Tag Archives: emperor leo i

The Fragmented Fifth Century

The other day, I slipped downstairs to borrow a copy of Christine Delaplace, La fin de l’Empire romain d’Occident from my boss/colleague/former PhD supervisor. While I was there, mid-chat, I picked up Adrian Goldsworthy’s The Fall of the West and scanned his index for ‘Majorian’ and ‘Leo, emperor’.

‘I’m becoming obsessed,’ I said. ‘Most people don’t even address the question of the relationship between Majorian and Leo.’

Our chat went on to a discussion of his intended trip to follow Rutilius’ Namatianus trip up the Italian coast, as detailed by the Gallo-Roman aristocrat in his 418 poem, De Reditu Suo.

That morning I had been at the National Library of Scotland doing more research on the question of Majorian and Leo, looking at C.D. Gordon’s The Age of Attila. Gordon’s book is a fascinating (and dangerous) idea and illustrative of why so few people address questions like East-West relationships in the mid- to late 400s, or how consuls are promulgated and recognised, etc. The Age of Attila covers the years 395 to 498. After an introductory chapter describing the state of affairs at the death of Theodosius I in 395, Gordon proceeds to give translations of the fragmentary classicising Greek historians who give us narrative accounts of fifth-century Roman history. He arranges them in a logical order and then stitches the narrative together with his own words to fill in the gaps. The translated passages are italicised whereas Gordon’s passages are not. You can see why it is both fascinating and dangerous.

The reason Gordon did this is because we lack for the fifth century something we take for granted for the Early Empire and the Peloponnesian War — a traditional, narrative history, in either Latin or Greek.  For the fourth century, we have a good portion of Ammianus Marcellinus. For the age of Justinian (r. 527-65), we have Procopius. For the sixth-century Franks, we have Gregory of Tours. For church history, we have three fifth-century historians who end in the 430s, and then a sixth-century historian who takes up their narrative.

But all of our traditional narrative historians from the fifth century survive only in fragments. After Gordon’s 1960 venture, all the surviving fragments of Eunapius, Olympiodorus, Priscus, and Malchus were edited and translated by R.C. Blockley in The Fragmentary Classicising Historians of the Later Roman Empire in 1983.

How do we fill in the gaps left by these fragments? Through careful use of other historiographical genres, saints’ lives, documentary evidence, inscriptions, coins, and even such items as sermons. The big historiographical genre for the 400s is the chronicle.Chronicles are great for what they do — they give you the series of years all organised chronologically with major events under each year. They are very helpful, and a lot can be gained from them. But they are not narratives proper, and thus a lot of questions cannot be answered no matter how carefully you read them. A lot questions are not even hinted at in many chronicles.

In Latin, we have three overlapping chroniclers — the ‘Gallic Chronicle of 452’, Prosper of Aquitaine (455 final edition), and Hydatius (468), as well as sixth-century chronicles that had access to other sources we have lost, such as Victor of Tunnuna (c. 565), John of Biclar (up to 589), as well as the eastern Latin writer, Marcellinus comes (534 last edition). We also have Greek chronicles, many of them a lot later. These we can combine with Consularia, lists of consuls, and other computational genres that have to do with time, like Easter tables and the like.

One historiographical text that helps us out in the fifth century is the so-called Chronicle or Chronographia of John Malalas. This is not a chronicle like Prosper, et al., but that doesn’t make it uninteresting or unhelpful. Taken with the Life of Daniel the Stylite, the narrative of Basiliscus’ reign/usurpation is fleshed out, for example.

And so, alongside such texts, we also have saints’ lives. One such text that is helpful for Constantinople in the 470s, just mentioned, is the Life of Daniel the Stylite in which we learn some on-the-ground perspectives on the usurpation of Basiliscus (475-6). These require their own way of being handled, of course. Nonetheless, they can give us valuable information about social life and the views of non-episcopal Christians, even when they do not address political life.

Other evidence? Imperial laws edited into the Codex Theodosianus (438) and the Codex Justinianus (529, 534), other imperial laws such as the Leges novellae of Theodosius II, Valentinian III, Majorian, Marcian, Severus, and Anthemius drawn from various sources. We have papyri from Egypt that document all sorts of things, including shipping invoices as well as taxation. Letters from popes, other bishops, rich aristocrats, et al., further enrich our fragmented vision of the 400s, along with poems and inscriptions and coins and sermons and theological treatises and ascetic treatises and philosophical tractates and the acts of church councils and probably a range of things I’ve forgotten at the moment.

It’s a lot of evidence. Far more than almost any other period of ancient history. But because it exists in the short chronicles or redacted laws or fragments of papyrus or documents that aren’t concerned with things we want to know — or the aforementioned fragmentary historians — straightforward questions (‘Did the Emperor Leo acknowledge the Emperor Majorian? How did Majorian respond?’) are not always easy to answer.

