Reality and Invention. Reflections on Byzantine Historiography

Reality and Invention Relections on Byzantine Historiography Ralph-Johannes Lilie I t is certainly unnecessary to present here yet another discussion about the signiicant role Byzantine historiography plays in the reconstruction of the history of the Byzantine empire. he loss of all secular archives and public records that might have provided insight into how the Byzantine administration and its oicials operated cannot be compensated for by the few surviving monastic archives and the isolated inds of documents salvaged more or less by chance. Nor can the remaining literary and non-literary heritage of the Byzantines adequately compensate for this lack. herefore, our image of Byzantine history is necessarily strongly inluenced by Byzantine historiography. his fact has oten led modern scholars to adopt uncritically information from Byzantine sources, without consideration of the underlying premises upon which Byzantine historians based their assertions and opinions. When consulting, for example, the still very popular History of the Byzantine State by Georg Ostrogorsky one can oten recognize an amazing correspondence between the author’s own conclusions and the testimonies found in the Byzantine historiographical sources he cites. To quote just one example from Ostrogorsky: the two emperors Herakleios and Basil II were the greatest emperors of the entire Byzantine era: “As late as the thirteenth century, a writer could still name Heraclius and Basil II as the greatest Emperors of Byzantium. hese names, which are indeed the greatest in all the history of Byzantium, together symbolize the heroic age of Byzantium, which had its beginning with dumbarton oaks papers | 68 the one and its conlusion with the other.”1 Aside from Ostrogorsky’s strong advocacy, as this comment demonstrates, of the premise that “men make history,” the assertion quoted above could very well be true. If one takes into consideration, however, that the portrait of Herakleios essentially derives from the glorifying epic by George of Pisidia and from chronicles or sources composed during Herakleios’s own reign, this positive image becomes quite relative, since it is ultimately based on propaganda disseminated by Herakleios himself and his supporters.2 Similarly, the portrait of Basil II is in essence fashioned ater the descriptions in the Chronographia of Michael Psellos, who was by no means interested in providing an objective account, but rather quite deliberately stylized him as the ideal emperor in order to contrast him positively with the emperors of his own time and criticize them. All facts 1 G. Ostrogorsky, History of the Byzantine State, trans. J. M. Hussey, rev. ed. (New Brunswick, 1969), 315 (= Geschichte des byzan­ tinischen Staates [Byzantinisches Handbuch 1.2 = Handbuch der Altertumswissenschat 12], 3rd rev. ed. [Munich, 1963], 261), with reference to the author Michael Choniates, who, however, in contrast to his brother Niketas Choniates, is not a historiographer. 2 On Herakleios, see P. Speck, Das geteilte Dossier: Beobachtungen zu den Nachrichten über die Regierung des Kaisers Herakleios und die seiner Söhne bei heophanes und Nikephoros, Poikila Byzantina 9 (Bonn, 1988); W. E. Kaegi, Heraclius, Emperor of Byzantium (Cambridge, 2002); G. J. Reining and B. H. Stolte, eds., he Reign of Heraclius (610–641): Crisis and Conrontation (Louvain, 2002); see, as well, the survey in R.-J. Lilie, Byzanz: Das zweite Rom (Berlin, 2003), 80–97. 157 158 Ralph-Johannes Lilie and deeds that proved inessential or even detrimental to this purpose Psellos intentionally omitted or re-interpreted with a positive slant. Only recently has a more balanced picture of Basil been drawn, though this has not yet found its way into general histories of Byzantium.3 In a similar fashion, Ostrogorsky regards John II Komnenos as the greatest emperor of the Komnenian dynasty, adopting the opinions of the two Byzantine chroniclers John Kinnamos and Niketas Choniates, who even refers to John II as “the crown of all [emperors] from the family of the Komnenoi.” Ostrogorsky, however, neglects to recognize that both authors depend on earlier sources, probably even sharing the very same source that, in turn, was a deliberate vehicle for Komnenian propaganda.4 Ostrogorsky is not an isolated case, but relects attitudes more or less common to previous scholarship in Byzantine studies, which was rarely concerned with questions of the reliability of Byzantine historiographers, tending instead to uncritically adopt and assume their testimonies and embrace their points of 3 On Basil II, see, for example, C. J. Holmes, Basil II and the Governance of Empire (976–1025) (Oxford, 2005); as well as P. Stephenson, he Legend of Basil the Bulgar­Slayer (Cambridge, 2003); see also the survey in Lilie, Byzanz, 246–56; as most recently PmbZ 2.1: Basileios (#20838); for the background of Basil’s image in the Chronographia of Michael Psellos, see A. Kaldellis, he Argument of Psellos’ Chronographia (Leiden, 1999); most recently R.-J. Lilie, “Fiktive Realität: Basileios II. und Konstantin VIII. in der ‘Chronographia’ des Michael Psellos,” in heatron: Rhetorische Kultur in Spätantike und Mittelalter, ed. M. Grünbart, Millennium Studien 13 (Berlin-New York, 2007), 211–22. 4 J.-L. van Dieten, Nicetae Choniatae Historia, CFHB 11 (BerlinNew York, 1975), 47.82–83: κορωνὶς ὡς εἰπεῖν τῶν ὅσοι Ῥωμαίων ἐκ τοῦ τῶν Κομνηνῶν γένους ὑπερεκάθισαν; Ostrogorsky, History, 376 (= Geschichte, 311); regarding the common dependence on a shared source, see most recently R.-J. Lilie, “Niketas Choniates und Ioannes Kinnamos,” in Realia Byzantina (Festschrit für A. Karpozilos), ed. S. Kotzabassi and G. Mavromatis, ByzArch 22 (Berlin-New York, 2009), 89–101; more common still is the conviction that Niketas Choniates consulted John Kinnamos as a source; see most recently A. Simpson, “Niketas Choniates: he Historian,” in Niketas Choniates: A Historian and Writer, ed. A. Simpson and S. Ethymiadis (Geneva, 2009), 13–34, 28; on Kinnamos in general, see also A. D. Karpozilos, Βυζαντινοὶ ἱστορικοὶ καὶ χρονογράφοι, vol. 3, (10oς–12oς αἰ.) (Athens, 2009), 625–61; M. Dabrowska, “Die Herrschat des Kaisers Manuel I. Komnenos in den Augen von Johannes Kinnamos,” in Macht und Spiegel der Macht: Herrschat in Europa im 12. und 13. Jahrhundert vor dem Hintergrund der Chronistik, ed. N. Kersken and G. Vercamer, Deutsches Historisches Institut Warschau, Quellen und Studien 27 (Wiesbaden, 2013), 419–31. view. his is certainly attributable, in part, to a general tendency among historians of the past to deem the testimony of sources to be reliable until the contrary was proven. It also had to do with the very speciic situation in Byzantine studies, in which a relatively small number of scholars were confronted with a large body of source material. It was considered more important to edit these sources irst and postpone the analysis.5 Because of this view, in the entire last quarter of the previous century only a few scholars devoted themselves to evaluating and commenting on Byzantine source material—including historiographical sources.6 An analysis of the idiosyncrasies of Byzantine historiography has, in fact, only just begun to be pursued with some intensity in the last two decades, whereas discussion of the historiography of antiquity and the Middle Ages has been carried on for much longer and with more substantial results.7 In Byzantine studies, on 5 One statement by J. Karayannopulos in the 1960s is quite typical, in which he declares that one should concentrate on providing scholarly editions of the sources and that the analysis, which was far less important, should wait; see J. Karayannopulos, “Hauptfragen der Byzantinistik der letzten Jahre,” Frühmittelalterliche Studien: Jahrbuch des Instituts für Frühmittelalterforschung der Universität Münster 1 (Berlin, 1967), 170–85. 6 One exception in German scholarship are the studies by Paul Speck, who concentrated on the chroniclers of the eighth and early ninth centuries, heophanes and Nikephoros, in particular. He encountered some opposition, however, and oten overtaxed readers with his overinterpretations. 7 I will conine myself to a few German studies treating the topic with the usual German thoroughness. See, for example: F. J. Schmale, Funktion und Formen mittelalterlicher Geschichtsschreibung: Eine Einführung (Darmstadt, 1985); G. Melville, “Kompilation, Fiktion und Diskurs: Aspekte zur heuristischen Methode der mittelalterlichen Geschichtsschreiber,” in Historische Methode, ed. C. Meier and J. Rüsen (Munich, 1988), 133–53; see also J. Fried, Schleier der Erinnerung: Grundzüge einer historischen Memorik (Munich, 2004). Fried takes a diferent approach than is discussed here, but likewise questions the traditional interpretation of historiographical texts. See, as well, the volume Von Fakten und Fiktionen: Mittelalterliche Geschichtsdarstellungen und ihre kritische Aufarbeitung, ed. Johannes Laudage (Cologne, 2003), which includes the especially important contribution of H.-W. Goetz, “Konstruktion der Vergangenheit: Geschichtsbewusstsein und ‘Fiktionalität’ in der hochmittelalterlichen Chronistik, dargestellt am Beispiel der Annales Palidenses,” 225–57. here are too many studies on classical historiography to list here. One more recent survey is provided in G. Marasco, ed., Greek and Roman Historiography in Late Antiquity: Fourth to Sixth Century A.D. (Leiden-Boston, 2003); some helpful fundamental observations may be found in the somewhat older volume Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, ed. C. Gill and T. P. Wiseman dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 159 the other hand, fundamental issues still require clariication, unless one rejects source-critical approaches altogether, as did W. T. Treadgold in 1998: My main disagreements stem from a very modern attitude that Professor Ljubarskij accepts but I cannot, that “there is no clear distinction between history and iction.” his may seem a permissible postulate when we approach history as literature, which Byzantine histories are and their authors intended them to be. he problem is that most Byzantine historians also meant their works to be scholarship, and if we disregard this intention we shall misunderstand both them and their histories. Besides writing literary compositions, they were generally trying to give a faithful picture of past events. hey were not generally trying to be impartial; the truth at which they aimed was most oten praising the good and blaming the bad, without distracting their readers with too many nuances. hey also sometimes tried to please, or at least to avoid ofending, emperors and other powerful people. But few Byzantine historians would have written something they believed false simply in order to produce an artful literary composition, as authors of iction routinely do.8 One might argue diferently from Treadgold in numerous ways, but the decisive question is whether Byzantine historiographers even considered the categories “false” and “true” in the same sense as contemporary historians. his issue will be examined here. Byzantine historiography has increasingly become the focus of scholarship in the last few years. Russianand English-speaking scholars have been especially (Austin, 1993), especially the two essays by J. L. Moles, “Truth and Untruth in Herodotus and hucydides,” 88–121 and T. P. Wiseman, “Lying Historians: Seven Types of Mendacity,” 122–46. I am greatly indebted to Margaret Mullett for drawing my attention to these two essays, and also for all her constructive criticism. 8 W. T. Treadgold, commenting on J. N. Ljubarskij, in Ljubarskij, “Quellenforschung and/or Literary Criticism: Narrative Structures in Byzantine Historical Writings,” SOsl 73 (1998): 57–60, at 58; likewise, W. T. Treadgold, he Early Byzantine Historians (Basingstoke, 2010), esp. xii–xv, 368–79; cf. also (in objection) R. Macrides, “Preface,” in History as Literature in Byzantium, ed. eadem (Farnham, 2010), ix–xi. active, while the Germans have been more hesitant.9 J. Ljubarskij, in particular, has devoted a number of essays to historiographical issues. Studies by A. P. Kazhdan, Paul Magdalino, and two volumes of conference papers must also be mentioned: L’ écriture de la mémoire (Cyprus 2004, published 2006) and History as Literature in Byzantium (Birmingham 2007, published 2010). Finally, Leonora Neville touches on the topic in her study on Nikephoros Bryennios published in 2012.10 In general, these studies discuss—on a highly theoretical level—the content and development of historiography in Byzantium. Most likely, this will in the long run lead to a reassessment that will then ind a place in general historical accounts. he governing focus is on attempting to determine the literary principles (of style and rhetoric) employed in Byzantine historiography and to analyze them from a primarily philologicalliterary perspective.11 9 Further German exceptions (in addition to P. Speck) are the heophanes commentary by I. Rochow, Byzanz im 8. Jahrhundert in der Sicht des heophanes: Quellenkritisch­historischer Kommentar zu den Jahren 715–813, BBA 57 (Berlin, 1991); as well as, most recently, L. Hofmann, “Geschichtsschreibung oder Rhetorik? Zum logos parakletikos bei Leon Diakonos,” in Grünbart, heatron (n. 2 above), 105–39; if German commentaries on Byzantine historians are published at all, they are mostly purely philological in nature, e.g., E. Pietsch, Die Chronographia des Michael Psellos: Kaisergeschichte, Autobiographie und Apologie, Serta graeca, Beiträge zur Erforschung griechischer Texte 20 (Wiesbaden, 2005), and do not deal with the issues under discussion here. 10 See, in particular: Ljubarskij, “Quellenforschung,” 5–73; L’ écriture de la mémoire: La Littérarité de l’Historiographie, ed. P. Odorico, P. A. Agapitos, and M. Hinterberger, Actes du IIIe colloque international philologique «ΕΡΜΗΝΕΙΑ» Nicosie, 8-7-6 mai 2004, Dossiers Byzantins 6 (Paris, 2006); Macrides, History as Literature; L. Neville, Heroes and Romans in Twelth­Century Byzantium: he Material for History of Nikephoros Bryennios (Cambridge, 2012); in the essay collections, one can ind discussions of large portions of earlier literature on the topic; in a very general context, see, as well, P. Magdalino, “A History of Byzantine Literature for Historians,” in Pour une “nouvelle” histoire de la lit­ térature byzantine, ed. P. Odorico and P. A. Agapitos (Paris, 2002) 167–84; for studies on individual Byzantine authors, see the respective sections of this article below. A comprehensive list of all studies cannot be provided here. We refer the reader to the well-known general surveys by H. Hunger, A. P. Kazhdan, A. Karpozilos, W. T. Treadgold, or J. Haldon, summarizing previous studies on this topic. 11 Surprisingly, even these studies only rarely include fundamental discussions; for which, see, for example, the work of Hayden White, even though White’s topics are largely contemporary (commemorating the Holocaust, for example). White’s work questions historiography as such; see Metahistory: he Historical Imagination in dumbarton oaks papers | 68 160 Ralph-Johannes Lilie It is not our intention—nor are we able—to compete with these studies. Rather, our approach is diferent, from the other side, as it were, with history as its point of departure. his approach does not strive to develop a theory of the evolution of Byzantine historiography, but is instead practical, concentrating on content and certain distinctive features encountered time and again when reading Byzantine historiographical texts. From this point of view, the distinction between chronography and historiography that is signiicant within other contexts is irrelevant in the Byzantine texts and can therefore be deliberately disregarded here. he problems under investigation here pertain to both “subcategories” of Byzantine historical writing; the diferences between them are, in our opinion, vastly overestimated. he fundamental problem is deciding whether these idiosyncrasies belong to a particular author or narrative tradition, or whether these supposed idiosyncrasies perhaps stem from the misinterpretations of the modern reader, who is rarely as well informed about the context of the described events as the Byzantine public was, especially when those accounts are contemporary with that public. In order to clarify this issue, we shall attempt to describe a few speciic examples in which Byzantine historiographical texts do not conform to our own understanding of what historiography should be. Ultimately, it comes down to two questions. First, how might we recognize and categorize these idiosyncrasies? he second question results from collecting and categorizing these idiosyncrasies: are the Byzantine historiographical texts merely “inadequate” predecessors of modern historiography, or are we dealing with an independent literary form, manifesting mental attitudes that oten appear quite incompatible with our own? In search of answers one is naturally tempted to consult the testimonies of the Byzantine historians themselves, found in a number of prefaces (προοίμια). here one oten reads that knowledge of the past is both essential and instructive for the present, that the historiographer must without exception adhere to the Nineteenth­Century Europe (Baltimore, 1973); Tropics of Discourse: Essays in Cultural Criticism (Baltimore, 1979); Fiction of Narrative (Baltimore, 2010). hese foundational issues have been discussed in Medieval Studies for quite some time. A discourse on White’s theories with respect to Byzantine history unfortunately exceeds the scope of this paper. truth, describe objectively both good deeds and bad, and so forth. In more sweeping terms—rarely are they named—an author will refer to predecessors whom he has studied. For more recent history, there is oten a general reference to eyewitnesses as sources. As a rule, this enumeration concludes with the admission that the author does not have the capabilities necessary for successfully completing such an endeavor and requests the reader to pardon any ensuing shortcomings. heophanes, for example, heavily emphasizes this ater relating that his friend George Synkellos had requested him to complete the work he had begun: As for me, not being unaware of my lack of learning and my limited culture, I declined to do this inasmuch as the undertaking was above my powers. He, however, begged me very much not to shrink from it and leave the work uninished, and so forced me to take it in hand. Being thus constrained by my obedience to him to undertake a task above my powers, I expended an uncommon amount of labour. For I, too, ater seeking out to the best of my ability and examining many books, have written down accurately—as well as I could—this chronicle from Diocletian down to the reign of Michael and his son heophylaktos, namely the reigns [of the emperors] and the patriarchs and their deeds, together with their dates; I did not set down anything of my own composition, but have made a selection from the ancient historians and prose-writers and have consigned to their proper places the events of every year, arranged without confusion . . . for I believe that one who reads the actions of the ancients derives no small beneit from so doing. May anyone who inds in this my work anything of value give proper thanks to God and, for the sake of the Lord, pray on my behalf of me who am uneducated and sinful.12 12 C. de Boor, heophanis chronographia (Leipzig, 1883), 4:2–19; he Chronicle of heophanes Confessor: Byzantine and Near Eastern History AD 284–813, trans. and comm. C. Mango and R. Scott with the assistance of G. Greatrex (Oxford, 1997), 1–2; on this preface, see also R. Scott, “‘he Events of Every Year, Arranged without Confusion’: Justinian and Others in the Chronicle of heophanes Confessor,” in L’ écriture de la mémoire, 49–65. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 161 Anna Komnene also follows in this vein, but is, however, suiciently self-conident to dispense with the usual reference to her own shortcomings: Whenever one assumes the role of historian, friendship and enmities have to be forgotten; oten one has to bestow on adversaries the highest commendation (where their deeds merit it); oten, too, one’s nearest relatives, if their pursuits are in error and suggest the desirability of reproach, have to be censured. he historian, therefore, must shirk neither remonstrance with his friends, nor praise of his enemies. For my part, I hope to satisfy both parties, both those who are ofended by us and those who accept us, by appealing to the evidence of the actual events and of eye-witnesses. he fathers and grandfathers of some men living today saw these things.13 On a later occasion she declares furthermore that she has used, in addition to her own records, testimonies from old eyewitnesses: he documents that came into my possession were written in simple language without embellishment; they adhered closely to the truth, were distinguished by no elegance whatever, and were composed in a negligent way with no attempt at style. he accounts given by the old veterans were, in language and thought, similar to those commentaries and I based the truth of my history on them by examining their narratives and comparing them with my own writings, and again with the stories I had oten heard myself, from my father in particular and from my uncles both on my father’s and on my mother’s side. From all these materials the whole fabric of my history—my true history— has been woven.14 13 D. R. Reinsch and A. Kambylis, Annae Comnenae Alexias, 2 vols., CFHB 40 (Berlin and New York, 2001), prol. 2, 3.37–45. Older edition: B. Leib, Anne Comnène, Alexiade, 4 vols. (Paris, 1937–76); he Alexiad of Anna Comnena, trans. R. E. A. Sewter (Harmondsworth, 1969), 18. 14 Anna Komnene, Alexiad 14.7.64-81; trans. Sewter, 461. Anna Komnene, however, by no means quotes these eyewitness accounts verbatim, but heavily revises them from a literary perspective, thereby following a tradition formed in antiquity that practically demanded such revision. Ultimately, this lent such a thoroughly literary design to the Alexiad that the aforementioned eyewitnesses would probably never have recognized themselves in the text. In other words, even a reference to concrete eyewitnesses like this must be regarded as a literary topos. Whether or not Anna ever consulted such accounts is therefore uncertain.15 Likewise, Niketas Choniates states: In recording ancient events and customs, the narratives elucidate human nature and expose men of noble sentiments, those who nourish a natural love for the good, to varied experiences. In abasing evil and exalting the noble deed, they introduce us, for the most part, to the temperate and the intemperate who incline to one or the other of these two scales . . . Whether the actions of a man during his lifetime were holy and righteous or lawless and contemptible, and whether he lived a happy life or gave up the ghost in evildoing, are proclaimed loudly by history.16 One could quote at random from almost any other preface in which this basic theme is used and varied again and again, which might lead one to conclude that the self-perception of the Byzantines was more or less consistent with the assessment of modern historians. On the other hand, however, the prefaces themselves are shaped by tradition, since they are in general modeled ater classical authors, especially hukydides, who claims to strive for the greatest possible objectivity. It is well known that he never achieved this; likewise, 15 One can therefore concur completely with M. Mullett, who states: “Anna’s identiication of truth with plasma means that in her terms her history is more true once she has combined the ‘bare truth’ of her informants with her classical understanding and rhetorical diegesis”; see M. Mullett, “Novelisation in Byzantium: Narrative Ater the Revival of Fiction,” in Byzantine Narrative: Papers in Honour of Roger Scott, ed. J. Burke et al. (Melbourne, 2006), 1–28, with citation on 28 (= M. Mullett, Letters, Literacy and Literature in Byzantium, Variorum Collected Studies 889 [Aldershot-Burlington, 2007], no. XI). On the corresponding classical tradition see, for example, Gill and Wiseman, Lies and Fiction (n. 7 above), passim, esp. 132–46. 16 Niketas Choniates, History 1; O City of Byzantium: Annals of Nicetas Choniates, trans. H. Magoulias (Detroit, 1984), 3. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 162 Ralph-Johannes Lilie Tacitus’s famous sine ira et studio is veritably contradicted in his works.17 Stated another way, the preface of a Byzantine historiographer, characterized as it is by topoi, does not necessarily have anything to do with the content or style of the subsequent work, as the example of Niketas Choniates illustrates, who raves in his preface about the great efort he put into cultivating a simple and clear writing style. A later reader was so incensed by the sharp contrast between this stated intention and the succeeding work that he even recorded his protest for posterity in a marginal note: “I do not know what you mean here, Choniates, when you say that when writing clarity is wisdom, and then you write complicatedly and ornately.”18 Except for their prefaces, most Byzantine historiographers before the eleventh century rarely manifest themselves in their works. Ater this, it becomes increasingly common for authors to speak of themselves, but even then it does not become the rule, and the remarks made seldom reveal anything about the individual author’s own views on writing history. Here one must also keep in mind that many of these authors, especially of the eleventh and twelth centuries, held high oicial positions and were thus themselves active protagonists in the politics of their time. his personal involvement can lead to a sense of obligation to explain their own actions and perhaps, at times, even credit themselves with greater importance than they actually had, as the case of Michael Psellos, perhaps the most famous “politician-author,” illustrates.19 17 On hukydides’ preface, see, for example, Moles, “Truth and Untruth” (n. 7 above), passim, esp. 98–121, who analyzes the “literary” portions of the preface, with particular focus on the interdependence of “literature” and “history.” 18 Marginal note in Niketas Choniates (van Dieten, Nicetae Choniatae Historia [n. 4 above], XXXII); on this, see most recently A. Kaldellis, “Paradox, Reversal and the Meaning of History,” in Simpson and Ethymiades, Niketas Choniates (n. 4 above), 75–99, at 76–77. 19 On the author’s personality and how he appears in his works, see the deinitive study of Macrides, “he Historian in the History,” in ΦΙΛΕΛΛΗΝ: Studies in Honour of Robert Browning, ed. C. N. Constantinides, N. M. Panagiotakes, E. Jefreys, and A. D. Angelou, Istituto Ellenico di Studi Bizantini e Postbizantini di Venezia, Bibliotheke 17 (Venice, 1996), 205–24. In addition to a general discussion, Macrides focuses primarily on Michael Psellos, Anna Komnene, and Georgios Akropolites, all three of whom—the former two, in particular—can hardly be regarded Aside from these considerations, however, one fundamental question remains. Does a statement a Byzantine author makes in his preface, following a tradition established in antiquity, declaring that he will recount the events truthfully and impartially just as they occurred, have the same meaning it has for modern readers? Did such terms as “true/untrue” or “real/ unreal” have the same value for him, or did he possibly have an entirely diferent understanding? his latter question will need to be examined as well.20 In what follows we shall attempt to sketch the various areas in which Byzantine historiographical texts display idiosyncrasies or where they may lead to misunderstandings. We shall present a number of concrete examples, which will allow us to analyze the speciic problems encountered. he basic areas to be examined are: 1. deliberate tendentious modiication; 2. characterization by deeds; 3. sensationalism and overdramatization; 4. bon mots and sayings; 5. epic as “normal” examples of Byzantine historiographers; on Anna Komnene, see also Mullett, “Novelisation,” 8–14, as well as the volume of T. Gouma-Peterson, Anna Komnene and Ηer Times (New York-London, 2000); on Psellos, see now S. Papaioannou, Michael Psellos, Rhetoric and Authorship in Byzantium (Cambridge, 2013); on autobiographical elements in Byzantine historiographical texts in general, see M. Hinterberger, Autobiographische Traditionen in Byzanz (Vienna, 1999), esp. 295–343. I would like to express my gratitude toward an anonymous peer-review reader of the Dumbarton Oaks Papers for drawing my attention to the last two studies. 20 his statement is, of course, quite sweeping and general. A thorough analysis of the prefaces cannot be provided here. But see, among others, H. Lieberich, Studien zu den Prooimia in der griechischen und byzantinischen Geschichtsschreibung, vol. 2: Die byzantinischen Geschichtsschreiber und Chronisten (Munich, 1900); R. Maisano, “Il problema della forma letteraria nei proemi storiograici bizantini,” BZ 78 (1985): 329–43; H.-A. héologitis, “La Forza del Destino: Lorsque l’histoire devient littérature,” in L’ écriture de la mémoire (n. 10 above), 181–219, esp. 187–93; most recently S. Papaioannou, “he Aesthetics of History: From heophanes to Eustathios,” in Macrides, History as Literature, 3–21; in particular, on the frequently mentioned preface of Niketas Choniates, see most recently Simpson, Niketas Choniates (n. 4 above), 26–27 (with older literature), who notes that Niketas exhibits a strong reliance on Diodorus in his preface; eadem, “From the Workshop of Niketas Choniates: he Authority of Tradition and Literary Mimesis,” in Authority in Byzantium, ed. P. Armstrong, Centre for Hellenic Studies, King’s College London, Publications 14 (Farnham, 2013), 259–68, at 264– 65; see also Kaldellis, “Paradox,” 56–78. On the true/untrue polarity, see as well the fundamental considerations of Wiseman, Lying Historians (n. 7 above), passim. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 163 elements; 6. problems of terminology; 7. the supernatural; 8. “timeless” episodes; and 9. anonymous quotations. With this approach, certain overlaps in the problems under discussion are not only unavoidable, but will, in fact, be the rule. If the diferent categories are nevertheless treated separately, this is to better accentuate the individual themes. hese questions will be discussed in greater detail in the individual sections. he decisive question, trivial as it may appear at irst, is and remains: What is the author’s intention? Does he “only” wish to inform about and explain what has transpired, without ulterior motives? Or is he pursuing certain objectives, such as to demonstrate the workings of God or the devil in the world, or to please or criticize the current rulers? If he refers to himself, is it to defend or to draw attention to his own person? Or does he primarily desire to create an “appealing” and ambitious literary work that will at once entertain his audience and also demonstrate his own intellectual abilities? Upon which sources is he himself dependent? Does he quote them verbatim, or does he manipulate them? If yes to the latter, to what purpose? Naturally, the very same questions must also be asked of these sources. he work of any author is always a relection of his own personality, as well as his aspirations and notions. We can certainly presume that he did not write for himself alone, but rather for a particular audience whose opinion he valued. his, in turn, means that he needed, at least in part, to make some allowances for the expectations of his audience. What type of audience did he have, what were its expectations, and to what extent did the author comply? How do literary conventions play a role, and could an author, should occasion arise, disregard them? In the case of modiications to quoted source materials, was the author even aware of these? And inally: to what degree do our own expectations of how a historian should write inluence our perception?21 he principal question of the entire discussion concerns the extent to which the—presupposed—efort to deliver a correct account of events collides with a Byzantine author’s literary 21 On this question within a broader context, see M. Mullett, “Dancing With Deconstructionists in the Gardens of the Muses: New Literary History vs ?” BMGS 14 (1990): 258–75, esp. 268–72 (= Letters, Literacy and Literature [n. 15 above], no. XVI). aspirations, and perhaps also with the development of the genre.22 It is utterly clear, of course, that it is impossible to provide an exhaustive answer in a single study, rather that we must instead content ourselves with a few cases in point that best illustrate the argument. We have therefore chosen cases that are particularly selfexplanatory and require no further explication. Anyone can easily extend the list. It goes without saying that the selections as well as the categorizations are highly subjective.23 Other scholars are likely to emphasize other themes or perhaps come to diferent conclusions. It is our intention here to open up pathways for a discussion of a variety of phenomena that, in our opinion, have previously been neglected by scholarship, but considered together might contribute to a new approach for the analysis of Byzantine historiography. 