POETRY IN BYZ ANTINE LITERATURE

AND SOCIET Y (1081–1204)

The twelfth century was one of the most fertile periods in Byzantine
literary history and this volume is the first to focus exclusively on its
abundant poetic production. It explores the broader socio-cultural
tendencies that shaped twelfth-century literature in both prose and
verse by examining the school as an important venue for the compo-
sition and use of texts written in verse, by shedding new light on the
relationship between poetry, patronage and power, and by offering
the first editions and interpretive studies of hitherto neglected works.
In this way, it enhances our knowledge of the history of Byzantine
­literature and enables us to situate Medieval Greek poetry in the
broader literary world of the medieval Mediterranean.

baukje van den berg is Associate Professor of Byzantine Studies

at the Central European University. She is the author of Homer the
Rhetorician: Eustathios of Thessalonike on the Composition of the Iliad
(2022).
nikos z agkl as is Assistant Professor of Byzantine Studies at the
University of Vienna. His recent publications include Theodoros
­Prodromos: Miscellaneous Poems. An Edition and Literary Study (2023).
 P O E T RY I N B Y Z A N T I N E
L I T E R AT U R E A N D S O C I E T Y
( 1081–1204 )
New Texts, New Approaches

Edited by

BAUKJE VAN DEN BERG

Central European University, Vienna

N I KO S Z A G K L A S
University of Vienna, Austria
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To the Memory of Elizabeth Jeffreys
 Contents

List of Figures page ix

List of Tables x
List of Contributors xi

Introduction: Poetry in Byzantine Literature and Society

(1081–1204) 1
Nikos Zagklas and Baukje van den Berg

part i poetry and twelfth-century literary culture

1 ‘The Force of Discourses’: Literary Production
in the Komnenian Era 31
Panagiotis A. Agapitos
2 Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century Constantinople 70
Paul Magdalino
3 Rethinking the Mixed Style in Twelfth-Century Poetry 95
Markéta Kulhánková
4 ‘Wishing to Imitate the Poet’: Prose and the Study of
Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 113
Emmanuel C. Bourbouhakis

part ii poetry and the school

5 The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia and the Use
of Verse in Byzantine Teaching Practice 139
Floris Bernard
6 Teaching Grammar through Poetry: Tzetzes’ Scholia
on the Carmina Iliaca in Context 161
Baukje van den Berg

vii
viii Contents
7 Of Mice and Cat: The Katomyomachia as Drama, Parody,
School Text and Animal Tale 183
Marc D. Lauxtermann
8 On the Roses: Reflections on a Neglected Poem by Nicholas
Kallikles (Carm. 29 Romano) 203
Giulia Gerbi

part iii poetry, patronage and power

9 ‘Receiving Rich Gifts’: Negotiating Power in the Metrical
Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 225
Aglae Pizzone
10 The Poetics of Patronage: Constructing the Image of the
Patron in Dedicatory Epigrams in Monumental Painting of
the Komnenian Period in Greece 256
Nektarios Zarras
11 David as Model for the Emperor and his Poet: Theodore
Prodromos and John II Komnenos 283
Rachele Ricceri

part iv new texts, new interpretations

12 Manganeios Prodromos: His Life and Writings 305
†Elizabeth Jeffreys and Michael Jeffreys
13 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia on Herodotus
in the Light of Twelfth-Century Verse Scholia on Ancient
Historians 339
Julián Bértola
14 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem: Editorial Problems,
Quellenforschung and Cultural Context 366
Konstantinos Chryssogelos
15 The Learned Bishop and the Unicorn: Michael Choniates,
Poem 5 Lampros 389
Ugo Mondini

General Index 409

 Figures

9.1 Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus

graecus Q1 [Diktyon 38108], fol. 211v page 228
9.2 Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus
graecus Q1 [Diktyon 38108], fol. 212r 229
9.3 Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus
graecus Q1 [Diktyon 38108], fol. 41v 233
9.4 Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus
graecus Q1 [Diktyon 38108], fol. 54v 236
9.5 Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus
graecus Q1 [Diktyon 38108], 30r 241
10.1 Mount Athos, Vatopedi Monastery, Deesis (Vatopediou
Monastery) 264
10.2 Kastoria, Sts. Anargyroi, inscription in the north aisle
(Nektarios Zarras) 270
10.3 Kastoria, Sts. Anargyroi, north aisle: images of Saint
George’s vita (Nektarios Zarras) 272
10.4 Kastoria, Sts. Anargyroi, east wall of the narthex: the
epigram in the scene of the Ascension (Nektarios Zarras) 274
10.5 Kastoria, Sts. Anargyroi, east wall of the narthex: the
Virgin orans of the Ascension (Nektarios Zarras) 276

ix
 Tables

11.1 Comparison of Prodromos, Historical Poem 17 and

Psalm 71 page 297
14.1 The effects of the planet Saturn in the three versions of
Manasses’ poem 370
14.2 The nature of the zodiac signs in Manasses, Vettius Valens
and Paul of Alexandria 373
14.3 The effects of the Moon in Manasses and Vettius Valens 374
14.4 The effects of Saturn in Manasses and Claudius Ptolemy 374
15.1 The Man in the Well: comparison between Michael Choniates,
Manuel Philes and Apokopos 397
15.2 The Man in the Well: comparison between HBJ ’s version,
Michael Choniates and Apokopos 403

x
 Contributors

panagiot is a. ag api tos is Emeritus Professor of Byzantine Literature

at the University of Cyprus and currently Distinguished Fellow of the
Gutenberg Research College of the University of Mainz (2021–6).
His research interests focus on textual and literary criticism, with an
emphasis on Byzantine rhetoric and its performance, poetics, the theory
of genre, erotic fiction and the representation of death in Byzantine
literature. Over the past thirty years, he has published some ninety
scholarly papers and five single-authored studies. He is working on a
narrative history of Byzantine literature (a d 300–1500).
f loris b e rnard is Assistant Professor of Ancient and Medieval Greek
at Ghent University. His research interests include Byzantine poetry
and epistolography. He is the author of Writing and Reading Byzantine
Secular Poetry, 1025–1081 (2014).
j u l i á n b é rto l a studied classical philology at the University of
Buenos Aires and completed his PhD in 2021 at Ghent University as
a member of the Database of Byzantine Book Epigrams project. He
is now a postdoctoral fellow of the Research Foundation Flanders at
Ghent University, studying the socio-cultural practices associated with
Byzantine poetry and the material context of its textual transmission.
In 2023, he was awarded a Hannah Seeger Davis Postdoctoral Research
Fellowship in Hellenic Studies at Princeton University to write a
monograph on verse marginalia in Byzantine manuscripts of historians.
e mm anu e l c . bourbouhak i s is Associate Professor of Classics and the
Stanley J. Seeger ‘52 Center for Hellenic Studies at Princeton University.
His research interests range broadly over Byzantine literature, especially
in the areas of rhetoric, epistolography, historiography and classical
reception. He is the author of Not Composed in a Chance Manner: The
Epitaphios for Manuel I Komnenos by Eustathios of Thessalonike (2017).

xi
xii List of Contributors
konstant inos chryssog elos is Assistant Professor at the
University of Patras (Department of Philology) in the Division of
Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies. His research interests include
Byzantine and Post-Byzantine literature (fourth–eighteenth centuries),
and the reception of the Byzantine past in modern Greece (nineteenth–
twenty-first centuries). His most recent book is the critical edition of
Constantine Manasses’ Hodoiporikon (2017).
giu l ia ge rbi obtained her PhD in Ancient Heritage Studies at Ca’
Foscari University of Venice and Sorbonne University (2021). Her
thesis, soon to be published, consists of a critical edition with Italian
translation and commentary of Nikephoros Basilakes’ Progymnasmata.
She is currently a postdoctoral researcher at Ca’ Foscari University of
Venice, as a member of the ERC-project PURA – Purism in Antiquity.
e l iz ab e t h jef f reys was Emeritus Bywater and Sotheby Professor of
Byzantine and Modern Greek Language and Literature at the University
of Oxford and Emeritus Fellow of Exeter College, Oxford. She has
published widely on topics in Byzantine literature; recent publications
include Four Byzantine Novels (2012) and ‘A Constantinopolitan Poet
Views Frankish Antioch’, Crusades 14 (2015).
m ic h ae l j e f f reys studied classics at Cambridge (UK) and then
completed a PhD on the border of Byzantine Studies and Modern Greek
at the University of London. After postdoctoral work in the US and
Greece, he was appointed Lecturer in Modern Greek at the University
of Sydney, where he took part in the extraordinary flowering of Greek
education there in the late 1970s and the 1980s, and was elected Sir
Nicholas Laurantus Professor of Modern Greek at Sydney. After taking
early retirement at the end of millennium he returned to the UK and
has been doing research at Oxford, largely in Byzantine Studies.
m arké ta ku lhánková works as researcher at the Czech Academy of
Sciences and as an Associate Professor at Masaryk University (Brno).
Her research focuses mainly on Byzantine narrative, both in verse and
in prose; currently she is working on a narratological commentary
on the Digenis Akritis poem. She is also interested in the reception of
Byzantium in modern culture and translates Byzantine and Modern
Greek literature into Czech. She has published a monograph entitled
Das gottgefällige Abenteuer: Eine narratologische Analyse der byzantinischen
erbaulichen Erzählungen (2015).
 List of Contributors xiii
m a rc d . l au x terma nn holds the Stavros Niarchos Foundation –
Bywater and Sotheby chair in Byzantine and Modern Greek Language
and Literature at the University of Oxford, and he is a Fellow of Exeter
College. His books include The Spring of Rhythm: An Essay on the Political
Verse and Other Byzantine Metres (1999) and Byzantine Poetry from Pisides
to Geometres: Texts and Contexts (2 vols, 2003–19). Recent publications
focus on the Eugenian recension of Stephanites and Ichnelates as well as
on grammars and dictionaries in early modern Europe.
pau l m agd al in o studied at Oxford and taught for thirty years at the
University of St Andrews, in addition to which he has held teaching
appointments at Harvard and Koç University (Istanbul), and fellowships
in Germany, the United States and Australia. He has published widely
on many aspects of Byzantine history, although his research has
concentrated on the Middle Byzantine period, court culture, the city of
Constantinople, and the place of astrology and prophecy in Byzantine
culture. He has been a Fellow of the British Academy since 2002.
u g o m ond ini is a British Academy Postdoctoral Fellow at the University
of Oxford. He researches Byzantine poetry (tenth–fifteenth centuries)
and has produced an edition of the poems by John Mauropous and
Michael Choniates, as well as of The Metaphraseis of the Psalms by
Manuel Philes (with Anna Gioffreda and Andreas Rhoby; 2024). His
current research focuses on the teaching of the Greek language in the
Middle Ages; it aims at producing a study of early schedography (tenth–
eleventh centuries).
agl ae piz zo ne is a Byzantinist with a training in Classics. In her
research she focuses on cultural history and history of the ideas. She
is currently Professor of Ancient and Medieval Greek Literature at the
University of Southern Denmark. She is interested in autography, self-
commentaries in the Greek Middle Ages, as well as in the Byzantine
commentaries on Hermogenes. She has discovered new autograph notes
by John Tzetzes in the Voss. Gr. Q1. Recent publications include the
volume Emotions through Time: From Greece to Byzantium (co-edited
with Douglas Cairns, Martin Hinterberger and Matteo Zaccarini; 2022).
rac h e l e ricceri (PhD, University of Rome Tor Vergata–Ghent
University 2013) is a postdoctoral researcher at Ghent University,
where she is the content manager of the Database of Byzantine Book
Epigrams. Her current research focuses on the reception of the Psalms
xiv List of Contributors
in Byzantium, as well as on the study of paratextuality in Byzantine
manuscripts.
b au kj e van den berg is Associate Professor of Byzantine Studies at
Central European University, Vienna. Her research focuses on Byzantine
scholarship, Byzantine education and the role of ancient literature in
Byzantine culture. Recent publications include the monograph Homer
the Rhetorician: Eustathios of Thessalonike on the Composition of the Iliad
(2022) and the co-edited volumes Emotions and Narrative in Ancient
Literature and Beyond: Studies in Honour of Irene de Jong (with Mathieu
de Bakker and Jacqueline Klooster; 2022) and Byzantine Commentaries
on Ancient Greek Texts, 12th–15th Centuries (with Divna Manolova and
Przemysław Marciniak; 2022).
niko s z agkl as is Assistant Professor of Byzantine Studies at the
Department of Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies at the University
of Vienna. His research activity lies at the intersection of traditional
philology and literary interpretation with a special focus on issues of
patronage, poetry and genre theory. His recent publications include
Theodoros Prodromos: Miscellaneous Poems. An Edition and Literary
Study (2023) and the co-edited thematic cluster ‘Why Write Poetry?
Transcultural Perspectives from the Later Medieval Period’ (with
Krystina Kubina; Medieval Encounters, 2024).
ne ktario s z arras is a member of the teaching staff at the University
of the Aegean, Department of Mediterranean Studies, where he teaches
Byzantine art and archaeology. In 2013 he was awarded the ‘Maria
Theochari’ Grant by the Christian Archaeological Society (Greece) for
the publication of his doctoral thesis, ‘Ο εικονογραφικός κύκλος των
εωθινών ευαγγελίων στην παλαιολόγεια μνημειακή ζωγραφική των
Βαλκανίων’ (2011). In the summer of 2013 he was a Fellow at Dumbarton
Oaks, and in the period 2016–2018 he was an Alexander von Humboldt
Senior Research Fellow at the University of Münster working on
identity and patronage in Byzantium. He is currently publishing his
book Ideology and Patronage in Byzantium: Dedicatory Inscriptions and
Patron Images from Middle Byzantine Macedonia and Thrace (2023).
His research interests focus on Byzantine painting, epigraphic material
(dedicatory inscriptions) and patronage.
 Introduction
Poetry in Byzantine Literature and Society (1081–1204)*
Nikos Zagklas and Baukje van den Berg

In his well-known On his Own Verses, Gregory of Nazianzos elucidates the

advantages of writing in verse: the poetic form promotes moderation in
writing, possesses significant pedagogical qualities, and follows the exam-
ple of the Bible, which contains a good deal of poetry, with the Psalms
of the poet-king David as the principal representatives of biblical verse.1
Despite the abundance of poetic production in the centuries after Gregory,
few Byzantine texts provide theoretical considerations about the special
qualities associated with verse. Byzantine poets rarely speak about the rea-
sons behind their choice of verse over prose or of a specific metre. Apart
from commentaries on ancient poetry, we have no Byzantine ars poetica
with programmatic reflections on the aesthetics and practice of poetic pro-
duction, such as we find in the medieval West.2 To understand the formal
and social dynamics of Byzantine poetry, therefore, we need to study the
texts themselves, along with their contexts of production and consump-
tion. Continuing the trailblazing work of recent studies devoted to the
Byzantine poetry of the seventh to eleventh centuries, which have forged
new scholarly approaches to the poetic tradition of the Byzantines, the
present volume is the first to focus exclusively on the poetry of the twelfth

* This volume is partly based on the conference ‘Byzantine Poetry in the “Long” Twelfth Century
(1081–1204): Perceptions, Motivations, and Functions’ organized at the Austrian Academy of
Sciences (13–15 June 2018) in the framework of the project ‘Byzantine Poetry in the “Long” Twelfth
Century (1081–1204)’, P 28959–G25, funded by the Austrian Science Fund (FWF).
1 The relevant poem is Gregory of Nazianzos 2.1.39; on Gregory’s arguments for writing verse, see
Bernard and Demoen (2021: 373–4). On David as poet-king, see Ricceri in this volume.
2 See Conley (1995) and Bernard and Demoen (2021: 373). However, for reflections on the special
qualities of political verse, see M. J. Jeffreys (1974). While Aristotle’s Poetics seems not to have enjoyed
a wide reception in Byzantium, Horace’s Ars poetica continued to be studied in the medieval West.
See e.g. Fredborg (2014) for the eleventh and twelfth centuries. During approximately the same
period, Geoffrey of Vinsauf wrote his influential Poetria nova and Matthew of Vendôme produced
his Ars versificatoria. Concerning these works, see the relevant chapters in Copeland and Sluiter
(2009). On medieval artes poeticae, see also the foundational Faral (1924).

1
2 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
century, one of the most fertile periods in Byzantine literary history, not
least when it comes to literature in verse.3
The volume of poetic production dating from the time of the Komne-
nian emperors is immense and even central texts are still awaiting (updated)
editions. A comprehensive discussion of the poetry of this period therefore
lies beyond the scope of a single volume. Instead, the present collection
of fifteen contributions aims to advance our understanding of Byzantine
poetic culture – and twelfth-century literature more broadly – by concen-
trating on texts that presently remain poorly studied, by offering the first
editions of hitherto unpublished texts, by placing individual poems within
their broader literary contexts, and by studying well-known texts from
new perspectives. It explores the broader tendencies that shaped twelfth-­
century literature in both prose and verse (Part I); it examines the school
as an important venue for the composition and use of texts written in verse
(Part II); it sheds new light on the relationship between poetry, patronage
and power by studying texts that have received little or no scholarly atten-
tion so far (Part III); and it offers the first editions and interpretive studies
of unknown or neglected works (Part IV). By combining wide-­ranging
surveys and close readings, and by tying in with recent developments in
the study of Byzantine literature, this volume takes an important step
towards a better understanding of the abundant poetic production of the
twelfth century. In this way, it will not only help to complete our know-
ledge of the history of Byzantine literature but will eventually enable us to
situate Medieval Greek poetry in the broader literary world of the medi-
eval Mediterranean. In-depth studies of individual traditions and texts are
essential if we wish to make the poetry of the Byzantines part of cross-cul-
tural Mediterranean or global perspectives.4

The Age of Poetry

This volume takes as its point of departure the period beginning from the
moment that Alexios I Komnenos ascended the imperial throne in 1081 to
the Latin sack of Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade in 1204. As
Elizabeth Jeffreys has noted, ‘one aspect of the literature produced in the

3 Lauxtermann (2003–19) for the seventh to tenth centuries; Bernard (2014) for the period of 1025–81.
The poetry of the Palaiologan period (from the Fourth Crusade to the fall of Constantinople in 1453)
is the focus of the project ‘The Power of Poetry in Late Byzantium’, led by Krystina Kubina at the
Austrian Academy of Sciences.
4 For cross-cultural approaches to Mediterranean poetry and occasional literature in general, see the
papers collected in Kubina and Zagklas (2024a) and Nilsson and Zagklas (2024).
 Introduction 3
twelfth century that is in marked contrast to either the eleventh or the thir-
teenth, is that there was a very great deal of writing in verse’.5 A provisional
estimate of the quantity of surviving poetry from this period amounts to c.
150,000 verses in various metres, a number that would expand even more if
one took into account the large amount of anonymous poetry surviving in
manuscripts or in the form of inscriptions on various objects. By contrast,
the oeuvre of the three most important poets in the period between 1025
and 1081, Christopher of Mytilene, John Mauropous, and Michael Psellos,
does not exceed 10,000 verses. Even though this comparison should not be
taken in absolute terms, it demonstrates the popularity of poetry through-
out this century and the tendency of many authors to opt for verse for
much of their literary output. This remarkable development in the history
of Byzantine literature denotes a change in the balance between prose and
verse: even though prose continued to be the dominant mode of literary
expression, there was an unprecedented increase in poetic production and
poetry started to be used for purposes hitherto reserved for prose.6 Around
the same time, prose and poetry started to join forces more systematically
than they had previously, with the composition of works in a mixed form
as the result.7 The boundaries between prose and poetry thus became more
fluid than ever before and many authors embellished their prose writings
with a poetic style, as Emmanuel Bourbouhakis argues in his contribution
to this volume.
The premise that this period saw unprecedented growth in the produc-
tion of poetry is based on the presumption that the years between 1081 and
1204 form a distinct phase in the history of Byzantine poetry and litera-
ture more broadly. In his study of eleventh-century poetry, Floris Bernard
has argued that the timespan between 1025 and 1081 constitutes a distinct
period on account of common sociohistorical tendencies, including a high
degree of social mobility and the quick succession of many reigns, as well
as the lack of a strong dynastic family, in sharp contrast with the preceding
and subsequent periods, when the Macedonian and Komnenian dynasties,
respectively, controlled the political landscape.8 Even though the towering
figure of Michael Psellos dominated intellectual life in the capital during
much of this period, it is rather Psellos’ contemporaries John Mauropous

5 E. M. Jeffreys (2009: 222).

6 One could therefore compare this period with the fifth century b c , when the prominent place of
poetry in Athens was challenged by the emergence of oratorical prose; on this shift from poetry to
prose, see e.g. Godzich and Kittay (1987), Russell (1989), Cole (1991), Goldhill (2002), Graff (2005).
7 See Zagklas (2017); see also Agapitos in this volume.
8 Bernard (2014: 10–17).
4 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
and Christopher of Mytilene who have been praised by modern scholars
for the unique traits of their poetic craft.9
Approximately forty years before the publication of Bernard’s book,
Wolfram Hörandner chose the year 1118 as the bookend of his survey
of eleventh-century poetry, a year marked by the death of the emperor
Alexios I Komnenos and the succession to the throne of his son John II
Komnenos.10 The different time periods chosen by Bernard and Hörand-
ner remind us that chronological boundaries are modern constructions,
often following a political timeline that does not neatly map onto literary
developments. Chronological bookends should thus not be taken as hard
dividing lines that artificially separate one period from another but as per-
meable boundaries delimiting time periods with recognizable literary and
social tendencies.11 This volume therefore does not claim that the period
between 1081 and 1204 is completely independent, as lacking strong ties
to the periods before and after. Rather, it claims that this period features
certain historical and social tendencies that shaped poetic production in
distinct ways. It is exactly the distinct nature of twelfth-century poetry
(and prose) on which the different studies in this volume shed new light.
For the poetry produced between 1081 and 1204, we lack a systematic
study comparable to those written by Marc Lauxtermann on the poetry
of the seventh to tenth centuries and Floris Bernard on that of the elev-
enth century. Recent decades have seen significant progress regarding the
study of individual authors and works as well as specific clusters of poetry.
For the ceremonial poetry of the twelfth century, for instance, Wolfram
Hörandner’s 2003 study remains the main point of departure.12 Seminal
studies by Ivan Drpić and Foteini Spingou have significantly advanced
our understanding of the epigrammatic poetry of the period: while Drpić
has shed new light on the ties between epigrams, art and self-representa-
tion from the beginning of the twelfth until the fifteenth century, Spingou
has opened a new perspective onto the Komnenian epigrammatic poetry
preserved in the codex Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. Z. 524
[Diktyon 69995] by addressing questions of authorship, performativity
and transmission.13 Ingela Nilsson’s recent monograph on Constantine

9 Bernard (2019: 213). For the poetry of the eleventh century, see also Bernard and Demoen (2012)
and Bernard and Livanos (2018).
10 Hörandner (1976).
11 On the periodization of Byzantine literature, see Agapitos (2012) and (2020).
12 Hörandner (2003: 75–85). For a focus on Theodore Prodromos, see Hörandner (1974: 79–109). For
a study of ceremonial poetry of the earlier period, see Lauxtermann (2003-19: 2:49–56).
13 Drpić (2016); Spingou (2014) and (2021).
 Introduction 5
Manasses and his occasional writings, many of which are in verse, has
moreover contributed a great deal to a better understanding of how an
author commissioned by aristocratic patrons used poetry.14
Even so, we do not have many studies that provide a synthesis of the
verse production of this period, with the exception of an article by Elizabeth
­Jeffreys entitled ‘Why Produce Poetry in Twelfth-Century Constantinople?’,
published in a volume dealing with questions of poetry and poeticality in
Byzantium, and a chapter by Nikos Zagklas that examines the different
poetic trends and the ties between patronage and poetry during this period,
published in Brill’s Companion to Byzantine Poetry.15 The former offers use-
ful reflections on the question of what may have motivated twelfth-century
authors to write poetry; the latter is the first study seeking to identify dif-
ferent phases in twelfth-century poetic production, attempting to recognize
continuities and discontinuities in this long timespan. The present volume
is an important step towards filling the gap that remains.
Such an endeavour is greatly helped by the many modern editions pub-
lished since the 1970s, including those of Theodore Prodromos᾽ ‘historical
poems’ by Wolfram Hörandner and his ‘miscellaneous poems’ by Nikos
Zagklas,16 as well as editions of the poems of Nicholas Kallikles by Roberto
Romano and the Ptochoprodromic poems by Hans Eideneier.17 Again,
however, much remains to be done. An important missing piece of the
puzzle is the long-anticipated edition of the entire corpus of Manganeios
Prodromos, of which Elizabeth and Michael Jeffreys offer a tantalizing
foretaste in their contribution to this volume. We will not be able to shed
light on the complete poetic production of this period without an edition
of his entire oeuvre. Many other poems likewise remain either unpub-
lished or accessible only in outdated and unreliable editions, such as the
well-known astrological poems by Constantine Manasses.18 The oeuvre of
the prolific poet and teacher John Tzetzes is another good example: his
Allegories of the Iliad may be read in Boissonade’s outdated edition from
the mid-nineteenth century;19 his little-known didactic poem on Porphy-
ry’s Eisagoge, which runs to more than 1,700 dodecasyllabic verses, is still

14 Nilsson (2021a). On patronage in the twelfth century, see Mullett (1984). For Prodromos as a poet
to commission, see Zagklas (2023: 31–70).
15 E. M. Jeffreys (2009); Zagklas (2019).
16 Hörandner (1974); Zagklas (2023). On Prodromos’ historical poems, see also Ricceri in this volume.
17 Romano (1980); Eideneier (1991) and (2012). For Kallikles, see Gerbi in this volume; for
Ptochoprodromos, see Kulhánková in this volume.
18 See Chryssogelos in this volume.
19 Boissonade (1851). For an English translation, see Goldwyn and Kokkini (2015). Alberto Ravani is
currently preparing a partial critical edition of the text.
6 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
c­ ompletely unedited;20 and his extensive verse commentary on the Her-
mogenean corpus is only partially available in a modern edition.21 With
much editorial work still in progress, our understanding of twelfth-century
poetic culture will gradually grow. The present volume contributes to this
by including editions of completely unknown material. In addition to the
editio princeps of a poem by Mangeneios Prodromos, Julián Bértola offers
the first edition of an unedited cycle of book epigrams on Herodotus,
while Aglae Pizzone shares completely new Tzetzean material from the
important manuscript Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus
Gr. Q1 [Diktyon 38108].

Poetry, Patronage and Power

In 1081 Alexios was proclaimed emperor, paving the way for the family of
the Komnenoi to rule for more than 100 years and thus to become one of
the longest-ruling imperial dynasties in Byzantium. By contrast, the next
dynasty, that of the Angeloi, lasted a mere twenty years due to the events of
1204, which to some extent were the result of bad political decisions on the
part of members of the Angeloi family themselves. Throughout these 120
years the social and bureaucratic structures of the capital were reformed in
such a way as to foster a system of constant self-promotion for the ruling
family. The historian Zonaras reports that the ascension of Alexios Komne-
nos to the throne was followed by the distribution of offices and state land
to family members, making them the wealthiest and most powerful family
in the empire.22 These developments created a close connection between
literature and patronage as the former came to serve the agenda of the new
imperial family on various levels and occasions. The court became one
of the main settings for the composition and consumption of poetry in
many different genres.23 Poetry became an important means for expressing

20 A critical edition of this text is currently under preparation by Rogelio Toledo Martin at the
University of Vienna.
21 Elisabetta Barili, Aglae Pizzone and Baukje van den Berg are preparing a complete edition of
Tzetzes’ commentary on Hermogenes. Until now, only Tzetzes’ commentary on On Types of Style
has been edited; see Barili (2022). For an edition of some further excerpts of this work, see Cramer
(1837: 1–138) and Walz (1832–6: 3:670–86).
22 Zonaras, Chronicle 767.2–10 ed. Büttner-Wobst (1897). The most authoritative study of this
phenomenon remains Kazhdan and Franklin (1984); see also Magdalino (1993: 180–227) on what
he terms the ‘Komnenian system’.
23 The term ‘court poetry’ tends to be used for the production of ceremonial poetry, but it should rather
be understood as an umbrella term for various kinds of poetry produced and consumed at the court,
ranging from ceremonial and didactic to epigrammatic and epistolary poetry. For an example, see the
rubric of Manganeios Prodromos’ Poem 15 (edited by Elizabeth and Michael Jeffreys in this volume),
which argues that Emperor Manuel I Komnenos had ordered the poet to compose his verses.
 Introduction 7
imperial policy and propaganda, as well as for fashioning the crucial role
of poets in doing so, as the contributions by Rachele Ricceri and Elizabeth
and Michael Jeffreys clearly demonstrate in the cases of Theodore Prodro-
mos and Manganeios Prodromos, respectively.
Although the Komnenians monopolized most high-ranking positions,
various prestigious offices were still open to those who did not belong to
the imperial family by blood or marriage. Take, for example, the high-rank-
ing bureaucrat and courtier Theodore Styppeiotes, who held a prominent
position at the Komnenian court before he fell from grace in the mid-
twelfth century.24 Styppeiotes was a fervent admirer of the poetry written
by his teacher Theodore Prodromos and was the recipient of various of
his epistolary poems.25 A number of other high-ranking officials produced
their own poetry, such as the logothete of the dromos Michael Hagiotheo-
dorites, who wrote a vivid verse ekphrasis of a horse race addressed to an
unnamed friend.26 Less eminent court positions were likewise occupied by
learned individuals with an interest in poetry. A certain imperial secretary
by the name of Gregory, for instance, was involved in a literary polemic
with Tzetzes and criticized the poetic qualities of the latter’s verse.27 Poetry
and the court were thus inextricably connected.
Other twelfth-century poets held church offices and teaching positions
in the capital and provinces of the empire. Many of them started their
careers as deacons and acquired teaching positions before moving to bish-
oprics outside the capital. For example, Constantine Stilbes (c. 1150–1225)
became teacher of the Apostle before moving to Kyzikos to take up the
city’s bishopric.28 His Fire Poem describing the devastating fire sweep-
ing through Constantinople in 1197 counts among the most impressive
works of the period.29 Approximately a century earlier, Theophylaktos of
Ohrid (c. 1050–after 1108) had been ordained as deacon at Hagia Sophia
and obtained the coveted position of master of the rhetoricians before
being appointed Archbishop of Bulgaria sometime after 1088. Despite its
important position as a turning point between the era of Christopher of
Mytilene and John Mauropous and the time of the Komnenians, his poetic
production remains largely unstudied.30 Niketas of Herakleia, who was

24 See Kresten (1978) and Koufopoulou (1989).

25 Hörandner (1974: 516–23). On epistolary poetry more broadly, see Kubina and Riehle (2021).
26 Ed. Horna (1906) and Papadimitriou (1911). For a literary analysis of the text, see Marciniak and
Warcaba (2014); for an English translation and commentary, see Marciniak and Warcaba (2021).
27 See Zagklas (2021: 298) with bibliography.
28 Stilbes’ death used to be dated to c. 1208; a new date (1225) is suggested in Kotzabassi (2009: 442).
29 Ed. Diethart and Hörandner. On Stilbes’ poem, see Magdalino in this volume, with further
bibliography.
30 For some introductory remarks, see Gautier (1980: 118–26) and Mullett (1997: 243–7).
8 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
born sometime in the mid-eleventh century, followed a career path similar
to that of Theophylaktos: he was first appointed director of the school of
Chalkoprateia and became a teacher of the Apostle sometime after 1088; he
served as deacon in the church of Hagia Sophia and was promoted to the
bishopric of Herakleia in 1117. During his time as a teacher he produced
various didactic poems on topics of grammar, various unedited examples
of which are discussed by Floris Bernard in his contribution to this vol-
ume in order to offer new insights into the characteristics of such poetry
and its important role in preparing students for schedographical contests.
The similar professional trajectories of these twelfth-century poets owe
much to the so-called Patriarchal school, which offered successful teachers
prominent positions in the educational and ecclesiastical establishment.31
Others, however, did not follow this career path. Theodore Prodromos
and John Tzetzes, for instance, two of the leading poets and grammarians
of the period, continued to work independently, without official teaching
posts or positions in the church hierarchy.

Poetry and Twelfth-Century Literary Culture: Between Court,

School and theatron
The twelfth century saw various new developments in literary production,
among the most significant of which is the use of the vernacular or the
‘mixed language’.32 The twelfth century has been described as containing
the ‘seeds of modern Greek literature’, and some Neohellenists have even
gone so far as to include some of the vernacular works of the period in
discussions of modern Greek literature.33 Various vernacular texts in metri-
cal form date from this period, covering a wide variety of genres: the long
narrative poem Digenis Akritis, a group of begging or petitionary poems by
Ptochoprodromos alongside the so-called Maiuri poem or fifth Ptochopro-
dromic poem, a poem from prison by the historian and intellectual Michael
Glykas and an admonitory poem with the title Spaneas addressed by an
aristocratic father to his son.34 Vernacular features, however, p­ ermeated

31 Browning (1977).
32 For an introduction to this issue, see Hinterberger (2019), with further bibliography. For a new
approach to this phenomenon, see Kulhánková in this volume.
33 ‘Seeds of modern Greek literature’: Bernard (2014: 4). See Agapitos (2017) for a detailed discussion
of the birth of so-called ‘Medieval Neohellenic’ texts around 1830–60.
34 The most important studies of the mentioned works include E. M. Jeffreys (1998) for Digenis; see
also Kulhánková (2021). Markéta Kulhánková is currently preparing a narratological commentary
to Digenis Akritis. For the Ptochoprodromic poems, see Kulhánková in this volume, with further
bibliography. On Glykas’ prison poem, see Bourbouhakis (2007). For Spaneas, see Danezis (1987).
 Introduction 9
much of the textual production of this time and can be found in texts
ranging from ceremonial works to didactic poems and schede.35 Moreover,
poems in the vernacular were probably presented together with highbrow
poems to various imperial recipients, which illustrates the close connection
between the different linguistic registers.36 Switching between different reg-
isters was employed as a deliberate and sophisticated literary technique. In
her contribution to this volume, Markéta Kulhánková explores this issue
in detail by revisiting the Ptochoprodromic poems and other texts.
Much of the poetry produced during this period was written for cere-
monial purposes, in parallel with an abundant production of imperial pan-
egyric in prose.37 Encomiastic and congratulatory poetry was composed
to celebrate a wide range of occasions at the court, including imperial
victories and triumphal processions, coronations, weddings and the birth
of imperial offspring. Ceremonial poetry had not played such a central
role since the reign of Emperor Herakleios and his court poet George of
Pisidia in the early seventh century.38 As pointed out above, the new impe-
rial dynasty very much depended on this kind of literature for the prop-
agation of their self-representation and political ideology. On the other
hand, poets themselves benefited from the production of court poetry as it
helped them to secure a position closer to the imperial family, the source
of power and the distribution of wealth, even though such positions were
often neither official nor permanent. The surviving evidence suggests that
ceremonial poetry enjoyed its heyday in the second and third generations
of the Komnenian dynasty, corresponding to the time of Theodore Pro-
dromos (c. 1110–58), who was active from the early 1120s to the mid-1150s.
Prodromos’ use of political verse and of stanzas with the same number of
verses is not only characteristic of court poetry more broadly, but especially
of the ceremonial hymns dedicated to the demes, of which we encounter
an example in Paul Magdalino’s contribution to the present volume.39 Pro-
dromos’ poetry shares much imperial imagery with other panegyrical liter-
ature from the period, including the analogies drawn between the emperor
and the sun, between the emperor and various heroes of the ancient Greek

35 See the case of a schedos by Theodore Prodromos addressed to a sebastokratorissa, most probably the
sebastokratorissa Irene. For the text, see Polemis (1995).
36 See Agapitos (2015: 23–37).
37 See e.g. Magdalino (1993: 413–88) on the panegyrical oratory in both prose and verse from the reign
of Manuel I Komnenos and its imagery. For panegyrical oratory of the Palaiologan period, see,
most recently, Leonte (2023).
38 For very few exceptions from the eleventh century, see Bernard (2014: 108–10).
39 On deme hymns, see Hörandner (2003) and Magdalino (2016: 60–2).
10 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
past and between the emperor and David or even Christ.40 His contem-
porary Manganeios Prodromos (c. 1110–?) employed similar imagery, as
the panegyrical poem in praise of Manuel I Komnenos in the chapter by
Elizabeth and Michael Jeffreys demonstrates. These parallels demonstrate
how poets and orators from the period shared a common grammar or
vocabulary of praise tailored to the self-image of the ruling family.
The anonymous poet Manganeios Prodromos started composing ceremo-
nial poetry for the Komnenian court in the early 1140s, frequently writing
for the very same occasion as his colleague Theodore Prodromos. For exam-
ple, both of them contributed to the celebrations held at Christmas in the
year 1149, following the successful military campaigns of Manuel I, which
included the recapture of Corfu from the Sicilian Normans and the emper-
or’s triumphal return from Serbia.41 Prodromos wrote a long encomiastic
poem of 424 verses together with hymns for Christmas and for Epiphany,
while Manganeios composed a panegyrical poem for Manuel that mocks
the Serbians for their cowardice.42 It has been argued that the rise of Man-
ganeios Prodromos as court poet alongside Theodore Prodromos suggests a
change in the tastes of contemporary recipients of ceremonial poetry, or that
the former had lost the high regard as imperial rhetor that he had enjoyed
during the reign of John Komnenos, but this remains a hypothesis which
is not supported by other sources.43 Manganeios himself praised Prodro-
mos as the leading rhetor of his time, which points to the high esteem the
latter continued to enjoy also after the appearance of Manganeios.44 More
than anything, the parallel poems of the two Prodromoi indicate that more
than one rhetor performed his works during the same imperial celebration,
whether joining forces to increase the sense of triumph or competing with
one another for the appreciation of the imperial audience.45
The popularity of ceremonial poetry did not increase immediately fol-
lowing the ascension of the Komnenian family to the throne. Before the
time of Theodore Prodromos we have very little poetry of this kind. The

40 Hörandner (1974: 89–108). For the parallel between John II and David, see Ricceri in this volume;
for Manuel I and David, see Magdalino (1993: 447–50, 469). On Old Testament kings as models
of kingship more generally, see e.g. Rapp (2010). For Manuel and Christ, see also Magdalino (1993:
434, 451, 469).
41 Magdalino (1993: 440).
42 Prodromos, Historical Poems 30, 31 and 32 ed. Hörandner (1974); Manganeios Prodromos, Poem 26
ed. Miller (1881: 761–3).
43 For these hypotheses, see Stanković (2007: 214–15).
44 Manganeios Prodromos, Poem 10.21–32 ed. Bernardinello (1972); English trans. in Alexiou (1999).
45 For a case of competition between rhetors, see Agapitos in this volume; for competition in a
school context, see Gerbi in this volume. For the theatrical nature of imperial ceremonies, see also
Magdalino in this volume.
 Introduction 11
physician-poet Nicholas Kallikles wrote for the court, but none of his
poems cover ceremonial occasions, as is the case with the poems of the
two Prodromoi. What survives from the reign of Alexios Komnenos are
two works by a certain Stephanos Physopalamites, which include an enco-
miastic alphabet for the emperor and a poem celebrating the recapture of
a settlement during Alexios’ struggles against the Normans.46 For reasons
that remain unclear, most ceremonial poetry was produced during the sec-
ond and third quarters of the twelfth century, during the reigns of John II
and Manuel I. While the two Prodromoi are responsible for a large part
of the ceremonial poetry of the period – and hence feature prominently
in this volume – additional examples survive in the codex Venice, Biblio-
teca Nazionale Marciana, gr. Z. 524 [Diktyon 69995], which transmits a
cycle of five decastichs celebrating a victory of Emperor Manuel I during
a triumphal procession in the city and a cycle of hexastichs for the same
emperor on the occasion of Easter.47 Niketas Eugenianos and Niketas Cho-
niates, moreover, wrote epithalamia to celebrate imperial weddings, which
shows that not only ‘court poets’ but also other rhetors active in the capital
employed verse for their praise of the imperial family.48
In addition to the court, schools were responsible for many verse
compositions during the twelfth century, a period that saw a continued
increase in the production of didactic poetry that had started in the elev-
enth century, with Michael Psellos as its most prolific representative.49
Other teacher-poets in the last quarter of the eleventh century and the
mid-twelfth century followed suit by producing verse treatises on various
grammatical and theological topics: Niketas of Herakleia wrote various
works on grammar, some of them composed in hymnographic metres;50
Philip Monotropos wrote his theological-philosophical Dioptra, a didactic
poem of over 7,000 political verses that originated in a monastic milieu
and is structured as a dialogue between the body and soul;51 the patriarch
Nicholas III Grammatikos (1084–1111) produced a verse treatise on the

46 See Welz (1910).

47 For the texts of these poems, see Lampros (1911: 57–9 and 187–9); for this kind of poetry in stanzas,
see Lauxtermann (2003–19: 2:376).
48 For these texts, see van Dieten (1972: 45–6) and Gallavotti (1935).
49 On the emergence of didactic poetry in the eleventh century, see Hörandner (1976). Psellos’
didactic poems have been edited by Westerink (1992); for introductory remarks on Psellos’ didactic
poetry, see Hörandner (2012: 57–62) and (2019: 459–86); see also Bernard (2014: 229–40). On
literature and education, see also Agapitos in this volume.
50 See Bernard in this volume.
51 Eirene Afentoulidou is preparing an edition of the entire text, which has been edited only in part;
see Lavriotes (1920). For an overview of the work, see Afentoulidou and Fuchsbauer (2019), with
previous literature.
12 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
canonical rules for fast days.52 In the mid-twelfth century the production
of didactic poetry is linked to the oeuvre of two authors in particular, John
Tzetzes and Constantine Manasses.53 Both Tzetzes and Manasses produced
thousands of verses, mainly in the form of political verse, which aimed to
impart knowledge to their recipients on a variety of subjects, including
grammar, rhetoric, philosophy, history, mythology and astrology. Both
therefore feature prominently in the present volume, in the contributions
by Baukje van den Berg (Tzetzes’ Carmina Iliaca), Aglae Pizzone (Tzet-
zes’ verse commentary on Hermogenes) and Konstantinos Chryssogelos
(Manasses’ astrological poem).
The category of didactic poetry thus covers a wide variety of texts, in
different forms and on different subjects. Some are edifying texts that aim
at teaching Christian ethical rules (such as Monotropos’ Dioptra), others
have strong ties to grammatical and rhetorical education (such as various
works by Niketas of Herakleia and verse treatises on ancient poetry by
John Tzetzes). Some are paraphrases of and commentaries on earlier texts
(such as Tzetzes’ Theogony or his Allegories of the Iliad and Allegories of the
Odyssey), others assume the form of a chronicle (such as Manasses’ Synopsis
Chronike and Tzetzes’ unfinished world chronicle).54 Some were written for
anonymous addressees, probably students, such as the poetry of Niketas of
Herakleia that Floris Bernard discusses in the present volume; others are
addressed to powerful imperial patrons, including the sebastokratorissa Irene
or Bertha von Sulzbach, such as various works by Tzetzes and Manasses.55
The extant corpus suggests that each poet had his own specialization and
was known among audiences for particular types of poetry: Manganeios
and Theodore Prodromos wrote ceremonial poetry for the sebastokratorissa
and left the didactic works to their colleagues. Indeed, when Prodromos
was commissioned to write a work providing basic instruction in Greek
grammar for the sebastokratorissa, he opted for prose instead of verse.56
Closely related to education is the practice of schedography, a type of
school exercise that had become popular in the eleventh century and under-
went significant transformations in the twelfth. Even if it has attracted
little attention from modern scholars, schedography was the most popular

52 Ed. Koder (1970). On the poem, see also Afentoulidou (2012: 92–5).
53 For Tzetzes’ didactic poetry, see e.g. van den Berg (2020); for Manasses, see Nilsson (2021a: passim).
54 On Tzetzes’ Theogony, see Tomadaki (2022); on Tzetzes’ Allegories, see e.g. Goldwyn (2017),
Haubold (2021) and Ravani (2022); on Tzetzes’ verse chronicle, see Hunger (1955) and Braccini
(2022).
55 On the sebastokratorissa Irene as a patron, see e.g. E. M. Jeffreys (2014); on Tzetzes as a commissioned
poet, see also Rhoby (2010). For Manasses, see Nilsson (2021a: passim).
56 For some introductory remarks on this work, see Zagklas (2011).
 Introduction 13
method for teaching grammar and rhetoric until the conquest of Constan-
tinople by the Ottomans in 1453.57 Some eleventh-century schede already
combine prose and verse, but this practice became more popular towards
the end of the eleventh century or the beginning of the twelfth. For exam-
ple, during his tenure as director at the school of Chalkoprateia, Niketas
of Herakleia wrote three schede, one on St John the Forerunner, one on
the Epiphany and one consisting of a paraphrase of Gregory of Nyssa’s
encomium for the forty martyrs.58 All of these are prose texts, except for
the one on the Epiphany, which concludes with a line conforming to the
basic rules of a dodecasyllable.59 Around the same time, three out of four
surviving schede by Nicholas Kallikles in Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostol-
ica Vaticana, pal. gr. 92 [Diktyon 65825], a thirteenth-century manuscript
copied in southern Italy, combine prose and verse, concluding with two
or four iambic verses.60 One of the most ardent adherents of this practice
is Theodore Prodromos, who composed most of his schede in this mixed
form.61 In addition to Prodromos, Constantine Manasses and Niketas
Eugenianos also wrote schede in a mixed form, while Vaticanus pal. gr. 92
contains 212 twelfth-century schede, with approximately half of them writ-
ten in a mixed form.
The ways in which Byzantine schede combine prose and verse varies:
the verse part can either open or close the schedos, while in some cases
it does both. Consider, for example, a twelfth-century schedos from the
same Vatican manuscript, which has a complex tripartite structure (verse-
prose-verse).62 The schedos was written by a certain Leo, a teacher at the
Orphanotropheion of St Paul in Constantinople, who asks the director

57 On schedography, see Vassis (1993–4), Agapitos (2014) and Nousia (2016); see also Bernard in this
volume.
58 The texts are still unedited; see Vassis (2002: nos. 36, 134 and 152). No. 36 is also preserved in Vatican
City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Reg. gr. PP Pio II 54 [Diktyon 66413], fols. 386v–387; for the
dating of the schede, see Nesseris (2014: 74).
59 The schedos ends as follows: Πᾶσιν βραβεύων τοῖς πιστοῖς σωτηρίας.
60 See Kallikles 116 (an ethopoiia with 4 verses), 164 (an ethopoiia with 2 verses), 184, 188 (an ekphrasis
with 2 verses). For the verse parts of these schede, see Vassis (2002).
61 For a list of Prodromos’ schede and an edition of two of his works, see Vassis (1993–4). The remaining
schede are edited in various studies: see Papadimitriou (1905: 422–4 and 429–35), Polemis (1995) and
Nesseris (2014: 407). See also Agapitos (2015) and in this volume.
62 See the edition by Miller (2003: 14–16), which fails to signal that both the opening and ending of
the schedos are written not in prose, but in iambic verse: Ἐπαχθὲς ἔργον πᾶσα διδασκαλία, | πολὺ
πλέον δὲ παιδοδιδασκαλία, | τοῖς δὲ τριγηράσασιν εἰσέτι πλέον. | [approximately twenty lines of
prose text] | Ἀνδρὸς τὸ λοιπὸν τληπαθοῦς ὑπερλάλει. | Τὸν Παῦλον ἕξεις τὸν μέγαν συνεργάτην, |
ὃν πρέσβιν αὐτὸν ἀγαθαῖς ἐπ’ ἐλπίσι | προσῆξα τῷ ῥηθέντι τὴν τόλμαν βλέπεις. | Τούτῳ δὲ καὶ σὲ
σήμερον συνεισφέρω. | Καὶ γὰρ ὅσος μοι Παῦλος ἐν τοῖς ἁγίοις, | τοσοῦτον αὐτὸς ἐν βροτοῖς· ἔρρει
φθόνος. Ioannis Vassis did note the metrical parts of the schedos; see Vassis (2002: 58–9).
14 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
of the school (the Orphanotrophos) to intercede with the patriarch on his
behalf for a promotion and relief from his teaching responsibilities.63 More
research on schedography is required to better understand its formal and
didactic dynamics, and thus to enhance our picture both of the poetry
written during this period and of grammatical education more broadly,
where it featured alongside the didactic poetry to which the contributions
by Bernard and Van den Berg are dedicated.64 Giulia Gerbi, moreover,
studies a poem by Nicholas Kallikles that refers to schedographical con-
tests and may be closely related to a still unedited schedos by Kallikles.
In addition to ceremonial and didactic texts, a third major part of
twelfth-century poetry consists of stories narrated in verse form, another
practice which came to prominence for the first time in the twelfth cen-
tury.65 Most of the novels written in the second quarter of the twelfth
century are long poems in dodecasyllable or political verse, probably per-
formed in the theatra or literary gatherings of the capital.66 The composi-
tion of lengthy love stories in verse form is not only a feature of Medie-
val Greek literary production, but is also found in Georgian, Persian and
French literature from around the same period, perhaps as the result of
interactions between these four literary traditions in the contact zone of
Anatolia during this time.67 Be that as it may, Byzantine literature from the
twelfth century displays a general interest in long narrative texts composed
in verse. In addition to Digenis Akritis (see above) and the three novels
(Prodromos’ Rhodanthe and Dosikles, Manasses’ Aristandros and Kallithea
and Eugenianos’ Drosilla and Charikleas), we know of a long self-referen-
tial poem written in southern Italy in the second quarter of the twelfth
century, which features dozens of embedded stories from the biblical and
Greco-Roman traditions.68 Manasses’ verse chronicle assembles stories in
an episodic form to narrate a universal history; Tzetzes’ Histories, conceived
as a commentary on his own letters, collects historical, l­egendary and
mythological tales referred to throughout his correspondence.69 Other nar-

63 This teacher is most likely identifiable as Leo of Rhodes, who obtained the metropolitan see of
Rhodes around 1166; Miller (2003: 10).
64 Ugo Mondini is currently conducting a research project on eleventh-century schedography at the
University of Oxford.
65 As already noted in E. M. Jeffreys (2009: 224); on this aspect, see also Agapitos in this volume.
66 The Komnenian novels have received much attention in recent scholarship and therefore remain
outside the focus of this volume. For an introduction, see Nilsson (2016); for an English translation
of the novels, see E. M. Jeffreys (2012). See further Roilos (2005) and Nilsson (2014: 39–86); for later
verse romances, see also Beaton (2019), with further references. On the theatron, see e.g. Marciniak
(2007).
67 See Cross (2024).
68 See Lauxtermann (2014) and Cupane (2019: 357–64).
 Introduction 15
rative works in verse include Prodromos’ Katomyomachia and On Friend-
ship’s Departure, the anonymous Christos Paschon, Haploucheir’s so-called
Dramation, and the Hodoiporikon or Itinerary by Constantine Manasses,
as well as the Fire Poem by Constantine Stilbes.70 The strong interest in
storytelling in verse may tie in with the theatricality of much of the poetry
of this period. Indeed, it is in this context that Paul Magdalino and Marc
Lauxtermann discuss Stilbes’ Fire Poem and Prodromos’ Katomyomachia in
their respective contributions to this volume. While Magdalino discusses
Stilbes’ poem alongside a coronation poem by Theodore Prodromos and
the verse chronicle by Constantine Manasses to highlight the ‘theatrical
turn’ in twelfth-century poetry, Lauxtermann focuses on the dramatic fea-
tures of the Katomyomachia as a text intended for a school environment
and demonstrates how it functioned both as a parody of earlier texts and
as a piece of beast literature.
While the production of poetry for all these ‘secular’ ceremonial, didac-
tic and theatrical purposes flourished, the composition of verse for litur-
gical purposes did not follow suit. There is only scant evidence of the
production of hymns in this period: Eugenios of Palermo produced hym-
nographical works for the Mother of God and St Demetrios, while the
lesser-known George Skylitzes authored a hymn on the Translation of the
Holy Stone.71 Even so, many poets took an interest in hymnographic poetry,
and some of them, including Gregory Pardos and Theodore Prodromos,
commented on the well-known hymns of John of Damascus and Kosmas
of Jerusalem.72 Many twelfth-century poets, moreover, composed iam-
bic poetry that acquired a supplementary role during the church liturgy.
Examples include the metrical prefaces that were intended to introduce the
reading of a hagiographical work or a sermon as composed by Theodore
Prodromos, Manganeios Prodromos, Nikephoros Chrysoberges and John
Apokaukos.73 Metrical calendars, too, may have played a role in the liturgy.
Following the example of Christopher of Mytilene, Prodromos composed

69 Manasses’ chronicle has been extensively studied by Ingela Nilsson: on its literary – and poetic –
form, see e.g. Nilsson (2006), (2019) and (2021b). See also Magdalino in this volume. For Tzetzes’
Histories, see e.g. Pizzone (2017).
70 On the Christos Paschon, see most recently Mullett (2022); on Haploucheir’s poem, Marciniak
(2020); on the Hodoiporikon, Chryssogelos (2017) and Nilsson (2021a: 46–54), all with references
to previous bibliography.
71 For the respective works, see Luzzi (2016) and (2018); Antonopoulou (2013).
72 On twelfth-century commentaries on hymnography, see Demetracopoulos (1979), Giannouli
(2007), Cesaretti and Ronchey (2014). On Byzantine hymnography in general, see Giannouli
(2019) and Papaioannou (2021), with further references.
73 For an excellent overview of this type of poetry, see Antonopoulou (2010).
16 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
a metrical calendar in monostichs that once again illustrates the wide scope
of Prodromos’ poetic production.74
Even though this liturgical poetry remains largely outside the scope of
the present volume, we do encounter religious sentiments in verse com-
positions of different kinds, most prominently perhaps in epigrammatic
poetry. Epigrams with religious themes appear, for instance, on reliquar-
ies and other objects, while dedicatory inscriptions in various Byzantine
churches shed light not only on the dynamics of patronage but also on the
patrons’ devotional motivations for founding churches and other religious
establishments.75 In his contribution to this volume, Nektarios Zarras dis-
cusses some twelfth-century examples from Kastoria and elsewhere, which
remain largely neglected in current scholarship. Ugo Mondini gives a
detailed analysis of a poem with eschatological themes by Michael Cho-
niates, whose poetic work has received little scholarly attention to date.
Giulia Gerbi offers a close reading of Kallikles’ celebration of spring, a
poem that may have featured in the context of a school contest and draws
parallels between the arrival of spring and the worldly renewal of Christian
revelation. These and other texts may serve as an important reminder that
the categories of ‘religious’ and ‘secular’ were not as clearly separated in the
minds of the Byzantines as modern scholarship tends to suggest.

Geographical Distribution and Material Circulation

During the period between 1081 and 1204, the geographical scope of poetic
production became broader than it had been in the eleventh century, and
it would extend even further from the thirteenth century onwards due
to the territorial fragmentation of the empire. Twelfth-century Constan-
tinople continued to be the centre for the production of poetry written in
Greek, which explains the dominance of Constantinopolitan poets in the
present volume. A great deal of poetry, however, was written in regions
far from the capital, as we can see in the examples from medieval Greece
in Zarras’ contribution. As mentioned above, many intellectuals acquired
metropolitan sees across the empire and wrote some of their poetry there.

74 Acconcia Longo (1983). On Byzantine metrical calendars, see also Darrouzès (1958). For Christopher
of Mytilene in particular, see Bernard (2019: 224, 229) with further bibliography.
75 For the connections between epigram, art and devotion in Byzantium, with a focus on the period
1100–1450, see Drpić (2016). Brad Hostetler is currently preparing a monograph entitled Inscribing
Sacred Matter in Medieval Byzantium that aims at exploring the meaning of relics and reliquaries in
Byzantine devotional practice through inscriptions. See in the meantime his unpublished doctoral
dissertation (2016) and a dossier of examples collected in Hostetler (2022).
 Introduction 17
Theophylaktos, for example, addressed his poems 1 and 2 to individuals in
Constantinople during his time in Ohrid. Similarly, Michael Choniates –
who is the subject of Mondini’s contribution – wrote most of his poems
during his tenure in Athens, while John Apokaukos produced some of his
poetic work as bishop of Naupaktos. However, all these individuals were
trained in Constantinople; they had close ties to the cultural and literary
milieu in the capital, and as a result their poetry closely follows the literary
developments manifest in texts produced in Constantinople.
Slightly different is the case of southern Italy. In the twelfth century, Sic-
ily became a hotspot for poetry written in Greek, with a number of poets
active in the Greek-speaking circles both within and outside the Norman
court.76 An anonymous author addressed the above-mentioned narrative
poem (approximately 4,000 verses) to the admiral George of Antioch;77
Leo the grammarian wrote two hagiographical works in a prosimetric
form;78 and Eugenios of Palermo composed twenty-four poems on var-
ious themes and in a variety of genres, ranging from self-referential and
epigrammatic poetry to epistolary and ceremonial poems.79 In addition
to these works, there are numerous metrical inscriptions for buildings and
other objects.80 To a large extent, the language, metre, imagery and generic
features of many of these works are in keeping with the poetry composed
in Constantinople; at the same time, however, they display peculiar traits
of their own, often borrowed from the Latin and Arabic literary traditions
with which they coexisted in Norman Sicily and southern Italy.81 Even
though poetry from this region is not featured in the present volume, it
is important to keep in mind that Greek poetry was produced across the
Mediterranean world, in places far away from Constantinople. The cul-
tural and political history of the empire was closely interwoven with that
of other regions, and the military struggles between the Byzantines and the
Normans during this period find their way into the realm of literature, as
the poem by Manganeios Prodromos discussed in the chapter by Elizabeth
and Michael Jeffreys demonstrates.

76 See Cupane (2019); Kubina and Zagklas (2024b).

77 For the text, see Vassis and Polemis (2016); for introductory discussions of the text, see Lauxtermann
(2014), Cupane (2019: 357–64) and Kubina and Zagklas (2024b).
78 See Halkin (1985–6) and Follieri (1987).
79 Ed. Gigante (1964); for a discussion of various of these poems, see Cupane (2011), (2013) and (2019:
366–70); see also Marciniak (2019), Roilos (2020) and Kubina and Zagklas (2024b).
80 Rhoby (2014: IT 22–33).
81 See Cupane (2019).
18 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
Despite the richness of the surviving material, much remains unclear
about the ways in which twelfth-century poetry circulated within and
beyond the borders of the empire. While collections or anthologies of con-
temporary poetry survive from other periods, the twelfth century offers
only scant evidence. Master copies of Byzantine poetry written before the
twelfth century circulated during this time, such as the poetic collection
in Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, gr. 676 [Diktyon 67307],
which most likely continued to be read by twelfth-century poets.82 Some
twelfth-century authors copied and possessed manuscripts with ancient
Greek poetry: it has, for instance, been argued that Niketas of Herakleia
copied Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. 476 [Diktyon 69947], a
manuscript transmitting Lycophron’s cryptic Alexandra as well as Aratus’
Phenomena with scholia for didactic purposes.83 Even so, most of the man-
uscripts of twelfth-century poetry date from the Palaiologan period.
The late thirteenth century, when a significant number of manuscripts
was copied, was a turning point for the transmission of Komnenian poetry.
Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. Z. 524 [Diktyon 69995] trans-
mits a rich anthology of both anonymous and well-known authors;84 Ven-
ice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. XI.22 [Diktyon 70658] includes
most of the poetry by Manganeios Prodromos;85 and Vatican City, Bibli-
oteca Apostolica Vaticana, gr. 305 [Diktyon 66936] is the most important
collection of Prodromos’ poetry (as well as his prose works).86 Many of
these collections or anthologies may go back to twelfth-century manu-
scripts, even though we should also consider other channels of circulation
and consumption of poetry in the twelfth century. In addition to oral
circulation, the market for logoi fostered a dissemination of literature not
only in manuscripts, but also in looser forms, such as leaflets or scrolls,
which commonly preceded publication in book form. Indeed, some Byz-
antine authors mention these two stages of publication and the transition
from one stage to the next. Psellos, for instance, notes in various places
throughout his oeuvre that he only had drafts of his works, which con-
sisted of loose sheets, small scrolls or rollable pieces of paper or parchment,
which were kept in boxes before they were copied into a book – if they ever
were turned into book form.87 This practice is documented well before the

82 For a discussion of the manuscript, see Bianconi (2011) and Bernard (2014: 128–48).
83 Mioni (1985: 267–9); see Nesseris (2014: 77–9), with previous bibliography.
84 Spingou (2021: 13–22), with further bibliography.
85 Mioni (1970: 116–31).
86 Zagklas (2023: 122–30).
87 See e.g. Boissonade (1938: 116.13–25). The same passage has been discussed in Papaioannou (2019: xl).
 Introduction 19
time of Psellos: in the ninth century, Photios noted in his Amphilochia that
many of his books were put together from drafts (σχεδάρια).88 Psellos and
Photios thus provide us with some rare insights into the materiality and
practicalities of Byzantine literary production. We can add to their testi-
monies the various comments of John Tzetzes, who repeatedly refers to the
publication process of his books and the many problems involved with it,
as we see in Pizzone’s contribution to the present volume.89
A type of poetry that particularly seems to have circulated in unbound
quires and leaflets is that of invective, which attacked other individ-
uals – often professional rivals – and was sent in epistolary form. The
Pseudo-­Psellian poem 68, an invective in political verse likely written by a
twelfth-­century poet, directly testifies to this kind of circulation. The
anonymous poet recounts that at some point a page of text had arrived at
his place: a letter filled with abuse and attacks sent by an intellectual adver-
sary of his.90 The anonymous poet cared so little about his rival’s message
that it was left forgotten in a corner of his home, only to be rediscovered
much later, when he was searching for something else. He read it and
immediately started laughing and clapping his hands at his enemy’s lack
of education. We may not have surviving poetry books with contempo-
rary material, but this anonymous poem is a good example of the hidden
aspects of the circulation and consumption of poetry in twelfth-century
Byzantium, on which future research will undoubtedly shed further light.

***
The broader poetic context outlined in the previous pages forms the essen-
tial framework in which each of this volume’s chapters finds its place
and to which each of the contributions adds further detail and nuance.
In her essay ‘Why Produce Poetry in Twelfth-Century Constantinople?’,
Elizabeth Jeffreys argues that Komnenian authors wrote poetry in ancient
and Byzantine metres for two sets of reasons: first, ‘to demonstrate [their]
credentials as a potential mandarin to future employers’; and second, ‘to
make sensible communication with an audience’.91 These two reasons are
of course inextricably connected: in order to impress patrons or peers,
poets had to establish meaningful communication. Jeffreys’ essay places
a great deal of emphasis on the social aspects of poetry, in line with a

88 Photios, Amphilochia 148.40–2 ed. Westerink and Laourdas (1986): Ταῦτα μὲν ἀπὸ σχεδαρίων ὡς
ἠδυνήθημεν μετεγράψαμεν, τὰ δὲ βιβλία, ὡς καὶ ἡ σὴ ἀρχιερατικὴ τελειότης συνεπίσταται.
89 See also Pizzone (2020).
90 Vv. 57–8 ed. Westerink (1993: 453); English translation in Bernard (2021: 195).
91 E. M. Jeffreys (2009: 228).
20 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
well-established tendency in modern scholarship. Indeed, the composition
of verse in the twelfth century continued to serve social needs and prac-
tical demands, but it is important not to overlook the aesthetic qualities of
poetry, its ability to provide (private) literary enjoyment and (public) the-
atrical entertainment, or its didactic and devotional dynamics. In ­addition
to the social dimension of twelfth-century poetry, therefore, the contri-
butions to the present volume focus on the literary aspects of Byzantine
poetry beyond erudite self-fashioning and communicative functionality.
Taken together, this volume explores the complex entanglements of poetry
in the social and literary world of the time in order to enrich and bring
nuance to the interpretation of the poetic production of a period that left
behind an abundance of verse that still awaits a more systematic engage-
ment. This volume is one step in that direction.

A Note on Style
Following a common practice in Byzantine Studies, we have adopted a
mixed system of transliteration. Late antique and Byzantine names are
generally transliterated or anglicized, following the Oxford Dictionary of
Byzantium. Ancient names appear in their common Latinized or Angli-
cized form, following the Oxford Classical Dictionary. Titles of ancient
and Byzantine texts are given in English or, where this is conventional, in
Latin. Abbreviations of journal titles in chapter bibliographies follow those
used in L’Année Philologique. All translations are by the authors unless oth-
erwise stated.

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 Introduction 25
Leonte, F. (2023) Ethos, Logos, and Perspective: Studies in Late Byzantine Rhetoric.
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26 nikos zagklas and baukje van den berg
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 PART I
Poetry and Twelfth-Century Literary Culture
 ch apter 1

‘The Force of Discourses’

Literary Production in the Komnenian Era*
Panagiotis A. Agapitos

It was fifty-five years ago that Herbert Hunger published a paper attempt-
ing a re-evaluation of literature during the Komnenian era,1 while only a
few years later Hans-Georg Beck published an essay proposing ways to
understand Byzantine textuality as a literary phenomenon.2 During the
same time, Alexander Kazhdan was publishing articles on authors of the
eleventh and twelfth century wherein he interpreted their works as parts
of an actual involvement with the real life of their times, and not just as an
imitation of antiquity.3 This broader re-evaluation of Byzantine literature,
especially of the twelfth century, was seen as necessary by Hunger, Beck
and Kazhdan – three great scholars of the same generation but with quite
different views of Byzantium – given the criticism that had been expressed
by Karl Krumbacher in his History of Byzantine Literature.4 In the half

* This condensed overview is an experiment in its early stages with omissions, inconsistencies and
even some debatable aspects in the organization of its contents. However, it is hoped that it will give
the readers a first idea of how I intend to approach the writing of a narrative history of Byzantine
literature; see also Agapitos (2015b) and (2023a). I wish to express my thanks to Paul Magdalino,
Simos Paschalidis and Alexander Riehle for sending me their published and unpublished work, but
also to Andreas Rhoby and Nikolaos Zagklas for insisting that I should write this overview. I am
grateful to Nektarios Zarras for sharing with me the findings of his study on the Chora narthex
mosaic cycle and Metochites’ poems. Finally, I am indebted to Theodore Papanghelis for two
stimulating conversations in Thessalonike on literary interpretation and the study of genre. The
chapter does not aim at bibliographical completeness, nor does it provide information on the lives
and works of individual authors. The interested reader will have to turn to the handbooks by Beck
(1959) and (1971) and Hunger (1978), along with the brief entries in the Tusculum Lexikon (3rd ed.,
1982) and the Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium (1991). The long-awaited handbook on Byzantine
literature edited by Papaioannou (2021) appeared too late to be used here, and readers are asked
to read through the chapters on topics that have been touched upon here, e.g. authorial personae,
narrative, rhetoric, poetry, invective, book culture.
1 Hunger (1973), originally published in 1968.
2 Beck (1974), further developed in Beck (1978: 109–62).
3 These essays, originally published in the 1960s and 1970s in Russian, were translated and fully revised
by Kazhdan and Franklin (1984).
4 Krumbacher (1897: 16–18); on the scholarly and political context of this criticism, see Agapitos
(2015b: 20–2).

31
32 panagiotis a. agapitos
century that elapsed since 1968, Byzantine Studies progressed immensely
concerning textual and literary criticism of Byzantine literature during the
long twelfth century.5 Despite this progress there are a few voices reacting
against the theoretically informed literary analysis of Byzantine texts6 and,
in particular, against the idea of writing a comprehensive literary history
of Byzantium. This latter objection reflects a certain tendency among Byz-
antinists to reject the idea of cohesion and self-consciousness in Byzantine
literature because the Byzantines had no understanding of literary history
and were supposedly not interested in the products of their own age.7
At the same time, critical theory has rightly rejected essentialist or tele-
ological approaches to literary history.8 Such concerns, however, cannot
hide the fact that some kind of history of Byzantine literature is needed
to establish a common ground of understanding within the field, com-
municate with other disciplines in the broader context of medieval Euro-
pean literatures and teach to students of the twenty-first century Medieval
Greek texts within their appropriate literary and historical framework, but
also to elicit scholarly criticism about how to improve the production of
research ­output.
The present chapter is a small contribution towards this direction
though, obviously, Byzantine literature of the Komnenian era cannot be
dealt with here in any kind of exhaustive manner. Rather, what I intend
to do is to present an interpretive overview of this textual production by
means of four broader themes. The four themes are ‘education and liter-
ature’, ‘patronage and literary production’, ‘rhetoric and genre in prose
and verse’, ‘narrative art from the enormous to the minute’. By way of
conclusion, I will touch upon a question that concerns Byzantine literary
history from the late tenth to the early fifteenth century and discuss, more
specifically, how Komnenian textual production fits into the literary and
cultural developments of these 450 years.

5 Unfortunately, there exists no bibliographical study of Byzantinist research for the Komnenian era
since 1968. Besides Kazhdan and Franklin (1984) and Kazhdan and Wharton Epstein (1985), one
should mention the important theoretical essays by Mullett (1990) and (2010). A brief presentation
of developments in the field by Rapp (2023) practically does not touch the study of literature at all.
A selection of literary overviews, interpretive studies and critical editions of various Komnenian texts
will be referred to in the following notes.
6 Indicatively, see the opinions of Kaldellis and Siniossoglou (2017: 17–18) about what ‘some
philologists turned literary critics’ are supposed to do with Byzantine literature.
7 See, for example, Lauxtermann (2002: 147–8) or, more recently, Kaldellis (2014: 1).
8 More generally, see the introduction by Borsa et al. (2015) in the first issue of Interfaces, dedicated
to the topic ‘Histories of Medieval European Literatures: New Patterns of Representation and
Explanation’; for Byzantine literature in this context, see Agapitos (2015a: 62–72).
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 33
Education and Literature
Until recently, education in Byzantine Studies was examined from a his-
torical perspective with the aim to reconstruct the ‘system of Byzantine
education’.9 Recent studies, however, take a different approach by stud-
ying, on the one hand, the actual practice of teachers and, on the other,
the interrelations between education and literature.10 Here, I believe, lies
a key theme for understanding textual production under the Komnenoi
as a literary, cultural, social and even political phenomenon. Knowledge
of language and discourse centred on three technical fields: vocabulary,
grammar and rhetoric. For each of these fields eleventh- and twelfth-cen-
tury teachers either invented a new tool of instruction or innovatively
developed older tools. Thus, the composition of schede (‘grammatical
sketches’)11 and progymnasmata (‘rhetorical exercises’)12 along with the
memorization of epimerismoi (variously organized clusters of words and
phrases)13 supplied the solid basis for pupils to write and declaim various
types of verse and prose texts. At the same time, this tripartite instruction
prepared them for all kinds of civil and ecclesiastical careers in the public
domain, and for this reason pupils and teachers had to present themselves
to the public. Schedography, in particular, was an exceptionally important
form of performative exercise within a public contest overseen by mem-
bers of the aristocracy.14 The discursive performance of teachers and pupils
took on an even more complex and demanding form when, for example,
on the Feast of Epiphany the ‘senior professor of rhetoric’ (μαΐστωρ τῶν
ῥητόρων) delivered a speech in praise of the emperor sometimes accom-
panied by his students,15 while on the Saturday of Lazarus he and his
students delivered speeches in praise of the patriarch, as we know from

9 See the older studies by Fuchs (1926), Lemerle (1971) and (1986), Speck (1974), Browning (1977),
along with the recent overviews by Markopoulos (2006) and (2014).
10 Katsaros (1988), Loukaki (2005) and Nesseris (2014) on school practice and literary production;
Vassis (1993–4), Polemis (1995) and (1997), Silvano (2015) and Nousia (2016) on the practice of
schedography; Gaul (2014) on networks of learning. It is indicative that language instruction is not
discussed in overviews of the history of Greek in Byzantine times; see, for example, Horrocks (2010:
189–369) and Cupane (2016: 925–30). For an exception, see the brief essay by Giannouli (2014).
11 See Agapitos (2014) and Nousia (2016: 49–92).
12 See briefly Beneker and Gibson (2016: viii–xiii).
13 See Robins (1993: 125–48).
14 For some references to contests, see Nousia (2016: 74–7).
15 For a particular case, see the orations delivered by George Tornikes the Younger and his pupils
Constantine Stilbes and Sergios Kolyvas at Epiphany 1193 in honour of Emperor Isaac II Angelos;
for the editions, see Regel (1982: 254–80), Browning (1958) and Regel (1982: 280–300). On the
identification of Stilbes as the author and Isaac II as addressee of the anonymously transmitted
oration, see Darrouzès (1960: 184–7).
34 panagiotis a. agapitos
works of Eustathios of Thessalonike,16 George Tornikes the Younger17 and
Nikephoros ­Chrysoberges.18
Thus, performative rhetorical production was intimately related with
the schools. But such education and career advancement depended
on strong network connections. We therefore find ‘families’ of teachers
playing an important role in promoting their own socio-economic inter-
ests and textual products, as well as those of their pupils. It is a form of
teacherly nepotism that we already find in the eleventh century, but by the
twelfth century it becomes a prominent feature of Byzantine society. One
needs only to think of the line from John Mauropous via Michael Psellos
to Theophylaktos of Ohrid;19 or of Prodromos’ teacher-father, Prodromos’
teachers Stephanos Skylitzes and Michael Italikos, and Prodromos’ pupil
Niketas Eugeneianos;20 or of the line from Nicholas Kataphloron to Greg-
ory Antiochos to Michael Anchialou to Eustathios of Thessalonike and his
pupil Michael Choniates and to Choniates’ nephews at the Laskarid court
of Nicaea;21 finally, one should recall the Tornikes clan whose members
held high government offices and high educational or ecclesiastical posts.22
A further important aspect of the connections between education and
literature is the commentary tradition.23 We can fairly safely say that the
production of commentary in the Komnenian era grows exponentially
from the basic scholia and catenae into full textual commentaries of grand
proportions. Not only is there a renewed interest in producing extensive
biblical catenae and biblical commentaries, as testified by the massive pro-
ductions of Niketas of Herakleia and Theophylaktos of Ohrid, but also a
substantial renewal of the classical commentary by John Tzetzes and Eus-
tathios (one only needs to take a look at the Aristophanic and Homeric
commentaries respectively of the two teachers), as well as of the philo-
sophical commentary by Eustratios of Nicaea and Michael of Ephesus.
New as a type of juridical exegesis are the commentaries to the canons of
the ecumenical councils by John Zonaras, Alexios Aristenos and Theodore

16 Orations 6 and 7; see Wirth (2000: 78–99 and 100–40).

17 Two orations by George and three further orations by three of his advanced pupils; for an edition
of the whole dossier with French translation, see Loukaki and Jouanno (2005).
18 Edited by Browning (1989); on this twelfth-century institution to honour the patriarch, see Loukaki
(2005).
19 See Agapitos (1998c) and Bernard (2017) on Psellos and Mauropous, Mullett (1997) on Psellos and
Theophylaktos.
20 See Agapitos (2015d: 12–14 and 20–3).
21 See Loukaki (2000) and (2019) on Kataphloron, Agapitos (2015c) and van den Berg (2017) on
Eustathios, F. Kolovou (1999) on Choniates, Agapitos (2021) on the Choniates family in Nicaea.
22 On this family, see Darrouzès (1968) and (1970).
23 On what follows in this paragraph, see now Agapitos (2022b) with full bibliography.
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 35
Balsamon. Also completely new are the philological commentaries on the
hymnical canons of John of Damascus and Kosmas the Melode by John
Zonaras, Prodromos, Gregory Pardos24 and Eustathios.25 In my opinion,
their production is not related to the decrease of hymnical composition,
but to a new system of governance in need of officials equally well edu-
cated in matters of the state and of the church.26
However, one aspect of Komnenian education appears surprising.
Despite the agreement of scholars that the twelfth century represents a high
moment in the reception of the classics and the performance of Hellenism,27
the number of manuscripts of the classical canon and the accompanying
critical texts and didactic manuals being copied is quite low.28 For example,
although so much epideictic oratory is written and although so many
scholars (including myself ) have pointed to the importance of Menander
Rhetor as a handbook for the composition of such orations, there survives
from the twelfth century only one codex transmitting in complete form the
two Menandrian treatises and a further one preserving some extracts.29 The
Hermogenean corpus, along with various synopses and scholia, survives
in only three twelfth-century manuscripts as opposed to six of the elev-
enth and further six of the thirteenth century.30 This absence should make
us aware that Komnenian classicizing textual production owes more to its
own dynamics – a movement starting in the eleventh century – than to the
towering authority of Late Roman handbooks of Greek rhetoric.31

Patronage and Literary Production

Rhetorical performativity owed much to the patrons who were active in
soliciting textual products so as to enhance their public image. Prodro-
mos, but also others, expressed this particular two-directional relation in

24 On these three authors, see briefly Giannouli (2007: 17–19) with the older bibliography.
25 See now Cesaretti and Ronchey (2014).
26 See the remarks by Ronchey (2017) with the older bibliography.
27 See, indicatively, Macrides and Magdalino (1992), Kaldellis (2007: 225–316) and (2009).
28 Unfortunately, there exists for Greek manuscripts no comprehensive study like the monumental
work of Birger Munk Olsen for the Latin manuscripts of Roman authors in the eleventh and
twelfth centuries; see Munk Olsen (1982–2014) as well as Munk Olsen (1991) on the classics in the
school canon of the High Middle Ages.
29 See Russell and Wilson (1981: xl–xliv).
30 See Patillon (2008: vi–xi). To the two twelfth-century manuscripts listed by Patillon, we must now
add the Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus Gr. Q1 [Diktyon 38108], a manuscript
copied under the guidance of and corrected by John Tzetzes, as his autograph notes reveal; see
Pizzone (2020).
31 This traditional opinion is still reflected in some recent overviews of rhetoric and literary criticism
in Byzantium; see Bourbouhakis (2017a) and Papaioannou (2017).
36 panagiotis a. agapitos
e­ conomic terms. When addressing his patron, Prodromos states that if he
died from hunger, the patron would lose the person who excels in praising
him, so the patron would do best to pay the poet.32 The socio-economic
parameters of literary production under Komnenian patronage are encap-
sulated in the ‘theatres of discourse’ (λογικὰ θέατρα) of the twelfth-cen-
tury aristocracy.33 It is in such gatherings that patrons listened to progym-
nasmatic improvisations, letters, passages from novels and philosophical
treatises by sponsored literati, some of whom, like Michael Italikos and
Nikephoros Basilakes, took up important posts in state and church. It is
in such theatra that Prodromos presented his schedographic innovations
directing the taste of various patrons towards a lighter style of writing, and
incurring the criticism of traditionalist teachers like John Tzetzes34 or strict
aristocrats like Anna Komnene.35
This open literary competition between peers and the promise of awards
for the writers involved is one of the reasons why the Komnenian era boasts
of so many and so varied authorial portraits, almost an obsession of writers
with their own self-staging. It is possible that the autographic voice created
by Michael Psellos (decisively modelled on Gregory of Nazianzos) was an
inspiration for some Komnenian authors36 but their insistence on self-rep-
resentation is nevertheless extraordinary. Authors so different as Eustra-
tios of Nicaea, Italikos, Basilakes, Prodromos, Tzetzes, Eustathios, Michael
Choniates, Eugenios of Palermo and Neophytos the Recluse write about
themselves, their writerly aspirations and choices, their successes and fail-
ures, so that the twelfth century could be called the ‘era of the authorial
voice’.37 Even aristocrats are concerned with the public reception of their
own writings; Isaac Komnenos, for example, insisted in the foundation
charter of the Kosmosoteira (c. 1150) that the book with his selected works
(letters, ekphraseis and poems in various metres) should be handed out to
those members of his monastic community who wished to read it and be
instructed.38

32 See Historical Poem 16.218–28 ed. Hörandner (1974: 284) to John II Komnenos (c. 1139) and
Ptochopr. 2.101–14 ed. Eideneier (1991: 115) and (2012: 170–1) to the sebastokrator Isaac Komnenos
(c. 1140–50), John’s brother. See also Ricceri in this volume.
33 On Komnenian ‘literary salons’, see Mullett (1984) and Magdalino (1993: 335–56), along with
Marciniak (2007) and Chryssogelos (2017: 67–70).
34 Agapitos (2017: 7–27).
35 Agapitos (2013).
36 As proposed by Papaioannou (2013: 232–49).
37 Indicatively, one might refer to the essays in Pizzone (2014b), although we still lack in-depth studies
of the authorial voice of many of these writers; for a very recent study of one twelfth-century author
from this perspective, see Nilsson (2021).
38 Typikon §106 ed. Petit (1908: 69); English translation by Patterson Ševčenko (2000: 884).
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 37
This materiality of the text as a tangible book leads me to one further
aspect of manuscript production. There is little left of costly manuscripts
transmitting Komnenian texts presented to patrons as offerings of their
authors: the fine volume of Euthymios Zigabenos’ Armour of Dogma (Vat-
ican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, gr. 666 [Diktyon 67297]),39
two luxurious volumes with the homilies on the life of the Virgin by
James of Kokkinobaphos (Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana,
gr. 1162 [Diktyon 67793] and Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France,
gr. 1208 [Diktyon 50813]),40 Prodromos’ Grammar for the sebastokrator-
issa Irene (Jerusalem, Patriarchike Bibliotheke, Timiou Staurou 52 [Dik-
tyon 35289]),41 Prodromos’ lost dedication copy of his novel to the caesar
Nikephoros Bryennios,42 but also Eustathios’ parchment manuscripts of
his Parekbolai to the Iliad (Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut.
59.2 and 59.3 [Diktyon 16453 and 16454])43 and the Parekbolai to the Odys-
sey (Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. Z.460 [Diktyon 69931]).44
Otherwise, most of the prose and verse texts produced for the imperial
court and related theatra are preserved in relatively inexpensive, densely
written paper manuscripts from the late twelfth or thirteenth centuries,
usually anthologies like Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana gr. Z. 524
[Diktyon 69995], Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, XI.22 [Diktyon
70658], El Escorial, Real Biblioteca, Y-II-10 [Diktyon 15478] or Vatican
City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Barb. gr. 240 [Diktyon 64786]. Rare
is the case of a manuscript transmitting a collection of such rhetorical
works by a single author, like the Basel, Universitätsbibliothek, A-III-20
[Diktyon 8892] with Eustathios’ Thessalonian works or the Vatican City,
Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, gr. 305 [Diktyon 66936] with a broad selec-
tion of Prodromos’ works, both paper codices.45 To these not so costly
books we should add thirteenth-century manuscripts preserving sche-
dographic collections, like Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana,
Pal. gr. 92 [Diktyon 65825], Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, gr. 201
­[Diktyon 44647], and Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr. 2556
[Diktyon 52188].46 In most instances, all these texts survive in only one

39 Parpulov (2017) with further bibliography.

40 Linardou (2017).
41 See Jeffreys (2011–12: 184) with further bibliography and Zagklas (2011).
42 Agapitos (2000).
43 See the detailed discussion by van der Valk (1971–87: 1:ix–xxxi).
44 On this manuscript, see now Cullhed (2016: 36*–48*).
45 On the Basel manuscript of Eustathios, see Schönauer (2006: *25–*27); on the Vatican manuscript
of Prodromos, see Zagklas (2023: 122–30).
46 For bibliography on these manuscripts, see above nn. 10–11.
38 panagiotis a. agapitos
manuscript, a clear indication that it was not the patrons who were inter-
ested in the preservation of these utilitarian texts but the authors as teach-
ers, their colleagues and their pupils.

Rhetoric and Genre in Prose and Poetry

Upon the return of Emperor John II from his Cilician campaign to Con-
stantinople in the autumn of 1138, a series of feasts were organized to
celebrate this victory. Basilakes and Italikos wrote substantial encomias-
tic orations,47 while Prodromos composed a poem in fifteen-syllable ‘city
verses’ (πολιτικοὶ στίχοι) for the demes.48 The explicit references to rheto-
ric as performative practice in the three texts are overwhelming. The three
authors use various combinations of motifs to express the impossibility of
describing the heroic deeds of the emperor. Basilakes and Italikos, who
were rivalling each other for the emperor’s favour (Basilakes won at that
point), present themselves as members of a group of rhetors and philos-
ophers who use in a novel manner the encomiastic practice both in oral
and in textual form.49 Prodromos, however, follows a different line. He
considers that ‘the force of discourses’ (τὸ τῶν λόγων κράτος) and ‘the
invincible pomp of oratory’ (τὸν ἀήττητον τῆς ῥητορείας τῦφον) have
been defeated by the emperor.50 Therefore, he will borrow his praises from
the musician prophet David in order to celebrate the invincible ruler in
a hymnic manner.51 At the end of the poem, Prodromos – not without a
certain irony – suggests to John to pity the chroniclers (συγγραφεῖς) of his
heroic deeds: ‘Grant them, o emperor, some respite, until they will be able
to recount your victories so far’ (κἂν γοῦν ἐκείνους, βασιλεῦ, ἀνάπαυσον
ὀλίγον, | μέχρις ἀπαριθμήσονται τὰς ἄχρι νῦν σου νίκας).52

47 Basilakes’ oration has been edited with Italian summary by Maisano (1977: 89–132), the Greek text
only by Garzya (1984: 48–74); Italikos’ oration has been edited with French summary by Gautier
(1972: 239–70).
48 Historical Poem 11 ed. Hörandner (1974: 253–9). On poetry for the demes, see also Magdalino in
this volume.
49 See, for example, Italikos in Gautier (1972: 247 and 253); Basilakes, Encomium on John §2 and 4 in
Maisano (1977: 90–1 and 93) and Garzya (1984: 50–1 and 51–2).
50 Historical Poem 11.11–20 ed. Hörandner (1974: 254). The phrase ‘the force of discourses’ that also
figures in the present chapter’s title appears fairly often in oratorical works of the twelfth century, a
kind of code about the splendour of public oratory and of the orators themselves. The phrase was
first coined by Gregory of Nazianzos (see Or. 4, §100 ed. Bernardi [1983: 248.12–15]) in his first
speech against Julian, a famous model text of intellectual invective for all learned Byzantines.
51 Historical Poem 11.141–50 ed. Hörandner (1974: 257). On the poet as David, see also Ricceri in this
volume.
52 Historical Poem 11.211–20 ed. Hörandner (1974: 259).
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 39
Various issues appear in this context that will allow us to take a broader
look at rhetoric and its prose genres as theory and practice, and their rela-
tion to poetic practice. Despite much excellent work on Byzantine prose
and poetry, we are far removed from a deeper understanding of the literary
and socio-cultural mechanics and poetics of rhetoric.53 More generally, I
view rhetoric as a theoretical and practical tool for composition and per-
formance – what the Byzantines often called the ‘laws/rules’ of a specific
type, like the various orations of praise, or of the art of rhetoric and of
speech writing more broadly.54 I do not understand rhetoric as a ‘super-
genre’ wherein prose and poetry are placed without any essential differen-
tiation. In my opinion, therefore, epistolary poems are poetry using some
of the devices of epistolography and the mechanics of rhetoric but these
poems are not types of texts simply interchangeable with prose letters.55
But to return to the texts of the three writers just mentioned: Italikos
and Basilakes use substantial terminology and specific imagery to define
their encomiastic projects, even if they do so in different ways – Basilakes
by affirming the power of rhetoric, Italikos by criticizing his rivals. Prodro-
mos appears to reject ‘the force of discourses’ in favour of David’s hymnic
praise. In this attitude I see a rivalry of the poet with the rhetors and, thus,
an effort to raise poetry to the level of oratory. However, in examining the
three texts more closely, we will recognize that the matière of encomias-
tic rhetoric is fully shared between them, not as meaningless variation of
commonplaces, but as meaningful expression of different, even conflict-
ing, artistic and social agendas. Here, I believe, we can clearly see that the
distinction of Komnenian literary production into the traditional genres
of Hellenistic and Roman imperial school rhetoric fails to capture the fluid
interfaces of genres in the twelfth century.
What the three texts certainly point our attention to is the mass of works
produced for all kinds of festive occasions from private events to public cel-
ebrations. Moreover, the three texts indicate that writers during the Kom-
nenian era were quite preoccupied with developing a ­metaliterary discourse

53 The volumes edited by Littlewood (1995) and E. M. Jeffreys (2003) clearly show the long way we
have to go, as do the brief overviews by Bourbouhakis (2017a) and Papaioannou (2017).
54 See, for example, John Geometres, Progymnasma 2 in Littlewood (1972: 9.22–3, ῥητορεία, τέχνη
καἱ νόμος); Psellos, Address to Emperor Constantine Doukas in Dennis (1994: 131.3, ἐγκωμίων νόμος);
Eustathios, Funeral Oration on Nicholas Hagiotheodorites in Wirth (2000: 3.10, ἐπιταφίου νόμος);
Eustathios, Funeral Oration on Emperor Manuel Komnenos §4 in Bourbouhakis (2017b: 4.9–10,
νόμοι λογογραφίας, ῥητορικός νόμος).
55 On epistolary poetry, see now Kubina and Riehle (2021) and, for the twelfth century, Zagklas
(2021a). On the relationship between prose and poetry in the twelfth century, see also Bourbouhakis
in this volume.
40 panagiotis a. agapitos
serving the theorization and vindication of writerly activity, be it occasional
rhetoric, all kinds of narratives, or poetry in its multifarious forms. Through
his poetry, Prodromos, in particular, became a leading figure in this criti-
cal theorization, and it is unfortunate that no study has been devoted to
Prodromos’ comments on literary writing, its theory and practice.56 It will
be useful to point here to a few more prose texts: Nikephoros Basilakes’
Prologue to a collection of his works,57 Nicholas Kataphloron’s preface to his
oration praising a megas doux,58 Michael Choniates’ Prologue to a collection
of his works and his ‘writerly apology’ Against Display,59 John Tzetzes’ pref-
aces, epilogues and marginal scholia to much of his output,60 Eustathios’
prefaces to his five commentaries,61 and also the anonymous essay Against
Those Writing Monodies.62 This corpus of texts gives us unique insights into
literary production of a specific era within a complex network of friendly or
competitive relations among peers and within various areas of intellectual
and social tensions, such as state and church politics.63
Though Classical and Medieval Studies have moved away from sus-
tained debates about genre,64 Byzantine Studies have not yet reached such
a state of saturation because we still operate with conventional notions of
what ‘genre’ in Greek literature is.65 Yet the long twelfth century allows us
to re-examine such notions and possibly find more adequate categories for
understanding debates about genre in Byzantine literature.66 Let me start
56 For some remarks within a presentation of Prodromos as teacher and poet, see Zagklas (2023: 32–42).
57 Garzya (1984: 1–9); see also Pizzone (2014a).
58 Edited and discussed by Loukaki (2000); edition of the full text with French translation by Loukaki
(2019), reedited by Polemis (2020) with Modern Greek translation.
59 Lampros (1968: 1:3–5 and 7–23); on the latter work, see Bourbouhakis (2014).
60 This rich material composed in prose and verse also remains substantially unstudied; for some
recent approaches, with the relevant bibliography, see Cullhed (2014: 58–67), Goldwyn and
Kokkini (2015) and (2019), Pizzone (2017), Agapitos (2017), van den Berg (2020).
61 This is another rich dossier that still awaits full interpretation. For all relevant bibliography to
the editions, see Schönauer (2006: 9*–10*) and Cesaretti and Ronchey (2014: 324*–7*). For some
interpretive approaches, see van den Berg (2017) and G. E. Kolovou (2018), and now more broadly
van den Berg (2022). For a varied, though far from exhaustive, approach to Eustathios, see the
essays in Pontani, Katsaros and Sarris (2017).
62 See Sideras (2002: 48–61) for the Greek text with facing German translation.
63 It would be a splendid project to unite all of these texts into a two-volume edition with English
translations, introductions and notes. For a similar, very successful, project on Michael Psellos’
essays on literature and art, see now Barber and Papaioannou (2017).
64 For Classics, see the old but influential study by Kroll (1924) in conjunction with the critique
expressed by Barchiesi (2001); for recent approaches, one might consult Farrel (2003), Papanghelis
et al. (2013); for Medieval Studies, see Jauß (1977), as well as the relevant section ‘What Is the Value
of Genre in Medieval French Literature’ in Gaunt and Kay (2008: 137–94) and the two issues of
Exemplaria devoted to ‘Medieval Genre’ in Gayk and Nelson (2015).
65 See the critique and various proposals by Mullett (1992), Agapitos (1998a) and (2003), Nilsson
(2003) and Constantinou (2004).
66 See now Agapitos (2023b).
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 41
with a type of text that only very recently has received some attention,
and where prose and poetry coexist in a dynamic manner.67 I call such
texts compound diptychs or triptychs; they are essentially performative in
character. The attribute ‘compound’ indicates the sequential connection of
two or more texts, clearly distinguished from each other and yet forming a
larger entity of structure and meaning. Two such diptychs are Prodromos’
Historical Poem 24 and Ptochoprodromos 1 addressed to John II in 1141/268
and Historical Poem 71 to Manuel I via his secretary Theodore Styppeiotes
and the Maiuri poem addressed directly to Manuel in 1150/1.69 Both dip-
tychs follow the same structure: a humorous yet discreet plea for financial
assistance in a ‘learned’ idiom is followed by a burlesque and vociferous
repetition of the plea in a ‘vernacular’ idiom. Various thematic, linguistic
and chronological elements make it clear that the two poems of each set
belong together. Tearing them apart in two handbooks or in two different
editions cancels their intended performative and generic effect.70
Another type is the compound triptych written with a public perfor-
mance in mind. For example, Prodromos composes a laudatory trip-
tych on the jurist Alexios Aristenos, director of the imperial orphanage
(ὀρφανοτρόφος), consisting of a prose encomium,71 a schedos72 and four
poems as variations on the same theme in four different metres (iambic,
hexametric, pentametric, anacreontic).73 With absolute self-confidence, the
poet explains his complex triptych creation in the iambic poem (Historical
Poem 56a.4–33).74 Niketas Eugeneianos, in imitation of his teacher Prodro-
mos, produced a funerary triptych in the latter’s honour, which consists
of a prose monody,75 a schedos (so far unedited)76 and two funerary poems

67 On this coexistence in the twelfth century, see Zagklas (2017).

68 Hörandner (1974: 330–3); Eideneier (1991: 99–107) and (2012: 153–61).
69 Hörandner (1974: 516–19); Maiuri (1914–19: 398–400).
70 For some first thoughts on this diptych form, see Agapitos (2015d: 29–37); on the satirical aspects
of such texts, see Zagklas (2021b) and Kulhánková (2021). On their language, see also Kulhánková
in this volume.
71 It is no. 91 in the list of Prodromos’ works; see Hörandner (1974: 42). It has been critically edited
with French translation by Op de Coul (2023: 51–7); there is an older edition in Patr. Gr. 133:
1268–74, where it wrongly figures as letter no. 8.
72 See the differing opinions of Vassis (1993–4: 8) and Polemis (1997: 255–6) about an anonymous
schedos on an anonymous orphanotrophos in Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. XI.31
[Diktyon 70672], fols. 277v–278r, edited by Polemis (1997: 258–9).
73 Historical Poem 61a–d ed. Hörandner (1974: 460–8).
74 For a detailed analysis of this triptych, see Agapitos (2015d: 16–20) with translations of the relevant
passages; for this type of metrical multiformity, see Zagklas (2018).
75 Edited by Petit (1902: 452–63); unfortunately, the end of the text has been lost.
76 The schedos (τοῦ κυροῦ Nικήτου τοῦ Eὐγενειανοῦ), referring to the story of the prophet Jonah, is
preserved in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr. 2556 (early fourteenth century) [Diktyon
52188], fols. 79r–80r.
42 panagiotis a. agapitos
as variations on the same theme in iambs and hexameters.77 In both these
triptychs the audience is led through the verses attached to the end of the
prose schedos – a typical formal element of many twelfth-century schede –
to the poetic third part which is in itself a compound form. Given our
current knowledge of such compound triptychs, it seems that Prodromos
was the inventor of this type of performative ‘supertext’.78 Away from the
circle of Prodromos, we find another version of the compound triptych,
this one by the otherwise unknown Leo of Megistos (ὁ τοῦ Μεγίστου),
secretary of the grand hetairiarch George Palaiologos: a prose monody
on the death of his employer (spoken by Leo),79 a so far unedited verse
monody (spoken by George’s widow)80 and a dialogic prose consolatory
composition (framed by Leo as narrator, wherein the widow and the city
of Constantinople speak).81 Any attempt at a conventional generic descrip-
tion of these triptychs must fail. As texts they are dynamic combinations of
different elements (prose and poetry, larger and smaller entities, different
genres), while they create hybrid forms on both a micro- and a macrostruc-
tural level. They can only be fully appreciated when heard or read in the
sequence planned by their writers, while they also show that any attempt
to place them in the taxonomic boxes of our handbooks destroys the artis-
tic and socio-cultural reality of Komnenian literature.
Forms that were already perceived as performative in Antiquity resur-
face in the twelfth century with a particular force and expanded textual
functions. On the one hand, we find a plethora of ‘pagan’ and ‘Christian’
dialogues, shaped in various ways: from Lucianic reconstructions (such as
the expansive Timarion82 and Prodromos’ shorter Amarantos83) to larger
theological texts, such as Andronikos Kamateros’ highly complex Sacred
Arsenal84 or Mesarites’ Funeral Oration on his Brother John with its encased

77 Edited by Galavotti (1935: 222–9); on the reconstruction of this triptych, see Agapitos (2015d: 22–3).
78 Inspired by the term ‘supersystem’ (a macrolevel system composed of individual subsystems), I have
coined the term ‘supertext’ to describe this type of textual unit with individual textual components
that have their own logic but function fully only when read within an encompassing frame.
79 Lampsidis (1999: 121–33).
80 The text is preserved in Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, gr. 525 [Diktyon 44974], fols.
117r–118v; see Lampsidis (1999: 116–17) and Hinterberger (2005).
81 Edited with German translation by Sideras (1997); on the dialogic composition of the third text,
see Hörandner (2017b).
82 Edited with Italian translation by Romano (1974), only Greek text by Macleod (1987: 432–70);
English translation by Baldwin (1984); revised Greek text and Italian translation by Romano (1999:
99–175). After the pioneering literary study of this dialogue by Alexiou (1982–3), see now the
essays by Kaldellis (2012) and Krallis (2013) for a historicist approach, and Nilsson (2016) for a
differentiated literary interpretation.
83 Edited by Migliorini (2007); on the work, see now Cullhed (2017).
84 The first part of this work has been recently edited by Bucossi (2014).
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 43
acts of a meeting between Greeks and Latins on theological and ecclesi-
astical matters that took place after 1204.85 We also find staged ‘judiciary’
competitions like Michael Choniates’ Personified Dialogue of the Soul and
the Body.86 Furthermore, we note a marked presence of ‘dramatic’ compo-
sitions, not only the ‘Euripidean’ Passion of Christ87 and the ‘Aristophanic’
Dramation by Michael Haploucheir,88 but also the Lycophronian poem of
Andronikos Protekdikos about a case of cannibalism judged at the patriar-
chate.89 Finally, there are the ‘antiquarian’ novels composed in the second
quarter of the century by Eumathios Makrembolites, Theodore Prodro-
mos, Constantine Manasses and Niketas Eugeneianos. The three novels
that survive complete display a series of narrative characteristics that are
rhetorical reconfigurations of tragedy as it was taught in the schools. Two
of the four novels use the iambic dodecasyllable, the dramatic metre par
excellence.90 This last group of dramatic/narrative texts leads me to the
fourth and last theme of the present chapter.

