A Companion To Procopius of Caesarea, Meier and Montinaro (Eds.)

A Companion to Procopius of Caesarea
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volume 11
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A Companion to
Procopius of Caesarea
Edited by
Mischa Meier
Federico Montinaro
LEIDEN | BOSTON
- 978-90-04-49877-8
Cover illustration: Follis (copper coin) of Justinian i (527–565) minted at the height of the reign, shortly
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Contents
Contributors vii
Introduction 1
Federico Montinaro and Mischa Meier
part 1
Approaching Procopius
The Eastern Roman Empire and Its Neighbours in the “Age of Justinian” –
An Overview 9
Hartmut Leppin
The Search for Harmony in Procopius’ Literary Works 28

Brian Croke
part 2
Reading Procopius
Procopius: Life and Works 61

Geoffrey Greatrex
Wars 70
Philip Rance
The Secret History 121

Rene Pfeilschifter
Procopius’ Buildings and Panegyric Effect 137

Michael Whitby
part 3
Procopius as a Historian
Historiography in Late Antiquity before Procopius 155

Bruno Bleckmann
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vi Contents
Procopius’ Sources 178
Laura Mecella
Procopius as a Historiographer 194
Dariusz Brodka
Procopius and Christian Historical Thought 212

Timo Stickler
Procopius of Caesarea and His Byzantine Successors 231

Marek Jankowiak
part 4
Imperial Themes
War and Empire in Procopius’ Wars 255

Charles Pazdernik
Procopius and the Barbarians in the West 275

Hans-Ulrich Wiemer
Procopius and the East 310

Henning Börm
part 5
Procopius as a Writer
The Classicism of Procopius 339

Anthony Kaldellis
Procopius and His Protagonists 355

Umberto Roberto
A Narratological Reading of Procopius 374

Olivier Gengler and Élodie Turquois
General Bibliography 417
Index 467
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Contributors
Bruno Bleckmann
Heinrich Heine University Düsseldorf (Germany)
Henning Börm
Ruhr-University Bochum (Germany)
Dariusz Brodka
Jagiellonian University of Kraków (Poland)
Brian Croke
University of Sydney (Australia)
Olivier Gengler
Heidelberg Academy of Sciences and Humanities (Germany)
Geoffrey Greatrex
University of Ottawa (Canada)
Marek Jankowiak
Corpus Christi College Oxford (United Kingdom)
Anthony Kaldellis
Ohio State University (OH, United States of America)
Hartmut Leppin
Goethe University Frankfurt (Germany)
Laura Mecella
University of Milan (Italy)
Mischa Meier
University of Tübingen (Germany)
Federico Montinaro
University of Tübingen (Germany)
Charles Pazdernik
Grand Valley State University (MI, United States of America)
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viii CONTRIBUTORS
Rene Pfeilschifter
Julius Maximilian University of Würzburg (Germany)
Philip Rance
Free University of Berlin (Germany)
Umberto Roberto
University of Naples Federico II (Italy)
Timo Stickler
Friedrich Schiller University Jena (Germany)
Élodie Turquois
Johannes Gutenberg University Mainz (Germany)
Michael Whitby
University of Birmingham (United Kingdom)
Hans-Ulrich Wiemer
Friedrich – Alexander University Erlangen – Nuremberg (Germany)
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Introduction
Federico Montinaro and Mischa Meier
In the sixth Christian century lived Procopius, a Christian magis-

trate of Constantinople, in the days when Justinian was Emperor
and Belisarius general. As many know, he wrote the history of his
own times, a work every way of uncommon value. […] Now in this
history of his, Procopius mentions that, during the term of his pre-
fecture in Constantinople, a great sea-monster was captured in the
neighboring Propontis, or Sea of Marmara, after having destroyed
vessels at intervals in those waters for a period of more than fifty
years. A fact thus set down in substantial history cannot easily be
gainsaid.1
∵
Procopius of Caesarea is the only author whom Photius, in his Bibliotheca, a
collection of summaries of Greek and early Byzantine literature, credits with
having risen to the highest standard of history-writing, as set by Thucydides.
Photius, two-time patriarch of Constantinople and protagonist of what has
been called, rightly or wrongly, the “first phase” of “Byzantine Humanism” in
the 9th century, does so implicitly and, puzzlingly, not in his unadorned entry
on Procopius’ Wars, of which he summarized only the first two books, but in
the one dedicated to Procopius’ contemporary, the sophist Choricius. In an oft-
quoted passage, while briefly tracing Choricius’ biography and upon naming
the latter’s teacher and predecessor as the leader of the school of Gaza – also
a “Procopius rhetor” – Photius felt compelled to clarify that this was not, how-
ever, “the one of Caesarea, who at that time composed his historical writings
as a great possession (μέγα κτῆμα) and asset for the more studious (σπουδαι-
οτέροις), leaving behind everlasting fame (ἀείμνηστον κλέος) amongst them”.2
1 Melville, Moby-Dick, 244–5, referring to Wars 7.29.9–20, probably via Gibbon: See Crow,
“Littoral Leviathan”. On Procopius’ text and subtext here, see Signes Codoñer, “Der Historiker”.
2 Photius, Bibliotheca, cod. 160. On this passage, see Jankowiak and Kaldellis in this volume.
There are literary and possibly biographic connections between Choricius and our Procopius:
See also Greatrex and Mecella in this volume.
© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004498778_002 - 978-90-04-49877-8

2 Montinaro and Meier
Photius clearly had Thucydides’ own preface to the Peloponnesian War in mind,
in which the Athenian famously apologized for striving for historical accuracy
by comparing eyewitness accounts, including his own, rather than producing
entertaining fiction filled with anecdotes (μυθῶδες), thus composing his work
not in the hope of gaining his contemporaries’ acclaim, but as an “everlasting
possession” (κτῆμα ἐς αἰεί).3
The hidden comparison, typical of Photius and so far unnoticed, would
certainly have pleased Procopius, on whose own connection with Thucydides,
especially evident in the preface to the Wars, much has been written, not least
in this very volume.4 Photius’ appreciation, however, seems to us to have had
far broader implications than just matching two great historians. To begin with,
Photius was no great appreciator of Thucydides, whom he no doubt somewhat
slavishly considered the greatest historian of all and one of those authors so fun-
damental to the curriculum as to be excluded from the Bibliotheca, but whose
prose he openly regarded as lacking clarity. Photius’ “second Thucydides” and
the better writer of the two, was Dexippus.5 In fact, by praising Procopius in
the larger context of the Bibliotheca, in which historical works roughly make
up an unimpressive eighth of the total entries, Photius reserved a higher place
in literature for him than as just a master of the genre. Meanwhile, in the more
restricted context of the rhetorical education in Gaza which prompted his clar-
ification in the passage in question, Photius was acknowledging both the place
of rhetorical education in Late Antiquity and the deep relationship between
historiography and that rhetorical education6 – but with a critical undertone
as far as Thucydides’ inclusion in the canon was concerned. As for Procopius,
he may not even have been the “third Thucydides” for Photius, but his all-round
achievement was clearly far greater.
To be sure, like Thucydides, Procopius conceived of his writing as an exercise
in historical truth (ἀλήθεια), less for his contemporaries than for future genera-
tions – and within those generations a more specific audience of diplomats
and generals (rather a Polybian than Thucydidean stance). Unlike Thucydides,
however, he does not appear to have doubted for a second that his work would
be entertaining as well, for both his present readership and posterity, whether
for its content or for its style. This is not only true of the Wars or, to a lesser
extent, of the somewhat duller Buildings: his choice to append such a hugely
3 Thucydides, Peloponnesian War 1.22.

4 See for instance Rance, Mecella, Brodka, and Gengler/Turquois in this volume.
5 Photius, Bibliotheca, cod. 82, with Treadgold, The nature of the Bibliotheca, p. 100.
6 See again Kaldellis in this volume.
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Introduction 3
entertaining piece,7 if anecdotal, as the Secret History (Anekdota), with the

declared purpose of filling the gaps in truth left open in the major works is after
all symbolic of an ambivalence that did not escape Photius – who, inciden-
tally, did not know the clandestine pamphlet. In this sense, Procopius’ achieve-
ment truly matched his ambitions, and this already in Byzantine times. His
ability to produce solid but at the same time highly readable historiography
has undoubtedly contributed to modern fascination as well, among literates
such as Felix Dahn and Robert Graves, or Herman Melville, whose quotation
opens this introduction, and less eloquent scholars of Late Antiquity and Byz-
antium alike.
This companion attempts to account for the breadth of Procopius’ accom-
plishment, as recognized by Photius, in a way that is as systematic and acces-
sible as possible. Thus Part 1, “Approaching Procopius”, is intended to help our
readers frame Procopius within his own physical world, the Roman Empire
of Justinian (a most authoritative sketch by Leppin), and within the tradition
spawned by Procopius’ reader-commentators (Croke). An informative exposi-
tion of the historiography on Procopius, especially as regards the sixteenth-to-
twentieth centuries – which, fortunately, dispenses the editors of giving such
an introductory account here –, Croke’s contribution formulates a specific
and pragmatic question: how do we as readers and historians make sense of
Procopius’ oeuvre and of the Secret History in particular – the Schmähschrift
so unlike his other pro-Justinianic works – on the author’s own terms rather
than catering to modern literary and moral anxieties? Croke’s own final
answer to that question is, in line with the ambitions of a companion, one
that has become traditional since Averil Cameron, namely that the apparent
lack of “harmony” in Procopius’ oeuvre stems mainly from his writing in dif-
ferent genres, rather than his personal “progressive psychological and intel-
lectual development” (Croke) – the latter position was traditional at the time
Cameron wrote her book on Procopius. The new traditional has in turn been
challenged.8 Our readers will surely want to form their own opinion. We have
also further been dispensed of writing a more in-depth presentation of mod-
ern scholarship on Procopius, since this task has been performed in magiste-
rial fashion by Croke himself and others in a recent online issue of the journal
Histos.9 Part 2, “Reading Procopius”, offers a detailed treatment of Procopius’
life and works, with Philip Rance’s chapter on the Wars as the central piece.
7 See, however, Pfeilschifter in this volume, arguing, bravely, that the Secret History makes “for
dull reading”.
8 Cameron, Procopius. Contra, most notably, Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea.
9 Greatrex, Work on Procopius.
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4 Montinaro and Meier
In this part, the authors seem to us to have far exceeded their respective assign-
ments, going beyond just presenting the “state of the art” on Procopius’ three
works and offering instead important new insights into their composition,
aims and intended audience. Part 3 studies “Procopius as a historian”, contex-
tualizing his works within the changing landscape of Late Antique historiogra-
phy (Bleckmann, Brodka, and Stickler), identifying his models and unearthing,
with perhaps an excessive dose of optimism, his manifold written, literary and
archival, and oral sources (Mecella), and following Procopius’ journey through
the mirror of his early Byzantine imitators, admirers, and a few unexpected
detractors (Jankowiak).10 We then go back to the “Imperial Themes” (Part 4)
set out in Leppin’s opening chapter, now focusing specifically on Procopius’
understanding of foreign “Barbarians”, between ethnography and geopoli-
tics (Wiemer, Börm). Following Photius, we made an effort not to forget that
Procopius was, more than just a historian, “a writer” (Part 5). Anthony Kaldellis
offers a profound reflection on the meaning and importance of Procopius’
“classicism” – here a less elusive notion made up of ancient Greek “literary” as
well as “moral and intellectual” influences – which will no doubt be of great
interest for students of Late Roman and Byzantine literature at large. This
piece sets the tone for the narratological analysis carried out in this section’s
contributions (Roberto, Gengler/Turqouis). Additionally, by reminding us with
Kaldellis’ usual argumentative strength of the basic interactions between form
and substance in ancient and early medieval Greek literature, we come back
full circle to the interrogation of Procopius’ motives, through which we had
approached Procopius in the early chapters. Exactly how much “classicism”
can explain, for instance as regards (Christian) belief, in interpreting Procopius
or any other Byzantine writer, is yet another issue about which each reader will
want to form their own opinion.
As we send this manuscript to print, a new article by Florian Battistella chal-
lenges long-held positions in the debate around perhaps one of the most vexed
questions in the modern historiography on Procopius, a question central to
our understanding of his oeuvre, namely the date of composition of the Secret
History. This was, Battistella argues, neither 550 nor 559, but 554 – concurrent
to the composition of the Wars rather than before or after.11 This article, which
we hereby proudly claim for Tübingen, simply appeared too late for a full dis-
cussion of the new evidence and for its implications to be included in the
relevant chapters of this volume, reminding us of the intrinsic vanity of any
project aiming to produce a lasting reference on such a hugely popular author
10 See now also Bleckmann, Die letzte Generation.

11 Battistella, “Zur Datierung”.
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Introduction 5
as Procopius. This does not, of course, excuse the delay of several years from
inception with which this companion is finally being printed. We understand
the frustration of many, not only among the authors, the series editors, and our
contacts at the publisher, but also among our prospective readers. We thank the
former for their effort and patience and apologize profusely to all. While taking
full responsibility for its shortcomings, we do stand reassured, especially after
conducting an additional round of revisions with most authors shortly before
submitting the final manuscript to Brill, that this is an up-to-date work. Finally,
our special thanks go to Isaac Smith, who started copy-editing this volume
as an undergraduate student attending one of the editors’ seminars and has
kept on adjusting his increasingly busy schedule as a doctoral candidate and
research associate at the Institute of Medieval Studies and the Collaborative
Research Center 923 in Tübingen to our recurring demands, well beyond his
contractual obligations. Viola Oßwald compiled the Index.
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part 1
Approaching Procopius
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The Eastern Roman Empire and Its Neighbours in
the “Age of Justinian” – An Overview
Hartmut Leppin
1 The World Connected in Darkness
In 536 ad, dry fog, frost and snow were observed in the Ching state of Middle
China, which caused famine in the autumn.1 The Chinese wondered about the
reasons. They were not alone in their astonishment. Sources from the Axum
Empire indicate crop failure. Ireland experienced similar phenomena. The
narrowing of tree growth rings shows that even the Sierra Nevada on the North
American continent suffered a change in climate.2 In the Mediterranean basin
Procopius observed:
And it came about during this year that a most dread portent took place.
For the sun gave forth its light without brightness, like the moon, during
this whole year, and it seemed exceedingly like the sun in eclipse, for the
beams it shed were not clear nor such as it is accustomed to shed.3
Scholars are divided about the reasons behind this global disaster, most often
suggesting a volcanic eruption or comet impacts. But there is no doubt that
this event affected the whole northern hemisphere.
As far as we know, the observers were unaware, they were living through
a disaster of global dimensions, as there had been limited contact between
China and the Mediterranean world under the Han dynasty (about 202 bc–
220 ad). From the 3rd-century, however, the Chinese Empire underwent
a process of disintegration that is sometimes tellingly called the Age of
Fragmentation, with various dynasties competing for power. As this was an
age of cultural prosperity, some learned men would have known that far in the
west the Roman Empire claimed to be the ever-victorious ruler of the world –
as did the Chinese and Persians.
1 I am very grateful to Chris Rance, and an anonymous referee, for debarbarizing my English.
2 For the phenomenon: Gunn, The Years without Summer.
3 Procopius, Vandal War 2.14.5, all passages from Procopius are quoted from Dewing, Procopius,
In seven Volumes. For other sources from the Mediterranean world: Arjava, “The Mystery
Cloud”.

10 Leppin
But contact between these regions was loose. East Asia was connected to the
central Asian and Mediterranean worlds by trade routes, among which the most
famous is the Silk Road. Trade conditions had degraded, but it remained pos-
sible. A traveller setting out westward from China would soon meet Christians,
namely the so-called Nestorians, representatives of a religion deeply connected
with the Roman world, since Nestorius had been bishop of Constantinople.
But, meanwhile, they had their base in Persia, another important empire much
nearer to China than Rome. In contrast to China, however, Rome bordered on
the Persian Empire. From the Roman point of view the Persian Empire was its
main rival, whereas China was a shadowy power in the Far East. A Roman his-
torian attributes the following to the Persian king Khosrow ii (590–628): “God
effected that the whole world should be illumined from the very beginning by
two eyes, namely by the most powerful kingdom of the Romans and by the most
prudent sceptre of the Persian state. For by these greatest powers the disobedient
and bellicose tribes are winnowed, and man’s course is continually regulated and
guided.”4 Few Romans would have agreed, and the two empires rarely steered a
common course, but their paths often crossed.
2 The Most Prudent Sceptre: Persia
Persia was both the barrier and the bridge between the Mediterranean world
and East Asia, and even controlled parts of the maritime routes. With its geo-
graphic position in the centre of various networks, it was at the hub of the
Eurasian continent.5
The Iranian empire had grown in strength since 224, when the dynasty of
the Parthians was deposed by the Sasanians, who reorganized the empire and
enhanced its powers. A Persian visitor arriving in the Eastern Roman Empire
during the sixth century might come across many things that appeared famil-
iar: the political system was also a hereditary monarchy, for example, but
there was a difference. According to Zoroastrian texts, the Sasanian dynasty
possessed a sacred prerogative to rule even if individual kings might fail or
4 Theophylact Simocatta, 4.11.2–3, p. 117 ed. Whitby; see also Petrus Patricius, Historiae, p. 188
ed. Müller, F13. The author asserts that the letter was a translation from the original which is
difficult to assess. For the relationship between Rome and Persia see Canepa, The Two Eyes of
the Earth.
5 For Persia see Börm, “Das Königtum der Sasaniden”; Payne, “Cosmology and the Expansion”.
Payne cautions against some of Pourschariati’s conclusions in his important Decline and fall
of the Sasanian empire, which underlines the weakness of the Sasanian empire; in general:
Payne, A State of Mixture.
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The Eastern Roman Empire and Its Neighbours 11
be deposed. Thus, the Sasanians went back to the third century, whereas in
Constantinople no dynasty had established itself for any great length of time
since the end of the Theodosian dynasty in the 450s. In both empires, however,
the ruler was expected to be victorious, which was the best proof of his sup-
port by divine powers. Both claimed to be rulers of the world, and the Persian
Shahinshah and the Greek basileus were not only often opposed to each other
militarily, but were also similarly confronted on their other borders with vari-
ous tribal groups who often changed in name, character and origin, but not
in perilousness.
Both empires possessed a powerful religious hierarchy that did not depend
completely on the ruler. In Persia it was based on the Zoroastrian religion and
the holy book of the Avesta, the priests – known as magi – had a rigid hierarchy
and served also as counsellors to the king; they were sometimes said to perse-
cute Christians or Manicheans. At the turn to the 6th-century a kind of hereti-
cal group, the Mazdakites, entered the stage. Evidence in the sources is elusive,
but sufficient to indicate that they somehow challenged the Zoroastrian hier-
archy and underwent a process of radicalization before suffering persecution
from 530 onwards and losing influence.6
In general, however, the Zoroastrian religion did not possess the mission-
ary zeal of the Christians, and most of the Persian kings supported the estab-
lishment of the so-called Church of the East. This included the prohibition in
424 of appealing to the patriarchs of the Roman Empire against the patriarch
of Ctesiphon, thus assuring him autonomy. The church embraced doctrines
ascribed to Nestorius, the former bishop of Constantinople who was exiled as
a heretic in 431.7 From the viewpoint of Persian rulers, such a divide among
Christians was probably perfect since the eastern Christians were cleared from
any suspicion of disloyalty towards the King of Kings. Khosrow ii (590–628)
went so far as to marry a Christian, the famous Shirin.8
Another difference was the existence of a strong aristocracy in Persia con-
sisting of powerful landowners. The nobles had a strong regional base and
used to provide their own contingents for the army. Consequently, Persian
troops were much less homogeneous than the Roman army and much more
difficult to manage. Nevertheless, in times of war the Persians proved a forceful
enemy who were often victorious and never decisively defeated by the Romans
although Justinian interpreted the Battle of Dara in this sense.
6 For the history of the Mazdakites see Wiesehöfer, “Kawad, Khusro I and the Mazdakites”.
7 Walker, “From Nisibis to Xi’an”.
8 Greatrex, “Khusro II and the Christians”.
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12 Leppin
The Empires were rivals, but they had interests in common:9 the vast lands
of Eurasia that stretched from China to the Caucasus were agitated by ethnic
turmoil, a situation probably exacerbated by difficulties in procuring natural
resources after 536, and barbarian groups more than once set out to enter the
prosperous empire. The Caucasus, which was difficult to defend, often served as
their entry point. Both empires had an interest in blocking the passes here, yet
they also had other, conflicting interests in the same region. Indeed, there were
smaller kingdoms, namely Armenia, Iberia and Lazica, between the Empires
which, being largely Christianized, leaned towards Rome, yet did not shy away
from forging alliances with Persia. Unsurprisingly, in internal conflicts the par-
ties sought support from one of the empires. Therefore, the Caucasus was a
dangerous and troublesome spot.
Further to the south, the Euphrates marked the border between the two, but
the desert was controlled by flourishing Arab kingdoms: the Lakhmids, gener-
ally allied with Persia, and the Ghassanids, traditionally connected with Rome.
Both groups retained a high degree of independence between the empires, and
could spur turmoil even in time of peace.10 The western Arab peninsula, the
Hijāz, which was historically connected with Abyssinia, enjoyed less attention,
but both empires tried to win partners in the region, even if nobody could
foresee its future.
The 6th-century saw many years of war between Rome and Persia and
short periods of peace. In 506 Kawad i (488–531) and the Roman emperor
Anastasius (491–518) forged a treaty putting an end to a war that had begun
four years earlier. While Kawad seems to have needed to deal with unrest in the
East,11 the Roman Emperor opted for a policy of cocooning by building strong
fortifications such as Dara on the frontier.12 Later, Kawad i even proposed that
Anastasius’ successor Justin (518–27) might adopt his son Khosrow i (prob-
ably not that generous an offer since Khosrow i could then have laid claim
to the Roman throne.) The offer was declined. Nevertheless, the Persian king
must have been surprised when Iberia in the Caucasus defected. Tensions
grew and the military conflict recommenced with alternating success. In 532,
Kawad’s son Khosrow i (531–79) and Justin’s nephew Justinian (527–65) con-
cluded a peace treaty based on symbolic equality which they called “eternal”.
Subsequently, both empires were plagued by problems both internal and on
their borders. Rome paid a large sum to Persia, justified by the latter’s defence
9 Greatrex, “Byzantium and the East”.

10 Fisher, Between Empires.
11 Schindel, “Kawād I”.
12 Meier, Anastasios I.
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of the Caucasian passes, though for the Persians the tributes were a symbol of
their world dominion.13
The Eternal Peace lasted eight years, which was short even by Roman-Persian
standards. In 540 Khosrow invaded the Roman Empire on the Syrian border.
The region was poorly defended and within weeks he arrived at the shores of
the Mediterranean Sea where he bathed and offered sacrifices. This was an act
of extraordinary symbolic importance: no Persian ruler had advanced so far
for centuries. The regular Roman army had retreated, local bishops acted as
negotiators, and some towns had to rely on holy objects rather than weapons
for protection. But while the Persians were neither willing nor able to keep the
vast region of Syria under control, they returned in the years that followed.
After 545 truces brought peace to most of the border regions, but the war
lingered in the Caucasus until 561, when Khosrow and Justinian finally agreed
to a fifty-year peace. There was no definite victor, but the Sasanian Empire
was in a slightly better position as Rome was obliged to pay a fixed sum to
Persia each year. However, the wars would soon resume with disastrous conse-
quences. Both empires were weakened by continuous fighting and fell victim
to the invasion of Muslim Arabs who destroyed the Persian Empire and con-
quered some of the wealthiest provinces of the Eastern Roman Empire.14
Sasanian rulers were not only challenged on their western border and in
the Caucasus. In Central Asia, formerly nomadic groups in the process of set-
tling challenged the shahinshah (and often Chinese or Indian rulers too). The
southern regions were dominated by the Hephthalites, who were admired by
Procopius for their lawful order (Procopius, Persian War 1.3.5). Further to the
north, the Göktürks began to establish a new power structure around the mid-
dle of the 6th-century, exercising heavy control over the Silk Road. These for-
mations are sometimes called empires, sometimes confederacies, due to their
poor presence in the sources on the one hand and to their fluid organization
on the other. From the Persian point of view, Hephthalites, Göktürks and other
tribes sometimes acted as allies and sometimes as enemies – it was difficult to
build up a reliable relationship with them. The north-eastern and eastern bor-
ders of the Persian empire were thus under permanent threat, although from
555 Khusrow i, in league with the Khagan of the Göktürks, was able to repress
the Hephthalites.15
13 Payne, “Cosmology”, p. 13.

14 For foreign politics Greatrex/Lieu, The Roman Eastern Frontier.
15 Stark, Die Alttürkenzeit in Mittel- und Zentralasien; Kurbanov, “The Archaeology and
History of the Hephthalites”.
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14 Leppin
Despite the nearly uninterrupted chain of wars, the sixth century was a time
of growing power for the Sasanian Empire, at least up to the last decades. Its
strength was grounded in inner reforms which are, however, often difficult to
grasp in detail. Kawad and Khosrow both managed to discipline the aristoc-
racy, they introduced a new fiscal system and they recruited more troops under
the king’s direct command. Temporarily, the Persians might have given the
impression of strength, but the frequent conflicts with Rome and other powers
contributed heavily to developments that lastingly weakened the Empire.
3 The Most Powerful Kingdom: The Empire of Justinian
There were not many people from China who travelled as far as the Roman
Empire. Still, about 550 a Christian monk furtively transported precious silk-
worm eggs from China to the west, which developed well, eventually produc-
ing the fibres needed for silk production. The looms and weavers were located
within the imperial palace, a clear sign of the importance of the textile.16 In
this regard, Rome had gained independence from Persia’s control over trade
routes, but it was a small success compared to the difficulties afflicting the
Roman Empire under Justinian.17
3.1 Borders
It is characteristic of pre-modern empires that the distinction between inside
and outside is often difficult to draw.18 On their periphery, smaller kingdoms
and power structures enjoy a high degree of autonomy while deriving their
legitimacy from the empire. In the Roman case bonds that transgressed the bor-
ders were of great importance: for many nations of the Mediterranean world,
especially in the west, the political tradition of Rome still proved strong and
attractive. The fact that the Romans had ruled over the whole Mediterranean
world was not forgotten, they were even somehow regarded as legitimate rul-
ers. Late antiquity had added another bond: the Christian Roman emperor felt
responsible for the protection of Christians and the true Christian faith in the
whole oikoumene, which gave him a good reason (or at least pretence) to inter-
vene wherever he saw Christians under threat. This could also be formalized:
16 Oikonomidès, “Silk Trade and Production in Byzantium”.

17 See for my interpretation Leppin, Justinian.
18 Bang/Kolodziejczyk (eds), Universal Empire.
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the treaty between Rome and Persia in 561–62 dedicated a special paragraph to
the Christian subjects of the Shahinshah.19
Roman tradition and Christianity were powerful bonds merging into a kind
of Byzantine universalism. The zone of Christian kingdoms in the near East
and East Africa has been called the First Byzantine Commonwealth, a term
which pays due respect to close cultural bonds.20 But this Commonwealth
was divided by the struggle between various Christian confessions and did not
develop into a lasting political alliance. It stands, however, for the entangle-
ment produced by cultural and religious ties.
Like the Persian Empire, Rome faced enemies of various characters. The bor-
der between Rome and Persia appears to be an exception. It might move, but the
realms were confined by treaties in those zones where the empires were direct
neighbours. It was much more difficult to define the border in the Caucasus
region because of the changing loyalty of the kingdoms there. Christianity
served as a bond between Rome and Caucasian kingdoms as Zoroastrianism
might do with regard to Persia, whereas in the desert the spheres of influence
of Persia and Rome were fluid and depended on their Arab allies.21
In the Balkans and the West, the situation was even more bewildering.
Formally, the Danube marked the border of the Roman Empire, but barbarian
tribes had crossed the river more than once and settled in the regions south of
it. Roman rule always seemed precarious, the zone north of the Danube was
difficult to understand, let alone to control for Rome. It was part of the vast
Eurasian zone where various highly mobile and mutable groups dominated.
Romans described them as equestrian nomads, and in classicizing discourse
they were called Scythians, but in fact a wide variety of peoples occupied this
zone, whatever their origin or name. Typically, they were commanded by a
monarch, but often the structures were unstable, and the groups lacked eth-
nic homogeneity, though they might in the case of special endeavours such as
an incursion into the Roman Empire form alliances that dissolved afterwards.
Rome tried to bind partners into a federation, but they were often unreliable,
as relations were often personal and came to an end with the death of the
barbarian partner.22
Christian Mission could be an instrument of obligation, even personally
involving the Emperor:
19 Menander Protector, ed. Blockley, pp. 398–407.

20 Fowden, Empire to Commonwealth.
21 Fisher, Between Empires.
22 Fine, The Early Medieval Balkans; Sarantis, Justinian’s Balkan Wars.
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16 Leppin
In that year (527–28) the king of the Heruli named Grepes came over to
the Romans and arrived in Byzantion for he had made obeisance to the
emperor and asked to become a Christian. He was baptized at the Holy
Epiphany with the emperor Justinian acting as his sponsor. His sena-
tors and twelve of his relations were baptized with him. When Justinian
had bestowed his gifts on him and dismissed him, he travelled with his
force to his homeland, with the emperor of the Romans saying to him:
‘Whenever I need you, I will inform you.23
Grepes then disappears from historical record. The Heruli had been one of the
major groups in the western Balkans, albeit weakened by their defeat against
the Langobards in 508, who then with the Gepids, both apparently Germanic
speakers, came to dominate the area for a long time. Their conflict was help-
ful for Rome and fomented by Romans. After their victory over the Gepids,
the Lombards invaded Italy in 568, where they were to rule for more than one
hundred years.
In the middle of the sixth century, nomadic groups called Avars invaded the
region, probably driven westwards by the Göktürks, who have already been
mentioned in the context of the Sasanian empire.24 They formed a powerful
Khaganate in the Baltics with many Slavic groups under their rule. Rural peo-
ple, called Slavs in Greek sources, gained in importance and began to establish
polities under foreign dominance in the 7th-century.25
The Balkans, however, remained unstable. Romans made more than a few
raids into areas north of the Danube and celebrated an impressive number of
victories (whatever these may have meant in practice). Under Justinian, they
erected an impressive number of fortresses, but they never managed to stabi-
lize the frontier, let alone extend their sphere of influence. Here are the tell-tale
characteristics of asymmetric wars: although even the most powerful tribes in
the Balkans had much fewer resources than the Romans, they could still wreak
damage on the Empire because it was much more vulnerable than its enemies.
The kingdoms in the West are much better known than the groups and
tribes in the Balkans. A difficult balance was kept between them and Rome
in the first decades of the 6th-century. Rome had ruled the Mediterranean
basin for centuries from its centre in Italy, but now the area where Rome ruled
23 Malalas, Chronicle 18.6, trans. Jeffreys/Jeffreys/Scott; cf. John of Ephesus, Ecclesiastical His-
tory a. 532–3 (p. 74–5 Harrak); see for context St. Esders, “Grenzen und Grenzüberschrei-
tungen”, pp. 13–14; Meier, Geschichte der Völkerwanderung, pp. 612–14.
24 Pohl, Die Awaren.
25 Curta, The Making of the Slavs.
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effectively (i.e. where it collected taxes and claimed to enforce her laws) was
much reduced, even the city of Rome responding to a foreign ruler. Kings of
Germanic origin, some of whom had been raised in a Roman context, ruled in
regions that had once been Roman provinces. Modern maps give a colourful
impression of various realms dividing the Mediterranean world among them-
selves, such as the Byzantine empire, the kingdoms of the Ostrogoths in Italy,
the Visigoths in Spain, the Franks in Gaul and the Vandals in Africa, but from
the point of view of Constantinople all those kingdoms derived, or should
have derived their legitimacy from Rome, which was formally still the ruler of
the Mediterranean.26
The vast majority of the inhabitants of these kingdoms were Romans
who proudly continued their cultural traditions, with only a slight, shrinking
Germanic minority. The Germans defined themselves as groups held together
by blood relationships. They bore weapons, but they leant on the administra-
tive competence and economic productivity of the Romans. Latin was in use
even in the courts, despite the Germans customarily preserving their tradi-
tional names, which sounded barbarian to Roman ears. Some guise of Roman
law remained in force, at least for the Romans, and the tax system was not
changed fundamentally, but somehow adapted to the needs of the new rulers.
Latin titles and Roman forms of representation adorned the kings, and it is in
this sense that they may be called post-Roman kingdoms.
Many Romans paid more respect to the emperor in Constantinople than to
the kings ruling in their regions, but a large number co-operated with the new
rulers for the time being. The Roman senator Cassiodorus for example served
as magister officiorum under Theoderic the Great (493–526) and his successor
Athalaric (526–34). This involved organizing the court and writing royal cor-
respondence, much of which he collected in the so-called Variae, which are
among our most important sources for the time. But, during the Gothic-Roman
wars he retired and moved to Constantinople for a time.
Civil war never broke out between these barbarians and their Roman subjects,
but relations were often strained. Ethnic and religious differences went hand
in hand, since most Germans were Arians (or what might be called so) whereas
Romans typically adhered to the Chalcedonian creed. The Chalcedonian (or at
least non-Arian) baptism of king Clovis, traditionally dated around 497, was an
important step towards the integration of the Frankish kingdom. In contrast,
Vandal rule was full of the persecutions of Chalcedonians.
It was a difficult task for the German kings to rule on formerly Roman soil.
Some of them, as for example Theoderic the Great, had been raised in the
26 Pohl, “Justinian and the Barbarian Kingdoms”.
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18 Leppin
classical culture and possessed a good grasp of the sensitivities of the Romans.
Even this did not prevent crises. Others had grown up in a military, non-Roman
environment, and it was only natural for any Germanic ruler to be mistrust-
ful of their Roman subjects as their fundamental loyalty was to the Emperor.
On the other hand, the kings depended on the administrative and intellectual
competence of the Romans and, in part, on their reputation. Thus, the king-
doms were inherently unstable, and few lasted the length of Justinian’s reign.
As said before, from a traditionalist Roman point of view, post-Roman king-
doms were subordinated to the emperor. No one would question the unique role
of the Roman emperor, who now resided in the second Rome, Constantinople,
and for Romans there could be no doubt that their only emperor was Augustus,
that only he was entitled to wear purple, that only he had the right to stage
chariot races, that only he had the right to mint gold coins. He still possessed
the important power of prestige and could bequeath it: emperor Anastasius
felt free to invest a king such as Clovis with some kind of consular dignity; yet
the Frank had himself called Augustus and wore a purple wardrobe.27 Fancy
forms of representation like these worried ancient Romans and modern schol-
ars. They were not necessarily meant as provocations but may illustrate the
difficulties kings had in finding their role in this rapidly changing world.
Justinian is famous for availing himself of opportunities to reconquer vast
regions of the former Western empire: Africa (533–34), Italy (535–54) and
the south coast of the Iberian Peninsula (c.551–555) once again came under
Roman rule. From the Roman point of view, these were not conquests, but the
restoration of the empire as it had been and should be, a restauratio imperii,
as it was called in retrospect. Justinian’s conquests make a striking impression
on a modern map, evoking the idea that the splendour of ancient Rome had
returned. This perception was encouraged by the Romans themselves, such as
Procopius describing the triumph of Justinian’s foremost general:
Belisarius, upon reaching Byzantium (sc. Constantinople) with Gelimer

(last king of the Vandals) and the Vandals, was counted worthy to receive
such honours, as in former times were assigned to those generals of the
Romans who had won the greatest and most noteworthy victories. And
a period of about six hundred years had now passed since anyone had
attained these honours, except, indeed, Titus and Trajan, and such other
emperors as had led armies against some barbarian nation and had been
27 Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks 2,38 with Meier, Anastasios I., pp. 231–32.
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victorious. For he displayed the spoils and slaves from the war in the midst
of the city and led a procession which the Romans call a ‘triumph’.28
But most people would come to learn that the long campaigns together with
the confrontations in the Balkans and on the Eastern border meant great
loss of life and resources. During the Gothic wars, Roman troops often lacked
manpower, equipment and food, and the lands they held in Italy were impov-
erished, having suffered destruction they had never seen before. Even the
Eternal City had been without inhabitants for some time, as Procopius states
(Procopius, Gothic War 3.22.19). A restauratio of this kind was more a burden
than anything.
Not even the emperor’s reputation remained unscathed. The Franks profited
most from the Gothic wars, extending their realm along the Mediterranean
coastline as far as the Alps, something Constantinople had to finally accept.
But the Franks played their own games, sometimes honouring promises, some-
times not and were reliable allies neither for the Goths nor for Rome. Justinian’s
loss of prestige becomes clear in a passage still vibrant with Procopius’ indig-
nation, describing the behaviour of the Frankish king Theudebert i (533–48)
and his entourage in the old imperial residence of Arles:
[A]s gentlemen of leisure they view the horse races at Arles, and also
make a golden coin from the product of the mines in Gaul, not stamp-
ing the likeness of the Roman emperor on this stater, as is customary,
but their own likeness. And yet, while the Persian king is accustomed to
make silver coinage as he likes, still it is not considered right either for
him or for any other sovereign in the whole barbarian world to imprint
his own likeness on a gold stater, and that, too, though he has gold in his
own kingdom.29
Staging chariot races was already a provocation – minting gold coins with the
king’s image was even worse. Procopius could not stomach such behaviour,
which revealed that the precarious expansion of the Roman Empire was not
enough to protect the Roman emperor against offences. The king of the Franks
would not even think of being crowned emperor, but he did not shy away from
imitating the imperial role.
28 Procopius, Vandal War 2.9.1–3. Even were we to interpret this passage as sarcastic, it pre-
supposes that there were people who thought of this triumph as a continuation of old
traditions.
29 Procopius, Gothic War 3.33.5–6.
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20 Leppin
The 6th-century was a time when both the empires of the ancient world, the
Roman and the Persian, seemingly regained strength. However, in the end this
was nothing more than an extended agony. Unable to forge enduring peace,
both empires deployed massive resources against each other while new pow-
ers emerged from the margins that eventually came to dominate the region
in the Early Medieval Period: the Franks in the West, the Slavs in the Balkans
and the Arabs from the South of the Peninsula. They were the needles that
pricked the inflated centre.
3.2 Political Order

After the last West Roman emperor was deposed in 476, there was only one
Roman emperor left, who resided in Constantinople, and as there was a lack of
natural heirs, every succession was risky. Anastasius, whose rule had begun in
491, died in 518, with no designated successor in sight, although he had three
nephews. After a short time of uncertainty, Justin, a man of low birth from the
Balkans, established himself as emperor and was easily accepted. The transi-
tion of power to his nephew Justinian went smoothly, and this new emperor
ruled for almost 40 years. Although he faced many crises, most famously the
532 Nika riot in Constantinople, which nearly forced the emperor to flee and
which he overcame only through deceit and brute force, very few events truly
threatened his throne. After the riots, he in fact was stronger than ever.30 The
few attempts to assassinate him all failed, while civil unrest troubled the capi-
tal only on rare occasions.31 Surreptitious criticism went so far as to call him
the anti-Christ,32 but there was no real threat. In his final years, he seems to
have lost his grip, but he did manage to place one of his relatives as his succes-
sor, his nephew Justin ii (565–78).
In principle, the Roman emperor was all powerful. He was the source of
law and, as he embodied law, he could adapt it to circumstances. His decisions
were definite. In reality, however, the emperor would take his decisions in the
consistorium, an assembly of important functionaries, and would also heed the
opinions of others, such as monks, who were able to provoke the emperor with
minimal risk, since the killing of a monk would have revealed the emperor as
an enemy of god.
30 Greatrex, “The Nika Riot. A Reappraisal”; according to a sharply argued thesis Justinian
consciously provoked the crisis, see Meier, “Die Inszenierung einer Katastrophe”; it is still
a minority position.
31 Bell, Social Conflict.
32 Most impressively in Procopius’ Anekdota.
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Critics of the emperor suggested that eunuchs, especially his personal

praepositus sacri cubiculi (inspector of the imperial cubicle), and the empress
Theodora (d. 548) exerted too much influence. Theodora’s image was fur-
ther damaged by Procopius, who denigrated her as a former prostitute who
bewitched the emperor aiming to completely destroy the empire, but a sober
analysis shows that she was very much a normal empress, who was not even
honoured with coins bearing her portrait. She will not have been without influ-
ence on her husband but probably in fields that were characteristic of imperial
women anyway, such as charities and the adorning of churches.33
Apart from possible personal influences, it is important to keep in mind
that the emperor depended on the approbation of various groups. Arcadius
(395–408) was the first eastern Roman emperor to reside in Constantinople,
at which point four entities gained the greatest relevance: the army, the elites,
religious authorities and the people of Constantinople.34
The main body of the army was stationed on the empire’s borders under
the command of the magistri militum. In the past – for example, at the end of
Nero’s reign (54–68) – the border armies had tried to seize power. While there
was no coup during Justinian’s reign, under his successors the army became
increasingly difficult to control. On occasion, regular troops were called to
Constantinople – it was the army that dealt the decisive blow during the Nika
riot –, but this was exceptional, and few soldiers were garrisoned in the city.
Some stood guard over the palace, the excubitores being the most effective,
while other urban units, such as the protectores or scholae, prided themselves
on their prestigious reputation. Typically, the palace guards were never under
the control of a single officer, even if a magister militum was present.
The elites were many and varied. Unlike other towns, Constantinople had
no city council. There was a senate, modelled on the Roman counterpart of the
fourth century, but which had its own traditions. Many senators lived outside
Constantinople, and among those living in the capital were the descendants
of noble and prosperous families which wielded influence in their own right.
Many sneered at low-born people such as Justin and Justinian, and rumours
that Justin was illiterate abounded. But with so much personal rivalry among
them, the senators were unable to build a viable opposition to the overwhelm-
ing power of the emperor. Besides, many felt threatened by the emperor’s
33 For Theodora see Leppin, Justinian, pp. 189–91; 288–92; 309–13.

34 For the concept of acceptance groups in late antiquity see Pfeilschifter, Der Kaiser und
Konstantinopel, pp. 28–38.
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22 Leppin
mistrust and his appetite for their riches, and more than once they stepped
aside as their peers fell.
More important than the senate as an institution were the high magistrates,
part of a vast administration based in Constantinople, with their desks often
inside the palace itself.35 The complex and bureaucratic system and the divi-
sion of functions ensured that no single office holder was able to steer the
entire government. However, there existed a hierarchy and, undoubtedly, the
praetorian prefect was by far the most important magistrate. Normally, two or
more prefects shared the office, each responsible for certain regions, but the
most powerful was the praefectus Orientis. As a resident of Constantinople,
he had access to the emperor and was the last instance of appeal before the
emperor in civil law matters and controlled important areas of taxation, as
well as the payment of soldiers and officials. Holders often managed to attract
other functions,36 and more than once the ambitions of praetorian prefects
had to be repressed. A notorious case was that of John the Cappadocian, who
had risen to a position of great power from lowly origins, pressing ahead with
reforms that antagonized many people. During the Nika riot, Justinian had
been forced to sack him, but John soon rose to power again. In the eyes of
Procopius, he was a dreadful personality and was responsible for many of the
system’s deficiencies:
He would become again a plague to all the Romans both in public and in
private. And he conversed commonly with sorcerers, and constantly lis-
tened to profane oracles which portended for him the imperial office, so
that he was plainly walking on air and lifted up by his hopes of the royal
power. But in his rascality and the lawlessness of his conduct there was
no moderation or abatement. And there was in him absolutely no regard
for God, and even when he went to a sanctuary to pray and to pass the
night, he did not do at all as the Christians are wont to do, but he clothed
himself in a coarse garment appropriate to a priest of the old faith which
they are now accustomed to call Hellenic, and throughout that whole
night mumbled out some unholy words which he had practised, praying
that the mind of the emperor might be still more under his control, and
that he himself might be free from harm at the hands of all men.37
35 More detailed descriptions Delmaire, Les institutions du Bas-Empire romain, pp. 28–59.
36 Brandes, Finanzverwaltung in Krisenzeiten.
37 Procopius, Persian War 1.25.8–10.
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John the Lydian, who worked in the office of the praetorian, gives us impor-
tant insights into the world view of the lower-tier clerks:38 they were loyal to
the state; they felt their love for Roman traditions, which were a beacon of
continuity in unsettled times; they watched the careers of other administra-
tors with jealousy; they enjoyed the prerogatives of their functions – and they
obviously expected the emperor to pay heed to their sensibilities.
John the Lydian and his colleagues had to work hard under Justinian. In the
first twenty years, the emperor did his best to make the administration run
more smoothly, to fight corruption among aristocrats and to take care of the
weaker members of society, such as widows, the unfree and the destitute poor.
In this respect, his most impressive and influential success was the codifica-
tion of laws in various books. This was the most enduring legacy of the age, not
only in Byzantium, but also in Latin Europe.
The people of Constantinople are best defined as those who lacked insti-
tutionalized power. The population of the city was diverse, both ethnically
and socially, including people from across the Mediterranean world, of whom
many owned businesses or were artisans, while others lived a precarious exis-
tence, whiling away their time until the next public event. The differences in
wealth must have been huge, but we possess little data about the economic
situation of the local population. Lawful inhabitants of the town were sup-
ported by the distribution of public bread and enjoyed various privileges and
living in the capital was so attractive that Justinian had to issue strict measures
to control the influx.
There were few opportunities for the citizens to see the emperor in person,
but one was during the chariot races. The competition celebrated the splendor
of the emperor, and the crowning of the victor represented the ideal of impe-
rial victory. This tradition had survived from the beginning of Rome into the
Christian Empire and was also a test of the emperor’s popularity. Spectators
were divided into “circus factions”, which organized the racing stables and
mobilized fans from the middle and lower classes.39 As the emperor emerged
into the hippodrome, which was linked directly to his rooms in the palace, the
spectators were expected to cheer. However, on occasion they would jeer or
offend the emperor, as happened during the Nika revolt.
The emperor also left his palace to practice Christian rituals. He went to
church, usually to the Hagia Sophia, which was nearby, took part in proces-
sions, which was a new feature of urban life in late antiquity. Processions
might celebrate Christian feasts or military victories, but they might also offer
38 Kelly, Ruling the Later Roman Empire.

39 Cameron, Circus Factions.
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24 Leppin
a chance to do penance. In these rituals of piety, the emperor and his entou-
rage were in close proximity with the other believers, and they were an occa-
sion for Justinian to demonstrate his devotion and occasionally his humility.
Even in these holy events, the people might express their anger toward the
emperors, sometimes instigated by spiritual authorities.
The emperor could not rely on winning acceptance among the spiritual
authorities, whether they be monks or bishops. As with most emperors in late
antiquity, Justinian endured sharp criticism from outspoken clergymen con-
cerning his religious policy, even falling foul of bishops who, although often at
odds with each other and incapable of seizing political power, could still cause
perilous turmoil.40
Outside the capital the political situation was different. The emperor rarely
even set foot outside of Constantinople, staying far away from the provinces,
but subjects could respectfully gaze at his (highly stylized) image on coins or
in public spaces. Paying taxes, they felt his power, and they might hope to find
justice in institutions that derived their authority from the emperor. Some
would call on the centurio of the garrison nearby to deal with their quarrels,
while others would turn to regular courts. People were allowed to send peti-
tions to the court or even to travel to Constantinople, and they were not misled
in expecting answers from the emperor, if only years later. The emperor was
supposed to attend to the problems of his subjects and to handle justice, some-
thing Justinian seems to have taken extremely earnestly.41
There were rivals to imperial power on the periphery. In parts of the prov-
inces, regional landholders with reliable contacts to Constantinople held more
power than the governors, and Justinian’s laws against corruption presupposed
that governors and landowners were often accomplices in the suppression of
the poor. He sought to raise the bishops to a position of control over impe-
rial officials. For peasants, however, it was difficult to avoid them despite the
emperor’s precautions.
Apart from the landowners there were other menacing forces working
within the Empire, most notably Christians who did not share the emperor’s
convictions. Justinian’s creed was based on the Council of Chalcedon, which
had called Jesus both truly God and truly man,42 but many groups had opposed
this belief, underlining the unity of Christ’s nature, thereby implying that the
Chalcedonians emphasized the disunion between the human and the divine
40 Leppin, “Power from Humility”.

41 Palme, “Militärs in der Rechtsprechung”.
42 Fundamental: Grillmeier, The Christ in Christian Tradition, vol. 2, part 4; Menze, Justinian
and the Making.
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natures of Christ. They are traditionally called Miaphysites or Monophysites

but are sometimes simply defined as anti-Chalcedonians. All the eastern
emperors after Chalcedon had had to confront this problem, without success.
Justinian had made several openings towards Miaphysites, even promoting
formulae he hoped might appeal to anti-Chalcedonians. He also persecuted
them, but they resisted. The Ecumenical Council of Constantinople in 553
repudiated some texts (the so-called Three Chapters) that had been written
by authors widely regarded as Chalcedonians and which were abhorred by
Miaphysites and accepted a formula intended to underline the difference to
so-called Nestorians.
However, the council served only to alienate Chalcedonians in the West
while failing to win back Miaphysite groups. While western churches sev-
ered their contacts with Constantinople, in the east, important groups estab-
lished separate churches, for example in Syria and Egypt. These provinces had
always been difficult to control politically, but now they drifted away from the
church of Constantinople, which also was the church of the emperor.43 The
Christological controversies were of critical importance for the Roman Empire,
but Procopius, as a classicising author, avoids discussing them as much as pos-
sible; perhaps he was not the only traditionalist to do his best to ignore what
many might interpret as theological quibbles.
What I have said so far about politics in the Roman Empire already shows
how difficult the times were, and it must be seen against the backdrop of
another far-reaching development that lay outside of human agency – a seem-
ingly uninterrupted chain of natural disasters. Many anxiously expected the
end of the world, and a series of catastrophes seemed to confirm the worst of
their fears. Among the calamities was the darkening of the sun in 536, which
was probably the cause of other disasters such as failed harvests.
Ancient Romans could only interpret the frequency of these events as the
consequence of God’s wrath. Justinian reacted in religious terms: he perse-
cuted religious enemies more energetically, he presented himself as a peni-
tent emperor who therefore should be regarded as a holy man, and he tried to
recast Christian doctrine in order to unite all Christians.44 The result was an
even deeper schism between factions and increased tension between the cen-
tre and its periphery. The Roman Empire had grown under Justinian’s rule, but
it had become weaker, as his governance was not strong enough to keep the
vast realm together. In addition, global disasters undermined Roman power
and the people feared the worst was yet to come.
43 Chazelle/Cubitt (eds), The Crisis of the Oikoumene.

44 Meier, Das andere Zeitalter Justinians.
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26 Leppin
4 Connecting the Eurasian Continent
Ensuring safety for sea trade in the Mediterranean was among the main
achievements of the Roman Empire. Maritime traffic was still busy in the
east, and various commodities were traded back and forth, the appetite of
the gargantuan town of Constantinople had to be fed with grain, people trav-
elled from town to town on business, to discuss dogma or visit friends, and for
whatever other imaginable reasons. The ships also carried rats, who brought
with them dangerous luggage of their own – the bubonic plague.45 The dis-
ease seems to have originated in east Africa. It travelled to Egypt, from there to
Palestine, Syria, Constantinople and then to the west. Few parts of the empire
were spared.
Procopius, a witness of the plague, gives a thorough description of the hor-
rific symptoms, including among others fever, swelling and dark stains. He also
describes the dire consequences in the capital, where the plague erupted in
the spring of 542:
And work of every description ceased, and all the trades were abandoned
by the artisans, and all other work as well, such as each had in hand.
Indeed, in a city which was simply abounding in all good things starva-
tion almost absolute was running riot. Certainly it seemed a difficult and
very notable thing to have a sufficiency of bread or of anything else; so
that with some of the sick it appeared that the end of life came about
sooner than it should have come by reason of the lack of the necessities
of life.46
The plague ended after some years, but there were several more outbreaks dur-
ing the following decades.
This phenomenon extended far beyond the borders of the Roman Empire.
The germs found their way along the Silk Road in one direction and sneaked
into England and Ireland in the other. It was the earliest of three pandemics
of global dimension – the next one, the Black Death in the 1340s, broke out
centuries later. Therefore, the traditional name Justinanic plague is mislead-
ing, and it should be known more technically as early medieval pandemic. It
45 McCormick, “Rats, Communications, and Plague”; Horden, “Mediterranean Plague”;

Little, Plague and the End of Antiquity; Rosen, Justinian’s Flea (from a more general per-
spective). The extent of the plague is controversial, see Mordeachai et al., “The Justinianic
Plague”, 25546–25554; contra: Meier, “Die ‚Justinianische Pest”.
46 Procopius, Persian War 2.23.18
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was another global aspect of the age of Justinian. The various regions of the
Eurasian continent were not without contact, but they were more deeply con-
nected by natural phenomena than by cultural exchange.47
Procopius continued his observations about the darkness of 536 with the
following words: “And from the time this thing happened men were free nei-
ther from war nor pestilence nor any other thing leading to death.”48 Every
reader of Procopius should keep in mind this depressing outlook, which is
more than a late trace of the pessimistic rhetoric that shaped Roman histori-
ography from its beginning.
Procopius did not live to see a new order emerge in the seventh century. In
China the Tang dynasty (618–907) established its rule over China, some of its
emperors receptive to Christian influence from the Silk Road. The followers of
Mohammed conquered the Mediterranean coast up to the Atlantic and pushed
into the Iranian highlands before, amidst bloody conflict among Muslims, the
Umayyad Caliphate emerged. Beginning from 661, the Damascene Caliphs
established a firm rule, thereby assuring the continuation of many of the intel-
lectual and administrative traditions of late antiquity.49 Three Post-Roman
kingdoms survived until the end of the seventh century: the Franks in Gaul,
the Visigoths in Spain and the Lombards in Italy, though one might have won-
dered at the time whether they too would have to meet the Muslims in battle.
The Avars remained the most powerful Khaganate in the Balkans, although
their position was challenged by the Bulgars, who managed to gain control
over regions north of the Danube. Culturally, others prevailed: the language of
the Slavs, which had been the tongue of the villages, was, with few exceptions,
to hold sway over the region in the centuries to come.
In contrast to Persia, the Eastern Roman Empire, now usually called the
Byzantine Empire, had defended itself against the many attacks and survived
for many more centuries. The world had become one-eyed. Persia had been the
hub of Eurasia and Byzantium the dominant state in the Mediterranean Sea,
but now powers coming from the periphery shaped the Euro-Mediterranean
world which, however, vividly remembered the great Empires of the past.
47 For the problem: McNeill, “Biological Exchange”.
48 Procopius, Vandal War 2.14.6.
49 Howard-Johnston, Witnesses, pp. 436–516.
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The Search for Harmony in Procopius’
Literary Works
Brian Croke
Perched on a rise between the Colosseum and the Lateran, Santi Quattro
Coronati is one of Rome’s lesser-known and less accessible churches. Yet,
for scholars of late antiquity and Byzantium it ought to be a pilgrimage site
because since 1626 it has been the resting place of the man who ignited the
modern scholarly study of Procopius and his age, Niccolò Alemanni (Nicolaus
Alemannus).1 A carefully carved classical epitaph on the floor tells the passer-
by that Alemanni (1583–1626) was prefect of the Vatican library and the secret
papal archive located at Castel St Angelo, that he was a man of outstanding
piety and famed for his erudition in both Greek and Latin, that he served
the papacy for about sixteen years, and that this memorial was provided by
Niccolò’s uncle, George Tromba Lascaris.2 Apart from being a native Greek
speaker from Andros, Alemanni had been educated in Greek at the College
of St Athanasius, which Pope Gregory xiii had founded at Rome in 1577. Both
Lascaris and Alemanni were part of the Greek humanist circle surrounding the
college, a group devoted to serious study of all Greek texts, including patristic
and Byzantine writers.
So, after discovering in the Vatican library two manuscripts which he quickly
recognised as Procopius’ unpublished work (known as the Secret History), edit-
ing the work for the first time was a natural task for Alemanni.3 Both manu-
scripts lacked a title and a named author, which may explain why they had
eluded earlier scholars and librarians.4 Other manuscripts of the Secret History
were already known and had been used by scholars in the previous century;
hence other editions of the Secret History were possible and could have been
1 On Alemanni: Mercati, “Alemanni”, pp. 148–49, with background to his life and work in
Brevaglieri, “Editoria e cultura”, pp. 257–310.
2 Forcella, Iscrizioni delle chiese, p. 293 (No. 726).
3 Publication details: Legrand, Bibliographie hellénique, pp. 202–207.
4 The two Vatican mss are: (1) Vat.Gr.1001, fols.1–100 (14th century); and (2) Vat.Gr.16, fols.137–
180* (14th/15th century). The latter was copied from the former. Their lack of title, authorship
and beginning was noted by Alemanni (Arcana Historia, p. xiv) so he took the title Anekdota
from the Suda entry (Π.2479: “Procopius”), which he confirmed from a more complete manu-
script (now Milan, Ambrosiana C.182 sup.).

The Search for Harmony in Procopius ’ Literary Works 29
published sooner.5 Although it appears Alemanni had completed his work in

1620, and given it the misleading title of Arcana Historia or Secret History, on
no manuscript evidence at all, he was keen to beat a rival edition.6 Alemanni
was well aware that the caricature of Justinian in the Secret History would
upset the lawyers. He was also aware that there were obstacles to having such a
work published in Rome especially from the hand of a papal librarian.
The anticipated strong reaction to the unveiling of Procopius’ Secret History
in 1623 was not because of what modern publishers promote, namely its por-
nographic portrayal of the young Theodora, later wife of emperor Justinian.
Alemanni had taken care of that himself by discretely omitting the offend-
ing Procopian paragraphs (Chapter 9) in the interests of modesty.7 Rather,
the appearance of the work in 1623 posed immediate literary and political
challenges. The literary conundrum was how to reconcile the new picture of
a demonic and despotic Justinian, dominated by his evil and malicious wife,
with the familiar one from Procopius’ already well-known History of the Wars
in which Theodora hardly appeared, and from other contemporary records.
Most important among these was Justinian’s voluminous and much studied
legislation, which had been a mainstay of legal education and practice for
centuries. The political challenge, especially for the papacy, was the threat
the Secret History presented to the contemporary understanding of Justinian’s
ecclesiastical policy and the history of relations between Rome and the eastern
churches, then being driven from papal Rome.8 Hence, for some, the only
explanation was denial, that is to say, impugning the authenticity of the Secret
History altogether. For two centuries, arguments raged back and forth about
the work’s authenticity and its authorship. By the later nineteenth century,
despite the detailed case already made by Felix Dahn (1834–1912),9 no less a
5 For the manuscripts of the Anekdota/Secret History: Croke, “Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 12, 63
n.180, with Pinelli’s manuscripts covered in Grendler, “Greek Collection”, pp. 386–416. Earlier
(16th century) users of different manuscripts of the Secret History: Croke, “Manuscripts to
Books”, pp. 44, 65–67.
6 This edition had been prepared by the Jesuit scholar Andreas Schottus (1552–1629) who was
known to be looking for a publisher in the Netherlands in 1620 (details in Croke, “Manuscripts
to Books”, p. 74), but his edition never appeared.
7 Alemanni, Arcana Historia, p. vii. They were not to appear in any edition of the Secret History
until that of Jacob Orelli (1770–1826) in 1827, who conceded (Orelli, “Anekdota”, p. 272) that
although Procopius was “not the sort of author to be read by adolescents” they could find
more scandalous things in Petronius and Juvenal.
8 Mazzarino, End, pp. 103–104 and Rietbergen, “Power and Religion”, pp. 399–420.
9 Dahn, Prokopius, pp. 49–57.
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30 Croke
classical scholar and historian than Leopold von Ranke (1795–1886)10 was still
convinced the Secret History was a fabrication, as was the young John B. Bury
(1861–1927).11
Now, nearly four centuries after Alemanni’s editio princeps, with the authen-
ticity of the Secret History established beyond doubt, and with his unfortunate
translation of the title Arcana Historia as Secret History long entrenched, its
original challenge remains: (1) how to reconcile Procopius’ seemingly dispa-
rate views of Justinian in diverse literary forms, and (2) how to interpret the
emperor’s character and role through Procopius’ works. Do the differences of
outlook and emphasis between the Wars, the Buildings and the Secret History
reflect simply the literary conventions of different genres, an author changing
his mind over time, the literary masks required to survive a ruthless autocracy,
personal disillusion, mischievous fabrication or a pathological temperament
occasionally losing balance? All these options have been proposed at some
point. Engaging with this fundamental question, the search for harmony and
explanatory coherence in Procopius’ works is the focus of this chapter but it
is really a modern problem (Section 1). Understanding it requires a system-
atic unravelling of the historiographical tradition which has determined the
various perspectives on Procopius’ works, beginning with the immediate
Byzantine tradition (Section 2), before moving onto that between the sixteenth
century and today, especially the central role of the Secret History (Section 3).
This forms the essential basis for analysing the character of Procopius’ liter-
ary works (Section 4) and drawing conclusions about the harmony between
them (Section 5). There has been more literary and historiographical research
on the works of Procopius and the reign of Justinian in the past thirty years
than in the previous four centuries. Despite all the new insights into various
dimensions of the Wars and Buildings, however, the Secret History remains
the inescapable fulcrum of any serious search for what is often dubbed “the
real Procopius”.
10 Ranke, Weltgeschichte, pp. 300–12, although shortly before his death in 1886 Ranke was
changing his mind. He confessed in writing to Dahn that he had not fully appreciated
his stylistic case for the authenticity of the Secret History (quoted by Dahn in Berliner
Philologische Wochenschrift 1892, Feb. 10, col.154). Even so, Ranke had always thought the
initial Belisarius chapters of the Secret History (c.1–5) were authentic but not the remain-
der; cf. Adshead, “Genesis”, pp. 5–7.
11 Bury, Arcadius to Irene, pp. 359–64. Persuaded by the subsequent researches of Jakob
Haury (Procopiana; “Prokophandschriften”, pp. 170–73) and a reconsideration of Dahn
(Prokopius), Bury soon conceded the Secret History was genuinely Procopian, first in 1898
(Gibbon, p. 516).
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1 Framing the Problem
Methodology is the most pressing problem confronting modern understand-

ing of Procopius, so Averil Cameron insisted in her fundamental study in 1985.
“Coping with Procopius” or “How to read Procopius” was what she meant in
the course of advancing an approach which sought to tackle what was then
seen as a privileging of the Wars.12 Reacting against an empiricist tradition that
had prevailed for over a century, she found another way to formulate the con-
cord in Procopius’ works. Rather, all three works are linked by the centrality
of Justinian so he can be differently cast as a demon in the Secret History and
as a saviour in the Buildings. In an era when writers were not free to express
their views publicly, Procopius required the full array of genres to provide a
complete picture of his era and its ruler. Cameron drew attention to the impor-
tance of dating the works, of defining their relation to each other and of iden-
tifying their key common elements such as events explained by human action
and divine intervention. As a result, the Secret History followed by the rela-
tively neglected Buildings, was brought into the centre of Procopian analysis.13
Three decades on, with Procopian studies flourishing as never before,
Cameron’s emphasis on methodology needs restating, not least because her
approach to explaining how to harmonize Procopius’ works was challenged by
Anthony Kaldellis who in 2004 painted strong contrasting pictures of Justinian,
reconcilable only by preferring one work (Secret History) over the others as
evincing the “real Procopius”.14 In his view the “problem of Procopius” is the
“problem of classicism”, that is, whether the writer’s classical allusions are just
a literary veneer or a skilful and encoded esoteric resource.15 The Secret History
is therefore an “insider’s scoop” full of “insider jokes” and esoteric literary allu-
sions for the few in the know.16 Procopius has thereby been cast as a fearless lit-
erary spokesman for an underground opposition movement writing under the
“unparalleled repression”17 and “intolerant theocracy”18 of one of history’s most
cruel and ruthless tyrants. In such a climate, the Secret History forms a yardstick
12 Averil Cameron, Procopius, p. ix, but more systematically articulated in “History as

Text”, pp. 53–66, and with hindsight progressively added in both “Conclusion”, p. 178 and
“Writing about Procopius”, p. 14.
13 Thus the sequence: Cameron, Procopius, pp. 49–83 (Secret History), pp. 84–112 (Buildings),
pp. 134–206 (Wars). “Harmony” is preferred here to Cameron’s “homogeneity” (Procopius,
p. 4).
14 Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, p. 52. For a more considered approach see Kaldellis, infra.
15 Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, p. 50.
16 Kaldellis, Secret History (see Primary Sources, under Procopius), pp. xxvii, l.
18 Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, p. 210 cf. p. 167 and “punitive theology” (pp. 210, 212).
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32 Croke
against which to measure the Wars, with the Buildings largely relegated to
an artificial and insincere category of encomium.19 On this interpretation,
were it not for the Secret History, the “bloodthirsty warmonger”20 and “sterile
technocrat”21 Justinian might have been unduly “idolized” as emperor by an
audience unfairly “dazzled” by his wars, laws and buildings.22 The single indis-
pensable key to understanding Justinian is therefore Procopius’ Secret History.
This modern challenge is essentially the same one articulated in 1686 by
the French historian Antoine Varillas (1624–1696) when trying to justify
his own “secret history” of the Medici court at Florence by resorting to the
example of Procopius, as expressed in the idiom of his seventeenth-century
English translator:
The reason of so different a Conduct, in one and the same Author

[Procopius], proceeds, if I be not mistaken from that the Historian con-
siders almost ever men in Publick, whereas the Anecdoto-grapher only
examines ’em in private. Th’one thinks he has perform’d his duty when
he draws them such as they were in the Army, or in the tumult of Cities,
and th’other endeavours by all means to get open their Closet door; th’one
sees them in Ceremony, and th’other in Conversation; th’one fixes princi-
pally upon their Actions, and th’other wou’d be a Witness of their inward
Life, and assist at the most private hours of their leisure. In a word, the
one has barely Command and authority for Object, and the other makes
his Main of what occurs in Secret and in Solitude.23
Procopius is here cast as a single author in two separate and definable roles,
(1) as historian and (2) as “anecdoto-grapher” with the former focussed on pub-
lic and outward events and the latter on the real motivations of their inner life
and views. The challenge was, and is, to reconcile the two. Even so, the very
quest for unity of purpose and outlook between the author’s private beliefs
and his overt statements across the very different works of Procopius remains
a singularly curious one.
With a focus on style, literary manner and personal viewpoint, the unity
of authorship across the Wars, Secret History and Buildings was put beyond
doubt by the historian Felix Dahn and the philologist Jakob Haury (1862–1942)
19 Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, p. 51. Cameron (Procopius, p. 140) had not ignored this,
just warned against over-interpretation of Procopius as an opposition figure.
22 Kaldellis, Secret History, p. lix.
23 Varillas, Anecdotes, preface.
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in particular, although one of the unsung contributions to establishing the

unity of Procopius which deserves notice in passing is that of Henry Bronson
Dewing (1882–1956). While Dewing is best known for providing the first com-
plete English translation of Procopius’ works (Wars: 1914–28; Secret History:
1935; Buildings: 1940) it was based on a deep knowledge of the Procopian text
developed in the course of his doctoral studies at Yale on the development of
accentual rhythm in later Greek writers.24 In the course of preparing his trans-
lation of the Secret History Dewing demonstrated how the consistent accen-
tual rhythm across all Procopius’ works underscores their common authorship
and confirms the authenticity of the Secret History as the work of Procopius.25
Moving to the second starting point, we have from Procopius three distinct
works: (1) a large scale narrative history with clear classical models to shape
the common expectations of writer and audience (Wars), (2) an alternative
commentary on the same period (Secret History) with a dramatic date set
in the future after the retribution and deaths of all the main characters, and
(3) a detailed exposition of much, but not all, of the construction attributable
to Justinian by the time of composition (Buildings). A good deal of scholarly
effort and ingenuity have been invested in seeking to determine when each
of Procopius’ works was written, if not made widely available, with the Secret
History and Buildings regularly contested.26 Most recently, it has been argued
that the Buildings has reached us in both an earlier and a later edition,27 and
24 Dewing is a significant omission from Briggs, Biographical Dictionary. Brought up and

educated in California he took his doctorate at Yale. There followed a career as teacher
of classics in various United States universities but notably Bowdoin in Maine. At dif-
ferent times he was Dean of Robert College in Constantinople and the first president of
the Greek College in Athens. A well-known philhellene, Dewing was later decorated by
the Greek Government. For details of his earlier life and family: Comstock, Parker Street,
pp. 144–9. His translation was improved, modernised and annotated by Kaldellis, Wars
(see Primary Sources, under Procopius).
25 Dewing, “Secret History”, p. xli: “the rhythm is not only present, but it also corresponds
in detail, though not as exactly as a sly imitator could have made it, to that of the works
whose authorship no sane person can doubt”. Dewing’s earlier research on the prose
rhythm in Procopius was summarised in “Accentual Cursus”, pp. 415–466, with their
importance recognised immediately by Maas, “ Rhythmik der Satzschlüsse,” pp. 52–53.
It was Dewing’s Yale teacher Charles Upson Clark who first detected the clausulae in
Procopius and recommended the subject to him (Clark, “Accentual Clausula”, p. 375).
26 Greatrex, “Dates of Procopius’ works”, pp. 101–14.; Evans, “Recapitulation,” pp. 301–13;
Greatrex, “Recent Work,” pp. 45–67; Croke, “Rethinking”, pp. 405–431; Kaldellis, “Date and
Structure“, pp. 585–616. Useful summary in Börm, Prokop und die Perser, pp. 49–52.
27 As explained by Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs”, pp. 89–114, and “Power, Taste and
the Outsider”, pp. 191–206. The textual implications of the distinct shorter and longer
manuscripts were first noted by Haury (“Prokophandschriften”, pp. 173–6) who took the
shorter version as a later scribal truncation of the original longer version. In 1531, Beatus
Rhenanus had first published the Buildings from a manuscript representing the shorter
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34 Croke
that the different Procopian works (including the Secret History) might be seen
as a single comprehensive work in progressive serial instalments, rather than
a collection of fixed works with firm publication dates, and with only a mini-
mum focus on differences of genre.28 These proposals need to be taken into
account in explaining the progress of Procopius’ literary output.
2 Procopius at Byzantium
Authorial unity and diversity of genres were certainly not matters to trouble
Procopius’ contemporaries, not to mention later Byzantine scholars and writ-
ers. For them Procopius, as for Thucydides and Herodotus who so shaped
his style, was an educated and polished writer. To Hesychius, Procopius was
a “rhetor”29 and his immediate historiographical successor Agathias30 labels
him accordingly, as did John of Epiphaneia31 and his cousin the church his-
torian Evagrius32 both of whom may well have shared the same early copy of
Procopius’ Wars. As Gregory bishop of Corinth still put it in the 11th century,
Procopius was not a mere narrator but “in his political and deliberative ora-
tory [he] has a competitive and elaborate quality”,33 while others who were
familiar with his work down the centuries understood his output as the work
of a rhetorician.34 At Constantinople and environs, Photius (9th century) also
labels him as “rhetor” in summarizing the first and early part of the second
book of the Wars,35 while the complete copy in the imperial library which was
used by the compilers of the excerpts from historians undertaken for emperor
Constantine Porphyrogenitus in the 10th century introduces Procopius as
version of the work (Croke, “Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 39–40). Montinaro is producing a
new edition of this version.
28 Signes Codoñer, “One History”, pp. 3–26.
29 Apud Suda Π.2479: “Procopius”, but taken from Hesychius (Treadgold, Early Byzantine
Historians, p. 276).
30 Agathias, Histories, ed. R Keydell, Berlin 1967, 1.11.
31 John of Epiphaneia, Histories ed. Müller, p. 273, Fragment 1.
32 Evagrius, Ecclesiastical History, eds, J. Bidez and L. Parmentier, introduction, Guy Sabbah,
Évagre le scholastique, Histoire ecclésiastique, Paris 2011, 4.12.
33 Gregory of Corinth, Oration 13, ed. C. Walz, Rhetores Graeci, Stuttgart and Tübingen 1834,
vol. vii.2, pp. 1227–4 (at p. 1236, trs. Wilson, Scholars, p. 186).
34 Authors and texts are itemised in Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 589–90, with supplements in
Croke, “Manuscripts to Books”, p. 5 (n.7). The continuator of Symeon the Logothete in the
10th century based his account of the reconquest of Crete on the reconquest of Africa in
Procopius, Wars Books 3–4, as shown by Kaldellis, “Byzantine Conquest”.
35 Photius, Bibliotheca, ed. R Henry, vol. 1, Paris 1967, 63.
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simply “Procopius of Caesarea”.36 All these later writers were referring almost
exclusively to Procopius’ Wars.
The first certain indication of the Secret History comes only in the tenth
century with the Suda although that does not necessarily mean that between
the sixth and tenth centuries the Secret History was never copied and read, but
it may have been only rarely. The writer of the Suda not only attributes such
a work to Procopius but labels it as the “9th book” of the Wars and utilises it
in his entries some 79 times.37 Finally, it was known to Nikephorus Kallistos
Xanthopoulos (14th century) who saw it as a deliberate work of polemical con-
tradiction (“antirrhesis”).38 Likewise, Procopius’ Buildings was also known to
Xanthopoulos, but it too had only been sparingly used in previous centuries.39
Apart from an unattributed reference in the Suda, the first certain reference
to the Buildings is in the tenth-century scholar Symeon Metaphrastes’ life of
the Palestinian monk Saba. In the fourteenth century, besides Xanthopoulos,
Nikephorus Gregoras knew and copied Procopius’ Buildings.40 In other words,
the manuscript tradition for Procopius is highly fragmented, with only one
extant manuscript actually preserving all of Procopius’ works together.41
Otherwise, the Wars, the Buildings and the Secret History have largely reached
the 21st century by separate and diverse manuscript paths, suggesting that the
Byzantine reader did not necessarily trouble about connecting them as the
36 [Constantine Porphyrogenitus], Excerpta de legationibus Romanorum ad gentes, ed.

C. de Boor, in Excerpta Historica, vol. 1, part 1 Berlin 1903, p. 90; Excerpta de legationibus
gentium ad Romanos, ed. C. de Boor, in Excerpta Historica, vol. 1, part 2 Berlin 1903, p. 489,
cf. Nemeth, “Systematisation of the Past”, pp. 239–40.
37 Suda, Π.2479: “Procopius”. Alongside 103 times for the Wars and only once for the
Buildings (calculated by Rubin, “Prokopios”, cols.591–2). So far as I know, the only place all
the Suda’s quotations from the Secret History are conveniently gathered together is in the
edition of Orelli (Anekdota, pp. 436–42).
38 he 17.10 (pg 147, col.244). The word “antirrhesis”/ἀντίρρησις has the clear sense of a literary
riposte (Sophocles, Lexicon, p. 188, s.v. ἀντίρρησις) and a deliberate counter plea in legal
contexts (Lampe, Patristic Greek Lexicon, p. 157 s.v. ἀντιρρητικός). Whether Nicephorus had
actually seen a copy of this “antirrhesis” of Procopius remains contested, but he did pro-
ceed to utilize the Wars in his own well-organised history of Justinian’s reign, so it is very
possible (cf. Gentz, Quellen, p. 166).
39 he 17.10 (pg 147, col.244).
40 The manuscript Laur.Plut. 70.5 (Florence) with Fryde, “Palaeologan Renaissance”, p. 360;
Bianconi, “Cora”, pp. 391–438 and Clérigues, “Gregoras”, pp. 21–47.
41 Namely, the 14th century manuscript currently split up between Amb. A 182 sup. (Milan)
and Vat. Ottob. 82 (Vatican), cf. Croke, “Manuscripts to Books”, p. 138. The Milan manu-
script contains the first four books of the Wars, the Secret History and the Buildings
(shorter version).
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36 Croke
common output of a single writer.42 By contrast, for modern scholarship, two

key starting points underpin the quest for interpretive harmony and concord
across Procopius’ different works: (1) date of composition and chronological
relations between the works; (2) establishing unity of authorship for several
works in diverse outward literary forms.
Whether released in instalments or not, dating Procopius’ works matters.
Different implications can be drawn if all works are closer together in time
than if they are each separated by years. Authors are allowed to change their
mind and adjust their style, to vary emphases and perspectives, but it can
be difficult to detect. For present purposes, the analysis proceeds on datings
which put all three works close together: Wars 1–7 in 550/551, Secret History in
550/551, Buildings in 551 with Wars 8 in 553/554 and the expanded edition of
Buildings nearby (553/554).43 The interpretive challenge then becomes explain-
ing harmony across relatively proximate works which means less emphasis on
development over time than if (as often previously) they were spread out over
an almost twenty-year period from the mid-540s/50 (Wars 1–7), to 553/554
(Wars 8), then on to 558/9 (Secret History), and finally to 561/2 (Buildings). For
any quest to delineate and explain the relations between the various Procopian
works the Secret History remains the most intractable and fundamental meth-
odological challenge. Few works have ever had to bear such literary and histo-
riographical weight. More detailed consideration than previously needs to be
given to precisely how the Secret History became so central to the very under-
standing of Procopius’ writings and the reign of Justinian from the 17th to the
21st centuries, along with the distorting effect this continues to have on appre-
ciating Procopius, and therefore Justinian.
3 The Centrality of the Secret History
Passing over the Procopian plagiarism of Leonardo Bruni (1370–1444) in his De

bello Italico (1441) and the immediate response of Flavius Biondo (1392–1463)
in his Decades (1443),44 the west discovered Procopius in the sixteenth century
42 Details in Croke, “Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 138–139, but for the broader Byzantine con-
text: Kaldellis, “Byzantine Role”.
43 See the chapters by Greatrex, Rance, Pfeilschifter and Whitby.
44 Bruni disguised the fact that his De bello Italico was effectively a translation of Books 5–8
of Procopius’, as yet unpublished, Wars, while Biondo sought to use Procopius criti-
cally alongside other contemporary witnesses such as Cassiodorus and Jordanes in his
Historiarum ab inclinatione Romani imperii decades. Details in Ianziti, “Bruni”, pp. 381–391
and Croke, “Procopius”.
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primarily through a range of versions (Latin, Italian, French) of the Wars and
the Buildings derived from a miscellany of fairly recent and variously defective
manuscripts. It was only in 1607, however, that David Hoeschel (1556–1617) at
Augsburg produced the first critical edition of both the Wars and the Buildings
but he depended on recent manuscripts including a Leiden one supplied by
Joseph Scaliger (1540–1609).45 To the medieval reverence for Justinian the
pious lawgiver, legal reformer and enforcer of religious orthodoxy Procopius
now added Justinian the manager of Roman wars and Justinian the builder.
These separate aspects of the one person easily fitted together. The contempo-
rary laws and the contemporary history reflected the same person and personal
motivation. Then in 1623 this apparent harmony was abruptly disturbed by the
appearance of the Anekdota (“Matters Unpublished”) but firmly labelled by its
editor Alemanni as the Arcana Historia (“Secret History”). Suddenly, Procopius
was an author of major interest among the most eminent scholars in Leiden,
Paris, Amsterdam and Rome and their extensive circles, while the received
picture of Justinian was thrown into uncertainty and disarray. The quest was
ignited to find better and more complete manuscripts of all Procopius’ works,
but especially the Secret History, in order to produce better editions but there
was no rush to restore the sections Alemanni had deliberately withheld from
the reader. By then, the majority of known manuscripts of Procopius’ works
had been copied in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries and many from each
other.46 At the same time, some coherent explanation had to be found for the
very different views on Justinian and his reign contained in Procopius’ differ-
ent works.
As Procopius became more widely known and his texts more available, the
question which the Byzantines had long resolved for themselves first arose in
Europe. Through the sixteenth and into the seventeenth centuries there was a
persistent preoccupation with the ars historica, treatises defining and discuss-
ing the writing of history by seeking to derive lessons from the best historians
45 Scaliger had prepared his own manuscripts of Procopius’ Wars (currently ms Scaligeri 5
at the Bibliotheek der Rijksuniversiteit, Leiden) and Buildings (ms Scaligeri 9), but not
the Secret History, so it would seem. Scaliger was growing impatient with the efforts of
Bartolomaeus Vulcanius (1538–1614) who had his Procopian Wars manuscript but kept on
failing to produce an edition: Van Miert, “Project Procopius”, pp. 361–386, and Montinaro,
“Scaliger’s Lie”, pp. 253–258.
46 The most up to date guide to all the manuscripts of Procopius’ works, although not always
complete, is found under “Procopius Caesariensis” in the Pinakes website of the Institut de
recherche et d’histoire des textes (Paris) at http://pinakes.irht.cnrs.fr/, while the sixteenth
century translations and other publications of Procopius’ works can be found under
“Procopius Caesariensis” in the Universal Short Title Catalogue (http://www.ustc.ac.uk/).
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38 Croke
of the past, including Procopius.47 However, by 1623 the humanist tradition of

the ars historica was actually starting to die out, not least because it soon had
to confront new historiographical genres such as “secret histories” inspired by
the example of Procopius in particular.48 Within a decade (1633) the bibliog-
rapher Gabriel Naudé (1600–1653) was singling out Procopius as one of “those
historians who approach libel in their excessive freedom not to say audacity.
They bring into the open the secrets of princes and the hidden deceits and
wicked deeds of their ministers and everything that ought to be clothed in dark
night”.49 This new “secret history” genre had to find a niche and accommodate
itself to the methods of the day. From the outset, however, any such genre might
have been nipped in the bud. Already in 1628 crown counsel Thomas Ryves
(1578–1652), in a treatise addressed to the Archbishop of Canterbury, took issue
with Alemanni translating the title Anekdota as “Secret History” because in his
view what Procopius had written was no sort of history at all, nothing near
worthy being considered “history”.50 Instead, it was pure bile, pure scandal and
literary vituperation. Its picture of Justinian lacked any merit alongside the
other records of his era. Above all, publicizing Procopius’ attitude to Justinian’s
legislation and codification of Roman law threatened its current status in
European monarchies. In his new edition in 1654 Ioannes Eichel, jurist to the
House of Brunswick, attacked Alemanni and what he considered the absur-
dity of the Secret History51 but there were also others such as Gabriel Trivorius
who found fault with parts of it52 and the Jesuit scholar René Rapin (1621–87)
who accused Procopius as someone “who upon a pique against the emperor
Justinianus and the empress Theodora corrupts the truth with a mixture of
passion”.53 Ryves, Trivorius and Naudé, but especially Rapin, had separately
47 Grafton, What was History?, passim.

48 Grafton What was History?, p. 237. Although in 1623 there also appeared the De Ratione et
Methodo Legendi Historias (On the Reason for and Method of Reading Histories) by the first
Camden Professor of History at Oxford, Degory Wheare (1573–1647).
49 Naudé, Bibliographia politica, in Wheare, Relectiones, p. 288, trs Grafton, What was his-
tory? p. 237.
50 Rivius, Imperatoris Justiniani defensio, pp. 7–8, with Bullard, Politics of Disclosure, pp. 41–2,
and Croke, “Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 80–82.
51 Mazzarino End, pp. 104–5; Croke, “Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 84–85. Eichel’s approach
was sufficient to arouse later the ire of another distinguished German jurist and philoso-
pher Christianus Thomasius (1655–1728) who found himself contemplating a new edition
of Procopius’ Secret History in which he would incorporate the notes of Alemanni and
Eichel while pointing out where they strayed from reality (de naevis, p. v). No such work
ever appeared.
52 Trivorius, Obseruatio apologetica. The frontispiece shows a shackled slave presenting a
copy of the Secret History to Louis xiii.
53 Rapin, Instruction, p. 129; trs. Walthoe, Rapin, p. 339.
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mounted the case against Procopius. The Secret History did not deserve any
serious credence alongside the Wars and Buildings, even if the work was genu-
inely Procopian, but authenticity was another question altogether.
New editions of the Secret History eventually emerged taking advantage
of other manuscripts beside the Vatican one that Alemanni had published,
even though they too found discretion still required omission of certain para-
graphs.54 In the seventeenth century the Secret History was “undoubtedly the
most vexed and discussed work in late Roman literature”,55 as the popularity
of Procopius took off when the first modern translations started to appear.
These only entrenched the view that the real Procopius and the real Justinian
were to be found in the Secret History. Indeed, “secret history” was itself the
only genuine historiographical genre. This perspective established in the late
seventeenth century remains at the heart of the “Procopian problem” in the
twenty-first.
The efflorescence of “Secret Histories” in England and France between 1658
and 1725 was sparked by Procopius in response to the weakness of classical
humanist historiography which emphasised political and military leaders. The
closer you were to that circle the more valuable and reliable your account. By
opening up such a vista Procopius showed not only what to look for but rein-
forced that under any autocratic regime the “Secret” history was the only “true”
history. Justinian was therefore taken for Charles ii by some, notably by the
first English translators,56 and Louis xiv by others. By 1699 the most frequent
title for any new historical work was “Secret History”.57 Yet a half-century later
the genre had lost its way. Many of its practitioners were exposed as unreli-
able and many of its subjects involved in treacherous betrayals of trust. It was
also now somewhat out of place politically as the more personal autocratic
rule of the Stuarts which had provoked so many secret histories in England
and France had given way to the more Parliament-centred rule of the House
of Hannover.58 As the “secret history” wave subsided by the mid- eighteenth
century, there were echoes of Alemanni’s Secret History in the circumstances
surrounding Montesquieu’s works. His fictional Persian Letters (1721) was
54 Croke, “Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 87–88.

55 Mazzarino, End, p. 103.
57 Burke, “Secret History”, pp. 57–72, including a list of works with the title “Secret History”
(1658–1725) on pp. 67–9, and “Doubts and Debates”, pp. 275–8; Bannet, “Secret History”,
pp. 367–88. The most comprehensive study of the “secret history” genre is Bullard, Politics
of Disclosure with due attention paid to its Procopian origins (pp. 29–44). See also Burke,
Secret History and Historical Consciousness, and Bullard and Carnell, Secret History.
58 Bullard, Politics of Disclosure, pp. 46–50.
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40 Croke
published anonymously for fear of reproach from his evaluation of Louis xiv
that is strongly reminiscent of Procopius’ denunciation of Justinian.59 Likewise,
his disquisition on Considerations on the Causes of the Greatness of the Romans
and their Decline (1734) appeared anonymously and was not published in his
native France but in Holland. He later owned up as its author and his modest
work was to have enormous influence with its conclusions and tone ampli-
fied by later writers, above all Edward Gibbon (1737–94) who found the Secret
History entirely congenial to his ironic temperament and style.
That, like Montesquieu, Gibbon’s account of Justinian was dominated by
Procopius’ Secret History has always been visible but little remarked.60 Gibbon
explains, noting that he is merely adopting here the judgment of Montesquieu,
how he will deal with Procopius and his apparent contradictions but clearly
prefers the Secret History: “Such base inconsistency must doubtless sully the
reputation and detract from the credit of Procopius; yet, after the venom of the
anecdotes, even the most disgraceful facts, some of which had been tenderly
hinted in his public history, are established by their internal evidence, or the
authentic monuments of the times”.61 So, notwithstanding his use of erudite
critics of the Secret History such as Johann Peter von Ludewig (1668–1743),62
his account of the long reign of Justinian in the Decline and Fall begins not
with the emperor but with the character and history of Theodora,63 moving
quickly to what he famously noted “must be veiled in the obscurity of a learned
language”.64 Directly or indirectly, by giving priority to Procopius’ Secret History
Montesquieu and Gibbon arguably steered future students of Justinian and his
reign into a narrow cul-de-sac.
The Secret History dictated the entire Procopian image and attitudes to
Justinian well into the nineteenth century. In the Anglophone world, and
beyond, the spell of Gibbon’s history proved overwhelming. Challenging, or
ignoring, Gibbon took serious thought and research. Still, two formidable
scholars who also covered a great deal of Gibbon’s territory, George Finlay
(1799–1875) and Samuel Jacob, concluded that Gibbon had erred seriously
in giving too much credence to the Secret History.65 Otherwise, it was those
59 E.g. Letter 35, in Montesquieu, Persian Letters, trs. Mauldon, p. 35.

60 For Gibbon on Justinian: Cameron, “Gibbon and Justinian”, pp. 191–3.
61 Decline and Fall, Chapter 40 (ed. Bury, vol. 4, 211, with n. 19).
62 For more detail: Croke, “Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 115–116.
63 Decline and Fall, Chapter 40 (p. 212).
64 Decline and Fall, Chapter 40 (p. 213).
65 Finlay, Greece under the Romans, p. 176 cf. p. 195; Jacob, Ottoman Empires, p.3. Jacob went
further in pronouncing that the whole reign of Justinian had been deformed by Gibbon’s
“unhappy mental obliquities which delighted in the insult both of piety and decency”
(Ottoman Empires, p. 15).
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who set out to write detailed biographical studies of Belisarius who had to
confront and reconcile the variable testimony of Procopius. For Jean François
Marmontel (1723–99) the Secret History was just too discordant and too incred-
ible, so he chose to mainly ignore it, while for the then young Philip Stanhope
(1805–1875) who came to be a distinguished British parliamentarian and his-
torian, its use was necessary but minimised.66 This more critical treatment of
the Secret History and its implied rebalancing of emphasis towards Procopius’
other works was beginning to be reflected in the new editions and transla-
tions of the Secret History: Orelli (1827), Wilhelm Dindorf (Bonn 1833–8), and
F.-A. Isambert (Paris, 1856) at the end of a productive life (1792–1857) as law-
yer and politician. In reviewing Isambert’s translation the sceptical Ernest
Renan (1823–92), whose life of Jesus still lay ahead of him, formulated the
challenge clearly: “who should you trust? Procopius the admirer of Justinian
or Procopius the pamphleteer?” He went on to note the dichotomy that had
emerged between Ludewig and the lawyers for the admirer, with Gibbon and
Montesquieu for the pamphleteer, then canvassed both sides before firmly
opting for the latter. Justinian was simply the worst of rulers, capricious and
despotic. Procopius may exaggerate at times, but the Secret History represents
the real Justinian according to Renan, and his judgment has remained influen-
tial to this day, especially in France.67
In the end, it was Felix Dahn’s still valuable study of Procopius (1865) which
was the first to widen the context and begin to free Procopian studies from
the stranglehold of the Secret History. Dahn was a law professor and passion-
ate Teutonic nationalist, later novelist, but he saw in Procopius a comprehen-
sive and unified outlook on the reign of Justinian.68 He also pursued carefully
the tone and style of the Secret History, which confirmed its authenticity and
refocussed the search to explain the connection between all Procopius’ works
as the product of a single mind over time. From Dahn’s day too, more atten-
tion was invested in producing a modern critical text of all Procopius’ works
(culminating in that of Haury, 1905–13) and using Procopius’ texts as empirical
sources for their times and immediate past.69 The most thorough, but dense and
66 Marmontel, Belisarius, pp. iii–vi (translation of French original, 1787); Stanhope,

Belisarius, p. 31: “What reliance can be placed upon an author, who seriously believed
Justinian an incarnate daemon, and asserts of the conqueror of Africa and Italy that he
was universally despised as a traitor…?”
67 Renan, Journal, pp. 2–3 and more fully in “L’Histoire secrète”, pp. 269–86. Renan’s sharp
judgment was given new life more recently by Maraval, Histoire secrète (see Primary
Sources, under Procopius).
68 Wood, Modern Origins, pp. 191–98.
69 Note should also be made of the posthumous edition (1928) of the great Italian scholar
Domenico Comparetti (with D. Bassi), Inedite. It was in press by 1919 but delayed for years
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42 Croke
complicated, treatment of Procopius came from Berthold Rubin (1911–1990)

who set the historian in the context of ideological opposition to Justinian.70 In
the quest to establish history as a science (1880s–1920s) with which Bury was
so closely associated, the principal use of Procopius was as an accurate reposi-
tory of historical facts: military, political, topographical, architectural. For Bury,
having eventually satisfied himself of its authenticity, the Secret History could
be dismissed as a personally motivated “orgy of hatred” based mainly on unver-
ified gossip such that it “may be asked whether the book deserves any serious
consideration as an historical document”.71 The more empirical Wars now took
on a new historiographical status. This was the interpretation inherited and
exemplified by A.H.M. Jones (1904–70) in the 1940s–60s when he could dis-
miss the Secret History as a “venomous pamphlet” undeserving of “the respect
which is often accorded to it”.72 As noted earlier, it was this dismissive atti-
tude that first confronted Cameron in the 1960s, thereby leading her by 1985 to
advocate moving away from the Wars to discover a more authentic Procopius
in the Secret History and reappraising the Buildings.
Yet, by then, the Secret History had taken on a life of its own largely inde-
pendent of the students of Procopius. It was beginning to dominate the liter-
ary and historiographical traditions once more through modern translations
for the general reader which, in turn, was reinforced by the burgeoning of
books and historical novels derived from Procopius’ Secret History, but mainly
focussed on Theodora.73 The first widely available English translation (1927)
was by a former Chicago classics graduate and Greek teacher turned journalist
and children’s writer, Richard Atwater (1892–1948), with the next (1966) by a
former Norwich schoolmaster who turned his hand to translating Procopius
in retirement, G.A. Williamson (1895–1982). Both translations have been re-
edited and reprinted regularly, such has been the demand. The appearance
of Anthony Kaldellis’ stimulating Procopius (2004) and the various reactions
to it have given yet further impetus to the Secret History, especially the 17th
century notion that it represents the author’s real thoughts and genuine
characterisation of Justinian, along with the unqualified claims that it is “the
by strikes. Comparetti’s introduction (pp. xv–lxxx) and critical notes (201–314) are still
useful, as is the review by Baynes, “Comparetti”, pp. 115–8).
70 Rubin, Zeitalter, pp. 173–226 complemented by his comprehensive re article (“Prokopios”).
71 Bury, Later Roman Empire, pp. 422–7.
72 Jones, Later Roman Empire, p.266
73 Theodora novels and biographies are too numerous and regular to list, but among only
the most recent are: Girod, Théodora; Potter, Theodora; Thornton, Secret History; Duffy,
Purple Shroud; Heese, Colour of power; Duffy, Theodora; Evans, Power Game; Pratsch,
Theodora von Byzanz.
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most reliable contemporary source”74 for Theodora. Whether inspiration or

not, this approach’s obvious connection to the highly contested ideas of Leo
Strauss (1899–1973) on the esoteric knowledge recognised by only an exclu-
sive few, and of how writers work under tyrannical regimes, creates its own
challenges.75 At the same time, Procopius’ major work (Wars) has not received
anything like the sustained attention recently accorded the Secret History by
many of the foremost Procopian scholars.76 Cameron herself had included
substantial extracts from the Secret History in her Procopian translation (1967,
never reprinted),77 while Rubin’s translation was never published.78 Kaldellis
has produced the first full scholarly English translation of the Secret History
(2010), following on Peter Sarris’ revision of Williamson (2007). The excellent
but different introductions of Sarris and Kaldellis, as well as those of Conca
(also with revised text) and Cesaretti (Italian), Signes Codoñer (Spanish) and
Meier/Leppin (German), highlight the extent to which the Secret History has
come to constitute the lynchpin of modern Procopian interpretation. So, we
return in the 21st century to where we started in the 1620s: how to explain
Procopius’ personal and literary purpose in the Secret History compared to his
Wars and Buildings.
4 Character of Procopius’ Writings
Procopius possessed the full education available in his day in rhetoric and
probably law, which equipped him for the position he took as secretary
74 Kaldellis, Secret History, p. lii.

75 Noted by Cameron, “Writing about Procopius”, pp. 17–18. Most influential has been
Strauss, Persecution, including (pp. 22–37) the signature article (1941) in which he makes
regular use of Plato in asserting that persecution gives rise to a type of “esoteric” literature
which can only be “read between the lines” and which is addressed “not to all readers but
to trustworthy and intelligent readers only”. Such literature focusses on the genesis of
works and transcends the explanation of different authorial opinions as authorial growth
or development. It also presupposes that individuals are not free to air their views in pub-
lic for fear of reprisal, and that their society is anything but liberal. Strauss was thinking
not just of the totalitarianism of his own day but of historical examples that he regularly
cites, although not Byzantium. Explanatory background: Bagley, “Esotericism”, pp. 231–47
and Frazer, “Esotericism”, pp. 33–61.
76 Notable exceptions recently being Whately, Battles and Generals, Börm, Prokop und die
Perser, and Brodka, Geschichtsphilosophie, plus various contributions of Kaldellis and
Greatrex, to culminate in his forthcoming commentary on the Persian Wars.
77 Averil Cameron, Procopius, pp. 287–329.
78 Rubin, “Prokopios”, p. 275.
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44 Croke
(“symboulos”) to the general Belisarius in 527.79 Serving Belisarius in the East

until his recall after the unsuccessful battle at Callinicum in 531, Procopius
found himself in Constantinople in 532 then off to Africa with Belisarius in
533 as legal adviser or assessor (“paredros”). He continued to serve the Roman
general until his successful return from Italy in 540. As such, Procopius filled
essentially the same role as Apion to the comes excubitorum Marcellus in 53980
and Recinarius who was assessor to the magister militum John Troglita in
546–8,81 as well as Hermogenes when assessor to Vitalian in 514/5.82 Another
former secretary to a general turned author, namely Jordanes, although a
notarius and never a legally trained assessor, produced his Roman and Gothic
histories around the same time as Procopius’ works appeared (551).83 Whether
Procopius continued to serve with Belisarius on the Persian frontier in 541 or in
Italy again after 544 is occasionally suggested, but lacks evidence.84 Procopius
was a highly-educated rhetor at the service of a general and his account of
events remains great literature and great history, not least because of his per-
sonal involvement in so much of what he recounted.85 Fairly obviously then
he kept notes and observations of events and people, perhaps documents too,
especially copies of letters or addresses he wrote for Belisarius.86 Not all the
speeches in his history need be literary fabrications. As he travelled, he will
have kept his own archive as well as the archive of his general for which he was
primarily responsible. They would later be a rich resource for all his literary
works. He was therefore well placed to write up the story of the Roman wars
in the East, in North Africa and Italy between 527 and at least 540. Moreover,
for much of his account he had first-hand testimony including direct personal
experience, archival documents and the information of key participants.87
Precisely when Procopius formulated the idea of writing his history can
only be guessed. In one sense it is quite likely that he always intended to pro-
duce at some stage a literary account of his military career and adventures
whatever they might turn out to be. Indeed, that might have been expected
of someone with Procopius’ education and rhetorical skill. In 527 he wasn’t to
79 Details in plre 3, pp. 1060–2 (“Procopius 2”) with Börm; Prokop und die Perser, pp. 11–22,
45–9.
80 plre 3, p. 96 (“Apion 2”); pp. 814–6 (“Marcellus 3”).
81 plre 3, pp. 1080–1 (“Recinarius”); pp. 644–9 (“Iohannes 36 Troglita”).
82 plre 3, p. 590 (“Hermogenes 1”).
83 plre 3, p. 713 (“Iordanes 1”). For the date: Croke, “Jordanes”, 473–494.
84 Career detail in Greatrex “Procopius: Life and works” (infra, pp. 61–9), with Lillington-
Martin, “Strategy” pp. 158–162 (on roles with Belisarius).
85 Cameron, Procopius, pp. 134–7; Ross, “Narrator and Participant”, pp. 59–72.
86 Cameron, Procopius, pp. 236–9.
87 On his informants: Brodka, “Informanten”, pp. 108–124.
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know what lay ahead, what episodes would become memorialised to posterity
in his own words: the Roman victory over the Persians at Dara in 530, the Nika
riot in the imperial capital in 532, the conquest of North Africa in 533/4, the
siege of Rome itself in 536/7, the march into Ravenna in 540, and the plague
at Constantinople in 542, to take but a few. All these direct personal experi-
ences, and many more, accumulated in the reflective outlook of this general’s
assessor turned storyteller. In other words, at the time he came to write up his
history Procopius was looking back on events that were five, ten, fifteen, and
up to twenty, years earlier. They were events he remembered, as did his friends
and acquaintances and for some there were extant contemporary documents.
Yet, like all historians to this day, he was obliged to describe and reflect on past
events as they looked at the time of writing and with the perspective of the
intervening years. Of course, the same strictures apply to the Secret History
written around the same time. Although scholars have always made positivist
assumptions about Procopius’ personal outlook and attitude toward Belisarius
and Justinian in 527 or 540,88 the reality is that we simply do not know his
mind and attitude at that time. All we possess is his writings, which appeared
in close succession between 550/551 and 553/554.
Procopius decided at the outset on a separated narrative on the model of
Appian’s regional histories but had clearly planned the content of each part, so
that he could foreshadow that an event in his account of the Vandal war will
be told in more detail in the Gothic war (Wars 3.2.40). Although the Wars ends
at different points (Persian: 545; Vandal: 548; Gothic: 551), all books appeared
together in 551. The next question, and an occasional topic of scholarly specu-
lation, is whether he actually wrote an earlier version of his history in the 540s
and only came to update it for publication years later or whether various stages
of writing can be detected in the text. It has been conjectured, for example,
that originally Procopius divided his history rather differently.89 The most that
can be said is that many inconsistencies and corrections have been identified
in the text of Wars 1–7 which would seem to indicate change of opinion and
clarification of detail from the time of drafting in mid-540s to time of circula-
tion in 551.90 Although a literary man eager to advance a reputation with an
appreciative audience, postulating earlier unpublished versions of Procopius’
history on the basis of the extant text is ultimately unproductive. Still, it is
88 E.g. Cataudella, “Historiography”, p. 413.

89 Teuffel, “Procopius von Cäsarea”, pp. 252–5; Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 195–
205. Others have taken particular episodes such as the siege of Rome in 536/7 (e.g. Evans
1972, p. 37) as originally separate compositions later woven into the Wars.
90 Greatrex, “Perceptions”, pp. 1–13; J. Haury, Procopiana, pp. 1–9; Kaldellis, Secret History,
p. xxv.
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46 Croke
important to recognize those parts identifiably written earlier or later.91 More

problematic is the proposition that Procopius wrote all three works serially,
updating and expanding earlier versions, but as part of a “common project” or
“encyclopaedic history of his own times”.92
As author, Procopius had a ready audience and his Wars was an instant
success when it appeared in 551 (Wars 8.1.1), so he produced a sequel in 553/4
in which all military fronts were combined in a single narrative (Wars 8.1.2,
cf. 18.1, 21.1). In the final analysis, the Wars is his first, his major and by far his
most extensive work. The Wars is clearly in the tradition of Herodotus and
Thucydides that his entire audience would have recognised and appreciated.
He worked within the conventions of a long-established genre but accom-
modated it to his own times and perspectives. While writing the Wars he also
started working on the Secret History (sh 1.1), so it would seem. For all the
events he was describing in the Wars he was thinking, if not writing, what it
might look like if he could vent his own views, or the views of others, on the
same events or developments. Both works were not necessarily conceived and
executed simultaneously. Rather, one grew out of the other as often happens in
authorial life. If the Secret History’s internal chronology is accurate, the date of
composition is located in the period between July 550 and July 551.93
Even so, carefully keeping separate files for the Wars and the Secret History
as he progressed seems an unnecessary assumption, as does the notion that he
despaired of waiting for Justinian to die, so eager was he for the Secret History
to be made public, that he let it out prematurely on completion in 551.94 By 551
the only one of those attacked in the Secret History who was no longer alive
was Theodora who died from cancer in June 548. Procopius does not mark
or describe her death in any special way, just notes simply that she has died
(Secret History 5.23, 27, cf. Wars 2. 30.49, 7.30.4). It is regularly claimed, however,
that Procopius construed Theodora’s death as momentous, creating a power
91 Cameron, Procopius, pp. 238–9, 262–3.

92 Signes Codoñer, “One History”, pp. 1, 16. The argument is problematic because, although
Procopius provides literary links between the works, principally by cross-referencing the
Secret History with Wars 1–7 and the Buildings with Wars 1–7, the notion that he was fol-
lowing a predetermined authorial plan looks like a retrospective rationalisation. Rather,
Procopius took opportunities as they unfolded: (1) to take on the Secret History more or
less after the completion of Wars 1–7 (550–551); (2) to continue the Wars by updating
them from the original time of writing (Book 8, 553); and (3) to undertake the Buildings
when it occurred or was proposed to him by others.
93 That is, construing the references in the Secret History to 32 years (from July 518) as mean-
ing that 32 years have already elapsed, rather than meaning “in the 32nd year since then”
(cf. Signes Codoñer, “One History”, p. 12), or July 549–July 550.
94 Kaldellis, Secret History, p. xxv.
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vacuum leading to the promotion of the general Germanus as an alternative

emperor to her now vulnerable widower, Justinian; or that a “secret pact” was
struck between Justinian and Germanus to pass the throne from Justinian to
his cousin at an agreed point.95 In either case, Germanus’ own death in 550
stymied the hopes of the conspirators and led Procopius to compose the Secret
History as a separate work from the Wars, so it is argued, with a dramatic date
set after the deaths not just of Theodora, but also of Justinian, Belisarius and
Antonina.96 The simplest explanation for this scenario is that Procopius did
not envisage the Secret History coming to light before the demise of all its main
targets. Indeed, Belisarius and Justinian who died in 565 may have outlived
Procopius. Despite occasional claims to the contrary, there is no evidence
that the Secret History was known to anyone but its author in the lifetime of
Justinian, or otherwise known for a long time thereafter. For contemporaries in
the 550s Procopius was the author of the Wars and Buildings only. Further, the
evident similarity of the preface of the Secret History with Book 8 of the Wars
only makes sense if the Secret History was not familiar to others by the time
Book 8 appeared in 553, let alone later.97
However long and erratic was its period of composition in 550/551, the Secret
History is a single sequential book. Quite simply, Procopius himself refers
to it as a single book (logos/λόγος): throughout the text.98 To some scholar-
translators of the text, however, chapters 19 to 30 look different to the rest of
the text because they are dealing with what are taken to be technical matters:
law, administration, and finances. Hence, it is argued that these chapters were
added later as a sort of afterthought to the completed work, so that the Secret
History can be construed as two separate documents, or even “books” (logoi/
95 Signes Codoñer, “One History”, p. 11.

96 Greatrex, “Outsider”, pp. 216–9; J. Signes Codoñer, “Nachfolge”, p. 57; Kaldellis, “Dissident
Circles”, p. 2. Signes Codoñer, “One History”, pp. 8–10, taking issue with some objections
raised in Croke, “Rethinking”. It is worth re-emphasizing, however, that there is no evi-
dence for this hypothesis, and that it is more unlikely than likely because: (1) the Antai
fear of Germanus in 550 was attributed more to the size of the army he led, than his ear-
lier reputation (Wars 7.40.7); (2) even if Germanus did encounter the Antai some years
later than 518 (Signes Codoñer, “One History”, p. 9, n. 19), he was definitely a senior general
by 519 when he possessed the rank of illustris (Collectio Avellana, Ep.211, ed. Guenther,
vol. 2, p. 669); (3) Procopius’ text at Wars 7.40.6 cannot read “Justinian” (originally by
Maltretus, 1663, adopted by Haury) against the unanimous “Justin” of the manuscripts
since the governing word “theios” (uncle) for Germanus can only refer to Justin. Overall,
this proposition belongs in the category of those that are “over ingenious and subtle even
if never completely refutable” (Greatrex, “Perceptions”, p. 97).
97 Signes Codoñer, “One History”, pp. 16–7.
98 sh 2.20, 11.11, 14.1, 14.15, 16.3, 17.1, 21.8, 23.18, 26.20, 28.19, 29.26.
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48 Croke
λόγοι), written some time apart and with differences in tone and emphasis,
and from separate dossiers of information.99 Yet the areas covered in chapters
19–30 are the core of any emperor’s daily work so they have a natural place in
the sustained Procopian invective. Moreover, Procopius was himself a lawyer
by trade and would always have been sensitive to Justinian’s use of the private
and public law. Kaldellis is prudent, it has to be emphasised, to stress that sty-
listically and conceptually the Secret History is a single dedicated work, not-
withstanding the “compositional seam” he postulates.100
A key difference between the two putative sections (i: chapters 1–18; ii:
chapters 19–30), divided by the “compositional seam”, is claimed to be the
different methods of cross-referencing used by Procopius. Specifically, it is
argued that (1) in chapters 1–18 of the sh, a back reference clearly distinguishes
between whether it is employing the term “externally” to indicate the Wars or
“internally” to indicate an earlier chapter of the same work; and (2) in chap-
ters 19–30 such a reference may look “external” (to the Wars) but actually be
“internal” only (to the sh).101 However, there are, in fact, explicit references
back to the Wars throughout the Secret History using the same basic formula
ἐν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν λόγοις.102 Naturally, there are fewer references to the Wars in
the chapters that cover essentially internal administrative matters, and where
Procopius could not draw so much on personal experience in the provinces
and on the frontiers, which provided the mainstay of the Wars. At the same
time, there are homogenous internal references to earlier sections of the
Secret History throughout the text, and with similar wording (e.g. ὥσπερ μοι
εἴρηται) that does not imply separate sections or books.103 Moreover, this is the
same pattern of back-referencing to be found throughout the Wars, including
later in Book 8, which necessarily refers back to Wars 1 to 7 from time to time.
Wars 8 shows a clear difference in the way Procopius refers back to passages:
(1) inside Book 8 itself, and (2) in Wars 1–7, that is between the “internal” and
“external” back references. In referring to earlier books of the Wars the author
uses the same word pattern but always referring to the “previous books” (ἐν τοῖς
99 Kaldellis, “Date and Structure”, pp. 598–604; Signes Codoñer, “One History”, p. 7: “more
documented and balanced”, and p. 8: “as if the chapters of the first part were conceived as
a separate book from the second part”, p.14 “less visceral and more argumentative”.
100 Kaldellis, “Date and Structure”, p. 599, Secret History, p. 97; Signes Codoñer, “One History”,
pp. 7–8.
101 Kaldellis, “Date and Structure”, p. 604, cf. Secret History, pp. xxxiv–xxxv.
102 Secret History 1.11, 1.28, 2.15, 4.1, 5.1, 5.28, 6.22, 7.1, 11.11, 11.12, 12.6, 12.12, 16.1, 17.38, 18.28, [19.8],
20.16, 21.6, [24.23], [27.13], – all using the same basic linguistic formula which includes ἐν
τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν λόγοις.
103 sh 2.19, 2.2o, 2.26, 4.18, 9.48, 10.15, 10.19, 13.1, 13.27, 13.30, 13.33, 14.15, 15.11, 17.1, 18.1, 18.14, 18.35,
18.44, 19.12, 19.16, 20.4, 22.40, 25.4, 25.26, 26.14, 29.28, 30.5.
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ἔμπροσθεν λόγοις).104 When referring back to earlier parts of Book 8 itself the
wording is different, with never any reference to a previous book, or books.105
The same goes for Wars 1 to 7, where, for example, at the beginning of Book 5
(Gothic War) he refers back to a passage in Book 3 (Vandal War) with the words
ἅπερ μοι ἐν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν λόγοις ἐρρήθη.106 Within a brief authorial span
(550/1–553/4, at most) the strict literary consistency of the writer is evident.
In both the Wars 1–7 and Secret History, again in Wars 8, Procopius is at pains
to distinguish, so when he refers to “previous books” he means only what he
recalled writing in Wars – weeks, months, perhaps years, ago. If he is directing
the reader or listener’s attention to a previous part of the current book, even
a short space earlier, he expresses his instruction quite differently. In the case
of the Buildings, just to complete the picture, the only other work he is able to
refer to is the Wars. Whenever he does this, he always specifies it accordingly
as “Books of the Wars” (ἐν τοῖς ὑπὲρ τῶν πολέμων λόγοις).107 Otherwise, he is able
to use the same internal referencing wording he uses throughout the Wars and
the Secret History.108
Recognizing this consistent authorial control of back references across both
Wars and the Secret History in particular is crucial to considering the appar-
ent referencing anomalies in the Secret History, which are taken as decisive for
proving that Procopius saw the work as divided into two parts called “books”.109
There are three such references. In each case, it is argued that Procopius is
not referring to Books 1 to 7 of the Wars, as might be expected from his lan-
guage (ἐν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν λόγοις), but only to a previous section of the Secret
History itself:
(1) Secret History 19.8 The whole of Chapter 19 is devoted to how, and how
quickly, Justinian could squander money. Procopius strikingly reinforces his
point by quoting a Roman aristocrat who dreamed he saw the emperor stand-
ing tall in the middle of the strait between Constantinople and Chalcedon.
First, Justinian sucked up all the water from the sea, leaving only the local
run-off and sewage which he promptly devoured as well (19.1–3). So much
for the dream. In terms of areas of expenditure, he singles out (19.6) just two:
104 Wars 8.1.3, 8.3.5, 8.5.14, 8.7.3, 8.7.5, 8.8.14, 8.10.22, 8.12.32, 8.13, 19, 8.16.2, 8.18.1, 8.20.6, 8.21.1,
8.25.11, 8.26.13 (bis), 8.27.1, 8.28.13, 8.32.20, 8.34.6, 8.35.1, 8.35.37.
105 Wars 8.3.5, 8.9.10, 8.9.21, 8.17.16, 8.26.24, 8.27.10, 8.34.9, 8.34.19.
106 Wars 5.1.1, also 5.12.1, 6.5.6, 6.7.6, 6.9.6. There are similar back references, similarly
expressed, throughout the Wars. To take examples only from the first two Books (Persian
War): external – Wars 2.10.17, 2.13.6, 2.28.20, 2.28.33, 2.29.21; internal: 1.5.31, 1.19.37.
107 Buildings 1.1.6, 1.1.20, 1.10.3, 2.1.4, 3.2.8, 3.7.7, 5.8.2, 6.1.8, 6.6.9.
108 Buildings 1.1.16, 1.1.51, 1.5.4, 1.9.14, 10.10, 2.2.13, 2.2.17 3.3.8, 4.2.21, 4.8.1.
109 Kaldellis, “Date and Structure”, pp. 603–604, Signes Codoñer, “One History”, p. 8.
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50 Croke
(1) buildings by the coast; (2) subsidies to barbarians. It is true that he may be
referring back to previous passages in the Secret History (8.7 in the case of the
buildings; 8.4 in the case of the subsidies). However, the subsidies mentioned
in sh 8.4 refer only to those paid to the Huns. The largest amounts, scattered
through the Wars were to the Persians (2.29.32), but Justinian was also paying
subsidies to others including the Blemmyes (1.9.32–3), the Heruli (7.33.14) and
the Saracens (2.10.13). Procopius is arguably referring to all of these, scattered
across the books of the Wars. sh 19.8 is perfectly explicable as a back reference
to Wars.
(2) Secret History 24.23 At this point, Procopius is highlighting the short-
comings of Justinian’s advisers and high officials. So he comes to Peter the
Patrician saying, “This Petros was mentioned earlier as the one who plotted the
murder of Amalasountha, the daughter of Theodoric”.110 The phrase translated
as “earlier” is literally the standard Procopian phrase “in the previous books”
(ἐν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν λόγοις). At the very least, this is a back reference to Wars
where Procopius covers in detail the negotiations between the emperor and
the Gothic queen through their intermediary Peter (Wars 5.4.4–22). However,
this back reference is taken to refer exclusively to an earlier part of the Secret
History (16.4) where Procopius ingenuously explains that Peter persuaded
Theodahad to kill Amalasountha, “by what arguments I do not know” (16.5).
The fact remains that Peter could be implicated in her death precisely as stated
in sh 24.23, but to discount the Wars passage “because Petros is not the mur-
derer” is insufficient. Procopius sh 24.23 does not necessarily say he was the
murderer either, just that he was involved in arranging it, while sh 16.5 is clear
that the murderer was Theodahad, not Peter. There is no reason to consider sh
24.23 as anything other than a back reference to Wars 5.4.17–31.
(3) Secret History 27.13 Procopius is dealing here with a regular accusation
that Theodora and Justinian appeared to be on opposite sides of the religious
policy divide, and this is taken to be a reference back to sh 10.15 where he makes
much the same claim. Again, this need not be so. There is no obvious counter-
part in Wars 1–7 to the statement in sh 27.13, unless referring to the replace-
ment of Pope Silverius by Vigilius, although other contemporaries and near
contemporaries were well aware of the doctrinal dichotomy between Justinian
and Theodora and commented on it.111 In addition, the plural “logoi” (λόγοις)
makes sense for the Wars when each of the books was labelled a “logos” but to
use the plural in the case of the sh 27.13 to refer to an earlier part (sh 10.15), let
alone a section defined as chapters 1–18 of the sh, makes little sense. Procopius
110 Trans. Kaldellis, Secret History, p. 108.

111 For example, Evagrius, he 4.10.
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was not prone to imprecision in such matters. For example, in the Buildings
(4.8.3) he refers back to the earlier books of the same work correctly as λόγοι.
In the final analysis, across all of the works of Procopius, there is but a single
back reference to the Wars that appears not to belong there. Before assum-
ing this must automatically mean that Procopius was consciously labelling
an earlier section of the Secret History (10.15) in the same way he labelled the
books of the Wars, other options might be adduced. A simple memory lapse
on Procopius’ part is possible; for example, he may have been thinking about
Theodora’s role in the deposition of Pope Silverius (Wars 5.25.13), without real-
izing he had not explained the issue that way in his Wars. Less likely is that a
relevant passage has somehow dropped out of the text of Wars 1–7. The manu-
scripts of the Wars do indicate such gaps, but not at or near this point of the
narrative. More likely, perhaps, is that it is just one of those ambiguous but
unproblematic cross-references.112
In sum, cross referencing within the Secret History is complex, but consistent
enough, both within the work and across all Procopius’ works, to discount by
itself the idea that the Secret History was conceived and executed in two quite
separate phases months apart. Harmony of Procopius’ back-referencing tech-
nique constitutes at least one component of authorial style across all works
but suggests that the three genres were essentially distinctive. Genre mattered,
and as a practised rhetor Procopius was capable of producing different types of
conventional literary works for much the same audience. In fact, his mastery of
genre puts him in the same high category as Philostratus and Lucian.113
Whether or not Procopius was consciously imitating a Secret History of
Theopompus, the title Anekdota or Secret History has some manuscript author-
ity and was certainly known by that name in the tenth century where it was
seen to cover precisely “the same events” (Suda) as the Wars.114 The Byzantines
knew the Secret History as the continuing “Book 9” of the Wars,115 that is, it
probably only came to light after Book 8 had been finished in 553 and the
manuscript tradition had settled into its separate tetrads (four books on the
Persian and Vandal wars, four books on the Gothic wars).116 It may have been
transmitted separately as the “ninth book” as a sort of “retractatio”, which may
112 Kaldellis, “Date and Structure”, pp. 601–602.

113 Elsner, “Rhetoric”, p. 34.
114 Suda, Π.2479: “Procopius”. Theopompus: Cicero, Epistulae ad Atticum 2.6: “itaque anek-
dota quae tibi uni legamus Theopompio genere … pangentur”, cf. Cameron, Procopius,
p. 50.
115 Suda, Π.2479: “Procopius”.
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52 Croke
explain the observed linguistic similarity in the prefaces of the later Book 8 and
the Secret History.117
In any event, the Secret History was clearly seen by its author as a comple-
ment to Books 1 to 7 of the Wars (sh 1.1–8), that is, it includes what Procopius
claimed had to be suppressed or distorted in the Wars about individuals and
their motives. There are other manifest links between them too, not least their
common goal to provide an example for posterity (Wars 1.1.1–2; sh 1.7) and
their openly critical nature highlighted by their common use of the same word
(“mochthera”) to denote their target. In the Wars Procopius does not hold back
from critiquing both the emperor (Wars 1.11.11–13, 5.1.29 ~ sh 15.5, 10, 16, 20;
7.40.9) and his general (Wars 2.21; 3.16.1–8; 4.21; 6.8 ~ sh 5.28–38, 18.9) while
the first and foremost section (chapters 1–5) of the Secret History is about the
couple he knew best, Belisarius and Antonina, with the chapters on Justinian
and Theodora coming later.118 In the Wars he was clearly disappointed at the
imperial administration of the campaigns, criticizing Justinian‘s indulgence
at the mistakes of his generals (Wars 5.3.6, 7.35.11, 7.36.8) and using envoys to
voice complaints against the emperor,119 especially those from nations warring
with the empire (Goths: Wars 2.2.4–9 ~ sh 8.26; Armenians: Wars 2.3.36–48~
sh 12.14; Tzani: Wars 2.15.7–11 ~ sh 23.4). While both works contain the author’s
counter-factual judgments (Wars 1.25.30, 3.6.11; sh 2.25), the comparable neg-
ative treatment of John the Cappadocian (Wars 1.24.11–16, 3.13; sh 17.38–44,
21.5, 22.1) is one of the clearest markers of Procopius’ ability to permit in the
Wars what he repeated in the Secret History because they were both conceived
and executed against the same personal background.120 Procopius’ negative
perspectives and attitudes can be delineated in both the Wars and the Secret
History, but it is much more difficult to conclude that they must be recent and
vastly different from the perspectives and attitudes he held ten years earlier,
such that they can only be explained by the author’s personal disillusionment
and disappointment with changing circumstances between 540 and 550. They
may or may not be different, at least not to the extent usually assumed. The
challenge, however, is to make sense of the extant texts.
117 Cf. Greatrex, “Recent Work”, p. 62; Signes Codoñer, “Nachfolge”, 49 and “One History”, p. 17.
That the Secret History was deliberately connected to the Wars as a continuation is shown
by Meier, Zeitalter, pp. 437–8.
118 G. Greatrex, “Outsider”, p. 215.
119 J. Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik”, p. 222 points out that there are 120 speeches in the Wars,
none from Justinian himself, which enables his person and policy to be widely critiqued
by others.
120 Greatrex, “John the Cappadocian”, pp. 1–13.
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Procopius was not afraid to criticise, nor was Justinian afraid to be criticised,
in something like the Wars. The conspirators who were pardoned in 548 and
retained their senior positions (Wars 7.32 ~ Buildings 1.16) suggest that such
criticism was not so personally wounding that it resulted in recrimination or
textual suppression. Perhaps it was precisely because works like Procopius’
Wars enjoyed such high-level circulation that they were not worth unduly wor-
rying about. The very popularity and durability of Procopius’ Wars suggests
that his audience was not troubled by his critical approach. Nor, evidently,
was Justinian as thin-skinned and sensitive as often presumed (sh 13.12).121
Whatever Procopius thought he was doing in the Secret History his audience,
including centuries later, recognised that this was the practised literary form
of personal invective (psogos) and satire (komodia) now deployed against
Belisarius and Justinian.122 In other words, its picture of the emperor is a
mere caricature.123
Exaggeration, hyperbole, misrepresentation were all standard for the genre.
Situations and personal characteristics were completely inverted.124 Much of
the Secret History is wilful exaggeration and distortion of the actors’ motives,
so clearly outrageous that other parts of it deserve to be doubted rather than
taken at face value as representing the “real” Procopius. Assigning Justinian
responsibility for all natural disasters (sh 6.19), for instance, has been labelled
“the very exuberance of malignancy”.125 Something similar might be said for
claims that particular actions are the most harmful or malevolent in the whole
of history (e.g. 6.19, 16.13, 26.24, 27.1, 30.24), or impacted the entire populace
(12.12, 13.1, 25.25), or absorbed the entire financial resources of the state (19.1,
26.24). His feigned succinctness (14.1, 28.19, 29.36) also arouses suspicion. None
of these techniques would have been lost on Procopius’ audience.
Now, it is proposed that the first version of the Buildings was also written
around the same time as the Wars and the Secret History and was also con-
nected to the Wars.126 Again, Procopius must have been planning and writing
121 A plausible conclusion from considering the whole question of the response of emper-
ors to critical writers (cf. Kaldellis, “Political History”, pp. 49–51), notwithstanding that
Procopius’ Secret History was not in wide circulation in Justinian’s reign, if in circulation
at all.
122 Suda, Π.2479: “Procopius”.
123 Cameron, Procopius, pp. 229–30.
124 The Secret History, as often acknowledged, did not so much invent facts as distort or invert
them, with the much-vaunted vigilance and sleeplessness of Justinian inverted into a
demonic insomniac (Croke, “Sleepless Emperor”, pp. 103–8).
125 Bury, Gibbon, p. 771; Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 210–12.
126 Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs”, pp. 89–114, and “Power, Taste and the Outsider”,
pp. 191–206; Greatrex, “Perceptions”, pp. 103–4. The manuscripts of the shorter version
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54 Croke
this for some time and possibly simultaneously with his work on the Wars and
Secret History. Again, this does not imply it was part of a single tripartite con-
ceptual plan (Wars, Secret History, Buildings). Due allowance must be made
for both date and genre. It is not enough to relegate the work as flattery127
without considering its detailed statements on Justinian and evaluating them
alongside the other works. The differences are more subtle. At the same time,
Procopius had also possibly planned an ecclesiastical history 550/1, refer-
ring to future “books” covering theological and church matters (sh 1.14; 11.33;
26.18) and explicitly in 554 (Wars 8.25.13).128 Because there is no subsequent
mention of the Church History by others it is presumed that he never actually
produced it, rather than it being suppressed because it was “too inflammatory
to publish”.129
If there was a period during Procopius’ productive years when the politi-
cal climate changed dramatically at Constantinople, it was the relatively short
interval between the end of Wars 7 (551) and the writing of Wars 8 (553/4, nar-
rative concluding summer 553). So, it is no surprise to detect a comparable
change in Procopius’ text. After all, the war in Italy had finally been completed
except for some intransigent Gothic strongholds, and the Pragmatic Sanction
providing for its governance as an imperial territory was being formulated, the
major Church Council in the imperial capital in May 553 had brought a doctri-
nal settlement of sorts at least in the east, while the Romans were on course for
victory in Lazica. Scholars have detected in Wars 8 a change of heart and out-
look presumably occasioned by intervening events.130 For example, Justinian
was previously delinquent in conducting the Italian war but now found the
resources and will to finalize it (8.26.6). Those who had previously scoffed at
his refusal to deal with Bessas after the capture of Rome now lauded his suc-
cess against the Persians, illustrating that “fortune” (Tyche) is subject to God’s
will (8.12.34, cf. 8.33.34). Even so, the emperor could still be criticised for con-
doning the mistakes of generals (8.13.14).
This new phase of Procopius’ literary activity involved not just the Wars
but the very different genre of the Buildings, at least the full public version
of it. In many ways, the Buildings has always been the most difficult of the
Procopian works to fathom. “Oddball”, is how one thoughtful scholar finds it,
contain the author’s clear prefatory statements that the Buildings is a history complemen-
tary to the Wars.
127 Kaldellis, Procopius, p. 51, cf. Evans, Procopius, p. 81.
128 Kaldellis, “Date and Structure”, pp. 606–11. But perhaps not an he as such (Signes Codoñer,
“One History”, p. 17)
129 Kaldellis, Secret History, p. xxviii, cf. “Date and Structure”, p. 609 (“never written”).
130 Greatrex, “Recent Work”, pp. 45–67.
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and inconceivable that it could have been composed in response to a com-

mission from Justinian.131 A “wonderful public recantation of the unpublished
libel”, was Bury’s judgment of Procopius’ disposition here,132 while Cameron
took the work as revealing the “real” author.133 More prosaically, two formal
aspects continue to elude solution: (1) the genesis of the work, that is, whether
it was just another literary project devised and executed by Procopius because
it was worth undertaking, or whether it was formally commissioned by
Justinian as public laudation in panegyrical form; (2) its date and composi-
tion, that is, whether it was written as a whole around 553/4 or in the early
560s, or whether it was actually composed in two separate versions, years apart
(550/551–553/554). The traditional notion that Procopius was merely respond-
ing to an invitation or commission by Justinian is difficult to sustain. The work
is not so much a panegyric but a mix of encomiastic, ekphrastic and topo-
graphical modes,134 although it is possible that the core of the first book on
Constantinople was originally produced for a specific occasion.135 Further, it is
a dense and detailed work and the passages complimenting Justinian and his
military achievements are interspersed.
Unlike the Secret History, the Buildings was able to pass the audience test
in so far as its detail across the Roman world could be known and verified
by many others resident in, or visiting, Constantinople.136 Indeed, Procopius
encourages others to add Justinianic constructions that he has not included,
through either oversight or ignorance (Buildings 6.7.17–20). This exhortation
exists in both the longer and shorter manuscripts of the work, whether or not
they strictly reflect successive versions. By imperial prerogative, Justinian could
legally claim credit for any civic or military building anywhere in the empire.
Yet, the Buildings is also explicitly called by Procopius a “history” (Buildings 1.
1–4) and is connected to the Wars, as it recounts the vast program of defensive
and domestic construction through Justinian’s realm.137 Purely on the basis of
its genre, it has been taken to be essentially ironic and lacking all sincerity on
131 Howard-Johnston, “Education”, p. 25.

