The philosophers were also disappointed in their host, King Khosrow. They had hoped for a philosopher king, but found instead “a fool.” Far from being well read, Khosrow’s famed “great learning” amounted to no more than an interest in “a smattering of literature.”43 Far from being an acute Platonic intellect this man, it was said, was the sort of intellectual lightweight who could be taken in by charlatans. A favorite at Khosrow’s court was a drunken Greek who mainly spent his days eating, drinking and then impressing people by saying the odd clever thing. An intelligence of sorts, but not the kind to impress the austere philosophers of Athens.
Damascius and his philosophers were bitterly downcast. Khosrow, who along with his lack of perspicacity in philosophical matters seems to have had a certain blithe unawareness in social ones, doesn’t seem to have noticed their disgust and, regarding them with affection, even invited them to stay on longer. They declined. Reproaching themselves for ever having come, they decided to return home as soon as they possibly could. According to one historian, their somewhat melodramatic feeling was that “merely to set foot on Roman territory, even if it meant instant death, was preferable to a life of distinction in Persia.”44
It seems that the philosophers underestimated their host, however. For while they might prefer instant death to remaining in Persia, Khosrow had gone out of his way to protect them. At the time when they were leaving court, the king had fortuitously been concluding a peace treaty with Emperor Justinian. Khosrow now used his military sway with Justinian to extort safe passage home for the philosophers. The precise wording of this clause has been lost but its essence has been preserved: the treaty demanded that “the philosophers should be allowed to return to their homes and to live out their lives in peace without being compelled to alter their traditional religious beliefs or to accept any view which did not coincide with them.”45 This clause was the only declaration of ideological toleration that Justinian would ever sign. It was, in some ways, a liberal landmark—and a sign of how illiberal the empire had become that it was needed at all.
The philosophers, homeless yet again, set out for a final time together. Their journey must have been a miserable one. What happened to them next is not certain. Some scattered facts remain. The philosophers do indeed seem to have returned to the Roman Empire, but not to Athens. It is certain that they didn’t give up philosophy. Scraps of their writings drift back to us: an epigram that is almost certainly by Damascius; a treatise from another philosopher, entitled “Solutions to those points that Khosrow, King of the Persians, was considering.”46 They had been exiled, outlawed and impoverished but they had still not relinquished philosophy.
And then, slowly, with a whisper rather than a shout, the philosophers are gone. Their writings peter out. The men, scattered across the empire, die.
The philosophy they had lived for starts to die itself. Some strands of ancient philosophy live on, preserved by the hands of some Christian philosophers—but it is not the same. Works that have to agree with the pre-ordained doctrines of a church are theology, not philosophy. Free philosophy has gone. The great destruction of classical texts gathers pace. The writings of the Greeks “have all perished and are obliterated”: that was what John Chrysostom had said. He hadn’t been quite right, then; but time would bring greater truth to his boast. Undefended by pagan philosophers or institutions, and disliked by many of the monks who were copying them out, these texts start to disappear. Monasteries start to erase the works of Aristotle, Cicero, Seneca and Archimedes. “Heretical”—and brilliant—ideas crumble into dust. Pliny is scraped from the page. Cicero and Seneca are overwritten. Archimedes is covered over. Every single work of Democritus and his heretical “atomism” vanishes. Ninety percent of all classical literature fades away.
Centuries later, an Arab traveler would visit a town on the edge of Europe and reflect on what had happened in the Roman Empire. “During the early days of the empire of the Rum,” he wrote—meaning the Roman and Byzantine Empire—“the sciences were honoured and enjoyed universal respect. From an already solid and grandiose foundation, they were raised to greater heights every day, until the Christian religion made its appearance among the Rum; this was a fatal blow to the edifice of learning; its traces disappeared and its pathways were effaced.”47
There was one final loss, too. This loss is even more rarely remembered than all the others, but in its way it is almost as important. The very memory that there was any opposition at all to Christianity faded. The idea that philosophers might have fought fiercely, with all they had, against Christianity was—is—passed over. The memory that many were alarmed at the spread of this violently intolerant religion fades from view. The idea that many were not delighted but instead disgusted by the sight of burning and demolished temples was—is—brushed aside. The idea that intellectuals were appalled—and scared—by the sight of books burning on pyres is forgotten.
