12 The letters also feature
frequent mentions of dreams and visions. If we consider dreams and visions
with desire in two letters, one from Konstantinos (ep. 3) and the reply from
Theodoros (ep. 4), we find that homoeroticism exists in dreams and in waking
visions. The letters show homoerotic desire as a thing of imagination beyond
conscious control and an object of conscious rumination. Homoerotic desire’s
different modes make it a metaphor for friendship that at times advertises its
non-metaphoricity. Masterson suggests that we cannot rule out actual desire
between these two men. If not that, then these letters must at least attest to
relatively low rates of what we could call, anachronistically, homophobia in
the empire during the Macedonian dynasty.
1.3 Dreams and Memory in Byzantine Chronicles and Encomia

The next three chapters concern dreams and other portents in Byzantine uni-
versal chronicles. Roger Scott begins with Constantine’s sighting of the True
Cross on 28 October 312, surely the most important vision to have occurred
in the so-called Common Era, leading as it allegedly did to the emperor’s con-
version. This vision was both an apocalyptic sign and a signal of violent re-
gime change legitimated by none other than God. Scott does not attempt to
answer the question of where or how the vision occurred but examines rather
the bland handling of this and later visions in Byzantine universal chronicles.
He asks whether they are any more significant in Byzantines’ understanding
of history than other visual portents, such as that reported of the ordinary jug
12 E.g. Messis 2006, 823.

8 Neil
of water that, in the time of Julian the Apostate (361–363), fermented and
turned into sweet wine, thus heralding better times with Julian’s imminent de-
mise; or of earthquakes which so frequently accompanied a change of ruler.
Thus, Scott positions the rare reports of dreams in early chronicles within a
context where portents and other supernatural phenomena were becoming
increasingly normal.
Bronwen Neil continues the study of chronicles in her chapter, where she
compares the prophetic dreams related in Byzantine and Islamic chronicles
with those that feature in hagiography from the same period. She expands the
chronological scope of previous studies of dreams in Byzantine historiograph-
ic literature, which have focussed on the 11th century onwards, from the middle
to late Byzantine periods.13 Apart from the evidence of dream-key manuals
mentioned above, there is other evidence of cultural cross-over in early Islamic
and Byzantine dream narrative accounts in these two genres, which reflect less
the concerns of ordinary people and more the concerns of emperors, soldiers
and saints. Even a cursory comparison of the two traditions suggests that early
Islamic dream-narrators told dreams in a similar way to their Byzantine con-
temporaries, and that their dream accounts served similar literary functions in
both hagiography and historiography.
Penelope Buckley highlights the importance of genre for the interpretation of
dreams and visions. While these are sparse in Michael Psellos’ Chronographia,
he minimises, distances, or even derides them where they do appear. In his
Encomium for his Mother, they are of prime importance, and some indeed are
given as his own. The discrepancy is only partly a matter of genre, for many
Byzantine histories take dreams and visions seriously, as we saw in previous
chapters, while some of Psellos’ orations do not use them at all. The differ-
ence lies more in the ways Psellos presents himself. In the Chronographia, he
is a self-made, king-making philosopher, a sceptical, rational innovator who
alone decides what to value or discard from non-Christian traditions: he has
himself unearthed some of these and can take responsibility for their re-
ception. Dreams and visions are for others. In the Encomium for his Mother,
by stark contrast, it is precisely dreams and visions which sanction his far-
reaching studies, connecting his philosophy to the divine wisdom. These two
works, Chronographia and the Encomium for his Mother, construct two ver-
sions of Psellos, and dreams and visions, or their absence, plot the difference.
13 Calofonos 2014; Magdalino 2014.

1.4 Remembering the Saints in Hymns and Hagiography

The final part of the volume deals with religious commemorations of saints
and the sacred, in hagiography and liturgy, as a form of cultural memory which
was subject to manipulation by later generations. The common theme in the
first three chapters here is repurposing: the use and reuse of commemorative
texts and objects in different contexts through time. As we saw in the previ-
ous chapters, imagination interacts with both dreams and memory in curious
ways, especially when it comes to creative remembering of the saints.
The first two chapters of this section deal with the complicated histories of
reception of saints’ lives by later Byzantine Christians. In her study of the Life
of John Chrysostom attributed to George of Alexandria (d. 630), but composed
in the 8th century, Wendy Mayer examines the conflicting roles of memory and
re-imagining in the production of this Life. By the time it was composed, the
heroic status of the exiled bishop John and the villainous role of the Empress
Eudoxia and the Alexandrian bishop, Theophilus, had become standard ele-
ments in the successive retelling of John Chrysostom’s story. Mayer digs deeper
into the construction of memory in this fashion, identifying it as a process in
two stages. Using as a case-study the Johannite schism (c. 403–438 CE), Mayer
uses Moral Foundations Theory to explore the agency of loyalty/betrayal in
the fostering of anger against perceived traitors and in consolidating partisan
in-group cohesion during stage 1, the emergence and duration of the schism.
She demonstrates how the reported memory of events of the schism, with its
emphasis on the polarities of loyalty and betrayal, and especially on imagined
villains, functioned in stage 2, the process of its reception.
Alan Cadwallader then considers how the popular Life of St Michael, the
archistrategos of Chonai, narrates the defence of a sacred healing spring in
an escalating drama of protection and vindication that left an indelible mark
on the landscape. Visions are shown to play a large part in keeping holy re-
membrance alive. The Life passed through several versions between the 4th
and 9th centuries. Topographical features provided pilgrims with a striking tes-
timony from nature to the truth of the supernatural story. The reception of the
popular narrative of the archangel’s establishment of the spring was troubled
by the admission that both Christians and pagans enjoyed the benefits of the
therapeutic waters. This tension is clearly expressed in the various attempts to
authenticate the origins of the site—from apostolic promise to a foundation
story more familiar from earlier Greek pagan myths of springs, groves, shrines
or temples. The story attempts to compensate for its pagan origins by hesi-
tating over the exact nature of the initiating encounter and by strengthening
its orthodox Christian pedigree. In both cases the narrative is not completely
10 Neil
successful, and yet we are left with a story that enabled a rural sanctuary, just
outside of Colossae, to make the transition from pagan to Christian devotion.
Our last two chapters are devoted to hymns. In Chapter 15, Andrew Mellas
observes that dreams are often treated with disdain in Byzantine liturgical
hymns. For example, Andrew of Crete’s Great Kanon, composed in the 8th cen-
tury, exhorts the congregation to weep at night before their days vanish “like a
dream on waking.” Following the incarnation of the Logos in history, it could
be argued that dreams served little purpose. The mystagogy of the Byzantine
liturgy and its hymnography, however, invited the faithful to experience a vi-
sion of history that unfolded in the liminal space between Christ’s crucifix-
ion and resurrection. Liturgical hymns such as the Great Kanon became an
eschatological drama. Liturgical memory interpreted the events of salvation
not through the prism of history but as realities that become present as part of
the mystery of worship. Mellas explores how biblical figures and events from
the past and the future are interwoven in liturgical time and space as a kind of
mystical dream.
The final chapter, Derek Krueger’s analysis of hymns by Symeon the New
Theologian celebrating divine love in erotic terms, contrasts sharply with
Chapter 1 on the early eastern monastic struggle with erotic dreams. The two
chapters show how much monastic perceptions of dreams had changed since
the 4th century. Far from being seen as a problem, as in the sources discussed
in Chapter 1, erotic fantasies were embraced in the eleventh-century hymns
of Symeon when they were directed towards the divine in the person of Jesus
Christ. In his Hymns on Divine Love (Erotes), Symeon explored the mutual de-
sire between God and the male monk through elaborate erotic metaphors.
Many of the poems cast the monk in the role of a bride, shifting his gender,
and engaging expectations of sexual activity on a wedding night. Others left
the monk gendered male, thus casting the relationship between Christ and his
beloved in homoerotic terms, in some cases also figuring this activity as the
consummation of a marriage. The hymns employ a variety of erotic tropes of
the sort known also from earlier and later romantic literature, particularly the
novel. The hymns, while not necessarily evidence for actual erotic practices,
offer a window on the scope of Byzantine sexual fantasy, perhaps especially
male sexual fantasy. To some extent, this realm recapitulates the unequal roles
of lover and beloved—whether male and female or male and male—already
established in ancient and late ancient Greek literature. Rather than focus-
ing on Symeon’s sexualised spirituality, Krueger investigates the impact of the
erotic imagination on Symeon’s theology and self-understanding.
2 Conclusion
Taken together, these fifteen short studies show the surprising variety of
Byzantine approaches to dreams, memory and imagination, their evolution
over time, and the importance of paying close attention to social and liter-
ary context. Dreams, memory and imagination were important expressions
of Byzantine culture, albeit subjective and unreliable manifestations and
subject to manipulation. In Byzantium, everyone’s dreams, memories and
imaginings—especially those of emperors and their consorts—could convey
meaning to the broader community. Dreams were regarded by Byzantines of
every rank as a portal to another dimension. They transcended religious affili-
ation, appearing to adherents of the various monotheisms, dualisms and poly-
theisms of former Roman and Persian territories as far from Constantinople as
Armenia. Thus, they were useful tools for the social and political cohesion of
an empire under imperial rule for over a thousand years.
Imagination in the early monastic context was the site of a cosmic battle
between good and evil for the control of fleshly desires. Personal religiosity
changed over time, as we saw above in the comparison of Symeon the New
Theologian’s hymns with their visions of the divine as a (male) lover with the
strict instructions of Evagrius or Palladius for freeing oneself from the demands
of the flesh, even in dreams. Byzantine saints lived on not just in popular mem-
ory but even survived in visionary form after death. The codification of such
visions in texts kept their memories alive, just as much as their representation
in material form in statues, icons and other images at shrines and churches, in
humble homes and imperial palaces. Their commemoration in icons, liturgy
and hymns reveals remarkable continuity and was thus another anchor point
for religious cohesion across a vast empire.
The reception of monastic and philophical dream theory and theories of
cognition sometimes eclipsed their original formulations, as we saw in the
cases of Clement of Alexandria, Nemesius of Emesa and Synesius of Cyrene,
interpreters of the Platonic tradition, whose ideas were taken up and devel-
oped in later centuries. This flexible tradition of interpretation offered an
inherited fund of intellectual capital for the empire’s theologians and philoso-
phers across the early, middle and late Byzantine periods, and across religious
divides.
12 Neil
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part 1
Dreams, Memory and Imagination in the
Byzantine Philosophical Tradition
∵
chapter 1
The Dangers of Purity: Monastic Reactions to

Erotic Dreams
Inbar Graiver
Are erotic dreams products of the self’s imagination and memories? Are they
determined by human physiology? Or do they result from external influences?
The answers that a given culture supplies to these questions shape the ways
in which people in that culture react to their experiences of erotic dreams.
Such reactions thus provide an important source of evidence for studying the
impact of social norms on the individual psyche.1 Accordingly, this paper seeks
to probe the intersection of the social and the psychological by examining the
reactions of early Byzantine monks to their experiences of erotic dreams and
related phenomena, such as nocturnal emissions. Rather than focusing on the
Christian discourse on erotic dreams, I propose to examine the impact of that
discourse on the daily life and dreams of Christian monks.
The Freudian revolution transformed dreams into introspective tools
and keys to the unconscious. Unlike Freud’s The Interpretation of Dreams,
Artemidorus’ The Interpretation of Dreams, written in the 2nd century CE, is
mostly concerned with the predictive value of dreams as keys to the future.2
The attitude of many early Christian thinkers toward dreams reflects a major
departure from that of Artemidorus, and represents the passage from ancient
to modern attitudes toward dreams.3 This shift in attitudes is a direct conse-
quence of the radically new notion of the self that emerged in early Christianity.
New theological concerns in Christianity have resulted in a significant shift
in the understanding of the human person and permitted, in the words of Guy
Stroumsa, “the emergence of a newly reflexive self, that is, a subject turned
back upon itself in ways unknown before”.4 It has been suggested that this new
interest in the inner life of the individual is related to the emergence of the
idea of the spiritually unique and self-aware individual in Christianity,5 as well
1 For a discussion of the ways in which culture conditions such reactions, see Stewart 2004,
37–56. See, also, Stewart 2002, 181–203.
2 See Price 1986, 3.
3 See Stroumsa 1999, 205.
4 Stroumsa 1990, 26.
5 Swain 1997, 2.

18 Graiver
as to the doctrine of resurrection of the body, which required a more sustained

reflection on the uniqueness of the self’s individual identity than ever before.6
Whatever the case may be, the new emphasis on interiority gave rise to a new
discourse on dreams, one which was distinct from other similar discourses in
late antiquity.
During the patristic period, Christian theologians addressed issues sur-
rounding erotic dreams more comprehensively than previously.7 Within the
early monastic movement, especially as it developed in Egypt during the
4th century, erotic dreams (καθ’ ὕπνον φαντασία) and related phenomena be-
came “seismographs of subjectivity” and tools for the diagnosis of the dream-
er’s inner disposition.8 Erotic dreams and other expressions of sexual desire,
such as nocturnal emissions (or “nocturnal movement”)9 were often seen as
indicative of moral flaws,10 whereas the ability to resist, or never incur, images
that could cause erotic dreams served as a sign of spiritual and psychological
health.11
How did this move from predictive to introspective interpretation of
dreams, alongside the new emphasis on the inner life of the individual in
Christianity, influence the reactions of Christian monks in the eastern Roman
empire to their experiences of erotic dreams? In the first section of this paper
I consider two case studies demonstrating the impact of this shift on the daily
life of early Byzantine monks. In the second section I situate these case studies
within the context of monastic theology, whereas in the third section I exam-
ine them in view of modern psychological literature on dreaming. In the fourth
section I examine the implications of dream research for the understanding of
the challenges that erotic dreams posed to early Byzantine monks. As will be
shown, cognitive research on dreaming sheds new light on the nature of these
6 See Papadogiannakis 1981, 129–142. However, this does not imply that early Christianity
was a religion of individuality. On this subject, see Zachhuber and Torrance 1981, 7.
7 Unlike other types of dreams, erotic dreams were infrequently discussed or theorised by
ancient writers. For discussion of sexual dreams in Greco-Roman literature, see Pigeaud
1981, 10–23.
8 See Foucault 1999, 368, and Brakke 1995, 419–460.
9 ἡ κίνησις ἐν τῇ νυκτί. Nocturnal emissions were also described as “nocturnal events” (τὰ
ὑπὸ νύκτα συμβαίνοντα). E.g. Barsanuphius and John, Ep. 169 (SC 427, 570). On the relation-
ship between erotic dreams and nocturnal emissions in monastic thought, see Stewart
1998, 82–83 and 189.
10 Evagrius, Praktikos 54 (SC 171, 622).
11 E.g. Evagrius, Praktikos 56 (SC 171, 630): “We shall recognise the signs of dispassion
(ἀπάθεια) through our thoughts (λογισμῶν) during the day and through our dreams
(ἐνυπνίων) at night. And dispassion is what we shall call the soul’s health” (ὑγείαν ἐροῦμεν
εἶναι ψυχῆς).
The Dangers of Purity 19
challenges by providing explanatory value to certain details preserved in mo-

nastic sources that would otherwise remain incomprehensible to us. Drawing
on research on the recurrence of unwanted dreams, I argue that the effort of
Christian monks not to incur sexual dreams could unwittingly serve to in-
crease their frequency and salience. This seemingly paradoxical phenomenon,
I argue, is one of the risks inherent in the attempts of early Byzantine monks to
implement in their own bodies and minds monastic ideals of chastity.
1 Reactions to Erotic Dreams
To reconstruct the impact of the theological discourse on erotic dreams on

the reactions of Christian monks to their experiences of sexual dreams, our
point of departure are two case studies drawn from the literary evidence of
Egyptian monasticism, especially those depicting the common life at the mo-
nastic colonies of Lower Egypt. These specific case studies have been chosen
for consideration because they provide an unusually concrete and elaborate
account of these reactions, as well as of the ways in which these reactions
were, in turn, judged and evaluated by monastic elders. My aim, however, is
not to explain the actual historical events reported in these texts so much as to
demonstrate the challenges involved in the monastic quest for chastity of both
body and mind.
The first case study is drawn from the Lausiac History (Historia Lausiaca),
which was written by Palladius, bishop of Helenopolis, in 419–20 and purports
to record his encounters with holy men in Egypt and Palestine during the last
two decades of the 4th century.12 One of these encounters was with Moses the
Ethiopian, also known as Moses the Black, a former bandit who converted and
became a famous hermit and a paradigm for every soul who renounced the
“blackness” of evil.13 Moses, Palladius reports, suffered miserably from sexual
dreams over a long period. When he disclosed his problem to one of the elders,
12 The authenticity of the historical framework of the Lausiac History has been questioned,
since some of its chronological details are inconsistent. Nevertheless, the importance of
the Lausiac History rests, not in its chronological details, but in the author’s individual
encounters with Egyptian holy men as historical incidents that had actually occurred.
Adalbert de Vogüé and Gabriel Bunge proposed that Palladius wrote his first work in the
390s in the Egyptian desert, which later became the basis for the Lausiac History itself
(Bunge and de Vogüé 1994). See also Bunge 1990, 78–129.
13 Moses is characterised as an ideal monk in the Lausiac History as well as in later sources:
Sozomen’s Ecclesiastical History, the anonymous Apophthegmata Patrum and the tenth-
century Acta Sanctorum. See Wimbush 2011, 81–92. An examination of these sources sug-
gests that “the Moses characterisation” functioned to instruct and edify those who had
20 Graiver
asking him: “What am I to do, seeing that the dreams of my soul (τὰ ἐνύπνια
τῆς ψυχῆς) darken my reason, because of my sinful habits?” the old man, in
response, attributed the dreams to Moses’ negligence: “Because you have not
withdrawn your mind from imagining these things, that is why you endure
this.” Terrified by the harsh judgment, for the next six years Moses tormented
himself with vigils and fasts, but the more he dried up his body, the more he
was consumed by sexual dreams. It was only the performative words of Father
Isidore, the priest of Scete, exempting Moses from responsibility for his “illicit
pleasures”, that eventually cured him: “Stop contending with demons and do
not bother them … In the name of Jesus Christ, your dreams have vanished.
Now receive communion confidently. You were subjected to this for your own
good.” From then on, Moses “no longer suffered anything”.14
Like the Lausiac History, John Cassian’s Conferences includes elaborated ver-
sions of Cassian’s past conversations with various desert fathers whom he met
during his stay in Egypt in the last two decades of the 4th century.15 Book 22 of
the Conferences, entitled De nocturnis illusionibus (“On nocturnal illusions”),
purports to record a discourse given by an abbot named Theonas. The latter
reports about a monk he had known, who over a long period (its length is not
specified) “used to be sullied in his sleep by an unclean emission”16 whenever he
was preparing to receive communion (and only on such occasions!). This broth-
er, Theonas stresses, “possessed a constant purity of heart and body due to his
great watchfulness and humility and was never tried by nocturnal deceptions”,17
accepted this lifestyle, and to provide a model of monastic perfection. See Wicker 1990,
329–348.
14 Palladius, HL 19.7–10 (ed. Bartelink 1974, 96–102): Παῦσαι φιλονεικῶν, Μωσῆ, τοῖς δαίμοσι
καὶ μὴ αὐτοῖς ἐπέμβαινε … Ἐν τῷ ὀνόματι Ἱησοῦ Χριστοῦ πέπαυταί σου τὰ ἐνύπνια. Κοινώνησον
οὖν μετὰ παρρησίας ἵνα γὰρ μὴ καύχησῃ ὡς περιγενόμενος πάθους, τούτου χάριν κατεδυναστεύ-
θης πρὸς τὸ συμφέρον.
15 Scholars have raised doubts with regard to Cassian’s authority as a historian. Owen
Chadwick, for example, demonstrated that his account of the origin of Matins is incon-
sistent (Chadwick 1950, 71–77), and Adalbert de Vogüé concluded that Cassian is more
concerned with monastic theology than historical fact (de Vogüé 1961, 213–240). See also
Guy 1966, 363–372. Nevertheless, it seems unlikely that the Conferences are fabrications.
The moderate portraits of the abbas who participated in the conferences, as well as the
fact that the monks to whom Cassian ascribes the teaching of the Conferences are not
well known (as we would expect if Cassian were seeking to claim for his teaching the
authority of the desert fathers), contribute to a sense of the genuine. Furthermore, the
conferences include descriptions of places and of local customs, which indicate a first-
hand knowledge. See Louth 2004, 379–380 and Driver 2002.
16 Coll. 22.6.1 (CSEL 13, 622): inmundo fluxu dormiens foedabatur.
17 Coll. 22.6.1 (CSEL 13, 621): cum castimoniam cordis et corporis summa circumspectione
atque humilitate promeritam iugiter possideret ac nequaquam nocturnis ludificationibus
temptaretur.
and yet his problem kept repeating with exceptional regularity and caused him
much shame and distress. The disheartened monk held back from communion
“for a long time”, assuming that his emissions made him ineligible for contact
with the Eucharist. Eventually he raised his problem with the elders. When
they examined the cause of his “disease” (morbus) and were assured that “there
was no guilt of either soul or body”, they concluded that his emissions were
caused by the devil, who wanted to humiliate him and prevent him from re-
ceiving the sacrament. Having found him morally blameless, they advised him
to participate in communion. Soon afterwards, his emissions ceased.18
The story of this anonymous monk seems both too unique and too lifelike
to be a complete invention; it has what one scholar has described as “a sense
of the genuine”.19 That late antique monks were preoccupied with the problem
of sexual dreams and nocturnal emissions is indicated by the frequency and
the urgency of their questions on this subject, as well as by the extreme pre-
cautions that some of them took to avoid “defilement”.20 In addition to these
precautions, the ascetical literature of the early monastic movement makes it
clear that all those who suffered sexual temptation also fought it by restricting
their diets and by denying themselves sleep, as did the monks in the two case
studies described above. In both case studies, however, these practices served
only to compound the problem that they were intended to solve. Another un-
usual fact in both case studies is the sudden and complete cessation of the
erotic dreams and nocturnal emissions as soon as the monks received the sac-
rament. In Cassian’s case study, a further oddity is the strict regularity of the
nocturnal emissions—only on nights preceding the weekly communion and
never on other occasions. The emissions seem to occur, paradoxically, exactly
against the monk’s efforts to avoid them. The elders themselves present this
curious regularity as an “unusual fact”.21
To make sense of these intriguing case studies, in the next section I situate
them within the context of monastic theology and its belief in the ability to
control sexual thoughts and urges.
18 Coll. 22.6.2–4 (CSEL 13, 621–23).

19 Trans. Ramsey 2000, 9.
20 Cassian refers to the practice of wearing cold metal plates around the genitals to avoid
nocturnal emissions (Inst. 6.7.2 [SC 109, 272]). See also Apophth. Patr. N 517 (Wortley 2013,
351). Although Columba Stewart argues that Cassian refers here to the costume of Greek
athletes rather than to monks (Stewart 1998, 189), Cassian does seem to recommend this
practice. See Brakke 1995b, 95; Wei 2012, 371. For other measures employed to avoid noc-
turnal emissions, see Rousselle 1988, 151; Metteer 2008, 20–24.
21 Coll. 22.6.2 (CSEL 13, 622): specialis exceptio.
22 Graiver
2 “Within our Power”: The Ability to Control Erotic Dreams
As already noted, erotic dreams and nocturnal emissions served in Christian

monasticism as tools for diagnosing the dreamer’s inner disposition. For the
present purposes it is important to note that erotic dreams could fulfill this
function because they were thought to be potentially controllable. In as-
suming that sexual urges could be brought under voluntary control, despite
their seemingly unconquerable force, Cassian and Palladius followed the
Alexandrian theologians. Clement of Alexandria, writing at the end of the 2nd
century, teaches that the “overwhelming impulses” (ὁρμή) of the body are “acts
of the will” (τὰ ἑκούσια) which are in our control or “within our power” (ἐφ᾿
ἡμῖν) and hence subject to moral judgment.22 According to Clement, we are re-
sponsible for impulses which lead to lustful deeds, because we do not restrain
ourselves.23 In this view, spiritual perfection entails full responsibility for one’s
urges and desires. In the 4th century, Antony the Great reflects a similar view
when he teaches that even the natural and inherent inner movement of the
body “does not operate unless the soul consents, otherwise it remains still”.24
Following these writers, Cassian teaches that the inner motions of the body
require the soul’s “consent”.25
The notion of the soul’s consent is related to an understanding of human
cognition which the desert fathers inherited from Origen, who himself was
heavily influenced by the Stoic theory of assent to mental representations. In
this view, all human beings are subject to mental images or representations
(φαντασίαι). Every representation has a propositional content which can be
either true or false, and humans are free to give or withhold their assent to
these propositions.26 Basing himself on the Stoic theory, Origen taught that it
is “within our power” (ἐφ᾿ ἡμῖν / in nostra potestate) to either assent to or dis-
sent from representations.27 Whether we merit praise or blame depends upon
22 Clement, Str. 2.13.59.6–2.14.60.1–7 (SC 38, 82–83). More broadly, in Hellenistic medical
literature nocturnal emissions were linked with a loss of rational control, and their im-
mediate cause was considered to be a phantasia, a dream image. See Refoulé 1961, 488.
23 Clement, Str. 7.16.98–99 (SC 428, 296–98).
24 Antony, Ep. 1 (Rubenson 1995, 199; PG 40, 979): non operatur aut aliquid sine animae
voluntate.
25 Cassian, Inst. 6.2 (SC 109, 264).
26 On the Stoic theory, see Graver 2007, 24–27.
27 E.g. “Those things which happen to us from without are not in our own power (οὺκ ἐφ᾿
ἡμῖν); but to make a good or bad use of those things which do so happen … is within our
power” (Origen princ. 3.1.5; PG 11, 256). While Origen relied heavily on the Stoic theory of
representations, there is an important difference: whereas the Stoics were interested in
the truth-value of the representations, Origen and Evagrius are interested in their role as
whether we give or withhold our assent to representations that produce an

impulse towards good or bad action.
Following Origen’s adaptation of the Stoic theory, Evagrius teaches that our
mental content is ultimately up to us: it is “within our power” (ἐφ᾿ ἡμῖν) to de-
termine whether tempting thoughts linger and so set the passions in motion.28
Describing the complex psychological process through which a sinful thought
gradually develops into sin in action, he explains: “The monk’s temptation is
in the form of a thought which rises up through the passionate part of the
soul and darkens the mind. The monk’s sin is his consenting to the forbidden
pleasure of a thought.”29 This understanding was widespread among the desert
monks.30 In this view, temptation begins with suggestion in thought. If the
thought is allowed to persist, it leads the monk from thinking about sin to actu-
ally performing it. Hence, Evagrius warns that “if the mind consents to sinful
thoughts it draws near to sin”.31 This account of temptation blurs the distinc-
tion between having bad thoughts and acting on bad thoughts.
Egyptian monks were expected to take responsibility not only for their ac-
tions but also for their inward response to their mental content. Moreover, the
principal obstacle for them lay not in the commission of external sin, but in
the slippery thoughts of their own minds.32 As Mark the Monk explained in
the 5th century:
an indication of moral disposition. See Foucault 1993, 217. See also Gibbons 2011, 118, and
Brakke 2006, 40.
28 Evagrius, Praktikos 6 (SC 171, 508); cf. Praktikos 80 (SC 171, 668); Apophth. Patr. sys. 11.107
(SC 474, 192).
29 Evagrius, Praktikos 74–75 (SC 171, 662): Πειρασμός ἐστι μοναχοῦ λογισμὸς διὰ τοῦ παθητικοῦ
μέρους τῆς ψυχῆς ἀναβὰς καὶ σκοτίζων τὸν νοῦν. Ἁμαρτία ἐστὶ μοναχοῦ ἡ πρὸς τὴν ἀπηγορευμέ-
νην ἡδονὴν τοῦ λογισμοῦ συγκατάθεσις.
30 E.g. Apophth. Patr. alph. Poemen 28 (PG 65, 329). See also Poemen 15, 20, 21, 88, and 89.
31 Evagrius, ep. 25.2 (trans. Bunge 1986, 236): τὸν νοῦν … εἰ συγκατατίθεται ἐν τῇ διανοίᾳ
μετακλίνουσιν ἀυτὸν πρὸς τὴν ἁμαρτίαν. Hesychius the Priest offers a fuller account of the
complex psychological process by which a tempting thought gradually develops into sin
in action: “The provocation comes first, then … the mingling of our thoughts with those
of the wicked demons. Third comes our assent to the provocation, with both sets of in-
termingling thoughts contriving how to commit the sin in practice. Fourth comes the
concrete action—that is, the sin itself.” Ἔστι πρῶτον προσβολή, δεύτερον … ἀναμὶξ γινόμενοι
οἱ ἡμῶν καὶ τῶν πονηρῶν δαιμόνων λογισμοί. τρίτον συγκατάθεσις δεῖ γενέσθαι μεταξὺ τῶν
ἀμφοτέρων λογισμῶν βουλευομένων κακῶς. τέταρτον δέ ἐστιν ἡ αἰσθητὸς πρᾶξις, ἤγουν ἡ
ἁμαρτία (On Watchfulness and Holiness 46; PG 93, 1496; trans. Palmer, Sherrard and Ware,
170); cf. On Watchfulness and Holiness 2 (PG 93, 1481).
32 See Chadwick 1950, 140.
24 Graiver
αἰτία ἐστιν οἱ ἑκάστου λογισμοί. Εἴχον δὲ εἰπεῖν, ὅτι καὶ οἱ λόγοι καὶ αἱ πρά-
ξεις. Ἐπειδὴ δὲ πρὸ ἐννοίας ταῦτα οὐ προέρχονται, τούτου χάριν τὸ πᾶν τοῖς
λογισμοῖς ἐπιγράφοιμι. Τοῦ λογισμοῦ οὖν προηγουμένου, λοιπὸν οἱ λόγοι καὶ αἱ
πράξεις παρέχουσιν ἡμῖν τὴν εἰς ἀλλήλους κοινωνίαν.
The cause of everything that happens to a person is something that per-

son has thought. I ought to have said that this includes both words and
deeds, but since these do not precede thought, I attribute everything to
thoughts. With thought leading the way, words and deeds follow.33
Since control of bodily functions begins with control of thoughts, by regulat-

ing the experiences that precede sleep the monk can (at least ideally) control
his dreams at night. Cassian reflects this view when he argues that wet dreams
can be fostered by “feasting on harmful thoughts all day long”.34 He further ex-
plains that “when the mind is empty of spiritual pursuits and practices … then
it leads astray the person who is draped in laziness … or else it lusts after bits of
impure thoughts”.35 As a result of such negligence, he continues,
consequenter eueniet, ut non solum multimoda cogitationum peruagatio

inuerecunde atque procaciter secretum mentis inrumpat, sed etiam pristi-
narum omnium passionum intra eam semina perseuerent. quae quam dia
in eius adytis delitescunt, quamuis rigido corpus ieiunio castigetur, tamen
nihilominus dormientem inlecebrosis phantasmatibus inquietant, quibus
ante legitimi temporis cursum.
[It] consequently happens that not only do numerous roving thoughts

break into the hidden places of the mind in bold and impudent fashion,
but also the seeds of all one’s former passions remain there … As a result
of them the vile moisture is expelled before its customary time.36
33 Mark the Monk, Disputatio cum causidico 18 (SC 455, 80).

34 Cassian, Inst. 10.11 (SC 109, 404); cf. Inst. 6.7–11 (SC 109, 130–134); Apophth. Patr. N 592.45
(Wortley 2013, 418).
35 Cassian, Coll. 22.3.4 (CSEL 13, 617–618): si mens spiritalibus studiis atque exercitiis uacuata
nec disciplinis intefioris hominis instituta quendam sibi segnitiae situm per consuetudinem
continui torporis obduxerit, aut cum sordidarum cogitationum minutias non cauendo ita
illam cordis sublimissimam puritatem segniter concupiscit.
36 Cassian, Coll. 22.3.4–5 (CSEL 13, 617–618; trans. Ramsey 1997, 764). The view that dreams
are fostered by one’s mental content in waking-life ultimately goes back to Aristotle, who
taught that what the soul sees during sleep are “appearances” (phantasmata) and “re-
sidual movements” deriving from sense impressions perceived when the soul was awake
(insomn. 461al8–20). For a discussion, see Miller 1994, 43.
In the 7th century John Climacus gave voice to this widespread belief when
he wrote that “a sign of complete sensuality is to be liable to emissions from
bad thoughts when one is awake”.37 In this view, the root problem in erotic
dreams and nocturnal emissions does not lie in the body, but ultimately in
the mind’s failure to exercise control over the body by controlling its thoughts.
Accordingly, Cassian advises that “the first thing to be done” to avoid erotic
dreams is “to restrain our wandering thoughts”.38 Climacus echoes this view
when he teaches that “the beginning of chastity is refusal to consent to an
evil thought”.39
Christian monks were encouraged to regulate their dreams at night by con-
trolling their thoughts during the daytime. A better understanding of how
this cognitive process actually works—as well as the ways in which it can go
wrong—can help us make more accurate hypotheses about the intriguing case
studies cited above and, more generally, about the challenges involved in the
monastic quest for purity of both body and mind. Accordingly, the next sec-
tion describes the cognitive mechanisms involved in attention regulation and
their relation to dream occurrence. Rather than ignoring the monastic theory
of dreams or replacing it with Western theories of dreaming, I draw on the lat-
ter in order to understand how the monastic theory influenced the reactions of
Christian monks to their experiences of erotic dreams.
3 Dream Rebound
In Freud’s theory of dreams, dreams potentially communicated forbidden

wishes and desires of the unconscious. Modern dream research has confirmed
some of Freud’s views, but not others. While dream contents indeed appear to
be indicative of the dreamer’s psychological disposition, many dream research-
ers now think that there is no need to postulate an unconscious storage system
of repressed wishes.40 Rather, the empirical literature in the field of dream
research largely supports the so-called “Continuity Hypothesis of Dreaming”,
which states that dreams largely reflect waking-life thoughts and experi-
ences. Several studies have demonstrated, for example, that inter-individual
37 Climacus, Scal. 15 (PG 88, 881).

38 Cassian, Coll. 22.3.5 (CSEL 13, 618).
39 Climacus, Scal. 15 (PG 88, 881A): Ἀρχὴ μὲν ἁγνείας ἀσυγκατάθετος λογισμός.
40 Calvin Hall was the first dream researcher to argue that some contents of dreams reflect-
ed the daily concerns and ideas of the dreamers rather than the hidden libidinal wishes
or compensatory emotional strategies that psychodynamic theorists like Freud and Jung
advocated. See Hall 1953, 34–38.
26 Graiver
differences in the amount of time spent with specific waking-life thoughts are
reflected in dream content.41 In particular, research on erotic dreams and their
relationship to waking-life demonstrates that the frequency of erotic dreams
is related to the amount of time spent with sexual thoughts in waking life (but
not to a greater amount of time spent in sexual activities).42
Not only do dreams contain “day residue”, namely, direct echoes of prior
waking experience, but they also include a residue of thoughts that have been
intentionally suppressed during waking hours. Suppression, namely, the act
of deliberately stopping oneself from thinking certain thoughts, is a vital psy-
chological mechanism: since concentrating on item A depends on suppressed
attention to all items that are not A, every act of concentration necessarily
involves a simultaneous act of suppression. Unlike Freud’s concept of repres-
sion, which is unconscious and automatic (and hence involves a denial of the
existence of the repressed element), suppression involves an intentional, con-
scious choice not to indulge a thought, feeling, or action. This capacity is im-
portant to human survival and adaptation. Suppression is also a common way
of dealing with unpleasant or distressing thoughts and emotions.43
Although most individuals are able to achieve satisfactory levels of mental
control in most circumstances, our ability to control our thoughts is far from
perfect. The paradoxical outcome of thought suppression was first demon-
strated experimentally by psychologist Daniel Wegner in 1987.44 His findings
show that this strategy of mental control can sometimes backfire, producing
not only a failure of control but also the very mental states it is meant to avoid.
It turns out that trying not to think a thought may only make it come back
stronger.
Wegner’s “Ironic Process Theory” attempts to explain this phenomenon. The
theory assumes that each instance of mental control is implemented through
the production of two processes: an intentional, operating process that search-
es for mental content yielding the desired state, and a monitoring process that
searches for mental content signaling the failure to achieve the desired state.
The intentional process is susceptible to interference from distraction, and the
monitoring process is designed to keep track of this. It searches for failures of
control by examining pre-conscious mental content, and when items indicat-
ing failed control are found, it restarts the operating process.45
41 E.g. Lauer, Riemann, Lund et al. 1987; Bernstein and Roberts 1995.
42 Schredl, Desch, Röming et al. 2009, 38–43.
43 This account is based mainly on Wegner 1988 and 1992, as well as Purdon and Clark 2002,
29–43.
44 Wegner et al. 1987, 5–13.
45 Wegner 1997, 295–315.
The watchfulness of the monitor, however, is also a source of “ironic effects”.

Because the monitor searches for potential mental contents that signal failed
control, it increases the accessibility of this content to consciousness. If the
intentional process of attention is undermined by other processes that also
consume cognitive resources (such as stress, anxiety, or fatigue), the monitor-
ing process can yield increased mind wandering.46 In the same vein, trying not
to think about something can increase the accessibility of that target to con-
sciousness under conditions of cognitive load. According to the “Ironic Process
Theory”, when we try to suppress a thought, the monitoring process searches
for this target because it is its appearance that indicates failed control. In other
words, the monitor is aimed at a cue that serves as a constant reminder of the
suppressed material, thereby increasing its accessibility to consciousness.
Stress and anxiety thus promote mental control lapses that are not random.
Furthermore, because the very effort to eject unwanted thoughts can strength-
en their power, suppressed thoughts seem to acquire a force of their own: the
more one tries to suppress them, they return with greater insistence. As a re-
sult, “there is a certain predictability to unwanted thoughts, a grim precision
in the way our mental clockwork returns such thoughts to mind each time we
try to suppress them”.47 Attempts to influence mental states can thus act in a
direction precisely opposite the intended control. The “unwanting” itself pro-
motes this problem.
Not only does anxiety produce increased susceptibility to suppression laps-
es, but the context or environment in which suppression takes place can also
serve to compound the problem. Studies by Wegner and others have shown
that if the individual remains in the suppression environment, he or she is
more inclined to experience a rebound of preoccupation with the unwanted
thought. According to Wegner, when people try to suppress a thought, envi-
ronmental features are often used as distractors, which in time can become
powerful reminders of the unwanted thought.48
In particular, suppression is difficult to execute when thoughts about sex
are concerned, since these thoughts quickly excite our bodies by producing
sympathetic arousal of the autonomic nervous system. Wegner has found that
when people are asked to suppress sexual thoughts, their skin conductance
level (SCL) reactivity rivals the strength of reactions that occur when they are
46 See Rachman 1981, 92.

47 Wenzlaff and Wegner 2000, 60.
48 Wegner et al. 1991, 150.
28 Graiver
asked explicitly to entertain those thoughts.49 Trying not to think about sex
can thus excite the body just like thinking about sex.
Suppressed thoughts might also recur in dreams. Wegner and colleagues
conducted a study into the effects of thought suppression on dream content,
which tested whether instructed thought suppression would orient dream
content to the suppressed thought. Their study clearly demonstrated that
pre-sleep instructions to suppress thinking about a person result in increased
dreaming about that person.50 These findings, which were replicated and ex-
tended in more recent studies,51 suggest that the enhanced accessibility of
thoughts that results from their suppression transfers even to dreams. This
phenomenon is known as “dream rebound”. Wegner and his colleagues inter-
pret the rebound of suppressed thoughts in dreams in terms of the influence of
changes in brain activation during REM sleep, which increase the accessibility
of the suppressed material.
The thought suppression paradigm provides a useful means to elucidate the
ways in which our thoughts and cognitive strategies during wake influence our
dreams. This influence has important implications for the understanding of
early monastic accounts of the recurrence of sexual thoughts and dreams.
4 Connecting the Dots
Geoffrey Harpham famously argued that “the broadest description of the proj-
ect of asceticism is that it recognises and manages drive or impulse, commonly
called desire, by harnessing and directing resistance”.52 Harpham’s notion of
resistance to desire assumes Freud’s idea of (unconscious) repression. Getting
clear evidence of repression, however, is difficult, especially in historical retro-
spect. On the other hand, in so far as suppressive strategies can be seen as the
embodiment of beliefs about the need to control thoughts, which themselves
derive from changing social ideas of self-control, suppression is a psychologi-
cal process that can be identified and studied by historians and anthropolo-
gists. By talking about suppression rather than repression, therefore, we are in
a better position to study the intricate, often paradoxical relationship between
desire and resistance. While it is true, as Kallistos Ware argues, that the Greek
fathers were advocating “not repression but transfiguration”, and that the aim
49 See Wegner et al. 1990, 409–418. See also Wegner 1992.

50 See Wegner, Wenzlaff, Kozak 2004, 232–236.
51 E.g. Taylor and Bryant 2007, 163–8; Bryant, Wyzenbeek, Weinstein 2011, 515–522.
52 Harpham 1987, 61.
of the ascetic was not to suppress the passions but to reorient them,53 yet sup-
pression may have been a common way of dealing with sexual thoughts.
The paradoxical effects of resistance to desire, I suggest, may account for
the exceptional regularity of the nocturnal emissions of the anonymous monk
in Cassian’s case study: this monk may have simply struggled too hard to “ex-
ercise the most cautious watchfulness lest the integrity of flesh that we had
preserved up to that time be snatched away, especially on the night that we are
preparing ourselves for the communion of the saving banquet”, just as he was
instructed.54 Yet his very effort not to think about sex—a tense and anxious
effort, we may presume—may have unwittingly contributed to the develop-
ment and maintenance of his problem. The ascetic practice of sleep depriva-
tion and the unchanging environment of the monastic cell—the “privileged
place for the monk”55—would have served to further compound this problem.
Yet the research cited above also helps us recognise that the strange problem
described in Cassian’s case study is, in fact, not so strange; it is but one expres-
sion or symptom of the risks involved in the attempt of early Byzantine monks
to purify their mind and imagination. When conducted under conditions of
anxiety and fatigue, this attempt was likely to fail, resulting in increased pre-
occupation with the suppressed material—which, in turn, could transfer into
dreams.
As we have seen, monastic elders appear to have been well aware of the
deleterious effects of anxiety. Research on the cognitive mechanisms involved
in dream rebound helps us to appreciate their observational skills. In both case
studies cited above, the elders were able to prompt an immediate and lasting
cure by exempting the monk from responsibility for his “disease” and allow-
ing him to partake in communion, thereby assuaging his anxiety (whether by
natural or super-natural means). The findings cited above help us to appreciate
both the simplicity and the sophistication of this powerful therapy, in which
spiritual fathers were able to induce an immediate and lasting cure, after years
53 Ware 1998, 12. Indeed, Cassian explicitly warns that “if we retire to solitude or secret
places without our faults being first cured, their operation is but repressed (reprimatur),
while the power of feeling them is not extinguished (exstinguatur)” (si ad soliludinem vel
ad abdita loca nondum curatis vitiis secedam effectus eorum tantummodo reprimatur, non
exstinguatur affectus; Coll. 19.12 [CSEL 13, 545]; cf. Coll. 2.10 [CSEL 13, 48]).
54 Cassian, Coll. 22.5.1 (CSEL 13, 620; trans. Ramsey 1997, 766).
55 Burton-Christie 1993, 55. On the value of cell-sitting, see Evagrius, Praktikos 28 (SC 171,
564); Apophth. Patr. sys. 2.1 (SC 387, 124). As already Seneca wrote to Lucilius: “I do not
like you to change your headquarters and scurry about from one place to another … Such
frequent flitting means an unsteady spirit” (Mutare te loca et aliunde alio transilire nolo …
quia tam frequens migratio instabilis animi est; ep. 69; trans. Gummere 1917, 53).
30 Graiver
of futile struggle, by relieving their disciples’ anxiety. Thereby they were able to
undo the potentially harsh psychological implications of the radical sense of
responsibility for one’s thoughts and dreams promoted by monastic theology.
Both the counter-productive reaction of Christian monks to their erotic
dreams as well as the therapeutic procedures designed to solve this problem
demonstrate the complex and sometimes paradoxical ways in which religion
shaped the lives and experiences of the early monks. On the one hand, it ap-
pears that the increased emphasis on interiority and the conflation of thinking
and doing in Christian theology, alongside the monastic ideal of purity of both
body and mind, gave rise to anxious and hence counter-productive attempts
to suppress sexual or otherwise unwanted thoughts and urges. Yet monastic
asceticism also provided therapies that were powerful enough to heal the anxi-
ety and undo its deleterious effects. Cognitive research on the recurrence of
unwanted thoughts and dreams thus enables us to reconstruct from monastic
sources some aspects of the lives of early Byzantine monks that would other-
wise remain inaccessible.
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chapter 2
Locating Memory and Imagination: From Nemesius

of Emesa to John of Damascus
Ken Parry
There appears to have been no consensus in the ancient Greek and Roman
worlds on where the faculties of memory and imagination were located. For
some the heart was the seat of memory and imagination while for others it
was the head. This paper focuses on the interest in the localisation of these
two faculties in late antiquity and early Byzantium, from the time of Nemesius
of Emesa in the 4th century to John of Damascus in the 8th. It was during this
period that the theory of ventricular localisation was promoted, which was
subsequently embraced as the norm in the Greek, Latin and Arabic medieval
worlds.
1 Ancient Theories of Soul
In looking at the history of the localisation of memory and imagination, it is

necessary to turn to some ancient theories regarding the nature of soul and
its relation to the body. In the context of Greek thought this means dealing
with ψυχή, the life-principle that inhabits all living things. In a modern con-
text psyche and psychology concerns the mind and its functions located in
the human brain, but for the Greeks soul was a more encompassing concept
than our notion of mind. It was λόγος or reason that was believed to be the
controlling principle of soul and its location in the human body, together with
other faculties, such as memory and imagination. Although the body was the
vehicle of soul, it was necessary for them to communicate and interact with
each other for life to function. If communication between them was disrupted
through disease, illness, or accident, then medical intervention was required.
From the point of view of ancient medicine, the dichotomy between soul and
body was less one of antagonism and more one of interdependence. The role
of the physician was to restore the balance that was lost and this might be
done by means of pharmacology, surgery, or life-style management. Plato, for

36 Parry
example, advocated a sensible diet that restricted excessive eating of meat and
confectionary, as well as drinking of wine.1
It was Plato who compared the soul to a pearl with the oyster for its body,2
while the Stoics thought of soul as an octopus extending its tentacles through-
out the body.3 Among Aristotle’s writings is a separate treatise on the topic of
soul, his De Anima. He also wrote a work On Memory and Recollection, which
is not directly relevant to our theme as it concerns the complex processes by
which we remember and recall things, rather than the localising of memory
and recollection.4 We should note that Aristotle often attributes the faculties
of memory and imagination, together with reason, to the same organ, namely
the heart, but he is not consistent in this.5 Historically, however, Aristotle is
associated with the cardiocentric theory. This in turn is connected to the loca-
tion of the common sense, or the sensus communis (κοινὴ αἴσθησις). The term
“common sense” as it is used today to mean native wit or sound judgement is
not the meaning it had in antiquity.
For Aristotle, the common sense was the operating centre at which the ex-
ternal senses, such as sight and smell, processed sense-perceptions coming
from their respective organs of the body. The internal senses such as memory
and imagination were also processed at this location.6 This heart-centred
theory was challenged by Galen in the second century CE, who followed Plato
in dividing the soul into reason, spirit and desire, and locating them in the
brain, the heart, and the liver respectively. However, Galen went further in
making the brain the sensus communis, thus formulating what is known as the
encephalocentric theory. Hippocrates was one of the first to suggest the hege-
mony of the brain as the soul’s location.7
Because soul has a biological function we can speak of its physiology, given
that the brain, the heart, and the liver function as components of it. Aristotle
followed Plato in identifying the soul as tripartite but, as we have seen, he
1 Skiadas and Lascaratos 2001.

2 Phaedrus 250 (Hamilton 1973, 57); Republic 611–612 (Lee 1955, 391). Marinus in his Life of
Proclus, refers to the mortal body as a shell-like covering, perhaps taking his cue from Plato
in the Republic (Edwards 2000, 61).
3 Aëtius (doxographer) 4.21.1–4 (Long and Sedley 1987, 315). A catalogue accompanying
the exhibition The Soul is an Octopus: Ancient Ideas of Life and the Body at the Berliner
Medizinhistorisches Museum der Charité is available to download, see Kornmeier 2016.
4 De memoria et reminiscentia (Sorabji 2004). This work of Aristotle’s is part of the Parva
Naturalia (Short Treatises on Nature), a late term coined by Giles of Rome in the 13th century.
5 See the remarks by van der Eijk 2005, esp. 224.
6 See Gregorić 2007.
7 The Sacred Disease (Lloyd 1978, 237–251); Rocca 2003, 24–28.
Locating Memory and Imagination 37
generally assigned a single organ to its functions. For the Greeks, only divine
beings were completely incorporeal [ἀσώματος], so even daemons and guard-
ian spirits were made of a pneumatic substance, this pneuma being the stuff
of soul. This was the psychic pneuma or vital spirit through which the soul’s
energy was transmitted to the body; this life force acted as a mediator between
soul and body. The mechanism by which this was thought to happen was via
the central nervous system or the cardiovascular system, both systems being
known in some form to the ancients.8 Galen disclaimed knowledge of the soul’s
substance and whether it was corporeal or incorporeal, mortal or immortal,
and distinguished three types of pneuma, the physical, the vital and the psy-
chic for the three main organs of the body, the heart, the liver, and the brain.9
2 Galen
No study of ancient medicine can ignore the writings of Galen whose con-
tribution to medical science was unparalleled from the Roman through to
the early modern period, being the main medical authority in the medieval
Christian, Jewish and Muslim worlds. A large corpus of his writings has come
down to us with new discoveries being made through to the present. In 2005,
for example, the complete Greek text of his Avoiding Distress (Περὶ Ἀλυπίας)
was discovered in a manuscript in Thessalonica.10 Galen examined the ques-
tion of the physical location of the faculties of memory and imagination, but
although not directly responsible for the theory of assigning these faculties
to different ventricles of the brain, he laid the foundations for the theory to
develop.11 For him, the controlling organ of the body was the brain, the rul-
ing power (ἡγεμονικόν) of the rational soul. From his investigation into brain
function by animal dissection he concluded that nature does nothing in vain
and what it does it does skilfully (τεχνικός), and with a purposeful end.12 He
suggests that the activities of the rational soul encompass imagination, reason
and memory, but these are not placed in any specific region of the brain.13
8 See the early chapters on vital spirit and psychophysiology in Smith et al. 2012.
9 Hankinson 2006.
10 Nutton 2014.
11 Green 2003; Manzoni 1998.
12 On Galen’s teleology see Frede 2003.
13 Rocca 2003, 245; Hankinson 1996.
38 Parry
3 Nemesius of Emesa
Moving to the late fourth/early fifth century we come to Nemesius, who may
have been bishop of Emesa in Syria (present day Homs), and who is known by
a single work On the Nature of Man (De natura hominis).14 In the manuscript
tradition On the Nature of Man, a title derived from a work in the Hippocratic
Corpus, was wrongly attributed to Gregory of Nyssa because of his work On the
Making of Man (De opificio hominis). Questions relating to Nemesius’ floruit
and reception remain because his work is thought not to be cited before the
7th century. Maximus the Confessor appears to be the first to quote direct-
ly from him, most notably on providence,15 but it is not clear that Maximus
knew who the author was as he does not name him. It has been suggested
that Nemesius belonged to the sixth century because he is listed between
Anastasius I of Antioch (who died in 599) and Maximus in a florilegium on
the nature of will in the latter’s Minor Works.16 However, this could be due to
scribal uncertainty about where to place him chronologically.17
For a work by a Christian author, On the Nature of Man has a strong phil-
osophical and iatrosophic focus, showing familiarity with a range of late
Platonic, Aristotelian, and medical sources, with theological issues playing
a relatively minor role. His principal interest is in the physiological and psy-
chological make-up of the human person from an anthropological point of
view. He writes on the nature of the union between body and soul, discussing
theories of mixture and blending to demonstrate the psychosomatic unity of
the individual. He favours a theory that he ascribes to the teacher of Plotinus,
Ammonius Saccas, who argued that body and soul, like the sensible and the
intelligible, may co-exist without the soul being compounded (ἀσύγχυτος) with
the body.18 This conjunction of soul and body is then applied by Nemesius to
14 Nemesius, De nat. hom. (Morani 1987, trans. Telfer 1955; Sharples and van der Eijk 2008).
15 Maximus the Confessor, Ambiguum 10, 42 (Constas 2014/1, 309–321). See further Neil 2015
and Parry 2017a.
16 Maximus the Confessor, Opuscula theologica et polemica, PG 91, 277CD. See Morani 1981,
101–104 for citations of Nemesius by Maximus.
17 On the argument for this sixth century dating with a proposed connection to the Origenist
controversy, see Beatrice 2009, esp. 523–524.
18 Nemesius, De nat. hom. 3, 40–41 (Morani 1987; trans. Sharples and van der Eijk 2008, 80-
81). Compare this position with Priscian of Lydia in his Answers to Khosroes (Huby et al.
2016, 51.9–18, 24–26). Porphyry is the most probable source of Ammonius Saccas for
Nemesius, see Rist 1998. On ἀσύγχυτος ἕνωσις in christology and trinitarian theology, see
Abramowski 1981.
the doctrine of Christ’s incarnation, along with a list of apophatic attributes

in a similar manner to the definition of faith promoted by the Council of
Chalcedon in 451.19
What is important for this paper is that Nemesius allocates the faculties of
memory, imagination and reason to different cavities of the brain. This is what
he says about imagination:
ὄργανα δὲ αὐτοῦ αἱ πρόσθιοι τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου κοιλίαι καὶ τὸ ἐν αὐταῖς ψνχικὸν

πνεῦμα καὶ τὰ ἐξ αὐτῶν νεῦρα τὰ διάβροχα τῷ ψυχικῷ πνεύματι καὶ ἡ κατα-
σκευὴ \ τῶν αἰσθητηρίων.20
The organs of imagination are the frontal cavities of the brain,21 the psy-
chic pneuma within them, the nerves from them soaked with the psychic
pneuma and the apparatus of the sense-organs.
And this about reason:
ὄργανον δὲ καὶ τούτου ἡ μέση κοιλία τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου καὶ τὸ ψυχικὸν πνεῦμα τὸ
ἐν αὐτῇ.22
Its organ is also the central cavity of the brain and the psychic pneuma
within the cavity.
And this about memory:
ὄργανον δὲ καὶ τούτου ἡ ὄπισθεν κοιλία τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου, ἣν καὶ παρεγκεφαλίδα

καὶ ἐγκρανίδα καλοῦσι, καὶ τὸ ἐν αὐτῷ ψυχικὸν πνεῦμα.23
19 Nemesius, De nat. hom. 3, 42 (Morani 1987; trans. Sharples and van der Eijk 2008, 84).
Council of Chalcedon, Fifth Session (trans. Price and Gaddis 2015, 2. 204).
20 Nemesius, De nat. hom. 6, 173 (Morani 1987; trans. Sharples and van der Eijk 2008, 101–102).
21 We may note that Nemesius follows Galen in using the plural κοιλίαι τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου to
indicate two anterior cavities of the brain. This is not always indicated by later authors.
The term κοιλία for ventricle was known to Photius in Question 322, On Medical Matters
in his Amphilochia (Laourdas and Westerink 1984, 130).
22 Nemesius, Nemesius, De nat. hom. 12, 201 (Morani 1987; trans. Sharples and van der Eijk
2008, 118).
23 Nemesius, De nat. hom. 13, 204 (Morani 1987; trans. Sharples and van der Eijk 2008, 121).
40 Parry
The organ of memory, too, is the posterior cavity of the brain, which they
call the cerebellum and the encranion (ἐγκράνιον),24 and the psychic
pneuma within it.
Furthermore, Nemesius offers empirical evidence for the theory of different

ventricles for these three faculties. He cites the case of phrenitis or inflam-
mation of the brain, known also as encephalitis, accompanied by fever and
delirium which may result in amnesia or mental disturbance.25 His knowledge
of the impact of phrenitis echoes what Posidonius of Byzantium is reported to
have said by Aëtius of Amida in the 6th century.
4 Aëtius of Amida and Posidonius of Byzantium
The sixth-century medical author Aëtius of Amida (ca. 502–575) (modern

Diyarbakir) is our main source for the physician Posidonius of Byzantium, who
may have been a near contemporary of Nemesius.26 He preserves several frag-
ments of Posidonius in his Iatrica that deal with the localisation of the intellec-
tual faculties, placing imagination in the front part of the brain, reason in the
middle part, and memory in the back part. If we trust the information given
by Aëtius, then Posidonius derived his localization theory from observing the
effects of damage done to different areas of the brain. He is quoted as stating:
Τοῦ μὲν οὖν ἐμπροσθίου μέρους τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου βλαβέντος τὸ φανταστικὸν

μόνον ἠδίκηται, τῆς δὲ μέσης κοιλίας τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου βλαβείσης παρατροπὴ
γίγνεται τοῦ λογιστικοῦ, τοῦ δὲ κατὰ τὸ ἰνίον ὀπισθίου ἐγκεφάλου βλαβέντος
ἀπόλλυται τὸ μνημονευτικόν.27
When the anterior region of the brain is damaged the faculty of imagina-
tion is disrupted; when the middle ventricle of the brain is damaged the
faculty of reasoning is impeded; and when the posterior part of the brain
under the occipital bone is damaged the faculty of memory is destroyed.28
24 Known to Galen (May 1968/1, 398 and 414).

25 Nemesius, De nat. hom. 13, 206 (Morani 1987; trans. Sharples and van der Eijk 2008, 122–
123). See also van der Eijk 2008.
26 On Aëtius of Amida, see Scarborough 2013.
27 Aëtius, Lib. Medic. VI 2.12, 16–19 (Olivieri 1950).
28 My thanks to Ricarda Gäbel for sending me her paper on Aëtius on mental illness:
Gäbel 2018.
Modern medical science has observed the effects of brain damage resulting in
short—and long—term memory loss, with long-term memories now thought
to be stored in the hippocampus. Recent research suggests that imagination
involves a complex of neural pathways across many areas of the brain at once
rather than in a single area.
But who was this Posidonius of Byzantium? In the Church History of the
Arian historian, Philostorgius (epitomised by Photius in his Bibliotheca, Codex
40),29 mention is made of a namesake of Philostorgius who lived in the reign
of Valentinian (r. 364–375) and Valens (r. 364–378), and who had two sons one
of whom was called Posidonius. Photius says:
θεάσασθαι δὲ τὸν Ποσειδώνιον ἐν ἰατρικῇ διαπρέποντα. λέγειν δ᾿ αὐτὸν ὅμως

οὐκ ὀρθῶς οὐχὶ δαιμόνων ἐπιθέσει τοὺς ἀνθρώπους ἐκβακχεύεσθαι, ὑγρῶν δέ
τινων κακοχυμίαν [5] τὸ πάθος ἐργάζεσθαι. μηδὲ γὰρ εἶναι τὸ παράπαν ἰσχὺν
δαιμόνων ἀνθρώπων φύσιν ἐπηρεάζουσαν.30
He [Philostorgius] says of Posidonius that he was outstanding in the field

of medicine. He adds, though, that he was unsound in maintaining that it
is not demonic attack that makes people mad but that their disease is due
to the unhealthy mixture of certain humours. For the power of demons,
he said, is no way threatens human beings.
Here Philostorgius’ Christian faith obliges him to postulate demonic activity

for the cause of mental illness rather than Hippocratic medical science.31 If
this Posidonius is our Posidonius it is not clear how he came to acquire the
toponym “of Byzantium”. Whoever Posidonius was, the theory of ventricular
localisation became standard in subsequent medical histories. It is found,
for example, in the Arabic writings of the ninth-century Melkite translator in
Baghdad, Qusṭā ibn Lūqā (820–912) or Costa ben Luca,32 as well as in those of
his contemporary translator from the Church of the East, Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq.33
29 Photius, Bibliotheca cod. 40 (Henry 1959).

30 Philostorgius, Church History 8.10 (Winkelman 1981; trans. Amidon 2007, 117–118).
31 The Hippocratic Corpus (circa. 400 BCE) on the “sacred disease” of epilepsy says that it is
not due to a divine cause but to the accumulation of phlegmatic humour in the brain. It
also says that it is hereditary (Lloyd 1978, 237–251).
32 Cooper 2014. See further Wilcox 1987, 57–74, as well as her doctoral thesis 1985.
33 In his work on ophthalmology (Meyerhof 1928). Both Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq and Qusṭā ibn
Lūqā mention the “cerebellar vermis” or “worm-like structure”, discussed by Galen (trans.
May 1968/1, 419–423), located in the canal between the middle and posterior cavities of
the brain, which operates like a valve by blocking or allowing the psychic pneuma to pass
42 Parry
In the medieval Latin West Qusṭā ibn Lūqā was known as Constabulus and
Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq as Johannitus. A passage of Qusṭā’s on the ventricle theory is
quoted in the eleventh-century Arabic Philosophy Reader associated with the
Muslim philosopher Miskawayh (932–1030).34
5 John Philoponus
In the 6th century, John Philoponus in his commentary on Aristotle’s De anima

shows familiarity with medical science and knows of the ventricular place-
ment theory. He writes:
For the soul feels pain when the body suffers, and pleasure when the body
is content. Also the fact that the body, when it is in this or that condition,
hinders the soul or does not hinder it, is known to everybody, whereas
this hindering of the soul through the body would not happen unless
some sort of sympathetic reaction proceeded from the soul’s relationship
with the body to the soul in this way, just as memory is affected when a
particular cavity at the back of the brain is affected, as is the reasoning
faculty of the soul when some other cavity is affected, and when [the
brain] is in a certain state it is easy for the soul to exercise imagination,
but when it is in a different state, it is very difficult to imagine.35
Although he appears to be aware of the theory of localisation, Philoponus

specifies only the posterior cavity of the brain where memory is located.36 The
soul’s faculties of imagination (φανταστικόν), cognition (λογιστικόν), and mem-
ory (μνημονευτικόν) are impaired through injury to their respective parts of the
brain. Thus, our ability to remember, think and imagine may be compromised
as either a result of accident or disease.
He may not be concerned with the location of the brain’s ventricles, but in
the medical works ascribed to Stephanus of Alexandria of the late 6th century,
the psychic faculties of imagination, cognition and recollection, together with
other faculties, are described as having a derivative or adjectival relation to
between them. The vermis is shown in Latin medieval texts illustrating the ventricle the-
ory: see Figures 1 and 2.
34 Wakelnig 2014, 248–251.
35 John Philoponus, De anima 155.25 (trans. van der Eijk 2006, 77–78).
36 On Philoponus’ awareness of the ventricle system, see Todd 1984.
their functions. Thus, the function of the faculty of imagination is imaginative;

the function of the faculty of cognition is cognitive; and the function of the
faculty of recollection is recollective.37 As for Stephanus himself, whether of
Alexandria or Athens,38 he has attributed to him various works dealing with
philosophy, medicine and alchemy.39 However, a clearer picture is now begin-
ning to emerge of these respective personae of Stephanus, particularly in rela-
tion to his Christian identity as a philosopher and logician.40
6 Anastasius of Sinai
In the 7th century Anastasius of Sinai, in Questions and Answers, discusses

what happens when the soul is separated from the body, and concludes that
the soul remains in a sleep-like state until the resurrection.41 In doing so he re-
marks that mind as the controlling principle of soul is located in the brain, just
as God directs things from above. The idea that because of the erect posture
of human beings the brain must be the controlling centre is an ancient one.42
He writes:
Our [invisible] soul displays its own activities through the visible body
which belongs to it …; the soul has the mind [νοῦς] placed as a commander
[ἡγεμῶν] in the brain above what is called the ouraniskon,43 after the pat-
tern of God who is above the heaven, the mind serving to dispose and
control the body as if it were some earthly cosmos. That is why, should
someone be seen to receive some violent blow on the head, the mind
suffers at once and the person can no longer decide nor remember as
before.44
Although not precise about the location of decision-making and recollection,

Anastasius is exact in identifying the faculties of the soul with their respective
organs:
37 Stephanus of Athens, Hippocrates, Aphorisms I.1 (Westerink 1985, 37).

38 Wolska-Conus 1989.
39 On the latter see Papathanassiou 2006.
40 Roueché 2016.
41 Krausmüller 2013.
42 Gregorić 2005.
43 Lit. “little heaven”, i.e. the roof of the mouth.
44 Anastasius of Sinai, Question 19.4 (trans. Munitiz 2011, 90–91).
44 Parry
On the other hand, the reasoning part [τὸ λογιστικόν] is activated by the
soul through the heart, the concupiscent part [τὸ ἐπιθυμητικόν] through
the liver, the humorous part [τὸ μειδιαστκόν] through the spleen, the
breathing [τὸ ἀναπνευστικόν] through the lung, the generative [τὸ γόνιμον]
through the kidneys, the passionate [τὸ θυμικόν] through the blood, the
knowing [τὸ γνωριστικόν] through the eyes, the speaking [τὸ λαλητόν]
through the tongue, so that when the latter is cut out, one can no long
speak. [6] For the same reason when it (I mean the soul) is separated
from the whole body, it can no longer perform the acts it sets in motion
through the limbs of the body …45
The concept of soul as a life force permeating the whole body is here articu-
lated with a view to understanding bodily resurrection. The soul animates the
body and is responsible for administering its different functions, but without
the body it has no purpose to fulfil, hence its somnolent state. The question of
soul sleep or the dormition of the soul was discussed in relation to the interces-
sion of the saints and the fate of the disembodied soul.46
It is of interest in relation to this question to find Anastasius citing an out-
of-body experience to show that the soul keeps its identity when separated
from the body. He reports his own spiritual teacher telling him:
[W]hen I woke up from my dream, I was incapable of sketching out or

imagining what shape or form I had had outside of my body, except for
the fact that my soul’s existence was personally mine [ἐνυπόστατος] and
not a figment of the imagination [ἀφαντασίατος].47
The emphasis here on the soul retaining its individuality was important in the
debate concerning the fate of the post-mortem soul. The nature of the soul’s
identity when separated from the body, and whether disembodied souls would
recognise one another, was of concern to Plotinus and the Neoplatonists. For
Plotinus memory is closely linked with individuality (ἰδιότητος), so he does not
think it wrong that souls in their spherical or astral bodies will continue to
45 Anastasius of Sinai, Question 19.5–6 (trans. Munitiz 2011, 91). See further, Munitiz 1999.
46 Krausmüller 2015; Parry 2017b. John of Damascus in Heresy 90 (θνητοψυχῖται) of his Book
of Heresies denounces those who believe the human soul is like that of animals and dies
with the body (Kotter 1981, 57).
47 Anastasius of Sinai, Question 21.4 (trans. Munitiz 2011, 96). See Plotinus’ famous out-of-
body experiences (Enneads IV 4.8.1) in Porphyry’s Life of Plotinus (Edwards 2000, 44–46).
be recognised by their personal characteristics.48 Anastasius’ use of the term

ἐνυπόστατος for individual identity became associated with Neochalcedonian
theology, particularly from the 6th century onwards through to John of
Damascus in the 8th century.49
7 John of Damascus
Finally, we come to John of Damascus in the first half of the 8th century who
gives 71 citations from Nemesius’ On the Nature of Man, the largest number
by a Greek author.50 This suggests that John had access to an edition of the
text, or at least an anthology incorporating extensive passages from it. Also,
like Maximus, he quotes Nemesius on providence, but (if Louth is correct)
John appears to cite passages independently of Maximus,51 although he—
like Maximus—does not name his source. Furthermore, it may have been the
availability of Nemesius’ work in Syria-Palestine in the 8th century that was the
channel by which it found its way into Syriac and Arabic.
This hypothesis may be supported by the following evidence. In the late
8th century Timothy I, catholicos of the Church of the East in Baghdad in his
Letter 43 to Plethion (dated 782/783), asks his correspondent to search for a
manuscript of a work by the philosopher Nemesius on the structure of man,
and provides an accurate incipit:
Search out for a work by a certain philosopher called Nemesius, on the

structure of man, which begins: “Man is excellently constructed as a ra-
tional soul and body …”. He brings the subject to an end in roughly five
sections; at the end he promises to deal with the soul, but this second
part is missing.52
According to the Kitāb al-Fihrist of Ibn al-Nadīm, both Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq of
the Church of the East, and the Melkite Qusṭā ibn Lūqā travelled to (former?)
48 Plotinus, Enneads IV 4.5. For discussion see King 2009, 3.2. On the spherical shape of soul
vehicles, including that imputed to Origen (Sorabji 2005, 236–238).
49 On this term see Gleede 2012.
50 Kontouma 2015, V. 7. For citations of Nemesius in John’s Expositio fidei (Kotter 1973, 256–
257), and Morani 1981, 104–114.
51 Louth 1996, 210 n. 110; Louth 2015, 252.
52 Trans. Brock 1999, 237.
46 Parry
Byzantine territory to collect Greek manuscripts,53 but it may have been Isḥāq,
the son of Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq, who translated Nemesius into Arabic in the
9th century.54 Only fragments of a Syriac version are preserved, mainly in
quotations given by the Syrian Orthodox, John of Dara, in the first half of the
9th century in his Treatise on the Soul.55 Nemesius was also known to another
Syrian Orthodox author, Moses bar Kepha (d. 903), who names him and calls
him ‘philosophus Christianus’.56 As noted above, On the Nature of Man was
often attributed to Gregory of Nyssa in the manuscript tradition, but a frag-
ment of an Arabic version, most probably from the 9th century, identifies it
correctly as the work of Nemesius.57 It is known to have been translated into
Armenian under Gregory’s name around 717.58 Whatever the case regarding
its attribution, Nemesius’ work was crossing several linguistic boundaries in
the 8th and 9th centuries. In ninth-century Byzantium, the ventricle theory of
imagination, ratiocination, and memory was familiar to the iatrosophist and
physician Meletius the Monk in his On the Constitution of Man.59
It is in John of Damascus’ Precise Edition of the Orthodox Faith (Expositio
fidei), traditionally the third part of his Fount of Knowledge, that we find an
explanation of imagination, reason and memory. As John writes:
Φανταστικόν ἐστι δύναμις τῆς ἀλόγου ψυχῆς διὰ τῶν αἰσθητηρίων ἐνεργοῦ-
σα, ἥτις λέγεται αἴσθησις. Φανταστικὸν δὲ καὶ αἰσθητὸν τὸ τῇ φαντασίᾳ καὶ
τῇ αἰσθήσει ὑποπῖπτον· ὡς ὅρασις μὲν αὐτὴ ἡ ὀπτικὴ δύναμις, ὁρατὸν δὲ τὸ
ὑποπῖπτον τῇ ὁράσει, λίθος τυχὸν ἤ τι τῶν τοιούτων. Φαντασία δέ ἐστι πάθος
τῆς ἀλόγου ψυχῆς ὑπὸ φανταστοῦ τινος γινόμενον, φάντασμα δὲ πάθος διάκενον
53 A list of works translated and attributed to these authors is given in the Fihrist (Dodge
1970, 693–695 and index). Ḥunayn ibn Isḥāq produced an extensive list of his Galenic
translations (Lamoreaux 2017).
54 Samir 1986.
55 On John of Dara’s work, see Zonta 1991 and 2014.
56 Commentary on Paradise, PG 111, 508A.
57 Wakelnig 2014, 33–35.
58 Morani 1981, 71.
59 Περὶ τῆς τοῦ ἀνθρώπου κατασκευῆς (Cramer 1963, 23). The ninth-century date for Meletius
is far from certain; see Talbot 1991, 1333. However, Meletius appears to have been known
to John the Exarch in the early 10th century, who translated some works of John of
Damascus into Slavonic; see Browning 1991, 1069. Meletius paraphrases a passage from
the prologue to Maximus the Confessor’s Chapters on Love (PG 90, 959–961) in the sec-
tion on ophthalmology in his On the Constitution of Man (61–72), see Renehan 1984, 161.
As Maria Mavroudi points out this suggests a floruit for Meletius between the 7th and 9th
centuries, Mavroudi 2017, 131.
ἐν τοῖς ἀλόγοις τῆς ψυχῆς ἀπ᾽ οὐδενὸς φάνταστοῦ γινόμενον. Ὄργανον δὲ τοῦ
φανταστικοῦ ἡ ἐμπρόσθιος κοιλία τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου.60
The faculty of imagination concerns the irrational part of the soul and
acts through the senses and is called a sensation. In addition, that which
comes within the realm of imagination and the senses is the imaginative
and the sensible, just as the visible, for example a stone, comes within the
realm of sight, and is the power of vision. An imagination is a disposition
of the irrational part of the soul arising from some imaginable object, but
a phantasm is an empty disposition arising from the same part of the soul
from no imaginable object. The organ of the imagination is the frontal
ventricle of the brain.
He goes on to state that:
Τοῦ δὲ διανοητικοῦ εἰσιν αἵ τε κρίσεις καὶ αἱ συγκαταθέσεις καὶ αἱ ὁρμαὶ πρὸς

τὴν πρᾶξιν καὶ αἱ ἀφορμαὶ καὶ αἱ ἀποφυγαὶ τῆς πράξεως, ἰδικῶς δὲ αἵ τε νοή-
σεις τῶν νοητῶν καὶ αἱ ἀρεταὶ καὶ αἱ ἐπιστῆμαι καὶ τῶν τεχνῶν οἱ λόγοι καὶ
τὸ βουλευτικὸν καὶ τὸ προαιρετικόν. Τούτου δέ ἐστι τὸ καὶ διὰ τῶν ὀνείρων
θεσπίζον ἡμῖν τὸ μέλλον, ἥνπερ μόνην ἀληθῆ μαντείαν οἱ Πυθαγορικοὶ λέγουσιν
εἶναι τοῖς Ἑβραίοις ἀκολουθήσαντες. Ὄργανον δὲ καὶ τούτου ἡ μέση κοιλία τοῦ
ἐγκεφάλου καὶ τὸ ψυχικὸν πνεῦμα τὸ ἐν αὐτῇ.61
To the faculty of cognition belong judgments, acknowledgments, incli-

nations and disinclinations to act, and evasions of action, but especially
concepts of intellectual things, the virtues and sciences, and the princi-
ples of the arts, as well as the deliberative and decisive powers associated
with it. It is also this faculty which predicts the future through dreams,
which the Pythagoreans, following the Hebrews, say is the only true
prophecy. The organ of this faculty is the middle ventricle of the brain
and the psychic pneuma found in it.
60
Expositio fidei 2.17 (Kotter 1973, 83). Although Manzoni 1998 includes John of Damascus in
his survey of the ventricle location theory he mistakenly states (144) that he was a physi-
cian and translator in Baghdad.
61
Expositio fidei 2.19 (Kotter 1973, 86).
48 Parry
And furthermore:
Ἀνάμνησις δὲ λέγεται μνήμης ἀπολλυμένης ὑπὸ λήθης ἀνάκτησις. Λήθη δέ ἐστι

μνήμης ἀποβολή. Τὸ μὲν οὖν φανταστικὸν διὰ τῶν αἰσθήσεων ἀντιλαμβνόμενον
τῶν ὑλῶν παραδίδωσι τῷ διανοητικῷ ἢ διαλογιστικῷ (ταὐτὸν γὰρ ἀμφότερα)·
ὃ παραλαβὸν καὶ κρῖναν παραπέμπει τῷ μνημονευτικῷ. Ὄργανον δὲ τοῦ μνη-
μονευτικοῦ ἡ ὄπισθεν κοιλία τοῦ ἐγκεφάλου, ἣν καὶ παρεγκεφαλίδα καλοῦσι,
καὶ τὸ ἐν αὐτῇ ψυχικὸν πνεῦμα.62
Recollection is the recalling of memory that has been lost through forget-
ting, while forgetting is the loss of memory. When the imaginative faculty
has apprehended material objects by means of the senses, it transmits
[the perception] to the cognitive faculty, or reasoning faculty (both
amount to the same thing). When the cognitive faculty has received the
sense perception and made a judgment about it, it transmits this to the
faculty of memory. The organ of the faculty of memory is the rear ven-
tricle of the brain, which is also called the cerebellum, and the psychic
pneuma found in it.
John’s use of the term ‘psychic pneuma’ has come through from the ancients
via Galen and Nemesius who applied the term in relation to brain activity and
cognitive processes. This colourless substance produced in the choroid plex-
uses of the ventricles of the brain is known today as cerebrospinal fluid (CSF)
and is said to be replenished three to four times a day. We should add that
John also alludes to the theory of ventricular location in the first of his Three
Orations Against the Iconoclasts where he writes:
Διὰ γὰρ τῆς ἀισθήσεως φαντασία τις συνίσταται ἐν τῇ ἐμπροσθίῳ κοιλίᾳ τοῦ
ἐγκεφάλου καὶ οὕτω τῷ κριτικῷ παραπέμπεται καὶ τῇ μνήμῃ ἐνθησαυρίζεται.63
It is through sense perception that an imagination is formed in the front

ventricle of the brain and transmitted to the faculty of reason and stored
in the memory.
In his discussion of the five senses the Damascene has this to say about the
nature of the soul:
62
Expositio fidei 2.20 (Kotter 1973, 87).
63
Contra imaginum caluminatores orations tres 1.11 (Kotter 1975, 85).
Ἡ δὲ ψυχὴ συνδέδεται τῷ σώματι ὅλη ὅλῳ καὶ οὐ μέρος μέρει καὶ οὐ περιέχε-
ται ὑπ᾽ αὐτοῦ, ἀλλα περιέχει αὐτὸ ὥσπερ πῦρ σίδηρον καὶ ἐν αὐτῷ οὖσα τὰς
οἰκείας ἐνεργείας ἐνεργεῖ.64
The soul is united with the body, the whole soul with the whole body and
not part for part. Yet it is not contained by the body, but instead contains
it, just as heat does iron, and although it is in the body, it has its own dis-
tinct activities.
The question whether the soul had parts and if so how these parts related
and interacted with different parts of the body was a point of discussion in
Neoplatonic philosophy as well as in Christianity.65 The consensus by John’s
time was that soul was believed to be non-spatial and indivisible, an activat-
ing principle co-extensive with the body, and with psychic pneuma a causal
agent of it.66
8 Concluding Remarks
What we have presented here is an overview of the theory of ventricular locali-

sation as it was known in late antiquity and the early Byzantine period. The
history of the theory continues into the medieval and early modern periods
across linguistic and religious boundaries. The ancient interest in investigating
where our cognitive faculties reside has continued with medical technology
monitoring brain activity with greater precision and accuracy. Modern neuro-
science may not recognise such terms as ‘psychic pneuma’ or ‘vital spirit’, but it
is still at an early stage in understanding how and why our brains have evolved
to function the way that they do. Today the ancient conceptual distinction be-
tween memory, cognition, and imagination is taken for granted, while brain
activity relating to these faculties can be observed by Computerised Axial
Tomography (CAT) and Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI). It appears that
our authors made a notable contribution to the history of the medical and cog-
nitive sciences, but that this has not always received the attention it deserves.
64 Expositio fidei 1.13 (Kotter 1973, 39). See above for Nemesius De nat. hom. on the union of
the soul with the body without alteration.
65 See Sorabji 2005, 182–216. Iamblichus discusses ‘parts’ or ‘powers’ of the soul in his
De anima (Finamore and Dillion 2002, 35–41).
66 On the soul and its relation to the body in early Christianity, see Karamanolis 2013, 181–213.
50 Parry
figure 2.1 Illustration ca. 1300 showing the brain ventricles, with the sensus communis and
imagination at the front, cognition and judgement in the middle, and memory at
the rear. The vermis is located between the middle and rear ventricles.
The University Library, Cambridge, ms Gr.g.1.1. Permission:
Cambridge University Library.
figure 2.2 The sensus communis, fantasy and imagination in the first (anterior) ventricle,
cognition and judgement in the second (middle) ventricle, and memory in the
third (posterior) ventricle. The vermis is located between the first and second
ventricles. From Gregor Reisch, Margarita philosophica. Freiburg 1503, 461.
CREDIT: Welcome COLLECTION.
52 Parry
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aristotélicienne et de philosophie grecque, syriaque, arabe et latine offertes à Henri
Hugonnard-Roche. Études musulmanes 44 (Paris), 113–122.
chapter 3
Daydreaming and Lusting after the Divine: Clement

of Alexandria and the Platonic Tradition
Clement of Alexandria and his student Origen greatly influenced Byzantine

Christian ethics, albeit often in controversial ways, especially by infusing their
interpretations of Scripture with their re-workings of Platonic and Stoic moral
theses.1 Clement “readily syncretized pagan and Jewish thought”,2 through
his concept of Logos-Christ, while Origen also employed Jewish traditions in
his expounding of the Scriptures.3 Recently, Rosen-Zvi discussed a number of
Hellenistic authors who, in his view, employed aspects of the Jewish concept of
the yetzer hara (inclination to evil) when discussing destructive sexual desire.4
Rosen-Zvi begins his discussion with the Pseudo-Clementine Homilies before
turning to Clement and finally engaging with Origen’s “systematic demonolo
gical anthropology”.5 Rosen-Zvi admits that it was in the later, Amoraic, sourc-
es that human inclination (yetzer) became “increasingly demonic”,6 and that
its sexual aspects are mainly developed in the Babylonian Talmud.7 Without
denying the self-confessed familiarity of Hellenistic thinkers with Jewish
thought, I wish here to draw attention to the pagan, Platonic paradigms avail-
able to Clement and Origen with regard to the destructive influence of sexual-
ity and its perception as demonic attack on the soul.
Erotic dreams offer an unsuspected yet most fruitful lens for examining the
transition from paganism to Christianity. Already in the third century BCE,
Herophilus had differentiated between god-sent dreams and those arising
from the human soul. He also identified a third type of dream, the mixed type,
1 Golden (1974, 12–13) explains the relationship between classical allegorical interpretation
and biblical exegesis by stressing Philo’s use of Neoplatonic criticism in his commentaries
on Genesis. Philo’s method resembled the exegesis used by early Christian writers, such as
Clement and Origen who had developed a method for interpreting the pagan classics (espe-
cially Homer) in Christian terms.
2 Wagner 2013, 263.
3 Malaty 1994, 798.
4 Rosen-Zvi 2011, 36–43.
5 Rosen-Zvi 2011, 38.
6 Rosen-Zvi 2011, 37.
7 Rosen-Zvi 2011, 102–120; cf. Hirschman 2013, 144–146.

58 Anagnostou-Laoutides
when people dream of things they wish for, as “in the case of those who in their
sleep make love to the women they love”.8 Herophilus, whom Origen mentions
by name,9 influenced the Christian association of sexual dreams with demonic
attacks.10 However, in my view, the connection is already accomplished in the
Platonic corpus, especially in the Republic, where Socrates describes how the
tyrant progressively abolishes the distinction between dreaming and fantasis-
ing about transgression, including sexual transgression, and acting on his im-
pulses. A thorough and sensitive reader of Plato, Clement was not unobservant
of the Platonic association of lust with dreaming.
In his Stromata Clement associates the mortal condition with dreaming
when describing Christ’s descent into flesh as “falling into sleep” and his resur-
rection as “rising from a dream”.11 He particularly associates sexual urges with
dreaming, for example, in the familiar story of the fallen angels who slept with
mortal women as in a dream.12 This association is confirmed in Stromata 4
where, while discussing love and the all-important issue of repression of desire,
Clement cites Matthew 5:2813 and adopts the view that lustful gazing is a most
dangerous affliction that causes people to “daydream”, that is, to succumb to
inappropriate desires while awake, precisely the time when they are expected
to be in control of their thoughts.14 Immediately after this warning Clement re-
lates the story of Bocchoris the Just who was asked to judge a dispute between
a young man and a courtesan: although the two had agreed on a certain price
for the woman’s sexual favours, the man dreamt of having intercourse with her
and thus, no longer needed her services. However, when she found out what
had happened, she still demanded the fee for having fulfilled his desire even
in a dream. Jokingly Bocchoris asked the young man to offer the courtesan
the shadow of his purse containing the fee, thus paying “the image of a price
for the embrace of an image” (εἴδωλον μισθώματος ἀποδιδόναι κελεύσας εἰδώλου
συμπλοκῆς).15
8 Aëtius, Plac. 5.2.3.21–3 (Diog. Laert. 416): ὡς ἐπὶ τῶν τὰς ἐρωμένας ὁρώντων ἐν ὕπνῳ γίνεται.
9 Or. Sel. in Psalm. Praef. (PG 12, 1053A7 and B2–3). On Herophilus’ theory of dreams, see
Stewart 2002, 289.
10 Von Staden 1989, 309–310.
11 Str. 5.14.105.4 (GCS 15, 397).
12 Str. 5.1.10.2 (GCS 15, 332); cf. Str. 3.7.59.2 (GCS 15, 223) and Ped. 3.2.14.2 (GCS 12, 244);
Ashwin-Siejkowski 2010, 153.
13 Matthew 5:28: ἐγὼ δὲ λέγω, ὁ ἐμβλέψας τῇ γυναικὶ πρὸς ἐπιθυμίαν ἤδη μεμοίχευκεν (“But
I’m telling you, whoever looks at a woman with lustful intent has already committed
adultery”).
14 Str. 4.18.114.2–115.1 (GCS 15, 298).
15 Str. 4.18.115.1–3 (GCS 15, 298–299).
Daydreaming and Lusting after the Divine 59
As Colish has already pointed out,16 the narrative alludes to the Stoic con-
cept of phantasia, that is, the ability of the hegemonikon or kurieuon (the rul-
ing faculty of the mind) to process impressions (states of awareness) which
move the soul. Notably, the Stoics understand phantasia as an affection, a
pathos that must be negotiated by reason and expressed through speech,17 and
their centuries-long disagreement with the academicians on cognitive phan-
tasia is well-documented in scholarship.18 Furthermore, Clement’s text evokes
the Rabbinic notion of yetzer, a demon which inhabits the human heart and
which in the Homilies of pseudo-Clementine is transformed into numerous
demons who attack people by suggesting a number of desires to them so as
to urge them to forget their saviour.19 Clement, however, who returns frequent-
ly in the Stromata to the topic of alluring pleasures—including pleasures of
sight—that confront people in their dreams, urging them to indulgence and
making the soul effeminate,20 quotes Plato’s conviction that “each pleasure
and pain nails the soul to the body of him who does not set apart and crucify
himself from the passions”,21 and points to the Platonic dialogues when recom-
mending tireless resistance as the only way to overcome the attacks of the pas-
sions (διὰ τῆς ἀπαύστου καὶ ἀναπαυδήτου πρὸς τὰς τῶν παθῶν ἡμῶν ἀντιμαχήσεις),
since Socrates had also stressed the constant dangers lurking in them.22
Furthermore, in the continuation of his argument against lustful dreams
in book 4, Clement argues in strikingly Platonic spirit that those who look on
beauty in chaste love, use the body as a vehicle to contemplate true, spiritual
beauty.23
16 Colish 1985, 1.52–3; cf. De Harven 2017.