132 Bury, Later Roman Empire, p. 428.
133 Cameron, Procopius, p. 122; “History as Text”, p. 56.
134 Elsner, “Rhetoric”, pp. 33–57, esp.35–9, with Webb, “Ekphrasis”, pp. 67–71; Michael Whitby,
“Pride and Prejudice”, p. 57. Mixed genres: Greatrex, “Perceptions”, p. 101,
135 Roques, Constructions, p. 24. Buildings 1.4 implies a request, cf. Treadgold, Early Byzantine
Historians, p. 190. Leaving aside Montinaro’s proposal of two editions, the notion that dif-
ferent books of the Buildings have different dates (Evans, Procopius, p. 44) seems unten-
able now.
136 Roques, Constructions, p. 37.
137 For the date: Greatrex, “Recent Scholarship”, pp. 13–29, restating the case for early 550s
against Roques, Constructions, pp. 52–9.
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56 Croke
Procopius’ part.138 Methodologically, however, it is risky to rely on the impera-

tive of the genre to dismiss the Buildings but not do the same for the Secret
History. They are either both explained as products of their respective genres,
panegyric and invective however broadly defined, or they are both taken at
face value as informed and sincere works. Sincerity is not to be demanded of a
panegyric, however, nor dispassionate factual accuracy of a satire. In that case,
we are brought back to the problem of how much to allow for the influence
of genre.
If the Secret History and Buildings are relatively close together in time
(c.550/1), and connected to the Wars, then Procopius’ engagement and motives
require a different explanation to that required if their dates are a decade apart
(Wars 1–7, and Secret History 550/1, Buildings 561) and Buildings disconnected
from both the Wars and the Secret History. In the latter case, the option of a
change of mind over time is foremost and has been an acceptable explana-
tion.139 Rather than a revelatory turnaround on Procopius’ part, Cameron gave
Buildings sufficient prominence to warrant understanding as an integral part
of a single Procopian outlook expressed in a different way but remained alert
to the significance of genre for the writer and reader.140 On the other hand,
Kaldellis generally dismisses the Buildings as mere rhetoric.141 The fact remains
that Procopius does imply he was intending to produce a work like this and was
in a position to do so because everywhere he went he encountered the con-
struction and reconstruction funded or promoted by Justinian. While recent
research on the Buildings has focussed on the extent to which its details can
now be confirmed by archaeology, it has also been proposed that not only is
the work unfinished, as recognised long ago, but that it may well have been first
written in 551 and later updated and expanded.142 Thus, the best we can say is
that to judge Procopius we have one extensive central work (Wars) and only
two points in time, around 551 and around 553, so that: (1) by around 551 when
Wars and Secret History were written, one to illuminate the other, and comple-
mented by the Buildings, Procopius could offer a clear and consistent perspec-
tive on the same events from 527 to 550, even if the Secret History was given a
dramatic date set in the future; and (2) around 553/554 which is only a short
time later, but enough to suggest that he had now come to appreciate better
the positive value of Justinian’s reign and its military success. This dichotomy
138 Kaldellis, Procopius, p. 51; Evans, Procopius, p. 81.

139 Roques, “Procope”, pp. 42–3.
140 Cameron, Procopius, p. 112.
141 Kaldellis, Procopius, p. 46; “Date and Structure”, p. 611, Secret History, p. xxix.
142 Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs”, pp. 89–114, and “Power, Taste and the Outsider”,
pp. 191–206.
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of dating implies that the similarities between the works are mainly explained
by the same person writing at the same time, while the differences of style and
outlook are therefore more to do with the particular literary model.
To be sure, it may be that Procopius consciously deployed three different
genres simultaneously because, as Cameron has argued, that was the only way
open to him to express the diversity and complexity of his perspective.143 Even
if not so deliberate, the fact is genre is not just a “modern chimera”144 nor an
“obsession”.145 It played a key role for both writer and reader. Genres are not
rigid and immutable. There is no doubt that the same thing said out loud is
read differently in different genres.146 Genre is also related to audience and
Procopius’ works were all designed for essentially the same local audience.
They knew how to respond to a satire obviously set some time in the future
when all the key characters had been avenged then passed away (sh 1.2), that is
to say, if it was actually circulated at all after the time of writing (551). In recent
years much research and theorizing have focused on the nature and scope of
genres and the literary significance of genre itself but this has scarcely been
applied as yet to early Byzantine texts.147 In this case, Procopius is exploiting
the flexibility or hybrid potential of genres to create a different literary cachet
for the same events across the Wars, the Secret History and the Buildings.148
Arguably, the preoccupation with searching for the “real” Procopius has led
to his deployment of genre being too readily dismissed. Instead, it demands
revaluation.
5 Conclusion
Procopius’ Wars, Secret History and Buildings were all the work of a single man
and a single mind. They reflected a single experience of life, but especially of
travel, constructions and warfare viewed from the general’s tent, first on the
eastern frontier then in Africa and Italy. In the few years either side of 550 these
various literary works were all carefully planned and composed, then received
and read, in the imperial capital of Constantinople where their author lived
for years without interruption. At least the Wars and Buildings were put into
circulation then, but probably not the Secret History. Since the first modern
143 Cameron, Procopius, p. 17.

144 Kaldellis, Procopius, p. 47.
145 Kaldellis, Procopius, p. 143.
146 Fundamental here is Mullett, “Madness”, pp. 233–4.
147 Agapitos, “Literary Criticism”, pp. 79–81.
148 Mullett, “Madness”, pp. 237–8.
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58 Croke
publication of the Secret History in 1623, however, there has been a persistent
search to harmonize Procopius’ apparently discordant views of the same events
and actors across his extant works, mainly by opting for the Secret History as
representing the “real Procopius” against which to evaluate and downplay
the Wars and Buildings. The search will go on. New insights may emerge from
time to time, but helpful new documents are unlikely to emerge at this stage.
For the moment, with dates for all three works settling closely together in the
early 550s, much of the explanation must lie in the author’s choice of different
literary forms: history, invective and encomium. It is not, as scholarship has
often tended to presume, a case of the author deliberately concealing every-
thing in his major work (Wars), but sincerely and fully revealing his true self in
another, deliberately unpublished, work (Secret History), before being yet later
seduced into ignoring or renouncing his previous critique altogether, by com-
posing a formal laudation of Justinian’s work and reach (Buildings). There is
now less room for explanations of such differences in terms of the progressive
psychological and intellectual development of Procopius over a decade, and
more room for the inter-connectedness of the works and their consistency of
perspective, not to mention the constraints of genre. Without more certainty
around the works of Procopius and their contemporary connections, to give
Averil Cameron the final word, it will be difficult to make progress on the reign
of Justinian.149
149 Cameron, “Conclusion”, p. 178; cf. Procopius, p. xiii; Greatrex, “Perceptions”, p. 105. Looked
at from the other side, it may be claimed that “depending on how we understand the
regime [of Justinian], Procopius could be a principled reporter of its crimes, failures and
disastrous wars; a spokesman for a reactionary plutocracy; or something in between”
(Kaldellis “Epilogue”, p. 269).
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part 2
Reading Procopius
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Procopius: Life and Works
Geoffrey Greatrex
1 Life
The few details that we know of Procopius’ life, which stem entirely from his
own work, are quickly told. The historian was born in Caesarea, Palestine, into
what must have been a well-to-do family, capable of bestowing on him the
education in both classical literature and the law that were to stand him in
such good stead. At the time of his birth, around the year 500, this port city,
the metropolis of the province of Palaestina Prima, was a flourishing commer-
cial and administrative centre. There has been much archaeological work at
Caesarea, thanks to which we know that the city occupied some 111 hectares
and boasted a population of between 35,000 and 100,000.1 From the city’s har-
bour, which underwent important repairs around 500, were exported purple
dye and the surplus of the region’s rich agricultural production. At the quay-
side an octagonal martyr church was erected around 490, further testament
to the enduring vitality of the city’s urban life.2 Procopius’ name is typical of
the city, recalling that of a local martyr; among his contemporaries were many
others of the same name, as literary works and inscriptions attest, a fact that
renders speculation about connections to other Procopii somewhat futile.3
It is worth enlarging our focus to include the wider region of Palestine, for
only some 80 km along the coast from Caesarea lay the city of Gaza, about
which a remarkable array of authors of this period informs us. In recent years
the ‘Gaza school’, a group of authors from this city, that includes most notably
the rhetoricians Procopius (of Gaza) and Choricius, has attracted a number
of studies. From these it emerges that this city enjoyed a flourishing literary
culture in the late fifth and early sixth centuries. Declamations by these orators
were a widely appreciated aspect of the city’s culture and might describe pub-
lic monuments or the arrival of an image of the emperor in the city, perhaps
1 Patrich, “Urban Space”, p. 94, cf. Holum, “Caesarea in Palestine”, pp. 176–9, idem, “Caesarea
Palaestinae, pp. 11–31. See further n.10 below for another estimate of the population.
2 Patrich, “Several aspects of commerce, pp. 117–18, Holum, “Caesarea in Palestine”, p. 178, idem,
“Caesarea Palaestinae”, pp. 18–21, Greatrex, “L’historien Procope”, pp. 15–19. See the recon-
struction of the church in D. Whitcomb, “Qaysāriyah”, p. 70 fig.3.
3 Patrich, “Urban Space”, p. 104, on the local martyr. See Ameling et al. (eds), Corpus Inscriptio-
num, nos. 1534–40 for attestations of the name, cf. pp. 336, 467, on its frequency, at Caesarea.
We therefore retract our earlier remarks to the contrary, Greatrex, “Stephanus”, p. 141 n. 26.

62 Greatrex
on the occasion of a spring festival. Competitions were held in rhetoric. The

ties between the city’s governing class and the rhetoricians, who also provided
the literary training of the children of the nobility, were close. The orators
would celebrate the marriages of their former students with wedding speeches
(epithalamia), praise the accomplishments of governors, officials and indeed
the emperor (panegyrics), and deliver funeral orations (epitaphioi) on the
death of important local figures. Choricius even gave an address to three of
his students, one called Procopius, on the occasion of their marriage at some
point, probably in the 520s: this could, of course, be our historian, but it is no
more than a faint possibility.4
Returning to Caesarea, we may observe traces of the same vibrant literary
culture. Choricius describes in glowing terms an annual feast that took place
in the presence of the local elite, at which the local rhetoricians would read
(among other things, one presumes) the works of the mimographers.5 Our
historian will have undergone the traditional literary education of the period,
which started under a grammatikos with a study of poetry first and fore-
most, before moving on at age fifteen or sixteen to a sophist or rhetorician for
Attic prose authors, among whom would be philosophers, such as Plato, his-
torians such as Thucydides – a particular strength of the Gaza school – and
orators, such as Demosthenes. At around the age of twenty many would then
embark on the study of law, which in turn offered paths to advancement in
imperial service.6 In his youth, Procopius may have had occasion to visit the
complex of the governor at Caesarea, which included offices for the financial
officials, vaults for the archives, the law courts, and a reception hall for the
governor. He would have entered the building, in the centre of the city close to
the waterfront, through one of two waiting rooms. In each of them, he could
have contemplated an inscription on the floor that reads, “Do you wish not
to fear authority? Do good and you will receive praise from it!” Once he had
arrived in the courts themselves, he could have pondered a detailed tabulation
of legal fees inscribed in marble, displayed in order to discourage officials from
4 Choricius, Oration 5, on which see Penella, “From the Muses”, cf. Renaut, “Les déclamations
d’ekphraseis”, pp. 210–11, 215. This volume contains many other useful contributions on this
topic; see also Webb, “Rhetorical and Theatrical Fictions”, pp. 116–17, Amato, Rose; Penella,
Rhetorical, pp. 7–8 and now Amato/Maréchaux, Procope de Gaza, pp. xii–xxiv, Champion,
Explaining the Cosmos, pp. 21–42. For a fruitless attempt to connect the author with the stu-
dent, Greatrex “Stephanus”, pp. 139–41.
5 Choricius, Oration 8.95–6, cf. Malineau, “L’apport de l’Apologie”, p. 160, Greatrex, “L’historien
Procope”, pp. 27–9.
6 As we have argued elsewhere, “Lawyers and historians”, pp. 148–61. Curriculum: Penella,
“From the Muses”, p. 144 Laniado, “La carrière”, pp. 223–4, Saliou, “Gaza dans l’Antiquité”,
pp. 154–5, cf. Greatrex, “Stephanus”, pp. 128–9 (on Thucydides).
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inflating their fees.7 It is quite possible that he remained in Caesarea to study

law, in which case he will have been among the last to do so; Justinian specifi-
cally ordered the cessation of teaching there in December 533. Lawyers in the
city in Procopius’ day appear to have been particularly exercised by issues of
inheritance, a topic that also grew dear to his own heart, as emerges from some
of his tirades in the Secret History.8 If the young Procopius grew up believing in
the pursuit of justice only to be bitterly disappointed by what he observed in
its administration and application, then he was certainly not alone: the corre-
spondence of Procopius of Gaza contains other examples, notably of a certain
Aeneas, another lawyer, who had to give up on his career because he refused to
bribe the local governors.9
Issues of religion and doctrine will have loomed large in Procopius’ forma-
tive years. Palestine was the theatre of a significant Samaritan uprising in 484,
which was brutally crushed. Perhaps one third of the inhabitants of Caesarea
were of Samaritan origin, even if many of them preferred ostensibly to con-
vert to Christianity, such as the wealthy Faustinus, despite the grumblings of
some hard-line Christians.10 It is unlikely, however, that Procopius himself
was a Samaritan, although it has sometimes been claimed.11 For Christians,
on the other hand, the city had long been a centre of learning, since the days
of Origen in the third century and Eusebius in the fourth. An inscription of
the late sixth or early seventh century found near the inner harbour reading
“Lord, sustain the orthodox forever” testifies to the ongoing debates about the
Council of Chalcedon of 451: Palestine was a region where the forces of sup-
porters and opponents of the council were evenly matched in the early sixth
century.12 Even if Procopius’ literary activity remained fundamentally classical
7 Patrich, “The praetoria”, pp. 212–18, cf. Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius”, p. 80.
8 Cod. Iust. ii.3.30 (531), vi.58.12 (532), Inst. ii.8.3 (533). Const. Omnem 7 for the closure of
the schools at Alexandria and Caesarea. Secret History. 14.16–23, 29.17–24 (the latter case
involving a noble of Caesarea).
9 Procopius of Gaza, Letter 43 in Amato, Rose, pp. 326–8, cited by F. Ciccolella in the same
volume, p. 126, cf. plre ii, Aeneas 4.
10 Pummer, Early Christian Authors, pp. 255–7, 289–90, on the revolt of 484, which was
followed by disturbances during Anastasius’ reign (cf. Proc. Buildings 5.7.1–17). Patrich,
“Urban Space”, pp. 95–6, on the Samaritans, citing Proc. Secret History 11.24–30, 27.26–31.
Proc. barely mentions the large-scale uprising of 529, reported in detail by Malalas: see
Pummer, Early Christian Authors, pp. 259–67, L. Di Segni, “The Samaritans”, pp. 51–66, cf.
Holum, “Identity and the Late Antique City”, esp. pp. 170–7. Holum suggests that perhaps
half of Caesarea’s population of 75,000 were Samaritans, most of whom lived in the sur-
rounding countryside. See also now Greatrex, “L’historien Procope”, pp. 19–24.
11 Good overview in Pummer, Early Christian Authors, pp. 291–4.
12 Ameling et al. (eds), Corpus Inscriptionum, no. 1182, translation modified, cf. no. 1188
and Patrich, “Urban Space”, p. 97.
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64 Greatrex
in form, we should remember that the luminaries of the Gaza school, and
doubtless the rhetoricians of Caesarea too, were as well versed in Christian as
secular literature. The thorough grounding in literature and law that propelled
our historian to a career in imperial service and to the composition of his clas-
sicizing works inspired others to embark in markedly different directions: a
certain Zachariah from Maiuma, the port of Gaza, studied philosophy at
Alexandria before completing his legal studies at Berytus (Beirut) around 490,
as did a pagan friend of his, Severus, who converted to Christianity. The former
took up a legal career at Constantinople, where he nonetheless found time to
write a church history and biographies of contemporary holy men, including
one of his friend Severus, who, having initially become a monk, rose to become
a fiercely anti-Chalcedonian patriarch of Antioch in 512 and composed innu-
merable theological treatises.13
At some point in the 520s Procopius, perhaps armed with letters of recom-
mendation of the type that we find in Procopius of Gaza’s correspondence,
set off for Constantinople; by ship the journey took only twenty days.14 We
leave open the question as to whether he had remained in Caesarea up until
then: he may also have studied at Gaza and at Berytus, but neither is certain.
Like one anonymous product of the same training, for whom a funeral speech
is preserved, he must have hoped that someone would intercede for him at
the imperial court, among “the powerful”, as the speaker puts it.15 However
his appointment came about, he emerges as the symboulos/assessor or legal
adviser of Justinian’s former bodyguard (doryphoros or bucellarius) Belisarius
in 527, now promoted to the post of dux of Mesopotamia, just as hostilities
with Persia were flaring up anew. From this point on he remained almost con-
stantly at the general’s side, no doubt benefiting from his patron’s promotion
to magister militum per Orientem in 529, witnessing both his victory at Dara
in 530 and his defeat at Callinicum in the following year, after which he was
recalled to Constantinople. There he was present in January 532 for the bloody
Nika revolt before he accompanied his rehabilitated patron to North Africa
in 533 and thus observed his unexpectedly successful campaign against the
Vandals. En route, the imperial fleet halted in Sicily, where we catch a brief
glimpse of the historian, now Belisarius’ paredros, encountering a friend from
his childhood at Syracuse; through a servant of his friend he gained vital
13 Details in Greatrex/Horn/Phenix, The Chronicle, pp. 3–12, cf. Destephen, Prosopographie

chrétienne, pp. 960–9.
14 Rougé, Recherches sur, p. 104, for the figure (miscited by Roques, Procope de Césarée, p. 4
as 15 days). Ciccolella in Amato (ed.), Rose, pp. 139–41, on Procopius’ letters.
15 Laniado, “La carrière”, pp. 221–39 offers a translation and analysis of this brief speech. He
too may have been an assessor; he then governed a province.
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intelligence concerning the unpreparedness of the Vandals, which, he tells

us, greatly encouraged Belisarius (Wars 3.14.3–17). He probably returned to
Constantinople for Belisarius’ triumph in 534, then came with him to Sicily in
535, from where the imperial forces launched their reconquest of the Italian
peninsula. In the following year, the historian was again entrusted by Belisarius
with an important mission, this time sailing to Carthage, where with the gen-
eral Solomon he managed narrowly to escape an uprising and to make his way
back to Belisarius (Wars 4.14.37–42). During the lengthy siege of Rome of 537–8
Belisarius despatched the historian to Naples in order to fetch fresh troops and
supplies (Wars 6.4.1–4); in this task he collaborated with the general’s wife
Antonina, a woman whose repeated unfaithfulness towards her husband he
condemns bitterly in the Secret History. When Belisarius had taken Ravenna in
540, he returned to Constantinople with him.16
Henceforth it becomes harder to follow the historian’s movements. He
was clearly in Constantinople when the plague struck in 542 (cf. Wars 2.22–3)
but may have accompanied Belisarius on his eastern campaign of 541, about
which he is well informed. Some have supposed that he revisited Italy in 546,
although this is only an inference from the more detailed nature of his account
of events in this phase of the war. Otherwise he is thought to have spent the
rest of his days in the capital, writing his works until, at the earliest, 554, and
perhaps until 560 or beyond. At some point, according to the Suda, he was
rewarded with the rank of illustris. The seventh-century chronicle of John of
Nikiu, which survives only through a translation first into Arabic and then into
Ethiopic, offers the following intriguing entry: “And these great victories [of
Justinian] were diligently recorded by ’Agābyās, who was one of the famous
commentators of the city of Constantinople, and with him a learned man
whose name was ’Abrokāniyos the patrician (baṭriq). He was an intelligent
man and an official (masfәn), whose work is well known.”17 The reference is
evidently to Agathias and to Procopius himself, even if the latter name has
been garbled in the transmission. It is important to note that the titles attrib-
uted to him are extremely vague: the latter rank is often translated wrongly
as prefect. Thus, while John clearly refers to Procopius, his account offers no
16 Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 176–84, offers a good survey of Proc.’s life
with further references, cf. plre iii, Procopius 2, more recently Cesaretti/Fobelli, Santa
Sofia, pp. 31–4. See also plre iii, Belisarius 1. Ross, “Narrator and Participant”, pp. 73–90,
offers some interesting reflections on Proc.’s self-representation in his work, while
Lillington-Martin, “‘Procopius, πάρεδρος / quaestor, Codex Justinianus, 1.27 and Belisarius’
strategy in the Mediterranean”, pp. 158–62 discusses his role as symboulos and paredros.
17 John of Nikiu, tr. H. Zotenberg, 92.20, p. 163, this translation by Phil Booth. Roques,
Constructions, p. 4, on the possible trip to Italy; plre iii, Procopius 2, on the illustris rank.
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66 Greatrex
support for identifying our historian with the city prefect who, the chronicler
Malalas recounts, investigated a plot to assassinate Justinian in November 562,
in which Belisarius was implicated.18
2 Works
The dust is still far from settled in the debate as to the chronology of Procopius’
works. The bibliography is growing almost exponentially, as scholars clutch at
ever more abstruse passages to find support for their interpretations. To make
matters more complicated, it is now being suggested that the historian actually
updated his own works as time passed, rendering the whole issue yet slipperier.
To the newcomer to the field these endless and rather detailed discussions
might seem a somewhat futile exercise, yet the debate is important, for to a
large extent our picture of the historian depends on the view we take of his life
and career. On the one hand, according to Gibbon, he “composed successively
the history, the panegyric, and the satire, of his own times.” He thus regards
the Secret History as Procopius’ revenge on the emperor, composed after the
Buildings: we can imagine an embittered former official, somewhat akin to
John the Lydian, venting his spleen on a regime that had come to disgust him
at the end of his career. On the other hand, most scholars now prefer to invert
the order of his last two works, believing rather that the Secret History appeared
in 550/1 and the Buildings in 554 or 559/60. In this case it becomes harder to
explain his trajectory: does the latter work represent a genuine change of heart
or is it insincere and even laced with oblique criticism of Justinian’s regime?19
We cannot hope to resolve these issues in this short article. Before briefly
reviewing contemporary views on this point, we must note that the figure
of Procopius has become all the more elusive as a result of uncertainty as to
his religious attitudes. Initially scholars were inclined to see him as a pagan,
influenced by the markedly classical tone of his work and the few references
he makes to Christianity. In the 1960s, however, Alan and Averil Cameron
18 I am indebted to Phil Booth for his remarks on John’s text. Malalas, Chronographia,
pp. 425–9. Cf. plre iii, Procopius 3.
19 Gibbon, The Decline and Fall, p. 224. See Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 184–92,
on the question of dates, who is prepared to countenance a more mellow author by the
time of the Buildings (which he dates to c.554), cf. ibid. p. 226, Roques, Constructions,
pp. 58–9. Kaldellis, “Identifying Dissident Circles”, pp. 1–17, suggests close contact between
John and Procopius. For a more detailed treatment of the issues discussed below see
Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius”, pp. 90–6. Battsitella, “Zur Datierung”, puts forward
the interesting suggestion that the Anekdota dates rather to 553/4.
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proposed rather that he was a typical Christian, whose work possesses a veneer
of classicism that conceals a nonetheless fairly conventional piety. More
recently, Anthony Kaldellis has vigorously put forward a case that the histo-
rian was a committed crypto-pagan, a view that has provoked much debate
but found few adherents. For the moment, it appears that the consensus still
favours a Christian Procopius, but it can safely be predicted that discussion will
continue.20 Furthermore, and connected to this point, it is remarkably difficult
to gauge the historian’s attitude in many cases: is the Buildings indeed replete
with veiled criticism? Scholars also continue to disagree about whether the
historian supported or opposed Justinian’s reconquests in the West. Even to
take a more minor example, it is far from clear whether he approved or con-
demned the Emperor Anastasius’ more passive foreign policy in the East. The
‘real’ Procopius remains singularly inscrutable.21
Since other chapters will discuss Procopius’ individual works in more detail,
we offer here a mere overview of the issue. There is at any rate unanimity in
dating the publication of the first seven books of the Wars to 550/1.22 Over the
course of the 540s, which he spent mostly, if not entirely, in Constantinople,
Procopius gathered his material for publication while following the course of
the wars in Africa, Italy and the East, probably with access to official reports
flowing into and out of the imperial capital. As he laboured, his faith in imperial
power and justice steadily diminished, dented not only by military reversals on
all fronts, but also by Belisarius’ lacklustre performance and the ravages of the
plague that struck the empire from 541.23 Like the Soviet historian and general
Dmitri Volkogonov (1928–1995), whose disenchantment with the system grew
as he prepared his biography of Stalin, Procopius came to question fundamental
20 Cameron/Cameron, “Christianity”, pp. 316–22, cf. Cameron, Procopius, ch.7; Kaldellis,

Procopius, ch.5. Whitby, “Religious Views”, pp. 73–93, reacting to Kaldellis, cf. Gador-Whyte,
“Propaganda, pp. 109–19 and Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und die Abgarlegende”,
pp. 349–60. See also now M. Conterno, “Procopius and Non-Chalcedonian Christians”,
pp. 95–111, A. Cameron, “Writing about Procopius”, pp. 16–19.
21 Rousseau, “Procopius’ Buildings”, pp. 121–30, seeing much latent criticism in the work, cf.
Bell, Social Conflict, p. 11; contra, Whitby, “Pride and prejudice”, pp. 59–66 and cf. Cameron,
“New Themes”, pp. 20–2. Western reconquests: see the sensible article of Brodka,
“Prokopios von Kaisareia und Justinians”, pp. 243–55, concluding that the historian gener-
ally approved the project, even if he had reserves about its execution, contra, Kaldellis,
“Procopius’ Persian War”, p. 256. Anastasius: Greatrex, “Procopius and Roman imperial”,
pp.252–3 on Wars 1.10.10–12. cf. n.35 below
22 Cf. Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 188–9.
23 On Procopius’ sources for events at which he was not present, see Colvin, “Reporting
Battles”, pp.577–95; Brodka, “‘Prokop von Kaisareia”. Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians,
pp. 184–9, on the composition of Wars i–vii, cf. Meier, Das andere Zeitalter Justinians,
pp. 427–38, on the impact of natural disasters on the historian.
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68 Greatrex
aspects of the state that had nonetheless supported him in his career. As in
Volkogonov’s case, there were dangers attached to his work: the publication of
Stalin’s biography in 1988 led to the general’s forced resignation, although he
enjoyed prominence once more after the fall of communism.24 Procopius for
his part could reasonably hope that he would live to see Justinian’s demise and
therefore to publish with impunity a work that overtly criticised his regime,
but in 550 he evidently decided to wait no longer. The Wars provide a detailed
account of Justinian’s wars in East and West, focussing particularly on the suc-
cesses won by Belisarius. There are traces, however, of criticism of the regime,
e.g. in the blistering criticisms of John the Cappadocian (Wars i.24.11–15). It
seems therefore likely that he decided relatively late in the day to organize his
material geographically – a choice with few precedents – and to detach his
most vitriolic criticisms of the emperor and ministers who remained powerful
for a separate work, known in Greek as the Anekdota (Secret History), because
it was too explosive to be published at the time it was drawn up; most scholars
still favour the traditional date of 550/1 for this work, although Brian Croke
sought to revive the alternative date of 559; see now his chapter in this vol-
ume.25 Federico Montinaro has moreover suggested that an initial version of
the Buildings was completed at the same time as Wars i–vii and may have
accompanied it; this is what is referred to as the ‘shorter recension’ of the work,
hitherto thought to be a later abridgement.26
The first seven books of the Wars enjoyed considerable success, prompting
the historian to continue his work. The eighth book of the Wars, which cov-
ers the wars both in the East and in Italy, as well as events in the Balkans and
Constantinople, appeared in 552 or 553.27 Just as he makes corrections and
additions in this work to what he had already written, so perhaps he continued
subsequently to update and correct what he produced: the longer version of the
Buildings contains extensive new passages, which seem to indicate both that
he brought to bear new information that had come to his attention and that he
may have come under pressure to produce this (superficially) glowing account
24 Greatrex, “Prokopio de Cezareo, enigma”, p. 68, for the parallel, cf. Volkogonov, Autopsy for
an Empire, p. xiii.
25 See Greatrex, “Procopius the Outsider?”, pp. 218–19, idem, “John the Cappadocian”,
pp. 1–13. On the context of the Secret History see Signes Codoñer, “Prokops Anekdota”,
pp. 53–82 and now idem, “One History”. Croke, “Procopius’ Secret History”, pp. 405–31,
effectively rebutted by Kaldellis, “The Date and Structure”, pp. 585–616.
26 Montinaro, “Byzantium”, pp. 104–5.
27 Greatrex, “Recent work”, pp. 54–7, cf. Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 189–90.
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of Justinian’s building activities.28 Whether he did so c.554 or c.559 remains

the subject of fierce debate; there is no sign that a consensus now exists.29
Anthony Kaldellis has proposed also that the final section of the Secret History
(chapters 19–30) was appended after the first part was completed; Procopius
seems moreover to have contemplated adding a Church History to his œuvre.30
He may similarly have updated sections in Wars i–vii in the 550s.31
In conclusion, Procopius remains an enigma. He has been labelled a
Samaritan, a pagan and a Christian; he has been said to have trained as a law-
yer or as an engineer;32 the accuracy of much of what he asserts, especially in
the Secret History, has been dismissed by some scholars, while others, from
J.B. Bury onwards, note that no factual error has yet been found.33 It is indubita-
bly a fool’s errand to try to iron out all the contradictions in his works: as Paolo
Cesaretti has remarked, modern scholars display similar inconsistencies.34 The
historian, like the age in which he lived, is Janus-like, looking both forwards
and backwards. He remembered with nostalgia the rewards that had once
been the preserve of lawyers and the circus amusements of old (Secret History
26.2, 9–11), yet at the same time admired the innovations of Justinian’s age such
as the horse-archers (Wars 1.1.6–16) and new technical devices of which he pro-
vides detailed, albeit garbled, descriptions. His works should thus be read with
these conflicting currents in mind.35
28 So Montinaro, “Procopius’ Buildings revisited”, cf. Cesaretti/Fobelli, Santa Sofia, p. 40.
Corrections, e.g. Wars 2.29.16, 8.2.6–9. Additions, e.g. Wars 8.7.5–9 (on Dara), cf. Montinaro,
“Byzantium”, p. 96, and the two recensions of the Buildings (further updates).
29 Favouring a late dating: Whitby, “Justinian’s Bridge”, pp. 129–48, Roques, Constructions,
52–9. Favouring an earlier dating: G. Greatrex, “The Dates of Procopius’ Works”, pp. 107–13,
idem, “The date of Procopius”, pp. 13–29, Cesaretti/Fobelli, Santa Sofia, pp. 15–18.
30 Kaldellis, “Date and Structure”, pp. 604–15 Signes Codoñer, “One History”, pp. 17–19, argues
that the projected church history would have been incorporated into the Anekdota.
31 Suggested by Greatrex, “Réflexions” pp. 363–6.
32 Howard-Johnston, “The education”, pp. 19–30, intriguing but unconvincing.
33 Brubaker, “The Age of Justinian, p. 432; Bury, History of the Later Roman Empire, pp. 426–
7, cf. Greatrex, “Prokopio”, p. 67, Montinaro, “Procopius’ Buildings revisited”, p. 90. Note
also the correspondences observed between Justinian’s laws and criticisms in the Secret
History, conveniently assembled by Kaldellis, Procopius, pp. 223–8, cf. Scott, “Malalas”,
pp. 99–109.
34 Cesaretti/Fobelli, Santa Sofia, p. 42.
35 Kaldellis, “Classicism, barbarism and warfare”, pp.189–218, takes the opposite view of the
introduction, but see Burgess, Elton, Greatrex, “Urbicius’ Epitedeuma”, pp. 69–72 and n. 87.
Turquois, “Technical Writing”, pp. 220–5 on his superficially technical language. Cameron,
Procopius, ch.14 on Procopius (and John the Lydian) and changes in the sixth century.
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Wars
Philip Rance
Within Procopius’ oeuvre, the Wars are the major work upon which his reputa-
tion rests. If the Secret History and/or Buildings were the only specimens of his
writings, Procopius would rank as a minor author. If the Wars alone remained,
his standing would not be significantly impaired – indeed might even be
enhanced. Superlatives abound. The Wars are the longest historical composi-
tion to have survived intact from late antiquity. Conceived and written on a
vast scale and extensively based on the reportage of a well-placed and widely
travelled eyewitness-participant, the Wars are the main – and often sole – nar-
rative source for events during the reign of Justinian, assembling historical,
ethno-geographical and antiquarian information across far-flung territories,
within and beyond the Eastern Roman empire, and exhibiting detailed knowl-
edge and insight rarely matched in antiquity or Byzantium. As a record of wars
of defence and conquest waged by Justinian from the western Mediterranean
to the Caucasus, fusing operational report with res gestae in a heroic mould,
the Wars are the most important account of warfare in the sixth century;
although Procopius was never a soldier, no other extant history composed dur-
ing the Principate or late empire evinces comparable military experience. As
a foremost example of classicizing historiography, Procopius’ Wars have been
central to debates about late antique historical writing, classicism and liter-
ary culture, including Procopius’ particular ambitions with regard to language,
style and intertextual engagement with classical historians, and to what extent
the Wars reflect the interests, tastes and attitudes of East Roman society.
While scholarly interest in the Wars long embraced historical, historio-
graphic and aesthetic dimensions, a preference for studying ancient and
Byzantine histories as creative works of literary representation has reoriented
the perspectives and direction of recent inquiries. More or less tacitly, histori-
ans have learned to live with the inescapable consequences of a single-source
narrative: in effect, they usually have no option but to rely on the Wars, even if
doubts about Procopius’ impartiality, accuracy and consistency persist, partly
in light of his own alternative testimony in the Secret History and especially
given that, on those rare occasions where contemporary sources can provide a
control, they sometimes record substantially different or conflicting versions
of events. While research remains alert to bias, suppression and ambiguity in
the Wars, purely historical priorities of factual reliability have given way to
consideration of the function and significance of distortion with respect to

Wars 71
Procopius’ literary creativity, ideological agenda or personal outlook. Similarly,

although Procopius’ focus on contemporary events has always limited oppor-
tunities for older-style Quellenforschung, recent investigation of possible oral
informants and documentary source materials, supplementary or alternative
to his own observations, may assist in elucidating Procopius’ professional envi-
ronment and compositional aspects of his narratives.
Since the later nineteenth century, scholarship has been sensitive to liter-
ary qualities in the Wars. Beyond initial anxieties about the distorting impact
of Procopius’ verbal imitation of ancient Greek authors, German and Italian
scholars pioneered investigation of linguistic, conceptual and structural
influences exerted by classical historiography on individual passages or epi-
sodes of the Wars. If the recent “literary turn” in anglophone scholarship is
thus less innovative in some respects, efforts to understand and explicate
Procopius’ literary objectives and rhetorical technique currently address
diverse literary-theoretical approaches: strategies of authority, persuasion and
self-representation, intertextuality, narratology, didacticism, gendered read-
ings, identity construction and characterization of protagonists, together with
unresolved long-standing questions of audience and milieu. Nuanced analy-
ses of this increasingly elaborate literary-narrational edifice have endowed
the Wars with a level of artistry and meaning that largely eluded – and would
probably surprise – older scholarship, as a new generation finds method,
sophistication and purpose where previous readers saw muddle, affectation
and whimsy. Correspondingly, interest is shifting from the author’s actual biog-
raphy to his constructed narratorial persona, while the study of historiography
itself becomes a sub-branch of literary criticism sometimes detached from
or tangential to strictly historical or historiographic concerns. Although near
consensus prevails on some major issues, including most recently a renewed
controversy about Procopius’ religious-philosophical outlook, a countervailing
tendency towards overly subtle decodings of words, phrases and episodes, to
yield esoteric interpretations and/or to substantiate modish research agendas,
threatens to open a Pandora’s box of subjectivity. The following survey of the
content, composition and characteristics of the Wars attempts to chart an even
course through this rather fragmented scholarly landscape, in which different
visions of the Wars and its author/narrator-participant proliferate.
1 Content and Arrangement
Procopius’ Wars follow an ancient tradition of secular historiography pri-

marily concerned with military, political and diplomatic events within the
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72 Rance
author’s lifetime. Like other classicizing historians in late antiquity, his ambi-
tion to imitate or emulate authors in a literary-educational canon, particularly
Thucydides, imposed restrictive criteria on language, style and substance.
Self-conscious mimesis is most apparent in his affected Atticizing diction and
certain conventional narrative-rhetorical elements – inquiry into origins and
causes, set-piece descriptions of battles and sieges, contrived speeches
and letters, and learned ethno-geographical digressions. Subtler textual pat-
terning, incorporating allusive intertextuality, and intrusive traits characteris-
tic of sixth-century historical writing indicate both deeper engagement with
and divergence from classical antecedents. The received text comprises eight
books. i–vii were published collectively after early 551, though internal evi-
dence points to protracted composition. viii is a supplementary volume, com-
pleted after early 553, which variously updates constituent military narratives.1
The manuscript prototypes, none older than the late thirteenth century, invari-
ably transmit these eight books as two separately numbered tetrads (i.1–4 and
ii.1–4).2 Modern convention numbers them Wars i–viii or Persian War i–ii,
Vandal War I–II and Gothic War i–iv. The original title of this work – and of
its component units – is uncertain, but in varying manuscript witnesses and
testimonia “wars” (πόλεμοι) is a common element.3 In addition, Procopius
seemingly conceived his unpublished Secret History, apparently compiled
between c.548 and 550/51, as a corrective addendum or “alternative version” to
Wars i–vii. Although a separate work, with distinct objectives and readership,
its partly parallel coverage led at least one Byzantine reader to comprehend a
nine-book oeuvre.4
Procopius’ stated theme is wars waged by Justinian against barbarians. Most
of the action occurs on or beyond the Roman empire’s eastern frontiers or in
newly conquered or contested territories in the West. Books i–vii essentially
comprise self-contained narratives of Roman military operations in three
geostrategic zones – the Near East, Africa and Europe, principally Italy. In
each case, a classically inspired preambular section, mixing history, myth and
1 Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 188–90, 203–4; Greatrex, “Perceptions of
Procopius”, p. 97.
2 Haury/Wirth, Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia i, pp. xxii–liv; Kalli, The Manuscript Tradition;
partly summarized in Croke, “Procopius, from Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 7–13.
3 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 358; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 134–5;
Croke, “Procopius, from Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 7–9.
4 Suda Π 2479; cf. Photius, Bibliotheca cod. 63, “in eight books”. The compositional date of the
Secret History remains disputed. The case for completion in 550/51 prevails in recent scholar-
ship, as summarized in Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius”, pp. 97, 100, with further remarks
in Signes Codoñer, “One History”, pp. 6–17. See now Battistella, “Zur Datierung”, favouring
553/4.
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Wars 73
anecdote, surveys the preceding era, ostensibly to elucidate prior histories of

peoples, the geopolitical landscape and longer-term causes of wars. i–ii con-
cern Roman-Sasanian rivalry and conflict, primarily from 526/7 to 549. iii–iv
relate the destruction of the Vandal kingdom in Africa by a Roman expedition
in 533–4 and difficulties faced by the new imperial administration, includ-
ing mutinies and hostile Berber population-groups, up to 548. v–vii record
the Roman (re)conquest of the Ostrogoths’ realm in Italy and Dalmatia in
535–40, followed by Ostrogothic insurgency and resurgence, to 550. The geo-
graphical horizons of vii expand to accommodate mostly unrelated military-
diplomatic events in the Balkans, involving Germanic, Slavic and Turkic
(Oğuric) population-groups, c.530/1 to 550/51. In contrast to the monographic
regional coverage of i–vii, the expressly “assorted” content of viii treats all
regions, albeit very unevenly. Geographical structuring of i–vii permits con-
tinuous and internally coherent military-operational narratives, but poten-
tially obscures connections between developments in different theatres. In all
three units, the career, exploits and personality of Belisarius initially provide
unifying focus and narrative drive, partly reflecting his high-profile successes
in Mesopotamia (530), Africa (533–4) and Italy (535–40), but also Procopius’
personal and professional viewpoint. With his selection as an adviser (σύμ-
βουλος/consiliarius) to Belisarius, the little-known and newly appointed dux
Mesopotamiae, in 527 (1.1.3, 12.24), Procopius joined the staff and household of
a man soon to be one of Justinian’s most prominent generals, and continued to
serve as his legal counsellor (πάρεδρος/assessor) (3.14.3) until c.540–42.5 But for
this chance assignment, Procopius’ career, Belisarius’ reputation and our his-
torical knowledge might have been entirely different. For much of this period,
encompassing dynamic, fast-action conquests, Procopius was therefore a close
associate of a (or his) main protagonist and an eyewitness to, and sometimes
participant in, the momentous events he describes. His autopsy and involve-
ment fulfil the highest authoritative requirements of classical historiography
but also render his account susceptible to perspectival distortions and parti-
san bias. After c.540, all three military narratives acquire a different texture,
outlook and pace, reflecting Procopius’ distance from events and the dimin-
ished historiographic opportunities offered by generally less successful and/or
small-scale warfare throughout the 540s. From this point also, some modern
5 For the terminological significance of σύμβουλος/consiliarius and πάρεδρος/assessor, see

Hitzig, Die Assessoren, esp. pp. 124–5, 168–70; Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 304–5; plre
iiib, p. 1060; Greatrex, “Lawyers and Historians”, with further bibliography. In contrast,
Lillington-Martin, “Procopius, πάρεδρος/quaestor”, pp. 158–62, 179–80, interprets πάρεδρος as
a vaguely defined and otherwise undocumented type of “quaestor”.
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74 Rance
readers discern negative shifts in Procopius’ attitudes to Justinian and the con-
duct of overseas campaigns, and later to Belisarius, that undercut the author’s
portrayal of preceding triumphs; others detect veiled hostility to the regime
and “reconquest” from the outset.
The opening to Book i self-consciously imitates the prefaces of both
Thucydides and Herodotus.6 By evoking the Greek-Persian wars (490–479 bc),
Herodotean mimesis heralds recent conflicts between “Romans and Medes”
narrated in i–ii, but the ensuing prologue functions as a general preface to
Wars i–vii, which in scope and grandeur will surpass Herodotus’ achievement
as “a history of the wars that Justinian, emperor of the Romans, waged against
barbarians of both the East and the West” (1.1.1). Richly textured with classical
influences and allusions, these prefatory remarks present Procopius’ creden-
tials and position his work with respect to historical-literary traditions. A com-
plex composite of Herodotean and Thucydidean elements – linguistic, formal
and conceptual – exhibits Procopius’ mimetic creativity, at least in comparison
to more jejune specimens of such classical posturing, which had long been rid-
iculed.7 Where modern scholarship once saw conventional prefatorial rhetoric
and generic imitation of canonical texts, recent studies perceive specific pro-
grammatic statements of authorial mission, literary-cultural allegiance or self-
identity.8 Procopius pleads the intrinsic value of recording events, not least
the didactic utility of history for present and future generations (1.1.1–2).9 He
claims exceptional qualifications: as chosen advisor to a prominent general,
he was “present at practically all the events” (1.1.3), invoking observation and
participation as the highest validation of historiographic authority.10 In fact,
this assertion is true of barely one-third of i–vii; a larger proportion depends
on secondary sources. Aware that participation entails partiality, Procopius
avows commitment to complete and unadorned truth, even with respect to
intimate acquaintances (1.1.4–5), a conventional claim by writers of contempo-
rary history, which in Procopius’ case is sometimes hard to reconcile with other
6 Thucydides 1.1.1; Herodotus 1.pr.

7 Lucian, How History Should be Written 15; see Basso/Greatrex, “How to Interpret”,
pp. 60–62.
8 Braun, Procopius Caesariensis, pp. 5–7; Lieberich, Studien zu den Proömien, pp. 1–8; Rubin,
“Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 361; Scott, “The classical tradition in Byzantine historiography”,
p. 73; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 37–9; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea,
pp. 17–21; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, p. 192; Basso/Greatrex, “How to
Interpret”, pp. 60–68; Kruse, “Archery in the Preface”, pp. 386–90.
9 See similarly Buildings 1.1.2, 17–18. Cf. Herodotus 1.pr.; Thucydides 1.22.4.
10 Cf. Thucydides 1.22.2–3; also e.g. Herodotus 1.8; Polybius 12.27. See Avenarius, Lukians
Schrift zur Geschichtsschreibung, pp. 35–40; Austin, “Autobiography and History”;
Marincola, Authority and Tradition, pp. 63–86; Ross, “Narrator and Participant”, pp. 73–7.
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Wars 75
sixth-century sources or his own revelations in the Secret History.11 Reprising

Thucydides’ competitive relationship with his predecessors, Procopius asserts
the unprecedented magnitude and significance of recent wars (1.1.6–7).12
Ostensibly by way of illustration, he fashions an exemplary portrait of today’s
horse-archer, extolling his weaponry skills, equestrian expertise and martial
ethos, in contrast to the low repute and inferior abilities that Homer accords
bowmen (1.1.8–16). Within military-historical contexts, Procopius here fore-
shadows his didactic interest in weaponry, specifically the prominent role he
assigns to imperial horse-archers – often Hunnic-Bulgar allies – in defeating
Vandals and Ostrogoths, even if relatively few Roman cavalrymen may have
attained this idealized level of excellence.13 Nevertheless, literary-rhetorical
considerations evidently shaped Procopius’ choice of this prefatory vignette
and warranted his manipulation of Homeric scenes, beyond a mere pastiche
of Thucydides’ comparison of Homeric and current armaments.14 A long
scholiastic tradition of comparative analysis of archery in Homer, including
technical points adduced by Procopius, supplies an intellectual background
that may mitigate the apparent idiosyncrasy of his remarks.15 Modern read-
ings of Procopius’ intention abound: light-hearted parody of classical models;
accentuation of tactical aspects of reconquest over the ideological claims of
Justinianic propaganda; ironic belittlement of Justinian’s wars and reactionary
critique of creeping “barbarization” of Roman military culture; a complex self-
referential metaphor for authorship expressing Procopius’ agonistic attitude
towards classical historians; or elaboration of an axiological agenda based on
11 Cf. Polybius 1.14.5–7. Impartiality: Avenarius, Lukians Schrift zur Geschichtsschreibung,

pp. 40–54, 157–63; Austin, “Autobiography and History”, p. 59; Marincola, Authority
and Tradition, pp. 158–74; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 19–20; Brodka, “Zum
Wahrheitsbegriff”.
12 Cf. Thucydides 1.1.1–3, 21.2, 23.1–3. Procopius’ Secret History (6.19–25) negatively inverts
this contention.
13 Kaegi, “Procopius the Military Historian”, pp. 69–72; Breccia, “L’arco e la spada”, pp. 73–7;
“Grandi imperi e piccole guerre”, ii, pp. 67–72; Rance, “Narses and the Battle of Taginae”,
pp. 427–9, 467–8; Petitjean, “Classicisme, barbarie et guerre romaine”; Whately, Battles
and Generals, pp. 181–7; Janniard, “Procope, Les Huns”. Procopius on archery: e.g.
Wars 1.18.32–4; 5.18.42, 27.4–29, with 3.8.27; 4.3.9; 8.32.6–8; also 8.11.27–8: military techno-
logical innovation.
14 Thucydides 1.10–11; cf. 1.5.3–6.2, 13.2–4.
15 E.g. Wars 1.1.11: Homeric archers draw bowstrings only to their chests; cf. Scholia on
Homer’s Iliad, ed. Erbse, vol. 2, pp. 359–60, θ 325a1 (Aristonicus and Nicanor, both cit-
ing Neoteles); Porphyry, Homeric Questions relating to the Iliad, ed. MacPhail, pp. 142–5, θ
322–9, who believed that Neoteles “wrote a whole book about archery among the heroes”.
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76 Rance
qualitative (Herodotean) notions of conspicuous valour (ἀρετή) rather than

quantitative (Thucydidean) criteria of geographical and human scale.16
The Persian War (i–ii) is concerned with Roman-Persian military-
diplomatic relations in Syria, Mesopotamia and Transcaucasia from 526/7 to
549.17 Towards the end of both books Procopius places a major digression set
in Constantinople. The spirit of Herodotus imbues a prologue (1.1.17–6.19) that
fuses uncertain historical sources, myth and colourful anecdote into an uneven
and digressive “prehistory” of Persia and Roman-Persian relations since 408.
Its form and content, including fabulous episodes that Procopius himself con-
siders doubtful (1.4.14–15, 17, 6.9), prompt unresolved questions regarding his
objectives. Modern responses range from disparagement of frivolous literary
entertainment to detection of secreted political-philosophical messaging.
Even the more dismissive interpretations, however, discern events and phe-
nomena selected because they prefigure recurrent patterns of Roman-Persian
interaction.18 Kawad’s reigns (488–96, 498–531) bridge this semi-mythologized
past and events within living memory (1.4.34–7.4), while the quality of histori-
cal information and narrative technique improves with the Roman-Persian war
of 502–6 (1.7–9).19 Procopius artfully fills two subsequent decades of military
inactivity with a geostrategic survey of the Caucasus and infrastructural and
diplomatic aspects of Roman-Persian rivalry (1.10–12). Renewed hostilities in
526/7 introduce a youthful Belisarius. His appointment as dux Mesopotamiae
in 527 initiates both Procopius’ involvement in events and his account of wars
16 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 361; Scott, “The classical tradition in Byzantine his-
toriography”, p. 73; Cesa, “La Politica di Giustiniano”, pp. 397–8; Cameron, Procopius
and the Sixth Century, pp. 37–9; Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und Justinians Idee”,
pp. 251–2; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 21–4; “Classicism, Barbarism, and Warfare”,
pp. 190–95; Kruse, “Archery in the Preface”; Basso/Greatrex, “How to Interpret”, pp. 68–70;
Van Nuffelen, “The Wor(l)ds of Procopius”, pp. 41–3; Greatrex, “Procopius and the past”,
pp. 976–9.
17 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 361–402; Evans, Procopius, pp. 47–61; Cameron, Procopius
and the Sixth Century, pp. 152–70; Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War; Börm, Prokop und die
Perser; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 62–72;
Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 192–5.
18 Evans, Procopius, pp. 48–52; Scott, “The classical tradition in Byzantine historiography”,
p. 73; Cesa, “Etnografia e Geografia”, pp. 193–7; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century,
pp. 153–6, 207–9; Cataudella, “Historiography in the East”, pp. 406–14; Kaldellis, Procopius
of Caesarea, pp. 62–99; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 194–5; Börm, Prokop
und die Perser, pp. 222–46, 253–75, 308–17; Stickler, “Prokop und die Vergangenheit”,
pp. 146–50.
19 Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, pp. 73–119; Greatrex/Lieu, The Roman Eastern Frontier,
pp. 62–77; Greatrex, “Procopius and Pseudo-Zachariah”.
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Wars 77
waged by Justinian (1.12.20–13.2). A perfunctory outline of Belisarius’ early

failures moves quickly to his promotion as magister militum per Orientem
in 529.20 Procopius fashions an extended set-piece from Belisarius’ victory at
Dara in 530 (1.13.9–14.55), for both men their first major action, which revi-
talized Roman morale (1.14.54–5), even if its broader significance remains
questionable.21 Simultaneous hostilities in Armenia are more cursorily
reported (1.15). Procopius exonerates Belisarius of defeat at Callinicum in
531, shifting blame onto the soldiery, allied Arabs and subordinates (1.18.13–
50), and suppressing post-combat recriminations that apparently prompted
Belisarius’ dismissal.22 Procopius then discreetly embarks on a lengthy digres-
sion on power politics around the Red Sea basin (1.19–20). Kawad’s death and
the accession of Khosrow i facilitate negotiation of the so-called Endless Peace
in 532 (1.21–2).23 Turning to internal events, Procopius relates the Nika revolt
in Constantinople in 532 (1.24), demonstrating talent for dramatic narrative
and prudent handling of recent anti-Justinianic sentiment, though his expla-
nation of its causes and nature lacks the generalizing analytical depth of its
classical model, Thucydides’ case-study of stasis at Corcyra in 427 bc.24 Prior
juxtaposition of a near-contemporary conspiracy against Khosrow (1.23) per-
mits oblique parallels between the two rulers.25 Here Procopius introduces
his bête noire, the Praetorian Prefect John the Cappadocian, bemoaning his
crimes (1.24.11–19) and jumping forward to convoluted machinations that occa-
sioned John’s dismissal in 541 and banishment to Antinoöpolis in 543–4 (1.25).
In the disparate and chronologically disjointed material that concludes Book i,
pp. 82–8.
pp. 88–91; Lillington-Martin, “Archaeological and Ancient Literary Evidence”; “Procopius
on the Struggle”, pp. 601–11.
22 Cf. Malalas, Chronicle 18.60; Pseudo-Zachariah, Church History 9.4. See Rubin, “Prokopios
von Kaisareia”, 372–4; Evans, Procopius, pp. 52, 57–8; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, pp. 157–9; Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, pp. 193–207; Greatrex/Lieu, The
Roman Eastern Frontier, pp. 92–4; Brodka, “Prokopios und Malalas”.
pp. 94–7.
24 Thucydides 3.70–85. See Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 64, 69, 143–4,
158–60, 165–8; Greatrex, “The Nika Riot”; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 36–7, 122–7;
Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 137–45.
25 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 379–80; Evans, Procopius, p. 52; Cameron, Procopius and
the Sixth Century, pp. 162–3; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 87–8.
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78 Rance
some scholars see muddle, others detect compositional, literary or polemi-

cal considerations.26
Combining power-political and psychological analyses of historical cau-
sation, ii opens in 540 with Khosrow seeking pretexts to break the peace
(1.26.1–4; 2.1.1).27 Portrayed as irredeemably faithless and villainous, Khosrow
emerges as the chief protagonist.28 Renewed hostilities stem from Khosrow’s
“envy” (φθόνος) of Justinian’s western conquests (2.2.12, 15), while speeches by
Ostrogothic and Armenian envoys fuel Persian fears of Justinian’s insatiable
ambitions (2.2.4–15, 3.32–55), a rare linking device that rhetorically elucidates
the interconnectedness of different military theatres.29 Khosrow’s military
offensives, during which he opportunistically sacks or coerces Roman cities,
demands subsidies and provocatively postures as universal ruler, provide the
central narrative of ii, in contrast to the incoherence or absence of Roman
countermeasures.30 His unexpected invasion of Syria in 540 (2.5.1–13) culmi-
nates in the capture of Antioch, an especially traumatic episode that con-
veys authorial horror and indignation (2.6.9–16, 8.1–10.9). Procopius appears
to inculpate multiple Roman players – government, citizenry and soldiers,
but reserves his bitterest resentment for Khosrow (2.9.1–12). In 541 hostilities
extend to Transcaucasia, when the Lazi, seeking to escape Roman hegemony,
solicit Khosrow’s intervention (2.15, 17).31 That year also Belisarius reappears in
Oriens (2.14.8–13) and wins minor successes near Nisibis, where tactical mis-
haps are again blamed on others (2.16, 18–19). In an elaborately constructed
“non-battle” in 542, Belisarius reportedly deflects Khosrow’s invasion of Pales-
tine by means of a theatrical ruse (2.20–21). Nevertheless, Belisarius is recalled
to Constantinople in murky circumstances that elicit the starkest divergence
between the Wars (2.21.34) and the Secret History (2.18–25, 4.1–38).32 If an
26 Evans, Procopius, pp. 52–4; Greatrex, “The Composition of Procopius”, pp. 5–10; “Procopius
the Outsider?” pp. 216–20; Kaldellis, “Procopius’ Persian War”, pp. 255, 257–8; Kruse, “The
Speech of the Armenians”, pp. 873–9.
27 Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 63–7, 72;
Kaldellis, “Procopius’ Persian War”, pp. 262–3.
28 Evans, Procopius, pp. 53–4, 60–61; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century,
pp. 162–5; Brodka, “Das Bild des Perserkönigs”; Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätan-
tiken Historiographie, pp. 62–72, 120–24; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 119–28; Börm,
“Der Perserkönig im Imperium Romanum”, pp. 309–23.
29 Kruse, “The Speech of the Armenians”.
30 Downey, “The Persian Campaign in Syria”; Greatrex/Lieu, The Roman Eastern Frontier,
pp. 102–14; Börm, “Der Perserkönig im Imperium Romanum”.
31 Greatrex/Lieu, The Roman Eastern Frontier, pp. 115–16.
32 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 395–6; Evans, Procopius, pp. 58–60; Cameron, Procopius
and the Sixth Century, pp. 159–62; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 143–9.
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impression of suppressed information lingers, Procopius skilfully relates

events on interconnected fronts in Mesopotamia and Lazica (2.15–19). A major
digression on the origin, symptoms and societal impact of bubonic plague,
arriving at Constantinople in 542, affords an interlude to combat operations
(2.22–3). This pandemic claims intrinsic interest as an apocalyptic event, and
specifically owing to immediate consequences for Roman and Persian mili-
tary capabilities (2.24.5–12). Procopius exploits the dual opportunity offered by
first-hand experience (2.22.9) and literary archetype – Thucydides’ description
of the Athenian plague in 430 bc.33 When the eastern narrative resumes in
early 543, Procopius stresses how Belisarius’ successors, with greater resources,
shambolically mismanage an offensive into Armenia (2.24–5). Khosrow’s siege
of Edessa in 544 occasions a final poliorcetic set-piece (2.26–7).34 Thereafter, ii
losses narrative direction and ends without concluding observations. Procop-
ius discloses how Khosrow’s treacherous intent simmers beneath a five-year
truce agreed in 545 (2.28).35 As an anti-Persian revolt in Lazica in 549 permits
Roman re-deployment, a detailed account of small-scale warfare there during
549 concludes with Roman-Lazic victory and Persian withdrawal (2.27–30).36
Book ii ends incongruously with a final salvo at John the Cappadocian, who,
now a priest, makes his last appearance in Constantinople in 548 (2.30.48–54).
Shaped by an ancient, open-ended conflict, the Persian War has a differ-
ent dynamic and texture to Procopius’ treatment of events in Africa and Italy.
Warfare is visited primarily upon Justinian’s cities and lands; its victims are
mostly his civilian subjects or allies. The shah’s predatory campaigns typically
aim to accrue plunder and prestige rather than territory, while the Romans nei-
ther seek nor hope to conquer Persia. Open hostilities (502–6, 526/7–32, 540–
49) punctuate treaties and truces, incorporating proxy wars waged via clients
and allies, over a vast but usually stable frontier. Non-military digressions – the
Nika revolt, pandemic, John the Cappadocian – broaden historical horizons
and, arguably, enrich understanding of Justinian’s policies. Despite the mark-
edly composite character and variety of i–ii, events generally follow an even
33 Thucydides 2.47.3–54.5. See selectively Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 167–
8; Kislinger/Stathakopoulos, “Pest und Perserkriege bei Prokop”; Meier, “Beobachtungen”;
Stathakopoulos, “The Justinianic plague revisited”; Sarris, “The Justinianic Plague”; Meier,
“The ‘Justinianic Plague’”.
34 On the chronology of events in 543 and 544 see now Whitby, “Procopius’ Missing Year”,
persuasively arguing against the redating proposed by Kislinger/Stathakopoulos, “Pest
und Perserkriege bei Prokop”, pp. 95–6; endorsed by Greatrex/Lieu, The Roman Eastern
Frontier, pp. 115–116; Greatrex, “Recent Work on Procopius”, pp. 52–4.
35 Greatrex, “Recent Work on Procopius”, pp. 52–7; Greatrex/Lieu, The Roman Eastern
Frontier, pp. 113, 123–9.
36 Greatrex/Lieu, The Roman Eastern Frontier, pp. 116–18.
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80 Rance
course and pace, compared to the peak-to-trough trajectory of “reconquest” in

Africa (533–4) and Italy (540), though the fall of Antioch represents a singular
nadir that inspires authentic outrage (2.10.4–5). Time-honoured protocols of
great-power relations – in effect, the rules of the game – accord greater promi-
nence to diplomacy. More familiar with Oriens, Procopius conveys distinctive
aspects of its geo-cultural landscape, encompassing multilingual urban com-
munities and semi-nomadic pastoralists, and especially habitual low-intensity
warfare in limital zones between Bedu dynasties aligned to both empires
(1.17.40–48; 2.1.2–13, 28.12–14). Bishops play prominent roles as communal lead-
ers in urban defence and diplomatic intermediaries (2.5–7, 11.16–30, 13.11–15,
24.6–9), especially in ii,37 wherever the paucity or alleged timidity of Roman
forces (2.6.2–8, 8.17–19, 20.19) leaves cities to their own devices. Procopius’
apparent failure explicitly to connect Roman weakness in Syria-Mesopotamia
during the 540s to Justinian’s re-deployment of military resources in Africa and
Italy partly reflects his regionalized treatment of events but may also signal a
conscious strategy of discreet omission.
The most self-contained and narrowly focused of the three regional units, the
Vandal War recounts the (re)conquest of Africa in 533–4, arguably Belisarius’
greatest achievement, and its inglorious aftermath to 548.38 Another prefa-
torial “origins” section (3.1–10) sketches power politics and barbarian inva-
sions in the distant lost world of the western provinces from 395, gradually
centring on Vandal hegemony in Africa, and combining geo-historical scene-
setting and fanciful storytelling that foreshadow military, ethnic and religious
dimensions of the subsequent narrative. In particular, detailed coverage of a
disastrous East Roman attempt to recover Africa in 468 offers salutary warn-
ings and raises anxieties about any new expedition (3.6).39 More than for any
other military undertaking, Procopius charts the conception, planning and
preparation of the African expedition. Gelimer’s usurpation of pro-Roman
Hilderic becomes the casus belli; the Endless Peace provides the opportunity
(3.9.1–10.1, 16.12–15). Procopius presents this venture as personally champi-
oned by Justinian, despite inherent dangers, prior failures and near-universal
37 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 128–9; Kaldellis, “Procopius’ Persian War”,
pp. 267–70.
38 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 402–28; Evans, Procopius, pp. 61–8; Pringle, The Defence
of Byzantine Africa, pp. 16–39; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 171–87;
Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 73–83; Kaldellis,
Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 161–3; “Procopius’s Vandal War”; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine
Historians, pp. 180–82, 195–9.
39 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 402–9; Evans, Procopius, pp. 61–6; Brodka, “Prokopios
von Kaisareia und Justinians Idee”, pp. 244–6; Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 120–24.
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resistance from advisors (3.10.1–21); modern readers find here both official
propaganda and allusive criticism.40 Procopius’ rhetorical portrayal of oppos-
ing expectations constructs an arc of suspense, which progressively mounts
with the army’s embarkation and peril-filled voyage (3.11.24–13.24), and cul-
minates in Belisarius divulging his fears to his assessor/historian when the
fleet reaches Sicily (3.14.1–3). A discernible Thucydidean template evokes
the mixed emotions that accompanied the launch of the ill-fated Athenian
expedition to Sicily in 415 bc and the aporia of its generals upon arrival.41
Correspondingly, through multilayered intertextuality, Procopius’ review of
Belisarius’ task-force (3.11.1–21) recalls both Homer’s catalogue of ships bound
for Troy and Thucydides’ description of the Athenian armada, and is also lexi-
cally indebted to Thucydides’ analysis of Homeric warfare.42 Artful narratology
and classical allusion thus combine to heighten apprehensions and magnify
Belisarius’ achievement.
In iii, Procopius’ first-hand account of the astonishingly rapid overthrow
of Vandal rule in 533 – the Roman landing and coastal march, the skirmish
at Ad Decimum and occupation of Carthage – infuses dramatic tension, per-
sonal exhilaration and intelligence-based operational detail to create one of
finest pieces of military reportage from antiquity. Procopius initially articu-
lates imperial ideology of divinely sanctioned liberation from heretical barbar-
ian oppression, but concern for (sub-)Roman inhabitants soon fades.43 At the
beginning of iv, a larger engagement at Tricamerum in 534 shatters the frag-
ile Vandal regime. Belisarius emerges as a paragon of generalship – intrepid,
prescient, self-controlled, but Procopius nonetheless acknowledges fortuitous
outcomes at crucial episodes (3.17.11, 18.1–12, 19.15–32; 4.4.1–8).44 Nowhere in
Procopius’ writings does the wheel of fortune turn so quickly or completely
(4.7.14–21), encapsulated in contrasting scenes of Belisarius dining on food
prepared for Gelimer in the royal palace at Carthage (3.20.21, 21.1–8) and the
Vandal king pathetically cornered in his mountain-top refuge (4.6.4–7.9), who
ultimately can only laugh at human incapacity.45 Later, in a triumphal spectacle
staged in the hippodrome in Constantinople, both Belisarius and Gelimer per-
form obeisance to a transcendent Justinian in an orchestrated act of reverence
40 See p. 107.
41 Thucydides 6.30.1–32.2, 42.1–44.4, 46.1–50.1.
42 Homer, Iliad 2.484–760; Thucydides 6.31.1–6, 43.1–44.1. Lexical influence: e.g. αὐτερέται at
Procopius, Wars 3.11.16; Thucydides 1.10.3–5.
43 See p. 106.
44 Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 40–43, 75–83;
Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 122–5, 152–7.
45 Cameron, “Gelimer’s Laughter”; Van Nuffelen, “The Wor(l)ds of Procopius”, pp. 47–9.
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82 Rance
that undercuts distinctions between victor and vanquished (4.9). Nevertheless,

Belisarius’ consulship in 535 and public munificence with Vandalic treasure
leave no doubt of his personal triumph and evoke a contemporary spirit of
restored imperial glory (4.9.15–16).46
With a successful conclusion to the Vandalic war (4.8.1) and Belisarius’
recall from Africa, a unilinear narrative thread of fast-paced conquest frays
into a tangle of tumultuous events – raids by shifting configurations of Berber
chieftains and protracted Roman campaigns of subjugation under successive
magistri – Solomon, Sergius, Areobindus – in 534–39/40 and 543–8; a major
mutiny in the Roman army that proves difficult to suppress during 536–7 and
lingers in recurrent sedition; and a brief usurpation by Guntharis, a senior
officer, in 545/6. Reflecting Procopius’ attenuated knowledge and perspective
after his final departure at Easter 536, his account becomes episodic (no events
are recorded 539/40–543/4) and/or lacks explanations and contexts, notwith-
standing some vividly narrated episodes, notably his own escape from muti-
neers (4.14.30–42) and the suspense-filled plot against Guntharis (4.28.1–34).
The intricacy of concurrent military operations in Byzacium and Numidia,
involving diverse combatants – imperial forces, Berber rulers, mutineers and
residual Vandals – dilutes narrative coherence and characterization. Procopius
simplifies longer-term complexities of Berber-Roman interaction, while the
Roman population remains largely invisible, voiceless and anonymous.47 He
hints at fiscal, defensive and doctrinal difficulties facing the imperial admin-
istration (4.8.20–25, 22.1–11, 23.27–31) and, consciously or otherwise, reveals
how the “Byzantine” advent destabilized security and intensified processes of
militarization across the African landscape (4.20.22, 29).48 Towards the end of
iv, Procopius seeks to imbue the Vandal War with overarching compositional
balance by magnifying the overthrow of Guntharis into a(nother) restora-
tion of legitimate rule, expressly analogous to Belisarius’ original victory, in
effect a “re-reconquest” (4.27.11–18, 28.41–3). Thereafter, perhaps wearying of
his topic, he appends a terse summary of John Troglita’s campaigns in 546–8
(4.28.45–51), which Corippus, in contrast, could speedily fashion into an eight-
book Vergilian epic-panegyric. Procopius ends on a pessimistic and morally
46 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 138, 141–2, 175–6; Croke, Count Marcel-
linus and his Chronicle, pp. 31–4; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 132–3, 141; Paz-
dernik, “Xenophon’s Hellenica”, pp. 200–202; Börm, “Justinians Triumph und Belisars
Erniedrigung”.
47 Pringle, The Defence of Byzantine Africa, pp. 11–16; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, pp. 176–7, 186–7; Williams, “The establishment of Roman authority”.
Century, pp. 178–81, 186–8; “Gelimer’s Laughter”.
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ambiguous note: “those Libyans who survived, few as they were and exceed-
ingly destitute, at last just barely found some degree of respite” (4.28.52), senti-
ments amplified in the Secret History (18.5–12) into explicit critique of imperial
misgovernment.49
The Gothic War is Procopius’ longest, self-contained work.50 Its central
concern is imperial (re)conquest of Italy from the Ostrogoths, with periodic
Frankish interventions, but the scope widens to incorporate events affect-
ing imperial territory in the Balkans. As the prologue to the Vandal War has
already supplied relevant material (5.1.3), another historical mise-en-scène
(5.1–4) sketches a shorter and less digressive “prehistory” from 476 to explain
how Goths led by Theoderic came to control Italy and Dalmatia. In depict-
ing Theoderic’s rule (493–526) as largely restrained, wise and just, Procopius
establishes a contentious point of reference for subsequent Ostrogothic
and imperial claims to Italy.51 As immediate background, Procopius devel-
ops political-dynastic conflict over the upbringing of the boy-king Athalaric
(526–34) into a case-study of competing Roman and Gothic/barbarian
cultural-educational values. Ostrogothic internal factionalism acquires wider
significance after the queen-regent Amalasuntha covertly solicits Justinian’s
support. Against this backdrop of diplomatic high intrigue, when her cousin
and co-ruler Theodahad has Amalasuntha imprisoned and murdered, this
“defilement” (μίασμα) affords Justinian – albeit tenuous – grounds for inter-
vention (5.4.28–5.1).52
Hostilities commence in 535 with a two-pronged imperial invasion, led
by Belisarius in Sicily and Mundus against Dalmatia, in concert with further
diplomatic manoeuvring (5.5–7). Events in Dalmatia are cursorily described
and thereafter rarely intrude (5.16.8–18). Procopius’ focus on Belisarius reflects
both the historian’s standpoint and the general’s astonishing progress against
the softer underbelly of the Ostrogothic realm. However, with few explicit indi-
cations of strategic objectives or expectations (5.5.1–7), the original mission
and relative importance assigned to either imperial army must be inferred.
49 Cf. Wars 8.17.22. See Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 172–3, 180, 186–7;
Kaldellis, “Procopius’s Vandal War”, p. 14.
50 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 428–504; Hannestad, “Les forces militaires”; Evans,
Procopius, pp. 68–76; Trisoglio, “La denuncia nella ‘Guerra Gotica’”; Cameron, Procopius
and the Sixth Century, pp. 188–206; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken
Historiographie, pp. 84–102; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 182–4, 199–205.
51 Evans, Procopius, pp. 68–9; Bornmann, “Motivi tucididei in Procopio”, pp. 140–47; Cam-
eron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 198–200; Pazdernik, “Reinventing Theoderic”.
52 Bornmann, “Motivi tucididei in Procopio”, pp. 147–50; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie
in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 84–5; Stewart, “Contests of Andreia”, pp. 26–35.
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84 Rance
Belisarius’ landing in southern Italy in summer 536 immediately introduces

a recurring theme of conflicted political allegiances and cultural identities
among “Gothic” and “Roman” inhabitants (5.8.1–4). When the besieged popu-
lace of Naples debates resistance, submission or negotiation, they exemplify, in
a “Thucydidean” sense, the difficult choices confronting cities throughout the
peninsula (5.8.5–10.48).53
The fall of Naples prompts the overthrow of Theodahad and elevation of
Vittigis (5.11.1–10), who becomes Belisarius’ chief adversary for the next four
years, to the end of vi. An Ostrogothic counter-offensive is hampered by a
long-term concentration of forces in northern Italy and ongoing conflict with
the Franks (5.11.11–28, 13.14–29), whom Procopius introduces within an expan-
sive ethno-historical digression (5.11.29–13.13). When Belisarius enters Rome in
December 536, Procopius briefly acknowledges the restoration of legitimate
rule after sixty years, but immediately focuses on Belisarius’ defensive mea-
sures (5.14). The rest of v and half of vi concern the year-long siege of – or
battles around – Rome from spring 537 to spring 538, the longest and most
detailed military-operational narrative from late antiquity (5.17–6.10). Based
on autopsy and oral testimony of well-placed associates, it far exceeds con
ventional poliorcetic accounts in scope, content and insight. While Procopius
allusively emulates Thucydides’ account of the siege of Syracuse in 413 bc,54
the historic location and scale of the battleground invite semi-epic treat-
ment. He grossly inflates numerical disparities: 150,000 Ostrogoths besiege
barely 5000 imperial troops, intermittently augmented (5.16.11, 22.17, 24.2–3).55
Belisarius is a multifaceted hero, who at critical moments exhibits courage
and energy (5.18.4–29, 23.13–23), technological inventiveness (5.14.15, 19.19–29),
exceptional marksmanship (5.22.4–6) and, above all, prescience (πρόνοια)
(5.14.16, 18.35–9, 42–3, 22.1–9, 27.25–9; 6.11.1–11). Numerous skirmishes outside
Rome abound in heroic displays of valour (ἀρετή) and martial skill, by named
individuals, on both sides (5.18; 6.1.11–34, 2.8–37, 5.5–27, 10.19–20), a leitmotif
announced in the general preface (1.1.16).56 If Procopius’ descriptions of siege
53 Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides”, pp. 172–81; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in

der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 85–7.
54 Cresci, “Aspetti della μίμησις in Procopio”, pp. 237–9; Adshead, “Procopius’ Poliorcetica”,
pp. 95–104; Carolla, “Spunti tucididei nelle epistole di Procopio”, pp. 168–76.
55 Hannestad, “Les forces militaires”, pp. 155–64, 168; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, pp. 148–9; Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 171–7.
56 Rance, “Narses and the Battle of Taginae”, pp. 428–9; Whately, Battles and Generals,
pp. 177–82; Basso/Greatrex, “How to Interpret”, pp. 68–70.
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Wars 85
machinery (5.21) are a nod to historical-literary convention,57 his thematic

range includes broader insights into the tactical-technological capabilities of
opposing forces, while observations on security procedures, food supply and
civilian morale convey the claustrophobic atmosphere of a large urban com-
munity under siege. In the sole pitched battle, however, imperial forces are
routed. As previously at Callinicum in 531, Procopius exonerates Belisarius on
the grounds that the over-eager soldiery and populace forced this engagement
upon him (5.28–9). The defeat provides a cliff-hanger ending to v.
The siege narrative continues in vi to spring 538, as supplies, reinforcements
and naval dominance gradually allow Belisarius to launch offensives that force
Vittigis’ withdrawal (6.5–7, 9–10). Procopius credits this achievement princi-
pally to John, nephew of Vitalian, who, exceeding Belisarius’ instructions, seizes
Rimini, within striking distance of Ravenna (6.7.25–34, 10.1–10). In the second
half of vi, the narrative strands of Belisarius’ advance during 538–9 diverge
into several localized conflicts of varying significance. Narses’ arrival with rein-
forcements (6.13.16–18) greatly increases imperial manpower, but thereafter
rivalries and insubordination disrupt operations (6.16.1–20.14, 21.12–25). A con-
tingent of Heruls in Narses’ army occasions a lengthy excursus on their history
and customs, with a sub-digression on Thule (6.14–15). Procopius focuses on
events at Rimini and Milan, where opposing forces blockade Roman advanced
detachments (6.11–12, 16–17, 21), and on Belisarius’ siege of Osimo (6.23–4). The
destruction of Milan in 539, blamed on a divided Roman command, prompts
Narses’ recall (6.21.1–22.8). Frankish military interventions in Italy, in pursuit
of their own imperial ambitions (6.25, 28.7–23), further complicate both the
dynamic and narration of the war. Intricate Roman-Ostrogothic negotiations
drag on through 539–40, as a Roman blockade of Ravenna tightens. Eventually,
in May 540, Belisarius gains entry to Ravenna through a shadowy compact, of
which both the actualities and Procopius’ opinion remain uncertain.58 While
suspicions linger over Belisarius’ motives, vi concludes in June as he prepares
to return to Constantinople, with Vittigis his captive (6.30.1–2). The Ostrogothic
realm is extinguished, but a residue of its warrior élite plots resurgence (6.28–
30), a dramatic hook to the decade of conflict to be narrated in vii.
By far the longest book, vii covers 540–51, though in less detail than v
(535–8) and vi (538–40). As Justinian declines to stage a triumph (7.1.3) upon
Belisarius’ return to Constantinople with Ostrogothic captives and treasure,
57 Adshead, “Procopius’ Poliorcetica”, p. 98; Turquois, “Technical Writing, Genre and

Aesthetic”, pp. 224–5.
58 Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 94–6; Pazdernik,
“Reinventing Theoderic”, pp. 145–7.
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a eulogistic portrait (7.1.1–22) substitutes the pomp previously accorded

his Vandalic victory (4.9). Belisarius’ departure from Italy ends Procopius’
eyewitness-participation and reduces perspectival unity and narrative drive:
in vii events are often cursorily reported and/or lack explanatory context;
speeches embellish scant historical details; frequent digressions and shifts of
location leave a disjunctive impression. As in the East in 542/3, a troupe of dis-
united and irresolute generals succeed Belisarius in Italy (7.1.23–4). Not only do
they fail to suppress Ostrogothic insurgency – initially ineffective under short-
lived rulers – but their blunders and inaction permit the rebels to make rapid
gains from late-541 under a new, energetic leader Totila, who grows in heroic
stature throughout vii. Correspondingly, the maladministration and rapac-
ity of imperial officials alienate Italy’s inhabitants and foster military unrest,
while Totila’s speeches, letters and conspicuous acts of moderation subvert
loyalties and erode the justice of the imperial cause (7.3–9).59 With swathes
of Italy under Totila’s control, Belisarius returns in early 544, raising expecta-
tions and improving narrative coherence, but, despite daring and inventive-
ness, he achieves only temporary or peripheral successes (7.10.1–13.21) until
recalled in mid-549. While deficient troops and funds preclude offensive oper-
ations (7.12.1–10), the timidity, corruption and disobedience of subordinates,
particularly John and Bessas, undermine Belisarius’ efforts (7.18.24–9, 19.1–33,
25.22–3); yet Procopius also concedes Belisarius’ unusual lapse of judgement
(7.19.30–33) and ultimately bemoans his lacklustre performance (7.35.1–9),
reserving a harsher verdict for the Secret History (4.42–5.7). Desultory warfare
continues to the end of vii, as barbarians overrun “the whole West” (7.33.1) and
Justinian vacillates (7.35.10–37.28, 39.1–8). Events in the Balkans, hitherto rarely
reported, periodically obtrude, notably larger-scale inroads of Slavs and Antae
from the mid-540s (7.13.21–14.36, 29.1–3, 38.1–23, 40.1–8, 31–45), which occa-
sion a lengthy historico-ethnographic digression (7.13.21–14.36).60 Procopius
also touches on military-diplomatic relations with Danubian Germanic peo-
ples, deploying oratorical creativity to expand limited information (7.34). The
last quarter of vii becomes episodic and disparate. Remarkable events away
from the battlefield – natural disasters (7.29.4–20) and a palace conspiracy
(7.31–2) – offer respite from a tedious military chronicle. Justinian’s appointment
of his cousin, Germanus, to command an expedition to Italy presages a rever-
sal of fortune, as the fifteenth year of the war (550/51) concludes optimistically
59 Evans, Procopius, pp. 73–5; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiog-
raphie, pp. 124–6.
60 Gindin/Ivanov/Litavrin, Свод древнейших писъменных известий о славянах, pp. 170–
250; Sarantis, Justinian’s Balkan Wars, pp. 65–7 with bibliography.
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Wars 87
with Germanus recruiting large forces in the Balkans (7.39.9–40.8). His sud-
den death dashes these hopes and a short obituary (7.40.9) forms a pendant to
the opening panegyric of Belisarius. Recording widespread Slavic inroads from
mid-550, vii terminates with a decisive Roman defeat at Adrianople in early
551 and Slavic raiders plundering the hinterland of Constantinople unopposed;
a short concluding report of Roman success against one raiding party hardly
dispels the gloom (7.40.1–7, 30–45).61 On this despondent note, Procopius’ first
published work ends inconclusively with a war- and world-weary tone.
A short preface explains that viii supplements i–vii, which have already
been widely circulated. In contrast, viii promises an “assorted record”
(ἱστορίαν … ποικίλην) of all three zones (8.1.1–2), but essentially comprises two
regionally distinct narratives. The first continues Roman-Persian military-
diplomatic interaction from 549 in Lazica, where a five-year truce (545/6–
549/50) did not apply (8.1.3–17.19). An erudite excursus on the Black Sea
region (8.1.7–7.1), constituting one-third of this section, ostensibly familiarizes
readers with relevant topography, but becomes a vehicle for learned disputa-
tion that far exceeds required background knowledge. Procopius’ account of
Roman-Persian warfare, including shifting allegiances of the Lazi and neigh-
bouring peoples (8.8.1–17.19), is detailed and seemingly well informed. As a
central episode he elaborates the recapture of Petra by Roman forces under
Bessas in 550–51 (8.11.11–12.35), replete with technological ekphrasis and dis-
plays of unsurpassed valour (ἀρετή) (8.11.41).62 A renewed five-year truce in
late 551 prompts Procopius’ criticism of its negotiation and terms (8.11.2–10,
15.1–20, 17.9). By winter 551/2, the Persians control most of Lazica, remaining
Roman-Lazi forces have dispersed and prominent Lazi are disaffected with
Roman suzerainty (8.16). A digest of inconclusive combat operations in 552
ends this supplement to eastern events (8.17.10–19). Abruptly shifting loca-
tion, Procopius grants barely a paragraph to Africa (8.17.20–22), where events
“turned out all well and good for the Romans” following John Troglita’s pacifi-
cation of hostile Berbers. Procopius nevertheless echoes the pessimistic post-
script of iv in proclaiming Africa “largely destitute of people” (8.17.22).
The second half of viii continues events in Europe (8.18–35), devoting
roughly one-third to the Balkans and two-thirds to Italy. Returning to the
Danube basin (from 7.34), creative oratory again amplifies sketchy reports
on Gepid-Lombard rivalry and Roman relations with Oğuric confedera-
tions of the Pontic-Caspian steppe (8.18–19). A lengthy digression relates a
61 Sarantis, Justinian’s Balkan Wars, pp. 278–88, 308–12.

62 Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 214–18; “Procopius and the characterization of Bessas”,
pp. 127–32.
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pseudo-historical saga set on a north-western European island, about which

Procopius reports fanciful tales that he himself deems dubious (8.20). He then
takes up the thread of the Gothic War. Command of the expedition assembled
by Germanus, and last recorded wintering at Salona (7.40.10–11, 30), ultimately
passes to Narses in spring 551 (8.21.4–22.1). Maritime preliminaries in the Adriatic
(8.22.17–18, 30–32) result in a Roman victory off Senigallia (8.23). Procopius
seizes this unique opportunity to craft a Thucydides-inspired set-piece naval
engagement, while the novelty appears to arouse interest in nautical anti-
quarianism (8.22.7–16, 19–31). Apparently adhering to chronological sequence,
Procopius records disparate events – peripheral Roman-Ostrogothic warfare,
Roman-Frankish diplomacy, Slavic incursions, renewed Gepid-Lombard con-
flict and earthquakes in Greece (8.24–25, 27). With relative concision, he nar-
rates how Narses’ exceptionally large army entered Italy and defeated Totila’s
inferior forces at Taginae (Busta Gallorum) in mid-552, the first large-scale field
action of the seventeen-year struggle (8.26.5–25, 28.1–33.1).63 Totila’s portrayal
is equivocal: his conduct is devious (8.29.6–10, 32.21) and his battle-plan “folly”
(8.32.6–10), yet he exhibits courage and martial skill (8.31.17–21) and meets a
pitiable end “not worthy of his previous achievements” (8.32.22–36). Shortly
thereafter Narses recaptures Rome, as Procopius observes, the fifth time the
city changes hands (8.33.6–27). An attempt by remaining Ostrogothic forces
under Theia to secure southern Italy culminates in their defeat on Mons
Lactarius, where their desperate tenacity acquires epic dimensions and Theia’s
valour “is not inferior to any of the acclaimed heroes” (8.35.20). Narses grants
the survivors safe passage to quit Italy. Procopius’ narrative comes to an end
without conclusion or parting thoughts (8.35.33–8). The final chapters exude
pessimism and unresolved discord: Italy’s political-cultural élite has been
all but wiped out (8.34.1–8), Franks await an opportunity to seize the spoils
(8.34.17–18) and an Ostrogothic faction seems irreconcilable (8.35.37).
In scope and complexity, the Gothic War is the most impressive of Procopius’
three regional units. Like the Vandal War, the narrative climbs to a victori-
ous peak, in 540, then rapidly slides into revolt and prolonged insurgency.
More starkly, initial triumph coincides with Procopius’ departure, manifest
in changes of pace, texture and perspective. Before 540, Procopius’ largely
autopsy-based account centres on Belisarius and his retinue (οἰκία), the his-
torian’s closest associates, who dominate fighting around Rome in 537–8 and
take credit for victory (5.18.14; 6.2.25). Procopius retains the acuity and fresh-
ness that enthuse his earlier reportage, especially in Africa in 533–4. He viv-
idly depicts, albeit with an easterner’s eye, the society and fabric of Italy, and
63 Rance, “Narses and the Battle of Taginae”; Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 203–9.
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how both suffer. He conveys the political and socio-cultural significance of

senatorial families, especially in Rome, some of whom he met and possibly
befriended.64 He also exhibits a fascination with Italy’s antiquities, histori-
cal sites and mythological topography, particularly the eternal city. Although
explicable as antique ornamentation and consistent with Procopius’ interest
in marvels, this feature is not paralleled in his Persian or African narratives
and seemingly reflects the author’s “touristic” enthusiasm.65 At the same time,
this ancient cultural heritage and ancestral landscape become a backdrop to
vying conceptions of “Roman-ness” claimed by resident Italo-Romans and
intrusive (partly “non-Roman”) East Roman forces.66 After 540, not only does
Procopius’ first-hand involvement cease but also Roman-Ostrogothic conflict,
now characterized by small-scale, attritional warfare and strategic stalemate,
offers fewer historical-literary opportunities. Nor does he shrink from identify-
ing problems facing the new imperial administration. In addition to shortages
of manpower, money and matériel, fiscal-administrative mismanagement and
Justinian’s alleged neglect of this low-priority overseas theatre (7.35.9–11, 36.4–
6; 8.26.7), the shifting political-ideological dynamics of the struggle, reflected
in remarkably fluid allegiances of “Roman”/“Gothic” soldiers and civilians,
raise questions of fidelity and justice that complicate both the conduct and
depiction of the war.67 Correspondingly, while the portrayal of Belisarius in
v–vi essentially extends his attributes and exploits in iii–iv, in vii Totila unex-
pectedly emerges as a sympathetic protagonist, whose viewpoint, in speeches
and letters, Procopius most frequently adopts, in contrast to Roman misgover-
nance. In viii, Procopius grudgingly acknowledges Narses’ competent conduct
of a well-resourced campaign in 552, without obvious triumphalism. However,
Totila, despite some ambiguity of characterization, and Theia – and by exten-
sion the Ostrogothic nation – assume tragi-heroic qualities, at least within the
conceptual confines of Procopius’ martial “virtue” (ἀρετή). It is debateable
64 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 193–200; Brodka, “Die Zwangsläufigkeiten
des Krieges”.
65 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 191–2, 203–4; Scott, “Malalas and his
contemporaries”, pp. 79–80; Henry, “Procope en Italie”; Cameron, “Old and New Rome”,
pp. 33–4; Ghilardi, “‘Comm’essa sia fata io’”; Turquois, “Technical Writing, Genre and
Aesthetic”, pp. 226–7.
66 Stickler, “Prokop und die Vergangenheit”, pp. 150–55; Moore, “Constructing ‘Roman’ in the
sixth century”. Stewart, “Danger of a Soft Life” finds a parallel gendered discourse.
67 Hannestad, “Les forces militaires”, pp. 152–4; Moorhead, “Italian Loyalties during Justinian’s
Gothic War”; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 200–201; Amory, People and
Identity in Ostrogothic Italy, pp. 149–94; Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides”, pp. 171–81;
Kouroumali, “The Justinianic Reconquest of Italy”; Brodka, “Die Zwangsläufigkeiten des
Krieges”.
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90 Rance
whether this portrayal reflects genuine sympathy or a literary-rhetorical

imperative for a worthy adversary,68 especially in an eighteen-year war, which
consumed vast resources, devastated Italy and exposed Roman errors and
injustices. The ambivalent tone struck at the end of the Gothic War is in har-
mony with the concluding pessimism of the Vandal War (4.28.52; 8.17.22), and
hints at the unpublished polemic of the Secret History. If Procopius sometimes
struggles to write a compelling narrative of Roman-Ostrogothic warfare post-
540, other historiographic strategies seek to retain readers’ (and perhaps his
own) interest. Forms of divertive entertainment become more expansive,
including exotic tales (7.14; 8.20), palace intrigues (7.32), antiquarian digres-
sions (8.22.7–16, 19–31) and sensational phenomena (7.29.4–20). Synchronous
events in the Balkans, which inspire assorted digressions, increasingly pro-
vide alternative arenas of military-diplomatic activity; in particular, emergent
Slavic peoples – depicted as intractable, primitive and savage (7.14.22–30,
38.18–23) – become a pervasive and imminent menace, almost within reach of
Constantinople, that places distant Italian adventures in perspective.
2 Composition and Publication
The Wars are a complex product of a protracted compositional process.69

Scholarship has long discerned features of the received text, including arrange-
ment of material, internal cross-references, unrevised passages and apparent
additions, which may indicate Procopius’ original conception of the Wars,
how his objectives altered and the impact of ongoing events on his presenta-
tion of the past. It is not known when or why Procopius began to compose
the Wars, but shortly after his return to Constantinople in 540 seems the like-
liest occasion, when his position with Belisarius apparently ceased. He may
originally have planned to narrate events to that year, an attractive prospect
from historical and compositional perspectives insofar as 540 – roughly half-
way through the final text – marks hiatuses in two theatres, while the third
had long been inactive. Reconquest of Italy attains a triumphant climax in
June 540 (6.30.30–7.1.22). The African narrative also reaches a natural conclu-
sion: in 539/40 Solomon suppresses Berber depredations and extends imperial
68 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, p. 190; Stewart, “Contests of Andreia”, pp. 52–3.
69 Teuffel, Studien und Charakteristiken, pp. 250–55; Haury, Procopiana, vol. 1, pp. 3–9; Bury,
History of the Later Roman Empire, vol. 2, pp. 420–22; Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”,
354–5; Evans, Procopius, pp. 37–8, 41–3; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century,
pp. 236–9; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 184–90.
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Wars 91
territory into Mauritania Sitifensis, while the provincial populace enjoys rela-
tive security (4.20.30–33). The following chapter (4.21.1) jumps to the “fourth
year after this”, that is 543/4. There had been no overt Roman-Persian hostili-
ties since 532 (1.22.19), though the gravity of Khosrow’s predatory incursion in
spring/summer 540 would soon become clear. Certainly Procopius’ prefatorial
claim to have been “present at practically all events” (1.1.3) had more validity in
540 than even a few years later. Authorial motivations can only be surmised –
private intellectual pastime, literary distinction, professional preferment or
material gain, or simply a belief that he had a story worth telling. It is generally
assumed, however, that the idea of writing a historical work or memoir pre-
dates 540 and that, already alert to historiographic possibilities, Procopius kept
a journal or collected material from at least c.530.70
Although Procopius ultimately arranged Wars i–vii geographically, as three
largely self-contained and partly synchronous narratives (8.1.1), some scholars
discern vestiges of anterior infrastructure or hypothesize alternative organiza-
tional schemes.71 Geographical structuring of material in i–vii, accentuated
by sometimes unbalanced coverage, can obscure causal connections between
different theatres. This is less of a problem before 540, when Belisarius’ cam-
paigns supply a sequential framework, excepting his brief return to Africa
in 536 (4.14.1–15.49), while Procopius’ eyewitness-participation ensures per-
spectival consistency. As the project progressed, Procopius presumably found
it easier to extend each regional unit separately, only rarely crossing zonal
boundaries (2.4.1–12) or acknowledging the impact of concurrent western and
eastern conflicts on Roman military policies and resources, especially 540–44
and post-549 (1.26.1–4; 2.1.1; 3.9.25–10.1). Vittigis’ diplomatic initiative to foment
diversionary hostilities on Justinian’s eastern frontier permits rare conver-
gence between regional narratives (2.2; 6.22.13–21). It is questionable whether
an annalistic structure, which each year alternated between contemporane-
ous events in two or more theatres, would have been more coherent, espe-
cially given Procopius’ penchant for digression. Parallels have been drawn with
Appian’s Histories which were similarly arranged by military theatres; there is
no indication that Procopius knew this mid-second-century work nor is it an
70 Haury, Procopiana, vol. 1, pp. 7–9; Bury, History of the Later Roman Empire, vol. 2, pp. 420–
21; Evans, Procopius, pp. 36–7, 42–3; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 8,
148, 238; plre iiib, p. 1062; Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, p. 63; Treadgold, The Early
Byzantine Historians, pp. 179, 184–5.
71 Evans, Procopius, p. 42; Greatrex, “The Composition of Procopius”, pp. 2–5 (contra plre
iiib, p. 1063); Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 184–6, 195, 198–9, 204–5;
Kaldellis, “Procopius’ Persian War”, p. 255.
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obvious model, though a near-contemporary citation of Appian may point to

sixth-century readers.72
If Procopius’ intention c.540 was to narrate events to the present, this
scheme was very short-lived, as achievements in all three theatres quickly
unravelled. Khosrow’s invasion and capture of Antioch in 540 shattered the
Endless Peace of 532, while renewed warfare in 540–44 and pandemic plague
from 541/2 tarnish any attempt at positive portrayal of prior eastern events.
Simultaneously, Ostrogothic insurgency in Italy from 540/1 and Berber raiding
in Africa from c.543 more gradually overshadowed preceding successes, while
offering typically minor, localized episodes unsuited to a compelling narra-
tive. Accordingly, from the inception of the Wars, finding an end date suitable
for all three regional narratives became a (or the) compositional problem.73
The fluctuating status of senior figures within Justinian’s regime also shaped
Procopius’ project: Belisarius’ period of disgrace, 542–4, complicated distribu-
tion of a work that so obviously promoted his accomplishments, whereas John
the Cappadocian’s dismissal in 541 conversely unleashed vilification of a dig-
nitary whom imperial favour hitherto shielded from criticism.74 In the Secret
History (1.1–3, 16.3, 12–14), Procopius concedes that in the Wars he sometimes
suppressed the truth “for fear of the empress”; Theodora’s death in mid-548
technically removed this obstacle three years before i–vii were published,
but Procopius’ enduring reticence in the Wars, if not due to lack of revision,
implies that unfavourable portrayals of Justinian’s late wife remained impoli-
tic.75 Thus the twisting fortunes of the present continued to govern Procopius’
construction of the past.
Internal chronological indications suggest that Procopius was continuing
or revising all three units in late 545/6, perhaps in preparation for publication,
inasmuch as current and prospective dating references extend to this temporal
72 Teuffel, Studien und Charakteristiken, pp. 250–51; Krumbacher, Geschichte der byzan-
tinischen Litteratur, p. 231; Bury, History of the Later Roman Empire, vol. 2, p. 422; Rubin,
“Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 358; Evans, Procopius, p. 42 n. 66; Cesa, “Etnografia e Geografia”,
pp. 193–4; Greatrex, “The Composition of Procopius”, pp. 3–4. Cf. Evagrius, Ecclesiastical
History 5.4 (probably drawing on the now-lost historical work of John of Epiphania); see
Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 115, 317.
73 Evans, Procopius, pp. 42–3, 54, 67–8; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 236–41;
74 Greatrex, “The Composition of Procopius”, pp. 4–6; Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik in
Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”, pp. 217–19; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, p. 186.
75 Compare Wars 5.4 and Secret History 16.1–6, 24.23. See generally Kaldellis, “How perilous
was it to write political history?”, pp. 49–50.
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horizon, but none anticipates later events.76 Certainly 545/6 offered potential
termini: a five-year truce with Persia in spring 545 and elimination of the tyrant
Guntharis in Africa in February/March 546, while at this point in both regional
narratives (2.28.11; 4.28.41) occurs a formal reference to Justinian’s nineteenth
regnal year (545/6), a dating formula Procopius otherwise employs infre-
quently in i–iv (1.16.10; 2.4.54, 5.1, 30.48; 3.12.1; 4.19.1, 21.1). Correspondingly,
with Belisarius’ return to Italy in early 544, not only was Procopius’ chief pro-
tagonist rehabilitated but also an imminent conclusion to Roman-Ostrogothic
conflict might reasonably be anticipated.77 Another possible seamline at 545/6
may be traced in Procopius’ decision to extend the largely Italian setting of the
Gothic War to include tangential or unconnected events in the Balkans, nota-
bly his first report of Slavic inroads in 545/6 (7.13.21–6, 14.35–6), though clearly
aware that such incursions had been a menace since at least c.530 (7.14.1–6). As
inclusion of this fourth theatre, in which Procopius never served, increasingly
disrupts the tripartite regional structure, vii already displays something of the
“assorted” character he later attributes to viii.
Perhaps because hopes of success in Italy proved illusory, Procopius strug-
gled to find a fitting place to stop – all three post-545/6 narratives, though dif-
ferently treated, end arbitrarily. The Persian War continues episodically until
early 549, when Procopius could close with an ostensible Roman-Lazic victory
(2.30.30–48; 8.1.3). As he was updating his record of operations in Italy to late
550 (7.40.10–29) and in the Balkans to early 551 (7.40.30–45; 8.21.4), he chose,
for whatever reason, not to report subsequent events in Lazica. The African
narrative effectively ends in early 546 (4.28.41); a succinct appendix brings the
story to 548, when Africa finds respite following John Troglita’s final victory
(4.28.42–52). Thus i–iv were apparently completed by 549. In Italy and the
Balkans, however, wars drag on inconclusively, as Gothic control extends, Slavic
raids intensify and victory remains illusive. vii terminates abruptly in 550/51.78
Along with changes to the scope and texture of the Wars around 545/6,
thereafter Procopius appears not to have revised the preceding text, at least
76 Current references to 545/6: Wars 1.25.43; 6.5.26–7, with calculations in Haury,

Procopiana, vol. 1, pp. 4–5, 7. Perhaps also 1.17.40, accepting manuscript reading μ, “40
[years]” and rejecting Haury’s emendation ν, “50”. Prospective chronological references
to 545/6: Wars 3.11.30; 5.24.32. See further Haury, Procopiana, vol. 1, pp. 4–9; vol. 2, pp. 4–6;
Krumbacher, Geschichte der byzantinischen Litteratur, p. 231; Evans, Procopius, pp. 37–8
(with errors); Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 186–7; similarly Greatrex,
“The Composition of Procopius”, pp. 4–9 with proposed refinements. Cameron, Procopius
and the Sixth Century, pp. 236–8 denies any compositional significance to 545/6.
77 Haury, Procopiana, vol. 1, pp. 5–6; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 186–8.
78 Evans, Procopius, pp. 42–3, 54, 67–8; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 204–6;
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comprehensively. Pre-545/6 sections show no anticipatory awareness of post-

545/6 events.79 Superseded temporal references to the mid-540s persist.80
Apparent inconsistencies in Procopius’ characterization of protagonists may
also reflect unwillingness to revisit earlier sections in light of subsequent
developments or changes of opinions.81 It seems that after 545/6 Procopius
merely added new events, selectively, until publication (8.1.2), perhaps reflect-
ing a desire to finish or waning interest.
Wars i–vii could have been distributed from around mid-551. Procopius may
have previously circulated copies to friends or given private recitals.82 Between
c.548 and apparently 550/51, he also worked on the Secret History, a clandestine
composition for an undoubtedly select, if any, audience, which engages in a
complex intertextual dialogue with Wars i–vii.83 A recently proposed com-
positional association between Wars i–vii and the textual evolution of the
Buildings awaits detailed exposition.84 In the preface to viii, Procopius claims
that i–vii, “having already been published, have appeared all over the Roman
empire” (8.1.1). He also observes that, following publication, “I was no longer
able to add what happened afterwards” (8.1.2).85 The main inspiration for this
supplementary book was surely Roman victories in Italy in mid-552, a long-
awaited turning point that seemed nowhere in sight when Procopius ended
his Italian narrative in late-550 (7.40.10–29). Unresolved Roman-Persian hos-
tilities in Lazica to mid-552 (8.17.9–19), still less a précis of previously reported
developments in Africa to 548 (8.17.20–22), offered no comparable finality. If
the latest recorded events are correctly dated to spring 553 (8.35.38) and the
text was distributed later that year or early 554, it seems Procopius could have
worked on viii for about twelve to eighteen months.86 Its opening lines (8.1.1–2)
closely resemble those of the Secret History (1.1), in both cases distinguishing
79 Greatrex, “Recent Work on Procopius”, pp. 46–9 considers a possible exception.

80 Wars 1.26.43 (cf. 2.30.49–54); 6.5.26–7. See also 1.17.40 with above n. 76.
81 Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius”, p. 96.
82 Haury, Procopiana, vol. 1, pp. 6–7; Evans, Procopius, p. 37. Oral performance: below
pp. 118–19.
83 Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 187–8; Kaldellis, “The Date and Structure”,
pp. 585–606.
84 Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs”, pp. 89–90, 104–5; “Power, Taste and the Outsider”,
pp. 193–4, 204–5, with 191 n. 1 (reporting unpublished counterarguments by Bernard
Flusin).
85 Greatrex, “Réflexions sur la date” proposes two episodes that Procopius may have inserted
into the Persian War after publication: 1.17.40; 2.28.12–14 (dated c.554/5) and 1.20.13 (dated
552). The first example partly depends on Haury’s numerical emendation at 1.17.40.
86 Howard-Johnston, “The Education and Expertise of Procopius”, pp. 20–22; Treadgold, The
Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 189–90, 203–4.
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monographic treatment of individual military theatres in i–vii from the

embracive scope of these two, differently construed follow-up volumes. The
“assorted” (8.1.2) character of viii relates more to arrangement of content
than changed methodology: in essence viii comprises two discrete accounts
of events in Lazica (1.1.3–17.19) and Italy (8.21–35), which do not substantially
differ from preceding narratives in ii and vii.87 Procopius’ exceptional literary
posturing in his Black Sea excursus (8.1.7–7.1), with rhetorical remarks on the
common preference for “ancient” over “contemporary” opinion (8.6.9), may
respond to criticism that i–vii lacked overt erudition.88 Perhaps the most sig-
nificant, even disorientating, innovation of viii is its protagonists: Procopius
must credit the “re-reconquest” of Italy not to Belisarius, who receives only
an honourable mention (8.21.1–3), but to his previously censured rivals Narses
and John; while in Lazica it is Bessas, hitherto vilified as venal and inactive,
whom Fate inexplicably recasts as courageous victor (8.12.28–35).89
No trace of the original seven-book Wars is found in the manuscript trans-
mission (unsurprisingly, given the late date of all witnesses) nor reported or
implied by any Byzantine reader. If viii was published singly, for those who
had already purchased i–vii at considerable expense, then viii became fully
integrated in subsequent copies of that two-stage format, but this scenario
should not exclude distribution of an eight-book “augmented edition” for
new readers from as early as c.553/4. With no evidence that Procopius con-
sidered further instalments, his attention seemingly shifted elsewhere: the
Buildings, whether a new or ongoing project,90 and perhaps an unrealized
ecclesiastical history.91
87 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 504; Gantar, “Bemerkungen zu Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”,

pp. 360–63; Cataudella, “Historiography in the East”, pp. 402–3; Battistella, “Zur Datierung”,
pp. 52–3.
88 Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, p. 189; Signes Codoñer, “One History”, pp. 14–17;
Greatrex, “Procopius and the past”, pp. 978–9.
89 Whately, “Procopius and the characterization of Bessas”, pp. 127–32.
90 Buildings 2.2.15–16 seemingly augments Wars 8.7.8–9; Buildings 3.7.7 refers to Wars 8.12.28,
and Buildings 6.1.8 to Wars 8.6; see Greatrex, “The dates of Procopius’ works”, pp. 104–7;
“Recent Work on Procopius”, pp. 52–7; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 189–
90; Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs”, pp. 104–5.
91 Secret History 1.14, 11.33, 26.18; Wars 8.25.13; see Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century,
pp. 36–7, 131; Kaldellis, “The Date and Structure”, pp. 606–15. Signes Codoñer, “One
History”, pp. 17–18 expresses reservations.
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3 History, Reportage and Participation
From the outset, Procopius claims superior credentials as a close associate

of Belisarius and eyewitness to “practically all the events” (1.1.3), inasmuch as
classical historiography conceived participation, autopsy and inquiry as the
highest epistemological qualifications for writers of recent history.92 Procopius
was with Belisarius in Oriens (527–531), Constantinople (531–2), Africa (533–4)
and Italy (535/6–40). The only significant uncertainty is whether Procopius
remained in Africa after Belisarius’ recall in mid-534 (4.8.1–8) or accompa-
nied him to Constantinople and thence to Sicily in 535 (5.5.2–7); certain only
is Procopius’ presence in Carthage at Easter 536, when a mutiny necessitated
his flight to Syracuse (4.14.30–42). Competing interpretations cannot other-
wise conclusively distinguish autopsy from reports by well-placed informants.
Similarly, it is unclear if Procopius participated in Belisarius’ foray to Africa
in mid-536 to suppress the mutineers (4.14.1–15.49).93 Procopius apparently
ceased active employment with Belisarius c.540–42. Some entertain the pos-
sibility that he accompanied Belisarius to Mesopotamia in 541 and/or 542;
Procopius’ residence in Constantinople when the plague struck in mid-spring
542 (2.22.9) need not debar this proposition.94 When Belisarius fell from grace
in 542, friends and attendants were forbidden to associate with him.95 In any
case, aside from a doubtful inference that Procopius may have returned to Italy
in 546/7 (7.15–28),96 for the remainder of the Wars – roughly two-thirds of the
text – he did not evidently witness the events he records.
Procopius insinuates himself into the Wars through various first- and
third-person narratological devices and modes of self-representation, partly
inspired by literary antecedents. He thus constructs an authoritative persona
as observer-participant, who enjoys privileged access to and the trust of pro-
tagonists, yet preserves detachment and neutrality through formal professions
92 See above pp. 74–5.

93 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 297; plre iiib, p. 1061; Cameron, Procopius and the
Sixth Century, pp. 135–6, 171–2, seemingly contradicted 189; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine
Historians, pp. 181–2.
94 Stein, Histoire du Bas-Empire, vol. 2, p. 841; Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 298–9; plre
iiib, p. 1062; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 163–4; Treadgold, The Early
Byzantine Historians, pp. 184–6.
95 Secret History 4.13–16; prle iiia, p. 211.
96 Haury, Procopiana, vol. 1, pp. 8–9; Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 299–300; Cameron,
Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 14, 188–9.
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of scepticism, perplexity or ignorance.97 Procopius’ vivid reportorial artistry

has been compared to better-quality journalism, while one recent study lik-
ens him to the modern “embedded” war correspondent.98 His accounts of
Belisarius’ overthrow of Vandal rule (533–4) and the siege of Rome (537–8)
count among the finest specimens of military reportage. In both cases, nar-
rational technique and amplitude of circumstantial detail enliven his narra-
tive and authenticate authorial credibility. Judiciously spaced self-references
remind readers of his continuing presence and introduce diverting material.
“Herodotean” first-person-singular testimony affirms the veracity of wonders,
portents and phenomena: legendary topography (1.17.12–20); a goat-suckled
infant at Urbisaglia in 538 (6.17); the medical effects of famine in Picenum in 538
(6.20.22–6) and plague in Constantinople in 542 (2.22.9); a prophesy fulfilled
(8.21.10–18); Aeneas’ ship preserved in Rome (8.22.7–16) and Homeric geography
(8.22.18–22).99 In a more reflective mode, he recalls his thoughts on fortune’s
vicissitudes as imperial forces first engage the Vandals in 533 (3.18.2) and
enter Ravenna in 540 (6.29.32–4). For the initial phase of the African cam-
paign, innovative first-person-plural narration imbues Belisarius’ stage-by-
stage advance on Carthage with immediacy and tension (3.17.7–8, 14–15, 17,
19.1, 33, 20.1, 21.6), as the manoeuvring of multiple Roman and Vandal forma-
tions across obstructed terrain entails complex shifts of temporal and spatial
perspective.100
Beyond purely annalistic formulae, “Thucydidean” third-person statements
concern authorship and participation. “Procopius, who wrote this history”,
appears typically at points of departure or transition: his appointment to
Belisarius’ staff in 527, when Justinian’s wars formally begin (1.12.24); embarka-
tion of the African expedition in 533 (3.12.3); his flight from Carthage in 536
(4.14.37–41). Third-person Procopius also channels and interprets portents: his
own dream presaging Belisarius’ victory in Africa (3.12.3–5) and, upon land-
ing, his declaration that a miraculous spring portends divine favour (3.15.34–5;
Buildings 6.6.9–12). Procopius obtrudes into his narrative as an active participant
97 Austin, “Autobiography and History”; Howard-Johnston, “The Education and Expertise of

Procopius”, pp. 22–4; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 176–84; Ross, “Narrator
and Participant”.
98 Journalism: Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 147, 151, 243; Ross, “Narrator
and Participant”, p. 81. “Embedded author”: Goltz, “Anspruch und Wirklichkeit”, pp. 296–7.
99 Ross, “Narrator and Participant”, pp. 80–83.
100 Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 117–20; Ross, “Narrator and Participant”, pp. 83–6.
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in three episodes.101 First, on reaching Sicily in mid-533, Belisarius sends his

assessor to Syracuse on a fortuitously successful intelligence-gathering mis-
sion (3.14.3–15). Second, in autumn 537, Belisarius dispatches Procopius from
Rome to secure grain and reinforcements in Naples (6.4.1–4, 6, 14, 19–20, 5.1–4,
7.1–12). Third, during the siege of Osimo in summer/autumn 539, Procopius
uniquely records his direct speech to Belisarius, proposing a novel system of
trumpet signals, inspired by ancient Roman precedent (6.23.23–8, 38–9). In
all three incidents, Belisarius is “at a loss” (ἀπορούμενος) (3.14.1, 3; 6.3.12, 23.23)
until Procopius intervenes in deed or word, whereupon Belisarius, “overjoyed”
(3.14.15), “emboldened” (6.4.4) or “delighted” (6.23.29), can act and success
ensues. The third occasion, fusing oratory with technical-didactic digression,
is also the most suspicious. Procopius’ possible familiarity with ancient mili-
tary treatises has been inferred, but contemporary antiquarianism offers closer
parallels.102 More problematically, he appears to claim credit for a system of
instrumental signalling that was standard in the East Roman army in the later
sixth century, and which is unlikely to have been invented by Procopius at
Osimo in 539.103
Procopius rarely identifies his sources, and never without authoritative
strategy. It has long been assumed that, for events he did not witness, Pro-
copius relied mainly on unnamed oral informants. Even when he was present,
his detailed, multi-perspectival military reportage suggests that he ampli-
fied his observations with additional or corroborative information supplied
by combatants, most likely staff officers and bucellarii of Belisarius’ retinue.
Their heroic feats, martial skills, wounds and deaths figure prominently, while
they also undertake missions to locations of which he could have no first-hand
knowledge.104 Procopius specifies only two informants: Ortaïas, a Moorish
101 Austin, “Autobiography and History”, pp. 57–60; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century,
pp. 135–6; Adshead, “Procopius’ Poliorcetica”, p. 102; Howard-Johnston, “The Education
and Expertise of Procopius”, pp. 22–3; Lillington-Martin, “Procopius, πάρεδρος / quaestor”,
pp. 162–4; Ross, “Narrator and Participant”, pp. 77–80.
102 Military treatises: Ross, “Narrator and Participant”, pp. 79–80. Antiquarianism: e.g. John
the Lydian, On the Magistracies 1.46; Anonymous, Dialogue on Political Science 4.8–12; see
generally Kolias, “Tradition und Erneuerung”; Scott, “Malalas and his contemporaries”,
pp. 72–5.
103 Rance, The Roman Art of War.
104 Stein, Histoire du Bas-Empire, vol. 2, pp. 713–14; Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 392–3,
500; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 15, 136, 202–3; Karpozilos, Βυζαντινοί
Ιστορικοί και Χρονογράφοι, pp. 370–72; Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, pp. 63, 168 n. 2, 187
n. 46; Rance, “Narses and the Battle of Taginae”, pp. 451–2; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine
Historians, pp. 215–16, 218; Brodka, “Prokop von Kaisareia und seine Informanten”,
pp. 108–10.
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chieftain who spoke of fabulous sub-Saharan peoples c.535 (4.13.28–9), and

an anonymous Roman senator, apparently c.537–9, who related a portent
(8.21.10–18); in both cases citation of a local source substantiates potentially
dubious content. After c.540, continuing contact with former colleagues pos-
sibly kept him informed about military operations, though his three regional
narratives seemingly reflect more diverse testimonies.105 If Procopius’ primary
residence in Constantinople is correctly assumed, a likely source for post-540
developments in Italy is influential Italian émigrés and envoys – aristocrats,
bishops, priests and rhetors, perhaps including prior acquaintances.106 Occa-
sionally Procopius adduces ethnonymic sources of historico-geographical
information, a self-conscious evocation of Herodotean global inquiry: “Per-
sians” (1.4.17–18, 22, 6.9), “Vandals” (3.3.33) and men from Thule (6.15.9–15),
though he may allude to historical traditions rather than personal contacts.107
Procopius was apparently unaware of contemporaneous historical writing
in Constantinople, notably Jordanes’ Getica (completed 550/51) or continu-
ations of Marcellinus Comes’ Chronicle (to 548), though differences of form
and language restrict comparative analysis.108 Unsurprisingly for a project of
contemporary historiography, only Procopius’ three prefatorial “prehistories”
are obviously indebted to historical literature, but their selectivity, anecdotal
format and factual imprecision hinder identification, especially if content is
mediated via derivative texts or memory.109 Procopius’ use of Eustathius of
Epiphania’s now-lost Chronological Epitome is conjectured, for Roman-Persian
relations in general, and specifically his better-informed record of warfare from
502 (1.7–10). Problematic is the reported termination of Eustathius’ uncom-
pleted work in 503, a disjuncture not reflected in Procopius’ account, while
his focus on Amida points to a local source(s).110 Scholarship has identified
passages, mostly in the prologue to iii, where Procopius may draw on Priscus’
105 Brodka, “Prokop von Kaisareia und seine Informanten” identifies some possible
informants.
106 Moorhead, “Italian Loyalties during Justinian’s Gothic War”, pp. 582–92; Cameron, Pro-
copius and the Sixth Century, pp. 192–8, 203.
107 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 218–19; Börm, Prokop und die Perser,
pp. 52–4; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, p. 215; Colvin, “Reporting Battles and
understanding Campaigns”, p. 581.
108 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 190, 196–200, 222.
109 Dahn, Prokopius von Cäsarea, pp. 58–69; Haury, Zur Beurteilung des Geschichtschreibers,
pp. 21–7; Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 304–10; Haury/Wirth, Procopii Caesariensis
opera omnia i, pp. vii–xxii; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 215–16; Stickler,
“Olympiodor und Prokop”.
110 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 359–60, 363–4; Haury/Wirth, Procopii Caesariensis opera
omnia i, pp. xix–xx; Allen, “An Early Epitomator of Josephus”, pp. 2–3; Greatrex, Rome
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100 Rance
now-fragmentary History, directly or via intermediaries.111 In his prologue to

the Persian War, Procopius twice cites “the history (ἱστορία/συγγραφή) of the
Armenians”, thereby validating the provenance of a digression on fourth-
century Persian-Armenian relations (1.5.9–40). The precise relationship
between Procopius’ source and the fifth-century Epic Histories ascribed to
P‘awstos (Faustos) Buzand remains unclear.112 Otherwise he cites or quotes
ancient authors – Strabo (8.3.6), Herodotus (8.6.12–14), Aeschylus (8.6.15),
Aristotle (8.6.20), Arrian (8.14.48) – and unnamed “experts” (8.6.1, 16) only
in his Black Sea excursus (8.1.7–7.1) in relation to long-standing geographi-
cal controversies. Here he adopts a self-consciously disputational attitude to
past authorities, consistent, on a smaller scale, with his competitive approach
towards the giants of classical historiography, and perhaps reflecting a broader
polemic on the relative value of antique and contemporary knowledge and
events (1.1.16; 8.6.9).113 Paucity of source-notices, however, belies intertextual
complexity: Procopius’ debt to Arrian’s Periplus, for example, is greater than
his acknowledgements imply,114 while subtler techniques of allusive emula-
tion suggest Procopius’ intention to surpass his antecedents also in geographi-
cal learning.115
Procopius’ use of documents is also conjectured. As a member of Belisarius’
staff, he potentially had access to correspondence, intelligence reports,
orders and speeches, or was involved in their production, issue, processing
and/or storage, in an advisory or secretarial capacity. Procopius’ reference
and Persia at War, pp. 61, 66, 74–5; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 114–20,
215–16, 318 (partly conjectural); Greatrex, “Procopius and Pseudo-Zachariah”.
111 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 359–60, 402–9, 428–9; Haury/Wirth, Procopii Caesarien-
sis opera omnia i, pp. vii–xix; Cesa, “Etnografia e Geografia”, p. 205; Blockley, The Frag-
mentary Classicising Historians, vol. 1 (see Primary Sources, under Priscus), pp. 113–16;
Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 208–9; Revanoglou, Γεωγραφικά και εθνο-
γραφικά, pp. 232–4; Brodka, “Attila und Aetius”; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians,
pp. 115–16, 215–16, 318; Brodka, “Priskos von Panion”; “Die Wanderung der Hunnen”.
112 This source is also cited at Buildings 3.1.6. See Haury/Wirth, Procopii Caesariensis
opera omnia i, p. xx; Garsoïan, The Epic Histories, pp. 9–10, 18–20; Traina, “Faustus ‘of
Byzantium’”; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 88–93; Börm, Prokop und die Perser,
pp. 55–7; Greatrex, “Procopius and Pseudo-Zachariah”, pp. 247–8; Traina, “The Armenian
Primary History”.
113 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 216–18; Scott, “Malalas and his contempo-
raries”, pp. 70–71; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 189, 216; Brodka, “Zum
Wahrheitsbegriff”, pp. 471–3; Greatrex, “Procopius and the past”, pp. 976–85.
114 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 504–8; Haury/Wirth, Procopii Caesariensis opera omnia
i, pp. xx–xxii; Pekkanen, “Procopius and the Periplus”; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, pp. 216–17.
115 Maas, “Strabo and Procopius”, pp. 81–2; Ross, “Narrator and Participant”, pp. 80–81.
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to regimental muster-rolls (4.16.3) at least signals familiarity with military-

administrative records.116 Ostensible traces of staff-orientated “paperwork” in
the Wars raise questions of substance, style and language. A cited letter from
Belisarius to Justinian in 537 during the siege of Rome (5.24.1–17) may con-
vey the content or tenor of an actual dispatch, but, if so, Procopius recast the
original text in literary Greek, replete with typically Procopian themes and
redolent of an epistolary counterpart in Thucydides.117 Furthermore, as Latin
remained the Heeressprache of the East Roman army – the language of com-
mand, bureaucracy, discipline, exhortation and professional jargon – into the
seventh century, classicizing Greek historiography becomes a distorting lens
of its institutional procedures, documentation and personnel: Greek from
the mouth or pen of Belisarius – a product of Latinophone Balkan military
culture – may be no more apt than from Khosrow or Totila.118 Beyond his con-
nection to “staff-work”, it has recently been proposed that Procopius made
extensive use of archived official documents, which account for qualitative
characteristics of his combat accounts, specifically in Lazica from 548 but also
elsewhere in the Wars, even for events he witnessed; the role of oral informa-
tion should therefore be substantially reduced.119 This hypothesis requires
Procopius’ access to and consistent handling of several classes of document,
some conjectural, others implied in often ambiguously worded references to
exchanges of information, including diplomatic letter-registers and minutes
of embassies (2.29.9, 30–32, 30.28–9; 8.9.1–4), generals’ operational bulletins
(e.g. 2.29.40; 8.12.28–9, 14.43) and military-financial records compiled by impe-
rial agents.120 Although Procopius’ utilization of such documentation merits
consideration, some perspectival qualities deemed peculiar to documentary
116 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 296–8, 304–5, 445; Hannestad, “Les forces militaires”,
p. 138; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 13, 136, 156; Greatrex, Rome and
Persia at War, pp. 63–4; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 182, 216, 218, 221;
Lillington-Martin, “Procopius, πάρεδρος / quaestor”, pp. 166–8 (with remarks of Rance,
“New Viewpoints”, pp. xcviii–xcix).
117 Cf. Thucydides 7.10–15. See also Belisarius’ letter of 545 in Wars 7.12.3–10. See Cameron,
Procopius and the Sixth Century, p. 149; Cresci, “Aspetti della μίμησις in Procopio”,
pp. 237–9; Adshead, “Procopius’ Poliorcetica”, pp. 98–9; Carolla, “Spunti tucididei nelle
epistole di Procopio”, pp. 168–76; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken
Historiographie, pp. 88–9; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, p. 182.
118 Rance, “The De Militari Scientia”; The Roman Art of War.
119 Colvin, “Reporting Battles and understanding Campaigns”. See previously Rubin, “Proko
pios von Kaisareia”, 497–8 for Procopius’ possible use of “Aktenmaterial” at Wars 7.32.43.
120 Colvin, “Reporting Battles and understanding Campaigns”, pp. 580–96.
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sources are arguably common also to oral sources, while Procopius’ use of one
category does not exclude the other.121
4 Belisarius, Justinian and Reconquest
Two figures dominate the Wars, Belisarius and Justinian, one present and
dynamic, the other remote and mostly unreactive. No other protagonist is so
integrally connected with the conception and/or implementation of “recon-
quest”. Procopius’ literary portrayals and actual views of his employer and his
emperor, and of imperial military policy, are complex, seemingly mutable and
often subtly expressed, and demand attention insofar as his presentation of
history accentuates individuals’ personalities as causal factors. In addition,
tied to Wars i–vii by dense intertextual threads, the Secret History divulges
supplementary information or alternative opinions that have long complicated
interpretation of the Wars and inspired differing assessments of Procopius’
motivations, integrity and consistency. The Wars feature a huge cast of char-
acters, mostly minor parts thinly sketched in often clichéd terms. Leading pro-
tagonists encompass barbarian rulers, notably Khosrow, Gelimer, Vittigis and
Totila, and imperial generals and officials – Narses, John (Vitalian’s nephew),
John the Cappadocian, Peter the Patrician, Germanus, Solomon, Artabanes,
Bessas – to whom Procopius apportions praise and/or blame, in typically for-
mulaic language. Few major portraits are, like Germanus’, unfailingly flattering
or, like Khosrow’s, unremittingly hostile. Even John the Cappadocian, whom
Procopius otherwise openly reviles, ostensibly appears in the role of caution-
counselling wise advisor (3.10), though intricate intertextuality alludes to
ulterior motives.122 Most are shifting or ambiguous characterizations, which
broadly respect the historian’s duty to record virtuous and base deeds alike
(1.1.5), but may reflect Procopius’ biases, fluctuating opinions or historical
inconsistency, while military vicissitudes in East and West elicit corresponding
changes of tone.123
Although panegyric of Belisarius was never an exclusive or all-distorting
objective, analogous to Corippus’ Iohannis, Procopius’ personal and professional
121 Brodka, “Prokop von Kaisareia und seine Informanten”, pp. 108–9, contra Colvin,
“Reporting Battles and understanding Campaigns”, p. 577.
122 Pazdernik, “Breaking silence”.
123 Evans, Procopius, pp. 71–5, 92–4, 103–08; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century,
pp. 137–45, 198–9, 229–33; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Histori-
ographie, pp. 115–34; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 214–15; Whately, “Pro-
copius and the characterization of Bessas”.
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proximity to Belisarius, at least until 540, frames and colours his knowledge,
perspectival focus and presentation of events in i–vi. Some Byzantine testi-
monia view the Wars as a work largely or solely about Belisarius’ exploits.124
Notwithstanding extraordinary victories in Africa and Italy, Procopius’ depic-
tion of Belisarius harbours demonstrable bias, selectivity and suppression,
even according to his own testimony in the Secret History.125 More easily
detectable distortions occur in the Persian War, where alternative sources
provide a rare control, notably Malalas’ record of Belisarius’ misadventures as
dux Mesopotamiae in 527–9 and his less-than-glorious conduct at Callinicum
in 531.126 Even without external evidence thereafter, a recurring pattern of
exoneration, which blames setbacks on over-eager or fainthearted soldiery,
disobedient officers or perfidious allies (1.18.13–50; 2.18–19; 5.28–9; 7.18.24–
29, 19.1–32), should raise suspicions of partisan reporting. Correspondingly,
although Belisarius was undoubtedly outnumbered in Italy in 536–8, Procopius
fantastically exaggerates Ostrogothic forces.127 Bungling mediocrities succeed
Belisarius in Italy in 540 (7.1.16–17, 22–4) and in Oriens in 542 (2.24–5), evok-
ing Thucydides’ disparagement of Pericles’ successors.128 Formal encomium is
limited to Belisarius’ return to Constantinople in 540 (7.1.2–22), which com-
pensates for the triumphal celebration denied him, but Belisarius’ heroism,
wisdom, martial skill and foresightedness pervade key episodes of Procopius’
account of events in Africa and Italy. Praise of Belisarius might even entail crit-
icism of Justinian (7.35.9–11; 8.26.5–9).129 This image sometimes sits awkwardly
alongside Belisarius’ frequent clashes with other commanders, cases of
124 Evagrius, Ecclesiastical History 4.12; John of Nikiu, Chronicle 92.19; Photius, Bibliotheca
cod. 63; Suda Π 2479; Cedrenus, Historical Synopsis i 649.1–3; Nicephorus Callistus, Church
History 17.10.
125 Rubin, Das Zeitalter Iustinians, pp. 178–9; Evans, Procopius, pp. 55–60, 70–75, 91–2;
Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 7, 48–53, 137–42, 145–7, 157–64, 173–6, 205–
6; Cresci, “Lineamenti strutturali e ideologici”; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der
spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 115–20, 129–31.
126 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 145–7, 157–9; Greatrex, Rome and Persia
at War, pp. 156–9, 193–207; Greatrex/Lieu, The Roman Eastern Frontier, pp. 84–8, 92–4;
Brodka, “Prokopios und Malalas”.
127 See above n. 55.
128 Cf. Thucydides 2.65.5–6, 8–11. See Braun, Procopius Caesariensis, pp. 17–18; Cresci, “Ancora
sulla μίμησις in Procopio”, pp. 452–4; “Lineamenti strutturali e ideologici”, pp. 248, 270;
Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides”, p. 151; Cataudella, “Historiography in the East”,
p. 406; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 96–7;
Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 34–5; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians,
p. 217.
129 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 137–8; Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik in
Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”, pp. 219–21.
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insubordination and slanderous plots that, at different times, occasion his recall
from all three fronts. Doubtless some episodes merely manifest resentment of his
success, but few, if any, Roman generals so often and easily alienated colleagues
and subordinates or generated such suspicion by ambivalent actions; Belisarius
is the common factor. When one dispute leads to an officer’s execution, even
Procopius voices disapproval of Belisarius’ “only unholy deed” (6.8.18). Procopius
continues to portray Belisarius favourably in his eastern campaigns in 541–2
and acknowledges severe operational constraints during his second command
in Italy in 544–9 (7.10.1–2, 12.1–11, 13.13), but Belisarius’ lack of success (7.13.13–
15, 19.30–33, 35.1–3) prompts overt criticism and broader disillusionment with
imperial policy. The precise grounds and chronology of this perceived change
of attitude can only be speculated; disclosure of Belisarius’ prior shortcomings
in the Secret History, composed c.548–550/1, does not prove that Procopius had
long harboured negative opinions.130 In any case, Procopius did not evidently
seek to redraw his pre-542 portrait of Belisarius in the Wars in light of post-544
disappointments. As waning admiration for Belisarius in vii deflates his heroic
stature, revealing the precariousness of fortune (7.13.15–19) and military genius,
Procopius, belatedly and unevenly, honours his prefatorial claim not to conceal
shameful deeds of even close acquaintances (1.1.5).
In contrast, in a work devoted to wars waged by Justinian (1.1.1), the emperor
scarcely appears, never speaks and barely emerges as a character (or even
caricature).131 Yet throughout the Wars, Justinian, at once remote and central,
instigates imperial policy in all spheres; successful operations require his inter-
est and support; to him victories and conquests are credited (4.9.1–13; 7.1.1–2).
In military narratives, civilian emperors are necessarily peripheral, but even
during the Nika revolt, a rare episode in which he features as a protagonist, it is
Theodora who speaks and determines their fate (1.24.32–8). While “reconquest”
of the West originates in his adventurist impulse, Justinian’s character and
intentions remain opaque and one-dimensional. Procopius’ reticence reflects
discretion exercised in writing about incumbent emperors and/or empresses,
which the Secret History (1.1–3, 16.3) expressly subverts.132 Even so, readers of
the Wars have long discerned “Kaiserkritik”, oblique and direct, and sought to
130 Hannestad, “Les forces militaires”, pp. 180–83; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century,
pp. 7–8, 14–16, 48–53, 137–8; Kaldellis, “Procopius’ Persian War”, pp. 254–6.
131 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 58–62, 137–45, 229–30; Signes Codoñer,
“Kaiserkritik in Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der
spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 126–32; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 18–19, 47–8.
132 Greatrex, “Procopius the Outsider?” pp. 216–20; Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik in Prokops
Kriegsgeschichte”, pp. 215–17; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 47–9; “How perilous was
it to write political history?”
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deduce Procopius’ opinions.133 Unpalatable truths voiced by evidently self-

interested opponents or victims of imperial rule oratorically convey alterna-
tive perspectives (2.2.13–15) and, arguably, provide indirect outlets for authorial
opinion: thus speeches by foreign envoys denounce Justinian’s perfidy, insatia-
ble ambition and meddlesome innovation (2.2.5–9, 3.37–48). The latter charge,
repeated in the Secret History, is one of several traits he shares with Khosrow
(1.23.1–2) – some readers infer intentional parallelism indicative of Procopius’
dissidence, others emphasize his restricted and formulaic repertoire of polem-
ical abuse.134 Literary analyses find Kaiserkritik also embedded in intertextu-
ality with classical authors, whereby criticism of Justinian’s despotism lurks
in allusions to Xerxes (3.10.1–21) and Dionysius of Syracuse (1.24.37).135 More
striking, however, is barely concealed or overt censure of Justinian, especially
in vii. Procopius intimates Justinian’s envy of Belisarius’ achievements and
popularity (7.1.1–7).136 He implicitly reproaches the emperor for vacillations in
strategic planning (7.9.23, 37.24–7, 39.6–10; also 3.11.24–9), paying subsidies to
barbarians (7.33.7–34.1) and leaving frontiers undefended (7.29.2). Moreover,
Procopius expressly criticizes Justinian for neglecting military operations in
Italy throughout the 540s, partly owing to his preoccupation with doctrinal
disputes (7.35.9–11, 36.4–6; 8.26.5–10; also 2.29.43), and for appointing incom-
petent and venal commanders and tolerating their misdeeds, which exacer-
bate the impact of war and alienate imperial subjects (8.13.14; also 4.22.1–11).137
133 Dahn, Prokopius von Cäsarea, pp. 286–312; Brückner, Zur Beurteilung des Geschichtschreibers
Prokopius, pp. 49–53; Cesa, “La Politica di Giustiniano”, pp. 389–401; Cameron, Procopius
and the Sixth Century, pp. 137–43; Meier, Das andere Zeitalter Justinians, pp. 427–43; Signes
Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik in Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea,
pp. 119–128; “Classicism, Barbarism, and Warfare”; “Procopius’ Persian War”; “Procopius’s
Vandal War”; Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides”; “Xenophon’s Hellenica”.
134 Secret History 6.21, 8.25–6. See Dahn, Prokopius von Cäsarea, pp. 101–3; Brückner, Zur
Beurteilung des Geschichtschreibers Prokopius, pp. 49–50; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, pp. 142–3, 149–50; Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik in Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”,
pp. 221–6; Brodka, “Das Bild des Perserkönigs”, pp. 120–21; “Prokopios von Kaisareia und
Justinians Idee”, pp. 252–3; Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie,
p. 120; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 35, 49–50; “Procopius’ Persian War”, pp. 260–
62; Kruse, “The Speech of the Armenians”. Justinian-Khosrow parallelisms: Cameron,
Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 64, 163; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 54–5, 74,
87–8, 119–28, 143.
135 Cf. Herodotus 7.8–18; Diodorus 14.8.4–5. See Evans, Procopius, pp. 63–4; “The “Nika”
Rebellion”, pp. 380–82; Scott, “The classical tradition in Byzantine historiography”,
pp. 73–4; Meier, “Zur Funktion der Theodora-Rede”; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea,
pp. 35–7, 49–50, 54–5; “Procopius’s Vandal War”, pp. 14–15.
136 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 137–9.
137 Cf. Secret History 18.9–13, 29–30. See Brückner, Zur Beurteilung des Geschichtschreibers
Prokopius, pp. 50–2; Cesa, “La Politica di Giustiniano”, pp. 393–4; Cameron, Procopius and
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Modern readers have struggled to imagine how Procopius could allow himself
such license in a work published in Justinian’s lifetime and how court circles
received such negative judgements.138 If naked criticism of Justinian was
admissible or tolerated, then the function, efficacy and allusive dynamic of
veiled criticism, as detected by some readers, become less persuasive or, at least,
less explicable.139
Throughout the Wars it becomes increasingly difficult to separate Procopius’
attitudes to Justinian and “reconquest”.140 Scholarship has focused on two
related issues: to what extent Procopius articulates imperial ideology of just
war, and whether he accepts or rejects it. Certainly, Procopius communicates
official casus belli, whereby internal politics in Africa and Italy justify interven-
tions. In the latter case, he omits secret negotiations, reported in the Secret
History (16.1–6), which belie this pretext. Whether his silence reflects disap-
proval or merely discretion is arguable.141 In the Vandal War, Belisarius voices
ideological statements that echo Justinianic legislation: the expedition is a
divinely sanctioned liberation of Roman-origin inhabitants from barbarian
rule and Arian persecution and a lawful repossession of Justinian’s territory.
This message is imparted in direct (3.16.1–8) and indirect speech (3.21.17–20),
and via Belisarius’ reported commands (3.16.1–8, 20.2, 18–20, 21.8–10; cf. 7.1.8–
10). Subsequent events give proof of God’s aid (3.15.34–5, 19.25, 21.17–25) and
the pragmatism of appealing to local Roman sentiment (3.16.9–12, 17.6, 20.1).142
In the Gothic War, comparative benignity of Ostrogothic rule weakens libera-
tory pretexts, and Procopius only occasionally hints at emancipation (5.5.18,
8.14–18, 14.14) or divine favour (6.29.32–3). Justinian’s letter to Frankish rul-
ers justifies invasion of Italy on the grounds of recovering stolen property
and suppressing Arian heterodoxy (5.5.8–9); subsequent Roman-Ostrogothic
the Sixth Century, pp. 139–145; Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik in Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”,
pp. 217–19; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 213–14; Kaldellis, “Procopius’
Persian War”, pp. 259–60.
138 Kaldellis, “How perilous was it to write political history?”, esp. pp. 49–51.
139 Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius”, pp. 89–90, 95–9.
140 Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 128–32, 146–7.
141 Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik in Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”, pp. 216–17.
Century, pp. 114–5, 126, 173–4; 185–7; Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und Justinians
Idee”, pp. 247–8; Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 129–30;
Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides”, pp. 152–9, 161–71; Rodolfi, “Procopius and the
Vandals”; Wood, “Being Roman”, pp. 424–38.
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diplomatic exchanges reiterate Justinian’s ancient proprietorial rights (5.6.9–

10, 20.17; 6.6.15–26).143
Procopius’ rehearsal of imperial claims to western territories does not
attest his approval. Scholarly opinions differ: some infer acceptance of or even
enthusiasm for “reconquest” per se but criticism of its execution;144 others
discern fundamental repudiation or even an “anti-war stance”.145 Procopius’
exhilarating reportage of operations in Africa in 533–4 and Italy in 535–40
expresses no reservations comparable to his explicit criticisms of post-540
developments. Attempts to detect criticism during and of this stage depend
on subjective interpretations of isolated passages. One example suffices to
illustrate interpretative challenges: Procopius’ account of how Justinian single-
mindedly championed the expedition to Africa (3.10.1–21) is loosely modelled
on Herodotus’ tale of Xerxes’ decision to invade Greece.146 For some readers,
Procopius, simply appropriating a familiar narrational template, accords the
emperor credit for the dazzling triumph and launches a recurring motif of
divinely sanctioned conquest, consistent with imperial propaganda.147 Others,
accentuating specific and intentional parallelism with Xerxes, infer allusive
condemnation of a hubristic enterprise at its inception.148 None doubts that,
later, Procopius deplored the costs, consequences and moral implications of
“reconquest”. Sharp criticisms accumulate in vii and viii. Disillusionment is
most acute in pessimistic observations on barbarian ascendency (7.33.1) and
the desolation of Africa and Italy (4.28.52; 8.17.22; 34.1–8).149 Throughout vii,
Procopius’ mostly sympathetic portrait of Totila holds up an inverting mirror to
143 Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und Justinians Idee”, pp. 248–51; Pazdernik, “Procopius
and Thucydides”, pp. 171–4. See also Pazdernik, “‘The Great Emperor’” for stylized asser-
tion of Roman predominance.
144 E.g. Dahn, Prokopius von Cäsarea, pp. 102, 288–312, esp. 303; Rubin, Das Zeitalter
Iustinians, pp. 173–5, 181–3, 186–8, 218; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 139–
40, 143, 151, 173–4, 185–6; Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und Justinians Idee”; Greatrex,
“Perceptions of Procopius”, pp. 92–3.
145 E.g. Cesa, “La Politica di Giustiniano”, pp. 400–06; Cataudella, “Historiography in the East”,
pp. 411–13; Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik in Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”, p. 220; Kaldellis,
“Procopius’ Persian War”, pp. 255–7 (quoting 257).
146 Herodotus 7.8–19.
Century, pp. 173–4; Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und Justinians Idee”, pp. 246–7.
148 Evans, Procopius, pp. 63–4; Scott, “The classical tradition in Byzantine historiography”,
pp. 73–4; Cesa, “La Politica di Giustiniano”, pp. 400–01; Kaldellis, “Procopius’s Vandal War”,
pp. 15–16. Elaborate exegesis by Pazdernik, “Breaking silence”, esp. 982–91, 1002–9, 1013–17,
uncovers inter- and intratextual complexities of this episode.
149 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 60–61, 172, 196–7; Brodka, “Prokopios von
Kaisareia und Justinians Idee”, p. 251.
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imperial misrule of Italy by those charged with accomplishing “reconquest”.150

More generally, Procopius does not conceal the harsh realities of Roman impe-
rialism. Speeches by its victims revile the Romans as tyrannical, avaricious and
perfidious, and Roman rule as enslavement (2.3.39–42, 15.19–26; 4.11.9–12, 22.7–
10); indeed Procopius voices identical criticisms directly (2.15.2–12; 8.9.10–12).
Recurring themes of “servility” and “liberty”, relative to material well-being and
political/cultural allegiance, attest to literary artistry and historical insight.151
In the clandestine vitriol of the Secret History, Justinian becomes responsible
for devastating and depopulating the world, as Procopius condenses the geo-
political predicament of the reconquered territories into abuse of Justinian’s
bloodlust, parsimony and unconcern.152 In the Wars, without systematic or
consistent critique, he more soberly appraises the implementation and agents
of “reconquest”, but there is no obvious literary or compositional reason why
criticism should be candid only in vii–viii (but, in the eyes of some readers,
veiled in i–vi). The most compelling inference remains Procopius’ disenchant-
ment with a project of which, in principle, he had once approved.153
5 Classicism: Historical Outlook and Audience
To generations of readers, Procopius’ linguistic, stylistic and formal classiciz-

ing signalled tradition, authority and rationalism. While recent scholarship
on the Wars has accentuated non-classical features, arguably more charac-
teristic of sixth-century sensibilities, its ostensibly antique aesthetic remains
seductive. “Classicism” is no longer deemed representative of a notional
“mainstream” literary-artistic culture under Justinian. Nor is classicizing his-
toriography, though peculiar to élite circles, considered symptomatic of or
coterminous with their literary tastes, which encompassed diverse secular
and religious genres, subjects and styles.154 Most Byzantine testimonia under-
standably view the Wars as a military-operational history, though Procopius’
150 Evans, Procopius, pp. 73–5; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiog-
raphie, pp. 124–6; Stewart, “Contests of Andreia”, pp. 45–52.
151 Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides”; “Xenophon’s Hellenica”; Kaldellis, Procopius of
Caesarea, pp. 130–3; “Procopius’ Persian War”, pp. 259–62.
152 Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 128–32, 146–7.
153 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 349–54; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century,
pp. 142–5.
154 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 19–32; Scott, “Malalas and his contem-
poraries”, pp. 69–71; Rapp, “Literary Culture under Justinian”; Jeffreys, “Writers and
Audiences”.
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inclusion of non-military content – palace conspiracies, urban riots, pestilence –

perhaps lent his work a broader historical character: Agathias remarks that
Procopius “accurately recorded most (πλεῖστα) of what happened during the
age of Justinian”.155 While it might be inappropriate to bemoan the absence
of crucial socio-economic or ecclesiastical dimensions,156 Procopius’ classi-
cally mandated focus on foreign relations and warfare raises questions about
his aims, method and intended audience. Some doubt the contemporary
popularity or typicality of the Wars relative to other forms of historical writ-
ing, such as world chronicles, whose domestic concerns – day-to-day events,
religious life, public morality, entertainments – and chronographic alignment
to Creation, Christianity and Salvation, may better convey mid-sixth-century
mentalities than does Procopius’ preoccupation with overseas adventurism.157
Interpretation is complicated by progressive blurring of genre boundaries,
between traditional conceptions of “élite” and “popular” writing, more so over
subsequent decades, but already apparent in Procopius’ inclusion of “unclas-
sical” elements.
Although Procopius did not conceive or compose the Wars in a historio-
graphic vacuum, their length, scope, form and sophistication have no sixth-
century parallels. What survives or is known of the diverse historical literature
produced in the first half of the sixth century, mostly in Constantinople, points
to a preference for the more distant past or antiquarianism over recent and
contemporary events.158 Preceding Roman-Persian warfare (502–6) under
Anastasius had inspired historiography.159 Eustathius’ Chronological Epitome,
possibly known to Procopius, reportedly narrated events to 503 with elegance
and learning suggestive of elevated prose.160 Two other lost works, Colluthus’
Persika and Christodorus’ six-book Isaurika, generally identified as verse
epic-panegyrics on Anastasius’ Persian and Isaurian wars, would thus exemplify
alternative high-register formats for commemorating military achievements.161
Anastasius’ Persian war also figures prominently in Syriac historiography,
155 Agathias, Histories pref. 22. Later testimonia: above n. 124.