Christianity told the generations that followed that their victory over the old world was celebrated by all, and the generations that followed believed it.
The pages of history go silent. But the stones of Athens provide a small coda to the story of the seven philosophers. It is clear, from the archaeological evidence, that the grand villa on the slopes of the Acropolis was confiscated not long after the philosophers left. It is also clear that it was given to a new Christian owner.
Whoever this Christian was, they had little time for the ancient art that filled the house. The beautiful pool was turned into a baptistery. The statues above it were evidently considered intolerable: the finely wrought images of Zeus, Apollo and Pan were hacked away. Mutilated stumps are now all that remain of the faces of the gods, ugly and incongruous above the still-delicate bodies. The statues were tossed into the well. The mosaic on the floor of the dining room fared little better. Its great central panel, which had contained another pagan scene, was roughly removed. A crude cross pattern, of vastly inferior workmanship, was laid in its place.
The lovely statue of Athena, the goddess of wisdom, suffered as badly as the statue of Athena in Palmyra had. Not only was she beheaded, she was then, a final humiliation, placed face-down in the corner of a courtyard to be used as a step. Over the coming years, her back would be worn away as the goddess of wisdom was ground down by generations of Christian feet.48
The “triumph” of Christianity was complete.
Acknowledgments
There are so many people to thank. My agent, Patrick, for being tremendous. My publisher, George Morley, for not only being a brilliant editor but also making me laugh.
I owe a deep debt of gratitude to all the academics who have answered my questions, broadened my horizons and gently pointed out mistakes. Particular thanks go to Tim Whitmarsh, a man for whom the phrase “boyish enthusiasm” might have been invented. Also to David Brakke, who is not only a world expert on demons and their devious ways, but a very close reader. Dirk Rohmann was infinitely helpful and kind: he not only wrote the book on the Christian destruction of books, he also read sections of my own book with care and patience. Huge thanks too to John Pollini, who has written so lucidly on the Christian destruction of the ancient world—and the academic reluctance to address it.
So many others have helped. I am grateful for James Corke-Webster for his compendious knowledge of martyrs (and excellent writings on them); to Matthew Nicholls, who knows the streets of ancient Rome like the back of his hand, and has created a virtual model of it to prove it. Many thanks to Glen Bowersock for his comments on Hypatia—and for telling me one of the most amusing anecdotes about mathematicians that I have ever heard. Eberhard Sauer was enormously helpful on the destruction of statues. Very great thanks go to Stephen Emmel not just for his brilliant writings on Shenoute but for proofreading my own writing on him with an eagle eye. Many thanks too to Gill Evans at Cambridge, who was very illuminating on the history of Oxford and Cambridge. Thanks are also due to Edward Watts not only for being a lucidly readable academic but also a close
and helpful reader. There are many more to thank, particularly Rebecca Flemming, Elise Friedland, Hal Drake, Troels Myrup Kristensen and Phil Booth. Your help has been more generous and more helpful than I can say. Any mistakes are my own.
Beyond academia I am grateful to the Jerwood Foundation and the Royal Society of Literature, whose generous Jerwood Award enabled me to find the time to actually write this book. I am more grateful than I can say to my family, and to my friends. To Erica and to Tom Gatti, for inspiring me to get on with it; to Zarah, for enabling me to actually get on with it. To Mima and Anne, for being unfailingly excellent. To Anne and Dave, for helping me more than I can say. To Dana, for the same. To my parents who, despite their past, were never dogmatic. To my mother in particular, who always answered my questions. To my father, who is always optimistic and never doubts. To Peter, who is endlessly enthusiastic. To F. and to W.