17 Sextus M 8.70 (Mutschmann 1914, 117); DL 7.63 (LCL 185, 172).
18 Szívós 2005, 208–223; Leahy 1994, 164–165; Watson 1988, 216; also, see Moss 2012, 274–277.
For Zeno’s definition of phantasia, see Cic. Acad. I.11.40 (LCL 268, 448).
19 Rosen-Zvi 2011, 36–37.
20 Cf. Str. 7.7.36.4 (GCS 17, 28).
21 Str. 2.20.108.2–4 (GCS 15, 172): κατὰ Πλάτωνα, ὅτι ἑκάστη ἡδονή τε καὶ λύπη προσπασσαλοῖ τῷ
σώματι τὴν ψυχὴν τοῦ γε μὴ ἀφορίζοντος καὶ ἀποσταυροῦντος ἑαυτὸν τῶν παθῶν….
22 Str. 2.20.120.5 (GCS 15, 178): ὁ γοῦν Σωκράτης φυλάσσεσθαι κελεύει τὰ ἀναπείθοντα μὴ
πεινῶντας ἐσθίειν καὶ μὴ διψῶντας πίνειν καὶ τὰ βλέμματα καὶ τὰ φιλήματα τῶν καλῶν ὡς χαλε-
πώτερον σκορπίων καὶ φαλαγγίων ἰὸν ἐνιέναι πεφυκότα. “Besides, Socrates urges us to watch
out against the things that tempt us to eat when we are not hungry and to drink when we
are not thirsty and against the glances and kisses of handsome youths as they can inject
poison more dangerous than scorpions and tarantulas” (trans. ANF 2, 373 modified). Cf.
Xen. Mem. 1.3.5–6 (LCL 168, 55, 56); Stob. Flor. 17.44 (Wachsmuth and Hense 1894, 3:510,
line 20–511, line 9); Plut. De tuenda 124D4–E3 (LCL 222, 228), De garr. 513D and De cur. 521F
(LCL 337, 458 and 508).
23 Str. 4.18.116.1–117.1 (GCS 15, 299; trans. ANF 2, 430 modified).
Ὀνειρώττει μὲν οὖν τις συγκαταθεμένης τῇ φαντασίᾳ τῆς ψυχῆς, ὕπαρ δὲ ὀνει-
ρώττει ὁ πρὸς ἐπιθυμίαν βλέπων, οὐ μόνον ὡς ἐκεῖνος ἔλεγεν ὁ δῆθεν γνωστι-
κός, ἐὰν ἅμα τῇ ὄψει τῆς γυναικὸς συλλάβῃ κατ’ ἔννοιαν τὴν ὁμιλίαν (τοῦτο γὰρ
ἤδη ἔργον ἐστὶν ἐπιθυμίας ὡς ἐπιθυμίας), ἀλλ’ ἐὰν εἰς κάλλος σώματος βλέψῃ
τις, ὁ λόγος φησί, καὶ αὐτῷ ἡ σὰρξ εἶναι κατ’ ἐπιθυμίαν δόξῃ καλή, σαρκικῶς
ἰδὼν καὶ ἁμαρτητικῶς δι’ οὗ τεθαύμακεν κρίνεται· ἔμπαλιν γὰρ ὁ δι’ ἀγάπην τὴν
ἁγνὴν προσβλέπων τὸ κάλλος οὐ τὴν σάρκα ἡγεῖται, ἀλλὰ τὴν ψυχὴν καλήν, τὸ
σῶμα, οἶμαι, ὡς ἀνδριάντα θαυμάσας, δι’οὗ κάλλους ἐπὶ τὸν τεχνίτην καὶ τὸ
ὄντως καλὸν αὐτὸς αὑτὸν παραπέμπει, σύμβολον ἅγιον τὸν χαρακτῆρα τῆς δι-
καιοσύνης τὸν φωτεινὸν ἐπιδεικνύμενος τοῖς ἐφεστῶσι τῇ ἀνόδῳ ἀγγέλοις, τὸ
χρῖσμα τῆς εὐαρεστήσεως λέγω, τὴν ποιότητα τῆς διαθέσεως τὴν ἐπικειμένην
τῇ ψυχῇ κατ’ ἐπιχώρησιν τοῦ ἁγίου πνεύματος γεγανωμένῃ.
Accordingly, one dreams while the soul consents to the vision. But he
who looks with lustful intent, daydreams; not only, as that Gnostic said,
if along with the sight of the woman he imagines intercourse in his mind
(for this is already the doing of lust, as lust); but if one looks on a beauti-
ful body, the Word says, and the flesh seems to him fair according to (the
criteria of) lust, looking on carnally and sinfully, he is judged because of
what he admired. For, on the other hand, he who looks on beauty in chaste
love, regards beautiful not the flesh but the soul, admiring the body, as
I reckon, as an image through the beauty of which he transports himself
to the Artist and true beauty; displaying the sacred symbol, the bright
mark of righteousness to the angels that wait on the ascension; I mean
the unction of acceptance, the quality of disposition which resides in the
soul that is gladdened by the communication of the Holy Spirit.
This passage of Clement seems to resonate with Agathon’s idealistic portrayal

of Eros in the Symposium where he insists that Love is neither the cause nor the
victim of any injustice.24 Agathon praises Love’s power over all other pleasures
and passions and his unique ability to moderate them; Love is, in his view, the
bravest of all gods25 and extremely wise because it was “through love of beauty
that Love imparted to gods and men all kinds of benefits”.26 By bringing peace
among people,27 Love “is our most excellent skipper and crew leader, our
24
Symp. 196b (LCL 166, 156): … Ἔρως οὔτ᾽ ἀδικεῖ οὔτ᾽ ἀδικεῖται, οὔτε ὑπὸ θεοῦ οὔτε θεόν, οὔτε
ὑπ᾽ ἀνθρώπου οὔτε ἄνθρωπον.
25
Symp. 196c8–d4 (LCL 166, 156).
26
Symp. 197b2–3 (LCL 166, 158): … ἐκ τοῦ ἐρᾶν τῶν καλῶν πάντ᾽ ἀγαθὰ γέγονεν καὶ θεοῖς καὶ
ἀνθρώποις.
27
εἰρήνην, Symp. 197c5 (LCL 166, 158).
defender and saviour … the fairest and best leader”.28 Socrates, of course, soon
rejects Agathon’s view of Eros by emphasising its deficient nature:29 through
his discussion with the priestess Diotima, Socrates is convinced that Eros lacks
beauty and goodness.30 His revised portrayal of Eros complements Diotima’s
conviction that he is a daemon31 whose lacking nature allows him to be a me-
diating spirit between gods and humans (rather than a god).32 Besides, in the
Timaeus Plato argued that learning and true thoughts can lead us to eudai-
monia, a state in which our inner good daimon comes to the fore.33 Clement,
who steadfastly believed that evil in the world is the result of sinful rather than
demonic evil, was very aware of Plato’s description of our inner daimon:34
αὐτὸς δὲ ὁ Πλάτων τὴν εὐδαιμονίαν τὸ εὖ τὸν δαίμονα ἔχειν, δαίμονα δὲ λέγε-

σθαι τὸ τῆς ψυχῆς ἡμῶν ἡγεμονικόν, τὴν δὲ εὐδαιμονίαν τὸ τελειότατον ἀγα-
θὸν καὶ πληρέστατον λέγει. ὁτὲ δὲ βίον ὁμολογούμενον καὶ σύμφωνον αὐτὴν
ἀποκαλεῖ, καὶ ἔσθ’ ὅτε τὸ κατ’ ἀρετὴν τελειότατον, τοῦτο δὲ ἐν ἐπιστήμῃ τοῦ
28 Symp. 197e1–2 (LCL 166, 160): … κυβερνήτης, ἐπιβάτης, παραστάτης τε καὶ σωτὴρ ἄριστος,…,
ἡγεμὼν κάλλιστος καὶ ἄριστος.
29 In keeping with Eryximachus’ distinction between “nobler and baser Loves” (186d3–7,
LCL 166, 124), Plato maintains Eros’ duality in the Phaedrus where we hear that love can
be either harmful, effecting confusion and irrational behaviour on the soul (Phdr. 237d3–
238a; 238b–c; 239c, LCL 36, 444–450) or the greatest good, when bestowed by divine gift
(Phdr. 244a, LCL 36, 464). Later the Stoics furthered this concept by proposing that the
philosopher is the doctor of the soul (Nussbaum 1998, 316). Although Plato employs
the image of the charioteer and the two horses (Phdr. 249d–e, LCL 36, 482) to emphasise
the need for individuals to adhere to reason and the right kind of love, while the Stoics
view the human soul as unified with the body (Long 1982, 36–40), their understanding
of irrational behaviour is fairly similar, with Plato referring to the ideal lovers as able to
control their irrational propensities (Phdr. 238b, LCL 36, 446; cf. 250e–251a, 254 and 256,
LCL 36, 484–486, 494–498 and 500–502) and Chrysippus describing passions as irrational
and unnatural movements of the soul (PHP iv 2.10–12 and 14–18, De Lacy 2005, 240 and
242); see Long 1982, 49–53 on Stoic “rational souls” and Cooper 2005, 180–5 on the εὔλογος
ἔκκλισις, the well-reasoned desire of the Stoic sage.
30 Symp. 203c7–d (LCL 166, 180).
31 Cf. Ap.Rhod. Arg. 4.445–9 (LCL 1, 364).
32 Symp. 203e1–7 (LCL 166, 180); Lamascus 2016, 70.
33 See Tim. 90c (LCL 234, 246). Xenocrates, Plato’s student, conceptualised demons as dark,
lustful forces. Plutarch describes Kronos as a divine being who in his dreams obtains
mantic knowledge from Zeus and conveys it to daemons (Plut. De fac. 941F–942B1, LCL
406, 186, 188; Bos 1989, 94–96, 102). In his Statesman and the Laws, Plato, as Bos (1989,
97) pointed out, had presented Kronos as a world archon assisted by a host of daemons,
each responsible for governing a part of the cosmos (Pol. 269a–274d, LCL 164, 48–66; Leg.
4.713b, LCL 187, 282 and 284).
34 Str. 2.22.131.4–6 (GCS 15, 185; trans. ANF 2, 375–376 modified); also, see Resp. 620d–e2 (LCL
276, 484) and Str. 5.14.130.3 (GCS 15, 414); Recinová 2012, 104–106.
ἀγαθοῦ τίθεται καὶ ἐν ἐξομοιώσει τῇ πρὸς τὸν θεόν, ὁμοίωσιν ἀποφαινόμενος

δίκαιον καὶ ὅσιον μετὰ φρονήσεως εἶναι.
Plato himself says that happiness is to possess the daemon properly,

where daemon is called the ruling faculty of the soul and happiness he
names the most perfect and complete good. Sometimes he calls it a life
consistent and harmonious, sometimes the highest perfection in accor-
dance with virtue; and this he places in the knowledge of the Good, and
in likeness to God, demonstrating likeness to be justice and holiness with
wisdom.
In the first book of his Stromata Clement describes Greek philosophy as a gift
communicated to people by fallen angels in terms that recall Plato’s descrip-
tion of Eros as a divine gift.35 In book 7 he shifts his opinion to claim that
Greek philosophy was communicated by Logos himself through the medium
of inferior good angels.36 Accordingly, in disagreement with the Gnostics, he
believed that the gap between a transcendent God and the visible Word was
not bridged by intermediary demons, but by Logos himself37—and possibly
those elucidated ones, like himself, who achieved assimilation to Logos. Again,
one is reminded of Plato’s urge of human assimilation to God, which according
to Gibbons, Clement promotes albeit by employing Stoic thoughts.38 Similarly,
as Gaca has noted,39 Clement, afraid of Erotic gods, tends to invest his Logos
with Stoic qualities. Yet, in my view, Clement could not have been impervious
to the Middle Platonic understanding of Logos as noeric-erotic intermediary.
Plutarch whom Clement had certainly read (at least to an extent)40 argued that
in this guise Logos imposed order on chaos and was able to lead the finite mind
up by intellectual love to the reality of pure ideas.41 Furthermore, Clement dis-
cusses God as revealing through his Logos a passionate love for the human
race; through God’s love, Clement has transformed himself to God’s Logos and
urges others to surrender themselves to Christ’s divine love through his Logos
35 Str. 1.17.81.4 (GCS 15, 53); cf. 1.17.87.1 (GCS 15, 55). Recinová 2012, 111.
36 Str. 7.2.6.4 (GCS 17, 6): οὗτός ἐστιν ὁ διδοὺς καὶ τοῖς Ἕλλησι τὴν φιλοσοφίαν διὰ τῶν
ὑποδεεστέρων ἀγγέλων; see Recinová 2012, 111.
37 Recinová 2012, 109.
38 Gibbons 2015, 157–185.
39 Gaca 2003, 266.
40 Ferguson 1974, 18–19; Patrick 1914, 27.
41 Dillon 1996, 200–201.
Protreptikos.42 Clement’s Platonic appreciation of divine revelation is further

confirmed in his visions, especially his allegorical dream visions43 which freely
evoke Plato’s famous discussion of mystical visions in the Phaedrus as inspired
by various forms of mania.44 In discussing the nature and meaning of sleep
in the second book of the Pedagogus, Clement urged wakefulness during day
and night:45
Τὸ οὖν φῶς τοῦτο οἱ τοῦ φωτὸς τοῦ ἀληθινοῦ υἱοὶ μὴ ἀποκλείσωμεν θύραζε, ἔνδον
δὲ εἰς ἡμᾶς ἀποστρέψαντες, τοῦ κεκρυμμένου τὰς ὄψεις ἀνθρώπου φωτίσαντες
τήν τε ἀλήθειαν αὐτὴν ἐποπτεύσαντες καὶ τῶν ταύτης ῥευμάτων μεταλαμβά-
νοντες, τοὺς ἀληθεῖς τῶν ὀνείρων ἐναργῶς καὶ φρονίμως ἀποκαλυπτώμεθα …
ᾗ καὶ τῶν ὀνείρων οἱ ἀληθεῖς ὀρθῶς λογιζομένῳ νηφούσης εἰσὶ ψυχῆς λογισμοὶ
ἀπερισπάστου τὸ τηνικάδε οὔσης περὶ τὰς τοῦ σώματος συμπαθείας καὶ αὐτῆς
αὑτῇ τὰ κράτιστα συμβουλευούσης·
We, then, who are sons of the true light, should not close the door against
this light, but turning in on ourselves, illumining the eyes of the hidden
man, and gazing on the truth itself, and receiving its streams, we should
clearly and intelligibly reveal such dreams as are true…. Thus also, such
dreams as are true, in the view of him who reflects correctly, are the
thoughts of a sober soul, undistracted in this case by the affections of the
body, and counselling with itself in the best manner.
Clement draws here on Plato’s Phaedo (airing the idea of the soul’s emanci-
pation from the body at the point of death) to defend his view that Gnosis
is a kind of rational death that separates the spirit from the passions46 and
42 Hofer 2015, 516; for Logos as love, see Vigorelli 2016, 154–155. For Clement’s investment of
divine Eros in his Protrepticus with Platonic concepts discussed in the Symposium, see
Alieva 2016, 685–686.
43 MacDermot 1971, 17–19.
44 Phdr. 244a–e, 265b (LCL 36, 464–468 and 532); Ashwin-Siejkowski 2008, 181 n. 181. See
Str. 1.21.143.1–5 (GCS 15, 88): ὁ Πλάτων δὲ καὶ τοῖς θεοῖς διάλεκτον ἀπονέμει τινά, μάλιστα μὲν
ἀπὸ τῶν ὀνειράτων τεκμαιρόμενος καὶ τῶν χρησμῶν, ἄλλως δὲ καὶ ἀπὸ τῶν δαιμονώντων, οἳ
τὴν αὑτῶν οὐ φθέγγονται φωνὴν οὐδὲ διάλεκτον, ἀλλὰ τὴν τῶν ὑπεισιόντων δαιμόνων. (“Plato
attributes a dialect also to the gods, making this inference mainly from dreams and ora-
cles, and especially from the demoniacs, who do not speak their own language or dialect,
but that of the demons who have taken possession of them;” trans. ANF 2, 332 modified).
45 Ped. 2.9.80.4 and 2.9.82.2 (GCS 12, 206–207; trans. ANF 2, 258–259 modified). For dreams as
an indication of the degree to which the soul can act independently of the body, see Itter
2009, 189–190.
46 Str. 7.12.71.3 (GCS 17, 51).
crucially, that, to maintain this separation, the wise man should practise wake-
fulness: “We, then, who assign the best part of the night to wakefulness, must
by no manner of means sleep by day.”47
Still, Clement appreciates his visions as a divine gift in agreement with the
influential Gnostic Valentinus48 who claimed to have received his visions from
Logos himself and whom Clement quotes six times.49 Therefore, it is unlikely,
even if Clement was aware of yetzer hara (and indeed he probably was, given
his interest in Jewish theology),50 that he would have chosen to include the
concept in his theology which ultimately defends a positive creation. As is
clear from the texts quoted above, Clement’s difficulty is not with receiving
divine revelation in dreams but with allowing oneself to dream while awake,
what we may call “daydreaming”.51
This, I argue, is very Platonic and can be found in the Republic where Plato
argues that the innate badness of evil in our soul52—manifesting itself as in-
justice, licentiousness, cowardice and ignorance (609b)—is essentially exter-
nal (610b–c).53 Plato describes daydreaming when discussing the metaphor of
anamnesis, thoughts which are memories of our acquaintance with Platonic
ideas in an earlier existence.54 Plato asks: “Is not the dream state, whether the
man is asleep or awake, just this: the mistaking of resemblance for identity?”55
In Socrates’ analysis of the progressive moral decadence of the tyrant,56 we
hear about epithumiai (desires) and hēdonai (pleasures) manifesting in sleep.
When the rational and domesticated part of our soul (λογιστικὸν … καὶ ἥμερον)
rests, the other part that is beastly and savage (θηριῶδές τε καὶ ἄγριον), instigated
by food and wine, rebels and seeks to satisfy its dispositions (ζητῇ ἰέναι καὶ ἀπο-
47 Ped. 2.9.81.5 (GCS 12, 207): πολλοῦ γε δεῖ μεθ’ ἡμέραν ἐπιτρέπειν καθεύδειν τοῖς καὶ τῆς νυκτὸς
τὸ πλεῖστον εἰς ἐγρήγορσιν ἀποτεμνομένοις.
48 Metzger 1987, 80.
49 Kovacs 2016, 328–329.
50 Str. 1.1.11.2 (GCS 15, 8) with Ashwin-Siejkowsk 2008, 23–24.
51 Cf. Quint. Inst. Or. 6.2.30 (LCL 126, 60) urging orators to use their ability to evoke images
in people’s minds to their benefit.
52 Rep. 609a10 (LCL 276, 444).
53 LCL 276, 444 and 446.
54 Dreams belong to a form of active sense-perception (aesthesis) which is not consistent
with correct sense-perception. For example, when dreaming or daydreaming we are not
aware of it; Sörbom 1994, 37–38; cf. Arist. Insomn. 458a13–b25 (LCL 288, 348, 350).
55 Resp. 476c (LCL 237, 550): τὸ ὀνειρώττειν ἆρα οὐ τόδε ἐστίν, ἐάντε ἐν ὕπνῳ τις ἐάντ’ ἐγρηγορὼς
τὸ ὅμοιόν τῳ μὴ ὅμοιον ἀλλ’ αὐτὸ ἡγῆται εἶναι ᾧ ἔοικεν.
56 Resp. 571c (LCL 276, 308); Cf. Tim. 71a (LCL 234, 184): [ἐπιθυμητικὸν τῆς ψυχῆς] … ὑπὸ
δὲ εἰδώλων καὶ φαντασμάτων νυκτός τε καὶ μεθ’ ἡμέραν μάλιστα ψυχαγωγήσοιτο … ([“the
appetitive part of the soul] … would be bewitched for the most part both day and night by
images and phantasms”).
πιμπλάναι τὰ αὑτοῦ ἤθη). In this state, Socrates warns, the soul is released from
all sense of shame and reason (ἀπὸ πάσης … αἰσχύνης καὶ φρονήσεως).
Clement seems to adopt Stoic positions in discussing the passions of the
souls as “excessive impulse that exceeds the measure of reason, an impulse ex-
pressed as contrary to reason”;57 these passions “proceed from each man’s own
soul, aggravated by impious desires and various pleasures (ὑπὸ ἐπιθυμιῶν ἀθέων
καὶ ἡδονῶν ποικίλων), base hopes and corrupting dreams (φαύλων ἐλπίδων καὶ
φθαρτικῶν ὀνειροπολημάτων), when, always lusting for more, maddened by
fierce loves and on fire,… it is injured to states of frenzied obsessions, despair
of life and contempt of God (ἐξαιμάσσηται πρὸς σπουδὰς μανιώδεις καὶ ζωῆς ἀπό-
γνωσιν καὶ θεοῦ καταφρόνησιν)”.58 However, Socrates’ reflection on pleasures in
book 9 of the Republic and their manifestations in dreams seems to add new
insights to Clement’s fear of daydreaming.59 Socrates uses dreams to illustrate
how unnecessary, unnatural desires60 take hold of intemperate people, such
as tyrants, in sleep. Still, as Holowchak pointed out,61 Socrates prescribes cer-
tain measures by which the temperate man can achieve peaceful sleep and
even rouse insightful dreams.62 According to Socrates, the person who goes
to sleep, having previously stirred his rational faculty (τὸ λογιστικόν) with fair
words and thoughts (λόγων καλῶν καὶ σκέψεων) and has made peace with him-
self (εἰς σύννοιαν αὐτὸς αὑτῷ ἀφικόμενος), but at the same time has been careful
not to starve or overindulge the appetitive part of his soul (τὸ ἐπιθυμητικόν δὲ
μήτε ἐνδείᾳ δοὺς μήτε πλησμονῇ), is least likely to have wicked dreams and more
likely to learn something about past, present, or future things.63 In fact, “in this
state one comes closest to the truth and the visions of one’s dreams appear to
57 Str. 2.13.59.6 (GCS 14, 145): πάθος δὲ πλεονάζουσα ὁρμὴ ἢ ὑπερτείνουσα τὰ κατὰ τὸν λόγον
μέτρα, ἢ ὁρμὴ ἐκφερομένη καὶ ἀπειθὴς λόγῳ; on the Stoic theory of passions and its recep-
tion in early Christianity, see Anagnostou-Laoutides 2014, 276–277. Aristotle describes ap-
petite (a precursor of will) as inclined to obey mostly irrational instincts; see Tympas 2014,
121 with n. 18 (on his p. 128) citing Gauthier 1954, 58, Bathrellos 2004, 125, and Thunberg
1995, 221–224.
58 Rich Man’s Salvation 25.4 (GCS 17, 176); trans. modified from LCL 92, 322 (cf. ANF 2, 598).
Also, see Karavites 1999, 37–38 with n. 66 citing SVF 3.378–379 and 462 (von Arnim 1967,
92 and 113).
59 As we saw in Resp. 571 (LCL 276, 306 and 308) discussed above.
60 Necessary desires are those of which we cannot rid ourselves and which are beneficial
when satisfied, such as simple food. Unnecessary desires are those from which we can
free ourselves and which do us harm when satisfied, such as more delicate food or other
luxuries (558c–559d, LCL 276, 260–266).
61 Holowchak 2009, 2.
62 Resp. 571d7–572a (LCL 276, 308).
63 Resp. 572a4 (LCL 276, 308).
be the least unlawful.”64 Notably, Socrates’ description of the moderate man’s

pre-sleep habits is very similar to Clement’s instructions for purifying the soul
with sober thoughts while remaining in anticipation of god-sent dreams that
reveal the truth. In his discussion of democratic and tyrannical personalities,
Socrates uses dreams as the paramount evidence for a person turning into a
tyrant;65 when in the grip of illicit desires, people lose their ability to distin-
guish between reality and dreaming until they lead the kind of life which pre-
viously only surfaced in their dreams.66
Having Socrates’ speech in the background, Clement’s fear of daydreaming
becomes clearer. Given that Clement is at pains to present Moses as an ideal
statesman, an earthly embodiment of God’s divine statesmanship,67 it is cru-
cial for his followers to acknowledge their true lord and avoid the tyranny of
sin.68 According to Gibbons, Clement wishes to argue that our assimilation to
God should be a “unification of the civic and contemplative lives”.69
Appreciating Plato’s ambivalence regarding the actual involvement of the
wise man in the civic life of the polis [think, for example, Resp. 592b (LCL
276, 388) where he mentions a heavenly city in whose politics the philoso-
pher would be inclined to get involved], Clement turns to the all-important
civic profile of the wise man in Stoicism. Clearly, as he states at the start of the
Stromata, he wishes to write in order to offer an authoritative account of how
we are to approximate God but Clement is not unaware of the civic structures
through which divine wisdom will be enhanced and promoted. In this context,
Gibbons argued that,70
64 Resp. 572a9–11 (LCL 276, 308 and 310): οἶσθ᾽ ὅτι τῆς τ᾽ ἀληθείας ἐν τῷ τοιούτῳ μάλιστα ἅπτεται
καὶ ἥκιστα παράνομοι τότε αἱ ὄψεις φαντάζονται τῶν ἐνυπνίων.
65 Resp. 574d–e (LCL 276, 318 and 320).
66 Hence, in Resp. 574e2–4 (LCL 276, 320) we read: … τυραννευθεὶς δὲ ὑπὸ Ἔρωτος, οἷος ὀλιγάκις
ἐγίγνετο ὄναρ, ὕπαρ τοιοῦτος ἀεὶ γενόμενος, οὔτε τινὸς φόνου δεινοῦ ἀφέξεται οὔτε βρώματος
οὔτ᾽ ἔργου (“… under the tyranny of Eros, he becomes at all times during his waking life
the kind of person that he rarely became in sleep, and he will refrain from no terrible mur-
der nor from any food or deed”; my trans.). See Holowchak 2009, 3; Annas 1983, 303–304;
cf. Rankin 1964, 82 also discussed by Holowchak on his p. 9.
67 Gibbons 2016, 49–68.
68 Cf. Str. 3.3.18.5 (GCS 15, 204): τῆς τε τῶν ἀφροδισίων χρήσεως ἐπιμνησθείς· εὐφήμει, ἄνθρωπε,
ἀσμενέστατα μέντοι αὐτὸ ἀπέφυγον, ὥσπερ λυττῶντά τινα καὶ ἄγριον δεσπότην ἀποφυγών.
(“And with reference to sexual relations: Be silent, O man, it is with the greatest joy that
I escaped from it as if I had escaped from a wild and raging tyrant”), discussing sexual
intercourse as a tyrant and quoting Plato’s Resp. 329c (LCL 237, 10); Ferguson 1974, 161.
69 Gibbons 2015, 157 (abstract).
70 Gibbons 2015, 175.
Clement reinterprets the Statesman so that, contra that dialogue’s literal

denial that the rule of the statesman is similar in kind to that of God, this
particular dialogue serves to further the idea that the person who assimi-
lates to God is, like Moses, the true king, lawgiver, and statesman.
In the Republic Plato argues that only when philosophers become rulers
and rulers become philosophers will justice be established in the polis.71 In
the Theaetetus, where he discusses the ideal of the philosopher’s as-
similation to God, on which Clement was keen,72 Socrates specifies that
philosophers do not dream of political offices and carnal pleasures,73 while
in Cratylus, he describes his own dreams as preoccupied with the good and
the beautiful.74 Clement, however, as we saw, insisted that the virtuous man
must serve as an example and actively assist others to communicate with God.75
Given that dreams were such an important pathway for divine revelations,
Clement’s anxiety to stipulate the circumstances in which divine dreams may
be received is in keeping with Socrates’ provisos about dreams. Like Socrates,
Clement was at pains to reject “daydreaming” and lustful fantasies as an appro-
priate or reliable way of communicating with God.
1 Daydreaming in Origen, Eusebius and Evagrius
Origen often discussed lustful gazing at women, and twice quoted the Gospel
saying: “[W]hosoever shall look upon a woman to lust after her, has already
committed adultery with her in his heart” (Matt 5:28).76 The notion is repeated
often in his corpus,77 but is not associated with dreams. Origen returns to the
topic of dreams in Contra Celsum where he defends the visions of the Bible,
71 Resp. 473c11–e1 (LCL 237, 538 and 540); Holowchak 2009, 7–8.
72 Tht. 176b2 (ὁμοίωσις θεῷ; LCL 123, 128); Gibbons 2015, 158–159.
73 Tht. 173d4–6 (LCL 123, 118): σπουδαὶ δὲ ἑταιριῶν ἐπ᾽ ἀρχὰς καὶ σύνοδοι καὶ δεῖπνα καὶ σὺν
αὐλητρίσι κῶμοι, οὐδὲ ὄναρ πράττειν προσίσταται αὐτοῖς (“the fuss and meetings of political
clubs for offices, banquets and revels with singing girls”; trans. LCL 123, 119 modified);
Holowchak 2009, 11. Note that Holowchak argues that the philosophers “do not hear spo-
ken or written laws and decrees in their dreams”, but the actual text at this point refers to
the habits of the leaders of the city, not their dreams.
74 Cra. 439c7–8 (LCL 167, 186).
75 Gibbons 2015, 159 with Str. 7.13.81.3–82.4 (GCS 17, 58).
76 Principiis 3.1.6 and 4.3.19 (GCS 22, 202 and 328).
77 For example, in the Homilies on Genesis 1.8.25–26 (GCS 29, 10) gazing lustfully at a woman
is described as a poisonous reptile in us; cf. Hom. Gen. 3.6 (GCS 29, 46–47); Hom. Josh. 9.3
(GCS 30, 348); Hom. Luc. 2 (GCS 35, 16); Hom. Num. 11.2 (GCS 30, 79).
often received while awake.78 Although he seems to contradict Clement who

doubted the value of waking visions, Origen referred to those who believe in
divine providence and therefore were spiritually ready to receive divine revela-
tions “involving all of their senses, as if they were in an objective state of mind”.79
Furthermore, in his attempt to defend Christ whom Celsus had accused as a
“dreamer of dreams”,80 Origen distinguished between valid prophetic visions
and “waking dreams”, arguing that although it is not irrational to believe that
a dream may take place, “to suppose a waking vision in the case of those who
are not altogether out of their senses, and under the influence of madness or
melancholy is incredible” (ὕπαρ δὲ ἐπὶ τῶν μὴ πάντῃ ἐκφρόνων καὶ φρενιτιζόντων
ἢ μελαγχολώντων οὐ πιθανόν).81
Celsus, Origen continues, was inspired to talk against dreams by Mary
Magdalen’s alleged encounter with Christ after his resurrection, which he
dismissed “calling the woman half-mad” (παροιστρῶσαν εἶπε τὴν γυναῖκα).82
Notably, in his attempt to defend the resurrection of Christ, surely not a mere
apparition or a trick of Mary’s imagination, Origen quotes Plato and his doc-
trine on the immortality of the soul. Although Origen believed that only the
Holy Spirit can induce true revelations,83 yet, as Chadwick noted, his dis-
tinction between divine and demonic inspiration is largely based on Plato’s
Timaeus 71 (LCL 234:184, 186) and Phaedrus 244 (LCL 36:464–468) where divine
inspiration is said to purify but not excite the mind.84 Furthermore, Origen be-
lieved that the pagan methods of predicting the future whether involving the
loss of self-control as in the case of Pythia or relying on animal augury85 were
derived from demons who were thus trying to entice men into error and pre-
vent them from seeking God—a view that echoes the thoughts of his teacher,
Clement.86
78 CC 1.48 (GCS 2, 97–100); Origen also cites many examples of people who were converted
to Christianity because of a dream revelation; see CC 1.46 (GCS 2, 95–96); also, cf. CC 1.66
(GCS 2, 119–121) discussing dreams of angels giving instructions to people.
79 See Kofsky 2002, 146, n. 41 discussing CC 1.48 (see previous note).
80 CC 2.53 (GCS 2, 176–177).
81 CC 2.60 (GCS 2, 183, lines 13–14; trans. ANF 4, 455 modified).
82 CC 2.60 (GCS 2, 183, line 15; trans. ANF 4, 455). For Jesus’ appearance to Mary Magdalen,
see, for example, John 20:11–18 and Mark 16:9.
83 Kofsky 2002, 146.
84 Chadwick 1953, 397, n. 2 with Kofsky 2002, 146, n. 41.
85 CC 4.92–93 and 7.3–4 respectively (GCS 2, 365–367 and GCS 3, 154–157).
86 For more on Origen’s demonology, see Stewart 2005, esp. 10–11. Despite his self-castration
which brought him into disfavour with the Church (though many scholars appreciate it
as a myth created by his distractors; for example, McGuckin 2004, 7), Origen maintained
Important insights regarding Clement’s Platonic understanding of dreams

can be also derived from the work of Eusebius of Caesarea who developed a
theory according to which demons were tyrannical rulers, who enslaved and
oppressed the people under their power. He describes demons as hating the
good and suffering from madness, much like the Platonic tyrant.87 In the past,
he tells us, “demons ruled all the nations as tyrants”88 until Christ saved them.89
Similar to Clement, Eusebius associates the Christian God with freedom, pre-
senting Christ as offering people the chance of liberation from the demonic
tyranny they had suffered.90 Eusebius believes that demons caused people
to submit to the “impassioned portion of their soul”91 urging them, among
other things, to sexual impurity and indulgence in shameful and intemperate
pleasure.92
Given the importance of tyrannical demons in Eusebius’ understanding of
history which, as Johannessen contends,93 challenges the widespread schol-
arly view that Eusebius believed all demonic power to have ceased with the
incarnation, it seems that Eusebius considered virtuous exemplary Christian
leadership of both church and empire to be essential in an ongoing struggle
to resist demonic influence, again echoing Clement’s ideas. Eusebius’ support
for earthly rulers, in particular Constantine, was by no means unconditional;94
rather he demanded a particular high standard of “orthodox” piety from those
wishing to be seen as true leaders. Only in this way would the emperor be
able to perform the essential role of leading his subjects on the journey to-
ward salvation. Thus, in praising Constantine, Eusebius credited the emperor
with “thousands of theophanies of your saviour, thousands of appearances in
his popularity as an exemplar of spiritual virtuosity among ascetics. See Olson 2007, 89;
Baghos 2015, 82–103.
87 See misokalos in HE 9.2.1 and 9.6.4 (GCS 9/2, 806, line 19 and 812, line 16); see mania in HE
9.9.2; 9.9.12; 9.10.2; 10.4.14; 10.8.9 (GCS 9/2, 828, line 3; 832, line 15; 838, line 25; 867, line 7;
894, lines 16–17); Johannessen 2016, 85 with n. 36. Also, cf. Pl. Resp. 573b and c3–5 (LCL 276,
312 and 314).
88 PE 1.4.5 (GCS 43/1, 15, line 23); cf. Ecl. Proph. 4.11 (Gaisford 1942, 190, lines 13–15); Fr. Luc.
(PG 24, 553.B10–12 and C12–16).
89 PE 4.21.2 (GCS 43/1, 208). Notably in PE 4.22.1 (GCS 43/1, 210) Eusebius quotes Porphyry
according to whom souls, unable to control the spirit in them, vexed by anger and desires,
should be called daemons themselves.
90 PE 1.4.2 and 7.16.11 (GCS 43/1, 14 and 397); DE 3.1.2; 3.2.9; 9.10.7 (GCS 23, 94, 97, 427);
Johannessen 2016, 86.
91 PE 7.2.2: τὸ παθητικὸν… μέρος τῆς ψυχῆς (GCS 43/1, 364, line 21).
92 PE 7.2.4 (GCS 43/1, 365); Johannessen 2016, 87.
93 Johannessen 2016, 139–170.
94 Johannessen 2016, 171–202.
dreams”.95 Elaborating on the work of Origen,96 Eusebius argued that the on-
going grace of God ensures the veracity of the Hebrew oracles.97 In addition,
pagan oracular prophecy (manteia) emerged from a mental state characterised
by a loss of the senses or at least a paralysis of the powers of reason resem-
bling an epileptic fit (mania due to demonic attack). On the contrary, the na-
ture of the divine spirit was like that of light, a most neoplatonic image which
Clement entertains in the Pedagogus.98
Eusebius also speaks of diabolical dreams and dream-exciting demons.99
Although his reliance on Philo and the Stoic notion of moral slavery has been
discussed by Johannessen,100 little attention has been paid to his familiarity
with Clement and his Platonic understanding of moral tyranny, even though
Clement and Origen were also influenced by Philo and despite the fact that
Eusebius quotes Clement’s Protrepticus occasionally.101 A further clue may be
the fact that Eusebius understands demons as the result of the sexual mingling
of fallen angels with mortal women which Clement had also discussed.102
For Evagrius Ponticus, an avid reader of Origen’s works who followed closely
Plato’s views on the tripartite scheme of the soul,103 demons manipulate our
emotionally charged memories which then excite our passions and give rise
to sinful thoughts.104 Evagrius, who became a monk in 382 CE, believed that
even monks were inevitably confronted with disturbing thoughts but sin
only occurred if these thoughts were entertained for too long.105 As Stewart
argued, Evagrius aimed for “inner stillness” for which he employed the “ famil-
iar Stoic term, apatheia”106 Evagrius named eight primary demons which
would eventually provide the model for the “seven deadly sins” in Western
95 Tr. 18.1 (GCS 7:259, lines 7–8); Life of Const. 1.47.3 (GCS 7, 29–30); see Nicholson 2000, 309.
96 Kofsky 2002, 145–146.
97 PE 7.5 (GCS 43/1, 368).
98 Ped. 1.6.28.1–3 (GCS 12, 106–107); cf. his Ecl. Proph. 5.3 (GCS 17, 138) and Exc. 1.3 (GCS 17,
105–106).
99 HE 4.7.9 (GCS 9/1, 312, line 2 refers to dream-exciting demons [ὀνειροπόμπους δαίμονας]); cf.
Or. Phil. 6.20 (PG 16.3, 3226A8). Le Goff 1992, 212–213 discusses the importance of dreams
in heresies which in turn increased the Church’s mistrust of dreams with reference to HE
5.28.7–12 (GCS 9/2, 502).
100 Johannessen 2016, 181–182.
101 Johannessen 2016, 87, 61, 160; cf. Van Winden 1978, passim.
102 Yet, Johannessen (2016, 66) notes that at his time a number of other demonic genealogies
existed.
103 Stewart 2005, 19–26; also, Stewart 2011, 264.
104 Thoughts 4 and 27–9 (SC 438, 162 and 245–256; Sinkewicz 2003, 155–156 and 172–174); cf.
Praktikos 34 (SC 171, 578). Stewart 2002, 289–291; cf. Brakke 2006, 57–77.
105 Praktikos 6 (SC 171, 508, lines 7–8).
106 Stewart 2002, 289 citing SC 170, 98–112.
Christianity.107 Each of these demons normally attacked only one of the two
vulnerable parts of the soul, the high-spirited or the sensual. Predictably, the
demon of fornication (porneia) attacked the sensual part of the soul, pro-
ducing a confusion between reality and imagination, similar, in my view, to the
confusion experienced by Plato’s tyrant in the Republic. According to Evagrius,108
Ὁ τῆς πορνείας δαίμων σωμάτων καταναγκάζει διαφόρων ἐπιθυμεῖν· καὶ σφο-

δρότερος τοῖς ἐγκρατευομένοις ἐφίσταται, ἵν’ ὡς μηδὲν ἀνύοντες παύσωνται·
καὶ τὴν ψυχὴν μιαίνων περὶ ἐκείνας κατακάμπτει τὰς ἐργασίας· λέγειν τε
αὐτήν τινα ῥήματα καὶ πάλιν ἀκούειν ποιεῖ, ὡς ὁρωμένου δῆθεν καὶ παρόντος
τοῦ πράγματος.
The demon of fornication compels one to desire a number of bodies; it

attacks more violently those who practise self-control in order to cause
them to quit, as if accomplishing nothing. And, polluting the soul, it
bends it down toward those acts. It makes it utter and also hear certain
words, as if some object were visible and present.
Evagrius describes the sight of a woman as a poisoned arrow,109 and advis-

es avoiding encounters with women;110 he is also wary of fantasising about
women,111 which when prolonged destroys the habit of chastity:112
Ὅταν γυναικὸς μνήμη γένηται ἀπαθῶς, τότε νόμιζε τῶν ὅρων ἐπιβεβηκέναι
τῆς σωφροσύνης. Ὅτε δέ σε τὸ εἴδωλον αὐτῆς ἐπὶ θεωρίαν διεγείρει, καὶ τὰ
βέλη αὐτῆς τὴν ψυχήν σου περιλαμβάνουσι, τότε νόμιζε ἔξω εἶναι τῆς ἀρετῆς.
Ἀλλὰ μηδὲ οὕτως ἐγχρονίσῃς τοῖς τοιούτοις λογισμοῖς, μηδὲ ἐπὶ πολὺ κατὰ δι-
άνοιαν προσομιλήσῃς μορφῇ γυναικὸς, ἔστι γὰρ φιλυπόστροφον τὸ πάθος, καὶ
107 Stewart 2005, 16–18 and 26–33.

108 Praktikos 8 (SC 171, 510, 512); trans. Sinkewicz 2003, 98 modified. Also, see Praktikos 54–56
(SC 171, 625, 628 and 630); cf. Tilby 2009, 75–90.
109 Eight Thoughts 2.6 (= PG 79, 1148D10–1149A2).
110 Eight Thoughts 2.8 (= PG 79, 1149A5–C6); cf. 2.14–17 (= PG79, 1149D).
111 Praktikos 23 (SC 171, 554): Μὴ δῷς σεαυτὸν τῷ τῆς ὀργῆς λογισμῷ …· μηδ’ αὖ πάλιν τῷ τῆς
πορνείας ἐπὶ πλεῖστον τὴν ἡδονὴν φανταζόμενος· τὸ μὲν γὰρ ἐπισκοτεῖ τῇ ψυχῇ, τὸ δὲ πρὸς
τὴν πύρωσιν τοῦ πάθους αὐτὴν προσκαλεῖται· “[Do not abandon yourself to your angry
thoughts …] nor to that of fornication, by continually imagining pleasure. For the first
obscures the soul, while the other incites it to let its passion flare up;” trans. Bamberger
1970, 22 modified. Also, see Eulogios 13.12 (Sinkewicz 2003, 317–318; trans. id., 39) where
he discusses how the demon of lust induces “dream fantasies of intertwining with young
girls” (νεάνισιν δι’ ὀνειράτων συμπλέκεσθαι φαντάζει).
112 Eight Thoughts 2.19 (=PG 79, 1152A5–B1); trans. Sinkewicz 2003, 78 modified.
τὸν κίνδυνον ἔχει ἐγγύς. Ὥσπερ γὰρ ἡ σύμμετρος χωνεία καθαίρει τὸν ἄργυρον,
ἡ δὲ ἐπὶ πολὺ καὶ ἀπόλλυσιν εὐχερῶς, οὕτως ἕξιν σωφρονικὴν διαφθείρει
ἐγχρονίζουσα φαντασία γυναικός·
When the memory of a woman arises without passion, then consider

that you have arrived at the boundaries of chastity; and when her image
rouses you to consider it and you are able to compare her members to the
faculties of your soul, then think that it is (nothing else) but (the sign of)
virtue. But do not spend that long in such thoughts, nor discuss with the
form of a woman in your mind for long, for this passion loves to cause
backsliding, and danger is close at hand. As moderate smelting refines
silver bur a prolonged process easily ruins it, so protracted fantasising
about a woman destroys the habit of chastity.
The same notions, repeated in the next paragraph of the text,113 have strong
Clementian echoes, especially taking into account that Evagrius also advises
moderation in food as a way of avoiding overexciting the concupiscent part
of the soul.114 The constitution of the human soul became the focus of intel-
lectual debate during the following centuries with authors such as Nemesius of
Emesa, a contemporary of Evagrius, and others contributing to the discussion,
mainly from a medical perspective.115
2 Lustful Dreams in Maximus the Confessor
Evagrius’ ideas, embraced mainly among the Syriac monastic communities,116

were very influential on Maximus the Confessor,117 a theologian venerated
both in the eastern and western Church; hence, in his Centuries on Charity
(Capita de Caritate) Maximus describes how demons employ the memory of
a woman to arouse passion during sleep and how one can still overcome such
challenges by exercising self-control:118
113 Eight Thoughts 2.20 = PG 79, 1152B.

114 Evagrius distinguishes between erotic dreams and nightmares although clearly at times
the two types could be fused. Stewart 2002, 290.
115 See Graiver in Chapter 1 of this volume.
116 See Stewart 2011, 272 with n. 45 citing Guillaumont 2004, 99–159.
117 On the influence of Evagrius Ponticus on Maximus, see Paša 2010.
118 Car. 2.85 (PG 90, 1012B1–C2); trans. Berthold 1985, 59 modified.
Τινές μέν φασιν, ὅτι τῶν μορίων τοῦ σώματος καθαπτόμενοι οἱ δαίμονες κατά
τούς ὕπνους, κινοῦσι τό πάθος τῆς πορνείας· εἶτα τό πάθος κινούμενον, ἀνα-
φέρει τήν μορφήν τῆς γυναικός διά τῆς μνήμης ἐπί τόν νοῦν…. Πλήν ἐν οὐδενί
τῶν εἰρημένων τρόπων ἰσχύουσι πάθος τό οἱονδήποτε κινῆσαι οἱ δαίμονες, πα-
ρούσης τῇ ψυχῇ ἀγάπης καί ἐγκρατείας, οὔτε ἐγρηγορότος τοῦ σώματος, οὔτε
κατά τούς ὕπνους.
Some say that the demons, by touching our genitals during sleep, stimu-
late the passion of fornication. Then, once the passion is stimulated, it
recalls in the mind the form of a woman through memory…. Yet the de-
mons cannot stimulate any passion at all in any of the said ways if love
and self-control are present in the soul, neither when the body is awake
nor when asleep.
Maximus’ psychic model is understood as an evolution of the Platonic model.119

Commenting on Dionysius the Areopagite, Maximus writes that fantasy and
imagination are not the same as thinking: “Thinking is active and creative,
whereas fantasy or imagination is passive and an imprint signifying an ob-
ject of senses …”.120 Maximus believes that passion came into existence after
man’s expulsion from Eden; often referring to the light of knowledge and self-
mastery as the only way to achieve virtue, he is extremely aware of the social
aspects of sin and its ability to destroy Christian communities.121 Probably due
to the influence of Origen and Evagrius, Maximus was convinced that the devil
wages war on us either through things or through “our impassioned concep-
tual images of these things”.122 His affinity with Clement is noticeable in Car.
3.53 (PG 90, 1032D1–7) where he writes that the mind sins in ways analogous
to the body:123
119 Tympas 2014, 102, 118–19. Although Maximus occasionally applied a dualistic model,
comprising rational logos and irrational desire/anger, he preferred the Trinitarian model
comprising the nous/intellect, logos/reason, and spirit (aesthesis, Amb. 2 and 61, PG 91,
1088A10–13 and 1196A1–11). See also Thunberg 1995, 165–195.
120 Sch.D de div. nom. 5 (PG 4, 201A10–12): ἡ μὲν γὰρ νόησις ἐνέργειά ἐστι καὶ ποίησις, ἡ δὲ
φαντασία πάθος καὶ τύπωσις ἀναγγελτική αἰσθητοῦ τινος….
121 Bathrellos 2015, 296.
122 Car. 2.72 (PG 90, 1008A8–11).
123 Trans. Berthold 1985, 68 modified; also, see Car. 3.74 (PG 90, 1040C7–9) where Maximus
describes how the person who sins from habit (ἀπὸ ἕξεως) καὶ πρῶτον γὰρ κατὰ διάνοιαν
οὐκ ἐπαύετο ἁμαρτάνων καὶ μετὰ τὸ πρᾶξαι τῆς αὐτῆς ἐστι διαθέσεως; (“first does not cease
sinning in thought and after the act maintains the same disposition”; trans. Berthold 1985,
71 modified).
Ὥσπερ τὸ σῶμα ἔχει κόσμον τὰ πράγματα, οὕτω καὶ ὁ νοῦς ἔχει κόσμον τὰ
νοήματα· καὶ ὥσπερ τὸ σῶμα πορνεύεται μετὰ τοῦ σώματος τῆς γυναικός, οὕτω
καὶ ὁ νοῦς πορνεύει μετά τοῦ νοήματος τῆς γυναικός, διὰ τῆς φαντασίας τοῦ
ἰδίου σώματος. Τὴν γὰρ μορφὴν τοῦ ἰδίου σώματος βλέπει μιγνυμένην μετὰ τῆς
μορφῆς τῆς γυναικὸς κατὰ διάνοιαν.
In the same way as things concern the world of the body, so ideas con-
cern the world of the mind; and as the body fornicates with the body of a
woman so does the mind fornicate with the image of woman by imagin-
ing its own body [doing so]. For it sees the image of its own body having
intercourse with the image of the woman in the mind.
Passion is stirred by memory we are told, a view that echoes Evagrius and was
also aired by Clement in agreement with his Platonic source.124 Furthermore,
in agreement with Clement, Evagrius and Dionysius Areopagite, Maximus be-
lieves that the demons are not evil by nature but have become evil by misuse
of their natural powers.125 Equally, he agrees with Clement and Evagrius that
excessive and delicate eating can rouse licentiousness.126 To overcome concu-
piscence, Maximus advises putting our earthly members to death (νεκρώσατε
οὖν τὰ μέλη ὑμῶν τὰ ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς)—an image that recalls Plato’s discussion of
death as a point of departure in our search for virtue.127 While Maximus refers
to fornication as actual sinning (πορνείαν δὲ εἶπε τὴν κατ᾽ ἐνέργειαν ἁμαρτίαν),
he defines passionate thoughts as lust (πάθος δὲ τὸν ἐμπαθῆ λογισμὸν ὠνόμασεν)
and even the “acceptance of the concupiscent thought” as evil concupiscence
(ἐπιθυμίαν δὲ κακὴν τὴν ψιλὴν τοῦ λογισμοῦ τῆς ἐπιθυμίας παραδοχήν). By revis-
ing Evagrius’ and Clement’s identification of thought with passion, as Neil has
pointed out,128 Maximus argues that one can reach the highest state of dispas-
sion when one’s thoughts do not incite the passions. In Centuries on Charity
1.84 (PG 90, 980B1–4) he describes how memory brings a mere thought to
the mind which arouses passion after lingering there for a while. Soon, if not
removed, it sways the mind to consent. In 1.89 (PG 90, 981A5–7) he asserts
that “when the soul begins to feel its own good health, then it begins to see in
124 Str. 6.2.23.4–5 (GCS 15, 440): ἀρχὴ μὲν ἔρωτος ὅρασις, μειοῖ δὲ τὸ πάθος ἐλπίς, τρέφει δὲ μνήμη
… (“the start of sexual attraction is sight, hope reduces passion but memory nourishes
it …”); cf. Phdr. 249e4–250b1 (LCL 36, 482, 484).
125 Car. 3.5 (PG 90, 1020A1–3).
126 Car. 3.7 (PG 90, 1020A6–9).
127 Car. 1.83 (PG 90, 980A4); cf. Pl. Resp. 386b, 609e–611c (LCL 237, 220 and 446–452).
128 Neil 2004, passim.
its dreams simple and serene images;”129 and again in 1.93 (PG 90, 981B9–11)
we hear that “[A] sign of total detachment is that the ideas of things always
arising in the heart are mere thoughts, both when the body is awake and
during sleep.”130
In my view Maximus, who cites Clement’s Stromata in one of his logoi (κθ΄)
on the practice of wakefulness, is actively trying to explain Clement’s fear
of sexual dreams, which can be overcome, according to him. Hence, in his
Chapters on Theology and the Economy he concludes that131 “without an object
of senses, there is no passion. For without the presence of a woman there is
no fornication”. Maximus, who refers to the concupiscence of the eye much
in the spirit in which Clement urges us to remove our eyes and all senses from
our thought in order to achieve pure philosophising, advised that spiritual love
and self-mastery can help us separate representations from their accompa-
nying passion;132 and thus, we may reduce threatening imaginings to simple,
harmless thoughts.
3 Conclusion
This chapter has traced the association of demons with lustful images and
dreams, starting with Clement of Alexandria, who discusses the issues inde-
pendently, yet through a distinctly Platonic lens. Although Clement was prob-
ably familiar with the Jewish concept of yetzer hara, in my view, he relies on
Plato’s Republic for developing a dream theory according to which lustful day-
dreaming is the utmost indication of moral corruption because, as in the case
of Plato’s tyrant, it signifies loss of self-control and reason. In Christian demon-
ology, particularly as developed by Origen and closely studied by Eusebius and
Evagrius, lustful dreams are presented as demonic attacks; yet the implication
remains that, regardless of whether the demon stirs existing memories or in-
duces lustful images in our mind, the attack is external and can be deflected
if we master our passions. Following this direction of argument, Maximus
the Confessor argues that it is possible to have dispassionate dreams about
women. The Greek fathers clearly appreciated Clement’s Platonic gloss of our
129 Ὅταν ἡ ψυχὴ ἄρχηται τῆς ἰδίας ὑγείας ἐπαισθάνεσθαι, τότε καὶ τὰς ἐν τοῖς ὕπνοις φαντασίας,
ψιλὰς καὶ ἀταράχους ἄρχεται βλέπειν; trans. Berthold 1985, 45 modified.
130 Σημεῖον ἄκρας ἀπαθείας, τὸ ψιλὰ τὰ νοήματα τῶν πραγμάτων ἀεὶ ἀναβαίνειν ἐπὶ τὴν καρδίαν,
καὶ ἐγρηγορότος τοῦ σώματος, καὶ κατὰ τοὺς ὕπνους; trans. Berthold 1985, 45 modified.
131 Th.oec. 3.3 (PG 90, 1260): Χωρὶς γὰρ αἰσθητοῦ πράγματος, πάθος οὐ συνίσταται. Μὴ γὰρ οὔσης
γυναικός, οὐκ ἔστι πορνεία; cf. Q. Thal. N΄ (PG 90, 476, sch. η΄).
132 … χωρίζομεν δὲ δι᾿ ἀγάπης πνευματικῆς καὶ ἐγκρατείας; Car. 3.43 (PG 90, 1030, no. μγ΄).
struggle against lustful dreams; in addition, the very idea that the empire, of
which we are all citizens, is God’s kingdom on earth adds a further Platonic
twist to our responsibility to withstand lustful daydreaming and to channel,
instead, our energy to desiring a union of pure love with God. In Clement’s
words, we should be “wooing the eternal love of wisdom”.133
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chapter 4
The Inner Source of Dreams: Synesius of Cyrene’s

Reception in the Palaiologan Era
Francesco Monticini
In 405 CE the philosopher-bishop Synesius1 sent a letter to his former teacher

Hypatia along with two then unpublished works: the first one was On Dio and
the other was a brief treatise about dreams. More than two-thirds of the letter
was dedicated to introducing the first work. At the end of the letter there were
a few very evocative words about the treatise On Dreams:
Θάτερον δὲ θεὸς καὶ ἐπέταξε καὶ ἀνέκρινεν, ὃ τῇ φανταστικῇ φύσει χαριστήριον

ἀνατέθειται. Ἔσκεπται δὲ ἐν αὐτῷ περὶ τῆς εἰδωλικῆς ἁπάσης ψυχῆς, καὶ
ἕτερ’ἄττα προκεχείρισται δόγματα τῶν οὔπω φιλοσοφηθέντων Ἕλλησι. […]
ἀλλ’ ἐξείργασται μὲν ἐπὶ μιᾶς ἅπαν νυκτός, μᾶλλον δὲ λειψάνου νυκτός, ἣ καὶ
τὴν ὄψιν ἤνεγκε τὴν περὶ τοῦ δεῖν αὐτὸ συγγεγράφθαι. Ἔστι δὲ οὗ τῶν λόγων
δίς που καὶ τρίς, ὥσπερ τις ἕτερος ὤν, ἐμαυτοῦ γέγονα μετὰ τῶν παρόντων
ἀκροατής.2
The other work [On Dreams] God ordained and he gave his sanction to
it, and it has been set up as a thank-offering to the imaginative faculties.
It contains an inquiry into the whole imaginative soul, and into some
other points which have not yet been handled by any Greek philosopher.
[…] This work was completed, the whole of it, in a single night, or rather,
at the end of a night, one which also brought the vision enjoining me to
write it. There are two or three passages in the book in which it seemed
to me that I was some other person, and that I was one listening to myself
amongst others who were present.3
1 For an introduction to Synesius and his treatise On Dreams, see Lacombrade 1951; Marrou
1952; Bregman 1982; Aujoulat 1983 and 1984; Barnes 1986; Roques 1987; Garzya 1989; Susanetti
1992; Cameron and Long 1993; Di Pasquale Barbanti 1994; Schmitt 2001; Lamoureux and
Aujoulat 2004, 187–267; Bregman 2010; Russell and Nesselrath 2014; Neil 2015; Toulouse 2016.
2 Synesius, Ep. 154 (Garzya 1989, 374, 376).
3 Trans. Fitzgerald 1930, 254.

The Inner Source of Dreams 83
It appears evident that Synesius is here revealing to his reader Hypatia that
he put forward in this treatise doctrines entirely new to Greek philosophy. One
may find confirmation of this in the preface of the work On Dreams:
Ἀρχαῖον οἶμαι καὶ λίαν Πλατωνικὸν ὑπὸ προσχήματι φαυλοτέρας ὑποθέσεως

κρύπτειν τὰ ἐν φιλοσοφίᾳ σπουδαῖα, τοῦ μήτε τὰ μόλις εὑρεθέντα πάλιν ἐξ ἀν-
θρώπων ἀπόλλυσθαι μήτε μολύνεσθαι δήμοις βεβήλοις ἐκκείμενα. Τοῦτο τοίνυν
ἐζηλώθη μὲν ὅτι μάλιστα τῷ παρόντι συγγράμματι.4
It is, I believe, an ancient practice, and a truly Platonic one, to conceal

serious philosophical matters under cover of some more trivial theme, so
that hard-won discoveries may not again be lost to humanity, but yet not
be defiled by exposure to the profane vulgar. This has been very much my
aim in the present work.5
What doctrines did Synesius hide from the approach of the profane in his On
Dreams? This article deals with Synesius’ conception of dreams, imagination
and the soul. In particular, it concerns the reception of this text in fourteenth-
century Byzantium. At that time, Nicephorus Gregoras wrote a commentary
on Synesius’ On Dreams.6 However, he was not the only one: an anonymous
contemporary author put scholia in the margins of a manuscript of the same
text.7 Although a critical edition of the former exegetical work already exists,8
the latter is yet unedited.
Over the last decades, many scholars have treated the issue of Synesius’ most
profound philosophical message in On Dreams.9 Synesius probably aimed to
provide Neoplatonism with some doctrines that admitted the persistence of
the individual person in the afterlife. What is most interesting for us is that, in
order to reach his goal, he needed to find a connection between the realm of
Becoming (that is, the daily experience of everyone) and the divine realm. He
achieved his purpose by analysing the human faculty of dreaming. In fact, he
completely revised the most common conception of dreaming in Antiquity.10
4 Synesius, Insomn. praef. (Lamoureux and Aujoulat 2004, 268).

5 Trans. Russell and Nesselrath 2014, 13.
6 The most recent publication on this exegetical work is Bydén 2014.
7 See infra for more details.
8 Nicephorus Gregoras, Explicatio (Pietrosanti 1999).
9 On this matter, see Tanaseanu-Döbler 2014, and also Toulouse 2016, 668–676, Lamoureux
and Aujoulat 2004, 222–249, Lacombrade 1951, and Bregman 1982, 147–152.
10 There existed other theories on dreams, e.g. that of Aristotle, in whose opinion dreams
were a physiological phenomenon completely devoid of any prophetic power. See
Aristotle, Insomn. and Div. (Repici 2003 and Pigeaud 1995).
84 Monticini
Synesius found the sources of his thought in Platonic and Neoplatonic doc-
trines, as we will see.
From Homer onwards, dreams were generally perceived, in Greek culture,
as a phenomenon that entered the human being from outside, inspired by the
divine, and not as a product of human interiority. In this regard, it is important
to remark that modern people usually say, “I had a dream”, while the ancient
Greeks said, “I saw a dream”.11 Moreover, in Greece, as in many other cultures,12
sleep was conceived as strongly linked to death: for this reason, oneiric images
were very often perceived as visions of the afterlife.13
Humankind in ancient, medieval and contemporary cultures and traditions
shared a very strong belief in the prophetic power of dreams, and a belief that
human beings cannot foresee the future by themselves but receive oneiric vi-
sions from a superior entity. This “traditional” concept of dreams was asserted
by Plato, who claimed in many passages of his dialogues that dreams came
from the gods.14 However, in Timaeus,15 he also penned a physiological expla-
nation of dreaming. According to him, the human being can apprehend divine
truths, such as prophetic dreams, through the reflection of the logical soul (lo-
cated in the head) in the appetitive soul (found in the liver). In this case, and
this is very important for later Neoplatonic thinkers, including Synesius, the di-
vine does not communicate with humans “directly” (as in myths, for instance):
divine truths must pass through the different parts of the soul to become rec-
ognisable to human beings. This concept, as we will see, is the premise of the
theory of an internal source of dreams. Indeed, the Neoplatonic doctrine of
emanationism—according to which all phenomenal things are an emanation
from the One—conceived the divine realm as the intellectual realm: knowing
meant remembering, not learning something completely new.
Because of the belief in the prophetic power of dreams, the conception of
them did not change much from Antiquity to the Middle Ages. Christianity
played a very important role in this regard, but even its attitude toward oneiro-
mancy was ambiguous. On one hand, the Church Fathers could not recognise
the validity of dreams. As images, dreams had to pass through the senses: this
meant that they were products of the material realm. Athanasius of Alexandria
tells us that the monk Anthony practised many spiritual exercises in order to
11 ὄναρ ἰδεῖν: Guastella 1995.

12 E.g. the Māori believe that the soul of the sleeping person goes to the reinga (the realm of
the afterlife), where it meets the souls of the dead (Guidorizzi 2013, 20–22).
13 As, for example, in Plut. Fr. 178 (Sandbach 1969, 320) and Xen. Cyr. 8, 7, 21 (Miller 1979,
434).
14 Cf. Plato, Apol. 33c; Crit., 44b; Phaed. 60d–61c (Fowler 1982, 118–120, 154, 210–212).
15 Plato, Tim. 71b–e (Bury 1981, 184–186).
avoid dreaming during his ascetic life in the desert.16 Furthermore, the Church
was sceptical about legitimating “pagan” practices like oneiromancy. On the
other hand, Christian thinkers could not avoid taking into account the many
examples of prophetic dreams which were found in the Bible. Most Church
Fathers, such as Evagrius Ponticus and John Climacus, considered dreams as
visions coming from a supernatural entity, generally from a demonic being and
very seldom from God or from the saints. This allowed them to preserve and le-
gitimise the ancient conception of dreams found in the Bible, but at the same
time, in most cases, they discredited oneiromancy.17
Consequently, the conception of dreams that one discerns in dreambooks
dating back to Antiquity, like that of Artemidorus,18 is approximately the
same as resides in the later Byzantine manuals. Unfortunately, there are few
Byzantine works on oneiromancy remaining. In addition, their dates are gen-
erally very uncertain and their traditional attributions are almost always false.19
In some cases, these manuals consist of mere alphabetical lists of dreams,
such as those attributed to Daniel and patriarch Nicephorus, while others are
a little more complex and composed of chapters that discuss various types of
dreams, like the manuals attributed to Achmet and to the emperor Manuel II
Palaiologos.20
The same conception of dreams is also discernible in some Byzantine saints’
Lives, in which oneiric visions are linked to icons not made by human hand
(acheiropoieta). In the Life of St. Theodora of Thessaloniki, for example, one may
read the episode of a painter who was unable to make a portrait of the saint,
because he had never seen her while she was alive. Yet, as soon as he fell asleep,
the saint appeared to him in a dream. When he woke up, he was able to com-
plete his work.21
I have asserted above that Synesius revised the traditional conception of
dreams, but his treatise is ambiguous and sometimes difficult to compre-
hend. Nevertheless, as Synesius recounts to Hypatia in the passage of Letter
154 cited above, most of his dissertation is devoted to the concept he calls the
16 Athanasius of Alexandria, Life of Anthony 6 (Bartelink 1994, 146, 148). Moreover, Athanasius
was not hostile toward dreams (Neil 2015, 31–33). See Neil, Costache and Wagner forth-
coming on Athanasius’ theory of dreaming and divine ekstasis (chs 3 and 4) and Synesius’
virtue ethics of dreaming (ch. 5).
17 For a first introduction to this matter, see Monticini 2017, 78–80 (with bibliography).
18 On Artemidorus’ Oneirocritica, I am quoting the recent essays of Du Bouchet and
Chandezon 2012, and the text in Artemidorus, Oneir. (Harris-McCoy 2012).
19 See Guidorizzi 1985; Ps-Niceph. (Guidorizzi 1980, 7–26); Oberhelman 1980, 1986, 2008,
2014; Dagron 1985; Timotin 2010 and 2016.
20 Guidorizzi 1980, 15; Timotin 2015, 315–318.
21 Timotin 2010, 235–246.
86 Monticini
“imaginative spirit”.22 It consists of the intermediate part between the soul and
the body, the innermost part of human self-consciousness according to both
Platonic and Aristotelian philosophy. There is nothing that a mortal can per-
ceive which does not pass through the imaginative spirit. Thus, assuming that
dreams are cognisable (primarily as images), Synesius argues that they must be
detected in the same way as sense perceptions: they must, briefly, pass through
the centre of human consciousness, that is, the imaginative spirit. However,
if this process is easy to understand when present perceptions are involved
(reaching our consciousness from the external world, that is, the physical
sphere, penetrating our sensory organs), one cannot comprehend how certain
images, pertaining to the future, are capable of being perceived by the human
being. In order to be detected, oneiric images must reach the imaginative
spirit. However, they cannot derive from the senses as normal perceptions do
because the notion of the future, which is usually typical of the divinity, can-
not come from the material realm. The latter realm is considered deceitful par
excellence, according to the author’s Neoplatonic accounts.
Synesius stated that the imaginative spirit is a sort of intermediary be-
tween the immaterial and the material realms, between the soul and the
body. Obviously, if the prophetic images that appear in dreams cannot reach
it coming from the outside, they must have an internal origin, that is, the soul.
After all, this is the most convenient solution for a Neoplatonic thinker, who
believes the soul consists in the divine part of the human being. Evidently, the
precognition of the future must somehow come from the supernatural realm.
However, one must demonstrate it logically.
To do so, Synesius had recourse to the fifth book of Euclid’s Elements, where
the mathematician discussed proportions and their properties. Synesius
asserts:
Νοῦς μὲν γὰρ ἔχει τὰ εἴδη τῶν ὄντων, ἀρχαία φιλοσοφία φησί. προσθείημεν δ’
ἂν ἡμεῖς, ὅτι καὶ τῶν γινομένων ψυχή, ἐπειδὴ λόγος ἐστὶ νῷ πρὸς ψυχήν, ὅστις
τῷ ὄντι πρὸς τὸ γινόμενον. ἐναλλὰξ οὖν πρώτῳ πρὸς τρίτον, καὶ δευτέρῳ πρὸς
τέταρτον· καὶ ἀνάπαλιν λαβόντες, οὐδὲν ἧττον ἂν ἀληθεύοιμεν ὅροις ἐπιστήμης
ἑπόμενοι.23
22 πνεῦμα φανταστικόν: Ep. 154 (cf. n. 2 above). There, Synesius spoke about “imaginative
faculties” and the “imaginative soul”. Concerning the imaginative spirit, see Lamoureux
and Aujoulat 2004, 208–216, and the more recent articles of Tanaseanu-Döbler 2014 and
Toulouse 2016, 668–671. Concerning the history of the evolution of the terms πνεῦμα
and φαντασία in Neoplatonism, see Di Pasquale Barbanti 1998, 21–71 (with bibliography);
Aujoulat 1988; Zambon 2005.
23 Synesius, Insomn. 4 (Lamoureux and Aujoulat 2004, 274).
Mind contains the forms of things that are, says ancient philosophy;24 we
may add that Soul contains those of things that come to be, since the
relation of Mind to Soul is the same as that of Being to Becoming. So,
permutando, taking the first term <of the proportion> with the third and
the second with the fourth, and then reversing the pairs, we shall reach
an equally true conclusion, following the rules of science.25
By this demonstration, Synesius can affirm that there exists a relationship

between the soul and the realm of Becoming. However, before analysing this
passage along with its philosophical implications in detail, it is important to
consider the Byzantine commentaries.
As already stated, the most well known exegetical work on Synesius’ On
Dreams was written by Nicephorus Gregoras probably in the second half of
the 1320s and completed around 1335 (at the latest),26 which can be confirmed
from his epistolary correspondence. However, there is also another, anony-
mous commentary on Synesius’ work, of which the first critical edition is cur-
rently in preparation.
The first philologist who wrote about this second commentary was Nicola
Terzaghi, in an article published in 1910.27 Referring to a Florentine codex, he
wrote: “Il principio del Perì Enypnìon, dal f. 387r al f. 392r, e precisamente fino alle
parole καθηραμένην ἀναδῦναι (p. 328. 12), è fornito di un ricchissimo commentario,
il quale non ha nulla di comune con quello di Niceforo Gregora.”28 There is noth-
ing in codex L that reveals the identity of the author of these scholia. The most
evident dissimilarity between the anonymous and Gregoras’ commentary is
that the former stops a third of the way through Synesius’ treatise, while the
latter covers it entirely.29
More recently, Jacques Lamoureux and Noël Aujoulat supplemented
Terzaghi in the introduction to their edition of Synesius. They indicated
the partial recurrence (that is, limited to the glosses or interlinear notes) of
the same commentary conveyed by L in another codex, P.30 On the basis of
palaeography,31 one may state that both manuscripts date back to the first half
24 Cf. Plato, Parm., 132b (cited by Lamoureux and Aujoulat 2004, 274, n. 34).
25 Russell and Nesselrath 2014, 19.
26 Pietrosanti 1999, XXXIX.
27 Terzaghi 1910.
28 Firenze, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut. 60.6 (henceforth L).
29 It stops approximately at the halfway point of the seventh chapter of Synesius’ work.
30 Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, gr. 2988 (henceforth P). Lamoureux and Aujoulat
2004, LXVI–LXVII (ff. 58r–64v).
31 See infra.
88 Monticini
of the 14th century, even if L is slightly older than P. However, as remarked also
by Lamoureux and Aujoulat, L cannot be the source of P. In fact, P has a long
lacuna32 in Synesius’ text that it surely inherited from its model and that can-
not be found in (or explained by) L. Moreover, the preface to Synesius’ treatise
is in the right place—which is before the main text—in P and at the bottom
of the page in L.33
On the basis of paleographical and philological evidence,34 I can affirm
that the commentary found in L is the autograph. Concerning the date of
that manuscript, Nigel Wilson stated that it probably dates back to the 1320s.35
Therefore, the anonymous commentary is approximately contemporary with
that of Gregoras. The result is that two different scholars commented on the
same work of Synesius, around the same time. The most striking fact is that
there does not exist any other commentary on Synesius’ On Dreams before
or after this period. Thus, why did this work become so interesting for some
Byzantine scholars in the Palaiologan age? What was the main reason which
led Gregoras and the anonymous commentator to study so thoroughly a trea-
tise that dated back to more than 900 years earlier? And, finally, what was the
relationship between the two scholiasts?
Concerning the last question, it is impossible to answer with certainty
solely on the basis of the textual data. The fact that the anonymous commen-
tary stops after the first seven chapters of On Dreams makes us suppose that
it might have been written slightly before Gregoras’ commentary. It is hard to
believe that someone started writing a commentary when another complete
one already existed. But that is nothing more than a hypothesis.
By reading both exegetical works, one realises that neither of the authors
seems to have read the other. Actually, neither has quoted the other or avoided
commenting on a passage that had already been explained by the other. The
approach to Synesius’ text seems to be quite different too. This becomes evi-
dent by reading the commentaries in a synoptic way. In general, we can state
that the anonymous commentator seems to be more interested in grammar
and rhetoric than Gregoras. He has dedicated most scholia to elucidating the
exact meaning of some words or to explaining some grammatical connec-
tions. On the contrary, Nicephorus Gregoras seems to understand better—
and to be more interested in—the philosophical contents of Synesius’ text.
32 It covers approximately all the chapters between the 8th and the 13th. The copyist left a
white gap to indicate the lacuna (f. 66r).
33 L, 387r; P, 58r.
34 For instance, a typical example of a so-called saut du même au même (anablepsis) is found
in both L (393v) and P (60r).
35 Wilson 1962, 387, no. 26.
Only a complete synoptic reading of both commentaries can eventually allow

us to make a perfect comparison between them and to evaluate their actual
contribution to our comprehension of some Synesius’ ambiguous sentences.
Evidently in this article I cannot deal with this very complex question, but I
can give an example, by reading the scholia of both commentators on the same
Synesian passage, that is, the philosophical demonstration. It will also help in
responding, albeit partially, to the other questions asked above. The answer(s)
could reside in Synesius’ conception of dreams and the soul.
The following are Nicephorus Gregoras’ words:
Bουλόμενος ἐναργέστερον δεῖξαι τὴν τῶν προτεθέντων ἀναλογίαν, ἢ ὡς ὃν

λόγον ἔχει νοῦς καὶ ψυχὴ πρὸς τὰ ὄντα καὶ τὰ γινόμενα, ὅροις ἐχρήσατο καὶ
λόγοις τισὶν ἐκ τοῦ πέμπτου τῶν εὐκλείδου στοιχείων. φησὶ γὰρ εὐκλείδης ἐν
τοῖς ὅροις τοῦ πέμπτου στοιχείου, ὅτι ἐναλλὰξ λόγος ἐστὶ λῆψις τοῦ ἡγουμένου
πρὸς τὸ ἡγούμενον, καὶ τοῦ ἑπομένου πρὸς τὸ ἑπόμενον. πρὸς δὲ ὑπόδειγμα
κείσθωσαν ἀριθμοὶ οὗτοι· ιϛ’, η’, δ’, β’. ὃν δὴ λόγον ἔχει ὁ ιϛ’ πρὸς τὸν η’, τὸν
αὐτὸν ἔχει ὁ δ’ πρὸς τὸν β’· καί ἐστιν ἡγούμενος ὁ ιϛ’ τοῦ η’, ὁ δὲ δ’ τοῦ β’. ἐναλ-
λὰξ οὖν γίνεται λόγος, ὅταν λάβῃς τὸν ἡγούμενον τὸν ιϛ’, καὶ συγκρίνῃς πρὸς
τὸν ἡγούμενον τὸν δ’, καὶ τὸν ἑπόμενον τὸν η’ πρὸς τὸν ἑπόμενον τὸν β’. καὶ
δείκνυται πάλιν ὁμοίως ὅτι ὃν λόγον ἔχει ὁ ιϛ’ πρὸς τὸν δ’, τὸν αὐτὸν ἔχει καὶ ὁ
η’ πρὸς τὸν β’. δείκνυσιν οὖν ἐντεῦθεν ὅτι ὃν λόγον ἔχει νοῦς πρὸς ψυχήν, τὸν
αὐτὸν ἔχει τὰ ὄντα πρὸς τὰ γινόμενα· καὶ ἐναλλὰξ ὃν λόγον ἔχει νοῦς πρὸς ὄντα,
τὸν αὐτὸν ἔχει ψυχὴ πρὸς γινόμενα.36
In order to make clear the analogy of previously cited concepts, that is,
the relation of Mind to Soul compared to that of Being to Becoming,
[Synesius] adopted some rules and ratios from the fifth book by Euclid.
In fact, in the rules of the fifth book, Euclid states that an alternate ratio
consists in combining the antecedent term with the other antecedent
term and the consequent term with the other consequent term. For ex-
ample, let us consider these numbers: 16, 8, 4, 2. The ratio between 16 and
8 is the same as that between 4 and 2; 16 is the antecedent term of 8 and
4 is the antecedent term of 2. An alternate ratio is achieved if one takes
16 (antecedent term) and combines it with 4 (the other antecedent term)
and one takes 8 (consequent term) and combines it with 2 (the other
consequent term). One obtains again that the ratio between 16 and 4 is
the same as that between 8 and 2. Thus, [Synesius] demonstrates here
that the relation of Mind to Soul is the same as that of Being to Becoming:
36 Nicephorus Gregoras, Explicatio 134 A ἐναλλάξ (Pietrosanti 1999, 22).

90 Monticini
permutando, that the relation of Mind to Being is the same as that of Soul
to Becoming.37
Synesius began his demonstration stating that the ratio between Mind
(νοῦς) and Soul (ψυχή) is the same as that between Being (ὄν) and Becoming
(γινόμενον). According to Euclid, one of the properties of the proportions per-
mits inverting the middle terms without changing the final result. For example,
both of the proportions 16: 8 = 4: 2 and 16: 4 = 8: 2 are true. Thus, Synesius
affirms that the ratio between Mind and Being and that between Soul and
Becoming are equal. On this affirmation, the anonymous commentator wrote:
Ἔχουσα ἡ ψυχὴ τὰ εἴδη τῶν γινομένων διαδίδωσι ταῦτα τῇ φαντασίᾳ. δι’ ἧς

τῆς φαντασίας εἰς ἀνάμνησιν καὶ αἴσθησιν τῶν ἀποκειμένων ἐν τῇ ψυχῇ εἰδῶν
ἔρχεται τὸ ζῷον. καὶ οὐδέν φησι θαυμαστὸν ἐὰν ἡ ψυχή, κρείττων οὖσα, δίδωσι
τῇ ἐλάττονι ἑαυτῆς τῇ φαντασίᾳ τὰ εἴδη ὥστε ποιήσειν δῆλα τῷ ζῴῳ. […]38
The soul contains images of the Becoming and transmits them to the
imagination. It is through the imagination that the living being gets the
reminiscence and the perception of images found in the soul. Synesius
states that it is not strange that the soul, despite its superior status, trans-
mits images to the imagination, which is inferior, so that they can be-
come perceivable by the living being.
Reading this scholion confirms that the main goal of Synesius’ entire demon-
stration is the final relation of the second proportion. Indeed, it proves that the
soul contains the images of Becoming. Assuming that it contains all of them,
oneiric images can belong indiscriminately to the past, the present and the
future. Therefore, according to Synesius’ reasoning, the bodily senses are com-
pletely useless in the human cognitive process: every image belonging to the
realm of Becoming has its own origin in the soul, even before any information
reaches the imaginative spirit from the outside. Thus, according to Synesius,
oneiromancy is a form of knowledge that is completely internal and advances
the human being to the divine realm.
As the Byzantine scholia confirm, Synesius moved the source of dreams—
traditionally conceived as external to the human being—into the soul. Synesius
strongly believed in the prophetic power of dreams. For this reason, he could
not admit that they did not come from a supernatural entity. By moving the
37 My translation here and elsewhere unless noted otherwise.

38 Firenze, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut. 60.6, f. 389r.
source of dreams inside the human being, in accordance with both Plato’s
Timaeus and the Neoplatonic doctrine of emanationism, Synesius actually
made a more complex operation: he moved the divine realm inside our soul.
The only way to communicate, albeit partially, with God, Synesius seems to
affirm, consists in entering inside ourselves and trying to comprehend the
messages which come to us from the soul, in the form of oneiric images. In a
nutshell, dreams are no longer a phenomenon that enters the human being
from outside, but rather a product of human interiority.
Synesius’ treatise On Dreams explores the relationship between humans
and the divine realm. The author suggests that the only way that human be-
ings can communicate with God is to return within themselves.39
1 Conclusion
Only by analysing the anonymous commentary in detail and using a synop-

tic comparison with Gregoras’ text can one make valid new hypotheses about
the real reasons for interest in Synesius’ work On Dreams at the beginning of
the Palaiologan era. Nevertheless, perhaps we should seek the answer to the
question in Synesius’ knowledge theory. According to Neoplatonic accounts,
the author did not believe that human beings could completely comprehend
the divine realm while still alive, while their soul was still linked to the body.
At most, they could acquire some notions from the supernatural realm, for
example, some visions about the future. In other words, a complete knowledge
of God is precluded to human beings before their earthly death. If the com-
prehension of the Creator is not possible (Λόγος), what remains is the study of
creatures (λόγοι), that is, the profane literature.
This was particularly relevant to a major cultural debate in fourteenth-
century Byzantium. On one side of this debate, there were intellectual circles
composed of scholars such as Planudes, Metochites, Moschopoulos, Magister
and Gregoras, who favoured the reading of classical, pre-Christian literature.
On the other side of the debate, however, were monks who were very sceptical
of profane literature. According to one of these, Gregory Palamas, the great de-
fender of the mystical prayers practised by monks on Mount Athos, it is abso-
lutely possible to communicate with God and to comprehend the divine realm
39 In the same manner as his contemporary Augustine of Hippo, who wrote: Noli foras ire,
in teipsum redi, in interiore homine habitat veritas (On true religion 39, 72); “Do not go out-
ward; return within yourself. In the inward person dwells truth.” (Bassi 1990, 264).
92 Monticini
in a beatific way.40 If the knowledge of the Logos—the supreme being—was

even thinkable, any other science was hardly worthwhile. At most, humanis-
tic culture could be a medium to reach cognition of God: but nothing more
than this.
At the beginning of the 14th century, despite the re-conquest of Constan-
tinople in 1261, the geopolitical situation of the eastern Empire was in crisis.
Consequently, the Byzantines could not avoid wondering about their own
historical identity. Since they were the cultural inheritors of both Athens and
Jerusalem, there were a variety of answers to such a dilemma.41 Thus, some of
them believed their historical roots lay in ancient Greece and Rome, others in
the Christian tradition and its dogmas.
The common bond between these two different points of view was the re-
turn of human beings within themselves: to seize some elements of the divine
realm, on the one hand, or to reach a beatific vision of God, on the other. As
Friedrich Nietzsche observed, the return of man [sic] to himself is typical of
periods of crisis.42
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teologici. Testo greco a fronte (Milan).
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Synesii De Insomniis (Bari).
Nietzsche, F. (1970) Nietzsche Werke. Kritische Gesamtausgabe. Nachgelassene Frag
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40 See, mainly, Gregory Palamas’ Triads (Perrella 2003).

41 Congourdeau 2013, 298.
42 Nietzsche 1970, 11 [119].
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(Cambridge, MA and London).
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(Naples).
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Synesius of Cyrene (1992) Ed. D. Susanetti, Sinesio. I sogni (Bari).
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Opuscule I, vol. 4. (Paris).
Synesius of Cyrene (2014) Eds D. A. Russell and H. G. Nesselrath, De Insomniis. On
Prophecy, Dreams and Human Imagination (Tübingen).
Xenophon (1979) Trans. W. Miller, Cyropaedia, LCL 6/2 (Cambridge, MA and London).
Manuscripts
Firenze, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut. 60.6.
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Cyrène. I’, ΚΟΙΝΩΝΙΑ 7, 157–177.
Aujoulat, N. (1984) ‘Les avatars de la phantasia dans le Traité des songes de Synésios de
Cyrène. II’, ΚΟΙΝΩΝΙΑ 8, 33–55.
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London).
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Philosophy in Late Antiquity vol. 1 (Cambridge), 520–537.
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Russell and Nesselrath (eds), 163–188.
Cameron, A. and Long, J. (1993) Barbarians and Politics at the Court of Arcadius
(Berkeley, Los Angeles, London).
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mondo bizantino (Ital. edn), vol. 3 (Turin), 289–318.
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(Rome), 37–55.
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474–484.
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30/2, 19–36.
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Knowledge in Early Christian Egypt.
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G. T. Calofonos (eds) Dreaming in Byzantium and Beyond (Farnham and Burlington,
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part 2
Prophetic Dreams and Visions in Imperial Contexts
∵
chapter 5
Dynastic Dreams and Visions of Early Byzantine

Emperors (ca. 518–565 AD)
Meaghan McEvoy
Dreams about heirs and the succession are a common type of dream reported
of emperors in our ancient sources, whether they presage the accession of an
unexpected emperor, or a ruling emperor’s death and the rise of his successor.1
In this chapter, two such dreams or visions, both sixth-century examples, will
be explored: firstly, the vision of the emperor Anastasius concerning his neph-
ews and his eventual successor Justin I reported in the Anonymus Valesianus,
and secondly the accession dream of the emperor Justin II, as recounted by the
poet Corippus. It will be suggested that these dreams were largely explicatory,
seeking to offer an explanation for an unexpected non-dynastic succession or
alternatively to bolster a dynastic but not undisputed accession, and that they
reflect common expectations and preoccupations of court circles of their time.
1 Anastasius’ Dream
The emperor Anastasius came to the throne in the year 491, and ruled until
his death by natural causes in 518.2 Upon his accession he had married the
Augusta Ariadne, widow of the former emperor Zeno, but neither she nor
Anastasius had any surviving children.3 Anastasius did, however, have a num-
ber of nephews—Pompeius, Probus and Hypatius—and the emperor’s vision
late in his life as reported in the Anonymus Valesianus Pars Posterior concerns
his uncertainty over which of them should succeed him.4
1 I am grateful for the comments of the anonymous reviewer, the editors of this volume and to
Caillan Davenport for their thoughtful advice on this paper.
2 On the life and reign of Anastasius, see PLRE 2, 78–80 and the detailed studies of Haarer 2006
and Meier 2009.
3 Most recently on the life and career of the empress Ariadne, see Croke 2015, esp. 306–308. On
the acclamation of Anastasius, see Boak 1919, 38–39.
4 On the various relatives and dynastic connections of Anastasius, see particularly Cameron
1978. Greatrex refers to the dream as reported in the Anonymus Valesianus as “an entertain-
ing, if implausible, story”: Greatrex 1996, 121, n. 5. See also Haarer 2006, 248.

100 M c Evoy
Unfortunately, there is little we can say for certain about the contextual
background of the Anonymus Valesianus Pars Posterior. The text itself survives
in only one manuscript dating to the 9th century, while the original appears to
have been written between 526–550.5 It is not clear where it was composed—
while Constantinople has been suggested, a western setting, perhaps Ravenna
in the orbit of the Ostrogothic court, is more likely, as Croke has argued.6
According to this text, however, while puzzling over the question of the succes-
sion, Anastasius came up with a plan of how to choose between his nephews:7
… cogitans quem de ipsis faceret post se imperatorem, quodam die iussit

eos secum prandere, et intra palatium post prandium meridiari, et singula
lecta eis sterni. Et in uno lecto iussit ad capitem regium insigne poni, et quis
de ipsis in eodem lecto elegisset dormire, in hoc se debere cognoscere cui
regnum postea traderet.
Considering which one of them he should make his successor, he invited

them to have luncheon with him one day, and after luncheon to take their
midday siesta within the palace, where he had a couch prepared for each
of them. Under the pillow on one couch he ordered the symbol of royalty
to be put, and decided that whichever of them chose that couch for his
nap, in him he ought to recognise the one to whom he should later turn
over the rule.
Anastasius’ plan did not work out quite as neatly as he had hoped however:
although three couches were prepared, two of the nephews chose to take their
nap on one together, and one alone on another couch, leaving the couch un-
occupied which actually concealed the royal symbol planted by Anastasius.
Seeing this, Anastasius concluded accordingly that none of his nephews
should rule after him but was left confused as to whom he should look to as his
successor. The text goes on:8
Haec eodem cogitante et orante cum ieiunio, quadam noctu vidit hominem,
qui ita eum admonuit: ‘Crastinus qui tibi primus intra cubiculum nuntia
tus fuerit, ipse accipiet post te regnum tuum.’ Ita factum est ut Iustinus, qui
comes erat excubitorum, dum advenisset, ubi directus fuerat ab imperatore,
5 Croke 2003, 355–356.

6 Croke 2003, 356.
7 Anonymus Valesianus II.13.74 (Rolfe 1939, 555).
8 Anonymus Valesianus II.13.75–76 (Rolfe 1939, 555–557).
Dynastic Dreams and Visions of Early Byzantine Emperors 101
renuntiaretur ipse ei primus per praepositum cubiculi. Cumque haec cog

novisset, coepit gratias deo referre, qui ei dignatus est revelare successorem.
While he was considering the question with fasting and prayer, one night
he saw a man, who advised him as follows: “The person whose arrival
shall first be announced to you tomorrow in your bedroom will be the
one to receive your throne after you.” Now it chanced that Justinus, who
was commander of the watch, on coming to a place to which he had been
directed by the emperor, was first to be announced to him by his head-
chamberlain. And when the emperor knew this, he began to thank God
for having deigned to reveal to him who his successor should be.
Anastasius recognised in Justin the next emperor, but according to the text,
kept this information to himself, although one day during a procession Justin
trod upon the emperor’s imperial cloak as he passed him, and Anastasius
turned to him and asked, “What is your hurry?”9 Regardless of the report of
this dream, no official action is known to have been taken by Anastasius indi-
cating either a choice of successor on his part, or a designation of Justin I as
that successor.
The accession of Justin I in 518 upon the death of Anastasius must indeed
have come as something of a surprise to those outside of immediate court
circles—and perhaps to those within them too. A number of sources, indeed,
comment on this surprise, with Evagrius noting that: “[Justin I] acquired the
monarchical rule contrary to all expectation, since there were many promi-
nent members of Anastasius’ family who had achieved great prosperity and
wielded all the power needed to invest themselves with such a great office.”10
Anastasius, as noted above, had a number of eligible male relatives, yet none
of these men succeeded him, and instead the throne went to the unconnected
Justin, the comes excubitorum branded by some sources as an illiterate Illyrian
9 Anonymus Valesianus II.13.77–78: Cui imperator hoc tantum dixit, ‘quid festinas?’ (Rolfe
1939, 557). A similar story of a military man aiming for the throne being chided for tread-
ing on or taking hold of the emperor’s cloak is told of the general Aspar and the emperor
Leo I in Cedrenus 607.17–8 (Bekker 1888, 607). See further Croke 2005, 162–163.
10 Evagrius HE 4.1: Περιέθετο δὲ τὴν ἀρχὴν τὴν αὐτοκράτορα πάσης ὑπέρτερον ἐλπίδος, ὅτι γε
πολλοὶ καὶ ἔξοχοι καὶ πρὸς πᾶσαν εὐδαιμονίαν ἥκοντες καθειστήκεισαν τῆς Ἀναστασίου συγ-
γενείας, πᾶσάν τε δύναμιν ἐφελκόμενοι τὴν τοσαύτην αὐτοὺς ἀρχὴν περιβαλεῖν ἐξισχύουσαν.
(Bidez and Parmentier, 1898, 153; trans. Whitby 2000, 200). These sentiments are echoed by
Procopius, at Wars I.xi.1 (Dewing 1914, 82–83); see further Vasiliev 1950, 74; also Cameron
1978, 263; Greatrex 1996, 120–121; Haarer 2006, 248; Croke 2007, 16.
102 M c Evoy
peasant.11 Certainly, in the absence of a designated heir, theoretically the

throne was open to any candidate. Yet Anastasius’ relatives were not undistin-
guished: each of the nephews mentioned in his dream—Hypatius, Pompeius
and Probus—had held the great honour of the consulship in three successive
years (500, 501 and 502),12 all three brothers held the high rank of patricius,
and Hypatius had for many years also held the rank of magister militum and
been actively commanding imperial armies.13 The non-succession of any of
these three imperial nephews must arguably have been as much of a surprise
as Justin I’s accession.
This is not the only dream related in our sources in connection with the death
of Anastasius and the succession of Justin I, although it is the only one which
specifically mentions the passing over of Anastasius’ nephews and provides a
rationale for this eventuality. The Chronicon Paschale, and the Chronicles of
John Malalas, of Cedrenos and of Theophanes Confessor, all report another
dream which Anastasius had shortly before his death. In this dream, Anastasius
saw a vision of a man who carried an inscribed volume and who informed the
emperor that, because of his greed (in the accounts of the Chronicon Pascale
and Malalas—in Theophanes it is his “erroneous beliefs” that cause the era-
sure), he was erasing “fourteen”, which he then proceeded to do with his finger.
When Anastasius awoke in a panic, his chamberlain Amantius shared that he
too had experienced a dream, this one involving a large pig which had seized
his cloak in its mouth and shook it, bringing him tumbling to the ground. The
emperor appealed to the philosopher and dream-interpreter Proclus for an ex-
planation and was told that these two dreams foretold the imminent death of
both emperor and chamberlain.14
11 On the sources relating to Justin’s life and reign, see PLRE 2, 648–651. Procopius is, per-
haps unsurprisingly, especially negative about Justin’s background—see Anecdota 6.10–12
(Dewing 1935, 70–73). As Croke notes, as a senior military official, Justin must have pos-
sessed at least a degree of literacy, even if he lacked the elite education of others at court:
Croke 2007, 18–19.
12 On the careers of the 3 nephews, see PLRE 2, 577–581 (Hypatius); 2. 898–899 (Pompeius)
and 2. 912–913 (Probus). Also, on their consulships, see Cameron 1978, 260.
13 Though not with any notable successes, as Greatrex notes 1996, 120–121. See for detailed
studies on Hypatius, Greatrex 1996; Meier 2014 and Cameron 1978, 263–267. On Hypatius’
notable lack of success in the campaign against the rebellious Vitalian under Anastasius,
see Evagrius HE 3.43 (Bidez and Parmentier 1898, 145; Whitby 2000, 193–194); also Haarer
2006, 170–171. Nevertheless, Greatrex argues that only Hypatius could have been a viable
contender for the throne in terms of his prominence in office under his uncle Anastasius,
due to the relative obscurity of the other nephews (Greatrex 1996, 135).
14 Chronicon Paschale s.a. 518 (Dindorf 1832, 610–611; Whitby and Whitby 1989, 102–103);
Theoph. AM 6010 (de Boor 1883, 252–254; Mango and Scott 1997, 248–249; Malalas 16.20
(Dindorf 1831, 408–409; Jeffreys et al. 1989, 229); Cedrenus 635–636 (Bekker 1888, 635–636).
Procopius in turn writes of Justin I’s survival following his capture during
a military campaign while still a private citizen. When Justin, then a soldier,
was imprisoned by a rebellious army of Isaurians, his captor, one John the
Hunchback, received a dream. The dream arrived in the night between Justin’s
capture and planned execution, warning John the Hunchback to release Justin
as one day he would have great need of him.15 John the Hunchback heeded
the message and released Justin, who gradually rose through the ranks of the
army to great power after this time.16 As Haarer has noted, it was natural that
dreams, prophecies and rumours should arise and be seen as significant at
times when there were fears and uncertainties regarding the succession—and
“[C]ertainly some might have felt the need for explanation and justification for
the election of Justin, a Thracian peasant who had risen through the ranks to
become count of the excubitors, the palace guard.”17
The fullest account of the accession of Justin I is given in the tenth-century
Book of Ceremonies of Constantine Porphyrogenitus (though taken from the
sixth-century account of Peter the Patrician), and it notably makes no men-
tion of Anastasius’ nephews in its discussion of the various imperial candi-
dates proposed by different factions.18 Although the account informs us that
there was some lack of order in the events which occurred since there was
neither an Augusta nor an Augustus to invest Justin, meetings were held in the
palace among the senators, the candidati and the excubitores, while the people
gathered in the Hippodrome to await developments. The magister Celer was
keen for a decision to be reached quickly so that the election was not taken out
of the hands of the government by other factions who were hastier, but argu-
ments continued. The excubitores first proclaimed one John and raised him on
a shield, but he was pelted with stones by the Blues who objected. The scholarii
then raised the general Patricius, but the excubitores would not have him, and
would have killed him had not Justinian, the nephew of Justin, rescued him.
The excubitores then besought Justinian to take the throne but he refused.
Finally, the senators chose Justin, and the imperial clothing was released to
him by the cubicularii who had refused to hand it over to any of the previously
suggested candidates. Justin was acclaimed by the senators and soldiers, and
I am grateful to Roger Scott for the suggestion that the 14 years in fact refers to the length
of time between the death of Anastasius in 518 and the Nika riots in 532, and the subse-
quent execution of Anastasius’ nephews Hypatius and Pompeius for their involvement
in the riots.
15 Procopius, Anecdota 6.4–9 (Dewing 1935, 68–71). See also Haarer 2006, 248.
16 Procopius, Anecdota 6.10–12 (Dewing 1935, 70–73).
17 Haarer 2006, 247.
18 Greatrex 1996, 120–121; also Greatrex 2007, 102 and Croke 2007, 16–18.
104 M c Evoy
then acclaimed in the Hippodrome by the people gathered there.19 Justin I’s
accession was clearly something of a chaotic affair—but of the various can-
didates suggested by different groups, none of the relatives of Anastasius
are mentioned, despite the surprise noted in some sources that they did not
succeed the emperor. Anastasius’ most prominent nephew, Hypatius, then
serving as magister militum per Orientem, seems not to have been present in
Constantinople at the time of his uncle’s death, but based in Antioch in his
official capacity.20
In addition to these reports of an uncertain situation in the palace following
the death of Anastasius, a number of sources, such as the Chronicon Paschale
and John Malalas, attribute the accession of Justin I to bribery. They allege
that the praepositus Amantius had given Justin money to distribute with the
aim of making the domesticus Theocritus emperor, but those to whom Justin
gave the funds decided to acclaim him instead, while Justin upon his acces-
sion had Amantius and Theocritus swiftly murdered inside the palace.21 A fur-
ther potential source of dissent, the general Vitalian who had rebelled against
Anastasius in 515 and in whose defeat Justin had been involved as a senior
officer,22 was also neutralised early in the reign. He first returned to power in
Constantinople as a magister militum praesentalis, and was appointed consul
for 520, before being murdered in his consular year.23
19 Constantine Porph. Book of Ceremonies I.93 (Moffatt and Tall 2012, 426–430). See also
Boak 1919, 39–40 and Haarer 2006, 247–248. As Mango and Scott note, Justin’s letter to
Pope Hormisdas on his election (1 August 518, Collectio Avellana 141, Guenther 1895, 586)
asserted that the army, senate and palace officers had elected him: Mango and Scott 1997,
252, n. 18); see also Vasiliev 1950, 162.
20 Greatrex 1996, 121; Haarer 2006, 247. In a similar case, the son-in-law of the emperor
Marcian, Anthemius, may have missed out on the throne in 457 due to his absence from
Constantinople at the crucial moment also—see Pfeilschifter 2014, 147–148 and further
McEvoy 2016b, 489, n. 31.
21 Chronicon Paschale s.a. 519 (Dindorf 1832, 611–612; Whitby and Whitby 1989, 102–103);
Malalas 17.2 (Dindorf 1831, 410–411; Jeffreys et al. 1986, 230–231); also Evagrius HE 4.2
(Bidez and Parmentier 1898, 153; Whitby 2000, 200–201); Marc.com. s.a. 519 (Croke 1995,
41); Theoph. AM 6011 (de Boor 1883, 254–256; Mango and Scott 1997, 249–250). See for a
detailed analysis of Amantius’ supposed conspiracy in 518, Greatrex 2007, 99–105.
22 See Greatrex 1996, 135–136; also Haarer 2006, 164–179 and 249.
23 See PLRE 2, 1171–1176. Also Evagrius HE 4.3 (Bidez and Parmentier 1898, 254; Whitby 2000,
201–202); Marc.com. s.a. 519 (Croke 1995, 41); Malalas 17.5 (Dindorf 1831, 412; Jeffreys et al.
1986, 231) and Theoph. AM 6011 (de Boor 1883, 254–256; Mango and Scott 1997, 249–250)
and 6012 (de Boor 1883, 256–267; Mango and Scott 1997, 252–254). For discussion, see
Greatrex 2007, 105–106 and Croke 2007, 23–24.
The family of the late emperor Anastasius, however, was left untouched at
this stage: Hypatius and Pompeius continued to lead armies,24 and as Alan
Cameron demonstrated some years ago, the family itself continued to amass
considerable wealth and forge prestigious alliances with other aristocratic
clans.25 Justin I appears to have been happy to trust officers with whom he
had himself served, and Hypatius was one of these, regardless of his connec-
tion to the previous ruling emperor.26 Not until the involvement of Anastasius’
nephews Hypatius and Pompeius in the Nika riots and the abortive acclama-
tion of Hypatius as emperor in place of Justinian in 532 did the family fall from
grace, and even then, only briefly. Hypatius and Pompeius were then executed,
while the third nephew of Anastasius, Probus, was exiled and his property
confiscated.27 Yet only a year later Hypatius and Pompeius were posthumously
rehabilitated and their property was restored to their sons, while other mem-
bers of the family were recalled from exile, and Hypatius even received an epi-
taph describing him as “a champion of the Romans”.28
Although Anastasius himself had not been born into a ruling dynasty, ex-
pectations of dynastic succession were widespread in the fourth to sixth
centuries, and he himself had based his claim to the throne at least in part
upon his marriage to the late emperor’s widow Ariadne and through her, to
the previous ruling dynasty.29 And while the Roman imperial office was not
constitutionally hereditary, the trend towards dynastic succession was present
from the earliest days of the principate, and had shown every sign of increas-
ing from the 4th century onwards through the long reigns of the Constantinian
and Theodosian dynasties.30 Emperors almost inevitably aimed to hand their
24 Greatrex 1996, 121 and 129. The youngest nephew, Probus, also held a military command
under Justin I: Greatrex 1996, 129.
25 Cameron 1978, 263. As Greatrex points out, it is interesting that it was not any of
Anastasius’ relatives, but rather one of the late emperor’s prime enemies, who was killed
early in the reign of Justin I: Greatrex 1996, 134.
26 Greatrex 1996, 140.
27 Cameron 1978, 263–264.
28 Greek Anthology 7.591 (Paton 1917, 316–317). See further on the cenotaph, Cameron 1978,
264 and generally on the involvement of Hypatius and Pompeius in the Nika riots, see
Cameron 1978, Greatrex 1997 and Pfeilschifter 2014, 178–210.
29 On dynastic succession generally in this period, see McEvoy 2010, 157–158; on the in-
volvement of Ariadne in Anastasius’ acclamation, see Croke 2015 and Meier 2009, 63–75
and 2010. Notably, however, the emperor Zeno’s brother Longinus who was certainly ex-
pected by some to succeed him, was also passed over in 491 in favour of the unrelated
Anastasius—see Evagrius HE 3.29 (Bidez and Parmentier 1898, 125; Whitby 2000, 164;
Theoph. AM 5982 (de Boor 1883, 206–209; Mango and Scott 1997, 205–207); Haarer 2006,
1, 3, 23; Croke 2015, 307.
30 See for discussion, McEvoy 2010, 157–158 and recently Börm 2014 on the 4th century.
106 M c Evoy
position on to sons, if they had them, or to other male relatives where pos-
sible. The dream of the emperor Anastasius relating to the accession of Justin I,
rather than any of his nephews, provides a post-factum explanation therefore
for an otherwise unexpected eventuality—not only the accession of Justin, but
also the non-accession of his nephews.
It has been suggested that to those in power at Constantinople, the acces-
sion of Justin may have been less unexpected than sources such as Evagrius and
Procopius assert—he was a high-ranking soldier, his involvement in the victo-
ry over Vitalian was in his favour, and the emperor Anastasius’ most prominent
nephew, Hypatius, was absent from the scene.31 His Christological views are
also likely to have worked in his favour: he was a solid Chalcedonian, and after
the religious riots against the Monophysite Anastasius in Constantinople in the
510s, it was unlikely a non-Chalcedonian emperor would be acclaimed in 518.32
As Greatrex points out, Justin’s commitment to Chalcedon would prove to be
complete, while the house of Anastasius was divided in its religious loyalties.33
Interestingly, no attempt is made in Anastasius’ dream to suggest that Justin
was chosen because he was the best man for the job—no catalogue of his vir-
tues which made him fit for office over the emperor’s nephews is presented.34
This is in contrast to ways in which a source such as Themistius in the late 4th
century would justify the accession of Theodosius, a man unconnected at the
time of his accession with the ruling dynasty; unlike Theodosius, Justin I is not
presented as a paragon whose merit could not be passed over when the need
for a new emperor arose.35 The fact that much of the Anonymus Valesianus
Pars Posterior is given over to praise of the Ostrogothic king Theoderic also sug-
gests that its author was acquainted with traditional modes of praising a ruler,
making his lack of interest in Justin’s merits all the more interesting.36 The
less than flattering view of Procopius that Justin was “a doddering old man”
upon his accession who could not even sign his own name and was incapable
of comprehending the business of state may be an overstatement,37 but the
Anonymus Valesianus’ explanation of how he came to claim the throne makes
no assertions as to his possession of any special talents—and, perhaps, a divine
intervention seemed the only viable explanation. The dream of Anastasius
31 Haarer 2006, 249. See also Croke 2007, 18.