156 Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 41–4.
157 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 18–28, 150–51; Maas, “Roman Questions,
Byzantine Answers”, pp. 17–18; Rapp, “Literary Culture under Justinian”, p. 394; Scott,
“Chronicles versus classicizing history”; with alternative observations by Treadgold, “The
Byzantine World Histories”, pp. 709–15.
158 Greatrex, “Procopius and the past”, pp. 969–76.
159 Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, pp. 60–67.
160 See above n. 110. See Allen, “An Early Epitomator of Josephus”, pp. 3, 7; Treadgold, The
Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 115, 119–20, 312–13, 316–17; “The Byzantine World Histories”,
pp. 725–6.
161 Suda κ 1951, χ 525; see plre ii, pp. 293, 304; Jeffreys, “Writers and Audiences”, pp. 128–32.
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notably Pseudo-Joshua and Pseudo-Zachariah. Procopius’ relatively cursory

treatment, even if essentially introductory, may acknowledge the quantity
of historical writing already devoted to this period, though none of this lit-
erature is an obvious precursor to the type of work he chose to write. In con-
trast, evidence for contemporary competitors is surprisingly meagre. John the
Lydian boasts that Justinian “bade me write a composition on the war he suc-
cessfully conducted against the Persians”, including the battle outside Dara;
if John fulfilled this commission, no trace survives.162 John Malalas’ Chronicle
(18) intermittently incorporates short, but well-informed reports of eastern
operations in 528–31, while hardly mentioning western “reconquests”, though
its tenuous textual tradition may imperfectly convey the original content of
Malalas’ work.163 Otherwise, as a historian of Justinian’s wars Procopius stands
alone. If his decision, c.540, to write a grand-style Atticizing history aimed
to fill a historical-literary lacuna, it was nonetheless an eccentric and ambi-
tious venture.
While older, mostly philological scholarship generally viewed Procopius’
classicizing as superficial and sterile imitation or constraining legacy, recent,
mostly literary studies identify thoughtful and creative emulation, which
enriches artistry, deepens meanings and characterization, and/or veils cri-
tique. Early inquiries were content to chart lexical-phrasal correspondences
with classical historians, especially Thucydides and Herodotus.164 Procopius’
language and style lack recent or comprehensive study. His aspirational idiom
exhibits conventional affectations of synthetically revived Attic, mostly cor-
rect, clear and concise, though admitting forms disallowed by purist Atticizers,
along with archaizing toponyms and periphrases of non-classical terms, espe-
cially Christian concepts and military-administrative jargon. The foremost sty-
listic influence is Thucydides, most apparent in spelling, lexis and diction, but
rarely involving characteristic features of Thucydidean syntax or rhetoric.165
162 John the Lydian, On the Magistracies 3.28.5. See Evans, Procopius, pp. 77–8; Cameron,
Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 19–20, 242; Maas, John Lydus and the Roman Past,
pp. 33–4.
163 Brodka, “Prokopios und Malalas”; Greatrex, “Procopius and Malalas”; Colvin, “Comparing
Procopius and Malalas”.
164 Dahn, Prokopius von Cäsarea, pp. 416–47; Duwe, Quatenus Procopius Thucydidem; Braun,
Procopius Caesariensis; Die Nachahmung Herodots; Krumbacher, Geschichte der byzan-
tinischen Litteratur, p. 233.
165 The most recent study of Procopius’ style remains Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”,
310–24; with remarks by Evans, Procopius, pp. 40–41; Cameron, Agathias, pp. 57–88
(selectively); Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 37–8, 42–4, 115; Howard-Johnston, “The
Education and Expertise of Procopius”, p. 24; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians,
pp. 216–17; Van Nuffelen, “The Wor(l)ds of Procopius”, pp. 43–4.
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Outside of identifiable allusions, it is not always possible to distinguish direct

and specific imitation of Thucydides from a phraseological repertoire of inter-
mediary imitators or generic Atticizing traits imparted though rhetorical cur-
ricular texts and stylistic anthologies.166 Although earlier studies overstated
their view that mimesis necessarily invalidates or distorts factual content,167 the
artificiality of Procopius’ style inevitably limited vocabulary and constrained
expression, even if reiteration of key concepts may sometimes be intentional.
Beyond linguistic-stylistic dimensions, more pervasive Thucydidean influences
shape the arrangement and substance of the Wars, most obviously a focus on
eternalized themes of war, politics and diplomacy, programmatic prefatorial
statements, modes of authorial self-reference, chronological framework, and
purported speeches and letters. Procopius modelled particular episodes on
classical archetypes, again especially in Thucydides but also, to a lesser extent,
Herodotus, Xenophon and Arrian, through structural patterning and/or ver-
bal allusion.168 Scholarly opinions differ regarding the depth of Procopius’
engagement with ancient literature, his intentions in modelling contemporary
narrative on classical paradigms, and the potency, operation and audience of
allusive intertextuality. Identification of allusions is often more secure than
their interpretation.169 When Thucydides’ portrait of Pericles can be detected
behind Procopius’ depictions of Belisarius, Totila and Theoderic, did Procopius
166 Balázs, A gazai iskola; Tosi, “Tucidide in Coricio”; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, pp. 37–8; Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 15–18.
167 Duwe, Quatenus Procopius Thucydidem, p. 7; Braun, Procopius Caesariensis, pp. 47–9,
61; Brückner, Zur Beurteilung des Geschichtschreibers Prokopius, pp. 7–16. Correctives:
Haury, Zur Beurteilung des Geschichtschreibers, pp. 3–10; Soyter, “Die Glaubwürdigkeit des
Geschichtschreibers”; Moravcsik, “Klassizismus in der byzantinischen Geschichtsschrei-
bung”, p. 369.
168 Lieberich, Studien zu den Proömien 1–3; Diesner, “Eine Thukydides-parallele bei Prokop”;
Evans, Procopius, pp. 63–4; Bornmann, “Motivi tucididei in Procopio”; Cesa, “La Politica
di Giustiniano”, pp. 400–01; “Etnografia e Geografia”; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, pp. 35–43, 134–5; Cresci, “Ancora sulla μίμησις in Procopio”; “Aspetti della μίμη-
σις in Procopio”; Adshead, “Procopius’ Poliorcetica”, pp. 95–104; Carolla, “Spunti tuci-
didei nelle epistole di Procopio”; Meier, “Beobachtungen”; Pazdernik, “Procopius and
Thucydides”, “Xenophon’s Hellenica”; “Belisarius’ Second Occupation”; Kaldellis, Procopius
of Caesarea, pp. 18–38; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 189, 192–4, 215–17;
Basso/Greatrex, “How to Interpret”; Reinsch, “Byzantine Adaptations of Thucydides”,
pp. 759–64, 769–72; Meister, Thukydides als Vorbild, pp. 90–98; Kaldellis, “Procopius’s
Vandal War”, pp. 15–16.
169 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 32–3; Karpozilos, Βυζαντινοί Ιστορικοί και
Χρονογράφοι, pp. 380–81; Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides”, pp. 181–2; Cataudella,
“Historiography in the East”, pp. 405–8; Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 26–38;
Reinsch, “Byzantine Adaptations of Thucydides”, pp. 761–4.
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intend a specific message in each case or did he simply possess a limited allu-
sive repertoire?170
As intrinsic components of classicizing historiography, digressions and
speeches in the Wars inform and fascinate readers, and moderate narra-
tive pace and structural symmetry across books of wide-ranging content.
Procopius’ ethno-geographical excursuses draw material of uneven quality
from oral and textual sources, combining authentic data, ethnographic topoi,
anecdote and mythology, within a framework of inherited cultural assump-
tions and self-conscious emulation of classical models, especially Herodotus
and Arrian.171 Overall, even if he expresses generalized prejudices, Procopius’
attitudes towards non-Roman groups and individuals appear elastic and
changeable, often transcending classical-literary stereotyping.172 Like the “ori-
gins” sections that preface each regional unit, these digressions have been both
condemned, for inaccuracy and credulity, and excused, on grounds of literary
complexity and recondite intent. Scholarly evaluations of Procopius’ ethnogra-
phy differently assess the distorting impact of classical mimesis and infer vari-
ous agendas, including chauvinistic moralizing, conquest-justifying imperial
propaganda or inverting socio-political critique of the Roman state.173
The Wars contain 120 speeches and 45 letters, literary-rhetorical set-pieces
that heighten structural and linguistic grandeur, enhance characterization
and amplify viewpoints.174 Procopius modelled several speeches and letters
on classical exemplars, most often Thucydides, but also Arrian and Xenophon,
170 Belisarius: Braun, Procopius Caesariensis, pp. 17–18; Cresci, “Ancora sulla μίμησις in
Procopio”, pp. 452–4; “Lineamenti strutturali e ideologici”, pp. 248, 270; Pazdernik,
“Procopius and Thucydides”, p. 151; Cataudella, “Historiography in the East”, p. 406;
Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 96–7; Kaldellis,
Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 34–5; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, p. 217;
Pazdernik, “Reinventing Theoderic”, pp. 147–8. Totila: Cresci, “Aspetti della μίμησις in
Procopio”, pp. 239–241; Pazdernik, “Belisarius’ Second Occupation”. Theoderic: Diesner,
“Eine Thukydides-parallele bei Prokop”; Bornmann, “Motivi tucididei in Procopio”,
pp. 140–47; Pazdernik, “Reinventing Theoderic”, pp. 138–40, 143–4.
171 Cesa, “Etnografia e Geografia”; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 209–25;
Revanoglou, Γεωγραφικά και εθνογραφικά, pp. 189–248; Maas, “Strabo and Procopius”;
Kaldellis, Ethnography after Antiquity, esp. pp. 1–21.
172 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 122–3, 221–2, 241–2; Wood, “Being Roman”,
pp. 438–57; Goltz, “Anspruch und Wirklichkeit”; Greatrex, “Procopius’ attitude towards
Barbarians”; Sarantis, “Procopius and the different types of northern barbarian”.
173 Greatrex, “Procopius’ attitude towards Barbarians”, pp. 328–31 surveys approaches.
174 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 148–50; Taragna, Logoi historias, pp. 65–139,
221–36.
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Wars 113
partly as a means of drawing re-evaluative historical analogies.175 Essentially,

speeches and letters elucidate military-political contexts: Vittigis’ oratory, fram-
ing an excursus on Ostrogothic-Frankish relations (5.11.12–13.25), highlights his
geostrategic predicament, while Belisarius’ Thucydides-inspired communi-
qué to Justinian in 537 (5.24.1–17) reviews preceding operations and assesses
strategic prospects.176 Speeches also communicate motives and/or justifica-
tions for war: classically, Procopius adopts the “Melian Dialogue”, Thucydides’
reflection on Machtpolitik, as the model for a dramatized, partly stichomythic
exchange between Belisarius and Vittigis’ envoys in 538 concerning legitimate
rule of Italy (6.6.4–36).177 Elsewhere, in imitation of Thucydidean narrational-
oratorical interplay, words spoken by protagonists elaborate factual or ethical
themes in the narrative and create dramatic tensions between aims, actions
and outcomes. In particular, generals’ pre-battle orations, as at Dara (1.14.13–
27) and Mammes (4.11.14–55), offer competing predictive analyses of the ensu-
ing engagement.178 Additionally, by explaining his thinking to hesitant or
perplexed subordinates (2.18.3–16, 19.5–15), Belisarius demonstrates wisdom,
expertise and prescience in his subsequent actions, though indirect speech
may serve the same end (5.19.42, 27.25–29).179 Conversely, speeches can supply
dramatic irony: Vittigis’ prediction of a staunch defence by Rome’s garrison
(5.11.25) accentuates its bloodless withdrawal (5.14.12–14); Khosrow’s lament of
the massacre at Antioch magnifies his impious deceit (2.9.1–11).180 Aesthetic
evaluation of Procopius’ oratory and epistolography entails impressionist
judgements; if some speeches seem scholastic exercises in antithetical argu-
mentation or clichéd moralizing,181 contemporary readers/listeners may have
found more majesty, taste or significance.
175 Thucydides: Braun, Procopius Caesariensis, pp. 21–31, 42; Cresci, “Aspetti della μίμησις in
Procopio”, pp. 239–41; Adshead, “Procopius’ Poliorcetica”, pp. 98–9; Carolla, “Spunti tuci-
didei nelle epistole di Procopio”; Taragna, Logoi historias, pp. 69–77; Kaldellis, Procopius of
Caesarea, pp. 29–32; Pazdernik, “Belisarius’ Second Occupation”. Arrian: e.g. Anabasis 7.9–
10 > Wars 4.16.12–24. Xenophon: e.g. Hellenica 4.1.34–6 > Wars 4.6.15–26, see Pazdernik,
“Xenophon’s Hellenica”.
176 See above p. 101.
177 Cf. Thucydides 5.85–111. See Pazdernik, “Reinventing Theoderic”, pp. 142–5.
178 Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 29–32; Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 82–4; also
Adshead, “Thucydides and Agathias”, pp. 82–4.
179 Van Nuffelen, “The Wor(l)ds of Procopius”, pp. 46–9.
180 Pazdernik, “Xenophon’s Hellenica”, pp. 198–9 on stereotyped “barbarian brave talk” in the
Wars.
181 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 219; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 44,
148–9.
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114 Rance
Insofar as modern military-historical categories can apply to classicizing

historiography, Procopius variously depicts and comprehends the operational
significance of deployment and tactics, discipline and morale, weaponry and
logistics, though historical context and literary-rhetorical priorities deter-
mine shifting emphases in different parts of the Wars and, overall, he privi-
leges individualized qualities of charismatic leadership and personal valour.182
Understanding of campaign or theatre strategies is less apparent, while gnomic
pronouncements on generalship or strategic principles are rarely insightful and
sometimes inconsistent.183 Contextually, Procopius never acknowledges fiscal-
demographic strains on the empire’s resources during the 540s, nor essential
strategic differences between taking and holding territory, in today’s military
parlance “shock and awe” versus “counterinsurgency”. He is alert to the causes
and consequences of diverse campaign-specific phenomena: civilians’ atti-
tudes, soldiers’ ethno-cultural and/or religious identities, military unrest and
desertions, and commanders’ rivalries, corruption and mismanagement.184
Excepting his exaggeration of Ostrogothic numbers in 536–40, Procopius
appears well-informed regarding the size, composition, commanding officers
and movements of forces, perhaps reflecting access to military paperwork,
though he is selective in the information he includes and only once names
a Roman regiment (5.23.3).185 Unsurprisingly, Thucydidean elements infuse
Procopius’ military narrative. Whereas the Persian War (including its supple-
ment in viii) and Vandal War are sporadically dated by Justinian’s regnal years
(from 1 April 527), in the Gothic War Procopius adopts Thucydides’ dating
formula by ordinal “year of the war” (from 535/6), calculated from the start
of spring (March/April).186 In language and structure, Procopius allusively
evokes momentous events in Thucydides’ History, notably parallelism between
182 Kaegi, “Procopius the Military Historian”, pp. 63–76; Rance, “Narses and the Battle of
Taginae”, pp. 427–43, 451–69; Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 89–101, 105–14, 134–9,
152–7, 160–71, 177–96.
183 Kaegi, “Procopius the Military Historian”, pp. 64–8, 75–6; Whately, Battles and Generals,
pp. 145–51.
184 Kaegi, “Procopius the Military Historian”, pp. 76–83; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, pp. 201–4; Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides”; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine
Historians, p. 221.
185 Hannestad, “Les forces militaires”; Rance, “Narses and the Battle of Taginae”, pp. 443–51;
Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 219–21; Whately, “Some Observations on
Procopius”; Battles and Generals, pp. 125–7.
186 Thucydidean language: Braun, Procopius Caesariensis, pp. 7–8. Procopius’ usage: Haury,
Procopiana, vol. 1, pp. 8–9; Croke, “Jordanes and the Immediate Past”, pp. 477–82. Older
scholarship, as also recently Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, p. 199, calculated
Procopius’ war-year from the summer solstice, June to June.
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Wars 115
Athens’ Sicilian expedition in 415–13 bc and Justinian’s African expedition

in 533, and the sieges of Syracuse in 413 bc and Rome in 537–8.187 Instances
of verbal imitation accumulate in set-piece episodes, especially battles and
sieges. Procopius’ descriptions of combat, especially, betray the limited the-
saurus available within self-imposed stylistic constraints.188
As Procopius acknowledges in his preface, basic differences separate sixth-
century military realities from the martial worlds depicted in Homer and
classical histories. Aside from the comparative prominence of small-scale
skirmishing, asymmetrical warfare and counterinsurgency in the Wars, cavalry
is now the primary offensive arm in battle, while developments in mounted
archery have transformed firepower, tactical capabilities and casualties. In
addition, Procopius focuses on facets of combat that find few exact parallels
in classical historiography and might even be termed “Procopian”. Three exam-
ples suffice. First, a rhetorical-didactic strand, introduced in the preface (1.1.8–
16), explicates tactical-technological aspects, especially imperial superiority in
horse-archery (1.18.32–4; 3.8.27; 4.3.9; 5.18.42, 27.4–29; 8.32.6–8), but also tech-
nical improvisation (8.11.27–8) and Roman military antiquities (6.23.23–8).189
Second, Procopius disproportionately highlights “heroic” mounted engage-
ments, especially colourful episodes of pre-battle monomachy, Homerizing in
spirit, if not in language or substance, which in the Wars often equal, exceed
or replace the main action. Although other contemporary sources document
such exploits, Procopius magnifies and dramatizes these duels, partly for liter-
ary effect, partly owing to personal and professional connections with typical
participants, namely staff officers and bucellarii, his most likely oral infor-
mants, whose military ethos, experiences and perspectives thus pervade his
narrative.190 Third, while an aesthetic shift towards depicting unusual and
macabre combat-injuries may be detected in late antique literature, Procopius
stands out for the frequency and anatomical precision of his descriptions of
wounds, mortal and minor, and consequent surgical procedures. This pecu-
liarity has been variously explained in terms of his medical interests; fondness
for extraordinary phenomena; oblique echoing of the gruesome anatomism
of battle-wounds in Homer’s Iliad; and/or another reflection of the martial
187 See pp. 80–81, 84, 101.

188 Braun, Procopius Caesariensis 42–54; Die Nachahmung Herodots, pp. 35–40; Rance,
“Narses and the Battle of Taginae”, pp. 453–4.
189 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, p. 203; Rance, “Narses and the Battle of
Taginae”, pp. 427–9, 465–9; Turquois, “Technical Writing, Genre and Aesthetic”, pp. 225–6;
Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 181–7.
190 Rance, “Narses and the Battle of Taginae”, pp. 428–9; Colvin, “Reporting Battles and under-
standing Campaigns”, pp. 574–7; Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 169–71, 179–81.
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116 Rance
culture of those élite warriors with whom Procopius associated.191 Overall,

within his cognitive horizons and linguistic-stylistic constraints, Procopius
crafted a distinctive vision of warfare, which fulfilled his emulative literary
ambitions, reflected his tastes for dramatization, rhetorical didacticism and
sensationalism, and, presumably, aimed to satisfy the expectations of an antic-
ipated readership.
Procopius’ concept of historical causation, and its relationship to ancient
historiography and contemporary Weltanschauung, has long troubled modern
readers of the Wars. His three regional prologues are structurally reminiscent
of two preliminary components of Thucydides’ History, the “Archaeologia”,
comprising comparative observations on a distant, semi-mythical past, and
the “Pentekontaetia”, a historical survey of the preceding fifty-year period.
Even so, Procopius chose a “Herodotean” story-telling format to highlight prec-
edents and coincidences, with the common objective of showing how peoples
came to be at war.192 In the Persian War, Procopius manages to convey sys-
temic territorial, fiscal and religious factors underlying inter-imperial rivalry,
while distinguishing specific events that provoke hostilities. He may attempt
Thucydidean distinctions between cause (αἰτία) and pretext (πρόφασις), albeit
with differing vocabulary (2.1.1–3, 3.51, 22.1–2). For example, identifying Persian
financial demands as a casus belli, Procopius contrasts Kawad’s actual need to
pay tribute to the Hephthalites (1.7.1–3) with his stated justification that the
Romans should share the costs of guarding Caucasian passes (1.16.1–9, 22.6).193
Nevertheless, Procopius’ personalizing vision of history privileges individ-
ual responsibility over geopolitical causalities: in his ambivalent account of
renewed Roman-Persian hostilities in 540, Ostrogothic and Armenian envoys
elucidate geostrategic circumstances (2.2.4–11, 3.32–53), while Procopius also
reports frictions involving client Arabs (2.1.3–15), but ultimately Khosrow’s
“envy” is to blame (2.2.12, 15). Roman interventions in Africa and Italy simi-
larly begin on Justinian’s whim, with even less effort at causative analysis. More
striking is a tendency, in the Vandal War and especially Gothic War, to explain
outcomes in fatalistic terms, contingent upon capricious, unpredictable “for-
tune” (Tyche) or unfathomable divine will. Metaphysical interrelationships
between these forces can seem incoherent and contradictory – sometimes
191 Wounds: e.g. Wars 2.3.24–5; 3.23.18; 5.18.29–33; 6.1.26, 2.22–3, 32, 4.15, 5.24–7, 27.14–15;
7.4.23–9. Medical interests: 2.22–3; 6.20.15–33. See Kaegi, “Procopius the Military
Historian”, pp. 73–4; Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 132–3, 161–8; Rance, “Health,
Wounds and Medicine”, esp. pp. 179–81; Parnell, “Procopius on Romans”.
192 Thucydides 1.1.2–21.2; 1.89–117. See Evans, Procopius, pp. 51–2; Cataudella, “Historiography
in the East”, pp. 407–8; Stickler, “Prokop und die Vergangenheit”, pp. 140–44, 155–6.
193 Colvin, “Comparing Procopius and Malalas”.
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Wars 117
Tyche operates as supreme cosmic orchestrator, otherwise as an instrument of

a provident divinity. Emphasized by self-deprecatory first-person meditations,
the incomprehensible vicissitudes of fortune emerge as a unifying motif.194
Supernatural agency is also evinced in omens, prophesies and dreams, which,
beyond intrinsic fascination, presage unexpected events and manifest divine
aid.195 These outwardly irrational traits, which continue to fuel discussion of
Procopius’ religious-philosophical outlook, are mostly traceable to pagan his-
torical precedents. Whereas Thucydides’ realism recognized but restrained
accidental causalities, for Polybius, especially, Tyche, likewise defying con-
sistent definition, is pivotal in shaping human affairs, and history can thus
provide moral lessons in nobly bearing shifts of fortune.196 Oracles, portents
and dreams figure in Herodotus and his fifth-century imitator Priscus; allusive
intertextuality links Procopius to both.197 Contemporary interest in marvels
in a high-cultural milieu, notably John the Lydian’s learned On Portents, also
cautions against characterizing such material as merely a narrative device or
necessarily “unclassical” or “popular”.198 Although scholarship on the Wars
has differently interpreted evidence of fatalism, belief and scepticism, prevail-
ing opinion infers Procopius’ acceptance of Divine Providence, the workings
of good and evil, and miraculous manifestations, indicative of conventional
orthodox Christianity, and most evident in his treatment of miracles, relics
and holy men.199 While it is tempting to spotlight a “real-world” Procopius,
exposed by cracks in his classicizing facade, one should not presume that he
naively sought (and failed) to depict sixth-century realities in strict adherence
to “Thucydidean” norms.
194 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 331–3; Elferink, “Tyché et Dieu”; Cameron, Procopius
and the Sixth Century, pp. 117–19; Karpozilos, Βυζαντινοί Ιστορικοί και Χρονογράφοι, pp. 381–4;
Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 40–61; Whitby,
“Religious Views of Procopius”, pp. 83–7.
195 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 114–17; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie
in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 22–4; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians,
p. 222.
196 Polybius 1.1.2; 2.35.4–10; 6.2.6.
197 See above n. 111.
198 Scott, “Malalas and his contemporaries”, pp. 72–3; Maas, John Lydus and the Roman Past,
pp. 33–5, 105–13.
199 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 329–44; Evans, Procopius, pp. 114–27; Cameron,
Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 29–31, 34–5, 113–19, 131–3, 145, 173–5, 236–7; Brodka,
Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, esp. pp. 25–39; Treadgold,
The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 177, 210–12, 223–6; Whitby, “Religious Views of
Procopius”; Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und die Abgarlegende”; further bibliography
in Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius”, pp. 91–2; contra Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea,
pp. 56–60, 165–221; “Procopius’ Persian War”, pp. 271–3.
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118 Rance
Justinian’s commissioning of a historical work from John the Lydian implies

appreciation of the role writers could play in celebrating military triumphs.
Except for a prior (pre-527) benefaction to the chronicler Marcellinus Comes,
however, no firm evidence attests Justinian’s patronage of literature.200 Given
occasional candid criticism and, at best, muted praise of Justinian in the Wars,
it seems inconceivable that imperial favour was Procopius’ goal, certainly
compared to his unalloyed panegyric in the Buildings, even if, with an eye on
posterity, he hoped the Wars would become a (or the) historical monument
to Justinian’s era. Similarly, if Wars i–vi ostensibly laud Belisarius, the seven-
book work published in c.551/2 hardly seems designed to gain his unqualified
approval and does not obviously appeal to any potential benefactor. The read-
ership of the Wars – as of the Secret History and Buildings – was a necessar-
ily small, classically educated minority, to which Procopius, in some respects,
belonged. Despite a common assumption that he represents, identifies with
or appeals to a tradition-minded (and potentially oppositional) “senatorial”
outlook, it remains difficult to classify his precise social status or isolate his
own views.201 While it may be unwarranted to dichotomize readers of clas-
sicizing and non-literary historiography, it seems unlikely that this elaborately
wrought, Atticizing product ever exercised wide appeal. The financial and
material investment required to produce (uncial) copies of the exceptionally
long text – a third longer than Thucydides – also has implications for circula-
tion and accessibility.202 More precise characterizations of the socio-cultural
and intellectual environments of Procopius’ audience remain conjectural.
One attractive proposition envisages sections of the Wars – discrete episodes,
speeches, letters, digressions – intended for oral performance, during and/or
shortly after its composition, to Procopius’ personal circle in Constantinople,
a setting that was conceivably replicable among other urban élite networks.203
In this erudite milieu, stylistic refinement potentially contributed to a work’s
popularity and survival. More recondite compositional dimensions that might
assist in assessing performability or other aesthetic qualities, notably Procopius’
200 Croke, Count Marcellinus and his Chronicle, pp. 17–35; Rapp, “Literary Culture under
Justinian”, pp. 382–5.
201 Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius”, pp. 82–7, 91 with bibliography.
202 Jeffreys, “Writers and Audiences”, p. 130; Treadgold, “The Byzantine World Histories”,
pp. 710–11; generally Cavallo, “La circolazione libraria”, pp. 201–2.
203 Evans, Procopius, p. 37; Rapp, “Literary Culture under Justinian”, pp. 377–9; Croke
“Uncovering Byzantium’s historiographical audience”, pp. 28–32; “Historiography”,
pp. 417–19; Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius”, p. 81.
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Wars 119
distinctive accentual prose rhythm, largely elude recent students.204 While

Procopius conventionally asserts the pedagogical utility of history (1.1.1–2) and
deploys didacticism as a literary-rhetorical technique,205 a recent inference
that he intended the Wars as instructional reading for senior army personnel
entails uncertainties about the requisite culture and education of a posited
“military élite”, even allowing for the possibility that the text may have been
read at different levels.206
6 Some Concluding Observations
In the preface to Wars viii, published c.553/4, Procopius proclaims that i–vii
have already “appeared all over the Roman empire” (8.1.1); true perhaps, but he
is not a disinterested publicist. Whether or not we infer instant literary fame,
any projected audience of classicizing historiography is proportionally minute.
Accepting that the Wars became an authoritative point of reference for some
(but by no means all) historical writers of the following generation, it is difficult
to evaluate how i–vii and then viii were initially received or even to formulate
comparative or intrinsic criteria whereby this might be gauged. Some modern
measures of “greatness” – critical accuracy, analytical rigor, objective distance –
harbour anachronistic assumptions.207 Qualities that conceivably transcend
time, space and culture include Procopius’ thematic grandeur and narrative
technique – or, more simply, his ability to tell a good story, even if the Wars are
an uneven work in terms of historical content, texture and significance, and
interest in western events appears to wane after Justinian’s reign. Like recent
readers, contemporaries may also have been struck by Procopius’ boldness
in publishing a history of his own times that not only eschews panegyric of
the reigning emperor but also, obliquely and overtly, expresses criticism of his
actions.208 Overall, this is more remarkable than distorting bias in favour of a
prominent general, a charge to which his most distinguished predecessors are
variously liable (Thucydides on Pericles; Polybius on the Scipiones). Perhaps
most striking for readers in the 550s, however, were Procopius’ language and
204 Dewing, “The Accentual Cursus”; Maas, “Die Rhythmik der Satzschlüsse”; de Groot,
Untersuchungen zum byzantinischen Prosarhythmus; Kumaniecki, “Zu Prokops Anecdota”;
Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, 312–14; Cameron, Agathias, pp. 68–9.
206 Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 3–5, 221–32; previously Kaegi, “Procopius the Military
Historian”, pp. 58–61, 76, 84–5.
207 Whitby, “The Greatness of Procopius”.
208 Kaldellis, “How perilous was it to write political history?”.
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120 Rance
style, together with his intertextual engagement with classical historiography.

Despite advances in contextualizing high-register late antique Greek, the reas-
suring familiarity of Procopius’ studied classical diction and patterning can
still detract from the exceptionality – even eccentricity – of his literary-stylistic
ambitions in the sixth century, which soon turned the Wars into both a model
and a conduit of Atticism and archaism.209 In any case, in the absence of works
of comparable chronological-geographical coverage, authorial insight and lit-
erary artistry, it is understandable if modern admirers assume that the Wars
found a ready audience and met its expectations.210
209 Cameron, Agathias, pp. 59–64.
210 E.g. Howard-Johnston, “The Education and Expertise of Procopius”, p. 22; Kaldellis,
Procopius of Caesarea, p. 115; Treadgold, The Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 188–9, 226;
Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 221–2, 224; with further remarks by Treadgold, “The
Byzantine World Histories”, pp. 709–13 (Treadgold’s counting of manuscripts is partly
invalidated by inclusion of post-Byzantine western copies).
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The Secret History
Rene Pfeilschifter
The Secret History is Procopius’ most famous piece of writing, but it makes for
some dull reading.1 The work owes its prominence to some sexually explicit
passages about the upbringing and early career of the actress, prostitute and
of course empress Theodora, but these are rather short and say more about
modern preoccupations than about the character of the book. The Secret
History is a piece of gossip, a collection of all imaginable and unimaginable
rumors about Justinian, Theodora, and their most prominent helper, the gen-
eral Belisarius. This is one explanation why reading it becomes a rather tiring
exercise. Trashing an emperor can be a captivating activity for contemporaries
but the slander is far less fascinating when its object has been dead for fifteen
hundred years. But there is more to it. The Secret History is also a seemingly
endless screed which consists of the repetition of and variation on just a few
basic allegations against the imperial couple. The author’s hate permeates the
183 text pages, but his extreme bias nauseates the modern reader over time.
However, it would be unfair to expect balance from a polemic. Something else
weighs more heavily: the Secret History does not appear to be very well written.
Thus, we will first have to look at its composition.
1 Contents and Composition
Procopius did not divide the Secret History into smaller sections. It was mod-
ern editors who introduced the chapters which are now the standard for cita-
tion. These thirty chapters vary in length, but not extremely so. Here is a rough
overview:
1.1–10 Introduction
1.11–5.27 Belisarius and his wife Antonina
5.28–38 The crimes of the governors Sergius and Solomon in Africa
6.1–18 The rise and simple mind of Justin I
6.19–28 Introduction of Justin’s nephew Justinian, first sketch of his char-
acter and his evil deeds
7.1–8.1 Justinian and the circus factions
8.2–33 Justinian, his appearance and a broader sketch of his character
1 I am heavily indebted to Johann Martin Thesz and Andrew Monson for polishing my English.

122 Pfeilschifter
9.1–32 Introduction of Theodora, her career and sexual perversions

9.33–46 Justinian and the circus factions (continued)
9.47–10.10 The marriage of Justinian and Theodora, their ascendancy to the
throne, and their acceptance by elites, priests, the people and
soldiers
10.11–12 Theodora’s appearance
10.13–23 The joint governance of Justinian und Theodora
11.1–39 Justinian’s governance: reforms, greed, barbarians, religious
minorities
11.40–12.13 The joint governance of Justinian und Theodora (continued)
12.14–32 The demonic nature of Justinian and Theodora
13.1–33 Justinian’s manners and conduct, its consequences for
governance
14.1–23 Justinian’s judicial system and administration
15.1–17.45 Theodora’s manners and conduct, persecution of her enemies
and humiliation of elite members
18.1–45 Evidence for Justinian’s demonic nature
19.1–16 A dream of Justinian: greed and prodigality
19.17–22.38 Justinian, his greedy officials and the ruin of his subjects
22.39–23.24 The afflictions of the landowners
24.1–33 The afflictions of the soldiers
25.1–26 The afflictions of merchants, sailors and craftsmen
26.1–44 The afflictions of the cities and of the poor
27.1–30.20 Examples of Justinian’s greed
30.21–31 Justinian’s and Theodora’s suppression of the elites
30.32–34 Conclusion: the lost wealth of the Empire and Justinian’s
demonic nature
This division of the text is not the only possible one.2 Scholars agree that chap-
ters 1–5, concerning Belisarius and Antonina (and increasingly Theodora),
form one thematic unit. Only from chapter 6 onwards do Justinian and
Theodora take center stage. But the structure to adopt for the rest of the text
is a matter of opinion. Peter Sarris and Anthony Kaldellis subsume chapters
6–18 under the title “Justinian and Theodora”, while the rest is given the title
“Anatomy of a Regime” (Sarris) or “The Corruption of Law, Administration, and
2 Bury, History, p. 423 n. 2, structures as follows: 1–5 Belisarius, 6–8 family and character of
Justinian, 9–10 Theodora’s early life, 11–14 Justinian’s revolutionary policy, his persecutions,
avarice and unjust judgements, 15–17 Theodora’s power, crimes and cruelties, 18 calamities
of Romans and barbarians, 19–23 Justinian’s financial administration, 24–26 oppression of
different strata of society, 27–29 examples for Justinian’s cruelty, 30 cursus publicus and court
ceremonial.
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Policy” (Kaldellis).3 Following in the footsteps of Otto Veh, Kaldellis argues

that Procopius added this latter part of the work only later, but this is far from
certain. In fact, law, administration and policy are also central themes in chap-
ters 6–18, while Theodora remains a protagonist in the last twelve chapters,
although to a lesser degree.4 Even the smaller sections I propose do not repre-
sent Procopius’ train of thought accurately. To give just one example: chapters
15–17 focus on Theodora, but this does not result in a cogent line of reasoning.
Chapter 15 starts with remarks about Theodora’s decisiveness and irreconcil-
ability; then Procopius writes about her daily routine; her insistence on being
consulted by Justinian; Justinian’s accessibility, in contrast to Theodora’s han-
dling of audience-seekers; their common greed and lust for murder; Theodora’s
3 Sarris, Secret History, pp. 25, 78; Kaldellis, Secret History (see Primary Sources, under
Procopius), pp. 28, 87.
4 Kaldellis, “Date”, pp. 598–606; Veh, Geschichtsschreibung, pp. 32–33. Kaldellis builds his
case upon Procopius’ alleged system of cross-references: in chapters 1–18, when Procopius
refers to earlier or later logoi, he means either the Wars or his planned (and never written)
Ecclesiastical History, while he says “this logos” when he points to the Secret History. Logos
always means a separate work, logoi the books of a separate work altogether (the Wars).
Therefore it seems significant that in chapters 19–30 Procopius points to the earlier parts
of the Secret History with the phrase “the earlier logoi” (οἱ ἔμπροσθεν λόγοι). According to
Kaldellis, the author tended to see chapters 1–18 as a separate, already finished work even
if he had laid down the quill but weeks before. But this cannot stand. 1) The basis for the
argument is rather limited. Procopius only refers back in this manner three times in 19–30,
while twice he says simply “as I said above”, a form of internal cross-referencing he also uses
in 1–18 (19.8; 24.23; 27.13 and 19.12; 29.28). 2) Even more troubling is that Procopius does not
express himself as clearly as Kaldellis would have wanted. In 12.17 he talks about the damage
done by plagues and natural disasters “as I am about to recount” (αὐτίκα), yet he does so only
in chapter 18, more than 30 Teubner pages later. In 18.39 Procopius refers to his description
of a disastrous Nile flood in Wars 7.29.6–8 but does not use the word logos, only saying “as I
described earlier” (ἅπερ μοι καὶ πρότερον δεδιήγηται). Kaldellis, p. 615 n. 47, explains the word-
ing by a preceding external cross-reference, only three lines above, which makes another
mention of logoi unnecessary. In fact, Procopius does so in other cases, but only when he
refers to the same passage. The first cross-reference here is not easy to follow, yet he certainly
means a completely different section and it may well be that this section was not even part of
the Wars (see Kaldellis himself, pp. 610–15). 3) In 14.15 Procopius aborts his description of the
malfunctioning of the administration and the justice system by declaring “I will pass by all
the rest, as I said I would at the beginning of the logos” (ἀλλὰ τὰ μὲν ἄλλα μοι παριτέον, ὥσπερ
τοῦδε ἀρχόμενος τοῦ λόγου ὑπεῖπον). Elsewhere (11.11; 17.1) Procopius refers in this manner to
the first chapters of the Secret History but here he can only mean the corresponding state-
ment at the beginning of his remarks about Justinian’s administration – at 14.1, only three
pages earlier! Logos here means not the Secret History in toto, but only a small thematic sec-
tion. In sum, there are elements which set chapters 19–30 apart from the rest, but other leads
allow for different divisions of the text. In terms of arrangement, the Secret History is a mess.
Peculiarities in cross-referencing are in my opinion not sufficient evidence to reconstruct the
writing process and to postulate a well-balanced homogeneity of the argument. – All transla-
tions follow the edition by Anthony Kaldellis.
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124 Pfeilschifter
false accusations against enemies and her interference with jurisdiction; the
humiliation of an old patrician in audience; her preferred residences and the
hardships for her servants. That brings the reader to the end of chapter 15. All
this certainly has to do with the empress, but Procopius does not merge his
accusations in a straightforward argumentation. He jumps from one point
to the next, returns to allegations already made, alternates between general
remarks and extensive anecdotes – the dialogue between Theodora and the
patrician is given verbatim –, and mixes the trivial with serious matters of the
realm. But the result is muddled rather than entertaining because it is often
hard to follow the thread of the argument, or even to find it.
The same is true for the general structure. Procopius claims that Justinian
is the Lord of Demons, the most severe accusation possible in a Christian
society: the emperor as the devil.5 Chapter 12 about the demonic nature of the
imperial couple is the climax of the Secret History. But Procopius introduces
the theme rather surprisingly, after discussing the confiscations of senatorial
property, and he brings it rather early, before the middle of the book. Chapter 13,
concerning Justinian’s demeanor, follows neatly, but chapter 14 deals with the
emperor’s interference with jurisdiction and his disregard of the senate. Here
Procopius is back to ‘normal’, and the demonic Justinian seems forgotten. The
work does not lack hints at the supernatural – most clearly in the series of
natural disasters during Justinian’s reign – but a holistic approach to the world
of the profane and the divine is standard in late antique literature. This is not
the same as saying the emperor himself is a demon. Only in chapter 18 does
Procopius return to this theme and gives further proof for his allegation, and
after that it is not until the last lines of the work that Justinian is again called
Lord of the Demons. This is certainly a highly significant finale, but even here
it comes not as the culmination of the argument but instead, it seems, as a
hurriedly added conclusion. Thus the ‘demon’ theme is only loosely interwo-
ven with the rest of the text, and this confirms the impression one gets of the
structure of the work as a whole: the Secret History seems hastily arranged and
is always in danger of falling apart.6
5 For the demon theme see Cameron, Procopius, pp. 56–58, 61, 63; Meier, Zeitalter, pp. 86–89,
431–35; Rubin, “Fürst”; Zeitalter, pp. 203–09, 441–61; Gantar, “Dämon”; Scott, “Malalas”,
pp. 107–09; Adshead, “Genesis”, pp. 16–17.
6 See Dahn, Prokopius, pp. 254–58; Bury, History, p. 423 n. 2: “The book is badly arranged”;
Cameron, Procopius, pp. 50, 53; Maraval, Histoire secrète (see Primary Sources, under
Procopius), p. 14; Mészáros, “Notes”, p. 300. Contra: Kaldellis, Procopius, p. 143; “Date”, pp. 599–
600; Croke, “Date”, p. 430.
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2 Aim and Genre
The Secret History was not planned as a stand-alone work,7 a factor which,
though not the only one, was a significant cause of its uneven structure.
Procopius says right at the beginning that the Wars were arranged in a chrono-
logical and geographical manner. “But from this point onward I will no longer
follow this plan of composition because I intend to tell all that has happened
in every part of the empire of the Romans.” The Secret History is a supplement
to Procopius’ chief work, though not as a continuation and not in the same
way as Book viii of the Wars is. Previously, Procopius continues, he was not
able to report with honesty. He had to keep silent about the causes of events
he recounted and often about the events themselves. Speaking the truth
would have meant detection and death as long those responsible were alive.
“It is therefore incumbent on me here to reveal what had previously remained
concealed as well as to disclose the causes of those events that I did report
there.”8 Procopius hereby justifies jumping in time and place where necessary.
He refers back to events already mentioned in the Wars and assumes they
are already known – the reader is supposed to remember earlier passages.
Procopius’ objective now is to describe these events from a new, hitherto
forbidden perspective. But the Secret History is not just a supplement to his
chief work, it is one to the history of Procopius’ time overall. This is why he
brings in new material and why he elaborates on it much more than on the
facts already reported. The shift of weight involves a change in focus: the Secret
History concentrates much more than the Wars on the ‘perpetrators’, Justinian
and Theodora, and the book is thus less a historiographical work than a study
in deeds and character.
It is not easy to define the genre of the Secret History. Procopius reiterates
in the introduction two themes which had already been prominent in historio-
graphical writing for centuries. First, the trustworthiness of his reporting and
7 The Secret History, unknown to the West during the Middle Ages, was rediscovered only in
the early seventeenth century. Procopius’ authorship was for a long time disputed but is now
generally accepted for linguistic and stylistic reasons. See Dahn, Prokopius, pp. 49–57, 259–
60, 416–47; de Groot, Prosarhythmus, pp. 16–17, Chart 2; Kumaniecki, “Klauselgesetz”. The
loose composition has tempted other scholars to search for extensive interpolations (see the
overview in Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 532–33) or even to postulate a compilation of separate
works of Procopius (Adshead, “Genesis”). None of this finds any support in the manuscript
tradition.
8 Procopius, Secret History 1.1: τὰ δὲ ἐνθένδε οὐκέτι μοι τρόπῳ τῷ εἰρημένῳ ξυγκείσεται, ἐπεὶ
ἐνταῦθα γεγράψεται πάντα, ὁπόσα δὴ τετύχηκε γενέσθαι πανταχόθι τῆς Ῥωμαίων ἀρχῆς; 1.3: τὰ
τε οὖν τέως ἄρρητα μείναντα καὶ τῶν ἔμπροσθεν δεδηλωμένων ἐνταῦθά μοι τοῦ λόγου τὰς αἰτίας
σημῆναι δεήσει. Procopius refers back to this point in 2.19–20; 11.11; 16.3.
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126 Pfeilschifter
his sources, without which the magnitude of events would seem implausible.
Even in this work, the author thus feels committed to the most fundamental
standard of historiography: telling the truth. He distances himself explicitly
from pure story-telling (mythologia) and drama-writing. Secondly, Procopius
is concerned about his message. A record of the crimes of his era might be
welcome information for future despots. Nevertheless, he stays his course, as
his narrative may also serve as a deterrent by including punishment for the evil
deeds, and future tyrants have to fear that they will find their own Procopius.
Reporting accurately and commemorating remarkable events was not only
a feature of historiographical works but also of biographies. Neither does
Procopius, however, tell a Life – he has nothing to say at all about Justinian’s
upbringing and career before his mid-thirties – nor does he make any effort
to give a balanced character sketch in the manner of Plutarch. His depiction
is one-sided, polemical, and negative to the extreme. Nevertheless, the work
does not emulate a prosecution speech. Procopius never pretends to speak
in public, and nowhere does he address Justinian or Theodora directly. More
than anything else, the Secret History is a literary invective: by its intention to
destroy a specific opponent, by doing it before an audience as wide as possible,
and by its use of a background of generally recognized norms. The pamphlet
resembles such infamous works as Lactantius’ De mortibus persecutorum, a
work from the early fourth century in which the Latin rhetorician denounces
Diocletian and other enemies of Christianity, or Claudian’s poems In Rufinum
and In Eutropium against the leading Eastern politicians of the late fourth
century.9
The Secret History is an extreme distortion of the impact Justinian, Theodora
and some lesser figures had on the realm and on mankind. It is the character-
istics and the crimes of its protagonists which hold the work together, or as
Procopius puts it at the end of the introduction: “I will, therefore, proceed to
relate first all the wretched deeds that were done by Belisarius; then I will tes-
tify to all the wretched deeds done by Justinian and Theodora.”10
9 See Cameron, Procopius, pp. 58–60; Tinnefeld, Kaiserkritik, pp. 29–35; Meier/Leppin,
Anekdota, p. 362. For invective as a genre, see Koster, Invektive, pp. 39, 96 n. 336, 353–54.
10 Procopius, Secret History 1.10: διά τοι ταῦτα πρῶτα μὲν ὅσα Βελισαρίῳ μοχθηρὰ εἴργασται ἐρῶν
ἔρχομαι· ὕστερον δὲ καὶ ὅσα Ἰουστινιανῷ καὶ Θεοδώρᾳ μοχθηρὰ εἴργασται ἐγὼ δηλώσω.
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3 Themes and Characters
With the structure of the Secret History so vague, a better picture of Procopius’
execution of his introduction’s program can only emerge from an examination
of the main themes. By ‘main themes’ I mean the principal accusations against
Justinian and/or Theodora.11 The dominating topic is greed. It is greed which
drives Justinian. It is greed which makes him disregard the public good and
disrespect his officials. It is greed which makes him kill and ruin the lives of
countless people. A rampant lust for money is also the main characteristic of
Theodora and even of Belisarius and Antonina.
On the other hand, Justinian is eager to expend the resources he extracts
from his subjects by wasting money on buildings and on barbarians. The
Empire falls prey to Germanic tribes which are allowed to plunder at will and
receive subsidies nonetheless. This is Procopius’ chief objection in the field
of foreign policy. He has little to say regarding Justinian’s conquests. One rea-
son for this is that the Secret History concentrates on events in Constantinople
but, of course, there was really not much to criticize in this respect. Procopius
solves this dilemma by claiming that Justinian conquered Africa and Italy only
to be able to destroy even more people.12
Procopius does not deny that there are some good qualities in the man: the
emperor is clever and swift-thinking, he spends most of his time with affairs
of state, and he appears accessible and kind even to people who are not high-
born. But Justinian employs his considerable talents in the service of murder,
revenge and other crimes. The flip-side of his openness is a suffocating micro-
management of government and the suffering of elites, who are as humili-
ated at court as commoners are treated gently. He lacks the qualification for
the imperial office: “he acted like a barbarian in his manner of speech, dress,
and thinking”.13
But Procopius is too good a writer to leave it at a soap-opera sketch of a
talented villain. He makes the obvious contradictions an element of his char-
acterization. Procopius claims he is not able to
accurately describe his character. This man was both prone to evil and
simultaneously easy to lead around by the nose, a type they called a ‘fool
and villain in one.’ On the one hand, he himself never spoke the truth to
11 There is a useful systematic overview of Procopius’ allegations in Gizewski, Normativität,

pp. 71–73.
12 Procopius, Secret History 6.25. See Rubin, Zeitalter, pp. 218–19.
13 Procopius, Secret History 14.2: τήν τε γλῶτταν καὶ τὸ σχῆμα καὶ τὴν διάνοιαν ἐβαρβάριζεν.
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128 Pfeilschifter
anyone in his presence, always saying and doing everything with treach-
erous intent; yet at the same time he was easy prey for those who wished
to deceive him. An unusual kind of mixture had taken place within him,
a fusion of foolishness and malice.14
This rare disposition only renders Procopius’ Justinian more evil, he is a kind
of mystery that cannot be solved by rational analysis. Here is one clue for
Justinian’s demonic nature.
Procopius explains away the emperor’s piety – hardly an indication of dia-
bolic activities – in the established manner: Justinian uses it to protect preda-
cious priests and to rob people of their property in favor of the church. And
moreover: “To squeeze everyone into a single faith regarding Christ, which was
what he wanted, he killed all the rest for no good reason at all, doing all this
under the cover of ‘piety’. It did not seem to him to be murder if the victim
belonged to a different faith than his own.”15 This may sound like a plea for
deliberate toleration, but in fact, Procopius showed little interest in details of
doctrine, considering theological disputes to be futile squabbles.16 Justinian’s
actions against non-Chalcedonians only forward Procopius’ general point:
“thus he was earnestly devoted to the constant destruction of mankind and,
along with his wife, never ceased devising whatever schemes would promote
this end.”17
Procopius connects this theme with a time-honored allegation, which
appears trivial to us but which in the conservative world of antiquity always
was a crushing accusation: Justinian is an innovator. He turns everything
upside down, he destroys the social order, moral norms and public institutions.
The world becomes twisted and perverse. Everything is changed and takes on
a different aspect.18 From here another path leads to the apocalyptic motifs of
14 Procopius, Secret History 8.22–23: τὸν δὲ τρόπον ἐς μὲν τὸ ἀκριβὲς οὐκ ἂν φράσαιμι. ἦν γὰρ
οὗτος ἀνὴρ κακοῦργός τε καὶ εὐπαράγωγος, ὃν δὴ μωροκακοήθη καλοῦσιν, οὔτε αὐτὸς ἀληθιζό-
μενος τοῖς ἐντυγχάνουσιν, ἀλλὰ νῷ δολερῷ ἅπαντα ἐς ἀεὶ καὶ λέγων καὶ πράττων, καὶ τοῖς ἐξα-
πατᾶν ἐθέλουσιν ὑποκείμενος οὐδενὶ πόνῳ. καί τις ἀήθης κρᾶσις ἐν αὐτῷ ἐπεφύκει ἔκ τε ἀνοίας
καὶ κακοτροπίας ξυγκεκραμένη. I think the verdict of Cameron, Procopius, 229–30, about
Justinian’s characterization (“a caricature”, “stereotype”) is too harsh.
15 Procopius, Secret History 13.7: ἐς μίαν γὰρ ἀμφὶ τῷ Χριστῷ δόξαν <συναγαγεῖν> ἅπαντας ἐν
σπουδῇ ἔχων λόγῳ οὐδενὶ τοὺς ἄλλους ἀνθρώπους διέφθειρε, καὶ ταῦτα ἐν τῷ τῆς εὐσεβείας προ-
σχήματι πράσσων· οὐ γάρ οἱ ἐδόκει φόνος ἀνθρώπων εἶναι, ἤν γε μὴ τῆς αὐτοῦ δόξης οἱ τελευτῶ-
ντες τύχοιεν ὄντες.
16 Procopius, Wars 5.3.6–8.
17 Procopius, Secret History 13.8: οὕτως ἦν αὐτῷ κατεσπουδασμένος ὁ τῶν ἀνθρώπων ἐς ἀεὶ φθό-
ρος, ἐπινοῶν τε ξὺν τῇ γαμετῇ οὔποτε ἀνίει τὰς ἐς τοῦτον φερούσας αἰτίας.
18 Procopius, Secret History 6.21; 7.1; 7.7; 7.31–38; 8.4; 9.50; 11.1–2; 13.23–27; 18.12; 19.8.
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the Secret History: the total, unprecedented character of Justinian’s destructive

activity. He is worse than the plague, he rages like an earthquake or a flood, he
rivals the strength of the sea.19 Justinian destroys all mankind, more people
lose their lives through him than have been murdered in the whole of human
history: “it was as though nature had removed every inclination to do wrong
from other people and deposited them all together into the soul of this man.”20
There is one soft spot in Justinian’s character: his love for Theodora. She
is, of course, his co-demon, he has joined with her to destroy mankind, and
sometimes they pretend to be at odds with each other, all the better to crush
their enemies. But Procopius leaves no doubt that Justinian is in love with her.
This is why she can manipulate him so easily. The emperor concedes her a
prominent position in public affairs, he pretends to overlook activities of hers
he does not approve of (especially against his protégés), and she even sways
him to commit certain actions against his will. Nowhere does Justinian appear
so weak as when he interacts with his consort. It does not help that Theodora
may have kindled his passion with a little magic.
In any case, Theodora does not return this love (at least Procopius does not
say so). This underlines her harsh character. She shares many traits with her
husband, but there are some remarkable differences: that their personal hab-
its are quite distinct (Theodora eats and sleeps a lot) is rather trivial, but the
empress never changes her mind, she pursues her enemies relentlessly, and
there is no place for mercy in her secret dungeons. Theodora is cruel even in
comparison with Justinian, and more so as a woman. Indeed, it is because she
is a woman that Procopius can paint such a vivid picture of Theodora’s harsh-
ness. What he would approve in a man, he abhors in a woman. The empress
manages appointments to offices, she interferes with the private lives of the
elites, and she even humiliates patricians. Most appalling is an act which is
outrageous under any circumstance, but especially when committed by a
woman: Theodora kills her son. She attempts it already in the womb, when the
murder of the baby is only prevented by the father; finally, as empress, she suc-
ceeds when the adult son visits her in Constantinople. Even her aides do not
foresee this: “they did not expect that her reaction would be different from the
rest of humanity”.21
19 Procopius, Secret History 6.21–23; 7.6; 8.8.

20 Procopius, Secret History 8.27: πᾶσαν ἡ φύσις ἐδόκει τὴν κακοτροπίαν ἀφελομένη τοὺς ἄλλους
ἀνθρώπους ἐν τῇ τοῦδε τοῦ ἀνδρὸς καταθέσθαι ψυχῇ. See 8.30; 11.13; 12.16; 13.32; 18.1–4.
21 Procopius, Secret History 17.16–23: οἱ δὲ οὐδὲν ἀπὸ τοῦ ἀνθρωπείου τρόπου αὐτὴν λογιεῖσθαι
ὑποτοπήσαντες (20). For Theodora’s portrait see Cameron, Procopius, pp. 67–83; Fisher,
“Theodora”, pp. 270–72.
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130 Pfeilschifter
One point seems puzzling at first: Theodora initially engages in sexual

perversions all day and night, but this stops as soon as she meets Justinian.
Procopius who speaks at length about her life as a prostitute has almost noth-
ing to say about amorous adventures of the empress. Once she is in love with
a young slave of barbarian origin – again, a world turned upside down – but
she disposes of him without hesitation when rumors surface. In fact, it seems
she never cheats on Justinian. Her husband also does not indulge in carnal
pleasures,22 and so the empress Theodora apparently leads an asexual life. This
only adds to her cold, unnatural character: she does not even share the nega-
tive features of the female sex. Is she a woman at all? In fact, she loves the slave
“in a demonic way”.23
Antonina and Belisarius look like caricatures of the protagonists, more
ridiculous than dangerous, lacking both imperial office and demonic power.
Antonina is not only Theodora’s friend and helper (most of the time), she too
rises from the world of the circus and shares many of her traits (greed, cru-
elty, use of magic). But first and foremost, she is an ordinary adulteress and
Belisarius a cuckold. He is gullible, weak and almost dies from fear of his
wife and the imperial couple. The scene where Antonina and her lover are
caught in the act and Belisarius does not realize what is going on because he is
obsessed with Antonina is grotesquely comic – and indeed the tenth-century
Suda describes the Secret History as containing elements of comedy.24 Later
Belisarius ‘emasculates’25 himself (not literally) when he panics, despairing of
his future, sitting and sweating on his bed, only to lick his wife’s soles when
a calculated letter from the empress saves him.26 Already here the reader
learns that the world has been turned upside down, but from a banal, ridicu-
lous perspective.
22 Except for an isolated passage in which Procopius claims Justinian was “demonically
addicted to the pleasures of sex” (ἐς τὰ ἀφροδίσια δαιμονίως ἐσπουδακώς, Secret History
12.27). But this is said to unmask Justinian’s ascetic habits and is not set in context with
Theodora.
23 Procopius, Secret History 16.11: δαιμονίως.
24 Procopius, Secret History 1.18–20; Suda, ed. Adler, Π 2479.
25 The term is suggested by Kaldellis, Secret History, p. 17, who convincingly groups chapters
1–5 under the title ‘The Rule of Women’ (Procopius, pp. 142–49). For Antonina see also
Fisher, “Theodora”, pp. 268–70; Cameron, Procopius, pp. 70–74.
26 Procopius, Secret History 4.20–30.
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4 Date and Audience
Chapter 1 suggests that the Secret History was written after the death of
Justinian. Only at this point was it possible to speak of the crimes of the impe-
rial couple. Procopius announces the punishment that befell both – and yet
does not report it in the narrative. He never even hints at the emperor’s death.
In fact, he ends the Secret History with the statement that people will hear
of what became of the Romans’ wealth only after Justinian’s death. Thus, we
have to assume that different parts of the work were composed at different
times (with the introduction only after Justinian’s actual death in 565), or
that it was written in its entirety before 565, to be circulated after Justinian’s
death. In fact, the latter must be true, as nothing in Procopius’ writings indi-
cates he outlived the emperor. Thus, only the introduction was conceptualized
with this future date in mind, while the rest was supposed to be revised later.
However, Procopius died before he had the opportunity to go over the Secret
History again. He indicates four times when he wrote the draft: after 32 years of
Justinian’s government.27 That would be the year 558/559, and some scholars
have argued for this date.28 But the traditional opinion favors the year 550/551:
Procopius makes it clear that Justinian’s dominance had already begun with
his uncle’s ascension to the throne, and he reports incidents between 518 and
527 just as extensively as later crimes. I think this dating is still more credible
because there are no events in the Secret History that can be dated after 550
with certainty or even probability.29
Neither of the suggested years answers the question why Procopius did not
write down the bulk of the Secret History in accordance with the supposed
circulation date after Justinian’s death. The answer is as simple as it is disap-
pointing: Procopius composed the work quite carelessly, in a short amount
of time. I have already pointed out the clumsy structure and the boring rep-
etitions. Moreover, inaccuracies and contradictions pervade many chapters.
A few examples: Theodora’s dungeons are introduced three times, in two
27 Procopius, Secret History 18.33; 23.1; 24.29; 24.33.

28 E.g. Dahn, Prokopius, pp. 38–39, 450; Evans, Procopius, pp. 45–46; “Dates”, pp. 308–13 (after
550); Scott, “Coinage”; Croke, “Date”.
29 Haury, Procopiana, pp. 9–21; Cameron, Procopius, pp. 9, 53–55; Bury, History, p. 422 n. 2;
Greatrex, “Dates”, pp. 101–05; Kaldellis, “Date”, pp. 585–98. Battistella, “Datierung”, has
recently suggested 553/554, with rather forced arguments. Remarkable, however, is his
observation that Procopius, Secret History 27.17, refers to the Roman priest Pelagius as
archdeacon, although he could not have attained that office until 553 at the earliest. But
Pelagius had played such a prominent role in Eastern affairs and in the Gothic war since
the 530s that such a ‘promotion’ could easily have slipped into Procopius’ pen.
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132 Pfeilschifter
consecutive chapters; the general John Cyrtus is determined to execute the

middle-rank officer Justin the next day and twice ignores a dream which tries
to hinder him, yet still he leaves Justin unharmed; the compulsory purchase of
grain, the so-called synone, is explained twice.30
The most intriguing omission again concerns Theodora. The empress
already died in 548. Procopius mentions her death explicitly – and leaves it
at that.31 He discusses its effect on Antonina’s and Belisarius’ behavior, but he
does not say a single word about the circumstances. Theodora died of cancer,
and it would not have been so difficult to find out or to invent some cruel details
regarding the disease. There is nothing, however, about just punishment, about
worldwide joy, about the lessons future generations will draw from this end –
all those things the big announcements of the introduction prime us to expect.
Given his obvious hatred towards Theodora, this cannot have been the presen-
tation Procopius thought appropriate.
We do not know what prompted Procopius to write down the Secret History
so hastily, perhaps in only a few weeks, but he was certainly in a fury. Procopius
recalled all the crimes and evils of the imperial couple. Maybe he did this more
for himself than for potential readers, as a way of dealing with the political
absurdities of his lifetime. Procopius was no fool. He knew that the charac-
ter of the book made it necessary (or rather: life-saving) to hide it in his desk
drawer. He could never publish it as long as the emperor was alive. But later,
with Justinian’s memory perhaps already tarnished, he would revise the draft
very thoroughly: the Secret History would be the decisive amendment to the
Wars. Informed by the greatest historiographer of the age, everybody would
finally learn the truth. But Procopius died too early, and the Secret History was
never published. It is mentioned for the first time only in the tenth century – as
Anekdota, unpublished material.32
The audience Procopius primarily had in mind was contemporary. But as a
good historiographer in the vein of Thucydides, he strived to create a work for
30 Dungeons: Procopius, Secret History 3.9; 3.21; 4.7. Execution: 6.5–9. Synone: 22.17–19;
23.11–14.
31 Procopius, Secret History 5.23–27.
32 Suda, ed. Adler, Π 2479. See Bury, History, p. 422. Greatrex, “Outsider”, p. 219, even specu-
lates that the material from the Secret History “would have been inserted into the Wars”,
had Justinian only died early enough. Kaldellis, Secret History, p. viii, celebrates Procopius
as artfully combining “the roles that today are divided among tabloid reporters, investiga-
tive journalists, public intellectuals, and ‘disgruntled’ administration insiders”. This may
be, but in contrast to these groups Procopius did not go public with his accusations as
long as Justinian was alive. Thus he was not so different, as Kaldellis thinks, from other
historians like Ammianus Marcellinus who preferred not to write about the rule of the
reigning emperor at all.
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eternity. He says so in the introduction (to shame future tyrants and to console
their victims), and he lives up to his promise by going much further into detail
than would have been necessary for his contemporaries. Procopius explains
from scratch the workings of the public postal system (chapter 30), and in
chapter 24 he gives a lot of general information on the pay of soldiers. Later
in this chapter we find a wealth of material about the various units of palace
guards. This is of great value to us, but the Constantinopolitan elite of the mid-
sixth century could easily skip these passages. Procopius thus tries to make the
Secret History accessible for future generations, even in the draft, and it seems
he was thinking not just of senators and holders of imperial office but of a
broader, educated upper class.
Procopius emphasizes the catastrophes of the senatorial elite as a matter
of course, but this is only consistent with the usual faith of antiquity in hier-
archical order and with its horror when it appeared to be threatened. He is
not just the mouthpiece of an angry court society. Procopius does not restrict
his narrative to the harm that befell senators but includes all strata of society,
from diverse occupations to religious minorities, he talks about the provinces
as well as the capital, and even the barbarians suffer as the Romans do. Of
course, this is to show how universal the Justinianic disasters were, but there is
more to it. Procopius was not part of the senatorial establishment and he did
not originate from Constantinople, as emerges most clearly when he speaks
from the perspective of his native Caesarea.33 Procopius, with his background
and empathy, is able to see more than the sufferings of a small percentage of
the population. Thus, he lays the groundwork for the Secret History not simply
as a work for all time but also as one with a broader appeal.
5 Value as a Historical Source34
The fact that Procopius never revised his draft did its literary quality no good,
but it may have been beneficial with regard to the factual information histo-
rians can draw from it. Separating the reliable from the untrustworthy is still
a very delicate task. Indeed, though the Secret History is not easy to define in
terms of genre, it certainly suffers from the usual shortcomings of Greek and
33 Procopius, Secret History 11.25; 30.17–19. No mouthpiece: Scott, “Malalas”, p. 104; Greatrex,
“Outsider”, pp. 222–27; Kaldellis, Procopius, p. 47. Contra: Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 351–52,
354; Cameron, Procopius, pp. 227–28, 240; Tinnefeld, Kaiserkritik, pp. 23–24.
34 For this topic, see Cameron, Procopius, pp. 62–66, 229–30; Bury, History, pp. 426–27; Evans,
Procopius, pp. 87–90; Kaldellis, “Date”, pp. 592–93; Kaldellis, Secret History, pp. xlix–lv.
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134 Pfeilschifter
Roman historiography: it is a moralistic tale about good and bad behavior,

with individuals being depicted as types rather than people, and the charac-
terization is very black and (less) white. Procopius understands the historical
process as the actions of people with a free will, restricted only by God, fate
or tyche. He does not have an eye for structures and political necessities, and
Justinian and Theodora thus appear to him as individuals who can do what-
ever they want. Sometimes he gives proof to the contrary: the imperial couple
cannot strip Belisarius of his wealth due to public opinion and the lack of a
credible accusation; Theodora initiates the prosecution of an important mem-
ber of the Green circus faction, but not for the real reason (defamation) but for
pederasty; another victim is acquitted because the judges and the main wit-
ness do not yield to pressure from Theodora.35 Procopius mentions all this in
passing, but he never draws out the implications for his image of the omnipo-
tent emperors.
On the other hand, Procopius tries to provide a truthful narrative even in
his invective. Many of his claims can be corroborated by other sources apart
from his own Wars and Buildings.36 Most of the judicial measures Procopius
describes or implies can be matched by actual laws of Justinian.37 When he
comes close to or transcends the limits of credibility, he often chooses careful
formulations. In introducing the ‘demon’ theme he says: “both to me and also
to many of us these two never seemed to be human beings at all but rather
murderous demons of some kind”. A little later Procopius tells the tales of
Justinian wandering headless through the palace by night and twisting his face
into a shapeless hunk of flesh, but appends a clear caveat: “I write these things
not as a firsthand witness but based on the testimony of those who insisted
that they did see them happen at the time.”38 Procopius picks up gossip all too
willingly, but at the same time he also strives to tell a credible story in an effort
to increase its potential impact.
As a result, whenever the Secret History offers information which is essen-
tially plausible but is not confirmed by independent evidence, we can never be
certain regarding its historical value. Procopius avoids pure fiction. He applies
35 Procopius, Secret History 4.35; 16.18–19; 16.23–28.

36 See, for example, the papyrus register from Aphrodito that backs up the passage about the
grain supply of Constantinople: Procopius, Secret History 22.14–21; Zuckerman, Village,
pp. 207–10.
37 See Gizewski, Normativität, pp. 90–106; Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 552–72; Kaldellis, Procop-
ius, pp. 223–28.
38 Procopius, Secret History 12.14: ἐμοί τε καὶ τοῖς πολλοῖς ἡμῶν οὐδεπώποτε ἔδοξαν οὗτοι ἄνθρω-
ποι εἶναι, ἀλλὰ δαίμονες παλαμναῖοί τινες; 12.23: ταῦτα οὐκ αὐτὸς θεασάμενος γράφω, ἀλλὰ τῶν
τότε θεάσασθαι ἰσχυριζομένων ἀκούσας.
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an established and more subtle method: to frame recognized facts in the worst
way possible. This fits well with the tendency of ancient historiography to
one-sidedness and exaggeration. Procopius knows no limits in this respect.
Temporary and unintended burdens become permanent and willful oppres-
sion. Positive features are turned into their opposite: Justinian’s asceticism has
the function to be able to come up with even greater harm for his subjects,
and when Theodora tries to get prostitutes away from their profession, some
of them commit suicide.39 Even the greatest of Justinian’s achievements, the
reconquest of the West, is twisted in a grotesque manner – not only the Romans
but also the barbarians become victims of Justinian’s lust for murder.40
It is not always so easy to separate interpretation from fact. When Theodora
writes a letter to the Persian official Zaberganes it is obvious from the letter’s
blunt style that Procopius is not quoting verbatim. Moreover, it is difficult to
believe that Theodora would ever have written, even in a more circumstantial
manner, that Justinian “does nothing without my consent“. On the other hand,
it was not without precedent for an imperial consort to engage in diplomatic
affairs. Did Procopius invent the letter to throw a damning light on the state of
affairs in the Empire? If not, is it completely distorted, or perhaps only slightly
exaggerated?41
It is difficult to say. In any case, only rarely is there reason to throw out
Procopius’ testimony from the outset. Despite all its sordid details and slander-
ous gossip, the Secret History contains a lot of useful information. And when-
ever the facts appear surprising this should encourage us to examine them in
more detail. Even the clearly unhistorical statements are not without value.
We have no other work from Late Antiquity in which concern for the existing
order, apocalyptic fear, and hostility towards a reigning emperor are expressed
so precisely and with so much emphasis. The Secret History is a vital source for
life at Justinian’s court and for the mentalities of the mid-sixth century.
6 Editions and Translations of the Secret History
The standard edition of the Greek text is the one by Haury. The rival edition
by Mihăescu is not widely used but should always be consulted. Both editions
39 Procopius, Secret History 13.32–33; 17.5–6. For Justinian’s asceticism see Meier, Zeitalter,
pp. 620–23.
40 Procopius, Secret History 18.25–27; 18.30. For Procopius’ methods of defamation see
Tinnefeld, Kaiserkritik, pp. 29–33.
41 Procopius, Secret History 2.32–35: […] ὅς γε οὐδὲν ἂν ὅ τι καὶ ἄνευ γνώμης τῆς ἐμῆς πράξειεν
(2.35).
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136 Pfeilschifter
are listed in the general bibliography. There exist several translations in mod-
ern languages (English, German, Italian, Spanish), also listed in the general
bibliography. Besides the notes to the translations, especially by Meier and
Leppin to the German one, and the comments by Rubin (“Prokopios”, 533–72,
‘Kurzer Sachkommentar’), there exists no extensive historical or philological
commentary. Such a work is currently in progress, by Johann Martin Thesz and
myself.
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Procopius’ Buildings and Panegyric Effect
Michael Whitby
For most imperial panegyrics that survive from Late Antiquity it is possible to
identify an occasion for which they were composed, whether to celebrate a
consulship, adventus, victory, or new building. The two panegyrics closest in
time to the Buildings, namely Paul the Silentiary’s Ekphrasis for the rededica-
tion of Hagia Sophia and Corippus’ poems on the accession of Justin ii, are
good examples. In each case the texts contain enough information to estab-
lish when, to whom and even where they were delivered.1 In this respect, as in
many others, Procopius’ Buildings is an exception. There are few datable refer-
ences, with the latest certain one being Justinian’s magnanimity in continuing
to employ members of the failed assassination plot in 549 (Buildings 1.1.16),
which points to a date in the 550s or after. The only reference to current activ-
ity is the Sangarius bridge, a project that Procopius asserted would be com-
pleted before long (5.3.10).
The reliability of this statement is much discussed, since Theophanes
(234.15–18) recorded that this bridge was started in 559/60, while it was recently
completed when Paul delivered his panegyric at Christmas 562. Consideration
of events that are not mentioned, for example the collapse of the dome of Hagia
Sophia in 558, revolt by the Tzani (557), an invasion of the Balkans (558/9), or a
Samaritan revolt (555), could point to an earlier date, but only if it is assumed
that a panegyric was bound to record bad news.2 Most scholars are prepared to
make this assumption, dismissing Theophanes’ chronology as untrustworthy,
and give a date no later than 554/5. In fact, scrutiny of Theophanes’ account
of the last years of Justinian’s reign demonstrates his close reliance on the
Chronicle of the contemporary John Malalas, which might make this section of
his work unusually accurate.3 Other arguments for a later dating circa 560 have
1 Whitby, “The Occasion of Paul the Silentiary’s Ekphrasis”; Cameron, Flavius Cresconius
Corippus.
2 Stein, Histoire du Bas-Empire II, p. 837; Greatrex “The dates of Procopius’ works”, “The date of
Procopius’ Buildings”; Whitby, “Justinian’s Bridge”, pp. 142–7.
3 Acknowledged by Mango/Scott, The Chronicle of Theophanes Confessor, p. xcii. Malalas can-
not be proved as source for the Sangarius notice, since there is a lacuna in the sole manu-
script, but the overall resemblance with Theophanes is extremely close.

138 Whitby
been advanced, though doubts can be raised about these,4 so that the key issue
remains the reliability of Theophanes’ statement.5
It has been suggested that Procopius left Buildings unfinished or unrevised.6
The starting point is the omission of Italy, in particular the Ravenna churches,
but both S. Vitale and S. Apollinare in Classe were decorated and dedicated
by Julius Argentarius.7 Elsewhere in Italy Justinian could undoubtedly have
been credited with restoring defences and other buildings damaged during the
Gothic war, but in reality there would not have been much to report, though
this need not have prevented Procopius from constructing a book, which, like
Book 6 on North Africa, was dominated by digressions and other information
not related to construction works.8 The various lists in Books 4 and 5 are also
adduced, on the basis that they are out of place in this rhetorical text and would
have been worked into a finished narrative. This is far from certain, since find-
ing alternative ways to present in narrative form unspecified work at hundreds
of minor places would have stretched the best rhetorical artifice, whereas the
lists have a certain power.9 There is limited repetition, with work at Chalcis
recorded twice in the same chapter (2.11.1, 8), and perhaps some duplication of
names in the Balkan lists.10 Another technical issue is the question of the two
versions, one shorter than the other. Although Downey claimed these repre-
sented a first version that was subsequently expanded,11 the standard view has
been that the shorter text represents a scribal abbreviation, preserved in one
branch of the manuscript tradition.12 This has, however, recently been chal-
lenged; a full evaluation will have to await a new edition of the two versions.13
4 Roques, Procope de Césarée; response by Greatrex, “The date of Procopius’ Buildings”.

5 See the Appendix for brief discussion of Greatrex’s renewed attack (“The date of
Procopius”) on Theophanes’ date.
6 Downey “The Composition of Procopius”, developed by Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, pp. 84–6; doubts in Whitby, The Emperor Maurice and his Historian, pp. 73–4.
7 Deichmann, “Il materiale di spoglio”, pp. 15–21. Roques, “Les Constructions de Justinien”,
pp. 37–8 also adduces Egypt, where only Alexandria is mentioned.
8 Thus, a seventh book is conceivable, but it is difficult to see how an eighth Book might
have been constructed, as proposed by Elsner, “The rhetoric of buildings”, pp. 35, 37.
9 Cf. Elsner, “The rhetoric of buildings”, p. 39, who notes that one is introduced with an
apology.
10 Downey “The Composition of Procopius”, p. 173; Whitby, The Emperor Maurice and his
Historian, p. 74; Roques, “Les Constructions de Justinien”, p. 39.
11 Downey “The Composition of Procopius”, p. 176–81, with criticisms in Whitby,
“Justinian’s Bridge”, p. 143 n.66.
12 This is the basis on which Haury prepared the standard Teubner text; see also Flusin,
“Remarques sur la tradition”.
13 Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs”; Montinaro is preparing such an edition.
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Procopius ’ Buildings and Panegyric Effect 139
Panegyrics were composed for public performance: this was the best way to
communicate the messages for which the work had been commissioned. This
could apply to Buildings: in terms of length, even the longest book, Book 1 on
Constantinople, could have been recited in about 90 minutes, while the lists
of forts in Book 4 or of churches and monasteries in Book 5 could either have
been omitted or treated as a sort of roll of honour. There is, however, no obvious
occasion being commemorated: the place to look would be Constantinople,
since the work begins here and Book 1 has the clearest potential for perfor-
mance, but there is nothing in any description to indicate that Procopius was
standing in a particular place or celebrating the completion of a specific build-
ing. Undoubtedly, the impact of the chapter on Hagia Sophia, which evokes the
heavenly light and awesome grandeur of Justinian’s most spectacular commis-
sion, would have been enhanced if recited within the space being conjured up,
but the idea is beyond proof.
One might conjecture that, just as John the Lydian received a commission
to celebrate Roman successes in the Persian war of 527–31, so Procopius was
invited to use his personal knowledge of the capital, eastern frontier, Levant
and North Africa to praise Justinian’s constructions at a time when there were
few opportunities for other standard panegyric themes,14 but that must remain
speculation. Constructions were an element in panegyrics of cities and of
emperors, as well as being a standard feature in imperial biographies, but there
is no precedent for the whole of a substantial work being devoted to this single
theme.15 Buildings were a topic that Procopius had not touched on elsewhere
(1.1.12), and Justinian’s extensive actions required a written record if they were
to gain credence (1.1.17–18). Also, they were, fortuitously or not, one aspect of
Justinian’s reign that is not harshly censured in the Secret History. The allusion
to Justinian’s wish that churches to the Virgin Mary were mentioned first (1.3.1)
could support, but does not prove, the thesis of an imperial invitation. The
opening paragraphs might hint that Procopius was repaying an imperial bene-
faction (1.1.4), this being suggested by the contrast between short-term benefits
from rulers and the never-ending remembrance of rulers’ qualities that grate-
ful recipients can bestow that rulers gained from the exchange. Attempts to
identify such a benefaction have not been convincing.16
Procopius organized the work geographically, starting with a book devoted
to Constantinople, where churches are the primary focus, though the natural
beauties of the city’s maritime setting are also prominent. The next two books
14 Whitby, “The Occasion of Paul the Silentiary’s Ekphrasis”, pp. 146–7.

15 Elsner, “The rhetoric of buildings”, pp. 35–6.
16 Downey (trans.), On Buildings, p. xi n. 3.
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140 Whitby
tackle the eastern frontier, first Syria and Mesopotamia, then Armenia and
regions further north, with the main concerns being fortifications and flood
defences. A circuit of the Black Sea in the final chapter of Book 3 leads into
Book 4 on the Balkans, separated into the dioceses of Illyricum and Thrace.
Defensive structures are again important, though urban development and
reorganization are also notable elements. Book 5 breaks the previous anti-
clockwise sequence:17 it self-consciously returns east ‘to the remaining parts
of Asia’, with a focus on internal projects across Asia Minor, where bridges and
roads stand out, and on Palestine where churches dominate. The final book
travels west, via a brief glance at Egypt, to the reconquered territories of North
Africa, where both defences and religious buildings needed attention after
almost a century under the Arian Vandals.
Each of the first four books starts with a major description. In Book 1 the
empire’s Great Church receives by far the longest treatment for any single con-
struction in the whole work. In Book 2 the honour falls to Dara, the empire’s
most important frontier fortification and a site that Procopius knew well; the
description occupies three chapters, covering Justinianic contributions to
defences and water management, and overall these are even longer than the
treatment of Hagia Sophia. In Book 3 the topic is the administrative develop-
ment of Armenia, with attention to details such as symbols of office, through
to Justinian’s creation of Dukes. Book 4 opens with, effectively, a second pref-
ace, to mark the transition from Asia to Europe, whose long Danube frontier
required close attention, especially since this was Justinian’s native land, with
his birthplace being adorned with the new city of Justiniana Prima. So far the
organization has a coherent logic that moves the panegyric from the empire’s
centre to its most sensitive frontier in Mesopotamia, and then in a geographical
sweep north and west around the Black Sea. Neither of the last two books has a
grand opening: Book 5 reverts slightly awkwardly to Asia, while acknowledging
that the eastern frontiers have already been covered and also foreshadowing
the move to Africa (5.1.3). That transition is summarily managed in Book 6 via
a treatment of Egypt in which discussions of the Nile and ancient views of the
division of continents (6.1.5–11) offer a brief counterpart to the geographical
excursus at the start of Book 4.
Consideration of these introductory passages indicates that description of
specific buildings does not occupy the whole work: variety of subject matter was
important for Procopius, not least to ensure that the work retained its audience’s
attention. In Book 6 more space is allocated to topics other than buildings than
17 Contrast the more logical clockwise tour of the provinces in Strabo’s Geography.
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to the actual constructions,18 even though restoration of defences and Catholic

churches in North Africa offered material for panegyric.19 After noting Justinian’s
work on defences and an aqueduct at Pentapolis and defences at Boreium,
Procopius narrates more fully the emperor’s conversion of pagans at the shrine
of Ammon, concluding with a bare statement that a church to the Virgin was
built there (6.2.14–20). The next chapter mentions no construction: it opens
with a description of the Greater Syrtes (6.3.1–8) and concludes with Justinian’s
conversion and pacification of the Moors of Cidame, with an etymologi-
cal explanation of pacatoi (6.3.9–12). Chapter 4 contains two diversions from
constructions, first an omen that predicts the re-occupation of Leptis Magna
(6.4.6–10) and then the phenomenon of the Lesser Syrtes, where sailors must
cope with the daily influx and retreat of the sea (6.3.14–23). Of the final three
chapters about half of each is devoted to topics other than construction: Vandal
despoliation before the re-conquest (6.5.1–6); the water miracle at Caput
Vada (6.6.8–16; already related in Wars 3.15.34–5); Mount Aurasius (6.7.1–9).
In book 6 there is no detailed description of any construction: work on
walls, churches, baths and aqueducts is noted briefly. It might be specu-
lated that Procopius, who had most probably not been in Africa since a
brief visit at Easter 536, had no direct experience of much Justinianic work
in the provinces, but the thrust of the panegyric in these chapters certainly
lies elsewhere: the re-conquest from the destructive Vandals is the emper-
or’s great achievement, one foreshadowed by portents that were even intel-
ligible to non-Christians and which permitted the conversion of pagans and
re-establishment of urban civilization.
Elsewhere the balance between constructions and other material is not so
skewed, but diversion is important throughout. Geographical and ethnographi-
cal excursuses are deployed in a manner reminiscent of Herodotus.20 Sometimes
they provide useful context for the ensuing description of Justinianic work, as
at Edessa where the river Scirtus is described (2.7.2–5) before the flood whose
devastation Justinian remedied. In contrast, the account of the Roman-Persian
frontier in Euphratesia (2.8.2–7) offers little beyond the assertion that it is dis-
tinctive in its barrenness, so that the empires did not impinge on each other
while the few forts in the area were built of unbaked brick: all this prefaces the
brief statement that Justinian restored the Diocletianic fort of Mambri. Moving
north into Armenia, Procopius devotes more attention to the exposed location
18 Cf. Cameron, “Byzantine Africa”, pp. 34–5.

19 See Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 181–2 for Procopius’ literary expansion
in Book 6.
20 Roques, “Les Constructions de Justinien”, pp. 35–6.
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142 Whitby
of Martyropolis and its uncontested surrender in Anastasius’ reign than to

Justinian’s improvements. Similarly the next chapter first describes the cleisou-
rae of Phison (3.3.1–6), before touching briefly on Citharizon, one of the most
significant developments in the east under Justinian (3.3.7–8);21 it concludes
by describing the frontier in Chorzane, this one the opposite of Euphratesia
in being densely inhabited by populations who intermarried and shared mar-
ket facilities, with no clear border (3.3.9–14). What the listener or reader might
deduce from these passages was that Justinian was capable, regardless of natu-
ral and human challenges, of devising appropriate responses. In Book 4 there
are numerous passages of geographical description, for example Thermopylae
(4.2.3–12), Euboea (4.3.16–20) or the lake at Rhegium (4.8.10–16). In Book 5 the
troublesome Samaritans (5.7) and monks of Sinai (5.8) are treated more fully
than Justinian’s interventions.
In Book 1 diversification is provided in part by geographical description,
with particular attention to the seas around Constantinople. Chapter 5,
describing the convergence of the Aegean and Euxine, serves to mark the tran-
sition between the presentation of churches by dedicatee to that by region.
It also constitutes a locus amoenus, a geographical counterpart to Justinian’s
physical beautification of his capital as well as a demonstration of the diversity
of Procopius’ literary talents; its emphasis on the interplay of sea and land is
repeated in the second half of the book.22 It leads into an account of the Golden
Horn and attendant churches, whose location continues the theme of pacific
interaction between sea and coastal buildings (1.6.9–11). Two chapters later the
description of Anaplus on the Bosporus stresses how merchant ships safely
tie up at the quay while promenaders enjoy sea views and breezes (1.8.8–11).
Water also dominates the book’s final chapter: this opens with the situation of
the Arcadianae baths, accessible to those whose passage up the Bosporus is so
gentle that they calmly chat to those strolling on the promenade at the baths
(1.11.2–4), and concludes with the harbour at Heraeum, great breakwaters of
which sheltered shipping from winds and waves (1.11.16–22). Here Justinian
is presented as someone who overcomes nature for the benefit of his people,
providing calm even in the midst of winter storms. In between these two sec-
tions on the sea, Procopius includes Justinian’s triumph over Constantinople’s
perennial water shortages through the construction of a cistern at the Stoa
Basilica (1.11.10–15).
Miracles are another category of diversion deployed by Procopius. The
church of Eirene, at the mouth of the Golden Horn, was renowned as the
21 Howard-Johnston, “Procopius, Roman Defences”.

22 See the important discussion by Turquois, Envisioning Byzantium, pp. 47–53.
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location for relics of the 40 Martyrs of Melitene; during its reconstruction a

box containing the relics was unearthed and this cured Justinian’s infected
knee (1.7.3–16). Collaboration between Justinian and God is important in the
panegyric: not only do miraculous relics appear, but God steps in to further
his endeavours. On a rare occasion when Justinian was at a loss, becoming
tetchy over the problems of finding suitable columns for the Nea Church in
Jerusalem, God intervened to reveal a hitherto unnoticed supply in the nearby
hills. Justinian had accomplished much at the site through human skill and
power, but when more was needed the emperor’s piety ensured that God pro-
vided; Procopius draws out the moral of the story, that is that God’s capacity
surpasses human understanding (5.6.16–21). At Dara Procopius records two
separate divine interventions in the challenges of the water supply. First, the
problem of denying a besieging army access to water from the river as it flowed
across the plain below the city had begun to exercise Justinian’s attention,
whereupon God ‘resolved the impasse’ through the apparently spontaneous
actions of an unnamed soldier (2.2.8–10). To preserve the city from the devas-
tating power of the river in flood God explicitly collaborated in the emperor’s
undertaking, since both Justinian in Constantinople and the architect Chryses
at Dara simultaneously devised the same design for a protective dam.
The absence of descriptions of buildings from Book 6 has already been noted,
but in reality there are relatively few detailed accounts of buildings elsewhere,
with almost all of these located in the first two books. In Book 3 specific dimen-
sions are provided for strengthening the defences of Martyropolis (3.2.11–13),
but nowhere else is an undertaking accorded comparable treatment. In Book 4,
the only specific account relates to the defences at the Chersonese (4.10.5–17):
Procopius describes the feeble existing wall, equipped with ineffectual moles
at its seaward ends, and then provides details about Justinian’s two-storied
replacement, which was reinforced with a freshly-cleared moat and substan-
tial moles. In Book 5 the Nea Church attracted Procopius’ attention: first the
massive substructures that permitted such a large building to be erected on the
sloping site, including the enormous stones that required special wagons and
widened roads to be brought, and then the challenges of finding both timbers
of appropriate length and the columns, the miraculous provision of which has
been noted (5.6). By contrast, even the major church of St John at Ephesus is
passed over as being of ‘such size and beauty that, to put it briefly, it is very
similar to and in all respects a match for the church he had dedicated in the
imperial city to all the Apostles’ (5.1.6). A repeat description was not needed.
Elsewhere in Book 5 there is some specific information about routes and
bridges, for example the dangerous pontoon crossing of the Sangarius (5.3.8–
9), the new causeway between Bithynia and Phrygia (5.3.12–15), the breakwater
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144 Whitby
for the bridge at Juliopolis (5.4.3), and above all the bridge repairs at Adana
(5.5.8–13), but no detail on anything else.23
The first two books stand out for the number of extended descriptions that
they contain. Hagia Sophia is presented with considerable information about
the columns, coloured marbles, windows, galleries and above all the fantas-
tic dome, including the triangular pendentives that resolved the challenge of
placing this circle atop the square base created by the main walls (1.1.); the
collaboration between God and emperor was demonstrated by the solution
to the cracking piers that threw the master-builders into despair (1.1.67–73).
Thereafter something special is needed for much to be said about a new
church. Of the church to the Virgin at Blachernae are noted its unusual length
as well as the two tiers of columns of Parian marble (1.3.3); even less is said
about the church to the Virgin at Pege, since it is difficult to do it justice or
form a mental impression (1.3.7). The adjacent churches of Saints Peter and
Paul and Saints Sergius and Bacchus attract attention for their combination of
different designs, but Procopius focuses on their linking narthex and shared
outer court (1.4.4–8). Holy Apostles, the second most important shrine in the
capital, is presented, at greater length, as cruciform in layout with the sanctu-
ary located at the central crossing under a dome supported on four arches,
while other domes covered the arms of the cross (1.4.11–16). Apart from these
churches, the equestrian statue of Justinian receives close attention (1.2.1–12),
the only non-religious construction in the first half of the book, where it owes
its deliberate placement to the statement it makes about Justinian’s responsi-
bility for Hagia Sophia (1.1.78).24 In the latter half of the book, where Procopius’
descriptive powers are mainly devoted to Constantinople’s maritime beauties,
the columns of the Senate (1.10.6–9), the Chalce mosaic (1.10.11–20) and the
Imperial Portico under which Justinian created the Basilica Cistern (1.11.11–14)
are described in some detail.25
In Book 2 the account of Dara contains various specific descriptions: the
arcaded second level for the curtain wall (2.1.14–17), external strengthening
work for some main towers (2.1.18–20), the pit that managed the river outflow
(2.2.11, 18) and the upstream dam (2.3.16–21). The defences of Constantina
are described at some length, with information on the types of stone used
as well as Justinian’s improvements to towers (2.5.3–9). At Edessa Procopius
23 He also provides dimensions for the granary on Tenedos (5.1.14).

24 Whitby, “Pride and Prejudice in Procopius”, pp. 65–6.
25 Elsner, “The rhetoric of buildings”, pp. 41–2 observes that Procopius thus manages to
demonstrate in Book 1 that he can compose different sorts of ekphrasis, of a building, an
equestrian statue and a picture.
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knows about the course of the river Sirtus and how Justinian protected the city
against its devastating floods (2.7.2–10). At Zenobia Procopius can describe
the devices used to strengthen the walls against bombardment from superior
positions, the reinforcement of the foundations of the river wall, as well as
other improvements (2.8.12–24). Finally, at Antioch he reports how Justinian
realigned the river Orontes, adjusted defences on Orocassias to take account
of the dangerous rock that had facilitated the Persian capture in 540, and pro-
tected the city from flooding by the Onopnictes torrent (2.105–18).
Technical language is, unsurprisingly, deployed in these more extended
descriptions, but rarely elsewhere. For Hagia Sophia Procopius grappled with
the details of different circular shapes, piers and pendentives, bonding materi-
als and colonnaded galleries (1.1.32–3, 35–46, 53, 58). Some of the same spatial
vocabulary is applied to Holy Apostles (1.4.12–16). At Dara specific terms are
used about the water supply, and especially for the upstream dam (2.2.18; 3.16–
21). In Book 4 Procopius does explain the ‘single tower’, monopyrgion (4.5.4),
but is as interested in the meaning of the Latin words prima, secunda, ripa and
pontem (4.1.19, 30; 5.11; 6.16), just as in Book 6 it is the etymology of Syrtes that
attracts his attention (6.3.5). Digressions demonstrated Procopius’ erudition,
and architectural terms were perhaps intended to serve the same purpose. It
is difficult to agree that Procopius is someone who uses language precisely:26
words such as polis, polichnion, ochyroma, phrourion are used without obvious
distinction for cities, towns, forts and castles.
The distribution of the more detailed accounts might suggest that Procopius
described most fully constructions of which he had personal experience.27
This is obviously true for buildings in and around Constantinople, which were
easily accessible to both writer and audience, where he used an appreciation
of colour and the impact of light to engage the audience. With regard to the
east, Procopius had spent time at Dara,28 and would inevitably have passed
through Constantina (Viransehir) and Edessa (Urfa); Antioch (Antakya), the
administrative capital of the East, Martyropolis (Silvan), site of one of the
dukes of Armenia, and Zenobia on the Euphrates were probably visited by
Belisarius, with Procopius in attendance.29 Procopius might well have travelled
26 As Roques, “Les Constructions de Justinien”, p. 33 n.6.

27 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, p. 94.
28 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century p. 181 n. 83 suggests that Procopius described
Dara at second hand since he had not visited the city since 530; some improvements to
the walls were, however, probably underway by 530 and Procopius may well have returned
in the early 540s.
29 By contrast Rhabdios (2.4.1–13), an inaccessible fortress unlikely to have been visited by
Procopius, is decorated with an interesting if implausible story.
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146 Whitby
to Jerusalem, perhaps from his native Caesarea, and so seen the Nea Church.
In Asia Minor the roads and bridges described by Procopius would probably
have been traversed by him on the land journey between the capital and the
eastern frontier: he was one of the travellers who took their lives in their hands
as they crossed the Sangarius or Sarus. The one structure in the Balkans to be
treated in detail, the works at the Gallipoli peninsula, would have been passed
by Procopius on various occasions when sailing to or from the west. In con-
trast, in a short passage on Carthage, a site he knew well, Procopius noted 7
or 8 distinct building projects with specific names and locations, but does not
describe any at length (6.5.8–11).30 With the exception of Constantinople, such
visits will have been made a decade or more before Procopius embarked on
the panegyric, long before the idea of such a composition would have been
in his mind, so that his memories of particular constructions are unlikely to
have been exact. As a result, much of his specific information must have been
derived from official sources, the lists that provincial governors would have
submitted when requesting additional resources.31
The different books have, to an extent, different characters or themes. Book 1
is the most celebratory and evocative, as is appropriate for buildings familiar to
the audience. In Book 2 attention is focused on select cities, with descriptions
of fortifications and flood-controls; there are few digressions, with the fanciful
story about Rhabdios being a notable exception. In Book 3 history and geogra-
phy predominate; of Armenia, the Tzani, Lazica and the Black Sea, while there
are also references to Anastasius, whose work Justinian completed at Melitene
and improved at Theodosiopolis (3.4.15–20; 5.1–12). In Book 4 Procopius
repeatedly insists that Justinian delivered security from the constant threat of
invasion across the Danube, with the founding or re-founding of cities being a
subsidiary theme. Travel is a recurrent feature of Book 5, or at least of the first
five chapters on Asia Minor, after which the religious divisions and topography
of the Holy Land and Sinai predominate. Finally, in Book 6 there is consid-
erable space devoted to geography, ethnography and conversion; restoration
after years of Vandal neglect is one main theme, with Justinian’s revitalization
of cities contrasted with the Vandals, who undermined their sustainability, and
tribesmen, who threaten their security.
The Buildings has enjoyed a varied reception. As a literary work it has
recently come to be seen as something of a tour de force, an innovative work
that bridges and combines genres while displaying a variety of descriptive

31 Justinian, Nov. 26, pr.4; Whitby, The Emperor Maurice and his Historian, pp. 73–5.
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talents, perhaps even Procopius’ most ambitious work.32 With regard to its
information, at the positive end of the spectrum it has been categorized as “a
full and remarkably accurate account of Justinian’s building programme”.33 At
the other, it is said to have “frequently been found to be exaggerated, mislead-
ing and sometimes contradictory”, an object of suspicion “only to be used with
the utmost caution”.34 Inevitably the appropriate approach lies somewhere
between these extremes, though far removed from any notion of an ancient
Baedeker or Pevsner handbook; there are some omissions,35 but above all
constant attention to its literary character as a panegyric is essential.36 It is
understandable that archaeologists, confronted by undated and indeed undat-
able remains and hoping to find pointers in the text, have been frustrated by
Procopius’ imprecision, but it has to be recognized that for the overwhelm-
ing majority of places mentioned in the work Procopius chose not to record
exactly what Justinian did. There is, therefore, simply no point in dissecting
his information with the intention of concluding that Procopius has invented
interventions by Justinian.37
Investigation of the relatively short and simple account of what Justinian
did at Martyropolis exemplifies the problems in using the text.38 First, Malalas
provides independent corroboration that in 527 Justinian intervened at the site
to restore the walls and collapsed porticoes (18.5); this was probably to allow the
city to serve as a safe base for one of the newly-empowered Dukes of Armenia
(Buildings 3.1.28–9). According to Procopius, the old wall was only 4 feet thick
and 20 high, so that Justinian supposedly constructed a second wall, also 4 feet
thick, set 4 feet outside the first one; the intervening space was filled with rub-
ble and mortar, to create a structure 12-feet thick upon which an elevation of
roughly the same height and thickness was placed (3.2.11–13). The defences of
Martyropolis survive reasonably well, the main circuit and outer wall being in
good condition on the south and east sides, though incorporation into modern
32 Elsner, “The rhetoric of buildings”, p. 50; Turquois, Envisioning Byzantium.

33 Evans, Procopius, p. 77.
34 Croke/Crow, “Procopius and Dara”, p. 159.
35 Whitby, “Justinian’s Bridge”, pp. 145 n. 83 for works at Constantinople and Alexandria
recorded by Malalas 18.12, 17, 33; Roques, “Les Constructions de Justinien”, p. 39 for Byllis in
Epirus; Feissel, “Les Édifices de Justinien” for a register of Justinianic buildings for which
there is epigraphic evidence, with about half of the 50 works not appearing in Buildings.
36 The need to retain focus on the work’s literary credentials has been repeatedly, and rightly,
underlined by Cameron, e.g. Cameron, “Byzantine Africa”, pp. 32–5.
37 Thus, there is little merit in the approach of Croke/Crow, “Procopius and Dara”, since their
detailed critique ignores the impact of Procopius’ panegyrical purpose.
38 See Whitby, “Procopius’ Description of Martyropolis”.
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148 Whitby
buildings can obscure the work.39 The main wall is about five metres thick, i.e.
16 feet, so more substantial than Procopius records, and at least 10 metres high,
so at least as high as he states. The upper level had a brick-vaulted gallery below
the wall walk, similar to arrangements at Dara and Resafa.40 A proteichisma
no more than 2 metres high is located about 14 metres outside the main wall.
Procopius’ statement that the old wall was left in place but strengthened is cor-
rect in principle,41 but incorrect in detail. The first wall was in fact a standard
late-Roman brick-banded structure, about 2.2 metres (7 feet) thick. As part of
the rebuilding this was provided on both inner and outer sides with a facing
of regular ashlar blocks about 0.3 metre thick; on the interior side the ashlars
are close to the brick-banded core, about 0.3 metres distant, but on the outer
about 2.1 metres, with the intervening gaps filled with mortared rubble; the
original height of the new ‘Justinianic’ wall is unknown.42
This comparison shows that Procopius has correctly recorded a strengthen-
ing of the wall, but that, in spite of his details, the precision is spurious. It can
be speculated that he is unlikely to have seen the defences of Martyropolis
before they were improved in 527; indeed, a visit to the city, though plausible,
cannot be proven, so Procopius was relaying information at second or third
hand. There is also no physical evidence to confirm that Justinian was respon-
sible for these improvements; this is not surprising, given the tendency for
inscriptions in eastern Turkey to be damaged or destroyed,43 but for this we
depend on Malalas, coupled with the fact that the city could survive a deter-
mined attack by the Persians in 531.44
Antioch offers a similar case where physical remains offer general corrob-
oration for action but demonstrate error on detail. After the comprehensive
39 At least into the early 1980s, see Whitby, “Procopius’ Description of Martyropolis”; Gabriel,
Voyages archéologiques, p. 210 referred to considerable destruction, but this could only
apply to the north side, of which much disappeared in the first part of the twentieth
century.
40 Gabriel, Voyages archéologiques, pp. 217–18.
41 At least at one point where it can be checked.
42 Whitby, “Procopius’ Description of Martyropolis”, p. 180. The description of Martyropolis
is discussed by F. Montinaro, “Power, Taste and the Outsider” pp. 200–1: the short recen-
sion of Buildings may be less inaccurate than the longer one at this point, but that is only
because it omits the details on which the longer version is in error: both versions ignore
the fact that Justinian added a new internal face as well as expanded the wall externally,
so the short recension is inaccurate on its sole point of detail.
43 As certainly happened at Martyropolis to the substantial inscription at the north gate that
probably attested Khosrow II’s return of the city to the Romans in 591: see Mango, “Deux
études sur Byzance et la Perse sassanide”.
44 Ps.-Zachariah 9.6; Malalas 469.19–470.18; for the distortions in Procopius’ narrative in
Wars, see Whitby, “Procopius’ Description of Martyropolis”, p. 181.
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destruction of the city in 540, major reconstruction required imperial support,

probably along the lines described by Procopius (2.10.19–23); aspects of the
defences also needed attention, in particular the dangerous rock that had facil-
itated the Persian capture (2.10.9–14; Wars 2.8.8–15), though it is possible that
the river had already been realigned after the earthquake in 528.45 None of this
activity can be supported by physical evidence, though the fact that Antioch
remained a flourishing city into the seventh century, even if diminished from
its size of the previous century, confirms that there was substantial rebuilding.
The only structure where remains can be examined in conjunction with
Procopius’ description is the flood control on the Onopnictes. According to
Procopius, Justinian constructed a wall fitted with sluices across the ravine
through which the torrent flowed, so that its force was reduced when it sub-
sequently reached the circuit wall. The surviving water gate in the main wall,
known as the ‘Iron Gate’, is a complicated structure that reveals several phases
of redevelopment. Any intervention by Justinian almost certainly occurred
here rather than upstream, where there is no evidence for an external dam or
wall. The upper part of the Iron Gate is a substantial ashlar construction; there
is no dating evidence, but the work is comparable to construction at Dara
and Martyropolis. If this ashlar work is Justinianic, then Procopius correctly
reported a substantial intervention to control flood water, one that involved
filling in the narrow sluices in the lower wall that would easily have become
blocked and replacing them with two large sluices. On the other hand, he
assumed, perhaps on the basis of Justinian’s flood-control measures at Dara
and Edessa, that the new work was situated beyond the main curtain wall
rather than placed on top of it. Although Procopius will have passed through
Antioch on several occasions, he may never have followed the path up the
ravine to the remote Iron Gate, and so was relying on a report of the activity.
A highly critical study of Procopius’ account of Dara concluded that “his
statements are either literally false or else at least to be treated with reserva-
tion”; more detailed investigation revealed that allegations of falsehood are
exaggerated, though, as the instances of Martyropolis and Antioch demon-
strate, there are likely to be inaccuracies as well as distortions.46 Thus in line
with Procopius’ account, an early photograph reveals that Dara’s wall had an
arcaded upper level, some towers were probably strengthened with external
cladding, and a curved dam was built upstream, though the figure of 40 feet
outside the proteichisma for this dam is incorrect and the assertions about the
45 Whitby, “Procopius and Antioch”, pp. 540–2.

46 Croke/Crow, “Procopius and Dara”, quotation from p. 156; Whitby, “Procopius’ Description
of Dara”.
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150 Whitby
consequent security of the city’s water supply overstated.47 What there is no

evidence for is the person responsible for these works or their date. In some
cases inferences can be made, but even in the rare case of the extant inscrip-
tions at Chalcis, which attest to the reconstruction of the whole west wall from
the foundations through the pious munificence of Justinian, there is not com-
plete confirmation for Procopius’ information.48
Buildings is not a work that can offer much specific help to the histo-
rian of art or architecture or the archaeologist, but this was never its inten-
tion. Building works provide a springboard for a eulogy of Justinian, and to
be effective this required the diversity offered by geographical descriptions,
miraculous interventions or bizarre occurrences as well as the frequent asser-
tions about the extent and impact of Justinian’s activities, especially in con-
trast to preceding neglect. Repetition of similar material was to be avoided,
while precise information and technical details are rarely included and may
not be accurate. What counted was the impression, of spectacular but tran-
quil beauty in Constantinople, of robust security around the frontiers, of safer
travel internally, of Christian advance throughout. Under Justinian the Roman
world is in good hands, since the pious emperor is concerned for the safety,
welfare and religious health of his subjects, he is generous to the unfortunate
and energetic in tackling all challenges, and he has God as a dependable col-
laborator who is certain to supply support whenever needed. This key mes-
sage of Justinian’s reign is encapsulated in the opening conjunction of Hagia
Sophia and the imperial equestrian statue that attests his responsibility for the
church (1.1.78).49
Appendix
Theophanes’ evidence for the date of the Sangarius bridge, and hence for
Procopius Buildings, has been described as a “slender reed”.50 The basis for
this accusation is far from robust. The generalization that Theophanes does
not respect the chronological presentation in his sources does not apply to
the material he derived from Malalas for the latter part of Justinian’s reign.51
47 Whitby, “Procopius’ Description of Dara”, pp. 755–7, 759–60, 768.

48 Inscriptions Grecques et Latines de la Syrie ii.348–9; Whitby, “Notes on some Justinianic
Constructions”, pp. 94–5.
49 Whitby, “Pride and Prejudice in Procopius”, p. 64.
50 Greatrex, “The date of Procopius’ Buildings”, p. 15.
51 Whitby, “Justinian’s Bridge”, pp. 136–40; Mango/Scott, The Chronicle of Theophanes
Confessor, p. xcii refer to ‘minor chronological changes, which are explicable on other
grounds’.
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Although it is asserted that there are “cases of inaccurate chronology in this

section”, the accusation is unfounded since Theophanes’ date of 560/61 for
plague in Antioch is not contradicted by Agathias’ information on plague at
Constantinople in 558 (5.3.1) nor by Evagrius’ linkage of indiction cycles and
recurrences of plague (4.29).52 The attack on the hypothesis of Malalas as
source is equally insecure.53 This depends on comparison between Cedrenus
and Theophanes, which may demonstrate that the Constantinopolitan chron-
icle that extended Malalas beyond 565 continued to use similar stylistic fea-
tures to those evident in the last years of Malalas,54 particularly when noting
current events. The “began to build” formula was used by Malalas once near
the start of Justinian’s reign (18.17; followed by Theophanes 176.24–6), when
the chronicle was probably being composed on a year-by-year basis; this was
probably also the case for the author composing the entries during Justinian’s
last years. Finally, but of lesser significance if the connection of the Sangarius’
entry with Malalas is upheld, the assertion that some of the post-Justinianic
building notices in Theophanes and Cedrenus are misplaced is also less than
certain: considerable confusion surrounds the different palaces associated
with Empress Sophia, and they probably experienced a number of reconstruc-
tions in these years. The reference to the subjugation of the Sangarius in Paul
the Silentiary’s Ekphrasis (928–33) suggests that the bridge had recently been
completed when the poem was recited in December 562; a construction period
of up to three years does not seem unreasonable.
52 Greatrex, “The date of Procopius’ Buildings”, p. 16 n.7. In previous discussion he cites only
the plague: see Greatrex, “Procopius and Agathias”, p. 129 n.13, an assertion based on a
misrepresentation by Conrad, “The Plague in Bilad al-Sham”, pp. 147–8. In the late 550s
Evagrius would have been at Constantinople for his legal studies, and he does not claim
to be describing a plague at Antioch; also 557/8 was the seventh indiction, not the second.
53 Greatrex, “The date of Procopius’ Buildings”, pp. 17–20.
54 On this chronicle, see Whitby, “Theophanes’ Chronicle Source”.
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part 3
Procopius as a Historian
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Historiography in Late Antiquity before Procopius
Bruno Bleckmann
Like other aspects of ancient civilization, Graeco-Roman historiography also

offers an instance of a cultural practice continuously pursued in a highly dif-
ferentiated manner for a millennium. True, in older scholarship the final cen-
turies of ancient historiography have been regarded, with strikingly similar
judgments, as a mere soullessly continued routine or the dead shell of a genre
that had long since passed its prime.1 Yet it is precisely the period from the third
to the seventh centuries that can also be understood quite differently in terms
of the development of new genres, but also in terms of quantitative production.
In this epoch, the reaction to the new constellations and historical problems
of unsettled and changing circumstances was extremely creative through the
further development and new creation of literary forms of representation. And
where historiography followed the patterns prescribed by centuries of tradi-
tion and the constantly reread classics Herodotus and Thucydides, in some
cases this did indeed obstruct a spontaneous view of the problems of one’s
own time, for example in the adequate perception of the external barbarian
world.2 But this is offset by positive effects: the fact that we are able to form
a good and nuanced picture of late antiquity has a lot to do with the fact that
authors were active as witnesses for this epoch whose artistic and analytical
view and means of expression were trained by patterns of tradition.
In the history of ancient literature and especially of ancient historiography,
the last phase of ancient historiography has long been addressed only mar-
ginally, in accordance with general notions of decline. Histories of Greek and
Roman literature usually present this epoch in a brief and concluding manner,
in a kind of appendix in which names from Cassius Dio to Zosimos are listed
cursorily.3 In the companion dedicated to Greek and Roman historiography by
J. Marincola, individual aspects of Ammianus Marcellinus are discussed, but
otherwise the late historiography is presented in a single chapter merely as a
1 See e.g. Jacoby, “Über die Entwicklung der griechischen Historiographie,” 46; Schwartz, “Über
das Verhältnis der Hellenen zur Geschichte,” 65
2 Goths are understood as Scythians in a Herodotean manner. On the imitatio of Thucydides,
who was read up to the Byzantine period, see now Meister, Thukydides als Vorbild der
Historiker. Less demonstrable is the influence of Polybios, which nevertheless prompted
Zosimos to stylise himself as his antipode, see Paschoud, “Influences et échos.”
3 See Lesky, Geschichte der Griechischen Literatur, 901–908, whose overview concludes just
before Procopius.