Narrative Art from the Enormous to the Minute

Despite some progress in recent years, we are far removed from having
understood the system of narrative in Byzantine literature as a whole.
Most narratological approaches concentrate on the novels and the roman-
ces as the obvious choice for such an analysis.91 However, narrative can be
found in many other places than ‘fiction’ since the organization of ‘telling’
and ‘showing’ concerns a very broad spectrum of textual production. The
tools narratology has been developing over the past fifty years are of great

85 Edited by Heisenberg (1973), translated into English by Angold (2017: 134–92).

86 The available editions for this work are incomplete and do not present Choniates’ original text; see,
for example, Migne (1865: 1347–72), where the work is falsely ascribed to the fourteenth-century
theologian Gregory Palamas. For a brief presentation of the work’s editorial history, see F. Kolovou
(1999: 31–2). The recent book on dialogue and debate in the twelfth century by Cameron (2016) is
rather descriptive; she does not mention Choniates’ Prosopopoiia.
87 Edited with French translation by Tuilier (1969), who supported the attribution of the manuscripts
to Gregory of Nazianzos. The text is now generally accepted to be of the twelfth century though its
author remains unknown; see now Mullett (2022).
88 Edited by Leone (1969: 268–73); Italian translation with facing Greek text by Romano (1999: 407–35).
89 Edited with an English translation by Macrides (1985). On the theatrical tendencies of Komnenian
literature, see also Magdalino in this volume.
90 For some literary approaches to the Komnenian novels, see, very selectively, Alexiou (1977),
Agapitos (1998b), the various essays in Agapitos and Reinsch (2000), Nilsson (2001), Roilos (2005),
Agapitos (2012) and Nilsson (2014: 39–86), as well as the relevant chapters in Cupane and Krönung
(2016) with good bibliographies; for English translations of the four texts, see E. M. Jeffreys (2012);
for Italian translations with facing Greek text, see Conca (1994).
91 See, indicatively, Agapitos (1991) and Nilsson (2001).
44 panagiotis a. agapitos
a­ssistance for interpreting Byzantine narratives because the structuralist
and post-structuralist approaches to narrative are very much in tune with
the postmodern character of Byzantine aesthetics.92
In this sense, we should begin by examining Byzantine narrative art
under a different light in order to discover some of its own mechanics and
poetics. The Komnenian novels with their rhetorical techniques of dra-
matic display are a case in point. So, of course, is the Tale of Digenis Akritis
in the Grottaferrata and Escorial redactions,93 a text that, despite so much
noise about its importance, still awaits a deep and comprehensive narra-
tive analysis.94 And even if we are fortunate to have solid critical editions
of some major historiographical works of the twelfth century, no single
full-scale narrative interpretation has been offered up to date.95 The variety
and polymorphy of these enormous narratives are quite stunning, while
the texts (from Zonaras’ Chronicle to Choniates’ Chronological Account via
Anna Komnene’s Alexiad and Kinnamos’ History) are certainly an import-
ant part of Komnenian literary modernity.96 That these narratives are used
as sources for the reconstruction of Byzantine history should not obscure
the fact that they are literary texts following, expanding, subverting or
even rejecting the practices of the Komnenian ‘force of discourses’. Just
to mention one example, one might compare the narrative structure of
three works by Constantine Manasses: the enormous Synopsis Chronike
(a world chronicle in c. 6,600 city verses),97 the middle-sized Itinerary (a
narrative poem in c. 800 iambic verses)98 and the small Description of the
Earth (a rhetorical set piece in c. 225 lines of prose).99 Their narrative fram-
ing s­ystem, the organization of sequences, the positioning of narrators

92 For some recent attempts at narratological approaches to texts other than the novels, see the
chapters in Messis et al. (2018), as well as the narratological readings of monastic edifying tales by
Kulhánková (2015) and (2017).
93 The most recent edition of the two redactions with English translation is by E. M. Jeffreys (1998),
where also the older bibliography is to be found.
94 Markéta Kulhánková is currently preparing a narratological commentary on the Grottaferrata
redaction of Digenis.
95 Even in the case of Psellos’ Chronographia, the studies by Pietsch (2005) and Lauritzen (2013)
are not narratological analyses proper. For a recent effort, see Protogirou (2014). The studies by
Simpson (2013) and Neville (2016) on Niketas Choniates and Anna Komnene are focused more on
studying the two authors as historical personalities, which they do from quite different perspectives.
96 On this concept, see Agapitos (2022b).
97 Edited by Lampsidis (1996) and translated by Lampsidis (2003) into Modern Greek; see now Paul
and Rhoby (2019) and Yuretich (2020) for German and English translations, respectively.
98 Old edition by Horna (1904); new edition with Modern Greek translation and substantial
introduction by Chryssogelos (2017); on the poem, see also Aerts (2003).
99 Edition by Lampsidis (1991), Modern Greek translation with facing Greek text by Agapitos and
Hinterberger (2006); for a recent art-historical interpretation of this ekphrasis, see Foskolou (2018).
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 45
and characters, the use of description (ekphrasis), the mixture of abstrac-
tion and concreteness, finally, the focus on acoustic and rhythmical effects
of style are in all three texts the same, and they certainly differ from what
we can see in texts from the middle of the tenth to the middle of the elev-
enth century.100 In my opinion, we catch here a glimpse of a narrative sys-
tem that reflects a broader framework of socio-cultural communication.
As a further comparison, one might look at the way in which the visual
arts are able to create the same effect from the minute to the enormous
through their narrative system. Take as an example the formal and struc-
tural features of the Dormition of the Virgin (Koimesis) as represented
in three twelfth-century media: a large-scale fresco on the south wall of
the Panaghia tou Arakos in Cyprus,101 an illuminated lectionary from the
Great Lavra Monastery on Mount Athos [Diktyon 26928]102 and a golden
ring now kept at the Dumbarton Oaks Collection.103 The organization
of the visual and textual ‘telling’ and ‘showing’ is the same despite the
difference in size and media: the core of a narrative scene remains stable
through the tools of the topos (i.e. stereotypical meaning) and typos (i.e.
stereotypical structure),104 the expansion of the narrative scene takes place
in a paratactic manner by adding ‘layers’ of action and meaning, and by
compartmentalizing every such addition through visual or verbal frames.
This manner of organization is the Komnenian variant of the Byzantine
narrative system.105
The same pertains to the lives of saints and their extraordinary generic
and narrative variations in the twelfth century,106 for example, competi-
tive variations in the case of the life of the eleventh-century Meletios by
Nicholas of Methone and by Theodore Prodromos,107 the highly intellec-
tualized variation of the life of the tenth-century Photios the Thessalo-
nian by no less than Eustathios of Thessalonike,108 the g­ nomologic varia-

100 On this system and its difference to what is found in the textual production between 950 and
1050, see my scattered remarks in Agapitos (1998b: 148–56), (2003) and (2020: 19–33).
101 See Winfield and Winfield (2003: pl. 23).
102 Mount Athos, Megistes Lavras 1, fol. 134v; see Pelekanidis (1979: pl. 80).
103 Intaglio ring (no. 56.15); see Kalavrezou (2003).
104 On these concepts, see Agapitos (2004: 106–8).
105 I am currently preparing a book-length essay on this narrative/cultural system with the tentative
title The Aesthetics of Layering in Byzantine Art and Literature.
106 For a recent overview of eleventh- and twelfth-century hagiography, see Paschalidis (2011).
My notion of ‘variation’ for the generic and narrative analysis of hagiography is inspired by
Constantinou (2004).
107 New critical edition of these two texts with Modern Greek translation by Polemis (2022); for an
interpretive approach, see Messis (2004).
108 For the convincing identification of the anonymous author of BHG 1545 with Eustathios, see
Paschalidis (2008), who is also preparing a critical edition of this work.
46 panagiotis a. agapitos
tion of the expansive life of the eleventh/twelfth-­century Cyril Phileotes
by Nicholas Kataskepenos109 and, finally, the episcopal variation of the
life of the twelfth-century Leontios of Jerusalem by Th­ eodosios Goude-
les.110 But then, since the present volume focuses on Komnenian poetry,
it might be useful to look at the astonishing expansion of exegetical,
admonitory and autobiographic narratives in verse. As Prodromos
expressed it, we are here truly faced with ‘the force of metre’ (τὸ τοῦ
μέτρου κράτος, Historical Poem 56a.17). And this force is overpowering
given that all kinds of different narrative poems are produced, from
Philip Monotropos’ Dioptra111 down to Constantine Stilbes’ Fire Poem112
via the resignation poem of Nicholas Mouzalon,113 the mythological
poems of Tzetzes114 and the anonymously preserved and recently edited
exile poem from Malta.115 Moreover, we also find enormous and minute
narrative verse cycles which take on highly experimental shapes, from
Prodromos’ tetrasticha on the lives of the Three Hierarchs116 to Tzetzes’
unique Histories of approximately 12,000 city verses,117 where fragmen-
tation, compartmentalization, repetition and disruption are key features
of the ‘post-modernist’ narrative.118
All these texts cannot be fitted into any conventional generic category,
neither those derived from Plato (Republic 392c–394d) and Aristotle (Poetics
§1), nor those based on Hermogenes’ proposals in On Types of Style 2.10.119
They are part of various trends in experimentation starting in the first half

109 Edited with French translation by Sargologos (1964); for an extended interpretation, see Mullett
(2004).
110 Edited with an English translation by Tsougarakis (1993).
111 Incomplete edition by Lavriotes (1920); further see Afentoulidou-Leitgeb (2007) and (2012), who
is preparing a critical edition of this complex text.
112 Edited by Diethart and Hörandner (2005: 8–51); for an English translation with facing Greek text
and notes, see Layman (2015). On Stilbes’ poem, see also Magdalino in this volume.
113 Edited with Italian translation by Strano (2012); see further Mullett (2009).
114 On the editions of these poems, see Agapitos (2017: 2–3); for a corrected text of the Allegories of
the Iliad and Allegories of the Odyssey along with an English translation, see Goldwyn and Kokkini
(2015) and (2019); on Tzetzes’ allegorical method, see Goldwyn (2017) and Conca (2018).
115 New critical edition with Modern Greek translation by Vassis and Polemis (2016); on the text, see
also Lauxtermann (2014).
116 D’Ambrosi (2008) edited only the cycle on Gregory of Nazianzos.
117 Edited by Leone (2007).
118 On Tzetzes’ Histories, see Pizzone (2017). Unfortunately, the critical edition with English
translation and commentary by Elizabeth and Michael Jeffreys of the vast poetic corpus by an
anonymous poet (conventionally known as ‘Manganeios Prodromos’) and transmitted in Venice,
Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. XI.22 [Diktyon 70658] is still in preparation and, thus, cannot
be studied as a meaningful whole; see Jeffreys and Jeffreys (2021) and in this volume.
119 For the chapters on genres in On Types of Style, see the excellent critical edition with translation
and commentary by Patillon (2012: 210–16).
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 47
of the eleventh century and expanding well into the twelfth century.120 In
my opinion, this polymorphous narrative poetry is not written because it
was easy to compose twelve- or fifteen-syllable verses,121 but because nar-
rative as a mode of display within the Komnenian system of cultural and
social reference had taken an unprecedented importance. This importance
derived, on the one hand, from a new approach to writing as it was devel-
oped in the schools and, on the other, from the wish of aristocratic patrons
as members of a ‘family-run’ government to appropriate the social value
of the arts for their image building. We can see these two parameters most
clearly in the letters written by prominent and not so prominent people
such as Theophylaktos,122 Italikos,123 Tzetzes,124 Prodromos (in prose and in
verse),125 Hierotheos of Kataskepe,126 George Tornikes127 and Eustathios.128
But we can also see this new approach to writing in the ekphraseis that per-
vade so much of Komnenian performative textual production.129 I already
mentioned the three works of Manasses, but I would further point to such
topics as war, death and love that are also presented through the kinetic
descriptive mode of enargeia (‘translucent discourse’) in a generically varie-
gated set of texts: descriptions of battles in Eustathios, Anna Komnene and
Prodromos;130 variously presented descriptions of death in Anna, Michael
Choniates, Goudeles, Italikos, Nicholas Kallikles and many anonymous

120 For a forceful proposal that the eleventh century is crucial in these processes for poetry, see
Magdalino (2012) along with Bernard (2014).
121 So Jeffreys (2009).
122 On his collection, see comprehensively Mullett (1997).
123 Edited with French summaries by Gautier (1972); an interpretive study of Italikos’ letters remains
a desideratum.
124 No extensive study of Tzetzes’ letters is available, despite the critical edition by Leone (1972) and
the fine Modern Greek translation by Grigoriadis (2001); for some socio-cultural remarks on the
corpus, see Agapitos (2022a).
125 See Op de Coul (2023) for the prose letters and Zagklas (2021a) on the verse letters.
126 See Grünbart (2016), who is also preparing a critical edition of this practically unknown collection.
127 Edited by Darrouzès (1970).
128 See F. Kolovou (2006) for a critical edition with an interpretive introduction. For two brief
overviews of Byzantine epistolography, see Grünbart (2004) and Mullett (2008), as well as the
collective volume edited by Riehle (2020).
129 There exists no broader literary study of ekphrasis in the eleventh and twelfth century; see briefly
Mitsi and Agapitos (2006) with substantial theoretical bibliography along with Nilsson (2014:
135–69), as well as Messis and Nilsson (2015) and (2019) on ekphraseis by Manasses. The study by
Taxidis (2021) is a useful presentation of the ekphrastic output of the twelfth century.
130 Eustathios, Lent Oration 1.776–902 (Schönauer [2006: 38–42] and Wirth [2000: 41.72–45.18])
describing emperor Manuel’s siege of Dorylaion; Anna Komnene, Alexiad 4 (Reinsch and
Kambylis [2001: 120–40], along with the German translation by Reinsch [1996: 142–63])
describing the battle at Dyrrachion; Prodromos, Rhodanthe and Dosikles 6.1–146 (Marcovich
[1992: 91–6] and English translation by E. M. Jeffreys [2012: 96–101]) describing a fictional naval
battle between the fleets of a barbarian king and a pirate leader.
48 panagiotis a. agapitos
poems;131 finally, descriptions of love and sexuality in Eugeneianos, Basi-
lakes, Manganeios Prodromos and Leo of Megistos.132

A Concluding Question
Up to this point, we have seen the broad variety, the complex literariness and
the manifold generic and stylistic experimentations used by so many authors
of the Komnenian era to compose their works within a dynamic social nexus
of ‘producers and consumers’ of literature and art. By way, then, of conclu-
sion, I would like to ask if we can detect in Byzantine literature evidence of
change.133 The long twelfth century, where we do see some kind of consistent
literary system in operation, is a good vantage point from which to look at
textual production between the tenth and the fifteenth centuries by raising
our head from the depths of close reading and opening our eyes to the broad
surfaces of textual correlations and literary entanglement.
Let us start with dialogues. The Komnenian dialogic texts I mentioned
above, such as Timarion or Mesarites’ debates with the Latins, when read
next to Philopatris from the tenth century134 and The Journey of Mazaris to
Hades from the early fifteenth century,135 tell us a few things about change
in Byzantine literature. Firstly, the styles of these four texts stand at a
­substantial distance from each other. More importantly, their approach to

131 Anna Komnene, Alexiad 15.11 (Reinsch and Kambylis [2001: 493–505], along with the German
translation by Reinsch [1996: 548–59]) describing the death of her father Emperor Alexios;
Choniates, Monody on Eustathios §49–50bis (Lampros [1968: 1:302.27–304.12]) describing the
death of his teacher; Goudeles, Life of Leontios §100 (Tsougarakis [1993: 152]) describing the death
of the saint; Italikos, Monody on his Deceased Partridge (Gautier [1972: 102–4]); many funerary
poems by Kallikles on various deceased aristocratic men, women and their children (e.g. nos.
9–13, 21–2, 30–1, edited with Italian translation by Romano [1980]); an anonymous poet from the
Anthologia Marciana (ed. Lampros [1911: 186, no. 368]) presenting in a funerary poem the death
of a young pregnant mother.
132 Eugeneianos, Drosilla and Charikles 5.325–5.46 (ed. Conca [1990: 116–23] with the English
translation by E. M. Jeffreys [2012: 396–400]) describing a tender love scene between the
protagonist couple; Basilakes, Progymnasma 54 = VII, 25 (ed. Pignani [1983: 221–4] with the
English translation by Beneker and Gibson [2016: 306–13]) presenting as a monologue Pasiphae’s
falling in love with the bull from the sea; Manganeios Prodromos, On Eros (ed. Polemis [1994],
with critical remarks by M. J. Jeffreys [1995]); Leo, Kalliope (ed. Lampsidis [1997]) describing how
the Muse of epic poetry undresses and presents her naked beauty to an imaginary spectator.
133 Lauxtermann (2002) hesitantly accepts change but does not describe theoretically how it would
manifest itself; Magdalino (2012), starting from Kazhdan and Epstein (1985), is supportive of the
notion of change but with a rather conventional approach to literary analysis.
134 Edited by Anastasi (1968) and Macleod (1987: 367–89), revised Greek text and Italian translation
by Romano (1999: 23–65); on the date of this work, see Angelidi (1977) and Baldwin (1982); for
some literary thoughts on the text, see Marciniak (2021).
135 Edited with English translation by Westerink et al. (1975), revised Greek text and Italian
translation by Romano (1999: 467–573); for a positivist approach to the text, see Garland (2007).
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 49
mimesis and the overall aesthetic effect achieved is radically different, while
the socio-political aims and perspectives are equally divergent. Mesarites’
text is not a Lucianic dialogue, yet it is composed in a manner whereby
its supposed documentary character is subverted by the schedographic
complexity of its rhetorical fabric. And although Philopatris, Timarion and
Mazaris are ‘Lucianic’, only Philopatris could be described as ‘classicizing’,
whereas in Timarion and Mazaris the approach to Lucian, the narrative
and thematic organization, the highly visible connectedness to contempor-
ary history, politics and society are not in the least antiquarian, while their
respective ‘antiquities’ are individual, historically determined readings and
creative manipulations of a textualized (qua imaginary) ancient world. In
the Timarion the Hellenic appearance of the dialogue’s staging is maintained
with care – a device severely criticized as ‘pagan’ by Constantine Akropolites
in the late thirteenth century.136 However, in the Mazaris all pretence of a
staged Hellenic antiquity has been dropped, while the dialogue is followed
by further four texts also forming a complex dialogic-epistolographic con-
versation between contemporary living and deceased persons – an extraor-
dinary form of validating documentation for a fictive narrative.
Let us take a further look at authorial voices. If we compare Eustathios,
Neophytos and Prodromos to each other – a high-class professor and arch-
bishop, a monk living as an ascetic recluse far away from the centre of the
empire, a middle-class grammarian and poet with some high connections –
we will immediately detect obvious differences, such as the type of texts
they wrote, their approach to genre, their patrons, their perspective to con-
temporary history. However, we will also discover some important similari-
ties. These concern the insistence with which the three authors present their
‘methods’ of writing, their ‘emotionality’ as to the act of writing and the
broad gamut of their writing style, even if these styles differ and are employed
for different reasons. While Eustathios and Neophytos made a conscious
effort to collect their works into a kind of a multivolume Ge­samtausgabe,137
the works of Prodromos survive only in various collections, none of which
can be related to the author as editor of his own works.138

136 See his ep. 90, edited by Romano (1991: 180–3) and translated into English by Baldwin (1984:
24–6).
137 On Eustathios’ opera omnia edition, which was partly copied out on parchment codices (the
already mentioned Laurentianus and Marcianus for which see above nn. 43–4, but also the lost El
Escorial, Real Biblioteca, Λ-II-11 [Diktyon 14774]), see Wirth (1980: 65–9); see further the detailed
analysis of the Scorialensis in Cesaretti and Ronchey (2014: 253*–72*). On Neophytos’ edition, see
his own remarks and list of books in the Testamentary Rules to his monastic foundation (Typike
Diatheke §12.3–4 ed. Stephanis [1998: 41.4–42.4]).
138 See Hörandner (1974: 135–65) and Zagklas (2023: 88–122).
50 panagiotis a. agapitos
If we place these three authors next to John Geometres (c. 935/40–1000)
and Theodore Metochites (1270–1332) – a teacher/soldier and poet of good
social standing139 and a high government official of almost aristocratic
background – we will immediately recognize the difference in the self-rep-
resentation of these two writers to each other and to the three twelfth-cen-
tury authors. Both Geometres and Metochites present themselves as highly
classicizing authors, the former standing in a direct and textually obvious
dialogue with his chosen poetic models (Gregory of Nazianzos, George of
Pisidia and the Greek Anthology), the latter discussing philosophical, sci-
entific and literary matters related to antiquity or composing orations and
poems about his own concerns and the vicissitudes of his life in a rather
loose imitation of his ancient models (Plutarch, Dio Chrysostom, Synesios
and Gregory). But while Geometres presents his authorial voice through
the generic topoi of his models as ‘poetic truth’ (rather close to hymno-
graphical practices, I would suggest), Metochites creates an apparently
highly personal authorial voice of ‘essayistic reality’. The two authors –
especially when one compares their hexametric poems where Gregory is
the main model – stand very far apart as to their use of ‘epic’ Greek and the
mimesis of Gregory. Thus, the classicizing effect apparent in their works
has a very different aesthetic impact on us as readers: fully worked out,
metaphoric, emotional but restrained, static and solid in Geometres;140
improvised, figurative, passionate and unrestrained, dynamic and fluid in
Metochites.141 It should be noted that the narrative system of Geometres
and Metochites142 differs substantially from the one employed by the three
Komnenian authors, but it conforms to the narrative system of art during
their time. One needs only to compare the static Deesis depictions of the
late tenth or early eleventh century with Geometres’ grand supplicatory
poem (no. 290, titled δέησις)143 or the kinetic narrative cycle in the double
narthex of Metochites’ Chora Church (ad 1321) with his two long lauda-
tory poems to God and the Virgin Mary about his life and the refounding

139 For a revision of the current biography of Geometres, see Papaioannou (2019a).
140 For some remarks on the place of Geometres’ poetry in the late tenth century, see Lauxtermann
(2003); for a broader appreciation of his poetic achievement, see van Opstall (2008: 21–66) and
Tomadaki (2023).
141 For some brief remarks on Metochites’ ‘neo-excessive’ writing, see Agapitos (2021).
142 Geometres’ poems have not been studied from a narrative point of view; for some first remarks on
Metochites, see Polemis (2015: xxix–xlv) and (2017c).
143 Edited with French translation and commentary by van Opstall (2008: 467–505), who points
to the similarities of the poem to ivory triptychs of the period; see van Opstall (2008: 42 and
plate 3).
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 51
of the Chora Monastery (nos. 1 and 2)144 to grasp the immense distance
between the two poets and the different position of the Komnenian
authors in this textual landscape. Furthermore, while Geometres’ works
are preserved in two completely miscellaneous manuscripts,145 Metochites’
works are preserved in a luxury edition of parchment codices prepared by
himself and his pupil Nikephoros Gregoras and written by two of the best
scribes at the imperial chancellery.146 Therefore, in the case of authorial
voice we can also detect important changes between the tenth and the
fourteenth/fifteenth centuries and this even concerns the materiality of the
manuscripts that preserve the works of the five authors.147
As a last example of potential change, I would like to present a type of
text that I shall label ‘clerical invective’.148 Since the middle of the elev-
enth century we find texts wherein an author directs his criticism against
a member of the clergy. Three such poetic invectives from the middle of
the eleventh century are Michael Grammatikos’ About the Bishop of Philo-
melion,149 Christopher of Mytilene’s To the Monk Andrew150 and Psellos’
Against the Sabbaitan Monk.151 The first poem is openly satirical, the sec-
ond discreetly ironic, the third one excessively abusive. The three texts are
composed in iambic verse that was, of course, the time-honoured metre for

144 Edited by Polemis (2015: 5–51 and 52–73); English translation by Polemis (2017b: 47–92 and
93–111). On the Chora cycle, its spatial organization and its relation to Metochites’ works, see now
Zarras (2021).
145 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Suppl. gr. 352 [Diktyon 53102] and Vatican City,
Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, gr. 743 [Diktyon 67374]; see now van Opstall (2008: 99–114).
146 For the manuscripts of this Gesamtausgabe, see Agapitos, Hult and Smith (1996: 9–10) and Förstel
(2011); for one of these scribes, see Lamberz (2000).
147 For further thoughts on the material aspect of the authorial voice and the gradual development
of multi-volume authorial corpora, see Agapitos (2021: 28–9). Particularly interesting for this
development is John Mauropous (c. 1000–85), who created an authorial persona in the paratexts
of a collection of some of his works, edited by his secretary (Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica
Vaticana, gr. 676 [Diktyon 67307]), and who clearly separated his ‘rhetorical’ works from his
hymnographic production; see Agapitos (2015a: 81–4) and (2020: 29–31).
148 On verse invective in Byzantium, see Bernard (2021); on the ninth–tenth centuries, see
Lauxtermann (2019: 119–44); on the eleventh century, see Bernard (2014: 266–99); on the twelfth
century, see Zagklas (2021b) and Magdalino (2021).
149 Poem 4, edited by Mercati (1970: 128–31), translated by Lauritzen (2009) and commented upon
by Magdalino (2012: 26–7); see also the analysis by Lauxtermann (2019: 137–44).
150 Poem 114, edited by De Groote (2012: 107–13); English translation with facing Greek text by
Bernard and Livanos (2018: 240–51).
151 Poem 21, edited by Westerink (1992: 258–69); on the context of the poem, see Bernard (2014:
280–90). Sabbaites is not the monk’s name (as can be read in recent publications), but his
characterization as a person who was tonsured at the Monastery of Saint Sabbas in Jerusalem,
similar to other such appellations, for example, Chrysostomites (from the Monastery of Saint
John Chrysostom in Cyprus) or Hagiotessarakontites (from the Monastery of the Holy Forty
Martyrs in Constantinople). Sabbaites makes a further appearance as a blasphemous and abusive
monk in a letter of Psellos, ed. Papaioannou (2019b: 781–2, no. 374); see Bernard (2014: 281).
52 panagiotis a. agapitos
skomma and komodia, that is, poetry of humorous mockery and vitriolic
invective.152 In the later twelfth century we find another form of this invec-
tive. Eustathios wrote his Monologue of the Monk Neophytos of Mokissos,153
while Mesarites produced a Monologue of an Astrologer Bishop.154 In contrast
to the iambic abuses, these two texts pick up the progymnasmatic practice
of ethopoiia, a quasi-dramatic monologue that was systematically taught
in schools and that helped students to learn how to present the thoughts
and emotions of a fictive or a historical character.155 Shortly after the fall of
Constantinople in 1204, we find yet another invective, this time composed
again in iambic verse; it is the recently published Verses against a Foolish
Bishop of Seleukeia by Euthymios Tornikes.156 In my opinion, there are vis-
ible intertextual connections between these texts. More specifically, Torni-
kes’ invective looks back to Michael Grammatikos and Psellos, while also
utilizing the satirical-abusive vocabulary of Tzetzes and his attacks against
ignorant ‘buffalo clerics’.157 Under the category ‘clerical invective’ we find
two different subgenres of satire – one poetical, one rhetorical – interact-
ing with each other over a period of a good 150 years, where it is obvious
that the authors use both the ancient tradition and the available Byzantine
practice to enrich and change the substance of their satirical texts.
As this brief overview has shown, the long twelfth century offers us a
broad variety of literary works where many and different forms of exper-
imental redefinitions take place, be it in matters of language and style,
generic transgression and hybridity, the exploration of narrative possibili-
ties and the self-representation of authorial voices. It is an era dominated
by education and teacher-authors as well as by aristocratic patrons, by a
profound belief in the ‘force of discourses and metre’ and the private net-
works of relations, but also a growing disbelief in the efficacy of the state

152 See Agosti (2001) for the ‘iambic concept’ in late antique poetry, where Byzantine authors such as
Gregory of Nazianzos played an important role.
153 Edited by Tafel (1964: 328–32).
154 Edited with French translation by Flusin (2002); English translation by Angold (2017: 297–305).
On the intellectual context of this ethopoiia in the late twelfth century, see Magdalino (2015) in a
discussion with two other anti-astrological satires – the dialogue Anacharsis (probably by Niketas
Eugeneianos) and an anonymous poem in elegiac couplets; for the latter, see Zagklas (2016).
155 Important specimens of such ethopoiiai can be found among Basilakes’ collection of progymnasmata,
but also in the novels of Prodromos and Eugeneianos. On ethopoiia more broadly, see Hagen
(1966) and the various contributions in Amato and Schamp (2005).
156 Poem 4, edited with German translation by Hörandner (2017a: 104–27); re-edited with a Modern
Greek translation by Polemis (2020: 178–201).
157 Compare Tornikes’ Poem 4.8 ὁ βούπαπας δὲ βουφάγος Σελευκείας (‘But the buffalo-devouring
buffalo-cleric of Seleukeia’) with βουβαλόπαπας in Tzetzes’ Histories 9.298.958 and 299.960 ed.
Leone (2007); see also the comments in Agapitos (2017: 11, 24–7 and 32–4).
 Literary Production in the Komnenian Era 53
and the cohesion of society.158 If literature has something to contribute in
understanding this complex era, then Komnenian textual production has
to be examined from a new and encompassing point of view. To paraphrase
Euthymios Tornikes: ‘By having thus acquired the force of discourses, we
will have enriched ourselves with the great wealth of wisdom.’159 This wis-
dom will indeed provide us with important insights into the workings of
Byzantine culture and its literary history.

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 ch apter 2

Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century

Constantinople
Paul Magdalino

We all know that twelfth-century Byzantine literature was special. But

why do we think so? Over thirty years ago, I tried to define it in terms
of three qualities that had come to the fore in the eleventh century, but
intensified in the twelfth: Hellenism, humanism and authorial self-­
representation.1 More recently, others, most notably Margaret Mullett
and Ingela Nilsson, have focused on a particular literary aesthetic, that of
narrativity or novelization.2 Without denying or abandoning any of these
criteria, I propose here to highlight another that I suggest is common
to all of them, because it corresponds to the social and cultural context
within which literary texts were published. To the best of our knowledge,
belles lettres, which in Byzantium went under the general heading of rhet-
oric, were produced to be consumed at a combination of venue, occasion
and social gathering known generically as a theatron, although its com-
ponents could be defined in a variety of other ways.3 Literary ambition,
innovation, creativity and success may therefore be defined and measured
in terms of a striving for theatrical effect, and what makes twelfth-century
literature special is the enhanced theatricality of its texts. Theatricality
was common to both prose and verse, but it had a particular affinity with
verse, quite simply because verse was the most ancient medium of textual
performance, in epic, drama and song, and its rhythms and cadences are
expressive in themselves, creating a stage on which textual content can
build its performance. Poetry had led the way in cultural innovation in
the eleventh century, and thus had the momentum to play a dynamic role
in the twelfth.4

1 Magdalino (1993: 398–404).

2 Mullett (2006), Nilsson (2014).
3 The literature is large and continues to grow. In addition to Magdalino (1993: 335–56), I cite the
earliest and the latest studies of theatron in middle and late Byzantium: Mullett (1984) and Gaul
(2018).
4 Magdalino (2012).

70
 Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century Constantinople 71
My chapter is concerned primarily with theatricality of textual content.
I see this in terms of two kinds of expressive technique, which may or may
not be combined in the same composition. One kind of expressiveness is
that which explicitly calls attention and assigns roles to the persons who
are actually or virtually involved in the performative occasion: the poet
himself or the person whose voice he adopts, and the person with whom
he and/or his adopted persona are in dialogue. Such demonstrative expres-
sion is to be found in all types of occasional poetry: acclamations, encomia,
laments, ex-voto epigrams and meditations, as well as petitions, didactic
and exegetical poems explicitly addressed to a patron. The other textual
technique of theatrical expression consists in third-person description and
narration, where the drama is achieved by the power of imagery, colour-
ful and emotive vocabulary, direct speech, evoked action and character
portrayal. Both types of dramatization between them characterize, indeed
epitomize, the poetry of the long twelfth century. Most characteristic, and
best known, are the long verse narratives composed around the middle
of the century: the novels by Theodore Prodromos, Niketas Eugeneianos
and Constantine Manasses,5 as well as Manasses’ Synopsis Chronike and
Itinerary (Hodoiporikon).6 But many other long poems, such as the Dioptra
of Philip Monotropos,7 Nicholas Mouzalon’s apologia for his resignation
from the archbishopric of Cyprus,8 the vernacular verse petitions to John
II and Manuel I by ‘Ptochoprodromos’9 and Michael Glykas,10 the newly
published invectives of Euthymios Tornikes,11 along with many metrical
encomia in high style addressed to emperors and other ‘lords’, by Theo-
dore Prodromos,12 Manganeios Prodromos13 and others,14 are remarkable
for their use of dramatic language and technique. There is much theatrical
posturing in the long metrical commentaries and exegeses of John Tzet-
zes.15 And many short pieces of descriptive, admonitory and satirical verse
are highly charged with emotional and sensual expression and portrayal.

5 Ed. Marcovich (1992), Conca (1990), Mazal (1967).

6 Ed. Lampsidis (1996), Chryssogelos (2017).
7 See Afentoulidou-Leitgeb (2012); Afentoulidou and Fuchsbauer (2019).
8 Ed. Strano (2012).
9 Ed. Eideneier (1991); cf. Alexiou (1999), Janssen and Lauxtermann (2018) and Kulhánková in this
volume.
10 Ed. Tsolakis (1959); cf. Bourbouhakis (2007).
11 Ed. Hörandner (2017).
12 Ed. Hörandner (1974); see Magdalino (2016) for translation and analysis of one important piece.
13 M. J. Jeffreys (2003); E. M. Jeffreys and M. J. Jeffreys in this volume.
14 For example, Euthymios Tornikes, ed. Papadopoulos-Kerameus ([1913] 1976: 188–98).
15 Ed. Leone ([1968] 2007) and (2019), Boissonade (1851), Bekker (1842); see Agapitos (2017) and
Pizzone (2017).
72 paul magdalino
One thinks of the poems of Theophylaktos of Ohrid, a number of which
are verse epistles,16 the epigrams and epitaphs of Nicholas Kallikles17 and
Theodore Balsamon,18 Michael Hagiotheodorites’ description of a chariot
race in the Hippodrome,19 the verse satires of Theodore Prodromos,20 the
recently published anonymous urban fables that have been assigned to
the twelfth century,21 Michael Choniates’ poetic evocation of a painting of
ancient Athens22 and many anonymous pieces in the codex Venice, Bibli-
oteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. Z. 524 [Diktyon 69995].23 Last but not least
are the verse pieces that actually style themselves as dramas: Theodore Pro-
dromos’ Katomyomachia,24 the Dramation of Michael Haploucheir,25 the
nun’s confession told by the protekdikos Andronikos26 and the lament on
the great fire of 1197 by Constantine Stilbes.27 This is not to mention the
Christos Paschon, ‘the only Byzantine tragedy’, a Euripidean cento on the
Passion of Christ, attributed by its manuscripts to Gregory of Nazianzos,
but assigned by a consensus of modern scholarship to a twelfth-century
author.28 The dating and authorship are too uncertain for the work to
merit consideration in this chapter, or indeed this volume, but it says a lot
about twelfth-century Byzantine poetry that this is the context where the
Christos Paschon is thought to belong.
Thus the twelfth century saw not merely the continuation of a ‘perform-
ative turn’ in textual delivery,29 but also the culmination of a ‘theatrical
turn’ in poetic composition. To get an idea of how poetic theatricality
developed during the period, it is instructive to look at three composi-
tions dating respectively from 1119, c. 1150 and 1197. These texts are: Pro-
dromos’ verses on the coronation of Alexios Komenos, son of John II, as
co-­emperor; the Synopsis Chronike of Constantine Manasses; and the Fire
Poem, just mentioned, of Constantine Stilbes.

16 Ed. Gautier (1980: 346–77) and Zagklas (2021: 150–9).

17 Ed Romano (1980), especially nos. 24 and 25; cf. Magdalino and Nelson (1982: 124–30).
18 Ed. Horna (1903); cf. Magdalino and Nelson (1982: 152–60). On Kallikles, see also Gerbi in this
volume.
19 See Marciniak and Warcaba (2014).
20 See Marciniak (2015), Kucharski and Marciniak (2017), Zagklas (2021).
21 Zagklas (2016).
22 Livanos (2006), Rhoby (2003: 29–33). On Choniates’ poetry, see also Mondini in this volume.
23 Mostly edited by Lampros (1911); cf. Rhoby (2010), Spingou (2014).
24 Ed. Hunger (1968); see below and Lauxtermann in this volume.
25 Ed. Romano (1999: 414–27).
26 Ed. Macrides (1985).
27 Ed. Diethart and Hörandner (2005: 8–51); trans. with facing text Layman (2015).
28 Ed. Tuilier (1969); Mullett (2010: 228). On this text, see also Mullett (2022).
29 Marciniak (2014a).
 Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century Constantinople 73
Theodore Prodromos, On the Crown-Wearing of Alexios Komnenos
(Historical Poem 1)
Theodore Prodromos was the most versatile and innovatory of the
twelfth-century writers whose poetry survives. He has some claim to be
considered the leading exponent of the ‘theatrical turn’. While a number
of his compositions could be used to illustrate his theatrical talent, the
one chosen here deserves attention because it marks the debut not only of
his literary career, but also of the ‘new and interesting trends in Byzantine
literature that had their origins during the reign of John II’.30 The poem, in
155 lines of fifteen-syllable verse, is a ‘first’ in several respects.31 It is Prodro-
mos’ earliest dateable surviving work, the earliest programmatic statement
of Komnenian imperial ideology, and it is the earliest surviving piece of
deme poetry written in celebration of a living emperor. In the present con-
text, it deserves attention for the way in which it turns a traditional topos
of ruler acclamation into a lively interplay between the imperial family,
who perform the action of the ritual, and the poet, who performs the
script as the official voice of the popular circus factions, the demoi, who
represent the city. On one side of the stage, as it were, the poet faces the
palace and calls upon the imperial family to rise and shine on their peo-
ple, inviting the young heir to return in orbit to his father and receive
the crown (ll. 1–17). He picks up the solar metaphor again, using it both
to dramatize the dynamics of the senior emperor’s rule (ll. 63–73) and to
evoke the reflected glory of the empress; she is the moon to the emperor’s
sun, but nevertheless merits thirty-three lines of praise (ll. 57–62, 74–103).
She is the vehicle for portraying the subservience of Western Christendom,
echoed in a long list of western peoples (ll. 64–99), and she is the focus
of the ceremonial action that the poem evokes on the imperial side: the
poet brings in ‘a choir of virtues, who dance around you, who applaud
you, who dance around you like tender virgins, praising, singing, cheering,
entwining their tender fingers in a rhythmic dance’ (ll.79–83); later, she
is led in procession by ‘all the noble daughters of the kings’, accompan-
ied by the senate and the people (ll. 100–3). The image of procession is
subsequently taken up to describe the cortege of illustrious ancestors who
have preceded the emperor on the throne, thereby securing his right to
the succession (ll. 130–5). Meanwhile, the narrative of the imperial perfor-
mance has been interrupted by a number of passages in which the author

30 Jeffreys (2016: 120).

31 Ed. Hörandner (1974: 177–84); Magdalino and Macrides (2022).
74 paul magdalino
turns the reader’s and, at least notionally, the imperial family’s attention to
himself, and to the assembly of people, army, senate and clergy in whose
presence he is writing. His interjections imply stage directions, which at
first are addressed to the junior emperor – ‘As from a distance, I the demos
shout, “Let him come forth!”’ (l. 11) – and then describe the gathering of
the audience who also include the chorus:

For we have assembled on the occasion of your crown-wearing, the demes

and all the city with instruments of music, to celebrate in hymns the coron-
ation feast, not just the army and the myriad populace, but the assembly of
elders, the senatorial council, and the elect of the priesthood with the great
chief shepherd, participating, approving, urging and bringing to fulfilment.
(Prodromos, Historical Poem 1.18–24)

Thus the poet also signals the special participation of another actor among
the chorus, the patriarch, who crosses over to join the imperial perfor-
mance by blessing the coronation. Another distinguished participant is
David, who as the author of the Psalms that are quoted, is invited to take
part, because

this brilliant coronation feast, taking place today on the acropolis of Rome,
needs an equally brilliant rhetor and a sonorous tongue. We badly need a
rhetor loudly to broadcast, with lofty proclamation in a herald’s booming
voice, ‘Good men and Romans, gather eagerly, let us rejoice together, let
us all celebrate fervently as one, as David the choirmaster leads the refrain
with his lovely lyre moved by the Spirit …’ (Prodromos, Historical Poem
1.34–43)32

Homer too is discreetly but explicitly brought in with a quote towards the
end of the poem (ll. 150–1). Thus, when we analyse the voicing, the act-
ors and the stage directions, the text can be seen as a drama in which the
imperial family are the actors, and the chorus is formed by the city (l. 110),
led by the poet and his great biblical and classical predecessors.
The coronation poem by Prodromos is not the first piece of Byzantine
poetry that evokes the choreography and movement of ceremonial occa-
sions. This evocation is a feature of two well-known sixth-century hexam-
eter texts, Paul the Silentiary’s Ekphrasis of Hagia Sophia33 and Corippus’
In Praise of Justin II;34 it also characterizes Leo Choirosphaktes’ anacreontic

32 On the poet as David, see also Ricceri in this volume.

33 Ed. De Stefani (2011); cf. Whitby (1985), Macrides and Magdalino (1988).
34 A. M. Cameron (1976).
 Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century Constantinople 75
ekphrasis of the palace bath built by Leo VI, which, we can deduce from
the content, was sung at the inauguration ceremony.35 These texts show that
the technique of built-in, allusive stage directions was well developed long
before the twelfth century. Even so, Prodromos’ poem appears to break
new ground in the popular medium of its delivery and the demotic role of
its performer. It also differs from the earlier examples in the greater prom-
inence that it gives, spatially as well as thematically, to the performance of
its own choral commentary on the main ceremonial action. Prodromos
would go on to give other, more elaborate performances of this kind, nota-
bly his composition and delivery of multiple poems in connection with
John II’s revival in 1133 of the ceremony of the imperial victory parade.36

The Synopsis Chronike of Constantine Manasses

There can be no dispute about the innovative and theatrical quality of the
second text to be reviewed here. In more than one way, the Synopsis Chron-
ike of Constantine Manasses is a new and unprecedented type of history
writing.37 Along with his equally innovative novel Aristandros and Kallithea,
it was written, like the poem of Prodromos we have just considered, in fif-
teen-syllable ‘political’ verse, and as in the case of that poem, the choice
of metre was deliberately theatrical. Political verse had a pleasing rhythm
and it was intellectually unpretentious, being by this time primarily the
medium of Hippodrome songs and simplified teaching texts,38 in addition
to becoming ‘the typical vehicle for fiction’.39 True to this tradition, the
Synopsis Chronike offers a ‘pop’ version of world history for the instruction
and entertainment of an aristocratic lady, the sebastokratorissa Irene, sister-
in-law of Manuel I and well-known patron of several twelfth-century lit-
erati.40 The qualities that make it of doubtful value as a source of historical
information give it prime importance as a piece of creative literature.41 The
Synopsis Chronike is not merely a novelization of the narrative of world
and imperial history from the Creation to the eleventh century; it adapts
this novelistic narrative for the Byzantine intellectual equivalent of the big

35 Magdalino (1988).
36 Magdalino (2016); for the practice of multiple poems in different metres for the same occasion, see
Zagklas (2018) and Agapitos in this volume.
37 Ed. Lampsidis (1996).
38 See Nilsson (2019: 518–24) and bibliography; cf. also the recent observations of M. J. Jeffreys (2019).
39 Afentoulidou and Fuchsbauer (2019: 341–2).
40 E. M. Jeffreys (2011–12).
41 See Nilsson (2008) and (2020), Reinsch (2008), Nilsson and Nyström (2009), Papaioannou (2010:
19–20).
76 paul magdalino
screen. In terms of twelfth-century chronicle writing, we might think of
it like this: Kedrenos and Zonaras wrote the book; Manasses scripted and
produced the movie. It would require a book-length study to analyse all
the choices and techniques by which Manasses produces his cinematic
effects. Suffice to say that he constantly plays on the senses and the emo-
tions; he always goes for the story with anecdotal or dramatic potential;
he invariably describes settings, situations and personalities in sensual and
sensational language. He sets up contrasts and confrontations that are only
implicit in his sources, and to do so, he uses the full rhetorical toolkit of
ekphrasis, ethopoiia, diegesis and synkrisis to enliven and amplify his narra-
tive. Not content with the dramatic and often melodramatic portrayal of
real historical characters, Manasses gives personal identities and dramatic
roles to the impersonal forces of change in human affairs: Fortune (Tyche),
Envy/Jealousy (Phthonos/Baskania), Love (Eros) and Gold (Chryson) – a
personification, which, as far as I know, he is the first to invent. He further
dramatizes the ups and downs of historical change by recurrent reference
to the Wheel of Fortune.42
To illustrate his narrative technique, here is just one of the passages in
which he takes a simply reported fact from his sources and turns it into a
lurid melodrama. The excerpt is from his account of the blinding of Con-
stantine VI by his mother Irene:

Alas, she shared her beastly intention with her attendants, and found them
all amenable, not one was unreceptive. For what would those foul souls, her
bedchamber eunuchs, not have done, perpetrators of all evil? She concocted
the plot against her dearest son and suggested how they should do it. What
happened then? The emperor slept, but a sleep of unending darkness, after
which he would never see the beauty of the sun. They rushed in like eye-goug-
ing crows, and blackened the brightness of his eyes. His eyeballs popped out
of his eyelids, falling like hailstones made round by murder, and a stream of
blood stained his garment, as he lay there convulsed with terrible suffering,
a pitiable sight, alas, which would make stones weep. His eyes were cut out
and his vision extinguished in the very place where he had first seen the sun’s
rays; they call that building the Porphyra.43 Who ever heard of such intensely
wrathful madness, the rage of a mother against her son? Such obsessive desire
for power! No mother leopard rages thus against her cubs, no tigress, shark
or rabid dog gets savage with her young like that. Only Medea, they say, laid
hands on her children, and she was driven by Scythian savage-mindedness.
(Manasses, Synopsis Chronike 4381–4405, ed. Lampsidis 1996)

42 See also Macrides and Magdalino (1992: 123–6), Magdalino (1997: 161–5).
43 The Porphyra was the birth chamber in the imperial palace, whose walls were lined with porphyry.
 Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century Constantinople 77
The Fire Poem of Constantine Stilbes
We come finally to a work in 937 twelve-syllable verses that bears the title
Iambic verses of Konstantinos Stilbes, magister and teacher, about a great
conflagration sent by God that occurred in Constantinople on 25 July 1197.44
The Fire Poem of Constantine Stilbes resembles the Synopsis Chronike of
Manasses in presenting a third-person narrative that achieves theatrical
effect by feeding the imagination with sensual and sensational evocations.
In keeping with the subject matter – the all-consuming destruction of a
raging, uncontrollable blaze – the pace of the narrative is even more fre-
netic, the images are more violent, and the sympathy is more poignant; the
style itself is explosive, with descriptive vignettes, metaphors, philosophical
reflections, classical and biblical allusions being spat-out in rapid-fire suc-
cession. Yet at the same time as presenting a dramatic narrative, the poem
is also a piece of occasional verse rhetoric in the sense that it presents itself
as a lament and adopts the style and topoi of commemorative mourning.
The description is shot through with woeful exclamations. The author fre-
quently introduces himself as the chief mourner who is overcome by grief
and cannot do justice to the terrible event. In this role of lamentation, he
implicitly assumes the voice of an Old Testament prophet, and indeed the
text is peppered with Old Testament allusions, including reminiscences
of Sodom and Gomorrah, Babylon and the destruction of the Temple.
Insofar as Stilbes has an ulterior purpose, as a man of the Church, this
is to lament the fire as divine punishment for sin. Nevertheless, classical
allusions abound, and the voice that the author explicitly adopts is that of
tragic dramatist. He repeatedly refers to himself as a tragedian and to his
work as a tragedy, and he reinforces the comparison with the imagery of
classical drama. Thus the poem is not only a dramatic, technical recreation
of the terrible fire; it is also self-consciously a theatrical composition.
Here are some excerpts that give the flavour of the work. First is a pre-
liminary overview of the fire’s movement.

For you burned Byzantium in a moment, spanning the expanses like light-
ning flame with thunderbolt speed. For you rode on the wings of the
winds, and being light, you were taken aloft even by the north-east wind.
Oh fiery thunderbolt, albeit welling up from below, not from the clouds,
but from dense matter. Oh woe, an earthbound hurricane, but which runs
up and even shoots out from the land and the lower depths, continuing to

44 Trans. Layman (2015: 43); ed. Diethart and Hörandner (2005: 8): Τοῦ Κωνσταντίνου μαΐστωρος
καὶ διδασκάλου τοῦ Στιλβῆ στίχοι ἰαμβικοὶ ἐπὶ τῷ συμβάντι ἐν Κωνσταντινουπόλει θεηλάτῳ
μεγάλῳ ἐμπρησμῷ μηνὶ Ἰουλίῳ κεʹ ἔτους ͵ϛψεʹ.
78 paul magdalino
maintain its shooting nature. For it runs sideways, burning all the more. It
flows in every direction, expanding as it burns. Like lightning it thunders
with whooshing noises; whenever it devours all by raging sideways, it feeds
its natural urge to rise. It rises up to the highest rooftops, and sets fire to
the loftiest halls. (Constantine Stilbes, Fire Poem 89–102 ed. Diethart and
Hörandner; trans. after Layman [2015])
…
I bring back my account, forcing out my words, to the painful begin-
ning under baleful stars, and I will show you a prologue of the epilogue, a
serpent’s head worthy of its tail; I will show the rough dragging of its scaly
hulk that I am not writing a satyr play, but putting together an entire tra-
gedy. For the great stage had Furies with torches scaring, causing upheaval
and bearing fire over all the expanse of Byzantion that was mapped out by
the metrics of the fire. It takes a great house to contain the tragedy. (Con-
stantine Stilbes, Fire Poem 129–40 ed. Diethart and Hörandner; trans. after
Layman 2015)

Here the poet describes in greater detail, using serpentine and sea imagery,
the advance of the fire from its origin in the granaries near the Droungarios
Gate beside the Golden Horn.

It was there that the serpent left Paradise, hissing and spilling out, undu-
lating, it slithers and feasts on earth and stones; then having raised high its
head, it ravages, alas, even three-story houses, and fire leapt into the air.
The serpent crept up out of the sea, like a sea-monster or the mouth of
Charybdis, and a beacon on the seaside, not a friendly one but one warning
of rolling swells and seasickness. It washed over even the high roofs, like a
rushing wave, like the tossing of the sea. For it carried itself with wavelike
conceit and it washed over the coastal areas, like the water of the sea it
poured forth across the expanse, and burst a greater wave upon the land.
And a booming noise like the breaking of surf arose, and the fire sputtered
out crashing noises like those of the sea. So both the booming and the glare
of the fire completely wiped sleep from the eyes. (Constantine Stilbes, Fire
Poem 180–99 ed. Diethart and Hörandner; trans. after Layman 2015)

Here Stilbes describes the impact of the fire on the residents, and the
resulting effect on the senses:

The infants, alas, break out crying together, frightened by the bogey-man
sound of fire, seeking their fathers and mothers, from whom they have been
torn apart by the sword of fire. For the fathers and mothers, the fire was
twice the fuel of tears – both for the state of their children and for the flame.
The maiden, having shed the colour of modesty, taking on a shade of green
 Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century Constantinople 79
from the fear, sees her house’s chambers as foes, wearing just one robe she
ran into the streets, since this is all she snatched from the fire. A brother has
been broken off from his siblings, for the fire conquers the flame of familial
love. Then, a mixed shout arises. The mourning of women, the shouting
of men, weeping of newborns, and the groaning of maidens, a unification
of many components into a melody of wailing, a Telchine concert.45 It was
like a tragedy: the twirling of burning torches as on stage, and the fire’s
roaring and the wailing were thunderous applause. With noises from the
nearby sea, the threefold booming burst upon the ears, and was an even
more monstrous shock than the sight. The fire flashed, and the tumultuous
din resounded. Such was the turmoil of the primary senses, the most spon-
taneous and physical perceptions [of sight and sound]. The seething of the
fire then afflicted touch, and the foul-smelling smoke did the same to the
inhaling nose. But the lips, not tasting fire, drank the bitterness of tears.
And the blaze whirled about the entire pentad of senses, just like the fire of
old burned the Pentapolis to ashes.46 (Constantine Stilbes, Fire Poem 250–79
ed. Diethart and Hörandner; trans. after Layman 2015)

The ‘tragedy’ of the fire of 1197 marks a new departure in Byzantine poetry,
although it is not entirely without parallel or precedent.47 Of uncertain date
within the long twelfth century, but quite possibly from its final decades,
is the verse piece purporting to be a judicial decision by the penitential
tribunal of Hagia Sophia, in which the protekdikos Andronikos reports the
tragedy of a nun from south-western Anatolia who had confessed to kill-
ing and eating her daughter along with other corpses and unclean foods.48
Of mid-twelfth-century date, if the attribution to Theodore Prodromos is
correct, is the Katomyomachia, which has been characterized as ‘a satire in
the form of a parody of a tragedy’, and more recently as a mock epic.49 We
may note in passing that all three ‘dramas’ are concerned with the theme
of a monstrous, ‘all-devouring’ (παμφάγος) consumer, and all are trans-
mitted in the poetic collection of a single manuscript, Venice, Biblioteca
Nazionale Marciana, gr. 524. This suggests that the anonymous Byzantine
compiler of the collection was himself aware of and interested in the ‘the-
atrical turn’ in twelfth-century poetry.

45 An allusion to the Telchines, mythical, malevolent goblins who in secular, classicizing literature of
this period are the equivalent of evil demons in hagiographical texts.
46 The group of five cities to which Sodom and Gomorrah belonged (Gen 14, 19.24–5; Wisdom 10.6).
47 See Chryssogelos (2017: 47–51).
48 Ed. Macrides (1985).
49 Macrides (1985: 158), Marciniak and Warcaba (2018). See also Lauxtermann in this volume.
80 paul magdalino
Social and Cultural Context
It remains to explain this theatrical turn: why did the theatricality that had
always been present in Greek poetry get a new lease of life in the twelfth
century, apparently becoming more pronounced and more explicit? A large
part of the answer has been anticipated at the beginning of this chapter,
and, before that, in studies dating back more than thirty years. The twelfth
century was more theatrical because it showcased more and better rhe-
torical theatra, because it saw the proliferation and enhancement of the
venues and occasions in which belles lettres were performed. However, the
typology of these contexts has not been systematically explored, and its
different strands have not been brought together, or looked at in the light
of the cultural developments that favoured a greater appreciation of drama
as a mode of rhetorical discourse.
Without attempting to supply this desideratum in the depth that it
merits, I shall briefly outline the contributing factors. First, we should
not overlook the continuing existence of one ancient theatre that was still
going strong, the Hippodrome of Constantinople: ‘this theatre here, the
one of recreation, with the capacity to accommodate whole cities and
tribes, in which competing horses race for our delight’, as Constantine
Manasses described it in his Synopsis Chronike (2243–5).50 Chariot racing
still generated much excitement in the twelfth century, to judge from the
poem that Michael Hagiotheodorites wrote to describe one race,51 and
from the fact that one popular astrologer owed his reputation to his skill in
predicting the winners – surely a sign that betting took place.52 The races,
as well as the other entertainments offered in the interludes, were pre-
sumably still organized by the four popular ‘colour’ factions – the Blues,
Greens, Whites and Reds – that comprised the performing personnel, the
ancillary staff and the supporter clubs.53 It is unlikely that the Hippodrome
shows contained much in the way of verbal performance, although Cho-
niates tells us that one charioteer in the 1180s, Zinziphitzes, was famous
for the wicked wit of his satirical verse.54 In any case, the circus factions
were still an integral part of public ceremonial, traditionally responsible
not only for acclaiming the emperor when he presided over the games, but
also for performing songs of praise and acclamation on festive occasions

50 Ed. Lampsidis (1996). On the Hippodrome, see in general Pitarakis (2010), Dagron (2011); for
theatres in late antique Constantinople, see Magdalino (2023).
51 Marciniak and Warcaba (2014).
52 Wuilleumier (1927).
53 A. Cameron (1976), Roueché (2010).
54 Choniates, History ed. van Dieten (1975: 315).
 Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century Constantinople 81
such as imperial coronations, weddings and triumphs.55 It presumably fell
to the factions, as well, to compose and perform the mocking verses that
were sung to boo emperors in public or to accompany the shame parades
of convicted criminals.56 We cannot be sure to what extent the surviving
deme-hymns from the twelfth century represent a continuity, a revival or
a transformation of the genre, but one important innovation seems clear:
the texts were no longer composed and delivered by the deme poets in
the separate employment of the Blue and the Green factions. The authors
of the twelfth-century texts wrote for both factions, and the two authors
whose names we know, Theodore Prodromos and Niketas Choniates, are
best known for their work in a higher intellectual register and a higher
social milieu.57 In other words, the ceremonial poetry of the circus fac-
tions was now performed by learned men who enjoyed or aspired to the
patronage of the court. It is a reasonable hypothesis, on the basis of the
coronation poem of 1119, that this began with Prodromos and the reign of
John II.
After the Hippodrome, the next best thing to a real theatre in Con-
stantinople was the imperial palace. In addition to being a theatron for
the recital of ceremonial texts, it was the main refuge of the mime shows
that had been the staple of theatrical entertainment in late antiquity.58
We may also recall the evidence, from the seventh to ninth centuries, for
dances and chants performed by the Blues and the Greens at imperial
banquets, and for the ballet (saximon) performed by all the members of
the court on other occasions;59 moreover, twelfth-century texts remind
us that the Byzantine imperial court, like royal courts worldwide, was a
place for the exhibition of curiosa, like the dwarf from Chios who was
brought to the Palace of Manuel I,60 and for the risqué jokes of court
jesters, like Chalivoures who went too far at one dinner of Isaac II.61 It is
thus no accident that the court of John II, who enjoyed the occasional
laugh according to Choniates, gave rise to the most innovative, theatrical

55 The poets and other personnel responsible for the acclamations are mentioned in ceremonial
treatises of the ninth and tenth centuries: Philotheos, ed. Oikonomides (1972: 122–5, 160–1, 326);
Constantine Porphyrogennetos, De ceremoniis 2:44–5, 2:142–3, 3:404–5 ed. Dagron and Flusin
(2020).
56 Maas (1912: 35–6), Morgan (1954); Anna Komnene, Alexiad 12.6.5 ed. Reinsch and Kambylis (2001:
374–5). Cf. Magdalino (2007: 67–9) and (2021: 108–14), Lauxtermann (2019: 128–33).
57 Hörandner (2003); cf. Magdalino (2016: 60–2).
58 Webb (2009), Marciniak (2014b) and (2017), Roilos (2021: 275–8).
59 De ceremoniis 2:150–93, 4:425–34 ed. Dagron and Flusin (2020); Magdalino (2015: 175), Pitarakis
(2013: 131–8).
60 Messis and Nilsson (2015).
61 Ed. van Dieten (1975: 441–2); cf. Marciniak (2014b: 140).
82 paul magdalino
and entertaining verse texts of the period, the Ptochoprodromika, which
combined literary novelty and comic entertainment in the framework
of petitions to the emperor.62 They are remarkable not only for their
experimentation with literary vernacular, but also for their elevation of
slapstick comedy to a literary level. Perhaps we should think of them as
the textual metaphrasis of a mime show. But however we define their
textual innovation, it is important to point out that they, like the court
and deme poetry of the undisguised Theodore Prodromos, appeared at a
time of unprecedented change in the social environment of the imperial
court. From the reign of Alexios I, the imperial palace was no longer
the only theatron for the performance of ‘royal’ entertainment and cer-
emonial.63 Both the titled aristocracy and the flatterers who knocked at
their doors and sang their praises in return for cash received an upgrade
as a result of Alexios’ restructuring of the imperial hierarchy.64 Now the
princes of the extended imperial family had the status, the resources,
and the residential premises to create their own self-contained cultural
establishments based on their palatial households. They held audiences
at which they welcomed literary accolades, both for themselves and for
the antique objets d’art in their possession;65 it is no accident that the
three authors who offer social comment on rhetorical theatron write of
‘frequenting the houses of the great’.66 The Komnenian aristocracy could
offer job opportunities as well as occasional patronage, and could thus
compete with the imperial court to attract the services, the talents and
the loyalties of men of learning. This had serious implications when the
princes in question also nurtured political ambitions and intellectual
pretensions, as was the case in the generation that succeeded Alexios I.67
We know that John II felt politically threatened by his sister Anna and
brother Isaac.68 Did he also feel disadvantaged by their intellectual profile
and reputation? At any rate, it is surely revealing that Theodore Prodro-
mos, the innovatory court poet of John II, also flirted with other patrons,
including both Anna and Isaac sebastokrator, so that at the beginning of

62 Choniates, History ed. van Dieten (1975: 47); see above, n. 9 and E. M. Jeffreys (2016: 112, 118–19).
63 Magdalino (1993: 180–91, 342–56).
64 For the situation immediately before Alexios, see Michael Attaleiates, History ed. Pérez Martín
(2002: 198).
65 Lampsidis (1997).
66 Nicholas Kataphloron, ed. Loukaki (2000: 152–6); Nikephoros Basilakes, ed. Garzya (1984: 5);
Michael Choniates, ed. Lampros (1879: 10).
67 Magdalino (1993: 192–5).
68 Magdalino and Nelson (1982: 128–32), Hill (2000), Magdalino (2000: 18–23) and (2016: 62–5). On
Isaac as cultural patron, see Linardou (2016).
 Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century Constantinople 83
Manuel’s reign he felt obliged to issue a poetic statement of denial when
seeking a renewal of his contract: no, he had not opportunistically played
the field; no, he had not served any other lords than the emperor’s father
and grandmother.69
If there was competition among aristocratic theatra to attract the best
performers, there was certainly competition among men of learning to
pass the test of performance, for the theatron did not deal kindly with
failures.70 This competitiveness can be traced to the schools of grammar
and rhetoric where the aspiring literati learned their craft. As Floris Ber-
nard has shown for the eleventh century, the classroom itself was a trainee
theatron, where some dramatically expressive poems originated as school
exercises.71 The agonistic atmosphere reflected not only the competition
between students, but also the rivalry between teachers keen to advertise
the superiority of their own teaching methods and to trash the work of
others. From their comments and their teaching manuals, which have
survived in some abundance, it is clear that they devoted considerable
effort and ingenuity to the composition of model texts exemplifying the
theatrical effects that make twelfth-century poetry so eminently readable.
Nikephoros Basilakes, a contemporary of Theodore Prodromos, produced
a set of rhetorical exercises (progymnasmata) that were obviously meant to
provide a lively, alternative introduction to learning the rhetorical skills of
evocative composition;72 he no doubt used them to good effect in his four
long verse satires, which he consigned to the flames when he decided on an
ecclesiastical career.73 But Basilakes was also proud of his innovations in the
composition of schede, the grammatical exercises that were the preparation
for the progymnasmata, and he was not alone in setting great store by this
type of teaching tool, which predated the long twelfth century.74 The two
star poets of the twelfth century, and of this volume, Theodore Prodromos
and Constantine Manasses, wrote schede.75 The dismissive comments on
schedographia by other twelfth-century authors – Anna Komnene, John
Tzetzes and Eustathios of Thessalonike – were thus effectively backhanded

69 Ed. Maiuri (1914–19); see also Prodromos’ Historical Poem 71.92 ed. Hörandner (1974: 514–21).
70 Both Nikephoros Basilakes (ed. Garzya [1984: 5]) and Michael Choniates (ed. Lampros [1879: 13])
cite negative peer reaction as a reason not to perform in the theatron. Cf. Magdalino (1993: 336–8),
Bourbouhakis (2010: 178–9).
71 Bernard (2014: 222–9, 253–90). Gerbi in this volume argues for a similar agonistic school context
for a poem by Nicholas Kallikles.
72 Ed. and trans. Beneker and Gibson (2016).
73 Ed. Garzya (1984: 4–5).
74 Ed. Garzya (1984: 3), Agapitos (2014: 8–10 and passim) and (2013).
75 Agapitos (2014: 14–19) and (2015c); for Manasses, see Polemis (1996).
84 paul magdalino
c­ ompliments, reflecting the ubiquity and popularity of the genre.76 They
derive from the fact that schede were novel, original compositions, which
obliged students to learn from the teacher’s inventions rather than from the
classics of ancient literature. Schedographia was indeed the exact opposite
of what was long considered to have been the besetting sin of Byzantine
literary education, namely its adherence to and imitation of classical mod-
els. It was, rather, an exercise in creative writing, if only for its teachers, but
some of this creativity surely rubbed off on the students.77
At the same time, the critics of schedographia, particularly Tzetzes and
Eustathios, reflect another trend in twelfth-century education that demon-
strably enhanced the theatricality of contemporary poetry. This was the
rediscovery and revaluation of Homer as the ultimate source of all rhetor-
ical eloquence, and the ultimate inspiration for all literary techniques.78 I
do not mean to argue that the exegesis of Tzetzes and Eustathios resulted
in greater imitation of the Homeric epics. If anything, it was the other way
round: their commentaries reflected the increased exploitation of epic lan-
guage and style that we can already see at work in Prodromos’ hexameter
encomia for John II.79 I would merely suggest that the ever-increasing pop-
ularity of the epics as school texts was an incentive to use them as models
of narrative technique for oral presentation, and to quote from them for
dramatic effect, comic as well as tragic.80 More generally, the pedagogical
authority of Tzetzes, and especially of Eustathios, by whom we can assume
that all the important writers of the late twelfth century had been taught,
increased the moral and intellectual value of ancient poetry in the eyes of
the educated public. Poetry was explained as teaching by entertainment,
and this applied not only to Homer, as we can deduce from an under-ex-
ploited text of Eustathios, his sermon On Hypocrisy. Although directed at
the hypocritical monks of Thessalonike, it begins with a discourse on the
meaning of hypokrisis that Eustathios must have formulated in his lectures
to his students in Constantinople. He points out that hypokrisis had origi-
nally referred to the noble art of dramatic impersonation:

There was a time when actors gained praise and renown in theatres, by
adorning themselves with wisdom, which the teachers of tragedy contrived

76 Agapitos (2013), (2015b) and (2017), van den Berg (2020: 296–301), Lovato (2022).
77 See also Agapitos (2015a) and in this volume.
78 In his Allegories of the Iliad (ed. Boissonade; trans. Goldwyn and Kokkini [2015]), Tzetzes repeatedly
refers to Homer as a master rhetorician; for Eustathios, see Pizzone (2016), van den Berg (2017:
22–8) and (2022).
79 Ed. Hörandner (1974), poems 3, 6, 8.
80 A superb example of comic use is the anonymous satire on an astrologer, ed. Zagklas (2016: 897–901).
 Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century Constantinople 85
by reaching back to ancient stories, full of edifying lessons, and as it were
resuscitating the characters involved. The dramatists made them visible
through men who could, so to speak, impersonate them in acting, both
by the plausibility of rhetorical fiction and by character portrayal. In their
emotions and words, as if in mirrors, they directed the people who saw and
heard them towards the beauty of virtue. By such imaging (or one could say
impersonation, or even simulation) they evoked the teachings in books by
which our own life is still regulated.
So people at that time, indeed even people today, could learn from this
art about the whole mutability of fortune, the diversity of human character,
and the inexpressible differences in the human condition. The misfortunes
of kings, as recounted by the actors’ art, taught and indeed still teach that
one should not assume, trusting in a lofty position in life, that one will al-
ways remain on top, but one should watch out for the downfall.81

Eustathios stops short of recommending a revival of the ancient theatre as

an antidote to the pernicious hypocrisy of contemporary monasticism, but
this is where he is pointing by saying that ancient acting – comic as well
as tragic – was a virtuous pursuit whose lessons are still valid in his own
day.82 It was not difficult for him, or for his students, to make a connection
between ancient tragedy and the composition of new poems about tragic
events. At least one person who made the connection was Constantine
Stilbes, in his tragic lament on the fire of 1197; his debt to Eustathios, in
addition to Tzetzes and Prodromos, has been highlighted in the recent
study of his work.83
We do not know where Stilbes delivered his poem and before what audi-
ence. It is tempting to think that with this performance, the connection
between poetry and rhetorical theatron was on the point of taking off into
a revival of real theatre: an institution with multiple actors and material
props to amplify the verbal performance. May we conclude that here, as
in other areas of cultural life, a promising development was cut short by
1204? In this case, I do not think so. It seems to me that the trend all
along had been towards a greater sophistication and illusionism of virtual,
verbal theatre, rather than towards a crystallization of drama into a solid
material, spatial reality that catered directly to all the senses. Apart from
the spectacle of imperial ceremonial, where dialogue, choreography and
musical instruments came into play, the whole point of rhetorical theatron
had always been to maintain and develop a theatricality of pure logos, in

81 Cf. van den Berg (2017). The translation is my own, but indebted to van den Berg (2017: 20).
82 Cf. Metzler (2006: 89), Roilos (2021: 264–5), van den Berg (2021: 236–7).
83 Layman (2015: 10–16).
86 paul magdalino
which all the action, all the sensational and sensual effects were intellec-
tualized and verbalized in the vocal presentation of the solo performer.
Byzantine theatron was a performance without accompaniment and props,
which dematerialized the process of representation, by sublimating all sen-
sory communication into the conception and reception of the written,
sung and spoken word. In this, twelfth-century rhetorical practice may
be thought to have followed the minimalist tendencies, both of ancient
Greek epic and drama (which clearly appealed to Eustathios because of its
intellectualism), and of Christian preaching and liturgy, which had always
privileged the sacred word and the unaccompanied human voice, even
when sanctioning, though not uncontroversially, the presence of sacred
images and the elaboration of liturgical music. Twelfth-century Byzan-
tium, while continuing to give icons their due and developing polyphonic
chant, experimented and invested above all in the representational power
of logos. In this, its ultimate inspiration lay perhaps in the eloquence of the
fourth-century Church Fathers, notably that scourge of the theatre John
Chrysostom.84

Conclusion
In any case, the precedent of Chrysostom stands as a reminder that if the
virtual theatre of logos did, counterfactually, have a real future in Constan-
tinople on the eve of 1204, this did not necessarily lie with poetry. In con-
clusion, I have to go with the prevailing drift of this volume and empha-
size the close, interactive, egalitarian symbiosis between poetry and prose.85
For both the teachers and the practitioners of Byzantine literature, poetry
was a subdivision of rhetoric. The great poets of antiquity were revered as
master rhetoricians, and Byzantine poetry was profoundly influenced by
the construction of prose rhetoric.86 The theatrical techniques of poetry
were essentially the methods taught in rhetorical handbooks, which were
written in prose primarily as guides to the composition of prose orations.
Prose was not only the traditional medium of classical oratory; it was also
the canonical medium of philosophy, the Bible and biblical exegesis, and
the most common form of dramatization: the Platonic and Lucianic dia-
logue. For several reasons, therefore, by 1204 the theatrical turn in Byzan-
tine literature was no longer being led by verse, in contrast to the middle

84 Webb (2017), Lugaresi (2017).

85 See also Zagklas (2017).
86 Lauxtermann (1998).
 Poetry and Theatre in Twelfth-Century Constantinople 87
of the century, and in spite of Constantine Stilbes and his contemporaries
who wrote fine poems, such as Michael Choniates and Euthymios Torni-
kes.87 Eustathios himself put his creative energy into the composition of
rhythmic prose.88 Prose was the medium favoured by Nicholas Mesarites
for his highly cinematic descriptions and narrations.89 The work that sur-
passed the poem of Stilbes as a combination of tragic lament and Old Tes-
tament-style incrimination, the work that said the last word on the long
twelfth century, was the History of Niketas Choniates.

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 ch apter 3

Rethinking the Mixed Style

in Twelfth-Century Poetry*
Markéta Kulhánková

Intense exploration of the literature of the twelfth century has borne fruit.
We now know a great deal about the prominent status of poetry, literary
experiments with both prose and verse, and the restoration of ancient genres
and forms. We have started to better understand the phenomenon of sche-
dography and appreciate the performativity of literature produced during
this period. One still relatively obscure issue is the penetration of vernacular
language into the literature of this period,1 represented chiefly by the Ptoch-
oprodromika,2 a well-known and much-discussed collection of four (or five)
supplicatory humorous poems;3 the Verses from Prison by Michael Glykas;4
and partly also the heroic poem Digenis Akritis,5 although the situation with
this work is even more complicated due to, above all, the unknown rela-
tionship between the known (later) versions and the original (lost) poem.
The aim of this chapter is to revisit scholarly opinions on the principles
and functions of the switching between language registers in these works
and to reconsider the issue from a narratological point of view.6 I will
explore whether we can determine certain principles for the changes in
language levels that are more specific than the commonly mentioned vague
distinction between ‘more popular’ and ‘more learned’. I will suggest that

* This study is a result of the project ‘A Narratological Commentary on the Byzantine Epos Digenis
Akritis’ funded by the Czech Science Foundation (19-05387S).
1 For a useful socio-linguistic approach to Byzantine diglossia and register variation, see Toufexis
(2008).
2 Ed. Eideneier (1991); cf. also the revised version of both the edition and the introduction (in Greek)
in Eideneier (2012), and the older edition by Hesseling and Pernot (1910).
3 Sometimes, and for good reasons, the so-called Maiuri Poem (ed. Maiuri ([1919]) is also attached
to the Ptochoprodromika; cf. Eideneier (1991: 34–7), Hörandner (1993), Janssen and Lauxtermann
(2018).
4 Ed. Tsolakis (1959).
5 Ed. Jeffreys (1998); see also the editions by Trapp (1971) and S. Alexiou (2006).
6 In addition to classical narratological concepts, chiefly those of Genette ([1972] 1980) and Bal
(2009), I also draw on contemporary, post-classical approaches, especially of diachronic or medieval
narratology; cf. Fludernik (2003) and especially von Contzen (2014).

95
96 markéta kulhánková
there are chiefly two principles influencing the choice between the lower
and higher registers: one is the narrative distance of the speaking voice
from the narrated events, and the other is the deliberate use of different
types of discourse.

Ptochoprodromika: Characteristics and Language

Fierce debates about the Ptochoprodromika, focusing especially on the
authorship of the collection, took place during the last quarter of the twen-
tieth century and then fell silent towards the turn of the millennium since
neither the defenders nor opponents of Theodore Prodromos’ authorship
were able to propose persuasive direct evidence. Therefore, while the major-
ity of scholars have, based on indirect evidence and more or less intuitively,
tended to accept Prodromos’ authorship, many of Hans Eideneier’s argu-
ments against it have never been convincingly rejected.7 Of the numerous
studies dedicated to the analysis of the Ptochoprodromika, I would like to
recall here the analysis of the fourth poem8 by Roderick Beaton, who sug-
gested that the vernacular literary works of the twelfth century have to be
read and perceived within the frame of Byzantine rhetoric and proposed
seeing them as satirical rhetorical exercises; thus he considered the fourth
poem a humorous rendering of the two most popular types of progymnas-
mata: the ethopoiia and the enkomion.9 In other words, Beaton suggested
that the speaking voice of the poem is nothing more than a literary per-
sona, an aspect that Emmanuel Bourbouhakis further elaborated in his
analysis of Glykas’ Verses from Prison.10
The invitation to read and appreciate these works within the context
of Byzantine rhetoric expressed by Beaton and Bourbouhakis largely con-
curs with Panagiotis Agapitos’ recent attempt to put the Ptochoprodromika
more properly within the literary context of the period. Agapitos directed
attention to Prodromos’ schedographic works and discovered notewor-
thy parallels with the Ptochoprodromika, especially in the combination of
vernacular and learned language features, the humorous and moralizing
character, the experimentation with literary forms and the predilection for
forming various types of literary series or sequels.11 Since all these features

7 E.g. the objections against Prodromos’ authorship of the Maiuri Poem. For an overview of the
scholarly discussions, see Kulhánková (2021a).
8 Numbering follows Eideneier (1991).
9 Beaton (1990); cf. also Beaton (1987).
10 Bourbouhakis (2007).
11 Agapitos (2015: 20); see also Agapitos (2014).
 Rethinking the Mixed Style in Twelfth-Century Poetry 97
and techniques emerge in the context of school education, Agapitos calls
them a ‘teacherly style’.12
The language of the Ptochoprodromika is often labelled as a ‘mixed’ style.
However, it is worth recalling that this term can refer to two quite different
phenomena. First, it has been used for the combination of modern and
conservative linguistic features which creates the vernacular parts of the
poems,13 and, second, the same term can indicate the shifting between this
lower language register and a higher one within a single poem.14 As Maria
Karyolemou showed, the mixing of vernacular and archaizing features is
more or less typical for all Byzantine literature. Karyolemou further argued
that ‘very often what differentiates two literary texts is not the presence of a
classic/vernacular feature in one text as compared to the absence of the very
same feature in another, but rather the frequency of use of each feature in
each text’.15 In the Ptochoprodromika, some archaizing and some vernacular
features can be found throughout the poems in their entirety, but still, the
tendency towards a more learned and more vernacular language respec-
tively in some passages is perceptible enough. The explanation, however,
that learned language is reserved for the proems and epilogues and the
vernacular for the poems’ cores is too simplistic,16 and similarly simplistic
and vague is Hans Eideneier’s statement that the popular (‘volkstümlich’)
scenes make use of the vernacular, while the non-popular passages use
standard learned written language (‘übliche gelehrte Schriftkoine’).17
The most serious attempt so far at a complex insight into the collection’s
language has been Geoffrey Horrocks’ brief exposition in his substantial
survey of the history of the Greek language.18 Horrocks, however, deals
with the Ptochoprodromika within a chapter dedicated to the development
of Byzantine spoken language, and thus takes into consideration only the
‘vernacular’ poems’ cores. He assumes that in these parts ‘the language […]
is based predominantly on the speech of the educated aristocracy, a variety

12 Agapitos (2015: 33). See also Marciniak and Warcaba (2018), who uncovered in Prodromos’
Katomyomachia a similar manner of combining features of different genres and discourses to that
which can be found in vernacular works.
13 Horrocks (2010: 341–2).
14 Eideneier (1991: 26).
15 Karyolemou (2014: 43–4); cf. also Trapp (1993). For the difficulty in making a clear distinction
between the low and high registers, see also Toufexis (2008: 213–15): ‘H and L represent two
extreme points of a continuum’. For an account of some conservative linguistic features of the
Ptochoprodromika, see Janssen and Lauxtermann (2018: 570).
16 Cf. e.g. Toufexis (2008: 216–17).
17 Eideneier (1991: 26).
18 See below for the new analysis of some linguistic peculiarities by Janssen and Lauxtermann (2018).
For the overview of older studies, see ibid., p. 565, n. 31.
98 markéta kulhánková
which is sometimes deliberately distorted in the mouths of the would-be
upwardly mobile, and supplemented for comic effect with items of every-
day vocabulary and urban slang or the very formal language of the court’.19
Panagiotis Agapitos is more cautious regarding the relationship between
the so-called vernacular language and the contemporary language spoken
in the streets. He labels the register a ‘poetic idiom’ and a ‘crafted style fitted
for ambitious literary compositions’.20 However, what Agapitos presents as
opposite to this language level as a ‘very good specimen of colloquial dis-
course’,21 a legal document full of orthographical mistakes and obviously
both written and dictated by a person with very limited education, is still a
testimony composed as a written text and as such necessarily influenced by
the – although possibly limited – ideas of both the witness and the scribe
about what a written legal document should look like. In my view, this text
with a series of datives, infinitives, participial constructions and dependent
clauses can be hardly considered a more authentic sample of colloquial dis-
course than what we read in the Ptochoprodromika or Glykas’ verses.22 That
the idiom of the poems is indeed poetic and cannot be put on the same
level as spoken language is beyond any doubt, but it is equally likely that it
is based on contemporary spoken language.23 I therefore concur with Mar-
tin Hinterberger’s suggestion that spoken language (‘demotic’, as Hinter-
berger calls it) was initially used in literary texts to render direct speech and
it gradually developed into the literary so-called vernacular, whereas the
Ptochoprodromika ‘mark a transitional period where the vernacular slowly
transcends the confines of direct discourse’.24 Furthermore, to the Ptocho­
prodromika we surely cannot wholly apply what Agapitos stated regarding
Prodromos’ schede, namely that the switching between the two language
registers is ‘fluid and unmarked’.25

19 Horrocks (2010: 338).

20 Agapitos (2015: 37).
21 Agapitos (2015: 38).
22 For the exposition of how little these language features correspond with the contemporary spoken
language, see now the respective chapters in Holton et al. (2019).
23 Cf. also Hinterberger (2018: 40–1).
24 Hinterberger (2006: 8–9). Cf. Hinterberger (1993: 452) and (2016: 139–41); see also Trapp (1993:
117), who suggested that ‘vernacular tendencies … can be due to vivid narration, quotation of
original sayings, or satiric intention’. A suitable parallel, after some simplification, is to be found
in Greek literature some 700 years later, when vernacular language (dimotiki) penetrated into
literary texts starting with direct discourse and followed by narrative passages, while the archaizing
katharevousa was preserved longest in descriptions. However, concerning the relationship between
spoken language and the written low register, see also Toufexis (2008), who explains why the
parallel with the modern Greek diglossia is only partly fitting.
25 Agapitos (2015: 10).
 Rethinking the Mixed Style in Twelfth-Century Poetry 99
My intention is to pursue the analysis of the switching of language reg-
isters more thoroughly. I will not offer a detailed linguistic treatment of
the language of the Ptochoprodromika, however useful this would be,26 and
although especially now, when the long-awaited monumental Cambridge
Grammar of Medieval and Early Modern Greek offers an excellent tool to
describe more precisely the phonetic, morphological and syntactic specif-
ics of a particular text,27 such a task is no longer impossible. My ambition
is much more modest: to suggest that there is a narrative-internal logic
behind switching registers.

Switching Registers: Introductory Remarks

For a closer parallel to the register switching in the Ptochoprodromika let us
first turn to a later literary work, namely the Entertaining Tale of Quadru-
peds. Nick Nicholas and George Baloglou, in their introductory study to
the English translation of this vernacular allegorical poem from the four-
teenth century, suggested that the use of particular language registers in
this work is influenced by the type of voice (direct speech – narration).
They observed that the narrative parts are written in a ‘more conventional
discourse’, which they explained as being due to the fact that ‘the narra-
tive voice needs to be distanced from the invective and vulgarity of the
animals’.28 At the same time, they pointed out that the narrative of the
battle in the closing part of the poem is in language ‘as straightforward as
in the disputation’, a fact they explained by the demands of the ‘action-
packed struggle’.29 Influenced by these observations, Hans Eideneier in his
last paper on the Ptochoprodromika undertook a quick analysis of the first
poem and stated that the shifting of language registers here works on the
same principle and that the internal dialogues fall into the same category
of more vernacular language as direct speech.30
Nicholas and Baloglou used as criteria for distinguishing the higher
register from the lower three distinct features: (1) the classical construc-
tion of the genitive absolute, (2) the dative and (3) adjectival participles

26 Recently, Marjolijne Janssen and Marc Lauxtermann have made first steps towards such an analysis
with their study of one particular language phenomenon (conditional clauses) and one metrical
phenomenon (synizesis and hiatus). They have indicated some differences in Ptoch. 4 and thus
reopened the question of different authors for different poems: see Janssen and Lauxtermann
(2018).
27 Holton et al. (2019).
28 Nicholas and Baloglou (2003: 119).
29 Nicholas and Baloglou (2003: 120).
30 Eideneier (2007: 65–6); cf. Horrocks (2010: 341–2).
100 markéta kulhánková
of the active and passive aorist. Traditionally, the usage of the particle νά
with subjunctive was considered a main sign of the vernacular.31 With
the support of the Cambridge Grammar and the recent study on some
aspects of the language and metre of the Ptochoprodromika by Marjolijne
Janssen and Marc Lauxtermann,32 it is now possible to refine the criteria
of the distinction between the ‘learned’ and the ‘vernacular’ passages in
the poems.
I have chosen one or two features of each part of grammar which are, in
my view, distinct enough to be perceptible for an audience of the period.
Starting with phonology, the tendency to avoid hiatus by synizesis can be
considered as one such feature. In his recent survey of the metre of Byzan-
tine poetry, Marc Lauxtermann showed that synizesis is extremely rare in
learned poetry.33 In his particular study of synizesis and hiatus in the Pto-
choprodromika, Lauxtermann does not comment on differences between
the learned and the vernacular sections.34 A closer look at this phenome-
non proves that there is indeed hardly any synizesis in the prooimia and
high-style passages of Ptoch. 1, 3 and 4,35 and synizesis thus can be indeed
considered the first distinct feature of the vernacular.36
Of the morphological and morphosyntactic features, the use of archaic
possessive adjectives instead of weak forms of the genitive of the personal
pronouns can be used as a distinct sign of more learned style,37 and the
privileging of the analytic future and subjunctive (νὰ + subjunctive and
other analytic forms) over the synthetic as a sign of the opposite tendency.38
For the syntactic features, Nicholas and Baloglou can be followed in two
of their three points: the use of the classical construction of the genitive
absolute and the dative (both for nouns and pronouns) is characteristic of
the passages in higher register. On the other hand, preference for parataxis
instead of hypotaxis is one of the long-recognized signs of the vernacu-
lar. On the contrary, inflected participles and infinitives are used in the

31 Hinterberger (2006: 6–7).

32 Janssen and Lauxtermann (2018).
33 Lauxtermann (2019: 293).
34 Janssen and Lauxtermann (2018: 580–3; see esp. fig. 25.1).
35 Lauxtermann went through the first 100 verses of Ptoch. 1, where the first synizesis occurs in v. 28,
after the end of the learned prooimion. For poems 3 and 4, he started counting from verses 56 and
38 respectively, after the prooimion. In my inquiry I have neglected Ptoch. 2 and the Maiuri Poem,
where the prooimia are very short and the switches less clear, which would make the survey less
convincing.
36 Cf. Holton et al. (2019: 98–110).
37 Ptoch 1.3: τὰς σὰς λαμπρὰς εὐεργεσίας; Ptoch 2.5: πρὸς τὸν ἐμὸν δεσπότην; Ptoch. 3.5: τῆς σῆς
ἀνακτορίας. Cf. Holton et al. (2019: 914).
38 Cf. the chapter on morphosyntax in Holton et al. (2019: 1767–1857).
 Rethinking the Mixed Style in Twelfth-Century Poetry 101
­ tochoprodromika in both lower and higher registers and either might have
P
still been in use in spoken language at that time,39 or maybe were one of
the archaic specifics of the particular work.40
Although from a linguist’s point of view these criteria may seem insuf-
ficiently scientific, I believe that for the purposes of narratological rather
than linguistic analysis and for the sake of clarity this brief list of distinct
features may suffice.

The Voices of Ptochoprodromika

Let us now turn to the narratological section. I will enlarge the list of the
types of voice and consider, apart from direct speech (including internal
monologues) and narration, also metanarrative, a type of voice which
includes the narrator’s remarks and comments regarding the story, the
discourse and the process of narration and comprises a significant part of
the poems (almost one fourth of the first poem and more than one third
of the third).41 In addition to the Ptochoprodromika, I will also briefly
discuss the other contemporary poetic works where changing of language
registers has been noted: Michael Glykas’ Verses from Prison and both
basic versions of the poem Digenis Akritis: the Grottaferrata and Escorial
versions.
Let us have a closer look at the aforementioned three types of voice.
Direct speech, which is frequent in the Ptochoprodromika, can be classified
in most cases as vernacular/low register. This includes not only standard
direct speech,42 but also typical examples such as the hero’s internal mono-
logue from the first poem:

1 Διὰ τὴν ψυχήν σου, Πρόδρομε, καθίζου σιγηρός σου,

ὅσα κἂν λέγῃ βάσταζε καὶ φέρε τα γενναίως·
ἂν πλήξῃς γὰρ καὶ δώσῃς την πολλάκις νὰ πονέσῃ,
ὡς εἶσαι γέρων καὶ κοντὸς καὶ ὡσὰν ἀδυνατίζεις,
ἴσως νὰ ἁπλώσῃ ἐπάνω σου καὶ νὰ σὲ σύρῃ ἐμπρός της,
καὶ ἂν τύχῃ καὶ ἀποδείρῃ σε, νὰ σὲ ἐξεσφοντυλίσῃ. (Ptochoprodromika
1.158–63)

39 Cf. Horrocks (2010: 298, 341).

40 The same is also true in the case of e.g. the old active aorist imperative in -ον; cf. Ptoch. 1.14:
ἄκουσον ἅπερ ὁ τάλας γράφω (learned passage) and 1.195: κατάλειψον τὴν δύναμιν (vernacular
passage).
41 For the theoretical narratological background, see Genette ([1972] 1980: 161–268), von Contzen
(2014: 184) and, specifically for the last category, Nünning (2004).
42 E.g. 1.193–7 and 3.164–5.
102 markéta kulhánková
Prodromos, sit and hush, for thine soul’s sake,
whatev’r she says endure and bravely bear,
if you shall strike and give her only pain,
yourself now aged and withered, short of breath,
against you she may rush and pull you close,
and she might flay you red and break thy neck.43

This extract contains several synizeses (καὶ ὡσὰν, νὰ ἁπλώσῃ, καὶ ἂν, καὶ
ἀποδείρῃ, σὲ ἐξεσφοντυλίσῃ), weak forms of personal nouns (σου, την,
σου, σέ) and exclusively analytic subjunctives (νὰ πονέσῃ, νὰ ἁπλώσῃ,
νὰ σὲ σύρῃ, νὰ σὲ ἐξεσφοντυλίσῃ). On the other hand, no archaic fea-
tures – possessive adjectives, synthetic future or subjunctive or genitive
absolutes – occur. It is noteworthy that more or less the same register is also
found in some narrative passages, such as:

2 Ἡ δὲ τὰς ἀποκρίσεις μου μὴ καταδεχομένη,

στήκει, τριχομαδίζεται, δέρει τὰ μάγουλά της·
συνάγει τὰ παιδία της, ἀπαίρει καὶ τὴν ῥόκαν,
ἐμβαίνει εἰς τὸ κουβούκλιν της, κλείει σφικτὴν τὴν θύραν,
μουλλώνεται καὶ κρύπτεται, ἐμὲ δ’ ἀφήνει ἔξω. (Ptochoprodromika
1.123–7)

Of my responses she accepted none,

she stands, she tears her hair, she claws her cheeks,
she gathers kids and takes the distaff out,
she enters in her room, locks sturdy door,
hiding, mute as a mule, she keeps me out.

The syntax is simple, paratactic, with no datives or absolute genitives;

possessive adjectives are replaced by the weak form of genitive of per-
sonal nouns (τὰς ἀποκρίσεις μου, τὰ μάγουλά της, τὰ παιδία της, τὸ
κουβούκλιν της); the first hemistich of verse 126 has to be read with syn­i­
zesis to sustain the metre.44

43 This study deals with the language and style rather than with the content of the poems. I do
not believe it is possible, at least in the present state of research, to represent the Greek properly
in English translation. I have therefore decided to provide, instead of a standard philological
translation, which would not contribute noticeably to my argument, an experimental poetic
translation in blank verse that, on occasion, tries to emulate the shifts in register by freely mixing
both archaic and modern English. The author of the translation is my dear colleague, classical
philologist Juraj Franek, to whom I am immensely grateful that he found the time and energy to
get to grips with the peculiar Byzantine language and its poetic ploys. We both hope that the reader
will receive this small literary experiment kindly, as ‘condiments’ (as our hero would express it).
44 Cf. similar style in 3.120–7.
 Rethinking the Mixed Style in Twelfth-Century Poetry 103
On the other hand, other narrative passages bear many characteristic
features of the high register, as can be seen in the next example:

3 Ἀσχολουμένων τοιγαροῦν τῶν γυναικῶν καὶ πάντων

τῶν συνελθόντων ἐπ’ αὐτῷ, ὡς φθάσας εἶπον ἄνω,
τοῦ βρέφους τῷ συμπτώματι καὶ τοῦ παιδὸς τῷ πάθει,
κρυπτῶς ἀπῆρα τὸ κλειδὶν καὶ ἤνοιξα τὸ ἀρμάριν·
φαγὼν εὐθύς τε καὶ πιὼν καὶ κορεσθεὶς ἐξαίφνης,
ἐξῆλθον ἔξωθεν κἀγὼ θρηνῶν σὺν τοῖς ἑτέροις. (Ptochoprodromika
1.213–18)

When women then and all those standing there

were engaged, as I mentioned just above,
with the babe’s mishap, with the child’s distress,
in secret, key I took, breached pantry’s door.
I ate, I drank, got stuffed with no delay,
and went out joining others in lament.

In the second hemistich of verse 216 we find two hiatus which have to be
pronounced if the metre is to be kept properly; moreover, there is a large
construction with the genitive absolute (Ἀσχολουμένων τῶν γυναικῶν καὶ
πάντων τῶν συνελθόντων) and two constructions with the dative (τοῦ
βρέφους τῷ συμπτώματι καὶ τοῦ παιδὸς τῷ πάθει; σὺν τοῖς ἑτέροις).45 I
would like to suggest that the difference between examples 2 and 3 may lie
in the use of present-tense vs past-tense narration. The hero, who is simul-
taneously the narrator,46 uses a series of present tenses describing a scene: a
passage of a narrative where events are told in great detail and the time of
narration comes close to the real-time duration of the particular event.47
The narrator-hero here submerges more into the narrated world than is
the case with past-tense narration, and he presents himself, in that specific
moment, more as a hero than as a narrator.48
The stylistic level of the metanarrative passages is similarly varied. Even
within the proems, traditionally regarded as using high style, we encounter

45 Cf. stylistically similar passages: 3.255–63 and 4.625–32.

46 On the concept of narrator and its relation to the heroes in medieval literature, see von Contzen (2018).
47 There is abundant narratological literature on the present tense used in narrative. On this type of a
series of presents describing an action, see, most illustratively, Fleischman (1990: 23–6 and 149–50),
who calls this device visualizing present tense, and Fludernik (1991) and (1992). For a detailed
account of the modern theory, see Philippowski (2018). This so-called mimetic present tense occurs
frequently in the E version of Digenis Akritis, but is not to be found in the G version; see Dzurillová
and Kulhánková (2022: 377–80).
48 Similarly, in the narrative of the battle in the Entertaining Tale of Quadrupeds, the present tense
prevails over the past tense: see verses 1016ff. in Nicholas and Baloglou (2003).
104 markéta kulhánková
both higher (example 4, see esp. the way the infinitive in verse 6 is substan-
tivized and the generally more elevated syntax) and lower (example 5, see
the analytic subjunctives) registers:

4 Πρό τινος ἤδη πρὸ καιροῦ καὶ πρὸ βραχέος χρόνου

οὐκ εἶχον οὖν ὁ δύστηνος τὸ τί προσαγαγεῖν σοι
κατάλληλον τῷ κράτει σου καὶ τῇ χρηστότητί σου
καὶ τῇ περηφανείᾳ σου καὶ χαριτότητί σου,
εἰ μή τινας πολιτικοὺς ἀμέτρους πάλιν στίχους,
συνεσταλμένους, παίζοντας, ἀλλ’ οὐκ ἀναισχυντῶντας,
παίζουσι γὰρ καὶ γέροντες, ἀλλὰ σωφρονεστέρως.
(Ptochoprodromika 1.5–11)

It’s been some time ago, not long before,

that poor old me had naught to offer you,
to match thy might and heart both good and kind,
and equal your noblesse and state of grace,
if not – again – some verses out of step,
political, low, playful, but not mean,
for greybeards, they play too, but wisely so.

5 καὶ κρεῖσσον εἶχον, δέσποτα, τὸ νὰ μὲ θάψουν ζῶντα

καὶ νὰ μὲ βάλουν εἰς τὴν γῆν καὶ νὰ μὲ περιχώσουν,
παρὰ νὰ μάθῃ τίποτε τῶν ἄρτι γραφομένων.
(Ptochoprodromika 1.30–2)

O Lord, they’d better bury me alive,

and lay me into earth and close the grave,
rather than she finds out what I just wrote.

The proems of the Ptochoprodromika have been much discussed, but usually
separately from the poems’ cores and not as an organic part of the poems with
an important and specific narrative function.49 However, as Margaret Alex-
iou noted, the structure of the Ptochoprodromika is deliberately ‘episodic and
discursive’ and the poems are kept together and formed into an autonomous
literary unit mainly by those passages Alexiou called ‘­transitional ­sections’,
precisely what is called metanarrative in narratology.50 In other words, the
proems are the most prominent – but by far not the only – metanarrative
passages, comprising a substantial part of the poems, and their importance
for our understanding of the poems is crucial. The cardinal function of the

49 See, symptomatically, Reinsch (2001).

50 Cf. M. Alexiou (1999: 95–102).
 Rethinking the Mixed Style in Twelfth-Century Poetry 105
poems’ metanarrative passages is, as Alexiou recognized, organizational, but
they perform a wide range of other functions, referring to the story, the dis-
course and the process of narration. Many of the metanarrative passages in
the Ptochoprodromika are oriented to the factual audience outside the liter-
ary text, as they contain a direct address to the emperor (or other sponsor).51
I believe that a similar tendency to that which I suggested above for the
narrative parts can be observed here: the more extra-diegetic and digressive
a metanarrative passage is, the higher its language level is, as can be seen in
example 4. In contrast, brief story-oriented comments that approach the
diegetic level are often in the same lower register as standard narrative and
direct speech passages. The two following excerpts can be compared. Exam-
ple 6 in lower style, with the colloquial question τί μὲ λέγεις; consists of
only one verse and the narration continues immediately, whereas in example
7 the first verse, with exactly the same meaning, but in higher register and
the more learned variant of both the verb and the pronoun in dative, is
followed by a short series of encomiastic verses, and thus the whole passage
recedes significantly from the diegetic level:

6 Τὴν κεφαλήν σου, βασιλεῦ, πρὸς τοῦτο, τί μὲ λέγεις;

(Ptochoprodromika 3.108)

By heaven, King, what do you say to this?

7 Σὺ δὲ πρὸς τοῦτο, βασιλεῦ, τί μοι διακελεύεις;

Ἐλπίζω εἰς τὸ κράτος σου, ἵνα με ἐλεήσῃς,
καὶ πάλιν ἐκκλησιαστικὸς διάκονος νὰ γένω,
νὰ εὔχωμαι τὰ σκῆπτρα σου μέσης ἀπὸ καρδίας
σκῆπτρα κρατῆσαι κραταιῶς γῆς πάσης καὶ θαλάσσης.
(Ptochoprodromika 3.217–21)

What counsel, King, you give me as to this?

I trust your regal state to show me grace,
and once more make me deacon of the Church.
Your sceptres I shall praise in heart of hearts,
all-ruling sceptres, lords of land and sea.

Moving forward to the second factor influencing the choice of register, I

would like to pay attention to parody. There have been several attempts to

51 For a discussion of the character of the metanarrative and a thorough classification of metanarrative
comments, see Nünning (2003).
106 markéta kulhánková
identify parody in the Ptochoprodromika. One of the passages that invite
a parodic interpretation is the narrative about the combat of the hero-­
narrator with his wife (1.115–97), which most probably draws on an epic
narrative scheme, turning it to parody by replacing a wild animal with the
hero’s wife.52 Another type of parody can be found in imitations of the
speech of various characters, as demonstrated by Geoffrey Horrocks:53 one
example is the shifts in vocabulary and morphology in Ptochoprodromika
3.56–77, the passage where a father exhorts his son to study by trying to
upgrade his own language (at the beginning and end of this passage, he
elevates his style notably, while in the central part the speaker slips into
the lower register); another is 1.251–2, where the hero disguises himself as
a begging monk of apparently Slavic origin. In all these passages the lan-
guage register imitates the register of the object of parody.
Not everywhere is parody easily discernible and provable. An example of
a shift to a higher register which could be motivated by a parodic intention is
1.206–22, the passage in which Roderick Beaton saw such a strong thematic
link with Prodromos’ genuine works, the novel Rhodanthe and Dosikles and
the short dramatic parody Battle of Cat and Mice (Katomyomachia), that he
used it as one of his arguments for identifying the author of the Ptochopro-
dromika as Theodore Prodromos.54 Although Beaton interprets all the three
passages in a somewhat misleading way and the affinity is, in my view, not
close enough to be used as an argument for Prodromos’ authorship, the style
is indeed significantly elevated in comparison to the previous and following
sections of the poem and probably could be seen, if not as parody, at least as
an imitation of the high register used in contemporary learned literature.55
I have argued elsewhere that the main literary feature of the Ptoch­o­
prodromika lies in its play with various discourses.56 I have identified four
main discourses: laudatory, supplicatory, satiric and parodic. Parodic dis-
course, as we have seen, comprises elements of different styles: the epic, the
learned and the spoken language. Like Prodromos’ schede or his Katomyo-
machia, the Ptochoprodromika are an intentional amusing puzzle of genres

52 Cf. Digenis Akritis G, 4.112–45 ed. Jeffreys (1998). Margaret Alexiou (1999: 97) speaks about
‘parodic treatment of the twin Byzantine concepts of heroism and warfare’, while Elizabeth Jeffreys
(2014: 147) sees in this passage a direct ‘misogynic parody of Digenes’ fight with a wild beast in his
adolescent aristeia’. My own suggestion is slightly different: I do not consider the passage from the
Ptochoprodromika necessarily a parody of this exact passage from Digenis, but a parodic use of a
widespread epic schema: cf. Kulhánková (2021b).
53 Cf. Horrocks (2010: 342).
54 Beaton (1987: 24–5). On the Katomyomachia, see Lauxtermann in this volume.
55 Cf. e.g. 1.206 (Τοῦ γοῦν ἡλίου πρὸς δυσμὰς μέλλοντος ἤδη κλῖναι), with quite frequent passages
describing the sunset in Rhodanthe and Dosikles ed. Marcovich (1992: 1.1–2, 1.86, 6.1–2, 7.72).
56 Kulhánková (2021a).
 Rethinking the Mixed Style in Twelfth-Century Poetry 107
and discourses, which includes shifts in the language levels that are not
haphazard but function according to a recognizable logic.

Glykas’ Verses from Prison and Digenis Akritis

Let us now prove the suggestion about intended and well-motivated shift-
ing of language register by turning briefly to the other two literary works
connected with the ‘diglossia’ of the Komnenian period. What we find
in Glykas’ Verses from Prison is quite close to what we have just observed
in the Ptochoprodromika. We can basically distinguish the hero-narrator’s
voice, which sometimes slips into an internal monologue (the addressee
changes from the reader or listener to the narrator himself ), direct speech
and quotations. There are two basic categories of quotations and para-
phrases, the language register of which corresponds to the respective
sources: the language of biblical quotations and paraphrases is biblical,57
while the passages quoting or paraphrasing folk proverbs are written in
the low register.58 Similarly, a distinguishably lower register is used in the
last section of the poem, where direct speech is delivered by an anon-
ymous voice (520–37, 574–81), while the language of the hero-narrator
(both when he speaks to the addressee and during his internal mono-
logue) could be characterized as middle register with the occasional use of
vernacular elements. It is thus one more illustration of the process which
Hinterberger has described as the use of demotic Greek to render direct
speech (or quotation in this case) slowly transgressing these boundaries.59
Glykas’ use of the various registers is not as sophisticated as what we have
seen in the Ptochoprodromika, but it goes in the same direction. It is worth
noting that the changes in register are not as frequent and elaborated in
all the poems of the Ptochoprodromika as they are in the examples we have
seen above, mostly from the first and third poems. In the fourth poem,
the shifts are rare and not as distinct (but it is important to mention that
nearly the entire poem is in the present tense; the past-tense narration is
limited to a few cases, one of them the aforementioned passage 4.625–32).
Both the second poem of the Ptochoprodromika and the Maiuri Poem are
closer to Agapitos’ notion of the ‘fluid and unmarked’ mixture of various
linguistic registers.60

57 See the list in Tsolakis (1959: 23–5).

58 See the list in Politis (1898).
59 Hinterberger (2006).
60 Agapitos (2015: 10). See e.g. 2.1–12.
108 markéta kulhánková
A slightly different example of the same tendency is offered by Dige-
nis Akritis. Martin Hinterberger has pointed to a linguistic differentiation
between the direct speech and narrative passages in the G version of the
Digenis poem.61 A closer look at the G version proves Hinterberger’s sug-
gestion, although the differences in the language level of direct speech, nar-
ration and metanarrative are not as distinct as in the Ptochoprodromika: no
stylistic differences between present-tense and past-tense narration emerge
because the mimetic historical present tense in a scene is not used at all,62
the genitive absolutes occur in both narrative passages and direct speech,
the style of the metanarrative passages does not vary, and the narrative
passages and the fifth and sixth books consisting of Digenis’ first-person
narration do not differ in language level from the other books. However,
there are some less striking details that indeed prove that there is at least a
slight tendency to differentiate direct speech from narrative passages: Hin-
terberger mentioned the copula ἔνι, but there is also vernacular vocabulary
which occurs exclusively in direct discourse,63 and the conjunctive or future
formed with the particle να occurs predominantly in direct speech (only 5
of 47 occurrences are in narrative sections, and none in the metanarrative).
Roderick Beaton suggested that the lost original version of Digenis had
the same fluctuation among different registers as the other early vernacu-
lar texts and that the editor of the different versions set out to regularize
the original text into another style.64 Geoffrey Horrocks showed that there
occurs a blending of vernacular and learned elements in version E. In brief,
he suggested that the passages which draw upon literary tradition, such as
the well-known invocation of Eros (E 702–22), are composed in an obvi-
ously higher language register than those which originated from the oral epic
songs.65 Both of these suggestions would match quite well with the principle
of discourses changing according to the source or object of imitation, as we
have observed in the Ptochoprodromika and the Verses from Prison.
61 Hinterberger (2006: 9): ‘This phenomenon we also observe in the Grottaferrata version of the
Digenis poem where demotic features are concentrated in passages consisting of direct speech […].
I don’t see any differentiation of this kind in the later and purely vernacular Escorial version.’
62 The present tense used in the narration of Digenis G is the so-called diegetic present tense used as
an optional replacement for the narrative aorist, i.e. within a series of verbs in the past tense there
occurs one verb in the present tense which highlights a narrative turn. On the contrary, the passages
of the Ptochoprodromika with the register shift have a series of actions narrated in the present tense
in a scene, the so-called mimetic present tense, a device that does not occur in the G version of
Digenis but is frequent in the E version; see Dzurillová and Kulhánková (2022).
63 E.g. κύρης 4.284, 442, 594; κύρκας 2.131, 4.439, 6.105; ψυχίτζα 2.129, 4.626, 778, 808; εὐγενικόπουλα
2.198 – cf. Ptoch. 4.467.
64 Beaton (1996: 48).
65 Horrocks (2010: 334). On the oral background of Byzantine popular poetry, see also Jeffreys and
Jeffreys (1986).
 Rethinking the Mixed Style in Twelfth-Century Poetry 109
Conclusion
I have argued for a twofold logic behind switching between or combin-
ing two language registers. The first principle can be described as follows:
the smaller the narrative distance between the narrator and the narrated
world, the closer his speech is to the speech of the characters. It is not a
rule, only a tendency, but in some texts (especially Ptochoprodromika 1 and
3) it is quite clearly discernible. The other principle is the adaption of the
language level to a pattern or source, for various purposes. The simplest is
the mere imitation of the style of a particular text or discourse, another is
the preservation of the prescripts of a rhetorical form or a genre, and yet
another is the more sophisticated use of a language register associated with
the object of a parody.
Adapting the language level and style of speech to a speaking character
to different degrees according the narrative distance (direct speech – free
indirect speech – indirect speech) is a phenomenon well known in mod-
ern literatures and familiar to narratologists,66 and the same holds for the
adaption of the language for the sake of imitation or parody.67 Today, as
in the Byzantine literature of the twelfth century, the technique can be
more or less conscious and more or less elaborated.68 However, if we bear
in mind that combining features of different genres and discourses is also
a favourite technique of Theodore Prodromos, as in his schede and Kato-
myomachia, the sophisticated play with shifting language levels we have
observed especially in the first and third poems of the Ptochoprodromika is
yet another argument for Prodromos’ authorship of these peculiar poems,
or at least some of them.69

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Fludernik, M. (1991) ‘The Historical Present Tense Yet Again: Tense Switching
and Narrative Dynamics in Oral and Quasi-Oral Storytelling’, Text 11: 365–
98.
Fludernik, M. (1992) ‘The Historical Present Tense in English Literature: An Oral
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(2003) ‘The Diachronization of Narratology’, Narrative 11: 331–48.
Genette, G. ([1972] 1980) Narrative Discourse: An Essay in Method, trans. J. E.
Lewin; foreword by J. Culler. Ithaca, NY.
Hesseling, D. C., and H. Pernot (eds.) (1910) Poèmes prodromiques en grec vulgaire.
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Hinterberger, M. (1993) Review of Eideneier’s Ptochoprodromos, JÖByz 43:
451–4.
(2006) ‘How Should We Define Vernacular Literature?’, in Unlocking the
Potential of Texts: Interdisciplinary Perspectives on Medieval Greek. Cambridge
(https://www.mmll.cam.ac.uk/files/hinterberger.pdf ).
(2016) ‘Bemerkungen zur Sprache der Choniates-Metaphrase’, in Ὡς ἀθύρματα
παῖδας: Festschrift für Hans Eideneier, ed. U. Moennig, 135–55. Berlin.
Holton, D., G. Horrocks, T. Lendari, I. Manolessou and N. Toufexis (2019) The
Cambridge Grammar of Medieval and Early Modern Greek. Cambridge.
 Rethinking the Mixed Style in Twelfth-Century Poetry 111
Hörandner, W. (1993) ‘Autor oder Genus? Diskussionsbeiträge zur “Prodromischen
Frage” aus gegebenem Anlass’, ByzSlav 54: 314–24.
Horrocks, G. (2010) Greek: A History of the Language and its Speakers, 2nd ed.
London.
Janssen, M. C., and M. D. Lauxtermann (2018) ‘Authorship Revisited: Language
and Metre in the Ptochoprodromika’, in Reading in the Byzantine Empire and
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Jeffreys, E. M. (ed.) (1998) Digenis Akritis: The Grottaferrata and Escorial Versions.
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(2014) ‘The Afterlife of Digenes Akrites’, in Medieval Greek Storytelling:
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Veröffentlichungen zur Byzantinistik 12. Wiesbaden.
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Karyolemou, M. (2014) ‘What Can Sociolinguistics Tell Us about Learned
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Kulhánková, M. (2021a) ‘“For Old Men Too Can Play, Albeit More Wisely So”:
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 ch apter 4

‘Wishing to Imitate the Poet’

Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in
the Twelfth Century
Emmanuel C. Bourbouhakis

I began my presentation at the conference which occasioned this volume

with something of a confession of trespassing in a neighbouring field, or
more precisely, a neighbouring form. After all, I had come to a gather-
ing dedicated to poetry intending to talk about prose. I admitted that I
had no insights to share about the nature of twelfth-century poetry per se.
Instead, I hoped to draw on what I regard as the comparative advantage
of poetry specialists in matters of close formal analysis and a general alert-
ness to what the late and much missed Hayden White memorably called
the content of the form.1 I thus begged the indulgence of the audience and
expressed the hope that I would not been seen as encroaching. To under-
line why a discussion of prose might be especially apt at such a conference,
I offered the fact that what is arguably the single-most significant study
of Medieval Greek prose form had come from the desk of the now late
Wolfram Hörandner, the doyen of the study of Byzantine verse and in
many ways the intellectual patron saint of this conference. I was referring,
of course, to his seminal monograph, Der Prosarhythmus in der rhetorischen
Literatur der Byzantiner.2 Not having seen its equal in the study of prose in
the interim, it made sense to come to a gathering of his many colleagues
devoted to poetry in search of ideas. For even if we routinely segregate
discussion of poetic and prose texts for what seem like good professional
reasons, I remain unconvinced that such a partition accurately reflects Byz-
antine literary culture.3
Perhaps the most compelling reason for wishing to take part in a confer-
ence dedicated to poetry in the ‘long’ twelfth century was the opportunity
to hear from colleagues accustomed to linking form to function and sense

1 White (1987).
2 Hörandner (1981).
3 Bernard (2014: 56) has made the point well: ‘Byzantines only rarely divided the domain of logoi into
prose and poetry, and even where they did the difference between the two is merely a question of
form, with no further-reaching consequences.’

113
114 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
to structure. I do not think it would be unjust to the otherwise compel-
ling studies of various Medieval Greek prose genres and individual texts to
admit that when compared with poetry, the study of Byzantine prose poet-
ics lags considerably behind. To illustrate this, I asked the audience to try
to imagine convening an analogous conference entitled ‘Prose in the Long
Twelfth Century’. The implausibility of such a hypothesis speaks to the
incommensurate perception of the two forms. While the one is deemed
unmistakably the product of artifice, the other is widely assumed to be the
default mode of verbal communication, akin to a natural state of language.
No one, I think, would have trouble identifying which is which here.
Like everything else to do with language, this, too, has a long and com-
plex history which we cannot recapitulate here. Suffice it to say that lit-
tle about prose is ‘natural’, or at any rate more natural than verse. None
of us are born speaking ‘prose’ and we only do so after sustained formal
training. Prose had to be ‘invented’, to use Simon Goldhill’s term, no less
than poetry did.4 This was recognized throughout Greco-Roman antiquity,
which is credited with having fostered, then amplified, an art of prose,
bequeathed and further elaborated by successors to this tradition, includ-
ing the later Roman society of Byzantium, which continued to apply the
lessons of antiquity in matters of language. And like their ancient fore-
bears, highly literate Byzantines defined prose as the absence of metre, not
the absence of art. It is with this in mind that Ingela Nilsson has made the
point with reference to the once maligned twelfth-century versified chron-
icle Synopsis Chronike of Manasses that verse alone is not what makes a text
‘literary’ or ‘poetic’.5
But whereas poetry qua metrically patterned expression suffices to bring
together analyses of otherwise vastly different texts, prose has never served
as a common formal attribute binding various Medieval Greek texts across
genres. Things were not always thus, of course. A product of both occa-
sional or ceremonial oratory and the many proliferating genres of written
λόγος in antiquity, prose was regarded for most of history, and certainly
in the period spanning from Greco-Roman times down to Byzantium, as
a form of exacting and effective verbal artistry. True, its effectiveness, at
times, derived precisely from its ability to disguise or distract from its own
design. But both ancient and Byzantine authors and audiences of prose
genres remained attuned to the artfulness of the form and could, as a result
of their education, analyse it relatively independent of specific content.

4 Goldhill (2002).
5 Nilsson (2006).
 Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 115
The schools of rhetoric that emerged after the fifth century b c and
became near-synonymous with advanced Greek education well into the
Byzantine period taught proficiency in prose as a learned skill, in both
senses of the word. Rhetorical instruction was premised on a view of
prose as something achieved. Eventually, this joint Greco-Roman leg-
acy was not only bequeathed to speakers of both Greek and Latin, but
adapted to the vernaculars that gradually displaced Latin in much of
Western Europe. It was not until the renunciation of ‘rhetoric’ as a cur-
ricular subject in many European and North American schools and uni-
versities after the nineteenth century, a shift which coincided with an
avowed naturalism in literature, that a vocabulary to profile the formal
design of prose receded from view, and along with it a widespread rec-
ognition of its inherent artfulness. Needless to say, writers continued to
pay close attention to the many elements which went into creating a
prose style. In English alone, in a little more than half a century, prose
was marked by such striking variety as that displayed by Henry James,
Virginia Woolf, James Joyce, William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway.
I mention this by way of offering some much-needed backstory to our
inattention to prose form over and above the index graecitatis found in
the appendices of critical editions.
To begin with, we must resist the tendency to regard prose texts in the
various registers, but especially those in the uppermost reaches of the lan-
guage, as an unvariegated mass. I know of no systematic argument that
Byzantine prose did not undergo historical development from, say, the
sixth to the sixteenth centuries; or that Greek prose did not manifest nota-
ble variety of styles, even within broad registers, as is sometimes assumed
but almost never precisely articulated. Experience teaches us that, like any
complex form of expression, prose over the course of the ‘long’ twelfth
century could not remain unchanged over long periods, and not in spite of
the pronounced cultural imperative of mimesis but precisely because ever
new ways had to be found in order to accomplish the long-standing direc-
tive by authors in competition with one another to emulate authoritative
models of artful expression.
Without wishing to discount either the scale or significance of
twelfth-century verse, whose relative neglect this volume rightly seeks to
redress, I would nevertheless venture that the arena with the highest for-
mal stakes in this period was prose, if for no other reason than that it
was the medium most closely associated with prestige genres, be it cere-
monial addresses at the imperial court, occasional tributes such as epi-
taphioi or monodiai, or informal performances at élite-sponsored theatra.
116 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
The ­unprecedented prominence, then, of ancient poetry in this very period
requires some explanation.
Earlier, I suggested by way of an answer to anyone questioning the place
of prose at a conference on twelfth-century Byzantine poetry that recog-
nition of the poetics of prose was more likely to come from a gathering
of colleagues inclined to uphold the importance of formal structure to
literature. The metrical scaffolding of verse and its consequences for poetic
expression make us naturally attuned to the shape and, where recoverable,
the sound of texts. This is more elusive in the case of prose. The com-
binations of prose are seemingly more plastic than those of poetry and
definitions of what constitutes a prose style more controversial. But less
obvious does not mean less important. However elusive, prose form – or
style – does not fail to influence our reception of its contents. The twelfth
century’s stylistic sensibility in matters of prose may be gauged by its repu-
tation for acute rhetorical self-consciousness, a reputation earned largely,
though by no means exclusively, on account of its remarkable profusion of
studiously crafted prose texts across a variety of genres. Indeed, few peri-
ods have produced so many works assigned the classification ‘rhetorical’,
as if the point of the works were to showcase their virtuoso composition
and little more. The underlying assumption is that verbal ingenuity and
resourcefulness in the arrangement of the text were the author’s overrid-
ing purpose. Somewhat ironically, it is in twelfth-century prose instead of
verse that scholars have tended to see the triumph of form over content.
Not incidentally, the twelfth century’s reputation for highly ‘rhetorical’,
that is, patently (one is tempted to say ‘proudly’) stylized, prose was closely
wedded to a highly resourceful and significantly expanding classicism. Flu-
ency per se in Attic prose had by then become less an achievement than a
basic requirement for any author wishing to make his mark. The successful
revival of epideictic initiated in the ninth and tenth centuries subsequently
raised the stylistic stakes.6 Michael Psellos, in whose wake we may arguably
date the start of the ‘long’ twelfth century, represents a notably increased
mastery in the handling of Greek prose, including a newly confident Atti-
cism. The next century sought to go beyond this. A rhetor aspiring to
compose in an arresting style had to exhibit more than proficiency with
Attic diction and inflection. There is a strong, albeit imprecisely under-
stood, sense in which twelfth-century prose in the topmost registers feels
more stylized, more formally ambitious than most prose had been until
then. This is not to say that there were not highly accomplished, formally

6 Bourbouhakis (2024).
 Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 117
exacting, writers prior to the twelfth century. Arethas comes to mind, and
not just because he seems to have felt it necessary to defend what some had
characterized as his opaque and loquacious style.7 And yet the ‘long twelfth
century’ seems particularly deserving of its reputation as ‘a period of exper-
iment, innovation, and reassessment’ in prose at least as much as in verse.8
The stylistic ambition of Byzantine authors in this period, their virtuosity
in the handling of both the classicizing and demotic ends of the language,
went hand in hand with what Robert Browning characterized as the ‘devel-
oping self-confidence of Byzantine scholars’.9 This, in turn, bore directly on
the relation with ancient poetry, the study of which both expanded and deep-
ened in this period. Many of these scholars, who also doubled as authors in
their own right, devoted unprecedented energy to the systematic study of
ancient poetry, beginning always with Homer, but extending to such canoni-
cal poets as Hesiod, Pindar, Aristophanes, as well as more outré authors, such
as the decidedly esoteric Lycophron. The sheer scale of commentary – a term
which can only imperfectly capture the range and variety of the exegetical
modes brought to bear on ancient poetry, from the lexical to the allegorical
– was unlike anything seen since the heyday of Alexandrian scholarship, the
model for so much twelfth-century analysis of ancient Greek verse.10

***
It is a commonplace of what we use to call ‘the Classical Tradition’ that we
owe the ‘survival’ of so much ancient Greek poetry to the Byzantine trans-
mission of the received texts. What often goes unmentioned, however, are
the motives which underwrote this sustained cultural campaign of classi-
cism. For the one thing we may say with considerable certainty is that pres-
ervation per se was not the aim and that the investment in the Classics was
not a project of cultural curation, for which we are wont to credit the Byz-
antines. Those who commissioned copies of ancient poetic texts, as well as
those who produced commentaries and treatises about them, did not have
‘transmission’ to posterity in mind. Ancient Greek poetry, from Homeric
epic to post-Hellenistic epigram, was copied by Byzantines because direct
knowledge of it was deemed at once desirable and profitable. In short, being
well versed in ancient poetry, if the pun may be said to be apt, had a purpose.

7 Arethas, Opusc. 17 ed. Westerink (1968–72: 1:186–91).

8 Browning (1992: 144).
9 Browning (1964).
10 Browning (1992). For Byzantine commentaries on ancient Greek texts, see now also the papers
collected in van den Berg, Manolova and Marciniak (2022).
118 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
That purpose, contrary to the impression often given of Byzantine clas-
sicism, was neither constant nor unchanging. Like many cultural practices,
it evolved over time. The reception and role assigned to ancient poetry is
a case in point. As every student of Byzantine literary history knows, the
ninth-century scholar-patriarch Photios conspicuously omitted all poetry
from his prolific inventory of book profiles, the so-called Bibliotheke or
Myriobiblos. To judge from the stylistic codas attached to many of the Bibli-
otheke’s entries, prose genres alone were deemed the most suitable source of
instruction for how best to wed form to content in the sort of texts Photios
expected his peers might wish to emulate. Had we but Photios to guide us
as to the estimate of ancient poetry’s instructive potential in this period of
cultural restoration, we might conclude that its standing had suffered, at
least in formal terms. But the reason we are puzzled by Photios’ deliberate
exclusion of poetry is that we know how prominently it continued to feature
in the curriculum. Nevertheless, by the time of the later twelfth century, I
would argue, the relative weight of literary mimesis, that long-­standing imi-
tative aesthetic imperative governing composition in the higher registers
of the language, had shifted considerably in favour of poetry; to the point
of eliciting inordinately detailed commentaries and other aids not just to
comprehension but to instruction for aspiring Byzantine authors.11
Of course, Byzantine professors of rhetoric of the twelfth century were
not the first to find the study of ancient poetry profitable. The abiding
assumption that prose writers had much to learn from the canonical poets
had its origins in antiquity, when the prose author’s forerunner, the ora-
tor, looked to poetry as the precursor and wellspring of captivating and
convincing public speech.12 This is not surprising, given the shared aural
sensibility of early sung verse and occasional oratory. Consequently, the
early Sophists of the Classical period who first taught public speaking
urged the study of the poets on the basis of a shared sensibility about the
requirements of eloquence. Aristotle’s testimony on this count is instruc-
tive because it anticipates, even as it takes a strong position on, the appro-
priate affinity of prose to poetry:

ἐπεὶ δ’ οἱ ποιηταί, λέγοντες εὐήθη, διὰ τὴν λέξιν ἐδόκουν πορίσασθαι

τὴν δόξαν, διὰ τοῦτο ποιητικὴ πρώτη ἐγένετο λέξις, οἷον ἡ Γοργίου, καὶ

11 On literary education through ancient poetry, see also van den Berg in this volume.
12 Eduard Norden was among the earliest to discern a distinctly poetic prose style (poetische Prosa) and
his discussion of the reciprocal influence between poetry and rhetoric remains astute. See Norden
(1909: 30–41, 883–908).
 Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 119
νῦν ἔτι οἱ πολλοὶ τῶν ἀπαιδεύτων τοὺς τοιούτους οἴονται διαλέγεσθαι
κάλλιστα. τοῦτο δ’ οὐκ ἔστιν, ἀλλ’ ἑτέρα λόγου καὶ ποιήσεως λέξις ἐστίν.
(Aristotle, Rhetoric 1404a24–9 ed. Ross 1959)

But since the poets, who expressed unsophisticated ideas, seemed to have
acquired their reputation by means of their style, this was the reason that
the first style was a poetic one, such as that of Gorgias, and even now most
of the uneducated think that such persons express themselves most beau-
tifully. Yet this is not the case, since the style of prose is different from that
of poetry.