That’s what makes it frustrating and fun all at once.

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Dating in ancient Rome

First, no — this post is not about Ovid’s elegiac how-to guide Ars Amatoria (‘Art of Being a Lover’), entertaining as that volume is. Rather, it is about how ancient Romans wrote what day, month, and year it is. We all think that writing a date is a fairly simple, straightforward task, whether you write 9 July 2017 in the UK or July 9, 2017 in Canada, or 09.07.2017 or 2017.07.09. However you slice it, a modern date is a pretty tame creature, even if the engineers get up in arms about how other people choose to write it numerically. It wasn’t so straightforward in the ancient world.

The topic has been at the heart of the past week of mine at work, as I looked through papal letters and imperial laws from the pontificate of Leo the Great (440-461) on the one hand and the reigns of the Emperors Majorian (457-61) and Leo (457-74) on the other. And yes, there are letters between the two Leos (Leones!), addressed: ‘Leo episcopus Leoni augusto in domino salutem.‘ — ‘Bishop Leo to Emperor Leo, greetings in the Lord.’ One such letter from Leo to Leo (Ep. 165) is dated thus:

Data decimo sexto kalendas Septembris, Leone et Majoriano Augustis coss.

Given on the sixteenth day before the kalends of September when Emperors Leo and Majorian were consuls.

I don’t have all my notes with me, but I suspect that in the manuscripts that probably looked more like, ‘Data XVI kal. Sept, Leone et Maiuriano Augg coss‘. We would write that as 17 October 458. The basic elements of a Roman date are all there.

Rather than writing the day of the month by which number of day it is, as 17 October, ancient Romans counted backwards from three different days — the kalends (first of the month), the nones (sometimes the seventh, sometimes the fifth), or the ides (sometimes the 15th, sometimes the 13th). Usually, the ides fall on the 13th. However, in March, July, October, and May the ides fall on the 15th day. Nine days before the ides come the nones, thus either the seventh or fifth.

Wait, you say. How is the seventh nine days before the fifteenth? Isn’t it only 8?

Ah, well here’s where we move along to the next part. Not only are you counting your days before one of these three specially-marked days of the month, as a Roman, you count inclusively. Therefore, it is not simply the difference as in arithmetic they taught you in Grade 1. The current day and the day you look ahead to are both included. So the number becomes one greater than anticipated.

This was even a bit weird for the Romans on the day before, so rather than saying that the final day of a month was two days before the kalends of the next, they simply said, ‘pridie’, ‘the day before’ (in essence).

I can assure you I spend a lot of time counting backwards on my fingers or writing the days of the month out to be sure I get the inclusive reckoning right whenever I convert a number into the modern system.

So, today is 9 July 2017. The ides of July are the 15th, so to day is 7 days before the ides of July.

So at least Romans had a way of reckoning dates that they agreed on.

What about years? Well, in 458, people had made a few calculations of their own as to when what we would call the BC or BCE to AD or CE crossover occurred (that is, the birth of Jesus). They were also largely united that what we now call 753 BC was the foundation date of Rome. Some people writing chronicles would actually date things from the creation of the world as calculated in Genesis. Others didn’t. In 457, Victorius of Aquitaine decided to start his Easter Tables (for reckoning when Easter had and would fall) with Year 1 as the crucifixion  — which he dated to our AD 28. This is perfectly logical, since there was no Easter before that.

Anyway, our dear friend Dionysius Exiguus, the bilingual monk from Scythia who did a lot of work on canon law and his own Easter tables, wasn’t around for about 75 years yet, in 458. His Easter Tables and related matter are what set the AD/BC turning point as we know it, as he dated the nativity of Jesus to AD 1 (there is no year 0). And his numbers for the years were not suddenly adopted as the standard way of telling which year it was. I don’t know how long that took, but it was a secondary aspect of his work.

Regardless of what number of year it would have been, not everyone agreed, and not everyone numbered the year. Then how did you know which number of year it was in ancient Rome?

The consuls.

The consuls of Rome were originally the highest-ranking magistrates, elected from the Senate. There were two consuls every year, and they originally had particular powers and authority in terms of proposing and passing laws. Obviously, with the arrival of the emperors with Augustus, they lost most of their real power.

One thing that they always did, however, was give their names to the year. Thus, one could refer to the consulship of Cicero and Hybrida (63 BC). There is a big list of all the consuls here. This way of naming years was not unique to the Romans. The Athenians also did it, naming years after the magistrate called the archon.

Naming the year becomes one of the biggest functions of the Late Antique consul. And people would put together big, unofficial lists of consuls to keep track of the years, sometimes with events slotted in.

This practice can have numerous ramifications for all sorts of things, of course. That’s why I’m taking an interest in it, particularly the year 458. Not that we have time to deal with my research now.

Anyway, I thought I’d share with you one of those small yet distinctive ways in which we and the Romans differ.