6

Intellectual Networks and Intended Readers

6.1 The Intellectual Networks Surrounding Zonaras

The proem of the Epitome conveys the image of a self-exiled author composing his work in isolation and seclusion. Beginning his proem, Zonaras emphatically states that he has ‘chosen to live all alone and condemn himself to an eternal exile’ (‘καθ’ ἑαυτὸν ἑλόμενον ζῆν ἀειφυγίαν τε ἑαυτοῦ καταψηφισάμενον’).¹ Although he presents his decision to withdraw from public life as a voluntary one, he laments that, confined to ‘this edge of the world’ (‘παρὰ τῇ ἐσχατιᾷ ταύτῃ’), he does not have access to all the source material required for his writing.² The point that the author demonstrably wishes to impress upon his audience is that the place in which he is currently living is extremely remote. This is repeated with greater vehemence when Zonaras excuses himself for being unable to find books covering the Late Roman Republic. There, he uses the marked adjective ‘ὑπερόριος’ (‘living beyond the borders’, ‘being in exile’) to highlight the physical distance that separates him from Constantinople.³ It is made clear that the ‘ὄρια’, the borders, are in this case those of the imperial capital in the very next phrase: ‘because I [Zonaras] live in an islet away from the city (‘πόρρω τοῦ ἄστεος ἐν νησῖδι ἐνδιαιτώμενος’). To display his erudition here, the chronicler uses the classicizing word ‘ἄστυ’; the choice of this term, which means a town and its buildings, instead of ‘πόλις’, which denotes a social and political entity,⁴ implies that the writer is far away from anything civilized and explains his ‘ἀπορία,’ the limited resources available to him on his island. What emerges, in other words, from Zonaras’ narrative is a sense of regret for his absence from Constantinople. Within this context, his engagement with writing is understood as a remedy, or a consolation, for the state of indolence in which he has found himself at the monastery (‘σχολάζοντα’, ‘ῥᾳστώνῃ συζῶν’).⁵

In fact, however, the place where the Epitome was written was by no means ‘the edge of the world’. As was mentioned in the first chapter, Zonaras is known to have produced his chronicle at the monastery of the Theotokos Pantanassa on the island of St Glykeria.⁶ This tiny island, located in the bay of Tuzla on the eastern shore of the Sea of Marmara, is only a few kilometres southeast of Constantinople.⁷ There are two important questions to ask here. Does the image of Zonaras as an isolated retiree correspond to the reality? How did he manage to acquire the impressive variety of sources he exploited in the Epitome?

It is interesting that the earliest mention of the island of St Glykeria, found in the Life of Niketas, the abbot of the Medikion monastery, is in relation to exile.⁸ Between 816 and 821, the saint was banished to the island by the emperor Leo V the Armenian (r. 813–820) and was reportedly put in prison by the chief of the monasteries there, a malicious man named Anthimos. The text gives no additional information about the monastic community of the period.⁹ The monastery dedicated to St Glykeria is likely to have been founded by Ignatios, the patriarch of Constantinople, some time prior to his accession to the patriarchal throne in 847,¹⁰ but appears to have been abandoned soon afterwards. It was rebuilt in the early twelfth century with the support of wealthy patrons and was rededicated to the Theotokos Pantanassa.¹¹ The rebuilding campaign of the monastery culminated in May 1142 with the reconsecration of its church.¹² Significantly, the Pantanassa monastery was among those with properties guaranteed by the chrysobull granted by the emperor Manuel Komnenos in 1158.¹³ This suggests that the second and third quarter of the twelfth century, roughly the period when Zonaras found himself at the Pantanassa, was a time of relative economic prosperity for its community.¹⁴ It is apparent that the monastery was well enough known to attract patronage and that it had established ties with the imperial court. This last point is reinforced when one considers that a certain Joseph, the first known abbot of the monastery of Christ Pantokrator in Constantinople, the foundation built and endowed by the emperor John Komnenos and his wife Irene, was previously abbot of the Pantanassa.

The conclusion to draw is that the island of St Glykeria and its monastery were by no means on the ‘edge of the world’. Zonaras’ apparent distortion of reality has been explained by Magdalino in terms of ‘the rhetoric of exile’ employed by the chronicler.¹⁵ Indeed, exile was one of the dominant themes in the literary production, both prose and poetry, of the twelfth century. In her analysis of a large corpus of epistles penned by exiled writers, Margaret Mullett has identified several motifs which characterized the discourse of exile. These include: poverty; the contrast between an intellectual’s current circumstances and previous life in Constantinople; exile as a life sentence; the lack of learning; and barbarism.¹⁶ Thematic elements such as these can also be found in Zonaras’ account. The motif of poverty, for example, underlies the author’s complaints about the shortage of books in his monastery, something which contrasts with the range of works that would have been available to him in the capital. Additionally, he exploits vocabulary typical of exile literature, namely ‘ὑπερόριος’ and ‘ἐσχατιά’. The use by Zonaras of topoi and language reminiscent of the theme of exile shows that the chronicler shared the attitude frequently observed among the literati of the late eleventh and the twelfth century, a period in which Constantinople became increasingly important: that confinement to any place outside of the city essentially constituted an expulsion from the intellectual and cultural life of the Empire. Zonaras, too, appears to feel the loss of Constantinople keenly. Whether he was indeed cut off from the intellectual circles of the capital remains to be seen.

In my view, the employment of thematic motifs and language strongly suggestive of the exile discourse was a deliberate choice by Zonaras. I would argue that he uses these rhetorical devices not merely to account for the sources that he did not manage to find, but rather to stress the impressive number and variety of the material that he did succeed in collecting. By relating the purported difficulties that he had to overcome in order to bring his project to fruition, Zonaras seeks to highlight, even to overstate, the extent of his achievement in the eyes of his readers. The theme of exile provides him with the narrative framework to advertise his work not only as a product of his literary and scholarly activity but also as a result of hard labour. One may suggest, in addition, that the treatment of topoi of exile writing, particularly Zonaras’ description of how he copes on a tiny island where there is a shortage of sources, was a means by which the author appealed to members of his circle outside the Pantanassa monastery to continue to support him by sending him books to read and exploit for the works he was writing.¹⁷

Zonaras must have developed ties with members of the cultural Constantinopolitan elite prior to his withdrawal from public affairs, perhaps by attending the theatra, the social gatherings at which literary compositions were read aloud.¹⁸ The audience of a theatron would include aristocrats, court officials, high-ranking civil servants, ecclesiastical men, and teachers of grammar and rhetoric. As a learned man who worked in the higher echelons of civil administration, Zonaras, too, probably attended such gatherings, which would offer a good opportunity to befriend fellow intellectuals. Moreover, because of his profession as a judge and a high-ranking bureaucrat, he would have been part of a wider nexus of social relationships. His acquaintances would certainly include juridical functionaries and bureaucrats.