Aristotle’s dissent from the implicit conventional view on matters of style

would provide the counterpoint to the chorus which recommended poetry
as a compass of eloquence.13 His successors in this branch of criticism would
continue to caution against excessive emulation of poetic style through the
use of devices common to verse. What Aristotle was objecting to, as best as
we can infer, were widespread efforts at mimicking the musical qualities of
metre, especially efforts to endow oratory/prose with evident rhythmical
effects, among other conspicuously poetic features. Prose could seek to
approximate something of poetry’s rhythmical quality and elevated diction
but had to stop short of an overtly mannered expression, lest it smack of
excessive artifice or obscurity, a point repeated by most Byzantine com-
mentators.14
By the fourth century b c , Gorgianic oratory, with its notoriously
‘dithyrambic’ style, had become the foil for such calls for poetic restraint.
Isocrates, whose orations and letters Photios included in his Bibliotheke as
a paragon of prose style, had insisted on independence from poetic aes-
thetics, especially where figurative language and recherché diction were
concerned. As an orator, however, Isocrates was not willing to forego
rhythm, thereby ensuring that his medieval imitators would also seek the
support of similarly acoustic scaffolding. Preferring to forego the verse-
like cola of Gorgias, he opted instead for the controlled cadence of the
long period, which prose could accommodate in ways metrically bound
versified expression could not. Isocrates, it was said, rather ironically,
wished to rival Pindar in order to produce on the hearer/reader a lyrical

13 In the Poetics, Aristotle acknowledges that poetry shares a number of devices with prose, which
accounts for the numerous cross-references between the Rhetoric and the Poetics: e.g. Rhetoric
1372a2, 1404a39, 1404b7–8 and 28, 1405a6–7, 1419b6–7; cf. Poetics 1456a.
14 Aristotle, Rhetoric 1408b20ff. Cf. the analysis and description of the periodic style (1409a35ff.) and
the description of the figures of thought and diction appropriate to prose (1405a28ff.).
120 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
effect similar to that of poetry.15 More than one scholar has noted that
eulogies and panegyrics, once the preserve of lyric poets such as Pindar,
Simonides and Bacchylides, increasingly came to form the bread and but-
ter of prose over the course of later antiquity. After the fourth century, in
the words of Werner Jaeger, prose entered into ‘frank competition with
poetry, in form as well as in content’ [italics mine].16 Not coincidentally, I
would argue, these epideictic rivals to poetry saw a great flowering in the
long twelfth century.17
Aelius Aristides, whose place in the Byzantine prose canon was rivalled
only by Demosthenes, had argued for the formal equality of prose and
poetry.18 In the Hymn to Serapis, a paean to prose as much as to the
Greco-Egyptian god, Aristides questions the assumption that metre is
indispensable for exalted subject matter.19 Prose writers would hence-
forward seek to usurp the poets’ mantle as ‘teachers of Greece’, a role
which required them to fashion suitably arresting expression. For its part,
poetry had gradually become defined less and less by reference to its ritual
or other occasions and more and more by its didactic function. In due
course, it would become a branch of rhetoric, thereby closing the gap
with prose.20 By the time of Hermogenes, a staple of rhetorical instruction
throughout the Byzantine era, poetry was regarded by teachers of prose
composition as akin to metrical epideictic.21 ‘Since Homer’s is the best
kind of poetry and Homer the best of poets’, says Hermogenes, ‘though

15 Isocrates, in the Antidosis (Or. 15.166), somewhat provocatively compares himself with Pindar. He
was not to be the last prose specialist who would do so. Eustathios holds Pindar up as an exemplar
of compositional techniques suited to the kind of occasional rhetoric he both practised and taught.
See discussion below.
16 Jaeger (1959: 296).
17 It is worth recalling that of the roughly thirty sub-genres of epideictic found in Menander Rhetor,
many had previously been the province of lyric or elegiac poetry, whether epithalamium, epitaphios,
monody or hymns. See Menander Rhetor 333, 340, 393, 402, 437 (references are to page numbers
of Spengel [1856], which are followed in the more recent edition of Russell and Wilson [1981]);
for the use of models from lyric poetry, cf. Longinus 10 and 15, Dionysius of Halicarnassus, On
Composition 22 and 23.
18 Aristides (Or. 32.21, 32) describes how devoted to poetry his own grammarian, Alexander of
Kotyaion, had been. Many of the second-century Sophists, Aristides included, wrote poetry as well
as discourses, and some of their extant works occupy a middle ground between prose and verse.
This aspect of the Second Sophistic has generally been eclipsed by the prose works.
19 At times, Aristides’ Monody on Smyrna and the Hymn to the Aegean both blur the dividing line
between prose and verse.
20 It is worth recalling, for example, that we have Sappho’s ode Φαίνεται μοι because Longinus (10)
cites it as a model for the selection and arrangement of detail in prose style, while Dionysius
of Halicarnassus quotes her Hymn to Aphrodite as an example of the ‘smooth’ style in prose
composition (On Composition 2.185–6).
21 Hermogenes, On Types of Style 2.10.30.7–8 ed. Patillon (2012).
 Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 121
were I to say [that he is the best] rhetor or prose writer, as well, I would
perhaps be saying the same thing.’22
For its part, epideictic – understood as texts showcasing their compos-
itional skill as much as their subject matter – became especially receptive
to the qualities associated with verse, including rhythm and other mark-
edly poetic devices.23 What is more, the centrality of epideictic to Byzan-
tine prose sensibility, especially in the upper registers, brought with it an
abiding reliance on poetry as the enduring reservoir of arresting, nimble,
uncommon expression.
We are so accustomed to associating such poeticization of prose primar-
ily with diction or lexis that we tend to overlook Hermogenes’ observations
regarding effective syntax, as well: ‘A pleasing word order, being the same
as that which produces Beauty, is obviously one that comes rather close to
rendering the passage metrical, for a sweet passage must give some pleas-
ure to the ear by means of its syntax. That said, the metrical feet charac-
teristic of Solemnity should predominate in such syntax.’24 Hermogenes’
syntactical prescriptions have generally received much less attention. To
be sure, their application is less easily discernible since they admitted of
considerable latitude by authors seeking to achieve the kind of pleasing
syntax recommended by the late Roman doyen of rhetorical instruction.
We nevertheless do well to bear in mind this broader dimension of com-
position because it helps to account for the prominence of poetry in a
curriculum which largely envisaged prose writing. As we will see, such a
recommendation was likely to be read by Byzantines of the twelfth century
as encouraging a greater seamlessness between poetic and prosaic language.
This blurring of the purposes of poetry and prose would make it eas-
ier to draw lessons from the former and apply them to the latter. Most
of the traffic, admittedly, went in one direction. Verse, after all, had the
older, more venerable titles to its name. It was typical to come across com-
ments such as that of Strabo, who writes that poetry is the ἀρχὴ καὶ πηγή,
‘the fount and the source’, of eloquence.25 Stylistically ambitious prose
would continue to labour in the shadow of poetry, seeking after its effects,

22 Hermogenes, On Types of Style, 2.10.30.10–12 ed. Patillon (2012): ἀρίστη τε γὰρ ποιήσεων ἡ
Ὁμήρου, καὶ Ὅμηρος ποιητῶν ἄριστος, φαίην δ’ ἂν ὅτι καὶ ῥητόρων καὶ λογογράφων, λέγω δ’
ἴσως ταὐτόν.
23 On the enduring effect of ancient poetry on epideictic oratory, see Burgess (1902: 166–94).
24 Hermogenes, On Types of Style 2.4.32.1–5 ed. Patillon (2012): Συνθήκη δὲ ἡδεῖα, ἥπερ καὶ καλή,
δηλονότι ἡ σφόδρα ἐγγὺς ἄγουσα τὸν λόγον τοῦ καὶ ἔμμετρον εἶναι·δεῖ γὰρ καὶ κατὰ τὴν
συνθήκην προσβάλλειν τινὰ ἡδονὴν τῇ αἰσθήσει τὴν γλυκύτητα. πόδες μέντοι πλεονάζειν ἐν αὐτῇ
ὀφείλουσιν οἱ τῆς σεμνότητος οἰκεῖοι.
25 Strabo 1.2.6. Cf. Kim (2007: 363–88).
122 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
and not a little of its prestige. And while it dispensed with overt metre,
it retained many of the remaining features which Strabo characterizes as
‘poetic’. This ancient tradition of identifying rhetorical figures, as well as
diction or musical qualities, like rhythm, commonly used by both verse
and prose, helped establish the continuum between ancient poetry and the
broad class of epideictic which would form the core of Byzantine prose in
centuries to come.
In all, the various instructional handbooks of Hermogenes, Menander
Rhetor, Theon or Aphthonios speak variously to the role assigned ancient
poetry in the composition of prose. A host of prose exercises thus came to
draw on epic, lyric and tragedy, not simply recasting the mythical narra-
tives found there but adapting stylistic features, as well. Among lyric poets,
for example, Sappho, Alcaeus and Pindar were cast as authoritative models
for aspiring rhetors. When Pindar was revived as a source of instruction in
the twelfth century by Eustathios, it was largely by retracing the steps of
this earlier tradition.26 Of course, as would prove the case with the rhetori-
cally conceived commentaries or Parekbolai to the Homeric epics, the util-
ity of the poetry depended on the guidance and expertise of the Byzantine
rhetor. In what would prove a lasting precedent for stylistically ambitious
Byzantine prose, Greek rhetorical instruction continued to look to ancient
poetry as the epitome of expressive attainment.
As one might expect, education continued to play an outsize role in sys-
tematizing the reading of poetry as a resource for prose. It was under the
grammatikos that the student began the methodical study of poetry. He
analysed each verse, plumbed its stylistic peculiarities and offered detailed
commentary on matters of diction, figural speech, ambiguous or striking
syntactical arrangements and anything else which lent the verse potency.
Both Greek and Latin examples from this early but formative period (Dio-
nysius Thrax 1.1, 10.9; Quintilian 1.8.13ff.) confirm that the parsing of a
poem’s constitutive elements, including its figural language or word order-
ing, were regarded as the aptest training for aspiring rhetors who antici-
pated composing mostly in prose. Besides the detailed formalist decon-
struction of verse, there followed various progymnasmata, including the
prose paraphrase of poetry, an exercise which sought at once to demarcate
clearly the line between verse and prose but invariably also demonstrated
their kinship by suggesting that they might aspire to similar effects.

26 This despite what appears to have been a fashionable dismissive attitude towards lyric, such as
Cicero’s rather ambiguous comment (ap. Seneca, Ep. 49.5) that if a man’s life were twice as long as it
is, it would still be too short for lyric poetry, and Dio Chrysostom’s terse dismissal of lyric, together
with elegiac, iambic and dithyrambic poetry, as useless to the orator (Or. 18.8).
 Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 123
The conservatism of the received late ancient curriculum, adhered to
with remarkable tenacity by Byzantine education, made all this far less
remote from the twelfth century than the time elapsed might suggest.
It thus furnishes not so much a distant backdrop but an enduring war-
rant for the socio-cultural preoccupations which underwrote the remark-
able flowering of Komnenian-era literature. It also provided much of the
rationale for the unprecedented attention ancient poetry would receive in
the course of what we are calling the ‘long’ twelfth century. After all, we
should not take for granted that an education system intended to produce
authors adept at sophisticated prose, making up the greater part of occa-
sional or ceremonial composition, as well as a wide range of miscellaneous
writings, would have necessarily devoted so much of its advanced curricu-
lum and rhetorical instruction to the study of ancient poetry. Need this
have been a given in Byzantine literary culture or the rhetorical apprentice-
ship that might lead to literary success? To be sure, there was an unmistak-
able propensity for hewing close to tradition, as I noted above. But under
the inevitable pressure of changing circumstances, including rivalry among
a growing body of writers such as the twelfth century could boast, declared
conservatism could offer cover for significant, albeit subtle, shifts in aes-
thetics (as distinct from the sort of wholesale departures often sought by
modern scholars in search of ‘originality’).27 Thus, whereas oratory or prose
composition had struggled to get out of poetry’s illustrious shadow in the
Classical and late Hellenistic eras (a late echo of which we still hear in
Aristides’ defence of prose), a little less than a millennium later, on the eve
of the ‘long’ twelfth century, poetry had come to share, if it had not ceded,
a good deal of its pride of place. In the words of Floris Bernard, ‘verse was
viewed as puerile’, at least where rhetorical formation was concerned.28
‘Contemporaries’, as Bernard notes, ‘looked with condescension upon this
[early] “poetic” stage of education’.29 The long-running campaign in later
antiquity to win respect for prose as an art form had long ago achieved
considerable success, if Photios’ Bibliotheke may serve as a yardstick.
The eleventh-century scholar John Doxapatres offers a different kind of
testimony when he reports anecdotally in his commentary on Aphthonios’
Progymnasmata that students grew apprehensive in anticipation of graduat-
ing from the verse-based curriculum of ancient poetry to the more advanced
study of prose rhetoric; an attitude perhaps indirectly confirmed by Michael

27 The classical exposition, taken up repeatedly and refined over time, is Kazhdan and Wharton
Epstein (1985).
28 Bernard (2014: 209).
29 Bernard (2014: 213).
124 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
Psellos’ telling remark when he writes that he wished to be ‘delivered from
hearing the poems’, and looked forward to ‘the art of words with grace’.30
And yet, as Bernard observes, poetry was deemed ‘a preparatory phase of
the curriculum, decidedly inferior to rhetorical education’.31 For Psellos’ suc-
cessors a little over a century later, however, ancient poetry had once more
become synonymous with the highest rung of rhetorical training.
We probably have no better guide to the place of ancient poetry in the
literary and rhetorical imagination of twelfth century audiences, especially in
the second half of that century, than the abundance of surviving commentar-
ies and treatises on ancient poets produced during this period. Some, like that
which comes to us from the pen of Isaac Porphyrogennetos, seem to derive
almost wholly from late Hellenistic treatises on Homeric poetry, such as the
so-called Ps.-Plutarchan On Homer.32 This late ancient work, especially well
known in later Byzantium, to judge from its manuscript tradition, invoked
rhythm and metre to explain poetry’s ability to make the listener attentive to
the message of a work.33 No less importantly, however, it furnished lessons to
prose authors, noting that the poet ‘does not just elevate his subject matter
and divert it from its customary course but also [elevates] the text’:

οὐ μόνον τὰ πράγματα μετεωρίζει καὶ ἐκτρέπει τῆς συνηθείας ἀλλὰ καὶ

τοὺς λόγους. ὅτι δὲ ἀεὶ τὰ καινὰ καὶ ἔξω τοῦ προχείρου θαυμάζεται καὶ τὸν
ἀκροατὴν ἐπάγεται, παντί που δῆλον. … καὶ πολλὰς ἀφορμὰς καὶ οἱονεὶ
σπέρματα λόγων καὶ πράξεων παντοδαπῶν τοῖς μετ’ αὐτὸν παρεσχημένος,
καὶ οὐ τοῖς ποιηταῖς μόνον ἀλλὰ καὶ τοῖς πεζῶν λόγων συνθέταις ἱστορικῶν
τε καὶ θεωρηματικῶν. (Ps.-Plutarch, On Homer 6 ed. Kindstrand 1990; my
emphasis)

He does not just elevate his subject matter and divert it from its customary course
but also [elevates] the text. It is clear to everyone that that which is new and
outside of the everyday evokes wonder and captivates the imagination of
the listener. … He provides the starting points and so to speak the seeds of
all kinds of discourse and action to those who come after him, not only for
the poets but for the writers of prose as well, both historical and speculative.
(trans. after Keaney and Lamberton 1996; my emphasis)

30 Michael Psellos, Funerary Oration for his Mother 841–2 ed. Criscuolo (1989): ἄρτι τοῦ ποιημάτων
ἀκούειν ἀπαλλαγεὶς καὶ παρακύψας εἰς τὴν τῶν λόγων τέχνην σὺν χάριτι. In one of his letters,
Psellos urges attention to ‘harmony’ not just in song, but in ‘both poetry and prose’. Psellos, Ep.
280.33–4 ed. Papaioannou (2019): Τήν γέ τοι ἁρμονίαν μὴ ἐν μέλεσι μόνον ἡγοῦ, ἀλλὰ καὶ ἐν ἔπεσι
καὶ λόγῳ πεζῷ.
31 Bernard (2014: 215).
32 Isaac Porphyrogennetos, Preface to Homer ed. Kindstrand (1979).
33 Ps.-Plutarch, On Homer 6 ed. Kindstrand (1990). For the relevant analysis and its influence on
Isaac’s treatise, see Keaney and Lamberton (1996).
 Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 125
The author of this short treatise, in all likelihood intended for school use,
traded on the assumption that poetry could not just supply memorable
characters and situations but could also serve as a reservoir of arresting
and persuasive expression. Isaac’s unoriginal pamphlet speaks to a shift in
perspective regarding poetry. The depth of that shift would be more fully
plumbed by the prolific pens of John Tzetzes and Eustathios. Isaac’s con-
tribution nevertheless illustrates how widespread the perception of poetry’s
promise for prose had once more become that a relative dilettante like
himself should take up the subject.
It is common enough to see mimesis invoked whenever the relation of
ancient to medieval Greek literature is at issue. Less common is the explor-
ation of mimesis across formal divides, such as that of verse and prose. Still,
imitation and reproduction were not necessarily self-sustaining. Successive
cultural phases of Hellenism, including that of the twelfth century, had to
reaffirm and thus renegotiate their reverence for, and reliance on, ancient
poetry. One way the twelfth century sought to do this was by making
the mostly dormant, accumulated store of ancient scholarship newly rele-
vant. There were important enabling antecedents, of course. The Venetus
A manuscript of the Iliad, with its innovative and occasionally eclectic col-
lation of the extant scholia in the tenth century, presupposes some degree
of contemporary purpose beyond mere curation of the Homeric text.
Offering a corrective to the mistaken impression that collections of scholia
were simply copied out and mechanically collated, Nigel Wilson reminds
us that ‘every successive generation sought to adapt the traditional com-
mentary on classical authors according to its own taste or to contempor-
ary needs’.34 More to the point here, Wilson cites as evidence the twelfth
century’s singularly flourishing exploitation of the ancient scholiastic trad-
ition, a good deal of which had languished for nearly a millennium.
One of the tasks of a commentary was to render the ancient poetic text
at once intelligible and useful. This latter purpose is mostly unfamiliar to
modern scholars and students of ancient texts, who judge the Byzantine
commentaries and various treatises according to their ability to help us
reconstruct the original meaning of the work in question. No doubt, Byz-
antine scholars sometimes shared this aim, leading many to weigh these
works according to this one common measure: interpretive or philological
accuracy. In doing so, however, we neglect the second, and by no means
lesser aim, of immediate utility. And while I would not want to reduce the
study of any class of ancient texts in Byzantium to any single purpose, I

34 Wilson (1984: 91).

126 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
think it worthwhile to underline here the primacy of harnessing ancient
poetry to contemporary composition, principally of prose texts defined
as logographia (λογογραφία), spanning a broad gamut of occasions and
genres, from imperial encomia to epistolography.
Somewhat paradoxically, perhaps, the focus by Byzantine scholars of
ancient poetry on its lessons for prose was the result of so much medieval
accentual verse becoming uncoupled from most quantitative metre. The
study of ancient epic, lyric or iambic verse no longer lent itself to fluency
in versification per se (except perhaps in the schools, where such exercises
persisted). Even a work ostensibly dedicated to allegorical exegesis of the
Iliad by John Tzetzes, an energetic author of didactic works about ancient
poetry, ranging from Homeric epic to Lycophron’s otherwise obscure Hel-
lenistic-age Alexandra, invokes the value of such study for the attainment
of outstanding prose:

ὃς ἂν δὲ χρήζῃ μέθοδον δεινότητος μανθάνειν

καὶ θέλῃ ῥήτορα δεινόν, καὶ θέλῃ λογογράφον
καὶ μεταφράσει χρῆσθαι δέ, τῇ καὶ μεταποιήσει
καί, λέγων πάλιν τὰ αὐτά, δοκεῖν ὡς ἄλλα λέγειν,
τὸν Ὅμηρον ἐχέτω μοι παράδειγμα τῆς τέχνης.
(Tzetzes, Allegories of the Iliad 15.37–41 ed. Boissonade 1851)

<anyone> who needs to learn a vigorous rhetorical style,

and wishes to become either a skilled orator or prose writer,
and to make use of paraphrase, as well as adaptation,
and though saying the same things once again, seems to say something else,
let him have Homer as a model of his art.

Tzetzes makes explicit here the claim, found in nearly all twelfth-century
commentaries on ancient poetry, that in order to learn to write better
prose, one should study ancient verse, presumably with him.35 Of course,
it will be immediately pointed out that the Allegories do not fully illustrate
the sort of formal analysis Tzetzes is advertising here. This is not surprising.
As much as anything else, the ‘published’ scholarship was intended to serve
as a means to market one’s proficiency as an expert teacher. The mention of
μετάφρασις and μεταποίησις (v. 39) suggest lessons that extend beyond apt
citation or allusion and hearken back to the prose paraphrases taught by
the grammatistes as far back as the late Hellenistic period. In this respect,

35 There are other, similar, pronouncements on the rhetorical lessons to be gleaned from the study of
poetry: cf. Allegories of the Iliad 16.322, 16.333, 16.343; Histories 11.707–11 ed. Leone (2007).
 Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 127
Herbert Hunger’s judgement that ancient verse had become ‘poetry for the
eye’, while accurate as far as perceived prosody goes, should not be under-
stood as foreclosing the appreciation of poetic structure or expression more
broadly, whether in syntax or in grammar.36
As van der Valk, the modern editor of Eustathios’ monumental com-
mentary on the Iliad, the Parekbolai, repeatedly underlines, the enabling
context of the twelfth-century commentary on ancient poetry was the
composition lesson.37 And its primary purpose was to train aspiring rhetors
to compose memorably imposing prose in the tradition of epideictic, that
is, formally accomplished logos, whether for a variety of ceremonial or
informal occasions or for such highly wrought genres as historiography
or epistolography. Van der Valk’s landmark edition of the Parekbolai to the
Iliad inventories the many instances in which Eustathios discerned in the
poetry of Homer (as well as other ancient poets cited in the course of his
analytical parsing) rhetorical figures familiar and applicable to prose writ-
ers. Van der Valk saw these as evidence that the commentary re-enacted
the lessons of Eustathios’ classroom, with a view to teaching students how
to compose ‘unfettered orations’, that is, non-metrical, or prose, texts. The
conclusion that Eustathios’ mammoth study of Homeric poetry was aimed
principally at prose composition has been further foregrounded in recent
studies by Eric Cullhed and Baukje van den Berg.38
Van der Valk’s point about the classroom is especially pertinent here
because it places the locus of interest in the potential of ancient poetry
stylistically to enhance prose squarely in the centre of rhetorical education
and literary formation. And while Eustathios’ labours were undoubtably
unique in philological depth and breadth, there is good reason to think
that the broad tenor of his work was in keeping with the rhetorical trends
and literary sensibility which had built up over the course of the twelfth
century. Eustathios’ aim in compiling the commentary, van der Valk con-
cluded, was to help its users become better ‘rhetors’, a purpose all but
synonymous with becoming ‘prose authors’.39 If we limit such instruction
to lexical borrowing or imitation, or the repurposing of whole or partial
verses, as has been the case when looking at ancient poetry’s contribution
to prose, we are likely to pay insufficient attention to the less obvious, but
potentially more significant, correlations of form between ancient verse

36 Hunger (1969/70: 33).

37 Van der Valk (1971–87: 1:xcii–c; 2:li–lxx).
38 See Cullhed (2016), van den Berg (2022).
39 Van der Valk (1971–87: 1:xcii): Eustathius enim ... id ipsum studebat, ut discipuli discerent oratione
soluta scribere, vel ut tunc temporis dicebant, rhetores fieri.
128 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
and contemporary prose in this period, affecting such structural features as
rhythm, syntax and grammar.
Eustathios’ Parekbolai to the Iliad and Odyssey, easily the most com-
prehensive study of ancient Greek poetry in Byzantium, were created to
provide what the one-time μαΐστωρ τῶν ῥητόρων or ‘dean of the rhetors’
assured his readers and former pupils would amount to πολλαὶ ἀφορμαὶ εἰς
ῥητορείας δαψίλειαν, that is, ‘many opportunities and materials for rhetor-
ical amplification’. What were these ‘opportunities and materials’ for rhe-
torical abundance? In his bid to market the increasingly gargantuan opus,
Eustathios promised to furnish aspiring authors of prose not just with apt
lexical or mythical material, but also with:

ἐννοίας εὐχρήστους τῷ καταλογάδην γράφοντι καὶ βουλομένῳ ῥητορικὰς

ποιεῖν εὐκαίρως παραπλοκάς· μεθόδους, ἐξ ὧν καὶ ὠφελεῖταί τις μιμεῖσθαι
θέλων καὶ τῆς εὐτεχνίας θαυμάζει τὸν ποιητήν· (Eustathios, Parekbolai to
the Iliad 1.3.12–15 ed. van der Valk 1971–87; my emphasis)

useful ideas for prose writers and those who wish to weave well-timed rhe-
torical effects; techniques, from which one stands to gain who wishes to imitate
<the poet> and admires the poet for his skill.

Such claims may strike us as somewhat counter-intuitive, since ancient

verse, whether Homeric hexameters or Pindaric lyric, another of Eus-
tathios’ commentary projects, would hardly seem to lend themselves as
models for Byzantine prose, nor indeed do they seem prima facie to have
much in common with it.
Byzantine prose, especially in the highest registers, has tended to be
thought of as needlessly prolix and ponderous, lacking in precisely the
discipline and economy of expression imposed on poetry by metre. But
our perception of Byzantine prose is often clouded by a general misprision
of its inner workings. By comparison with verse, Byzantine prose has seen
little systematic profiling of its manifold formal features, other than a now
routine pegging of texts along the familiar high-middle-low axis of style,
usually by the extent of their archaizing vocabulary and vaguely ‘Atticizing’
grammar. Simply put, we lack the kind of precise taxonomy and closely
calibrated analysis of Byzantine prose that would allow us to register the
syntactical and other structural and semantic shifts adopted by authors in
search of conspicuous and engaging formulations.
Because we have not studied the Byzantine prose of any period quite as
methodically as we have catalogued Byzantine verse over the last few decades,
it is difficult to talk about it in anything more than impressionistic terms.
 Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 129
It remains for us to develop a working vocabulary to describe Byzantine
prose. One place to begin – I underline ‘begin’, lest there be any confusion
about how far we have left to go – would be with what Byzantine rhetors
themselves had to say about prose style. I have previously sketched instances
of Eustathios’ parsing of poetic style which exhibit what he characterized as
stryphnotes (στρυφνότης), a deliberate economy of expression resulting in
a notably ‘astringent’ or conspicuously austere effect.40 Understanding this
effect, to what degree it was sought and, no less important, to what degree
it may have been achieved, in which genres and by whom – all of which are
distinct questions – requires us to read a good deal of twelfth-century prose
with an eye to the structural elements of composition, at the clausal and
phrasal level even; as well as the larger periodic or other syntactical arrange-
ments. This is not separate but nevertheless distinct from reading for mean-
ing alone, already a challenge when making our way through some Byzan-
tine prose texts. The example of στρυφνότης is telling of both the difficulty
and the promise of understanding what Byzantine rhetors in this period
may have seen in ancient poetry that they deemed patently imitable by prose
authors.
Eustathios appears to have revived στρυφνότης as a critical term –
famously applied by Dionysius of Halicarnassus to Thucydides on account
of the historian’s unwillingness to make concessions to a more ‘flowing’
and effortlessly accessible prose style – in order to designate syntax which
disrupted the expected accumulation and disposition of a sentence’s parts.
Στρυφνότης was defined, in part, by contrast with glykytes (γλυκύτης), a
mellifluous arrangement demanding little of the reader and leaving little
ambiguity in its wake.41 Broadly speaking, Eustathios invoked this label
to designate a marked density of syntactic texture and an economy of
expression. This flouted conventional expectations and could produce an
appealing ambiguity born of a combination of stylistic ‘astringency’ and
ellipsis.42 Among the examples of στρυφνότης he gives is Iliad 1.258, where
he transposes the text from its allegedly opaque compactness to a more
conventionally prosaic elaboration:

Ὅτι τελείων ἀνθρώπων ἔπαινος τὸ «οἳ περὶ μὲν βουλῇ Δαναῶν, περὶ δ’ ἐστὲ
μάχεσθαι». αὐξάνων δέ τις που τὸ ἐγκώμιον ἀντὶ τοῦ Δαναῶν πάντων
ἐρεῖ ἢ ἄλλο τι τοιοῦτον· παραφράσας δὲ αὐτό, εἰ βούλεται, μεταγάγῃ ἐκ
τῆς ποιητικῆς στρυφνότητος εἰς τοιαύτην τινὰ σαφήνειαν· οἳ περίεστε μὲν

40 Bourbouhakis (2017: 83*–103*).

41 It is interesting to compare this aesthetic imperative with that of Hermogenes, cited above, n. 24.
42 For elliptical phrasing, see e.g. Parekbolai to the Iliad 1.83.16ff., 4.597.13ff.
130 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
πάντων τῇ βουλῇ περίεστε δὲ καὶ τῇ κατὰ πόλεμον δεξιότητι. (Eustathios,
Parekbolai to the Iliad 1.155.21–6 ed. van der Valk 1971–87)

The verse ‘you, who surpass all Danaans in council, in fighting’, amounts to
praise of flawless people. But if one were to further amplify the encomium,
instead of all the Danaans he would say something else similar to it; but if
he should wish to paraphrase it, he might shift from poetic compendious-
ness to clarity along these lines: ‘those of you who agree with the decision of
the Danaans must also share in their prowess in war’.

We thus have a typical lesson in the appropriation of a Homeric line of

verse, followed by its potential for rhetorical amplification through ‘para-
phrase’ (παράφρασις), the age-old exercise taught in schools through the
use of ancient poetry. Eustathios spells out the highly abridged sense by
filling in individual verbs for the subject of each clause to achieve syntac-
tical balance and greater clarity, admittedly at considerable cost to style.
And that is exactly his point. Poetic style involves trade-offs, including a
willingness to frustrate the audience’s desire to grasp everything quickly
and effortlessly (a desire and attendant frustration often shared by modern
scholars of high-brow Byzantine prose). Παράφρασις here belongs to the
same set of rhetorical techniques as μετάφρασις and μεταποίησις men-
tioned above.43
By noting the structural distance between the Homeric text and its pro-
saic equivalent, Eustathios marked for aspiring authors how poetic expres-
sion might be achieved. Στρυφνότης appears to describe the kind of syn-
optic phrasing encouraged by the metrical requirements of verse. But could
a prose writer emulate this kind of economy on the clausal or larger syn-
tactical scale? Eustathios suggests as much when he unfolds the meaning
of another Homeric verse, Iliad 17.98 (ὁππότ’ ἀνὴρ ἐθέλῃ πρὸς δαίμονα
φωτὶ μάχεσθαι), which he analyses by offering a more prosaic explanation:

Τὸ δὲ «πρὸς δαίμονα φωτὶ μάχεσθαι» ταὐτὸν μέν ἐστι τῷ διὰ μέσου φωτὸς
θεοφιλοῦς δαιμονομαχεῖν, στρυφνῶς δὲ καὶ συνεστραμμένως πέφρασται
διὰ συντομίαν. βούλεται δὲ λέγειν, ὅτι ὁ μαχόμενος ἀνδρί, ὃν δαίμων
τιμᾷ, εἰ καὶ δοκεῖ ἁπλῶς ἀνθρώπῳ μάχεσθαι, ἀλλ’ ἀληθῶς διὰ μέσου τοῦ
τοιούτου δαίμονι μάχεται. (Eustathios, Parekbolai to the Iliad 4.21.2–6 ed.
van der Valk 1971–87)

«πρὸς δαίμονα φωτὶ μάχεσθαι» is the same thing as [saying] ‘to battle de-
mons by means of light from a favourable deity’, only expressed in a densely

43 On metaphrasis, see also Ricceri in this volume.

 Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 131
abridged and intertwined way through brevity. What he means to say is that
anyone fighting with a man whom the daemon honours, even if he ap-
pears to be fighting only a man, nevertheless is in fact fighting with a spirit
through this man.

The conciseness of expression and consequent abbreviation of mean-

ing Eustathios appears to prize in poets such as Homer and Pindar was
intended to serve as a model for prose writers of his day. To illustrate the
point, Eustathios restores to some Homeric verses the στρυφνότης he
claims is atypically missing:

Ὅτι ἐν τῷ «τὼ δὲ μνησαμένω», ἤγουν οἱ δὲ ἀναμνησθέντες, «ὃ μὲν Ἕκτορος

ἔκλαιεν ἀδινά, αὐτὰρ Ἀχιλλεὺς ἔκλαιεν ἑὸν πατέρα, ἄλλοτε δὲ Πάτροκλον»
καινῶς διὰ σαφήνειαν ἐσχημάτισεν ὁ ποιητής. ἠδύνατο γὰρ ἄλλως τὸ ὅλον
στρυφνῶς οὕτω φράσαι· μνησαμένω ὁ μὲν Ἕκτορος, Ἀχιλλεὺς δὲ πατρός,
ἔκλαιον, ὃ δὴ καιρία λέξις. (Eustathios, Parekbolai to the Iliad 4.941.24–7 ed.
van der Valk 1971–87)

In the [verse] ‘the two men bringing to mind’, namely, those recalling, ‘the
one [thought] of Hector [and] cried uncontrollably, while Achilles wept for
his own father, or in turn for Patroclus’ the poet arranged [the words] with
unusual clarity. Since he could have expressed the whole thing differently,
in an austere manner: ‘both men remembered, on the one hand Hector,
on the other Achilles [recalled] his father, as they cried’, which is the vital
word here.

We see here an oblique lesson in composition. The point of this passage

is to illustrate how one may introduce a ‘poetic’ turn to otherwise plain
phrasing. By showing the discrepancy between the two styles, Eustathios
was offering lessons in an expressive manner which engaged the reader’s
own capacity to bridge the elisions of unresolved meaning, a feature I
would argue was striven for by some of the more accomplished writers of
this period. It is revealing that Pindar, a difficult ancient poet, saw more
formal analyses of his verses in precisely this century than he had seen
since the Hellenistic age. Among the qualities which seem to have made
Pindar’s poetry a promising source of instruction for prose authors – there
being fewer lessons here, perhaps, for accentual poetry – was the notori-
ously elaborate structure and frequently enigmatic meaning produced by
his compressed style:

Οὕτω δὲ στρυφνῶς φράζει ταῖς ἐννοίαις κατὰ πολύνοιαν, ὡς ἔργον εἶναι

πολλαχοῦ μιᾷ τινι σταθερῶς ἐννοίᾳ ἐνευστοχῆσαι τὸν ἀναγινώσκοντα
διὰ τὸ οὕτω καὶ οὕτω νοεῖσθαι αὐτὴν … ἔστι δὲ δεινὸς καὶ οὐ μόνον τὸ
132 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
ἓν ἐπεκτείνειν παραφράσεσι καὶ περιφράσεσι καί τισιν ἑτεροίαις μεθόδοις.
(Eustathios, Preface to the Commentary on Pindar 20.19 ed. Kambylis 1991)

And in this way he expresses ideas in a dense and ambiguous manner which
produces multiple meanings, so that in many places the task of the reader
is to accurately arrive at some stable meaning by understanding it in such
and such a manner … and [Pindar] is quite able not only to extend [the
meaning] of one thing with paraphrases and circumlocutions and certain
other means.

I draw attention here to this Eustathian lesson drawn from ancient lyric
and epic poetry because it illustrates how such formal analysis was in fact
aimed at prose style. This was distinct from the more oft-discussed exe-
getical approaches, which have garnered more attention, or the empha-
sis on purely lexical borrowings and apt citation, which are frequently
found in the apparatus fontium and periodically serve as lessons in what
we have come to call intertextuality.44 But the poeticization of prose was
not exhausted by the use of rarefied poetic vocabulary, which on its own
would have no doubt sounded like a fragment of verse spolia inserted into
a wall of prose. The question remains, then, why Eustathios would have
decided to give new life to this otherwise obscure stylistic label. Or to
frame it slightly more broadly, in keeping with the theme of this volume:
what did the role assigned to poetry more generally in the twelfth century
have to do with this shift in the study of ancient verse? Moreover, can we
identify developments in Byzantine literature of this period that exemplify
the recommended poeticization of prose?
In a eulogy he composed celebrating the great rhetor’s accomplish-
ments, Michael Choniates, perhaps Eustathios’ most accomplished former
student, credited his late teacher with having revived the study of rhetoric
after it had grown moribund in previous generations. Making use of the
language of pagan mystery rituals, Michael likens Eustathios to a ‘hiero-
phant of the rites of the arts of speech [for students] carrying poetry books
under their arms’ (ἐκείνῳ δ’ ὅμως ἱεροφαντοῦντι τὰ λογικῶν τεχνῶν
ὄργια ... τῶν φοιτώντων, πυκτίδα ποιητικὴν ὑπὸ μάλην φέρων).45 The
encomiastic licence of a funeral lament may have led Michael to exagger-
ate Eustathios’ single-handed reform of twelfth-century rhetoric. But the
image of students on their way to their lessons with books of poetry under

44 Bourbouhakis (2017: 177*–94*).

45 Michael Choniates, Oration 16, 288.21–6 ed. Lampros (1879).
 Prose and the Study of Ancient Poetry in the Twelfth Century 133
their arms was not the product of panegyrical distortion. The brief vignette
captures the traffic between poetry and prose at a formative stage.
In what remains a classic, albeit insufficient, assessment of the place
of Homeric poetry in Byzantium, Robert Browning once observed that
scholars needed to pursue ‘not so much who could quote Homer, or even
who read him, but the purposes for which Homer was read … and the extent
to which study of Homer led to results, which go beyond the pleasure of the
immediate reader’.46 Browning could have been writing of ancient poetry
in the twelfth century more generally. Scholars of the twelfth century had
to reconcile the antiquity of the text with its direct bearing on the literary
and rhetorical practice of their day, a practice their modern counterparts
sometimes deem culpable for the frequent misreadings they find contained
there. But as Felix Budelmann has astutely observed, Byzantine commen-
taries strike us as flawed precisely because we take the remoteness of the
ancient text for granted, and expect a Byzantine commentary to do so
as well.47 What we find in the twelfth-century commentaries is at once a
recognition of the distant origins of the text and its simultaneous formal
relevance in the present.
It is doubtless difficult to trace direct and specific correspondences
between passages of twelfth-century prose and the often broadly sche-
matic lessons drawn from the formal study of ancient poetry. But I am not
making a case here for direct imitation of recognizably poetic form drawn
from ancient texts, something all rhetorical instruction, from Hermogenes
to Eustathios, cautioned against. I am referring, instead, to an attempt
by twelfth-century rhetors and authors to broaden the formal repertoire
of prose, to seek additional variations of style through the close study of
ancient poetry. We are helped, in some cases, by the authors and texts
themselves. Byzantine writers did not share the late modern conviction
that good prose style should be ‘unobtrusive’ and inconspicuous. They
foregrounded the artifice of their text, its highly deliberate and constructed
character. When viewed through the lens of formal attainment, the show-
casing of style and surplus of rhetoric, long seen as a handicap by scholars,
becomes more readily appreciated as a desire to explore the boundaries and
possibilities of language, a long-recognized virtue of poetry, in any century,
long or otherwise.

46 Browning (1975: 15; italics mine).

47 Budelman (2002).
134 emmanuel c. bourbouhakis
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(2024) ‘Continuing Influence of Late Classical Epideictic Tradition in
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vol. 1: On Rhapsodies A–B. Studia Byzantina Upsaliensia 16. Uppsala.
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83–112.
 PART II
Poetry and the School
 ch apter 5

The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia and the

Use of Verse in Byzantine Teaching Practice
Floris Bernard

More than any other kind of poetry, didactic poetry forces us to come
to terms with the question why to express something in metrical form,
and not in prose. Binary oppositions which we customarily use, such as
fiction versus non-fiction, literature vs Gebrauchsliteratur, prose vs poetry,
will have to be reconsidered when we try to understand Byzantine didactic
poetry.1 But the genre was extremely popular: there are numerous poems
that appear, in a rather strict sense, to ‘teach’.2 They impart instruction and
information on the most divergent topics: Bible exegesis, law, medicine,
rhetoric, diet, grammar, geometry, etc.3 Judging on the basis of the rela-
tively broad circulation of didactic poems in manuscripts, there was a huge
demand to express and consume knowledge in verse.
Didactic poetry defies the frameworks and terminology with which we
approach literature. The very concept of ‘literature’ falls apart, since for us
the purpose of transmitting knowledge is alien to the goals of literature.
The paratactic structure of these texts, geared towards a didactic exposition
of the subject matter, runs counter to how we think literature should look
like. And yet these texts employ a device that is for us eminently literary:
metre. While we have come to see metre as totally opposed to factual state-
ments, for the medieval mind the marriage between both was not prob-
lematic at all.
It would be interesting to investigate why verse was seen as an aid to
transmit knowledge rather than an obstacle. This is not the occasion to
tackle this question in full, but at least it may be helpful to point out that
there is the well-known trope that poetry ‘sweetens’ discourse that would

1 For an excellent introduction to the genre of Byzantine didactic poetry (including an overview
of themes, techniques and literary traditions), see Hörandner (2019). For its connection with
definitions of ‘poetry’, see Lauxtermann (2009).
2 I define here ‘didactic poetry’ as poems that impart knowledge, in contrast to poems that aim to
moralize, that is, to edify (and are also sometimes called ‘didactic’). See Lauxtermann (2019: 201).
3 For a didactic poem on astrology by Constantine Manasses, see Chryssogelos in this volume.

139
140 floris bernard
otherwise be difficult to swallow. This trope is in some form or another
ubiquitous in metapoetic statements that are found in didactic poems.
Ancient texts (especially in the medical domain) imply that the metrical
form was felt to be conducive to purely cognitive and informational goals
such as memorization and precision.4
Viewing the genre in broad diachronic terms, we should acknowledge
the differences between ancient and medieval didactic poetry, as well as
the common features that unite didactic poetry of many periods and cul-
tures.5 Seen from this vantage point, it is striking that Byzantine didactic
poetry seems to have no thematic layer beneath or beyond the transmis-
sion of knowledge. For all we can ascertain, these poems were written and
consumed as they purported to be done: in order to instruct the reader
about a given subject matter. This hypothesis warrants further study, but
one important indication is telling: in the manuscripts transmitting them,
didactic poems are often not grouped together with other poems, but rather
with prose texts on the same subject.6 We can assume that the poems were
used in the same way as the texts surrounding them in the manuscripts:
as sources of information and instruction. This rather pragmatic context
of use contrasts with the more purely literary and aesthetical aims that are
commonly associated with Hellenistic Greek and classical Latin didactic
poetry. Also these poems purport to instruct, but this is often considered
a playful ‘fiction’, a kind of smoke screen through which the poet achieves
other, rather literary, goals.7 One would be hard pressed to find similar
procedures in Byzantine didactic poetry. Knowledge is all there is: no nar-
rative, no descriptions, no double layers. And while playfulness is certainly
present, as we will see, the purpose of instruction and the role of the poet
as a teacher are no fiction.
This chapter will make a case for this rather concrete functional pur-
pose of didactic poetry, using the example of the grammatical poems of
Niketas of Herakleia, where the world of contemporary teaching is very
much in evidence. Niketas’ poems take a very practical approach towards
the learning of grammar. Unlike many other didactic poems, these were
not dedicated to emperors, but rather addressed to a large audience of
pupils. And compared to other, previous, poems on grammar, such as the

4 Von Staden (1998) and Vogt (2005).

5 For intercultural common features, see for instance Schuler and Fitch (1983) and Kozodoy (2011).
Byzantium is absent from these discussions.
6 Bernard (2014: 69–75).
7 For example, see Harder (2007: 43): ‘the preservation and the transmission of knowledge are turned
into a literary fiction’. See also Kneebone (2020).
 The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia 141
one by Michael Psellos,8 Niketas’ poems do not intend to summarize the
discipline, but rather to train students to follow very specific rules and
guidelines when writing Greek. These features make his corpus particularly
interesting for investigating the relationship between education and poetry.
Niketas, bishop of Herakleia, also identified as the nephew of Steph-
anos, the bishop of Serres, was probably born around 1060 and was active
in the decades around the turn of the twelfth century.9 He was proximos
of the school of Chalkoprateia in Constantinople. Apart from his didactic
poems, he is also known for his commentaries on biblical and theological
texts. Niketas wrote an enormous body of didactic poems, many of which
are unedited or edited unsatisfactorily.10 Niketas’ didactic poems mainly
concern one field of knowledge: grammar.
The poems in hymnographic metres seem to form together a rather con-
sistent11 body of texts.12 These poems follow the accentual pattern of a hym-
nographic heirmos, a melody of a liturgical tune known to all Byzantines.13
Topics of some smaller hymnographic poems are the names for seas, rivers,
stones, cities, and pagan gods.14 Two long canons will be edited soon by
Theodora Antonopoulou.15 They treat the antistoicha, as also their title in
some manuscripts indicates; that is, they discuss the vowels that in medie-
val Greek pronunciation sounded identical, but were written differently.16
These two canons are effectively lists of words that provoke orthographical
mistakes. They attempt to solve orthographical problems by formulating
rules that often have no linguistic reality behind them, but serve as mne-
monic clues.
The poems in dodecasyllables and politikos stichos are of various length
and scope.17 By far the longest (1,087 verses) is a poem On ­Syntax, dedicated

8 Michael Psellos, Poem 6 ed. Westerink (1992). On poetry in grammatical education, see also van
den Berg in this volume.
9 On Niketas and his works, see Schneider (1999), Roosen (1999) and Antonopoulou (2003). For
Niketas’ place in the genre of Byzantine didactic poetry, see Hörandner (2012) and (2019).
10 A complete list can be found in Schneider (1999).
11 On this consistency, see Schneider (1999: 395) and Antonopoulou (2003: 178).
12 For these canons, see Antonopoulou (2003).
13 Mitsakis (1990).
14 For precise indications and references to existing editions, see Schneider (1999: 389–93).
15 The canons do in fact exist in printed form, in the periodical Κέκροψ: σύγγραμμα περιοδικὸν τοῦ
ἐν Κάιρῳ Ἑλληνικοῦ φιλεκπαιδευτικοῦ συλλόγου Ἡ Ἑνότης 1.17–18 (1876), pp. 240–9, and 19–20
(1876), pp. 261–9. The (uncritical) ‘edition’ is not signed. This transcription is based on Alexandria,
Bibliotheke tou Patriarcheiou, 364 [Diktyon 33251], fol. 211r–227v and 234r–242v (since the
transcription mentions that the end of the second canon is mutilated, just as in the Alexandrinus). I
thank Febe Schollaert for retrieving this edition online; see http://digital.lib.auth.gr/record/144809.
16 See Follieri (1986).
17 For precise indications, see Schneider (1999: 396–8), who counts seven poems.
142 floris bernard
to a ‘respectable and noble child’ (v. 1: πρὸς παῖδα σεμνὸν εὐγενῆ).18 Despite
the very general title ‘Verses on Grammar’ (στίχοι περὶ γραμματικῆς) in
the manuscripts, the poem is chiefly concerned with the complement
cases after verbs. The poem is supplemented by a similar poem dealing
mainly with double constructions after certain verbs (i.e. verbs with sev-
eral complement cases).19 Other poems discuss various grammatical and
orthographical problems, sometimes very specific ones.
While there has been no extensive study on the sources of Niketas, even
a quick probe establishes that Niketas’ poems are largely based on earlier
grammatical literature, both in content and in method. The canons, for
example, owe a lot to the orthographical rules of George Choiroboskos,
and perhaps even more to Theognostos and the so-called epimerisms to
Herodian. Also the transmission of Niketas’ poems shows that Byzantine
readers/users saw these texts as part of the tradition of orthographical trea-
tises. Niketas’ poems are chiefly to be found in manuscripts alongside var-
ious other (prose) grammatical works. In an even more telling example,
the fourteenth-century manuscript Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbib-
liothek, theol. gr. 322 [Diktyon 71989], the scribe illustrated the (prose)
grammatical treatises by interspersing verses taken from Niketas’ poems
(with his name duly attached to them).20

The Attractions of Metre

This makes our initial question perhaps even more relevant. What exactly
is the difference between the prose texts on the same subject matter and
the poems of Niketas? What are the distinctive features that urge the writer
to put in all the effort to phrase knowledge in metre, and that make these
poems so attractive to its readers?
A first set of answers is related to the formal features of metre itself. In
the case of Niketas’ hymnographic poetry, the choice of this metre has
mostly been attributed to the need to memorize knowledge.21 Since the
pupils knew these tunes very well from liturgy, they could ‘sing along’

18 Poem on Syntax, inc. πρὸς παῖδα σεμνόν, ed. Boissonade (1831: 340–93). The English titles I give to
the poems in this article do not necessarily correspond to the titles in the manuscripts; I use them
here for orientation of the reader. On the poem, see Tovar (1969).
19 This poem is unedited; Nina Vanhoutte is currently preparing an edition of the poem. I thank Nina
Vanhoutte for sharing with me the preliminary text of the poem.
20 See Ludwich (1905: 6).
21 Antonopoulou (2003: 181). For a critical reassessment of this argument for Byzantine didactic
poetry in general, see Hörandner (2019: 477–8).
 The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia 143
with Niketas’ poem, and this would enable them to remember these mne-
monic orthographical clues better. The use of liturgical tunes for decid-
edly non-liturgical purposes is not so outlandish a phenomenon in Byz-
antium: liturgical tunes were used on a quite consistent basis for satire
and instruction.22
But there is more to metre than just this. In the passages where Niketas
discusses his choice of metre on a metapoetical level, he foregrounds a very
traditional idea, namely that metre makes an otherwise unattractive or
serious subject more palatable and playful.23 The poem On Second Aorist
Verbs, for example, begins like this (v. 1):24

Φέρε μικρόν τι παίξωμεν πολιτικοῖς ἐν στίχοις

τῆς νόσου παρηγόρημα καὶ τῆς μικροψυχίας.

Come on, let us have a little fun in political verse

as a consolation for sickness and faintheartedness.

And a very similar device is present in the poem On Syntax (v. 11):

Σπουδὴν παιγνίῳ κεραννύς, πολιτικοῖς ἐν στίχοις

ὡς ἔχῃς ταύτην ὅμηρον ἀγάπης διδασκάλου.

Mingling earnestness with play, in political verse,

so that you would have it as a pledge of your teacher’s love.

In these two examples, the idea that metre adds an element of fun to an
earnest subject seems to be associated with the use of the politikos stichos.
They are perfectly comparable with other metapoetical statements about
the motivations and contexts of the use of the politikos stichos, such as we
find them in the didactic poems of Michael Psellos, for instance.25 On top
of that, Niketas’ poem is presented as a gift from a teacher to his pupil (a
‘pledge of his love’). Hence, the prologue sets the text firmly in a teacher–
student relationship, which, as we will also see below, is a complex and rich
relationship involving mutual affection and obligations.
But the idea of mixing earnestness with play in Byzantine poetry is
not exclusively reserved for the politikos stichos. Remarkably, it is also

22 Mitsakis (1990).
23 See Hörandner (2019: 480–1).
24 Poem on Second Aorist Verbs, inc. Φέρε μικρόν τι παίξωμεν, line 1, ed. Lampros (1922: 192). Also
quoted in Jeffreys (1974: 166).
25 As evident from the discussion in Jeffreys (1974).
144 floris bernard
f­ oregrounded in one of Niketas’ hymnographical poems, the canon B. This
is its epilogue:26

Παιγνία σεμνὰ τεθεικότες τοῖς φιλολόγοις μετὰ μέλους,

ἔστι γὰρ καὶ παίζειν σωφρόνως·
ὑμᾶς δ’ αἰτοῦμαι ἀντιμισθίαν δοῦναι,
ἀνθ’ ὧνπερ ἐπονήσαμεν,
τῆς σωτηρίας τὴν ἐξαίτησιν.

I offer serious games with a melody, to lovers of learning,

since it is possible to play in a thoughtful way.
But from you I ask to give me a reward in exchange
for the toils that I laboured,
namely to pray for my salvation.

The idea is identical to the one expressed in the poems using politikos
stichos. Metre (in general) makes discourse more attractive; it is playful,
and also considered a ‘precious gift’ from a teacher to his pupils (similarly
to the prologue to the Poem on Syntax quoted earlier). The only difference
may be that Niketas highlights the ‘melody’ here, which of course refers
to the fact that these poems were sung. Taking these statements together
with similar ones for the politikos stichos, which was also a purely accentual
metre, we can surmise that it is the accentual pattern that is associated with
the attractiveness (or even playfulness) of the metre.
In the epilogue to the Poem on Verbs with Double Constructions, which is
also written in politikos stichos, the element of play rather serves as a cover
against criticisms for errors. Niketas hopes that he has written a useful piece
of work, but if this would not be the case, it may be argued that this was just a
play after all.27 Niketas seems to assign poetic texts to a less respectable realm,
where (allegedly) standards are less stringent. It can be related to the lower
intellectual status of the politikos stichos in the discourse of intellectuals.28

26 Canon B, ode θ’, strophe 26, as in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr. 2558 [Diktyon 52190],
fol. 65r, lines 13–15. In some other manuscripts, there are further troparia that can be considered
‘book epigrams’ or ‘paratexts’, but the poem proper seems to end with this troparion. Throughout
this article, I will make use of manuscript reproductions because no reliable edition is available as
of yet (as mentioned above, Theodora Antonopoulou is preparing one). For convenience, I based
myself on the manuscript Paris. gr. 2558. By no means should this be seen as even a beginning
of an edition. The manuscript reproductions are taken from https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/
btv1b8470442q (last accessed 17 April 2021). For a description of Niketas’ works in this manuscript,
see Schneider (1999: 399–400).
27 Poem on Verbs with Double Constructions, inc. τί δαὶ περὶ συντάξεων, lines 136–9, as in Paris. gr.
2558, fol. 85v, right column, lines 15–18.
28 About this tension, see Jeffreys (1974) and Agapitos (2017). See also Bernard (2014: 243–5).
 The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia 145
Didactic Plot and Didactic Simultaneity
These features are all related to the formal qualities of metre. But to gauge
why didactic poetry was a viable medium for knowledge transmission, we
have to look for other more intrinsic features that set off these poems from
the prose texts to which they are otherwise so similar.
To begin with, the text of each poem assumes throughout a communica-
tive situation that is clearly pedagogical. In other words, in Niketas’ didactic
poems, there is a first person, the poet and teacher, who speaks and instructs,
addressing a second person, who is represented as a pupil gradually intro-
duced into the knowledge imparted by the text. This has been called the
‘didactic plot’,29 since it effectively presupposes a narrative (step-by-step
imparting of the knowledge), with certain fixed characters (teachers and
pupil). It is common to a majority of didactic poetry, ancient and medieval,
Greek and Latin, and probably beyond these languages as well. In doing this,
the didactic poem establishes an impression of ‘didactic simultaneity’:30 when
we read it, we get the impression of an oral lesson unfolding temporally.
Niketas’ poems are clearly built upon this didactic principle. At a very
basic level, the imperative mood is a convenient tool to establish direct
contact with the presupposed pupil. The dativus ethicus also enhances this
impression of involvement of the addressee. One simple example: 31

Ιος τὰ ὀξύτονα ἐκ τῶν εἰς ος μὴ γενόμενα μηδ’ ὄντα ὀνόματα ποταμῶν

βράχυνε ὡς τὰ ζῷα μοι κριὸν χαραδριόν τε etc.

Write for me a short vowel [i.e. ι] in the oxytone words ending in -ιος that
are not derived from words ending in -ος and that are no names of rivers,
such as animals: κριόν and χαραδριόν.

Moreover, common imperative forms such as γραφέσθωσαν seem to sup-

pose a pupil who in the future will have to ‘write’ these words.
The pupil is frequently addressed with a vocative, and this happens in
both hymnographic and stichic poems. The address can be just βέλτιστε
(in Canon B),32 but also frequently a ‘friend’. One poem begins right away
with the address πεφιλμένε,33 another one contains the addresses ὦ φίλος

29 Fowler (2000).
30 Volk (2002: 39–41) and passim.
31 Canon A, Ode α’, strophe 3, ed. Cohn (1886: 662).
32 Canon B, Ode η’, strophe 6, as in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr. 2617 [Diktyon 52252],
fol. 181r, col. 2, line 8.
33 Poem inc. πέδον τιθηνόν, line 1, as in Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 80v, col. 2, line 13.
146 floris bernard
and πεφιλμένος.34 The poem On Syntax is not only in the prologue, but
also throughout addressed to someone who is ‘young’ (νέε).35 The Poem on
Noun Stems Ending in –ν opens and closes with the address to his ‘(dearest)
boys’ (v. 2 and 98).36
In line with this ‘didactic plot’, the poems set up a communicative
framework that is very typically pedagogical and constructs a little drama
between teacher and pupil.37 The teacher/poet urges the pupil to pay atten-
tion to specific parts of his ‘lesson’, with interjections such as ‘and pay
attention to these words’,38 or ‘listen for me here, to those written with
eta’.39 Other passages emphasize that the pupil should not let his attention
waver. Thus, the poem inc. πέδον τιθηνόν,40 which as a whole contains
frequent addresses to a ‘friend’, warns: ‘do not pass by [this orthography]’
(v. 2: μὴ παραδράμῃς), and (twice) ‘let [this] not escape your notice’ (v. 4:
σὲ μὴ λανθανέτω, v. 5: μὴ σὲ φευγέτω).
Niketas peppers his grammatical rules and examples with many other
devices that help to enliven the dry material. Some of them are already
mentioned by earlier scholars.41 Niketas has a habit, for example, of per-
sonifying his grammatical topics; he says for instance that certain verbs
‘embrace’ or ‘dance with’ a given orthography.
Moreover, Niketas’ poems make use of typical structural pointers,
announcing topics to be treated imminently, or concluding them. These
pointers add a chronological dimension to the poems in time, enhanc-
ing the impression that they are oral lessons happening as we read. They
also add a thematic structure to the text, dividing it into clearly deline-
ated informational units, just as other informative texts would do.42 Since
the goal of didactic poetry is to transmit science, the poems employ a
clear, transparent and often multilayered structure to present the topic
at hand.43 From beginning to end, the poem announces that it discusses
the topics according to the logic that a didactic treatment of this topic
imposes.

34 Poem inc. ἔρον σμίκρυνε, v.11 ὦ φίλος, and v. 80 πεφιλμένος, as in Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 81v, col. 2, line
26 and fol. 82v, col. 1, line 11.
35 Poem on Syntax, inc. πρὸς παῖδα σεμνόν, lines 14 and 109.
36 Poem on Noun Stems Ending in -ν, inc. καιρὸς μὲν ὕπνου, v. 2: παῖδες, and v. 98: παῖδες φίλτατοι.
37 For the dramatic element in didactic poetry, see also Pizzone (2022).
38 Poem on Syntax, inc. πρὸς παῖδα σεμνόν, line 82: καὶ σκόπει μοι τὸν λόγον.
39 Canon B, Ode ζ΄, strophe 26, as in Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 62r, line 10: τὰ δὲ δι’ ἦτα δεῦρο μοι ἄκουε.
40 Poem inc. πέδον τιθηνόν, as in Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 80v, col. 2.
41 Schneider (1999: 405–9) and Antonopoulou (2003: 182).
42 For the same phenomenon in Tzetzes’ didactic poetry, see van den Berg (2020).
43 This has also been remarked for medieval Latin didactic poetry: Haye (1997: 168–84).
 The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia 147
One example out of the many: in the poem On Syntax, Niketas
announces at a certain point that he will discuss the topic of prepositions.44

Τὰς δὲ προθέσεις σκόπει μοι, καὶ τὰς συντάξεις τούτων

ἐκ τῶν μονοσυλλάβων δὲ τῆς διδαχῆς ἀρκτέον.

Consider now the prepositions, and their constructions;

And let us start this lesson with the monosyllabic ones.

After this explanation of constructions with monosyllabic prepositions,

Niketas marks the transition to the next subtopic.45

Περὶ τῶν δισυλλάβων δὲ καιρὸς ἀπάρτι λέγειν.

It is now time to give a full explanation of the disyllabic prepositions.

Also within this part, the explanation of each preposition is clearly struc-
turally marked. One finds, for instance (in a line which is also a leçon par
l’exemple, because it explains exactly the preposition μετά):46

Μετὰ δὲ ταῦτα πρόσεχε τῇ τῆς μετὰ συντάξει.

After that, pay attention to the construction of μετά.

These structural pointers thus add a three-level structure to the poem, with
topic, subtopics, and concrete items within.
This pedagogical setting also includes (supposed) emotional reactions
from the pupil, further enlivening the ‘didactic drama’. Thus, the teacher
sometimes shows concern that some part of the explanation has been
going on for too long and may be boring, so it is time to put an end to it:47

Ὅσα τε εἰς -φων καταλήγει, καὶ τόνον ἔχει τὸν βαρυνόμενον, οὐ χρὴ γὰρ
πλέον λέγειν τι· τοῦ κόρου φεύγοντες τὸ πλήσμιον

As for the nouns that end in -φων and have a barytone stress, we do not
need to say more about them, avoiding the saturation of overload.

44 Poem on Syntax, inc. πρὸς παῖδα σεμνόν, lines 724–5.

45 Poem on Syntax, inc. πρὸς παῖδα σεμνόν, line 763.
46 Poem on Syntax, inc. πρὸς παῖδα σεμνόν, line 806.
47 Canon B, Ode θ’, str. 15, as in Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 64v, lines 2–3.
148 floris bernard
This remark reminds us that didactic poems are not intended to treat the
subject in exhaustive detail. They are summaries of knowledge for didac-
tic consumption. Concision is indeed an important part of the didactic
­aesthetic. Time and again, didactic poems emphasize how they make
knowledge more concise and easier to survey. Thus, in the introduction
to the Poem on Syntax, which is nevertheless his longest, Niketas proudly
states how he will attempt to teach syntax in ‘a short treatise’ (v. 10 τὴν
σύνταξιν ... | συντόμῳ πειραθήσομαι μεθόδῳ παραδοῦναι). Yet, Niketas
promises his pupil that his text will still transmit the full content of the
topic (vv. 13–14):48

Λέξεων τοίνυν πέφυκε παράθεσις ὁ λόγος

σημαίνουσα διάνοιαν, ὦ νέε, πληρεστάτην.

My text is a composition of words

that nevertheless gives, my boy, a most complete meaning.

The poem On Second Aorist Verbs contains a long metatextual passage that
focuses on the method Niketas uses (vv. 70–7):49

Πλὴν ἀλλ’ ὡς ἐν ὑφάσματι πάντα ἁρμοστέον

κατὰ στοιχεῖον ἀπ’ ἀρχῆς μέχρις αὐτοῦ τοῦ τέλους.
δεῖ γὰρ τὸν πέπλον ἐντελῆ τοῦ λόγου προσυφαίνειν
καὶ συντηρεῖν ἀκριβασμὸν τὸν τῆς ἀλληλουχίας
καὶ καθ’ εἱρμὸν καὶ σύνδεσμον τὰ λείποντα διδάσκειν,
δεικνύντος τὴν ἀκρίβειαν τοῦ τεχνικοῦ κανόνος,
πρὸς ὅνπερ ἀπευθύνοιτο ῥημάτων ἀρτιότης
τὰ περιττὰ δὲ τέμνοιτο τοῦ λόγου τῇ μαχαίρᾳ.

But just as in weaving, we have to fit everything together,

one by one, from the beginning until the very end.
For we need to weave the complete dress of words,
preserve the requirements of consistency,
teaching the lacunas according to tune and order.
The precise method is shown by the art’s rules,
according to which the right proportion of words is defined,
and the superfluous words are cut out with a knife.

Niketas is conscious here of his efforts to achieve a clearly structured,

coherent whole, in which not a word too much is said, and where he cuts
48 Poem on Syntax, inc. πρὸς παῖδα σεμνόν, lines 13–14.
49 Poem on Second Aorist Verbs, inc. Φέρε μικρόν τι παίξωμεν, ed. Lampros (1922: 192).
 The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia 149
out all unnecessary information. Concision, coherence and a clear logical
structure are presented as major assets of the poems.
On a very basic level, this is what verse does: by forcing the author to put
an end to his thought after a given number of syllables, he is automatically
forced to express himself in a concise manner.50 The idea of brevity, and
especially, concision (being complete while using few words) is paramount
in prologues and epilogues of didactic poems.51 Thus, the verse format, by
its very nature, provides structure to unwieldy material and makes it easy
to survey. The prologue to the Poem on Verbs with Double Constructions
uses a similar motif. Niketas avers that he wants to be brief, and wonders
how he can best economize his words, so that still everything is being said,
but that he avoids being boring or cumbersome (vv. 7–9).52
At times, the communicative setting becomes more concrete. The Poem
on Nouns Ending on -ια/εια begins with the statement that a certain ‘friend’
named Michael had complained that this topic had been neglected.53
Modern scholars assumed that Michael must have been a fellow teacher,
because supposedly a pupil would not make such a brazen request.54 But
similar requests are also known from Psellos’ letters, and there they cer-
tainly come from a pupil. We have to take into account that pupils were
‘friends’ (frequently called as thus by Niketas, as we have seen). They had
a considerable say in the educational process. The poems are thus firmly
anchored in the community of pupils under Niketas’ care.
This brings us to another aspect of the didactic poetics of Niketas: his
awareness that the marriage of ‘unpoetic’ content and metrical form is
an extraordinary achievement.55 In two instances, he compares his poetic
enterprise with a horse race. In The Poem on Second Aorist Verbs, he specifi-
cally compares the ‘horse race’ (ἱππικὸς ἀγών) with the ‘contest of words’
(λογικὸς ἀγών):56

Καὶ φέρε μυωπήσωμεν τὸν πῶλον πρὸς τὴν νύσσαν

τὸν λογικὸν δραμοῦμενον ὡς ἱππικὸν ἀγῶνα
καὶ τῇ τοῦ νοῦ μαστίξωμεν μάστιγι πρὸς τὸν δρόμον
πετασθησόμενον εὐθὺς ὡς οἱ παρ’ Ὁμήρῳ,

50 On concision and poetry, see Bernard and Demoen (2021).

51 For Tzetzes, see van den Berg (2020). For Psellos, see Bernard (2014: 238–40).
52 Poem on Verbs with Double Constructions, inc. τί δαί περὶ συντάξεων, lines 7–9, as in Paris. gr. 2558,
fol. 84v, left column, lines 7–9.
53 Guglielmino (1974: 430): ἔφης, ὦ φίλε Μιχαήλ, μόνα με τῶν ἁπάντων | διὰ τῆς ιᾶ θηλυκὰ μὴ
παραδεδωκέναι …
54 Schneider (1999: 413).
55 Haye (1997: 45–103).
56 Poem on Second Aorist Verbs, inc. φέρε μικρόν τι παίξωμεν, lines 85–93.
150 floris bernard
καὶ τοῦ διαύλου θεατὴς ὁ φιλόλογος ἔστω,
ᾧπερ καὶ παραινέσομεν χρήσιμους παρεμφάσεις,
αὐτὰ δὴ τὰ προκείμενα παράγοντες εἰς μέσον.
Μὴ τοὺς ἐμοὺς λυσιτελεῖς ἔρρειν ἀφήσεις λόγους,
ὡς ἀποβήσονται καλὰ τοῦ βίου σοῦ τὰ τέλη.

So, let us prod the horse towards the turning post,

so that it can run the contest of words like a horse race,
and let us whip it with the whip of our minds, towards the race,
so that it can rush forward as the horses of Homer.
And let the lover of words be the spectator of this course,
to whom I will give these useful pieces of advice,
putting forward these very words you are seeing.
Make sure to not leave my words to be for naught,
as they will turn out to be profitable life goals.

The race they are running is one of words, instead of horses. Niketas likens
his enterprise to a horse that he wants to keep focused on the track. The spec-
tators of his race are the ‘philologists’, his pupils, to whom he gives advice
that will prove to be very useful in their lives. The pupils are the privileged
audience of his poems, and also assess the performance of their teacher. This
attributes a very theatrical aspect to the didactic poems (let us not forget that
the hippodrome was the θέατρον par excellence for the Byzantines).
At the same time, Niketas shows himself very much aware of the extraor-
dinary usefulness of his poem. Pupils will profit from it: the phrase τὰ τέλη
τοῦ βίου quite unambiguously points to the professional prospects of the
pupils. Displaying your brilliance in education was indeed in this time a
viable means to climb the social ladder through bureaucratic functions,
and spelling (as tested with the schedography contest) was the first of these
prerequisites.
In the Poem on Verbs with Double Constructions the same imagery is
used. In a long transitional passage, Niketas again compares his poetic
enterprise to a horse who is riding a race.57 Facing the sneers and taunts of
the audience, Niketas spurs it on to the end. This idea may owe something
to the context of competitions (see below), but it also shows his pride in
his poetic achievement. Also in the prologue to the poem, Niketas men-
tions how the topic at hand (syntactic constructions) makes for a ‘difficult
enterprise’,58 which he will take on nevertheless.

57 Poem on Verbs with Double Constructions, lines 56–66; as quoted in Schneider (1999: 414).
58 Poem on Verbs with Double Constructions, line 2, πάνυ δύσεργον τὸ πόνημα, as quoted in Schneider
(1999: 414).
 The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia 151
While these passages do not refer specifically to the fact that Niketas
wrote these texts in verse, one would be very hard pressed to find state-
ments as this in prose texts. It is in poems that the didactic theatre, with
its typical communicative situation and self-referentiality, comes to life. At
the same time, as we have seen, verse made for a more playful, attractive
performance.
Niketas was certainly proud of his poems: it is emphatically his own per-
sonal achievement. In the epilogue to Canon A, he is not shy of mention-
ing his full name and function of proximos of the Chalkoprateia school,
adding that his poem is ‘a very expedient piece of work’ (φιλοτέχνημα
πολυωφελέστατον).59 In the following strophe, which in many manu-
scripts concludes the poem, Niketas (or a later scribe) states:60

ὄνομα καλὸν καὶ σφόδρα θαυμάσιον ἡ βίβλος κτήσεται· μεγαλεμπορία

γὰρ τοῖς φιλολόγοις, οἶδα, κληθήσεται, τοῖς ἀντιστοίχοις βρίθουσα καὶ
πυκνουμένη καλῶς τοῖς κανόσιν.

This book will acquire a beautiful and very wonderful name, for I know lov-
ers of words will call it an ‘advantageous affair’, since it teems with homo-
phones (antistoicha), and has a rich abundance of rules.

Once again, this strophe refers to the fact that students will reap ben-
efit from the book. After having learnt it, they will be able to solve all
orthographical problems, and this will propel them into a successful career.

The Leçon par l’exemple and the Didactic Setting

The didactic setting is not only in evidence in these brief metapoetical
statements. It is also very much present in the content of Niketas’ poems
itself, especially in the examples with which he illustrates the grammatical
and orthographical rules. For this, he makes use of a powerful pedagogical
tool, namely the leçon par l’exemple. He illustrates knowledge by using an
example, but these examples are not random: they have another meaning
that is also relevant.61 In other words, there is a double layer at work: osten-
sibly, the example illustrates a given grammatical or orthographical rule,
say, a certain verb going together with a complement in a certain case,

59 Canon A, Ode θ’, strophe 27, as quoted in Antonopoulou (2003: 182).

60 Canon A, Ode θ’, strophe 28, here given according to Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 72r. See also Schneider
(1999: 411–12).
61 Tzetzes, too, uses the leçon par l’exemple as a pedagogical strategy: see van den Berg in this volume.
152 floris bernard
but this example, if taken literally, also has a meaning in the teacher/pupil
setting. In the verbs in the first person, it is the character of the teacher
who is speaking, while in the second person, the actions are attributed to
the pupil. The examples themselves often pertain to the world of education
and/or contain a moral lesson.
The technique is present to some degree in all of Niketas’ poems, but
is used to great effect in the middle section of the long poem On Syntax,
where Niketas embarks on a lengthy exposition of cases following verbs
with various prefixes (v. 386–591). He introduces this section with the
warning that this part of his discourse will contain some criticisms directed
at the pupil, arguing that this is only the result of the pupil’s sluggishness.
Niketas also concludes the section with a justification why he has been so
harsh on his pupil.
In between, there is a long series of model sentences that show the
meaning of various verbs with various constructions. In them, the student
is reproached for being lazy, careless, and contemptuous of his teacher,
while the teacher goes out of his way to cater to the student’s needs. The
student is urged to put more effort. Here is an example from the section
that deals with the syntactical construction of the verbs with the roots –
ψεύδω and –τρέχω (lines 395–405).

ἐψεύσω, διεψεύσω με τῶν ἐλπισμῶν ὧν εἶχον. 395

ἐμοῦ καταψευσάμενος, συμψεύδῃ τοὺς ἐχθρούς μου·
ἐχθροὺς αὐτὸς γὰρ κέκτημαι τοὺς ἀμελεῖς τῶν νέων.
ἐν δόλοις ὑποτρέχειν με καὶ περιτρέχειν θέλεις,
τοῦς ῥᾳθυμοῦντας ἅπαντας ἀφρόνως ὑπερτρέχων·
οὐ διατρέχειν γὰρ φιλεῖς τοὺς διδασκάλων οἴκους 400
μισεῖς τοὺς λόγων ἔρωτας, τὰς βίβλους παρατρέχεις·
ἐκτρέχεις μου τῆς ὄψεως, καὶ φεύγων ἀποτρέχεις·
τῶν συναμιλλωμένων σοι προτρέχειν οὐκ ἐπείγῃ·
συντρέχειν οὐκ ἐπόθησας τοῖς φιλοπόνοις νέοις,
οὐδ’ ἀντιτρέχειν ἔσπευσας τοῖς ἀντηγωνισμένοις. 405

You have lied, you have belied the hopes I had. 395
By accusing me falsely, you have joined the lies of my foes,
for the slothful among the youth, these are my own enemies.
You want stealthily to avoid and escape me,
mindlessly surpassing all the lazy ones.
For you don’t desire to frequent the houses of the teacher. 400
You hate the love for words, you leave the books aside,
you run out of my sight, you flee away.
And you don’t hurry to succour those who fight together with you,
 The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia 153
for you didn’t want to run the course with diligent youths,
neither did you strive to fight with your adversaries. 405

The passage paints a vivid picture of a teacher who goes out of his way to
provide his pupils with the right knowledge, while the pupil is inclined to
neglect books and words, and even avoids his teacher. In the three last lines
of the passage quoted here, we also see references to ‘contests’. The pupil’s
fellows, who are more diligent than him, valiantly take up ‘fights’ with
adversaries – we will return to these.
The pupil is cast as a character who rather indulges in laziness or in horse
riding (line 462). The teacher provides him with ‘beneficial words’ (line
488: λόγους ὠφελίμους, probably referring to this very poem),62 but the
pupil contradicts him (553: τὸ δ’ ἀντιλέγειν μοι τολμᾷς) and even mocks
him. It is only logical that this invokes the teacher’s anger (548: θυμοῦ μοι
ζέσαντος), and Niketas mentions frequently the whip as a tool to discipline
him in vain (line 513: ταῖς διδασκάλων μάστιξιν; 500: μοι μαστίζοντι; 555:
καταφρονεῖς μαστίγων). The examples also frequently bring up the theme
of agrypnia: instead of being awake for the sake of study, the lazy pupil
prefers to stay in bed (see line 420: ἐν κλίνῃ κατακείμενος οὐκ ἀγρυπνεῖν
ἐθέλεις), he mocks those pupils who stay awake (467: τοὺς ἀγρυπνοῦντας
παίζων), and he scorns the act of staying awake (512: τὸ δ’ ἀγρυπνεῖν,
ὡς ὑπνηλὸς, ὡς φαῦλον ἐξορχοῦμαι). His teacher, on the other hand,
had completed this poem in one night (5: μικρὸς τῆς μιᾶς νυκτὸς πόνος).
Agrypnia was indeed hailed by contemporary teachers as an ideal to live by:
to devote a life to letters, one should be prepared to leave sleep behind, and
study or write with the light of the oil lamp.63
The poem On Noun Stems Ending in -ν is completely built around the
theme of agrypnia. The introduction, with a witty wordplay, goes as fol-
lows:64

καιρὸς μὲν ὕνπου, καὶ καθεύδειν ἦν δέον·

ἀλλ’ οὖν δι’ ὑμᾶς, παῖδες, ἀγρυπνητέον,
ἡ νὺξ δὲ τοῦ νῦ λῆξιν ἐξεταζέτω.

Yes, it is time to sleep, and we should go to bed.

But for your sake now, my boys, one should stay awake,
and let the night examine the stems ending in -nu.

62 Poem on Syntax, inc. πρὸς παῖδα σεμνόν, line 488.

63 For instance, Christopher of Mytilene, Poem 40, line 75, ed. De Groote (2012).
64 Poem on Noun Stems Ending in -ν, inc. καιρὸς μὲν ὕπνου, lines 1–3.
154 floris bernard
At the end of the poem, Niketas completes the joke, saying he will go off to
sleep now (v. 96–7: ἀλλ’ ὑπνωτέον. | Τὸ γὰρ πόνημα σὺν θεῷ τέλος φέρει;
‘But now it’s time to sleep, for the work, with the help of God, has come to
an end’). His pupils, after learning this useful lesson, should also go to bed,
mix the masculine with the feminine gender, and this way, they will beget
the most accomplished words. Rather than just a tasteless joke,65 Niketas
cleverly combines the subject matter (the poem is about nouns that could
be either masculine or feminine) with the well-known metaphor of beget-
ting texts as children.
This is all quite playful of course, but it fits within a broader framework
of texts where the social side of education comes very much into evidence.
The poem constructs a teacher–student relationship that is quite typical
for Byzantium, and can for instance also be compared to the letters of the
Anonymous Professor,66 or the short treatises of Michael Psellos addressed
to his students.67 These show a mixture of tender affection and censure and
admonition: pupils are late, play truant, are inclined to lend their ear to
other teachers as well, while the teacher forsakes even his sleep to provide
the pupils with the best teaching materials.

Schedography
Let us go back to the passage quoted earlier, the long passage illustrating
the various meanings of composite verbs when construed with different
cases. As we have seen, these referred to ‘fights’ and ‘alliances’. These
‘contests’ are of course nothing else than the famous schedos contests,
which are so often mentioned in texts (especially poems) in the dec-
ades before and after Niketas.68 These public contests pitted students
from different schools against each other and tested their knowledge
of grammar, especially the orthographical problem of antistoicha.69 In
the context of the contemporary didactic setting that Niketas evokes in
his poems, it is only natural that the schedos contest, which was so vital
to grammarians in eleventh- and twelfth-century Byzantium, is often
­mentioned.

65 Schneider (1999: 412).

66 As discussed in Markopoulos (2006).
67 Littlewood (1985), orations 21–4.
68 Before: Bernard (2014: 259–66). After (with connection to social context and literary culture):
Agapitos (2014). On school contests, see also Gerbi in this volume.
69 On the schedos, see Vassis (1993–4), Polemis (1997), Agapitos (2013) and (2014), Nousia (2016:
49–92).
 The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia 155
Continuing the plot line of the ‘lazy pupil’ censured in his syntactical
examples, Niketas writes:70

Καταπαλαίει σοῦ τὸν νοῦν ἡ φαύλη ῥᾳθυμία,

καὶ συμπαλαίειν οὐ τολμᾷς ἀρίστοις σχεδογράφοις,
ὅθεν ἀργὸς καθήμενος ταῖς ἄταις προσπαλαίεις.

Evil laziness strikes down your brains,

and you don’t dare to fight with the best schedos writers,
so that you sit there idle, wrestling with your delusions.

This fits with the image encountered in other poetry related to the schedos, or
to the content of the schede themselves: pupils are continuously encouraged
to fight a valiant fight and to not be so slothful.71 The ‘schedographers’ are
the fellow pupils who have to solve the schede at the specialized contests.72
Schedography is a constant theme in the Poem on Syntax. Already
in the prologue, Niketas states (vv. 25–6) that the topic at hand is very
relevant for ‘schedos writers such as you’ (τοῖς σχεδογράφοις κατὰ σέ).
In other words, Niketas will limit his poem to those issues that will be
put to the students in the schedos contests. His didactic poem (perhaps
his entire grammatical oeuvre) should thus be seen as a ‘manual’ for
students to perform well at the schedos contests. Other references are to
be found dispersed over the whole poem, in the examples Niketas uses
to adumbrate his syntactical explanation. Thus, explaining verbs that
are construed with a dative, Niketas has his pupil say: ‘I delight and
take pleasure in the study of schede’ (v. 478: ἐνασμενίζω, φιληδῶ τῇ τῶν
σχεδῶν μελέτῃ).
Niketas’ poems contain hints not only at the present didactic situation,
but also at future occasions where the orthographical skills of the pupils
will be put to the test. Thus, in the canons Niketas at several occasions
inserts remarks such as: ‘You should write δριμύς, δριμεῖα and δρίον (an
overgrown spot) with iota, and you will never be wrong.’73 Even more
relevant to the communal aspect of schedos contests is a remark such as
‘When you write this with a diphthong, you will not betray my hope in

70 Poem on Syntax, inc. πρὸς παῖδα σεμνόν, lines 427–9.

71 For this theme in the texts of schede themselves, see especially the collection of schede edited in
Vassis (2002).
72 Schedos writers (σχεδογράφοι) refer to the students solving the schede, not to teachers composing
the schede (who are σχεδοπλόκοι or σχεδουργοί). See Vassis (1993–4: 9).
73 Canon B, Ode δ΄, strophe 16, as in Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 58r, line 23–4: δριμὺς, δριμεῖα, δρίον (τόπος
σύμφυτος) ἰῶτα γραφέσθω σοι. καὶ οὐχ ἁμαρτήσεις οὐδέποτε. See also, very similarly, lines 11–12.
156 floris bernard
you.’74 Niketas seems to imply that the poem prepares the pupil for future
occasions, where he is expected to write correctly, and where the teacher
anxiously watches his pupils’ performances, hoping that they will do well.
A shorter poem on various orthographical problems, inc. πέδον τιθηνόν,
is almost entirely written with the schedography contests in mind. The sec-
ond person/pupil in this poem is called a ‘schedographer’ (v. 10: ἔκτεινε τὸν
κώρυκον, ὦ σχεδογράφε), just as in the Poem on Syntax. In the examples,
Niketas foresees that the orthographical problems will be put to the stu-
dents in schedos contests. For example, he recommends: ‘Write the word
τυκαμὴ with an eta in the schedos’,75 or ‘κίλιξ, Κίλικος and κιλίκιος are
words that are angry with the schedos writer who makes mistakes against
them.’76 This last example implies that these words had been submitted to
pupils in schedography contests and caused many of them to make errors.
I even suspect that the very beginning of the poem is a typical schedo-
graphic problem: pupils will of course be inclined to hear rather παίδων
than πέδον. The orthographical poem inc. ἔρον σμίκρυνε is similar. Nike-
tas also here calls his pupil a ‘schedographer’,77 and frequently recommends
writing words in this or that way in the schedos.78
It is also in the context of schedos contests that we have to interpret a
long and very interesting metapoetical passage in the poem On Second
Aorist Verbs. The passage follows immediately upon the passage quoted
earlier, where Niketas had likened his poem to a horse race, and where he
had underlined the usefulness of his words. Niketas gives the following
advice (while using as many asigmatic aorist and future conjugations as
possible) (v. 94–105):79

Ἂν γὰρ ἀνήσῃς τὴν πηγὴν τῶν φαύλων ῥᾳθυμίαν

αἱρήσεις τε συμφοιτητὰς ἐν τῷ καιρῷ τῆς πάλης
οὐκ ἂν εὐδοκιμήσεως τῆς φίλης ἁμαρτήσεις ...
Ἂν δώσῃς δέ γε σεαυτὸν ἀνέσει καὶ ῥαστώνῃ
οἱ δυσμενεῖς δυνήσονται βλάπτειν ἐκ τοῦ προχείρου

74 Poem inc. πεδον τιθηνόν, line 21, as in Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 81r, left column, line 3: Δίφθογγον ποιῶν
οὐ σφαλεῖς τῆς ἐλπίδος.
75 Poem inc. πεδον τιθηνόν, line 41, as in Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 81r, left column, line 23: Τὸν τυκαμὴ τοῦ
η τῷ σχέδει γράφε.
76 Poem inc. πεδον τιθηνόν, lines 69–70, as in Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 81r–v, last line and first line
respectively: Κίλιξ Κίλικος καὶ κιλίκιος λόγος | προσώχθισαν πταίοντι τῷ σχεδοφράφῳ; also cited
by Schneider (1999: 409).
77 Poem inc. ἔρον σμίκρυνε, lines 19–20, as in Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 82r, left column, lines 8–9.
78 A full list of references to schedography in these two poems is to be found in Schneider (1999:
416–17), who is primarily interested in the dating and coherence of Niketas’ oeuvre.
79 See Lampros (1922: 195–6); adapted after viewing Paris. gr. 2558, fol. 83v.
 The Didactic Poetry of Niketas of Herakleia 157
ἡμεῖς δ’ οὐχ ἕξομεν ἰσχὺν ὥστε σοι προσαμύνειν,
εἰσόμεθα δ’ ὡς ἔσονται πάντες ὑπέρτεροί σου.

If you let go of slothfulness, that source of evil,

and if you side with your fellow students at the time of the contest,
then you will not miss the appreciation that you long for. …
But if you give yourself over to entertainment and laziness,
your enemies will be able to hurt you easily,
and I will not have the power to protect you,
knowing fully well that everyone will defeat you.

Again, the teacher exhorts the pupil to be diligent; only in this way can he,
together with his classmates, face the adversaries in ‘the contest’, which can be
nothing else than the schedography contest. If he gives in to laziness, his adver-
saries will ridicule him, and, Niketas adds, his teacher will then no longer be
able to help him, and he will only suffer. This passage gives again an impres-
sion of the sense of community between teachers and students, solidified by
solidarity and empathy. Moreover, in the passages that we have been quoting,
students are often called φιλόλογοι, ‘lovers of words’, an enduring and endear-
ing address that creates a common purpose among this tightly bonded group
that would seek solidarity when engaging in the schedos contests.
In sum, Niketas’ poems should be seen as poetic manuals preparing the
students to be successful in the schedos contests. Contrary to earlier assess-
ments, I would rather think that Niketas wrote these poems while still a
proximos at the school of Chalkoprateia.80 We know also from the poems of
Christopher of Mytilene (poems 9–11) that this school was involved with
schedography contests. But the poems are not only manuals: they encour-
age the students in the face of the schedos contests, and reiterate their teach-
er’s trust in them. These texts strengthen the bonds among groups of stu-
dents and between students and teachers.

Conclusion
These frequent references to schedos contests once more confirm that ­Niketas’
didactic poetry is firmly rooted in the day-to-day practice of contempo-
rary education. Rather than disseminating knowledge in general, Niketas’
poems find their origins in the specific cultural and social characteristics
of grammatical education at Constantinopolitan schools. Teachers o­ perated
independently, attempting to attract pupils, who were rather free to go from

80 For the earlier view, see Tovar (1969).

158 floris bernard
one teacher to the other. When it pertains to grammar and proper lan-
guage teaching, the reputation of the teachers depended on their pupils’
performance at the schedos contests. Hence, the most important task of a
grammarian was to prepare students well for these typical problems. And if
possible, a teacher would make sure his teaching material is easy to survey
and finds an attractive place in classroom communication. That is exactly
what the poems of Niketas do: they are poetic manuals preparing the stu-
dents to be successful in the schedos contests. The teacher even holds up the
favourable professional prospects for his pupils that result from this success.
In this way, the poems create a community regulated by ideals of intellec-
tual friendship. In Byzantium, teacher–student relationships were defined in
terms of friendship. In this framework, the teacher is utterly dedicated to the
pursuit of grammar, as exemplified by agrypnia. He expects from his pupils
the same, so they do not put him to shame in the schedography contests. In
exchange for this, he produces poems that are on the one hand respectfully
offered as tokens of affection, to be sung or declaimed together, but on the
other hand he never ceases to urge them to alertness and zeal. The poems
transmit a sense of community, more than turgid unrhythmical prose texts
can do. Whereas those prose texts are rather reference works to be consulted in
silence and alone, the poems evoke interaction and emotional response. Sup-
posing that they are recited or sung collectively, we can see them as reinfor-
cing a group culture, in a lively setting of communal bonds and competition.
Niketas’ didactic poems share all the elements of didactic poetry in a
large sense. But rather than a play of genre, the intratextual communica-
tive situation is so specific that we should take historical circumstances into
account. The writing of didactic poetry needs to be understood against the
lively background of competitive school life in Constantinople. Niketas
makes use of the means he has at his disposal (some innovative, some deeply
ingrained in the didactic genre) to attain these goals. The communicative
situation, the conscious structuring, the self-awareness of the poet/teacher,
the typical ‘plot’ of teacher and pupil, complete with emotional overtones,
can all be understood as traditional motives that are used and adapted by
Niketas in his role as teacher/poet, which had a historical reality behind it.

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 ch apter 6

Teaching Grammar through Poetry

Tzetzes’ Scholia on the Carmina Iliaca in Context*
Baukje van den Berg

Poetry played an important role in Byzantine teaching of grammar: ­teachers

used poetry, whether ancient or Byzantine, to instruct their students in the
rules of grammar and to provide them with a wide variety of information
on ancient Greek language, literature, history and mythology.1 The many
surviving texts related to grammatical education can therefore tell us much
about Byzantine linguistic, literary and cultural thought. Twelfth-century
scholars and teachers such as John Tzetzes, Eustathios of Thessalonike and
Gregory of Corinth produced a large body of writings that, to a greater or
lesser extent, were aimed at teaching grammar, often with ancient poetry as
their point of departure.2 This chapter will explore the topics and didactic
strategies involved in teaching grammar through poetry in twelfth-century
Byzantium. I will take the prolific grammarian John Tzetzes and his Car-
mina Iliaca as my case study, considering how he used his own poem to
teach grammar.3
In characteristic fashion, Tzetzes furnished his poem with numerous
explanatory scholia, the first of which expresses his didactic intentions:
with the Carmina Iliaca, Tzetzes aimed to provide young students with a
concise panorama of the Trojan War.4 The poem relates the Trojan history

* I would like to thank Andrea Cuomo, Andreas Rhoby and Nikos Zagklas for their valuable
comments on an earlier version of this chapter; I am also grateful to audiences in Vienna and Oxford
for their useful feedback.
1 On poetry and (grammar) education, see e.g. Bernard (2014: 209–51). On Byzantine education
in general, see e.g. Giannouli (2014), Markopoulos (2014) and Nesseris (2014), with references
to further bibliography. See also Bernard in this volume for didactic poetry related to grammar
teaching.
2 For an introduction to their scholarship, see Pontani (2020: 447–9 for Gregory, 452–9 for Tzetzes,
460–7 for Eustathios).
3 On Tzetzes as grammarian, see also van den Berg (2020); on didactic strategies in the Carmina Iliaca,
see also Mondini (2022); for similar strategies in the Theogony, see Tomadaki (2022, esp. 138–42). On
Tzetzes, see also Pizzone in this volume and Bértola in this volume.
4 Introductory scholion, p. 101 Leone (1995). References to and quotations from the text and scholia
of the Carmina Iliaca are from the edition by Leone (1995). For an Italian translation of the Carmina
Iliaca, see Leone (2005).

161
162 baukje van den berg
in about 1,700 hexameters, divided into three parts: (1) the Antehomerica
deals with the events preceding Homer’s Iliad, from Hecabe’s dream antic-
ipating the birth of Paris up to the death of Palamedes; (2) the Homerica
presents a summary of the Iliad, with many deviations from the Homeric
version of events; (3) the Posthomerica discusses the events after the Iliad,
from the arrival of Penthesileia at Troy to the destruction of the city. Many
of the scholia, however, demonstrate that the lessons Tzetzes intended to
teach through his poem extended far beyond the history of the Trojan War.
The scholia give us a glimpse into Tzetzes’ teaching practice and illustrate
how works of poetry – in this case Tzetzes’ own, in other cases those of
ancient poets such as Homer and Aristophanes – served as model texts in
the classroom of a grammarian.5
I will study Tzetzes’ scholia against the background of the Art of Gram-
mar by Dionysius Thrax (c. 170–90 bc). Dionysius’ treatise was central
to the Byzantine study of grammar and as such provides a relevant frame-
work for analysing the grammatical material in Tzetzes’ scholia.6 In later
centuries, a large corpus of continuous commentaries and marginal scho-
lia came to accompany Dionysius’ brief treatise, which Tzetzes draws on
in various places throughout his oeuvre.7 After defining grammar as ‘the
acquaintance with the things poets and prose writers generally say’, Dio-
nysius divides the art into six parts, which, as one of the later scholiasts
argues, represent the successive stages of grammatical instruction:8 (1) skil-
ful reading in accordance with prosody; (2) exegesis of the poetic tropes
present in the text; (3) explanation of rare and dialectal words as well as
histories; (4) discovery of etymologies; (5) consideration of analogies; (6)
the critical appreciation of poems, ‘which is the most beautiful of all the
parts that make up the art of grammar’.9

5 On the Carmina Iliaca as ‘erudita invenzione’, see Braccini (2009–10); on the Carmina Iliaca as a
poetic experiment and introduction to Homeric poetry, see Cardin (2018); cf. Kaldellis (2009: 26).
See also Jeffreys (2009: 225–8).
6 On Dionysius’ Art of Grammar in Byzantium, see Robins (1993: 41–86), Ronconi (2012: 72–80). The
authorship of the treatise is much debated: see e.g. Callipo (2011: 28–34) and Pagani (2011: 30–8).
7 In the verse treatise On Differences between Poets, for instance, Tzetzes repeatedly draws on the scholia
on Dionysius Thrax: see e.g. lines 25–50 ed. Koster (1975) and scholia on Dionysius Thrax 18.15–
19.4; scholion on line 81 and scholia on Dionysius Thrax 19.4–11. The scholia and commentaries on
Dionysius Thrax are collected in Hilgard (1901).
8 Scholia on Dionysius Thrax 453.25–31. On Dionysius’ much-debated definition of grammar, see
Wouters and Swiggers (2015: 522–8), with references to further bibliography.
9 Dionysius Thrax, The Art of Grammar 5.2–6.3 ed. Uhlig (1883): Γραμματική ἐστιν ἐμπειρία τῶν παρὰ
ποιηταῖς τε καὶ συγγραφεῦσιν ὡς ἐπὶ τὸ πολὺ λεγομένων. Μέρη δὲ αὐτῆς ἐστιν ἕξ· πρῶτον ἀνάγνωσις
ἐντριβὴς κατὰ προσῳδίαν, δεύτερον ἐξήγησις κατὰ τοὺς ἐνυπάρχοντας ποιητικοὺς τρόπους, τρίτον
γλωσσῶν τε καὶ ἱστοριῶν πρόχειρος ἀπόδοσις, τέταρτον ἐτυμολογίας εὕρεσις, πέμπτον ἀναλογίας
ἐκλογισμός, ἕκτον κρίσις ποιημάτων, ὃ δὴ κάλλιστόν ἐστι πάντων τῶν ἐν τῇ τέχνῃ.
 Tzetzes’ Scholia on the Carmina Iliaca in Context 163
In what follows, I will explore what was involved in teaching gram-
mar in Byzantium by examining how Tzetzes uses the Carmina Iliaca to
instruct his students in Dionysius’ first four parts of grammar. How does
he use his poem to teach general rules of prosody? How does he draw
attention to poetic tropes and rhetorical figures in his own text as leçons
par l’exemple? How does he teach linguistic competence as well as cultural
knowledge by addressing obsolete and dialectal forms and providing mis-
cellaneous background information? And how does etymology function as
a didactic tool in the hands of a grammarian? I will consider Tzetzes’ gram-
mar lessons in the context of the various technical resources at his disposal
and place his scholia into dialogue with the scholarly and didactic works
of his contemporaries Eustathios of Thessalonike and Gregory of Corinth.

Reading in Accordance with Prosody: Learning

the Rules of Grammar
One of Dionysius’ scholiasts explains that the first thing one learns when
arriving at the grammatikos is how to read well, with correct prosody, ‘that
is to say, according to accents, vowel length, breathings, and other diacritic
signs’.10 Failing to read with correct prosody, so another scholiast warns,
may lead the listener astray, as a mistake in accentuation or aspiration can
change the meaning of a word significantly (e.g. ὄρος, ‘mountain’ versus
ὀρός, ‘whey’).11 The scholia on the Carmina Iliaca demonstrate how Tzet-
zes uses his poem to teach general rules of prosody. He is very attentive
to vowel length and the so-called dichronic vowels in particular, a topic
of special interest to those who aspired to understand and use the ancient
quantitative metres.12 Leaving metre aside, however, I will focus here on
aspiration as another aspect of prosody as defined by Dionysius’ scholiasts.
In the scholion on Posthomerica 120, for instance, Tzetzes explains the gen-
eral rule behind the rough breathing of the form ἕηκεν occurring in the
verse in question:

τὸ ἕηκεν ἀντὶ τοῦ ἔπεμψεν δασύνεται. αἱ γὰρ λέξεις αἱ κατ᾽ ἀρχὰς

προσλαβοῦσαι φωνῆεν τὸ τοῦ πρωτοτύπου πνεῦμα φυλάττουσιν, εἴτε

10 Scholia on Dionysius Thrax 13.15–16: τουτέστι κατὰ τόνους, κατὰ χρόνους, κατὰ πνεύματα, κατὰ
πάθη. Similar definitions are found in 16.12–13, 454.8–9, 567.17–20.
11 Scholia on Dionysius Thrax 170.33–171.6.
12 In Commentary on Aristophanes’ Wealth 1098.35–69 ed. Massa Positano (1960), Tzetzes, however,
argues that understanding the dichronic vowels is also crucial for prose writers. For the importance
Tzetzes attaches to dichronic vowels, see Agapitos (2017: 11, 19), van den Berg (2020: 296–8, 301),
Lauxtermann (2022).
164 baukje van den berg
ψιλὸν ᾖ εἴτε δασύ· ψιλὸν μὲν ὡς τὸ ἄγω τὸ κλῶ ἐάγη, κατεάγη καὶ τὰ
ὅμοια, δασὺ δὲ ὡς τὸ ὁρῶ ἑώρων, ἧκεν ἀντὶ τοῦ ἔπεμψεν, ἕηκεν, ἐφέηκεν,
ἥδω τὸ εὐφραίνομαι, ἡνδάνω, ἁνδάνω, ἑήνδανεν καὶ τὰ ὅμοια. ὅταν δὲ υ
προσλάβωσιν ἐν τοῖς φωνήεσι ψιλοῦνται, κἂν τὸ πρωτότυπον αὐτῶν ἦν
δασυνόμενον· ἕκηλος εὔκηλος, ὁρανὸς οὐρανὸς καὶ τὰ ὅμοια. (Tzetzes, scho-
lion on Carmina Iliaca 3.120)

ἕηκεν, i.e. ‘she sent’, has a rough breathing, because words that have taken
on a vowel at the start keep the breathing of the original form, whether
it is smooth or rough. Smooth, such as ἄγω, ‘to break’, ἐάγη, κατεάγη
and similar examples; rough such as ὁρῶ ἑώρων, ἧκεν, i.e. ‘he sent’,
ἕηκεν, ἐφέηκεν, ἥδω, ‘to enjoy’, ἡνδάνω, ἁνδάνω, ἑήνδανεν and similar
examples. Whenever they take on an upsilon among the vowels, they
are pronounced with a smooth breathing, even if their original form was
pronounced with a rough breathing: ἕκηλος εὔκηλος, ὁρανὸς οὐρανὸς and
similar examples.

Tzetzes first explains the meaning of ἕηκεν with the more common syno-
nym ἔπεμψεν before elucidating the grammatical rule behind its aspiration:
an augment preceding a vowel adopts the breathing of the unaugmented
form.13 According to the principle of analogy, which was common in gram-
mar teaching and which Dionysius lists as the fifth part of grammar, Tzet-
zes gives various similar verbs to illustrate the validity of the rule.14
Tzetzes had at his disposal a large body of earlier treatises on different
aspects of grammar, lexica of various kinds and ancient scholia on, for
instance, Homer and Aristophanes. In the Etymologicum Gudianum, a lex-
icon compiled in the eleventh century, we find an entry that explains the
same rule of aspiration and shares some examples with Tzetzes’ scholion,
with a reference to the second-century grammarian Herodian:

Ἔειπεν <Β 156>· ψιλοῦται. τὸ ε πρὸ φωνήεντος πλεονάζον ψιλουμένου μὲν

αὐτοῦ συμψιλοῦται, οἷον οἶκα ἔοικα, δασυνομένου δὲ <συνδασύνεται>,
οἷον ὥρων ἑώρων. ὁ δὲ Ἡρωδιανός · “τὰ πλεονάσαντα φωνήεντα ἐν λέξεσι
ταῖς ἀπὸ φωνήεντος δασυνομένου ἀρχομέναις μεταληπτικὰ γίνεται τοῦ
δασέος πνεύματος, οἷον ἥνδανε<ν> ἑήνδανεν”. (Etymologicum Gudianum ε
401.13–18 ed. De Stefani 1909–20)

13 Tzetzes repeats this rule in e.g. scholion on Carmina Iliaca 1.367.

14 See e.g. scholia on Dionysius Thrax 15.12–14: Τὸ οὖν πέμπτον μέρος ἐστὶν ἡ ἀκριβὴς τῶν ὁμοίων
παράθεσις, δι’ ἧς συνίστανται οἱ κανόνες τῶν γραμματικῶν, ‘the fifth part, then, is the accurate
juxtaposition of similar forms, which is the foundation of the grammarians’ rules’. For similar
definitions, see scholia on Dionysius Thrax 454.16–21, 470.11–20, 568.6–13. On analogy, see Pagani
(2011) and (2015: 832–9), with further bibliography.
 Tzetzes’ Scholia on the Carmina Iliaca in Context 165
Ἔειπεν [Iliad 2.156]: it is pronounced with a smooth breathing. The ad-
ditional epsilon before a vowel that has a smooth breathing is also pro-
nounced with a smooth breathing, such as οἶκα ἔοικα, but when the vowel
has a rough breathing, the additional epsilon is also pronounced with a
rough breathing, such as ὥρων ἑώρων. As Herodian [On Prosody in General
537.5 ed. Lentz 1867] says: the additional vowels in words that start with a
rough vowel share the rough breathing, such as ἥνδανε<ν> ἑήνδανεν.

In a similar way, Eustathios draws on the technical texts at his disposal

when explaining the smooth breathing of ἠέλιος in Iliad 1.601:

Τὸ δὲ ἠέλιος δοκεῖ ἐκ τοῦ ἥλιος γενέσθαι κατὰ ἐπένθεσιν τοῦ ε. ψιλοῦται δὲ

διὰ τὸν κανόνα τὸν λέγοντα, ὅτι τὸ η πρὸ φωνήεντος ὂν κατὰ διάστασιν
ψιλοῦται, οἷον ἠΐθεος, ἤϊος ὁ τοξικός· οὕτως οὖν καὶ ἠέλιος.15 (Eustathios,
Commentary on the Iliad 1.248.23–5)

Ἠέλιος seems to be derived from ἥλιος with an insertion of the epsilon. It

has a smooth breathing because of the rule that says that an eta before a
vowel, when it is not a diphthong, is pronounced with a smooth breathing,
such as ἠΐθεος, ἤϊος ‘the bowman’; the same then also applies to ἠέλιος.

Eustathios explains that the aspiration of ἠέλιος follows the general rule
that an eta preceding another vowel, where the two do not form a diph-
thong, always has a smooth breathing; this is a rule we also find, for
instance, in Herodian’s influential treatise on prosody.16 The point of these
observations is not to trace back the words of our twelfth-century scholars
to their sources but rather to illustrate how they appropriate the extensive
technical material at their disposal to teach grammar by means of poetry.
In the above examples – of which there are many more – Tzetzes and
Eustathios isolate a word from the text under discussion (in Tzetzes’ case
his own, in Eustathios’ case the Iliad) to explain general rules of prosody.
Such explanations are not particularly intended to help students compre-
hend the text but to teach them grammar via poetic model texts. The
examples represent two ways of explaining aspiration that were common
in ancient grammatical scholarship: either based on connections to related

15 The text of Eustathios’ Commentary on the Iliad follows the edition by van der Valk (1971–87).
16 Herodian, On Prosody in General 539.9–11 ed. Lentz (1867): Τὸ α ι η ο πρὸ φωνήεντος ὄντα κατὰ
διάστασιν ψιλοῦται, ἀάπτους, ἀήσυλα, ἀΐσσω, ἰάπτω, ἰατρός, ἠΐθεος, Ἠετίων, ἠέλιος, ὀΐω,
ὀϊστός, ‘α ι η ο before a vowel, where they do not form a diphthong, are pronounced with a
smooth breathing, ἀάπτους, ἀήσυλα, ἀΐσσω, ἰάπτω, ἰατρός, ἠΐθεος, Ἠετίων, ἠέλιος, ὀΐω, ὀϊστός.’
For Herodian and his treatise on prosody, see Dickey (2007: 75–7), Pagani (2015: 824–6).
166 baukje van den berg
words, as in Tzetzes’ discussion of ἕηκεν, or based on the position of a
vowel, as in Eustathios’ explanation of ἠέλιος. In addition to this, ancient
grammarians often cite etymology and the characteristics of the Greek
dialects, such as the lack of rough breathings in Aeolic, a phenomenon
repeatedly referred to by our twelfth-century scholars.17 Tzetzes and Eus-
tathios explain, for instance, that this Aeolic trait is the reason why the
name Olympus has a smooth breathing despite its etymological deriva-
tion from ὁλολαμπός, ‘shining all over’: Olympus allegorically represents
the heavens, which shine all over with stars.18 The name underwent two
other Aeolic sound changes, dropping the syllable -λα- (ὀλομπός) through
syncope, and changing the ο into υ (Ὄλυμπος).19 This form of analysis,
which combines etymology, the idiosyncrasies of the Greek dialects and
the explanation of aspiration, is frequent in Tzetzes’ and Eustathios’ gram-
matical teachings, as further examples below will illustrate.

Poetic Tropes and Rhetorical Figures in the Carmina Iliaca as

Leçons par l’exemple
Dionysius defines the exegesis of poetic tropes as the second part of gram-
mar. This is an important task of the grammarian, so Dionysius’ scholiasts
argue, as poetic tropes tend to obscure the meaning of the text.20 Owing to
this tendency towards obscurity (ἀσάφεια), such tropes are more suitable
for poets than orators, as clarity (σαφήνεια) is one of the key virtues of ora-
tory.21 While Dionysius does not describe different poetic tropes, the gram-
matical tradition includes various treatises on poetic tropes and rhetorical
figures, with Trypho’s On Tropes, George Choiroboskos’ On Poetic Tropes

17 See e.g. Tzetzes, Commentary on Aristophanes’ Clouds 5a ed. Holwerda (1960), scholia on Carmina
Iliaca 1.130; Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 1.357.11–14; Gregory of Corinth, On Dialects 5.3
ed. Schäfer (1811). On the ancient explanation of aspiration, see Probert (2015, esp. 928–9).
18 Tzetzes, Exegesis of the Iliad ad 1.18 (122.11–21 ed. Papathomopoulos 2007); Scholia on Hesiod’s Works
and Days ad 195 (128.5–17e ed. Gaisford [1823]); Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 1.44.29–45.2
(on Iliad 1.18). The same etymology is found in e.g. scholion D on Iliad 1.18 ed. van Thiel (2014),
Etymologicum Magnum 623.6 ed. Gaisford (1848), Etymologicum Gudianum 426.25–6 ed. De Stefani
(1909–20). It seems to go back to the Pseudo-Aristotelian On the Universe 400a7–8.
19 Gregory also lists this as a characteristic of the Aeolic dialect: see On Dialects 5.9 ed. Schäfer (1856).
20 See e.g. scholia on Dionysius Thrax 302.15–17, 456.8–14. See also On Tropes 191.20–2 ed. Spengel
(1956), where Trypho argues that grammarians should explain everything poets say, both when they
speak according to normal usage and when they use tropes.
21 See e.g. scholia on Dionysius Thrax 302.18–19, 456.14–17. Some tropes, however, are used by
poets as well as orators (e.g. irony): see scholia on Dionysius Thrax 13.31–14.9 Cf. e.g. scholion on
Carmina Iliaca 1.222, where Tzetzes points out that the figure in question has different names in
poetical and rhetorical theory.
 Tzetzes’ Scholia on the Carmina Iliaca in Context 167
and Herodian’s On Figures being prominent examples.22 Rhetorical figures
(σχήματα) are also part of Hermogenes’ On Types of Style, where they are
counted among the principal components of each style.23 Following the
example of ancient rhetoricians, most notably Hermogenes, Byzantine
scholars such as Tzetzes and Eustathios considered all literary composi-
tion, whether prose or verse, to belong to the art of rhetoric. Rhetorical
theory was therefore applicable to the analysis of both oratory and poetry,
as Eustathios’ rhetorical analysis of the Homeric epics demonstrates most
clearly.24 Tzetzes similarly draws attention to both poetic tropes and rhetor-
ical figures in his scholia on the Carmina Iliaca.
Tzetzes discusses most tropes and figures only briefly, simply identifying
them.25 Occasionally, he describes the intended effect of the figure, often
in terms of Hermogenes’ theory of styles. For example, he draws atten-
tion to the figure of epanalepsis, resumption or repetition, in Antehomerica
124, where he concludes his flattering portrait of Helen with the sum-
mary ‘such was the beauty of Tyndareus’ daughter’ (τοία μὲν ἦεν κάλλεϊ
κούρη Τυνδαρεώνη).26 In the corresponding scholion, Tzetzes explains
that ‘the figure is epanalepsis, which creates distinctness; distinctness and
lucidity are types of style that produce clarity’ (τὸ σχῆμα ἐπανάληψις,
ὅπερ ἔργον εὐκρινείας. ἡ δὲ εὐκρίνεια καὶ καθαρότης ἰδέαι εἰσὶν ἐργαστικαὶ
σαφηνείας).27 Tzetzes here follows Hermogenes’ stylistic handbook, where
epanalepsis is defined as a resuming statement and is counted among the
figures that produce distinctness, which, together with lucidity, is a sub-
style of clarity.28 In this way, then, Tzetzes gives his students a first taste
of Hermogenes’ complex style theory, leaving a detailed discussion of the
Hermogenean corpus to the teacher of rhetoric. In a similar vein, Eus-
tathios repeatedly identifies the figure of epanalepsis in Homeric poetry,
although most often according to the definition found in Pseudo-Her-
mogenes’ On the Method of Forcefulness. Here epanalepsis is defined as the

22 On tropes and figures in Byzantine education and literary thought, see e.g. Conley (1986),
Valiavitcharska (2021).
23 Hermogenes, On Types of Style 1.1.19 ed. Patillon (2012b); see also Lindberg (1977: 30–9).
24 See van den Berg (2022). On rhetorical theory as the literary theory of the Byzantines, see e.g.
Katsaros (2002). On the relationship between (Byzantine) prose and (ancient) poetry, see also
Bourbouhakis in this volume.
25 See e.g. scholia on Carmina Iliaca 1.57 (περίφρασις), 2.291b (περίφρασις), 3.461a (ἀστεϊσμός/
χαριεντισμός). On Tzetzes’ exegesis of words and figures in the scholia on the Carmina Iliaca, see
also Conca (2018: 84–8).
26 On the portraits in the Carmina Iliaca, see Lovato (2017).
27 Scholion on Carmina Iliaca 1.124a. Tzetzes gives a similar explanation in scholion on Carmina
Iliaca 2.160. For Tzetzes’ commentary on Hermogenes, see Pizzone in this volume.
28 On epanalepsis, see Hermogenes, On Types of Style 1.4.14–16, 1.11.31 ed. Patillon (2012b).
168 baukje van den berg
literal repetition of words in consecutive verses or sentences, a figure desig-
nated as epanastrophe in On Types of Style.29 Eustathios brings both treatises
together in his commentary on Iliad 20.371–2, where Hector says ‘Against
him [sc. Achilles] I will go out, even if his hands are like fire | even if his
hands are like fire and his fury like blazing iron (τοῦ δ’ ἐγὼ ἀντίος εἶμι,
καὶ εἰ πυρὶ χεῖρας ἔοικεν, | εἰ πυρὶ χεῖρας ἔοικε, μένος δ’ αἴθωνι σιδήρῳ).30
While these verses illustrate the figure of epanalepsis in Pseudo-Hermo-
genes’ On the Method of Forcefulness, they serve as an example of epanastro-
phe in Hermogenes’ On Types of Style. Eustathios thus attempts a synthesis
of the Hermogenean corpus, teaching his readers that the same figure goes
by two names. This is an explanation he repeats when commenting on
Iliad 22.126–7, where he also states that epanastrophe is a figure of beauty
(κάλλος), as Hermogenes explains in On Types of Style.31
Such explanations are part of Eustathios’ general project system-
atically to reverse-engineer Homer’s text ‘so that the rhetorical choices of
the poet could be laid open for aspiring Byzantine authors to adopt’.32 In
the same vein, Tzetzes lays open for his students the choices he made when
composing the Carmina Iliaca.33 In the scholion on Antehomerica 20, for
example, he explains that at this point the prodiegesis (preliminary narra-
tion) ends and the diegesis (narration) begins:

Ἤτοι μὲν Τροίη· ἐντεῦθεν ἄρχεται ἡ διήγησις ῥητορικωτάτη μετὰ μικρᾶς

τῆς προδιηγήσεως. τὸ γὰρ ἀπ᾽ αὐτῆς τῆς διηγήσεως ἄρχεσθαι ἀρητόρευτόν
τε καὶ ἄτεχνον, τὸ δὲ πόρρωθεν ἄρχεσθαι καὶ μὴ συντόμως εἰσβάλλειν εἰς
τὴν ὑπόθεσιν κακία ἐστὶ διηγήσεως· ἀσαφήνειαν γὰρ ἐμποιεῖ. ἀρεταὶ γὰρ
διηγήσεως τέσσαρες· σαφήνεια, συντομία, πιθανότης καὶ ὁ τῶν ὀνομάτων
ἑλληνισμός. (Tzetzes, scholion on Carmina Iliaca 1.20a)

Troy, then: from here the rhetorical narration proper starts after the brief
preliminary narration, because beginning from the narration itself would
show a lack of rhetorical education and technique. To begin from a faraway
point and not to introduce the subject matter briefly is a vice of narration.