32 Greatrex 1996, 136; Haarer 2006, 247 and Croke 2007, 18–19.
33 Greatrex 1996, 138. Also Cameron 1978, 272.
34 On such catalogues in general, see McEvoy 2013, 24–36.
35 On Themistius’ presentation of Theodosius I, see Heather and Moncur 2001, 213–216.
36 For the author’s praise of Theoderic’s virtues, see e.g. Anonymus Valesianus 12.58 (Rolfe
1939, 544).
37 Procopius, Anecdota 6.10–12 (Dewing 1935, 70–73).
regarding his nephews is not recounted in other sixth-century sources relat-

ing to the death of Anastasius and the succession of Justin I. However, if we
accept Croke’s argument as to the location for the composition of the Anonymus
Valesianus, it seems that in far off-Ravenna an explanation for this unexpected
non-dynastic succession in the East was desired.
2 Justin II’s Dream
The second imperial dream examined here relates to the death of Justinian I
and the succession of his nephew—another Justin, this time Justin II—in 565.
This dream is reported in the oration of Corippus, a text described by Averil
Cameron as somewhere between epic and panegyric, and thus a different
genre of writing to the historical chronicle, the Anonymus Valesianus.38 It was
an oration certainly aimed at a court audience in Constantinople, and per-
formed before 568.39 The report of the dream itself comes very early in the
text, as news breaks of the death of the emperor Justinian, of which the new
emperor, Justin II, remains unaware. According to Corippus:40
Nondum plena quies victos laxaverat artus cum virgo, superas caeli de
missa per auras, aspectu clemens et gressu laeta pudico, purpureas velata
comas oculisque benigna … divinos stetit ante pedes, dextraque coronam
imposuit, sanctoque caput diademate cinxit; Augustoque virum circum
dans mitis amictu, ‘te decet hic habitus, regnantum maxime’, dixit, ‘terribi
lis princeps et amabilis omnibus idem, a magno dilecte deo, divalis origo …
Sustulit haec nox alma patrem. Fortissimo, surge. Te expectat, Iustine, dies.
Tu proximus heres, te pater ominpotens divino ornavit honore, te dominum
sacrae firmavit avunculus aulae.
The deepest rest had not yet relaxed and overcome his limbs when the
Virgin, gliding down through the upper side of heaven … stood before
his divine feet and put the crown on him with her right hand, circling
his head with the holy diadem, and clothed him gently with the imperial
robe. ‘This clothing becomes you, greatest of rulers,’ she said, ‘an emperor
to be feared by all and to be loved by all, beloved of great God, divine
38 Cameron 1976a, 2.
39 On the courtly audience for the oration, see Cameron 1976a, 2, 4–7. On the dating, see also
1976b, 54–55.
40 Corippus, In Praise of Justin II, I.30–48 (Cameron 1976, text at 37–38, translation at 87–88).
108 M c Evoy
stock … This gracious night has carried off your father. Brave one, arise.
The day awaits you, Justin. You are the next heir. The almighty father has
honoured you with the divine office, your uncle has appointed you the
lord of the holy court.’
Justin II apparently showed grief and reluctance, but the Virgin Mary urged
him on, declaring:41
Proice tristitiam … Succede labori, atque regendarum sudores suscipe

rerum. Est virtus roburque tibi, praestantior aetas, prudens consilium,
stabilis mens, sancta voluntas, et rerum custos vigilantia, dignaque caelo
vestra gubernatrix lati sapientia mundi … tibi serviet orbis, fortia virtutum
miratus facta tuarum. Quisquis erit vestrae per se cadet invidus aulae adfi
cietque viros legum pius ensis iniquos.
Cast away your sadness … Take on your task and undertake the toil of rul-
ing. You have virtue and strength, your age is excellent; you have sound
judgement, a stable mind,42 a holy willingness and vigilance watching
over all and your own wisdom, worthy of heaven, guardian of the wide
earth … All the world shall serve you, marvelling at the brave accomplish-
ments of your virtue. Whoever grudges your reign shall fall through his
own actions, and the pious sword of the law shall come down upon the
unjust.
The mention at the end of this part of the text of any who might oppose
Justin II’s accession is significant as a hint of potential dissent: though Justin II
was the nephew of the late emperor, he was not the only nephew, and nor was
he his designated heir, for Justinian had in fact named no heir and, like the em-
peror Anastasius, had a number of eligible male relatives.43 Justin was the son
of Justinian’s sister Vigilantia, and he was married to Sophia, the niece of the
late empress Theodora, so his connections were certainly prestigious.44 He had
41 Corippus, In Praise of Justin II, I.48–60 (Cameron 1976, text at 38, translation at 88).
42 On the appearance of the Theotokos to Justin, see Cameron 1976a, 129. The Virgin’s men-
tion of Justin II’s ‘stable mind’ is perhaps unfortunate given that the emperor went insane
in 474, but Corippus’ text dates to the beginning of the reign when this development was
presumably not foreseen.
43 Cameron 1976a, 130.
44 For Justin II’s connections, see PLRE 3, 754–756 and those of his wife Sophia, also PLRE 3,
1179–1180.
served as curopalates since the 550s;45 this was a relatively high-ranking role at
court but he had not been named co-Augustus or even Caesar by Justinian.46
In addition, he had arguably more distinguished relations, including the two
elder sons of Germanus, a deceased cousin to Justinian who had been a power-
ful general, from a branch of the family popular with the military. Germanus’
eldest son, who was also named Justin, was serving as magister militum on the
Danube at the time of the emperor Justinian’s death, having previously won
victories in the Balkans; his absence from the city of Constantinople itself was
likely a decisive factor in the succession of his cousin instead.47
A sense of the hurried acclamation of Justin II and the initial concealment
of the death of Justinian is apparent from our surviving sources—according
to Evagrius, Justin II donned the purple after his uncle, but “[N]o one knew of
Justinian’s demise or Justin’s proclamation except his entourage until he ap-
peared in the Hippodrome to accomplish and experience what was customary
for royalty”.48 His accession therefore took place upon the same day as the death
of Justinian on 14 November, 565, the speed of the event also indicating the
expectation of conflict should there be a delay or a chance for a rival to reach
the city.49 Invoking divine support, as the dream Corippus describes does, was
one way of shoring up Justin II’s position, which was less secure than Corippus
might have us believe. The appearance of the Virgin in Justin’s dream draws on
the familiar theme in Byzantine imperial ideology of the relationship between
45 On the position of curopalates, see Whitby 1987.

46 The naming of Caesars in this era was uncommon but had occasionally occurred in the
5th century, as in the case of Valentinian III, named Caesar in 424 prior to his accession as
Augustus in 425 (see McEvoy 2013, 230–232), and during the troubled reign of Zeno (see
Croke 1983). Furthermore, as Croke has pointed out, evidence exists to present a clear
period also when Justinian himself had been Caesar from 525–527, prior to his elevation
as co-Augustus with his uncle Justin I: see Croke 2007, 44–45. As Whitby has noted, fol-
lowing the acclamation of Justin II who rose from the post of curopalates, the post itself
became a more significant one which tended to be held by key supporters of the emperor
himself: see Whitby 1987, 469–76.
47 On the other heirs of Justinian, see Cameron 1976a, 130; Cameron 1976b, 51. Although the
absence of Justin the son of Germanus from the city and his inability to claim the throne
may perhaps be compared with the absence of Hypatius and the succession of Justin I in
518, the key difference remains that Justin II had theoretically an equal dynastic claim to
that of his cousin, while Justin I had none. Once again however, proximity to the court is
seen to be crucial to securing the throne in this era.
48 Evagrius HE 5.1: οὔτε τὴν ἀποβίωσιν Ἰουστινιανοῦ οὔτε τὴν ἀνάρρησιν Ἰουστίνου τινὸς
ἐγνωκότος πλὴν τῶν οὔτε τὴν ἀνάρρησιν Ἰουστίνου τινὸς ἐγνωκότος πλὴν τῶν ἀμφ’ αὐτόν, μέ-
χρις οὖ κατὰ τὴν ἱπποδρομίαν ἐφάνη τὰ νόμιμα τῆς βασιλείας δράσων τε καὶ πεισόμενος. (Bidez
and Parmentier 1989, 195; trans. Whitby 2000, 254).
49 See Cameron 1976a, 126 on the swift carrying out of the acclamation.
110 M c Evoy
God and the emperor, such as coronation by a divine individual, a motif which
goes back to the 4th century when emperors might be depicted on coinage
being crowned by the hand of God.50 In addition, appeals to the Theotokos
were becoming an increasingly common feature of Constantinopolitan public
life, and Justin II and his wife Sophia were to show particular devotion to Mary,
building a chapel to house the Virgin’s robe at Blachernae and a reliquary to
hold her girdle in the church of Chalkopraeteia near Hagia Sophia.51
While rivals to Justin II’s accession might have been feared, no distur-
bances are in fact recorded, and Corippus’ detailed account of the elevation
of Justin II names a number of influential high-office-holders, indicating the
new emperor’s strong support at court.52 His accession has been described as
a “well-managed senatorial coup”,53 and in Corippus’ oration, the praepositus
Callinicus is given the task of finally persuading Justin to accept his acclama-
tion.54 The speech given by Callincus in Corippus’ oration urging Justin to take
up the throne indicates the imperative of establishing the new emperor’s claim
and the awkwardness of his not having been designated as heir by Justinian—
Callinicus declares:55
Augustum, Iustine, genus, te principe dignum, te dominum sacrae quis

non praedixerat aulae, cum magni regeres divina palatia patris, par ex
tans curis, solo diademate dispar, ordine pro rerum vocitatus cura palati?
Dispositu nam Caesar eras: cum sceptra tenerat fortis adhuc senior, regni
tu summa regebas consilio moderata gravi. Nil ille peregit te sine, magnani
mus seu fortia bella moveret foedera seu pacis cum victis victor iniret.
Who had not foretold, Justin, scion of emperors, that you were worthy to
be our prince, that you would be the lord of the divine court, when you
ruled over the holy palace of your great father, equal to him in responsi-
bility, differing only in that you did not have the diadem, with the name
of cura palati to suit your actual duties. For in practice you were Caesar.
Even while your elder was still strong and held the power, you controlled
50 From the late Roman period, claims for coronation by the hand of God include, for ex-
ample, early coins of the emperor Arcadius—see Roman Imperial Coinage ix. 7, 41a.
51 Cameron 1976b, 66–67. See further on his religious foundations as emperor, Theoph. AM
6058 (de Boor 1883, 373; Mango and Scott 1997, 355–356.
52 On the key members of the court specifically mentioned by Corippus, see Cameron 1976a,
127–129.
53 Cameron 1976b, 51.
54 See Cameron 1976a, 132 and the detailed discussion at PLRE 3, 753–754.
55 Corippus, In Praise of Justin II, I. 129–143 (Cameron 1976, text at 40, translation at 89–90).
the most important parts of his kingdom, and kept them controlled by
your sober judgement. He achieved nothing without your aid, whether in
the loftiness of his counsels he was conducting bold wars or whether as
victor he was making treatises with the vanquished.
Despite Callinicus’ assurances, however, Justin II’s position was not so secure
that rivals could be ignored: his cousin Justin was recalled from his command
on the Danube, despatched to Alexandria and murdered soon after Justin II’s
accession.56 Once again what we find here in this dream attributed to Justin II
is a post-factum justification of an accession which might otherwise not have
been expected, or at least not guaranteed. Justin II’s claims to the throne were
certainly stronger than those of his predecessor Justin I, yet the report of his
dream is symptomatic of the insecurity of his reign in its early stages. Corippus
was writing at Constantinople for an imperial and court audience about con-
temporary events, and part of his oration was perhaps delivered upon the oc-
casion of Justin II taking up the consulship on January 1st 566.57 Yet despite
the different contexts in which the dreams of the emperors Anastasius and
Justin II are reported, both serve a similar purpose: to explain the transfer of
the throne to certain individuals and the passing over of other candidates. In
so doing they testify to the need for such explanations in court circles and per-
haps also in other contexts, as well as the general expectation of dynastic suc-
cession, or at least dynastic claimants to the throne, in the 6th century.
2.1 Dreams and Roman Emperors

Dreams, visions and portents relating to the succession are common devices
in literary sources across this period,58 and although often Christianised, as
we see in the dream of Justin II, have their antecedents in the period of pre-
Christian Roman rule. Suetonius reports, for example, that the emperor Nero
in the last days of his reign was admonished in a dream to take the sacred
chariot of Jupiter Optimus Maximus from its shrine to the house of Vespasian;
56 On the murder of Justin II’s cousin Justin, see Evagrius HE 5.2 (Bidez and Parmentier
1898, 196–197; Whitby 2000, 256) and Theoph. AM 6063 (de Boor 1883, 376; Mango and
Scott 1997, 360–361). As Mango and Scott note (1997, 355 n. 4), Theophanes’ account of
Justin II’s accession does not mention the death of his cousin in 566, delaying the report
of the event until a year later so as to appear in the guise of crushing a usurpation rather
than the elimination of a rival with potentially equal claims to the throne.
57 On the dating, see Cameron 1976a, 2. Cameron suggests some of the poem was added later
but the whole was complete by 568: Cameron 1976b, 54–55.
58 See for example Amm. Marc. 21.1.6 (Rolfe 1940, 92–93); Claudian, Gildo I.213 (Platnauer
1922, 114).
112 M c Evoy
Cassius Dio reports that he was inspired to write and publish a little book about
the dreams and portents which gave Septimius Severus reason to hope for im-
perial power; while Severus himself dreamt of being suckled by a she-wolf.59
According to Ammianus Marcellinus, among the various frightening omens of
the death of the emperor Constantius II in 361 was a dream:60
Namque et nocturnis imaginibus terrebatur, et nondum penitus mersus in

somnum, umbram viderat patris obtulisse pulchrum infantem, eumque sus
ceptum et locatum in gremio suo, excusam sibi proiecisse longius sphaeram,
quam ipse dextera manu gestabat. Id autem permutationem temporum in
dicabat, licet interpretantes placentia responderent.
[A]t night he was alarmed by apparitions, and when he was not yet whol-
ly sunk in sleep, the ghost of his father seemed to hold out to him a fair
child; and when he took it and set it in his lap, it shook from him the ball
which he held in his right hand and threw it to a great distance. And this
foretold a change in the state, although the seers gave reassuring answers.
Constantius II died only days later, leaving the throne to his rebellious cousin
Julian, whose reign, the last of his dynasty, survived less than 2 years.61
Not all such visions of imperial demises or future successions arose from
sleep either: the poet Claudian in the late 4th century wrote of the general
Stilicho being presented with a consular gown in 400 AD on which was embroi-
dered a scene of his daughter Maria, then married to the emperor Honorius,
giving birth to an imperial heir—an event which certainly never occurred.62
On occasion such portents or visions of the future could even consist sim-
ply of observing a future emperor asleep—as Procopius reports in the case
of Marcian, whose rest was sheltered by an eagle hovering above him while a
59 Suetonius on Nero’s dream: (Vespasian 5.6, in Rolfe 1914, 278–279); for Cassius Dio on his
dream book and Septimius Severus on his dream, see lxxiii.23 and lxxv.3 (Cary 1927, 116–
119 and 164–167). See further on the dreams of emperors earlier in the principate, Harris
2009, 188–190 and 204–206.
60 Amm.Marc. 21.14.1 (Rolfe 1940, 166–167). Constantius’ wife was pregnant at the time, with
a daughter who would be born posthumously, which was likely also a factor in his dream:
see McEvoy 2016a, 155–159.
61 Julian himself, according to Ammianus Marcellinus, also had a dream about his accession
the night before the soldiers acclaimed him as Augustus (Amm. Marc. 21.1.6 in Rolfe 1940,
92–93); See also Harris 2009, 220.
62 Claud. Stil. II.341–347 (Platnauer 1922, 26–29). See further on the dynastic hopes of
Stilicho, McEvoy 2013, 161–162.
captive in North Africa, an episode which the Vandal king Geiseric recognised
as a foreshadowing of Marcian’s future accession.63
When our sources report imperial dreams in the early Byzantine period,
they are predominantly dreams concerned with the succession. Whether ex-
plaining an imperial accession, an imperial downfall or the passing over of
imperial heirs, such dreams reflect the preoccupations of court society of the
time, the expectations of dynastic succession, and the anxieties surrounding
periods of regime-change. Yet—to raise a final question—were emperors re-
ally supposed to spend their time dreaming? One of the virtues for which we
frequently find emperors praised in our ancient sources is their vigilance and
their watchfulness over the wellbeing of their subjects—not their luxurious
sleep habits or exotic dreams. According to Seneca, writing in the 1st century,
“the watchfulness of Caesar guards all men’s sleep”,64 while Ammianus in the
4th century praises the emperor Julian fulsomely for his discipline in needing
little sleep and putting the night hours to good use:65
Hinc contingebat ut noctes ad officia divideret tripertita, quietis et publicae

rei et musarum, quod factitasse Alexandrum legimus Magnum; sed multo
hic fortius. Ille namque aenea concha supposita, brachio extra cubile pro
tento pilam tenebat argenteam, ut cum nervorum vigorem sopor laxasset
infusus, gestaminis lapsi tinnitus abrumperet somnum. Iulianus vero abs
que instrumento, quotiens voluit evigilavit, et nocte dimidiata semper ex
surgens, non e plumis vel stragulis sericis ambiguo fulgore nitentibus, sed
ex tapete et sisyra … atque in tanto rerum defectu, explorate rei publicae
munera cuncta curabat. Post quae ut ardua et seria terminata, ad procu
dendum ingenium vertebatur … Et haec quidem pudicitiae virtutumque
sunt signa nocturna.
[H]e divided his nights according to a threefold schedule—rest, affairs

of state, and the Muses, a course which Alexander the Great used to
practise; but Julian was far more self-reliant. For Alexander used to set
a bronze basin beside his couch and with outstretched arm hold a silver
ball over it, so that when the coming of sleep relaxed the tension of his
muscles, the clanging of the ball as it fell might break off his nap. But
Julian could wake up as often as he wished, without any artificial means.
63 Procopius, Wars, III. iv.4–9 (Dewing 1916, 34–37).

64 Seneca, De Consolatione ad Polybium, 7 (Basore 1932, 374–375).
65 Amm.Marc. 16.5.4–8 (Rolfe 1935, 216–219). On the alleged self-control of the emperor
Julian generally, see Matthews 1989, 88.
114 M c Evoy
And when the night was half over, he always got up, not from a downy
couch or silken coverlets … but from a rough blanket and rug … In these
austere conditions he paid diligent heed to all his public duties. And after
bringing these (as his lofty and serious tasks) to an end, he turned to the
exercise of his mind … These, then, were the nightly evidences of his self-
restraint and his virtues.
The emperor Justinian too, a few centuries later again, is praised by John Lydus
as “the emperor who never sleeps”—spending the night when his subjects
were sleeping attending to vital matters of state.66 Yet such habits are suscep-
tible of malicious redeployment too—according to Procopius, in his infamous
Secret History, Justinian’s night-time sleeplessness was an indication of a de-
monic nature:67
Ἦν τε ἄυπνός τε ὡς ἐπὶ πλεῖστον εἰπεῖν … ὥραν τε, ἂν οὕτω <τύχοι>, καταδαρ-

θὼν μίαν, εἶτα περιπάτους ἀεὶ οὕτω <τύχοι>, καταδαρθὼν μίαν, εἶτα περιπά-
τους ἀεὶ ποιούμενος τὸν ἄλλον κατέτριβε χρόνον. καίτοι εἰ τοῦτον αὐτὸν καιρὸν
ἐς πράξεις δαπανᾶν ἀγαθὰς ἤθελεν, ἐπὶ μέγα ἄν τι εὐδαιμονίας ἐκεχωρήκει τὰ
πράγματα. νῦν δὲ τῇ φύσεως ἰσχύϊ ἐπὶ τῷ Ῥωμαίων πονηρῷ χρώμενος ξύμπα-
σαν αὐτῶν τὴν πολιτείαν ἐς τὸ ἔδαφος καθελεῖν ἴσχυσεν. ἐγρηγορέναι τε γὰρ
διηνεκὲς καὶ ταλαιπωρεῖν καὶ πονεῖσθαι οὐκ ἄλλου τοῦ ἕνεκα ἔργον πεποίη-
ται ἢ ὥστε κομπωδεστέρας ἀεὶ καθ’ ἑκάστην τοῖς ὑπηκόοις ἐπιτεχνᾶσθαι τὰς
συμφοράς.
[H]e was not given to sleep, as a general thing … after sleeping perhaps
one hour he would spend the rest of the time walking about constantly.
And yet, if he had been willing to spend just that amount of time in good
works, affairs would have advanced to a very high degree of prosperity …
For he made it his task to be constantly awake and to undergo hardships
and to labour for no other purpose than to contrive constantly and every
day more grievous calamities for his subjects. For he was, as has been
said, particularly keen in devising and swift in executing unholy deeds,
so that in the end even his natural good qualities resulted in the undoing
of his subjects.
66 John Lydus, De magistratibus 3.55 (Wuensch 1903, 144–145). For a detailed discussion of
the sleeplessness of Justinian and the political implications of this presentation of the
emperor, see Croke 2011.
67 Procopius, Anecdota, 13. 28–33 (translation modified) (Dewing, 1935, 164–167).
3 Conclusion
The habits of rulers were always held up to scrutiny in the Byzantine world,
and vigilance was more valued than sleep. Perhaps for that reason when sourc-
es do report upon the dreams of emperors, they are most often about matters
of great import—such as the imperial succession. Emperors might dream in-
frequently, and sleep was perhaps a luxury in an imperial life, but when they
did dream they had portentous dreams—at least so far as our sources report
them. And while perhaps those dreams discussed here, of Anastasius and
Justin II, might really be regarded as literary devices rather than actual impe-
rial dreams—stories which explained unexpected courses of events through
divine interventions or revelations—they can nevertheless tell us much about
the preoccupations of the time with matters of imperial dynastic succession
and court politics.
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chapter 6
Dreaming of Treason: Portentous Dreams and

Imperial Coups in Seventh-Century Byzantine
Apocalyptic Discourse
Ryan W. Strickler
The 7th century is rightly known as a period of significant and transforma-

tive crises.1 This is primarily related to the fact that the century witnessed two
global empires brought to their knees, and the rise of a newly ascendant
Islamic empire. However, it could just as easily be remembered as a century of
coups d’état. Through most of the 7th century, in addition to external threats,
the Byzantine Empire suffered from significant internal instability. The usurper
Phocas set the tone from the beginning, seizing power from Maurice in 602 CE
after slaughtering the emperor and his family. This act disrupted a fragile peace
set in place by the former emperor with the Sassanids and caused enough dis-
ruption for the Persians to capitalise and begin a conflict that would last the
better part of three decades.2 A mere eight years into his reign, Phocas met his
own end in a coup at the hands of the general Heraclius. After Heraclius’ death
in 641, his own dynasty was plagued by bloody struggle between siblings vying
for succession.3
For the Byzantine society, an emperor’s legitimacy as God’s regent on Earth
was tied closely to his ability to guide the empire through the hardships of
war and protect the ecumene from threats both foreign and domestic. The
Byzantine emperor was the head of the state, and the state’s successes and
misfortunes could be placed directly upon his shoulders.
Considering the cosmic significance of the imperial office, one should not
be surprised to see that the Byzantines understood the emperor to be chosen
by God himself. Therefore, any attempt to overthrow an emperor immediately
created a crisis of legitimacy for his would-be successor, who could poten-
tially be accused of rebelling against God. Whether a coup was considered
1 I thank Bronwen Neil, Pauline Allen, David Olster, Natalie Mylonas, and the anonymous re-
viewer whose comments have greatly improved this final version.
2 For a succinct account of these events, see Haldon 1990, 35–36.
3 Haldon 1990, 51–52.

Dreaming of Treason 119
usurpation against divine order, as in the case of Phocas, or God’s deliverance

from tyranny, in the case of Heraclius, depended not only on the emperor’s
performance, but also in large part on the ability of imperial partisans to es-
tablish a narrative of legitimacy, or conversely, on their ability to delegitimise
their political opponents.
One way in which such narratives were constructed by seventh-century
Byzantines was through the use of apocalyptic discourse. Persian victories
in the wake of Phocas’ coup were portrayed by Heraclius’ partisans as sig-
nals of divine disapproval and an unholy disruption of providential order.4
Phocas was stigmatised as an enemy of God, and Maurice was honoured as a
martyr. Conversely, Heraclius’ ascent, itself a coup with no more legal stand-
ing than Phocas’, was understood to be a restoration of that order, and was
accompanied by an almost messianic hope. His contemporaries declared him
to be a new Alexander the Great, and the poet George of Pisidia bestowed
upon him the title κοσμορύστης, or “Deliverer of the Cosmos”.5 Maximus the
Confessor, on the other hand, used apocalyptic rhetoric to critique imperial
abuses, a tendency that would, in part, lead to Maximus being tried for treason
by Constans II.6 Byzantine Jews, for their part, used apocalyptic literature to
resist oppression at the hands of the Heraclian dynasty by portraying Heraclius
as the anti-Messiah.
Byzantines employed apocalyptic discourse by incorporating, among other
things, prophecies, dreams, and visions, and to demonstrate that contempo-
rary events were ordained, or at least foreseen, by God himself. This study ex-
amines the way in which such phenomena were used by Byzantines from a
variety of cultural backgrounds to delegitimise political adversaries and were
used by partisans to promote the legitimacy of their patrons. Our focus will
be limited to prophecies, dreams and visions found within three documents:
the Historiae of Theophylact Simocatta, written immediately after Heraclius’
defeat of the Persians, the Jewish apocalypse known as the Sefer Zerubbabel,
written in reaction to Heraclius’ anti-Jewish policies, and the Relatio Motionis,
which records the trial in 655 of Maximus the Confessor in Constantinople.
4 For a detailed study of the Byzantine portrayals of the Persians, see Stoyanov 2011.
5 George of Pisidia, Heracliad, 1.65–79 (Pertusi 1959, 198).
6 Cf. the “ending” of Epistula 8 (Devreesse 1937). For a study of the relationship of this ending
to the rest of Epistula 8, see Strickler 2016.
120 Strickler
1 Definitions and Sources
1.1 Apocalypticism and Apocalyptic Discourse

Let us begin our study with a discussion of the related concepts of apoca-
lypticism and apocalyptic discourse, terms which are often employed with-
out precision. In recent decades, apocalypticism has been the subject of
significant scholarly output, particularly from the fields of biblical and early
Christian studies. There have been several important studies on Byzantine
apocalypticism.7 However, there has yet to appear as systematic treatment as
in earlier cognate fields, and in many ways the insights gained from scholars in
these fields have remained underutilised by Byzantine historians and literary
scholars. At this juncture, a review of recent scholarship on apocalypticism
will be helpful in situating the present study within the field at large.
From the first studies on the subject, Byzantinists have largely understood
“apocalypticism” to be confined to the genre of “apocalypse”, which is variously
defined, based on a scholar’s preferred set of recurring tropes. Paul Alexander
was among the first to create a methodology for the use of apocalypses as his-
torical sources. Three methodological principles which have endured to the
present include, first, the use of vaticinia ex eventu, or contemporary events
told as prophecy, to determine dating limits of a given apocalyptic text; sec-
ond, the use of apocalyptic texts to corroborate material from other sources
and, in some cases, to provide material not found elsewhere; and, third, the
use of levels of apocalypticism to gauge what Alexander referred to as “escha-
tological tension”.8 Others who have built upon Alexander’s work, beginning
with Bernard McGinn, consistently conflate apocalypticism with eschatology.9
While he is careful to note that the two are not strictly synonymous, apocalyp-
tic, according to McGinn, is by definition eschatological.
Scholars of early Jewish and early Christian apocalypticism have permit-
ted a degree of nuance absent from the approach taken by most of their
Byzantinist colleagues.10 Such scholars recognised early that the ambiguity of
the term “apocalyptic” necessitated further precision.11 Nevertheless, there has
remained a strong urge to maintain a “family resemblance” definition which
includes eschatology as a critical defining feature of apocalypticism.
7 E.g. McGinn 1979; Alexander 1985; Olster 2003.

8 Alexander 1968, 1010, echoed by McGinn 1979, 7. See also Alexander 1985, Brandes
1990, 306.
9 McGinn 1979. See also Magdalino 1993, 3–4; Kraft 2012, 214–215.
10 For a review of earlier scholarship in this field, see A. Y. Collins 2011 and Sim 2012.
11 Hanson 1979, 429–444.
Such a definition can be found in the special issue of Semeia, which

addressed apocalypticism in Jewish and early Christian literature. The goal of
the contributors was to create a comprehensive generic construct by which
one could recognise an “apocalypse”. The result was a definition, articulated by
John J. Collins, of “apocalypse” as:
a genre of revelatory literature with a narrative framework, in which a

revelation is mediated by an otherworldly being to a human recipient,
disclosing a transcendent reality which is both temporal, insofar as it en-
visages eschatological salvation, and spatial insofar as it involves another,
supernatural world.12
This definition has remained extremely influential and has been continually
defended by Collins in later studies.13
While scholars of apocalyptic in Byzantine literature and earlier fields have
largely focused on defining a genre centred on the eschaton, this approach
is not without critics. David Olster and Gerrit Reinink have noted that much
of apocalypticism in the 7th century focused on determining the role of the
Byzantines in the order of kingdoms, and on providing assurance of future ret-
ribution and restoration.14 David Sim has noted that ultimately scholars such
as John J. Collins failed to account for the fact that early Jewish groups pro-
duced apocalypses which are not concerned with eschatology, and that com-
munities existed, such as that at Qumran, which exhibited an eschatological
worldview but did not produce a single apocalypse.15
As Olster, Reinink and Sim have shown, relying on a generic approach to
the study of apocalyptic, particularly linking it existentially to eschatology, is
highly problematic. This is particularly true for the study of seventh-century
Byzantine literature. Essential tropes ascribed to the so-called apocalyptic
genre, such as vaticinia ex eventu, can be found in court poetry, homilies, and
classicising history, while eschatology is virtually absent or barely apparent in
many pseudonymous vision tales.
This does not mean we should dismiss such scholarship altogether. On the
contrary, scholars have done well to identify recurring themes to provide a
heuristic apparatus to recognise apocalyptic discourse in literature, including
12 Collins 1979, 9.
13 Collins 1999, 2–9 and Collins 2014, 2.
14 Reinink 1992, 149–187; Olster 2003, 255. See also Podskalsky 1972, Olster 1994, Reinink 1982;
Reinink 1992; Reinink 1996.
15 Sim 1996, 23–31.
122 Strickler
divine revelation and activity, prophecy, dreams, visions, and occasionally

eschatology. However, these themes transcend generic boundaries to such a
degree that any attempts to limit apocalyptic to a genre become severely limit-
ing and unnecessarily exclusionary. This chapter instead advocates a discur-
sive approach and understands apocalyptic discourse as the use of apocalyptic
tropes to attribute political and social crises to divine causation in order to
promote the legitimacy of their polity, to delegitimise a political foe, and ulti-
mately to provide meaning and hope in otherwise intolerable circumstances.
1.2 Dreams, Visions, Prophecy

This chapter provides a case study of apocalyptic discourse based on the use
of dreams, visions, and prophecy as they appear in seventh-century Byzantine
literature. Accordingly, it will be useful to define these three closely related
phenomena. While significant work has been done in recent years in the
fields of classical, late-antique, and later Byzantine dream interpretation, the
7th century has, by and large, not benefitted from these trends.16 Bronwen Neil
has done significant work to remedy this lacuna with her scholarship on the
dream theory of Maximus the Confessor and his place within the monastic
dream tradition, and by incorporating seventh-century monastic literature
more broadly into her recent overview of dream interpretation through early
Christianity to the rise of Islam.17 Neil’s insights into the use of dreams to es-
tablish spiritual authority and justify violence are clearly observable in the
examples I discuss below.
I also make use of Neil’s distinction between dreams, which she defines as
“any representation appearing to the mind, whether asleep or awake, that is
not a visual perception”, and visions, “which are usually identified as revela-
tory and inspired by divine or demonic forces”.18 Examples of both dreams and
visions with both divine and demonic origins are presented here, to which we
may add a broader category, that of prophecies or supernatural insights into
the future. Prophecies can provide the content of dreams and visions, or in
16 Recent years have seen significant work on Byzantine dream theory, e.g. Angelidi and
Calofonos 2014. However much work remains to be done on the 7th century: for example,
Paul Magdalino 2014 takes no notice of Theophylact Simocatta in his study of dreams in
Byzantine histories, beginning his study in the 9th century with Theophanes Continuatus.
17 Neil 2016. I would like to thank Professor Neil for giving me access to Neil (forthcom-
ing), in which she analyses Maximus the Confessor’s theory of dreams. Maximus the
Confessor was accused of having a dream in 646 which lent support to the exarch of
North Africa, Gregory the Patrician, in his attempted coup against Constans II, a charge
which Maximus deflected based, in part, on his view of the involuntary nature of dreams.
This account bears striking similarity to the one witnessed in Theophylact.
18 Neil 2016, 45.
some cases can stand on their own. In the present chapter, all dreams and vi-
sions discussed are prophecies, but not all prophecies are dreams or visions.19
1.3 Sources
Framing this study within the context of seventh-century Byzantine apocalyp-
tic discourse reveals the wide range of ways that dreams, visions, and proph-
ecies were used in a relatively small selection of sources. As an example of
historical writings, we will examine Theophylact Simocatta’s Historiae and his
use of dreams to delegitimise the reign of Phocas while elevating the memory
of the emperor Maurice.
The anonymous Sefer Zerubbabel, a messianic apocalyptic text writ-
ten shortly after the Persian defeat, will provide the Jewish perspective on
Heraclius’ reign, as well as his role as persecutor before the messiah’s return.
The Sefer Zerubbabel is presented as a prophetic vision, offering both vaticinia
ex eventu and genuine prophecies which, in the end, did not come to pass.
I will conclude with an examination of the record of Maximus’ trial, the so-
called Relatio Motionis, which discusses a supposed dream of the Confessor
used to support an abortive coup. Both the Sefer Zerubbabel and the trial re-
cord of Maximus presented treasonous dreams or visions which were seen to
undermine the authority of the Heraclian dynasty.
2 Theophylact Simocatta
Let us turn now to the first of our three sources, and the one which will occupy
most of our attention, namely the Historiae of Theophylact Simocatta. Written
during the reign of Heraclius, the Historiae is devoted equally to promoting the
memory of the fallen emperor Maurice, while condemning and delegitimis-
ing the now defeated Phocas. While Heraclius is rarely mentioned, his reign is
granted legitimacy by implication.
The Historiae opens with a dialogue between the dramatis personae of
History and Philosophy, which itself is unique to classicising historiography.
Through this dialogue, the purpose of the Historiae is revealed in dramatic
fashion. History laments its suppression under the “Calydonian tyrant” and
“centaur” Phocas, while rejoicing in the advent of Heraclius and the patriarch
Sergius, who rescued the empire as Heracles rescued Alcestis from Hades.20
19 Neil discusses prophetic dreams (Neil 2016, 46). However, I treat dreams and prophecies
as related but distinct phenomena.
20 Theophylact Simocatta, Historiae, dialog.1.3–6 (de Boor and Wirth 1972, 20–22).
124 Strickler
The use of classical tropes is just one method used by Theophylact to delegiti-
mise Phocas and promote the court of Heraclius, by situating them in continu-
ity with the classical tradition.
Book 1 of the Historiae is devoted to establishing Maurice as the rightful
successor of Tiberius II and God’s choice for imperial election.21 This clear
and providential choice is established in contrast to Phocas’ presumption and
bloodlust, which is in turn rendered blasphemous for its opposition to God’s
will. The disruption in divine order caused by Phocas’ usurpation is so grave
that it is the subject of several prophecies, dreams, and visions which occur
early and frequently throughout Theophylact’s narrative.
No fewer than four prophecies—or more properly, vaticinia ex eventu—
concerning Maurice’s death and subsequent imperial disaster are given in
detail. Using a common trope, Theophylact suggests that the actual number
exceeds his ability to record them.22 Theophylact recounts the first prophecy
as follows:
Ἔτους δὲ ἐννεακαιδεκάτου ἐπιστάντος τῷ αὐτοκράτορι, ἡ τῶν μελλόντων

προαναγόρευσις γίνεται, τά τε κοινὰ τοῦ κόσμου ἐξομολογοῦνται παθήματα·
ἀνὴρ γάρ τις πρὸς τὸν τῇδε κόσμον διαλυσάμενος καὶ ἐν ἀσκήσει θεωρίας τῶν
ἀπορρήτων μετειληφὼς ἐπί τε τὸν μονήρη βίον κατακλιθείς, σπάθην γυμνώσας
ἀπὸ τοῦ λεγομένου Φόρου … μέχρι τῶν προαυλίων τῶν ἀνακτόρων ξιφήρης
διαδραμών, ἅμα τὸν αὐτοκράτορα τοῖς παισὶν ἐν φόνῳ μαχαίρας τεθνήξεσθαι
προηγόρευεν.
In the course of the 19th year of the emperor’s rule, a prediction of the fu-
ture occurred and acknowledged the universal sufferings of the world; for
a certain man, who had severed himself from the present world, partici-
pated in the mysteries through the practice of contemplation, and retired
to the solitary life, unsheathed a blade and, after running with sword in
hand from the Forum … as far as the palace vestibule, he prophesied that
the emperor together with his children would die slain by the knife.23
21 Theophylact Simocatta, Historiae, 1.1.22 (de Boor and Wirth 1972, 42; trans. Whitby and
Whitby 1986, 21).
22 Using a standard trope Theophylact notes: “Many other miraculous prophecies of the fu-
ture occurred in the Roman state, but all eternity would fail us if we should try to record
these in greater detail.” Theophylact Simocatta, Historiae, 8.13.15 (de Boor and Wirth 1972,
311; trans. Whitby and Whitby 1986, 232).
Whitby 1986, 196).
Here Theophylact depicts an unnamed monk, perhaps a salos, or holy fool,

actually performing a prophecy within the public precincts of Constantinople.24
The man’s status as a holy man and the spectacle contribute to the gravity
of the prophecy.
Theophylact follows this immediately with a similar, though less dramatic
account:
There is a story that in the season of summer Herodian publicly pre-

dicted to the emperor Maurice his misfortunes; the man asseverated that
the prophetic message had been manifested to him not without divine
utterance.25
Theophylact provides no information about this Herodian, beyond his being

privy to divine utterance, and his apparent access to the emperor. The casual
reference to the name, in contrast to the unknown monk mentioned prior, sug-
gests that Herodian may have been known to Theophylact’s audience.
The use of monastics or saintly people to deliver these vaticinia ex eventu is
interesting, particularly as they contain no rebuke as most other contemporary
prophecies do. They are not exercising a prophetic office in the biblical sense
to speak truth to power, rather they provide apocalypses in the most literal
sense by revealing otherwise hidden knowledge. The audience is not made
aware of the manner in which the unnamed salos or Herodian received their
divinely inspired information, and therefore I cannot go further than describ-
ing these revelations as prophecies.
Theophylact declares that this event, the future demise of the imperial
family, will bring “sufferings to the world”.26 The inclusion of these prophe-
cies, through the mouths of holy men, each corroborating the other, lends a
sense of authority to the predictions. Moreover, it illustrates a recurring par-
adox throughout Theophylact that the events to come, while disturbing the
divine order and bearing future disaster, are still inevitable and within God’s
providence.
While the accounts of the two holy figures—the unnamed salos and
Herodian—may shock the reader, bestowing prescience upon a holy man is not
24 On the phenomenon of the “holy fool”, see Ivanov 2006, 1–11.
25 ὥρα δὲ θέρους, καὶ λόγος Ἡρωδιανὸν Μαυρικίῳ τῷ αὐτοκράτορι ἐς τὸ φανερὸν προαναγγεῖλαι τὰ
ἀποτεύγματα· ὁ δὲ ἀνὴρ <οὐκ> ἐκτὸς θείας ὀμφῆς κατισχυρίζετο τὰ τῆς προρρήσεως ἐπιφανῆναι
αὐτῷ. Theophylact Simocatta, Historiae, 7.12.11 (de Boor and Wirth 1972, 266; trans. Whitby
and Whitby 1986, 196).
Whitby 1986, 196).
126 Strickler
an unexpected literary device. However, Theophylact’s accounts of Maurice’s

prophesied murder are not limited to holy men. In two instances, lay people
are given a prophetic revelation of the coming regime change, with no con-
sideration of their relative piety. The first happened in the midst of a mutiny
during the campaigns against the Avars. Godwin, a junior military official in
the Balkans, recounted to the general Peter a dream in which he had received a
royal communique with an unusual greeting. According to Theophylact:
ἃ δὲ ἔφησε ταῦτα ἐκεῖνά ἐστιν, δόξαι κατ’ ὄναρ βασιλικὰς ἐπιπεμφθῆναι αὐτῷ
συλλαβάς, τὴν δὲ τῆς ἐπιστολῆς προγραφὴν ἔχειν ἐπὶ λέξεως οὕτως· ‘ὁ κύριος
ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦς ὁ Χριστός, ὁ ἀληθινὸς θεός, ἡ θεία χάρις, ὁ τῶν ἐκκλησιῶν προ-
εστὼς τὰ ἐλλείποντα ἀναπληροῖ εἰς τὸ πᾶσι συμφέρον καὶ προΐστησιν ἐπὶ τοῦ
παρόντος τόνδε τῆς νέας δεσπότην.’
[A]nd what he said was this, that it had seemed in a dream that royal mis-
sives had been sent to him, and that the salutation of the letter was this,
word for word: ‘Our Lord Jesus the Christ, the true God, the divine grace,
the leader of the churches, accomplishes what is lacking for the advan-
tage of everyone, and for the present promotes this master of the revolt.’27
It seems that Godwin is not attempting to justify a coup, as he finds the dream
disturbing. Both figures, Godwin and the general Peter, are unsettled by the
dream, and remain silent about the prophecy.
The next prophecy was said to have occurred on the day of Maurice’s mur-
der. Here, after a night of drunken revelry, a calligrapher in Alexandria received
the following vision:
μεσούσης τοίνυν νυκτός, καὶ γενόμενος κατὰ τὸ λεγόμενον τῆς πόλεως Τύχαιον
(χῶρος δ’ οὗτος τῆς Ἀλεξανδρείας ἐπίσημος) ὁρᾷ τοὺς ἐπισημοτέρους τῶν
ἀνδριάντων ἐκ τῶν βωμῶν καθερπύσαντας καὶ μεγίστην αὐτῷ ἀφιέντας φωνήν,
ἐξονομακλήδην τὸν ἄνδρα προσαγορεύσαντας διηγουμένους τε μεγάλῃ καὶ
συντόνῳ φωνῇ τὰ κατ’ ἐκείνην τὴν ἡμέραν παρηκολουθηκότα συμπτώματα
Μαυρικίῳ τῷ αὐτοκράτορι.
In the middle of the night then, as he was approaching the city’s Tychaeum,
as it is called, he saw the more famous statues stealing down from their
pedestals; they emitted to him a very loud utterance, addressing the man
Whitby 1986, 218).
[sc. the calligrapher] by name, and in loud and vehement utterance de-
scribing the calamities which had attended the emperor Maurice on that
day.28
The event eventually reached the ears of Peter, the prefect of Egypt, whom
Theophylact reveals to be his relative, who ordered the man to keep silent and
await the outcome. After messengers heralded Maurice’s death nine days later,
Theophylact recounts:
Then, after Peter had discerned the outcome of the events predicted by
the statues, or to speak more appropriately, by demons, he publicly pa-
raded the prophecy, brought to prominence the calligrapher, and pointed
him out as the authority for the story.”29
It is interesting that in this instance Theophylact attributes the prophecy of

the statues to demons. This is in stark contrast to the earlier prophecies of
Maurice’s death, which were attributed to holy people, or in Godwin’s case,
to Christ himself, and may have served a secondary purpose as an object lesson
on the risk of drunkenness permitting demonic influence.
The vaticinia ex eventu surrounding Maurice’s demise suggest a number of
interesting observations. First, it is worth noting the diversity of figures who
were bearers of prophecy. In the first examples, we have what seem to be holy
men, figures who are not surprising as bearers of prophecy. Moreover, they are
located in the capital and, in the case of Herodian, had direct access to the
emperor himself. They represent both an urban and ecclesiastical source of
prophecy, and appear to have been willing participants.
The first two vaticinia and their bearers are of a different nature to Godwin
and the calligrapher. The latter two were on the periphery, Godwin in the
Balkans fighting against the Avars, and the unknown calligrapher in Egypt.
Neither were apparently known for their holiness, in fact, the calligrapher re-
ceived his vision after a night of drinking. Both appear to have been recipients
of unexpected and unwanted dreams and visions, whose descriptions differ
from the prophecies received by the holy men. Moreover, both men are note-
worthy for their relative obscurity. Godwin, while an officer, was no general
Whitby 1986, 231).
29 τῶν τοίνυν προμεμηνυμένων διὰ τῶν ἀνδριάντων, ἢ δαιμόνων εἰπεῖν οἰκειότερον, ὡς διέγνω
τὰς ἐκβάσεις ὁ Πέτρος, ἐς τὸ φανερὸν τὴν προαγόρευσιν ἐθριάμβευσε τόν τε εἰς κάλλος γράφο-
ντα ἐς μέσον προὐβάλλετο καὶ κύριον αὐτὸν τῆς ἱστορίας ἐδείκνυεν. Theophylact Simocatta,
Historiae, 8.13.14 (de Boor and Wirth 1972, 311; trans. Whitby and Whitby 1986, 233).
128 Strickler
or person of apparent significance. Likewise, the calligrapher was so obscure

that he remained nameless, even after gaining local notoriety once his vision
came true.
Finally, while supernatural origins are attributed to all four prophecies, their
reception and implications are mixed. For the two holy men, their vaticinia
spelled disaster in no uncertain terms—the death of Maurice—even if they
served to express the inevitability of Phocas’ rule, rather than its aberration.
Godwin’s dream, on the other hand, seems to indicate the approval of Christ
himself of regime change, going against the grain of Book 8 which portrays
Phocas’ ambition and brutality. Finally, in contrast to the first three, we have
the calligrapher’s vision which is ascribed to demons.
The simplest explanation for the variation of prophecies is the result
of Theophylact’s varied sources.30 Perhaps Theophylact compiled a variety
of reported prophecies to add content and to demonstrate the significance of
Maurice’s death. Although the stories seem to lack cohesion as a group, it is
their variety that is interesting for the subject of this study. If these vaticinia ex
eventu are from disparate sources and from a variety of locations, they demon-
strate the extent to which apocalyptic discourse was employed to understand
Maurice’s demise and the subsequent decline of the empire. We see here evi-
dence that Maurice began to acquire heroic status shortly after his death, to
such a degree that several witnesses to this phenomenon survived, preserved
by Theophylact in his Historiae.
Michael and Mary Whitby, in a footnote to the calligrapher’s vision, observe
another dimension, noting that ‘the miraculous announcement of a person’s
death could be used as proof of his saintliness’, as demonstrated in a similar
instance in the Life of John the Almsgiver.31 This is in line with their later ob-
servation about a Syriac hagiography on the life of Maurice, which includes an
account given by Theophylact in which Maurice reveals that the royal nurse
had replaced a royal infant with one of her own children to preserve Maurice’s
line, sacrificing his dynasty in an act of virtue in the face of death.32
In addition to the promotion of Maurice as a venerable figure, the compila-
tion of prophecies, dreams, and visions also has the effect of drawing attention
to the abnormal nature of Phocas’ ascent to power. In contrast to Maurice,
who peacefully assumed the purple from Tiberius to the acclaim of the people,
Phocas’ coup was ominous, at times profane, and foretold disaster. Theophylact
skilfully uses apocalyptic discourse, through the use of vaticinia ex eventu and
30 For Theophylact’s sources, see Whitby 1988, 222–241.

31 Whitby and Whitby 1986, 232 n. 82.
32 Whitby and Whitby 1986, 227 n. 64.
visions, to promote the legitimacy of his patrons while undermining the legiti-
macy of his adversary.
3 Sefer Zerubbabel
While the Christian Byzantines may have seen the initial Persian conquest as
divine punishment and Heraclius’ ultimate victory as a cosmic restoration,
Jewish Byzantine subjects saw these events as a different set of divinely or-
dained circumstances. The 7th century saw an increase in anti-Jewish policies,
as evidenced by the increased production of anti-Jewish literature, culminat-
ing in Heraclius’ controversial edict of forced baptism in 632. Several Jewish
liturgical poems from the period speak of the imminent deliverance by the
messiah from the oppression of Armilos, the great persecutor, and the estab-
lishment of Jewish rule, a hope spurred by Byzantine defeat in 614.33
This hope found its greatest expression in the Sefer Zerubbabel, an esoteric
text construed as a vision given to the governor of Judah under the Babylonian
occupation. Zerubbabel is transported to “mighty Rome”, where he meets a
destitute prisoner who identifies himself as the messiah, imprisoned in Rome
until his appointed rise.34 The archangels Michael and/or Metatron (the names
are used interchangeably) join the two figures and present a series of vaticinia
ex eventu, including the fall of Jerusalem and the destruction of the second
temple by the Romans in 70 CE.35
The prophecies predict that the people of Israel will be brought together as
one, will live in Jerusalem for five years, and offer sacrifices that are pleasing to
the Lord. After this period of self-rule, Zerubbabel predicts that Siroe, the King
of Persia, who corresponds to the historical Siroe, the immediate successor of
Chosroes II, will attack the Jews. Ultimately, however, Siroe will die within a
year and the Persian army will fall apart, both of which reflect the reality of
Persian defeat at the hands of the Byzantines.36
At this point, Zerubbabel switches from ex eventu to actual prophecies.
Here, the author presents the following vision:
‫ויראיני שם אבן אחת שייש בדמות אשה בתולה ומראיה ותוארה נאה ויפה עד מאד‬
‫ ויבא שטן וישכב עמה ויצא ממנה‬.‫ אבן זאת איש ביליעל הוא‬:‫ ויען ויאמר אלי‬.‫לראות‬
33 van Bekkum 2002, 103–104.

34 Sefer Zerubbabel (trans. Reeves 2013, 454).
35 Sefer Zerubbabel (trans. Reeves 2013, 456–458).
36 Sefer Zerubbabel (trans. Reeves 2013, 460).
130 Strickler
‫ הוא ימלוך על כל וממשלתו מגעת מקצה‬.‫בן ושמו ארמילוס ויחריב עם ולשון עברית‬
‫ ולזכר ידבר‬.‫ ועשר אותיות יהיו בידו ועובד עבודת אלהי נכר‬,‫הארץ ועד קצה הארץ‬
‫ ורבים ימית בהם ויבא על אנשי‬.‫ וכל שאין יאמין בו ימית בחרב‬,‫ואין מי יעמוד לפניו‬
‫ ושם איתו עשרה מלכים בחיל ובכח גדול ויעשה מלחמה עם קדושים‬.‫קדושי עליונים‬
‫ ויהרוג את משיח בן יוסף הוא נחמיה בן חושיאל ושש עשרה צדיקים‬,‫ויכל(ה) להם‬
.‫ ויגלו את ישראל במדבר שלש כיתות‬,‫יהרגו עמו‬
There he showed me a marble stone in the shape of a maiden: her fea-

tures and form were lovely and indeed very beautiful to behold. Then he
said to me, ‘This statue is the [wife] of Belial. Satan will come and have
intercourse with it, and a son named Armilos will emerge from it, [whose
name in Greek means] “he will destroy a nation”. He will rule over all
(peoples), and his dominion will extend from one end of the earth to the
other, and ten letters will be in his hand. He will engage in the worship
of foreign gods and speak lies. No one will be able to withstand him, and
anyone who does not believe in him he will kill with the sword: many
among them will he kill. He will come against the holy people of the
Most High, and with him there will be ten kings wielding great power and
force, and he will do battle with the holy ones. He will prevail over them
and will kill the Messiah of the lineage of Joseph, Nehemiah b. Ḥushiel,
and will also kill sixteen righteous ones alongside him. Then they will
banish Israel to the desert in three groups.37
Here we see the advent of Armilos, the son of an unholy union between Satan
and a beautiful marble statue, which some suggest represents an icon of the
Virgin Mary.38 Armilos will rise up and bring misery upon the Jews, expelling
them into the desert and slaying the present messiah. This corresponds closely
to Heraclius’ expulsion of the Jews from Jerusalem upon his re-conquest, as
well as his general anti-Jewish policy, culminating in the edict of forced bap-
tism. Scholars such as Hagith Sivan and John C. Reeves have suggested that
the messiah killed by Armilos may have been a Jewish community leader dur-
ing the Persian occupation and brief Jewish self-governance, corresponding
to a figure mentioned in a seventh-century piyyut (liturgical poem), though in
that account blame is placed upon the Persians.39 Zerubbabel despairs, but is
comforted when it is revealed that the despicable man of the vision will rise
37 Sefer Zerubbabel (Yassif 2001, 430; trans. Reeves 2013, 460–461).

38 Reeves 2013, 461, no. 144.
39 Reeves 2013, no. 148; Sivan 2000, 288–291.
up in glory, reveal himself as messiah, and divine wonders will herald God’s
deliverance.
The Sefer Zerubbabel serves as an important witness to the resistance of the
Byzantine Jewish community, whose situation had declined dramatically in
the final decades of Heraclius’ reign. Unable to speak out publicly against the
regime, the author could express the community’s frustrations through apoca-
lyptic discourse. Moreover, by using an ancient biblical hero, the author could
provide a sense of hope that their current troubles were already known, and
that deliverance would eventually come through the arrival of the messiah.
Here, as with Theophylact, we see the use of visions, vaticinia ex eventu,
and unfulfilled prophecy to promote the author’s polity, though the authors’
intentions are diametrically opposed. The anonymous author of the Sefer
Zerubbabel seeks to delegitimise the Heraclian dynasty while promoting the
Byzantine Jewish community. Although each document differs significantly,
being composed in different languages by different communities, they repre-
sent the pervasive use of apocalyptic discourse by subjects under Byzantine
hegemony.
4 Relatio Motionis
Let us now turn our attention to our third and final example, a curious ep-
isode recorded in the Relatio Motionis, the preserved record of the 655 trial
of Maximus the Confessor in Constantinople.40 Maximus appeared in
Constantinople to stand trial for treason on several charges. The one most rel-
evant to our study is the accusation that Maximus supported the abortive coup
attempt by Gregory the Patrician, the exarch of North Africa, against Constans
II, in 647. The author recalls an exchange in which a certain Sergius Magoudas
was called forth to testify that Maximus had a dream in which angels in the
East and the West were proclaiming their support for Constans II or the exarch
Gregory respectively. According to the testimony:
καὶ οἱ μὲν εἰς ἀνατολὰς ἔκραζον· Κωνσταντῖνε Αὔγουστε, τοῦ βίγκας· οἱ δὲ εἰς
δυσμὰς ἐβόων· Γρηγόριε Αὔγουστε, τοῦ βίγκας· καὶ ὑπερήχησεν ἡ φωνὴ τῶν εἰς
δυσμάς, τὴν τῶν εἰς ἀνατολὴν φωνήν.41
40 On the authorship and transmission of the Relatio Motionis, see Allen and Neil 2002,
35–36.
41 “And the angels in the East shouted: ‘Constantine Augustus, you shall conquer!’ whereas
the angels in the West exclaimed: ‘Gregory Augustus, you shall conquer!’ And the voices of
132 Strickler
As Bronwen Neil notes, Maximus’ defence is based upon his own teaching that
dreams are involuntary, and therefore the dreamer himself is not culpable for
their content.42 He cannot firmly refute that the dream occurred but, even if it
had, due to the involuntary nature of dreams he would be innocent. Maximus
would be in a similar situation to Godwin and the anonymous calligrapher.
In some ways, whether Maximus had such a dream, or it was a false ac-
cusation levelled in a kangaroo court is largely irrelevant for our purposes.
Regardless of the historicity of the dream, to Maximus’ accusers, the accusa-
tion was entirely plausible, and Maximus, rather than dismissing the accusa-
tion as preposterous, saw the need to offer a defence based on the culpability
of dreamers rather than the veracity of the account. This accusation is witness
to the fact that dreams, especially if received by a spiritual authority, could be
considered to provide a window onto God’s providence. This belief was strong
enough that the mere rumour of such a dream and the communication of the
dream could be levelled as a treasonous offence, one which required a reason-
able defence. If true, Maximus would have been using a dream to bolster the
legitimacy of his patron Gregory, a man who supported him during his time
in North Africa and presided over his disputation with the Patriarch Pyrrhus.
Here we see an interesting example of a dream in apocalyptic discourse,
where it was an accusation to be rejected rather than a witness to divinely
ordained circumstances. The dream, if true, would be read as a prophecy and
used to delegitimise the Heraclian dynasty while promoting Maximus’ estab-
lished patron. Again, the reality of the dream is irrelevant to our purposes. The
ability to plausibly appeal to a dream as evidence in a trial demonstrates that
apocalyptic discourse was employed in such circumstances with enough fre-
quency to be considered a plausible offence.
5 Conclusion
The 7th century was a perilous time to be a Byzantine emperor. Political insta-
bility resulted in numerous coups d’état, and several more abortive attempts.
Such instability brought with it crises of legitimacy. Emperors and their par-
tisans attempted to demonstrate their rightful place as God’s chosen regent
on earth. Byzantine authors employed apocalyptic discourse, in particular,
those in the West prevailed over those in the East.” Relatio Motionis 2 (Allen and Neil 2002,
50; trans. Allen and Neil 2002, 51).
42 Neil forthcoming.
prophecies, dreams and visions, as a way to legitimise their patrons and dele-
gitimise their opponents.
Traditional generic approaches employed by scholars to the study of apoca-
lypticism prevent us from observing the extensive nature of apocalyptic dis-
course, particularly in the 7th century. The discursive approach advocated in
this chapter opens new avenues of exploration, and reveals that Byzantines,
both Christians and Jews, believed that supernatural revelation provided indi-
viduals with unique insight into God’s plan for the Byzantines. Such individu-
als included not only holy ascetics, but involuntary lay people. The pervasive
use of this discourse throughout the 7th century is found in Theophylact’s ploy
to delegitimise Phocas, in the apocalyptic resistance provided by the Sefer
Zerubbabel, and in the plausible accusations levelled in the trial of Maximus
the Confessor.
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chapter 7
Desire, Dreams, and Visions in the Letters of

Emperor Konstantinos VII Porphyrogennetos
and Theodoros of Kyzikos
Mark Masterson
This chapter discusses homoerotics visible in letters that passed between

Emperor Konstantinos VII Porphyrogennetos and Theodoros of Kyzikos.1
Scholars have shied away from analysing these letters on this basis.2 The reason
for their reluctance to discuss desire has been associated with a prevailing idea,
which I wish to challenge, that the language of same-sex desire in Byzantine
epistolography is best regarded as an indicator of the correspondent’s level
of education and/or a strong metaphor for friendship. Scholars also explain
homoerotic warmth as a generic feature of Byzantine epistolography and, since
its appearance is driven by generic expectations, they judge this warmth as not
particularly referential, beyond asserting that the letter is a letter. While there
is something to these positions, I do not think that we should evacuate the
surface meanings of desire from the language in these letters. The homoerotic
language is not solely performative, that is, meant only to demonstrate a level
of education or the genre, nor is it solely metaphorical, that is, meant to indi-
cate the strength of a friendship. Konstantinos and Theodoros speak of their
desire for one another too much and in too many ways for it to be dismissed
as only performative and/or metaphorical. Same-sex desire appears in both
dreams and waking visions in the third and fourth letters in the collection, the
first from Konstantinos, and the other an answer from Theodoros. These let-
ters not only speak often of desire, they manipulate its phenomenology. These
letters also contain language that calls male-male same-sex sexual activity to
mind, including, in Konstantinos’ letter (discussed below), a metaphor of rose
1 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012 (B1–18), 83–108; Darrouzès 1960, 317–332. (All translations in this
essay are my own. I thank Derek Krueger for his advice, Eva Anagnostou-Laoutides and
Bronwen Neil for their patience, and Christabel Marshall for her help.)
2 While it has been the case that the homoeroticism has not been given much play in the
scholarship on these letters, their remarkable nature has had a way of pushing hard on reluc-
tance. For example, Demosthenous 2004, 175, while being opposed to seeing same-sex desire
in the context of Byzantine men’s friendships, wonders whether desire is present in these
letters. He refers to and echoes a similar comment by Angelidi 2002, 228 n. 28.

Desire, Dreams, and Visions in the Letters 137
and thorns whose bodily correlate is anal eroticism.3 While we cannot know
what sexual acts, if any, occurred between these two men, these letters suggest
a level of comfort with same-sex desire in Byzantine circles that we should
bear in mind when we form opinions about elite male culture in the medieval
empire.
Before proceeding, a word about this corpus of letters is in order. The eigh-
teen letters that survive from the correspondence between Konstantinos and
Theodoros are precious. The letters, in sequence, answer one another. It is not
common to have a conversation documented like this. Based on internal evi-
dence (mention of a Russian incursion4 and general anxiety around rulership,
which suggests that Romanos I Lekapenos, who was lead emperor through
much of Konstantinos’ youth, was still around or Konstantinos was but freshly
in charge5), scholars have generally thought the letters date from the 940s.6
1 Byzantine Epistolography and Same-Sex Desire
Byzantine epistolography7 often features homoerotic language.8 A frequent ap-

proach in the scholarship has been to drain the language of much significance,
denying that expressions of same-sex desire in the letters could refer to actual
desire between men. Non-articulated appeals to assumed heterosexuality and
more overt ones to religious morality and law have seemingly sufficed to tamp
down most thought about possible referentiality of this language to actual
desire. Messis has the following to say, and these words are representative of
3 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 87.

4 Konstantinos, Letter 5 (Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 90–91).
5 In Letter 4, Theodoros has a dream, discussed below, that may allegorise anxiety about palace
politics (Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 89).
6 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, *4.
7 For remarks on the epistolographic genre, Byzantine expectations of letters, and the contexts
of their writing and first readings, see Mullett 1997, 11–43.
8 Over the years, scholars have noted the erotic/friendly language in Byzantine epistologra-
phy (e.g., Karlsson 1962, 21–23, 58–78; Grünbart 2005, 113–122; Mullett 1999; Patlagean 1985,
603–605; Schneider 2008; Tomadakis 1993, 116–118). The general trend has been to interpret
the language of same-sex desire as a performative and semantically inert convention of the
genre, e.g., Messis 2006, 823; 2008, 33–34 and Demosthenous 2004, 173–175. That said, there
has been some tentative resistance to this position on the erotic language in the letters.
Mullett 1999, 20–21, e.g., believes it is worth thinking carefully in terms of referentiality to
actual desire (cf. Schneider 2008, 95). Odorico 1995 also challenges this general approach
to same-sex desire in Byzantine epistolography with an audacious reading of Theodoros
Daphnopates’ seventeenth letter.
138 Masterson
the predominant trend in approaching representations of same-sex desire in

Byzantine epistolography:
La correspondance de l’empereur Constantin VII Porphyrogénète avec le

métropolite de Cyzique Théodore est pleine non plus d’allusions, mais
des expressions ouvertement érotiques. Ce fait a incité nombre de sa-
vants modernes à parler soit des vrais rapports érotiques entre les per-
sonnes qui correspondent, soit d’une sorte de littérature homoérotique.
Mais la réalité semble être tout autre. Ces textes ‘officials’, préparés pour
une circulation publique dans une société dont le conformisme chrétien
ne permet pas l’expression de sentiments érotiques hétérosexuels, beau-
coup plus homosexuels, constituent le plus souvent de purs jeux litté-
raires, un champs où chacun montre son éducation et sa finesse d’espirit.
Dans ces textes, le vocabulaire érotique appartient à la catégorie du vo-
cabulaire concernant l’eros ‘celeste’, un eros complètement désexualisé,
et s’assimile seulement en apparence au vocabulaire de paidika, selon
l’expression de Synèse de Cyrène. Ce vocabulaire est utilisé pour, rhétori-
quement, marquer l’intensité du rapport amical.9
Messis offers several arguments against perceiving same-sex desire in these

letters, all of which deserve question. First he speaks of the circulation of the
letters precluding the presentation of same-sex desire as, presumably, actual
desire would have been shameful to depict. But he asserts this is the case rather
than shows it. Second, since Byzantine circles did not countenance the depic-
tion of heterosexual desire, a fortiori representation of same-sex desire was
even less likely. As we will see below, ample depiction of same-sex desire in
these letters makes his idea of a taboo on representation precarious. Seemingly
aware of this, Messis insists either that the language is purely performative,
demonstrating education and/or a cultivated temperament, or that it is a sexy
metaphor for heavenly incorporeal love. It is not controversial to me that this
language is performative at least some of the time. In the matter of heavenly
love, there is support here and there for this when God is referred to.10 But a
9 Messis 2006, 823.

10 E.g., in Letter 4, Theodoros writes the following: “May it happen that we be filled with your
true intercourse and conversation, O God and Lord who converts everything to a better
state.” Ἡμᾶς δὲ εἴη τῆς ἀληθοῦς ἐμφορηθῆναι συνουσίας καὶ ὁμιλίας σου, ὦ Θεὲ καὶ Κύριε, ὁ
πάντα μετασκευάζων ἐπὶ τὸ βέλτιον. (Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 89).
detailed reading of the letters of Konstantinos and Theodoros shows that the
predominant register of their language of desire is corporeal and not celestial.11
A softened version of this approach to desire in the letters perhaps is un-
derstandable, if ultimately not persuasive, if we think in terms of the long his-
tory of the genre that stretches back into late antiquity and earlier than that.
Many of the letters from the fourth-century fathers, for example, feature warm
language that uses tropes of desire.12 Still, I think we need to push back on
the notion that, say, Basil the Great or Synesios is an optimal guide for under-
standing tenth-century epistolography. Indeed, viewing later Byzantine writ-
ers as unreflectively continuing with earlier modes is a desiccated approach to
a practice that shows variation in later times. The letters of Nikolaos Mystikos,
for example, do not have nearly the array of erotic language that the letters of
Theodoros and Konstantinos have.13 But besides that, we should consider the
letters within their later context. The empire of the 900s was different from
that of the 300s or 400s. And the situation around same-sex desire was differ-
ent also. The strength of negative reactions to desire between men was not as
strong as it had been.14
2 Konstantinos VII Porphyrogennetos and Theodoros of Kyzikos
Proclaimed emperor while still a boy in 913, Konstantinos was emperor until
his death in 959. That said, Romanos I Lekapenos consigned Konstantinos to
11 Elsewhere, and again in the context of discussing the letters of Konstantinos and
Theodoros, Messis insists on his sure knowledge of Byzantine authorial intentions, of
anticipated medieval receptions of these letters, and on what constitutes proper inter-
pretive practice now: “Voir dans ces lettres l’expression d’un réel amour ou, pire encore,
les prémisses d’une littérature homoérotique, signifie que nous ne savons pas lire les
textes à la manière que les Byzantins les écrivaient et les lisaient.” (Messis 2008, 34; cf.
Demosthenous 2004, 173–175 for similar sentiments). I believe that these letters possess
greater semantic richness than this.
12 Though no friend to same-sex desire, Basil the Great nonetheless uses warm language in
his letters. See, e.g., Messis 2006, 823; Tomadakis 1993, 117.
13 Nikolaos Mystikos, Letters (Jenkins and Westerink 1973).
14 Space will not permit a discussion of this important issue. Suffice it to say that Byzantium
in the 900s does not display much concern with same-sex sexual activity. Laiou (1992,
78) remarks that same-sex sexual behavior in Byzantium, which was forbidden in civil
law, seemingly was not worth attention unless it caused a scandal: “Il est possible que, en
dépit de tout son zèle normatif pour prohiber les actes homosexuels, la société byzantine
les ait en fait tolérés tant qu’ils ne faisaient pas scandale.” For more on this relative lack
of concern, see Messis 2006, 779 n. 170, 781; Mullett 1988, 11 n. 41; Pitsakis 2008, 9; Smythe
1999. Also see Masterson forthcoming-a and forthcoming-b.
140 Masterson
the sidelines in 920, taking over as lead emperor until 944. This meant that
Konstantinos, denied political power, seemingly had time to develop his in-
tellectual interests. Once he was sole emperor and probably before that, he
superintended important intellectual projects. He guided the writing of the
immense encyclopaedia, the Souda. He commissioned Histories,15 the De
Ceremoniis (the invaluable guide to imperial ceremonial), the Excerpta de
Sententiis (a massive project of excerpting earlier literature), and much else
besides.16 Konstantinos was a leading figure in an intensely intellectual milieu
that lasted for decades.
Another thing to note about this milieu is that Konstantinos Kephalas
(probably around 900, though perhaps a little earlier) compiled the Greek
Anthology.17 This collection of epigrams, many of which are sexual in nature
(especially in books 5 and 12), is quoted often in the Souda and was surely well
known in these circles. The Greek Anthology arguably is present in the letters of
Konstantinos and Theodoros. Intertextuality with the Greek Anthology, as with
intertextuality with scripture, is one of the ways Konstantinos and Theodoros
communicate with each other. These quotations are not just inert displays of
education, on the one hand, and piety on the other. These recollections and
quotations of earlier written productions recall passages and/or scenarios in
the source texts. A homoerotic interpretation of these letters and their context
explores this semantic richness.
We don’t know much about our other correspondent, Theodoros of Kyzikos.
He was a churchman whose star ascended so long as Konstantinos was emper-
or. Later, he seems to have run afoul of the new regime that came to power after
the death of Konstantinos’ son, Romanos II, in 963. He was exiled that year,
and we hear nothing more of him after 965.18 Like Konstantinos, he clearly had
attained a high degree of education.
3 Dreams and Visions in the Souda
As noted above, dreams and waking visions enliven the two letters to be
discussed below, and they provide phenomenologically varied ways for
15 There was the Basileiai, written by Ioseph Genesios, and the anonymous Vita Basilii and
Theophanes Continuatus, both perhaps written by Theodoros Daphnopates (Treadgold
2013, 178).
16 See Treadgold’s discussion (2013, 156–167) of the hub of intellectual activity that was
Konstantinos’ court. See also Lemerle 1986, 309–353.
17 Lemerle 1986, 310; Cameron 1986, 292.
18 See Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, *3–16, for a sketch of Theodoros’ life.
Konstantinos and Theodoros to present their desire for one another. It is of

interest that Konstantinos’ own encyclopaedia, the Souda, worked to define
both dreams and waking visions. A look at the Souda’s entries on the “dream”
(Ὄνειρον) and “waking vision” (Ὕπαρ) underscores the significance of their ap-
pearance in the letters. The prevailing distinction between visions that should
be kept in mind is whether one is asleep and dreaming, or one is awake and
experiencing a waking vision. First, then, the “dream” (ὄνειρον).
The Souda defines the “dream” (ὄνειρον) in relation to the “vision-in-sleep”
(ἐνύπνιον).19 The entry itself is confused, that is, a quotation from Homer at the
end of the entry contradicts the definition being developed. Nevertheless, it is
safe enough to say that the difference between dreams and visions-in-sleep is
that dreams have a pronounced connection to reality and predict what will be:
Ὄνειρον ἐνυπνίου διαφέρει: ἕτερον γάρ ἐστι καὶ οὐ ταὐτό. ἀλλὰ καὶ τὸ ὄνειρον
καὶ ἐνύπνιον καλῶς εἴποι τις ἄν: ὅταν δὲ τεχνικῶς λέγῃ τις, κυρίως ἕκαστον
χρὴ καλεῖν, καὶ τὸ μὲν ἀσήμαντον καὶ οὐδενὸς προαγορευτικόν, ἀλλ’ ἐν μόνῳ
τῷ ὕπνῳ τὴν δύναμιν ἔχον, γινόμενον δὲ ἐξ ἐπιθυμίας ἀλόγου ἢ ὑπερβάλλοντος
φόβου ἢ πλησμονῆς ἢ ἐνδείας, ἐνύπνιον χρὴ καλεῖν, τὸ δὲ μετὰ τὸν ὕπνον ἐνέρ-
γεια ὂν καὶ ἀποβησόμενόν ἐστιν ἀγαθὸν ἢ κακὸν ὄνειρον. πολλάκις δὲ καταχρη-
στέον τοῖς ὀνόμασιν, ὡς καὶ Ὅμηρος: ‘θεῖός μοι ἐνύπνιον ἦλθεν ὄνειρος.’20
A dream differs from a vision-in-sleep. It is something else and not the

same. But someone can say not objectionably that a dream is a vision-in-
sleep. But whenever someone speaks with skilful precision, it is neces-
sary to use each word in its proper sense, and the one meaningless and
not foretelling anything, having its power during sleep alone, and coming
into being because of an irrational desire or an overarching fear or satiety
or poverty: this one it is necessary to call a vision-in-sleep. With respect
to a good or bad dream there is effectivity in reality or soon to eventuate.
Often [sc. both of the] nouns must be used, just as Homer [says]: “a divine
dream came to me as a vision-in-sleep.”
The dream addresses reality and has predictive power (‘effectivity in reality
or soon to eventuate’), whereas the vision-in-sleep comes from something
irrational in the mind or from the way the body is feeling, and therefore has,
according to the Souda, no address to reality. It is debatable of course whether
19 Greek features three nouns that mean ‘dreams’, ὄναρ, ὄνειρον, and ὄνειρος, with no appre-
ciable difference in meaning between them.
20 Souda, Omicron 345 (Ὄνειρον); Homer, Iliad 2.56; Odyssey 14.495.
142 Masterson
a dream driven by, say, the reality of one’s own indigestion is not somehow con-
nected to reality. But rather than question too exactingly, it is best to accept the
distinction and allow mental or somatic solipsism to define the vision-in-sleep.
The quotation from Homer is interesting here. As the vision-in-sleep (ἐνύπνιον)
plays in the mind while one is asleep, a dream (ὄνειρος) can appear within this
envelope, as it were.
The other type of vision is one we have while we are awake: the “waking
vision” (ὕπαρ). Here is the Souda’s entry for the waking vision:
Ὕπαρ: ἀλήθεια, οὐκ ἐν ὀνείρῳ. τὸ μεθ’ ἡμέραν ὄναρ. οἷον φανερῶς, ἀληθῶς
ὑπάρχον. “ἐμοὶ διηγοῦ σὺ τοὐμὸν ὄναρ: ἐγὼ δ’ ἔοικα [σοὶ] τὸ σὸν ὕπαρ ἀφη-
γεῖσθαι.” Ὕπαρ λέγει τὸ μεθ’ ἡμέραν ὄναρ: ὡς ἐναργῶς ὑπάρχον, ἀληθές. κατὰ
ἀποκοπὴν τῆς τελευταίας συλλαβῆς τῆς χον.21
A waking vision is truth and not [a vision] in a dream; a dream during

the day. [A waking vision] is existent obviously and truly. ‘You tell me my
dream and I seem to relate [to you] your waking vision’ [writes Emperor
Julian.]22 A waking vision designates a dream during the day as evidently
existent, a true thing; [also] according to the removal of the final syllable,
the χον.23
The waking vision (ὕπαρ) is distinct from the dream (ὄνειρον), and especially
from the vision-in-sleep (ἐνύπνιον). It has a closer relationship to reality, as it is
ἀλήθεια or truth. The entry strengthens the point about truth through assert-
ing that the word for waking vision, ὕπαρ, is an abbreviation of ὑπάρχον, which
means “a thing existing.” The waking vision also happens during the day while
one is awake. As a daytime envisioning, it has, on this basis, an attachment to
things that are real: consciousness establishes credibility. Still though, a ten-
sion is present in this word, and, as above with the dream, it is best not to try
to resolve it. It is a tension between, on the one hand, the reality of envisioning
things while awake, that is, the fact of consciousness, and, on the other hand,
an oblique connection the waking vision has to things that are real, which
tends to be more occult and even supernatural. With his characteristically odd
acuity, Emperor Julian highlights this tension: magically and from a distance
he tells Ekdikios, the letter recipient, what the truth is.
21 Souda, Upsilon 155 (Ὕπαρ).

22 Emperor Julian, Ep. 108 (Bidez 2004, 186).
23 To whit, ὑπάρχον (“a thing existing”) has become ὕπαρ.
A brief excerpt from Theophanes Continuatus, an anonymous history in four

books further substantiates these assertions about the waking vision. Written
most probably in the 950s at the direction of Konstantinos,24 this history nar-
rates happenings in the 9th century. The account of the reign of Michael III
(842–867) includes a dream that Bardas, Michael’s uncle, had. A leading politi-
cal figure because of the power vacuum created by Michael’s youth, Bardas had
a dream in which he was cut to pieces. The dream also told him that Michael
was doomed. The dream prefigured Bardas’ brutal assassination in 866 by dis-
memberment at the hands of the soon to be emperor, Basileios I.25 After con-
cluding his narration of Bardas’ dream, the author remarks as follows: “and
thus the dream [of Bardas] came to pass, and on account of this it is [in my
estimation] a waking vision (ὕπαρ) and not a dream.”26 The vision that came
to Bardas in a dream, on account of its perfect predicative power, qualifies as a
waking vision. With these distinctions between the dream and waking vision
in mind, I will now focus on desire, dreams, and waking-visions in two letters
by Konstantinos and Theodoros.
4 Konstantinos’ Letter 3
Konstantinos voices desire for Theodoros often in Letter 3.27 He extends discus-
sion of it by presenting it in both a dream and a waking vision. There is much
to say about this letter. First, Konstantinos affects rusticity with the evident
aim of lowering Theodoros’ expectations for the letter. The letter then gains
homoerotic warmth as it proceeds. He speaks of Theodoros’ gift of summer
fruit and wine, likening them to a kiss from his lips. He expands on the emo-
tion, feeling filled up and gladdened: “and as though, according to what has
been written, gladdened.”28 “Gladdened” is meant to be read intertextually, as
Konstantinos signals this by saying “according to what has been written.” As
Tziatzi-Papagianni suggests,29 a probable intertext is a portion of Psalm 103,
a psalm which enumerates many of the benefits that God brings to the world:
24 Treadgold 2013, 165.

25 Calofonos 2014, 108–110, discusses this grim assassination and the dream associated
with it.
26 Theophanes Continuatus 4.40/204 (Featherstone and Signes-Codoñer 2015, 290): καὶ ὁ μὲν
ὄνειρος οὕτω δὴ ἐτελεύτα· ὃ δὲ ὕπαρ ἀλλ’ οὐκ ὄναρ ἐστίν.
27 Letter 3, Konstantinos to Theodoros (Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 87–88), is printed and trans-
lated in its entirety in the Appendix.
28 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 87: καὶ οἱονεὶ κατὰ τὸ γεγραμμένον εὐφρανθέντες.
29 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 87.
144 Masterson
… ἐξανατέλλων χόρτον τοῖς κτήνεσιν καὶ χλόην τῇ δουλείᾳ τῶν ἀνθρώπων τοῦ
ἐξαγαγεῖν ἄρτον ἐκ τῆς γῆς· καὶ οἶνος εὐφραίνει καρδίαν ἀνθρώπου τοῦ ἱλαρῦ-
ναι πρόσωπον ἐν ἐλαίῳ, καὶ ἄρτος καρδίαν ἀνθρώπου στηρίζει. χορτασθήσεται
τὰ ξύλα τοῦ πεδίου, αἱ κέδροι τοῦ Λιβάνου, ἃς ἐφύτευσεν …30
… raising up grass for the cattle and the shoots for the slavery of men
to bring forth bread from the earth. Wine gladdens the heart of a man
to make the face shine with oil, and bread makes the heart of man
strong. The trees of the plain will be made to grow lushly, the cedars of
Lebanon which he planted.
The word the letter tells us to read intertextually is “gladdened” (εὐφρανθέντες),

and it finds its correlate in “gladdens” (εὐφραίνει) in the psalm. A reader’s rec-
ollection of this psalm leads to further reflections, for there are additional
commonalities between these two texts. They have pleasant elements in
common and there are also accompanying items that qualify pleasure: things
in the psalm and the letter come with a catch. We find heart and wine in
both the psalm (οἶνος εὐφραίνει καρδίαν) and the letter (καρδίαν; οἶνον). There
are also good things to eat: summer fruit in the letter and sustaining bread
in the psalm. All these good things don’t come free though. They have ac-
companying drawbacks. In the psalm it is the slavery of men (τῇ δουλείᾳ τῶν
ἀνθρώπων) which accompanies the things to be enjoyed. In the letter, the wine
and summer fruit are accompanied by “constriction and distress.”31 The ad-
mission of a downside then leads Konstantinos to reflect further on other in-
stances in which something good is accompanied by something unwanted.
Konstantinos provides an explanatory metaphor: that of the rose and thorn:
“just as, I suppose, the thorn thrives, somehow, near the rose.”32
Konstantinos’ mention of the rose and thorn adds sexual content to his let-
ter, placed as it is between a discussion of desire and an introduction of the
terms eromenos (ἐρώμενος) and erastes (ἐραστής).33 Within this learned dis-
course, drawn from the pederastic poetry found in the Greek Anthology, the
anus of the boy was the rosebud and the thorn was the hair that would arrive to
mark the end of a boy’s desirability.34 For example, in the anonymous fortieth
epigram from Book 12, a young man past the age of boyish desirability wishes
30 Ps. 103: 14–16.

31 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 87: θλίβον καὶ τρύχον.
32 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 87: ὥσπερ, ὡς οἶμαι, τῷ ῥόδῳ πως ἀναφύεται καὶ ἡ ἄκανθα.
33 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 87–88.
34 Richlin 1992, 35–36.
to be worshipped as a statue might be. But he wants to be a particular kind a

statue: one whose extremities are made of marble but the rest, made of wood
(probably) and covered with a cloak, is not:
“Μὴ ‘κδύσῃς, ἄνθρωπε, τὸ χλαινίον, ἀλλὰ θεώρει

οὕτως ἀκρολίθου κἀμὲ τρόπον ξοάνου.”
γυμνὴν Ἀντιφίλου ζητῶν χάριν, ὡς ἐπ’ ἀκάνθαις
εὑρήσεις ῥοδέαν φυομένην κάλυκα.35
“Don’t take off, man, my little cloak, but look at me as if I were a god’s
statue with marble extremities.” Seeking the naked grace of Antiphilos,
you will discover his blooming rosebud, as it were, amid thorns!
Antiphilos, whose words comprise the first two lines, does not want his cloak
removed, for it will reveal that he has sprouted hairs on his posterior. A work
such as this epigram would occur to an educated Byzantine reader (and
Theodoros was certainly one of those) not only because of the compilation and
circulation of pederastic poetry at this time, but also, as noted above, because
of the mention of beloved boy and lover, who appear soon in the paragraph.
Next Konstantinos writes of “the law of eros and of philia that’s unbas-
tardised, true, sweet, and lovable/erotic.”36 One could be forgiven for imagin-
ing that Konstantinos was going to expand on the notion of maturity bringing
an end to desirability, given what he was just talking about. But it turns out
that the primary aspect of this law about which he wishes to speak is the pain
of being apart, for this is what causes “constriction and distress in [his] heart.”
In any case, he no sooner mentions the law than the thorns reappear, but they
are not as wounding as absence. And as the thorns cannot compete with ab-
sence, neither can a new metaphor, that of the two-edged sword (ῥομφαία
δίστομος): “What is more wounding than thorns, or a two-edged sword, unless
it be the loss of one’s eromenos …”37 The two-edged sword appears in both the
Septuagint38 and in the New Testament39 and takes us into scripture and away
from pederastic literature. What is the valence of this image? Thorns and roses
speak of pederasty, albeit interrupted. What does the two-edged sword say?
35 Greek Anthology 12.40.