156 Bleckmann
conclusion and transition to the Middle Ages.4 The existing overviews of the
source situation in the early Middle Ages and in the Byzantine East are writ-
ten as opposites, according to the focus of interest. By their nature, they can-
not appreciate the connections of this historiography with the broad stream
of a centuries-long historiographical practice, but rather treat it as a prelude,
as testimony of an early period.5 Since the literary production of this period
has actually only recently been opened up through an abundance of transla-
tions and monographic treatments, it is not surprising that a detailed overall
account of late antique historiography, which understands it neither as a con-
clusion nor as an prehistory, but which places it in the more general context
of ancient historiography, is still awaited. However, overviews do now exist for
individual genres, such as the chronicle tradition, church history, fragmentary
Greek history of the 3rd and 4th centuries, Greek secular historiography of the
5th century, and Latin historiography, that contain essential elements for an
overall presentation of the genre.6 With the work of Rohrbacher or Marasco’s
companion, first drafts of comprehensive accounts of late antique historiogra-
phy have been presented.7
An overall account is difficult in any case, because it is not possible to gain a
completely clear picture of the productivity of late antique historiography. The
problems which already exist for other epochs of ancient historiography,8 are
present also and especially for the historiography of the 3rd to 6th centuries.
Complete works like those of Procopius represent a great exception in the his-
tory of ancient historiography. As a rule, only a few fragments or even only
the names of authors have survived from this field of literary activity. There
is always the risk of forgetting that what exists must be put in proportion to
what is presumed to no longer exist. Such a misapprehension of proportions
contributes to characterising Ammianus Marcellinus as an anomaly, namely as
a representative of a large form in contrast to the breviaries allegedly typical of
this period, even though there may have been other works of large-scale histori-
ography before Ammianus Marcellinus and this genre by no means ended with
4 Marincola, A companion to Greek and Roman Historiography, cf. Matthews, “The Emperor
and His Historians,” 301f.; Rohrbacher, “Ammianus’ Roman Digressions”; Croke, “Late Antique
Historiography.” The section in the companion with the only chapter by Croke is entitled
“Transition.”
5 Namely, as evidence of early Byzantine or early medieval history, see e.g. Treadgold, The Early
Byzantine Historians.
6 Burgess/Kulikowski, A Historical Introduction; Winkelmann, “Die Kirchengeschichtswerke”;
van Nuffelen, Un héritage de paix et de pitié; Janiszewki, The Missing Link; Blockley, Eunapius,
Olympiodorus (see Primary Sources, under Eunapius); Zecchini, Richerche di storiografia;
Dall’ Historia Augusta.
7 Rohrbacher, The Historians of Late Antiquity; Marasco, Greek and Roman Historiography.
8 Strasburger, “Umblick im Trümmerfeld.”
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Ammianus Marcellinus. For with Renatus Profuturus Frigeridus or Sulpicius

Alexander, Ammianus was succeeded by demonstrably large-scale historical
works. They are known only because Gregory of Tours happened to quote them
in more detail.9 Some passages in Sidonius Apollinaris suggest that Frigeridus
and Sulpicius Alexander were not isolated cases, but that there may have been
other accounts of contemporary history. In Ep. 4,22 Sidonius responds to the
request of one Leo, a courtier of Eurich, to compose a work of history (for the
greater glory of Eurich) and deems his correspondent more suitable to meet
this challenge because he is closer to the immediate information.10 Although
nothing is known about the realisation of the historiographical project, this
letter clearly shows that the writing of extensive works of contemporary his-
tory was still quite common. This is also confirmed by Sidonius’s comments on
his own education, in which the ability to write works of history is presented
as part of the instruction. Ep. 4,1 deals with the areas of aristocratic schooling,
in which historiography still figures.11
Something similar can perhaps be assumed for the supposedly special posi-
tion of the imperial biographies known as the “Historia Augusta,” partially
fictitious, they operate with more or less humorous ideas and often represent
the most important source of information for the history of the third century.
The Historia Augusta perhaps only appears as a particularly curious one-off
because analogous literary efforts have been lost. Any history of late antique
historiography must remain in the hypothetical, given the completely random
character of what has survived. This also applies to the overriding impres-
sion of completely divergent development in the East and the West already in
the third century. For Latin historiography, based on the limited remains it is
assumed that historiography practically disappeared in the time of the third-
century imperial crisis and only began again with the breviators of the mid-
fourth century, while greater continuity is assumed for Greek historiography.
But such a diagnosis is debatable. In the case of Herodian, for example, it is
reasonable to assume that the account of the reign of Maximinus Thrax and of
the civil war of 238 was partly assembled from the narratives of rich senatorial
sources that were Latin.12 The fragment of the Anonymus Valesianus, especially
its description of the war between Constantine and Licinius, may likewise
9 F. Paschoud, “Les descendants d’Ammien Marcellin,” 141–147; idem, “Notes sur les rela-
tions de trois historiens,” 313–316.
10 Sid. Apoll., Ep. 4,22,3.
11 Sid. Apoll., Ep. 4,1,2. On this, see Styka, “Römische Schule.”
12 See Zimmermann, Kaiser und Ereignis, pp. 252–284. Herodian’s value as a source for the
campaign of Maximinus Thrax must now be assessed more highly due to the discovery of
the battlefield of Kalefeld.
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158 Bleckmann
have come from an originally more detailed Latin source from ca. 330.13 And
Petros Patrikios’s account of the peace of 298 (Petr. Patr. fr. 13 and 14) is, via
intermediate sources, ultimately based on a piece of tetrarchic historiography,
which must have existed in any case.
It is certain, in any case, that Latin and Greek historiography were closely
intertwined and influenced each other, especially since Latin literature had a
stronger presence in the Greek East since the founding of Constantinople with
its imperial bureaucracy. Moreover, a history of late antique historiography
must take into account – to a greater extent than for the preceding eras – the
relationship between Latin-Greek high literature and historiographical litera-
ture in other languages. In some cases, it is merely a matter of translations from
Greek. In some cases we only possess a translation of the (lost) Greek origi-
nal. This is the case, for example, with the ecclesiastical history of Zachariah
Rhetor, which is best known for its embedding in the Syriac history of
Pseudo-Zachariah.14 In other cases, such as the chronicle of Joshua the Stylite,
which reports in astonishing historiographical quality on the war-related suf-
ferings of the city of Edessa, such Greek models cannot be assumed.15 More dif-
ficult is the case of the ecclesiastical history of Barḥadbshabba, which at least
in parts reflects texts by Greek authors – such as Theodoros of Mopsuhestias’s
historical-biographical remarks on Eunomios.16
The problem of the relationship of Syriac, Arabic, Coptic, Georgian, or
Armenian testimonies with the original Greek historiography leads to the ques-
tion of whether, in writing a history of historiography, one wishes to integrate
historians who have been lost, but made accessible through source criticism,
into one’s picture. Virtually no late antique historian worked without a written
model. In some cases, when authors reporting in parallel agree word-for-word,
the lost source can be reconstructed relatively securely. The most famous case
is probably the imperial history reconstructed in the 1880s by the St Petersburg
librarian Alexander Enmann, which can be deduced from agreements between
the summaries of Eutropius, Aurelius Victor, and the chronicle of Jerome.17 Its
existence is widely accepted, albeit not by all scholars. However, it seems more
difficult in the case of the anonymous Homoean church history, which can
13 Origo Constantini, ed. König.

14 Pseudo-Zachariah, Chronicle, trans. Greatrex et al.
15 Brock, “Syriac historical writing”; Luther, Die syrische Chronik.
16 On this, see Vaggione, “Some Neglected Fragments,” 408–411. A general overview of Syriac
historiography is offered by Debié, L’écriture de l’histoire en Syriaque.
17 Enmann, “Eine verlorene Geschichte”; Helm, “Hieronymus und Eutrop”; Burgess,
“Jerome and the Kaisergeschichte”; Bleckmann, “Überlegungen zur Enmannschen
Kaisergeschichte.”
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be reconstructed from matching fragments, in particular from the chronicler

Theophanes and the Chronicon Paschale, and which may even have been used
by Ammianus Marcellinus.18 While some take this anonymous church history,
written at the end of the fourth century, as a fixed point of reference, others
consider the anonymous Homoean to be a modern construct and find other
explanations for the undeniable correspondences between later testimonies.
Another case is offered by the chronicle-like notices found in the
church historian Socrates, whose text is in places identical to that of the
Consularia Constantinopolitana. Some scholars attribute these to a sin-
gle Constantinopolitan city chronicle, while others assume a plurality of
sources.19 A sketch of the history of historiography can only attempt to avoid
either extreme in this question of taking into account reconstructible histo-
rians here. Taking reconstructions into account carries the risk of operating
with unproven premises, while not taking into account historians who can be
reconstructed with some degree of certainty ultimately again encourages the
erroneous perspective of distorting the proportions between what is extant
and what is lost, above all of attributing a higher originality to the surviving
authors, who correspond only to the last stage of a continuous development
of tradition, than is historically justified (just as the Livius’s achievement can
only be measured by taking into account what has already been accomplished
by Polybios and the younger annalists).
A clear demarcation of late antique historiography from the preceding
epochs of antique historiography is by its very nature not possible. It acquires
its distinctive character above all through the religious-political upheav-
als associated with Constantine. From Constantine onwards, ideology and
religious convictions led to the formation of distinct groups in the Roman
Empire that saw historiography as an instrument to argue their own point
of view. Notwithstanding a few precursors in the Greek historiography of the
fourth century bc or in the late republic,20 this ideological function of histo-
riography is undoubtedly new. In the late fourth century, a decidedly pagan
historiography – arguing against the victory of Christianity – developed to
which, for example, Olympiodoros can be assigned, as well as Eunapios. For
the Christian side, as far as the state of the tradition is concerned, the pecu-
liarity of this historiography is evident to a much greater extent, from church
18 Brennecke, Studien zur Geschichte der Homöer; Brennecke, “Christliche Quellen.”

19 Geppert, Die Quellen des Kirchenhistorikers. Against the communis opinio Van Nuffelen,
“Socrate et les chroniques.”
20 This refers to varieties of criticism of Athenian democracy in the historical works of the
fourth century, as well as the optimate or popular character of historical works of the late
annalistic period.
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160 Bleckmann
historiography to works that while focusing more on secular history are at the
same time linked to ecclesiastical judgements and interpretations, such as the
chronicle of Prosper Tiro or Orosius’s history. The intra-Christian conflicts then
lead to the confessional controversies within the church also shaping and con-
touring tendencies. The instrumentalisation of historiography in the service of
a tendency that boils down to the fact – and this can be identified as the basic
theme of our epoch – that, more clearly than in the preceding epochs, the
course of history appears as a result of guidance by divine power, which favours
or punishes the Roman state according to the interpretive position, and that
the idea of “providentialism” encompasses not only Christian but also pagan
historiography.21 However, the extent to which the coherence of interpreta-
tion claimed for one or another late antique historian is always present varies
from case to case. Sometimes it is more the result of modern explanations than
really verifiable in every detail. In addition to the ideological aspect, in any
case, for historiographical works in this epoch of historiography, more or less
rudimentary “scholarly” elements also remain in the Thucydidean-Polybian
tradition, which are just as effective as a literary ambition that pursues the art
of representation for its own sake.
After these preliminary remarks, a quick tour through late antique histori-
ography can only serve the purpose of giving a basic impression of the richness
and diversity of this genre. This tour should begin with the imperial crisis of
the third century.
This crisis was more a crisis of the emperorship as an institution. It did not
lead to a cultural decline, and therefore represents a watershed for the political
framework of the empire rather than for the evolution of historiography.
For the eastern half of the empire, it has always been clear from the numer-
ous surviving reports about lost historians of this era that one can even speak
of a certain flourishing of historiographical activities for this period. It was
precisely the constant succession of civil wars, barbarian invasions, and wars
against the Persians that posed challenges that required description and
interpretation and which, in the awareness of being a contemporary of great
movements, almost had to inspire imitation of Thucydides. The connection
between crisis-ridden events and historiographical/Thucydidean response is
particularly clear in the case of the Athenian Dexippos. His significance can
be seen not only in the multitude of quotations and pseudo-quotations in the
Historia Augusta, but also in the fact that Eunapios passed off his own work of
history as a continuation of this author’s chronicle, even though he ultimately
21 Paschoud, “Une réponse paienne au providentialisme chrétien.”
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clearly distances himself from it through his programmatical preface.22 In

addition to the chronicle and works that dealt with the distant past, Dexippos
wrote a history entitled Scythika, dealing with the history of the invasions of
peoples north of the Danube into south-eastern Europe, who were all con-
sidered “Scythians” without distinction – regardless of whether they were
east Germanic, Sarmatian, or Boranian. Since Dexippos, as the leader of an
Athenian self-defence detachment, either actively participated in the battles
against the Goths and Heruls who had reached as far as Athens,23 or at least
was closely acquainted with individuals such as Philostratus of Athens, who
headed these self-defence detachments, the conditions were in place to create
a vivid account of these dramatic processes, amidst the shock of contempo-
rary events. What the fragments preserved on a large scale through Byzantine
excerpts report in detail is admittedly often disappointing, and shows that
the example of time-honoured authors and the omnipresence of rhetorical
exercises prevented events being captured vividly here. This is especially true
of the speeches, in which the Juthungi, for example, speak in a Thucydidean
manner, and only a fraction of which contain historically relevant material.24
The military actions described by Dexippos often offer a highly schematised
picture oriented around the customary account of stratagems, which hardly
informs us about the real course of events. However, the new sections from
the Viennese Dexippos palimpsest have improved this unfavourable picture.25
While, on the one hand, we still find the usual stratagems and commander’s
speeches, on the other hand these pieces offer authentic information, for
example about the competition between the Gothic warrior groups of Kniva
and Ostrogotha or about the relationship between local self-defence militias
and the imperial level.
Dexippos was not unique in his manner of viewing contemporary history
through the lens of the classics. The surviving work of history by the contempo-
rary Eusebius, partly written in incorrect Ionian Greek, does not present a fun-
damentally different picture in its account of the siege of Tours by the Franks,
22 Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 100. Detailed commentary now by Mecella, Dexippo
di Atene.
23 Millar, “P. Herennius Dexippus”; Brandt “Dexipp und die Geschichtsschreibung”. Due
to the now necessary distinction between the boeotarch Dexippos, who was actively
involved in the defensive struggle, and the Athenian Dexippos, however, a new discussion
of the military role of the latter is necessary.
24 Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 100 F 6. For Eunapios’s comments on Dexippos, see
Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 100 F 1.
25 Grusková/Martin, “Ein neues Textstück”; iidem, “Zum Angriff der Goten”; iidem,
“Rückkehr zu den Thermopylen;” iidem; “Neugelesener Text.” See now also Mitthof/
Grusková/Martin, Empire in Crisis.
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162 Bleckmann
but instead attributes complicated precautions to the Germanic people to

defend themselves against burning arrows, which in reality they were not
in a position to undertake, if only because of the level of their technical
equipment.26 Despite these deficiencies, however, the same can be demon-
strated here as has already been emphasised for Dexippos, namely how much
valuable information about this turbulent and decisive epoch in the history of
the empire was nevertheless contained in this contemporary Greek historiog-
raphy. For example, the Athenian author Philostratos, writing at approximately
the same time as Dexippos, offered a detailed account of Shapur I’s invasion in
260, which, in its list of devastated cities in the Cilician-Syrian region, is quite
consistent with Shapur’s account of his deeds.27 Thanks to the author Asinius
Quadratus, who wrote somewhat before Dexippos, we have a contemporary
and probably coherent explanation of the name of the Alamanni,28 presum-
ably because he treated the recent present in particular detail within the con-
text of his summary on the occasion of the 1000th anniversary of Rome. If his
historical work stretched as far as 247 and ended with praise for Philip the
Arab – there are other possible reconstructions as well – Asinius would have
remained true to the mode of conceiving history that was typical of the time,
fixated on the reigning emperor. Intermediate forms between panegyric and
historiography were particularly popular in the third century. The fact that so
little of this imperial history has survived is due to the rapid and sometimes
brutal changes of government, in which the memory of emperors who had
just been removed was not maintained. Thus it remains entirely open what
the twenty-seven books that the younger Ephoros of Cyme devoted to the his-
tory of Gallienus29 actually offered. The character of the work of Onesimos,
a historian who may have written a history of Probus, is similarly unclear.30
In connection with Aurelian, the Historia Augusta mocks numerous accounts
26 Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 101. On Ionic Greek, see Goukowsky, “Un imitateur
tardif d’Hérodote.”
27 Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 99. On the correspondences of the list of place
names contained in Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 99, F 2 with the localities men-
tioned in Shapur’s account of his deeds, see Kettenhofen, Die römisch-persischen Kriege,
pp. 102–122. See now Kleine und fragmentarische Historiker der Spätantike A 3 fr. 1.
28 Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 98, F 21 = Agathias, Hist. 1,6. Cf. Kleine und fragmen-
tarische Historiker der Spätantike A 1 fr. 21.
29 Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 212 = Kleine und fragmentarische Historiker der
Spätantike A 4.
30 Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 216 = Kleine und fragmentarische Historiker der
Spätantike A 8.
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centred on the representation of imperial deeds and invents the names of

numerous authors to this end.31 One can only guess at the excess of these
ephemeral productions focused on the great deeds of individual emperors. It
remained part of the general tone of historiographical activity until the time of
Justinian. For the beginning of the fourth century, in some individual cases we
have more than just the author’s name, such as for the history of Praxagoras.32
Numerous lost historians, whose names are partially known, accompanied
the brief period of Julian’s reign.33 For the later periods, the names of authors
involved in producing historiography have almost completely disappeared;
all that is preserved are occasional reports of epic works with historical nar-
ratives closely associated with the production of contemporary panegyric, of
the type of Claudian’s poems, which should be placed alongside the Gainias
of Eusebius Scholastikos, which has been lost, but obviously forms the basis
of later historiographical reports.34 The Isaurika, the title of which may evoke
local history, also appears to be one such contemporary work focusing on the
exploits in the battle against the Isaurians, which can be classified between
panegyric and historiography.35
With the era of the Tetrarchy and the Constantinian period, the situation
stabilised and the conditions of historiographical production changed. Of
great importance was the emergence of large court centres outside Rome,
such as Trier, Sirmium, Serdica, Constantinople, and Antioch, which offered
new opportunities for development for literarily ambitious careerists from the
respective regions. The presence of an emperor ruling in Trier, for example,
led to graduates of Gallic schools of rhetoric being encouraged to intensify the
production of a panegyric that came very close to the actual historiography,
which very much concentrated on imperial biography. It can be assumed that
these rhetorically experienced provincial elites also tried their hand at the
genre of historiography. Some indication of this is provided by the lost work
of Eusebius of Nantes, who wrote a history which the Gallic rhetor Ausonius,
who advanced to the praetorian prefecture and consulship, later chose as the
source basis for a lost work dealing with the history of the usurpers from Decius
31 See Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 213–215.

32 Cf. Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 219 with Bleckmann, “Zwischen Panegyrik und
Geschichtsschreibung”; Krallis, “Greek Glory.”
33 Philagrios, Eutychianos, Seleukos, Oreibasios, Magnos of Karrhai, Kallistos, etc. Evidence
in Janiszewski, The Missing Link.
34 Sokrates, Ecclesiastical History 6,6,36.
35 On the Isaurika literature, see Meier, “Anastasios und die ‘Geschichte’.”
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164 Bleckmann
to Diocletianus.36 A first version of the so-called Enmann’s Kaisergeschichte

(History of the Emperors), which arranged the events of imperial history into a
series of schematic imperial biographies, thereby taking an interest not only in
the series of so-called Gallic emperors, but especially in Constantius Chlorus,
could likewise have emerged at a western imperial court, most likely in Trier, at
a time when the restoration of stable conditions invited a retrospective inter-
pretation of the entire imperial history, but especially of the imperial crisis.
The stabilisation of conditions in the early fourth century also explains the
emergence and preservation of the broad oeuvre of Eusebius, who was able
to work for decades with access to a good library in Palestinian Caesarea and
who, as bishop of Caesarea after Constantine’s triumph, found great suprare-
gional opportunities for activity. From his rich oeuvre, in which the narrowly
theological-philological works are also of the greatest interest for the history
of historiography and ancient textual scholarship, the Vita Constantini, the
Ecclesiastical History, and the Chronicle must be highlighted in particular as
far as this overview is concerned. It must be emphasised, however, that these
historical works are closely related to the apologetic and exegetical works and
that all the works are concerned with establishing the divine plan of salva-
tion and the pedagogical work of the Logos.37 With his work on the “Life of
Constantine,” written immediately after Constantine’s death, Eusebius belongs
to the representatives of the genre of depicting contemporary history just
described, in which panegyric and historiography coalesce and which flour-
ished especially under Constantine. Eusebius, however, modified and changed
the more or less official account of history available to him, as it was repeated
in a numerous panegyric works everywhere in Constantine’s time and espe-
cially on the occasion of the great jubilees, insofar as he does not lose sight
of his theological concern. He makes Constantine not only the image of the
divine Logos, but also, contrary to the facts, an ideal Christian emperor. The
Vita Constantini, however, remained an isolated blueprint that certainly did
not have the great ideological impact on the Byzantine world that was long
ascribed to it.38 Eusebius was much more influential with the great, repeatedly
36 Cf. the catalogue of Ausonius’s works by Giovanni Mansionario in the edition by Dräger,
p. 12 (no. 10): Item ad eundem de imperatoribus res novas molitis a decio usque ad diocletia-
num versu iambico trimetro iuxta libros eusebij nannetici ystorici. The History of Eusebius
of Nantes has been identified by Burgess, “Principes cum tyrannis,” with Enmann’s
Kaisergeschichte, while Sivan, “The Historian Eusebius” like other scholars, identifies it
with the Greek-language history of Eusebius (Fragmente der griechischen Historiker 101).
See Kleine und fragmentarische Historiker der Spätantike A 3, pp. 145–47.
37 Ulrich, “Eusebius als Kirchengeschichtsschreiber.”
38 On the work, cf. Eusebius, Vita Constantini, trans. Cameron/Hall; De Vita Constantini, ed.
and trans. Bleckmann/Schneider.
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expanded work that described the history of the church from Jesus (includ-
ing the prophecies and references in the Old Testament) to his own time, ulti-
mately as far as Constantine’s victory over Licinius in 324.39 This ecclesiastical
history is an amalgamation of chronistic notices, lists of successions, Christian
literary history and depictions of famous men, the catalogue-like account of
heretical teachings, the description of martyrdoms, and similar. Beyond the
presentation of a general context of salvation history and the basic theme of
the Church’s spreading across the globe, it basically does not contain an actual
core narrative thread, but often contains precious and authentic materials
inserted without editorial changes. Eusebius himself presents his work as a
pioneering achievement and an innovation: “I am the first to venture on such a
project and to set out on what is indeed a lonely and untrodden path.”40 Unlike
the Vita Constantini, he would find imitators and emulators on this path. This
is also true of another of Eusebius’s works, namely the world chronicle, which,
however, is no longer preserved in the original Greek, but can be reconstructed
through Jerome’s Latin translation, an Armenian version, and later adapta-
tions. It would be wrong to see in Eusebius the inventor of a specific form of
historical memory in the form of world chronicles, which were then dominant
especially in the Middle Ages. For the scholarly calculation of the successions
of rulers, synchronisms, etc., and the concomitant historical orientation has
always been important for Greek and Roman historical thought, and there was
an abundance of computistic works, of which only a few examples have sur-
vived in fragmentary form. The idea of combining the history of the people of
God with data from secular history and using this dating system in an apolo-
getic sense – namely for proof of antiquity – had also already been developed
in precursor works such as that of Hippolytos or Sextus Iulius Africanus.41
What was new in Eusebius’s chronicle was rather the encyclopaedic ambition,
which strove for completeness. Its systematic and complete approach and its
broad linking of Christian and secular content make it an epoch-making work.
In various adaptations and continuations, from the translation and continua-
tion by Jerome to the Alexandrian chroniclers Annianos and Panodoros and
the great double work by Georgios Synkellos and Theophanes (in the 8th cen-
tury), it deeply influenced early medieval historical thinking.42
While very little of the historiographical activity of the early fourth cen-
tury has survived, the last decades of the fourth and the first decades of the
39 On the Ecclesiastical History, Barnes, Constantine and Eusebius.

40 See Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, proem 3.
41 Roberto, Le Chronographiae di Sesto Giulio.
42 Mosshammer, The Chronicle of Eusebius.
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166 Bleckmann
fifth centuries represent a period in which a large number of extant histori-

cal works now give the impression of a great wealth of historical accounts.
What has survived from the end of the fourth century are first of all several
short Latin accounts of imperial history, so-called breviaries. Very influential
and much used here was above all the sober history of Eutropius, who pro-
duced an outline of Roman history at the court of Valens (364–378), employ-
ing Livius (via intermediate sources) for the history of the Republic, but then
resorting to Enmann’s Kaisergeschichte. His notices display a close linguistic
agreement with Jerome’s chronicle, who likewise largely used material from
the Kaisergeschichte verbatim when it came to expanding the translation of
Eusebius’s chronicle, taking material from Latin secular historical authors and
continuing the narrative of the chronicle into his own time. Like Eutropius,
who was magister memoriae and later even became praefectus praetorio and
consul, Rufius Festus also worked as an official at the imperial court of Valens
and likewise dedicated an informative summary to him, which due to current
events, however, concentrated on the history of the Roman eastern border,
but also used Enmann’s Kaisergeschichte for this purpose, as well as catalogues
of provinces.43
Although Eutropius’s expositions are not without literary ambition, since
their sobriety and succinctness betray a stylistic intention, given the didactic
introduction to the main features of Roman history they are nevertheless mov-
ing in the direction of a practical text that provided the necessary information
on Roman identity in the new centre of power, Constantinople. Orientation in
the present was also served by the mainly official notices (with state anniver-
saries, imperial elevations, but also brief information about catastrophes and
omens) made in Constantinople, which were appended to the respective entry
for the consuls dating the year, the consularia. Such consularia were appar-
ently produced not only in Constantinople, but also at other centres of power.
Since they were repeatedly expanded and continued into one’s own time, we
are dealing with a text to which no actual author can be assigned, but which
was passed on from generation to generation. In part, developments can be
traced here that will ultimately carry over into the Middle Ages. The preserved
chronicle notices of the Constantinopolitan city chronicle continued well into
the fifth century and still served as a basis for Marcellinus Comes. Much of the
exact data we possess for the history of the fourth and fifth centuries is owed
to this source.44
43 Festus, Breviarium, ed. Arnaud-Lindet.

44 Hydatius, Chronicle, ed. Burgess. Cf. Kleine und fragmentarische Historiker der Spätantike
G 1 (Consularia Constantinopolitana).
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Some notices that are closely related to those in the Consularia Constantino-
politana can already be found in Aurelius Victor, who compiled these notices
alongside other reports from lost sources.45 However, Aurelius Victor got the
bulk of his material from Enmann’s Kaisergeschichte, which he revised in a sty-
listically ambitious manner and added personal touches. He is thus the best
example of what was felt to be the noblest task of the historian, that is, not so
much the gathering of information as the stylistically ambitious reshaping of
this material, often taken from others and arranged in a hypomnema, in the
technique of paraphrase. In a style reminiscent of Tacitus, as concise as pos-
sible but at the same time formulated in an unusual way, he seeks an accent
of his own above all in moral commentary on the various emperors’ reigns.
In addition, part of his historiographical style is to summarise major devel-
opments and to offer overarching interpretations of historical periods. This is
especially true of the history of the period of the soldier-emperors, for which
Aurelius Victor makes pessimistic remarks about the importance of the mili-
tary or the agentes in rebus in the Roman state as well as about the increasing
political impotence of the Senate.46 His own career, however, was significantly
advanced immediately after the completion of this work of history around
the year 360 by his defection to the usurper Julian, who had occupied Illyri-
cum in a military action, because he became governor of Pannonia secunda
and from there ultimately made it to the city Roman prefecture. Aurelius Vic-
tor was, in turn, partly the model for the very intensively received so-called
Epitome de Caesaribus, which was long wrongly taken to be a work of Aure-
lius Victor. This source assigned its material to the biographies of individual
emperors according to the Suetonian scheme, but in doing so also utilised a
detailed non-biographical Latin source of senatorial provenance in addition to
Enmann’s Kaisergeschichte.47
Eutropius, Festus, and Aurelius Victor represent a type of historiographi-
cal activity that was relatively widespread in the fourth century on the part
of functionaries who, although apparently not particularly original in terms
of finding material, were able to develop a sufficiently elevated point of view
through their activity that they were in a position to gain a picture of the
Roman Empire as a whole. Such a perspective can probably also be attributed
to Nicomachus Flavianus, who was active in both the East and the West and
who, on account of his proximity to the imperial court, dedicated his “Annales”
to Theodosius at a point in time that is not entirely clear. In the case of the
45 Evidence in Bleckmann, “Überlegungen zur Enmannschen Kaisergeschichte,” pp. 22–24.

46 Aur. Vict. 39,44 and 37,5–7.
47 Schlumberger, Die Epitome de Caesaribus; Festy, Pseudo-Aurélius Victor.
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168 Bleckmann
author of the most important historical work of Latin late antiquity preserved
intact, namely Ammianus Marcellinus, whose surviving books 14–31 deal with
the period from Gallus Caesar to the death of Valens, i.e. 353–378,48 there is
a deviation from this pattern insofar as he was not active in the civil impe-
rial service but in the military, where he belonged to the protectores, i.e. the
corps of staff officers in the imperial headquarters. Despite his origins in a
Greek curial milieu, he received an education in Latin because his family had
members in the army and in the imperial service.49 As a staff officer (protec-
tor) he was able to get an idea of the Roman Empire in its entirety. In the com-
pany of the magister militum Ursicinus, Ammian became acquainted not only
with the situation on the Tigris border, but also with that in the far west of
the empire, as far as Cologne. Later he also participated in Julian’s campaign
and in this way even had his own view of the Sassanid Empire. After Julian’s
demise, Ammian withdrew from imperial service and lived, at least for a time,
in Rome, where there were further opportunities for contacts and informa-
tion and where he must have cultivated an elevated lifestyle devoted to leisure.
From an allusion to the battlefield of Ad Salices, it has been suggested that
he visited the scenes of the catastrophe of 376/378 in a Herodotean fashion
in his old age.50 Irrespective of whether this is the case, it can be seen that
thanks to the empire-wide perspective associated with his career he had very
special qualifications when it came to exploiting relevant and primary sources
of information. Nevertheless, he did not exploit this for his narrative in the
way one would expect from a modern historian. The parallel sources show that
literary models probably played a greater role and that even for contemporary
history the acquisition of primary information through autopsies, questioning
contemporary witnesses, and other such things was less pronounced than the
programmatic statement in 15,1,1 suggests.51 What was important to him in his
many years of literary activity, which then found expression in the publication
48 On his historical work, see Matthews, The Roman Empire of Ammianus, as well as the
commentary of the Dutch team of Ammian commentators, in which the volume on book
29 was most recently published: Den Boeft et al., Philological and Historical Commentary.
49 For the opposing positions on the question of whether Ammianus came from Antioch
or not, cf. Fornara, “Studies in Ammianus Marcellinus I”; Matthews, “The Origin of
Ammianus.”
50 On the battlefield of Ad Salices, see Amm. Marc. 31,7,16.
51 On this, cf. already fundamentally Klein, Studien, p. 40. On the correspondences between
Ammian and Zosimos for the account of Julian’s Persian war, see Paschoud’s introduction
to his edition of Zosimos, vol. 2, pp. xii–xix; xlix–lxiv. The additional correspondences
with the 18th speech of Libanios point to Oreibasios as a probable source. See also, for
the Valentinian dynasty, Bleckmann, “Vom Tsunami von 365.” On Ammian’s handling of
literary sources, see Kelly, Ammianus Marcellinus.
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and presentation of parts of his work only in the late 380s and early 390s was
above all assembling the disparate materials he had gathered into an effec-
tive and artful whole, resplendent with literary allusions and rhythmic clauses.
In this way, a magnificent painting of a sombre atmosphere with numer-
ous vivid individual scenes and labyrinthine digressions was created, which
decisively shapes our ideas of the historical reality of late antiquity through
its level of detail. What we owe to Ammian is not only an illustration of the
deeds of individual imperial characters exaggerated for moralizing effect and
court intrigues, but a series of spotlights that he casts on some areas of the
Roman Empire, whose history for the time before and after Ammian then dis-
appears into obscurity once more. Examples include Britain,52 Tripolitania,53
Mauritania,54 but also the conditions on the middle Danube. Even our picture
of the development of Rome in the fourth century is very much dependent
on the detailed account of the individual city prefectures that Ammian offers,
but also on his description of Constantius II’s visit to Rome and his two, albeit
heavily satirically exaggerated, excursions on Rome. The other, very numerous
digressions repeatedly offer material that would otherwise have been lost, for
example from the sphere of geographical literature. The extent to which his
historical work also served ideological tendencies in a manner typical of the
time is not easy to assess in view of his frequently broken and often deliber-
ately obscure statements. Accordingly, in the secondary literature, his assess-
ment varies from neutral, academically-minded and truth-seeking historian in
the best tradition of Herodotean historia to extremely tendentious and manip-
ulative opponent of Christianity.55 In any case, what is striking is the dominant
importance and the high quantitative share assigned to Julian’s short reign as
Caesar in Gaul and his even shorter reign as Augustus of the entire empire in
Ammian’s historical work. The idealising exaltation of this ultimately unsuc-
cessful emperor also stands out, even if the historian intersperses a few critical
remarks in the interest of supposed objectivity. By contrast, Ammian portrays
the other emperors in a particularly critical way in order to further emphasise
Julian as a luminous figure and, to a certain extent, represent psychologically
deformed varieties of the tyrant type. This endeavour contrasts in an idiosyn-
cratic way with the fact that Ammian also repeatedly used positively exagger-
ated contemporary panegyrical historical accounts or other official sources for
52 Amm. Marc. 27,8 and 28,3

53 Amm. Marc. 28, 6 with Demandt, “Die tripolitanischen Wirren.”
54 Amm. Marc. 29,5 with Matthews, “Mauretania in Ammianus and the Notitia.”
55 Cf. Barnes, Ammianus Marcellinus, versus Sabbah, La méthode d’Ammien Marcellin and
especially Matthews, The Roman Empire of Ammianus.
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170 Bleckmann
these emperors and cannot change the original tenor.56 This technique then
leads to the desired Tacitean ambiguity.
However, the ideological partisanship against Christian emperors is even
clearer in the second great work of contemporary history of the late fourth cen-
tury, namely the history of Eunapios of Sardeis, who, in contrast to the aforemen-
tioned authors, did not belong to the elite of functionaries active throughout the
empire, but to the milieu of pagan Greek intellectuals, of sophists, to whom he
also dedicated a philosophical-historical account.57 Devoted to the history of the
empire, his Histories appeared in two stages of editing, the more recent being a
new, apparently toned down edition, continued the chronicle of Dexippos and,
at least as far as the second edition was concerned, extended to the year 404 ad;
perhaps this later version was drafted from the perspective of the low point
in Roman history, the conquest of Rome by the barbarians in 410. In any case,
the surviving remains of the historical work clearly show that Eunapios under-
stood the history of his own time as the history of a grave moral crisis. External
political defeats and catastrophes appear as the result of the neglect of tradi-
tional cults by bad emperors like Constantine and Theodosius. The hero of the
stridently tendentious portrayal was Julian, whose own foreign policy failure
was obscured by placing the responsibility for the defeat in the Persian war on
his successor Jovian. However, whether the destruction and dissolution of the
Roman Empire, which would be described by Eunapios’s adaptor Zosimos, was
already a foregone conclusion for Eunapios is a matter of debate.
The pagan Olympiodorus then devoted a separate work of history to the
turbulent history of the early 5th century, especially the reign of Honorius
(395–423), beginning with the catastrophes of 407, especially the temporar-
ily highly successful usurpation of Constantinus iii, who removed the entire
West from the control of the Theodosian dynasty, and concluding with the
year 425, the conquest of the West by Theodosius ii and the installation of his
cousin Valentinian iii. Olympiodorus is less clear about his tendencies than
Eunapios. On the one hand, he belongs to the same pagan intellectual milieu as
Eunapios and pointedly emphasises the protection of the Roman state by the
old pantheon. On the other hand, he is a loyal courtier of Theodosius ii. Thus,
he only marginally addresses the ideological confrontations of late antiquity.
Rather, he is above all concerned with making clear to his eastern audience the
56 Thus, although Constantius ii is portrayed negatively, panegyric material is used for the
account of Constantius II’s Sarmatian wars, cf. Szidat, “Der Feldzug Constantius II.”;
Barceló, “Constantius II. und die Limiganten.”
57 Eunapios replace with: ed. and trans. Blockley, pp. 3–150; Paschoud, Eunape, Olympiodore,
Zosime. On Eunapios as a historian of philosophy, see Becker, Eunapios aus Sardes.
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greatness of the successes of Theodosius ii, who had seized the West from the
usurper John in 425 and restored the unity of the dynasty, through a precise
description of the state of affairs in the West.58 This account is thus of con-
siderable historiographical quality, even if Olympiodorus understood his work
merely as a kind of collection of material and preparatory work.
The explicit and regretful statements of pagan ideologues at the turn of
the 4th to the 5th century, such as Eunapios or Olympiodorus, are a clear sign
that Christianisation had acquired a more or less irreversible character and
had to be taken into account. Drastic changes accompanied the long reign of
Theodosius ii in particular, who, with the organisation of many councils, the
temporary influence of his pious sister Pulcheria, and the clearly accentuated
emphasis on his personal piety, can be understood as the prototype of a new
type of Christian emperorship. While the spheres of Roman statehood and
the Christian church remained separate even in this period, they overlapped
in ever greater areas. It is no coincidence that during this period church his-
tory itself adopted a profile which, through its ties to secular historical con-
tent and its connection to traditional historiographical forms of presentation,
approached traditional historiography. The great works of church history by
Philostorgios, Socrates, Sozomenos, and Theodoretos originate from the 30s
and 40s of the fifth century.59 The last three works have been preserved in
their entirety, that of Philostorgios at least in large parts. For the history of
Greek historiography, the preservation of such a large corpus of historians is
a windfall that promises rich insights. Although until recently these histori-
ans have remained largely unnoticed outside of research on church history,
through new editions, translations, commentaries, and monographs, the same
analytical work has begun here as can be observed similarly for Ammianus
Marcellinus or for Zosimos. All these historical works depict the period from
Constantine the Great to Theodosius himself, but with a special focus on the
dogmatic controversies of the 330s to the 370s, which dealt with the question
of the relationship between God the Father and God the Son and which, after
the temporary victory of the Homoean position under Constantius ii, finally
led to the triumph of the Homousian position regarded as “orthodoxy.” In par-
ticular, Constantius II’s religious policy and the complicated rivalries and con-
flicts in the imperial church are described in detail. Part of the explanation for
this lies in the fact that these events had already been treated in the completely
58 Cf. Matthews, “Olympiodorus”; Van Nuffelen, “Olympiodorus”; Stickler, “Das

Geschichtswerk des Olympiodor”.
59 Cf. Leppin, Von Constantin dem Großen zu Theodosius II.; Van Nuffelen, Un héritage de
paix.
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172 Bleckmann
lost ecclesiastical historiography of the late fourth century, as shown by the

only surviving church historian of this period, Rufinus, but also by the pecu-
liar work of history by Sulpicius Severus. (The latter, after long explanations
on Old Testament and Jewish history, gives a few chapters on the history of
the Arian controversy and Priscillianism.)60 It was also significant that one of
the most important protagonists of these disputes, the bishop of Alexandreia
Athanasios, himself described these struggles in a completely tendentious
manner in quasi-historical reports and, with this outstanding example of a
genre lying between pamphlet and historiography, which was then taken up
again and again in the following period, quite decisively influenced the histori-
cal perspective of a later generation. Furthermore, the new dogmatic contro-
versies initiated by the events surrounding the Council of Ephesus in 431 may
have prompted reflection on the past crisis and the recipes for overcoming it.
It is striking that in these church histories an image is conjured up in which
the internal church struggles of the fourth century are seen as concluded.
Philostorgios, who judges from the perspective of what was from the begin-
ning a minority and particularly radical position in the dogmatic controversy,
namely that of the Eunomians, regrets the victory of the Homousian tendency
and the failure of his own ecclesiastical movement. However, the fragmentary
state of his historical work does not allow us to decide whether the magnifi-
cent apocalyptic images he unfolds at the end of his historical work, in which
he foregrounds the catastrophic events of secular history up to 425, are to be
understood in the sense that he believed the end of time had come.61 Socrates
portrays the church history of the fourth century, probably not entirely untruth-
fully, as a tiring series of intra-church struggles and intrigues. More clearly than
Philostorgios, who with his numerous learned digressions follows models such
as Herodotus and shows off with his intricate wording, Socrates feels linked
to the legacy of Eusebius by deviating from classical norms by inserting unal-
tered documents into his text. With his emphasis on simplicity, he addresses
a simple, Christian-oriented audience. It is evident that he considers confes-
sional struggles to have reached an end and peace to have veen established,
while doing everything possible to present his own minority group, namely
60 On the Chronicon of Sulpicius Severus, see Weber, Die Chronik des Sulpicius Severus.
61 “Ed. Bidez”. Marasco, Filostorgio; Kleine und fragmentarische Historiker der Spätantike E
7. On the apocalyptically coloured passages, see Van Nuffelen, “Isolement et apocalypse”;
Kleine und fragmentarische Historiker der Spätantike E 7, pp. 98–100.
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the special church of the Novatians, as a functioning and accepted part of the
orthodox church.62
Almost strenuously optimistic is Sozomenos, who, without saying so, fash-
ioned a large part of his historical work as a paraphrase of Socrates’ work of
church history, but who generally describes more clearly than Socrates the
Christianisation of the Roman world as a Christian, victorious revolution
which then reached its climax with the most Christian emperor, Theodosius.
In his description of the internal affairs of the Constantinopolitan Church,
he presents a clear counterpoint to Socrates, especially with regards to his
assessment of the controversial figure of John Chrysostom, whose body was
translated to Constantinople in 438 after many disputes. In the ninth book,
Sozomenos concentrates almost entirely on the crisis-ridden events in the
West, which, with some variants following Olympiodorus, are recounted in
such detail because they are to be understood, in conformity with the current
interpretation of history at the court of Theodosius ii, as the prehistory of the
restoration of the unity of East and West, which was then (425) triumphantly
pursued by Theodosius ii.
This imperial optimism is not shared by the third surviving major work of
history, which continues the ecclesiastical history of Eusebius. Theodoretos,
as a representative of the Antiochene Christology of separation, was himself
among the protagonists in the combative discussions about the two natures
of Christ.63 For him, the purported victory of orthodoxy in the fourth century
did nothing to pacify the church. Church history for Theodoretos is nothing
other than the depiction of the never-ending struggle between good and evil.
Accordingly, his church history also represents a particularly striking example
of ideological partisanship, in that it is important to him, for example, to depict
the Antiochene church and its theology as the bulwark of Orthodoxy. The
rather pessimistic view of history can be explained by the fact that precisely at
the time of the conclusion of the Ecclesiastical History in 449, Alexandrian the-
ology triumphed against Antiochene theology with the so-called Robber Synod
of Ephesos. Theodoretos, however, preferred to end his work with the death of
the main representative of Antiochene theology, Theodoros of Mopsuhestia
in 428. Since Theodoretos’ work of church history dealt with roughly the same
period and contents as the ecclesiastical histories of Socrates and Sozomenos,
62 On the historical work of Socrates, cf. Urbainczyk, Socrates of Constantinople; Wallraff,

Der Kirchenhistoriker Sokrates; on Socrates and Sozomenos the lucid interpretation of Van
Nuffelen, Un heritage de paix et de pitié, passim.
63 On Theodoretos’ Ecclesiastical History, see the edition and translation by Parmentier
et al., vols 1 and 2.
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174 Bleckmann
it was readily included alongside them in a sixth-century compilation, which,

in its Latin adaptation by Cassiodorus as the Historia Tripartita, was to shape
the West’s conceptions of the early church for centuries. Because of its clear
tendency, the Theodoretos’ history stands at the transition to the sprawling
church-historical or at least historically argued writings inspired by the schism
following the Council of Chalcedon (451).
With a sketch of this literary production, we can move on to the last part of
this overview, the historical literature of the late 5th and early 6th centuries.64
In terms of importance and scope, the great work of church history by Zachariah
Rhetor, which can be reconstructed from the Syriac history of the pseudo-
Zachariah and quotations in the church historian Euagrios, stands out in the
church historical literature of this period. It described the events from the
Council of Chalcedon to the accession of Emperor Anastasius and offered an
authoritative account, which was then also used by ecclesiastical opponents, but
with its bias reversed.65 Mention must also be made of the church histories writ-
ten in the years after 500 by John Diakrinomenos, John of Aigai, and Basileios of
Cilicia on the Miaphysite side and Theodoros Lektor on the Chalcedonian side.
Parallel to the development of post-Chalcedonian ecclesiastical historiogra-
phy, Greek secular historiography remained productive in the late fifth century
until the beginning of the Justinianic period. One can get a relatively accu-
rate impression of this historiography through more extensive excerpts from
the Byzantine period, especially by Photios, and through the Constantinian
excerpts, at least for some parts, especially when they touch on the problems of
diplomatic history. Of the historical work of Priskos, which certainly also deals
with internal Roman aspects such as the clashes in Alexandria after the murder
of Proterius (457), what has survived are above all the great narratives about
the Hunnic threat of the 440s, including in particular a very detailed account
of a stay at the court of the Hunnic king Attila. A very detailed account of the
reign of Emperor Zeno was offered by the history of Malchos of Philadelphia,
which covered at least the years 473 to 480, illustrated each individual year
with an entire book, and apparently also covered the history of the West in
detail.66 Approximately the same period was described, with the opposite ten-
dency as far as the Isaurians were concerned, by the historian Kandidos.
The only completely preserved secular work of history of this period,
Zosimos’s “New History,” represents a special case in the writing of contemporary
64 For an overview, see especially Blaudeau, Alexandrie et Constantinople.

65 Rist, “Die sogenannte Kirchengeschichte.” On Pseudo-Zachariah’s history, which includes
excerpts from Zachariah, see Pseudo-Zachariah, Chronicle, trans. Greatrex et al.
66 Wiemer, “Kaiserkritik und Gotenbild;” idem, “Malchos von Philadelpheia.”
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history. It offered an outline of Roman imperial history, which became pro-

gressively more detailed as it approached its own time, but broke off imme-
diately before the account of the conquest of Rome (410). Zosimos, who took
a decidedly negative view of the history of the Christian emperors and prob-
ably for the most part only put the history of Eunapios into a readable and
simple Greek, shows that there was still an intellectually lively paganism in
Constantinople around 500. The assumption that he wanted to offer some-
thing like a counterpart to ecclesiastical historiography with his outline of
Christian emperorship is not convincing, since his work is ultimately restricted
entirely to an account of military and political history, after the models of clas-
sical historiography, which emphasises the contrast between Julian and the
other emperors of the fourth century in an even clearer way than Ammian.
The broadly oriented history of Eustathios of Epiphaneia was written around
the same time as Zosimos’s work, and set out the entire history of the world,
reaching up 502/503. Eustathios offered above all a compilation of older his-
torians, assembled into a chronistic framework in a similar way as was later
done by John of Antioch. Much like Eustathios, the surviving chronicle of John
Malalas also offers an outline of world history, into which, however, largely
Antiochene local historical material was incorporated, but in which obvious
inventions can also be found. The first edition of this work may have appeared
in 532, that is, before Procopius’s historical work.67 Like the Historia Augusta,
Malalas’s chronicle is a one of kind, that is difficult to classify in terms of the
history of the tradition without comparing it with other comparable works.
Thus, one must also be cautious with terms such as Volksbuch or “trivial litera-
ture” when assessing the conspicuous peculiarities. It is evident, however, that
the historical material in Malalas does not correspond to the rational, composi-
tional approach of the classical historiographical tradition. As such, this work of
history represents in every respect a clear counterpoint to Procopius’s work
of history, which remains within the traditions and also within the language
of classical historiography,68 without Malalas therefore being more “medi-
eval” than the historian to whom this companion is dedicated. Rather, the
coexistence of classical tradition and a literature more oriented towards cur-
rent linguistic developments remains characteristic for the entire Byzantine
Middle Ages.
67 Trans. Thurn et al., 24 f. See now the Tübingen Malalas commentary as well as the
Malalas-Studien (Malalas Studies) published within the framework of this undertaking,
esp. Meier et al. (eds), Weltchronik.
68 Trans. Thurn et al., 7.
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176 Bleckmann
The Latin historiography of the late fifth and early sixth centuries is much
more difficult to grasp. Even before the last Western Roman emperor was
forced to abdicate, the empire had disintegrated into several barbarian mili-
tary dominions, whose centres had only limited appeal for literary figures.
For the most part, the historical memory of this period has been recorded
above all in chronicles, from Prosper Tiro to Hydatius to the Chronicle of 452.69
That larger forms of senatorial historiography were still practised in Rome,
by now Ostrogothic, can be assumed from the mention of a historical work
by Memmius Symmachus, consul for 484. He authored a Roman history that
apparently consisted mainly of a compilation of older material and Greek
models.70 Symmachus’s engagement with the Roman past and his evocation of
ancient Roman greatness can be interpreted as a reaction to Ostrogothic rule in
Italy. However, besides this engagement with the glorious past, there must also
have been descriptions of contemporary historical realities, which were less
glamorous for Rome, as the second part of the so-called Anonymus Valesianus
proves.71 The author of this text, however, obviously already had great difficulty
in writing coherent prose and places anecdotal material – Emperor Zeno had
no kneecaps and could therefore run very fast! – and chronistic notices along-
side one another arbitrarily. By contrast, Cassiodorus’s history of the Goths,
which partly survives in summary in Jordanes’ Getica72 and in which a member
of the Roman aristocracy assisted the new rulers by constructing a dynastic
history, must have possessed great stylistic splendour. Conversely, in the differ-
ent case of Victor of Vita’s history of the Vandal persecution, a special form of
Christian historiography, the account of persecutions, was employed to draw a
critical tableau of the new rulers who deviated in their faith.73 Constantinople
retained a certain importance for the Latin language and Latin historiography
in the sixth century because of its judiciary and bureaucracy. The chronicle of
Marcellinus Comes was written there,74 for example, which approached large-
form historiography through its often detailed formulations.
69 Muhlberger, The Fifth-Century Chroniclers.

70 Ensslin, Des Symmachus Historia Romana.
71 Ed. and trans. König.
72 Cf. Jord. Get. 1–3. See Tönnies, Die Amalertradition in den Quellen.
73 Ed. Vössing. The work has gone beyond a mere collection of material and is to be under-
stood as a veritable historia. To what extent it is to be understood as a prehistory of a
“church history of the Vandal period” must remain open. Zecchini, Richerche di storiogra-
fia, 213–227 offers an overview of the production of literature related to historiography in
Africa up to Corippus. The world chronicle of Fulgentius of Ruspe should be mentioned
in particular.
74 Croke, The Chronicle of Marcellinus; Count Marcellinus and his Chronicle.
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An adequate description of the scope of late antique historiographical pro-

duction is not possible in view of the entirely lacunary state of our knowledge.
We are, however, a long way from decadence and decline. Of course, regional
differences and, from the fifth century onwards, divergent developments can
be noted. Historiographical activity in the Latin West was certainly much
richer than is often assumed, and Ammianus Marcellinus’s extensive historical
work was hardly a one-off, with the disposition to write larger works of history
persisted into the days of Sidonius Apollinaris and beyond. Nevertheless, the
takeover of the West by the barbarian successor states led to the impairment
and eventual elimination of the senatorial lifestyle with its cultivation of edu-
cational traditions. Less ambitious historiographical genres also suffered from
the passage of time. In the case of Hydatius, one witnesses how his opportuni-
ties for compiling source material and orientation increasingly shrank. In the
East, given the continued existence of a broader curial upper class with a rhe-
torical education, conditions were much better on the whole. For the develop-
ment of ecclesiastical history, which was clearly able to align itself with secular
history, as the ninth book of Sozomenos shows, for example, despite certain
fluctuations in the fifth or sixth century, no lasting decline can be established,
even if authors such as Hesychios of Jerusalem remain elusive. Rather, the genre
disappears only after Procopius, with the history of Eustathios of Epiphaneia.
Above all, however, a vitality of the genre can be noted for Greek secular his-
tory, which lasts into the generation after Procopius.75 The final years of the
reign of Justinian and the successing reigns from Justin ii to Maurice were
extensively described by three competing historians, Menandros Protector,
Theophanes of Byzantium, and John of Epiphaneia.
75 Whitby, “Greek Historical Writing.”
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Procopius’ Sources
Laura Mecella
In his famous funeral speech for Procopius of Gaza, countryman Choricius

notes how the charm of Caesarea in Palestine attracted the learned orator.1
Indeed, the city could still in the sixth century boast a rich array of books and
place itself amongst the most important cultural centres of the Middle East.2
Thus, the vast culture (paideia) that also distinguishes the historian Procopius
is not surprising, and has already been emphasized many times.3
The use of classical models is glaring in the Wars, the Buildings, and the
Secret History: Procopius shows deep knowledge of past historiographical tra-
ditions, which he considers himself to be part of. Knowledge of Thucydides
above all,4 but also of Herodotus, Xenophon, Polybius, Diodorus Siculus,
Dionysius of Halicarnassus, Plutarch, Arrian, Appian and Herodian.5 In partic-
ular in the Wars, Herodotus’ influence is clear, especially in the ethnographical
excursuses.6 Arrian, while only explicitly quoted in 8.14.48, is in all likelihood
followed in 8.1.7–6.31, 8.14.48 (probably through the Periplus Maris Erythraei)
1 I am very grateful to Geoffrey Greatrex for his helpful comments; any remaining errors are, of
course, my own.
2 Choricius, Oration 7, p. 113 Förster. For the library of Caesarea, see Cameron, Procopius,
pp. 5 and 7; Bäbler, “The library”; Greatrex in this volume. On Procopius’ background see also
Greatrex, “Perceptions”, pp. 77–82 and Greatrex, “L’historien Procope”.
3 Howard-Johnston, “Education”, thinks that Procopius’ curriculum involved architecture and
military engineering rather than rhetoric and literature. Montinaro, “Power, taste and the
outsider”, sees Procopius in a more conservative way, as an “armchair technical and military
writer”.
4 Bornmann, “Motivi tucididei”; Carolla, “Spunti tucididei”; Pazdernik, “Procopius and
Thucydides” and, more recently, Pazdernik, “Reinventing Theoderic”; Adshead, “Procopius’
Poliorcetica”, pp. 95–114; Treadgold, The early Byzantine historians, pp. 216–218.
5 On Procopius’ classicism: Kaldellis, Procopius, pp. 17–61, 71–80, 125, 149, 180, 194–195; Kaldellis
and Brodka in this volume. See also: Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 304–324, 341–342 (knowledge
of apocryphal gospels), 355–356, 361; Cameron, Procopius, pp. 33–46, 135–136, 216–219;
Bornmann, “Su alcuni passi”; Carolla, “Roma vista da Bisanzio e dai Goti”; Börm, Prokop,
p. 222 (influence of Xenophon’s Cyropedia); Pazdernik, “Xenophon’s Hellenica” (Hellenica
and Wars 4.6.17–22); Cataudella, “Procopio”, pp. 232–233 (geographical descriptions of the
Ocean as influenced by Alexander’s propaganda through Strabo); Lucarini, “De obitu Arcadi”
(Procopius and Herodian).
6 For the importance of digressions in Procopius’ narratives see Nobbs, “Digressions in
Procopius”; more specifically, for echoes of Herodotus in Wars 2.6.24 see Cristini, “Theoderic’s
ἀγνωμοσύνη”.

Procopius ’ Sources 179
and 8.2.24–26 (where the model seems to be the Alanica).7 Finally, accord-
ing to Maas, Procopius was very influenced by Strabo, both sharing not only
some information but above all “ideas about cultural change caused by Roman
imperialism”. In other words, the process of civilizing the barbaricum: Roman
activity was, for both historians, the only way the barbarians could be led to
culture and progress.8
Procopius was also acquainted with poetry, oratory and philosophy,
showing knowledge of Homer, Pindar, Aeschylus, Aristophanes, Isocrates,
Demosthenes, Plato and Aristotle.9 As for the Latin world, the Aeneid is refer-
enced in Wars 4.10.25, Sallust in Wars 3.2.24 and he arguably knew Horace and
Suetonius just as well.10
While Procopius’ cultural paradigms are easily identified, it is more diffi-
cult to answer the question of the literary sources and documentary material
he used. Unfortunately, Haury’s observation, to the effect that “quos libros
conscribens quibus fontibus usus sit rerum scriptor Caesariensis, difficile est
quaerere” still stands in spite of some recent advancements.11 A systematic
analysis of the problem will require not only a new analysis of all his works
but also deeper research into the parallel historical tradition handed down in
the works of Evagrius Scholasticus, Theodorus Anagnostes, and Theophanes
the Confessor, to name only a few. In any case we can make out, albeit only
approximately, some of the sources on which Procopius may have relied. He
7 Pekkanen, “Procopius”, argues Procopius did not know Arrian’s complete Periplus. Contra
Cesa, “Etnografia”, p. 193, who thinks Arrian was not used by Procopius and points out
that simple, direct observation and information provided by locals could account for
Procopius’ knowledge.
8 Maas, “Strabo and Procopius” (esp. p. 69 for the quotation).
9 For the numerous literary reminiscences in Buildings see esp. Cesaretti in Cesaretti and
Fobelli, Santa Sofia, esp. pp. 6–7, 29–31, 136–177 (possible echoes of Lucian’s How to write
history and use of a biblical vocabulary). Maraval, Histoire secrète (see Primary Sources,
under Procopius), p. 172, n. 15, thinks that the headless demon in Secret History 12.20–22
could derive from the Greek version of the so-called Testament of Solomon (ch. 9). See
also Whitby, “Procopius’ Buildings”; Webb, “Ekphrasis”; Masullo, “Note” and Gaggero,
“Osservazioni” about the technique of imitatio cum variatione. See Kaldellis, Procopius,
pp. 4–5, 12–13, 82–83, 94–117 on Plato’s stylistic and conceptual influence. On Procopius’
knowledge of Oracula Sibyllina see Wars 5.7.7 and 5.24.30.
10 See Masullo, “Note”, p. 194, comparing Wars 2.19.10 with Horace, Carmina 3.4.65 and
Wars 5.13.25 with Carmina 3.29.32–33. The popular saying at Wars 8.19.10 could go back
to Suetonius, Life of Vespasian 8.16.3; on the contrary, Secret History 8.13 and 17–20 (dis-
memberment and reconstitution of Domitianus’ body) could reflect traditions on impe-
rial statues more than Suetonius, Life of Domitian 23: Maraval, Histoire secrète, p. 165,
n. 12; Cameron, Procopius, pp. 58–59; Stickler, “Prokop und die Vergangenheit des Reiches”,
p. 151.
11 Haury, Procopii Caesariensis Opera Omnia, p. vii.
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180 Mecella
uses sources of various kinds, even for the account of a single episode, heavily
reworked in order to attain a better stylistic result, or to follow his own per-
sonal vision.
1 Eyewitnesses and Oral Sources
1.1 Procopius’ Autopsy

Procopius was an eyewitness to many of the events described in his works, as he
claims in the proems of both the Wars (1.1.3; also 1.12.24) and the Buildings (1.1.1;
6.7.18). As a symboulos (ξύμβουλος), in the years 527–533, and paredros (πάρε-
δρος), from 533 until at least 540, of Belisarius during his first campaigns,12 he
likely wrote notes or diaries while on duty, which later served as a foundation
for his histories. He followed the Roman army in the East until 531, as is clear
from his description of the battle of Dara and the diplomatic exchanges that
preceded (Wars 1.13–14) and followed it (Wars 1.16, Buildings 2.1.4–27): in partic-
ular the account of the battle may be based on the official one that Belisarius
sent to the emperor, written by Procopius himself.13 Official documents could
also have been the source for the description of the battle of Satala (Wars 1.15)
or the account of the battle of Callinicum (Wars 1.18), and he may have wit-
nessed the latter.
The whole account of the African campaign (Wars 3.12–4.8) comes from
Procopius’ own direct experience of the war in 533–534. He took part in a
spying mission to Syracuse (Wars 3.14.3–15) in 533, he probably witnessed
Belisarius’ triumph in Constantinople (Wars 4.9) in 534, where he was possibly
also present during the conspiracy of Artabanus (Wars 7.31–32), in 548–549.
In 536 he was in Africa, witnessing the troops’ mutiny (Wars 4.14–15).
Between 536 and 540 he was in Italy, where he witnessed the sieges of
Naples and of Rome, went on a logistics mission to Naples with the aim of
organising army supplies (Wars 6.4.1–4 and 19–20), advised Belisarius on
how to distinguish signals for the soldiers during the siege of Auximum
12 Lillington-Martin, “Procopius, πάρεδρος / quaestor”, pp. 158–162.

13 Rubin, “Prokopios”, p. 368 and 370; see also Lillington-Martin, “Procopius Struggle for
Dara”, pp. 601–611. Nevertheless, as Cameron, Procopius, p. 107, points out, the description
of the fortress in the Buildings (2.1.4–3.26) refers to a period after 530 and cannot be seen
as the author’s own eyewitness account (unless he returned c. 541–542); see also Whitby,
“Procopius’ Description”, who however emphasizes the importance of Procopius’ descrip-
tion for the identification of the site.
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(Wars 6.23.23–29), and took part in the army’s entry into Ravenna in the spring
of 540 (Wars 6.29.32).14
Later (542), during his stay in Constantinople, he saw the atrocious effects
of the plague in the capital (Wars 2.22–23),15 and certainly from direct
observation – as well as from rumours circulating at court – comes the whole
depiction of the Secret History.
1.2 Oral Sources

Procopius’ proximity to both the army and the court granted him direct access
to some of the protagonists of the events described in his works, allowing
him to build upon the two cornerstones of classical historiography: autopsy
(ὄψις) and oral sources (ἀκοή). The use of oral sources is explicitly admitted
by Procopius himself, and concerns four main fields: military action, politics,
ethnographic accounts (about the customs of rival empires and several ethnic
groups), and anecdotes of various kinds.
Regarding military operations, it is likely that his main source of infor-
mation was Belisarius’ doryphoroi /bucellarii, with whom Procopius spent
much time during the years campaigning and who continued to be valuable
sources even after his retirement from duty. Moreover, Brodka speculates that
Procopius could also count on Solomon’s doryphorus, Petrus of Thracia and
Belisarius’ adviser Georgius as direct informants in Constantinople, the former
regarding Gontharis’ murder in 546 and the general situation in Africa from
536 to 546 and the latter in particular for the battle of Sisauranon in 541 and
the Persian attack at Dara in 548.16 Procopius furthermore recalls talks with the
14 See in particular Wars 5.8–10 (passage of troops in Southern Italy and siege of Naples in
536); Wars 5.14 (Belisarius’ occupation of Rome); Wars 5.16–6.3 and 6.7–10 (the arrival of
Vitiges’ army in Rome and the subsequent siege of 536–537), while the account of the
events in Wars 6.5–6.6, which took place during Procopius’ mission in Naples, comes
from the witnesses’ versions and from official records, as does the section on the siege
of Ariminum in 538 and the operations in Liguria in Wars 6.12. Procopius also witnessed
the departure of Belisarius from Rome and the operations in Marche and Umbria in
538–540 (Wars 6.13; 6.16–28), up to the entrance of the eastern Roman troops in Ravenna
(Wars 6.29), and Belisarius’ return to Constantinople (Wars 6.30). For other examples of
direct observation by Procopius in Wars: 5.15.4–14 (description of Beneventum); 6.17.1–11
(baby breastfed by a goat in Picenum); 6.20.15–33 (famine of 538–539); 8.22.7–16 (Aeneas’
ship in Rome, on which see Stickler, “Prokop und die Vergangenheit des Reiches”, pp. 153–
154); 8.22.19–20 (voyages in the Ionian sea). On Procopius’ introducing himself in the nar-
rative as a character see Ross, “Narrator and participant”.
15 Cameron, Procopius, pp. 136 and 188–189, suggests that he afterwards returned to Italy
with Belisarius.
16 Brodka, “Prokop von Kaisareia”, pp. 110–112, 118–120. For Georgius see Rubin, “Prokopios”,
p. 393.
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182 Mecella
Vandals regarding Gunderic and Geiseric (Wars 3.3.33), with a local informer
during the expedition to Syracuse in 533 (Wars 3.14.3–15), and with survivors
of the battle against the Mauri in 535 (Wars 4.12.25). For the description of
Totila’s siege of Rome in 550 the mediation of Paul of Cilicia may be inferred,17
and his testimony, together with that of Ausilas’ (both positively mentioned
at Wars 8.29.22–28), was also the basis for the reconstruction of the battle of
Taginae. Finally, in Wars 8.32.33–36 rumours are reported about another ver-
sion of Totila’s death.18
In political affairs, Belisarius can be considered an important source for the
account of the Nika riot, though clearly reworked in line with Procopius’ per-
sonal opinions.19 The depiction of John the Cappadocian at Wars 1.25 comes
partly from the rumours circulating in the imperial court,20 and information
on Amalasuntha’s regency in Wars 5.2–4 (for which we must however also
assume the use of official documents, especially diplomatic reports) as well
as on the relationship between Goths and Franks in Wars 5.12–13, could also
derive from oral sources. Some doubts still persist around the contribution of
Tribunus, a doctor of Palestinian origin who was for some time in Khosrow’s
service, to Procopius’ description of the Anasozadus’ uprising (Wars 8.10).21
Finally, Procopius’ Palestinian origin contributed to his retelling of the events
on the Samaritan uprising of 529.22
Geographical and ethnographic information is provided by the Maurian
chief Ortaias (Wars 4.13.29) and the white nights and lightless days in the island
of Thule are described in Wars 6.15.9–15. Tales on the capture of the whale
17 Brodka, “Prokop von Kaisareia”, pp. 120–121.

18 For the battle of Taginae see Rance, “Narses”, p. 452; see also Cameron, Procopius, pp. 136,
153, 156. See also: Wars 1.18.1–3 (531: the Persian fording of the Euphrates, under the com-
mand of Alamundarus and Azarethes); Wars 1.21.17–22 (on which see Rubin, “Prokopios”,
p. 378); Wars 8.5.23 (testimony of the Armenians); Wars 8.21.10 (information gained from
a senator); Buildings 6.7.18.
19 Meier, “Zur Funktion der Theodora-Rede”, pp. 89, 94–95.
20 Greatrex, “Composition”, assumes that this portrayal represents a further addition in
the narrative of the Wars, inserted in 546, originally destined for the Secret History; “The
Speech”, pp. 873–877, adopts a slightly different perspective, accepting Greatrex’s dating
but not considering the episode a last-minute transfer. Brodka, “Prokop von Kaisareia”,
pp. 112–118, credits it to the comes excubitorum Marcellus (also responsible, in his opinion,
for the information on the conspiracy of Artabanus in 548).
21 Rubin, “Prokopios”, p. 510 considers him a definite source; Börm, Prokop, p. 122, is sceptical.
22 Secret History 11.24–29 (on which see Cameron, Procopius, p. 5); for other battles in the
region during the reigns of Zeno and Anastasius: Buildings 5.7.5–14.
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Porphyrius and the Nile’s floods are recalled in Wars 7.29.9–20 (also in Secret
History 15.37 and 18.39), legends about Britain appear in Wars 8.20.48–57.23
Various anecdotes could also derive from oral testimony collected both in
Italy and in the imperial capital, for example the passages on the revolt against
Khosrow (Wars 1.23), the histories of the fire in the sanctuary of Saint Michael
in Daphne and of the miracle in Apamea (both in Wars 2.11), the prodigy her-
alding the fall of Antioch at the hands of the Persians (Wars 2.10.1–3), and the
supernatural intervention at Dara in 541 (Wars 2.13.22–27).24
2 Archives and Documentary Evidence
2.1 The Imperial Archives

Despite some uncertainties, we can at least partially reconstruct the documen-
tary evidence at the heart of Procopius’ contemporary history. It was clearly
assembled with the help of reliable sources, which does not mean glaring
errors and inconsistencies do not occur in his work. Averil Cameron in par-
ticular tends to underestimate the validity of Procopius’ information, insisting
specifically in the case of Antioch, on which the Wars and Buildings provide
different details. It is possible that, in the latter, Procopius wanted to under-
state Justinian’s responsibility regarding city’s lacklustre defence systems and
emphasize the emperor’s role in reconstructing the city after the sack of 540.25
At any rate, inconsistences may also be due to his continuous revision of his
writings; recent studies demonstrate that Procopius continued to update both
the Wars and the Buildings even after their completion26 and that his rendition
of the facts is trustworthy overall, even if sometimes ideologically slanted.
During his stay in Constantinople, he likely had direct access to the archives
of the Palace, so that he could draw both on the official reports of the various
officials and generals active in the provinces and on the records of the impe-
rial chancery (especially for Justinian’s buildings).27 The final part of the Secret
23 See Börm, Prokop, pp. 53–54 and 204 (about geographical information); Gantar, “Quid
Procopius”, esp. p. 66 for the ethnographical excursus about Northern people; Carlson,
“Procopius’s Old English”, on the Angles who accompanied the Merovingian embassy to
Constantinople; Brodka, “Prokop von Kaisareia”, pp. 121–122 for Ortaias.
24 Börm, Prokop.
25 Cameron, Procopius, pp. 12–13 and 106; see also the uncertainties on the reign of Kawad
(Cameron, Procopius, p. 155).
26 See Greatrex, “Réflexions”, and Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs”.
27 On this issue see Rubin, “Prokopios”, p. 342; Cameron, Procopius, p. 86; Roques, “Con-
structions”, pp. 39–42 (for whom some false attributions of constructions to Justinian are
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184 Mecella
History in particular shows Procopius’ thorough knowledge of the legislation

of his time.28
The following sections could derive from the imperial archives: the news
regarding relations with the Ethiopians and the Himyarites (Wars 1.20); the
section of the Persian war from Belisarius’ return to Constantinople to the
Eternal Peace (Wars 1.21–22); Johannes’ insurrection in Dara (Wars 1.26.5–12);29
the renewal of conflict with the Persians and its subsequent development
in the second book of the Wars;30 the preparations for the Vandalic wars
(Wars 3.10.1–21); the revolt of the Mauri in Libya in 535 (Wars 4.10–13); the sec-
ond phase of the mutiny of the army in Libya in 537 and the Maximinus’ sub-
sequent conspiracy (Wars 4.16–18); the ensuing reorganization of the region
(including the new expeditions against the Mauri and Gontharis’ uprising) up
to 546 (Wars 4.19–28). Similarly, the following passages concerning the Gothic
war could come from archival material: the account of the beginning of the
conflict (Wars 5.5–7); the conflicts among the Goths and Totila’s rise to power
in 541 (Wars 7.1–2); the second phase of the war, the account of which we can
assume was enriched by direct evidence provided by the main characters
(Wars 7.3–30; 7.33–41; 8.21–35, also containing an account of the barbarian
assaults in the other parts of the empire); the new offensive by Khosrow in
Lazica (Wars 8.8–17); and the clashes with the Huns and the people of Britannia
(Wars 8.18–20).31 Ian Colvin has also emphasized the importance of this kind
of documentary material for the description of battles and the reconstruction
of military campaigns.32
intentional distortions by Procopius, not mistakes caused by the lack of sources); Roques,
Procope, p. 26; Sarantis, Justinian’s Balkan Wars, pp. 161–172 (on Buildings book 4).
28 Kaldellis, Procopius, pp. 150–159, 223–228 and Scott, “Malalas”, who in particular stresses
the widespread effect of the official dispatches of the court in the provinces; now see also
Kruse, “Justinian’s laws”. For the great importance of legal studies had in the education of
late antique historians see Greatrex, “Lawyers and Historians” (esp. p. 150 for Procopius).
29 Enriched with oral sources: see in 26.9 τινὲς δέ φασιν. On this episode see also Kruse, “The
Speech”, pp. 877–879.
30 Esp. regarding the information on Lazica see Börm, Prokop, p. 214; see also Kruse, “The
Speech”, pp. 866–873.
31 Other examples in Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 372–374, 383, 393, 424–425, 430–435, 503–504,
508–509, 513; the use of official sources is clear in the Secret History as well.
32 Colvin, “Reporting battles”.
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2.2 The Archives of Edessa and Abgar’s Correspondence with Jesus

Some scholars believe that Procopius also used archives from other cities, such
as Edessa.33 In the section regarding the siege of 544, in fact, he recounts the
legend of the private correspondence between the king Abgar v and Jesus and
the tale about the city’s claimed invincibility.34 The legend was partly known
to Eusebius: according to him (Ecclesiastical history 1.13), Abgar, struck by an
incurable disease (which in Procopius’ version becomes gout), writes to Jesus
inviting him in Edessa, as he was captivated by his popularity. Jesus declines
the invitation but promises to send him, after his ascension, a messenger to
provide a cure, an event which causes Abgar’s conversion to Christianity. Since
Eusebius transcribes the two letters verbatim, noting that he found them in
the archives of Edessa and then translated them from Syriac, it is believed
the fake documental material from the city archives may also emerge in
Procopius’ narration.
We should note, however, that a varied tradition about this legend existed
during Procopius’ times as it was already a popular story throughout the
Eastern world, and the Peregrinatio Aetheriae confirms that copies of the let-
ters between the king of Edessa and Jesus were also widespread in the West.
This implies that Procopius need not necessarily have made use of docu-
mentary sources; Eusebius himself, for example, could be one of Procopius’
sources, at least for the first part of the excursus (Wars 2.12.20–25). Brodka,
however, insists on the glaring differences between the versions of Procopius
and Eusebius, denying the influence of the ecclesiastical historian on the pas-
sage in the Wars, and instead speculates that Procopius used other, now lost,
historiographical traditions (perhaps in the form of chronicles), mainly from
Edessa;35 in any case it seems preferable to ascribe the origin of this account to
a literary tradition rather than to documentary research.
The detail of the city’s invincibility also deserves attention.36 The belief
that the particular link between the city and Jesus made Edessa invincible is
already epigraphically extant in the fifth century: the people of Edessa were so
33 For the importance of the archives of Edessa – used also by Iulius Africanus in the third
century (Chronicle T88 Wallraff) – see Inglebert, “Aphraate”, pp. 185–187.
34 Wars 2.12, on which see Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 336–338 and 389.
35 Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und die Abgarlegende”.
36 The myth of the city’s invincibility is attested for the first time in the Peregrinatio Aetheriae
19 and later is found again in the Doctrina Addai: at the start of a Persian siege, Abgar, at
the city gates, prayed to God, bringing with him the letter from Jesus and mentioning the
promise of invincibility; only then were the Persians finally vanquished. See in general
Desreumaux, Histoire (edition of the Syriac text of the Doctrina Addai); Ramelli, “Edessa
e i Romani”, pp. 119–130; Amerise, “La scrittura”.
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186 Mecella
convinced that Jesus’ letter really contained a promise of invincibility that they
inscribed the alleged words on the city gates as a φυλακτήριον.37 This detail of
the inscription in Procopius’ account is perhaps related to personal autopsy, as
we do not find it in other literary sources. In Wars 2.12.26, in fact, after mention-
ing the correspondence between Abgar and Jesus, Procopius introduces the
subject of the city’s invincibility with a sceptical φασίν, adding that the detail
was unknown to the writers of those events (Eusebius?).
It should be clear now that this story is derived from the combination of a
well-established written tradition with the historian’s direct experience rather
than from the archives. This does not rule out the possibly that Procopius
used material from other cities in the empire in addition to that found in
Constantinople, but it is a hypothesis that cannot be fully proved.
3 Literary Sources
An even more difficult task is to examine Procopius’ sources for the earlier
history of the empire, in particular the fifth century. Events from that time are
usually placed at key points in the Wars, but play a quantitatively minor role
in the text. Their material appears to be of uneven quality and Procopius, like
the majority of classicizing historians, does not directly credit the authors and
works he makes use of. Therefore, it is essential to examine thoroughly every
one of these passages, trying to reconstruct, at least partially, the diverse histo-
riographical traditions at the root of his narration.
3.1 Roman-Persian Relationships

The first topic concerns the history of Roman-Persian relationships from
Arcadius to Justinian.38 After he recounts Arcadius’ last-minute decision
to appoint the king of Persia Yazdegerd i (408) as the guardian of young
Theodosius ii – a decision that ensured peace in the East for several years –,
he mentions the attempt by Bahram v, heir to the Persian throne, to attack the
empire (441); Bahram gathered a huge army on the border but was dissuaded
from his intentions by the diplomatic skill of the Roman general Anatolius, who
managed to bring the two powers back to lasting peace (Wars 1.2).39 He then
37 Geerard, Clavis apocryphorum, nr. 88. In later versions of these events, this defensive
role is carried by a mandylion sent by Jesus to Abgar, along with the letter; see Evagrius,
Ecclesiastical history 4.27; Moses of Khorene 2.32.
38 Overview in Stickler, “Prokop und die Vergangenheit des Reiches”, pp. 146–150.
39 The highlights are discussed in Greatrex, “Two fifth-century wars”.
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recounts Perōz’s unsuccessful campaigns (ad 484) against the Hephthalite

Huns (who also appear for a brief ethnographic excursus in Wars 1.3–4),40
the events that occurred in Persia before Kawad’s rise to power (Wars 1.5–6) –
mixed in with the commemoration of the Armenian king Arsaces during the
third century (Wars 1.5.10–40)41 –, and lastly the description of the Persian war
against the Romans in ad 502–504 (Wars 1.7–9), along with the events that fol-
lowed it under Justin (Wars 1.11–12).
We can assume that some details date back to Priscus, such as those on
the organization of the Δωδεκάσχοινος, and concerning the agreements with
Blemmyes and Nobati undertaken by Diocletian (Wars 1.19.27–37): in 453
Priscus joined a mission in Egypt to quell its people’s incursions,42 so it is pos-
sible that, in recounting the events, he briefly recalled previous relations with
its people.
It is difficult, however, to evaluate the origins of other data. Cameron
analyses the case of Arcadius asking Yazdegerd to protect Theodosius ii
(Wars 1.2.1–2), an episode also recounted by Theophanes, in an apparently dif-
ferent version from Procopius. The scholar supposes a common Greek source
for both authors, as both Arcadius and Yazdegerd are favourably portrayed,
while the latter had a very bad reputation among Eastern historians; compari-
son with Agathias, who instead relies on Eastern sources, also supports this
hypothesis. For Cameron, Procopius’ Western (i.e. Greek) sources are no easier
to identify; but in this case Priscus could be a good candidate.43 Procopius’ and
Theophanes’ texts are also similar in their description of the siege of Amida
and Anastasius I’s counteroffensive, for which reason Greatrex assumes the
existence of a now lost common local source, of good quality and with clas-
sicizing intentions.44
40 The other excursus on the Huns, mainly focused, however, on the ethnic groups of
Utriguri and Kutriguri, is found at Wars 8.5.
41 Moreover, not without errors, such as the confusion of Pacorus and Šābuhr i.
42 Exc. 21 and 22 Carolla (= fr. 27, 1 and 28, 1 Blockley), on which see Baldwin, “Priscus”, p. 24.
In general for Procopius’ use of Priscus see also Börm, Prokop, pp. 214–215 (information
regarding the Portae Caspiae) and Brodka, “Wanderung”, pp. 17–25, for the assump-
tion that Procopius made use of Priscus for the story of the migration of the Huns and
Cimmerians in Wars 8.5.1–14.
43 So states Greatrex in his forthcoming commentary of the first two books of Wars. On this
episode and its disputed authenticity see also Greatrex in Greatrex/Bardill, “Antiochus”,
pp. 171–180, and Greatrex, “Deux notes”, pp. 85–87.
44 Greatrex, “Procopius and Pseudo-Zachariah” and Greatrex, “Théophane”. As the scholar
himself notes, if we consider this source to be Eustathius of Epiphaneia we must also
extend the range of his narration to 506, despite Evagrius stating it ended with the siege
of Amida. In addition, Treadgold, The early Byzantine historians, p. 193, n. 97 notes that
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However, whatever the nature of historical works he utilised, Procopius’

sources on this subject were not limited to the literary ones. Notably regarding
the events of the reign of Perōz, Procopius may have made use of the ambas-
sador Eusebius’ reports, who was given orders by Zeno to go with the Persian
king during the first campaign (Wars 1.3.8–14).45 The ethnographical digres-
sion on the Hephthalite Huns, which opens the section (Wars 1.3.2–7) seems
to come from the same source.46 The retelling of the negotiations between the
embassies of Kawad and Justin (Wars 1.11.6–30) and of the missions in Iberia
(Wars 1.12) could derive from the official records kept in Constantinople.47
Furthermore, the fable-like and anecdotal additions, such as the apologue
of the goat and the lion (in Wars 1.3.13, Eusebius persuades king Peroz that he
stumbled in a difficult situation), and the stratagem devised to help Kawad
escape from prison (Wars 1.6.1–7) seem to be of oral origin. Even if we cannot
rule out the possibility of a written source a priori, these events could all stem
from oral traditions still widespread in the author’s time.
Another important subject is the role of Eastern written sources in Procop-
ius: episodes like the digression on the anchorite Jacob in Wars 1.7.5–11 or the
legend of the pearl in Wars 1.4.14–31, which could derive from Syriac sources,
are not enough to assess his knowledge of the Syriac language. Concerning the
legend of the pearl, Rubin supposes a contamination between the Eastern and
Western sources (diplomatic records? acta diurna? Priscus?), while accord-
ing to Greatrex this story (also present in Cedrenus) derives solely from a
Greek sixth-century source, now lost.48 At any rate, the story of the friendship
between Abgar v of Edessa and Augustus (Wars 2.12.8–18), which is unknown
to the Graeco-Roman tradition, seems to derive from an Eastern tradition.49
“in Wars I Procopius seems poorly informed about events in Syria before 502, for which
Eustathius should have been helpful”; therefore, according to him “Procopius began to
consult Eustathius only with Wars III”. Cf. also Treadgold, The early Byzantine historians,
pp. 216–217.
45 According to Cresci, Malco, p. 59, instead, the account of the first Perōz’s expedition
against the Hephthalite Huns, and the description of Eusebius’ activity at the Persian
court come from Malchus of Philadelphia (on whom see below). On Perōz’s reign see
Schindel, “The Sasanian Eastern Wars”, pp. 680–683.
46 Greatrex, in his forthcoming commentary of the first two books of Wars.
47 In favour of this hypothesis also Greatrex, Rome and Persia, pp. 63–64. However, he also
stresses the importance of the oral testimonies of the younger Kawad, grandson of king
Kawad, and Peranius, son of the Iberian king Gourgenes, who both fled to Constantinople
during the first half of the sixth century.
48 Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 362–363 and 391 (the same source for the story of Jacob is envis-
aged for Wars 2.13); Greatrex, “Procopius and Pseudo-Zachariah”, p. 247.
49 Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und die Abgarlegende”, pp. 350–351. Börm, Prokop,
pp. 148–151, even assumes knowledge of Persian, a hypothesis impossible to prove. Some
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Even trickier is the knowledge of Armenian, based on the excursus on the

history of Armenia in Wars 1.5.9–40. Cameron rules out this possibility while
others are less clear-cut on the issue, grounding the assumption of a superficial
knowledge of Armenian above all on the mention of a τῶν Ἀρμενίων ἱστορία
(Wars 1.5.9, Buildings 3.1.6), which Rubin identifies with the writings of the so
called “Faustus of Byzantium”.50 Traina’s point of view is more nuanced, sug-
gesting that this “Armenian history” cannot be a single literary work but rather
an ensemble of many sources, combined in a written tradition; this array of
information of Armenian origin may have come to Procopius via a Greek ver-
sion or from “Armenian-speaking informants who gathered for him the written
information he needed.”51 Lastly, Montinaro unconditionally rules out the use,
direct or not, of “exotic sources”, pointing out that the data on the history of
the Armenian satrapies and on the administration of Greater Armenia comes
from an official Armenian dossier, traces of which are also found in Justinian’s
Novel 31, “our only other Greek source on the Satrapies”.52
3.2 Romans and Vandals

Another issue arises concerning the conflicts between Romans and Vandals
in the fifth century, from the sack of Rome by Alaric to the conflict between
Aëtius and Bonifatius, along with the Vandal invasion of Africa, up to the death
of Valentinian iii, and the capture of Rome by Geiseric (Wars 3.1–5).53 Scholars
unanimously agree on the use of Priscus of Panium as a source, but the ques-
tion as to whether Procopius used it directly or through a Zwischenquelle, iden-
tifiable with the chronicle of Eustathius of Epiphaneia, still remains.54
differences occur however between Procopius’ account of years 540–545 and the narra-
tive of later Arabic and Persian sources (probably drawn from now lost Middle Persian
and Syriac material): Bonner, “Eastern Sources”.
50 Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 308, 325–327, 363–364 (however we can no longer accept the
hypothesis of the use of a Syriac version of Faustus’ text); Cameron, Procopius, pp. 153–155;
Ciancaglini, Titolature, pp. 115–120. See also Kaldellis, Procopius, pp. 89, 91–92.
51 See Traina, “Faustus”; Traina, “Tradition et innovation”, pp. 157–159; Traina, “The Armenian
Primary History” (quotation on p. 175). Cf. also Roques, Procope, p. 223. Börm, Prokop,
pp. 55–57, 224–225, proposes the use alongside oral traditions of an Armenian written
source (which he considers of dubious quality), other than Faustus of Byzantium.
52 Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs”, p. 97.
53 For Procopius’ description of these events see Stickler, “Prokop und die Vergangenheit des
Reiches”, pp. 144–146.
54 For this specific theory see, among others, Haury, Procopii Caesariensis Opera Omnia,
pp. i, vii–xx; Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 309, 360, 363–364, 402–408, 415–416, 428–429 (who
however writes of a tradition of Priscus’ Excerpta separate from Eustathius); Roberto,
“Prisco”, pp. 124–125. See also Brodka, “Wanderung”, who supposes that Wars 3.2–3 (on the
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The use of a single source (even with the mediation of Eustathius) how-
ever, goes against the peculiarities of Procopius’ work.55 In some parts there
are glaring errors (hardly likely to originate in a contemporary of the events,
such as Priscus)56 as well as anecdotal stories which may not have been pres-
ent in the works of his predecessor: see for example the story of Honorius and
the hen called Rome (Wars 3.2.25–26) in which it is possible to find echoes
of Olympiodorus;57 the prodigy of the eagle as an omen imperii to Marcian
(Wars 3.4.1–11); the rape of Maximus’ wife by Valentinian iii; the anecdote of
the stork foretelling to Attila the fall of Aquileia (Wars 3.4.32–34).
We can therefore assume, alongside Priscus~Eustathius as a primary source,
that Procopius could also draw on a second written source with a more novel
and fantastic tone (a kind of vulgata, compiled in Greek around the middle of
the fifth century), or on oral traditions still widespread in Constantinople.58
For a branch of the Anicii lived in the eastern capital, the favourable portraiture
of Aëtius that emerges in some parts of the narrative, as well as the description
of the events of 476 at the beginning of the Gothic War, can probably be traced
back to an Anician tradition: the powerful Roman family may have provided
some insights to the historian. Nevertheless Procopius’ works are not free
from traces of hostility to the Anicii, as in the famous story of Anicia Faltonia
Proba’s handover of Rome to Alaric. Matthews supposes a derivation from
Olympiodorus,59 but more likely Procopius could have heard it from Roman
migrations of the Vandals, the Visigoths, the Ostrogoths and the Gepids, and the idea of
the “Gothic nations”) derives from Eustathius’ chronicle.
55 Also, according to Cameron, Procopius, pp. 208–209.
56 Some examples: the usurper Johannes did not rule 5 years (Wars 3.3.7) but 18 months;
Petronius Maximus was not a descendant of Magnus Maximus (Wars 3.4.16), and
Attila did not come to Italy after the death of Aëtius (Wars 3.4.29). For a comparison
between Wars 3.3–4 and the so called Excerpta Salmasiana see de Boor, “Römische
Kaisergeschichte”, pp. 204–207.
57 Roberto, “Alarico”, posits filtration via Zosimus. Stickler, “Olympiodor und Prokop”,
favours indirect knowledge of Olympiodorus but does not identify his exact sources;
see also Stickler, “Olympiodor und Prokop”; Stickler, “Prokop und die Vergangenheit des
Reiches”, pp. 142–143.
58 See Zecchini, “Aezio”, pp. 30–36. The expression τινὲς δὲ … φασιν in Wars 3.2.27 and the
author’s wavering attitude towards Aëtius would appear to betray more than one source.
Brodka, “Eustathios”, pp. 68–71, traces the excursus on the last decades of the western
Roman empire to Priscus through Eustathius, to whom he ascribes the addition of anec-
dotal details and the chronological errors; see also Brodka, “Attila und Aetius” (esp. on
Wars 3.4.29–35) and Brodka, “Priskos von Panion und Kaiser Marcian” (on the depen-
dency of Wars 3.4.1–11 directly from Priscus).
59 Matthews, “Olympiodorus”, p. 93, n. 144; also, Zecchini, “La politica”, and Zecchini, “Aezio”,
p. 35; Baldini, “Un’ipotesi”, pp. 17, 27–28; Roberto, Roma capta, pp. 86–87, 275, n. 41.
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senators hostile to the Anicii (the Decii?), during the siege of Rome in 536. Alan
Cameron’s attempt to deny, based on a detailed prosopographical analysis, the
political influence of the Anicii during the fifth-sixth century and their rivalry
with the Decii, is too radical in its conclusions.60 However, he is right to point
out that Roman politics was much more nuanced; perhaps it would be more
accurate to consider different political groups around the two powerful fami-
lies rather than a battlefield involving only the Decii and Anicii; but to fully
grasp fifth century Roman history we must weigh accordingly the political
action of these influential factions, their own peculiarities and differences, not
in a confined, local way but on a large scale. In any case, Procopius’ account
shows contradictory tendencies not attributable to a single tradition;61 in this
picture, the use of oral testimonies could explain, much more than the use of
various written sources, the inconsistency of his multifaceted reconstruction.
At any rate, it is not necessary to assume knowledge (direct or indirect) of
the Roman History by Memmius Symmachus. Some scholars assume it, though
for example Gaggero emphasizes how Procopius distorts to some degree the
events to serve the propagandistic needs of the Constantinopolitan court, with
the aim of casting a bad light on Theodoric and the Ostrogoths.62 However,
this hypothesis is based on the similarities with the chronicle of Marcellinus
Comes: the affinities are usually explained by a common source,63 as well as
by the fact that Procopius himself seems to show a dependence on the work
of Marcellinus, who, in turn, took some information from Symmachus. But
there is no reason to imply a different written source, since, as already noted,
Procopius may have built his narration in part from oral rumours.
This same uncertainty is glaring regarding to the relationship between
Procopius and Jordanes: as even Jordanes depends in part on Marcellinus, this
could explain the similarities between him and Procopius regarding Roman
history. Even in the case of the ethnographical details on the Goths, scholars
exclude a direct relationship between the two authors: for Gantar, the use of
the name Thule instead of Scandia does not come from the Gothic History but
from Claudius Ptolemy’s Geographia;64 likewise Alonso-Núñez thinks that the
60 Cameron, “Anician Myths”.

61 Also, Stickler, “Olympiodor und Prokop”.
62 Gaggero, “Fine”, p. 98ff. On Theoderic’s portrayal in Procopius see Goltz, Barbar, pp. 210–
267, who sees it as the result of a mix of different influences produced by the Gothic
war and the multifaceted personality of the historian; see also Goltz, “Anspruch und
Wirklichkeit”, and Pazdernik, “Reinventing Theoderic”.
63 Cameron (“Procopius”, pp. 198–200, 222) believes, however, this source is not Memmius
Symmachus’ Roman History but rather an unspecified eastern Roman source.
64 Gantar, “Quid Procopius”, pp. 51–52.
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192 Mecella
affinities between Gothic History 3.19–21 and Wars 6.15.14–24 are due to the use
by both authors of now lost sections from Priscus’ work, which Procopius later
personally expanded upon with the addition of oral sources.65 More recently,
Kasperski views the correspondence between Procopius and Jordanes as a
parallel to the contemporary Constantinopolitan debate on barbarian peo-
ples inhabiting former western territories of the Roman empire. He reads the
Gothic History as an answer to the Wars, and in turn Procopius’ Buildings as an
answer to the Gothic History.66
The characteristics of the sections just discussed also arise in the expedition
of Basiliscus, the imperial succession in the western part of the empire until
Glycerius and the history of the Vandals up to Justinian’s times (Wars 3.7–9).
Even in this case, Priscus is generally regarded as the main source for the events
until 474,67 but inaccuracies and anecdotal stories may still occur;68 the part on
the Vandals, at least, may have been derived from official records, or even from
stories handed down by Vandals themselves.69
For the following section (after 474) the most likely source seems to be
Malchus of Philadelphia, who continues the narration from the point where
Priscus concludes and as such is the ideal candidate for a link between late
fifth-century Byzantine history and the historian of Justinian’s times; accord-
ing to Cresci, sections such as those on the events regarding the rise to power
of Zeno, the usurpation of Basiliscus and the Isaurian emperor’s return to
the throne and the relationships between the empire and the Vandals in the
years 474–480, could all have been sourced in the Philadelphian historian
65 Such as, for example, the story of the delegation of Heruli sent to the North or the 2000
Heruli that came to help Belisarius in Italy under Narses; for this section, however, the
scholar rules out the use of itineraria – since Procopius knows only the Eastern part of
the region – or any acquaintance with merchant-travellers, as there are no mentions of
economic or mercantile details. Alonso-Núñez, “Jordanes and Procopius”, pp. 3 and 9–11.
66 Kasperski, “Jordanes versus Procopius”.
67 Brodka, “Priskos und der Feldzug des Basiliskos” (on Wars 3.6, derived from Priscus, per-
haps directly).
68 In this case as well the narration is not free from errors or discretionary literary rework-
ings; the sequence of Roman emperors is erroneous (Wars 3.7.1–17), while the description
of the meeting between Geiseric and Majorian shows colourful additions.
69 See Wars 3.8.4: “For he (scil. Huneric) forced them to change over to the Arian faith, and
as many as he found not readily yielding to him he burned, or destroyed by other forms
of death; and he also cut off the tongues of many from the very throat, who even up to
my time were going about in Byzantium having their speech uninjured, and perceiving
not the least effect from this punishment; but two of these, since they saw fit to go into
harlots, were thenceforth no longer able to speak” (trans. Dewing).
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(Wars 3.7.18–26). Even if this hypothesis is unverifiable due to the loss of

Malchus’ work, it seems reasonable.70
3.3 The Ostrogoths before the War

Lastly, Wars 5.1 recalls the events of the Gothic reign in Italy, from the depo-
sition of Romulus Augustulus to the rule of Theoderic.71 Even for this part
the use of a mainly oral Western tradition is likely, even if we cannot rule out
a priori the authority of Malchus. For example, Cresci finds a clue for the use
of Malchus in this section of Procopius’ text in the mistake regarding the
Theoderic’s march from Thrace to Italy (Wars 5.1.13). Procopius writes that the
Ostrogothic king wanted to cross the Strait of Otranto, but then abandoned
the idea for lack of ships. According to Cresci, Procopius may have confused
Theoderic’s military expedition in Italy with the 479 campaign in Epirus, for
which Malchus’ account (which mentions the Byzantine fear that Theoderic
could take the ships anchored in Epidamnus) was at hand.72
4 Conclusions
Procopius’ precious narrative texture leaves room for a variety of consider-

ations and hypotheses; like many other late antique historians, the reconstruc-
tion of his sources must emerge through the detailed inspection of specific
parts, which often gives rise to contradictory conclusions that remain difficult
to connect into a consistent picture. In any case, apart from his role as an eye-
witness, we can be sure of his use of (often reliable) oral sources, documentary
material found in the archives of the Palace, as well as of other historiographi-
cal works, such as (probably) the writings of Priscus of Panium, Eustathius of
Epiphaneia and Malchus of Philadelphia.
70 Cresci, Malco, pp. 58–59.
71 Here too with some errors: Augustulus ruled at the same time as Zeno, and not Basiliscus
(Wars 5.1.2), and Odoacer was not king for only ten years (Wars 5.1.8).
72 Malch. fr. 20 l. 124 Blockley; see Cresci, Malco, p. 59.
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Procopius as a Historiographer
Dariusz Brodka
The object of this chapter is to reveal some basic aspects of Procopius’ percep-
tion of history, its structure and driving forces. It examines the way in which
his understanding of the historical process has affected how Procopius wrote
history. Starting from the assumption that many antique historians claimed to
recognize in the events described not only human decisions and actions but
also the fulfilment of divine will or the manifestation of superhuman pow-
ers, our interest focuses first on such fundamental problems as God’s activity
in the history, Tyche, randomness, and free will. The next section concerns
man’s position in history and such questions as the impact of individuals on
events, human motivations, the efficacy of human activity, and patterns of his-
torical process.
While investigating Procopius’ notion of history we must bear in mind
that he wrote three works which belong to various literary genres: the Wars
are a classical (or classicizing) political history, the Secret History is an invec-
tive, and the Buildings – a panegyric. Nevertheless, even though each of them
is subject to different literary restraints and demands, they are written with
different intentions, and even though they contain varying interpretations
and assessments of the conduct of the same persons, the fundamental views
about history are still the same. It is worth quoting the still valid opinion of
Averil Cameron:
In all three (i.e. works), beneath these superficial differences lie the same
fundamental themes, the same thinking, the same preoccupations. Given
the formal demands of genre, these preoccupations are expressed in the
same manner and with the same linguistic tools.1
Naturally, it is obvious that the most valuable source material, which pro-
vides deep insight into Procopius’ perception of the history, is to be found in
the Wars and in the Secret History intended as an appendix to the Wars. The
Buildings, dealing with the building activity of Justinian, contain less informa-
tion useful for the consideration of how Procopius interpreted the historical
developments that he witnessed.
1 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 17, see Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der
spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 18–20.

1 Preliminary Remarks: Rhetoric, History, and the Classical Tradition
Procopius of Caesarea is one of those ancient historians whose extensive

personal military experience in the field was matched by excellent educa-
tion. Procopius participated in some of the events he describes, took part in
important missions requiring initiative, and personally knew the important
individuals of the 6th century. The fact that his writing was based to a large
extent on his own experience is of great importance for understanding the way
he presented the dynamics of changing events. It is not the case that Procopius
was always impartial in his opinions; on the contrary, he often presented
extremely emotional views, especially when dealing with Justinian, Theodora
or Belisarius. His upper-class origins must have contributed to his conservative
worldview and his being unwilling to accept changes in the established order.
The traditional rhetorical education based on imitation of classical authors
had an equally important influence upon Procopius’ writing and perception of
the world.2 The influence of classical authors was not limited to the imitation
of vocabulary and phraseology. From his predecessors Procopius inherited the
whole notion of historiography and the related mode of thought.3 The impact
of Thucydides is particularly significant. Procopius, like Thucydides, was trying
to compose a narrative that would be useful for politicians, reveal the inner
workings of politics, and explore motives rooted in the unchanging human
nature. Like Thucydides, Procopius acknowledges that war brings degenera-
tion and that the highest law in human relations is the law of the strongest.4
Procopius begins his major work, the Wars, in a manner similar to Thucydides’
own (see Wars 1.1.1), thereby deliberately emphasizing connections to a par-
ticular literary tradition. Since for Procopius power and war are the two chief
aspects of all human activities (see Wars 1.24.26), classical historiography,
which deals with political history, is, in his view, the best tool for the analysis
of the present,5 and makes it possible to diagnose contemporary problems and
to determine how to deal with them.6
2 Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 7.

4 See Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 102–104.
5 Such a narrow approach to contemporary history proves the importance of literary tradition
and at the same time its weakness – it fails to take any proper account of the importance of
religious policy: in the 6th century religious policy and doctrinal controversies were of equal
importance as wars, as far as the internal and foreign affairs of the empire were concerned.
6 In Procopius’ opinion, ecclesiastical history seems to deal with more specific questions,
although those, too, can generate a certain tension in the human society. Church history
deals mostly with theological controversies and internal conflicts connected with them; such
debates and the discussion on the nature of God are met with the historian’s disapproval (see
Wars 5.3.5–9; 8.25.13).
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196 Brodka
Procopius intends his work to be useful: knowledge of history is meant to

enable his readers to predict similar accidents in the future. He therefore seeks
to provide his audience not only with knowledge of the events but also the
ability to understand historical processes and the mechanisms of politics.7
The origin of this persuasion is to be sought in the belief that there are general,
consistent rules of history, and thus that events can repeat themselves (see.
Wars 1.1.1–2; 4.7.18–19). Procopius, like the majority of ancient historians did
not just want to report on the facts, but also strived to interpret them.8
Despite strong ties to the historiographic concepts of Thucydides, Procopius
does not limit his interest to human affairs. The history which Procopius
describes and analyses consists of two domains, the human (τὰ ἀνθρώπεια) and
the divine (τὰ θεῖα), which interact to varying degrees (see Wars 3.18.2). The ter-
minology employed by Procopius to define the sphere of the divine and God is
very diverse, but does not differ in this respect from that of authors of ecclesi-
astical history such as Eusebius or Sozomenus:9 late antique mannerisms were
especially present in his historiography, they led, for example, to the avoidance
of specifically Christian terms. Procopius was a Christian whose field of work
was classical historiography and who therefore was to keep up with the stan-
dards of the genre, avoiding moreover explicit religious statements and typi-
cally Christian subjects.10
7 On this topic see Brodka, “Zum Wahrheitsbegriff in den Bella des Prokopios von Kaisareia”,
pp. 466–467. On didactic aims of battles descriptions in the Wars see now Whately, Battles
and Generals.
8 He defines his aim differently, however, in the Secret History. This work was supposed
to be an appendix to the Wars (sh 1.1–3), but its aim seems mainly ethical: the historian
wants to warn the future tyrants that their crimes would certainly not go unpunished (sh
1.8). Similar ideas are expressed in the Buildings. In this work Procopius chose his subject
with an intention of morally improving the reader: he wants to incite to virtue the reader
by the praise he bestows (Buildings 1.2). However, at the same time he alludes to the Secret
History: History not only incites to virtue by praising great deeds, but also by denouncing
vice limits negative influence of evil deeds (Buildings 1.2).
9 Cameron, “The ‘Scepticism’ of Procopius”, pp. 472.
10 Fundamental for proper understanding of complex religious questions in Procopius
are still Cameron, “The ‘Scepticism’ of Procopius” and Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, pp. 113–115 (the first edition of her book was published in 1985). The notion
of Procopius being Christian was recently refuted by Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea,
pp. 56–58., 165–167. Many scholars, however, disagree with Kaldellis. See esp. Meier, Review
of Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, H. Leppin, Review of A. Kaldellis, “the same book”,
Whitby, “Religious Views of Procopius and Agathias”, Scott, “The Treatment of Religion in
Sixth-Century Byzantine Historians and Some Question of Religious Affiliation”; see my
discussion in Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und die Abgarlegende”.
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2 The Divine
While the Wars belong to classical historiography, they nevertheless contain

reports of miraculous divine interventions; such accounts cannot be found in
classical historians.11 Thus, in his description of Khosrow’s expedition against
the city of Apamea, Procopius recalls that the relics of the Holy Cross were
kept there and were believed to guarantee the security of the city (Wars 2.11.11–
30). Procopius upholds this belief, stating that Khosrow was miraculously
stopped from sacking the city by God’s power (Wars 2.11.25), and that God
saved Apamea (Wars 2.11.28).12 Something similar can be observed in the
account of two unsuccessful Persian attacks on Edessa.13 Khosrow wanted to
curb the Christians’ confidence that the city would never fall into the hands of
its enemies (Wars 2.12.6–7). This belief was based on a letter allegedly written
by Christ himself to the king Abgar. Although Procopius doubted the authen-
ticity of the letter, he was nevertheless convinced that Edessa enjoyed God’s
special protection (Wars 2.12.30).14 Another example of God’s manifest work-
ing in history is the way He is said to have acted towards those who are not evil,
but found themselves in a critical situation, with which they could not deal, if
they were to rely only upon their own human abilities and skills (Wars 3.2.35,
see 8.14.21). Moreover, Procopius narrates some miracles and prophecies and
it is significant that in some cases miracles are said to have been performed
by Christian saints and witnessed by the author.15 Also typical of late ancient
Christianity is the belief that the prayers of holy men such as Baradotus, “a just
man and especially beloved of God”, are always heard by God (Wars 2.13.13).
In this context, special attention should be paid to Procopius’ famous
description of the sack of Antioch in 540.16 Procopius refrains from any
attempt to explain the dramatic event, but in his account, it comes down to

12 On the Christian aspects of this account see Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century,
p. 114, Evans, “Christianity and Paganism in Procopius of Caesarea”, p. 90. The opinion
of Kaldellis, “Procopius’ Persian War: a thematic and literary analysis”, pp. 271–273 who
wants to see Procopius’ statement that ‘God saved Apamea’ as ironic, is unconvincing (see
Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und die Abgarlegende”, p. 350).
13 On this topic Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und die Abgarlegende”.
14 Procopius is yet unaware of the story that ascribes the saving of Edessa to the miraculous
image of Christ ‘not made by human hand’. For the story see Evagr., he 4,27 (see Brodka,
“Prokopios von Kaisareia und die Abgarlegende”).
15 See the story of St. Cyprian (Wars 3.21.17–25), or the narrative of St. Peter’s miraculous
protection of a piece of Roman city wall (Wars 5.23.5).
16 See Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 25–26.,
Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, p. 145.
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198 Brodka
God’s inscrutable plans: God allowed Antioch to be destroyed by the wicked

Khosrow, his motive being legitimate but hidden from human scrutiny; every-
thing is God’s plan:
But I’ve become dizzy as I write of such a great calamity and transmit it
to future times, and I am unable to understand why indeed it should be
the will of God to exalt on high the fortunes of a man or of a place, and
then to cast them down and destroy them for no cause which appears
to us. For it is wrong to say that with Him all things are not always done
with reason, though he then endured to see Antioch brought down to the
ground at the hands of a most unholy man.
Wars 2.10.4–5, tr. Dewing
Procopius makes it clear that God stands above history and directs it accord-
ing to His will. God always acts according to certain rules: His actions are
always rational and purposeful, and this is why the rational factor dominates
in history. But this very rationality of history may be incomprehensible both to
human reason and a common sense of justice because it stems from a decision
of Divine Providence. The only thing the man knows with certainty is the fact
that everything has a logical place in God’s plans.
A man can be helpless facing such a state of affairs as he is not always able to
understand why particular events are happening and in consequence is unable
to identify the most optimal course of action. Consequently, faith, piety, and
morality do not guarantee the success of human actions and ethical categories
are not always the right tool for the interpretation of historical events.17 Given
this situation, it is not surprising that Procopius should apply the principle of
guilt and punishment to the interpretation of history only in a limited way. The
historian is aware that human actions, whether or not in compliance with the
principle of justice may, but do not have to, lead to specific actions on the part
of God. In Procopius’ vision God is an impartial judge who does not bestow his
favour and goodwill on any nation in advance (see Wars 7.21.9). That is not to
say that in Procopius’ historical thinking God, who has replaced destiny, is cal-
lous. In fact, God on some occasions supports the party in the conflict which is
guided by the principle of justice. These views are partly expressed by the histo-
rian himself and partly through the characters’ mouth. For example, Totila states
that God does not support any particular nation or race, but those who have
more respect for justice. There is no problem for God to move his grace from
the one to the other. Man’s duty is to act justly, but God has everything under
17 On the inevitability of the fall of Antioch see also Wars 2.8.13–14, 2.10.1–3.
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his authority (Wars 7.21.9–10). Belisarius speaks in a similar vein, relying on the
support of Heaven because in his opinion the Byzantines fight a just war against
the Vandals (Wars 3.16.2–8, 3.19.5–6). Thus, Procopius revokes a traditional con-
cept of just war and, therefore, the belief that God can intervene in a positive
way in events. Conversely, the principle of guilt and punishment is used as a
model for the explanation of the war in Italy after 540. Procopius describes the
actions of the Byzantine army in Italy in the second phase of the Gothic war (i.e.
after 540) as unjust and cruel, leading to the loss of God’s goodwill. At that time,
it was the Goths who were acting in accordance with the principle of justice
(see Wars 7.21.6–8). Like many of his contemporaries, Procopius regarded the
Byzantine failure as just divine punishment, an idea openly expressed by Totila,
in his letter to the Roman Senate (Wars 7.9.16–17).18 The fate of Totila also shows
clearly how vulnerable men are to higher forces and proves the amorality of his-
tory. At the same time, it points to the structural weakness of the model of guilt
and punishment. Before his first battle Totila warned his troops that their defeat
would mean the end of the Gothic nation (Wars 7.4.10–8). After several years and
victories the situation reverted to the starting point, so that at the time of the bat-
tle of Taginae in 552 the fate of the Goths was again at stake. For many years God
had supported Totila, but eventually He gave the victory to Narses (Wars 8.33.1).
Procopius cannot explain the reversal in Totila’s fate (see Wars 8.32.30), just as he
could not understand why God allowed Khosrow to destroy Antioch. The prin-
ciple of guilt and punishment ultimately turns out to be only partly useful for
understanding the course of history. In the case of Italy, a rational explanation
still remained: Narses won because he had a substantial advantage. The great
deeds and virtues of Totila ultimately changed nothing, and only prolonged
the inevitable end to which the weaker is bound when faced with the stron-
ger.19 Finally, Procopius knows that there is no way to understand the impact
of the higher forces on an event. This is expressed, for example, in the speech of
Artasires, during the preparations for the assassination of the tyrant Gontharis:
But as for what will follow, I am unable to say whether God in His anger
against the tyrant will co-operate with me in this daring deed, or whether,
18 Such a vision of events was not unusual in the 6th century. See Meier, Das andere Zeitalter
Justinians, pp. 324–326, Leppin, Justinian. Das christliche Experiment, pp. 284–286.
19 Procopius acknowledges that the human relations are regulated by the law of the stron-
gest which prevails over the principle of justice (see Wars 8,16,23–33). On this topic
Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 102–104. On
Totila in Procopius cf. now Stewart, Soldier’s Life, pp. 296–309, and Stewart, Masculinity,
pp. 193–212.
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200 Brodka
avenging some sin of mine, He will stand against me there and be the
obstacle in my way.
Wars 4.28.12, tr. Dewing
God, determining the goals of history, may take into account factors that
human thought is not able to comprehend. He can punish men for their sins
in earthly life, but it is up to Him to choose a time and a place. And since all
men are sinners, it remains an open question whose sin will be punished at a
given moment. Although individual characters in the Wars believe in the valid-
ity of the rule of guilt and punishment in the course of particular events, the
historian does not treat it as a universal method of interpretation appropriate
for each situation.20
3 The Forces of Evil
Just as Procopius sees direct miraculous interventions of God in the world, so

does he recognize the negative impact of the forces of evil. The historian shared
common beliefs of his age concerning demonic influence on human life. It is
not surprising that evil spirits are mentioned in his works as instigators of par-
ticular events. In truth, they appear as such only incidentally in the Wars (see
Wars 2.22.10–17, 7.19.22–34). They play a much more important role in the
Secret History, where Justinian and Theodora are themselves called ‘murderous
demons’ or ‘demons in human form’, who want to destroy the entire human
race (sh 12.14–32). This notion is supposedly supported by the superhuman
power manifested in their actions and by the size of the disasters which they
have brought into the world (sh 12.14–17, 18.1–4, 18.36–45). There are some dif-
ferences in the way dark forces impact reality on earth in the Wars and in the
Secret History. In the Wars their influence is limited to isolated events, and its
scale is quite small. In the Secret History, Justinian the ‘prince of demons’ and
his wife Theodora are responsible for the majority of the world’s miseries. The
Secret History is, however, an invective, and therefore, despite assurances by
Procopius, a work of a different genre and aims than the Wars and follows differ-
ent rules than proper historiography. Thus, both works share the same themes
but use different approaches. Moreover, presenting the emperor as the ‘prince
of demons’ may have fitted the spiritual and intellectual climate of the time.
Belief in demons was widespread, natural disasters were treated as harbingers
20 Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 30–31, Evans,

Procopius, pp. 124–126.
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of the end of the world – men were very prone to eschatological moods.21
Justinian’s reign, as R. Scott rightly stresses, was a time of anxiety.22 Under these
conditions there certainly was a willingness, especially among the enemies of
the Emperor, to identify him with the messenger of darkness, or even with the
Antichrist and to believe that contemporary political catastrophes and natural
disasters may arise from his deliberate action. For this reason, the philosophy of
history presented in the Secret History is more radical than the one in the Wars.
In both works a disappointment with the policy of Justinian can be observed,
in both works it is Justinian who is responsible for the disastrous foreign policy.
The difference is the focus of criticism and openness with which Procopius
declares his judgment. But while in the Wars Justinian is responsible as a man,
in the Secret History the misfortunes are attributed to his demonic nature.23
However, it should be noted that Procopius, when he deals with the activity
of demons in the Wars, goes beyond the standards outlined by traditional
historiography. Despite the differences that can be observed between both
works, the general model for understanding history is the same in both cases.
In other words, the notion of a ‘prince of demons’ is not a tool for interpret-
ing reality in the Wars: Justinian remains responsible for failure of Byzantine
policy, but his responsibility is on the human level. In the Wars Procopius is a
historian, in the Secret History he deliberately invokes apocalyptic imagery and
21 See Meier, Das andere Zeitalter Justinians, pp. 45–100, Scott, “Justinian’s new age and the
Second Coming”, pp. 11–12.
22 Scott, “Justinian’s new age and the Second Coming”, p. 21.
23 For example, while commenting in book eight of the Wars on Justinian’s decision to
appoint Narses the new commander of the army in the war against Totila, Procopius
puts openly the blame on the Emperor for the disastrous development of the war in Italy.
He says: “Indeed, though the Emperor Justinian had previously conducted this war very
negligently, he made the most notable preparation for it at last. For when Narses saw
that he urgently desired him to lead an expedition against Italy, he displayed an ambition
becoming to a general, declaring that on no other condition would he obey the emperor’s
command than that he should take with him forces sufficient to this purpose. So, by tak-
ing this position he obtained from the emperor money and men and arms in quantities
worthy of the Roman empire (…)” (transl. Dewing) (Wars 8.26.7–9; see 8,26,6). Justinian’s
main crime was to have provided insufficient resources to finance the war in Italy. For
this reason, the Byzantines had been unable to achieve the final victory. However, in the
Secret History Procopius has identified the demonic nature of the emperor as the main
reason for the failures in all aspect of the Byzantine policy. “And that he was no human
being, but, as has been suggested, some manner of demon in human form, one might
infer by making an estimate of the magnitude of the ills which he inflicted upon man-
kind” (Secret History 18,1) (transl. Dewing). On this topic see my discussion in Brodka, Die
Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 33–35. On the aims of SH cf.
now convincingly Börm, “Procopius, his Predecessors, and the Genesis of the Anecdota”.
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202 Brodka
patterns to discredit Justinian as well as to create an emotional framework for

launching an attack on the foundations on Justinian’s legitimacy.
4 Christian Syncretism: Between the One God, Tyche, and Free Will
The belief that it is often impossible for a man to explain God’s actions and
design has far-reaching consequences for Procopius’ vision of history in that
it exposes the connection between Christian concepts and classical notions
of chance and the unpredictability of history. Procopius, like his predecessors,
such as Thucydides or Polybius, is convinced that unexpected, accidental cir-
cumstances may always manifest themselves. Only one thing is to be expected:
something unexpected may always take place. The existence of providence,
however, is not tantamount to fatalism. What may subjectively appear to be
an accident to men, can objectively represent God’s will. It is this distinction
between the subjective and objective aspects of a phenomenon or fact that
makes it possible to reconcile Christian belief and traditions of ancient histo-
riography.24 Procopius’ attempts to logically link the classical method of inter-
preting historical events (which attributes an important role in shaping history
to Fortuna or Tyche) with the Christian concept of God as the Lord of history
are particularly interesting in this connection. Procopius tried to answer this
question lengthily in both the Wars and the Secret History. His statements
on the subject are not always fully congruent.25 For example, in the third book
of the Wars Procopius was still trying to link the traditional concept of Tyche to
the Christian vision of God, but in the Secret History and the eighth book of the
Wars he clearly explained that Tyche is only an intellectual tool for describing
reality. In the first case the historian reflected on the relationship between God
and Tyche with regard to the Battle of ad Decimum of 533:
But as for me, during this struggle I was moved to wonder at the ways
of Heaven and of men, noting how God, who sees from afar what will
come to pass, traces out the manner in which it seems best to him that
24 Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 54–55.

25 See on the topic Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätantiken Historiographie,
pp. 40–42. Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, 165–167, 185–86., 201 rightly notices that
Procopius is stressing the inevitability of events and that Tyche in the works of Procopius
is not an independent driving force of history but just a heuristic category necessary for
explaining the course of events. Kaldellis, however, does not see any possibility to com-
bine the concept of Providence with pagan ideas. Believing Procopius to be pagan, he sees
in the Tyche an antithesis of the Christian God.
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things should come to pass, while men whether they are deceived or
counsel aright, know not that they have failed, should that be the issue,
or that they have succeeded, God’s purpose being that a path shall be
made for Tyche, who presses on inevitably toward that which has been
foreordained.
Wars 3.18.2, tr. Dewing, revised
Procopius insists that God looks at ongoing events from a different perspective
than the men involved. God sets goals and defines the course of history. The
historian does not say, however, that every single event is meticulously directed
by God. Men essentially retain their free will and can thus make either right or
wrong decisions, but they can never be sure whether they will be able to fulfil
the intended objectives. The unpredictability of events is strongly emphasized,
but not reduced to the simple belief that accident or chance is an autonomous
agent of historical causality. Thus, Procopius considers it as an aspect of God’s
activity in history. For this reason, he states that God sets a path for Tyche
who steers those events towards His goals (Wars 3.18.2). In this context Tyche
appears as a vector of God’s will on earth, an aspect of God’s actions.26
The idea that Tyche is not any real force in the making of history was clearly
formulated in the Secret History (4.44–45) and then in the last book of the Wars
(Wars 8.12.34). In the Wars in particular, Procopius refers to the changing fate
of Bessas, the commander who lost Rome in 546. Justinian did not lose confi-
dence in him, however, and sent him to Lazica where, in 551, Bessas took the
stronghold of Petra. Justinian’s decision to bestow on Bessas the command in
the East, despite the fact that he was defeated in Italy, had been met with wide-
spread criticism (Wars 8.12.33). Bessas’ success in Lazica was thus a surprise
(Wars 8.12.30). Procopius writes:
Thus is that human affairs proceed not according to the judgment of

men, but are subject to the power and authority of God, which men are
wont to call Tyche, knowing not why in the world events proceed in the
manner in which they manifest themselves to them. For the name of
Tyche is wont to attach to that which appears to be contrary to reason.27
Wars 8.12.34, tr. Dewing, revised
Procopius makes it clear that human affairs are directed by God. Nothing hap-
pens by chance. Men cannot fully predict the course of events on the basis

27 In sh 4,44–45 the same reflection appears in the context of Belisarius’ fate.
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204 Brodka
of the evidence that is available to reason, hence the belief that certain phe-
nomena are irrational; men use the term Tyche to define what they are unable
to comprehend and, without comprehending the causes of particular events,
they believe them to be random and happening in a manner inconsistent with
reason. Thus, the alleged randomness of events results from the limited char-
acter of human perspective. For Procopius “Tyche” is therefore not an inde-
pendent driving force of history, but merely the result of human imagination.
Each event has its cause, which is to be found in God. History becomes the
logical sequence of cause and effect that happens according to the will of
God, unknown to man. Thus, man is not able to understand the true nature
of events. In accordance with the definition given above, the historian draws
upon the entire ancient repository of images and visions of Tyche. Fickle and
unpredictable Tyche, understood as fate or chance, appears in numerous pas-
sages throughout Procopius’ works. She is presented as the force which alone
governs human destiny, raising or overthrowing men according to its whim,
not caring about the real value and merits of people. She is capricious, change-
able, jealous and unpredictable (e.g. Wars 4.2.16, 6.29.8, 6.8.1, 8.32.29–30).
She can bring happiness or misery; she can have teleological dimension or
present herself as mere chance (e.g. Wars 3.21.7, 3.25.13), while men are help-
less against her power (Wars 4.7.8). However, this is only a literary figure, and
is not in conflict with the vision of the historical process as controlled by the
one and only God.
As has been said, despite the fact that God plays a dominant role in Procopius’
vision of history, there is within the framework set by God sufficient room for
human activity and responsibility. In Procopius’ narrative, men are not sim-
ply toys in the hands of higher powers. Procopius favours generally the view
that men act with free will, but recognizes that, in some cases, free will may
be limited; these cases, however, are exceptional. Particularly instructive is his
comment on the above-mentioned battle of ad Decimum which illustrates the
essential characteristics of Procopius’ vision of history: God sets the goals of
history and ensures its proper course, while men work within this framework
(see Wars 3.18.2). The men are generally not limited in their choices, but the
quality of these decisions does not guarantee the success of their actions. This
results in a general distrust in human strength. In their speeches, individual
leaders, regardless of the size of the army, make time and time again the same
reservation: “we will win, if God wants it”. They assume that it is God who gives
effectiveness to their actions. A perfect example of this kind of thinking is
again the description of the battle of Decimum. Although Procopius empha-
sizes Belisarius’ excellent command, he points out that this alone would not
have been enough to achieve success: only a series of errors committed by
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the Vandal commanders allowed the Byzantines to defeat the Vandals (see
Wars 3.18.4–5). The crucial factor was the behaviour of Gelimer, who, when his
victory was nearly assured, suddenly stopped his attack at a decisive moment.
This inability to make the right decision by the king of the Vandals Procopius
attributes to him being “blinded” by God (Wars 3.19.25). Thus he assumes that
some of the interventions of God may limit the autonomy of human will (see
also Wars 6.29.32, 7.13.17).28This autonomy, however, is never limited in terms
of ethical choices: it is a man’s choice whether to act justly or not (Wars 7.21.10).
5 The Individual
As is the case with the majority of ancient historians, Procopius ascribes a key
role in shaping history to great individuals, who set the direction of historical
processes (see. esp. Wars 4.11.44, 5.18.5; Buildings 1.6–16).29 Those individuals
decide personally on the speed and direction of historical processes. They can
influence the course of events either with their high intellectual and moral
qualities, or by their authority and dignity. Great men, through their actions,
make their states larger and more famous (see Wars 2.2.14; Buildings 1.6–11).
Procopius recognizes the importance of individuals who lead states or groups
of men and who are able, above all, on the basis of their absolute power, to
set and enforce the principal goals towards which the states or communities
should strive. On their will and their absolute power depends the fate of whole
societies, as well as war or peace in large parts of the world. Thus, Justinian and
Khosrow largely determine the shape of the world because of their author-
ity over the major political powers of the time. These two rulers are in fact
judged by the historian very critically on ethical grounds, and their impact on
the world is, in his view, mostly destructive. Both of these rulers are possessed
by a pernicious desire to innovate and set in motion processes which only lead
to disorder, chaos, and endless war.30

29 The activity of groups or collectives is reduced by Procopius to the acts of impulsive
action. The groups are prone to violence and at the same time they are easy to manipu-
late. If their importance grows, it usually means danger for the established order (see
Wars 1,24,1–6).
30 The results of both rulers’ actions were, according to Procopius, similar: they both
contributed to the destruction of their own people; Khosrow is called the destroyer of
Persians (Wars 8.7.3; see sh 18,28). Justinian was supposed to cause depopulation of large
areas (sh 18.3–4; see Wars 2.2.37–39). However, in the Buildings the policy of Justinian is
highly praised (see especially Buildings 1,1,6–11), but these different views on Justinian’s
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206 Brodka
According to Procopius, talented leaders and commanders generally

understand the historical situation better than others, are able to compre-
hend the meaning of events (political, moral, religious, etc.) more deeply,
and see further than the rest of mankind. A classic example is the policy of
Belisarius in Africa in the years 533–534, and in Italy in the years 535–540,
which consisted in “liberating” the Romans from barbarian rule. Procopius
attributes responsibility for the success in the military campaigns against
the Vandals in 533–534 and against the Goths in 535–540 solely to Belisarius.
Moreover, the historian identifies appropriate and effective policies in
recovered territories with the person of Belisarius: “Now as long as he was
in command of the Roman army both in Libya and in Italy, he was continu-
ally victorious and always acquired whatever lay before him” (Wars 7.1.16, tr.
Dewing; see sh 18.9). With the departure of Belisarius from Africa, and then
from Italy, the situation in these areas immediately changes for the worse
(Wars 7.1.23–24). Procopius’ later disappointment with Belisarius and his sharp
criticism of the general’s actions and moral attitude, both in the Secret History
(see sh 1.11–5.27) and the Wars (7.35.1–2), does not modify significantly the
assessment of his earlier achievements in the wars against the Vandals and
Ostrogoths.31 It is instructive, however, to observe how Procopius views history
in terms of outstanding individuals: success and failure of Roman rule can to a
great extent be understood in terms of the virtue and vice of specific individu-
als (see e.g. Wars 7.1.16–24; sh 18.9–11).
6 Patterns of the Historical Process
Presenting the Byzantine wars against Persia, the Vandals and the Ostrogoths,
Procopius reflects on the nature of historical processes and tries to show their
structure. His basic idea, as mentioned above, is that historical events can
repeat themselves, not so much in their individual course, but rather in their
general structure (see Wars 1.1.1–2; 4.7.18–19). For Procopius, when individuals
make some decisions and start certain historical processes on a large scale,
they usually have some knowledge of the initial conditions which may deter-
mine the future course of events. Also, they always have a specific vision of the
future, which they want to make real. As we have seen, at the beginning of an
event the actors have complete freedom of decision. It depends on them and
policy seem to result from the literary conventions, not from any fundamental change of
Procopius’ negative attitude to the emperor.
31 The historian clearly states that successes Belisarius had achieved in Africa in 533–534
and in Italy in 535–540 were undone by Justinian (sh 18,8–14; see Wars 7.1.23–24).
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on them alone which strategy they will choose and what measures they will
adopt. It is mainly the belief in the certainty of success that influences the
decision to launch a specific sequence of events. This certainty can be based
on various assumptions, both rational and irrational. In addition, an important
part of historical causality is formed by human emotions, so that even wishful
thinking can become an objective political factor.
Thus, Procopius looks for the reasons of crucial events in the psychologi-
cal and moral dispositions of the major individuals involved. Additionally, he
often points to more general causes of individual phenomena, which are of
political or ideological nature. Worth noting is his analysis of the factors that
led to the outbreak of the Roman-Persian war in 540. Khosrow was pushed
towards the conflict by his envy of Justinian’s success in the West (Wars 2.1.1,
2.2.15).32 Nevertheless, the historian examines the events in a broader context,
showing that the so-called Eternal Peace of 532 had allowed Justinian to start
his attack in the West (see Wars 2.2.4–11, 2.3.32–53) but caused Khosrow’s con-
cern for the rising power of the Roman Empire and his envy of the military suc-
cess of his rival.33 Conversely, the outbreak of the wars with the Vandals and
the Ostrogoths was decided solely by Justinian, who used the internal situation
in both kingdoms as a pretext for intervention.It is worth noting that this polit-
ical decision-making by Justinian is also linked to the influence of emotions
by Procopius, instead of rational evaluation of the complex situation in Africa
(see Wars 3.9.24, 3.10.21). Procopius always suggests that the emperor wanted
the restoration of the empire in its former limits.34 However, in the case of the
war against the Vandals, this idea is present only in the speeches uttered by
Belisarius in the course of military operations in Africa (see Wars 3.16.9, 3.19.5,
3.20.19–21);35 in the case of Italy, Justinian’s political objectives are clearly
sketched out in the emperor’s letter to the kings of the Franks (Wars 5.5.8–10)
and in the negotiations of Peter the Patrician with king Theodahad (Wars 5.6).
Both Justinian and Khosrow make their decisions to take military action only
when they are certain of success. In Khosrow’s case this confidence is based
on carefully analysed information about the strengths and resources of both
32 Following Thucydides, Procopius differentiates between the pretense and pretext for war,
officially claimed by the Persian king, and its real cause. See Brodka, Die Geschichtsphi-
losophie in der spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 63–67.
33 See Pazdernik, A Dangerous Liberty, 14–16.
34 See Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und Justinians Idee ‘der Reconquista’”, Koehn,
Justinian und die Armee, pp. 160–162.
35 The official propaganda aimed at the Vandals, however, was claiming that the only reason
for the intervention in Africa was the removing of the tyrant (see Wars 3.16.13–15; see
Pazdernik, A Dangerous Liberty, pp. 161–163., Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides on
the Labors of War”, pp. 153–155.
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208 Brodka
parties in the East (see Wars 2.2.10–11, 2.3.52–53), in Justinian’s case, the reason
is his belief in God’s goodwill and support (Wars 3.10.21). All in all, Procopius
describes the overlapping of psychological, political, ideological, and ratio-
nal factors with calculations and emotions. While describing various wars,
Procopius presents man’s place in the historical process in a very flexible way.
In the Persian wars the example of Khosrow shows that sober and cool analy-
sis of the strength and available resources of both parties makes it possible to
exercise long-term control over events. Procopius is at the same time aware
that the scale of the political objectives that are to be achieved also affects the
position of the man towards the ongoing events. The objectives of the pro-
tagonists of the Roman-Persian wars are quite limited – there is no question
of annihilating the enemy, of complete subjugation, or of total confrontation.
This leaves room for negotiations and compromise solutions, as no side is in an
extreme situation, from which there would be no way out and only the need to
fight to the death would remain. This is the fundamental difference between
the wars with the Persians and the war with the Vandals, and, above all, with
the Goths. Conversely, the war against the Vandals is a good example of the
linear process by which man gradually takes control of events. In the course
of the war one can see, step by step, the change in the relation of man to real-
ity and in the scale of his potential impact on this reality. The initial phase of
the expedition of Belisarius shows how greatly the protagonists feel limited
in their freedom of action by external circumstances. Paradoxically, it is this
sense of limitation that allows them to take an appropriate strategy. Belisarius
constantly strives to predict what might happen, trying to keep some space
for manoeuvre, in order to reduce, as far as possible, the potential impact of
unexpected circumstances. Procopius not only attempts to provide the facts
but also to point to these phenomena, which in his opinion decide the course
of the historical process.
In this context he invokes a notion of “opportunity” (καιρός). An opportunity
can be caused by such factors as the enemy’s or the protagonist’s own actions or
the impact of non-human forces. Opportunities are the critical breakthrough
points in the development of both single events and more general historical
processes. The ability to use the emerging opportunity becomes a key require-
ment for achieving success. For example, Khosrow was able largely to meet
his objectives and to maintain control in the war with Byzantium for many
years because he started the war at the right time and used the “opportunity”
offered by Justinian’s being involved in the war in the West (see Wars 2.2.11).
Gelimer was defeated at Decimum because at the critical moment he missed
a chance to win (Wars 3.19.29). Belisarius, on the contrary, used this “opportu-
nity” and as a result the battle of Decimum became a turning point of the war,
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which changed the strategic situation radically (see Wars 4.1.13–25, 4.2.9–23).
The next battle, the battle of Tricamarum, became an opportunity for final vic-
tory and the end of the war (see Wars 4.1.22). Thus the ability to use upcom-
ing “opportunities” becomes one of the most important skills which enable
men to fulfil their plans; the lack of such a skill leads inevitably to failure (see
Wars 3.15.20–21, 4.1.22–24; 4.20. 6).36 Again the course of the war with the
Vandals in 533–534 shows how the developing events and the use of opportu-
nities allow the Romans gradually to take control of the situation. The course
of the war is then dominated by the ability to properly respond to occasions,
whenever they occur. Since the victory at Decimum the Romans steer events in
the desired direction and control them according to their will: to finally guide
them towards their main objective, i.e. the victorious end of the war.
The historical reflection of Procopius reaches its final form with the nega-
tive impression of the Gothic War. His image of the war in the years 535–540 is
relatively simple: The narrative is linearly brought to its apparent final point,
the capture of Ravenna by Belisarius in 540. However, contrary to expectations,
this event does not end the war and Procopius, in an increasingly bitter and
disillusioned way, describes the subsequent events. Individual actions and the
decisions of men (both Romans and Ostrogoths), together with the changed
political situation (the involvement of the Franks in the war in Italy, the inva-
sions of the Slavs in the Balkans, the war with Persia) bring the war in Italy to
a point at which the involved factions lose control over the course of events
and the conflict develops its own dynamics. Human attitudes are now deter-
mined by the war and its brutal laws and mechanisms.37 In Italy, after 540,
there are no longer “opportunities”: there are only the prevailing necessities
of war. “Necessity” (ἀνάγκη) does not refer to an abstract, metaphysical force,
but a precise situation which results from a particular set of political and mili-
tary factors, in which men can no longer operate freely, but are forced only to
react to circumstances. In this sense one can speak of a kind of determinism.
The lack of a will to compromise, the inability to limit ambitions and objec-
tives, together with strong negative emotions deprive man of his freedom of
choice. In such a situation, there is no other solution than the destruction or
subjugation of the enemy. War becomes a permanent condition which goes on
by itself. Procopius already warns against the occurrence of such a situation
36 On the concept of “opportunity” (καιρός) see Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der

spätantiken Historiographie, pp. 80–82, Andres, “Der καιρός”.
37 Of particular interest to understanding what Procopius attempted to communicate with
his idea of “war without end” are the words the Roman ambassador addressed to Khosrow
that such a war has a destructive and degenerating influence on all aspects of human
civilization (Wars 2.10.11–12).
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210 Brodka
in the sixth book of the Wars in a debate between Belisarius and the envoys of
the Goths, famously modelled on the Melian dialogue in Thucydides: the lack
of moderation and an uncompromising desire of victory, when unsupported
by the means to quickly overcome the enemy, are an expression of irrational
ambition or contentiousness (φιλονεικία), which leads to the destruction of
both parties:
And see to it that you likewise in your deliberations do not yield to a spirit
of contentiousness respecting us and thus destroy yourselves as well as
us, in preference to choosing the course which will be of advantage to
yourselves
Wars 6.6.10, tr. Dewing
When, in 540, every chance for peace was wasted and a new war started,
Justinian’s position became uncompromising. The greater the success of Totila,
the greater the hatred of the emperor towards the Goths and the lesser his
willingness to compromise. In spite of his successes, Totila proves unable to
end the war, since putting an end to violence and the resolution of the conflict
through negotiation lies only in the hands of Justinian. All the peace proposals
of the king of the Goths are rejected by the emperor, who was possessed by
hatred and unwilling to compromise (Wars 7.21.18–25, 7.37.6, 8.24.4). In this
situation, there is no other possible solution than the total destruction of one
side (see Wars 8.24.5). In the final stage of the Gothic war irrational affects
are presented as the driving force behind human actions. Justinian wants to
achieve his longed-for vision of the world regardless of the costs. He does not
hesitate to continue the war, despite the state being threatened on many fronts
and being long deprived of adequate resources to engage the Goths in Italy
(see Wars 7.33.1). It is significant that Procopius does not see at this stage of
the war any “favourable opportunity” that could be a turning point in the war.
It is rather so that war dominates human initiatives and coerces the protago-
nists into undertaking particular activities.38 This is the way in which Totila
describes the war in his speech prior to the Battle of Taginae: both parties are
so depleted as a result of the “necessity” which is brought upon them by war
that the losing party will not be able to continue the fighting (Wars 8.30.9).39
The Battle of Taginae in 552 leads to a solution to the conflict only because on
38 Only the Franks regarded the ongoing war between the Romans and the Goths as their
own opportunity to take control of the large part of Italy (Wars 8,24,7).
39 For the problem of necessities of war see Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie in der spätan-
tiken Historiographie, pp. 98–100.
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this occasion the Empire raises a sufficiently large army and Narses has suffi-
cient resources (financial, material, human, etc.) to meet all the requirements
(“necessities”) of the war.40 The speeches of Narses and Totila before the bat-
tle stress their awareness that the decisive moment has come (see especially
Wars 8.30.14). The description of Procopius is cold and objective: the battle is
settled by the most basic military factors – superior numbers, discipline, and
training of Narses’ army versus the tactical errors of Totila. The description is
complemented by comments on the weakness of the position of man in rela-
tion to the will of higher powers (see Wars 8.32.28–30, 8.33.1).
7 Conclusion
Procopius as historiographer combines classical ideas with elements of

Christian thought. His work shows that it was possible for Christians to com-
pose a pragmatic history. This type of history went together with a teleological
vision of historical processes. This, however, did not interfere with the pos-
sibility of perceiving motion and change as the inherent feature of human
affairs. Procopius makes no claim to absolute knowledge and does not attempt
to explore the mysteries of Divine Providence. He underlines with great insis-
tence, however, the fact that human history is unpredictable, that it has a
mysterious tendency to unexpected solutions. Although he assumes that God
is above history and that He controls its course, he does not absolve men of
responsibility for acting in history. Although he stresses that men can cause
certain reactions in God with their behaviour, Procopius does not treat this as
an always valid and applicable law of history. In any event, therefore, the free-
dom of human will is revealed, although it can always be neutralized by God.
40 For the battle of Taginae see Rance, “Narses and the Battle of Taginae (Busta Gallorum) 552”;
Brodka, Narses, pp. 142–153.
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Procopius and Christian Historical Thought
Timo Stickler
1 The Problem
The problem of the topic to which the following contribution is devoted lies
in the fact that it is a cross-cutting topic. It touches on many, if not all, of the
essays collected in the “Companion to Procopius.” In terms of Procopius’s
oeuvre, too, the subject of “Procopius and Christian historical thought” is con-
ceivably very far-reaching. The Wars as well as the “Historia arcana” and the
“Aedificia” contain starting points for its treatment. The development of the
subject is not bound to any particular setting (such as Gothic Italy) or con-
tent (such as Justinian’s building policy). This makes it an attractive subject to
engage with, but also poses no small challenge. The material available to us for
exploring possible Christian historical thought in Procopius is not structured
and thus made manageable by the influence of the same unchanging rules of
genre (as can be assumed for a panegyric or an invective, for example).1
Instead of the desired delimitation or narrowing of the theme, when read-
ing Procopius and the associated secondary literature one must rather note
its constant expansion in all directions. Wherever we pick up the threads of
Christian historical thought in our author’s work and follow them, we are
confronted with many and among them precisely the central problems of his
oeuvre. This applies, of course, to answering the question of whether Procopius
was a Christian, even an orthodox one, or a pagan or crypto-pagan.2 Yet that
1 The importance of the rules of genre is emphasised by Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth
Century, passim in her standard work on Procopius; her findings remain the basis of discus-
sion today, regardless of all possible and necessary modifications. On this, see the overview
by Greatrex, “Introduction”, esp. pp. 2f.
2 The starting point of the most recent controversy is Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea,
pp. 165ff., who expresses doubts about Procopius’s Christianity; on this Whitby, “Religious
Views of Procopius and Agathias”, passim; Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 222ff.;
and Scott, “The Treatment of Religion”, pp. 198ff and most recently Murray, “Procopius and
Boethius”, passim, who wants to connect the “Christian philosopher-historian” Procopius
(ibid., 104) with the thought-world of Boethius’s “De consolatione philosophiae.” Cf. also the lit-
erature review by Greatrex, “Recent work on Procopius”, pp. 62ff. and Greatrex, “Perceptions of
Procopius”, pp. 91f. As well as, with regard to the entire 6th century ad, Cameron, “Paganism,”
passim. Older overviews in Dahn, Prokopius, pp. 179ff.; Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 329ff.; Evans,
“Christianity and Paganism,” passim; Veh, “Prokops Verhältnis zum Christentum,” passim and
Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 113ff.

is not all: the problem also touches on the question of whether our author
was really first and foremost a ‘classical’ author in the tradition of Herodotus
and Thucydides,3 or whether the Christian elements of his historiography pre-
vent such an interpretation. As is to be expected, many passages in which the
Christian God plays a role in Procopius are found in connection with events
in war. In this way, a connection is automatically made with the question of
Procopius’s relationship to Justinian’s wars of conquest and to war or Justinian
in general.4 Finally, it is to be expected that our topic will be able to make a
contribution to the actual ‘Procopian question,’ namely to the question of the
‘unity’ of Procopius’s work – for there are possible elements of Christian his-
torical thought in all the writings attributed to him.
The aforementioned framing constellation does not make my task any
easier. All the research problems mentioned in the previous paragraph are as
central as they are controversial in research. A positioning in one respect often
leads to a classification in another. Therefore, one should not expect conclu-
sive solutions in the following, on the contrary: the ‘riddle’ of Procopius cannot
be solved, including and especially not through the question of his relation-
ship to Christianity and Christian historical thought. Often, problems can only
be uncovered and described. In some cases, an intensification of existing con-
tradictions in the research discourse is more likely than their harmonisation.
One result, however, will certainly be to sensitise us to Procopius’s enduring
contradictions as a person and writer, indeed to the inconsistencies of literary
practice itself – and that is truly no small thing.
In the following, I will first compile and roughly classify the passages that
can be found in Procopius with regard to his relationship to Christianity in
general and to Christian historical thought in particular. In a second step, the
material will be evaluated with regard to some of the central questions about
Procopius raised above. Finally, an attempt is made to make a series of general
statements on the significance of Christian historical thought for Procopius.
2 The Testimony of Procopius’s Works
Time and again, we find passages in Procopius’s works that testify to their
author’s affinity with Christianity in an unsuspicious manner, whether by
3 See the contributions by Brodka and Kaldellis in this volume.