29 Pseudo-Hermogenes, On the Method of Forcefulness 9 ed. Patillon (2014); Hermogenes, On Types of

Style 1.12.28–30. Epanalepsis is defined in a similar way in George Choiroboskos, On Poetic Tropes
252.11–16 ed. Spengel (1956). See e.g. Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 1.159.4–6 (on Iliad 1.266–7).
30 The text of the Iliad follows the edition by Allen and Monro (1902–12); the translations are from
Murray, rev. Wyatt (1999).
31 Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 4.418.9–13, 4.589.11–15. See also Lindberg (1977: 134, n. 7).
32 Bourbouhakis (2017: 124). Van den Berg (2022) studies Eustathios’ ‘reverse-engineering’ of Homer’s
composition process.
33 Niketas of Herakleia similarly uses the leçon par l’exemple as a pedagogical strategy: see Bernard in
this volume.
 Tzetzes’ Scholia on the Carmina Iliaca in Context 169
For it creates obscurity. For the virtues of narrative are four: clarity, brevity,
plausibility and the correct use of words.34

Drawing on Pseudo-Hermogenes’ On Invention,35 Tzetzes’ didactic and

prescriptive scholion again introduces his students to basic rhetorical the-
ory, using his own text as a model in the same way as he (and his colleagues)
might use the works of ancient poets. Again, Tzetzes gives his students a
first taste of rhetoric, preparing them for the next stage of their education.

Teaching Linguistic Competence and Cultural Knowledge:

Dialects and Histories
Dionysius defines the explanation of glossai (γλῶσσαι), ‘rare words and
dialect forms’, and historiai (ἱστορίαι), ‘histories’, as the third part of gram-
mar, which suggests that the responsibilities of the grammarian extended
far beyond teaching the basic rules of Greek grammar.

Proficiency in the Entirety of the Greek Language

Dionysius’ scholiasts define γλῶσσαι as rare and uncommon words, in
particular dialectal forms belonging to the main varieties of ancient Greek
(Attic, Doric, Ionic, Aeolic).36 They argue that, although grammarians can
define regional words with more common synonyms, they must also be
able to explain the general characteristics of each dialect.37 Tzetzes uses
both modes of explanation in the scholia on the Carmina Iliaca to elu-
cidate uncommon forms in the poem. Numerous times, he explains the
meaning of a rare poetic word by simply giving a more common, Attic
synonym; this is a method he also employs, for instance, in his Exegesis
of the Iliad, as does Eustathios in his Homeric commentaries. The sheer
quantity of such explanations suggests that this was a much-used method
to elucidate texts and familiarize students with dialect forms and Homeric
diction, while at the same time expanding their vocabulary.38 Technical
resources again assisted our scholars in their didactic practice. Compare,
for instance, Tzetzes’ definition of the poetic form ἔρσε (Antehomerica 300)

34 For the virtues of narration, see e.g. Aphthonios, Progymnasmata 2.4 ed. Patillon (2008).
35 Pseudo-Hermogenes, On Invention 2.1 ed. Patillon (2012a).
36 See e.g. scholia on Dionysius Thrax 14.14–19, 169.13–15, 567.31–8.
37 See e.g. scholia on Dionysius Thrax 469.10–12, 470.14–25.
38 See also Van Rooy (2016) on Psellos’ discussion of dialects in his poem on grammar (Poem 6 ed.
Westerink [1992]). On Psellos’ poem, see also Hörandner (2012: 60–1), Bernard (2014: 216–17,
248–50).
170 baukje van den berg
as ἀπέπνιξε (‘he drowned’, scholion on Antehomerica 300a) with the corre-
sponding entry in Hesychios’ lexicon (α 6332 ed. Latte 1953–66): ἀπόερσε·
ἀπέπνιξε, τουτέστι ποταμοφόρητον ἐποίησεν (‘he made him go under: he
drowned him, i.e. he made him be carried away by a river’).
In other scholia, Tzetzes proves that he is also familiar with the gen-
eral characteristics of the different dialects, such as the Ionic tendency to
change a long vowel into a short one, referred to as συστολή, ‘shortening’.
Tzetzes weaves two examples of Ionic shortening into verses 156–7 of the
Posthomerica:

καί νύ κε πάντα τέλεσσεν, ὅσα φρεσὶν ἔλπετο ᾗσιν·

ἔνθε γὰρ Αἰνείας εἶχεν ἵππεον ἴλην,
Δηΐφοβος δ᾽ ἑτέρωθε λαὸν ἀσπιδιώτην· (Tzetzes, Carmina Iliaca 3.156–8)

And now she [sc. Penthesileia] would have accomplished everything she
hoped for in her heart; for from the one side Aeneas led a troop of cavalry,
while from the other side Deïphobus led men equipped with shields.

ἔλπετο· τὸ “ἔλπετο” καὶ “ἵππεον ἴλην” Ἰωνικαὶ συστολαί εἰσιν· ἤλπετο γὰρ
καὶ ἵππειον ἴλην ὤφειλε τεθῆναι, ἀλλ᾽ Ἴωνες, ὡς πολλάκις ἔφην, συσταλτικοί
εἰσι καὶ οἱ πλείονες τῶν ποιητῶν Ἰωνικῶς γράφουσιν. (Tzetzes, scholion on
Carmina Iliaca 3.156)

ἔλπετο: ἔλπετο and ἵππεον ἴλην are Ionic shortenings. For ἤλπετο and
ἵππειον ἴλην should have been used, but Ionians, as I have said many
times,39 tend to shorten vowels and the majority of the poets write in the
Ionic dialect.

Tzetzes’ formulation suggests that he takes the Attic dialect as his base-
line: the forms should be ἤλπετο with an eta and ἵππειον with a diph-
thong. However, he has, of course, deliberately chosen these two Ionic
forms for this Homerizing poem and uses them to illustrate the charac-
teristic Ionic shortening.40 A similar preference for the Attic dialect can
be found in Eustathios’ Commentary on the Iliad. He repeatedly gives the
Attic equivalent of the words Homer uses, often with examples from the
Athenian playwrights. In his commentary on Iliad 16.362, for instance,
Eustathios explains that, unlike Homer, later Attic authors wrote the verbs
γινώσκειν (‘to recognize’) and γίνεσθαι (‘to happen’) with a second gamma

39 See e.g. scholia on Carmina Iliaca 1.17, 1.78b, 1.141, 1.181, 2.419, 3.372.
40 On Ionic shortening, see also e.g. Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 2.240.4–5; Gregory of
Corinth, On Dialects 4.24 ed. Schäfer (1811).
 Tzetzes’ Scholia on the Carmina Iliaca in Context 171
as γιγνώσκειν and γίγνεσθαι. He adds that ‘Homer, however, in a more
archaic manner, is ignorant of the second gamma in both verbs. Still, the
form of the later authors is more accurate, even though Homer’s form is
more euphonic.’41 In this way, Eustathios avoids challenging Homer’s ulti-
mate authority in all things linguistic, while teaching his readers – Byzan-
tine prose authors – the preferred Attic form that they should use in their
writings.42
Our twelfth-century scholars consider Homer’s language a composite
dialect with Ionic as its main component. In the introduction to his treatise
On Dialects, Gregory of Corinth mentions Homer as the main representa-
tive of the Ionic dialect. Throughout the remainder of the work, however,
he adduces Homeric examples for characteristics of all dialects.43 Similarly,
Eustathios recognizes that Homer writes mostly in the Ionic dialect, while
simultaneously attributing to the poet a tendency to use forms from other
dialects, for instance when these forms fit in better with the metre or when
the poet is aiming for a certain stylistic effect.44 In his commentary on Iliad
2.684 (Μυρμιδόνες δὲ καλεῦντο καὶ Ἕλληνες καὶ Ἀχαιοί, ‘those who were
called Myrmidons and Hellenes and Achaeans’), for example, Eustathios
explains that Homer could have used the form ἐκαλοῦντο, in the koine
dialect, which Eustathios considers to be clearer (σαφέστερον). The poet,
however, ‘deliberately avoided the koine dialect for the sake of stylistic loft-
iness by using the more poetic καλεῦντο’ (ἐπετηδεύσατο ἐκφυγεῖν χάριν
ὄγκου τὸ τῆς διαλέκτου κοινόν “καλεῦντο” εἰπὼν ποιητικώτερον).45 Eus-
tathios thus considers the poetic, Ionic form to be more elevated than the
simple and mundane koine. Homer is not required to be consistent in his
use of the Greek dialects: he can use the koine form ἔθηκε in one place
(Iliad 24.531), while choosing the Ionic θῆκεν a few lines later (24.538),
as ‘he has much freedom to take pleasure in whichever dialect he wishes’
(οἷα πολλὴν ἔχων ἄδειαν ἐγχορεύειν, αἷς ἂν διαλέκτοις βούλοιτο).46 In

41 Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 3.862.9–14.

42 On the productive aim of the commentary, see p. 168 above; see also Cullhed (2016: 17*–25*). On
the study of ancient poetry as facilitating the composition of prose, see also Bourbouhakis in this
volume.
43 See e.g. On Dialects 2.4 ed. Schäfer (1811): the Attic habit of pronouncing ὁμοῖος with a circumflex
on the penultimate syllable is illustrated with Odyssey 17.218; On Dialects 3.20: the Doric tendency
to drop the final vowel of prepositions before words starting with a consonant is illustrated with
Iliad 4.1; On Dialects 5.31: Homer’s usage of Ἄρεος (Iliad 4.441, 19.47, Odyssey 8.267) with an
omicron rather than an omega exemplifies the Aeolic spelling of the genitive of Ares’ name.
44 See e.g. Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 1.340.16–18; cf. 2.260.5–8. For Eustathios’ reflections
on the dialect of Homeric poetry, see also van den Berg (2021: 123–4).
45 Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 1.499.29–500.2.
46 Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 4.949.12–13.
172 baukje van den berg
other words, Homer has the artistic liberty to move between the different
dialects at will.
In line with Eustathios’ general tendency to project his own didactic
programme onto the poet and shape Homer in the image of the ideal
twelfth-century author,47 Homer’s dialectal flexibility may represent an
aesthetic ideal that Eustathios believed Byzantine authors should strive to
achieve. After all, Homer’s artistic use of the dialects does not altogether
differ from Tzetzes’ practice in the Carmina Iliaca. This means that the
grammatical lessons on the idiosyncrasies of the dialects serve a practical
purpose: knowledge of the dialects does not only enable students to appre-
ciate ancient literature, but also allows them to use dialect forms in their
own writings. Such a productive aim accords with the practical dimen-
sions of Byzantine (grammar) education and the study of ancient litera-
ture: students were supposed to compose texts of their own, in prose as
well as verse, following the example of ancient authors. As Ruth Webb has
suggested for the grammatical glosses and scholia in Moschopoulos’ com-
mentary on Philostratus’ Eikones, ‘the discussions of the literary dialects …
can be read as prescriptive instructions for the formation of pseudo-dialect
forms where required by the genre, rather than as accounts of historical
phenomena’.48 The works of Tzetzes, Eustathios and Gregory provide their
students with the information required to gain proficiency in the entirety
of the Greek language.

Towards Polymathy: historiai

The study of grammar also covered ἱστορίαι, which Dionysius’ commen-
tators define as ‘accounts concerning the past’.49 The grammarian was
expected to explain and expand on historical allusions found in the text
under discussion. The works of our twelfth-century scholars clearly testify
to the responsibility of grammarians to expand the polymathy of their
students. Tzetzes’ scholia on the Carmina Iliaca contain much material
that falls under the broad category of ἱστορίαι: a comparison of Diome-
des’ gleaming weapons to ‘the Syracusan mirror’ in the Homerica prompts
a long discussion of the famous mirror of Archimedes in the scholia;50 a

47 See esp. Cullhed (2016: 11*–12*).

48 Webb (1997: 16).
49 See e.g. scholia on Dionysius Thrax 303.4 (Ἱστορία δέ ἐστι παλαιῶν πράξεων ἀφήγησις), 454.34–5
(Ἱστορία δὲ ἡ τῶν παλαιῶν χρῆσις·), 567.40–2 (Ἱστορία δέ ἐστιν ἡ παλαιῶν πραγμάτων ἔχουσα
ἀφήγησιν).
50 Homerica 46 with scholion 46ab. For Tzetzes and Archimedes’ mirror, see Rance (2022).
 Tzetzes’ Scholia on the Carmina Iliaca in Context 173
scholion in the Antehomerica includes what Tzetzes calls ‘an ἱστορία in
verse by Tzetzes’ (ἱστορία διὰ στίχων τοῦ Τζέτζου), which discusses in
dodecasyllables the views of various ancient historians on a pre-Iliadic
attack on Troy by the Amazons;51 long summaries of Homeric battle scenes
in the scholia compensate for details of the Iliad not included in Tzet-
zes’ ‘short sayings’ or βραχυλογήματα, as he calls his own verses;52 and,
interestingly, the scholia include thirty-seven epitaphs of heroes, most of
which are epigrams Tzetzes found in the sources at his disposal. For those
heroes for whom the tradition did not transmit an epitaph, Tzetzes wrote
one himself – the scholia contain eight such epigrams.53 Again, we should
not consider such historical accounts to be of purely antiquarian nature
but rather to be an integral part of grammatical instruction, in line with
Dionysius’ third part of grammar. With such ‘histories’, the grammarian
transmits the cultural knowledge that the educated man in Byzantium was
expected to possess. This didactic role of the concept of ἱστορία may also
shed light on the functionality of the Histories, in which Tzetzes explains,
among other things, the historical and mythological allusions in his own
letter collection.54
Eustathios’ Homeric commentaries demonstrate a similar tendency to
include a wealth of background information often only loosely related to
the text under discussion: these monumental works present information
on a wide variety of subjects – history, mythology, zoology, topography,
medicine, etc. – that goes far beyond the explanation of the Homeric text.55
In Eustathios’ view, moreover, Homer himself included ἱστορίαι of var-
ious kinds in his poems. He repeatedly explains that the poet uses such
‘histories’ with information on, say, topography and genealogy at various
places throughout his poems to avoid monotony.56 An example of such a
‘history’ is found in the battle scene of Iliad 11, where Homer presents a

51 Antehomerica 22–3 with scholion 22c. Tzetzes uses the term ἱστορία in the same way in numerous
places throughout his works on ancient poetry. In the Prolegomena on Comedy, for instance, Tzetzes
symbolically refers to the virtues and graces of his own writings as Sappho, Gorgo and Peitho
(39–42, p. 24 ed. Koster [1975]). Next, he adds three ἱστορίαι with information about the three
women (44–65, pp. 24–5 ed. Koster [1975]).
52 Scholion on Carmina Iliaca 1.234b, 1.241b.
53 On these epigrams, see Martins de Jesus (2016), Conca (2018: 92–8).
54 Kaldellis (2009: 28–9) argues that the Histories are ‘more “textbook” than “sources”, and provide
a pedagogy in grammar, composition, and classical knowledge’. Cardin (2018: 108) draws a
connection between the Histories and the Carmina Iliaca and their scholia. On the functionality
of the Histories, see also Pizzone (2017). On ἱστορία in Byzantine education, see also Papaioannou
(2014).
55 On the encyclopedic character of Eustathios’ Homeric commentaries, see also Cullhed (2016: 4*),
van den Berg (2021: 119–20).
56 On Eustathios’ discussion of Homeric ἱστορίαι, see van den Berg (2022: 79–81).
174 baukje van den berg
brief biography of the Trojan hero Iphidamas (vv. 221–31) moments before
he is killed by Agamemnon. With this and similar histories, so Eustathios
explains, Homer gives the audience a welcome relief from the intensity
and monotony of the fighting.57 Homer includes similar brief biographies
of Trojan warriors who fall at the hands of the Greeks in the battle scene
of Iliad 5. In addition to avoiding monotony, Eustathios identifies further
reasons for the poet to include such histories:

Ποιεῖ δὲ ταῦτα καὶ πυκναῖς ἱστορίαις ἀρτύει τὸν τόπον τοῦτον ἅμα καὶ
τοὺς ἀκροατὰς ἐνάγων εἰς πολυμάθειαν, ὡς καὶ ἐν ἄλλοις τόποις, καὶ τοὺς
ἀριστέας τῶν Ἀχαιῶν σεμνύνων, ὡς ἀξιολόγων Τρώων περιγινομένους,
καὶ τὴν ποίησιν καταποικίλλων, καὶ τὸ ὕπτιον δὲ τῆς διηγήσεως ἀνιστῶν
εἰς γοργότητα τῇ παρεμπλοκῇ τῶν ἱστοριῶν, καὶ ἑαυτὸν δὲ δεικνύων ἐν
ἱστορίαις πολύϊδριν. τοῦτο δὲ καὶ ἀλλαχοῦ ποιήσει ἐν πολλοῖς τόποις διὰ
τὰς αὐτὰς αἰτίας. (Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 2.24.9–15)

He [sc. the poet] creates these things and seasons this passage with numer-
ous historical narratives, while simultaneously introducing his listeners to
much learning, as he often does, and exalting the chiefs of the Achaeans, be-
cause they prevailed over Trojans of note. He also varies his poem, turns the
stagnancy of the narrative into rapidity by weaving in historical narratives
and demonstrates that he is greatly knowledgeable in matters of history. He
will do this in many other passages as well, and for the same reasons.

By alternating the potentially monotonous battle narrative with histories,

the poet creates variation and saves his audience from boredom, while at
the same time imparting much learning (πολυμάθεια), a practice that Eus-
tathios ascribes to Homer in various places throughout his commentar-
ies.58 He also repeatedly attributes to Homer a desire to display his own
erudition – Eustathios’ presentation of Homer, then, seems to mirror the
self-assertiveness and self-promotion common for authors in the competi-
tive intellectual world of twelfth-century Byzantium.59
These statements are part of Eustathios’ general presentation of Homer
as a teacher of grammar and rhetoric: in a ‘transhistorical mingling of
didactic voices’,60 Eustathios projects his own didactic programme onto

57 Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 3.181.26–8.

58 On this passage, see also van den Berg (2017: 42–3) and (2022: 80–1). For another example, see e.g.
Commentary on the Iliad 2.596.2. On Homer’s desire to impart knowledge, see van den Berg (2022:
82–4).
59 In a similar vein, Eustathios repeatedly ascribes to Homer a desire to display his rhetorical prowess:
see e.g. Commentary on the Iliad 2.493.5–16 and 3.258.4–7 with discussion in van den Berg (2022:
72 n. 78, 82).
60 Cullhed (2016: 12*).
 Tzetzes’ Scholia on the Carmina Iliaca in Context 175
the poet and presents the lessons he wishes to teach his Byzantine students
as lessons inherent in the text and intended by the poet.61 Homer and
the Byzantine teachers share an ambition to encourage polymathy in their
audience by providing information on topography, genealogy and other
types of ἱστορία, in accordance with the third part of the art of grammar
as defined by Dionysius. Just as Homer includes biographical and gene-
alogical information in the Iliad, so does Eustathios in his commentar-
ies.62 Similarly, Tzetzes’ scholia on the Carmina Iliaca provide genealogical
information on heroes mentioned in the poem. A mention of Polydamas
in the Posthomerica, for instance, prompts a scholion with information
on the hero’s parents as well as the genealogy of the descendants of Tros,
the founder of Troy.63 Following Homer’s example, our twelfth-century
teachers use ἱστορίαι to turn their students into the polymaths they need
to be in order to become successful participants in the intellectual world
of Byzantium, while at the same time offering them some relief from the
more technical content.

Etymology as a Tool for Teaching

Many of the aspects of teaching grammar through poetry discussed above
come together in the discovery of etymology, Dionysius’ fourth part of
grammar. One of Dionysius’ scholiasts defines etymology as a statement
that explains the meaning of a word or the reason behind proper names –
ancient etymology should thus not be equated with the modern academic
field of the same name.64 Etymology was widespread in ancient think-
ing about language, and continued to be popular throughout the Byzan-
tine period.65 Like ancient scholars, Tzetzes uses etymology as a heuristic
tool for assessing the semantics, orthography or prosody of a word.66 In
the scholia on the Posthomerica, for instance, Tzetzes uses etymology to
explain the meaning of the words γωρυτός and φαρέτρα in line 61 (αὐτὰρ
γωρυτὸς ὀσφύϊ καλὸς ἔην φαρέτρη τε, ‘further, there was a beautiful bow-
case on her [i.e. Penthesileia’s] back and a quiver’):

61 For a similar tendency among ancient commentators, see Sluiter (1999, esp. 173–4, 176–9).
62 See e.g. Commentary on the Odyssey 1416.2–3 ed. Cullhed (2016).
63 Scholion on Carmina Iliaca 1.50a. Many similar examples can be found: see e.g. scholia on Carmina
Iliaca 1.257a, 2.48b, 2.337, 3.632.
64 Scholia on Dionysius Thrax 470.29–31: Ἐτυμολογία ἐστὶ λόγος λέξεων ἔννοιαν ἐξηγούμενος, ἢ
ὀνομάτων ἐξήγησις, καθ’ ἣν αἰτίαν τὴν πρώτην ἔσχον προσηγορίαν. On ancient etymology, see
Sluiter (2015) with references to further bibliography.
65 See also Pontani (2007: 577–9) on etymology in Isaac Porphyrogennetos’ commentary on the Iliad.
66 Sluiter (2015: 919).
176 baukje van den berg
γωρυτὸς· ἡ τοξοθήκη παρὰ τὸ γῶ τὸ χωρῶ καὶ τὸ ῥυτόν, ὃ δηλοῖ τὸ τόξον·
φαρέτρα δὲ ἡ βελοθήκη παρὰ τὸ φέρειν τὰ τρῶντα ἤτοι τιτρώσκοντα.
(Tzetzes, scholion on Carmina Iliaca 3.61)

γωρυτὸς: bow-case, from γῶ, ‘to contain’, and ῥυτόν, which means ‘bow’;
φαρέτρα is a quiver, from φέρειν [‘to carry’] τὰ τρῶντα, i.e. the things that
wound.

Tzetzes first gives a synonym for the words in question before tracing them
back to their original components to explain how they came to have their
names. This example illustrates how etymological explanations are based
on a semantic as well as a phonetic link between the explanandum and
the explanans. A plausible etymological explanation requires some form of
assonance, if only a slight one, between the word under discussion and its
etymological derivation, as argued by Ineke Sluiter in her study of ancient
etymology.67
In other cases, the etymological explanation serves to account for the
prosodic features rather than the semantics of the word in question. In
the Exegesis of the Iliad, for instance, Tzetzes explains that the word ἱερεύς
(‘priest’) is pronounced with a rough breathing, as it derives from ἵημι (‘to
send’), and a priest is ‘one who sends the streams of the sacrifices to the
gods’ (ὁ ἱεὶς τὰς ῥοὰς τῶν θυμάτων τοῖς θεοῖς).68 These and many other
examples in both Tzetzes’ and Eustathios’ scholarly and didactic works
demonstrate that etymology was a much-used strategy to teach vocabulary
and orthography based on specific words in a text, whether the teacher’s
own or that of an ancient poet. Moreover, as etymologies were often play-
ful and easy to remember, they served as a mnemonic and pedagogic tool
in the practice of a grammarian.69
When it comes to proper names, the etymological explanation is often
related to the historical or mythological lore around the subject in ques-
tion. In the scholia on the Homerica, for instance, Tzetzes presents the
name Hector as deriving from ἐχέτωρ, ‘holder’, which he interprets as
ruler (κρατητικός) and protector (φύλαξ) of the city.70 He explains away
the difference in breathing – ἐχέτωρ has a smooth breathing, Hector a
rough – by referring back to the idiosyncrasies of the Attic dialect: Hec-
tor is aspirated because speakers of Attic pronounce the verb ἔχω with a

67 Sluiter (2015: 916).

68 Tzetzes, Exegesis of the Iliad 124.17–19 ed. Papathomopoulos (2007).
69 Sluiter (2015: 921–2).
70 Tzetzes, scholion on Carmina Iliaca 2.387.
 Tzetzes’ Scholia on the Carmina Iliaca in Context 177
rough breathing. He adduces the words ἀμφέχει (instead of ἀμπέχει) and
ἐφίσης (instead of ἐπίσης) as proof of the Attic tendency to use aspiration
where other dialects do not.71 Like ancient etymologists, then, Tzetzes feels
free to make use of any dialect to establish assonance between the name
and its proposed etymology. Whether we find this etymology of ‘Hector’
valid or not, it clearly points to the status of names as vehicles of cultural
information.
This becomes even clearer when we look at the etymologies of names
of cities, regions, rivers, etc. The etymological explanations of such names
often amount to narrating the historical or mythological event that gave
the place its name and as such teach further ἱστορίαι. We find many exam-
ples of this practice in the introductory essay of Tzetzes’ Exegesis of the
Iliad, which includes a lengthy digression on name-giving and the names
of places, such as the Icarian sea (after the unfortunate Icarus), the Atlas
mountains and the Atlantic Ocean – the latter two are named after the
Libyan mathematician Atlas, who lived on a mountain top to study the
stars and the movements of the planets, and one day tripped and fell
into the ocean below.72 Etymology thus serves a function similar to the
various types of ἱστορία mentioned before: it can be used to expand the
cultural knowledge of the student or, as Ineke Sluiter argues, ‘etymology,
just like mythology and genealogy, may support cultural memory: in this
mnemonic capacity, the words themselves are turned into repositories of
cultural information’.73 Byzantine scholars appropriated etymology as a
tool for thinking about language, and the very persistence of this practice,
despite the criticism that existed already in antiquity, testifies to how very
useful it was considered to be.

Conclusion
If, according to one of Dionysios’ scholiasts, a grammarian is ‘someone
who knows many poems’ (ὁ πολλῶν ποιημάτων ἐπιστήμων), this chapter
has explored what it means for a teacher of grammar to know a poem.74
When read against Dionysius Thrax’s Art of Grammar, Tzetzes’ scholia on

71 Tzetzes discusses this Attic feature also in e.g. scholion on Hesiod’s Works and Days 156bis, 450ter
ed. Gaisford (1823); Exegesis of the Iliad ad 1.140, 216.9–15 ed. Papathomopoulos (2007). See also
scholion on Carmina Iliaca 2.178.
72 Tzetzes, Exegesis of the Iliad 12.6–16 with scholia in 426.5–16 ed. Papathomopoulos (2007). Similar
examples can be found in Eustathios; see e.g. Commentary on the Odyssey 1396.10–12 ed. Cullhed
(2016).
73 Sluiter (2015: 918).
74 Scholia on Dionysius Thrax 164.4.
178 baukje van den berg
the Carmina Iliaca demonstrate how grammarians used poetry to teach
the many things that students were expected to learn during the early
stages of their literary education. Teachers of grammar intended, on the
one hand, to give their students a perfect command of ancient Greek (in
all its dialects) and, on the other hand, to expand their cultural knowledge
and general polymathy. Tzetzes uses the Carmina Iliaca to teach linguistic
and literary competence by setting forth general rules of prosody, drawing
attention to poetic tropes and rhetorical figures in his poem, explaining
the semantics of poetic words or dialect forms with synonyms, familiariz-
ing his students with the general characteristics of the Greek dialects, and
teaching semantics and orthography through etymology. In addition to
this, he provides his students with cultural knowledge by means of etymo-
logical explanations and ἱστορίαι of various kinds. Parallels between the
scholia on the Carmina Iliaca and Tzetzes’ and Eustathios’ works on the
ancient poets suggest that teaching grammar by means of ancient poetry
involved the same topics and pedagogical strategies. Parallels with ancient
grammatical treatises and other technical works, furthermore, demonstrate
how such texts formed the conceptual framework for Byzantine scholars’
thinking on language and literature.
I have presented only a brief excursion into the mass of material avail-
able. Moreover, the dynamics behind the transmission of knowledge
in Byzantium are more complex than I may have presented them here,
without schools and classrooms in the modern sense; the intended use of
works such as those by Tzetzes, Eustathios and Gregory reached beyond
the earliest stages of education to their colleagues and other professional
writers.75 Closer study of, for instance, Tzetzes’ scholia on the Carmina
Iliaca, his Exegesis of the Iliad, Eustathios’ Homeric commentaries and
Gregory’s On Dialects can further advance our understanding of how
poetry, whether ancient or Byzantine, was used in grammar teaching
and what the Byzantine student was expected to learn. This would shed
light on the conceptual framework of Byzantine linguistic and literary
thought: many of the technical texts constituting this framework remain
understudied despite the large numbers of them and the wealth of infor-
mation they contain. Grammatical instruction aimed to teach Byzantine
authors how to engage creatively with ancient literature and, as such,
forms an important background against which to appreciate Byzantine
literature.

75 On these dynamics, see e.g. Markopoulos (2014).

 Tzetzes’ Scholia on the Carmina Iliaca in Context 179
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 ch apter 7

Of Mice and Cat

The Katomyomachia as Drama, Parody,
School Text and Animal Tale*
Marc D. Lauxtermann

The Katomyomachia is a masterpiece of parody and wit.1 And like so many

other masterpieces of the Byzantine millennium (one may think of the
Akathistos Hymn), it circulated mostly without ascription of authorship.
Of the twenty manuscripts to have come down to us, it is only the oldest,
the famous anthology in ms. Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. Z.
524 (late thirteenth century) [Diktyon 69995],2 that preserves the name of
its author: Theodore Prodromos; the other nineteen are silent on the mat-
ter, and so is the editio princeps produced by Arsenios Apostolis in Venice
around 1495.3 The reason why the Katomyomachia was transmitted in the
manuscript tradition without a name attached to it was that it was used at
school – and didactic materials in general have an unfortunate tendency to
become anonymous.4
While the poem’s anonymity is in itself unremarkable, the fact that it
circulated in the oldest manuscripts without a title of its own is distinctly
odd: there is no good explanation for this, although one could argue that
the lack of a title leaves the work open to interpretation. The first editor,
Arsenios Apostolis, faced with this problem, devised a title for it: Galeo-
myomachia, ‘The Battle of Cat and Mice’ (purloined, of course, from the

* An earlier and longer version of this chapter was published in Italian in Faraggiana di Sarzana and
Funaioli (2021: 9–35).
1 Ed. Hunger (1968: 71–125). For excellent emendations, see Speck (1969) and Papatriandafyllou-
Theodoridi (1999). The text has also been edited by Ahlborn (1968: 43–94): Ahlborn’s edition
is basically a reprint of Hercher (1873), including typographical errors and obvious mistakes.
Kotłowska (2007–8) compares the two editions, but does not realize that Ahlborn’s ‘critical’ edition
in fact reproduces that of Hercher. The edition by García Romero (2003) combines readings from
Ahlborn and Hunger. There is now a splendid new edition with facing translation in Italian by
Faraggiana di Sarzana and Funaioli (2021): this edition is based on Hunger, with a number of
important corrections and emendations. For a detailed study of the text tradition and a new
collation of the manuscripts, see Ferreri (2021).
2 For the manuscript, see Spingou (2012: 9–50).
3 For the date of this extremely rare incunable, see Barker (1992: 17 and 52).
4 For didactic material becoming anonymous in later sources, see for example Vassis, Kotzabassi and
Polemis (2019: 44–6).

183
184 marc d. lauxtermann
pseudo-Homeric mock epic Batrachomyomachia, ‘The Battle of Frogs and
Mice’).5 The γαλῆ in Apostolis’ made-up title owes its existence to a pecu-
liarity of the manuscript tradition. In most manuscripts, including the
exemplar used by Arsenios Apostolis for his edition, the medieval word
for ‘cat’, κάτα, wherever it is used, has been emended to the pedantic and
posh γαλῆ.6 The title that we use nowadays, Katomyomachia, goes back to
the first modern editor, Rudolph Hercher.7 This title reintroduces the κάτα
while retaining the second and third parts of Arsenios Apostolis’ Galeomy-
omachia. To conclude, the poem has come down to us as a text without an
author and a title.8
However, since the text deals with the heroic battle between mice and
cat, there is nothing wrong with the modern title, nor with the attribution
of the Katomyomachia to the famous twelfth-century author Theodore Pro-
dromos. The ascription to Prodromos in Marc. gr. 524, though not corrob-
orated by the rest of the manuscript tradition, is generally accepted. Not
only does the anthology in Marc. gr. 524 offer a selection of Komnenian
literature, including Prodromos,9 the poem also clearly bears the imprint
of his style and diction and can compete with the best of his works.10

The Katomyomachia as Drama

Typical of the Komnenian era are the rebranding of the novel as ‘drama’,11
the development of dialogue as a means of creating a dramatic space (for
example, Prodromos’ satirical dialogues),12 and the use of linguistic reg-
ister as a means of bringing characters to life (for which see the Ptocho­
prodromika).13 A brilliant example of the exploitation of dramatic means
and the development of the histrionic voice is Constantine Manasses’
Hodoi­porikon or Itinerary, an account of an embassy to Palestine, which

   5 All the manuscripts that have this title (including Oxford, Bodleian Library, Barocci 64 [Diktyon
47351], which does not date from the fifteenth century, as the editor states, but from the early
sixteenth century: see Derron [1992: 11]), have borrowed it from the editio princeps.
   6 In classical Greek, γαλῆ means ‘weasel’, but in later Greek it can mean ‘cat’ as it does up to the
present day in katharevousa (the ‘purified’ form of Modern Greek).
   7 Hercher (1873: 5).
   8 For authorship and title, see Hunger (1968: 25–9).
   9 For the anthology, see Spingou (2012).
10 Hunger (1968: 27–9).
11 See Agapitos (1998).
12 Ed. Migliorini (2010). For the Bion Prasis, see Marciniak (2013). For the Amarantos, see Migliorini
(2007). See also Marciniak (2016: 218–21).
13 Ed. Eideneier (2012) and Maiuri (1920). On the disputed authorship of the Ptochoprodromika, see
Janssen and Lauxtermann (2018) and Kulhánková (2021: 305–11). On the linguistic registers of the
Ptochoprodromika, see Kulhánková in this volume.
 The Katomyomachia 185
the author ­transforms into a highly amusing text: it looks like an ego doc-
ument, but it is in fact the dramatic monologue of a cantankerous intel-
lectual who resents having to leave Constantinople with its literary theatra
and, therefore, delivers his comments to himself, off-stage as it were.14
No better proof of this Komnenian interest in drama than the Katomy-
omachia. Firstly, to begin with the obvious, a text that has a hypothesis (a
summary of the plot of a classical drama) and τὰ τοῦ δράματος πρόσωπα
(dramatis personae in Latin, the protagonists of a play) at its beginning
clearly positions itself as a drama. Secondly, a text that solely consists of
dialogue, from beginning to end, and sometimes in the form of ‘sticho-
mythy’ (verbal sparring in one-liners), immediately reminds one of the
genre of drama. Thirdly, the presence of messenger speeches and the device
of the deus ex machina at the end (the cat is killed by a beam that falls
from the ceiling) are typical of ancient drama. And fourthly, as Hunger has
shown, there are numerous allusions to Euripides and other tragedians in
the Katomyomachia, especially in the second half, which reads as a parody
of the Persians of Aeschylus.15
Hunger has also tried to divide the text into five acts (1–184, 185–239,
240–317, 318–33 and 334–84),16 with little success it must be said: not only
are these ‘acts’ breathtakingly short (16 lines for Act iv!), but there is also no
Aristotelian unity of time because the plot takes place over two consecutive
days. In fact, if there is a division, it is between day one (lines 1–184) and day
two (lines 185–384): between the preparations for battle and the battle itself.17
The Katomyomachia belongs to a small group of versified texts that
exhibit dialogue in some sort of theatrical setting, for which modern schol-
arship has coined the term dramation (short drama), though the Byzantines
do not appear to have had a specific term for it.18 It is generally assumed
that these verse dialogues are not intended for the stage, but are meant to
be read; they closely resemble the modern ‘closet drama’.19 This is what we
have: Susanna by John of Damascus (lost except for two verses), Verses on
Adam by Ignatios the Deacon, Katomyomachia by Theodore Prodromos,
Christos Paschon (author unknown, but twelfth-century), Verses on Fortune
by Michael Haploucheir and an untitled fragment by John Katrares. The

14 Ed. Chryssogelos (2017). See Lauxtermann (2004: 331–2). On the ‘dramatic’ or theatrical nature of
Komnenian literature, see also Magdalino in this volume.
15 Hunger (1968: 44–7 and 52–5). For the parody of the Persians, see Popović (1991–2) and Aerts
(1991).
16 Hunger (1968: 51).
17 See Meunier (2016: 196–9).
18 For the term ‘dramation’, see Leone (1969: 251–2).
19 See Marciniak (2004: 82).
186 marc d. lauxtermann
first two date from the eighth–ninth centuries, the next three from the
twelfth century, and the last one from the early fourteenth century.20
Typical of all these verse dialogues is the strong influence of Euripides:
to quote Eustathios of Thessalonike, ‘and a truly Euripidean style informed
the plot of this play (John of Damascus’ Susanna), because it showed
Susanna tracing her own lineage and lamenting the prospect of encoun-
tering such evil in her own garden and being raped’.21 Another common
feature is the metre used in these verse dialogues: the dodecasyllable, the
Byzantine equivalent of the iambic trimeter of the ancients. By using this
metre, the authors of the verse dialogues strive after the literary effect of
Euripidean drama.
Whereas Susanna, Verses on Adam and Christos Paschon are serious ‘trag-
edies’ based on biblical themes and the Katrares fragment is simply a pas-
tiche of Euripides, Prodromos’ Katomyomachia and Haploucheir’s Verses
on Fortune share a light-hearted sense of humour and tend, each in their
own way, towards parody. Haploucheir makes fun of the plight of the typ-
ical Byzantine intellectual who, down on his luck, observes that upstarts
without any formal training gain more money than he does, and therefore
curses Lady Fortune for being blind and the Muses for not having taught
him anything useful. There can be little doubt that Haploucheir’s verse
dialogue is a social satire. But what about the Katomyomachia?

The Katomyomachia as Parody and Palimpsest

The pseudo-Homeric Batrachomyomachia (first century b c) is widely
regarded as the ‘hypotext’ for the Katomyomachia – or to put it differ-
ently, the latter constitutes the ‘hypertext’ of the former.22 The relation
that hypo- and hypertext entertain is one of literary imitation, or rivalry;
and the chosen means of expression are citation, reference, allusion, par-
ody, subtle subversion, deliberate misquotation or, the ultimate betrayal,
embarrassed silence. Obliteration is what happens when one text is written
upon another, the upper layer effacing what lies beneath, superimposing
itself, foregrounding its own materiality. Byzantine literature is deeply
­palimpsestic in that it puts great stock in imitation (mimesis) and favours

20 See Lauxtermann (2019: 81–7).

21 Eustathios, Commentary on the Iambic Canon for Pentecost, Προοίμιον 86–9 ed. Cesaretti and
Ronchey (2014: 11; cf. 132–3* and 141–2*): καὶ ἐσκευώρει τὴν διάθεσιν ἐκείνου τοῦ δράματος
εὐριπίδειος αὐτόχρημα μέθοδος· ἐγενεαλόγει τε γὰρ ἑαυτὴν ἡ Σωσάννα καὶ ἀπεκλαίετο, εἰ
περιπέσοι κακῷ τηλικούτῳ ἐντὸς κήπου καὶ βιασθείη.
22 For the concept of hypertextuality, see Genette (1982).
 The Katomyomachia 187
commentary over original thought. Writing in Byzantium is an act of
rewriting; reading, an act of re-reading.
Since texts operate in a textual universe, each hypotext is also a hyper-
text, referring to earlier texts and superseding them, just as the hypertext
in its turn will be superseded by a subsequent piece of literature and then
inevitably become a hypotext.23 The hypotext of the Batrachomyomachia
is obviously Homer’s Iliad and Odyssey: it refers to these two epics, plays
with them, subverts them.24 And this rewriting and re-reading of Homer
is then passed on from text to text, in the intertextual chain that links the
Batrachomyomachia and the Katomyomachia. Take lines 81–7 of the Kato-
myomachia:

(Meaty Mouse) – Zeus appeared to me in my sleep and put courage in

my heart. He said to me: ‘Greetings, the victory is yours.’ (Cheese-­
Pincher) – And what did he look like? Please tell me. (Meaty Mouse) –
Like Cheese-Licker, our grey eminence. (Cheese-Pincher) – How come he
hasn’t shown up before? (Meaty Mouse) – My threats put the fear of God
into him.

This passage alludes to the beginning of Book 2 of the Iliad, in which

Zeus sends a deceptive dream to Agamemnon, the leader of the Greeks,
and tells him that he will easily defeat the Trojans: the person who appears
to Agamemnon in his dream and tells him to attack is Nestor, the elderly
warrior famed for his wisdom.25 The parody here is that famous old Nestor
has turned into an old mouse who licks cheese and that mighty Zeus is
mightily afraid of tiny Meaty Mouse. But there is also an ironic twist to it
because whereas the dream Agamemnon sees is false, Meaty Mouse’s dream
will come true. Prodromos plays with the expectations of his audience,
their knowledge of Homer, as a cat plays with the mouse it has caught, and
then goes for the kill by turning the plot upside down.
Since the Batrachomyomachia was a very popular text with teachers and
students alike, it has come down to us with many variants and many inter-
polations.26 Some of these interpolations are clearly Byzantine for metrical
reasons, such as lines 42–52, in which the leader of the mice, Crumb-
Filcher, boasts that he has never flinched in battle and has always been the
first to plunge straight into the fray, which immediately reminds one of

23 On the infinite possibilities of translating and transposing parodic elements into another language
and thus creating a new hypertext, see Sarriu (2000: 171–9).
24 See, for example, Kelly (2009) and Hosty (2014).
25 See Meunier (2016: 183–4).
26 See Glei (1984: 39–45).
188 marc d. lauxtermann
similar boasts of Meaty Mouse in Prodromos’ Katomyomachia.27 The two
oldest manuscripts to offer these Byzantine interpolations are Florence,
Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, 32.3 [Diktyon 16269] and El Escorial,
Real Biblioteca, Ω. I. 12 (Andrés 513) [Diktyon 15062]: the former dates
from around the year 1100, the latter is twelfth- or possibly thirteenth-cen-
tury.28 Given the date of Laur. 32.3, there can be little doubt that the direc-
tion of influence, if influence there was, ran from the interpolated version
of the Batrachomyomachia to the Katomyomachia, and not the other way
around.29 However, vastly more important than the tedious question of
who was first, is the fact that the Batrachomyomachia is a canvas on which
to project ideas and forms, a palimpsest on which to develop new sto-
rylines, a text that generates a plurality of readings and writings.
In fact, Prodromos openly acknowledges his debt to the Batrachomyomachia
(in whatever form the text may have come to him), but he does so with a twist.
One of the mice reminds the other: ‘Don’t you remember how we once bat-
tled against the armies of the cats and the frogs and had multi-allied forces on
our side?’ (vv. 71–3). Mice and frogs fight valiantly in the Batrachomyomachia,
but the cats are not involved in this heroic battle, though Pseudo-Homer does
mention the γαλῆ (the weasel) as the arch-enemy of the mouse. Weasels were
known in antiquity as able mouse-catchers:30 it is because of their shared pas-
sion for mouse-catching that the word γαλῆ can denote both the weasel and
the cat in post-classical Greek. So when the Batrachomyomachia begins by say-
ing that one day a mouse had escaped the γαλῆ and went to the lake because
it was thirsty, most Byzantine readers will have thought of the cat rather than
the weasel. Similarly, when the mice single out mousetraps and γαλαῖ as their
greatest danger, the Byzantines will have pictured felines rather than mustel-
ids. The fact remains, however, that the mice are not battling against cats in
the Batrachomyomachia, so Prodromos is deliberately rewriting its plot. He is
turning it into a palimpsest for his own Katomyomachia.31

27 Hunger (1968: 58).

28 See Maniaci (2006: 233: Laur. 32.3) and (ibid., 222–3, n. 32: Esc. Ω. Ι. 12). Georgi Parpulov (per
litteras) dates the Escorial manuscript to the twelfth century; Maniaci prefers the thirteenth century.
29 See Glei (1984: 129–30).
30 Contrary to popular belief, the ancients did not keep weasels as pets: see Schodde (2013). That is to
say, texts that mention γαλέαι as pets, such as Theocritus 15.28, in fact refer to cats, not weasels.
31 Interestingly enough, the Batrachomyomachia in its turn appears to go back to another Hellenistic
mock epic, the Galeomyomachia, fragments of which have been found on papyrus: see Schibli
(1983). Both mock epics reflect an indigenous tradition in Egypt of depicting cats-and-mice battles
in illustrated papyri and wall-paintings. As Brunner-Traut (1968: 29–33) points out, the Egyptian
tale of the battle of the cats and the mice was turned into Arabic, probably via the intermediate
stage of Coptic, in the early Islamic period and then became hugely popular in the Near East and
the Levant. This oriental tradition is likely to have influenced Prodromos.
 The Katomyomachia 189
Although Pseudo-Homer’s Batrachomyomachia undoubtedly serves as
the main hypotext for the Katomyomachia, it parodies many more texts:
Homer, the tragedians, Aristophanes, the New Testament, etc.32 One may
distinguish two types of parody: textual and structural. Textual parody is
where source and target texts overlap and merge into one another, with
ambiguity and double entendre as a result; structural parody operates on
a higher level, that of thwarted generic expectations. A good example of
textual parody is the opening passage of the Katomyomachia (lines 1–13),
in which Prodromos alludes to one of the letters of Gregory of Nazian-
zos.33 In the source text, Gregory tells his good friend, Basil the Great,
that he has no wish to join him in his monastery in the Pontos region.
Gregory jokingly calls this monastery a mouse-hole; so dark is the place,
and so uninhabitable, that those who spend their lives there are worse
off than the Cimmerians: the latter may not see the light for six months,
but Basil and his fellow monks live constantly in the shadow of death.34
In the target text, Prodromos’ Katomyomachia, the mice are complaining
that they cannot leave their mouse-holes on account of the cat: they live
in eternal darkness, the shadow of death, ‘just as legend has it that the
murky Cimmerians, Pontian-wise, couldn’t see a thing because they spent
six months of the year in the dark’ (the ‘legend’ is the Odyssey, 11.14–19 –
yet another intertextual reference). The pun here is that mice are called
ποντίκια (literally: ‘Pontic mice’) in vernacular Greek. So while Gregory
of Nazianzos compares Basil’s monastery in the Pontos to a mouse-hole
and, by extension, the monks that live there to mice (probably because of
the blackish colour of their habits), Prodromos calls the mice ‘Pontian’ and
says that they suffer from poor eyesight because of their dark surroundings.
A further intertextual link is with Luke 1.79 in which Zechariah predicts
that John the Baptist will ‘give light to those who sit in darkness and the
shadow of death’: it serves implicitly to reassure the mice that one day their
life in obscurity while hiding from the hideous cat will end.
Structural parody is the deliberate violation of genre expectations for
reasons of comedy. There is quite a lot of it in the Katomyomachia. To begin
with, since the poem is patterned after the Batrachomyomachia, a mock
epic, the reader would expect it to be a narrative text with dialogue inter-
spersed, and preferably in dactylic hexameter. In fact, there is no narration

32 See Hunger (1968: passim), Popović (2008), Marciniak and Warcaba (2019). Meunier (2016) tends
to identify literary parallels where there are none, such as the alleged parody of Pisides’ panegyrics
(pp. 247–66).
33 See Mercati (1923–4).
34 Ed. Gallay (1964–7: 1:3–4, letter 4). For this passage, see Crimi (2016: 154–8).
190 marc d. lauxtermann
(only reported action), the form is that of drama, and the metre is the iamb.
Another parody of genre are lines 319–32, in which the wife of Meaty Mouse
and other female mice are mourning the death of Crumb-Filcher, who
has been killed in battle. This is done in an antiphonal manner: mother-
mouse utters a lament and the chorus responds either by repeating after
her or slightly altering her words. As Margaret Alexiou has shown, refrains
and antiphony are common features of the tradition of the ritual lament,
both in antiquity and in modern times,35 and there can be no doubt that
in this passage Prodromos embeds the genre of the lament (or ‘monody’,
to use the Byzantine term). The parody consists in the fact that the ritual
lament is routinely performed by female mourners – not by mice.
Arguably by far the most impressive form of structural parody is to be
found in the speech that Meaty Mouse delivers to his soldiers on the eve
of the battle (lines 127–80). This falls into the category of the military
harangue, a genre described in great detail by Syrianos and exemplified by
two speeches of Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos.36 A harangue is sup-
posed to praise the soldiers for their courage and loyalty, to reassure them
that the enemy they will face is weak and powerless, and to tell them that
God is on their side: or to put it in the words of Cheese-Pincher, ‘Right at
the beginning start with a speech that will instil courage in the men’ (vv.
116–17). In sharp contrast, Meaty Mouse reminds his soldiers that their
fathers and forefathers had behaved in a cowardly manner because they
feared the cat. The only reassurance he gives them is that they should fol-
low his lead, for he, the great Meaty Mouse, descends from an illustrious
family, is an expert in military affairs, has often proved his worth in battle,
and is equal only to Zeus. This speech with all its boasting subverts the
genre of the military harangue to such an extent that it will have prompted
gales of laughter in the theatron.37 In general, flaunting one’s merits is
allowed in Byzantium if one is setting oneself up as an exemplary model (as
in the monastic typika) or if one has to defend oneself in public, in which
case the autobiographical ego becomes a public persona.38 But self-praise
is otherwise frowned upon. The closest parallel to Meaty Mouse’s deluded
self-praise is a hilarious poem by Michael the Grammarian directed against
the illiterate bishop of Philomelion: in it, the bishop himself delivers an
auto-encomium without understanding that everything he says is d ­ amning

35 See Alexiou (1974: 131–60) and Marciniak (forthcoming).

36 For Syrianos, see Zuckermann (1990); for the harangues, see Markopoulos (2012).
37 See Hunger (1968: 57–8).
38 See Hinterberger (1999: 183–201 and 367–81).
 The Katomyomachia 191
evidence of his own incompetence.39 Likewise, Meaty Mouse’s speech is
such a failure as a harangue that when he finally ends, he discovers that
meanwhile all his soldiers have left (vv. 181–2): no need to listen to that
kind of rhetoric!
Parody is often confused with satire. It is true that parody may be used
as a means of social or political critique, but in most cases it has humor-
ous intent only and does not aim at ridiculing individuals or denouncing
social wrongs. And however hard I try, I fail to find any trace of political
satire or sustained social critique in the Katomyomachia. However, others
do. Hunger recognizes in Meaty Mouse the type of the bragging Byzantine
generalissimo: a demagogue and a usurper;40 Romano goes even further
and identifies the mice as ‘the kings and condottieri of this world’;41 and
Cresci assumes that they represent the Komnenian emperors, those lovers
of empty words and idle boasts.42 Aerts avers that the mice are the Byzan-
tines, and the cat Venice.43 Hunger (again) views the mice as citizens who
have to keep a low profile for political reasons;44 and Kazhdan agrees, add-
ing that the text ‘may reflect the Byzantines’ sense of political oppression’.45
The latest attempt to read a message into the poem, and also the least
convincing of all, is by Meunier, who portrays Prodromos as a free-thinker
who in his Katomyomachia questions the tenets of Christianity and speaks
out against the religious establishment.46

The Katomyomachia as Didactic Material

Almost all the Byzantine and post-Byzantine manuscripts that contain
the Katomyomachia have a didactic character. A splendid example is ms.
Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale ‘Vittorio Emanuele III’, II C 37 (fifteenth
century) [Diktyon 46083] which contains grammatical materials, schedo-
graphic exercises, vocabularies and literary texts used at school, such as the
Sentences of Pseudo-Phocylides, the Golden Verses of Pseudo-Pythagoras,
the Disticha of Cato, the liturgical kanons of John of Damascus and Kos-
mas the Melode, and more.47 Most of these didactic manuscripts present

39 See Amado Rodríguez and Ortega Villaro (2016: 369–76) and Lauxtermann (2019: 137–41).
40 Hunger (1968: 57–8).
41 Romano (1999: 234).
42 Cresci (2001: 203–4).
43 Aerts (1991: 205).
44 Hunger (1968: 56).
45 Kazhdan and Wharton Epstein (1985: 139).
46 Meunier (2016: passim); see the conclusion on pp. 371–80.
47 See Pierleoni (1962: 303–9).
192 marc d. lauxtermann
the Katomyomachia with interlinear glosses, explaining the more unusual
words to the students, and some have marginal notes that make the text
more accessible to those struggling with the rules of Attic Greek.48 Evidence
for the continued use of the Katomyomachia at school can be found in
post-Byzantine textbooks, the so-called μαθηματάρια, which may even tell
that so-and-so gave a series of lectures on the text in the year so-and-so.49
The manuscripts quite often combine the Katomyomachia with the
Batrachomyomachia: for instance, ms. Vienna, Österreichische National-
bibliothek, Phil. gr. 293 (sixteenth century) [Diktyon 71407], which has
just these two poems, both with interlinear glosses. There is plenty of evi-
dence for the use of the Batrachomyomachia as didactic material: interlinear
glosses and marginal commentaries; references to it as a school text in Byz-
antine sources; and oblique allusions to it, showing that the text must have
been well known in Byzantine times.50 There is every reason to believe that
its companion piece, Prodromos’ Katomyomachia, served a similar didactic
purpose.51 Arsenios Apostolis at least thought it did: in the prologue to the
editio princeps he says that just as Homer wrote the Batrachomyomachia and
other mock epics in order to educate the young, so too would the Galeomy-
omachia (= the Katomyomachia) satisfy the needs of diligent pupils.52
The many interpolations and variant readings in the manuscripts of
the Batrachomyomachia and, to a lesser degree, the Katomyomachia clearly
demonstrate that these two texts enjoyed an open text tradition in Byzan-
tium. Because the classics have a canonical status, they are usually trans-
mitted without deliberate alterations, omissions or additions. The Batrach-
omyomachia stands apart in this respect. The only other exception is Aesop.
No literary genre lends itself more to metaphrasis (rewriting) than the fable,
a genre that is in a constant process of transformation, from prose to verse
and back again.53 The main reason why we have so many different collec-
tions of fables is their continued use as didactic material, from Hellenistic
times until the end of the Byzantine Empire and beyond.54 Similarly, the
reason why the Batrachomyomachia and the Katomyomachia lend them-
selves to change is the fact that they, like the Aesopic fables, are ideally
suited for use at school.

48 None of these glosses and marginal notes have yet been edited; but see manuscript catalogues for
descriptions of the manuscripts used by Hunger for his edition.
49 See Skarveli-Nikolopoulou (1993: 49–51).
50 See Wölke (1978: 33–41) and Carpinato (1988).
51 See Nesseris (2014: 86, n. 106).
52 Hunger (1968: 75).
53 For metaphrasis and the Aesopic tradition, see Lauxtermann (2019: 229–37).
54 For a useful overview of fables and fable collections in Byzantium, see van Dijk (2002).
 The Katomyomachia 193
Both texts are in fact free adaptations of fables. The Batrachomyomachia
is loosely based on a fable Aesop told to the people of Delphi when they
were about to kill him.55 The beginning of the Katomyomachia is vaguely
reminiscent of the Aesopic fable of the mice and the weasels/cats (γαλαῖ).
The story goes that because they were always losing, the mice decided to be
better organized and, therefore, appointed generals to lead them in battle,
and that these generals, in order to distinguish themselves from the rank
and file, put impressive horns on their heads. These horns may have looked
nice, but when the mice were defeated in battle and fled to their nests,
the generals did not fit through the hole and were all brutally killed.56
Prodromos appears to have derived the idea of the cat-and-mice battle and
the military organization of the mice from this fable; but all the rest is of
course the product of his own fertile imagination.
There is another school text that shows remarkable similarities to the
Katomyomachia. It is the Schede tou Myos,57 commonly attributed to Pro-
dromos, but in fact by Manasses.58 This schedographic exercise consists of a
diptych: the first part is a description of a mouse interested in the leftovers
from a banquet, but afraid of being caught by the cat; the second part is a
witty dialogue between the mouse and the cat. The bipartite structure of the
Schede tou Myos occurs in other schedographic texts as well,59 and one could
argue that the Katomyomachia which is clearly divided into two parts, 1–184
(preparation for the battle) and 185–384 (the day of the battle), imitates this
structure. The shared theme of cat-and-mouse rivalry is unlikely to be a
mere coincidence: Manasses and Prodromos are clearly engaged in a game
of one-upmanship and staking out their positions in the literary theatron.60
In the Schede tou Myos, it is the cat who wins; in the Katomyomachia, the

55 Vita Aesopi G, §133 ed. Perry (1952: 75–6).

56 Fable 165 ed. Perry (1952: 385).
57 Ed. Papathomopoulos (1979).
58 Only one of the five manuscripts attributes the text to Prodromos; in the other four, the text
is anonymous. Lines 9–22 of the Schede tou Myos are practically identical to another text by
Manasses, the Ekphrasis of the Earth, lines 146–62 (ed. Lampsidis 1991: 200–1). As rightly argued
by Horna (1905: 12–16), it is out of the question that Prodromos would copy Manasses in such an
unimaginative way, or Manasses Prodromos, for that matter: they are both too good for that. And
as seen by Hörandner (1981: 144–50), the prose rhythm of the Schede tou Myos is much closer to
the practice of Manasses than that of Prodromos. In her recent discussion of the authorship of the
Schede, Nilsson (2020: 134–8) fails to acknowledge the difference between literary imitation and
downright plagiarism and downplays the significance of prose rhythm, though it is as unique to
each writer as their writing style and choice of vocabulary.
59 See the text edited by Mercati (1927: 13–17).
60 As convincingly argued by Zagklas (2023: 53–70), the classroom and the literary theatron (the adult
equivalent of the classroom) are not closed circuits: school texts, such as the Schede tou Myos, will
also have been performed in the theatron.
194 marc d. lauxtermann
mice win. Is Prodromos perhaps playing with his literary rival, subtly ridi-
culing his text, and turning it around to the amazement and amusement of
the audience? As rightly observed by Marciniak, the purpose of the Schede
tou Myos is to instruct the pupils in the art of ekphrasis (description) and
ethopoiia (characterization through speech).61 The stakes are much higher
for the Katomyomachia: it serves the needs of more advanced students, eager
to learn how to compose ‘Euripidean’ verses and write a proper dialogue.
It is worth pointing out that right at the beginning of the Schede tou Myos
there is a link with the Batrachomyomachia because the mouse is introduced
as ἐμβασίχυτρος, ‘pot-stalker’, one of the characters of the pseudo-Homeric
mock epic.62 Regardless of who was first, Manasses or Prodromos, the com-
mon framework for these two school texts, the Katomyomachia and the
Schede tou Myos, is the Batrachomyomachia.

The Katomyomachia as Beast Literature

There are four strands of beast literature in Byzantium: zoological (treatises
on the properties of animals), allegorical (bestiaries: above all, the Physi-
ologos) hexaemeral (homilies and hymns in praise of God’s all-wise crea-
tion), and ‘Aesopic’ (texts with animals acting and speaking like humans).
The last category encompasses many retellings of Aesopic fables (including
original compositions passed off as ‘Aesopic’, but in fact clearly Byzantine),
as well as a few other texts that in terms of genre do not count as fable, but
still have much in common with the Aesopic tradition of story-telling.63
These are, apart from the Katomyomachia and the Schede tou Myos, the
following: (i) Stephanites and Ichnelates (late eleventh century, with later
reworkings), a translation of the Arabic masterpiece Kalīla wa-Dimna, a
collection of interwoven fables offering moral and political insights;64 (ii)
animal debates, highly abusive and highly amusing: Entertaining Tale of
Quadrupeds, Book of Birds and Book of Fish, all three dating to the four-
teenth century;65 and (iii) Synaxarion of the Honourable Donkey (early fif-
teenth century), an absolutely brilliant animal tale.66

61 See Marciniak (2017: 516).

62 See Marciniak (2017: 518–22).
63 For beast literature in Byzantium, see Stewart (2015). For beast literature in Western Europe, see
Ziolkowski (1993) and Mann (2009).
64 Ed. Puntoni (1889) and Sjöberg (1962). For a twelfth-century reworking of this text, see Lauxtermann
(2018). On its reception in a poem by Michael Choniates, see Mondini in this volume.
65 For an edition, translation and commentary of the Entertaining Tale and information on the two
other animal debates, see Nicholas and Baloglou (2003). See also Prinzing (2003) and Stewart (2019).
66 Ed. Moennig (2009). For the literary sources, see Lauxtermann and Janssen (2019).
 The Katomyomachia 195
These animal tales are too disparate and heterogeneous in composition
and structure to form a genre of their own. Even texts produced in close
proximity in time and space, and possibly responding to one another, such
as the Katomyomachia and the Schede tou Myos, are far apart in terms of
genre. What links them is the presence of talking animals. The use of talk-
ing animals as a literary stratagem ultimately derives from the genre of the
Aesopic fable, and it is a skill the literati-to-be acquired at school, for in
Byzantium education starts with Aesop. It is because of the connection
with Aesop that Byzantine animal tales, though belonging to different gen-
res, share common features.
The purpose of an Aesopic fable is twofold, functional and aesthetic:
it aims to instruct and to amuse. Instruction may take the form of moral
guidance or caustic satire; but whatever form it takes, positive or negative,
the goal is invariably to persuade the audience by being witty and amus-
ing. If animals are indeed ‘good to think with’ (as the phrase goes), then it
is clear that for the Byzantines they make you laugh and can teach you a
lesson. However, not all animal tales have an edifying purpose. As stated
above, I do not think that the Katomyomachia has a particular message to
convey: the same is true of the Entertaining Tale of Quadrupeds.67 These
texts restrict their remit to just being funny, and obviously there is nothing
wrong with that. In fact, by refusing to express an opinion or pound home
a message, these animal tales privilege humour over ridicule and seek to
provoke laughter that is not directed at anyone in particular. Being just
funny without any straightforward message or political agenda is actually
the hardest thing to achieve.
The distinctive feature of the ‘Aesopic’ (fables and animal tales) is the
anthropomorphic treatment of animals. The thoroughly humanized por-
trayal of the mice in the Katomyomachia is a case in point.68 To give a few
hilarious examples: mice that die an honourable death for family and home
are remembered in the annals of history (vv. 50–4); like a Byzantine emperor,
Meaty Mouse is acclaimed during triumphal processions (v. 138); like a true
aristocrat, in his childhood he receives a military training and learns to ride
horses (vv. 158–65); before going to battle, the mice sacrifice sheep and oxen
to the gods (vv. 201–9); mother-mouse fears that if the cat were to win,

67 For various unconvincing interpretations of this poem, see Nicholas and Baloglou (2003: 431–47).
The fact that oral poems very similar to the Entertaining Tale of Quadrupeds have been recorded in
the twentieth century, without topical reference, demonstrates that animal debates do no need to
have a political or social message to be entertaining: see ibid., pp. 475–81.
68 See Cresci (2001: 198–203).
196 marc d. lauxtermann
she and her children would be taken as victory prizes and condemned to a
life of servitude (vv. 232–9); etc. The mice are even complaining that they
have to live in mouse-holes (vv. 1–13 and elsewhere)! Although the mice
behave and speak like human beings, they do not identify themselves with
us: Cheese-Pincher says that their enemy is called ‘cat’ by humans (v. 27).
We will never know what the cat is called by the mice themselves.
In the anthropomorphized world of the ‘Aesopic’, animals do not have
a solid identity: it is the story that gives them one.69 The donkey is stupid,
the donkey is clever; the fox wins, the fox loses. Either the mouse or the
cat may be a monk, or they may be both monks. In the Schede tou Myos,
the mouse pretends to be an abbot and the cat interrogates him about his
monastic lifestyle.70 In a fable recounted by Nikephoros Gregoras, it is
the other way around: the cat has accidentally blackened up and the mice
assume that he is wearing monastic garb and has renounced eating meat.71
And in letter 116 (written not long after 1204), Michael Choniates is having
it both ways. In this letter he expresses his fear that the newly appointed
abbot of the monastery of St George, Kommolardos, would make a mess
of things because that was his habit. And to hammer home his message
that people do not change, he retells the Aesopic fable of the cat so much
in love with her master that she prays to Aphrodite to become a girl. The
miraculous metamorphosis takes place, but when the happy bride sees a
mouse on her wedding day, she cannot resist her natural urge and jumps
on it. Here the cat is the abbot Kommolardos and the mice are the poor
monks of St George.72
And yet, despite endowing animals with human characteristics, ‘Aesopic’
beast literature emphasizes that their actions are ultimately dictated by
nature. Cats and mice may speak and act like humans, and be whatever
fiction wants them to be, but in the end it is the same old story: cats
are predators, and mice their prey. The two have been at odds since time
immemorial, each playing their role in the dialectics of eating and being
eaten. In the Stephanites and Ichnelates, cat and mouse are both in danger
and therefore help each other; but once the danger has passed, the mouse
is once again suspicious of the cat.73 In the Entertaining Tale of Quadrupeds,

69 Mann (2009: 29–31).

70 See Marciniak (2017: 521–2 and 525–7).
71 Fable 435 ed. Perry (1952: 493).
72 Ed. Kolovou (2001: 194.41–8; see also pp. 120–1). For the fable, see Perry (1952: 341, no. 50). For the
fable’s popularity in Byzantine times, see Papademetriou (1983: 125–7). The fable calls the animal/
girl a γαλῆ: since weasels were not kept as pets (see above n. 30), this γαλῆ is almost certainly a cat.
73 Ed. Puntoni (1889: 270–5, VIII, §130).
 The Katomyomachia 197
cat and mouse are engaged in what can only be called unfriendly banter,
accusing one another of absolutely disgusting behaviour.74 The Schede tou
Myos ends with the cat devouring the mouse: a menace ever present since
the former caught the latter in the act of eating the leftovers from the
banquet. In the Katomyomachia, the heroic battle of cat and mice is rather
one-sided: until the moment he is struck by a piece of wood falling from
the ceiling, the cat is killing all his opponents. As a medieval proverb suc-
cinctly puts it, ‘the cat will thwart the mouse’s ambitions’.75
Cats and mice exist also outside beast literature.76 There are numerous
references to these sworn enemies in letters, histories, commentaries, etc.,
and these shed light on the cultural assumptions regarding cats and mice.
The Oneirokritikon of Achmet explains that if a person dreams of seeing
a cat, it symbolically stands for a thief.77 Symeon the New Theologian
tells his monastic community that a good monk is like a cat that chases
away the mouse (= the Devil) and does not steal.78 And Ptochoprodromos
recounts how the starving grammarian steals a piece of tenderloin and
blames the poor cat.79 But the cat is not only a thieving creature: it is also
a pet. Empress Zoe lets her cat Mechlebe eat from golden plates, appoints
special staff to take care of all his whims and interrupts meetings with
senators to tell them that her cat has clearly had enough because he is
yawning.80 In the Entertaining Tale of Quadrupeds, the mouse has to admit,
though grudgingly, that the thieving cat is dearly loved by humans.81 And
the Synaxarion of the Honourable Donkey has a moving story about an old
lady and her beloved ginger cat, Parditsis.82 The attitude towards mice is
less friendly. They are generally seen as unclean animals and treated as
pests that need to be eliminated either through cats (yes, them again) or
mousetraps.83 In the Timarion, the homonymous narrator discovers to his
dismay that there are mice even in Hades: he had hoped that death would
at least save him from their obnoxious presence.84 In poem 103, Christo-
pher of Mytilene complains that the mice are eating his papers and books;

74 Ed. Nicholas and Baloglou (2003: 166–9, lines 124–79).

75 Ed. Krumbacher (1893: 87, no. 40): ποντικοῦ βουλὰς κόψει κάτα.
76 For cats, see Kislinger (2011); for mice, see Carpinato (2005).
77 Ed. Drexl (1925: §278).
78 Ed. Koder (1971: hymn no. 21.403–7).
79 Ed. Eideneier (2012: 3.255–73).
80 See Tzetzes, Histories 5.12.524–40 ed. Leone (2007: 182).
81 Ed. Nicholas and Baloglou (2003: 168–9, lines 159–62).
82 Ed. Moennig (2009: 142–3, lines 169–89).
83 See, for instance, Christopher of Mytilene, poem 103 ed. Kurtz (1903), and Eustathios of
Thessalonike, ep. 6 ed. Kolovou (2006).
84 Romano (1974: §18.476–84).
198 marc d. lauxtermann
as luck would have it, the main manuscript of Christopher of Mytilene,
Grottaferrata Z. α. XXIX (thirteenth century) [Diktyon 17975], has badly
suffered from rodent damage.85 It is doubly ironic, then, that Meaty Mouse
claims to descend from the illustrious family of the Paper-Chewers (v. 156):
Byzantine writers, such as Theodore Prodromos and the literary in-crowd
gathered in the theatron to listen to the Katomyomachia, must have dreaded
paper-devouring mice and what they could do to their writings.
The unexpected end of the Katomyomachia (vv. 371–8) is cartoonesque,
with the cat crushed under a heavy beam, dead, and descending into the
darkness of Hades where we found the mice at the beginning of this mar-
vellous poem. It is the kind of humorous violence for which the Tom and
Jerry cartoons are renowned. The difference, of course, is that the cat really
dies whereas Tom and Jerry, whatever horrible things they may do to one
another, always survive unscathed. One answer is that this is humour for
advanced students, not small children. Another answer is that fictional
beast literature (the ‘Aesopic’ category) creates its own discursive space in
which death is just a way of ending the story. There is always a sequel (or
a prequel). That is to say, the ‘Aesopic’ is in a state of perpetual motion:
cat and mouse are at it, again and again and again. And they make us
laugh, again and again. This is aptly summarized by a medieval proverb:
κάτης καὶ ποντικὸς ἐμάχουντα καὶ ὁ βλέπων ἐγέλα, ‘Cat and mouse were
battling, and the onlooker was laughing.’86 However sordid the cat-and-
mouse game may be in reality, it is used to great comical effect in the world
of the ‘Aesopic’.

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 ch apter 8

On the Roses
Reflections on a Neglected Poem by Nicholas Kallikles
(Carm. 29 Romano)*
Giulia Gerbi

Little is known about Nicholas Kallikles. The dates of his birth and death
remain unknown, but it is certain that his life and career developed under
the reign of the two great Komnenoi, Alexios I and John II, and that he
was one of the most appreciated court physicians of his time.1 The corpus
of his works, published for the first time by Leon Sternbach (1903) and
more recently by Roberto Romano (1980), consists of thirty-one poems,2
the vast majority of which are ekphrastic, dedicatory and funerary texts.3
All the surviving poems show his close relationship with the court aristoc-
racy and the imperial family itself; several contemporary witnesses attest
moreover to his important role at the court of the capital.4
Among the poems by Nicholas Kallikles, Poem 29, entitled Εἰς τὰ ῥόδα,
‘On the Roses’, stands out.5 This poem is distinctive for its length (only
poem 31, the epitaph for John II, is longer), its theme and some peculiar

* My gratitude goes to the conference’s participants, who stimulated a fruitful debate for which I am
truly thankful and whose comments and suggestions helped me to improve my work significantly.
I would like to thank especially Panagiotis Agapitos, Emilie van Opstall, Nikos Zagklas and Baukje
van den Berg. I also gratefully acknowledge Enrico Maltese and Thomas Coward for their valuable
advice.
1 For the high esteem he enjoyed as court physician, see Anna Komnene, Alexiad 15.11.2 ed. Reinsch
and Kambylis (2001) (T2 Romano); Theodore Prodromos, Executioner or Physician 21.17–22 ed.
Podestà (T3a Romano), Ptochoprodronika 3(4).414–16 (T3b Romano).
2 Romano (1980) presents thirty-one poems as Carmina genuina, five as dubia and one as spurious.
3 Andriollo (2018: 4): ‘this corpus can be roughly divided in two groups: a series of epitaphs and
funerary poems, and a number of dedicatory poems for liturgical and profane artworks’. For recent
studies on Kallikles’ poetry, see Magnelli (2006) and Andriollo (2018).
4 See Anna Komnene, Alexiad 15.11.2–3 ed. Reinsch and Kambylis, which is perhaps the best-known
witness to Kallikles’ profession and his role at the court. Theophylaktos of Ohrid wrote two letters to
him asking for help and protection: see ep. 93–4 ed. Gautier. The title of ep. 94 (τῷ αὐτῷ) identifies
the recipient of the letter as Kallikles, but Gautier (1986: 70, 478) instead proposes the identification
with another court physician of the period, Michael Pantechnes. For other witnesses and for further
information about Kallikles’ biography, see the vetera testimonia in Romano’s edition (1980: 57–69),
Gautier (1986: 69–73) and Andriollo (2018: 3–4).
5 The poem is preserved in Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. Z 524 = 318 [Diktyon 69995],
fols. 101–2.

203
204 giulia gerbi
features. According to Romano,6 Εἰς τὰ ῥόδα ought to be classified as a
religious epigram due to its deep sensibility and personal inspiration, thus
constituting an exception among the rest of Kallikles’ poetic production.7
Upon closer inspection, however, we can see how this poem resists this
classification.

Text and Translation

Εἰς τὰ ῥόδα

Τοῦ Παρνασοῦ δὲ πρῶνας αἱ Βάκχαι πάλαι

κατεῖχον ὥσπερ οἶκον ἢ καινὴν πόλιν·
σύμμαχος αὐταῖς Διόνυσος ἦν τότε,
νεβρῶν δορὰς χιτῶνας ἐνδεδυμένος
5 καὶ ταῖν χεροῖν τὸν θύρσον ὡς σκῆπτρον φέρων·
εἶχον δὲ πεῦκαι τοῦδε τοὺς ἱπποδρόμους
καὶ πλατάνιστοι καὶ κυπαρίττων γένος,
καὶ Βακχικὸν σκιρτῶντος αὐτοῦ πολλάκις
τὸν Παρνασὸν κατεῖχεν ἐκ μύθων ἔαρ,
10 καὶ κύκνος ᾠδὰς εἶχεν ἐνθεεστέρας
τοῦ Πυθίου φθάσαντος εἰς Δελφοὺς πάλιν·
καὶ γὰρ μεθυσθεὶς ταῖς ὀδμαῖς τῶν ἀνθέων,
ἃς τοῦ θεοῦ φθάσαντος ἐν τῇ Πυθίᾳ
ἡ Δελφικὴ προὔπεμψεν εὐχερῶς πέτρα,
15 εὐθὺς μελῳδὸς ἦν ἑαυτοῦ βελτίων·
καὶ φοίνικες καὶ δένδρα πρὸς τῷ Λιβάνῳ
(ὁ Λίβανος δὲ τῆς Παλαιστίνης ὄρος)
ἤνθουν δι’ Ἀστάρτην γε τὴν Σιδωνίαν,
κἂν μὴ παρῆν μάλιστα καιρὸς ἀνθέων.
20 Ὁρᾷς φυτουργὲ τῶν λογικῶν ἀνθέων,
πῶς καὶ θεοῖς ἔαρος ἡ χάρις φίλη;
Καὶ τί γράφω λειμῶνας ἐκ μύθων πλάνης,
βλέπων δι’ αὐτῶν εἰς ἔαρ πεπλασμένον;
Τὸν Ἐμμανουήλ, τὸν θεάνθρωπον Λόγον,
25 παρῆξαν ἡμῖν μυστικώτεροι λόγοι
τρέφοντα τοὺς πεινῶντας Ἑβραίους πάλαι
ἅπαξ τε καὶ δὶς καὶ τρέφοντα πλουσίως·
ἀλλ’ ἦν ὁ χόρτος τοῖς Ἰουδαίοις κλίνη
πολύς, χλοώδης, ἡδὺς ἐκ τῶν ἀνθέων
6 Romano (1980: 23–4).
7 Romano (1980: 23) points out that Kallikles’ poetic work often lacks personal references, since, with
the exception of Poem 29, it consists mainly of funerary poems and dedicatory epigrams for artworks
commissioned by court personages.
 Reflections on a Neglected Poem by Nicholas Kallikles 205
30 καὶ τὴν ἁφὴν ἔθελγε τῇ κατακλίσει
καὶ τὴν ὅρασιν αὖθις ἐκ τῶν χρωμάτων,
ὀσφρήσεως δὲ ταῖς ὀδμαῖς ἐπεκράτει
καὶ παντοδαπὴν εἶχεν ἡ τροφὴ χάριν·
καὶ καινὸν οὐδὲν τοὺς Θεοῦ δαιτυμόνας
35 λαμπρῶς ἀριστᾶν ἀμφὶ τῷ χλόης τόπῳ
ἔαρος αὐτοῖς φαιδρύνοντος τὸν τόπον.
Κἀγώ σε λοιπὸν τοῖς ἐμοῖς τέρπων λόγοις
ἔαρ συνεργὸν εὗρον εἰς λόγου χάριν·
τὸ μὲν γὰρ ἁπλῶς στιβαρὸν τὸ τοῦ λόγου
40 καὶ πᾶν τὸ σεμνὸν καὶ τὸ συννοίας γέμον
οἱ σοὶ χορηγήσουσιν ἔνθεοι τρόποι,
ὡς ἀρετῆς δοχεῖον ὄντες ἐνθέου,
καὶ τοῖς λόγοις δώσουσιν εὐσθενῆ τόνον
πανεμβριθεῖς δεικνύντες ἐκ τῶν πραγμάτων·
45 τὸ μειδιῶν δὲ καὶ διακεχυμένον
ἢ καὶ γελῶν καὶ παῖζον ἐκ γλυκασμάτων
ἔαρος ἡμῖν ἐνσταλάξουσι δρόσοι,
ὑπὲρ ‘μέλι γλυκάζον’ ἐκκεχυμένου,8
ὑπὲρ μύρον πνέοντος ἐξ ἀρωμάτων,
50 ὃ τὴν ‘κεφαλὴν Ἀαρὼν’ διαβρέχει
τὸν ἱερατικόν τε πώγωνα βρέχει·
ἐαρινῆς χάριτος αἱ καλαὶ δρόσοι
καὶ τῆς Ἀερμών εἰσιν ἐγγύθεν δρόσου.
Τοὺς οὐρανούς τις εἶδε πρὶν ἀναστέρους,
55 τὸ τῆς σελήνης φέγγος ἐσκιαμάχει,
τὸν ἥλιον δὲ τῶν νεφῶν ἡ πυκνότης
ἐθαλάμευεν οἵα παρθένον νέαν·
ὑπὸ σκιὰν ἐζῶμεν ἡμεῖς ἀθλίως,
Νύμφας Ἁμαδρυάδας ἐζηλωκότες·
60 τανῦν δὲ πηγαὶ μυρίαι φαεσφόροι
ἐξ οὐρανοῦ βλύζουσιν ἄφθονον σέλας.
Τὸν Ἕσπερόν μοι καὶ τὸν Ἀρκτοῦρον σκόπει,
σκόπει τὸν Ὠρίωνα, τὸν Κύνα βλέπε
καὶ τὸν Βοώτην ἴδε σὺν τῷ Σειρίῳ·
65 φωτὸς φέρουσι πάντα λαμπρὰς λαμπάδας·
τὴν Ἄρκτον αὖθις καὶ τὰς Πλειάδας ἴδε
καὶ τὰς Ὑάδας, ἀστέρας φαεσφόρους·
εἴπω τὸ μεῖζον· χειμερινῆς ἡμέρας
ἐαρινὴ νὺξ πλεῖον ἐκστίλβει σέλας.
70 Τὴν γῆν δὲ τίς κατέσχε νῦν ἀταξία;
μὴ χιόνων τὸ πλῆθος ὡς ἄχθος φέρει;
μὴ πλῆθος ὄμβρων, μὴ χάλαζα πλησμία;

8 ἐκκεχυμένου, πνέοντος Sternbach, Romano : ἐκκεχυμένοι, πνέοντες M (Marc.gr. Z 524 = 318).

206 giulia gerbi
κρυμὸς μακρὰν ἀπῆλθεν, ἀνέμων βίαι.
Ποῦ νῦν παρ’ ἡμῖν ἴχνος ἀργέστου Νότου;
75 Βορρᾶς δὲ Θρᾲξ ποῦ; ποῦ δὲ Λιβὸς ἡ βία;
τὸν Εὖρον οὐκ ἐφεῦρον, ἀργεῖ Καικίας,
ποιητικὸς Ζέφυρος ἡμῖν ἐμπνέει,
Ὅμηρος ὃν προεῖπεν εὐκραῆ πάλαι·
ἐλεύθερον μὲν τὸ πτερὸν τῶν ὀρνέων,
80 ἐλεύθερον βοῶσι, κοῦφος ὁ δρόμος,
ἠχοῦσιν οἱ τέττιγες ἀμφὶ τοῖς κλάδοις,
κίχλαι δὲ λαλαγοῦσιν ἀμφὶ ταῖς πόαις,
κράζουσι φάτται καὶ στένουσι τρυγόνες,
παίζουσιν ἀκανθίδες ἀμφὶ τοῖς ῥόδοις,
85 τοῖς ψιττακοῖς τὸ φθέγμα κλαγγῶδες πάλιν,
λαλίστερον μὲν ταῖς κορώναις τὸ στόμα
καὶ καλιὰν κολλῶσιν αἱ χελιδόνες·
ἔφθασεν ἡμᾶς ἡ καλὴ κωμῳδία
‘ξουθὰς’ ἀνυμνήσασα τὰς ἀηδόνας
90 ‘ἱππαλεκτρυόνας’ τε τοὺς ἐν Περσίδι,
τὰς μὲν λαλοῦντα ζῶα καὶ ζῶσαν φύσιν,
τοὺς δ’ ἐν πέπλοις μάλιστα κατεστιγμένους.
Τίς ζωγραφεῖ κοιλάδας ἢ πεδιάδας
ἐρυθρὸν ἄνθος μιγνύων τῇ πορφύρᾳ,
95 ξανθῷ κεραννὺς τὴν φύσιν τοῦ μηλίνου,
λευκοῖς ἁλουργές, κοκκίνοις πάλιν μέλαν;
Τίς ἐμβιβάζει μύρα τοῖς δρυμοῦ ξύλοις,
Τίς βαλσάμῳ τὸ πῖον εὐῶδες νέμει;
Χεὶρ ἡ Θεοῦ πλὴν εἰς ἔαρος ἡμέραν.
100 Ἀλλ’ ὢ παρετράπημεν εἰς μακροὺς λόγους,
τὸν εὐθαλῆ σε κῆπον ἐκλελοιπότες,
ἀφ’ οὗ τρυγῶμεν κρίνα, καὶ μᾶλλον ῥόδα,
νοῦν εὐγενῆ καὶ λέξιν εὐφραδεστέραν,
ἀφ’ οὗ τὸ χρηστὸν ἦθος ὡς χρυσοῦν στάχυν
105 καλῶς ἀμῶμαι καὶ τρυφῶ βότρυν λόγου·
ὁ λωτὸς ἐν σοὶ καὶ φαγόντες οἱ νέοι
μένουσιν ἐν σοὶ πᾶν φίλον λελοιπότες·
ἐκ τῶν λόγων γεννᾷς με καὶ λόγοις τρέφεις
καὶ σπαργανοῖς λόγοις με καὶ λούεις λόγοις.
110 Ἀλλ’ ὦ λόγου δοχεῖον ἐμψυχωμένον,
σφράγισμα λαμπρὸν ἠκριβωμένου βίου,
ἄναξον ἡμᾶς εἰς τέλος τῶν ἐλπίδων,
τόνωσον ἡμᾶς εἰς ἀνενδότους πόνους,
ῥίζωσον ἡμᾶς ἐν τόποις χλοηφόροις,
115 στόμωσον ἡμῖν τοῦ λογισμοῦ τὸ ξίφος,
ὡς ἂν φανῶμεν ἐν λόγοις νικηφόροι,
ἐκ σῶν πόνων φανέντες ἀσπιδηφόροι.
 Reflections on a Neglected Poem by Nicholas Kallikles 207
The Bacchae long ago took possession of Parnassus’ heights as their home
or new city; Dionysus, wearing a tunic of fawn skin and wielding the thyr-
sus as a sceptre in his hand, was then their ally. His pines, sycamores and
cypress species occupied the racetracks, and while he often sprang about
in a Bacchic dance, spring held sway on the Parnassus known from myths.
And the swan of the Pythian engaged in more divine odes, after he had
come to Delphi again: indeed, intoxicated by the scents of flowers that the
Delphic stone cheerfully sent forth when the god came back to the Pythia,
it suddenly became a better singer than it was. And palms and trees near the
Lebanon (Lebanon the mountain of Palestine) flowered thanks to Sidonian
Astarte, even if it was not the time for flowers. You see, sower of the flowers
of discourse, how the grace of spring is cherished even by gods? But why do
I write about meadows known from the deceit of myths, looking, through
them, at a false spring?
[24] More sacred words brought to us the Emmanuel, the divine-human
Logos, who long ago fed the starving Jews, feeding them once and then
a second time, and abundantly so. The food was a banquet for the Jews,
plentiful, grass-green, sweet-smelling from the flowers, and it enchanted
the sense of touch through lying at the table, and the sight, in turn, with its
colours; it conquered the sense of smell with the scents, and the food had
all sorts of grace. And it was nothing new for God’s guests to eat a splendid
meal in the green pastures, while spring made the meadows bright for them.
I, too, then, delighting you with my words, found spring as a helper for the
grace of my words; its divinely inspired character, as if being a receptacle
of divine virtue, will furnish for you the strength of my words in general
and all dignity and the fullness of thought, and they will give the words a
vigorous force, showing them entirely solemn through the subject matter.
The spring dew will instil it in us to smile and relax, or even to laugh and
play with sweetness, being more profuse than ‘sweet honey’ and, thanks to
the aromatic herbs, more fragrant than the sweet myrrh that wets ‘Aaron’s
head’ and pours down the priestly beard. The beautiful dew of spring’s grace
is even near to Mt Hermon’s dew.
[54] Earlier one saw starless skies, and the ray of the moon fought against
shadows, and the thick clouds kept the sun locked up like a young maiden.
We used to live pitifully under the shadows, begrudging the Hamadryad
nymphs. Now countless light-bearing sources blaze forth a plentiful flame
from the sky. Look at Hesperus and Arcturus, look at Orion, gaze at the
Dog Star and behold Boötes together with Sirius: they bring all-bright
torches of light. See, then, the Bear and the Pleiades, and the Hyades, light-
bringing stars. Let me say what is better: a springtime night makes more
brightness sparkle than a winter day. What disorder rules now the Earth?
Does it no longer bear great burdens of snow? No longer a multitude of
rainstorms? No longer an abundance of hail? The cold has gone far away,
as has the strength of the winds. Where is now, with us, the track of the
brightening Notos? Where is the Thracian Boreas? Where is the force of
208 giulia gerbi
the Libyan wind? I did not find the Euros, the north-east wind is at rest:
for us blows the poetic Zephyr, which Homer once described as gentle in
ancient times. Free is the wing of the birds, freely they sing, their course is
easy, cicadas resound among the branches, the thrushes chirp in the grass;
ringdoves cry, turtle-doves moan, goldfinches play between the roses, the
shrill voice of parrots is there again, the mouth of crows is more talkative,
and swallows build their nest: a beautiful comedy has come before us,
which celebrates in song the ‘chirruping’ nightingales and the ‘hippogriffs’
in Persia, the former talking animals and living nature, the latter mostly
marked on coats.
[93] Who paints valleys or plains, mixing the red flower with the purple,
blending the nature of quince-yellow with the tawny, the purple with the
white, the black again with the scarlet? Who places perfume in the woods of
the forest? Who gives the sweet-smelling resin to the balsam-tree? The hand
of God, but for a day of spring.
[100] But oh! We have turned aside towards long discourses, leaving
you, the blooming garden from which we gather lilies, and especially roses,
noble mind, and more elegant speech from which I collect rightly the good
character like a golden ear of corn, and I feast on a bunch of words. The
lotus is in you, and the young, eating it, remain in you, having left behind
everything they love. Through words you beget me and with words you
feed me, in words you swathe me, and with words you wash me. But O
life-breathing receptacle of speech, bright seal of a perfect life, lead us to the
completion of our hopes, strengthen us for unceasing toils, root us in grass-
bearing meadows, harden the sword of our reason, so that we can appear
victors in words, appearing as shield-bearers through your toils.

Poem 29 and the Tradition of Spring ekphraseis

Three sections can be identified in the poem (vv. 1–53, 54–99 and 100–17).
The first (vv. 1–53) is a sketch of human history, following its development
from the pagan to the Hebrew and Christian era. The poem starts on the
heights of Parnassus and sketches the peaceful image of a flourishing pagan
spring where Dionysus dances with the Maenads (1–9) and the Delphic
swan sings beautifully, inebriated by the scent of flowers (10–15). The pagan
era is portrayed as calm and bright, dominated by dance, music, flowers:
even the furor of the Maenads is peacefully described as a spring-bringing
dance. The mention of the goddess Astarte, who makes flowers grow, leads
the poem eastwards, to the Hebrew milieu and to the wanderings of the
Jews in the desert (24–36). The flowering meadows of the pagan spring cor-
respond to the Manna sent to feed the Jews, a relief offered by a thought-
ful and caring God to the people he loves. God’s revelation embodies the
greatest turning point in this sketch of human history, represented with a
 Reflections on a Neglected Poem by Nicholas Kallikles 209
sense of continuity and harmony: spring is first described with mythical
references, then is celebrated with biblical references and overtones.
The second sequence (54–99) is dedicated to the description of the
world renewed by the hand of God, a cosmos which is depicted as a veri-
table paradeisos. Beauty dominates the scene with a triumph of peace and
nature, and God is presented as an artist painting the world as a gigantic
portrait, mixing colours to create the hues and the shades of nature, instill-
ing scent and sweet oil into the trees (93–9). It is not hard to recognize in
this passage (and, to varying degrees, in the whole poem) the marks of a
specific tradition. Sure enough, Poem 29 inscribes itself in the tradition of
spring ekphraseis, of which it shows several typical elements.9
Spring was considered one of the best themes for the progymnasmatic
genre of ekphrasis in the handbooks of ancient rhetoric, its use being
suggested by Aelius Theon,10 Aphthonius of Antioch11 and Ps.-Hermo-
genes.12 Libanius’ ekphrasis of spring is the progenitor of the tradition
of spring ekphraseis,13 where all the elements later to become topoi of the
genre are present: light, warmth, sweet-smelling flowers,14 chirping birds,
men going joyfully back to their work after the winter pause, a deep
sense of rebirth and freedom. After Libanius, spring remained one of
the most widespread topics for poetry throughout the Byzantine era.15
The spring ekphrasis genre is also represented in a discourse by Gregory
of Nazianzos, On New Sunday (Oration 44),16 where, due to the sense of
rebirth and renaissance that spring embodies, the season is invested with
a Christian meaning and becomes symbolic of Christ’s resurrection. The
tight bond between spring and Easter is later the subject of a poem by

9 Spring is central to such an extent that Leon Sternbach (1903: 342), editor princeps of the corpus,
noted that it would have been better for the poem to be called Εἰς τὸ ἔαρ instead of Εἰς τὰ ῥόδα.
10 Theon, Prog. 67.21 ed. Patillon and Bolognesi (1997): χρόνων δὲ οἷον ἔαρος, θέρους, ἑορτῆς, καὶ
τῶν τοιούτων, ‘(ekphrasis) about seasons such as spring, summer, festivities and the like’.
11 Aphthonius, Prog. 12.1 ed. Patillon (2008): Ἐκφραστέον … καιροὺς δὲ ὡς ἔαρ καὶ θέρος, φράζων
ὁπόσα παρ’αὐτὰ προέρχεται τῶν ἀνθέων, ‘One can describe … seasons such as spring and
summer, telling how many flowers they bring’.
12 Ps.-Hermogenes, Prog. 10.2 ed. Patillon (2008), which repeats Theon’s definition.
13 Libanius, Prog. 12.7 ed. Foerster (1963).
14 Here, the rose in particular has a significant role: in the final part of the poem the rose is presented
as an essential part and a true symbol of spring. See Libanius, Prog. 12.7.9 ed. Foerster (1963).
15 For the spring ekphrasis in Byzantium, see Loukaki (2013).
16 Gregory, Libanius’ contemporary, shows himself to be familiar with Prog. 12.7 and composes an
ekphrasis in which all the precepts of ekphrastic composition are faithfully respected. In Gregory
of Nazianzos, Or. 44.10 (CCSG 36, p. 617.30) a strong association is created between spring and
Easter. See also the last part of the discourse, where the condition of universal rebirth that follows
Christ’s resurrection is presented as an all-encompassing spring: Gregory of Nazianzos, Or. 44.12
(CCSG 36, p. 621.1).
210 giulia gerbi
Arsenios, who worked as a teacher in Constantinople in the first half of
the ninth century.17 In the tenth century, the poem On Spring composed
by John Geometres (Poem 300) constitutes the best surviving example of
spring ekphraseis.18
Kallikles’ Poem 29 constitutes a good twelfth-century example of this
tradition, wholly fitting its topoi, and appears to have much in common
with Geometres’ Poem 300.19 In the description of spring – developed in
a very similar way in both poems – several typical elements of the genre’s
tradition are found: the contrast between winter and spring (Kallikles
68–9; Geometres 2), the mention of celestial bodies such as planets, stars
and the moon (Kallikles 60–7; Geometres 13–23), the winds, the Zephyr
in particular (Kallikles 73–8; Geometres 26, 56), the juxtaposition of the
lily and the rose (Kallikles 102–3; Geometres 30–5) and the singing of
birds and cicadas (Kallikles 79–92; Geometres 47–62, 72–3).20 Kallikles
follows the rules of the genre and uses all these elements of an ekphrastic
description of spring, perfectly inserting himself into that tradition with
the poem’s bright and imaginative atmosphere and its exaltation of beauty,
rebirth and joy. According to the precepts of the tradition, his ekphrasis
proceeds from the general (the cosmological section) to the particular (the
enumeration of flowers and birds). The ekphrastic section proper starts
at verse 54, with the passage describing the change from the darkness
to the brightness of the light. Nevertheless, the sense of joy and rebirth
fills the whole poem, which is littered with references to the delights of
spring. The first section of the poem makes explicit reference to spring
more than once (9: ἔαρ, 21: ἔαρος ἡ χάρις φίλη, 23: ἔαρ πεπλασμένον, 36:
ἔαρος αὐτοῖς φαιδρύνοντος τὸν τόπον, 38: ἔαρ συνεργὸν, 47: ἔαρος …
δρόσοι, 52: ἐαρινῆς χάριτος αἱ καλαὶ δρόσοι), and the element of sensa-
tion, which is of paramount importance, conveys a feeling of peacefulness

17 On Arsenios’ poem on Holy Sunday, see Kaltsogianni (2010) and Crimi (2015).
18 John Geometres Poem 300 ed. van Opstall (2008). For the text, translation (French) and
commentary, see van Opstall (2008: 514–50). In Geometres’ poem, the hymnological section, which
conveys a Christian message, is placed towards the end of the poem, after a long ekphrasis dedicated
to the exaltation of spring (vv. 9–86) and to lamentation about the poet’s unfortunate condition
(vv. 87–113). For the similarities between Geometres’ poem and another famous ekphrastic text,
Meleager’s ekphrasis of spring (AP IX 363), see van Opstall (2008: 546–8).
19 Of course, Kallikles’ Poem 29 shows intriguing parallels with all the texts here mentioned. A further
analogy with Or. 44 can be mentioned: in Gregory’s oration the celebration of spring also comes after
a portrayal of human history that, starting with the creation, culminates in Christ’s resurrection.
20 Only a few elements appearing in Geometres’ poem cannot be found in that of Kallikles: the
human presence (pastors and sailors, vv. 64–71) and the bee (78–86). These two elements, which
are typical of the ekphrastic tradition, are present in both Libanius (Prog. 17.7.7) and Gregory of
Nazianzos (Or. 44.11).
 Reflections on a Neglected Poem by Nicholas Kallikles 211
and delight. The sense of sight is prominent,21 but all the five senses take
part in this ekphrastic construction and, furthermore, all the sensations
acquired through the senses are positive. All the negative elements appear-
ing in the poem are relegated to a faraway past, presented as definitively
eradicated by the true Christian revelation and by the spring that God
gifted to humans.22

Being ἐν λόγοις νικηφόροι: A Rhetorical Contest as a

Possible Performative Occasion
What the poem Εἰς τὰ ῥόδα lacks is information about its social con-
text, performance and dedicatee. In this respect, the third section (vv.
100–17) appears to be the most interesting, since it holds some clues.
This concluding sequence addresses someone who is described by the
speaker as the source of his inspiration and rhetorical strength. Romano
has suggested identifying the recipient of the poem with God and thus
interpreting its final section as a prayer invoking divine protection.23
While this interpretation remains possible, a closer inspection of the
poem’s meaning, when combined with new perspectives offered by
recent scholarship on the cultural milieu of the capital, suggests a dif-
ferent interpretation. The move at vv. 100–1, a sort of ‘break-off for-
mula’ (Abbruchsformel) that announces a sudden change in topic and
is used to move towards a conclusion, could constitute the first clue
towards the identification of a concrete recipient. There is no doubt
that the previous section (93–9) refers to God, since the poet clearly
declares it.24 However, after the praise of God’s creation, the poet says he
is diverting his path towards long discourses, neglecting the dedicatee
(100–1). This Abbruchsformel may point to the passage from the divine
to the human sphere: a turning point towards another subject seems
not a mere rhetorical move but is concretely visible in the text. Two

21 An emphasis on seeing is typical of ekphrastic texts, since it recalls their visual dimension and their
proximity to the image.
22 It is noteworthy that γέλος, ‘laughter’, is here depicted as a gift from God. Laughter is quite a
typical element of the ekphrastic description of spring, though referring to the rejoicing of earth
and nature and not to men (who are usually represented as resuming their work after the winter
pause). Concerning the dismantlement of the theory according to which γέλος had a negative
connotation in Byzantine world, see Pizzone (2017); on laughter in the twelfth century, see also the
volume edited by Marciniak and Nilsson (2021).
23 Romano (1980: 24) has pointed to the sequence’s heartfelt tone and biblical quotations and thus
interpreted Poem 29 as a religious text, defining it as ‘something more than a sacred epigram’.
24 See in particular v. 99: Χεὶρ ἡ Θεοῦ.
212 giulia gerbi
­ ossibilities should be considered: either the move marks the passage to
p
the praise of a human dedicatee (maybe a mentor or a patron), or the
author addresses God again, asking for help before the logikoi contests.
In any case, the distich marks the end of the long ekphrastic section and
the beginning of the final part of the poem, which brings the text back
to its performative occasion.
Throughout the verses of the final section, the crucial importance
ascribed to rhetoric, learning and words immediately stands out. The
themes of teaching and discourse are strongly emphasized in the whole
poem, which is peppered with references to the importance of words and
rhetoric.25 In addition to the lexical stress on logoi, the cultural perspective
of the poem is suggested by the sketching of global history itself. The choice
to outline a path which passes through three stages – pagan era, Hebrew
era, Christian era – makes more sense in a cultural perspective than in a
historical or political one, since the pagan and the Hebrew ­traditions are
the two complementary foundations on which Byzantine Christian cul-
ture is built, representing the classical heritage and the biblical substratum,
respectively.
The importance attributed to education and learning is particularly evi-
dent in the two apostrophic sections of the poem (37–44 and 100–17),
which might both help in the identification of the recipient and, par-
ticularly, the social and performative context of the poem. Of the two,
the closing sequence is the more explicit, being a proper invocation for
rhetorical strength and support. In this section, the speaker presents the
achievement of rhetorical ability as the accomplishment of his hopes: a
battle in the field of education and rhetoric appears to loom over him,
making it necessary for him to take up sword and shield. The key role of
culture, combined with the military imagery, suggests a context where
cultural and rhetorical ability are put to the test. Recent scholarship has
shown that such contexts of cultural competition, far from being rare in
the learned and scholastic world of the twelfth century, were almost its
bread and butter.
The competition which animated the cultural milieu of the capital is
well known. Since schools were generally centred on a leading figure and
were dependent on the number of their pupils, there was a strong compe-
tition between teachers to prove their teaching ability and obtain career
benefits. This rivalry manifested itself not only in a harsh competitive envi-

25 The term λόγος with the meaning of ‘word’ occurs twenty times in the entire corpus by Kallikles:
thirteen of these occurrences (65 per cent of the total number) can be found in Poem 29.
 Reflections on a Neglected Poem by Nicholas Kallikles 213
ronment between colleagues,26 but also in formalized competitions.27 These
contests, referred to as λογικοὶ ἀγώνες, οἱ τῶν λόγων ἀγώνες or ἀγώνες
τοῦ λόγου (‘rhetoric contests’), were aimed at proving rhetorical and lit-
erary ability (and, more generally, the range of skills that were acquired
through education) and they probably took place in an inter-school con-
text. The conduct of these contests is not fully understood but, based on
the testimonies, we can assume that they were staged in a theatron and
centred on the comparison between rival candidates (teachers or students)
in front of an audience, and that performances were evaluated by a judge
(agonothetes).28 The language chosen to describe these contests can be traced
back to the vocabulary of sporting competitions, to which words such as
ἀγών (‘competition’), θέατρον (‘theatre’, ‘audience’), ἀγωνοθέτης (‘judge
in the contest’), ἀντεξετάζω (‘to dispute with someone’) clearly refer.29
A popular kind of contest was the ἀγών centred on schedography.30 In
the variegated world of schedography, a particular form of schede ­developed

26 Cases of fierce competition resulting in harsh mockery at the expense of colleagues and rivals
are abundant in Byzantine literature. An example is the famous scoptic poem by Psellos against
the Sabbaites (Psellos, Poem 21 ed. Westerink [1992]); see e.g. Bernard (2014: 254–9, 266–76).
References to school rivalry, mutual mud-slinging and controversies between colleagues are also
frequent in Tzetzes’ work (see, for instance, the epistles connected with teaching controversies such
as ep. 12, 17, 62–4 ed. Leone [1972], with their respective passages in the Histories, in particular
Histories 298–9 ed. Leone [2007]). See also Agapitos (2017).
27 Michael Psellos mentions (or alludes to) rhetorical contests taking place in front of an audience
several times in his work, for instance in his funeral oration for Xiphilinos (Psellos, Or. 3.9–11 ed.
Polemis [2013]), where he dedicates a long section to his friendship with the patriarch and to their
education during their youth. An English translation of the funeral oration for Xiphilinos can be
found in Kaldellis and Polemis (2015: 180–228). On school contests, see also Bernard in this volume.
28 On these contests, see Lemerle (1977: 235–41) and Bernard (2014: 254–66).
29 See Bernard (2014: 254–9). On the concept of theatron and its socio-cultural contexts, see Mullett
(1984), Magdalino (1993: 339), Marciniak (2007). On the theatrical character of twelfth-century
literature, see Magdalino in this volume.
30 On schedography, see the lemma ‘Schedographie’ by I. Vassis in Der Neue Pauly 11 (2002: 152–
3). For the typologies of exercises involved, see Schirò (1949), Browning (1976), Polemis (1995:
277–302), Vassis (1993–4: 9–12) and (2002: 37–44), Markopoulos (2006: 93–5), Agapitos (2013:
89–91) and (2017: 2–3, 7–8), Giannouli (2014: 62–5), Nousia (2016: 49–92); see also Introduction,
pp. 12–14 and Bernard in this volume. For examples of schede, see Agapitos (2014), (2015a), (2015b)
and (2015c) and Nousia (2016, Appendices II–III). After being regarded by earlier critics as a low-
education phenomenon despised by the learned elite – see Agapitos (2013: 101–6) on Krumbacher’s
prejudice about it – schedography has recently attracted more objective attention and has been
recognized as a crucial element of Byzantine education from the eleventh century onwards. A
twelfth-century testimony on schedography which has often been glossed over is the statement
of Nikephoros Basilakes about his role in the innovation of schede and the originality of his
schedographic method (see Basilakes, Prologue 78–9 ed. Garzya [1984]). Basilakes’ role in twelfth-
century schedography has been the subject of an MA thesis: see Rothstein-Dowden (2015). Most
of the information we have about schede competitions comes from poetic texts. Christopher of
Mytilene’s Poems 9, 10 and 11, focusing on education (and on schedography in particular), provide
significant information about the rivalry existing between schools and the functioning of school
practice, as well as of the relationship between teachers and students. See Bernard (2014: 261).
214 giulia gerbi
and diffused from the eleventh century onwards, which ‘consisted of
texts made up of unintelligible word groups from which the pupils had
to extract the correct reading by applying alternative spelling and word
breaks’.31 Schede were not only challenging exercises to improve grammat-
ical skills; they were the object of competitions in which the ability to
decode grammatical difficulties was put to the test. On the battleground of
schede, pupils were summoned to challenge rival students in order to prove
not only their skills but also the quality of the teaching they had received
and of the school to which they belonged.
A connection of Εἰς τὰ ῥόδα with the world of teaching and with school
competitions has never been proposed; nevertheless, such a connection
would explain and shed light on the passages for which the religious inter-
pretation seems to be unsatisfactory. An analysis of some of the most
significant passages of the poem, together with a comparison with texts
dealing clearly with the milieu of school competitions, reveals substantial
similarities.
The apostrophic sequence of vv. 37–44 defines the recipient of the apos-
trophe as a source of inspiration in a deeply educational sense. The inspir-
ing power of the addressee is directed towards rhetorical prowess: its aim
is to provide the speaker’s words with strength (στιβαρὸν τὸ τοῦ λόγου,
τοῖς λόγοις δώσουσιν εὐσθενῆ τόνον) and to prove them to be entirely
solemn through their subject matter (πανεμβριθεῖς32 δεικνύντες ἐκ τῶν
πραγμάτων). The πράγματα which must prove the effectiveness of the
speaker’s words could consist of the competition itself, which is supposed
to put to the test and to prove the student’s ability during a performance.
The concluding sequence undoubtedly praises and invokes someone
to whom the speaker is related in an educational context, through an
intellectual bond alluded to with the imagery of nourishment (v. 106).
The distich of vv. 108–9, ἐκ τῶν λόγων γεννᾷς με καὶ λόγοις τρέφεις | καὶ
σπαργανοῖς λόγοις με καὶ λούεις λόγοις,33 constitutes the most explicit
praise of the value of culture and learning to occur in the poem. All the
verbs employed referring to rhetorical ability (seen as something absolute
and all-encompassing) relate to the care for infants: γεννάω (‘to generate’,
‘to give birth’), τρέφω (‘to nourish’), σπαργανόω (‘to swathe’), λούω (‘to
wash’). Although the distich could easily refer to God, as in Romano’s

31 Bernard (2014: 260) notes that this specific kind of schede must be the result of an innovation in the
twelfth century, since all the relevant texts are from that era.
32 Note that πανεμβριθεῖς is a rare form.
33 Romano (1980: 24) defines these verses as the most representative of the personal dimension of
Kallikles’ poetry.
 Reflections on a Neglected Poem by Nicholas Kallikles 215
interpretation, this stress on the concept of logoi leads one to identify the
recipient instead with a person who played a paramount role in educa-
tion and in the world of learning and to connect the poem to a specific
occasion. The distich would befit a patron who encourages and sustains
the speaker’s activity or a teacher who supports his education. The image
of the teacher nourishing his students with knowledge is widespread and
occurs, for instance, in Poem 10 by Christopher of Mytilene,34 where the
maïstor is said to pour wisdom around his pupils’ ears and where students
are described as nourished by the teacher’s work, according to a popular
and pervasive image. The final invocation (vv. 115–17: στόμωσον ἡμῖν τοῦ
λογισμοῦ τὸ ξίφος, | ὡς ἂν φανῶμεν ἐν λόγοις νικηφόροι, | ἐκ σῶν πόνων
φανέντες ἀσπιδηφόροι) is a prayer to obtain strength in eloquence and
rhetoric and to be supported in the rhetorical milieu: the aim is to win a
battle and to triumph in eloquence.35 The invocation of Poem 29 refers to
training in the use of the sword of reason (τοῦ λογισμοῦ τὸ ξίφος) in order
to be victorious in words (ἐν λόγοις νικηφόροι) and includes the epithet
‘shield-bearers’ (ἀσπιδηφόροι). Thanks to the teacher’s ability, pupils will
be well-equipped and well-defended during the contest against another
group. The military imagery (which is very widespread in both rhetoric
and hagiography) is a typical feature of the description of school contests
and finds a match in the lexicon adopted by Christopher of Mytilene in
his poems about schools and contests.36 Christopher describes pupils as
the weapons of a teacher against his rival (9.8: ἔξεισι θαρρῶν τοῖς μαθηταῖς
ὡς ὅπλοις) and speaks of a victory or a defeat in the schedos contests (9.4:
ἦτταν δὲ δεινὴν οὔποτε σχέδους ἴδῃ; 10.15: τῶν πάντων κρατέουσι νέων
σχεδέων ἐν ἀγῶσιν).
After examination of the similarities between these texts, a certain
alignment between Kallikles’ Poem 29 and texts related to the milieu
of the school, competitions and schede seems to emerge. As a matter of

34 Christopher of Mytilene, Poem 10.7, 12–15 ed. Bernard and Livanos (2018): ἡδυεπῆ δὲ | Λέοντα
πρόμον ποίησε ἀγητόν | … | ὃς ῥὰ ἑὸν στόμα βάψας Μουσῶν εἰς νόον ἄκρον | ῥοῦν ἐμέει σοφίης
κούρων αἰεὶ περὶ ὦτα, | οἵ, λιπαινόμενοί τε καὶ εὐλογίην ξυνάγοντες, | τῶν πάντων κρατέουσι νέων
σχεδέων ἐν ἀγῶσιν, ‘And she made the sweet-tongued Leo its admirable leader … Having dipped
his mouth in the Muses’ deepest mind, he now spews forth a stream of wisdom around the ears of
the young, who, nourishing themselves on it and gathering eloquence, are victorious over all other
youths in the contests of schede’ (trans. after Bernard and Livanos). See also Agapitos (2013: 99–100).
35 The theme of divine support for words can be found also in John Mauropous, Poems 89–90.
36 For the vocabulary of sporting events used to describe cultural contests and for the occurrence
of military imagery, see Bernard (2014: 253–66). In Christopher of Mytilene, Poem 9.6, the verb
στομόω (meaning ‘to train’, ‘to strengthen’) is used in a similar way, in the expression ‘στομώσας
τοὺς νέους’ (‘training the young’), which occurs in the context of a schede battle: see Bernard (2014:
261).
216 giulia gerbi
fact, the invocatory voice of Εἰς τὰ ῥόδα asks its recipient to accom-
plish exactly what the maïstor is said to do with his students: to provide
rhetorical ability and victory in a cultural contest. Of course, Εἰς τὰ
ῥόδα can in no way constitute a schedos, and neither can Christopher’s
poems. Bernard rightly wonders: ‘how should we understand the exact
purpose or signification of these poems within the context of schedos
contests?’37 If Christopher’s poems may have been pronounced by the
teacher before the contests in order to encourage his own students and
influence the jury,38 the speaking voice of Poem 29 suggests other pos-
sibilities.
The poem is likely to be intended as the opening of a contest taking
place in the learned circles of the capital. The addressee could thus be
either God, invoked to obtain rhetorical strength, a member of the court
promoting cultural activities and contests, or a teacher. The rose could
suggest a female addressee, perhaps a patroness,39 but it is more likely that
the central position of the spring theme and the insistence on the floral
imagery are connected with the performative occasion, referring to the
time of the year when the contest was held. Εἰς τὰ ῥόδα could have had an
introductory function in the context of a school competition which was
held in spring (presumably around Easter), being performed as a foreword
to the contest. Following this path, it appears not too risky to assume that
the final invocation of Poem 29 could be conceived as the invocation of a
group of students to their teacher to praise his teaching ability (the ‘infant
care sequence’ seems to express devotion and gratefulness) and to invoke
his protection in order to defeat the other group and win the contest
thanks to his teaching.40 Several clues seem to support this interpreta-
tion. Beyond the strong connection which seems to exist between poetry
and the world of contests and schedography (especially in the eleventh
century) and the similarities of Poem 29 with Poems 9, 10 and 11 by Chris-
topher of Mytilene, a link can be established between Εἰς τὰ ῥόδα and a
particular schedos.