36 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 87: νόμος … ἔρωτος καὶ φιλίας ἀνοθεύτου καὶ ἀληθοῦς καὶ γλυκείας
καὶ ἐρασμίας.
37 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 87: Τί γὰρ ἀκάνθης ἢ ῥομφαίας διστόμου πληκτικώτερον, εἰ μὴ
στέρησις ἐρωμένου….
38 In the Septuagint, ῥομφαία δίστομος appears at Ps. 149:6 and Eccles. 21:3.
39 In the New Testament, ῥομφαία δίστομος appears in Apoc. 1:16 and 2:12.
146 Masterson
In the Septuagint, the two-edged sword appears in the Psalms and in

Ecclesiasticus. In the bloodthirsty Psalm 149, the two-edged sword is a weapon
of righteous aggression that holy men wield after they have praised God and
taken carnal enjoyment in their bedchambers:
… καυχήσονται ὅσιοι ἐν δόξῃ καὶ ἀγαλλιάσονται ἐπὶ τῶν κοιτῶν αὐτῶν· αἱ

ὑψώσεις τοῦ θεοῦ ἐν τῷ λάρυγγι αὐτῶν, καὶ ῥομφαῖαι δίστομοι ἐν ταῖς χερσὶν
αὐτῶν τοῦ ποιῆσαι ἐκδίκησιν ἐν τοῖς ἔθνεσιν, ἐλεγμοὺς ἐν τοῖς λαοῖς, τοῦ δῆσαι
τοὺς βασιλεῖς αὐτῶν ἐν πέδαις καὶ τοὺς ἐνδόξους αὐτῶν ἐν χειροπέδαις σιδη-
ραῖς, τοῦ ποιῆσαι ἐν αὐτοῖς κρίμα ἔγγραπτον· δόξα αὕτη ἐστὶν πᾶσι τοῖς ὁσίοις
αὐτοῦ.40
… the holy men will speak loud in glory and they will rejoice in their bed-
chambers. The exaltations of God will be in their throats and the two-
edged swords will be in their hands to bring vengeance to the nations, to
refute the peoples, to bind their kings in fetters and their nobles in iron
chains, to bring to them the judgement that has been written. This glory
will be for all His holy men.
This weapon of the righteous men appears with nearly opposite valence in the
Ecclesiasticus. Here, the two-edged sword is not a weapon wielded by the holy
ones—it is among the metaphors for soul-destroying sin:
Τέκνον, ἥμαρτες; μὴ προσθῇς μηκέτι καὶ περὶ τῶν προτέρων σου δεήθητι. ὡς
ἀπὸ προσώπου ὄφεως φεῦγε ἀπὸ ἁμαρτίας· ἐὰν γὰρ προσέλθῃς, δήξεταί σε·
ὀδόντες λέοντος οἱ ὀδόντες αὐτῆς ἀναιροῦντες ψυχὰς ἀνθρώπων. ὡς ῥομφαία
δίστομος πᾶσα ἀνομία, τῇ πληγῇ αὐτῆς οὐκ ἔστιν ἴασις.41
Have you sinned child? Do so no longer and ask for pardon for your pre-
vious [sins]. As from the face of a serpent, flee from sin. For if you will
approach, it will bite you: its teeth are those of a lion carrying off souls
of people, just as the two-edged sword is all lawlessness, there is no cure
for its blow.
These two occurrences from the Septuagint show that the two-edged sword
has a double valence. On the one hand it is a weapon of the carnal fathers who
fight with divine sanction and, on the other, it is “all lawlessness” (πᾶσα ἀνομία)
40 Ps. 149:5–9.
41 Eccles. 21.1–3.
that will destroy a soul, similar to a savage beast or a malady for which there
is no cure.
The life of the two-edged sword in scripture does not end there. It also oc-
curs in the Apocalypse of John I and II. As is well known, this section of the
New Testament claims to be a quotation of a letter that John has written to the
seven churches in Asia.42 In this letter, he relates what an angel sent by Christ
told him about last things. Hearing a voice telling him to write,43 John turns
around to see the source of that voice:
Καὶ ἐπέστρεψα βλέπειν τὴν φωνὴν ἥτις ἐλάλει μετ’ ἐμοῦ· καὶ ἐπιστρέψας εἶδον
ἑπτὰ λυχνίας χρυσᾶς, καὶ ἐν μέσῳ τῶν λυχνιῶν ὅμοιον υἱὸν ἀνθρώπου, ἐνδεδυ-
μένον ποδήρη καὶ περιεζωσμένον πρὸς τοῖς μαστοῖς ζώνην χρυσᾶν· ἡ δὲ κεφαλὴ
αὐτοῦ καὶ αἱ τρίχες λευκαὶ ὡς ἔριον λευκόν, ὡς χιών, καὶ οἱ ὀφθαλμοὶ αὐτοῦ ὡς
φλὸξ πυρός, καὶ οἱ πόδες αὐτοῦ ὅμοιοι χαλκολιβάνῳ ὡς ἐν καμίνῳ πεπυρω-
μένης, καὶ ἡ φωνὴ αὐτοῦ ὡς φωνὴ ὑδάτων πολλῶν, καὶ ἔχων ἐν τῇ δεξιᾷ χειρὶ
αὐτοῦ ἀστέρας ἑπτά, καὶ ἐκ τοῦ στόματος αὐτοῦ ῥομφαία δίστομος ὀξεῖα ἐκπο-
ρευομένη, καὶ ἡ ὄψις αὐτοῦ ὡς ὁ ἥλιος φαίνει ἐν τῇ δυνάμει αὐτοῦ.44
I turned to look to the voice which was speaking with me. Having turned
I saw seven gold candle-stands and in the midst of candle-stands one
like the son of man, clothed to his feet and wearing a gold sash across
his breast. His head and hair are white as wool is white, as snow is white,
and his eyes are as the fire’s flame. His feet are like brass, as though in the
furnace of the glowing [flame], and his voice is like the voice of many
waters. He is holding in his right hand seven stars, and from his mouth
a sharp two-edged sword is jutting out. The appearance of him shines as
the sun does in its power.
Here the two-edged sword juts out from the mouth. It is a difficult image, but
surely gestures in the direction of language that is aggressive. The words out of
the mouth of the “one like the son of man” will be violent and punishing. The
partly metaphorical nature of the sword discernible in Ecclesiasticus (“all law-
lessness”/πᾶσα ἀνομία) has been realized here, as the sword is as metaphorical
as can be at this point in the text.
In the next section of the Apocalypse the two-edged sword appears again.
There are further directions for John:
42 Apoc. 1:4.
43 Apoc. 1:10–11.
44 Apoc. 1:12–16.
148 Masterson
Καὶ τῷ ἀγγέλῳ τῆς ἐν Περγάμῳ ἐκκλησίας γράψον· Τάδε λέγει ὁ ἔχων τὴν
ῥομφαίαν τὴν δίστομον τὴν ὀξεῖαν· Οἶδα ποῦ κατοικεῖς, ὅπου ὁ θρόνος τοῦ
Σατανᾶ, καὶ κρατεῖς τὸ ὄνομά μου, καὶ οὐκ ἠρνήσω τὴν πίστιν μου καὶ ἐν ταῖς
ἡμέραις Ἀντιπᾶς ὁ μάρτυς μου ὁ πιστός μου, ὃς ἀπεκτάνθη παρ’ ὑμῖν, ὅπου
ὁ Σατανᾶς κατοικεῖ. ἀλλ’ ἔχω κατὰ σοῦ ὀλίγα, ὅτι ἔχεις ἐκεῖ κρατοῦντας τὴν
διδαχὴν Βαλαάμ, ὃς ἐδίδασκεν τῷ Βαλὰκ βαλεῖν σκάνδαλον ἐνώπιον τῶν υἱῶν
Ἰσραήλ, φαγεῖν εἰδωλόθυτα καὶ πορνεῦσαι· οὕτως ἔχεις καὶ σὺ κρατοῦντας τὴν
διδαχὴν Νικολαϊτῶν ὁμοίως. μετανόησον οὖν· εἰ δὲ μή, ἔρχομαί σοι ταχύ, καὶ
πολεμήσω μετ’ αὐτῶν ἐν τῇ ῥομφαίᾳ τοῦ στόματός μου.45
And to the angel of the church in Pergamum [John, I want you to] write
the following: “The one holding the sharp two-edged sword says the fol-
lowing: ‘I know where you live, where the throne of Satan is, and you
honor my name. You did not deny faith in me during the days faithful
Antipas was a martyr, who was killed among you, in the place where
Satan lives. But I do have some things against you. You have those who
honor the teachings of Balaam, who taught Balak to pitch a snare in the
face of the sons of Israel, to eat the sacrifices to the idols, and to fornicate.
In the same moment you also have those honoring the teaching of the
Nicolaitians. Repent therefore. If you don’t, I will come for you swiftly,
and I will make war on you with the sword of my mouth.’ ”
Here, the two-edged sword appears first as an actual weapon in the hand but at
the end of the passage it is issuing from his mouth again.46 We see a movement
toward physicality and then back toward metaphor that characterised the two-
edged sword in the first section of the Apocalypse. It is an instrument of physi-
cal and verbal chastisement. The sword here means to sharpen the resolve to
repent of consuming sacrificial meats and fornicating (φαγεῖν εἰδωλόθυτα καὶ
πορνεῦσαι), the latter of which is particularly interesting when compared with
the desire-filled context of Konstantinos’ letter.
When Konstantinos mentions the two-edged sword in his letter, his wields
an image that, when in the Septuagint, is both an actual weapon of the carnal
fathers and a metaphor for the damage that sin can do to the soul. In the New
Testament, the two-edged sword is not only a physical weapon but also a meta-
phor for the punishing word of Christ that condemns fornication. This image
from authoritative scripture brings moral and phenomenological complexity
45 Apoc. 2:12–16.
46 The adjective ‘two-edged’ (δίστομος) is missing in the later verse but may be presumed.
to this scene of desire in a medieval letter: carnality, chastisement of fornica-

tion, and lawlessness on one hand, and, on the other, a dichotomy between
physicality and metaphoricity.
Comparison of the two-edged sword to the thorn (ἄκανθα) is revealing and
appropriate, for Konstantinos presents them both as less vexatious than being
apart from Theodoros is. The thorn encapsulates a limitation on desire accord-
ing to the general protocols around pederasty: a hairy man is not to be de-
sired. The threat posed by the two-edged sword to desire is more nebulous. It is
certainly reasonable to imagine that the two-edged sword embodies strictures
against carnal expression of desire, though it is not a simple image, on account
of its life as carnal, lawless, and upholder of God’s law. But Konstantinos wor-
ries less about desire improper (thorn) or illicit (sword) than he does about
being apart. He does not worry about prohibition, whether it is based on age—
for hair on his beloved (ἐρώμενος) will not bother him—or on religion. Rather,
absence is the worst thing. Indeed, he expands on this norm-breaking position
when he says the following: “I am mad but [I am mad] temperately, for friend-
ship [as far as I am concerned] knows how to innovate in all things.”47 In their
friendship, paradoxes abound. Madness is not madness. There is a law of eros
and philia, according to which rulebooks are thrown out amid innovation and
renegotiation. Established law is innovation and the rule is that there is no rule.
Now having broken free of constraints, Konstantinos becomes more direct
and speaks of his desire as perceptible in dreams and in a waking-vision, both of
which of course, as noted above in the discussion of their respective entries in
the Souda, had a particular address to reality and truth. In the letter he remarks
that dreams (ὄνειροι) often harass him as he sleeps and he rejoices when he
thinks his “dearest one” has been put in his hands, that there is an opportunity
for intercourse/conversation—a double-entendre: προσομιλεῖν—and kissing
(καταφιλεῖν). Then he awakens and the visions that he had while asleep yield to
the kind one has while awake. The illusion of presence that unconsciousness
made available is no longer present for him. And he expresses dissatisfaction
with being in the domain of the waking vision (ὕπαρ). A reader might expect
that things will be chaster going forward. This expectation is not met when
all the same things are written into the register of the waking vision; all these
feelings turn out to be truth (ἀλήθεια) and a thing existing (ὑπάρχον), as it were.
The waking vision, initially the chilly waters of reality, becomes an increasingly
warm bath as kissing, friendly biting (δακεῖν … φιλικῶς), and satisfying desire
47 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 88: μαίνομαι γάρ, ἀλλὰ σωφρόνως• οἶδε γὰρ φιλία πάντα καινοτομεῖν.
150 Masterson
(ἵνα τῆς ἐφέσεως ἀπολαύσωμεν) become “truth and not [a vision] in a dream”
(ἀλήθεια, οὐκ ἐν ὀνείρῳ), as the Souda would put it.48
In sum, a reader of this letter, who considers the presentation of Konstantinos’
desire for Theodoros in it, finds Konstantinos outlining a place for desire out-
side of usual strictures recoverable from both earlier Greek literature and
scripture. The letter concludes with a phenomenologically varied depiction of
this desire, showing up both in dreams and in a waking vision. While a modern
reader of this letter might be tempted to think Konstantinos’ talk of dreams
and visions is illusory, the Souda discourages such a view. Dreams and waking
visions have a connection to truth and there is the fact that Konstantinos has
spent much time considering his desire from a number of angles.
5 Theodoros’ Letter 4
We are fortunate to have Theodoros’ response to Konstantinos’ letter (see

Appendix: Letter 4). In his answer, Theodoros prefers the flames of desire and,
more egalitarian, he does not talk of lovers (ἐρασταί) and beloveds (ἐρώμενοι),
nor does he speak of thorns and roses. He thereby avoids the assymetries of
pederasty which were a prominent theme in Konstantinos’ letter. Theodoros
focuses on Konstantinos’ sweet mouth and depicts the emperor as a spring,
honeyed and golden, that does not quench a fire but makes it flame higher and
hotter. Also depicting his thoughts about the emperor as happening in both an
unconscious dream and in conscious visions, Theodoros articulates his desire
via the dream/waking vision dichotomy. He thinks of Konstantinos during the
day. Konstantinos also appears to Theodoros in a dream in which a running or
horse-back riding Konstantinos is being pursued. His dream is not as erotic as
Konstantinos’. The running, perhaps a race, with overtones of political allegory,
does not seem sexy. But the admiring lead-in, which features Theodoros’ de-
light in Konstantinos’ smile, perhaps is. There also might be a double-entendre
with “stood” when he says, “during the night you, a dream, stood at my right.”49
The verb in question παρέστηκας is intransitive in this form and can refer to
an erection, as resort to the Greek Anthology shows. In Epigram 232 from Book
12, in a poem by Skythinos, an impatient narrator addresses his erect penis:
Ὀρθὸν νῦν ἕστηκας, ἀνώνυμον, οὐδὲ μαραίνῃ,

ἐντέτασαι δ’ ὡς ἂν μήποτε παυσόμενον·
48 Souda, Upsilon 155: Ὕπαρ.

49 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 89: καὶ νύκτωρ δεξιός μοι παρέστηκας ὄνειρος.
ἀλλ’ ὅτε μοι Νεμεσηνὸς ὅλον παρέκλινεν ἑαυτὸν

πάντα διδούς, ἃ θέλω, νεκρὸν ἀπεκρέμασο.
τείνεο καὶ ῥήσσου καὶ δάκρυε· πάντα ματαίως·
οὐχ ἕξεις ἔλεον χειρὸς ἀφ’ ἡμετέρης.50
Now you have stood straight up, nameless one, nor do you fail: you strain
as though you would never cease. But when Nemesenos stretched out
his entire self next to me on the bed, offering everything I might have
wanted, a dead thing you hung there. Strain, burst, and cry! It’s all in vain.
You will not receive mercy from my hand.
Addressing his erect penis, the narrator berates it for being hard now (ὀρθὸν νῦν
ἕστηκας) when it only had dysfunction to offer a willing boy at some previous
moment. He will now let his penis suffer in an unrelieved erect state by refus-
ing it masturbation.
Still, Theodoros’ letter dismisses much of the content of the dream, as it
merely contains things that appear “in a vision” and not the truth.51 Although
he is gladdened in the dream, it is ultimately unfulfilling.52 He prefers to pic-
ture his desired one during the day via a waking vision. He wishes for “true
intercourse and conversation,”53 both of which are double-entendres. He is
also grateful for the words in Konstantinos’ letters, calling them “beautiful”
(ὡραίους), a word often associated with sexually desirable persons. And these
beautiful words come on like an insistent lover. In speaking of how these words
affect him, Theodoros corrects Konstantinos’ friendly biting (δακεῖν … φιλικῶς)
to say, instead, that they bite him in a desirous or erotic way (δάκνειν ἐρωτι-
κῶς), and also that they are “turning over his soul.” This turning over is worth
attention. In this increasingly erotic milieu, that is, biting has just been made
desirous/erotic (ἐρωτικῶς), “turning over” (στρέφειν) turns out to have a rel-
evant sexual life.
It will be useful to quote the final words of the letter here:
… πολλαπλασίαν ἐδεξάμην τὴν ἀμοιβὴν, τοὺς ὡραίους σου λόγους καὶ

γλυκερούς, οἵπερ ἐν τῷ δάκνειν ἐρωτικῶς καὶ στρέφειν μου τὴν ψυχὴν πλέον
50 Greek Anthology 12.232.

51 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 89: κατὰ τὴν φαντασίαν.
52 I should note here that εὐφροσύνης and εὐφραίνειν (‘gladness’ and ‘to be glad’, the latter ap-
pearing twice) are well regarded as echoes of εὐφρανθέντες in Konstantinos’ letter (Tziatzi-
Papagianni 2012, 89 and 90).
53 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 89: ἀληθοῦς … συνουσίας καὶ ὁμιλίας.
152 Masterson
εὐωδιάζουσιν ἤπερ ὁ ἐπαινεθεὶς ἀνθοσμίας οἶδεν εὐφραίνειν καρδίαν ἀνθρώπων

ἢ καὶ τὸ νέκταρ αὐτό, ᾧπερ οἱ μάκαρες ἐμεθύσκοντο.54
I have received recompense many times over for yesterday’s fruits, these
fruits that have nothing brilliant about them other than the fact that they
were chosen [for you by me], [recompense that is these] beautiful and
sweet words of yours, words that, through desirous/erotic biting and
turning over my soul, are fragrant. [And they are] more fragrant than
[even] how the praised scent of flowers knows how to gladden the heart
of men or even nectar itself, on which the blessed ones used to get drunk.
A reader of the letter has quite a carnal vision in their mind: the emperor bit-
ing Theodoros on, what?, the neck and then turning him over to … oh wait,
it’s the soul. The arrival of the soul is deflating and decorporealising, but it
does not evacuate the immediately preceding words of semantic content. The
reader has been on a journey that the soul (ψυχή) cannot erase. Indeed, “turn-
ing over” (στρέφειν) has an eye-opening semantic range in the Greek Anthology.
Corporeal, this verb refers to anal penetration on four occasions.
Four epigrams, two from Book 5 and two from Book 12, show that this verb
can be construed as designating a man turning someone, male or female, over
or around in order to penetrate them anally. At 5.54.5–6, Dioscorides suggests
that if one’s wife (or concubine) is pregnant, anal sex provides a good sub-
stitute enjoyment: “[H]aving turned your bed-partner over (στρέψας), enjoy
her buttocks that are like the rose, practising boyish Kypris”55 (note too the
presence of the rose). In another poem, also from Book 5, Markos Argentarios
addressing devotees of male love, assures them that if they don’t have a boy
at hand and only a girl or a woman, there is a solution, anal intercourse:
“… having turned over Menophila of the beautiful hips, suppose in your mind
that you possess male Menophilos himself in his recesses.”56 There is an epi-
gram by Kallimakhos in Book 12, which is one of the few poems in this book of
the anthology not concerned with the love of boys. After telling the young men
that they should not spend time with a female runaway slave,57 Kallimakhos
concludes the poem by implying that she is (probably) being anally penetrat-
ed: “For I know that she, worthy to be stoned, is in some kind of way being
54 Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 89–90.

55 … στρέψας ῥοδοειδέι τέρπεο πυγῇ / τὴν ἄλοχον, νομίσας ἀρσενόπαιδα Κύπριν.
56 5.116.5–6: … στρέψας Μηνοφίλαν εὐίσχιον ἐν φρεσὶν ἔλπου / αὐτὸν ἔχειν κόλποις ἄρσενα
Μηνόφιλον.
57 12.73.3: τὴν δρῆστιν μὴ ὑποδέχεσθε, νέοι.
turned over around here and badly loved.”58 In poem 93, also from Book 12,
Rhianos makes a list of dazzling boys who can command a man’s attention.
Theodoros or Philokles are truly beautiful to gaze upon.59 The next boy men-
tioned, Leptines, is our point of interest. His gorgeous body is the object of
a compound verb built on strephein, epistrephein. This verb both refers both
to turning things over (it is close in meaning to the uncompounded verb,
στρέφειν) and to perception:
ἢν δ’ ἐπὶ Λεπτίνεω στρέψῃς δέμας, οὐκέτι γυῖα

κινήσεις, ἀλύτῳ δ’ ὡς ἀδάμαντι μένεις
ἴχνια κολληθείς …60
If you turn over/gaze upon the body of Leptines, no longer will you move
your limbs, but as though glued down by unbreakable adamant, you stay
your steps …
Epistrephein is polysemous here, able to be taken either as the handling of the

boy’s body or as the perception of his body. These lines speak of the narrator
walking no further, but the suspicion that an impressively hard erection has
arisen also hovers at the margins, perhaps the glans does not flop at this point
and even has an adamantine hardness to it? The facets in meaning in this verb
of physicality and perception accordingly are well-seen as both being in play.
When Theodoros speaks of erotic biting from his emperor and then to a turn-
ing over, the reader is being taken on a journey that creates memories that
not even the subsequent specification of the soul can erase. In these letters,
then, Konstantinos and Theodoros play an intensely teasing and corporealis-
ing game. The content of these two letters are but a glimpse into a series of
exchanges that provide insight into elite male culture in the empire of the mid-
900s. There is, of course, more to say about the other letters they exchanged
with each other.61
58 12.73.5–6: … ἐκεῖσε γὰρ ἡ λιθόλευστος / κείνη καὶ δύσερως οἶδ’ ὅτι που στρέφεται. NOTE: It is
possible that it is not anal penetration simply; it could be rape if δύσερως can be seen to
drive interpretation past the unproductive pleasures of anal sex into sexual coercion of all
kinds.
59 12.93.3–6.
60 12.93.7–9.
61 Much more about these letters (and other contemporary letter collections) will appear
in my forthcoming monograph: “Between Byzantine Men: Desire, Brotherhood, and Male
Culture in the Medieval Empire.”
154 Masterson
6 Conclusion
These two letters present same-sex desire from a number of angles. Desire pro-
vides a strong graphic metaphor for friendship and regard. Konstantinos pro-
poses pederasty while Theodoros is more egalitarian. Both see the desire for
each other as something that appears both in dreams and in waking visions.
Furthermore, waking-visions are not our idle day-dreams. For the Byzantines
the waking vision (ὕπαρ) had a privileged connection to reality, facts, and
truth. This connection may be hard to grasp in this time of privileging the un-
conscious dream as more revelatory than what we might choose to think of
while awake. Furthermore, the manipulation of desire’s phenomenology and
its frequent appearance make maintaining the idea that it’s just a formal fea-
ture of the genre, at least in these letters, difficult to maintain. Is it not time
to grant that we cannot rule out actual desire between these two men? They
certainly can conceive of it. The knowing play, perceptible in both the letters
and in the intertexts, with what is metaphorical and what is real poses a hard
question to anyone who would insist that desire between these Byzantine men
was not conceivable to them. Whatever the case, though, these letters attest
to low rates of what we could call, anachronistically, homophobia in tenth-
century Byzantium.
7 Appendix
Letter 3
Οὐκ εἰσὶν ἐμὰ τὰ γράμματα, μὰ τὴν σὴν ἀρετήν, ἀλλά τι σμικρὸν παπαδύλλιον καὶ εὐτελὲς
πρὸς τὴν τοιαύτην γραφὴν διηκόνησεν• ἡ δὲ ὑπαγόρευσις, εἰ καὶ ἡμεῖς ἀρνησόμεθα, ἀλλὰ δήλη
τυγχάνει τοῖς τὸν ἡμέτερον ἤδη χαρακτῆρα γινώσκουσι• καὶ γὰρ τὸ σαθρὸν τοῦ ἡμετέρου
νοὸς καὶ τὸ βάρβαρον καὶ σόλοικον τῆς ἡμετέρας ἀμουσίας οὐ τοῖς πολλοῖς ἄγνωστον καὶ
κεκρυμμένον ἐστί, ἀλλὰ δῆλον καὶ προφανές, κἂν ἡμεῖς ἀπαρνώμεθα.
Τὰς δὲ γλυκείας ὄντως καὶ μελιρρύτους ὀπώρας δεξάμενοι καὶ τὸν ἀνθοσμίαν οἶνον, τὸ<ν>
ὑπὲρ τὸ πάλαι λαλούμενον νέκταρ, ἀπεγευσάμεθα μὲν οἱονεὶ τῶν σῶν γλυκερῶν χειλέων
σμικρόν τινα ἀσπασμὸν εἰσδεξάμενοι, ἐπὶ πλέον δὲ τούτου ἐμφορηθέντες καὶ οἱονεὶ κατὰ τὸ
γεγραμμένον εὐφρανθέντες, τὸ θλίβον καὶ τρύχον τὴν ἡμετέραν καρδίαν ἐγγὺς τῆς κύλικος
ἐπιφυόμενον εὕρομεν, ὥσπερ, ὡς οἶμαι, τῷ ῥόδῳ πως ἀναφύεται καὶ ἡ ἄκανθα. Νόμος γὰρ
οὗτος ἔρωτος καὶ φιλίας ἀνοθεύτου καὶ ἀληθοῦς καὶ γλυκείας καὶ ἐρασμίας. Τί γὰρ ἀκάνθης ἢ
ῥομφαίας διστόμου πληκτικώτερον, εἰ μὴ στέρησις ἐρωμένου καὶ φίλου ἀποικία καὶ ἀπουσία,
καὶ τοιούτου οὕτω πιστοῦ καὶ φιλοσόφου καὶ κατὰ πάντα ἤδη τὸ πρωτεῖον ἔχοντος; Μανικὸς
γὰρ ὄντως ἐραστὴς τυγχάνω πρὸς τοὺς ἐμὲ οὕτω φιλοῦντας—μαίνομαι γάρ, ἀλλὰ σωφρόνως•
οἶδε γὰρ φιλία πάντα καινοτομεῖν. Σοὶ δὲ τὰ πλείονα παραχωροῦμεν ὡς εἰδότες οὕτω πρὸς
ἡμᾶς καὶ διακείμενον καὶ διακεισόμενον.
Ἐμὲ δὲ καὶ πολλὰ καὶ πολλάκις οἱ ὄνειροι καὶ ταράσσουσι καὶ εὐφραίνουσι, καὶ ὡσπε-
ρεὶ τὸν φίλτατον ἐν χερσὶ διδόασι καὶ προσομιλεῖν πλανῶσι καὶ καταφιλεῖν ἀπατῶσι. Τὸ
δὲ ὕπαρ πολλὰ καταρῶμαι καὶ ζημίας πρόξενον ἡγοῦμαι• οὗ γὰρ καθ’ ὕπνους ἀπολαύω καὶ
ποσῶς τῆς ἐφέσεως ἐμφοροῦμαι {καὶ} ἀφυπνισθεὶς μάταιος τῆς τοιαύτης ἡδονῆς εὑρίσκο-
μαι, καὶ εὔχομαι Κυρίῳ τῷ Θεῷ μου δοῦναι καιρὸν φιλῆσαι τὸν φιλούμενον καὶ ποθῆσαι τὸν
ποθούμενον καὶ δακεῖν οὐχὶ πληκτικῶς ἀλλὰ φιλικῶς• δάκνουσι γὰρ καὶ οἱ φιλοῦντες, οὐχ
ἵνα πλήξωσιν, ἀλλ’ ἵνα πλέον ποθήσωσιν. Εὔχου τοίνυν τὸν καιρὸν ἐλθεῖν ἵνα τῆς ἐφέσεως
ἀπολαύσωμεν.62
These things of mine are not a letter, by your virtue (arete), but something small has
done service, characteristic of a little priest and cheap, in answer to the sort of letter
[you have written]! The idea [that this is so], even if I will deny it, is surely clear to
those who know what I’m like. Indeed, the shoddy state of my mind and the barbarity
and incorrect usage of my muse-less state are not unknown to many and it’s not hid-
den from them either. It is clear and evident, even if I should venture to deny it.
Having received the summer fruit, truly sweet and dripping with honey, and the
wine scented with flowers, which was called in very ancient times nectar, I have tasted
it as though having received some small kiss from your sweet lips. But, while filled up
by this all the more and as though, according to what has been written, gladdened, I
found constriction and distress in my heart arising in the company of my wine glass,
just as, I suppose, the thorn thrives, somehow, near the rose. This is the law of eros and
of philia that’s unbastardised, true, sweet, and lovable/erotic. What is more wounding
than thorns, or a two-edged sword, unless it be the loss of one’s eromenos, the absence
and being away of a friend, and of such a one so trustworthy, wisdom-loving, and hold-
ing the first place surely in all things. For I am, as it turns out, an erastes maddened as
regards those who have philia for me, for I am mad but [I am mad] temperately, for
friendship [as far as I am concerned] knows how to innovate in all things. But I allow
more to you, as I know that you are well-disposed to us and will remain so.
Many times and in many ways, dreams disturb and delight me. And just as if they
put my dear one in my hands, they counterfeit conversation/intercourse and deceive
me about kissing. But then I curse many times the waking-vision and believe it a bring-
er of loss, for what I enjoy in dreams and however much of desire I am filled with, I,
awakened, discover myself bereft of such pleasure and I pray to my Lord God to give
me the moment to kiss my dear friend and the moment to desire my desired one and
to bite him not in a hostile way but in a friendly way, for those who feel philia bite not
62 Letter 3, Konstantinos to Theodoros (Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 87–88).

156 Masterson
so much so that they may harm but so that they may desire all the more. Pray therefore
for the moment to come so that we may satisfy our desire.
Letter 4
Τὴν ἐκ τῆς ἀπουσίας ὑμῶν χθεσινὴν κατήφειαν ἡ σήμερον ἐλθοῦσά μοι τιμία καὶ πάνσοφος
καὶ φρονιμωτάτη γραφὴ διεσκέδασε καὶ πρὸς εὐθυμίαν μετήμειψε, καὶ τὴν ἐν τῇ καρδίᾳ
μου φλόγα τοῦ πόθου τῆς βασιλείου ὑμῶν στεφηφόρου καὶ θείας κεφαλῆς ἐπὶ πλεῖον ἀνῆψέ
τε καὶ ἐξέκαυσε, καὶ ἤδη μου φλέγεται ἡ ψυχὴ ἐπιθυμοῦσα καὶ ζητοῦσα τὰ ἐλπιζόμενα• οἱ
δὲ ἐκ τῆς γλυκοστόμου καὶ μελιρρύτου σου πηγῆς, τοῦ σωφρονοῦντος καὶ παγχρύσου σου
στόματος, ἐπιδαψιλευόμενοί μοι κρουνοὶ οὐ μόνον <οὐ> σβεννύουσι τὴν φλόγα, ἀλλὰ καὶ
προσανάπτουσιν. Ὅθεν καὶ μεθ’ ἡμέραν φαντάζομαι τὸν ποθούμενον, τὸν χρυσαυγῆ μοι καὶ
ὑπέρλαμπρον, καὶ νύκτωρ δεξιός μοι παρέστηκας ὄνειρος, καὶ σὲ βλέπω μετὰ τοῦ γενναίου
καὶ μετὰ θαύματος ἀγαπωμένου ἀεὶ βλοσυροῦ καὶ βασιλικοῦ μειδιάματος• καί ποτέ σε κατὰ
τοὺς ὕπνους προετρεψάμην ταχύτερον θεῖν, ἵνα μή τις προφθάσῃ σε καὶ ἀποκλείσῃ σοι τὰ
βασίλεια, καὶ αὐτὸς συμπροεθυμούμην μὴ ἀπολείπεσθαι, ἀλλὰ τῆς ὀξύτητος τοῦ ὑμετέρου
ἵππου παντ’ ἐγίνετο δεύτερα.
Ἀλλὰ ταῦτα μὲν τῆς ἀληθινῆς εὐφροσύνης ἀπολειπόμενα, ὅσον εὐφραίνειν κατὰ τὴν φα-
ντασίαν δοκεῖ, τοσοῦτον ἀνιᾷ κατὰ τὴν ἀλήθειαν. Ἡμᾶς δὲ εἴη τῆς ἀληθοῦς ἐμφορηθῆναι
συνουσίας καὶ ὁμιλίας σου, ὦ Θεὲ καὶ Κύριε, ὁ πάντα μετασκευάζων ἐπὶ τὸ βέλτιον.
Τῶν δὲ χθίζων ὀπωρῶν, οὐδὲν ἐχουσῶν λαμπρὸν ἢ μόνην τὴν προαίρεσιν, πολλαπλασίαν
ἐδεξάμην τὴν ἀμοιβὴν, τοὺς ὡραίους σου λόγους καὶ γλυκερούς, οἵπερ ἐν τῷ δάκνειν ἐρωτικῶς
καὶ στρέφειν μου τὴν ψυχὴν πλέον εὐωδιάζουσιν ἤπερ ὁ ἐπαινεθεὶς ἀνθοσμίας οἶδεν εὐφραί-
νειν καρδίαν ἀνθρώπων ἢ καὶ τὸ νέκταρ αὐτό, ᾧπερ οἱ μάκαρες ἐμεθύσκοντο.63
Your letter, which honours me and is all knowing and quite smart, arrived today [and]
has dispelled yesterday’s gloom over being apart from you. It has changed [the gloom]
to cheerfulness and sets alight and causes the flame in my heart to burn, [as well as the
flame] of desire for the crowned and divine head of our imperial one. Already my soul
is on fire, as it desires and seeks hoped for things. The sources of the sweet-mouthed
and honey-dripping spring of you, of your wise and all-golden mouth, [the sources]
lavish for me not only quench the flame, they enkindle it. Hence then, during the day I
envision for myself my desired one, gold gleaming for me and beyond light-filled, and
during the night you, a dream, stood at my right, and I see you in your nobility and in
the beloved marvelousness of your always valiant and imperial smile. And at the mo-
ment I urged you to run faster in my dreams so that no one would beat you and close
63
Letter 4, Theodoros to Konstantinos (Tziatzi-Papagianni 2012, 88–90).
the palace to you, and I took zealous part so as not to be left behind. All things were
second to “the snorting” of your “horse.”64
But these things fall short of true gladness, for however much one seems to be glad-
dened in a vision, to that extent one rages against the truth. May it happen that we
be filled with your true intercourse and conversation, O God and Lord who converts
everything to a better state.
I have received recompense many times over for yesterday’s fruits, these fruits that
have nothing brilliant about them other than the fact that they were chosen [for you
by me], [recompense that is these] beautiful and sweet words of yours, words that,
through desirous/erotic biting and turning over my soul, are fragrant. [And they are]
more fragrant than [even] how the praised scent of flowers knows how to gladden the
heart of men or even nectar itself, on which the blessed ones used to get drunk.
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64 cf. Ier. 8:16.

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(Aldershot).
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Byzantium (Aldershot), 3–22.
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chapter 8
The Dream Come True? Matthew of Edessa and the

Return of the Roman Emperor
Maximilian Lau
In producing her monograph on the twelfth-century Armenian Chronicle of

Mattʿēos UṙhayecʿI, often known as Matthew of Edessa, Tara Andrews propos-
es its structure is provided by his numerous references to the prophecies of the
11th century by the Vardapet (scholarly priest) Yovhannēs Kozeṙn.1 Andrews
argues convincingly that these prophecies act as a “table of contents” for the
trajectory of history that Matthew was attempting to portray, and indeed that
those events which detract from this template of history were omitted. One
of the most significant of Kozeṙn’s prophecies was a vision he supposedly had
in 1036/7, which foretold that disasters would soon strike the Armenians and
the whole Christian world. This would lead to sixty years of oppression by “a
people cursed by God”, the Turks, referred to by the classicising term “Persians”.
Once these years had passed, the Franks would rise up and free Jerusalem from
bondage, though this would be answered sevenfold by the ferocity of the Turks.
Fifty years after this, however, the Romans would start gaining strength, little
by little, and then:
As if waking from sleep the king of the Romans arises and comes like an
eagle against the Persian forces with a fearful multitude like sand on the
shore of the sea. He will come inflamed by fire, and out of fear of him all
creatures will tremble, and the Persians and all the foreign forces shall
take their flight to the other side of the great Gihon river.2 And then the
1 Andrews 2017, 30–43. She posits the Chronicle was completed sometime between 1130 and
1137; see below for further discussion on this, however. For Kozeṙn’s prophecy, see MacEvitt
2008, 27–29, 177–179, who ironically uses the prophecies as a framework for his own work,
while not acknowledging that Matthew does the same. On Kozeṙn himself, see Andrews 2017,
30 n. 26.
2 The river Gihon is mentioned in Genesis 2:13 as one of the four rivers that sprang forth from
Eden, together with the Tigris, Euphrates and the similarly topographically uncertain Pishon.
It has been associated with Ethiopia and India, with the Nile, with the modern river Aras in
eastern Turkey, or another unknown Mesopotamian river. This citation could therefore refer
to the Turks specifically being driven out of traditional Armenian lands or, more rhetorically,

The Dream Come True ? 161
Roman king will take and rule the whole land for many years; and all the
earth will receive renewal, and the foundation for buildings will be laid,
and thus it will be renewed like after the flood.
Եւ յայնժամ որպէս ի քնոյ զարթուցեալ՛ լինի թագաւորն

Հռոմայեցւոց, ե հասանէ որպէս զարծուի ի վերայ զաւրացն
Պարսից ահագին բազմութեամբ՛ որպէս զաւազ առ եզր ծովու: Ելցէ
որպես զհուր բորբոքեալ, ե յահէ նորա դողան ամենայն արարածք,
ե Պարսիկք ե ամենայն զաւրք այլազգեացն արասցեն զփախուստ
իւրեանց յայնկոյս մեծ գետոյն Ջահունից:
Եւ յայնժամ թագաւորն Հռոմայեցւոց տիրելով տիրէ ամենայն
աշխարհի զամս բազումս, ե նորոգումն առնու ամենայն երկիր, ե
շինութեան հիմն արկանի, ե այնպէս նորանայ նա որպէս զկնի
ջրհեղեղին.3
The prophecy continues that the Romans will take a great amount of treasure
and captives from the Persians, before eventually “all the sovereignty of the
earth will settle in the hand of the Roman king”.4 The first part of this prophecy
refers to the Turkish incursions after the battle of Manzikert (1071), and then
the capture of Jerusalem by the Franks of the First Crusade. Whether Matthew
had a specific figure in mind as to the returning “Roman king” is, however, an
open question.5
I posit that Matthew had Emperor John II Komnenos (fl. 1087–1143) spe-
cifically in mind for this “Roman king”, and that that this was due to a rap-
prochement in the 1130s between him and a faction of Armenian Cilicians who
favoured a return to imperial rule, politically and ecclesiastically. Matthew’s
chronicle was written in Marash and Edessa itself while they were fought over
by the eastern Romans, crusaders, Turks and Armenians, so his chronicle pro-
vides a unique insight into the condition of the region and its peoples at this
time. I propose that there was no monolithic Armenian voice during this pe-
riod, but diverse factions in a divided land, and that Matthew’s continuator,
Gregory the Priest, was part of a faction opposed to the empire. I shall also
highlight lesser known documents such as a letter between the Armenian
katholikos and Emperor John, which testifies to this attempted rapprochement.
as being driven to the ends of the earth. See Bromiley 1979–1988, 467, also Andrews 2017,
209 n. 14.
3 See Andrews 2017, 35–36 for translation, 208–209 for the original Armenian, which is also
translated and paraphrased in MacEvitt 2008, 27–28.
4 Ibid.
5 Andrews 2017, 42.
162 Lau
I outline the specifics of John’s dealings with the Armenians, his conquest of
Cilicia, and how that fed into Matthew’s positive opinion of John. This will be
followed by a discussion of how the prophecy related above fits John, particu-
larly in regard to his actions during the campaign of 1137–8. I then demonstrate
how it is therefore possible for Matthew to have lived and written long enough
to have experienced John’s conquest of Cilicia, with his brief overlordship of
Antioch and Edessa, and still hold a positive opinion of John II Komnenos.
Thus I will also reopen the question of the date of Matthew’s last entry in his
chronicle; Andrews believes Matthew’s positive opinion of John means that
Matthew could not have written the 1137 entry.
It is useful to first understand that the character of John II that Matthew
presents is particularly positive in contrast to his more mixed portrayal of
John’s father and predecessor, Alexios I Komnenos (fl. c.1056–1118). Though
Alexios is lauded for defeating a nomadic invasion and quashing heresy in
Constantinople, and is described as, “a good and wise man and strong in war-
fare and very merciful to the faithful in Christ”, he is also condemned for in-
sisting that Armenians receive a second, Chalcedonian baptism, a policy that
Matthew notes John specifically reversed.6 Equally, he is accused of betray-
ing the Frankish crusaders by allowing them to go hungry, and then arranging
for them to face a Turkish army.7 Andrews notes that such a pro-Latin take
on Alexios’ behaviour makes it likely that Matthew was writing this section in
the late 1130s. This is due to the 1141 synod in Jerusalem where the Armenian,
Latin and Syriac churches attempted their own rapprochement, while the
Armenian Cilician Princes and the Crusaders had joined in alliance against
the dual threats of Amad ad-Din Zengi, and Emperor John.8 The situation was
not, however, as clear-cut as that: when John drove Prince Leon of Cilicia away
from his siege of Seleukeia (1136), Prince Raymond of Antioch (fl. c.1115–1149)
treacherously captured Leon during peace negotiations between them.9 Thus,
the suggestion that the Cilician Armenians and the Latins were drawing closer
together in the late 1130s requires re-examination.
6 Žamanakagrutʿiwn (Mēlikʿ-Adsmean and Tēr-Mikʿayēlean 1898, 345); Matthew of Edessa,

Chronicle (Dostourian 1993, 225) [hence Matthew]; Andrews 2017, 97. This practice is uncor-
roborated outside of Matthew.
7 Žamanakagrutʿiwn (Mēlikʿ-Adsmean and Tēr-Mikʿayēlean 1898, 282–284); Matthew
(Dostourian 1993, 225); Andrews 2017, 97–98.
8 Andrews 2017, 97.
9 Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836), 16; Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 21); William of
Tyre, Chron. 14.3 (Huygens 1986, 635); Ibn al-Athir, Chron. (Richard 2006, 227); Italikos Lettres
et Discours “Λόγος βασιλικός” (Gautier 1972, 247) [henceforth: Italikos]; Basilakes Orationes
et Epistolae “Λόγος εἰς τὸν ἀοίδιμον βασιλέα” (Garzya 1984, 54–55) [henceforth: Basilakes];
Edwards 1987, 221–229; Lilie 1993, 114.
1 The Divided Lands of Armenian Cilicia
Armenian Cilicia in the late 1130s was anything but united. Rival powers had
competed for control of the region since the 11th century. With the establish-
ment of the principality of Antioch after the First Crusade, the Latins had
claimed much of Cilicia and enforced their rule over major cities, only to lose
that territory to Leon’s older brother, Prince Thoros II.10 Bohemond II of Antioch
had then attempted a re-conquest in 1130, such that Ghazi Danishmend was
called in by Leon, killing Bohemond, but Ghazi was unable to follow up this
victory due to John’s capture of Kastamon, which brought Ghazi back north.11
Unsupported by Ghazi, Leon was still able to capture Mamistra, Tarsus and
Adana in 1131, and add Sarventikar to his conquests in 1133.12
His hold over the territory was, nevertheless, weak, and our sources men-
tion bandits and pirates in the region, in addition to enclaves of Turks, Latins,
and people whom the Greek sources call “Isaurians” who were still loyal to
Constantinople.13 Leon’s fragile rule was tested as one of Raymond’s first ac-
tions as the new prince of Antioch was to renew Antiochene claims in the
region, in alliance with Baldwin of Marash, one of the leading nobles of the
County of Edessa and the previous ruler of Sarventikar. Despite this, Leon
was able to gain the support of Count Joscelin II of Edessa, his nephew by
10 There is a great deal of uncertainty about who ruled what in this entire period—Thoros
conquered Anazarbos c.1111, but sources disagree concerning whether it was previous-
ly owned by the Latins, Byzantium, or an independent lord. Matthew, 200–219; Smbat
Sparapet, Chronique (Dédéyan 1980, 38–53); J. Ghazarian 2000, 113–115; Edwards 1987, 5–6;
Dédéyan 2003, 593–614, 716–728 respectively.
11 William of Tyre, Chron. 13.10, 13.28, 14 (Huygens 1986, 597, 623–625, 631–632); Ibn al-Athir,
Chron. (Richard 2006, 279); Orderic Vitalis (Chibnall 1978, 134–136); Michael the Syrian
16.3 (Ibrahim 2009, 610); Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 13); Choniates, Historia (van
Dieten 1975, 18).
12 Smbat Sparapet, Chronique (Dédéyan 1980, 53); William of Tyre, Chron. 13.27 (Huygens
1986, 623–624); Ghazarian 2000, 115–116; Edwards 1987, 6.
13 Italikos’ Oration tells us that Tarsus was under the control of “Keltic barbarians” while
Anazarbos was under the control of Armenians: Italikos 253. Prodromos’ Oration men-
tions the defeated peoples to include Italians, Syrians, Latins, Persians, “καὶ σὺν Ἰσαύροις
τοῖς πικροῖς καὶ σὺν παισὶ Κιλίκων”, which, though including Syria as well as Cilicia, implies
that there was a difference between “Isaurians” and the “sorrowing sons of Cilicia” that
was not merely geographical: Prodromos (Hörandner 1974, XI, lines 133–136). Kinnamos
even calls this expedition John’s “Isaurian wars”: Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 16).
Italikos also mentions clearing the roads and taming the mountains multiple times, im-
plying a great deal of chaos: Italikos 247. There are occasional clues based on what names
sources give to sites, such as the Armenian toponym Geben, used by Kinnamos amongst
otherwise Greek toponyms, hinting strongly that this site was therefore Armenian:
Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 20); Edwards 1987, 129, n. 10.
164 Lau
map 8.1 Cilicia and the Near East, c. 1140. Maximilian Lau © 2016.
marriage, likely fearing he too would be forced to bow to Antioch, and together
they defeated Raymond’s forces.14 In his triumph, however, Leon consented to
a personal meeting with Baldwin to negotiate peace terms, during which he
was treacherously seized and imprisoned in Antioch.
These events highlight the puzzle of who ruled what and when in Cilicia,
which is both a historiographical and a source issue. Armenian histories, in
particular, tend to be overly teleological regarding the development of the
Kingdom of Armenia later in the 12th century, seeing its roots in this period in
both Choniates and Armenian sources that were all written once said kingdom
had become a reality.15 Furthermore, some historians draw continuity from an-
tiquity through to modern Armenia, seeing any action by Armenians as part
of their supposedly eternal nationhood.16 Such a clear teleology is, however,
14 William of Tyre, Chron. 14.3 (Huygens 1986, 635).

15 In these histories John is therefore the oppressor, delaying the state of Armenia from
emerging again: Gregory the Priest (Dostourian 1993, 241–242); Smbat Sparapet, Chronique
(Dédéyan 1980, 9–37).
16 Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 21); Smbat Sparapet, Chronique (Dédéyan 1980, 53);
Nicolle 2007, 161, 182; Ghazarian 2000; Edwards 1987.
untenable in the 1130s, with the region one of chaos and possibility, rather than
an Armenian state in waiting.17 Kinnamos does not mention who owned what,
while William of Tyre tells us that Antioch had ruled the province undisput-
edly for forty years.18 The contemporary Greek court sources merely evidence
that the rhetors of Constantinople seem to have had little idea as to who gov-
erned what.19 All that these sources and the later confusion reveal is that John’s
campaign was aptly timed to take advantage of this chaos.
The situation in Cilicia had disintegrated further when Leon’s three sons fell
out in their father’s absence, leading to the eldest, Constantine, being blinded
by his brothers, until they too were possibly captured.20 Whether this occurred
or not, when John invaded in 1137, Prince Leon, and possibly his heirs, were ab-
sent, and those pledged to him were in open war with Antioch, though Joscelin
of Edessa was ostensibly still an ally. Only in the wake of John’s advance across
Cilicia, where Tarsus, Adana and Mamistra fell quickly, though Anazarbos then
resisted, did a form of Antiochene-Armenian alliance arise.21 Only at this point
did Raymond enter into an agreement with the captive Leon to oppose the
emperor, on condition that Leon hand over Adana, Mamistra and Savantikar
to Raymond, along with 60,000 dahekans (gold or silver coins), and give his
sons as hostages.22 Though Leon was released, whether he actually handed
over these cities to Raymond before John conquered them is unclear in the
17 Hovannisian and Payaslian 2008, 1–93, contain five papers specifically addressing this
issue; Lilie and Dédéyan express doubts while outlining diverse opinions on the issue:
Lilie 1993, 106; Dédéyan 2003, 593–614.
18 Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 16–17); William of Tyre, Chron. 14.24 (Huygens 1986,
663).
19 Cf. n. 12 above.
20 William of Tyre, Chron. 14.24 (Huygens 1986, 663); Smbat Sparapet, Chronique (Dédéyan
1980, 53); Sparapet believes that the Antiochenes won the battle and then captured not
only Leon but also Leon’s other sons after Constantine was blinded. William of Tyre’s ac-
count is seen as the more reliable, due to Sparapet’s naming of the prince of Antioch as
Bohemond, and William’s greater chronological proximity to the events. Matthew does
not mention these details: Lilie 1993, 103–108.
21 Choniates does not mention Marmistra, and has John capture Adana then Tarsus.
Kinnamos gives the order of attack as Marmistra, Tarsus, then Adana, while William of
Tyre mentions Tarsus, Adana then Marmistra: Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 21, 25);
Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 16); William of Tyre, Chron. 14.24 (Huygens 1986, 663);
In terms of the geography, if John went eastwards, then Tarsus, Adana and Marmistra, as
William describes, would be the most logical, and this follows the account of the court
sources; Ghazarian 2000, 116; Magdalino 1993, 37–38; Birkenmeier 2003, 48, 91–92; Parnell
2010, 152; Lilie 1993, 117–119.
22 Smbat Sparapet, Chronique (Dédéyan 1980, 53).
166 Lau
sources.23 What is clear is that the Armenians and the Latins were hardly on
the best of terms, with such an unequal treaty unlikely to encourage concord.
1.1 The Invasion of Armenian Cilicia: Carrot and Stick

By contrast, John’s own modus operandi as he conquered Cilicia combined
force with mercy, seeking to present himself as a benign but firm over-
lord. When he asked the inhabitants of Tarsus to surrender, calling on their
shared Christianity as well as notifying them they were surrounded, only on
their refusal did he bring up siege weapons. A barrage of missiles then con-
vinced them to surrender, at which point John is said to have treated them
well, making them allies (ξύμμαχοι); and it seems Adana and Mamistra then
surrendered without resistance, with John “receiving their weapons”.24 Such
seems to have been John’s favoured approach throughout this campaign—a
display of strength, ideally accomplished with siege weapons and thus with no
loss of his own soldiers, followed by clemency and peaceful absorption of his
former enemy.
Though Anarzarbos resisted more than other fortresses, it too eventually
fell to John’s siege weapons and a determined assault.25 With its capture, some
sources tell us that Leon’s family, and perhaps Leon himself, fell into John’s
hands—either way, at this point John felt secure enough in his conquest
of Cilicia to head south towards Antioch.26 This he may have done via the
23 The rulers of Tarsus are noted by Basilakes to have been a mixture of Cilicia’s “ancient citi-
zens and remaining natives” and “Kelts”. Italikos is not as clear, but mentions poetically
that John went from “barbarian Kelts to barbarian Armenians, from Tarsus to Anazarbos”:
Basilakes 57; Italikos 251.
24 “ὤ μάχης ὁμαιχμίας ἀπογεννώσης καὶ μαιευομένης τὸ φίλιον” is instead used to describe John’s
new relationship with Tarsus in Basilakes 59. Italikos notes John’s mercy, displayed in his
decision not to kill everyone when he took a city (unlike Alexander), and notes that he
received friendly greetings from them. The quotation regarding the weapons specifically
refers to Marmistra, but by extension to all the cities in that area: “Μόψου πόλεις ὅπλοις
ἐλάμβανες”. Italikos 252.
25 Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 25–26); Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 17);
William of Tyre, Chron. 14.24 (Huygens 1986, 663); Basilakes 60; Italikos 254; Edwards 1987,
65–72; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990, 178–185.
26 Italikos mentions that Leon escaped, while his family was seized: Italikos 255–256.
Gregory the Priest has him captured at Anazarbos: Gregory the Priest (Dostourian 1993),
241; Kinnamos and Choniates do not mention him either way. He came voluntarily to the
emperor after the capture of his family according to Smbat Sparapet, Chronique (Dédéyan
1980, 53), though this only after John had also captured Vakha on his return from Syria.
Matthew also implies John only removed Leon from Cilicia after Syria: Matthew, 239.
fortress of Tell Hamdun, together with the relocation of Armenians to Cyprus.27

Though this latter swap is uncorroborated by sources outside of Ibn al-Athir,
John had previously relocated Pecheneg and Serb peoples to other parts of
the empire, so this would be in keeping with his past dealings with conquered
peoples.28 The decision to go to Antioch demonstrates that John believed his
conquest of Cilicia to be already fairly secure. In leaving Cilicia, he was com-
fortable allowing not only one hostile Armenian fortress at least to remain at
his back, and possibly leaving Leon at large, but also a number of cities that had
resisted him.29 In fact, it was here that the separate factions within Armenian
Cilicia came into play, as John must have secured local support for his rule.
Though Basilakes’ oration relates that there were certain natives and “ancient
imperial citizens” who welcomed John, and Lilie judges that most Armenian
resistance was broken after this conquest, John must have been proactive in
gaining these cities’ loyalty.30 Magdalino and Edwards suggest that he used
the rivalry of Armenian nobility, namely, the Hetumids versus the Rupenids.31
Though there is no direct evidence of this, John had previously used local elites
for local campaigns: the Kontostephanoi in the Balkans, a Doux Paktarios at
Sozopolis, the descendants of King Grubesa during the Serb campaigns, and
he had backed Mas’ud of Ikonion against his brother Arab among the Turks, so
the explanation is feasible.32
On Lilie’s point: John’s military control was significant. Both Italikos and
Choniates are expansive in describing how John “moved barbarians and
mountains, showing his right hand mightier than the mountains are secure …/
placing stele” and clearing the roads of bandits as Theseus did.33 John not only
captured fortresses, implying islands of imperial authority in a sea of lawless-
ness, but made the effort to clear the countryside and bring security to the
27 Kinnamos mentions John intended to besiege Vakha, but then changed course when he
heard Raymond had returned to Antioch. Tell Hamdun, modern Toprakkale, is located at
the confluence of routes between Anazarbos, Mopsuestia, Sarventikar (that guarded the
Amanus pass) and Alexandretta. It was therefore a natural addition to John’s conquests.
Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 18); Ibn al-Athir, Chron. (Richard 2006, 337); Edwards
1987, 244–253, esp. 242, n.9; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990, 445–447.
28 John appears to have carried out a population swap in settling Pechenegs in Serbian lands
and Serbs in Anatolia, near Nikomedeia: Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 16).
29 Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 20); a new commander for Anazarbos is implied by
Italikos 155.
30 Basilakes 57; Lilie 1993, 118.
31 Magdalino 1993, 37, n. 30; Edwards 1987, 6.
32 For an overview of John’s policy of using local nobility for his campaigns, see Lau 2016b.
33 Italikos 250; Basilakes 56.
168 Lau
region, surely welcomed after years of chaos, a policy unambiguously articu-

lated by Basilakes.34
Perhaps more effective than this, however, is the evidence that John made
accommodations with the Armenian Church in ways that prefigured Manuel’s
later attempts at Church union.35 With the lack of Armenian political leader-
ship at the outset of John’s campaign, such an alliance would also have been
particularly potent.
2 The Emperor and the Armenian Church
The strongest evidence regarding such a rapprochement is a profession of faith

written by the Armenian katholikos, Grigor III Pahlavuni (in office 1113–1166),
to John. The opening of the letter declares it was requested by John himself.36
Darrouzès suggests that this profession was part one of two letters, basing this
view on the later exchange of letters between Grigor’s successor, Nerses, and
John’s successor, Manuel.37 This text deals mainly with the Armenian under-
standing of the two natures of Christ and the Trinity, whilst a second letter was
to deal with issues of rites, customs and traditions. The text survives in what is
likely a fourteenth—or fifteenth-century manuscript, to which several scribal
additions can also be dated.38 The original twelfth-century introduction sum-
marises the entire letter, and is very complimentary to John. It not only uses
stock phrases praising the emperor’s piety, but also compares the katholikos’
intelligence to a drop in the ocean compared to the emperor’s, or a star beside
the sun; Grigor writes, however, that he hopes that by quoting the church fa-
thers and the holy canons the truth can shine through, heavily implying that it
would prove the Armenians orthodox in the emperor’s eyes.39
The profession of faith that follows does appear suitably orthodox to a
Chalcedonian reader, such that the scribal addition notes that the Armenians
have written about the two natures of Christ correctly [εὐσεβῶς] but, he adds,
they have only done this to be cunning, or in fear of the emperor, rather than
34 Basilakes 57; Birkenmeier 2003, 98.

35 On Manuel’s ecumenical initiatives with the Armenians, see: Magdalino 1993, 75–76,
n. 189; also Nersessian 2001; Terian 2008.
36 Darrouzès 1990, 133.
37 Darrouzès 1990, 94–95.
38 The text is only preserved in one manuscript, Atheniensis Bibliothèque Nationale 375,
ff. 234–237. Darrouzès 1990, 90, judges a later date as more likely, due to the content of the
scribal additions across the manuscript.
39 Darrouzès 1990, 133.
because they actually believe it.40 The scribe continues with a long tirade
of anathemas aimed at the Armenians, most of which have little to do with
the text concerned, and go so far as to condemn them for worshipping idols,
and for not celebrating icons, in the same sentence.41 For the purposes of es-
tablishing ecumenical relations under John, however, it would seem that the
katholikos went to great pains to demonstrate his orthodoxy to the emperor,
and that, if believed, this declaration of faith would have been accepted as
orthodox. Manuel’s later attempt at church union may have originated here, as
Manuel was campaigning with his father in Cilicia at this time, and may have
originally been destined to be the prince of the territory before the death of his
elder brother.42
In addition to this letter, John is alleged to have removed Latin bishops from
the sees of Tarsos and Marmistra and replaced them with “heretic bishops”,
according to Odo of Deuil, and also removed the Latin bishop of Anazarbos
according to Nerses of Lampron.43 However, unfortunately, neither Odo nor
Nerses is specific as to whether the replacements were Greek, Melkite or
Armenian. But, whichever the case, they would likely have been more palat-
able to and understanding of the Armenian Christians. As Manuel continued
John’s policies while he pushed for church unification between 1165–79, the
fact that Nerses tells us about the appointment of these bishops, and himself
became bishop of Tarsos in 1176, demonstrates that, even if John originally in-
stalled “Greek” bishops, by 1176 Manuel was appointing Armenians to those
same sees.44 The source for Michael the Syrian’s knowledge of John’s doings
appears to have been a former Jacobite Bishop, Basil of Edessa, who was in
John’s retinue from at least 1122 onwards, as evidenced by Michael’s knowledge
of the defeat of the Pechenegs at the battle of Beroea in that year.45 Thus, John
appears to have had no problem with non-Chalcedonian Christians in his reti-
nue communicating with their fellow clerics, and this brings us to one of many
links between John and Edessa.
40 “δόλῳ τυχὸν ἢ φόβῳ τοῦ βασιλέως” (Darrouzès 1990, 145).

41 Darrouzès 1990, 145.
42 Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 22–23); Kleinchroniken, Chronik 6.2 (Schreiner 1975,
57–58).
43 Odo of Deuil (Berry 1948, 68–69). Odo’s account of the Second Crusade is almost uni-
formly hostile to the Greeks, and so picks up any excuse to show them as heretics. Nerses
of Lampron (1869, 577); Lilie 1993, 119.
44 See note 35 above.
45 Michael the Syrian 15.7 and 15.8 (Ibrahim 2009, 587 and 590; tr. Chabot 1963, 185 and 190);
Spinei 2013, 195.
170 Lau
We do not know for whom Matthew wrote his chronicle, only that he wrote
it in Edessa as a history of all Armenians.46 Andrews uses the “highly compli-
mentary” portrait of John II as a terminus ante quem for his writing of the third
section of the Chronicle, but if, in fact, Matthew welcomed John’s conquest as
the fulfilment of Kozeṙn’s prophecy, then it is entirely possible Matthew could
have been writing contemporaneously with John’s conquest.47 What is more, a
lesser known episode of John’s eastern campaign brought him to the county of
Edessa, where they may even have come into contact.
3 The Emperor in Edessa
The direct link between John and Edessa was made during negotiations at
Antioch, where in addition to Raymond of Antioch swearing fealty to John and
promising to hand over Antioch to him in exchange for Raymond being able to
hold Aleppo and other Syrian cities as a perpetual fief once he and John con-
quered them together, John received the support of Edessa, with their troops
becoming his.48 This was particularly significant, as immediately after this
meeting at Antioch in late 1137, Mohammed Danishmend came south from
Anatolia to stake his own claim to Cilicia and Edessa.
William of Tyre, Choniates and Kinnamos relate that, following the sub-
mission of Antioch, John wintered near Tarsos in Cilicia before starting his
campaign in Muslim Syria, and many scholars followed suit and deemed the
overwintering irrelevant to the principal goal: the following year’s campaign
against the Muslims.49 In fact, campaigns during the turn of 1137/8 were just as
important as any of the operations yet carried out on the expedition, as it un-
derlined not only John’s position in Cilicia, but also Edessa. Additionally, John
was brought into close proximity with Matthew, then writing in Edessa itself,
whilst proving himself a saviour of the Armenians in the county.
46 Andrews outlines all the possible recipients, including both the Pahlawuni family who
dominated the katholikate, and an Armenian named Vasil who governed Edessa in
Joscelin’s absence, as likely possibilities. Andrews 2017, 8–9.
47 Žamanakagrutʿiwn (Mēlikʿ-Adsmean and Tēr-Mikʿayēlean 1898, 346); Andrews 2017,
6–7, 154.
48 Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 27); Prodromos (Hörandner 1974, XI, line 168);
William of Tyre, Chron. 14.30 (Huygens 1986, 671); Orderic Vitalis (Chibnall 1978, 502–509);
Lilie 1993, 121–125; Italikos 260–261.
49 William of Tyre, Chron. 15.1 (Huygens 1986, 674); Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 27);
Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 19); Harris 2007, 83; Magdalino 1993, 37–41; Parnell
2010, 153.
Though John had secured the Cilician coast before marching on Antioch,
the mountains were still in Armenian hands, but their diminished state
had not gone unnoticed by Mohammed Danishmend in late summer 1137.
Mohammed had recently defeated his brothers and now sought to secure his
position further through foreign campaigns, beginning with a number of raids
against Byzantium while John was away.50 A contemporary coin of his bears
the legend: “Μέγας Μέλικις πάσης Ῥωμανίας καὶ Ἀνατολῆς” [Great Melik of all
Romania and Anatolia/the East].51 Such a claim thus not only encompassed all
Anatolia, but also implied the lands of Mesopotamia and the Levant as well.
With such claims, the weakened remainder of Cilician Armenia would
therefore be a tempting target after his civil war victory, alongside the lands
of Marash that were then part of the County of Edessa. With Joscelin II’s army
only just returned from aiding King Fulk of Jerusalem, and possibly attending
upon John in Antioch if Italikos and Choniates are to be believed, they too
were an invitation to Mohammed.52
In the Chronicle of Matthew and Gregory the Priest, the dating for this cam-
paign is muddled, which makes a strong case for these two entries being by
different chroniclers, rather than both by Gregory, as Andrews suggests.53 The
1137 entry, conventionally attributed to Matthew but assigned by Andrews to
Gregory, relates that Mohammed invaded at the start of 1137, but also that John
was already in the vicinity of Antioch devastating Muslim territory. The follow-
ing entry, certainly by Gregory the Priest, relates how John went from Cilicia
to Antioch, and thence to Shayzar in Syria, and then that Mohammed invaded,
but uses no specific temporal phrases to specify when exactly this occurred.
The contradiction can, however, be resolved by the timing of Baldwin’s ap-
peal to the emperor and his subsequent march north and the siege of Vakha.
Lilie has pointed out that these events were exceptionally unlikely to have oc-
curred after Shayzar, as John had to hurry back to Constantinople while fight-
ing Ikonion en route, and yet must have taken place after John had resolved his
differences with the Latins, and so could not have occurred during the initial
Cilician campaign as Matthew’s date implies.54 Therefore the turn of 1137–8 is
the most likely date for these developments, as John was in Cilicia with time
and motive.
50 Michael the Syrian 16.9 (Ibrahim, 2009, 622; trans. Chabot 1963, 248).
51 Oikonomides 1983, 198, 201–202.
52 For Joscelin aiding Fulk against Zengi in the south, see William of Tyre, Chron. 14.24 and
14.26 (Huygens 1986, 663 and 666); Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 17).
53 Matthew, 238–239 and 241 respectively.
54 Lilie 1993, 118–119, n. 95 and 125, n. 117.
172 Lau
Mohammed is said to have burned villages and monasteries, devastated or-

chards and cut off water supplies to the town of Kesoun and then encamped
nearby to await its surrender.55 Matthew tells us that Baldwin, lord of Marash
and Kesoun and vassal of Joscelin, had begged John for aid, and so after his
short stay in Antioch, John was once again on the march north to prove him-
self a just overlord who could protect his new Latin clients.56 Coupled with
this, there was the still unconquered Armenian stronghold of Vakha. Thus John
could kill two birds with one stone with an autumn campaign, further confirm-
ing his legitimacy to rule over Latins and Armenians.57
The 1137 entry in the Chronicle tells us that, on the mere word that the em-
peror was coming, Mohammed withdrew north, seemingly unwilling to face
the emperor in battle.58 Gregory the Priest, in the following entry, does not
make the link between John’s march and the Danishmendid withdrawal, only
telling us Mohammed failed to take the fortress of Shuplsa and therefore re-
treated, conforming to his prejudice against John in favour of Armenian self-
determination.59 Lilie suggests that the major part of John’s army then went
to winter quarters in Tarsus, but that divisions laid siege to Vakha, and per-
haps Kapniskerti (Geben).60 Kapniskerti guarded one of the major passes
through the mountains, and its conquest would have earned John kudos from
the Armenians as it would have secured the pass against Mohammed, and ful-
filled Kozeṙn’s prophecy by driving the Persians from Armenian lands.61 On
the other hand, the capture of Vakha, involving a Homeric duel between an
55 Matthew, 238.
56 Matthew, 239.
57 Baldwin of Bouillon may have acted as an imperial agent in the foundation of the county
of Edessa, implying continued imperial interests: Frankopan 2012, 150–153.
58 Matthew, 239.
59 Matthew, 241; unidentified site, Edwards 1987, 40.
60 Kinnamos describes how this took place on John’s return west, but it would seem un-
likely for John to have used his exhausted army after Shayzar, when the Danishmendids
were pressing his Anatolian frontier. John had his army in the right place with the right
amount of time to seize these castles at this time, and it happens to conform with every
source except Kinnamos: Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 20); Lilie 1993, 125, n. 117. Ibn
al-Adim notes how John attempted to lull the Syrian Muslims into a false sense of security
with an attack on the Armenians, but this is uncorroborated and may simply show Ibn
al-Adim rhetorically demonstrating Roman treachery (Ibn al-Adim 1884, 674). Choniates
notes how John attacked Vakha after all other fortresses were taken, and how John said
he would be happy to lay siege to the city until snow fell upon him, implying this time
of year: Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 21–2). Ibn Al-Athir places this campaign at
this exact time, in accordance with Matthew and Gregory the Priest: Ibn al-Athir, Chron.
(Richard 2006, 337).
61 Gesta Francorum (Hill 1962, 25–27); Edwards 1987, 124–129, n. 7.
Armenian and imperial champion that takes pride of place in Choniates, is

barely mentioned by Matthew.62 This aligns with Andrews’ view that Matthew
omits events that do not follow his historical plan: in this case, that John was
the rightful overlord of the Armenians and that heroic resistance was therefore
contrary to the position of the Armenians as part of the empire.
With Mohammed driven off, and the northern passes into Cilicia secure
against his return, John had shown himself a worthy protector of his new
Armenian and Latin subjects. In addition, he overcame the last Armenian re-
sistance. Leon was captured, apparently having acknowledged that he could
never have continued, caught as he was between Franks and Turks.63 Ibn al-
Athir adds that Leon offered John vast sums of money and agreed to be his
subject, and so some form of agreement may have been made, but this is also
uncorroborated.64
This campaign was an essential part of the activities of an emperor con-
solidating his role as imperial overlord of both Armenian Cilicia and Latin/
Armenian Edessa, whilst dealing a blow to Mohammed Danishmend. His
use of at least one population transfer, a conciliatory attitude towards the
Armenian Church, and the ability to bring stability to the province explains
how he was able to accomplish so much in so short a time. This would have
earned the support of many Armenians and, I argue, of Matthew of Edessa.
Ibn al-Adim relates that John spent the rest of the winter between Anazarbos,
Adana, and all over “little Armenia”. Thus John may well have toured his new
domains extensively that winter to organise their administration and bond
with the nobles, a particular necessity as John was not re-instating their na-
tive ruler.65 Though there is no visit to Edessa mentioned either in this winter
or when John returned in 1142–3, the emperor spent some time in Armenian
Cilicia and so would have been a major presence for Matthew, were he still
alive. The fact that John died in a hunting accident in Cilicia again suggests
integration with the local nobility. Matthew could have been exposed to the
court rhetoric, which would explain their echoes in Kozeṙn’s prophecy.66
62 Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 21–25). The capture is also mentioned with no de-
tails by Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 20); Gregory the Priest (Dostourian 1993, 241);
Smbat Sparapet, Chronique (Dédéyan 1980, 53). The latter two mention Leon being finally
captured there. Edwards 1987, 259–265.
63 Choniates mentions how he immediately escaped, but then was captured again:
Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 25); Matthew, 239; Gregory the Priest (Dostourian
1993, 241); Smbat Sparapet, Chronique (Dédéyan 1980, 53). Ibn al-Adim 1884, 674.
64 Ibn al-Athir, Chron. (Richard 2006, 337).
65 Ibn al-Adim 1884, 674.
66 See note 70 below in particular.
174 Lau
4 The Prophesied Emperor
Though the parallels with Kozeṙn’s prophecy might suggest invention by

Matthew, in fact many of the themes are long standing tropes in such texts.
In particular, the prophecy shares much in theme and language with the late
seventh-century Apocalypse of Pseudo-Methodios, with the only clear addi-
tions being the sixty years of Turkish oppression followed by the recapture
of Jerusalem.67 The idea of the “Last World Emperor” is a longstanding one
in apocalyptic literature, and it is one with characteristics either that John
was consciously imitating, or that Matthew chose to promote in such a way
that contemporaries could not fail to make the connection between the two.
Elements of Kozeṙn’s prophecy, such as the size of the emperor’s army, his suc-
cess against the “Persians”, his taking of captives and treasures from them, his
building campaign in Cilicia and general assumption of rule in the region, fit
the events of John’s 1137–1139 campaign neatly.
The “fearful multitude like sand on the shore of the sea”, the army gathered
by John was by all accounts the largest put together during his reign. Requiring
most of a year’s preparation, it consisted of contingents from multiple peoples
he had subjugated up to that point, such as Pecheneg nomads, Turks, Serbs and
Latins, in addition to Romans.68 Its size was such that John divided it into sepa-
rate armies during the campaign and, when he considered visiting Jerusalem
in 1143, an embassy of three high-profile Latins from the kingdom requested he
bring only 10,000 men as a bodyguard.69 In annexing Cilicia, and by defending
Edessa from Mohammed, John could be considered to be driving the “Persians”
beyond the Gihon River, by any definition of its location.
Significantly, however, the many court orations and poems evoke im-
ages similar to Matthew’s of the Roman king being “inflamed by fire”, with
Prodromos in particular using large sections of his orations to make the
analogy.70 Again, this similarity may be a trope, but it was a popular one at
John’s court long before he came east, and one that Matthew may have come
67 Pseudo-Methodios: Reinink 1992, 149–152; Thomson 2001, 97; MacEvitt 2007, 158; Andrews
2017, 30–36.
68 William of Tyre, Chron. 14.24 (Huygens 1986, 662).
69 Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 29–30); Italikos 251, 258–9; William of Tyre, Chron.
15.21 (Huygens 1986, 703).
70 Prodromos (Hörandner 1974, VII, line 16; XV, line 16; XVI, lines 2–3, 97–108, 192–201; XVII,
lines 133–150, 165, 197–200, 209, 314–320; XIX, line 175; XXIX, lines 8–11). Tzetzes 1972,
Poem 1, line 4. Conversely, Basilakes’ Cilician Oration remarks on John’s generosity in
quenching his fires and treating the Cilicians and Isaurians well. Italikos mentions how
various fire throwing machines were used against Anazarbos (Italikos 254–255).
across through contacts such as Basil of Edessa. Furthermore, both historical

and contemporary court sources are lyrical in the listing of treasures and cap-
tives taken during John’s campaigns in general, as well as his eastern one in
particular. Accordingly, even when Matthew was writing the earlier stages of
his history, he would have been well aware not only of John’s army, but also of
his ability to take both captives and treasures from the Persians.
The most spectacular example of such acquisitions was John’s triumph of
1133, and there are multiple court poems and expansive histories extolling the
number of captives and treasures taken and presented in Constantinople dur-
ing this ceremony.71 During the Syrian campaign, John secured a great deal of
treasure from Shayzar, including a cross of Parian marble supposedly commis-
sioned by Constantine, together with a sumptuous table, both of which were
part of the loot seized from the tent of Romanos IV Diogenes at the battle of
Manzikert.72 There were also well-bred horses and other herd animals, silks,
and captives, in addition to the promise of an annual payment.73 Thus, just as
with the fire analogies, John’s actions were closely imitating Kozeṙn’s prophecy,
whether by accident or design.
John’s immediate building programme following his conquest also aligned
with the prophecy, in particular in the region east of Seleukeia that linked
Cilicia by land to the rest of the empire, where there are five chapels. One con-
tains the same masonry as the fort around it (Kızılcaşehir), suggesting John
built that as well; the other chapels can be found in two forts (Antiocheia-ad-
Cragum and Kalanoros), one town citadel (Syedra), and a port (Iotape), in-
dicating that they were garrisoned by imperial troops after John’s campaign.74
The occupation of these sites would have constituted a statement of renewed
imperial control of the region, as well as being of practical use for the logistics
of transporting men and materials by land and sea to Cilicia and Syria in the
future.75 It is also notable that the orations on John’s Cilician campaign make
71 Prodromos (Hörandner 1974, III, IV, V and VI); Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 19);
Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 13); Lau 2014, 195–214; Magdalino 2016.
72 Choniates, Historia (van Dieten 1975, 30–31); Kinnamos, Epitome (Meinike 1836, 20);
Italikos 264–265.
73 Basilakes 71; Prodromos (Hörandner 1974, XI, lines 177–180, 191–200); Ibn-Munquidh
uses the analogy that Salah-al-Din once pillaged two castles, “as if he were plundering
Romans”, implying that when the Romans pillaged, they seized a lot of plunder: Usama
Ibn-Munqidh (Cobb 2008, 172).
74 Antiocheia-ad-Cragum: Huber 1967, 21; Deluigi 2015, 123; Kalanoros: Redford 2000, 14–15;
Krabbenhöft 2011, 51–52; Deluigi 2015, 74–75; Syedra and Iotape: Huber 1967, 38; Redford
2000, 19; Deluigi 2015, 123; Kızılcaşehir: Redford 2000, 16–18; Doğan 2006, 65; Deluigi 2015,
75–76.
75 See Lau 2016a.
176 Lau
a point of his capture of the small port of Korykos further east on the Cilician
coast, in addition to the major port of Tarsus, and Ibn Al-Athir notes that John
rebuilt the port of Alexandretta near Antioch, thus creating a network of ports
for facilitating future campaigns, and further integrating these new provinces.76
Again, such a building campaign would not have gone unmarked by those who
knew the prophecy.
5 Conclusion
Andrews notes that, while Basil II is acclaimed as the “father of the Armenian
nation” by Matthew, subsequent Armeno-Byzantine relations, the absorption
of the independent Armenian states by successive emperors, and then their
failure to defend those kingdoms from the Turks, meant that Matthew’s good
opinion was forfeit.77 Equally, by the late 1130s and 1140s when Matthew wrote
his last entries, Cilicia was slowly moving into the Latin orbit, as demonstrated
by the synod of Jerusalem in 1142. Though some Armenians undoubtedly sup-
ported closer ties with the Latins, it is also apparent that some Armenians and
Latins in fact supported imperial hegemony. Matthew himself, living in the late
1130s in Edessa, would have found himself in a land increasingly under the im-
perial aegis. Mohammed’s invasion and John’s subsequent joint campaign with
Raymond and Joscelin suggested a new Byzantine hegemony was imminent.
Andrews’ thesis, in which the prophecies of Kozeṙn shape Matthew’s intended
message of history, thus finds its natural conclusion in the identification of
John as the most likely candidate for the prophecy. The emperor was literally
fulfilling the prophecy as Matthew completed that section of the Chronicle.
Though we cannot be certain of Matthew’s authorship here, it does fit the evi-
dence. More than this, it should be acknowledged that there was a faction of
Armenians who supported imperial rule in this period, whom John deliberate-
ly cultivated to secure that rule. Equally, Manuel’s efforts at church unification
later in the century were prefigured by early actions of John’s while Manuel
was in his company. With Matthew’s and John’s deaths, both the prophecy
and John’s plans became merely wishful thinking, but they represent a time
capsule of future history wherein the empire truly restored itself to its ascen-
dancy before the eleventh-century crises brought it low, giving us a vision of
76 Ibn al-Athir, Chron. (Richard 2006, 337); Italikos 251, nn. 28–32; Ramsay 1972, 356; Korykos
is also the major fortress on the road between Seleukeia and Tarsus: Edwards 1987, 161–
167; Hild and Hellenkemper 1990, 191.
77 Andrews 2017, 179–181.
how many contemporaries saw the correct ordering of the world even in the
mid 12th century.
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part 3
Dreams and Memory in Byzantine Chronicles
and Encomia
∵
chapter 9
Dreams and Imaginative Memory in Select

Byzantine Chronicles
Roger Scott
The role and treatment of dreams and visions in Byzantine chronicles is an

area of dream studies that in general has not as yet aroused much interest. Two
distinguished exceptions to this are George Calofonos and Paul Magdalino,
Calofonos with a chapter on dreams in Theophanes1 and each with a chapter
(among other studies) in the 2014 publication entitled Dreaming in Byzantium
and Beyond.2 There Calofonos and Magdalino concentrate on middle to late
Byzantium, Calofonos on the tenth-century continuation of Theophanes,3
while Magdalino extends this through to the 14th century.4 So here I shall look
at the sixth-century Malalas, whom neither Calofonos nor Magdalino mention
as he falls outside their timeframe, the ninth-century Theophanes (taking
an approach and looking at material that occurs outside the framework of
Calofonos’ earlier excellent study), and the eleventh-century Skylitzes and
Kedrenos, since Skylitzes is scarcely mentioned by either, and Kedrenos not
at all. What I shall suggest (rather than demonstrate) is that, although the
acceptance of divine advice via dreams remains constant across the period,
there are developments in how this is portrayed in chronicle narratives along
with a growing awareness of the problems of dream interpretation, which per-
haps parallels the growth in dream-interpretation handbooks across the same
period. But I also remain conscious that a preliminary study of four chroniclers
writing across half a millennium, although it may reveal a genuine trend, is not
adequate to demonstrate the existence of that trend, the appearance of which
may well be better explained by other factors.
Magdalino begins with a question:5
1 Calofonos 2010, 133–144.

2 Angelidi and Calofonos 2014: Calofonos 2014; Magdalino 2014.
3 Calofonos 2014.
4 Magdalino 2014.
5 Magdalino 2014, 125.

184 Scott
What can be learned about Byzantine dream culture from the works of
Byzantine historians? On first impression, the answer would seem to be,
not much. Dream narratives and mentions of dreams occupy very little
space in the voluminous pages of Byzantine historical literature. Some
texts contain none at all; a significant number record only one dream,
while of those that narrate more than three, all but two works achieve
this statistic mainly with material drawn from earlier texts including, of
course, the Bible.
So that is not a promising start for my chosen topic. And three of my four
chosen chroniclers confirm Magdalino’s picture, though their statistics are
rather better, if only by comparison.6 The first nine books of Malalas (that is,
the whole period from Creation to the Annunciation) contain a total of just
eleven (six dreams and five visions), and these are mainly well known myth
or bible stories that Malalas could scarcely have excluded from his chronicle.7
There are another ten across Malalas’ next nine books from the Incarnation to
565 CE, so maintaining the same low average of just over one per book,8 with
occasional other items that might arguably qualify, such as Jewish priests hear-
ing a hidden voice from the inner temple saying “We are departing from here”,
eighteen years after Christ’s Ascension.9 Again, several of these are well known
events such as the vision of the star guiding the magi and Constantine’s vi-
sionary dream of the Cross with its inscription “By this conquer!”. Theophanes
6 I am omitting the chronicle of Symeon Logothete since it omits dreams and visions virtually
entirely, confirming Magdalino’s picture.
7 Dreams at Malalas 2.6 (Thurn 21, ByzA 4 [2.7], 14 [Argives looking for Io]); 3.8 (Thurn 43,
ByzA 4 [3.6], 29 [Joseph]); 3.9 (Thurn 44, ByzA 4 [3.7], 30 [Endymion’s dream]); 4.9 (Thurn
56, ByzA 4 [4.13], 38 [Constantine’s dream]); 5.35 (Thurn 109, ByzA 4 [5.65], 74 [Iphigeneia’s
dream]); 6.19 (Thurn 126, ByzA 4, 86 [Sychaios in Dido’s dream]). Visions at 2.12 (Thurn 27,
ByzA 4 [2.20], 19 [ball of thunder]); 2.16 (Thurn 33, ByzA 4 [2.29], 22 [Theoboos’ vision of
Antiope]); 4.9 (Thurn 55, ByzA 4, [4.13] 38 [Argonauts’ vision of apparition]); 5.14 (Thurn
83, ByzA 4 [5.45], 58 [sign to Trojans at Apollo’s altar]); 6.3 (Thurn 118, ByzA 4, 80 [vision of
Nebuchadnezzor to Daniel]).
8 Malalas, Chron. 10.4 (Thurn 174–5, ByzA 4, 122 [star guiding magi]); 10.14 (Thurn 182, ByzA
4, 127 [Pontius Pilate’s wife’s dream]); 10.41 (Thurn 195, ByzA 4, 137 [Emperor Galba dreams
about burying holy apostles]); 13.2 (Thurn 243, ByzA 4, 172 [Constantine’s dream of seeing the
Cross]); 13.19 and 23 (Thurn 251 and 256, ByzA 4, 178 and 181 [Julian’s dream of dying in Asia
and its fulfilment]); 13.25 (Thurn 257, ByzA 4, 181 [Basil’s dream predicting Julian’s death]);
13.28 (Thurn 260, ByzA 4, 184 [Julian’s vision of Valentinian as his successor]); 14. 27 (Thurn
288, ByzA 4, [14.26–27] 200 [Theodosius’ vision via St. John that Marcian would succeed
him]); 16.20 (Thurn 334–335, ByzA 4, 229 [Anastasios’ and Amantios’ dreams, interpreted as
foretelling their deaths]).
9 Malalas, Chron. 10.26 (Thurn 187, ByzA 4, 131).
Dreams and Imaginative Memory in Select Byzantine Chronicles 185
has thirteen dreams in his 500 pages10 and Skylitzes eleven, with two others
that I exclude for reasons given below.11 Overall that is not a strong showing,
although Kedrenos, to whom we shall return, has decidedly more dreams and
visions and so complicates the picture.12
Magdalino does, however, then add: “Yet the incidence of dreams in his-
torical narratives, and the types of dreams they narrate, afford some insight
into the role of dreams in the Byzantine conception of history.”13 It is here that
Magdalino and Calofonos have both pointed to dreams having a significance
in chronicles that far exceeds their frequency, and have done so convincingly,
with Calofonos arguing that: “It is not their authenticity or originality that
makes them interesting, but their effectiveness within the wider narratives to
which they belong, as well as their potential as narratives within their own
right”.14 Here Calofonos rightly points out that dreams belong to “the wider
repertoire of the bizarre and the supernatural, which informs historical narra-
tive in Late Antiquity. Together with prophecies, earthquakes, comets, abnor-
malities and other signs, dreams were viewed as bearers of messages from the
divine world.”15 But having pointed that out properly, Calofonos understand-
ably does not give this wider repertoire much emphasis in his treatment since
his stated object is to concentrate just on dreams. So (in line with Calofonos’
more general point) I stress that dreams in historical narrative need to be seen
in the context of these other phenomena to enrich the total narrative; that is,
there are many signs of divine interference in human affairs that are not always
explained. God is not a great communicator; he just signals dissatisfaction
(notably through earthquakes, eclipses and comets) without indicating where
that dissatisfaction lies, and we humans are not particularly good at interpret-
ing God’s opaque warning signs until it is too late. But those signs still shape
the Byzantines’ interpretation of history which needs to be remembered as we
10 Listed and discussed in Calofonos 2010, 143–144 and n. 29.

11 Skylitzes’ dreams (references are given by name of emperor, chapter number in Wortley
2010, section (as in Thurn 1973 and Wortley 2010) and line number in Thurn 1973):
(Leo V) chapter 2 section 9 line 73; (Leo V) 2.9.86; (Michael III) 5.22.7; (Michael III) 5.22.20;
(Basil I) 6.4.19; (Basil I) 6.5.37; (John I) 15.17.21; (Basil II, Constantine VIII) 16.2.32; (Basil II,
Constantine VIII) 16.47.14; (Michael IV) 19.4.83; (Michael IV) 19.6.53. The two omitted ref-
erences are (Constantine VII) 9.2.41; (Michael IV) 19.23.36 both of which Magdalino 2014,
141 also omits. Of those that I accept, Magdalino, who “omits mentions of dreams whose
visual content is not specified” (Magdalino 2014, 129), leaves out from his Skylitzes list
both Leo V; both Michael III; both Basil I; (Michael IV) 19.4.83; and (Michael IV) 19.23.45.
12 Too numerous for a footnote so listed in the Appendix.
13 Magdalino 2014, 125.
14 Calofonos 2014, 97.
15 Calofonos 2010, 134–135.
186 Scott
read the hundreds of pages where there is no apparent sign of divine interven-
tion. As Efthymiadis has pointed out in reviewing Dreaming in Byzantium and
Beyond, “their role in the narrative of these texts is pivotal in that they can
prolong the story and orient it towards a different denouement”.16
Although Constantine’s vision of the Cross and its inscription, “By this, con-
quer!”, is arguably the most important vision of the Christian era, other seem-
ingly insignificant sightings do play just as an important a part in Byzantine
historical narratives. For example there is the ordinary jug of water that,
in Julian the Apostate’s final year, fermented and turned into sweet wine,
thus heralding better times with Julian’s imminent demise.17 The fact that
Theophanes (whose source here is unknown, suggesting he went searching for
extra material) felt a need to record this amid a collection of similar oddities
that supposedly heralded Julian’s downfall shows his need to draw attention to
divine intervention in history that is almost as important as Constantine’s vision.
Later chroniclers, Pseudo-Symeon18 and Kedrenos,19 also include Theophanes’
story of the water jug, giving it the same stress as they do for Constantine’s vi-
sion. Dreams on their own do not occupy much space, but if they are added
to these other phenomena, the significance of the combined total of strange
signs is easier to acknowledge and a reader of a Byzantine chronicle needs
always to be aware of this, even when the material appears to be operating at
a purely human level.
What, however, needs emphasising is that this divine presence in chronicles
increases considerably as time goes on, while there is perhaps also an increas-
ing recognition of the problems of interpretation. Malalas in the 6th century
limits God’s presence but has no doubts about interpretation; and although
he is certainly skilled at building up a story, he makes little attempt to do so
with dreams (apart from his treatment of Anastasios’ death, to be looked at
later). Dreams and visions are treated as just ordinary statements of fact. By
the early 9th century Theophanes quite markedly increases God’s presence,
as well as discussing his own personal experience of a miracle. But he is also
able to show his awareness of deceptive dreams by enthusiastically narrating
a distinguished lie about a vision that enables him to portray Islam as a sham,
which he of course exploits for his narrative as fully as he can (to be discussed
later). It is the eleventh-century chronicler Skylitzes, however, who is much
more aware both of fraud and of humankind’s difficulties in interpreting God’s
16 Efthymiadis 2015.
17 Theophanes, Chron. AM 5855 (de Boor 1883, 53).
18 Ps-Sym., Chron. 94r.6–13.
19 Kedrenos, SynHist. 323.3 (Tartaglia 2016, 535).
opaque warning signs. His successor, Kedrenos, incorporates Skylitzes’ entire

chronicle to conclude his narrative. While for the most part he accepts the
authenticity of dreams and visions without question, he also provides both a
lengthy reminder of the problem of interpretation and a note on the difficulty
of understanding God’s seemingly inconsistent approach to interference in
human affairs (discussed below).
1 Malalas20
To begin with Malalas, his inclusion of dreams, as already mentioned, is rare.

But the ones that are recorded are not treated as though they were anything
special. They are just normal events that do not play a notable part in the di-
rection of history. For the supernatural there is rather more emphasis on those
who have mystic knowledge or are involved in mystic practices, especially in
his BC period. In the AD period his dreams and visions are likewise not nu-
merous, just nine in 565 years, but some are certainly related to major events,
beginning with the star that guided the magi, and the various signs associated
with the Resurrection and Christ’s Ascension. After that, dreams and visions
are absent until Constantine the Great.
In Malalas, Constantine’s vision of the Cross in the sky and its inscription
takes place only in a dream at night during a campaign against unidentified
“barbarians” with simply no mention of either Maxentius or the Milvian bridge.
So the treatment is very brief and the context unusual (shall we say), but it is
placed in a significant position at the very beginning of Book 13. Elsewhere I
have suggested that Malalas’ outline structure of World History is tripartite,
with six books each on what could be summed up as Jerusalem, Rome and
Constantinople, so Book 13 opens a new stage.21 Malalas virtually skips the
next reign of Constantius to make the pagan Julian in effect Constantine’s suc-
cessor in narrative terms. Julian’s reign opens with him dreaming that he is
fated to die in Asia (13.19 Thurn 251), and closes when after a further dream the
20 While there is no doubt that Malalas lived in the 6th century, the peculiarities of the
surviving text in Oxford Baroccianus 182 have in recent years led to suggestions that the
text be considered as a multi-authored work from various centuries or even as a tenth- or
eleventh-century work. For discussion see Jeffreys 2016 who, however, concludes by not-
ing that she has “constantly been struck by the extent to which a personality could be
perceived behind, within and through the text to which this name is attached”. That is
sufficient for my purposes to continue counting Malalas as a sixth-century author.
21 Scott 1994, 61, reprint in Scott 2012 as study 15, with another structure essentially being
nine books each to cover BCE and CE.
188 Scott
fatally-wounded Julian is told that the local town is called Asia.22 That same
night St Basil in Cappadocian Caesarea saw in a dream both Christ ordering St
Mercurius to kill Julian and later Mercurius reporting this had happened, all
of which Basil duly reported to his clergy the next morning. All this looks like
simple reporting of supposed fact, although Malalas’ concluding statement of
the account is that “the learned chronicler Eutropius did not agree with some
of these details in his account”.23 That last statement, however, most proba-
bly applies to his entire account of Julian rather than specifically to St. Basil’s
dream. Book 13 has one further vision at the outset of Valentinian’s reign where
the vision had informed Julian that Valentinian would rule after him, so Julian
had dispatched Valentinian to Selymbria. Again, it seems, just a simple state-
ment of fact, so the few dreams associated with Julian are really not worthy of
further comment, although it does make Book 13 Malalas’ most dreamy book
and also helps validate the next dream.
That next dream, where St John tells Theodosius II that Marcian would suc-
ceed him,24 is intriguing for its inclusion in Malalas’ narrative. There is not
space here to explain how poor were Marcian’s credentials for succeeding
Theodosius II as emperor in 451, but poor they certainly were and presumably
prompted Marcian’s need to circulate as best he could a series of unlikely sto-
ries to show that he was in fact God’s choice as Theodosius’ successor. So there
is one story where Marcian, after being acquitted of murdering a Roman sol-
dier, only got his place in the Roman army as that soldier’s replacement whose
name was, providentially, Augustus.25 And there are also two quite separate
protective eagle stories, one when Marcian had fallen behind his regiment as
a result of sickness and the other as Geiseric’s prisoner-of-war in Vandal Africa
(so neither story helping enhance his dubious military reputation), where in
each case an eagle had spread its wings over a sleeping Marcian, protecting him
from the midday sun.26 All these stories Malalas rejects by omission, seeming-
ly recognising how dubious they were for inclusion in a history, even though
they were accepted by such reputable Byzantine historians as Procopius and
Evagrius Scholastikos as well as by the chronicler Theophanes, all probably
following Eustathios of Epiphaneia whom Warren Treadgold has now assured
22 Mal. Chron., 13.23, Thurn 256, ByzA 4, 181.

23 Mal. Chron., 13.25 (Thurn 257, ByzA 4, 182).
24 Mal. Chron., 14.27 (Thurn 288, ByzA 4 [14.26], 200–201).
25 Evagrius, Ecclesiastical History 2.1 (Bidez-Parmentier 26–27, Whitby 57–58).
26 Procopius, BV 1.4.1–11 (Haury and Wirth 1962, 324–326); Theophanes, AM 5943
(de Boor 104).
us “was one of the most learned and sophisticated historians Byzantium ever
produced” and whom Malalas certainly also used (but rather more sensibly
than his better acclaimed fellow historians and chroniclers).27 Instead Malalas
keeps just a story of Theodosius making a special visit to Ephesus to consult
St John the theologian about his successor and being advised in a dream
(ἐν ὁράµατι) that it would be Marcian.28 What is remarkable here is that even
though Marcian’s propaganda stories were accepted by respectable classicising
historians, the more prudent chronicler Malalas rejects them apart from the
story that involves a dream. That surely emphasises not merely that dreams
were accepted as a reliable indicator of God communicating with mankind
but also that they were superior to some other supposed indicators (such as
the eagle stories) that were subject to human manipulation. In particular, it is
worth noting the rejection of the protective eagle stories as they have quite a
future (see below) in manipulating Byzantine memory of the past.
The only other dreams in the chronicle are those of Anastasios and his
cubicularius in 518 at the end of Book 16 where they are told that, because
of their sins, they would die soon with 14 years removed from Anastasios’
lifespan.29 So their two dreams were almost certainly dreams invented 14 years
later in 532, almost certainly under pressure from Justinian to justify his
uncle Justin’s and his acquisition of the throne. Across the whole of Malalas’
chronicle these are the only two dreams to get any significant narrative atten-
tion. But in general it is fair to say that for Malalas dreams are genuine and he
has no doubts about interpretation. So they are simply related as fact without
being exploited as a way of enhancing the narrative.
2 Theophanes
Malalas was a major source for my next chronicler, Theophanes, writing in the
context of iconoclasm and the rise of Islam. As already mentioned, Calofonos
has made a fine study of Theophanes’ treatment of the thirteen dreams
that he includes in his chronicle, so there is no need for me to discuss them
in detail.30 They cover divine advice whether direct from God or a saint or
27 Treadgold 2007b, 715; cf. 2007a, 114–20; 2016, 281–283.