1. Deliberate Tendentious Modification he deliberate shaping of their accounts in accord with speciic intentions and convictions is not conined to Byzantine or even classical or medieval historiographers, but continues into the practice of contemporary historians. In what follows we shall attempt to demonstrate that such modiications are by no means limited to concrete characterizations and great events of state, but are even manifest in small bits of information that may appear entirely innocent at irst glance. We shall also examine (with a few examples) the methods Byzantine authors employed when dealing with people of whom they disapproved.24 22 See the methodological considerations of héologitis, “La Forza del Destino,” especially at the beginning and the end of his article. 23 We will discuss examples from about twenty diferent authors, who wrote between the sixth (Procopius) and iteenth (Doukas) centuries. Our focus will be on the period between the seventh and twelth centuries. Most of these authors were analyzed in the course of my research for the project Prosopographie der mittelbyzantinischen Zeit (PmbZ). I would like to take this opportunity to thank my former colleagues for many fruitful discussions. he topic is so broad, not only from the aspect of the timeframe but also the number of authors, that it is impossible to provide a comprehensive bibliography for every author and each category discussed here. For further literature, I therefore request that the reader consult the cited works. 24 he examples given in any individual section of this article could oten just as well have been used to illustrate another section, in this case, for example, no. 2 (Characterization by Deeds). dumbarton oaks papers | 68 164 Ralph-Johannes Lilie Examples An item that appears entirely believable at irst glance is contained in the so-called Logothete Chronicle concerning Emperor Basil I (867–886) on the occasion of the Arab conquest of Syracuse in Sicily in the year 878: the author ultimately ascribes the fall of the city to the fact that the relief leet did not arrive in time to avert its fall. his delay, however, was the fault of the emperor, who had employed the soldiers in the palace district for the construction of the Nea church: ἀσχολουμένων δὲ τῶν πλοΐμων ἐν τοῖς κτίσμασιν καὶ ἐκχοϊσμοῖς τῆς Νέας ἐκκλησίας ἐγένετο βραδύτης τοῦ στόλου καὶ τοῦ λαοῦ, καὶ παρεδόθη ἡ αὐτὴ Συράκουσα πρὸ ὀλίγου πρὶν ἢ φθάσαι τὸν στόλον.25 At irst glance, this claim appears quite credible. he Nea was the irst new church to be built within the palace district for quite some time and was evidently for Basil I an extremely prestigious project. In this respect, one might be somewhat amazed that the emperor, who was otherwise known for his pragmatism, would accept the fall of an important provincial city so as to complete sooner the construction of a church, but worse things were known to have occurred in Byzantine history. he whole story becomes rather suspicious, however, when the Logothete Chronicle repeats the exact same accusation twenty-four years later, when condemning Emperor Leo VI (886–912) for causing the fall of Taormina in Sicily, because he retained the crews of the leet in Constantinople to employ them for the construction of a church in memory of his deceased irst wife, heodora. Even the wording is similar: ἀσχολουμένου δὲ τοῦ στόλου εἰς τὰ κτίσματα τῶν τοιούτων ἐκκλησίων παρελήφθη ἐν Σικελίᾳ τὸ Ταυρομένιν ὑπὸ τῶν Ἄφρων.26 25 S. Wahlgren, Symeonis magistri et logothetae chronicon, CFHB 44.1 (Berlin-New York, 2006), 132.77–80; I. Ševčenko, Chronographiae quae heophanis continuati nomine fertur liber quo Vita Basilii Imperatoris amplectitur, CFHB 42 (Berlin and New York, 2011) (= heoph. cont. 5 [Bonn, 1838]) 69, 309.23–310.7; 238.10–240.28, on the other hand, explains that the leet was held up by adverse winds and therefore only made it as far as Monembasia when the news of the fall of Syracuse reached them; on Basil I’s reign, see PmbZ 2.1: Basileios I. (#20837); in general, on the Vita Basilii (= heoph. cont. 5), which was either written by Basil’s grandson Constantine VII himself or at least commissioned by him, see also A. D. Karpozilos, Βυζαντινοὶ ἱστορικοὶ καὶ χρονογράφοι, vol. 2, 8 ος–10ος αἰ. (Athens, 2002), 331–43, as well as, in particular, Ševčenko in his new edition of the Vita Basilii (= heoph. cont. 5). 26 Symeon log. 133.238–41; almost identical wording is found in heoph. cont.: I. Bekker, heophanes Continuatus, Ioannes Considering the great similarity between the two episodes, it can very well be assumed that at least one of them was composed with knowledge of the other. One possible explanation valid for both cases would be that the author intended to depict the emperor as the party responsible for the catastrophe in Sicily. If we were to accept both reports as true, however, that would mean that within a mere twenty-ive years the exact same situation had arisen with the exact same conduct, the same outcome, and with a practically identical description. What is interesting in this context, however, is that the chronicle of heophanes Continuatus, usually quite favorably inclined toward the Macedonian dynasty, relates the story of the delay of the leet due to Leo VI’s church project. Since this chronicle is usually dated earlier than the Logothete Chronicle, this could mean that the whole episode was irst written in the context of the fall of Taormina in 902, and later transposed to the fall of Syracuse in 878 in the Logothete Chronicle. One issue remains unsettled: whether the explanation for the fall of Syracuse or Taormina is even cogent, or if it already constitutes a defamation. An argument in favor of the latter would be that the construction of the Nea was a project of great prestige for Basil I, since it was the largest new church built in Constantinople in a long time. Generally, the construction of churches, the foundation and patronage of monasteries, and other pious works were regarded as an emperor’s duty, and usually won him great acclaim. By Cameniata, Symeon Magister, Georgius Monachus (Bonn, 1838), 1–481, 6:18, 365.3–6. he reference by heoph. cont. is a bit surprising, since this work is generally quite favorably inclined toward the Macedonian dynasty; Leo VI is not mentioned by name, however. In what immediately ensues, the Logothete Chronicle blames drun­ garios ton ploïmon Eustathios and the other commanders, and even portrays them as traitors: τῇ ἀμελείᾳ, μᾶλον δὲ προδοσίᾳ Εὐσταθίου, δρουγαρίου τῶν πλοΐμων. . . . his passage is missing in heoph. cont.; on Leo VI, see PmbZ 2.4: Leon VI. (#24311); on both sources, see also A. Kazhdan, A History of Byzantine Literature (850–1050), ed. C. Angelidi, he National Hellenic Research Foundation, Institute for Byzantine Research, Research series 4, vol. 2 (Athens, 2006), 162–70 (Logothete Chronicle); 137–52 (heoph. cont.); PmbZ 1, Prolegomena: 20; PmbZ 2, Prolegomena: 3–5 (Logothete Chronicle); PmbZ 1, Prolegomena: 16–17; PmbZ 2, Prolegomena: 1–3, 10 (heoph. cont.); Karpozilos, Historikoi 2:391–473 (Logothete Chronicle); 345–66 (heoph. cont.); in particular, on the irst three books of heoph. cont., see J. Signes Codoñer, El periodo del segundo iconoclasmo en heophanes Continuatus: Análisis y comen­ tario de los tres primeros libros de la crónica, Classical and Byzantine Monographs 33 (Amsterdam, 1995). dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 165 associating the construction of the Nea with the loss of Syracuse to the Arabs, the gain in prestige through its construction was counteracted, since it had enabled the simultaneous loss of a Christian city to the inidels and was thereby more than counterbalanced. In the case of Leo VI, one must recall that this emperor had been harshly criticized for his separation from his irst wife heodora, who was later revered as a saint for a time, and for his subsequent three marriages. hus, in this case, even the building of a new church, which could be interpreted as a sign of repentence on Leo’s part, became a sign of the iniquity of Leo, who had, as it were, sacriiced Taormina in penance for his personal wrongdoings. Of course, we may also observe the opposite case: the chronicler heophanes describes Emperor Constantine V’s wars against the Bulgars, including the emperor’s great victory in the year 763. his victory is also mentioned in the parallel account by Nikephoros. In his Antirrhetikos, however, written some thirty years later, this victory has suddenly become transformed into a disastrous defeat, in which almost the entire Byzantine force was let behind on the battleield. Nikephoros’s hostile attitude toward the iconoclast Constantine V is not the only reason for this falsiied account. More signiicant were the current circumstances under which Nikephoros launched his invectives against the Iconoclasts: the Byzantine Empire had been successful under Constantine V’s rule and had forced the Bulgars to the brink of subjugation. his changed ater the emperor’s death. Awkwardly enough, these failures increased ater the Byzantines condemned Iconoclasm as heretical at the seventh Ecumenical Council of Nicaea in 787 and returned to Orthodoxy. he empire had been in a particularly precarious situation just at that time when Nikephoros was composing his Antirrhetikos: the Byzantine Empire had sufered numerous heavy defeats, Emperor Nikephoros I himself had fallen in combat—the irst emperor to meet that fate since Valens in 378. In this situation, the voices of those who blamed these failures on the emperor’s renunciation of Iconoclasm grew increasingly loud. his would appear justiiable, since the emperor who had celebrated the greatest victories over the Bulgars was the very same Constantine V who had been the leading advocate of Iconoclasm in the second half of the eighth century. Nikephoros reacted to this problem simply by denying the emperor’s victories, well known to him as his previous work demonstrates, and transforming them into defeats. It goes without saying that the opposite could also occur, when historiographers fashioned their accounts according to their own intentions and interests, instead of according to fact.27 he fundamental diiculty in assessing these narratives is that very oten there are no other sources available for comparison. Especially for the middle Byzantine era, many historical works ultimately derive from only a very few common sources, whose tendencies are nearly impossible to establish. he cases in which an entire reversal of actual events is encountered are generally rare; more common are a toning down or elaboration, according to bias. his is also—and in particular—true for the depiction of Constantine V’s wars against the Bulgars in the eighth century by iconodule chroniclers of later times.28 When Byzantine historians intend to praise or defame principal igures—and the latter is more frequent—they usually present a lengthy discussion of their motives, which leads to moralizations on their respective characters. his occurs by means of appropriate attributes as well as descriptions of smaller episodes that throw a proper light on the protagonists. Let us take a closer look at a few notable examples: the Byzantine chronicler heophanes reports for the year 719: 27 heophanes, Chronicle 433.5–10; Rochow, “Kommentar” (n. 9 above), 179; eadem, Kaiser Konstantin V. (741–775): Materialien zu seinem Leben und Nachleben, BBS 1 (Frankfurt, 1994), 95–96; C. de Boor, Τοῦ ἐν ἁγίοις πατρὸς ἡμῶν Νικηφόρου πατριάρχου Κωνσταντινουπόλεως ἱστορία σύντομος ἀπὸ τῆς Μαυρικίου βασιλείας, Nicephori archiepiscopi Constantinopolitani opuscula historica (Leipzig, 1880), 1–77, 69.13–18; C. Mango, Nikephoros Patriarch of Constantinople, Short History: Text, Translation, and Commentary, CFHB 13, Series Washingtonensis = DOT 10 (Washington, D.C., 1990), 76 p. 148.11–16; Nicephori Patriarchae Cp. Antirrheticus III adversus Constantinum Copronymum 72 (PG 100:508A–B); on Constantine V see PmbZ 1.2: Konstantinos V. (#3703); that heophanes “rearranged” his sources if he deemed it necessary to better clarify his intentions was demonstrated by Scott, “Events,” 60–64; see also Kazhdan, Literature, 2:205–34 (on heophanes, in general) and 211–14 (on Nikephoros); PmbZ 1, Prolegomena: 13–15 (heophanes); 15–16 (Nikephoros); Karpozilos, Historikoi 2:17–185 (heophanes); 2:61–68 (Nikephoros). 28 See Rochow, Konstantin V., 93–102. In this article the terms “chronicle/chronicler” and “historian/historiographer” are used as synonyms, except on those few occasions when the diference between the genres is explicitly discussed. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 166 Ralph-Johannes Lilie In this year a son was born to the impious emperor Leo, namely the yet more impious Constantine, the precursor of the Antichrist . . . While the archbishop Germanos was baptizing there the successor to their wicked empire, namely Constantine, a terrible and evil-smelling sign was manifested in his very infancy, for he defecated in the holy font, as airmed by actual eyewitnesses. Whereupon the most holy patriarch Germanos declared prophetically that that sign denoted the great evil that would befall the Christians and the Church on account of Constantine.29 here is no cause for a discussion here as to whether or not it is physically possible for a small infant to emit “a terrible and evil-smelling sign” while relieving himself, but it is entirely impossible that this incident ever occurred in this manner. Any patriarch who declared in the presence of the reigning emperor, in full public at a solemn religious ceremony, the son and heir to the emperor’s throne a calamity for all Christians and the Church certainly would not have lived another ten minutes ater such a display of audacity, at least not in his capacity as patriarch. he whole choice of words manifests the chronicler’s profound loathing for the infant being baptized, the future Constantine V. his antipathy is well known and also predictable, since heophanes was, as we have mentioned, a fervent advocate of the verneration of icons, whereas Emperor Constantine V was its most vehement adversary, a heretic, whom the chronicler viliies accordingly. His biased account is, therefore, quite explicable, although entirely implausible because of the great exaggeration. hat the patriarch cannot have caused any stir at the baptism is evident from heophanes’ entry for the following year—this time without any comment—in which he briely relates that Constantine was crowned emperor by his father: “he customary prayers were recited by the blessed patriarch Germanus.”30 29 heophanes, Chronicle 400.3–17; trans. Scott and Mango, 551; on this passage, see Rochow, “Kommentar,” 99. 30 heophanes, Chronicle 401.9–12: Τούτῳ τῷ ἔτει ἰνδικτιῶνος γ´, τῇ ἡμέρᾳ τοῦ πάσχα, ἐστέφθη Κωνσταντῖνος ὑπὸ Λέοντος, τοῦ πατρὸς αὐτοῦ, ἐν τῷ τριβουναλίῳ τῶν ιθ´ ἀκουβίτων, τοῦ μακαρίου Γερμανοῦ τοῦ πατριάρχου ποιήσαντος τὰς πρὸς συνήθειαν εὐχάς; trans. Scott and Mango, 554. heophanes relates and interprets the fate of other Iconoclasts in a similar way, for example, the death of Emperor Leo IV in the year 780: “On 8 September of the 4th indiction Constantine’s son Leo died in the following manner. Being inordinately addicted to precious stones, he became enamoured of the crown of the Great Church, which he took and wore on his head. His head developed carbuncles and, seized by a violent fever, he died ater a reign of ive years less six days.”31 his account is deinitely false as well, since we can rule out entirely that a Byzantine emperor would have misappropriated one of the votive crowns hanging in the Hagia Sophia. But it corresponds to the generally negative portrait heophanes tends to render of Leo IV. We may thus readily classify this under the anti-iconoclastic tendency encountered elsewhere in heophanes’s chronicle: a deliberate attempt to vilify the iconoclastic emperor and to portray his death as divine punishment. Such falsiication is not restricted to the Iconoclastic dispute, but is encountered again and again.32 It is clearly evident in the Logothete Chronicle, known for its extremely critical stance on the Macedonian dynasty. Ater his coronation in 867, Basil I deposed Patriarch Photios and recalled Patriarch Ignatios, who had been overthrown by his predecessor Michael III. his deposition is in all probability attributable to national and international political considerations. he Logothete Chronicle, however, states another reason: Photios was deposed because he had called the emperor a robber and a murderer and unworthy to celebrate Mass, when he had wanted to celebrate the liturgy together with him. Basil had thereupon called upon Rome and, together with the Roman bishops, issued a decree banishing Photios and restoring Ignatios to the patriarchal throne.33 When one recalls, however, that 31 heophanes, Chronicle 453.26–29; trans. Scott and Mango, 625, 107; see Rochow, “Kommentar,” 228; on Leo IV, see PmbZ 1.2: Leo IV. (#4243); in general, on the problem of sources of the iconoclastic era, see most recently L. Brubaker, Inventing Byzantine Iconoclasm (London, 2012). 32 On two earlier examples from the early ith century, see R. Scott, “From Propaganda to History to Literature: he Byzantine Stories of heodosius’ Apple and Marcian’s Eagles,” in Macrides, History as Literature, 115–31. 33 Symeon log. 132.35–40: Φώτιος δὲ ὁ πατριάρχης ἐλθόντος τοῦ βασιλέως ἐν τῇ ἐκκλησίᾳ καὶ μέλοντος αὐτοῦ κοινωνεῖν τοῦτον λῃστὴν καὶ φονέα ἔλεγεν καὶ ἀνάξιον τῆς θείας κοινωνίας. On Basil I, dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 167 Photios did not fall into immediate disfavor, but was instead appointed tutor to the imperial princes and in 877 resumed the patriarchal throne a second time ater Ignatios’s death, the claims of the Logothete Chronicle are clearly seen as false. Another example of this type of defamation is found in Michael Psellos’s portrayal of Emperor Constantine VIII, from which we have chosen only one passage to discuss in detail. In chapter seven of the section on Constantine VIII, Psellos relates the following on the emperor’s physical condition: “Being dominated by his gluttony and sexual passions, he became alicted with arthritis, and worse still, his feet gave him such trouble that he was unable to walk. hat is why, ater his accession, no one saw him attempt to walk with any conidence; he used to ride on horseback, in safety.” In the chapter immediately following, Psellos describes the emperor’s passion for theater and sports events, in which he also actively participated: “he gymnopo­ dia [recte: gymnopaidiai], long ago neglected, was also revived in his reign. He reintroduced it into the theatre, not content with the emperor’s normal role of spectator, but himself appearing as a combatant, with opponents. It was his wish, moreover, that his rivals should not be vanquished simply because he was the emperor, but he liked them to ight back with skill—his own credit for the victory would thus be greater.”34 he descriptions are mutually exclusive. Whether either of them are true can no longer be determined. Considering that Constantine was sixty-ive when he came to power, the former is the more probable, but that is insigniicant. One can even presume that Psellos quite deliberately see PmbZ 1.1: Basileios I. (#832); PmbZ 2.1: Basileios I. (#20837); on Ignatios, see PmbZ 1.2: Ignatios (#2666); PmbZ 2.2: Ignatios (#22712); on Photios, see PmbZ 1.3: Photios (#6253); PmbZ 2.5: Photios (#26667). 34 Fourteen Byzantine Rulers: he Chronographia of Michael Psellus, trans. E. R. A. Sewter, rev. ed. (Harmondsworth, 1982), 57; S. Impellizeri and U. Criscuolo, Michele Psello, Imperatori di Bisanzio (Cronograia), vol. 1, Libri I–VI 75, trans. S. Ronchey (Milan, 1984), 7–8, pp. 64–66; on the comparison and Psellos’s attitude toward Constantine VIII, see most recently Lilie, “Fiktive Realität” (n. 3 above), 211–22; on Basil II, see PmbZ 2.1: Basileios II. (#20838); on Constantine VIII, see PmbZ 2.3: Konstantinos VIII. (#23735); on Psellos, in general, see also Kaldellis, Argument (n. 3 above); C. Barber and D. Jenkins, eds., Reading Michael Psellos (Leiden-Boston, 2006); Karpozilos, Historikoi 3:59–154; most recently, Papaioannou, Michael Psellos (n. 19 above); PmbZ 2, Prolegomena: 15–16. juxtaposed the two episodes antithetically, which was rhetorical practice and especially appropriate to this author’s particular penchant for stylization.35 he situation, however, is diferent: with these two episodes Psellos intends to defame Constantine VIII and portray him as an emperor who neglects the empire and selishly devotes himself without restraint to satisfying his own personal needs. he accuracy of the episodes described is of no signiicance to Psellos; only the impact on the reader is important. he entire depiction of Constantine’s reign is deliberately designed in contrast with that of his brother and predecessor Basil II, who is portrayed as the ideal emperor. Even this is not intended to convey an unbiased account of events, but Psellos, with his idealization of Basil, is indirectly criticizing the performance of the emperors of his own time, who, in his opinion, were to blame for the fall of the empire. In Psellos’s eyes, Constantine VIII was the irst of these incompetent successors, and he disparages him as an individual, as well as for his performance as an emperor, with all the rhetorical tools at his disposal. But here, as well, we cannot limit ourselves to considering just one particular author, but must also consult his sources. One example is Niketas Choniates on the succession of Manuel I Komnenos to John II in 1143. Niketas has John II, who had accidentally been poisoned and was lying on his deathbed, give a lengthy speech recommending his son Manuel as his successor. It is certainly highly improbable that John II would have been able, in his condition, to give a speech of this kind, embellished with literary allusions and rhetorical igures. What is decisive, however, is that Manuel based his claim to succession as emperor on this very speech, and was able to assert himself against his elder brother, Isaac, who would have been the rightful heir according to Byzantine tradition. It is highly probable that this speech was prepared and published by order of Manuel himself. Niketas does not mistrust it, and he even embellishes it, going far beyond Kinnamos, who also cites John II’s speech from the same source, but much more briely.36 35 One may ask, of course, if riding a horse requires less physical control than walking. If Constantine actually was in such poor physical condition as Psellos claims, one would expect him to use a litter. But Psellos is not concerned with such details. 36 Niketas Choniates, History 42.20–46.40; A. Meineke, Ioannis Cinnami Epitome rerum ab Ioanne et Alexio Comnenis Gestarum, dumbarton oaks papers | 68 168 Ralph-Johannes Lilie One could, of course, counter that speeches of that type were always fabrications, in which the authors put words into the speaker’s mouth according to what the author thought the speaker should have said. We will discuss the inherent complications later. In this speciic case, however, it is evident that Manuel’s speech was meant to legitimize Manuel as emperor. Even if deemed a fabrication, it is employed to pursue concrete political intentions. Moreover, the—supposed— artistic freedom granted to authors of speeches of this kind naturally makes it all the more easy for them—or their sources—to use these to pursue their own objectives, which goes quite beyond any literary shaping of what is said. implausibility is indicative of a diferent concept of historiography than we assume. Conclusions he chronicler Niketas Choniates describes in his Chronike diegesis the dignitary John of Poutze (ὁ ἐκ Πούτζης ᾿Ιωάννης), a leading minister of inance under Emperor John II Komnenos. Niketas Choniates exhibits a strong dislike for John of Poutze, although he could not have known him personally and can only have received his information through his sources and other authorities. He accuses him of having persuaded John II to forgo maintaining the provincial leets— ships and crews—for inancial reasons, and to replace them by a tax. his diminished the empire’s maritime power and caused great damage in the times that followed. Whether or not this is true is still a matter of debate.37 he issue in our inquiry is another, because Niketas proceeds to describe John’s character: Examples of deliberate, tendentious shaping in historiography are veritably inexhaustible and, therefore, entirely variable. We shall thus refrain from presenting further examples, since the fundamental problem would not change. Historiographers have always falsiied their accounts to portray their heroes more positively and their adversaries more negatively. his is not a special feature of medieval or Byzantine sources. We must, nevertheless, ask ourselves if this explanation is truly suicient. Might it not, perhaps, merely relect our own prejudices? Our interpretation clearly implies that heophanes and his colleagues could have done better. Only for personal and/or ideological reasons did they deviate from fact. he fundamental image thus remains intact, and these deviations are merely “individual errors” of the respective authors, who fell short of their own demands. Some of the above examples demonstrate, however, that we are only in part dealing with “error,” since the contradictions are so obvious. It must have been clear to the readers from the outset that this information was false, or so grossly inlated and exaggerated that it had to be false and could by no means be taken seriously. One might ask, therefore, if this exaggeration and its inherent CSHB (Bonn, 1836), 26.5–28.16; in I. Bekker’s edition for CSHB ([Bonn, 1836], 56.4–61.20), Niketas’s account comprises 137 lines, that of Kinnamos only 57; on this, see Lilie, “Niketas Choniates und Ioannes Kinnamos” (n. 4 above); see also Simpson, Niketas Choniates (n. 4 above), 28; on Niketas Choniates, in general, see also Karpozilos, Historikoi 3:699–788; very useful is the volume published in 2009 by Simpson and Ethymiadis, Niketas Choniates (n. 4 above). 2. Characterization by Deeds Byzantine texts oten present people doing entirely unrealistic things that cannot under any circumstances be taken seriously. he question is whether this is an indication of the author’s inability to discern reality from iction, whether the delight in fabulating predominated, or whether we are perhaps dealing with a speciic and quite rational design—perhaps even a literary technique. Examples Up to this time John had proved himself to be a public-spirited minister of inance, a shrewd and niggardly steward, and an exacting collector of taxes from usurers, and his power was absolute; he could do whatever he wished without question, and whatever he wished was possible. Realizing that his rank and inluence might be transferred to another, his freedom of speech rescinded, and his power undermined in no time, and that others, raised to power by the emperor, might violently attack and 37 Niketas Choniates, History 54.75–56.24; see the discussion in R.-J. Lilie, Handel und Politik zwischen dem Byzantinischen Reich und den italienischen Kommunen Venedig, Pisa und Genua in der Epoche der Komnenen und der Angeloi (1081–1204) (Amsterdam, 1984), 625–27. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 169 subvert his position, he pulled down all proper limitations to his authority and, taking advantage of both time and circumstances, clung to both and embraced them. Addressing one of his conidants with the words, “Come, let us enrich ourselves,” he became a completely different man; reversing forthwith his tactics, he devoted himself to unjust gain as no other man of that time . . . Married to a woman from among the rejected and withered nobility, he lavished great wealth on his children, suicient to indulge their pleasures. But otherwise he was parsimonious, a niggard and a miser who never raised his eyelids to gaze upon the poor; he was attached to wealth, which held him permanently fettered in unbreakable and indissoluble bonds, a virtual prisoner, just as Akrisios kept Danaë long ago. Mean and stingy, he would oten send comestibles that had been given to him to a shop to be sold: for example, he would return the huge and fat latish and bass which he had received as many as three diferent times, to be purchased as many times and in turn by others who had need of his services. And the ish straightway became ishers, exchanging roles, as though they were letting down the large ishhook, placing sot fat on it as bait, and thus pulling into their habitat the passers-by.38 John of Poutze, for all appearances, belonged to the circle of oicials who had been inluential under Emperor John II Komnenos, but then lost their authority under Manuel I in the course of the usual reshuling of the higher administration under a new emperor. It would not be surprising if he had then begun devoting himself to augmenting his wealth. he historian’s choice of words (for example, 56.39–40: καὶ γυναῖκα τῶν ἀπερριμμένων καὶ ἀπηνθηκυιῶν εὐγενῶν ἁρμοσάμενος . . .) is indeed drastic, yet the claim need not necessarily be untrue. he following example, however, is absurd from any perspective: Niketas unmistakably implies that John began amassing wealth only ater his power began to decline. As an example, he relates how he would repeatedly return ish he had been given as a git to the market to be resold to yet another petitioner, who would then give it back to him, and so on. We do know, from many examples, that it was customary in Byzantium to exchange gits of ish, animals, or roasts, as well as of fruit, and so forth. Irrespective of any considerations of the quality of the ish that was repeatedly bought, given, and sold, the accumulated sums—even for a very ine ish—would have been entirely irrelevant for such a top inance oicial, who had supposedly amassed such incredible riches. Moreover, why would anyone have felt compelled to bribe someone who had lost his inluence with gits of this kind? Niketas’s intent in presenting such a tall tale—and two similar ones follow—can only have been to defame his protagonist as much as possible, more than a mere list of actual attempts of bribery—which certainly existed, although the chronicler appears to have no detailed knowledge of this—would have accomplished.39 his approach is even more evident in the following example, also found in Niketas Choniates. It concerns the logothete John Kamateros, whom the historian accuses of being insatiably greedy. In support of this accusation, Niketas presents several examples, two of which we quote here: “[John] Kamateros once wagered with emperor Manuel that he could drink dry the purple wine bowl once positioned at the outer door of emperor Nikephoros’s bedchamber . . . he wine bowl, which held one and one half gallons, was illed to the brim: stooping over like an ox, he emptied the vessel, coming up for air but once, and received forthwith from the emperor the items stipulated in the wager.”40 As if this did not suice, Niketas proceeds to relate yet another story: “Unable to resist eating green beans, Kamateros tore, rather than plucked, them of the young shoot. He consumed whole ields or, to be more exact, he swooped down on them like a bird. Once, when encamped at a riverside, he observed a ield of beans on the other side. He removed his tunic, swam across, and gulped down the greater part of the crop. 38 Niketas Choniates, History 56.25–57.52; trans. Magoulias, 33; on John of Poutze, see also Simpson, Niketas Choniates, 26; and especially Ethymiadis, Niketas Choniates, 48–49. 39 Niketas could not have known on his own account the period in which John of Poutze was active, but could have informed himself only through his sources, or possibly through eyewitnesses. 40 Niketas Choniates, History 114.15–28; trans. Magoulias, 65. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 170 Ralph-Johannes Lilie But he did not stop there. Stacking in bundles what he had not devoured and liting these onto his shoulders, he quickly crossed the river and then sat himself down on the loor of his tent and contentedly gobbled up the beans as if he had gone without eating or drinking for a long time.”41 he author’s ridiculous hyperbole is obvious. Niketas does not even hesitate to indirectly admit as much when he writes: καὶ ταῦτα μὲν οὕτω καὶ οὐ κατὰ διήγησιν, οἶμαι, ἀλυσιτελῆ τοῖς πολοῖς οὐδ᾿ ἀκαλῆ τε καὶ ἀχαρίτωτον (“he narration of these events as they happened is not, I trust, without proit, charm, and grace for most”). his statement is remarkable in that he designates this insertion as διήγησις. He thus assigns it to the same genre as his entire work, which is entitled Χρονικὴ διήγησις . . .42 Again one might ask why Niketas embellishes his portrayal of the logothete John Kamateros with an episode so exaggerated that neither he nor his readers could ever perceive it as being true and thus take it seriously. he only possible reply is that it was of no signiicance to anyone, though perhaps the exaggeration itself was what Niketas sought. In the last two cases, the only apparent purpose of the episodes is to characterize the respective protagonists. Beyond that, they are irrelevant.43 here are other cases, however, in which descriptions of this kind are embedded in the narrative, so that the question of factuality has a diferent signiicance, or is more diicult to answer. Anna Komnene describes, in a famous and much-cited passage, the positively diabolical cunning of the Norman Bohemond. When he realized that he would not be 41 Niketas Choniates, History 114.29–115.37; trans. Magoulias, 65; on this episode, see Simpson, Niketas Choniates, 21. 