Significant in this context is that Zonaras was apparently held in high esteem among the administrators of justice of his time, even after his retirement to St Glykeria. This is attested primarily by Zonaras’ exegesis of the canons, a work he produced during his stay at the Pantanassa and completed in or after 1161.¹⁹ His commentary on canon law must have been intended as an interpretative manual that would be used not only by the monastic community of the Pantanassa but also by the ecclesiastical courts and the Patriarchate.²⁰ On the assumption that it was written after Zonaras’ tonsure, the treatise On the prohibition of the marriage of two cousins related in the sixth degree to the same woman may also point to the fact that the author kept in touch with ecclesiastical circles while at his monastery.²¹ Taken in conjunction, these ideas strongly suggest that although no longer practising the law and despite being absent from the capital, Zonaras was still consulted about legal matters. This indicates that the author must have retained his connections with at least some of his former colleagues.

It must have been thanks to the contacts he maintained with his acquaintances outside the Pantanassa monastery that the chronicler managed to acquire the large amount of source material he used in the Epitome. For a society in which manuscripts were extremely valuable objects, the exchange of books between intellectuals was central to literary and intellectual life.²² To access a book they did not have available, educated Byzantines would probably borrow it from someone who belonged to the same literati circle or the same literary salon. Subsequently, they would memorize or copy out parts of it. Interestingly, regarding the availability of manuscripts specifically in Constantinople in the first half of the twelfth century, we know that, during the period when he was Patriarch (1111–1134), John IX Agapetos fostered the copying of many classical works for public use.²³

Zonaras would probably write letters from his monastery to acquaintances requesting that they send or lend him manuscripts. Strong proof of his correspondence with learned men outside St Glykeria can be found in the proem of his commentary on the fifty-nine Gnomic Tetrastichs of Gregory of Nazianzos. In the analysis of the text in the first chapter, I pointed out that the author composed this work during his old age to send to a friend, probably a monk, via whom he had previously received a similar kind of exegesis to Gregory’s work.²⁴ As we read:

If it is not possible for me to attain in every matter the intellect of the great father and theologian, so that in this way my work will be beyond criticism, complete and worthy of the greatness of that father, my interpretation may well be better than the one included in the book you sent me, because of the extreme brevity [of that interpretation]. Why should I say anything more? So, I think that my writing will not be considered by you to be worthless in comparison.

εἰ δὲ καὶ μὴ τῆς ἐφ’ ἑκάστῳ διανοίας τοῦ μεγαλόνου καὶ θεηλόγου πατρὸς ἐφικέσθαι μοι γένηται, ἵν’ οὕτως εἴη μοι τὸ ἔργον ἀνεπίληπτον καὶ ἄρτιον, καὶ τῆς ἐκείνου μεγαλονοίας ἐπάξιον, ἀλλά γε τελεωτέρα εἴη ἂν ἡ ἐξήγησις τῆς ἐγκειμένης τῇ βίβλῳ, τῇ παρὰ σοῦ κομισθείσῃ μοι, διὰ τὸ ἐκείνης στενὸν κομιδῇ. εἰ γάρ τι πλέον ἐρῶ, καὶ οὕτω δὲ οὐκ ἀχρεῖον οἶμαί σοι τὸ πόνημα λογισθήσεται κατὰ σύγκρισιν.²⁵

Noteworthy is that here a two-way exchange of books is recorded, which implies that Zonaras was part of a group of literati from whom he received source material, and to whom he was able to send his own works. We do not learn whether it was Zonaras who asked his friend to despatch a manuscript containing an interpretation of Gregory’s work, or whether the sender of the book did this on his own initiative. Making a literary critique of the book he received, the author disapproves of its extremely succinct style and invites his addressee to compare his own text with it.

The nature of the work may give us a hint of the professional status of Zonaras’ addressee. As was explained in Chapter 1, exegetical works of religious poems were specifically designed by teachers for didactic purposes.²⁶ It can be suggested, therefore, that the scholar for whom the writer composed his commentary was a teacher. This person asked his friend Zonaras, who might also have worked as a teacher in his youth, to assess the exegesis of Gregory’s Tetrastichs that he used in his lessons. Not satisfied with the work he read, Zonaras wrote and sent his own commentary to his friend in order to assist him with his classes. He would not have been the only author who produced an exegesis for the use of another teacher. Zonaras’ near-contemporary Eustathios of Thessalonike also did this, penning a commentary on the Pentecostal canon attributed to John of Damascus. Silvia Ronchey has demonstrated that Eustathios composed this text after abandoning his post at the Patriarchal School and being appointed bishop of Thessalonike for several years.²⁷ Although no longer teaching, Eustathios was requested to produce this commentary by a colleague, perhaps a clergyman and teacher at the Patriarchal School, who wished to use it for his own lectures.

The suggestion that Zonaras was in touch with highly educated men outside his monastery may be corroborated by his exegesis of the Resurrectional Canons in the Octoechos, a work he composed when he was a monk.²⁸ Zonaras himself informs us that he produced the commentary at the instigation of a bishop of Thessalonike, most likely Niketas ‘of Maroneia’. The fact that the chronicler was engaged in such scholarly interaction proves that he had links with ecclesiastical men high up in the hierarchy of the Church. Such individuals, who had much better access to reading material, might have helped Zonaras to acquire sources essential for his enquiry and also to publicize his work to audiences outside the Pantanassa monastery.

A point which needs to be emphasized here is that the group of literati to which Zonaras belonged apparently included not only laymen but also members of the clergy and monks. It is clear that a small number of monks had some or a good knowledge of Greek and were able to read the writings of the Church Fathers and other ecclesiastical authors. This could have been the case, for example, with abbots of monasteries and monks who were in charge of monastic libraries.