4 On this, see the contribution by in this volume.
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214 Stickler
containing almost incidentally affirmative statements about (orthodox) Chris-

tianity or negative ones about other religious ideas (pagans, Jews, Samaritans,
heretical Christians, etc.).
There are numerous testimonies of distance from non-Christians and her-
etics. Thus, the activity of Zoroastrian magicians in the entourage of Peroz is
clearly characterised negatively, contributing to the downfall of the Persian
king and his army in the battle against the Hephthalites.5 Procopius’s com-
ments on the old believers in Rome are anything but affirmative. He treats
their interpretations of the Sibylline sayings with scepticism.6 The account of
the attempted opening of the temple of Janus in Rome during the siege of the
city is more a sign of secret amusement than respect.7 Procopius’s pronounced
interest in the fate of the Jews is striking. But here, too, we should be cautious
about prematurely seeing something like sympathy at work.8 The Jews of
Naples support the Goths in their fight against Belisarius and in doing so con-
tribute to the conquest of the city by the Romans.9 He notes the proselytiza-
tion of a Jewish community in North Africa by the emperor with satisfaction.10
Especially in the Secret History, there are numerous testimonies of Procopius’s
dissociation from heretics and those of other faiths, regardless of the criticism
he makes of imperial religious policy.11 Especially in this work, we also find pas-
sages in which Procopius distances himself from individuals by discrediting
them as pagans, Manichaeans, sorcerers, etc.12
Conversely, it is unmistakable that Christians or Christianity are generally
portrayed positively by Procopius. It is striking that he always uses Χριστιανοί
to refer to the orthodox.
5 See Wars 1.3.18–22; cf. also Wars 1.5.19–29.

6 See Wars 5.24.28–37; cf. Wars 5.7.6–8.
7 See Wars 5.25.18–25. The assessment of Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 165ff., is quite
different, using this episode as the starting point for his thesis that Procopius was not a
Christian.
8 Dahn, Prokopius, pp. 193f. deals with the view that our author himself was a Jew.
9 See Wars 5.8.41; Wars 5.9.1–7 and Wars 5.10.24–26. – Reference to the Jews also in
Wars 4.9.5–9 and Wars 5.12.41f. (the Jewish spoils from the temple of Jerusalem) as well as
in Buildings 2.11.2 (a comment on the Babylonian captivity).
10 See Buildings 6.2.21–23.
11 Especially clear in the case of the Samaritans; see Secret History 11.14, 23 and 26; also
Buildings 5.7. Nevertheless, there have been scholars who wanted to see a Samaritan in
Procopius; see for instance Adshead, “Procopius,” passim. Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea,
pp. 168ff. sees in Procopius’s word of the ἀνόητον δόγμα of the Samaritans (Prok. hist arc. 11,
25) a distancing from all (Christian) δόγματα of his time.
12 Especially impressive is the case of Petrus Barsymas in Secret History 22, 25; but cf. also,
with reference to John the Cappadocian, Wars 1.24.13.
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Characteristic in this context is his sympathetic account of the persecutions

under the Arian Vandal kings.13 Procopius expressly praises the Iberians and
Lazi for having accepted Christianity.14 In general, our author is interested in
the Christianisation of foreign peoples and does not forget to provide infor-
mation about this.15 In the case of the North African Mauretanii, whose fate
Procopius follows particularly closely, he even constructs an Old Testament
origin.16 In several places, the civilising effect of the new faith on the barbar-
ians is emphasised.17
It is not only the Christian people who arouse Procopius’s interest, but also
the Christian buildings. Naturally, the evidence of this is particularly abundant
in the Buildings. One gets the impression that the churches and monasteries
newly built or restored by the emperor, like the countless fortresses on the bor-
ders of the empire, contribute by their very existence to securing the empire
against its enemies.18 But even in the Wars, Procopius always takes an interest
in the fate of sacred buildings and registers precisely whether and how they
have fallen victim to acts of war.19 By contrast, while our author does register
the closure of pagan temples here and there, no inner movement is apparent.20
It has long been observed that Procopius is silent in his works about the
most important events in church history of his time, such as the Three Chapters
Controversy and the Fifth Ecumenical Council in Constantinople.21 However,
this does not imply a fundamental ignorance of the ecclesiastical-political
13 See Wars 3.8.

14 See Wars 1.12.3 and Wars 2.28.26, respectively.
15 See Procopius’s statements on the Tzani (Wars 1.15.25 as well as Buildings 3.6.7 and 12),
on Hellestheaios of Ethiopia (Wars 1.20.1), and on the orthodox wife of the Visigoth king
Amalarich (Wars 5.13.10).
16 See Wars 4.10.12–29; cf. on the Mauretanii especially also Wars 3.25.1–9 and
Buildings 6.3.9–12.
17 Emphasis on the civilising effect of Christianity, in general (Wars 8.2.17 and 33) as well
as explicitly in relation to the Heruls (Wars 6.14.33f.), Lombards (Wars 6.14.9), Franks
(Wars 6.25.9f.), Abasgians (Wars 8.3.12–21 and 8.5.12), Tzani (Buildings 3.6.7 and 12), and
the inhabitants of the oasis of Augila (Buildings 6.2.14–20).
18 Especially significant in book 6; cf. Buildings 6.4.12 and Buildings 6.7.16.
19 See Wars 1.9.18f. (destruction of the church of St. Simeon in Amida by Kawad); Wars 2.10.6
(no destruction of the main church of Antioch by Khosrow I); Wars 2.11.6–13 (destruction
of St. Michael’s church near Antioch by the Persians); Wars 6.4.9f.; cf. 6.6.18f. (sparing of
the churches of the princes of the Apostles by the Goths).
20 See Wars 1.17.18 and 1.19.34–37. The last passage is particularly striking, since it deals with
the closure of the temple of Isis at Philae in Egypt around the year 535 ad, one of the last
important pagan cults to be abolished by Emperor Justinian. Procopius evidently does
not see this as a turning point.
21 See Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 27ff.; cf. in this regard Kaldellis,
Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 42ff. and Whitby, “Imperial Christian Historiography”, pp. 361ff.
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216 Stickler
aspects of the course of history in the 6th century ad, quite the opposite.
Procopius is aware of the continuing division of Christendom and Justinian’s
attempts to reverse it through intolerance and violence.22 At one point he
characterises Jesus as Ἰησοῦς ὁ τοῦ θεοῦ παῖς ἐν σώματι ὤν23 and through this
formula, unusual in the contemporary context but by no means straying from
orthodox territory,24 shows that he was not entirely ignorant with regard to the
theological discourses of his time.
The designation of Jesus as θεοῦ παῖς (which can be translated as both “Son
of God” and “Servant of God”) was very common in the early church,25 but
then fell into disuse in comparison with the more unambiguous θεοῦ υἱός.26
Much the same is true of Procopius’s extension of the definition of Jesus as
ὁ τοῦ θεοῦ παῖς ἐν σώματι ὤν. As late as the 2nd century ad, theologians such
as Melito of Sardis were still able to describe the incarnation of God in Jesus
Christ as ἐνσωμάτωσις.27 However, this terminology no longer did justice to
the complexity of the debate as it had developed in late antiquity, especially
under influence of Apollinarism and the disputes before, during, and after
the Council of Chalcedon in 451 ad. Is there, underlying this, an intention on
Procopius’s part to consciously avoid formulas through which he would have
positioned himself in the post-Chalcedonian debate? In any case, this seems
more likely than to believe that our author was theologically ‘backward’ and
not in tune with the times.28
22 See Secret History 10.15 (the continuing division of Christendom) and 11.14–33 (Justinian’s
religious intolerance). See also Wars 3.7.22, where Procopius discusses the failure of
the ephemeral emperor Basiliscus in 475/76 ad; he is obviously aware of the religious-
political contexts that contributed to this.
23 Buildings 5.7.3.
24 Thus accurately already in Dahn, Prokopius, p. 197 (“correct kirchlich”).
25 See still in Did. 9, 2: εὐχαριστοῦμέν σοι, πάτερ ἡμῶν, ὑπὲρ τῆς ἁγίας ἀμπέλου Δαϋὶδ τοῦ παιδός
σου, ἧς ἐγνώρισας ἡμῖν διὰ Ἰησοῦ τοῦ παιδός σου. At the same time, the passage shows that
the characterisation as παῖς is by no means reserved for Jesus alone.
26 On this, Grillmeier, Jesus der Christus, pp. 20ff.
27 On this, ibid., 209ff.; in detail and with reference to the evidence, R. Cantalamessa,
“Méliton de Sardes”, pp. 18ff.
28 Dahn, Prokopius, pp. 197ff. already goes in this direction, alleging calculation, even hypoc-
risy in the case of statements such as in Buildings 5.7.3; cf. ibid., p. 197: “Die Sprache und
Darstellung dieser forcirt christlichen Stellen verräth überall die Absichtlichkeit; sie ist
saftlos und farblos und nur ein äußerliches Hersagen der Formeln, deren Bekenntniß
höheren Orts erwartet wird.” – Attempts to define Procopius’s Christian confession more
precisely can be found in Evans, “Christianity and Paganism”, esp. pp. 92f. The problem is
similar to that of John Malalas; on this, see Scott, “The Treatment of Religion” pp. 212ff.
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The assertion that “seen as a positive religious credo, Procopius says noth-
ing about God that is specifically Christian”29 seems more than daring in the
light of what has been said. Of course, if we wish to maintain that Procopius
was familiar with Christianity, indeed that his attitude towards it was funda-
mentally positive, this does not mean that he makes a confessional statement
on every occasion. It is probably this aspect that has repeatedly led his readers
to doubt his religious affiliation. Christian bishops and laypeople can excel or
fail with Procopius, without this being an invitation for him to take a stance, or
even to unduly emphasise or belittle the matter.
The examples of this are also numerous. The conquest of Amida by the
Persian king Kawad i in 503 ad is blamed on the negligence of Christian monks.
Conversely, it is a Christian priest who puts a stop to the riots in the wake of the
storming through his courageous intervention.30 This is not an isolated case:
during Khosrow I’s advance on Antioch in 540 ad, too, it is often the bishops
who are the only ones to confront the Persian king and try to work for the good
of their cities. Their actions are usually portrayed by Procopius in a neutral and
differentiated manner.31 By contrast, time and again there are also Christian
priests and bishops who act unsuccessfully or are on dubious missions. There
is no need to resort to polemical passages of the Secret History.32 There are
also numerous examples in the Wars, some in prominent passages. Procopius’s
detailed description of the deeds of the priest Paulus, who first wrests the city
of Hadrumetum from the Mauretanii with cunning and deceit and then aban-
dons North Africa and emigrates to Constantinople, is particularly vivid.33
The above examples alone show that in Procopius’s eyes mere Christianity
is apparently neither a life insurance policy, nor are Christians automatically
historically successful or morally superior. This is at times a particularly unset-
tling trait in his portrayal. For example, the Italian praetorian prefect Fidelius
loses his life before Ticinum because he prayed too long in a church and
thus missed the withdrawal of the Roman army.34 Not much later, Milan was
29 Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, 171.

30 See Wars 1.7.22–29.
31 See the activities of the bishops of Sura, Sergiopolis, and Beroia in Wars 2.5–8. Cf. also the
role of the bishop of Dubius in Armenia in Wars 2.24.6f.
32 However, these passages are particularly impressive; see Secret History 27.3–25 and Secret
History 28.1–15.
33 See Wars 4, 23, 18–25. Further examples in Wars 2, 2, 1–11 (the envoys of the Gothic king
Vitigis incite Khosrow I’s offensive); Wars 3, 10, 18–21 (a bishop from the east persuades
Justinian to wage war on the Vandals); Wars 5.14.4f.; Wars 5.25.13; Secret History 1.1.14 and
27 (the changing fate of Pope Silverius), as well as Wars 6.7.35 (Bishop Datius of Milan
prompts Belisarius to engage in Upper Italy).
34 See Wars 6.12.34.
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218 Stickler
besieged by the Goths and, after being conquered in the spring of 539 ad, was
cruelly punished for defecting from Vitigis. It had been a legation headed by
the Milanese bishop Datius, of all people, who had summoned the Romans
beforehand and played the city into their hands.35 This is not an isolated
example. In the context of Justinian’s foreign policy on both sides of the Red
Sea, Procopius explicitly highlights the emperor’s alliance with the Christian
king Hellestheaios of Ethiopia.36 Yet the latter is portrayed as a rather dubi-
ous figure; Procopius’s detachment is clearly palpable. Accordingly, there is no
real regret on his part when the Roman-Ethiopian offensive on the Arabian
Peninsula finally fails.
So being a Christian alone does not mean all that much. It opens up a per-
spective, for instance in the case of the barbarian Tzani, who only become
aware of their humanity, as it were, by accepting Christianity (συνιέντες ὡς
ἄνθρωποι εἶεν).37 Such a perspective can also have a welcome efficacy histori-
cally, but this need not be so in every case. Indeed, Procopius goes a step fur-
ther: Christianity can even be perverted in the hands of malicious people and
degenerate into cynicism. Naturally, numerous examples of this aberration,
sharply criticised by Procopius, can be found in the Secret History. But also
in the “Bella” there are actors like the Vandal king Gaiseric, the Persian king
Khosrow I, and others who only have God on their lips and evil in mind.38 Of
all people, the pseudo-Christian John the Cappadocian, a favourite addressee
of Procopius’s invectives, is ordained presbyter.39 Particularly disturbing is the
case of the army commander Areobindus, who is put to death by the North
African usurper Gontharis in 546 ad. In this episode, narrated in detail by
Procopius, all the Christian motifs serve to further heighten the outrage at
events. Areobindus, already marked as a hesitant man, avoids confrontation
and seeks refuge in a monastery, but he is persuaded to leave his asylum by
Bishop Reparatus of Carthage. Gontharis lulls him into a false sense of security,
not least by invoking the gospel and the sacrament of baptism, only to have
him killed in the end.40 Procopius expects his readers to endure such contrasts
and contradictions; in doing so he heightens their attention and consternation.
35 See Wars 6.7.35.

36 See Wars 1.20; cf. also Wars 2.1 and Buildings 5.8.
37 Buildings 3.6.12.
38 From a Procopian point of view, Gaiseric develops accurate ideas of the hidden work of
God, but at the same time proves to be a cynic (s. Wars 3.4.9 and 13 as well as Wars 3.5.24f.).
Khosrow I explicitly mentions God, but at the same time treats him as a rival (see
Wars 2.9.1–13 and Wars 2.26.2).
39 See Wars 1.24.13 and Wars 1.25.31.
40 See Wars 4.26.16–33.
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Is it any wonder that he also does not shy away from linking criticism of
Emperor Justinian with his relationship to Christianity?
In fact, scornful criticism of Justinian’s bigoted piety can already be found
in the seventh book of the Wars, in which Procopius reports the rumour that
the emperor spends the night studying Christian doctrines together with
ancient priests instead of devoting himself to the actual business of the state;
the remark is, however, put into the mouths of the emperor’s enemies as a
precaution.41 In the Secret History, Procopius then openly reviles Justinian as
an enemy of God and prince of demons (δαιμόνων ἄρχων).42 The whole work
seems to be composed around this personal invective.43 The emperor takes
on the features of the Antichrist.44 The apocalyptic perspective of the Secret
History that thus becomes apparent visibly detaches itself from the historiog-
raphy, indeed, as Brodka has correctly seen, it forms a kind of eschatological
complement to the Wars.45
Procopius’s massive critique of Justinian’s religious policy makes no refer-
ence to obvious current events such as the Three Chapters Controversy, the
council of 553 ad, and the like; it is not focused at all on the contemporary sen-
sitive topics. But that does not make it any less committed. Precisely because it
avoids topics on which one could justifiably disagree, it is more fundamental,
more inescapable. Justinian appears to Procopius as the ‘dissembler’ (εἴρων),46
who consciously sows confusion in the Christian world. His religious intoler-
ance brings only ruin, as it was intertwined with material interests and thus
implicitly hypocritical.47 The emperor is supported by his ‘congenial’ wife
Theodora. The wickedness of emperor and empress complemented each other;
the continuing division of Christendom was their joint work.48 Procopius is
highly emotional in these passages. The two explicit references to God49 suggest
that this is not just posturing. Of course, the Secret History was not published
during Procopius’s lifetime. A remark in the Buildings may allow us to infer
41 See Wars 7.32.9; see also Wars 7.35.9–11. On this form of criticism per personam interposi-
tam see Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik in Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”, pp. 221ff.
42 Thus Secret History 12.26 and 32 as well as Secret History 30.34.
43 See Secret History 27–29; as well as Secret History 13.4–11; Justinian’s passion for innova-
tions also appears – with a positive spin – in Buildings 1.1, 8f.
44 The emphasis on the apocalyptic features in Procopius’s criticism of Justinian already in
Evans, “Procopius of Caesarea and the Emperor Justinian”, pp. 135ff.
45 See Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosphie, pp. 34ff., esp. 38.
46 Secret History 27.2.
47 Thus Secret History 11.14–33.
48 See Secret History 10.15 and Secret History 15.18.
49 See Secret History 27.2 and 28.13; see also Secret History 18.3: only God knows the number
of Justinian’s victims.
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220 Stickler
what it might have meant for our author to need to conceal his opinion all
the time. When it is said here that Justinian and Theodora did everything
together in pious cooperation (τὴν γὰρ εὐσέβειαν ἀλλήλοις ἐπικοινούμενοι ἅπαντα
ἔπρασσον),50 this seems at any rate to be praise which cannot be thought
more poisoned.
Examples such as this show wherein lies the particular difficulty of clas-
sifying Procopius’s statements on Christianity. Can we even relate a statement
made in the context of an invective (the Secret History) to another taken from
a panegyric (the Buildings)? Must the two then be set off against each other, as
it were, or can they be allowed to support each other? In the Wars, the prob-
lem is different. Here, Procopius cultivates an at times strangely distanced
mode of expression towards Christian people and content, which is obvi-
ously not an expression of an open or concealed pagan sentiment on the part
of the author, but rather testimony to his desire to pursue a particular style,
which was to be measured against the classical tradition of a Herodotus and
Thucydides.51 This explains Procopius’s awkward paraphrasing of words such
as “monk” (μοναχός) or “bishop” (ἐπίσκοπος) instead of simply foisting them
on his late antique readers.52 However, this attitude is not limited to Christian
terminology. Even the word for “pagan” (Ἑλληνικός) is awkwardly defined by
Procopius.53 In places there is a certain tension between the ancient practices
evoked by our author and the lived experience of his contemporaries, includ-
ing the pagan ones.54 Again and again he affords himself learned references
to gods, mythical figures and landscapes.55 Classical and Christian discourse
sometimes stand directly alongside one another, even imperceptibly merging
into each other, for example when the great Orestes excursus in the first book
50 Buildings 1.9.5. Ironically, Procopius’s praise here refers to the establishment of the so-
called Metanoia monastery for former prostitutes, a process which is also mentioned in
Secret History 17, 5f., of course negatively. Note that Theodora herself came from the demi-
monde of the milieu of performers.
51 See Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 306 and 310ff.; Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, esp.
pp. 33ff., and Meier, “Prokop, Agathias, die Pest”, pp. 287ff.; see also Kaldellis, Procopius of
Caesarea, pp. 24ff.
52 See Wars 1.7.22 (μοναχός) and Wars 3.10.18 (ἐπίσκοπος). Further examples could be given;
see Rubin, “Prokopios”, pp. 329f. In this sense Cameron/Cameron, “Christianity”, esp. p.
327; see also Evans, “The attitudes”, pp. 356ff. and Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie, pp.
21f. with n. 36.
53 See Wars 1.20.1 or 1.25.10.
54 See Wars 1.13.32: an enemy is killed in battle “like a sacrificial animal” (ὥσπερ ἱερεῖον);
Wars 1.13.38: the Romans sing the paean (παιανίσαντες).
55 See Procopius’s references to the goddess Hestia (Wars 2.24.2); the Centaurs and Lapiths
(Buildings 4.3.11–13); on Phthia (Buildings 4.3.7) as well as on the founding heroes Aineias
(Buildings 4.11.1) and Mopsos (Buildings 5.5.4).
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of the Wars ultimately leads into the Christian: the two temples that Procopius
tells us about are transformed into churches.56
The last example mentioned is revealing in that it shows that Procopius,
despite his displayed erudition and classicism, was firmly rooted in his late
antique present, that he did not fade out its reality, but was prepared to make
room for it in his historical work. In this respect, it is not surprising that we find
Christian content scattered throughout his entire oeuvre, the sum of which sug-
gests that our author also affirmed the late antique Christian society to which
he belonged. There are far too many examples to list them in detail here. They
range from formalities such as the fasting customs of Roman soldiers before
Easter,57 the self-evident nature of church asylum58 and the binding nature of
Christian oaths59 to explicitly theological ideas expressed by Procopius: God is
creator60 and lord of history.61 He speaks to people through miraculous signs
and omens.62 Peace is the highest good; it is precisely because the Romans love
peace that God supports them, helping them in battle.63
Above all, the aspect of justice is central for Procopius and of great impor-
tance for the course of history. Those who practise it have God on their side.
Again and again, our author emphasises the connection between crime or sin
and punishment and exemplifies this thought with reference to concrete per-
sonalities, such as John the Cappadocian and Belisarius.64 This is not only a
good Christian thought, but also in an oppressive way, Justinianic.65 In various
speeches and addresses, Procopius repeatedly has Belisarius speak of justice
and the relationship to God being of decisive importance in war.66 Before the
conquest of Naples in 536 ad, the army commander appeals to the justice,
clemency, and Christian forbearance of his soldiers.67 Tellingly, the idea is later
56 The excursus on Orestes in Wars 1.17.11–20; the transformation of temples into churches in
Wars 1.17.18.
57 See Wars 1.18.15.
58 See Wars 4.14.22–29 and 4.14.37; cf. also his indignation in Secret History 9.35f.
59 See Secret History 2.13 and 16; cf. Secret History 6.27f.
60 See Wars 8.6.29–31.
61 See Wars 8.18.9–11 and Buildings 1.1.21.
62 See Wars 4.2.5–7 and 4.14.5f. On this, Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie, pp. 24f.
63 See Wars 1.14.1 and 9, respectively.
64 See Secret History 1.3 and Secret History 5.37f.; applied to John the Cappadocian
(Wars 1.25.36), Antonina’s favourite Theodosius (Secret History 3.20), and Belisarius
(Secret History 3.30f.).
65 See, for example, the prooemium to the Digests from 533 ad.
66 For instance in Wars 3.12.11–21; cf. Wars 3.16.2–8 and 3.19.6 as well as – with reservations –
Wars 4.15.21f.
67 See Wars 5.9.27 and 5.10.30.
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222 Stickler
adopted by the Gothic king Totila: now God is angry with the Romans for their
crimes and punishes them with a series of defeats and setbacks from 541 ad
onwards.68 This concept is, of course, simplistic and inflexible. Totila’s defeat
in the decisive battle at Busta Gallorum in 552 ad can, according to his logic,
only be justified by the fact that the Goths had lost God’s favour again in the
end and now had to experience his wrath for their own misdeeds.69
Significantly, towards the end of the Wars, Procopius’s argumentation based
on justice recedes behind that based on the vicissitudes of fate – something
we must address in the following. Perhaps even the ‘pious solution’ from the
early phase of the Justinianic wars of conquest no longer seemed coherent to
him.70 War had become an autonomous process and offered the actors less and
less opportunity to significantly shape events by exploiting the right moment
(καιρός).71 This is the circumstance that the ultimately victorious Roman com-
mander Narses takes into account at the end. He emphasises that he owed his
victory to the blind force of fate and the unfathomable work of God. Procopius,
who obviously did not regard Narses very highly, does not contradict him, but
this gives the whole thing an additional ironic touch.72
While the hope of being able to help determine the course of history by
practising justice and good conduct before God thus comes under increas-
ing pressure in Procopius’s Wars and finally becomes obsolete, as might be
expected, this is not the case in his panegyric, the Buildings. Here, the connec-
tion to the Justinianic thought world remains intact and is in no way problem-
atised: God’s activity for the good of humanity is stimulated by the pious works
of the emperor and in a sense complements them.73 Emperor and God work
68 See Wars 7.4.15–17; Wars 7.8.15–24, esp. ibid., 23; Wars 7.9.16 and Wars 7.21.6–11.
69 Correspondingly then also Wars 8.28.10; Wars 8.30.4 and Wars 8.35.33.
70 See in this regard Wars 7.25.4–24 and Wars 8.32.28–30. Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie,
pp. 30f. with n. 62, comes to a different conclusion, placing more, not less weight to the
automaticity of guilt and punishment at the end of Wars.
71 On the connection between καιρός and the course of the war, see for example Totila’s
speech before the Battle of Busta Gallorum in Wars 8.30.7–20. The Gothic king firmly
expects καιρός, but this remains denied him in what follows. The role of the καιρός in
Procopius is systematically treated by Andres, “Der καιρός”, passim. On this last phase of
the Gothic war, see also Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie, pp. 98ff. with the conclusion
(ibid., p. 102): “Das Geschehen (scil. the Gothic war from 540 ad onwards) wird zu einer
selbständigen autonomen Größe.”
72 See Wars 8.21.19 and 8.30.1–6; vgl. Wars 8.33.1: Ναρσῆς […] ἐπαναφέρων οὐκ ἀνίει ἐς τὸν θεὸν
ἅπαντα ὅπερ καὶ ὁ ἀληθὴς λόγος ἐγίνετο.
73 Thus Buildings 1.4.24 and Buildings 2.9.11.
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together. The ‘true faith,’ guaranteed by the emperor himself and his Christian
way of life, thus brings about the welfare and salvation of the Roman world.74
3 Evaluation of the Findings
In a well-known passage of the fifth book of the Wars, Procopius is very critical
of attempts to investigate the nature of God (θεοῦ φύσις) and wanting to derive
generally binding doctrines (δόξαι) from such an occupation.75 From these
and other statements attempts have been made to infer a fundamental scepti-
cism on the part of Procopius – unduly, it seems.76 We can indeed discern an
increasing clouding of our author’s mood in the course of the Wars. The world
of the Secret History gains an increasingly visible influence on the depiction of
events.77 The criticism of the primacy of the religious factor in the policies of
the later Justinian is therefore also more or less explicitly formulated towards
the end.78 But none of this is enough to make Procopius a pagan, crypto-pagan,
or agnostic. Whitby has rightly pointed out that Procopius’s sometimes criti-
cal statements are by no means unique in late antiquity, especially among the
Christian laity.79 Now Procopius was not a cleric and much less a clericalist. He
came from a wealthy provincial class that had brought him into contact with
the educational centres of Palestine and its neighbouring regions early on.
Later, as a lawyer in Belisarius’s entourage, he became more closely acquainted
with the milieu of the capital.80 Everything indicates that Procopius handled
the impressions he experienced in the course of his life and career confidently
74 See Buildings 1.7.13: δόξης τῆς ἀληθοῦς; cf. also Buildings 5.3.10f. as well as Buildings 5.6.16
and 20f.
75 See Wars 5.3.5–9.
76 See Cameron, “Skepticism”, esp. p. 469, and Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century,
pp. 113ff., esp. 119, with reference to the view of older research as expressed in Downey,
“Paganism and Christianity,” passim (ibid., 102: Procopius as “a Christian of the indepen-
dent and skeptical sort”); see also Baldwin, “Procopius”, passim.
77 Börm, “Procopius”, pp. 321ff. denies that the Secret History provides information about
Procopius’s true views on Emperor Justinian. Its form of criticism of the emperor is merely
an expression of a “particular crisis situation in which the author thought Justinian’s role
was about to come to a violent end.” By contrast, Dahn, Prokopius, pp. 344ff. already shows
in detail how closely the Wars and the Secret History are related to each other. In my opin-
ion, a single event alone is not enough to explain this connection.
78 See Wars 7.32.9 and 7.35.9–11; see also Wars 8.25.13 and Secret History 18.29.
79 See Whitby, “Religious Views of Procopius and Agathias”, pp. 76ff.; the reference to the
laity, ibid., pp. 77f.
80 On Procopius’s origin and career, see the contribution by Greatrex “Procopius: Author
and Work. General” in this volume.
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224 Stickler
and was capable of forming his own opinion about this and that, and as his
work shows, also able to modify this when necessary.
This can already be seen in the prooemium of the Wars. Here, as expected,
Procopius proves to be a writer who very much takes his cue from his models
Herodotus and Thucydides. However, he does not confine himself to this; he
is not a mere traditionalist or archaist. Instead, he goes on to argue about the
advantages of ‘modern’ achievements such as fighting with bow and arrow on
horseback.81 Also at the very end of the work, on the occasion of a digression
on the Black Sea, Procopius explicitly pays respect to the results of contempo-
rary research as opposed to the knowledge and traditions of the ancients.82
Although he wanted to engage in ‘classical’ historiography, our author appar-
ently had no problem praising ‘post-classical’ achievements or dealing with
‘non-classical’ content.
In the case of Procopius, it is generally possible to detect a certain sensitiv-
ity to problems of his own time or of the recent past, including their effects on
the present he experienced. This becomes particularly clear in the introduc-
tory chapters of the various depictions of war. Thus, at the beginning of the
first book of the Wars, he comments in detail on the late Roman child emper-
ors and their implications.83 The relationship between the Romans and the
Sassanid Empire is by no means reduced to warfare alone. Rather, Procopius
addresses the theme of ‘friendship’ in Roman – Persian relations as well as the
theme of ‘enmity.’84 The two great powers’ peculiar community of conflict is
not at least evident in occasional common interests – for example, with regard
to the blocking of the Caucasus passes against predatory nomads – that they
share with each other.
It is important to bear in mind Procopius’s wide-ranging interests and men-
tal agility, for it was this that made it possible for him to integrate the decidedly
Christian side of late antique history, for which there was no Herodotean or
Thucydidean model, into his work. Against this background, we can assume
that our author was fundamentally willing to give Christianity a role in his work
in some form; indeed, we may assume that he not only passively accepted the
integration of Christian aspects into his work and their influence on its charac-
ter, but even actively pursued this.
Indeed, there are numerous echoes of late antique church historiography in
the Wars, especially in its first two books devoted to the Persian War. Formally,
81 See Wars 1.1.

82 See Wars 8.1.11; Wars 8.6.9–11 and Wars 8.11.28.
83 See Wars 1.2.1–10.
84 See Wars 1.2–11; esp. 1.11.2.
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they are often short narratives that break up the description of the course
of the war and illustrate the fate of a city or a group of people by way of example.
The breaking-up of coherent units of action into individual narratives, the joy
in detail, in vividness (ἐνάργεια), which can be observed in Procopius, is by no
means limited to our author in late antiquity. It is also found in other histori-
ans, such as Ammianus Marcellinus.85
In what follows, we must confine ourselves to a few instructive examples.
Procopius, for example, inserts the episode of the desert monk Jacob into the
storyline of the Persian conquest of Amida in 503 ad; the success of the holy
man in some way provides a positive counterpoint to the pain of the unex-
pected defeat.86 In particular, the account of Khosrow I’s spectacular campaign
in 540 ad against the Roman eastern provinces is given traits reminiscent of
ecclesiastical history and hagiography by Procopius. The city of Apameia owes
its salvation to a fragment of the cross preserved in its main church.87 Edessa,
to the north, is able to field a no less important relic in the form of the letter of
Abgar; this city was also spared by the Persians.88 In principle, Procopius is affir-
mative towards these traditions. This does not mean that he would not criticise
details – he seems to have regarded parts of the Abgar tradition as suspect, for
example.89 But in the end, the episodes in question remain an integral part of
his historical work. Procopius could not have formulated his commitment to
the relevance of Christian tradition and Christian thought for his writing more
clearly than in the case of the saving of Apameia from the Persians: “But, as
I said, God saved Apameia” (ἀλλ᾽ ὁ θεός, ὥσπερ εἴρηται, Ἀπάμειαν διεσώσατο).90
The church-historical and hagiographical features in the account of the
campaign of 540 ad are particularly pronounced. Perhaps in this instance
Procopius had a particularly large amount of relevant source material at his
disposal. In any case, the battles of 541/42 ad have only one comparable epi-
sode, that of Bishop Kandidos of Sergiopolis.91 On the other hand, the cases
mentioned so far are not just isolated exceptions. The persecution of the North
African Orthodox by the Arian Vandal king Huneric is illustrated by relevant
85 Thus Rosen, Ammianus Marcellinus, pp. 101f.; see in more detail, idem, Studien, pp. 189ff.
and 193ff.
86 See Wars 1.7.5–11.
87 See Wars 2.11.14–30.
88 See Wars 2.12.
89 On the Abgar tradition in Procopius, see most recently Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia
und die Abgarlegende”, passim, who (ibid., p 360) sees “einen wichtigen Beweis für die
christliche Konfession des Prokopios” in its handling by the author.
90 Wars 2.11.28.
91 See Wars 2.20.1–10.
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226 Stickler
episodes of brave martyrs and confessors.92 A dream vision of the holy bishop
Cyprian of Carthage supplements, as an ecclesiastical-historical counterpart,
Procopius’s account of the conquest of Carthage by Belisarius in 533 ad, which
is entirely committed to the classical tradition.93 Even in the battle for Rome in
536/37 ad, there is an episode of a breached section of wall in the Eternal City
that was permanently protected from being seized by the enemy by none other
than the holy apostle Peter himself.94
Not only the presentation of the history of events, but also its interpretation
by Procopius betrays Christian thought. In this context, we must once again
return to statements already made above. The idea of the changeability of fate
(τύχη) plays an important role in all eight books of the Wars, even if at times
there is tension between this and the idea that righteous works are rewarded
by God. Once again, this is a legacy of classical Greek historiography. The cat-
egory of fate/Tyche represented a tried and tested means of explaining histori-
cal developments. For Procopius, the change brought about by it came to be a,
if not the decisive historical structural principle.95
The examples are numerous; they involve central figures of the Wars such
as Gelimer, Belisarius, and others.96 As late as the eighth book, Procopius
contemplates the vicissitudes of fate on the occasion of Bessas’s military
successes.97 Particularly important is the passage bell. 2, 9, 11–13, in which
Procopius first of all emphasises once more the irresistibility of Tyche, her
blindness, but then goes a step further in that he ultimately declares God to be
lord over fate as well. Thus, as Brodka has aptly observed, Tyche is conceived
as something like a manifestation of God in the world, as an aspect of God’s
activity.98 With our limited human perspective, it is not possible for us to fully
grasp the will of God. We label the gaps that are closed to our understanding
92 See esp. Wars 3.8.3f.; cf. Wars 3.8.15–28.

93 See Wars 3.21.17–25.
94 See Wars 5.23.3–8.
95 In the following interpretation of Tyche in Procopius, I essentially follow Brodka, Die
Geschichtsphilosophie, pp. 40ff.; see also the contribution by the same author, “Procopius
as Historiographer,” in this volume.
96 On Gelimer, see Wars 3.10.27; Wars 3.18.2–4; Wars 3.19.25; Wars 3.21.7; Wars 4.2.16f.;
Wars 4.6.15–34; Wars 4.7.14f.; Wars 4.7.18–21 and Wars 4.9.10–14. On Belisarius, see
Wars 5.6.17–19; Wars 7.13.15–19; Wars 6.8.1 and Wars 7.13.15–19.
97 See Wars 8.12.30–35. According to Procopius, Bessas’s actions in Italy had been most
unfortunate. All the more surprising for him now were his successes in Lazica.
98 Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie, p. 41. On the relationship between God and Tyche, see
already in detail, Elferink, “’Tychè’ et Dieu”, passim and Evans, “Christianity and Paganism”,
pp. 93ff. See also Gador-Whyte, “Procopius”, passim, who places Procopius’s talk of Tyche
in the context of his criticism of Justinian.
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as Tyche, but this is actually a mental stopgap, “ein Effekt der Schwäche der
Vernunft (des Menschen).”99 Tyche exists only in man’s imagination; in reality
it is an integral part of God’s plan.
The consequences of this interpretation are twofold. Firstly, the concept of
the omnipotence of fate/Tyche, which stems from classical historiography, is
massively devalued. Tyche consequently threatens to decline into a mere liter-
ary formula. Such traits can already be found in Procopius (which is why his
concept of fate is so controversial in research),100 and even the pious Emperor
Justinian can safely mention Tyche in one of his Novels.101 More important is
the second consequence of the decision taken by Procopius. He disempowered
the classical Tyche and subjected it to God. However, in doing so he relentlessly
calls God to account. Where once one could rail against blind fate, the under-
lying problem has now expanded into the much more explosive question
of theodicy.
Procopius faced up to this second consequence of his decision and repeat-
edly struggled to find a solution to the related questions. Even if he was not a
systematic thinker and therefore one should not expect a uniform result from
him, the direction in which he moved is clear. In bell. 2, 10, 4f. he writes that
the work of God is not subject to the human categories of causality (αἰτίαι)
and rationality (λόγος). God’s rationality surpasses that of man. Consequently,
even good Christian conduct could not be a sure guarantee for the welfare of
the individual and of entire states. Procopius repeatedly articulated this real-
isation, which was obviously difficult and painful for him.102 In view of the
incomprehensible vicissitudes of the history of events, time and again he had
to bring himself to accept with faith the rationality of God and the telos of the
course of the world.103 Procopius held on to this conception in principle until
99 Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie, p. 45.

100 See, for example, the résumé in Wars 8.33.25: ἀλλὰ ταῦτα μὲν γέγονέ τε τὸ ἐξ ἀρχῆς καὶ
ἀεὶ ἔσται, ἕως ἂν ἡ αὐτὴ τύχη ἀνθρώποις ᾖ. Terms like τὸ δαιμόνιον and ὁ θεός, as vague as
ἡ τύχη, can be used by Procopius, especially in a rhetorical context; see Wars 4.1.23f.;
Wars 4.20.5f.; Wars 6.18.22; Wars 7.16.32; Wars 7.20.22–25; Wars 8.5.8; Wars 8.12.8–12;
Wars 8.14.14; Wars 8.23.20; Wars 8.33.1 and even in Buildings 5.3.10f. On this, Brodka, Die
Geschichtsphilosophie, pp. 21ff.
101 Thus in Justinian’s Novel 105, 2, 4.
102 For instance in Wars 3.6.2; Wars 6.29.32–34 and Secret History 4.44f. Whitby, “Religious
Views of Procopius and Agathias”, p. 85 also sees in Procopius’s striving for the right under-
standing of the relationship between Tyche and God proof of Procopius’s Christianity. See
also Meier, “Prokop, Agathias, die Pest”, pp. 289ff.
103 Thus Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie, pp. 54ff.
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228 Stickler
the end, even though he may appear cynical and despairing in the face of the
misfortunes in the world in individual cases.104
A good example of this is the classification of the so-called Justinianic Plague
of 541/42 ad.105 Despite all the Thucydidean trappings, Procopius interprets
this exceptional catastrophe in a way that ultimately leaves the question of
why to God and thus remains compatible with Christian ideas: for Procopius,
God remains the lord of history; consequently, he can always intervene in the
course of history, but does not have to. The divine and the human spheres (the
θεῖα and the ἀνθρώπεια) are mutually permeable and can influence each other.
“Aus diesem Grund,” as Brodka rightly concludes, “ist die Geschichtsdarstellung
bei Prokopios durch die Anwesenheit Gottes geprägt.”106 It is God who pre-
vents an impending war between the Lombards and the Gepids in the eighth
book of the Wars.107 In the Buildings, it is God who even allows the destruction
of the Hagia Sophia during the Nika revolt in order to enable its all the more
glorious rebuilding by Emperor Justinian.108
The strong position that Procopius attributes to God in the course of history
implies that, conversely, man’s free will must experience limitations. It is a con-
sequence that once again relates our author and his work to the tradition of
ecclesiastical historiography since Eusebius.109 However, Procopius has obvi-
ously not systematically thought the related problems to the end. With him,
in many respects man does have a choice. Ideally, he uses the right moment
(καιρός) and thereby sets in motion a chain of events. However, the direction
of events then always corresponds to the will of divine providence (πρόνοια).110
4 Summary
It is not easy to give a summary of what Christian historical thought may have
meant for Procopius and the formation of his work; the findings of our pas-
sages, which are indebted to different literary genres, are too disparate, and the
consequences that scholars have tried to derive from them are also too diverse.
104 For example, in Wars 3.6.26; Secret History 7.40 and Secret History 10.9f.
105 See Wars 2.22.2.
106 Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie, p. 21.
107 See Wars 8.18.9–11.
108 See Buildings 1.1.21.
109 See in this regard, Timpe, “Was ist Kirchengeschichte?”, pp. 318ff.
110 Correctly in this regard, Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie, pp. 60f. and 81. See also
ibid., 74: “Die volle Entscheidungsfreiheit existiert so lange, bis der gegebene historische
Prozess in Gang gebracht wird.”
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Nevertheless, I believe that I have compiled sound arguments in the preceding

sections in order to make the following statements:
Procopius was a Christian. The particularities he exhibits are, on the one
hand, due to the classical tradition to which he felt bound, and on the other
hand, they are within the spectrum of what could be and was expressed liter-
arily in the 6th century ad.
Notwithstanding his fundamental orientation towards authors such as
Herodotus and Thucydides, Procopius was open to influences of a decidedly
Christian and particularly ecclesiastical historiography.111 He acknowledges
the presence of the supernatural, indeed of God himself, in human history. He
incorporates hagiographic elements into his account of the history of events.
He takes a stand on matters of faith and distances himself from non-Christians
and heretics. He uses motifs from the biblical salvation history (right up to the
apocalyptic in the Secret History). The recourse to elements of this tradition
apparently enabled him to depict the complexity of the Justinianic age in a
clearer and more contemporary manner. Of course, it remains a matter of inte-
grating elements. Procopius does not seem to have intended his work to be a
“potentiell(e) Weltgeschichte unter heilsgeschichtlichem Aspekt,” in the sense
in which Timpe defines church history since Eusebius.112
I see Procopius’s oeuvre as a work in progress, a tentative exploration, an
experiment that has been modified over the years. His individual works were
to a considerable extent created side by side and were thus inevitably inter-
related.113 This, too, serves – intentionally or not – the purpose mentioned in
the previous point, to grasp more precisely the totality of what Procopius expe-
rienced during his lifetime, to depict more accurately the age of Justinian.114
111 On the hallmarks of a Christian historiography, see Whitby, “Imperial Christian Historiog-
raphy”, passim; on ecclesiastical historiography, ibid., pp. 351ff.
112 Thus Timpe, “Was ist Kirchengeschichte?”, p. 302.
113 Incidentally, another parallel between the secular historian Procopius and the church
historian Eusebius; on this Ulrich, “Eusebius”, pp. 278 and 282ff., esp. 285, as well as Timpe,
“Was ist Kirchengeschichte?”, pp. 298ff.
114 Cf. in this connection Cameron, “Early Byzantine Kaiserkritik”, p. 15: “Evagrius, it is true,
drew heavily on Procopius’s Wars, and John of Ephesus included in his Ecclesiastical
History an account of the military affairs of his period. But a historian who would unite
external and internal matters into a unified whole into which difficult considerations
of classicism would not obtrude themselves was still lacking.” The underlying problem
seems to me to be quite similar, namely the difficulty of grasping the totality of the age
described through conventional literary means. On the tension between Christian his-
toriography and secular historiography, which was overcome, see also Whitby, “Imperial
Christian Historiography”, pp. 36ff.
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230 Stickler
Against this background, the Christian elements in Procopius’s account

appear to be an indispensable part of his work; they are not an incidental addi-
tion or a testimony to our author’s lack of stringency. In one of his profound
contributions on the nature of Eusebian ecclesiastical historiography, Timpe
described the achievements of this literary genre, newly created in late antiq-
uity, as follows:115 it had provided a framework for the meaning, purpose, and
possibility of human action. It gave priority to God’s higher level of reality with-
out denying the profane its well-deserved place. Finally, it has given a forum
to the “Unruhe, die mit den Fakten nicht zufrieden ist.”116 We find all these
elements in Procopius’s oeuvre, too, especially in the Wars. In four places in his
work, our author hints that he also wanted to write a church history.117 This did
not happen, but the idea that Procopius carried this plan around with him has
always fascinated scholarship and led to speculation about what might have
been dealt with in this Procopian church history.118 Now perhaps death pre-
vented this work from ever being written. But there is also another possibility.
In view of what we have elaborated in the previous sections, we could also
say: there was no longer any need for a church history. One way or another,
essential elements of this literary genre had found their way into Procopius’s
historical writing. After all that had gone before, he could not have done it any
differently, or any ‘better.’
115 See Timpe, “Was ist Kirchengeschichte?”, pp. 327f.
116 Ibid., p. 328.
117 See Wars 8.25.13; Secret History 1.14; Secret History 11.33 and Secret History 26.18.
118 Most recently in Kaldellis, “The Date”, pp. 606ff.
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Procopius of Caesarea and His
Byzantine Successors
Marek Jankowiak
One would expect the towering figure of Procopius of Caesarea to have exerted
significant influence over later Byzantine historiography.1 His narrative of the
wars waged by the Empire in Italy, in the Balkans, and in the East was indeed
extended by half a century by such historians as Agathias, Menander Protector,
and Theophylact Simocatta. In the later centuries, his works were used as a
source by historians interested in the reign of Justinian, or quarried for uncom-
mon words, elegant phrases, and useful examples. But is this sufficient to
speak of Procopius as a major source of inspiration for his successors?2 Was
the modern enthusiasm for him matched by that of the Byzantine historians
and literati, such as Agathias or Photius? This chapter will explore Byzantine
attitudes to the oeuvre of Procopius until the end of the period of the encyclo-
paedic compilations at the close of the 10th century, focusing in particular on
the three historians who took most interest in Procopius’ works: Agathias of
Myrina, the only self-avowed continuator of Procopius, Evagrius Scholasticus,
and Theophanes Confessor.
1 Classicizing Historians after Procopius
Agathias of Myrina is the only direct continuator of Procopius who wrote with
the explicit purpose of bringing Procopius’ narrative down to his own times:
since most of the events of the reign of Justinian have been accurately
recorded by the rhetor Procopius of Caesarea i feel I can dispense with
the necessity of covering the same ground, but I must give as full an
account as possible of subsequent events.
Preface 22
1 I would like to thank Phil Booth, Martin Hinterberger, James Howard-Johnston, Federico
Montinaro, Elodie Turquois, and the participants of the “Reinventing Procopius” conference
in Corpus Christi College, Oxford (17–18 January 2014), for their useful comments.
2 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, cols. 587–99; Whitby, “Greek Historical Writing”, p. 25: “the
magnitude of Procopius’ achievement (…) was real enough for his successors among the clas-
sicizing historians.”

232 Jankowiak
Agathias, who wrote his Histories around 580,3 a generation after Procopius,
prefaced his work with a summary of the Wars (Preface 23–31), and took up
the accounts of the wars in Italy and in Lazica where Procopius had left them,
rather abruptly, in the eighth book of the Wars. Agathias’ narrative starts
off, equally abruptly, with the death of the Gothic king Teias at the battle of
Mons Lactarius (1.1.1), the last event described by Procopius in the Wars (8.35),
and claims to resume the narrative of the war in Lazica at a point down to
which “the rhetor Procopius recorded sufficiently the events” (2.19.1, referring
to Wars 8.16–17), even though the two accounts appear to be separated by a
two-year gap.4
Agathias closely followed his model. This is to a large extent due to their
common genre of classicizing history, but a more specifically Procopian influ-
ence is perceptible in the structure of Agathias’ Histories, with successive the-
atres of wars treated in a geographical, rather than chronological, order, even
if the division into books does not coincide with the individual wars. Similarly
to Procopius, Agathias enlivens his narrative with ethnographical digressions,
frequently inspired by the Wars, such as those on Sasanian Persia (2.23–27 and
4.23–30), the Franks (1.2, cf. Wars 5.13–14, 7.33), the Lazi (2.18.4–5), the Tzani
(5.1, cf. Wars 8.1.8), and the migration of the Kutrigurs and Utigurs across the
Maeotis (5.11.2–3, cf. Wars 8.5.1–10).5
But the attitude of Agathias to Procopius was less reverential than it might
seem at first glance.6 On the one hand, Agathias’ heart was not in military
history, hence the increased focus on ethnographical digressions and natu-
ral disasters rather than warfare. At the same time, the descriptions of earth-
quakes and of the plague (2.15–17, 5.3–10) play a structural role unparalleled
in the Wars: they serve as transitions between the theatres of war and empha-
size the calamities of the time, a theme announced by Agathias in the pref-
ace (10).7 On the other hand, Agathias makes it clear from the outset that he
intends not only to continue, but also to correct and complement the work
of his predecessor. Procopius pictured the fight at Mons Lactarius as the “last
3 On Agathias’ Histories, see Cameron, Agathias, and the introductions to the edition and
to Maraval, Agathias (see Primary Sources, under Procopius). Translations are based,
where possible, on Cameron, “Agathias on the Sasanians”, and ead., “Agathias on the early
Merovingians”, and otherwise on the English translation by J.D. Frendo.
4 Stein, Histoire du Bas-Empire, vol. 2, pp. 511–12.
5 See, on the Kutrigurs and Utigurs, Cameron, Agathias, p. 148 (correct ‘v.10’ into ‘v.11’), and
below for the remaining digressions.
6 Cameron, Agathias, p. 11: “he was in fact both Procopius’ successor and his antithesis”;
Maraval, Agathias, p. 15: “[Procope] est son modèle avoué et, à plusieurs reprises, sa source
directe, même si à maintes reprises il se distancie de lui.”
7 Meier, “Prokop, Agathias, die Pest”, pp. 294–97.
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battle” of the war in Italy (8.35.32), to which Agathias re-joins that “this turn of
events led everyone to suppose that the fighting in Italy had been brought to a
successful conclusion: in reality it had scarcely begun” (1.1.1). The chapters on
the war in Italy abound in implicit corrections of Procopius,8 while the move
to the Persian theatre of war allowed Agathias to complement the account
of the Wars with the mention of the Egyptian origin of the Colchians-Lazi
(2.18.5, cf. Wars 8.1–6).9 Such covert criticism transpires more clearly in eth-
nographical digressions, most of which provide Agathias with an opportunity
to disagree with Procopius, even if he is rarely quoted by name. Thus, while
Procopius followed an old historiographical tradition in ascribing the cross-
ing of the Maeotis by the Kutrigurs and Utigurs to some youths following a
doe (8.5.7–9),10 Agathias dismissed it as “common talk” (5.11.3); Procopius
denied that the Tzani lived on the Black Sea and adjoined on the territory of
the Trapezuntines (8.1.8), whereas Agathias affirmed that “the Tzani live to the
south of the Euxine near Trebizond” (5.1.2);11 Procopius has the Frankish king
Theodebert die of illness (8.24.6), but Agathias describes a complicated hunt-
ing accident in which the king is killed by a branch of a tree hit by a charg-
ing boar (1.4.5–6).12 More generally, the idealised presentation of the Franks in
Agathias “runs strongly counter (…) to the whole account in Procopius which
represented the Franks as universally treacherous and unreliable”.13 One can,
furthermore, wonder if the description of the heroic campaign of Belisarius
against the Kutrigurs in 559 (5.15–20), contradicted in many points by the
accounts of Malalas and Theophanes,14 is not constructed in opposition to the
increasingly critical image of Belisarius in the later books of the Wars. Such an
implicit reference to Procopius would be in line with the sophisticated liter-
ary allusions that shaped some of Agathias’ narratives, often at the expense of
tampering with the facts, as showed by Anthony Kaldellis.15
The critical attitude of Agathias towards Procopius is confirmed by the few
explicit references to him. They are concentrated in the lengthy excursus on

9 Cameron, Agathias, p. 148. In addition, Cesa, “Agatia Scolastico”, pp. 1178–80, identified
a contradiction between the description of the economy of Lazica as self-sufficient by
Agathias (3.5.2) and as fully dependent on imported foodstuffs by Procopius (Wars 2.15.5
and 2.28.27).
10 Moravcsik, “Die hunnische Hirschsage”.
11 Maraval, Agathias, p. 305 n. 1.
12 On this episode, see Kaldellis, “Agathias Mythistoricus”, p. 298.
13 Cameron, “Agathias on the early Merovingians”, p. 96, see also pp. 135 and 137–38. For the
untrustworthiness of the Franks, see especially Wars 6.25.
15 Kaldellis, “Agathias Mythistoricus”.
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234 Jankowiak
the history of the Sasanians (4.24–30). Agathias first disagrees with Procopius’
account of the adoption of Theodosius ii by Yazdegerd i (Wars 1.2.1–10).
Whatever its credibility,16 Procopius seems to have included it mainly in order
to contrast the noble behaviour of Yazdegerd, whose supposed guardianship
over Theodosius guaranteed a lasting peace between the two empires, with
Justin’s and Justinian’s later refusal to adopt Khosrow (Wars 1.11.6–30), which
sowed the seeds of a calamitous conflict with Persia.17 If Procopius was implic-
itly criticizing Justinian’s foreign policy, Agathias missed the point. He instead
approached the passage on the adoption of Theodosius ii as modern histori-
ans would, by investigating the sources of Procopius. He was just as unable to
identify them as we are:
I do not know of its appearance in any record or history, not even in those
which treat of the death of Arcadius, except for the works of Procopius
the rhetor. This is not surprising – that he, who was so learned and had
read the whole of history, so to speak, should come across this story also
in some earlier writer, whereas I, who know so little – if indeed what I
know can even be described as a little! – cannot find it.
4.26.4
Although this passage is often taken at face value as homage to Procopius

by his humble successor, Agathias sounds here sarcastic rather than self-
diminishing.18 This impression is confirmed by the violent charge against Pro-
copius for his misinterpretation of the episode of the adoption of Theodosius
(4.26.5–7): Procopius should rather, according to Agathias, have applauded
Yazdegerd for his nobility than Arcadius for the dangerous plan of entrust-
ing his child to a barbarian. Curiously, this is precisely what Procopius did
(Wars 1.2.8–10). Agathias’ critique thus appears to have no other motive than
to cast doubt on the soundness of Procopius’ historical method.
The second disagreement between Procopius and Agathias concerns
the reign of Kawad. Agathias is reluctant to accept Procopius’ account of
the circumstances of Kawad’s flight from the ‘Prison of Oblivion’ (4.28.3, cf.
Wars 1.6.1–9), but provides no alternative version of the events, again leaving
the grounds for the disagreement unexplained. A little further, he refrains from
reporting the events of the reign of Kawad, as they “have been treated already
16 Defended by Greatrex, “Deux notes sur Théodose II et les Perses”, pp. 85–87, but Börm,
Prokop und die Perser, pp. 308–11, is more prudent.
17 Similarly Kaldellis, Procopius, pp. 65–67.
18 Self-diminishing: Cameron, “Agathias on the Sasanians”, p. 149. Sarcastic: Cesa, “Agatia
Scolastico”; Treadgold, Early Byzantine historians, p. 286.
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by the wise men of old in the form of history (ἤδη τοῖς πάλαι σοφοῖς ἐν ἱστο-
ρίας διεκπεπόνηται τρόπῳ)”, and proceeds “to add something which has been
omitted by earlier writers but which I think deserves pointing out” (4.29.1),
namely a far-fetched parallel between the overthrows of the rulers of the
Western, Eastern, and Persian empires in the late 5th century. As observed
by Averil Cameron, οἱ πάλαι σοφοί is “a curious phrase when what [Agathias]
means is Procopius”.19 Is this another ironic comment of Agathias on his
predecessor? Finally, after a proud account of how he obtained access to
the royal annals of Persia, Agathias ends his excursus on the Sasanians by
one last snub to Procopius: “if Procopius the rhetor has a different version of
any of my account of Kabades, we ought still to follow the Persian writings,
and prefer their account as being the more nearly true” (4.30.5). But once
again, Agathias is not explicit about the differences between Procopius and
the Persian annals; he may have meant the confused sequence of kings that
framed the first reign of Kawad in the Wars,20 but he had already tacitly cor-
rected it (4.27.5, 4.28.2). Agathias was more interested in rebuking his prede-
cessor than in proposing specific corrections to his account.
This criticism is remarkable, because very little of Agathias’ material on
the Sasanians in the 5th century is not based on Procopius (Wars 1.2–6).21 It
appears that the famous royal Persian annals are unlikely to have provided
Agathias with anything else than a bare list of kings with the lengths of their
reigns and their filiations,22 and that Agathias was manifestly “pleased at being
able to disagree”23 with Procopius. In fact, whenever he refers to his prede-
cessor by name he does so at best with “perfunctory approbation”,24 as in the
Preface, where he notes that “most of the events of the reign of Justinian have
been accurately (ἐς τὸ ἀκριβές) recorded” by Procopius (Preface 22).25
19 Cameron, “Agathias on the Sasanians”, p. 158. Procopius is named explicitly several lines
down as the author who recorded some of the deeds of Khosrow i (4.29.5).
20 The correct sequence, reported by Agathias, is Balash, Kawad (1st reign), Zamasp, Kawad
(2nd reign). Procopius passed Balash in silence (1.4.34), and mistakenly transferred his
name to Zamasp, whom he called Βλάσης (1.5.2, 1.6.17).
21 Cameron, “Agathias on the Sasanians”, pp. 149–58, understates this point. Apart from
the accounts of Yazdegerd i and Kawad analysed above, Agathias follows Procopius on
Vahram v (4.27.1, cf. Wars 1.2.11–15), probably Peroz (4.27.3–4, cf. Wars 1.3–4), and the
Mazdakite reforms of Kawad (4.27.7–8, cf. Wars 1.5.1).
22 Similar to the list included by George Syncellus in his Chronography, p. 441 ed.
Mosshammer, on which see Cameron, “Zonaras, Syncellus, and Agathias”.
23 Cameron, “Agathias on the Sasanians”, p. 149.
24 Blockley, Menander (see Primary Sources, under Menander), p. 3 n. 10; contra Whitby,
“Greek Historical Writing”, p. 26.
25 The remaining references to Procopius – Preface 24, 2.19.1 and 4.15.1 – are similarly
lukewarm.
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236 Jankowiak
If this is so, can the long diatribe against the unnamed contemporary histo-
rians in the Preface (16–21) be directed against Procopius?26 Agathias inveighs
against those who indulge in excessive praise of “living man during their
lifetimes, be they emperors or persons otherwise distinguished”, but “when
dealing with the dead, they vituperate them as blackguards and wreckers of
society” (Preface 18). This reads like an allusion to the Buildings, followed by
an echo of the introduction to the Secret History, the separate publication of
which Procopius justified by the death of some of its actors (1.1).27 Comments
on the respective qualities of poetry and history – amusement and utility –
that Agathias strived to combine (3.1.2) can similarly be read as a polemical
answer to Procopius’ assertion that while “inventiveness [is appropriate] to
poetry, truth alone is appropriate to history” (Wars 1.1.4).28 But perhaps the
most striking divergence between the opening sections of the two works is
the emphasis of Agathias on the moral utility of history, absent from the intro-
duction to the Wars. It is perhaps the lack of a moral purpose in the Wars that
explains why Agathias rebukes Procopius without correcting him: the supe-
riority of Agathias did not consist in the access to more reliable information,
but in a morally superior interpretation of history.29 Procopius may have read
“the whole of history”, but he did not know how to write a useful one. On the
contrary, he authored the Secret History, an anti-history par excellence from
the perspective of the edifying vocation of historical writing. But even the
Wars were marred by their insufficient moral analysis of history and the indif-
ference of their author to the beauty of language. Agathias tried to do better
than Procopius on both these counts. The mixed feelings of modern historians
towards his work, often seen as too literary and less matter-of-fact than that of
Procopius’, suggest that he may well have succeeded.30
There is little to say on the influence of Procopius on the later classicizing
historians. Menander Protector continued and extensively imitated Agathias,31
26 The idea has been voiced with hesitation by Cameron, Agathias, pp. 33 and 133, and
Maraval, Agathias, p. 13.
27 See Baldwin, “Four Problems in Agathias”, pp. 303–5, for another possible parallel between
the Secret History and Agathias in the descriptions of the scholarii (Secret History 24.15–
20; Agathias 5.15.2–6).
28 On the preface of Agathias, see Kaldellis, “Agathias on History and Poetry”.
29 Thus Cesa, “Agatia Scolastico”, p. 1174, and Maraval, Agathias, pp. 12–13. On the tension
between edification and factual reliability in the Histories, see also Kaldellis, “The histori-
cal and religious views of Agathias”, pp. 221–26, and Maraval, Agathias, p. 13: “sa volonté
d’édifier ira parfois à l’encontre de son exactitude historique.”
30 Kaldellis, “Agathias Mythistoricus”, p. 296.
31 Detailed analysis of stylistic and lexical imitation in Apostolopoulos, Μένανδρος Προτέκτωρ
μιμητὴς Ἀγαθίου.
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but their relationship appears, as far as can be determined from the extant
fragments, to mirror that of Agathias to Procopius. Menander occasion-
ally corrects his predecessor – Khosrow’s speech on his inability to argue
persuasively (fr. 6.1.479–494) “looks like a cut at Agathias’ long attack (2.28–
32) on the opinion that Khosrow was an accomplished student of Greek
learning”32 – and engages in an implicit dialogue with Agathias in the pref-
ace of his work,33 where the literary curriculum of Agathias (Preface 7–8) is
replaced by a burlesque account of Menander’s dissolute lifestyle. His lack of
“desire to plead cases or to haunt the Royal Stoa and impress the petitioners
with eloquence” (fr. 1.1) directly echoes Agathias’ complaint about the legal
duties that kept him busy in the same Royal Stoa (3.1.4),34 while Agathias’ lofty
declarations on the purpose of history writing (Preface 1–6, 10–13) are belittled
by Menander’s claim that he took up the pen induced by financial benefits
promised by the emperor Maurice. Menander’s tongue-in-cheek attitude to
Agathias accounts perhaps for his enthusiastic comment on Procopius: “I am
not able, nor do I wish, to hold up my candle before such a beam of eloquence
as his” (fr. 14.2).35 But it is difficult to detect direct Procopian influence in the
extant fragments, and compelling parallels with the text of the Wars remain to
be identified. Theophylact Simocatta mentions Procopius by name only once
(2.3.13) for an anecdotal point, the place of birth of Solomon, the prefect of
Africa (cf. Wars 3.11.9); he also derived his retrospective account of Kawad’s
exile and restoration (4.6.6–11) from the Wars (1.6). If by its organization and
content his History belongs to the series of late antique classicizing histories,
its idiosyncratic style sets it apart from the works of Procopius and Agathias.
John of Epiphaneia, in the opening sentence of his historical work,36 refers to
Agathias, “who after Procopius of Caesarea wrote up what had been achieved
against the barbarians”: he was thus familiar with the Wars, but saw himself as
the continuator of Agathias rather than Procopius. The extant introduction of
his otherwise lost work makes it clear that he conceived his History in a differ-
ent manner from his predecessors: rather than to continue Agathias’ narrative
32 Blockley, Menander, p. 12 n. 51. Other corrections or additions: Zikh was a family name for
Agathias (4.30.8), and “the highest honour amongst the Persians” for Menander (fr. 6.1.11–
14); Menander’s description of siege-huts (fr. 40) expands on that of Agathias (3.5.10–11),
see Blockley, Menander, p. 287 n. 333.
33 Blockley, Menander, pp. 2–3.
34 Baldwin, “Menander”, p. 101, thought that this parallel was “intended at least partly as
homage to his model Agathias.”
35 Similarly, Blockley, Menander, p. 3 n. 10: “the praise of Procopius in fr. 14,2 does seem to be
another element by which Menander consciously distances himself from Agathias.”
36 John of Epiphaneia, Histories, fr. 1; see also Whitby, Emperor and his Historian, pp. 222–30;
Treadgold, Early Byzantine historians, pp. 308–10.
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238 Jankowiak
of military affairs, John’s intention was to save from oblivion a single extraordi-
nary event, the flight and restoration of Khosrow ii, and to explain it by a retro-
spective summary of preceding events. In contrast, Theophanes of Byzantium
may have been a continuator of Procopius, as suggested by the position of the
summary of his lost History in the Bibliotheca of Photius (cod. 64), between the
Wars of Procopius and the History of Theophylact Simocatta. The absence of
references to Agathias and Menander in the Bibliotheca reinforces this impres-
sion and suggests that the work of Theophanes covered the 30 years separating
Procopius from Theophylact (552–82), even if Photius read only the section
covering the years 566/7–575/6.37 The debt of Theophanes to Procopius cannot
be identified on the basis of the succinct summary of Photius, but his familiar-
ity with the Wars is indicated by the continuation of the story of the smuggling
of silk worms to Byzantium (Wars 8.17.1–8), even though this feat is attributed
by Theophanes to a Persian who visited Byzantium, rather than to “certain
monks coming from India”, as in Procopius.
Although Procopius was carefully read by the classicizing historians of the
late 6th and early 7th century, their compliance with the canons of classiciz-
ing history cannot be taken as a specifically Procopian influence. The paucity
of references to Procopius indicates that his work was not seen as the natural
starting point for a new series of classicizing histories. Agathias seems to have
been equally, if not more, influential as his predecessor: his Histories were con-
tinued by John of Epiphaneia and Menander Protector, and his elegant lan-
guage greatly influenced the latter. Both works, of Procopius and of Agathias,
certainly circulated side by side: the author of the Strategikon, for instance,
based his description of the death of the Persian shah Peroz in an ambush
set by the Hephthalites (4.3) on the Wars (1.4.1–14), but retained the spelling
Νεφθαλῖται characteristic for Agathias (4.27.4).
2 Procopius as a Historical Source
If the historians described above directly or indirectly continued Procopius’

Wars, the case of Evagrius Scholasticus is different: he turned to Procopius as to
his main source for the military and political events of the reign of Justinian.38
In his Ecclesiastical History (4.12–29), he gives a reasonably accurate summary
37 Treadgold, Early Byzantine historians, pp. 290–91.

38 See, on what follows, Whitby, Evagrius, pp. xxviii–xxxi, and his footnotes to the relevant
chapters; Allen, Evagrius, pp. 9–10 and 185–94.
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of the eight books of the Wars,39 beginning with the affair of the adoption of
Khosrow by the Roman emperor, which he identifies, following Procopius, as
the main reason for the Persian “hatred towards the Romans” (4.12). Evagrius
then briefly summarises the remaining part of Wars 1 (4.12–13), before mov-
ing to the Vandal war to which he devoted five chapters (4.14–18). Even if he
was impressed by the epic deeds of Belisarius, Evagrius was uninterested in
the military events. He focused instead on the religious dimension of the
war against the Vandals: the persecution of Nicene Christians by the Arian
king Huneric (4.14), the noble behaviour of the Berber leader Cabaones who,
although a pagan, restored Roman churches desecrated by the Vandals (4.15,
quoted verbatim from Wars 3.8.15–29), the fulfilment of the prediction of saint
Cyprian on the expulsion of the Arian clergy from his shrine (4.16, quoted ver-
batim from Wars 3.21.17–21), and the recovery of the treasures of the Jerusalem
temple (4.17). This section concludes with an unexpected link between cur-
rent events and sacred history, connected by the pedigree of the Moors who,
according to Procopius (Wars 4.10.13–29), descended from Canaanite tribes
fleeing Joshua son of Nun (4.18). As a result of this selection, the Vandal war is
pictured as a just war waged in defence of the persecuted Orthodox.
The Gothic war inspired Evagrius even less. He sensibly summarised Wars 5
(4.19) and devoted one sentence to the events reported in Wars 7 (4.21), but was
more interested in the spread of Christianity to the Heruls (4.20, cf. Wars 6.14),
the Abasgi (4.22, cf. Wars 8.3.18–21), and the Tetraxite Goths (4.23, cf. Wars 8.4.12).
The campaign of Narses in Italy (4.24) is noted more for his veneration of the
Virgin than for his military achievements. Evagrius then returns to the eastern
front and to Wars 2. The invasion of Khosrow in 540 (4.25) provides the context
for the descriptions of three Persian sieges of Roman cities, Apamea, Edessa
and Sergiopolis (4.26–28), all saved from destruction or conquest by miracu-
lous events. The technique of Evagrius is here at its clearest: he begins every
chapter with information from Procopius, which he then rewrites or expands
with details from other sources, ranging from an imperial constitution (Codex
Justinianus 1.27.1.4, referred to in 4.14) to personal memories. He follows the
same course in the chapter on the Justinianic plague (4.29), inspired by the
famous description of Procopius (Wars 2.22–23), but considerably expanded
with Evagrius’ own memories.
Given the consistency of his method, it is perhaps not too far-fetched to sup-
pose that Evagrius used it also in the following three chapters that conclude
39 Minor mistakes have been identified in the two works quoted in the previous footnote.
The most misleading is perhaps the blending of two Persian attempts on Edessa, in 540
and 544, into a single one (4.27).
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240 Jankowiak
the summary of non-ecclesiastical affairs of Justinian’s reign. They are devoted

to Justinian’s greed, his constructions, and his support of the Blue faction
(4.30–32). Their vitriolic criticism of Justinian, remarkably close in tone to the
Secret History, gave rise to a debate whether Evagrius knew this work. Recent
scholarship is sceptical,40 but the parallels between the Secret History and the
themes evoked by Evagrius go beyond a general criticism of Justinian: Evagrius
censured the same excesses of the emperor as Procopius, and illustrated
Justinian’s patronage of the Blues with the example of Callinicus, the governor
of Second Cilicia who is also known from the Secret History (4.32, cf. Secret
History 17.2–4). To my knowledge, Evagrius is also the only author, apart from
Procopius, to suspect that the divergence in religious sympathies between
Justinian and Theodora was premeditated (4.10, cf. Secret History 10.14–15
and 27.13).
The Wars of Procopius, or perhaps all his three works,41 have thus served
Evagrius as the main source for the non-ecclesiastical events of Justinian’s
reign.42 Rather than to attempt a comprehensive summary of the Wars,
Evagrius built an original narrative on the basis of Procopius’ work, which
he supplemented with other sources and own memories. He was more inter-
ested in the expansion of the Chalcedonian church than that of the Empire;
his selection of episodes aimed also at emphasizing God’s assistance to the
Romans. He read the Wars of Procopius, whom he praised lavishly (4.12, 14 and
19), as a religious history of Justinian’s reign, with military events – in particu-
lar those which took place in Syria – merely demonstrating God’s providential
protection of the Empire.
Apart from Theophylact Simocatta, John of Nikiu is the only seventh-
century author to mention Procopius. The biographical notice in his Chronicle
provoked much debate:
Justinian made peace with the Persians and conquered the Vandals.
These great victories have been carefully recorded by Agathias, one of
40 Allen, Evagrius, p. 196; Whitby, Evagrius, p. 233 n. 86. But it is difficult not to share the
impression of Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, col. 588: “Euagr. iv 30 und iv 32 (…) erin-
nern so stark an die Anekdota, daß Beeinflussung fast als sicher anzunehmen ist”. See also
Rubin, “Zur Kaiserkritik Ostroms”, p. 456 n. 1.
41 Two, perhaps three, passages on the constructions of Justinian – the Hagia Sophia (4.31),
the reconstruction of 150 cities in Libya (4.18), and perhaps the construction of Dara (3.37,
see Ensslin, “Zur Gründungsgeschichte”) – could suggest familiarity with the Buildings,
but the parallels are very distant, see Whitby, Evagrius, pp. xxix n. 48 and 218 n. 48; Allen,
Evagrius, p. 186.
42 Pace Allen, Evagrius, p. 196: “Evagrius only uses Procopius when he has no other source of
information at hand.”
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the renowned translators (tǝrgwǝmān) of the city of Constantinople, and

likewise by a learned man named Procopius the patrician (batriq). He
was a man of intelligence and a dignitary (masfǝn), whose work is well
known.43
92.19–20
The details provided by John of Nikiu are unique: no other source ascribes the
dignity of patrician and a high office – not necessarily that of the prefect of
Constantinople – to Procopius of Caesarea. As a result, they are almost uni-
versally rejected.44 It is difficult to trace their source; at any rate, there is no
indication that John of Nikiu had direct knowledge of any of Procopius’ works.
Similarly, neither John of Antioch (or his early seventh-century continuator)
nor the author of the Chronicon Paschale appear to have used them.45
Theophanes Confessor was probably the most attentive Byzantine reader of
Procopius.46 He paraphrased the two books of Procopius’ Vandal War exten-
sively in the by far longest entry of his Chronicle (am 6026), which takes up
30 pages of de Boor’s edition (186.18–216.4). Set against the rather low opinion
of modern scholars on Theophanes as a historian, his summary of the Vandal
War, which represents roughly one sixth of the original text, is surprisingly
competent. Far from copying Procopius verbatim, Theophanes handled his text
with much ease. He replaced subordinate clauses by simple sentences, simpli-
fied the phraseology, and removed episodes irrelevant to the main thread of
events as well as most digressions and rhetorical flourishes. The rare speeches
and letters that have not been left out are successfully summarised: the four-line
summary of a lengthy speech of John the Cappadocian testifies to Theophanes’
ability to extract the crucial points (188.19–24, cf. Wars 3.10.8–17);47 in one case,
43 I thank Marcin Krawczuk for help with the Ethiopic text. The translation of Charles,
Chronicle, p. 147, is too specific (e.g. “prefect” for masfǝn); that of Zotenberg, Chronique,
p. 397, is closer to the original.
44 E.g. Cameron, Procopius, p. 12.
45 Roberto, Ioannis Antiocheni fragmenta, pp. clii–cliii, but his observations depend on
the controversial authorship of the Excerpta Salmasiana; Whitby/Whitby, Chronicon
Paschale, p. xix.
46 This section is indebted to Roger Scott’s commentary in Mango/Scott, Theophanes,
pp. xci–xcv and 306–13, his “The First Half of Theophanes’ Chronicle”, and Liubarskii,
“Feofan Ispovednik”, pp. 79–82. See also Chichurov, “Feofan Ispovednik”. Theophanes’
Chronicle is quoted by the pages of de Boor’s edition.
47 See also 190.21–191.2, cf. Wars 3.16.2–8; 199.1–2, cf. Wars 4.5.19–24; 209.10–14, cf. Wars 4.22.7–
10. The speech of Gregory to Artabanes is the only to have been paraphrased almost in
extenso (213.18–214.3, cf. Wars 4.27.12–18).
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242 Jankowiak
Theophanes converted an address from indirect to direct speech.48 He occa-

sionally ‘modernized’ the terminology – “the magistrates” (αἱ ἀρχαί) become
“the Senate” (ἡ σύγκλητος), and the “praetorian prefect” (ὁ τῆς αὐλῆς ἔπαρχος) is
simply called “patrician” (188.13–14 and 19, cf. Wars 3.10.2 and 7) – and replaced
words by what he considered to be their synonyms, for instance “good things”
by “oil” in the description of the siege of Gelimer at the Mountain Papua (197.15,
cf. Wars 4.6.13). Nonetheless, he recorded all the events necessary to under-
stand the causal links established by Procopius, including a summary of the
Vandal history down to the Byzantine invasion and of the complex wars with
the Moors and the rebel troops after the departure of Belisarius from Africa.
As a result of his careful reading of Procopius, Theophanes was able to sen-
sibly rearrange his material.49 The most spectacular example is the transfer
of a short comment on why Solomon was a eunuch from the first book of the
Vandal War (202.7–9, cf. Wars 3.11.6) to the appropriate place much later in
the narrative, where it serves to elucidate the prophecy that the Moors will be
defeated by a beardless man (202.5–7, cf. Wars 4.12.28). The report on Tzazon’s
expedition against Godas to Sardinia (189.6–8, cf. Wars 3.11.23–24) is concluded
by a notice on its successful outcome, mentioned by Procopius thirteen chap-
ters later (Wars 3.24.1). Theophanes merged into a single account the narra-
tive of the siege of Gelimer at the Mount Papua (197.11–198.15), separated in
Procopius (Wars 4.4.26–31, 4.6.1–7.17) by the report of how Belisarius gained
control over remote Vandal possessions, which was in turn postponed by
Theophanes after the capitulation of Gelimer. In at least one place a correct
internal cross-reference is introduced (192.7: ὡς προέφην,50 not in Wars 3.18.3).
Finally, Theophanes occasionally makes relevant additions to the text of
Procopius: he rightly observes, for instance, that Justinian sent Solomon to
Africa in order to “test Belisarius’ views” (199.6), words absent from the text of
Procopius (Wars 4.8.4).
The 30-page entry on the Vandal war is, of course, not free from mistakes.
Numerous place and personal names are misspelled.51 Theoderic becomes
the king of Spain (187.11–12, cf. Wars 3.8.11); Amalasuntha is said to be his wife,
rather than daughter (190.6, cf. Wars 3.14.5); the ancient name “Kyrnos” is attrib-
uted to Sardinia rather than Corsica (198.17, cf. Wars 4.5.3); “Lilybaeum” is once
48 The address of Belisarius to his soldiers in 193.26–31, cf. Wars 3.20.18–20. A similar case
in 210.18–19, where Theophanes quotes the last words of John son of Sisiniolus in direct
speech, unlike Procopius (Wars 4.24.13).
49 Liubarskii, “Feofan Ispovednik”, p. 80.
50 This expression is interpreted as a stamp of the personal style of Theophanes by Kompa,
“In search of Syncellus’ and Theophanes’ own words”, pp. 74–82.
51 This is overemphasised by Chichurov, “Feofan Ispovednik”.
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misspelled as “Lysion” (187.16–17, cf. Wars 3.8.13) and elsewhere misinterpreted

as “the Libyans” (198.25–26, cf. Wars 4.5.11), and so on. Theophanes curiously
did not realize that βουλή could also mean “the Senate”, and misconstrued “the
senators” (ἄνδρες ἐκ βουλῆς, Wars 4.16.1) as “learned men” (ἄνδρες σοφοί, 204.11),
and another “senator” (ἄνδρα ἐκ βουλῆς μὲν καὶ εὖ γεγονότα, Wars 4.24.1) as “a
prudent man” (ἄνδρα μὲν εὐγενῆ καὶ εὔβουλον, 210.1–2). But these are minor
misunderstandings, and – contrary to the impression one can get from the
over one hundred footnotes to Mango’s and Scott’s translation of Theophanes
diligently pointing out minor errors – there is no serious flaw in Theophanes’
summary, such as the omission of an episode crucial for the understanding of
the events.52
Some of the differences between the texts of Theophanes and Procopius
may be due to the former’s general tendency to simplification rather than his
mistakes. Thus, for instance, Theophanes assimilated the friend from child-
hood that Procopius met in Sicily with his domestic, which spared him going
into unnecessary detail (190.10–14).53 Other changes were probably con-
sciously introduced in order to make the history more ‘coherent’: Gelimer, who
was anyway Procopius’ bête noire, is charged not only with the imprisonment
of Hilderic and his nephews, but also with the arrest of Amalafrida and the
destruction of her Gothic guard (188.1–5), attributed by Procopius to Hilderic
(Wars 3.9.4). In the following lines, Theophanes inverted the sequence of cor-
respondence between Justinian and Gelimer, making the latter, and not the
emperor, send the first letter, perhaps “in keeping with Byzantine dignity.”54
Theophanes twice intercalated extraneous material into his summary of the
Vandal War. He first inserted a short summary of the Gothic war from Malalas –
which strongly suggests that he did not know Wars 5–7 – in the middle of the
account of Solomon’s second administration in Africa (205.24–28, inserted in
a place corresponding to Wars 4.19.4). It is not obvious why Theophanes placed
this notice at this particular place. The second addition is even more problem-
atic. Theophanes inserted several lines that do not appear in the Wars into the
description of the war between Sergius, Byzantine governor in Tripolis, and the
Moorish tribe of Leuathae55:
52 The most serious case I was able to spot is Theophanes’ failure to mention that the plot to
kill Solomon during the Easter mass was unsuccessful (202.25–26, cf. Wars 4.14.22–25).
53 Liubarskii, “Feofan Ispovednik”, p. 80, rather thinks of a lapsus memoriae.
54 Mango/Scott, Theophanes, p. 308 n. 20.
55 The translations of Dewing and Mango/Scott are modified in order to maintain the simi-
larities between the Greek wording of the two texts.
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244 Jankowiak
Procopius, Wars 4.21.15–17 Theophanes, Chronicle, ed. de Boor,

p. 208.13–21
(15) … but afterwards Pudentius, Pudentius, after losing many men,
being possessed by a spirit of reck- was killed; and Sergius, stricken with
less daring, was killed; and Sergius fright beyond description, sailed to
with the Roman army, since it was Carthage to his uncle Solomon. The
already growing dark, marched into Moors deserted all Tripolis. After
Leptimagna. (16) At a later time, the plundering all the country there and
barbarians took the field against enslaving a mass of Romans, the bar-
the Romans with a greater array. barians went to Pentapolis. On hear-
And Sergius went to join his uncle ing of this, Cyrus fled to Carthage by
Solomon, in order that he too might sea. The barbarians – there was no
go to meet the enemy with a larger one to oppose them – took the city of
army; and he found there his brother Berenice, marched on Carthage and,
Cyrus also. (17) And the barbarians, on reaching Byzacium, plundered
on reaching Byzacium, plundered many villages during their invasion of
many villages during their invasion of those parts.
those parts.
The lines added by Theophanes replace a rather vague comment by Procopius

and add coherent and detailed information on an event that is not otherwise
attested, namely on the conquest of Berenice by the Leuathae.56 Unlike, for
instance, the invasion of Pentapolis by the Moors, which could perhaps be
inferred from the flight of Sergius who had been named as the governor of
Pentapolis (Wars 4.21.1), the information about the conquest of Berenice could
not have been conjectured from Procopius’ text. Roger Scott attributed it to an
unknown good source,57 but in view of its coherence and of the absence of any
other source on these events, Theophanes’ addition can only come from the
Wars. This implies that Theophanes had at his disposal a text that differed at
places from that of the extant manuscripts, the oldest of which date from the
14th century.58
56 The rebuilding of the city walls of Berenice, mentioned without any further details in
Buildings 6.2.5, may refer to this event.
57 Mango/Scott, Theophanes, p. 312 n. 104, see also p. lxxix. Modéran, Les Maures, pp. 610–11,
hesitates between an unknown source and a fuller version of Procopius.
58 Similarly, Liubarskii, “Feofan Ispovednik”, p. 79. On the manuscripts, see Procopius, Wars,
ed. Haury, rev. Wirth, vol. 1, p. xxviii–xl. Liubarskii came to a similar conclusion on the
manuscript of Theophylact Simocatta used by Theophanes (p. 74).
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In this case, perhaps not all the divergences from the text of Procopius are
Theophanes’ mistakes.59 Another case of a precision missing from Procopius
can be found in the description of the banquet at which Gontharis was killed
by Artabanes, situated by Theophanes in “a suburban estate” (214.18–20, cf.
Wars 4.28.1–2).60 To the same category belongs perhaps the optimistic ending
of Theophanes’ summary, with Africa enjoying “complete peace” (216.4), rather
than “some rest, obtained at last and with much toil” (Wars 4.28.52). Even if
the evidence is too thin to make a case for a second (or rather first, in view of
Procopius’ optimism) edition of the Vandal War, similar to the possible second
edition of the Buildings,61 these passages can still serve as a warning that the
text of the Wars may have evolved between 550 and the 14th century.
While the high quality and, to a large extent, the method of Theophanes’
summary of the Vandal War is matched by his excerpts from the Persian War and
from the History of Theophylact Simocatta62 – which makes it unlikely that he
relied on some earlier paraphrase of Procopius – its length is exceptional. The
purpose of this oversized entry was, according to Roger Scott, “to restore the
picture of Justinian as the great conqueror”,63 an aspect almost entirely miss-
ing from the Chronicle of Malalas, the main source of Theophanes for the reign
of Justinian. Theophanes may have also intended to underscore the connec-
tion between orthodoxy and military success, in a context where Iconoclasm
was increasingly associated with victories over the Empire’s enemies.64 But if
he was pursuing this agenda, it remains unclear why Theophanes – perhaps
captivated by the narrative of Procopius – decided to include the depressing
account of the war with the Moors and of the revolt of Stotzas.
Theophanes also paraphrased sections of the first two books of the Wars
and placed them under the roughly corresponding dates, conjectured from the
chronological list of the Persian kings which was part of the chronological skel-
eton of his Chronicle. Thus, in am 5967, the penultimate regnal year of Peroz,
he reported the first expedition of Peroz against the Hephthalites (Wars 1.3),
followed the next year by his defeat and death, and by the summary of the first
59 Thus also Modéran, Les Maures, p. 611, who attributes, however, too much importance
to a divergence that can be explained by the paraphrasing technique of Theophanes
(pp. 618–19).
60 See also the description of the Moors in Theophanes as “senseless animals” (ἄλογα ζῷα,
197.16), rather than “other animals” (ἄλλα ζῷα, Wars 4.6.13), which gives a better sense.
61 Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs”.
62 See Liubarskii, “Feofan Ispovednik”, summarized in English in Liubarskii, “Concerning the
Literary Technique”.
63 Scott, “The First Half of Theophanes’ Chronicle”, p. 253.
64 See e.g. Theophanes, Chronicle, ed. de Boor, am 6305, p. 501.3–27.
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246 Jankowiak
reign and exile of Kawad (Wars 1.4–6). In am 6013, he copied the story of the
adoption of Khosrow by Justin i (Wars 1.11). Finally, in am 6033, Theophanes
reported at length (219.19–222.8) Belisarius’ stratagem that incited Khosrow to
withdraw from the Roman territory in 542 (Wars 2.20–21), perhaps to compen-
sate for the disastrous fall of Antioch recorded two years earlier.65 On the other
hand, there is no hint that Theophanes knew Wars 5–8, which have a sepa-
rate manuscript tradition and therefore appear to have circulated separately
already in the early 9th century.66
The summarizing technique of Photius does not differ much from that
of Theophanes.67 His summary of the Persian War (Bibliotheca, cod. 63) is
more succinct – it amounts to 1/20 of the original text, against roughly 1/6 in
Theophanes’ Chronicle – but it similarly consists in a paraphrase built with
words used by Procopius, with only occasional literal quotations.68 No Tendenz
can be identified; what mattered for Photius was the course of the events:
he thus rearranges the text of Procopius to establish logical connections or
a chronological order, and omits speeches, letters, and digressions. On rare
occasions Photius comments on the reliability of Procopius’ narrative – he dis-
believes the story of the Armenian king Arsaces imprisoned in the ‘Prison of
Oblivion’ (22a30) – or complements it with additional information, probably
derived from a list of Persian kings similar to those included in the works of
George Syncellus and Theophanes Confessor.69 Although the patriarch read
the entire Wars, he summarised only the first book and a half (Wars 1–2.18). His
summary ends abruptly, without the usual remarks on the style of the author,
and is followed by a gap in the manuscripts, which suggests that Photius, or
his scribe, abandoned the initial plan to include the paraphrase of the entire
work.70 We know, however, from a comment further in the Bibliotheca that
Photius held Procopius of Caesarea in very high esteem: “by the composition
of his useful and valuable historical works, [he] left behind an undying renown
amongst all lovers of learning” (cod. 160, 102b42–103a3).
65 Thus Scott, “The First Half of Theophanes’ Chronicle”, pp. 255–56. Other notices similar
to Procopius may come from sources shared by Theophanes and Procopius, e.g. am 5961
(probably from Priscus of Panium) and am 5997–98.
66 Treadgold, Middle Byzantine Historians, p. 477; Croke, “From Manuscripts to Books”,
pp. 8–9.
67 See, on what follows, Hägg, Photios als Vermittler, pp. 184–94.
68 The most notable is the digression on the Caspian Gates (22b17–39, cf. Wars 1.10.1–9).
69 The additions regard the sequence and chronology of Persian kings: in 21b35–36 Photius
fills a gap in the sequence of shahs in Procopius, who jumped directly from Ouararanes
(Vahram v) to Peroz (Wars 1.3.1), with “another Yazdegerd, son of Ouararanes”, and speci-
fies a little further that Peroz ruled for 24 years (22a8–9).
70 Treadgold, The Nature of the Bibliotheca, pp. 79–80 and 89.
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The effort invested by Theophanes and Photius in summarizing the Wars

did not translate into any specifically Procopian influence on their works.
The Wars were merely one source among many others they used, even if they
appreciated their style and found their narrative attractive enough to devote to
them lengthy sections of their works.
3 The Age of Compilations
Interest in the works of Procopius in the 9th and 10th centuries went beyond
purely historiographical pursuits. They were mined for rare words, elegant
expressions, entertaining stories, and useful examples, such as the story of the
tutelage of the Persian king over the infant emperor Theodosius ii, which was
used by Patriarch Nicholas Mystikos in a letter to the Bulgarian ruler Symeon
little after eight-year-old Constantine Porphyrogenitus became sole emperor in
June 913 (Letter 5.128–143, cf. Wars 1.2.1–10) – although Nicholas confused shah
Yazdegerd with Khusro. The Vandal War provided a model for the account of
the reconquest of Crete in 961 in the continuation of the chronicle of Symeon
the Logothete,71 and probably also for the lost work of protospatharios Manuel
on the exploits of the 10th-century general John Kourkouas who was “likened
to a Trajan or a Belisarius”, whereas his brother Theophilus “was recognised
as a new Solomon, like the one in the time of Justinian”. Manuel’s work also
apparently contained “persuasive and encouraging speeches to the Romans”,
and was composed of eight books, the latter suggesting perhaps that he knew
the entire Wars.72 Overall, however, the treatment of Procopius’ works was not
different from that of other Late Antique classicizing historians, in particular
of Agathias. A combined influence of Procopius and Agathias is discernible, for
instance, in the History of Leo the Deacon who in his introduction imitated the
preface of Agathias’ Histories – his main literary model73 – but complemented
it with quotations from Procopius (p. 5.12–14, ed. Hase, cf. Wars 1.1.4). Echoes
of Procopius can further be identified in Leo’s comments on the instability of
71 Kaldellis, “The Byzantine conquest of Crete”, referring to Theophanes Continuatus,

pp. 473–81, ed. Bekker; see earlier already Ivanov, “Ob odnom zaimstvovanii”.
72 Theophanes Continuatus, pp. 427–28, ed. Bekker; repeated in John Skylitzes, 230.33–37,
ed. Thurn. I am sceptical of the interpretation of this work proposed by Treadgold, Middle
Byzantine historians, pp. 197–203.
73 Leo the Deacon, History, ed. Hase, pp. xx and 397: Leo Agathiam ut toto opere item hic
imitatur, et sententiis (…) et ipsis vocabulis translatis.
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248 Jankowiak
fortune in relation to the fall of Joseph Bringas and the accession of Nicephorus
Phocas (p. 47.14–19 and 48.23–49.2, ed. Hase, cf. Wars 3.21.7 and 8.32.29).74
Procopius’ works were extensively used by Constantine vii Porphyrogenitus
and the excerptors working under his patronage. A mention of Procopius
among other relatively recent historians such as Agathias, Menander, and
Hesychius who wrote before the creation of the theme of Armeniakon (De
thematibus ii.10, p. 63, ed. Pertusi) suggests that Constantine knew his works,
even if elsewhere (De administrando imperio 25.3–55) he quoted the Wars by
the intermediary of the Chronicle of Theophanes (93.31–95.25, cf. Wars 3.2–4).
Among the four extant collections of excerpts, De legationibus and De senten-
tiis contain over a hundred passages from the Wars, and many more must have
been copied in the lost collections, including the missing part of De virtutibus
et vitiis.75 De Boor argued persuasively that the latter also included excerpts
from the Secret History.76
The Constantinian excerpts probably served, in turn, as the source for the
numerous quotations from Procopius in the Suda lexicon.77 As opposed to
9th-century dictionaries such as the Συναγωγὴ λέξεων χρησίμων or the lexicon of
Photius that do not seem to include any passages from Procopius,78 the Suda
quotes his works at least 250 times. Slightly more than a half of these quota-
tions comes from the Wars, and around 115 from the Secret History.79 These are
mostly short lemmata on rare words or names, such as σκορπιαίνεσθαι (Σ 670,
‘to be enraged’), ὀρθοτίτθιος (Ο 580, ‘upright-breasted’), or Βουργαών (Β 456, a
mountain in Africa), with the exception of a handful of biographies of such
figures as Theoderic, Amalasuntha, Belisarius, but also the forger Priscus of
Emesa, copied no doubt because they already formed mini-biographies in the
works of Procopius.80 The Suda also includes an interesting biographical entry
74 See Cresci, “Procopio al confine”, pp. 65–70, but she overstates Procopius’ influence on
the historiographical model adopted by Leo. Other parallels are listed in Leo the Deacon,
History, trans. Talbot/Sullivan, p. 264.
75 De Boor, “Suidas und die Konstantinische Exzerptensammlung”, pp. 43–50; a convenient
list of excerpts in Rubin, “Prokopios”, cols. 589–590. On the technique of excerptors, see
Németh, The Excerpta Constantiniana, pp. 77–87.
76 De Boor, “Suidas und die Konstantinische Exzerptensammlung”, pp. 50–54.
77 De Boor, “Suidas und die Konstantinische Exzerptensammlung”.
78 Cunningham, Συναγωγὴ λέξεων χρησίμων, Berlin 2003; Theodoridis, Photii Patriarchae
Lexicon.
79 Listed in Adler, Suidae Lexicon, vol. 5, pp. 122–23, with additions in Theodoridis, Photii
Patriarchae Lexicon, vol. 2, pp. xci–xcvi, and in the comments to individual entries on the
Suda On Line website (https://www.cs.uky.edu/~raphael/sol/sol-html/).
80 Theoderic: Θ 296 = Wars 5.1.26–29; Amalasuntha: Α 1475 = Wars 5.2.3–18; Belisarius: Β 233
= Wars 7.1.6–11; Priscus of Emesa: Π 2303 = Secret History 28.1–9; see also shorter excerpts
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on Procopius (Π 2479) that probably constitutes the earliest testimony of the

Anekdota: even if it has not been copied from the Onomatologos of Hesychius
of Miletus,81 the use of the title of illustris, virtually abandoned after the reign
of Justinian,82 indicates that it was written by a contemporary of Procopius.
While the compilers of the Suda knew the Wars and the Secret History by the
intermediary of the Constantinian excerpts, it is less clear if they had access to
the Buildings. It is true that in Π 1645 the word πισός (‘platform’) is glossed as
“πεσός in Procopius”, a word used by Procopius only in the first chapter of the
Buildings,83 but the entry Ρ 146 (Ῥῆσος) echoes Buildings 1.4.28 so confusingly
that a direct reliance on the Buildings is unlikely. Similarly, the ekphrasis of
the constructions built by emperor Theophilus in the Palace in Theophanes
Continuatus (3.42–44) and the description of a hospice for prostitutes due to
the same emperor (3.8) are reminiscent of the Buildings (1.9.1–10 in the latter
case), but exact parallels are difficult to identify. If this suggests some famil-
iarity with the Buildings in the circle of Constantine Porphyrogenitus, we are
on a safer ground a generation later, when Symeon Metaphrastes quotes the
Buildings in his rewriting of the Life of Sabas by Cyril of Scythopolis.84
If Procopius belonged in the 10th century to the canon of classical historiog-
raphy, he did not stand out above the historians considered today to be merely
his continuators. Thus, for instance, the number of identified quotations from
the Wars and the Secret History in the Suda, around 250, is less impressive
than it might seem when compared to ca 110 passages from Agathias and ca
120 from Theophylact Simocatta, whose works amounted to approximately a
quarter of those of Procopius.85 Procopius and other classicizing historians are
treated on par also in the later centuries: if Anna Komnene alludes perhaps to
Procopius and Agathias in her Alexiad,86 she quotes in her preface (2.1.22–26)
the reflections of John of Epiphaneia on preserving momentous events from
oblivion. John Kinnamos is more directly indebted to Procopius, “who seems
to have furnished his literary model”,87 and whose account of the end of the
on Chilbudius (X 302 = Wars 7.14.1–6), John of Cappadocia (Ι 469 = Wars 1.24.11–15 and
1.25.3), Theodotus and Peter Barsymes (Θ 141 = Secret History 22.2–7), and the doctor
Tribunus (Τ 952 = Wars 8.10.11–16).
81 Kaldellis, “The Works and Days”, pp. 385–87.
82 Koch, Beamtentitel, pp. 43–45.
83 Buildings 1.1.37, 69, 71. Only in 1.1.37 the manuscripts vl read πεσός, the lesson given by the
Suda, rather than πεσσός as elsewhere.
84 Hinterberger, “ Die Aneignung des Anderen”, pp. 336 and 348.
85 The numbers for the Suda are based on Suda On Line, the global word counts on tlg.
86 See the Index locorum in cfhb 40, vol. 2, pp. 262 and 269, but the parallels are quite
distant.
87 John Kinnamos, Deeds of John and Manuel Comnenus, trans. Brand, p. 7.
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250 Jankowiak
Roman empire in the West (5.7, p. 218, ed. Meineke, cf. Wars 5.1) is perhaps
quoted with the intention of drawing a parallel between the Italian projects
of Justinian and Manuel Komnenos.88 As observed by Lia Rafaella Cresci, the
popularity of Procopius, a historian of the reconquest, was increasing under
the emperors who adopted ambitious foreign policies, even despite Procopius’
sharp criticism of Justinian’s policies.89 Occasional references to Procopius in
other Komnenian historians are too rare to allow a deeper analysis.90
…
No Byzantine historian after the 7th century appears to have ignored Procopius
of Caesarea. With the exception of the Buildings, his works were widely read,
including the Anekdota, which was first mentioned by a contemporary of
Procopius quoted in the Suda, was probably known to Agathias and Evagrius,
and has been included in the Constantinian excerpts. None of this supports
the idea of its clandestine circulation until the fortuitous rediscovery of the
manuscript in the 10th century.91 The oeuvre of Procopius was approached in
a variety of ways: for all his debt to his predecessor, Agathias derided him as
“a wise man of old”, insensitive to the edifying vocation of history; Evagrius
transformed the Wars into a history of Christianity in the reign of Justinian;
Theophanes and Photius carefully summarised the events. But although his
work was influential, Procopius did not assume the role of a model classiciz-
ing historian before the Palaiologan times.92 His immediate successors were
inspired rather by the vigorous tradition of classicizing historiography than
directly by the Wars, and no later Byzantine historian wrote another Secret
History or Buildings. The Chronicle of John Malalas was often preferred over
the detailed narrative of the Wars as the main source for the reign of Justinian,
and the style of Agathias was considered a more attractive model to imitate.93
88 Cresci, “Procopio al confine”, pp. 70–76, especially pp. 75–76. Other parallels are listed by
Rubin, “Zur Kaiserkritik”, p. 456 n. 2. I have not been able to consult F. Hörmann, Beiträge
zur Syntax des Iohannes Kinnamos.
89 Cresci, “Procopio al confine”, p. 77.
90 Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, cols. 592–94, to which can be added references to the
stories of the contacts of Abgar of Edessa with Christ and of the pearl of Peroz in the
History of Nicetas Choniates (pp. 347.55–56 and 485.95, ed. van Dieten).
91 Pace Rubin, “Prokopios von Kaisareia”, cols. 528–29.
92 See e.g. Croke, “From Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 8–12, and, for an example of Palaiologan
engagement with the works of Procopius, Boeck, The Bronze Horseman, pp. 216–32.
93 See the comment of Hase on Leo the Deacon: is Agathia, cuius grandiloquentiam et
cothurnum vix nunc ferimus, videtur praecipue delectatus (Leo the Deacon, History, ed.
Hase, p. xx).
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More remarkably, none of Procopius’ Byzantine successors appears to have

read between the lines of the Wars, to have appreciated the sophisticated inter-
textuality of his works, or to have taken them as the starting point for a politi-
cal reflection. This is perhaps the best measure of the exceptional depth – and
perhaps also the exceptional context – of Procopius’ oeuvre.
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part 4
Imperial Themes
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War and Empire in Procopius’ Wars
Charles Pazdernik
A slight thing like a phrase or a jest often makes a greater revelation

of character than battles where thousands fall, or the greatest arma-
ments, or sieges of cities …
Plutarch, Alexander 1.2, trans. Bernadotte Perrin
⸪
1 “The Dangers of Conflict”
The grounds upon which Plutarch selected illustrative details for his biography
of Alexander the Great, as quoted above in the epigraph, spring to mind as one
reflects upon attitudes toward, or ideas about, empire and war as these may
be found in the works of Procopius of Caesarea. The discussion that follows
should not be mistaken, however, for an attempt to detect or to reconstruct the
beliefs and judgements of the historical Procopius on these topics;1 instead, it
will focus on sometimes small, but nevertheless telling, incidents and episodes
taken from the Wars, Procopius’ major work. To the extent that this selection
of details produces, in Plutarch’s words, a “revelation of character” (emphasis
êthous), what is revealed is the character of the work rather than that of its
author.
Thucydides’ History of the Peloponnesian War, a work to which Procopius’
Wars often displays its debt,2 famously declares that war is “a violent teacher”
(biaios didaskolos, Thuc. 3.82.2) – a teacher of violence, the progress of which
invariably degrades and demoralizes those caught up in it.3 A comparable dec-
1 For one such attempt, see Cataudella, “Historiography in the East”, pp. 391–415, on “Procopius,
Witness and Historian”, bearing in mind reservations raised in the bmcr review by Burgess,
esp. n. 6. Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius”, pp. 92–93, surveys recent scholarship about
Procopius’ views on empire. Cameron, “History as Text”, p. 56, warns against “a naively bio-
graphical approach” to understanding Procopius’ works.
2 See, e.g., notes 35, 52, 57, 64 below.
3 See esp. Connor, Thucydides, pp. 95–105.

256 Pazdernik
laration does not appear in the Wars,4 and yet Procopius sums up each of the
three conflicts into which the first edition of the work (Wars 1–7) is organized
with a downbeat assessment of what has been accomplished.
Thucydides referred to the period which commenced in 431 bce and con-
cluded in 404 as a unitary construct, “the war of the Peloponnesians and the
Athenians” (1.1.1), despite the fact that this designation embraced several dis-
tinct phases of conflict in different theaters.5 Procopius, for his part, treats in
his history “the wars that Justinian, emperor of the Romans, waged against the
barbarians of the East and the West” (Wars 1.1.1).6 The first seven of the eight
books of the Wars are distinct chronologically and geographically, the first and
second chronicling hostilities between Justinian’s empire of the Romans and
the Sasanian dynasty of Persia, the third and fourth Justinian’s conquest of the
Vandal kingdom in North Africa, and the fifth through seventh his invasion of
the Ostrogothic kingdom in Italy. These books were complete by c.551 ce and
were followed not later than 554 by book eight, which brought matters up to
date on all three fronts (8.1.1–2).7
Procopius’ Persian War (Wars 1–2), as has been well observed,8 lacks a defin-
itive ending: instead it peters out with inconclusive fighting over the kingdom
of Lazica in western Transcaucasia in 549,9 only the latest among many com-
plications and setbacks along the eastern frontier following the failure of the
so-called “Eternal Peace” concluded by Justinian and Khosrow i Anushirvan,
Procopius’ Khosroês, in 532 (1.22). Procopius begins book two of the Wars, the
start of his account of the Persian War proper,10 by recounting how Khosrow,
4 See, however, Wars 2.10.12, delivered by Roman ambassadors to Khosrow after the Persian
sack of Antioch: “For when no treaties at all are made, there remains only war without
end, and war without end always denatures (exoikizein tês phuseôs) those who engage in
it”; also 1.14.1–2; 2.4.18–19. Compare Brodka, Geschichtsphilosophie, pp. 142–144. Procopius
elsewhere alludes to Thuc. 3.82–84: see Braun, Procopius Caesariensis, esp. pp. 19–20.
5 See Hornblower, Commentary i, p. 5 ad loc.
6 Cf. Buildings 1.10.3; see Rubin, Prokopios von Kaisareia, col. 84. Translations of the Wars
are those of Dewing/Kaldellis (with modifications as indicated); of the Secret History,
Kaldellis; of the Buildings, Dewing.
7 I rely on Greatrex, “Dates of Procopius’ Works”; see also id., “Recent Work on Procopius and
the Composition of Wars VIII.” The Secret History was probably completed around 550/1.
The Buildings has been dated either to c.554 or c.560; see now Montinaro, “Byzantium and
the Slavs.”
8 See Greatrex, “The Composition of Procopius’ Persian Wars and John the Cappadocian”, p. 3.
9 See Braund, Georgia in Antiquity, pp. 298–311; Greatrex/Lieu, The Roman Eastern Frontier
and the Persian Wars, pp. 116–122.
10 On the transition between Wars 1–2, see Kruse, “The Speech of the Armenians.”
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War and Empire in Procopius ’ Wars 257
alarmed by Belisarius’ successes in the West, began seeking suitable pretexts

for resuming hostilities in the East (2.1.1).11
The failure of the Eternal Peace (532–540 ce), like the failure of the Thirty
Years Peace between Athens and Sparta (446–431 bce), points to the difficulty
of sustaining a strategic balance between two great powers, each with its own
interests and calculations of relative advantage. At the same time as the Wars
demonstrates how Justinian’s western campaigns destabilized his vital east-
ern frontier, it also shows how contingency and opportunism – nourished by
unprecedented success,12 first against the Vandals and then initially against the
Ostrogoths – created the conditions under which unprovoked acts of military
aggression led to the destruction, rather than the restoration, of distinctively
Roman forms of civilization in the territories they affected. This perspective is
pointedly at odds with official accounts of the events in question and colors
the reproachful tone with which the subsequent narratives conclude.
Prospects nonetheless appear bright as the end of the Vandalic War (Wars 3–4)
approaches, following the victories of Belisarius and the consolidation of
imperial control over North Africa by Solomon, his successor (4.20.33): “all the
Libyans who were subjects of the Romans … no longer had any thought of war
in their minds and seemed the most fortunate of all men.” Yet Solomon’s death
and the subsequent misrule of others contribute to a crisis that, even once
the situation has been retrieved, leaves devastation in its wake (4.28.52): “thus
it came to pass that the Libyans who survived, few as they were in number
and extremely poor, at long last and just barely managed to find some peace
(hêsukhian tina).”13
At the close of the Gothic War (Wars 5–7), prospects for the imperial effort
in Italy appear even more bleak (7.33.1):
The barbarians became unquestionably masters of the whole West.

Though the Romans had been at first decisively victorious in the Gothic
War, as I have previously recounted, the result for them was that they had
not only spent money and lives in huge amounts and to no advantage,
but they had also lost Italy besides.
11 Whereas Thucydides attributes conflict to Sparta’s fear (phobos) of Athenian maritime

power (1.23.4–6), Procopius points to Khrosrow’s envy (phthonos) at Justinian’s overseas
conquests (Wars 2.2.12, 15).
12 Recently emphasized by Heather, The Restoration of Rome, pp. 137–153. See also Meier, Das
andere Zeitalter Justinians, pp. 165–180.
13 Compare Wars 3.10.13, quoted below. On the causes of military discontent, see 4.14.8–15,
5.15.55. The image of devastation in North Africa is reiterated at 8.17.22.
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258 Pazdernik
Each of these three narratives describes comparable arcs of initial success

and subsequent failure, be it the conclusion, and then the collapse, of the
Eternal Peace; the dissipation, through mutiny and fiscal exploitation, of the
windfall presented by the liquidation of the Vandals; or the resurgence of the
Ostrogoths, even after the fall of their capital at Ravenna and the capture of
their king. The pessimism that informs the first seven books of the Wars, more-
over, is scarcely revised in their sequel, book eight.14
Inasmuch as Procopius declines to offer in his own voice a magisterial pro-
nouncement on the nature of war, after the fashion of Thucydides, it may be
that such a gesture runs the risk of making too explicit a sober judgement
that is reinforced time and again throughout the Wars as a whole. Indeed,
Procopius places perhaps the Wars’ most categorical statement about warfare
in the mouth of an avowedly outspoken figure.
In his depiction of the deliberations over the Vandalic War, Procopius tells
us that an expedition to Africa was opposed by Justinian’s senior ministers
and generals alike, who were mindful of the debacles sustained against the
Vandals in the previous century and the demands that would be placed on the
treasury.15 Only the praetorian prefect John the Cappadocian – derided else-
where by Procopius as a figure of scandalously low culture and deposed and
disgraced by the time the Wars appeared16 – possesses the temerity to urge
restraint (Wars 3.10.13, modified):17 “how then is it not better to prefer quiet
(tên hêsukhian), than the dangers of conflict?”18
The sardonic note on which the Vandalic War concludes (Wars 4.28.52,
quoted above) would appear to vindicate (and perhaps ironically to echo)
14 Compare Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, pp. 193–196.

15 On whether these concerns mirror Procopius’ own views, contrast Cesa, “La politica
di Giustiniano”, esp. p. 401, with Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und Justinians Idee
‘der Reconquista’” (hereafter, “Reconquista”), esp. pp. 246–247. See also Signes Codoñer,
“Kaiserkritik”, p. 217. Procopius’ initial worries were assuaged by a dream (Wars 3.12.1–5);
on its plausibly subversive subtext, see Anagnostakis, “Prokopios’ Dream.”
16 Wars 1.24.12. See Greatrex, “The Composition of Procopius’ Persian Wars and John the
Cappadocian.”
17 Procopius’ description of John as “a man of the greatest daring (thrasutatos) and the clev-
erest (deinotatos) of all men of his time” (Wars 3.10.7; compare 1.1.4) seems to signal that
his speech is a piece of sophistry: compare, e.g., Dem. 22.66, thrasus kai legein deinos, with
a pejorative connotation; see further Ober, Mass and Elite, p. 106.
18 The speech is modeled on Artabanus’ warning against Xerxes’ expedition in Herodotus
(7.10.1): Braun, Die Nachahmung Herodots durch Prokop, p. 46. Like Artabanus, John suc-
ceeds only momentarily. See Scott, “Classical Tradition”, esp. pp. 73–74; Kaldellis, Procopius
of Caesarea, pp. 180–181.
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John’s warning:19 the peace and quiet (hêsukhia) John advises Justinian to con-
serve was, for the Libyans subsequently enmeshed in conflict, all too dearly
bought.
2 “Rome Again Became Subject to the Romans”
Published some fifteen years after the event itself, the Wars commemorates
the occupation of the city of Rome by imperial forces under the command of
Belisarius on 9 December 536 (5.14.14): “So, after a space of sixty years, Rome
again became [subject to the Romans, on the ninth day of the last month,
which is called December by the Romans], in the eleventh year of the reign of
the emperor Justinian.”20
John the Lydian’s On the Magistracies of the Roman State, a work closely con-
temporaneous with the Wars, can declare in the same context that Justinian
“restored to Rome what was Rome’s” (têi de Rhômêi ta Rhômês apesôsen, 3.55).
It may be that variations on this formula were in vogue in the mid-530s, when
optimism about Justinian’s ambitions was running high.21 In any event, the
apparent straightforwardness of Procopius’ slogan – Rome again became sub-
ject to the Romans (Rhômê te authis … hupo <Rhômaiois gegonen>) – elides (as
slogans tend to do) some meaningful complexities and equivocations.
Procopius’ dating, pinpointing the moment at which the city of Rome fell
out of the grasp of “the Romans” in the year 476, sixty years prior to the date of
Belisarius’ capture of the city, identifies this evidently epochal event with the
deposition of the western emperor Romulus Augustulus – the “little Augustus”,
so called because he ruled as a teenaged figurehead who had been installed by
his father, a military strongman named Orestes.22 Augustulus was never rec-
ognized by the eastern court in Constantinople,23 and the significance later
19 Compare Proclus, Justin I’s principal advisor (Wars 1.11.13): “to venture on novel projects is
not my custom, and indeed I dread them more than any others; for where there is innova-
tion security is by no means preserved”; see further Pazdernik, “The Quaestor Proclus.”
20 The transmitted text of the Wars is defective at this point, and the passage has been
restored from Evagrius, Ecclesiastical History 4.19.
21 Justinian uses a similar expression to herald the subjection of the Tzani (Nov. 1, pr.,
1 January 535): “the Tzani, now for the first time under the power of the Roman state (hupo
tên Rhômaiôn genomenoi politeian), have become subjects.” See also n. 44 below.
22 Compare Wars 5.1.2.
23 An easterner, Julius Nepos, had become western emperor in mid-474 with the support
of Constantinople; driven out of Italy by Orestes the following summer, he maintained
his claim to the throne from a place of refuge in Dalmatia until his death in 480; cf.
Wars 3.7.15.
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260 Pazdernik
attached to his deposition was scarcely felt at the time, which had witnessed
a succession of ineffective and evanescent western emperors and vacancies
in the imperial office itself.24 The eastern emperors Zeno (imp. 474–491),
Anastasius (491–518), and Justin i (518–527) were content to be acknowledged
in their theoretical supremacy, even as they conceded effective control to,
and engaged in diplomatic relations with, the western successor kingdoms.25
Indeed, in the early years of his sole reign, Justinian himself hardly deviated
from this approach. Nonetheless, during the 6th century in the East, at any
rate, Augustulus’ deposition became an ideologically charged “turning point”
that posited the definitive collapse of Roman imperial authority in the West
and the capture of former provinces by barbarian invaders.26 These attitudes
justified the military adventures Justinian pursued against Vandal Africa and
Ostrogothic Italy in the mid-530s, during the Eternal Peace with Persia.
By participating in the rhetoric of imperial collapse and reconquest, the
Wars seems to be echoing the militaristic ideology of the 530s uncritically and
perhaps enthusiastically; celebrating the recovery of Rome by the Romans,
moreover, endorses and magnifies Belisarius’ achievement in the furtherance
of Justinian’s aims.
We need not be surprised at this. Procopius himself had participated in
the event personally, as Belisarius’ advisor (symboulos).27 The momentous-
ness attributed to the occasion undoubtedly reflects enthusiasms that were
genuine at the time. In declaring Rome to be once more under the control
of the Romans for the first time since the deposition of Romulus Augustulus,
accordingly, the Wars is inviting its original and implied audience of readers to
identify those “Romans” as themselves – that is, with the collectivity we con-
ventionally call “Byzantines”, the inhabitants of the eastern rump of the Roman
empire, ruled by the emperor in Constantinople.28 They identified themselves,
in the 6th century and long after, as “Romans” (Rhômaioi) and their monarch
24 Compare the confused account of the period in Wars 3.7.1–17.