37 Bernard (2014: 266).

38 Bernard (2014: 266).
39 The image of the rose is also used to address a woman in Kallikles’ Poem 22. The use of the word
δοχεῖον (v. 112) could also be seen as a reference to the female womb.
40 The verbs and pronouns in the first-person plural in the final section of the poem, although they
may indicate a singular meaning, most likely mirror the collective point of view of the group of
students taking part in the contest. Therefore, the first-person plural has been maintained in the
translation.
 Reflections on a Neglected Poem by Nicholas Kallikles 217
Nicholas Kallikles and the School Milieu: A schedos in Pal. gr. 92
Nicholas Kallikles is of course best known, beside his poetry, as a court
physician. His only connection to the school milieu is the appellative of
διδάσκαλος τῶν ἰατρῶν with which he is referred to by part of the man-
uscript tradition and which connects him to the teaching of medicine.41
Nevertheless, he could have been involved in the educational environment
to a greater extent than scholars have thought. Ms. Vatican City, Biblioteca
Apostolica Vaticana, Pal. gr. 92 [Diktyon 65825], a Salentine collection of
the late thirteenth century, preserves many school texts, and in particular
schede, mostly unedited.42 This manuscript contains, among others, four
texts which are ascribed to a Kallikles (‘τοῦ Καλλικλέος’):
-- fols. 175r–176v: an ethopoiia entitled ‘What would Phoenix, Achilles’
instructor, say?’ (116 ed. Vassis);
-- fols. 210rv: an ethopoiia entitled ‘What would Ajax say, while dying, to
his own son?’ (164 ed. Vassis);
-- fols. 221v–222r: a eulogy followed by some grammatical notes (184 ed.
Vassis);
-- fols. 223v–224r: a schedos (188 ed. Vassis) which is also preserved in Flor-
ence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, conv. soppr. 2 [Diktyon 15778]
at fol. 208r. With respect to a comparison with Poem 29, this last text
is undoubtedly the most interesting. Vassis (2002: 61) describes it as
Ἔκφρασις ἔαρος: its theme is indeed the rebirth of nature in spring, and
we find in it the same themes and contents as those of Poem 29.
The attribution of these texts to Nicholas Kallikles would shed new light
on his figure, connecting him more closely to the scholarly milieu and
with non-medical teaching. Vassis rightly warns his readers against assign-
ing the authorship on the basis of a schedographic collection, since it is
not uncommon for the same schedos to circulate in different manuscripts
with different attributions.43 Nevertheless, the analogies between this short
schedos and Poem 29, both circulating under Kallikles’ name, are striking.
The schedos is centred on spring and its good effects. In both manuscripts
its kephalaion, namely the subject of the text,44 is clearly stated as ‘now
everything is full of joy, while the spring-time light shines on us’ (ἀπλῶς
τὰ πάντα νῦν θυμηδίας γέμει ἐαρινοῦ φανέντος ἡμῖν φοσφόρου).

41 Romano (1980: 13–14).

42 The texts preserved in the manuscript are listed in Vassis (2002: 45–63).
43 Vassis (2002: 38–9, n. 11).
44 See the lemma ‘Κεφάλαιον’ in Berardi (2017: 182–6).
218 giulia gerbi
The ekphrastic schedos follows all the precepts stated in the rhetorical
handbooks for ekphrastic composition and shows all the typical elements
of the ekphraseis of spring, starting from the cosmological elements: the sky
which becomes brilliant and clear (ὁ οὐρανὸς … διαυγέστερον δεικνύων
τὸν ἑαυτοῦ πρόσωπον), the stars (κοσμῶν … καταστήματι), the golden
rays of the sun (πας ἀκτὶς εἰς τὸ χρυσοειδέστερον μεταβάλλεται), the
light (τοῦ φωσφόρου … λαμπρύνεται), the moon (ἀκριβῶς τὸν κύκλον
φαιωότερον). After the cosmological section, the schedos mentions the
blossoming of flowers (ἄνθη) and roses (ῥόδοις). Hereafter, the text directly
addresses the student, promising him that snow and ice will not trou-
ble him anymore by weighing down the earth and oppressing it (οὐκέτι
σοι χιὼν ὦ νέε … οὐδὲ ὁ κρύσταλλος ἐνοχλήσει πείζων καὶ συσφρίγγων
δεινῶς). After these elements, which are also found in Poem 29, the sche-
dos deals with a topos of spring ekphraseis that does not appear in Εἰς τὰ
ῥόδα: the return to work of sailors and farmers in the warm season. Sail-
ors prepare their ships, no longer afraid of the winds (νῦν ὁ πλωτὴρ τὴν
νάυν εὐτρεπίζει … μὴ ὑποπτεύων ἀνέμων τὸ σφοδρὸν), and farmers (τὸν
γεωργὸν) resume their work. The text ends with a praise of the positive
effects of spring, where it is said to bring all sorts of good things (οὓτος
παντοῖον ἀπ’ἦρος ἔχω χρεστὸν).
This structure shows several similarities with the ekphrastic section
of Poem 29, in particular in its first section. Both texts begin with the
cosmological elements of the sky becoming brighter and the stars being
visible. The image of the snow that weighs down the earth is common
to both Poem 29 (v. 71: μὴ χιόνων τὸ πλῆθος ὡς ἄχθος φέρει;) and the
schedos (πείζων καὶ συσφρίγγων δεινῶς). The image of the violence of
the winds that has ceased also appears in both Poem 29 (v. 74–9, where
the speaker asks where the strength and harshness of winds are) and the
schedos (μὴ ὑποπτεύων ἀνέμων τὸ σφοδρὸν). The second sections of both
texts, instead, show some differences. The ekphrasis in Poem 29 is centred
on nature, focusing on the rebirth of flowers and plants and on the return
of the animals. Several spring birds and insects are listed (cicadas, thrushes,
ringdoves, parrots) and there is some insistence on their singing and their
voices. In the schedos, flowers are only hinted at and there is no mention
of animals but, on the other hand, there is some emphasis on the human
figures returning to their occupations (a theme which is absent in Poem 29
but found in other spring ekphraseis).
 Reflections on a Neglected Poem by Nicholas Kallikles 219
Conclusion
The aim of this chapter was to shed new light on a rich and fascinating
text, namely Kallikles’ Poem 29, by investigating the socio-cultural context
in which it was composed, its performative setting and its recipient. This
text appears to resist the earlier assumption that it was a religious epigram.
Since the invocation of rhetorical strength is well suited to a programmatic
beginning of a poetic anthology, and since floral imagery is frequently used
for poetic compilations, it could be seen as the introductory piece to an
anthology composed by the author himself; it was certainly not unparal-
leled in the twelfth century for an author to prepare an edition of their own
work for publication.45 However, even if it is possible that the poem was
used as a prologue to an anthology (for instance in a now-lost manuscript),
there seems to be some justification for assuming that behind the compo-
sition of this text lies a specific performative occasion. First, the occasional
nature of the text would be coherent with the oeuvre of Kallikles, whose
poems were often intended to praise or commemorate members of the
court or to serve as dedicatory epigrams for artworks. To assume that the
occasion for which the poem was composed was a school contest does not
appear too far-fetched. Since logoi are the core of the poem, it is reasonable
to assume that the text was composed to be performed in a rhetorical con-
test and thus to be addressed to a patron or a teacher by virtue of his role
in culture and education. Textual analysis has shown that the most ambig-
uous and fascinating sections of the poem have some features in common
with texts related to school contests, and in particular with the schede com-
petitions. Both the focus on learning and rhetorical strength and the use of
military imagery seem to point in this direction. Contests among scholars
were a solidly attested reality in twelfth-century Constantinople, involving
to various extents the members of the school apparatus and of the court. It
is not unlikely that Nicholas Kallikles, as an esteemed figure at the court,
wrote a text intended to introduce a school contest, nor that he worked
as a teacher of grammar and rhetoric for some time, composing progym-
nasmata and schede, as the manuscript Pal. gr. 92 suggests. Ultimately, the
fact that among the very few texts which connect Nicholas Kallikles to the
school milieu, two are centred on a spring ekphrasis and seem to feature
some striking similarities, seems significant. The similarities that Poem 29
demonstrates with the spring schedos constitute an important clue in sup-

45 See for instance the prologue meant to introduce Nikephoros Basilakes’ work, edited by Garzya
(1984). On this text, see also Garzya (1969).
220 giulia gerbi
port of its connection to the performative context of school/intellectual
ἀγώνες, allowing us to discover some unprecedented traits of Kallikles’
activity at the court and in the cultural milieu of the twelfth century.

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 Part iii
Poetry, Patronage and Power
 ch apter 9

‘Receiving Rich Gifts’

Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts
of the Vossianus Gr. Q1
Aglae Pizzone

Before the composition of the Histories, Tzetzes’ commentary on Aphtho-

nios and Hermogenes in political verse, with its scope and sheer extension,
was certainly meant to be the most representative among his mature work.1
It is therefore no surprise that the ms. Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuni-
versiteit, Vossianus Gr. Q1 [Diktyon 38108], a contemporary, ‘bespoke’
witness of the commentary, is equipped with a series of metrical and prose
paratexts providing details on the genesis of this specific copy.2 They are
to be found at fol. 30r, after the end of the commentary on Aphthonios
(six hexameters), and at fols. 211v–212r after the end of the commentary
on the four Hermogenian treatises and before the section of the Logismoi
preserved by the manuscript (respectively ten hexameters and twenty-four
dodecasyllables). At fol. 212r there is also a prose note, detailing the prob-
lems encountered by Tzetzes after handing over the requested copy to its
commissioners.3 The longer hexametric poem provides us with informa-
tion about the commissioner, one Nikephoros whose identity is not yet
fully clarified.4 It also describes Tzetzes in dialogue with the Muse, whom
he persuades to dwell in the ‘lower regions’ of poetry in political verse.5
This chapter focuses on the final iambic book epigram at fols. 211v–212r
and on the hexametric poem at fol. 30r. While the text of latter – though
not properly edited – is available in the catalogue of the Leiden University
Library as well as in the Database of Byzantine Book Epigrams,6 the for-
mer will be presented here in its first complete edition, accompanied by an
English translation.
1 For a contextualization of the commentary and issues of chronology, see Pizzone (2020c: 658–62)
and (2022).
2 For a description of the manuscript, see de Meyïer (1955: 91–3), Pizzone (2020b: 77–8) and (2020c:
654–8).
3 For text and translation, see Pizzone (2020c: 685–9).
4 Pizzone (2020c: 660–1).
5 See de Meyïer (1955: 93) and www.dbbe.ugent.be/occurrences/19742; edition and translation in
Pizzone (2020c: 659–60).
6 de Meyïer (1955: 92) and www.dbbe.ugent.be/occurrences/19741.

225
226 aglae pizzone
My aim is to show that the paratexts in the Vossianus, in close dia-
logue with one another, form a conceptual frame around the manuscript
and the texts it contains. They create a consistent web of cross-references
which, besides clarifying the circumstances prompting that specific copy
of the commentary, scaffold Tzetzes’ authorial agency as well as his social
role in a cultural economy based on patronage.7 These paratexts also speak
to the way Tzetzes exploits the inherent ambiguities of language and tra-
dition. I would argue that they are examples of enacted amphoteroglossia
(ἀμφοτερογλωσσία).8 I will show that such ἀμφοτερογλωσσία rests on
dialectic. The ability to exploit the capaciousness of language thus becomes
a powerful means to negotiate power.

One Book Epigram and Five Labours

The twenty-four dodecasyllables stretching across fols. 211v–212r (Figures
9.1 and 9.2) take the shape of a dedicatory book epigram characterized by
a few peculiar traits, as we shall see. Text and translation are as follows:

1 Ὦ τῶν μεγίστων ἐργεπεῖκτα σκαμμάτων,211v

τὸν πρὶν ἐκεῖνον ζωγραφῶν Εὐρυσθέα,
κἂν οὐκ ἀμισθὶ τοὺς ἀγῶνας προτρέπῃς
– δώροις δὲ συχνοῖς νῦν ἐλαύνεις πρὸς πόνους –
5 δέξαι τὸν ἆθλον ἐντελῆ πεφηνότα·
ὁ σὸς γὰρ αὐτὸν Ἡρακλῆς, ὡς προὐτράπη,
δείκνυσι τανῦν ἐμφανῶς ἠνυσμένον.
Τρέσῃς δὲ μηδὲν, μὴ προπέμψῃς Κοπρέα,
τούτου θεατήν – προστατοῦντα τῶν πόνων –
10 οὐ κάπρος ἐστὶν ἐνθαδὶ, ζῶν ἠγμένος,
ῥέγχων παρ᾽ὤμοις οὐ λέων πεπνιγμένος.
Ὕδρας κεφαλὰς νῦν οὐχ ὁρᾶς τετμημένας.
Οὐ νεβρὸς οὐδεὶς ἠνεμωμένος δρόμοις,
οὐδ᾽Ἀρκάδων ὄρνιθες ἐκφυὲς τέρας,
15 ὁμοῦ τε τόξον καὶ πτερὸν δὲ καὶ βέλος.
Οὐ ζῶμα, κόπρος, οὐδὲ ταῦρος πῦρ πνέων,
οὐ Θρᾷξ τίς ἵππος αἷμα χόρτον ἐσθίων,
οὐ, φοίνιαι βοῦς, μῆλα, τρίκρανος κύων.212r
Τοιοῦτον οὐδὲν ἐνθαδὶ καινὸν τέρας·

7 On patronage in the Komnenian period, see now Nilsson (2021: ch. 3), summarizing the
developments in scholarship in the last thirty years; for Tzetzes in particular, see Zagklas (2019:
245–7).
8 See Roilos (2006: 53–6) and Agapitos (2017: 36).
 Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 227
20 πένταθλος ἐστὶ ῥητόρων ἠνυσμένος,
ὃν τερματώσας Ἡρακλῆς σὸς δεικνύει·
τῶν σῶν κελεύσει προσταγῶν πεπεισμένος.
Δέχου δὲ τοῦτον, καὶ παρὼν αὐτὸς, βλέπε˙
ῥήτωρ ἐλέγχων ῥητορεύοντας πόνους.

1 O taskmaster9 of the greatest labours,10

by imitating that famous ancient Eurystheus,
even if you do not promote agones without compensation,
– with innumerable gifts you now exhort to labours –
5 please accept the feat that now appears to be completed.
Your Heracles, as he was urged to do,
shows it (to you) now as clearly accomplished.
Fear not and do not send forward Kopreus
to watch it, as a steward of the labours.
10 Here you won’t find any boar dragged alive,
nor a strangled lion hissing on my shoulders,
you won’t see the severed heads of the Hydra.
No, there won’t be any doe carried by the wind in its run,
no Arcadian birds, extraordinary monsters,
15 and with them bow, arrow and spear.
No girdle, dung, not even a bull breathing fire,
no Thracian horse feeding on blood as if fodder,
nο bloody cows, apples or three-headed dog.
There are no such novel monsters here:
20 a triumphant pentathlos of rhetors has been completed,
displayed and accomplished by your Heracles,
obeying the urge of your orders.
Take this, and being present yourself, look:
a rhetor putting to shame the labours of rhetors.

In the lengthy book epigram Tzetzes draws an analogy between himself

and Heracles on the one hand, and between the commentary and the hero’s
labours on the other, while presenting the finished work to his patron/
Eurystheus. Of the five roles identified by Bernard and Demoen as central
to the communicative situation of book epigrams (author, patron, scribe,
reader and text),11 author, patron and text are clearly predominant. Tzetzes
does not imply any other reader than the patron. Such exclusivity reflects
the fact that the Vossianus is a commissioned bespoke copy, as declared by

9 The term usually occurs in contexts where waged and menial labour is addressed: see e.g. Eustathios,
Or. 9.17.36 ed. Tafel (1832).
10 The word is literally connected with digging as shown e.g. by Pl. Lg. 845e.
11 Bernard and Demoen (2019: 416).
228 aglae pizzone

Fig 9.1 Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus graecus Q1 [Diktyon

38108], fol. 211v
Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 229

Fig 9.2 Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus graecus Q1 [Diktyon

38108], fol. 212r
230 aglae pizzone
the prose paratext of fol. 212r.12 What is striking is that, while, as stressed by
Bernard and Demoen, ‘laudatory book epigrams were not only written for
authors of a distant past. They could also be deployed in the canonization
process of a recently deceased spiritual figure’,13 here the author himself,
pretty much alive, appears to lead the process of canonization, as it were.
The author of the work and the writer of the book epigram share the same
voice, thus emphasizing Tzetzes’ characteristic autography and, as we shall
see in the next section, autonomy. Furthermore, although Tzetzes invites
the patron to ‘receive’ the book, the epigram does not use verbs semanti-
cally linked to κτάομαι: the accent is rather on ‘ordering’, ‘urging’, which
tallies with the fact that Tzetzes is looking at the act of patronage and the
resulting book from his own perspective.14
The epigram shows a strong emphasis on visuality, as indicated by
ζωγραφῶν (l. 2), πεφηνότα, ἐμφανῶς (l. 5 and l. 7), as well as θεατήν (l.
9). Tzetzes also seems to imply that he is physically offering the text/book
to the patron, who in turn is urged to be present, παρών (l. 23). Tzetzes
‘shows’ and ‘points’ at his work (δείκνυσι l. 7 and δεικνύει l. 21), while
the receiver is invited to ‘look’ at it (l. 23). Again, traditional structural
patterns of book epigrams appear to be reversed here. If verbs of writing/
painting are common in causative constructions (the patron ‘makes’ or
‘lets’ the copyist write/paint),15 in our lines the act of ‘picturing’ – albeit
mentally – falls back onto the patron himself.16 The emotional tone too is
very different from customary dedication epigrams, which emphasize the
‘desire’ and ‘love’ motivating the patron’s requests.17 Fear, on the contrary,
is a dominant emotion here (Τρέσῃς δὲ μηδὲν, l. 8). The patron is invited
not to be afraid, since, unlike Heracles, Tzetzes has not tamed monstruous
animals, completing instead a bookish enterprise.18
To sum up, Tzetzes exploits the rules informing the genre of dedicatory
epigrams, twisting them to fit his own agenda and stress his exegetical

12 For a discussion of this paratext, see Pizzone (2020c: 656).

13 Bernard and Demoen (2019: 417).
14 See again Bernard and Demoen (2019: 418), based on Cavallo (1992).
15 See Bianconi (2013: 309), building on Iacobini (2007: 153).
16 On the representation of the scribes as painters, see Drpić (2013). Tzetzes often equates his own
writing to the achievements of visual artists, playing with the ambiguity of γράφω. The most
blatant – and unapologetically boastful – case comes from the last two lines of the Theogony (ll.
858–9), where he describes himself as the ‘canon of Polycletus for writers’.
17 Bernard and Demoen (2019: 419).
18 Tzetzes’ commentary exceeds by far that of other commentators, since he has managed to
produce a commentary κατὰ λήμματα in political verse on all of the five treatises of the corpus
Hermogenianum. See Jeffreys (2019: 94). Perhaps only John Doxapatres’ engagement shows a scope
comparable with Tzetzes’: see Gibson (2009) and (2019).
 Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 231
achievement. In the next section I will show that this is not the only pecu-
liarity of this text.

Heracles, Eurystheus and the Pitfalls of Patronage

The iambic dedication, by equating the commentary on Hermogenes to a
Herculean task, prompts an obvious, broader analogy between the couples
Heracles/Eurystheus and Tzetzes/Nikephoros. In this section I argue that
Tzetzes exploits some aspects of the Heracles narrative to negotiate subor-
dination and to make the balance of power tilt, at least within the space of
this specific manuscript.19
A first point to be made is that Heracles features consistently in Tzetzes’
work as one of his many proxies. When in the letter collection he addresses
the Kamateroi, with whom he had a problematic relationship,20 he tends
to present himself as a new Heracles.21 Equally, in the iambs appended to
the second recension of the Histories,22 he claims that he had to endure
much more than Heracles, given, on the one hand, the lack of recognition
for his work and, on the other, the general tendency of his time to honour
questionable personalities. These lines also point to Eurystheus’ malicious
disposition, a detail on which I enlarge below:23

Αἰσχρῶν δὲ τιμὴν δυσμαθῶν τί μοι λέγεις;

Οὐ νῦν ἐπανθεῖ πρῶτον ἐν βίῳ τόδε·
ἀεὶ δὲ τιμὴ τὠν κακούργων ἦν βίῳ.
Οὐχ Ἡρακλῆς ἐκεῖνος ἦν πονῶν πόσα,
Εὐρυσθέως τρυφῶντος αὐτοῦ τοῖς πόνοις,
ἀνδρὸς πονηροῦ, μηδὲ ζῆν ἐπαξίου;
(Tzetzes, Iambi 2.230–5 ed. Leone 1969–70: 142)
19 That Tzetzes had often an uneasy relationship with his patrons is a well-known fact. The tip of the
iceberg is represented by his dealings with Irene for the Allegories of the Iliad, but Tzetzes appears to be
quite consistent in his attitude towards patrons. On this topic, besides the classic Rhoby (2010), see the
more recent work of Savio (2020) (though with some problems as regards the way in which twelfth-
century Constantinopolitan culture is understood); Lovato (2021) (discussed below) and (2022).
20 The trajectory of this relationship is retraced in Pizzone (2022).
21 Cf. above all ep. 87 to Theodore Kamateros, p. 127, ll. 15–20 ed. Leone (1972), to be read next to
Histories 12.417.503–7 ed. Leone (2007). Tzetzes alludes here to the proverb ‘born on the fourth
day’, used to describe people forced into the unlucky condition of labouring for others. Cf.
Zenobios, Epitome 5.7 ed. Schneidewin and von Leutsch (1839); Hesychios T 613 ed. Cunningham
and Hansen (2009); Suda T 388 ed. Adler (1928); Photios, Lexicon T 190 ed. Porson (1822), based
on Philochoros fr. 328 F 85b ed. Jacoby; Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 1.469.3–4 ed. van der
Valk (1971–87). See also the modern Greek translation in Grigoriadis (2001: 225, with n. 293 at p.
287). See Pizzone (2022: 24–6) with further bibliography.
22 See Leone (1969–70), D’Agostini and Pizzone (2021).
23 Eurystheus appears as a double-edged figure also in Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 3.379.1–4
ed. van der Valk (1971–87).
232 aglae pizzone
Why do you say ‘honour’ among a shameful, ill-learned crowd?
Not now for the first time do we see this in the world:
honour has always dwelled among the criminals of the world.
Did not that famous Heracles suffer such great labours,
while Eurystheus was revelling in his labours,
a cruel man, who did not deserve to live?

Such identification with Heracles is quite consistent throughout the years,

as proven by the autograph notes appended to the Vossianus. At fol. 41v,
for instance, we find one of Tzetzes’ frequent rants against the copyist, who,
through his mistakes, forces him to tackle disproportionately demanding
labours (see Figure 9.3):

ὁ μιαρὸς δὲ μεταγραφεὺς καὶ ἐχθρὸς τοῦ θεοῦ, μηδὲν ἐζημιωμένος, οὕτω

πάντα παρελίμπανε, ἄθλους καὶ πόνους ὑπὲρ τοὺς ἡρακλείους πολλῷ
ἀσυγκρίτως παρέχων τῷ γέροντι, εἰς τὴν τούτων ἀνόρθωσιν‧ ὅτι πόνημα
ἦν ἡ βίβλος τοῦ γέροντος. Εἰ δεῖνος ἄλλου σύγγραμμα ἦν κἂν μυρία
κεκαινοτόμηται πάνυ λεπτῶς, ἂν ταύτην κατατεμὼν πυρί κατετέφρωσα.

The accursed copyist and enemy of God, without paying any penalty, thus
overlooked everything, forcing the old man to face struggles and labours
far exceeding those of Heracles, in order to correct this text. And this is
only because the book was a labour of the old man. Had it been by anyone
else, even acknowledging its innumerable and subtle novelties, I would have
thrown it into the fire after tearing it apart.24

While in the Vossianus’ book epigram the Herculean labour faced by Tzet-
zes relates to the content and the scope of the commentary, the autograph
note is concerned with the material burden of purging the manuscript
from mistakes and misunderstandings.25 The dung to be cleaned up in
this case finds material instantiation in the mistakes of the copyist: fae-
cal imagery is quite common in the notes in the Vossianus.26 The labels
of πόνος or πόνημα often used for both the ‘creative’ content of books
and the material work of copyists in book epigrams and subscriptions27

24 The note follows a long σημειώσαι note added in the hand of Tzetzes and finds itself next to another
autograph marginal gloss to Hermogenes. The whole page shows that Tzetzes has also added
overlooked punctuation in several passages. If our note actually refers to the copyist forgetting to
transcribe authorial marginal notes, this provides material proof that Tzetzes actually considered
marginalia as integral to the discursive structure of his work.
25 Lovato (2017: 212) for Augias’ labour, partly based on Luzzatto (1999: 25–8).
26 Cf. fol. 45v.
27 Cf. among the many possible examples www.dbbe.ugent.be/occurrences/23524 (scribe) and
www.dbbe.ugent.be/occurrences/20967 (author).
Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 233

Fig 9.3 Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus graecus Q1 [Diktyon

38108], fol. 41v
234 aglae pizzone
c­ onflate here with Heracles’ labours, also described as πόνοι, thus creating
a consistent set of images.
Heracles, however, is but one of the characters evoked in our book
epigram, which also refers to Eurystheus and Kopreus. As we have seen,
Tzetzes invites the patron to imitate Eurystheus. Although this simile
might be taken at face value as rather standard and flattering, it is, in
fact, double-edged. Several clues point in this direction. First, as we have
seen, the iambs appended to the second recension of the Histories por-
tray Eurystheus as a despicable figure. According to Eustathios, moreover,
there were two ways to refer to Heracles in relation to Eurystheus: ὃς
Εὐρυσθῆος ἀέθλων and ὃς Εὐρυσθῆος ἄνακτος. Homer chooses the latter
because he did not want to κακολογῆσαι, that is to speak ill of Eurys-
theus, as if mentioning the unfair labours unjustly inflicted on Heracles
would shed a derogatory light on his character.28 Second, Eustathios also
gives us important insights into how the power relationship between Her-
acles and Eurystheus was conceptualized. In the Commentary on the Iliad
we read that the king’s hierarchic superiority is only formal and that Her-
acles’ voluntary subjugation to him is a sign of real greatness and actual
royalty.29 If we take into account this shade of meaning while reading the
communicative situation of the epigram, we realize that, whereas it is true
that Tzetzes subjects himself to the requests of his patron, such a submis-
sion, being voluntary, becomes actually a sign of superiority. Eurystheus,
moreover, is portrayed as potentially afraid of Tzetzes’ book/feat. This
detail is again to be understood against the narrative of Heracles’ labours.
Tzetzes summarizes the relevant events in the Histories, describing Eurys-
theus’ horrified reaction to Heracles returning victorious from his first
labour. The victory was so unexpected that now Eurystheus, afraid of fac-
ing further unwanted consequences, prevents the hero from entering the
city and asks him instead to show the spolia at the city’s gates.30 Heracles
stopping at the gates of Mycenae is a powerful image, one that once again
speaks to issues of in-group admission and gatekeeping featuring so often
in Tzetzes’ work.31

28 Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 3.779.27–30 ed. van der Valk (1971–87).
29 Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 4.284.15–19 ed. van der Valk (1971–87).
30 Tzetzes, Histories 2.36.235–9 ed. Leone (2007).
31 See for example the recurring reference to the κουστωδία (Luzzatto [1999: 50, 52 n. 54 and n.
103], D’Agostini and Pizzone [2021]), used for the ‘band’ of teachers literally gatekeeping cultural
institutions in the capital. Again, we are to do with images that are not peculiar to Tzetzes alone
but widely used in the parlance of Constantinopolitan intellectuals. As remarked by Loukaki (1996:
14 and n. 87), for instance, Gregory Antiochos uses the reference to E. Rh. 906 to describe his own
position of ‘watch of the doors’ in a letter to Demetrios Tornikes.
 Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 235
The background story about Eurystheus also explains why Tzetzes
introduces the figure of Kopreus, a minor character in the narrative, about
whom we learn again from Eustathios.32 Kopreus was sent forward by
Eurystheus, who did not want to deal directly with Heracles anymore.
Eustathios is struck by the etymology of the name Kopreus, which again
evokes dung and faeces. Such an association makes sense to the way Tzetzes
exploits the traditions regarding Heracles. In the narrative of the labours,
Kopreus embodies the prototypical middleman and from Tzetzes’ various
notations we know that such middlemen intervening in producing copies
of his work were often responsible for the βορβόροι defiling his oeuvre.33
Within Tzetzes’ own poetics, moreover, Kopreus is associated with
the double-tonguedness – on which I will enlarge later – of practices of
praise and blame. When commenting on the loci of praise – lineage, edu-
cation, training, age, nature of body and soul, inclinations, actions and
status – mentioned in Hermogenes’ On Issues,34 Tzetzes offers his take on
the subject, duly highlighted in the manuscript by a σημείωσαι note in
the margin. He advances a model whereby the use of the loci is rather
subtle – δεινότερον – as it makes the character’s description more rounded
and open to contradiction. This is where Kopreus comes into play as a
character belonging into the rhetoric of blame. Tzetzes offers a mini-Ho-
meric cento to showcase an example of praise capitalizing on potentially
negative aspects, thus leaving room for a modicum of ambiguity (fol. 54v;
see Figure 9.4):

Ἐγὼ κἂν τοῖς τοιούτοις δὲ σύμπασι κεχρημένος,

μᾶλλον ὡς Ὅμηρος ποιῶ δεινότερον τὸν λόγον‧
ἀπὸ τοιαύτης γὰρ φανεὶς οὗτος φημὶ πατρίδος
καὶ τῶν λοιπῶν ὁμοίως δὲ τοιοῦτος ἐγεγόνει.
Καὶ Ὅμηρος τὸν παῖδα γὰρ αἰνῶν τὸν τοῦ Κοπρέως
ἀνθρώπου φαύλου σύρφακος οὕτω τὰ ἔπη λέγει‧
τοῦ γένετ’ ἐκ πατρὸς πολὺ χείρονος υἱὸς ἀμείνων
παῦροι τοι παῖδες ὀμοῖοι πατρὶ πέλονται
οἱ πλέονες κακίους παῦροι δέ τε πατρὸς ἀρείους.

Personally, while I have used all of them,

I would rather make my speech more forceful, like Homer:
‘This man – I say – appearing to be from such a land,
and so on using the other loci, has proven himself such.’

32 Eustathios, Commentary on the Iliad 3.778.5–11 ed. van der Valk (1971–87).
33 See Agapitos (2017), Pizzone (2020c: 685–7) and (2020a) on the faecal imagery in Tzetzes.
34 On Issues 3.7–8 ed. Patillon (2009).
236 aglae pizzone

Fig 9.4 Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus graecus Q1 [Diktyon

38108], fol. 54v
 Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 237
For Homer too, in praising the son of Kopreus,
a pipsqueak from the populace, utters his lines as follows:
‘Of him, a father baser by far, was begotten a better son [Iliad 15.641].
Few sons indeed are like their fathers;
most are worse, few better than the fathers [Odyssey 2.276–7].’

There is a further point made by Tzetzes in the dedication epigram, one

that, as we shall see, resonates with the hexametric paratext of fol. 30r ana-
lysed in the next section: unlike Heracles’, Tzetzes’ challenge was rewarded
with adequate compensation. Tzetzes refers here to the episode of Augeias’
stables, as we gather again from Eustathios:

Αὐγείας Ἡρακλεῖ τὴν τῶν αὐτοῦ βοῶν κόπρον καθήραντι οὐκ ἐδίδου
ἀπαιτοῦντι τὸν μισθόν, ὃς ἦν δεκάτη τῶν βοῶν, λέγων οὐχ’ ἑκόντα
ποιῆσαι τὸ ἔργον, ἀλλ’ ἐπιταγέντα ὑπὸ Εὐρυσθέως. (Eustathios, Commen-
tary on the Iliad 3.309.8–10 ed. van der Valk 1971–87)

Augeias did not give Heracles the requested compensation, after he cleaned
the dung of his bulls, which was supposed to be a tenth of the cattle, argu-
ing that he had not accomplished the feat of his own volition, but because
he had been ordered to do so by Eurystheus.

Οὐχ’ ἑκόντα, ‘not of his own volition᾽, is the key term here. In the epistle
to Lachanas, opening the Histories, Tzetzes uses a quotation from Aeschy-
lus’ Prometheus Bound characterized by the reduplication of the adverb
ἑκών to stress that even his proclaimed lower social status is not passively
endured but actively chosen.35 Equally, in our book epigram he uses the
twelve labours narrative to stress that the compensation was earned pre-
cisely because, unlike Heracles, he was still at liberty to accept or refuse his
patrons’ requests. This attitude has to be understood against the backdrop
of broader discourses of waged labour, as we shall see in the next section.

Wages, Books and Cultural Economy

In a recent paper, Valeria Lovato has stressed that the competing notions
of μισθός (‘wages’) and δῶρον (‘gift’) both contribute to defining Tzetzes’
position towards his patrons and his own creativity as well as his ἐλευθερία
(‘freedom’).36 In what follows I would like to add further considerations
based on the Vossianus paratexts, contextualizing Tzetzes’ attitude towards

35 Tzetzes, Histories 1.11.284 ed. Leone (2007). See on this passage Pizzone (2017: 205–6).
36 Lovato (2021) and (2022).
238 aglae pizzone
his commissioners within contemporary language of patronage – focused
on but not confined to the arts.
As is well known, in Byzantium relationships of waged service between
clients and patrons were conceptualized as δουλεία (‘servitude’) or θητεία
(‘hired service’), which stress the lack of agency of the client.37 This is also
how Tzetzes himself describes his own service under the doux of Berroia,
Isaac, as shown by a famous passage in the Carmina Iliaca:38

Οἷσι κἀμὲ καὶ ἄκων δειδίσκετο οὔλιος ἀνήρ,

ᾧ πρὶν ἐγὼ θήτευσα, κατηφὼν Ἰσαάκιος,
ἠδ’ ἄλοχος κείνου περικερδής, ἀγκυλόβουλος,
δειδιότες ἀμὴν ἀγέρωχον καλλιέπειαν.
(Tzetzes, Carmina Iliaca 2.142–5 ed. Leone 1995)

With such gifts, a baleful man, unwillingly, greeted me,

a man whom I previously served, Isaac, who causes grief,
and his greedy wife, mischievous,
afraid as they were of my formidable, beautiful language.

Lovato has offered a detailed analysis of these lines,39 showing how Tzetzes
carefully projects his own self-representation and the struggles with patrons
as well as rivals onto the figure of Ajax. This rhetorical strategy reflects
broader twelfth-century discourses of patronage to be found throughout
the work of Tzetzes, but also, as I argue, among his contemporaries. In this
respect, mythical and literary parallels help make sense of reality as much as
historical reality gives new meaning to traditional narratives. In the Allego-
ries of the Iliad and in the Exegesis of the Iliad,40 the very notion of θητεία is
used by Tzetzes to frame the story of Poseidon and Apollo, when they are
put to work ‘for free’ by Laomedon. The relationship between Heracles and
Eurystheus fits the same rationale. In the twelfth century the figure of Her-
acles could serve as a model of ideal endurance in case of θήτεια gone awry,
that is, of service ending up being ‘unwaged’, as in the cases related by John
Kinnamos, Gregory Antiochos and Tzetzes himself.41 Euthymios Malakes

37 See Loukaki (1996: 15, 21), with a focus on Gregory Antiochos, and Kazhdan (1985). A key source
is Kinnamos, Epitome 6.8, 275.11–276.15 ed. Meineke (1836).
38 On this episode, see Braccini (2009–10: 154–5) and (2010: 99–101), Lovato (2022).
39 See Lovato (2017: 181–3).
40 Tzetzes, Allegories of the Iliad 15.72 ed. Boissonade (1851): ἔπαθον πρὶν θητείᾳ; Exegesis of the Iliad
350.21–351.1 ed. Papathomopoulos (2007): Ποσειδῶνα δὲ καὶ Ἀπόλλωνα τῷ Λαομέδοντι θητεύειν
ἀπέσταλκε.
41 See above n. 37 for the relevant passages.
 Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 239
uses the reference to Eurystheus to this end. In letter 3 sent to a friend while
stationed far from Constantinople – not unlike Tzetzes in Macedonia –
Euthymios poignantly tells his correspondent how his hopes concerning
his current appointment had been deluded. He should have known better:
only the most debased souls are moved by a desire of riches after all. On the
contrary, Heracles provides a viable model: τὸ δὲ προῖκα καὶ ἀμισθὶ ἄθλους
Εὐρυσθείους διατελεῖν, ἀναλγήτου τοῦτο ψυχῆς καὶ γνώμης ἐστερημένης
τῶν λογισμῶν (‘to fully carry out the labours of Eurystheus, without com-
pensation: now this is evidence of a soul insensible to pain and a spirit with
no ulterior motives’).42 Accordingly, at the end of the epistle Euthymios
asks for his friend’s prayers, so that he might be able to come to the end of
his service and return to the capital, ‘a task worthy of Eurystheus’.43
Against this backdrop Tzetzes appears, once more, both conventional
and particular in using established tropes. He resorts to a traditional set of
images easily recognized by his audience in a way that helps him carve out
his own personal space and emphasize his personal freedom. Rather than
epitomizing service, wages become evidence of his free will and authorial
autonomy. That is why, as I argue, across the paratexts of the Vossianus
Tzetzes stresses, in (only) apparent contradiction with other passages from
his work, the fact that this specific version of the commentary has been
produced against compensation. Such compensation is referred to as
μισθός (‘wages’) but also as δῶρα (‘gifts’). However, unlike the unsatisfac-
tory gifts received by the eparch and his wife, the δῶρα offered here appear
to be adequate. The hexameters closing the commentary on Aphthonios at
fol. 30r depict again a relationship with the sponsor in which the balance
of power tilts in favour of the patronized author (see Figure 9.5):

στίχοι ἡρωικοί

1 Ἑρμείης ὅδ᾽ ἔληξε διάκτορος Ἀφθονΐοιο

γῆρυν θεσπιέπειαν ἐπίδμονα ῥητροσυνάων
προφρονέως ἐρέων, ναετῆρος Ἀντιοχείης,
Tζέτζης ἣν τολύπευσεν, ἀριστοπόνοισιν ἀέθλοις·
5 ὄλβια δῶρα λαβὼν οὐ τηϋσίοις καμάτοισιν,
ὄλβια δῶρα λαβών, καὶ ἑταίρους ἀμφαγαπάζων.

Στί(χοι) σοδ καὶ ὁμοῦ ἡ τῆς ἐξηγέσ(εως) τῶν προγ(υμνασμά)τ(ων)

στιχ(ομητρία) δψλθ καὶ ἡρωικοὶ ς καὶ ἕτεροι διαλαθόντες ὡς κε.

42 Euthymios Malakes, ep. 3.16 ed. Bonis (1937).

43 Euthymios Malakes, ep. 3.23–7 ed. Bonis.
240 aglae pizzone
Hexameters

1 This Hermes,44 messenger of Aphthonios, ceased

from eagerly investigating his oracular voice versed45 in rhetorical arts,
[Aphthonios], the inhabitant of Antioch,
[a voice] that Tzetzes unfolded through noble struggles,
5 receiving rich gifts for no idle labours,
receiving rich gifts and embracing with love his companions.

274 lines and overall the stichometry of the exegesis on the preparatory
exercises 4,737 lines and 6 hexameters and other lines that escape notice
around 25.

These hexameters – metapoetic in content as often in Tzetzes’ work46 –

present the reader with the same set of metaphors encountered in the final
book epigram sealing the commentary to the corpus. ‘Enduring’ Aphtho-
nios might be an ἆθλος, but it is one met with ample compensation. Fur-
thermore, such a task is accepted προφρονέως, that is, of Tzetzes’ own
will. The rich gifts obtained in exchange are but a consequence of the
high, almost divine quality of his engagement with the text; they are not
what prompted the work in the first place. Accordingly, Tzetzes presents
himself as a new Hermes, that is to say, in twelfth-century terms, as an
embodiment of logos. Such staging of his role as a commentator dovetails
with the word play γῆρυν/ἐρέων. I will come back to the notions of ‘voice’
and ‘tongue’ in the last section of this contribution. Here I will confine
myself to highlighting that ἐρέων could be derived from both λέγω (‘to
say’) and ἐρέω (‘to search’, ‘to enquire’). Tzetzes goes beyond the usual
overlap between the commentator’s and the commented author’s voice.47
By taking up the persona of Hermes/Logos he seems to suggest that his
voice has in fact the power of validating Aphthonios. Aphthonios can be
heard only as long as Tzetzes is willing (προφρονέως) to speak and to speak
about him. Once more a trope familiar to the intellectual scene of the late
Komnenian era is pushed to its limits.

44 Hermes is mentioned also in the book epigram introducing the commentary on Lycophron’s
Alexandra (p. 1.5 ed. Scheer 1881). On Hermes allegorized as logos by twelfth-century intellectuals,
see van den Berg (2017: 132 and n. 18), with previous bibliography.
45 ἐπίδμων is apparently coined by Tzetzes, who uses it also in Carmina Iliaca 3.89 and 3.642.
46 See for instance the hexametric book epigram at the beginning of the exegesis on the Iliad, on
which see p. 242 below.
47 See for instance Eustathios, Commentary on Dionysius Periegetes, introductory epistle 206.41–207.33
ed. Müller (1861) (on which see Cullhed [2016: 12*], D’Agostini [2021: 115–16]). Tzetzes customarily
presents himself as a new Homer, as shown by Cullhed (2014: 58–61).
Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 241

Fig 9.5 Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vossianus graecus Q1

[Diktyon 38108], 30r
242 aglae pizzone
The final mention of the ‘companions’ might point to a selected, trusted
audience or even students. Something comparable is to be found in the
hexameters opening the Exegesis of the Iliad, with a striking similarity in
vocabulary:

Βίβλον ἑαῖς πραπίδεσσι γλαφυρολύτειραν Ὁμήρου

τήνδε παραιφασίῃσιν ἐμῶν ἑτάρων τολυπεύσας,
παισὶν Ὁμηριάδαις ἑρμήϊον ὤπασα δῶρον
γραμματικὸς περίαλλα μογήσας Ἰωάννης,
τὸν Τζέτζη καλέουσιν ἐπωνυμίην ἐρέοντες. (Tzetzes,
Exegesis of the Iliad 3.1–5 ed. Papathomopoulos 2007)

This book of Homer, elegantly explained for their heart,

I unfolded at the instigation of my companions,
preparing a gift worthy of Hermes to the children of Homer,
I, John the grammarian, labouring at every single detail,
the one whom they call by the name of Tzetzes.

With respect to the work as a gift, in the absence of an apparent sponsor,

the pattern is reversed as compared to the hexameters on Aphthonios and
Tzetzes’ work is described as a gratuitous present, not unlike Eustathios’
commentaries on Homer.
In the Vossianus, on the contrary, the stichometry is in direct dialogue
with the preceding hexameters. It quantifies the scope of the ἆθλος, prov-
ing that it justifiably called for ὄλβια δῶρα. Since the Vossianus is aceph-
alous, the stichometry is also particularly relevant to assessing the amount
of material lost with the first quires. Besides the six hexameters and the
commentary on Aphthonios proper, Tzetzes also mentions 25 lines inter-
spersed in the text and 274 lines at the very beginning, which, as I argue,
must have been the introduction to the whole commentary. There he
probably provided further details about his patrons and the circumstances
in which the texts were put together.
As I have mentioned above,48 the metrical paratexts of the Vossianus
are accompanied by a final prose note, showing that, despite Tzetzes’
proclaimed autonomy, writing for patrons could prompt severe limi-
tations to one’s authorial agency, especially as regards the possibility of
controlling the output after it was handed over to patrons. I contend
that the same tension is to be seen here, in the contrast between Tzetzes’

48 See p. 225.
 Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 243
‘free will’ and the undeniable market value of his work, expressed by the
detailed stichometry.
Such an attitude is consistent with Tzetzes’ mixed feelings – to say the
least – towards the commodification of books. Throughout Tzetzes’ work,
the book trade is seen as a troublesome practice as well as a source of anx-
iety. When Tzetzes’ writings actually go on the market, it usually happens
against his will.49 To him, bookselling is directly related to loss of status
and to withdrawal from the public sphere.50
The same attitude transpires in his treatment of Plato and of the
fourth-century poet Philoxenus of Cythera.51 Both guests of Dionysius of
Syracuse,52 Plato and Philoxenus displayed very different attitudes towards
their patron, even though for both of them the relationship with the com-
mon patron did not end well. However, unlike Plato, Philoxenus, with
whom Tzetzes identifies, stayed a free man, even if taken to Syracuse’s
stone quarries for forced labour.53 Plato, by contrast, was sold and bought
multiple times, ending up on the market square of Aegina, by then in war
with Athens, before recovering his freedom.54
It surely is no coincidence that commodification of literature adds to
Plato’s moral failure in Tzetzes’ eyes. Plato is depicted as heavily engaged
in the book trade: both as a buyer and as a seller he did not refrain from
dodgy practices, damaging others’ authorship. Nor did Plato hesitate to
sell his own work to the highest bidder, well beyond the acceptable bound-
aries of patronage etiquette.55 He was also willing to have his dialogues
circulated among anonymous readers, who could potentially appropriate

49 Cf. e.g. Tzetzes, Histories 6.40, introductory prose note (on which Pizzone [2020a: 54–5]).
50 Tzetzes, Exegesis of the Iliad 22.4–9 ed Papathomopoulos (2007). Cf. Braccini (2009–10: 160).
Tzetzes retained only a book containing Plutarch’s Parallel Lives and some technical treatises.
Braccini takes for granted that the episode is to be connected to the falling out with Isaac, but the
issue might need to be re-examined. The qualification of ἀβίβλης is probably to be connected to
Tzetzes’ mistrust of the book market: being without commodified books is turned into a badge
of honour. Tzetzes becomes a walking and breathing library, self-sufficient and independent. See
Pizzone (2017).
51 More broadly on Plato as an anti-Tzetzes, see Lovato (2022).
52 On Philoxenus, see LeVen (2014: ch. 3). On the traditions related to Plato’s Sicilian ‘adventure’, see
Swift Riginos (1976: 70–92).
53 See Tzetzes, Histories 10.358 ed. Leone (2007), and in particular 10.358.832–3: Ὁ δὲ σοφὸς Φιλόξενος,
ὁ διθυραμβογράφος, | ἦν γένει μὲν Κυθήριος, ἐλεύθερος δὲ φύσιν, ‘The wise Philoxenus, author of
dithyrambs | was a Cypriot by family, but a free man by nature’. On this passage and the likely
references to contemporary political and cultural events associated with Sicily and the Normans,
see Rhoby and Zagklas (2011: 175–6) and Lovato (2022).
54 Several sources in Graeco-Roman times report this anecdote: Plu. Demetr. 5, D.L. 3.18, D.S. 15.6,
Corn. Nep. Dion 2.
55 Tzetzes, Histories 10.355 ed. Leone (2007).
244 aglae pizzone
them,56 selling them further. Finally, while selling his work, Plato kept also
all the habits of a gift economy in its worst form, living off the goodwill of
Dionysius at his Sicilian court.57
Not surprisingly, the commodification of Plato’s body on the slave mar-
ket mirrors the commodification of his dialogues and is a sort of retri-
bution for disseminating the work of Pythagoreans against the authors’
wishes.58 Dionysius himself, according to Tzetzes’ interpretation, was the
first to sell or donate Plato as a slave.59 From purchasing books, the next
step to purchasing their very authors is a small one.
Inmaculada Pérez Martín has recently reviewed the book trade in Byz-
antium, arguing that ‘there was no book trade as an activity independent
of the book production process’ and that books were always copied under
commission.60 This resonates with Tzetzes’ anxiety about undue copying of
his works, which he associates with unauthorized dissemination, and his
tense relationship with copyists. However, the details he provides in the
paratexts of the Vossianus, in the scholia on his letter collection and on the
Histories, as well as in more desultory occasional poems, seem to suggest
that texts could be copied and traded also without the author’s consent.61

Unleashing the Tongue: Free Speech under Patrons

In this last section I will show how the communicative strategy at play in
the paratexts of the Vossianus fits into the broader framework of ­Tzetzes’
attempt to safeguard and centre his own voice. As seen above, in the

56 The source for Plato copying the dialogue format from Sophron is Timon of Phlius. In the Silloi,
now lost, Timon made fun – using the first person and in dialogue with another philosopher
Xenophanes – of the various philosophical schools. As pointed out by Massimo Di Marco (1989:
238), Tzetzes builds on fr. 54 by Timon, where it is said that Plato had bought a small and very
expensive book, which he had then plagiarized to write the Timaeus. Di Marco does not believe
that the more detailed information to be found in Tzetzes comes from Timon. However, since this
is probably not the only passage where Tzetzes uses Timon and given that the Silloi are preserved
only in scanty fragments, we cannot exclude the possibility that Tzetzes could rely on a more
reliable source. But it is equally possible that he combined Timon with Diogenes Laertius (see n. 54
above), who, however, does not talk about plagiarism.
57 See Lovato (2022) on this point.
58 This view is further reinforced in Histories 10.362.988–1003 ed. Leone (2007), where Architas of
Taranto, another Pythagorean, is introduced as one of Plato’s buyers. This prompts Tzetzes to stress
once again how Plato owed his best ideas to the books purchased for him by Dionysius in Syracuse.
The main source is again Diogenes Laertius 3.9 and 18ff. combined with Plu. Demetr. 5.20.
59 Tzetzes, Histories 10.359.866 ed. Leone (2007).
60 Pérez Martín (2014: 39–40).
61 Scholion on the Histories, p. 159.8–23 ed. Leone (2007). The scholion, following the first letter to
Epiphanios, is preserved by three manuscripts belonging to the second and later recension of the
letters (b) and is printed in Leone’s edition of the Histories.
 Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 245
­hexameters at the end of the commentary on the Progymnasmata, Tzetzes
depicts himself as the embodiment of logos, endowed with a voice that can
validate (or not) Aphthonios’ own voice. Emphasis on voice and tongue is
in fact recurrent in Tzetzes’ work. From the letter collection we learn that
he had to face libel and slander early on in his career.62 The prologue to
the Theogony offers a compelling passage suggesting that Tzetzes had been
somehow heavily silenced:

οὕτω θαρρῶν ἐπεύχομαι καὶ λέγω παρρησίᾳ,

σύν γε θεῷ δεσπόζοντι, κρατοῦντι τῶν ἁπάντων,
κἂν νῦν ἀδίκων ὑπ᾽ ἀνδρῶν, ἀνθρώπων ἀθεμίστων,
ἄδικον ὀδυρόμενος ἀπάνθρωπον πενίαν,
δεσμοῖς δεσμῶσαι σιωπῆς τὴν λαλιστάτην γλῶσσαν·
καὶ παντελῶς ἂν ἄφωνος ἐκ τούτων ἐγενόμην,
εἰ μή που σὺ διέρρηξας δεσμὰ τῆς ἀφωνίας,
θερμῷ φαρμάκῳ τῷ χρυσῷ θάλπουσα τὴν πενίαν,
ὑφ᾽ ἧς τὰ κατατείνοντα νεῦρα περὶ τὴν γλῶτταν
καταψυχθέντα περισσῶς τὴν μὲν φωνὴν ἐπεῖχον,
δεινῶς δε τὸν ἐγκέφαλον ἠλιθιᾶν ἐποίουν·
ἃ σὺ καλῶς ἐνθάλπουσα τοῖς τρόποις οἷσπερ εἶπον,
δίδως μικρόν τι με λαλεῖν μηδ᾽ ἠλιθιωθῆναι. (Tzetzes,
Theogony 34–46 ed. Leone 2019)

Thus I bravely vow and speak freely,

with the help of God almighty, who rules over everything,
even if, by the hand of unjust men, unlawful men,
I mourn that unjust and inhuman poverty,
to bind my most garrulous tongue with the bonds of silence;
and I would have been made completely silent by those men,
if you had not torn apart the bonds of silence,
warming up with a hot balsam, the golden one, the poverty,
which has made the nerves stretched around the tongue
exceedingly cold, thus obstructing my speech,
and making the brain terribly numb:
but now you have warmed all this up nicely in the way I have said,
allowing me to speak for a little bit instead of numbing away.63

62 See for instance ep. 63, p. 92 ed. Leone (1972).

63 Tzetzes stresses the short duration of his freedom of speech, as the Theogony is the result of an
improvised performance, which only later – and if the patroness agrees to it – will be properly
taken care of in writing and expanded on (see vv. 23–31). The title preserved by the manuscripts
suggests that the text as we have it still reflects this first stage. For the manuscript tradition, see
Leone (2019: v–xvi). Leone (2019: xiv) connects this passage with the episode of Berroia, given the
reference to mischievous women we find at ll. 259ff. and to the malevolence of the Erinys at 418ff.
On the Theogony and the relationship with the sebastokratorissa Irene, as well as with other poets
working for her, such as Manasses, see Rhoby (2010: 166–9).
246 aglae pizzone
The tongue is very much present in its physicality in Tzetzes’ conceptu-
alization of free speech. His description combines social and anatomical/
medical facts, resonating with the general interest for medicine shown
by the intellectuals of the time.64 These lines prove that Tzetzes’ attitude
towards patrons is not immutable but changes according to both his per-
sonal circumstances and the occasion as well as the genre of the work he
is producing. The Theogony is a work of poetic improvisation. Therefore,
the voice that Tzetzes is reclaiming for himself is a public one: it is literally
the voice resounding in the physical space of the performance. It is a very
different voice from the one ‘unfolding’ more steadily and at a slower pace
(τολύπευσεν) on the pages of the Vossianus. In the Theogony as well, even
if in a different way, Tzetzes deconstructs and reconstructs patronage as a
space of freedom. Irene has given him a stage and his voice back. He is not
afraid to use it, unapologetically and boastfully:

κομπάζω τολμηρότερον καὶ λέγω παρρησίᾳ

ὡς οὐδ᾽ ἂν ἦσαν ἑκατὸν Ὅμηροι καὶ Μουσαῖοι,
Ὀρφέες καὶ Ἡσίοδοι, Ἀντίμαχοι καὶ Λῖνοι
καὶ πάντες ἄλλοι ποιηταὶ καὶ θεογονογράφοι,
κρεῖττον ἂν ἔγραψαν ἐμοῦ τὰ περὶ τούτων πάντα.
(Tzetzes, Theogony 27–31 ed. Leone 2019)

I brag more daringly and I say freely

that not even if there were hundreds of Homers and Musaei,
Orphei and Hesiods, Antimachoi and Linoi,
or even all the other poets and writers of theogonies,
would they be able to write better than me on any of these matters.

Tzetzes’ voice is very different from that of Manasses, who produced his
chronicle for the same patroness. Manasses too mentions the authors and
writers who came before him, but, unlike Tzetzes, he confines himself to
‘selecting’ (v. 24 ἡμεῖς προχειρισάμενοι) the most appropriate ones to ful-
fil the patroness’ wishes.65 Despite the overblown praise of Irene charac-
terizing the first lines of the Theogony, Tzetzes does not point explicitly
to any request of the patroness. It is only said that she has looked for
the same content among other intellectuals (v. 20 πρὸς ἄλλοις ἐκζητεῖς).
Tzetzes has the proactive role. Granted, Irene might or might not want to

64 See Magdalino ([1993] 2002: 361–4) with emphasis on the respect shown by Tzetzes for the medical
profession.
65 Manasses, Synopsis Chronike ed. Lampsidis (1996); see Nilsson (2012: 179–80) and (2021: 146–7).
On Tzetzes and his competitors, see Savio (2020) and Prodi (2022) with previous bibliography.
 Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 247
have everything explained better in writing after the performance (εἰ δέ
ποτε θελήσειας μαθεῖν καὶ πλατυτέρως | κἀγώ σοι ταῦτα βουληθῶ μετὰ
μελέτης γράφειν; ‘Should you ever wish to learn these things at greater
length, | I would write them for you with care’), but she appears as the
passive receiver (v. 22) rather than the active force driving the poem.66
The emphasis on tongue and voice found in the Theogony shows that
the well-known concept of ἀμφοτερογλωσσία, later developed by Tzetzes
and usually translated as ‘double-tonguedness’ or ‘ambivalence’,67 did not
come out of the blue, nor was it simply a reworking of previous discursive
traditions.68 It is the result of a biographic trajectory with ups and downs,
marked by a constant attempt to preserve his own voice in an environ-
ment that did not hesitate to react to aggression with aggression. Thus,
ἀμφοτερογλωσσία is designed to meet challenges such as those described
in the prologue of the Theogony. The notion is, for instance, crucial to
Tzetzes’ use of hermeneutics in the Histories. It provides the symbolic and
linguistic space for self-commentary, and, at the same time, turns exegesis
into a tool to negotiate power, with a mechanism that we also see at play
in the book epigrams of the Vossianus.
But let us first examine the concept more closely. Tzetzes defines
ἀμφοτερογλωσσία in a passage of the Histories that has received much
attention from Byzantinists:69

Σερβήλιος ἦν ὕπατος καὶ Καῖσαρ τῶν ῾Ρωμαίων.

Μεθόδῳ δὲ δεινότητος ῥητορικῷ τῷ τρόπῳ,
ἐκ Σερβηλίων τῆς γονῆς λέγω καὶ τὸν Σερβλίαν.
Ὡς εἴπερ ἄλλος ἤθελε, Σέρβον Ἠλίαν εἶπεν.
Τοῦτο γὰρ ῥήτορος ἀνδρὸς καὶ ἀμφοτερογλώσσου,
καὶ πράγμασι καὶ κλήσεσι καὶ τοῖς λοιποῖς ὁμοίως
πρὸς ἔπαινον καὶ ψόγον δε κεχρῆσθαι συμφερόντως.
(Tzetzes, Histories 7.132.295–301 ed. Leone 2007)

Servilius was a consul and Caesar of the Romans.

By means of the technique of forcefulness, in a rhetorical way,

66 The tongue in the prologue of the Theogony is not severed – a customary punishment – but
impeded. On the related symbolism, see Achmet 62.7–9 ed. Drexl (1909). On severing the tongue
as mutilation, see Treadgold (1997: 310, 329, 339, 352, 392, 422).
67 Roilos (2006). In what follows, I will look at the notion from a different perspective. In fact, rather
than to broader aesthetic concerns, I take amphoteroglossia as key to the way in which Tzetzes deals
with the constraints of power.
68 Popular culture might again have played a role. The Oneirocriticon of Daniel (Oberhelman [2008:
73]) shows that dreaming of a double tongue was particularly welcome for lawyers and curators of
big estates.
69 See Magdalino (1984: 61), Roilos (2006: 29–30), Agapitos (2017: 35–7), Alexiou (2018: 99).
248 aglae pizzone
I declared Serblias to be of the family of the Servilii,
just as someone else might wish to call him a Serbian Elias.
For this is the talent of a man good in rhetoric and speaking in two ways,
namely, to use situations and names and similar such things
expediently for praise and for blame. (trans. Agapitos 2017)

These lines do not point so much to a generic ambiguity or hidden sig-

nification. Panagiotis Agapitos has argued that they play with the actual
coexistence of two opposite but viable meanings, belonging in two dif-
ferent linguistic registers.70 As aptly pointed out by Foteini Kolovou,71
ἀμφοτερογλωσσία can refer broadly to rhetorical-linguistic practices, as in
Tzetzes, but also more specifically to dialectic. Twelfth-century texts often
emphasize – using ἀμφοτερογλώσσος among other terms – one’s ability
to sustain or refute an argument. This shade of meaning emerges in the
praise speeches for the patriarch delivered by professors of rhetoric in the
Patriarchal school during the Lazarus Saturday.72 In praising the intellec-
tual prowess of the Patriarch George Xiphilinos, George Tornikes presents
dialectic, that is, ἀμφοτερογλωσσία, as his crowning virtue:

καὶ πρό γε τούτων τὴν λαβυρινθώδη συλλογιστικὴν ἀνάλυσιν καὶ

δυστέκμαρτον καὶ τὴν ἀμφοτερόγλωττον καὶ ἀντίστροφον τῇ ῥητορικῇ
διαλεκτικὴν καὶ δικρόαν τὴν γλῶτταν προβεβλημένην ὀφιωδῶς, οὐ μικρὰν
καὶ ταύτην εἰσφέρουσαν τὴν συντέλειαν εἰς τὴν τῆς ἀληθείας εὕρεσιν
καὶ διάγνωσιν, εἰ μὴ καὶ μάλα μεγίστην εἰς ταύτην ἔχουσαν τὴν ῥοπήν.
(George Tornikes, Oration in Honour of George Xiphilinos 2.9.205–10 ed.
Loukaki 2005a)

And above all, syllogistic analysis, which is like a labyrinth and is hard to
disentangle, and dialectic, which speaks both ways and is the counterpart of
rhetoric [Aristotle, Rhetoric 1354a] and, just like a snake, is characterized by
a forked tongue; its contribution to the discovery and discernment of truth
is not little, or perhaps it has even the greatest weight in it.

Along the same lines, a few years later, Nikephoros Chrysoberges praises
John Kamateros’ dialectics, referring to him as an ἀμφοτερογλώσσος.73
Kamateros’ ability becomes clear when he teaches or affirms theological
principles, as well as when he refutes the forked tongues of his ­opponents.

70 Agapitos (2017: 35–7).

71 Kolovou (2006: 44–53).
72 See Loukaki (2005b).
73 Chrysoberges, Oration on John Kamateros 15.7 ed. Browning (1978: 119).
 Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 249
In these and other examples, ἀμφοτερογλωσσία has to do with ­maintaining
an argument, as well as deploying the same weapons as one’s opponent.
Agapitos has shown that Tzetzes’ use of the term differs slightly and is closer
to rhetoric, understood as the practice of personal defence and attack, praise
and blame. In the Histories, I argue, the notion of ἀμφοτερογλωσσία turns
out to be intrinsically subversive as it paves the way for a kind of rhetorical
hermeneutic that serves to negotiate power. In this respect it comes very
close to the use of generic tropes we see at stake in the paratexts of the
Vossianus.
At this point, I would like to examine more closely the passage from
Histories 7. The lines quoted above come from the commentary on letter
18, addressed to the mystikos Nikephoros Serbilias around 1140. We do
not know whether Nikephoros is the same person as the dedicatee of the
Vossianus. This hypothesis cannot be proven beyond doubt.74 The letter
is an overblown plea for new accommodation, introduced by hyperbolic
praise of the addressee.75 Through a series of hyperbolic similes, Tzetzes
embodies the persona of the destitute intellectual, framing himself as
socially inferior to his patron. Yet, the cunning use of ἀμφοτερογλωσσία
grants him a space to overturn this self-positioning. It is something more
serious than a literary game revolving around the tool of rhetorical ampli-
fication.
On the one hand, the self-commentary exposes the rhetorical technique
behind the hyperbolic genealogy of the mystikos, thus showing that Tzet-
zes’ words ultimately have the power to aggrandize his prospective patron
and shape his (social) reality. On the other hand, the self-commentary
also uncovers the humble, possibly servile, origins of Nikephoros, thus
reversing Tzetzes’ own humiliating position. Here, ἀμφοτερογλωσσία has
more to do with social pretence than dialectic sharpness. Through herme-
neutic ingenuity, it offers a space and an opportunity of freedom for the
(self-styled) marginalized intellectual.76 Finally it also shows why Tzetzes’
patrons might have had good reasons to be afraid of him, as hinted in the
passages explored above.
Interestingly, the ambiguous meaning of ἀμφοτερογλωσσία as either
‘dialectical sharpness’ or ‘pretence’ was already inscribed in the word’s ori-
gins, which accounts for its relevance to power relations. It was coined
by Timon of Phlius in the third century bc to describe Zeno of Elea,

74 Scholia on the Histories pp. 31–4 ed. Leone (2007). See for a discussion Pizzone (2020c).
75 Tzetzes, ep. 18, 32.22–33.1 and 33.1–9 ed. Leone (1972).
76 It also raises once more serious questions regarding the face value of autobiographical statements.
250 aglae pizzone
traditionally regarded as the father of dialectic.77 In Timon’s usage, dou-
ble-tonguedness is a term of faint praise, pointing both to Zeno’s ability to
argue for opposing conclusions and to his intrinsic deceitfulness. Given that
Tzetzes knew and explicitly mentioned the work by Timon – the Silloi –
that features the first recorded instance of ἀμφοτερογλώσσος, and that he
had first-hand knowledge of Plutarch’s Parallel Lives,78 which also testify to
Zeno’s moniker, it is highly likely that these sources shaped his usage of
the term.
Furthermore, in the late antique and early Byzantine tradition there is
a slight but significant change in the way authors use Timon’s description
of Zeno. The sixth-century philosopher Olympiodoros interprets Zeno’s
ἀμφοτερογλωσσία as follows:

Τοιοῦτος γὰρ ἦν ὁ Ζήνων, προσποιεῖσθαι ἱκανός, ὃς καὶ διὰ τοῦτο

ἀμφοτερογλώσσος ἤκουεν, οὐχ ὅτι ἑκατέρῳ τῶν ἀντικειμένων συνηγόρει,
ἀλλ’ ὅτι προσεποιεῖτο. διὸ καί τινος τυράννου ἐρομένου αὐτὸν τοὺς σὺν
αὐτῷ ἐπιβουλεύσαντας τῇ τυραννίδι τοὺς δορυφόρους αὐτοῦ ὑπέδειξεν, ὁ
δὲ ἀνελὼν ἐκείνους ἑτοίμως ἀνῃρέθη. (Olympiodoros, On Plato’s Alcibiades
140.12–16 ed. Westerink 1956)

Such was Zeno, able to pretend, and therefore he was called amphoteroglos-
sos, not because he could advocate two contrasting points of view, but be-
cause he was able to pretend. Therefore, when one tyrant asked him who
had plotted together with him against tyranny, he indicated his bodyguards,
and the tyrant immediately had them arrested and killed.

This story, reported by other sources as well, is a variation of an earlier

anecdote told by Plutarch in which Zeno, caught plotting against the
tyrant Demylus, spat his own tongue in the tyrant’s face after biting it off
himself.79 The narrative shift is telling. The tongue, as conveyor of speech,
grants the intellectuals freedom in the face of power. In Plutarch’s story,
it is severed to reassert independence. Zeno expresses his liberty by giving
up the literal ability to speak, thus taking an overt position in contrast to
power. However, in the late antique version of the anecdote, the tongue
is symbolically duplicated. Zeno uses his verbal ability to negotiate the
threats of a tyrannical power. While the story does not reveal whether
Zeno had his life saved, sure enough, Zeno does not perform any act of

77 Fr. 45 Di Marco. The passage is quoted in Diogenes Laertius 9.25; cf. Plu. Per. 4.5. See Di Marco
(1989: 212–14), with rich bibliography on the term.
78 See above, n. 50.
79 Plu. ad Col. 32.
 Negotiating Power in the Metrical Paratexts of the Vossianus Gr. Q1 251
clear and overt resistance. Power is fooled and secretly subverted rather
than openly opposed. Equally the tongue is not severed but duplicated.
This more insidious approach to ἀμφοτερογλωσσία mirrors Tzetzes’
attitude both in the Histories and in the book epigrams of the Vossianus. In
the case of the Histories the duplication of his tongue is not just symbolic,
since the organ materializes itself in the structure of the text, that is, in the
text-commentary. Tzetzes has, quite literally, two voices, and therefore two
tongues. Such an intrinsic ἀμφοτερογλωσσία grants him the opportunity
to unveil the pretence of the letter collection,80 the social conventions that
are to be found in epistolary communication and the compromises faced
by an intellectual struggling for patronage. The truth voiced by the prose
text is contradicted by the voice of poetry.
Along the same lines, the paratexts of the Vossianus show a twofold
double-tonguedness. On the one hand they reveal Tzetzes’ freedom the
very moment he expresses his gratitude towards his patrons. Through the
couple Heracles–Eurystheus he reclaims superiority over the commis-
sioner. Such a double-tonguedness is inherent in the text of the epigram.
On the other hand, however, Tzetzes shows the same ambiguous attitude
suspended between praise and blame also towards Aphthonios and Her-
mogenes. More than other Byzantine commentators, Tzetzes is highly crit-
ical of the rhetorical handbooks everyone in Byzantium read and used.
In his commentaries we see the same discursive strategy sustaining the
Histories. In the commentary on the corpus Hermogenianum, Tzetzes also
comments in verse on a prosaic text, unpacking it, as it were, and pointing
to its inherent contradictions. The hexameters at fol. 221v show beyond
doubt that he positioned his exegesis in political verse to be within the
sphere of poetic inspiration, so much so that he envisages the Muse climb-
ing down to the lower regions of pentadecasyllables just for his sake.81 The
hexameters at fol. 30r, in turn, show the embodied logos, personified by
Hermes the messenger, instantiating itself in the poetic text and heralding
the prosaic voice of Aphthonios. Finally, metrical variety also contributes
to challenging traditional expressive patterns: the more dignified heroic
verse is here at the service of both prose and political verse. Semantic ambi-
guity, prose and verse, polymetry,82 all build up ἀμφοτερογλωσσία and
amplify Tzetzes’ authorial voice.

80 Cf. Magdalino (1984: 61).

81 On Tzetzes as a poet and as a teacher, see van den Berg (2020).
82 On mixture of prose and verse as well as polymetry in this period, see Zagklas (2017) and (2018).
252 aglae pizzone
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 ch apter 10

The Poetics of Patronage

Constructing the Image of the Patron in Dedicatory
Epigrams in Monumental Painting of the Komnenian
Period in Greece*
Nektarios Zarras

Studying the epigrams which accompany donor representations in monu-

mental painting from an art historical and archaeological perspective never
ceases to fuel discussion. A key question relates to the patron and the way
in which he/she is portrayed through text and image. The patron’s decision
to name himself and his family as ktetors, by using a poetic text, is fre-
quently explained by scholars as being related to his educational level and
social standing. This general assertion may help to explain the reasons for
choosing to use a dedicatory epigram in the first place, but I do not think
that it offers sufficient clues to explain the motives that influenced the
content or to resolve other issues raised by research.1 This chapter exam-
ines some of these issues through discussion of three characteristic dedi-
catory epigrams from central and northern Greece. First, the inscription
from the Vytoumas monastery in Thessaly prompts consideration of the
relationship between the text and the patron’s image, and the ktetoric epi-
gram is utilized to reconstruct the now-destroyed patronal representation.
Second, the reappraisal of the Deesis epigram from the Vatopedi monas-
tery on Mount Athos offers a new interpretation of the relationship of the
persons mentioned in this text not only with the monastery, but also with
the inscription itself. With respect to the third epigram, from the church

* I would like to express my thanks to the abbot of the Vatopedi monastery, Archimandrite Ephraim,
for granting me permission to publish the photo from the Mesonyktikon. I am grateful to my
colleague Ivan Drpić for his invaluable comments on an earlier version of the chapter. I thank also
Stavros Mamaloukos, Maria Xenaki and Konstantinos Chryssogelos for their assistance. I am also
indebted to Alexandra Doumas for editing the English text. The translations of the three dedicatory
epigrams are mine.
1 For epigrammatic poetry in artworks and the role of the patron in dedicatory epigrams, in addition
to the fundamental studies of Hörandner (2001), Lauxtermann (2003) and Rhoby (2009), (2010a)
and (2014), see also Spingou (2012), Toth (2015), Drpić (2016a) and (2016b: 1–48), Drpić and Rhoby
(2019).

256
 The Poetics of Patronage 257
of Agioi Anargyroi in Kastoria, the relationship between the poetic text,
the symbolism of the space and the iconography is looked at as a whole.
This research method for the Kastoria epigram, namely of examining the
patron’s views, the iconography and the space, which is applied here for
the first time to the specific inscription, yields interesting evidence for the
interaction between patron, poet and painter, while emphasis is placed on
more personal aspects of the patronage. Furthermore, this third epigram
offers an important insight into the deeper reasons for the patrons’ choice
of epigrammatic poetry.

Dedicatory Epigram and Patronal Iconography

The first epigram to be examined here is the dedicatory inscription from
the Vytoumas monastery, which is located close to the town of Kalampaka
in Thessaly. This monastery is dedicated to the Dormition of the Virgin
and was founded in 1161.2 Unfortunately, nothing remains of its Byzantine
phase and the inscription itself is now lost, but its text is known to us from
a seventeenth-century manuscript, kept in the monastery of the Transfig-
uration at Meteora:3

Τὸν ἀπερίγραπτόν σε τοῦ Π(ατ)ρ(ὸ)ς Λόγον

σὺν τῇ τεκούσῃ, παντάναξ, περιγράφω
τῇ κοσμοσώστῳ μητροπαρθένῳ κόρῃ·
ταύτῃ προσδείμ(ας) τόνδε τὸν δόμον πόθῳ
αἰτῶ θελήμων ὡς ἐνὸν λύσιν ὅπ(ως)
ἐν ἡμέρᾳ φεῦ κρίσε(ως) χρε(ῶν) λάβω
Ταρχανειώτης Κωνσταντῖνος ὁ λάτρης
σὺν τῇ συζύγῳ Ζωῇ δὲ τῇ κυρίᾳ
κλεινῷ σεβαστῷ λαμπρῷ τῷ Ἀνδρονίκῳ
εὐεργέτι<ν> τείνοντι χεῖρα μοι πάλαι.

You, the indescribable Logos of the Father,

Lord of all, along with your mother [lit. the one who gave birth to you],
the world-saving virgin-mother maiden, I depict.
After having erected this church for her with desire,
I ask with all my heart, as far as it is possible, that
on the Day of Judgement, alas, I may receive remission of my debts
– your servant Constantine Tarchaneiotes

2 Avraméa and Feissel (1987: 373–4). On the post-Byzantine monastery of Vytoumas, see Voyadjis
(1998).
3 Rhoby (2009: 258–60).
258 nektarios zarras
along with my wife Lady Zoe
and with the glorious (and) brilliant sebastos Andronikos,
who offered me his beneficent hand in the past.4

This epigram is not only of interest in terms of ktetoric ideology, as it sum-

marizes the expressive means of self-presentation of the patron and the way
in which he is connected with his foundation, but also and primarily of
iconographic interest. Here, we shall attempt to reconstruct the iconogra-
phy of the donor representation in Vytoumas, on the basis of the epigram,
which clearly accompanied the depiction of Tarchaneiotes or even of the
other ktetors.
The ktetor Constantine Tarchaneiotes was most probably a member of
the great Tarchaneiotes family, which is known mainly from lead seals.5 He
is the voice of the epigram, who is presented not only as founder but also
as painter, which is a topos in dedicatory epigrams6 and one of the princi-
pal elements of patronage, expressing the founder’s profound relationship
with his foundation. This relationship gives him the right to assume full
responsibility for the monastery and to make decisions pertaining to it,
such as engaging painters whose artistic activity in the foundation is pro-
jected through Tarchaneiotes and his patronage. In this way, the dedicatory
epigram states within the space of the monastery the ktetor’s ownership of
the foundation, and, through this relationship, defines the ktetor’s identity.
The question that arises at this point is: who is behind this portrait of the
ktetor? In other words, who constructs the patron’s image in the epigrams?
In a discussion about the development of the metaphorical notion of the
patron-narrator as painter-craftsman in dedicatory epigrams, it is essential
to take one other important parameter into account, namely the poets,
who very frequently adopt similar means to promote the works that they
address to important persons.7 Particularly illuminating are the cases of
two leading twelfth-century poets. The first is Theodore Prodromos, who
in his dedicatory epigrams for his novel Rhodanthe and Dosikles, dedicated
to Nikephoros Bryennios, presents himself as a painter.8 In this metaphor-
ical scheme Prodromos is the painter who historiates the copy of the novel
– he uses the verb ἐγράψατο (‘he painted’) – and calls upon Nikephoros to

4 Rhoby (2009: 258–70).

5 For Constantine Tarchaneiotes, see Leontiades (1998: 59–60).
6 Lauxtermann (2003: 162–6), Rhoby (2010b: 325–6), Spingou (2012: 178–228), Drpić (2014: 905–15)
and (2016b: 71–117).
7 For the notion of the self-presentation of poets in the early Byzantine period, see Lauxtermann
(2003: 37–9).
8 Agapitos (2000: 180), Jeffreys (2012).
 The Poetics of Patronage 259
judge his artistic product.9 Equally important is the example of Eumathios
Makrembolites, who compares his novel Hysmine and Hysminias to a paint-
ing and presents himself as the ὀψίγονος (late-born) painter who with his
poetry erects a visual monument.10 Since the poet himself compares his
work to a painting and through a rhetorical device presents himself as
painter, it is reasonable to assume that when he received the commission
for a dedicatory epigram he transferred this promotion of self-portraiture
to his client. This use of a common thought pattern and a rhetorical motif
was applied systematically to the increasingly ­family-dominated aristoc-
racy of the Komnenoi and the imperial propaganda they cultivated with
regard to patronage.
The presentation of the patron as author of the text and painter of the
accompanying image passed, via the poets, to another social class, that
of the dignitaries who desired to be represented in public life not only as
patrons but also as eloquent and artistic figures. The transfer of this multi-
farious role to the ktetors led to the composition of thousands of dedicatory
epigrams, both for buildings and for portable artworks.11 This development
not only brought poets significant recognition for their contribution to
shaping the patron’s social images but also triggered changes in Byzan-
tine society. The fact that state officials were presented as intellectuals and
craftsmen of churches and sacred objects, which secured their salvation,
gave, in my opinion, a huge impetus to patronage.
As the patron declares in the first lines of the Vytoumas inscription, he
depicts a scene that includes Christ and the Virgin, and through the con-
tent of this image he expresses his desire for salvation on the Day of Judge-
ment. As is often the case in dedicatory epigrams,12 the text does not give a
detailed description of an image but, occasioned by the epigram’s soterio-
logical content, a synoptic presentation of the figures in the representation.
With the help of the poet’s text, the state official, Tarchaneiotes, claims
that he paints and offers his creation to God. What he really does is to
express his faith through the status of dedicator and his hopes for the sal-
vation of his soul.13 The reference to the Second Coming in the sixth line

9 In this case the verb ἐγράψατο also means to write and has something of a double meaning. I thank
Nikos Zagklas for this comment.
10 Agapitos (2000: 182–4). See also the ekphrasis of Manasses on the mosaic of the earth in the palace.
See Lampsidis (1991: esp. 203–4).
11 Drpić (2016b: 67–117).
12 Lauxtermann (2003: 160).
13 These are the general ideas of reciprocation and anticipation, which are fundamental in devotional
gift-giving and in dedicatory epigrams. On these principles in patronage, see Drpić (2016b: 244–61)
with bibliography.
260 nektarios zarras
and the emphasis on the soteriological role of the Virgin, in combination
with addressing Christ as Word of the Father (Logos), suggest an image of
eschatological content, which is a structural element in donor epigrams.14
Although the possibility of a depiction of the Virgin with the Christ-Child
cannot be excluded, I propose that the most likely representation described
in the Vytoumas inscription is that of the Virgin Paraklesis or Eleousa and
Christ, in which the Mother of God converses and intercedes with her
Son for the salvation of all mankind.15 The intercessory and eschatologi-
cal character of the Panagia Paraklesis explains why, from the time of its
appearance in painting, it was used in donor compositions, since as text
and image it expresses the ktetor’s deep desire for salvation.16 Apart from
the direct correlation of the Paraklesis with patronage iconography, the text
on the scroll of the Virgin acquires, already from the eleventh–twelfth cen-
turies, personal content expressing private devotion and often mentions
the names of renowned individuals and patrons.17
The relationship between the Panagia Paraklesis scene and the donor
inscription of the Vytoumas monastery is reinforced not only by the
iconographic elements that emerge from the text, but also by the mean-
ing and the vocabulary of the epigram.18 The address to Christ as Logos
(The Word), a clear reference to his divine nature, links the Vytoumas
epigram to the dialogic text that is encountered constantly on the scroll
of the Virgin ­Paraklesis.19 Moreover, the word κοσμοσώστῳ in Vytoumas
is fully attuned to the soteriological character of the Deesis of the Virgin,

14 Rhoby (2010b: esp. 319–25, 330–2).

15 See Djordjević and Marković (2000–1: 13–47) with bibliography. See also Drpić and Rhoby (2019:
430–55).
16 In monumental painting of this period the Virgin Paraklesis intercedes on behalf of the donors,
either in direct relationship to them, as in the fresco in Saint George at Kurbinovo and the mosaic
in the church of Saint Mary of the Admiral (1146–51) in Palermo (Martorana), or in relation to the
dedicatory inscription, as in the Panagia of Arakas at Lagoudera (1192) in Cyprus. See Djordjević
and Marković (2000–1: 18, fig. 9), Rhoby (2009: 323–30, 333, 391) with bibliography. See also Drpić
(2016b: fig. 2.9), Konstantinidi (2018: 57–8, 69–70).
17 Cited as characteristic cases are the names of ktetors George of Antioch in Martorana and later
Irene Petraliphina on the thirteenth-century revetment of the Spoleto icon originally dated to
the eleventh century. See Drpić (2016b: 80–1), Djordjević and Marković (2000–1: 19, fig. 11a). In
the Enkleistra of Saint Neophytos (1183) the homonymous ktetor is depicted below the scene of the
Deesis. See Mango and Hawkins (1966: 180–2, figs. 95–7).
18 On the basis of the text of the fourth of the six epigrams on a scene, written by an unknown
patrician, Lauxtermann (2003: 167–9) thinks that it describes the Virgin Paraklesis interceding on
behalf of the donor Constantine VII.
19 As for example on the scroll of the Virgin Paraklesis in the church of Agioi Anargyroi in Kastoria.
See Djordjević and Marković (2000–1: 19).
 The Poetics of Patronage 261
which refers either to the salvation of the world20 or to the ktetors of mon-
uments, as is the case in our epigram. Also of particular interest is the sim-
ilarity between the phrase, rare for inscriptions, μητροπαρθένῳ κόρη and
the phrase Λητὰς προσάγει μητρικὰς ἡ Παρθένος (‘The Virgin offers her
motherly entreaties’), which is written on the scroll of the Virgin Eleousa,
represented in the narthex of the Panagia Phorbiotissa church on Cyprus.21
The Virgin’s scroll is visible on a layer of wall-paintings dated to 1322/3, but
it is very possible that it copies the text that existed on the earlier Middle
Byzantine layer. A similar phrase, which is linked directly to patronal ico-
nography, is encountered in the Enkleistra of Saint Neophytos (1183). In
the Deesis scene there, the text on the scroll, which is next to the kneeling
figure of the ktetor Neophytos, opens with the phrase: Μ(ητ)ρικαὶς Χ(ριστ)
ὲ λιταὶς … (‘with motherly entreaties, Christ, …’).22 It could be argued
that for the Vytoumas monastery, the ktetor Tarchaneiotes commissioned
– very possibly in collaboration with the painter – the Panagia Paraklesis
scene and that the author of the inscription, when writing the opening
lines, was possibly inspired by this Deesis (?) scene and the text on the Vir-
gin’s scroll, as established in the iconography. This argument is based on
the similarity observed in the vocabulary of the inscription to that of the
text on the Virgin’s scroll. As Andreas Rhoby has pointed out, the poem on
the scroll of the Virgin is based on dialogic passages from the intercessory
hymns of Orthodox liturgical poetry, which were read in monasteries.23 It
is therefore reasonable to argue that the dialogic text influenced the vocab-
ulary of the inscription.
From the fourth line onwards, the content of the epigram changes com-
pletely in style and aims at stressing a different aspect of the ktetor’s per-
sonality, more spiritual; it discloses the motive for the patronage, which is
Tarchaneiotes’ desire for salvation. This difference in content, by promot-
ing the ktetor’s activity and his faith as prerequisites for hope of eternal life,
is the principal element in the structure of donor epigrams.24 Tarchaneiotes’
deep personal relationship with his foundation grants him, as founder, a
dominant role in the text. In a strictly personal tone, denoted by the verbs

20 The meaning of the word is given by the phrase ΟΤΙ ΥΠΕΡ ΤΟΥ ΚΟCMOY ΔΕΟΜΑΙ on the
scroll held by the Virgin in the mosaic representation with Saint Theodore, in the basilica of Saint
Demetrios in Thessalonike. For the text, see Djordjević and Marković (2000–1: 17–18, fig. 8).
21 Rhoby (2009: 346–7), Ševčenko (2012: 85, fig. 3.12).
22 Mango and Hawkins (1966: 181–2), Rhoby (2009: 356–7).
23 Rhoby (2009: 329–31). See also Agapitos (2018: 94–6).
24 Rhoby (2010b: 318–19). Faith is also a prerequisite of the high standard of artistic creation, as is
frequently the case in donor epigrams. See Hörandner (2001: 122).
262 nektarios zarras
in the first person singular αἰτῶ and λάβω, Tarchaneiotes expresses not only
a petition for admission to heaven, but also his confidence that, because
of his personal devotion and his high office, he will gain eternal life on
the Day of Judgement.25 Moreover, Tarchaneiotes sets himself apart from
the other two ktetors by putting himself first, as well as by characterizing
himself alone as latres (worshipper).26 The idea of the individual salvation
of Tarchaneiotes’ soul is overt in lines 4–7 of the Vytoumas epigram and is
linked directly to the same notion as is expressed in private monastic foun-
dations.27 By contrast, the salvation of the rest of the donors mentioned
in epigrams, be they spouses and relatives or various kinds of peers, whose
names follow, as in the case of Vytoumas, is referred to in summary manner
at the end of the texts. The reference to Andronikos,28 who must have been
a renowned official, as denoted by the words κλεινῶ and λαμπρῶ, should
also be interpreted in the sense of kinsman or close friend and colleague.
The first adjective is rare in dedicatory inscriptions and is used to under-
score the prestige of important religious and military dignitaries.29
On the basis of the descriptive epigram in the Vytoumas monastery,
I suggest that the dedicatory representation would have included the
Virgin, probably holding a scroll, and Christ-Logos, possibly enthroned
or standing or within a segmentum coeli. The three donors, Tarchanei-
otes, his wife Zoe and probably the sebastos Andronikos, would have
completed the Deesis scene, according to the iconographic scheme of
multi-figured dedicatory compositions, such as those surviving from the
tenth and eleventh centuries in Cappadocia.30 The continuation of this

25 Tarchaneiotes’ confidence outdoes even that of the powerful dignitary Basil the Nothos, who, with
the verb αἰτῶ, requests salvation. For Basil’s request, see Lauxtermann (2003: 164–5).
26 The word is used for both male and female patrons; see Rhoby (2009: 162, 243) and (2014: 516, 576).
27 The same view on salvation is also expressed in Typika with the memorial services of the ktetors in
their monastic foundations; see Thomas and Constantinides Hero (2000: 493, 544–6, 732, 742).
28 For an attempt to identify Andronikos with known persons of the period who bore the title sebastos,
see Avraméa and Feissel (1987: 373).
29 The word κλεινῶ is used with this meaning in the Middle Byzantine period, both for bishops and
military officers. See Rhoby (2010a: 369–70) and (2014: 225, 312). See also Drpić (2016a: 68).
30 Already by the tenth century Cappadocia was an important centre for early iconography of ktetors,
with several examples of many-figured donor compositions, such as those in the so-called Grand
Pigeonnier church (963–9), in Çavusin and the portraits in Karabaş kilise, in Aziözü and in Ayvali
Köy. From the eleventh century on, donor iconography developed to a considerable degree,
with representations of dignitaries, aristocrats and other officials playing a significant role in the
iconographic programme of churches. In this period there is also an increase in donor compositions
in which representations with one or more figures are depicted in Deesis scenes or in direct relation
to the Virgin and Christ. I cite indicatively the Karanlik kilise (Göreme 23), Carikli kilise (Göreme
22), the Kale kilisesi, the church of dervis Akin and the church of Saint Basil (Göreme 18). For
depictions of patrons in the above monuments, see Bernardini (1992), Ousterhout (1999: 72, fig. 9),
Jolivet-Lévy (1998) and (2001: 55–90).
 The Poetics of Patronage 263
patronal iconography is obvious in many examples from the thirteenth
and fourteenth centuries in Serbia.31
Of analogous interest for the relationship between image and text, as we
saw in the Vytoumas epigram, is the dedicatory epigram surrounding the
representation of the Deesis in the Vatopedi monastery on Mount Athos
(Figure 10.1).32 The Deesis is placed above the west entrance of the Mesonyk-
tikon33 of the katholikon and the epigram runs as follows:

Τὰ πρὶν ἀκαλλῆ καὶ ῥυέντα τῷ χρόνῳ

ψηφῖσι χρυσαῖς καὶ λαμπρῶς βεβαμμέναις
φαιδρῶς ἀγλαῶς κατεκοσμήθη λίαν
σπουδῇ πόνῳ τε καὶ πόθῳ διαπύρῳ
τοῦ ποιμενάρχου τῆσδε τῆς μονῆς, Λόγε,
Ἰωαννικίου τε τοῦ τρισολβίου
ᾧ καὶ παρέξoις σὴν βασιλείαν χάριν
ταῖς ἱκεσίαις πανάγνου καὶ Προδρόμου‧
ταῦτα μοναχὸς Σωφρόνιος νῦν λέγει.

What earlier used to be deprived of beauty and decayed by time

was brightly and splendidly decorated
with golden and radiantly coloured stones
thanks to the effort, labour, and fiery desire
of the abbot of this convent, O Word,
Ioannikios the thrice-blessed
to whom may you grant your kingdom out of mercy
through the supplications of the All-Chaste (i.e. Virgin) and the Forerunner.
This is what the monk Sophronios says now.

The epigram has been discussed extensively,34 but I would like to raise some
new points regarding its interpretation and to re-examine the role of his-
torical figures referred to in the text of the mosaic representation. The
inscription starts with a reference to the destructive work of time, which
the abbot Ioannikios ardently desires to rectify. The notion of destruction
of man’s works either by natural causes or hostile forces is a topos in the
opening lines of dedicatory epigrams35 and a rhetorical motif of clearly
ideological orientation. The magnitude and ugliness of the destruction is

31 See Papamastorakis (1996: figs. 26–34).

32 On the text, see Millet, Pargoire and Petit (1904: 15), Mamaloukos (2001: 256–7), Rhoby (2009:
381–2) with bibliography.
33 Mamaloukos (2001: 51–2).
34 I cite indicatively Steppan (1994: 100–1), Tsigaridas (1996: 224, 226), Paul (2008: 65–6), Rhoby
(2009: 381–5) with bibliography. See recently, Zarras (2019: 20), Kalopissi-Verti (2022).
35 See collected examples in Rhoby (2009: 383–5) and (2010b: 326–7) with bibliography.
264 nektarios zarras

Fig 10.1 Mount Athos, Vatopedi Monastery, Deesis (Vatopediou Monastery)

contrasted to the creative presence of the ktetor, who intervenes to stop the
damage and to repair and restore the monument or works of smaller scale
to their initial state and natural beauty, as emerges from the words ἀκαλλῆ
and κατεκοσμήθη λίαν. These phrases refer to the decoration and hint
very possibly at the representation that existed previously in the Mesonyk-
tikon and which is related to the original phase of the monastery’s con-
struction.36 In the Vatopedi epigram the rhetorical motif of the antithesis
between destructive time, which has deprived the mosaic representation
of its spiritual and material splendour, and the new construction with the
beauty of the precious materials, places greater emphasis on justifying the
abbot’s patronage.37
Ioannikios’ interest in decorating the church with mosaics emerges from
the second and third lines of the inscription and mainly from the fourth
line, where the abbot’s overall responsibility for creating the representation
is made apparent. The words πόθῳ διαπύρῳ declare his deep faith as pre-
condition of the patronage and are quite common in dedicatory inscrip-
tions.38 The phrase σπουδῇ πόνῳ underlines the importance of organi-

36 Tsigaridas (1996: 226) argues that the representation pre-existing that of Deesis probably had the
same subject. See also Mamaloukos (2001: 205–6).
37 See Rhoby (2010b: 316, 326–8). On references to the beauty, the quality and, indirectly, the cost of
the materials, common in votive and secular epigrams, see Spingou (2012: 186–7).
38 Lauxtermann (2003: 163–4); Rhoby (2009: 162–5, 276, 318, 323, 342), (2010b: 317–18) and (2014:
233, 261, 316, 586, 674, 720); Drpić (2016b: 296–331).
 The Poetics of Patronage 265
zation in executing the donation, which is linked with Ioannikios’ high
office and role as abbot of the monastery and patron of its decoration.
The emphasis on the patron’s responsibility and effort for the decoration
counterbalances what Ioannikios expects in return, namely his redemption
from all sins and his salvation.39 The personality, the aesthetic preferences
and the spiritual perceptions of Ioannikios are expressed in the choice of
the specific representation of the Deesis and the text of the inscription. In
my opinion, the abbot made a decisive contribution to both the final con-
tent of the epigram and the imagery of the dedicatory mosaic.
In speaking about the abbot of the monastery, I take this opportunity
to air some views that suggest a different interpretation of the epigram
from that which prevails in current scholarly discussions. According to
the interpretation I suggest, a new relationship between the inscription
and the historical personages of the monastery emerges. It has been main-
tained that Ιoannikios was dead at the time the decoration was executed
and that the monk Sophronios, who wrote the epigram, as is declared in
the last line, was abbot of the Vatopedi monastery after Ioannikios’ death.40
In my view, the epigram states explicitly that Sophronios is a monk, not
an abbot, and leaves no leeway for misinterpretation that he is an abbot
signing the dedicatory inscription as a monk, as an indication of humil-
ity. In dedicatory inscriptions there are other expressions that indicate an
abbot’s humility, such as humble, servant or suppliant.41 My hypothesis
that Sophronios was not the abbot at the time the decoration was executed
is further supported by important pieces of evidence from textual sources.
It is telling that in the list of abbots of the Vatopedi monastery there is no
mention of a Sophronios, whereas, on the contrary, Ioannikios is referred
to as abbot.42 Furthermore, Ioannikios is also mentioned with the same sta-
tus in the questionable information relating to the problem of the Vlachs
on the Holy Mountain and as participant in an embassy of Athonite
monks in 1094, during the reign of Emperor Alexios I Komnenos.43 The
view that Ioannikios was dead was based on the word τρισόλβιος (thrice-

39 The patron’s donation through πόνος and μόχθος in return for his redemption is a topos in the
structure of dedicatory epigrams. See Rhoby (2010b: 321–2).
40 Steppan (1994: 100–1).
41 As in the inscription in the church of Saint Mamas on Naxos and in several other examples; see
Rhoby (2009: 383), (2010a: 144) and (2014: 294, 500). See also Spingou (2012: 203–5).
42 Bompaire et al. (2001: 51).
43 Millet, Pargoire and Petit (1904: 47), Mamaloukos (1996: 116), Tsigaridas (1996: 226), Müller
(2005: 41–3), Rhoby (2009: 382). However, it has been pointed out in research that the specific
information about the Vlachs is problematical from a historical standpoint. It is noteworthy that
the abbacy of Ioannikios of the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries is also included in later lists
of abbots of the Vatopedi monastery, which copy Byzantine lists. See Tsigaridas (1996: 336, n. 24).
266 nektarios zarras
blessed), which was regarded as being used only for deceased persons.44
However, this is not unequivocally correct, because τρισόλβιος is also used
in twelfth-century works addressed to individuals who are still alive. For
example, it is used twice in the historical poems of Theodore Prodromos
and indeed for cases totally opposite to the meaning of τρισόλβιος in Vato-
pedi.45 Consequently, this epithet is not ipso facto sufficient to show that
Ioannikios was dead at the time the Deesis mosaic was completed but needs
to be combined with other evidence, which can be summarized as follows:
firstly, the depiction of John the Forerunner in the Deesis reinforces the
funerary implications of τρισόλβιος; secondly, the eschatological text in
the Gospel of the enthroned Christ;46 and thirdly, the death of Ioannikios
is strengthened by the last verse, which is of crucial importance for under-
standing the text and the role of Sophronios.
The phrase ταῦτα … νῦν λέγει in the last line of the Vatopedi epigram
and other similar expressions are very often used at the end of dedicatory
epigrams, together with the name of the patron or the donor.47 In contrast
to the word πρίν at the beginning of the epigram, which refers to the
period before the act of patronage, the word νῦν at the end of the epigram
emphasizes the time of Sophronios’ completion of it, which was occa-
sioned by the execution of the mosaic.48 In the Vatopedi epigram the word
νῦν denotes the symbolic capture of the moment and the act of donation.
Therefore, it is of particular significance for donor epigrams because it is
a rare piece of evidence that the epigram was composed when it was clear
what the actual mosaic would look like.49 The monk Sophronios appears at
the end of the inscription as another individual who addresses the readers.
I would argue that Sophronios is an educated monk, possibly high up in
the hierarchy of the Vatopedi community, who is responsible for the com-
pletion of the decoration and the composition of the epigram.50 If he did
not write the epigram himself, he commissioned another e­ pigrammatist to

44 Steppan (1994: 100).

45 Τρισευτυχής, τρισεύδαιμον καὶ τρισολβία νύμφη ἐκ δεξιῶν σου τῷ καλῷ παράστηθι νυμφίῳ
(Historical Poem 43d.1–2 ed. Hörandner [1974]); ἀλλ’ ὦ μεγίστη γυναικῶν, ὦ τρισολβιωτάτη
(Historical Poem 44.66 ed. Hörandner [1974]).
46 On the content of this text, see Kalopissi-Verti (2022: 1443).
47 Drpić (2016b: 85, 91, 291, 296, 368, 379). See also examples in Rhoby (2018: 132, n.119).
48 For the use of νῦν in dedicatory epigrams, see also Spingou (2012: 228–9).
49 In several cases it is not clear whether the syntax of donor epigrams is correlated with the place or the
time of creation of the representations on which they comment, while in other cases inconsistency
is observed between text and image. See Rhoby (2010b: 325) and (2011: 326) with examples.
50 I proposed this interpretation of the last verse in my paper presented at the X Meeting of Greek
Byzantinists at Ioannina in 2019. See Zarras (2019: 20). This view is adopted by Kalopissi-Verti
(2022: 1441, 1445).
 The Poetics of Patronage 267
do so. Whatever the case, the last line was added intentionally by Sophro-
nios to state his name and make known his identity,51 defining as νῦν his
own present, which is temporally limited to the time of enunciation (νῦν
λέγει). This close relation of Sophronios to the patronage of the abbot
Ioannikios is declared in the last line of the epigram, which gives Sophro-
nios the status of the second patron, who successfully accomplished the
dedicatory composition that had started under Ioannikios. Sophronios
praises Abbot Ioannikios as patron and seeks his salvation, using the escha-
tological symbolism of the Deesis. The iconographic scheme is described
within the epigram and the praised abbot is included in the visual narrative
together with the figures of the Virgin and John the Forerunner. On the
basis of what has been said, the completion of the dedicatory composition
as text and image in the Mesonyktikon of Vatopedi can be dated to the last
years of the eleventh century and after 1094, the year in which there is the
last mention of Ioannikios.52
Just as in the case of Vytoumas, this epigram is inspired by the paint-
ing and the patron, who projects his personality through the sophisticated
coexistence of the arts of poetry and painting. I think it is obvious that
the phrase ταῖς ἱκεσίαις πανάγνου καὶ Προδρόμου is linked directly with
the Deesis scene, which also influenced the vocabulary of the epigram. The
depiction of the Deesis confirms the relationship between epigram and
image and strengthens the argumentation that has been presented with
regard to the Vytoumas epigram for the interdependence of image and
text. Consequently, it seems that in several epigrams one of the ways of
projecting the patron is to connect him with the representation accom-
panying the text. The epigram places the patron within the soteriologi-
cal character of the representation by frequently using an iconographic
vocabulary that adds to the poem elements of descriptive epigrams. These
poems can be considered as a particular subcategory of the literary genre
of ekphrasis. However, I would argue that dedicatory epigrams should not
be considered ekphraseis per se.53 Rather, as texts closely connected with the
depiction of ktetors in wider compositions, they include iconographic ele-
ments that are frequently described exactly, as is the case here. Due to the
description of the iconographic elements that correspond to reality, it can
be argued that elements of ekphrasis are included in the Vatopedi epigram,

51 In the problematical case of the Melbourne Gospels (second quarter of twelfth century), again
in the last line Theophanes stresses his close relationship with the donation. See Ševčenko (2006:
334–43, esp. 335–7).
52 Tsigaridas (1996: 226–7, 230) dates the mosaic to the early twelfth century.
53 See Paul (2008: 65–6).
268 nektarios zarras
as has been maintained for other cases of donor epigrams.54 The direct asso-
ciation of text and image within the donor composition creates a dynamic
relationship in which the text describes the image and the image animates
the text. Τhe epigrams in Vytoumas and Vatopedi place the patron in the
representation and demonstrate that these texts can reveal the donor por-
traits or contribute to the restoration of the destroyed images.55 By reading
an epigram that accompanies a destroyed representation we may not be
able to reconstruct the iconographic details of the lost artwork, but we do
have the possibility of reconstructing its general iconographic scheme. This
artistic aspect of the epigrams was known in Byzantine times and it is to
this that they owe their importance, because they are able to reveal icono-
graphic elements, as is pointed out by Maximos Planoudes, occasioned by
his epigram for Theodora Raoulaina Palaiologina.56

Epigram, Piety, Painting and Space

The role of the dedicatory text and image in projecting the person of the
ktetor attains one of its strongest expressions in the metrical inscriptions
in the church of the Agioi Anargyroi at Kastoria, which was founded by
Theodore Lemniotes and his family in the last quarter of the twelfth cen-
tury.57 The church and Theodore Lemniotes articulate a rare and fascinat-
ing history of the relationship between founder and foundation, which has
received little scholarly attention. For years now, the epigraphic material in
the Agioi Anargyroi has raised critical questions about the presence and the
role of the ktetor in the inscriptions, which call for further interpretation.58
The two long dedicatory inscriptions in the north aisle and the narthex
of the church are among the most characteristic in Middle Byzantine
monumental painting and survive almost intact in situ. They have been
examined from a philological standpoint,59 but there are still several other
issues that should be addressed, such as the relation of the epigrams to the

54 Agapitos (2018: 94).

55 For a different view, see Lauxtermann (2003: 160).
56 Rhoby (2011: 318, n. 10) with bibliography.
57 On the Agioi Anargyroi, see primarily Hadermann-Misguich (1979: 262–4), Mouriki (1981:
108–9), Pelekanidis and Chatzidakis (1992: 22–49), Drakopoulou (1997: 44–56, figs. 25–31) with
bibliography. On Theodore Lemniotes, see Kyriakoudis (1980/1) and Panayotidi (2006: 159–61)
with bibliography.
58 Research on patronage in the church of the Saints Anargyroi has concentrated mainly on the donor
representation of the Lemniotes family, on the south wall of the north aisle. I mention indicatively
Drakopoulou (1997: 28–31) and Panayotidi (2006: 157–67) with bibliography.
59 Rhoby (2009: 162–8) and (2010b: 316–18, 320).
 The Poetics of Patronage 269
space and the iconographic programme, and the projection of Theodore
Lemniotes and his family in the context of the ideology of patronage in
the period. The epigraphic material in Agioi Anargyroi is important also for
eliciting the deeper reasons why the patrons chose dedicatory epigrams.
I shall focus on the inscription on the west wall of the north aisle, above
the door leading into the narthex, while I will comment on the epigram on
the east wall of the narthex only briefly. The two inscriptions make up one
of the most important groups of Byzantine dedicatory epigrams.60 They
offer valuable information about the interrelation between the founder
and his foundation, and, by extension, the interaction of patron, poet and
painter. The inscription in the north aisle runs as follows (Figure 10.2):

Ἔφθασα μὲν γράψαι σε πρὶν ἐν καρδίᾳ,

πολύτλα μάρτυ, μυστικαῖς β[αφαῖς] πόθου·
τανῦν δὲ καὶ [χρώμασιν ὑλι]κωτέ[ροις]
τῶν θαυμάτων σου ζωγραφῶ τὰς εἰκόνας,
δι’ ὧν με πολλ(ῶν) ἐρρύσω σ[υγκυρ]μάτ(ων)
πολύν φερόντ(ων) τῶ[ν κ]ακῶν μοι τον σ[άλον]·
ἐκεῖθεν αὐτῶν ἐκ βρεφικῶν σπαργάν(ων)
σε προστάτην ἔσχηκα φύλακ[α ..…]
ῥύστην βοηθὸν [ἐν ζάλαις ταῖς] τοῦ βίου·
σύ μοι, Γεώ[ργιε], τῶν λαθῶν εὑρέθης·
σύ μοι παρέσχες χαρμονῆς ἀντλεῖν βί(ον)·
σύ μοι [……………….………] μέχρι·
ἀνθ’ [ὧν τὰ σεπτὰ στηλιτεύω] σου πάθη
ἐ[πί] τε ναοῦ [καὶ] Θ(εο)ῦ θείου τόπου
ζητῶν κακεῖσε σὴν ἀρωγὴν ἐν κρίσει
Θεόδωρος σὸς οἰκέτης Λημ[νιώ]της.

Earlier I depicted you in my heart,

much-enduring martyr, with the mystical dyes of affection.
But now, I also paint with more material colours
the images of your miracles,
through which you rescued me from many vicissitudes of fate,
which brought me the severe storm of evils.
Ever since I was still in my swaddling clothes
I have had you as my protector, guardian […]
eager saviour [in the turmoils] of life.
You, George, you proved to be saviour from my sins.
You granted me the opportunity to make the most of a life of joy.
You to me […………………] until.
In return [I make a visual record] of your holy sufferings
60 Rhoby (2009: 161–7) and (2010b: 324–5) with bibliography.
270 nektarios zarras

Fig 10.2 Kastoria, Sts. Anargyroi, inscription

in the north aisle (Nektarios Zarras)

in the church and the divine space of God,

asking for your help in the hereafter on the Day of Judgement.
Your servant, Theodore Lemniotes.