It is safe to deduce that Zonaras must have acquired sources essential for the composition of his chronicle through his correspondence with a group of people outside his monastery. Enlightening in this respect is the extract from the Epitome in which the chronicler explains why he will not relate the events of the late Republican period.

[…] and this [the fact that he will skip the Roman Republic due to the lack of books] although I repeatedly searched for them, but I did not find them and I do not know whether they may not be preserved, with time having destroyed them, or whether they to whom I made this request did not search very diligently, while I myself am in exile and live on an islet away from the city.

[…] καὶ ταῦτα πολλάκις ζητήσαντί μοι ταύτας, μὴ εὑρηκότι δ’ ὅμως, οὐκ οἶδα εἴθ’ ὅτι μὴ σώζοιντο, τοῦ χρόνου διεφθαρκότος αὐτάς, εἴθ’ ὅτι μὴ φροντιστικώτερον τὴν τούτων ἴσως ζήτησιν ἐποιήσαντο οἷς αὐτὴν ἀνεθέμην, αὐτὸς ὑπερόριος ὢν καὶ πόρρω τοῦ ἄστεος ἐν νησῖδι ἐνδιαιτώμενος.²⁹

This short passage makes it obvious that when composing his historical account, Zonaras did not have all the books he needed readily available to him and had to ask third parties to seek them out. He uses the pronoun ‘αὐτὸς’ to underline that he lives away from the capital, while they, the people to whom he appeals, are present in Constantinople and therefore have much better access to books. The adverb ‘πολλάκις’ indicates that his correspondence with them was regular, especially if his request for a book was not granted, as is the case here. The writer appears to be mildly dissatisfied with those to whom he made his plea, expressing his doubt about whether they had diligently looked for the material he had requested.

Despite Zonaras’ claims that he lived a secluded life on St Glykeria, we should also allow for the possibility that he was actually able to leave his monastery from time to time and collect manuscripts himself. In his commentary on the canons, Zonaras alludes to his presence in the capital for Manuel Komnenos’ wedding to Maria of Antioch in 1161. He explicitly states that he had witnessed the patriarch and several metropolitans bless an emperor who proceeded to make a second marriage. An imperial wedding was certainly a special occasion, but there is no reason to believe that Zonaras would not have the chance to make the short journey to Constantinople once in a while. Likewise, other members of the Pantanassa would have been able to visit the city and perhaps look for books for Zonaras’ use. The same probably holds true for people who wished to take the opposite route—secular men or monks who resided in the capital and wanted to visit St Glykeria. When acquaintances of Zonaras found themselves at the Pantanassa, they might have offered him material to use for his works.

Joseph, the abbot of the Pantanassa and subsequently of the Pantokrator monastery, may have played a key role in the creation of an intellectual network connecting the Pantanassa to the capital. He must have assumed his post at the Pantokrator sometime prior to October 1136, when the typikon of the monastery was drawn up.³⁰ If Zonaras had retired to the Pantanassa before that date, he would have been acquainted with Joseph, as they would have been members of the same monastic community. His career as abbot of the Pantokrator shows Joseph to have been a man engaged with cultural and artistic activities who had connections with prominent members of Constantinopolitan literary circles. We know of his correspondence with the well-known scholar John Tzetzes, whom he would lavish with gifts.³¹ Also, he famously commissioned and sent as a gift to the Pantanassa monastery the impressive Sinaiticus gr. 339, an illuminated manuscript containing the liturgical Homilies of Gregory of Nazianzos, most likely to mark the reconsecration of its church.³² His donation to the Pantanassa is a clear indication that he maintained strong links with the spiritual home to which he formerly belonged; it can be explained in terms of the Pantokrator’s overall policy of trying to bring a broader group of monastic foundations under its influence.³³ Within this framework, it seems highly plausible that Joseph remained in contact with some of his well-read acquaintances at the Pantanassa, perhaps with Zonaras, too, and that he sent them books from the capital. They, in turn, would be able to provide him with their own writings.

So far this analysis has shown that Zonaras was sent books from his circle of acquaintances outside the island of St Glykeria. In addition, he might have (a) searched for manuscripts himself when he travelled to the capital, (b) asked monks leaving the Pantanassa for a while to find manuscripts for him, and (c) received source material from visitors to the monastery.

Another issue to address is the amount and type of material that could have been available to him in the library of his monastery. Earlier in this chapter, Zonaras’ complaints about the limited resources available to him at the Pantanassa were interpreted as a topos of exile literature. Nonetheless, the dissatisfaction expressed by the author could reflect reality, too. For the composition of a work such as the Epitome, which contains various and disparate material, the holdings of the Pantanassa library would certainly have been inadequate. According to Nigel Wilson, typical monastic libraries would not possess a large number of manuscripts, usually under a hundred.³⁴ Of these, the overwhelming majority would be biblical, liturgical, and patristic. Michael Angold adds that monastic collections would occasionally include an array of religious works, such as theological treatises, commentaries, and saints’ lives.³⁵ As we learn from the typika of monastic complexes built by members of the elite, their founders would sometimes provide their establishments with considerable land and property, collections of manuscripts included. Gregory Pakourianos, for example, a prominent general of the late eleventh and early twelfth century, offered thirty books to his foundation, the Theotokos Petritzonitissa in modern Bulgaria. All of them were of a religious character. The monastery of the Theotokos Kosmosoteira, established in c.1152, also owned a number of books bequeathed by its founder, the sebastokrator Isaac Komnenos. Among these was an illuminated manuscript containing secular works that Isaac had compiled himself. The Diataxis of Michael Attaleiates lists about seventy-nine books donated to the monastery of Christ Panoiktirmon that Attaleiates had built in Constantinople.³⁶ Apart from the Bible, liturgical, and hagiographical books, this list includes a copy of Josephus’ JW, a seismobrontologion, the Hellenistic novel Leukippe and Klitophon by Achilles Tatius, and a ‘chronicle composed by the founder’. Although these are examples of well-funded monasteries, they indicate, nonetheless, that, aside from the ‘standard’ religious works, certain monastic collections would also hold other types of texts. It seems probable to me that Joseph, as abbot of the Pantanassa monastery, would have fostered the acquisition or copying of manuscripts.³⁷ The expensive, luxurious manuscript of Gregory’s Homilies he donated to the Pantanassa later on must have been intended as a treasured object to add to an already existing collection of books.