42 Niketas Choniates, History 115.44–46; trans. Magoulias, 65. One can, in a way, sense the chronicler’s glee in being able to ridicule a person he dislikes. his was not conined to Niketas Choniates and John Kamateros, but is oten encountered in this period; see, in general, L. Garland, “‘And His Head Shone like a Full Moon . . .’: An Appreciation of the Byzantine Sense of Humour as Recorded in the Historical Sources of the Eleventh and Twelth Centuries,” Parergon 8 (1990): 1–31. 43 his type of narration was not new in Niketas’s day. Rather, he follows here the example of classical authors, especially from the period of the Second Sophistic, for example, Eunapios or Philostratos; see G. Fatouros, “Die Autoren der zweiten Sophistik im Geschichtswerk des Niketas Choniates,” JÖB 29 (1980): 165–86; most recently, Simpson, “Workshop” (n. 20 above), 260–61. able to continue the campaign against Byzantium successfully from his principality of Antioch, he let the principality and sailed back to southern Italy to raise support. Since the sailing routes between the Crusader states and Italy were under the control of the Byzantine leet, however, he employed the following ruse to deceive the enemies: Bohemond shuddered at the emperor’s threats. Without means of defence . . . he invented a plan, not very digniied, but amazingly craty. First he let the city of Antioch in the hands of his nephew Tancred, the son of the Marquis Odo; then he spread rumours everywhere about himself: “Bohemond,” it was said, “is dead.” While still alive he convinced the world that he had passed away. Faster than the beating of a bird’s wings the story was propagated in all quarters: “Bohemond,” it proclaimed, “is a corpse.” When he perceived that the story had gone far enough, a wooden coin was made and a bireme prepared. he coin was placed on board and he, a still-breathing “corpse,” sailed away from Soudi, the port of Antioch, for Rome. He was being transported by sea as a corpse. To outward appearance (the coin and the behaviour of his companions) he was a corpse. At each stop the barbarians tore out their hair and paraded their mourning. But inside Bohemond, stretched out at full length, was a corpse only thus far; in other respects he was alive, breathing air in and out through hidden holes. hat is how it was with the coastal places, but when the boat was out at sea, they shared their food with him and gave him attention; then once more there were the same dirges, the same tomfoolery. However, in order that the corpse might appear in a state of rare putrefaction, they strangled or cut the throat of a cock and put that in the coin with him. By the fourth or ith day at the most, the horrible stench was obvious to anyone who could smell. hose who had been deceived by the outward show thought the ofensive odour emanated from Bohemond’s body, but Bohemond himself derived more pleasure than anyone from his imaginary misfortune. For my part I wonder how on earth dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 171 he endured such a siege on his nose and still continued to live while being carried along with his dead companion. But that has taught me how hard it is to check all barbarians once they have set their hearts on something: there is nothing, however objectionable, which they will not bear when they have made up their minds once and for all to undergo selfinlicted sufering. his man Bohemond was not yet dead—he was dead only in pretence— yet he did not hesitate to live with dead bodies. In the world of our generation this ruse of Bohemond was unprecedented and unique, and its purpose was to bring about the downfall of the Roman Empire. Before it no barbarian or Greek devised such a plan against his enemies, nor, I fancy, will anyone in our lifetime ever see its like again. When he reached Corfu, as he had reached some mountain peak, as if the island were a place of refuge and he was now free from danger, he rose from the ‘presumed dead,’ let the coin where his ‘corpse’ had lain, enjoyed the sunshine to the full, breathed in a cleaner air and walked round the city of Corfu. he inhabitants, seeing him dressed in outlandish barbarian clothes, inquired about his family, his condition, his name; they asked where he came from and to whom he was going. Bohemond treated them all with loty disdain and demanded to see the duke of the city . . . Coming face to face with him, Bohemond, arrogant in look and attitude, speaking with an arrogant tongue in a language wholly barbaric, ordered him to send this communication to the emperor: “To you I, Bohemond, famous son of Robert, send this message. he past has taught you and your Empire how formidable are my bravery and my opposition . . . I want you to know that, although I was ‘dead’, I have come back to life again; I have escaped your clutches. In the guise of a dead man I have avoided every eye, every hand, every plan. And now I live, I move, I breathe the air, and from the island of Corfu I send to your majesty ofensive, hateful news . . . with many a murder I will make your cities and your provinces run with blood, until I set up my spear in Byzantium itself.” Such was the extreme bombast in which the barbarian exulted.44 here can be no doubt that Anna Komnene invented this entire story. he only true element is that Bohemond actually did return to Italy from Antioch in 1104/5, to resume his war against Byzantium from there with fresh resources. But the story itself is absurd and, tellingly enough, is not mentioned by a single Latin source. It is not only improbable, but so self-contradictory that it can only be a pure fabrication of Anna or another— oral or written—source.45 In view of Anna’s literary ambition, we may assume that she invented it herself. Even the initial situation is insupportable. he supposed death of Bohemond would have caused serious problems in the rule over Antioch: while it posed no problem to have Bohemond’s nephew Tancred to rule as regent, he would certainly have encountered diiculties, because of the family relationship, in succeeding his (supposedly) dead uncle as prince of Antioch. If more than a bare minimum of people had learned of the scheme, one would hardly have been able to keep it secret. Even more outrageous is the story with the cock, with which Bohemond is supposed to have shared the coin. One has only to try to imagine it to realize how preposterous the story is. And the ending is entirely illogical: ater having successfully deceived every Byzantine guard at every harbor he put in, Bohemond is supposed to have discarded his disguise on the Byzantine island of Corfu, 44 Anna Komnene, Alexiad 11.12.17–81; trans. Sewter, 366–68. 45 Nevertheless, to this day her account is still given credence. See, for example, E. Albu, “Bohemond and the Rooster: Byzantines, Normans and the Artful Ruse,” in Gouma-Peterson, Anna Komnene (n. 19 above), 157–68, who collects a whole series of war ruses of this type, all of which she considers to be true, regardless of the varying degrees of probability; on Anna Komnene, in general, see Karpozilos, Historikoi 3:397–463; on Bohemond in Anna Komnene, see R.-J. Lilie, “Der erste Kreuzzug in der Darstellung Anna Komnenes,” in Varia II, Beiträge, ed. A. Berger et al., Poikila Byzantina 6 (Bonn, 1987), 49–148, esp. 95–100, 120–32; idem, “Anna Komnene und die Lateiner,” BSl 54 (1993): 169–82, at 174; idem, “Byzantinische Geschichtsschreibung im 12. Jahrhundert: Anna Komnene und Niketas Choniates,” in Macht und Spiegel der Macht, ed. Kersken and Vercamer, 433–56, esp. 437–41; J. Shepard, “When Greek Meets Greek: Alexius Comnenus and Bohemond in 1097–98,” BMGS 12 (1988): 185–277; in a broader context, see as well M. Mullett, “Bohemond’s Biceps: Male Beauty and the Female Gaze in the Alexiad of Anna Komnene,” in Byzantine Masculinities, ed. D. C. Smythe (Aldershot, forthcoming); I thank M. Mullett for kindly providing me with her manuscript. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 172 Ralph-Johannes Lilie of all places, and identiied himself to the governor, disclosing his intentions in a lengthy speech, “in a language wholly barbaric,” nevertheless embellished with echoes of Homer and the New Testament. Bohemond seems to give no thought to the fact that the governor, in command of a border province with a garrison surely more powerful than any of those in the places into which Bohemond’s ship had previously docked on his trip, could have arrested him. But that is not the point. What is decisive is the remark about the barbarian Bohemond’s resolve to destroy the Byzantine Empire through his sheer inhuman endurance. his is consistent with the general characterization of Bohemond as a devil in human form throughout Anna Komnene’s work, and the entire story serves the sole purpose of impressing this characteristic of Bohemond on the reader’s mind in the most graphic way.46 Another example is Emperor Michael III, whom the chronicle heophanes continuatus accuses of having damaged the dignity of the empire. As proof, the chronicler speciies, among many other incidents, that the emperor participated in chariot races that were more important to him than defending the empire, and relates the following story: One day he met a woman on the street, whose child was his godchild, as she came out of the baths, water pitcher in hand. He dismounted from his horse and sent the senators accompanying him of to the nearby palace, while he himself followed the woman, together with several unruly and disreputable men, took the pitcher from her hands and said: “Come now, woman, have no fear, take me into your home and serve me some bran bread and white cheese.” . . . Since the woman was let speechless by this outrageous suggestion and because she had nothing, neither table nor tablecloths, Michael, faster than it takes to tell, took the towel she had brought with her from the baths and spread it out on the ground like a tablecloth. Assuming the role of the woman, he himself was emperor, waiter, cook, and guest all in one. Ater he had dished up everything the poor woman’s larder 46 On Anna Komnene’s characterization of Bohemond, see Lilie, “Anna Komnene,” 95–100; Shepard, “When Greek Meets Greek,” passim. would yield, he feasted and dined with her, stressing that in this way he was imitating my Christ and God.47 hereupon he walked from there on foot to the palace, foolishly mocking the presumptuousness and conceit of the former emperors. If they had heard this empty prattle, they would have said: “It is improper for you to mock us, since all you do is play around and play pranks. Instead you should take up the distress and privations of waging war and appreciate eating with the soldiers, but not with depraved women innkeepers.” All this rendered Michael detestable and very justly brought the wrath of God upon him.48 his episode, also much discussed by scholars, is not only absurd but self-contradictory. he woman’s child was a godchild of the emperor: mother and child were therefore (ritually) related to him. he family must, then, have belonged to the emperor’s extended entourage at the very least, as is attested by the emperor’s recognition of the woman when they accidentally meet on the street and his self-invitation into her home. She is, nevertheless, so poor that she owns neither table nor tablecloth. Signiicantly, another author attempts to solve this conlict by claiming that Michael had given the husband ity nomismata, a substantial sum, yet still not suicient to adequately furnish that place, as Michael III supposedly assumed.49 Furthermore, at 47 he chronicler is thoroughly personal, referring to “my Christ and my God”: τὴν μίμησιν πρὸς τὸν ἐμὸν ἀναφέρων Χριστὸν καὶ θεόν. Scott, “Events,” 52, following a suggestion of P. Karlin-Hayter, considers this statement a modiication of Michael’s III original propaganda into its opposite. I have my doubts, however, that one can derive from this single sentence any speciic conclusions concerning the propaganda of Michael III. 48 heoph. cont. 4.37, pp. 199.11–200.14. 49 Pseudo-Symeon: I. Bekker, Symeonis magistri ac logothe­ tae annales: Συμεὼν μαγίστρου καὶ λογοθέτου χρονογραφία, in I. Bekker, ed., heophanes continuatus (Bonn, 1838), 603–760, 660.17–661.12; on the git of money, see 661.4–5: τάχα που ἀπὸ ν´ νομισμάτων, ἅπερ δέδωκε τῷ ἀνδρὶ αὐτῆς, ὑπολαμβάνων τι κεκτῆσθαι ταύτην. Skylitzes, who follows heoph. cont. here, tones down his account by stating that the woman had nothing to ofer the emperor to eat, which leaves the question of her social status open. Otherwise, he follows heoph. cont. quite closely and only abridges him: Σύνοψις ἱστοριῶν ἀρχομένη ἀπὸ τῆς ἀναιρέσεως Νικηφόρου βασιλέως τοῦ ἀπὸ γενικῶν καὶ μέχρι τῆς βασιλείας Ἰσαακίου τοῦ Κομνηνοῦ συγραφεῖσα παρὰ Ἰωάννου κουροπαλάτου καὶ γεγονότος μεγάλου δρουγαρίου τῆς βίγλας τοῦ Σκυλίτζη, in dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 173 the end of the story the woman is denounced as an innkeeper and, more or less, as a prostitute as well (she is one of the γυναίκων καπηλίδων καὶ μοχθηρῶν). But again, the question of the scene’s truth is irrelevant to the author’s intention, which was not to relate a factual incident, but to demonstrate in the most drastic way possible that Michael was unworthy to reign. his unworthiness is underscored further when the chronicler has the emperor denigrate even his predecessors, then allows these emperors to respond in person. he political context for this entire scene is, of course, Basil’s later usurpation, which scenes like this were to justify and more or less prepare for in advance. In his interpretation of this passage, J. N. Ljubarskij rightly emphasized echoes of mime, the relatively crude performances of a type of folk theater, on which C. Ludwig has contributed further observations.50 Contact with people from this milieu undermined the dignity of an emperor, making it all the more easy to defame him by merely hinting at such contacts. his accusation, incidentally, of undermining an emperor’s dignity by excessive familiarity I. hurn, Ioannis Scylitzae Synopsis historiarum, CFHB 5, (Berlin, 1973), 109.8–23: “One day he met a woman on her way back from the baths, pitcher in hand; it transpired that he had stood godfather for her child at the sacred font. He got down from his horse, sent all the senators who were keeping him company to the palace which was close by and, taking with him some useless, debauched specimens of humanity whom he knew and maintained, went of with the woman. He took the pitcher from her hands and said: ‘Come on, woman; receive me as your guest without fear; I need some rye bread and white cheese.’ here she stood, rooted to the spot by what he had said, fully aware that she had nothing with which to entertain him, but in less time than it takes to tell, Michael took the towel the woman was bringing back from the baths, still damp, and spread it out on he ground as though it were a tablecloth. Assuming the role of the woman, he himself was host, emperor, cook, waiter and guest all in one. When he had dined with the woman, of he went to the palace, walking—on foot!—and complaining about the excessive foolishness and afectation of the former emperors (who, in fact, behaved quite appropriately) . . . his all conspired to render the man hateful, and the wrath of everybody rose up— quite justly—against him” (A Synopsis of Byzantine History, 811– 1057, trans. J. Wortley [Cambridge, 2010], 110). 50 J. N. Ljubarskij, “Der Kaiser als Mime: Zum Problem der Gestalt des byzantinischen Kaisers Michael III.,” JÖB 37 (1987): 39–50; on Mimus in general see also C. Ludwig, Sonderformen byzantinischer Hagiographie und ihr literarisches Vorbild: Untersuchungen zu den Viten des Äsop, des Philaretos, des Symeon Salos und des Andreas Salos, BBS 3 (Frankfurt, 1997), 369–72. with the world of the theater, sporting contests, and chariot races was directed at several emperors, such as Philippikos Bardanes and Constantine VIII, among others. We might well ask, therefore, if such claims in the context of emperor defamations might not be a topos.51 It certainly cannot be ruled out that they could be true, as the best-known example illustrates: Justinian I, whose wife heodora originated from a theatrical or circus milieu. One exceptional case in this context is the episode described by Genesios, in which Emperor Basil I defeats a Bulgarian wrestler: he ruler of the Bulgarians boasted that one of his wrestlers was invincible in the arena. He sent this man to the Imperial City, full of hopes that he would prevail. he Emperor could not bear this afront, but he changed his mood to joy by entering the arena himself to ight against this man, with the necessary secrecy of course. Taking of his Imperial attire he closed on his opponent. he Scythian failed entirely in his attempt to lit up the Macedonian. But the latter grabbed him readily with his strong hands, twirled him about by his neck, and threw him so forcefully against the ground that it required many buckets of water, much wine, and even drops of rose-water to revive him. For it seemed that he had almost died, and bled from his ears and nose. All who were present greatly marveled at the event, and the story is told even today.52 With this type of behavior, the parvenu Basil had, on the one hand, violated the imperial dignity, while, on the other, simultaneously distinguished himself, as it were, as an undefeatable Byzantine hero. his 51 On Philippikos Bardanes, see pseudo-Michael Psellos, in W. J. Aerts, Historia syntomos: Michaelis Pselli Historia syntomos, CFHB 30 (Berlin-New York, 1990), 85.58–63; see PmbZ 1.3: Philippikos (#6150); on Constantine VIII, see above. 52 Genesios: On the Reigns of the Emperors, trans. and comm. A. Kaldellis, ByzAus 11 (Canberra, 1998), 112; A. Lesmueller-Werner and I. hurn, Iosephi Genesii regum libri quattuor, CFHB 14 (Berlin, 1978), IV 40, p. 90.3–16; see, as well, PmbZ 1.5: Anonymus (#11861) and PmbZ 2.7: Anonymus (#30773); on Genesios in general see also Karpozilos, Historikoi 2:315–30; PmbZ 1, Prolegomena: 17; and PmbZ 2, Prolegomena: 10–11. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 174 Ralph-Johannes Lilie conforms with at least one aspect of the Byzantine ideal, since an emperor should ideally also surpass all men physically. he author attempts to compensate for the emperor’s “misbehavior” by explicitly referring to the “necessary secrecy” (μετὰ προσηκούσης τῆς ἐπικρύψεως) in which the episode had transpired. Nevertheless, it did not remain secret. What is surprising about Genesios’s account of the episode is that it is a duplicate of a wrestling match earlier in Basil’s career, occurring long before his crowning as emperor. his wrestling match is also mentioned by heophanes continuatus and Skylitzes, where it also occurs, as in the irst of the two episodes in Genesios, early in Basil’s career, long before his coronation.53 If one does not wish to presume that Genesios duplicated this event unintentionally, one could attribute his motives to the ambiguity of Basil I’s image: on the one hand, he was regarded as a competent emperor, almost comparable to the heroes of antiquity;54 on the other hand, he was at the same time an upstart, who could not be trusted to behave like a “true” emperor. his ambivalence would have been illustrated with a corresponding portrayal. It is very possible that Basil’s irst wrestling match actually took place. he second is more likely an invention of Genesios, perhaps also inspired by the preceding descriptions of Basil’s physical accomplishments. All the previous examples point out negative personal traits, which may be attributable, in part, to the usual attribution of more interesting stories and roles to villains than to “decent” people. But, of course, illustrative examples for the latter may also be found. In this particular context, this would be Emperor heophilos, who is, on the one hand, condemned as the last of the Iconoclast emperors, and on the other hand—for reasons not known—also features as the proverbially just emperor. A number of chroniclers relate the story of a widow who had approached Emperor heophilos to complain that her house was now deprived of all light by an apparently illegal building erected by Petronas, a brother-in-law of the emperor. heophilos ordered an inquiry that 53 heoph. cont. 5.12, pp. 229.1–230.11 (Bekker); 46.1–49.39 (Ševčenko); Skylitzes, Synopsis 94.62–65; Genesios, Reigns of the Emperors 4.26, p. 78.19–30. 54 Genesios alludes to this when he refers to the wrestlers as a Scythian and a Macedonian. declared the widow’s grievance legitimate. Petronas was sentenced to public scourging, his house was demolished, and the property awarded, together with the building materials, to the widow.55 his story was apparently so popular that chroniclers up to the late Byzantine period cited it repeatedly. But here again, the amount of truth to it is probably very small, especially when one recalls that Petronas was a brother of Empress heodora. A similar episode is found in the Narratio de heophili benefactis (BHG 1735), where a ship that a high oicial had misappropriated is restored to a widow, and the miscreant is banished. he Patria embellish the tale even further, but both these versions adopt and adapt a story that originates in the fourth century. Even though the original story cannot be found in the historical works of the ninth century, the elements are nonetheless quite similar.56 One claim that might contain a kernel of truth is that heophilos had the assassins of Emperor Leo V executed.57 However, one should remain skeptical, since heophilos’s own father, Michael II, was coconspirator in the assassination and its beneiciary, as he was proclaimed and crowned the new emperor as a result. It is not very credible that heophilos would have dissociated himself from his father in this manner. One could also interpret the alleged punishment as the typical reshuling at the beginning of a new reign, in which heophilos ousted the old partisans of his father and predecessor Michael II. Later, this consolidation of power was reinterpreted as a highly developed sense of justice and embellished with appropriate examples, perhaps by associates of the emperor for propaganda purposes. Characterizations by speciic deeds may be repeatedly discovered. hey are, of course, ideally suited to 55 Symeon log. 130.10, pp. 218.51–219.66; pseudo-Symeon 627.19– 628,3; Georgius Monachus continuatus, in I. Bekker, Γεωργίου τοῦ μοναχοῦ βίοι τῶν νέων βασιλέων, in heoph. cont. 761–924, 793.17– 794.11; T. Büttner-Wobst, Ioannis Zonarae epitome historiarum libri XIII–XVIII (Bonn, 1897), 15.25, pp. 356.1–357.43. On this incident and for additional sources, see also PmbZ 1.3: Petronas (#5929), as well as 1.5: Anonyma (#10089). 56 Περὶ τῶν ἀγαθοεργιῶν Θεοφί λου τοῦ βασιλέως, De heophili imperatoris benefactis, BHG 1735, ed. W. Regel, in idem, ed., Analecta Byzantino­Russica (Petrograd, 1891), 40–43, 40.17–22; Patria 3.28, pp. 223.10–224.14. On the widow, see PmbZ 1.5: Anonyma (#10095); see as well below, 198–99. 57 heoph. cont. 3.1, pp. 85.4–86.18; for additional sources, see PmbZ 1.4: heophilos (#8157), n. 15. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 175 tendentious narratives. Some can, nevertheless, be impartial, or the bias exhibited in the narration can be more general, not directed at speciic political or social developments. Let one small example suice, to demonstrate the great variety of ways these inserted episodes could be used: Leo the Deacon describes on the occasion of Emperor John I Tzimiskes’ 972 campaign against Syria the fate of the scribe Niketas: How did the author learn about the father’s alleged requests? Moreover, an imperial scribe should have had an income suicient to secure his father’s care even in the event of the son’s absence, regardless of any other relatives Niketas probably had. Whether Niketas joined the campaign voluntarily or by order of his superior is not revealed. Leo the Deacon nevertheless presents the accident as a just punishment, so to speak, for the son’s supposed disobedience of his father, conferring a general moral component to the accident, to the disadvantage, of course, of the thus-defamed Niketas. he actual incident—death by drowning—is real, yet it is depicted in such a way as to allow a negative judgment on the victim’s character. Whether or not the father actually did request that his son not join the campaign is ultimately irrelevant. From this perspective, many events can be called into question that have previously been generally considered true. For example, the account that Michael III was disrupted in the middle of a chariot race in which he himself was participating as driver by the announcement of an Arab attack. he announcement, according to the chronicler, was transmitted by the so-called “optical telegraph,” whereupon Michael III ordered the entire system destroyed.59 Aside from the questionable existence and efectiveness of this system of beacons and, if it did exist, the multiple possible reasons for its termination, one might yet again interpret this episode as a characterization of Michael III illustrated by a speciically fabricated example. he efectiveness is doubled here, in that, irst, Michael III was participating as driver in a chariot race, which was incompatible with the dignity of an emperor, and, second, that he lagrantly neglected the welfare of the empire in favor of his personal entertainment. One inal example in this context is the defeat of Emperor Nikephoros I against the Bulgars in the summer of 811. Nikephoros had initially succeeded in invading Bulgaria and advanced to their capital Pliska, rejecting Bulgar peace ofers. On retreat, however, his army was ambushed and largely destroyed. Nikephoros was killed, and his skull was supposedly made into a drinking cup for the Bulgar Khan Krum.60 here is certainly no doubt about the defeat as such, but are the dramatic details true, or are they a feature added by the chronicler to justify the emperor’s doom and to illustrate it in a sensationalistic manner? heophanes loathed Nikephoros I and had nothing redeeming to relate about him. Nikephoros’s initial rebuf of Krum’s ofer of peace negotiations could also be regarded as an indication of the emperor’s hubris, and the story about the skull the just punishment for his previous behavior. 58 he History of Leo the Deacon: Byzantine Military Expansion in the Tenth Century, trans. A.-M. Talbot and D. F. Sullivan (Washington, D.C., 2005), 203; K. Benedict Hase, Leonis Diaconi Caloënsis Historiae Libri Decem et Liber de Velitatione Bellica Nicephori Augusti (Bonn, 1828), 1–178, 10.1, p. 161.2–15; ; on Leo the Deacon, in general, see Kazhdan, Literature, 2:278–90; Karpozilos, Historikoi 2:475–525; PmbZ 2, Prolegomena: 12–13. 59 heoph. cont. 4.34–35, p. 197.8–198.12; a similar account is found in I. J. Reiske, Constantini Porphyrogeniti imperatoris De Cerimoniis aulae byzantinae libri duo (Bonn, 1829–1830), 1.493.11– 19; on this see PmbZ 1.3: Michael III. (#4991); 1.5: Anonymus (#12025). 60 heophanes, Chronicle 490.4–491.22; with additional sources, see PmbZ 1.2: Krum (#4164); 1.3: Nikephoros I. (#5252). To his misfortune a certain secretary named Niketas, an extremely knowledgeable and intelligent man, and in the prime of life, accompanied the emperor on this campaign, even though his father entreated him at length not to do this, but urged him rather to stay at home and look ater his father in his old age and care for him to the best of his ability, since he was on the threshold of old age and would soon move into the sunset of life. But he ignored his father’s bidding, as he should not have, and disregarded his admonitions, and, equipping himself as best he could, went of to the army encampment. But while he was crossing the river, he was made dizzy by the depth of the water, and slipped of his horse and fell into the river, and was carried of by the current, and drowned wretchedly, receiving a watery death in the Euphrates as the price of his disobedience.58 dumbarton oaks papers | 68 176 Ralph-Johannes Lilie At the same time, the Bulgar Krum is portrayed as a barbarian, who could be believed capable of anything. Many ethnicities were known for their “reuse” of the body parts of defeated enemies, and it might well have been common knowledge in Byzantium; perhaps the transformation of a skull into a cup was even adopted from an earlier classical source.61 herefore, the event might very well have occurred as described in the chronicle of heophanes. It might just as well be an attempt to comment on the disaster with additional, entirely fabricated details. We are thus unable to determine with certainty the historicity of the described scenes.62 Conclusions he examples clearly demonstrate that for Byzantine authors it oten did not suice to characterize a person by applying the appropriate adjectives. hey would instead enhance characterizations with anecdotes presenting that person at an exemplary act, so as to create a more vivid representation.63 he examples also demonstrate that the truth-value of these interpolated anecdotes was relatively insigniicant. What was important was that the personality of the person described became evident in a most striking way. No reader would have believed for an instant that John Kamateros actually grazed away an entire ield of beans, or that Bohemund spent days if not weeks in a closed coin with a dead cock as perfume substitute. he authorial objective was to present not a realistic 61 In the case of heophanes, we are inclined to doubt this, however, since he did not need to resort to written sources here, but was able to rely on oral descriptions, the reliability of which cannot be determined, of course. 62 One parallel case is the fate of Svjatoslav ater 971, whose skull was also supposedly used as a drinking cup: see PmbZ 2.6: Svjatoslav (#27740) with n. 19. 