25 With reference to the Vandal kingdom in particular, compare Wars 3.8.26–28.
26 See, e.g., Momigliano, “La caduta senza rumore di un impero nel 476 d.c.”; Croke, “AD 476:
The Manufacture of a Turning Point”; more recently, Moorhead, Theoderic in Italy, pp. 6–11;
Amory, People and Identity, pp. 109–48, esp. 109–110, 137–39; Börm, “Das Weströmische
Kaisertum nach 476.”
27 Compare Wars 1.1.3. See Greatrex, “Assessores kaj historiistoj”; id., “Lawyers and Historians”.
28 See Greatrex, “Roman Identity in the Sixth Century”, esp. p. 268: “the fundamental defini-
tion of a Roman in the empire of Justinian was that of loyalty to the emperor.”
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as “the emperor of the Romans” (ho basileus tôn Rhômaiôn), among other for-
mulations of the imperial title.29
Procopius and his audience were also able, with the benefit of reflection and
hindsight, to appreciate how fleeting the first imperial occupation of Rome
had been. Possession of the city would pass into and out of Justinian’s hands
five times during the course of a long and costly war of attrition in Italy,30 the
end of which was not yet in sight in the early 550s, when the first edition of the
Wars appeared.
His experiences with imperial expeditionary forces in Africa, Sicily, and
Italy placed Procopius remarkably well, moreover, to appreciate the ironies
and ambiguities that attached to Roman identity in the post-Roman West. For
it was not only “Byzantines” who called themselves Romans. In any century,
those who make their home in the city of Rome have proudly called them-
selves by the name, and the Wars employs it in this sense on many occasions –
most pointedly, when Procopius declares that, in spite of all of the privations
they endured, “still, the Romans love their city above all the men we know, and
are eager to protect all their ancestral legacy and preserve it, so that nothing of
the ancient glory of Rome may be obliterated” (8.22.5).
The value ascribed to cultural conservation is a theme to which we will
return. The Wars similarly underscores how crucially the success of Justinian’s
western interventions depended on not only a cultural, but also a political,
self-identification as Roman on the part of civilian populations – Libyans or
Italians, as the case might be – in the contested territories. Justinian aimed to
occupy and administer, not to disrupt and plunder, the Vandal and Ostrogothic
kingdoms;31 correspondingly, neutralizing armed opposition while preserving
infrastructure and civil order was key. To the extent that the civilian inhabit-
ants and the invading imperial forces acknowledged themselves to be fellow
Romans and cooperated with one another, these objectives were advanced.
But cooperation entailed self-restraint on the part of imperial occupiers and
exposed civilians to hardships and reprisals. Amid fluid circumstances and
29 See further Chrysos, “The Title ΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣ”; Rösch, ΟΝΟΜΑ ΒΑΣΙΛΕΙΑΣ; Zuckerman,
“On the Titles and Office of the Byzantine ΒΑΣΙΛΕΥΣ”; Angelov, “In Search of God’s Only
Emperor.”
30 The city fell back into the hands of the Goths in 546 (Wars 7.20.1–26), was reoccupied by
Belisarius in 547 (7.24; see Pazdernik, “Belisarius’ Second Occupation of Rome”), again
recaptured by the Goths in 549 (7.36), and recovered by imperial forces under Narses in
552 (8.33.13–23).
31 Cf. Amory, People and Identity, pp. 137–138. Amory’s claim that “texts such as Procopius are
suffused with [Justinianic] ideology” (ibid.) underplays the recalcitrant and subversive
elements apparent in the Wars.
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262 Pazdernik
shifting calculations of interest and advantage, conformity to Justinian’s impe-

rial will could be taken for granted in neither case.32
Procopius demonstrates the thorny politics of Roman identity in a speech
that he attributes to the representative of the city of Naples, which in late 536
resisted Belisarius’ call to open its gates to his forces, only eventually to be cap-
tured by siege (Wars 5.8.7):
You are not acting justly, O general, in marching against men who are
Romans and have done no wrong, who inhabit a small city and have a
garrison of barbarian masters, so that it is not even in our power, if we
desire to do so, to oppose them.
The Neapolitans appeal to a shared Roman identity in a plea to be spared the

consequences of cooperating with the imperial forces. Elsewhere, Procopius
portrays the Goths referring to the imperial forces derisively as “Greeks”
(Graikoi; Latin Graeci),33 repudiating any claim to a shared identity between
Justinian’s armies and the Romans of Italy.
We should not be surprised, then, that Procopius’ slogan, “Rome again
became subject to the Romans”, ignores complexities that Procopius’ audi-
ence, through careful and reflective readings of the Wars, is nevertheless
equipped to appreciate. It conveys the spirit of the time, but in the hindsight
supplied by the first seven books of the Wars as a whole, the achievement it
celebrates will have seemed fleeting at best and illusory at worst. In any event,
it cannot be taken in isolation as Procopius’ settled judgement about the mer-
its of Justinian’s efforts to establish direct control over North Africa and Italy
from Constantinople. Whether or not the impulse for composing the Wars
originated in enthusiasm for the idea of imperial renewal, as expressed in the
ambitious Justinianic rhetoric of the mid-530s,34 the mounting sense of frus-
tration and failure that attends the narrative of subsequent imperial setbacks
and missteps in both theatres, especially once Belisarius is no longer on the
scene, points in a markedly different direction.
32 See further Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides.” Compare Conant, Staying Roman,
pp. 310–311; Kouroumali, “The Justinianic Conquest of Italy”, pp. 993–994.
33 See esp. Wars 5.18.40; also 4.27.38; 5.29.11; 7.9.12; 7.21.4, 12, 14; 8.23.25; also Secret History
24.7, where Procopius complains that the logothetai, imperial tax authorities, abuse some
of the soldiers with the term.
34 E.g. Const. Tanta/Dedôken, pr. (ad 533). See further n. 44 below.
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3 “To Make His Realm Larger and More Splendid”
In the Persian War, Procopius reports the tendentious and hostile rhetoric
of envoys of the Ostrogothic king of Italy, who have arrived at the court of
Khosrow in order to enlist Persian support against Justinian. Inaction on the
Roman empire’s eastern frontier, they allege, has whetted the emperor’s appe-
tite for world domination (Wars 2.2.6):
For [Justinian] is by nature a troublemaker, he covets things that in no

way belong to him, and is unable to abide by the settled order of things,
so he has conceived the desire of seizing the entire earth and is eager to
acquire for himself each and every state.35
Procopius himself qualifies their words in an aside (2.2.14): “[The Gothic

envoys] were bringing as charges (enklêmata) against Justinian the very things
that would naturally be encomiums (enkômia) for a worthy monarch, namely
that he was exerting himself to make his realm larger and much more splen-
did.” Here again, the historian of the Wars appears to be endorsing a policy of
military aggression and territorial expansion.36
Taking into account the differing expectations attaching respectively to
enklêmata and enkômia, however, the reader of the Wars is capable of reach-
ing a much more equivocal verdict: accomplishments that in the hands of
Justinian’s enemies supply material for invective might equally serve the pur-
poses of panegyric if viewed in a sympathetic light.37 If on one hand invec-
tive stigmatizes and on the other hand panegyric valorizes a policy of military
aggression and territorial expansion, the verdict of history must lie somewhere
in between.38
35 Compare Thuc. 1.70.2. See also n. 39 below.

36 See Börm, “Procopius, his Predecessors, and the Genesis of the Anecdota” (hereafter,
“Procopius”), p. 316.
37 See Pazdernik, “Justinianic Ideology”, p. 185. The principle that encomia and invective are
antithetical and crafted from the same factual material, which provides suitable topics
for praise or blame, respectively, is formulated by Aristotle (Rhetoric, 1.9.41 [1368a]) and
foundational in Greco-Roman rhetorical theory, instruction, and practice. See also n. 39
below. Compare Kaldellis, “Prokopios’ Persian War”, pp. 260–262: “Procopius implies …
that the Goth’s accusations may be countered only if one switches to another genre, that
of the encomium, which … did not make truth its chief concern.”.
38 Compare Woodman, Rhetoric in Classical Historiography, pp. 41–43: “The important thing,
as Lucian makes clear ([How to Write History], 59, cf. 9), was to avoid excess whether in
praise or criticism.” See further Clark, History, Theory, Text, pp. 165–169, with references;
cf. Brodka, “Zum Wahrheitsbegriff in den Bella.”
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264 Pazdernik
It bears repeating in this connection that the “Procopius” we have been dis-
cussing is a literary projection of the historical figure, Procopius of Caesarea,
to whom we attribute the authorship of the Wars, the Secret History, and the
Buildings. Postulating a self-consistent point of view that informs any single
one of these works, much less all three of them together, is a hypothesis that
must be demonstrated in detail rather than assumed.
Even more hazardous is to suppose that any such point of view detectable
in one or more of these works corresponds to the sincerely held beliefs of the
historical Procopius, or that a point of view detectable in one work – such as
the Secret History39 – may be mobilized to supplement or correct or supersede
points of view detectable in the others.
We read in the Secret History, for example (6.25):
As if it were not enough for [Justinian] to subvert the Roman empire, he

conquered North Africa and Italy as well for no other reason than to be
able to destroy the people there in addition to those who were already
under his power.
The Buildings, in contrast, declares (1.1.6):
In our own age there has been born the Emperor Justinian, who, tak-
ing over the state when it was harassed by disorder, has not only made
it greater in extent, but also much more illustrious, by expelling from it
those barbarians who had from of old pressed hard upon it, as I have
made clear in detail in the books of the Wars.
The divergence between the judgements expressed by the two works is patent
and unbridgeable; taken together, however, they validate the observation in
the Wars that the same bare historical data might supply the basis for either
enklêmata or enkômia, and each of the two works insists that it may rely on the
Wars to substantiate its point of view.40
39 Procopius’ complaints in his own voice in the Secret History closely parallel charges lev-
eled by Gothic and Armenian envoys to Khosrow in the Wars (2.2.4–11; 2.3.32–53) and
contribute to the impression that the historian uses such speeches to advertise his own
views. See Brodka, “Das Bild des Perserkönigs Chosroes I”, esp. p. 120; Signes Codoñer,
“Kaiserkritik”, pp. 221–226, esp. 223–225.
40 “The Secret History presents itself (1.3) as an esoteric supplement to the Wars”: Kaldellis,
Prokopios. The Secret History, pp. xxv–xxvii. Yet there is no conclusive evidence that any-
one read the Wars together with the Secret History prior to the 10th century, when the Suda
(s.v. Prokopios, Π.2479 Adler) postulates joint authorship; see further Cameron, Procopius
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Insofar, then, as a self-consistent point of view about empire and war is

apparent on the part of the “Procopius” detectable in the Wars, this is nothing
more or less than a demonstration of the thematic and intellectual coherence
of the Wars as a specimen of Graeco-Roman historiography. The fact that the
Wars was written and circulated while most of the principals – and above all,
Justinian himself – were still alive,41 moreover, will have authorized readers (if
indeed they required authorization) to read against the grain of the work, to
focus on allusions and cross-references, and to appreciate ambiguities not as
evidence of incomplete or fuzzy thinking but rather as signposts pointing to
more profound complexities and contradictions.
4 “And They Were Quiet”
The Wars displays its values and priorities tellingly when Procopius describes
the entry of imperial expeditionary forces under Belisarius into Carthage on
15 September 533, following their initial rout of the Vandals at Ad Decimum,
two days earlier. Belisarius marched into the city unopposed, the citizens
throwing open the gates to him.42 Refusing, however, to venture anything
against the hazards of darkness, he passed the night encamped outside the
walls (3.20.2). The next day, after his accompanying fleet had landed, he led
his forces into the city in strict formation. Procopius summarizes Belisarius’
instructions (3.20.18–20):
There he reminded the soldiers at length how much good fortune had
come to them because they had displayed moderation toward the
Libyans, and he exhorted them earnestly to preserve their good order
diligently in Carthage. For all the Libyans had been Romans in earlier
times (Rhômaious to anekathen) and had come under the Vandals by no
will of their own and had suffered many outrages at the hands of these
barbarians.43 Hence the emperor had entered into war with the Vandals,
and it was not holy for any harm to come from them to the people whose
and the Sixth Century, pp. 16 (with n. 88), 50; Greatrex, “Procopius the Outsider?”, 211
(with n. 27).
41 Compare Secret History 1.2.
42 Wars 3.20.1. The city’s walls were neglected and incapable of standing a siege (3.21.11–13).
Belisarius decisively defeated the Vandals in mid-December at Tricamarum. Their king,
Gelimer, escaped to Mt. Papua in Numidia, where he was blockaded, and surrendered in
late March 534. See further Pazdernik, “Xenophon’s Hellenica in Procopius’ Wars.”
43 Compare Wars 3.16.3. See Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik”, p. 220.
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266 Pazdernik
freedom they had made the ground for taking the field against the
Vandals.
The emancipation imagery, which echoed propaganda disseminated in

Justinian’s own legislation,44 starkly simplified and added a retrospective ide-
ological clarity to a conflict that was driven from the outset by a multitude
of competing interests and pressures – not least from Justinian’s own gener-
als and ministers, as we have seen.45 Attempting to construct a community
of interests between the invading imperial forces – themselves an unwieldy
assemblage of fighters of various ethnicities and allegiances46 – and the civil-
ian inhabitants of the conquered Vandal kingdom, whom he reclaims and
redeems as former Romans, Belisarius premises the expedition’s success on
the sanctity he attaches to a conflict that he has framed as a crusade of libera-
tion and imperial restoration.
The significance Procopius attaches in his own narratorial voice to Belisarius’
achievement at Carthage is framed quite differently, and points to the value
the Wars places on the maintenance of civil order and tranquillity as the basis
for the legitimate transfer of political power. Belisarius achieved a glory never
before attained by the men of his time, “nor indeed any men of ancient times”
(Wars 3.21.8), not on account of his victory at Ad Decimum, which Procopius
allows resulted as much from the Vandals’ own mistakes as from Belisarius’
generalship (3.19.25), much less on the sanctity and moral or political integrity
of Belisarius’ mission,47 but rather in light of the tranquil entry of his troops
into Carthage, who refrained from the customary excesses practiced by victori-
ous soldiers. No insult was offered, no interruption in the flow of daily life and
commerce (3.21.10):
Indeed, nothing happened to hinder the business of the city. In a cap-

tured city, then, that had changed its regime and joined a different realm,
it came about that no man’s household was excluded from the market-
place. The clerks drew up their lists of the soldiers and conducted them
44 Cod. Iust. 1.27.1.8 (ad 534): “let the inhabitants [of Africa] recognize from what most severe
captivity and barbaric yoke they have been freed and with how much liberty they are per-
mitted to pass their lives under our most felicitous reign.” Compare Const. Imperatoriam,
pr., 1 (533); Const. Tanta/Dedôken, pr. (533); Cod. Iust. 1.27.2, pr. (534); Nov. 1, pr. (535), 8.10.2
(535), 30.11.2 (536), 78.4.1 (539).
45 See Section i above.
46 See further Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides”, esp. pp. 159–161.
47 Procopius emphasizes the contingency and haphazardness of the occasion: Wars 3.21.7.
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to their lodgings, just as usual, and they obtained their lunch by purchase
from the market,48 as each one wanted, and they were quiet (hêsukhazon).
The peace and quiet that inheres in the maintenance of civil order against the
backdrop of profound political change assesses the consequences of conquest
in light of the lived experiences of persons implicated within it. Not content
merely to depict Belisarius forcibly reclaiming the civilian inhabitants of Libya
as former Romans and restoring their allegiance to the emperor Justinian, the
Wars also questions what a viable, recognizably “Roman” civilization looks like
and how to achieve a lasting basis of accommodation and cooperation. The
separation of the military and civilian spheres,49 and the orderly and peaceful
accommodation of the former within the latter, attests to the relatively healthy
condition of North Africa at the time of the imperial invasion.
Belisarius’ painstaking efforts, as Procopius depicts them, to avoid preying
on and alienating the civilian inhabitants of the contested territory under-
score the precariousness of the situation. In the historian’s estimation, those
who succeeded Belisarius – above all, imperial tax authorities intent on reor-
ganizing North Africa into revenue-exporting provinces – squandered that
achievement.50 It does not follow that Procopius’ readers should suppose the
place to have been better off under the Vandals. The difficulty is that, absent
qualities that characterize what the Wars in a different context calls “a true
emperor”, as will be examined below, venality, incompetence, and strife will
conspire to degrade the social compact between rulers and their subjects.
Here again we may be mindful, not only of the Thucydidean precept that
war is “a violent teacher”, but also of the peace and quiet (hêsuchia) cham-
pioned by John the Cappadocian:51 the Wars problematizes a policy of con-
flict aversion – John’s opposition to the Vandal expedition – that, as valid as it
is on its merits, is compromised by narrowly self-serving ends. The hêsuchia
championed by John the Cappadocian is, above all, his own – and, ostensi-
bly, Justinian’s. Notably absent from the deliberations that precipitated the
48 After his landfall, Belisarius had severely reprimanded soldiers for foraging in the coun-
tryside: Wars 3.16.5; compare 3.17.6.
49 Contrast the incipient early medieval order along the former Loire frontier in post-Roman
Gaul (Wars 5.12.12–19), where a recognizably Roman cultural order manifests itself solely
as the military habitus.
50 On the situation in North Africa, see Wars 4.8.25, cf. Secret History 18.9–10; on Italy,
Wars 7.1.28–33, 7.9.13, cf. Secret History 18.13–15, 24.9, 26.27–30. Fiscal arrangements in the
post-Roman successor states are surveyed by Wickham, Framing the Early Middle Ages,
pp. 80–124, esp. 87–93, 115–20 on Africa and Italy.
51 See Section i above. The noun hêsukhia (“rest, quiet”) is related to the verb Procopius
employs in Wars 3.21.10, quoted above, hêsukhazein (“to keep quiet, be at rest”).
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268 Pazdernik
Vandalic War, however, are the interests of the Libyans themselves, who ulti-
mately bear the burden of the ensuing hostilities. In charting the distance
between the formulation of policy in high councils of state and its realization
on the ground, the Wars not only offers a corrective to Justinian’s triumphalist
rhetoric of the 530s, but also recommends caution and self-restraint as funda-
mental principles of statecraft.
5 “A True Emperor”
The Gothic War (Wars 5–7) opens with a strikingly fulsome endorsement, in
Procopius’ own narratorial voice, of the Gothic achievement in Italy. Upon
the deposition of Romulus Augustulus, we learn, Odoacer was established
in power and held it as a tyranny (5.1.2–8). The emperor Zeno, faced with an
armed insurrection by the Goths under Theoderic, seized on the opportunity
to deflect them from the East by sending them westward against the usurper
(5.1.10–11):
Zeno, who understood how to settle any situation to his advantage,

encouraged Theoderic to march to Italy, attack Odoacer, and win for him-
self and the Goths the western dominion. For it was better for him, he
said, especially as he had attained senatorial rank, to force out a usurper
(a tyrannos) and rule over all the Romans and Italians than incur the
great risk of a struggle with the emperor.
This excursus culminates in the well-known eulogy of Theoderic: (5.1.25–29,

modified):52
… [Theoderic] secured for himself the rule over both Goths and Italians.
Though he did not claim the right to assume either the garb or the name
of an emperor of the Romans (basileus Rhômaiôn), and was called rex to
the end of his life (for thus the barbarians are accustomed to call their
leaders),53 still, in governing his own subjects he invested himself with all
the qualities that are appropriate to one who is an emperor (basileus) by
52 The passage is an imitatio of Thucydides’ obituary for Pericles (Thuc. 2.65.5–6, 9–10):
Bornmann, “Motivi Tucididei in Procopio”, esp. pp. 144–147. See further Pazdernik,
“Reinventing Theoderic.”
53 On this title, see Barnish, “Cuncta Italiae Membra Componere”, pp. 318–319; Wolfram,
“Gotisches Königtum und römisches Kaisertum”, esp. pp. 1–3, 22–24.
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nature…. In name Theoderic was a usurper (a tyrannos), yet in fact he was

a true emperor (basileus alêthês) no less than any who have distinguished
themselves in this office from the beginning.
The warmth of this portrait celebrates both the circumstances under which
Theoderic acquired control over Italy and the moderate regime he established
there.54 The rupture effected by the deposition of Romulus Augustulus in 476 –
which, according to the official rhetoric of the time, could be repaired only by
the establishment of direct imperial control over Italy from Constantinople55
– is here declared to have been merely nominal: Theoderic preserved external
security and civil order in Italy, while at the same time disclaiming the imperial
regalia and title, making him a true emperor in all but name.56
The Wars posits Theoderic’s success in perpetuating an authentically Roman
civilization as the standard against which subsequent attempts to rule Italy
may be contextualized and evaluated. When the narrative affords the Goths
an opportunity to state their case for themselves, in a dialogue staged between
their representatives and Belisarius in Rome in late 537,57 their argument strik-
ingly recapitulates the opening excursus of the Gothic War, quoted just above.
The coincidence of these two accounts, one embedded within the narrative
and the other framing that narrative, powerfully endorses their shared point of
view, in relation to which contradictory or dissenting voices about Theoderic
and his achievement are thrown into especially stark relief.58
After Odoacer had established a tyranny in Italy, the Goths assert, Zeno dis-
patched Theoderic to avenge Romulus Augustulus and to rule over the land in
a spirit of justice and rectitude (Wars 6.6.15–16). This the Goths claim to have
54 Yet the Wars does not conceal serious shortcomings (5.1.32–34), notably the executions of
Symmachus and Boethius. See Börm, “Procopius”, p. 316.
55 See Section ii above.
56 The Secret History (11.1) condemns Justinian for assuming the imperial regalia with the
express purpose of disrupting and destroying everything already established by law and
custom. See Goltz, Barbar – König – Tyrann, pp. 210–267, esp. 252–255. In the Vandalic
War, Theoderic is once called, apparently inadvertently, “the basileus of the Goths”
(Wars 3.8.11).
57 The episode is an imitatio of the Melian Dialogue in Thucydides: compare esp. Thuc. 5.85
and Wars 6.6.11. See Adshead, “Procopius’ poliorcetica”, p. 102–103; also Rubin, Prokopios
von Kaisareia, col. 449; Brodka, Geschichtsphilosophie, p. 90.
58 Cf. Moorhead, Theoderic in Italy, p. 50; Thompson, Romans and Barbarians, pp. 73–74.
Arnold, Theoderic and the Roman Imperial Restoration, p. 64 (cf. 302), conflates Procopius’
narratorial voice with other embedded voices; Wolfram, History of the Goths, p. 285, like-
wise lifts quotations without regard for their context.
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270 Pazdernik
done, by preserving and protecting the civil society on which Roman civiliza-
tion is founded (6.6.17):
It was in this way, therefore, that we took over the dominion of Italy, and
we have preserved both the laws and the form of government as strictly
as any who have ever been emperors of the Romans.
It is instead, they go on to claim, the encroaching imperial forces themselves

who are now attempting to acquire rights in Italy through conquest (6.6.21).
In reply, Belisarius insists that Theoderic did well to overthrow the tyrant
Odoacer but exceeded his delegated authority in failing to devise a means of
restoring direct imperial control over Italy (Wars 6.6.23–24):
Theoderic was sent by the emperor Zeno in order to make war on Odoacer,
not in order to hold the dominion of Italy for himself. Why would the
emperor have wanted to exchange one tyrant for another? He sent him
so that Italy might be free and subject to the emperor. And while he dealt
well with the tyrant, in everything else he showed an excessive lack of
modesty, for he never thought of restoring the land to its rightful owner.
At this point, Belisarius draws an explicit comparison between Theoderic

and himself (6.6.25): “But I, for my part, think it is the same whether one robs
another by violence or fails to restore his neighbor’s property. I will never sur-
render the emperor’s territory to anyone else.”
The Wars ascribes to Belisarius a point of view decidedly narrower than
those detectable in the work as a whole.59 From Belisarius’ perspective, the
Goths’ failure to acknowledge that his mission had effectively superseded their
own precludes compromise and situates the Goths themselves as mere obsta-
cles to the expansion of direct imperial rule. Such an uncompromising stance
is not only at odds with the positive assessment of Theoderic’s achievement
voiced by the Goths and endorsed in the narratorial voice of the Wars; it is
also narrower than the perspective the Wars ascribes to Justinian, inasmuch as
the emperor, once renewed hostilities with Persia were in prospect, reportedly
was prepared to conclude a negotiated territorial settlement with the Goths
up until the very surrender of Ravenna in 54060 – an outcome that Belisarius,
59 Cf. Brodka, “Reconquista”, pp. 248–250.

60 Wars 6.22.9–25; 28.23; 29.1–3. Compare Barnish, “Cuncta Italiae Membra Componere”,
p. 331.
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in his determination to win a decisive victory, doggedly pursued in defiance of

the emperor’s express instructions and against the advice of his own officers.61
The fortunes of the Goths had, in the meantime, deteriorated to the point
that, believing themselves to be facing abject capitulation and the prospect
of deportation from Italy, they offered the western imperial title to Belisarius.
Procopius insists that the general was unmoved (Wars 6.29.19–20, modified):
But Belisarius was unwilling to assume power against the will of the
emperor [Justinian], for he had an extraordinary loathing for the name
of tyrant, and furthermore he had, in fact, been bound by the emperor
previously by most solemn oaths never during his lifetime to plan a
usurpation.
Relying, however, on Belisarius’ vague assurances and counting implicitly

on his will to power, the Goths admitted the imperial forces into Ravenna
(6.29.28). Shortly thereafter, Justinian recalled Belisarius in order to allay suspi-
cions about his ambitions in Italy62 and to place him in command against the
Persians (6.30.1–2). As realization dawned about Belisarius’ imminent depar-
ture for Constantinople, the Goths cast about for alternatives before renewing
their offer. “But he, contrary to their expectation, refused them flatly, saying
that never, while the emperor Justinian lived, would Belisarius usurp the impe-
rial title” (6.30.28).
The Wars dramatizes these moments of decision in order to juxtapose
Belisarius’ position in Italy in 540 with that of Theoderic following his elimina-
tion of Odoacer. Like Theoderic, Belisarius invaded Italy at the behest of the
emperor seated in Constantinople and established himself as de facto ruler
over Goths and Italians; again, like Theoderic, he declined to claim for himself
the title of basileus.
Belisarius differs most pointedly from Theoderic, of course, in shrinking
from “the name of tyrant” and in his relationship with the eastern emperor
who dispatched him to the West. Whatever the reality of the events of 540
might have been, the Wars is unequivocal in protesting Belisarius’ unwavering
loyalty toward Justinian: it could scarcely be otherwise in a work intended for
publication while the principals were still alive. Less pronounced, but unmis-
takable, is the work’s insistence on Justinian’s inability to tolerate the proc-
lamation of an imperial colleague, notwithstanding his efforts to repair the
61 Wars 6.29.4; compare 4.9.1–3; 7.1.3–4.

62 Similar allegations had surfaced after the Vandalic War (Wars 4.8.1–8).
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272 Pazdernik
breach ostensibly caused by the deposition of a western emperor, Romulus

Augustulus, in 476.63
Faced with a choice comparable to Theoderic’s, Belisarius chose differently.
The Wars equips its readers with the means of reflecting on that difference.
Upon his return to Constantinople, Belisarius merits a eulogy that bears com-
parison with the eulogy of Theoderic that opens the Gothic War (Wars 7.1.22–
24, modified):64
Belisarius became a man of power because of both his public standing

and his sound judgement … But the other commanders, who were on a
rather more equal footing with each another and had no thought in mind
except to make a profit for themselves, had already begun both to plun-
der the Romans and to put the civilian population at the mercy of the sol-
diers…. Consequently, they committed many blunders, and the interests
of the Romans were undermined in a short space of time.
The eulogies of Theoderic and Belisarius complement one another, and

together they bracket the narrative of the Gothic War down to 540. Each is pre-
sented as a superlative figure whose personal qualities are admirable, for the
most part, and whose accomplishments are unmatched. Neither was equaled,
or so we are led to believe, by his successors.65
The measure of Theoderic’s success, as the Wars presents it, was that he was
capable of perceiving an identity of interests between himself, his soldiers, and
the populations over which he acquired control. By conserving the fabric of
civil society, he maintained a recognizably Roman order even while keeping
his distance from the eastern imperial court.
As we have seen, the Wars celebrates strikingly similar accomplishments
credited to Belisarius following the conquest of Vandal North Africa.66 Absent
such a remarkable and capable figure exercising effective leadership on the
ground – absent, that is, one who is by nature and in practice “a true emperor” –
expeditionary forces dispatched from East to West were little other than
armies of occupation by a foreign power. Procopius’ Wars enacts this intrac-
table dilemma while equipping its readers to reflect upon alternative paths.
63 See Section ii above. Compare Börm, “Das Weströmische Kaisertum nach 476”, pp. 57–58.
64 It is likewise (see n. 52 above) an imitatio of Thucydides’ obituary of Pericles: compare
Thuc. 2.65.10. See Cresci, “Aspetti della μίμησις in Procopio”; ead., “Ancora sulla μίμησις
in Procopio”, esp. pp. 451–456. On other allusions to the obituary of Pericles, see Braun,
Procopius Caesariensis, pp. 17–18.
65 Compare Brodka, “Reconquista”, esp. pp. 254–255.
66 See Section iv above. Compare Wars 7.1.8–10.
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6 A “Revelation of Character”
Not unlike Plutarch entreating his readers to pardon omissions from his biog-
raphy of Alexander, one hopes that an unavoidably selective treatment of
Procopius’ Wars amounts to something representative of the whole: perhaps
a “revelation of character” insofar as this idea is applicable to a literary work.
Indeed, allowing for the size and the complexity of the Wars, we may see in it
a persistent concern about the impact of decisions taken within high councils
of state on the lives of those who are consequently enmeshed in conflicts alleg-
edly undertaken on their behalf.
The Wars measures the success of these undertakings less in terms of battle-
field victories or diplomatic intrigues than upon whether those who exercise
authority are competent to maintain civil order, to provide external security,
and to sustain the institutions that animate social, cultural, and economic
well-being. The perpetuation of peace and quiet – the familiar rhythms of
daily life, the orderly and predictable functioning of public administration, the
harmonious interaction of the military and civilian spheres – is paramount,
and the matter of whether such a state of affairs was recognizably “Roman”,
self-evident.
Correspondingly, the Wars assigns a decidedly secondary importance to the
matter of whether the competent authority governing such a state of affairs
claimed the title and regalia of “the basileus of the Romans.” Impatient with
rhetoric and spectacle calculated merely to exalt the holder of the imperial
office,67 it drives home to its readers the claim that Theoderic conserved and
protected Roman civilization outside of direct imperial control; that Belisarius’
talents and energies were diverted from post-conflict reconstruction in North
Africa and Italy by baseless suspicions over his imperial ambitions;68 and that
Justinian never participated personally in “the wars that Justinian, emperor
of the Romans, waged against the barbarians of the East and the West.”69 It
does not imagine an alternative to monarchy as a mode of effective political
67 See, with a wider frame of reference, Pazdernik, “Paying Attention to the Man behind the
Curtain.”
68 See Section v and n. 62.
69 Wars 1.1.1; see also Section i above. Justinian’s sedentary eastern court followed precedents
established by his predecessors from Theodosius ii (imp. 408–450) onward. Compare
Cameron, “History as Text”, p. 63: “the Wars, for all its voluminousness, almost seems to
leave out Justinian altogether.” As Börm, “Procopius”, pp. 308–309, points out, Procopius
praises unreservedly the western emperor Majorian (Maiorinos, imp. 457–461; Wars 3.7.4–
14), chiefly because he led his forces in person and had otherwise proven himself a man of
action (many of the details Procopius reports are, however, fabrications).
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274 Pazdernik
organization,70 but grounds legitimate authority in direct and concrete action

that fosters community and promotes social cohesion.71
While it is undeniably tinged with nostalgia for a once and future epoch,
when Rome belonged to the Romans and an emperor true both in name and
in fact ruled over a reconstituted and revivified Roman domain, Procopius’
Wars recognizes such a hope as fond and, in spite of the utmost effort and
cost, unrealizable.
70 Compare Cameron, Procopius and the Sixth Century, p. 252 n. 76: “Procopius was not
opposed to monarchy as such, only to a ‘bad’ emperor.” Procopius describes as dêmokra-
tia the primitive, acephalous society of the Sclavenes and the Antes (Wars 7.14.22); see
further Curta, The Making of the Slavs, pp. 311–334.
71 E.g., Wars 3.17.6; see Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides”, esp. pp. 164–165.
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Procopius and the Barbarians in the West
Hans-Ulrich Wiemer
1 Introduction: Ethnography and Historiography
Procopius’s historical work on the wars waged by Emperor Justinian against

the Persians, Vandals, and Goths in the years 533–5521 is the most important
source for these and many other peoples who came into contact with the
Imperium Romanum in Europe, Asia, and North Africa at that time. Procopius
was an immediate contemporary of the events he described. Since he accom-
panied the general Belisarius on campaigns against the Persians, Vandals, and
Goths, he knew all three theatres of war from personal experience. There he
encountered people of diverse descent, language, and way of life; moreover, he
was in more or less close contact with Eastern Roman officers who, for their
part, had gained experience with the emperor’s adversaries.2
Procopius’s geographical horizons encompassed the entire Mediterranean,
but extended far beyond it: in the north to Britain and Scandinavia, in the south
to Ethiopia and Yemen, in the east to Crimea, the Caucasus, and Central Asia.
Any modern account of this period from the perspective of the Mediterranean
is therefore based on an explicit or implicit judgement about the credibility
and validity of the reports handed down by Procopius. It has been rightly
emphasised that this question cannot be answered in general terms; in each
individual case it requires a close examination in the light of all available sources
and remains. However, such an examination requires that one first forms an
1 Despite the debate sparked by the revisionist interpretation proposed in 2004 by Kaldellis,
Procopius of Caesarea, Cameron, Procopius remains fundamental. For personal reflections
on the course which the debate has taken since then, see Cameron, “Reading Procopius”
and Kaldellis, “Epilogue”. Recent literature up to 2014 is discussed with good judgement by
Greatrex, “Recent work”; Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius.” The conference volume edited
by Geoffrey Greatrex and Sylvain Janniard (The World of Procopius) and published in 2018
contains many valuable contributions, as does the exactly contemporary volume edited by
Christopher Lollington-Martin and Elodie Turquois (Procopius of Caesarea). In the absence
of a historical commentary on the “Wars”, Rubin’s article written for Pauly-Wissowa and pub-
lished separately with minor additions in 1955 (Procopius) is still useful for the wealth of
material collected.
2 Procopius’s oral sources: Brodka, “Prokop von Kaisareia und seine Informanten.”

276 Wiemer
idea of how Procopius understood his task as a historian and by what means
he sought to accomplish it.3
We must start with the fact that Procopius’s historical work stands in a tradi-
tion that was already a full millennium old at the time he began writing, in the
mid-540s.4 Procopius consciously aligned himself with it by adopting the lin-
guistic and narrative means of representation of the authors who had founded
the genre of historiography and were still considered exemplary, Herodotus
and Thucydides.5 By opting for this form of depicting past events, rightly called
“classicist,” he invited the reader to judge his own work against the “classics”
of the genre. The tradition in which Procopius placed himself, however, was
not determined solely by stylistic and narrative conventions; rather, it also
included a focus on certain themes. “Classical” historiography was centred
on actions that were of immediate and considerable importance for a politi-
cal community: wars and civil wars, diplomacy, power struggles at court, and
changes of rulers. By contrast, the depiction of circumstances receded into the
background; knowledge of the structural conditions of action was generally
assumed. Ethnic groups that had never been described before formed the most
important exception to this rule; here a description was required if the nar-
rative was to be fully comprehensible, as Procopius himself also emphasises
(8,1,7). At the same time, the description of a people perceived as foreign pro-
vided an opportunity to add variety and colour to the historical narrative.
Therefore, since Herodotus, it was customary to introduce foreign peoples
who had an influence on the narrated events, but who were not already suf-
ficiently well known through older accounts, in the form of an excursus. The
depiction of foreign peoples, ethnography, was thus closely related to the lit-
erary genre of historiography from the very beginning. Schematic forms for
perceiving, interpreting, and linguistically shaping the foreign had already
developed early on: questions were asked about residences and origins, about
language and appearance, about physical and mental dispositions, about cus-
toms and traditions, particularly religion, forms of rule, and warfare. At the same
time, the number of answers given to these questions was limited by axiomatic
3 I am happy to find myself in agreement on this basic issue with recent work by Greatrex,
“Procopius’ attitude” and by Sarantis, “Different types of northern barbarians”.
4 Ancient ethnography: Müller, Geschichte der antiken Ethnographie (the only comprehen-
sive account); Timpe, “Ethnologische Begriffsbildung” (from Herodotus to Tacitus); Woolf,
Tales of the Barbarians; Kaldellis, Ethnography After Antiquity (Byzantium). Seminal was
Norden, Die germanische Urgeschichte, discussed in detail by Wissowa, “Die Germanische
Urgeschichte.”
5 Literary models: Braun, Procopius Caesariensis; Braun, Die Nachahmung Herodots.
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assumptions; therefore, certain motifs, called topoi in modern terminology,6

recur frequently in ethnographic texts: peoples had either always lived where
they were in the present – in which case they were autochthonous – or they
had migrated, in which case one asked when, whence, and why. Peoples, fur-
thermore, were regarded as communities of descent whose names were read-
ily derived from ancestors. It was therefore believed that peoples generally
preserved their collective characteristics over a long period of time. Of course,
it was certainly expected that new peoples would emerge through mixing
with other peoples, while others disappeared without a trace. Ethnic names
that supposedly or actually resembled each other often served as index fos-
sils for the reconstruction of migrations, but it was also known that peoples
had changed their names over time. Conversely, there was a tendency to iden-
tify previously unknown peoples who came into contact with the Imperium
Romanum with peoples who had appeared in the same region in an earlier
period and had already been described by earlier authors. By identifying
the barbarians of the present with barbarians of the past, the unknown and
threatening took on the appearance of the familiar, which could be classified
and understood.
The legacy of ancient ethnography also included the asymmetrical and
principled distinction between the ethnic group to which the author assigned
himself and the totality of peoples he described as foreign. This categorical
dichotomy persisted in late antiquity, although the line was now no longer
drawn between Greeks and barbarians, but between Romans and barbarians.
Anyone who was not a Roman could therefore be classified as a barbarian,
regardless of which other ethnic group they belonged to. But the barbarian
embodied the antithesis of the civilised world; he was wild and violent, at the
same time cowardly and devious. Unable to control his impulses, he was more
beast than human. His very existence posed a permanent threat to the civilised
world. Generally accepted norms of human coexistence could therefore be
suspended in dealings with barbarians: the barbarian deserved no better.7
The reality of the 6th century ad, of course, could not be grasped through
such stereotypes. For centuries, Roman emperors had relied on the coop-
eration of non-Roman warlords and kings; for centuries, members of non-
Roman peoples had formed the powerful core of imperial armies. Where, in
ca. 400, the western part of the Imperium Romanum had been, at around 500
6 Concept of topos in the study of ethnography: Bringmann, “Topoi in der taciteischen Ger-
mania” (fundamental). A collection of ethnographic truisms in Schröder, De ethnographiae.
7 Image of barbarians in late antiquity: Vogt, Kulturwelt; Dauge, Le Barbare; Chauvot, Opinions
romaines; Heather, “The Barbarian.”
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278 Wiemer
kings belonging to non-Roman peoples ruled, and even after the reconquest
of North Africa and Italy, most of the Iberian Peninsula and north-western
Europe remained outside the emperor’s domain. In foreign policy practice, a
distinction was made between good and bad barbarians and attempts were
made to play one off against the other; domestically, anyone who served the
emperor was considered a Roman, even if they simultaneously belonged to an
ethnic group that marked them as non-Roman. Moreover, the environment of
the Imperium Romanum was in constant motion; ethnically defined groups
of which Constantinople had hitherto been unaware suddenly appeared, long
familiar ones changed their place of residence, others disappeared altogether;
ethnic names and collective spheres of activity were subject to constant
change. Procopius was well aware of these problems. For instance, the histo-
rian explicitly points out that the Franks used to be called Germani and the
Huns used to be called Massagetae.8 In an excursus on the peoples of the Black
Sea coast he writes (8,1,11):
In addition, a long time has elapsed since these accounts were written
and this, along with the march of events, has caused constant changes,
with the result that many conditions that were formerly obtained have
been replaced by new ones, because of the migration of nations and the
succession of rulers and names.
The influence of the ethnographic tradition on the portrayal of foreign peoples

in Procopius’s historical work is controversial in modern scholarship. Some
believe that his portrayal of foreign peoples is characterised by conventional
“barbarian topoi” and for this reason says little about the peoples he describes.
Others, however, take the view that Procopius was able to free himself from
the clichés and prejudices that shaped the image of the barbarians when it
came to depicting certain peoples. In fact, Procopius is by no means equally
hostile to all non-Roman peoples. He does not have a good word to say about
the Moors, Heruli, and Franks. The Hephthalites, however, he praises for their
well-ordered state (ennomos politeia), and he ascribes the qualities of an ideal
ruler to Gothic kings like Theoderic or Totila.9
8 Franks = Germani: 3,3,1; 3,3,33; 5,11,29; 5,12,8; see also 8,20,3. Huns = Massagetae: 3,11,9; 1,21,14–
15; 3,4,24; 3,18,13; 6,1,8–9.
9 Hephthalites: 1,3,5. On Procopius’s representation of the Ostrogothic kings see the next
section.
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In what follows, I will try to determine how the relationship between ethno-
graphic theory and empiricism was concretely shaped in Procopius. In other
words: Does the historian merely reproduce stereotypes of ancient ethnogra-
phy, or is he able to perceive and describe non-Roman ethnic groups as col-
lective individualities? If we want to answer this question, we cannot limit
ourselves to ethnographic excursuses in the narrower sense, for such are rare in
his work and, according to tradition, reserved for peoples who had not yet been
given a literary depiction. Excursuses of this kind deal with the Hephthalites
(1,3,2–7), the Moors (4,10,13–29), the Heruli (6,14,2–7), the Scritifini and Geats
(6,15,16–25), the Sclaveni and Antes (7,14,21–30), the Tetraxite Goths (8,5,5–14)
and the Varni and Angles (8,20). In addition, there are a large number of excur-
suses which, apart from ethnographic information, contain mainly geographi-
cal and/or historical details about individual peoples.10
However, the great majority of barbarian peoples – including Justinian’s
main opponents: Persians, Vandals, and Goths – are presented to the reader
in other ways: through scattered remarks, through speeches that the histo-
rian puts into the mouths of named individuals or anonymous collectives,
but above all through the description of actions. Persians, Vandals, and Goths
are privileged over other ethnic groups in that Procopius precedes each of
the three groups of books in which Justinian’s three main opponents appear
with a historical introduction dealing with their relations to the Imperium
Romanum; that is, dealing in each case with the events leading up to the wars
that Justinian waged against them.
This contribution will restrict itself to the barbarians of the West for reasons
of space only.11 For Procopius himself, the distinction between West and East
was of no importance when it came to barbarians.
10 My approach thus differs from that of Greatrex, “Procopius’ attitude”, who tries to estab-
lish whether Procopius’ account and evaluation of non-Roman groups corresponds to
the stereotype of the barbarian and then puts these groups on a scale ranging from “thor-
oughly barbarian” (like the Heruls), “quite barbarian” (like the Goths), “hardly barbarian”
(like the Isaurians) to “civilized” (like the Persians and the Hepthalites). On Procopius’s
excursuses see Momigliano, “L’età di trapasso”; Cesa, “Etnografia e geografia”; Nobbs,
“Digressions in Procopius.”
11 On Huns in Procopius see Janniard, “Les Huns” (cavalry tactics); Sarantis, “Types of
Northern Barbarians”, pp. 360–363. Procopius and the Persians: Börm, Prokop and in this
volume.
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280 Wiemer
2 The “Gothic Peoples” (Ethnē)12
Even though Procopius does not make Persians, Vandals, and Goths the subject
of ethnographic excursuses, in the historical introduction to the “Vandal War”
he lays out a theory about the kinship of several peoples, showing himself to
be fully familiar with the patterns of thought in ancient ethnography (3,2,2–6):
There were many Gothic nations (ethnê) in earlier times just as there are
now, but the greatest and most important of all are the Goths, Vandals,
Visigoths and Gepids. In ancient times, however, they were named
Sauromati and Melanchlaeni; there were some too who called these
nations (ethnê) Getic. All these, while distinguished from one another
by their names, as has been said, do not differ in anything else at all. For
they all have white bodies and blonde hair, they are tall and good-looking,
and have the same customs (nomoi) and practise a common religion (ta es
ton theon). For they are all of the Arian faith and have one language called
Gothic. It seems to me that they all came originally from one tribe (ethnos)
and were distinguished later by the names of those who led each group.
This people long used to dwell beyond the Danube river. Later the Gepids
got possession of the country about Singidunum and Sirmium, on both
sides of the Danube river, where they remain settled even down to my time.
Procopius includes Goths, Vandals, Visigoths, and Gepids in a group of related

ethnic groups which he refers to as “Gothic peoples.” In accordance with
ancient ethnography, he defines this group by physical characteristics – white
skin, blond hair, tall stature, and beauty – by common customs, a common reli-
gion, which he calls Arianism, and a common language (phônē) called Gothic.13
Originally, all four ethnic groups belonged to one and the same people (ethnos)
who lived on the other side of the Danube; later, however, this original people
split into four parts, with the individual parts taking on the names of their
leaders. Procopius explains the spatial distance of the four ethnic groups from
each other by migration from the hypothetical original homeland to the cur-
rent settlement areas. It is also entirely in keeping with the style of thinking
of ancient ethnography when Procopius explains that the postulated original
Gothic people had been called Sauromati or Melanchlaeni in ancient times,
for these names had been commonly used for peoples on the other side of
12 History of the Ostrogoths: Wolfram, Die Goten; Heather, The Goths and now also Wiemer,
Theoderich der Große.
13 Gothic language: 3,2,5; cf. 5,10,10; 6,1,15–16; Cassiodorus, Variae 5,40,5; 8,21,7; 11,1,6.
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the Danube since Herodotus. However, the historian was also aware of the
equation of the Goths with the Getae, which was common in late antiquity
and allowed his contemporary Cassiodorus to extend the history of the Goths
into pre-Christian times.14 Nevertheless, Procopius does not completely work
through the checklist of questions of ancient ethnography; for example, there
are no details about their form of government or the manner of fighting.
It has long been noted that Procopius did not develop this ethnographic
model himself, but took it over from his predecessor Priscus.15 But crucially, it
remains largely inconsequential for the account of the wars Justinian waged
against them, for Procopius does not use the claimed kinship as a motive
for action. The Visigoths only appear in passing in any case: they sack Rome
under Alaric and devastate Italy (3,2,7–37); later they conquer Spain and Gaul
beyond the Rhône (5,12,12). The next mention already refers to the collapse of
the Visigothic kingdom in Gaul in 507 and the subsequent unification of the
two Gothic kingdoms by Theoderic (5,12,33–54). With the dissolution of the
personal union between the two Gothic kingdoms (526), the Goths in Spain
disappear from the reader’s horizon (5,13,4–14).16 As will be discussed later,
the Gepids, as opponents of the Lombards take up considerably more space in
Procopius but the classification as a “Gothic people” plays no more of a role in
their portrayal than in that of the Vandals.
In the introduction to the “Gothic War” (5,1), Procopius again speaks of
“Gothic peoples,” but here he also includes the Scirii and Alans (5,1,3), whom
he does not mention in the introduction to the “Vandal War.” Nowhere does
he explain to the reader how the Goths who conquered Italy with Theoderic
had arrived in the Imperium Romanum from their original homeland across
the Danube. In the introduction to the “Vandal War” it is merely stated that
they first inhabited Pannonia, but later, with imperial permission, Thrace
14 Got(h)i = Getae: Christensen, Cassiodorus, pp. 48–51. For Cassiodorus’s lost history of the
Goths see now the collection of fragments by Van Hoof/Van Nuffelen, The Fragmentary
Latin Histories, pp. 194–225 (= FHistLat 17). For discussion see also Wiemer, Theoderich
der Große, pp. 71–83. As an introduction to Jordanes as a historical writer in his own right
see now the excellent introduction by the same two authors to their translation of his two
surviving works: Van Hoff/Van Nuffelen, Jordanes: Romana and Getica, pp. 1–102. I do not,
however, share their belief that only social or ethnic groups who produce historiography
have a historical consciousness of their own.
15 Gothic origins: Brodka, “Die Wanderung.” We also encounter the model in Cyril of
Scythopolis (Vita Sabae 72), a contemporary of Procopius. On the reception in later
Byzantine historiography, see now Meier, “Attila.”
16 Theudis i is mentioned only in passing as ruler of the Visigoths: 3,24,7; 4,4,34; 5,12,50–54;
5,13,13; 6,30,15.
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282 Wiemer
(3,2,39–40); in the introduction to the “Gothic War” the reader also learns that
the emperor who granted it was Zeno (5,1,9).17
The reader has to wait until the eighth book for an explanation as to how
and why the Goths came to be within the Empire. This cannot, however, have
been part of Procopius’ original plan since book eight is a kind of adden-
dum to books 1–7, which were published as a unit. At the end of the long
excursus on the Black Sea region, Procopius turns to the peoples who lived
beyond the Caucasus. In this geographical context he mentions Goths called
Tetraxites (8,4,9–12): they were not a very numerous people who lived along
the Kerch Strait. He could not say whether they were Arians like the other
“Gothic peoples,” because they themselves did not know. They practised their
simple faith without contentiousness, which is high praise from Procopius,
who accuses Justinian of wasting his time with theological hair-splitting.18 The
historian then reveals what event had drawn his attention to this people: in
548, a Tetraxite embassy had come to Constantinople; officially, it had asked
Justinian to appoint a bishop for them, but in a secret audience had pointed
out that it was in his interest for the barbarians in the region to be in perpetual
conflict with each other. Procopius in turn takes the mention of this embassy
as an opportunity to explain to the reader how the Tetraxite Goths came to
attract his attention.
To this end, Procopius relates a history that begins with the Utigurs and
Kutrigurs, peoples he classifies as Hunnic; he also equates the Utigurs with
the Cimmerians of ethnographic tradition. According to Procopius, the
Utigurs and Kutrigurs lived on the far side of the Kerch Strait in ancient times.
Meanwhile the Tetraxites resided on the other side, whereas the other “Gothic
peoples,” including Goths, Visigoths and Vandals, lived far away. Procopius
adds the explanation that the general name “Scythians” had also been in
use for the “Gothic peoples” in the past, because all peoples living in this
area were described as such; some, however, were also called Sauromati and
Melanchlaeni (8,5,6).
According to Procopius’s account, the Tetraxites and the “Cimmerians”
were completely unaware of each other for a long time, because the Kerch
Strait had been considered uncrossable, until one day young “Cimmerians”
reached the other side while hunting a deer. This discovery had set the Hunnic
expansion to the west in motion, for the “Cimmerians” had now immedi-
ately crossed the Kerch Strait as an armed people and attacked their western
17 Theoderic’s Goths in the Balkans: 1,8,3; 5,16,2; Aed. 3,7,13.

18 Justinian’s theological tendencies: 7,25,11; 7,32,9; cf. 5,1,6. The emperor’s religious zeal is a
leitmotif of the Anecdota: Cameron, Procopius, pp. 119–120.
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neighbours. Here, too, Procopius seems to have used Priscus, who in turn drew
on even older accounts. Procopius, however, dates the Huns’ westward expan-
sion much later than the authors of the 5th century, in whom the narrative is
first encountered;19 in Procopius, it does not fall in the 370s, but in the time
when the Vandals were already established in North Africa and the Visigoths
in Spain, i.e. in the middle of the 5th century (8,5,11–14):
So they suddenly fell upon the Goths who inhabited these plains and
killed many of them, turning the rest to flight. Those who managed to
escape migrated from there with their women and children, leaving their
ancestral lands. By ferrying across the Danube river, they came into the
land of the Romans. At first they inflicted much harm upon the inhabit-
ants of that region, but later, with the Emperor’s permission, they settled
in Thrace. They fought on the side of the Romans, receiving pay from the
Emperor every year just as the other soldiers did, and they were called
foederati; for so the Romans at that time called them in Latin, indicat-
ing, I think, that the Goths had not been defeated by them in war but
had made a treaty with them. […] But they also waged war against the
Romans for no good reason, until they went off to Italy under the leader-
ship of Theoderic.
After this plundering campaign, the Kutrigurs settled on the far side of the
Danube, from where they repeatedly made incursions into the Imperium
Romanum. The Utigurs, however, returned to their old dwelling-places. At first,
the Tetraxites tried to block their return, but then they joined forces with them;
since then they have lived where they reside in the present.
This excursus allowed Procopius to add a new facet to the literature already
available to him on the origins of the Goths, for Goths in Crimea had not previ-
ously been described. A few years later, when he came to speak of the city of
Bosporus (present-day Kerch), in his book about the buildings of Justinian he
was able to add that around 3000 Goths lived there in a country called Dory,
who had not followed Theoderic into Italy and were loyal allies of the emperor
(3,7,13–17). This does not change the overall finding: Procopius’s ideas about
the prehistory of the “Gothic peoples” are topographically and chronologically
indeterminate and confused. In terms of understanding Justinian’s Gothic
wars as he presents them, the excursus is unnecessary.
Procopius shared the view that the emperor was entitled to end Gothic
rule in Italy, even though he was increasingly critical of the manner in which
19 Crossing the Kerch Strait: Sozomenus 6,37,4; Jordanes, Getica 123; Agathias 5,11,3.
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284 Wiemer
Justinian conducted this war.20 However, the historian was by no means nega-
tive towards all Gothic kings because of this. In the introduction to the “Gothic
War,” he explains how it came about that Theoderic ruled in Italy as king over
the Goths and Romans and characterises the Gothic king as an ideal ruler,
whose only flaw was that he was a despot (tyrannos) (5,1,26–29):
Though he did not claim the right to assume either the garb or the name
of an emperor (basileus) of the Romans, and was called rex for the rest of
his life (for the barbarians are accustomed to call their leaders that), still,
in governing his own subjects he invested himself with all the qualities
that are appropriate to one who is an emperor (basileus) by nature. For he
was extremely careful to observe justice, preserved the laws on a sound
basis, protected the land securely from the neighboring barbarians, and
attained the highest possible degree of wisdom and courage. Neither did
he himself scarcely commit any act of injustice against his subjects nor
did he allow anyone else to attempt it, except, of course, that the Goths
distributed among themselves the lands that Odoacer had given to his
own rebels. In name Theoderic was a usurper (tyrannos), yet in fact he
was truly an emperor (basileus) no less than any who have distinguished
themselves in this office from the beginning.
Procopius praises Theoderic in a way that has only one parallel in his historical
work, the eulogy of the short-lived Western Emperor Maiorinus (3,7,4–14). The
Gothic king thus marks a benchmark against which the reader is also to mea-
sure Justinian. The authorial commentary is later reinforced by the speech of a
Gothic embassy during the first siege of Rome (537), which sets out the Gothic
legal position in the conflict with Justinian and summarises the principles
of Theoderic’s “dual rule” over Goths and Romans (6,6,14–22). After the first
reconquest of Rome by Totila (546), the Gothic king is given the opportunity to
contrast the blessings of Gothic rule with oppression by the emperor and his
officials in an address to the Roman Senate (7,21,12–17). Theoderic’s successors
are sometimes portrayed very strikingly: Athalaric as a depraved youth who
drinks and whores himself to death (5,2,19), Theodahad as highly educated but
indolent, unwarlike, and greedy (5,3,1), as ruthless as he is fearful, Teja as a hero
of Homeric stature (8,35). By contrast, not only the ephemeral kings Eraric and
Hildebad, but also Vitigis remain colourless as personalities.21
20 Justinian’s Italian war according to Procopius’s judgement: 7,1,28–32; 7,9,2–3; 7,33,1.

21 Procopius on Theoderic: Goltz, Theoderich, pp. 210–267; Pazdernik, “Reinventing
Theoderic.” Procopius on Theodahad: Vitiello, Theodahad, pp. 7–13. On his portrayal of
Ostrogothic kings and queens in general see Goltz “Darstellung ostgotischer Herrscher.”
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Unlike his predeccesors, Totila is branded a tyrant in Justinian’s “Pragmatic

Sanction” for Italy issued in 554. This makes it all the more remarkable that
Procopius treats him with respect and sympathy. In his account, the Gothic
king appears as brave, magnanimous, and mild; no other protagonist is permit-
ted to make as many speeches as he does. No less than four chapters are devoted
to the battle of Taginae in which Totila was defeated and killed (8,29–32). The
narration begins with failed attempts by the Gothic king first to surprise his
enemies by a ruse and then to capture a strategically important position; it
proceeds with a pair of speeches given by Narses and Totila when their armies
took their battle positions (8,30). The historian describes the order of battle
of both armies, relates a single combat in which the fighter for Totila’s camp is
killed and reports that the king himself performed a spectacular dance under
arms between the battle lines (8,31,17–20). For Procopius, Totila was a formida-
ble warrior, but not a commander with strategic insight; according to him, the
king was “defeated by his own bad planning” because he threw “his own army
against the enemy with inadequate equipment, outflanked and in no respect
a match for their antagonists” (8,32,7). The historian juxtaposes two different
versions of the king’s death (8,32) and stresses that his end “was not worthy of
his past achievements” (8,32,28). Unable to find a satisfactory explanation for
this, he blames the inexplicable workings of fortune: “for no fitting cause she
struck the man with cowardice and destruction” (8,32,29).22
Independent of ethnographic theories about the origins of the Goths and
the question of the legitimacy of Gothic kings, Procopius conveys a wealth of
information about the Goths of Italy. Thus, on the occasion of the elevation
of the Rugian Eraric to king, he tells us that the Rugians were also a “Gothic
people”; however, they were anxious to marry only among themselves, even
though they had joined Theoderic’s campaign to Italy (7,2,1–3).23 The historian
is particularly interested in how the Goths were armed and their manner of
fighting. Through Belisarius, he makes it clear where he sees the essential dif-
ference compared to the emperor’s troops (5,27,27):
And the difference was this, that practically all the Romans and their
allies, the Huns, are good mounted archers, but this fighting style was not
practised among the Goths, whose horsemen are accustomed to using
22 Pragmatic Sanction for Italy: Novellarum Appendix 7, 2. Totila’s speeches and letters:
7,4,10–18 (to his army); 7,7,11–16 (to the Neapolitans); 7,8,15–24 (to Gothic nobles); 7,9,7–
18 (to the senate); 7,16,9–26 (to Pelagius); 7,21,1–11 (to his army); 7,21,15–16 (to the sen-
ate); 7,21,21–24 (to Justinian); 7,25,4–24 (to his army); 8,30,7–20 (to his army). Procopius’
account of the battle of Taginae is analyzed by Rance, “Battle of Taginae”, esp. pp. 451–472.
23 Rugians and Theoderic: according to 6,14,23 the Heruli settled near the Danube where the
Rugians had previously lived before moving to Italy with Theoderic.
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286 Wiemer
only spears and swords while their archers enter battle on foot and are
shielded by their infantry.
Elsewhere, Procopius highlights the amateurish use of mobile towers in the

sieges of Rome (5,22,1–9) and Rimini (6,12,1–25). His account of the naval
battle of Ancona (551) underscores the incompetence of the Gothic fleet (8,
23,29–40). If one follows Procopius, the Goths were brave warriors on land, but
hopelessly inferior to the emperor’s soldiers in terms of technological and nau-
tical know-how. For him, the fact that they were able to withstand Justinian’s
army for so long could only be explained by the fact that God had turned his
favour away from the Romans when unjust behaviour became widespread on
their side.24
3 Vandals and Moors25
Vandals and Moors form an opposing pair in Procopius. The fact that their
portrayal is interconnected in a variety of ways has, of course, to do with the
fact that the two peoples were immediately neighbouring; after the destruc-
tion of the Vandals as an association of warriors, Moorish tribes were Rome’s
most dangerous opponents in western North Africa. In Procopius, however, the
Vandals and the Moors also signify opposing ways of life: the Vandals as a war-
like people who, after the conquest of North Africa, lost their military prow-
ess through an excess of luxury, the Moors as a frugal pastoral people devoid
of any culture. The Vandals stand for decadence, the Moors for primitiveness.
Both extremes are equally far removed from the Roman way of life, which is
characterised by the measured use of civilising achievements. When Gelimer,
defeated in the field, has retreated to Mount Papua and is trapped there with
Vandals and Moors, Procopius interpolates an excursus that illustrates the con-
trasts (4,6,5–13):
24 On Gothic weaponry and style of fighting see Wiemer/Berndt, “Instrumente der Gewalt”.
25 Procopius applies the Greek ethnonym Mauroi (which is anglicized as Moors) to indig-
enous, non-Romanized inhabitants of North Africa along with the apparently older form
Maurousioi which is attested from Polybius onwards; the etymology of the word (which
in modern scholarship has often been rendered as Berber), is unclear; cf. Modéran, Les
Maures, pp, 11 n. 36; 27–42; 447–450. On Vandals and Moors: Modéran, Les Maures. Vandal
kingdom in North Africa: Merrils/Miles, The Vandals; Conant, Staying Roman; Vössing,
Das Königreich der Vandalen (excellent); Steinacher, Die Vandalen.
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For of all the nations (ethnê) we know the Vandals happen to be the most
luxurious and the Moors the most hardy. Since they gained possession of
Libya, the Vandals began to indulge in baths, all of them, every day, and
enjoyed a table loaded with all foods, the sweetest and best that the earth
and sea produce. They wore gold almost all the time and clothed them-
selves in Mede garments, which now they call “Seric”. They passed their
time in theaters, hippodromes and other pleasurable pursuits, above all
in hunting. They had dancers and mimes and all other things to hear and
see that are of a musical nature or otherwise happen to be sight-worthy
among men. Most of them lived in garden parks, which were well sup-
plied with water and trees. They had great numbers of banquets and they
diligently studied all the arts of sex. But the Moors live in stuffy huts, in
winter, summer, and every other time, never leaving them because of
the snow or the heat of the sun or any other discomfort due to nature.
They sleep on the ground, with the prosperous among them, if it should
so happen, spreading a fleece under themselves. Moreover, it is not cus-
tomary among them to change clothing with the season, but they wear
a thick cloak and a rough shirt at all times. They have neither bread nor
wine nor any other good thing, but they take grain, either wheat or barley,
and, without boiling it or grinding it into flour or barley-meal, they eat it
in a manner not at all different from the animals.
The Moors, as Procopius describes them, are not simply barbarians. The Moors
live almost like animals: they live in simple huts, always wear the same gar-
ment, and eat grain without cooking or baking it. Elsewhere, he adds further
traits to this image through casual remarks that likewise indicate their distance
from the civilised world: the Moors practise polygamy (4,11,13) and are sup-
ported in battle by their wives (4,11,18–19). Moreover, among them women who
have been brought into ecstasy through an unspecified ritual predict the future
(4,8,13).26 However, Procopius is not interested in the physical characteristics
of the Moors; he only mentions that they have dark skin because he heard from
a Moorish prince that beyond the Aurès mountains there lived people who had
light skin and blonde hair (4,13,29).
Procopius knows that the Moors did not form a political unit but were
divided into different groups that had their own leaders and often acted
independently; indeed, he explicitly emphasises that no one was permit-
ted to rule among the Moors until the emperor had conferred on him the
26 Elsewhere Procopius claims that the Moors converted at Justinian’s instigation:

Aed. 6,3,10–11.
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288 Wiemer
insignia of rule (3,25,5–7). Nevertheless, the historian conceives of the Moorish

tribes as an ethnic unit and stresses that they were not absorbed into the Vandals
like the Alans and others (3,5,21). In his view, the Moors were descended from
Phoenicians who had come to North Africa long before the Carthaginians;27
accordingly, he also classifies their language as Phoenician (4,10,20). Procopius
sets out his view of the Moors’ origin in an excursus that links the history of
North Africa with the biblical narrative of the Israelites’ seizure of Palestine
(4,10,13–29): fleeing from Joshua, the ancestors of the Moors had first come to
Egypt, but from there they had moved on to North Africa. Later on, they were
driven out of Carthage by other Phoenicians and finally settled by the Romans
on the borders of the inhabited land (oikoumenē). As evidence for this aitio-
logical narrative,28 which seems to derive from Judaeo-Christian tradition,
Procopius cites two inscriptions in Phoenician script and language that could
supposedly be seen in the fortress of Tigisis (4,10,21–22).
The hypothesis that the Moors of North Africa were descendants of the
Phoenicians and thus relatives of the most dangerous enemy of the Roman
Republic must also have made sense to Procopius because their most promi-
nent trait in his eyes was disloyalty. Several times he declares on his own
account that the Moors were not to be trusted.29 Punica fides was an old his-
toriographical motif. At the same time, the topos that barbarians as such were
faithless undoubtedly corresponded to the way Roman commanders explained
the Moorish leaders’ frequently switching sides. The world of the Moorish
chieftains was complex, unstable, and virtually impossible for Rome to control.
Procopius shows little understanding of the structure and dynamics of tribal
societies; he makes no effort to interpret actions of the Moors from their per-
spective. In the “Wars”, he does not even care to make clear that the many eth-
nic groups he subsumes under the label of Moor had their own name, identity
and leadership. The contrast to the strictly contemporary panegyrical poem of
Gorippus on Justinian’s general John is striking: Gorippus provides a long cata-
logue of tribal names from which every modern ethnography of sixth-century
North Africa must start.30 However, this bias did not prevent Procopius from
carefully observing the actions of Moorish tribes and leaders or from describ-
ing in great detail characteristics that were particularly important for Roman
27 Procopius also refers to Phoenician ancestors of the Moors in Aed. 6,3,9.

28 Origin of the Moors: Gernet, “L’origine des Maures”, a penetrating but neglected study by
an expert on Greek religion and law.
29 The Moors’ faithlessness: 4,13,37; 4,17,10; 4,25,16; 4,26,2; cf. 3,25,9; 4,3,8; 4,8,10; 4,13,40.
30 The only mention of an individual tribe by Procopius is in the Buildings (6,4,6). Catalogue
of tribes in Gorippus: Johannis 2,23–163 with Modéran, Les Maures, pp. 43–61. For the
poet’s name see Riedlberger, Kommentar zum 8. Buch, pp. 28–33.
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warfare. Besides the investiture of Moorish princes with Roman insignia

already mentioned, this concerns in particular the armament and fighting
style of Moorish warriors (4,11,18–19):
They placed the women with the children within the circle (for among
the Moors it is customary to take a few women, with their children, to
battle, and these make the stockades and huts for them, tend the horses
skillfully, take charge of the camels and the food, sharpen the iron weap-
ons, and generally take on many of the labors involved in campaigning).
The men took their stand on foot in between the legs of the camels,
with shields, swords, and small spears that they are accustomed to hurl
like javelins.
Elsewhere, Procopius remarks that the Moors had no experience storm-

ing walls; therefore, they would not have dared take a city by force (4,22,20).
However, he praises the swiftness of Moorish foot soldiers with light weapons
who served in Belisarius’s army (5,25,9), some of them even in his personal
retinue (7,1,6).31
For Procopius, the Vandals are a “Gothic people.” In the introduction to the
“Vandal War,” he explains how they came to North Africa from their original
homeland, which he locates around the Sea of Azov. He describes this migra-
tion as taking place in three stages. The first stage leads from the Sea of Azov
to the Rhine, where the Vandals joined forces with the Alans, whom Procopius,
unlike modern linguists, classifies as a “Gothic people” (3,3,1). The second stage
leads from the Rhine to Spain (3,3,2–13), the third and last finally to North
Africa (3,13–36). The narrative does not focus on the Vandals, however, but
on events at the imperial court that allowed the Vandals to take possession of
Roman provinces. Even so, the historian contrasts the claim that Gaiseric killed
his brother Gontharis in North Africa with another version for which he refers
to Vandal sources: “the Vandals” claimed that Gontharis had already fallen in
battle against the Franks before the crossing to North Africa (429) (3,3,32–33).
In accordance with the aim of the introduction, Procopius provides only
very limited information about the first stage of the Vandal migrations. After
the reconquest of Carthage by Belisarius (533), however, he returns to the pre-
history of the Vandals in the form of an excursus (3,22,1–14): at that time, “the
Vandals” remembered a statement that “an old Vandal” had made when an
embassy of those Vandals who had not joined the march to the Rhine, had come
before Gaiseric. They had asked the Vandals who had emigrated to renounce
31 Moors in Belisarius’s retinue: 5,5,4; 6,23,36–39.
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290 Wiemer
all claims to land in their original homeland once and for all, and Gaiseric had
been inclined to grant this request. However, the old man had pointed out the
impermanence of all human things, whereupon the envoys had been rejected.
The moral of the story is obvious, but Procopius appends a commentary to it
to explain why the Vandals of the homeland were nowhere to be found in his
own day. In principle, submission or amalgamation appeared possible to him
(3,22,13–14):
As for those Vandals who stayed in their native land, neither memory nor
any name has been preserved to my time. For as, I suppose, they were
a small number, they were either overpowered by neighboring barbar-
ians or mingled with them not at all unwillingly and their name gave way
to that of the others. When the Vandals were conquered at that time by
Belisarius, no thought occurred to them to go from there to their ances-
tral homes.
Procopius describes the settlement of the Vandals in North Africa in some

detail and judges its consequences to be disastrous for the inhabitants of these
provinces. Gaiseric had completely dispossessed the wealthy and made them
slaves of his sons Huneric and Gento. He also robbed the remaining Libyans –
as Procopius calls the Romanized inhabitants of North Africa (3,16,3) – of their
land and distributed it among the Vandals; for this reason, this land was also
called klēroi Vandilôn (Latin: sortes Vandalorum). These Libyans were there-
fore impoverished, but at least they retained personal liberty and freedom of
movement. The land of the Vandals was exempt from tax, while the land he
had left to the former owners was of poor quality and highly taxed. Moreover,
Gaiseric had banished or killed many on the basis of false accusations. He had
put the Vandals and Alans under the command of eighty chiliarchoi (liter-
ally: leaders of thousands) in order to give the impression that his army was
80,000 strong. In reality, however, Gaiseric’s army was no more than 50,000
strong. But in the course of time it had grown to a far higher number through
natural increase and by combining with other barbarians, which he does not
name, however. In explanation, he cites a kind of ethnic osmosis: the names of
the Alans and the other barbarians, with the exception of the Moors, were all
absorbed into that of the Vandals (3,5,8–24).
None of the Vandal kings come even remotely close to Theoderic in
Procopius. Gaiseric is a robber who illegally seizes North Africa and dev-
astates not only Rome and Italy, but also large parts of the Eastern Empire.
Nevertheless, he is brave and energetic and understands how to consolidate
his rule by making treaties with Valentinian iii (3,4,12–14) and shortly before
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his death (477) with Zeno (3,7,26–27); in addition, he also regulated the line
of succession in accordance with the principle of seniority (3,7,29). However,
according to Procopius, Gaiseric was less foresighted than was believed at
the time, as the defortification of the North African cities directed against
a possible rebellion of the Libyans facilitated their reconquest by Belisarius
(3,5,8–10). For Procopius, Gaiseric’s son Huneric is a cruel and unjust persecu-
tor of “the” Christians, whom he wishes to forcibly convert to “Arianism” (3,8,3–
4), and Gaiseric’s grandson Gunthamund is just as bad (3,8,6–7). By contrast,
Gunthamund’s brother Thrasamund is described as handsome, clever, and
generous, but he too wished to dissuade “the” Christians from their faith, albeit
without violence (3,8,8–10).
In Procopius, the advance of the Moors already begins under Huneric,
and they inflict heavy defeats on Gunthamund and Thrasamund. Procopius
presents Hilderic, a grandson of Gaiseric, as affable and mild; he has not
harmed anyone. Yet he is also unwarlike and therefore unable to lead an army;
the result is another defeat against the Moors (3,9,1–3). Finally, concerning
Gelimer, who was to overthrow Hilderic and thus give Justinian cause for war,
Procopius formulates the verdict that while he was an excellent warrior, he was
an evil character who had striven to overthrow and appropriate the property of
others (3,9,7).
However, this negative judgement is counteracted by his account of hostili-
ties insofar as Procopius repeatedly emphasises that the Roman victory was in
accordance with God’s will and was therefore inevitable; Gelimer thus becomes
the tragic hero who struggles in vain against his fate. Procopius portrays his
failure with empathy. The king lets certain victory at Ad Decimum slip away
after beholding the corpse of his brother Ammata (3,19–25–29), and finally
concedes in a letter to his brother Tzatzon that God is against him (3,25,11–18).
Trapped in a hopeless position on Mount Papua, king Gelimer shares the mis-
ery of the besieged, but it is only the sight of two boys engaged in a deadly
quarrel over a piece of bread that breaks his pride (4,6,27–4,7,7). The question
of whether the captive king’s unrestrained laughter is to be interpreted as a
sign of madness or of insight into the transience of human happiness is left
open (4,7,14–16).32
Procopius portrays the Vandals as a decadent people, made effeminate by
a life of luxury, as his predecessor Malchos had already done.33 Nevertheless,
in the description of the war in which they were defeated by Belisarius’s army,
32 Gelimer in Procopius: Knaepen, “L’image du roi.”

33 Decadence of the Vandals: Malchos frag. 13 Müller = frag. 17 Blockley with Wiemer,
“Malchos von Philadelpheia,” pp. 170–178; Conant, Staying Roman, pp. 53–58.
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292 Wiemer
they appear as serious opponents. According to his account, the defeat at Ad

Decimum (3,18–19) was not the result of a lack of martial prowess, but of unfa-
vourable coincidences and avoidable mistakes, which ultimately spring from
God’s will. The Vandals also resist bravely at Trikamaron (4,3,10–19), but ulti-
mately succumb to the Roman onslaught (4,3,10–19). Procopius does not com-
ment on Gelimer’s order to use only swords in battle (4,3,9). He presumably
thought the reason was obvious to his readers since he had explained to them
earlier that Vandal cavalry was only effective in close combat. In fact, he explic-
itly attributes Thrasamund’s defeat by the Moorish prince Kabaon to peculiari-
ties of the Vandals’ armament and style of fighting (3,8,27):
As the Phalanx of the Moors was of such a sort, the Vandals were at a loss
how to handle the situation, for they were neither good with the javelin
nor with the bow, nor did they know how to go into battle by foot, but
they were all horsemen who used spears and swords for the most part,
so that they were unable to do the enemy any harm at a distance. Their
horses, moreover, were annoyed at the sight of the camels and refused
absolutely to be driven against the enemy.
The “effeminacy” of the Vandals plays no role in all three cases; the military
view retains the upper hand over ethnographic clichés.
4 Heruli, Gepids, and Lombards34
The depiction of the Gepids, Heruli, and Lombards in Procopius is closely

intertwined, much like that of the Vandals and the Moors. In this case, too,
spatial proximity and the resulting interconnections form the prerequisite for
the literary linkage. Unlike the account of the Vandals and Moors however, that
of the Heruli, Gepids, and Lombards does not culminate in an ethnographic
study in contrasts. Rather, the focus of the account is initially clearly on the
Heruli; they alone are treated as a people with collective characteristics, that
is, ethnographically. Although Procopius has already introduced the Gepids as
34 Heruli: Schmidt, Die Ostgermanen, pp. 548–564; Steinacher, “The Heruls”; Sarantis, “The
Justinianic Herules”; Steinacher, Rom und die Barbaren (also on the Gepids and Rugii);
Sarantis, “Types of Northern Barbarians”, pp. 366–368. On the Gepids Pohl, “Die Gepiden”
remains fundamental; see also Sarantis, “Types of Northern Barbarians”, pp. 363–366.
Lombards: Jarnut, Die Langobarden; Christie, The Lombards.
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a “Gothic people” in the introduction to the “Vandal War,”35 he only mentions

their former and their present places of residence there.36 Their conflicts with
the Goths of Italy around 530 are also merely touched upon in the form of
flashbacks.37 Procopius only pays greater attention to the Gepids when they
cross paths with the Heruli. The starting point is an excursus (6,14,1–15) that
is supposed to explain who the Heruli were and how they came to be allies of
the Romans. The occasion for this digression, in turn, is a reference to the fact
that 2000 of the 5000 soldiers that Belisarius’s rival Narses led to Italy from
Constantinople in 538 were Heruli.
Procopius presents the Heruli as wild and cruel barbarians who used to
worship many gods and even practised human sacrifice. The Heruli killed the
old and the sick and burned them on a pyre, forcing widows to commit sui-
cide by hanging. Originally, the Heruli had lived across the Danube. As they
grew in number and strength over time, they raided and plundered their
barbarian neighbours. Out of greed and a craving for prestige, they subju-
gated the Lombards, who were Christians, but also other peoples, and forced
them to pay tribute, which was not yet customary among the barbarians of
this region (6,14,9). This statement apparently refers to the period before 491,
because it is subsequently said that the Heruli, after Anastasius had come to
power, had remained quiet for three years (6,14,10). Afterwards, however, King
Rodulf, urged on by his people, declared war on the Lombards, even though
they had committed no offence against the Heruli and were even prepared
to pay a higher tribute. Procopius tells the story in a manner that is intended
to illustrate the evil disposition and blindness of the Heruli; they turn a deaf
ear to all admonitions and even disregard a divine omen on the battlefield.
As punishment, they suffer a crushing defeat (6,14,11–22) and are forced to
leave their old dwelling places. At first, they settle with their wives and chil-
dren where the Rugians had lived before Theoderic’s Italian campaign. From
there, plagued by hunger, the Heruli move on to the land of the Gepids. But
they do not stay there long either because they and their wives are mistreated
and robbed by the Gepids. Finally, they cross the Danube and are settled in an
unspecified area by Anastasius (6,14,28).38 However, because they abuse the
Romans there, Anastasius sends an army against them, which inflicts a crushing
35 The similarity between Goths and Gepids is also emphasised by Jordanes (Getica 94–95;
97; 133).
36 Dwelling places of the Gepids: 7,33,8; 7,33,13; 7,34,17. Cf. 7,34,10: a Lombard embassy
claims that the Gepids had not dared to cross the Danube before for fear of the Goths.
37 Gepids and Goths: 5,3,15; 5,11,5; 7,34,10.
38 The victory against the Heruli became an essential element of the Lombard tradition:
Origo gentis Langobardorum 4; Paulus Diaconus Historia Langobardorum 1,20. According
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294 Wiemer
defeat. The surviving Heruli, Procopius adds, had neither become allies of the
Romans nor had they done them any good (6,14,32).
At this point, the historian launches into a vitriolic invective against the
Heruli (6,14,33–42):
But when Justinian took the throne, he granted them good lands and
other property, and so he completely succeeded in winning their friend-
ship and persuaded them all to become Christians. As a result they
adopted a gentler way of life and decided for the most part to submit to
the laws of the Christians. According to the alliance, they are generally
arrayed with the Romans against their enemies. They are still, however,
faithless toward them and, as they are given to avarice, they are eager to
use violence against their neighbors, feeling no shame at such conduct.
They have sex in unholy ways, especially men with donkeys; they are the
vilest of all people and utterly given over to evil acts.
Although a few of them remained at peace with the Romans, as I will
recount in the next book, all the rest later revolted for the following rea-
son. The Heruli, displaying their beastly and fanatical character against
their own rex, one Ochus by name, suddenly killed the man for no good
reason at all, laying against him no other charge than that they wanted
henceforth to be without a king. Yet even before this, while their king did
have the title, he scarcely had any more power than a private citizen. All
claimed the right to sit with him and eat with him, and whoever wished
insulted him without restraint, for no people in the world are less bound
by convention or more unstable than the Heruli. So when the crime
had been done, they immediately regretted it. They said that they were
unable to live without a ruler or a general, so after much deliberation it
seemed to them best in every way to summon one of their royal family
from the island of Thule.
Perfidy, lawlessness, cruelty, sexual perversion, fanaticism, inconstancy – all

these are topoi of ancient ethnography and historiography. Here, however,
they are encountered as part of a political invective primarily directed against
Justinian’s alliance policy, but also aiming at his general Narses, whose close
relationship with the Heruli is frequently emphasised by Procopius at the
beginning of the excursus and elsewhere.39 Of course, there is no reason to
to Marcellinus Comes, Chronicon s.a. 512, § 11, the Heruli were settled in Roman territory
in 512.
39 Narses and the Heruli: 6,13,18; 6,22,5; 7,13,21–22; 8,26,17; 8,31,5; cf. 6,18,6; 8,30,18; Schmidt,
Die Ostgermanen, pp. 556–557.
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assume that at heart Procopius thought any different about the Heruli. If that
were the case, he would not have pointed out in another context that there
were also exceptions to the rule that every Herul was a traitor and a drunkard
(4,4,29–30):
This Pharas was energetic and thoroughly serious and virtuous in every
way, although he was a Herulian by birth. It is hard for a Herulian not to
be treacherous and drunk but to strive after virtue, and so this merits
abundant praise.
Moreover, Procopius says far more about the Heruli than is necessary to brand
them as lawless barbarians and unreliable allies. Instead, he continues the
story of the murder of King Ochus by describing how the Heruli had reached
the island of Thule – apparently meaning Scandinavia. In order do so, he goes
back to the time when the Heruli were defeated by the Lombards: at that
time, only a part of them had crossed the Danube, but the rest, led by men
of the royal family, had gone past Sclaveni and Danes to the northern ocean,
crossed it, and settled on the island of Thule (6,15,1–4). At this point Procopius
inserts an excursus into the excursus by describing Thule (6,15,5–14) and the
Scritifini people who lived there (6,15,16–26), and finally also briefly mention-
ing the Geats (6,15,26). For the Thule excursus, Procopius refers to travelers
who had come from there; in some points his account resembles the descrip-
tion of the island of Scandza written by Jordanes at almost the same time
(Getica 16–24).40
Only then does Procopius return to his starting point, the Heruli’s search for
an heir to the throne from the royal family: the first candidate for the throne
selected by the embassy dies on the way to the Heruli around Singidunum.
Before the second candidate for the throne, Datius, reaches his destination,
those at home have been given a king named Suartuas by Justinian. A battle
almost ensues, but Suartuas’ supporters defect to Datius. Because Justinian
does not want to accept this, the Heruli once more submit to the Gepids. The
Heruli excursus concludes with the remark (6,16,36) that these events were the
cause of the revolt of the Heruli against Justinian, which Procopius had prom-
ised to explain at the beginning of the excursus (6,14,37).
When Procopius returns to the complicated relations between the Heruli,
Gepids, and Lombards in the seventh book, the focus is consequently no lon-
ger on the Heruli, but on the dualism between the Gepids and the Lombards.
Nevertheless, the Heruli are once again the target of biting criticism in this
context (7,33,13–14): gifted with cities in (the diocese of) Dacia by the emperor,
40 Scandza in Procopius and Jordanes: Alonso-Núñez, “Jordanes and Procopius.”
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they plunder (the diocese of) Illyria. At the same time, as allies (foederati),
these same people were also collecting annual payments from the emperor! For
all his prejudice against the Heruli, Procopius is nevertheless able to describe
their armament and manner of fighting in detail (2,25,27–28):
For the Heruli have neither helmet nor breastplate nor any other pro-
tective armor, except a shield and thick jacket, which they fasten about
them before entering battle. Herulian slaves go into battle without even a
shield, and when they prove themselves brave men in war their masters
permit them to protect themselves in battle with shields.
As long as Procopius focuses on the Heruli, the Lombards appear as victims

(6,14,8–22) and the Gepids as tormentors of the Heruli (6,14,25–26). In the sev-
enth book, the focus is on the rivalry between the Gepids and the Lombards.
Procopius first delivers a devastating verdict on Justinian’s war with the
Goths: the “entire West” had fallen into the hands of barbarians, all of Illyria
and Thrace were devastated by them. The Franks, with Justinian’s approval,
had first appropriated the Gothic part of Gaul and then illegally subjugated
Veneto (7,33,2–6). The Gepids possessed Sirmium and almost all the cities of
Dacia; because they robbed the Romans of this region from there, the emperor
had withdrawn their subsidies (7,33,8–9). The Lombards had received from
Justinian the city (polis) of the Noricans, fortified places in Pannonia and many
other cities; from there they undertook plundering expeditions with impu-
nity as far as Dalmatia and Illyria, because they officially kept peace with the
Romans (7,33,11–12). The Heruli appear as the last in this series of barbarian
peoples who divided the Roman West among themselves.
This bleak portrait of Roman weakness is abruptly followed by a detailed
account of a conflict between Gepids and Lombards, which is only superfi-
cially motivated by their spatial proximity. The Gepids and the Lombards
had pressed for a clash of arms, and a date for the battle had already been
agreed upon. However, the outnumbered Lombards had asked the emperor
for military support, whereupon the Gepids had likewise sent an embassy to
Constantinople to make the same request. Procopius adds that at this time
the Gepids were ruled by Thorisin, the Lombards by Audoin (7,34,1–4). The
historian puts long and elaborate speeches into the mouths of both embassies:
the Lombards argue that the emperor cannot trust the Gepids, for the Gepids
have treated the Romans unjustly from the moment they had the opportunity
to do so. Moreover, the Romans and the Lombards share the same view about
God, while the Gepids are Arians (7,34,6–24). The Gepids retort that they are
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much stronger than the Lombards and have, moreover, been allied with the
emperor for a long time. They had appropriated Sirmium and other places in
Dacia trusting in the friendship of the emperor, who had also given Franks,
Heruli, and Lombards cities and land. Nevertheless, if he still did not want to
support the Gepids, he should at least remain neutral (7,34,25–39).
This pair of speeches depict an emperor who is helpless in the face of the
demands of arrogant barbarians. Justinian decides to make an alliance with
the Lombards and sends out to 10,000 horsemen with the mission to first
defeat the Gepids and then move on to Italy. They do, in fact, achieve none of
this. When the Roman army crushes those Heruli who sided with the Gepids
in this conflict, the Gepids and Lombards make peace against the will of the
Romans. The Roman army, however, returns to the emperor empty-handed,
aiming to protect Illyria against raids from the Gepids and Heruli (7,34,40–47).
In the next chapter (7,35), Procopius reports on throne disputes among
the Lombards, which had begun before the previously described war with
the Gepids, when Wacca was king of the Lombards. In doing so, he takes the
perspective of a pretender to the throne named Hildigisel, who had fled from
Audoin to the Gepids. When, following the peace treaty between the Gepids
and the Lombards, Audoin demands Hildigisel’s extradition, the latter first
goes to the Sclaveni, from there to Veneto, where he defeats a Roman army,
and then returns to the Sclaveni (7,35,12–22).
In the eighth book, Procopius reports that the aforementioned peace did
not last for long. However, before the Gepids and the Lombards came to blows,
panic broke out on both sides, whereupon Thorisin and Audoin agreed on
a two-years truce (8,18,1,11). The conflict escalates as both sides now make
Hunnic tribes their allies. Since the Gepids summon the Kutrigurs, Justinian
in turn calls on the Utigurs to help him keep the Kutrigurs away from Roman
soil. But this is only partially successful: Justinian settles 2,000 of the defeated
Kutrigurs with women and children in Thrace, and moreover has to appease
his Utigur helpers, who are enraged by this, with gifts (8,18,17–8,19,22).
A few chapters later (8,25,1–15), Procopius reports that Sclaveni who had
been brought across the Danube by the Gepids had devastated Illyria. However,
Justinian knew of no better remedy than an alliance with the Gepids. For their
part, the Gepids were interested in allying with the emperor because they
did not know at the time that he had already concluded an alliance with the
Lombards. The progress of the narrative demonstrates to the reader the men-
dacity and helplessness of this policy: Justinian swears an oath of military sup-
port to an envoy of the Gepids, but immediately breaks this oath again when
the Lombards ask him for military assistance against the Gepids. The emperor
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then sends out an army whose five leaders include the Goth Amalafridas, the
son of Theoderic’s niece Amalaberga, and Suartuas, who had vainly tried to
become ruler of the Heruli, as Procopius narrated earlier (6,15,32–35), and now
reappears as a general of Justinian (8,25,11). However, their advance is halted in
Ulpiana by an imperial order, because in that city a quarrel over issues “for the
sake of which Christians fight each other” (8,25,13) had broken out.41 This is all
Procopius has to say about the reasons why only Amalafridas and his follow-
ers finally reach their destination. He is equally brief about the ensuing battle
between the Lombards and the Gepids, which Jordanes in his almost contem-
poraneous “Romana” describes as the most important fought in these regions
since Attila’s death, apart from those fought by the general Canduc with the
Gepids and by Mundo with the Goths. Like Jordanes referring to oral sources,
Procopius reports only that the Gepids were defeated and suffered great losses,
and that a Lombard embassy afterwards came to Constantinople to reproach
the emperor for not having given them sufficient support (8,25,14–15).42
The continuation of the Hildigisel story (8,27) follows two chapters later.
Now it is said that Hildigisel fled from his homeland to Constantinople and
there was entrusted by Justinian with the command of a guard regiment
(schola palatina). But because this was not enough for him in the long run,
he fled with the Goth Goar to Thrace and there joined up with the Lombards.
Since neither the Kutrigurs who had settled in Thrace nor an army sent out
specially to pursue Hildigisel and Goar could stop them, the pair reached the
Gepids. At this point, Procopius inserts the information that at that time there
was also a king’s son among the Lombards, a certain Ustrigoth, who fled from
Thorisin to the Lombards when they were at war with the Gepids. This cir-
cumstance allows Thorisin to extricate himself from a dilemma: on the one
hand, Audoin had demanded the extradition of Hildigisel, on the other hand,
the Gepid nobility had virtually forbidden the fulfilment of this request. By
proposing the exchange of one fugitive for the other, Thorisin forces Audoin
to abandon his demand: in order to avoid the disgrace of extraditing a fugitive,
41 Amalafridas is mentioned here for the first time, although he is implicitly included
among Amalaberga’s children whose secret escape and return to Ravenna is reported in
5,13,2. Procopius continues his report on the expedition to Italy by announcing his inten-
tion to write a treatise on the matters over which the Christians fight among themselves
(an ecclesiastical history?) which he seems never to have done.
42 Battle between the Lombards and the Gepids: Jordanes, Romana (386–387); for the date
see Croke, “Jordanes”, pp. 483–489 (arguing, unconvincingly, for March 551); Sarantis,
Justinian’s Balkan Wars, pp. 312–319 (defending the traditional date of spring-summer
552).
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both of them would have the other’s enemy secretly killed. Procopius does not
want to say how the deed was done, because there are different versions of it.
Procopius barely shares any ethnographic details about the Lombards, apart
from the fact that he depicts them as a warlike people and explicitly describes
them as orthodox Christians. In this case, he also lacks all the details about
fighting methods and armament that are otherwise almost invariably provided.
While he has the Lombards and the Gepids each give a speech, these speeches
only characterise the two peoples insofar as they confront the emperor with
outrageous demands. The Gepids and Lombards interest Procopius as danger-
ous neighbours of the Imperium Romanum and as examples of the foreign
policy of Justinian, whom he accuses of indecision and failure. The Hildigisel
story is an addendum, linked to the main strand of the narrative only in that
the Lombard prince’s son becomes the emperor’s enemy. Procopius offers here
the very latest news that could be obtained in Constantinople.
5 Franks43
The first mention of the Franks immediately precedes the beginning of the
war against the Goths of Italy: Emperor Justinian asks “the leaders of the
Franks” by letter for support against the Goths, and this support is also prom-
ised to him in return for an appropriate reward (5,5,8–10). Shortly after, the
Franks are presented to the reader as a dangerous power in the West. After the
Goths have deposed Theodahad and raised Vitigis to king in his place (537),
Procopius inserts an excursus to explain how the Franks had spread into Gaul
and eventually become neighbours of the Goths. To this end, the historian
first sets out the position and character of Gaul and then goes into the origins
of the Franks. Where the Rhine flows into the ocean, in a region with many lakes,
the Germanic peoples once lived who are now called Franks. The Arborici set-
tled near them, the Thuringians further east, the Burgundians south of them,
and behind the Thuringians the Suebi and Alemanni (5,12,1–11). According to
Procopius, the Franks came into being by merging with the Arborici, a people
that is not mentioned by any other author: the Franks had asked for an alli-
ance and marriage relationships between them, and the Arborici had gladly
agreed, especially since they were both Christians. In this way, a new nation
43 Frankish society in the 6th century: Bodmer, Der Krieger der Merowingerzeit; Zöllner,
Geschichte, pp. 109–253; Grahn-Hoek, Die fränkische Oberschicht. Agathias’s report on
the Franks: Cameron, “Agathias”; see Rummel, Habitus barbarus, pp. 171–181 on Frankish
clothing and weapons.
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arose (5,12,12–15). The historian thus names common religion, intermarriage,

and political-military union as decisive factors in this ethnogenesis. As a “third
force” in Gaul, Procopius names Roman soldiers who had joined the Arborici
and Franks, but who preserved their distinctiveness to the present day; they
still used their old insignia and wore Roman clothing (5,12,16–19).
Procopius then describes the expansion of the Frankish domain. In doing
so, he violates chronology insofar as he describes the war that the Franks
and the Goths waged together against the Burgundians in 523 (5,12,24–32)
before the war in which the Franks under Clovis i defeated the Visigoths
under Alaric ii (5,12,33–49). In both narratives, however, the focus is on the
policies of Theoderic, who is praised for his foresight because he was able to
seize half of the Burgundian kingdom without his soldiers taking part in the
battle – a “triumph without a fight” that was advertised by the court at Ravenna
as well.44 The war against the Visigoths, in turn, provides Procopius with an
occasion to describe how Theoderic succeeded in uniting the two kingdoms
by ruling as regent (epitropos) for his minor grandson Amalaric (5,12,46). At
the same time, he explains that Theoderic’s deputy Theudis built for himself
an independent position in Spain (5,12,50–54). Procopius then establishes the
connection to the period narrated in the main plot by explaining that after
the death of Theoderic (526), the Franks first subjugated the Thuringians and
then the Burgundians. Out of fear of the Franks, Amalaric had agreed with
Theoderic’s successor Athalaric to divide Gaul along the Rhône; he would
cease to pay tribute to Ravenna, and Ravenna would return the Visigothic royal
treasure. Mixed marriages between members of the Visigoths and Goths were
dissolved at that time (5,13,5–8). When Amalaric is defeated in battle against
the Frankish king Theudebert (5,13,9–13), the territorial constellation arises
that is assumed in the main plot: Franks and Goths face each other on the
Rhône. After the beginning of the war against Justinian, Theodahad promises
to cede this part of Gaul and pay 2000 pounds of gold; after his death, Vitigis
persuades the Gothic nobility to confirm this contract (5,13,14–25). Procopius
describes the agreements in great detail; he mentions – for the only time in
his work – the names of all the Frankish kings reigning at the same time and
emphasises that Childebert, Theudebert, and Chlothar had divided the land
and the gold among themselves. In return, they had promised the Goths secret
support through confederates, since they themselves were already allied with
the emperor (5,13,26–28).
In the sixth book, the reader first learns that Theudebert certainly fulfilled
his obligations to the Goths by sending Vitigis 10,000 Burgundians (6,12,38–39).
44 Cassiodorus, Variae 8,10,8: triumphus sine pugna, sine labore palma, sine caede victoria.
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Then, however, Procopius recounts an episode from 539, during the war, which
was to drastically demonstrate to the reader the duplicity of Frankish politics
(6,25,1–2):
At this time the Franks, hearing that both Goths and Romans had suf-
fered severely because of the war and thinking for this reason that they
could gain the larger part of Italy for themselves with the greatest ease,
began to think it preposterous that others were carrying on a war for such
a length of time over the rule of a land that was so near to their own,
while they themselves were remaining quiet and standing aside for both.
So forgetting for the moment their oaths and the treaties that they had
made a little before with both the Romans and the Goths (for this nation
is the most treacherous in the world when it comes to issues of trust),
they immediately gathered to the number of one hundred thousand
under the leadership of Theudebert and marched into Italy.
With Gothic support, the Frankish army comes into possession of a bridge over
the Po (which Procopius mistakenly locates near Pavia). Thereupon a grue-
some scene unfolds (6,25,9–10):
But, upon getting control of the bridge, the Franks began to sacrifice
the women and children of the Goths whom they found there and to
throw their bodies into the river as the first fruits of the war. For these
barbarians, although they have become Christians, practise most of their
ancient religion (doxa), for they still make human sacrifices and other
unholy offerings, and thereby they obtain oracles.
The Gothic warriors, who had initially believed that the Franks were coming
to support them, take flight. The emperor’s soldiers suffer the same deception,
are defeated in battle, and likewise flee. Procopius adds with evident satisfac-
tion that the Franks were not able to enjoy their double victory for long; due to
poor diet, a third of the Frankish army died of stomach and intestinal diseases
(6,15,16–17). Procopius adds a letter of Belisarius to Theudebert (5,13,20–23)
which underlines the moral of this story: nothing is worse than the violation
of sworn agreements.
The next time the Franks are mentioned, King Vitigis is trapped in Ravenna
(539/40). Wanting to exploit the desperate situation of the trapped, “the rul-
ers of the Franks” offer Vitigis an alliance on the condition that they rule
Italy together in future. To prevent this, Belisarius in turn sends envoys to the
Gothic king. Procopius has the viewpoints clash in a pair of speeches: the
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Frankish envoys boast that no one can resist their army, not even Romans and
Goths together, and accuse the Romans of being untrustworthy (5,28,9–14).
Belisarius’s envoys retort that Justinian’s army was more than a match for
the Frankish army, and stress that the Franks had no scruples about break-
ing sworn treaties, as the events on the Po and the embassy itself now proved
(5,28,16–22).
The dire portrait of Roman weakness in the seventh book mentioned
above not only shows the Franks as masters of Gaul and Veneto, but also
accuses their leaders of claiming prerogatives of the emperor for themselves;
they attend chariot races in Arles and have gold coins minted with their own
image, which not even the Persian king dares to do (7,33,5–6). A little later,
Procopius reports that “the ruler of the Franks” – this time he uses the singu-
lar – refused Totila his daughter’s hand, arguing that he would never be king
of Italy (7,37,1–2).
The leitmotif of Frankish disloyalty is invoked once again in the eighth
book. Procopius again explicitly states that Theudebert had unlawfully taken
possession of parts of northern Italy (8,24,6–7), and then reports that the
Franks had agreed with Totila not to act against each other during the war with
Rome. Justinian responded by offering Theudebert’s successor, Theudebald,
an alliance against the Goths if he renounced further conquests in Italy.
Procopius first has the Roman envoy Leontius have his say, then Theudebald.
Leontius begins by pointing out that the Franks had already pledged to sup-
port the emperor in the fight against the Goths before the war began. In the
event that Theudebald joined the fight against Totila, he was to keep what he
already possessed. As a further argument he states that the Goths have always
been bitter enemies of the Franks (8,24,12–24). Theudebald replies that he can-
not make an alliance against the Goths because they are now friends of the
Franks. Anyone who broke faith with his friends once would do so again and
again. This argument is sheer mockery for Procopius. Theudebald’s claim that
his father had by no means stolen the disputed territories from the Romans,
but had received them as a gift from Totila, also contradicts the facts as pre-
sented by the historian (8,24,25–28).
In this pair of speeches, a plot line culminates that runs through the entire
“Gothic War”. Completely independent of this is the excursus (8,20) about a
war between the inhabitants of a large island, which Procopius calls Brittia
(Britannia?), and the people of the Varni, who live on the other side of the
Danube and border the Franks on the Rhine. Procopius describes this island
and claims that it is inhabited by three peoples, the Angles, the Frisians, and the
Britons. Every year, part of the population migrates and settles in the territory
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of the Franks with their permission. In support of this, Procopius cites the
fact that a Frankish embassy that had recently been in Constantinople was
accompanied by some Angles (8,20,10). However, in the account of the war
itself (8,20,11–40), the Franks play only a marginal role: the conflict begins with
a Varnian king breaking off his betrothal to a maiden from Brittia in order to
marry his stepmother, a daughter of Theudebert; it ends with him abandon-
ing the Frank in order to marry the Briton after all. Procopius narrates this
romance without reservations; it is only for the following account of Brittia as
an island of the dead (8,20,42–58) that he does not want to take responsibility.
Procopius’s Franks are cruel and faithless barbarians. Even as Christians they
perform human sacrifices. Without scruples they swear to treaties which they
immediately break. They do not think of dying for the Goths or the Romans but
pursue only one goal: to conquer Italy for themselves (8,34,18). They know no
respect for emperor and empire; they shamelessly appropriate what does not
belong to them, be it Roman provinces or imperial prerogatives. Around 570,
when it was politically opportune, Procopius’s continuator Agathias (1,2)
countered this portrayal with a kind of rehabilitation of the Franks’ reputa-
tion: fundamentally the Franks are not barbarians at all; political constitution,
customs, and religion resemble Roman ones, only clothing and language differ.
This eulogy (enkômion) deserves no more credence than the diatribe (psogos)
of Procopius.
Procopius has little to say about the Frankish kings; Clovis is not even men-
tioned. Only Theudebert and his son Theudebald emerge as individual actors,
but they too merely embody collective character traits. However, once more
the instruments and techniques of violence attract attention. The historian
notes the following about the army with which Theudebert went to Italy in
539 (6,25,2–4):
They had a small body of cavalry around their leader who were the only
ones armed with spears, while all the rest were foot soldiers with neither
bows or spears, but rather each carried a sword, shield, and ax. The iron
head of this weapon was thick and extremely sharp on both sides, while
the wooden handle was very short. Their custom is to throw these axes at
a signal given in the first charge and so to shatter the shields of the enemy
and kill the men.
Agathias (2,5) also makes a correction on this point by describing a barbed

spear (ango) as a Frankish weapon, in addition to the sword, shield, and throw-
ing axe.
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6 Sclaveni and Antes
Sclaveni and Antes only entered the horizons of Byzantine politics in the early
6th century. Jordanes subsumes Sclaveni and Antes under the collective term
Veneti and places them between the lower Danube and the Dnieper; this eth-
nographic scheme may go back to Cassiodorus’s lost “Gothic History,” which
was completed before 533.45 From 537 onwards, Antes and Sclaveni served in
Belisarius’s army in Italy (5,27,2), where Procopius must have encountered them.
However, a historiographical account in Greek was not yet available at that time.
It was therefore natural for Procopius to devote an ethnographic excursus to
the two peoples. This excursus – much like that on the island of Thule and its
inhabitants – is inserted into another. This framework is formed by the story of
one of the Antes who bore the same name as the Roman general Chilbudius,
who fell in battle against the Sclaveni in 533. According to Procopius, the Antean
Chilbudius was urged by a Roman to pass himself off as the Roman general, but
initially resisted. However, the Antes assembled and declared the affair a com-
mon matter, because they expected advantages from it. At this point Procopius
inserts the following excursus by way of explanation (7,14,22–30):
For these nations (ethnê), the Sclaveni and the Antes, are not ruled by
one man but have lived of old under a democracy (dêmokratia), and con-
sequently everything that involves their welfare, whether for good or for
ill, is a matter of common concern. In almost all other matters these two
barbarian peoples have had the same institutions and beliefs from ancient
times. They believe that one god, the maker of lightning, is alone lord of all
things, and they sacrifice to him cattle and all other offerings; but as for fate
(heimarmenê), they neither know it nor in any way admit that it has power
over men. Whenever they face death, either stricken with sickness or as the
start of a war, they promise that, if they escape, they will immediately make
a sacrifice to the god in exchange for their life; and if they escape, they sac-
rifice just what they have promised and consider that their safety has been
bought with this same sacrifice. But they also revere rivers and nymphs and
45 Sclaveni and Antes in Jordanes: Getica 34–35; 119; 247; cf. Romana 388. Cassiodorus’s
Gothic history was already published in 533 as he refers to it in Variae 9,25,3–6. Early
Slavic history: Benedicty, “Prokopios’ Berichte;”; Curta, The Making, esp. 36–43; 75–89 (on
Procopius and Jordanes); Izdebski, “The Slavs’ Political Institutions”; Sarantis, Justinian’s
Wars, pp. 65–88; 278–287; 336–352; Sarantis, “Types of Northern Barbarians”, pp. 358–
360. For the Antes which vanish from the historical record in the early seventh cen-
tury, see Werner, “Zur Herkunft der Anten”; Schramm, “Venedi, Antes, Sklaveni, Sclavi”;
Szmoniewski, “The Antes.”
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some other spirits, and they sacrifice to all these too, and they make their
divinations in connection with these sacrifices.
They live in pitiful hovels that they prop up far apart from one another,
and, as a rule, every man is constantly changing his abode. When they
enter battle, the majority of them go against their enemy on foot carrying
little shields and javelins in their hands, but they never wear breastplates.
Indeed, some of them do not even wear a shirt or a cloak but hitch their
trousers up by their private parts and so enter battle with their opponents.
Both peoples have the same language, which is utterly barbarous. Nor do
they differ at all from each other in appearance. For they are all excep-
tionally tall and hardy men, while their bodies and hair are neither very
fair or blonde, nor indeed do they incline entirely to the dark type, but
they are all slightly ruddy in color.
They live a hard and unrefined life, just like the Massagetae and, like
them, they are at all times covered in filth; however, they are not malicious
or evildoers, but preserve the Hunnic character in all its simplicity. In fact,
the Sclaveni and Antes had a single name in the remote past: they were
both called Spori in ancient times, because, I suppose, living apart one man
from another they inhabit their country in a sporadic fashion (sporadên).
In consequence of this fact they hold a great amount of land, for they alone
inhabit the greatest part of the northern bank of the Danube.
In this excursus, Procopius works his way through almost the entire catalogue
of questions which ancient ethnography used to ask: political constitution, reli-
gion, settlement patterns and dwellings, armament, language, dress, physique,
colour of skin and hair, mode of life. For the political constitution of the Sclaveni
and Antes, Procopius uses the term democracy which by his time had taken on
the meaning “mob rule”;46 he means to say that these two peoples lacked cen-
tralised leadership and thus acted in irresponsible and unpredictable ways. This
characterisation is consistent with the narrative in which not one single leader
is mentioned; it presumably corresponds to ideas which were widely held in
Constantinople: a generation later, the military handbook transmitted under the
name of Maurice still characterizes the Sclavi and Antes as “undisciplined and
disorganized peoples” (anarcha kai atakta ethnê).47 Procopius describes their
religion with remarkable detachment; he succinctly defines essential traits but
46 Ste. Croix, Class Struggle, pp. 325–326 with nn. 63–64 on pp. 616–617.
47 Mauricius, Strategikon 9,3,6–8; cf. 11,4, 51–53; 65–68. Izdebski, “The Slavs’ Political Institu-
tions”, pp. 56–60 argues that leaders of Antes and/or Sclav(en)i mentioned in Menander
Protector and Theophylactus Simocattes were military commanders appointed in war-
time (much like the Heerkönig in older German scholarship). A rex of the Antes is, how-
ever, already mentioned in Jordanes, Getica 247.
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306 Wiemer
refrains from passing overt value judgments, despite the fact that they were not
Christians: They believe in a god of lightning to whom they sacrifice cattle and
other animals, they deny the power of fate, they make votive sacrifices, worship
rivers and nymphs and practise divination.
Procopius took it for granted that Sclaveni and Antes were so similar to one
another that one account was sufficient for both peoples; in his view, they
shared the same type of political organization (or rather lack of it), the same
religion and the same way of life, and they had a common language, too. He
explains this essential similarity by common descent: Sclaveni and Antes were
once part of one and the same people, called the Spori. The historian finds
confirmation for this hypothesis in the fact that the name Spori refers to the
“sporadic” settlement patterns of the Antes and Sclaveni. At the same time,
however, Procopius relates the Sclaveni and Antes to the Huns. For although
their way of life was just as hard and unrefined as that of the Massagetae
(Huns), the historian declares, they were not bad or evil; rather, they preserved
the “Hunnic character” (Ounnnikon êthos) unadulterated. Their primitive way
of life is thus not – as in the case of the Moors – linked to moral inferiority.
This assessment was by no means shared by everyone in Constantinople at the
time: only a little later, a Monophysite theologian writing under the name of
Caesarius describes the Sclaveni as a savage and cruel people on the Danube,
while likewise emphasising the lack of political leadership.48 The positive
judgement that Procopius makes in the excursus is also remarkable because it
does not match the picture that he himself paints of these Sclaveni in the fol-
lowing chapters. There, the historian points to the suffering of those who fell
victim to the plundering Sclaveni (7,29,1):
At about this time an army of Sclaveni crossed the river Danube and
inflicted terrible harm throughout the whole of Illyria as far as Epidamnus,
killing or enslaving all who came in their way, young and old alike, and
plundering their property.
A few chapters later, Procopius describes in detail acts of unimaginable cru-

elty perpetrated on Romans by two groups of Sclaveni invaders (7,38,20–23).
In the “Secret History” (18,20) he claims that Huns, Antes, and Sclaveni killed
or enslaved more than 200,000 people in their almost annual raids. This dis-
crepancy can probably be explained by the genesis of the “History of the Wars”:
48 Pseudo-Caesarius, Dialogi 109, 12 Riedinger. The author seems to allude to the cross-
ing of the Danube by an army of horsemen in the winter of 558/9 (Agathias 5,11,6):
Pseudo-Caearius, Dialogi 67, 15–19 Riedinger.
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apparently Procopius wrote the ethnographic excursus before he received

information about the Sclaveni incursions of 548 and 549, and refrained from
harmonising the passages. The positive tenor of his excursus probably reflects
the historian’s experience with the Sclaveni and the Antes in Belisarius’s army;
regarding an episode of the Italian war in 546, he remarks that the Antes had
an excellent understanding of fighting in difficult terrain (7,22,3).
7 Conclusions
At first glance, the historical work of Procopius appears to be a unified whole.

But the classicist appearance is deceptive: the account of Justinian’s wars
against the Persians, Vandals, and Goths does not follow a coherent interpre-
tive concept; statements and judgements about persons and events that are
hardly reconcilable in substance unexpectedly appear alongside one another.
This incoherence does not begin with the eighth book, which was published
later, but is noticeable much earlier in all three principal parts. The descrip-
tion of foreign peoples also exhibits inconsistencies; the chronicler’s desire to
report what he has learned is stronger than his ability to form the material into
a conceptual unity.
The literary devices employed by Procopius are manifold: excursuses of an
ethnographic character are reserved for ethnic groups that had not yet been
portrayed in detail, such as the Moors, Sclaveni, and Antes. Important informa-
tion is often given in passing, namely when it is required for understanding the
account of the war. Speeches serve to characterise individuals and collectives,
but also to clarify situations and positions.
Procopius drew on three kinds of sources for the barbarians of the West:
his own observation, the questioning of witnesses, and the reading of written
accounts. The closer the account comes to the present, the greater the signifi-
cance of what he himself saw and heard from others; in the eighth book, he
gives literary form to the everyday political conversations of Constantinople.
In structuring what he had discovered, the historian resorted to patterns of
thought and representation from ancient ethnography. He shared the interest
in origins and the preference for migration as a model for explaining cultural
and ethnic diversity. He conceived of the great gentes of his time as descent
communities characterised by common language and customs, especially
religion and fighting style. Goths and Visigoths, Vandals and Gepids, but also
the Rugians, therefore belonged to the family of “Gothic peoples.” However,
this ethnographic model has virtually no effect on the account of Justinian’s
“Gothic War”; nor does it influence Procopius’s verdict on the Gothic kings.
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308 Wiemer
For him, Theoderic the Great embodies a positive alternative to Justinian,

although his reign is illegitimate.
The author of the handbook transmitted under the name of Maurice clas-
sifies all potential enemies of the Empire under four categories whose char-
acteristics are closely bound up with their geographical and thus astrological
position (klimata): Persians, light-haired peoples, Scythians or Sclavi and
Antes. Procopius made no effort to bring all ethnological data available to him
into a fixed system; he could not by any means be called “a structuralist with-
out knowing it.”49 It is true, Vandals and Moors appear in his account as repre-
sentatives of extreme ways of life that are contrary to each other: the first are
decadent, the others primitive barbarians. By contrast, ethnographic motifs
play no role in the portrayal of the Gepids and Lombards; they are of inter-
est as allies and/or opponents of the emperor. Ethnographical descriptions
can also serve as a means of political critique: The anti-Herulian invective is
intended to strike Justinian and Narses. Procopius also deals with the Franks
as rivals of the Imperium Romanum; he wants to show that they are engaged
in double-dealing with the Romans. The Sclaveni and Antes are, in turn, made
the subject of an ethnographic excursus as “new” and thus “foreign” peoples,
which is, however, neither schematically nor uniformly negative. Here, too,
there is a discrepancy between the ethnographic description and the picture
that emerges from the account of the war.
Like all East Roman historians, Procopius tended to interpret the political
tactics and manoeuvring of non-Roman actors as a character defect, as disloy-
alty. But even this core element of Roman imperial ideology is not applied by
him wholesale; he considers Moors, Heruli, and Franks to be disloyal, but not
Goths and Vandals, Sclaveni and Antes. Procopius’s accounts of the barbarians
of the West are thus not manufactured according to an ethnographic template.
Even where the ethnographic tradition has had a lasting influence on inter-
pretation and design, they have by no means distorted the picture of the eth-
nic groups described beyond recognition, even if Procopius was a far cry from
the efforts of modern ethnologists to describe and interpret foreign cultures
through the eyes of an insider. Particular attention is always paid to weaponry
and fighting styles. Procopius viewed foreign peoples primarily from a military
and political point of view, in keeping with the character of their relations with
the Imperium Romanum.50
49 Mauricius as a “structuraliste sans le savoir”: Dagron, “Ceux d’en face”, p. 316.

50 Procopius as a military historian: Kaegi, “Procopius.”
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Acknowledgment
I should like to thank Bruno Bleckmann, Charlotte Köckert, and Federico

Montinaro for their helpful criticism and Kai Preuß for carefully correcting the
proofs. The translations in the text are taken from Anthony Kaldellis’s revised
version of the old Loeb translation by H.B. Dewing.
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Procopius and the East
Henning Börm
Very profound changes occurred in the western half of the Roman Empire over
the fifth and sixth centuries.1 Civil wars caused the power of the government
to erode until the imperial monarchy in Italy was finally abolished in 476 ce,2
and six decades later, Justinian attempted to restore direct imperial rule over
Italy and Africa both by diplomacy and force.3 Procopius’ account in the Wars
(Historiae) is well known to be one of the most important narrative sources for
these dramatic events.
It thus may come as a surprise at first that the historian dedicates the first
two books of this work and the first half of the supplemental eighth book
not to the West, but to the East. These books on the Persian War contain
both of Procopius’ most important excursuses – on the Nika Riot and on the
Justinianic Plague.4 Further, in the Buildings (De aedificiis), Procopius’ depic-
tion of conditions in Mesopotamia and Transcaucasia follows directly upon
the introductory description of Constantinople. Procopius’ own interests thus
seem to have differed markedly from those of modern scholars, who have long
focused on the Vandalic War and the Gothic War and worked extensively on
the Secret History (Anecdota).5 Yet on closer scrutiny, Procopius’ arrangement
makes good sense. Why is that?
Procopius describes a phase in which Roman-Sasanian relations took a
turn that would have far-reaching consequences. While the Roman West was
plunged into chaos, between 377 and 502 a long, almost uninterrupted peace
prevailed on the eastern frontier. Moreover, Romans and Persians kept the
Arabic tribes and Caucasian peoples under control.6 This had considerably
1 This chapter was written during a stay at the Institute of Advanced Study at the University
of Konstanz, part of the university’s “Cultural Foundations of Social Integration” Center
of Excellence, established in the framework of the German Federal and State Initiative for
Excellence.
2 Cf. Brown, Through the Eye of a Needle, pp. 385–390; Börm, Westrom. Von Honorius bis
Justinian, pp. 127–130.
3 Cf. Wickham, The Inheritance of Rome, pp. 76–108; Mitchell, A history of the Later Roman
Empire, pp. 108–164.
4 Cf. Vasconcelos Baptista, “Exploring the structure of Persian War”, pp. 98–101.
5 I have expressed my own position on the purpose of the Secret History elsewhere; cf. Börm,
“Procopius, his predecessors, and the genesis of the Anecdota”.
6 Cf. Greatrex, “Byzantium and the East in the Sixth Century”, pp. 490–500. Cf. Börm, “Sasanian
Iran and the Roman Empire”.

helped the Roman East survive the 5th century;7 and with the “Eternal Peace”
of 532,8 Justinian again attempted to stabilize relations with the Sasanians.
But when the Šāhān šāh Khosrow i invaded Syria in 540 and razed Antioch
on the Orontes, this humiliation provoked a violent Roman response, a
twenty-two-year war that was still raging when Procopius concluded his Wars.
With the exception of 562–572 and 591–602, the two great powers of Late
Antiquity squared off as enemies until 630.9 The year 540 thus marked a his-
toric turning point.
It is therefore quite understandable that Procopius should pay particular
attention to the East. Moreover, since he was present on the Persian front per-
sonally at least from 527 to 531 (and perhaps again in 541)10 and was familiar
with conditions in the East,11 his account has special authority. The purpose of
the present chapter, therefore, is to examine briefly how well Procopius was
informed about the East, especially about the Sasanian Empire,12 and what fac-
tors influenced his picture of the Persians, so that we can appreciate not only
the value of his account as a source for conditions beyond the Roman frontier,
but also his modus operandi as a historian.13
1 Persian History
The first chapters of the Wars review events from 408 to the accession of
Justin i, apparently without attempting to be exhaustive. In this respect,
the structure of the Persian War is basically similar to that of the Vandalic
and Gothic War. Whether the first sections are also intended to present the
7 Prior to 540, Syria experienced decades of peace (apart from the Arab-Sasanian raid of
Syria Prima and Euphratesia in 531 that ended in the battle of Callinicum) and economic
prosperity, and tax revenue flowed in abundance. It thus was ultimately peace with the
Persians that gave the Roman emperors in the East, in contrast to their western col-
leagues, sufficient means to outfit regular troops. During this time, the existence of the
Sasanian Empire was a blessing rather than a curse; cf. Börm, “A Threat or a Blessing?”,
pp. 624–633.
8 On the “Eternal Peace”, cf. Nechaeva, “Seven Hellenes and one Christian”.
9 Cf. Edwell, “Sasanian Interactions with Rome and Byzantium”, pp. 850–853; Lee, “Roman
Warfare”; Börm, “A Threat or a Blessing?”, pp. 633–636.
10 Cf. Cameron, Procopius and the sixth century, pp. 161–170.
11 Wars 1.1.3; 1.12.24.
12 Bonner, The Last Empire of Iran, now offers a useful overview of Sasanian history.
13 Cf. Börm, Prokop und die Perser. See also Cameron, Procopius and the sixth century,
pp. 152–170; Börm, “Procopius”; Vasconcelos Baptista, O Logos da Guerra pérsica; Huyse,
“Le règne de Husraw Ier”; Whately, Battles and Generals, pp. 68–114.
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312 Börm
reader with a parable of the degeneration of βασιλεία into τυραννίς through the
example of the Sasanian monarchy, thus expressing a subtle “Kaiserkritik” of
Justinian, remains open to discussion.14
As is well known, Procopius is the earliest extant source to report that
Emperor Arcadius, on his deathbed, feared that his young son Theodosius ii
might be cheated out of the throne and so asked the Persian king Yazdegerd i
to act as ἐπίτροπος15 to the young Augustus; Yazdegerd supposedly granted his
request (Wars 1.2.1–10).16 Scholars have long debated whether there may be
a grain of truth to this story, although final certainty is impossible.17 What is
clear, though, is that the historical circumstances of the summer of 408 suggest
real events that Procopius could have drawn on: on the one hand, the iunior
Augustus Theodosius ii faced a threat not only in Constantinople, but also
from Ravenna, since both the senior Augustus Honorius and the magister mili-
tum Stilicho deliberated whether to take over the eastern half of the Empire
in his place.18 And on the other hand, relations between Constantinople and
Ctesiphon at the time were actually very good. Thus, it is at least plausible that
the Persian king had made a declaration in one form or another to protect
Theodosius19 and that Procopius took the story from an obscure source that
already Agathias could no longer find.20
14 Cf. Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 62–93; Kaldellis, “Prokopius’ Persian War”. Cf.
Greatrex, “Perceptions of Procopius in recent Scholarship”, pp. 94–95.
15 Cf. Pieler, “L’aspect politique et juridique de l’adoption de Chosroès”, pp. 411–415.
16 Theodosius had already been elevated to Augustus in 402, which is probably why
Procopius erroneously claims he was still an infant when Arcadius died.
17 Cf. Güterbock, Byzanz und Persien, p. 27; Sauerbrei, “König Jazdegerd”; Christensen,
L’Iran sous les Sassanides, p. 270; Pieler, “L’aspect politique et juridique de l’adoption
de Chosroès”; Blockley, East Roman Foreign Policy, p. 51–52.; Greatrex, Rome and Persia
at War, pp. 134–138; Börm, Prokop und die Perser, pp. 308–311; Maas, “The Equality of
Empires”, pp. 176–180. Luther, “Arcadius und die Perser”, draws attention to the fact that in
410 Yazdegerd claimed that “East and West form one power under the rule of my author-
ity” (650).
18 Zos. 5.31–35. Cf. Börm, Westrom. Von Honorius bis Justinian, pp. 42–49.
19 Thus, Theophanes claims (am 5900) that the Persian king had sent a certain Antiochus to
Constantinople to oversee Theodosius ii. Cf. Bardill/Bardill “Antiochus the Praepositus”;
contra Heil, “Perser im spätrömischen Dienst”, pp. 170–174. Interestingly, Yazdegerd
entrusted his own son to the protection of a Lahmid (?) sheik, who later helped him
to ascend the throne; cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī 1.865–7. On Yazdegerd, who is depicted positively
in western sources, but negatively in the eastern tradition, cf. McDonough, “A Second
Constantine?”; Mosig-Walburg, “Yazdgerd i., ‘der Sünder’”.
20 Cf. Agath. Hist. 4.26.4–6. Malalas claims that Arcadius fell ill and died suddenly
(Mal. 13.47). For an overview of the sources, see Sauerbrei, “König Jazdegerd”, p. 91. See
also Márkus, “Sharvīn in Rūm”.
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Procopius’ claim that Yazdegerd maintained peace with the Romans until
his death, in contrast, is erroneous. After initial hostilities around 416/17,21 a
serious war broke out in 420, before the Persian king’s death, and was con-
tinued until 422 by the new ruler Bahram v.22 Procopius minimizes these
bloody struggles in the Wars by conflating them with a Persian invasion last-
ing a few weeks in 441, when the magister militum Anatolius persuaded the
Sasanian king Yazdegerd ii to withdraw in exchange for monetary payments;23
Procopius distorts the facts when he claims that the king was won over merely
by a reverential gesture by the Roman general (Wars 1.2.11–14). It seems fair to
conclude that the historian wanted to depict conditions in the 5th century as
even more peaceful than they were. The Persians appear in these passages as
the Romans’ equals and as reasonable partners. Conflicts are quickly resolved
through diplomacy.24 This optimistic viewpoint differs dramatically from the
one we find in later sections of the Persian War.
Procopius’ subsequent depiction of the Hephthalites, the “White Huns,”
as the most important adversaries of the Sasanians in the later 5th century is
undoubtedly accurate.25 The Persian kings carried the title kay during these
decades, referring to the Kayanids, the mythical rulers of Iran who were said
to have once battled the peoples of Transoxiana.26 While they concentrated on
fighting the Huns, they kept the peace with the Romans.27 King Peroz actually
fell in battle against the Hephthalites in 484, as Procopius describes; and the
Persians seem indeed to have been forced to pay tribute to their enemies –
although probably for more than two years (Wars 1.4.1–14).
Following suit, Procopius is the earliest source to describe the chaos
that broke out in Persia under King Kawad i. He first remarks that the ruler
had intended to introduce “innovations to the state.” Kawad thereupon was
overthrown by the “people” (πλῆθος), but the χαναράγγης Gusanastades
(Gušnaspdad) failed to persuade the assembly of the nobles to kill the king;
instead, Kawad was imprisoned in the “Fortress of Oblivion” (see below). The
21 Cf. Luther, “Ein ‘übersehener’ römisch-persischer Krieg”.