It is evident that, from the sources that he used in his Epitome, Zonaras would have certainly found the Bible in his monastery. Apart from this, though, it is hard to tell how many, if any, of the works that underpin the chronicle were among the holdings of the library. Its collection would perhaps have included a copy of Theodoret’s Commentary on Daniel. There is no doubt that the secular texts used by Zonaras in his chronicle, such as those of Plutarch, Xenophon, Herodotus, and the Byzantine historians, were not available to him in the Pantanassa library. The writer certainly accessed them in another way.

A final possibility to consider is that he himself may have possessed a number of books which he brought along with him when he retired to St Glykeria.³⁸ Indeed, it is very likely that a knowledgeable man who occupied an important office in the bureaucratic administration would have owned some manuscripts. Yet how many of them Zonaras took with him to his monastery must remain a matter of conjecture.

6.2 The Intended Audience of the Epitome

To explore the intended audience of the Epitome, it is essential to begin with an issue which has not been addressed so far: the traditional division of historical accounts into histories and chronicles. Broadly speaking, works which relate events roughly contemporary with their writers, use Attic Greek, contain sophisticated and learned allusions to ancient Greek authors, and emulate the patterns of classical Greek historiographies that have been traditionally considered histories. For instance, the historical narratives of Agathias, Theophylaktos Simokattes, Anna Komnene, and George Pachymeres clearly fall into this category. Accounts which cover the period from the Creation of the world to the author’s own day (or which continue a work commencing with the Creation), have an annalistic format, are written in a non-classicizing language and rely heavily on earlier material have traditionally been considered chronicles. Typical examples are the Chronicon Paschale and the works of John Malalas, George Synkellos, and Theophanes.

However, this sharp dichotomy between histories and chronicles, which implies a distinction between high and low literature, is no longer accepted.³⁹ The Byzantines themselves did not strictly distinguish chronicles from histories,⁴⁰ nor did they consider chronicles works of a lesser value or as the compositions of uneducated authors. Hence, one frequently finds chronicles and histories included in a single manuscript.⁴¹ Prime examples are the codices which transmit the Epitome along with the histories of Niketas Choniates, George Akropolites, or Nikephoros Gregoras. The last chapter will offer more information about such manuscripts.⁴² The boundaries between the two genres became even looser when chroniclers abandoned the year-by-year account and, from the tenth century onwards, stopped using a relatively low linguistic register.⁴³ Beck highlighted that most chroniclers and historians came from similar social and professional backgrounds; they were high-ranking bureaucrats or Church officials, and were members of the imperial court.⁴⁴ The chroniclers’ audience was not an illiterate mass, according to Beck. Rather, it was much the same audience for whom the historians were writing. It has been shown, in addition, that the authors of chronicles often sought to fulfil their own agenda, just as historians did.⁴⁵

I agree with the view of Roger Scott that the classification of Byzantine historical narratives into histories and chronicles is one of convenience.⁴⁶ As long as we remember that this division is by no means a strict or clear one, distinguishing chronicles from histories can be useful for scholars. By terming an account a ‘chronicle’, one can immediately understand that it extends from the biblical Creation to the author’s own time (or that it continues a text with this starting point) and that it is not written in pure Attic Greek. Adopting this perspective, I myself prefer to characterize the Epitome as a chronicle.

It should be stressed that, like many Byzantine writers, Zonaras does not distinguish chronicles from histories. In fact, he applies the term ‘history’ generically to all kinds of narratives of the past. Introducing the contents of his text, he states that readers ‘will gain knowledge of many and most indispensable histories’ (‘πολλῶν τε καὶ τούτων ἀναγκαιοτάτων ἱστοριῶν ἐν εἰδήσει γενήσονται’) from the Epitome, including the Octateuch, the Books of Kings, the Books of Chronicles, and the works of Flavius Josephus.⁴⁷ He conceives of his own work as a ‘short history’ (‘σύντομον ἱστορίαν’).⁴⁸ In practice, though, he consciously rejects both the typical themes and the linguistic conventions of classical historiography. He disapproves of exhaustive accounts of strategies and military operations, as well as the inclusion of dialogues or long speeches by demagogues, generals, and emperors,⁴⁹ all traditional thematic elements of archaizing histories. He considers complex, highbrow Greek to be unsuitable for the recording of history, expressing a negative opinion of authors who use extremely sophisticated constructions and compose their works to display their mastery of writing.⁵⁰ Comments along these lines are made by other chroniclers as well. George the Monk, for instance, criticizes earlier authors of historical accounts for employing such rhetorically ornate language that their narratives are incomprehensible to most people.⁵¹ He says that, by contrast, his own style is characterized by ‘utmost clarity’ (‘σαφηνείας ἐναργεστάτης’).⁵² Likewise, John Skylitzes sings the praises of George Synkellos and Theophanes for employing a ‘simple, unaffected language’ (‘λόγῳ μὲν ἀφελεῖ καὶ ἀπεριέργῳ’).⁵³ It is apparent that Zonaras sees himself as belonging to and following the tradition of earlier chroniclers, who chose to write in simpler, less heavily inflated language.

A few more words need to be said about the linguistic register of chronicles. Authors of chronicles do not make heavy use of erudite, purist vocabulary. Neither are they fond of the highly rhetorical, sophisticated grammatical and syntactical forms of classical Greek. As a rule, they write in ‘middlebrow’ Greek, combining features of the antiquated language of the learned tradition with idioms from the Bible or the spoken Greek of the time. Certainly, though, there is a wide range of stylistic levels within the confines of this register. To make a comparison, Zonaras writes towards the top end of the register, whereas his near-contemporary Michael Glykas uses classicizing language in moderation, mixing to a greater extent learned elements with ones approximating the speech of the people. What is significant is that the choice by chroniclers to compose accounts in a middlebrow style was deliberate and served a particular purpose, namely being better understood by their audiences.⁵⁴ By avoiding the difficult vocabulary and constructions of Attic Greek, chroniclers aimed to make their narratives accessible not only to a small group of highly learned individuals but also to a greater number of relatively well-educated readers.