63 See S. Ethymiadis, “Niketas Choniates: he Writer,” in Simpson and Ethymiadis, Niketas Choniates (n. 4 above), 35–58, at 48, who observes: “For Choniates an action must be consistent with the character of a person. Every detail in his/her description, whether it is in terms of diction or metaphor, must both suggest and highlight the character evoked.” Unfortunately, Ethymiadis does not speciically address the issue as to whether or not an author (i.e., Niketas) would also invent actions in order to better characterize the respective person portrayed. he other examples Ethymiades discusses in this section demonstrate that this practice was not conined to Niketas, but was very common for most of the Byzantine historiographers. narrative but instead the most sensational example possible that might best highlight the characteristics of the person portrayed. All the examples presented here are obviously unrealistic. his stylistic feature, however, bears hazards for any analysis when the examples are less extreme and, in themselves, appear credible. In the previous section we cited an example of a defamatory portrayal of Emperor Constantine VIII, in which he was irst berated for not being able to walk even short distances because of his dissolute lifestyle. In the next paragraph he is accused of undermining imperial dignity by participating in gymnastics competitions. Neither claim is necessarily impossible, but they are mutually exclusive. When the technique of illustrating a person’s character by deeds is included in the analysis, it becomes evident, however, that both anecdotes are likely invented. his would not have been a deception of the reader, as it might be perceived today, but normal practice in Byzantine historiography, which readers would have recognized and probably also expected. he same goes for the supposed wrestling match of Basil I. Indeed, one might even regard Psellos’s antithetical juxtaposition of the episodes as a heightening of this rhetorical stylistic device. he characterization of a person through illustrative examples—whether fabricated or not—was a widespread practice in Byzantine historiography (and not only there). In essence, the truth of an episode was largely insigniicant; what mattered was its efect and its memorability. he stylistic device of “characterization by deeds” was one of the most important and widespread employed by Byzantine historiographers, and could be efortlessly combined with other stylistic devices, for which reason it has received such extensive discussion here. 3. Sensationalism and Overdramatization Sensationalism in this context is to be understood as the deliberate exaggeration, sometimes even the invention, of events. he underlying motive for this conscious modiication of sources—even oral sources—is, in part, to render an event or action more dramatic. Sensationalism, of course, frequently overlaps with other stylistic devices, especially with “characterization by deeds.” Our problem is to recognize whether the sensationalistic narratives are true (and if so to what dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 177 extent), or whether they are perhaps based on at least a kernel of truth. Examples Certain situations were particularly suited to literary embellishment, especially those concerning the emperor and the outstanding events of his reign: his gain of power, his downfall, and his death. Let us consider, as one of many examples, the account of Basil I’s death while hunting in 886. Numerous sources agree, although some with reservations, that the emperor encountered on a hunting trip a great hart and tried to kill it, whereby the hart’s antlers were caught in the emperor’s belt. he hart lited the emperor out of his saddle and carried him of over many kilometers. Finally, one of the emperor’s attendants managed to slice the belt with his sword, so that the emperor fell to the ground. Basil, however, had sustained such severe injuries from the hart that he died. Prior to his death, however, he ordered the execution of the man who had cut his belt and thus saved him, because no one was allowed to draw his sword in the presence of the emperor.64 he account is entirely unrealistic: no hart, no matter how large, would have been able to carry a man as large as Basil I—he is consistently described as heavy—over a distance of many kilometers. Further, 64 Sources on the death by hunting accident: Symeon log. 132.174– 81; Georg. mon. cont. 848.10–15; pseudo-Symeon 699.1–20; Zonaras, Epitome 16.11, p. 439.17–440.5; pseudo-Michael Psellos, Historia syn­ tomos 99, p. 88.93–97; P. Karlin-Hayter, Vita S. Euthymii patriarchae CP, Text, Translation, Introduction and Commentary, Bibliothèque de Byzantion 3 (Brussels, 1970), 3–147, p. 3.1–5.32. he Vita Euthymii does not mention the execution of the soldier who freed the emperor, whereas Skylitzes, Synopsis 170.47–48, knows nothing about a hunting accident, but has Basil die of diarrhea (διαρροίας νόσος). Similarly the Βίος καὶ πολιτεία τῆς ἁγίας καὶ ἐνδόξου θαυματουργοῦ βασιλίδος Θεοφανώ (= Vita heophanus [BHG 1794]), in E. Kurtz, “Zwei griechische Texte über die hl. heophano, die Gemahlin Kaiser Leos VI.,” Mém. Acad. Imp. Pétersbourg, VIIIe sér., 3.2 (1898): cap. 20, p. 14.3–4, speaks of illness and age (Βασί λειος νόσῳ καὶ γήρᾳ καμφθείς, τῇ φυσικῇ κατηπείγετο διαλύσει), but also makes no mention of a hunting accident. he same is true of the, albeit extremely brief, Sermo in heophano (BHG 1795): Τοῦ σοφωτάτου κυροῦ Νικηφόρου τοῦ Γρηγορᾶ λόγος εἰς τὴν ἁγίαν Θεοφανὼ τὴν βασιλίδα, ed. E. Kurtz, ibid., 25–45, cap. 20, p. 39.31–32; see, as well, A. Markopoulos, “Kaiser Basileios I. und Hippolytos: Sage und Geschichte,” in Lesarten: Festschrit für Athanasios Kambylis, ed. I. Vassis, G. S. Henrich, and D. R. Reinsch (Berlin-New York, 1998), 81–91; summary in PmbZ 1.1: Basileios I. (#832); PmbZ 2.1: Basileios I. (#20837). it would surely have been impossible for an attendant to hack with a sword precisely through the emperor’s belt, while the emperor was being carried at full gallop through the forest on the hart’s antlers. A inal tragic moment arises when the emperor’s rescuer is executed for having employed an illegal method for the rescue. All things considered, the account is clearly a sensationalist exaggeration of what actually occurred, though the account itself may allude to fact. he inclusion of the episode about the punishment of the bodyguard does not appear entirely coincidental: a few years prior, Leo, Basil’s son, supposedly carried a sword while hunting (!) in his father’s presence so as to protect his father. Later, the traitor heodoros Santabarenos, who had supposedly counseled Leo to do so, divulged Leo’s transgression to the emperor. Basil thereupon deposed him as co-emperor and put him under house arrest, until both were miraculously reconciled. he motif that no one is permitted to draw a weapon in an emperor’s presence was thus reused in another variation in the account of Basil’s death.65 he unanimity of almost all the sources in relating the circumstances of Basil’s death in this form and with roughly the same set of details demonstrates that the legend—that is, its irst literary elaboration—must have begun evolving shortly ater the event itself, serving later authors directly or indirectly as source.66 Deaths of emperors ofered ambitious authors an ideal opportunity to stage events creatively and dramatically. One brilliant example is provided by Leo the Deacon in his account of Nikephoros II Phokas’s 65 heoph. cont. 5.100–101, p. 348.10–351.21 (Bekker); 326.11– 332.24 (Ševčenko); Skylitzes, Synopsis 168.82–170.46; Genesios, Reigns of the Emperors 4.29, p. 81.7–13; Symeon log. 132.136–56; pseudo-Symeon 697.3–699.8; abridged: pseudo-Michael Psellos, Historia syntomos 99, p. 88.81–83; Vita heophanus [BHG 1794]), cap. 19, p. 13.14–15; Sermo in heophano (BHG 1795), cap. 19, p. 39,28–29; Synaxarium ecclesiae Constantinopolitanae e codice Sirmondiano nunc Berolinensi adiectis synaxariis selectis opera et studio H. Delehaye (Brussels, 1902; reprint 1972), 315.5–6 (16. December); heoph. cont. and Symeon log. relate the evil counsel of Santabarenos and Leo’s subsequent behavior that led to his temporary deposition; on Santabarenos, see PmbZ 2.6: heodoros Santabarenos (#27619). 66 R. J. H. Jenkins, Byzantium: he Imperial Centuries AD 610– 1071 (London, 1966; repr. Lancaster, 1994), 197, infers from the different accounts in the sources that Basil was killed by his sons, or on their order. Subsequent scholarship has largely rejected this hypothesis. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 178 Ralph-Johannes Lilie assassination by John I Tzimiskes in 969. he narrative begins by relating how Empress heophano had fallen in love with Tzimiskes, because she felt neglected by her husband. She interceded on behalf of Tzimiskes— who had fallen out of favor with Nikephoros and lost his oices—and succeeded in having him called to the imperial court. She then plotted Nikephoros’s murder with him. She secretly let Tzimiskes’ co-conspirators into the palace and hid them in her chambers. he emperor was warned of the plot by a cleric, but the palace was negligently searched so the conspirators remained undetected.67 Tzimiskes himself came with other retainers by ship at night to the seaward walls of the Boukoleon Palace, where they were drawn up to the top of the wall in a basket. hey reached the emperor’s bedchamber—unguarded of course—which Nikephoros had let unbolted because heophano had pretended she would come to his room later. he conspirators stepped into the room, but—and here we see a device designed to heighten suspense—could not ind the emperor at irst; he was not in his bed, but was instead sleeping on a fur on the loor in one corner of his room. hey were about to lee, when a servant pointed to the emperor. He was awoken by a blow of a sword, then abused and derided, and inally struck dead by Tzimiskes himself. he entire narrative is written in a highly dramatic style and even embellished with quotations from the Iliad. It is in no way realistic; rather, it resembles a trashy novel. he empress is the morally guilty party, who arranges for her husband’s murder out of erotic desire. he conspirators’ twofold invasion of the palace is more than unlikely, and the entire murder scene appears to have been composed by the author for maximum efect. Nevertheless, for methodological reasons—a lack of further sources—one cannot entirely rule out heophano’s collaboration. Her motives, however, would have been less of a sexual nature. Rather, she apparently feared that Nikephoros would exclude her two sons from succession to the throne in favor of his own relations, or even have them emasculated. Such concerns, however, would have been contrary 67 To this corresponds the claim of Skylitzes, Synopsis 281.35– 49, that the emperor’s brother, Leo Phokas, was playing dice and therefore read too late the emperor’s letter, which had ordered him to search the palace; on Leo Phokas, see PmbZ 2.4: Leon Phokas (#24423); in general, also Karpozilos, Historikoi 2:509–25. to the chronicler’s design, so any mention of them is carefully avoided.68 One compelling example of how one concrete event can acquire increasingly sensationalistic features in successive authors is the death of Alexios I Komnenos and the seizure of power by his son John II Komnenos. Anna Komnene, recounting the deeds of her father about twenty years later, describes in detail Alexios’s illness and death. Of her brother’s seizure of power she merely relates that he stole out of the palace in which his father had died as soon as he realized his condition, and hurried to the Great Palace, while Constantinople was in turmoil: “he emperor’s heir had already gone away to the house set apart for him, when he realized the emperor’s . . . [condition?] he hastened his departure and went of quickly to the Great Palace. he city was at that time . . . in a state of confusion, but there was no absolute chaos.”69 Anna Komnene, an eyewitness, regarded her brother with antagonism and allegedly even attempted to overthrow him in favor of her husband. Nevertheless, while the account does contain implicit censure (John steals away from the deathbed), it remains otherwise brief and refrains from going into greater detail, aside from the lengthy description of her own and the empress’s grief. John Zonaras provides more detail: his central 68 Leo the Deacon, History 87–89; on heophano, see PmbZ 2.6: heophano (#28125); on the events themselves, see most recently R.-J. Lilie, “Caesaropapismus in Byzanz? Patriarch Polyeuktos und Kaiser Ioannes I. Tzimiskes,” in Byzantina Mediterranea: Festschrit für Johannes Koder zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. K. Belke, E. Kitzinger, A. Külzer, and M. A. Stassinopoulou (Vienna, 2007), 387–97; the fear that Nikephoros planned the emasculation of heophano’s sons is found in Ioannes Zonaras (T. Büttner-Wobst, Ioannis Zonarae epitome historiarum libri XIII–XVIII [Bonn, 1897], 16, 28, p. 516.1–8), pseudo-Michael Psellos, (Historia syntomos 105, pp. 100.28–102.43), as well as in the generally well-informed Yah�yā (I. Kratchkovsky and A. Vasiliev, Histoire de Yahya­ibn­Sa‘ ïd d’Antioche, PO 18.5 [1924; repr. 1957], 8.28–29, pp. 130–31); ital. trans. Yah�yā al­Ant�akī, Cronache dell’Egitto fāt�imide e dell’ impero bizan­ tino 937–1033, traduzione dall’arabo, introduzione a cura di B. Pirone (Milan, 1997), 8:25–28, p. 134–35; on the general literary impact of Nikephoros Phokas’s murder, see also Kazhdan, Literature (n. 26 above), 2:287–89. 69 Anna Komnene, Alexiad 15.11.2–57: Ἀλ᾿ ὁ τῆς βασιλείας διάδοχος προφθάσας ὑπεξῄει πρὸς τὸ ἀποτεταγμένον αὐτῷ οἴκημα τὸν τοῦ βασιλέως ἐπιγνοὺς ἀνὰ νύκτα θάνατον καὶ ἐπέσπευδε τὴν ἐξέλευσιν καὶ ἠπείγετο κατὰ τὸ μέγα παλάτιον. Ἡ πόλις δὲ τὸ τηνικάδ᾿ ἐκυκᾶτο ἅπασα· ἐταράχθη γάρ, οὐ μέντοι καὶ παντάπασιν συνεταράχθη; trans. Sewter, 512. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 179 focus is on the dispute between John and the emperor’s widow, who sought the imperial throne for her daughter Anna. According to John Zonaras, John personally informed himself of his father’s condition and hurried to the Great Palace, accursed by his mother. John, on the other hand, together with others who were eyewitnesses, had declared that he acted with the consent of his father, who had even given him his ring. He was thereupon immediately acclaimed emperor in the Hagia Sophia. he author further embellishes the narrative by recounting how John was already welcomed as emperor on his way to the palace, and that he sent one of his men ahead to the Varangian Guard of the Great Palace. his messenger swore that Alexios was already dead, whereupon the Varangians granted access to the palace.70 Zonaras’s account appears entirely credible. he events may very well have transpired as he describes. he entire incident becomes dramatized later by Niketas Choniates, writing at the beginning of the thirteenth century. Here Alexios resorts to duplicity on his deathbed by declaring his son as his successor, while at the same time pretending to follow his wife’s wish that he favor his daughter Anna Komnene and her husband. John secured his accession only through a trick: as he stood at Alexios’s deathbed he secretly (or perhaps with Alexios’s consent) removed the signet ring from his inger and hurried with it as proof, together with his supporters, to the Great Palace, while his mother, deceived in her aspirations, more or less collapsed and accused her husband of being the most devious of all mortals, even on his deathbed. John, in the meantime, was barred access to the Great Palace even with the signet ring, so he inally broke the doors down and forced his entry into the palace, which provided opportunity for the surrounding mob to storm and plunder the palace.71 In contrast, John Kinnamos merely relates very briely that ater Alexios’s death he was succeeded by John, his chosen heir to the imperial throne. here 70 Zonaras, Epitome 18.28, p. 761.15–764.5. Zonaras wrote shortly before or at the same time as Anna Komnene, in any case ater 1118, while the Alexiad is dated to ca. the 1140s; on Zonaras, in general, see also Karpozilos, Historikoi 3:465–534; PmbZ 1, Prolegomena: 25; PmbZ 2, Prolegomena: 16–17. 71 Niketas Choniates, History 6; it may also be noted that Niketas, to a certain extent, models his account on the opening sequence of Xenophon’s Anabasis; see Kaldellis, “Paradox” (n. 18 above), 78. is mention neither of of intrigue nor of unrest in Constantinople.72 he reasons for Anna Komnene’s and Kinnamos’s brevity are, of course, explicable. Kinnamos is an avid supporter of the Komnenian dynasty and therefore avoids any negative statements. Anna Komnene, ater her failed attempt at usurpation, was forced to be cautious and therefore held back on direct attacks on her brother. Her overstatement manifests itself only in the portrayal of the empress’s and her own extreme consternation. Zonaras has an ambivalent relationship to Alexios, yet his account seems believable. Only in Niketas Choniates is everything entirely exaggerated: John II more or less steals his father’s signet ring, perhaps with his consent, then forces entry into the imperial palace, which is subsequently plundered by a mob. None of this is found in any other source. Niketas either had to have consulted other sources—as yet unknown to us—which would be surprising, considering his otherwise strong proximity to Kinnamos, who makes no mention of these details, or Niketas himself greatly overdramatized the known events. Since Niketas was otherwise favorably inclined to John II, his motive for this account could very well have been a sheer delight in sensationalism, as is evident in other passages as well.73 he general practice of the dramatization of events is relatively clear, needing no further discussion here. Every battle account, for example, contains dramatizations of some kind, such as the single combats featured in Leo the Deacon’s account of the various battles against the Rhos 970/71. Also, certain dramatic aspects of a battle could be highlighted—for example, the great defeat by the Bulgars in 917. According to the chronicler Skylitzes, the Bulgarian victory had been 72 Kinnamos, History 5.12–13: Ἀλεξίου τὸν βίον καταλυσάντος, Ἰωάννης καὶ πρότερον πρὸς τοῦ πατρὸς αὐτῷ μνηστευθεῖσαν τὴν βασιλείαν παρέλαβεν. 73 See, for example, the accounts on John of Poutze and John Kamateros, discussed above in “Characterization by Deeds”; on the diferent accounts of the succession in the chroniclers, see most recently Neville, Heroes and Romans (n. 10 above), 20–23, who perceives in Niketas Choniates a general censure of the entire Komnenian family, who are blamed for the fall of the empire and thus for the catastrophe of 1204. While this may be the case for the later emperors, especially those ater Manuel I, Neville’s argument for Alexios and John II does not seem, in my opinion, conclusive; see also, most recently, B. Hill, “Actions Speak Louder han Words: Anna Komnene’s Attempted Usurpation,” in Gouma-Peterson, Anna Komnene (n. 19 above), 45–62. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 180 Ralph-Johannes Lilie possible only because the horse of the Byzantine commander, who had briely dismounted to refresh himself, galloped riderless through the Byzantine troops so that the soldiers believed their commander had fallen and took light.74 Less frequent—or less frequently proven—are cases in which battles are entirely invented in order to make the course of events appear more dramatic. Anna Komnene, for example, invented a battle in open ield between the army of the Crusader commander Godfrey of Bouillon and the imperial troops. It never occurred in the way she describes, nor was it on the date she gives, Maundy hursday 1097. Some historians have attempted to explain the discrepancy by suggesting that Anna combined various smaller skirmishes into one large battle. But such a battle never occurred. he date derives from Alexios I Komnenos’s invasion of Constantinople on Maundy hursday 1081 and the ensuing plunder of the city by his supporters. his reference to the previous sacrilege provides Anna Komnene the opportunity to underscore the Byzantines’ fear of divine punishment and thus to further dramatize her account. Indeed, her entire portrayal of the First Crusade before Constantinople is characterized primarily by her device of contracting into just a few weeks events that had actually dragged on for over half a year, evoking in the reader an impression of extreme peril to Constantinople and the empire, when that danger had not, in truth, been very acute.75 he scholar is repeatedly confronted with the fundamental issue of devising criteria with which to determine to what extent a certain piece of information incorporated into the work of an author was either 74 On these single combats in the battles against the Rhos 970/71, see Leo the Deacon, History 9.2, p. 144.18–21; 9.6, p. 149.2–12; 9.8, p. 152.19–153.8; see also PmbZ 2.1: Anemas (#20421); 2.6: Svenald (#27439); on the battle of 917, see Skylitzes, Synopsis 203.79–204.17; see also PmbZ 2.4: Leon Phokas (#24408). he claim about the runaway horse can, of course, be true. In decisive battles Byzantine armies would oten panic ater the death of their commanders and be defeated. One extreme example is a battle in Syria in 998, in which the Byzantine commander Damianos Dalassenos was killed ater winning a battle, whereupon his troops fell apart and were vanquished by the Arabs; for details see PmbZ 2.2: Damianos (#21379). Still, one should remain aware of sensationalistic elements in narratives of this kind; see also the following section: “Epic Elements.” 75 Anna Komnene, Alexiad 10.9.78–80 (Battle of Maundy hursday); on her account, Lilie, “Anna Komnene,” 75–84. wholly invented, more or less modiied, or perhaps even correctly conveyed. Even the famous appeals to “common sense” do not really help under these circumstances, because that which might seem illogical to us today does not necessarily correspond to mental attitudes of the past. We may observe this latter point in yet another example drawn from Anna Komnene: the lengthy negotiations of Emperor Alexios I Komnenos with the leaders of the First Crusade, who eventually swore oaths of fealty to the emperor. One of the few subordinates who managed to avoid the oath was Tancred, a nephew of the Norman commander Bohemond. he emperor inally summoned all leaders at the imperial encampment at Pelekanos and demanded oaths of fealty from those who had not previously sworn their allegiance. Anna Komnene recounts: “Tancred, a man of independent spirit, protested that he owed allegiance to one man only, Bohemond, and that allegiance he hoped to keep till his dying day. He was pressed by the others, including even the emperor’s kinsmen. With apparent indiference, ixing his gaze on the tent in which the emperor held the seat of honor (a tent more vast than any other in living memory) he said: ‘If you ill it with money and give it to me, as well as the sums you have given to all the other counts, then I too will take the oath.’” A protest and tumult are said to have ensued, and Tancred inally, primarily because of Bohemond’s and the other leaders’ admonitions, swore the oath of fealty to the emperor.76 he demands made by Tancred as described by Anna Komnene are plainly absurd. Tancred was a minor, insigniicant subordinate leader, not yet twenty years of age, who gained stature only much later. Perhaps for this reason, Anna assigns him—in retrospect, as it were—a more prominent role in the First Crusade. Furthermore, since he served under Bohemond he was, in any case, bound to his orders. Bohemond could therefore easily have ordered him to pay homage to the emperor. he entire episode is indubitably meant to underscore, once again, the avarice and pompous arrogance—the hubris, that is—of the Occidentals in general and the Normans in particular. Without any further clues, one would certainly deem the episode unhistorical and tendentious. 76 Anna Komnene, Alexiad 11.3.54–61, pp. 329–30; trans. Sewter, 340–41. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 181 Nevertheless, it must contain at least a kernel of truth, since it is conirmed, in part, by another independent source—and one with an entirely opposite tendency. he Latin chronicler Radulph of Caen reports in his Gesta Tancredi that the emperor ofered him his entire tent to gain his support. Tancred rejected the git, stating that he, as vassal of Bohemond and crusader, owed allegiance to no one but God and to God alone, not even to the Byzantine emperor.77 he whole truth behind this episode can no longer be determined, since the two extant reports are too contradictory. Yet it cannot be denied that something occurred between Alexios and Tancred in which the imperial tent also played some role. In other words, the fact alone that a story seems to be sensational and out of the ordinary does not necessarily identify it as ictional, nor suggest that it must be dismissed as sensationalistic, tendentious, or the like.78 Conclusions Sensationalism, dramatization, and tendentious exaggeration cannot always be clearly distinguished, especially when an author is quite free to unite delight in sensationalism with deliberate tendentious modiication. Very oten we can no longer discern whether the information is correct or invented, whether it has been overstated or placed in a tendentious context according to criteria we are unable to comprehend, especially when other sources are unavailable for comparison. he chances are probably slim of inding universally applicable criteria of judgment. Moreover, there is always the inherent danger of regarding our own perspective as absolute, and applying this as the standard for judging the rationality of narratives founded upon diferent mental attitudes.79 77 Gesta Tancredi in expeditione Hierosolymitana Auctore Radulfo Cadomenis, in RHC HOcc 3:587–716, 629–30 (cap. 18). 78 It remains entirely unclear whether the two accounts are in any way connected. Both authors write quite some time ater the events they describe, so it cannot be ruled out that both independently availed themselves of the same oral sources, which were then modiied according to their respective intentions. But this is pure speculation. 79 On this issue, see also the observations of Magdalino, History (n. 10 above), esp. 168–75, where he is referring to Byzantine literature in general, and not speciically to historiography, to which, of course, his precepts also apply; see, too, the summary below. 4. Bon Mots and Sayings In Byzantine historiographical sources, we oten encounter small episodes, single sentences, or statements in which situations, events, or people are commented on in an exceedingly epigrammatic way, usually by one of the protagonists. It is debatable whether these episodes are genuine, or fabricated by either the respective author or his sources to lend a special note to the described occurrence or to characterize the speciic individual. Examples Perhaps one of the most famous examples of such a bon mot, conveyed by Procopius, is a remark ascribed to Empress heodora during the Nika riots, just as all appeared lost and Justinian was contemplating light. heodora emphatically refused to lee and declared: “May I never be separated from this purple, and may I not live the day on which those who meet me shall not address me as mistress. If, now, it is your wish to save yourself, O Emperor, there is no diiculty. For we have much money, and there is the sea, here the boats. However consider whether it will not come about ater you have been saved, that you would gladly exchange that safety for death. For as for myself, I approve a certain ancient saying that royalty is a good burialshroud.”80 his saying was, indeed, most appropriate to the situation. It inspired Justinian with fresh courage and, shortly ater, the situation improved and the riot was brutally suppressed. While previous scholarship has questioned the utterance of the saying itself, it has accepted that the empress did give a speech. he question remains, however, whether heodora ever did employ such a bon mot, since it was not a new expression coined by the empress, but a well-known classical quotation. It was originally cited by Isocrates, who ascribed it to the tyrant Dionysios of Syracuse, remarking on the siege of Syracuse by the Carthaginians in 396 BCE, and which, in time, evolved into a famous adage quoted by other authors, including Diodorus and Plutarch.81 he 80 Procopius in Six Volumes, trans. H. B. Dewing, Loeb (London, 1914), 1:231–33; ἐμὲ γάρ τις καὶ παλαιὸς ἀρέσκει λόγος, ὡς καλὸν ἐντάφιον ἡ βασιλεία ἐστί (J. Haury, Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia, rev. P. Wirth, 4 vols. [Leipzig, 1963], 1:130.14–16). 81 Isokrates, Oration 6.45; a survey of the entire issue, including extensive literature and sources, and the corresponding dispute, is now easily accessible in M. Meier, “Zur Funktion der heodora-Rede dumbarton oaks papers | 68 182 Ralph-Johannes Lilie earlier references, however, were not to imperial reign (βασιλεία), but tyranny (τυραννίς). Procopius’s readers are quite likely to have noticed the change in meaning. M. Meier argues that Procopius intended, with this modiied adage, not only to demonstrate heodora’s resoluteness, but also to direct a veiled literary criticism at the reign of the imperial couple—one that the educated reader would have recognized and that accords well with Procopius’s ambivalent opinion of Justinian and heodora. One can therefore concur with Meier’s conclusion that Procopius’s entire account is largely an artiicial literary product, with speciic biases toward the persons involved, rather than an authentic record of actual events. Indeed, Procopius’s stylizations go beyond even the practice typical for classical historiography.82 he example of Procopius clearly demonstrates the problems inherent in bon mots. In general, they are bound to direct speech, where they can play a crucial role in briely summarizing the speaker’s—in this case, heodora’s—argument.83 Direct speech, in any case, is largely regarded as a sphere in which a rhetorically trained author can take every liberty to insert his own opinion into a speaker’s mouth, or to cause him to utter what to the author’s mind should have been said in this situation. For the Byzantine audience, this method was standard practice.84 It is nevertheless possible, of course, that situations did occur in which such a bon mot was actually uttered at the speciic time and in the form cited. Recall, for example, the reign of Emperor Phokas in the early seventh century. Phokas was an uneducated subaltern oicer, who was entirely unprepared for the emperorship, and consequently behaved at times like the proverbial bull in a china shop. Ater Maurice’s deposition and his own coronation, Phokas publicly insulted the leader of the Blue circus faction, who called out to him: “Go away and learn the protocol, Maurice is not dead.”85 im Geschichtswerk Prokops (BP 1,24,33–37),” Rheinisches Museum für Philologie 147 (2004): 88–104, esp. 95–101, whose conclusions we concur with; on Procopius in general, see Karpozilos, Historikoi 1:369–419; Treadgold, Early Historians (n. 8 above), 176–226. 82 Meier, “heodora-Rede,” 95. 83 Another example of this kind of bon mot is the saying of Loukas Notaras (discussed in “Problems of Terminology”): “It is better to see the Turkish turban rule the city than the hat of a Latin.” 84 On the problem of speeches, see below, Conclusions. 85 ὕπαγε, μάθε τὴν κατάστασιν· ὁ Μαυρίκιος οὐκ ἀπέθανεν (C. de Boor, heophylactus Simocatta, Historiae, rev. P. Wirth [Stuttgart, his jibe was not, as sometimes previously assumed, a threat to reinstate the deposed Maurice—although it appears to have been later interpreted as such, even in Byzantium86—but rather a comment on how the uneducated Phokas should consult Maurice on the proper comportment of an emperor. One central duty of the speakers of the circus factions was to communicate with the emperor in the Hippodrome, to pass on questions and requests, and also occasionally to criticize him or his subjects. hey were certainly trained in rhetoric and, thus, capable of delivering well-directed bon mots. A little later, a similar saying, meant to deride the emperor, is transmitted by heophanes. Phokas appeared at the emperor’s kathisma obviously not entirely sober, so the speakers of the Greens called out to him: “Once again you have drunk from the cup! Once again you have lost your mind!”87 he emperor was allegedly so incensed that he had many members of the Greens executed, which, according to the chronicler, triggered massive unrest in Constantinople. In this case, as well, we cannot entirely rule out that these words were uttered as cited. It could equally be, however, a defamation of Phokas. If the latter is the case, heophanes is certainly not to blame, as he is known to have copied his sources verbatim; the defamation would derive from one of his sources, perhaps dating from the period of Herakleios. Another bon mot under suspicion of being a fabrication for its sheer succinctness is found within a dialogue between the victorious 1972], 8.10, p. 304.17). Verbatim, but with diferent punctuation: heophanes, Chronicle 289.29–30; on Simokattes, see Karpozilos, Historikoi 1:475–510; Treadgold, Early Historians, 329–40; most recently S. Ethymiadis, “A Historian and His Tragic Hero: A Literary Reading of heophylact Simokatta’s Ecumenical History,” in Macrides, History as Literature (n. 10 above), 169–85. Ethymiadis emphasizes that Simokattes wrote his history from a literary perspective, in which a concern for facts was secondary. 86 See the summary in Photios’s Biblioteca, which is, however, a greatly abridged version of the text and omits the order that Phokas learn the κατάστασις: Ἀπογραφὴ καὶ συναρίθμησις τῶν ἀνεγνωσμένων ἡμῖν βιβλίων ὧν εἰς κεφαλαιωδὴ διάγνωσιν ὁ ἠγαπημένος ἡμῶν ἀδελφὸς Ταράσιος ἐξῃτήσατο (R. Henry, Photius, Bibliothèque, 8 vols., Collection Byzantine Budé [Paris, 1959–77; repr. in 9 vols., 1991]: 1:65, p. 97.13–15: Καὶ μνήμη Μαυρικίου ὡς οὐκ ἀπέθανε, καὶ διὰ τοῦτο τοῦ τυράννου πρὸς τὸν φόνον τοῦ βασιλέως μᾶλον ὁρμή). 87 heophanes, Chronicle 296.26–27; trans. Scott and Mango, 426: πάλιν εἰς τὸν καῦκον ἔπιες· πάλιν τὸν νοῦν ἀπώλεσας· dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 183 Herakleios and Phokas, transmitted in the chronicle written by Patriarch Nikephoros. Herakleios asks Phokas, who had been captured by Herakleios’s soldiers and who seemed in a pathetic condition: “Is it thus, O wretch, that you have governed the state?” Phokas retorts with some irony: “No doubt, you will govern it better.”88 he remark is found in the irst part of the Nikephoros Chronicle, which in all probability derives from a source dating from before 642, and therefore most certainly echoes propaganda from Herakleios’s reign. Herakleios’s most urgent problem at the start of his reign was a lack of legitimacy, since neither was he related to Maurice, nor did he have any other claim to the imperial throne; nor can the irst years of his rule be described as particularly successful. Quite the contrary. For this reason as well, Phokas was probably systematically defamed for the duration of Herakleios’s reign. Not until his victory over the Persians was Herakleios celebrated as a highly successful emperor. he dialogue between Herakleios and Phokas would best it in this period, since the reader of course knew that Herakleios had indeed been the more successful emperor. Here again, the historicity of this dialogue cannot be ruled out entirely.89 One exception in the category of bon mots and sayings is found in the Historia syntomos by pseudoMichael Psellos, which presents adages attributed to a large number of Byzantine emperors, usually arranged at the end of the respective emperor’s portrayal. Certainly the author did not collect all these himself, because they are found in this concentration only for the emperors ruling between Tiberios II (578–582) and Philippikos (709–711). Sayings by emperors prior to that are cited, but are fewer in number, whereas adages attributed to later emperors remain the exception. Furthermore, these are not appended to the individual 88 Nikephoros, Chronography 4.24–27 (de Boor); 1:36.41–43 (Mango); trans. Mango: ὃν ἰδὼν Ἡράκλειος ἔφη “οὕτως, ἄθλιε, τὴν πολιτείαν διῴκησας;” ὁ δὲ “σὺ μᾶλον” εἶπε “κάλιον διοικεῖν μέλεις.” On this, see also below, Conclusions. 89 On Nikephoros’s history, see the in-depth “Introduction” of Mango, Nikephoros (n. 27 above); in general, Karpozilos, Historikoi 2:61–88; on the division of the chronicle and datespan, see R.-J. Lilie, “Die zweihundertjährige Reform: Zu den Anfängen der hemenorganisation im 7. und 8. Jahrhundert,” BSl 45 (1984): 27–39, 190–201, at 31; on the sayings discussed in this paper, see as well H.-G. Beck, Geschichte der byzantinischen Volksliteratur, Byzantinisches Handbuch 2.3 (= Handbuch der Altertumswissenschat 12:2.3) (Munich, 1971), 25–28. portrait, but incorporated into the main text.90 he author of the Historia syntomos clearly enjoyed these sayings, granting them extensive space in his otherwise brief biographies. For the period between the late sixth and early eighth century, he probably used, as noted above, a source containing a great number of these sayings. A last example will demonstrate, however, that these bon mots are divorced from historical reality. Emperor Justinian II is credited with the following: “Being emperor for the second time he prayed for a third and fourth time, for, he said: ‘ater rain comes sunshine.’”91 As a bon mot, the saying is surely excellent. However, that an emperor whose nose had been cut of at his irst deposition should have prayed for a third and a fourth at his return to the throne—which body parts would be next?