28 Malalas, Chron. 14.27 (Thurn 288, ByzA 4 [14.26], 200–201). Unlikely for a variety of rea-
sons, see Burgess 1993–94, 47–68, Scott 2010, 117–118.
29 Malalas, Chron. 16.20 (Thurn 334–335, ByzA 4, 229).
30 Theophanes’ 13 dreams: AM 5802 (de Boor 14), Constantine’s vision of Cross; AM 5816 (de
Boor 23), build Constantinople; AM 5920 (de Boor 86–7), Pulcheria about St. Stephen’s
relics; AM 5943 (de Boor 104), Theodosios II on Marcian; AM 6008 (de Boor 162), Patriarch
190 Scott
other representative (e.g. Constantine’s vision of True Cross; advice to build

Constantinople; appointment of Marcian as Theodosius II’s successor; arrival
of St. Stephen’s relic), explaining or warning about divine retribution for heresy
and other improper acts (e.g. Antioch earthquake and Alexandrians suffering
because of the Council of Chalcedon in 451) and various other topics. Instead
I will look at two items that were understandably not treated by Calofonos
since neither involves a genuine dream. Theophanes, a much more combative
chronicler than Malalas, is much firmer on God’s interference in humankind’s
affairs, and, as an iconodule writing under iconoclasm, on the effective power
of icons.
Theophanes’ most notorious account of a vision is one about which he is
quite adamant that it was a sham,31 a vision invented by Muhammad to ex-
plain away his epileptic fits to his wife and patron, Chadiga, assuring her that it
was not epilepsy (which would have been evidence of insanity) but that he had
been overwhelmed by visions of the archangel Gabriel. Chadiga at first sensi-
bly rejected this and was only persuaded after a monk told her that Gabriel
commonly appeared to prophets. It was Chadiga’s spreading of this story that
led to acceptance of Muhammad’s claim to be a prophet. Here we have the
huge ramification of an alleged vision that the chronicler claims was invented
but which a credulous woman spread on the advice of a monk and where the
chronicler’s whole account of the supposed vision is given for the sole purpose
of demonstrating that Islam is a sham. It is the vision story that, even though
it is a fake, underpins the whole narrative of Islam, enabling Theophanes’
Christian audience to understand on excellent authority that Islam was a fake
religion. But the story does rely on accepting that visions could be faked and
then extracting full value of the story for the narrative.32
The chronicler is, however, even more adamant about God organising a
genuine vision, since Theophanes claims that he himself was present at its
fulfillment. The iconoclast emperor Constantine V Kopronymos had in 765
thrown into the sea the precious relic of St Euphemia along with its casket.
Macedonios about Anastasios; AM 6008 (de Boor 162), Alexandrians suffering because
of Chalcedon; AM 6010 (de Boor 163–4), Anastasios and Amantios [2 dreams]; AM 6021
(de Boor 177–8), Antioch earthquake as divine retribution; AM 6094 (de Boor 284–286),
Maurice’s choice of fate in this life or next; AM 6146 (de Boor 345–346), Thessalonica /
Thes allo nike; AM 6194 (de Boor 372), Philippikos’ eagle; AM 6218 (de Boor 406), stone
thrown at Theotokos.
31 AM 6122 (de Boor 334).
32 See Neil 2013, 215–228.
Some thirty years later (twenty-two years after Constantine’s death, so quite
an interval of time):
ἀλλ᾽ ὁ θεὸς ὁ φυλάσσων τὰ ὀστᾶ τῶν εὐαρεστούντων αὐτῷ, κατὰ λόγια, ἀσινὲς
τοῦτο διεφύλαξε πάλιν ἀναδείξας αὐτὸ ἐν τῇ Λήμνῷ νήσῳ.
God, however, who guards the bones of those that please Him (as
Scripture saith), preserved it intact and manifested it once again on the
island of Lemnos,
(a sea trip of some distance, some 330 km according to Trip-Adviser, perhaps

explaining why it took the relic 30 years to get there).
διὰ γὰρ νυκτερινῆς ὁράσεως κείμενον ἀρθῆναι προσέταξε καὶ φυλάττεσθαι. ἐπὶ
δὲ Κωνσταντίνου καὶ Εἰρήνης τῶν εὐσεβῶν βασιλέων, ἰνδικτιῶνι δ´, μετὰ τῆς
πρεπούσης τιμῆς ἐπανῆλθεν ἐν τῷ τεμένει αὐτῆς…. τοῦτο δὲ τὸ θαυμαστὸν καὶ
ἀξιόγραφον θαῦμα μετὰ χρόνους κβ´ τῆς τοῦ παρανόμου τελευτῆς σὺν τοῖς εὐ-
σεβεστάτοις βασιλεῦσι καὶ Ταρασίῳ τῷ ἁγιωτάτῳ πατριάρχῃ ἡμεῖς τεθεάμεθα
καὶ σὺν αὐτοῖς κατησπασάμεθα ὡς ἀνάξιοι μεγάλης ἀξιωθέντες χάριτος.
By means of a nocturnal vision, God ordered it to be picked up where

it lay and guarded. Under the pious Constantine [VI] and Irene, in the
4th indiction [AD 796], it returned with due honour to her church …
Twenty-two years after the criminal’s death I myself saw this wonderful
and memorable miracle in the company of the most pious emperors and
Tarasios the most holy patriarch, and along with them I kissed it, unwor-
thy as I was to have been granted so signal a grace.33
Even though Theophanes is a little short on details about the ‘nocturnal vi-
sion’, and even if Cyril Mango is right (as I think he is) that it was not actually
Theophanes who was present but his friend the chronicler George Synkellos,34
this is still a case of a chronicler emphasising his presence at the fulfillment of
a vision—and hence that he is a committed believer in visions. So although
he can point to Muhammed lying about a dream, Theophanes has no doubts
about the accuracy of Christian visions and dreaming.
33 Theophanes, AM 6258 (de Boor 439–440).

34 Mango 1978, 9–17.
192 Scott
3 Skylitzes35
My final two chroniclers, both from the mid to late 11th century, are intrigu-
ingly linked in that Kedrenos lifted his final 500 pages almost verbatim from
Skylitzes with some minimal but intriguing rewriting,36 although the recent
first critical edition sensibly omits those last 500 pages.37 (It remains an edition
of over 900 pages in two volumes.) Yet despite this link the two at first sight ap-
pear to be in marked contrast over their treatment of dreams. Dreams are rare
in Skylitzes and visions only slightly less so, but Skylitzes is very much aware of
the problem of interpretation for almost every vision that he includes, whereas
his dreams sometimes imply little more than an abstract wish or aspiration.
For instance, at the accession of Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos there is
the account of Constantine Doukas’ unsuccessful attempt to become emperor.
ὁ Κωνσταντῖνος καὶ πρότερον ὀνειροπολῶν τὴν βασιλείαν καὶ διὰ παντὸς αὐτῆς
ἐφιέμενος.38
Now Constantine had already been dreaming of becoming emperor and

was always aiming in that direction.39
Here, despite the use of ὀνειροπολῶν, this is not necessarily a reference to actual
dreams rather than simply being Skylitzes’ way of describing Constantine’s as-
pirations. Likewise, we are told also of the unsuccessful attempt by Teichomeros
to become the Bulgarian emperor but who lost his life in the process: “Thus he
who had dreams of becoming ruler lost both the throne and his life.”40
Here again Skylitzes is surely describing an aspiration rather than drawing
attention to an actual dream, as is well brought out in each case by Wortley’s
translation, reinforced here by the absence of any earlier reference to any
dreaming by Teichomeros. So Magdalino is perfectly justified in not including
either of these examples in his catalogue of dreams in Skylitzes.41
35 Skylitzes’ chronicle is arranged by reigns. It is convenient to refer to each reign as a chapter

as is done for both the standard French (2004) and English (2010) translations, together
with the name of the emperor as occurs in Thurn’s (1973) critical edition.
36 As John Burke has pointed out to me and is discussed in Burke, Scott and Tuffin (forth-
coming since February 2014).
37 Tartaglia 2016.
38 Skylitzes (Constantine VII) chapter 2 (Thurn 1973, 197.40–41).
39 Skylitzes (Constantine VII) chapter 9.2 (Wortley 2010, 191).
40 Skylitzes (Michael IV) ch. 23 (Thurn 1973, 411.35–36): καὶ ὁ μὲν ὡς ἐν ὀνείρῳ δόξας ἄρξαι σὺν
τῇ ἀρχῇ καταστρέφει καὶ τὴν ζωήν; chapter 19.23 (Wortley 2010, 386).
41 Magdalino 2014, 141.
Although Skylitzes, as stated, acknowledges the problems of dream inter-

pretation in almost every one of his few references, he never actually rejects a
vision as being false. Rather he is aware of his readers’ possible rejection of it
and needs to meet that objection in advance as though to justify his use of the
vision as genuine material for his historical narrative. We are told that the ill
Patriarch Eustathios “fell asleep and saw a terrible vision (a real vision, not a
dream)”42 and later that a bishop’s servant “saw in a vision (not a dream, for he
was awake)”43 swarms of locusts which then disappeared, followed by a com-
plicated explanation, leading to this admonition:
ταῦτα, ἔφη, ἐπῆλθε τε καὶ ἐπελεύσεται ἐφ᾿ ὑμᾶς διὰ τὴν παράβασιν τῶν τοῦ
θεοῦ ἐντολῶν καὶ τὸ γενόμενον ἀνόσιον εἴς τε τὸν βασιλέα Ῥωμανὸν καὶ εἰς τὴν
αὐτοῦ κοίτην.
These, he said, came and will come upon you because of your trans-
gression of God’s commandments and the desecration of the emperor
Romanos which has taken place and the violation of his marriage bed.44
Skylitzes’ language in both cases here makes clear that he recognised the prob-
lem of distinguishing real visions from deceptive dreams as well as pointing
to a divine warning lying behind the dream, and hence his need to emphasise
to his audience that particular visions were indeed real. Likewise various por-
tentous visions, as well as comets, presage the fall of Bardas under Michael III,
which leads Skylitzes to keep his audience in suspense by noting, “Such was
the dream; the narrative will show whether what was seen in the vision came
to pass,”45 as of course it later does, though also acknowledging the (remote)
possibility that the visions were misleading. Elsewhere a virtuous monk has a
vision about Bardas that Bardas misinterprets as favouring him, as Skylitzes
points out, when what it really revealed “was the wrath of God against the
Romans”.46 So here the dream’s warning message is true enough but open to
human misinterpretation. But Skylitzes also draws attention to the wider range
42 ἀφύπνωσε καὶ ὁρᾷ θέαμα φρικτόν, ὕπαρ, οὐκ ὄναρ: Skylitzes (Basil II and Constantine VIII
bis) chapter 16.47 (Thurn 1973, 368, Wortley 2010, 348).
43 θεασαμένου … θέαμα οὐκ ὄναρ, ἀλλ᾽ ὕπαρ: Skylitzes (Michael IV) ch. 19.4 (Thurn 1973, 394–
95, Wortley 2010, 372).
44 Skylitzes (Michael IV) chapter 19.4 (Thurn 1973, 395, Wortley 2010, 372).
45 καὶ ὁ μὲν ὄνειρος οὗτος, εἰ δὲ καὶ ἀπέβη τὰ θεαθέντα, δηλώσει τὰ μετὰ ταὔτα. Skylitzes, (Michael
III) chapter 5.22 (Thurn 1973, 111, Wortley 2010, 112).
46 ἦν δὲ ἄρα ἡ πρὸς Ῥωμαίους ὀργὴ τοῦ θεοῦ. Skylitzes, (Basil II and Constantine VIII bis) chap-
ter 16.2 (Thurn 1973, 317, Wortley 2010, 301).
194 Scott
of warning signs. In referring to earthquakes, comets and storms, Skylitzes

states firmly: “In my opinion, these things presaged the forthcoming unpar-
alleled catastrophe for the tyrants.”47 In all of this, his understanding of the
phenomena of dreams and visions is so very different from that of Malalas and
Theophanes.
But simply in discussing the problems of interpretation (and on occasions
deliberately keeping the audience in suspense about the outcome), Skylitzes
gives the visions and dreams significance in the narrative, so that they make
the events associated with them stand out. As an example it is worth looking
at his account of the rise of Basil I to the throne, to which Magdalino48 and
Calofonos49 give especial attention, although they are analyzing not Skylitzes
but Theophanes Continuatus which contains the same material but presented
rather differently.
That difference in presentation is significant. Both Skylitzes and TheophCont
tell the story of a giant eagle that shaded the baby Basil I from the sun. Basil’s
mother kept chasing it away by throwing stones at it, but the eagle kept return-
ing. In Skylitzes Basil’s mother eventually got the picture and so was ‘finally just
able to perceive the meaning of this sign from God’ (μόλις ποτὲ συναίσθησιν τοῦ
θείου λαμβάνει συμβόλου)50 that Basil would become emperor. Here we have a
sign from God that is not a vision (to go along with earthquakes and comets),
but it is this story that then sets the tone for what follows, giving strength to
the account of dreams that follows. In the very next paragraph Basil grows up,
gets to Constantinople and sleeps outside a monastery whose hegoumenos is
told in a dream to call out for Basil because he will become emperor.51 The
hegoumenos rejects this advice because it is just a dream; so the vision returns
for a second and third time, before the hegoumenos finally acts, which sets up
the process for Basil to become emperor, again pointing to a separation of real
visions from deceptive dreams. In Skylitzes the series of rejections makes a far
larger impression than if the hegoumenos had accepted the dream automati-
cally, which, because of the eagle story, we as an audience know he should have
done but which Skylitzes deliberately exploits to give emphasis to the story.
In TheophCont, the basic material is similar but the treatment is quite dif-
ferent, leading to Calofonos and Magdalino understandably omitting the
eagle story while they concentrate exclusively on the mother’s three dreams
47 ταῦτα δὲ προεμήνυον, οἶμαι, τὴν μέλλουσαν ὅσον οὐδέπω γενέσθαι καταστροφὴν τῶν τυράννων.
Skylitzes, (Michael IV) chapter 19.21 (Thurn 1973, 408.62–63, Wortley 2010, 384).
48 Magdalino 2014, 127–128.
49 Calofonos 2014, 101–106.
50 Skylitzes (Basil I), chapter 6.3 (Thurn 1973, 119, Wortley 2010, 120).
51 Skylitzes (Basil I), chapter 6.4.
as the background to the hegoumenos’ dreams. For the eagle story, although
TheophCont tells us that “in such a way does God always, well before great
events <occur>, introduce certain symbolic intimations of what is to come….
The same thing would not infrequently happen to Basil in his later childhood,”52
there is at no stage any suggestion of his mother actually understanding what
had been happening. Rather:
ἀλλ᾽ ἐν οὐδενὶ σχεδὸν λόγῳ τότε ταῦτα ἐτίθετο. πρὸ τοῦ γὰρ ἐμφανεῖς κα-
ταστῆναι τὰς ἐν αὐτῷ ἀρετάς, κἂν μεγάλα τὰ προφαινόμενα, ἠμελεῖτο καὶ
παρελάνθανεν, οὐδενὸς δυναμένου τὸν ὄγκον τοῦ πράγματος ἐν οἰκίᾳ λιτῇ καὶ
δημοτικῇ ὅπως ἔλθοι ποτὲ βαλέσθαι εἰς νοῦν.
But at that time this attracted almost no attention, for before his virtues
were revealed, the portents, striking as they were, went unheeded and un-
noticed, since it could not have occurred to anyone that such a momen-
tous event would ever happen in a family of simple and humble people.53
Furthermore, the story of Basil’s journey to Constantinople and the hegou-

menos’ dream is not introduced for four lengthy paragraphs that emphasise
instead a further three dreams by his mother that (somewhat elusively) fore-
tell Basil’s brilliant future, by which stage the eagle story is almost a distant
memory for the reader.
In TheophCont it is via dreams that God reveals the future in a way that
is comprehensible to human beings (in these cases, Basil’s mother and the
hegoumenos) while the eagle story (being neither a vision nor a dream but
parallel rather with phenomena such as comets and earthquakes) remains
beyond comprehension, certainly to a simple family in a humble rustic com-
munity, though the audience, no doubt well aware of its own contrasting ur-
bane sophistication, will have immediately recognised (as intended) the clear
evidence of Basil’s future greatness.
As Magdalino puts it: “The dream narratives in the Vita Basilii are also there
to prove the value of dreams as valid instruments of Divine Providence”.54
Madgalino then also points to a later passage in the narrative where
TheophCont stresses this point. In the account of Basil’s rise to being emperor,
52 TheophCont, Basil 1.5 (Ševčenko 2011, 23–25) οὕτω τῶν μεγάλων πραγμάτων ἀεὶ πόρρωθεν ὁ
θεὸς προκαταβάλλεται τινα σύμβολα καὶ τεκμήρια τῶν εἰς ὕστερον. … τοῦτο δὲ καὶ εἰς τὴν ἐχο-
μένην ἡλικίαν οὐκ ὀλιγάκις γέγονεν ἐπ᾽αὐτῷ.
53 TheophCont, Basil 1.5 (Ševčenko 2011, 24–25).
54 Magdalino 2014, 128.
196 Scott
TheophCont can leave the eagle story as a sign that the reader is entitled to
know about even though it was not understood by those who witnessed it, but
it is Basil’s mother’s three dreams and the three dreams of the hegoumenos
that are the clear indicators of Divine Providence to the actual participants in
the history.
In Skylitzes the situation is different. There the chronicler seems conscious
of the pressure on him to show his own awareness of the problems of interpret-
ing God’s signs in order to convince a perhaps doubting audience. The signs are
provided by God and are therefore automatically valid, but humanity needs to
be aware of the problem both of identifying which signs are genuinely from
God (and so needing to distinguish between real visions and false dreams) and
of properly interpreting God’s genuine signs. And the chronicler needs to dem-
onstrate to his audience that he himself is aware of these problems and so
needs to provide evidence of where signs are genuine (“a real vision because
he was awake”; the eagle returning three times after being shooed away). But
at the same time the chronicler can exploit the eagle story in a way that al-
lows readers to enjoy their own realisation of the hegoumenos’ dreams being
genuine and needing to be obeyed. But this in part depends on Skylitzes having
demonstrated to his audience that the protective eagle and the hegoumenos’
dreams were genuine and not illusory, something that he clearly felt was nec-
essary when dealing with dreams and other phenomena, as shown by his care
to stress this in all his examples of dreams and visions. He accepts that God
does provide signs but is aware both of misinterpretation (such as Bardas’
misinterpretation of the virtuous monk’s vision) and of deception (such as
illusory dreams).
Basil’s eagle story itself is intriguing because of its own history. The eagle
story had already been used quite a bit before Basil, with two separate pro-
tective-eagle stories used by Marcian in the 5th century, discussed earlier, and
another by Philippikos in 702. Philippikos announced he would become em-
peror after dreaming that his head was shadowed by an eagle, or rather that
is what we are told, first by Theophanes and then by Pseudo-Symeon, Symeon
Logothete and Kedrenos,55 for which the current emperor, Tiberios Apsimar,
promptly banished him. Philippikos only became emperor a decade later
which was presumably when his eagle was dreamed up. Regrettably we do
not know the circumstances that required him to backdate the dream by a de-
cade or why he had been banished by the previous emperor which would have
been for something other than a not-yet-invented dream. With this history of
55 Theophanes, AM 6194 (de Boor 372); Ps-Sym. 194v.25–195r.12; Sym.Log. 116.2, (Wahlgren
2006, 174); Ked, 463.4 (Tartaglia 2016, 737).
the protective-eagle story to predict an emperor, one wonders what the re-
action to Basil’s re-use of it would have been among those Byzantines who
knew their history, but clearly the protective eagle had a good track record for
convincing Byzantines, despite the sensible Malalas’ rejection of it in favour of
a dream.
4 Kedrenos
Kedrenos differs from the other chroniclers notably by having included dreams
and visions far more frequently than other chroniclers. Counting instances is
not entirely straightforward since some return or are introduced on more than
one occasion and as both dream and vision, but on my count, excluding any-
thing that he filched from Skylitzes in his final 500 pages, there are about sixty
in total (27 dreams and 34 visions but with some ambiguity about the alloca-
tion). Whatever the precise figure the total stands in marked contrast to the
chronicles and histories examined by Paul Magdalino. There are also any num-
ber of other phenomena that are clearly linked to divine warnings and so have
a status equivalent to visions in the narrative. Kedrenos’ dreams and visions
are always genuine without posing problems of interpretation, so in general
he apparently felt no need to cope with Skylitzes’ questioning audience. As the
dreams and visions are presented clearly as divine warning signs, there simply
is not room for any doubt, while the considerably larger number of dreams
and visions does reveal this increasing presence of the divine in human af-
fairs. That said, Kedrenos does also show that he was aware that interpretation
could be a problem.
This is shown early in Kedrenos’ Old Testament section (so near the begin-
ning of the chronicle), when he discusses and analyses at remarkable length
the problems of interpreting the prophecies that he uses to introduce his ac-
count of the patriarch Joseph’s interpretation of Pharaoh’s dreams. Although
in that analysis he concentrates on prophecy and scarcely mentions dreams or
visions themselves as being in any way problematic, he nevertheless includes
dreams precisely at one point while his context of Joseph as dream interpreter
certainly implies that dreams need also to be taken into account. Given the rel-
atively large number of dreams that he includes across the rest of the chronicle,
it is significant that he also draws attention to the general rarity of those sent
by God, behaving as though he were more in line with Magdalino’s sources.
οὕτω μὲν τὰ ὁράματα ἀμυδρὰ τῆς ἀληθείας προτύπωσις ἦν. καὶ γὰρ καὶ
τοῦτο προφητείας εἶδος, καὶ ἐν πολλοῖς ἐθεωρήθη πολλάκις ἡ δι᾽ ὀνείρων τοῦ
198 Scott
μέλλοντος προδήλωσις, ἐν οἷς διὰ κρείττονος γίνεται κατοχῆς, ὥσπερ ἐν τῷ

Φαραὼ καὶ τῷ Ναβουχοδονόσορ καὶ ἄλλοις πλείστοις.
In this way then the visions were a dim prefiguration of the truth—for
this too is really a kind of prophecy, and the prognostication of the fu-
ture through dreams has been often observed in the case of many people.
In dreams the prognostication occurs through a more powerful inspira-
tion, just as in the case of Pharaoh and Nebuchadnezzar and very many
others.56
Ἄξιον δὲ εἰδέναι τὰς διαφορὰς τῶν προφετειῶν. ἡ μὲν γάρ ἐστι πνευματικὴ καὶ
ἀληθὴς πάντῃ, ὡς ἡ τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ τῶν ἁγίων, ἐν καιρῷ τῷ ἰδίῳ τὸ πέρας ἀκριβῶς
τῶν προφητευομένων ἐπιφέρουσα. ἄλλη δὲ δαιμονική, ἐν τοῖς τῶν δαιμόνων θε-
ραπευταῖς ἐνεργουμένη. πολύτροπος δὲ αὕτη.
It is worthwhile knowing the differences between prophecies. For the one

is spiritual and in every way truthful, like that of God and the saints, in
its own time bringing about the accomplishment precisely of the things
that were prophesied. The other is demonic, being brought into effect
amongst those who worship demons. This one has many forms.
Kedrenos itemises at some length these forms (omitted by me), including a

reference to augury:
καὶ ὅταν δι᾽ ἄστρων ἢ ὑδάτων ἢ ὀνείρων ματαίων, οἷοι καθ᾽ ἑκάστον πᾶσι προ-
σπίπτουσι. σπάνιοι γὰρ λίαν οἱ ἄνωθεν ἥκοντες, οὗτοι δὲ πάντες δαιμονιώδες οἱ
τρόποι τῆς προφητείας καὶ στοχαστικοί, οἳ κατὰ συμβεβηκὸς ἀληθεύοντες ἔν
τισιν ἐν τοῖς πλείστοις ἁμαρτάνουσιν.
When it is done through stars or waters or empty dreams, the kinds of

things that befall everyone every day—for those that have come from
above are exceedingly rare. All these modes of prophecy are demonic and
proceed by conjecture, and, although in some cases they prove true by
accident, in most cases they miss the mark.57
56 Cf. Ps-Sym. 32v.38–33r.3.

57 Kedrenos, 51 (Tartaglia 2016, 126–127). My italics. For the paragraph as a whole, cf. Ps. S.
33r.3–28 almost verbatim.
The whole account takes up some thirty lines in Tartaglia’s recent edition.58
Admittedly the account is lifted virtually verbatim from Pseudo-Symeon, but
it is nevertheless intriguing that it appears so early in his chronicle and at such
length, as it is simply an introduction to a perfectly standard account of Joseph
whose reliability as a dream interpreter was presumably not open to question.
And although it must be doubtful whether Kedrenos’ readers would have kept
in mind these doubts as they slogged their way through the next 650 pages (if
anyone, apart from scribes, ever did) or 1150 pages if they also read the Skylitzes
section, it does at least show that Kedrenos himself was aware that there could
be doubts.
At a much later stage in a somewhat different context Kedrenos also needed
to point out that God has allowed various dubious characters in the past to per-
form wonders, occasionally for the benefit of mankind but more often to trick
people or to test the strength of faith among the orthodox. He cites Anastasius
of Sinai (named as the great Anastasius of Theoupolis, that is, Antioch) on the
success of Apollonius of Tyana as a magician:
Ἀπολλωνίου δὲ μέχρι νῦν ἔν τισι τόποις ἐνεργοῦσι τὰ ἀποτελέσματα ἱστάμε-

να, τὰ μὲ εἰς ἀποτροπὴν ζῴων τετραπόδων καὶ πετεινῶν βλάπτειν δυναμένων
ἀνθρώπους,… καὶ ἄλλα εἰς ἕτερα ἐπὶ φθορᾷ καὶ βλάβῃ ἀνθρώπων ὑπάρχοντα
ἀποτρόπαια ἵστανται…. οἱ δαίμονες δι᾽ αὐτοῦ … σημεῖά τινα ἐξ ὀνόματα αὐτοῦ
ἐπετέλεσαν πρὸς ἀπάτην τῶν ἐλεεινῶν ἀνθρώπων τῶν ῥᾳδίως ὑποκλεπτομέ-
νων εἰς τὰ τοιαῦτα ὑπὸ τοῦ διαβόλου.
Until today in many places the talismans set up by Apollonius still work,
some to ward off quadrupeds and birds capable of harming humans … and
others warding off other things that destroy and harm human beings….
The demons through him … executed certain wonders in his name in
order to deceive piteous people who are easily deceived in such things
by the devil.59
And then Kedrenos continues in his own voice (though lifted verbatim from
George the monk):
ταῦτα δὲ πάντα συγχωρήσει τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ ἐνεργείᾳ δαιμόνων γίνονται πρὸς τὸ
διὰ τῶν τοιούτων πραγμάτων δοκιμάζεσθαι τὴν ἡμετέραν ὀρθόδοξον πίστιν, εἰ
ἑδραία ἐστὶ καὶ παγία προσμένουσα τῷ κυρίῳ καὶ μὴ ὑποσυρομένη ὑπὸ τοῦ
58 Kedrenos, 50.2–51 (Tartaglia 2016, 126–127).

59 Kedrenos, 260.15–24 (Tartaglia 2016, 438–439).
200 Scott
ἐχθροῦ διὰ τῶν φαντασιωδῶν τεράτων καὶ σατανικῶν ἔργων τῶν πραττομένων
ὑπὸ τῶν δούλων καὶ ὑπηρετῶν τῆς κακίας.
All these things, with the permission of God and through the action of
demons, are done in order that through things like this our orthodox faith
is tested, [to see] if it is steadfast and firmly attached to the Lord and
not seduced by the enemy through the showy wonders and satanic works
performed by the slaves and servants of evil.60
None of this involves dreams, though one could argue that it involves visions,
but again it does point to a similar situation and to the doubts against which
Skylitzes found it necessary to be on guard. All this material is lifted from ear-
lier sources, but that, for Kedrenos and other chroniclers, is evidence of its
accuracy and worth, plagiarism being a virtue. And it does help reinforce
his concern over the difficulty both of interpreting strange phenomena and
of whether they possess divine authority or whether they can provide severe
challenges to proper faith. In this his position is close to Skylitzes and so very
different from Malalas.
Here it is worth noting Kedrenos’ overall methodology. His chronicle at its
most basic level is an attempt to combine secular history (which he largely
lifts from Pseudo-Symeon, probably via the so-called Epitome) with ecclesias-
tical and theological history, for which he relies largely on George the monk.
Although his discussion of the problems involved in prophecy—which also
covers dreams and visions—is in the context of Joseph’s dreams in the Old
Testament, his source is Pseudo-Symeon. So the presence of dreams and vi-
sions should be understood in a context of secular affairs; that is, God’s in-
terference in human affairs is part of secular history, not ecclesiastical or
theological history. Although that is natural and obvious enough when one
bothers to think about it, it does help emphasise that in the Byzantine way of
recording and remembering the past, there is always a need to keep in mind
God’s ever-present involvement.
5 Conclusion
It may well be wise not to try to draw general conclusions from my survey of
these four chroniclers. Malalas’ acceptance of dreams and visions as real is
clear enough but he does not treat them as anything out of the ordinary and
60 Kedrenos, 260.29–34 (Tartaglia 2016, 439).

his noting of them is infrequent. Theophanes provides a stronger impression

of divine interference in human affairs right through his chronicle than does
Malalas, one of his main sources, and to do this he clearly sought out extra
material. He does also show his own awareness that reports of visions could
be manipulated and so he may stand mid-way between sixth-century Malalas
and the eleventh-century Skylitzes and Kedrenos not only in time but also in
his approach to dreams and visions. Skylitzes was considerably aware of the
problem of interpretation and deception but as an historian he felt the need
to emphasise that his examples are genuine. Kedrenos includes dreams and vi-
sions on a much larger scale and clearly accepts them. But he also provides the
most detailed discussion of the problems of interpretation and of the oddities
in his examples of God’s interference in human affairs. This may suggest that,
although the acceptance of dreams as messages from God remained constant,
as these were exploited more in chronicle narratives, so an awareness of the
problems of interpretation also grew, perhaps paralleling the growth in dream-
interpretation handbooks. But at this stage this should remain merely as a sug-
gestion as we may simply be dealing with the personal idiosyncrasies of four
different writers. An examination of that is something that lies well beyond the
scope of this very preliminary study.
6 Appendix: Dreams and Visions in Kedrenos
Although I have separated Kedrenos’ dreams from visions in the following list, the
allocation is somewhat arbitrary, though unimportant. References are all to section
numbers in Tartaglia 2016, together with the page number for the precise Greek phrase
that indicates a dream or vision. Ι have only provided enough Greek text to indicate
that there is a dream or vision.
Dreams
25.1 Tartaglia 2016, 103, Inachos searching for Io (ὄναρ θεωροῦσι).
45.2 Tartaglia 2016, 122, Jacob at Baithel, εἶδε τὸ ὅραμα.
50.1 Tartaglia 2016, 125–6, Joseph’s dreams as young man τῶν ἐνυπνίων ἀκούοντες.
52.1 Tartaglia 2016, 127, Joseph in prison ἀμφότεροι εἶδον ἐνύπνια.
52.2 Tartaglia 2016 128, Pharaoh’s dream ἐνύπνιον εἶδε Φαραώ (plus a second time).
82 Tartaglia 2016, 178, Endymion, seeking to learn the divine name in a dream μαθεῖν …
τὸ θεῖον ὄνομα ἐν ὁράματι.
83 Tartaglia 2016, 178–9, The Lord to Moses, and Aaron ἐν ὁράματι αὐτῷ γνωσθήσομαι.
85.4 Tartaglia 2016 181, Ambran to wife Iochabed about Moses κατὰ τοὺς ὕπνους πάντα …
συμβησόμενα ἐκ θεοῦ.
202 Scott
135.1 Tartaglia 2016, 250, Argonauts’ temple turned into church by Constantine after
dream (Κωνσταντῖνος κατ᾽ ὄναρ χρηματισθείς).
228.3 Tartaglia 2016, 362, God appears to Alexander the great in dream at Jerusalem
ὤφθη μοι κατ᾽ ὄναρ … ὁ θεός.
301.2 Tartaglia 2016, 481, Constantine’s vision of True Cross, both daytime vision and
dream (vision during night). φαίνεται οὖν αὐτῷ ἐν ἓκτῃ ὥρᾳ τῆς ἡμέρας ὁ τίμιος σταυρὸς
κατεσκευασμένος, ἔχων ἐπιγραφὴν δι᾽ ἀστέρων. <<Ἐν τούτῳ νίκα>>. ἐν ὁράματι δὲ τῆς
νυκτὸς ἐφίσταται αὐτῷ ὁ κύριος λέγων …
302.1 Tartaglia 2016, 483, Constantine’s dream to seek out Sylvester κατ᾽ ὄναρ ὁρᾷ.
306.2 Tartaglia 2016, 500, Constantine’s dream to build a city for the Theotokos ὑπὸ τοῦ
κυρίου πρὸς αὐτὸν κατὰ τοὺς ὕπνους.
333:3 Tartaglia 2016, 545, Before his death, [Valens] saw in a dream a man saying to him:
“Go quickly to the great Mimas where a dreadful fate will snatch your wretched self.”
ἐθεάσατο κατ᾽ ὄναρ.
374:1 Tartaglia 2016, 602, St John to Theodosius II that Marcian would succeed him
Ἰωάννης ὁ θεολόγος ἀπεκάλυψεν.
396:1 Tartaglia 2016, 615, The deceased patriarch Makedonios to someone called
Theodore in a dream εἶπεν ἐν ὁράματι.
396:2 Tartaglia 2016, 615, An Alexandrian saw a terrible spectre in his dreams. καθ᾽
ὕπνους δέ τις εἶδέ τινα φοβερὸν λέγοντα.
396:5 Tartaglia 2016, 616–617, A terrifying figure appeared to Anastasios in a dream say-
ing: “Do not harm Justin and Justinian in any way.” παρέστη αὐτῷ τις κατ᾽ ὄναρ φοβερὸς
λέγων.
396:6 Tartaglia 2016, 617, Anastasios saw in a vision a terrifying man holding a book. He
told Amantios the praepositus about the dream who said: “I too saw that”, Ἀναστάσιος
εἶδεν ἐν ὁράματι ἄνδρα φοβερόν … εἶπεν αὐτῷ τὸ ὅραμα. ὁ δὲ εἶπεν ὅτι Κἀγὠ ἐθεασάμην …
After Proklos the interpreter of dreams, had come ἐλθόντος δὲ τοῦ ὀνειροκρίτου Πρόκλου.
414 Tartaglia 2016, 649, The (deceased) philosopher appeared to the bishop in a dream
saying, ἐπιφαίνεται κατ᾽ ὄναρ ὁ φιλόσοφος τῷ ἐπισκόπῳ.
424:1 Tartaglia 2016, 663, A divine utterance was given to this emperor through an angel
in a dream τούτῳ τῷ βασιλεῖ γέγονε θεία ὀμφή, ἀγγέλου κατ᾽ ὄναρ εἰπόντος.
426:2 Tartaglia 2016, 666, The master of the house saw the Theotokos in a dream stand-
ing. ὁ δεσπότης δὲ τῆς οἰκίας εἶδε κατ᾽ ὄναρ ἐπιστᾶσαν αὐτῷ τὴν θεοτόκον.
433:1 Tartaglia 2016, 676.13–14, Maurice’s vision about death. εἶδεν ὁ Μαυρίκιος ἐν μιᾷ
νυκτί.
451 Tartaglia 2016, 718, Thessaloniki / Give victory to another. θεωρεῖ κατ᾽ ὄναρ ὁ βασιλεύς.
453:3 Tartaglia 2016, 724.19, But not even while he was in Sicily did the dream fly away
from him. ἀλλ οὐδ᾽ ἐν Σικελίᾳ διατρίβοντι ἀπέπτη ὁ ὄνειρος ἀπ᾽αὐτοῦ.
453:3 Tartaglia 2016, 724.14, Losing heart at keeping on seeing this dream the spiritless
fellow decided to depart for Sicily. καθ᾽ ὕπνους συχνῶς ἐφαίνετο αὐτῷ.
463:4 Tartaglia 2016, 737, Apsimaros exiled the patrician Philippikos, the son of
Nikephoros, because he was dreaming of becoming emperor. For he claimed to have
seen in a dream that his head was shadowed by an eagle ἔφασκε γὰρ ἑωρακέναι κατ᾽
ὄναρ ὅτι ἡ κεφαλὴ αὐτοῦ ἐσκιάζετο ὑπὸ ἀετοῦ.
Visions and divine voices

39:1 Tartaglia 2016, 117, The Word of God to Abraham τῷ Ἀβραὰμ ὁ τοῦ θεοῦ φανείς.
50:2 Tartaglia 2016, 126, visions were a dim profiguration of the truth τὰ ὁράματα ἀμυδρὰ
τῆς ἀληθείας προτύπωσις ἦν
[57:3 Tartaglia 2016, 135, God talking to Moses].
63:4 Tartaglia 2016, 146, Moses was again ordered by God to go up on the mountain and
take the inscribed tablets that God had set down as law.
68:6 Tartaglia 2016, 156, Angel of Lord to Gedeon ὤφθη ἄγγελος κυρίου τῷ Γεδεών.
79 Tartaglia 2016, 173, Daniel and prophecy of Antichrist ἐν τῇ ὀπτασίᾳ ἑωρακέναι
134:2 Tartaglia 2016, 248, Gabriel to Daniel of Christ τῷ Δανιὴλ ὡράθησαν … αἱ ὀπτασίαι
cf. 154 Tartaglia 2016, 283–284, Δανιὴλ τὰς διὰ τῆς τοῦ Γαβριὴλ ὀπτασίας εἶδε.
209:1 Tartaglia 2016, 342, Daniel in the vision of the four beasts ὁ Δανιὴλ ἐν τῇ τῶν
τεσσάρων θηρίων ὀπτασίᾳ cf. 211.1 (same Greek).
216 Tartaglia 2016, 348, Zachary saw the archangel Gabriel announcing to him the con-
ception of John the Baptist. Εἶδε τὸν ἀρχάγγελον Γαβριήλ.
217 Tartaglia 2016, 349, Theotokos heard a voice saying to her from God, ‘You will bear
my son’. ἤκουσε φωνῆς λεγούσης αὐτῇ θεόθεν. [Not vision or dream but equivalent].
217 Tartaglia 2016, 349, And after six months the archangel Gabriel appeared to her,
announcing the salvation of the world. But she told no one of this until after she gave
birth. ὤφθη αὐτῇ ὁ ἀρχάγγελος Γαβριήλ.
220:3 Tartaglia 2016, 352, Virgin’s death [the archangel appeared to her, bearing the
prize. She surrendered her holy soul to God her Lord and son aged 72].
256:3 Tartaglia 2016, 414, I had a vision, and behold a ram standing. εἶδον ἐν ὁράματι, καὶ
ἰδοὺ κριὸς ἑστηκώς.
256.3 Tartaglia 2016, 414, You will see more clearly, when you have heard this vision,
what the prophet announced to you in parables. εἴσεσθε σαφέστερον ἀκούσαντες αὐτῆς
τῆς ὁράσεως.
308:1 Tartaglia 2016, 502, Helen, advised by a vision, departed to Jerusalem … finding
the honoured cross Ἑλένη ἡ μήτηρ τοῦ βασιλέως στεφθεῖσα δι᾽ ὀπτασίας εἰς τὰ Ἱεροσόλυμα
ἀπέρχεται … τὸν τίμιον σταυρὸν εὑροῦσα.
311:1 Tartaglia 2016, 511, Philo furthermore said [this] regarding the vision of God which
Moses saw in the bush: Φίλων περὶ τοῦ θεάματος, οὗ εἶδε Μωυσῆς ἐν τῇ βάτῳ
346:1 Tartaglia 2016, 559, Theodosios the Great, while at war with the usurper Eugenios,
after coming across a prayer-house on a mountain, fell on the ground weeping and
beseeching God to help him. A little later awakening from sleep in despair he saw two
204 Scott
[figures] seated on white horses telling him to be of good heart and to arouse the army
for battle. Of the figures one said that he was John himself and the other was Philip,
both being apostles. One of the soldiers [also] saw this vision and reported it to the
emperor. ταύτην δὲ τὴν ὅρασιν καὶ εἷς τῶν στρατιωτῶν ἰδὼν ἀπήγγειλε τῷ βασιλεῖ.
352 Tartaglia 2016, 564, Arsenios while praying to God at night heard a voice saying.
οὗτος ἐν νυκτὶ δεόμενος τοῦ θεοῦ ἤκουσε φωνῆς λεγούσης
356 Tartaglia 2016, 566, Cyril of Alexandria was judged worthy of being put right by a
mystic revelation, in which he seemed to be in some frightening and very beautiful
place, in which crowds of holy angels stood around the mother of God. ἀποκαλύψει τινὶ
μυστικῇ, ἐν ᾗ ἐδόκει ἔν τινι καὶ περικαλλεῖ καὶ φοβερῷ πάνυ τόπῳ εὑρεθῆναι.
359 Tartaglia 2016, 573–574, When after praying for this for a long time I got into a [state
of] ecstasy I saw a very beautiful man who grabbed me by the right hand. ἐπὶ πολύν
οὖν χρόνον τοῦτο εὐχόμενος ἐν μιᾷ γίνομαι ἐν ἐκστάσει, καὶ θεωρῶ ἄνδρα τινὰ πάνυ εὐειδῆ
κρατήσαντά με τῆς δεξιᾶς χειρός.
366:2 Tartaglia 2016, 580, On this very night the blessed Pulcheria saw St Stephen say-
ing, ‘Behold your prayer has been heard.’ θεωρεῖ ἡ μακαρία Πουλχερία τῇ αὐτῇ νυκτὶ τὸν
ἅγιον Στέφανον λέγοντα αὐτῇ. «Ἰδοῦ ἡ προσευχή σου εἰσηκούσθη».
371:1 Tartaglia 2016, 587, A young man was lifted into the air and heard a divine voice
ordering him to tell the bishop ἡρπάγη νεανίας εἰς τὸν ἀέρα καὶ ἤκουσε θείας φωνῆς.
393:6 Tartaglia 2016, 611, When an earthquake was about to occur, a journeying soldier
saw two soldiers coming towards him and one of them shouted back, ‘Take care of the
house where Gregory’s tomb is’. [Context rather than vocabulary shows this is a vision].
396:5 Tartaglia 2016, 616, Everything turned out exactly as the vision had proclaimed.
παρέστη αὐτῷ τις κατ᾽ ὄναρ φοβερὸς λέγων.
402:2 Tartaglia 2016, 626, There appeared to one god-fearing man in a vision to tell ev-
eryone where they should inscribe above their door lintels, ‘Christ is with us, stay’. And
when this was done the anger of God stayed. ἐφάνη δέ τινι θεοσοβεῖ ἀνθρώπῳ ἐν ὁράματι
εἰπεῖν πᾶσιν.
423 Tartaglia 2016, 660, She found the boy sitting in the furnace quite unburnt. After
taking him out she asked him how it was that he stayed unburnt and he replied: “A
lady wearing purple came and put out the flame and told me, ‘Don’t be afraid, boy’.”
[Context rather than vocabulary shows this is a vision].
431 Tartaglia 2016, 672–673, (?) The prefect entreated him by oaths not to dispel the vi-
sion before everybody had had their fill of this incredible sight. ὁ ὕπαρχος ὅρκοις ἔβαλε
μὴ καταλῦσαι τὴν θεωρίαν, πρὶν ἅπαντες ἐμφορηθῶσι τῆς παραδόξου ταύτης ὁράσεως.
433:1 Tartaglia 2016, 676, So with everyone praying for him, Maurice one night had
a vision that he was standing at the Bronze Gate of the palace by the image of the
Saviour and beside him was a great crowd of prisoners [of war], shouting and accusing
him. And a voice came from the holy portrait saying, “Bring forward Maurice.” εἶδεν ὁ
Μαυρίκιος ἐν μιᾷ νυκτί … καὶ φωνὴ γέγονεν ἐκ τοῦ ἁγίου χαρακτῆρος λέγουσα.
434:3 Tartaglia 2016, 680, In Alexandria a calligrapher who was pious, when he was
returning home late at night from the night service, heard some statues on the altars
saying that Maurice and his children had been killed and [reporting] all the calamities
that had taken place in Byzantium. [Context rather than vocabulary].
434:11 Tartaglia 2016, 683, A holy monk from the days of Phokas in reflecting on God’s
judgement said, ‘Lord, why did you give the Christians such a lawless emperor?’ And a
voice came to him unseen [saying] that, ‘I could not find anyone worse than him [better
suited] to the evil of those now inhabiting the city.’ [Context rather than vocabulary].
440:1 Tartaglia 2016, 752–753, The barbarians saw early in the morning as the sun was
rising a distinguished woman coming out of the gate at Blachernai with some eunuchs.
Believing her to be the empress, the wife of Heraclius, and that she was coming out to
their leader for the sake of peace since the emperor was not in the City, they made a
passage for her, so that any other people coming out would be subject to them. Then
when they saw that she had gone out beyond the extent of the ditch and was not going
off to their leader, they followed behind her. As they got close to her at the place known
as the old rock, both she and those with her became invisible, and they themselves
became entangled with one another and made their crowd full of confusion and they
set about slaughtering one another until evening. [Context rather than vocabulary].
476:4 Tartaglia 2016, 752–753, A certain Constantine … on seeing an image icon of the
Theotokos that had been set up, picked up a stone and threw it at her. He broke the
image and trampled on it after it had fallen down. He then saw in a vision the Lady
standing beside him and saying to him: ‘See what a brave thing you have done to me!
Verily upon your head you have done it,’ θεωρεῖ οὖν ἐν ὁράματι παρεστῶσαν αὐτῷ τὴν
δέσποιναν καὶ λέγουσαν αὐτῷ.
484:1 Tartaglia 2016, 762, In the 15th [indiction] all of a sudden without visible cause
a great many oily crosslets began to appear in the imperial city upon men’s garments
and on the furniture of the churches. The mysteriousness of this presage inspired great
sorrow and despondency among the people. Then God’s wrath occurred [in the form
of] various sufferings, destroying unsparingly not only the inhabitants of the city but
also those of all its outskirts. Many men had hallucinations and, being in ecstasy, imag-
ined that they were in the company of certain strangers of terrible aspect who, as it
were, addressed in friendly fashion those they met and conversed with them. [Context
rather than vocabulary].
[Pretend/sham vision] 444:1 Tartaglia 2016, 705, Being destitute Moamed entered [the
service of] some rich woman who was a relative of his, called Chadiga…. Since he was
demonic, and he also suffered from epilepsy, he placated his wife, who was extremely
upset that she, who was a noblewoman, had married a man such as he who was not
only poor but was also demonic, by saying “I see a vision of an angel called Gabriel and
I fall down.” With her was a monk who had been exiled there for his erroneous beliefs,
a friend of hers, and she related everything to him including the name of the angel.
206 Scott
Wanting to satisfy her he told her that [the man] had spoken the truth; for this is the
angel who is sent to every prophet. And she, believing the word of this false prophet,
proclaimed him to the other women of her tribe. Ἀγγέλου ὀπτασίαν λεγονένου Γαβριὴλ
θεωρῶ καὶ πίπτω.
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chapter 10
Dream Portents in Early Byzantine and Early

Islamic Chronicles
Bronwen Neil
The recent study of early Byzantine dream manuals has opened a window
onto the concerns of ordinary people,1 whether Christian or Muslim, as well as
providing a theoretical framework for their interpretation. The tenth-century
Arab Christian dreambook known as the Oneirocriticon of Achmet is evidence
for the common roots of Byzantine Christian and Islamic dream interpreta-
tion in this literary genre.2 Other evidence of cultural cross-over is revealed
in early Islamic and Byzantine dream narrative accounts in hagiography and
chronicles. However, these genres reflect less the concerns of ordinary people
and more the concerns of emperors, soldiers and saints. Even a cursory com-
parison of the two traditions suggests that early Islamic dream-narrators used
dreams in ways similar to their Byzantine (and Jewish) contemporaries,3 and
that their dream accounts served similar literary functions. This apparently
arcane aspect of Greek and Arabic literature is worthy of study because it is a
living tradition in many modern societies that descend from the Byzantine and
Islamic traditions.4
Previous studies of Byzantine chronographic literature on dreams have fo-
cused on the period from the 11th century onward.5 I am interested here to
see whether there are similarities between Byzantine and Islamic literature
on dreams from earlier chronographic literature of the 7th to 10th centuries.
1 As noted by MacAlister 1992, 140, of the Oneirocriticon of Artemidorus, a second-century

Greek dream-interpreter from Asia minor. For a translation of six Byzantine oneirocritica
see Oberhelman 2008 and his discussion of the genre in Oberhelman 2014. Many thanks to
Aydogan Kars and an anonymous reviewer for their suggestions and comments.
2 Oberhelman 1991; Mavroudi 2002.
3 As Bulkeley 2008, 194, and Green 2003 have observed.
4 As argued by Angelidi and Calofonos 2014; Edgar 2011; Felek and Knysh 2012; Kinberg 2012;
Oberhelman 2013; Neil 2016.
5 E.g. Magdalino 2014 studies sources ca. 1000–1360; Calofonos starts with the compila-
tion of tenth-century historical works known as The Continuation of Theophanes, which
cover the 9th and 10th centuries, from Leo V the Armenian to 961, during the rule of
Romanos II Porphyrogenitus (959–963) (Calofonos 2014). See especially the helpful tabula-
tion of Theophanes Continuatus’ references to visions in Calofonos 2014, 122–123.

Dream Portents in Early Byzantine and Early Islamic Chronicles 209
Other fields of study which produced literature, such as theology, law, mys-
ticism and politics, could also be compared. Chronicles have been chosen
because they lend themselves to comparison across the two monotheistic reli-
gions of Islam and Christianity. Both traditions used chronography to illustrate
the common idea of God’s providential hand operating throughout human
history, from the first man Adam to the current day. Hadiths are also briefly
analysed here, as they preserve the Prophet’s sayings and the early Islamic tra-
ditions that were incorporated into histories such as the Tariq of Al-Tabarī,
which spans from before the creation of Adam to Al-Tabarī’s own lifetime
(224–310 AH; 839–923 CE).6
I focus here on the 7th to 10th centuries because this foundation period
for Islam shows the closest interaction between the Islamic tradition and its
Byzantine models. When we talk about dreams in Arabic literature, Ibn Sīrīn
immediately comes to mind. Ibn Sīrīn (653/654–728 CE), a philosopher and
prolific author from the earliest period of Islam, is generally thought to be the
author of The Interpretation of Dreams, a tenth-century dreambook attributed
to him. No genuine written works by Ibn Sīrīn survive, and his oral dream lore
is known only from mentions of it in later literature.7 These fall outside the
generic limits of this study, as do the Byzantine dream key manuals (oneiro-
critica) that they resemble.
Historical dreams are of course literary creations, usually related third-hand
by a chronicler with his own agenda.8 Calofonos notes that they are useful
building blocks for making a larger narrative move along and for illustrat-
ing larger themes in the narrative, such as the moral decline of the empire
and punishment of heterodoxy in Theophanes Confessor (d. 818).9 Narrated
dreams can be used in chronicles and hagiography, as in other literary genres,
to “shape and reshape culture”.10 They enable a distancing of authority for both
the dreamer and the narrator. If God sends a dream, the dreamer is not re-
sponsible for its content, even if it is critical of the regime or other religious
leaders. The narrator is also exonerated. As early as the 6th century, Byzantine
subversives and commentators realised that dreams were very useful tools for
6 Radtke and O’Kane 1996, 38–97. AH indicates the dating according to the Islamic lunar
calendar, starting from Muhammad’s hijra (the migration from Mecca to Medina) in 622.
From here on, I give dates according to the Common Era.
7 Lamoreaux 2002, 19–20.
8 See Calofonos 2014, 96–97, and Mavroudi 2014 on the limitations of dream accounts in
Byzantine historical sources.
10 Marlow 2008b, 9–11.
210 Neil
establishing alternative religious authority or exercising criticism of the cur-

rent or past regime (Kaiserkritik).11
The parallels within the Byzantine texts adduced here will become obvious.
Unlike our post-Freudian understanding of dreams as reflections of individual
psychic processes of the unconscious, dreams had both individual and social
significance in the Byzantine tradition, and also in the Islamic tradition up to
the current day. Just like the ancient letter, dreams given to individuals were
often shared for the spiritual benefit of the whole community. Immense semi-
otic power was thus attributed to a medium that was able to be misrepresented
and manipulated at will. This has always been the problem with dreams and
is probably the main reason why they are discounted in post-Enlightenment
societies. That is to say, if Freud had not existed, it would have been necessary
to invent him, as psychoanalyst Nina Coltart put it.12
1 Types of Dream in Byzantine Sources
In her 1996 study of ninth-century Byzantine hagiography, Margaret Kenny

identified six types of dream:13 1. Personal-mnemic, which concern everyday
matters in the dreamer’s life; 2. Medical-somatic, which includes those epi-
sodes related to the workings of the body; 3. Prophetic, which present aspects
of future events; 4. Archetypal-spiritual, in which the dreamer explores exis-
tential questions, and which results in some transformation of behaviour; 5.
Nightmares, with upsetting or frightening images; 6. Lucid dreams, in which
the dreamer is aware of experiencing a dream and then consciously alters the
course of events in the dream. Let us consider which of these types are appli-
cable to the study of Byzantine and Islamic chronicles.
Type 1, personal-mnemic dreams, which pertain to everyday matters in the
dreamer’s life, were not considered worthy of discussion in chronicles or hagi-
ography, nor were medical-somatic dreams (type 2), and so have been exclud-
ed from this study. Type 3, prophetic or mantic dreams, are at first glance most
like those with which we are concerned here. However, our prophetic dreams
pertain not only to the future but also to the present; they are divine messages
rather than insights into the future. Any dream in which a prophet appears
11 Strickler (2018) looks at the sixth-century precursors to seventh-century Byzantine apoca-

lyptic, which featured frequent vaticinia ex eventu and Kaiserkritik, in Chapter 2. See fur-
ther Strickler’s chapter in this volume.
12 Coltart 1991, 154.
13 Kenny 1996, online.
may be considered prophetic (Calofonos would call these “oracular”, and they
include appearances of angels and saints who deliver messages which may
have personal or wider significance).14 I avoid the term ‘oracular’ as it stems
from a pre-Christian tradition that is not comparable with the Christian tradi-
tion of God-sent dreams, in that oracles had to be requested from the gods,
their messages were usually ambiguous, and the delivery of an oracle required
no virtue or action on the part of the seeker. Critiques of those who talk about
the unseen (ghayb), or the soothsayers, appear immediately with the Qur’an
and early hadith, as did criticism of divination in early Christian and Byzantine
sources.15 To cite a hadith of the prophet Muhammed, “The believer’s dream is
[only] one forty-sixth part of prophecy”,16 where prophecy is meant as “knowl-
edge of the future”. The fourth type seems to be more applicable than Type 3 to
prophetic dreams in the Islamic context.
Kenny’s Type 4, archetypal-spiritual dreams, in which the dreamer explores
existential questions, and which may transform the dreamer’s waking behav-
iour, is perhaps Kenny’s most problematic category, as it covers all the dreams
that are included in chronicles. Any of these dream types, if negative, could
also be classed as nightmares, Kenny’s fifth type. Lucid dreams (type 6) are
mentioned in Islamic dream narratives as well as Byzantine, as are types 3,
4 and 5. While Kenny does not mention them in her ninth-century sources,
dreams inspired by the Devil or demons are a feature of Byzantine hagiogra-
phy, and later of Islamic hagiography. Bettina Krönung finds instances of de-
monic ecstasy in various Lives written in our period of interest (the 7th to 10th
centuries): those of Symeon Stylite the Younger, Martha, John the Almsgiver,
Porphyry of Gaza, Daniel the Stylite and Theodore of Sykeon.17 However, in
historiographical texts of this period there are no dreams of demonic origin,
and thus no deception in dreams.18 Only the dreams which proved “true” were
considered worthy of relating.
In preference to Kenny’s taxonomy, I have adopted Louise Marlow’s iden-
tification of the disparate functions of literary dreams, which include: “moral
14 Calofonos 2014, 102–103 and n. 35 on the pagan tradition of oracular dreams, of which
prophetic dreams were a subset.
15 Neil (forthcoming) discusses the early Christian condemnation of divination; see also
Neil 2016, 54–57; on the relaxation of Byzantine legal proscriptions of the practice by
Leo VI (886–912), see Mavroudi 2002, 61–62 and n. 36; Neil 2016, 58.
16 Saḥīḥ al-Bukhārī; this hadith appears in al-Bukhārī, Saḥīḥ al-Bukhārī, Book 9 ch. 104, at
icias.com/textarchive/bukhari/104.htm (accessed 9.02.17). It also appeared in the book of
Hadiths by Abu Muslim.
17 Krönung 2014, 52.
212 Neil
edification, providing support for a specific doctrinal or legal point of view,

affirmation of a dynasty’s claims to political legitimacy, the establishment of
an individual’s credentials in a given situation or arena, predicting, cautioning
against or foreshadowing future events, addressing a disputed or even unmen-
tionable topic, social or political commentary, or satire.”19 We will see below
how dreams are shaped also by genre, whether hagiography or chronogra-
phy, and how constant these functions are across early Byzantine and Islamic
sources. Let us start with dreams in Islamic and Byzantine hagiography, then
proceed to their functions in early Byzantine and Islamic chronicles.
2 Islamic Dream Narratives in Hagiography
Islamic hagiographic dream tales, such as those related in the Life of the Friends
of God by the Sufi Alī-Hakīm al-Tirmidhī (d. 892 CE), were similar to the
Byzantine in that they departed from the Aristotelian tradition, which denied
that the medium of dreams could reveal the divine or the future. Inheritors of
the Platonic tradition, on the other hand, were far more open to the possibil-
ity of prophetic or mantic dreams. The use of dreams to predict one’s spiritual
future was an innovation of Christianity (based on the New Testament story of
Dives in Luke 16:19–31), with its concern for the afterlife, and proved even more
popular in the medieval West than in the Greek East. It was also taken up in
early Islam, where dreams were used to endorse Islamic scriptures and sayings
of its founder, Muhammad.
In Islamic dream narratives, as in Greek historiographic literature, dreams
were treated as divine (or demonic) revelations. In Arabic the noun for dream
interpretation (ta’bīr) is related to the verb meaning “to draw moral lessons
from mundane events” or “to contemplate” (i’tibār).20 Knowledge of scripture
and virtuous living were essential for successful dream interpretation. In rela-
tion to the patriarch Joseph, known to us from Genesis, the seventh-century
hadith-narrator Ibn Abbas (d. 687–688) is quoted by the later Persian Sufi
Haravi or Mollā Meskīn (fl. 15th c.) as saying that dream interpretation is the
most complex of sciences because “the [dream] interpreter must master sev-
eral other branches of knowledge”, including arithmetic, times, natures, wis-
dom, words, and the divine book and hadith (sayings). This knowledge started,
according to Meskīn, with Muhammad: “This knowledge became revealed to
19 Marlow 2008b, 11.

20 Mahallati 2008, 158.
his [the Prophet’s] time, and his companions also received it as a blessing for
their status”.21
Although the early Lives of Muhammad affirm that the Prophet received
his revelations from the angel Gabriel in two visions, the original Qur’anic ac-
count of these (53:1–18) is somewhat vague.22 The appearance of the angel
Gabriel to Muhammad was in line with earlier Jewish and Christian traditions.
It is verified by a hadith in the collection of al-Bukhārī (d. 870 CE), in which
Muhammad’s youngest wife Ā’isha relates how the angel Gabriel first appeared
to Muhammad in a dream and commanded him to read words of revelation,
even though the Prophet protested that he could not read.23
2.1 Abū Ja’far al-Qāyinī

Dreams could also be used to authenticate hadiths, as in the dream narrative
of Abū Ja’far al-Qāyinī, a tenth-century specialist in hadith from near Nishapur.
He reported a dream he had on 27 October 996, in which he conversed with
the Prophet.24 It is conjectured that Al-Qāyinī had Sufi affiliations since he en-
quired particularly of the Prophet about the orthodoxy of Sufism. Sufis upheld
the belief that spiritual authority could be revealed in dreams, and that de-
votion to the prophets was as important as studying hadith. This is also very
evident in the writings of the Persian Sufi al-Tirmidhī.25 The Sufi mystical tra-
dition, which began in the 9th century, introduced the element of divine love
to Sufi asceticism, a piety movement which sprang up in protest against the
worldliness of the Umayyad Caliphate (661–749).
First, al-Qāyinī described a vision of an interaction with the Prophet while
he was a child, in which Muhammad lifted him up above the heads of the
adults surrounding him, thus establishing his spiritual credentials.26 Then he
asked Muhammad about the truth of his reported statement that “[W]hoever
has seen me in a dream (ru’ya) has seen me in a waking state, for Satan does
not imitate me.”27 The Prophet answered that it was true. Al-Qāyinī pressed
21 Meskīn 1985, 123–124, in Mahallati 2008, 163.

22 Peters 2003, 54, 62–63.
23 The hadith goes like this: “Ā’isha said: The commencement of the Divine Inspiration to
Allah’s Apostle was in the form of good righteous [true] dreams in his sleep. He never had
a dream but that it came true like bright daylight.” Saḥīḥ al-Bukhārī, Book 9, ch. 87, hadith
111, cited from icias.com/textarchive/bukhari/087.htm (accessed 9.02.17). The Arabic text
is edited by Shākir 1958.
24 Lamoreaux 2008. A translation of this brief text is found at Lamoreaux 2008, 87–96.
25 Radtke and O’Kane 1996.
26 Al-Qayini, V.1 (trans. Lamoreaux 2008, 90).
27 Al-Qayini, VI.2 (trans. Lamoreaux 2008, 90–91). This hadith appears in al-Bukhārī, Saḥīḥ
al-Bukhārī, Book 9 ch. 104, at icias.com/textarchive/bukhari/104.htm (accessed 9.02.17).
214 Neil
him, asking if this appearance in dreams was the real form of the Messenger
or a likeness of the form that was buried in Medina? He replied that it was a
likeness of the form. Then Al-Qāyinī pressed him further: “Is it the same spir-
it in the form as in the likeness of the form?” Again, the Prophet replied in
the affirmative. This discussion of the spirit that imbues the image perceived
by the dreamer reveals that the image of the Prophet in a dream makes it a
true dream.
Later in al-Qāyinī’s lucid dream (that is, a dream in which the dreamer knew
that he was dreaming), he asks the Prophet if Sufism is acceptable, outlining
three contentious teachings of the sect: they forbid disputational theology, ob-
stinacy in religion, and discussion of the rival chains of command ( fitna) of
the Companions,28 through Muhammad’s nephew Ali or his young wife Ā’isha.
The Prophet answers that it is acceptable as are all the other sects of Islam.
What matters most is the unity of believers and their tolerance of each other.
Al-Qāyinī’s vision paved the way for other appearances by imams (spiritual
leaders) in dreams. Visions of the Prophet and other spiritual leaders frequent-
ly occurred at the tomb of the prophet in Medina and those of his immediate
followers. For example, some three centuries after the death of ‘Ali ibn Abi
Talib (Muhammad’s cousin and the first imam, according to the Shi’a, or the
fourth caliph, according to the Sunni) in 661 CE, the tenth-century Abbasid
poet Khalid Sindawi reported appearances of the Prophet to visitors at ‘Ali ibn
Abi Talib’s tomb in Najaf (Iraq). Shi’ite writers promoted this tomb as a pil-
grimage site, modelling its virtues on the Sunni shrines at Mecca and Medina.
For the Shi’a, ‘Ali ibn Abi Talib’s tomb is still the third holiest place of wor-
ship and the destination of many pilgrims each year, a testimony to the power
that visions still hold in Islamic cultures. Even today, if the Prophet or one of
the Imams appears in a dream to a Shi’ite Muslim, his sayings are treated as
true hadiths “which no devout Muslim could possibly doubt”.29 The Sunni are
rather more reserved about visions of the Prophet in dreams.30
3 Byzantine Hagiographic Dreams
We find an interesting parallel here with the church-supported process of in-

cubation (pagan and then Byzantine Christian) at shrines like that of Saints
28 Al-Qayini, XV.1–2 (trans. Lamoreaux 2008, 95 and n. 77).

29 Katz 2012, 185.
30 See the online forum Islamic Lifestyle and Social Issues (2017); Abuo-Almajd (2013), the
transcription of an interview with Iain Edgar about the status of Prophet Muhammad’s
appearances in dreams, and the findings of Kinberg 2012.
Cyrus and John at Menouthis in Egypt. Many appearances of the saints at

Menouthis required the incubants to cleanse themselves first of the heresy of
monothelitism before they could be healed of their physical diseases.31
Likewise, in the Spiritual Meadow of John Moschus, Sophronius’ disciple, ap-
pearances of the saints, especially the apostle Peter and later bishops of Rome,
mandated a return to orthodoxy of the Chalcedonian kind. John presents a
series of edifying sayings and stories, told to him by monks in Egypt, who came
from Scete (near the Nitrian Desert), Antioch and other places. Some of them
had fled from ‘the barbarians’ during the Persian wars. Many of John’s stories
concern visions received by monks: of Jesus, ‘a man of awesome appearance’;
of the Mother of God (‘Theotokos’) chastising heretics; the devil (in disguise
or not); angels, who usually appeared as handsome young men; and saints,
including John the Divine and John the Baptist. Other less likely characters
include the murdered baby who appeared to a bandit to rebuke him.32
Several of these visions are aimed at convincing followers of Severus or
Nestorius—opponents of Leo the Great’s two-nature formula that was en-
dorsed by the Council of Chalcedon (451)—of their mistake, and persuad-
ing or scaring them back to orthodoxy.33 Others reinforced the Chalcedonian
cause, as in Leo the Great’s appearance to Eustathios, the servant of Anastasius
of Antioch (561–571 and 593–599), commending the patriarch for his loyalty to
Leo the Great against the so-called Monophysites.34 These dreams pre-figure
the extensive use of dreams to reinforce orthodoxy in Byzantine chronicles.
4 Byzantine Chronicles
When it comes to early Byzantine chronicles, we must acknowledge that they

can be to varying degrees hagiographic. As Calofonos observed, “Byzantine
historiography—and chronography still more—has succumbed to [hagiogra-
phy’s] influence from the very beginning.”35
31 Neil 2006, 183–193.

32 Pratum spirituale 166 (PG 87.3, 3023C). See also PG 87.3, 2864A, 2865C, 2872B, 2900A,
2916C, 2917A, 2964A, 2992–3A, 2996A.
33 Pratum spiritual 26 (PG 87.3, 2872B–2873A). On John’s involvement in Christological
struggles of this period see Booth 2014.
34 Pratum spirituale 149 (PG 87.3, 3013B–C).
35 Calofonos 2014, 119.
216 Neil
4.1 Malalas
Prophetic dreams appeared in Byzantine chronicles from as early as John
Malalas in the 6th century.36 Such was the emperor Anastasius’ vision of an
angel who struck off fourteen years of the emperor’s life because of his ‘in-
satiability’. The warning delivered in Anastasius’ vision was reinforced by his
cubicularius, Amantius, who dreamed on the same night that, “I was standing
facing your majesty, and from behind me a pig, as big as a wild boar, pulled
me to the ground and killed me by trampling on me and devouring me.”37 The
philosopher Proclus was called in to interpret these disturbing dreams, and
announced that they both would die soon. This is fact happened ‘shortly after-
wards’, making way for the rule of Justin I.
4.2 Theophanes Confessor

Theophanes repeated Malalas’ story of the two dreams with one crucial
change: instead of “because of your insatiability”, Theophanes has “because of
your erroneous beliefs”.38 Calofonos reads this as part of Theophanes’ rheto-
ric of punishment for heterodoxy, but there is nothing in Malalas’ account of
Anastasius to suggest that he was unorthodox. Rather he instituted “excellent
order” over the rioting masses by “countless executions”.39 This textual fluidity
highlights the problem with related dreams: they could be manipulated at will.
Authorial agenda are thus crucial background for any contemporary historian.
There is another addition by Theophanes in his retelling of the familiar
story of Constantine’s vision of the Cross shortly before his victorious battle
against Maxentius. Theophanes alleges that “the great Constantine feared the
sorcery of Maxentius, who cut up new-born babes for his lawless divination”.
It was while he was in distress that he received his vision of the cross made of
light and heard the imperative: “In this [sign], conquer!”.40 The divine vision is
thus endorsed by being held up against the wicked practice of divination by
Maxentius. The new kind of divination is sanctioned, the old is not.
Theophanes, a direct or indirect dependant of Theophilus of Edessa, in
the west Syrian tradition,41 also used this motif in the defeat of Constans at
36 Malalas, Chron. 16.20 (Thurn 2000, 408; trans. Jeffreys et al. 1986, 229). See Roger Scott’s
chapter in this volume.
37 Malalas, Chron. 16.20 (Thurn 2000, 409; trans. Jeffreys et al. 1986, 229).
38 Theophanes, Chron. AM 6010 (de Boor 1972, 164; trans. Mango and Scott 1997, 248).
39 Malalas, Chron. 16.20 (Thurn 2000, 408; trans. Jeffreys et al. 1986, 228).
40 Theophanes, Chron. AM 5794 (de Boor 1972, 14; trans. Mango and Scott 1997, 23).
41 Hoyland 2011, 34. Hoyland used Theophanes and other dependent sources such as the
Chronicle of Siirt (see below) and that of Michael the Syrian to reconstruct Theophilus of
Edessa’s Chronicle.
Phoenix in 654/655. Theophanes recounts how Constans had a dream the

night before his sea battle in which he was at Thessaloniki. He sent for a dream
interpreter who warned him that this meant he would “give victory to another”,
according to a loose derivation of the toponym Thessaloniki (θης-ἀλλo-νίκην).42
The Romans were duly defeated. Hoyland links this negative interpretation
with Constans’ support for the heresy of monothelitism,43 but that is not evi-
denced at this place in the text, but rather in the overall narrative of Constans’
reign, which is sympathetic to the dyothelites whom he persecuted, and judges
his ignominious end as just deserts. It may be asking too much of the reader
(Byzantine or otherwise) to expect them to remember from much earlier in
the narrative that Constantine the Great had a dream in which his belief was
rewarded with victory, the sort of intertextuality that Calofonos sees at work
in Constans’ vision.44 Calofonos notes that eight out of the thirteen visions in
Theophanes pertained to royalty,45 and this is evidence of the use they were
put to in legitimising (or in the case of Constans, delegitimising) authority,
both spiritual and temporal.
It is interesting to note that, in Theophanes’ imaginative account of the be-
ginnings of Muhammad’s mission,46 he attributes the Prophet’s claim of rev-
elations from the angel Gabriel to his desire to hide his epileptic fits from his
rich wife, Khadija.47 According to Theophanes, it was to cover this shameful
weakness that Muhammad claimed he had been overwhelmed by visions of
the archangel Gabriel.48 Khadija was more inclined to believe her husband’s
account after a monk friend told her that Gabriel commonly appeared to
prophets, and thus Muhammad’s claim to prophetic authority was born, ac-
cording to Theophanes. In the same entry of his Chronicle for the year 629/30,
Theophanes maintains that Muhammad had brought back his ideas from
42 This story is repeated in the Chronicle of Kedrenos, 451 (Tartaglia 2016, 718): see the previ-
ous chapter by Roger Scott, n. 31, and his Appendix: “Dreams and visions in Kedrenos”.
43 Hoyland 2011, 141 n. 342.
44 Calofonos 2010, 140. See Scott 1994, esp. 62–63. Scott 1981, 69, pointed out that Theophanes’
chronicle, an annalistic account of the period 284–813, is organised around one principle:
‘the history of individual emperors whose success or failure depended on their piety.’
45 Calofonos 2010, 143, with a list at n. 39.
46 Theophanes, Chron. AM 6122 (629/30 CE) (de Boor 1883, 333–334).
47 Neil 2013, 225, discusses this passage in the context of Theophanes as one of very few
Greek sources on the origins of Islam.
48 Theophanes, Chron. AM 6122 (de Boor 1883, 333–334). On Theophanes’ account of
Muhammad’s origins and early years, see Neil 2013, 225–226.
218 Neil
Palestine, “where he consorted with Jews and Christians and sought from them
certain scriptural matters”.49
4.3 Theophanes Continuatus

As in the Islamic texts we saw above, dreams could lead to conversion, or ret-
rospectively justify it, as in the following example from the continuator of
Theophanes, concerning the elderly emperor Romanos Lekapenos (920–944),
who saw a vision of his own judgement after death.50 Romanos was only saved
from an imaginary death by the intervention of the Theotokos, a common
motif in such apocalyptic visions.51 Another common type of dream found
in both Byzantine and medieval Islamic historical accounts are dreams that
occur before momentous events, such as an important battle. These accounts
retrospectively justify the outcome (vaticinia ex eventu).52
4.4 Theophylact Simocatta

Theophylact Simocatta relates several of these vaticinia ex eventu, although he
usually refers to dreams as absurd vanities.53 For example, there are the vi-
sions of the young pagan woman Golinduch at Hierapolis who experienced
a ‘divine ecstasy’ that allowed her to see blessings being poured out on the
Christians and destruction for the Persians.54 Later she saw an ‘illumination
of another and greater manifestation’, an angel who predicted the imminent
death of her tyrannical pagan husband.55 She subsequently converted to
Christianity and ‘made many predictions about what would befall Khosrau,
and revealed his approach to the Romans before the commencement of the
events’.56 Theophylact also quotes a letter from Chosroes II to the martyr
Sergius in which the king related a dream that Sergius had appeared to him
three times promising that he would conceive a child by the Christian woman
49 Theophanes, Chron. AM 6122 (de Boor 1883, 333–334.) All translations of Theophanes are
taken from Mango and Scott 1997.
50 Calofonos 2014, 115–117. Several other dream visions in Theophanes Continuatus (there
are thirteen in all) refer to royalty, either endorsing them (as in the case of Michael III) or
condemning them to punishment.
51 For more examples of ‘tours of the other world’ from various saints’ Lives of the tenth and
eleventh centuries, see Cupane 2014, 54–62; and on the Apocalypses of Anastasia and of
the Theotokos, see Neil 2016.
52 Mahallati 2008, 156; Olster 2003; Strickler 2018 (see esp. chapter 2).
53 Theophylact Simocatta, Historia (de Boor and Wirth 1972). For further examples, cf.
Strickler in this volume.
54 Theophylact, 12.3–4 (trans. Whitby 1986, 148).
55 Theophylact, 12.6–7 (trans. Whitby 1986, 148).
56 Theophylact, 12.15 (trans. Whitby 1986, 149).
Seirem.57 Another example from Theophylact is the dream of Peter, which af-
firmed God’s support for the usurper Phocas against Maurice, and was then
confirmed by natural phenomena.58
4.5 Chronicle of Siirt

In the Chronicle of Siirt, composed between 906 and 1020,59 it is related that be-
fore Heraclius advanced against the Persians who had invaded Byzantine ter-
ritories in the East, the Byzantine emperor dreamt of the Persian king Khosrau
charging at him on an elephant, striking him and putting him to flight. The
Byzantine emperor took this as a sign that he would lose if he engaged the
Persian forces. Later, Heraclius dreamt that he was riding an elephant and
chasing Khosrau, “and knew that God would give him power over him”, so he
decided to go ahead and attack.60 In the end, the Byzantine forces were vic-
torious and managed to retrieve the relic of the True Cross from the Persian
capital of Ctesiphon in 626.61 Such stories, whether apocryphal or not, confirm
Hoyland’s conclusion that “a lot more historical material was circulating be-
tween the Muslim and Christian communities than is usually assumed”.62 Thus
it is no surprise that they shared a common tradition that regarded dreams as
portents.
5 Early Islamic Chronicles
Although there was already an established tradition of Muslim history-writing

by the mid-8th century,63 we have to wait for the mid-9th for the first extant
57 Theophylact, 5.14.7 (trans. Whitby 1986, 152). These events took place c. 593/4, when the
author was a young boy—he was born in Egypt probably in the 580s. Theophylact remains
the most important source for the wars waged by Byzantine emperors in the Balkans and
the East in the late 6th century.
58 Theophylact 8.6.5–6 (trans. Whitby 1986, 218). See Whitby 1988, 169.
59 This Christian chronicle from the Sasanian (Persian) empire based in mod. Iraq goes up
to the year 650. See Wood 2013, 1–30.
60 Chron Siirt LXXXVII, 540–41 (Hoyland 2011, 72–73).
61 Heraclius’ decree against the Jews and their forced baptism in 632 appears in a number of
sources (but not Theophanes) in connection with his prediction/dream about the Roman
empire being overrun by a circumcised people: see Hoyland 2014, 218.
62 Hoyland 2011, 29–30.
63 Hoyland 2011, 29–30. Hoyland also suggests that this Armenian chronicle was influ-
enced not by the Greek tradition, which had fallen into disuse after the Arab invasions
of Byzantine territories, but by the west Syriac tradition exemplified by Theophilus
of Edessa: Hoyland 2011, 31–32. “Any direct influence upon the Arabic tradition seems
220 Neil
example of an annalistic history or chronicle (ta’rīkh ‘alā l-sinīn “history ac-

cording to the years”). Other chronicles are known but have not survived.64 The
earliest example is the History of Khalifa ibn Khayyat (c. 777–854 CE), which
Hoyland describes as ‘a full marriage between historical narratives and official
annals’.65 Over half the work concerns the Umayyad dynasty (660–750). The
author, born in Basra, Iraq, gives a more positive assessment of the Umayyad
caliphs than later narratives, as noted by its translator Carl Wurtzel.66 However,
there are no dreams or visions in the chronicle of Khalifa ibn Khayyat.
5.1 The History (Tariq) of Al-Tabarī

It is in the History of the Prophets and Kings of Muhammad ibn Jarir al-Tabarī
(d. 923) that we first see dreams used as narrative and authenticating devices,
although at least three earlier historical works served as sources for Al-Tabarī.
One was the Futuh al-Buldan (The Origins of the Islamic State) by Baladhuri
(d. 892). Another was Muruj al-Dhahab (The Meadows of Gold: the Abbasids) of
al-Mas’udi (d. 956). The Book of Countries by Al-Ya’qubi (d. c. 900) was his third
significant source.
Let us conclude with a few examples of portentous dreams from the History
of Al-Tabarī. The first example concerns Abū Ja’far’s takeover from the former
caliph Abū Muslim. The usurpation is authenticated by a third party, Ismail
ibn Ali, who had a premonitory dream which echoes the Qur’anic account of
Abraham’s attempted sacrifice of Ismail. After Abū Ja’far had slain his rival, he
called in Ismail ibn Ali’s former supporters to declare their allegiance:
Then Abu Jafar gave permission for Ismail b. Ali to enter, who came in
and said: ‘Commander of the Faithful, last night I dreamt that you had
sacrificed a ram and I kicked it with my foot.’ Abu Jafar said: ‘Your eye
slept, Abu al-Hasan; rise and see your dream come true. God has slain the
sinner.’ Ismail went to the place where Abu Muslim lay, and kicked him.’67
This was the first day of Abū Ja’far’s caliphate (754 CE). Al-Tabarī himself died
in 923 CE, so was writing at some distance from the events he described. There
unlikely, however, given the conspicuous absence of Arabic translations of Byzantine his-
torical works” (31).
64 Two earlier Muslim chronicles (ta’rīkh ‘alā l-sinīn), those of al-Haytham ibn ‘Adi (d. 822)
and Abū Hassan al-Ziyadi (d. 857), do not survive.
65 Hoyland 2011, 31. The work is edited by al-’Umari 1967 and Zakkar 1968. See Rosenthal
1968, 71–90, on the history of the annalistic form.
66 Wurtzel and Hoyland 2015, viii.
67 Al-Tabarī, The Early ‘Abbāsī Empire (de Goeje et al. 1879–1901, 116; trans. Williams 1988, 24).
are many other such accounts in his forty-volume world history, including the
familiar tale of generals receiving divine endorsement of their decisions to
attack.68 Al-Tabarī reported a dream narrative from his father to encourage the
father of a young student (and incidentally Al-Tabarī’s future biographer) to
continue his son’s education. Al-Tabarī wrote of his father’s dream thus:69
My father … saw me standing before the Prophet with a bag filled with
stones, and I was spreading some of them in front of him. A dream in-
terpreter told my father that the dream signified that I would be a good
Muslim as an adult and a strong defender of the religious law of the
Prophet. As a consequence, my father was ready to support my studies
when I was still a small boy.
As Rosenthal comments, it hardly matters whether al-Tabarī’s account of his

father’s dream is true or not; dreams were commonly used to express basic
convictions.70 Al-Tabarī’s conviction was that the Prophet himself had endorsed
his path of historical and religious scholarship. In contrast to Theophanes, the
hadith scholar did not take it upon himself to show God’s providence reward-
ing the good and destroying the bad; rather he compiled records of events
from reliable witnesses.71 He even presented alternative Jewish and Christian
accounts of some events where these differed from his pre-Islamic sources, for
example their account of Nebuchadnezzar destroying Jerusalem with Roman
aid as punishment for Herod’s beheading of John the Baptist72 (an ahistorical
account!). Al-Tabarī is almost entirely silent on the Arab conquest of Egypt
and where he does make mention of isolated incidents his dates are often
confused.73 On the latter point he is like Theophanes, who was a better source
68 E.g. The History of Al-Tabarī, vol. 5, trans. Bosworth 1999, 7 (Ardashir’s dream that he
would be given rulership); trans. Bosworth 1999,169 (Tubba’s three dreams about cover-
ing the Ka’bah); trans. Bosworth 1999, 178–179 (Rabiah b. Nasr’s dream prophesying the
Abyssinian invasion of South Arabia which prompted the people to emigrate from Yemen
to al-Hirah: a story of origins for the Southern Arabian Lakhmid people in Iraq). Rabiah
b. Nasr refused to even give the details of his disturbing dream to the diviners who were
called in, so two top soothsayers were called upon to tell the dream and interpret it: Satih’s
interpretation (trans. Bosworth 1999, 179–181) and Shiqq’s interpretation (trans. Bosworth
1999, 181–182) matched, so the king took action to move his people to Iraq.
69 Rosenthal 1989, 15, n. 41 citing al-Tabarī’s Irshad.
70 Rosenthal 1989, 15.
71 Williams 1988, xvi–xvii.
72 Williams 1988, xvii–xviii.
73 For ninth- and tenth-century sources on the Arab conquest of Egypt and the last thirty
years of Roman rule, see Butler and Fraser 1978, xi–xiv.
222 Neil
on the conquest of Egypt and the aid offered to the Arabs by the Alexandrian
patriarch, the monothelite Cyrus.74
Finally, in relation to the birth of Muhammad, al-Tabarī relates the Prophet’s
account of a dream his mother had while she was pregnant, that she was car-
rying a light in her womb that would shine from East to West.75 This signified
that she was to bear a prophet for the whole world. According to the Gospels of
Matthew and Luke, similar apparitions appeared to Mary, the mother of Jesus,
and to Joseph her betrothed.76 Both messages from the archangel Gabriel certi-
fied that the son Mary bore was no mistake, but the future saviour of his people.
6 Conclusion
In both the hagiographic and historiographic traditions of Byzantium and

Islam, dreams had personal and social significance. Their retelling could
thus serve any number of changing spiritual and political ends since, in the
Byzantine and Islamic worlds, the spiritual was the political. It was natural that
such a useful literary tool continued to be applied in early Islamic chronicles
and legitimising narratives from at least the 10th century onward. In Byzantine
and Islamic hagiography we have found examples of dreams exercising all the
functions identified by Marlow: cautionary, edificatory, didactic, legitimising
authority, and offering polemical instruction for saints and their followers.77
By extension, early Byzantine chronographers employed the same narrative
and instructive functions of dreams, set in an imperial or royal context. While
we find satanic dreams in hagiography and perhaps once in the Qur’an (the
dream of Abraham), in Byzantine and Islamic chronography we find only ve-
ridical dreams. All dreams associated with appearances of holy figures, includ-
ing the Prophet, the angel Gabriel, and the martyr Sergius, are veridical. Few
Muslim historiographers, it seems, are as blatant as Theophanes in rearranging
the sources to demonstrate the divine economy at work in the persons of their
rulers, whether good or bad. Their concern is rather with the legitimate origins
of Muhammed, of the four caliphs, and of their own authorship, all of which
could be handily endorsed by dreams.
74 Neil 2013, 226.

75 The History of Al-Tabarī, vol. 5 (de Goeje et al. 1879–1901, 974; trans. Bosworth 1999, 276).
76 Matt. 1:18–25 (Joseph); Luke 1:26–33 (Mary).
77 Marlow 2008b, 11.
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chapter 11
Psellos’ Use and Counter-Use of Dreams,

Visions and Prophecies in His Chronographia
and His Encomium for His Mother
Penelope Buckley
Dreams, visions and prophecies have been part of Byzantium’s narrative of it-
self since Constantine the Great: they figure across genre lines, including his-
toriography, and they Christianise older traditions of dream and prophecy in
various ways and to various degrees. This article will consider Psellos’ use of
Byzantine practice in two texts: the reign of Constantine Monomachos in his
Chronographia, and his Encomium for his Mother.
Clearly, genre is a factor in the differences between the two, but it is hardly
prescriptive, least of all in Psellos’ hands. In any case, there are no strict rules:
other historians treat dreams, visions and prophecies with more respect for
their cultural status than Psellos does in the Chronographia, while he him-
self makes much of them in some orations but little in others.1 Psellos plays
with genre like glitterwax2 so, for the time, I shall leave genre as an open ques-
tion and look more closely at the differences among the roles Psellos himself
assumes within these texts. I have chosen to approach the two works at face
value,3 aiming to see how dreams, visions and prophecies function within the
larger interaction of their visibly conflicting elements.
1 See e.g. the orations in Kaldellis and Polemis 2015.

2 A wondrous substance—translucent, sparkly and malleable—that preceded plasticine.
3 Rather than offering to say what he ‘really’ thinks or means. Kaldellis (1999) has traced what
he sees as a consistent sub-text and subversive structure in the Chronographia, and Walker
(2004) has given a near-magisterial revisionist account of the Encomium (closely matched by
Kaldellis 2006). All these readings, however, are punctured, at critical points, by pre-emptive
interpretations, where the writer confidently overrules what is apparent in favour of what
he sees as a sub-surface counter-case representing Psellos’ ‘real’ and stable views. e.g. “Yet
could he sincerely believe …?” (Kaldellis 1999, 101); “His genuine views are often inconspicu-
ous, hidden away …” (Kaldellis 1999, 105); “We can guess already at Psellos’ real attitude …”
(Walker 2004, 80); “What Psellos really thinks … is, again, easily guessed.” (Walker 2004, 84).
Neither of these interesting and persuasive cases can be proved, and Kaldellis does acknowl-
edge Psellos’ agility and changeability (Kaldellis 1999, 195) together with the risks involved
in interpreting any text of his in the light of another. “Psellos has constructed a labyrinth of

228 Buckley
Dreams are notably absent from the Chronographia and prophecies are few,
but they are mentioned in its history of Constantine IX, and their treatment
there illuminates their absence or downgrading elsewhere. By contrast, dreams
and visions dominate Psellos’ Encomium for his Mother. Nevertheless, the ora-
tion has strange common ground with the first text. In both, Psellos calls at-
tention to his own roles to an extraordinary degree. In each, he acknowledges
a great debt—to his mother for his formation, to his favourite emperor for his
entry into public life and the opportunity to perfect his abilities. Both works
show uneasiness and strain in these relations: in each, Psellos explicitly, per-
sistently, distinguishes himself, finally diverging from his benefactor; and each
includes a lengthy autobiography, amounting to a manifesto. I shall argue that
dreams and visions in these works do not appear at random, or as givens, and
that their negative and positive charges can act as guides to interpreting each
text as a whole.
The reign of Constantine IX in the Chronographia is marked, in Walker’s
term, by ‘doubleness’.4 Psellos describes this Constantine both as the emperor
most naturally suited to ruling,5 and as a main cause of the Empire’s waste-
ful luxury and degeneracy after Basil II.6 He blames and praises Constantine
by turns, gratitude colouring the praise and disappointment making criticism
savage. The dreams and prophecies in this text are several but vague, apart
from one: a dream reported in detail by the emperor’s close companion, whom
Psellos calls an ‘actor’ and portrays as a buffoon.7 This ‘dream’ concerns the re-
covery of an allegedly stolen horse, and is imaginary: the man is tired of being
closeted with the emperor and wants a few hours on the town. The episode
introduces the false dream, the idea that dreams may be invented for gain and
cannot be disproved.
The other dreams and prophecies are all about the emperor, amounting to
a general intimation of good luck or divine favour. They are introduced when a
storm defeats a Russian sea-attack, and all purport to reassure him that he will
not lose power or a war.
ἐλέγετο γοῦν παρὰ πολλοῖς (ὧν ἐγὼ τοὺς λόγους διακριβούμενος, οὐδὲ μίαν
ἐπιστήμην· ἢ ἀρχὴν εὕρισκον τῆς προρρήσεως)—ἐλέγετο γοῦν, ὡς πολλὰ μὲν
μέλλει έπαναστήσασθαι τῷ βασιλεῖ τούτῳ δεινὰ, τὰ μὲν ἔξωθεν· καὶ παρὰ τῆς
mutually contradictory doctrines which contains no passage to the center of his own beliefs.”
(Kaldellis 1999, 191).
4 Walker 2004, 76, uses it of the Encomium in matrem.
5 Βασιλεῖ πρέπουσαν. Psellos, Chron. 6.169 (Reinsch 2014, 183).
6 Psellos, Chron. 6.48 (Reinsch 2014, 126).
7 ὁ ὑποκριτής; ὁ σκηνουργός. Psellos, Chron. 6.141 (Reinsch 2014, 170).
Psellos ’ Use and Counter-Use of Dreams, Visions and Prophecies 229
βαρβαρικῆς μερίδος· τά δ᾽ ἀπὸ τῆς ὑπηκόου τέως χειρός. φροῦδα δὲ πάντα γε-
νήσεσθαι, τύχης τινὸς δεξιᾶς συναντιλαμβανομένης τῷ αὐτοκράτορι· καὶ πᾶσαν
ἐπανάστασιν ῥᾷστα διαλυούσης. καὶ αὐτὸς δὲ ὁ αὐτοκράτωρ, ὁπότε προφητεί-
αις τισὶ καὶ οἰωνίσμασι τὴν ἑαυτοῦ ἡγεμονίαν ἐσεμνολόγει, ὀπτασιῶν τέ τινων
καὶ ὀνειράτων παραδόξων ἐμέμνητο, τὰ μὲν ὡς αὐτὸς ἰδὼν· τά δ᾽ ὡς ἄλλων μα-
ντευομένων ἀκροασάμενος· καὶ τὸ περὶ τούτου μέρος παραδοξολογῶν ἦν.
It was said, at least, by many—though I myself, in examining their state-

ments, found no scientific basis for the prophecy—it was said, at least,
that many terrible things would arise against this emperor, some from
outside and on the part of the barbarian, and some from regions subject
at the time; but they would all vanish, with some good fortune helping the
emperor and breaking up every insurrection with great ease. And when-
ever the emperor himself discussed prophecies and auguries about his
reign, he recalled certain visions and extraordinary dreams, some seen
by himself, others heard from diviners. He was wonderfully eloquent on
this subject.8
Psellos pointedly repeats his caveat:
ἐγὼ δέ, οὐδεμίαν μαντείας ἀφορμὴν παρὰ τῷ ἀνδρὶ ἐπιστάμενος, ψυχῆς τοῦτο
ῥαθύμου καὶ ἀφρόντιδος τίθεμαι.
But I know of no power of divination in this man; I attribute the idea to

an easy-tempered and careless spirit.9
He elaborates the point further, at some length.10

Such dreams and prophecies characterise Constantine’s attitude to every-
thing and Psellos’ principled dissent. Constantine is shown throughout as
placid and unworried about his safety; he will hear no bad news, and even

10 He analyses three types of people: those who worry about everything, the simpler ones
(χρηστότεροι), like the emperor, who worry about nothing and try (καταμαντεύονται) to
persuade others to do the same, and a third putative group which is alert but not alarmed.
He explains, τοσοῦτον δὲ προαναβαλόμην τῶν διηγήσεων, ἵν᾽ ὁπότε λέγοιμι ἀφηγούμενος, ὡς
προειρήκει ἢ ἀπεγνώκει ταῦτα ἢ ἐκεῖνα, μὴ μαντικὸν τὸν ἄνδρα ἡγήσωνται οἱ πολλοί. “I have
strung out such a prelude to the story so that, whenever I may say in my narrative that
he foretold or ignored this or that, they may not think the man a prophet”. Psellos, Chron.
6.97 and 6.98 (Reinsch 2014, 148).
230 Buckley
serious conversations must be led up to by pleasantries. He is credulous, a fan-

tasist, who sees the empire as empowering him to enact his fantasies. Psellos,
by contrast, presents himself as the sceptical analyst. While dreams cannot
be disproved, they cannot be verified, and this disagreement over dreams
alerts the reader to a larger pattern, an antiphonal, even antagonistic, move-
ment between the men. The emperor, for instance, thinks that his refusal to
place a guard outside his bedroom shows a praiseworthy trust in God. Psellos
disagrees:
ἐγὼ γοῦν πολλἀκις τοὺς κυβερνήτας καὶ ὀικοδόμους ἀντιπαραθείς· καὶ τελευ-
τῶν τοὺς λοχαγοὺς καὶ στρατηγοὺς, «οὐδεὶς μὲν οὖν τούτων» ἔφασκον «τῶν
πρὸς Θεὸν ἐλπίδων ἔρημος τὸ οἰκεῖον ἔργον μεταχειρίζεται. ἀλλ᾽ ὅμως ὀ μὲν
πρὸς κανόνα ἰσάζει τὸ οἰκοδόμημα· ὁ δὲ τοῖς πηδαλίοις ἰθύνει τὴν ναῦν· καὶ τῶν
ἐν τοῖς πολέμοις ἕκαστος, ἀσπίδα τὲ φέρει καὶ ξιφηφορεῖ· καὶ τῇ μὲν κεφαλῇ,
κράνος ἀρκεῖ· τὸ δὲ λοιπὸν σῶμα, ὁ θῶραξ ἀμπέχει.»
I often made the comparison with helmsmen and builders, and finally
of captains and generals. “Not one of these men,” I said, “undertakes his
particular task without placing his trust in God. Yet the one levels off his
building with a rule, the other guides his ship with a rudder, and everyone
who goes to war carries a shield and sword, and protects his head with a
helmet, while the breastplate surrounds the rest of his body.”11
The antiphony between their alternating views matches a tension in Psellos

himself, between his roles as would-be panegyricist12 and as historian, be-
tween his personal affection and his scarifying disagreements with the man.
At Constantine’s accession, Psellos was a coming man and, since Constantine
loved oratory, Psellos was taken up, promoted and fêted. Yet Constantine is
barely crowned when Psellos begins a dissertation on his reluctance to write
the history at all:
ἥκιστα βουλόμενος προστρίψασθαί τινα μῶμον αὐτῷ … καὶ ἣν ἐκάθηρα γλῶτ-

ταν, ἀφ᾽ ὧν ἐκεῖνος με πρὸς τοῦτο παρώρμησε, ταύτην ἐπ᾽ αὐτῷ θήξασθαι.
Not wanting to lay any blame on him … [or] sharpen against him linguis-
tic skills perfected through his encouragement.13
11 Psellos, Chron. 6.133 (Reinsch 2014, 166–167).