The language of Zonaras is influenced by the language of the works that underpin his chronicle. The author himself states that he tends to draw on the phraseology of his source material and that even when he alters the text of his sources, he strives to remain faithful to their style.⁵⁵ The syntax in the Epitome can be quite complex, with long periods containing a series of participles.⁵⁶ The vocabulary is elegant, but not extremely refined or recondite.⁵⁷ Words typical of Attic vocabulary sometimes make their appearance, such as ‘ὁμευνέτιδας’ (‘wives’),⁵⁸ ‘πρυτανεῖον’ (‘vault’),⁵⁹ ‘ξύμπασα’ (‘entire’)⁶⁰ and ‘ἄνακτι’ (‘to the emperor’).⁶¹ We occasionally find nouns or pronouns in dual number, such as ‘ἀμφοῖν τοῖς ὁμαίμοσιν’ (‘to both brothers’) and ‘ἀδελφὼ’ (‘two brothers’).⁶² Also, Zonaras relatively often uses verbal forms of the pluperfect, a tense which had long become obsolete, instead of forms of the aorist.⁶³ He attempted in this way to elevate his writing style and thus display his classical learning. Overall, Zonaras writes in a ‘mildly’ archaizing language, with elements of high style present but not prevalent in his text. The choice of register is evidently ‘strategic’ and relates to the chronicler’s wish to be understood by a relatively wide audience.

Interestingly, there exists evidence Zonaras’ readers responded positively to his preference for a middlebrow style. In a treatise preserved in the thirteenth-century Par. gr. 1715, the earliest manuscript of the Epitome, the owner of the codex writes the following: ‘Since (ideally) clear style is the characteristic of historians and of those who do not make an untimely demonstration of their strength in eloquence, he [Zonaras] cared for clarity inasmuch as this was demanded of him by his narrative’ (‘ἐπειδὴ τὸ σαφὲς τοῖς ἱστορικοῖς ἀνεῖται καὶ μὴ ἐπίδειξιν ἄκαιρον τῆς ἐν λόγοις δυνάμεως ποιουμένοις, τοσοῦτον πεφρόντικεν ὅσον ὁ λόγος ἀπῄτει τῆς προκειμένης αὐτῷ διηγήσεως’).⁶⁴ This reader believes that the stylistic level of the chronicle is perfectly suited to a historical account, since Zonaras seeks to attain clarity rather than exhibit his rhetorical prowess.

The observations on the linguistic register of the Epitome may offer a clue to the profile of Zonaras’ intended audience. The chronicle was evidently addressed to cultivated readers, who would be able to understand Zonaras’ elevated prose. These readers would have followed a secondary education and would have had a good knowledge of grammar and rhetoric.⁶⁵ They would be familiar with polished pieces of writing, and were acquainted to some extent with the vocabulary of ancient Greek literature. This was largely the audience of the theatra—scholars, teachers, and officers high up in the hierarchy of the state and the Church.

The references we find in the narrative to the chronicler’s sources provide further testimony to the level of literacy of the anticipated readers of the Epitome. Zonaras envisaged an audience able to appreciate his use of prestigious Christian and pagan authors. Citing by name several writers on whom he had based his account, such as Flavius Josephus, Cassius Dio, Plutarch, Herodotus, and Xenophon, Zonaras manifestly expected his readers to be acquainted with their compositions. He encourages those keen on exploring a certain subject more closely to search for particular classical works. Readers who wish to delve into Roman history are advised to read the writings of Dio and Polybius, and those who want information about Cyrus the Great to read Herodotus’ Histories.⁶⁶ Of note in the second case is that Zonaras indicates to his audience the exact part of Herodotus’ work in which the story of Cyrus is recounted, namely Clio, the first book of the Histories. Equally exact are the references to his sources in other instances. One reads, for example, that Josephus mentions the name of the Babylonian king Belshazzar in the tenth book of the Antiquities, and that he records the birth of Christ in the eighteenth.⁶⁷ Here, the author offers direct references to his external sources in case his addressees wished to read the relevant passages for themselves. In other words, he assumes that his addressees would be interested in and able to find such material. Evidence of this kind attests once again to the social standing of Zonaras’ intended readers. They were individuals who had the means to order the reproduction of manuscripts, were able to borrow books from a third party, and attended the theatra where many of the texts cited were read aloud.

Internal indications, furthermore, suggest that Zonaras had a predominantly Constantinopolitan audience in mind. As was demonstrated in the second chapter, the outline of the Epitome’s contents in the proem makes it clear that Constantinople will be the main subject of the text’s Byzantine section.⁶⁸ The writer underlines that the focus of his attention will be on the secular and ecclesiastical authorities of the capital, namely emperors and patriarchs. This emphasis on the world of the imperial capital would appeal to readers who, like Zonaras himself, approached things from a metropolitan point of view and connected the history of Byzantium with that of its capital city, exhibiting considerably less interest in the affairs of the provinces of the Empire.⁶⁹

A further interesting question to pose is whether the intended audience of the chronicle included churchmen and monks. As we saw earlier in the analysis of Zonaras’ exegesis on Gregory’s Gnomic Tetrastichs and his exegesis on the Resurrectional Canons in the Octoechos, the author was acquainted and corresponded with monks and members of the Church who had a good level of literacy and had studied the works of the Church Fathers.⁷⁰ Certainly, most monks would not be able to read a text written in a mildly antiquated, literary language. Without a doubt, though, another work of Zonaras, the Speech against those people who believe that a natural emission of sperm is a pollution, was intended to be read by a group of literate monks. Providing information about this short text in Chapter 1, I noted that Zonaras condemns the belief current in some conservative monastic circles that monks who have wet dreams during the night become polluted.⁷¹ What is significant is that, to reinforce his thesis, he recalls the wisdom of several well-known Church Fathers, quoting from the works of Paul, Dionysius of Alexandria, Timothy of Alexandria, Athanasius of Alexandria, and Basil the Great. Interestingly, one finds echoes of pagan authors, too. Zonaras makes a brief mention of the Laws of Plato and paraphrases an erotic story from the Plutarchean Demetrius. This ‘highly rhetorical’ essay is evidently directed at a small group of educated monks who knew (or at least knew of) the writings of the authors cited.⁷² This audience would surely have been able to read the Epitome, too. Particularly appealing to clergymen and monks might have been the material on the history of the Church, as well as the early parts of the chronicle, where the chronicler combines information from the Old Testament and Josephus’ JA.