And finally, thank you to Tom. For deciphering my handwriting, as they say, and everything else besides.
Notes
List of Abbreviations
ACM The Acts of the Christian Martyrs
AGT John Chrysostom, Against the Games and Theatres
Anth. Pal. Palladas, Anthologia Palatina
AP Apophthegmata Patrum, The Sayings of the Desert Fathers: The Alphabetical Collection
C. Just. Codex Justinianus
C. Th. Codex Theodosianus
CC Origen, Contra Celsum
EH Sozomen, The Ecclesiastical History
HC Eusebius, The History of the Church from Christ to Constantine
LC Eusebius, Life of Constantine
OAP Galen, On Anatomical Procedures
ONT Lucretius, On the Nature of Things
PH Damascius, Philosophical History
PROLOGUE: A BEGINNING
1. Coptic pilgrims’ chant, quoted in Kristensen (2013), 85.
[back]
INTRODUCTION: AN ENDING
1. Athanassiadi (1993), 4; Marinus, Life of Proclus, 26.
[back]
2. PH, 124.
[back]
3. PH, 117C; Olympiodorus, Commentary on the First Alcibiades, quoted in Cameron (1969), 15.
[back]
4. C. Th., 16.4.4.2, dated 16 June 388.
[back]
5. AGT.
[back]
6. PH, 119.
[back]
7. PH, 42.
[back]
8. Palladas, 10.90 and 10.82.
[back]
9. The precise criteria for a triumph varied; the stipulation of thousands dead was, for a time, one of them. Deciding when a triumph had been won was usually more an art than a science. See Beard (2007).
[back]
10. Greenblatt (2012), 43–44.
[back]
11. For paganism as insanity, sickness, etc., see C. Th., 16.10.1–21 and C. Just., 1.11.10.
[back]
12. Augustine, Sermon 24.6, quoted in MacMullen (1984), 95.
[back]
13. AGT.
[back]
14. Augustine, Sermon 279.4, quoted in Shaw (2011), 682.
[back]
15. Eusebius, The History of the Church from Christ to Constantine, 10.9.7.
[back]
16. Johnson, 15 April 1778, quoted in MacMullen (1997), 169 n. 37, to whom this paragraph is indebted.
[back]
1. THE INVISIBLE ARMY
1. Chitty (1966) calls it a pigsty, though this may not be strictly accurate: the Greek refers to him moving “just outside his house”—presumably to some sort of simple structure there. Nonetheless, the idea of a pigsty confers well the idea of simplicity—even squalor—that would no doubt have been appropriate.
[back]
2. Clement, The Instructor, 3.5.
[back]
3. Matthew 19:21.
[back]
4. Augustine, Confessions, 8.7–8.
[back]
5. Life of Antony, 5.
[back]
6. Life of Antony, 5–6.
[back]
7. Life of Antony, 24.
[back]
8. Cyprian, Bishop of Carthage, On the Mortality, 14.
[back]
9. Dodds (1965), 133–34.
[back]
10. Palladas, Palatine Anthology, 10.72, quoted in Dodds (1965), 11.
[back]
2. THE BATTLEGROUND OF DEMONS
1. Augustine, Confessions, 8.7.
[back]
2. Mark 5:9.
[back]
3. Augustine, City of God, 4.27.
[back]
4. Origen, Homilies on Joshua, 15.5.
[back]
5. Tertullian, Apology, 22.8.
[back]
6. Tertullian, Apology, 22.4.
[back]
7. Evagrius, Praktikos, 12; Evagrius, Eight Spirits, 13–14, quoted in Brakke (2006), 65–66.
[back]
8. Evagrius, Talking Back, 1.22.
[back]
9. Evagrius, Talking Back: naked women, 2.15; monks, 2.24; fire, 2.63, 2.23; walk, 2.25.
[back]
10. John Moschos, The Spiritual Meadow, 160.
[back]