In the first line Lemniotes, with a terse yet touching declaration, voices the
intensity of his relationship with Saint George, which led him to love the
saint so deeply that, as he says, he painted him in his heart. This expression
of love sparked the founder’s desire to depict the life of the saint, who in
the second verse is characterized as πολύτλα. This is a Homeric word that
translates as ‘much enduring’ and is used of Odysseus,61 denoting the one
who suffers and is tortured, but who endures and triumphs in the end. The
function of the specific word is nodal, because in the continuation of the
text its meaning is transferred to the founder himself.
The narrativity of the text is based on the similarities between the life
of Saint George and that of Lemniotes. The epigram, in the voice of the
patron and addressed to Saint George, continues with a brief autobiograph-
ical introduction in which the founder justifies his patronage through the
difficulties of his personal life.62 The retrospection in the first part of the
61 E.g. Iliad 8.97, 9.676; Odyssey 5.171, 6.1, 7.1.
62 Drpić (2016b: 93–6). This is a common motif in epigrams, which is related to the same notion as is
found in the ktetorika typika of monastic foundations. See Mullet (2004: 129–33).
 The Poetics of Patronage 271
epigram to Lemniotes’ past life, from an early age, functions through recol-
lection, which is particularly important as a concept of time in dedicatory
epigrams. The reference to the ktetor’s life, as well as to the protection he
has found in his patron saint, gives the epigram the form of a prayer.
These elements in the inscription of the north aisle are quite common
in several dedicatory epigrams of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Char-
acteristic is the similarity of the Kastoria epigram to an epigram in the
Anthologia Marciana, which was composed to commemorate the dedica-
tion of a triple lamp in the church of the Virgin Kosmosoteira by a certain
protonotarios, whose name is not specified.63 In this epigram, the patron
addresses a prayer to his tutelary saint. The name of the saint is not men-
tioned in the text, but he has been identified as Saint Nicholas,64 because
there is an emphasis on the many benefactions he received from him ἀπ’
ἀρχῆς μέχρι καὶ νῦν (‘from the beginning until now’, v. 1). The similarity
between the two epigrams is apparent in both the structure and the general
notion of protection that is developed by the ktetors in the text and which is
expressed with specific phrases. In the Marciana epigram, the phrase φύλαξ
ἂγρυπνος εὑρέθης βίου (‘you have proven to be a watchful guardian’, v.
3)65 resembles, in terms of meaning and vocabulary, the phrase βοηθὸν …
τοῦ βίου … τῶν λαθῶν εὑρέθης in the Agioi Anargyroi epigram. The dif-
ference is that in the latter the relationship between ktetor and patron saint
is even more personal and the lives of the two are intertwined in both the
text and the image. At the end of both texts the poets express the patrons’
deep desire for their own salvation and the salvation of the members of
their family.66 It is clear that in the Kastoria epigram Saint George is intro-
duced as the personal intercessor of Lemniotes for his salvation before the
supreme court of God, as is the case in many dedicatory epigrams.67 The
plea for salvation on the Day of Judgement is projected through typical
formulae of Komnenian dedicatory epigrams, which include rhetoric, per-
sonal devotion and imagery.
In the church of the Agioi Anargyroi the images of Saint George’s vita on
the south and north walls (Figure 10.3) became a life-guide for the patron.
And the patron represents this life-guide in the church, which is his per-
sonal space. Consequently, the saint becomes the model for Lemniotes’

63 Full text and discussion of this epigram in Spingou (2012: 93, 165–7). See also Drpić (2016b: 96–8).
64 On the reasons for this identification, see Spingou (2012: 165).
65 Spingou (2012: 93).
66 Drpić (2016b: 94).
67 The introduction of saints as personal intercessors is a topos in epigrams. See Lauxtermann (2003:
161), Drpić (2016b: 45–6).
272 nektarios zarras

Fig 10.3 Kastoria, Sts. Anargyroi, north aisle: images

of Saint George’s vita (Nektarios Zarras)

personal lived experiences and his alter ego, while the inscription becomes
the agent of Lemniotes’ life. It is interesting to note that the justification
of patronage through the difficulties of the patron’s personal life is a usual
motif in epigrams, which is related to the same notion as is found in the
ktetorika typika of monastic foundations.68 The parallelism between saint
and patron, as conveyed through the text of the inscription, is also pre-
sented visually. The four representative scenes from the Passion of Saint
George69 are correlated with pivotal moments in the life of Lemniotes,
with his wife and child on the south wall of the north aisle, and with his
wife and himself as the monk Theophilos next to the large figure of Christ
on the west wall of the south aisle. Consequently, the patron himself essen-
tially stages his own life with the help of text and image; the founder por-
traits acquire dimensions of personal autobiography.70 Four further scenes
from the miracles of Saint George, on the north wall, complement those
of his martyrdom and compose an integrated vita cycle of the saint, taking
into account the small dimensions of the aisle. All the elements in the

68 See Mullet (2004: 129–33).

69 These are scenes from the martyrdom of Saint George, which are depicted on the south wall, below
the donor representation of the Lemniotes family. For the scenes of this small martyrdom cycle of
the saint, see Pelekanidis and Chatzidakis (1984: 23–5, nos 84–6), Drakopoulou (1997: 49).
70 It has been argued that founders disclosed autobiographical data in their foundations. See Angold
(1998); see also Drpić (2016b: 95–8).
 The Poetics of Patronage 273
north aisle, both the ‘biographical’ disposition of the inscriptional text and
the vita cycle of Saint George, lead to the conclusion that the space was in
effect a parekklesion.71
The coexistence of the lives of Lemniotes and the saint in this space,
through text and image, is the most important factor for arguing that the
decision for the specific function of the aisle was taken by the ktetor. The
aisle must have functioned as a parekklesion even before the death of Lem-
niotes, in the period when he assumed the monastic habit with the name
of Theophilos.72 The content of the inscription next to the scenes of Saint
George and Lemniotes becomes the common reference point between the
dedicator and his patron saint, patronage and faith, offering and divine
reciprocation to the petition for personal salvation. The text reveals that
the founder intervened in the iconographic programme by selecting spe-
cific scenes, the content of which was connected with his personal life.
The life of Theodore Lemniotes and mainly of Saint George are narrated
in the type of a personal invocation-prayer, which is the dominant form of
the dedicatory inscription.73 So, the choice of the metrical text in Kastoria
is due to the fact that it was the ideal type of prayer-inscription that the
founder deeply desired. At the end, Lemniotes alone, without any ref-
erence to other members of his family, asks for salvation on the Day of
Judgement.
Lemniotes’ prayer continues in the second metrical inscription on the
east wall of the narthex (Figure 10.4).74 Here, the poet carries on the narra-
tive structure of the inscription in the north aisle with the patron’s voice,
bringing the dramatization to a climax with direct reflections of Lemni-
otes’ life. Just as in the epigram in the north aisle, past events and experi-
ences of the ktetor become the connecting link with the present and the
construction of the church, so the epigram in the narthex refers to the
present situation of the ktetor and of the building.75 After the fifth verse,
the text dramatizes Lemniotes’ present life, as indicated by the phrase νῦν

71 Drakopoulou (1997: 49) rightly supposes that the north aisle would have been dedicated to Saint
George.
72 The decision that this space would function as a parekklesion carries the personal stamp of
Lemniotes, not only because of his close relationship with the space, but also because of his rights
as ktetor, which entitled him to make changes in both the decoration and the use of spaces in his
private foundation. Specifically, in the case of the Saints Anargyroi, the patron’s long-standing
and particular relationship with the church further reinforced his role in and responsibility for
making decisions of this kind, which promoted his views. For the rights of patrons in their private
foundations in this period, see Thomas (1987: 171–238).
73 On this form of dedicatory epigrams, see Spingou (2012: 226–8), Drpić (2016b: 80–9, esp. 82).
74 Rhoby (2009: 161–4) with bibliography.
75 Drakopoulou (1997: 44–6), Rhoby (2009: 161–4).
274 nektarios zarras

Fig 10.4 Kastoria, Sts. Anargyroi, east wall of the narthex: the epigram
in the scene of the Ascension (Nektarios Zarras)

δὲ ῥῶσιν σαρκὸς ἡσθενημένης (‘the recovery of my ailing flesh’),76 and in

the end turns to the future with the invocation for the salvation of the
patron’s family. This temporal sequence of past, present and future is typi-
cal of the structure of Middle Byzantine dedicatory epigrams.77
The two inscriptions in the Agioi Anargyroi are examples of patronal
ethopoiia. Their narrative discourse includes some typical traits of etho-
poietic dedicatory epigrams, the ultimate aim of which is to project the
patron’s persona.78 The epigrams recall in temporal sequence past events,
critical experiences and incidents directly associated with the life of the
patron saint, moments of Lemniotes’ life, the portrayal of his emotions,
his obligation (πρέπον) and sacred desire (πόθος) for the renovation and
the decoration of the church,79 and finally his personal prayer for the sal-
vation of his soul. This last characteristic is essential because it relates to
the faith, the personal devotion and the piety of the patron. Rhetorical
76 See the English translation of the inscription in Gerstel (1999: 89).
77 Drpić (2016b: 82, 88–9).
78 For the meaning of this term and its relevance for understanding the role of the ktetor in dedicatory
epigrams, see Lauxtermann (2003: 61), Drpić (2014: 907–11) and (2016a: 87–117, esp. 89–96) with
examples from the Komnenian period. See also Zarras (2023: 109–11).
79 This complex activity of the patron with regard to his material donation to his foundation is stated
using a rich vocabulary. See Spingou (2012: 191).
 The Poetics of Patronage 275
ethopoiia of ktetors is particularly common in this period; there are several
dedicatory epigrams, in which the personal nature of patronage is intensi-
fied through the promotion of the patron’s character.80 Moreover, the two
epigrams in the Agioi Anargyroi are important for understanding one of
the basic problems that dedicatory inscriptions pose, namely the nature of
the patron’s involvement in the creation of an epigram, as well as the paint-
er’s relationship to the patron. These texts highlight dominant traits of the
patron’s personality, revealing his motivations81 and his innermost beliefs,
and consequently are directly connected to the ideology of patronage. Τhe
patron’s involvement in the composition of the epigram, in the sense that
Lemniotes supplied the poet with details about his life or a general idea of
what he wanted the texts to project, in accordance with his conceptions
and life experiences, should be considered certain. As is frequently the
case with dedicatory epigrams, the poet may have presented to Lemniotes
different types of epigrams, revolving around basic aspects of his life, from
which he could choose.82 The references to Lemniotes’ patron saint, the
uncertainty and turbulence in his life, his failing health and his wish for
eternal salvation could be the basic narrative elements that the poet had
available for composing the epigram. These pieces of information about
Lemniotes’ life, in the epigrams, are not born of the poet’s imagination,
nor are they texts of standardized structure which were offered indiscrimi-
nately to clients commissioning epigrams.83 On the contrary, they are per-
sonal facets of the patron’s life, which he himself reveals to the epigram-
matist, because Lemniotes is not a passing patron, he is in the service of
the Agioi Anargyroi and Saint George and has dedicated a large part of his
life to the monument. This is also the basic difference between a donor,
who benefacts a church or a monastery at one specific moment in his life,
and a patron, who dedicates his life to his foundation and aids it in many
ways.84 When a profound personal relationship exists between the founder
and his foundation, as is the case in the church of the Agioi Anargyroi, this
relationship plays a decisive role in the composition of the epigram and
should be given due consideration by research.85

80 Drpić (2016b: 89–92).

81 Lauxtermann (2003: 160, 164–6).
82 For this practice, see Maguire (1996: 8–9), Lauxtermann (2003: 42–4), Drpić (2016b: 37–9).
83 See Zarras (2023: 100–1, 106–9).
84 This deeper and more personal relationship between patrons and their endowments is very common
in the Palaiologan period, as seen in the case of Theodore Metochites and the Chora monastery. See
recently Zarras (2021).
85 The example of Lemniotes answers the questions asked by Lauxtermann (2003: 159) with regard to
the relationship between patron and epigrammatist.
276 nektarios zarras
Lemniotes’ collaboration with the painter in the Agioi Anargyroi church
should be considered certain, because the ktetor is enhanced almost
throughout the iconographic programme, through portraits of himself
and his family. As in the case of the scenes of Saint George in the north
aisle, the painter’s consultation with the patron is surmised from the trans-
fer of the Ascension from its typical space, the barrel-vault of the bema,
to the narthex, the place of the patron’s burial and eternal salvation.86 The
outcome of the collaboration of patron and painter was probably the joint
decision to paint the dedicatory inscription close to the Ascension.87 Τhe
inscription is very carefully incorporated in the upper part of the east wall,
so that it is consonant with the hierarchic and symbolic arrangement of
the iconography. The soteriological and eschatological character of the
Ascension as the visual expression of Salvation, and the inscription as text
and image, fully correspond to Lemniotes’ petition for the eternal rest of
his family in Paradise. The Virgin of the Ascension (Figure 10.5) is also
perceived as intercessor for the salvation of the members of the Lemniotes
family, as she raises her hands and symbolically transfers the patron’s voice
to the angels who ‘step’ on the inscription and point directly above to

Fig 10.5 Kastoria, Sts. Anargyroi, east wall of the

narthex: the Virgin orans of the Ascension
(Nektarios Zarras)

86 On the scene of the Ascension in the narthex of Saints Anargyroi, see Pelekanidis and Chatzidakis
(1992: 49, figs. 28–30), Drakopoulou (1997: fig. 45).
87 Analogous correlations of the funerary role of the space and the Ascension are observed in other
monuments of this period. Among the most characteristic examples is the Virgin Chalkeon in
Thessalonike. See Tsitouridou (1982), Paissidou (2015: 129–30).
 The Poetics of Patronage 277
the ascended Christ.88 In a similar way, the inscription frames the Virgin
Arakiotissa καὶ κεχαριτωμένη (‘and full of grace’) in Cyprus, where the
inscription-supplication of Leo ascends as an entreaty to the Virgin and to
Christ.89 Consequently, the iconography adds a metaphysical dimension to
the epigram, because the supplication is written in the celestial zone of the
decoration, away from human eyes.90

Conclusions
In concluding this chapter, the now-lost representation of Tarchaneiotes
with his wife Zoe and the sebastos Andronikos in the Vytoumas monastery,
in a probably patronal Deesis composition, is reconstructed for the first
time in research, so pointing out the decisive contribution of epigrams
to reconstructing the now-destroyed iconography of ktetoric compositions.
The inscription from Vytoumas attests in characteristic manner that the
members of the military aristocracy, in a period in which they enjoyed
particular prominence in society, did not confine themselves to fulfilling
patronage relationships and personal salvation, but through the patronage
are presented as all-rounded personalities who combine high state office,
education, aesthetic sensitivity and spiritual concerns. Consequently, kte-
toric epigrams of this kind are not only useful for their relation to the ico-
nography, but also for their ideological appeal, because they propagandize
in such important spaces for society as churches and monasteries, the ideal
model of the ktetor. The reference to iconographic elements of the image
in the epigram accompanying it, as in the Vytoumas monastery, points
to the relationship of these texts to the literary genre of ekphrasis. Thanks
to the narrative epigram in Vatopedi, the chapter reinstates the relation-
ship between the hegumen Ioannikios and the important personage for the
monastery Sophronios, in relation to the ktetoric inscription. It is clear from
the examples discussed here that patron, painter and poet collaborated to
create a poetic dedicatory text which projects the faith, the ideology and
the life of the ktetor. This synergy of the arts transforms the patron’s sup-
plication into an epigram of high artistic quality, in which the textual and
the visual vocabulary, the poetry and the painting, serve both the founder
and his foundation. The self-presentation of Tarchaneiotes and the image
of Sophronios in the Vytoumas and Vatopedi monasteries, respectively,

88 Zarras (2023: 109, 111).

89 See Agapitos (2018: 93–4), Konstantinidi (2018: esp. 67–72) with bibliography.
90 For inscriptions written in the upper part of the naos, see recently Pallis (2022: 195–6).
278 nektarios zarras
are projected through their multifarious roles as poets or narrators of the
descriptive epigrams and creators of the patronal compositions. This ide-
ological underpinning in Komnenian patronage was to develop and reach
its peak in Palaiologan times, with several state officials presented also as
highly educated and cultured, as is clearly the case with Theodore Meto-
chites. Thus, the systematic examination of the monumental iconography
in relation to the epigrams is a promising avenue for future research.91
In contrast to this more usual type of presentation of the patron, the
donor epigrams in the church of the Agioi Anargyroi have a narrative style
that derives from the correlation of the lives of the founder and his patron
saint. In the Kastoria church, the iconographic programme in combina-
tion with the space enhances the epigrams’ spiritual character, to the extent
that the epigram in the north aisle becomes a prayer of Lemniotes, with
autobiographical details combined iconographically with the vita of his
tutelary saint, Saint George. In the case of the narthex, the epigram loses its
material substance and is transformed into a metaphysical medium of the
founders’ salvation, articulated through the content of the theophany that
it accompanies. The narthex inscription clearly demonstrates that some
dedicatory inscriptions were not written to be read, because the patron
desired his personal supplication to be transferred through the Virgin and
the angels to Paradise. The two epigrams from Kastoria, in combination
with the image, have all the traits of a typology of patronal self-portraiture,
which was the basis for the construction of the patron’s identity, not only
in Constantinople but also in the peripheries of the Empire.

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Μεσοβυζαντινής περιόδου: οι περιπτώσεις των μονών Μεγίστης Λαύρας
και Βατοπεδίου’, in Ι΄ Συνάντηση Ελλήνων Βυζαντινολόγων 27–30 Νοεμβρίου
2019 (Ιωάννινα). Περιλήψεις Ανακοινώσεων 20. Ioannina.
(2021) ‘Illness and Healing: The Ministry Cycle in the Chora Monastery and
the Literary Oeuvre of Theodore Metochites’, DOP 75: 85–119.
(2023) Ideology and Patronage in Byzantium: Dedicatory Inscriptions and Patron
Images from Middle Byzantine Macedonia and Thrace. Turnhout.
 ch apter 11

David as Model for the Emperor and his Poet

Theodore Prodromos and John II Komnenos*
Rachele Ricceri

Δαυὶδ προφήτου καὶ βασιλέως μέλος (‘Song of David, prophet and king’):1
in over fifty Medieval Greek manuscripts, this dodecasyllabic verse intro-
duces the first Psalm and serves as an overarching metrical title to the
Book of Psalms. This implies that a single dodecasyllabic verse is sufficient
to encapsulate David’s essential features as recorded in Byzantium: he is a
prophet and a king who sings chants, so he is also a poet. The kingship and
the poetic art of this Old Testament figure are at the centre of the present
considerations. This chapter studies how David’s figure was received in the
twelfth century by Theodore Prodromos and how David can be considered
as a paradigm to better understand some of Prodromos’ poetic choices. By
reflecting on the depiction of David as an alter ego to both the emperor
and the poet, I will shed new light on the exemplary role played by this
biblical figure in the construction of the self-representation adopted by
Prodromos. At the same time, this chapter contributes to a new under-
standing of the creative reception of the Psalms in twelfth-century poetry.
The analysis will be conducted using two complementary approaches.
Firstly, the references to David will be used to investigate the construction
and representation of the relationship between the poet and the emperor
in one of Prodromos’ historical poems, namely poem 17, dedicated to
Emperor John II Komnenos.2 Secondly, on a literary level, it will be shown

* I wish to express my sincere gratitude to the organizers of the conference in Vienna, Andreas Rhoby,
Baukje van den Berg and Nikos Zagklas, for their hard work to give life to an invaluable opportunity
for exchange and fruitful discussions, and to all the participants. I am also enormously indebted to
Ilias Nesseris, who provided a response to this chapter at the conference, for the accurate reading of
the text, his acute remarks and his insightful ideas on how to improve this contribution. This chapter
has been written within the framework of the research projects The Legacy of the Psalms in Byzantine
Poetry: Book Epigrams and Metrical Paraphrases (FWO-FWF, Project nr. G0E3918N) and David, our
Orpheus: Reception, Rewritings and Adaptations of the Psalms in Byzantine Poetry (FWO, Project nr.
G009618N). All translations are mine unless otherwise stated.
1 ‘Chant of David, prophet and king’. DBBE, Type 1912, www.dbbe.ugent.be/types/1912 (accessed 15
February 2023); Rhoby (2018: GR25, 204).
2 Ed. Hörandner (1974: 286–300).

283
284 rachele ricceri
how David’s poetry (i.e. the Psalms) directly influences the construction
of Prodromos’ poetry and how the biblical hypotext informs the text of a
poem written by one of the most celebrated and prolific Byzantine poets
of the twelfth century. I argue that the biblical text, as a literary source on
which Prodromos draws to compose his poems, justifies and elevates the
court poems written in the twelfth century, and constitutes a secure foun-
dation upon which the poet can construct the representation of his rela-
tionship with the emperor. The present chapter will show how important
David’s poetic nature is for Prodromos: of equal if not greater importance
than his kingship.

The Emperor as a New David

The centrality of David as an unavoidable model of kingship in Byzan-
tium has been fruitfully emphasized in several studies on Byzantine impe-
rial ideology.3 Claudia Rapp in particular has systematically investigated
David’s important role among Old Testament figures for Byzantine impe-
rial ideology and has pointed out that early Byzantine emperors, already
from the fifth century onwards, were often portrayed as a ‘new David’.4
The validity of this identification continued into later centuries and the
mimesis of David became a standardized element of imperial representa-
tion.5 It can be traced in artistic representations as well, as for instance is
testified by some of the miniatures of the Paris Psalter (Paris, Bibliothèque
nationale de France, gr. 139 [Diktyon 49706], second half of the tenth
century), in which the exaltation of David can be considered a product
of Macedonian imperial ideology. It is interesting to note that in the Paris
Psalter the representation of David evolves in subsequent full-page min-
iatures to be found in the front of the manuscript: on fol. 1v his qualities
of poet and musician are highlighted as he is playing the lyre in a typi-
cally classicizing garb, which is similar to Orpheus’ iconography; on fol. 6v
the young David is represented in a coronation scene, wearing his chiton;
on fol. 7v the mature David is dressed as an emperor, standing between
Sophia and Prophetia. In manuscript miniatures the representation of
King David acquires a universal value and sometimes even transcends the

3 It is noteworthy that the contributions collected in Magdalino’s edited volume on New Constantines
(1994), which addresses the representation of Byzantine emperors throughout the centuries, consistently
refer to the comparison with David as a standard element that contributes to the legitimation of
imperial power.
4 See Rapp (2010: passim).
5 See Zahnd (2008: 74).
 David as Model for the Emperor and his Poet 285
i­dentification with a specific emperor.6 By the eleventh century the iden-
tification of David and the emperor had become a commonplace and was
even part of court ceremonial.7
The reading of twelfth-century poetry as proposed in the present chap-
ter can indeed benefit from a comparison with the contemporary visual
representation of David in Byzantine art, and especially in manuscript
illuminations. The peculiar nature of David, an Old Testament king who
is remembered for his poetic skills, is remarkably significant in the icono-
graphic representations of the prophet. Miniatures of King David playing
the lyre are to be found in a significant number of Psalters. Anthony Cutler
has collected such depictions, as they constitute a typical feature of the
so-called aristocratic psalters.8 Interestingly enough, in some twelfth-cen-
tury manuscripts David is represented either as a musician (see Florence,
Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut. 6.36 [Diktyon 16023], fol. 275r), or
as a king holding a Psalter book (see Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica
Vaticana, Barb. gr. 320 [Diktyon 64863], fol. 1 bis v), or as an emperor
composing or playing music (see Athos, Mone Batopediou 851 [Diktyon
18995], fol. 123v). This multifaceted depiction accounts for the complex
and ubiquitous reception of this prominent biblical figure in Byzantine
visual culture.
The life of David is paradigmatic of the moral qualities that a good
emperor should possess and is a reference point for shaping praise of the
Byzantine ruler, both for artists and for poets.9 The image is indeed one
of the most common literary epithets for the emperor.10 The typological
relationship between David and the emperors is thus widely attested
in Byzantine literature, whether or not accompanying iconographic
representation of the Old Testament king.11 Two examples will help to
sketch the cultural processes to which Prodromos’ Historical Poems can
be ­compared.
An anonymous dodecasyllabic encomium bestowed on Basil I and
perhaps dating to 872–3 is constructed as a basilikos logos and conse-
crates the emperor as a new David, with whom he shares humble origins

   6
See Dagron (2003: 119).
    7
See Kalavrezou, Trahoulia and Sabar (1993: 199).
    8
See Cutler (1984: passim).
   9
See Maguire (1988: 91–3).
10 See Treitinger (1956: 129–31) and Hörandner (1972: 95). Hörandner edits the epitaph by George
Akropolites for Irene Komnene, where a passage strikingly refers to the emperor as τὸν ἀνδρικὸν
καὶ πρᾶον Δαυὶδ νέον (‘the brave and mild new David’, v. 40).
11 On the importance of this typological relationship as expressed in Byzantine literature, see
Hörandner (2009: 104–8).
286 rachele ricceri
(v. 70: Δαυῒδ νέος, ‘new David’).12 In this poem the identification with
David precedes that with Christ and is a fundamental step towards exalt-
ing the Macedonian dynasty.13 Another poem that illustrates the identi-
fication of the emperor as a new David is an epigram to be found in the
Barberini psalter (Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Barb. gr.
372 [Diktyon 64915], c. 1060). On fol. 4v an eighteen-line dedicatory epi-
gram precedes a miniature depicting a coronation scene.14 Remarkably, this
epigram, where the emperor is addressed as ‘simply another David’ (v. 5:
Δαυὶδ ἀτεχνῶς ἄλλον), was added at a later stage, possibly in the four-
teenth or fifteenth century, to dedicate the book to a different emperor.15
This topos is therefore a long-standing one and crosses chronological
boundaries while retaining its original validity.
In twelfth-century literary production the comparison of the emperor
and David has also been highlighted by many famous authors. It appears
in different kinds of prose works, including panegyrics,16 orations (such
as a passage in which Michael Choniates extensively compares the images
of David and Isaac Komnenos, also drawing a physical parallel),17 and
indeed poetry. Nicholas Kallikles, for instance, in his funerary poem for
John Komnenos, turns to the metaphor of the new David, along with
the image of the shepherd.18 Remarkably, a third figure can be taken into

12 On the structure of the poem, see Agapitos (1989: 289–97). The text of the poem, as to be found in
the manuscript Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut. 9.23 [Diktyon 16111], is edited in
Markopoulos (1992: 230–2). Recently the text has been analysed by Marc Lauxtermann (2003–19:
2:23–9) as an example of poetic encomium, rather rare in Byzantine literature.
13 See Markopoulos (1992: 228). On a general level, the figure of David was frequently evoked in the
framework of imperial propaganda; see Angelov (2006: 203 with n. 45).
14 For the text of the epigram, see DBBE, Type 3677, https://www.dbbe.ugent.be/types/3677
(accessed 15/02/2023); Rhoby (2018: VAT81, 462–5); Spatharakis (1976: 34–5). On the connection
of the miniature of this marginal Psalter with the Komnenian dynasty, see de Wald (1944: passim).
15 See Tsamakda (2010: 40–1).
16 As pointed out in Angelov (2007: 127–31). A particularly meaningful case is the encomium of
Manuel I Komnenos composed by Michael Italikos, in which the emperor is attributed all the
elements of David’s sacral kingship in order to legitimize his power (see Magdalino [1993: 435–7]).
17 Or. 14, 1:215.15–26 ed. Lampros (1879–80): Δικαιοσύνης δ’ αὖ καὶ πραότητος καὶ ἀνδρείας μέχρι
μὲν καὶ ἐς δεῦρο μόνον τὸν Δαυῒδ σαφὲς εἶχον παράδειγμα, τοῦ λοιποῦ δὲ μετὰ Δαυῒδ ἔχω καὶ τὸν
θεοειδέστατον Ἰσαάκιον. Μᾶλλον δὲ καὶ τἆλλα μικροῦ πάντα, ὅσα μὴ ψυχὴν μόνον, ἀλλὰ καὶ σῶμα
κοσμοῦσι τῷ Δαυῒδ ὁ βασιλεὺς προσωμοίωται …. Εἰ γοῦν τῇ εἰκόνι Δαυῒδ ἐμφερὴς ὁ βασιλεὺς
παραδειχθείη, δῆλον ὡς καὶ αὐτῷ τῷ Δαυῒδ ὁ βασιλεὺς πάντη προσόμοιος (‘I used to see David
merely as a clear model of justice, mildness and braveness up to this point, but hereafter, after David,
I consider the utterly godlike Isaac. Rather, as for almost all other things that embellish not only the
soul but also the body, the king is like David …. If then the king, resembling David, was compared
to David’s image, it would be clear that also the king is in every way similar to David himself ’).
18 Carm. 31.91 ed. Romano (1980): Ποιμὴν κραταιέ, Δαβὶδ ἄντικρυς νέε (‘O mighty shepherd, openly new
David’). For Kallikles, see also Gerbi in this volume. Manganeios Prodromos presents Emperor Manuel
I Komnenos as a new David in the poem edited by E. M. Jeffreys and M. J. Jeffreys in this volume.
 David as Model for the Emperor and his Poet 287
c­ onsideration when analysing the image of the Byzantine emperor seen
as the new David. In Byzantium, the Old Testament king was actually
‘treated as a prefiguration of Christ’.19 This perception was clear in Byzan-
tine poetry as well, as is testified, for instance, by a Pseudo-Psellian verse:
ὁ γὰρ Χριστὸς ἐν ταῖς γραφαῖς Δαυὶδ καλεῖται νέος (‘For Christ is called a
new David in the Scriptures’).20 Therefore, the definition of the emperor as
the new David is a complex one, as it bears multilayered meanings and is
to be read in both directions: the emperor’s usual identification as the new
Christ is enriched by this image of David, who is the ‘old Christ’.

The Psalms Reused in a Twelfth-Century Poem: Theodore

Prodromos’ Historical Poem 17
Within the massive corpus of Theodore Prodromos’ Historical Poems, a
close reading of poem 17 sheds some light on the reception of the fig-
ure of David in twelfth-century literature.21 This is a 410-line composition
written in decapentasyllables which was addressed to John II Komnenos
(1118–43) on the occasion of a campaign against the ‘Persians’ (meaning
the Seljuks). The metrical choice is not surprising, as Prodromos uses this
‘political verse’ – a metrical pattern largely attested in twelfth-century
court poems and firmly embedded in the tradition of didactic poetry – in
most of his long historical poems.22 Intriguingly enough, the political verse
serves a double purpose. Firstly, it fits the need to compose a eulogy, being
a widespread metre used for court poetry in the twelfth century. Secondly,
this metrical form is particularly suitable to a parenetic scope and is used
by the poet to evoke biblical exempla.23
It is interesting to note that Prodromos deliberately shapes this poem
using elements typical of the didactic tradition, such as indeed the metre,
as well as formal features that resemble the structure of a hymn. This poem
is clearly arranged in forty-one strophes of ten lines each. The decastichon
is a typical form used for hymns sung by the representatives of the demes
during ceremonies in the twelfth century and also recurs in Historical
Poems 4 and 5.24 These latter poems in particular are included in a group of

19 ODB, s.v. David.

20 (Pseudo-)Psellos, Poem 53.318 ed. Westerink (1992).
21 See Hörandner (1974: 286–300).
22 See Hörandner (1974: 123), Hörandner and Rhoby (2021: 413–16).
23 On the importance of the metrical choice to convey didactic elements, see Lauxtermann (2009).
24 On the formal features of deme hymns, see Hörandner (2003: 82). For Prodromos’ poetry for the
demes, see also Agapitos in this volume and Magdalino in this volume.
288 rachele ricceri
poems (Historical Poems 3–6) composed in various metres to celebrate John
II Komnenos’ campaign against Kastamon in the year 1131.25 The praise
of the deeds of the emperor in these occasional poems has been fruitfully
compared to the hymnic tradition starting with the Homeric hymns.26
Prodromos’ decision to celebrate John’s victories in the shape of a hymn is
therefore not surprising and is applicable to the reading of Historical Poem
17 as well.27
In the opening lines of Historical Poem 17 the poet declares himself too
weak to join the military expedition and decides therefore to accompany
the emperor by means of his prayers (vv. 1–10).28 He gives his physical
weakness as the excuse for relying upon the prophets’ words (vv. 11–18),
which constitute the core of the poem. The thirty-seven central strophes of
the poem, the overwhelming majority in terms of number of lines, form
an actualization of biblical episodes, which functions as a model for talking
about contemporary historical events. In vv. 19–390 Prodromos consist-
ently relies on Old Testament passages comparing the emperor to several
prophets, whose experiences are perceived as re-lived and embodied by
those of the emperor. Among the prophets quoted, David has a prominent
position (vv. 19–20, see below): two remarkably long sections of Historical
Poem 17, of five strophes each (no less than 100 verses in total), are in fact a
rewriting of some passages taken from the Psalms (vv. 21–70 and 341–90).
Twenty-seven groups of verses, the ones that follow and precede the two
Davidic sections, are devoted to the four major prophets and ten of the
fourteen minor prophets,29 whose words are borrowed by Prodromos to
build the eulogy of the emperor (vv. 71–340). The last two strophes of the
poem contain respectively a personal reference to Prodromos himself (vv.
391–400) and a final allusion to the defeat of the enemies and the desired
triumph of the emperor (vv. 401–10).30

25 On the significance of the metrical poikilia in these poems, see Zagklas (2018: 64–5).
26 See Faulkner (2016: 262–3).
27 The similarity of Historical Poem 17 to the deme hymns is already mentioned in Hörandner (1974:
88). I use Hörandner’s edition for all references to and quotations from the Historical Poems.
28 The idea of compensating for physical incapability by a suitable use of words is present also in other
passages by Prodromos, such as Historical Poem 38.15–44; see Beaton (1987: 5). On the meaning
of the good wishes towards the emperor formulated by Prodromos in this stanza, see Hörandner
(1996: 108), with further parallels.
29 Habakkuk, Micah, Amos, Joel, Zephaniah, Malachi, Nahum, Obadiah, Haggai, Jonah, Jeremiah,
Isaiah, Ezekiel, Daniel.
30 This very same decastichon also occurs in Historical Poem 19.192–201. The textual status of the end
of the poem poses some philological challenges, as pointed out by Hörandner (1974: 301). Recently,
Papagiannis (2012: 103–4) has hypothesized that the decastichon vv. 401–10 replaced the original
ending of the poem.
 David as Model for the Emperor and his Poet 289
The peculiar structure of this poem, together with its specific content,
provides the opportunity to tackle some questions about the complex rela-
tionship between the poet and the emperor, who is directly addressed.31
Moreover, this long poem is an interesting example of poetic reuse of bib-
lical material. The close reading that follows is therefore divided into two
parts. Firstly, the focus will lie on the persons mentioned in the poem,
that is, on the characters that appear in the poem and that give life to the
narrative structure of the work. Secondly, a more technical analysis of the
biblical references will aim to detect the adaptation techniques used by
Prodromos to refer to the psalmic passages he quotes and, more generally,
to study the poet’s use of this particular book of the Bible.

Personal Dynamics: David, the Poet, the Ruler

The structure of Historical Poem 17 is quite fixed and repetitive. As has been
said, Theodore Prodromos devotes several decasticha of the poem to the
words taken from the books of various prophets, which he quotes almost
literally. However, some verses of each decastichon, usually two or three per
strophe, are devoted to poignant references to contemporary events. In this
way, the occasional character of the composition is made palpable by Pro-
dromos. The poet mostly reserves the first two or three verses of the stro-
phes to insert his own voice and to evoke several addressees, namely John
II Komnenos, David and fourteen other prophets, the enemies, called the
‘Persians’ (v. 51), the New Rome (vv. 121, 271), the Byzantine people (v. 321).
The biblical quotations are in this manner actualized and framed within a
historical context close to the poet’s personal experience. The biblical pas-
sages reused in the poem are significant in two complementary ways. On
the one hand, the poet builds up his own verses drawing on the biblical
heritage, which enhances the importance of the deeds of the emperor and
is used as an exemplum. On the other hand, the Old Testament episodes are
brought to life and vividly depicted in the present tense (e.g. v. 215: Ναοὺμ
ὁ μέγας ἐκβοᾷ καὶ πάλιν προφητεύων, ‘the great Nahum cries aloud and
again prophesies’), so they acquire an additional meaning because of their
relevance to the events contemporary to the poet.
Both the emperor and David in particular are frequent addressees of
Prodromos’ verses. Reading the poem, one cannot overlook the specific
context in which Prodromos’ activity was situated. He wrote his poems

31 For more general reflections on the relationship between poet and emperor in Prodromos’ historical
poems, see Bazzani (2007a).
290 rachele ricceri
in his capacity as court poet and did not miss any opportunity to ingrati-
ate himself with the patron, using a well-known and widespread topos of
twelfth-century literature, which was not immune from a certain degree of
fictionality.32 In vv. 16–20 the poet, addressing John Komnenos, announces
why and how he will rely on David’s words as a spiritual complement to
the military campaign:33

ἐπεὶ δὲ συγγινώσκω μου πᾶν ῥυπαρὸν τῷ βίῳ,

ἀπ’ ἐμαυτοῦ μὲν οὐ θαρρῶ τὰ τῆς εὐχῆς σοι δοῦναι,
ἐκ τῶν σοφῶν δὲ προφητῶν δανείζομαι καὶ λέγω
καὶ μάλιστα τῆς τοῦ Δαυὶδ πνευματοκρούστου λύρας
καὶ τούτοις χρῶμαι συνεργοῖς ἄρτι καὶ συνευχέταις.
(Prodromos, Historical Poem 17.16–20)

Since I acknowledge the whole wretchedness of my life,

I do not dare to offer you words of prayer from myself,34
but I speak, borrowing from the wise prophets
and above all from David’s lyre, played by the Holy Spirit,
and I use them just as helpers and fellow suppliants.

Prodromos acknowledges here the role of David as an unavoidable poetic

model and source of inspiration in the composition of his verses. The
image of the lyre of David, moved by the Spirit, seems to be a reference
point for Byzantine poets. It is telling that an epigram written by George
of Pisidia (seventh century), where the divinely inspired lyre is mentioned,
was reused to accompany the text of the Psalms, and that this image was
commonly employed in book epigrams that featured in Middle Byzantine
Psalters.35 Moreover, the invocation of David as a poetic ‘muse’ is also to
be found elsewhere in Prodromos’ poetic corpus, for example in Histori-
cal Poem 4.71–2, where John II Komnenos is also addressed: ‘Give me, O
David who plays the lyre, a few words from your songs, or be present and

32 For a general orientation on begging poetry in twelfth-century Byzantium, see Beaton (1987: 3–8).
On the relevance of this attitude for Prodromic poetry (and the attribution problems posed by
these compositions), see Alexiou (1986: passim).
33 For a similar passage, see Historical Poem 11.146–50: ἐπεὶ δὲ νοῦν ἀνθρώπινον αἱ νῖκαι σου
νικῶσιν, | ἐκ τοῦ Δαβὶδ δανείζομαι τοῦ μουσικοῦ προφήτου | τοὺς ἐπαινέτας, βασιλεῦ, τῶν
σῶν ἀριστευμάτων | καὶ συγκαλῶ τὸν οὐρανὸν καὶ τὰς ἀψύχους φύσεις | ὑμνῆσαι σε κατὰ θεὸν
εὐλόγοις ἀλαλήτοις (‘But since your victories surpass the human mind, I borrow praises from
David, the musical prophet. O emperor, I convene the heaven and the inanimate natures to sing
your praise in a godly manner, with unutterable eulogies’).
34 In this verse Prodromos refers to his own poetry.
35 See DBBE, Type 4583, www.dbbe.ugent.be/types/4583 (accessed 15 February 2023). On the
interpretation of this image, see Lauxtermann (2003–19: 1:202–4).
 David as Model for the Emperor and his Poet 291
sing these things loudly for my king’ (Δός μοι, Δαυὶδ κιθαρῳδέ, μικρά σου
τῶν ᾀσμάτων, | ἢ σὺ παρὼν ἀλάλαζε ταῦτα τῷ βασιλεῖ μου).36
The figure of David is also particularly important at the beginning of
another decastichon of Historical Poem 17, that is in vv. 41–3, in which John
II Komnenos is again addressed and the identification of the emperor with
David is explicitly expressed in a striking juxtaposition of the old David
with the new one: ‘Listen, divine king, bright bearer of trophies, to the
words that the old David prophetically utters for you, the new David, as
if from the divine voice’ (Ἄκουσον, θεῖε βασιλεῦ, λαμπρὲ τροπαιοφόρε, |
ἅπερ Δαυὶδ ὁ παλαιὸς σοί, τῷ Δαυὶδ τῷ νέῳ, | ὡς ἐκ φωνῆς τῆς θεϊκῆς
προφητικῶς προλέγει).
The reading of these two passages of the poem makes clear the role of
David, whose importance as a model is crucial both to the poet and to
the emperor. Prodromos absolutely needs David’s words to compose his
poems and appropriates the Psalms skilfully, while John II is defined as a
new David, and his kingship is dignified by the straightforward compari-
son with the Old Testament king.37 In this respect, the presence of David
in the poem is stronger and more meaningful than the reference to other
prophets. The emperor is invited to listen to Prodromos’ words as if he
were listening to David. Another aspect that cannot be overlooked when
analysing the relationship between Theodore and John is indeed the didac-
tic one. Prodromos praises the ruler while instructing him.38
The presence of quotations from several books of the prophets besides
the recurrent citations from the Psalms can indeed be explained as a didac-
tic element, besides its function as a literary variation within the poem.39
In twelfth-century Byzantium, the interest in biblical exegesis was particu-
larly evident and widely testified.40 The long-standing Byzantine tradition
of learning the Psalms from a very early age onward was institutionalized
by the decree issued in 1107 by Alexios I Komnenos, which possibly insti-
tuted the office of the didaskalos tou Psalteriou, along with the didaskalos

36 On Prodromos’ habit of evoking David’s lyre to praise the Komnenian emperors, see Zagklas (2023:
302).
37 Prodromos consistently stresses the divine element when portraying John throughout his oeuvre;
see Magdalino (1993: 424).
38 See Zagklas (2019: 246).
39 I am grateful to Ilias Nesseris for raising this point at the conference.
40 Among other works, it is important to remember that in the late eleventh/early twelfth century
Theophylaktos of Ohrid produced commentaries on Old Testament and New Testament books.
Moreover, Nikephoros Basilakes composed progymnasmata on David. It is noteworthy, moreover,
that the long prologue to the Commentary on the Psalms (PG 128, 41–1325) composed by Euthymios
Zigabenos at the beginning of the twelfth century opens with an extensive account of David’s life
and deeds (PG 128, 41–8).
292 rachele ricceri
tou evangeliou and the didaskalos tou apostolou, all active in Hagia Sophia.41
Theodore Prodromos could easily draw from his own experience as a
teacher to compose a eulogy in verse with a manifest didactic character
(provided both by the metrical choice and by the systematic borrowings
from Old Testament passages used to instruct his addressee). His marked
interest in the Psalms, and in the Old Testament in general, as found in
Historical Poem 17, is furthermore expressed in the numerous tetrastichs he
composed on episodes taken from the Old and New Testaments.42 In our
poem, Prodromos skilfully mixes episodes taken from the Old Testament
and contemporary events. In doing so, he crosses the boundaries of pan-
egyric poetry and proposes an idealized portrait of an emperor, depicted
as a model to achieve. The ceremonial purposes and the didactic ones are
not mutually exclusive but are complementary aspects that derive from
Prodromos’ identity and position of both court poet and private teacher.43
The use of parenetic and didactic elements in such a poem, which is delib-
erately linked to a specific occasion, is thus not surprising.44
The intricate personal dynamics represented in Historical Poem 17 are
also present in other occasional poems by Prodromos, composed to cel-
ebrate imperial splendour, such as in Historical Poem 1.39–44 (written
in decapentasyllables for the coronation of Alexios I Komnenos), where
the inspirational figure of David is also evoked so as to help celebrate the
emperor:

[…] Ὦ ἄνδρες, ὦ Ῥωμαῖοι,

ἀθροίζεσθε μετὰ σπουδῆς, δεῦτε συνευφρανθῶμεν,
δεῦτε πανηγυρίσωμεν ἄρδην ὁμοῦ καὶ πάντες
χοροστατοῦντος τοῦ Δαυὶδ καὶ προκαταρχομένου
μετὰ κιθάρας τῆς καλῆς τῆς πνευματοκινήτου
καλὸν καὶ μέγα σήμερον προαναβαλλομένου.
(Prodromos, Historical Poem 1.39–44)

O people, O Romans,
gather together quickly, come and let us rejoice,
come you all immediately and let us exclaim together,

41 On the historiographical problems connected to the identification and the functions of the
didaskaloi, see Gautier (1973: 172).
42 Ed. Papagiannis (1997). It is noticeable, however, that no epigrams specifically on David are
preserved in this corpus, in spite of the fact that the Old Testament king was very often the subject
of (book) epigrams commonly found in Byzantine manuscripts.
43 On the significance of this dual identity of Prodromos, see Zagklas (2023: 42).
44 See Lauxtermann (2003–19: 2:201).
 David as Model for the Emperor and his Poet 293
as David leads and initiates a choir
with a beautiful lyre that is moved by the Holy Spirit,
singing a prelude on this beautiful and great day.

Towards the end of Historical Poem 17, the penultimate strophe interest-
ingly reveals some more details about the personality of Prodromos, and
especially about his attitude and role with respect to the emperor, as well as
the importance of the poet’s words compared with the biblical ones:

Οἱ μὲν λοιποὶ τῶν προφητῶν, ἄναξ, ἐπηύξαντό σοι,

ἡ τοῦ βοῶντος δὲ φωνὴ45 λοιπὸν ἐκλαλησάτω,
ἐμὲ φημὶ τὸν Πρόδρομον τὸν ἐκ τῆς πανερήμου.
ἰσχύσαι τοίνυν, ὕψιστε, τὰ φῦλα τῶν βαρβάρων
καὶ τῆς Περσίδος ὁ λαός, ὅσον αὐτὸς ἰσχύω,395
οὕτω τὸ βέλος πέμψειεν, ὥσπερ αὐτὸς ἐκπέμπω,
οὕτω τὸ δόρυ τείνειεν, ὥσπερ αὐτὸς ἐντείνω.
εἴπω τὰ πάντα συνελὼν καὶ παύσω μου τὸν λόγον·
γένοιτο τούτοις στόμαχος ὡς στόμαχος Προδρόμου
καίτοι μετὰ τὸν σίδηρον καὶ μετὰ τὸν καυτῆρα.  400
(Prodromos, Historical Poem 17.391–400)

The other prophets, lord, prayed for you,

but may the voice of one crying aloud divulge the rest.
I declare I am the Prodromos from the desert.
O highest, may the barbarian tribes
and the Persian people therefore be strong, as much as I am strong;  395
may they shoot the arrow, just like as I myself shoot it,
may they throw the spear, just like as I throw it.
Let me speak summarizing everything, and then I will cease to talk.
Let their stomach become like Prodromos’ stomach,
indeed after the iron and after the branding iron.46  400

These verses highlight what Prodromos means by fighting together with

the emperor (v. 5: ἤθελον συστρατεῦσαι σοι, ‘I wanted to fight alongside
you’). He depicts himself as John the Baptist, in Greek the ­Prodromos,

45 John 1:23.
46 Prodromos possibly refers in this passage to a surgery he had to undergo. His poor health condition
is a recurrent topic in his poems, on which see Hörandner (1974: 30–2), Bazzani (2007b: passim).
References to his stomach problems are also to be found elsewhere in his oeuvre, such as in Historical
Poem 78.48–9: [Χριστέ,] σὺ σκέδασον στομάχοιο καὶ ἥπατος ἡμετέροιο | δῆριν ὀκρυόεσσαν, ‘[O
Christ,] dispel the horrible battle from my stomach and my liver’. I am particularly grateful to
Panagiotis Agapitos and Paul Magdalino for the opportunity to discuss the interpretation of this
passage at the conference.
294 rachele ricceri
using a wordplay that is quite common in his writings. By wishing the
­enemies to be as strong as he is, Theodore actually means that they will
hopefully be as weak as he is (in v. 7 he had complained about his own
ἀσθένεια, ‘weakness’). The depiction of his own fragility, however, is
accompanied by a clear affirmation of the role and the value of his words
in the war fought by the emperor. Prodromos puts his words on the same
level as the prophets’ words and declares that he will proclaim ‘the rest’
(λοιπόν, v. 392). If the emperor is customarily depicted as the new Christ,
the poet is the new John the Baptist, whose presence is crucial in preparing
and announcing Christ’s parousia.

Adaptation of the Psalms

A survey of the literary features of Historical Poem 17 can lead to a deeper
analysis of the use of biblical quotation in Prodromos’ poetry. Besides its
historical value, this poem is particularly interesting also because it con-
tains a clear rewriting of some passages of the Bible in Byzantine deca­
pentasyllables and therefore constitutes a conscious adaptation of an ear-
lier hypotext.47 Prodromos adapts the biblical text to the style of his time
by using political verse. To modern eyes, the composition technique of the
poem shows remarkable similarities with metaphrastic texts and can be
considered a form of rewriting.48 Taking the word metaphrasis in a broad
sense, and meaning by it a technique rather than a literary genre,49 we can
indeed notice some parallels between the central strophes of the poem
and actual metaphraseis, which denote rewritings of earlier texts where the
same content is kept but is reshaped in a different style and presented in
a new form.50
Within Historical Poem 17, two decasticha in the last part of the compo-
sition are a perfect example of the metaphrastic operation carried out by
the poet. After the long list of quotations from the prophets that shape the

47 On the crucial distinction between an intertextual relationship and rewriting, see Efthymiadis
(2021: 349).
48 The Psalms themselves were a privileged corpus of texts to be rewritten, as testified by the late
antique hexametric metaphrasis attributed to Apollinaris of Laodicea (Faulkner [2020]) and
the rewriting in political verses written by Manuel Philes (Gioffreda and Rhoby [2020]). For a
comparison among these two metaphraseis, see Ricceri (2020).
49 See Lauxtermann (2003–19: 2:227).
50 For theoretical background on the forms of rewriting in premodern literature and relevant
terminology, I refer to the recent introduction by Constantinou (2021: 10–18), with references to
earlier literature on the topic (especially to Genette’s theorization). The terminology used in this
section of the chapter is also based on Signes Codoñer (2014).
 David as Model for the Emperor and his Poet 295
core of the poem, vv. 341–60 open the second of the two long sections of
the poem devoted to David:

Τῶν σῶν δέ, μέγιστε Δαυίδ, κόρον οὐκ ἔχω λόγων,

ἀλλὰ καλῶ καὶ πάλιν σου τὴν ἱερὰν κιθάραν
κιθαρῳδῆσαι τὰ χρηστὰ τῷ Κομνηνῷ δεσπότῃ.
παμβασιλεῦ, τὸ κρῖμα σου τῷ βασιλεῖ μου δίδου
καὶ τὴν δικαιοσύνην σου τῷ βασιλέως τέκνῳ.345
ἐν ταῖς ἡμέραις γὰρ αὐτοῦ πλῆθος ἐστὶν εἰρήνης,
σώσει πτωχοὺς καὶ πένητας καὶ θραύσει συκοφάντας,
πασῶν κρατήσει θαλασσῶν, ἄρξει πασῶν ἠπείρων,
ἔμπροσθεν τούτου πέσωσιν ἄρχοντες Αἰθιόπων,
ἐχθροὶ δὲ τούτου λείξουσι κατὰ τοὺς ὄφεις χῶμα.  350
Ζητῶ τὸ λεῖπον τῆς εὐχῆς τῆς εἰς τὸν βασιλέα,
οὐ γὰρ ἐξετελέσθη σοι, προφῆτα μουσηγέτα.
Θαρσεῖς οἱ βασιλεύοντες, Ἀρράβων οἱ κρατοῦντες,
οἱ κυριεύοντες Σαβᾶ, νήσων οἱ τυραννοῦντες
δῶρα προσοίσουσιν αὐτῷ καὶ φόρους κομιοῦσι,  355
καὶ σύμπαν ἀλαζονικὸν ἔθνος αὐτῷ δουλεύσει,
ἀρθῶσιν ὑπὲρ Λίβανον οἱ τούτου θεῖοι κλάδοι,
καὶ ζήσεται μακραίωνα πανευτυχῶς τὸν βίον,
κἀκ τοῦ χρυσοῦ κομίσουσιν αὐτῷ τῆς Ἀρραβίας.
γένοιτο ταῦτα, γένοιτο τῷ βασιλεῖ, παντάναξ.  360
(Prodromos, Historical Poem 17.341–60)

Utterly great David, I cannot get enough of your words,

but I call again your holy lyre
to sing best wishes to the Komnenian ruler.
King of all, give your judgment to my emperor
and your righteousness to the emperor’s son.  345
For in his days there will be an abundance of peace:
he will save the poor and the needy ones and will shatter the false accusers,
he will rule over all the seas, he will govern all the lands,
whereas the Ethiopian rulers will fall before him,
his enemies will lick the dust like the snakes.  350
I request whatever is missing from the prayer for the emperor,
for it has not been completed by you, prophet conductor of the choir.
The kings of Tharsis, the rulers of the Arabs, the lords of Saba and
the tyrants of the isles
shall offer gifts to him and shall bring tributes,
and all the arrogant barbaric nations shall serve him.  355
His divine offspring has been exalted to a higher point than Lebanon,
and he shall live a very happy long-lasting life.
And they will bring some of the gold of Arabia to him.
So be it, so be it for the emperor, O Lord of all.  360
296 rachele ricceri
The stanza opens with a clear reference to the Komnenian dynasty, to
which the poet is connected with a tie of devotion (vv. 341–3). The poem
becomes an occasion to praise the dynasty, as already noted above.51 After
three lines (vv. 344–6) in which Prodromos addresses David and declares
his affection for the words of the Psalms, the poet quotes extensively from
Psalm 71. The reference to the Psalms makes perfect sense in the context of
a panegyric poem and contributes to the shaping of the image of John as
a good sovereign.52 These quotations are interrupted by the beginning of a
new strophe, which opens with the clear distinction between the emperor
and David, the prophet (vv. 351–2). This opening distich of the strophe
emphasizes that the victory achieved by the emperor will be fuller than the
achievements of the biblical king. The remaining lines of the strophe (vv.
353–60) again paraphrase the second part of Psalm 71, until the very end
of the Psalm.
A synoptic reading of Prodromos’ poem and the biblical text, as pro-
vided in Table 11.1, shows that the poet makes use of these two decasticha
to paraphrase and summarize the text of Psalm 71. The general impression
that one gets from reading these two strophes is indeed that Prodromos
presents in this passage an abridged version of Psalm 71 rewritten in deca­
pentasyllables.
In order to put Psalm 71 in political verse, Prodromos adopts the strate-
gies of abbreviation, transposition and amplification, traditionally under-
stood to have been employed for literary imitation.53 Prodromos imitates
his biblical hypotext and at the same time appropriates it.54 This aspect
of Prodromos’ way of composing a long occasional poem is particularly
meaningful in light of the observation that Byzantine rewritings are a
prime example of how earlier texts were received and circulated.55 The use
of literary imitation does not affect the innovative character of Prodromos’
composition, but represents for the poet a solid foundation on which he
can build his very poetic eulogy, embedded in a specific occasion.56 In doing
so, Prodromos mixes different adaptation techniques and plays with the

51 See supra, p. 290–1.

52 On this topic, see Hörandner (2009: 111–12) with more parallels from Prodromos’ poetic production.
53 See Genette (1982), Roberts (1985: 3). A thorough overview of the terminology formulated to
discuss rewriting is to be found in Constantinou (2021: 10–18).
54 On the concept of appropriation applied to Byzantine metrical metaphraseis, see Ricceri (2020:
224–6), with further bibliography.
55 See Efthymiadis (2020: 359).
56 On the relationship between imitation and creativity, see Hunger (1969/70: 17) and, more recently,
Nilsson (2010: 196).
 David as Model for the Emperor and his Poet 297
Table 11.1 Comparison of Prodromos, Historical Poem 17 and Psalm 71

Historical Poem 17.344–60 Psalm 71 (selected passages)a

παμβασιλεῦ, τὸ κρῖμα σου τῷ βασιλεῖ μου (1) Ὁ θεός, τὸ κρίμα σου τῷ βασιλεῖ δὸς
δίδου
καὶ τὴν δικαιοσύνην σου τῷ βασιλέως καὶ τὴν δικαιοσύνην σου τῷ υἱῷ τοῦ
τέκνῳ. (345) βασιλέως
ἐν ταῖς ἡμέραις γὰρ αὐτοῦ πλῆθος ἐστὶν (7) ἀνατελεῖ ἐν ταῖς ἡμέραις αὐτοῦ
εἰρήνης, δικαιοσύνη καὶ πλῆθος εἰρήνης ἕως οὗ
ἀνταναιρεθῇ ἡ σελήνη.
σώσει πτωχοὺς καὶ πένητας καὶ θραύσει (4) κρινεῖ τοὺς πτωχοὺς τοῦ λαοῦ καὶ σώσει
συκοφάντας, τοὺς υἱοὺς τῶν πενήτων καὶ ταπεινώσει
συκοφάντην
πασῶν κρατήσει θαλασσῶν, ἄρξει πασῶν (8) καὶ κατακυριεύσει ἀπὸ θαλάσσης ἕως
ἠπείρων, θαλάσσης καὶ ἀπὸ ποταμοῦ ἕως περάτων
τῆς οἰκουμένης.
ἔμπροσθεν τούτου πέσωσιν ἄρχοντες (9) ἐνώπιον αὐτοῦ προπεσοῦνται Αἰθίοπες,
Αἰθιόπων, καὶ οἱ ἐχθροὶ αὐτοῦ χοῦν λείξουσιν·
ἐχθροὶ δὲ τούτου λείξουσι κατὰ τοὺς ὄφεις
χῶμα. (350)
Ζητῶ τὸ λεῖπον τῆς εὐχῆς τῆς εἰς τὸν …
βασιλέα,
οὐ γὰρ ἐξετελέσθη σοι, προφῆτα
μουσηγέτα.
Θαρσεῖς οἱ βασιλεύοντες, Ἀρράβων οἱ (10) βασιλεῖς Θαρσις καὶ αἱ νῆσοι δῶρα
κρατοῦντες, προσοίσουσιν, βασιλεῖς Ἀράβων καὶ Σαβα
δῶρα προσάξουσιν·
οἱ κυριεύοντες Σαβᾶ, νήσων οἱ τυραννοῦντες (11) καὶ προσκυνήσουσιν αὐτῷ πάντες οἱ
βασιλεῖς, πάντα τὰ ἔθνη δουλεύσουσιν
δῶρα προσοίσουσιν αὐτῷ καὶ φόρους αὐτῷ.
κομιοῦσι, (355)
καὶ σύμπαν ἀλαζονικὸν ἔθνος αὐτῷ
δουλεύσει,
ἀρθῶσιν ὑπὲρ Λίβανον οἱ τούτου θεῖοι (16) … ὑπεραρθήσεται ὑπὲρ τὸν Λίβανον ὁ
κλάδοι, καρπὸς αὐτοῦ, καὶ ἐξανθήσουσιν ἐκ πόλεως
ὡσεὶ χόρτος τῆς γῆς.
καὶ ζήσεται μακραίωνα πανευτυχῶς τὸν (15) καὶ ζήσεται, καὶ δοθήσεται αὐτῷ ἐκ τοῦ
βίον, χρυσίου τῆς Ἀραβίας, καὶ προσεύξονται
κἀκ τοῦ χρυσοῦ κομίσουσιν αὐτῷ τῆς περὶ αὐτοῦ διὰ παντός, ὅλην τὴν ἡμέραν
Ἀρραβίας. εὐλογήσουσιν αὐτόν.
(19) καὶ εὐλογητὸν τὸ ὄνομα τῆς δόξης
αὐτοῦ εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα καὶ εἰς τὸν αἰῶνα τοῦ
γένοιτο ταῦτα, γένοιτο τῷ βασιλεῖ, αἰῶνος, καὶ πληρωθήσεται τῆς δόξης αὐτοῦ
παντάναξ. (360) πᾶσα ἡ γῆ. γένοιτο γένοιτο.
a
(1) O God, give the King your judgment and your justice to his son, to judge your people with justice
and the poor in right judgment. (7) In his days the righteous one will grow, as will the abundance of
peace until the moon is no more. (4) He will judge the poor of the people and save the sons of the needy
and humble the extortioner. (8) And he shall exercise dominion from sea to sea and from rivers to the
world’s limits. (9) Before him Ethiopians will fall down, and his enemies will lick dust. (10) The kings of
Tharsis and the islands will offer tribute; the kings of Arabia and Saba will bring gifts; (11) all the kings of
the earth will adore him, all nations will serve him. (16) … its fruit will surpass Lebanon, and they will
blossom forth from a city like the grass of the field. (15) And he shall live long, and there will be given to
him of the gold of Arabia. And they will pray for him continually; all day long they will bless him. (19)
And blessed be the name of his glory for ever and ever, and the whole earth will be filled with his glory.
May it be; may it be. (trans. after Pietersma 2000)
298 rachele ricceri
different possibilities offered by the practice of literary imitation.57 In some
passages, the poet chooses to adhere faithfully to the biblical text, as in vv.
347–8, which reproduce Ps. 71.1 almost verbatim. It is not a coincidence
that the incipit of the quotation sticks to the incipit of the hypotext, so
that the allusion is unmistakably recognizable from the very beginning of
the citation, and in a way legitimizes Prodromos’ text. However, the verses
that follow do not entirely reflect the order of the biblical verses quoted,
which Prodromos also handles quite freely in terms of their meaning,58 so
that what we are dealing with here is an example of literary transposition.
In the passage under consideration some verses of the Psalms are lack-
ing, in rhetorical terms an abbreviation of the source. More specifically,
the poet skips some portions of the biblical verses he quotes, as in v. 349,
based on Ps. 71.7, in which Prodromos omits the reference to the moon.
It is noteworthy, finally, that in some specific contexts the poet expands
the text of the Psalm, using so-called amplification. This is the case with
vv. 353–5, which have Ps. 71.10 as source text. In the biblical verses, the
reference to the foreign rulers who will honour the king is only expressed
by means of the repetition of βασιλεῖς (‘kings’) twice. Prodromos elabo-
rates on the hypotext by using four synonyms (vv. 533–4: βασιλεύοντες,
‘kings’; κρατοῦντες, ‘rulers’; κυριεύοντες, ‘lords’; τυραννοῦντες, ‘tyrants’).
Not only is this stylistic choice an elegant example of variatio, but it also
underlines the vastness of the triumph of the emperor, who will defeat
powerful and diverse enemies. By playing with different techniques, the
poet cleverly chooses to underline the elements of the source text that are
most suitable to mark the occasion of the poem.

Conclusions
The close reading of Historical Poem 17 has been particularly enlightening
for at least two reasons, which shed light on typically twelfth-century poetic
strategies related to the particular ways in which biblical exempla were used
to depict the relationship between emperors and poets. It is by now clear
how Prodromos in this long composition combines his background as a
teacher and the typical features of an occasional poem (related to his func-
tion as a court poet).59 The figure of David, in this example of twelfth-cen-

57 On the intellectual value of literary imitation in Byzantine literature, see Nilsson (2010: 198–201).
58 See Hörandner (1974: 286).
59 The interesting compresence of these two aspects in Prodromos’ poetry has been pointed out by
Zagklas (2023: 42).
 David as Model for the Emperor and his Poet 299
tury learned poetry, is a model both for the emperor and for the poet. The
eulogy of the ruler is intertwined with the systematic reuse of biblical mate-
rial in a poetic shape. The imperial ideology is conveyed by the allusion
to suitable Old Testament exempla, but at the same time the emperor and
Constantinople itself are asked to learn from these prophets (by means of
the verb εὐαγγελίζομαι, ‘to preach the gospel’, in vv. 82 and 123).
The poem’s didactic thrust ties in with a general revival of interest in
biblical exegesis in twelfth-century Constantinople. Moreover, Historical
Poem 17 highlights the prominent role of Prodromos as a court poet, and is
a convenient case study that reflects personal dynamics in the twelfth-cen-
tury intellectual context. Prodromos customarily presents himself as the
one who gives voice to the emperor’s victories and explicitly links his poem
to present events. However, it is noteworthy that the core of the poem is
built as a literary play. Theodore Prodromos complies with his function
of court poet by praising and teaching, and he presents himself as the one
who has to serve his patron. At the same time, by describing himself as the
new Forerunner, mirroring John the Baptist, he presents himself as open-
ing the way to the new David and new Christ.
Besides the humility that the poet is accustomed to profess and the
panegyric character necessary to this kind of composition, the centrality
of David in Historical Poem 17 results in an interesting insight into the
personality of the poet and his relationship with the emperor. The bibli-
cal poet-king, thanks to his twofold nature, is not only an inspiration in
different ways both for Theodore and for John, but he also represents a
perfect alter ego for both of them, depending on the level on which the
text is read. The figure of David is depicted as a node that interconnects
the emperor and the poet, who need each other as complementary parts
of a broader picture.
The refined choice of Prodromos to arrange this poem as a metaphrastic
patchwork, a poetic rewriting of selected passages of biblical poetry, gives
us a glimpse into a specific aspect of the reception of the biblical text,
which is an inevitable reference point for both the poet and the emperor.
The former holds the Bible as a literary model and can creatively handle
it; the latter is contrasted to prominent biblical models and is dignified
by means of these comparisons. The analysis of the biblical hypotext as
a literary source, moreover, has provided new insight into the role that
the biblical text could possibly play within Byzantine authors’ canonical
reference system. The study of the Bible as a stylistic and literary model is
a promising field of investigation to advance our understanding of inter-
textuality in Byzantine texts, beyond the boundaries of classical models.
300 rachele ricceri
The constant presence of David, in his double nature of king and poet,
assures the achievement of a balanced composition: John II Komnenos
indeed receives the ample and articulate eulogy that is expected to be deliv-
ered, while Prodromos at the same time highlights his own role by means
of the identification with one of the most iconic archetypes of the poet that
Byzantine writers could evoke.

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(1996) ‘Nugae epigrammaticae’, in Philellēn: Studies in Honour of Robert
Browning, ed. C. N. Constantinides, N. M. Panagiotakes, E. M. Jeffreys and
A. D. Angelou, 107–16. Venice.
(2003) ‘Court Poetry: Questions of Motifs, Structure and Function’, in Rhetoric
in Byzantium: Papers from the Thirty-Fifth Spring Symposium of Byzantine
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(2009) ‘Les conceptions du bon souverain dans la poésie byzantine’, in
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Lauxtermann, M. D. (2003–19) Byzantine Poetry from Pisides to Geometres: Texts
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 Part IV
New Texts, New Interpretations
 CH APTER 12

Manganeios Prodromos
His Life and Writings
†Elizabeth Jeffreys and Michael Jeffreys

The work of ‘Manganeios Prodromos’, perhaps the last significant poet

from the twelfth century whose work still remains to be fully edited,1 was
for long subsumed within that of Theodore Prodromos. Since the early
twentieth century, however, his verse has been ascribed to an otherwise
unidentified poet from mid-twelfth-century Constantinople who wrote
for the emperor Manuel and members of the aristocracy, in particular for
the sebastokratorissa Irene and her children.2 Most of his surviving poetry
is more or less datable between 1142 and 1159. Nothing composed in prose
has yet been attributed to him. This chapter offers a survey of some basic
information on this poet’s life and writings and concludes with an anno-
tated edition of MP 15 as an example of how his verse might be presented
to readers today.3

Name
In the manuscripts an authorial name is barely mentioned: the poems are
regularly ascribed ‘To the same’ or preserved anonymously. In two manu-
scripts, however, the poet is named in the heading to MP 1 as ‘kyr Theo-
dore Prodromos’. But, although there are similarities in their careers and
their lifetimes largely coincide, it has long been clear that this poet cannot

1 The long-promised edition by Elizabeth and Michael Jeffreys proceeds, albeit slowly. This
contribution to the present volume is an earnest of the Jeffreys’ good intentions.
2 Papademetriou (1903), who successfully argued against the thought that the corpus was produced
by more than one poet. The question of poets named Prodromos, hotly debated c. 1900 by
e.g. Chatzidakis (1897) and Kurtz (1901), (1907), and revived in the 1970s and 1980s by e.g.
Bernardinello (1972), Kazhdan and Franklin (1984: 87–114) and Alexiou (1986), currently focuses
on the authorship of the Prochoprodromic poems; see Zagklas (2023: 3–5).
3 In A and V; for details on the manuscripts, see below. Poems are cited in this chapter by the
abbreviation MP followed by poem and line number; the poem numbering, which is that of the
forthcoming edition, follows the catalogue entry to Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. XI.
22 [Diktyon 70658; hereafter M] in Mioni (1970: 116–31).

305
306 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
be Theodore Prodromos, not least because of the reference in MP 37.27–47
to Theodore as a recently dead colleague.4 More generally Theodore Pro-
dromos had a career as a teacher while there is no sign of this in Man-
ganeios’ work; Manganeios was deeply involved with the sebastokratorissa
Irene and her family while Theodore’s connection was limited; Theodore
was a versatile writer who explored many styles and subjects in both prose
and verse while there is no evidence that Manganeios ventured beyond
‘occasional’ verse and epigrams, using two metres only (though the haz-
ards of transmission may be to blame for this). However, it is possible that
Manganeios’ family name was Prodromos: the title to MP 61 in Venice,
Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. XI.22 exceptionally refers to the author
as ‘Prodromos’, a name supported in MP 12.26 where the poet, one of sev-
eral celebrating the imminent birth of Manuel’s first child, claims to ‘cry
out with my Prodromic voice’.5 There is no indication in the poems of his
baptismal name. For convenience he has come to be known as Manganeios
Prodromos, because of his persistent quest in later life for admission to the
Mangana adelphaton, as indicated below.6

Manuscripts and Manuscript Relationships

There are five manuscript witnesses to Manganeios’ corpus, referred to in
the forthcoming edition with the sigla M, V, A, D, P (in chronological
order).
M: Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. XI.22 (coll. 1235) [Dik-
tyon 70658]; late thirteenth century.7 This contains a collection of rhe-
torical texts from the twelfth century compiled almost certainly in Con-
stantinople. Water-stained throughout but remaining legible, 144 of
Manganeios’ 148 surviving poems appear on fols 1–87 in a small, neat but
as yet unidentified hand (Giacomelli’s Scribe A); the lack of annotations in
this section makes it unlikely to have been used in teaching. From Miller’s
transcription in P (see below) it is clear that by the mid-nineteenth century
M had already lost folios after fols. 29v, 76v and 82v; fol. 68 was lost subse-
quently. Mid-page lacunas on fols. 21r and 61r and the lack of poem titles

4 Papademetriou (1903: 112–19, 147); Hörandner (1967), (1974: 21–2) and (1975); Magdalino (1993:
440).
5 MP 12.26: καὶ τῇ προδρόμῳ μου φωνῇ κἀγὼ συνανακράξω.
6 Papademetriou (1903: 151), Bernardinello (1972).
7 The description in Mioni (1970: 116–31) and the supplementary bibliography of editions in
Magdalino (1993: 494–500) are now superseded by the comprehensive account in Giacomelli
(2020); cf. Zorzi (2020).
 Manganeios Prodromos 307
on fols. 44, 59 and 63 suggest that M’s exemplar was defective. Manganeios’
texts are presented in two groups: texts in fifteen-syllable verse followed by
those in twelve-syllables; exceptionally MP 20, a long narrative poem in
twelve-syllables, appears on fol. 30r amidst the fifteen-syllables. The poems
are loosely arranged hierarchically by addressee and topic (emperor fol-
lowed by members of the aristocracy, then by secular ceremony and reli-
gious dedications). The scribe’s orthography and syntax are usually correct.8
The second half of the manuscript, fols. 91r–189v, contains a rich collection
of twelfth-century rhetorical texts, copied for the most part by the scribe
(Giacomelli’s Scribe C) who is also responsible for much of Vienna, Öster-
reichische Nationalbibliothek, phil. gr. 321, that is, ms V for Manganeios.
V: Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, phil. gr. 321 [Diktyon
71435]; late thirteenth-century.9 Like M, this is a collection of rhetorical
texts, in this case arguably compiled for teaching purposes. Agapitos and
Angelov have argued that the compiler and scribe was Manuel Holobolos,
working on the manuscript between 1267 and 1273:10 the case is tempting
but palaeographically unconvincing. Acquired by Augerius von Busbeck
when in Constantinople between 1555 and 1562,11 it was already then bound
in its present form. MP 1 and 2, and the title only of MP 21, are found
on fols. 306r–308v, attributed to Theodore Prodromos; an indeterminate
number of folios are missing after 308v. As noted above, the main scribe of
this manuscript was also involved with the copying of Marcianus graecus
XI.22, though not the section covering Manganeios Prodromos.
A: Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana, gr. O 94 (592) [Diktyon 43068];
before 1440.12 Eighteen of Manganeios’ poems are found on fols. 1r–38v, all
in fifteen-syllable verse, riddled with iotacisms and attributed to Theodore
Prodromos; four (MP 145–8), apart from a few lines in manuscript D (see
below), are not found in any other manuscript. The sequence of poems
in A does not correspond to that in M and many passages are omitted in
comparison with M. The rest of the manuscript is taken up with extracts
from the Oneirocriticon.13

8 Sideras (2010: 63) concludes, after a comparison of texts by Gregory Antiochos in M and El
Escorial, Real Biblioteca, Y-II-10 [Diktyon 15478], that, while the scribes were both competent, the
scribe of M produced a greater number of erratic forms.
9 Hunger (1961: 409–18). Digitized image: http://data.onb.ac.at/rec/AL00116655. We would like to
acknowledge with gratitude that the late Wolfram Hörandner very kindly many years ago sent us
an excellent photocopy of this manuscript.
10 Agapitos and Angelov (2019: 60).
11 Gastgeber (2020: 153–4).
12 Martini and Bassi (1906: 682–5).
13 Mavroudi (2002: 109).
308 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
D: Athos, Dionysiou 263 (3797) [Diktyon 20231]; late seventeenth
century.14 This varied collection of patristic and ecclesiastical material was
probably created to restock the monastery library following a fire. On fols.
184r–186r it includes unattributed extracts from Manganeios Prodromos:
all of MP 44, and MP 129, 130, 133, 137 taken from the sequence of MP
129–44, and also MP 147.2–23 (found only in A, in a fuller version).15
P: Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Suppl. gr. 1219, fols. 1–567
[Diktyon 53884]; mid-nineteenth century.16 This contains a transcription
of M made by the Academician E. Miller (1810–86) for the volumes on
the Greek historians in the Recueil des historiens des Croisades (1881) and
provides the basis for Miller’s extensive quotations from Manganeios in his
annotations. P is the sole witness to MP 57–9 which were on M’s now lost
fol. 68 and is a useful witness to M in areas where that manuscript is now
less legible than in the mid-nineteenth century.
To sum up, of the 148 poems and 17,236 lines that make up the surviving
corpus of Manganeios’ work, all but 4 poems and 141 lines are preserved
in M. Eighteen poems (including the four not in M) and 1,844 lines are
to be found in A;17 480 lines, two poems and a title in V; 208 lines in one
poem and extracts from five others in D. However, no poem is found in
all four witnesses and only two are in three (MP 1 in AMV and MP 44 in
ADM). P is Miller’s apograph of M, and as such (as noted above) is worth
consulting. M, which preserves the bulk of MP’s surviving corpus, is inev-
itably the foundation for any critical edition of these poems.
There are regrettably few points on which to draw conclusions about the
stemmatic relationship of these manuscripts since so few poems are pre-
served in more than one manuscript and most items that could be recorded
in the textual apparatus are due to A’s loose scribal practices. That AMV
derive from a common archetype18 is suggested by a two-line lacuna in MP
1 in the stanza beginning at MP 1.171 where the stanza, regularly consisting
of ten lines in this poem, here consists of only eight. The clearest indica-
tion that M’s antecedents may be distinct from those of AV comes in MP
1.195 where M’s μηδεύματα is contextually stronger than AV’s βουλεύματα.
There is however no other case of agreement of AV against M and no case
in MP 1 where a reading of AM or MV is to be corrected from the third

14 Lampros (1895: 387–9).

15 Van Deun (2000: xxxvi), Kenens and Van Deun (2014: 115–18). We thank Professor Van Deun for
generously providing us with images of this manuscript.
16 Astruc and Concasty (1960: 381–2).
17 MP 1, 14, 22, 27, 28, 30, 40, 43, 44, 45, 47, 61, 62, 64, 145, 146, 147, 148.
18 Hörandner (1967: 94) and (1975: 96 n. 4).
 Manganeios Prodromos 309
witness.19 The fact that A preserves four poems not found in M, portions of
one of which are to be found in D, suggests that more than one exemplar
of the corpus was originally in circulation.
D is part of a large late anthology of mainly theological material; the
small number of verses taken from MP focusses selectively on moral issues.
Independence from M is shown by the lack of M’s titles to MP 129, 130,
133 and 137 but more significantly by lines from MP 147, a poem present in
A but not M, raising the unprovable possibility of D’s connection with a
manuscript descended from A or an antecedent of A. None of D’s readings
have independent value.
The overall agreement in wording in the four manuscripts A, D, M
and V and the lack of a consistent pattern of errors indicate that they
derive independently from a common archetype. The ordering of poems
by dedicatee and subject in M suggests that this may have been a collected
‘edition’, whether authorially planned or not, which subsequently lost its
title page.

Transmission
As a result of recent work by Zorzi and Giacomelli a tortuous, but not
unprecedented, trajectory can be traced for Marcianus graecus XI.22 (=
manuscript M for Manganeios), or for an apograph of its distinctive con-
tents of which there is otherwise no trace yet discovered.20 A manuscript
with contents corresponding to Marcianus graecus XI.22 is recorded in
Italy in the library of Pico della Mirandola (1463–94), then in that of Car-
dinal Grimani (1461–1523), who bequeathed his books to the monastery
of S. Antonio di Castello. At some point in the seventeenth century the
holdings of this library were dispersed following a fire. Marcianus graecus
XI.22 made its way to Crete and the metochion in Candia of St Catherine’s
of Sinai, whose possession mark is on fol. 1r.21 It was subsequently acquired
by Bernardo Nani (1712–61) and Giacomo Nani (1725–97), possibly in the
Ionian islands.22 The books collected by the Nani brothers were left to the
San Marco library in 1797.23

19 At MP 1.78, contra Hörandner (1975: 96 n. 4), the article is to be resolved in V as well as in A and
M as τῆς, and then corrected to τὰς.
20 Zorzi (2020), Giacomelli (2020).
21 Zorzi (2020: 328–32); St Catherine’s also had a metochion on Zakynthos, discussed at length in
Zorzi (2020).
22 Zorzi (2020: 316–17).
23 Zorzi (2020: 328, n. 82) and especially Giacomelli (2020: ‘Provenienz’).
310 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
The other surviving witnesses to MP’s text offer fewer excitements. The
moralizing excerpts from Manganeios’ work in Athos, Dionysiou 263 (=
D), however, suggest – as indicated above – that other copies of the texts,
whether complete or partial, were in circulation. Intriguingly Poem 7 of
George Amiroutzes (d. after 1469), which celebrates Mehmed II’s military
triumphs, uses lines derived from MP 24. Given that Amiroutzes’ poem
is known only from Istanbul, Topkapi Sarayi, G. 1. 39 [Diktyon 33985], a
possible source for Amiroutzes’ awareness of MP’s work could be the now
defective Vienna, phil. gr. 321 (i.e. manuscript V for Manganeios) which
was in Constantinople until 1562.24

Previous Editions
The writings of Theodore Prodromos were admired in his lifetime and
during the Palaiologan literary revival; they also received much attention
when Western scholars explored later writings in Greek as can be seen in
the prominence given him by Allatius (1586–1669),25 Du Cange (1610–
88),26 Fabricius (1668–1736)27 or La Porte du Theil (1742–1815),28 as well as
in the early printing of some of his religious epigrams.29 Theodore had also
acquired in the manuscripts an extra element to his persona with the fre-
quently used epithet ‘Ptochoprodomos’.30 However, Manganeios’ poems
had languished unnoticed – unsurprisingly since the main manuscript in
which they are preserved, and in which they are attributed to Theodore,
followed a circuitous and unobtrusive route round Italian and Ottoman
territories before coming to rest in Venice as part of the Nani family’s col-
lection of antiquities. The Greek manuscripts from this collection were
bequeathed to the Marciana Library in 1797. Mingarelli’s catalogue of the
Nani manuscripts had been published in 1784, with a full description.
There Mingarelli queried whether the anonymous author of the poems on
fols. 1–87 of what became Marcianus graecus XI.22 (but at that time was
Nanianus 281) might be John Italos.31

24 On the date and context of Istanbul, Topkapi Sarayi, G. 1. 39 (containing Aristotle’s Parva naturalia)
and Amiroutzes’ involvement with Mehmed, see Reinsch (1985) and (2020: 112–13); on Amiroutzes’
Poem 7, see Janssens and Van Deun (2004: 319–24).
25 Migne (1864: 1003–16).
26 Ducange (1688: passim).
27 Fabricius (1705–28: 6:799–803).
28 Migne (1864: 1015).
29 Guntius (1536).
30 Hörandner (1993: 318).
31 Mingarelli (1784: 462, 477).
 Manganeios Prodromos 311
By the time texts had been collected and published for the volumes on the
Greek historians in the monumental Receuil des historiens des Croisades32 this
anonymous author had been subsumed definitively into the name of Theo-
dore Prodromos and was quoted copiously by Miller in the volume of notes
to the Greek historians as Theodore Prodromos ‘in the Venetian manu-
script’ (‘cod. Ven.’).33 While many of Manganeios’ poems are quoted in full,
especially in the Appendix to the volume,34 most were shorn of their rhe-
torical elaborations and often cited only for brief items of lexical or syntac-
tical interest. Miller also published several groups of shorter texts, selected
mainly for their historical interest.35 As a result, much of Manganeios’ work
was made available but in a piecemeal fashion and with no literary context.
More of Manganeios’ writings were put into the public domain by Papa­
demetriou, with several purposes:36 to demonstrate that Manganeios is to be
distinguished from Theodore Prodromos and cannot be identified with any
other poet known from the twelfth century, 37 and also to put more material
before the scholarly public, this time with a focus on the events surrounding
the sebastokratorissa Irene. It is to Papademetriou, who drew attention to
the emphasis on the Mangana adelphaton in the anonymous corpus, that
this Prodromos owes his soubriquet of Manganeios.38 Varzos subsequently
reprinted in his prosopographical studies of the Komnenian elite much
of the material published by Miller and Papademetriou.39 In recent years
clusters of poems on definable topics have been published,40 or studied.41
The extracts from Manganeios’ poems in these works, though more reliably
edited than in Miller’s transcription, are rarely well dated or contextualized:
an edition of the entire corpus remains to be completed.

MP’s Life and Career

Manganeios’ dossier as found in M offers tempting possibilities for the
reconstruction of the temporal and physical circumstances of his life. This

32 The complete series was published by the Académie des inscriptions et belles lettres in 5 series and
16 volumes between 1841 and 1906, with the two volumes on the Greek historians appearing in 1875
and 1881.
33 Miller (1881: passim).
34 Miller (1881: 741–74).
35 Miller (1873), (1883).
36 Papademetriou (1898), (1899) and, most importantly, (1903).
37 See n. 2 above on this controversy.
38 Papademetriou (1903: 151).
39 Varzos (1984).
40 Racz (1941), Bernardinello (1972), E. M. Jeffreys and M. J. Jeffreys (2015).
41 Nunn (1986), E. M. Jeffreys and M. J. Jeffreys (2001), Antonopoulou (2010).
312 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
is, however, dangerous: Manganeios was a practised rhetorician and offers
his work through a variety of personae – obsequious imperial encomiast,
devoted servant of a persecuted princess, the persecuted princess herself,
a rational adviser to obstinate adolescents, reliable purveyor of funerary
commemorations and devotional epigrams, and artful seeker after his own
well-being. Nevertheless, enough of his work can be meshed in with the
record from twelfth-century historical resources to justify the following
paragraphs.42
From scattered comments a shadowy picture emerges of Manganeios’
life and circumstances. He was born in Constantinople, which he regarded
as his homeland (πατρίς) (MP 61, 62). In 1152 or 1153 he declares that he
had been in the service of the sebastokratorissa Irene for twelve years (MP
61.8) and grumbles that his body is collapsing under his advanced age. His
latest poem that can be securely dated is MP 23, recording the wedding in
August 1159 of the sebastokratorissa’s younger son Alexios.43 This suggests
that Manganeios would have been born c. 1100, and would have been a
(probably) slightly younger contemporary of Theodore Prodromos, who
was dead by 1158 (MP 37.27–32).44
There is little indication in his poems of Manganeios’ social status. In
his middle age he makes a puzzling claim, that he had fallen ‘into the
sebastokratorissa’s hands from my mother’s womb’ (MP 61.55) and that he
was an illegally registered bastard who became a citizen (MP 61.9). Did
this imply that he was the orphaned child of a member of Irene’s house-
hold? Or was he a young prisoner of war brought up by her? The case of
John Axouch, former Turkish playmate of the emperor John II and ultim-
ately domestikos of West and East, would provide an illustrious parallel.45
The phrasing makes it less likely that he was an aristocrat’s child sent to
Irene for some sort of training, as had been the experience of a grand-
son of Anna Komnene.46 However, there are also suggestions that he had
at one time been in prosperous circumstances but lost his fortune (MP
3.39–42, 14.18–19, 18.105). His complaints about his physical decrepitude
brought on by age may be genuine, even if exaggerated to tug his spon-
sor’s heartstrings, but his claims to have a speech impediment (MP 6.133,
20.271) are likely to be a modesty topos of literary inadequacy, based on
Isaiah 35.6.

42 See e.g. Miller (1881), Papademetriou (1903), Chalandon (1912), Varzos (1984).
43 Varzos (1984: 2:189, no. 132); E. M. Jeffreys and M. J. Jeffreys (2015: 144–50).
44 Hörandner (1974: 32), E. M. Jeffreys (2012: 6, n. 29).
45 Brand (1989: 4–6, 14–15).
46 Magdalino (1993: 348–9).
 Manganeios Prodromos 313
Manganeios indicates that his education followed the standard path
taken in the twelfth century by those hoping for advancement.47 Under
his parents’ guidance, he began ‘in the midst of the springs of holy letters
| … watered like a plant with drinkable lessons’ (MP 19.67–8), that is, the
usual elementary classes based on the Psalms, but he was later led astray
by the delights of secular literature, especially by Homer (MP 19.73–8);
subsequently he developed rhetorical skills (MP 2.41–4). However, as indi-
cated by his rapid assimilation in public memory to his illustrious putative
namesake, he was not in the forefront of the writers of the mid-twelfth-
century.
As no poem from Manganeios’ surviving corpus can be dated before
1142 (cf. MP 89, 90, 91, 92, 102), everything we know from his work comes
from the last twenty years of his life. There are no indications how he had
used his literary training previously, whether in teaching (like Theodore
Prodromos)48 or in a bureaucratic position (like John Tzetzes).49 It would
seem that it was only when his patrons were from the highest echelons of
the imperial aristocracy that his writings became worth preserving, though
this may be due to the vagaries of transmission. Members of the sebastokra-
torissa’s family could well have had an active role here, as they arguably
did for the lavish manuscripts for the letters and homilies of her spiritual
father James of Kokkinobaphos,50 and for the Grammar that Theodore
Prodromos dedicated to her.51 A twelfth-century manuscript, lavish or oth-
erwise, lies behind Manganeios’ collected poems in the thirteenth-century
Marcianus graecus XI.22. That Manganeios apparently sprang into poetic
activity only in his maturity, and that he wrote only verse, is surely an acci-
dent of textual transmission.
Manganeios does not rail against the folly of attempting a life supported
by literary activity as do Theodore Prodromos and John Tzetzes, though
this must be an element in the poems from his angry and dissatisfied later
years (e.g. MP 18 and 37). He was once fourth in line to present an oration
on a festive occasion held in the emperor’s presence (MP 49.177–202) and
he complained that the emperor ignored his literary efforts (MP 8.211–17,
11.100–3, 15.137–40).
Manganeios was in contact with his literary contemporaries: Michael
Italikos is referred to by name (MP 50.340) while Manganeios shares

47 Markopoulos (2008) offers a useful survey of the standard Byzantine education.

48 Agapitos (2015), Zagklas (2023: 32–42).
49 Nesseris (2014: 1:159–60).
50 Linardou (2018).
51 Spatharakis (1985).
314 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
common themes with Michael Anchialou, Michael the Rhetor and Euthy-
mios Malakes;52 he sympathizes with an unfortunate but unidentifiable
grammatikos (MP 109). His awareness of Theodore Prodromos and his work
is much more obvious: they both wrote for the celebrations at Christmas
1149 (MP 26, cf. ThPr 30), they both wrote laments for Stephanos Konto­
stephanos (MP 60, cf. ThPr 48–51), Manuel Anemas (MP 42, cf. ThPr 54)
and Constantine Kamytzes (MP 63, cf. ThPr 64); however, the soldierly
monk Ioannikios Logaras of MP 115–18 cannot be the learned recipient of
ThPr 61–2. Manganeios frequently followed the genre patterns and even
detailed subjects set by Theodore though inaccuracies in his references to
classical literature indicate that Manganeios was the lesser scholar.53
From parallels between Manganeios’ verse and other contemporary
accounts, notably that of Kinnamos, Manganeios had access to official ver-
sions of striking episodes in military campaigns.54 These episodes include
Manuel’s wounded heel in the retreat from Ikonion in 1146 (MP 25.23–36,
cf. Kinn. p. 62), his single-handed combat against the Turks (MP 25.35, cf.
Kinn. pp. 49, 50–1) and at the river Tara in 1150 (MP 27, Kinn. pp. 111–12),
Manuel crossing the Danube in a small boat (MP 1.81–100 and 2.11–20,
Kinn. p. 117), the humiliation of Rainauld of Chatillon (MP 9, Kinn. pp.
181–3). Though no match for Tzetzes in vehemence,55 Manganeios could
be pugnaciously defensive over his work, as in his spat with a certain Leo
(MP 38, 39) on Manganeios’ use of the word thermourgos in an encomium
on Manuel’s campaigns of 1150 (MP 2.19).

MP’s Work and Patrons

The bulk of Manganeios’ work was directed to two patrons, the emperor
Manuel (c. 7,590 lines of verse) and the sebastokratorissa Irene with mem-
bers of her family (c. 6,850 lines); the remaining c. 2,640 lines have a var-
iety of originating causes. Almost everything that Manganeios wrote can
be classed as ‘occasional’ poetry, that is, poetry written to celebrate or com-
memorate a particular occasion or event.56 The poems would have been
written either in response to a commission or in the hope of gaining one
or some other advantage.

52 Magdalino (1993: 470, n. 207).

53 See MP 1.131 and 161, 4.736, 8.429, 13.83, 24.151.
54 M. J. Jeffreys (2010).
55 M. J. Jeffreys (1974: 149–50), Agapitos (2017).
56 Baldick (2008: s.v. occasional verse), Nilsson (2021: 4–15).
 Manganeios Prodromos 315
Manganeios’ poems for Manuel range from brief insults hurled at defeated
enemies (e.g. MP 26, 31) through narratives of campaigns (e.g. MP 1, 2,
20) to lengthy encomia of the virtues exhibited by the victorious emperor
(e.g. MP 4). Material of this sort during the reign of John II had largely
been written by Theodore Prodromos. After the accession of Manuel, The-
odore’s contributions stopped, whether as a result of illness or because he
had lost favour; meanwhile Manganeios was writing for his second patron,
Irene. The earliest indication that Manganeios had attracted Manuel’s offi-
cial attention comes in his celebration of the campaign against Ikonion in
1146 (MP 25). There followed poems marking the drama of the passage of
the Second Crusade, especially the German contingent (1147–9) (MP 20,
22, 24, 47, 55, 72). Manuel’s frenetic military activities in Serbia and Hun-
gary in 1149 and 1150 brought a sequence of long congratulatory poems
from Manganeios (MP 1, 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, 26, 28, 31), which were probably
presented in the company of several other orators. In 1149 this series of
poems by MP was suddenly broken by a celebratory poem from Theodore
put in the mouths of the ‘demes’, a regular pattern from Theodore’s past
under John II.57 Events after 1150 are confused with Manganeios recording
enthusiastically two mysterious sea-battles against Sicilian forces (MP 4, 6,
28). Manganeios’ last set of formal encomia for a military campaign comes
in connection with Manuel’s Cilician expedition of 1158–9 (MP 8, 9, 10,
34, 35). Several earlier poems welcome the birth of Manuel’s daughter in
1152/3 (MP 12, 13, 17, 29). A further set, starting c. 1152, initiates the series
which has led to Manganeios’ current name as he implored both his major
patrons, initially the sebatokratorissa and then the emperor, to implement
his attachment to the adelphaton at the Mangana monastery (MP 4, 5, 11,
14, 16, 18, 19, 30, 36, 37, 40, 61, 62); this narrative sequence, often treated
as an easy entry into dating issues for the corpus, is probably among the
most difficult to put in order.
Mingled with the grandiloquent rhetoric of imperial ideology are occa-
sional skittish references to Manuel’s amatory reputation (MP 4.535–
99, 790–804, 30.49–56). Using the full panoply of imperial panegyric
employed by Theodore for John II, Manganeios adds fulsome praise of
Manuel as young, innovative, and a second David. The whole programme
of imperial encomia is well discussed by Magdalino.58

57 Hörandner (1974: no. 30, and shorter hymns, nos. 31–3).

58 Magdalino (1993: 413–54). On both emperor and poet as a new David in the work of Theodore
Prodromos, see also Ricceri in this volume.
316 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
Writers at this time made themselves known by presenting their work
in a theatron, that is, to an interested audience of fellow-practitioners and
potential patrons. In MP’s case the theatron would have been that of his
other major patron, the sebastokratorissa Irene;59 from effusive compliments
for her learning and generosity, this is generally assumed to have attracted
writers such as Theodore Prodromos, John Tzetzes and Constantine
Manasses.60 However, while this group produced extensive narratives and
semi-scholarly compositions for Irene, Manganeios’ poems for her, written
between her widowhood in 1142 and her death in c. 1153, are instigated by
aspects of her family and domestic circumstances which had led to a per-
ceived need for advice and support. Outright praise of her qualities – as in
MP 102 – is the smallest element in Manganeios’ verse for her; rather he
presents her circumstances to earthly and celestial authorities, on both pri-
vate or public occasions, in order to generate sympathetic responses to her
claims of ill-treatment. His poems offer a frustratingly piecemeal, though
at times intimate, personal narrative of Irene’s numerous problems in the
turbulent 1140s.61
There are several threads. Manganeios offers consolation as she faces the
emperor’s hostility (e.g. MP 43, 47, 50, 58, 66, 71, 74). He exhorts her to
trust in the Theotokos when he composes verse to accompany the votive
offerings made on behalf of herself or family members (e.g. MP 93, 94
when her son John was severely wounded in a tournament); most of these
poems are brief epigrams intended for inscription on the votive objects
themselves. Other reflective verses, frequently accompanying offerings of
incense and candles, are to be read out during a service (as ‘metrical pref-
aces’ to a scriptural reading) in churches dedicated to the Theotokos (MP
67–74).
Some poems connected with Irene’s family members are cheerful, such
as MP 21 on the wedding of her son John (although it is apparent that Irene
herself is not part of the scene) and MP 24, which celebrates her daughter
Theodora’s diplomatic marriage to the Austrian Heinrich. Many are tense,
with an extreme in Irene’s desperation at the removal of her youngest child
for military training (MP 47) and her revelation that Theodora’s marriage
had caused her mother great personal grief.
Though Manganeios can address Irene as a philological Muse (MP 51.166,
cf. 147.28), there is very little sign that under the welter of ­tribulations

59 Magdalino (1993: 348–53).

60 E. M. Jeffreys (2011–12: 191–3), Nilsson (2021: 13–20).
61 Papademetriou (1903), Varzos (1984: 1:361–79).
 Manganeios Prodromos 317
afflicting her Irene has any time for literary interests: the reading that Man-
ganeios recommends to her is scriptural (e.g. MP 66.258–9). This suggests
that the peak of Irene’s literary patronage and participation in literary com-
petitions referred to by the monk Jacob62 may have taken place before her
widowhood in 1142.
Despite the mass of words poured out for Irene, Manganeios’ position
in Irene’s household is not clear. Did he survive on occasional handouts of
food and clothing, as hinted at in MP 56 or in the anonymous encomium
in Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. Z. 524 [Diktyon 69995]?63
Was he one of the grammatikoi in her employment with whom Tzetzes
exchanged acerbic letters?64 Was he a steward with responsibility for man-
aging her estates? Towards the end of her life Manganeios’ relations with
Irene were strained: MP 58 is an impassioned defence against accusations
of his financial incompetence and in MP 62 he wishes to be released from
Irene’s service, situations which were presumably factors in his pursuit of
the Mangana adelphaton. MP 58 and 61, datable to 1152/3, were probably
among the last poems Manganeios addressed to Irene before, it must be
assumed, her stormy life came to an end: no poem mourning her overtly
survives.
Dates, with varying degrees of conviction, can be suggested on internal
evidence for a large proportion of the poems written by Manganeios for
the emperor and the sebastokratorissa. In the case of those written for mem-
bers of the Constantinopolitan elite recourse must be had to external his-
torical evidence: poems in this group include funerary laments (e.g. MP
42 (Manuel Anemas), 60 (Stephanos Kontostephanos), 65 (Antiochos), 63
(Kamytzes), 122 (Romanos Straboromanos). Largely undatable are devo-
tional epigrams: for example, MP 75–82 (on the Theotokos for the hegou-
menos of Petra), 83–4 (for the hegoumenos of Philanthropinos), 85–8 (for
John Komnenos [Varzos no. 23] and his church of Christ Euergetes), MP
115–18 (for the monk Ioannikios).
A few poems have no apparent sponsor: for example, MP 44 (On Life),
45 (On Eros), 129–44 (On the marriage of an old man with a young girl).
Others indicate that Manganeios was not impervious to the literary quar-
rels of the time: for example, MP 63–4 and 65 (on composing laments) and
109 (on an unlucky grammatikos).

62 E. M. Jeffreys and M. J. Jeffreys (2009: xxvi).

63 Lampros (1911: no. 57). On the relationship between poets and their patrons, see also Pizzone in this
volume; on patronage and literature, see also Agapitos in this volume.
64 Tzetzes, ep. 43.12 ed. Leone (1972).
318 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
Form
Manganeios uses the two Byzantine metres most commonly employed in
twelfth-century poetry – the twelve-syllable line (also known as the dodeca­
syllable or iambic) and the fifteen-syllable line (the decapentasyllable or
politikos stichos). The twelve-syllable line had developed over a long period
from the ancient iambic trimeter, gradually acquiring special Byzantine
characteristics.65 The fifteen-syllable line was a much newer and more orig-
inal construct based on syllable numbers and stress; this had arisen as a
result of the increasing inability of the average Byzantine to follow metres
based on ancient syllable quantity. The first fifteen-syllable poems which
showed the form in sequences of consecutive verses were from the tenth
century. The metre grew in popularity for special purposes in the eleventh
century and became very widespread in the twelfth. In ms. M the poems
in the two metres are presented separately, apart from the twelve-syllable
MP 20 which appears amidst the fifteen-syllables. MP 6 in fifteen-syllables
includes a passage in twelve-syllables (MP 6.152–202),66 which is marked
in the manuscript with the punctuation that elsewhere indicates a separate
stanza. In this case there are also ornamental capitals at lines 152 and 203
which normally signify a separate poem.
The twelve-syllable line (found in ms. M from fol. 77r = MP 66 onwards)
is used for the most part for epigrams and other poems chiefly on religious
themes, and usually observes the metrical conventions. The fifteen-syllable
line is used for the ceremonial poems as well as more personal topics.
There is little enjambment in Manganeios’ verse, in either metre. Most
of the poems are constructed in sense units of a single line, usually ending
with a punctuation mark,67 combined into large blocks – paragraphs, as it
were – of varying length, which are normally indicated in ms. M with the
colon and dash symbol. MP 1 and 2, written in 1150/1 to celebrate Manuel’s
Balkan victories, are composed as alphabetic acrostics in ten-line stanzas
marked off by the same symbol. Many other fifteen-syllable poems are
marked with stanzas of irregular length.
In both twelve-syllable but especially fifteen-syllable verse Manganeios’
texts employ a large number of devices, both verbal and metrical, which

65 See the chapters by Lauxtermann, Hinterberger and M. J. Jeffreys collected in the first part of
Hörandner, Rhoby and Zagklas (2019: 19–91); Lauxtermann (2019: 267–383). See also Bernard
(2018).
66 On implications of this mixture, see Zagklas (2018: 63–4).
67 The most frequent mark is a middle or low dot; the forthcoming edition has adopted a pragmatic
approach to the much-debated issue of punctuation.
 Manganeios Prodromos 319
ornament their fabric. Most of these may be labelled according to the
standard rhetorical repertoire, valid from antiquity to the present day, such
as alliteration, anaphora (e.g. MP 15.43 Ἀλλ᾿ ὅμως οὕτω καχεκτῶν, ἀλλ᾿
ὅμως οὕτω πάσχων), asyndeton, chiasmus (e.g. MP 15.12 ἐπίσταμαι τὰς
ἀρετάς, τὴν φρόνησιν γινώσκω) and polysyndeton.68 Others are more par-
ticular to medieval fifteen-syllable verse, and even to modern Greek folk
song, where this line with its caesura after the eighth syllable lends itself
to the formation of balanced half-lines (hemistichs) and other types of
rhythmic patterning.69 It is puzzling that ornamentation reminiscent of
learned antiquity can be almost indistinguishable from lines which seem to
look forward to early Modern Greek developments. This is an area which
demands further investigation. We hope that the pattern of codes about to
be described will be helpful in this project.
Wordplay of various types is a frequent element in the patterning of
this verse. There is frequent punning use of similar forms with or without
regard for sense or relevance (e.g. MP 15.33 ῥυτῆρας … ῥυτίδας = code
W01,70 MP 15.146 κερδῷος ἀκερδής, … κερδῴου = code W02). The need
for similar initial syllables and balance gives rise to idiosyncratic use of
prefixes and suffixes (e.g. MP 15.92 παράθες εἰς παραψυχὴν … = W01);
many of the numerous hapax legomena in Manganeios result directly or
indirectly from this practice (e.g. MP 21.46 ἡ παμπρεπὴς καὶ παγκαλλὴς
καὶ πανευγενεστάτη, MP 24.267 Ὡς ἀγλαής, ὡς φωταυγής, ὡς πυραυγὴς
ἐφάνης). The rhetorical patterns are so numerous that it would be impos-
sible to list and explain them all in separate notes, as the late Wolfram
Hörandner has commented for Theodore Prodromos.71 We have decided
to use a code. In the edition of MP 15 that follows, patterns are indi-
cated by a verse number at the foot of the translation (but referring to the
Greek text) through an alphabetical code: e.g. anaphora: J 15.43 Ἀλλ᾿ ὅμως
οὕτω καχεκτῶν, ἀλλ᾿ ὅμως οὕτω πάσχων; chiasmus: E 15.12 ἐπίσταμαι
τὰς ἀρετάς, τὴν φρόνησιν γινώσκω. The code is elucidated briefly under
‘Pattern Codes’ in the Appendix.
A further feature to be noted in connection with Manganeios’ poetic
technique is that he was writing as an insider for insiders, not for people
outside the linguistic and historical framework of his immediate audience.
He used special twelfth-century phrases and references intelligible only

68 Hörandner (1974: 111–18), Lausberg (1960: §600–754).

69 Sifakis (1988), M. J. Jeffreys (2014).
70 See the Appendix (‘Pattern Codes’) for explanations of the terms.
71 Hörandner (1974: 113).
320 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
to an audience of his contemporaries. The allusive nature of much of his
text can be compared to that in a modern popular newspaper writing for
its regular readers. Prominent Byzantines and Byzantine enemies are fre-
quently referenced by allusion, which sometimes would be understood by
most twelfth-century readers and hearers, but in other cases comprehen-
sion would be restricted to those following a more limited story. A further
problem for modern readers is the wide variety of Manganeios’ subject
matter, which makes it unlikely that the poems will be consulted sequen-
tially. With these exceptions, the language of Manganeios is fairly straight-
forward, and will tempt even inexperienced readers of Greek to explore the
texts in the original.
To assist and encourage such attempts, since no extant dictionary will be
of help in many instances, we have drawn up a list of ‘Key Words’, phrases
and topics which we feel may give rise to puzzlement and confusion. This
list will be of little or no help to those who are expert in Greek, but we
hope it may assist those whose expertise lies in other historical periods and
geographical areas.
Thus, at the foot of the pages with the translation there are two layers of
apparatus. The first, headed ‘Pattern Codes’, is experimental and designed
to warn readers that the poet may be writing to produce a verbal pattern
rather than convey precise meaning. The second, headed ‘Key Words’, is
a fairly elementary aid to comprehension. In both cases there is a line
reference and a word or code which sends the reader to further, brief infor-
mation in the Appendix. In both cases this feature is designed to be help-
ful over the whole of Manganeios’ huge corpus but is less effective when
analysing this short poem.