Like many chroniclers and historians, Zonaras produced his writings with the intention that they be read, not only by his contemporaries but by later audiences, too. This emerges from the manner in which he alludes to the reception of the text. His purpose in sketching a meticulous portrait of Alexios Komnenos is to inform later generations of the emperor’s character.⁷³ Two synonyms make their appearance here that indicate that Zonaras has the future recipients of his work in mind: ‘οἱ μετέπειτα’ and ‘οἱ ὀψίγονοι’. This forward-looking scope of the chronicle also underlies, for example, Zonaras’ intention to literally ‘hand over (to writing)’ (‘παραδοῦναι’) the history of the Roman nation and, consequently, to leave it to posterity.⁷⁴

The language employed by Zonaras to refer to the addressees of his composition also needs a word of comment. So far in this discussion, I have used the generic terms ‘audience’ and ‘readers’ to designate the group to which the chronicler directed his work. The vocabulary employed by the author himself, however, is significant, because it may give us insight into how Zonaras envisaged his work being received.⁷⁵ When talking about the addressees of his account, Zonaras makes use of the following expressions: ‘οἱ ἐντευχόμενοι τῇ ἱστορίᾳ’, ‘οἱ ἐντευχόμενοι τῷ συγγράμματι’, ‘οἱ ἐπιόντες τὸ σύγγραμμα’, and ‘οἱ ἀναγιγνώσκοντες τὸ σύγγραμμα’.⁷⁶ These are technical terms which denote the readers of a book.⁷⁷ The chronicler anticipated the reception of the Epitome by an audience of private readers. Certainly, though, he would also expect that his work would be read aloud before an audience of listeners in the theatra. As will be shown in the last chapter, the chronicle very soon became known to the literary circles of the capital, and was used by authors who were near-contemporaries of Zonaras, namely Constantine Manasses and Michael Glykas.⁷⁸ The public reading of the text must have played a key role in its quick transmission. Zonaras’ acquaintances to whom he sent drafts of his chronicle would read parts of the text to their own circle of friends. Likewise, the writer himself, when he occasionally left St Glykeria, could have attended the theatra and presented drafts of his work. Of course, such a long composition as the Epitome would have to be read aloud in sections. It is worth adding that the owner of the Par. gr. 1715 makes the following remark in his treatise about Zonaras: ‘Indeed he cared for elegance and sweetness of diction in order not to overwhelm his listeners with a speech which would otherwise have been extremely harsh, dissonant and somewhat inflexible’ (‘[ἐδέησε] κάλλους δὲ καὶ γλυκύτητος ὅσον ἔμελλε μὴ διακορεῖς τοὺς ἀκούοντας διαθεῖναι τῷ πάνυ τραχεῖ καὶ δυσήχῳ τῆς ἑρμηνείας καὶ οἷον σκληρῷ’).⁷⁹ Praising Zonaras’ pleasant language, the writer of the treatise essentially confirms that the text was orally delivered to a listening audience. The final chapter includes a thorough investigation of the treatise contained in the Par. gr. 1715.⁸⁰

To sum up, through an examination of the cultural and social system to which Zonaras belonged, it is clear that the chronicler was part of a network of intellectuals who provided him with reading material and to whom he distributed his own writings. One may surmise that his circle of friends consisted of those with whom he had become acquainted when he was still a layman and kept in touch by letter. This group also constituted the audience for whom Zonaras was originally writing. This audience would be able to read a text written in mildly archaizing Greek, as the Epitome is, and appreciate the chronicler’s references to well-known Christian and pagan authors.

John Zonaras’ Epitome of Histories: A Compendium of Jewish-Roman History and Its Reception. Theofili Kampianaki, Oxford University Press. © Theofili Kampianaki 2022. DOI: 10.1093/oso/9780192865106.003.0007

¹ Epitome, I, 3.4–5.

² Ibid., 8.13.

³ Epitome, II, 297.21–2.

⁴ See, for example, one of the meanings offered by LSJ for the lemma ‘ἄστυ’: ‘III. town in the material sense, opp. πόλις (the civic body)’.

⁵ Epitome, I, 4.9, and 7.11–12, respectively. Let us note that the verb ‘σχολάζω’ used by the writer as regards his current state designates a change of circumstances. It means that someone was active in the past, but no longer is. One of the meanings offered from the lemma ‘σχολάζω’ by LSJ is ‘have rest or respite from a thing, cease from doing’. Zonaras hints that he is idle right now, but was not so in the past, obviously when he was still in Constantinople.

⁶ See p. 9 of this book.

⁷ For the topography of the area, see Mango, ‘Twelfth-Century Notices’, 224.

⁸ Theosteriktos, De S. Niceta Confessore. Vita, AΑSS, April I, 254B–265F, at 31 (chapter 43). The text was written by a certain Theosteriktos, a monk at the Medikion monastery: A. Alexakis, ‘A Florilegium in the Life of Nicetas of Medicion and a Letter of Theodore of Studios’, DOP, 48 (1994), 179–97, at 193–4.

⁹ For the history of monasticism on the island of St Glykeria, see R. Janin, Les églises et les monastères des grands centres byzantins (Paris, 1975), 56–7.

¹⁰ Niketas David Paphlagon, Nicetas David The Life of Patriarch Ignatius, ed. and trans. into English by A. Smithies with notes by J. A. Duffy (Washington, 2013), 14.24–30 (chapter 11), in which we learn about Ignatios’ campaign of establishing monasteries on the small Princes’ Islands.

¹¹ See Mango, ‘Twelfth-Century Notices’, 221–2 (the scribal note found in the Christ Church Wake graecus 51).

¹² The precise date of the reconsecration is given in the Christ Church Wake gr. 51. There, we also find the names of the two patrons who undertook the rebuilding of the church: Gregory Taronites and Basil, both of whom were monks at the Pantanassa monastery: Mango, ‘Twelfth-Century Notices’. Basil is said to have collected large donations for the rebuilding of the monastery.