12 Stone (2011) gives a helpful sketch of Psellos’ praise for Constantine in this genre.
13 Psellos, Chron. 6.23 (Reinsch 2014, 116–117).
Affection makes him say it is impossible for any emperor to please everyone or
always govern well; yet Psellos’ sense of being compromised is painful.
It is, in fact, a double biography. Even as the reign begins, in luxury and self-
indulgence, Psellos embarks on his own life-history, detailing his investigations
into every branch of learning and his serious contribution to Byzantine culture:
ἐκπνεύσασαν τὴν σοφίαν καταλαβὼν … αὐτὸς ἀνεζωπύρησα οἴκοθεν … καί με

ἄλλος εἰς ἄλλον παρέπεμπον … εἰς Ἀριστοτέλην καὶ Πλάτωνα … ἐς Πλωτίνους
καὶ Πορφυρίους καὶ Ἰαμβλίχους … εἰς τὸν θαυμασιώτατον Πρόκλον … ἀριθμῶν
τὲ μεθόδοις ἑαυτὸν ἐντείνας … ἔτι τὲ μουσικοῖς καὶ ἀστρονομικοῖς … καὶ αὐτός
τι τῷ θείῳ συνεισφέρων πληρώματι. καὶ εἲ μέ τις …ἐπαινεῖν … βούλοιτο, … ὅτι
μὴ ἐκ ῥεούσης πηγῆς, εἴ τί μοι σοφίας μέρος συνείλεκται, ἠρανισάμην· ἀλλ᾽
ἐμπεφραγμένας εὑρηκώς, ἀνεστόμωσά τε καὶ ἀνεκάθηρα· καὶ ἐν βάθει ποῦ τὸ
νᾶμα κείμενον, σὺν πολλῷ ἀνείλκυσα πνεύματι.
Finding philosophy almost dead … I myself, by my own means, re-kindled

it … One sent me to another … to Aristotle and Plato … to Plotinus and
Porphyry and Iamblichus … the most admirable Proclus … I extended my
investigations further, to systems of numbers … even to music and as-
tronomy … And I myself contributed something to the sum of theology …
and if anyone should want to praise me, let it be … that, if I have gath-
ered any share of wisdom, I had it from no flowing fountain, but finding
the sources blocked I cleared them, and wherever the stream lay deep,
I brought it up with a great effort.14
His history reads as a corrective to the emperor’s lack of thought; and this pat-
tern of correction, seen in reference to the dreams, runs through the whole.
Constantine has fallen on his feet, almost by chance. Psellos has worked at
being the philosopher he is. Constantine squanders the empire’s resources.
Psellos rediscovers and reinvigorates them. In his own person, he is a corrective.
He tries continually to guide the emperor while disentangling himself from
that emperor’s delusions and mistakes. This, of course, involves disentangling
himself from his own affections. Clearly, he loved Constantine’s generosity. He
responds with empathy to Constantine’s enjoyments, especially of Psellos’ own
oratory: “He was at once so uplifted by my speech, he almost had to kiss me.”15
14 Psellos, Chron. 6.37–42 (Reinsch 2014, 122).

15 καὶ μικροῦ με δεῖν κατεφίλησεν. οὕτω μου τῆς γλώττης εὐθὺς ἀπῃώρητο. Psellos, Chron. 6.46
(Reinsch 2014, 125).
232 Buckley
Psellos learns to read the ruler’s moods and introduce his philosophy gently,
but the climate that seemed so favourable increasingly is not. Incrementally, he
shares his dilemma with the reader by inserting his presence in opposing ways.
He is standing by, “speaking words of encouragement”,16 when the rebel army
under Leo Tornikios mocks Constantine by singing and dancing below the City
walls, but he is more critical—even contemptuous—about Constantine’s gen-
eralship than are Attaleiates and Skylitzes. First Psellos had him sitting on the
balcony with the empresses, ὀλίγον μὲν ἐμπνέον· βραχὐ δ᾽ ἀναστἐνων, “breathing
faintly and groaning a little”.17 When Constantine tries to manage events, “hav-
ing first made this bad calculation, he then took it to people without experi-
ence in war.”18
Skylitzes says nothing of the singing and dancing and, while critical of the
strategy, is cooler and more respectful towards the emperor.19 Attaleiates too
gives a less colourful account: he attributes the new moat and stationing of an
inexperienced soldiery outside the walls to the same desire to shield the em-
peror from hearing the insults, but does not ascribe the decision to the emper-
or himself, unlike Psellos: πόρρω τὲ στήσοι, ὥστε μὴ τῶν λεγομένων ἀκούειν, “he
would station them far off, so as not to hear what was being said”.20 Attaleiates
does not mention singing and dancing and he takes Constantine’s efforts on
the following day more seriously.21
Both had earlier placed Constantine at the head of the whole fleet when
it moved to engage the Russians,22 whereas Psellos placed him watching and
directing the engagement from a hill.23 Of the Maniakes affair, Psellos had said
Constantine mismanaged it, sending as chief envoy “one of those from off the
streets who pushed into the palace” and appointing as general a eunuch “taken
seriously by no one”.24 Attaleiates made no such criticisms of Stephanos and
16 εἱστήκειν δ᾽ ἐγὼ πλησίον αὐτῷ … τὰ δὲ λόγοις παραμυθούμενος. Psellos, Chron. 6.110 (Reinsch
2014, 156).
18 τοῦτο δὴ πρῶτον κακῶς λογισάμενος· εἶτα δὴ καὶ πρός τινας τῶν ἀπειροπολέμων ἐξενεγκὼν.
Psellos, Chron. 6.112 (Reinsch 2014, 157).
19 Skylitzes, Synopsis Hist., Const. IX, 8 (Thurn 1973, 440.16–441.45; Wortley 2010, 414).
21 Attaleiates, The History, 6.4–5, 6.8 (Kaldellis and Krallis 2012, 40–42, 46, from Tsolakis 2011,
19.21–20.20, 22.9–18).
22 ἀνῆλθε γὰρ καὶ αὐτὸς μετὰ τῆς βασιλικῆς νεώς, καὶ τὸ ἐνυάλιον ἀλαλάζαι προστάξας, ἐπῆλθε
τοῖς ἐναντίοις, Attaleiates, The History, 5.3 (Kaldellis and Krallis 2012, 34, from Tsolakis 2011,
17.5–10); Skylitzes, Synopsis Hist., Const. IX, 6 (Thurn 1973, 431.80–81; Wortley 2010, 406).
24 τῶν ἐκ τριόδων ἀθρόον ἐπεισπεσόντων εἰς τὰ βασίλεια, Psellos, Chron. 6.80 (Reinsch 2014, 139);
οὐδενὶ δὲ τῶν πάντων σεμνολογούμενον, Psellos, Chron. 6.83 (Reinsch 2014, 140).
said nothing of the envoy,25 and Skylitzes too was respectful of Stephanos and
said that Maniakes was already in open rebellion when the protospatharios
Pardos was sent out, not as envoy but to replace Maniakes. He was cool about
Pardos, and the choice of him “to rule such a country for no better reason than
that the emperor knew him”,26 but not openly contemptuous. Neither histo-
rian suggests that Constantine IX was incompetent or foolish.
Psellos “is acting officially as under-secretary”27 when he shows Constantine
turning courts of law into theatres of idiosyncracy and largesse. He tries to
correct the emperor’s statecraft by reworking his letters to the Sultan of
Egypt—“giving one apparent meaning for the emperor, while trying to entrap
the other”28—until the emperor thwarts him. Over the course of Constantine’s
fantastic amours, Psellos’ private judgments become harsher, and he is scath-
ing when the “actor” becomes imperial favourite.29 Psellos has set his emperor
up as one who, in valuing oratory, might be led to understand the need for
a philosopher to guide the ruler,30 but now finds that the emperor who em-
braced him for the beauty of his speech is equally charmed by a babbler: “he
thought mistakes in speech highly entertaining.”31
By the end, Psellos is grouping his still enthusiastic bursts of praise for the
emperor under the aegis of the panegyric he declares he is not writing; he then
intersects these praises with his actual judgments.32 So the panegyrist might
say that Constantine is wonderfully inventive, producing landscapes “as if from
nothing, like the Creator”,33 but the historian, with Homeric gravitas, sees such
extravagant inventiveness as unfitting for a ruler.34 Constantine’s church build-
ing is extensively described, with the kind of enthusiasm Psellos shows toward
25 Attaleiates, The History, 5.2 (Kaldellis and Krallis 2012, 32, from Tsolakis 2011, 16.9–16).
26 δι᾿ ἄλλο μὲν οὐδὲν ἀγαθόν, ὅτι δὲ γνώριμος ἦν τῷ βασιλεῖ, τηλικαύτης χώρας ἄρχειν πεμφθείς,
Skylitzes, Synopsis Hist., Const. IX, 3 (Thurn 1973, 428.71; 428.72–74; Wortley 2010, 403, 402).
27 αὐτὸς πρὸ τῶν ἄλλων ὑπογραμματεύων, Psellos, Chron. 6.170 (Reinsch 2014, 183).
28 ἄλλο μὲν τὸ φαινόμενον τῷ κρατοῦντι διδοὺς. ἐλλοχῶν δὲ πρὸς ἐκεῖνον, Psellos, Chron. 6.190
(Reinsch 2014, 191).
29 ὁ αὐτοκράτωρ … ὅμως ἠγάπα παρ᾽ ἐκείνου παιζόμενος. ἔνθεν τοι καὶ κατετρύφα τῆς τοῦ
κρατοῦντος ἀβελτηρίας ὁ σκηνουργὸς· καὶ ἄλλό τι ἐπ᾽ ἄλλῳ ἐπλάττετο, πρὸς τὸ εὔηθες ἐκείνῳ
οἰκείως συναρμοζόμενος. “The emperor … loved being mocked by him, and so the actor
made fun of the ruler’s stupidity, and invented one thing after another suited to his simple
nature.” Psellos, Chron. 6.141 (Reinsch 2014, 170).
30 See Kaldellis 1999, 147–148; 152–154.
31 τὸ διημαρτημένον—τῆς παιδιᾶς τοῦτο ἐκεῖνος ἐτίθετο σπούδασμα, Psellos, Chron. 6.138
(Reinsch 2014, 169).
33 ὥσπερ ἐξ οὐκ ὄντων κατὰ τὸν πρῶτον δημιουργόν, Psellos, Chron. 6.175 (Reinsch 2014, 185).
34 οὐ βουληφόρῳ ἀνδρὶ προσήκοντα, Psellos, Chron. 6.175 (Reinsch 2014, 185).
234 Buckley
great oratory: “The beautiful proportions, the correspondence of parts, the

mingling and uniting of its graces.”35
Yet this building is described as the emperor’s worst, and most expensive,
folly. Eventually, affection and trust fail, and Psellos leaves court. The prophe-
cies which Constantine reports, and their rejection by Psellos, form a miniature
of their joint history. Interestingly, he introduces them to the war-narrative, in
a history generally lacking dreams and prophecies, and with no such reference
in the parallel narratives of Skylitzes and Attaleiates. They are there to make
a point. Psellos will not allow them verity, and he abandons an emperor who
bases his rule and his morality on such self-serving imaginings.
Those rejected dreams and prophecies in Constantine IX’s reign cast
something of a spotlight on their absence, or discordance, elsewhere. The
Chronographia pictures its sparse paraphenomena as a loose bundle of dis-
creditable practices. They are either foolish and pathetic, as with Zoe’s “magi-
cal practices, attaching little stones to her body”36 and her “prophecies” from
her Jesus-figurine,37 or they tend towards the dark side: as with the omen and
astrologers’ advice ignored by Phokas38 and their dire warning to Michael V;39
the prophecies of the “Nazareans”40 and the claims of those who engage in
horoscopy and “split up our existence”;41 the “unspeakable rites” and “appari-
tions”, and the “something forbidden”42 said to have helped Michael IV to the
throne. Even Isaak Komnenos is fearful of his fate (τύχη),43 while Constantine
Doukas discourages prophecies about his future.44 The Chronographia gives
no more purchase to magical or quasi-magical prognostications about impe-
rial power or success than it does to the sinfulness of emperor or people or
God’s wrath when accounting for the weakening of the empire.45 In this work,
35 τὸ ἰσόμετρον κάλλος· ἡ τῶν μερῶν ἀναλογία· ἡ τῶν χαρίτων μίξις καὶ κράσις. Psellos, Chron.
6.187 (Reinsch 2014, 190).
36 τελουμένη τὰ πλείω, καὶ ψηφίδας τινὰς προσαρμοζομένη τῷ σώματι, Psellos, Chron. 3.5
(Reinsch 2014, 33).
37 προκατήγγειλε τὸ ἐσόμενον, Psellos, Chronographia, 6.66 (Reinsch 2014, 134).
40 Psellos, Chron. 6.221 (Reinsch 2014, (a 18) 204).
41 καταμερίζουσι γὰρ τὴν περὶ ἡμᾶς ζωήν, Psellos, Chron. 6.214 (Reinsch 2014, (a 11) 201).
42 ἀπόρρητοί τινες τελεταὶ … καὶ ὄψεις…. τι τῶν ἀπηγορευμένων…. Psellos, Chron. 4.33, 4.37
(Reinsch 2014, 68, 70).
45 As Kaldellis 1999, 110–113, points out in the context of the “subversive” nature of the
Chronographia.
Psellos’ metaphors are secular. The most notable and elaborate, in Isaak’s reign,
turn the standard metaphor of the Body Politic into a serial medical diagnosis.46
The grateful beneficiary and the historian are self-divided before their au-
thor leaves the emperor in the Chronographia, but Psellos works the Encomium
to avoid at least the appearance of either kind of rupture. He draws on all his
eloquence and empathy to immerse himself in his mother’s spiritual world. He
implicates himself fully in its dreams and visions,47 recording some directly
and some indirectly. The dreams are detailed, shapely, powerful. They offer
guidance and illumination. They form a bridge to span, but also landmark, the
chasm between life and death, faith and philosophy. They span the incipient
distance between his mother and himself: several deal with the problematic
element in their relationship. In short, such dreams as these connect individu-
als and experiences whose disconnection they presuppose. As is proper to the
genre, Psellos names his relation to the person eulogised, his right and duty to
speak, and his fears of falling short, but there is resistance and strain: “I have
come far short of your hopes.”48 “For I have met—in my habit—some part of
your longing, my philosophy going as far as the worn cloak.”49
This text too is a double biography, putting something like the following
case: Psellos’ life of study has been justified, if only because it has equipped
him to write her encomium: “It would be an injustice not to give this tribute to
my mother, since I received my education from her.”50
The first two dreams Psellos records are his mother’s about him. During his
childhood, a family dispute arose: should he be sent away to further his stud-
ies, or give them up? His mother supported his ability and need but felt bur-
dened by the disagreement, until she dreamt that someone “resembling the
golden-tongued John”51 appeared to her, saying, “Do not be distressed … I will
46 Psellos, Chron. 7.53–58 (Reinsch 2014, 232–235).

47 In the Encomium, he includes among his reasons for believing that the soul is immortal,
ἀπὸ τῆς ἐν τοῖς ὕπνοις κινήσεως καὶ <τῆς> ἐλλάμψεως, “its movement and illumination in
dreams”. Psellos, Enc. in m. 28 (Criscuolo 1989, 1757–1758).
48 Ἐγὼ μὲν οὗν πολὺ τῶν σῶν ἐλπίδων ἐλάττων γενόμενος. Psellos, Enc. in m. 6 (Criscuolo 1989,
l.452).
49 τοῦ γὰρ ἐφετοῦ ὅσον ἐν σχήματι τετυχήκαμεν, μέχρι δὲ τοῦ τρίβωνος ἡ φιλοσοφία. Psellos, Enc.
in m. 26 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1633–1634).
50 ἅμα δὲ καὶ ἀδικοίην ἂν τὴν μητέρα ἐλλείπων τοῦτον τὸν ἔρανον, ἐξ ἐκείνης μὲν τοὺς λόγους
λαβών…. Psellos, Enc. in m. 1 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.37–38).
51 πρὸς τὸν χρυσοῦν τὴν γλῶτταν [Ἰωάννην] παρεικασμένος. Psellos, Enc. in m. 5 (Criscuolo 1989,
ll.311–312).
236 Buckley
accompany him as his guide and teacher, and I will fill him with learning.”52
Much later, Psellos was told about a second dream showing her internal
disquiet:
… διαιρουμένης τοῖς
περὶ ἐμὲ λογισμοῖς, τοιοῦτος ἐπῆρεν ὄνειρος ἐπὶ μίαν διάνοιαν.
ἐδόκει γὰρ τὸν σηκὸν εἰσιέναι τῶν Ἀποστόλων, μάλα
σεμνῶς, δορυφορούντων αὐτὴν ἐνίων οὕσπερ ἠγνόει· ἐπεὶ δὲ
πρὸς τῷ βήματι γένοιτο—ἐθάρρει γὰρ τὰ κρείττω κἀν ταῖς
σκιαῖς—, γυναῖκά τινα τῶν δυσθεάτων ἰδεῖν, ἔσωθεν
ἀπαντήσασαν καὶ παρακελευομένην ἐκτὸς ὑπομεῖναι ὡς
ἐξιοῦσαν. ἡ δέ, ἐπεὶ ἐνταῦθα γεγόνοι, πρὸς μὲν τὴν μητέρα
μηδὲν εἰπεῖν, πρὸς δὲ τοὺς ἑκατέρωθεν ἐφεστηκότας στραφεῖσά
τε καὶ μεταστραφεῖσα, «ἐμπλήσατέ—φησι—τὸν ταύτης
παῖδα γραμμάτων· ὁρᾶτε γὰρ ὥς με κατασπάζεται».
When she was torn in her thinking about me, a dream such as this
settled her mind. She thought she entered the Church of the Apostles,
some guardians with her whom she did not know. When she reached the
sacred step—for she was brave before the powers that might be in the
shadows—she saw, among some who were hard to make out, a certain
woman coming from within and telling her, as she approached, to stay
outside. But when she was there, she did not speak to my mother at all,
but, turning one way and the other, said to those standing at her sides,
“Fill this child of hers with learning, for you see that she does honour
to me.”53
These dreams give sanction and authority as well as peace of mind. They estab-
lish Psellos’ mother as the matriarch, the visionary, and the exemplary pious
52 «μὴ δῆτα κυμαίνου … ἐγὼ δὲ καὶ ὡς παιδαγωγὸς ἕψομαι τούτῳ καὶ ὡς διδάσκαλος ἐμπλήσω
παιδεύσεως.» Psellos, Enc. in m. 5 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.312–316).
53 Psellos, Enc. in m. 5 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.320–330). Walker (2004, 78) makes the interest-
ing suggestion that the woman is not the Theotokos but the figure of “Lady Rhetoric”
or “Lady Philosophy”. Certainly, she is described as being among those hard to discern
(along with Saints Peter and Paul, the male figures flanking her) but it is hard to see why
Philosophy would be accompanied by those saints or entrust Psellos’ education to them,
while Theodota’s own self-education and support of Psellos’ hardly amounts to doing
honour to Philosophy as such: when she helps her son solve a problem, she asks Heaven
to do it.
woman. They invoke heavenly support for his education and promise saintly
guidance and control.
A third dream loosely following is the only dream wholly about the dream-
er: a flying dream from Psellos’ childhood. It is given little context beyond his
interest in dream-interpretation, and described as just one of his visions.
Οὔπω δεκέτης ἦν, ἢ ἴσως ἐπιβεβήκειν τοῦ ἔτους,

καί με νυκτὸς θήρα τις ἐπῆρε καὶ εἰς ἐλεύθερον ἀέρα μετήνεγ-
κεν. εἰ μὲν οὖν ἐθήρων, οὐκ οἶδα, τεθηρακέναι δὲ ᾤμην ὄρνιθε
δύο τῶν μουσικῶν, ὧν ἡ μὲν ψιττακίῳ ἐῴκει, ἡ δὲ ἦν
ἀκριβῶς κίττα, καὶ ὑπὸ τὸν κόλπον ἄμφω ἐνεδεδύκει. καί μοι
ἐπὶ τούτοις διεχεῖτο καὶ ἐγαννύσκετο ἡ ψυχὴ καὶ πολλάκις
ταῖς χερσὶ διωμάλιζον καὶ προσήρμοττον τοῖς πτεροῖς· ἀλλὰ
τά γε ὄρνεα, «μὴ τυράννει ἀνθρωπικῶς—ἔφασαν—, μηδὲ
βίᾳ λαβών· οἷα δὴ νόμῳ, δεσπότης κυρίευε. ἀλλ’ ἐξελὼν
λογικῶς τε συγγίνου καὶ διαλέγου. κἂν μὲν πείσῃς, ἐκεῖθεν
ἡμῶν ἄρξαι· εἰ δ’ οὖν, ἄφες ἡμῖν ἐλεύθερον τὸ πτερόν».
I was not yet ten, or perhaps I had reached that age, and some night-
chase lifted me and carried me to the open sky. I did not know if I was
hunting, but I thought I had been chasing two musical birds, one like a
small parrot and the other just like a jay, and they both went in under a
fold of my clothes. I was stretched between them and my spirit rejoiced
and, by rapidly using my hands, I kept level and took hold of their wings.
But the birds said, “Do not rule tyrannically in the way of humans, nor
take by force: rule, master, by law. Keep aloft by reason, and stay and dis-
course. If you persuade, then rule over us; but if not, give us back the
freedom of our wings.”54
This dream belongs to a pre-Christian, pre-Byzantine tradition linking birds

with augury. Where the other dreams attach mysterious experiences to reli-
gion, Psellos attributes this to the subconscious. “I thought the vision a pro-
jection of the more irrational part of the soul.”55 He is not seen as a family
member, but alone; and the dream, later associated with “the verbal arts”,56
54 Psellos, Enc. in m. 6 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.366–376).

55 τοῦ ἀλογωτέρου μέρους τῆς ψυχῆς ἀνάπλασιν ᾤμην τὸ ὅραμα, Psellos, Enc. in m. 6 (Criscuolo
1989, ll.387–388).
56 ὕστερον δέ … εἰς τοὺς λόγους τὰς ὄψεις ἐτεκμαιρόμην, Psellos, Enc. in m. 6 (Criscuolo 1989,
ll.389–390). I am indebted to Walker’s fine translation (2005) for this last and some other
phrases.
238 Buckley
seems to presage a future connection with power. It stands out, marking him
as partly alien in his mother’s world.
These early dreams show Psellos’ role in the family as potentially divisive,
a cause of anxiety to all. At the simplest level, to fulfil himself he has to go
away, whereas one aspect of his mother’s role is to keep her family united. Her
dreams—based in her piety—heal her own self-division and end arguments,
and her nature is so far like his that, having sought learning herself,57 she can
oversee Psellos’ early studies and link them to her metaphysics.
σὺ δὲ ὡς ἀγωνιῶντι περὶ τὸ πάλαισμα, ἐτεκμαίρου δὲ τῇ ἀναδιπλώσει τοῦ

ἔπους, συμπαρίστασο καθα- περεὶ καὶ συνήσπιζες, τὼ χεῖρε πρὸς Θεὸν αἴρου-
σα καὶ
‘πὺξ’ τῇ χειρὶ τὸ στῆθος ‘πατάσσουσα’—τοῦτο δὴ τὸ σὸν ἐν ταῖς προσευ-
χαῖς—καὶ ἄνωθέν μοι τὴν τοῦ ἀμφιβόλου ἐπισπωμένη διάγνωσιν.
But you, when I was wrestling with a problem, were conjecturing from
the convolution of the verse; you stood beside me and fought like a com-
rade-in-arms, raising your hands to God and fist-beating your breast with
your hand—this was your way in prayer—urging a resolution of the am-
biguity from above.58
The Psellos of this text is not the “I … by my own means” of the Chronographia.
Not only does he underline his intellectual debt to his mother and his connec-
tions to his family, but he works the narrative through her figure to present his
lifetime’s undertaking as sanctioned by and joined with hers.
His mother was the family’s ruling spirit—even her parents “regarded her
as a living law”59—and all its members were united in a network, at once
strong and delicate, of likeness, consanguinity, reverence, and love. His sister
resembled her mother: “they could not be told apart … at all.”60 He was like
his father: “I fly along with him like an eaglet … follow like a shadow”.61 But he
57 ὅπου δὲ τὴν μητέρα λάθοι, τὰς τῶν γραμμάτων ἀρχὰς παρά του μόνας λαβοῦσα, εἶτα δὴ ἀφ’
ἑαυτῆς συνετίθει καὶ συλλαβὰς ἐποίει καὶ λόγους. “Whenever she could, without her mother’s
knowing, she obtained her first schooling from the monks, and then formed syllables and
composed speeches herself.” Psellos, Enc. in m. 3 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.138–141).
59 καὶ οἱ τεκόντες … ‘νόμον’ ἐκείνην ἐλογίζοντο ‘ἔμψυχον’. Psellos, Enc. in m. 8 (Criscuolo 1989,
ll.503–505).
60 ἀλλ’ ἀπ’ ἀλλήλων μὲν κατ’ οὐδὲν ἄρα διῄρηντο. Psellos, Enc. in m. 13 (Criscuolo 1989,
ll.750–751).
61 τῷ δὲ πατρὶ ὥσπερ ἀετιδὴς συμπαρίπταμαι, ἢ μᾶλλον συνέπομαι ὡς σκιά. Psellos, Enc. in m. 9
(Criscuolo 1989, ll.561–563). Of his father’s grief over his sister’s death, he writes, γινώσκω
and his sister “like two shoots springing from the same trunk, we grew together
with each other, distinct and indistinguishable”.62 Where Psellos is the odd
one out—in being absent, for example, when his sister dies—he is the more
embraced.63 He is enmeshed in a kinship recognising difference within unity.
So, when Psellos and his father give way to their grief, his mother checks her
own, bringing strength and stoicism as a counterweight. The same thing hap-
pens when his father is dying. At first, Psellos is in control—he “relieved his
anxiety and calmed his spirit”,64 then felt his pulse and made the prognosis65—
but when his father does die, he is inconsolable until his mother intervenes.66
She balances emotions in herself and thus in him, so that through her gov-
ernance and support his fourth dream can be conventionally mysterious and
pious, not racked with doubts and distress. His dead father appears to him in
“the simplicity of joy … and his eyes—their brightness passed all measure”.67
While her husband lives, his mother figures as a source of unity through
balance.
… ἡ μέν τις πρακτικωτάτη

ἐστίν, ἡ δέ τις θατέρῳ προσνένευκε. τῇ δὲ ἐμῇ μητρὶ οὔτε
διαίρεσιν ταῦτα ἔσχηκε καὶ ὁμοῦ πάντα συννένευκε καὶ ἐν
ταὐτῷ καιρῷ, καὶ ταῦτα ἤδη τῆς ὥρας τὸ ἄνθος ἔχοντι, ἥ
τε ‘φρόνησις’ παρῆν καὶ ἡ ‘σύνεσις’, ἥ τε πρὸς τὸν λόγον τάξις
καὶ ὁ πρὸς τὴν πρᾶξιν λόγος, καὶ τὸ διῃρῆσθαι πρὸς τἀναντία
καὶ μὴ διῃρῆσθαι, καὶ ἑκατέρου μὲν ἔχεσθαι, δοκεῖν δὲ
θατέρου.
τὸν χαρακτῆρα ἐν τοῖς ἐμοῖς εἴδεσι τῆς ψυχῆς, “I recognise his character in the configurations
of my soul.” Enc. in m. 16 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.958–959).
62 ὥσπερ ἐκ ταὐτοῦ πρέμνου δύω ἀνιόντε κλάδω, συνεπεφύκειμεν ἀλλήλοις, διαιρούμενοί τε ἅμα
καὶ μὴ διαιρούμενοι, Psellos, Enc. in m. 13 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.729–731).
64 τὸν τάραχον αὐτοῦ ἀφελών, κατέστησα τὴν ψυχήν, Psellos, Enc. in m. 18 (Criscuolo 1989,
ll.1122–1123).
65 ὡς δὲ καὶ τοῖς δακτύλοις τὰς τῆς ἀρτηρίας κινήσεις ἐτεκμηράμην—ἐσπουδάζετο γάρ μοι
μακρόθεν ἡ περὶ τοῦτο τέχνη—ἀπειρήκειν εὐθύς. ἐκλέλοιπε γὰρ τῷ μορίῳ ἡ κίνησις…. Psellos,
Enc. in m. 19 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1151–1154).
66 ‘ἦν ἐν αὐτῇ μίξις καὶ στάσις πλειόνων ἐναντιώσεων. ἐνίκησε δ’ οὖν ὅμως αὐτῇ τὸ φιλόσοφον.
“There was a mingling and a surge of conflicts within her. But then … philosophy pre-
vailed.” Psellos, Enc. in m. 19 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1213–1215).
67 Ἐγεγήθει γοῦν ἀτεχνῶς καὶ σκιρτήματι καθαρῷ ἀνέφερε τὴν ψυχήν, τά τε ὄμματα, πυρσοί τινες
ἐκεῖθεν ἐστέλλοντο καὶ ἡ χαροπότης τὸ μέτρον παρήλλακτο, Psellos, Enc. in m. 20 (Criscuolo
1989, ll.1264–1266).
240 Buckley
One person leans most toward the active life, and another to the other.
But for my mother these things were undivided and everything came
together in due measure, in the bloom of the high season. Good judg-
ment was there, and intelligence, the disposition towards reason, reason
towards action, and to dividing and not dividing opposites: to hold to one
while being seen to embrace the other.68
She does experience some internal division, however, which intensifies with
time until it sets soul against body, changing the terms of her existence: her
strongest desire is for severe monasticism, for askesis. Since her husband is
against it,69 she solves the problem cleverly, giving him precedence by inviting
him to take the path before her,70 with the happy result revealed in the fourth
dream. His death gives her the opportunity to follow him: “her whole being
flew towards that life”.71 “She renounced not only pleasures but … necessities”.72
“Her body became so light as … to rise above the ground”.73
Psellos had taken issue elsewhere with this narrow, body-hating version of
faith but in the Encomium he is careful to ascribe objections to it to others:
“Many different people found fault with the inappropriateness of her self-
denial”,74 especially her father.75 She tries to obey him but breaks down in
sorrow and confusion76 in a small drama over a fish-dinner. From that point
Psellos immerses himself in the language and metaphors of her longing. She
has been living in the monastery, growing weaker and more emaciated, but
still hesitating over her worthiness to take the habit, when she is told about “a
divine seeing” (θειοτέρα ὄψις).
68 Psellos, Enc. in m. 4 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.200–207). See Kaldellis 2006, 42–45, on the
Encomium’s strategy of “unifying apparent opposites”, “antithesis always leading to
synthesis”.
69 Psellos, Enc. in m. 11 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.638–40). δὲ οὐκ ἦν πρὸς τὴν φύσιν παντελῶς
ἀπομάχεσθαι, “and she herself was not wholly at war with nature” 17, l.1045.
71 ὅλη πρὸς ἐκείνην ἐπτέρωτο τὴν ζωήν, Psellos, Enc. in m. 21 (Criscuolo 1989, l.1298).
72 ἀποχὴν οὐ τῶν ἡδέων μόνον, ἀλλ’ ἤδη καὶ τῶν ἀναγκαίων, Psellos, Enc. in m. 21 (Criscuolo 1989,
l.1308).
73 τοιοῦτον αὐτῇ γέγονε τὸ σῶμα κοῦφον, ὧς ἀληθῶς καὶ μετέωρον, Psellos, Enc. in m. 21 (Criscuolo
1989, ll.1340–1341).
74 Πολλοὶ μὲν οὖν καὶ ἄλλοι τὴν ἀκαιρίαν αὐτῇ τῆς ἐγκρατείας ἐμέμφοντο, Psellos, Enc. in m. 22
(Criscuolo 1989, ll.1343–1344).
76 οὐκ οἶδα τουτὶ τὸ δρᾶμα, οὐδ’ ἐπίσταμαι τὴν σκηνήν, “I do not know the play and I do not
understand the stage.” Psellos, Enc. in m. 22 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1368–1369).
πρεσβύτις γάρ τις ἐκ σπαργάνων αὐτῶν τῷ ἀκηράτῳ βίῳ

καταγηράσασα, ἐν ὕπνοις ἁρπάζεται τὴν ψυχήν, ἡ δὲ
ἁρπαγὴ οὐκ εἰς ἀέρα ἐκούφισεν, ἀλλ’ εἰς θεάτρου σχῆμα
μετήνεγκεν, εἰς τὸ στάδιον μὲν οὐ καταγαγοῦσα, ἄνω δέ τι
μετεωρίσασα ἔνθα ἔδει τὸν βασιλέα τὸ βῆμα ποιήσασθαι.
περιβλεψαμένη γὰρ χρυσοῦν μὲν ἕνα τεθέαται θρόνον, πολὺ τὸ
ἄρρητον ἔχοντα· ἡ γὰρ ἀστραπὴ τῆς ὕλης οὔτε τοῖς ὀφθαλμοῖς
ὁρᾷν ξυνεχώρει, οὔτε ταύτῃ ἐδίδου εἰπεῖν τι περὶ ἐκείνου.
ἑκατέρωθεν δὲ πολλοὺς παρεσκευασμένους θρόνους, τοὺς μὲν
καὶ χρυσοῦς, τοὺς πλείους δὲ ἐξ ἐλέφαντος, ἐν μέσῳ δὲ τούτων
ἐκ δεξιᾶς ἕνα παρὰ τοὺς ἄλλους. τὴν μὲν γὰρ ὕλην οὐκ εἶχεν
εἰδέναι ἥτις αὐτῷ ὑποβέβλητο, πλὴν ὅσον μέλανι μὲν
ἐβέβαπτο χρώματι· ἐδίδου δέ τι λαμπρότητος ἡ βαφή, καὶ
οὐδὲ αὕτη ἀκτίνων τινῶν ἀπεστέρητο. περὶ ἧς δὴ καὶ ἔρεσθαι
τὴν πρεσβύτιν καὶ εἰπεῖν τὸν ἀπαγαγόντα ὅτι Θεοδότης ὁ
θρόνος—τοῦτο γὰρ ἐκαλεῖτο ἡ μήτηρ—, ‘ὀνομαστὶ’ δὲ καὶ
τἆλλα εἰρήκει· «ἐκείνῃ γὰρ ὁ βασιλεύς φησι τοῦτον παρα-
σκευάσασθαι μελλούσῃ οὐ μετὰ πολὺ ἐνταῦθα ἀφίξεσθαι.»
An elder who from infancy had grown old in the chaste life was carried
off in spirit in her sleep. The captive was not lifted into the sky, but con-
veyed to something looking like a theatre; and not brought down into the
stadium, but raised above the place where the emperor’s footstool should
be. Looking round, she saw a single golden throne, far beyond words; for
neither was the lightning-flash of the material bearable for the eyes to
see, nor was it given to speak about it in any way. On both sides many
thrones had been prepared, some golden, most of ivory; and one on the
right beyond the rest. She was not able to identify its material, except that
it was dyed a dark colour; but the dye gave off some brilliance, and it was
not without splendour. The elder asked about it and the guide said the
throne was Theodota’s by name—for my mother was called this—and
went on to declare: “The Emperor says this throne has been prepared for
her; she will be coming here before long.”77
The dream is her invitation, and Psellos uses the blended language of Pauline
metaphor and visionary embellishment to describe his mother’s victory over

242 Buckley
the flesh.78 He even tries to bring her self-starvation within the ambit of the
character he has ascribed to her throughout her life: “Unlike things were
brought close together by her, and their opposition reconciled by her alone,
or she saw the opposites—how shall I put it?—as alike, being of one nature.”79
This is the unifying—mystical—idea of the Encomium, but the strain is felt.
The final dream maps it.
Absent when his mother died (“no angel sent winged word to me”),80 he
begs her to appear to him,81 and she does so, in a strange, ambivalent dream-
vision. Some hierophants come to take him to the ‘holy fathers’,82 and they
lead him along a narrowing path which ends in a stone. He struggles head first
through the opening, and down a staircase—so far, so orthodo, yet in its down-
ward movement not unlike other underworld traditions.83 Reaching a chapel,
he finds his mother standing to one side by an icon of the Theotokos, and “the
other side I did not at first quite see”.84 When he rushes to embrace her, she
wards him off, telling him to look the other way:
… μοναχός τις ὦπτο οὐκ

ὄρθιος, ἀλλ’ ὑποκλάσας τοῖς γόνασι· δέλτος αὐτῷ ἐν χεροῖν,
πρὸς ἣν δὴ καὶ ἐπεπήγει τοῖς ὄμμασιν. ἐῴκει δὲ
ὑπερμεγέθει τινί, στρυφνὸς τὴν ὄψιν καὶ σκυθρωπὸς τὴν
ὀφρῦν καὶ τὴν ‘ἀσκητικὴν’ ἀκριβῶς ἀποπνέων ‘ζωήν’. «καὶ
78 She prepares herself for the rite of entry: ἔδνα προσάγουσα τῷ νυμφίῳ οἷα οὐκ ἄλλη· ‘κόμην
πιναράν’, ‘τύλους γονάτων’, ὀστᾶ κατεσκληκότα καὶ τὴν τοῦ δέρους τραχύτητα. ὁ δὲ ἀντεδίδου
φιλοτιμότερον· δακτύλιον ἐπὶ τῆς χειρὸς ἀστράπτον ‘σφενδόνῃ χρυσῇ’, ‘ὑποδήματα περὶ τοὺς
πόδας’, ἵνα δὴ ἐπιβαίνοιεν ‘ἐπάνω σκορπίων καὶ ὄφεων’, ‘τὸ τοῦ σταυροῦ τρόπαιον’, ‘τὴν περι-
κεφαλαίαν τοῦ σωτηρίου’, τὴν ὀξείαν ‘τοῦ πνεύματος μάχαιραν’; “bringing the Bridegroom
wedding gifts like no other: dirty hair, callused knees, withered bones and rough skin.
But he gave something even more precious in return: a shining ring hooped with gold for
her hand, sandals for the feet, so that she might trample down scorpions and snakes, the
victory-trophy of the cross, the helmet of salvation, the sharp sword of the spirit.” Psellos,
Enc. in m. 23 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1438–1445).
79 Psellos, Enc. in m. 25 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1584–1587): τὰ ἀνόμοια παραπλήσια ταύτῃ κα-
τέστη καὶ ἡ ἐναντίωσις τῇδε μόνῃ ἐσπείσατο, ἢ τὰ ἐναντία ἐπὶ μιᾶς φύσεως ὤφθη—πῶς ἂν
εἴποιμι;—ὁμοιότροπα.
80 οὔθ’ ὁ ἀγγέλλων ἐμοὶ τὸν λόγον ἐπτέρωτο, Psellos, Enc. in m. 23 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1483–1484).
81 δίδου μοι δὲ καὶ τὴν σὴν ὄψιν ἐν τοῖς ὀνείρασι μετὰ τῶν συμβόλων τῆς σχέσεως…. “Let me see
you in dreams with the emblems of your condition …” Psellos, Enc. in m. 24 (Criscuolo
1989, ll.1551–1552).
82 τοὺς ἁγίους … ἀββάδας, Psellos, Enc. in m. 26 (Criscuolo 1989, l.1641).
83 Walker (2004, 92n.) names some “pagan oracular shrines”, and there is also a trace of
underworld visitations in the Greek and Roman traditions.
84 τὸ δ’ ἄλλο οὐπάνυ εὐθὺς τεθέαμαι, Psellos, Enc. in m. 26 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1664–1665).
τίς δὲ οὗτος;»· τὴν μητέρα ἠρώτησα. ἡ δὲ ἀμεταστρόφως

αὖθις· «ὁ μέγας—ἔφη—, τέκνον, Βασίλειος. ἀλλ’ ἄπιθι
προσκυνήσων αὐτῷ». ἐπεὶ δὲ προσελήλυθα καὶ προσβλέψας,
οὗτος ἀνένευσεν. ὁ μὲν ἀθρόον συμπτύξας τὴν δέλτον καὶ
βροντῆς ἦχον πεποιηκὼς ‘ἀφανὴς ἐγεγόνει’. καὶ οὐδὲ τὴν
μητέρα ἔτι τεθέαμαι, ἀλλ’ ἑτέρωσέ πη διαιτώμενος ἦν …
A monk was visible, not upright but bent at the knees, a writing-tablet
in his hands on which he had his eyes fixed. He seemed like someone
very great, with a stern face and a forbidding brow, and with a definite
air of the ascetic life. “Who is this?” I asked my mother and, still not turn-
ing, she said, “Basil the Great, child. Go, do reverence to him.” But when
I approached and looked towards him, he looked up, at once folded the
tablet and, with a noise like thunder, disappeared. And I no longer saw
my mother, but was somewhere else….85
Psellos claims this dream as his mother’s imprimatur on his vocation: “this too
was your work, even after death”.86 Yet her behaviour is not like his father’s, in
the corresponding dream. “He approached me in quite a human way and did
not shrink from my touch, but let himself be held. And he held me as well.”87
His mother will not even turn towards him. As for Basil, more like an ascetic
than the great rhetorician, on seeing Psellos, he shuts the tablet and goes. The
dream is capable of opposite interpretations.88
His mother had wanted, as if “at an equally divided road, to run both ways …
and reach the same end”,89 but she took the uncompromisingly ascetic way.
The encomium ends with an extraordinary peroration in which Psellos de-
clares his great and equally intractable difference from his mother’s “way of
straightness” and “the philosophy you follow”.90

86 καὶ τοῦτο δὲ σὸν ἔργον καὶ μετὰ θάνατον. Psellos, Enc. in m. 26 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1634–1635).
87 προσῄει γοῦν μοι ἀνθρωπικώτερον καὶ τὴν ἐπαφὴν οὐχ ὑπέφευγεν, ἀλλ᾿ ἐδίδου ἐφάπτεσθαι. ὁ δὲ
καὶ αὐτὸς ἀνθήπτετο καί με…. Psellos, Enc. in m. 20 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1268–1270).
88 Walker (2004, 93) resolves the ambiguity by suggesting that Theodota now represents
the Neoplatonic “fountain of life” who directs Psellos to Basil the Great in order that he
may be rejected by Basil and asceticism and returned to his proper vocation in the world.
Again, it is an interesting if inventive thought, but Theodota does not act like any kind of
fountain: she is gazing at the icon of the Theometor and waving her son aside.
89 ἐβούλετο δέ, ὥσπερ ὁδοῦ διττὰ καὶ ἶσα τμήματα, τὴν ὁμοίαν ἀμφοτέρους δραμεῖν καὶ πρὸς τὸ
αὐτὸ καταλῆξαι πέρας, Psellos, Enc. in m. 11 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.643–645).
244 Buckley
Θέλγει γάρ με καὶ ἡ τέχνη τῶν λόγων … οὐκ ἐᾷ με ἡσυχαζειν ἡ τῆς σφαίρας
περιφορά … κινεῖ με καὶ στάσιμος ἐπιστήμη … ποδαπός τε ὁ φυσικός … πῶς δι᾽
ὅλων διατείνει τῶν θείων γενῶν. Ἡ δέ γε μουσικἠ … Οὐ τὰ γένη δὲ μόνον ζητῶ
τῶν ἑπιστημῶν … τὴν δέ γε ὐπερκειμένην σοφίαν … καὶ τιμῶ καἰ σεβάζομαι …
Ἄγαμαι δὲ καὶ τὴν διὰ τῶν συλλογισμῶν ἀπόδειξιν … ὅτι πᾶσιν ἐντυχὼν βιβλίοις
Ἑλληνικοῖς, εἰπεῖν δὲ καὶ βαρβαρικοῖς, ὁπόσα Ὀρφεὺς ἢ Ζωροάστρης ἢ Ἀμμοῦς
συνέγραψεν ὁ Αἰγύπτιος … ὅς γε ὀυδὲ τοῖς κρείττοσιν αὐτῶν προσέχω τὸν νοῦν,
ἀλλά μοι τὸ φιλότιμον τῆς ψυχῆς μέχρι τῆς τῶν δογμάτων αὐτῶν κεκίνηται
γνώσεως….
For the art of discourse enthrals me … The revolution of the spheres does
not let me rest … the science of things stationary moves me too … and
where does natural reason come from … how does it extend to all the
divine becoming … Music, too … I do not merely investigate the types
of knowledge … but the wisdom lying above … I honour and revere … I
admire the demonstration of syllogisms too … I have read in all Hellenic
books and, in a manner of speaking, the barbarian ones, all that Orpheus
or Zoroaster or Ammon the Egyptian wrote … I do not attach myself even
to the better doctrines but my soul’s ambition is stirred so far as seeking
to know what they are….91
It is even more comprehensive than the parallel section of the Chronographia.

This mighty apologia is punctuated at points by his mother’s terms of ref-
erence and ends in a reverse plea: “re-direct … me to the ascent to God”.92
Contradictions notwithstanding, he might be seen as theorising the reach of
natural reason through the “divine becoming”, for he twice allows the honorific
“philosophy” to her as well as to himself.93 If he and his sister were “like two
shoots springing from the same trunk … distinct and indistinguishable”, their
parents were the trunk on which they grew. Still rhetoricising his mother’s
choice and his own as “dividing and not dividing opposites”, is he flying on a
wing and a prayer? Is the chapel, the road’s fork, a parting or conjunction?94
91 Psellos, Enc. in m. 27–31 (Criscuolo 1989, quotations, ll.1692–1697; 29, ll.1809–1810).

93 At the turning point of his mother’s descent into askesis, he has her say that the necessi-
ties of the body were incompatible with her “philosophy” (ἀναμέμικταί μοι φιλοσοφούσῃ)
Psellos, Enc. in m. 22 (Criscuolo 1989, ll.1365–1367).
94 Papaioannou and Walker give uncompromising answers. Papaioannou (2013, 164) finds
in the Encomium “an author who parades the rules of dominant culture in order to break
away from them”. Walker (2004, 98) reads Psellos as “defining the Symeonesque asceti-
cism that destroyed his mother as ‘apostasy’”. I find the work’s energy and eloquence more
widely distributed across its conflicting elements than they do, and suggest that Walker’s
final identification of Theodora with the pêgê disrupts the work’s economy quite wildly.
Can the two roads meet in a Christianity that comprehends not only rhetoric,
philosophy and a value for the body, but also their own mutually untouching
verges? The Encomium seems to me to raise the question rather than resolving
it, and to remain ambiguous in the true sense, working—running?—in both
ways. A resolution is beyond its scope of enquiry.
In different genres, Psellos constructs alternative versions of his times and of
himself. Neither captures the whole Psellos,95 yet they have more in common
than one might expect, as his uneasy attachment to his family prefigures his
uneasy detachment from the court. The sparse and spurious nature of dreams
in one text, and their power and importance in the other, indicate the differ-
ence: dreams are a petty distraction in the negotiations between a philosopher
and a ruler, while they may perhaps be a meeting ground between philosophy
and religion, even of the more austere kind. When the living seek connection
with the dead, dreams and visions are almost inevitably sought. In this case
they govern much of Psellos’ spiritual relation with his mother even while she
is alive; they testify to the nature and strength of that relation, as well as to the
growing distance between them. In the extremity of their final separation, the
dream vision becomes most powerful as well as most ambiguous.
Together, the two texts offer a Psellosian compendium of insights: dreams,
visions and prophecies can serve self-interest, delude or flatter; they can be
simulated for gain. They are powerful and persuasive tools. They can be appro-
priated to belief-systems, project the hidden mind, bring comfort and relief.
They can enable decisions and illuminate a path, or they can be ambiguous,
like the oracles of old. They chart connections and disconnections in terms of
one another.
The dreams in the Encomium place themselves in a distinctively Byzantine
tradition, but dreams and visions are invisible companions to us still. The
American poet Tracy K. Smith records that, as her mother was dying, “she
began speaking to someone in a low voice”. Tracy asked, “Who is there with
you?” and her mother answered, “There are two angels sitting here … and one
of them has just told me you’re going to become a writer.”96
95 Let alone the ‘real’ one. See Jeffreys’ admirable account of the fictional element in the
Chronographia (Jeffreys 2010) and that of Psellos’ “decidedly rhetorical self … a self that
appears invented like a literary character” in Papaioannou 2013, 162, 165.
96 Smith 2016, 318.
246 Buckley
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Criscuolo, U. (ed.) (1989) Michele Psello. Autobiografia: encomio per la madre (Naples).
Repr. in TLG available online at www.tlg.uci.edu (subscription only), Michael
Psellus. (Biogr. Encom. 11).
Kaldellis, A. (trans.) (2006) The Byzantine Family of Michael Psellos: Mothers and Sons,
Fathers and Daughters, with contributions from D. Jenkins and S. Papaioannou
(Notre Dame, IN).
Kaldellis, A. and Krallis, D. (trans.) (2012) Michael Attaleiates: The History, CSHB 16
(Bonn).
Kaldellis, A. and Polemis, I. (trans.) (2015) Psellos and the patriarchs: letters and funeral
orations for Keroullarios, Leichoudes, and Xiphilinos (Notre Dame, IN).
Reinsch, D. (ed.) (2014) Michaelis Psellis Chronographia, Millennium-Studien, 2 vols
(Berlin and Boston).
Thurn, I. (ed.) (1973) Ioannis Scylitzae Synopsis Historiarum, CFHB 5 (Berlin). Trans.
J. Wortley (2010) John Skylitzes: A Synopsis of Byzantine History 811–1057 (Cambridge).
Tsolakis, E. T. (ed.) (2011) Michaelis Attaleiatae Historia, CFHB 50 (Athens).
Walker, J. (trans.) (2005) ‘Michael Psellos: the Encomium of His Mother’, Advances in the
History of Rhetoric 8, 239–313.
Secondary Sources
Jeffreys, M. (2010) ‘Psellos and “His Emperors”: Fact, Fiction and Genre’, in R. Macrides
(ed.) History as Literature in Byzantium: Papers from the Fortieth Spring Symposium of
Byzantine Studies, University of Birmingham, April 2007 (Farnham and Burlington),
73–91.
Kaldellis, A. (1999) The Argument of Psellos’ Chronographia (Leiden, Boston and
Cologne).
Papaioannou, S. (2013) Michael Psellos: Rhetoric and Authorship in Byzantium
(Cambridge).
Smith, T. K. (2016) Ordinary Light: A Memoir (New York).
Stone, A. (2011) ‘Imperial Types in Byzantine Panegyric’, in G. Nathan & L. Garland (eds)
Basileia: Essays on Imperium and Culture, Byzantina Australiensia 17 (Brisbane),
173–188.
Walker, J. (2004) ‘These Things I Have Not Betrayed: Michael Psellos’ Encomium of His
Mother as a Defense of Rhetoric’, Rhetorica 22/1, 49–101.
part 4
Remembering the Saints in Hymns
and Hagiography
∵
chapter 12
Loyalty and Betrayal: Villains, Imagination and

Memory in the Reception of the Johannite Schism
Wendy Mayer
Building on research from a variety of disciplines within the social sciences

as well as studies in religion, this chapter explores what causes groups to radi-
calise and the agency of language in that process.1 Of particular interest for our
purposes here is previous work on the agency of language, particularly cultural
and metaphoric concepts, in modern to contemporary social conflicts.2 Within
these various bodies of research, analysis of the narratives that emerge from
moments of conflict in the history of the Byzantine world is a key component
but one that has been neglected. One implication of that research is to move
on to how the memory of such conflicts is constructed and passed down and
how that memory is subsequently used to underwrite the narratives of later
conflicts.3 The Johannite schism, which played out in the early 5th century in
the Byzantine capital, Constantinople, and which divided the early Byzantine
empire for several decades is one such moment.4 It plays into constructions of
heresy and orthodoxy that continued to divide the Byzantine world. Further, it
is my suspicion that it is no accident—a phenomenon that this chapter begins
1 See Mayer forthcoming a–c, 2018, 2017a, 2017b, based on Lakoff 2009; Graham and Haidt 2012;
Haidt 2012. For a summary of approaches on the topic of religious radicalisation up to 2012,
see Mayer 2013a.
2 See especially the work of Andreas Musolff on racial prejudice: e.g. Musolff 2007, 2012, 2017.
The latter study has implications for the rise in current political discourse of “fake news”.
3 The present article stems from a new project, Memories of Utopia: Destroying the Past to
Create the Future (300–650 CE), funded by the Australian Research Council (DP 170104595,
2017–2019), co-investigated with Bronwen Neil, Pauline Allen and Chris L. de Wet. The re-
search on which the article is based was also conducted in my capacity as a Research Fellow
in the Department of Biblical and Ancient Studies, University of South Africa.
4 While the schism officially lasted from 404–438 CE and was centred at Constantinople, it
sent ripples throughout the eastern Mediterranean world and into Italy and some other west-
ern regions as a result of episcopal and political networks and alliances and the large number
of Johannite supporters who were arrested and exiled. The emperors Arcadius and Honorius
were both involved. At the episcopal level, it fed into widespread concerns about theological
heterodoxy and Origenism. For the involvement in the schism of Egyptian and Roman inter-
ests, see Van Nuffelen 2013a, 2013b. For a more general account of the schism, see Kelly 1995,
286–290.

250 Mayer
to explore—that the most influential narrative cycle concerning the schism

renews and embellishes the story precisely at the time of the iconoclast con-
troversies that arose in the 8th and 9th centuries. This is about more than just
hagiography. It is about what the narrative of heroes and villains that sits be-
hind certain kinds of hagiography does and what it feeds when it circulates
within equally schismatic communities.
In teasing out the mechanisms at play in such conflicts and the role of lan-
guage as both a barometer and cause of conflict, I have been drawn to the
cognitive and neuro-sciences for explanatory models and, most particularly,
to the fields of experimental moral psychology and cognitive linguistics. This
is a complex and not uncontested body of research. In this chapter I set out
in brief the methodological presuppositions on which my analysis is based,
bearing in mind that full discussion of those fields, the current debates within
them, and the constraints and implications of their research would require a
substantially longer article. Secondly, I discuss in brief one particular aspect
of that research, narrative framing, and one subset of particular relevance to
morality, ideological narratives. After explaining why ideological narratives are
of particular relevance to the question of imagination and memory for social
groups, I then explore what role ideological narratives and their construction
of heroes and villains play in the narratives to which the Johannite schism gave
rise and their subsequent reframing. In my conclusion I raise questions about
the role this construction of memory is likely to have played in the eighth–to
tenth-century context.
1 Methodological Presuppositions
First, let us set out the methodological presuppositions.5 In conflicts that pres-
ent as religious it is not the religion itself (in the sense of its reasoned doctrines
or beliefs) that is at play, but rather the morality that underlies it. By morality,
I do not mean the values that the religion aspires to (its ethics or moral code),
but rather social-functional morality—the subconscious values and moral
judgments that inform our everyday actions and behaviour. Our approach is
thus sociological. This applies to our understanding of morality, the sacred,
5 The presuppositions set out in this paragraph and the supporting literature are discussed in
Mayer 2017a and forthcoming b. Rather than supplying extensive footnoting here, I refer the
reader to those publications. For a general understanding of these positions and the research
from within experimental moral psychology that supports them, see Haidt 2012 and Greene
2013.
Loyalty and Betrayal 251
and religion and to the role each plays in binding social groups together. That
is, to put it broadly, we are approaching the topic from the perspective of Emile
Durkheim.6 Our presuppositions are that a religious movement, denomina-
tion or sect is a social group. Religious groups are not special. Individuals bind
together to form religious groups, and religious groups split into sects or come
into conflict with other religious groups, on the basis of the same mechanisms
that cause all social groups to bind, split or generate conflict. A religion can be
strongly moral, but morality can exist without religion. Morality in this social-
functional sense equally underlies and shapes politics, economics, and religion.
We are also talking about cognition and the brain. We accept the dual-
processing model of cognition that divides “our cognitive activities … into two
basic types: effortful, deliberative and conscious (‘reason’); and automatic, in-
tuitive and non-conscious (‘intuition’)”.7 The precise relationship between rea-
son and intuition in cognition is much debated, with the exception of moral
cognition. In this one specific domain there is consensus that all judgments,
without exception, are automatic and intuitive. Reason is secondary in this
process. Jonathan Haidt calls this “the emotional dog and its rational tail”.8
That is, we automatically and without exception make moral decisions or judg-
ments at the pre-conscious level and rationalise them after the fact.
When we accept that morality is fundamental to what allows non-kin
groups to work together and overcome selfishness, this finding has profound
implications for what sets one group against another or causes a group’s in-
ternal cohesion to fragment. As the moral psychologists argue, morality both
binds and blinds. That is, as Joshua Greene expresses it: groups share some
core values; each group’s philosophy is woven into its daily life; each group has
its own version of moral common sense; they fight, not because they are im-
moral, but because when they come into competition, they view the contested
ground from very different moral perspectives.9 As Jonathan Haidt expresses
it: “[Morality] binds us into ideological teams that fight each other as though
the fate of the world depended on our side winning each battle. It blinds us to
the fact that each team is composed of good people who have something im-
portant to say.”10 In evolutionary terms, Haidt and his team have identified five
moral foundations that facilitate group cohesion: care/harm; fairness/cheat-
ing; loyalty/betrayal; authority/subversion; and sanctity/degradation. Each is
6 See, in addition to Durkheim 1915, Bellah 1973 and Haidt and Graham 2009.
7 Clarke 2014, 75.
8 Haidt 2012, 32–60.
9 Greene 2013, 4–5 (paraphrased).
10 Haidt 2012, 366.
252 Mayer
associated with its own specific emotions and triggers.11 We will return to the
loyalty/betrayal one in a moment.
The agency of language in triggering these moral foundations or intuitions
and the emotions associated with them is another key component.12 When we
turn to the field of cognitive linguistics, we learn that the brain makes sense
of abstract concepts by mapping them onto concrete ones from everyday ex-
perience. Metaphor is not a rhetorical ornament but a fundamental way we
think and make sense of the world around us. Morality, religion, politics and
economics are all abstract domains that we instinctively, and thus commonly,
use metaphors to make sense of. Narrative frames are shortcuts we use to rea-
son with and make swift decisions. These draw both on the moral foundations
and on moral metaphors that we think and reason with. What is particularly
intriguing and suggestive in applying this work to historical texts is that both
the foundations and a number of moral metaphors are so basic to embodied
human experience, and thus the way that we intuitively think, that they are
common across large numbers of language groups and cultures.13
2 Construction of Ideological Narratives
This brings us to ideological narratives and the specific topic of this article. At
the same time that Jonathan Haidt was publishing The Righteous Mind: Why
Good People are Divided by Politics and Religion, he and Jesse Graham published
‘Sacred Values and Evil Adversaries’.14 They were interested in the question of
how a group constructs evil and, in fighting that evil, justifies the committing
of violence. They argued that a key element is the construction of ideological
narratives.15
These ideological narratives are clearly like life stories in most ways. For
example, they always incorporate a reconstructed past and an imagined
11 The foundations and their emotions and triggers are presented in tabular form in Haidt
2012, 146, fig. 6.2, and discussed at 150–179.
12 Again, this is discussed in Mayer 2017a, 2017b, and outlined in greater detail and exten-
sively footnoted in section 3 of Mayer forthcoming a. Some foundational works on the
topic are Fauconnier and Turner 2002; Lakoff 2009; Kövecses 2010; Ingram 2013.
13 On the primary nature of moral concepts and the metaphors used to describe them, see
Lakoff 2009, 93–98. On the progression in moral psychology research from narrow mod-
els to an evolutionary model that takes into account moral intuition across cultures, see
Haidt 2012, 134–146.
14 Graham and Haidt 2012.
15 Graham and Haidt 2012, 16.
future, often telling a story of progress or of decline. But they are different
from life stories in one key respect: Each person must be the first author
of his or her own life story. More than a little bit of plagiarism would be
shameful. But when people join together to pursue political projects—
from the demand for civil rights to violent revolution to genocide—they
must share a common story, one that they accept as true without having
authored it. Ideological narratives, then, by their very nature, are always
stories about good and evil. They identify heroes and villains, they explain
how the villains got the upper hand, and they lay out or justify the means
by which—if we can just come together and fight hard enough—we can
vanquish the villains and return the world to its balanced or proper state.
While in the construction of these narratives all five moral foundations could
be invoked, a particular role was played by the loyalty/betrayal and the sanc-
tity/degradation foundations, as Graham and Haidt observed:16
Sacredness refers to the human tendency to invest people, places, times,

and ideas with importance far beyond the utility they possess. Trade-offs
or compromises involving what is sacralized are resisted or refused. In
prototypical cases, these investments tie individuals to larger groups with
shared identities and ennobling projects, and so trade-offs or compro-
mises are felt to be acts of betrayal….
“Evil is whatever stands in the way of sacredness…. Evil emerges as communi-

ties construct ideological narratives and converge on a shared understanding
of what their problems are, who caused them, and how to fight back.”17 If we
view the narratives that arise at the time of the Johannite schism and the later
framing of it in this light, heroes and villains, the construction of evil, and loy-
alty and betrayal are, in certain versions, given considerable prominence.
3 Original Context
Written in late 407 for pro-Johannites in response to John’s recent death,18 the
funeral oration by ps-Martyrius presents a classic example of an ideologi-
cal narrative. In league with the empress Eudoxia and the Egyptian bishop,

18 For its redating to ca. November 407 CE, see Wallraff 2007, 14.
254 Mayer
Theophilus, who are both said to be consummately evil, the chief villain and
opponent is the literal embodiment of evil, the Devil.19 Loyalty and betray-
al come up as a constant theme. This is particularly the case in the way that
John’s confrontation with Gainas is cast, in which ps-Martyrius defends John
against the popular accusation that, in talking with the Arian Gainas, he was
a traitor to the church, casting Gainas instead as the real villain and betrayer
of Nicene Christianity.20 In the account of the events at the Synod of the Oak
in September 403, John’s own clergy are cast as his betrayers (they brought
charges against him in support of Theophilus),21 and the events are said to
be so irrational, counterintuitive, and unfair that they “imitated the imaginary
world of dreams”.22 Throughout the account as a whole, the literal whipping
up of outrage and anger at acts of betrayal and cheating abound, while con-
siderable attention is given to evoking, through lurid description, satisfaction
and even glee at the comeuppance of an arch-villain, Eudoxia.23 This is the
most extreme example of such a narrative from this initial period, although we
should note that the demonisation of both Theophilus and Eudoxia as arch-
enemies of the Johannite cause and of its hero, John, rapidly became a staple
within the early ps-Chrysostomic letters and homilies.24
19 Ps-Martyrius, Or. funeb. 27–45 (Wallraff 2007, 76–98).

20 Ps-Martyrius, Or. funeb. 47–51 (Wallraff 2007, 98–104). See Or. funeb. 51.1–5 for the accusa-
tion by his enemies that John was a traitor (προδότης) to Nicene Christianity; Or. funeb.
50 for John’s loyal defence of Nicene Christianity against the traitor Gainas. Gainas is also
cast as disloyal to his own race, being characterised as a deserter (αὐτόμολος) three times
in just six lines (Or. funeb. 47.1–6). Ps-Martyrius makes it clear from the moment Gainas is
introduced that he is a betrayer by nature.
21 Ps-Martyrius, Or. funeb. 52–54 (Wallraff 2007, 104–106), esp. 53, where ps-Martyrius char-
acterises Theophilus, bishop of Alexandria, in addition as a cheat (he subverts due legal
process), a theme continued in section 54. The characteristic emotion evoked through
activation of the fairness/cheating intuition is anger (Haidt 2012, 146), which would have
further inflamed the sense of outrage among those loyal to John evoked by the constant
portrayal of his enemies as traitors.
22 Ps-Martyrius, Or. funeb. 52.4–5 (Wallraff 2007, 104; trans. Barnes and Bevan 2013, 70): καὶ
γίνεται πρᾶγμα ὀνείρων … φαντασίαν μιμούμενον.
23 Ps-Martyrius, Or. funeb. 121 (Wallraff 2007, 174–176). See also the account of Eudoxia’s mis-
carriage at the time of John’s first exile, which evokes God’s righteous anger and retribu-
tion (Or. funeb. 66 [Wallraff 2007, 120–122], esp. 66.1–2, for which the audience is primed
by 65.15–16, which immediately precedes it). This earlier divine punishment of Eudoxia
is deliberately recalled in the later episode through the repetition of Gen 3:16, so that the
later (fatal) episode is presented both as just and a natural ramping up of God’s retribu-
tion. Here, through the stench (Or. funeb. 121.28–31) and the vomiting up of the eucharistic
host (Or. funeb. 121.22–28), the sacrilege/degradation intuition (associated with disgust) is
also being triggered.
24 Mayer 2013b.
Of interest is the emergence of this same narrative of loyalty and betrayal in

the anti-Johannite camp. As I and others have pointed out, the narratives that
circulated within oppositional circles at the time are largely lost and have to
be reconstructed from the few fragments preserved,25 but we gain a glimpse
in two letters written by Theophilus’ nephew, Cyril. Cyril tells us in Letter 33
that he came with his uncle to Constantinople in 403 and was present at the
Synod of the Oak.26 In that letter, written after the Council of Ephesus (431),27
it is the Nicene creed and what it represents that is sacralised and Nestorius is
cast as its enemy and as a second intractable and stubborn John.28 Of greater
interest, however, are Letters 75–76, an exchange between Atticus, bishop of
Constantinople, and Cyril dated to around 415 CE.29 Atticus had been promi-
nent as an anti-Johannite and thus situated in the same conceptual camp as
Cyril and his uncle.30 Atticus writes to inform Cyril and other bishops that,
under pressure and out of concern for the peace of the church, he has restored
John’s name and title to the diptychs.31 He encourages Cyril to do the same in
the churches of Egypt.32 Cyril writes back, accusing Atticus of having betrayed
the canons of the church (which he holds up as sacred and inviolate).33 It is
interesting that in this context Cyril makes explicit reference to the act as one
that occasions disgust,34 the emotion associated with triggering of the sanc-
tity/degradation foundation, and goes on to frame his arguments as a matter
of what is just and of rules which cannot be bent without causing incalculable
harm.35 John himself is literally called a betrayer of the other bishops with
25 Mayer 2013b, 151–152; Van Nuffelen 2013b, 139–140. See also Elm 1998.
26 Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 33.4 (Schwartz 1929, 148.30–34).
27 He refers to the council several times during the course of the letter. See Cyril of
Alexandria, Ep. 33.3, 5 (Schwartz 1929, 148.13–15, 39–43).
28 For Nestorius as a second John, see Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 33.4 (Schwartz 1929, 148.34–39).
29 McEnerney 1987b, 83 n. 1 supplies a date range of 412–415 CE. See the edition of Schwartz
1927, 23–28.
30 Atticus succeeded Arsacius as bishop of Constantinople in 406 and proceeded to pros-
ecute the Johannites more vigorously. See Kelly 1995, 279–280, 287–288. The Johannite
Palladius, Dial. 11 (Malingrey and Leclercq 1988, 216–218), explicitly calls him an
arch-enemy.
31 Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 75.1–5 (Schwartz 1927, 23–24, trans. McEnerney 1987b, 83–85). The
tone of the letter is highly defensive, anticipating a charge from Cyril of having sold out or
betrayed the cause.
32 Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 75.6 (Schwartz 1927, 24 ll.10–25, trans. McEnerney 1987b, 85).
33 Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 76 (Schwartz 1927, 26 l.17–p. 27 l.18, trans. McEnerney 1987b,
86–91), esp. 76.7–9.
34 Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 76.4 (Schwartz 1927, 25 ll.31–32 (ἀηδία), trans. McEnerney
1987b, 87).
35 Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 76.5–7 (Schwartz 1927, 26 ll.1–17, trans. McEnerney 1987b, 87–88).
256 Mayer
whom he is inscribed in the diptychs and a Judas to their apostles, and John’s
predecessor, Nectarius, and successor, Arsacius, become the saintly heroes
whom he has betrayed.36 The narrative that underwrites this anti-Johannite
perspective is just as ideological. Both Cyril and ps-Martyrius have identi-
fied their enemies. Both hold certain things sacred. Both are immoveable in
their stance.
4 Reception
What happens, then, when we move to the late 7th and 8th centuries? This
period gives rise to two so-called lives of John, one by Theodore of Trimithus
in Cyprus, the other attributed to George of Alexandria, but unlikely to have
been authored by him.37 This second life substantially influences the narrative
from the early to mid 8th century onwards.38 It is a matter of curiosity with
regard to the way that the narratives of these two “lives” are framed that the
accounts of the pro-Johannite Palladius and the more hostile Socrates, neither
of which we have discussed here, are the principle sources.39 In the 5th and
6th centuries, the highly ideological narrative of ps-Martyrius, with its explicit
villains and hero, rapidly fades from sight.40 A couple of quick observations are
36 Cyril of Alexandria, Ep. 76.8 (Schwartz 1927, 26 ll.25–33, trans. McEnerney 1987b, 88).
37 For the argument that the Vita post-dates that of Theodore of Trimithus and was written
a number of decades after George of Alexandria died, see Baur 1927, 3–6. Halkin (1977, 69)
accepts the attribution of the manuscripts and follows Coleman-Norton 1925 in adopting
the view that Theodore’s Vita is later in date and based on that of George. My own view,
based on the style of the Vita attributed to George, as well as its subsequent influence, is
that it better suits the context and literary renaissance of the 8th century, adding to the
persuasiveness of Baur’s arguments for dating it to the late 7th or first quarter of the 8th
century. The style of Theodore’s Vita is more severe and its focus more aligned with that
of the sources of the 5th and 6th centuries.
38 For a survey of the rhetorically elevated homilies in Greek on John and the translation
of his relics that appear between the 8th and 10th centuries and their debt to the Vita by
George of Alexandria, see Antonopoulou 1997, 123–126 and 136–139. Barnes and Bevan
2013, 9–11, discuss a late-tenth-century list of writings that focus on John, indicative of
those that were circulating at the time and which the author of the list had at his disposal.
It conspicuously references the Vita by George, but fails to mention that of Theodore.
39 Theodore of Trimithus, V. Ioh. 1–2 (Halkin 1977, 8–9); George of Alexandria, V. Ioh. 1
(Halkin 1977, 72). Baur (1927, 7–16) sets out the sources used by George chapter by chap-
ter. For a discussion of the fifth-century sources, including Socrates, see Mayer 2008. We
refer to the vitae loosely as “lives”. Stylistically, the vita by Theodore follows the form of a
homily.
40 Sozomen is the only author from this period who utilises it. The case that Sozomen
borrows from ps-Martyrius was first made by van Ommeslaeghe 1974, 301–313. That the
relevant here. Palladius is the only source that admits that John was at the time
charged with treason (καθοσίωσις),41 as a literal traitor to the imperial court—
although Palladius does everything to recast John as a hero and saint, loyal
to the true sacred authorities, God and the Church.42 And Socrates, who cites
as genuine a ps-Chrysostomic homily that rails against the empress Eudoxia,
staging her as Herodias, responsible for the beheading of John the Baptist,43
feeds into the growing demonisation of Eudoxia.44 By the mid 5th century we
see the rise of an apocryphal story, first evidenced in the Life of Epiphanius, in
which Eudoxia is cast as a literal Jezebel (that evil biblical queen), having un-
fairly confiscated the vineyard of a poor widow.45 Even without ps-Martyrius’
narrative, the casting of Eudoxia as one of the two chief villains in the story has
become entrenched.
With Theodore of Trimithus we see an interesting development. While
John remains a hero, he is less well fleshed out than the other characters and
there is some reconfiguration of the villains in the narrative. Theophilus and
Eudoxia continue to play the role of villains extraordinaires,46 but among
the bishops who, in Palladius’ and ps-Martyrius’ accounts were prominently
in cahoots with Theophilus, two—Acacius and Severian—now fluctuate in
and out of focus.47 The episode of the widow’s vineyard takes prominence
direction of influence was the other way around (that ps. Martyrius borrowed from
Sozomen) had been argued by Baur 1929, xix–xx; Wallraff 2007, 18–19, confirms Sozomen’s
debt to ps-Martyrius.
41 Palladius, Dial. 8 (Malingrey and Leclercq 1988, 178.240–247). Palladius claims that the
charge was based on the allegation that John had called the empress Eudoxia “Jezebel”.
42 On the Dialogue as a post-factum legal defence of John and for an analysis of its key
rhetorical arguments, see Katos 2011, 33–97.
43 Socrates scholasticus, Hist. eccl. 6.18.1–5 (Hansen 1995, 341).
44 See van Ommeslaeghe 1979; Mayer 2013b, 160–162.
45 Vita Epiphanii 61 (Dindorf 1859, 67–69). Rapp 1991, vol. 1, 98–102, believes that the produc-
tion of the original Vita in Greek dates to the same period as Sozomen’s Historia ecclesias
tica (ca. mid 5th century).
46 See Theodore of Trimithus, V. Ioh. 2 (Halkin 1977, 9), where Eudoxia is listed first as John’s
chief enemy, Theophilus second, although note that focus on both characters is inter-
woven: V. Ioh. 5–11 (Theophilus), 15 (Eudoxia), 16 (Theophilus), 17–18 (Eudoxia), 19–23
(Theophilus). By V. Ioh. 23 Theodore is regularly using the periphrasis οἱ περὶ Θεόφιλον
to describe John’s enemies, while at V. Ioh. 26 (Halkin 1977, 31–32) the two characters
are so highly profiled as John’s enemies that in this section Eudoxia, her husband, and
Theophilus are excommunicated by Innocent, bishop of Rome.
47 At Theodore of Trimithus, V. Ioh. 16 (Halkin 1977, 21–22) they are ranged with Flavian of
Antioch, John’s patron and mentor, against Theophilus, although it should be noted that
he still characterises them as hostile to John. The chronology here and in the next sections
has considerable gaps, but the implication here appears to be that Flavian, unable to at-
tend because of his age, sent Acacius and Severian to the Synod of the Oak on his behalf.
258 Mayer
in demonstrating Eudoxia’s evil character,48 but Epiphanius of Salamis, from

whose life the episode is derived, is acquitted of any hostility towards John and
is instead construed as defending him on charges of heresy against Eudoxia
and as opposing John’s exile.49 In the mid-fifth-century accounts of Socrates
and Sozomen he is aligned firmly with Eudoxia and Theophilus against John.50
That is, while he is construed in those earlier narratives as more of a dupe than
a villain (he is primed by Theophilus and sent off to Constantinople like a load-
ed gun),51 he is nonetheless located within the anti-Johannite camp. Theodore,
on the contrary, now constructs him as a loyal pro-Johannite. Since Theodore
is a Cypriot it may well be that this alteration of the narrative is due to his own
nationalist loyalties. At the close of his narrative, Theodore introduces one
miracle and two visions,52 the last a dream experienced by Cyril of Alexandria
in which he sees John and the theotokos together,53 is rebuked for his condem-
nation of Nestorius,54 is restored to communion with John,55 and is told to
enter into communion with all of the pro-Johannite churches.56 This casts the
narrative within a post-Chalcedonian setting and reverses the betrayal motif
of Cyril’s own letters.
Whereas in the life by Theodore John himself appears in only ten out of
forty-one sections and, by contrast with the other protagonists, is somewhat
stylised and thinly characterised,57 in the life by George we for the most part
return, in a much more developed and full-blown way, to the traditional
They function somewhat in Theodore’s account of events as lackeys rather than as major
actors in their own right. Cf. V. Ioh. 30 (Halkin 1977, 34–35) where they are sent by the
emperor Arcadius as legates to Innocent, bishop of Rome. On the other hand, at V. Ioh. 22
(Halkin 1977, 28) Theodore refers to those in Severian’s camp as John’s accusers.
48 Theodore of Trimithus, V. Ioh. 15 (Halkin 1977, 20–21). At the beginning of this section,
Eudoxia is compared to Herodias, demonstrating Theodore’s familiarity with both
Socrates and the Vita Epiphanii. The characterisation of Eudoxia as both Herodias and
Jezebel is reinforced in V. Ioh. 17–18 (Halkin 1977, 22–24).
49 Theodore of Trimithus, V. Ioh. 24 (Halkin 1977, 29–30). Eudoxia commands that he sign
the document of exile along with all the other bishops. He refuses. Theodore makes it
explicit that the rumour that he had signed is false.
50 Socrates scholasticus, Hist. eccl. 6.10, 12, 14 (Hansen 1995, 327–328, 333–336); Sozomen,
Hist. eccl. 8.14–15 (Hansen 2004, 998–1006).
51 Concerning the biases of these sources in regard to Epiphanius’ actions, see Mayer 2004,
460–461.
52 Theodore of Trimithus, V. Ioh. 38–40 (Halkin 1977, 42–44).
53 Theodore of Trimithus, V. Ioh. 40.8–10 (Halkin 1977, 43).
55 Theodore of Trimithus, V. Ioh. 40.18–20 (Halkin 1977, 43). In the dream, Christ’s mother
intercedes with John, asking him to pardon Cyril for her sake.
57 See Theodore of Trimithus, V. Ioh. 1, 3–4, 15, 17–18, 20, 22–23, 25.
hero-villain narrative. John himself, our hero, is once more front and centre.
The details of his life are significantly embellished. A considerable amount of
new material—particularly miracles and visions—is inserted.58 Sections 2–15
take us from his infancy through his secular education and monastic forma-
tion to his ordination to the priesthood, expanding greatly on the brief ac-
counts of that period of his life offered by Palladius, ps-Martyrius, Socrates
and Sozomen.59 Throughout the Vita there is the usual line-up of enemies
and friends. At the conclusion of George’s account, a significantly greater
range of John’s enemies is—through a significantly greater range of physical
sufferings—divinely punished.60 Among them is sleep deprivation as a result
of nightmares.61 Epiphanius is once again, in accord with the earlier account
of Socrates, aligned with Theophilus and cast as a potential enemy of John, but
in the end proves to be a staunch enemy rather of the true evil, heterodoxy.62
John proves orthodox and so Epiphanius, despite the extensive prompting of
the enraged Eudoxia, refuses to condemn him63—a narrative framing that
supports an emphasis throughout the Vita on John’s heroic role as a champion
58 George of Alexandria, V. Ioh. 7–9, 11–13, 18–19, 27, 59, 72 (Halkin 1977, 93–101, 102–106, 116–
123, 142–148, 237–238, 272–273). While the miracles are performed by John, the visions are
not usually John’s own, but visions of John seen by other saintly individuals.
59 Ps-Martyrius is the only author among these earlier sources who offers more than a sin-
gle section on the topic. Cf. George of Alexandria, V. Ioh. 2–15 (Halkin 1977, 73–108); ps-
Martyrius, Or. funeb. 6–12 (Wallraff 2007, 48–56); Palladius, Dial. 5 (Malingrey and Leclercq
1988, 104–114); Socrates scholasticus, Hist. eccl. 6.3 (Hansen 1995, 313–314); Sozomen, Hist.
eccl. 8.2.2–11 (Hansen 2004, 954–958).
60 George of Alexandria, V. Ioh. 71 (Halkin 1977, 274–276). The idea of John’s enemies under-
going a gruesome death as a result of divine judgment draws on a common rhetorical
topos, but in the story of John’s life is, prior to George, attributed solely to Eudoxia (ps-
Martyrius, see n. 23) and Cyrinus of Chalcedon (Socrates scholasticus, Hist. eccl. 6.19.2–3
[Hansen 1995, 343]; Sozomen, Hist. eccl. 8.16.4–6 [Hansen 2004, 1008]). Theodore of
Trimithus, V. Ioh. 33 (Halkin 1977, 38) follows these earlier sources in restricting a punitive
death to the same two enemies, without dwelling overly much on the details. By contrast,
George, in the mode of ps-Martyrius, provides considerable detail.
61 George of Alexandria, V. Ioh. 71 (Halkin 1977, 274–275): Φαντασίαι νυκτεριναὶ εἰς κύνας
λυττῶντες καὶ ξιφήρεις βαρβάρους καὶ ἀλλόγλωσσον καὶ κυματώδη φωνὴν ἐξηχοῦντας
μετεσχηματίζοντο, ἄϋπνον τὸν ὕπνον ἀποτελοῦσαι.
62 George of Alexandria, V. Ioh. 40, 43 (Halkin 1977, 191, 198–200).
63 George of Alexandria, V. Ioh. 44 (Halkin 1977, 200–202). In George’s account, the confron-
tation between Epiphanius and Eudoxia is no longer about her trying to compel him to
sign the document of exile, but about John’s innocence of heresy, and Epiphanius’ in-
nocence in John’s condemnation and exile. George explicitly has Epiphanius echoing
Pilate’s refusal to condemn Christ: Ἀθῷός εἰμι ἀπὸ τῆς κρίσεως ταύτης (Halkin 1977, 202.2).
Cf. Matt 27.24: Ἀθῷός εἰμι ἀπὸ τοῦ αἵματος τούτου. (“I am innocent of this man’s blood.”) It
is to be noted that both Theodore (V. Ioh. 24) and George (V. Ioh. 44), since they follow
Socrates (Hist. eccl. 6.14), are then obliged to explain how John and Epiphanius ended up
260 Mayer
of orthodoxy.64 This particular take on the narrative we last saw developed in

the loyalist funeral oration of ps-Martyrius.65 Ps-Martyrius was an actual fol-
lower of John and naturally prompted to construct his ideological narrative.
5 Conclusion
This brings us finally to the question of why we see a return to the sacrali-
sation of right belief at this particular moment in history. Is it just a matter
of hagiography and the emergence of a cult of John Chrysostom as a saint in
the imperial capital, or does it have to do with a number of anxiety-producing
social factors that come into play at this particular period? By the beginning
of the 8th century the Byzantine Empire had faced overwhelming territorial
losses through successive Persian and Arab invasions. It needed to re-establish
its identity.66 One way of achieving this may well have been to promote a rous-
ing story of a local hero of the city. His loyal pursuit of orthodoxy and triumph
over those who had betrayed the faith would have resonated with a city start-
ing to be rent by disagreements over the worship of icons.67 That the resulting
schism was initiated by an imperial decree in 726 is likely to have encour-
aged covert parallels between the actions of the iconoclast Leo 3 and his son,
Constantine 5, as enemies of the church and that of Eudoxia and Arcadius
as enemies of John, Constantinople’s bishop, in the original Johannite schism.
It is noteworthy that prominent in the accounts of both Theodore and George
is the imperial couple’s excommunication.68 Given the assumed role of the
exchanging hostile words that foreshadowed their mutual ends. Theodore and George
both resort to the mechanism of a false rumour, which John believes.
64 See, e.g., George of Alexandria, V. Ioh. 19, 23, 30, 59 (Halkin 1977, 118–123, 135–136, 153–156,
237–239).
65 Ps-Martyrius’ framing of John as a champion of Christian orthodoxy and enemy of pa-
ganism and heterodoxy (Arianism) is distinctive. See, e.g., Or. funeb. 18–26, 49–50, 98–101
(Wallraff 2007, 64–76, 100–102, 154–156).
66 See Brubaker and Haldon 2011, 4.
67 There is perhaps some comparability with the attribution during the period of icono-
clasm of a new style of hymn—and consequently a large body of hymns authored in that
style—to the “orthodox” iconophile patriarch of Constantinople, Germanos 1 (715–730).
On this phenomenon, see Simic 2017. The attribution of the Constantinopolitan eucharis-
tic liturgy to John Chrysostom appears to emerge at around this same period (the 8th to
9th centuries), although Krueger 2014, 115–116, notes that in the late-eighth-century man-
uscript of the Barberini Euchologian “the liturgy generally attributed to John Chrysostom
appears there without attribution”.
68 Theodore of Trimithus, V. Ioh. 26–32 (Halkin 1977, 61–67); George of Alexandria, V. Ioh.
68–70 (Halkin 1977, 263–272).
Constantinopolitan monasteries as bastions of iconophile support,69 it is also

noteworthy that in a homily by the iconophile John of Damascus, delivered
in the first quarter of the 8th century, John is presented equally as an ideal
priest and monk and as a champion of orthodoxy.70 What these ideological
narratives with their heroes and villains did for the listener in the troubled
8th century, I suggest, was to foster a sense of outrage when what is held sacred
is betrayed, allowing transference from the situation in the fifth-century past
to the eighth-century present. In this respect they establish in their audience’s
minds the memory of an (imaginary) Constantinopolitan past in which the
orthodox (however that orthodoxy is construed) were triumphant, whipping
up a desire for a past which never existed, but to which the present must by
divine right be restored.71 Ideological narratives arise at moments of conflict
for a reason. They are troubled stories for troubled times that take on a new life
at similar moments in human history.
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chapter 13
“As if in a Vision of the Night …”: Authorising the

Healing Spring of Chonai
Alan H. Cadwallader
On a narrow spur protruding with almost sheer cliff-faces 200 metres above
the Maeander Valley in south-west Turkey1 lay the sanctuary of Apollo
Lairbenos. Its inner sanctum was at the ridge’s outermost point of this “impres-
sive and wild site”,2 now called Asartepe. For all its rugged isolation, the rural
site drew pilgrims from a number of cities and villages,3 and appears to have
been claimed by the civic authority of Hierapolis, at least in providing iconog-
raphy and legend for some of its second- and third-century coins.4 The pub-
lished inscriptions reveal the nominal intent of the visitors from such a broad
catchment—they were dedicants, confessors and, of particular significance,
1 Buckler, Calder and Guthrie 1933, xv. In recent times, the river has been dammed. Even so, the
height above the reservoir waters, and the position of the headland behind a hilly rise at its
entrance, retain the sense of remoteness.
2 Miller 1985, 49.
3 Tullia Ritti has provided the most up-to-date list of civic or rustic origins: Atyochorion (vil-
lage?) Blaundon, Dionysopolis, Eriza, Hierapolis, Kallokepos (?), Krouleus (?), Laodicea,
Mamakome (village), Motella, Nanulon (village), Tripolis. See Ritti, Şimşek and Yıldız 2000.
To this list, should be added Mossyna, Kibales and the koinon of the Hyrgaleis: Akıncı Öztürk
and Tanrıver 2008, 95–96 (Mossyna) and 100–101 (Hyrgalis) and 2010, 47–48 §7 (Kibale). The
question of the origins of the epithet to Apollo remains obscure. Perhaps an indigenous top-
onym (cf. Apollo Kareios) rather than an amalgamation with an indigenous deity needs to be
investigated; compare Brixhe 1987, 51.
4 British Museum Coins, Phrygia, 54–66 (Head 1906, 236–238 and Plate 30.6); RPC 4.2070 (cf.
2069), 9991–9993. Louis Robert (Robert 19622, 141) reckoned that Hierapolis did not con-
trol the sanctuary until the Roman imperial period. Certainly, that control appears to be
settled from the 2nd century, though Thonemann 2011, 157, dates it to the third. A harmo-
ny (homonoia) coin between Hierapolis and Ephesos (244–249 ce) shows a radiate Apollo
Lairbenos with identifying legend portrayed on the obverse and joined hands with identify-
ing legend on the reverse (British Museum Coins, Phrygia, Head 1906, Plate 52.3). The ico-
nography points to a Hierapolitan rather than an Ephesian minting. When Hierapolis was
awarded the status of neokoros (official provincial guardian of the imperial cult) in the
3rd century, Apollo Lairbenos was identified as one of the city’s patron gods (SNG Slg. Aulock
3627–3628); cf. Hygeia, Serapis and others.