Manganeios Prodromos, Poem 1572

Summary
1–27 The poet respects the emperor and realizes that he wishes the poet to
write a verse text for him, but the poet is old and ill: will his writings have
any effect when presented to the great emperor? 28–56 However, despite
his great physical discomfort, the poet will make an attempt, unclear
whether he is more impressed by the magnitude of Manuel’s problems or

72 Mss. M: Marcianus graecus XI.22, fols. 26r–27r; P: Paris, Suppl. gr. 1219, pp. 155–60. Previous
editions: Miller 1881: 676 (lines 22–4), 214 (lines 31–2), 596 (lines 43–5), 586 (lines 52–4), 595 (lines
74–7, 155–7); Papademetriou (1903): 141–2 (lines 8–13, 31–6, 43–5, 65–88, 132–41, 146–57).
 Manganeios Prodromos 321
the resolution with which he confronts them. 57–73 Indeed, inspired by
Manuel, the poet will rise above his feeble health to the best of his ability.
74–102 The recent incident is merely a setback from which Manuel will
soon recover: he should remember the disasters which have overtaken rul-
ers in the past. 103–23 Even the founder of Constantinople was once in
danger of being sacrificed to the Persian sun-god. 124–31 Manuel should
think of this story as a reminder of God’s benevolence. 132–54 The poet
was hesitant to write for Manuel as many of his previous efforts had been
ignored, but he is willing to try again if this is the emperor’s wish. 155–7
May he reign long and confound his enemies.
322 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
Text
Εἰς τὸν αὐτὸν αὐτοκράτορα στιχουργῆσαι
προστάξαντα73

Οἶδα, πορφυροβλάστητε, τὰ προτερήματά σου· fol. 26r

ἐπίσταμαι τὰς ἀρετάς, τὴν φρόνησιν γινώσκω,
τὴν ὑπερτέραν τῶν λοιπῶν, τὴν ἀρχικὴν ἀνδρείαν,
ἥνπερ καὶ πρώτην λέγουσιν ὡς κρείττονα τῆς ἄλλης
5 τῆς φαινομένης ἐν ἀλκῇ κρατίστων βραχιόνων,
ὁποίαν ὑπὲρ ἅπαντας ηὐτύχησας, μονάρχα·
οὐκ ἀγνοῶ τὸ συνετὸν οὐδὲ τὸ φιλολόγον·
οἶδα ποθεῖς τὸ στιχουργεῖν, ποθεῖς ἐμμέτρους λόγους·
τὸ γὰρ ἐπιπονώτερον προκρίνεις τοῦ ῥᾳδίου.
10 Κἀγὼ πρὸς τοῦτο νύσσομαι, κἂν ἐπιπόνως ἔχῃ,
ἀλλὰ τὸ γῆρας ἔφθασεν, ἀλλ᾿ ἤγγισε τὸ θέρος,
ἀλλ᾿ ἦλθεν ὥρα παρακμῆς, ἀλλ᾿ ἔκλινεν ὁ στάχυς,
κἂν καὶ τὸ πνεῦμα πρόθυμον, ἀλλ᾿ ἀσθενὴς ὁ ῥήτωρ,
κἂν ὁ κινῶν τὴν μουσικὴν ἔτι τὸ πλῆκτρον ἔχῃ,
15 ἀλλ᾿ αἱ χορδαὶ τῆς μουσικῆς οὐκ ἔχουσι τὴν τάσιν·
ἐκλυθεισῶν δὲ τῶν χορδῶν ποῦ χρήσιμον τὸ πλῆκτρον,
ἢ ποῖον ἀνακρούσεται τὸ μέλος ὁ τεχνίτης;
Εἰ δὲ καὶ μέλος ᾄσεται, τίνι μελήσει τούτου;
Ἂν δὲ καὶ πρὸς ἀνίσχοντα καὶ γίγαντα φωσφόρον
20 ἀναβαλεῖται χαλαρόν, ἰσχνόν, ἠσθενημένον,
πρὸς τόσον ὕψος γίγαντος ἀναδραμεῖται πότε;
Πότε τὸν δίφρον φθάσει σου καὶ σὲ τὸν διφρηλάτην,
οὕτω τελοῦντα ταχινὴν τὴν ἁρματηλασίαν,
καὶ πᾶσαν γῆν Αὐσονικὴν κατακτινοβολοῦντα;
25 Ἔχεις γὰρ ἵππους πτερωτοὺς ἀνέμων ταχυτέρους,
τὰς γενικὰς τῶν ἀρετῶν ἐν αἷς προσεπιβαίνεις,
καὶ σωστικὴν ἀποτελεῖς ἡμῖν τὴν ἱππασίαν.
Ὁρᾷς ὁπόσα τὴν ἐμὴν ὁρμὴν ἀναχαιτίζει,
ὁρᾷς, Αὐσόνων ἥλιε, τὰ προσιστάμενά μοι,
30 ἐξ ὧν ἀναχαιτίζομαι, κἂν προθυμῶ, κἂν σπεύδω.
Οὐχ οὕτως ἵππον ταχινὸν κημὸς ἀνασειράζει
ὁπόσον μοι τὸ πρόθυμον ἡ νόσος περικόπτει·

73 The only textual note we wish to make in this poem occurs in the title, where P reads προστάξαντα
and M probably reads the impossible πρόσταξαντα. All other points (ignored in this edition)
would involve our rejection of classical normalization of orthography by Miller and Papademetriou.
 Manganeios Prodromos 323
Translation
To the same emperor, who had ordered him to
compose verse

I know, porphyrogennetos, your excellent qualities,

I perceive your virtues, I recognize your good sense,
which is superior to other qualities, the courage of command,
which they call the first since it is better than the other courage,
which becomes apparent through the might of powerful arms: 5
in possessing this you are more fortunate than all other men, monarch.
I am not unaware of your intellectual qualities, nor of your love of
­literature;
I know you desire verse composition, you desire metrical speeches,
for you prefer the more laborious to the easy.
I too am spurred on towards this, though it is hard work, 10
but old age has come, but harvest time is near,
but the time of decline is at hand, but the corn has drooped,
and though the spirit be willing, yet the rhetor is weak;
though he who plays the music still has his plectrum,
yet the strings of the instrument no longer have their tension; 15
and when the strings are slack, what use is the plectrum,
or what song will the performer strike up?
And if he does sing a melody, who will show interest?
If he sings to a rising celestial light of giant size
a song that is languid, thin and weakened, 20
will it ever reach such gigantic height?
When will it reach your chariot and you the charioteer
as you drive your chariot so swiftly,
and overwhelm with your rays the whole Ausonian land?
For you have winged horses swifter than the winds, 25
the chief virtues on which you mount
and perform for us the horsemanship of salvation.
You see how many things rein in my enthusiasm,
you see, sun of the Ausonians, the task that confronts me,
the restraints by which I am held back, though keen and eager. 30
No bit slows down a swift horse as much
as my enthusiasm is cut off by sickness;
324 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
ἔχω ῥυτῆρας χαλινοῦ τοῦ γήρους τὰς ῥυτίδας,
καὶ τῆς ταλαιπωρίας μου τὴν ψυχροτάτην νάρκην·
35 ἔχω χειμῶνος κρύσταλον τὸν καταψύχοντά με,
τοῦ φλέγματος τὴν κάκωσιν τὴν νῦν ἐπικρατοῦσαν·
τοῦτο δεσμεῖ τὰ γόνατα, ξηραίνει τὰς ἰγνύας,
ἰσχίων ἴσχει σύνδεσμον, οὐ φείδεται τραχήλου,
κακοποιεῖ καὶ τὰς πλευράς, τὴν πτέρναν ἐξορύττει,
40 πτέρναν πολλοὺς πτερνίσασαν καὶ τῶν ὑψηλοτέρων,
καὶ τῶν ἐν κάλλει θαυμαστῶν καὶ τῶν ἀρειμανίων·
κἂν δάκνῃ γὰρ λεγόμενον, οὐκ ἀπαρνοῦμαι τοῦτο.
Ἀλλ᾿ ὅμως οὕτω καχεκτῶν, ἀλλ᾿ ὅμως οὕτω πάσχων, fol. 26v
ἀλλ᾿ οὕτω προσταλαιπωρῶν, ἀλλὰ πυκτεύων οὕτως,
45 πρὸς χάριν σὴν ἐπείγομαι λόγους ἐμμέτρους πλέκειν.
Ἀλλ᾿ ὅταν στρέψω κατὰ νοῦν, ἀλλ᾿ ὅταν ἀποβλέψω
πρὸς τὸ τοσοῦτον πέλαγος τῶν κοσμικῶν φροντίδων
καὶ τὸ περιστοιχίσαν σε τῆς τρικυμίας νέφος,
καὶ τοὺς προβάντας κλύδωνας καὶ τοὺς περισπασμούς σου,
50 ἀποναρκῶ καὶ ψύχομαι καὶ ῥίπτω τὴν γραφίδα.
Εἰ γὰρ ἁρμόζει τἀληθὲς καὶ λέγειν τε καὶ γράφειν,
ὅταν συλλέξω καθ᾿ αὑτόν, ὅταν ἀθρήσω σύμπαν
τὸ συνεχὲς τῶν μεριμνῶν καὶ τὴν ἀλληλουχίαν,
καὶ πρὸς ἀντιπαράθεσιν ἐγγύθεν ἀντιθήσω
55 τὸ πεπηγὸς καὶ σταθηρὸν καὶ μεγαλόψυχόν σου,
ἀμηχανῶν ἐπαπορῶ ποῖον θαυμάσω πλέον.
Ἀλλὰ νικᾷ με, νικητὰ τοσούτων κλυδωνίων,
τὸ βεβηκὸς τοῦ τρόπου σου καὶ τὸ μὴ καταπίπτον·
οὐ μόνον γὰρ τετράγωνον ἐμφαίνεις τὴν ἀρχήν σου,
60 ὡς στερροτάτην πάντοθεν καὶ γύρωθεν ἑδραίαν·
ἀλλὰ καὶ τρίγωνον αὐτὴν πολλάκις ὑπεμφαίνεις,
ὡς καὶ πεσοῦσαν ἵστασθαι καὶ πάλιν ἀντιπίπτειν,
καὶ τοὺς δοκοῦντας μὴ πεσεῖν ἐκπλήττειν ὡς πεσόντας.
Τοῦτο σου τὸ προτέρημα πάλιν ἀνέρρωσέ με,
65 τοῦτο τὸ μεγαλαύχημα πάλιν ἐπτέρωσέ με,
τοῦ σθένους σου τὸ στάσιμον πάλιν ἐστήριξέ με,
καὶ πάλιν φέρω κάλαμον καὶ κάμπτω σκυταλίδας,
καὶ σύμμετρον τὸν ἔμμετρον ἀπόλογον ποιοῦμαι
πρὸς τὴν ἰσχύν μου τὴν σαθράν, ἣν ἤμβλυνεν ὁ χρόνος,
70 καὶ νόσος ἐταπείνωσε καὶ σὺν τῇ νόσῳ σπάνις.
Ἀλλὰ γὰρ πρόσχες τι μικρὸν τῷ δούλῳ ῥήτορί σου,
 Manganeios Prodromos 325
I have as reins for the bridle the wrinkles of old age,
and the icy cold numbness of my affliction;
I have the ice of winter that freezes me, 35
the distress of phlegm which now dominates me.
This binds my knees, it dries out my thighs,
it constrains my hips, it does not spare my throat,
it damages my ribs too, it destroys my heel,
the heel that has tripped up many, even of the more eminent, 40
both those admired for beauty and those frenzied for war;
for even if the comment stings, I will not deny it.
But yet despite being in such a bad state, despite suffering in this way,
despite being in great distress, despite struggling like this,
I make an effort for your sake to compose metrical speeches. 45
But when I contemplate this in my mind, but when I gaze
at this great ocean of universal concerns
and the storm-cloud which surrounds you,
and the rough water that besets you, and your distractions,
I grow numb and am frozen and I throw down my pen. 50
For if it is right both to speak and to write the truth,
when I contemplate the situation, when I consider as a whole
the constant succession of your anxieties,
and for comparison I set beside these
your fixity, firmness and generosity, 55
I am helpless and at a loss which to admire more.
But you vanquish me, you who have vanquished so many storms,
through the steadfastness of your character which does not yield;
for you not only demonstrate that your rule is foursquare,
being firm on all sides and steadfast all around; 60
but you also often prove that it is triangular,
because, when it falls, you stand it up and it still resists
and surprises by the fall of those who thought it would not fall.
This virtue of yours has again restored me,
this great boast has again given me wings, 65
the steadfastness of your strength has again supported me,
and again I pick up my pen and bend my fingers,
and I make a metrical response in proportion
to my feeble strength, which time has blunted
and sickness has humbled, and, with sickness, privation. 70
But pay attention for a moment to your servant and rhetor,
326 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
ναί, πρόσχες, αὐτοκράτορ μου, ναί, πρόσχες μοι, σκηπτοῦχε·
οὐ γὰρ σαθρόν τι λέξει σοι, κἂν καὶ σαθρὸς ὁ ῥήτωρ.
Τὸ πρὸ μικροῦ συνάντημα τὸ προλαβὸν ἐκεῖνο
75 οὐκ ἔδοξε κατόρθωμα τῶν ἀντιτεταγμένων,
οὐδὲ καταστρατήγημα τῶν μηδὲ συμβαλόντων
(χωρὶς γὰρ μάχης καὶ πληγῶν οὐδεὶς κατατροποῦται)
ἀλλὰ τὸ πᾶν ἀπότευγμα παράλογον, τυχαῖον.
Μὴ γοῦν ἐκεῖ πεμπέτωσαν οἱ φλήναφοι τὰς γλώσσας·
80 εἰ γὰρ ἀντισυμβέβληκε τὸ στῖφος τῶν Λατίνων
μετὰ τῆς μοίρας τῆς μικρᾶς τῶν ἀντιταξαμένων,
οὐδὲ τὴν πρώτην εἰσβολὴν ἤνεγκαν ἂν ἐκεῖνοι,
οὐδ᾿ ἀντωπεῖν ἐξίσχυσαν πρὸς τὴν αὐγὴν τοῦ ξίφους,
ἀλλ᾿ οὐδὲ στῆναι κἂν βραχὺ πρὸς τὴν κραυγὴν καὶ μόνην,
85 μή τί γε πρὸς τὴν προσβολὴν ἐκείνων ἀντιστῆναι.
Θάρσει λοιπὸν καὶ πρόβλεπε καὶ σύναγε τὸ μέλλον,
ἀτρύτα μου κατάκοπε, λυχνίτα μου, φωστήρ μου·
κἂν τὸ προφθάσαν νύττῃ σε, κἄν σε λυπῇ τὸ τραῦμα,
ἀλλ᾿ ὅρα καὶ τοὺς μώλωπας τῶν προκεκρατηκότων,
90 καὶ γνῶθι πῶς προσώζεσαν αὐτῶν αἱ σηπεδόνες.
Ἄνοιγε δέλτους παλαιὰς ἀρχαίων συγγραφέων,
παράθες εἰς παραψυχὴν ἱστορικὰς πυκτίδας,
ἐν αἷς εὑρήσεις συμφορῶν πυρίνων Ἰλιάδας,
ἃς δυστυχῶς ὑπήνεγκαν πολλοὶ τῶν στεφηφόρων,
95 καὶ μᾶλλον ὅσοι πρότερον τοῖς πλήθεσιν ἐθάρρουν,
καὶ μυριάδας ἤλαυνον παντοίων στρατευμάτων,
καὶ γῆν ὁμοῦ καὶ θάλατταν καινῶς ἐκαινοτόμουν,
ὑπείκειν θέλοντες αὐτοῖς καὶ τὰ στερρὰ στοιχεῖα·
Δαρεῖος ταῦτα πρότερον καὶ Ξέρξης μετ᾿ ἐκεῖνον,
100 ἐν Θερμοπύλαις ἡττηθείς, ὁ μέγας, ὁ τοσοῦτος
παρ᾿ ἐλαχίστου στρατηγοῦ βελτίστου Λεωνίδου·
ἔτι πρὸς τούτοις ἕτεροι μεγάλοι καὶ δυνάσται.
Ἀλλὰ γὰρ τί τῶν θύραθεν τὰς τύχας ὑπογράφω,
ἀφεὶς τὸν μέγαν πολιστὴν ταύτης τῆς νέας Ῥώμης;
105 Ἔγνως ὁποῖα πέπονθεν ἐκεῖνος, αὐτοκράτωρ,
ἐκεῖνος ὁ περίφημος τῆς Βύζαντος δομήτωρ;
Ἔγνως εἰς ὅσον ἔφθασε τῆς ἀτυχίας λόφον;
Ἔγνως εἰς οἵαν πέπτωκεν ἐσχατιὰν ὀλέθρου;
Οὐκ ἤκουσας τὴν συμφορὰν καὶ τὸν βωμὸν ἐκεῖνον;
110 Εἶδες παρ᾿ ὅσον ἤγγισε ταῖς πύλαις τοῦ θανάτου;
 Manganeios Prodromos 327
yes, pay attention, my emperor, yes, heed me, sceptred ruler:
For, though the rhetor is feeble, he will tell you nothing feeble.
That notable incident which occurred recently
should not be considered an achievement of your adversaries, 75
nor a great stratagem, for they did not even join battle
(for nobody is routed without a battle and wounds)
but the whole failure was beyond reason and accidental.
So the babblers should not waste their talk on that;
for if the band of Latins had engaged 80
the small detachment drawn up against them,
they would not have withstood even the first onslaught,
they would not have been able to face the gleaming sword,
nor even to stand for a moment against the battle-cry alone,
much less to withstand their opponents’ attack. 85
So be heartened and foresee and infer the future,
my indefatigable yet exhausted emperor, my jewel, my celestial light;
though the event annoys you, though the wound gives you pain,
consider the bruisings that befell those who ruled before you,
and learn how they festered and stank.  90
Open the old books of ancient writers,
provide for your consolation codices of history,
in which you will find Iliads of fiery disasters
which many crowned heads had to endure,
especially those who earlier had confidence in multitudes, 95
and drove on countless men in disparate armies,
and made novel innovations on land and sea,
desiring that even the sturdy elements yield to them.
Darius did this first, and after him Xerxes,
the great, the powerful, who was defeated at Thermopylae 100
by an insignificant general, the excellent Leonidas;
other great rulers as well as these met the same fate.
But why should I write of the fates of heathen rulers,
forgetting the great founder of this New Rome?
Do you know, emperor, what suffering he endured, 105
that famous founder of the city of Byzas?
Do you know to what peak of misfortune he reached?
Do you know into what depths of disaster he plunged?
Have you not heard of the disaster and the famous altar?
Did you see how close he came to the gates of death? 110
328 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
Οὐκ ἔμαθες ὡς ἔμελλεν ἐν μέσῃ τῇ Περσίδι
θῦμα γενέσθαι προσδεκτὸν θεῷ Περσῶν ἡλίῳ;
Ἀλλ᾿ εἶδες καὶ τὸν ἥλιον τὸν τῆς δικαιοσύνης
ὅπως ἐπέλαμψεν αὐτῷ καὶ λέλυκε τὸν γνόφον,
115 καὶ πῶς αὐτὸν ἐξείλετο καὶ παρὰ προσδοκίαν
ἐξ ἐπαράτου καὶ φρικτοῦ καὶ χαλεποῦ θανάτου;
Ναί, νέας Ῥώμης ἥλιε, τὴν ἱστορίαν οἶδας,
τῆς συμφορᾶς τὸ μέγεθος ἐπέγνως ἀπὸ ταύτης,
τὸ μεγαλεῖον ἔμαθες τῆς παναλκοῦς ἰσχύος.
120 Ὁ δέσμιος ἐλέλυτο καὶ τῶν Περσῶν ἐκράτει·
ὁ μέλλων δὲ πυρίκαυστος παρὰ μικρὸν γενέσθαι
τοὺς πυρσολάτρας παγγενεὶ κατέκτεινεν ἐν ξίφει,
καὶ πῦρ Περσῶν κατέσβεσεν ἐν τελετῆς ἡμέρᾳ.
Ἀναλογίζου μοι λοιπὸν τὴν ἱστορίαν ταύτην,
125 καὶ φάρμακον λογίζου μοι καὶ τὸ λυποῦν ἐκκένου,
καὶ τὸ προφθάσαν λυπηρὸν ὑπόμνησιν ἡγοῦ μοι,
ἐντεῦθεν ἐπανάγουσαν ἐπὶ τὸν εὐεργέτην,
τὸν χρίσαντά σε πρὸς ἀρχὴν ἀπὸ γαστρὸς μητρός σου.
Τοιαύτην ὑποτίθημι τὴν ὑποθήκην ταύτην,
130 ἀπὸ πολλῶν ἱστοριῶν ἐκτεμμαχίσας μίαν,
παρηγορίας κύλικα τῷ κρατεῖ σου κιρνῶσαν.
Εἰ δὲ κατώκνουν τὴν γραφὴν ἄχρι τῆς νῦν ἡμέρας,
οὐ χρὴ θαυμάζειν οὐδαμῶς· ὡς ἀσθενὴς γὰρ ὤκνουν,
καὶ τὸν καιρὸν ἐμποδιστὴν τῆς στιχουργίας εἶχον,
135 πολλὰ καινοτομήσαντα τῶν μὴ προσδοκωμένων, fol. 27r
καὶ τὸ μοχθεῖν ἐπὶ κενοῖς καὶ τὸ κενοῦν ἱδρῶτας,
ἐφ᾿ οἷς αὐτὸς ἐμόγησα ῥητορικοῖς μου πόνοις,
τὰ σὰ μεγαλουργήματα τὰ πρὶν ὑφηγουμένοις,
ὧν οὐδενὸς μετέσχηκας, οὐ γέγονας εἰδήμων·
140 ἐλογιζόμην δυσαχθὲς καὶ μάταιον φορτίον.
Τί γάρ μοι κόπος ἄχαρις καὶ πόνος, μόνον πόνος;
Κερδῷον λέγει τὸν Ἑρμῆν ὁ μῦθος ἁρμοζόντως·
ἔχει γὰρ κέρδος λογικὸν ὁ συντιθεὶς τοὺς λόγους,
καὶ τοῦ φιλοπονήματος τὴν χάριν οἰκειοῦται,
145 ὅταν καὶ τὰ πονήματα κωφεύοντα μὴ κεῖται·
ἂν δ᾿ ὁ κερδῷος ἀκερδής, τίς χάρις τοῦ κερδῴου
ὅταν ὁ γράφων ἄγνωστος ἐν παραβύστῳ μένῃ,
κἀκεῖνος πᾶσαν ἄγνοιαν τῶν γεγραμμένων ἔχοι
 Manganeios Prodromos 329
Did you not learn that, in the middle of Persia, he was about
to become an acceptable victim to the sun-god of the Persians?
But you have also seen the sun of righteousness,
how it shone on him and dispelled the gloom,
and how it rescued him, though unexpectedly, 115
from an accursed, terrifying and cruel death?
Yes, sun of New Rome, you know the story,
you realized from it the greatness of the disaster,
you learned the magnificence of the almighty strength.
The prisoner was set free and defeated the Persians; 120
he who was all but sacrificed in the fire
slaughtered with the sword the whole race of fire-worshippers,
and quenched the Persians’ fire on a day of ceremony.
So ponder, please, on this story,
and consider it, please, a remedy and drain the painful wound, 125
and regard, please, the painful event as a reminder,
leading back from it to the benefactor
who anointed you for rule from your mother’s womb.
It is counsel of this kind I set before you here,
having sliced up out of many stories one 130
which mixes for your majesty a cup of consolation.
If I have shrunk from writing till this day,
this is no reason at all for wonder; for I delayed out of sickness,
and I had the crisis to hinder my writing of verse,
a crisis which has seen many unexpected innovations, 135
and the fact that I struggled and wasted my sweat fruitlessly
on the rhetorical efforts at which I laboured,
which narrated your previous great achievements,
in none of which you shared, or took close interest;
I regarded this as a grievous and vain burden. 140
For what use to me is thankless labour and pain that is just pain?
The myth rightly calls Hermes Kerdoös (the bringer of gain):
for he who composes speeches has a rhetorical gain,
and receives the thanks for his industry,
when the products of his labours do not lie dumb; 145
but what thanks are due to the Kerdoös if the writer has no gain,
when he lurks ignored in a corner,
and he for whom he struggles and endures industriously
330 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
δι᾿ ὃν πονεῖ καὶ καρτερεῖ, φιλοπονῶν πρὸς χάριν;
150 Ἐγὼ μὲν τούτων ἕνεκα τὸ στιχουργεῖν κατώκνουν·
εἰ δὲ καὶ πάλιν ὁρισθῶ καὶ πάλιν στιχουργήσω,
καὶ πάλιν ξέσω κάλαμον, πάλιν ὀξυγραφήσω,
καὶ πάλιν, ὅσον δυνατόν, ἐμμέτρως ῥητορεύσω,
ἂν τὸ δοκοῦν τῷ κράτει σου τῷ δούλῳ σου γνωσθῇ μοι.
155 Θεός σοι πολυχρόνιον τὸ κράτος ταμιεύσοι,
καὶ τράχηλον ὑπέρογκον ὡς κρίκον κατακάμψοι,
τιθεὶς ὑπὸ τοὺς πόδας σου τὴν ἐπῃρμένην δέρην.

Pattern Codes
2 E | 8 R | 11 E | 12 B | 13–14 B/C | 18 W01 | 19–21 W01 | 20 A | 22
W02 | 25 F02 | 28–9 J | 30 S | 33 W01 | 37 C | 38 W01 | 39 E |
40 W02 | 43 B | 44 E | 46 B | 50 P | 52 B | 55 P | 57 W02 | 60 E
| 62–3 W02 | 64–5 M01 | 68 W02 | 70 W02 | 71–2 R | 73 R | 82–4
J | 86 P | 87 R | 88 B, E | 92 W01 | 97 W02 | 98 W01 | 101 W01 |
105–6 R | 107–8 J | 112–13 R | 114–15 K | 116 P | 121–3 W02 | 124–5
W02 | 129 W02 | 132–3 W02 | 135 W01 | 136 W02 | 141 R | 142–3
W02 | 146 W02 | 149 W02 | 151–3 R

Key Words
1 Porphyrogennetos | 13 Rhetor | 19 Giant; Light (heavenly) | 21 Giant
| 22 Chariot | 24 Ray; Ausonian | 29 Sun; Ausonian | 33 Wrinkle |
49 Rough water | 71 Rhetor | 72 Emperor | 80 Latins | 87 Jewel;
Light (heavenly) | 95 Multitude | 97 Innovate | 104 New Rome | 105
Emperor | 106 Byzas’ city | 112 Persian | 117 Sun; New Rome | 120
Persian | 131 Majesty | 135 Innovate | 154 Majesty
 Manganeios Prodromos 331
as a favour, is completely oblivious of what has been written?
I shrank from writing verses for these reasons; 150
but if I am commissioned again and write verses again,
I will again sharpen my pen, and again write in shorthand,
and again make rhetoric in verse as best I can,
if your majesty’s wish is transmitted to me, your servant.
May God grant you rule for many years, 155
and bend the haughty neck down like a reed,
having placed his proud throat beneath your feet.

Notes
The historical context of this poem is clear, though it is not explained in
detail. The Byzantine expedition to take revenge on Roger II of Sicily by
conquering part of southern Italy, having been successful for some time,
was brought to an abrupt halt in a battle in the harbour of Brindisi in
the early summer of 1156. This serious setback has led to a request from
Manuel I to Manganeios to write an appropriate poem. His reluctance,
apparently due to his age and sickness, must in part be the result of the
fact that the battle at Brindisi cannot possibly be presented as anything
other than a Byzantine disaster. The poem would have been composed in
May–June 1156 (see note to v. 74ff.).
3–5 courage of command: cf. Aristotle, Politics 1260a (ed. Becker,
trans. Rackham), on relative virtues apparent in master and
slave, men and women, giving pride of place to the ability to
command.
8 metrical speeches: i.e. in quantitative prosodic metres (iam-
bics) not using the stress accents of the fifteen-syllable line,
which however Manganeios – for whatever reason – is using in
332 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
this poem. It is unclear whether στιχουργῆσαι in the title is
making the same distinction.
13 Matthew 26.41.
27 Habakkuk 8.3 (Ode 4.8 = Prayer of Habakkuk).
46–56 An acknowledgement that Manuel is currently in a difficult
position, but the poet finds Manuel’s fortitude positive.
59–62 On the stability of quadrilaterals and triangles, cf. Plato, Ti-
maeus 55d–e (ed. Burnet) and Aristotle, De anima 414b (ed.
Becker) on the way in which the triangle is contained in a
quadrilateral.
74ff. The collapse of Manuel’s Italian campaign of spring 1156 is re-
corded most fully in Kinn. 4.13; cf. Nik. Chon. 94.6–95.9; see
Chalandon (1912: 366–70), Magdalino (1993: 60–1, 442, n. 78),
Stephenson (2000: 237–8).
78 the whole failure: the failure of Manuel’s forces.
80–81 small detachment: Kinn. 4.13 (p. 168) comments that the Byz-
antine contingent available at the crucial moment was small.
89–90 Psalm 37/38.6.
99 Darius’ invasion of Greece culminated in a Persian defeat at
Marathon in 490 bc (Herodotus 6.93–120). Xerxes’ expe­
dition of 480 bc began with the construction of a pontoon
bridge over the Hellespont and a canal through the Athos
peninsula (Herodotus 7.22–5) and led to a Persian victory at
Thermopylae, despite a heroic defence by the Spartan king
Leonidas (Herodotus 7.201–33); Leonidas’ heroism seems to
have become a victory for Manganeios. However, Xerxes’ forc-
es were ultimately repulsed at the subsequent battle of Salamis
(Herodotus 7.209).
101 It is difficult, but not impossible, to extract meaning from this
oxymoron (ἐλαχίστου … βελτίστου); for the wording but not
the meaning, cf. Plato, Gorgias 490c.
104–23 great founder of this New Rome (cf. v. 106 city of Byzas): Con-
stantine I (273/4–337). The allusion is to Constantine’s legend-
ary capture by the Persians recounted in the Patmos Life of
Constantine and the Passion of Eusignios; see Halkin (1959: ch.
9), Devos (1982: ch. 11), Kazhdan (1987: 234–5).
113 sun of righteousness: a reference to Constantine’s role in the
Christianization of the Roman empire, the sun being Christ.
 Manganeios Prodromos 333
117 sun of New Rome: Manuel.
128 benefactor: i.e. Christ.
132 There has been an interval between the disaster and Manganei-
os’ composition.
142, 146: Kerdoös: a standard epithet for Hermes.
156 haughty neck: William I of Sicily (1120–66).
Like a reed: Isaiah 58.5.

Appendix
Pattern Codes: Definitions
A Asyndeton; a sequence of related nouns, verbs or adjectives without
καί or other expected conjunctions.
B Full line, halved and balanced by metrical shapes and word patterns.
C Full line, halved and balanced to a lesser extent than in B.
E Chiasmus; four elements in the line in groups of two with the order
of elements reversed in the second group.
F02 Halved first hemistich balanced with rhyme.
J Anaphora; repeated words or phrases at the beginning of lines or half-
lines.
K A looser form of anaphora.
M01 Neighbouring lines with strikingly similar syntax over the whole line.
P Polysyndeton; sequence of words all linked by similar conjunctions.
R Significant words repeated in different sections of the line.
S Second hemistich divided in two with balanced syntax.
W01 Wordplay involving similar sounds, including alliteration.
W02 Wordplay involving the same root.

Key Words: Definitions

Ausonian (Αὔσονες) An Italian people, early absorbed into Rome, so a lofty
and metrically useful synonym for Byzantines in their Roman dimension.
Chariot (δίφρος) Sometimes a real vehicle, sometimes an abstract to be driven,
like the chariot of imperial power.
City of Byzas (ἡ Βύζαντος, Βυζάντιον, Βυζαντίς) The city of Constantinople
and its inhabitants, named Byzantion before Constantine’s refoundation; the
name is difficult to translate without implying that it includes the whole
empire.
Emperor (αὐτοκράτωρ, βασιλεύς) See also ἀετός, ἄναξ, αὔγουστος, γίγας,
δεσπότης, (ὁ) κρατῶν, λέων, μονοκράτωρ, σκηπτοῦχος, σκηπτοκράτωρ.
334 elizabeth jeffreys and michael jeffreys
Giant (γίγας) The astronomical giant sun or its earthly analogue the emperor;
viewed positively in ceremonial and symbolism, though a few negative
Goliaths also appear.
Innovate (καινουργῶ) Key term in Manuel’s policy of renewal, used in many
parts of speech.
Jewel (λυχνίτης) Apparently a general word for jewel, but often a particular red
jewel (cornelian?).
Latin (Λατίνος) Usually a noun, a Western European (or an easterner originally
from the West); more likely from Latin than Germanic areas.
Light, heavenly (φωστήρ, φωσφόρος) In astronomical images a body
giving unreflected light, thus often the sun, moon, emperor or major
aristocrat; φωσφόρος can mean ‘sun’, but usually represents a star or lesser
noble.
Majesty (κράτος) Power and Victory, often imperial; sometimes an alternative
address to the powerful, i.e. ‘your majesty’.
Multitude (πλῆθος) Huge numbers, especially of armies hostile to Byzantium
and Manuel; those relying on numbers alone tend to fail.
New Rome (Νέα Ῥώμη) Constantinople or Byzantium; curiously, Manuel’s
policies mean that New Rome is often described as elderly and in need of
renewal.
Persian (Πέρσης) Literally ‘Persian’ in Persian contexts, but used more generally
for the Turks, Byzantium’s main opponents in the East; the Turks themselves
felt a complex affinity with the Persians.
Porphyrogennetos (πορφυρογέννητος) alternative forms include
πεπορφυρωμένος, πορφυρανθής, πορφυραυγής, πορφυροβλάστητος,
πορφυρόβλαστος; a high dignity; born in the Porphyra (imperial birthing
chamber), child of a reigning emperor and empress.
Ray (ἀκτίς) The basic word, including compounds, to accentuate objects
illuminated by the light-show of Manganeios’ poems; sometimes given a
spiritual dimension.
Rhetor (ῥήτωρ) A literary man trained in public speaking, with a regular
Byzantine secondary education.
Rough water (κλύδων) Almost always used metaphorically, of the troubles of
the sebastokratorissa or of the emperor Manuel.
Sun (ἥλιος) Heavenly body, but, just as often, its equivalent on earth, the
emperor.
Wrinkle (ῥυτίς) Sign of old age, usually of Rome as Constantinople needing
renewal or of Manganeios himself.

Abbreviations
Kinn. John Kinnamos, Deeds of John and Manuel Komnenos ed. Meineke
(1836)
Nik. Chon. Niketas Choniates, History ed. Van Dieten (1975)
ThPr Theodore Prodromos, Historische Gedichte ed. Hörandner (1974)
 Manganeios Prodromos 335
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 ch apter 13

An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia on

Herodotus in the Light of Twelfth-Century Verse
Scholia on Ancient Historians*
Julián Bértola

In this chapter, I will present a cycle of verse scholia preserved in the mar-
gins of a number of manuscripts of Herodotus’ Histories. Verse scholia are
book epigrams that comment on specific passages of the main text and
appear next to the sections to which they react in the margins of the folios.1
Verse scholia also constitute a special case of scholia, precisely because they
are written in verse.2 In Byzantium, writing in verse implies the observance
of a certain metre and the repetition of a rhythm, often visually expressed
(e.g. by means of punctuation, accentuation and line breaks), which entails
a modulation in syntax and vocabulary.3 All this enhances expressivity and
underscores the literariness of verse scholia, thus challenging the views on
marginalia as superfluous scribblings or exegetical tools at most. Marginal
annotations in general attest to the practices of reading in Byzantium,
which could be combined with utilitarian and creative writing.4 Our verse

* This chapter was written during my PhD studies at Ghent University, and thus parts of it are
included in my dissertation ‘Using Poetry to Read the Past: Unedited Byzantine Verse Scholia on
Historians in the Margins of Medieval Manuscripts’ (2021). This study is complementary to Bértola
(2022a), which offers the first critical edition of the cycle of verse scholia from ten manuscripts of
Herodotus. In the appendix to the present chapter, I print the text of the poems from this edition.
I would like to thank Floris Bernard, Kristoffel Demoen, Baukje van den Berg and Nikos Zagklas
for their valuable comments that improved this chapter. All remaining mistakes are mine.
1 On book epigrams, see primarily Lauxtermann (2003: 26–34, 132, 197–212), Bernard and Demoen
(2019) and the Database of Byzantine Book Epigrams (DBBE, www.dbbe.ugent.be). On book
epigrams by Tzetzes, see also Pizzone in this volume.
2 The designation ‘verse scholia’ is taken from Kaldellis (2015: 65). I follow the conventional practice
of calling scholia the commentaries found in the margins of the manuscripts next to the passages
concerned: see e.g. Browning (1991), Dyck (2008). However, the reduction of scholia to only these
cases is a modern conception; see Lundon (1997), Dickey (2007: 11 n. 25), Montana (2011: 105–10).
3 For what verse means in Byzantine literature, see e.g. Jeffreys (2009), Lauxtermann (2009),
Magdalino (2012: 30–3), Bernard (2014: 31–57), Drpić (2016: 21–5), Bernard and Demoen (2021).
4 See especially Cavallo (2006: 67–82, 133–7). Smith (1996) calls for a better study of Byzantine
scholia in their own right, not as a mere repository of older material. Many valuable endeavours
have been made to understand how specific sets of Byzantine marginalia function in their socio-
cultural context with due attention to the materiality of the manuscripts: see e.g. Webb (1997),
Zorzi (2004), Mondrain (2005) and now also the papers collected in van den Berg, Manolova and
Marciniak (2022).

339
340 julián bértola
scholia are motivated by the reading of Herodotus, but embedded in their
own historical and material reality. In this chapter, a cycle of poems on
Herodotus will be contrasted with other cycles of verse scholia on ancient
historians by authors of the long twelfth century in order to investigate
the circumstances in which it was produced.5 As a result, I will look into
Byzantine perceptions of the past and the medieval reception of ancient
Greek literature in general.6
The topic of the present chapter is a cycle of verse scholia composed
of eleven poems in forty-nine dodecasyllables inscribed in the margins of
Herodotus’ Histories 2.172–3.37. The earliest version of these epigrams is
found in the manuscript Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut.
70.6 [Diktyon 16571].7 The verse scholia are written by the same hand as
the main text, the scribe Nicholas Triklines, who copied the manuscript
in 1318.8 They also occur in some apographs of the Laurentianus and have
only recently been edited.9 But let us begin by showing some examples of

5 The scholia on Herodotus are incompletely edited and have been studied only partially; see Stein
(1869–71: 2:429–40), Rosén (1987–97), Luzzatto (2000), De Gregorio (2002), Mazzucchi (2002),
Corcella (2003: 261–8), Dickey (2007: 54), Cantore (2012) and (2013), as well as Bértola (2022a)
and (2022b), Bianconi (2022). Colonna (1953: 16 n. 1) edits a scholion from fol. 39r of Vatican City,
Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, gr. 2369 [Diktyon 69000], which Vassis (2005: 740) identifies as
two dodecasyllabic verses (see Cantore [2013: 136–8]). Rapp (2008: 129–32) offers a survey of the
reception of Herodotus in Byzantium; see now also Jeffreys (2019). On the reception of ancient
historians in Byzantium, see e.g. Pérez Martín (2002: 133–47), Kaldellis (2012) and (2015).
6 The reception of ancient Greek literature is a recurrent theme throughout the present volume: see
esp. the chapters by Agapitos, Bourbouhakis, van den Berg and Pizzone.
7 Manuscript T for Rosén (1987–97: 1:xxxiv–xxxv) and most of the editors, N for Hemmerdinger
(1981: 106–21), d for Stein (1869–71: 1:xi–xii). See also Bandini (1768: 665), Colonna (1945: 47) and
(1953: 23–4), Alberti (1960: 342–5), (1999: 3–5) and (2007), Turyn (1972: 132–3), Cantore (2013:
35), Wilson (2015: xx), Bértola (2022a: 65–7), Bianconi (2022: 86–9). Laur. Plut. 70.6 occupies a
particular place in Herodotus’ textual tradition, straddling its two main branches. Until Histories
2.123 it seems to belong to the Roman family and from that point onwards to the Florentine one;
see Alberti (1960: 342–5) and (1999: 3–5), Hemmerdinger (1981: 110), Cantore (2013: 6 n. 17).
8 A colophon placed in fol. 340v gives the information. The manuscript was probably copied in
Thessalonike, since Nicholas’ last name, common palaeographic features and many collaborations
suggest kinship with Demetrios Triklinios and a connection with his milieu. See Vogel and
Gardthausen (1909: 360), Turyn (1957: 229–33), PLP 29315, Smith (1993: 188–9), RGK III 519, Pérez
Martín (2000: 315–20) and (2002: 144–5), Bianconi (2005: 122–41), Kaldellis (2014: 259).
9 Bértola (2022a). On the fate of Laur. Plut. 70.6 and on the manuscripts related to it, see also
Alberti (1959), Hemmerdinger (1981: 109–21), Rosén (1987–97: 1:xxxv), De Gregorio (2002: 47–9
n. 49), Bianconi (2005: 138–41), (2018: 125–8) and (2022), Kaldellis (2014: 45–8, 259–62), Akışık-
Karakullukçu (2019: 1–3, 23–4). Among these manuscripts, the cycle of verse scholia (or part of it)
was copied in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr. 1634 [Diktyon 51257]; Milan, Biblioteca
Ambrosiana, L 115 sup. [Diktyon 42974]; Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Urb. gr. 88
[Diktyon 66555]; Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale ‘Vittorio Emanuele III’, III B 1 [Diktyon 46241];
Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana, gr. Z. 364 [Diktyon 69835]; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale
de France, gr. 2933 [Diktyon 52572]; Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, gr. 1359 [Diktyon
67991]; Oxford, Bodleian Library, Barocci 114 [Diktyon 47401]; and Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale
‘Vittorio Emanuele III’, III B 2 [Diktyon 46242].
 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia 341
such verse scholia on Herodotus. On fol. 93v of Laur. Plut. 70.6, Herodo-
tus’ Histories 3.14.2–10 is copied and three poems in the left and lower mar-
gins comment on the passage. Herodotus tells here an anecdote about how
the Persian king Cambyses after the conquest of Egypt seeks to humiliate
his defeated Egyptian peer Psammenitus by mistreating his daughter and
threatening to kill his son. These two scenes are set in a theatrical way in
front of Psammenitus’ eyes. However, his reaction is anything but dra-
matic: he remains imperturbable, looking down. At this point (Histories
3.14.3) the first verse scholion of this folio is found:10

3. Verses
How brave you say Psammenitus was,
acting so bravely in the face of painful misfortunes
that he suffered no disgraceful suffering at all,
as he refrained even from mere sighs
in sufferings that demanded many tears.  5

Then, by chance, Psammenitus encounters an old companion, now a beg-

gar. Only then does he show the signs of sorrow he did not reveal to his
family. Here (Histories 3.14.7) we find the following monostich:

4. Verse
You were admirable not only when you kept silence but also
when you spoke.

Shortly afterwards, Cambyses is informed about Psammenitus’ behaviour

and in turn asks him the reason for it. Psammenitus replies that the misfor-
tunes of his family were beyond lament, whereas the situation of his friend
was worth tears. At Psammenitus’ response (Histories 3.14.10) another epi-
gram is found:

5. Verses
I am not only amazed at Psammenitus’ silence
but I also esteem his speech more than his silence,
for his silence has an unfathomable purpose,
while his speech also reveals the grace of his wise mind
that embellishes both his silence and his words. 5

10 The poems are numbered from 1 to 11, following the order in which they appear in the manuscript.
In the appendix to this chapter, I reproduce the Greek text of the cycle from my recent edition
(Bértola [2022a]). Unless otherwise indicated, all translations in this chapter are mine.
342 julián bértola
Poems 3 to 5 focus on the positive moral content of the anecdotes told
by Herodotus, playing with the complementary actions of silence and
speech. In poem 3 Psammenitus’ fortitude is praised as honourable. The
surprise expressed in poem 4 is echoed in poem 5, where the poet stresses
the obscurity of Psammenitus’ behaviour and the respect provoked by his
explanation of it. Another feature of these epigrams is the strong use of
the first and second person. Poem 3 addresses the author and poem 4 the
protagonist. In poem 5 the poet’s figure occupies a prominent position
instead. By these means some of the characteristic functions of verse scho-
lia are revealed: they often enter into dialogue with the oeuvre or its author
and leave room for personal reflections.
Poems 6 and 7 also comment on the events following the Persian con-
quest of Egypt (fol. 94rv). Poem 6 reacts to the desecration of the mummy
of Amasis, the former pharaoh of Egypt (Histories 3.16.1). Through a rhe-
torical question, the Persian king is characterized as crazy, an element that
will come up again in the last poem of the series:

6. Verses
And who could be found crazier than he
who commands a dead body to be whipped?

The subject of poem 7 will also reappear in the last two poems of the cycle.
Cambyses instructs that the body of Amasis should be cremated (Histories
3.16.2–4) and Herodotus relates that this was against the Egyptian custom
and against the Persian religion. The Persians believed that fire was a god
and that the corpse of a man should not be offered to a god (Histories
3.16.3). Poem 7 reacts once again with a rhetorical question to the passage:

7. Verses
Fire-worshipper, are you not ashamed of being impious,
as you pollute the object of your devotion with dead bodies?

The epigram addresses the Persian with an epithet coined by George of

Pisidia.11 The infidel is scorned adding blame to his error, as he behaves
impiously with respect to his already impious beliefs.
These verse scholia on Herodotus have received little attention until
now. In the catalogue of the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, Angelo

11 See e.g. Heraclias 1.14, 181 ed. Pertusi (1959).

 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia 343
Maria Bandini already noted the presence of marginalia in Laur. Plut.
70.6, but only Heinrich Stein in his description of this manuscript speci-
fied the versified nature of some of them.12 Stein even published our poem
2 in a footnote and detailed the passages of Herodotus next to which some
verses are placed. The next scholar to refer, albeit misleadingly, to the epi-
grams in Laur. Plut. 70.6 was Bertrand Hemmerdinger. In fact, he pointed
to the presence of verses in some folios, such as fol. 93v, but he under-
stood them to be by John Tzetzes and thus referred to Florence, Biblio-
teca Medicea Laurenziana, Plut. 70.3 [Diktyon 16568].13 While describing
this ancient and authoritative manuscript of Herodotus’ textual tradition,
Hemmerdinger noted that fourteen ‘political verses’ by Tzetzes comment
on Histories 1.94.14 This poem in Laur. Plut. 70.3 is indeed by Tzetzes and
forms part of a larger cycle present in this manuscript. However, the verse
scholia in Laur. Plut. 70.6 adopt different tones and viewpoints. In the
next section, I will consider Tzetzes’ poems on Herodotus from Laur. Plut.
70.3. After a brief analysis of Tzetzes’ verse scholia on Herodotus, it will
be evident that Hemmerdinger’s statement regarding the authorship of the
poems in Laur. Plut. 70.6 is not correct.

Tzetzes’ Verse Scholia

John Tzetzes was a prolific scholar from the twelfth century known to have
composed numerous commentaries on ancient authors. His own literary
production is also full of references to ancient literature.15 He wrote verse
scholia on several authors, including himself, Hesiod, Pindar, Aeschylus,
Sophocles, Aristophanes, Oppian, Lycophron, Thucydides and Herodo-
tus.16 Tzetzes’ verse scholia on Herodotus were edited for the first time by

12 Bandini (1768: 665), Stein (1869–71: 1:xii).

13 Hemmerdinger (1981: 106).
14 Hemmerdinger (1981: 88), who makes the same mistake as Stein (1869–71: 1:xii) with regard to the
metre of our poems. Both Tzetzes’ poem in fol. 26r of Laur. Plut. 70.3 and the poems in Laur. Plut.
70.6 are dodecasyllables. The confusion may go back to the way unprosodic dodecasyllables were
called ‘political’ by Maas and others; see Rhoby (2011: 138–9, n. 123).
15 For an overview of Tzetzes’ life and works, see Wendel (1948). For Tzetzes’ works on ancient
literature, see Kazhdan and Epstein (1985: 133–8), Budelmann (2002), Kaldellis (2007: 301–7) and
(2009), Pontani (2015: 378–85). See now also the contributions in Prodi (2022), van den Berg,
Manolova and Marciniak (2022), Pizzone in this volume and van den Berg in this volume.
16 There are verses scattered in Tzetzes’ scholia on his own Allegories of the Iliad (ed. Cramer [1836:
376–84]; Matranga [1850: 599–618]), Letters (ed. Leone [1972: 158–74]), Carmina Iliaca (ed. Leone
[1995: 102–243]), Histories (ed. Leone [2007: 529–69]), Theogony (ed. Leone [2019: 65–70]) and
Exegesis of the Iliad (ed. Papathomopoulos [2007: 417–60]). Significantly, Tzetzes’ Histories are
themselves conceived as an extensive commentary in verse on his Letters; see Pizzone (2017). Other
poems appear in Tzetzes’ scholia on Hesiod (ed. Gaisford [1823: 23–459]), Oppian (ed. Bussemaker
344 julián bértola
Maria Jagoda Luzzatto from the aforementioned Laur. Plut. 70.3.17 The
first folios of this manuscript, dated to the tenth century, are enriched with
scholia written by a manus posterior of the Palaiologan era.18 Some of them
are composed in verse and have been ascribed to Tzetzes by Luzzatto on
the basis of their form and content. It has already been shown that there
is a considerable volume of verse scholia against which the authorship of
these poems can be assessed. However, the natural point of comparison
for this brief – and possibly fragmentary19 – cycle is a large corpus of verse
scholia by Tzetzes on the other major classical historian, Thucydides.20
Fifty verse scholia of Tzetzes can be read in the margins of a manuscript
from the tenth century containing Thucydides’ Histories (Heidelberg, Uni-
versitätsbibliothek, Pal. gr. 252 [Diktyon 32467]).21 In general, these versi-
fied notes on Thucydides are devoted to textual elements that should be
noted, modified or removed, and are often directly linked with an actual
intervention that corrects the text in question. These verse scholia deal

[1849: 260–375]), Lycophron (ed. Scheer [1908]), Aristophanes (ed. Massa Positano [1960],
Holwerda [1960], Koster [1962]). On the verse scholion on Pindar, see Drachmann (1927: 205) and
Luzzatto (1998: 84–6). On Aeschylus and Sophocles, see Allegrini (1971–2), Bevilacqua (1973–4).
On Thucydides and Herodotus, see now Bértola (2022b).
17 Luzzatto (2000); see Cantore (2012) and (2013: 82–93).
18 Luzzatto (2000) limits her analysis to the first twenty-six folios, where the verse scholia by Tzetzes
occur, but Cantore ([2012], [2013: 70]) points out that the second hand adds other scholia until fol.
34r. In fact, there seem to be many later hands annotating the manuscript, such as the Planoudean
one in fols. 1r and 376v or Nikephoros Gregoras in fol. 218v; see Mazzucchi (1999: 385), Luzzatto
(2000: 651–2, 654). The issue of the marginalia is connected with a major discussion about the
stratigraphy of this manuscript; see Bandini (1768: 657–8), Stein (1869–71: 1:v–vii), Colonna (1945:
43), Hemmerdinger (1981: 86–93), Rosén (1987–97: 1:xxv–xxvi), Agati (1992: 153, 250–1, 289–90)
and (2001: 53–6), Alberti (2002: 3), De Gregorio (2002: 37–8 n. 19), Pérez Martín (2002: 136),
Wilson (2015: xiv–xv), Bianconi (2018: 73 n. 127).
19 See Luzzatto (2000: 649–50), Cantore (2012: 20–2) and (2013: 79, 83–9). There are two other verse
scholia in Laur. Plut. 70.3 not edited by Luzzatto. Two dodecasyllables are written in the lower
margin of fol. 2v, which have been printed in Cantore (2012: 22) and (2013: 84) and comment
on Histories 1.8.3. In the right margin of fol. 8r another verse scholion is found, which comments
on Histories 1.32.1 (ed. and trans. Bértola [2022b: 350]): Συμμαρτυρεῖς, Ἡρόδοτε, τὸ θεῖον τῶν
Ἑλλήνων | καὶ ταραχῶδες, φθονερόν, ἀνάμεστον κακίας· | εἶπας καὶ γὰρ ὡς ἔχουσι τὰ πράγματα
πανσόφως (‘You testify, Herodotus, to the deity of the Greeks | as troubling, envious and full of
evil. | In fact you also say wisely how things are’). This last epigram seems to belong to a different
yet contemporary hand and features an unusual metre for verse scholia, the political verse. The
Tzetzean authorship of these two compositions is less evident, since they do not seem to pursue
the typical goals of Tzetzes’ interventions. However, some elements support Tzetzes’ authorship,
especially for the new verse scholion in political verse; see Bértola (2022b).
20 Tzetzes’ verse scholia on Thucydides were edited and analysed by Luzzatto (1999); see also Hude
(1927), Scott (1981), Baldwin (1982), Maltese (1995: 370–1), Reinsch (2006: 757–8), Kaldellis (2015:
65–79), Pontani (2015: 384–5), Kennedy and Kaldellis (2023: 257–8).
21 Manuscript E for the editors of Thucydides; see e.g. Alberti (1972: 12), Kleinlogel (2019: 13–16).
Luzzatto (1999) argues that the notes are autograph, which seems to be confirmed by the discovery
of the same hand in the margins of another manuscript connected with Tzetzes (Leiden, Bibliotheek
der Rijksuniversiteit, Voss. gr. Q. 1 [Diktyon 38108]); see Pizzone (2020) and in this volume.
 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia 345
with orthography, accentuation and punctuation and exhibit great knowl-
edge of the grammar of Greek dialects. They display erudition on syntax,
rhetoric and style, but also on geography and chronology, with occasional
allusions to mythology and other ancient authors. Some typical Tzetzean
features appear frequently, such as a polemical attitude, a humour that
varies from subtle to coarse, and an almost obsessive self-referentiality.22
Tzetzes’ verse scholia on Herodotus in Laur. Plut. 70.3 follow these
trends closely.23 Luzzatto edits six epigrams. The first occurs in fol. 5v and is
attached to Histories 1.23.24 An orthographic problem is here intermingled
with a dialectal one. The instructions to the reader, who could also be a
student or a scribe, are followed by a polemic finale addressed to adversar-
ies, all sealed with Tzetzean stylistic hallmarks.25 The four epigrams in fol.
10r, corresponding to Histories 1.39–41, have a similar tenor.26 Grammar,
orthography and accentuation occupy centre stage here. Tzetzes teaches
the reader how to write properly in these verses, which reveal his usual
concerns.27 I quote the first poem of the series:

(a) Τὸ φῇς περισπῶν, προσγραφὴν τίθει κάτω·

εἰ δ’ αὖ βαρύνῃς, προσγραφὴν μή μοι γράφε.

(a) If you put the circumflex over φῇς, put the iota subscriptum.
However, if you put the grave accent, do not put the iota
subscriptum.

It is not until fol. 26r, however, that the force of Tzetzes’ figure fully irrupts
into the cycle. At Histories 1.94.3, where Herodotus talks about the alleged
Lydian invention of certain games, the longest poem of the series was writ-

22 See a summarized typology of the verse scholia in Luzzatto (1999: 85).

23 See a summarized typology in Luzzatto (2000: 642, 649).
24 Text and translation in Luzzatto (2000: 642–3). See Luzzatto (1998: 74–6) and (1999: 95–102),
Cantore (2002: 29–30) and (2013: 91), Agapitos (2017: 10–11).
25 Ed. Luzzatto (2000: 643), with minor spelling changes; trans. Agapitos (2017: 10): Ἀρίονα γίνωσκε
μικρόν μοι γράφειν | Ἰωνικῶς τὲ καὶ κατ’ Ἀτθίδος λόγους· | ληρεῖν λόγους ἔα δε πρωξιμοπλόκους
(‘Know that Ἀρίονα is to be written with an omicron, | both in Ionic and according to Attic
diction; | but let the teacher-intertwined speeches tell fooleries’). The same issue is found again in
Tzetzes’ scholion to his own Histories 1.396 ed. Leone (2007: 533.3–9).
26 Text and translation in Luzzatto (2000: 643–5). See Cantore (2012: 12–14) and (2013: 90–1).
27 For example, the subject of the first verse scholion in fol. 10r has parallels in Tzetzes’ verse scholia
to Aristophanes’ Wealth 82 ed. Massa Positano (1960: 28.1–10) and Frogs 1137 ed. Koster (1962:
1033.15–20). On grammatical lessons in Tzetzes’ scholia to his own Carmina Iliaca, see van den Berg
in this volume; for orthography and the didactic poetry of Niketas of Herakleia, see Bernard in this
volume.
346 julián bértola
ten in five columns in the lower margin.28 Despite some relevant lexical
and stylistic parallels, there is no more potent proof of the authorship of
this poem than Tzetzes’ use of his own name in the first verse (Τζέτζης
κρατεῖ σε· πρόσσχες οἷς τὰ νῦν γράφεις, ‘Tzetzes got you: pay attention to
what you write now!’). With the second person, moreover, he establishes a
discussion between himself, a proud scholar, and the content of Herodo-
tus’ narrative.29 Through Homeric quotations, Tzetzes contests the truth
of what the main text states, seeks errors and incoherencies, and tries to
correct them.30
This kind of erudition, let alone the grammatical expertise, is not found
anywhere in the anonymous verse scholia on Herodotus in Laur. Plut.
70.6. A single attempt to display some sort of erudition can be observed
in the right margin of fol. 96r in Laur. Plut. 70.6, in an epigram that com-
ments on Histories 3.23.2–3. Herodotus narrates at this point the longevity
of the Ethiopians, allegedly derived from their diet and their familiarity
with a spring of extraordinary light water that rendered them sleek:

8. Verses
You report the prodigious nature of the water
that flows I do not know from where or from which source.
In any case, if it carries the unctuosity from metals,
what would cause it to have the porousness or even the lightness?

Unlike Tzetzes, the author of this verse scholion does not give any explicit
learned reference, nor does he argue with Herodotus. He shows curios-
ity and essays a rational explanation for the viscosity of the water, but
the whole commentary is an exhibition of conjectures, halfway between a
sense of bewilderment and mere incredulity.31 The poet also establishes a
dialogue with the author by means of the second person, but he does not
confute Herodotus’ report. The interests of Tzetzes are thus not reflected in

28 Text and translation in Luzzatto (2000: 646–8). See also Hemmerdinger (1981: 88), Luzzatto (1998:
70–2) and (1999: 158–9), Cantore (2002: 28–9) and (2012: 16–20). The passage commented on is
actually in the previous folio (fol. 25v).
29 Cantore (2012: 16–20), however, argues that here Tzetzes reacts to a variant of the Roman family.
Accordingly, the second person would refer to the copyist of that text.
30 On Tzetzes’ scholarly programme of correcting the style and grammar and controlling the truth
and consistency of the text he commented on, see the scholion to Aristophanes’ Frogs 1328 ed.
Koster (1962: 1077.49–1079.89); Luzzatto (1998: 72) and (1999: 159–61).
31 However, some of the terms employed appear to be technical. A quick search in TLG (Thesaurus
Linguae Graecae) shows the co-occurrence of χαῦνον and κοῦφον (8.4) in scientific literature, such
as the works of Theophrastus, Dioscorides, Galen, Oribasios and Ps.-Alexander of Aphrodisias.
 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia 347
the anonymous epigrams of Laur. Plut. 70.6; no trace whatsoever is found
of orthography, grammar, stylistic or textual remarks, nor even many hints
of erudition in terms of historical facts, chronology or topography. And,
above all, Tzetzes’ pervasive self-representation is not in sight anywhere.
Therefore, the cycle in Laur. Plut. 70.6 and the poems in Laur. Plut. 70.3
should be clearly distinguished from each other and any identification of
Tzetzes as the author of the former seems speculative at most, if not a
simple mistake.

Verse Scholia Attributed to Niketas Choniates

The verse scholia found in the margins of another manuscript show more
similarities with the cycle of poems in Laur. Plut. 70.6. Vatican City, Bib-
lioteca Apostolica Vaticana, gr. 130 [Diktyon 66761] contains the first five
books of Diodorus Siculus’ Bibliotheke and was copied in the second half of
the tenth century.32 Carlo Maria Mazzucchi has identified eleven different
later hands that annotated and corrected the manuscript, some of which
wrote epigrams.33 Despite the presence of Nikephoros Gregoras among the
annotators of this manuscript,34 the most prominent scholiast is by far
hand 3: not only did he write seventeen verse scholia, but Mazzucchi also
proposes Niketas Choniates as the author who composed these epigrams
on the eve of the sack of Constantinople in 1204.35
The reasons Mazzucchi adduces to assert that Niketas Choniates wrote
these verse scholia regard the style and content of the notes.36 As for the
content, apart from some more or less direct allusions to biographical
details,37 several contemporary issues are referred to in these epigrams,
authentic instances of ‘poetic journalism’.38 In this regard, especially signifi-
cant is the profusion of expressions in the poems that connect the main text
with the present from which the poet is writing.39 Besides some ­enigmatic

32 See Mazzucchi (1994: 165–76).

33 Mazzucchi (1994) and (1995). Hands 2, 5 and 9 wrote verse scholia; see Mazzucchi (1994: 181, 202,
218), Kaldellis (2015: 83, 95).
34 Hand 6; see Mazzucchi (1994: 202–11).
35 Edition, translation and analysis in Mazzucchi (1995); see also Kaldellis (2015: 80–97).
36 The reasons are suggested in Mazzucchi (1994: 188–97), thoroughly developed in Mazzucchi (1995)
and summarized in Mazzucchi (1995: 254–6).
37 Poems ii and xii, for example, describe the author as an old man and other elements allow us to
imagine his familiar (see poem xiii) or professional profile (see poem i ).
38 For the concept, see Magdalino (2012); it has now been called ‘public diary-keeping’ by Lauxtermann
(2019: 32–3).
39 E.g. νῦν ii.1 , iii.2 , vii. 1 , ix. 1 , x. 1 , xv i. 2; τῆς παρούσης ἡμέρας i . 1; καθ’ ἡμᾶς v. 1, x i i .2;
see Mazzucchi (1995: 235 n. 152).
348 julián bértola
r­ eferences to a war situation,40 Italian invaders are explicitly named in these
verse scholia, as for example in the right margin of fol. 298r (poem xvi ).41
This epigram reacts to Bibliotheke 5.67.4, where Diodorus talks about the
mythical figure of Themis. Some terms in the main text are elaborated in
the verse scholion, which reflects on the catastrophic present in contrast
to a brighter past.42 A practical lesson is drawn from history, which is con-
ceived as archetypia.43 The same principle runs through other poems. In
the right margin of Bibliotheke 5.40.4–5 (fol. 281r), which recounts the
luxurious customs of the Tyrrhenians, our commentator adds four verses
(poem xv ).44 The epigram, which largely reuses the words of Diodorus,
picks up again the motif of ancient glory gone to waste. The author advises
a reader-soldier to avoid the errors of previous peoples, here crystallized in
the abuse of alcohol.45
These poems have several points in common with the cycle in Laur.
Plut. 70.6, such as the allusion to current affairs and the censure of drunk-
enness. The first two poems of the series in Laur. Plut. 70.6, which occur
together in the left margin of fol. 87v, display these coincidences most
clearly. The first poem comments on Herodotus’ Histories 2.172.4–5, the
end of the ingenious strategy designed by the Egyptian pharaoh Amasis to
gain the favour of his subjects:

1. Verses
How paternally you admonish the Egyptians
to pay the token of honour suitable for you!
Another ruler would admonish them by whipping.

40 See poems x, xii i, xvii.

41 Ed. Mazzucchi (1995: 213); trans. after Kaldellis (2015: 94): καὶ θεσμοθέτας εἴπερ ἠυτύχει πόλις:
| πόλις κράτους πρὶν νῦν δε μεστὴ δακρύων: | πάρεργον οὐκ ἂν Ἰταλῶν ἦν ἀσπίδος: | οἱ
θεσμοφυλακεῖν γαρ ἐξευρημένοι: | δίχα παρασπίζοντος, ἠσθενημένοι: (‘If the city was fortunate
enough to have legislators, | a city formerly of strength, but now full of tears, | it would not be
subjected by Italian arms. | For those who are supposed to guard the law | become weak without
someone to defend them’). The Italians are also mentioned in poems i i i (see below) and xv i i .
42 This is a productive rhetorical device in descriptions of the decline of cities; see Demoen (2001).
43 See poem i.3.
44 Ed. Mazzucchi (1995: 213); trans. after Kaldellis (2015: 93): τοιαῦτα τὰ σπέρματα τῶν μακρῶν
πότων: | τὸ πατρόθεν σβέννυσιν ἡ τρυφὴ κλέος: | ῥαθυμίαν ἄνανδρον ὁπλίτα φύγε: | εὔκλειαν
οἶδε καὶ παλαιὰν ὀλλύειν: (‘Such is the fruit of heavy drinking: | luxurious easy living extinguishes
ancestral glory. | Soldier, avoid this unmanly indolence, | which knows how to destroy even an
ancient glory.’)
45 Drunkenness is also condemned in poem viii, whereas the state of the army is criticized in poem
vii. Our poet is keen on complaining about the contemporary parallels of subjects discussed by
Diodorus: see e.g. poem v against astrologers and poem ix against doctors. Even the motif of rural
bliss in poem vi can be taken as a complaint about life at the court.
 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia 349
The ancient ruler, addressed in the second person, is compared with what
might be a contemporary counterpart in the last verse. Right after this epi-
gram, a new set of verses reacts to the routine of Amasis described in Histo-
ries 2.173. The pharaoh spent only part of the day dealing with government
affairs and the rest drinking and joking with friends. The poet compares
this with the behaviour of more or less contemporary rulers:

2. Verses
Amasis was bearable, as he devoted to serious issues
one third of the short time of the day,
since those who ruled excessively as tyrants among us
devoted themselves all night and all day long
to amusements or to drunkenness, 5
living a life enslaved to passion.
Because of them, the beauty of the new Rome
was suddenly affected by a wrinkle of old age
and the capital superior to all
became the abode of hostile robbers. 10

These first two poems reuse some of Herodotus’ words and show a number
of interesting parallels to other Byzantine authors.46 Moreover, the situa-
tion portrayed in poem 2 corresponds to the account of the causes and
consequences of the Fourth Crusade given by Niketas Choniates. The last
four verses (2.7–10) strongly evoke passages of Niketas Choniates’ oeuvre,
where the glorious past of Constantinople, queen of cities, is contrasted
with the calamitous results of the invasion and compared with a wrinkled
old lady.47 The city that was once home to every beautiful thing was turned

46 The verb νουθετέω (1.3) is used by Herodotus in Histories 2.173.2 and νέμω (2.1) is the last word
of Amasis in 2.173.4. The wording of poem 1, on the one hand, recalls some verses in Michael
Choniates’ Schedos (ed. Lampros [1879–80: 2.363.18–20]). The parallels of poem 2, on the other, are
more evident. Verse 2.4 is identical to verse 90 of the Epitaph of Empress Irene Komnene (daughter
of Theodore I Laskaris and wife of John III Vatatzes) dated to 1239 and wrongly attributed to
George Akropolites (ed. Heisenberg [1978: 2.5.90]). The poem was re-edited by Hörandner (1972);
Macrides (2007: 20, 78) rejects Akropolites’ authorship. Note that verses 18 and 54 of this poem
show further similarities with verses from our cycle (2.7, 5.5). Verse 2.5 is very similar to verse 8550
of Ephraim of Ainos’ Chronicle (ed. Lampsidis [1990]). Verse 2.7 is almost identical to verse 889 of
Constantine Stilbes’ Fire Poem (ed. Diethart and Hörandner [2005]).
47 See Niketas Choniates, Orations 7, 9, 14, 15 ed. van Dieten (1972: 57.4–7, 85.22–4, 146.30–2, 160.6–
21) and History 576.1–577.19; cf. 591.21–592.49 ed. van Dieten (1975). The epithets of Constantinople
in verses 2.7 and 2.9 are paralleled elsewhere in Niketas Choniates (e.g. History 569.7–8, 609.86,
617.90, 627.87–9, 629.59–60), although they are not exclusive to him; cf. Demoen (2001: 119).
Elsewhere we also find the comparison of the city with a woman, frequently young in relation to
350 julián bértola
into the residence of pirates.48 In fact, the Fourth Crusade is characterized
in the History as a pillaging excursion.49 The spirit of poem 2 also coincides
with the well-known Kaiserkritik of Niketas Choniates, who partly ascribes
the capture of Constantinople to the corruption of Byzantine emperors.50
In particular, the behaviour described in verses 2.3–6 brings to mind the
western perception of a weak Byzantium subject to drunkenness and
earthly pleasures, or the demeaning scene of Emperor Alexios IV Angelos
sharing games and drinks with the Latins.51 In Niketas Choniates’ History,
however, the title of tyrant (2.3) is not applied to legitimate emperors, but
mainly reserved for usurpers of the imperial throne, especially Andro­nikos
I Komnenos, and despots of limited realms, such as Cyprus or Sicily, for-
mer parts of the empire.52 Yet the description of ‘those tyrants from the
Romans’ (οἱ ἐκ Ῥωμαίων τύραννοι), who ruled the western regions of the
empire after the fall of Constantinople ‘like enslaved men, corrupted with
luxurious pleasures and other indecencies’ (ἀνδραποδώδεις ἄνθρωποι,
τρυφῇ καὶ ταῖς ἄλλαις ἀπονοίαις διεφθαρμένοι), is not far from the portrait
of the tyrants ‘among us’ in poem 2.53
The context of composition in this verse scholion is therefore less ambig-
uous than in any other of the epigrams in Laur. Plut. 70.6 and so are the
similarities with the poems attributed to Niketas Choniates in Vat. gr. 130.
In addition to the already mentioned censure of drunkenness and other
dissolute behaviour (2.5–6), there is also the topic of the decay of Constan-
tinople (2.7–8) and the reference to invaders (2.9–10). The picture seems to

the old Rome: cf. e.g. verses 4419–52 of Constantine Manasses’ Synopsis Chronike (ed. Lampsidis
[1996]) and Theodore Prodromos’ Historical Poem 18.97–108 (ed. Hörandner [1974]). In our poems,
verse 2.8 sounds like a tragic and ironic echo of verse 2321 of Manasses’ Synopsis Chronike (cf.
Theodore Prodromos, Historical Poem 4.41–50). Notably, the image of the old wrinkle in our poem
2 goes back to Anthologia Palatina 5.129.6 and 6.18.2.
48 Niketas Choniates, History 576.3 ed. van Dieten (1975; cf. Oration 15, 160.8–9 ed. van Dieten
[1972]) and Letter 4, 204.22–6 ed. van Dieten (1972).
49 Niketas Choniates, History 539.5–15, 585.58–586.69; cf. 618.9–13, 621.95–2 ed. van Dieten (1975).
50 See Tinnefeld (1971: 158–79), Magdalino (1983), Harris (2000) and (2001). For Kaiserkritik in
historiography after 1204, see Angelov (2007: 253–85).
51 Niketas Choniates, History 541.54–6, 557.13–21; cf. 549.9–13 ed. van Dieten (1975).
52 For Andronikos, see e.g. History 50.58, 101.68, 141.10, 147.68, 225.59–60, 227.5–6, 228.41, 245.74–9,
247.45, 259.37–8, 262.19–263.20, 270.31–4, 279.88, 279.5, 281.62–3, 292.64, 314.43, 321.18, 467.83,
639.70–1 ed. van Dieten (1975); cf. Michael Choniates, Monody on his Brother 1.349.17–350.9 ed.
Lampros (1879–80). For Isaac Komnenos, tyrant of Cyprus, see History 291.39, 340.39, 369.74,
418.76, 464.13. For the kings of Sicily, History 296.75, 296.87, 370.93–4, 481.93. On the figure of
the tyrant in historiography from the tenth–twelfth centuries, see Cresci (1990), Cheynet (1990:
177–84). On Andronikos, see Simpson (2013: 164–70).
53 See Niketas Choniates, History 637.34–40, 638.52–5 ed. van Dieten (1975). The rulers in the East are
also accused of tyranny (cf. History 639.77–83). On Theodore II Laskaris’ conception of tyranny, see
Angelov (2007: 245–50).
 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia 351
match the fall of Constantinople during the Fourth Crusade and its after-
math. However, it remains uncertain how contemporary these events are,
since the νῦν present everywhere in the epigrams in Vat. gr. 130 is absent
from the cycle in Laur. Plut. 70.6.54 The poet seems not to be describing
things going on simultaneously outside the reading room, but seems rather
to be referring to a recent past.
Both cycles furthermore share a moralizing trend in some of their poems.
The poems attributed to Niketas Choniates and the poems in Laur. Plut.
70.6 agree not only on the condemnation of drunkenness but also on the
censure of greed for gold and silver.55 However, the edifying efforts of the
cycle in Laur. Plut. 70.6 target religious elements, which are not found in
the cycle on Diodorus Siculus by hand 3 of Vat. gr. 130. The consideration
of ancient customs and deeds may reveal the Christian scruples of the poet
of Laur. Plut. 70.6. An example of this can be observed in the last two
poems of the cycle.56 In the left and lower margin of fol. 97v the following
verses are written, reacting to Histories 3.29.1, where Herodotus describes
how the Persian Cambyses wounded a calf worshipped by the Egyptians
as the deity Apis:

10. Verses
In this way Cambyses showed himself to be full of intelligence
as he welcomed the ox-like god with a sword
to scrape off its thick flesh.

From then on, Herodotus tells of how Cambyses gradually sank into mad-
ness, committing several murders and sacrileges. Towards the end of this
narration, he describes how Cambyses mocked and profaned Egyptian
gods and concludes that the king was utterly mad. In the left margin of fol.
100v, the last poem of the series can be found next to Histories 3.37.3–38.1:

11. Verses
Even if Cambyses has been mad regarding other actions,
here at least he proves to be wiser than you
as he laughs at those who deserve laughter.

54 Whereas the expression παρ’ ἡμῖν (2.3) evokes καθ’ ἡμᾶς from the cycle in Vat. gr. 130 (v. 1, x i i . 2).
55 Cf. poems xi, xiv from Vat. gr. 130 and poem 9 from Laur. Plut. 70.6 (see below).
56 The religious topic first appeared in poem 7; see above. Poem 6 also anticipated the issue of
Cambyses’ madness, which is ironically turned into wisdom in poems 10 and 11.
352 julián bértola
The same idea pervades both poems: Cambyses is praised for despising
pagan cults, despite being pagan himself.57 The king’s controversial figure
is overlooked and his profanities are deemed almost an intuition of truth
from a Christian perspective. At the same time, Herodotus, addressed in
the second person (11.2), is questioned and receives criticism for disapprov-
ing of Cambyses’ behaviour. The defiance of the authority of the main text
occurs only with regard to this kind of topic in the verse scholia of Laur.
Plut. 70.6. It is not the historical or grammatical accuracy that triggers
the author’s response, as in the case of Tzetzes, but the pagan stories of
Herodotus.58
The poems by hand 3 in Vat. gr. 130 do not react polemically to pagan
elements in the main text. This cycle was produced in a secular context by a
person evidently belonging to the imperial administration.59 The only time
that hand 3 contests the information given by Diodorus Siculus is at Bib-
liotheke 2.5.6, which refers to the number of warships in only one harbour
of Syracuse in the time of the tyrant Dionysius. The left margin of fol. 82v
in Vat. gr. 130, which contains this passage, was annotated first by hand 2:
‘Note what this historian says about the longships that came out of a single
harbour of Sicily: it does indeed seem unbelievable to me’ (σημείωσαι τί
φησὶν ὁ παρὼν ἱστορικὸς περὶ τῶν μακρῶν νηῶν τῶν ἐξελθουσῶν ἀπὸ
λιμένος ἑνὸς τῆς Σικελίας· ὅπερ τέως ἐμοὶ δοκεῖ ἄπιστον).60 Under this
note, hand 3 wrote a verse scholion to endorse the incredulity expressed by
hand 2 (poem ii i ):

καλῶς ἀπιστεῖς· μᾶλλον εἰς νοῦν εἰ λάβης,

Βυζαντίων ναύσταθμον ὡς νῦν εὑρέθη.
πρὸς δυσάριθμα· καὶ δυσέμβολα σκάφη,
τὰ τῶν Ἰταλῶν, μὴ δὲ δὶς δέκα φέρων:

You are right to disbelieve this, especially if you consider

what the current state of the harbour of Byzantium is:

57 Note that poem 11 precedes the famous relativistic excursus on the equal power of custom in
different societies (Herodotus, Histories 3.38). The poet of our epigrams appears less liberal than
Herodotus.
58 See, however, the new verse scholion in Laur. Plut. 70.3, possibly by Tzetzes, commenting on
Histories 1.32.1 (quoted above, ed. Bértola [2022b]).
59 See Mazzucchi (1995: 254).
60 Trans. after Kaldellis (2015: 88). See Mazzucchi (1994: 180) and (1995: 208). What has not been
noticed by Mazzucchi or Kaldellis is that the text of Diodorus in Vat. gr. 130 reads ναῦς δὲ μακρὰς
ἐξ ἑνὸς λιμένος ιβ’ μυριάδας (120,000) and not τετρακοσίας (400), as the modern editions. This
makes it sound even less believable.
 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia 353
against the innumerable and invulnerable ships
of the Italians, it can barely muster twenty ships.61

The poet addresses the previous commentator in the second person and
refers to what is happening simultaneously in the outer world. From the
scene described in this poem, Mazzucchi infers that the author was in Con-
stantinople in May 1203. The coincidence of the number of ships (twenty)
with Niketas Choniates’ report is one of Mazzucchi’s strongest arguments
for attributing the epigrams to Niketas Choniates.62 Mazzucchi’s study is a
monumental philological work, well grounded in palaeographic and cod-
icological analysis, which brings in references from an impressive variety
of sources other than Niketas Choniates. However, one must remain cau-
tious, since Niketas is also our most important Greek source for the period
in which hand 3 certainly composed the poems in Vat. gr. 130. The argu-
ments for identifying Niketas Choniates as the author of the poems run
the risk of being circular. Nothing invites the rejection of the postulated
authorship, but there is not enough evidence either to accept it without
prudent hesitation.63 Similarly, I refrain from attributing the new poems in
Laur. Plut. 70.6 to Niketas Choniates, even if many elements would match
his ideology and find parallels in his oeuvre.

Conclusions
This first presentation of the cycle of verse scholia in Laur. Plut. 70.6 has
pinpointed numerous instances of dialogue with the main text and its
author as well as with contemporary issues. Poems 1 to 5 praise the Egyp-
tian rulers. Poems 1 and 2 compare them favourably with their Byzantine
counterparts; poem 9 seems also to tacitly refer to the current decadence
(see below). Poems 6 and 7 turn against the Persian Cambyses and intro-
duce a point of criticism on ancient religion, which will reappear in poems
10 and 11. Poem 11 contains the most direct attack on Herodotus; before,

61 Ed. Mazzucchi (1995: 208); trans. after Kaldellis (2015: 88).

62 See Niketas Choniates, History 541.47–50 ed. van Dieten (1975) and Mazzucchi (1995: 224–7).
Other parallels include the use of the word Τυνδαρίς in poem x i i . 7 and in Niketas Choniates’ De
signis 652.75 ed. van Dieten (1975); on this text, see now Spingou (2022: 211–12). Poem xv i quoted
above would be self-referential and apologetic too, according to Mazzucchi, an attempt to free the
author from any responsibility in the fall of Constantinople.
63 In a recent article, Kuttner-Homs (2020) addresses the literary aspects of the cycle in Vat. gr. 130 and
its internal consistency. He accepts Mazzucchi’s attribution to Niketas Choniates without adding
any new evidence, but in fact his analysis of the poet’s ‘masks’ rather undermines the biographical
arguments offered by Mazzucchi.
354 julián bértola
only in poem 8 is Herodotus’ narrative slightly called into question. The
comparison of the epigrams in Laur. Plut. 70.6 on Herodotus with other
cycles of verse scholia on ancient historians from the twelfth century has
also shown that our cycle shares some interests with the one attributed to
Niketas Choniates by Mazzucchi, but no connection at all with Tzetzes’
scholarly programme. Our poems seem to react in a rather spontaneous
and emotional way to Herodotus’ text. However, spontaneous does not
mean unprepared. On the contrary, these more or less refined divertisse-
ments betray an obvious educated background, as the moral and political
overtones reveal. In fact, the improvisation of poetry while reading Hero-
dotus should be understood as a sign of advanced rhetorical training and
high social status.
Now that we have dispelled the confusion of the author of the cycle
in Laur. Plut. 70.6 with Tzetzes, it may be possible to better delimit the
circumstances of production of these verse scholia. The time of composi-
tion surely follows the capture of Constantinople in 1204, if we take into
account the nature of the events depicted in poem 2. We have also observed
that the historical indications seem to refer to a recent past. Linguistic and
stylistic features, such as the aforementioned loci similes et paralleli, point
to the same period.64 A certain degree of familiarity with Niketas Choni-
ates’ oeuvre can be inferred from the treatment of the Fourth Crusade and
the situation of Constantinople thereafter. However, some images (e.g. the
city as a wrinkled old woman) are standardized motifs that do not belong
to any single author.
The terminus ante quem of our poems is 1318, the date of the earliest
manuscript that contains them. As stated before, the poems are written by
the same hand responsible for the main text, the scribe Nicholas Triklines.
The question is, thus, whether the epigrams are autograph and were com-
posed by Nicholas Triklines as he was copying the Histories, or if they
belong to an earlier author and were just copied together with Herodotus’
text. Autography represents an important issue both for the Tzetzean verse
scholia and for the ones attributed to Niketas Choniates. Both Luzzatto
and Mazzucchi comment on the textual marks that attest to the process
of composition of these verse scholia. Erasures, corrections, rewritings and
empty spaces would reveal that the epigrams were jotted down while the

64 Cf. e.g. the Epitaph by Ps.-George Akropolites quoted above (ed. Heisenberg [1978], Hörandner
[1972]), dated to 1239. Verses 65–75 of this poem also express a yearning for Constantinople redolent
of our poem 2.
 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia 355
poet was reading the main text.65 These kinds of traces can be useful to
determine whether or not the poems in Laur. Plut. 70.6 are autograph.
Now, there is no palaeographic evidence indicating that the reading of
Herodotus inspired Nicholas Triklines to compose the verse scholia while
he was copying Laur. Plut. 70.6. At first sight, the fact that the same hand
also copied Herodotus’ text and other marginalia already undermines this
idea.66 But, even if no erasure or correction is found in the epigrams, a
lacuna in poem 9 poses a major question. Like poem 8, poem 9 comments
on an episode of the Ethiopian digression in the third book of the Histo-
ries. The Ethiopians, Herodotus recounts in Histories 3.23.4, used gold to
chain up their prisoners, since it was less scarce than other metals in the
region. The legend, which enjoyed some popularity in later literature,67
paves the way for a moralizing condemnation of greed in the longest verse
scholion of the cycle in Laur. Plut. 70.6 (fol. 96v):

9. Verses
Sweet is this bond for the gold-lovers.
If it had oppressed their feet as a burden for the feet,
it would have gladdened even more their hearts as it is made of gold.
Oh, who will bring these fetters for them
and thus render all of them prisoners, 5
those who breathe in gold more ...?
For none of them would have escaped the binding,
nor would have been content with receiving one single fetter,
but they would have been eager that together hands and neck
and feet
and every part of their bodies 10
were tied up with golden fetters.

The epigram is well structured, with repetitions and variations of words

and concepts,68 including a rhetorical question full of pathos (9.4–6) and

65 See e.g. Luzzatto (1999: 51 n. 26), Mazzucchi (1995: 236, 244, 255 n. 296) and the critical apparatus
of poems iii, viii, x, xiii, xiv and xv. Besides, both Luzzatto and Mazzucchi adduce the
meticulous use of punctuation, accentuation and – in the case of Tzetzes – the indications of the
length of the dichrona over the line to support the autography. Note that Tzetzes’ poems in Laur.
Plut. 70.3, on the other hand, were copied by a later hand.
66 Note that the other cycles of verse scholia discussed in this chapter were all added in an ancient
manuscript by a manus posterior.
67 See e.g. Heliodorus, Aethiopica 9.1.5–2.1.
68 See e.g. δεσμὸς 9.1, δεσμίους 9.5, δέσιν 9.7; πόδας ... ποδῶν 9.2, πόδας 9.9; φιλοχρύσους 9.1,
χρυσοῦς 9.3, χρυσὸν 9.6, χρυσίναις 9.11; πέδας 9.4, πέδην 9.8, πέδαις 9.11.
356 julián bértola
a climax (9.7–11) with an overall humorous effect: greedy people would
willingly accept being seized and fastened with shackles made of gold, and
everyone would benefit from the result.69 In verse 9.6 a space is left blank
at the beginning of the second hemistich in the manuscript, where three
more syllables are needed to complete the dodecasyllable.70 The phenome-
non can be simply understood as a case of the scribe not being able to read
the passage in the manuscript from which he copied the poem.71 However,
if we want to regard the scribe as the author of these epigrams, the par-
ticular layout of this verse could also be explained as follows: Triklines left
an empty space until he could find a proper set of words to fit metre and
meaning. In the meantime, he had already decided the ending of the verse,
recurrent in our cycle.72
The last word still remains to be said on this matter. In general, the
evidence points to a date of composition earlier than 1318, but it should
be remembered that Nicholas Triklines’ milieu may also have been favour-
able to the production of such verse scholia. To my knowledge, no scho-
lion is ascribed to Nicholas himself. However, Nicholas was more than
a mere copyist, as he shows philological skills. In addition, his supposed
brother Demetrios Triklinios is known to have undertaken a huge editorial
enterprise and produced a varied corpus of scholia that mainly deals with
poetry.73

69 One could think that the same characters of poem 2 are targeted here, either the decadent tyrants
(2.3–6) or the plunderers (2.11). This is, in fact, how Niketas Choniates’ History and De signis depict
the Angeloi emperors and, above all, the Latin invaders (cf. van Dieten [1975: 537.49–58, 539.1–15,
551.61–3, 559.77–80, 576.80–1, 602.4–7, 647.19–21, 652.83–7]). However, greed for gold was part of
a fruitful literary motif attested elsewhere; see e.g. Rhoby (2019: 9–10).
70 Triklines’ awareness of the versified nature of these scholia is expressed visually, as every verse is
written in two lines when the poems occur in the external margin. Similarly, a space is left blank
between verses when they are written in the lower margin (poems 5 and 10). Note that the partition
of the verses into two lines does not necessarily coincide with the caesura, as it does in 9.6.
71 The syntax of the line could need a genitive to complete the meaning of πλέον (cf. e.g. our poems
5.2 and 6.1). The comparison with other passages where analogous turns of phrase are used seems
to support the supplementation of ἀέρος (‘than air’); see e.g. Michael Italikos, Letter 1 64.1–2 ed.
Gautier (1972) and George Tornikes, Letter 10, 128.10 ed. Darrouzès (1970). This conjecture also
conforms to the metre in completing the dodecasyllable. See now Bértola (2022a).
72 See 5.2, 6.1, 9.3, 9.6. Cf. a similar case in Pizzone (2020: 679 n. 87). Of course, this could have
already happened in the model of Laur. 70.6: the author left the empty space and Triklines copied
the verse as he found it. In Laur. Plut. 70.6, every epigram is preceded by the abbreviation for
στίχος/-οι, except for poem 8. Likewise, one may wonder whether this omission should be
attributed to the author or rather to an error of the copyist. The apographs of Laur. Plut. 70.6 show
various solutions to emend the lacuna in poem 9 and some add the lemma in poem 8. See now
Bértola (2022a).
73 Bianconi (2005: 130–6) gives an outline of the philological activity of Nicholas Triklines. He seems
to have copied more prose (including some folios of Herodotus in his restauration of Rome,
Biblioteca Angelica, gr. 83 [Diktyon 55990]), whereas he collaborated with Demetrios Triklinios
 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia 357
Without ruling out the possibility of Triklines’ authorship, I am inclined
to think that the poems were copied in the manuscript that served as model
for Laur. Plut. 70.6 at some point between the years 1204 and 1318. In Laur.
Plut. 70.6, Triklines copied Herodotus’ Histories and all the marginalia
with the same script and colour, thus erasing the visibly different layers
of marginal interventions in the model. The author seems to be at least
familiar with Niketas Choniates’ account of the sack of Constantinople
in 1204, but does not seem to have experienced the tragedy of the Latin
occupation only through books. The incident seems to be fresh in the
author’s memory, if not still part of the author’s reality. I am alluding here
to the possibility that our verse scholia were composed before 1261, when
Michael VIII Palaiologos recaptured Constantinople. It is indeed more
reasonable to assume that the poet would refer to the disaster of the Fourth
Crusade when the wound was still open.

Appendix
The text of the poems is taken from my recent edition (Bértola [2022a]).
1. On Herodotus’ Histories 2.172.4–5
Στίχοι
Ὡς πατρικῶς σὺ νουθετεῖς Αἰγυπτίους·
τὸ σοὶ πρέπον πρόσχημα τῆς τιμῆς νέμειν·
ἄλλος δ’ ἂν αὐτοὺς μαστιγῶν ἐνουθέτει.
2. On Herodotus’ Histories 2.173
Στίχοι
Ἀνεκτὸς ἦν Ἅμασις τῇ σπουδῇ νέμων
μικροῦ τριτημόριον ἡμέρας χρόνου·
οἱ γὰρ παρ’ ἡμῖν τυραννοῦντες ἐκτόπως,
πάννυχον ἅμα καὶ πανήμερον χρόνον
ταῖς παιδιαῖς προσεῖχον ἢ καὶ ταῖς μέθαις·5
ἀνδραπόδων βιοῦντες ἐμπαθῆ βίον·
ἐξ ὧν τὸ κάλλος τῆς νέας Ῥωμαΐδος
γηραλέα συνέσχε ῥυτὶς ἀθρόον·
ἡ βασιλὶς δὲ καὶ πασῶν ὑπερτάτη,
ληστῶν ὑπῆρξε δυσμενῶν κατοικία.10

for poetry; see Smith (1993: 188–9), Pérez Martín (2000: 317–8), Bianconi (2005: 128) and (2018:
51–3), Pontani (2015: 427). On Nicholas’ metrical training, see especially Turyn (1957: 232–3). For
the figure of Demetrios Triklinios, see e.g. Mergiali (1996: 54–7), Fryde (2000: 268–94), Bianconi
(2005: 91–118), Pontani (2015: 424–8).
358 julián bértola
3. On Herodotus’ Histories 3.14.3
Στίχοι
Ὡς ἀνδρικὸν σὺ τὸν Ψαμμήνιτον λέγεις·
πρὸς λυπρὰς οὕτως ἀνδρισάμενον τύχας·
ὡς μηδαμῶς παθεῖν τι δυσγενὲς πάθος·
φεισάμενον δὲ καὶ ψιλῶν στεναγμάτων·
ἐν πάθεσι χρήζουσι πολλῶν δακρύων.5
4. On Herodotus’ Histories 3.14.7
Στίχος
Θαυμαστὸς ἦσθα καὶ σιγῶν σὺ καὶ λέγων.
5. On Herodotus’ Histories 3.14.10
Στίχοι
Καὶ τὴν σιγὴν τέθηπα τὴν Ψαμμηνίτου·
καὶ τὴν λαλιὰν τῆς σιγῆς τιμῶ πλέον·
ἡ μὲν γὰρ ἀτέκμαρτον ἴσχει τὸ τέλος·
ἥ δ’ ἐκκαλύπτει καὶ σοφῆς φρενὸς χάριν·
κοσμοῦσαν ἄμφω καὶ σιγὴν καὶ τὸν λόγον.5
6. On Herodotus’ Histories 3.16.1
Στίχοι
Καὶ τίς μεμηνὼς εὑρεθῇ τούτου πλέον,
ὃς σῶμα νεκρὸν μαστιγοῦν ἐπιτρέπει;
7. On Herodotus’ Histories 3.16.2–4
Στίχοι
Ὁ πυρσολάτρης, ἀνομῶν οὐκ αἰσχύνῃ·
σώμασι νεκρῶν ἐκμιαίνων τὸ σέβας;
8. On Herodotus’ Histories 3.23.2–3
Στίχοι
Τεραστίαν ὕδατος ἐξηγῇ φύσιν·
οὐκ οἶδ’ ὅθεν ῥέουσαν ἢ πηγῆς τίνος·
τὸ γοῦν λιπαρὸν ἐκ μετάλων ἂν φέρῃ·
τὸ χαῦνον ἢ καὶ κoῦφον ἔσχεν ἐκ τίνος;
9. On Herodotus’ Histories 3.23.4
Στίχοι
Γλυκὺς ὁ δεσμὸς οὗτος εἰς φιλοχρύσους·
ἂν τοὺς πόδας ἔθλιψεν ὡς ποδῶν βάρη,
τὰς καρδίας ηὔφρανεν ὡς χρυσοῦς πλέον·
ὢ τίς κομίσει ταύτας αὐτοῖς τὰς πέδας·
 An Unedited Cycle of Byzantine Verse Scholia 359
καὶ πάντας ἔνθεν ἀποφήνῃ δεσμίους·  5
τοὺς χρυσὸν ἐμπνέοντας <ἀέρος> πλέον;
οὐδεὶς γὰρ αὐτῶν ἐξέφυγε τὴν δέσιν·
οὐδ’ αὖ μίαν ἔστερξεν εἰληφὼς πέδην·
ὁμοῦ δὲ χεῖρας καὶ τράχηλον καὶ πόδας,
καὶ σωματικὴν σύμπασαν διαρτίαν,  10
ταῖς χρυσίναις ἔσπευσε ληφθῆναι πέδαις.
10. On Herodotus’ Histories 3.29.1
Στίχοι
Ὧδε φρενῶν ἔδειξε Καμβύσης γέμειν·
θεὸν βόειον δεξιούμενος ξίφει·
ὡς πάχος αὐτοῦ σαρκικὸν ἀποξέσῃ.
11. On Herodotus’ Histories 3.37.3–38.1
Στίχοι
Κἂν εἰς ἄλλα μέμηνεν ἔργα Καμβύσης,
ἐνταῦθα γε σοῦ σωφρονέστερος φθάνει·
γέλωτα τιθεὶς τοὺς γελώτων ἀξίους.

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 ch apter 14

Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem

Editorial Problems, Quellenforschung
and Cultural Context
Konstantinos Chryssogelos

In 1905, Constantine Cavafy wrote a poem entitled ‘Manuel Comnenus’,

which he published some ten years later. In what turns out to be the sole
poem of the poet’s canon pertaining to Manuel’s reign, astrologers make
a brief, yet significant appearance.1 Cavafy must have drawn inspiration
from Niketas Choniates’ History, where the emperor’s final moments are
narrated in detail, including astrological predictions of longevity and pros-
perity for the dying monarch.2 By reading the rest of Choniates’ historical
work, the poet must have realized that astrologers were an integral part
of Manuel’s court throughout his forty-year reign. Apparently, Choniates
thought that Manuel’s obsession with astrology was a symptom of a deca-
dent empire on the verge of destruction.3
However, despite the fact that Manuel did indeed try to raise the disci-
pline’s status during his reign, astrology seems to have been a sine qua non
component of the Greek and Graeco-Roman mentality from the Hellen-
istic period onwards.4 The Byzantine court in particular had always been
more or less receptive to it.5 The difference is that before the twelfth cen-
tury astrology was practised and used discreetly (with the exception of the
seventh-century court of Herakleios),6 due to the Church’s hostile attitude
towards it.7 Conversely, Manuel was an outspoken advocate of astrology,
and this attitude is attested by a variety of texts composed by both court
literati and dignitaries, not to mention the emperor himself. In fact, astrol-
ogy was such a prominent feature of Manuel’s reign that his aunt, Anna

1 Two translations in English (by J. C. Cavafy and by E. Keely and P. Sherrard) can be found at the
official website of the Cavafy archive (www.Cavafy.com).
2 Van Dieten (1975: 221). On Choniates as a source for Cavafy’s poem, see Agapitos (1994: 14).
3 See Magdalino (2006b: 111) and (2015: 166).
4 Astrology was introduced to Greece around the third century a d . See Barton (1994: 23).
5 See Magdalino (2002: 37) and Papathanassiou (2006: 167–9).
6 See Papathanassiou (2006) and Magdalino (2006b: 33–54).
7 See Magdalino (2006b: 109).

366
 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem 367
Komnene, writing her celebrated Alexiad in the late 1140s or early 1150s,8
felt compelled to consider the issue. However, her stance is ambivalent and
it has been suggested that it is best understood as a reaction to her neph-
ew’s policy in this field.9
Among the texts pertaining directly or indirectly to astrology that were
produced at Manuel’s court, we find the Astrological Poem,10 a didactic
fifteen-syllable poem by Constantine Manasses, which until recently was
attributed to Theodore Prodromos (more on the authorship in the next
section).11 The poem, which was commissioned by the well-known patron-
ess sebastokratorissa Irene, constitutes an introductory course on the basic
elements of astrology. In the only edition of the poem by Miller (1872),
it numbers 593 verses and is structured as follows. First, it opens with
an encomiastic address to the sebastokratorissa (vv. 1–15). Then the poet
explains how the position and the configuration of the planets at the time
of one’s birth shape one’s personality and affect one’s health (vv. 16–357).
The next section deals with the zodiac circle and the attributes of each sign
(vv. 358–482). This is followed by further information on the configuration
of the planets and their impact on everyday life (vv. 483–508). The penulti-
mate section is dedicated to the twelve ‘places’ on the zodiac, which govern
several aspects of the life cycle, such as death, marriage and friendship (vv.
511–64).12 The poem concludes with an epilogue, in which the poet justifies
his engagement with astrology, arguing that the planets and their effects
are subject to God’s will; therefore, he could not be accused of dealing with
controversial topics (vv. 565–93).
Even though the Astrological Poem has attracted some attention in recent
years, we still lack a modern edition based on all six manuscripts (Miller
used only two). Moreover, there are still several issues that need to be
addressed, such as the placing of the poem within the cultural context of
Manuel’s reign, when the discipline of astrology was popular. With these
desiderata in mind, the purpose of the chapter is threefold: first, to discuss
some editorial problems, in the light of Miller’s edition and also by taking
into consideration all six manuscripts that transmit the text, thus laying
the groundwork for a future critical edition; second, to attempt to identify

8 See Magdalino (2000) and (2003: 28).

9 See Magdalino (2000: 29–30), (2003: 28–31), (2006a: 142) and (2015: 167).
10 It was edited, along with John Kamateros’ astrological poem, under the title Poèmes astronomiques
by Miller (1872). Modern scholarship refers to Manasses’ poem as Astrological Poem (see e.g. Nilsson
[2021: 117]).
11 References to the poem follow Miller (1872: 8–39). On didactic poetry, see also Bernard in this
volume.
12 On the ‘places’ on the zodiac, see Barton (1994: 98).
368 konstantinos chryssogelos
some of the poem’s possible sources; third, to delineate the way in which
the poem interacts with the cultural milieu in which it was composed. The
last section then offers some concluding remarks.

Editorial Problems
The only edition of the Astrological Poem is that published by Emma-
nuel Miller in 1872. The editor had at his disposal two manuscripts. The
Paris manuscript (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Suppl. gr. 501
­[Diktyon 53245], fols. 1r–11r; hereafter P) transmits the poem anonymously,
while the Vienna manuscript (Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbiblio-
thek, phil. gr. 110 [Diktyon 71224], fols. 533r–538r; hereafter W) attributes
it to Theodore Prodromos. In the P manuscript the poem is untitled, but
the titles of the works (Prodromos’ historical poems) that immediately fol-
low it suggest that they were written ‘by the same author’. At present, we
know of four more manuscripts that preserve the text.13 In the Vienna,
Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, hist. gr. 86 [Diktyon 70963] (fols.
175v–179v; hereafter W1), the earliest testimony, dating to the thirteenth
century, the poem is again ascribed to Prodromos, whereas in the Vatican
manuscript (Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, gr. 677 [Diktyon
67308], fols. 99r–111r; hereafter V) the name of the poet is not mentioned.
On the other hand, the other two manuscripts, both dating to the four-
teenth century (Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, phil. gr. 149
­[Diktyon 71263], fols. 158r–168v = W2; Istanbul, Bibliotheke tou Oikou-
menikou Patriarcheiou, Kamariotissa 151 [Diktyon 33796], fols. 106r–116r
= K), ascribe it to Manasses. Without knowledge of these two manuscripts,
Miller accepted the explicit attribution to Prodromos in the W manuscript
and the indirect attribution to the same author in the P manuscript.14
A first reading of all six manuscripts has shown that there are some inter-
esting differences between them. Four manuscripts (W1, V, P and W) form
a more or less homogeneous group, which applies roughly to Miller’s edi-
tion, although W1 and V lack some verses that are present in the other two.
However, all four manuscripts perpetuate the same mistakes. This suggests
that already in the thirteenth century a manuscript or a group of manu-
scripts containing the astrological poem had corrupted the text. The false
attribution to Prodromos is hardly surprising, since Prodromos was highly
respected and venerated by generations of Byzantines.15 In ­Hörandner’s

13 The manuscript tradition of the poem is discussed briefly by Rhoby (2009: 321–2).
14 See Miller (1872: 2 and 7).
 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem 369
list of the author’s literary production, there are no fewer than thirty-five
entries with spurious works.16 In addition, there is strong textual evidence
that Prodromos exerted a profound influence on contemporary and later
authors.17 Also, in Ps.-Gregory of Corinth’s treatise On the Four Parts of
a Complete Speech, which dates to the mid- or late thirteenth century,18
Prodromos is among the exemplars for the composition of iambs.19 Fur-
thermore, the same author had dedicated a grammar treatise to the sebas-
tokratorissa, in which he calls her φιλολογωτάτη (‘most learned’), which
corresponds to the second verse of the astrological poem.20
On the other hand, the two manuscripts that ascribe the poem to
Manasses (hereafter: the Manasses manuscripts) contain versions that are
slightly different from that of the other four.21 Both manuscripts omit
several verses (not always the same ones), add some of their own, and
occasionally offer alternative formulations. Therefore, the six manuscripts
contain no fewer than three similar, but not identical, versions of the
poem. How is this to be explained? With regard to the Synopsis Chronike,
Lampsidis has proposed, although with caution, that verses added to the
poem and which obviously do not form part of the original composi-
tion should be viewed as later insertions by scribes.22 On the other hand,
Horna has convincingly argued that the two different versions of Manas-
ses’ Itinerary are due to a reworking of the poem by the author himself.23
Perhaps it could be argued that Manasses had done the same thing with
his Astrological Poem, although it should be taken into account that in
the Itinerary there were obvious reasons for the exclusion of specific parts
in the second version of the first Logos. For instance, the ekphrasis of the
princess who was initially selected as Manuel’s prospective second wife
was naturally dropped in the second version, when a new spouse for the
emperor had been found.24 If the different versions of the Astrological

15 The vocabulary and style of the poem show that it is by Manasses. See Rhoby (2009: 321–9); cf.
Nilsson (2021: 118). Hörandner already questioned its attribution to Prodromos in his edition of
the author’s historical poems (see Hörandner [1974: 49, n. 76a]). See also Rhoby and Zagklas (2011:
177) for a similar case, where a poem that may have been composed by Manasses is attributed to
Prodromos in the oldest testimonies.
16 See Hörandner (1974: 68–72, n. 216–50).
17 See Hörandner (2009: 210–12).
18 See Hörandner (2012: 117).
19 Hörandner (2012: 108), as ‘Ptochoprodromos’.
20 See Zagklas (2011: 84). Cf. Rhoby (2010: 167–8).
21 The variae lectiones of W2 were first transcribed by Lampros and published posthumously in
Lampros (1922).
22 See Lampsidis (1996: lxv–lxxvi).
23 See Horna (1904: 318–19); cf. Chryssogelos (2017: 93–5).
24 See Horna (1904: 318–19); cf. Chryssogelos (2017: 93–5).
370 konstantinos chryssogelos
Poem are likewise the outcome of authorial revisions, it would still be
difficult to say whether there were political reasons that obliged Manas-
ses to rework his poem. To begin with, it is hard to tell which version is
the oldest. A close reading and a comparison between the three versions
will solve some of these problems, but for now, it is important to bear
in mind that a new critical edition will alter our perception of the poem
significantly.
For instance, Table 14.1 shows how the part relating to the effects of the
planet Saturn is transmitted in the three versions. If we are inclined to read
between the lines, there could be an extra-textual explanation for what we
see. Saturn is a harmful planet and verses that refer to fathers dying early
(vv. 99–100) are missing from both W2 and K, while others about women
committing adultery (vv. 106–10) are missing from K. It is tempting to
assume that such verses were omitted by Manasses because someone at
court felt offended by or took issue with them. It is also worth noting
that only in the part concerning Saturn (and not the other planets) are so
many verses missing in W2 and K. Another suggestion would be to ascribe
these omissions to a later editor, who wanted to use the poem as teaching
material.25 However, this would not explain the steady presence of the
encomiastic verses addressed to the sebastokratorissa in all manuscripts,
not to mention that such a speculation should be made after specifying
which version came first. Needless to say, all these issues should be dis-
cussed thoroughly in a new critical edition of the poem.
Let us focus now on Miller’s edition. As far as the reading of the
manuscripts is concerned, the editor’s conjectures are most often on
the right track, although occasionally he appears reluctant to discuss
readings that seem spurious (we shall deal with one such case later).
On other occasions, he accepts readings that are obviously not correct
(ὕπατος instead of ἥπατος [v. 307]; ὅλων [v. 267] is problematic, since
we need a word with a stress on the ultimate or the antepenultimate

Table 14.1 The effects of the planet Saturn in the three versions of Manasses’ poem

Miller (= version 1) W2 (= version 2) K (= version 3)

vv. 26–134 vv. 35–104 desunt vv. 44–134 desunt
post v. 34, add. 2 vv. post v. 33, add. 2 vv.
post v. 34, alt. v. add.

25 Cf. Nilsson (2021: 123), who also aptly stresses the poem’s literary merits.
 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem 371
syllable; v. 197 lacks one syllable; v. 233 has an external hiatus). Last,
there are some obvious errors, with readings that are not supported by
the two manuscripts either. These may be regarded as simple misprints
(διενεκῶς [v. 354] instead of διηνεκῶς, γίνεται πάλι τῶν ὥρων [v. 445]
instead of ὡρῶν).
The two versions of the Manasses manuscripts can be helpful in emend-
ing verses that are or may be corrupted in Miller’s edition (it should be
noted, though, that they do not always offer satisfactory readings). Some
examples of corrupted verses:

Ἑρμῆς συγχαίρει ταύτῃ δὲ στωμύλος τῇ Προιτίδι (v. 301 ed. Miller)

Loquacious Hermes rejoices with her [= Venus], the daughter of Proetus

The two manuscripts of Miller’s edition read ποτρίδι and παιστρίδι, two
words that do not make sense. The latter is also the reading of the other
two manuscripts of this version, namely W1 and V. Neither of these read-
ings, not even Miller’s suggestion, which draws from Greek mythology, is
satisfactory. Ultimately, the best varia lectio is offered by W2, which reads
παιστρίᾳ (162v). According to LBG, the adjective, which means ‘a female
player’, appears only in this manuscript and Manasses’ Synopsis Chronike.
In the latter it reads as follows:

ἔχαιρε δὲ [= Nero] κιθαρωδοῖς καὶ γυναιξὶ παιστρίαις (v. 2019 ed. Lampsidis
1996)

Nero rejoiced with cithara-players and female players

The lectio makes even more sense in the light of the Synopsis Chronike,
when read together with the next line in the astrological poem that refers
to Venus as a cithara-player:

Ἑρμῆς συγχαίρει ταύτῃ δὲ στωμύλος τῇ παιστρίᾳ

ὁ λάλος φιλοπαίγμονι μουσικοκιθαριστρίᾳ

Loquacious Hermes rejoices with this female (instrument) player,

namely the talkative (god) with the cithara-player, who is fond of playing

Another case that is emended by the Manasses manuscripts pertains to

v. 540 in Miller’s edition. The editor rightly argued that there is a lacuna
there, although this was not indicated in his manuscripts. Miller is justified
372 konstantinos chryssogelos
by both Manasses manuscripts, which confirm the loss of one verse, which
reads as follows:

ἕβδομος τόπος γυναικῶν καὶ γάμων καὶ τῶν γάμου (W2, 167v; Κ, 115r)

the seventh place concerns wives, marriages and everything associated

with weddings

Finally, there is the case of v. 592, which in Miller’s edition reads καὶ τοίνυν
εἰς λυκάβαντας ὡς ἀειρεῖσθαι πλέον. All four manuscripts related to Mill-
er’s edition give either ἀπειρῆσθαι or ἀειρῆσθαι. Neither is satisfactory.
Rhoby proposed ἀπειρεῖσθαι, on analogy with Manasses’ dedicatory epi-
gram to the sebastokratorissa Irene, which precedes (or follows) the Synopsis
Chronike, where we read:

εἰς τοίνυν λυκάβαντας ἀπειρεσίους ἐλάσειας (v. 9 ed. Lampsidis 1996)26

and this I say now: May you live for many years to come

Rhoby’s conjecture is better than Miller’s, yet the syntax still remains
problematic. The verse is missing from W2, but it is included in the K
manuscript. It offers a slightly different lectio, which is the best so far and
also strongly reminiscent of the aforementioned verse in the dedicatory
epigram:

<κα>ὶ τοίνυν ε<ἰ>ς λυκάβαντας ζήσ<α>ις ἀπειραρίθμους (K, 116r)

and may you live for many years to come

The above cases make clear that we need a new critical edition. Despite
some errors, Miller did a fine job with the manuscripts available to him.
Today we are fortunate to possess four more testimonies which open up new
possibilities in terms of editing, understanding and interpreting the poem.

Quellenforschung
Having explored some of the editorial problems that the modern editor
of the poem has to face, we move on now to the detection of its sources,

26 See Rhoby (2009: 325).

 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem 373
yet another field where much work needs to be done. Miller had already
indicated some of Manasses’ possible sources in the apparatus fontium
of his edition, such as the second book of Ps.-Manetho’s Apotelesmatica
(which is the first in Koechly’s edition),27 Paul of Alexandria’s Introduction
to Astrology (Εἰσαγωγικά) and excerpts from the then-unedited treatise of
Rhetorius of Egypt. Ps.-Manetho is given as a parallel for the effects of the
interaction of the planets on human behaviour; Paul of Alexandria is cited
as a possible source for the information regarding the twelve signs of the
zodiac; Rhetorius serves as a parallel for the part dealing with the ‘places’
of the zodiac. As regards the ‘places’, Miller also cites an anonymous astro-
logical text that is preserved in Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr.
2506 [Diktyon 52138].
Of these texts, I shall focus first on Paul of Alexandria, whose treatise
is indeed very close to Manasses’ poem. However, it appears that the Byz-
antine poet had one more source, namely Vettius Valens’ Anthologia. In
using it, he describes the nature of the zodiac signs with some adjectives
that are absent from Paul, but present in Vettius Valens. Table 14.2 shows
the adjectives concerning the first two signs. As can be seen, the adjectives
πυρῶδες (‘fiery’) and γεῶδες (‘earthy’) are not found in Paul of Alexandria.
Therefore, it is quite possible that Manasses drew also on Vettius Valens,
who, in turn, does not use the adjective ἐαρινόν. Moreover, Valens’ treatise
can be of great use on other occasions, as, for instance, in the part where
Manasses elaborates on the effects of the Moon on human behaviour, as
can be seen in Table 14.3.

Table 14.2 The nature of the zodiac signs in Manasses, Vettius Valens and Paul of
Alexandria

Manasses (ed. Miller 1872) Vettius Valens, Anthologia Paul of Alexandria, Apote-
(ed. Pingree 1986) lesmatica (ed. Boer 1958)
Ζῶον Κριὸς ἀρσενικόν, <Κ>ριός ἐστιν … ζῴδιον Κριός, ἀρσενικόν, …
ἐαρινόν, πυρῶδες (v. ἀρρενικόν, … πυρῶδες ἐαρινόν (p. 2.10–11)
380) (p. 5.21–2)
Ὁ Ταῦρος θῆλυ, στερεόν, Ταῦρός ἐστι θηλυκόν, Ταῦρος, θηλυκόν, στερεόν,
ἐαρινόν, γεῶδες (v. 384) στερεόν (p. 6.16) ἐαρινόν (p. 3.9)
Ἔστι δὲ τὸ ζῴδιον …
γεῶδες (p. 7.3)

27 For the correct order of the books, see De Stefani (2017: 22–8).
374 konstantinos chryssogelos
Table 14.3 The effects of the Moon in Manasses and Vettius Valens

Manasses (ed. Miller 1872, vv. 351–4) Vettius Valens, Anthologia (ed. Pingree
1986, pp. 1.14–15; 1.18 and 1.19)
ὄχλων δηλοῖ δὲ συστροφὰς καὶ ξενιτείας <Ἡ> δὲ Σελήνη γενομένη μὲν ἐκ τῆς
πλάνας, ἀντανακλάσεως τοῦ ἡλιακοῦ φωτὸς
οἷς οἶμαι τὸ πυκνότερον αὐξομοιώσεις καὶ νόθον φῶς κεκτημένη σημαίνει
τρέχειν. … ὄχλων συστροφήν, … ξενιτείας,
οὐδὲ γὰρ ἔχει τὴν αὐτὴν ἀεὶ φωτοχυσίαν. πλάνας.
διενεκῶς δ’ ἀλλάττεται τὸ φῶς δανειζομένη.

Table 14.4 The effects of Saturn in Manasses and Claudius Ptolemy

Manasses (ed. Miller 1872) Claudius Ptolemy, Apotelesmatica

(ed. Hübner 1998)
(Κρόνος) (ὁ Κρόνος ποιεῖ)
ποιητικὸς φθόνου καὶ βασκανίας (v. 32) φθονερούς (p. 255.1232) | βασκάνους (1234)
ὑποκρίσεως, μονογνωμοσύνης (v. 33) μονογνώμονας (1230) | ὑποκριτικούς
(p. 256.1246)
βαθυφροσύνης σκοτεινῆς (v. 35) βαθύφρονας (p. 255.1229)
(αἴτιός ἐστιν) (v. 39) (ποιεῖ) τεταρταϊκὰς ἐπισημασίας
(p. 136.708–9)
τεταρταίων (v. 46) φθορᾶς τῆς κατὰ ψύξιν ἐστιν αἴτιος
(p. 136.705–6)
πάντων τῶν ἐκ ψύξεως (v. 47) πρὸς δὲ τοὺς τῆς γῆς καρποὺς ἔνδειαν καὶ
ἀπόλλυσι τοὺς καρποὺς ὑδάτων σπάνιν καὶ ἀπώλειαν […] ὑπὸ […]
ἐπικλύσει (v. 51) κατακλυσμῶν ὀμβρίων
ἢ χαλαζῶν σφαιρώμασιν (v. 52) ἐπιφορᾶς ἢ χαλάζης (p. 137.723–6)

There are several issues in Miller’s edition: πλάνας (here as a noun, mean-
ing ‘wandering’, not an adjective) should be separated from ξενιτείας (‘liv-
ing abroad’) by a comma, the second verse needs an emendation (perhaps
αἷς instead of οἷς and πάσχειν, which is the reading of the K manuscript)
and διενεκῶς should be written with an η (διηνεκῶς = perpetually). But
even so, the two passages say the exact same thing: moonlight is a reflec-
tion of sunlight, for which reason the power of the moon may cause the
gathering of crowds, travelling abroad and wandering in general.
Another text that was probably used by Manasses, especially in the first
part of his poem that deals with the effects of the planets on a person’s
character and health from birth (vv. 16–357), is Claudius Ptolemy’s Apo-
telesmatica. Table 14.4 shows how this is reflected in the case of the planet
 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem 375
Saturn and its effects on human character (vv. 32, 33, 35) and health (vv.
46–7), as well as on climatic conditions (vv. 51–2).
The influence of Rhetorius’ astrological treatise on Manasses is certainly
not restricted to the part of the poem that pertains to the ‘places’ of the
zodiac.28 For instance, the information that Saturn causes gout (ποδάγρα,
v. 46) derives from Rhetorius, not Ptolemy.29 Later on, Manasses says that
the sun ‘dominates’ (δεσπόζει) the right eye and the heart (v. 263). This is
reminiscent of Ptolemy’s assertion that the sun ‘is the lord of eyesight ...
the heart ... and the parts of the human body on the right’,30 but again it is
Rhetorius who stands closer to Manasses in making a specific reference to
the right eye.31 The same applies to the moon, which in Manasses governs
‘the left pupil of the eye’ (v. 357). This corresponds to Rhetorius’ reference
to the ‘left eye’, whereas Ptolemy speaks of ‘the parts of the body on the
left’ in general.32
Moreover, it is important to observe and explore the way in which
the poet treats the material that derives from his primary sources. Does
he simply quote ancient astrologers or does he update the information
they provide? For instance, according to all three versions Venus brings
great fortune deriving from ‘noble ladies (and) honourable queens’
(vv. 293–4). There are relevant passages in Ps.-Manetho and Claudius
Ptolemy that were possibly among Manasses’ sources,33 but the specific
references to εὐγενεῖς γυναῖκας and βασιλίδας as generators of afflu-
ence and bliss seem to be his own. It is impossible not to discern here
Manasses’ attempt to praise further the generosity of his prominent
patroness the sebastokratorissa34 – this virtue of hers is stressed time and
again both in this poem and in the Synopsis Chronike.35 Ultimately, such
references, no matter how implicit they are, remind us that the most
important aspect of the astrological poem is first and foremost the rela-
tionship between the twelfth-century court poet and his rich and pow-
erful patroness.