—must be relegated to the realm of fantasy. Ater being overthrown the second time, Justinian II also lost his life. Conclusions he examples discussed above should suice to demonstrate how Byzantine chroniclers employed bon mots to briely characterize individuals and summarize and encapsulate speciic situations in a short sentence or saying. It was of no signiicance whether the quotation had actually been uttered, whether the author had modiied it, or even invented it entirely. In the irst example, heodora’s speech in Procopius, the author modiied a generally known adage, with which heodora herself was possibly familiar. Procopius’s modiication contained for the literary educated reader an indirect criticism of the imperial couple. For that reader it would have been entirely clear, however, that heodora could never have uttered those words in this way. However, they did describe in a nutshell the empress’s attitude in the Nika riots, while simultaneously characterizing her as well. 90 his is the case, for example, in the encounter between heophilos and the poetess Kassia, in which she countered his remark “From a woman arose all evil” with “From woman emanated all better things.” On Kassia, see most recently I. Rochow, Κασσία (Athens, 2011) (an improved Modern Greek translation); pseudoMichael Psellos, Historia syntomos 97, p. 86.46–47; on the Historia syntomos in general, see Karpozilos, Historikoi 3:155–85; PmbZ 2, Prolegomena: 15–16. 91 Pseudo-Michael Psellos, Historia syntomos 81, p. 72.89–90, trans. Aerts: Οὗτος δὶς βασιλεύσας ηὔχετο καὶ τρὶς καὶ τετράκις· ἧ δὲ γάρ, φησι, μετὰ νέφος ὁ ἥλιος. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 184 Ralph-Johannes Lilie Bon mots of this kind could actually have been uttered, as the examples in heophanes show. his was insigniicant, however, for the bon mot’s value. Entire collections of bon mots most likely existed, which were consulted and used at will. he Historia syntomos by pseudo-Michael Psellos is, however, unique, making conclusions regarding the prevalence and popularity of such collections impossible. Clariication is also needed as to why such a collection was consulted only for the emperors between Tiberios II and Philippikos Bardanes. Nevertheless, it demonstrates the freedom an author enjoyed to modify his sources,92 as is also evident in the dialogue between Herakleios and Phokas. In the Historia syntomos, Herakleios asks Phokas: “‘Was this your amateurish way, tyrant, of handling the empire?’ Phokas answered this shamelessly: ‘you may perhaps handle it more professionally?’”93 he author, by substituting the comparatively neutral term ἄθλιος for the much more severe τύραννος and by characterizing Phokas’s reign as ἰδιωτικῶς, which the editor W. J. Aerts correctly translates as “amateurish,” replaces the relatively reserved wording of Nikephoros’s Breviarium with a coarser version; he also accentuates even more strongly the contrast between Phokas and Herakleios by having Phokas not just reply (ὁ δὲ εἶπε), but “shamelessly” (ὁ δὲ ἰταμῶς). he alteration of “state” (πολιτεία) to “empire” or “imperial rule” (βασιλεία) is not without signiicance in this context, since it denotes a change in the perception of governance. he quotation as such was, in any case, not inviolable for the author, who adopted it from his source, but could readily adjust it to his own requirements. Bon mots could thus serve to characterize a person, as in the case of Justinian II, or to emphasize pointedly a more or less dramatic situation, as in the case of the Nika riots, which could thus be encapsulated in a bon mot. From this point of view, one could also categorize bon mots under “dramatization and sensationalism,” as both could be concentrated to the extreme in a bon mot. In consequence, any question of the veracity of such a bon mot was of no relevance to either the author or the reader. In a subordinate sense the bon mot was “true,” as long as it was employed at 92 Or the freedom of those sources to modify theirs. 93 Pseudo-Michael Psellos, Historia syntomos 75, p. 62.18–20: ὁ Ἡράκλειος “οὕτω, τύραννε, τὴν βασιλείαν κατέστησας ἰδιωτικῶς” ἔφη· ὁ δὲ ἰταμῶς “σὺ δὲ κάλιον ἂν καταστήσειας;” the proper place and succinct enough to deserve its being remembered. 5. Epic Elements Historiographical texts provide an absolutely perfect setting not only for epic allusions, but also for the adoption of entire episodes from the epic—or other— traditions. hese additions could be linked to certain protagonists, who would thus be endowed with heroic qualities. hey could also be founded on actual events that echoed earlier well-known heroic deeds, with which they could then be—directly or indirectly— compared. Such comparisons were easiest, of course, with direct combat, which enabled comparisons with previous wars known from literature. In Byzantine historiography, the Homeric epics ofered such points of reference. But other classical historians were consulted as well—for example, hukydides, Xenophon, or Flavius Josephus. Even though their works were not epics, they nevertheless provided opportunities for attributing epic/heroic qualities to the protagonist. he same was true for later sources, as shall be demonstrated below. he importance of the Old Testament, as well, should not be underestimated. We must diferentiate between more-or-less verbatim adoptions of entire episodes and narratives that attempt to set a certain tone in their accounts by quoting—oten anonymously— single words and partial sentences.94 Direct adoptions Entire episodes, which have been either slightly abridged or awkwardly it into the narrative, are found in works primarily by authors who have largely compiled their own works from others, and thus either directly or indirectly absorbed this material. One of the best examples of this method is the Chronicle of heophanes, which is based, to a great extent, on a collection of source material most likely gathered by Georgios Synkellos.95 We shall conine ourselves to a 94 hus we will ind correspondences to our discussion below, Anonymous Quotations. 95 On the sources of the Chronicle of heophanes, see C. Mango, “Who Wrote the Chronicle of heophanes?” ZbFilozFak 18 (1978): 9–17; most recently, R.-J. Lilie, Byzanz unter Eirene und Konstantin VI. (780–802): Mit einem Kapitel über Leon IV. (775–780) von I. Rochow, BBS 2 (Frankfurt, 1996), 315–422, for a discussion of the dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 185 single detailed example: the sons of the trumpeter and their actions in the 650s.96 heophanes writes: In this year Mauias commanded that a great naval armament should be made with a view to his leet’s sailing against Constantinople. he entire preparation was being made at Tripolis in Phoenicia. On seeing this, two Christloving brothers, the sons of a trumpeter, who lived at Tripolis, were ired with a divine zeal and rushed to the city prison, where there was a multitude of Roman captives. hey broke down the gates and, ater liberating the captives, rushed to the emir of the city, whom they slew together with his suite and, having burnt all the equipment, sailed of to the Roman state. Even so, the preparation was not abandoned; and while Mauias made an expedition against Caesarea of Cappadocia, he appointed Aboulauar chief of the said shipbuilding. his man arrived at Phoenix (as it is called) in Lycia, where the emperor Constans lay with the Roman leet, and engaged him in a sea battle. As the emperor was about to ight on sea, he saw in a dream that night that he was at hessalonike. When he had awakened, he related his vision to an interpreter of dreams, who said, “Would, O emperor, that you had not fallen asleep or seen a dream: for your being at hessalonike is interpreted as ‘Give victory to another,’ [that is,] victory will go to your enemy.” Now the emperor, who had taken no measures to draw up his battle line, ordered the Roman leet to ight. And when the two sides engaged, the Romans were defeated and the sea was dyed with Roman blood. he emperor then put his robes on another man; and the aforesaid trumpeter’s son leapt into many contributions on this topic of Paul Speck, which cannot all be cited here. 96 A similar example from the same period would be the adventures of the koubikoularios Andreas around the same date. For reasons of space, we must forgo a detailed description and analysis here. On Andreas, see PmbZ 1.1: Andreas (#353); on the episode mentioned, see R.-J. Lilie, “heophanes and Al-T �abarī on the Arab Invasions of Byzantium,” in Al­T �abarī, A Medieval Muslim Historian and His Work, ed. H. Kennedy, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam 15 (Princeton, 2008), 219–36, esp. 230–32. the imperial ship and, snatching the emperor away, transferred him to another ship, thus saving him unexpectedly. his courageous man then stationed himself bravely on the imperial ship and killed many of the enemy before giving up his life on behalf of the emperor. he enemy surrounded him and held him in their midst, thinking he was the emperor; and, ater he had slain many of them, they killed him, too, as the man who was wearing the imperial robes. hus routed, the emperor escaped and, leaving everyone behind, sailed of to Constantinople.97 It is conspicuous that neither the two brothers nor their father are named. he father is referred to only as a trumpeter (βουκινάτωρ), but beyond that has no further function in the story. he second brother is also mentioned only once, more or less incidentally, in the action in Tripolis. One gets the impression that heophanes/Synkellos consulted a much more extensive—perhaps even oral—source that was condensed to a bare minimum. While an uprising might actually have occurred in Tripolis, with some of the protagonists escaping to Byzantine territory, its extent is certainly exaggerated; likewise, the episode in which one of the brothers saves the emperor in the sea battle of the coast of Mount Phoenix is an invention. Another argument for an unrealistic depiction of the sea battle is the emperor’s alleged dream, forewarning him of the defeat.98 Similar adoptions can be found elsewhere in heophanes. Best known, perhaps, are the adventures the future Emperor Leo III experienced at the 97 heophanes, Chronicle 345.18–25, 346.7–17, trans. Scott and Mango, 482. Other sources: Elias Nisibenus, in Fragmente syrischer und arabischer Historiker, trans. F. Baethgen, Abh. für die Kunde d. Morgenlandes 8.3 (Leipzig, 1884), 108–15 (= E. W. Brooks, Eliae Metropolitae Nisibeni opus chronologicum, CSCO 63, Scriptores Syri 23 [Louvain, 1910], 67.14–19); A. A. Vasiliev, Kitab al­‘Unvan, Histoire universelle écrite par Agapius (Mahboub) de Menbidj, in PO 8.3 (1912): 399–54, 483–84; for additional sources see PmbZ 1.1: Bukinator (#1047A). 98 he author plays on the name hessalonike (θὲς ἄλῳ νίκην = give victory to another); on this and other dreams in heophanes, see G. T. Calofonos, “Dream Narratives in Historical Writing: Making Sense of History in heophanes’s Chronographia,” in Macrides, Historiography as Literature (n. 8 above), 133–44; see also “he Supernatural” below. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 186 Ralph-Johannes Lilie beginning of his career. Allegedly, Justinian II dispatched the (at that time) spatharios Leo with a large sum of money to Alania, to incite strife between the Alanians and Abasgians. Because Justinian, however, secretly wanted Leo dead, he ordered his henchmen to steal the money Leo kept hidden, leaving Leo doomed, without money or any other inancial resources. Nevertheless, Leo managed to assert himself and with skill and cunning tactics he successfully completed his mission and returned safely to Byzantium. he entire story is unconvincing, improbable from the very beginning: Leo, at the time, was only a spatharios, a very low rank. It would have been quite easy for Justinian II to eliminate him, instead of choosing such a convoluted scheme. he episode does, however, serve a speciic contextual purpose: Leo III had begun his career, as heophanes had described just before, under Justinian II. his was apparently common knowledge, which could not be denied or withheld. Justinian II was regarded, however, especially in his second reign (705–709), as a tyrant, whose deposition had been morally justiied. he episode heophanes inserts into his historical work had the purpose, in this context, to depict Leo as an adversary of Justinian, because Leo’s dissociation from Justinian seemed to be necessary.99 hese heroic deeds of Leo III are most certainly not taken from his own epic, but possibly from a Vita—as yet unknown, of course—perhaps from an account of his deeds compiled before his coronation. he details of his ascension to the throne suggest an independent source that heophanes adopted, at least in part.100 Borrowings of this kind from other genres may be encountered frequently. One example in this context is the account, dating from the irst half of the ninth century, about Manuel, protostrator and magi­ stros, found in heophanus continuatus, Genesios, and Symeon the Logothete. As Juan Signes Codoñer convincingly argued some time ago, this account is 99 heophanes, Chronicle 391–400. 100 he Arab sources also contain information on Leo’s ascension, which would be based, however, on their own tradition; on Leo III see PmbZ 1.2: Leon III. (#4242); on the possible sources, see as well D. Ainogenov, “A Lost 8th Century Pamphlet Against Leon III and Constantine V?” Eranos 100 (2002): 1–17; idem, “he Story of the Patriarch Constantine II of Constantinople in heophanes and George the Monk: Transformations of a Narrative,” in Macrides, Historiography as Literature, 207–14. based on one, perhaps two, vitae of Manuel that these authors incorporated into their own works, although without being able to fully resolve the contradictions they contained.101 Insertions of entire episodes like these may be encountered frequently and, as previously remarked, are certainly not conined to the Chronicle of heophanes or epics. We shall present one inal example of this type that clearly reveals the author’s double motivation. he princess Anna Komnene describes in her Alexiad the reception of members of the First Crusade in the imperial palace in Constantinople. During this audience the Crusaders swore oaths of fealty to the emperor, though one of them also dared to sit on the emperor’s throne. He was reprimanded by one of the leaders, but responded only with grumbling. he emperor noticed the Frank’s anger and spoke to him. hereupon the Frank declared: “I am a pure Frank,” he replied, “and of noble birth. One thing I know: at a cross-roads in the country where I was born is an ancient shrine; to this anyone who wishes to engage in single combat goes, prepared to ight; there he prays to God for help and there he stays awaiting the man who will dare to answer his challenge. At that cross-roads I myself have spent time, waiting and longing for the man who would ight— but there was never one who dared.” Hearing this the emperor said, “If you didn’t get your ight then, when you looked for it, now you have a ine opportunity for many. But I strongly recommend you not to take up position in the rear of the army, nor in the van; stand in the centre with the hemilochitae. I know the enemy’s methods. I’ve had long experience of the Turk.” he advice was not given to him alone, but as they let he warned all the others of the manifold dangers they were likely to meet on the journey. He advised them not to pursue the 101 J. Signes Codoñer, “Lust am Erzählen: Heiligenviten als Grundlage der Geschichtsschreibung im 10. Jahrhundert und der Weg nach Bagdad,” in L’ écriture de la mémoire (n. 10 above), 83–105; idem, “Dead or Alive? Manuel’s (Ater)life ater 838,” in Pour l’amour de Byzance: Ommage à Paolo Odorico, ed. C. Gastgeber, C. Messis, D. I. Mureşan, and F. Ronconi, Eastern and Central European Studies 3 (Frankfurt, 2012), 231–42; on Manuel see also PmbZ 1.3: Manuel (#4707). dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 187 We shall not discuss this episode in any further detail, for its absurdity is evident. he claim that a Frank sat on the emperor’s throne during an oicial audience is, in itself, wholly implausible. It fails for the simple reason that the emperor himself was seated there and that the throne would have been surrounded by servants and guards, so the Frank would not have had the slightest opportunity to take a seat there.103 In a way, Anna Komnene conirms this herself, when she merely reprimands Baldwin, the leader of the Franks, stating it is not customary in Byzantium to be seated in the emperor’s presence at an audience. Of seating oneself on the throne, which would have constituted an even greater breach of etiquette, there is no mention. But it is not Anna’s objective to convey a factual account of the event, but rather to characterize by the Frank’s behavior—in efect, an attack on the crown— the impertinent and arrogant attitude of the Franks.104 It is interesting, however, that Anna Komnene is still not satisied, and proceeds to insert an additional story in which the aforementioned Frank relates how it was impossible for him to ight duels in his home country. But this story is just as unrealistic—duels of that kind had long been banned in Latin Europe.105 Single combat of this kind did, however, play a prominent role in the courtly epic poetry, the chansons de geste, whose origins date back to the tenth century, becoming increasingly popular in Latin Europe from the eleventh century on. hese poems were usually performed by minstrels and singers, and—originally, at least—were not preserved in written form.106 From the second half of the eleventh century, with the increasing number of Latin mercenaries, pilgrims, and merchants, they seem to have arrived in Byzantium as well. Only later would the poems, or rather some of their themes, become incorporated into Byzantine literature,107 which does not exclude the possibility that they may have been performed at the imperial court toward the end of the eleventh century, or that one could hear them at the Latin residences in Constantinople. Anna Komnene, in any case, adopted at least the core of a narrative of this kind, in order to characterize the Latins’ general pugnacity, but also because such alien behavior would have been fascinating for an educated Byzantine, albeit in a negative way. he story, however, has absolutely nothing to do with what actually occurred in the throne room. In this concrete case, the account serves the purpose of underscoring the superior composure of the emperor, who not only silently endures the insult, but even gives the self-proclaimed Frankish hero some advice for the battle against the Turks, which he of 102 Anna Komnene, Alexiad 10.10.74–10, trans. Sewter, 326; see Lilie, “Anna Komnene,” 91–92; see, as well, the pointer in Mullett, “Novelisation” (n. 15 above), 12; eadem, “Bohemond’s Biceps” (n. 45 above). 103 Reinsch’s opinion that this episode occurred just as Anna describes it must be rejected. See D. Reinsch, “De minimis non curat Anna?” JÖB 39 (1989): 129–33; see as well R.-J. Lilie, “Anna Komnene und die Lateiner,” BSl 54 (1993): 169–82, esp. 177 and 181. Reinsch argues that the throne was large enough to accommodate several people. Pictorial sources from the Komnenian period prove this was not the case. 104 his episode could therefore also be categorized as “Characterization by Deeds.” 105 hese were not the oicial duels (trials by combat) that were still legal in France up to the fourteenth century—the last duel of this kind was fought in 1386 (see E. Jager, he Last Duel: A True Story of Crime, Scandal, and Trial by Combat in Medieval France [New York, 2005])—but private single combat without witnesses and without set rules. Duels of this type were banned by both church and state since the tenth century. For this reason, all eforts to connect this episode to a particular location, as has been attempted in much prior scholarship, are entirely futile; see also Lilie, “Anna Komnene,” 91–92. 106 hese were not, of course, texts in Latin, but were performed in the vernacular—here, Old French. Whether Anna learned of these songs, directly or indirectly, through contact with other Latins at court in Constantinople, can no longer be determined; in general, on chansons de geste, see D. Boutet, Forme et signiication d’une écri­ ture épique du moyen âge (Paris, 1993); F. Suard, La chanson de geste, Collection Que sais-je?, 2nd ed. (Paris, 2003); a still useful introduction is J. Bumke, Höische Kultur: Literatur und Gesellschat im hohen Mittelalter, 11th ed. (Munich, 2005). I would like to express my gratitude to Iver Brackert for his valuable advice on the topic of chansons de geste. 107 he chivalric romances, for example, adapted by the Byzantines from about the 12th century on; see, for example, C. Cupane, “Topica Romanzesca in Oriente e in Occidente: ‘Avanture’ e ‘Amour’,” in Il Romanzo tra Cultura Latina e Cultura Bizantina, ed. H.-G. Beck, F. Conca, and C. Cupane (Palermo, 1986), 47–72; see also R. Beaton, he Medieval Greek Romance (Cambridge, 1989), 15–18, with a brief discussion of 12th-century east-west literary contacts, which he appears to question—at least for the period before Manuel I Komnenos. he episode analyzed here, as far as I can determine, has not yet been included in this discussion. enemy too far, if God gave them the victory, lest falling into traps set by the Turkish leaders they should be massacred.102 dumbarton oaks papers | 68 188 Ralph-Johannes Lilie course ignores. In the battle at Dorylaeum, in which the Crusaders, ater initial losses, were victorious, this Frank proved how little his deeds corresponded to his vainglory: “hat crazy idiot, Latinus, who had dared to seat himself on the imperial throne, forgetting the emperor’s advice stupidly rode out in front of the rest (he was on the extreme end of Bohemond’s line). Forty of his men were killed then and he himself was seriously wounded. He turned in light and hurried back to the centre—visible proof, although he would not admit it in words, of Alexius’s wise counsel.”108 his description, as well, cannot be correct. According to Anna’s own battle description, the Frank belonged to Bohemond’s unit, which had, however—again, according to Anna—not yet arrived at Constantinople at the time the audience she describes took place.109 From Anna’s report it can deduced the Frank was a member of one of the Lotharingian or northern French units that only later joined the battle at Dorylaeum, where Bohemond commanded the vanguard that commenced the battle without waiting for the other Crusaders. It seems, therefore, that Anna Komnene is here combining diferent elements into one single episode, with the intention of contrasting the insolence of the Latins to the judicious and exemplary comportment of the emperor, as well as of conveying a more dramatic portrayal of the situation by transposing and condensing the events. For her, the veracity of the various individual incidents described is of less signiicance. Epic Elaboration of Specific Events he ideal opportunity for inserting epic elements into a historiographical narrative is, of course, depictions of single combat and battles. Here, Homeric epic, but also the Old Testament, furnished a nearly inexhaustible treasure of models that could either be imitated directly or modiied at will. Anemas, to name but one example, the son of the last Arab emir of Crete, was admitted to the Byzantine bodyguard ater the Byzantine conquest of Crete in 960/61 and participated in John I Tzimiskes’ 971 campaign against the Rus. In a battle near Dorostolon, Anemas killed the Russian leader Ikmor according to Leo the Deacon’s account, 108 Anna Komnene, Alexiad 11.3.84–92; trans. Sewter, 341. 109 On the change in chronology of the events in Anna Komnene’s account, see Lilie, “Anna Komnene,” 51–56. by severing both his head and right hand in one single blow. Ikmor was not only second-in-command of the Russians, but is described as giant and daring (ἀνὴρ γιγαντώδης καὶ νεανικός). Whether this description is generally valid for Russian leaders or must instead be regarded as a topos remains a matter of debate; the Russian leader Svenald, who had shortly before also been slain by a Byzantine in the very same conlict, is described in the exact same words.110 However, the association with Goliath slain by David in the Old Testament would certainly have been immediately recognizable to any Byzantine reader. In fact, such engagements tend to follow a certain pattern: the hero challenges an essentially fartoo-powerful opponent, appears at irst to falter, only to ultimately prevail and decisively conquer the opponent. An absolutely perfect example of this method is demonstrated by the historian Niketas Choniates, in his portrayal of John II Komnenos’s 1137/38 expedition to Cilicia and against the Crusader principality of Antioch. Niketas describes the single combat between a Byzantine and an Armenian, in which the Byzantine champion wins in the end. he Armenian opponent had initially derided the Byzantines and challenged them. hey chose one especially brave soldier, the Macedonian Eustratios. For quite some time, he remained on the defensive during the contest, but inally cut the Armenian’s shield into pieces with a single blow, although it seemed equal to Hector’s shield. hereupon the Armenian led. When the emperor asked why he had hesitated for so long, the Macedonian replied that he had actually intended to sever both the shield and the Armenian in two with a single blow, but was unable to do so because his opponent had held his shield too far from his body. he emperor richly rewarded him for his victory.111 Whether or not this Eustratios truly existed can no longer be determined. Eustratios, in this context, is a “speaking name” (“the good soldier”), on the other hand it is not a rare name. he contest took place in Cilicia. he Byzantine reader was certainly aware that Alexander the Great achieved a great victory against the Persians in this region near Issus in 110 On Anemas, see Leo the Deacon, History 9.6, p. 149.2–12, and on Svenald, 9.2, p. 144.18–21; see as well PmbZ 2.1: Anemas (#20421), 2.3: Ikmor (#22753), and 2.6: Svenald (#27439). 111 Niketas Choniates, History 23.90–25.40. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 189 333 BCE, alluded to by the reference to Eustratios as a Macedonian. Also, the comparison of the Armenian’s shield to that of Hector its into this overall picture, since Hector was not just any hero, but the main enemy of the Greeks at Troy. he entire description of this single combat is, therefore, full of associations of which the Byzantine reader was fully conscious. It still cannot be ruled out that the account is nevertheless factual, or at least has an authentic background. he arguments against authenticity are, however, relatively compelling.112 he extent to which Niketas Choniates plays with epic motifs and allusions such as these is manifest in his depiction of a tournament held by Emperor Manuel I Komnenos during his Syrian campaign in 1158 near Antioch: Since the battle that bristles with long spears had tasted no blood, goodly numbers of both sides eagerly engaged one another, tilting lances and avoiding the thrusts aimed at them. It was something to behold during this mock battle in one place a knight thrown on his head and shoulders, and in another place one knocked of his saddle, and one lying on his face, and another on his back, and still another who turned tail in headlong light. One knight, pale with fear, was frightened of his adversary with couched lance and wholly buried himself behind his shield while the other, observing his cowering foe, was exuberant. he rush of the wind whipped up by the horses’ charges caused the pennons to wave and produced a shrill whistle. Viewing this embroilment one could have described it, and not inelegantly, by saying that it was like watching Aphrodite in union with Ares, or the Graces embracing Enyo. hus, the games that day were a mixture of diverse noble deeds. Manuel roused the Romans to strive mightily, and, even more incredible, he wanted them to excel the Latins tilting with the lance. His eyes were the judge of the games played on the ield for the ever high-spirited and insolent Italians could in no way tolerate the Romans prevailing in the tournament. he emperor 112 See also Simpson and Ethymiadis, Niketas Choniates (n. 4 above), 38. dashed two knights to the ground at the same time; brandishing his lance, he charged the one, and the force of the thrust threw both opponents down.113 At irst glance, the depiction appears quite complex and conveys the impression that the chronicler had witnessed the event himself and endeavors to convey a vivid impression of what had transpired. However, Niketas could hardly have been able to participate in this campaign due to his age and, if he had, he would have mentioned it. Taking a closer look, it becomes evident that the author does not, in fact, relate any details, aside from the claim that Manuel dashed two knights of their horses with one blow from his lance.114 he other details are rhetorical embellishments of a collision of mounted troops, gloriied to an outstanding spectacle by anonymous citations largely from the Iliad. How the tournament transpired exactly cannot be ascertained by this description either. In the Latin sources reporting on Manuel’s campaign, it is not mentioned at all. he depiction, in fact, fulills a speciic purpose for Niketas Choniates—or his source. It is meant to gloss over the fact that the campaign had been a failure. Manuel had not achieved his main goal—the conquest of Antioch—but had instead to be satisied by a recognition of Byzantine sovereignty. his outcome was, in view of the great expense and efort, rather meager, and the stylization of the tournament as an honorable, “bloodless” battle indubitably served to distract from this poor result. his impression is further intensiied when the author at the end of the episode underscores the manly courage (ἀνδρεία) of the emperor, who had, in fact, achieved nothing: “Now that he had illed the Antiochenes with admiration for his manly courage, and they had veriied with their eyes what they had 113 Niketas Choniates, History 109.72–110.91; trans. Magoulias, 62. 114 he emperor’s clothing and that of Prince Raynald of Antioch are also described, but these could just as well be the usual “festive costume,” also quite familiar in Constantinople; on these events, see R.-J. Lilie, Byzantium and the Crusader States 1096–1204, trans. J. C. Morris and J. E. Ridings (Oxford, 1993), 181; on the tournament and its possible literary inluence on a later, anonymous ekphrasis, see, as well, L. Jones and H. Maguire, “A Description of the Jousts of Manuel I Komnenos,” BMGS 26 (2002): 104–48, esp. 114–18, 136–39. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 190 Ralph-Johannes Lilie previously only heard with their ears, he changed his mind and decided to return to Constantinople.”115 Conclusions Epic inclusions may serve diferent purposes, but they primarily illustrate and dramatize factual events—warfare, in particular. hey may also serve to heroize the protagonist, either by comparing him to ancient heroes, or by stylizing his opponents as formidable combatants, so that the hero’s eventual victory appears all the more triumphant. his would have been of less signiicance for the author, however, than his objective to compose a more colorful and thrilling narrative with these additions and embellishments than a mere listing of events would have provided. It was not even necessary to incorporate entire sentences or episodes into the narrative; single sayings or the names of famous heroes—like Hector and Achilles, or David and Goliath— might sufice to evoke such associations. One exception, perhaps, is the example, cited above, of the tournament organized by Emperor Manuel, where the anachronistic elements employed to embellish the narrative were clearly intended to disguise the failure—at least, according to its own expectations—of the entire campaign. Such questions can ultimately only be resolved individually for each speciic case. 6. Problems of Terminology Writers of history oten adopt from their sources terms that had an originally diferent usage. It is diicult to determine conclusively whether or not these were conscious adaptations, since modern interpreters oten have their own diiculties discerning diferences in deinitions of words or terminology. Examples Perhaps the best-known misinterpretation of a terminus technicus is found in the Chronicle of heophanes, who reports that in the year 622/23 Emperor Herakleios proceeded “to the country of the themata” (ἐπὶ τὰς τῶν 115 Niketas Choniates, History, 110.92–94; trans. Magoulias, 62–63; Kaldellis, “Paradox” (n. 18 above), 88–89, emphasizes the contrast between the glittering tournament and the losses Manuel’s army sufered against the Seljuqs on the way back to Constantinople. But for Kaldellis as well, it is evident that Niketas deliberately gloriies the tournament beyond what might be considered normal. θεμάτων χώρας) to drill his troops and to march with them against the Persians.116 In heophanes’ lifetime, the term θέμα denoted a military district, and heophanes, who had adopted the item from another source, was probably entirely unaware that the term “theme” had had a diferent meaning in the early seventh century than in his own time.117 Following heophanes, scholars have surmised that this organizational system—the so-called “theme system”—was established by Herakleios to better motivate his troops for the war against the Persians.118 In fact, in the irst half of the seventh century the term θέμα primarily designated a military unit. Herakleios, therefore, simply proceeded “to the region where the troops were [encamped],” which in context makes much more sense than the—for the irst quarter of the seventh century— anachronistic interpretation of themata being military districts.119 In the case of heophanes, it is a change in a word’s meaning that leads to an anachronistic interpretation of θέμα. Even more problematic are those cases in which the source is from another genre, and therefore employs terms having a technical meaning diferent from that which one would expect in a literary historical work. his transference of terms is quite evident, for example, in Anna Komnene: in her account 116 heophanes, Chronicle 303.10; trans. Scott and Mango, 435. 