22 Cf. Lee, “Dating a fifth-century Persian War in Theodoret”; Greatrex, “The two fifth-
century wars between Rome and Persia”; Greatrex/Lieu, The Roman Eastern frontier and
the Persian Wars 2, pp. 36–45.
23 Cf. Ełishē Vardapet 7/61–62. Roman sources omit these payments.
24 On Roman diplomats in Late Antiquity see Nechaeva, Embassies – Negotiations – Gifts,
pp. 118–140.
25 Cf. Meier, Geschichte der Völkerwanderung, pp. 731–742.
26 Cf. Huyse, “Die sasanidische Königstitulatur”, p. 186; Shayegan, “Sasanian political ideol-
ogy”, pp. 807–809.
27 Cf. Howard-Johnston, “The Sasanian’s Strategic Dilemma”, pp. 41–44; Payne, “The
Reinvention of Iran”.
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314 Börm
prisoner managed to flee, however, to the Hephthalites, with whose help he

recovered his throne. The interim king was blinded,28 Gusanastades was exe-
cuted and replaced by his relative Adergoudounbades (Adargulbad), while the
aristocrat Seoses (Siyawuxš), who had helped Kawad escape, was rewarded
with the office of ἀδρασταδάραν σαλάνης (Wars 1.5.1–9; 1.6.1–19). There is good
reason to believe that this account is accurate cum grano salis; all the protago-
nists are also mentioned in the later oriental tradition.29
Procopius’ account undoubtedly refers to the troubles associated in the
oriental tradition not only with Kawad,30 but especially with the obscure
religious movement of the “Mazdakites.”31 The nature of their doctrine is dis-
puted. Their adherents seem to have made “social-revolutionary” demands at
least at one moment,32 but Procopius’ account shows that the movement also
had supporters among the élite.33 What he describes is not class struggle, but
rather rivalries within the élite that were apparently associated with opposed
views on foreign policy: A group around Seoses seems to have stood in opposi-
tion to one around Gusanastades; the latter, in my view, supported continu-
ing the policy of keeping the peace with the Romans and waging war on the
Hephthalites. Seoses, in contrast, probably sympathized with the Mazdakites –
Procopius mentions sacrilege (Wars 1.11.32–35) – and sought support from
the Hephthalites. He apparently won over Kawad to his camp, prompting
Gusanastades to lead the revolt that led to the king’s downfall in 496, although
he was soon restored to power by Seoses and the Hephthalites. Seoses then
became the leading figure at court. It is remarkable that Procopius provides all
the key pieces that make up this puzzle yet seemingly failed to grasp the real
nature of the events.34
Kawad, at any rate, together with his Hephthalite allies, attacked the Romans
in 502.35 Procopius gives a somewhat confused account of the casus belli:
according to him, the king had demanded a “loan” (δάνεισμα) from Emperor
28 Procopius confuses Balaxš (484 to 488) with Zamasp (496 to 498). Cf. Börm, Prokop und
die Perser, p. 230.
29 Cf. Pourshariati, Decline and Fall of the Sasanian Empire, pp. 266–269; Pourshariati, “The
Parthians and the Production of the Canonical Shāhnāmas”, pp. 361–365.
30 On Kawad, see Schindel, “Kawād I”.
31 Cf. Gaube, “Mazdak: Historical reality or invention?”; Yarshater, “Mazdakism”; Crone,
“Kavad’s heresy and Mazdak’s revolt”; De Blois, “A new look at Mazdak”; Rezakhani,
“Mazdakism, Manichaeism and Zoroastrianism”.
32 Cf. Crone, “Zoroastrian Communism”.
33 Cf. Wiesehöfer, “Kawad, Khusro I and the Mazdakites”.
34 Cf. Börm, Prokop und die Perser, pp. 318–325, for a detailed discussion.
35 Cf. Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, pp. 76–78.
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Anastasius in order to pay the Hephthalites;36 the Romans, though, suppos-

edly saw no reason to foster good relations between the Persians and Huns
(Wars 1.7.1–2). Both motives may be essentially correct: on the one hand, the
Romans were right to view the alliance between Kawad and the Hephthalites
with suspicion; on the other, Persian demands for gold will also have played
a part. We hear of such claims again and again during the years 363 to 591.37
Roman authors – including Procopius – repeatedly state that the kings were
in financial straits and attempted to extort relief from the Romans. A closer
look, however, reveals two things: first, the amounts demanded (usually about
30,000 solidi) were actually too small to have had any meaningful effect on
the Persian budget; such payments were a mostly symbolic tribute from the
emperors to the kings.38 And second, there is every reason to suspect that the
Persians in fact had justified claims to regular payments, which the Romans
attempted to avoid as disgraceful or reinterpret as voluntary “subsidies.”39
Procopius surely used western sources for his depiction of the war that
began in 502 and ended provisionally in 506.40 The battles for Amida stand at
the heart of his account.41 However, his detailed report begins with events that
should be dated to 524 or 525: at this time, Kawad wanted to ensure that his son
Khosrow succeeded him,42 although the prince had at least two older brothers.
To this end, according to Procopius, the king proposed that the Roman emperor
adopt Khosrow in order to guarantee the latter’s rule (Wars 1.11.1–39). The par-
allels to the alleged events of 408 are striking; but that is no reason to doubt
the historicity of the events of c.525.43 Procopius, however, creates a spurious
36 However, while the Sasanians usually demanded gold from the Romans, the Hephthalites
were obviously paid in silver by the Persians; cf. Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, p. 71.
37 Cf. Lyd. De Mag. 3.52–53; Jos. Styl. 8; Prisc. frag. 41.1.3–27 (Blockley); Mich. Syr. 10.1.
38 In my opinion, the fact that the Sasanians usually demanded gold while the Iranian mon-
etary system was actually based on silver suggests a predominantly symbolic meaning of
these payments. Michael Jackson Bonner argues that the Sasanians needed gold for the
silk trade with India; cf. Bonner, The Last Empire of Iran, pp. 209–212. However, I follow
Schindel, “Sasanian Coinage:” “Persian merchants used silver, and not gold coins, for for-
eign trade” (p. 123).
39 Cf. Börm, “Es war allerdings nicht so, dass sie es im Sinne eines Tributes erhielten, wie
viele meinten …” for a detailed discussion. Cf. also Colvin, “Comparing Procopius and
Malalas”, pp. 206–209.
40 Cf. Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War; Haarer, Anastasius I, pp. 29–72; Meier, Anastasios I,
pp. 194–206. See also the contribution of Laura Mecella in the present volume.
41 Cf. Lenski, “Two Sieges of Amida”. For a comparison of Procopius and Ps.-Zachariah
Rhetor, cf. Greatrex, “Procopius and Pseudo-Zachariah”.
42 Cf. Wiesehöfer, “Chusro I. und das Sasanidenreich”.
43 Cf. Börm, Prokop und die Perser, pp. 311–317; Maas, “The Equality of Empires”, pp. 180–182.
The report in Theophanes (am 6013) may be partly dependent on Procopius, but it also
includes information from another source.
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316 Börm
chronological and causal connection between the accession of Justin i in 518

and the adoption project: Kawad supposedly was afraid that his family could
be driven from power like Anastasius’ (Wars 1.11.1). That is clearly a deliberate
misrepresentation.
In contrast, Procopius’ depiction of the actual events contains nothing
implausible. The adoption project had influential opponents and supporters
both in Constantinople and in Ctesiphon; on the Roman side, the magister
militum Hypatius and the quaestor sacri palatii Proculus were arguing against
the arrangement,44 while the patricius Rufinus supported it. We can only spec-
ulate what Justinian’s own role was – he was apparently elevated to Caesar
at approximately the same time.45 If we believe Procopius, he supported the
plan, while Proculus allegedly warned that Khosrow’s adoption would give
him a claim to succeed to the imperial throne himself.46 Since neither side
could gain the upper hand, the Roman delegation was led by Hypatius and
Rufinus. The Persians presented a similar picture, where Seoses, who contin-
ued to oppose rapprochement with the Romans, and Mebodes (Mehbod), who
apparently supported Khosrow, led the negotiations. According to Procopius,
Hypatius and Seoses successfully sabotaged the negotiations. Rufinus there-
upon managed to have Hypatius removed from his post, while Mebodes had
Seoses condemned as a traitor and heretic and executed.
New battles broke out between the Romans and Persians soon afterward.47
In this war, Belisarius, accompanied by Procopius as his consiliarius,48 from
529 had the supreme command as magister militum per Orientem; the histo-
rian reports two major battles at Dara and Callinicum as an eye-witness.49 As
for Sasanian domestic affairs, his account of the regime change in 531 is par-
ticularly significant: Procopius reports that there was opposition to Khosrow
in Ctesiphon even after Seoses’ death. When Kawad was on his deathbed,
he supposedly gave Mebodes a text with which the latter ensured that the
assembly of the nobles did not declare Kawus, the oldest prince, the new king,
but rather chose Khosrow (Wars 1.21.17–22). This was an important turn of
events: now Mebodes had enough influence to negotiate with Rufinus and the
44 Cf. Lounghis, “Die kriegerisch gesinnte Partei”, who considers the Roman opponents
of the adoption representatives of a pagan opposition. See also Gizewski, “Informelle
Gruppenbildung”.
45 Cf. Vict. Tunn. ad ann. 525. Whether this report is correct is unclear, however.
46 Cf. Börm, “Born to be Emperor”, pp. 260–261.
47 Cf. Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, pp. 168–212.
48 See Greatrex, “Lawyers and Historians”, and Lillington-Martin, “Procopius, πάρεδρος/
quaestor”, pp. 158–162.
49 Cf. Brodka, “Prokopios und Malalas über die Schlacht bei Callinicum”; Lillington-Martin,
“Procopius on the Struggle for Dara”.
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magister officiorum Hermogenes a foedus between Justinian and Khosrow in

532, which should have restored the peaceful conditions of the 5th century
(Wars 1.22.16–18).50
Following this, Procopius uses his narrative of Khosrow’s brutal suppression
of an attempted putsch by a group of noblemen to construct an explicit paral-
lel to the suppression of the Nika riot by Justinian in January 532 (Wars 1.23.1).
But since Malalas also reports a revolt against Khosrow,51 the chronological
proximity of the two events in this case may reflect reality. Seoses’ former ally
Adergoudounbades perished at this time (Wars 1.23.21), but a few years later
Ctesiphon witnessed yet another power shift that we know about only from
Procopius: in c.537, Khosrow freed himself of Mebodes’ influence, who was
executed on the initiative of one Zaberganes (Wars 1.23.25–29). It is hardly a
coincidence that the same Zaberganes appears soon after as the Romans’ bit-
terest enemy (Wars 2.26.16–19). Again, Procopius seems unable to grasp the
background of the events that we can infer from his report: apparently, after
Mebodes’ fall, the “hawks”, now led by Zaberganes, regained the upper hand in
Ctesiphon. In 539, Khosrow began to prepare for war against Justinian, which
broke out in early 540 with the invasion of Roman Syria.52 Procopius describes
at length how Khosrow presented himself as victor particularly after the cap-
ture of Antioch: he not only ritually bathed himself in the Mediterranean,
but also appeared as “emperor” at ludi circenses in Apamea and posed as the
defender of non-Christians in the Roman Empire (Wars 2.5–13).53 After these
provocative acts, it was impossible for Justinian to make peace. The struggle
died down in Mesopotamia only after several years; it lasted even longer in
the Caucasus. This war may be partly to blame for the fact that Procopius has
hardly anything to report about Persian domestic affairs after 540: on the one
hand, the Justinianic Plague ravaged Persia from 542 (Wars 2.23.21; 2.24.8); on
the other, in 543, when Khosrow himself was sick with the plague, a usurpation
was attempted. Apparently, Prince Anošazad had himself declared king after
50 Additional information: Mal. 18.76; Agath. Hist. 2.31.4. Cf. Greatrex, Rome and Persia at
War, p. 217; Börm, Prokop und die Perser, pp. 329–330.
51 Cf. Mal. 18.69.
52 Cf. Downey, “The Persian Campaign in Syria in AD 540”; Trombley, “War and Society in
rural Syria”; Leppin, Justinian, pp. 223–229. Like all his predecessors, however, Khosrow i
does not seem to have planned to annex areas west of the Euphrates. The main reason
was probably the lack of support from the Iranian aristocracy for such a policy; cf. Börm
“Die Grenzen des Großkönigs”.
53 Cf. Börm, “Der Perserkönig im Imperium Romanum”; Canepa “The Two Eyes of the Earth”,
pp. 172–173; Rollinger, “From Sargon of Agade and the Assyrian Kings to Khusrau I and
beyond”.
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318 Börm
the supposed death of his father.54 When it emerged that Khosrow was
still alive, he went through with his plan anyway but was defeated in battle
(Wars 2.24.8; 8.10.8–19). Procopius’ account can largely be reconciled with the
later oriental tradition.55
Thus there remains the impression that the Persian Wars are based on quite
good information about the history of the Sasanian court, even if Procopius
undoubtedly failed to understand some things, arranged his material accord-
ing to classical historiographical convention, and often gives interpretations of
the events that we may describe as partly misleading.
2 Procopius and the Persian Monarchy
What did Procopius know about the internal structure of the Sasanian Empire?
It goes without saying that we can answer this question only with respect to
areas that particularly interested a historian in the tradition of Thucydides and
Polybius: the monarchy, the aristocracy, and the military. First, let us take a look
at his depiction of the monarchy. As a general rule, the Sasanian king is simply
designated βασιλεύς in the Wars. Yet on three occasions he is called something
different, namely βασιλέων βασιλεύς – although never by a Roman, but rather
exclusively by his own subjects.56 The ruler’s insignia include, besides his sig-
net ring (Wars 1.18.52) and his throne, long purple-red boots (Buildings 3.1.23);
he resides in a palace. Proskynesis or prostration plays an important part in
stressing the exalted status of the king;57 the ruler himself, however, avoids
prostration before other persons: after King Peroz and his army were caught in
a trap by the Hephthalites, he outwitted the enemy by positioning himself in
such a way that he could claim that the gesture was intended not for the leader
of the Huns but rather for the rising sun (Wars 1.3.17–22).58
Procopius further remarks that the king conventionally led at least part of
his army into the field personally (Wars 1.23.16) and gives several examples
for this.59 In the mid-540s, Khosrow supposedly feared a rebellion and accord-
ingly attempted to win victories in battle against the Romans (Wars 8.7.5).
His older brother and rival Zames allegedly enjoyed great prestige among the
54 Cf. Bonner, The Last Empire of Iran, pp. 195–199.

55 Cf. Dīnawarī 69–71. Cf. Khaleghi-Motlagh, “Anōšazād” (with a different date); Börm,
Prokop und die Perser, pp. 120–124.
56 Wars 1.4.24; 1.14.18; 1.17.33.
57 Wars 1.6.16; 1.22.13.
58 The motif of pretended proskynesis appears already in Plutarch (Plut. Artax. 22.8).
59 Wars 1.2.11; 1.3.1; 1.4.2; 2.6–13; 2.15.1; 2.20.1; 2.26.1; 2.27.38.
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Persians for his ἀνδρεία (Wars 1.11.5). And while Khosrow gave many cities the
opportunity to purchase their freedom during his campaign through Roman
Syria, in the case of Constantia he insisted that the city had once submitted to
his father and therefore was under his rule (Wars 2.13.8).
According to Procopius, the Sasanian Empire not only had many laws, but
these also applied to the king. When the deposed ruler Kawad invaded Persia
at the head of an army to reclaim his crown, he swore before his followers
that he would reward the first Persian to offer his services with the office of
χαναράγγης. Since offices in the Sasanian Empire were hereditary by law (see
below), conflict between the king’s honor and the law could be avoided only by
chance: Adergoudounbades, the first man to prostrate himself before the king,
happened to be a member of the right family (Wars 1.6.12–14).
The ruler moreover appears at least once in Procopius’ account as respon-
sible for priestly duties: in 540, Khosrow not only ritually bathed himself in the
Mediterranean near Seleucia Pieria, but also personally made sacrifice to Helios
and other deities (Wars 2.11.1). Shortly thereafter, he sacrificed to the nymphs in
the grove of Daphne (Wars 2.11.6). The Persians’ religion in Procopius’ account
is thus vaguely characterized as polytheistic. He has them invoke their gods
before battle,60 strikingly omitting not only Zoroaster but also the names of
any Persian deity. Instead, Procopius connects the Iranian fire cult to Hestia by
means of an interpretatio Graeca (Wars 2.24.2).
He tells us that the Persian nobles shrank from executing Kawad (Wars 1.5.7),
and after he recovered the throne, he also spared the life of the interim
king, Balaxš (i. e. Zamasp), and rather had him blinded and imprisoned
(Wars 1.6.17); Khosrow treated Anašozad similarly decades later (Wars 8.10.20–
21). This unwillingness to kill a man of royal blood also applies to the Arsacids
(Wars 1.5.29). The Wars, however, also contain counterexamples: Khosrow had
his brother Zames, his other brothers, and all their male offspring killed after
he discovered a conspiracy (Wars 1.23.6).
Finally, Procopius’ account of royal succession in the Persian Empire
deserves special attention. First of all, the successor must be a member of
the royal family (Wars 1.5.2); second, an election (ψῆφος) must be held by an
assembly of noblemen (λόγιμοι);61 third, the physical integrity of the king is
indispensable. Procopius repeatedly stresses this condition.62 Fourth, the prin-
ciple of primogeniture usually applies, even though Kawad breaks this rule in
favor of his third-born son Khosrow (Wars 1.11.3); fifth, the predecessor’s will
60 Wars 1.14.11; 2.7.22.

61 Wars 1.4.34; 1.5.2; 1.21.20–22.
62 Wars 1.11.4; 1.23.4; 2.9.12; 8.10.22.
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320 Börm
plays a certain part (Wars 1.21.17–22). Sixth, military capability may also be
important (Wars 1.11.5).
What should we make of Procopius’ description? It is certain that his remarks
about the Persian king’s role as military commander are essentially correct.
This would change only after Procopius’ time, in the late 570s.63 Military prow-
ess is a central quality of a rightful ruler in the middle-Persian Zoroastrian
literature,64 and Michael Whitby has rightly stressed the importance military
success had for the Sasanians.65 The Persian king’s conduct before Constantia
is also not unparalleled in the tradition. The monarch was apparently expected
to maintain the Empire at least in the state in which he had inherited it from
his father.66
As for priestly functions,67 while Zoroastrian literature may not attribute
any such competences to the ruler,68 the rest of the tradition allows us to paint
a picture corresponding to Procopius’ account. The priestly title mōbad is
attested for some Sasanian rulers,69 and Armenian sources mention a major
sacrifice that King Yazdegerd ii himself supposedly offered.70 It is also notable
that John of Ephesus reports that Khosrow brought a mobile fire altar with him
on campaign in 576.71 It is true that several gods were worshipped in Persia,72
and likewise Procopius’ claim that inhumation was prohibited.73
Also, most of the information Procopius gives us about the self-
representation of Sasanian rulers is either confirmed or at least not refuted by
the rest of the tradition.74 That begins with their titulature. Already the first
Sasanians styled themselves as Šāhān šāh, “king of kings,” and their successors
63 Cf. Whitby, “The Persian King at War”, pp. 228–229.

64 Cf. Sundermann, Die sasanidische Herrscherlegitimation, p. 92; Winter, “Legitimität als
Herrschaftsprinzip”, p. 78.
65 Cf. Whitby, “The Persian King at War”, pp. 244–247; contra Howard-Johnston, “The two
Great Powers in Late Antiquity”, pp. 223. On “charismatic rulership” (Max Weber) in antiq-
uity, cf. Gotter, “Die Nemesis des Allgemein-Gültigen”.
66 Cf. Men. Prot. frag. 23.9.79–89 (Blockley); Th. Sim. Hist. 3.17.2.
67 Cf. Widengren, “Iran, der große Gegner Roms”, pp. 232–234.
68 Currently the best introduction to Zoroastrianism is Stausberg, Die Religion Zarathushtras.
69 Cf. Christensen, L’Iran sous les Sassanides, p. 261.
70 Cf. Widengren, “Iran, der große Gegner Roms”, pp. 233–234.
71 Joh. Eph. he 6.8.
72 Cf. Stausberg, Die Religion Zarathushtras, pp. 224–225.
73 Wars 1.11.35; 1.12.4. Cf. Agath. Hist. 2.23.1–3. The ban is also mentioned in the Dādestān ī
Mēnōg ī Xrad (6.9). On religious plurality in the Sasanian Empire, cf. Daryaee, Sasanian
Persia, pp. 69–97; Payne, A State of Mixture, pp. 23–58.
74 On the Sasanian monarchy, cf. Rubin, “The Sasanid Monarchy”; Börm, “Das Königtum der
Sasaniden”; Daryaee, “Sasanian Persia. The Rise and Fall of an Empire”, pp. 41–55; Huyse,
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maintained this tradition, even though the title no longer appeared on

Sasanian coins in Procopius’ day.75 The very unusual word order of Procopius’
translation, βασιλέων βασιλεύς, is closer to the Persian original than the vari-
ants used by other ancient authors.76 That is not to say that Procopius himself
knew Persian, but it is also not altogether impossible.77
Prostration before the Persian ruler, which Procopius repeatedly men-
tions, may also be regarded as historical.78 And the fundamental inviolabil-
ity of Persian rulers is not only explicitly attested by Roman authors such as
Ammianus and Claudian,79 but also appears in the oriental tradition.80 Just as
in the case of the ruler’s avoidance of prostration before a mortal,81 Procopius’
account thus proves compatible with other sources.
The claim that the Persian king minted only silver coins, in contrast, does
not correspond to the facts: the Sasanians actually resumed minting gold coins
at an early date.82 The coins that circulated in the frontier zone, however, may
have been almost exclusively silver drachms,83 and therefore Procopius’ report
has a background in reality – although his explanation (Wars 7.33.6) is defi-
nitely wrong: the Persian king by no means acknowledged a prerogative of
the emperor to issue gold coins. This case again illustrates how Procopius’
interpretations of his material should be treated with caution.
“Die königliche Erbfolge bei den Sasaniden”; Wiesehöfer, “King and Kingship”; Shayegan,
“Sasanian political ideology”; Börm, “Kontinuität im Wandel”.
75 Cf. Colditz, “Altorientalische und Avesta-Traditionen in der Herrschertitulatur des voris-
lamischen Iran”; Huyse, “Die sasanidische Königstitulatur”. Ammianus (19.2.11) uses the
Latin transcription saansaan, while the Chronicon Paschale (ad ann. 628) gives the Greek
paraphrasis Σαδασαδαδάχ.
76 Cf. Schmitt, “Byzantinoiranica”, p. 674.
77 Cf. Schwyzer, “Die sprachlichen Interessen Prokops von Cäsarea”, pp. 307–309; Evans,
Procopius, p. 31; Cameron, Procopius and the sixth century, p. 153; Ciancaglini, “Titolature
battriane nella storiografia tardo-classica”, pp. 115–120; Schmitt, “Byzantinoiranica”; Börm,
Prokop und die Perser, pp. 148–151.
78 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī 1.946. The term pad rōi ōbastan (“to fall on the face”) is also significant. Cf.
De Jong, “Sub Specie Maiestatis”; Wiesehöfer, “King, Court and Royal Representation”;
Canepa The Two Eyes of the Earth, pp. 149–153.
79 Cf. Amm. Marc. 23.6.6; Claud. In Eutrop. 2.478–480.
80 Cf. Thaʿālibī 509.
81 Cf. Stausberg, Die Religion Zarathushtras, p. 210.
82 On Sasanian coinage, cf. the excellent introduction by Schindel, “Sasanian Coinage”.
83 The Persian monetary system was based not on gold but on silver; cf. Banaji, “Precious
Metal Coinages”, p. 265. The Chinese traveller Xuanzang around 630 likewise mentions
only silver coins (Ecsedy, “Contacts between Byzantium and Iran”, p. 211). Cf. Cutler, “Silver
across the Euphrates”, pp. 9–11.
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322 Börm
Lastly, with respect to royal succession among the Persians, Ammianus, too,
mentions that the king must belong to a specific family;84 and the connec-
tion between the monarchy and the Sasanians is also emphasized in eastern
sources.85 The physical integrity of the candidate is also confirmed as a precon-
dition by other authors;86 the old Iranian concept of royal xvarrah (the ruler’s
“glory,” “splendor,” or “shine”) is probably behind it.87 Possession of the xvar-
rah šāhanšāhī was considered a precondition for a fortunate reign, and how
should someone who was disfigured transfer his fortune to the empire?
Procopius’ account of the accession of Khosrow in 531 ranks among the most
important accounts of the succession procedure of the late Sasanian Empire.88
If we compare his depiction to the procedure described by the “Letter of Tansar,”
however, some differences emerge. Here, too, the written wish of the dying
king plays an important part, but otherwise the “Letter” differs considerably
from Procopius’ account.89 Here, the ruler writes three letters, laying down the
criteria that the ideal successor must fulfill. These letters are addressed to the
commander of the army (Ērān-spāhbed), the highest priest (mōbadān mōbad),
and the head of the scribes (dibīrān mahišt). Ultimately, though – and as in
Procopius – a kind of “election” appears to take place, although the particulars
remain very vague.90 A Chinese description of Persia (Po-ssu) likewise reports
that the king writes down the name of the son that should someday follow
him; he shares his decision with no one, and the letter is sealed and kept in the
archive. After the ruler’s death, the letter is opened in an assembly of noble-
men, and the son named in this text is then made the new king.91
Despite their differences, the three versions agree that the king’s desig-
nation played an important part. However, the decisive importance of the
84 Amm. Marc. 23.6.6. Strabo (16.1.28) gives a similar account of the Arsacids. A non-Sasanian
first attempted to seize the crown in 590; cf. Rubin, “Nobility, Monarchy and Legitimation
under the later Sasanians”.
85 Cf. Tha‛ālibī 683 and 733–34.
86 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī 1.833. Cf. De Jong, “Sub Specie Maiestatis”, p. 356.
87 Cf. Sundermann, “Die sasanidische Herrscherlegitimation”, pp. 98–116; Gnoli, “Farr(ah)”;
Soudavar, The Aura of Kings; Börm, “Dynastie und Charisma im Sasanidenreich”. Roman
authors apparently translate xvarrah as fortuna (Amm. Marc. 17.5.8). Procopius mentions
τύχη in connection with the Persian king (Wars 1.7.21).
88 On the royal succession, cf. Widengren, “Iran, der große Gegner Roms”, pp. 241–247; Börm,
“Das Königtum der Sasaniden”, pp. 433–435; Huyse, “Die königliche Erbfolge bei den
Sasaniden”.
89 The “Letter of Tansar” was composed (or revised) in the sixth century, translated into
Arabic in the ninth century and from Arabic into New Persian in the thirteenth century;
cf. Boyce, The letter of Tansar.
90 Boyce, The letter of Tansar, p. 61. Cf. Widengren, “Iran, der große Gegner Roms”, p. 245.
91 Cf. Ecsedy, “Contacts between Byzantium and Iran”, pp. 209–210.
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king’s “election” by the Persian élite, asserted only by Procopius, is striking

(Wars 1.21.20). It is conceivable that he deliberately elevated the acclamation
of the king, which often was probably merely ceremonial, to a free election,
so as to suggest that the consent of the aristocracy was indispensable for the
legitimacy of a monarch.92 Since an assembly of noblemen is also mentioned
in other sources,93 however, this is not sufficient reason to dismiss Procopius’
account in its entirety. He clearly had very good information about the royal
court in Ctesiphon. It is not impossible, though, that his remarks hit the mark
so exactly because there were numerous parallels between the Roman and
Persian courts.94
3 The Aristocracy
Persian nobles hold a variety of offices in Procopius’ account, but they appear
primarily in three contexts: as warriors and generals, as diplomats,95 and as
members of the assembly (βουλή) of the nobles. According to Procopius,
a gold and pearl diadem served to indicate these aristocrats’ status.96 This
privilege notably could also be withdrawn; Kawad degraded a general in this
way (Wars 1.17.7). An aristocrat’s rank consequently was not independent of
the ruler.97
An astonishingly long list of Persian offices and names appears in Procopius’
work,98 and in most cases we can easily recognize what Middle Persian form
may be hidden behind the Greek versions. Procopius, however, like other
Roman authors, occasionally confuses offices and names. While in some
cases it is fairly straightforward to explain the confusion – such as the “rank”
of a Μιρράνης (Wars 1.13.16), behind which a member of the house Mihrān
92 The need for an emperor to be chosen by the aristocracy is also stressed by some late
Roman authors; one example is the Neoplatonic dialogue De Politica Scientia (5.50).
93 Cf. Lukonin, “Political, Social and Administrative Institutions”, pp. 698–708. Cf. Amm. Marc.
18.5.6; Mal. 18.30; Men. Prot. frag. 10.1.15–16; aṭ-Ṭabarī 1.859–60.
94 Cf. Canepa, The Two Eyes of the Earth, pp. 130–153. This includes concealing the emperor
behind the velum; for the Sasanian parallel, cf. De Jong, “Sub Specie Maiestatis”, p. 357.
95 Cf. Diebler, “Les hommes du roi”.
96 Wars 1.17.27; 8.11.6.
97 This is potentially an oblique reference to the sixth-century reforms that made the Persian
nobility more dependent on the king; cf. Rubin, “The Reforms of Khusro Anushirwan”;
Börm, Prokop und die Perser, pp. 239–242; Gariboldi, “The Great ‘Restoration’ of Husraw I”.
98 Cf. Börm, Prokop und die Perser, pp. 143–148.
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324 Börm
undoubtedly lurks99 – in others an error on Procopius’ part is possible, but

not certain.100
It is clear that Procopius rightly recognized two important Persian titles
for what they were: the first is the rank χαναράγγης mentioned above, which
Procopius translates as στρατηγός (Wars 1.5.4) and in which we can recog-
nize the word kanārang.101 Although this office was not exclusively military,
the Romans will have encountered its holders primarily as generals.102 This
is also true of the office of ἀδρασταδάραν σαλάνης (Wars 1.6.18), which clearly
corresponds to the artēštārān sālār.103 In this case, Procopius’ information is
essentially correct, despite his mistaken claim that Seoses was the first to hold
this office (Wars 1.6.19) – an artēštārān sālār is already attested for the early
5th century.104 However, Procopius’ error may be explained by the fact that the
position had long been vacant prior to Seoses.
Procopius has Khosrow call Adergoudounbades his “slave” (Wars 1.23.14); he
had in fact long ago submitted as a δοῦλος to Kawad, his δεσπότης (Wars 1.6.16).105
In fact, the king’s retainers (bandagān) probably lurk behind the servi and
δοῦλοι mentioned in the Roman sources.106 Adergoudounbades’ “submission”
may also be an example of this, without Procopius realizing it; it is obvious
that he deliberately alludes to Roman conditions.107 But it is ultimately the
Sasanian reality that furnishes him his material, which he can excerpt, recast,
and interpret at will.
99 Cf. Christensen, L’Iran sous les Sassanides, p. 105; Schmitt, “Byzantinoiranica”, pp. 675–676.
100 Thus the “name” Βαρεσμανᾶς (Wars 1.13.16) might conceal a distortion of marzbān – one
of the most important positions in the Sasanian Empire. The same is probably true for
the “name” Πιτυάξης (Wars 1.13.16), behind which we might conjecture the rank bidaxš.
Procopius’ Ἀζαρέθες (Wars 1.17.1) recalls the rank hazārbed, which the Greek version of
the res gestae divi Saporis translates as ἀζαρίπτης (škz gr. 61), and Procopius’ Ἀσπεβέδης
(Wars 1.11.5) is perhaps derived from the general’s rank spāhbed.
101 Cf. Ciancaglini, “Titolature battriane nella storiografia tardo-classica”.
102 Cf. Khurshudian, Die parthischen und sasanidischen Verwaltungsinstitutionen, pp. 72–75.
103 Cf. Khurshudian, Die parthischen und sasanidischen Verwaltungsinstitutionen, pp. 124 and
284.
104 aṭ-Ṭabarī 1.869. Cf. Sundermann, “Artēštārān sālār”, p. 662.
105 Cf. Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea, pp. 128–142.
106 Cf. Iust. 41.3; Lact. De Mort. 21.2. Cf. Widengren, “Iran, der große Gegner Roms”, pp. 252–
263; Eilers/Herrenschmidt, “Banda”.
107 Cf. SH 30.26; Wars 5.3.17. Procopius depicts revolts of the Persian nobility with notable
sympathy for the rebels; cf. Wars 1.23.3. For a comparison of the late Roman and Persian
élite, cf. Börm, “Herrscher und Eliten in der Spätantike”.
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It is beyond doubt that hereditary nobility indeed existed in the Sasanian

Empire,108 and the significance of the outward tokens of rank that Procopius
asserts may also be regarded as historical. Agathias (Histories 3.28.5) men-
tions gold jewelry and expensive clothing as insignia of the Persian nobility,
and the “Letter of Tansar” attributes the introduction of visible indicators of
rank already to Ardašir, the founder of the empire.109 Procopius’ statement
that Azarethes was ranked among the “most unworthy” by Kawad in 531
(Wars 1.18.56) relates to the hierarchy of dignitaries symbolized by privileges of
access and seating – very similar to the late Roman imperial court.110 Without
the aristocracy’s assent, on the other hand, the monarch’s rule lost its legiti-
macy. Middle-Persian literature even acknowledges a right to resist unsuitable
rulers; it is highly likely that these ideas had already emerged in Late Antiquity.
On the one hand, obedience to the monarch is postulated in the Dēnkard,
the most important compendium of Zoroastrian beliefs and customs; on the
other, a king who abuses his position is regarded as evil.111 He may and must
be overthrown.112
Arthur Christensen once ruled out a connection between central admin-
istrative functions and specific families, as claimed by Procopius.113 However,
most scholars now accept that some of the most important offices in the
Sasanian Empire were in fact hereditary.114 Of course, it remains an open ques-
tion as to whether the king himself could freely choose from among the candi-
dates qualified by birth for an office, as Procopius implies (Wars 1.6.15–16), or
whether his right to a say in the matter was limited.
108 Cf. Rubin, “Nobility, Monarchy and Legitimation under the later Sasanians”, pp. 244–246;
Pourshariati, Decline and Fall of the Sasanian Empire, pp. 33–161; McDonough, “The Legs
of the Throne”.
109 Boyce, “The letter of Tansar”, p. 44.
110 Lyd. De Mag. 2.9; Coripp. Iust. 3.191–256.
111 Dēnkard (Madan) 523.10–14; 292.18–293.14.
112 On the (religious) oriental tradition on this subject, cf. Christensen, L’Iran sous les
Sassanides, p. 262, and Sundermann, Die sasanidische Herrscherlegitimation, pp. 2–3.
113 Christensen, L’Iran sous les Sassanides, pp. 103–109. Cf. Kaldellis, Procopius of Caesarea,
pp. 84–85.
114 Cf. Widengren, “Iran, der große Gegner Roms”, pp. 261–62; Schippmann, Grundzüge der
Geschichte des sasanidischen Reiches, p. 82; Huyse, “Sprachkontakte und Entlehnungen”,
p. 209; Schmitt, “Byzantinoiranica”, p. 676.
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326 Börm
4 The Sasanian Army
The Sasanian army is a topic in which Procopius is particularly interested.115

In the Wars, the cavalry is depicted as being divided into heavy lancers and
mounted archers.116 In addition to these, there are infantry soldiers and special
units like elephant riders.117 Usually, mounted troops play the decisive part;
sometimes whole armies consist exclusively of cavalry (Wars 1.1.15). In addition
to these regular troops, there are foreign auxiliary troops, as well as military
scouts and engineers responsible for bridges and siege works.118 The Persian
siege engines mentioned by Procopius, besides scaling ladders, include batter-
ing rams and siege towers.119 Sometimes the Sasanians raise artificial hills to
use as ramps or attempt to undermine the enemy walls and cause them to col-
lapse.120 Several times Procopius mentions the Persian custom of building field
camps,121 as well as their efforts to scout out their route with an advance guard
(Wars 8.8.17). Sasanian generals take such pains so as to enter open battles with
an extreme numerical advantage.122 A law is allegedly passed after the demise
of King Peroz that prohibits pursuing a fleeing enemy over unknown terrain
(Wars 1.4.33). Procopius mentions several generals in command of the Persian
troops at the battle of Dara in 530, but only one has the supreme command
(Wars 1.13.16). Twice before this battle, a Sasanian cataphract and a Roman
soldier meet in single combat. In both cases, the Persians are the challengers
(Wars 1.13.29–34).123
Scholars rightly regard Procopius’ account of military matters as remarkably
reliable.124 The historian’s autopsy of the Persian army leaves no doubt as to its
115 A few years ago, J. Howard-Johnston attacked the communis opinio and suggested
that Procopius was not a legal scholar but a hydraulic engineer working for the Roman
army; cf. Howard- Johnston, “The education and expertise of Procopius”. This thesis has
its attractions, but for the time being it does not have a firm basis; cf. Greatrex, “Recent
work on Procopius”, pp. 58–61.
116 Wars 1.4.13; 8.8.17; 1.1.12–14.
117 Wars 2.21.22; 1.14.25; 8.13.4; 8.17.10; Buildings 2.1.11.
118 Wars 1.21.11; 1.17.35.
119 Wars 1.7.28; 2.27.29; 1.7.12; 2.17.9; 2.27.39.
120 Wars 1.7.14; 2.26.23; 2.17.23.
121 Wars 1.13.15; 1.18.10.
122 Wars 1.13.23; 1.14.1; 1.18.9. On Procopius’ use of numbers in descriptions of combat on the
Persian front, cf. Whately, “Some observations on Procopius’ use of numbers”, pp. 396–400.
123 Cf. Wars 7.4.21–28.
124 Cf. Kaegi, “Procopius the Military Historian”, p. 84; Colvin, “Reporting Battles and under-
standing Campaigns in Procopius and Agathias”.
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basic division into infantry (paygān) and cavalry.125 The heavy cavalry consist-
ing primarily of bandagān remained the core of the Sasanian army (spāh) in
the 6th century,126 and Procopius proves to be well-informed about the equip-
ment of Sasanian soldiers.127
Likewise, no mistakes can be found in Procopius with respect to the
Persians’ conventional tactics. The two duels before the Battle of Dara fit well
with the Iranian tradition of institutionalized single combat (mard-u-mard).128
Similarly, the king’s troops’ habit of delaying the beginning of battle – as
described by Procopius at Dara – not only is described by western sources such
as the Strategikon (11.1.9), but is also recommended in a fragment of a Sasanian
military treatise.129 The fundamental rule was to obtain numerical superiority;
only in the event of a hostile invasion could one do battle without outnumber-
ing the enemy. If, in contrast, an attack was made on the enemy in his own
territory, then one should be twice as strong as him.130
Joshua the Stylite confirms Procopius’ report of the use of siege towers and
battering rams at Amida in 502.131 The war elephants repeatedly mentioned
by Procopius are also attested by other authors.132 Finally, the elite unit of
“immortals” (Wars 1.16.31) warrants special attention: although it is conjec-
tured that the Greeks had already been mistaken about this unit in the time
of Herodotus,133 “immortals” are also mentioned by other late Roman sources
besides Procopius.134 Whether this was really just a topos borrowed from
Herodotus cannot be determined.135
125 On the Sasanian army, cf. Widengren, “Iran, der große Gegner Roms”, pp. 280–297;
Shahbazi, “Army 5”; Schippmann, Grundzüge der Geschichte des sasanidischen Reiches,
pp. 103–106; Nicolle, “Sassanian armies”; Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, pp. 52–59;
Howard- Johnston, “The Late Sasanian Army”; Farrokh, “The Sassanians”.
126 Cf. Shahbazi, “Army 5”, p. 496.
128 Malalas (14.23) also mentions a duel between a comes foederatorum and a Persian.
129 Inostrancev, “The Sasanian military theory”, p. 14.
130 Procopius’ report of Persian operations at Dara overall can be reconciled very well with
Sasanian military theory; cf. Inostrancev, “The Sasanian military theory”, pp. 27–28.
131 Jos. Styl. 53.
132 Cf. Amm. Marc. 19.2.3; Zos. 3.30; Jos. Styl. 62; Chron. Pasch. ad ann. 350; Ps.-Sebeos 8.68.
133 Hdt. 7.83.1. Cf. Huyse, “Sprachkontakte und Entlehnungen, p. 208; contra Brosius, The
Persians, p. 59.
134 Socrat. he 7.20; Mal. 14.23.
135 Cf. Christensen, L’Iran sous les Sassanides, p. 208; Shahbazi, “Army 5”, p. 497; Charles, “The
Sasanian ‘Immortals’”.
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328 Börm
5 The Geography of the East
Procopius describes the Roman eastern frontier in the second and third books
of the Buildings, focusing on the fortresses that the emperors had built or reno-
vated since 502. Since Procopius himself had spent several years in these terri-
tories (Wars 1.17.17), his account seems reliable overall, although his description
of details sometimes causes confusion.136 He apparently presumes the exis-
tence of a fixed Roman-Persian border (Buildings 6.7.17); the precision, how-
ever, with which he describes this border varies considerably. In some areas,
it seems to be defined so exactly that delegations from both sides can meet
on it (Wars 1.11.26). The rivers Nymphius and, further south, the Euphrates
serve as borders,137 and a mountain pass is described as the border between
Roman Sophanene138 and Persarmenia (Buildings 3.3.2–3). However, by no
means are such clear conditions found everywhere. In Chorzane, according to
Procopius, the respective territories indistinctly merge. Here, the subjects of
both empires live in very close contact with one another and even intermarry
(Buildings 3.3.10).
Besides cities like Nisibis bordering on Roman territory, three significant
settlements are described in the Wars that lie in the heartland of the Sasanian
Empire: the first, naturally, is the royal residence Seleucia-Ctesiphon, located
“in Assyria” (Wars 2.28.4–5). This agglomeration included Chosroe-Antiochia,
a new foundation where the deported inhabitants of Antioch and other
places were settled after 540 and provided with baths and a hippodrome fol-
lowing the Roman model. Its citizens enjoyed special privileges and were the
direct subjects of the king himself (Wars 2.14.1–3).139 Second, in connection
with the attempted usurpation of Prince Anošazad, Procopius mentions the
city “Belapaton in Vazaïne” (Wars 8.10.9), and, third, the city “Gorgo,” which
serves as the point of departure for a Sasanian campaign against the Huns
(Wars 1.4.10). Moreover, Procopius places a major fire sanctuary north of Assyria,
in “Adarbiganon” (Wars 2.24.1), and describes the land of the “Dolomites” as a
mountainous region in the middle of the Persian Empire, yet that was not sub-
ject to the king (Wars 8.14.6–8).
136 Cf. Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, p. 21.

137 Wars 1.8.21; Buildings 2.8; 3.2.2. For Procopius, the Phasis marks the border between Asia
and Europe (Wars 3.1.11). He presumes that the world is divided into only two continents
(Wars 3.1.4–7; cf. Hdt. 4.36–37).
138 Cf. Marciak, “The Cultural Landscape of Sophene”.
139 On deportations in Sasanian times, cf. Kettenhofen, “Deportations II”; Morony,
“Population Transfers”.
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The πόλις Βηλαπατών may easily be identified as Gundešabuhr in Khuzestan:

in Syriac, the city was called Bēt Lapat. Procopius’ Οὐαζαΐνη can be traced to
the Syriac name for Khuzestan, (Bēt) Huzayē.140 It thus is quite conceivable
that in this case Procopius got his information from Syrian Christians.141 The
“Fortress of Oblivion” (Wars 1.5.7–9) also deserves brief mention. Procopius
himself gives no indication of its location, but it may be the same “state prison”
mentioned by other authors and likewise located in Khuzestan.142
Procopius’ Γοργώ probably is the city of Gorga mentioned already by
Priscus.143 A connection to the Persian territory of Gurgān on the southern coast
of the Caspian Sea is likely but not entirely certain;144 in the Sasanian period,
the name was connected with a city rather than with a territory.145 Furthermore,
Ādurbādagān is undoubtedly lurking behind Procopius’ Ἀδαρβιγάνων.146 It lay
between Procopius’ “Assyria” (Āsūrestān) and Persarmenia, and there is good
reason to believe that the Ādur Gušnasp in modern Taq-i Suleiman is behind
the pyreion Procopius locates here.147
Since both Gurgān and Ādurbādagān lie in the northern part of the Sasanian
Empire, it appears that Procopius was relatively well-informed about this area
despite the fact that in his day it lay beyond the reach of Roman troops.148 This
is confirmed also by his reference to the Δολομῖται: the Deylamnites, who also
appear in Greek sources as the Διλιμνῖται,149 settled especially in the Elburz
Mountains. They indeed acted with great independence, submitting to some
Persian kings, but not to others.150 Procopius’ remarks are thus accurate.
140 Cf. Morony, “Bēt Lapat”.

141 Cf. Bonner, “Three neglected sources of Sasanian history in the reign of Khusraw
Anushirvan”, p. 25. It is unclear whether Procopius knew Syriac; cf. Cameron, Procopius
and the sixth century, p. 222; Ciancaglini, “Titolature battriane nella storiografia tardo-
classica”, pp. 117–118.
142 Amm. Marc. 27.12.3; Agath. Hist. 4.28.1; Th. Sim. Hist. 3.5.2. Cf. Kettenhofen, “Das Staatsge-
fängnis der Sasaniden”; Ciancaglini/Traina “La forteresse de l’Oubli”.
143 Prisc. frag. 41,3.
144 Cf. Greatrex, Procopius and the Persian Wars, pp. 50–51.; Bivar, “Gorgān V: Pre-islamic his-
tory”, p. 152, is skeptical.
145 Cf. aṭ-Ṭabarī 1.819. On Gurgān, see Rekavandi etc., “Sasanian walls, hinterland fortresses
and abandoned ancient irrigated landscapes”, pp. 151–161.
146 Cf. Schippmann, “Azerbaijan III”, p. 224. However, Procopius failed to recognize that this
Middle Persian form is ultimately derived from Atropatene.
147 Cf. Boyce, “Ādur Gušnasp”; Huff, “Takht-i Suleiman”.
148 However, the Roman ambassador Eusebius supposedly accompanied King Peroz on a
campaign here (Wars 1.3.8).
149 Agath. Hist. 3.17.7–9; Th. Sim. Hist. 4.4.17.
150 Cf. Felix, “Deylamites”; Potts, Nomadism in Iran, pp. 164–165.
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330 Börm
Since serious fighting between Romans and Persians took place in the
Caucasus in Procopius’ day, it is not surprising that he also has some things
to say about this region. He considers Persarmenia an integral part of the
Sasanian Empire, that is, the four fifths of Armenia that were ruled by Persia
since c.387.151 However, Sasanian control was less secure over the peoples who
settled in the area of modern Georgia: the Lazi, the Iberians, the Tzani, the
Suani, the Apsilians, the Albanians, and the Abkhazians.152
Lazica warrants special attention. While Procopius only incidentally men-
tions the transfer of Lazica from Sasanian to Roman control in 522 (Wars 1.11.28)
and even claims that it was necessary in 541 to reconstruct a connection between
the Persians and the Lazi from ancient documents (Wars 2.15.15), he recounts
in detail the defection of the Lazi from the Romans, which made a Persian
invasion possible (Wars 2.15.14–30). Procopius simultaneously stresses the
close connection of the land to the Romans, alleging that the kings of the Lazi
traditionally sought wives from among the senatorial aristocracy (Wars 8.9.8).
He claims that the land had very little economic significance (Wars 2.15.5); but
he fears that if Lazica fell permanently into Persian hands, the Sasanians could
use it as a base for naval attacks on Constantinople (Wars 2.28.18–23).
Procopius’ claim that southern Lazica in particular was almost worthless
economically contradicts other extant sources.153 Agathias even praises the
wealth of the country.154 Indeed, there is hardly another point where Procopius
makes such obviously mistaken statements as here. It is conceivable that he
did not want to attribute any particular worth to Lazica when he wrote the
Wars, since it was predominantly in Sasanian hands at the time.155 But even if
we assume that the Sasanians could have made Lazica a base for a battle fleet
on the Black Sea,156 there is no evidence that the Persians had any such plans.
After all, Lazica had been controlled by the Sasanians already before 522. The
fact that Agathias shared Procopius’ apprehension, however, might indicate
that such fears were widespread among contemporary Romans.
The passes through the Caucasus are also important. Procopius mentions
them as the “Caspian Gates” several times, and according to him they were
151 Buildings 3.1.9. Cf. Blockley, “The division of Armenia between the Romans and the
Persians”; Greatrex, “The Background and Aftermath of the Partition of Armenia”.
152 Procopius acknowledges that it was unclear who controlled some of these lands
(Wars 1.10.1). Cf. Garsoïan, “Frontier-Frontiers?”.
153 Cf. Braund, “Procopius on the economy of Lazica”, p. 221.
154 Cf. Agath. Hist. 3.5.2–4.
155 Cf. Braund, Georgia in Antiquity, p. 276.
156 Priscus (frag. 33.1 [Blockley]), however, claims that Lazica had no ports.
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repeatedly the source of conflict, since the Sasanians asked the Romans to
share in the defense of the fortifications there.157 For centuries, many authors
had mentioned the Portae Caspiae; but the name was used inconsistently;158
three different military routes were called the “Caspian Gates.”159 At least the
so-called “Gate of the Alans” near Darial may be identified with the “Caucasian
Gates” in the fifth and sixth centuries.160 Procopius, just like Priscus before him,
confuses these Portae Caucasiae with the Portae Caspiae that should probably
be located near Derbend.161
The Caucasus passes were threatened especially by Huns. Here, Procopius
distinguishes between the “Sabirian” (Wars 2.20.15) and the “White” Huns, the
Hephthalites,162 who receive a short excursus (Wars 1.3.1–7): the Hephthalites,
in contrast to the rest of the Huns, were supposedly not nomadic. Their well-
organized state, a monarchy, lay to the north of the Sasanian Empire and had
no common border with the Imperium Romanum. Procopius describes as
characteristic their system of retainers, lasting beyond the death of the master
(Wars 1.3.6–7). His remarks match those of other sources and scholarly knowl-
edge: the Hephthalites were indeed ruled by a monarch, were at least partially
sedentary, and inhabited cities; and various sources report like Procopius that
they placed great value on observing treaties.163 His claim that the Hephthalites
differed markedly from other Huns is also supported by other, independent
witnesses.164 The Hephthalites still played a significant part in Procopius’ life-
time; not until c.560 were they defeated by a Sasanian-Turkic alliance.165
Besides the Huns, the Saracens are the other major group that neighbored
the Persian Empire. Procopius mentions both the Arabs who under the leader-
ship of the Ghassanid (Jafnid) Arethas fought alongside the Romans as σύμ-
μαχοι (Wars 1.17.47), and the Arabs allied with the Sasanian Empire under the
leadership of the Lakhmid sheikh Alamoundaros (Wars 1.17.45). Procopius
157 Cf. Wars 1.10.2–11; 1.16.4–6; 2.10.21; 8.3.4. Cf. Börm, “Es war allerdings nicht so, dass sie es im
Sinne eines Tributes erhielten”.
158 Cf. Hansman, “Caspian Gates”.
159 Plin. nat. hist. 6.15.40.
160 Cf. Braund, Georgia in Antiquity, pp. 269–270; Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, p. 15.
161 Prisc. frag. 41.1.9–15. Cf. Dignas/Winter, Rome and Persia in Late Antiquity, pp. 188–195.
162 Cf. Rollinger/Wiesehöfer, “The ‘Empire’ of the Hephthalites”.
163 Cf. Bivar, “Hephthalites”.
164 Cf. Litvinsky, “The Hephthalite Empire”, pp. 135–136; Kurbanov, The Archaeology and
History of the Hephthalites. On the “Sabirian” Huns, cf. Whitby, The emperor Maurice and
his Historian, p. 14.
165 Men. Prot. frag. 4.1–8 (Blockley). Cf. Harmatta, “The struggle for the ‘Silk Route’”,
pp. 249–250.
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332 Börm
discusses Arabia in the context of a brief excursus (Wars 1.19.1–14)166 and men-
tions that the Saracens allied with Persia celebrated religious festivals in the
two months around the summer solstice; during these sixty days, they did not
wage war (Wars 2.16.18). It seems that Procopius’ depiction of the Lahmids and
Ghassanids as often uncontrollable allies of both superpowers is essentially cor-
rect.167 It at least is not impossible that Alamundaros actually sacrificed a son
of his rival Arethas to “Aphrodite” (probably al-ʿUzzā; Wars 2.28.13). Procopius’
claim that all Arabs in Persia were his subjects (Wars 1.17.45) may be exagger-
ated, but probably is an accurate reflection of the Romans’ perception.168 It is
striking, however, that Procopius depicts the Persian Saracens as pagans. This
is somewhat surprising, because many of these Arabs were in fact Christians:
there had been an important episcopal see in Hira, the Lahmids’ capital, since
410 at the latest.169 We thus may legitimately suspect that Procopius delib-
erately manipulated the facts so as to emphasize the “barbarousness” of the
Saracens he depicts in strikingly negative colors.170 The Lahmid leaders in
his own day, however, in contrast to many of their subjects, actually were not
Christians (except for the last one).171 Thus, Procopius’ account yet again is
inexact, but not untrue.
6 Procopius’ Image of the Persians
As we have seen, Procopius was by no means an impartial observer. He took

liberties not only in interpreting his material, but especially in his judgment of
the Persians. This emerges particularly in the qualities that he explicitly attri-
butes to the Persians and their rulers, although we must distinguish between
statements made about the Sasanian kings and other individuals and those
about the Persians as a people.
166 This excursus is followed by further remarks (Wars 1.19.15–37) in which Procopius dis-
cusses the peoples along the Upper Nile (Blemmyes, Homerites, Axumites) and also
mentions India, which played an important part in the silk trade (Wars 1.20.9). Procopius
knows of Roman plans to circumvent the Persians as middlemen; cf. Greatrex, “Byzantium
and the East in the Sixth Century”, pp. 500–503.
167 Cf. Fisher, Between Empires. Cf. also Casey, “Justinian, the limitanei, and Arab-Byzantine
relations in the 6th century”; Conrad, “The Arabs”; Millar, “Rome’s ‘Arab’ Allies in Late
Antiquity”; Greatrex, “Procopius and Roman Imperial Policy”; Liebeschuetz, “Arab
Tribesmen and Desert Frontiers in Late Antiquity”.
168 Cf. Nyberg, “Die sassanidische Westgrenze und ihre Verteidigung”, pp. 319–325.
169 Cf. Bosworth, “Iran and the Arabs before Islam”, p. 598.
170 Cf. Shahîd, Byzantium and the Arabs, pp. 297–306.
171 Cf. Bosworth, “Iran and the Arabs before Islam”, pp. 598–599.
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The list of negative remarks is a long one. The Persians are called “barbar-
ians” throughout the entire work,172 and Procopius depicts with palpable
disgust their custom of throwing the bodies of the dead to the beasts to be
devoured (Wars 1.12.4). He once explicitly calls the Persians’ lifestyle δυσπρόσο-
δος and different from all other men’s (Wars 2.28.25–26). Yet he makes a quite
similar statement about the Germanic Heruli (Wars 6.14.1–2); thus, the Persians
are by no means the only recipients of this label. Rather, it is an element of
“generic” barbarian topoi.173 To Procopius, the Persians are devious, venge-
ful, and unruly.174 At the same time, though, they are effeminate (Wars 1.6.6)
and enamored of ostentation (Wars 8.11.4), as well as shameless (Wars 1.11.15),
lustful (Wars 8.10.5), and envious (Wars 2.2.15). They not only fear the Romans
(Wars 1.18.9), but also the wrath of their king (Wars 1.14.19), whose slaves they
are (Wars 1.23.24).175
Many Persian kings essentially share the negative qualities of their subjects.
Their greed and lust for booty is a prominent characteristic.176 Kings Pacurius
(Wars 1.5.28) and Khosrow (Wars 8.10.8) decree gruesome punishments. Prince
Anošazad sleeps with his father’s wives (Wars 8.10.8).177 Some kings moreover
have clearly tyrannical traits. Kawad at the beginning of his reign (Wars 1.5.2)
and his son repeatedly are described as “eager for innovation” (Wars 1.23.2–3
etc.). The notorious liar and flatterer (Wars 2.9.8) Khosrow often appears as
wrathful and unruly, but also as sickly and effete (Wars 8.10.10).178 He has no
sense of justice, but rather envies Justinian’s successes in the West (Wars 2.2.15).
He moreover is a declared enemy of God,179 who advances against Edessa par-
ticularly because this city is protected by Jesus Christ (Wars 2.26.3).
The appearance of these negative topoi in the context of a historiographical
work indebted to classical models is hardly surprising.180 However, it is inter-
esting to see that Procopius also makes a series of very positive remarks about
the Persians. The Sasanian Empire is explicitly described as a well-organized
172 Cf. McDonough, “Were the Sasanians Barbarians?”. See also Greatrex, “Procopius’ attitude
towards Barbarians”, pp. 331–340.
173 Cf. Hdt. 2.35.2; Tac. Hist. 5.4.1.
174 Wars 1.3.17; 1.4.1; 1.4.13; 2.5.15–24.
175 Cf. Arist. Pol. 1285a; 1327b.
176 Wars 1.16.8; 2.5.28 etc. Modern scholars have regrettably frequently adopted this
assessment.
177 This is perhaps an allusion to Zoroastrian incest; cf. Börm, Prokop und die Perser,
pp. 187–189.
178 Wars 2.23.14; 2.7.21 etc.
179 Procopius also accuses the rioters of 532 of this cf. Buildings 1.1.21.
180 Cf. Cameron, Procopius and the sixth century, pp. 32–46; Drijvers, “Rome and the Sasanid
Empire”; Börm, “Barbaren als Tyrannen”.
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334 Börm
state (πολιτεία) that heeds the rule of law both domestically and abroad
(Wars 1.3.5); it is attractive enough to motivate Roman workers and artisans to
immigrate (sh 25.25). The Persians are also – particularly as engineers – techni-
cally accomplished and innovative. Again and again, Procopius has high praise
for the warlike qualities of the Persians,181 whom he describes almost as often
in different contexts as cowardly. Occasionally he even acknowledges that
the Sasanians were at least partly not to blame for the military conflicts with
Rome.182 And, as mentioned above, one example shows that the peaceful coex-
istence of Roman and Persian subjects was indeed possible (Buildings 3.4.10).
Procopius describes King Kawad as shrewd and decisive (Wars 1.6.18).
Yazdegerd, the ἐπίτροπος of the young Theodosius, is depicted in entirely
positive terms; he appears as full of magnanimity and is reliable and chiv-
alrous (Wars 1.2.8). Bahram receives a Roman envoy with great kindness
(Wars 1.2.15). Procopius considers King Peroz generous (Wars 1.4.24), and his
son Kawad shows true humanity by allowing deported Romans to return home
(Wars 1.7.34). Moreover, he and the Persians show respect before the holy man
Jacob (Wars 1.7.10–11). And even Khosrow, who otherwise is depicted primar-
ily as a tyrant,183 sometimes acts mercifully (Wars 1.5.28) and conscientiously
(Wars 2.14.3) in the Wars; he proves to be a man of honor who keeps his oaths,
as well as someone interested in culture (Wars 2.11.4). Procopius reports the
king’s love for the Roman Euphemia (Wars 2.5.29) and credits him with techni-
cal expertise (Wars 8.12.23).
7 Conclusion
When dealing with a literary work, it is always critical not to make the mistake
of confusing the author and the narrator. We ultimately can only speculate
about what Procopius really thought; moreover, his depiction of the Persians
is heterogeneous rather than balanced. Thus, instead of attempting to recon-
struct a completely consistent image of the Persians in the Wars, we can dis-
cuss why Procopius does not offer that.
Four factors can be identified that shape Procopius’ picture of the Persians in
highly distinct ways: first, whole passages obviously serve to express domestic
criticism (“Kaiserkritik”), which can lead to positive or very negative statements
181 Wars 2.9.17; 2.19.3; 8.12.17 etc.

182 Wars 2.10.16; sh 18.28.
183 Cf. Brodka, “Das Bild des Perserkönigs Chosroes I. in den bella des Prokopios von
Kaisareia”.
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about the Sasanians, depending on the technique Procopius chooses.184 Persia

can thus serve as a positive foil, or Procopius may target the Roman Augustus
with criticism of the Persian king; this is all the easier to do since he usually
calls both rulers simply βασιλεύς. Second, there is Procopius’ apparent belief
in the “idea of Rome,” which makes him presume basic Roman superiority to
all barbarians, although the Persians play a special part among them.185 Third,
Procopius is naturally indebted to an old historiographical tradition that fur-
nished him a catalogue of predominantly negative topoi.186 The fact that a
majority of Persians were not Christians is, in contrast, fairly insignificant, and
religiously motivated attacks are the absolute exception in the Persian Wars.
There is none of the denigration of Zoroastrianism or Mazdaism that other
Roman authors offer.187
Rather, as the fourth factor, facts played an important part. On account
of his service as Belisarius’ consiliarius, Procopius knew the Persian reality
better than most of his predecessors and contemporaries. Precisely because
he relied on the reports of others for much of his account, however, we can-
not forget that the latter reflects both the quality and bias of Procopius’
sources. Normally, it is entirely unclear where Procopius’ information actu-
ally comes from.188 But it seems that a pro-Persian discourse existed among
the Roman élite under Anastasius, Justin i, and Justinian that also influenced
Procopius.189 The sheer diversity of these different factors prevented a one-
sided view of things in the Wars. Procopius lived in a time of upheaval, and
that applied not least to Roman-Persian relations and decisively shaped his
view of the East.
Nowhere in his work does Procopius claim to give a complete view of the
East. As for the quality of the information that he actually gives us, it is not
always easy to arrive at a clear assessment. By now, however, it has become
184 Cf. Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik in Prokops Kriegsgeschichte”. Procopius has an

Armenian delegation in Ctesiphon harshly criticize Justinian (Wars 2.3.32–54); cf. Kruse,
“The Speech of the Armenians in Procopius”. On antimonarchic discourse in antiquity, cf.
Börm, “Antimonarchic Discourse”.
186 Cf. Pugliese Carratelli, “La Persia dei Sasanidi”; Müller, Geschichte der antiken Ethnologie;
Börm, Prokop und die Perser, pp. 84–89; Kaldellis, Ethnography after Antiquity, pp. 1–25.
187 Cf. Briscoe, “Rome and Persia: Rhetoric and religion”. Agathias dedicates an excursus to
Zoroastrianism and depicts it in highly negative terms (cf. Agath. Hist. 2.24.5). His con-
temporary Gregory of Tours (Histories 1.5) claims that Cush, son of Ham, was seduced by
the devil and founded the Persian religion as Zoroaster.
188 Cf. Börm, Prokop und die Perser, pp. 52–57; Vasconcelos Baptista, O Logos da Guerra pér-
sica, pp. 166–168.
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336 Börm
clear that while there may be many ambiguities, all in all, there are remarkably
few real mistakes; and many of these can easily be explained as simple misun-
derstandings or errors found also in other authors. It cannot be proven that
Procopius freely invented false information. However, as we have just seen,
the number of gaps, omissions, and cases of manipulation is naturally largest
where conflicts between Romans and Sasanians are concerned.
Disregarding Procopius’ deliberate selection and arrangement of his mate-
rial, we can usually detect a connection to what he could find out about Persia.
He works with the material available to him. Even the improbable stories per
se that appear again and again, particularly in the Wars, are apparently not the
products of Procopius’ imagination but rather come from other, in part orien-
tal sources,190 for example the enigmatic “Armenian History.”191 Yet at the same
time, Procopius takes great liberties in the arrangement of his material and
sometimes offers misleading interpretations. This uncertainty complicates our
assessment of his account.
The absence of an excursus on the Persians remains to be explained. A sepa-
rate logos on their religion and society would have been in keeping with clas-
sical historiography, and Procopius’ continuator Agathias would subsequently
give no fewer than two Persian logoi.192 It is unclear why Procopius failed to do
so himself. Yet things are no different in the Wars with respect to the Vandals
and Goths. Overall Procopius’ work illustrates that a member of the late Roman
élite certainly could obtain accurate information about the East.193 Thus the
Persian Wars give us important and sometimes unique information that deci-
sively helps us to understand the Sasanian Empire and Roman-Persian rela-
tions in Late Antiquity.194
190 On Procopius’ oral sources, cf. Brodka, “Prokop von Kaisareia und seine Informanten”.
191 Cf. Traina, “Faustus ‘of Byzantium’”; Schmitt, “Byzantinoiranica”, p. 669; Börm, Prokop und
die Perser, pp. 55–57; Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs in the reign of Justinian”, p. 97.
192 Cf. Cameron, “Agathias on the Sasanians”.
193 Cf. Lee, Information and Frontiers, pp. 109–127; Hartmann, “Wege des Wissens”.
194 For a recent assessment of Sasanian foreign policy, cf. Howard- Johnston, “The Grand
Strategy of the Sasanian Empire”.
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part 5
Procopius as a Writer
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The Classicism of Procopius
Anthony Kaldellis
Procopius begins the Wars by evoking the opening sentences of Herodotus

and Thucydides, a common practice among ancient historians that had even
been satirized by Lucian four centuries earlier.1 He then echoes the ancient
tradition (drawing possibly on Polybius or Diodorus) in explaining the util-
ity of history for future generations, stating his credentials, and promising to
be impartial.2 Finally, adopting another motif of classical historiography, he
defends the importance of the wars of his own time, this time against unnamed
lovers of antiquity who disparage sixth-century soldiers as mere archers and
who admire only Homeric hand-to-hand warriors. The Buildings, his work in
praise of Justinian, also establishes a classical frame of reference in its preface:
Procopius offers more arguments in support of history, compares Justinian
to Plutarch’s Themistocles and Xenophon’s Cyrus, and quotes Homer and
Pindar.3 His description of Hagia Sophia, which follows, contains a reference
to the Golden Chain in the Iliad and a striking borrowing from Aristophanes.4
His account of the statue of the emperor includes a comparison to Achilles
and a Homeric allusion.5 Moreover, it has been proposed that the curious
negative opening of the work was modeled on the first words of Dionysius of
Halicarnassus’ Roman Antiquities.6 Thus, in the course of a few pages we are
introduced to a literary space defined by dense references to Homer, Pindar,
Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, Aristophanes, Polybius, Dionysius, and
Plutarch. We are in a textual environment rich with classical references, but
how exactly did this shape Procopius’ writing as a whole?
A word should first be said about the rubric of “classicism,” which is used,
for example, to create “classicizing historians”. On one level, it serves a prag-
matic function, distinguishing them from contemporary historians who wrote
in other genres such as ecclesiastical history, epitomes, and world chronicles.
In this respect, “classicizing” is a better term than the labels used before its
1 Lucian, How History Should be Written 15; also 2, 18–19, 25–26. The present chapter was sub-
mitted in 2013 and does not incorporate much subsequent scholarship, some of which is
quite good.
2 Lieberich, Studien, v. 2; Maisano, “Il problema”; for the ancient background, Marincola,
Authority.
3 Buildings 1.1.7, 1.1.12–16, 1.1.15, and 1.1.19 respectively; see Kaldellis, Procopius, pp. 53–55.
4 Buildings 1.1.46, 1.1.61; for the restoration of the text, see Cesaretti and Fobelli, Procopio,
pp. 165–166 n.127.
5 Buildings 1.2.7–10.
6 Cesaretti “All’ombra,” pp. 171–174.

340 Kaldellis
establishment in ca. 1970, which included pagan, secular, and Hellenistic.7 But
“classicizing” can also encode subtle literary and cultural value-judgments, for
it implies that they were not straightforwardly “classical” but rather imitating
the forms and language of their ancient predecessors. Ultimately, this rests
on an implicit periodization: they came after the period that we recognize as
classical, and so resembled it only in a secondary or derivative sense, hence
they were “only” classicizing, not classical. Some kind of essential rupture had
taken place between them and their models that requires us to place them in
separate categories. But such periodization is a modern artefact and does not
correspond to how Procopius viewed his otherwise intimate relationship to
his literary models. We should not, then, assume that rupture – especially the
ongoing Christianization of the empire – is the key to interpreting Procopius,
whereas classicism was only a façade that masked unclassical realities. It is
possible that the tradition of historiography in the classical vein knows no
such “essential” ruptures. The term would then be more useful for distinguish-
ing among sixth-century genres of history than for detaching Procopius from
his diachronic literary models.
The present chapter will survey some aspects of Procopius’ classicism, look-
ing first at the literary aspects of his narrative, including both imitation and
originality, and second at the moral and intellectual aspects of his outlook,
which have been examined less.
1 Literary Aspects
Compared to other contemporary genres, classical (or classicizing) histories

are marked by an overwhelming emphasis on military, diplomatic, and politi-
cal events, and offer detailed narratives of wars and negotiations from an
ostensibly neutral standpoint. Historians under the empire self-consciously
distinguished their projects from panegyric and invective, whose goals were
to praise and condemn (respectively) and had an overt political agenda.8 Their
narratives are punctuated by formal speeches before battles and major deci-
sions, as well as by geographic and ethnographic digressions, accounts of nat-
ural curiosities and disasters, and moralizing reflections. Thus they combine
7 “Classicizing” had previously been used in the field of art history. Its first influential use by a
scholar of historiography was Moravcsik, “Klassizismus.”
8 E.g., Josephus, Jewish War 1.1–2; Lucian, How History Should be Written, passim; Eutropius,
Breviarium 10.18; Eunapius, History fr. 66; Ammianus Marcellinus, Res Gestae 30.8.1, 31.16.9;
Procopius, Wars 1.1.4–5, Buildings 1.1.1–5; Agathias, Histories, pref. 16–19. See Avenarius,
Lukians, 13–29.
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elements of Herodotus and Thucydides, and, by focusing on the fortunes of

the Roman state, also stand in the tradition of Polybius, Dionysius, Appian,
and others. In the conventions of classical Greek historiography, the subject
was recent history and the author preferably a participant or at least an eye-
witness. But this was rarely done in the Roman empire: the most contemporary
period that a historian could safely cover was the previous reign, for fear of
offending the current regime. Their prose was expected to be elevated, that is
formal Attic Greek with elements of koine.
Procopius conformed to these standards, but did so in distinctive ways.
In one respect, he innovated boldly. Previous imperial historians generally
avoided writing about the present reign, stopping their narratives at the end of
the previous one and citing their safety in justification, for one could not write
about the current emperor without waxing panegyrical. Procopius, by contrast,
gives up-to-the-moment coverage of the present reign, a daring act consider-
ing his neutral or even critical tone in the Wars and the risks of dissent under
Justinian.9 This, in turn, required him to remove major criticisms of the regime
and place them in a separate, private work.10 Past historians had been freer to
criticize their subjects, who were usually dead. This makes the Secret History
difficult to categorize but, if we were to extract from previous historians their
criticisms of past emperors, we might end up with mini-works like it. At the
same time, Procopius wrote a panegyric of Justinian, the Buildings, that he pre-
sented as a kind of extension of his historical project. Procopius also innovates
in splitting his narrative between three theaters of war (it is unclear whether
he knew the precedent of Appian, or that of Cato).11 This posed problems of
coordination among theaters but solved problems of fragmentation that had
vexed narration since Thucydides. It enabled Procopius to apply the format
of Thucydides’ “war-year” to the only one among Justinian’s wars to which it
naturally applied (i.e., the prolonged Gothic War in Italy), and to devote all of
his attention to it at once (with digressions, of course). This was a deliberate
and selective use of classical models without precedent in the tradition.
In other words, the classicizing tradition did not, like a straightjacket, con-
strain Procopius and others to write in a particular way. All of his works are
somewhat experimental, including the trilogy Wars – Secret History – Buildings
as a whole. As Tolstoy declared about War and Peace, “it is not a novel, still less
an epic poem, still less a historical chronicle. It is what the author wanted and
was able to express, in the form in which it is expressed.” It is worth thinking
9 Kaldellis, “Perilous.” Another possible prior exception was Eunapius.

10 Greatrex, “Procopius the Outsider?”
11 Mehl, Roman Historiography, p. 53.
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342 Kaldellis
about Procopius’ works too from this standpoint of authorial freedom and
experimentation.
A classical history also linked up with ancient tradition through its more
elevated prose. This was not always easy to write, especially in an age when the
spoken language had long since departed from Attic standards, and could, in
the hands of a less accomplished writer, result in obscure and pretentious writ-
ing. But Procopius’ prose is admirably clear, precise, consistent, and well struc-
tured. There are extremely few ambiguous or obscure passages in all the 1,400
pages of the Wars and Secret History. In this respect, Procopius overcame the
flaws that were perceived by ancient critics (such as Dionysius) in the prose of
his chief model Thucydides and the comical effects of pretentious imitation
lambasted by Lucian in his treatise on How History Should be Written. In fact,
the classicizing historians of the later Roman empire vary considerably in style,
even though they were self-consciously writing in the same tradition. Reading
Procopius is a significantly different literary experience from reading Agathias
or Theophylact. These historians are by no means interchangeable, though
they had roughly the same training and goals. A few words should, then, be
said on how one became such a classicizing historian, for the key ingredient
was rhetoric. Procopius was in fact called a rhetor by his successors and by
later authors (e.g., Photios), which meant an author with a superior rhetorical
education (not an “orator”).12
It sounds strange to our ears that historians should be trained primarily in
rhetoric because we associate “rhetoric” with deceptive, misleading, and evasive
uses of language (as in political campaigns) or with formal speeches. Positivist
historians – and most of us are, to some degree – try to separate “the facts” from
“the rhetoric.” But the operational field of classical rhetoric was far broader
than this.13 The rhetoric studied by Procopius was the art of using classical lan-
guage to make an argument or a narrative vivid and persuasive to the reader; it
was a skill of effective communication within the cultural and linguistic param-
eters of classical literature. It certainly provided the matrix for all the speeches
in the Wars, as one of the standard school-exercises (the ethopoiia) involved
writing imaginary speeches on behalf of mythological or famous historical
characters.14 But rhetoric provided the template for much more than that, in fact
for almost the entire text of any classical narrative author. The training included
12 Photius, Bibliotheca cod. 63.

13 For the modern debates, see Poulakos, “Modern Interpretations.”
14 See the declamations of Choricius of Gaza, an older contemporary, in Penella, Rhetorical
Exercises. Rhetorical parallels can be established between Procopius’ writing and that of
the orators of Gaza, as probably between him and any late antique rhetorical corpus:
Haury, Zur Beurteilung, 10–19.
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exercises in brief narrations, anecdotes, maxims, in praise and blame, and, cru-
cially, ekphrasis, vivid description. These are among the categories of Libanios’
“model exercises in Greek prose composition and rhetoric,” as they are called
in the subtitle of the recent translation.15 Libanios’ ekphraseis include textbook
descriptions not only of works of art and people but also of infantry and naval
battles, harbors, and New Year celebrations.16 Rhetorical training, then, provided
a comprehensive generic template for writing most of the component parts of a
vivid and compelling classical history.
If historians were rhetors, the study of rhetoric in the schools conversely
borrowed many of its themes, topics, and settings from history. “It is generally
accepted that ancient historiography is in some sense rhetorical; what is inter-
esting here is that ancient rhetoric turns out to be so historical. History was at
the center of a young man’s training … one could not learn how to argue with-
out learning how to argue about history.”17 Thucydides was a standard part of
the curriculum used by the professors of rhetoric, who treated his history not
only as a setting for imaginary speeches but itself as a series of vivid descrip-
tions, canonically classical.18 So the rhetors’ templates were, at least in part,
based on classical historiography to begin with. Processed through rhetorical
theory, they were then used to write further histories under the influence of a
mature rereading of the ancient masters. This is likely how Procopius learned
to write: his training was only sharpened and deepened by his later personal
experience of the actual wars themselves.
The parts of the Wars that smack most of the textbook and classroom are
the speeches. They are almost entirely Procopius’ own compositions, made to
suit the speaker and the occasion, but they follow the rules of Attic composi-
tion, being more elevated in stylistic register than the rest of the text, rather
than less (as actual sixth-century spoken Greek would have been). They draw
on conventional moral and strategic themes and so resonate with centuries of
historiographical and rhetorical practice and theory.19 But they are not for all
that generic or worthless. Many of them do illustrate character and therefore
facilitate our grasp of narrative dynamics. Others lay out crucial considerations
relating to strategy, tactics, and morale, enabling us to understand the military
conflicts better by giving concise “briefings” on the situation of each side from
the perspective of its leaders. Finally, some series of speeches are interlinked
15 Gibson, Libanius’ Progymnasmata.

16 Webb, Ekphrasis.
17 Gibson, “Learning Greek History,” p. 116; also Malosse et al. (eds), Clio sous le regard
d’Hermès.
18 Webb, Ekphrasis, pp. 18–20, and passim.
19 Taragna, Logoi historias.
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344 Kaldellis
by developing a basic theme that Procopius wanted to associate with a specific

important character, for example the fluctuating importance of chance and
virtue in the career of Totila.20
Classical templates also shape many narrative passages of the Wars and
Secret History. The case that has attracted the most attention is the account
of the plague, which is obviously modeled on that of Thucydides, but there
are many more, for example sieges modeled on those of Plataea and Syracuse.
Philologists in the nineteenth century worried that this undermined the fac-
tual validity of the accounts, but this skepticism has since been laid to rest.
Narrative and expository templates may have been borrowed from classical
texts, but many of the details in classicizing histories differ and their veracity
is sometimes confirmed by non-classicizing contemporary sources. The con-
verse is also true: in his account of the plague, Procopius does not transfer over
from Thucydides material that did not belong to his sixth-century context.21
So we are dealing with a subtle adaptation of models, not wholesale and indis-
criminate copying. Moreover, this modeling, which involves the imitation of
an extended passage in a classical text, happens only in specific set-pieces; it is
not going on all the time in Procopius’ narrative.
In some cases, we have to think about what Procopius’ choice of model
implies, because it may establish positive or negative comparisons and cause
us to think harder about the subject-matter, which was one of the main intel-
lectual goals of classical literature anyway. For example, Justinian’s conflicted
decision to invade Vandal North Africa is modeled on Xerxes’ decision to
invade Greece in Herodotus, and John the Cappadocian’s speech against the
plan is modeled on that of Artabanos. This is a negative comparison that reso-
nates with Justinian’s characterization as a tyrannical and barbaric despot in
the Secret History; it casts a pall over the otherwise triumphant narrative of the
Vandal War and points to its dismal ending: the (alleged) utter destruction of
the Roman province.22 Procopius also models Justinian and Belisarius’ rhetoric
of liberation in North Africa and Italy on the Spartan general Brasidas’ hol-
low propaganda in the north of Greece (in Thucydides), in a way that under-
mines its sincerity: we are allowed to suspect that the rhetoric of liberation
masked only naked imperialism.23 The exchange between the Roman officer
(of barbarian origin) Fara and the defeated Vandal king Gelimer is modeled
20 Kaldellis, Procopius, ch. 5.

21 For recent readings of his account, see Kaldellis, “The Literature of Plague”; Meier,
“Prokop.”
22 Cf. Wars 3.10 with Herodotus, Histories 7.8–19; Kaldellis, “Procopius’ Vandal War.”
23 Pazdernik, “Procopius and Thucydides.”
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on that between the Spartan king Agesilaos and the Persian Pharnabazos in
Xenophon,24 suggesting that Gelimer’s surrender to Justinian was tantamount
to accepting submission to a Persian-style slavery that fell upon not only
defeated enemies but Romans such as Belisarius. This likewise resonates with
the denunciation of slavery and servility (especially Belisarius’) in the Secret
History. In the negotiation-dialogue between Belisarius and the Goths during
the siege of Rome, the general comes across as haughty and confident in his
position of strength. A dark shadow is cast over the exchange, however, by the
fact that it is modeled on the Melian Dialogue in Thucydides.25 This gives the
Goths’ exasperation an air of tragic desperation, even nobility, consistent with
Procopius’ image of them in the Gothic War. The praise of Belisarius at the start
of book 7, when he is recalled to Constantinople from Italy and replaced with
inferior generals, echoes Thucydides’ praise of Perikles: both passages play the
structurally identical role of transitioning from a period of better to a period of
worse leadership, explaining how the war-effort came to ruin.26 The account
of Justinian’s previously illegal marriage to Theodora in the Secret History
alludes to Herodotus’ account of the incestuous marriage of the Persian king
Cambyses to his sister, with similar reflections about its subversion of law.27
Again Justinian is (indirectly) cast as an oriental despot.
Procopius’ engagement with his classical models was, therefore, not only
linguistic but it extended to moral judgments, narrative structures, and the-
matic trajectories. All this suggests that he had studied them deeply and care-
fully, and then made them complicit in the construction of his own narrative
meanings. In other words, given their many classical resonances, Procopius’
own texts are not entirely self-standing or semantically autonomous: one has
to read them against their ancient models to supply implied frames of refer-
ence. It takes a “classicist” to decode a “classicizing” narrative.
Procopius links his work to ancient authors not only in how he structures
episodes but occasionally also through a subtle and precise art of allusion.28
Many such allusions have been detected, and they perform a variety of func-
tions in the narrative. I will mention two that are amusingly subversive, where
the classical source provides a crucial missing corrective or supplement to
what the surface of Procopius’ own narrative is saying. At the end of her fiery
24 Cf. Wars 4.6–7 with Xenophon, Hellenica 4.1.29–40; Pazdernik, “Xenophon’s Hellenica.”
25 Cf. Wars 6.6.4–12 with Thucydides, History 5.84–113.
26 Cf. Wars 7.1.1–24 with Thucydides, History 2.65; Cresci, “Ancora sulla μίμησις.”
27 Cf. Secret History 9.47–51 with Herodotus, Histories 3.31; Kaldellis, Procopius, pp. 78–79, for
further implications.
28 In general, see Finnegan, Why Do We Quote?; and Irwin, “What is an Allusion?”; here
Kaldellis, Procopius, pp. 34–38, 49–56.
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346 Kaldellis
speech during the Nika Riots, Theodora quotes “an old saying” that “kingship
is a good burial shroud.” The original saying in fact had “tyranny.” Procopius
made a slight alteration, but enabled classically educated readers to grasp the
intended comparison without having to make his meaning clear: the saying
came from the court of the archetypal tyrant Dionysius of Syracuse and was
uttered under identical circumstances (the tyrant was besieged in his palace
by a popular rebellion that he suppressed with violence).29 Moreover, readers
who recalled the pronouncement of Charicleia in Heliodorus’ Aithiopika that
she would rather die than be raped because “chastity is a good burial shroud,”
would be especially amused if they thought about Theodora’s background,
which Procopius reveals in the Secret History.30 The second example is the
comparison in the Buildings of Justinian’s statue to Achilles and “that Star of
Autumn” in Homer.31 If we look at the original context we find that the next
lines are: “which is brightest among the stars, and yet is wrought as a sign of
evil and beings on the great fever for unfortunate mortals.” Procopius was not
even the first ancient author to use the verse in this allusive-subversive way.
The exact same verse-allusion appears in Apollonius’ Argonautica in connec-
tion with Jason, always boding ill. Scholars of ancient poetry, more accustomed
to working with literary allusions than historians of late antiquity, easily recog-
nize this to mean “trouble.”32 Procopius, therefore, was no more a “classicizing”
author than was Apollonius. We could probably find the same games in Homer
himself, if we but had his models.
What did all this accomplish? It endowed the text with multiple levels of
meaning and resonance, though they were (and are) visible only to those with
a classical education. In other words, the text discriminated among its readers.
Why? In part, this may have been a way to hide criticisms of the regime and
protect their author, who is on record, in the preface of the Secret History, as
making the most explicit and striking declaration of authorial fear in all of
ancient literature. This statement cannot have been purely rhetorical (in the
modern sense).33 In Vandal Africa, for example, references in Catholic sermons
to “Pharaoh,” “Nebuchadnezzar,” and “Holofernes” were taken to be coded
hostile allusions to the Arian king, and the priests were exiled. As it happens,
texts by the exiled Quodvultdeus do refer to those figures in such ways.34 On
a different level, it was understood in ancient rhetorical theory that educated
29 Wars 1.24.37; Evans, “The ‘Nika’ Rebellion.”

30 Heliodorus, Aithiopica 1.8.3.
31 Cf. Buildings 1.2.7–10 with Homer, Iliad 22.26–31; Gantar, “Kaiser Iustinian.”
32 Apollonius, Argonautica 1.774–781, 3.956–961; Acosta-Hughes, Arion’s Lyre, p. 56.
33 Secret History 1.1–3.
34 Victor of Vita, History of the Vandal Persecution 1.22; Conant, Staying Roman, pp. 163, 171.
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audiences were more likely to be persuaded if they had to fill in part of the
argument themselves, to think through it on their own and possibly thereby
come to identify with it. It was only foolish and vulgar crowds who had to have
everything spelled out for them explicitly.35
However, we must also not underestimate the sheer showmanship and
gamesmanship at work in the classical literary tradition. Procopius was both
showing off before his erudite audience and testing them subtly and dis-
creetly – for those who failed the test (by not recognizing allusions) would
not even know that they had been tested.36 This practice, then, “placed the
author in a mutually congratulatory relationship with his readers, whom he
thus complimented for not forgetting what had been drilled into them in their
youth.”37 Well, with some of his readers, at least, namely those who had the
same paideia. This was club from which a Belisarius, Justinian, and John the
Cappadocian would have been excluded, for all that they were the very sub-
jects under discussion.
I will give another example of this practice that will enable us to transition
from literary classicism and the intertextual horizons of the text to the ques-
tion of the outlook on the world that Procopius projects in his texts. This relates
to the pornographic sections of the Secret History. There was a long tradition
in imperial prose of waging sexual polemic against an empress and accusing
her of undue influence, promiscuity, and a personal agenda. Procopius infused
his image of Theodora with specific classical associations. The most notorious
sentence in the entire text is possibly the one where he claims that Theodora
reproached Nature for giving her only three holes with which to satisfy her
lust, when her nipples could have been outfitted with two more.38 This was
precisely the sentence that Edward Gibbon sought to hide/draw attention
to by leaving it in the “obscurity of a learned language” (ch. 40 n. 26 of the
Decline and Fall). But how did this extravagant thought enter the mind of
Procopius? Precedents in classical rhetoric provide the answer. In his standard
textbook On Types of Style, the theorist Hermogenes reported that one version
of the Demosthenic speech Against Neaira contained the statement that “she
plied her trade through three orifices.” Hermogenes reports that some crit-
ics rejected this passage as too vulgar to be authentic.39 Procopius seems to
have one-upped the charge (whether he knew it from the speech itself or from
35 Aristotle, Rhetoric 2.22; Demetrius, On Style 222; Ahl, “The Art of Safe Criticism.”
36 Agathias did this with mythological motifs: Kaldellis, “Things Are Not What They Are.”
37 Gay, Style in History, p. 24.
39 Hermogenes, On Types of Style 2.3 (325; trans. p. 73). The speech was wrongly attributed to
Demosthenes.
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348 Kaldellis
the quotation in Hermogenes’ textbook). But it too had a deeper prehistory.

The twelfth-century scholar Ioannes Tzetzes claimed that the speech Against
Neaira was, in fact, amplifying an accusation made by Lysias against the whore
Antiope, namely that she used both of her holes during sex.40 The rhetoric, like
a drug, had to be stronger and stronger to have an effect. This places Procopius
squarely within a classical trajectory, as one-upping his predecessors just as
Theodora sought to two-up Nature.
2 Moral and Intellectual Aspects
A recent monograph has evocatively outlined the broad shift that occurred
during late antiquity from a pagan imperial sexual morality, dominated by con-
ceptions of honor linked largely to social class, to a Christian morality in which
attitudes toward sex were regulated by concepts of sin and intentionality.41
Held up to this change, Procopius’ polemic in the Secret History is anchored
in classical concepts and shows little or no trace of the Christian revolution.
He exhibits no concern about sin and salvation; rather, his sexual evaluations
mirror the social hierarchy. Theodora was just a lower-class whore and so in all
ways despicable as a person, whereas Justinian could, by contrast,
have married a woman who was the most well-born among all women
and had been raised outside the public gaze, who had learned the ways
of modesty and lived discretely … But no, he had to take for his own the
common stain of all mankind.42
The image of Theodora in the Secret History is governed by the frameworks of

class and penetration, and she is penetrated repeatedly in both real and hypo-
thetical scenarios (see above). Contemporary Christians who knew her back-
ground and yet still praised her faith (such as John of Ephesus) presumably
saw her in the guise of the repentant harlot. For them there was no incompat-
ibility between her background and her current status. There is no sign of such
a transformation in Procopius’ image of the empress, even though the overt
promiscuity vanishes when she becomes empress (and bitter vengefulness
and pettiness replaces it). In discussing her marriage to Justinian, Procopius,
40 Tzetzes, Histories or Chiliades 6.42–48 (p. 209). See also Procopius’ classicizing reference
to the “three-obol” prostitutes at Secret History 17.5, with Baldwin, “Three-Obol Girls.”
41 Harper, From Shame to Sin.
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in accordance with past Roman law, is most offended by the violation of hier-
archies of class, whereas Justin and Justinian, in the law that they passed
enabling the marriage, stressed the redemptive effects of moral conversion.43
Procopius took issue with other aspects of Justinian’s sexual morality program,
such as the criminalization of same-sex relations (which had been part of the
sexual norm in the Roman empire) and the confinement of prostitutes in mon-
asteries against their will.44 In these respects, Procopius was fully classical.
Let us turn from sex to war and politics. Two centuries earlier, the bishop of
Procopius’ home city, Eusebius, had attempted to revolutionize the writing of
history in a Christian direction. The most powerful programmatic statement in
his Ecclesiastical History depreciated historians who wrote about “victories in
wars, triumphs over enemies, the exploits of generals, and the valor of soldiers,”
and called instead, from an explicitly Christian standpoint, for “peaceful wars,
waged for the very peace of the soul … for piety rather than for dear ones.”45
But Eusebius failed. His fifth-century continuer Socrates had to explain, in
answer to this very passage of Eusebius, why his own ecclesiastical history had
to include so much material about mundane and not just spiritual wars.46 By
the late sixth century, the tide had turned even more. The ecclesiastical histo-
rian Euagrius had to copy into his narrative dozens of pages of military nar-
rative lifted directly from Procopius. After the seventh century, the failure of
the genre was total: no more separate ecclesiastical histories were written in
Byzantium before the fourteenth century.
Procopius’ subject-matter is emphatically that which Eusebius castigated:
“victories in wars, triumphs over enemies, the exploits of generals, and the
valor of soldiers.” And his attitude toward that subject removes him from
Eusebius’ set of values even further, for, while he deplored naked aggression,
the destruction of civilian life, and wars waged on false pretexts, he deeply
admired martial heroism, to the point where his narrative is often infused
with Homeric values. He frequently praises men for their physique, tall stat-
ure, handsome appearance, and ability in both hand-to-hand combat and
strategic thinking.47 He expects men to be capable warriors, to defend their
honor and country, to show mercy to defeated enemies, and to speak well in
advising others. His entire set of values comes from Homer, to a degree, in fact,
that is unsurpassed in any other surviving ancient historian. Procopius is the
43 Cf. Secret History 9.47–51 with Cod. Iust. 5.4.23.

44 Harper, From Shame to Sin, pp. 155, 158, and esp. 188.
45 Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, preface of book 5.
46 Socrates, Ecclesiastical History, preface to book 5.
47 E.g., Wars 2.3.26, 6.5.14, 7.1.2, 7.1.6, 7.31.9, and in many places.
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350 Kaldellis
most Homeric military historian of antiquity. He highlights single combat and

the individual exploits of his heroes, mostly Romans but not only. He is not
as neutral between Romans and barbarians as Homer is between Achaians
and Trojans, but Procopius nevertheless grants the enemies of Rome their
due credit for victory and valor. He does not dehumanize them or view events
strictly from the imperial point of view. In fact, whereas the hero of books 5–6
of the Wars is Belisarius, presented as a strategic genius, the hero of books 7–8
is undoubtedly Totila, whom Procopius presents as a noble but tragic figure,
like his people as a whole.
Tragic martial heroism did not otherwise preoccupy the writers and elites
of the empire of Justinian. Procopius, however, clearly thought deeply about
it, and to this degree he stood apart from the literary trends of his time and
closer to ancient epic and to the soldiers of his time. He knew, for instance, that
heroism is consummated in a glorious death and always appears provisional
until that time. “A central theme of heroic societies is that … life is fragile, men
are vulnerable.”48 There is no firm belief in an afterlife to soften the loss, no
more in Procopius than in Homer; this is emphatically not the same, then, as
religious martyrdom. It is fitting, therefore, that Procopius ends the Wars on
a note of high heroism in praise of the Goths who fought and died at Mons
Lactarius in 552.
The Goths were the first to abandon their horses and all took their stand
on foot, facing their enemy in a deep phalanx; the Romans too, observing
this, also let their horses go, and all arrayed themselves in the same man-
ner. And now I come to describe a battle of great note and the virtue of a
man inferior, I think, to none of the heroes of legend, that, namely, which
Theia displayed in the present battle.49
Procopius turns the ensuing battle narrative into a Homeric aristeia for Theia.
No historian of imperial Rome had done something similar for the official
enemy of the state, who had been deplored as a heretic and tyrannical barbar-
ian in the emperor’s pronouncements.
Turning from war to politics, Procopius’ guiding principles could not, of
course, have been Homeric. But they were no less “classical” in their own
way and at odds with the increasingly theocratic and autocratic regime of
Justinian.50 The fundamental polarity driving the invective of the Secret History
48 MacIntyre, After Virtue, p. 124.

49 Wars 8.35.19–20.
50 Pazdernik, “Justinianic Ideology.”
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is between tyranny and freedom. Procopius’ conception of tyranny is thor-

oughly classical, whether it accurately reflected the reality of Justinian’s regime
or not.51 But his notion of “freedom” has been less explored. It was one of the
most important concepts in the work On the Magistracies of the Roman State
written by John the Lydian in the 550s. John the Lydian associates freedom
with the period of the Republic and sees the imperial office largely as its nega-
tion, tending increasingly toward the abolition of freedom, especially under
Justinian.52 Procopius’ view is not as systematic or premised on a theory of the
history of the Roman res publica (politeia in Greek). He accuses Justinian of
conceiving his rule over his subjects as a master-slave relationship.53 Eleutheria
for Procopius was what one gave up in becoming Justinian’s “slave,” as Gelimer
realized in his exchange with Fara (mentioned above). As a moral quality asso-
ciated with the ruling class,54 it was the opposite of servility. When Belisarius
was being punished by his wife and Theodora,
in this state of terror he went up to his room and sat alone upon his bed,
having no intention of doing anything brave (gennaion), not even remem-
bering that he had once been a man (aner). His sweat ran in streams. He
felt light-headed. He could not even think straight in his panic, worn out
by servile fears and the worries of an impotent coward (anandra).55
Any freedom-loving, manly man would presumably have resisted this oppres-
sion. This is exactly what Procopius and others expected Belisarius to do when
he was again given an army and sent to Italy, i.e., “as soon as he found himself
outside the city walls he would without delay take up arms and do something
noble and befitting a man against his wife and those who had violated him.”56
In the Wars, Procopius recounts at length the (alleged) conspiracy by
Artabanes against Justinian. He describes him as “tall and handsome, freedom-
loving (eleutherios), and reserved in his speech.”57 In both cases, then, the
defense of freedom via tyrannicide is linked to traditional gender attributes,
which, in the Secret History, are reversed, for it is the women who rule there.
The contours of this moral narrative are, again, thoroughly classical. Aristotle
argued that tyrannies are characterized by “the rule of women in the household,
51 Kaldellis, Procopius, ch. 4.

52 Kaldellis, “Republican Theory.”
54 E.g., Secret History 8.15, 16.20 (his body was eleutherion).
57 Wars 7.31.9.
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352 Kaldellis
so that they may report on their husbands, and laxness toward slaves for the
same reason. Slaves and women do not conspire against tyrants.”58 As it hap-
pens, Artabanes’ grievance against Justinian was precisely that he was being
forced by Theodora to take back his wife, from whom he had been estranged
but who “reported on him” to the empress when he rose to fame at the court.
In contrast to Justinian, who tended to view himself as authorized by God
to refashion the Roman res publica (politeia) in whatever way he personally
deemed best, Procopius viewed the politeia as an impersonal entity that was
supposed to preserve the dignity and autonomy of action of all the most wor-
thy men. For him it was an ancient moral community and not the property of
the emperor. The emperor was meant only to defend and regulate it, not domi-
nate it; magistrates were officers of the state and not servants of the emperor
and the empress. In this respect, Procopius’ political ideology was “republi-
can.” It inflects his attacks against Theodora: she “had no regard for the dignity
of office or the rights of the state (politeia), nor did she care about anything
else at all so long as she got her way” (17.15); “she insisted on presiding over
every branch of state (politeia) and on always having her way” (17.27); “the state
(politeia) was thereby reduced to a slave-pen and she was our teacher in servil-
ity” (15.16); and, “in the past, it was permitted for magistrates to exercise their
own independent judgment in making decisions about what was just and law-
ful” (30.28). The concept of the politeia is fundamental to Procopius’ critique of
the regime, and its origins and significance need to be explored further. Such
studies will certainly tie him closer to classical models of political theory, and
possibly to the realm of Roman law.59
In three major aspects of his writing, therefore, namely gender roles, war-
fare, and politics, Procopius exhibits strikingly classical attitudes and values.
If it were not for the Buildings, we might conclude that he was unacquainted
with Christian theories of divine kingship or the Christian moral virtues of
extreme humility, sinfulness, and asceticism.60 His outlook on the world was
not metaphysical. Unlike his contemporary Cosmas Indicopleustes, he did not
use geography for the purpose of religious exegesis and polemic. In book 8 of
the Wars, in the midst of a geographical digression, Procopius is explicit about
his worldly orientation: “In the present case, the investigation is not about some
intellectual or intelligible level of reality, or anything else obscure, but about
58 Aristotle, Politics 5.11 (1313b32).

59 For Procopius and Roman law, see Greatrex, “Lawyers and Historians.”
60 Hence Cameron, Procopius, and Kaldellis, Procopius, disagree methodologically on how to
use the Buildings and Secret History: Cameron wants to find the real Procopius in the for-
mer, Kaldellis in the latter. Through its demonology, the Secret History reverses Christian
kingship in order to turn the tables on Justinian’s rhetoric.
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rivers and lands.”61 Those two words – the noeta and noera – were technical
terms in both Neoplatonism and Christian theology to designate higher, meta-
physical Levels of Being.62 Procopius is here deliberately eschewing them in
favor of physical rivers and mountains, just as in the Wars generally he opts for
valor and prudence over godliness and orthodoxy. The context of his declara-
tion is worth considering too. Procopius is discussing how people debate rival
geographical theories and he takes the position that, in principle, we should
not always side with ancient views just because they are old and established;
there is room for progress in our knowledge, and it is possible to ascertain the
truth about these matters as they do not, after all, concern obscure metaphysi-
cal matters.63 He is, then, an epistemological optimist, another position well
represented in classical literature.64
When Procopius says, therefore, that debates over mountains and rivers can
be resolved because the primary data is available he means this explicitly in
contradistinction to debates over the noera and noeta, i.e., over theology. He
does not merely declare his own worldly orientation but he also takes a shot at
the main cultural preoccupation of his age and of his emperor: theological dis-
pute and speculation. He implies that those debates are pointless and perhaps
not open to eventual resolution. This is something that he had stated explicitly
in book 5 of the Wars, where he refers in passing to some bishops who had
been sent to Italy as envoys in an ecclesiastical controversy.
As for the points in dispute, although I know them well, I will by no means
mention them for I consider it a sort of insane stupidity to investigate the
nature of God, asking what sort it is. For man cannot, I think, accurately
understand even human affairs, much less those pertaining to the nature
of God.65 I will therefore maintain a safe silence concerning these mat-
ters, simply for the sake of not discrediting old and venerable beliefs. For
my part, I will say nothing whatever about God save that he is altogether
good and has all things in his power.66
61 Wars 8.6.10.
62 It is impossible to read any Neoplatonic metaphysical treatise without encountering both
terms frequently; for their parallel use in Christian literature, see Lampe, Lexicon, s.v. νοε-
ρός esp. ii (p. 916) and νοητός (passim, p. 917).
63 Wars 8.6.9.
64 Havelock, The Liberal Temper.
65 See Secret History 18.29 on Justinian’s attempts to ascertain the nature of God.
66 Wars 5.3.6–8.
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354 Kaldellis
We just saw, however, that Procopius does not accept that a belief is true
just because it is old and venerable. What his compatriot Eusebius had once
called “the wars of the soul,” with which he hoped to replace traditional wars as
the proper subject of historiography,67 Procopius here dismisses as pure folly.
In fact, Procopius seems to have intended to write an Ecclesiastical History of
his own but, to judge from the few proleptic references that he makes to it, it
would have been something akin to a Secret History of the Church.68
This is not the place to reopen the debate over Procopius’ religious beliefs.
Many aspects of late antique religiosity do appear in the Wars, and especially
in the Buildings, where they have an imperial inflection.69 But Procopius’ atti-
tude toward them is unclear, as is also his conception of the divine, which
oscillates between a traditional idea of God and an amoral, chaotic Chance
(tyche). Suffice it to say that one has to stretch the Christian “big tent” very far
to include such agnostic declarations as he makes in book 5 (quoted above).
The position of most of the Church Fathers was in all respects the opposite:
natural science was largely futile, and only the truth about God mattered.
Procopius, moreover, disagreed that religious uniformity could or should be
enforced. He denounces Justinian’s persecutions of religious minorities in the
Secret History, even though he seems to have rejected their beliefs. He gener-
ally upholds a “live and let live” policy. It is not clear whether this makes him
more or less “classical,” as classical antiquity had not developed clear theories
of religious toleration,70 in part because it did not need to. But Procopius did
not sympathize with the monodoxia, the Single Allowable Truth that Justinian
was forcefully imposing on the religious, legal, and cultural scene of the Roman
empire.71 This certainly owed something to his “classicism.” Whatever his
“beliefs,” his profile as a writer and thinker reveals stronger affinities with his
ancient models than to his immediate predecessors or to many of his contem-
poraries, especially the regime of Justinian.72 His classicism is the essence of
the enduring fascination that he exerts.
67 Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, preface of book 5.
68 Kaldellis, “The Date.”
69 Cameron, “The ‘Skepticism’”; Maas, “Delivered from their Ancient Customs.”
70 Garnsey, “Religious Toleration.”
71 See Athanassiadi, Vers la pensée unique.
72 Mehl, Roman Historiography, 239.
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Procopius and His Protagonists
Umberto Roberto
Before analysing the protagonists in Procopius’ works, a few premises have

to be stated. Firstly, we must establish how reliable his reconstruction is. In
many cases, the historian refers to himself as a witness of events, or else makes
reference to trustworthy sources. The purpose of his reconstruction should,
however, always be borne in mind. Indeed, for Procopius, historiography is an
instrument of political reflection, and the situations and characters described
consequently become symbols, exalting the virtues and examples of good
governance or denouncing and condemning the more negative practices
and behaviour of those in power. This symbolic dimension leads Procopius
to exaggerate negative traits in his criticism and to exalt positive ones in his
praise. Secondly, as has frequently been pointed out, Procopius’ descriptions
are strongly reminiscent of ancient historiographic models, such as those of
Thucydides or Xenophon.1
A third premise is different natures of Procopius’ works. The Buildings is
a celebration of Justinian’s building activity. The Wars recount the deeds of
Belisarius and other commanders under Justinian’s guidance. At first glance,
his attitude toward the supreme power appears to be in line with official propa-
ganda, and the Wars seem to contain no open criticism. Yet, through his recon-
struction of events and assessment of the protagonists, important evidence
can be gathered about the cultural and political atmosphere and the opinion
of his contemporaries with regard to the imperial power. Furthermore, criti-
cism of the imperial government is developed by means of rhetorical expedi-
ents, such as recourse to the speeches of Justinian’s opponents. Matters change
drastically in the Secret History. In this work Procopius freely expresses the
criticism that could not be published in the Wars, but in fact, the Wars shows
great similarity with the themes of the Secret History: There is a change in the
method, tone and frankness of the criticism, but not in the target or objective.2
Justinian is the negative protagonist of Procopius’ work, which may be
considered a monumental reflection on the management of power and the
1 Procopius’ classicism: see Kaldellis and Brodka in this volume. See also Rubin, “Prokopios”,
p. 344; Cameron, Procopius, pp. 33–46. Procopius’ sources: see Mecella in this volume.
2 On the close links between the three works of Procopius see Cameron, Procopius, pp. 15–17;
Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik”, pp. 215–16; Greatrex, “The Composition”, p. 12. Speeches in
Procopius: see Taragna, Logoi Historias, pp. 137–38; Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik”, pp. 222–23.
On the Buildings see Greatrex, “Perceptions”, pp. 101–04.

356 Roberto
empire’s destiny under his government. The manner of formulating his assess-
ment is nuanced according to the varying nature of his works. In the Buildings,
we find a famous eulogy that follows the lines of official propaganda. Justinian
has brought back order and peace to the Empire, has subdued all the barbar-
ians who undermined Roman prosperity; he has defended orthodoxy against
every foe, showing piety toward God; he has re-ordered the laws, guaranteeing
justice; and he has reigned with moderation and humanity. Great are his works,
great his fame, more illustrious even than Cyrus, the Persian King. This is an
idealised portrait of Justinian. Indeed, Procopius attributes to his character
the political qualities that, in his opinion, are those of a worthy emperor.3 The
praises found in Buildings do not appear in the Wars. In this work, attention
does not appear to be focused on Justinian. Procopius adopts an articulated
narration that actually examines the various theatres of war, in which a mar-
ginal role appears to be assigned to Justinian. In reality however, all the blun-
ders and inconclusive decisions go back to the Emperor and he is, according to
the will of divine providence, responsible for the defeats suffered by his gen-
erals and the catastrophes. Moreover, when the Emperor appears, Procopius
does not underline his positive qualities. On the contrary, albeit moderate and
measured in his words, his portrayal of Justinian expresses an indirect criti-
cism of the Emperor.4 Procopius states, for example, that when rapid decisions
had to be taken, Justinian would often show indolence and sit on the fence,
flaunting an annoying changeability of judgement. More generally speak-
ing, Procopius complains of Justinian’s frequent lack of interest in the Italian
campaign (Wars 7.36.6; 7.37.24–27). In one passage, Justinian’s negligence is
explained by his excessive attention to Christian doctrinal questions. The mat-
ter had already emerged in his narration of Artabanes’ conspiracy. Procopius
describes Justinian as a man “who always sits unguarded in some lobby to a
late hour of the night, eagerly unrolling the Christian scriptures in company
with priests who are at the extremity of old age.“ (Wars 7.32.9).5 Although
Procopius’ judgement on the Emperor’s interest in Christian affairs appears
to be neutral, elsewhere his criticism is less concealed. Indeed, the decision
to break the treaty with the Vandals and declare war was strongly opposed by
John of Cappadocia. The prefect’s objections convinced the Emperor to desist.
Then the intervention of a Christian bishop drove Justinian to war. Once again,
3 See Buildings. 1.1.6–16. Justinian’s piety toward God: Buildings. 1.7.6–16. See more generally
Cameron, Procopius, pp. 86–89, 112, 140.
4 The same narrative structure becomes a tool for criticizing Justinian. See Cresci, “Lineamenti”,
pp. 249–50.
5 The translation of Procopius’ texts is taken throughout from H.B. Dewing’s translation in
Procopius, Loeb Classical Library.
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Procopius makes no direct judgement on the episode, but his account itself
expresses the incongruity of such a change of opinion; and one criticism does
leak out: Justinian is easily influenced by the Christian hierarchy.6
Procopius’ negative view is dramatically exacerbated in the Secret History.
Every example of bad governance and tyranny is utilised. Starting from his
regency at the time of his uncle Justin, Justinian governs with terror, terrifying
his subjects with violence and prevarication (Secret History 6.19–20; 7.6–7). His
thirst for and inclination to crime contradict the most important virtues of the
good emperor, who is the image of the deity. Instead of showing philanthropia,
Justinian is the author of massacres of great numbers of his subjects (Secret
History 13.1–3). His thirst for destruction also strikes at private patrimonies,
from the immense fortunes of the rich to the miserable belongings of the poor.
Furthermore, most of this money is used to satisfy the greed of the barbarians,
Justinian’s accomplices. Making no attempt to contain their greed by force of
arms, the Emperor pays them ignoble tribute, bleeding his subjects dry (Secret
History 8.5–6; 8.31–33; 11.3–11; 19.13–17; 21.26–29; 26.15–25).7
In portraying Justinian’s negative side, Procopius does not hesitate to con-
trast it with the good governance of previous emperors. On the resources of
subjects and their prosperity, his comparison between Justinian and Diocletian
is of great interest. Several sources recount that, after his victory over the
Persians in 299, Diocletian showed great generosity to the cities of the Roman
East. In particular, in the winter of 302 he granted a rich donation to the curia
of Alexandria, earmarking part of the public grain supply for the needs of the
population. Procopius emphasises that Diocletian acted in favour of the city’s
needy masses. On the other hand, it was a plot by the evil prefect Hephaestus,
under Justinian, that put an end to this benefit. Justinian makes no opposition,
and even profits from his official’s greed. It is of interest to note that, in describ-
ing the facts, no reference is made to the negative memory – certainly known to
6 See Wars 3.10.18–21; see also: Secret History 18.29–30. Procopius’ reflections concern relations
between political power and the church hierarchy, not his own commitment to Christianity:
see Whitby, “Religious Views”, who reacts to the thesis of Procopius as a committed crypto-
pagan in Kaldellis, Procopius. See also Av./Al. Cameron “Christianity and tradition”, pp. 316–
22. More recently see also D. Brodka, “Prokopios von Kaisareia und die Abgarlegende”, p. 360.
Indeed, even though he shared the cultural training of the Byzantine bureaucracy, Procopius
was a Christian. Abgar, too, is a character of great symbolic significance. Indeed, Procopius
selects traditions that exalt the relations of friendship and favour between the king of Edessa
and Augustus, on the one hand, and with Christ on the other. By means of these relations,
Abgar symbolically binds the destiny of Edessa to that of the Roman Empire.
7 Procopius’ condemnation of Justinian’s submission to the barbarians in the Secret History
appears to contradict his praise in the Buildings for the building of numerous fortifications
against external enemies: see Buildings 6.7.17. See also Cesa, “La politica”, pp. 406–07.
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358 Roberto
Procopius – of Diocletian as the supreme persecutor of Christians; on the con-

trary, for Procopius, the pagan emperor becomes a model of virtuous behav-
iour toward the poor. The example is consequently used to reveal Justinian’s
negative aspects, and show his tyranny, even toward the poorest, through the
evil greed of his ministers (Secret History 26.35–44). Even when compared
to Anastasius, Justinian appears greedy and careless of his subjects’ needs.
Indeed, the abundant riches left in the treasury by the cautious economic pol-
icy of Anastasius are rapidly squandered by Justinian.8 Justice, too, fails under
Justinian’s government, the laws are all ignored and institutions undermined,
as a result of his terrible inclination toward inconstancy and subversion: «He
took no thought to preserve what was established, but he was always wishing
to make innovations in everything, and, to put all in a word, this man was an
arch-destroyer of well-established institutions» (Secret History 6.21; see also:
8.26; 11.1–2; 13.21–23; 14.5–6; 28.16; see also: Wars 2.3.37–38). Because of him,
the Empire plunges into chaos: «The whole Roman Empire was agitated from
top to bottom, as if an earthquake or a deluge had fallen upon it, or as if each
and every city had been captured by the enemy» (Secret History 7.6–7).9 Such
accusations repurpose the usual motifs of bad governance and tyranny in the
political and historiographic reflections of Late Antiquity. Albeit in exagger-
ated tones, the Procopius of the Secret History is fully in line with the view of
his predecessors, such as Priscus of Panium or Zosimus.10 Analysing the rever-
sal of the image of Justinian from the eulogies of the Buildings to the pitiless
criticism of the Secret History we can see that, in fact, the true individuality of
Justinian escapes the reader. Procopius transforms the Emperor into a symbol:
he represents the virtues of a worthy emperor in the Buildings, the degenera-
tion of a tyrant in the Secret History, and Justinian’s real character is blurred by
this symbolic portrayal. Furthermore, Procopius does not hesitate to transpose
his assessment beyond the human level. He does not see Justinian merely as
an evil man: his behaviour reveals his demoniac nature (Secret History 12.14;
18.1). It is the opposite of the view of power as a divine gift (charisma). Justinian
does not govern according to the divine model; he is not the instrument of
8 See Secret History 19, 5–10; and Roberto, Diocleziano, pp. 170–72. Sources on Diocletian’s
generosity: John Malalas 12.40; Chronicon Paschale s.a. 302 (p. 514, 16–17); Excerpta Latina
Barbari (Chron. min. i 354 Frick). On the other hand, his comparison of Justinian with the
tyrant Domitian is of great symbolic value: see Secret History 8.13–21; Cameron, Procopius,
pp. 58–59.
9 See also Secret History 8.24–27. His inclination to subvert order (neoterizein) is a charac-
teristic that, in Procopius, Justinian shares with the evil Persian sovereign Khosrow: see
Wars 1.23.1.
10 See Priscus, Excerpta 8.94–114; Zosimus, Historia Nova 1.5.2–4.
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Providence, because his power does not come from God, rather, since he is a
demon incarnate, his government is inspired toward evil. Justinian is a prince
of demons, which is why evil has overwhelmed the Roman Empire and man-
kind itself:
For while this man was administering the nation’s affairs, many other
calamities chanced to befall, which some insisted came about through
the aforementioned presence of this evil demon and through his contriv-
ing, while others said that the Deity, detesting his works, turned away
from the Roman Empire and gave place to the abominable demons for
the bringing of these things to pass in this fashion. (Secret History 18.36–
37; see also Secret History 18.1–32)
The negative destiny of the Empire under Justinian’s guidance can be explained
by God’s just punishment against the abuses of an evil demon that had seized
supreme power.11
The Empress Theodora supports the demon incarnate in Justinian. In the
Wars, Procopius outlines the positive aspects of the Empress’s character, such
as her readiness to assist women in difficulty (Wars 7.31.13–14), and her cour-
age during the grave emergency caused by the Nika riots (Wars 1.24.33–37).12
In the case of Theodora too, Procopius’ view is drastically reversed in the
Secret History. Just like her husband Justinian, Theodora is described as a crea-
ture devoted to evil, terrorizing her subjects with her wickedness. Her innate
inferiority as a woman is united with the profound negativity of her nature,
exacerbated by her lowly social origins. Raised among actresses and prosti-
tutes, Theodora is presented with all the traits of a monster, even accentuat-
ing the negative aspects of Justinian’s tyranny, turning to the humiliation of
her subjects, the cruellest of plots, implacable vendetta against any adver-
sary, the blindest avarice, and the most dissolute pleasures. Taking advantage
of Justinian’s weakness, Theodora also deals with affairs of State. Theodora’s
portrayal, in which Procopius builds up a character that suits his view, is the
clearest example of his exaggeration. Scholars have been able to verify the his-
torian’s accretions, designed to condemn imperial power, against the real his-
torical character. Although in this case Procopius is an unreliable source, his
characterisation has made its mark on modern views of Theodora, and despite
11 See also: Secret History 12.26–27. According to Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik”, 227–28,
Wars 3.11.24–31 is also related to this representation of Justinian. See also Cameron,
Procopius, pp. 56–61; and Greatrex, “Perceptions”, pp. 82–90.
12 On this text see Meier, “Zur Funktion”.
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360 Roberto
several attempts, the task of removing such exaggerated stains from her char-
acter appears difficult.13
The negativity of Justinian and Theodora assumes a choral dimension
among the highest imperial officials. Taking a view that recalls political con-
siderations of the Hellenistic and Imperial Age, officials are a mirror of the
emperor, both in virtues and vices, from where Procopius’ strongly negative
judgement on several of Justinian’s most important collaborators originated.
By condemning the behaviour of his collaborators, Procopius is criticizing the
Emperor, who empowers these officials, resulting in an evil syntony of char-
acter and an inclination towards vice, or who sells posts, following a practice
that political tradition considered one of the most odious signs of tyranny.
Procopius, too, severely condemns this practice: Justinian’s greed leads to an
iniquitous commerce, installing in critical top posts of the State personages of
no ability or morality.14
Amongst the principal figures that stand out for their negative aspects are
John of Cappadocia, Tribonian and Peter the Patrician. In the case of Peter the
Patrician we find the usual dichotomy between the positive view of the Wars
and the negative assessment of the Secret History. In the Wars Peter is cited as
an example of the great officials serving under Justinian. In connexion with the
imperial administration, Procopius provides a complex gallery of characters.
There are elements that, in his reconstruction of events, ensure the superiority
of Byzantine officials: first and foremost, their culture, the paideia that pro-
vides such men with a sure eclectic knowledge which, in various cases, leads
them to devote themselves to historiography or literature. Amongst these cul-
tivated officials we may include Peter the Patrician, whom Procopius described
as a discreet and affable person, an expert orator and skilful ambassador, capa-
ble of persuading such men as Theodahad, king of the Goths (Wars 5.6.1–2;
5.3.30). Such qualities as these are, in the Secret History, transformed into signs
of duplicity and an instrument of unbridled ambition. Peter is represented
as an unscrupulous person, whose ability instigated Theodahad to murder
Amalasuntha (Secret History 16.5). He is rewarded with the post of Magister
13 Many are the descriptions of misdeeds and crimes that confirm this view of Theodora’s
character: see, e.g., see Secret History ch. 3; 9–10; 15–17. Even the episode of the death of a
whale that had for some time terrorised the seas near Constantinople becomes a meta-
phor for the death of Theodora as the death of a monstrous creature that brings relief to
all: see Wars 7.29.9–20 and Signes Codoñer, “Der Historiker”. On Procopius’ exaggerations
see Beck, Kaiserin Theodora; Cameron, Procopius, 67–83; and more recently: Foss, “The
Empress”, pp. 163–64, which deems the criticism of the Secret History historically founded
but inflated by Procopius’ hatred.
14 See Secret History 21.9–25; Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik”, pp. 217–19.
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Officiorum, but Procopius stigmatises his bad conduct toward his subordinates
(Secret History 24.22–23).15
The ambiguous assessment of Peter the Patrician in the Wars and the Secret
History vanishes in the portrayal of two of the highest officials of the admin-
istration, John of Cappadocia, who was praetorian prefect, and Tribonian,
quaestor sacri palatii. In John’s case, Procopius does not hesitate to describe
him as the most intelligent of all the officials, and one of the boldest. But
John’s intelligence is used to satisfy the worst of vices: he is ignorant, greedy
and evil. At the same time, his lack of education (paideia) prevents him from
checking his greed and controlling himself. On the contrary, his sole objec-
tive appears to be the accumulation of wealth, to be squandered on pleasure
and lust (Wars 1.24.12–15; 1.25.3–4; 3.13.12–20). His contempt for mankind is
accompanied by impiety: John shows no fear of God. Supreme arrogance is
the deepest characteristic of his negative personality, as out of arrogance he
even aspires to the imperial throne (Wars 1.25.8); does not fear to challenge
the Empress Theodora (Wars 1.25.4–7). Although severely defeated by her, he
continues to hope not only to recover his position, but also to see the realisa-
tion of the prophecy that he will one day be enthroned. Indeed, John is osten-
tatiously pagan and believes in divine oracles (Wars 1.25.8–10; 2.30.49–54).16 It
is interesting to note that this negative view of John culminates in the text of
Wars 1.25. It has been suggested that this strong attack on John is an abstract
prepared for the Secret History. Thus, John’s fall from grace allowed Procopius to
include the passage directly in the Wars.17 With regard to Tribonian, Procopius
acknowledges his ability and profound culture (Wars 1.25.1–2): In paideia he
excelled among men. But such qualities crumble before his avaricious and
unscrupulous character. Tribonian is, in particular, accused of one of the most
odious evils practiced by a wicked government: the corruption of the legal and
justice system. Thirsty for money, Tribonian sells legal measures and at the
highest level, justice is thus no more. Everything can be bought, to the great
injury of ordinary people (Wars 1.24.16). Once more, the conduct of Justinian’s
collaborators becomes a sign that the regime is degenerating into the worst
of tyrannies.18
15 On Peter the Patrician see Treadgold, Early Byzantine Historians, pp. 264–69.
16 See also the case of Peter Barsymes (praetorian prefect, 543–546): Secret History 22.25 for
his exceptional interest and admiration for the Manichaeans.
17 See Rubin, “Prokopios”, p. 380. Greatrex, “The Composition”, pp. 6–7, 10.
18 John and Tribonian are striking cases in a gallery of evil characters. Among officials active
in the provinces, see the activities of the logothethe Alexander, also called “Snips” in Italy
and Greece (Wars 7.1.28–33; Secret History 26.29–34); and of Hephaestus, augustalis at
Alexandria: Secret History 26.35–44.
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362 Roberto
In this excessively negative portrayal of Justinian and his entourage, the

description of persons rich in virtue provides a contrast and constitutes a form
of criticism of the Emperor. Thus, to Germanus, Justinian’s nephew and heir
apparent (until his death in 550), Procopius attributes the virtues of modera-
tion and good governance sadly lacking in Justinian (Wars 7.40.9).19 Above all,
however, it is Belisarius who takes on the role of the positive hero, in contrast
to the Emperor’s wickedness. As Evagrius of Epiphania, reader of Procopius,
already showed (Hist. eccl. 4.12), Belisarius is the positive protagonist of the
Wars. The whole architecture of the composition and narrative structure of
the work aims at the exaltation of Belisarius. Although Procopius is a direct
witness of Belisarius’ deeds, the distance between the historical facts and his
interpretation of them is wholly justified by his political and historiographic
aims. Consequently, even in the case of Belisarius, it is difficult to grasp the real
identity of his character in its symbolic guise.20 Procopius has no doubts about
Belisarius’ qualities. The historian’s attitude toward the deeds of Belisarius
between 527 and his victory over the Vandals is positive. Not even in the Secret
History do we find criticism of the general’s military deeds and political behav-
iour until the beginning of his second campaign in Italy (544).21 In the account
of the Wars the character of Belisarius is adorned with every virtue. As such,
the character receives all due praise for his moderation and civilitas (Wars 7.1.5–
22). What strikes people particularly is his lack of arrogance and his ability to
listen to all those who stop to talk to him.22 Even in war, Belisarius outshines
the heroes of the past thanks to his virtue and moderation (Wars 3.21.7–10). A
capable commander, he is always inclined to counter fear with reason (ennoia,
see Wars 2.16.6–15; 3.18.2–4). He is alien to audacity and recklessness (tolma),
but not to courage. His courage is matched by great prudence in deciding on or
choosing the appropriate moment for action (prometheia; see Wars 2.19.10–11;
and 1.14.52–53). In his behaviour toward his men, too, justice is united with
severe discipline, striking fear and respect in the army, but also earning fidel-
ity (Wars 3.12.11–21; 3.16.1–8; 4.4.5–8; 7.1.13–15 and 18–19). In Procopius’ view,
Belisarius’ justice (dikaiosyne) is one of the reasons for his success. Indeed,
through this respect for justice, Belisarius obtains divine support (Wars 3.16.8;
19 See Signes Codoñer, “Prokops Anecdota”. For other examples of good imperial officials see
Phocas and Bassus, Secret History 21.6–8; Wars 1.24.18; and Marcellus, commander of the
palace guards, Wars 7.32.23.
20 See Cameron, Procopius, pp. 230–31.
21 See Secret History 5.1 and below. The only “unholy deed” of Belisarius was the execution
of Constantinus: Wars 6.8.17–18; Secret History 1.28–30. See Greatrex, “The Composition”,
p. 13; Cresci, “Lineamenti”, pp. 251–52; Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie, pp. 115–20.
22 See Wars 6.8.18; and 2.16.6–7: Belisarius and his officers.
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3.19.6).23 Justice guides the general’s conduct even in conducting military cam-
paigns, and is one of the distinguishing traits of the war against the Vandals,
accompanied by feelings of humanity (philanthropia) in the war against the
Ostrogoths. It was Justinian’s command that Italy should be freed from the
domination of barbarians, who as usurpers had taken over the peninsula. Such
a mission should spare the Italians, wherever possible, from the brutalities of
war, and avoid the unjustified destruction of cities (Wars 5.9.23–28; 5.10.30–33).
Emblematic in this is his letter to Totila asking him to forgo the destruction of
Rome in 546 (Wars 7.22.6–18). In Africa, as in Italy, his moderation extends to
the proper treatment of his defeated enemies (Wars 4.7.17; 6.29.38–39). Right
from his first appearance, Belisarius is attributed discourse in favour of peace.
While aware of the epoch-making value of the enterprise, Procopius describes
Belisarius as contrary to any indiscriminate war action: «The first blessing is
peace, as is agreed by all men who have even a small share of reason. […] The
best general, therefore, is that one who is able to bring about peace from war»
(Wars 1.14.1–2). It has been rightly observed that this portrayal runs counter to
the devastating nature of Justinian in the Secret History.24 Procopius, however,
also exalts Belisarius’ fidelity to Justinian (Wars 5.24.17): he rejects the crown as
Emperor of the West offered to him, in 540, by the Goths (Wars 6.29.18–20).25
Furthermore, although enjoying great autonomy, he does not stray from his
obedience to his Emperor. In this connexion, we find an interesting episode.
Since the siege of Rome, started in March 537 had lasted a very long time, the
representatives of the Roman people, exasperated, go to Belisarius, defend-
ing the city with his army. They demand that the siege be lifted, engaging the
Goths in a life-or-death battle, because the City is no longer able to resist.
As on previous occasions, the citizens volunteer to take part in the struggle
(Wars 6.3.13–22). Belisarius listens to them and replies with a refusal. His argu-
ments provide a lucid analysis of relations between the imperial power and its
subjects and, in particular, Belisarius’ opinion of the political role of the demos.
Belisarius rejects the Romans’ proposal out of prudence; he has no intention
of risking his whole enterprise on a single battle. Furthermore, he has news of
imminent reinforcements, but above all, such a decision would impede the
completion of the mission entrusted to him by the Emperor: « I shall never,
23 Justice is a major element in assessing Belisarius’s behaviour. The very idea that the
practice of justice ensures divine support implies criticism of Justinian. See Cresci,
“Lineamenti”, pp. 264–67.
24 See Cresci, “Lineamenti”, pp. 254–55. See also Wars 3.16.9–11; 3.17.6; 5.20.17–18.
25 See Lillington-Martin, “Procopius, Belisarius and the Goths”. See also Wars 4.9.1–3 and
12–13: Belisarius as supplicant to Justinian along with Gelimer on the day of his triumph
in Constantinople (534); see Börm, “Justinian’s Triumph”.
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364 Roberto
willing at least, be led by your carelessness either to destroy you or to involve

the emperor’s cause in ruin with you » (Wars 6.3.25). Belisarius intends to go
ahead with his mission at any cost, even ignoring the appeals of the Roman
populace, who had already hindered his action earlier on. There is clear con-
tempt for the impulsiveness of the populace, which Belisarius does not hide:
« For long have I known that a populace is a most unreasoning thing, and that
by its very nature it cannot endure the present or provide for the future, but
only knows how rashly in every case to attempt the impossible and recklessly
to destroy itself » (Wars 6.3.23–24). These are harsh words, spoken by the gen-
eral who had pitilessly repressed the Nika riot in Constantinople; words shared
by the leaders and intellectual elite of the capital. Indeed, Procopius stands
behind Belisarius, and his views are perfectly in line with part of the court,
which deemed that the populace is a dangerous mass to be kept under con-
trol.26 A further significant quality confirms Belisarius’ moderation. Procopius
testifies to his continence, a practice of chastity that binds him exclusively to
his wife Antonina (Wars 7.1.11–13). In the opinion of his contemporaries, chas-
tity (sophrosyne) was an important quality in statesmen because it expresses
moral strength and stature. Indeed, excess in the pleasures of the flesh is
typical of tyrants and barbarians. It is however surrounding his relationship
with his wife Antonina that criticism against Belisarius mounts in the Secret
History. Antonina is portrayed as a wicked woman, as treacherous as a snake,
involved in the magical arts, and Theodora’s accomplice in her darkest crimes.
Her infidelity to Belisarius is condemned by Procopius (Secret History 1.11–14),
but Belisarius appears wholly enslaved by his wife. Procopius dramatically
emphasises this situation in events in which Belisarius is strongly opposed to
Theodora. When everything seems to indicate that Belisarius’ murderer is in
the wings, Theodora declares that she will spare the General’s life as a favour to
Antonina. There is no remedy for his humiliation, hemmed in by two wicked
women (Secret History 4.13–45; and 2.18–21). This must also have made a strong
impression on Procopius’ readers, having appreciated Belisarius’ deeds in
the Wars. It also has an impact on the description of his character during his
26 Consider, for example, how in tune the ideas of Procopius-Belisarius are with those of the
author of the Peri politikes Epistemes/De scientia politica (probably the praetorian praefect
Menodorus): see, e.g., 5.97–114. (text: Menae patricii cum Thoma referendario De scientia
politica dialogus. See also Mazzucchi-Matelli, “La dottrina dello stato”; Bell, Three political
Voices, pp. 9–14. On the Nika riot see recently Greatrex, “The Nika Riot”; and Meier, “Die
Inszenierung”.
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second campaign in Italy (544–549) when his behaviour becomes inconclusive

and harmful to the inhabitants of the peninsula (Secret History 5.1–4).27
Two years after Belisarius’ recall, the war against the Goths takes on a
new lease of life, when in 551 Justinian entrusts the command to the eunuch
Narses. Procopius comments negatively on Narses’s activities as an officer
under Belisarius in 538–539 in a clearly instrumental manner: in order to exalt
Belisarius, Procopius glosses over or leaves out the merits of other generals. In
particular, during the Italian campaign, Narses is shown to resent the superior-
ity of Belisarius’ command and acts as a rival (Wars 6.18.1–11 and 29). Procopius’
assessment changes in recounting the second part of the campaign. In accept-
ing his new post, Narses obtains the resources to relaunch the offensive against
Totila. The eunuch’s energy and enthusiasm meet with Procopius’ approval,
and he praises his commitment to optimize the new campaign and his gener-
osity toward officers and soldiers (Wars 8.26.7–10 and 14–17).28
The barbarians occupy a major part of Procopius’ considerations. In many
circumstances, Procopius follows contemporary prejudice, based on classi-
cal models. The barbarians are consequently often portrayed as being unre-
strained and uncontrolled, especially at moments of great stress. Although
Procopius is ready to acknowledge the qualities of individuals, their virtues are
marred by their barbarian nature, an opinion applied both to barbarians serv-
ing or allied to the Empire, and to those outside.29 Especially in describing the
Persian world, the negative nature of barbarians is expressed in the worst vices
and misdeeds. For Procopius, Persia and its kings provide an odious example
of despotism, almost a warning to the Romans of the risks of tyranny. Evidence
of this is found in the wicked behaviour of king Khosrow. Terror and suspicion
mark the reign of a sovereign bent on the subversion of order (Wars 1.23.1).
Khosrow is a barbarian at the mercy of the worst instincts, such as wrath. He
is a person who despises both gods and men (Wars 2.10.5; 2.26.2). Procopius
condemns the inhumanity (apanthropia) of a king expressed by frequent vio-
lent acts toward his family members and servants, and by his wicked behaviour
to both subjects and foes alike (Wars 8.10.8 and 19–22; see also 1.23.6–11). His
27 On Procopius’ criticism of Belisarius see Cameron, Procopius, pp. 51–55. On consider-

ations of chastity as a value for statesmen, see the portrayal of several characters in John
Malalas: e.g. Hephaestus, 1.15, Cecrops, 4.5, Augustus, 10.6. See in general Scott, “Malalas’
view”, pp. 153–56: Malalas associates chastity (sophrosyne) with civilisation and basileia.
The same interpretation of sophrosyne as a political virtue is confirmed by John of Antioch
in his Historia Chronike.
28 See Rubin, “Prokopios”, p. 574; Cameron, Procopius, p. 201; Cresci, “Lineamenti”, pp. 257–58.
29 For barbarians serving or allied to the Empire see the case of Mundus, Wars 5.7.4–8 and
Chorsamatis, 6.1.21–34.
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366 Roberto
actions are guided by greed and thirst for glory, and by an inclination to perfidy
and cruelty (Wars 2.5.8–33; 2.9.8–18; 2.11.25–28). In this portrayal, Procopius
makes use of widespread models of hostile polemics against the Persians,30
but his symbolic view of Khosrow’s wickedness illustrates an important point.
Khosrow is aware of the Empire’s weakness. According to Procopius, he knows
full well that the Eastern Roman Empire is unable to manage several military
emergencies simultaneously, impeded as they are by inadequate military and
logistic resources. Consequently, Khosrow is ready with his fraudulent behav-
iour – so typical of a Persian’s nature – to take advantage of Roman weakness
at the right moment. Hence the threatening embassy he sends on news of the
Roman victory against the Vandals in 533; indeed, after the conquest of Africa,
Khosrow tells Justinian that he owes him money, because without peace on the
Persian front he would never have been able to defeat the Vandals (Wars 1.26.1–
4). Furthermore, after Belisarius’ initial successes in Italy, the king of the Goths,
Vitigis, sends ambassadors to persuade the Persian king that the moment has
come to launch a preventive war against Justinian. Khosrow accepts their
advice (Wars 2.1.1; 2.2.4–12).31
His description of the Vandals – and more particularly the Goths – is some-
what different. Although references to their inferior nature are not lacking, his
comparison of these barbarians and Romans, especially with regard to sover-
eigns and aristocrats, becomes an incisive tool of political criticism. Continuing
the line of his predecessors (e.g. Ammianus Marcellinus, Olympiodorus,
Zosimus), Procopius praises the barbarians for virtues and qualities that the
Romans could well cultivate, but neglect and forget. His emphasis on the bar-
barians’ positive behaviour is harsh criticism of those who do not practice
such virtues.32
30 See Cameron, Procopius, 162–65. Even the conduct of Persian officials reflects the wick-
edness and arrogance of king Khosrow: see Wars 1.11.33. While not overlooking his evil
conduct (Wars 1.7.30–32 and 1.11.37–38), Procopius is ready to praise the humanity
(philanthropia) of Kawad, Khosrow’s father (Wars 1.7.34; see also 1.6.19); see Börm, Prokop,
pp. 251–253.
31 See Buildings 2.10.1. In general, on Khosrow see Brodka, “Das Bild”. Procopius realises that
the Empire has insufficient resources to conduct a war on several fronts. This percep-
tion has raised a debate about Procopius’ attitude toward Justinian’s wars. See Cesa, “La
politica”, which deems Procopius hostile to Justinian’s military plans; see on the contrary
Brodka, “Prokopios”. More generally Greatrex, “Perceptions”, pp. 92–93.
32 See Cesa, “La politica”, pp. 404–05. The speech of the Armenian ambassadors to king
Khosrow (Wars 2.3.31–53) is one of the passages in which criticism of Justinian’s govern-
ment is most evident. See Signes Codoñer, “Kaiserkritik”, pp. 221–26, and Kruse, “The
speech”. More generally see also Cesa, “Etnografia”, pp. 214–15.
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This behaviour is evident in his description of the Ostrogoth kings. Indeed,

Theoderic the Great is portrayed as a barbarian sovereign who governs well,
with the consensus of his subjects:
And though he did not claim the right to assume either the garb or the
name of emperor of the Romans, but was called “rex” to the end of his
life (for thus the barbarians are accustomed to call their leaders), still,
in governing his own subjects, he invested himself with all the qualities
which appropriately belong to one who is by birth an emperor. For he was
exceedingly careful to observe justice, he preserved the laws on a sure
basis, he protected the land and kept it safe from the barbarians dwell-
ing round about and attained the highest possible degree of wisdom and
manliness. (Wars 5.1.26–27)
In name, Theoderic was a tyrant; in fact, he was an excellent sovereign.