¹³ Manuel’s chrysobull secures the properties of the monasteries located in Constantinople and its nearby regions, as well as those of the islands in the Sea of Marmara: Jus Graecoromanum, ed. by I. and P. Zepos, I (Athens, 1931; repr. Athens, 1962), 381–5. See also Angold, Church and Society, 87.

¹⁴ Mango, too, deduces that the first half of the twelfth century was ‘a period of considerable distinction’ for the monastery of the Pantanassa: Mango, ‘Twelfth-Century Notices’, 228. See also J. Nesbitt, N. Oikonomides and E. McGeer, Catalogue of Byzantine Seals at Dumbarton Oaks and in the Fogg Museum of Art, III (Washington, 1996), 111–12 for a twelfth-century seal originating from the Pantanassa.

¹⁵ Magdalino, ‘Constantinople and the “ ‘ξω Χῶραι’ ”, 183–5; Magdalino, ‘Outside World’, 149.

¹⁶ M. Mullett, ‘Originality and Byzantine Letter-Writing: The Case of Exile’, in Originality in Byzantine Literature, Art and Music, ed. by A. Littlewood (Oxford, 1996), 39–58.

¹⁷ A secondary aspect that that may also underlie the topos of exile in Zonaras’ narrative is that of exile in a monastic sense. In monastic contexts, we often read that monks are ‘ξένοι’, strangers, to the earthly kingdom. They feel ‘exiled’ from the true fatherland, paradise. However, Zonaras’ claim that he lives in a place far away from the capital and that, because of this, lacks some sources required for his work indicate that the chronicler primarily connects the theme of exile to the image of the exiled intellectual.

¹⁸ For a thorough analysis of the theatra under the Komnenian emperors, see Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel, 339–56; M. Mullett, ‘Aristocracy and Patronage in the Literary Circles of Comnenian Constantinople’, in The Byzantine Aristocracy, ed. by M. Angold (Edinburgh, 1984), 173–201.

¹⁹ For the dating of the text, see pp. 12–13 of this book.

²⁰ Pieler, too, indicates that Zonaras wrote ‘as a monk for his church’: Pieler, ‘Johannes Zonaras als Kanonist’, 603. For the uses of the exegetical works on the canons, see Magdalino, ‘Constantinople and the “ ‘ξω Χῶραι’ ”, 181.

²¹ For more information on this text, see p. 17 of this book.

²² For an overview of the history of books in Byzantium, see J. Waring, ‘Byzantine Book Culture’, in A Companion to Byzantium, ed. by James, 275–88.

²³ Theodore Prodromos, Θεοδώρου του Προδρόμου Λόγος εις τον πατριάρχην Κωνσταντινουπόλεως Ιωάννην Θ΄ τον Αγαπητόν, ed. by K. Manafis, Ἐπετηρὶς Ἑταιρείας Βυζαντινῶν Σπουδῶν, 41 (1974), 239–41. See also Magdalino, The Empire of Manuel, 323.

²⁴ See p. 24 of this book.

²⁵ Zonaras, Ἑρμηνεία εἰς τὰ τετράστιχα, f. 3, line 23–f. 3^v, line 6.

²⁶ See p. 9 of this book.

²⁷ Ronchey, ‘An Introduction to Eustathios’.

²⁸ For more information on this text, see p. 22 of this book.

²⁹ Epitome, II, 297.18–21.

³⁰ The typikon of the Pantokrator has been edited by Paul Gautier: Le typikon du Christ Sauveur Pantocrator; information about Joseph can be found at 21–3. See also Mango, ‘Twelfth-Century Notices’, 227. Magdalino has postulated that the typikon of the Pantanassa might have been used as a prototype for that of the Pantokrator: P. Magdalino, ‘The Foundation of the Pantokrator in Its Urban Setting’, in The Pantokrator Monastery, ed. by Kotzabassi, 33–56, at 40.

³¹ John Tzetzes, Ioannis Tzetzae epistulae, ed. by P. Leone (Leipzig, 1972), 72–3 (letter 51), 74–5 (letters 53 and 54), 99–100 (letter 70), 117–18 (letter 79).

³² Mango, ‘Twelfth-Century Notices’, 227. A scribal entry found in f. 3^r of the manuscript reveals that its patron was ‘the abbot of the imperial monastery of Pantokrator, the monk Joseph Hagioglykerites’: Peers, Sacred Shock, 155 (note 6); H. Evans and W. Wixon, The Glory of Byzantium: Art and Culture of the Middle Byzantine Era, A.D. 843–1261 (New York, 1997), 109–10.

³³ The Pantanassa monastery is not listed among those which were officially under the jurisdiction of the abbot of the Pantokrator: Le typikon du Christ Sauveur Pantocrator, 69.685–73.727. As noted by Peers, though, the Pantokrator had numerous holdings on the Asiatic shore across from Constantinople, and the monastery on the island of St Glykeria could fit within this scheme: Le typikon du Christ Sauveur Pantocrator, 115.1446–125.1576; Peers, Sacred Shock, 63–4.

³⁴ Wilson, ‘The Libraries’, 63, 71.

³⁵ Angold, Church and Society, 352–3.

³⁶ Krallis, Politics, 45–52.

³⁷ It appears to have been a usual practice for abbots of newly established monasteries to seek out books in order to set up a library. For instance, the twelfth-century saint Bartholome of Simeri, who established the monastery of St Maria del Patir in Rossano, is said to have appealed to the emperor Alexios Komnenos for liturgical books for the monastery: ‘Il bios di San Bartolomeo da Simeri (BHG 235)’, ed. by C. Zaccagni, in Rivista di studi bizantini e neoellenici, 33 (1996), 205–28, at 221–2. See also S. Burkhardt and T. Foerster, Norman Tradition and Transcultural Heritage: Exchange of Cultures in the ‘Norman’ Peripheries of Medieval Europe (Farnham, 2013), 110; Wilson, ‘The Libraries’, 56.

³⁸ This suggestion is put forward by Treadgold as well: Treadgold, Historians, 393.