266 Cadwallader
manumitters or conveyors of their (perhaps young)5 slaves and children by

registering them (καταγράφαι) with the god of the sanctuary, Apollo.6 The mo-
tivation behind the release of the slaves, as also other dedications, is frequently,
though not exclusively,7 given as κατὰ ἐπιταγήν or, in its pleonastic form, κατὰ
τὴν τοῦ θεοῦ ἐπιταγήν “under instruction from the god”;8 alternately or even in
combination, the motivation is named as a (divine) dream: κατὰ (θεῖον) ὄνιρον.9
Most commentators consider the two forms to be virtually synonymous.10
These inscriptions date from the late Hellenistic period and run into the
3rd century ce, when an egalitarian claim on communication from the divine
through dreams and visions began to emerge.11 They do not provide details of
what the god looked like, although he is occasionally called ἐπιφανής,12 which
may allude to something like the radiate form in which Apollo appeared on
coins from Hierapolis, rather than simply his manifestation.13 Presumably,
when Apollo Lairbenos appeared in a dream, he was so recognised, whether by
an ancient anthropomorphic shape or the sound of his voice or through some
symbol such as his double-sided axe (bipennis).14 What is clear is that, well into
the 3rd century ce, high and low members of the population registered the
5 The two terms dominating the description of assignees/manumitted in the inscriptions

are θρεπτός/ή and its cognate (τε)θρεμένος/η, indicating, at least, that they are young de-
pendants in a household. The terms can indicate house-born slaves.
6 Ritti’s collection concentrates on the dedications and katagraphai. The sub-group of ded-
ications, labeled confessions, is the focus of Petzl 1994. The three categories are found in
the more recent publications of Akıncı Öztürk and Tanrıver 2008, 2009, 2010.
7 See Ritti 2000, D18, D23 cf. Akıncı Öztürk and Tanrıver 2008, §12, 19 where the more com-
mon deployment of εὐχή, “vow”, (or cognate) is found, though restricted to dedications
of material objects, not slaves or children (cf. δωρεᾶς χάρειν, “to offer gifts”; Ritti 2000,
K44). Sometimes no designation of motivation is given. On one inscription the motivat-
ing description is “as the god revealed” (ὡς ἐδήλωσε ὁ θεός): see Akıncı Öztürk and Tanrıver
2008, §15.
8 See, as examples, MAMA IV.277A (I), 277A (II); Ritti 2000, K39, K51; Akıncı Öztürk and
Tanrıver 2008, §1.
9 See, as examples, MAMA IV.276B (I), 276A (III); Ritti 2000, K38; Akıncı Öztürk and Tanrıver
2009, 92 §10.
10 See Renberg 2010, 35; compare van Straten 1976, 14. The words occur together: “instruction
in a dream” (κατὰ ἐπιταγὴν ὀνείρου) in Mihailov 1958–1970/2, 680, 1997/5, 5220 cf. IKIznik
1071 (κατὰ χρηματισμὸν ὀνίρου).
11 Parker 2004, 276; Moyer 2011, 151, 168–169; cf. Veyne 1986, who opts for a post-Flavian
development.
12 See, as examples, Ritti 2000, D6, 12; K3, 55.
13 R PC 4.2069, 2070, 9991–9993; by comparison with Colossae, Hierapolis does not display
discrete monetary representations of Helios in the Roman period.
14 Petridou 2015 provides a thorough taxonomy of the various forms in which the gods could
be manifest.
“ As if in a Vision of the Night … ” 267
experience and understanding of a divine dream, regardless of the critical

scepticism that was part of debates about dreams in elite literary circles.15 That
this is no rural idiosyncrasy is demonstrated by inscriptions with the same em-
phasis on dream/instruction throughout the Greco-Roman world—more than
1300 according to Gil Renberg16—including many from Phrygia and Caria.17 It
is unlikely that Colossae (Chonai), a city in the Lycus Valley about 25 kilome-
tres to the south-east of Hierapolis, could have escaped this cultural expression
of religious devotion.
The sanctuary of Apollo Lairbenos was not a healing site,18 even though
there is a small number of thanksgiving inscriptions.19 Nor is there extant any
clue as to the legitimation of its foundation, even though scholars are generally
agreed that the epithet, Lairbenos in its many spellings, reflects an indigenous
origin blended with the Seleucid-backed cult of Apollo. There is no evidence
of Christian appropriation or destruction of the site, not even crudely-written
names in the genitive flanked by crosses, such as litter the sacred oracle site
of Apollo at Klaros to the west. It seems that the arduous two-day climb to
the sanctuary precincts,20 that was doubtless part of the ascetic practice
of the devotee,21 simply consigned the site to oblivion once Christianity was
in the ascendancy. Certainly, by the time of the Synod of Laodicea (365 ce),
the church was preoccupied with re-establishing the discipline of its own
house, in the aftermath of the abrupt demise of Emperor Julian’s pagan revival.22
15 See Plato Laws 10.910A (Bury, 1926, 384); Diogenes fr. 9 Col. 6 II.6–8 (Smith 1993, 192); see
Clay 1989, 318–319, 333–334, and generally, Harris 2009.
16 Renberg 2010, 35.
17 See, for example, ITralles 15; BE 1969.545; SEG 33.857; Körte 1900, 418 §29.
18 The healing sanctuary of Men Karou was much closer to Laodicea and Hierapolis, near
Trapezopolis on the rise of the Taurus range on the southern edge of the Lycus Valley.
19 Ritti 2000, D7; cf. Akıncı Öztürk and Tanrıver 2008, §§4, 20. No reason is given for these
“thanksgivings” although the latter two inscriptions credit Apollo Lairbenos with being a
hearing god, as evidenced elsewhere; see Şimşek 2009, 677.
20 Apollo Lairbenos lies 34 km to the north-east of Hierapolis as the crow flies. The steep rise
and sometimes difficult terrain would likely double that distance for travellers (a distance
of 60 km by road). The drawing power of the site is perhaps to be inferred from a second,
much closer, Apollo sanctuary—to Apollo Kareios—only a third of the distance from
Hierapolis (approximately 11.5 km direct) near modern Güzelpınar, overlooking the Lycus
Valley.
21 Note the use of ἀναβαίνω in MAMA IV.283, 289.
22 The synod’s canons are preoccupied with church governance (Canons 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 11–28, 30,
35, 36, 40, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 51, 52, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59 [60]) and heresy
or Judaism (Canons 6, 7, 8, 29, 37 [where heretics and Jews are collated], 38), sometimes
combining the two (Canons 9, 10, 31, 32, 33, 34). References to non-Christians occur rarely:
in tangential reference (Canon 30), directly (Canon 39) (Mansi 1759, 563–74).
268 Cadwallader
The conciliar canons of Laodicea had a city-focus; the country was margin-
alised into an enforced dependency.23 But Colossae’s fame had begun to reside
in a nearby rural sanctuary, one that looked, at least in part, to a dream to es-
tablish legitimacy for the site.
1 The Healing Spring of Colossae
Colossae, for which no evidence of connection with Apollo Lairbenos or Men

Karou has been found, had its own sacred site. Four kilometres to the south-
south-west of the city centre, and possibly connected by a sacred way, lay a
healing spring at the foot of Mt Cadmus/Honazdağ.24 Towering over the site
is a massive monolith that protrudes from the slopes of the mountain; it may
bear the remains of an inscription to “Saviour”, likely an epithet applied to
Zeus.25 As often with sacred sites, the landscape joins forces with the cultiva-
tion of cultic practice and sacred testimony.26 The earliest textual reference to
the site certainly accents the striking geographical phenomena.27 The popular
version of the Story of the Archistrategos St Michael of Chonai stems from the
second half of the 4th century,28 sometime after the Synod of Laodicea, with
23 Canon 57 reads: Ὅτι οὐ δεῖ ἐν ταῖς κώμαις καὶ ἐν ταῖς χώραις καθίστασθαι ἐπισκόπους, ἀλλὰ
περιοδευτάς· τοὺς μέν τοι ἠ�́ δη προκατασταθέντας, μηδὲν πράττειν ἀ�́νευ γνώμης τοῦ ἐπισκόπου
τοῦ ἐν τῇ πόλει· ὡσαύτως δὲ καὶ τοὺς πρεσβυτέρους µηδὲν πράττειν ἀ�́νευ τῆς γνώμης τοῦ
ἐπισκόπου (Mansi 1759, 574); (“It is not lawful for bishops to be appointed in villages and
the country but rather as visitors; those previously appointed are to execute nothing with-
out the consent of the bishop of the [local] city. Likewise also, the priests [appointed in
villages and the country] are to do nothing without the consent of the [city] bishop”).
24 See Cadwallader 2015, 180–203. The specifics of the location—whether Colossae and/or
Chonai—cannot be addressed here. Suffice to say that the topographical referents and
the constant emphasis on a rural setting far better locate the site at the modern Göz pic-
nic ground west of Honaz near Emirazizli, rather than at the traditional site of the Church
of St Michael on the banks of the Lycus (Aksu) River; pace Thonemann 2011, 82–83.
25 [ΣΩ]ΤΗΡ. Apollo and Heracles are also contenders. All three are found on Colossae’s
Hellenistic coins. However, the weight differentials in the coins reinforce the suggestion
that Zeus is Colossae’s pre-eminent patron.
26 See Cadwallader 2009.
27 See Bonnet 1890, 3.6–7 = ch 2.2 (the spring); 12.5–6, 18.1–2 = 8.1, 12.3 (the monolith); 18.8,
19.5–6 = 12.4–5 (the ravine); 18.17–19.1 = 12.4 (the rock formations). Here, the edition
of Max Bonnet is used, citing page and line number. A new edition that incorporates
further manuscript evidence is in preparation. An English translation may be found in
Cadwallader 2011b and is here referred to by chapter (ch) and chapter section number.
28 Four other versions of the story exist, all recast not only with the usual Byzantine high-lit-
erary imprint, but also with careful adjustment of its discerned theological mis-directions,
not least about Laodicea. I argue here and elsewhere that the popular version of the
whose canons (most especially Canon 35) it locks horns.29 That canon forbids
the worship of angels, and reads:
Ὅτι οὐ δεῖ Χριστιανοὺς ἐγκαταλείπειν τὴν ἐκκλησίαν τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ ἀπιέναι καὶ
ἀγγέλους ὀνομάζειν καὶ συνάξεις ποιεῖν, ἅπερ ἀπηγόρευται. Εἴ τις οὖν εὑρεθῆ
ταύτῃ τῇ κεκρυμμένῃ εἰδωλολατρίᾳ σχολάζων, ἔστω ἀνάθεμα, ὅτι ἐγκατέλιπε
τὸν κύριον ἡμῶν Ἰησοῦν Χριστὸν, τὸν υἱὸν τοῦ θεοῦ καὶ εἰδωλολατρείᾳ
προσῆλθεν.
Christians shall not forsake the Church of God and turn to the worship
of angels, thus having gatherings in their honour. This is forbidden. Those
who devote themselves to this hidden idolatry, let them be anathema,
because they have forsaken our Lord Jesus Christ, the Son of God, and
gone over to idolatry.30
The three terms ὀνομάζειν (to name), εἰδωλολατρία (idolatry), and συνάγω (gath-
ering) feature prominently in the Michael of Chonai story related to the battle
with Laodicea. The story deliberately appropriates the canonical language and
inserts it into the popular narrative, as part of its construction of a Laodicea as
an “unjust people” (ὁ λαὸς τῆς ἀδικίας).31
A foundation story that originates in a dream begins the process of convert-
ing a site formerly shared by Christians and non-Christians to an exclusively
Christian domain.32 Nevertheless, this story has all the hallmarks of a pre-
Christian foundation narrative,33 just as the series of epiphanies of St Michael
the archangel that unfold in defence of the re-founded hagiasma (holy spring)
story is to be dated late in the second half of the 4th century (contra Thonemann 2011, 77
[8th century]), given the close ties with pagan textual forebears (foundation dream and
epiphanic defence), the Synod of Laodicea, the background allusions to Julian’s program
and the Trinitarian emphases over against the idolatry (read Arianism) of Laodicea. Even
so, like the Acts of Philip, the popular version of Michael of Chonai passed through a se-
ries of aggregations and modifications, not least wrought by the iconoclast crises of the
8th and 9th centuries. See Cadwallader 2011a.
30 An expanded text from MS Vindobonensis is reproduced in Ioannou 1962, 144–145. The
inclusive translation is by Johnson 2009, 2.302; cf. Hefele 1876, 317.
31 Bonnet 11.10 = ch 7.4. The phrase is a pointed bowdlerising of the name of the city. A simi-
lar distortion is found in an Encomium for St Mocius about the governor of Laodicea on
the Europa River in Thrace; see Delehaye 1912, 185 (ch 13.3).
32 Bonnet 3.13 = ch 3.1.
33 For a substantial list of foundation-authorising dreams, see van Straten 1976, 16 n. 239.
270 Cadwallader
are dependent on earlier models.34 There is a dream or vision of the archi

strategos Michael granted to an unnamed man from a named city, Laodicea.
The man had been part of the opposition to the advance of Christian usage
of the hagiasma.35 He had a daughter, mute from birth. The taxiarch (leader of
the angelic forces) of the Lord instructs him to take the girl to the water and
believe.36 The events unfold positively. The man secures the name to attach to
the application of the waters; the child’s healing is manifest in a loud acclama-
tion; his commitment is secured and he erects a shrine to the name of Michael
the archistrategos (ch 3).
2 The Elements of a Dream Foundation Narrative
The story as sketched here resonates with epiphany stories associated with
sacred sites, both in their foundation and in their on-going existence. The
eight key elements are the dream, an epiphanic (angelic) being, divine instruc-
tion, call to belief, a miraculous demonstration, acclamation, allegiance and a
thank-offering, though not all narratives contain all elements. It will be useful
to proceed through them, noting their parallels in other Christian and non-
Christian texts.
2.1 The Dream

Dreams find both literary and epigraphical record in the Maeander and Lycus
Valleys.37 These dreams were frequently at night (ἐννύχος / νυκτός)38 but could
also occur in the daytime.39 Indeed, one inscription from Thyatira boldly pro-
claims that help might come “through a vision by night or day.”40 Sometimes

35 καταστρέψαι runs through the story as the objective of those opposed to the Christian
control of the site, beginning with this man and his associates (Bonnet 3.18 = ch 3.2; 5.4 =
3.6; 8.15 = 5.2; 9.1 = 5.3; 12.2 = 7.4).
36 The same call by the archistrategos Michael to believe recurs at the end of the story, deliv-
ered to the custodian Archippos who is terrified of the forces arrayed against him and the
hagiasma (Bonnet 15.16 = ch 11.5). Even so, Archippos is described as the child of faithful,
Christian parents (Bonnet 5.8 = ch 4.1) and a defender of the orthodox faith (as expressed
in ascetic practice: Bonnet 7.10 = ch 4.6).
37 Compare Aelius Aristides, Hieroi Logoi (Sacred Tales); SEG 51.2132; Petzl 1994, §106; IGR
1,5 1162.
38 Carmina Epigraphica Graeca (Hansen 1989/2.860), IG 4.1 (Fränkel 1902, 122, l.16); Die
Inschriften von Knidos (Blümel 1992, 131), SEG 53.454.
39 I GUR 1.184 cf. Maximus of Tyre 9.7.
40 διὰ ὁράματος νυκτὸς καὶ ἡμέρας (TAM 5.2 1055), dating to the 2nd or 3rd century.
the vision or dream is indicated by sleep or the semblance thereof.41 At other

times this is disavowed, possibly to accentuate the reality of the experience.42
An allusive reference enhances the reality yet mystery of the experience by
focusing on the content rather than the mechanism or setting through which it
was delivered. This can be signaled through the use of ὡς/δοκέω, “as if/it seems”
as in Aelius Aristides’ retelling, even against his own question, “who among
human beings is sufficient to declare these things in words?”43 The same al-
lusive sweep occurs in the Michael story (4.2 = ch 3.3), where the experience
is related in words but the use of ὡς suggests that words cannot meet the de-
mands placed upon them, even if they accurately point towards the reality.44
2.2 An Epiphanic Being

Recognition of the being appearing in a dream or vision is sometimes obvious,
as in the dream of Asclepios at Epidauros where the god was identical to his
statue in the temple.45 Even though, at the beginning, the Laodicean had yet to
learn the name(s) of the divine beings orchestrating events, a manifestation of
an angel, as messenger or form of the god,46 is quite familiar in oral and visual
communications.47 According to an earlier account of a day vision granted the
Argonauts that led to the foundation of the “Sosthenion” temple in Chalcedon,
the figure was humanoid with eagle-like wings. The temple’s name was coined
because the vision inspired a military victory.48 Our narrative designates
41 ἔδοξε καθ’ ὕπνον (IG 10.2.1.255, l.3. Many visions of Asclepios are attached to sleep; see
LiDonnici 1995, Stele A ll.15–16, 37, 49 in standard phrasing.
42 POxy 1381; IG 14.1014.
43 Aelius Aristides Hieroi Logoi 2.33 (Behr 1981). Aristides of course claims just such an ex-
traordinary position, going on to assert that initiates in fact do know, although whether
words are adequate to describe the divine remains a caveat on his (and others’) linguistic
efforts. See Petsalis-Diomidis 2006, 197 and 206 n. 22.
44 This becomes important later in the Michael of Chonai story when the ineffability of God
is expressed (Bonnet 16.5–13 = ch 11.6).
45 IG 4.1.127. Compare the tradition of Constantine’s dream of the archangel Michael that
fitted the cult-statue of a winged being in the pagan Sosthenion at Constantinople; this
led to a re-foundation of the Sosthenion (an Argonaut site—see below) to a Christian
church under the archistrategos’ patronage, with its healing waters retained: John Malalas,
Chron. 4.13 (Jeffreys, Jeffreys and Scott 1986, 38).
46 The debate over whether angels were messengers or were to be identified as one of the
manifestations of the god cannot be entered here. Some are clearly legates (Petzl 1994, §3);
others blur into the god (SEG 32.1539).
47 S EG 49.1717, 1719. See Paz de Hoz 1999; Horsley and Luxford 2016.
48 John Malalas, Chron. 4.13 (Jeffreys, Jeffreys and Scott 1986, 38).
272 Cadwallader
Michael as a taxiarch and shortly after, archistrategos, rather than archangel.49

These are military designations—John Arnold translates archistrategos as
“Field Marshal”.50 They were visually evocative to pagan and Christian alike,51
and here the story initially accents the appearance rather than the command.52
The one who enters the story as an antagonistic unbeliever therefore requires
an implicit narrative background so that recognition can occur.53 The angel
adopts a stand-over posture (ἐπίσταται 4.2 = ch 3.3)54 familiar in epiphanies
ranging back to Homer,55 and found in one of the most famous epiphany in-
scriptions, from Lindos on the island of Rhodes.56
A further support for pagan recognition of angels is found in onomastics.57
Names and toponyms using “angel” date back at least to the 4th century bce
and, whilst they may at times be evoking an attribute of, for example, Hermes,58
they are generally to be grouped as theonyms, or divine names.59 A recognition
of pre-Christian angels at Colossae may therefore be indicated by a rare name
that occurs in a first—or second-century epitaph: Angelikos.60
49 Archangel (ἀρχάγγελος) is reserved for the heading to the story. Horsley and Luxford 2016,
174, do not consider ἀρχάγγελος a necessarily Christian tag.
50 Arnold 2013, 6.
51 They bore distinctly Greek epithets; such officials could be resplendent in festival gather-
ings; see IG 10.124, 334.
52 ὅραμα rather than ἐπιταγή, “command”. See van Straten 1976, 13.
53 The issue is acknowledged in the late Byzantine revision of the story by Simeon
Metaphrastes, who wrote that “the appearance had a certain intelligible nature to him,
a prescient dream” (ἡ δὲ ὄψις ἦν νοερά τις αὐτῷ φύσις ὄναρ παρεστηκυῖα); Bonnet 22.22–23.
(Note that the Metaphrastes’ version is included in the publication of the popular version
by Bonnet).
54 Some manuscripts tried to mollify the suggestion of threat or domination, by chang-
ing the word to παρίσταται; see the apparatus in Bonnet 4. This suggests that there was
thought to be a distinction between the two words. The description of Echidna in the
opening chapter positions her above two snakes (ἦν ἐπισταμένη ἐπάνω; Bonnet 2.5 =
ch 1.2). Occasionally this word is found in dream inscriptions to indicate the presence of
the god (Petzl 1994, §106 = MAMA IV.279), and it may, because of its use as an epithet for
divine beings, have been thought appropriate for the archangel. See van Straten 1976, 13.
55 Homer Iliad 10.496–497: κακὸν γὰρ ὄναρ κεφαλῆφιν ἐπέστη τὴν νύκτ’ (“an evil dream
stood over his head that night” [Murray and Wyatt 1999, 484]); Herodotus 5.56.1 (Godley
1922, 60).
56 Blinkenberg and Kinch 1941, 2.2.D.1, l.14; cf. IG 10.2.1.255, l.3, IGR 1,5 1162 [reconstruction].
57 Horsley and Luxford 2016, 157 briefly note the possibilities.
58 See Horsley and Luxford 2016, 143, 157 (“Euangelios is a byname for Hermes”).
59 See generally, Parker 2000. His focus is Attica but the general observations are transferrable.
60 Ἀ[ν/γ]γελικός: MDAI(A) 18.206 §3. He is the father of Dionysios, the bearer of another
theonym. The name, as far as I have been able to find, is known from only two other
inscriptions: IGUR (Moretti 1968–1990/4, 160), RECAM 4.158. Other cognates building on
Ἀγγέλος / Ἀνγέλος are reasonably widespread (37 varieties in LGPN online).
2.3 Divine Instruction

Whilst many accounts of dreams and visions are perfunctory and reductionist,
leaving nothing more than some action or response dictated by a divine dream
or instruction,61 some texts, literary and epigraphical, deliver a more extensive
narrative. Aelius Aristides, for example, in one of his long string of reported
medical treatments, recounts the directive from Asclepios to immerse him-
self in a river. The instruction itself is given in succinct indirect speech. But
Aristides then embellishes it with a parade of his aquatic frolics, ensuring he
mentions doctors, friends and strangers as witnesses.62 Sometimes, the god
moves in to command such an account.63 References to a god speaking occa-
sionally occur, most especially in the detail of the steps to take for a healing.64
A certain Athenian named Ambrosia, blind in one eye, reported the god speak-
ing to her (εἰπεῖν) about her ignorant skepticism that required atonement,
with healing to follow at the god’s hands.65 Similarly, Michael of Chonai has
the divine being speaking.66 As with a number of healing stories, other devo-
tees or officials, such as a torch-bearer [πυρφόρος], enter the scene to assist the
supplicant, sometimes expanding the requirements to be executed.67
2.4 Call to Belief

The call to believe is not of Christian origin.68 The content of the belief appears
to be directly related to the formation or deepening of a compact between the
god and the devotee / supplicant grounded in the deed performed by the god
and the appropriate response of the recipient.69 The devotee / supplicant can
even be called “the devotee / the faithful one”.70 A number of inscriptions tes-
tify to the atonement to be made for a failure to believe, whether or not some
physical punishment for disbelief had occurred.71 Belief in the agent of a god,
61 See, for example, SEG 37.1019; AE (1996) 1147.

62 Aristides, Hieroi Logoi 2.295–6 (Behr 1981). Compare, however, the assessment of Petsalis-
Diomidis 2006, 194–195.
63 I MT Kaikos 932 (Barth and Stauber 1993).
64 There are even accounts registering a dialogue between the supplicant and the god:
LiDonnici 1995, Stele A ll.68–71.
65 LiDonnici 1995, Stele A, ll.38, 39.
66 λέγει αὐτῷ: Bonnet 4.3 = Ch 3.
67 LiDonnici 1995, Stele A, ll.43–44.
68 See Belayche 2007; Morgan 2015.
69 See IG 4.1.121; IGLS 21.2.64.
70 ὁ πιστός: SEG 44.1528 (engraving on a gem).
71 S EG 33.1012; SEG 57.1185; LiDonnici 1995, Stele A. ll.33–41; cf. 22–33.
274 Cadwallader
such as a priest, could be required72 and in the instigating instrument, namely,

oracles and dreams.73
The accent on belief can be discerned in its inclusion in the poor person’s
alphabet-oracle stations. These lists of conventional wisdom maxims, arranged
alphabetically according to their first letters, are known in many places, in-
cluding Hierapolis. By the rolls of a dice or astragalus, supposedly divinely-con-
trolled, a response was delivered to a consultation. One piece of advice reads:
“Flee fair-weather friends; but trust whoever are the leaders.”74 Belief could be
extolled as a virtue of the deceased;75 it became personified as divine Fides.76
In the Michael story, the trustworthiness of the visionary figure is emphasised
by drawing upon an ancient oath formula: “Mark my name.”77 The oath recurs
in instructional form at the end of the story but there the focus is moved from
Michael to God and his archangel.78 In any case, it appears that the expression
was so tied to pagan identity that it evaporated from Christian usage; it was
dropped from later versions of the story.79 Generally the oath was associated
with Zeus, although other gods, or the gods in general, could be encompassed.80
The tension in our story is that the Laodicean does not know the name. This
would only be rolled out once the man attended the site, witnessed what
occurs there and asked those who already frequented the healing spring.81
72 S EG 2.481.
73 S EG 59.286, ll.8–9.
74 Φαύλους φεῦγε φίλους, πίστευε δὲ τοῖσιν ἀρίστοις; Ritti 1985, 130–135 (l. 21); Nollé 2007, 226–
227. Two such inscriptions from Hierapolis are dated to the 2nd or 3rd century ce and the
responding god was deemed to be Apollo Kareios.
75 Ramsay 1897, 477 §343. Compare Adak et al 2008, 94 no. 19.
76 Morgan 2015, 129–132.
77 μὰ τὸ ὄνομά μου (Bonnet 4.5 = ch 3.3). See, for examples of its usage, Athenaeus Deipn.
6.226d (Gulick 1929, 20), 8.335c (Zeus [Gulick 1930, 22]); Greek Anthology 9.317.4–5
(Hermes), 368.1 (Bacchus), 100.3 (the gods in general [Paton 1917, 52, 172, 200]). The ubiq-
uity of such a formula may have forced its way into Latin usage, as in the exclamation
mehercule (Ps-Quintilian Decl. Min. 260.15 [Shackleton Bailey 2006, 142]).
78 Bonnet 18.14–15 = ch 12.4.
79 A rare pagan-Christian battle over the use of Μά in an oath formula is well-illustrated in
the Story of St Lucillian, set in the time of the emperor Aurelian (270–275 ce). The pagan
courtier calls on Lucillian to μὰ τοὺς θεούς “Observe the gods” (3.17). The elderly, former
pagan priest Lucillian wrests the formula away from its usual reference (3.20): Μὰ τὸν
κύριόν μου Ἰησοῦν Χριστόν (“Observe my Lord Jesus Christ”). See Delehaye 1912, 189.
80 See further Cadwallader 2012, 43–45.
81 Bonnet 4.7–10 = ch 3.3.
2.5 Miraculous Demonstration

The healing of a person who is dumb is well known in the aretological lists that
extol the power of the god and the fitness of the sacred place where the heal-
ing occurs. A temporary loss of speech is recorded in an inscription at Apollo
Lairbenos, a punishment from the god, which is overcome right at the mo-
ment that a stele narrating the infirmity has been prepared.82 A young boy,
apparently mute from birth, like the child in this story, is recorded at Epidauros
coming to the sanctuary for healing, which becomes manifest when he says
aloud that he promises to return for a further sacrifice in a year.83 Similarly, the
Laodicean and his daughter come to a spring that has already gained a reputa-
tion for healings.84 The significance of this miracle is in the acclamation that
parades both the healing and its agent, and also in the response that follows.
2.6 Acclamation
It is unremarkable that healings of mutes be reported by some ejaculation of
speech. In two examples from Epidauros, a boy speaks (ἔφα … ἔλεγε), a girl
bellows (βοῆι).85 In our story, the girl yells and shouts (ἀναβόησεν … ἔκραξεν).86
Given that the focus is not upon the benefaction but rather the benefactor, it
is the content of the girl’s acclamation that is crucial, that is, the address of
the second half of her cry: “Great is your power, O Michael, archistrategos!”87
Power, of course, is the province of the gods.88 This ascription of greatness to
a named divinity is found throughout Asia Minor, applied to single deities and
to groups. It denotes allegiance and the organization of one’s life around that
devotion.89 Aelius Aristides esteems Asclepios, with the whole band of wit-
nesses noted above, “shouting that celebrated phrase, ‘Great is Asclepios’.”90
Christians have been attuned to such acclamations for Artemis from the Acts
82 Petzl 1994, §1.

83 LiDonnici 1995, Stele A ll.41–48.
84 Bonnet 3.10–14 = ch 3.1.
85 LiDonnici 1995, Stele A ll.46, 47; Stele C ll.2–3. A third story of the healing of a mute ap-
pears to use ἐφθέγξατο (“he spoke out”) (Stele C ll.47–9).
86 Bonnet 4.14, 15 = ch 3.4.
87 μεγάλη σου ἡ δύναμις Μιχαὴλ ἀρχιστράτηγε (Bonnet 4.15–16 = ch 3.4). It is important to
recognise the difference between the dawning affirmation of the first half of her cry
(ὁ θεὸς τῶν χριστιανῶν ἀληθῶς; “God is truly of the Christians”) and the direct address of
the second half. See, for more extensive argumentation, Cadwallader 2009, 223 n. 44.
88 Petzl 1994, §47; IG 13 76.
89 On the importance of the name and its consequences in one’s circumstances, see Versnel
2011, 272, 515.
90 Aelius Aristides, Hieroi Logoi 2.21.
276 Cadwallader
of the Apostles (19:34).91 Whatever god was in view became the one acclaimed
as great. Small gems, on rings or pendants, also carry these ascriptions, indicat-
ing how personal such acclamations could be.92
In some texts, the emphatic exclusivity is reinforced by the assertion that
greatness attaches to the name of the (one and only) god.93 This name be-
comes identified from its context, sometimes immediately apparent from the
iconography. Thus, one gem that reads “Great is the name of the holy god” has
an engraving of Aphrodite on its reverse;94 another has “Great is the name in
this place of the only Lord God”, with a female deity (perhaps Cybele) hold-
ing palm and perhaps a wreath beneath a sun and moon.95 The “Mark my
name” earlier in the chapter is now anchored. It is, however, tied specifically
to Michael’s power;96 only later in the story will this be transferred to God by
a restoration of the more biblical turn of phrase: “I am the archistrategos of
the power of the Lord”.97 A Lydian inscription provides a noteworthy parallel
to the earlier phrasing in the story: “One God in the heavens, the great Men
Ouoranios, the mighty power of the immortal god.”98
91 Compare the ascription to Zeus (Petzl 1994 §10); Dionysos (Nollé 1990); Serapis (IGR 1,5
1354bc; SB 1.381); the double Nemesis (Petzl 1994, §7); the Mother (of Men, SEG 53.1344 cf.
SEG 4.647).
92 Michel and Zasoff 2001, §27 (Μέγα τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ Σάραπις with head of Serapis, “Great is
the name of Serapis”); §542 (Μέγα τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ μόν(ου) θεοῦ no image of god, “Great is the
name of the only god”). Le Blant 1896, §§202–206 (Serapis); §207 Μέγας θεὸς Ἀσκληπίος
“Great is the god Asklepios”; §§209–210 Μεγάλη ἡ Τύχη τῶν θεῶν σωτῆρων / τῆς Νεμέσεως
“Great is Tyche / Nemesis among the saviour gods”. Some gems squeeze as much narrative
into their text as is found on some testimonies on stone; see Michel and Zasoff 2001, §497.
The relationship between public epigraphical display and (semi-?) private, inscribed jew-
elry (cf. amulets) has yet to be explored.
93 Wankel and Engelmann 1979–1984 / 7.1, 3100 (Μέγα τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ θεοῦ); cf. Wankel and
Engelmann 1979–1984 / 7.1, 1247B; SEG 14.680, 15.793, 29.731(14).
94 Le Blant 1896, §201 (Μέγα τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ θεοῦ ἁγίου “Great is the name of the holy god”).
95 Le Blant 1896, 77 (Μέγα τὸ ὄνομα τοῦ μόνου κυρίου θεοῦ). The use of κύριος is common in
reference to deities (see, for example, Petzl 1994, §123). One unpublished inscription from
Apollo Lairbenos refers to “Lord Larmenos”.
96 The ascription of “great” to Michael lived on in Christian literature and texts. See Jolivet-
Lévy 2012, 420; Gabelić 2009. However, generally, the acclamation of great power was di-
rected to the Trinity (Jalabert and Mouterde 1955, 1457).
97 Bonnet 16.7 = ch 11.6, relying on Gen 21:22, 32 and especially Josh 5:14LXX—ἐγὼ
ἀρχιστράτηγος δυνάμεως κυρίου. Michael is not expressly named in these verses; this is a
development in the tradition.
98 TAM 5.1 75: εἷς θεὸς ἐν οὐρανοῖς, μέγας Μὴν Οὐράνιος, μεγάλη δύναμις τοῦ ἀθανάτου θεοῦ;
(“There is one god in the heavens, great Men Ouranios; great is the power of the immortal
god”).
2.7 Allegiance
A number of stories in stone speak of the expulsion of doubts over the god’s
power, the truthfulness of the accounts already presented at the attended
sanctuary, and the requirements placed upon the one approaching. Sometimes
skepticism is met by punishment, as a preparatory phase leading to the heal-
ing, especially if there has been willful disobedience of the terms of the god’s
revelation, or some breach of ethical requirements deemed to be within the
god’s purview.99 Sometimes, the ignorance or lack of trust is itself part of the
journey leading to healing.100 Commitment can be indicated by the simple ex-
ecution of the instructions given or by some further action, whether ritualis-
tic or commemorative.101 Both are present in the existing story of St Michael,
though one expression of the ritual enactment—baptism for the entire
household—is clearly Christian.102 The actual phrase “glorifying God”103 can
be claimed as singularly Christian,104 though the glory of a god per se is not.105
Certainly the attendant departure106 mirrors a formulaic element in inscrip-
tions at Epidauros.107
2.8 Thank-Offering
A dedication in response to a healing is common.108 What is striking about the
Michael story is that the dedication of the “shelter”109 is made not to the “true
99 LiDonnici 1995, Stele A, ll.54–68; Stele B, ll.7–9, 95–101; Stele C, ll.21–29; SEG 33.1013 (from
Sattai, 3rd century ce).
100 LiDonnici 1995, Stele A, ll.22–33 (in this story, a man with paralyzed fingers is left with
the name Ἄπιστος as a memory [punishment?] of his unbelief after his healing), 33–41
(a silver pig dedicated in memory of a woman’s ignorance: ὑπόμναμα τᾶς ἀμαθίας), Stele B,
ll.38–45, 87–95. Compare Stele A, ll.72–79, 79–89 where witnesses are the skeptical ones.
101 LiDonnici 1995, Stele B, ll.69–82; Stele C, ll.95–100.
102 Bonnet 4.16–17 = ch 3.4.
103 δοξάζων τὸν θεόν: Bonnet 5.2–3 = ch 3.5.
104 Lk 5:25, 17:15, 18:43; cf. the witnesses in Mk 2:12. The phrase occurs repeatedly in Byzantine
writings, though the fuller snippet with ἀνεχώρησεν (“he departed”) occurs only in the
Vita S. Benedicti Zachariae 7.106.
105 TAM 2.1 174Db.1; IGR 1,5 1331.
106 ἀνεχώρησεν: Bonnet 5.2 = ch 3.5.
107 [ὑγιὴς] ἐξῆλθε / ἀπῆλθε “he/she departed well”: LiDonnici 1995, Stele A ll.33, 41,71, 78; Stele C
l.3, 32 etc. ἀναχωρέω “I depart” is never used in the New Testament in a healing context (cf.
Stele A, l.117 of a simple transfer of location). Departures adopt a variety of words, includ-
ing ἐξέρχομαι (Mk 1:45), ἀπέρχομαι (Mk 5:20), ὑπάγω (Mk 5:34 with ὑγιής; 7:29).
108 LiDonnici 1995, Stele A ll.1–9, 48–54; Stele D ll.5–9. Of course, dedications in response to
direct instructions in dreams occur (for example, IG 11.4 1299 ll.47–65 [the Delian Sarapis
aretalogy]. This is not the case here).
109 εὐκτήριον: Bonnet 4.17–5.1–2 = ch 3.5.
278 Cadwallader
Christian God” as might have been expected from the opening of the child’s
cry: “God is truly of the Christians.”110 A parallel from the region of the Aezanitis
underscores the issue. A father erects a pillar in a thank-offering to God and
the archangel for the healing of his daughter.111 But in Michael of Chonai, the
dedication is made εἰς ὄνομα Μιχαήλ “to the name of Michael”112 seemingly
in explicit fidelity to the call, μὰ τὸ ὄνομά μου “Mark my name” earlier in the
chapter. Elsewhere, an angel may, similarly, receive a thank-offering without
reference to a god.113 The express anathema of Canon 35 of the Council of
Laodicea was directed against those ἀγγέλους ὀνομάζειν “naming angels”, twice
dubbed as “idolatry” (εἰδωλολατρεία). Even though this offence has been read,
rightly, as meaning the worship of angels (cf. Col 2:18), the occurrence of the
word in the two texts, one popular, one conciliar, of neighbouring churches is
striking.114 The use of such pejoratives about religious practice was far from
confined to Colossae. Cyril Mango notes the accusation of Severus of Antioch,
early in the 6th century, that the archangels Michael and Gabriel were being
painted with colours and emblems in the manner of pagan representations
rather than Christian.115
The limited examination that can be given here to each element demon-
strates that critical components of the narrative of the healing-foundation
story of St Michael are completely at home in a non-Christian environment.
The emphasis on the name, oath, acclamation and offering carry little, if any,
Christian veneer. One might readily imagine the story inscribed on the wall of
a sacred building or on a pillar at the site:
A man (from Laodicea?) with a daughter who was dumb from birth came
to the healing spring in obedience to a dream of an eagle-winged divine
being. He was unimpressed with the accounts of healing at the site, but
when the waters were fed into her mouth, she cried out, ‘Great is god
110 ὁ θεὸς τῶν χριστιανῶν ἀληθῶς: Bonnet 4.15 = ch 3.4.

111 M AMA IX.551 (Levick et al. 1988, 168 presume the name of the unidentified archangel to be
Michael).
112 Bonnet 4.17–5.1 = ch 3.5.
113 IStrat 1.1119, 1120.
114 A narrowing of the meaning of the word to the invention of names for an increasing
number of angels enabled the later Byzantine church to retain the letter, if not the spirit,
of canon 35; see Charlemagne, Capitularia Admonitio Generalis 16 (c. 789 ce) (Boretius
1883, 55).
115 Mango 1984, 40–43.
[or Zeus];116 great is the power of his angel.’117 The father confessed his
ignorance and dedicated this building in thanksgiving for the healing of
his daughter.
Nothing in this rendition of the story that I have constructed out of the Michael
of Chonai story is distinct from its pagan environment. Something close to this
I consider likely to have been a dedicatory inscription at the site.
3 Christianising the Dream Foundation Narrative
But the narrative of the Laodicean and his daughter is no longer phrased ex-
actly in these terms. Adjustments and extensions have been made to the story
in the effort to pass off the foundational narrative as a Christian authorisa-
tion of the site, leaving the healing renown of the sacred spring untouched
against the wishes of the Laodicean ecclesiastical establishment. The dream
or vision now concurs with the Septuagint rendition of the dreams of Jacob
(Gen 46:2) and of Daniel “in a vision of the night”.118 This phrase is not found
outside Judeo-Christian circles.119 The God in the story is now the God of the
Christians. The Nicene distillation of Father, Son and Holy Spirit now stamps
the nature of that God,120 with an accompanying, winged being identified as
Michael the archistrategos.121 The vision of the archangel’s visitation comes on
116 I have identified Zeus (Bronton?) elsewhere as the patron god of Colossae. The archan-
gel Michael displays many features redolent of Zeus (Cadwallader 2012, passim). Michael
seems to have been capable of absorbing a number of different gods in different centres;
see Mango 1984.
117 The connection of the angel(s) with the god is evident from a number of inscriptions:
Zeus (IStrat 1.1117, 1118; 2.1307); Apollo (Wiegand 1958, 523; SEG 41.1185: ἀνγέλοι); Men
(Petzl 1994, §§3, 38); cf. the “Most High God” (SEG 31.1080). What is important to note (see
below) is that apart from the kephalaion, no description of Michael as angel or archangel
occurs in Michael of Chonai.
118 ἐν ὁράματι τῆς νυκτός (Bonnet 4.2 = ch 3.2). Dan 2:19Th, 4:13Th, 7:13OG, Th, 7:15OG Dan 2:19Th,
4:13Th, 7:13OG, Th, 7:15OG.
119 So stereotypical had the phrase become in Christian usage from the 2nd century (Hermas
Vis. 3.10.6 [Lake 1976, 52–53]; Justin M. Dial. 31.3 [Marcovich 1997, 119]) that it intruded
into the (Christian) transmission of the LXX, being added unnecessarily to the text of Gen
15:1. See Wevers 1993, 202. Even Julian II reflects his Christian training when he adopts the
phrase (Contr. Gal. 356D [Wright 1923, 424]).
120 Bonnet 4.9–12 = ch 3.3–4; Bonnet 8.10–11 = ch 5.1; Bonnet 18.13–14 = ch 12.4.
121 The very labeling of Michael as archistrategos may reflect the scriptural designation (Josh
5:14). To my knowledge, this practice is confined to the Judeo-Christian tradition.
280 Cadwallader
the Christian’s regular holy day, “on the first day of the week”.122 The Laodicean
and his household are baptised,123 and the entire narrative of the re-foundation
of the sacred healing site is scored with a reminder of the role of the apostles.124
4 Strengthening the Christian Authorisation
The reference to the apostles at the beginning of chapter 3 functions as a sum-

mary bridge following what now appears as the opening two chapters of the
story. At a surface level, these chapters fulfil the usual quest for apostolic au-
thority for Christian churches and sites.125 But there is a particular edge to the
story, given the backdrop of resistance to the Synod of Laodicea that provided
the catalyst for the gathering and shaping of materials into a vivid defence
of the hagiasma. The apostles, John and Philip,126 directly point to Michael as
the benefactor behind the hagiasma.127 Significantly, this prophecy, realized
after the departure of the pair, comes from the same powerful practice as that
which drove the viperous idolatry from Hierapolis, that is, they offer up prayer
(ποιήσαντες εὐχήν).128 No dream or vision is given to the apostles, unlike the ini-
tially godless Laodicean. Prayer is given a grounding in severe ascetic practice
(the “angelic ascesis”)129 later in the story—to be demonstrated by Archippos
the custodian of the hagiasma. Here it is locked into the apostolic revelation of
the truth of the triune God.130 The visionary encounter with the archistrategos
by the godless Laodicean now appears as a beneficent condescension designed
to convert the man and his household from paganism to the orthodox faith.131
122 μιᾷ δὲ τῶν ἡμερῶν: Bonnet 4.2 = ch 3.4. The same phrase occurs in Eustratius, V. Eutych.
1.581 (Laga 1992, 21).
123 Bonnet 4.16–17 = ch 3.4.
124 Bonnet 3.8 = ch 3.1.
125 So reads the opening of the story: ἐξαρχῆς ἐκηρύχθη ὑπὸ τῶν ἁγίων ἀποστόλων Φιλίππου καὶ
Ἰωάννου τοῦ θεολόγου (“from the beginning proclaimed by the holy apostles, Philip and
John the Theologian”; Bonnet 1.7–8 = ch 1.1). And see Bonnet 1890, XVIII.
126 In the Simeon Metaphrastes version of the story, the problem of Philip’s involvement is
overcome by admitting his martyrdom and attributing the prophetic announcement to
John alone (Bonnet 22.1–6).
127 Bonnet 3.3–5 = ch 2.1.
128 Bonnet 3.2 = ch 2.1; cf. 2.14 = 1.3.
129 Bonnet 7.11, 8.7 = ch 4.6, 5.1.
130 This orthodoxy is to be measured particularly by the repetition of the three-fold name
(Bonnet 4.9–10, 11–12; 8.10–11; 18.13–14, 17 = ch 3.3, 4; 5.1, 12.4). However, elsewhere in the
story, orthodoxy is defined largely by ascetic practice (Bonnet 7.10 = ch 4.6).
131 For a thorough sociolinguistic analysis of the texts of three ancient Christian Acts, see
Snyder 2014.
In the macro-dynamics of inter-city conflict, Hierapolis and the unnamed

Colossae/Chonai132 become the model to follow—not Laodicea.
Hierapolis, like Laodicea, gains two notices in the overall narrative. It is
initially a city overrun with snakes associated with three manifestations of
a poisonous female god: Artemis, the Great Mother and Echidna. Later, the
cleansed city provides the ten year old custodian, Archippos, who, similar to
the dedications at the shrine of Apollo Lairbenos,133 will be the slave (δοῦλος)
of the hagiasma, serving for seventy years.134 The first Hierapolitan connection
does not name the city as Opheorymos (“snake street”), as we find in Acts of
Philip 15.2, 42, but the expansive description of the presence of serpents leaves
no doubt.135
However, there are distinct features in Michael of Chonai. Not only is there
a triad of goddesses, all embroiled in draconish designs,136 but Philip does not
effortlessly dispense with their poisonous entourage.137 Rather the John of
the Acts of Philip who is given the task (with Mariamne) of being an encour-
agement to Philip,138 now journeys with his full title, “John the Theologian”,139
132 Although the name Chonai is not present in the text, there is a clear pun on its meaning
(“funnels”) at the conclusion of the story (Bonnet 19.5–6 = ch 12.5). The various tituloi in
manuscripts explicitly name Chonai and/or Colossae.
133 Akıncı Öztürk and Tanrıver 2008, §§1, 13 (δοῦλος, though now to be understood as slave
of Apollo, perhaps more akin to a paramone in civic life); §14 (ἱερός). The meaning to
be attached to the terminology related to assignment of children or slaves to the gods is
complex, but held to be of sacred importance (Petzl 1994, §107). See, generally, Ricl 2001.
134 Bonnet 5.7–8, 10 = ch 4.1–2.
135 This therefore is an early testimony to the identification of the city of snakes as Hierapolis,
rather than a separate city as is sometimes proposed. See Bovon and Matthews 2012, 26.
136 Only APh 1.1 (Bovon 1999, 4) mentions Artemis and this in a sweep of gods related by a
distraught old woman just outside of Galilee. Neither Cybele nor the Great Mother is
mentioned either. The focus appears to be Echidna in Hierapolis (APh 8.4, 15.7 [Bovon
1999, 245, 339]), conjoined with the pseudo-title of mother of the serpents: she-dragon.
137 The thorny issue of the identity of Philip need only be mentioned briefly here—as
apostle (Matt 10:3 et al) or evangelist (Acts 6:5, 21:8 et al). Suffice to acknowledge with
Christopher Matthews that the Acts of Philip itself, in its collection of disparate tradi-
tions possibly associated with each of the named Philips, has effectively forged a single
person (Matthews 2002, 170–171). Whatever confusion of the two might be sheeted home
to Papias of Hierapolis (apud Eusebius HE 3.39.9 [Ehrman 2003, 97–100]) and Polycrates
of Ephesos (apud Eusebius HE 3.31.3; 5.24.2 [PG 20, 280–281, 493–496]), once the collec-
tion titled the Acts of Philip (Bovon 1999; Bovon and Matthews 2012) was formed, the unity
was sealed and the confusion shelved.
138 APh 8.3 (Bovon 1999, 243); cf. mentions in 3.2–3, 8; 8:1, 2 (Bovon 1999, 79–81, 237, 239–241).
Philip looks for John in the course of his martyrdom (15.21–23 [Bovon 1999, 375–379]).
139 The epithet ‘Theologian’ occurs in some titloi to the Acts of John but is not found in the
text itself, nor in the Acts of Philip. Athanasius is often sourced as the earliest testimo-
ny but the references are probably pseudonymous. More certain is Gregory of Nyssa’s
282 Cadwallader
from the success of battles at Ephesos to assist Philip in his struggles.140 No

Bartholomew or Mariamne accompany Philip as in the Acts of Philip. The ap-
ostolic pair is alone responsible for ridding the city of the amalgam of the god-
dess’ venomous presence. This they do through prayer rather than teaching.141
Only in the aftermath of this wresting of Hierapolis for Christian control is the
announcement made that the mighty taxiarch and archistrategos was about
to unleash a series of wonders. But this is done from a place (not a city) given
the evocative name of Chairotopa, not Hierapolis.142 The apostles then depart,
travelling on to their many unspecified adventures elsewhere, “teaching in
other cities”,143 but, significantly, with no mention of the sinister Laodicea.144
Only after they depart does a measure of fulfillment of the prophecy begin—
however, it is not with the appearance of Michael the taxiarch but rather with
the effusion of healing waters.145 A few lines later, the apostles long gone, it
will be described simply as a “finding” (εὕρεσις),146 one which both Greeks
and Christians patronise. Such a discovery was sometimes given considerable
Homily on St Theodore (PG 46, 748.30); see Leemans 2003, 91. The references to John ‘the
Theologian’ in fragments of Papias surviving in the fifth-century Philip of Side (Papias fr.
12.1, 2 [Ehrman 2003, 112–13]) are contributed by Philip; the almost identical passage in
the eighth-century George Harmatolos lacks ‘the Theologian’. See Davies and Allison 1997,
90 n. 39; MacDonald 2012, 23 n. 43; Shanks 2013, 215 n. 367. Although the possibility must
be allowed that the ascription is a transmissional addition to the fluid text of Michael
of Chonai, the manuscripts in this instance are stable in the reading. This would place
Michael of Chonai (the popular version) as one of the earliest testimonies to the designa-
tion of “John the Theologian”. The ease of the designation suggests that this is already an
accepted epithet, not an invention.
140 Bonnet 1.8 = ch 1.1.
141 Bonnet 2.14 = ch 1.3 (ποιήσαντες εὐχήν; “having offered a prayer”); cf. APh 15.3–7 (Bovon
1999, 333–341). This is not completely absent from the opening of the Michael story
(Bonnet 2.10, 13 = ch 1.3) but is simply noted without elaboration; prayer is the instrument.
Prayer also occurs in the Acts of Philip especially as related to healing (APh 15.11 [Bovon
1999, 358]).
142 Bonnet 2.17 = ch 2.1.
143 ἐπὶ τὰς ἑτέρας πόλεις διδάσκοντες (“teaching in other cities”): Bonnet 3.5–6 = ch 2.2.
144 It seems clear from the Acts of John that Laodicea was one of the places visited by the
apostle John (probably following the suite of seven cities mentioned in Revelation 2–3).
However, the state of the extant text of the apocryphal Acts of John gives no more than
a heading (at chapter 58) to indicate that Laodicea was visited. See Schäferdiek 1992, 192.
Huttner 2013, 186–189 considers the farewell speech to have occurred before John’s re-
turn to Ephesos, delivered in Laodicea, and builds a partial profile of the building of the
Johannine expression of Christianity in Laodicea.
145 Bonnet 3.6–7 = ch 2.2.
146 Bonnet 3.10 = ch 3.1.
acclaim in the ancient world, with honour credited to the god(s)’ beneficence.147
But this finding is even more precious—the waters are a source of healing—
and the euergetistic divine being is the archangel Michael.
The brief apostolic episode is traditionally considered as distilled from the
Acts of Philip or at least the Martyrion section (Acts of Philip 15).148 There is
no question that traditions, similar to the collection we now have, resonate
with the opening to the Michael of Chonai story, just as there are parallels to
the encratite asceticism of the Acts.149 But there are significant differences: the
collation of a triad of goddesses, so that the Great Goddess (θεὰ μεγάλη) espe-
cially is named;150 the slight diminishing of Philip’s prowess; the partnering of
Philip with John and the absence of Bartholomew and Mariamne; the naming
of John as “the Theologian” rather than “beloved of God” (Acts of Philip 15.26);
the accent on the efficacy of prayer. Critical for the purposes of the story as a
whole is that Hierapolis is not the centre for cures, even though Philip and his
band conduct healings. Rather, the focus is on a hagiasma at a “place of favour”.
And, finally, the marginal references to Michael, the archangel / chief angel /
my angel, as tour guide of hell’s torments151 now shift to a preoccupation with
Michael the taxiarch and archistrategos in his defence of the sacred site.152
The next course of inquiry then is to seek to explain not only the presence
of Hierapolis in the story but the specifics related to the inclusion of the two
apostles. The clue lies in the Synod of Laodicea and in the cyclonic impact of
the brief Julian interlude in imperial politics. According to the numismatic evi-
dence, Cybele had continued to be a significant presence in the devotional life
of Hierapolis into the 2nd century.153 There is no need to see her as surpassed by
Apollo.154 Both gods (especially Helios-Apollo) were key to Julian’s renovation
147 I GLR 171 = SEG 59.795 (honouring Hera); SEG 59.796 (honouring Poseidon Kyanochaites).
Both these inscriptions come from Tropaeum Traiani (in Moesia Inferior, now Adamklisi,
modern Romania) and are dated to the early 4th century ce.
148 Bouvier and Amsler 2003, 395; Huttner 2013, 372. Bonnet 1890, XVIII.
149 On the Encratite emphases of the Acts of Philip; see Schäferdiek 1992, 154; Slater 1999,
281–306; Amsler 1999, 469–520.
150 Bonnet 2.8 = ch 1.2. I understand this reference especially to indicate the “Great Mother”,
that is, Cybele. See Thomas 2004.
151 APh 1.8, 11, 13; 15.31 (Bovon 1999, 19–21, 25–27, 31–33, 394–397).
152 Taxiarch (Bonnet 15.6 = ch 11.3); archistrategos (Bonnet 1.8; 3.2; 4.10, 13, 16; 5.1; 6.13; 8.12;
11.11–12; 13.6, 13, 17; 14.17; 15.3, 10, 16; 16.5, 7, 15; 17.5, 10, 12, 15; 18.5, 14; 19.4 = ch 1.1; 2.1; 3.3, 4, 5;
4.4; 5.1; 7.4; 9.1, 9.2; 10.1; 11.2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7; 12. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5); taxiarch and archistrategos (Bonnet
3.3–4; 4.3; 16.6–7; 17.15 = ch 2.1; 3.3; 11.6; 12.3). There are no references to Michael the
archangel / chief angel / my angel in the story apart from the added kephalaion.
153 R PC 3.2345, 2352; 4.2003, 2075.
154 Pace Amsler 1999, 535–540; Şimşek 2009, 674.
284 Cadwallader
of pagan worship. In particular, Julian not only committed his literary ability to
restoring her profile but also sought to re-invigorate sacred sites and attendant
priesthoods throughout Asia. He even made patronage of the Great Mother a
mark of loyalty to himself.155 It is precisely the accent on female god(s) that is
present in the opening to the Michael of Chonai story and in other denigra-
tions of Julian’s program in the aftermath of his death.156 Julian was dubbed
the “Idolian”,157 and it is idolatry (εἰδωλολατρεία) that has been hurled between
Laodicea and angel devotees in the battle between canon and popular story.158
Whatever shadowy presence might be found for Cybele in the Philip cycle, she
is clearly on display in Michael of Chonai, and Julian is the culprit.159 Greatness
is wrested from the female deity to be showered on the archistrategos of God.
The Synod of Laodicea had already tacitly recognised how entrenched the
veneration of martyrs had become in the church, even to the point where
those dubbed “heretics” had attractive candidates. The degree of institutionali-
sation is indicated by funerary architecture that had gained pilgrim devotion
in established cultic activity (Canon 9)160 and a developed formal commemo-
ration, presumably within church liturgies (Canon 51).161 In Michael of Chonai,
the choice of John and Philip as the apostolic authority for the foundation of
the hagiasma has the further narrative back-story that both were martyrs. They
were tied in tradition to Ephesos and Hierapolis. By contrast, Laodicea could
only claim Sagaris and Artemon as its own martyrs, neither of whom had the
status of apostles (even if Philip of Hierapolis was a constructed blend of two
155 Julian Ep. 22 (431D–432A [Wright 1923, 72]).

156 Such as in the satire on gods begetting, in a sermon on Theodore the Recruit by Gregory
of Nyssa, demonstrated to be part of the deprecation of Julian; see Leemans 2003, 82–90.
157 Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 4.77 (Bernardi 1983, 198).
158 The word occurs twice in Canon 35 of the Synod of Laodicea and is charged against the
opponents from Laodicea whose evil intent is directed towards the destruction of the
hagiasma, even including, at first, the father of the mute who is cured (Bonnet 3.15; 9.9–10
= ch 3.2; 5.4).
159 For expansion on the post-Julian setting for both Synod and popular story, see Cadwallader
2013.
160 Canon 9 reads: Περὶ τοῦ µὴ συγχωρεῖν εἰς τὰ κοιμητήρια, ἠ�̀ εἰς τὰ λεγόμενα μαρτύρια πάντων
́
τῶν αἱρετικῶν ἀπιέναι τοὺς τῆς ἐκκλησίας, εὐχῆς ἠ�̀ θεραπείας ἑ�νεκα· … (“The members of the
Church are not allowed to meet in the cemeteries, nor attend the so-called martyries of
any of the heretics, for prayer or service …”). (Mansi 1759, 566).
161 Canon 51 reads: Ὅτι οὐ δεῖ ἐν τῇ Τεσσαρακοστῇ µαρτύρων γενέθλια ἐπιτελεῖν, ἀλλὰ τῶν ἁγίων
µαρτύρων µνήµας ποιεῖν ἐν τοῖς Σαββάτοις καὶ ταῖς Κυριακαῖς. (“The nativities of Martyrs are
not to be celebrated in Lent, but commemorations of the holy Martyrs are to be made on
the Sabbaths and Lord’s days”). (Mansi 1759, 571).
figures in the New Testament witness).162 Laodicea had gained an unfavour-

able mention in the Johannine Book of Revelation; in Michael of Chonai there
is no respite for the city. Ulrich Huttner has recognised in the various hagi-
ographies stemming from Hierapolis and Laodicea the Christian version of
that ancient trait of Greek poleis—agonistic competition for recognition and
advancement.163 Indeed, that such agonism could morph into antagonism in
a specifically religious context is witnessed in an expiatory inscription from
Kolyda in Lydia (3rd century ce) that refers to an attack upon a sanctuary dur-
ing a festival.164 Laodicea and Hierapolis had long been the leading cities of the
Lycus Valley and had been grouped together in the Roman consciousness, but
Roman government perspectives did not necessarily translate to actual cohe-
sion at the local level; indeed, imperial decisions might have exacerbated inter-
city rivalry for resources, whether economic or status. Michael of Chonai taps
directly into this rivalry especially in the immediate post-Julian period when
cities and churches were scrambling to re-negotiate their positions amidst the
new imperial and ecclesial realities.165 The story constructs an opposition in
the reader’s mind between a purged city renowned for its apostolic munifi-
cence and an unrepentant city replete with diabolical idolatry and evil intent.
By privileging Philip and calling in the aid of John in Hierapolitan alliance,166
Michael of Chonai channels a pre-existing conflict and draws that energy into
its own dispute.
The second story of the foundation of the hagiasma is placed first—narra-
tive demands have displaced historical development. It becomes a hermeneu-
tical lens (driving out idolatry by apostolic authority) for what then follows,
so that, before we read / hear the story of the Laodicean father of the mute
child, we are already inclined to understand the episode as quarantined from
162 Philip is listed as one of the twelve apostles in Matt 10:3 and parallels (including Acts 1:13)
and more extensively in John’s Gospel (Jn 1:43–8, 6:5–7, 12:21–22, 14:8–9). Most mentions
of Philip in the Acts of the Apostle are to one of the seven appointed deacons, the one
with four prophesying daughters (Acts 6:5, 21:8–9).
163 Huttner 2013, 190–195.
164 Hermann and Malay 2007, 110–3 §84. For a collection of instances of violent attacks dur-
ing religious festivals, see Chaniotis 2006.
165 This is the argument of Cadwallader 2013.
166 Hierapolis is known to have struck or renewed alliances at least eleven times with
Ephesos in the pre-Constantinian settlement (from the time of Marcus Aurelius to that of
Gallienus). See Franke and Nollé 1997, 67–79. Laodicea similarly (at least six times) sought
to gain from a display of concordia with pre-eminent Ephesos: Franke and Nollé 1997,
111–116. By contrast Hierapolis only entered into a homonoia relationship with Laodicea
during the time of Hadrian, possibly as an indication of loyalty in the days when there
was still some dispute over Hadrian’s succession: Franke and Nollé 1997, 80–81.
286 Cadwallader
pagan origins.167 Whatever fissures remain in the attempts to christianise the

primary foundation story are thereby glossed over, because the apostolic ren-
dering has already occurred. Prayer, the effective mechanism in the war against
evil and of prophecy, now grounds the vision of the night that launched the
movement of the Laodicean pagan to the sacred spring and the dedication
that followed the healing of his daughter. The series of epiphanies that follow
in the story may expose the problem of the girl’s proclamation of Michael’s
greatness, but any doubts as to where loyalty lies will finally be laid to rest with
(Zeus-like) Michael’s statement of allegiance to God and an exposition of the
minuscule significance of his power compared to the ineffable Other.168
5 Conclusion
The story of Michael of Chonai has shown itself to be a model of how a sa-
cred site of the Greco-Roman world became transformed into a pilgrim centre
having a Christian origin. But as valuable as the resulting story may be as a
narrative of Christian devotion, enough survives in the story to indicate the
dream-foundation of the distant past, as well as the shape that could be given
to the story in the context of ecclesial and political conflicts of times later than
either the pagan or Christian beginnings. What began as a dream authorisation
for a sacred site, or at least for buildings that emphasised its establishment
as a pilgrim focus, gained a series of Christian glosses, especially when faced
with a full-scale conciliar attack. Not only were Trinitarian formulae used to
define the god and his angel of the previous dispensation, but the dream was
subjected to the power of apostolic prayer to confer greater sanctified author-
ity to the hagiasma.
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chapter 14
Dreaming Liturgically: Andrew of Crete’s Great

Kanon as a Mystical Vision
Andrew Mellas
The days of our life pass swiftly, as a dream, as a flower. Why do we trou-
ble ourselves in vain?
Andrew of Crete, Great Kanon
⸪
Dreaming was a liminal experience for the Byzantines. By sealing the minu-
tiae of everyday existence with a periodical foretaste of death, it underscored
the evanescence and corruptibility of human life.1 However, it also reflected
the intermediate phase between death and resurrection where “death is more
like dreaming than dying”.2 In this moment when the dreamer’s body was dor-
mant and the soul remained active, the images formed in the mind unveiled
hopes and fears, or prefigured what was to come, but did so in a mysterious and
opaque fashion. Although dreams represented a potential source of insight
into the human person or a glimpse of divine things, they could also manifest
the darker side of human passion or become the haunts of demons.
Dreams and visions in Byzantium—not unlike emotions—were histori-
cally, culturally and theologically situated phenomena.3 Christian philosophy
1 Death was often described as falling asleep in liturgical hymns and prayers, and in patris-
tic texts. See the analysis of Byzantine funeral rites and hymns in Marinis 2017, 85–106.
I would like to thank Professor Georgia Frank, Professor Derek Krueger and Professor Mary
Cunningham for their insightful comments on an earlier version of this paper. I am also
grateful for the peer review process. As always, any shortcomings are my own.
2 John of Damascus, On the Orthodox Faith, 4.15 (Kotter 1973, 203). Quoted in Constas 2001, 91.
In this passage, John of Damascus refers “the death of the saints” rather than the death of
every human person.
3 Stroumsa 1999, 191. It is important to note the subtle differences between dreams, visions and
ecstasy: “The enhypnion and phantasma were nonpredictive dreams: the former is caused by
mental or physical distress or a preoccupation with daily concerns, while the latter is the dis-
torted image that a dreamer perceives between the sleeping and waking state. Three types of

294 Mellas
shaped the Byzantine understanding of these universals against the back-

drop of Hellenism and classical thought.4 They also tamed the open frontier
between the human and the divine that dreams perpetuated in the centuries
marked by Christ’s apostles and early martyrs.5 The scriptural portrayal of
dreams and visions in the Acts of the Apostles as divine events was eventu-
ally met with ambivalence in the postapostolic and postbiblical era.6 Patristic
tradition and monastic literature often admonished the faithful against dwell-
ing on misleading or diabolical dreams. However, the polymorphic nature of
dreams, which could also be a locus of revelation and a prism for mystical ex-
perience, perpetuated a twilight of dreaming in Byzantium without eventide.
According to Athanasius of Alexandria, the act of dreaming became an
inner movement where one could contemplate what was outside the self and
traverse foreign lands.7 Dreams could create a bridge between the soul and
creation, and sleep could engender a vision of superior aspects of reality.8
Similarly, the performance of the Great Kanon sought to take the faithful on
a liturgically imagined journey.9 Andrew of Crete’s epic poem performed an
ekphrastic vision, drawing on the mystagogy of the Byzantine liturgy to stage
an eschatological drama of salvation.10
dreams were significant: the oneiros, a symbolic dream that usually required interpreta-
tion; the horama, or prophetic vision; and the chrematismos, a dream wherein God or
some divine emissary proffers information or advice.” Oberhelman 1991, 661.
4 On dreams, see Le Goff 1985, 171–218; Miller 1994, 39–49; Neil, Costache, and Wagner
(forthcoming). On emotions, see Knuuttila 2004, 111–176.
5 Brown 1978, 65.
6 Acts 2:17, 9:1–18, 10:10–22, 11:4–18, 22:17–21. See also Pelikan 2005, 184–187.
7 Contra Gentes 31.38–44 (Thomson 1971, 87). Quoted in Miller 1986, 154.
8 Athanasius of Alexandria, On Sickness and Health (Diekamp 1938, 7; Brakke 1995, 310):
“… the sleep (ὕπνος) of the saints is endowed with the vision (θεωρίαν ἔχει) of superior
[aspects of reality] and whilst their body rests still (ἡσυχάζοντος) on the ground the mind
(νοῦς) goes through to outer things, and flies up from the earth to the heavens.” Quoted in
Costache 2016, 20.
9 For an introduction to the Great Kanon, see Krueger 2013. Unearthing the original text of
the Great Kanon that Andrew of Crete wrote in eighth-century Byzantium is a difficult
task. There is currently no critical edition of the text based on the relevant manuscript
tradition. The manuscript tradition begins with Sinai Graecus 734–735 (fols. 69r–83v), a
tenth-century Lenten Triodion of Constantinopolitan provenance, which represents the
earliest witness to Andrew’s composition and its performance during the fifth week of
Lent. This manuscript is linked to two other manuscripts of the Lenten Triodion from the
11th century: Vaticanus Graecus 771 (fol. 18v) and Grottaferrata Δβ I (fols. 7v–16r). I have
only examined these three manuscripts.
10 For an introduction to the life and work of Andrew of Crete (660–740), see Cunningham
1998, 267–294. On medieval dream/mystical vision texts as ekphrasis, see Barbetti 2011.
Dreaming Liturgically 295
This paper explores how the cosmic events dramatised in the poetic uni-
verse of Andrew’s composition evoked compunction, which was embodied in
liturgical performance. It argues that hymnography interwove biblical figures
and events from the past and the future in liturgical time and space as a kind of
dream that was shared by the faithful.11 This kind of dreaming was far removed
from the fantastical dreams that were often derided in patristic literature; it
was more akin to a wakeful dream. Liturgical worship was not a disembodied
experience. A more accurate description of this mystical experience is a vi-
sion, which could “occur in sleep or in waking hours and could be experienced
by an individual or a group”.12 Although it is conceivable that this experience
was a descent into dreaming, it is not the ambition of this paper to show that
the liturgical performance of the Great Kanon enacted such an oneiric event.
Nevertheless, the patristic conception of dreams and dream visions as some-
thing that could transcend the natural order sheds light on why liturgical sing-
ing represented for the Byzantines a participation in the cosmic liturgy of the
divine kingdom.
While the experiences of dreaming and liturgical worship are not entirely
analogous, the potential of the former to participate in the divine helps us to
understand the mystical significance of the latter. The singing of the Great
Kanon activated liturgical memory, which did not interpret the biblical events
of salvation and its protagonists through the prism of history, but as realities
that became present as part of the mystery of worship. Not unlike the descrip-
tion of dreaming in Plato’s Timaeus and Republic, the ritual performance of
hymnography presented images as resembling that which they signified.13
After briefly surveying the patristic conception of dreaming in Byzantium, this
paper will reimagine the performance of the Great Kanon as a mystical vision
and a sacramental act that aroused compunction, betokened the eschaton and
transfigured the emotions of the singer.14
11 On liturgical time, see Krueger 2015, 118–124. On the sacred space of Hagia Sophia, see
Pentcheva 2010, 45–56.
12 Irmscher, Kazhdan, and Cutler 1991, 2179.
13 Plato, Timaeus, 52a–c; Republic, 476c, 572a–b (Burnet 1968). See also Sallis 1999, 120–122;
Pentcheva 2014, 122.
14 The theme of mystical vision in the Dionysian corpus and Maximus the Confessor’s On
Ecclesiastical Mystagogy will be discussed below. On liturgy and hymnography as a holy
drama that enacts the events of salvation history in which the faithful participate, see
Archimandrite Vasileios 1984, 57–79. On literature as the source material for exploring the
history of emotions, see McNamer 2007, 247–248.
296 Mellas
1 The Patristic Conception of Dreaming in Byzantium
It is beyond the scope of this paper to review critically the patristic conception
of dreaming in Byzantium. However, as a way of framing what will follow and
as a point of departure for interpreting the Great Kanon as a mystical vision, a
brief exploration of this issue will be fruitful. While it would also be illuminat-
ing to examine the dreambooks of Byzantium and how they portray the prov-
enance of dreams and the relationship between dreaming and feeling, or how
the Apocalypse of John is at the heart of the Byzantine liturgy despite its ab-
sence from the lectionary, these must remain desiderata at this stage.15 In the
meantime this paper suggests that, according to the Byzantine patristic tradi-
tion, dreams were generally regarded as a natural occurrence, albeit a dubious
one. Despite illustrating the corruptibility of human nature and manifesting
fleshly desire, dreams could also represent a contemplation of divine things.
Although he favoured watchfulness and vigilance over sleeping, Athanasius
of Alexandria acknowledged that dreaming could be a vehicle of divine revela-
tion. In his letter On Sickness and Health, after citing the visions that Elisha
and Daniel experienced whilst asleep, and briefly alluding to the five senses
of the body and soul, Athanasius described a divine sense that is awakened by
compunction:
Ἔστι τις μετὰ ταύτας καὶ ἑτέρα ἕκτη αἴσθησις, καθ’ ἣν τῶν ἀναφῶν ἐφαπτόμε-
θα οἱ ἐφάπτεσθαι δυνάμενοι, περὶ ἧς εἶπεν Σολομῶν. καὶ θείαν αἴσθησιν εὑρή-
σεις, ἥτις καὶ ἐν κατανύξει καρδίας πολλάκις πέφυκεν γίνεσθαι.16
There is, after these, also another sixth sense, with which we who are able
to touch partake of the untouchable, about which Solomon said, “You
will discover a divine sense perception”, and which often comes to pass in
compunction of heart.17
Athanasius suggested a threefold framework within which these kinds of

dreams could occur: a vigilant mind, a spiritual sensorium and the emotion of
compunction.18 Although it did not represent a systematic theory of dreaming,
15 Nevertheless, see Mavroudi 2002; Oberhelman 2008; Neil 2016, 44–64; Shoemaker 2016,
315–316.
16 Chapter 8. Retrieved from the Thesaurus Linguae Graecae (http://stephanus.tlg.uci.edu)
on 25 January 2017.
17 The English translation is my own.
18 On the biblical understanding of compunction and its transformation into a Christian
concept, see Chryssavgis 1985, 131–136; Harl 1986, 3–21.
Athanasius’ letter differentiated between dreams that reflected the irrational-

ity of human nature and dreams that could transcend the natural boundaries
of sleep.19
Gregory of Nyssa echoed this idea of oneiric ecstasy in his comments on the
image of wakeful sleep in the Song of Songs. The Bride who sleeps but whose
heart is awake receives the manifestation of God in a divine vigil. Her sleep
“is a stranger and alien to the ordinary course of nature” (ξένος δέ τις οὗτος ὁ
ὕπνος ἐστὶ καὶ τῆς φυσικῆς συνηθείας ἀλλότριος) that represents “a new and para-
doxical mixture” (καινὴ καὶ παράδοξος μίξις) of sleeping and wakefulness.20 As
with other oxymorons that the Nyssen deployed—“sober drunkenness” and
“luminous darkness”—the idea of wakeful sleep wherein the soul can “taste
the divine gladness”21 bespeaks a “transformed sense of human identity”.22
Not unlike Athanasius, Gregory believed there are dreams that participate in a
“diviner manifestation” and dreams that are “fantastic nonsense” but, whereas
few are deemed worthy of the former, for the most part people experience
the latter.23
Evagrius of Pontus may not have known Gregory of Nyssa as well as he knew
Basil the Great and Gregory the Theologian, but his views on how emotions
can shape the nature of dreams reflected those of the Nyssen.24 While blessed
emotions governed by impassible passion can engender dreams and visions in
which we encounter the saints, depraved emotions can darken the vision of
the soul and hypnotise the vigilant mind.25 Not unlike Plato, for whom dreams
illustrated the virtue of the dreamer, for Evagrius it was the health of soul and
its movements that determined the dreams of the dreamer. As Christ declared
in his sermon on the mount, it was the pure in heart who would see God—an
injunction that was not lost on Evagrius.26
Evagrius’ eight categories of demonic dreaming in the Praktikos are also a
typical example of how Byzantine monastic literature portrayed dreams as
the abode of diabolical figures.27 Although the warfare demons waged against
19 Costache 2016, 21.

20 Greg. Nys., Homily 10 (Norris 2012, 326, 327).
21 Norris 2012, 329.
22 Miller 1994, 241.
23 De hominis opificio, 13.5, 13.11 (PG 44, 168B–C, 172B).
24 An intriguing counterview has been put forward in Ramelli 2015, 159–224. Ramelli sug-
gests Evagrius could have been the Nyssen’s disciple.
25 See the analysis of Evagrius’ Thoughts in Corrigan 2009, 62. On passion that becomes
“blameless and impassible” when it is “directed toward things incorporeal”; see Homily 1
(Norris 2012, 25).
26 Several Evagrian texts consider Matthew 5:8. See Corrigan 2009, 66.
27 Stroumsa 1999, 199.
298 Mellas
monks was most remarkably chronicled in the Life of St Antony, it did not ex-
plore the realm of dreams. Centuries later, the Ladder of Divine Ascent devoted
a small section to the dreams of novices:
[…] after we have gone into exile for the love of God, the demons try
to shake us with dreams [οἱ δαίμονες δι’ ἐνυπνίων θορυβεῖν δοκιμάσουσιν
ἡμᾶς]. They show us our relatives grieving, near death, poverty-stricken
or imprisoned because of us.28
Unlike the visitations of holy people that could be brought about by blessed
emotions, feelings of separation and homesickness or other passions rendered
one susceptible to the deceit of demons. Indeed, according to John Climacus,
treachery was their modus operandi:
Devils often take on the appearance of angels of light or martyrs and they
appear to us in sleep [καθ’ ὕπνους] and talk to us, so that they can push us
into unholy joy and conceit when we awaken.29
John concluded that the only dreams to be trusted are those that foretell tor-
ment and judgment, but even these dreams may be demonic if they lead to
feelings of despair.
In being so enigmatic, dreams are reminiscent of the allegorical approach
to biblical interpretation that characterised the hermeneutics of Philo and
Origen. The oneiric image illustrates the obscurity and elusiveness of Scripture,
which conceals its meaning with textual images of truth.30 This paradoxical
tension is reflected in Gregory the Theologian’s stance on dreams:
Σὺν σοὶ δὲ κοίτη εὐσεβεῖς

Ἐννοίας ἐταζέτω,
Μηδέ τι τῶν ῥυπαρῶν
Ἡμέρας νὺξ ἐλέγχῃ,
Μηδὲ παίγνια νυκτὸς
Ἐνύπνια θροείτω·
Let sleep now be the forum

For holy thoughts, I pray you,
28 Step 3, ‘On Exile’ in John Climacus 1982, 89 (PG 88, 669CD).

29 Ibid.
30 Miller 1994, 91–95.
That night may not uncover

The hidden filth of daylight,
Nor dreams proclaim in vision
The shameful tales of darkness.31
Although he was a dreamer who would trust “the deceitful dreams of night that
offer us joy for a while” more than he trusted in human prosperity,32 dreaming
was usually a negative metaphor for Gregory or a dangerous space of nocturnal
activity.
In contrast to the patristic ambivalence towards personal dreams, the poetry
and music of the Great Kanon invited the Byzantines to enter the dreamery
of the liturgical world and experience a mystical vision of the divine. Indeed,
the liturgical context of hymnography was mystagogy, which was crucial to the
experience of the Church. A century before Andrew of Crete composed his
epic poem, Maximus the Confessor’s On Ecclesiastical Mystagogy suggested
that the “entrance of the holy mysteries [τῆς εἰσόδου τῶν ἁγίων μυστηρίων]” dur-
ing the liturgy leads the faithful “to the vision of spiritual things [πρὸς τὴν τῶν
νοητῶν ἐποψίαν]”.33 This mystagogy was not simply the acquisition of super-
natural knowledge but a participation in a mystery that transformed the faith-
ful. Through the “spiritual delight of the divine songs [πνευματικὴν τῶν θείων
ᾀσμάτων τερπνότητα]”, the faithful became part of this mystagogy and were
“moved toward the unfading and blessed love of God [πρὸς μὲν τὸν ἀκήρατον
τοῦ Θεοῦ καὶ μακάριον ἀνακινοῦσαν ἔρωτα]”.34
Psalmody and hymnody were portrayed as a sacramental act that mirrored
the heavenly choir of angels and shaped the passions35 of the singer’s soul,
“creating prudent pleasure for salvation”.36 Hymns presented the faithful as
31 Evening Hymn, PG 37, 513; Daley 2006, 168.

32 Gregory of Nazianzus, Or. 14 On the Love of the Poor, 19, PG 35, 881. See Daley 2006, 85. On
the notion of Gregory as a dreamer, see Miller 1994, 232–236.
33 Chapter 13, Berthold 1985, 200; Maximus the Confessor 2011, 42. The catechumens, how-
ever, and those unworthy of the divine vision of the mysteries are dismissed.
34 On Ecclesiastical Mystagogy 11 (Boudignon 2011, 40; trans. Berthold 1985, 199).
35 In the Byzantine lexicon, the Greek word for emotion—πάθος—is often translated as
“passion”, but it does not suggest extreme emotions in the modern sense of the word.
See Kazhdan and Cutler 1991, 691–692. Although I follow scholars such as Richard Sorabji
(2002) and David Konstan (2006) in translating the Greek word πάθος as emotion, I ac-
knowledge that the shift from passions to emotions in the 19th century psychologised and
secularised the philosophical and theological dimensions of the former. See Dixon 2011,
298–312.
36 Kontakion on the Consecration of Hagia Sophia (24 December 562); Trypanis 1968, 146.
300 Mellas
“chanting with the angel [ψάλλοντες μετ’ ἀγγέλου] to the creator of angels,”37
and the liturgy transformed emotions, placing them within an eschatological
context.38
Indeed, eschatology was not simply a future occurrence but a present re-
ality, commemorated in the Eucharist and experienced in the polytemporal
vision of the liturgy.39 The performance of the liturgy enacted the eschaton,
collapsing past, present and future into liturgical time.40 Although dreaming
liturgically was not a disembodied experience or an unshared reality, the per-
formance of the Great Kanon and its liturgical context are illuminated by the
patristic concept of dreams that could transcend the natural boundaries of
sleep. However, as indicated earlier, a mystical vision is a more precise charac-
terisation of the liturgical participation in Andrew’s Great Kanon. After all, it is
in liturgical life that “propitious visions” (εὐμεναὶ ὁράσεις) are encountered and
the faithful are guided “to the divine visions of the sacraments” (τὰς θείας τῶν
τελετῶν ἐποψίας).41
2 Images and Compunction in the Great Kanon
The Great Kanon weaves an epic narrative of paradisal nostalgia, compunc-

tion and salvation, set against the backdrop of divine providence and amidst
a litany of biblical characters who exemplify repentance. It is a poetic medita-
tion on and vivid description of the “godly deeds” and “evil deeds” of scriptural
figures.42 In Byzantium, this ekphrastic vision sought to traverse space and
time and turn listeners into spectators. It evoked a feeling of presence, inviting
37 Romanos the Melodist, On the Three Children (Grosdidier de Matons 1964, 396). The
English translation is my own.
38 Maximus the Confessor On Ecclesiastical Mystagogy 24 (Boudignon 2011, 55–71; trans.
Berthold 1985, 206–213).
39 Meyendorff 1983, 218–220; Taft 2006, 156–158.
40 The “proclamation of the Gospel” marks the “end of history” and all that follows takes
place in “the age to come”. See Louth 2004, 114.
41 Dionysius the Areopagite, Epistle 8.6 and Ecclesiastical History 6. Quoted in Gavrilyuk
2012, 94. On the notion of the church as theophany and the liturgical context of the mysti-
cal ascent in the Dionysian corpus, see Golitzin 1999, 180–186.
42 Ode 1, strophes 7–8: Sinai Graecus 734–735 (f. 69r–69v); Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν, 463. I have
counted the stanza that follows each heirmos as the first strophe. Footnote references to
the Greek text are limited to the manuscripts I have examined and the 1879 edition of the
Lenten Triodion published in Rome (Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν). Although Vaticanus Graecus
771 is one of the earliest witnesses to the singing of the Great Kanon during the fifth
week of Lent, it does not contain the text of Andrew’s composition but simply the title
of what is to be chanted, the author and mode of Byzantine music—plagal second—and
participation in the divine drama that unfolded and arousing the emotions of
the faithful.43 The hymn did not simply invoke the memory of the biblical nar-
rative—it enacted the divine drama of salvation. The rhetorical and poetical
deployment of phantasia44 had emotive power that could excite, enthral and
astonish.45
The performance of the Great Kanon as a verbal icon that enacted a rewrit-
ten Bible is all the more profound in the light of the Byzantine conflict over
images.46 So critical was the defence of icons for Byzantine theology that, ac-
cording to John of Damascus, who was contemporary with Andrew of Crete, it
would either uphold or break every link in the great chain of images that began
with the Creator of all images and Christ as the “image of the invisible God”.47
This “cosmology of icons” linked Creator and creation “through a comprehen-
sive schema of images” and enshrined icons within a “hierarchical metaphysi-
cal reality” that included humanity, Scripture and typological images—such as
the burning bush or Melchizedek—which prefigured what was to come in the
history of salvation.48 Although icons were the sixth and final link in this great
chain of images, they were explicitly linked to the first five classes of image in
such a way that the iconoclasts’ disavowal of icons was “tantamount to a rejec-
tion not only of one link but of the entire chain of images”.49
Hymnography for Andrew of Crete was also part of this great chain of images.50
The Great Kanon parades before the faithful scriptural images—biblical
a direction to “search for it in the beginning of the Tropologion (ζήτει εἰς τὴν ἀρχὴν τοῦ
τροπολογίου)”. See f. 118v.
43 On ekphrasis, imagination and emotions, see Webb 1997, 112–127.
44 According to Longinus, phantasia describes the situation in which the rhetorician sees
what he is performing and presents the narrative with “vividness (ἐνάργεια)” bringing it
“before the eyes of [the] audience”. On the Sublime, chapter 15, 1–2 (Hamilton Fyfe 1995,
216–217).
45 Indeed, it lured them into a kind of ecstasy, where emotion could blur the boundaries be-
tween past and present, between self and other. However, Longinus makes a distinction
between the effects of poetry and prose.
46 Pelikan 2011, 70. For an examination of the historical and cultural context of iconoclasm,
see Brubaker and Haldon 2011. On the idea of hymnography as rewritten Bible, see Bucur
2007, 92–112.
47 Colossians 1:15. John of Damascus’ examination of the six links in the great chain of im-
ages appears in his Third Apologetic Oration on the Holy Icons (PG 94, 1337–1344).
48 Pelikan 2011, 175–181.
49 Pelikan 2011, 182.
50 As Mary Cunningham has argued, Dionysius the Areopagite’s ideas helped to shape
Andrew of Crete’s understanding of “the way in which divine truth may be apprehended,
even if only dimly, by means of types, imprints or images that take the form of mental im-
ages or words. It is also worth noting that he sees this process as happening not only in the
context of penitential prayer, ascetic exercise or rational enquiry, but above all through
302 Mellas
exemplars and counter-ideals that are reflections of the soul.51 Indeed, Andrew
of Crete alludes to this phenomenon by describing David’s composition of
Psalm 50 as the creation of image:
Δαυῒδ ποτὲ ἀνεστήλωσε, συγγραψάμενος ὡς ἐν εἰκόνι, ὕμνον, δι’ οὗ τὴν πρᾶξιν

ἐλέγχει, ἣν εἰργάσατο κραυγάζων· Ἐλέησόν με· σοὶ γὰρ μόνῳ ἐξήμαρτον, τῷ
πάντων Θεῷ, αὐτὸς καθάρισόν με.52
David once composed a hymn, setting forth, as in an image, the action

he had done; and he condemned it, crying: “Have mercy upon me, for
against you only have I sinned; God of all, cleanse me.”53
The singer’s soul, which can be a reflection of—or reflected in—the images
appearing in Andrew of Crete’s poetic universe, is ultimately presented as an
image of God that has been discoloured and tainted by sin, yet which can be
restored to its original beauty through tears of compunction.54 On several oc-
casions throughout the Great Kanon, Andrew of Crete entreats the faithful to
visually experience the divine mystery: “See now, see that I am God: give ear,
my soul, to the Lord as He cries to you” (Ἴδετε ἴδετε, ὅτι ἐγώ εἰμι Θεός, ἐνωτίζου
ψυχή μου, τοῦ Κυρίου βοῶντος)55—and later in the same ode: “Know and see
that I am God, searching out hearts” (Γνῶτε καὶ ἴδετε, ὅτι ἐγώ εἰμι Θεός, ὁ ἐρευνῶν
καρδίας).56 The desire for visual communion continues later in the hymn: “O
Master and Lord, may my tears be to me as Siloam, that I also may wash clean
the eyes of my soul and with my mind behold You, the light before the ages”
participation in the liturgical celebration of the Church. Deification, he implies, occurs in

the lives of the Christian faithful when they join in the timeless but also commemorative
celebration of the liturgy.” See Cunningham 2014, 57.
51 Krueger 2014, 146–152.
52 This strophe, which is from the seventh ode of the Great Kanon, appears in two of the ear-
liest manuscripts of the Lenten Triodion: Sinai Graecus 734–735 (f. 79v) and Grottaferrata
Δβ I (f. 13v). It is also in the post-Byzantine examples of the received tradition, such as the
1879 Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν, 482.
53 The English translation is my own. However, I have consulted Ware and Mary 1978, 378–
415; Sister Katherine and Sister Thekla 1980, 29–64.
54 This theme is particularly evident in the second ode of the Great Kanon. See also Frank
2006, 33–47.
55 Ode 2, “another hirmos”, strophe 1. Sinai Graecus (f. 71v); Grottaferrata Δβ I (f. 8r); Τριώδιον
Κατανυκτικόν, 467.
56 Sinai Graecus (f. 72r); Grottaferrata Δβ I (f. 8v); Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν, 468.
(Σιλωὰμ γενέσθω μοι τὰ δάκρυά μου, Δέσποτα Κύριε, ἵνα νίψωμαι κᾀγώ, τὰς κόρας
τῆς καρδίας, καὶ ἴδω σε νοερῶς, τὸ φῶς τὸ πρὸ αἰώνων).57
These images of various biblical figures could become more than objects of
affective meditation for the faithful. While this presupposed the “divine sense
perception” that Athanasius of Alexandria spoke of or what John Chrysostom
called “the eyes of faith” (ὀφθαλμοὶ τῆς πίστεως),58 Andrew’s ekphrasis enacted
a wakeful dream that could suspend the existential difference between the
self and the other, between the Byzantine faithful and biblical figures of the
past. Within the sacred space and sacred time where the hymn was performed,
the faithful were invited to step outside their confines of time and material-
ity and enter the liturgical narrative that was unfolding before them. By the
same token, the Great Kanon bade the inward gaze of the believers to explore
their feelings, search for the image of God that defined them, and yearn for
“the supernatural passion” of deification.59 However, unlike modern psychol-
ogy, introspection in medieval thought was “not about the self but about the
universe”; it was “an inversion of the microcosm into the macrocosm”.60
One of the dramatic devices that the Great Kanon employs to perform
its ekphrastic vision is repetition.61 Three aspects of Andrew’s poem exhibit
this characteristic: the thematic repetition of compunction and repentance
in each ode; the invocation of familiar biblical exemplars who reinforce the
penitential tone of the kanon; and the infrequent use of a refrain in some odes.
Although this repetitive dimension of the Great Kanon may seem tedious to
a modern audience, it is in fact typical of the memory culture of Byzantium,
which aurally cultivated a visual narrative for the mind and persuaded the soul
to “remain vigilant in the fight against oblivion”.62 Andrew’s poem illustrates
how the kanon—with its musical rhythm and choral nature—enacted and em-
bodied the feeling of compunction within a meaningful practice, encouraging
the faithful to participate in the performance of the hymn, enter its poetic and
musical universe, and internalise the emotion and repentance it dramatised.63
In the same way that the biblical canticles on which kanons were usually
modelled would call to mind the quintessential story of salvation, the biblical
characters Andrew of Crete summoned traverse the Old and New Testaments.
57 Ode 5, strophe 21, Sinai Graecus (f. 76v); Grottaferrata Δβ I (f. 11v); Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν,
477.
58 Frank 2001, 634.
59 Maximus the Confessor, To Thalassius, 22.6 (PG 90, 324B).
60 Barbetti 2011, 18.
61 I acknowledge Fr Damaskinos Xenophontos for pointing this out to me.
62 Papalexandrou 2010, 110.
63 Scheer 2012, 220.
304 Mellas
These scriptural exemplars of repentance and wickedness were images and

narratives that sought to arouse compunction in the soul:
Μωσέως παρήγαγον, ψυχὴ τὴν κοσμογένεσιν, καὶ ἐξ ἐκείνου, πᾶσαν ἐνδιάθε-

τον, γραφὴν ἱστοροῦσάν σοι, δικαίους καὶ ἀδίκους […] Τῆς νέας παράγω σοι,
Γραφῆς τὰ ὑποδείγματα, ἐνάγοντά σε, ψυχὴ πρὸς κατάνυξιν.64
I have put before you, my soul, Moses’ account of the creation of the
world and all the recognised Scriptures that tell you the story of the righ-
teous and the wicked […] I bring you, O my soul, examples from the New
Testament, to lead you to compunction.
This striking strophe suggests the hymnographer’s ekphrastic strategy was

to immerse the faithful in biblical narratives, taking them on a liturgically
imagined journey through salvation history and conjuring a raft of scriptur-
al exemplars as companions. Indeed, the Byzantines often met the saints in
their dreams, as well as in liturgical rituals. Andrew begins his litany of exem-
plars with the first-created humans, Adam and Eve. But this scriptural story
becomes the story of the faithful as they sing the Great Kanon. The liturgical
performance of the text destabilises the ‘I’ of subjectivity. The fall and exile of
Adam and Eve from Eden becomes for the faithful their own alienation from
divine grace. Having “rivalled in transgression Adam the first-created human”,
the listener and singer of the Great Kanon ponders her/his own estrangement
from the “everlasting kingdom” and is invited to feel the paradisal nostalgia
and mortality that the “garments of skin” represent.65 The nakedness of Adam
and Eve, their loss of the ancestral robe of beauty fashioned by God and the
garments of skin become images of the congregation’s own fallenness and de-
sire for prelapsarian bliss: “Now I have rent my first robe, which the Creator
wove for me from the beginning, and thence I lie naked.”66 This destabilisation
of subjectivity in the Great Kanon continues in the seven odes that follow the
first ode, as the hymn presents a vision of Old Testament figures exemplifying
virtue or iniquity to elicit compunction.
64 Ode 9, strophes 2, 4. Sinai Graecus 734–735 (f. 81v); Grottaferrata Δβ I (f. 15r); Τριώδιον
Κατανυκτικόν, 488–489.
65 Ode 1, strophe 3. Sinai Graecus 734–735 (f. 69r); Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν, 463. On the signifi-
cance of God clothing Adam and Eve in “garments of skin” (Genesis 3:21) after the fall, see
Nellas 1997, 43–91.
66 Ode 2, strophe 8. Sinai Graecus 734–735 (f. 70v); Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν, 465: Διέρρηξα, νῦν
τὴν στολὴν μου τὴν πρώτην, ἣν ἐξυφάνατό μοι, ὁ Πλαστουργὸς ἐξ ἀρχῆς, καὶ ἔνθεν κεῖμαι γυμνός.
Whereas repentance is a radical change of mind, compunction incites re-

pentance by kindling a desire for restoration.67 While compunction may be
a precondition for repentance, the inverse can also take place: “By deliberate
choice, my soul, you have incurred the guilt of Manasseh, setting up the pas-
sions as idols and multiplying abominations. But with fervent heart emulate
his repentance and acquire compunction.”68
Compunction displays teleological dimensions insofar as it performs a res-
toration of humanity.69 This theme is prominent in the second ode of the Great
Kanon, where the image of God in which humankind was created is identified
with a comely form of the human person, and passions represent the disfig-
urement of this beauty. However, in this mystical vision, tears of compunc-
tion can heal the deformity of the human person and clothe her/him with the
prelapsarian raiment of Eden.70
From time to time, the loosely chronological sequence of Old Testament
biblical exemplars in the first eight odes is interrupted. In the first ode, amidst
the narratives of Adam and Eve, and Cain and Abel, Andrew of Crete invokes
the scriptural character of the prodigal son as a universal figure of sinfulness,
and yet a model of repentance.71 The parable of the prodigal would have al-
ready been celebrated during one of the preparatory Sundays of Lent when the
hymns prescribed for that day called on the faithful to identify with this scrip-
tural exemplar of compunction.72 Andrew of Crete once again entreats the
faithful to feel what the prodigal felt when he became so alienated from divine
grace in faraway lands that he was lost even to himself, content to be dining
67 Repentance emerges as a leitmotif of Scripture and late antique Christian discourse.