117 On heophanes’ diiculties with changing usages in some of his sources, see Scott, “Events” (n. 12 above), 58–61, with some literary examples. 118 One main advocate of this view was Ostrogorsky (n. 1 above), who lent it added authority by incorporating it into his handbook (History, 96–98 [= Geschichte, 80–83]); this view—with slight variations—is still maintained by a number of scholars today; see, for example, I. Shahîd, “Heraclius and the heme System: New Light From the Arabic,” Byzantion 57 (1987): 391–406; idem, “Heraclius and the heme System: Further Observations,” Byzantion 59 (1989): 208–43. 119 For thorough introductions to this topic, see J. Haldon, State, Army and Society in Byzantium: Approaches to Military, Social and Administrative History: 6th–12th Centuries (Norfolk, VA, 1995); idem, “Seventh-Century Continuities: he Ajnād and the ‘hematic Myth’,” in States, Resources, Armies, ed. Av. Cameron, he Byzantine and Islamic Near East 3, Studies in Late Antiquity and Early Islam 1 (Princeton, 1995), 379–423; R.-J. Lilie, “Araber und hemen: Zum Einluß der arabischen Expansion auf die byzantinische Militärorganisation,” ibid. 425–60; these studies also provide extensive surveys of most of the earlier literature; on the evolution of the deinition of “thema,” see J. Koder, “Zur Bedeutungsentwicklung des byzantinischen Terminus hema,” JÖB 40 (1990): 155–65. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 191 of the deeds of her father, one highlight is her record of the 1108 contract between Alexios I Komnenos and the Norman Bohemond. One of the terms of the treaty reads as follows: Τοὺς δὲ προσερχομένους μοι ἀνθρώπους τῆς βασιλείας σου ὡς κατεξαναστάντας τοῦ κράτους τοῦ σοῦ καὶ ἐμοὶ ἐκδουλεύειν ἐθέλοντας καὶ μισήσω καὶ ἀποπέμψομαι, μᾶλον δὲ κατ᾿ αὐτῶν ἐξοπλίσομαι. Τοὺς δὲ ἄλους [ed. Leib; Reinsch in his edition changes ἄλους to ἄλως] βαρβάρους ἐθέλοντας δὲ ὅμως ὑπὸ τὸ ἐμὸν δόρυ γίνεσθαι, δεξαίμην μέν, ἀλ᾿ οὐκ ἰδίῳ προσώπῳ. “If men approach me who have rebelled against the authority of Your Majesty and wish to become my slaves, I shall express my loathing of them and reject them—more than that, I shall take up arms against them. As for the other barbarians who are yet willing to submit to my spear, I shall receive them, but not in my own name; on behalf of you and your much-loved son I shall compel them to take oaths, and I shall take over their lands in the name of your Majesties.” his text has been called into question by D.Reinsch, who argues that the wording implies that the emperor’s ἄνθρωποι are also barbarians, which cannot be the intended meaning. Reinsch therefore follows the version in manuscript F and changes ἄλους into ἄλως, so that the passage reads: “hose, however, who incidentally are barbarians, but nevertheless wish to subjugate themselves to Bohemond. . . .” his argument, however, overlooks the fact that this is the Greek version of a bilingual contract, which is also full of technical terms in Latin. he term ἄνθρωποι therefore designates not only the normal subjects of the emperor, but also—corresponding to the Latin homines—his “men,” that is, the Latin knights and possibly also the other barbarian mercenaries serving in the emperor’s forces. In that case, the sentence in question retains the sense of Leib’s version in the printed edition (vol. 3, p. 129): “Quant aux hommes-[liges] de votre Majesté.” he sense is that Bohemond may not enlist the mercenaries of the emperor—that is, his homines or ἄνθρωποι—but is quite free to recruit any other barbarians, which designates here those Latin knights in the East not serving in the Byzantine army, or warriors of other nationalities. Even these he may not enlist in his own name, which surely means he may enlist them in the emperor’s name. hus they become, at least indirectly, Byzantine subjects.120 120 Anna Komnene, Alexiad 13.12.96–6; trans. Sewter, 427; the text has been modiied accordingly in Reinsch’s edition; for Words, however, may change their meaning without our being able to trace their transformations, basically for lack of suicient data. One good example of the problems this entails is the famous and frequently cited quote of the megas doux Loukas Notaras just before the fall of Constantinople: “Κρειττότερόν ἐστιν εἰδέναι ἐν μέσῃ τῇ Πόλει φακιόλιον βασιλεῦον Τούρκων ἢ καλύπτραν Λατινικήν, “It is better to see the Turkish turban rule the city than the Latin kalyptra.”121 In most accounts, kalyptra was easily understood to be a type of clerical head covering and translated as miter, tiara, or monk’s cap. his interpretation immediately suggests itself, since the sentence is found in a—broadly speaking—religious context. Recently, however, Reinsch has voiced doubts concerning this interpretation, stating that καλύπτρα must have speciically designated the Latin emperor’s crown.122 While certain details of his argument may be debatable, Reinsch does present as proof a series of other citations taken from several sources, including Anna Komnene, Niketas Choniates, and our example from Loukas, which demonstrate that καλύπτρα can also mean “crown.” Was this, however, always the case? With regard to Michael Psellos, for example, who is not much older, linguistically speaking, than Anna Komnene, καλύπτρα does not designate a crown: in his eulogy for Abbot Nikolaos of the abbey Horaia Pege, Psellos relates a vision Nikolaos once had in which he saw the Mother of God lying on a daybed (κλίνη) and wearing a καλύπτρα: ἡ δὲ καλύπτρα τῆς κεφαλῆς καὶ τὰς ὀφρύας ἐκάλυπτε, τὸ πρόσωπον αὐτῆς ἡλιακῶν χαρίτων ἀπέστιλβεν. If καλύπτρα meant crown here, this crown would have—astonishingly—slipped over the Mother of God’s forehead, since, as Psellos writes, it covered Reinsch’s argument, see “Zum Text der Alexias Anna Komnenes,” JÖB 40 (1990): 233–68, at 257, where he translates the passage into German accordingly: “Diejenigen hingegen, die im übrigen Barbaren sind, aber dennoch den Wunsch haben, sich Bohemund zu unterwerfen”; for the treaty of Devol, see Regesten der Kaiserurkunden des Oströmischen Reiches von 565–1453, ed. F. Dölger, pt. 2, Regesten von 1025–1204, Corpus der griechischen Urkunden des Mittelalters und der neueren Zeit 1 (Munich, 1995), no. 1243, with relevant literature. 121 V. Grecu, Doukas, Istoria Turco­Bizantina (1341–1462) (Bucharest, 1958), 329. 122 D. Reinsch, “Lieber den Turban als was? Bemerkungen zum Dictum des Lukas Notaras,” in Panagiotakes, Jefreys, and Angelou, ΦΙΛΕΛΛΗΝ (n. 19 above), 377–89. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 192 Ralph-Johannes Lilie her eyebrows! Here, the word indubitably means a veil, rather than a crown.123 It is, in fact, in our opinion, highly problematic to deinitively determine a deinition on the basis of four or ive examples of unequal signiicance extending over four hundred years. Reinsch’s observations on Loukas Notaras are also not convincing: the μέγας δούξ may very well have been pragmatic, but this alone provides no evidence as to what precisely he may have meant. Reinsch assumes that while he may have rejected a Latin on the imperial throne, he was not necessarily opposed to a Union of the Churches. In the situation of 1453, however, these were not mutually exclusive alternatives! At this time—especially ater the disastrous outcome of the Crusade of Varna 1444—there was no question of a secular rule by a Latin in Constantinople; not a single ruler in Latin Europe had the power or even the inclination to conquer Constantinople and reestablish a Latin Empire there. On the other hand, Emperor John VIII together with his patriarch consented to the Union of Churches at the Council of Ferrara/Florence in 1438/39. Proof that the Union did not exist on paper alone is their festive joint Mass, celebrated in the Hagia Sophia just before the Turkish conquest of the city. A verbal rejection of a secular ruler but an acceptance of the Union would have been absolutely nonsensical. So what did Loukas Notaras actually mean, assuming of course that the phrase was truly uttered in this way? To whom do we owe this narrative and what was the author’s intention? As so oten, there are no decisive answers to these questions. One can, however, legitimately assume that the author was not referring to any speciic form of rule, but instead used the phrase to illustrate the fundamental dilemma: to whom would Constantinople fall in 1453, the Turks or the Latins? Typically, for a Byzantine this could not be stated simply, but needed to be rhetorically embellished. herefore, καλύπτρα probably does not designate a crown, a miter, or the like at all, but rather quite generally a head covering commonly worn by Latins, just as the turban was generally associated with Turks. he famous phrase probably means no more than: I would rather see the Turks rule over that 123 Ἐγκώμιον εἴς τινα Νικόλαον μοναχὸν γενόμενον καθηγούμενον τῆς ἐν τῷ Ὀλύμπῳ μονῆς τῆς Ὡραίας Πηγῆς, ed. P. Gautier, in Byzantina 6 (1974): 33–69, at 56.654–55. (his passage was not considered by Reinsch in his analysis.) ciy than the Latins. here was no intention of deining any speciic form of rule, be it ecclesiastical or secular. It was clear to the Byzantines, without further explication, what the bon mot meant. hat the meanings of words may change over time is indisputable and not restricted to Byzantium. One inal example is the word δοῦλος/δουλικός, which in classical usage denoted a slave, whereas in the middle Byzantine period it took on the more moderate meaning of “servant,” “subordinate” or “subject,” or “servile.” hus, the Byzantine commander Petros, for example, was referred to by the chronicler Skylitzes as Emperor Nikephoros II Phokas’s δοῦλος.124 A seal dating from the ninth century depicts a certain Konstantinos as “doulos and curator” of the Hagia Sophia, which certainly does not imply slavery.125 And when the Bulgarian Archon of Belgrade subjugates himself, together with other archons, to Emperor Basileios II μετὰ δουλικοῦ τοῦ σχήματος that does not make him into a slave, but means that he is approaching the conqueror with a subservient bearing.126 However, the meaning “slave” is still encountered contemporaneously, necessitating an analysis of each individual case to interpret the term correctly.127 Conclusions Byzantine historiographers do not generally specify the precise sense of the terms they use. Rather, they employ terms routinely, so to speak, without further relection or, for that matter, without informing readers of potential changes of meaning a word may have undergone. It is doubtful that the author would even have been aware of these changes over time. heophanes, for example, copied his sources verbatim, without making any 124 Skylitzes, Synopsis 272.79–81; on Petros, see PmbZ 2.5: Petros (#26496). 125 G. Zacos and A. Veglery, Byzantine Lead Seals, vol. 1 (Glückstadt, 1972), no. 1807: Κωνσταντίνῳ δούλῳ τῆς Μεγάλης Ἐκκλησίας καὶ κουράτορι. See PmbZ 1.2: Konstantinos (#3964). 126 Skylitzes, Synopsis 364.68–73; see PmbZ 2.2: Elemagos (#21634). 127 In the two sections of the PmbZ, there are a little over thirty examples for δοῦλος; “slave” is found in more than ity lemmata; one must keep in mind, as the diference in number indicates, that there are other designations for “slave”; see also G. Prinzing, “On Slaves and Slavery,” in he Byzantine World, ed. P. Stephenson (London– New York, 2010), 92–102; I would like to express my gratitude to Günter Prinzing for alerting me to this, as well as for other suggestions and corrections. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 193 adjustments to his own usage. his practice can lead to misinterpretations, as our examples demonstrate.128 In Anna Komnene, on the other hand, we ind the verbatim transcription of the text of a treaty, which does not correspond to the author’s own style, yet is also neither explained nor commented on by her. he linguistic criteria applied by the editor Reinsch are, therefore, in this context inappropriate and even lead to an incorrect reconstruction of the text. It cannot, then, be ruled out that in many cases several meanings coexisted for one word or term, without it being possible to determine which meaning is appropriate in the given case. In view of these reservations, one can ultimately only come to the conclusion that it is frequently diicult to assign deinite meanings to speciic words or terms without irst carefully analyzing whether this word belongs to the respective author’s “normal” vocabulary, whether the deinitive meaning can be derived from this vocabulary, or in which context of meaning it is employed. If this is not the case, one should be cautious in voicing one’s own interpretations.129 7. The Supernatural In the everyday life of the Byzantines, belief in the supernatural appears to have been of central signiicance. Byzantine historiographical works present repeated references to the supernatural, which occur primarily in settings in which wicked deeds provoke punishment, but also by frequent references to good and bad omens and prophecies, and to direct divine intervention, be it immediate or via saints or angels. his emphasis upon the divine is, of course, attributable to the corresponding convictions of the authors. We should keep in mind, however, that the protagonists themselves had similar beliefs or considered such 128 his does not rule out that he may have, on occasion, altered and rearranged his sources, to conform to his own conceptions, as Roger Scott has demonstrated in several articles, with particular emphasis on accounts of the history of the sixth century; see, for example, Scott, “Events.” 129 On the problems connected with changes in meaning, see also M. Hinterberger, “Envy and Nemesis in the Vita Basilii and Leo the Deacon: Literary Mimesis or Something More?” in Macrides, Historiography as Literature (n. 8 above), 187–203 (on the basis of many examples taken from heoph. cont. and Leo the Deacon). things possible; thus, for example, an emperor would be dependent on appropriate omens at the beginning of a military campaign.130 Examples Most popular were prophecies, which had the advantage of being judged ex eventu—and were thus always right, whether proven true or not. he fates of emperors or of usurpers striving for the imperial throne were especially the subject of prophecy. Leaving aside Basil I, whose grandson seems to have literally collected prophecies on his grandfather’s accession to the throne,131 our examples are many: Philippikos Bardanes was supposedly protected from the sun by an eagle while sleeping, whereupon a monk prophesied his accession to the throne, which of course occurred.132 Two hundred years later, in contrast, a Byzantine astrologer, who had led to the Syrian Caliphate, predicted the rebellion and death of Constantine Doukas in the year 913.133 he prophecy of Nikephoros II Phokas’s deposition is a bit more complicated: it was prophesied to him that he would be overthrown ater conquering Antioch, and he therefore forbade the seizure of the city. When the commanders Michael Bourtzes and Petros took Antioch anyway, they were disgraced and recalled from their posts, whereupon they participated in John Tzimiskes’ plot overthrowing Nikephoros II, so that the prophecy proved true.134 130 See, in particular, P. Magdalino, L’Orthodoxie des astrologues: La science entre le dogme et la divination à Byzance (VII e –XIV e siècle), Réalités Byzantines 12 (Paris, 2006); idem, he Occult Sciences in Byzantium (Geneva, 2006). 131 he corresponding book (5) in heoph. cont. was, in all likelihood, at least cowritten by Basil’s grandson Constantine VII; on the prophecies, see G. Moravcsik, “Sagen und Legenden über Kaiser Basileios I.,” DOP 15 (1961): 59–126. 132 heophanes, Chronicle 372.7–11; for additional sources, see PmbZ 1.3: Philippikos (#6150). his motif is not conined to Philippikos, but emerges already in the ith century in connection with Marcian and is later used again by Basil I; see Scott, “From Propaganda to History to Literature” (n. 32 above) 116; idem, “Text and Context in Byzantine Historiography,” in A Companion to Byzantium, ed. L. James (Chichester, 2010), 251–62, esp. 256–59. 133 heoph. cont. 6.3, pp. 383.19–384.3; for additional sources, see PmbZ 2.3: Konstantinos Dukas (#23817); 2.5: Nikolaos (#25944). 134 Skylitzes, Synopsis 272.79–273,36; Zonaras, Epitome 16.26, pp. 508.13–510.14; see PmbZ 2.4: Michael Bourtzes (#25253); 2.5: Petros (#26496). dumbarton oaks papers | 68 194 Ralph-Johannes Lilie A similar prophecy related to Leo VI, who was injured in an assassination attempt on 11 May 903 during a procession in the church of St. Mokios. he emperor not only broke of that year’s procession, but abolished the Mokios procession for good, whereupon the wise monk and oikonomos of the St. Mokios church, Markos, prophesied that he would reign for only ten more years. Leo VI died exactly ten years later on 11 May 913.135 hat chroniclers had an ambivalent attitude toward prophecies is evident from an account of Emperor Manuel I Komnenos by Niketas Choniates: Niketas reports that in 1143 Manuel, on his way back to Constantinople from Cilicia, where he had already been acclaimed emperor, passed through Chonai. Here the archbishop Niketas, famous for his prophecies, predicted that he would attain the imperial throne and would live a few years longer than his grandfather Alexios I. Toward the end of his life, however, he would go insane. Niketas Choniates claimed to have known of this prophecy, and everyone asked themselves how this insanity would manifest itself. he truth of the prophecy was inally proven when Manuel made theological demands contradicting the teachings of the Church Fathers: “everyone agreed that this was the fulillment of the prophecy because this doctrine, being wholly the opposite of the truth, was truly and absolutely the worst kind of madness.”136 It is apparent that Niketas Choniates considered this prophecy to be correct. He entertained no doubts. Only a few lines later, however, he vehemently denounces another prophecy awarding the emperor fourteen more years of life: “hose most baneful charlatans of astrology who urged the emperor to spend his leisure time in sexual pleasures boldly told him that he would soon recover from his illness and shamelessly predicted that he would level alien cities to the ground.”137 Since Manuel died in 1180, as correctly prophesied by Niketas of Chonai, the later prophecies were therefore false and the seers proven to be frauds. 135 heoph. cont. 6.19, pp. 365.21–366.9; Skylitzes, Synopsis 181.35– 182.45; Symeon log. 133.264–74; Georg. mon. cont. 862.3–13; for additional sources, see PmbZ 2.4: Markos (#24995). 136 Niketas Choniates, History 219.94–220.9; trans. Magoulias, 124; on Niketas’s attitude toward astrology, prophecy, etc. see P. Magdalino, “Prophecy and Divination in the History,” in Simpson and Ethymiadis, Niketas Choniates (n. 4 above), 59–74. 137 Niketas Choniates, History 220.23–27; trans. Magoulias, 124; Magdalino, “Prophecy,” 60. Such predictions did not apply to emperors alone, but also to society or the empire in general. According to Leo the Deacon, a comet appearing during Emperor John I Tzimiskes’ reign had prophesied not only his impending death, but also the ensuing civil war. he death of the parakoimomenos Basil Lakapenos was also heralded by a comet.138 Comets seem to have been regarded in general as harbingers of calamity, as many authors frequently state. Supernatural events play a prominent role on other occasions as well. he fall of Syracuse in 878 is supposed to have been announced by demons living by Monembasia, who had informed the admiral of the— delayed—relief leet, and their information had been later conirmed by refugees.139 he belief in supernatural forces is also illustrated by another episode in heophanes continuatus: Astronomer John advised Emperor Romanos I Lakapenos to have the head of a statue standing on the Xerolophos in Constantinople knocked of. In the very same hour, the Bulgar ruler Symeon would die. Romanos followed the advice, and Symeon did indeed die that very same hour.140 In addition to prophecies—which are so numerous it would be redundant to present further examples—other episodes demonstrate, at least indirectly, the Byzantines’ belief in predetermination and fate. Again, we cite only a few examples: heophanes attributed the—real—conquest of the city of Pergamon in 715/16 to the entirely indefensible behavior of its inhabitants: “Now Masalmas came to Pergamon, which he besieged and, by God’s dispensation, captured because of the Devil’s machinations. For, at the instigation of a magician, the inhabitants of the city produced a pregnant woman who was about to give birth and cut her up. And ater removing her infant and cooking it in a pot, all those who were intending to ight dipped the 138 Leo the Deacon, History 10.6, pp. 168.19–169.13; 10.8, p. 172.14–17; Skylitzes, Synopsis 311.84–88; see W. G. Brokkaar, “Basil Lacapenus: Byzantium in the Tenth Century,” Studia Byzantina et Neohellenica Neerlandica 3 (1972): 199–234, esp. 233. 139 heoph. cont. 5.70, pp. 309.21–312.11; 240.1–242.32; Skylitzes, Synopsis 158.34–160.65; with slight variations in Genesios, Reigns of the Emperors 4.33, pp. 82.58–83.92, where a messenger was supposedly informed by demons; see PmbZ 2.1: Adrianos (#20122). 140 heoph. cont. 6.21, pp. 411.17–412.2; Skylitzes, Synopsis 222.1– 11; pseudo-Symeon 740.4–10; Zonaras, Epitome 16.18, p. 473.7–15; see PmbZ 2.3: Ioannes (#22941). dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 195 sleeve of their right arm in this detestable sacriice, and for this reason they were delivered to the enemy.” his story is not, as previously assumed, factual, but is rather the adaptation of an apocalyptic text used by the author of one of heophanes’s sources, to explain the fall of Pergamon by the immoral behavior of its inhabitants. Whether or not heophanes recognized the ictitious nature of this narrative can no longer be ascertained.141 he reason given for the fall of Pergamon is clearly the sins of its inhabitants, whereby the author—or his source—draws upon a motif from the Apocalypse. “Moral” explanations such as these, whether with or without reference to Holy Scripture, are frequent— indeed, they may be encountered in any disaster or defeat, so further examples are superluous. Conversely, victories could also be attributed to supernatural support. At the victory over the Rhos in 971, for example, St. heodore Stratelates is supposed to have been seen riding a white horse. At the same time, a nun in Constantinople saw the Mother of God in a dream, as she was giving the saint the command to hurry to John I Tzimiskes’ assistance.142 Reading descriptions of “supernatural” occurrences of this kind today, we tend to banish them to the realm of fables and dismiss the account as unreliable. We must not forget, however, that the chroniclers not only believed in or invented stories of this kind for their own reasons, but that Byzantine society was itself superstitious. hus, it was not unusual for an emperor to behave in the manner described in another episode related by Niketas Choniates, which is, of course, greatly problematic for yet another reason: hose most baneful charlatans of astrology . . . foretold the movements of the universe, the convergences and conjunctions of the largest stars, and the eruption of violent winds; they 141 heophanes, Chronicle 390.26–391.2; trans. Scott and Mango 541; dependent on heophanes: Γεωργίου τοῦ Κεδρηνοῦ σύνοψις ἱστοριῶν, ed. I. Bekker, Georgius Cedrenus Ioannis Scylitzae ope, 2 vols. (Bonn, 1838–39), 1:788.3–8; parallel to heophanes, but dependent on the same source is Nikephoros, Chronography 52.27– 53.9 (de Boor), 53.4–9 (Mango); see W. Brandes, “Apokalyptisches in Pergamon,” BSl 48 (1987): 1–11; see, as well, PmbZ 1.5: Anonyma (#10008). 142 Leo the Deacon, History 9, pp. 153.22–154.22; the author qualiies this narrative, at least in part, by stating this “was said”: λέγεται δὲ καί τινα λευκόπωλον ἄνδρα φανῆναι. . . . very nearly predicted the transformation of the entire universe, showing themselves to be oracular ventriloquists rather than astrologers. Not only did they reckon the number of years and months and count the weeks until these things would take place and clearly point them out to the emperor but they also designated the exact day and anticipated the very moment as though they had precise knowledge of those things which the Father had put in his own power and concerning which the Savior censured his inquisitive disciples. he emperor sought caves and hollows as protection against the winds and prepared for habitation; he removed the glass from the imperial buildings so that they should not be damaged by the blasts of the winds while his attendants, kinsmen, and sycophants also anxiously involved themselves in these undertakings, with some burrowing into the earth like ants and others making tents, fastening them with threefold cords and cutting sharp pegs to serve as supports.143 his prophecy truly did exist, and at the time circulated not only in Byzantium, but in the entire East, and later in Latin Europe as well, where it became known as the “Letter from Toledo” and underwent numerous later “new editions.”144 hough the prophecy was popular, its dating is problematic: the prophecy states precisely the year 1497 according to the Seleucid calendar, which corresponds to the year 1186 CE. his is undisputed. Niketas, however, unmistakably attributes the prophecy to Emperor Manuel I, who died in 1180. If this ascription were correct, then Manuel would have taken the abovementioned precautions at least six years before the prophesied catastrophe, along with his servants and retainers. his seems highly unlikely, since, for example, the removal of windows would have greatly diminished the quality of life in the palace, and 143 Niketas Choniates, History 220.27–221.43; trans. Magoulias, 124–25. 144 On this prophecy, see G. de Callatay, “La grande conjonction de 1186,” in Occident et Proche­Orient: contacts scientiiques au temps des Croisades, ed. A. Draelants, A. Tihon, and B. van den Abeele (Turnhout, 2000), 369–84; D. Weltecke, “Die Konjunktion der Planeten im September 1186: Zum Ursprung einer globalen Katastrophenangst,” Saeculum 54 (2003): 179–212; Magdalino, L’Orthodoxie des astrologues, 110. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 196 Ralph-Johannes Lilie the great length of time before the actual catastrophe is ridiculous. If such an event actually did occur, it is more likely attributable to Emperor Isaac II Angelos, who reigned from 1185. But why did Niketas redate the episode to Manuel’s reign? One probable answer is that Manuel was known for his avid belief in astrology, which Niketas heavily censures, not just in this context. he emperor even defends astrology in a treatise in which he likens the study of astrological conditions to those of the human body, thus equating astrology with medicine.145 Isaac II Angelos was also extremely superstitious.146 Niketas had enough negative things to relate about him, without having to add further incidents. his particular example was much more efective applied to Manuel, whom Niketas both praises and criticizes. One can therefore regard it as another example of the ease with which Byzantine historiographers rearranged speciic facts, even attributing them to other persons, in order to achieve a greater efect. Niketas closes the passage signiicantly enough by claiming that shortly before his death Manuel abandoned at the patriarch’s recommendation his previous belief in astrology, and even set this down in writing.147 Niketas may well be exaggerating here, yet there is no doubt that the Byzantines not only believed in prophecies, but would at times also orient themselves accordingly. In other words, we cannot rule out that such accounts are at least partially accurate. In the episode cited above, for example, regarding Nikephoros II Phokas and the taking of Antioch, there might well have been a prophecy linking the seizure of Antioch and the possible deposition of the emperor; in this scenario, Nikephoros would have believed the prophecy and therefore dismissed the two commanders. Other reasons are more plausible, however: the author might have heard a rumor that was circulating and inserted it into his account to explain the (to him) incomprehensible 145 For information on the manuscript tradition of the treatise, see Magdalino, L’Orthodoxie des astrologues, 113–14, with n. 32; on the treatise’s content, see idem, 114–28. 146 On this in detail, see Magdalino, “Prophecy,” 61–73. 147 Niketas Choniates, History 221.50–51 Oddly enough, in contrast to this, Niketas proceeds to write about many other prophecies and omens, which he considers, at least in part, to be true, as in the case of those discussed; Magdalino, L’Orthodoxie des astrologues, 110–11, does not doubt the reliability of what Niketas recounts. dismissal; nor can it be ruled out that he deemed such prophecies possible. Manuel I Komnenos supposedly failed to make provisions for his succession, because it had been prophesied that he would reign another fourteen years.148 He was not the only one: while on his deathbed, “several monks” had prophesied to his grandfather Alexios I that he would not die until he had made it to Jerusalem and prayed at Christ’s Tomb. he emperor is reported to have believed this.149 Nevertheless, in certain cases suspicion is evident: ater John I Tzimiskes’ accession in 969, a marble plaque was found in the garden of a senator engraved with the emperor’s name and that of his wife heodora. Some considered this a miracle, others believed it was an attempt by the owner of the property on which the plaque had been unearthed to ingratiate himself with the emperor. John Skylitzes, who preserved the anecdote, could not—or would not—say which of the two versions was correct.150 he decisive issue, which cannot be stressed enough, is that the Byzantines very strongly believed in supernatural manifestations, which they would also read into anything and everything. Very popular were cryptic numbers and letter puzzles. According to Niketas Choniates, Manuel I reigned for thirty-eight years, which according to Niketas had been predetermined by an oracle that had declared that the last syllable of his name would determine his end, because η and λ formed the number thirty-eight.151 Something similar even applied to the reign of the entire Komnenian dynasty, which necessarily had to come to a bloody end with Alexios II Komnenos, because the irst letters of the names of the irst four emperors spelled the word αἶμα (blood).152 148 Niketas Choniates, History 220.313–18; see Magdalino, “Prophecy,” 60–61. 149 Zonaras, Epitome 18.28, p. 760.8–18; this is not just one of the usual prophecies, but a reference to apocalyptic beliefs, according to which the last “messianic” emperor will conquer Jerusalem and die there; see Magdalino, “Prophecy,” 68–70 (with additional literature). 150 Skylitzes, Synopsis 303.63–73; see PmbZ 2.7: Anonymus (#31550). 151 Niketas Choniates, History 222.66–70; see Magdalino, “Prophecy,” 60, 74. 152 Niketas Choniates, History 169.95–3. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 197 Conclusions he examples cited—and they could be many times multiplied—decisively demonstrate that superstition, in the broadest sense, determined to a great extent both the Byzantines’ everyday life as well as their high politics. One inal testimony to this widespread general attitude is the Historia syntomos by pseudo-Psellos, attributing to Emperor Herakleios the saying that those who have no use for astrology refuse to read God’s letters (τὰ τοῦ θεοῦ γράμματα). his comparison goes well beyond the equation made by Manuel I Komnenos in the twelth century between astrology and medicine mentioned above.153 he perspective of an educated Byzantine toward supernatural manifestations may be described as one of cautious skepticism. While sorcery was the work of the devil, perhaps it did sometimes work. Niketas Choniates manifests this attitude on the occasion of the actual charges of sorcery brought against the protostrator Alexios Axouch: “So that the emperor’s wrongdoing and disgraceful conduct should not appear to be inexcusable and premeditated, calumniators were secretly induced to accuse Alexios of using his powers of witchcrat against the emperor, powers which were so illusory and eicacious that the sorcerer could ly in the air and remain invisible to those upon whom he wished to swoop down with sword in hand; their other bufooneries and vulgarities to which sound ears ought not to listen were such of those of which the Hellenes, fabricating fables, accused Perseus.”154 he references to prophecies and good or bad omens, and the ensuing actions and events in the chronicles, are certainly to be questioned in each case. hese references are not necessarily false, however, because they do relect the common attitude of Byzantine society toward supernatural phenomena, which of course inds expression in the historical works. For this reason, even in these accounts a true core can oten be 153 Pseudo-Michael Psellos, Historia syntomos 76, 80–81, p. 66: Ἡράκλειος τῇ ἀστρονομίᾳ προσκείμενος ἔλεγε τοὺς μὴ ἐθέλοντας ἀστρολογεῖν μὴ βούλεσθαι ἀναγιγνώσκειν τὰ τοῦ θεοῦ γράμματα. (“Heraclius occupied himself intensively with astronomy and used to say that those who had no use for astrology refused to read God’s letters” [trans. Aerts, 67]). It should be kept in mind, however, that the sayings collected in the Historia syntomos do not necessarily derive from actual sources, but were instead intended to entertain the audience with highly itting aphorisms; see above on “Bon Mots.” 154 Niketas Choniates, History 144.77–83; trans. Magoulias, 82. detected. his is also the case with the supernatural manifestations themselves, which we today would banish to the realm of fables or interpret as psychological or emotional instability, although subjectively real for the individual. Even cases of mass hallucination—such as the saint seen by many to come to the aid of his own in battle—cannot be dismissed entirely, as modern studies of contemporary phenomena have proven. One can therefore assume that the Byzantine chroniclers, when describing these manifestations, were convinced they were portraying reality. 8. “Timeless” Episodes “Timeless” episodes are those insertions that actually have nothing to do with the events described. hese are, to a certain extent, interchangeable, haphazardly inserted, and assigned to particular persons without, however, having any connection to them. hese episodes can be an author’s random adoptions from sources of any kind, as well as his own inventions. Examples he ninth-century chronicler George the Monk wrote a history of the world, which reaches up to the 840s. In the course of his account, George the Monk relates the following anecdote that is supposed to have transpired in Patriarch Germanos’s reign, between 715 and 730: at this time, a wealthy man lived in Constantinople who was, on the one hand, philanthropic and a friend of the poor, but on the other hand practiced the vice of porneia, fornication. Eventually he died, and a discussion ensued between the patriarch and several eminent bishops about what had happened to this wealthy but licentious benefactor. he general opinion was that he had gone to heaven, until inally a famous ascetic spoke up. He told the patriarch and all those present that he had seen in a vision paradise and Hell, and this man stood exactly in between—because of his charity he belonged in Heaven, because of his porneia in Hell. hereupon all those who heard this were greatly afraid and enjoined each other to observe a moral lifestyle.155 155 C. de Boor, with corrections by P. Wirth, Georgii Monachi Chronicon, vol. 2 (Stuttgart, 1978), 746.7–748.17; on George the Monk, see H. Hunger, Die hochsprachliche profane Literatur der Byzantiner, 2 vols., Byzantinisches Handbuch Teil 5.1.2 (= Handbuch der Altertumswissenschaten 12:5.1.2) (Munich, 1978), 1:347–51; Kazhdan, Literature 2:43–52; Karpozilos, Historikoi dumbarton oaks papers | 68 198 Ralph-Johannes Lilie Indubitably this is a nice story with an appropriate moral point. It was, however, neither written by George the Monk, nor did it occur during Germanos’s reign. Rather, it is a fairly widespread morality tale probably dating from the irst half of the seventh century. One of the earliest versions takes place on Cyprus, another in Alexandria. here the hero is not anonymous, but is named Philentolos. he anecdote is also found in John Moschos’s Pratum spirituale and was even translated into Latin. he reason for George the Monk’s attribution of this morality tale to Patriarch Germanos of all people is unclear. He had absolutely nothing to do with it. On the other hand, he was the last pre-iconoclastic patriarch and was regarded as a saint, so perhaps George the Monk felt compelled to enrich the patriarch’s biography with this anecdote and make it more vivid. Still, he is not even indirectly involved in the story. It is not he who provides the solution, but an anonymous ascetic, who is never mentioned again in George the Monk’s chronicle.156 An even better example of this literary method, which is particularly conspicuous in George the Monk’s work, is illustrated by the following tale: during the reign of Emperor Leo IV (775–780), a man going on a walk with his dog was attacked and killed by a robber. he dog stayed with the dead man until another came by, saw the dead man, and buried him. hereupon the dog followed him home. his man happened to be an innkeepeer by profession and ran a tavern, where the dog then lived. Time passed, guests came and went, and one day—one can guess what happens next—the murderer entered the tavern. he dog pounced on him, barking and biting until he had everyone’s attention, and inally the culprit confessed and received the penalty he deserved.157 his is again clearly a nice anecdote, though it has no connection with Emperor Leo IV. George the Monk’s reason for attibuting it to his reign is unclear. 2:213–249; PmbZ 1, Prolegomena: 24; most recently, héologitis, “La Forza del Destino” (n. 20 above), 181–219, esp. 196–218. 156 On Philentolos, see PmbZ 1.3: Philentolos (#6147), which also notes additional sources; on the insertions, in particular, see J. N. Ljubarskij, “George the Monk as Short Story Writer,” JÖB 44 (1994): 255–64, with several further examples; we concur with Ljubarskij’s conclusions on George the Monk’s method, especially the chronological randomness of these “short stories”; on the “historical value” of his narrative, see as well PmbZ 1, Prolegomena: 24. 157 George the Monk, Chronicle 765.15–766.11. One interesting aspect of George the Monk’s historiographical work is its broad distribution in Byzantium; it was also copied by later authors, including George Kedrenos, an eleventh-/twelth-century historian. Kedrenos is generally considered uninteresting, unimaginative, and dependent on his sources. He was, as it were, a typically dry historian. Kedrenos also adopts this episode from George the Monk, relating it almost verbatim, although with a surprising alteration. He does not place it in the reign of Leo IV, but dates it one hundred years earlier, to the period before the Sixth Ecumenical Council of Constanti nople 680/81.158 his is a very intriguing observation! Why does Kedrenos change his source? It cannot have been by accident, because George the Monk does not relate the anecdote until much later. Nor can it be a lack of other noteworthy information, as the reign of Constantine IV (668–685) was crowded with historical events to recount: the Arab attacks, the war with the Bulgars, the Council of 680/81, and so forth. he only reason imaginable is that Kedrenos felt the need to enliven his purely factual historical account with a moral anecdote. While reading George the Monk, he must have recognized that the episode described was unhistorical, and that one could therefore insert it at whim and, if needed, even transfer it to another location. hat is precisely what he did. he two episodes discussed here can be designated as neutral and timeless. hey neither give evidence to the historical personalities they name—Germanos or Leo IV, for example—nor do they directly or indirectly comment on other events discussed by the author. In addition there was, of course, the material the authors would employ to achieve certain efects or to characterize a person. he legends about Emperor heophilos’s sense of justice belong to this category, which are just as unhistorical as the examples discussed above. Several sources relate, for example, that Petronas, a brother-inlaw of the emperor, illegally overshadowed the house of a widow with his own. he widow complained to 158 I. Bekker, Georgius Cedrenus Ioannis Scylitzae, 2 vols. (Bonn, 1838–39), 1:769.11–770.2; on Kedrenos, see Hunger, Hochsprachliche Literatur 1:393; Karpozilos, Historikoi 3:331–55; R. Maisano, “Note su Giorgio Cedreno e la tradizione storiograica bizantina,” RSBS 3 (1983): 227–48, esp. 242–44 (on Kedrenos’s method of compilation, in general); PmbZ 1, Prolegomena: 24–25; for additional sources, see PmbZ 1.5: Anonymus (#11097). dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 199 the emperor, who recompensed the widow and had Petronas logged.159 his story can only be dismissed as entirely absurd: Petronas was the empress’s brother and he held high positions at the court of heophilos and of his successor Michael III, as well as in the army. Further, there is no indication that he ever fell out of favor with heophilos. Of similar status is an episode in which a strategos is said to have illegally seized a soldier’s horse, which led to the soldier’s death in a military campaign. he horse was then given to the emperor as a git, who used it for a ride around Constantinople. he soldier’s widow pushed her way to the front, grabbed the reins, and complained to the emperor, who launched an investigation that proved the general guilty. On the emperor’s command, he was banished, his fortune coniscated and given to the widow and her sons.160 he tale reappears, slightly modiied, in the works of other chroniclers of the period, where it is the soldier himself who protests to the emperor, who has the strategos logged. he horse is given back to the soldier, who waives it for a large sum of money and is later killed in a military campaign.161 his episode combines the emperor’s devotion to justice with criticism of the cupidity of the soldier, who greedily renounces his vital horse and is, in consequence, slain by the enemy. Another belonging to this category is the tale in which the emperor notices a rich merchant ship from his palace window and inquires to whom it belongs. When he learns that it belongs to the empress, he orders the ship burned, since it is unworthy of an emperor—and of an empress as well—to be involved in trade.162 Common to all three episodes is their timelessness. hey could just as well take place in any era and in any circumstance, and primarily serve to illustrate heophilos’s love for justice and his exalted conception 159 Georg. mon. cont. 793.17–794.11; on the persons involved, see PmbZ 1.3: Petronas (#5929); 1.5: Anonyma (#10089), with additional sources. 160 heoph. cont. 3.7, pp. 92.18–94.18; see PmbZ 1.5: Anonymus (#11829). 161 Symeon log. 130.31, pp. 225.204–226.225; Georg. mon. cont. 803.22–804.16; pseudo-Symeon 637.23–638.8. 162 heoph. cont. 3:4, pp. 88.10–89.14; Genesios, Reigns of the Emperors 3.20, p. 53.87–4; Skylitzes Synopsis 51.46–66; Ps.-Symeon 628.3–7; Zonaras, Epitome 15.25, pp. 357.7–358.6; see PmbZ 1.4: heophilos (#8167); heodora (#7286). of imperial dignity. hey could therefore also be assigned to the category of “characterization by deeds.”163 A special type of this “timeless” material is the scholarly insertion, serving to explicate or provide background for an incident, a location, or a person. In heophanes continuatus we ind, on the occasion of the Arab attack on hessalonike in 904, a historicalgeographical description of the Aegean Sea, which has no connection whatsoever with Leo of Tripolis’s naval campaign nor with his pursuer Himerios. he sole purpose of this description was the desire of the author—more likely, in this case, a later scholiast—to demonstrate his own erudition.164 Scholarly insertions of this kind are especially frequent in heophanes continuatus. Conclusions “Timeless” episodes are used in nearly every historiographical narrative, for example, in comparisons with other events and eras. In general, such material is employed by the author to establish either a direct or indirect correlation between the events and serves as explanation or indirect commentary. In George the Monk’s case, the inserted episodes probably served to enliven the subject matter, even if primarily intended for moral ediication. Episodes of this type belonged to a basic stock of Byzantine literary material, which was generally acknowledged as having nothing to do with actual, “real” history. Every author could, therefore, freely tap into this reservoir with a clear 163 A similar tale is also encountered in the Πάτρια Κωνσταντινουπόλεως, in T. Preger, Scriptores originum Constantinopolitanarum (Leipzig, 1907; repr. Leipzig, 1989), 3:28. here it is the ship of a widow, from whom it was illegally seized. he culprit is convicted and burned at the stake. his story, in turn, derives from a source dating from the fourth century, which is copied verbatim; on this see A. Berger, Untersuchungen zu den Patria Konstantinupoleos, Poikila Byzantina 8 (Bonn, 1988), 449–51. he timelessness of such exempla is evident. 164 heoph. cont. 6.20/21, pp. 367.4–368.20; on the insertion, see A. Markopoulos, “Encore les Rhôs-Dromitai et le Pseudo-Syméon,” JÖB 23 (1974): 89–99, who dates this geographical list of place names to Antiquity (“juste avant Jules César”); similarly, A. Karpozelos, “Οἱ Ρὼς-Δρομῖται καὶ ὁ μῦθος τῆς ἐκστρατείας τοῦ Ὀλέγ,” Dodone 12 (1983): 329–46, at 334–36; see, as well, PmbZ 2.4: Leon von Tripolis (#24397) and 2.2: Himerios (#22624). Some scholars still consider this description as factual and have attempted to reconstruct the naval campaign of 904 according to the order of the narration; see, for example, S. Tougher, he Reign of Leo VI (886–912). Politics and People (Leiden-New York-Cologne, 1997), 187, with n. 136. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 200 Ralph-Johannes Lilie conscience. he example cited from Kedrenos clearly demonstrates how he simply redates the anecdote borrowed from George the Monk and inserts it into a different section of his history. Audiences must surely have been aware of this practice and had no objection to being entertained in this way. Quite to the contrary: they apparently appreciated this approach. Since both George the Monk and Kedrenos aimed to fulill these expectations, they readily inserted anecdotes of this kind into their narratives. George the Monk, whom modern scholarship tends to hold in low regard, certainly hit the mark of his readership’s taste. he great popularity of his history in Byzantium is conirmed by the large number of extant manuscripts, in contrast to those of many other Byzantine historians more highly esteemed today.165 We must draw a distinction between “timeless” and scholarly insertions—for example, the description of the Aegean Sea in heophanes continuatus—which were presumably added to the text by a later reader. hey are explanatory comments providing additional background information on the events portrayed. For us, it is ultimately of no signiicance if the author wished to demonstrate his own erudition or to instruct the reader. Similar are attempts to characterize a protagonist by inserting “timeless” episodes. In these cases, an author could draw on more or less known material from sources or write his own, a diference that cannot always be discerned. he material serves a speciic purpose in a particular case, yet could just as easily be attributed to another person. Some episodes of this type can therefore also be assigned to the category of “characterization by deeds,” where readers were also aware that the deeds described were not necessarily factual. 9. Anonymous Quotations One of the most common literary stylistic techniques employed by Byzantine authors—and other medieval writers as well—is the quotation, primarily from the Old or New Testament, as well as from Christian and 165 his observation holds true for a number of authors that cannot be discussed here, for reasons of space; see, for example, Procopius, Agathias, Nikephoros Bryennios, Anna Komnene, Constantine Manasses, to name just a few. Some examples may be found in Scott, “Text and Context” (n. 132 above), esp. 252–59. non-Christian classical authors. Homer was popular, of course, especially in battle scenes, but most every “classical” author available was cited.166 Quotations were rarely marked as such, since the author assumed that the educated reader would recognize them, and the concept of intellectual property as we understand it today did not exist. hese unattributed quotations could consist in speciic words and sentences, but also in the adoption of a narrative’s content and themes. hey belong, therefore, within the overall context of the mimesis of classical or early Byzantine works that were part of the standard repertoire of a literary educated Byzantine author. Some authors appear to have esteemed quotations highly. One could say they were the icing on the cake of the entire account. Examples One especially well-known example may be found in Procopius’s account of the great plague of 541/42, in which he draws liberally from hukydides’ account of the plague during the Peloponnesian War. Procopius’s borrowings do not necessarily lead to a misrepresentation of the sixth-century plague, as both authors describe the disease’s manifestations quite diferently. he overall impression engendered by the adopted phrases, however, is clearly of Procopius’s mimesis of hukydides. For Procopius, hukydides was the natural model, since he endeavored to write the history of the great wars of his time, inviting imitation for that reason alone. Nevertheless, we cannot deny that these quotations make an assessment of the accuracy and originality of Procopius’s account rather more diicult; do Procopius’s borrowings convey a false image of the events of his own period?167 Perhaps even more 166 here are thus close correspondences between this category and the “Epic Elements” discussed above. 167 Procopius, De bellis 2.22–23; hukydides, History of the Peloponnesian War 2.47–53; on the plague of 541/42, see most recently M. Maier, “Von Prokop zu Gregor von Tours: Kulturund mentalitätengeschichtlich relevante Folgen der ‘Pest’ im 6. Jahrhundert,” in Gesundheit – Krankheit: Kulturtransfer medi­ zinischen Wissens von der Spätantike bis in die Frühe Neuzeit, ed. K.-P. Jankrit and F. Steger (Cologne–Weimar–Vienna, 2004), 19–40; idem, “Prokop, Agathias, die Pest und das ‘Ende’ der antiken Historiographie: Naturkatastrophen und Geschichtsschreibung in der ausgehenden Spätantike,” HZ 278 (2004): 281–310; idem, “‘Hinzu kam auch noch die Pest. . .’: Die sogenannte Justinianische Pest und ihre Folgen,” in Pest–Die Geschichte eines Menschheitstraumas, ed. M. Meier (Stuttgart, 2005), 86–107, at dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 201 notable than the method of Procopius—who, at least, cited a widely read author—is the early thirteenth-century example of Niketas Choniates, who describes the siege of the city of Didymoteichon by the Bulgarians shortly ater the Fourth Crusade in 1205 or 1206. he description is exceedingly lively. Niketas relates how the Bulgarians attacked, how they built siege engines, brought them into position, and deployed them against the fortiications. he defense forces nevertheless did not despair, but continued to ight bravely with all they had against the attacks, and were in the end victorious. he Bulgarians were forced to retreat without taking Didymoteichon.168 he description appears convincing, even though it remains—despite the details—rather typical for such siege scenarios. A great number of passages, however, were not written by Niketas at all, but borrowed from Flavius Josephus’s Jewish War in the irst century CE. As Alexander Kazhdan demonstrated some time ago, Niketas excerpts—in part verbatim, in part with modiication—the description of the siege of Jodapatha by the Romans and integrates it into his description of the siege of Didymoteichon.169 Nowhere does Niketas make any reference to Flavius Josephus’s account. he description of the siege of Didymoteichon its seamlessly and logically into the main narrative. he quotation is not marked as such, though that alone is not necessarily problematic. Anonymous quotations can serve several purposes: as a type of additional explanation by reference to a similar work; as literary overstatement, immediately 396–400. In a similar manner and much later, John Kantakouzenos adopted hukydides in his description of the great plague of the mid-14th century, but he also modiied and adapted his predecessor to the circumstances of his own time; see H. Hunger, “hukydides bei Johannes Kantakuzenos: Beobachtungen zur Mimesis,” JÖB 25 (1976): 181–93; most recently, D. Reinsch, “Byzantine Adaptations of hucydides,” in Brill’s Companion to hucydides, ed. A. Rengakos and A. Tsakmakis (Leiden and Boston, 2006), 755–78, esp. 775–76. 168 Niketas Choniates, History 631.17–633.51. 169 A. Pelletier, Flavius Josèphe, Guerre des Juifs, vols. 2 and 3 (Paris, 1980), 3:141–43; see A. Kazhdan, “Looking Back to Antiquity: hree Notes,” GRBS 24 (1983): 375–77; on the Flavius Josephus tradition in the Middle Ages, see H. Schreckenberg, Die Flavius­ Josephus­Tradition in Antike und Mittelalter, Arbeiten zur Literatur und Geschichte des Hellenistischen Judentums 5 (Leiden, 1972); idem, Rezeptionsgeschichtliche und textkritische Untersuchungen zu Flavius Josephus, Arbeiten zur Literatur und Geschichte des Hellenistischen Judentums 10 (Leiden, 1977). recognizable; as an author’s commentary on the events described.170 he description of the siege of Didymoteichon is diferent, however. here are no terms or names immediately signaling a literary reminiscence, rather the quotation is virtually disguised, recognizable only to someone highly educated, which even within the Byzantine intelligentsia pertained to only a very few. Whoever was able to identify this quotation was one of them, and most likely relished the feeling of being able to understand allusions of this type. hose who were not able were of no signiicance.171 Another consequence is that whoever recognized this anonymous quotation must also have realized that Niketas’s portrayal of the siege of Didymoteichon was not a factual account, but had been defamiliarized with these quotations. he story had thus—at least in part—lost its quality of being an authentic report.172 he reader who did not identify the quotation ultimately accepted a false account. No author ignores his audience. herefore, when Niketas employs quotations as a literary device, he must have relied on the approval of his target audience.173 We might inally conclude that the literary defamiliarization of the historical events had, in this particular case, greater 170 One example of this type of defamiliarization is Niketas’s depiction of the tournament (see above, in “Epic Elements”), which contains quotations from Homer, easily recognizable by their references to the ancient gods. 171 Niketas Choniates’s citation method is not conined to Flavius Josephus, but includes other authors as well, such as Diodorus, Plutarch, and authors of the Second Sophistic; see Simpson, “Workshop” (n. 20 above), passim; G. Fatouros, “Die Autoren der Zweiten Sophistik im Geschichtswerk des Niketas Choniates,” JÖB 29 (1980): 165–86; Niketas’s special relationship to Flavius Josephus may be based on the circumstance that both wrote shortly ater the loss of their respective metropoleis: Flavius Josephus ater the fall of Jerusalem in 71 and Niketas ater that of Constantinople in 1204; see Simpson, “Workshop,” 263–64. 172 In contrast to the theory argued here, Scott posits that the copying of earlier texts might be an indication of the authenticity of the events portrayed; see “Text and Context,” 254–55 (“Truth by Plagiarism in Chronicles”). 173 See B. Croke, “Uncovering Byzantium’s Historiographical Audience,” in Macrides, History as Literature, 25–53, who describes the audience for Byzantine historiographers as “a small highly educated and self-contained cultural elite around the court and government at Constantinople. . . . Historical writers worked within the literary tastes and expectations of their audience, which difered considerably from a modern one” (53). dumbarton oaks papers | 68 202 Ralph-Johannes Lilie priority for Niketas—and for his readers—than the factual representation. According to our present concept of historical writing, whoever appreciated Niketas primarily for his literary style would forfeit him as a reliable historian—a historian by today’s deinition, that is. A quotation need not involve the verbatim adoption of a source, but might serve to evoke a recollection of a widely known text. One example of this method is found in John Skylitzes’ account of Bardas Skleros’s exile to Baghdad ater his failed usurpation attempt in 979. According to Skylitzes, the ruler of Baghdad, S� ams�āmaddawla, whom Skylitzes calls Chosroes, was engaged in civil war with the Persians, who were under the command of a certain Inargos. Against the Persians, Chosroes requested the assistance of Bardas Skleros, who demanded that all Romans be freed and turned over to him: When Chosroes agreed to this, the prisons were quickly opened and the Romans in them set free; three thousend men were assembled from those prisons. Ater he had sent them to the baths and purged them of the ilth of coninement, Skleros clothed them with new garments and raiment, arming each man in an appropiate and adequate manner. hen he engaged guides to show them the way and out they went against the Persians. When a formal battle took place and Skleros’ men repeatedly and violently charged the Persians, these were perplexed by the strange nature of their armament, the unusual sound of their speech, their previously unknown battle order and, most of all, by the violence and speed with which they charged. hus the Persians were roundly put to light and every man of them fell. here was not even a messenger let (so the saying goes) to report the disaster. Inaros [recte Inargos] himself fell in the fray. he Romans collected a great amount of booty and many horses, then decided not to go back to Chosroes again but to take the road leading to Roman lands. hey pressed the pace and succeeded in evading detection until they arrived safely in their homeland. Skylitzes does not content himself with this account, but adds a variation: “According to another account, Chosroes accorded them a generous reception as they returned from the victory against the Persians and, some time later, when the end of his life was approaching, he urged his son and namesake (who reigned ater him) to make a treaty with the Romans and send them home. By one of these means Skleros regained Roman territory . . . ” He leaves it up to the reader to decide which of the two accounts is accurate.174 Both accounts are contrary to the known facts, which are conirmed as well by the contract between S�ams�āmaddawla and Bardas Skleros preserved in Arab sources. According to this contract, Bardas Skleros remained in Baghdad until his release in 986, and was in no way involved in the civil war between S�ams�āmaddawla and his enemies. Skylitzes’ account is indisputably a literary reminiscence of the famous, and also well-known in Byzantium, Anabasis of Xenophon, describing the retreat of the ten thousand Greek mercenaries back to the Black Sea, ater the Persian prince Cyrus, whom the Greeks had supported, was killed in battle. his impression is further reinforced by Skylitzes’ reference to the subjects of S�ams�āmaddawla as Achaemenids. In this way, Skylitzes establishes a correlation with Xenophon’s account, but also alludes, by using the Persian name Chosroes for S�ams�āmaddawla, to the Byzantine-Persian conlicts of the sixth/seventh centuries, in which the Sasanian Great Kings Chosroes I and Chosroes II were the main enemies of the Byzantine Empire. he account bears no resemblance to the actual historical situation of the 970s and 980s.175 A similar, albeit much briefer, allusion to a wellknown text is contained in heophanes’ account of Herakleios’s battles agains the Persians, in which he has the emperor slay a giant Persian in single combat. he Byzantine reader would easily recognize the allusion to David and Goliath. We know from other sources that 174 Skylitzes, Synopsis 332.75–334.39; trans. Wortley, 316–17; following him Michael Psellos, Chronographia 1.11, p. 20, 22; Zonaras, Epitome 17.6, pp. 550.9–551.15. 175 On the events, see A. Beihammer, “Der harte Sturz des Bardas Skleros: Eine Fallstudie zu zwischenstaatlicher Kommunikation und Konliktführung in der byzantinisch-arabischen Diplomatie des 10. Jahrhunderts,” RHM 45 (2003): 21–57; see, most recently, PmbZ 2.1: Bardas Skleros (#20785); 2.5: S�ams�āmaddawla (#26976); on Skylitzes, see as well Karpozilos, Historikoi 3:239–30; PmbZ 1, Prolegomena: 17; PmbZ 2, Prolegomena: 14–15. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 203 King David was Herakleios’s ideal and he made frequent reference to him.176 Conclusions Attempting to recognize anonymous quotations poses technical diiculties, especially when those citations are indirect. he inital problem is to determine whether or not a text even contains anonymous quotations. To do so with a certain amount of accuracy, one must determine the author’s exact educational background, or that of his source. In principle, this is possible, since we are fairly well informed about the basics of Byzantine education. In certain cases, however, problems arise because we are unfamiliar with the speciic authors or passages. Quotations from Homer, the Old or New Testament, or even hukydides or Herodotos are relatively easy to trace. But who is so familiar with authors of the Second Sophistic, with Cassius Dio, or with Flavius Josephus, for that matter, that he is able to identify borrowings without diiculty? Authors of the Second Sophistic are found, as we mentioned, in Niketas Choniates, but also in other authors: Cassius Dio, for example, was excerpted by John Zonaras. But some sources familiar to a Byzantine “intellectual,” directly or indirectly—through lorilegia for instance—are either partially or entirely lost. In addition, a modern reader is unable to identify such quotations, primarily because many authors once belonging to the Byzantine curriculum are no longer part of his cultural heritage, not even for specialists in Byzantine studies. hus, when encountering these quotations they oten go unrecognized. Perhaps computer-assisted analyses, of the sort that have emerged in the last few years, could be of assistance; the electronic hesaurus Linguae Graecae and other projects of this kind come to mind. But even then, one must irst of all know how and what to ask to get the correct answers. Furthermore, not even the Byzantines would have had direct irsthand knowledge of earlier works. hey 176 heophanes, Chronicle 314.1–6; the enemy is referred to as ἀνὴρ δὲ γιγαντιαῑος. May it suice to mention in this context that Herakleios named one of his sons David, a singular occurrence in the history of the Byzantine emperors; see PmbZ 1.1: David (#1241). As coemperor, this David was then renamed Tiberios; on the use of David in the typology of Byzantine emperors, see V. Tsamakda, “König David als Typos des byzantinischen Kaisers,” in Byzanz–das Römerreich im Mittelalter, pt. 1, Welt der Ideen, Welt der Dinge, ed. F. Daim and J. Drauschke (Mainz, 2010), 23–54, esp. 30–33 on Herakleios. drew in part from lorilegia—we recall, for example, Photios’s Bibliotheke—many of which have not survived. We must therefore acknowledge the possibility of quotations from works no longer preserved and thus unidentiiable, even with the most sophisticated computer program. Finally, the works we know may not be those that every Byzantine knew. he much more fundamental issue, however, is the Byzantine author’s attitude to his work. What value did the described event have for the author, when he could essentially modify it at whim and thus—at least according to our standards of historical writing—falsify it? But we must again qualify this statement: quotation is not always equivalent to falsiication. While Procopius may borrow many phrases from hukydides, his description of the symptoms of plague, for example, is entirely original. he purpose of the borrowing—if we assume Procopius did indeed have deliberate intentions and if we do not automatically dismiss the quotations as “rhetoric”—was to convey the monstrosity of this epidemic. Since hukydides was known to every educated Byzantine—like Goethe for the educated middle-class German and Shakespeare for the English in the twentieth century—his “classic” plague description was the standard by which later authors would be judged. Likewise, Niketas Choniates did not falsify the outcome of the siege of Didymoteichon; in contrast to the defenders of Jodapatha, they were victorious. Niketas’s aim, in this particular case, was to transcend the usual, that is, stereotypical, battle-scene description. He could have quoted Homer, but that appeared for his intentions—to address the “erudite” reader—perhaps too simple, since most readers would have easily recognized a Homeric citation, which was probably not the case with Flavius Josephus. he quotations, moreover, do not contain any particular outstanding facts, but rather depict ordinary combat, which becomes more literarily sophisticated by means of a borrowing from a classical work. But where does that end? Could the Byzantine reader really always judge whether the author was pursuing literary goals with these quotations, revamping an excessively “simple” incident with rhetoric, or whether the quotations were inspired by incidents in the events described? Niketas did not help his reader with this decision; on the contrary, his cryptic anonymous quotations were exceedingly diicult for readers to identify. his interpretative diiculty may have been literarily interesting and amusing for both the author dumbarton oaks papers | 68 204 Ralph-Johannes Lilie and his audience. But what does this type of writing style have to do with historical writing as it is understood today? he issue becomes even more pressing in the example of Bardas Skleros, in which the echoing of Xenophon’s Anabasis had no relation whatsoever with the actual events of 986. he imitation is here merely an end in itself and a literary game, which does not contribute any further insight into the events described. Results and Consequences Before proceeding with a comparative summary of the examples and categories introduced above, it is necessary to stress once again that the selection of these examples is by no means comprehensive and quite subjective in nature. Other colleagues would most likely ind other examples and perhaps draw other conclusions as well. One should also keep in mind that the categories presented here generally apply to several authors, but with diferent degrees of applicability. In order to assess each individual author we would need to analyze him individually and comprehensively, ideally in the form of a commentary that addreses the questions that we are considering. his is a task that cannot be accomplished within the scope of this article and that would exceed the expertise of any individual scholar. he goal here, as mentioned earlier, is rather to attempt to propose criteria and make other suggestions as to how such a commentary might be conceived.177 Of less signiicance, in our opinion, is the issue of the role of chronological developments and supposedly diferent subgenres. Oten in Byzantine studies a distinction is made between chronography and historiography, whereby most chronicles date from between the sixth and the ninth century. Insofar as this distinction applies to the respective chronological extent of the works and their level of style, this distinction between chronography and historiography is certainly justiied.178 But the authors’ fundamental 177 Initial attempts were made by Hunger, Literatur, in the form of a handbook, though without the thematic and methodological concerns that are the basis of this article. Of little beneit for this task is J. O. Rosenqvist, Die byzantinische Literatur: Vom 6. Jahrhundert bis zum Fall Konstantinopels 1453, trans. J. O. Rosenqvist and D. R. Reinsch (Berlin-New York, 2007). 