³⁹ The monumental article arguing against the strict distinction of chronicles from histories is that of Hans-Georg Beck, ‘Zur byzantinischen “Mönschchronik” ’. See also B. Croke, ‘Uncovering Byzantium’s Historiographical Audience’, in History as Literature, ed. by Macrides, 25–54; Scott, ‘Byzantine Chronicles’; Holmes, Basil II, 172–6; Markopoulos, Η θέση του χρονογράφου.

⁴⁰ Scott, ‘Byzantine Chronicles’.

⁴¹ Simpson, Niketas Choniates, 105.

⁴² See p. 142 of this book.

⁴³ For this observation, see M. Hinterberger, ‘Δημώδης και λόγια λογοτεχνία: διαχωριστικές γραμμές και συνδετικοί κρίκοι’, in Pour une “nouvelle” histoire de la littérature byzantine, ed. by P. Odorico and P. Agapitos (Paris, 2002), 153–63. The different linguistic registers of Byzantine texts have been studied in a well-known article by Ihor Ševčenko, who distinguished three linguistic levels: high, middle, and low: I. Ševčenko, ‘Levels of Style in Byzantine Prose’, JÖB, 31 (1981), 289–312.

⁴⁴ Beck, ‘Zur byzantinischen “Mönschchronik” ’.

⁴⁵ Scott, ‘Byzantine Chronicles’, 40.

⁴⁶ Ibid., 39.

⁴⁷ Epitome, I, 9.10–14.

⁴⁸ Ibid., 7.5–6.

⁴⁹ Ibid., 4.12–19, 5.1–3, 5.18–6.6.

⁵⁰ Ibid., 4.19–5.2.

⁵¹ George the Monk, Chronicon, I, 1.1–10.

⁵² Ibid., 2.7–9.

⁵³ Skylitzes, Synopsis, 3.6–11 (proem). For the translation, see John Skylitzes: A Synopsis, 1.

⁵⁴ Erich Trapp has identified three reasons why a writer may use language of a lower register: poor classical education; to improve comprehension of the text by its audience; and stylistic choice: E. Trapp, ‘Learned and Vernacular Literature in Byzantium’, DOP, 47 (1993), 115–29.

⁵⁵ Epitome, I, 8.23–9.7.

⁵⁶ Grigoriadis, Studies, 84.

⁵⁷ For Zonaras’ language and vocabulary in general, see Grigoriadis, Studies, 53–85.

⁵⁸ Epitome, III, 730.22.

⁵⁹ Ibid., 733.1.

⁶⁰ Ibid., 735.6.

⁶¹ Ibid., 738.24.

⁶² Ibid., 731.19–732.1.

⁶³ Martin Hinterberger has investigated how often and in what ways Zonaras, among other authors, makes use of the grammatical forms of the pluperfect: Hinterberger, ‘Die Sprache’, particularly at 115–16. The preference for pluperfect forms instead of aorist forms is a typical feature of highbrow Greek. Their interchangeable use attests to a significant development in the meaning and use of these tenses in Medieval Greek, namely that the functions of the pluperfect were taken over by the aorist. A similar development is noted in the meaning and use of the perfect tense as well: M. Hinterberger, ‘The Synthetic Perfect in Byzantine Literature’, in The Language of Byzantine Learned Literature, ed. by M. Hinterberger (Turnhout, 2014), 176–204; Hinterberger, ‘Die Sprache’, 113–15; R. Browning, Medieval and Modern Greek, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 1983), 30, 64.

⁶⁴ Commentary in the Par. gr. 1715, 568.38–41. For the translation of the segment, see Grigoriadis, Studies, 114.

⁶⁵ An overview of the Byzantine educational system and earlier bibliography on the topic can be found in A. Markopoulos, ‘Teachers and Textbooks in Byzantium: Ninth to Eleventh Centuries’, in Networks of Learning: Perspectives on Scholars in Byzantine East and Latin West, ed. by S. Steckel, N. Gaul, and M. Grünbart (Münster, 2014), 3–15; A. Markopoulos, ‘Education’, in The Oxford Handbook of Byzantine Studies, ed. by R. Cormack, J. Haldon, and E. Jeffreys (Oxford, 2008), 785–95.

⁶⁶ Epitome, I, 227.15–16 and 303.8–11, respectively.

⁶⁷ Ibid., 296.1–4 and 479.1–3, respectively.

⁶⁸ See p. 31 of this book.

⁶⁹ For the emphasis placed by twelfth-century literati on Constantinople and their disparaging attitude towards the inhabitants of the provinces, see Magdalino, ‘Outside World’; K. Galatariotou, ‘Travel and Perception in Byzantium’, DOP, 47 (1993), 221–41.

⁷⁰ See pp. 10–12 and pp. 22–3 of this book.

⁷¹ See p. 18 of this book.

⁷² According to Fögen, Zonaras composed ‘fourteen highly rhetorical pages’: Fögen, ‘Nocturnal Pollution’, 267.

⁷³ Epitome, III, 765.5–6.

⁷⁴ Epitome, I, 12.3.

⁷⁵ For some observations on the performance of Byzantine texts, see P. Marciniak, ‘The Byzantine Performative Turn’, in Within the Circle of Ancient Ideas and Virtues, ed. by K. Twardowska et al. (Krakow, 2014), 423–30; E. Bourbouhakis, ‘Rhetoric and Performance in Byzantium’, in The Byzantine World, ed. by P. Stephenson (London, 2010), 175–87; Toth, ‘Rhetorical Theatron’, 441–4; A. Stone, ‘Aurality in the Panegyrics of Eustathios of Thessalonike’, in Theatron, ed. by Grünbart, 419–28; P. Marciniak, ‘Byzantine Theatron – A Place of Performance?’, in Theatron, ed. by Grünbart, 277–85.

⁷⁶ Epitome, I, 8.11–12, 9.9–10, 7.6–7 and II, 298.6, respectively.

⁷⁷ See, for example, the third meaning of the lemma ‘ἐντυγχάνω’ in the LSJ: ‘of books, meet with; hence, read’.

⁷⁸ See pp. 125–130 of this book.

⁷⁹ Commentary in the Par. gr. 1715, 568–9. For the translation of the segment, see Grigoriadis, Studies, 114.

⁸⁰ See p. 154 of this book.