11. Evagrius, Talking Back, 4.25.
[back]
12. Tertullian, Apology, 22.4.
[back]
13. Augustine, Exposition on Psalm 94.
[back]
14. Tertullian, Apology, 22.6.
[back]
15. Tertullian, Apology, 22.10.
[back]
16. Augustine, Letter 46 from Publicola.
[back]
17. Augustine, Letter 47.
[back]
18. Tertullian, Apology, 27.3.
[back]
19. Minucius Felix, The “Octavius,” XXVII.
[back]
20. For a discussion of the difficulty of assessing the Christianization of individuals as opposed to that of their clergy, see Rebillard (2012), especially Chapter 3, “Being Christian in the Age of Augustine.”
[back]
21. Augustine, Homily 34 on John 8:12, quoted in MacMullen (1997), 121, to whom this paragraph is indebted.
[back]
22. For a discussion of the coin and the vision, see Drake (2014), 71.
[back]
23. Encyclical of Pope Leo XIII, On the Nature of Human Liberty, 6.
[back]
24. Augustine, ed. Dolbeau (1996), 266.
[back]
25. Deuteronomy 12:3.
[back]
3. WISDOM IS FOOLISHNESS
1. OAP, VIII.8.
[back]
2. Galen, On Diagnosing and Curing the Affections and Errors of the Soul, 3.5.70K, quoted in Mattern (2013), 64.
[back]
3. These observations and indeed this paragraph are indebted to Gross (1998), passim.
[back]
4. OAP, VIII.4; OAP, VIII.5; and OAP, VIII.4.
[back]
5. OAP, VII.16.
[back]
6. Galen, De Pulsuum Differentiis, iii, 3, quoted in Walzer (1949), 14.
[back]
7. Galen, De Pulsuum Differentiis, ii, 4, quoted in Walzer (1949), 14.
[back]
8. Galen, On Hippocrates’ Anatomy, quoted in Walzer (1949), 11.
[back]
9. CC, I.32.
[back]
10. CC, VI.60; CC, V.14.
[back]
11. Gibbon, Decline and Fall, Vol. IV, Chapter 38, 163.
[back]
12. Gibbon, Decline and Fall, Vol. II, Chapter 15, 38.
[back]
13. Gibbon (1796), 97.
[back]
14. C. Th., 16.4.1, 386.
[back]
15. Gibbon, Decline and Fall, Vol. II, Chapter 15, 39.
[back]
16. CC, I.39.
[back]
17. CC, VI.32.
[back]
18. CC, VI.49.
[back]
; 19. CC, V.14.
[back]
20. CC, VI.37.
[back]
21. CC, VII.18.
[back]
22. CC, IV.7.
[back]
23. CC, VI.78.
[back]
24. CC, IV.3.
[back]
25. CC, II.70.
[back]
26. CC, II.55.
[back]
27. CC, II.60.
[back]
28. CC, II.16.
[back]
29. CC, III.62–64.
[back]
30. CC, VI.60–61.
[back]
31. ONT, 1.419–21.
[back]
32. Minucius Felix, The “Octavius,” V.
[back]
33. ONT, 5.855–77.
[back]
34. Minucius Felix, The “Octavius,” V.
[back]
35. ONT, 1.150.
[back]
36. Plutarch, On Superstition, 2.
[back]
37. ONT, 1.151–54.
[back]
38. ONT, 1.146.
[back]
39. John Chrysostom, Homily 7 on First Corinthians, 9. For this and other points, see the excellent and original book by Dirk Rohmann, Christianity, Book-Burning and Censorship in Late Antiquity, to which this paragraph and the following are much indebted. It is striking—and an indication of where academic sympathies have lain in recent decades—that Rohmann’s book is the first to deal in depth with this topic.
[back]
40. Rovelli (2016), 19.
[back]
41. This paragraph is indebted to Greenblatt (2012), 11–14. His wonderful book The Swerve: How the Renaissance Began tells this story beautifully.
The Darkening Age Page 25