178 See the still relevant essay by C. Mango, Byzantine Literature as a Distorting Mirror (Oxford, 1975). Mango’s main focus, however, is on diferent levels of style. conceptions of the function and signiicance of historical narrative are more similar than has been realized. One should keep in mind that a classical education was most prevalent among the members of the relatively small upper class, but would have been passed on—indirectly and certainly in varying degrees—to the rest of the populace, insofar as they could read and write. Here, an outstanding role was played by rhetorical training, which in Byzantium was not regarded merely as a technique conined to a small group of an educated elite but was, rather, a methodology and mental attitude as well, part of the general literary and cultural heritage.179 It goes without saying that Byzantine historiography changed over the centuries. here are outstanding diferences between the works of authors like heophanes or George the Monk, on the one hand, and Anna Komnene or Niketas Choniates, on the other, that cannot be explained by diferent levels of education alone. J. Ljubarskij rightly underscores developments in Byzantine historiography in the tenth century, just as there are without doubt vast diferences between the historiographal writing of late antiquity and of the “Dark Ages.”180 One may, however, observe continuous distinctive features recurring in almost all authors, although, as previously noted, in varying forms and degrees. hese idiosyncrasies allow us, in our opinion, to draw conclusions not only about the self-perception of Byzantine historians but also about the concept of “truth” that may be found in their works. Did they perceive historical writing as a science, 179 See the various contributions in the volume Byzantium and the Classical Tradition, hirteenth Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies 1979, ed. M. Mullett and R. Scott (Birmingham, 1981), in particular, the sections “Deinitions of the Classical Tradition” and “he Classical Tradition in Byzantium”; see as well Rhetoric in Byzantium, Papers rom the hirty­Fith Spring Symposium of Byzantine Studies, University of Oxford 2001, ed. E. Jefreys (Farnham, 2001); most recently, E. Jefreys, “Rhetoric in Byzantium,” in A Companion to Greek Rhetoric, ed. I. Worthington (London, 2007), 166–83. 180 J. N. Ljubarskij, “Problema Voljucii Vizantijskoj Istoriograii,” in Literatura i iskusstvo v sisteme kul’tury (Moscow, 1988), 39–45; idem, “Quellenforschung” (n. 8 above); see also the survey by Macrides, “Historian in the History” (n. 18 above); on further developments in the “narrative” in Byzantine historiography, see as well the brief comments by E. C. Bourbouhakis and I. Nilsson, “Byzantine Narrative: he Form of Storytelling in Byzantium,” in James, Companion (n. 132 above), 263–74, esp. 265–69; on the transition from late antique to Byzantine historiography, see, among others, Meier, “Prokop, Agathias, die Pest” (n. 167 above). dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 205 primarily devoted to the transmission of facts, as it had been previously conceived (and as it is commonly conceived today), or did they regard it as a literary genre, as most scholars today presume?181 And most of all, what efect does this have on our perception? If Byzantine historiography belongs to the category of ine literature, what impact does this have on the reliability of the information it transmits? Was there a speciic Byzantine concept of truth diferent from ours, or are we merely dealing with technical diiculties hindering us from recognizing and distinguishing the—undeniable—idiosyncrasies of Byzantine historiography?182 Let us again emphasize that it would be hubristic to presume that all these issues could be conclusively settled here. It would be an accomplishment if the aspects examined here should prove fruitful toward stimulating further discussion, and if these relections should facilitate a better understanding of the methodology of Byzantine writers of history. he examples presented establish beyond doubt that Byzantines placed much greater value in the entertainment factor, if one may call it that, than we do today. In this regard, all Byzantine historical works remind us to a certain extent of the “scandal sheets” of our own time: the focus of interest is primarily upon the leading people of society—members of the imperial court, in particular—then outstanding events of all kinds—usually disasters, social scandals, and human weaknesses, in general—that are related and commented on with gusto and verve. his is not, of course, a speciically Byzantine method, but was popular in antiquity as well. One need only recall authors like Herodotos or Plutarch, who were well known in Byzantium and highly esteemed models. Clearly, the 181 We shall refrain from mentioning all or even some of the authors who deal with this issue. he communis opinio in scholarship is that (Byzantine) historiography is a form of literature. One main focus of the dispute is the proportion of literature to “scientiic” history contained in the Byzantine historical works; for a brief introduction with basic literature, see I. Nilsson, “Discovering Literariness in the Past: Literature vs. History in the Synopsis Chronike of Konstantinos Manasses,” in L’ écriture de la mémoire (n. 10 above), 15–31. It must also be noted that Byzantine studies is only now addressing an issue that has long been under discussion in scholarship on classical sources; see, for example, the articles frequently cited by Moles, “Truth and Untruth,” and Wiseman, “Lying Historians” (both n. 7 above). 182 See the useful summary of the past, primarily French discussion by héologitis, “La Forza del Destino” (n. 20 above), 181–96. more literary aspect of mimesis must be taken into consideration.183 With regard to the entertainment factor, Byzantine historiography exhibits a unique quality diametrically opposed to today’s conventions.184 It was not suicient for Byzantine authors to attribute speciic characteristics or weaknesses to a particular person; preferably, the character of that person should also be illustrated by speciic acts or statements. Moreover, it was of no apparent signiicance whether or not these acts or statements were factual. Indeed, one gets the impression that the exact opposite was the case: the more exaggerated the characterization, the better the efect. A review of the examples discussed above, which could easily be multiplied, reveals that the majority cannot have been factual. It is just as absurd for a logothete to swim across a river to devour an entire bean ield on the other side as it is for an extremely wealthy former tax oicer to have gits of ish returned to the market to be resold, which he then again receives as gits, not just once but repeatedly. hat Niketas Choniates uses these examples anyway indicates that he was quite aware that his audience understood them to be illustrations. heir factuality was irrelevant; only their succinctness, which was achieved by this exaggeration to absurdity, mattered.185 So too, Anna Komnene’s characterization of the Norman Bohemond and that of Michael III in heophanes continuatus. Likewise, sayings and bon mots could be used to characterize a person, as shown above, but could also serve to entertain the audience, as is evident in the collection of sayings in pseudo-Michael Psellos’s Historia syntomos, which contains sayings that are in no way 183 On Herodotos, see Moles, “Truth and Untruth,” passim; see, as well, H. Hunger, “he Classical Tradition in Byzantine Literature: he Importance of Rhetoric,” in Mullett and Scott, Byzantium and the Classical Tradition, 35–47; on mimesis in Byzantine literatur in general, see H. Hunger, “On the Imitation (ΜΙΜΗΣΙΣ) of Antiquity in Byzantine Literature,” DOP 23–24 (1969–70): 15–38; see, most recently, the brief summary in Hinterberger, “Envy” (n. 129 above), 187–203, esp. 187 with n. 1. 184 It would be worth investigating if corresponding features are found in classical or coeval medieval “Latin” historiography. hat cannot be undertaken here, but must be referred to the specialists. 185 he ultimate example is the portrayal of Andronikos I Komnenos, which was not examined here because it is so well known; see, most recently, M. Grünbart, “Die Macht des Historiographen– Andronikos (I.) Komnenos und sein Bild,” ZbFilozFak 48 (2011): 75–85. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 206 Ralph-Johannes Lilie to be regarded as factual or even useful, but are solely intended to amuse the readership. Which of the two functions—characterization or amusement—plays the greater role, or how they may have been combined, can be determined only for each case individually. We may, then, conclude that these episodes, despite their extreme farcical exaggeration and lack of reality, were not deliberately composed falsehoods, but were—for both the authors and their audiences— “truthful” in an exalted sense, because they provided a more accurate portrayal of character than could be conveyed by a mere string of adjectives and a list of activities.186 Precisely because readers were aware that the speciic incident was not factual, they could accept the author’s account as accurate and therefore “truthful.” hus we may exclude the argument that descriptions and assertions had to contain at least a kernel of truth—an argument that claims that the incident in question was still recent enough at the time of composition for readers to remember it and judge the factuality of the account from their own experience. hat was precisely not the case in these instances! his relation to the “truth” of the past was by no means new, nor exclusively Byzantine, but has been already preigured in classical historiography.187 he potential consequences of this observation are enormous, since the literary technique of characterizing a person by his deeds—be they invented or overstated—was not restricted to this category alone, but can be easily detected in numerous other categories as well. When we recall Michael Psellos’s portrayal of Constantine VIII, discussed in the category “deliberate tendentious modiication,” it is evident that for Psellos the issue of factuality was entirely irrelevant; quite the contrary: he could employ rhetorical elements—antithetical opposition of mutually exclusive 186 here were these as well, of course, but they alone were insuicient. 187 See Moles, “Truth and Untruth,” 120: “No serious ancient historian was so tied to speciic factual truth that he would not sometimes help general truths along by manipulating, even inventing, ‘facts.’” Wiseman, “Lying Historians,” 146, goes even further when he remarks: “With evidentia, there was no need for argument: you could simply see the thing was true. And you achieved that end by making explicit ‘all the circumstances which it is reasonable to imagine must have occurred.’ hat is, the invention of circumstantial detail was a way to reach the truth.” characteristics—without hesitation, because he could trust that his audience was aware that veracity was not the issue, but rather the illustration, with as many convincing examples as possible, of Constantine VIII’s incompetence. It is nearly impossible to deine a line of demarcation between reality and iction, because the opportunities for “characterization by deeds” are virtually inexhaustible. hus the fall of Syracuse in 878 and of Taormina in 903 could very well have been caused by the relief leet’s delayed departure from Constantinople, and we would perhaps not voice any doubts, were it not for the duplication of the narrative. Viewed from the perspective of characterization, however, it may well have served to accuse Basil I and Leo VI of neglecting the empire to satisfy their own private needs. In principle, of course, building churches was a good deed, but here it was implied that the emperors’ ulterior motive was to atone for their sins, while the welfare of the empire was secondary to them. A number of similar examples of this type of characterization were presented and discussed above, so we may forgo further elucidations at this point. he historical writer was quite free to modify at whim such episodes with regard to date or time, as in the example from Niketas Choniates above (“he Supernatural”) of Manuel I Komnenos who, in response to a prophecy of an imminent disaster had his palace secured, the windows walled up, and shelters prepared. As was shown, this incident may be attributable—if at all—to Isaac II Angelos. But Niketas transposes the entire episode many years forward to the end of Manuel’s reign, to underscore the emperor’s superstition and his dependence on lying pseudo-prophets more vivdly than he would otherwise have been able. his incident was the culmination of an entire series of examples of this kind. hese characterizations—that is, these indirect commentaries—are not conined to deeds alone. As shown above in the section “Bon Mots,” Empress heodora was characterized by her speech, culminating in the bon mot that royalty makes the noblest shroud. Procopius, with this saying, illustrates that heodora— in contrast to her husband Justinian I, who is portrayed as a weakling—was a ighter, who did not give up in the most diicult situations. It is therefore quite possible that this speech was never given. he argument that it must have at least a historically accurate core because dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 207 there were so many witnesses who would have remembered it is no longer tenable,188 since Procopius would, in any case, have been free to characterize heodora by a deed analogous in content to this speech. If the comment on a person is meant to be succinct, regardless of its facticity, then additional dramatization and overstatement (see “Sensationalism and Overdramatization” above) are only a small step away. One can, in any case, rule out the possibility that there were standard rules regulating up to which point a description had to be factual, and from when on it could be ictitious or contain ictitious elements. What was permissible with regard to persons could be equally applied to situations, by which individuals could again be indirectly characterized, negatively or positively. When Anna Komnene condenses the advancement of the Crusaders on Constantinople, which actually took six months, to a few weeks, she is dramatizing the overall situation, while praising all the more her father Alexios I, who in her opinion proved to be an outstanding ruler in this threatening situation. Her description of Bohemond’s return to the West in 1104 also contains all the elements of overstatement, characterizing Bohemond as a hero of evil, whose only match on the Byzantine side is Emperor Alexios himself—yet again transforming the scene to an indirect praise of Alexios. Larger groups or entire ethnicities could also be characterized by exaggeration. Niketas Choniates in his account of the hird Crusade tells of a gigantic German knight, who had lost contact with his unit and was walking alone next to his horse in full armor behind the army. More than ity mounted Turks attacked him, shooting arrows at him, which did not disturb him in the least. Finally one Turk attacked him directly. he knight drew his sword and irst struck at the horse’s forelegs, causing the horse to fall. He thereupon struck the Turk, splitting him with one blow of his sword into two halves from head to hips, severing the saddle as well and injuring the horse.189 his scene is, of course, entirely unrealistic. Even with a two-handed sword, it 188 For example, H.-G. Beck, Kaiserin heodora und Prokop: Der Historiker und sein Opfer (Munich-Zurich, 1986), 39; see the discussion in Meier, “heodora-Rede,” 92–93 with n. 13. Meier is generally skeptical about the historicity of the speech. 189 Niketas Choniates, History 414.85–415.15; on this passage in another context cf. J. Davis, “Anna Komnene and Niketas Choniates ‘Translated:’ he Fourteenth-Century Byzantine Metaphrases,” in Macrides, History as Literature, 55–70, esp. 60–61. is quite impossible for anyone, however mighty, to split his opponent in two with a single blow. his episode is, however, greatly efective in its characterization of the tremendous strength of the Latins in general, and the Germans in particular, replete with mythical echoes engendered by Niketas’s diction. In this context, the question of reality was entirely irrelevant.190 Epic elements, which are almost always linked to a speciic person, are likewise opportunites for exaggeration. Occasionally they may also be applied to a speciic battle, for example, the tournament organized by Manuel I in 1159 at Antioch. By including quotations from Homer and references to the ancient gods and heroes, its signiicance is ampliied to such an extent that one is led to imagine the emperor’s great victory on the battleield, whereas in the greater context of the entire military campaign the episode is comparatively negligible. What conclusions may we draw about the general conception and design of the chroniclers’ works from the freedom they enjoyed in characterizing their protagonists? And was this freedom restricted to the techniques we have described? hat would be unlikely, since in this age there were no set regulations for a historical work, but instead, at most, general expectations and unwritten rules deriving from tradition, which were, however, neither unalterable nor obligatory. Assuming that every author wrote for an audience, however large or small, one may then presume—at least, when successful—a certain consensus between author and readership that will inluence the expectations of a historiographical work. In Byzantium these expectations were most certainly quite diferent from ours, as is most evident in the last two categories analyzed above, which have nothing in common with our concept of historical writing, but were intended primarily to entertain the reader, belonging therefore to the category of “ine literature,” in the broadest sense. 190 Proof of how convincing it actually was is that it even made its way into German poetry in “Als Kaiser Rotbart lobesam” by Ludwig Uhland, who adopts the account by the Byzantine chronicler almost verbatim, merely transposing it into verse, referring to it as “Schwabenstreiche” (“Swabian stunts”). A similar example is the reception of a German delegation at the imperial court in 1196 (Niketas Choniates, History 477–78), which has as its central theme, as Kaldellis, “Paradox” (n. 18 above), 90–91, correctly observes, the contrast between Germans and Byzantines, illustrated by the acts and speeches given on this occasion. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 208 Ralph-Johannes Lilie his intention to entertain is most evident in the use of “timeless” material, which served primarily to make more engaging descriptions that were otherwise deemed too dry. his method could also be categorized as “characterization by deeds.”191 he tale analyzed above, in which a murderer is exposed by the victim’s dog and receives his just punishment, does not belong in a “serious” historical work. Also, the change of the source’s—in this case, George the Monk’s—dating by John Kedrenos demonstrates that the Byzantines regarded these episodes as nonspeciic and as usable at any point in a narrative. heir only purpose, aside from rendering the factual account more appealing, was to demonstrate that the bad guy truly is punished in the end. In this respect, it may have served a didactic function as well. At the same time, it had an entertainment value that must not be underestimated. he great popularity of George the Monk’s chronicle is an indication of the importance audiences attached to this entertainment factor in historical works. his “need to be entertained,” if one may call it that, is most evident in one feature typical of all Byzantine literature, not just historical writing. In Byzantium, the ability to imitate earlier works was held in high regard, in particular those of classical antiquity, but also later authors, as well as biblical texts and their commentators. Oten this ability was considered more important than a factual account of the events portrayed.192 At times, we tend to accept this mimesis as normal for Byzantine literature, without grasping the larger consequences. Let us examine, for example, the speech Niketas has the French king Louis VII give to his soldiers during the Second Crusade just before a battle against the Seljuqs in Asia Minor.193 It is a speech typically delivered on such occasions and frequently encountered. Scholarship generally takes little notice of speeches of this kind, since it is 191 Recall, for example, Philentolos’s mention of Patriarch Germanos in the example above (“‘Timeless’ Episodes”), in which the patriarch merely serves as a point of reference for time and place, playing no other role in the narrative. 192 See the studies cited above in n. 183. 193 Niketas Choniates, History 68.74–70.42; see Ethymiadis, Niketas Choniates, 41 (n. 63 above), who attributes the speech, following Niketas’s account, to Conrad III. his error, however, is of practically no signiicance, since the entire speech was probably invented by Niketas. Louis VII and the French army play efectively no role in Niketas’s narration. assumed that the author was free to attribute his own thoughts to the speaker, a “concession” accorded to Byzantine historiographers.194 he consequence of this is, however, the realization that speeches of this kind, if they were ever delivered, which is quite doubtful, had nothing at all to do with reality. In this speciic case, Niketas Choniates attributes to the French king a classical speech that a Byzantine commander in his opinion would have given, or at least should have given,195 but that would have, in fact, been quite inconceivable for a “barbarian Frank.” It is larded with quotations from the Old and New Testaments and the Epistles. While one might presume a certain familiarity with these texts on the part of the king, or his advisors, the speech also contains anonymous quotations from Isocrates, heocritus, and even Procopius. No one at the French court would have been familiar with these authors. he ultimate consequence of this method is that Niketas Choniates’ Byzantine readership received an entirely false impression of the king’s education—and of his entire personality. Even assuming that the readers were aware of this, it meant that they were not properly informed about this foreign ruler, at least not according to our own conception of historical writing.196 his literary technique was not conined to exceptions like direct speech, but was also employed in 194 his freedom in the treatment of speeches is not speciically Byzantine, but is already encountered in hukydides; see for example Moles, “Truth and Untruth,” 104–5: “He [hucydides] regards the ideal to be accurate reportage of speeches, as of deeds. But this is impracticable, so his speeches will be an amalgam of a solid factual core and an inevitably subjective reconstruction of ‘what was necessary,’ even if they did not say it. his may, and oten does, produce material that is in one sense historically implausible . . . yet things which are, on another level, historically true, in that they relect the real logic of their position.” 195 Whereby the situation, as such, is contrafactual. Imagine a commander holding a lengthy speech on an open ield before several thousand cavalrymen and infantrymen. How would this have been possible in an age without any technical means to amplify a human voice? On the other hand, descriptions of such ictive speeches may also be found in classical historiography, so authors like Niketas Choniates could not only follow a literary tradition, but at the same time ind the ideal opportunity to voice their own commentary through the mouth of their protagonist. 196 he allusions to antiquity are not conined to the king’s speech alone, as Niketas also compares the battle and its outcome to the defeat of the Cimbri against the Romans at Marseille, as transmitted by Diodorus; see Simpson, “Workshop,” 266–67. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 Reality and Invention: Reflections on Byzantine Historiography 209 “factual” descriptions, as in the siege of Didymoteichon by the Bulgarians or in the example of the tournament (see “Anonymous Quotations” above). While the references to ancient heroes and gods in the latter case makes conspicuous its literary transformation of the actual events, the quotations in the French king’s speech—in particular, in the description of the siege of Didymoteichon—are more obscure and therefore comprehensible only to those readers with suicient education. At the same time, such readers must have been aware that the actual events had been iltered and modiied by the author. Apparently, this posed no diiculties. Quite the contrary, they appreciated this approach and evidently considered it entirely normal, provided, of course, that they recognized the inset quotations and modiications for what they were. We can presume that it was not Niketas Choniates’ intention to reach a large audience, but that he was writing to a small group of elite intellectuals that comprehended and appreciated his allusions.197 We can conclude that Byzantium had a conception of historical writing wholly diferent from our own. If it was standard authorial practice to alter accounts so as to present a more colorful portrait of people and their characters, to shit events, deeds, speeches, and sayings both in time and space, and to deploy anonymous quotations in order for an author to demonstrate his own erudition and to satisfy that of his listeners and readers, then Byzantine historical writing can no longer be regarded as comparable to today’s. Byzantine historiography was by no means an “imperfect” predecessor, as it were, of modern historical writing, but quite evidently a separate branch of literature with its own, albeit not deinitively codiied, expectations and rules. When Warren Treadgold, quoted earlier, writes, “But few Byzantine historians would have written something they believed false simply in order to produce an artful literary composition, as authors of iction routinely do,”198 this is only accurate in a very limited way—if at all. Byzantine historiographers deined the categories of “true” and “false” quite diferently from the way that we deine 197 Mango, Byzantine Literature as a Distorting Mirror (n. 178 above), 4–5, estimates that this group comprised a maximum of 300 people; see, most recently, Croke, “Uncovering Byzantium’s Historiographical Audience” (n. 173 above). 198 Treadgold, “Commentary” (n. 8 above), 58. them today. If we consider an account of an individual episode to be entirely unrealistic, because it is impossible for it to have happened as narrated, it does not render this account “false” from the viewpoint of the Byzantines. For author and audience, this was an irrelevant distinction. When the intended efect of such an account was achieved, then it was “true” on a higher level. A Byzantine author felt quite justiied in composing his narrative accordingly and, should the case require, even in modifying his transcribed sources to adapt them to his own design.199 In addition, there were the respective authors’ eforts to accommodate the expectations of their audiences, and perhaps even to form them to a certain extent, although such audiences did vary. Historians like Michael Psellos, Nikephoros Bryennios, Anna Komnene, or Niketas Choniates wrote for a very small circle of highly educated literary people, who understood and shared their literary ambitions. Authors like heophanes, George the Monk, or the Logothete chronicler, on the other hand, although they also intend to inform and entertain their audiences, work at a decidedly lower literary level. Between these two extremes there were, of course, several other gradations that must be analyzed and evaluated individually. Nevertheless, authors like Niketas Choniates and George the Monk, for example, no matter how diferent in style, writing level, and target audiences, exhibit a greater similarity in their fundamental conception of the task of historical writing than one would assume from a supericial reading of their works. To a certain extent, one could compare many Byzantine works of historical writing with Impressionist painting, even better with the pointillist style: the overall impression of the picture is the decisive criterion, while the individual signiicance of the single dot of color is primarily determined by its efect within the picture as a whole. In itself, it has no—or very little—signiicance. From the relections presented here one could perhaps draw the conclusion that all Byzantine historiographical works were products of pure fantasy that had nothing to do with reality. hat would be highly exaggerated. he majority of the portrayals of Byzantine historical writers were, in all probability, accurate and 199 Kaldellis, “Paradox,” using Niketas Choniates as an example, is an excellent analysis of this type of shaping. dumbarton oaks papers | 68 210 Ralph-Johannes Lilie depict events more or less correctly.200 he actual problem is that in individual cases we are oten unable—or only with great diiculty—to discern whether or not information pertaining to a speciic person or an individual event is accurate, or if it was somehow modiied, or if it was even partly or entirely invented by an author or his source. his diiculty is expecially acute 200 Correct in the sense that the entertainment factor did not inluence the text, or only to a small degree. hat does not rule out deliberate tendentious modiications, of course—which are not, however, typically Byzantine, but inherent in historical writing from its beginnings to this very day. • The completion of this article was decisively facilitated by a fellowship provided by the Dumbarton Oaks Research Library. I would like to express my deepest gratitude toward all responsible for granting me the opportunity to work in the wonderful and inspiring atmosphere of Dumbarton Oaks. his study owes a great deal to discussions with for those readers who are not familiar with the literary style of Byzantine authors. In our opinion, it is urgently necessary to analyze the works of Byzantine historical writers much more intensely than has been done to date. Only then will we be in a position to fully understand and evaluate the idiosyncrasies of Byzantine historiography—a task that is sure to keep us occupied for many years to come. Predoehlstrasse 11 27472 Cuxhaven Germany lilie2012@icloud.com other fellows and members of the Dumbarton Oaks community, especially Margaret Mullett, Director of Byzantine Studies. I am also indebted to Dr. Cornelia Oefelein, who did a wonderful job in translating this diicult stuf, written in almost incomprehensible German, and transforming it into good and readable English. dumbarton oaks papers | 68