However, repentance is a difficult concept to define. The Patristic Greek Lexicon devotes
several pages to defining μετάνοια—Lampe 1961, 855–858. Unlike modern audiences,
which have inherited “a somewhat distorted and incomplete view of repentance in late
antiquity” as inextricably connected with ecclesiastical institutions of penitence, repen-
tance’s existential significance for Christianity went beyond penitential rites, embracing
the totality of Christian life. See Torrance 2012, 9.
68 Ode 7, strophe 15. Sinai Graecus 734–735 (f. 79v), Grottaferrata Δβ I (f. 14r); Τριώδιον
Κατανυκτικόν, 483: Τοῦ Μανασσῆ, ἐπεσώρευσας, τὰ ἐγκλήματα τῇ προαιρέσει, στήσασα ὡς
βδελύγματα πάθη, καὶ πληθύνουσα ψυχή, προσωχθίσματα. Ἀλλ’ αὐτοῦ τὴν μετάνοιαν, ζηλοῦσα
θερμῶς, κτῆσαι κατάνυξιν.
69 I thank Fr Damaskinos Xenophontos for pointing this out to me.
70 “Κατέχρωσα, τῆς πρὶν εἰκόνος τὸ κάλλος, Σῶτερ τοῖς πάθεσιν, ἀλλ’ ὡς ποτὲ τὴν δραχμήν,
ἀναζητήσας εὑρέ” (I have discoloured with the passions the first beauty of the image, O
Saviour. But seek me, as once you had sought the lost coin and find me). Ode 2, strophe 21.
Sinai Graecus 734–735 (f. 71r), Grottaferrata Δβ I (f. 8r); Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν, 466.
71 See Ode 1, strophe 12. Sinai Graecus 734–735 (f. 69v); Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν, 464.
72 For these hymns on the prodigal son, see Sinai Graecus 734–735 (ff. 3v–5v).
306 Mellas
with swine rather than his kith and kin. Yet, remembering the royal dignity of
his home, compunction rekindled the flame of his relationship with God and
“he came to himself”.73 This moment marks the prodigal’s emergence from the
abyss of alienation into a wakefulness that desires restoration. It becomes a
call for the faithful singing the Great Kanon to take up the words of the prodigal
and see in the liturgical performance their own return to their ancestral home
and the bliss of Eden.
Andrew of Crete invited the faithful to journey through history with the
righteous and the wicked and consider their own place in the divine drama
of salvation. The hymn is more a collection of “small dream moments” than
a linear narrative, more an intersubjective text than a mere translation of
visuality.74 It evokes a vision of human repentance against the backdrop of bib-
lical stories and elicits a contemplation of God through the eyes of the soul.75
The first-person narrative of the hymnographer could become the words of the
Byzantine faithful who took up the song of the righteous who had gone before
them: with “courage like Jacob”, with the “tears of the harlot”, “like the woman
with the issue of blood”, they could cry: “stretch out your hand to me as once
you did to Peter”.76
73 Luke 15:17.
74 Barbetti 2011, 21.
75 Although it is referring to the Byzantine liturgy and was written several centuries after
the Great Kanon, the following excerpt from Nicholas Cabasilas’ Commentary on the
Divine Liturgy is pertinent: “That is why it was necessary that actions of this sort, capable
of inspiring such feelings in us, should find a place in the ordering of the liturgy. It was
necessary, not only that we should think about, but also that to some extent we should
see the utter poverty of him who possesses all, the coming on earth of him who dwells
everywhere, the shame of the most blessed God, the sufferings of the impassible; that
we should see how much he was hated and how much he loved; how he, the Most High,
humbled himself; what torments he endured, what he accomplished in order to prepare
for us this holy table. Thus, in beholding the unutterable freshness of the work of salva-
tion, amazed by the abundance of God’s mercy, we are brought to venerate him who had
such compassion for us, who saved us at so great a price: to entrust our souls to him,
to dedicate our lives to him, to enkindle in our hearts the flame of his love.” Nicholas
Cabasilas 1977, 29.
76 Ode 4, strophe 9; Ode 2, strophe 5; Ode 8, strophe 16; Ode 2; strophe 4. Sinai Graecus
734–735 (ff. 74r, 70v, 81r, 70v). Grottaferrata Δβ I does not have the quoted strophes from
the second ode—see ff. 10r and 14v for the other two references. Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν, 473,
466, 486, 465.
3 Dreaming and Feeling Liturgically in the Great Kanon
The sacred song of hymnography created an affective mysticism where human

feelings became liturgical feelings in a “sacramental mimesis”.77 The Great
Kanon unfolded as a kind of mystical vision where liturgical emotions could
be perceived and felt. One precondition for this to occur was the nature of the
ecclesial community that the liturgy was portrayed as engendering:
[A]bsolutely no one at all is in himself separated from the commu-

nity since everyone converges with all the rest [πάντων συμπεφυκότων
ἀλλήλοις] and joins together with them by the one, simple and indivisible
grace and power of faith.78
This “body of the faithful is one” and “is divided by neither time nor place”.79
The other precondition for this to occur was the Incarnation, which “taught
[the flesh] to feel things beyond its nature” (τὰ ὑπὲρ φύσιν ἰδίαν διδασκομένη
φρονεῖν) by uniting it to the divine in the person of Christ.80 Patristic tradition
attributed Christ’s emotions not simply to his human nature but to the one in-
carnate Logos. And what the Logos assumed, he also healed and transformed.81
The performance of the Great Kanon was—in a sense—framed by the
dream of death. It called to mind the liminal state between death and resurrec-
tion by evoking a sense of the Last Judgment. On the same day that Andrew of
Crete’s Great Kanon was sung—the Thursday of the fifth week of Lent—before
the performance of the orthros, Romanos the Melodist’s On the Infernal Powers
was chanted during the pannychis.82 Romanos’ hymn begins with a cry of the
singer to her/his soul that is provoked by the nearness of death:
Ψυχή μου, ψυχή μου, ἀνάστα· τί καθεύδεις;

Τὸ τέλος ἐγγίζει καὶ μέλλεις θορυβεῖσθαι·
77 Tkacz 2003, 276; Harvey 2001, 125.

78 On Ecclesiastical Mystagogy 1 (Boudignon 2011, 13; trans. Berthold 1985, 187).
79 John Chrysostom, Homily on the apostolic saying that states: But know this, that in the last
days perilous times will come 6 (PG 56, 277). Quoted in Nellas 1997, 145.
80 Cyril of Alexandria, Commentary on the Gospel According to John 7, on John 11:33
(PG 74, 53A).
81 Pelikan 1974, 72–75.
82 On the Infernal Powers is a “compunctious kontakion” (κοντάκιον κατανυκτικόν) assigned to
the Thursday of the fifth week of Great Lent. See Grodidier de Matons 1967, 242.
308 Mellas
ἀνάνηψον οὖν, ἵνα φείσηταί σου Χριστὸς ὁ Θεός,

ὁ πανταχοῦ παρὼν καὶ τὰ πάντα πληρῶν.83
O my soul, my soul, wake up—why do you sleep?

The end draws near and you will be thrown into confusion;
come to your senses then, so that Christ God spares you,
He who is everywhere and filling all things.
The juxtaposition of condemnation and salvation plays on the tension be-

tween the present life and the life of the age to come. It enjoined an awak-
ening and entrance into the liturgical narrative of salvation. The Great Kanon
continued this theme on an epic scale, summoning a vast assembly of scrip-
tural exemplars in its flight through the biblical account of God’s people and
the events of salvation. In underscoring the ephemeral nature of earthly life,
Andrew compared mortality to a dream:
Ἐγγίζει ψυχὴ τὸ τέλος, ἐγγίζει καὶ οὐ φροντίζεις, οὐχ ἑτοιμάζῃ. Ὁ καιρὸς συ-
ντέμνει, διανάστηθι, ἐγγὺς ἐπὶ θύραις ὁ Κριτής ἐστιν, ὡς ὄναρ, ὡς ἄνθος ὁ χρόνος
τοῦ βίου τρέχει, τί μάτην ταραττόμεθα;84
The end draws near, O soul, the end draws near, and you do not care, nor
make ready. The time grows short, rise up: the Judge is at the door. The
days of our life pass swiftly, as a dream, as a flower. Why do we trouble
ourselves in vain?
By juxtaposing the fleeting nature of dreams with the ephemerality of life,

the hymn portrays mortality and death as life’s bedfellows. The eschaton was
a constant companion in the liturgical life of the Byzantines, where the hour
of judgment was always nearby. In the above strophe, the imminence of death
and the prospect of judgment is a vision of the future made present that pro-
voked compunction and a desire for repentance. The rational lines dividing
and ordering the grand narrative of salvation, its biblical stories, its scriptural
characters and even the eschaton become somewhat blurred in the dreamlike
liturgical world of the Great Kanon. Similarly, amidst the affective mysticism of
Byzantine liturgical hymns, the logical, historical and existential distinctions
between the tears that the prodigal or the harlot wept are swept away as the
faithful are called to feel their blessed emotions.
83 Prelude, Grosdidier de Matons 1967, 242. The translation is my own.

84 Ode 4, strophe 2. Sinai Graecus 734–735 (f. 73v); Τριώδιον Κατανυκτικόν, 472.
4 Concluding Remarks
The liturgical performance of the Great Kanon invited the faithful to experi-
ence a mystical vision of the divine drama of salvation by interweaving bibli-
cal figures and events from the past and the future. It presented the hidden
desires of these characters and bade the faithful to become part of the sacred
drama unfolding before them. Although it is not analogous to dreaming, the
Byzantine construction of liturgical experience is illuminated by an apprecia-
tion of the cultural and theological significance of dreams. Not unlike how
dreams for Athanasius of Alexandria could form a bridge between the soul
and the world, the performance of the Great Kanon traversed time and space
as it guided the soul through scriptural landscapes. And as Anastasios of Sinai
declared, “As many dreams as you will see producing in you compunction, and
correction, and conversion, and fear of God, love only these”.85 But whereas
dreaming was an experience where discursive thought was suspended, the lit-
urgy was a controlled dream that deconstructed the binaries of rational and
irrational, inner and outer, sensory and intelligible. The call of the Great Kanon
to awaken was an entreaty to shake off delusion and enter the liturgically imag-
ined narrative of salvation.
Sacred ritual opened a liminal space where personal contemplation and the
collective song of the faithful dovetailed in the mystical body of Christ. Singing
the Great Kanon became a sacramental act that mirrored and shaped the
emotions of the singer’s soul. As the Great Kanon came to inhabit the Lenten
Triodion and the ritual of Lent, it embodied and enacted a mystical vision
where liturgical emotions could be perceived and felt in humanity’s encounter
with the divine:
The secrets of my heart have I confessed to You, my Judge. See my abase-

ment, see my affliction, and attend to my judgment now; and in Your
compassion have mercy upon me, O God of our fathers.86
Although the Great Kanon evokes the deep longing that binds the faithful
to their Creator, Judge and Saviour in a personal relationship, it refracts this
85 Questions and Answers 72 in Richard and Munitiz 2006, 125. Ὅσα οὖν ἐνύπνια ὄψει ποιοῦντά
σοι κατάνυξιν, καὶ διόρθωσιν, καὶ ἐπιστροφήν, καὶ φόβον Θεοῦ, ταῦτα μόνα ἀγάπησον. The
English translation is my own.
86 Ode 7, strophe 2. Sinai Graecus 734–735 (f. 78v); Grottaferrata Δβ I (f. 13r); Τριώδιον
Κατανυκτικόν, 482: Τὰ κρύφια τῆς καρδίας μου, ἐξηγόρευσά σοι τῷ Κριτῇ μου, ἴδε μου τὴν τα-
πείνωσιν, ἴδε καὶ τὴν θλίψιν μου, καὶ πρόσχες τῇ κρίσει μου νῦν, καὶ αὐτός με ἐλέησον ὡς εὔ-
σπλαγχνος ὁ τῶν Πατέρων Θεός.
310 Mellas
longing through an intricate prism of an eschatological communion where

biblical figures come together, inviting the congregation to sing with the prodi-
gal, the harlot, the thief, and to dream and feel liturgically.
Dreaming liturgically was a corporeal vision of the adventure of human free-
dom where the mystery of the human heart and the divine drama of salvation
converged. The Great Kanon brought the faithful to the precipice of death and
judgment to give them a glimpse of “a new heaven and a new earth” where God
“wipe[s] away every tear from their eyes” in the bliss of a paradise lost and re-
gained.87 The exile from Eden, the incarnation, crucifixion and resurrection of
Christ, and the actions of God’s people came together in the panoramic vision
of the Great Kanon, which the faithful could internalise. Not unlike Gregory of
Nyssa’s paradoxical mixture of sleeping and wakefulness that promises a taste
of divine gladness, liturgical song envisioned a communion of saints and em-
bodied a mystical harmony between humanity and creation “in the day with-
out evening” (ἐν τῇ ἀνεσπέρῳ, ἡμέρᾳ) of the life of the age to come.88
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chapter 15
Divine Fantasy and the Erotic Imagination in the

Hymns of Symeon the New Theologian
Derek Krueger
In the seventh of his Erotes, or Hymns on Divine Love, Symeon the New
Theologian (949–1022) takes the part of the lover languishing in separation
from his beloved.
ὁ πόθος πόνος παρ’ ἐμοὶ καὶ καλεῖται καὶ ἔστιν,

ἄλγος τῷ μὴ ἰσχύειν με ὅλον περιλαβεῖν σε
καὶ κορεσθῆναι, ὡς ποθῶ, ὑπάρχει μοι καὶ στένω·
Within me yearning is called suffering, and it truly is.

Distress because I am not able to embrace You entirely,
and to be satisfied, as I yearn to be, so it is for me and I groan.1
His beloved, of course, is God, but Symeon’s vocabulary and rhetoric employ
tropes of erotic literature. In the first person singular, Symeon offers a lover’s
lament that would not be out of place in the late ancient or twelfth-century
Byzantine novels, with their convoluted plots that encourage readerly de-
light in the separation and longing of lovers. The hymn’s discourse of pothos
(πόθος)—of longing, yearning, or desire—renders the love of God akin to love-
sickness, heightening expectation of a consummation yet deferred. In the 30th
hymn, Symeon describes himself crying and wailing exceedingly in his cell.
ἐξεζήτουν γὰρ ἐκεῖνον,

ἐκεῖνον ὅνπερ ἐπόθουν,
οὗ ἠράσθην, οὗ τῷ κάλλει
ὡραιότητος ἐτρώθην·
1 Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 7.17–19 (Koder 1969–1973, 1:210; trans. Griggs 2010, 57).
For the text, I have employed Koder’s edition in consultation with Kambylis 1976. In his Life
of Symeon the New Theologian (111, Greenfield 2013, 257), Niketas Stethatos calls the corpus
“Loves of the Divine Hymns” [Τῶν θείων ὕμνων οἱ ἔροτες]. I thank Avery Everhart, Alyssa
Gabbay, Mark Masterson, Mark Rifkin, Gene Rogers, and Steven Smith for their critical in-
sights and advice.

316 Krueger
ἐφλεγόμην, ἐκαιόμην,
ὅλος ἐνεπυριζόμην.
For I was seeking Him

Him Whom I desired
for Whom I had passionate love [ἠράσθην], by Whose
youthful beauty [ὡραιότητος] I was wounded.
I was enflamed and burning
all of me set on fire.2
Symeon’s overwhelming and passionate love recalls but does not quote erotic
figures present in the Song of Songs, such as verse 3:1: “On my bed at night, I
sought him whom my soul loves [ἠγάπησεν]. I sought him but I did not find
him.”3 The object of Symeon’s love is like a youthful male, conforming his
yearning to patterns of same-sex desire of an older male for a beautiful boy,
both invoking and subverting normative models for pederastic relations be-
tween social superiors and social inferiors.4 In that sense, the eros celebrated
in Symeon’s hymns cannot be simply described as nuptial or marital, as some
interpreters have done.5 Rather, Symeon engages novelistic tropes of uncon-
summated desire typical of flirting or separated lovers in Byzantine romances,
where longing itself often receives thematic treatment, rendering his devo-
tion to Christ both excessive and queer. In the Erotes and other works, and
consistent with his emphasis on the essentially somative nature of monastic
practice, Symeon characterises his piety in erotic terms. Carnal fantasy pro-
2 Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 30.373–378 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:366; trans. Griggs 2010,
241); cf. 30.371. For themes of erotic touch, see also Hymns 30.245–293. Koder 2010, 252–256
argues for a firm, or firmer, distinction between human-bodily love and longing and spiritual
longing for God in Symeon’s corpus.
3 Koder (1969–1973, 2:367) posits an echo also of Ps 42:2 [LXX 41:3]: “My soul thirsted for the
living God.” But this seems a stretch, and in any case, Symeon does not seem to be exerting
himself to provide biblical license for his longing. There may be an echo of Songs 5:8 (“If you
find my brotherkin [ἀδελφιδός], tell him this: I am faint with love”) although the Septuagint’s
rendering of the Hebrew’s “beloved” as a mere “brother” makes this comparison difficult, to
say the least.
4 For the desiring of God because he is astoundingly beautiful, see also Hymns 27.117–121. On
the beauty of angels and young men, see Hatzaki 2009, 86–115. Pitsakis 1993 gathers a large
compendium of evidence for Byzantine condemnation of (mostly male) homosexuality.
For middle Byzantine monastic opprobrium toward illicit sexual activity with reference to
Theodore the Stoudite, see Hatlie 1999.
5 See, e.g., Golitzin 1995–1997, 3:73–79, 90–94; Krivocheine 1986, 361–370.
Divine Fantasy and the Erotic Imagination 317
vides vivid metaphors for the devotion he feels for God, who is always already
also incarnate.
God offers a most worthy object for the poet’s love. In Hymn 39, God’s beau-
ty (τὸ κάλλος), “impossible … incomparable”, together with his goodness (τὸ
ἦθος … τὸ ἀγαθὸν), ignite desire.6 Symeon explains to his beloved, “Because of
[these], love and longing toward You / more than conquer all love and yearn-
ing of mortals.”7 In Hymn 46, Symeon will adjure his audience always to un-
derstand him “spiritually” (ἀεὶ πνευματικῶς) and not be “wretchedly defiled”;
nevertheless his ascetic dispassion has yielded “unutterable pleasure of com-
munion, / and boundless desire for a wedding feast”. Thinking about this, he
can barely contain himself: “I was burned up with pleasure, blazing with long-
ing for it.”8 Love of God offers him both pleasure and pain, and this “spiritual”
understanding persistently implicates the body, the senses, and the emotions.
For Symeon, pothos for God “covers all human love [ἀγάπη]”, it “turns eros away
for fleshly pleasure”, yet both eros and pothos for the Saviour are light itself.9
While often cast as mystic, Symeon’s Orthodox theology of the incarnation and
his commitment to a doctrine of theosis, or deification, in which the entire
human person would be joined to God and divinised, meant that Symeon’s
piety never abandoned the salvation of the flesh.10 The body’s ways of know-
ing and understanding remain more than simply metaphoric: they contribute
materially to knowing that which is ultimately real.
In addition to many prose treatises and catechetical lectures, Symeon wrote
over the course of his life a great many poems called variously “hymns” and
“love songs”, although they were neither set to music nor intended to be sung.11
Around 1035, Symeon’s self-proclaimed disciple, Niketas Stethatos, edited and
published a corpus of some fifty-eight of these poems, some of them quite
6 Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 39.1 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:476; trans. Griggs 2010, 285).
7 καὶ διὰ τοῦτο ὁ πρὸς σὲ πόθος καὶ ἡ ἀγάπη / πᾶσαν ἀγάπην τῶν βροτῶν ὑπερνικᾷ καὶ πόθον:
Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 39.5–6 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:476; trans. Griggs 2010,
285, modified).
8 ἐκπυρωθεὶς τῇ ἡδονῇ, φλεχθεὶς αὐτῆς τῷ πόθῳ: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 46.30–
35 (Koder 1969–1973, 3:117; trans. Griggs 2010, 335, modified).
9 ἔρωτας τῶν σαρκικῶν ἡδονῶν ἀποτρέπει, φῶς δὲ ὁ ἔρως ὁ πρὸς σὲ καὶ ἡ ἀγάπη: Symeon the
New Theologian, Hymns 39.9–14 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:476; trans. Griggs 2010, 285).
10 For patristic doctrines of deification see Russell 2006. For a sensitive treatment of
Symeon’s “spirituality” and categorisation as a mystic, see Koder 2010.
11 Koder (2011, 11–13, 22–24) suggests these hymns of praise were intended to be read before
a small audience, in the manner of the secular Byzantine theatron. See also Koder 2006.
On the theatron, see Marciniak 2007. For public reading in later centuries, see Gaul 2011.
318 Krueger
long, totaling over 10,000 verses in three different meters.12 While it is tempt-
ing to read the hymns as intensely personal, the poet consistently engages in
ethopoeia, or speech-in-character, constructing a poetic subject engaged in
theological meditation and aflame with fervent desire for God. Through the
poems, Symeon models a contemplative and impassioned monastic “I” to as-
sist in the formation of monks’ interior lives, first those in his charge while
abbot of the Monastery of St Mamas in Constantinople, and then, after his
exile, across the Bosporus at the Oratory of St Marina.13
In exploring the love of God through unabashedly erotic discourse, Symeon
recasts celibacy. Contrary to expectations, here asceticism does not, in fact,
require a negation of desire. For Symeon, monastic discipline is not precisely
the opposite of sex.14 Symeon’s sexualised spirituality in itself reveals the im-
pact of the erotic imagination on Symeon’s theology and his understanding of
the monastic subject. He cannot convey or understand the love of God inde-
pendent of human emotions and experience. Symeon redirects the focus of
desire toward God. Desire for God becomes for Symeon its own sort of erotic
orientation, a “facing East” full of fantasy and longing. To this end, Symeon
invigorates an affective piety that structures devotion to God along novelistic
lines for romantic love. Symeon’s hymns celebrate such a devotional form in
the Orthodox East a good century before the emergence of a similar discourse
in the Roman Catholic West in the 12th century, particularly in the writings of
the Cistercians, and long before the early modern divine erotics of John of the
Cross and John Donne.15
12 For a discussion of technical aspects of the text and its metrics, see Koder 1969–1973,
1:17–94 and Kambylis 1976: xxii–xxvi, cccxxxiii–cccxlv. For the complexities of discerning
and therefore qualifying Niketas’ hand in his edition of Symeon’s works, see Hinterberger
2012.
13 Most of our information about Symeon’s life derives from Niketas Stethatos’ Life of
Symeon the New Theologian. For a judicious scholarly account of Symeon’s biography, see
Golitzin 1995–1997, vol. 3; also, Hunt 2015 and Koder 2010, 243–246. For possible biograph-
ical or autobiographical elements in the Hymns, see Koder 2011, 18–22; Aphentoulidou
2001, 133–140, which is also sensitive to how Niketas managed that narrative in his edition
of the Hymns.
14 Krueger 2006, 102–103, 112–115. Burrus 2004 offers an important model for addressing the
erotics of Christian ascetic narratives and scenarios. On the need to re-theorise celibacy
as sexuality, see Kahan 2013, 1–32.
15 Biddick 1993; McNamer 2010; Rambuss 1998. Bynum 1982, 82–109, although her discussion
of the Cistercians (110–169) somewhat problematically de-emphasises the erotic dimen-
sions of their piety.
1 Love and Longing
In the Hymns on Divine Love, Symeon explores the mutual desire between God
and the male monk through elaborate erotic metaphors. Elsewhere I have ad-
dressed themes of consummation with the divine through the imagery of em-
brace, penetration, and insemination.16 Many of the poems cast the monk in
the role of a bride, shifting his gender, engaging expectations of sexual activity
on a wedding night. Others leave the monk gendered male, thus configuring
the relationship between Christ and his beloved in homoerotic terms, in some
cases also understanding this activity as the consummation of a marriage. In
Hymn 15, for example, the “souls of all become brides”.17
τὸν εὔσπλαγχνον δοξάζουσι, ποθοῦσι τὸν ὡραῖον

καὶ τῇ ἀγάπῃ τῇ αὐτοῦ ὅλῃ ὅλαι κολλῶνται·
μᾶλλον δὲ σπέρμα ἅγιον, ὡς εἴπομεν, λαβοῦσαι
θεὸν ὅλον ἐντὸς αὐτῶν μεμορφωμένον κτῶνται.
They glorify the compassionate one, they yearn [ποθοῦσι] for the beauti-
ful one,
they are all united to the whole of his love [ἀγάπῃ],
what is more they acquire the holy seed [σπέρμα], as we said,
receiving the whole transformed God within themselves.18
In this image, Symeon extends the sense of the biblical verse 1 John 3:9: “These
who have been born of God do not sin, because God’s seed [σπέρμα] abides
in them; they cannot sin, because they have been born of God.”19 While the
author of the Johannine letter figures the Christian as God’s progeny regener-
ated, Symeon renders Christians as Christ’s receptive lovers, brides of Christ,
first yearning for God to enter in, and then experiencing the consummation
of a salvific marriage that leads to a sort of spiritual pregnancy. Significantly,
Symeon subverts an asymmetric conception of the beautiful male (τὸν ὡραῖον)
as the one penetrated. The monk is penetrated, but God is the pretty one.
16 Krueger 2006.
17 νύμφαι πάντων αἱ ψυχαί: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 15.221 (Koder 1969–1973,
1:294; trans. Griggs 2010, 90).
90, modified).
19 There may also be echoes of Gal 3:16, 29, where the Messiah is figured as Abraham’s seed.
For a parallel in Thomas Aquinas, see Rogers 2013, 295.
320 Krueger
In the tenth of his Ethical Discourses, which likely date from 1003 to 1009,
Symeon explores the theme of spiritual pregnancy in some detail.
Πλὴν ὥσπερ γινώσκει ἡ γυνὴ σαφῶς, ὅταν ἔγγυός ἐστιν, ὅτι σκιρτᾷ τὸ βρέφος
ἐν τῇ κοιλίᾳ αὐτῆς καὶ οὐκ ἄν ποτε ἀγνοήσῃ ὅτι αὐτὸ ἔνδον ἔχει ἐν ἑαυτῇ, οὕτω
καὶ ὁ τὸν Χριστὸν ἔχων μεμορφωμένον ἐν ἑαυτῷ καὶ τὰς κινήσεις ἤτοι ἐλλάμ-
ψεις αὐτοῦ γινώσκει καὶ τὰ σκιρτήματα ἤτοι τὰς ἀστραπὰς αὐτοῦ ὅλως οὐκ
ἀγνοεῖ καὶ τὴν μόρφωσιν αὐτοῦ ἐν ἑαυτῷ καθορᾷ.
Just as a woman surely knows when she is with child that the babe leaps
in her womb and could never be ignorant of the fact that she has it within
her, so the one who has Christ take form within himself is aware of His
stirring, which is to say His illuminations, is in no way ignorant of His
leaps, that is His gleamings, and sees His formation within himself.20
In Symeon’s erotic imaginary of salvation, God’s love is all-encompassing,

melding pregnancy and impregnation, penetration and presence. In Hymn 16
Symeon writes,
λογιζομένου μου αὐτὸς εὑρίσκεται ἐντός μου,

ἔνδον ἐν τῇ ταλαίνῃ μου καρδίᾳ ἀπαστράπτων,
πάντοθεν περιλάμπων με τῇ ἀθανάτῳ αἴγλῃ,
ἅπαντα δὲ τὰ μέλη μου ἀκτῖσι καταυγάζων,
ὅλος περιπλεκόμενος ὅλον καταφιλεῖ με
ὅλον τε δίδωσιν αὐτὸν ἐμοὶ τῷ ἀναξίῳ,
καὶ ἐμφοροῦμαι τῆς αὐτοῦ ἀγάπης καὶ τοῦ κάλλους,
καὶ ἡδονῆς καὶ γλυκασμοῦ ἐμπίπλαμαι τοῦ θείου·
When I consider this, He himself was found within me

flashing forth within my wretched heart,
illuminating me from all directions with immortal radiance,
shining upon all my members with his rays,
folding his entire self around me He tenderly kisses all of me.
He gives his whole self to me, the unworthy,
and I take my fill of his love and beauty,
and I am filled full of divine pleasures and sweetness.21
20 Symeon the New Theologian, Ethical Discourses 10.879–885 (Darrouzès 1966–1967, 2:332;
trans. Golitzin 1995–1997, 1:169.) For themes of spiritual pregnancy in Symeon, see Hunt
2004, 204–209.
Symeon celebrates the subject’s deification not as an elevation into God or as

a participation in divine community, but rather as erotic partnering, a passion-
ate and even orgasmic satisfaction of mutual desire.
Much of Symeon’s erotic discourse, however, attends not so much to union
with God as to the extended longing—or pothos—through which he awaits it.
Here as well, Symeon calls on the conventions of Byzantine erotic discourse,
typified, perhaps especially in the Byzantine romance, where lovers meet, are
separated, and then spend the rest of the novel chasing after each other. In
these novels, the audience is carried along by readerly desire, taking pleasure
in the erotic suspense.22 Symeon harnesses both aspects of this double effect,
portraying the speaking subject’s desire while inciting desire in his audience.
Two novels a millennium apart present typical wisdom about the connec-
tion between desire and its lack of satisfaction. In Achilles Tatius’ second-cen-
tury prose fiction Leukippe and Klitophon, male characters debate the relative
merits of the love of women and boys, and Menelaus explains to the naïve hero,
“You do not know the crucial point about pleasure, Klitophon…. That which
is unfulfilled always generates longing.”23 Similarly, longing figures promi-
nently in Theodore Prodromos’ twelfth-century verse romance Rhodanthe and
Dosikles.
ἀπόστασις γὰρ καὶ μακρυσμὸς τοῦ φίλου

εἴωθε μᾶλλον τοὺς ποθοῦντας ἐκκάειν.
οὐδεὶς γὰρ ἐκφλέγοιτο πρὸς φίλου πόθον,
ἐπεὶ κατετρύφησε τῆς συνουσίας
συνών, θεωρῶν, συλλαλῶν καθ’ ἡμέραν·
For absence and the removal of the beloved

is liable to enflame those who long [τοὺς ποθοῦντας].
For no one is consumed with longing [πόθον] for the beloved
when he can enjoy their company by being present,
seeing them and having daily conversation.24
22 On the range of readerly desires in the ancient novel, see Whitmarsh 2009; also, Whitmarsh
2011, 168–176. For a survey of sexuality and erotic themes in the ancient novel, see Morales
2008. For other manipulations of the reader, see Bartsch 1989.
23 τὸ κεφάλαιον τῆς ἡδονῆς … ποθεινὸν γὰρ ἀεὶ τὸ ἀκόρεστον: Achilles Tatius, Leukippe and
Klitophon 2.36 (Garnaud 1991, 68; trans. Whitmarsh 2001, 40). On the play of desire and
frustration in the ancient novel, see Morales 2004, 117–130.
24 Theodore Prodromos, Rhodanthe and Dosikles 8.173–77 (Marcovich 1992, 133; trans.
Jeffreys 2012, 131, modified).
322 Krueger
Within these novels, and in Byzantine Greek generally, pothos occupied a spe-
cific semantic range. In her translation of Rodanthe and Dosikles, Elizabeth
Jeffreys translates it variously as “passion”, “desire”, and “urge”. What typifies
this strong emotion is the gap between the lover and his or her object. Within
the tradition of the Byzantine novel, this longing tends toward a passionate
devotion to the absent beloved.
Central to the Greek erotic vocabulary, pothos lent itself easily enough as
a metaphor to structure the experience of God, whom Symeon portrays as at
once tantalisingly available and achingly remote. Symeon opens Hymn 7 by
pondering God’s simultaneous proximity and distance. “How do I worship
You within me, and how do I see You far away?”25 Centuries earlier, in their
commentaries on the Song of Songs, both Origen and Gregory of Nyssa ex-
plored the passionate yearning of the Christian for the divine. In Maximos
the Confessor’s seventh-century Ambiguum 48, pothos for God results in a sa-
vouring of each part of his incarnate body as it is ingested in the eucharist.26
Language of longing for God also appears in the literature of the Byzantine
monastic reform movement of the early 9th century. In his Longer and Shorter
Catecheses, Theodore the Stoudite (759–826), for example, speaks of the
“pothos of Christ”,27 “the pothos of God”,28 and “divine [or holy] pothos”.29 With
very few exceptions, however, the Middle Byzantine instances avoid extending
this metaphor into the broader realm of eros.
Some Byzantine authors, such as Symeon’s older contemporary, John
Geometres (active in the second half of the 10th century) contrasted pothos
or longing for God with earthly and profane eros, or love. In one iambic epi-
gram, John wrote, “The dreadful love (eros) blinds my senses, / but the longing
(pothos) for you, my Christ, restores my clarity.”30 In most authors, however,
the semantic ranges of eros and pothos overlap. The Palaiologan grammarians
25 Πῶς σε ἐντός μου προσκυνῶ, πῶς δὲ μακράν σε βλέπω;: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns
7.1 (Koder 1969–1973, 1:208; trans. Griggs 2010, 56).
26 Maximos the Confessor, Ambiguum 48 (Constas 2014, 2:212–222).
27 διὰ τὸν πόθον τοῦ Χριστοῦ: Theodore the Stoudite, Longer Catechesis 11 (Papadopoulos-
Kerameus 1904, 75 line 4), 118 (Papadopoulos-Kerameus 1904, 878 line 4); see also Shorter
Catechesis 107.35 (Auvray 1891, 368).
28 Τίς ὁ πόθῳ πόθον Θεοῦ συμβαλὼν: Theodore the Stoudite, Shorter Catechesis, 132.40–41
(Auvray 1891, 462).
29 τὸν θεῖον πόθον: Theodore the Stoudite, Shorter Catechesis, 78.29 (Auvray 1891, 270). See
also Theodore the Stoudite, Longer Catechesis 7 (Papadopoulos-Kerameus 1904, 43 line 3)
and 49 (Papadopoulos-Kerameus 1904, 353 line 21). For eros and pothos directed toward
God alone, see Theodore the Stoudite, Shorter Catechesis 100.42–43 (Auvray 1891, 345).
30 John Geometres, Iambic Poems 228 (Tomadake 2014, 195; trans. Drpić 2016, 312): Ἔρως ὁ
δεινὸς ἐκτυφλοῖ μου τὰς φρένας, ἀλλ’ αἰθριάζει σὸς πόθος με, Χριστέ μου.
Andronikos Zarides and George Lakapenos drew the following distinction:

“Pothos differs from eros insofar as eros refers to both present and absent
things, whereas pothos always refers to absent things.”31 In a recent and finely
wrought monograph, Ivan Drpić has explored the “erotics of devotion” with
particular attention to epigrams on late Byzantine icons, calling attention to
the ways patrons configured their veneration of the Virgin and of the saints as
pothos, as yearning or longing for them.32 Significantly, this devotional longing
runs counter to general theological assertions that Christ and the saints are
present in their icons.
2 Novel Scenarios and the Fantasy of Absence
Late ancient and Byzantine novelists emplotted longing, or pothos, in diverting

and formulaic narratives. In his dedicatory epigram introducing Rodanthe and
Dosikles, Theodore Prodromos enumerates the elements of his own tale and
the romance genre as a whole:
Κούρης ἀργυφέης καλλιστεφάνου τε Ῥοδάνθης

καὶ κούρου Δοσικλῆος ἀγαπρεπέος τε καὶ ἐσθλοῦ
ταῦτα, φυγαί τε πλάναι τε κλυδῶνων οἴδματα, λῃσταί,
ἀργαλέαι στροφάλιγγες, ἐρωτοτόκοι μελεδῶνες,
δεσμά τ’ ἀλυκτοπέδαι τε καὶ ὀρφνοφόροισι μελάθροις
εἱρκτοσύναι, θυσίαι τε παναισχέες, ἄλγεα πι[κρά],
φαρμακόεντα κύπελλα καὶ ἁρμονίης παραλύσεις,
ἐν δὲ γάμος τε λέχος τε καὶ ἱμερόεντες ἔρωτες.
These [are the adventures] of the silvery girl Rodanthe with the lovely
garland
and of the valiant and comely youth Dosikles,
the flights and wanderings and tempests and billows, brigands,
grievous eddies, sorrows that give rise to love [ἐροτοτόκοι μελεδῶνες],
chains and indissoluble fetters and imprisonments in gloomy
dungeons, grim sacrifices, bitter grief,
31 πόθος ἔρωτος διαφέρει, καθὸ ὁ μὲν ἔρως λέγεται καὶ ἐπὶ παρόντων καὶ ἐπὶ μὴ παρόντων
πραγμάτων, ὁ πόθος δὲ ἀεὶ λέγεται ἐπὶ ἀπόντων: George Lakapenos and Andronikos Zarides,
Letters and Epigrams 24–25 (Lindstam 1924, 152; trans. Drpić 2016, 313). For the discourses
of love and longing in Byzantine epistolography, see Mullett 1999 and Schneider 2008.
32 Drpić 2016, 296–331.
324 Krueger
poisoned cups and paralysis of joints,

then the marriage and the marriage bed and passionate love.33
While Symeon does not engage all these elements of narrative tension and
excitement, he draws heavily on the pains and agonies of desire, on the phases
of the love-plot that has not yet reached its consummation. In doing so, he fans
the flames of desire for God, fusing devotion and the erotic imagination.
For Symeon, the vocabulary of love and longing shapes an affective piety, a
way both to describe and instill an emotional relationship with God that is not
simply pleasurable and which plays upon a perception of divine absence. The
prose prayer that stands at the opening of the collection of the Hymns invokes
God’s presence, calling on him to appear. “Come, You whom my miserable soul
has desired and desires, Come the Alone to the alone, because I am alone, as
You see!”34 The opening of Hymn 52 borrows from the speeches of separated
lovers in fiction, full of sorrow and longing. “Who shall comfort the suffering of
my heart?” The next line glosses this by revealing the identity of the beloved:
“But when I said ‘suffering’ I disclosed my yearning for the Savior.”35 Symeon
does serious theological work here too, equating the yearning itself with the
presence of God, so that God is not simply love, but pothos.36
In stricter theological terms, where God is understood as omnipresent or
even immanent, it is not God’s presence that is the product of fantasy, but the
very idea of God’s absence. By positing a distance between the “I” and God,
Symeon creates a space that he fills with emotion. In counterpoint to a the-
ology of presence, Symeon predicates passionate devotion on a theology of
imagined absence. Indeed, the fantasy of an absent lover and the impassioned
experience of tension and torment generate a powerful counterpleasure.37
The longing for God leads to the telos of consummation, but only through
an elaborate sequence of twists and turns. As Hymn 18 explains,
33 Theodore Prodromos, Dedication to Rodanthe and Dosikles lines 19–24 (Agapitos 2000,
175–176; trans. Jeffreys 2012, 19–20). See also Jeffreys 2000.
34 ἐλθέ, ὃν ἐπόθησε καὶ ποθεῖ ἡ ταλαίπωρός μου ψυχή· ἐλθέ, ὁ μόνος πρὸς μόνον, ὅτι μόνος εἰμί,
καθάπερ ὁρᾷς: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns, proem. 18–20 (Koder 1969–1973, 1:150;
trans. Griggs 2010, 33).
35 Τίς μου παραμυθήσεται τὸν πόνον τῆς καρδίας; πόνον δ’ εἰπὼν ἐδήλωσα τὸν τοῦ σωτῆρος
πόθον: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns, 52.1–2 (Koder 1969–1973, 3:198; trans. Griggs
2010, 366).
36 See Griggs 2010, 366 n. 2: “The point is that the yearning is the real presence of God.”
37 Here I am influenced by MacKendrick 1999, esp. 105–109.
Τοῦτο ἔχων οὐ καθορῶ, θεωρῶν δὲ ἀφιὲν

τάχος ὁρμῶ τοῦ δράξασθαι, καὶ ἀφίπταται ἅπαν·
ἐξαπορῶ καὶ φλέγομαι καὶ μανθάνω αἰτεῖσθαι
καὶ ἐκζητεῖν μετὰ κλαυθμοῦ ἐν πολλῇ ταπεινώσει.
When I have it [love], I do not look upon it,

I quickly hasten to grasp it, and it flies clean away.
I am completely at a loss, and I burn, and I learn to beg,
and to seek out with weeping and much humility.38
The “I” declares its powerlessness, identifying itself as the subject of divine ca-
price. Indeed, the poem seems to celebrate the subject’s erotic suffering and
especially his subversive pleasure in not knowing when the beloved will ap-
pear. In the subsequent lines, when God does appear, his identity is veiled,
his presence at once detectable and alien. For Symeon’s masochism to play
out, God must tease him cruelly, allowing for gratification in God’s deferral or
withdrawal.
θροοῦμαι, περισφίγγομαι κρατῆσαι ταύτην θέλων

καὶ νὺξ τὰ πάντα καὶ κεναὶ αἱ ἀθλίαι μου χεῖρες·
πάντων ἐπιλανθάνομαι καὶ κάθημαι καὶ κλαίω
μὴ ἐπελπίζων ἄλλοτε ταύτην οὕτως ἰδέσθαι·
ὅτε θρηνήσω δὲ πολλὰ καὶ παύσασθαι θελήσω,
τότε ἐλθοῦσα μυστικῶς κρατεῖ τῆς κορυφῆς μου
καὶ συγχέομαι δάκρυσιν ἀγνοῶν τίς ὑπάρχει
καὶ καταυγάζει μου τὸν νοῦν φωτὶ γλυκείῳ σφόδρα·
ὅταν δὲ γνῷ, ἥτις ἐστίν, ἀφίπταται συντόμως
καταλιποῦσά μοι τὸ πῦρ τοῦ θείου αὐτῆς πόθου.
I cry out in distress, I am bound tight wishing to grasp it,

and everything is night, and my wretched hands are empty.
I forget everything and I sit and lament,
without hope of thus seeing it [love] ever again.
But when I wail much and want to stop,
then love comes mysteriously, and grabs my head,
and mingles with tears, I know not who it is,
38 Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns, 18.43–46 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:78; trans. Griggs
2010, 120).
326 Krueger
and it shines upon my mind with an exceedingly sweet light.

But whenever I know who it is, love quickly flies away,
leaving for me the fire of its divine desire.39
Operatic in its lament and its characterisation of an inconstant, if not abu-

sive, lover, the hymn depends on a very strange construct of divine love. Far
from a denial of pleasure, Symeon hungers for Christ in tantalising foreplay.40
Possessing this God and being possessed by him are the very goals of piety:
“I make merry in love’s beauty, I often embrace it, / I kiss it, and fall down in
worship, I have great thankfulness / to those who have arranged for me to see
what I was desiring.”41 Even as he thanks those who have taught him religion,
he takes his pleasure in his subjugation to Christ. Indeed, the poem frames a
safe space for role-playing in which Symeon explores erotic liberation through
submission.42
Although he locates himself deep in the fantasy of being humiliated by God,
the poetic “I” is, to some extent, aware that the God he experiences as absent
is not entirely absent. And yet the partial apprehension or possession of God
only feeds the longing. In Hymn 8, Symeon bemoans that the more he is “puri-
fied and illumined” (8.41), the more his desire for God builds.
ἐν ἀορίστῳ γὰρ βυθῷ, ἐν ἀμετρήτῳ ὕψει

τίς ἐφευρεῖν δυνήσεται μεσότητα ἢ τέλος;
οἶδα, ὅτι πολύ ἐστι, τὸ δὲ ποσὸν οὐκ οἶδα·
ἐπιποθῶ τοῦ πλείονος καὶ πάντοτε στενάζω,
ὅτι ὀλίγον τὸ δοθέν, εἰ καὶ πολὺ ἡγοῦμαι
πρὸς τὸ ὑπονοούμενον μακρόθεν μου τυγχάνειν·
ὅπερ ὁρῶν ἐπιθυμῶ καὶ δοκῶ μηδὲν ἔχειν,
μὴ αἰσθανόμενος ὅλως τοῦ δοθέντος μοι πλούτου·
39 Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns, 18.75–84 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:80; trans. Griggs
2010, 121–122, modified). For the scholion, probably Niketas’, defending this passage, see
Kambylis 1976, 468 and Koder 1969–1973, 2:80–81n.1.
40 MacKendrick 1999, 7 proposes that Freud’s concept of “forepleasure” illuminates Christian
ascetic practice. See also Harpham 1987, 46; Burrus 2004, 13–14.
41 κάλλους αὐτῆς κατατρυφῶ, συχνῶς ἀσπάζομαι ταύτην / καταφιλῶ καὶ προσκυνῶ, χάριν ἔχω
μεγάλην / τοῖς ἐμὲ προξενήσασιν ἰδεῖν, ἥνπερ ἐπόθουν: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns,
18.117–119 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:84; trans. Griggs 2010, 123).
42 Symeon’s “play frame” for exploring his identity as God’s submissive bears resemblance to
the conventions of contemporary BDSM. See, e.g., Weiss 2012, 151–154 and the insights of
Carrette 2005.
For in an infinite depth, in an immeasurable height,

who shall be able to find a middle or an end?
I know that it is great, but I do not know how great.
I long [ἐπιποθῶ] for more and I continually groan,
because even though I suppose it to be much, what is given is small
compared to what I suspect exists far away from me
when I see the very thing that I desire, and I seem to have nothing,
not entirely sensing the wealth [already] given to me.43
Symeon’s longing blinds him to a God who by definition is beyond perception.

He does not and cannot know the God that he desires. Symeon concedes that
his longing is greedy and almost churlish, and he compares his love of God to
a longing for sunshine and to sweet sensations that “drag the soul to a longing
[εἰς πόθον] that is divine and beyond telling. / This soul who sees burns [with
passion] and is inflamed by longing [τῷ πόθῳ].”44 Indeed, if one is afforded a
mere glimpse of God, “Who shall not long for Him?”45 While many have come
to love (ἠγάπησαν) God through the sense of hearing, and have come to have
faith because of the word of Christ (8.82; compare Rom 10:17), those who have
“participated in his vision and light / being known and knowing Him, how shall
they not long for Him?”46 Privileging the vision of God over the hearing of the
Gospel, Symeon combines a standard hierarchy of the senses with a romantic
trope of love at first sight, a torment predicated on the overwhelming power of
seeing and participating in the love object’s resplendent beauty.
3 The Rhetoric and Plotting of Excess
Symeon’s desire for God thrives on a rhetoric of excess, more often novelistic
than biblical. In Hymn 16 Symeon declares that God alone is “most desirable
above the whole world” and “yearned for”.47 In portraying this love of God,
59, modified).
60, modified).
45 τίς ἰδὼν οὐ ποθήσει;: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 8.81 (Koder 1969–1973, 1:220;
trans. Griggs 2010, 61, modified). See also Hymns 20.238–239.
46 οἱ δὲ καὶ θέας τῆς αὐτοῦ καὶ φωτὸς μετασχόντες / γνωσθέντες καὶ γνωρίσαντες αὐτὸν πῶς μὴ
ποθοῦσιν;: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 8.84–85 (Koder 1969–1973, 1:220; trans.
Griggs 2010, 61, modified).
47 ποθεινότατος ὑπὲρ ἅπαντα κόσμον … ἐπιθυμητός: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns
328 Krueger
Symeon employs the language of the Song of Songs surprisingly rarely—the

modern editor, Johannes Koder, detected a mere six instances in the corpus—,
but here he echoes Song of Songs 2, 5, and 6.
κατὰ τοῦτο τιτρώσκομαι τῇ ἀγάπῃ ἐκείνου,

καθ’ ὅσον δ’ οὐχ ὁρᾶταί μοι ἐκτήκομαι τὰς φρένας,
τὸν νοῦν καὶ τὴν καρδίαν μου φλεγόμενος καὶ στένων,
περιπατῶ καὶ καίομαι ζητῶν ὧδε κἀκεῖσε
καὶ οὐδαμοῦ τὸν ἐραστὴν εὑρίσκω τῆς ψυχῆς μου.
This is why I am wounded by his love [ἀγάπη] (Song 2:5)

insofar as he is not seen by me, I melt away in my senses,
and groaning, I burn in my mind and heart.
I walk about, and I burn, seeking here and there
and nowhere do I find the lover [ἐραστής] of my soul (Song 5–6).48
When he is present with God, “[God] illuminates my face like the one I longed
for”,49 but when he perceives himself alone, Symeon burns and groans like
an abandoned lover. Although Symeon identifies God as the erastēs, the one
actively loving—the lover, rather than the beloved—he understands his own
longing as an exquisite suffering.50 In that sense, Symeon subverts the expected
hierarchies of pederastic relations. Far from abandoning erotic love, Symeon
has redirected it, in all its agony, toward his saviour. Indeed, longing for salva-
tion itself generates the gap between Symeon and God.
To be sure, the Psalms also provided Symeon with some precedent for em-
ploying the tropes of love between humans to the love between the Christian
and God. Psalm 62 [63] uses primal urges of hunger and thirst to depict longing
for God: “O God, my God, early I approach you; my soul thirsted for you. How
many times did my flesh <thirst for> you in a land desolate and trackless and
waterless?” (Ps 63:1 [LXX 62:2]). Waking early and thinking of God while still
on his bed, the Psalmist declares: “My soul clung to you” (Ps 63:8 [LXX 62:9]).
49 καὶ λάμπει μου τὸ πρόσωπον ὡς καὶ τοῦ ποθητοῦ μου: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns
16.32 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:12; trans. Griggs 2010, 93, modified).
50 When Niketas Stethatos produced his edition of Symeon’s hymns around 1035, he in-
cluded a table, or pinax, of summaries of each poem’s argument that had been compiled
by a certain Alexios the Philosopher (see Koder 1969–1973, 1:22; Kambylis 1976, ccclxvii–
ccclxviii). The pinax’s description of Hymn 16 reads: “That by nature only the Divine is
desired and longed for” [Ὅτι ποθεινόν τε καὶ ἐπιθυμητὸν κατὰ φύσιν μόνον τὸ θεῖον]. Hymns,
pinax 16 (Koder 1969–1973, 1:140; trans. Griggs 2010, 91).
In the Hebrew, the “flesh faints” for God, but the Septuagint translators toned
down the urgency of the text. Signally, Koder detected no echoes of this psalm
in preparing his critical edition. Moreover, and this may be surprising, neither
the word pothos nor the related verb potheō occur in the Septuagint Psalms.
Neither does erōs. Rather the Septuagint employs agapē and related forms ex-
clusively. In general, Symeon’s rhetoric of love does not depend on the license
of biblical prooftexts.
In many of the Hymns, Symeon conjures scenarios of erotic suffering and
the exquisite pangs of prolonged erotic teasing. Like the extended plots of late
ancient and middle Byzantine novels, Symeon’s longing may tend toward the
telos of marriage, but it does so through the twists and turns, the erotic play,
and the discourses of longing that dominate the structure and themes of the
novels’ typical plotting.51 The scenarios were intelligible to Middle Byzantine
audiences because they engage generic emplotments. They place the desiring
monk in familiar situations, experiencing familiar emotions.
The drawing of connections between Symeon’s Erotes and the themes of the
Greek novel, however, must proceed cautiously. We might safely speculate that
Symeon’s upbringing in an aristocratic family and his early career at court ex-
posed him to elite secular literary culture before he entered the monastic life at
age 28. Yet the precise shape of Constantinople’s courtly love discourse in the
mid to late 10th century remains uncertain. Ancient novels, such as Leukippe
and Klitophon or Heliodoros’ fourth-century Ethiopika, circulated in learned
society. In the late 9th century, the patriarch Photios catalogued and registered
his appreciation of both works in his Bibliotheke; Achilles Tatios was known to
the tenth-century compilers of the Suda.52 In the 11th century, Michael Psellos
composed a literary-critical essay comparing both novels.53 A compilation of
ancient and late ancient poetry by Constantine Kephalas around 900 and its
copying in the manuscript known as the Palatine Anthology in the 10th cen-
tury by multiple scribes confirms an audience for Greek erotic epigrams.54
Byzantines themselves apparently did not produce new novels again until
the 12th century, from which four survive, including Theodore Prodromos’
Rodanthe and Dosikles and Eumathios Makrembolites’ prose romance Hysmine
51 On the marriage plot in the ancient Greek novel, see Whitmarsh 2011, 158–159, 165–169;
Morales 2004, 144–146, 228–229; in the Byzantine novel, see Garland 1990. On mixed emo-
tions in the ancient novel, see Fusillo 1999.
52 Burton 2008, 272–273. Photios, Library, codices 73 and 87 (Henry 1959–1977, 1:147–152;
2:11). Suda Lexicon s.v. Ἀχιλλεὺς Στάτιος (A 4695) (Adler 1984, 1:439), with the remarkable
claim that he ended life as a Christian bishop.
53 Dyck 1986, 90–99; Burton 2008, 273.
54 Cameron 1970; Cameron 1993, 97–99.
330 Krueger
and Hysminias.55 The earlier novels, and particularly Leukippe and Klitophon,
however, influenced the plot lines and languages of tenth-century hagiogra-
phy, including the Life of Theoktiste of Lesbos, the Life and Passion of Jason and
Sosipatros, and the Passion of Romanos.56
Symeon illustrates his relationship with God by employing familiar tropes,
reflecting a current and possibly continuous culture of erotic discourse in the
late 10th and early 11th centuries. In fact, Symeon’s poems themselves provide
critical evidence for the state of erotic discourse in the period.57 His works
demonstrate a willingness to access conventions of erotic narratives both to
explain and to experience divine love. While not necessarily evidence for actu-
al erotic practices, the erotic scenarios in Symeon’s writings offer a window on
the scope of Byzantine sexual fantasy, perhaps especially male sexual fantasy.
Indeed, the scenarios presented in Symeon’s corpus would seem to require os-
tensive referents beyond the text in the Byzantine sexual imagination in order
to be intelligible. To some extent, this realm recapitulates the unequal roles
of lover and beloved—whether male and female or male and male—already
established in ancient and late ancient Greek literature. God shows up on both
sides of the equation. Symeon’s repeated longing for or staging of acts of domi-
nation, possession, and constraint expose a construction of sexuality that is
hierarchical and even agonistic while remaining mutually pleasurable.
The lover’s approach and arrival occasion heightened excitement. In crisp
eight-syllable verse, Hymn 17 sets the scene for an encounter with the divine.
Symeon declares:
κάθημαι ἐν τῷ κελλίῳ
ἐν νυκτὶ ἢ ἐν ἡμέρᾳ,
συνυπάρχει ἀφανῶς μοι
καὶ ἀγνώστως ἡ ἀγάπη·
ἔξω δὲ κτισμάτων πάντων οὖσα
ἔστιν αὖ καὶ μετὰ πάντων·
I am seated in my cell
in the night or in the day.
55 For an overview, see Beaton 1996; also, Burton 2008. On Hysmine and Hysminias, see
Nilsson 2001.
56 Jazdzewska 2009, 264–267; Trzaskoma forthcoming a and b. For broader context, see
Messis 2014b.
57 For work on the history of sexuality in middle Byzantine monasticism, see Messis 2014a;
Galatariotou 1989; Kazhdan 1990; Rapp 2016, 162–170.
Love is invisibly
with me unbeknown to me.
Love is outside all creatures,
then again it is also with all things.58
Such a conventional theological declaration of God’s omnipresence leads to an

equally conventional description of the effects of loving on the lover.
ὡς οὖν πῦρ ψυχὴν θερμαίνει

καὶ καρδίαν μου ἐκκαίει
καὶ διανιστᾷ πρὸς πόθον
καὶ ἀγάπην τὴν τοῦ κτίστου·
And so as a fire it [love] warms my soul,

and inflames my heart (cf. Luke 24:32)
and excites it to desire
and to love of the Creator.59
In this scenario, love stokes more love, igniting desire for love itself. The be-
loved cues the lover’s ardour. Fire, in fact, offers a common figure at early stag-
es of romantic love. Thus in Theodore Prodromos’ romance, Dosikles worries
that a robber chief who has seen Rodanthe will “immediately succumb to the
fire of love / and will kindle a burning flame in his heart”.60 Such a love is sud-
den, rendering the victim powerless. He questions his beloved, “Do you feel
anything for me, are you pained in your heart? / Do you too burn from the fiery
darts of passion?”61 Symeon frequently invokes this cluster of metaphors that
links fire, longing, excitement, and suffering.
In Hymn 29, where Symeon offers one of the most complete explorations of
the emotional state of the lover of God, the speaker explains, “Longing ignites
58 Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 17.319–24 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:36; trans. Griggs
2010, 103).
2010, 103).
60 ἔρωτος εὐθὺς ὑποδέξεται φλόγα / καὶ πῦρ ἀνάψει λάβρον ἐν τῇ καρδίᾳ·: Theodore Prodromos,
Rhodanthe and Dosikles 1.103–104 (Marcovich 1992, 4; trans. Jeffreys 2012, 23).
61 πάσχεις δι’ ἡμᾶς, ἀλγύνῃ τὴν καρδίαν; / ἀντιφλογίζῃ τοῖς πόθου πυρεκβόλοις;: Theodore
Prodromos, Rhodanthe and Dosikles 2.297–298 (Marcovich 1992, 29; trans. Jeffreys
2012, 45).
332 Krueger
longing / and the fire increases the flame.”62 Again in the eight-syllable meter,
the longing itself become hyperbolic:
τὸ ποθεῖν οὖν ὅσον θέλω

ὑπὲρ πόθον πόθος ἔστι,
καὶ βιάζω μου τὴν φύσιν
ὑπὲρ φύσιν ἀγαπῆσαι·
And so to yearn as much as I wish

is a yearning beyond yearning,
and I force my nature
to love beyond [its?] nature.63
Earlier in the hymn, Symeon presents an extended account of his experience of

the divine, an uncanny ecstasy that becomes an eroticised game of approach
and avoidance. He opens by querying God about his sudden presence:
Πόθεν ἔρχῃ, πῶς εἰσέρχῃ,

ἔνδοθεν τῆς κέλλης λέγω,
πάντοθεν ἠσφαλισμένης;
From where do You come, how do You enter,

I mean into my cell,
which is secured on all sides (cf. John 20:19)?64
Rather like a romantic hero who makes his way secretly and unannounced into
his beloved’s dwelling, God enters into the dark space and illuminates it.65 The
encounter is as disordering as it is exciting. Symeon reports, “and I am beside
myself, and I am rendered / outside my senses and beyond words”.66 Although
he has been a sinner, God has called to him, and he is now obedient, at least
to a point. “He / called me to repentance / and immediately I followed / the
62 πόθος γὰρ πόθον ἀνάπτει / καὶ τὸ πῦρ τρέφει τὴν φλόγα: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns
29.316–317 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:336; trans. Griggs 2010, 228 [modified]).
2010, 228). Griggs translates, “beyond its nature”, but I am unsure whether the possessive
is warranted. On this passage, see also Koder 2010, 254–255.
218).
65 One thinks, for example, of the episode in Achilles Tatius, Leukippe and Klitophon,
2.23–26.
66 καὶ ἐξίσταμαι καὶ ἔξω / γίνομαι φρενῶν καὶ λόγων: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns
Master Who called me.”67 But the vocation of a disciple quickly becomes a
lover’s sport of hide-and-seek.
τρέχοντι οὖν κατέτρεχον·

φεύγοντι αὖ ἐδίωκον
ὡς τὸν λαγωὸν ὁ κύων·
μακρυνθέντος ἀπ’ ἐμοῦ δὲ
καὶ κρυβέντος τοῦ σωτῆρος,
οὐκ ἀπήλπιζον ἔγωγε,
οὐδ’ ὡς ἀπολέσας τοῦτον
ἐστρεφόμην εἰς τοὐπίσω,
ἀλλ’ ἐν ᾧ εὑρέθην τόπῳ
καθεζόμενος ἐθρήνουν·
ἔκλαιον καὶ ἀντεκάλουν
τὸν κρυβέντα μοι δεσπότην.
….
καὶ ἀφίπτατο, καὶ πάλιν
κατεδίωκον· καὶ οὕτως
ἀπιόντος ἐρχομένου,
κρυπτομένου φαινομένου,
οὐκ ἐστράφην εἰς τοὐπίσω·
And so when He ran, I left in haste,

and so when He fled, I gave chase
like a dog pursuing a hare.
But when the Savior was removed
and hiding far away from me,
I did not despair
nor did I turn backwards
as though having lost Him.
But in the place I found myself
I sat and wailed (cf. Ps 137:1 [LXX 136:1]),
crying and in turn inviting
the hidden Master to me.
….
He flew away, and again
I pursued, and thus
67 πρὸς μετάνοιαν δὲ εἶπον / ὅτι κέκληκέ με μᾶλλον, / καὶ εὐθέως τῷ καλοῦντι / ἠκολούθησα
δεσπότῃ: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 29.50–53 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:318; trans.
Griggs 2010, 220).
334 Krueger
going away, coming,

hiding Himself, appearing,
I did not turn back.68
Playing the coy object of pursuit, God would seem to desire Symeon’s striv-
ing and eagerness. Perhaps not entirely reassured, Symeon declares, “I did not
give up running, / I did not suppose that He was leading me astray, / or that
he was thoroughly testing me [cf. Jas 1:13].”69 God invisible, the “one not seen”
(29.88) can be remarkably difficult to catch. Symeon echoes the words of the
lover in Song of Songs 3:1, who walks about the city asking, “Have you seen him
whom my soul loves?”, Symeon writes:
ἐπληρούμην τε δακρύων
καὶ τοὺς πάντας ἐπηρώτων,
τούς ποτε αὐτὸν ἰδόντας·
….
τούτους οὖν μετὰ δακρύων
καὶ σφοδροῦ καρδίας πόνου
ἐπηρώτων τοῦ εἰπεῖν μοι,
ποῦ ποτε αὐτὸν κατεῖδον.
And I was filled with tears,

and I asked everyone
if they ever saw Him.
….
And so with tears
and the vehement yearning of my heart
I asked them to tell me,
wherever they saw Him.70
As in the biblical text, the seeking soul finds the lover, although (unlike the
speaker of the Song) he cannot immediately hold him and bring him “into my
mother’s house, into the chamber of her who conceived me” (Song 3:4). Symeon
runs with all his power and catches only a momentary glimpse. “Thence when
68 Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 29.54–65, 77–81 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:318–320; trans.
Griggs 2010, 220–221). For another treatment of chasing after God, see Hymns 18.31–36.
69 οὐκ ἐνέδωκα τοῦ τρέχειν / οὐδ’ ὡς πλάνον ἡγησάμην / ἢ πειράζοντά με ὅλως: Symeon the New
Theologian, Hymns 29.83–85 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:320; trans. Griggs 2010, 221).
70 Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 29.91–93, 105–108 (Koder 1969–1973, 2:320–322;
trans. Griggs 2010, 221).
I saw my desire [τὸν πόθον, or: ‘my longing’], / He was seen just a bit [μετρίως]
by me.”71 The game continues, although eventually Symeon allows that when
he separates himself from the world, presumably through rigorous asceticism
and contemplation, the invisible reveals himself. “Therefore—listen to me—,”
he nearly gasps, “He meets me and lets himself be found!”72
4 The Fantasies of Celibacy
To be sure, Symeon’s hymns narrate a divine erotics engaged under conditions

of expected celibacy. Indeed Symeon emphasises ascetic discipline as critical
to maintaining desire for God. Echoing John 14:6, he exhorts his listeners or
readers, “Yearn for Him and hate the world!”73 Not an abandonment of desire,
detachment from the world involves desire’s reorientation. But the paradox of
the passionate and the chaste in itself provides a pleasure in restraint, a coun-
terpleasure, as Symeon declares,
καὶ νεκροῦται παραδόξως

ζῶν ὁ ἔρως τότε μᾶλλον·
ζῇ γὰρ ἐν ἐμοὶ καὶ θάλλει.
paradoxically the passionate love [ἔρως]

is mortified while living even more,
for it lives and flourishes in me.74
And yet expression of this new love maintains continuity with the behaviours
of earthly love and its attendant emotions.
ἐπαπολαύω τῆς χαρᾶς τῆς ἀρρήτου καὶ θείας,

κάλλους αὐτῆς κατατρυφῶ, συχνῶς ἀσπάζομαι ταύτην.75
71 ὅθεν βλέπων μου τὸν πόθον / καθωρᾶτο μοι μετρίως: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns
72 οὗτος οὖν, ἀκούσατέ μου / συναντήσας εὕρατό με: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns
73 τοῦτον πόθησον καὶ μισήσεις τὸν κόσμον: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 57.6 (Koder
1969–1973, 3:270; trans. Griggs 2010, 398).
2010, 229).
75 Reading ταύτην with Kambylis 1976, 147 rather than αὕτην with Koder 1969–1973, 2:84;
however, the last three words of this line are conjectural. See the apparatus in both
editions.
336 Krueger
καταφιλῶ καὶ προσκυνῶ, χάριν ἔχω μεγάλην

τοῖς ἐμὲ προξενήσασιν ἰδεῖν, ἥνπερ ἐπόθουν,
καὶ τοῦ ἀφράστου μετασχεῖν φωτὸς καὶ φῶς γενέσθαι.
I revel in unspeakable and divine joy;

I make merry in love’s beauty, I often embrace,
I kiss it, and fall down in worship, I have great thankfulness
to those who have arranged for me to see what I was desiring,
to partake in the inexpressible light and to become light.76
The lover is smitten by what he sees; with his body, he worships. He holds his
beloved fast. Romantic kissing and devotional osculation are nearly indis-
tinguishable. Christian piety enacts an extended lovemaking. The fantasy of
absence makes the experience of presence all the sweeter.
This relationship between carnal desire and desire for God does not reduce
to a “mere metaphor” or simple binary, one that might erase the metaphor’s
referent by transferring its sense to another thing.77 Rather, knowledge of the
experience of one contributes to the indescribable experience of the other.78
Under these conditions, carnal and spiritual eros engage in mutual consti-
tution, shaping, defining, but not necessarily bounding each other. Thus in
Symeon, human love provides the frame of reference for the experience and
emotions of divine love. Even as human love pales before love of the divine
(“just as the shadow or the darkness of night cannot touch the sun”),79 human
longing offers the epistemological ground for Symeon’s love of God. On the one
hand, there is no better way for Symeon to express his love for God than to use
the language he must qualify. On the other hand, his carnal imaginary fleshes
123). On the immateriality of the light in Symeon’s thought, see Koder 2010, 259–263.
77 For the ways in which metaphors shape the reality they are used to describe, I have found
useful work on Medieval Kaballah. See Green 2002, esp. 19, 43–44; Haskell 2008. For ad-
ditional perspective from anthropologists, see Fernandez 1986; Turner 1991.
78 Symeon’s insistence that he be understood to be speaking “spiritually” is not grounded in
a rejection of the flesh (and here I disagree with Koder 2010, 252–255). Instead, he calls
on an exegetical distinction, most famously articulated in Origen’s On First Principles and
included in Gregory of Nazianzus’ Philokalia, between the plain sense of a text, the mean-
ing “according to the flesh”, and the meaning according to the spirit. Although Origen
posited that there were indeed some biblical passages with no “fleshly” meaning at all, in
most cases, the text could and should be understood on both levels. See Origen, On First
Principles 4.2 (Görgemanns and Karpp 1976, 649–730); Drake 2013, 42–45.
79 ὡς οὐδ’ ἡλίῳ ἡ σκιὰ ἢ τῆς νυκτὸς τὸ σκότος: Symeon the New Theologian, Hymns 46.39
(Koder 1969–1973, 3:116; trans. Griggs 2010, 335).
out an understanding of the spiritual that is always also incarnate. Symeon rev-
els in the language of bondage, describing himself as “gripped by your desire,
chained by your love”.80 Constraint becomes fulfillment, and longing becomes
an end in itself. What love then is this, this love of God, expressed in terms of
yearning, of desire extended and consummation deferred? It is the love of ro-
mance, a fantasy plotted along the outlines of Greek novels, a love suspended
and prolonged, a longing that entwines the separated lovers and enthralls the
monastic imagination.
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General Index
Achilles Tatius 321 Basil of Casearea/the Great 139, 184n, 188,

Aëtius of Amida 4, 40 243, 297
Ā’isha 213–214 Basilakes, Nikephoros 162n, 167–168, 174n
Al-Bukhārī 211n, 213 beauty 59–61, 233, 317, 326
Al-Hakīm Al-Tirmidhī 212, 213 physical 59, 304, 305n, 316, 320, 327, 336
Al-Nadīm 45–46 spiritual 59, 302, 305
Al-Qāyinī, Abū Ja’far 213–214 Bocchoris the Just 58
Al-Ṭabarī 209, 220–222 bride 297, 319
alchemy 43
Alexander the Great 119 Callinicus 110–111
Alexandria 111, 126, 190, 205 Calofonos, G. T. 8n, 122n, 143n, 183, 185,
Ammianus Marcellinus 111–113 189–190, 194, 208n, 209, 211, 215–217,
Anastasius, emp. 97–107, 111, 185n, 189, 190n, 218n
202, 216 Cassian, John 4, 20–22, 24–25, 29
Anastasius of Sinai 43–45, 199, 309 Cassius Dio 112
Andrew of Crete 293–295, 300–308 Cedrenus see Kedrenos
Andronikos Zarides 323 Chadiga 190, 205
Anonymus Valesianus 6, 99–101, 106–107 Chalcedon, Council of 39, 106, 190, 206n,
Antioch 104, 162–172, 176, 190, 199, 215 215
Antony the Great 22, 298 Chalcedonian 106, 162, 168, 215
Apocalypse of John 147–148, 296 Neochalcedonian 45
apocalyptic 6–7, 118–123, 128, 131–133, 174, Non-Chalcedonian 106, 169
210n, 218 Chonai 267–268, 281
Apophthegmata patrum 19n Choniates, Niketas 160n–165, 168–169,
Arab 208, 219n, 221–222, 260 170n–173n
Arabic 2, 4, 35, 41, 42, 45–46, 208, 209, Christ see Jesus Christ and Logos
212, 213n, 220n Christological 106, 215n
Aristotle 4, 24n, 36, 42, 65n, 83n, 231 chronicles (see also historiography) 158–160,
Aristotelian 38, 86, 212 168–170
Armenia 6, 11, 160, 164, 167 annalistic 217n, 220
Armenians 160–163, 166–173 Byzantine 102, 181–190, 215–219, 232
independence of 7, 164, 172, 176 Islamic 208, 210, 212, 219–222
Church 168, 173 universal 7
language 6, 46, 160, 161n, 219n Chronicon Paschale 102, 104
map of 164 chronography 209, 212, 215, 222
Armilos 6, 129–130 Church of the East 41, 45
Artemidorus 17, 85, 208n Cicero 59n
Athanasius of Alexandria 84–85, 281n, 294, Cilicia 7, 161–167, 169–171, 173–176
296–297, 303, 309 Claudian 6, 111n, 112
Attaleiates, Michael 232–234 Clement of Alexandria 3–5, 11, 22, 57–70,
Augustine of Hippo 91n 73–76
cognition 4, 11, 22, 43, 48, 49
Barsanuphius 18n cognitive science 18–19, 25–28, 29–30, 49
Basil I, emp. 143, 185n, 194–197 Collectio Avellana 104n
Basil II, emp. 176, 193nn, 228 Colossae 267–268, 272, 278, 281
344 General Index
communion 20–21, 29, 254n, 258, 300, 302, god-sent (see also revelation) 57, 66, 85,
310, 317, 322 189, 211–212
Constans II, emp. 6, 119, 122n, 131–132, mantic 61n, 210, 212
216–217 monastic 3, 17–30, 122, 294, 297
Constantine V (Kopronymos), emp. 190 portentous see dreams, prophetic;
Constantine VII, emp. (Porphyrogenitus) portent(s)
103, 185n, 192 prophetic 2, 5, 8, 68, 83–86, 90, 123–130,
Constantine VIII, emp. 185n, 193n 210–212, 216, 294n
Constantinople 2, 92, 100, 104, 106–107, 109, dynasty 6–7, 105–106, 112, 128, 212, 220
111, 119, 125, 131, 162–163, 165, 171, 175, 187, Heraclian 118–119, 123, 131–132
189n, 190, 194–195, 249, 255, 259, 271a, Macedonian 7 see also Konstantinos VII,
318, 329 Porphyrogennetos
Constantius II, emp. 112, 187
Corippus 6, 99, 107–111 earthquake(s) 8, 185, 190, 194, 204
court, imperial 6, 99–102, 107–111, 113, 115, Egypt 3, 18–20, 23, 127, 215, 219n, 221–222,
121, 124, 132, 140n, 165, 173–175, 234, 245, 233, 244, 253, 255
257, 329 emissions, nocturnal 17–18, 21–23, 25, 29
Cross, the 7, 175, 183n, 184, 186–187, 189n, 190, emperor(s) 2–3, 6–7, 11, 69, 85, 99–115,
202, 203, 216, 219, 241–242n, 267, 218 118–119, 123–125, 127, 132, 136–137,
Crusade, First 161–163 139–140, 145, 150, 152–153, 161–162, 165,
Crusade, Second 169n 166n, 168–176, 184n, 185n, 188, 190–197,
Cyril of Alexandria 204, 255–256, 258 202–206, 208, 216–219, 228–235, 241,
249n, 258n, 267, 274n
daydreams (see also dreams, visions) 5, 58, epiphanies 269–272, 286
60, 64–66, 67, 75 Eros/eros (see also desire, pothos) 60–62,
desire (see also eros, pothos) 58–59, 64–66, 66n, 138, 147, 149, 155, 316–317, 323, 329,
69n, 71, 73n, 136, 315, 319 336
erotic 4, 10, 18, 22, 25, 57–59, 71, 145, 296, eschatological 10, 120–121, 294, 300, 310
317–318, 321–322, 324, 326–328, 335–337 eschaton 121, 295, 300, 309
homoerotic 7, 137–156, 316 Eucharist (see communion)
repression of 3, 25–26, 28, 29n, 58 Eudoxia, empress 253–254, 257–258, 260
suppression of 4, 26–30 Eumathios Makrembolites 329
Diogenes of Oinanda 267n Euphemia, st 190
Dionysius the Areopagite 5, 73–74, 300n, Eusebius of Caesarea 69–70, 75, 281n
301n Evagrius of Pontus 2, 4–5, 11, 18n, 22n, 23,
disaster(s) 6, 124, 125, 128, 160 29n, 67, 70–75, 85, 297
dream (key) manuals 2, 8, 85, 208–209 Evagrius Scholasticus 101, 102n, 104nn, 105n,
dreams (see also daydreams, nightmares, 106, 109, 111, 188
visions) 1–11, 17–19, 25–28, 30, 44, 47,
57–75, 81–86, 89, 90–91, 99, 111–115, 119, fantasy/fantasies 3, 10, 51, 58, 67, 71–73, 230,
122, 142–145, 208–212, 230, 293–300 324, 326, 336
angelic 68n, 131, 202, 211, 213, 222, 242, erotic/sexual 10, 58, 69–72, 316, 318, 330
271, 298 Franks 160–162, 173
demonic 2, 58, 70, 75, 85, 198, 211, 212, Freud, S. 3, 17, 25–26, 28, 210, 326n
297–298 friendship 7, 136, 149, 154
dynastic 99–111
erotic/sexual 2n–3, 4, 10, 17–30, 57–58, Gabriel, archangel 190, 203, 205, 213, 217,
72n, 150 222, 278
homoerotic 3, 7, 10, 154–156 Galen 4, 36–37, 39n, 40n, 41n, 46n, 48
General Index 345
Gaza 3, 211 image/imagery 5, 60, 295

gender 10, 319 dream (see also dreams) 3, 22n, 64n, 84,
genre 3, 6, 8, 107, 120–122, 136–137, 139, 154, 86, 90–91, 210, 214, 293n
208–209, 212, 227, 230n, 235, 245, 323 holy (see also icons) 11, 204–205,
George Lakapenos 323 300–305
George of Alexandria 9, 256, 259nn, 260nn literary 145, 147–149, 174, 297–298, 301,
George of Pisidia 119 319
Great Kanon 294–296, 299–310 mental 18, 22, 64n, 72–74, 90–91, 293,
Gregory, exarch of Carthage 6, 122n, 131 301n
Gregory of Nazianzus 284n, 299n, 336n of God 276n, 303, 305
Gregory of Nyssa 3, 46, 281n, 284n, 297, 310, typological 301, 303–304
322 imagination 1–11, 17, 29, 35–44, 46–49, 68,
Gregory Palamas 91–92 71, 73–75, 82–83, 86, 90, 217–218, 228,
Gregory the Priest 161, 164n, 166n, 171–173 250, 254, 261, 301n, 318, 320, 324, 330,
337
hagiography (see also saints, Lives of ) 1–2, Italikos, Matthew 162n, 163n, 166n, 167, 170n,
8–9, 19–20, 85, 128, 140n, 195, 208–215, 171, 174n, 175n, 176n
222, 250, 256nn–260, 277n, 285, 298,
315n, 318n, 330 Jerusalem 92, 129–130, 160–162, 171, 174, 176,
healing 267, 268, 270, 273–275, 277–279, 187, 202–203, 221
282–283, 286 Jesus Christ see also Logos 10, 20, 68, 126,
Hellenists 22n, 57, 266, 268n 215, 222, 234, 269, 274n
Heraclius, emp. 118–119, 123–124, 129–131, crucifixion of 10, 310
205, 219 incarnation of 10, 39, 69, 184, 307, 310,
Herodias 257, 258n 317, 322, 337
Hesychius, priest 23n resurrection of 10, 18, 44, 58, 68, 187, 293,
Hippocrates 36, 43n 310
historiography (see also chronicles) 123, 160, John Chrysostom 9, 253–261, 303, 307n
211–212, 215, 222, 227–228, 230–234, 304, Johannite schism 249–250, 253–256, 258,
306 260
Homer 57n, 84, 141–143, 172–173, 233, 272 John Climacus 25, 85, 298
homoerotic (see also homosexual) 2–3, 7, John Geometres 322
10, 136–137, 140, 143, 319 John II Komnenos, emp. 7, 161–176
homophobia 7, 154 John of Damascus 4, 35, 44n, 45–49, 261,
homosexuality (see also homoerotic, sex/ 293n, 301, 310
sexual) 316 John of Dara 46
Ḥunayn ibn Ishāq 41–42, 45–46 John Stobaeus 59n
hymns/hymnography 1–3, 9–11, 129–130, John the Theologian 189, 280n, 281–282
260n, 286n, 293n, 295, 299, 301–308, Julian the Apostate, emp. 8, 112–113, 142,
315–320, 322, 324–329, 331–335 184n, 186, 187–188, 267, 269n, 283–285
Jupiter Optimus Maximus 111
Iamblichus, philosopher 49n, 231 Justin I, emp. 99, 101–107, 109n, 111, 189, 216
Ibn al-Adim 172n, 173 Justin II, emp. 99, 107–111, 115
Ibn al-Athir 162n, 163n, 167, 172n, 173, 176 Justinian I, emp. 103, 105, 107–110, 114, 189,
Ibn al-Nadim 45 202
icon (s) 11, 85, 130, 169, 190, 205, 242, 243n,
260, 265, 276, 301, 323 Kedrenos, George 102, 183, 185–187, 192,
acheiropoieta 85 196–206, 217n
iconoclasm 48, 189–190, 250, 260, 269n, 301 Khalifa ibn Khayyat 220
346 General Index
Kinnamos 162n, 163n, 165n, 166n, 167n, Michael III, emp. 143, 185n, 193, 218n
169–175 Michael IV, emp. 185n, 192n, 193n, 194n, 234
Konstantinos VII, Porphyrogennetos, Michael, archangel 127, 268–279, 283
emp. 7, 103, 136–155, 192 Michael the Syrian 163n, 169, 171n, 216n
Kozeṙn, Yovhannēs 160, 170, 172–176 Miskawayh 42
monastic(ism) (see also dreams, monastic)
letters 7, 45, 82, 85, 104n, 126, 130, 136–157, 3–4, 10–11, 18–19, 21–22, 25, 28–30, 72,
168–169, 210, 218, 233, 254–255, 258, 274, 122, 240, 259, 294, 297, 316, 318, 322, 329,
296–297, 319 330n, 337
liturgy 9–11, 129–130, 295 monk(s) 17–25, 29–30, 46, 70, 84, 91, 125, 190,
Byzantine 260n, 284, 294–296, 299–304, 193, 196, 199, 200, 205, 215, 217, 238n,
306–310 243, 261, 298, 318–319, 329
liturgical hymns—see hymns Moral Foundations Theory 250–253
Leo V, emp. 185n, 208 Moschus, John 215
Leo VI, emp. 186n Moses bar Kepha 46
Logos see also Jesus Christ 10, 57, 62–64, Muhammad 190, 209n, 212–214, 217, 222
73n, 92, 307
Longinus 301n Nemesius of Emesa 35, 38–39, 46, 48, 49n,
Longinus, brother of Zeno 105n 72
Neoplatonism (see also Platonism) 4, 44, 49,
Magdalino, P. 8n, 120n, 122n, 165n, 167, 168n, 57n, 70, 83–84, 86, 91, 243n
170n, 175n, 183–185, 192, 194–195, 197, Nero, emp. 111, 112n
208n Nerses of Lampron 168–169
Malalas, John 102, 104, 183, 184, 186, 187–190, Nicephorus Gregoras 5, 83, 85, 87–89
194, 197, 200–201, 216, 271nn Nicholas Cabasilas 306
Marcellinus Comes 104n Nietzsche, F. 92
Marcian 104n, 112–113, 184n, 188–190, 196 Niketas Choniates: see Choniates, Niketas
Marinus 36n Niketas Stethatos 315n, 317–318, 328n
Mark, monk 23–24 Nikolaos Mystikos 139
marriage 10, 105, 164, 193, 319, 324, 329 nightmare(s) 72n, 210–211, 259
Mattʿēos UṙhayecʿI see Matthew of Edessa novels, Byzantine 315, 321–322, 329–330, 337
Matthew of Edessa 160–162, 163n, 165n,
166n, 170–176 Odo of Deuil 169
Maurice, emp. 6, 118, 119, 123–128, 190n, 202, Orderic Vitalis 163n, 170n
204–205, 219 Origen of Alexandria 3, 5, 22–23, 43n, 57–58,
Maximus (the) Confessor 5–6, 38, 45, 46n, 67–70, 73, 75, 298, 322, 336n
72–76, 119, 122–123, 131–133, 295n, 299, Origenism 38, 249n
300n, 303, 322
medicine 35, 37, 41, 43 pagan(s) 9–10, 57, 68–70, 85, 187, 211n, 214n,
Meletius the Monk 46 218, 242n, 260n, 267, 269n, 271n, 272,
memory 1–4, 10, 72–74, 277n 274, 278–280, 284, 286
construction of 123, 249–261 Palaiologan 82–91, 322
cultural 9, 189, 250, 303 Palestine 45, 19, 218
liturgical 10, 295 Palladius 4, 11, 19–20, 22, 255n, 256–257, 259
location of 35–49 panegyric 6, 107, 230, 233
manipulation of 9, 189, 249 Persia/Persian 118–119, 123, 129–130, 160–161,
sacred 11, 295, 301 163, 172, 174–175, 212–213, 215, 218–219,
Messiah, the 6, 119, 123, 129–131, 319n 260
General Index 347
Philippikos, emp. 190, 196, 203 revelation, divine (see also dreams, god-sent;
philosopher(s) 2–5, 8, 11, 42–43, 45, 61n, epiphanies; visions, divine) 63–64,
66–67, 82, 102, 202, 209, 216, 231, 233, 67–68, 115, 121–122, 125–126, 133, 204,
245, 328n 212–213, 217, 277, 294, 296
philosophy (see also Aristotelian, Romanos the Melodist 300n, 307
Neoplatonism, Platonism, Stoic) 8, Romanos I Lekapenos, emp. 139
42–43, 49, 62, 83, 86–87, 123, 231–232, Romanos II, emp. 140, 208n
235–236, 239n, 243–245, 251, 293 Romanos IV Diogenes, emp. 175
Philostorgius 41 romance/romantic 10, 316, 318, 321, 323, 327,
Phokas (Phocas), emp. 118–119, 123–125, 128, 329–330, 331–332, 336–337
133, 205, 219, 234 Rome 92, 129, 187, 300n
Photios (Photius) 39n, 41, 329 Church of 215, 257n, 258n
pilgrim(s) 214, 265, 284, 286 saint(s) 8–9, 11, 44, 85, 125, 128, 189, 198, 208,
Plato/Platonism (see also Neoplatonism) 211, 214–215, 222, 236n, 256–257, 260,
5, 11, 35–36, 38, 57–64, 66–71, 73–76, 293n, 294n, 297, 304, 310, 323
83–87n, 91, 212, 231, 267n, 295, 297 Lives of (see also hagiography) 2, 9, 85,
Plotinus, philosopher 38, 44–45, 231 128, 214n, 218, 257, 298, 315n, 318n, 330
Plutarch 61n, 62 sanctuary 10, 265–268, 275, 277, 285
pneuma 5, 37, 39–40, 41n, 47–49 Sassanids 118
poem(s)/poetry (see also hymn(s)) 2, 10–111, Schism, Johannite 9, 249–250, 253, 260
121, 129–130, 144–147, 150, 152–153, Seneca 29n, 113
174–175, 294–295, 299, 301, 303, 317–319, Septimius Severus, emp. 112
322n, 325–326, 328n, 329–330 sex/sexual (see also erotic, homosexual)
Porphyry, philosopher 38n, 44n, 68n, 231 4–5, 10, 18–22, 26–30, 57–58, 66n,
portent(s) 3, 7–8, 111–112, 115, 193, 219–220 69–70, 75, 136–140, 144, 150–154, 316,
Posidonius of Byzantium 40–42 318–319, 321n, 330
pothos 315, 317, 321–323, 329 Sextus Empiricus 59n
Proclus, philosopher 36n, 231 shrine(s) 9, 11, 111, 214, 242n, 270, 281, 301
Procopius 101n, 102n, 103, 106, 112–114, Skylitzes, John 183, 185, 186–187, 192–201,
188 232–234
Prodromos, Theodore 163n, 170n, 174–175, Smbat Sparapet 163n, 164n, 165n, 166n,
321, 323–324, 329, 331 173n
prophecy (see also dreams, prophetic) 7, 47, Socrates, philosopher 53, 58–61, 64–67
70, 120, 122–127, 131–132, 160–162, 170, Socrates scholasticus 256–259
172–176, 197–198, 200, 203, 211, 227, 229, soldiers 8, 103, 106, 112n, 166, 188, 204, 208,
280, 282, 286 232
prophet(s) 190, 203, 206, 209–211, 213–214, Souda 140–142, 149–150
217, 220–222, 229n soul 5, 18–24, 35–38, 42–49, 57–66, 68–74,
Psellos, Michael 2–3, 8, 227–245, 329 82–84, 86–91, 146–148, 151–153, 156–157,
Pseudo-Clementines 57, 59 203, 235, 237, 239–240, 244, 293–294,
Pseudo-Martyrius 253–257, 259–260 299, 302–309, 316, 319, 324, 327–328,
Pseudo-Methodius 174n 331, 334
Pseudo-Nicephorus, patriarch 85 indivisible 49
Pseudo-Symeon 186, 196, 199, 200 irrational 47, 61n, 73n, 237
purity 4, 20, 25, 30, 69 parts of 23, 36, 49, 70, 84
rational 37, 45, 61n, 64–65, 73n
Qusṭā ibn Lūqā 41–42, 45 sleeping 24n, 43–44, 84n, 297, 308
Quintilian 64n, 274n Sozomen 19n, 256n, 257nn, 258–259
348 General Index
spring, healing 268–269, 274–275, 278–279, Usama Ibn-Munqidh 175n

286
Stephanus of Alexandria/Athens 42–43 Valens, emp. 41, 202
Stoic(s) 22–23, 36, 57–59, 61n, 62, 65–66, Valentinian, emp. 41, 184n, 188
69–70 Valentinian III, emp. 109n
Suetonius 111–112 vaticinia ex eventu 119–125, 127–129, 131,
Sufi(s) 212–214 210n, 218
supernatural 8–9, 85–86, 90–91, 121–122, 128, ventricle theory 37, 39n, 40, 42, 46–48,
133, 142, 185, 187, 299, 303 50–51
Symeon Logothete 184n, 196 vermis 41n, 42n, 50–51
Symeon the New Theologian 315–337 Vespasian, emp. 111
Synesius of Cyrene 2–3, 5, 11, 82–91 visions (see also daydreams, dreams) 5, 7–9,
Syria(n) 38, 45–46, 162, 163n, 166n, 170–172, 11, 60, 63–65, 82–85, 227–229, 237, 242,
175, 216 245, 258, 279, 286, 293–297, 299
Syriac 45–46, 128, 162, 219 angelic 68n, 121, 129–131, 213, 216–217,
270, 279–280, 282–283
temple(s) 9, 129, 184, 202, 271 divine 62–64, 82, 92, 184–187, 189–190,
Tarasios, patriarch 191 200, 203–205, 215–216, 266
Theodore of Trimithus 256–260 nocturnal 63–64, 82, 101, 103, 108, 112, 126,
Theodore Prodromos see Prodromos, 191, 202, 204, 270, 279, 286, 299
Theodore oneiric 84–85, 141–142, 187
Theodore the Stoudite 316n, 322 prophetic 5–7, 68, 91, 99, 102, 111–112, 123,
Theodoros of Kyzikos 136, 139–141, 143–147, 188–189, 191–192, 206, 294n
150–156 waking 7, 68, 112, 136, 140–143, 149–151,
Theophanes Confessor 6, 102, 111n, 183–184, 154–155, 193, 196, 203–204, 213, 271, 293,
186, 188–191, 194, 196, 2o1, 209, 216–218, 295, 297, 299
219n, 221–222
Theophanes Continuatus 122n, 140n, 143, William of Tyre 162n, 163n, 164n, 165–166,
194, 208n, 218 170–171, 174nn
Theophilus of Alexandria 9, 254–255, wisdom 8, 62, 66, 76, 108, 155, 212, 231, 244,
257–259 274, 321
Theophilus of Edessa 216, 219n worship 10, 130, 145, 169, 198, 214, 260, 269,
Theophylact Simocatta 6, 119, 122n, 123–128, 278, 284, 295, 322, 326, 336
131, 133, 218–219
Thessalonica/Thessaloniki 37, 85, 190n, 202, Xenophon 59n, 84n
217
treatises 2, 4, 36, 46, 111, 317 yetzer hara 57, 59, 75
on dreams 5, 82–85, 87–91
Turkey 265 Zerubbabel 6, 119, 123, 129–133
Turks 160–163, 167, 173–174, 176 Zeus 61n, 268, 274, 276n, 279, 286,
Tzetzes, John 174n

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Dreams, Memory and Imagination in Byzantium

Ken Parry (Macquarie University)

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

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Neil, Bronwen, editor.

Copyright 2018 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands.

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

An Introduction to Dreams, Memory and Imagination in Byzantium 1

1 The Dangers of Purity: Monastic Reactions to Erotic Dreams 17

2 Locating Memory and Imagination: From Nemesius of Emesa to John of

3 Daydreaming and Lusting after the Divine: Clement of Alexandria and

4 The Inner Source of Dreams: Synesius of Cyrene’s Reception in the

5 Dynastic Dreams and Visions of Early Byzantine Emperors

6 Dreaming of Treason: Portentous Dreams and Imperial Coups in

7 Desire, Dreams, and Visions in the Letters of Emperor Konstantinos VII

9 Dreams and Imaginative Memory in Select Byzantine Chronicles 183

10 Dream Portents in Early Byzantine and Early Islamic Chronicles 208

11 Psellos’ Use and Counter-Use of Dreams, Visions and Prophecies in His

12 Loyalty and Betrayal: Villains, Imagination and Memory in the

13 “As if in a Vision of the Night …”: Authorising the Healing Spring of

14 Dreaming Liturgically: Andrew of Crete’s Great Kanon as a Mystical

General Index 343

8.1 Map of Cilicia and the Near East, c. 1140 164

2.1 Illustration of the brain ventricles. The University Library, Cambridge,

SEG Supplementum Epigraphicum Graecum

The value placed on dreams, memory and imagination in Byzantine commu-

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/9789004375710_002

the interpretation and study of dreams is a living tradition in the post-Byzantine

Our main methodological consideration is the need to respect context, wheth-

2 See Guidorizzi 1980; Mavroudi 2002; Oberhelman 1991, 2008, 2014.

1.1 Dreams, Memory and Imagination in the Byzantine Philosophical

6 Scott’s chapter in this volume.

ideals of purity in their ascetic regimen. The eastern tradition of Evagrius of

(“inclination to evil”) when discussing destructive sexual desire, which was

1.2 Prophetic Dreams and Visions in Imperial Contexts

9 Rosen-Zvi 2011, 38.

prophecies had failed to materialise, until the eastern campaigns of John II

1.3 Dreams and Memory in Byzantine Chronicles and Encomia

12 E.g. Messis 2006, 823.

13 Calofonos 2014; Magdalino 2014.

1.4 Remembering the Saints in Hymns and Hagiography

Näf, B. (2004) Traum und Traumdeutung im Altertum (Darmstadt).

The Dangers of Purity: Monastic Reactions to

© koninklijke brill nv, leiden, 2018 | doi:10.1163/9789004375710_003

as to the doctrine of resurrection of the body, which required a more sustained

challenges by providing explanatory value to certain details preserved in mo-

1 Reactions to Erotic Dreams

To reconstruct the impact of the theological discourse on erotic dreams on

18 Coll. 22.6.2–4 (CSEL 13, 621–23).

2 “Within our Power”: The Ability to Control Erotic Dreams

As already noted, erotic dreams and nocturnal emissions served in Christian

whether we give or withhold our assent to representations that produce an

The cause of everything that happens to a person is something that per-

Since control of bodily functions begins with control of thoughts, by regulat-

consequenter eueniet, ut non solum multimoda cogitationum peruagatio

[It] consequently happens that not only do numerous roving thoughts

33 Mark the Monk, Disputatio cum causidico 18 (SC 455, 80).

In Freud’s theory of dreams, dreams potentially communicated forbidden

37 Climacus, Scal. 15 (PG 88, 881).

2 See Guidorizzi 1980; Mavroudi 2002; Oberhelman 1991, 2008, 2014.

6 Scott’s chapter in this volume.

9 Rosen-Zvi 2011, 38.

12 E.g. Messis 2006, 823.

13 Calofonos 2014; Magdalino 2014.

18 Coll. 22.6.2–4 (CSEL 13, 621–23).

33 Mark the Monk, Disputatio cum causidico 18 (SC 455, 80).

37 Climacus, Scal. 15 (PG 88, 881).

46 See Rachman 1981, 92.

49 See Wegner et al. 1990, 409–418. See also Wegner 1992.

1 Skiadas and Lascaratos 2001.

24 Known to Galen (May 1968/1, 398 and 414).

29 Photius, Bibliotheca cod. 40 (Henry 1959).

37 Stephanus of Athens, Hippocrates, Aphorisms I.1 (Westerink 1985, 37).

16 Colish 1985, 1.52–3; cf. De Harven 2017.

107 Stewart 2005, 16–18 and 26–33.

113 Eight Thoughts 2.20 = PG 79, 1152B.