28 There are several problems regarding the transmission of Rhetorius’ astrological writings, as well
as the question of when exactly he was active, which I will not tackle in this chapter. For a recent
discussion of these issues, see László (2020). Rhetorius’ influence on Manasses’ poem has also been
stressed by Caudano (2012: 60).
29 See CCAG 7, p. 214.
30 Hübner (1998: 234).
31 CCAG 7, p. 219.
32 CCAG 7, p. 222 and Hübner (1998: 234), respectively.
33 De Stefani (2017: 66) and Hübner (1998: 140), respectively.
34 I owe this observation to Paul Magdalino.
35 On the praise of Irene’s generosity by several authors who frequented her literary salon, see Jeffreys
(2011–12: 182).
376 konstantinos chryssogelos
Literary Milieu and Cultural Context of Manasses’ Poem
The last remark in the previous section can serve as the starting point for
the study of the cultural context of the Astrological Poem. This literary
piece was commissioned by the sebastokratorissa Irene, to whom Manasses
had also dedicated his Synopsis Chronike.36 Both poems are similar in form
and style, and thus it could be argued that they were composed around
the same time. However, the exact dating of the Synopsis is still debated,
whereas less research has been done with regard to the Astrological Poem.
Certainly, the terminus ante quem for these two poems is the date of Irene’s
death, in 1152 or 1153.37 As regards the Synopsis, Lampsidis has argued in
favour of a dating before the ascent of Manuel Komnenos to the throne
(1143),38 whereas recent scholarship surmises that the poem was written and
edited over a span of several years, with its first sections perhaps composed
as early as the late 1130s.39 If the Synopsis was more or less completed during
the reign of John Komnenos, namely in the early 1140s, it would mean
that the few laudatory verses to Manuel included in the poem are later
additions.40
Things are further complicated by the material relating to astrology,
which can be traced in the Synopsis in the part pertaining to the fourth day
of Creation (vv. 100–38 ed. Lampsidis 1996), which naturally suggests that
there is a connection between this work and the Astrological Poem. This is
reflected both in the shared vocabulary of the two poems,41 as well as in
some of the planets’ attributes that are mentioned in passing in the Synopsis
but treated in a more detailed manner in the Astrological Poem. However,
in the Synopsis the planets are dealt with in such a way that knowledge
of astrology is not really required in order for the relevant verses to be
construed. Even v. 109, where the poet says that the sun is οἶκος πυρὸς
ἀξύλου (‘house of a woodless fire’),42 a formulation that points towards

36 On the relationship between Irene and Manasses, see Rhoby (2009: 321–9). On the sebastokratorissa
as patroness, see Rhoby (2010: 166–8) and Jeffreys (2011–12); on the sebastokratorissa as the patroness
of Manganeios Prodromos, see E. M. Jeffreys and M. J. Jeffreys in this volume.
37 See Chryssogelos (2017: 13–14), Jeffreys (2011–12: 189–90) and (2012: 273–4).
38 Lampsidis (1996: xix); Lampsides dates it to 1142 but argues that it was published after 1143.
39 For the discussion, see Nilsson (2021: 147, 163 and 187).
40 See Lampsidis (1996: xix) and Nilsson (2021: 147).
41 For instance, in the Synopsis Chronike the moon is called γλαυκόφωτος and λιπαραυγής (vv. 111–12
ed. Lampsidis [1996]), in the same way as in the Astrological Poem (v. 282).
42 Cf. Astrological Poem, vv. 474–5: Τῷ γοῦν θαλάμῳ τοῦ πυρὸς Ἡλίου τὸν ἀέρα | πυροῦντι καὶ
θερμαίνοντι ταχείαις εὐδρομίαις … (‘to the chamber of the Sun’s fire, which burns and heats the air
most rapidly…’). These two verses appear in the section that deals with the ‘zodiacal houses’ of the
planets.
 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem 377
the ‘zodiacal houses’,43 could be well understood figuratively (i.e. ‘the sun
burns like fire’).
Practically, all this means that it is not easy to say which poem came
first, although it could be argued tentatively that when this section of the
Synopsis was delivered to Irene, she was not yet familiar with astrological
knowledge. If so, it would not be implausible to assume that Manasses
introduced in the Synopsis themes, words and concepts associated with
astrology, in a way that would not confuse the sebastokratorissa, perhaps
even in preparation for her imminent acquaintance with the discipline
via the Astrological Poem. It is useful to note that in the epilogue of the
latter, the poet declares that this work is a gift to his patroness, as a token
of appreciation for her previous generosity.44 Does this ‘generosity’ refer to
the poet’s lavish remuneration for the composition of the Synopsis Chron-
ike, or is some other commissioned work implied here?45 The case must
remain open for now.
In addition, we should consider the possibility that the verses in the
Synopsis that concern the planets are also later additions, perhaps to one
of the last ‘versions’ of the poem, just when Manuel had succeeded to the
throne; we have already seen that the encomiastic verses to this emperor
in the Synopsis could have been added at a later stage. Indeed, these hints
at the discipline of astrology, as well as other instances where astrology
is seen in a positive light,46 within a long poem composed for a distin-
guished member of the court, fit better the reign of Manuel, a time when
astrology, although all but absent in the time of the previous Komnenoi,47
had become particularly fashionable, due to the emperor’s own fascination
with it.48 As we shall see later on, the Astrological Poem relates to the astro-
logical literature produced during the reign of this emperor in particular.
Be that as it may, neither the aforementioned passage in the Synopsis nor

43 See Barton (1994: 96).

44 Vv. 587–8: Πολλῶν γὰρ ἀπολαύσας σου τῶν εὐεργετημάτων | δῶρον προσάγω σοι βραχύ, τοῦτό
σε δεξιοῦμαι (‘Since I have benefited greatly from your generosity, I bring to you now this small gift,
as a token of my gratitude’).
45 Jeffreys (2011–12: 181–2) relates this reference to the Synopsis Chronike. Nilsson (2021: 187) argues
that these verses could well refer to other works, such as Manasses’ erotic novel or a literary piece
that is now lost.
46 See, for instance, in the edition of Lampsidis, vv. 2035–8 (astrologers predict the death of emperor
Vitellius), 2083–2115 (a ‘wise astrologer’ foresees the passing of Emperor Domitian; the former is
then subjected to torture but miraculously remains unharmed) and 2954–60 (an astrologer foretells,
apparently with the aid of Divine Providence, the demise of Emperor Zeno). That astrological
predictions in the Synopsis are proven mostly right is noted also by Magdalino (2006b: 112, n. 21).
47 See Magdalino (2003: 28–9) and (2006b: 101 and 106–7). For a general survey of astrology at the
court of Manuel, with brief notes on the authors and their texts, see Magdalino (2021).
48 See Magdalino (2006b: 111).
378 konstantinos chryssogelos
the Astrological Poem as a whole should necessarily be viewed as solid proof
of Manasses’ own attraction to astrology,49 for these texts function on mul-
tiple levels and are associated with a complex network of patrons, recipi-
ents and authors, but also with the authorial persona of the poet, which
obviously is not identical to the historical figure of Manasses.50
Turning to the poetics of the Astrological Poem, we may start by not-
ing that, thanks to the protective wing of the sebastokratorissa (we need
look no further than the enthusiastic praise of her in the prologue of the
Synopsis Chronike, as well as the accompanying dedicatory epigram, and
likewise the prologue and epilogue of the astrological poem, all of them
similar in tone),51 Manasses was confident enough to elaborate freely on
the subject of astrology without having to worry about the controversy
this might cause. But he was also prudent enough to add some twenty
verses at the end of the poem (vv. 565–84), where he argues that he had not
lost his mind in claiming that the planets have a will of their own. On the
contrary, he knows that it was God who granted them the power to affect
human life, in the same way as He had given power to earthly things, such
as stones, plants, trees and roots.
Of particular interest is the fact that Manasses turned to the Old Tes-
tament for help in order to seal his argument (vv. 583–4), and more spe-
cifically to the following verses from the book of Genesis (1:14), which, it
should be stressed, are the source of the section in the Synopsis that pertains
to the planets as well:

Καὶ εἶπεν ὁ Θεός· γενηθήτωσαν φωστῆρες ἐν τῷ στερεώματι τοῦ οὐρανοῦ

εἰς φαῦσιν ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς, τοῦ διαχωρίζειν ἀνὰ μέσον τῆς ἡμέρας καὶ ἀνὰ
μέσον τῆς νυκτός· καὶ ἔστωσαν εἰς σημεῖα καὶ εἰς καιροὺς καὶ εἰς ἡμέρας καὶ
εἰς ἐνιαυτούς.52

And God said, Let there be lights in the firmament of the heaven to divide
the day from the night; and let them be for signs, and for seasons, and for
days, and years. (King James Version)

This passage was somewhat controversial throughout the Byzantine

period, as the meaning of the word ‘signs’ is obscure. It appears that some

49 See Magdalino (2006b: 112, n. 21).

50 Cf. Nilsson (2021: 156–9 and 166–9), who regards the frequent appearance of the motif of slander
in Manasses’ work as a recycled literary motif rather than an autobiographical self-reference.
51 See Rhoby (2009: 323–7).
52 Ἡ Παλαιὰ Διαθήκη κατὰ τοὺς Ἑβδομήκοντα, ἐγκρίσει τῆς Δ. Ἱερᾶς Συνόδου τῆς Ἐκκλησίας
τῆς Ἑλλάδος (6th ed.; Athens, 1969), p. 1.
 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem 379
­ hristians in early Byzantine times believed that this mention, along with
C
others in the New Testament,53 meant that the Holy Bible approved of
astrology. In response to these views and with regard to the Genesis ref-
erence in particular, the fourth-century Church Father Basil the Great, a
prominent authority in his time and beyond, composed a fierce invective
against astrology, which was incorporated in his sixth homily on the Cre-
ation.54 In spite of this background, the Genesis reference was deemed
sufficient justification of astrology by Manasses. In any case, future events
prove that his career was not affected in the slightest by such choices. Quite
the opposite: during the 1160s Manasses was close to Manuel’s court, a fact
that is evidenced by his Itinerary,55 as well as his oration to Michael Hagi-
otheodorites, the powerful logothetes tou dromou.56
Manasses’ poem can be correlated with several other contemporary prose
and verse texts that relate to the reign, or even to the court in particular,
of Manuel. Those that deal directly with astrology are Manuel’s treatise in
defence of the discipline and John Kamateros’ astrological poem. In his
apology, Manuel argues that Christians are obliged to believe in astrology,
on the grounds that the movements of the planets are God’s creation and
therefore subject to His will. Manuel’s attempt to justify astrology with the
aid of the Christian faith is one of the boldest efforts to defend the disci-
pline in Byzantine history. But this attempt had consequences, for his text
generated a response from Michael Glykas.57
It has been suggested that Manuel’s treatise was written after 1164, the
year Glykas became a monk, since it is in this capacity that the latter
endeavours to refute it.58 This would mean that Manuel’s apology p ­ ostdates
Manasses’ poem, the terminus ante quem of which, as already mentioned,

53 As, for instance, the story of the Magi and the rising star, which foretold the birth of Jesus (Mt.
2:1–2). For the astrological connotations of this narrative, see Barton (1994: 71) and Magdalino
(2002: 39).
54 Giet (1968: 348–62). Cf. Magdalino (2002: 33, n. 1). On various early Christian attitudes towards
astrology, both positive and negative, see Barton (1994: 71–80). It is worth mentioning that
Michael Glykas, who, as we shall see, composed a critical response to Manuel’s treatise in defence
of astrology, emphasizes the passage from Genesis in his refutation, although Manuel only makes a
brief mention. For the Greek text, see Eustratiades (1906: 494 and οδ΄, respectively).
55 On the association of this poem with the court of Manuel Komnenos, see Chryssogelos (2017:
73–6).
56 Horna (1906: 173–84); cf. Nilsson (2021: 188). It has also been argued that a verse ekphrasis of a
chariot race composed by Hagiotheodorites was addressed to Manasses. On this, see Marciniak and
Warcaba (2014: 109–12).
57 Edition: Eustratiades (1906: ξθ΄–πθ΄, Manuel’s treatise; 476–500, Glykas’ response). Cf. Magdalino
(1993: 377–8) and (2006b: 114). On satire against astrology in the twelfth and early thirteenth
centuries, see Magdalino (2015: 167–75); cf. Zagklas (2016: 896–901).
58 On the dating of the refutation, see Magdalino (2006b: 114). Cf. George (2001: 29–30).
380 konstantinos chryssogelos
is 1152 or 1153. In addition, there is at least one passage suggesting that each
author was aware of the other’s text. Specifically, Manasses’ brief defence
of astrology from a Christian Orthodox perspective (vv. 573–82) is close,
both verbally and semantically, to Manuel’s assertion at the beginning of
his apology that if God has given power to stones, plants and roots, then
the study of the planets and the stars (and consequently the belief in their
powers) is justified, as they too form part, and a rather magnificent one,
of Creation.59 The two passages are not identical, for Manasses focuses on
the power (ἰσχύν) of earthly and celestial things, and Manuel on their
usefulness (εὔχρηστον), but essentially they both express the same idea by
using similar vocabulary – they both speak about λίθοι, βοτάναι and ῥίζαι.
Yet, it is noteworthy that Manuel cleverly avoids discussing the passage
from Genesis (Manasses’ sole intertextual reference to the Bible), except
for a passing mention. Instead, it is the New Testament that provides
the emperor with a vast array of arguments.60 We may assume that once
Manuel decided to stand up publicly for the discipline’s rights, he had
perhaps to choose his words carefully.
John Kamateros’ astrological poem is interesting in its own right.61 The
identification of its author as John Kamateros epi tou kanikleiou, which is
supported by the manuscript, is not conclusive, as there was another per-
son with the same name around this time, who was logothetes tou dromou.
The former appears for the first time in official documents in 1166 and one
may wonder whether Manuel, to whom the poem is addressed, was truly
in need of an introductory poem to astrology more than twenty years after
he ascended to the throne.62
A comparison between this poem and the one by Manasses highlights
the different approaches taken by the two authors. Despite its rather loose
structure, Manasses’ poem is easy to follow. The author’s obvious goal
was to introduce the sebastokratorissa to the basic elements of astrology –
although the poem’s literary merits should not be overlooked either.63 On

59 See Eustratiades (1906: ξη΄).

60 See Magdalino (2006b: 116).
61 References follow the edition of Miller (1872: 53–111).
62 See Magdalino (2006b: 113) for all these matters. It should be noted that there is another poem
attributed to Kamateros, written in fifteen-syllable verse (ed. Weigl [1908]). The two poems by
Kamateros are not variations on the same theme but two completely different works. In this
chapter I shall leave the fifteen-syllable poem aside, which is written in a rather peculiar learned-
cum-vernacular idiom and also contains elements that, as noted by Magdalino (2006b: 111–12),
make it relevant to an eleventh-century cultural milieu. The two poems are also briefly discussed by
Caudano (2012: 57–9).
63 See Nilsson (2021: 119–21).
 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem 381
the other hand, Kamateros’ poem is much more elaborate and deep in
meaning, a fact that is further underlined by the choice of the twelve-syl-
lable verse instead of the more agreeable and playful fifteen-syllable.64
Furthermore, the absence of references to God or Christian Orthodox
theology in Kamateros is striking,65 as is the emphatic statement at the
beginning of the poem that it is impossible for one to live life without
knowledge of astrology (vv. 15–18). Perhaps then his purpose was not to
teach Manuel after all; his poem could be viewed as a piece of imperial
propaganda, as a sophisticated political statement which could have been
composed around the time Manuel wrote his apology, in order to consol-
idate the emperor’s status within the court just when he was about to take
things outside the palace.
This argument places Kamateros’ poem in the mid-1160s or later, when
the epi tou kanikleiou had already made his first official appearance. But for
now this has to remain speculative, since neither this poem nor Manuel’s
treatise can be dated with certainty. As regards the relation between Kama-
teros’ poem and that of Manasses, however, there is a hint that each was
aware of the other’s poem. Both use the compound θερμόυγρος (‘warm and
humid’) to describe the ‘temperament’ (κρᾶσις) of the planet Zeus (v. 140
in Manasses; v. 172 in Kamateros, also in v. 176, in relation to Aphrodite).
According to the LBG, this adjective is found solely in the two poems in
question, while TLG offers one more instance, in Glykas’ aforementioned
refutation. Given that such compounds are otherwise absent from Kama-
teros’ poem, whereas they appear elsewhere in Manasses’ poem (after all,
neologisms of this kind are an important feature of the latter’s literary
idiom),66 it would be natural to assume that Kamateros took the adjective
from Manasses rather than the other way around. While certainly one word
does not constitute solid proof, not to mention that this particular adjec-
tive may derive from a common source that is now lost, such details may
prove useful in future research. Nevertheless, if, for the sake of argument,
we postulate that there is a deeper connection between the astrological texts

64 On Kamateros’ more elaborate style in comparison to Manasses’ poem, cf. Nilsson (2021: 124).
On the flexible and playful character of fifteen-syllable verse in relation to didactic poetry, see
Lauxtermann (2009: 45–6).
65 Miller (1872: 111, n. 4) aptly notes that vv. 1352–4, which constitute the sole Christian reference in
the poem, were composed by the scribe of one of the manuscripts that preserve it. Caudano (2012:
60) also notes the absence of Christian references in both of Kamateros’ poems.
66 It is noteworthy that θερμόυγρος appears two more times in Manasses (vv. 391 and 393). Other
neologisms in the Astrological Poem include similar epithets, such as ξερόψυχρον (v. 416) and
ὑδρόψυχρος (v. 424). That neologisms are an important feature of Manasses’ craft has already been
noted by Horna (1906: 173).
382 konstantinos chryssogelos
of Manasses, Kamateros and Manuel, we should take into account that each
serves a different purpose – namely, to teach in a pleasant way, to validate (as
it seems) the emperor’s interest in astrology, and to prove that the discipline
is not incompatible with Orthodoxy, respectively. This could explain why
they do not share more elements in terms of content and poetic language.
As far as the use of θερμόυργος is concerned, Glykas uses the adjective
in order to describe the temperament of Zeus,67 in response to a relevant
passage in Manuel’s treatise.68 However, Glykas deals also with the temper-
ament of other planets, such as Mars and Saturn, whereas Manuel does not
refer to other planets by name. With the exception of Zeus, the tempera-
ments of the planets are described by Glykas with two adjectives (Zeus is
θερμόυγρος, but Saturn is ψυχρὸς καὶ ξηρός, and Mars θερμὸς καὶ ξηρός).
Interestingly enough, this corresponds to the vocabulary used by Kama-
teros in the part of his poem pertaining to the temperaments of these three
planets.69 Could it be surmised that in this instance Glykas had Kamateros’
poem specifically in mind?70 In any case, if there is indeed a connection
between the two texts, it seems to me unlikely that Kamateros would want
to quote the man who had derided his emperor.
Of course, astrological literature during the reign of Manuel was not
restricted to didactic (or political) poetry and imperial treatises. Several
poems by Manganeios Prodromos dating from the early 1150s testify to
the emperor’s interest in astrology early on.71 However, it is John Tzetzes’
Allegories of the Iliad and Allegories of the Odyssey that provide us with some
intriguing textual data. Allegorical interpretation couched in astrological
terms is employed frequently by Tzetzes in these poems.72 First and fore-
most, this is related to the author’s own interest in the occult sciences.73
On a deeper level, we can assume that Tzetzes was trying to ingratiate him-
self with Manuel via his wife, Irene (née Bertha von Sulzbach), who had
commissioned the Allegories of the Iliad. Tzetzes’ references to ‘Zeus, that
king and great astrologer’ and ‘Zeus the astrologer and king’ lure us into

67 See Eustratiades (1906: 497).

68 See Eustratiades (1906: 495–7 in Glykas and οα΄ in Manuel).
69 Miller (1872: 61, vv. 171–3): Κρᾶσιν κακός, ξηρός τε καὶ ψυχρὸς Κρόνος, | ὁ Ζεὺς ἀγαθός, θερμόυγρος
τυγχάνων, | κακὸς δ’ Ἄρης, ξηρός τε καὶ θερμὸς μένων (‘The temperament of Saturn is dry and
cold, therefore harmful; Zeus is beneficent, for his temperament is both hot and wet; Mars, who is
always dry and hot, is harmful’).
70 Glykas uses the adjective θερμόυγρος in reference to Claudius Ptolemy (ed. Eustratiades 1906:
497), but the ancient astrologer does not employ such compounds.
71 See Magdalino (1992: 202). On the poetry of Manganeios Prodromos, see also E. M. Jeffreys and
M. J. Jeffreys in this volume.
72 See Goldwyn (2017: 164–7); cf. Magdalino (2021: 166).
73 See Mavroudi (2006: 77–9).
 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem 383
a­ ssuming that he is implicitly praising Manuel’s astrological skills.74 There
is at least one similar expression in the Allegories of the Odyssey.75
However, things are not that simple when it comes to dating Tzetzes’
two poems. The Allegories of the Iliad are usually dated to the early or
mid-1140s, but the aforementioned references to Zeus appear in the last
nine books, which were written when Tzetzes had switched patrons. If the
reason for him changing patrons was Irene’s death, then we are dealing
with a post-1159 dating. Yet, in the Allegories of the Iliad Tzetzes makes no
mention of his patroness’ passing (the title of Book 16, the first with a new
patron, vaguely implies a lack of funding), whereas he does so, although
again not explicitly, in the Allegories of the Odyssey, a work written entirely
for his new patron Constantine Kotertzes.76 It is tempting to assume that
the verses in question were all composed in the early 1160s, when Manuel
was planning to speak up for astrology. If so, the pen of the court literati
and high-ranking officials would have offered the emperor a helping hand.
But again, lack of concrete evidence with regard to dating the relevant texts
does not allow us to draw any definite conclusions yet.
Before we close this section, we should remind ourselves that in the
last twenty years of his reign Manuel strove to impose himself, in a rather
authoritarian way, as a great theologian and a master of dialectic simulta-
neously – the prologue of Andronikos Kamateros’ Sacred Arsenal (around
1170), in which Manuel’s extraordinary intelligence and eloquence is
attributed to the emperor’s dialectic prowess, as well as to the grace of the
Holy Spirit, speaks volumes.77 Since it was arguably more difficult to estab-
lish himself as an astrologer too, Manuel may have thought it was more
prudent to compose a treatise that combined argumentation in favour of
astrology with profound knowledge of theology. In this respect, his astro-
logical treatise could be viewed as a component of the complex agenda he
was pursuing in the last two decades of his reign, thus providing further
arguments in support of a post-1160 dating.78

74 The references to Zeus are in 19.62 and 18.179, respectively, in the edition of Boissonade (1851), here
after the translation of Goldwyn and Kokkini (2015). Cf. Mavroudi (2006: 73).
75 Book 21.17–18 ed. Hunger (1955).
76 On the dating of the Allegories of Iliad and the problems surrounding it, see Goldwyn and Kokkini
(2015: viii–ix); cf. Ravani (2022: 284, n. 68). On a possible post-1159 dating for the Allegories of the
Odyssey, see Rhoby (2010: 161). In the latter’s prologue (v. 16 ed. Hunger [1956]), Irene is referred to
in the past tense.
77 Bucossi (2014: 13–14); cf. Magdalino (1993: 290–2) and Cameron (2016: 73–4 and 80–2).
78 Manuel’s autocratic style with regard to theological matters during the last fifteen years of his
reign is also seen as an argument for a post-1160 dating of his treatise by Magdalino (2006b: 114).
Magdalino (2003: 30–1) has further argued that Manuel’s strong interest could be also viewed as a
reaction to the rising popularity of astrology in the West around this time.
384 konstantinos chryssogelos
Manasses’ poem is not associated with this development. When the
sebastokratorissa passed away (1152/3), Manuel was a young emperor. Man-
ganeios’ references to astrology notwithstanding, Manuel was in need of
other symbols in order to overcome the obstacle of his young age and to
win over the court (Eros, Alexander and David, to name but a few).79
Despite adopting the title of ἐπιστημονάρχης with regard to Church affairs
already in the late 1140s,80 the emperor was not ready to promote himself
either as a sophist or as an astrologer (better: an advocate of astrology) in
an effective way. As regards the first quality in the early years of his reign,
we need look no further than the pseudo-proceedings of Nicholas Mou-
zalon’s resignation, which were probably written shortly after the event
in 1151. In this slightly ironic dialogue between Manuel and the outgoing
patriarch, the disgruntled emperor is unable to conquer his opponent with
his successive pseudo-philosophical arguments, and this in a debate that
had strong theological connotations.81
In this context, Manasses’ astrological poem makes sense within the
frame of the imperial court’s private fascination with astrology during the
first decade of Manuel’s reign. The first fifteen books of Tzetzes’ Allegories
of the Iliad and several hints in Manganeios Prodromos’ poetry apply to the
same milieu. Moreover, and perhaps more importantly, Manasses’ poem
serves as further proof of the author’s affiliation with his patroness, the
sebastokratorissa Irene.

Final Remarks
Manasses’ astrological poem constitutes an interesting if somewhat
neglected example of twelfth-century poetry. Indeed, over the last two dec-
ades only a handful of relevant studies have been published, whereas we
still lack a comprehensive study of the text that appears in Miller’s edition
or a comparative study between Manasses’ and Kamateros’ two poems. Yet,
in order to comprehend and appreciate Manasses’ poem in full, we need

79 See Magdalino (1992: 201–3). On David and John II, see also Ricceri in this volume.
80 See Stanković (2007: 22, n. 39) and Magdalino (1993: 281).
81 On the theological aspect of the dialogue, see Darrouzès (1966: 69–74). See also the emperor’s
angry reaction to Mouzalon’s constant counterarguments on p. 320. Magdalino (1993: 278) regards
the text as a reliable primary source (‘possibly an exact transcript’), but this could be disputed, as
the redactor’s objective seems to be to criticize the emperor, at least to some extent. Therefore, this
dialogue and Kamateros’ Sacred Arsenal (the latter a product of official propaganda) are far from
showcasing the same thing, namely Manuel’s outstanding performance in dialectic and syllogisms,
as Cameron (2016: 73–4) argues. For a recent analysis of the dialogue, see Chryssogelos (2020) and
Zharkaya and Lukhovitskiy (2020).
 Constantine Manasses’ Astrological Poem 385
a new critical edition that will highlight the differences between the three
versions that are preserved in the six manuscripts. Hopefully this will pave
the way for a reassessment of the poem, along with a concise analysis of its
metrical, linguistic and aesthetic features. Naturally, the Quellenforschung
will benefit equally from a new edition.
From a historical viewpoint, Manasses’ astrological poem bears witness
not only to a twelfth-century learned man’s liaison with the court, but
also to the fascination of an era with astrology. This fascination is most
probably part of Manuel Komnenos’ conscious effort to defend his firm
belief in astrology, by arguing that the discipline was not incompatible
with Orthodoxy. Apparently, several court literati were on his side, either
directly (Kamateros) or indirectly (Tzetzes, Manasses), but his decision to
express his support of astrology openly was met with contempt by at least
one of his subjects. Even worse, Manuel’s deep interest in astrology had a
harmful impact on his posthumous reputation, as attested in the account
of the final moments of his life in the History of Niketas Choniates.
Manasses did not have to worry about such things. In a way, his poem,
having been composed in all probability in the early days of Manuel’s
reign and in the safety of the literary salon of the sebastokratorissa Irene,
is an unrestricted celebration of ancient knowledge and literature itself.
But this celebration had its limitations; if anything, Manasses’ attempt to
reconcile astrology and Orthodoxy in the epilogue of the poem, after more
than 500 verses in the presence of the ancient gods and the absence of the
Christian God, demonstrates the complexity and diversity of Byzantium’s
­Greco-Judean heritage in all its glory.

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(2010) ‘Ioannes Tzetzes als Auftragsdichter’, Graeco-Latina Brunensia 15.2: 155–
70.
Rhoby, A., and N. Zagklas (2011) ‘Zu einer möglichen Deutung von Πανιώτης’,
JÖByz 61: 171–7.
Stanković, V. (2007) ‘A Generation Gap or Political Enmity? Emperor Manuel
Komnenos, Byzantine Intellectuals and the Struggle for Domination
in Twelfth Century Byzantium’, Recueil des travaux de l’Institut d’études
byzantines 44: 209–27.
van Dieten, J. L. (ed.) (1975) Nicetae Choniatae historia. Corpus Fontium Historiae
Byzantinae 11. Berlin.
Weigl, L. (ed.) (1908) Johannes Kamateros, Εἰσαγωγὴ ἀστρονομίας: Ein
Kompendium griechischer Astronomie und Astrologie, Meteorologie und
Ethnographie in politischen Versen. Leipzig.
Zagklas, N. (2011) ‘A Byzantine Grammar Treatise Attributed to Theodoros
Prodromos’, Graeco-Latina Brunensia 16.1: 77–86.
(2016) ‘Astrology, Piety and Poverty: Seven Anonymous Poems in Vaticanus gr.
743’, ByzZ 109.2: 895–918.
Zharkaya, V., and L. Lukhovitskiy (2020) ‘Socrates the Judge: A Not So-Platonizing
Dialogue on the Deposition of Patriarch Nicholas IV Mouzalon’, ByzZ 113.1:
219–48.
 ch apter 15

The Learned Bishop and the Unicorn

Michael Choniates, Poem 5 Lampros
Ugo Mondini

Michael Choniates (c. 1138–1222) was a prominent figure between the

end of the twelfth and the first two decades of the thirteenth century.1
Born around 1138, he spent his early years in Constantinople. In 1182, he
was appointed as the metropolitan bishop of the city of Athens. Michael
went into exile in 1204, when Boniface of Montferrat took Athens. In the
following years, he lived on Keos until 1217,2 and then he moved to the
Monastery of Saint John the Forerunner in Boudonitsa. There he died in
February 1222.3
Fourteen poems by Michael Choniates (eight in hexameters, six in
dodecasyllables) are preserved.4 Two poems were surely composed during
his Athenian period: a satirical poem in hexameters5 and his renowned
poem in dodecasyllables on the current miserable conditions of the city
of Athens if compared with its glorious past.6 Three poems were written
after 1204. The first, the Theano, was composed during Choniates’ stay on
Keos.7 After a sophisticated praise of the fig tree, Choniates glorifies the
victory of Keos against a failed invasion attempt by Latins; he also asks
Jesus to grant his people the recovery of Constantinople.8 The second is a

1 For the biography of Michael Choniates, see Stadtmüller (1934), Orlandos (1951), Kolovou (1993:
37–51) and (2001: 3–8).
2 The islands of Keos and Thermiai composed a suffragan bishopric under the jurisdiction of the
metropolis of Athens. See Malamut (1988: 1:99–104).
3 Katsaros (1981).
4 Moscow, Gosudarstvennyj Istoričeskij Musej, Sinod. gr. 437 (Vladimir 302) [Diktyon 44062]
falsely ascribes the poem To Saint Mary of Egypt to Choniates (text in Gregorovius and Lampros
[1904: 726]), but it is actually by John Geometres; see Lauxtermann (2003–19: 1:289).
5 Text: Horna (1905: 29–30) and Gregorovius and Lampros (1904: 726–7); see also Zagklas (2019:
249).
6 Text: Lampros (1880: 397–8).
7 Text: Lampros (1880: 375–90).
8 On Homeric quotes, see Tziatzi (2015); see also Zagklas (2019: 249 n. 76). Choniates somehow
knew part of the poetic production of the Hellenistic poet Callimachus, at least some verses from
the Aitia and the Hecale; see Reitzenstein (1898) and, more recently, Kennedy (2016: 299–302).

389
390 ugo mondini
short hexametric poem (To the Mother of God), in which Choniates asks
the Mother of God to keep providing him with her protection after the fall
of Athens into the hands of the Latins.9 Since Choniates is searching for a
protection that is apparently not certain at the moment of composition,
he possibly wrote the poem before his arrival on Keos. In a dodecasyllabic
poem, Michael gently reminds the Mother of God of his deeds in Athens
and asks her for a quiet place to spend the last period of his life.10 These
verses could have been composed in the same period as their hexametric
counterpart, but could also belong to the period after 1217, when Choni-
ates was looking for a quiet place to spend the last part of his life.
It is very difficult to date Choniates’ remaining poems because of their
content and the complete absence of references to the context of their
production both in the title and within the verses. They are the following:
-- On the Dormition of the Mother of God (hexameters)11
-- On the Second Coming of Christ (hexameters)12
-- On the Image of the Unicorn (hexameters)13
-- On the Crucifixion (dodecasyllables)14
-- On the Three-Formed God (dodecasyllables)15
-- On the Angels (dodecasyllables)16
-- On the Same Topic [i.e. angels] (dodecasyllables)17
-- On the Ladder Described in John the Ascetic (hexameters)18
-- On the Beheading of Saint Pantaleon (hexameters)19
Michael Choniates’ oeuvre still awaits an extensive study. This chapter
offers a first study of the poem On the Image of the Unicorn.

Choniates’ Poem and The Man in the Well

Two manuscripts preserve this poem: Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Lau-
renziana, Plut. 59.12 [Diktyon 16463], fol. 186v and Vatican City, ­Biblioteca

9 Text: Lampros (1880: 392–3).

10 Text: Gregorovius and Lampros (1904: 727–8) and Papadopoulos-Kerameus (1913: 246–7).
11 Text: Lampros (1880: 390).
12 Text: Lampros (1880: 391–2).
13 Text: Lampros (1880: 393).
14 Text: Lampros (1880: 393–4).
15 Text: Lampros (1880: 394–5).
16 Text: Lampros (1880: 395–6).
17 Text: Lampros (1880: 396).
18 Text: Horna (1905: 30) and Gregorovius and Lampros (1904: 727–8).
19 Text: Horna (1905: 30) and Gregorovius and Lampros (1904: 728).
 The Learned Bishop and the Unicorn 391
Apostolica Vaticana, Ott. gr. 59 [Diktyon 65300], fol. 33v. I present the text
of the poem with the readings of the Ottobonianus.20

Εἰς τὴν εἰκόνα τοῦ μονοκέρωτος

Τλῆμον ἐφήμερε οἷ’ ἀπατώμενος οὐκ ἀλεγίζεις,

ἀλλὰ κλεψινόου βιότοιο ἴυγξιν ἀπαχθείς
τῷδ’ ἐν δενδρέῳ ἀμφιβέβηκας ὄναρ κομόωντι,
ἀμφαγαπάζων ἢν μέλιτος γλυκεροῖο ἀπορρώξ
5 χείλεα τέγγῃ καί τοι ἄφρονα θυμὸν ἰαίνῃ.
Αὐτὰρ ὄπισθεν ἐλάᾳ διώκων οἰόκερως θήρ –
εἴδωλον τόδε δεινὸν ἀνεκφύκτου θανάτοιο,
κέντρον ἀλιτροσύνης προβεβληκότος ὡς κέρας ὀξύ.
Νέρθεν δ’ ἦμαρ ἰδὲ κνέφας ἠΰτε μῦες ἀναιδεῖς
10 αἰὲν ἔδουσι φίλης βιοτῆς πρέμνον ταχύποτμον,
ἐξ ἐρέβους δ’ Ἁΐδης ὥς τις δράκων ἀμφικέχηνε·
τοῖα σε δείματ’ ἄλλοθεν ἄλλα περισταδὸν ἄγχει.
Σοί γε μήν – ὤλεσε γὰρ φρένας ἡδονή – οὔ τι μέμηλεν
ὄφρα κε νήπιος ὑστατίοισι κακοῖς ἐπικύρσας
15 γνώσεαι οἷα σεαυτὸν ἔοργας ἄτῃσι νόοιο.

On the Image of the Unicorn

Poor mortal, since you are cheated you do not fret!

Instead, misguided by the charms of a deceitful life,
you embrace this tree that has dream as his own foliage.
You take great pleasure if a dripping of sweet honey
5 wets your lips and warms your foolish heart.
But a one-horned beast is chasing you from behind and pursuing you
– this is a fearful image of inescapable death,
sting of sinfulness pitched forward as its sharp horn.
From beneath, day and night, two shameless mice
10 are always gnawing at the short-lived trunk of your life.
From the darkness, Hades opens its mouth wide, like a snake.
Such frightful beasts of various kinds surround you from different sides.
Pleasure ruined your mind. You did not care,
until, a fool, you have fallen into the utter worst of evils
15 and noticed how much you wasted yourself for the blindness of your
mind.

20 Cf. Gregorovius and Lampros (1904: 664–5). I disagree on two points with Lampros’ edition: the
reading of both manuscripts ἐλάα (transcribed by Lampros) is to be considered ἐλάᾳ (from ἐλάω);
I do not classicize τοῖα σε into τοῖά σε as Lampros did; see Lauxtermann (2003–19: 2:316–17).
392 ugo mondini
The poem is based on a famous moral tale known by the titles The Man in
the Well or The Sweetness of the World.21 This tale had non-Greek ­origins22
and eventually was spread through two rather similar versions within Greek
literature: the first in Barlaam and Josaphat (HBJ ),23 the second in the
so-called third prolegomenon of Stephanites and Ichnelates (SI prol. Γ).24 The
individual tales of Barlaam and Josaphat and Stephanites and Ichnelates were
also highly appreciated independently, and they had likely already been
anthologized by the twelfth–thirteenth centuries.25 For instance, tales from
Barlaam and Josaphat appear in a collection of apophthegmata preserved by
the mid-thirteenth-century miscellaneous manuscript Venice, Biblioteca
Nazionale Marciana, gr. Z. 494 (= 331) [Diktyon 69965].26 In ms. Messina,
Biblioteca Regionale Universitaria ‘Giacomo Longo’, S. Salv. 161 [Diktyon
40822] the scribe copied two tales from Stephanites and Ichnelates.27 Both
the manuscripts contain The Man in the Well. The same tale was often
marked by marginal notes that testify to its appreciation by both copyists
and readers,28 and it appears in illuminations next to the text of Barlaam
and Josaphat.29 Because of its popularity, its depiction featured as illumina-
tion in a wide range of manuscripts30 as well as on other types of material;31

21 The traditional title of the parable is taken from HBJ 12.241–6; see Volk (2003: 128) and (2009: 104).
22 On the eastern provenance and the original meaning of the tale, see Kuhn (1888), Odenius (1972–3)
and Volk (2009: 105–14).
23 Text: Volk (2006b: 127–30).
24 Text: Puntoni (1889: 45–7); see Krönung (2016) and Lauxtermann (2018).
25 On Stephanites and Ichnelates in relation to the Katomyomachia, see Lauxtermann in this volume.
26 On this manuscript, see Volk (2009: 475–6). The fortune of these anthologies spanned many
centuries. Apart from the Marcianus, ms. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr. 1313 [Diktyon
50922], written during the fifteenth century, contains three tales from Barlaam and Josaphat. Athos,
Skete Hagias Annes, Gero Damianou 20 (Kourilas 630) [Diktyon 31319] was written on Mount
Athos in 1642; from this testimony, dating to between the second part of the seventeenth century
and the eighteenth century, two other manuscripts were copied: Athos, Mone Dionysiou, 256
(Lampros 3790) [Diktyon 20224] and 363 (Lampros 3897) [Diktyon 20331]; see Volk (2009: 255–6
and 263–4).
27 The first is The Man in the Well (SI prol. Γ X, 45.16–47.11 ed. Puntoni), the second is a fable on the
lion and the hare (SI 1.29, pp. 170.2–171.4 ed. Sjöberg = pp. 90.12–92.2 ed. Puntoni). The two tales
are linked by the presence of a well.
28 Thanks to Volk’s work, I can offer much more data on Barlaam’s textual tradition than on
Stephanites’. On Athos, Mone Iberon, cod. 462 (Lampros 4582) [Diktyon 24059], fol. 83v a
secondary hand, more recent than that of the main scribe, marked the presence of the tale with
‘behold and marvel!’ (ὅρα καὶ θαύμασον); Istanbul, Bibliotheke tou Oikoumenikou Patriarcheiou,
89 (olim Mone Hagias Triados Chalkes cod. 97) [Diktyon 33595], fol. 46v: ‘<this text> is entirely
beautiful and fearful’ (ὡραῖον φοβερὸν ὅλον). The tale is often highlighted through marginalia; cf.
e.g. Cambridge, King’s College, gr. 45 (olim 338) [Diktyon 11885], fol. 42r.
29 For other examples, see Pitman and Scattergood (1977). For the textual tradition and the content of
Barlaam’s cycles of illuminations, see Volk (2009: 525–81). For Barlaam’s illuminated manuscripts,
see Der Nersessian (1937) and Toumpouri (2015).
30 See pp. 398–402.
31 Volk (2003: 128–30 n. 4).
 The Learned Bishop and the Unicorn 393
contemporary drawings also attest to a rather widespread knowledge of the
iconography of this image, and therefore of the tale.32
In the version in Barlaam and Josaphat, the tale appears after a section in
which Barlaam explains to Josaphat that the example of apostles, ascetics
and monks has to be followed to keep the purity of baptism through-
out life (HBJ 12.1–174). After illustrating the ephemeral pleasures of life
(HBJ 12.174–215), Barlaam tells a short moral tale (HBJ 12.215–41). While
running away from a unicorn, a man stumbles into a well, but he man-
ages to grasp a tree without falling in and he calms down.33 Suddenly, an
enormous snake with gaping maws appears under him, waiting for him to
fall. The man also sees a pair of mice gnawing at the roots of the tree and
four asps encircling the tree.34 However, he sees also some honey streaming
from the branches higher up on the tree and, savouring this sweet nectar,
he completely forgets about the danger. Barlaam gives Josaphat a thorough
elucidation of each passage of the tale (HBJ 12.241–56): the unicorn repre-
sents death;35 the tree is life, which gets shorter day after day; the four asps
are the four different unstable elements of the human body; the snake is
Hell, waiting for the fall of the man, who neglects the dangers surrounding
him because of the sweetness of worldly delights.
In Stephanites and Ichnelates, the tale closes the account of the life of
Borzōē, the first translator of the text into Persian. The context and the
content of the tale are very similar to the version in Barlaam. After a
description of the propensity of human nature towards worldly pleasures
and possessions, the tale is introduced as a parable (SI prol. Γ X, 45.15 ed.
Puntoni: ὅμοιός ἐστι ὁ ἄνθρωπος ἀνδρί τινι κτλ.). The tale has the same
agents as in Barlaam, but there are some minor differences in the Greek
vocabulary used and the order of the agents in the vision.36 For example,
at the beginning of the tale, the man has already run away from a vague

32 See Mytilene, Mone tou Leimonos, 62 [Diktyon 45384] (hereafter: Mytil. Leim.), fol. 57v. Cf. p.
400.
33 In the early eastern versions of the text, as well as the Georgian Balavariani, the pursuing beast is
an elephant, not a unicorn. Within Greek tradition, unicorns are traditionally held to be hostile
towards elephants (see Physiologus, Redactio tertia 2, pp. 263.10–264.9 ed. Sbordone 1936). See Volk
(2006a: 171–6) and, for the meaning of the unicorn in eastern and Arabic tradition, Ettinghausen
(1950). The link between unicorns and elephants – and perhaps rhinoceros – could have been
caused by the fact that these animals have a bulge in the middle of their head (the unicorn a horn,
the elephant a trunk).
34 The dream, the mice and the dragon are all Leitmotive of Byzantine eschatological descriptions; see
e.g. Bzinkowski (2015: 134–7, 142).
35 Einhorn (1972).
36 Volk (2006a: 174–6).
394 ugo mondini
‘terrible fear’ (SI prol. Γ X, 45.15–16 ἔφυγε ἀπὸ φόβου δεινοῦ) which is
then specified to be a unicorn (SI prol. Γ X, 46.7–11). As Lauxtermann has
proved, this is only a later addition as the unicorn was not present in the
most ancient manuscripts of Stephanites and Ichnelates,37 in the antigraph
of Bε and in the Greek text translated into Latin. Later, the unicorn was
added following the example of Barlaam and Josaphat.38
In comparison to the tale as preserved both by Barlaam and Josaphat
and by Stephanites and Ichnelates, the poem by Choniates rearranges the
content: at the beginning, the man is already clinging to the tree, and he
savours the honey; unexpectedly, the unicorn appears; then, other elements
(two mice, the snake) emerge; the four asps do not appear. While the orig-
inal tale discloses its meaning only at the end, in Choniates’ poem the
unicorn is directly identified with death (εἴδωλον τόδε δεινὸν ἀνεκφύκτου
θανάτοιο, l. 7).39
The unicorn is the most important narrative agent of the poem. While
the poem opens with the description of the pitiful condition of man, the
introduction of the unicorn within the three central lines allows a shift of
perspective. The animal arrives to chase the man who hangs on the tree
– the symbol of human life. Thus, it introduces the eschatological vision:
only the abrupt appearance of the unicorn/death interrupts the transient
sweetness of worldly pleasures and displays the deadly dangers that are
awaiting the sinner at the end of his life. But it is too late, and the man falls
into Hell. Since the unicorn stands for death and its horn for the sting of
sin, the entire description hints at 1 Cor. 15:56.40
Interestingly enough, Choniates rewrites the tale with an imagery and a
lexicon that resembles what can be found in the tale from Stephanites and
Ichnelates; nevertheless, he cannot have had access to this version, where
the unicorn was originally absent.41 In Choniates the unicorn is described
as ‘a fearful image of inescapable death’ (εἴδωλον τόδε δεινὸν ἀνεκφύκτου
θανάτοιο, l. 7): after the tale, the unicorn is explained in Stephanites as a
symbol of death that always chases and is always pursuing and close to

37 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr. 2231 [Diktyon 51860], fol. 51r–57v and Messina, S. Salv.
161, fol. 18v. In the latter, the unicorn is also absent in the illumination.
38 Lauxtermann (2023). I sincerely thank Marc Lauxtermann for providing me with the drafts of his
article.
39 For the relation to death in Byzantium, see DOP 55, in particular Dennis (2001) and Wortley
(2001); see also Marinis (2017).
40 1 Cor. 15:56: ‘the sting of death is sin’ (τὸ δὲ κέντρον τοῦ θανάτου ἡ ἀμαρτία). The rare term
ἀλιτροσύνη is glossed with ἀμαρτία in Hesych. α 3072 ed. Latte (1953–66) Cf. the use of the tale’s
illumination as a complement to Ps. 143: 4–5 in London, British Library, Add. 19352 [Diktyon
38960], f. 182v.
41 Lauxtermann (2023). The first attested appearance of the unicorn in this version of the tale dates to
the fifteenth century and depends on HBJ.
 The Learned Bishop and the Unicorn 395
humans, who cannot escape from it (καὶ οὐ δύναταί τις ἐκφυγεῖν).42 The
explanation of the tale in Stephanites also says that the two mice gradually
eat away the ‘life of man, fated to die soon’ (πρὸς μικρὸν διαφθείρουσι
τὴν ὠκύμορον ζωὴν τοῦ ἀνθρώπου);43 while talking about the action of
mice, Choniates says that they ‘are always gnawing at the short-lived trunk
of your life’ (αἰὲν ἔδουσι φίλης βιοτῆς πρέμνον ταχύποτμον, l. 10). The
phrase is also very similar to the passage in Stephanites with the adjective
ταχύποτμον that appears in grammatical sources together with ὠκύμορον
because of their similar derivation from ταχύς and ὠκύς.44 At the end of
the tale in Stephanites the man dies while he is preoccupied only with the
sweetness of the honey. Choniates’ poem also ends with the death of the
man, but here the character does eventually realize his sins.

Choniates and Other Medieval and Early Modern Greek

Poems on the Parable
Choniates’ poem on the unicorn is not the only poem based on The Man
in the Well. Six dodecasyllabic poems by Manuel Philes deal with the same
topic. In these poems, there is no trace of the unicorn, which is replaced
with the figure of death.
Poem e24645 is entitled On the Image of Life (εἰς εἰκόνα τοῦ βίου) and
opens with the verse ‘the sweetness from above, the death below’ (l. 1: ἡ
γλυκύτης ἄνωθεν, ἡ φθορὰ κάτω) and a reproach of human nature (l. 2);
it ends with a comment on the nature of sin (ll. 8–9). The other five poems
form a monothematic dossier (Poems e248–52). As often happens, the title
of the dossier coincides with the title of its first poem: the Escorialensis
preserves the reading ‘On the image of life. It showed a tree, on which a
man is gaping upwards and eats honey from above; but from below he is
deprived of the support by mice’,46 while the Parisinus simply names the
dossier as On the Depiction of Life.47 The titles of this cycle only confirm
that they belong to the same theme (εἰς τὸ αὐτό): however, these poems

42 SI prol. Γ X, 46.10 ed. Puntoni (1889).

43 SI prol. Γ X, 47.1–2 ed. Puntoni (1889).
44 Herodian, Peri pathon, Gr. Gr. 3.2, p. 261.17 ed. Lentz (1870). Choniates’ use of the adjective
probably depends on Pindar, Olympian Ode 1.65–6, cf. also Tzetzes, Histories 5.10.466–8 ed. Leone
(2007).
45 Text: Miller (1855: 126). Miller’s edition is based on El Escorial, Real Biblioteca, X.IV.20 (Andrés
415) [Diktyon 15031], fol. 76v, while the readings of Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr.
2876 [Diktyon 52514], fol. 231r are in apparatus. For Philes, I follow the abbreviations of Kubina
(2020: ix–x).
46 Poem e2 48 (I p. 127 Miller): εἰς τὴν εἰκόνα τοῦ βίου ἥτις εἶχε δένδρον· ἐν ᾧ ἦν ἄνθρωπος χαίνων
ἄνω, καὶ μέλι ἄνωθεν ἐπισπώμενος, κάτωθεν δὲ ὑπὸ μυῶν τὰς βάσεις τρυγώμενος.
47 Miller (1855: 127 n. 5): εἰς τὸν ἐζωγραφήμενον βίον.
396 ugo mondini
are too similar for them to have been all used together,48 within a cycle of
epigrams for a depiction of The Man in the Well.49 They are, rather, differ-
ent realizations of the same given theme.
The first sixty-six verses of Bergades’ Apokopos are also based on The
Man in the Well.50 Unlike Choniates and Philes, Bergades rephrased the
tale’s opening chase scene: in his text, a fearful animal does not chase the
protagonist, but the latter dreams that they are hunting a deer at sunrise.
Then, he finds the tree and sees a hive full of honey. Despite his initial fear
of the queen bee, the man starts eating the honey and never stops even
when the queen bee continues her attacks. Suddenly, the tree moves and
the man stops eating and sees two mice who have gnawed the roots of the
tree; then, he falls into the jaws of a dragon.
These occurrences of The Man in the Well are very similar to the contents
of Choniates’ poem. The following synopsis lists the main features of each
poem (Table 15.1).
While the Apokopos is a first-person narrative, all the other poems are
written as a direct reproach against the man on the tree; Man.Phil. e251
begins with two verses of direct speech in the first person, followed by four
lines of reproach. In five poems out of seven (Mi.Chon.; Man.Phil. e 246,
e 248, e 250, e 251) there is a vocative form that explicitly refers to the man.
The poem by Choniates and the four poems in Philes’ corpus usually
retain some images of the tale with their meaning, implicit or not (most
of all honey/worldly sweetness, tree/human life, dragon/Hell), while some
other agents are replaced with their explicit referent (unicorn/death in
Philes) or avoided (the four snakes). Bergades keeps the images without
explicit explanations.
In the great majority of the poems, there is no trace of the initial chase
nor of the fall; Bergades’ Apokopos turns the scene into a deer hunt by
the main character. Most notably, any reference to the well is avoided.
After all, even the original text of the tale deals with the human propensity
to sin.51 The poem by Choniates and the six by Philes begin with a man
who is already eating the tree’s honey, and then there is the vision. Four
poems preserve some traces of the presence of the unicorn, both in depict-
ing death as an animal (Man.Phil. e 250) and in talking about its sting
48 See Table 15.1.
49 Text: Miller (1855: 127–9), based on Escor. X.IV.20, fols. 77v–79r (text) and Par. gr. 2876, fols.
193v–194r (apparatus).
50 Text: Vejleskov (2005: 184–9). Commentary: Matta (2017: 36–41). See also Bzinkowski (2015: 137–45).
51 Messina, S. Salv. 161, fol. 18v copies the version of Stephanites and Ichnelates from the point in
which the man has already fallen into the pond without the initial chase, although its meaning is
explained a few lines after.
 The Learned Bishop and the Unicorn 397
Table 15.1 The Man in the Well: comparison between Michael Choniates, Manuel Philes
and Apokopos

Mi.Chon. Man.Phil. e 246 Man.Phil. e 248 Man.Phil. e249

[II pers.] [II pers.] [II pers.] [II pers.]

-- No initial chase -- No initial chase -- No initial chase -- No initial chase

-- No well -- No well -- No well -- No well
-- Tree -- Synopsis -- Vanity of the -- Man and Honey
-- Honey -- Man and honey world -- Upcoming death
-- Unicorn / Death -- The character -- Honey with its sting
-- Two mice should help -- Dragon -- Dragon/Hades
-- Dragon/Hades himself -- Time destroys the
-- While falling into -- Only one mouse tree
Hell, the character -- Dragon/Hades
becomes aware he -- Nature of man’s
was deceived error

(no four snakes) (no four snakes) (no mice, no four (no mice, no four
snakes, no unicorn) snakes)
Man.Phil. e 250 Man.Phil. e 251 [ll. Man.Phil. e 252 Apokopos [I pers.]
[II pers.] 1–2, I pers.; ll. 3–6, [II pers.]
II pers.]

-- No initial chase -- No initial chase -- No initial chase -- Deer Hunt

-- No well -- No well -- No well -- Tree of life
-- Man and honey -- Honey -- Honey -- Honey
-- Upcoming death -- Tree of life / Time -- Tree of life -- Bees and the
/ animal -- Dragon / Hades -- The character Queen Bee
-- Death and its should help -- Fall of the tree
As a generic violent sting himself -- Mice
fiend, death is both -- The character is -- Death and its -- Dragon
the dragon and the still deceived sting -- While falling into
unicorn of the tale -- Dragon / Hades Hell, the character
-- Final plea to the becomes aware he
character was deceived

(no mice, no four (no four snakes) (no four snakes) (no well, no four
snakes) snakes)

Abbreviations: Mi.Chon.: Michael Choniates, On the Image of the Unicorn; Man.Phil.: Manuel
Philes; Apokopos: Bergades, Apokopos, ll. 1–66.
398 ugo mondini
(Man.Phil. e 248, 251–2); in Man.Phil. e249, 251–2 the description of the
sting closely resembles Mi.Chon. l. 8.52 Finally, Bergades’ Apokopos has the
same content after the deer hunt: the man is deceived by honey, and the
queen bee (which replaces the unicorn) stings him.53 Man.Phil. e 251 ends
with the man deceived by honey despite the vision of death; Man.Phil.
e 246 and e 252 present a rather similar, but not tragic ending. Mi.Chon.
and the Apokopos end with the final fall of the man into Hell, when he
realizes that he is lost.54
The synopsis makes clear that Choniates’ rearrangement of the original
tale is not isolated within the corpus of Byzantine literary works relating to
The Man in the Well. Death (in its various forms: as a unicorn, as a generic
violent animal, as its sting) appears usually when the character has already
been deceived by the honey; its arrival opens the vision of the dangers that
loom over him. At the same time, the poem by Choniates is rather excep-
tional for the language, the metre and the narrative effectiveness of the
reproach against the sinner; but the selection of contents, their order and
other inner features can be understood as belonging within a well-estab-
lished set of literary approaches to The Man in the Well in Byzantine poetry.

Imagining the Tale: Poems, Images and Captions

As preserved by the Ottobonianus manuscript, the title On the Image of
the Unicorn (εἰς τὴν εἰκόνα τοῦ μονοκέρωτος) is very similar to the titles of
Man.Phil. e 246 and e 248 On the Image of Life (εἰς τὴν εἰκόνα τοῦ βίου).
In particular, the two versions of the title of e 248 leave no doubt about
their function: in ms. Par. gr. 2876, the participle ἐζωγραφήμενον clearly
refers to an image; the verb ἔχω of ms. Escor. X.IV.20 is frequently used to
describe the content of images.55
The depiction of The Man in the Well is one of the most widespread
images across Eurasian cultures and appears frequently in Byzantine art.56
The testimonies can be divided into three groups: depictions that are part
of the illumination cycles of Barlaam and Josaphat; single depictions in

52 Man.Phil. e249.2: ‘the sting of death’ (τὸ τῆς φθορᾶς ... κέρας); e251.4 ‘the sting of death’ (τὸ τῆς
φθορᾶς ... κέρας); e 252.6–7: ‘death, the destroyer of things, stretches its sharp horn’ (ὁ θάνατος γὰρ
ὁ φθορεὺς τῶν πραγμάτων | τὸ πικρὸν ἐξέτεινε τοῦ τέλους κέρας). Cf. n. 37 above.
53 For the bee as a symbol of death, see Matta (2017: 36–41).
54 See the following section.
55 The use of the imperfect tense (εἶχε, ‘had’, ‘contained’) is very interesting. Probably, the dossier
never had an image attached, but the collector knew that these epigrams were composed for an
image he describes through the title.
56 For an overview of the depictions of The Man in the Well across cultures, see Zin (2011).
 The Learned Bishop and the Unicorn 399
manuscripts and elsewhere;57 depictions that are related to Stephanites and
Ichnelates.58
Four illumination cycles are known for Barlaam and Josaphat.59 Each
cycle has its own set of captions that are meant to clarify the content of the
images; of the twelve manuscripts that preserve these captions, only five of
them were eventually illuminated.60
As these illuminations were intended to be attached to the text of the
parable, they usually follow the narrative and, consequently, two out of
the four cycles have features that cannot agree with the contents of the
poems. Both in ms. Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr. 1128 [Dik-
tyon 50726],61 fol. 68r and ms. Cambridge, King’s College, gr. 45 [Diktyon
11885], fol. 41v, the depiction is divided into two distinct moments in which
only the figure of the man is repeated: first, he is chased by the unicorn;
secondly, he is above the tree (in Cambridge, King’s College, gr. 45) or he
is going to climb it (in Par. gr. 1128). The same type of ‘narrative depiction’
can be seen in ms. London, British Library, Add. 19352 [Diktyon 38960],
fol. 182v and ms. Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Barb. gr. 372
[Diktyon 64915], fol. 237v; the post-Byzantine illumination to the version
of Stephanites and Ichnelates in Barb. gr. 172, fol. 15v also displays a narra-
tive development. Although no illumination was eventually made in the
two preserved manuscripts of the so-called ‘Cycle 1’,62 their captions prove
that the image of The Man in the Well would have been very similar to the
ones in Par. gr. 1128 and Cambridge, King’s College, gr. 45.63
An epigram to this kind of image could hardly describe the sudden
appearance of unicorn/death when the man is on the tree, as the depiction

57 Volk (2003: 128–30 n. 4).

58 Some chapters of Stephanites and Ichnelates are preserved by New York, The Morgan Library and
Museum, M.397 [Diktyon 46625] (the most ancient manuscript of its textual tradition) and they
are accompanied by several images; on the manuscript and its contents, see Husselman (1938) and
Lauxtermann (2018: 76). The Eugenian version was originally illuminated, see Lauxtermann (2018:
75–6). Both Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Vulc. 93 [Diktyon 38266] and Messina, S.
Salv. 161 have drawings next to the text of Stephanites, but the unicorn is absent both in the text
and in the picture; Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Barb. gr. 172 [Diktyon 64720] has
post-Byzantine illuminations.
59 Der Nersessian (1937), Volk (2009: 525–81), Toumpouri (2015) and Hilsdale (2017).
60 Toumpouri (2015: 390–2).
61 It is the main manuscript of ‘Cycle 3’; see Volk (2009: 536–86). For its caption to The Man in the
Well, see Volk (2009: 561, no. 96).
62 Volk (2009: 525–36); for the captions to The Man in the Well, see Volk (2009: 530, no. 46).
63 As Toumpouri (2015) shows, the cycle of illuminations on Athos, Mone Iberon, 463 (Lampros 4583)
[Diktyon 24060] should be considered a fourth typology. However, there is neither illumination
nor caption for The Man in the Well.
400 ugo mondini
represents the two moments separately. On the contrary, the selection and
the disposition of the contents within the poems by Choniates and Philes
imply that the image would have represented the tale without a narrative
development. In this respect, the depiction of ‘Cycle 2’ would fit better
than the other two.64 Although the two known illuminations of this cycle
are unfortunately very poorly preserved,65 both of them occupy an entire
folio and the disposition of the scene is vertical. In this version, the chase
is over, and the man is already hanging on the tree, in the middle of the
picture; the unicorn looks at him from above, at the edge of the well; the
dragon, the mice and the snakes are underneath.
However, some issues remain. First, the absence of the four snakes.
Although ms. Jerusalem, Patriarchike Bibliotheke, Timiou Staurou 42 has
a specific caption that attests to their presence in the illumination, the
snakes can be easily skipped as their meaning is rather complex and sec-
ondary to the general sense of the tale. For the same reason, their presence
in depictions and narratives is anything but necessary: they disappear even
within Apokopos’ rewriting, which elsewhere follows the original tale in
every other detail.66
Another issue is the role and the position of the unicorn/death. As has
been said in the first section of this chapter, the use of the unicorn as a
tool of revelation is very effective from a narrative point of view and, at the
same time, does not affect the storytelling and its general meaning. This
type of relocation could have had an iconographic parallel. As mentioned
before, the four snakes were probably the element of the tale most unat-
tractive to Byzantine readers, and they are often omitted. Nevertheless, in
ms. Cambridge, King’s College, gr. 45, fol. 41v, the asps are not under the
tree but emerge from a wall in front of it. Thus, the depiction has a chiastic
structure (chasing animal + human; human + snakes) and the asps become

64 The drawing in Mytil. Leim. 62, fol. 57v has great similarities with the depiction of ‘Cycle’ 2 of
Barlaam and Josaphat.
65 Ioannina, Zosimaia Bibliotheke, cod. 1 [Diktyon 32798] was one of the three parts into which an
original single codex had been divided: the other two are Cambridge, University Library, Add.
4491 [Diktyon 12129] and New York, Columbia University, Rare Book and Manuscript Library,
Plimpton MS 9 [Diktyon 46599]. The section in Ioannina was lost during the Second World War
(see Volk [2009: 309–12] and Toumpouri [2015: 390–1, nn. 8–9]), but Der Nersessian (1937: 63 fig.
24) contains a drawing of the illumination of The Man in the Well on fol. 54r, which was already
very damaged around the 1930s. A very similar illumination – in a very similar state – also appears
in Jerusalem, Patriarchike Bibliotheke, Timiou Staurou 42 [Diktyon 35938], fol. 75r.
66 They are present neither in Barb. gr. 372, fol. 237v, nor in Mytil. Leim. 62, fol. 57v, nor – if I see
correctly from the digital reproduction – in Par. gr. 1128, fol. 68r. The drawing in Der Nersessian
(1937: 63 fig. 24) does not report any caption to highlight the presence of the four snakes, but it could
have disappeared before Der Nersessian’s inspection of Ioannina, Zosimaia Bibliotheke, cod. 1.
 The Learned Bishop and the Unicorn 401
much more similar to something that threatens the man than to the rep-
resentation of the parts of his soul, as in the original tale.67
The relocation of the unicorn allows for a single narrative unit in both
poetry and figurative art. In ms. Messina, S. Salv. 161, fol. 18v the drawing
depicts the man already on the tree but without any unicorn, since the tale
from Stephanites omits its presence.68 The man is also on the tree in ms.
Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, gr. 36 [Diktyon 49597], fol. 203v
and two fearful animals (a lion and a unicorn) threaten him from both
sides.69 In contrast, the illumination of the so-called ‘Cycle 2’ of Barlaam
does not easily allow this relocation. In fact, although the initial chase is
avoided, the scene is split into three sections, which are rigidly divided
and follow the chronological order of the tale from above to below. Fur-
thermore, the Ierosolimitanus attests to the presence of a note (namely
the word βόθρος, ‘abyss’, ‘well’) which confirms for the viewer this divi-
sion between the first and the second section of the illumination. Conse-
quently, the well occupies most of the scene in this type of illumination as
it contains both the tree (with the man) and the fearful animals beneath.70
Finally, there is the amount of information. If the poems by Choniates
and Philes were epigrams, they could have been written in a single place
on the folio or within a frame all around the image, as they are quite
short; otherwise, they could also have been split into several sections, each
written next to the figure at which they are hinting.71 Extensive captions
to The Man in the Well are attested. The above-mentioned London, British
Library, Add. 19352, fol. 182v, put the illumination of this tale between
LXX Ps. 143:4–5.72 In contrast to the ‘twin’ image and captions in ms. Barb.
gr. 372, fol. 237v, every element of this illumination is explained through
thorough captions.73 Ms. Par. gr. 36, fol. 203v preserves an illumination of

67 This depiction is described by a note on fol. 42v of the same manuscript as θεωρεῖ τέσσαρας
κεφαλὰς ἀσπίδων τοῦ τοίχου (post corr.; ante corr. τοῦ τεύχου) προβεβληκυίας.
68 On the absence of the unicorn, see Lauxtermann (2023).
69 The illumination seems to resemble the details that are included in Stephanites and Ichnelates: the
man is hanging to two branches of the tree and stands on a base; cf. SI prol. Γ X, 45.17–19. At the
same time, the presence of the lion depends on the second tale in SI (1.29). In both depictions,
the tree has fruits, not honey; on the contrary, the presence of two different species of birds in the
illumination of Par. gr. 36 still needs to be explained. In general, both for the fruits and the birds,
the depiction recalls Bergades, Apokopos, 25–32.
70 The position of the tree within the well is very clear in SI prol. Γ X, 45.16, while it is only implicitly
hinted in HBJ 12.224–5.
71 The poems by Philes are best suited to appear as such, as they can be easily divided into sections of
one, two or three verses: each section addresses a single element of the image; consequently, they
could have been attached to each section of the depiction within the layout of the page.
72 Ps. 143:4–5: ‘man is like to vanity, | his days pass away as a shadow’ (ἄνθρωπος ματαιότητι ὡμοιώθη,
| αἱ ἡμέραι αὐτοῦ ὡσεὶ σκιὰ παράγουσιν).
73 Text: Der Nersessian (1970: 57 I, ad fol. 182v).
402 ugo mondini
the tale, introduced by an epigram with the name of its artist;74 four texts
in prose are arranged next to every element of the image and explain their
meaning: as in the Londinensis, these texts are quite long and detailed.75
The absence of Barlaam’s text does not necessarily cause the need for (long)
captions to be added to the illumination of The Man in the Well (cf. e.g.
ms. Barb. gr. 372); however, its presence makes unnecessary any extensive
explanations on the plot.76 If poems like Man.Phil. e 248 and e250 could
have been written for any type of image, the other poems by Philes and,
above all, the poem by Choniates could be attached to an image only if the
text of the tale was not nearby.
To sum up, if the poems by Philes and Choniates were epigrams or
descriptions of an existing image, their composition would be linked to a
non-narrative depiction of The Man in the Well, in which all the elements
are placed within a single scene (cf. e.g. the one in Par. gr. 36). It is much
more probable that the poem by Choniates and, at least, Man.Phil. e 2 46,
e 249, e 251, e 252 were thought to give a thorough account; therefore they
would have been unnecessary with the tale itself in their vicinity.

Choniates and his Source

But does the poem by Choniates depend on the text of the tale or is it just
a learned description in hexameters of an image? Inner features and the
structure of the narrative confirm the first hypothesis.
There are close similarities between the tale in HBJ and Choniates’
poem (Mi.Chon.). The verb διώκω describes the chase of the unicorn
(HBJ 12.244; Mi.Chon. l. 6) and the verb χάσκω the opening of drag-
on’s mouth (HBJ 12.237–8: ὁ πικρὸς δράκων κέχηνε καταπιεῖν; Mi.Chon.
l. 11 ὥς τις δράκων ἀμφικέχηνε). In HBJ, the perfect participle of verb
προβάλλω describes the heads of the four asps that emerge from the tree
(HBJ 12.233–4); in Mi.Chon. the horn that emerges from the unicorn’s
head (Mi.Chon. l. 7).
There is another piece of evidence to take into account. The follow-
ing synopsis presents a comparison between the contents of two ver-
sions of the tale (HBJ, Mi.Chon.); to this synopsis I add the Apokopos as
a benchmark because the text follows the tale strictly, in a manner very
similar to Choniates. The entry of Mi.Chon. simply lines up with the

74 BEiÜ IV, FR1 in Rhoby (2019: 119–20 + 600, table xx).

75 Text: Antonopoulos (2007: 38–9).
76 In fact, it is hard to find epigrams that openly describe the objects on which they are inscribed; see
Paul (2008) and Rhoby (2011).
 The Learned Bishop and the Unicorn 403
Table 15.2 The Man in the Well: comparison between HBJ  ’s version, Michael Choniates
and Apokopos

HBJ Mi.Chon. Apokopos

-- Escape from the unicorn -- Deer Hunt

-- Fall into the well -- The man is in the middle
-- On the tree he feels safe of a meadow. Here, he
finds a tree and relaxes
-- Vision next to it.
(1) the two mice
(2) the dragon
(3) the four asps

-- Honey from above the -- The man is deceived -- The man notices the hive
tree -- Tree and climbs the tree
-- The man savours the -- Honey -- The man savours the
honey honey
-- He forgets about: -- Vision
(1) the unicorn (1) unicorn -- Bees and the Queen
Bee attack but he is still
eating
(2) the dragon (2) mice -- The tree moves and the
man stops eating. He sees
the mice.
(3) the precariousness of the (3) dragon -- dragon
tree (= the mice)

-- He forgets all these things -- Many dangers

-- He only cares about the -- But he does not care
sweetness of the honey because of the honey
-- He will notice his -- While falling into Hell, the
foolishness only when he character becomes aware he
Explanation: eventually falls had been deceived
general meaning; unicorn;
well; tree and mice; four
asps; dragon; honey

c­ orrespondent ­narrative point in the other three texts. As has been said
before, Mi.Chon. – as all the poems by Manuel Philes quoted above –
begins with the man who is already in the tree (see Table 15.2).
The narrative structure of the poem confirms that Choniates follows the
text of HBJ.77 The poem mentions the unicorn, the mice and the dragon
77 This literary operation is very similar to the passage of the Apokopos by Bergades, as the synopsis
shows. Most notably, the appearance of the bees and of the queen bee occurs precisely when, in
HBJ, the name of the unicorn reappears. In both cases, the man does not bother about the animal
because he is deceived by the honey.
404 ugo mondini
but not the four asps. However, although Choniates follows the order of
the account strictly, the order of appearance of the dragon and the mice is
reversed. This shows that Choniates’ order actually follows HBJ 12.241–56,
which explains the mice before the dragon.
Consequently, Choniates did not describe an image of The Man in the
Well, but he based his poem on the tale as it appears in HBJ and restruc-
tured the story on the basis of the order of its explanation in HBJ 12.241–
56.78 In this context, εἰκών and εἰκoνίζειν are used to reveal the meaning
of the moralistic account (HBJ 12.251–3). Since the unicorn is the most
important agent of Choniates’ poem and is the symbol of death, the title
refers to the fact that the poem is ‘on the symbol of the unicorn’ more than
simply ‘on the image’. In this sense, the title On the Image of the Unicorn
could have a specific meaning related to the text. In Barlaam and Josaphat,
the section is called ὁμοίωσις (‘similitude’, HBJ 12.241) and παραβολή
(‘parable’, HBJ 13.1). The first term is also used in HBJ 14.6–7 to introduce
the parable The City with Foreign Kings; moreover, the adjective ὅμοιος
appears at the beginning of The Fowler and the Nightingale (HBJ 10.30),
The Man in the Well (HBJ 12.220) and The Man and his Three Friends (HBJ
13.5). The term παραβολή introduces the tale of The Wise and Foolish Vir-
gins (HBJ 9.120). The same markers are used as titles in the anthologies.79
In fact, Choniates’ knowledge of the tale does not imply that he had
access to the complete HBJ. Ms. Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana,
gr. Z. 494 is a complex miscellany which assembles a great variety of moral
works, among them the apophthegmata patrum and other kephalaia kai
logoi psychopheleis. Barlaam’s parables are at the beginning of the first cen-
turia (fols. 208rv); an abridged account of the Ladder by John Klimax is
found at the end of the fourth centuria, followed by some excerpts from
Mark the Hermit (fols. 231rv). Perhaps Choniates had access to the tale
through a similar anthology.

Short Hexametric Poems and Moral Tales

As was said at the beginning of this chapter, it is difficult to ascribe On the
Image of the Unicorn to a specific moment of Choniates’ biography as there
is no reference to the context of composition. It is, however, interesting

78 Cf. also the use of ἀπατώμενος in l. 1 of the poem, which echoes HBJ 12.241 τῶν τῇ ἀπάτῃ
τοῦ παρόντος βίου προστετηκότων.
79 Cf. e.g. Marc. gr. Z. 494 fol. 208v: ‘parable of earthly life and on how humans take the wrong way
because they are deceived; the sweetness of the world’ (παρομοίωσις τοῦ ἐνθένδε βίου καὶ ὅπως
πλανῶνται χλευαζόμενοι οἱ ἄνθρωποι, τὸ ἡδὺ τοῦ κόσμου).
 The Learned Bishop and the Unicorn 405
to see how the author reshaped the tale to convey a different perspective
on human life. While the tale is introduced by a chapter on the human
propensity to earthly desires in Barlaam and Josaphat,80 Choniates’ poem
lacks contextualization. The author transforms the content into a direct
reproach in the second person and, in this way, his narrative assumes a far
more tragic and universalistic tone; it describes all of humanity as tainted
and deceived by sin and, more notably, unwilling to escape from its con-
dition, until it is too late.
Choniates did the same with another moral tale. The Ottobonianus
preserves On the Ladder Described in John the Ascetic, a poetical rewriting
of the description of the ladder in John Klimax’s Ladder of Divine Ascent.
A brief comparison of the two poems demonstrates their affinities. Both
poems are quite short (15 and 18 verses, respectively) and are written in
hexameters and in Homeric language and style. Furthermore, they have a
very similar structure: an allocution/a direct question at the beginning; a
central section in which the poet describes the subject; and, at the end,
a moral sentence. Just like Barlaam and Josaphat, several manuscripts of
The Ladder of Divine Ascent are illuminated; the description of the ladder
circulated within anthologies – at least in one case together with the text
of The Man in the Well.81
The function of both poems is not certain: they could have been hex-
ametrical epigrams meant to be copied in the proximity of a ‘static’ illu-
mination of The Man in the Well and of the Heavenly Ladder,82 but also
a poetical rephrasing of their prose description. Choniates’ interest in
moral tales in prose could relate to his patronage – if so, in Constantino-
ple or on Keos; it could also depend on manuscript production (the two
poems could be book epigrams for illumination of the subjects), maybe
in Athens where he prompted the copying of various texts. The use of
hexameters and the subject of the poem could hint at a learned public.
But what these poems certainly testify is that Choniates was strongly
interested in this type of short text about life and the human condi-
tion, and similar reflections about life can be seen throughout his literary
­production.

80 HBJ 12.241–2: ‘this parable deals with those who cling to the deceitfulness of present life’ (αὕτη ἡ
ὁμοίωσις τῶν τῇ ἀπάτῃ τοῦ παρόντος βίου προστετηκότων).
81 In Marc. gr. Z. 494 Barlaam’s parables are at the beginning of the first centuria (fols. 208rv) and the
abridged account of Klimax’s Ladder is at the end of the fourth centuria, followed by excerpts from
Mark the Hermit (fols. 231rv).
82 Epigrams in hexameters are very rarely composed for supports other than manuscripts; see Rhoby
(2019: 68–9).
406 ugo mondini
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 General Index

accentuation 163, 331, 339, 345 Aphthonios of Antioch 122, 225, 239–40, 242, 251
Achilles 131, 168, 217 Progymnasmata 123, 245
Achmet 197 Apokaukos, John 15, 17
Oneirokritikon 197, 307 Apollinaris of Laodicea 294
Aeschylus 185, 237, 343 Apophthegmata Patrum 404
Persians 185 Apostolis, Arsenios 184, 192
Prometheus Bound 237 apostrophe 214
Aesop 192–3, 195 Aratus
Agamemnon 174, 187 Phenomena 18
Agioi Anargyroi in Kastoria, church 257, 268–9, archetype 300, 308, 309, 348
271–8, 260 Arethas
Akropolites, Constantine 49 Opuscula 117
Akropolites, George 285, 349, 354 Aristenos, Alexios 34, 41
Epitaph for Irene Komnene 285, 354 Aristides, Aelius 120, 123
Alcaeus 122 Hymn to the Aegean 120
Alexander of Kotyaion 120 Hymn to Serapis 120
Alexandrian scholarship 117 Monody on Smyrna 120
Alexios I Komnenos 2, 4, 6, 11, 48, 72–5, 82, 203, Aristophanes 117, 162, 164, 189, 343
265, 291, 292 Frogs 345, 346
Alexios IV Angelos 312, 350 Wealth 163, 345
Allatius 310 Aristotle
alliteration 319, 333 De anima 332
Amasis 342, 348, 349 Parva naturalia 310
Amiroutzes, George 310 Poetics 1, 46, 119
Amos 288 Politics 331
amphoteroglossia 226, 247–51 Rhetoric 118–19, 248
anacreontic 41, 74 Arsenios 210
anaphora 319, 333 artes poeticae 1
Andronikos I Komnenos 350 Astarte 207, 208
Andronikos, protekdikos 43, 72, 79 astrology 12, 366–85
Andronikos, sebastos 258, 262, 277 ancient 375, 366
Anemas, Manuel 314, 317 Byzantine 366–8, 377, 379
Angeloi 6, 356 asyndeton 319, 333
animal tale 194–8, See also beast literature Athens 17, 72, 243, 389–90, 405
Anna Komnene 36, 47, 82, 83, 312, 367 Atlas 177
Alexiad 44, 48 Augerius von Busbeck 307
Anonymous Professor 154 authorial agency 226, 242
Anthologia Marciana 18, 48, 79, 183, 271 authorial personae 378, 51
Anthologia Palatina 350 authorship 96, 162, 184, 193, 305, 344, 349
Antiochos, Gregory 34, 238, 234, 307 Ayvali Köy, church 262
Aphrodite 196, 381 Aziözü, church. See Karabaş kilise, church

409
410 General Index
Bacchylides 120 Choniates, Niketas 11, 80, 81, 354, 357
Balavariani 393 History 44, 87, 349, 366, 385
Balsamon, Theodore 35, 72 Orations 349
Barlaam and Josaphat 392–4, 398–9, 400, 402–5 scholia 347–53
Basil I 285 Chora, monastery 31, 50–1, 275
Basil the Great 189, 379 Christ 10, 43, 72, 209, , 210, 259–60, 262,
Basil the Nothos 262 266, 272, 277, 286–7, 293, 294, 299, 317,
Basilakes, Nikephoros 36, 38, 39–40, 48, 83 332–3
Progymnasmata 291 Christopher of Mytilene 3, 4, 7, 16, 153, 157,
beast literature 15, 194–8, See also animal tale 197–8, 213–16
Bergades To the Monk Andrew 51
Apokopos 396–8, 401, 403 Christos Paschon 15, 43, 72, 185–6
Berroia 238, 245 chronicle 12, 44, 76, 114, 246
Bertha von Sulzbach. See Irene, empress Chrysoberges, Nikephoros 15, 34, 248
Bible 1, 86, 289, 294, 299, 379, 380 Chrysostom, John 86
biblical exegesis 34, 86, 139, 291, 299 Cicero 122
Boniface of Montferrat 389 city verses. See political verse
Book of Birds 194 City with Foreign Kings, The 404
Book of Fish 194 classroom 83, 127, 158, 162, 178, 193
Borzōē 393 Claudius Ptolemy 382
Boudonitsa 389 Apotelesmatica 374–5
Bryennios, Nikephoros 37, 258 climax 273, 356
comedy 82, 189, 208
caesura 319, 356 commentaries 1, 6, 14, 34–5, 40, 71, 75, 84, 117,
calendar 122–5, 141, 162, 187, 192, 197, 225–6, 227,
metrical 15–16 247–51
Callimachus composition 2, 6, 35, 39, 72, 77, 85, 86, 87, 116,
Aitia 389 118, 120, 123, 126–9, 131, 167, 219, 350, 354,
Hecale 389 404, 173
Cambyses 341–2, 351–2, 353 concision 148–9
Cappadocia consolation 42, 316
Carikli kilise (Göreme 22). See Carikli kilise, Constantine I 332, 333
church Constantine VI 76
Grand Pigeonnier in Çavusin, church. See Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos 190, 260
Grand Pigeonnier in Çavusin, church De ceremoniis 81
Karabaş kilise, Aziözü. See Karabaş kilise, Constantinople 2, 7, 13, 14, 16–17, 38, 42, 51, 52,
church 70–87, 141, 158, 185, 210, 219, 239, 278, 299,
Karanlik kilise (Göreme 23). See Karanlik 306–7, 310, 312, 321, 333–4, 347, 349–51, 353,
kilise, church 354, 357, 389, 405
Saint Basil (Göreme 18). See St Basil, church Corippus
Carikli kilise, church 262 In Praise of Justin II 74
Cato court 7, 8–16, 34, 37, 81–2, 115, 203, 219, 220,
Disticha 191 244, 348, 366–7, 379, 381, 384, 385
Chalkoprateia, school 8, 13, 141, 151, 157 court poets 82, 290, 292, 298, 299, 375
change, sense of 48–52 Crusade
chiasmus 319, 333 Fourth 2, 349, 350, 351, 354, 357
Choiroboskos, George 142 Second 315
On Poetic Tropes 166 Cyprus
Choirosphaktes, Leo Enkleistra of Saint Neophytos.
Ekphrasis of the Palace Bath built by Leo VI 75 See St Neophytos, Enkleistra
Choniates, Michael 16, 17, 34, 36, 47, 72, 87, Panagia Phorbiotissa, Asinou. See Panagia
132, 196, 286, 389 Phorbiotissa on Cyprus, church
On the Image of the Unicorn 391–405 Panagia tou Arakos (Arakiotissa), Lagoudera.
Orations 286 See Panagia of Arakas at Lagoudera in
Poems 40, 43, 48, 389–90, 395–8 Cyprus, church
 General Index 411
Daniel 288 Doxapatres, John 123, 230
Oneirocriticon 247 drama 70, 71, 74, 77, 80, 85, 86, 146, 147, 184–6,
dativus ethicus 145 190
David, King 1, 10, 38, 39, 50, 74, 283–7, 288, Ducange 310
289–91, 292–3, 295, 296, 298–300, 315, 341,
342, 344, 346, 349, 367, 384, 443 education 12, 14, 19, 32, 33–5, 52, 84, 97, 98, 114,
decastichon 287, 288, 289, 291, 294, 296 115, 122, 123, 124, 127, 139–58, 161–78,
dedicatory 195, 212, 213, 215, 219, 235, 277, 313,
epigram 204, 219, 226, 230, 237, 256, 334
257–68, 269, 271, 274, 275, 286, ekphrasis 36, 45, 47, 75, 76, 194, 208–11, 218, 219,
372, 378 267, 277, 369
inscriptions. See inscriptions, dedicatory ellipsis 129, 130
poems 203 elliptical phrasing. See ellipsis
texts 203, 260, 268, 277 encomium 13, 41, 71, 96, 126, 130, 286, 314, 315,
Deesis 50, 256, 260–7, 277 317
deme 73, 81, 82 poetic 9, 10, 71, 84, 285, 286
hymns 81, 288 enjambment 318
Demosthenes 120 enkomion. See encomium
Demylus 250 Entertaining Tale of Quadrupeds 99, 103, 194–7
Dervis Akin, church 262 epanalepsis 167–8
descriptive mode 47 epanastrophe 167–8
deus ex machina 185 Ephraim of Ainos
dialects, of ancient Greek 166, 169–72, 178, 345 Chronicle 349
Aeolic 166, 169, 171 epigrams 4, 16, 71, 72, 117, 173, 204, 219, 230,
Attic 169, 170–1, 177 230–1, 234, 251, 256
Doric 169, 171 book epigrams 6 , 144, 225, 226–30, 232, 234,
Ionic 169, 170, 171–2 237, 240, 247, 251, 290, 339, 405
dialogues 48–9 ktetoric epigrams 256–78
Christian 42 epimerismoi 33, 142
pagan 42 epistolography 17, 39, 126, 127
dichrona 163, 355 Epitaph of Empress Irene Komnene 349
didactic epitaphioi 72, 115, 120, 173, 203
material 35, 126, 183, 194 epithalamium 11, 120
plot 145–51 Erinys 245
poetry. See poetry:didactic ethopoiia 13, 52, 76, 96, 194, 217, 273–4, 275
simultaneity 145 Etymologicum Gudianum 164
diegesis 76, 168 etymology 163, 166, 175–7, 178, 235, 166
Digenis Akritis 8, 14, 44, 95, 101, 108 Eugeneianos, Niketas 11, 13, 34, 41, 43, 48, 71, 52
diglossia 98, 107 Anacharsis 52
Dio Chrysostom 50, 122 Drosilla and Charikles 14, 48
Diodorus Siculus 347, 348, 351, 352 Eugenios of Palermo 15, 17, 36
Diogenes Laertius 244, 250 eulogy 120, 132, 217, 287, 288, 292, 296, 299, 300
Dionysius of Halicarnassus 120, 129 Euripides 185, 186
Dionysius of Syracuse 243, 244, 352 Eurystheus 227, 231, 234–5, 238, 239, 251
Dionysius Thrax Eustathios of Thessalonike 34, 35, 36, 37, 40, 45, 47,
Art of Grammar 162–77 49, 83–7, 120, 122, 125, 127–33, 161, 163, 165–8,
scholia to Dionysius Thrax 162, 163, 166, 169, 170–2, 173–5, 176, 178, 186, 234, 235, 237
172, 175, 177 Commentary on Dionysius Periegetes 240
Dionysus 207, 208 Commentary or Parekbolai on the Iliad 37, 122,
Dioscorides 346 127, 128, 169, 170, 173, 178, 242
diptychs 41 Commentary or Parekbolai on the Odyssey 37,
compound 41 122, 128, 169, 173, 177, 178, 242
direct speech 71, 98, 99, 101, 105, 107–9, 396 Lent Oration 47
dithyrambic style 119, 122 Monologue of the Monk Neophytos of Mokissos 52
dodecasyllables. See verse:dodecasyllable On Hypocrisy 84
412 General Index
Eustratios of Nicaea 34, 36 hapax legomenon 319
experimentation 46, 48, 82, 96 Haploucheir, Michael 186
Ezekiel 288 Dramation 15, 43, 72
Verses on Fortune 185, 186
fable 72, 192–6, 392 harangue 190, 191
Fabricius 310 HBJ. See Barlaam and Josaphat
Fowler and the Nightingale, The 404 Hecabe 162
funerary texts 41, 48, 203, 204, 317 Hector 131, 168, 176, 177
Heinrich of Austria 316
Galen 346 Helen 167
Galeomyomachia 183, 184, 188, 192 Heracles 227–39, 251
genre 6, 8, 17, 32, 38–43, 49, 81, 84, 95, 106, 109, Herakleios, Emperor 9, 366
113–18, 126, 127, 129, 139, 140, 158, 172, 185, Hermes 240, 251, 333
189, 190, 192, 194, 195, 209, 210, 230, 246, Hermogenean corpus. See Hermogenes and
267, 277, 294, 314 Pseudo-Hermogenes
Geoffrey of Vinsauf Hermogenes 35, 120, 121, 122, 129, 133, 167, 168,
Poetria nova 1 230, 232, 251
Geometres, John 39, 50–51, 210 On Issues 235
On Spring 210 On Types of Style 46, 167, 168
To Saint Mary of Egypt 389 Herodian 142, 164, 395
George of Antioch 17, 260 On Figures 167
George of Pisidia 9, 50, 290, 342 On Prosody in General 165
George Palaiologos 42 Herodotus 332, 339–59
Glykas, Michael 71, 98, 379, 381, 382 Hesiod 117, 343
Verses from Prison 8, 95, 96, 101, 107 Hesychios
glykýtes 129 Lexicon 170, 231, 394
God 50, 190, 194, 207, 208, 209, 211, 212, 214, hexameters 41, 42, 74, 84, 128, 162, 189, 225, 239,
216, 259, 260, 271, 321, 367, 378–81, 385, 240, 242, 245, 251, 389, 390, 402, 405
390 Hierotheos of Kataskepe 47
Gorgias 119 Hippodrome 72, 75, 80–3, 150
Goudeles, Theodosios 47 historiai 169, 172–5, 177, 178
Life of Leontios of Jerusalem 46, 48 Holobolos, Manuel 307
grammar 8, 10, 11–13, 33, 83, 100, 126–8, 139–58, Holy Forty Martyrs in Constantinople, mon-
161–78, 219, 345, 347, 369 astery 51
Grand Pigeonnier in Çavusin, church 262 Homer 74, 84, 117, 120, 124–8, 130–1, 133, 162,
Great Lavra on Mount Athos, monastery 45 164, 167–8, 170–2, 173–5, 187, 189, 192, 234,
Greek Anthology 50 240, 313
Gregoras, Nikephoros 51, 196, 344, 347 Homeric hymns 288
Gregory of Corinth 15, 35, 161, 163, 172, 178 Horace
On Dialects 166, 171, 178 Ars poetica 1
Gregory of Nazianzos 1, 36, 38, 43, 46, 50, 52, 72, hymnography 9, 10, 15, 35, 120, 194, 261, 287
189, 209, 210 metres 11
On his Own Verses 1 hypertextuality 186, 187
On New Sunday 209, 210 hypocrisy 85
Gregory of Nyssa hypotext 186–7, 189, 284, 294, 296, 298, 299
Encomium for the Forty Martyrs 13 hypothesis 185
Gregory, imperial secretary 7
Grimani, cardinal 309 iambic 52
trimeter 43, 186, 318
Habakkuk 288, 332 Icarus 177
Haggai 288 Ignatios the Deacon
Hagia Sophia 7, 8, 79, 292 Verses on Adam 185, 186
hagiography 15, 17, 45, 79, 215 illumination 285, 392–3, 394, 398–400, 401–2, 405
Hagiotheodorites, Michael 379 imitation 31, 41, 50, 84, 106, 108, 109, 125, 127,
Ekphrasis (of a horse race) 7, 72, 80, 379 133, 186, 193, 296, 298 See also mimesis
 General Index 413
inscriptions 3, 16, 256–78, 316 Sacred Arsenal 42, 383, 384
dedicatory 16, 257, 262, 264, 265, 268, 273–7, Kamateros, John 248, 379, 380–2, 384, 385
278 Astrological Poem 367, 380–2
metrical 17, 268, 273 Kamytzes, Constantine 314, 317
introduction 148, 153, 171, 242, 270 Karabaş kilise, church 262
invective 19, 38, 51, 52, 71, 99, 379 Karanlik kilise, church 262
clerical 51, 52 Kastoria 16, 257, 271, 273, 278
Ioannikios Logaras 314, 317 Sts Anargyroi. See Agioi Anargyroi in
Ioannikios, hegoumen of Vatopedi monastery Kastoria, church
263–7, 277 Kataphloron, Nicholas 34, 40
Iphidamas 174 Kataskepenos, Nicholas
Irene Petraliphina 260 Life of Cyril Phileotes 46
Irene, Empress 76, 382 Katrares, John 185, 186
Irene, sebastokratorissa 9, 12, 37, 75, 231, 246, Kedrenos 76
305, 306, 311, 312, 314–17, 334, 367, 370–2, Keos 389, 390, 405
376–7, 383, 384–5 Kinnamos, John 44, 238, 314, 332
Isaac II Angelos 33, 81, 286 Klimax, John 404, 405
Isaac Porphyrogennetos 124, 125 Ladder of Divine Ascent 405
Isaac, sebastokrator 36, 82 knowledge, cultural 163, 169–75, 177, 178
Isaiah 288, 312, 333 Kolyvas, Sergios 33
Isocrates 119 Kommolardos, abbot 196
Antidosis 120 Komnenian
Italikos, Michael 34, 36, 38–9, 47, 313 court 7, 10
Encomium of Manuel I Komnenos 286 dynasty 2, 3, 7, 9, 191, 296
Italos, John 310 era 7, 31–53, 107, 123, 184, 240
family 6, 10
Jacob 317 ideology 73
James of Kokkinobaphos 37, 313 novels 44
Jeremiah 288 poetry. See poetry, Komnenian
Joel 288 Kontostephanos, Stephanos 314, 317
John II Komnenos 4, 10, 11, 36, 38, 41, 71, 72–3, Kopreus 234, 235
75, 81–2, 84, 203, 283, 287, 288, 289–91, Kosmas of Jerusalem 15, 35
300, 312, 315, 317 liturgical kanons 191
John III Vatatzes 349 Kotertzes, Constantine 383
John of Damascus 15, 35 ktetor 256, 258, 259, 261, 262, 267, 271, 275, 260,
liturgical kanons 191 273
Susanna 185, 186 ktetoric epigrams. See epigrams, ktetoric
John the Baptist 13, 189, 266, 267, 293, 294, epigrams
299 ktetoric ideology 258
John the Forerunner. See John the Baptist Kurbinovo
Jonah 41, 288 St George. See St George at Kurbinovo,
journalism 347 church
Journey of Mazaris to Hades, the 48, 49
Julian 38 La Porte du Theil 310
language registers 95, 97, 98, 99, 101, 106, 107,
Kaiserkritik 350 108, 109
Kale kilisesi, church 262 Laskarid court 34
Kalīla wa-Dimna 194 leçon par l’exemple 147, 151–4, 163, 166–9
Kallikles, Nicholas 5, 11, 13, 14, 16, 47, 72, 83, Lemniotes family 268, 276
203, 204, 210, 212, 214, 217, 219, 220 Lemniotes, Theodore 268, 269, 270–6, 278
Funerary Poem for John Komnenos 286 Leo of Megistos 42, 48
Funerary Poems 48 Kalliope 48
On the Roses 203–20 Leo of Rhodes 14
Kamateroi 231 Leo the Grammarian 17
Kamateros, Andronikos Leo VI 75
414 General Index
Libanius 209, 210 Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana
literary conv. soppr. 2 217
gatherings 14, 36, 70, 74 Plut. 32.3 188
imitation. See imitation Plut. 59.2 37
Longinus 120 Plut. 59.3 37
Lycophron 117, 343 Plut. 59.12 390
Alexandra 18, 126, 240 Plut. 6.36 285
Plut. 9.23 286
Macedonian dynasty 3, 286 Plut. 70.3 343–7, 352, 355
maïstor 215, 216 Plut. 70.6 340–1, 342–3, 346–7, 348, 350–2,
Maiuri Poem 8, 41, 95, 96, 100, 107, 109, 353–7
See also Ptochoprodromic poems Grottaferrata Z. α. XXIX 198
Makrembolites, Eumathios 43, 259 Heidelberg, Universitätsbibliothek, Pal. gr.
Hysmine and Hysminias 259 252 344
Malachi 288 Ioannina, Zosimaia Bibliotheke, cod. 1 400
Malakes, Euthymios 238, 314 Istanbul
Man and his Three Friends, The 404 Bibliotheke tou Oikoumenikou Patri-
Man in the Well, the 390–402, 404, 405 archeiou
Manasses, Constantine 5, 12, 13–15, 43, 44, 47, 89 (olim Mone Hagias Triados Chalkes
71, 83, 139, 193, 194, 246, 316, 350, 368–82, cod. 97) 392
384–5 Kamariotissa 151 368
Aristandros and Kallithea 14, 75 Topkapi Sarayi, G. 1. 39 310
Astrological Poem 5, 12, 366–85 Jerusalem, Patriarchike Bibliotheke
Ekphrasis of the Earth or Description of the Timiou Staurou 42 400
Earth 44, 193 Timiou Staurou 52 37
Hodoiporikon or Itinerary 15, 44, 71, 184, 369, Leiden, Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit
379 Vossianus Gr. Q1 6, 225–51
Oration to Michael Hagiotheodorites 379 Vulc. 93 399
Schede tou myos 193–5, 196, 197 London, British Library, Add. 19352 399
Synopsis Chronike 12, 14, 15, 44, 71, 72, Madrid, El Escorial, Real Biblioteca
75–6, 77, 80, 114, 369, 371, 372, 375, X-IV-20 (Andrés 415) 395, 396, 398
376–8 Y-II-10 37, 307
Mangana monastery 315 Λ-II-10 49
Manuel I Komnenos 6, 9, 10, 11, 41, 44, 71, 75, 81, Ω-I-12 (Andrés 513) 188
83, 86, 286, 305–6, 314–15, 318, 320–1, 334, Messina, Biblioteca Regionale Universitaria
366, 367, 369, 376–85, 424, 425, 428, 434 ‘Giacomo Longo’, S. Salv. 161 392,
manuscript 394, 396, 399, 401
Alexandria, Bibliotheke tou Patriarcheiou, Milan, Biblioteca Ambrosiana
364 141 gr. O 94 307
Athos L 115 sup. 340
Mone Batopediou 851 285 Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek
Mone Dionysiou gr. 201 37
256 (Lampros 3790) 392 gr. 525 42
263 (Lampros 3797) 308 Mytilene, Mone tou Leimonos, 62 393, 400
363 (Lampros 3897) 392 Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale ‘Vittorio
Mone Iberon Emanuele III’
462 (Lampros 4582) 392 II C 37 191
463 (Lampros 4583) 399 III B 1 340
Skete Hagias Annes, Gero Damianou 20 III B 2 340
(Kourilas 630) 392 New York
Basel, Universitätsbibliothek, A-III-20 37 Columbia University, Rare Book and
Cambridge Manuscript Library, Plimpton MS
King’s College, gr. 45 (olim 338) 392, 399, 9 400
400 The Morgan Library and Museum, M.397
University Library, Add. 4491 400 399
 General Index 415
Oxford, Bodleian Library phil. gr. 293 192
Barocci 114 340 phil. gr. 321 307
Barocci 64 184 theol. gr. 322 142
Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France Mark the Hermit 404, 405
gr. 1128 399, 400 Matthew of Vendôme
gr. 1208 37 Ars versificatoria 1
gr. 1313 392 Mauropous, John 3, 7, 34, 51, 215
gr. 139 284 Mechlebe, cat of Empress Zoe 197
gr. 1634 340 Mehmed II 310
gr. 2231 394 Melbourne Gospels 267
gr. 2506 373 Meleager 210
gr. 2556 37, 41 Menander Rhetor 35, 120, 122
gr. 2558 147, 149, 151, 155, 156, 184, 185, 187, Mesarites, Nicholas 49, 87
189, 194, 195 Debates with the Latins 48
gr. 2617 145 Funeral Oration on his Brother John 42
gr. 2876 395, 396, 398 Monologue of an Astrologer Bishop 52
gr. 2933 340 Mesonyktikon 256, 263, 264, 267
gr. 36 401, 402 metanarration 101, 104, 105, 108
Suppl. gr. 1219 308 metaphrasis 82, 187, 188, 192, 288, 294, 296,
Suppl. gr. 352 51 299, 405
Suppl. gr. 501 368 metapoiesis 140, 143, 151, 156, 240
Rome, Biblioteca Angelica, gr. 83 356 Metochites, Theodore 31, 50, 51, 275, 278
Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana Micah 288
Barb. gr. 172 399 Michael Anchialou 34, 314
Barb. gr. 240 37 Michael Grammatikos 52, 190
Barb. gr. 320 285 About the Bishop of Philomelion 51
Barb. gr. 372 286, 399, 400, 401, 402 Michael of Ephesus 34
gr. 1162 37 Michael the Rhetor 314
gr. 130 347, 350, 351, 352, 353 Michael VIII Palaiologos 357
gr. 1359 340 mimesis 49, 50, 115, 118, 125, 113–33, 186, 284,
gr. 2369 340 See also imitation
gr. 305 18, 37 Mirandola, Pico della 309
gr. 666 37 mixed style 95–109
gr. 676 18, 51 Mone Hagias Triados Chalkes cod. 97,
gr. 677 368 See manuscript, Istanbul, Bibliotheke tou
gr. 743 51 Oikoumenikou Patriarcheiou, 89
Ott. gr. 59 391, 398, 405 monodiai. See monody
Pal. gr. 92 13, 37, 217 monody 41, 42, 115, 190, 120
Reg. gr. PP Pio II 54 13 monostichs 16, 341
Urb. gr. 88 340 Moschopoulos, Manuel
Venice, Biblioteca Nazionale Marciana commentary on Philostratus’ Eikones 172
gr. XI.22 18, 37, 46, 305, 306 Mother of God, monastery 15
gr. XI.31 41 Mouzalon, Nicholas 46, 71, 384
gr. Z. 364 340
gr. Z. 460 37 Nahum 288, 289
gr. Z. 476 18 Nani, Bernardo 309, 310
gr. Z. 494 (= 331) 392, 404 Nani, Giacomo 309, 310
gr. Z. 524 (= 318) 4, 11, 18, 37, 72, 79, 183 , narrative 40, 43–7, 49, 52, 73, 75, 76, 77, 99, 103,
203, 317 106, 140, 145, 174, 231, 234–7, 238, 267, 316,
Venetus A 125 346, 396, 399, 402, 405
Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek narrative system 43, 45, 50
hist. gr. 86 368 Neophytos the Recluse 36, 49, 261
phil. gr. 110 368 Nicholas III Grammatikos 12
phil. gr. 149 368 Nicholas of Methone 45
416 General Index
Niketas of Herakleia 7, 11, 12, 13, 18, 34, 139–58, Philip Monotropos 11
168, 345 Dioptra 11, 12, 46, 71
On Second Aorist Verbs 143, 148, 149, 150, 156 Philopatris 48, 49
On Syntax 141, 143, 144, 146–8, 152–4, 155–6 Philostratus
Poem on Noun Stems Ending in –ν 146 Eikones 172
Poem on Nouns Ending in -ια/εια 149 Philotheos 81
Poem on Verbs with Double Constructions 144, Philoxenus of Cythera 243
149, 150 Photios 19, 45, 118
Amphilochia 19
Obadiah 288 Bibliotheke or Myriobiblos 118, 119, 123
Odysseus 270 Physiologos 194, 393
Old Testament kings 10, 292, See also David, Physopalamites, Stephanos 11
King Pindar 119, 120, 131, 343
Olympiodoros 250 Planoudes, Maximos 268
Oppian 343 Plato 243–4
oratory 9, 35, 38, 39, 86, 114, 118, 119, 121, 123, Gorgias 332
166, 167 Republic 46
Oribasios 346 Timaeus 332
Orpheus 284 Plutarch 50, 250
oxymoron 332 Parallel Lives 243, 250
poetics ix, 39, 44, 114, 116, 149, 235, 378
Palaiologan period 2, 9, 18, 278, 344 poetry 2
Palamas, Gregory 43 ceremonial 8–11, 15
Palamedes 162 court 6, 82, 284, 287
Palermo didactic 8, 9, 11, 12, 14, 15, 71, 157–8, 191–4,
Martorana. See St Mary of the Admiral in 345, 382
Palermo (Martorana), church elegiac 122
palimpsest 186–9 epigrammatic 4, 16, 17
Panagia of Arakas at Lagoudera in Cyprus, iambic 15, 41, 51–2, 122
church 45, 260 Komnenian 2, 4, 6, 18, 19, 46
Panagia Phorbiotissa on Cyprus, church 261 liturgical 15, 16, 261
panegyric 9, 10, 120, 189, 286, 292, 296, 299, 315 Medieval Greek 2
Pantechnes, Michael 203 poikilia 288
parable 392, 393, 399, 404, 405 political verse 1, 9, 11, 12, 14, 19, 44, 46, 47, 73,
paradeisos 209 75, 225, 230, 251, 287, 292, 294, 296, 307,
paraphrase 12, 13, 107, 122, 126, 130, 296 318–19, 331, 343, 344, 367, 381
Pardos, Gregory. See Gregory of Corinth politikos stichos. See political verse
Paris 162 polymathy 172, 174, 175, 178
parody 15, 79, 105, 106, 109, 183, 185, 186, 190–1, polymetry 251
189 polysyndeton 319, 333
parousia 294 Porphyry
Patriarchal school 8, 248 Eisagoge 5
patronage 2, 5, 6–8, 12, 16, 32, 36, 35–8, 81, 82, prodiegesis 168
226, 230, 238, 243, 246, 251, 256–78, 317, 405 Prodromos, Manganeios 5, 6, 7, 10, 12, 15, 17, 18,
Paul of Alexandria 373 46, 48, 71, 286, 305–34, 382–4
Apotelesmatica 373 On Eros 317
Introduction to Astrology 373 On Life 317
Paul the Silentiary Poem 15 320–33
Ekphrasis of Hagia Sophia 74 Prodromos, Theodore 4, 5, 7–11, 12, 13, 15, 43,
pentametric 41 45, 71, 72, 79, 81–3, 96, 106, 109, 183, 184,
Penthesileia 162 198, 203, 258, 283–300, 305–7, 310–16, 319,
performance 33, 35, 39, 41–3, 70, 73, 74, 75, 80, 350, 367, 368
82, 83, 85, 86, 115, 150, 151, 156, 158, 211–15, Amarantos 42
245–7, 384 Epistolary Poems 7
Philes, Manuel 395, 400, 401, 402, 403 Historical Poems 5, 10, 15, 73–5, 81, 266, 283,
Poems 395–402 285, 287–300
 General Index 417
Katomyomachia 15, 72, 79, 97, 106, 109, Kastoria, church
183–98 Sappho 122, 173
On Friendship’s Departure 15 Hymn to Aphrodite 120
Rhodanthe and Dosikles 47, 106, 258 Φαίνεται μοι 120
Tetrasticha on the Lives of the Three Hierarchs satire 52, 79, 143, 186, 191, 195
46 schedography 8, 9, 12–14, 41, 83–4, 154–8, 215–19
progymnasmata 33, 52, 83, 96, 122, 219 schedos. See schedography
prosimetric 17 schemata. See rhetoric, figures
prosody 127, 162, 163–6, 175, 178 scholia
Psalms 1, 74, 283, 284, 288, 290, 291, 294–8, 313 on Herodotus 6, 339–43, 345–6, 354, 357–9
psalter verse scholia 339–59
Barberini psalter. See manuscripts, Vatican school 2, 8–16, 34–5, 39, 43, 47, 52, 83, 97, 115,
City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 126, 130, 154, 178, 191–4, 195, 212, 214, 215,
Barb. gr. 372 217–18, 219
Paris psalter. See manuscript, Paris, Biblio- contests 16, 214, 215, 219
thèque nationale de France, gr. 139 self-representation 4, 9, 36, 50, 52, 70, 238, 283,
Psammenitus 341–2 347
Psellos, Michael 3, 11, 18–19, 34, 36, 52, 116, Seljuks 287, See also Turks
123–4, 141, 143, 154 Serbilias, Nikephoros 249
Against the Sabbaitan Monk 51, 213 Simonides 120
Epistles 149, 124 Skylitzes, George
Funeral Oration for Xiphilinos 213 Translation of the Holy Stone 15
Funerary Oration for his Mother 124 Skylitzes, Stephanos 34
Pseudo-Alexander of Aphrodisias 346 Sophocles 343
Pseudo-Aristotle Sophron 244
On the Universe 166 Sophronios, monk in Vatopedi monastery 265, 277
Pseudo-Gregory of Corinth Spaneas 8
On the Four Parts of a Complete Speech 369 spring 16, 216
Pseudo-Hermogenes 209 spring ekphrasis 208–11
On Invention 169 spring schedos 215–20
On the Method of Forcefulness 167–8 St Antonio di Castello, monastery 309
Pseudo-Homer 188 St Basil, church 262
Batrachomyomachia 184, 186–9, 192–4 St Catherine’s of Sinai in Candia, metochion 309
Pseudo-Manetho St Demetrios in Thessalonike, basilica 15, 261
Apotelesmatica 373, 375 St George 270–3, 275, 278
Pseudo-Phocylides St George at Kurbinovo, church 260
Sentences 191 St George, monastery 196
Pseudo-Plutarch St John Chrysostom in Cyprus, monastery 51
On Homer 124 St John the Forerunner in Boudonitsa,
Pseudo-Psellos 19 monastery 389
Pseudo-Pythagoras St Mamas on Naxos, church 265
Golden Verses 191 St Mary of the Admiral in Palermo (Martorana),
Ptochoprodromic poems 5, 8, 9, 96–9, 101–7 church 260
Ptochoprodromika. See Ptochoprodromic poems St Neophytos, Enkleistra 260, 261
St Nicholas 271
Quintilian 122 St Paul in Constantinople, orphanotropheion 14
St Sabbas in Jerusalem, monastery 51
Rainauld of Chatillon 314 stanza 9, 296, 308, 318
rewriting, poetic. See metaphrasis Stephanites and Ichnelates 194, 196, 392–4, 399
rhetoric 115, 118, 120, 123, 130, 132, 133, 139, 174, Stephanos, bishop of Serres 141
191, 209, 211–15, 219, 248, 249, 271, 315 stichometry 240, 242–3
figures 122, 127, 163, 166–9, 178 stichomythy 185
Rhetorius of Egypt 373–5 Stilbes, Constantine 7, 33, 46, 72, 78, 79, 85,
Roger II of Sicily 331 86, 349
Fire Poem 7, 15, 72, 77–87
Saints Anargyroi. See Agioi Anargyroi in Strabo 121, 122
418 General Index
Straboromanos, Romanos 317 Tzetzes, John 5–8, 12, 19, 34–36, 40, 46, 47, 52,
structure 71, 83–5, 125–6, 146, 149, 153, 161–78, 213,
tripartite (of a schedos) 13 225–51, 313–14, 316, 317, 339, 343–7, 352,
stryphnótes 129–31 354–5, 382–5, 395
study of genre. See genre Allegories of the Iliad 5, 12, 46, 382–4
style 3, 36, 45, 49, 52, 71, 77, 84, 87, 95–109 Allegories of the Odyssey 12, 46, 382–3
Styppeiotes, Theodore 7, 41 Carmina Iliaca 12, 161–78, 238, 239, 343, 345
Sweetness of the World, The 392 Commentary on Hermogenes 6, 12, 225, 231, 251
Symeon the New Theologian 197 Exegesis of the Iliad 126, 169, 177, 178, 242
Synaxarion of the Honourable Donkey 194, 197 Histories 14, 46, 173, 225, 231, 234, 237, 244,
Synesios 50 247–51, 343
synkrisis 76 On Ancient Poetry 12, 126, 173
Syrianos 190 On Porphyry’s Eisagoge 5
Prolegomena on Comedy 173
Tarchaneiotes, Constantine 258, 259, 261–2, 277 Scholia on Hesiod’s Works and Days 177, 343
teacher-poet 11 Theogony 12, 245–7
theatrical turn 79–80 World Chronicle 12
theatricality 15, 70–1, 72
theatron 14, 36, 70–2, 80, 83, 85–6, 115, 150 Vatopedi on Mount Athos, monastery 256, 263,
Theocritus 188 265–8, 277
Theodora Raoulaina Palaiologina 268 vernacular texts 8, 95–100, 108, 189
Theodora, daughter of Irene, sebastokratorissa verse
316 decapentasyllables. See political verse
Theodore I Laskaris 349 dodecasyllable 5, 13, 14, 43, 47, 77, 141, 173,
Theodore II Laskaris 350 186, 225, 226, 307, 318, 340, 343, 344,
Theon, Aelius 122, 209 356, 381, 389, 390
Theophilos, monk 272, 273 fifteen-syllable. See political verse
Theophrastus 346 iambic 13, 41, 42, 44, 51, 52, 126, 225, 231, 234,
Theophylaktos of Ohrid 7, 8, 17, 34, 47, 72, 331, 369
203, 291 pentadecasyllables. See political verse
Thucydides 129, 343–4 treatise 11, 12, 162
Timarion 42, 48, 49, 197 twelve-syllable. See verse:dodecasyllable
Timon of Phlius 244, 249, 250 Vettius Valens
Silloi 250, 244 Anthologia 373–4
Tornikes, Demetrios 53, 234 Virgin Kosmosoteira, church 36, 271
Tornikes, Euthymios 34, 53, 71, 87 Vytoumas (Thessaly), monastery 256–63, 267–8,
Verses against a Foolish Bishop of Seleukeia 52 277
Tornikes, George 34, 47
Oration in Honour of George Xiphilinos 248 Wise and Foolish Virgins, The 404
Tornikes, George the Younger 33, 34
tragedy 43, 72, 77, 79, 85, 122 Xenophanes 244
Transfiguration at Meteora, monastery 257 Xiphilinos, George 248
Triklines, Nicholas 340, 354–7
Triklinios, Demetrios 356 Zeno of Elea 249–50
triptych Zeno, Emperor 377
compounds 41–2 Zephaniah 288
Trojan War 161 Zeus 187, 190, 383
troparion 144 Zigabenos, Euthymios 37, 291
Trypho Zinziphitzes 80
On Tropes 166 zodiac 367, 373, 375
Turks 314, 334 Zoe, Empress 197
Tyndareus 167 Zonaras, John 6, 34, 35, 76
typika, monastic 190, 262, 272, 270 Chronicle 44