Although it fails as an experiment, his attempt to find a formula for Italians
and Goths to live together is praiseworthy, as is his concern for justice and the
prosperity of his subjects. Theoderic’s government is a model of integration for
the difficult relations between Romans and barbarians.33
This model he bequeaths to his daughter Amalasuntha. Despite her dif-
ficult position as a princess in a society dominated by aristocratic warriors,
Amalasuntha manages to establish her government, maintaining the com-
mitment to full integration between Goths and Romans.34 The princess
realises that such a commitment can only be maintained if the education
of her son Athalaric, the child-prince, is based on both Gothic and Roman
33 On Theoderic in Procopius’ Wars see A. Goltz, Barbar, pp. 214–267, especially 252–55;
more generally Lamma, “Teoderico”. Together with Theoderic, Procopius lucidly describes
the wise policy of another barbarian sovereign, the Vandal Geiseric, who is a capable war
leader, highly intelligent in safeguarding his conquests, alternating moderation and pru-
dence with a great lack of scruple and cruel authoritarianism (Wars 3.3.23–24; 3.4.12–14;
3.6.12–24). Albeit addled by an unbridled inclination towards vice, Geiseric manages to
consolidate Vandal power and bequeaths a strong kingdom. Unlike Theoderic, his man-
agement of power is marked by an authoritarian and repressive government, especially
toward his Roman subjects (Wars 3.5.8–17). In his description of Geiseric, Procopius may
have followed one of his major sources, Priscus: see Mecella in this volume. Geiseric’s
cruel behaviour, particularly toward his non-Arian subjects, was intensified by his son
Huneric (Wars 3.8.3–5).
34 See Wars 5.2.1–5. Amalasuntha is trusted by her Roman subjects: Wars 5.4.1–3. Procopius
builds up Amalasuntha’s portrait in symbolic contrast with that of Theodora, see A. Goltz,
“Gefühle”, pp. 247–48.
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368 Roberto
values. Amalasuntha is strongly opposed by the conservative Gothic aristoc-

racy and is forced to give up (Wars 5.2.6–20). Weakened and isolated, she turns
to the authority she considers the last bastion of her power: Justinian. This
fact may explain Amalasuntha’s legitimism, which intensifies at the end of
her reign, when the conservative Gothic aristocracy take Athalaric’s educa-
tion out of her hands. Athalaric’s death exacerbated her weakness. In order to
consolidate her position, Amalasuntha chose her paternal cousin, and politi-
cal enemy, Theodahad as consors regni, as co-regent of the Gothic kingdom.
Procopius describes him as a symbol of the integrated barbarian, cultured, but
with a penchant for the worst vices. He is blindly ambitious, greedy, wicked
and unscrupulous, and wants revenge on Amalasuntha, who often opposed
his plans (Wars 5.3.1–4). When the princess proposes a power-sharing deal,
Theodahad accepts. Very soon, however, he allies himself with the conserva-
tive nobility and Amalasuntha’s fate is decided: she is assassinated. When the
imperial ambassador, Peter, protests, Theodahad’s duplicity is revealed in all
its foolishness. While declaring his innocence to the ambassador, and heaping
all the guilt on Amalasuntha’s assassins, Theodahad guarantees honours and
favour to them (Wars 5.4.31). The version of Amalasuntha’s death in the Secret
History is different and is attributed to Theodora’s envy. Indeed, the Empress is
very worried by Amalasuntha’s possible transfer to Constantinople. Moved by
jealousy, she fears the woman’s qualities and virtues, and even the fascination
she provokes in Justinian. For this reason, Theodora sends Peter the Patrician
to Italy to facilitate the assassination of her potential rival. Using the mecha-
nism described above, Procopius assigns to the barbarian Amalasuntha all the
qualities that Theodora lacks, and she becomes a mirror reflecting all the nega-
tive aspects of the Empress back at her. Amalasuntha is killed at the Theodora’s
venomous instigation.35
Owing to his cowardice, Theodahad soon shows that he is wholly unsuited
to govern. When he realises his situation, hemmed in by the ambitions of the
conservative Gothic nobles and Justinian’s plans of reconquest, Theodahad,
rather than attempting to work out a strategy, yields to fear. King of a warrior
nation, Theodahad is terrified of war, and falls into a state of aphasia, inca-
pable of giving any order or measure of government. Very rapidly, the Gothic
35 See Secret History 16.1–6 and Foss, “Empress Theodora”, pp. 171–72. Amalasuntha’s death
gave rise to discouragement: Wars 5.4.28–29; Theodahad on the other hand is loved by
neither the Romans nor the Goths, owing to his corrupt nature: see Wars 5.4.6 and 9–12.
On Theodahad see Vitiello, “Theodahad”; on the consortium regni see La Rocca, Consors
regni.
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warriors gather and nominate another King, Vitigis.36 He does not belong to
high nobility, but in the eyes of his people he has earned merit on the field, as
he is a prudent and shrewd warrior, described by Procopius as a bold fighter
(Wars 5.11.12–25; 5.11.5; 5.29.9–11). His barbarian nature, on the other hand, is
shown in his inability to react to the blows of fortune. Following the most tra-
ditional anti-barbarian themes, Procopius describes Vitigis as a man who can-
not control himself in the fluctuating throes of fortune. His barbarian nature
is too strong for a man lacking paideia. In defeat Vitigis could be impatient,
wrathful, cruel. In success, however brief, he became arrogant. In danger,
fear makes him even incapable of speech (aphasia). One emblematic case is
his decision to massacre the senators held hostage at Ravenna, as an angry
reaction to his defeat during the siege of Rome (Wars 5.26.1–2). Moreover,
during his moments of rage, not even his own men escape the King’s wrath
(Wars 5.27.15–21). For the government of his people, Vitigis looks to Theoderic
as the creator of a political model of co-existence (Wars 5.11.26). On the other
side, he finds, as a contrast to Theoderic, the negative model of the last king of
the Vandals, Gelimer. Gelimer’s tragic destiny haunts Vitigis. In 530, Gelimer
usurped power and imprisoned the legitimate King, Hilderic. After several dip-
lomatic attempts, Justinian sent an army to recover Africa for the Empire. In
Procopius’ account, Gelimer loses the traits of an arrogant tyrant and assumes
those of a man defeated by God’s will; he becomes the protagonist of a tragedy.
According to Procopius, Divine Providence decreed victory for the Romans
and defeat – as rapid as it is unexpected – for Gelimer. Dragged in chains at
Justinian’s triumph, Gelimer expresses the vanity of power, which derives from
God and returns to Him (Wars 4.9.10–14). Gelimer becomes a frightful anguish-
raising phantasm, and as for Gelimer, so too for Theodahad and Vitigis.37
Totila, Vitigis’s successor, is an emblematic character for Procopius’ historio-
graphic purposes. For his virtues and qualities, Totila becomes king, revealing
himself as Belisarius’ most worthy adversary. Procopius describes his valour
36 Theodahad is killed on Vitigis’ orders, see Wars 5.11.7–9. On Theodahad’s cowardice see,
e.g., Wars 5.6.1–2; 5.7.11–12; 5.9.1–2. Theodahad’ fear for the future leads him to turn to
magicians and soothsayers, Wars 5.9.3–7. In this case, Theodahad makes use of a Jewish
soothsayer. Elsewhere, too, Procopius links interest in magic practices with persons of
religions other than Christianity; pagans in the case of John of Cappadocia; Manichaeans
in the case of Peter Barsymes. Vitigis king of the Goths: Wars 5.11.5. To consolidate his
power base, Vitigis marries Theoderic’s granddaughter, Matasuntha, Wars 5.11.27.
37 See Wars 5.29.8. Gelimer is the finest warrior of his time but is also a man who is thirsty for
revenge and greedy, Wars 3.9.6–7. He is inclined to arrogance and tyranny (Wars 3.9.10–
24) and is criticised for his inhuman cruelty toward his family and subjects (Wars 3.17.11–
12; 3.10.29–31). See Knaepen, “L’image du roi”; On Gelimer’s usurpation and his defeat see
Roberto, “Il secolo dei Vandali”, pp. 221–41.
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370 Roberto
in war: like Belisarius in his time, Totila too faces a more numerous army with
just a few brave men (Wars 7.4.11–18). Procopius finds him fascinating, and sig-
nificant is his interest in the ritual dance performed by Totila to encourage
his warriors and impress his adversaries prior to the battle of Busta Gallorum.
Beyond such gestures, Totila is more effective a leader than Vitigis and his
predecessors,38 and not only in terms of victories: Totila, tackles war by work-
ing out strategies with the consensus of the Italians. His conduct seems to
cancel out the negative models of barbarian ferocity and cruelty. Totila acts
with justice (dikaiosyne), moderation and humanity (philanthropia) towards
all, Goth or Italian. As a result, he often exhorts the Italians to consider their
fate under the Emperor’s new government, and to compare it with the more
moderate government they have enjoyed in the past (Wars 7.4.16–17; 7.7.11–16;
7.9.1–6; and 5.11.26). His insistence on the wickedness of the Greeks and their
ambition thus becomes a powerful weapon for his military operations.39 Such
behaviour is illustrated in concrete acts of mercy toward prisoners (Wars 7.5.19:
philosophrosyne); in saving the Neapolitans by lifting the siege that exhausted
them (Wars 7.8.1–5: philanthropia); in safeguarding Rusticiana, daughter of
Symmachus and wife of Boethius, from violence and insult after the conquest
of Rome (Wars 7.20.27–31: sophrosyne); and yet again by his honourable treat-
ment of the women captured at Cumae, which guarantees Totila’s fame for
moderation and continence (Wars 7.6.3–4). This episode can be considered
together with the description of the sentence passed on a Goth for raping an
Italian girl: Procopius once more presents the idea that the commander’s jus-
tice guarantees divine favour and, consequently, the success of the enterprise
(Wars 7.8.12–25).40 Procopius clearly attributes to Totila the values he previ-
ously celebrated in Belisarius and even has passages coincide in which these
attributes are expressed in both characters, as when their philanthropia is
revealed in full syntony in the two sieges of Naples, carried out by Belisarius
in 536 (Wars 5.9.22–28 and 5.10.30–37) and by Totila in 543 (Wars 7.7.11–16)
respectively. This reversal is significant: as Belisarius, a paragon of virtue,
38 Wars 8.31.17–21. See Cresci, “Lineamenti”, p. 271; on Totila’s last battle see P. Rance, “Narses
and the Battle of Taginae”.
39 See Wars 5.29.11–12. Prejudice against the Greeks and Easterners (Graeculi) is a propa-
ganda tool utilised by the Goths right from the start of the war, with the appeal of the
Vacis the Goth to the besieged Romans (Wars 5.18.39–41); see also 4.27.38. This prejudice
had already emerged in 470–471, during the bitter conflict between the magister Ricimer
and the Emperor Anthemius, who came to the West from Constantinople and was there-
fore considered a Graeculus: see Vita Epifani episcopi 53–54 and Cesa 1988, pp. 51–52, 89,
152; this prejudice is also among the causes of Arvandus’ treason in 468: see Sid. Ap. epist.,
i 7, 5. Totila is a moderate sovereign: see Carnevale, “Totila”, pp. 44–50.
40 See also Totila’s behaviour in Ruscianae, Wars 7.30.19–24; see also 7.36.28–29 and 7.13.1.
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leaves the scene, his place in Procopius’ narrative is taken by the barbarian
king Totila. Such a reversal clearly has a political message. By praising Totila,
Procopius intends partly to explain the failure of the Italian campaign by the
conduct of the Imperial troops, as well as to emphasize the expediency of
more humane treatment for the subject peoples.41
Significantly, Totila’s clemency extends beyond individuals to the towns and
cities of Italy, the past and present of which represented the very identity of
Italy in the ancient and late antique period. Emblematic, too, is the relation-
ship between Totila and Rome, a city feels the fascination of and describes
with detailed episodes on its history and the character of its inhabitants.
Perturbed by the memory of the sacks that took place during the fifth cen-
tury, the Roman population is terrified at the prospect of new devastations.
The people’s attitude amazes Procopius, probably reflecting the opinion of
Belisarius and the imperial authorities of the Romans’ excessive eagerness to
negotiate in order to save the City. It might be suggested that, in Procopius’
reconstruction, the Romans’ scant aptitude for resistance is a metaphor for
the weakness of western policy.42 Such an opinion is also expressed in criticiz-
ing the last western emperors, and their ministers: Honorius, Valentinian iii,
Petronius Maximus, the comes Africae Bonifatius, all weak characters lacking
in any ability to react in a time of crisis for the Western Empire. Their weak-
ness is contrasted by the strength and ruthlessness of Alaric, Geiseric, Attila.
Even the great families of the Roman Senate are not immune from Procopius’
criticism. It suffices to think of the rumours concerning the serious responsi-
bility of the Anicii in the events which led to the sack of the City in August 410
(Wars 3.2.27). Such information was clearly gathered and subsequently elab-
orated on by Procopius. Indeed, in his criticism of the Western Romans and
their will to fight against the Empire’s disruptive forces Procopius is fully in
line with fifth century Eastern historians such as Olympiodorus, Priscus and
Zosimus: Procopius too identifies the East’s commitment as the sole way of
saving the West from the barbarians. He shares this view with others from
his time – with Belisarius certainly – hence his harsh political assessment of
the ability of the Roman Senate and the Roman Church, over-eager to negoti-
ate with the barbarians.43 At the same time Procopius understands that the
41 See Brodka, Die Geschichtsphilosophie, pp. 124–126; Cresci, “Lineamenti”, pp. 272–73.
42 See Wars 5.25.13–15; and 5.20.5–7; 5.22.1; 5.24.14–16.
43 In line with the tradition of Priscus, only Aetius is exempt from Procopius’ negative opin-
ion (Wars 3.4.24–28). The stupid decision by Valentinian iii to eliminate Aetius caused a
dramatic crisis and, ultimately, the Vandal sack of 455, Wars 3.5.1–6. On Honorius’s cow-
ardice see Wars 3.2.8–10. Though he recognises the value of Maiorianus, Procopius shows
an embarrassing ignorance of events after 455 and of chronology (Wars 3.7.4–17). See
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372 Roberto
Romans’ desire to save the City from destruction is born from their love for it.
In Procopius’ time, Rome still maintained part of her ancient splendour, and
her importance for Italy is also evidenced by its destiny during the Gothic war.
The City was repeatedly besieged and occupied by both sides, up to the Totila’s
dramatic sacking.44 When his troops stormed in , Totila showed moderation
and sought to limit the victors’ fury. Of special importance is the agreement
between Totila and the ecclesiastical hierarchy to save the population, utilizing
a formula that had already served on other occasions when the city was sacked.
Emulating the conduct of Alaric during the sack of 410, Totila also went to pray
at St. Peter’s, while his warriors plundered the city. His presence guaranteed, in
that area at least, salvation for the population (Wars 7.20.22–25).45 Similarities
with Alaric are not limited to the King’s behaviour during the sack. Like Alaric
before him, Totila also had to reckon with the more bellicose of his warriors.
The destruction of Rome for a people at war with the Roman Emperor could be
seen as a symbolically charged event, a proud challenge to the adversary. When
Totila, already decided on destroying Rome, receives a letter from Belisarius,
the Roman general requests that the king spare the City, which would affect
both Totila’s own image, and the destiny of the Goths in history. At this point,
Totila is convinced (Wars 7.22.6–19). Procopius’ description of Totila’s clem-
ency is fascinating and lends itself to various interpretations. First come his-
toriographical reminiscences: the passage recalls another by Olympiodorus/
Zosimus on the events of 409 in which Alaric, after breaking off negotiations
with Honorius, marches on Rome intent on taking and destroying the city, but
then has second thoughts (Zosimus, Historia Nova v 50, 2–3). The parallel is
highly suggestive. As with Alaric in 409, the differences between the barbarian
Cesa, “La politica”, p. 398. See also Wars 5.14.14: when Rome was taken in 536, Procopius
notes that the city was returned to the Romans after a period of sixty years. Belisarius’s
victory thus concludes this period of Rome’s exile from the Empire which goes back to
August 476, with the overthrow of Romulus Augustulus and the setting up of the kingdom
of Odoacer. It is therefore clear that Procopius saw the epoch-making significance of 476.
44 See Wars 8.22.5–7: “Yet the Romans love their city above all the men we know, and they
are eager to protect all their ancestral treasures and to preserve them, so that nothing
of the ancient glory of Rome may be obliterated”; 8.21.10–17. This attitude also explains
the survival of groups of pagans still bound to the memory of ancient deities and their
temples. See, for example, Wars 5.25.18, for the presence of followers of the ancient reli-
gion devoted to Janus; and 5.24.28–37 on the Sibylline Oracles. On Totila’s Sack of Rome
see Roberto, Roma capta, pp. 220–23.
45 There is an interesting link between the Gothic kings and the Church of Peter the Apostle
in Rome. See Theoderic’s attitude towards the beggars who had their station beside the
Church: Secret History 26.29.
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and the city are bridged through generosity, in this case when Totila feels the
Romans’ urgency to save Rome, the very symbol of the city of the ancient
world. There is also a second interpretation which involves the construction of
the Wars: like the siege of Naples, this is yet another moment when the virtues
of Belisarius and Totila are clearly compared. Furthermore, Procopius demon-
strates the harmony between the two characters under the guise of an episto-
lary exchange, such that Belisarius and Totila appear as two images reflected
in a mirror.46
The exchange of letters between Belisarius and Totila is one of many exam-
ples of Procopius’ instrumental use of his characters. Beyond the historical
facts, Procopius utilises characters as symbols to express his political view, his
criticism of Justinian’s bad governance, and his hopes for renewal. In weighing
up Procopius’ characters, we must always distinguish between historical truth
and the symbolism introduced by the historian for his own purposes. Often,
we have to resign ourselves to the impossibility of grasping the true identity
of the character beyond its symbolic use. As historical criticism has shown,
in this connexion, the negativity of Theodora and Justinian are emblematic
of one side, and the alternation of Belisarius and Totila as positive heroes in
the Gothic War of the other. Having concluded the parable of Belisarius, who
changes from the paragon of every virtue to the victim of Theodora’s wicked
machinations, the barbarian king Totila, whose conduct is superior to that of
the Romans, becomes the heroic war leader. The construction of his character
reveals a clear political and historical message: having lost its best men, the
Roman Empire is in decline, abandoned to the whim of evil characters at the
service of a demonic emperor. It is this that causes the disasters from which
the Empire suffers: they are God’s just chastisement for Justinian’s errors and
wickedness. In his positive portrayal of the barbarian Totila, Procopius bitterly
expresses the feeling of decadence and his pessimism about the destiny of
the Empire.
46 See Wars 8.22.3. Totila’s behaviour in Naples: Wars 7.8.10. On the exchange of letters
between Belisarius and Totila see Carolla, “Roma vista da Bisanzio”. On Alaric and Rome
see Roberto, “Alarico e il sacco di Roma”.
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A Narratological Reading of Procopius
Olivier Gengler and Élodie Turquois
In this chapter, we will consider how Procopius framed, structured and con-
ducted the narration in his three works: the Wars, the Secret History and the
Buildings.1 Using the models developed by narratology, our aim is to show
how a better understanding of the narrative techniques used by Procopius can
enhance our understanding of his works and their historical interpretation.2
Narratology can be defined as a set of descriptive tools and analytic pro-
cedures aiming to formalize the functioning of narrative texts – or narrative
sections of a text – that is to say text which describes an action.3 Narratological
tools are appropriate for every type of narrative, despite usually being applied
to fictional texts. The opposition between factual and non-factual narratives is
less a question of formal features than of reading frame. Still, formal features
matter and some literary forms will be considered suitable for a certain type
of discourse but not for another within a given society. Thus, using these tools
on historiographical texts helps expose how ancient historians made use of
1 This paper was written in equal parts by Élodie Turquois and Olivier Gengler who assume
joint responsibility for its content. The authors thank the editors of this volume, M. Meier
and F. Montinaro for their trust and support, I. Smith for improving and editing our text,
the anonymous referees for some useful suggestions, and extend their deepest thanks to the
generous and competent eye of T. Whitmarsh whose feedback considerably improved this
paper. This chapter is the product of research conducted for the dfg project “Procopius and
the language of Buildings” and for the Heidelberger Academy’s commentary to Malalas. The
authors are grateful for fruitful discussions with audiences in Mainz and Coimbra where
they could present some of their ideas on Procopius’s text. All errors or omissions remain of
course ours.
2 We will not discuss here any issue of writing chronology or publication. Any hypothesis on
this matter presupposes a systematic analysis of Procopian narrative technique. For a first
approach on these questions, see the contributions of Greatrex, Pfeilschifter, Rance, and
Whitby in this volume.
3 We adopt here the descriptive method systematized by Gérard Genette (Figures III, pp. 67–
282 = Narrative Discourse), since then expanded and developed by numerous researchers.
See for a critical approach, a thorough discussion of concepts, and further bibliography:
Hühn et al., The living handbook of narratology, especially Meister’s article “Narratology”. The
most accessible general introduction for classicists today is certainly de Jong, Narratology
and Classics, to which we refer the reader for more detailed discussion of the concepts used
in this paper, especially pp. 167–172 for historiography. We also constantly used the volumes
of “Studies in Ancient Greek Narrative”, especially de Jong/Nünlist/Bowie, Narrator de Jong/
Nünlist, Time, and de Temmerman/van Emde Boas, Characterization, where the reader can
find extensive comparative material.

literary strategies to present their vision of the past. For this purpose, we will
analyse the way Procopius uses the narrator, focalisation, and time to shape his
narrative. Accordingly, this paper will be divided into three sections defining
the theoretical framework in order to apply it within close textual readings as
well as broader surveys. Each section will encompass the whole corpus (that
is, the Wars, the Secret History,4 and the Buildings5), aiming to illustrate each
works’ specificities, at the same time as the overarching trends that span the
corpus. More attention will be given to the Buildings in the section dealing
with the narrator, to the Wars for time, and to the Secret History for focalisa-
tion, so as to give the reader an example of in-depth analysis for each work and
each topic.
Before proceeding to our analysis of the Procopian corpus, it is essential
to introduce some broader narratological concepts. Narratology distinguishes
three different levels in the narrating process: the text-level, the story-level and
the fabula-level. The text is the medium, the finished product giving access to
the story. Fabula refers to the selection of events that is narrated in the text
and organized into a story by a narrator. The story can be narrated with ellipses
and flashbacks, can focus on a certain character, adopt a certain perspective.
On the other hand, the fabula is the unmediated succession of those same
events. The reader more or less consciously reconstructs this while reading the
story. The same levels are present in non-fictional narratives such as histori-
ography, and because ancient historiographical texts are used as a source of
information about the past, it is all the more crucial to distinguish between
these levels. In order to elaborate his story, the historian makes use of an orga-
nized representation of the events: the fabula. This representation is not a
mechanical transposition of reality but the result of intellectual work, fuelled
by investigation.6 It therefore seems unnecessary, at least in the case of ancient
historiography, to add the level of the sources postulated by Cohn.7 Indeed, it
is almost impossible to reconstruct exactly the sources from which an ancient
author took his information. These can be particularly diverse in scope and
4 See Croke in this volume on this traditional title.

5 We will also discuss here only the longer version of the Buildings, considering that even if the
short version was not a later epitome but a first sketch as suggested by Montinaro, though not
entirely convincingly (Montinaro, “Byzantium and the Slavs”), the longer version remains in
any case the only one certainly authored by Procopius.
6 This is not specific to ancient historiography. See the pioneering work of White, “The
Historical Text” and The Content of the Form, and more generally Ricoeur, Temps et récit.
7 Cohn, Distinction of Fiction, p. 109, who considers modern historiography. Cohn’s category of
“source” is adopted by de Jong (Narratology and Classics, pp. 38–39 and 169) under the label
“material” not only for historiography but for all types of narrative, which seems a better
solution.
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376 Gengler and Turquois
nature (earlier historical narratives, oral accounts, autopsy, personal experi-

ence, deductions, etc.). When some parts of earlier historical narratives are
integrated into another, even as a quote with no or few modifications, they
become part of the new narrative. The relationship between the story and the
fabula is relevant for the analysis of narrative strategies, whereas that between
the fabula and the events, or the question of the sources, are more relevant for
historical analysis. The narratological approach however can help to identify
some shifts in the narrative practices that may reflect the influence of sources.
Having clarified the essential differentiation of story, fabula, and events, we can
now proceed with the analysis of the first narrative feature a reader encounters
in Procopius’ works: the narrator.
1 Narrator
The narrator can be defined as the textual voice from which the discourse
originates. His addressee is called the narratee, who is the figure of the reader
implied in the narration. Narrator and narratee are part of the text and, by
necessity, not identical to the author and the reader(s). In Genettian terms, the
identity of the narrator constitutes the answer to the question “who speaks?”8
In Procopius’s works, the narrator assuming the main narration, is often overt,
and reveals himself through opening prefatory statements (Wars 1.1.1–17 and
8.1–2, Secret History 1.1–10, Buildings 1.1.1–19) and through comments in the
middle of the narration.
The narrator is identified at the very beginning of the introduction to
the Wars:
Procopius of Caesarea has written (ξυνέγραψεν) the history of the wars

which Justinian, the emperor of the Romans, waged against the barbar-
ians of the East and of the West […] he was aware (ξυνηπίστατο) that he
was able to write this (τάδε) better than anyone else, if for no other reason,
because it fell to his lot, when appointed adviser to the general Belisarius,
to be an eyewitness of practically all the events to be described.9
Wars 1.1.1–3
8 Genette, Figures III, 225–267 (= Narrative discourse, 212–262) with the discussion in Margolin,
“Narrator”; cf. de Jong, Narratology and Classics, 17–28.
9 Translations of the Wars are taken from Kaldellis’ revised version of Dewing’s translation,
and those of the Secret History are by Kaldellis, sometimes with slight modifications. We have
also adapted the spelling of geographical and personal names for the sake of uniformity. All
translations of the Buildings are by E. Turquois.
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The demonstrative τάδε which refers to the text itself makes it explicit that
the narrator is speaking here of himself in the third person. This literary device
marks the distance between Procopius the narrator and Procopius the eyewit-
ness while establishing that they are identical.10 The distance is also marked
by the use of past tenses when referring to the writing process (ξυνέγραψεν,
ξυνηπίστατο), distancing it from the present of the narrative.11
The use of the third person is also a way to refer to Herodotus’ and
Thucydides’ similar introductory sentences, which Procopius echoes here
multiple times.12 This, alongside other elements of the introduction such as
the reference to the greatness of the events narrated or the promise to say the
truth, help situate the narrative within a tradition and define the reading pact
as historiographical.13 In reference to a long tradition initiated even before
Herodotus, the affirmation of authorship by the narrator is an integral part of
the historiographical pact and we can assume that the intention of the author
was indeed to represent himself through the figure of the narrator. However,
the textual persona who is speaking, the narrator, remains a literary creation
and the attribution of every feature of the narrator to the author therefore can
only ever be hypothetical.14
In the course of the narrative, the narrator presents himself as “Procopius,
who wrote this” (Προκόπιος, ὃς τάδε ξυνέγραψε)15 every time he appears as a
character in the story, repeating the information given in the introduction, and
10 This use of the third person singular for the historian as narrator and participant in his
own narrative is common in ancient historiography, just as its combination with first
person singular. See especially Rood’s paper on Thucydides in de Jong/Nünlist/Bowie,
Narrator pp. 116 and Pelling, “Xenophon’s and Caesar’s third-person” for further compara-
tive material. On this feature in the Wars in particular, see Ross, “Narrator and Participant”.
11 The temporal distance between the writing, anchored in historical time, and the narrative
act, reactivated at each reading of the text, becomes visible. See below, pp. 392–93.
12 See Basso/Greatrex “How to interpret Procopius’ preface to the Wars” and Brodka’s con-
tribution in this volume. On prefatory statements in ancient historiography, see generally
Marincola, Authority and Tradition.
13 The term “reading pact” covers the more or less explicit reading contract offered to the
narratee by the narrator, which defines the way in which the story is received. In addi-
tion to introductory statements and explicit interventions in the text, the narrator can
use diverse features to frame his text, such as the title, the style, the imitation of one or
more other texts, and any other markers of a particular literary genre. On this notion, see
Lejeune, Le Pacte autobiographique, 13–46.
14 De Jong, Narratology & Classics, 17–19. In Procopius’ case, see Ross’ cautious introductory
remarks in “Narrator and Participant”, 73 and Greatrex’s contribution in this volume with
further references.
15 Wars 1.12.4, 3.12.3, 4.14.39, 6.4.1, 6.23.23.
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again obviously imitating Thucydides.16 In doing so he regularly reaffirms his

status as a first-hand informant while still maintaining as much distance as
possible between the character involved in the events and the narrator. In the
history of the Gothic wars – from the fifth book onward – he goes one step fur-
ther by punctuating the passing of time with closures similar to those used by
Thucydides to systematically reassert his authorship.17
The sudden appearance of a first person plural in the introduction after a
few sentences is therefore particularly noteworthy:
No greater or mightier deeds are to be found in history than those which

occurred in these wars – provided one wishes to base his judgement
on the truth. For in them more remarkable feats have been performed
than in any other wars of which we have heard of (ὧν ἀκοῇ ἴσμεν); unless,
indeed, a reader of this narrative (τις τῶν τάδε ἀναλεγομένων) gives the
place of honour to antiquity and considers contemporary achievements
unworthy to be deemed remarkable.
Wars 1.1.6–7
With the verb ἴσμεν, the primary narrator refers to common knowledge and
appeals to the narratee while at the same time revealing himself.18 The intended
effect is certainly to avoid seeming complacent in the choice of the subject: it
is not only Procopius’ opinion. At the same time, the narrator reveals his own
subjectivity, but only when it connects with the supposed opinion of his narra-
tees and their common experience of contemporary events, as opposed to the
events of the past, of which they could only know indirectly (ἀκοῇ).
1.1 The Narrator in the Wars and in the Secret History

We will now focus on the passages where the narrator uncovers himself and
try to discern the effects of his interventions on the narration, first in the Wars
and in the Secret History, then with more detail in the Buildings. The most com-
mon interventions of the narrator in the Wars and the Secret History are those
16 Cf. Thucydides 4.104.4: “Thucydides, son of Oloros, who wrote this” (Θουκυδίδην τὸν
Ὀλόρου, ὃς τάδε ξυνέγραψεν).
17 Cf. Thucydides 2.70.4 etc. with Wars 5.7.37, 6.2.38, 6.22.25, 6.30.30, 7.1.49, 7.5.19, 7.7.20,
7.9.23, 7.11.39, 7.15.16, 7.24.34, 7.29.21, 7.35.30, 7.39.29, 8.21.4, 8.25.25, 8.35.38. The most strik-
ing parallel appears in Wars 6.12.41: καὶ ὁ χειμὼν ἔληγε, καὶ τρίτον ἔτος ἐτελεύτα τῷ πολέμῳ
τῷδε, ὃν Προκόπιος ξυνέγραψε. Cf. Thucydides 2.103.2: καὶ ὁ χειμὼν ἐτελεύτα οὗτος, καὶ τρίτον
ἔτος τῷ πολέμῳ ἐτελεύτα τῷδε ὃν Θουκυδίδης ξυνέγραψεν.
18 The reference to the reader immediately after the ἴσμεν confirms that “we” here is the
same as “I + you”. See below, pp. 384–85.
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aiming to delineate and orientate the narration, outline the main articulations,
frame an excursus or announce a development. For example, at the beginning
of the history of the war against the vandals (3.1.1):
Such, then, was the final outcome of the Persian War for the emperor
Justinian; and I shall now proceed to set forth (φράσων ἔρχομαι) all that he
did against the Vandals and the Moors. But first shall be told (λελέξεται
δὲ πρῶτον) whence came the host of the Vandals when they descended
upon the land of the Romans.
Various similar expressions can be found throughout the narrative: “I shall

now turn to the narration of …” (ἐρῶν ἔρχομαι),19 “I shall explain immediately”
(αὐτίκα δηλώσω),20 among others. Such interventions are not always explic-
itly marked by the narrative voice. Impersonal expressions such as λελέξεται
regularly structure the text without any reference to the narrator (Wars 3.1.1,
3.2.2, 3.7.29, etc.), or only a slight one (see at the end of the introduction to the
Wars 1.1.17: λελέξεται δὲ πρῶτον ἀρξαμένοις μικρὸν ἄνωθεν ὅσα Ῥωμαίοις ξυνηνέχθη
καὶ Μήδοις … “Beginning a short distance back, will be told first what befell
the Romans and the Medes …”,21 cf. Wars 6.10.8 etc.: ὥς μοι αὐτίκα λελέξεται, “as
I will presently recount”; Secret History 26.27).
The numerous parallel narratives and excursus in the Wars regularly neces-
sitate narratorial interventions to signal the return to the main or previous
narrative: “I shall return to the previous narrative” (ἐγὼ δὲ ἐπὶ τὸν πρότερον
λόγον ἐπάνειμι),22 “but I must now return to the point from which I have
digressed” (ἐμοὶ δὲ ὅθενπερ ἐξέβην ἰτέον)23 etc. Their lack in the Secret History
is most likely explained by that work’s more composite character and over-
all directness: its indicting character dictates the accumulation of devastating
facts without digression.
In Procopius’s corpus, the narrator also reveals his presence in cross-
references to earlier or following parts of his or other works. In the Wars, there
are only internal references, forwards (1.26.1, 2.11.28, etc.) or more often back-
wards (1.15.31, 1.19.37, 2.9.9 etc.). The two other works also contain internal ref-
erences and references to the Wars. There is no explicit reference to the Secret
19 Wars 1.9.25, 17.3, 19.1 etc., Secret History 1.10, 6.2 etc.; cf. Buildings 2.3.28 etc.
20 Wars 1.23.1 and 27, 2.4.12 etc., Secret History 2.25, 5.7 etc.; cf. Buildings 1.1.5, 68 etc.
21 The translation of Dewing/Kaldellis makes more explicit that the particle ἀρξαμένοις
refers to the narrator and the narratees; “Our story will begin a short distance back and
recount what befell the Romans and the Medes …”
22 Wars 1.4.31, 9.19, 17.20 etc.; cf. Buildings 6.4.10.
23 Wars 1.5.40.
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History in the Buildings, but there is a possible allusion in the introduction.24

According to Kaldellis, the eighth book of the Wars and the Secret History also
contain references to a planned ecclesiastical history that was most probably
never published or even written.25
In Wars 1.4.15 the narrator speaks in the first person singular for the first
time and expresses his disbelief about a tradition he had just reported con-
cerning Peroz’ pearl: Peroz was ambushed by the Huns and threw away the
precious pearl he was wearing on his right ear just before falling into a trench.
This short narrative is at first attributed to an anonymous source (1.4.14: “they
say”, φασι), whose trustworthiness Procopius doubts:
This story, however, seems to me untrustworthy (ἐμοὶ μὲν οὐ πιστὰ λέγο-

ντες), because a man who found himself in such peril would have thought
of nothing else; but I suppose (οἶμαι) that his ear was crushed in this
disaster, and the pearl disappeared somewhere or other.
Wars 1.4.15
Such passages, where the narrator reveals his opinion, reflects upon the infor-
mation that he transmits or discusses his own work as a historian, are the
strongest tools for the narrator to define himself, fashioning himself as the
sober rationalist providing a more realistic interpretation of the events.
A shift also occurs in this passage from the primary narrator Procopius
towards a secondary voice to whom the narration is delegated. This voice
remains anonymous, and the part of the story attributed to it is merely intro-
duced by verba dicendi in plural forms (“they say”: φασι, λέγοντες).26 This is part
of a constant play between reliability and unreliability throughout the Wars,
but also specifically within the pearl episode, from 1.4.14–1.4.31.
The narrator’s disengagement is made explicit at the point where he does
not agree with the information at his disposal even though it is worth retelling:
The story of this pearl, as told by the Persians (ὅσα … Πέρσαι λέγουσιν),
is worth recounting (εἰπεῖν ἄξιον), for perhaps to some it may not seem
24 See below in the section on the narrator in the Buildings.

25 Kaldellis, “Date and Structure”, pp. 606–615. See, for another opinion, Signes Codoñer,
“One history …”, pp. 17–19.
26 This is a very common device in historiography and generally in narrative prose. See for
example the paper on Philostratus by Whitmarsh in de Jong/Nünlist/Bowie, Narrator,
pp. 427–428 with further references.
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altogether incredible (οὐ παντάπασιν ἄπιστος). The Persians, then, say that
(Λέγουσιν οὖν Πέρσαι) …
Wars 1.4.17–18
There follows the story of a fisherman losing his life to take the pearl from an
oyster guarded by a shark. The explicit reference to the Persians as an authority
for this story, with the litotes implying that it is as incredible as the first story
(cf. οὐ πιστὰ λέγοντες in 1.4.15 quoted above), implies that everything related to
the pearl was told by Persians. While not explicitly stated, this builds on the
association between Persians and incredible tales.
The modern historian can discuss Procopius’s possible sources here and
consider if the whole story, including the loss of Peroz’ pearl, has a single prov-
enance.27 On a narratological level, however, it is clear and noteworthy that
the shift in the narration occurs precisely when the narrator wants to discuss a
particular piece of information. This feature is very common in Herodotus and
it is probably no coincidence that the whole story of Peroz’ pearl has a very
strong Herodotean tone.
To reinforce his credibility, the narrator of the Wars also regularly draws on
his own experience, especially of places and landscapes:
I myself have often seen (πολλάκις ἰδών) this place and admired it
extremely, and have imagined (μοι ἐδόκουν) that I was in Tauris. For this
mountain resembles the other remarkably (ἀτεχνῶς ἔοικεν), as the Taurus
is here also and the river Sarus is similar to the Euphrates there.
1.17.17
The narrator shares his great familiarity (πολλάκις ἰδών) with the location to
confirm an aetiological story he just retold. Through his personal experience of
the landscape, the narrator also bridges the gap between the past and the pres-
ent. Shortly before our quotation, he mentions that a temple built by Orestes
still existed “to his time” (1.17.12: καὶ ἐς ἐμέ; cf. 1.17.15). The narrator’s claim of
autopsy is thus progressively constructed in the narration.28
In the Wars, the majority of the narrative is free of narratorial interventions.
Procopius uses a first person pronoun twice as often in the Secret History and
27 On Procopius’ sources, see Mecella’s contribution.

28 In this respect, the discussion in Wars 6.15.8–10 about Thule is also remarkable: the narra-
tor says that even though he wanted to, he was not able to travel to that part of the world
but could rely on the information given by people who were there.
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the Buildings compared to the Wars,29 which demonstrates a significantly

higher level of narratorial interventions in these much shorter works.30
1.2 The Narrator in the Buildings

Just as in the Wars, the preface of the Buildings features certain aspects consis-
tent with classicizing historiography, emulating Herodotus, Diodorus of Sicily
or Dionysius of Halicarnassus, as well as echoes of the preface of Book 8 of
the Wars.31 The similar strategies Procopius uses to present himself as a writer
within the history of literature and within his own oeuvre are already obvious
in the preface. Due to the strong rhetorical ties of this work, one can imag-
ine that his voice comes across rather more strongly and openly compared to
the Wars.
Indeed, the narrator frequently intervenes in the narrative of the Buildings
in order to provide a frame for it. One of the ways this is done is via intertex-
tual references to the Wars which place his narrative within the context of the
whole corpus, as well as intratextual references to passages of the Buildings.
There are twelve references to the Wars, aside from the one in the preface men-
tioned earlier, and no overt references to the Secret History.32 Some might argue
29 253 times in the narrative of the Wars (excluding direct speech), 85 in the Secret History,
and 93 in the Buildings.
30 Using the number of pages in their Teubner editions shows that Wars (1223 pp) is 6.7
times longer than Secret History (183 pp) and 6.6 times longer than Buildings (185 pp).
A more differentiated approach can reveal interesting patterns: the expression ᾗπέρ μοι
εἴρηται, ὥσπερ μοι … ἐρρήθη vel. sim. appears 86 times in the Wars, 22 times in the Secret
History and 24 times in the Buildings, which only slightly diverges from the overall use
of personal pronouns where the frequency was double in the shorter works compared
to Wars. However, books 7 and 8 total 50 occurrences (17 and 33 respectively). It makes
sense that the last books have more references to previous narratives, but the dispropor-
tion in comparison to the six other books (5, 11, 1, 3, 7 and 9 occ.) is striking. This confirms
the strong intratextual character of book 8 which sums up the narratives of the preceding
books, but also the conclusive tone adopted already in book 7. The distribution of μοι …
δεδιήγηται (with the variant μοι δεδιηγημένοις) is also telling. It appears 12 times in the
Wars, 12 times in the Secret History and 9 times in the Buildings, which could seem strange
at first glance. However, it appears for the first time in book 6 of the wars and 11 other
times in Book 7 and 8 (5 and 6 occurrences respectively). The distribution between Wars
and the shorter works thus diverges less than the overall usage pattern of comparable
expressions, but it reveals the fact that the word διηγέομαι was probably integrated at a
later stage in Procopius’ vocabulary.
31 Cesaretti has analysed in detail the preface both in his commentary (Cesaretti/Fobelli,
Santa Sofia) and in several articles, highlighting its complex games of intertextuality. See
especially Cesaretti “All’ombra di una preterizione”.
32 1.1.21 (referring to Wars 1.24), 1.10.3 (perhaps ref. to 1.24.9), 2.1.4 (1.9.20), 2.10.10 (2.8.8), 3.1.12
(2.3.35), 3.2.8 (1.7.3), 3.7.7 (8.12.28), 5.8.2 (1.19), 6.1.8 (8.6), 6.5.6 (book 3), 6.6.9 (3.15.34–35).
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that there are covert or implied ones (such as the treatment of the monastery
of Repentance, mentioned in both works with a different tone entirely),33 but
none are related to Procopius’s self-fashioning as narrator in the Buildings.
The references to the Wars are presented as a means to avoid redundancies:
There is no need at this point in my account to write a description of

that region because everything has been set forth in the books on the
Wars, where I gave a full description of the Red Sea and what is called the
Arabian Gulf, as well as of the Ethiopians and Auxomitae and the tribes
of the Homerite Saracens. At that point I shewed also in what manner the
Emperor Justinian added the Palm Groves to the Roman Empire
Buildings 5.8.2, referring to Wars 1.19
They highlight a choice to connect the two works in their scope, both deal-
ing with different aspects of the reign of Justinian, and occasionally deal-
ing with the same topics (geography and ethnography more often than not).
Furthermore, they imply that the audience of the Buildings is the same as the
Wars and is assumed to be quite familiar with the other work. These references
reminding us that Procopius is also the narrator of the Wars may also function
to remind the reader of the passages of the Wars concerning the narrator’s
intention and method.
There are also many internal references peppered throughout the text,
either announcing a future passage or referring back to an earlier one:34
This church, small and fallen to ruins with the passage of time, the
Emperor Justinian took down to its foundations and replaced with a
church of such great size and beauty that, to put it briefly, it is extremely
similar and a rival in all respects to the church that he dedicated to all of
the Apostles in the imperial city, as I have described earlier in this book.
Buildings 5.1.6, referring to 1.4.9–16
Haury, “Prokop und Justinian”, p. 5 (with ref. to Haury, Procopiana, pp. 30sq.), saw a covert
allusion to the Secret History in Buildings 1.1.12, in which the narrator refers the narratee to
his other writings for information about Justinian’s further achievements. It is noteworthy
that he usually refers to the Wars explicitly as οἱ ὑπὲρ τῶν πολέμων δεδήλωται λόγοι but
speaks in 1.1.12 of ἑτέροι … λόγοι.
33 Cf. Buildings 1.9.9 and Secret History 17.5 (the name of the monastery was supplemented
by the editors, but its identification is certain).
34 For example, Buildings 1.4.16, 23, 6.3, 10.5, 10.10, 11.21; 2.1.14, 18, 2.17, 3.21, 6.11, 8.1, 10.18; 3.1.1,
3.8, 4.18, 5.2, 6.21; 4.8.3, 16; 5.2.4, 6.18, 7.16, 8.9.
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Another way Procopius’s narrator appears to shape the narrative is in fre-

quent announcements or opening statements. He often uses the same expres-
sions or plays with variations on same expressions, and they pervade his
narrative, almost like a chorus.
But now, as I have said, I will write (μοι γεγράψεται) about the churches
of Byzantium
Buidlings 1.3.3
Variations around μοι γεγράψεται appear throughout the text, with the phrase
sometimes on its own,35 sometimes with the addition of an indication of time
such as ἐν τῷ παρόντι (“in the present passage”), αὐτίκα (“immediately”) or οὐ
πολλῷ ὕστερον (“rather soon”).36 Another slightly different variant is one using
this same verb but with the idea of writing about something at the appropri-
ate time in the narrative: οὔ […] ἀπὸ τρόπου (“not out of order”) or ἐν ἐπιτηδείῳ
(“in the suitable place”).37 These occurrences of the verb γράφειν outline the
picture of Procopius’s persona as writer and attract the reader’s attention to his
control of the narrative’s chronology.
Another way of writing transitions in the narrative is by using verbs contain-
ing an idea of movement, so instead of moving through time, the narrator is
moving through space:
Let us proceed to the rest of the church (ἐπὶ τὰ λειπόμενα δὲ τοῦ νεὼ ἴωμεν)
Buildings 1.1.54
There are several occurrences of this ἴωμεν in the Buildings and it is rather unique
to this work.38 One might be tempted to read this example positivistically, but,
as Whitby states in this volume, it is impossible to prove that Procopius deliv-
ered the section on Hagia Sophia in the church itself. Furthermore, it would
not explain the same expression recurring throughout the work (4.3.6; 4.7.3;
4.8.2; 6.5.2). There is no more reason to imagine Procopius and his audience
walking through Hagia Sophia than through the other locations where he uses
this expression (respectively Thessaly, Moesia, Thracia, and Libya). This is a
figure of speech meant to reinforce the community of experience between
35 Buildings 2.8.15.
36 Respectively: Buildings 1.1.12, 1.1.50, and 1.10.3; 3.1.3, and 5.8.10; 4.3.15. Note the constant
reference to the time of the narration in these expressions (see below pp. 392–93 on this
subject).
37 Respectively: Buildings 1.7.2; 1.9.18.
38 In the Wars it only appears as part of speeches.
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narratee and narrator experiencing a “tour” of Justinian’s building works by

way of the first person plural, and by highlighting the spatial dimension of the
narrative.39 There are further instances of verbs of movement in the work that
show slight variations around this: ἡμῖν ἰτέον, “we must proceed”, in 1.1.17, ἐρῶν
ἔρχομαι, “I shall now proceed to relate”, in 2.3.28 etc.
One of the most common ways Procopius structures his narrative and intro-
duces a new section or a specific point within a section is with the future of
the verb δηλόω (expose, explain), appearing 18 times in the Buildings, most in
the first person singular, and once in the first person plural. In the prologue,
after a long praeteritio, he announces that he is about to explain why he made
such a preface:
As for the reason for this preface, I will disclose it at once. (ὅτου δὲ δὴ
ἕνεκα ταῦτα ὑπεῖπον αὐτίκα δηλώσω)
Buildings 1.1.5
The simplicity and immediacy of this statement contrasts with the expansive
and rhetorically sophisticated sections preceding it. With this opening state-
ment, Procopius highlights the mechanics of his narrative. Similarly, in 1.1.67
ἐγὼ αὐτίκα δηλώσω marks the transition between Hagia Sophia’s construc-
tion, a mostly descriptive section, and the final part of the ekphrasis which is
formed of two narrative vignettes depicting Justinian’s divine interventions to
save the threatened building.
There is a didactic quality to δηλώσω as it emphasizes the fact that
Procopius is delivering information to enable the narratee to make sense of
the world of the Buildings, whether that be geographical information, histori-
cal background, or technical considerations. Additionally, it becomes apparent
throughout the narrative that this statement is also structural, not just a cho-
rus repeated ad nauseam but instead a signpost attracting the attention of the
reader to a passage of particular significance. Many of the passages introduced
in this manner are central in the organization of the narrative, genuine hinges,
or unique in their topic or treatment.40 This is not specific to the Buildings, but
39 See Webb, “The aesthetics of Sacred Space” p. 65.

40 For example, see at 1.10.16 where it introduces the description of the Chalke mosaics, at
1.11.10 to mark the start of the section on the Constantinopolitan water-supply, at 2.1.22 to
frame the passage on the crescent-shaped moat at Dara, at 3.2.2 to announce a geographi-
cal excursus on Armenia.
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δηλώσω appears proportionally more often there and in the Secret History than
in the Wars.41
Not only does Procopius’s narrator persona appear in the Buildings in order
to frame the narrative and give it structure, but there are also many occur-
rences where the narrator explains or justifies choices made in the narrative
(and this is again proportionally more common in the Buildings than any of
Procopius’s works):
It was by means of many devices that Justinian and the engineer

Anthemius, with the help of Isidore, ensured the stability of the church,
suspended in such a way. Some of them I am helpless to understand (εἰδέ-
ναι τε ἄπορον) in their entirety and incapable to express (φράσαι ἀμήχανον)
in words, but I will write presently about one of them from which one
might be able to infer the strength of the whole work
Buildings 1.1.50
Here the Procopian narrator openly selects one technical feature which he
deems sufficient for his audience to grasp how the architects ensured the
safety of the church. Notice how the statement involves the narrator’s point of
view as well as the narratee’s reception as he makes conjectures on the reader’s
understanding (δύναιτ’ ἄν τις […] τεκμηριῶσαι). There is also a rhetorical aspect
with the self-deprecating statement minimizing both his own understanding
as well as his capacities as an orator, which fits perfectly within the panegyri-
cal tone particularly prominent in Book 1. Later in the narrative, the narrator
explains another one of his choices, this time the ordering of his material in a
hierarchical manner:
One must start (Ἀρκτέον) with the churches of Mary the Mother of God.
Indeed, this is what we know (ἐξεπιστάμεθα) the Emperor himself wants
and correct reasoning clearly directs us to proceed from God to his
Mother.
Buildings 1.3.1
The justification here is two-pronged: it is both the will of the Emperor and logic
that dictate the order in which to describe the churches of Constantinople.
41 Clauses with δηλώσω occur 22 times in the Wars compared to 12 in the Secret History and
17 in the Buildings, appearing proportionally 3–4 times more frequently in these shorter
works. These figures are coherent with the overall presence of the narrator in each work.
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It is striking here that Procopius presents Justinian as factoring into his nar-
ratorial choices.
More often than not, however, it is not specified what the precise reason is
for including something in the narrative, yet it is described as a necessity, for
example in Buildings 1.9.18: “But when it will be necessary for us (ἡμῖν δεήσει) to
mention a city or place by name” or Buildings 2.7.1: “It is necessary at this point
for me (ἀναγκαῖον δέ μοι) to mention Edessa.”
The narrator discusses the choices made in the organization of the narrative
(whether regarding spatial or chronological lines) by calling on his own judge-
ment, often with the use of the expression οὔ μοι ἀπὸ […] ἔδοξεν εἶναι: “It did
not seem to me against (insert noun) to”. An example of this is in Buildings 2.1.3
where he justifies his choice of starting with the Persian frontier (ἐκ δὲ ὁρίων
τῶν Μηδικῶν ἄρξασθαι οὔ μοι ἀπὸ τρόπου ἔδοξεν εἶναι). This is somewhat clearly
related to the way Procopius starts his narrative of the Wars with the Persian
front, and could even be seen to be foreshadowed by 1.2: in a work centred
on the dichotomy between a sacred heart and its peripheral defences, follow-
ing a description of Hagia Sophia with the statue of Justinian warding off the
Persians mirrors the description of the capital and its many churches being
followed with the eastern part of the empire and its defences in Book 2.
There is another strong introductory framing passage in Buildings 3.1.1–3
which uses a slight variation of the same expression (3.1.1: οὔ μοι ἀπὸ καιροῦ ἔδο-
ξεν εἶναι) to explain the narrative’s move from Persia to Armenia. There is not
only a geographical hinge here but also a temporal one, as 3.1.3 also mentions
the necessity of a historical flash-back concerning Armenia (ἀρκτέον δὲ μικρὸν
ἄνωθεν). In Buildings 3.6.1 he uses the same expression again (as in 2.1.3) while
stating his choice of an extant ethnographical excursus on the Tzani (οὔ τι ἀπὸ
τρόπου ἔδοξεν εἶναι).42 All these statements invite approval from the reader who
is meant to be convinced of the necessity of including certain locations, or
buildings, and of their timing within the narrative. It is certainly not by chance
that these very expressions occur mainly in the Buildings and in the 8th book
of the Wars,43 where the variety of subjects grouped under a strict common
theme necessitates stronger narratorial guidance. The more open thematic
structure of the Secret History makes the justification of the narrator’s choices
less essential.
42 One can see here a strong connection Wars 1.15.119ff. where the Tzani are presented in a
similar manner, but without the justificatory formula used in the Buildings.
43 οὔ μοι ἀπὸ καιροῦ ἔδοξεν vel sim.: Wars 8.1.7, 8.6.1, 8.6.14, Buildings 3.1.1; μοι οὐκ ἄπο τρόπου
ἔδοξεν vel sim.: 4.14.3, 8.32.34, Buildings 1.7.3, 2.1.3, 3.6.1, 4.7.2.
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There is also mention of what is left out. Often the reason behind these
choices is related to intertextuality, mostly with the Wars, although not every
time.44 But there is one example, in Buildings 4.6.13, where the narrator refuses
to treat something already covered by another writer: the iconic bridge of
Trajan which he asserts Apollodorus, the famous architect behind its construc-
tion, had already described in detail. Since this text is lost (and even its exis-
tence is uncertain), its mention here seems rather to work as a picture within
the picture to represent the theme of great architects working for emperors,
echoing Justinian and his own architects.
One of the characteristics of the Buildings is its use of a panegyrical mode,
drawing on tropes and techniques of epideictic oratory.45 This affects some
of the narrator’s incursions into the text. Two interconnected concepts form
a leitmotiv in these statements, particularly in Book 1: amechania and aporia.
These are experienced by both the orator and the builder characters in the
narrative. These two words have particular connotations which fit well within
a work centred on ekphrases of buildings: amechania contains a link to the
vocabulary of architecture (lack of mechanical contrivance/means) and apo-
ria to the idea of movement (lack of a path or way through). There are many
examples of these concepts in Book 1,46 but the ones in the later books are of
particular interest. Significantly, both are located at the beginning of a new
book, providing a rhetorical frame for the narrative.
Here indeed it would be necessary for my narrative to work most stren-

uously and toil over an impossible subject. For it is not the pyramids
that we shall present, that illustrious enterprise of the rulers in Egypt,
designed for their vain pleasure, but all of the fortifications with which
this emperor ensured the safety of the empire, walling it up and making
it impossible for the Barbarians to assault the Romans.
Buildings 2.1.2–3
This is another example of a hinge in the narrative, marking the transition

from the focus of Book 1 (Constantinople’s buildings, religious and secular) to
that of Book 2 (fortifications). The mention of the pyramids combined with
the verb ἀφηγέομαι give the opening a Herodotean tinge which is very much in
44 See pp. 382–83 for some examples of this, such as Buildings 1.10.2 and 5.8.2.
45 Webb, “Ekphrasis, amplification and persuasion” and Whitby, “Panegyrical perspective”.
46 1.1.50 (cf. earlier); 1.2.19: “For neither language nor the whole of time would be sufficient to
catalogue them all and list them by their names”; 1.4.30: “[…] though I have neither voice
nor words that would fit such subject”; 1.7.1: “[…] I could not describe it satisfactorily”;
1.11.16: “I could never fittingly describe them with becoming words”.
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keeping with the Persian section of the Wars.47 The Persian material calls for a
specific model, but as this is a panegyric, the pyramid comparison is subverted
by the praise of Justinian’s building of the Empire’s fortifications. This feat is
portrayed as superior to the pyramids due to the fortifications’ usefulness –
usefulness itself is a core theme of the Buildings, already introduced in the
preface (1.1.2).
To cross a great sea with an unfit ship is a very punishing task, I think, and
utterly filled with the greatest dangers. It is the same to attempt to give
the measure of the buildings of the Emperor Justinian in the lowest style.
Buildings 4.1.1
This marks a geographical transition from Book 2 and 3 (building works

in the East, Armenia, Tzanica and both shores of the Euxine sea) to Book 4
which starts with the river Ister and some background on the barbarian pres-
ence there. This transition feels like another signposting moment, and shows
Procopius’s use of amplification, in particular in transitional sections, as one
could view each beginning of a book as a mini-preface. This also applies to
the previous example. Amplification within the panegyrical mode recalls
Quintilian’s discussion of Aristotle about praise: “It is proper to praise when
it amplifies and ornaments its subject” (sed proprium laudis est res amplifi-
care et ornare, Institutio Oratoria. 3.7.6). We should also point out the impor-
tance of λόγῳ φαυλοτάτῳ (translated here as “the lowest style”). As Cesaretti
shows,48 the prologue of the Buildings is very reminiscent of the introduction
of Isocrates’ Panathenaicus and clearly informs the whole work, particularly
in these passages that seem to aim at captatio benevolentiae. One of the main
objectives of Isocrates’ introduction was to explain his choice of an elaborate
style as opposed to the simpler style popular in judiciary oratory. Thus, this
passage pays its dues to the rhetorical topos of the orator’s modesty while
also reminding us that Procopius is aligning himself with the highest of rhe-
torical styles.
Another facet of narratorial intervention in the Buildings is the way it
contributes to building the image of a narrator who regularly shares his per-
sonal experience and represents himself in connection with the object of his
narrative. In this way, he introduces the catalogue of the fortresses in Thrace:
47 See above for the clear influence of Herodotus in the introduction to the Wars and in the
story of Peroz’ pearl.
48 Cesaretti “Due agnizioni”, 29–31.
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Here are the fortresses, as far as we recall (ὅσα ἡμᾶς μεμνῆσθαι), listed
by name
Buildings 4.11.20
Similarly, concerning the Sangarius bridge, in a passage usually seen as critical

for the dating of the Buildings, he writes:
Having already begun the task, he is now much occupied with it; and I
know well (εὖ οἶδα) that he will complete it soon.
Buildings 5.3.10
Both passages depict the narrator as having knowledge which he transmits to

his reader. But even when referring to his own experience, the narrator pursues
his laudatory objective: it is the amount of fortresses listed just after his state-
ment that explains his doubts about his memory and the greatness of Justinian
that justifies his confidence in the imminent completion of the Sangarius
bridge. The narrator figure is depicted both acquiring knowledge and then
offering it to his reader in another passage about Persian land on either side
of a Roman road:
At first I wondered at this, and I enquired from the locals … (ὅπερ μοι κατ’
ἀρχὰς ἀγαμένῳ καὶ τῶν ἐπιχωρίων ἀναπυνθανομένῳ).
Buildings 2.4.3
Procopius, by depicting himself within the narrative, triggers identification

with the readers and has them experience the same emotions, which height-
ens expectations for the explanation that follows. At the same time, he reas-
serts his status as eyewitness, as inquirer and as historian.
Another way that the narrator makes contact with the audience and draws
it in is by means of rhetorical questions. They are a way to call in the reader,
adding liveliness and an oral character to the text (although all texts could be
said to be, with all texts being read out loud, but this aspect is emphasised by
questions). One example is the two open questions extolling some of the beau-
tiful sights of Hagia Sophia:
But who could fittingly describe the galleries of the women’s side, or
enumerate the many colonnades and the colonnaded aisles by means of
which the church is surrounded? Or who could recount the beauty of the
columns and the stones with which the church is adorned?
Buildings 1.1.58–59
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This “who” brings the reader and narrator together: neither Procopius nor
his reader can. Narrator and narratee are equally dumbfounded. The next
example is built around a very similar structure and idea:
How could any man do justice to the work in describing the lofty stoas,
the secluded buildings within the enclosure, the charm of the marbles
with which both the walls and pavements are arranged everywhere?
Buildings 1.8.13
Here, while professing not to be able to describe this subject, Procopius nev-
ertheless includes elements of description within his statement (size, seclu-
sion, charm) in a kind of priamel. These questions appeal to the reader and
form a connection, as if both narrator and narratee are, like the viewers, ren-
dered speechless by the marvel. But in reality, the reader is the only one who is
truly speechless.
2 Time
Time is a key factor in the analysis of narratives. As Ricoeur wrote: “Tout ce qu’on
raconte arrive dans le temps, prend du temps, se déroule temporellement”.49
There is no story without a timeline, but time is also of special relevance in his-
toriography. What is more, the time frame is a unifying element of Procopius’
works which all concern the reign of Justinian, whose accession to the imperial
power is recurrently referred to as a pivotal moment, even a starting point.50
The representation of time in historiographical narrative is not as straight-
forward as it might seem. The time structure to consider first is that with
which the reader of Procopius is confronted in the introductions to his works,
namely the time of the narrative act or time of the narration. References to
the time of the narration are scattered widely in each of Procopius’s works. It
is the “now” defining the present of the narrator as he is narrating, which can
also be perceived by the readers as their own present, thus corresponding to
the reading time. References to the time of the narration are especially promi-
nent in the narrator’s interventions to comment and organize his narrative,
numerous examples of which we have already encountered in the first part of
this chapter.
49 Ricoeur, Du texte à l’action, p. 12 with Ricoeur, Temps et récit. Cf. Scheffel/Weixler/Werner,

“Time”, § 5.
50 Wars 1.13.1, 3.7.27, 5.2.2; Secret History 9.54; Buildings 1.1.6.
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Different moments in the past and future are defined in connection with
the present corresponding to the time of the narration:
The way in which this was done, I will tell in the following books (ἐν τοῖς
ὄπισθέν μοι λόγοις λελέξεται), when my account leads me to the history
of the events in Italy. For it did not seem to me out of order (νῦν γάρ μοι
οὐκ ἄπο τρόπου ἔδοξεν εἶναι) to turn (ἰέναι) to the account of Italy and the
Goths once all the events that happened in Libya (τὰ ἐν Λιβύῃ ξυνενεχθέ-
ντα) had been written down (ἀναγραψάμενον)
Wars 4.14.2–3
Beside the time of the story (ξυνενεχθέντα), it is possible to recognize here the
future, corresponding to the narrative to come (λελέξεται) and the past, cor-
responding to the moment in which the narrator decided to organize his nar-
rative by theatre of war (ἔδοξεν).
This opposition between past and present is already discernible in the pref-
ace to the Wars, where we see references to the writing time and to the time of
the narration stricto sensu. It replicates the distinction between Procopius the
author/participant (third person, past) and Procopius the narrator (first per-
son, present). Since the narrator is also a participant, it is possible to recognize
different moments in his past, eventually reaching back to the events in which
he took part.51
Looking at the future in “I will tell in the following books …”, we see that
the time of the narration also has its own timeline, corresponding to the lin-
earity of the text, with forward references in the future tense (ἐν τοῖς ὄπισθέν
μοι λόγοις λελέξεται) and backward references in the past tense (for example
Buildings 3.6.25: ὡς μικρὸν ἐρρήθη ἔμπροσθεν, “as stated a little before”). The
interventions by the narrator to organize his discourse can even distinguish
between different moments in the past or the future, between a remote future,
as seen in the above quote, and a nearer one, as in Secret History 11.41: “I will
51 The indication concerning the duration of John of Cappadocia’s exile in 1.25.43 (καὶ τρί-
τον τοῦτο ἔτος αὐτὸν ἐνταῦθα καθείρξαντες τηροῦσιν, “This is the third year that they guard
him there in confinement”) is often seen as referring to the time Procopius was writing
this part of his work (see Greatrex, “The composition of Procopius’ Persian Wars”, p. 7). It
could however also be interpreted as a shift in the focalisation that causes the narrator to
use a present tense (τηροῦσιν) and the deictic (τοῦτο) to sketch the situation as it prevailed
at the point of John’s story where he decided to interrupt it and shift back to the timeline
of the main narrative in 1.26.1, before resuming John’s story at that point in 2.30.49–54. See
Greatrex, “The composition of Procopius’ Persian Wars”, pp. 8–9 for the chronology.
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immediately explain (αὐτίκα δηλώσω)” or 6.1 “I am going to say (ἐρῶν ἔρχομαι)

what kind of people Justinian and Theodora were”.
In the narration itself, the configuration of time can be formalized by com-
paring the level of the story (narration time or story time, st) with the level
of the fabula (narrated time or fabula time, ft).52 The relation between story
and fabula with regard to time was described by Genette in terms of “order,”
“duration,” and “frequency.”53 Order: if the fabula consists in the succession
of events A-B-C-D, the story can tell them in a different order, for example
A-D-C-B, where D is narrated in a prolepsis and B in an analepsis.54 Duration:
each event A, B, C or D also receives a specific duration within the narration,
appearing longer, similar or shorter than their real duration. Frequency: a same
event A can be narrated more than one time at different points of the narra-
tion: A-B-C-A-D.
Of course, a narration of all the events of a story, in chronological order,
and with a duration analogous to their own duration is impossible,55 and his-
toriography is no exception to this. This means that historians, even if they
are not authoring fiction, have to select the events to narrate, prioritize their
presentation and organize their text. We will show in the following pages how
Procopius uses these three variables (order, duration, frequency) in his narra-
tive on different levels and with different effects.
2.1 Time in the Wars

The Wars consist of three different narratives dealing with the Persian war
(Book 1–2), the Vandalic war (Book 3–4) and the Gothic war (Book 5–7) and
cover events from 527 to ca. 550. Each narrative is preceded by a presentation
of the background of each conflict (1.1.17: “Our story begins a short distance
back”). This overall structure is clearly announced in the introduction of the
work (Wars 1.1.1, cf. 8.1.1). Book 8 is presented as the continuation of the three
previous narratives and covers events up to 552.
52 De Jong, Narratology and Classics, 92–93.

53 Scheffel/Weixler/Werner, “Time”, § 3.1.2 b with the reference to the work of de Toro.
Following Genette, Scheffel, Weixler and Werner use “story time” where de Jong uses
“fabula time” and “discourse time” where de Jong uses “story time”.
54 Or, depending on the context, C and B are narrated in an analepsis in relation to A–D
and C in a prolepsis in relation to B or B in an analepsis in relation to C. It is not only the
relation between the events but also the way they are narrated which determines the
category.
55 Cf. the very Borgesian paragraph by B. Lynch Davis, “Del rigor en la ciencia” in Los Anales
de Buenos Aires, 1.3, March 1946 for a similar difficulty in producing a map at the 1/1 scale,
with further commentary by U. Eco, “Dell’impossibilità di costruire la carta dell’impero 1
a 1” in Il secondo diario minimo, Milano, 1992.
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The aim of the Wars’ tripartite structure is to confront the difficulty of nar-
rating series of events which occurred during the same period of time in dif-
ferent places but involved sometimes the same characters and, at least partly,
were related to each other. Instead of presenting a purely chronological narra-
tive, Procopius divides his history of Justinian’s wars into three geographically
and thematically coherent parts, as explicitly acknowledged in the introduc-
tion of Book 8.56
With respect to narrated time, the first seven books of the Wars, and the
eighth book by itself, repeat three times the narration of approximately the
same span of time, each with a different focus. From this perspective, the nar-
ration of the Vandalic and Gothic wars can be considered as two analepses
following the narration of the Persian war.
The chronological structure of the narration is far more complex in detail,
with constant variation, but fits overall in this tripartite frame. Before further
investigating the complexities of the timeline in terms of order and duration,
we want to point out some specificities of this setting concerning frequency.
The plan chosen by Procopius leads to some repetition, with the same ele-
ments being mentioned in different books due to its relevance for each part
of the narration, for example the accession of Justinian to the imperial throne
(Wars 1.13.1, 3.7.27, 5.2.2, cf. Secret History 9.54 and Buildings 1.1.6),57 the con-
clusion of the so-called eternal peace (1.22.16 and 3.9.26, the later referring
explicitly to the former) or the death of Theodora (2.30.49 and 7.30.4, Secret
History 5.3 and 27). These implicit or explicit cross-references reinforce the
coherence of the whole narrative of the Wars and override the division of the
timeline by creating synchronicities.
Echoes and references also help connect different parts of the Wars and open
new perspectives, for example in the mention of Honorius in Book 1 in the con-
text of Arcadius’ succession. Arcadius’ son, Theodosius ii was an unweaned
child (οὔπω τοῦ τιτθοῦ ἀπαλλαγείς) and his father wanted to secure his right
to the imperial throne, but “Arcadius had no hope that [Theodosius’] uncle,
Honorius, would help him, given how bad the situation in Italy was already”
(Wars 1.2.4). This passage implicitly announces the story of Honorius narrated
in the analepsis opening Book 3 (Wars 3.2–3, with the death of Honorius and
its aftermath at 3.3.5–36), where the connection with Theodosius is also estab-
lished (Wars 3.2.33). But this echo does not simply establish a synchronicity:
56 Wars 8.1.1: “The narrative that I have written up to this point has been composed, as far as
possible, by separating the material into books that focus on the different theatres of war
(ἐπὶ χωρίων)”; cf. also 4.14.3 and Secret History 1.1.
57 See above, p. 391.
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Honorius’ death in Rome triggers the intervention of Theodosius, who shel-

tered Honorius’ heir in his palace, his grandson Valentinian, a child barely
weaned (ἄρτι τοῦ τιτθοῦ ἀπαλλαγείς, Wars 3.3.5). The parallelism of the two epi-
sodes underlines the ascendency of the East over the West, with Theodosius
doing for Honorius’ heir what Honorius was supposedly not able to do for
him.58 Play with frequency is therefore a way for Procopius to build intratex-
tual relations within each work and between his other works and the Wars.
On the level of duration, the pace of the narration can theoretically be faster,
slower or equal to that of the narrated time. A summary is typically considered
an acceleration in the pace of the narration, the ellipse being an extreme case,
where the narration completely silences a period of time. A description, on the
other hand, can slow down the narration to the point that it stops the narrative
flow completely. Finally, a speech can be considered a part of the text where
the narrated time corresponds to the time of the event. These variations in
narrative pace form a continuum, as the accelerations and slowdowns can be
of different intensity. Considering that the narrative in ancient historiography
falls mostly under the category of summary, it makes more sense to consider
the variations of the pace within the narration, each part of it compared to the
other, as we will show in a close reading of the first chapters of the Wars.
The first two books of the Wars cover events from the 23 years between
527 (1.13.1) and 549 (2.30.48) in 245 pages (approximately 11 pages per year),
with an analepsis covering the 119 years between 408 and 527 (1.2.1–12.24) in
52 pages (less than half a page per year). However, these figures are somewhat
misleading as the narration in the analepsis is highly elliptical. Thus, 1.2.1–10
corresponds to a few months of the year 408, 1.2.11–15 to events of 422 and
441, 1.3.1–22 to 469, 1.4.1–32 to 484, with an undated analepsis in 1.4.18–31,59
1.5.1–10.19 to the years 496–505, 1.11.1–12.24 to 518 and 524–527.60 The selected
events correspond to periods of tension or wars with Persia.
From 1.2.1 to 1.12.24, Procopius narrates events from the end of Arcadius’
reign onward which clearly constitute to him the antecedents of Justinian’s war
against Persia. With 1.13.1, Justinian’s reign and thus the narrative announced in
the introduction finally begins.
The first decision by the emperor is to have Belisarius build a fortress in
Mindouos.61 The Persians come, defeat the Romans, and destroy the fort
58 Additionally, it announces the narration about the Goths who appear there for the first
time (cf. 3.2.40, referring to 5.1.9–31).
59 The story of the discovery of Peroz’ pearl analysed above.
60 For comparative material, see the contributions of Rood on Herodotus, Thucydides,
Xenophon and Polybius in de Jong/Nünlist, Time, pp. 121, 137–138, 151,167–168.
61 We analyse this passage below for its focalisation.
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(Wars 1.13.2–8). The following narrative is chronologically connected to these

events, “after that” (Ὕστερον: Wars 1.13.9), and thus implicitly presented as the
immediate consequence of them. It is obvious that there is an ellipse between
the destruction of Mindouos and Justinian’s reaction to the campaign against
Persia, but the use of a simple “after this” drastically minimises the length of
this ellipse, reinforcing the impression of an immediate correlation between
the events.
In this new narrative, Procopius first presents the main characters (1.13.9–11):
Justinian appoints Belisarius as magister militum per Orientem to conduct the
attack and sends the magister officiorum Hermogenes with Rufinus, an ambas-
sador whose presence is explained by ongoing discussions about peace. At this
point, a twist occurs, marked by an adverb opening the next sentence:
But suddenly (ἄφνω δέ) someone reported to Belisarius and Hermogenes

that the Persians were expected to invade the land of the Romans, and
were eager to capture the city of Dara.
Wars 1.13.12
The reader feels the surprise of the Romans: the opening sentences had
led them to expect a Roman campaign against the Persians rather than the
opposite.62
The following sentences go on to describe how the Romans prepared for
the battle until the arrival of the Persians “not long after (οὐκ ἐς μακράν) with
a great army” (1.13.15). Peroz, the commander in chief of the Persian army, pro-
vokes the Romans and asks them to prepare a bath for him for the morrow
(τῇ ὑστεραίᾳ).
The next twenty paragraphs (1.13.19–39) are devoted to the events of the day
following the arrival of the Persian army, that is to say 89 lines in Haury’s edi-
tion against 34 lines for everything that followed the mention of Mindouos’
destruction (1.13.9–18), which occurred around two years earlier.63 Procopius’s
story as a whole is a summary in narratological terms, but it is clear that the
pace of the narration varies according to the type of event and the intended
effect. The battle of Dara, narrated in chapters 1.13 and 1.14 receives far
more space than the Roman defeat in Mindouos, which was rapidly wrapped
62 The narrator sets the focalisation on the Romans: the reader at this point has as much
information as Belisarius and Hermogenes, not knowing the Persians’ intention and dis-
covering it at the same time as the Roman generals through the mouth of the anonymous
informant: See below “Focalisation”.
63 Greatrex, Rome and Persia at War, pp. 156–159.
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up in one sentence: “A fierce battle took place in which the Romans were
defeated” (1.13.7).
As announced, both armies meet before Dara on the next day:64
At sunrise (Ἅμα τε ἡλίῳ ἀνίσχοντι), seeing the enemy advancing against

them, [the Romans] arrayed themselves as follows (ὧδε) …
Wars 1.13.19
The ὧδε refers to the text itself and opens a long description of the Roman
battle array (26 lines of text, 1.13.19–23), which closes with a second ὧδε and is
followed by a shorter description (3 lines) of the Persian army, set in parallel
with the preceding section with a μέν … δε … balance: “Thus were the Romans
(ὧδε μὲν Ῥωμαῖοι …). But the Persian army … (Περσῶν δὲ ὁ στρατός …)”. At the
end of the description, time resumes after a transition that makes clear that
the break in the narration aimed for dramatic effect:
For a long time (χρόνον μὲν οὖν πολύν) neither side began battle with the
other, but the Persians seemed to be wondering at the good order of
the Romans and appeared to be at a loss how to handle the situation. In
the late afternoon (τῆς δὲ ἡμέρας ἀμφὶ δείλην ὀψίαν) a detachment […]
separated themselves from the rest of the army …
Wars 1.13.24–25
The long description conveyed the immobility of both armies, standing in

front of each other for a long time. The further detail “in the late afternoon”
makes clear what exactly “for a long time” meant, given that the soldiers took
position at sunrise. On another level, the disproportionate space reserved for
the description of the strategically disposed Romans facing up to the mass of
the Persians, anticipates the feeling attributed to the Persians:65 the Romans
are better organized.
The following 57 lines narrate two incidents that occurred in the late after-
noon and ended at dusk (1.13.39: “for already it was growing dark”). The first
one, narrated in 13 lines, is a skirmish between opposing detachments of cav-
alry that ends with the death of seven Persians. “Thereafter (καὶ τὸ λοιπόν)
both armies remained quietly in position”, but Procopius does not say for how
long and moves on to the second incident: two Persians, one after the other,
64 For a reading of this battle narrative with reference to the topography, see Lillington-Martin,
“Procopius on the Struggle for Dara”, with further bibliography.
65 See below under “Focalisation”.
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challenge the Romans; they are killed in single combat by Andreas – himself
not a soldier but a wrestling trainer – before the cheering Roman army. The
emphasis given to this second incident suggests its interpretation as a trial that
announces the final victory of Belisarius’ men.
The Persian general’s provocation, asking Belisarius to prepare a bath for
him, led the Romans to believe that the battle was scheduled for this day and
aroused a similar expectation in the reader. However, no battle comes after
the description of the armies, just the bewilderment of the Persian soldiers
at the sight of the Roman army. This is the point at which the story reverses
those initial expectations: the promised battle will not take place that day. The
incidents that follow are not serious enough to start the fight. The relatively
long text devoted to the events of the day therefore increases the suspense and
raises new expectations for the victory of the Roman army. At the end of the
day Peroz’s bravado has turned against him: he was not taking his bath in Dara,
but his army had been humiliated by Andreas, a wrestler who, said Procopius,
“took care of [the Roman general] Bouzes’ body in the bath” (1.13.31). There is
clear irony in this detail.
The next chapter begins with the events of the following day (τῇ … ὑστε-
ραίᾳ) and with a new twist: the arrival of ten thousand Persian soldiers. Now
the Persian forces number twice those of the Romans (they were 40.000 and
25.000 men respectively at 1.13.23). With no transition apart from a δὲ καί, the
narrator recounts how Belisarius and Hermogenes then wrote to the Persian
commandant. Most of the following 51 lines are devoted to the transcription
in direct speech of the supposed texts of the exchanged letters, four in total.
The Romans ask the Persians to withdraw, the Persian commander refuses and
again asks them to prepare a bath and, this time, also lunch for the following
day. Again, the Romans prepare for the battle (1.14.12). The repetition of the
events from two days before aims at showing that hope had again changed
sides. The pace of the narrative devoted to this new day is noteworthy, with
very elliptical summaries framing the text of the direct style letters, approach-
ing as closely as is possible the relationship between the time of the story and
the narrated time. The emphasis is set on the letters, which expose clearly and
directly the position of each belligerent and their justifications for the war.
The sincerity of the arguments presented by Procopius are subject to historical
interpretation, but from a narratological point of view it is interesting to note
that his intention as narrator is, at this point in the text, to disappear and leave
the reader in direct contact with the characters and their words. It is, of course,
an illusion.
The rest of the chapter (1.14.13–55) narrates the events of the following day
(τῇ δὲ ἐπιγενομένῃ ἡμέρᾳ), beginning with Peroz’ harangue to the Persians “at
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about sunrise” (περὶ ἡλίου ἀνατολάς). The speech is given in direct style, slowing
again the pace of the narration. In his speech, Peroz tries to dispel the doubts
of Persian forces, who were bewildered by the good order of the Romans (cf.
1.13.24). The speech finished, Peroz “led his army against the enemy” (ἐπὶ τοὺς
πολεμίους τὸ στράτευμα ἦγε, 1.14.20). Belisarius and Hermogenes also speak to
their soldiers, insisting on the superiority of tactics (1.14.21–27). Again, the nar-
rator renders the speech in direct style. Even though the embedded narrator is
explicitly identified as “Belisarius and Hermogenes” in the transition sentences
(1.14.20 and 28), there is only one speech: the Roman generals speak with
one voice.
There is no apparent analepsis in the narrative here: the speeches that,
necessarily, come one after the other in the text also appear to be consecu-
tive in the story, since Belisarius and Hermogenes see the Persian army, set
in motion after Peroz’ speech in their camp situated twenty stades away
from Dara (1.13.15), coming towards them just after they complete their own
harangue (ἐπειδὴ Πέρσας ὁδῷ ἰόντας ἐπὶ σφᾶς εἶδον) and “they quickly drew
up the soldiers in the same way as before” (τρόπῳ τῷ προτέρῳ κατὰ τάχος
τοὺς στρατιώτας διέταξαν). The key words here are κατὰ τάχος, “quickly”: the
enemy approaches and there is no time to lose. The narration accelerates
accordingly and the arrangement of the Roman army that was described
over 23 lines in 1.13.19–24 is here rapidly summarised in three words: τρόπῳ
τῷ προτέρῳ, “in the same way as before.“ This time, a little more space is
devoted to the Persian army and its new strategy (1.13.29–32) before the nar-
rative shifts again to the Romans: Pharas, head of the Herul cavalry suggests
an adjustment of the tactics. His idea is reported in direct speech, which
contrasts with the brisk mention of Belisarius’ approval and the execution of
the plan (1.13.33). The give and take of the rhythm strengthens the vivacity of
the narrative.
At first, until midday (ἄχρι ἐς ἡμέραν μέσην), no one moves, but then the
Persians attack “as soon as the noon had passed” (ἐπειδὴ δὲ τάχιστα ἡ μεσημβρία
παρῴχηκεν). Their strategy is to take advantage of the fact that the Romans
were used to eating at noon while the Persians ate “only toward late afternoon”
(ἐς δείλην ὀψίαν). These precisions concerning the hour reinforce the parallel
with the first encounter two days before, where the skirmish had taken place
“in the late afternoon” (τῆς δὲ ἡμέρας ἀμφὶ δείλην ὀψίαν, 1.13.25). It was also
announced by Peroz himself in his last letter of the day before, where he added
to the bath the desire to eat lunch in Dara (1.14.12, cf. 13.17). With the beginning
of the battle, there is more to tell and the pace of the narration slows down,
but the vivacity of the fight is still rendered by the vocabulary used: τὰ μὲν οὖν
πρῶτα … (1.14.35), ἐπεὶ δέ … ἤδη (37), ἐξαπιναίως (38), δρόμῳ πολλῷ (39), ἤδη (40),
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ὥρμηντο (40). Procopius does not say how long the battle lasts, but in the end
the Romans win (1.14.54).
As this analysis shows, Procopius plays with the pace of the narration to
create different effects. By suggesting causal connections, the configuration of
time becomes an important tool in the narrative for the narrator. When narrat-
ing historical events, he has at his disposal a wide range of literary devices to
orient the narrative and display his personal vision of the past, not only in the
Wars, but also in the Secret History and in the Buildings.
2.2 Time in the Secret History

The Secret History possesses no general timeline, no overall narrative that cov-
ers the whole work, rather it is made up of a succession of short stories and
thematical descriptions; for example in 24.15–20, where the presentation of
Justinian’s dealings with the scholae palatinae starts with the history of those
troops from earlier emperors (οἱ πρότεροι) and ends with Justinian’s decisions
as co-ruler to Justin and as sole emperor. The unified overall timeline of the
Secret History is thus the time of the narration, just like in the Buildings, punc-
tuated by the interventions of the narrator progressing through the text: “I turn
now to …”, “as I said before …” etc.
The different narratives artfully put together in the Secret History have on
a lower level their own timeline whose configuration can be very complex, as
for example in the story of Belisarius and Antonina (1.11–5.27). This narrative
as a whole presents an almost uninterrupted timeline covering roughly the
same period as the main narratives in the Wars, to which it regularly refers
(1.14; 1.28; 2.15; etc.). However, the main chronological reference is given by the
mentions of Theodora, her influence on Belisarius’ wife, Antonina, stated at
the beginning of the narrative, and her death, at the very end (1.13; 5.23 and
27). Here, the indications of time are far more numerous than in the Wars,
such as in the first sections: “before marrying Belisarius” (1.12), “later” (ibid.),
“from the start” (1.13). The story of Antonina’s adulterous relationship with the
young Theodosius begins in 1.14. This story has its own timeline, again with
recurring chronological indications that organise the narrative, from the first
encounter (1.15) to Theodosius’ death (3.20), but it appears that the real sub-
ject is Antonina and Theodora’s perversion. At the same time, allusions to the
events narrated in the Wars and direct references to those books build another
timeline centred on Belisarius and his movements from one theatre of war
to the other: Africa (1.16), Italy (1.31), Persia (2.1), Italy again (5.1), putting into
chronological order the narrative of the Wars that the first section of the Secret
History re-configures to some extent.
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After the death of Theodosius, the narrator focuses more on Belisarius and
in this second part develops other stories within the story (Belisarius’ disgrace,
his dispute with the nephew of Vitalian, the marriage of Belisarius’ daughter
with Theodora’s grandson) in an overall chronological presentation. Just as in
the part of the narrative dedicated to Antonina, the main subject is Belisarius’
mediocrity and unreliability, stated at the beginning (3.30) and at the end
(5.25) of this second part.
2.3 Time in the Buildings

Similar to the Secret History, many of the indications of time in the Buildings
structure the text: what the narrator has mentioned earlier, what he is discuss-
ing now, what he is about to discuss and what he will consider later on.66 Due
to its literary qualities drawn from epideictic oratory, the Buildings display a
strong sense of orality and performance, which is connected with an emphasis
on immediacy. Most of the text, especially in its descriptive agenda, is writ-
ten in the present or features a near future; one could speak of a purposeful
lack of distance that produces enargeia. The audience is thrown in and there
is a participative feel (as is also seen with the focalisation from a narratee/
viewer’s perspective).67 In terms of specific markers, this present is not really
specified; the main characteristic of the current time is that it is the reign of
Justinian, “our” emperor68 and “our” time,69 creating a sense of community
with the audience.
As for the time of the events narrated and how it is specified, the main fabula
in the Buildings could be seen as the building action of the emperor Justinian,
but this is not provided with a strong sense of chronology. For the chronologi-
cal (or close to a “real time”) beginning of his building works, we would have to
refer not to the beginning of the work itself, as it deals with the rebuilding of
Hagia Sophia (which does have a specific starting point in time as provided in
the description with the reference to the Nika riots: Buildings 1.1.20–21), but to a
later section of Book 1 which mentions building works carried out by Justinian
during Justin’s reign.70 It is thus clearly not the intent of the narrator to give
a chronological account of Justinian’s buildings, but there is a much greater
66 See also above, pp. 392–93.

67 See below in the final section of this paper.
68 ὁ καθ’ ἡμᾶς βασιλεύς (our Emperor) repeated with and without Justinian’s name:
Buildings 1.1.6; 1.1.15; 4.6.5; 5.2.3; 5.5.7; 6.2.2.; 6.4.2; 6.7.15
69 For example: Buildings 6.4.6 ἐν χρόνῳ τῷ καθ’ ἡμᾶς (in our time).
70 Both Buildings 1.3.3 and 1.4.29 state that some of Justinian’s building works in the capital
date from his uncle’s reign.
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emphasis on thematic (in Book 1 for example, see 1.2.18–19 on the subject of the
churches of Christ, or 1.3.1 for the churches of Mary), as well as geographical
organisation (for example 2.1.3 on switching to the East).
As for the latest, most current building work included in the narrative, it
corresponds to the now of the narration, the Sangarius bridge,71
Having already (ἤδη) begun the task, he is spending much time on it (πολ-
λὴν ἐς αὐτὸ διατριβὴν ἔχει); and I know well that he will complete it soon
(οὐ πολλῷ ὕστερον).
Buildings 5.3.10
It is striking to see how close past, present and future are in this passage. The
past is represented by a short and efficient genitive absolute clause indicat-
ing the beginning is already past, then the main clause indicates the present
status of construction (notice how the word διατριβή itself creates the impres-
sion of this present time stretching out), and the future end of the building is
indicated with the expression οὐ πολλῷ ὕστερον, expressing a short length of
time between present and future. All of this contributes to the impression of
immediacy mentioned earlier.
Another aspect of time worth investigating in the Buildings is the sense of
duration. It is particularly noticeable how little time features in Procopius’s
account of the building process. The act of building is definitely a feature of the
descriptions of Justinianic constructions, whether it is accomplished through
descriptive style (describing something in the way it is fitted or assembled, part
by part) or through narrative episodes pertaining to the building process (two
of them in the description of Hagia Sophia, but also in the building of the dam
in Dara and of the Great Church in Jerusalem). Whereas the narrator shows
some interest in the finances, workforce, or materials necessary in building an
edifice, he exhibits none for the time it takes.
The Buildings gives an impression of both speed and simultaneity in the
building events narrated. Indeed, there is no strong sense of chronology or
order in the narration of construction. Mentions of the sequence in which the
buildings were constructed are fairly rare. One example of this occurs in 4.2.27:
After accomplishing this (ταῦτα διαπεπραγμένος), when the Emperor

Justinian learned that all the cities of the Peloponnesus were unfortified,
71 Much has been said about this particular construction project of Justinian and how it
affects the dating of the Buildings, for a summary of the current state of scholarship on
this issue and relevant bibliography, see Whitby and Greatrex in this volume.
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he calculated (λογισάμενος) that it would certainly take a long time

(πολύς … χρόνος) for him to attend each individually, and he fortified
securely the whole Isthmus, because much of its defences had already
(ἤδη) fallen down.
This passage features a form of chronology as it stops the current building

time for a moment to focus on Justinian’s reflections and decision-making (the
clause from ἐπεί to ἐπιμελοῖτο). There is a first phase of building with the par-
ticiple clause at the start, referring to the previous narration in Book 4 of his
building work in Greece thus far, then a pause and spotlight on his thoughts,
before the next phase of building (fortifying the Isthmus) starts. But this is a
rare example; more often than not the building works are treated without a
sense of chronology, as if simultaneous. References to anteriority often relate
to an undefined past outside of the main narrative, with mentions of the pas-
sage of time deteriorating buildings and hence justifying Justinianic action.72
This is the case for example with the fortification of Thermopylae described in
detail just before the mention of the Isthmus (Buildings 4.2.2–15). In sum, the
main quality of time in the Buildings is its emphasis on immediacy and simul-
taneity, which contributes to its panegyrical agenda in the manner it amplifies
Justinian’s achievements: so many buildings accomplished in so many places,
yet seemingly all at once.
3 Focalisation
With de Jong, we consider focalisation as the transformation process of the

fabula into a story,73 in other words, the shaping of the information through
the perspective of an implicit or explicit figure of the narrative, the narrator or
a character. It is thus closely connected with the position of the narrator and
the configuration of time.74 Focalisation is often compared with the camera
movements regulating the point of view offered to the narratee: the narratee
can see through the eyes of a character, just as in the case of subjective camera,
72 This is a running leitmotiv throughout the book.

73 De Jong, Narratology and Classics, p. 47: “When we read or hear a narrative we read or
hear words which together form a text. This text contains a story, told to narratees by a
narrator. The story he tells contains his view on a series of events […] and that together
form the fabula. The viewing of the events of the fabula is called focalization”.
74 Genette coined the concept of focalisation to distinguish more clearly between the shap-
ing of the narration and the identity of the narrative voice. See Niederhoff, “Focalization”,
for a detailed discussion of the concept and its development.
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or have a panoramic view on a scene, or move freely in a building or a city.

But the text is not a film and the “point of view” metaphor cannot exactly ren-
der the whole range of focalisation which concerns also emotions, opinions,
knowledge or understanding.75 Accordingly, Genette based his focalisation’s
typology on the amount of information at the disposal of the narratee and
distinguished three possible levels of focalisation: zero or non-restricted, when
the narratee has access to more information than the character involved in
the narration; internal, if the narratee has as much information at his disposal
as the character; external, when the narratee has less information than the
character.76 This terminology can be quite misleading, since the “zero” focali-
sation of Genette is actually a focalisation as well: that of another character
or of the external covert narrator. It is therefore necessary, as Genette himself
underlined, to see focalisation as a dynamic process that can vary throughout
the narrative and its reading.77
3.1 Focalisation in the Wars

In Genettian terms, the narration in Procopius’s Wars could be described as
mainly non-restricted, and according to de Jong’s model, shaped by a covert
external primary narrator-focaliser.78 In other words, the narrated events do
not appear at first sight shaped by any subjectivity, which echoes the objectiv-
ity conveyed by the third person narration which frames the narrative in the
Wars. The covert external focalisation adopted most of the time in the text
also gives the narratee an unlimited overview of events. The narrative shifts
seamlessly in the Wars from one character to another, from the Romans to the
Persians, the Vandals or the Goths, and from one location to another.
The main filtering of the story by the narrator-focaliser consists in selecting
the narrated events and connecting them together in a causal chain. In the
story of the first events of Justinian’s war against Persia for example, the narra-
tor’s choice to juxtapose the loss of Mindouos and the victorious battle of Dara
orient the interpretation of both events. Though extremely factual, the first
sentences of this story reveal also some focalisation marks:
75 Cf. de Jong, Narratology and Classics, p. 47: “there is the seeing and recalling of events,
their emotional filtering and temporal ordering, and the fleshing out of space into scenery
and persons into characters”.
76 Genette, Figures III, pp. 206–208.
77 Genette, Figures III, p. 208.
78 “External” for de Jong relates to the position of the narrator in relation to the narrated
events, whereas Genette uses “externe” to describe the focalisation itself in relation to the
character.
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Not long after this Justin, who had declared his nephew Justinian
emperor with him, died, and thus the empire came to Justinian alone.
This Justinian commanded Belisarius to build a fortress in a place called
Mindouos, which is by the very boundary of Persia, on the left as one goes
to Nisibis. He accordingly began to carry out the emperor’s instructions
with great eagerness, and the fort was already rising to a considerable
height because he was using many artisans.
Wars 1.13.1–3
The focalisation is perceptible here through a reference to a relative chronol-

ogy (“Not long after this”, χρόνῳ δὲ οὐ πολλῷ ὕστερον), the measure of which
is totally dependent upon what the focaliser considers to be “long”,79 and the
inclusion of a side-note on Mindouos’ location, which reveals a Roman percep-
tion of the territory.80 The presence of the focaliser is also particularly observ-
able in the use of the adverbial modifier “with great eagerness” (σπουδῇ πολλῇ)
and “already” (ἤδη) which underline Belisarius’ efficiency and reveal the focal-
iser’s subjectivity.
When the narrator evokes the feelings of historical characters, he some-
times reveals himself and makes clear that he only speaks about his own read-
ing of those feelings:
For a long time neither side began battle with the other, but the Persians
seemed to be wondering (θαυμάζουσί … ἐῴκεσαν) at the good order (εὐκο-
σμίαν) of the Romans and to be at a loss (ἀπορουμένοις) how to handle the
situation.
Wars 1.13.24
The use of ἐῴκεσαν clearly indicates that the focalisation is external to the
Persians: the reader has no access to their mind but rather to a reconstruc-
tion of their thought process by a focaliser. This can be the primary narrator-
focaliser showing his intent to objectivise his narrative by highlighting the
limits of his information,81 but it could also be analysed as an embedded focal-
iser, namely the Romans considered collectively, or one of them, the narrator
79 Similarly for the indication of height (ἐς ὕψος) and the number of artisans (πολυανθρωπίᾳ
τεχνιτῶν).
80 See above for the embedded persona in relation to which the space is organized in this
part of the sentence: “on the left as one goes to Nisibis”.
81 Cf. also shortly afterwards (1.13.26) the οἶμαι adding nuance to the interpretation of the
Persian reaction to the first move of the Romans.
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and participant Procopius,82 facing the Persians “for a long time”, observing
their reaction, and speculating about their intentions.
Most often, however, the feelings or reflections of the characters are given
without any restriction, as in 3.14.1–3:
As soon as Belisarius had disembarked upon the island, he began to feel

restless, not knowing how to proceed (ἀπορούμενός τε ἤσχαλλε), and his
mind was tormented by the thought (ἔστρεφεν αὐτοῦ τὴν διάνοιαν) that
he did not know what sort of men (ἐπὶ τίνας ποτὲ ἀνθρώπων) the Vandals
were against whom he was going, and how strong they were in war
(ἢ ὁποίους ποτὲ τὰ πολέμια), or in what manner (ὅτῳ τρόπῳ) the Romans
would have to wage the war, or what place (ἢ ὁπόθεν ποτέ) would be their
base of operation. Most of all he was disturbed by the soldiers (μάλιστα
δὲ αὐτὸν οἱ στρατιῶται ξυνετάρασσον) […] Being at a loss, then, because of
all these things (τούτοις οὖν ἅπασιν ἀπορούμενος), he sent Procopius, his
adviser, to Syracuse …
In this passage, the narrator communicates exactly what the fears and reflec-
tions of Belisarius were, without filtering them through his own focalisation.
The iteration of the questions tormenting the general reinforces this impres-
sion of immediacy: the narrator does not summarize Belisarius’ thoughts but
renders them in indirect speech as they occur to him. Procopius the historian
thus disappears completely as a focaliser.
Procopius the character intervenes immediately afterwards as a partici-
pant in the action, and the narration is centred on him for a while: he received
instructions from Belisarius and sailed to Syracuse; he found there an infor-
mant, whom he brought back to Belisarius. The events which occurred during
Procopius’s absence are only mentioned at the time he heard about them, on
his return to the Roman camp: “But coming to Caucana they [Procopius and
the informant] found everyone in deep grief. For Dorotheos, the General of the
Armenians, had died …” (Wars 3.14.14). At this point of the narration, the nar-
ratee was only given as much information as the character through whom the
events were focalised: Procopius.
These focalisation shifts dramatise Belisarius’ loss and emphasise the role of
Procopius as participant. By blurring his role as narrator/historian, Procopius
reinforces his authority as witness. Additionally, he manages a dramatic effect,
enhancing his role as an agent of the narrative. In fact, his intervention saves
Belisarius who, at a loss at the beginning of the episode, is overjoyed to hear
82 See above, p. 377.
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the information given by the informant and praises Procopius for his mission
(Wars 3.14.15).83
Procopius also regularly uses embedded focalisation to enliven and drama-
tise the narrative. In Wars 3.19.13ff., the narration is focalised on foederati sent
by Belisarius in advance of the whole army. Having reached Decimum and
found the traces of an encounter between Romans and Vandals, they were at
a loss and observed the country from the hills: “a dust cloud appeared in the
south and then a little later a large force of Vandal horsemen.” The focalisation
is very clearly limited here to the foederati, and the narrator briefly adopts their
point of view, letting the reader see through their eyes and discover the coming
of the Vandal horsemen.
Procopius’s focalisation throughout the Wars generally follows the same line
as his predecessors in classical Greek historiography since Herodotus: the his-
torian explores the minds of historical characters, exposes their motivations,
or explains their actions, more or less overtly, in a teleologic perspective. The
narrator speaks after the events and not only knows the subsequent future,
but also makes visible the causes that lead to it. As a covert narrator-focaliser,
he appears as “omniscient”, but his knowledge of the thoughts and emotions
of the characters results from his analysis and is sometimes presented accord-
ingly. Even though he gives an insight into the minds of historical figures, the
historian still remains on the outside. He reconstructs their thoughts, but does
not know them. It is therefore a choice by the narrator to reveal his focalisation
to varying degrees.
Procopius is well aware of the demiurgic role of the historian authoring
his text:
As for me, during this struggle I was moved to wonder at the ways of
heaven and of men, and how God, who sees from afar what the future
holds, traces out the manner in which it seems best to him that things
should come to pass, while men, whether they get it wrong or plan cor-
rectly, do not know that they have made a mistake, if that chances to
be the case, or have acted correctly, so that in all of this a path is laid
down for Chance (Tyche), who implements all that has been ordained
beforehand.
Wars 3.18.2
83 See for further examples Ross, “Narrator and Participant”, p. 78 and Lillington-Martin,
“Procopius, πάρεδρος/quaestor”, p. 163.
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Here the narrator explicitly focuses on himself at the time when the action
took place. This special case of an embedded focaliser is common in retrospec-
tive narratives where the narrator is also an agent of the narration. The narra-
tor at the time of the narration can thus refer both to himself at the time of
the narrated events, and to the knowledge he had at that very moment. This is
especially clear shortly after this passage, when the narrating Procopius men-
tions his ignorance at the time of the war (Wars 3.19.1: “We had learned nothing
of what had happened”, where “we” corresponds to Procopius and the rest of
the Roman army).
It is remarkable, however, that the reflections of Procopius the participant,
in the middle of the events, are already the reflections of a historian, think-
ing on the causes and consequences of the plans designed by Belisarius or the
enemy armies, and speculating about alternatives. His comment on Tyche in
the quoted passage is immediately followed by some hypotheses: “If Belisarius
had not thus arranged his forces …” (3.19.3), “And even with this planned so
by Belisarius …” (3.19.4). At this point, it is Procopius the narrator who speaks,
knowing already the outcome of the battle, and validating a posteriori his past
thoughts and probably projecting his knowledge of the future onto his past
self. The whole passage (3.18.2–5) bridges the gap between the narrator and the
agent, staging the agent as a historian already and, conversely, reinforcing the
image of the narrator as a reliable witness.
The passage is also a statement regarding historical methodology. It implic-
itly describes the historian’s role as reconstructing the path implemented by
Tyche and unveiling God’s plans. God already knows the future in the past,
and it is up to the historian, as soon as the future is known to him, to explain
accordingly how the events of the past developed to their end in the present.
The role of Tyche in the unfolding of events allows to distinguish between the
contingencies that the historian has to investigate, and the divine design on
which he can only speculate.
3.2 Focalisation in the Secret History

Given that the Secret History is presented by Procopius as a complement to the
Wars, it is not surprising that at first glance the focalisation is most comparable
between these works, except that the primary narrator-focaliser is more often
overt in the Secret History than in the Wars, and intervenes differently.
Its manifestation in the very beginning of the narrative is particularly strong:
Belisarius had a wife (Ἦν τῷ Βελισαρίῳ γυνή), whom I have mentioned in

the earlier books (ἧς δὴ ἐν τοῖς ἔμπροσθεν λόγοις ἐμνήσθην). Her father and
grandfather were both charioteers who had performed professionally in
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Byzantium and Thessalonica. Her mother, on the other hand, had been
one of those types who whore themselves on stage (μητρὸς δὲ τῶν τινος ἐν
θυμέλῃ πεπορνευμένων).
Secret History 1.11
The introduction to the work, which immediately precedes this passage,

already establishes the narrator as identical with the one in the Wars. This
identification is repeated here through the cross reference to “earlier books.”
The focalisation, rather covert in the Wars, appears very clearly here with the
word πεπορνευμένων at the end of the sentence. This unexpectedly harsh term
suddenly unveils the presence of the focaliser and makes clear the orientation
given by him to the text, immediately confirmed in the following sentences.84
In fact, this was already discernible in the first words of the sentence: accord-
ing to the introduction, the work was supposed to concern at first Belisarius,85
but actually opened with a statement about his wife and her parents, imme-
diately taking up the theme of Belisarius’ passivity and his submission to his
wife; a recurring theme in the Secret History.
It is not only the more frequent openness of the focalisation that distin-
guishes the Secret History from the Wars, but also the overall narrative strategy
that an uncovered focalisation allows. An in-depth comparison of two very
similar passages in the Wars and in the Secret History shows it clearly.86
In the Wars, Procopius reports how Theodora persecuted the praetorian
prefect John the Cappadocian, who had displeased her (1.25.4–43):
When John discovered what the empress had in mind, for him, he was
thoroughly terrified. Whenever he entered his bedroom to sleep, he
imagined every night that one of the barbarians would attack and kill
him. He was always peeping out of his room and keeping watch over the
entrances, so that he rarely slept at all, even though he kept thousands
of personal guards and field marshals in his employ, something that no
84 See for ex. μάχλον τινὰ βιώσασα βίον, with the rare pejorative word μάχλος, or μήτηρ ἤδη
παίδων γενομένη πολλῶν, πολλοί being a subjective – and in this context also derogatory –
indication of quantity.
85 Hist. arc. 1.10: διά τοι ταῦτα πρῶτα μὲν ὅσα Βελισαρίῳ μοχθηρὰ εἴργασται ἐρῶν ἔρχομαι.
86 The similarity of those passages has led scholars to see the episode from the Wars as the-
matically more suited for the Secret History and even as having been written initially for
that work (see Greatrex, “The composition of Procopius’ Persian Wars”, pp. 6 and 10 with
further references). Be that as it may, the striking difference in the narration, especially
the focalisation, reveals that Procopius perfectly fitted each story to the overall narrative
in which they are integrated.
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prefect before him had done. But when the morning came, all his fears of
God and man would flee from him …
Wars 1.25.6–8
In this passage, the narrator is almost totally absent. He focalises on John’s feel-
ings, which he summarily describes and illustrates (“he was thoroughly terri-
fied”, “he imagined …”, “he was always peeping out of his room and keeping
watch …”). The situation is not described as a specific event but as a recurring
one (“whenever …”, “always …”, “every night”, etc.). The main narrator-focaliser
reveals himself only in an opinion about the guard (“something that no prefect
before him had done”).
The Secret History retells a similar story concerning Belisarius, who also
feared for his security due to being in disgrace. The situation described and the
psychological frame are the same: fears grow, especially during the night, when
the character is alone.87 But the narrative technique is rather different:
[…] he departed for his home late in the evening, looking over his shoul-
der every few minutes as he was walking and scanning the streets all
around to see from what direction his killers would come. In this state
of terror he went up to his room and sat alone upon his bed, having no
intention of doing anything brave, not even remembering that he had
once been a man. His sweat ran in streams. He felt light-headed. He could
not even think straight in his panic, worn out by servile fears and the wor-
ries of an impotent coward …
Secret History 4.21–22
The shifting focalisation in this passage of the Secret History perfectly illus-
trates the peculiar tone of this work. The focaliser goes from covert to overt,
and switches constantly from an external to an embedded focalisation. In
doing so, the narrator gives more strength to his narrative and more impact to
his presentation of the events.
The focalisation is at first external and covert: the reader has a close-up view
of Belisarius walking in the street on a certain night after a visit to the palace.
The effect of proximity comes from the details given about his environment
and attitude. His state of mind is not immediately stated, but is to be deduced
from his behaviour. The external focalisation was announced already in 4.16:
87 There is at the beginning of this episode in the Secret History a direct reference to the
story of John the Cappadocian (Secret History 4.18).
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What a bitter spectacle and incredible sight (πικρὸν θέαμα καὶ ἄπιστος
ὄψις) it was to see Belisarius going about in Byzantium as a private cit-
izen: virtually alone, always gloomy and sullen, in constant terror of a
murderer’s knife.
In the Wars, John’s fear was named from the outset, summarised like any event
occurring in that period. Here, it is through the description of Belisarius that
the reader first perceives his anxiety; he is put under reader’s eyes. It is only
afterwards that his feelings are formulated: Belisarius is convinced that he will
be assassinated very soon. The mention of the “killers” in 4.21 (τοὺς ἀπολλύ-
ντας) belongs to Belisarius – convinced as he was that Theodora would have
him killed – and not to Procopius, who knows that it was not to happen. From
this point onward, the focalisation seems to be set on Belisarius – whose feel-
ings the narratee now knows – and his actions (he is terrorized, goes to his
bedroom, sits on his bed …), but rapidly it becomes clear that the feelings of
Belisarius are still considered from the point of view of the narrator, who pres-
ents the character as “having no intention of doing anything brave, not even
remembering that he had once been a man.” The external focaliser is revealed
here not only through the negations but also the critical tone. However, the
focalisation immediately switches back to Belisarius, to the external and inter-
nal symptoms of his terror,88 before switching again to the narrator-focaliser
repeating his judgement of Belisarius’ attitude as unmanly.
On the level of the information, the two texts seem quite similar overall: the
narrator knows exactly what the character has in mind and what he does when
he is alone in his bedroom. The difference between the two texts lies in the
dramatisation and the active implication of the narratee in the construction
of the text’s meaning in the Belisarius episode. The focus moves rapidly from
external to internal, from the close up to the subjective view, and the reader is
progressively invited to share the judgement of Procopius which is gradually
mixed into Belisarius’ own thoughts.89
Similar material can be presented by Procopius in two very different ways,
fitting with his intention and the generic frame in which he chooses to write.
Variations in the focalisation enhance the impact of the narrative on the
88 The sweat can be seen by an external focaliser or felt by Belisarius and this detail is there-
fore rather neutral.
89 Perhaps is it even possible to go a step further here in interpreting the introduction to the
Secret History itself (1.2–3), where the narrator declares he previously concealed part of
the information he had about the wars out of a fear for his life: his decision to disclose in
the Secret History the events that he could not mention in his previous work gives a more
positive image of the narrator in comparison to his character Belisarius.
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narratee. It allows the narrator to steer his implication within the narration,
reinforce an appearance of objectivity or, to the contrary, give the narrative a
more personal and emotional tone.
3.3 Focalization in the Buildings

In the Buildings, Procopius resorts to a special type of embedded focalisation:
So the church has become a spectacle of marvellous beauty (θέαμα …

κεκαλλιστευμένον), overwhelming to those who see it (τοῖς μὲν ὁρῶσιν), but
to those who know it by hearsay (τοῖς δὲ ἀκούουσι) altogether incredible.
And the church has thus become a spectacle of great beauty (θέαμα …
κεκαλλιστευμένον), overwhelming to those who see it (τοῖς μὲν ὁρῶσιν),
and entirely beyond belief for those who hear about it (τοῖς δὲ ἀκούουσι).
Buildings 1.1.27
This narrative device, regularly used in geographical descriptions,90 consists

in focalising on an unnamed persona, distinct from the narrator, in relation
to which the narrative is organised. The effect achieved is a greater implica-
tion of the narratee in the text where the unnamed persona acts as a delegate.
After this introductory sentence marking the transition with the preceding
story of the construction of Hagia Sophia, the description of the church that
follows remains mainly focalised by this anonymous persona, the delegate of
the narratee in the text. To this effect, Procopius uses verbs of perception in
the passive form (“from there the whole city is viewed [ἀποσκοπεῖται] as from
a watch-tower”, 1.1.27) and masks his presence as a narrator behind passive or
impersonal forms (“it may not improperly be said [εἰρήσεται] to be exceedingly
long and at the same time unusually broad”, 1.1.28; “one might say …” lit. “you
might say …” [φαίης ἂν], 1.1.30). Technical information is inserted into the texts
by way of references to external information sources, such as in 1.1.32 about
the ceiling structure of the church “which those who are skilled in such mat-
ters call a half-cylinder” (ὅπερ οἱ περὶ τὰ τοιαῦτα σοφοὶ ἡμικύλινδρον ὀνομάζουσιν).
This perpetuates the impression that the focaliser has a level of information
apparently similar to that of the narratee. Similarly in 1.1.34 the text reproduces
90 For example, in Strabo or Pausanias: see Gengler, “Ni rel ni imaginaire”. Also regularly in
Procopius, especially in the Buildings. So for example in 2.4.1: “As one goes (ἰόντι) from
Dara into the Persian country there lies on the left a territory which cannot be traversed at
all by wagons or even by horses”. The impersonal ἰόντι indicates a delegate of the narratee
in the text in relation to which the movement and its orientation in space is described.
The indication “on the left” only makes sense in reference to the direction given by the
movement of this persona.
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the feeling provoked by the contemplation of the dome, at the same time mar-
vellous and terrifying:
For it seems somehow to float in the air on no firm basis, but to be poised
aloft to the peril of those inside it. Yet actually it is braced with excep-
tional firmness and security.
Buildings 1.1.34
The emotion precedes the understanding, which is based on observable fact.

The focalisation goes from the impression to the observation, from how the
building seems to be to how it really is, thus reproducing the effect of visit-
ing the church for the narratee. All these devices keep the text’s focalisation
centred on the delegate of the narratee in the text, a narratee who is therefore
invited to discover Hagia Sophia for themselves through the text.
This narrative technique is particularly focused on the realm of aesthetics
and emotions, and it is useful to think of reader-response theories, such as
Iser’s idea of the reader pole of the text as the “aesthetic pole”91 (opposite to
the author’s “artistic pole”). This is the pole of the “now”, the immediacy of the
text.92 Another example of this is the description of the Bosphorus, appealing
to the narratee with the second person:
You would think (δόξαις ἂν) you were watching a river advancing towards
you with its gentle flow
Buildings 1.5.7
The optative emphasize here that this is the domain of imagination and make-
believe. There is also a sensory quality, almost a sensuality, in the way the sen-
tence sinuates slowly with harmonious sounds in an effort to appeal to both
eyes and ears.93
The following is another exercise in make-believe, and the narrator’s del-
egate draws the audience once more into the immersive experience of Hagia
Sophia:
91 Iser, The Implied Reader, p. 272.

92 Cf. above under “Time”.
93 For those who want to attempt reading it aloud to themselves: δόξαις ἂν ποταμὸν τεθεᾶσθαι
ἐπίπροσθεν προσηνεῖ τῷ ῥείθρῳ ἰόντα.
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One might imagine (τις ἂν … δόξειεν) he had happened upon a meadow

in full bloom. For one would naturally marvel (θαυμάσειε γὰρ ἂν εἰκότως)
at the purple of some, the grassy green of others, at those blooming […]
Buildings 1.1.59–60
It is an invitation to reimagine the space around them as a natural space, using

the colours of the marble to blend the boundaries between the real-world
experience of a man-made building and the mind’s creation of a fictional locus
amoenus. This daydreaming act is a social construction, the expected response
to a work of art, as late antique art increasingly requires imaginative work on
the viewer’s part, and the imaginative response of the spectator in turn creates
a new imaginative activity in the artist.94
There is a particularly striking example for the use of focalisation in Hagia
Sophia: the passage is focused on the gaze as the organizing agent of the
description and on the medium’s power to shape the viewer’s experience.95
All of these elements, fitted together beyond belief (παρὰ δόξαν) […] do
not allow the spectators (οὐ παρέχονται δὲ τοῖς θεωμένοις) to let the gaze
linger for long on any of them, but each draws (μεθέλκει) the eye to itself
and turns (μεταβιβάζει) it away with ease. So the vision keeps shifting sud-
denly, for it is not possible in any way for the observer (τοῦ ἐσορῶντος) to
pick which particular feature to admire more than the others. But even if
they observe (ἀποσκοποῦντες) attentively on every side, furrowing (συννε-
νευκότες) their brow at every detail, they are still unable (οὐχ οἷοί τέ εἰσι) to
understand the craftsmanship, and they always depart from there aston-
ished by their powerless gaze (τῇ ἐς τὴν ὄψιν ἀμηχανίᾳ)
Buildings 47–49
The first element of focalisation is the adverbial παρὰ δόξαν, indicating the
wondrous quality of the coming passage. It is unclear where this analysis,
which contributes to this idea of a “community of experience” of the narrator
and narratee, comes from. The passage begins with an utterly passive focal-
iser, namely the spectators themselves. Indeed, the community of narrator and
94 See Onians, “Imagination and Abstraction”, especially pp. 18–19 relating to the influence
of rhetoric on the plastic arts) showing how rhetorical education in the imperial period
was one of the factors of the development of ekphrasis as a formalised reaction to art
and a social practice, and how this may have influenced art production itself, using in
particular the example of the choice of marbles with strong vein patterns to allow for this
creative practice of seeing figurative elements in abstract patterns.
95 See also the reading in Elsner, “Rhetoric of Buildings”.
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narratee seems then to be subsumed into a floating eye, the gaze, which is the
object of the artistic features who are the subject of the active verbs following.
The gaze then itself becomes the active subject and the passivity of the audi-
ence is reasserted, this time using the singular to refer to the universality of
the experience (τοῦ ἐσορῶντος as opposed to τοῖς θεωμένοις). Finally, there is a
last attempt by the community of viewers to reclaim agency with two active
participles, but once more their impotence is reasserted (οὐχ οἷοί τέ εἰσι) and
Procopius finishes the sentence with this notion of a powerless gaze. Although
the passage could be said to be focalised externally, with the narrator depicting
the experience of viewers from the outside, the reader is irresistibly drawn in,
like the spectator’s uncontrollable gaze.
4 Conclusion
The position of the narrator, the treatment of time and the use of focalisation
are three aspects of the same process: narrativisation,96 that is, the description
of events in an organised narrative. Even in historiography, narration is a pro-
cess involving different strategies and devices to produce a variety of effects,
the understanding of which is helpful in order to understand and interpret a
text. Narratology is one possible analytical tool that explores the way a text
works. It opens new perspectives for the historical interpretation of a text, but
it cannot replace it. Understanding ancient accounts of the past is only one
step in the work of modern historians, but it is an essential one.
Narratology is a set of tools which formalises the way a text functions for
analytical purposes. At the end of this paper, we would like to sketch further
research perspectives that such an approach to Procopius’ works suggests, and
which are beyond the scope of this paper.
Following the models of numerous predecessors, Procopius regularly inserts
sections of direct speech in his narrative: letters, speeches, even short dialogues
in the Secret History. It would be informative to systematically analyse how sec-
tions written in direct speech compare to the main narrative, and determine
whether embedded overt narrators are distinguished from the main narrator.
Similarly, a deeper and wider analysis of each work or part thereof, in par-
ticular the different sections of the Wars, would help to more precisely identify
their specificities. This paper regularly compared the Wars, the Secret History
96 See White “The Narrativization of Real Events” for a short overview of the use of this con-
cept in modern historiography
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and the Buildings, but a systematic approach would require a detailed focus on
a single aspect of the texts, or require more space.
Finally, formalised comparisons with other authors should be made in light
of a narratological reading of Procopius’s work: the well-known similarities
of Procopius’s texts with Thucydides’ or Herodotus’ Histories are palpable in
numerous narratological aspects. Applying similar analytical tools to the works
of Procopius and other ancient historians would allow for finer comparisons
and stronger conclusions.97 A more intensive analysis could show through
which aspects exactly and in which passages Procopius’s works resemble or
distinguish themselves from his predecessors and his contemporaries and thus
define anew the place attributed to Procopius’s works in the Greek historio-
graphical tradition.
97 Much relevant comparative material concerning ancient Greek historiography has been
assembled by de Jong/Nünlist/Bowie, Narrator, pp. 99–210 and de Jong/Nünlist, Time,
pp. 113–230. See generally the very inspiring work of de Jong, Rood, and Gray. Very useful
perspectives are given also in Marincola’s pioneering book, Authority and Tradition.
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Index
We have chosen not to police how individual authors spelled many of the names, especially as
concerns Greek and Latin forms. Alternative forms encountered in the volume are here given in
brackets. We have also renounced tracking omnipresent names such as “Justinian” or “Belisarius”
and, obviously, “Procopius”.
Abgar V 185–86, 188, 197, 225, 357n.6 Anatolius 186, 313

Abkhazians 330 Ancona 286
Abyssinia 12 Andreas 398
Ad Decimum 81, 202, 204, 208–09, 265–66, Angles 183n.23, 279, 302–03
291–92, 407 Annianos 165
Ad Salices 168 Anonymus Valesianus 157, 176
Adana 144 Antes 274n.70, 279, 304–08 see also Slavs
Adergoudounbades (Adargulbad) 314, 317, Anthemius 370n.39, 386
319, 324 Antinoöpolis 77
Adrianople 87 Antioch 64, 78, 80, 92, 113, 145, 148–49, 151,
Aeschylus 100, 179 163, 173, 175, 183, 197–99, 217, 241, 246,
Aëtius 189–90, 371n.43 311, 317, 328, 365n.27
Africa 15–18, 26, 34, 41n.66, 44–45, 57, 64, Antonina 47, 52, 65, 121–22, 127, 130, 132,
67, 72, 73, 79–82, 87–97, 103, 106–07, 354, 400–01
115–16, 121, 127, 138–41, 176n.73, 180–81, Apamea (Apameia) 183, 197, 225, 239, 317
185, 189, 206–07, 215–18, 225, 237, 242– Apion 44
45, 248, 256–73, 275, 278, 283, 288–91, Apollodorus 388
310, 344, 346, 363, 366, 369, 371, 400 Appian 45, 91–92, 178, 341
Agathias 34, 65, 109, 151, 187, 231–38, 240, Apsilians 330
247–50, 303, 312, 325, 330, 336, 342 Aquileia 190
Agesilaos 345 Arabia 218, 332, 383
Alamundarus (Alamundaros) 182n.18, Arabic 65, 158, 310
331–32 Arabs 12–13, 15, 20, 77, 116, 162, 331, 332
Alaric 189–90, 281, 300, 371–72 Arborici 299–300
Albanians 330 Arcadius 21, 186–87, 234, 312, 394–95
Alemanni 299 Areobindus 82, 218
Alexandria 64, 165, 173–34, 357 Arethas 331–32
Amalaberga 298 Aristophanes 179, 339
Amalafrida 243, 298 Aristotle 100, 179, 351, 389
Amalaric (Amalarich) 315n.15, 300 Arles 19, 302
Amalasuntha (Amalasountha) 50, 83, 182, Armenia and Armenians 12, 52, 77, 78–9,
242, 248, 360, 367–68 100, 140–41, 145–47, 187, 189, 246, 387,
Amida 99, 187, 215n.19, 217, 225, 315, 327 389, 406
Ammata 291 Armenian 165, 189, 320
Ammianus Marcellinus 132n.32, 155–57, 159, Arrian 100, 111–12, 178
168, 171, 177, 225, 366 Arsaces 187, 246
Ammon 141 Arsacids 319, 322n.84
Anašozad 317, 319, 328, 333 Artabanes (Artabanos, Artabanus) 102,
Anastasius I 12, 18, 20, 67, 109, 142, 146, 174, 180, 182n.20, 241n.47, 245, 258n.18, 344,
187, 260, 293, 314, 316, 335, 358 351–52, 356
- 978-90-04-49877-8
468 Index
Asia 10, 13, 140, 146, 275 Byzantium and Byzantines 1, 3–4, 15–18, 23,
Asinius Quadratus 162 27–28, 30, 34–35, 37, 43n.75, 51, 57, 70,
Assyria 328–29 72, 82, 95, 103, 108, 156, 161, 164, 174–75,
Athalaric 17, 83, 284, 300, 367–68 177, 189, 192–93, 199, 201, 205–06, 208,
Athenians 2, 160–62, 256 231, 238, 241–43, 250–51, 260–61, 304,
Athens 33n.24, 79, 81, 115, 159n.20, 161, 360, 384, 409, 411
257
Atlantic 27 Cabaones 239
Attila 174, 190, 298, 371 Caesarea 1, 35, 61–64, 133, 146, 164, 178, 195,
Audoin 296–98 231, 237, 241, 246, 250, 255, 264, 376
Augustus 16, 169, 188, 357n.6 Caesarius 306
Aurelian 162 Callinicum 44, 64, 77, 85, 103, 180, 316
Aurelius Victor 158, 167 Cambyses 345
Ausonius 163, 164n.36 Canduc 298
Auximum 180 Caput Vada 141
Avars 16, 27 Carthage 65, 81, 96–97, 146, 218, 226, 244,
265–66, 288–89
Bahram V 186, 313, 334 Cassiodorus 17, 174, 176, 281, 304
Balaxš (Zamasp) 319 Cassius Dio 155
Balkans 15–16, 19–20, 27, 68, 73, 83, 86–87, Cato 341
90, 93, 137, 140, 146, 209, 231 Caucana 406
Barbarians 4, 12, 15, 17–19, 50, 72, 74, 80, 83, Caucasus 12–13, 15, 70, 76, 224, 275, 282, 317,
86, 102, 105–07, 122, 127, 130. 133, 135, 330–31
155, 160, 170, 176–77, 179, 184, 192, 206, Cedrenus see John Cedrenus
218, 234, 237, 244, 256–57, 260, 262, Chalcedon and Chalcedonians 17, 24–25,
264–65, 268, 273, 277–79, 282, 284, 49, 63, 128, 174, 216
287–88, 290, 293, 295–97, 301, 303–04, Chalcis 138, 150
307–08, 333–35, 344, 350, 357, 363–73, Chilbudius 249n.80, 304
388, 409 Childebert 300
Barḥadbshabba 158 China 9–10, 12–14, 27, 321n.83, 322
Basileios of Cilicia 174 Chlothar 300
Basiliscus 192, 193n.71, 216n.22 Choricius 1, 61–62, 178, 342n.14
Belapaton 328 Chorzane 142, 328
Berytus 64 Christodorus 109
Bessas 54, 86–87, 95, 102, 203, 226 Chryses 143
Bithynia 143 Claudian 126, 163, 321
Blachernae 144 Clovis 17–18, 300, 303
Blemmyes 50, 187, 332n.166 Colluthus 109
Boethius 269n.54, 370 Cologne 168
Bonifatius 189, 371 Constantina 144–45
Bosporus 142, 283 Constantine I 157, 159, 164–65, 170–71
Bouzes 398 Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus 34–35,
Brasidas 344 247–49
Britain 169, 183, 175 Constantinople 1, 10–11, 17–26, 33–34,
Britons 302 44–45, 49, 54–55, 57, 64–65, 67–68,
Brittia 302–03 76–79, 81, 85, 87,90, 96–97, 99, 103,
Bulgars 27, 247 109, 118, 127, 129, 133–34, 139, 142–46,
Burgundians 299–300 150–51, 158, 163, 166, 173–76, 180–84,
- 978-90-04-49877-8
Index 469
186, 188, 190, 215, 217, 241, 259–60, 262, Epidamnus 193, 306
269, 271–72, 278, 282, 293, 296, 298–99, Epirus 147n.35, 193
303, 305–07, 310, 312, 316, 330, 345, Eraric 284–85
360, 363–64, 368, 370, 386, 388 see also Ethiopia and Ethiopians 184, 218, 275, 383
Byzantium Euboea 142
Constantius I Chlorus 164 Eunapios 159–60, 171, 175
Corcyra 77 Euphrates 12, 145, 328, 381
Corippus (Gorippus) 82, 102, 137, 176n.73, Euphratesia 141–42
288 Eurasia 10, 12, 15, 26–27
Corsica 242 Eurich 157
Cosmas Indicopleustes 382 Europe 23, 37, 72, 87, 140, 161, 275, 278
Crimea 275, 283 Eusebius 63, 161, 163–66, 172–73, 185–86,
Ctesiphon 11, 312, 316–17, 323, 328 188, 196, 228–29, 349, 354
Cumae 370 Eustathios of Epiphaneia 175, 177, 187n.44,
Cyril of Scythopolis 249, 281n.15 189, 193
Cyrus 244, 339, 356 Eutropius 158, 166
Evagrius Scholasticus 34, 151, 179, 231,
Dacia 295–97 238–40, 250, 349, 362
Dalmatia 73, 83, 259n.23, 296
Danes 295 Fara 344, 351
Daphne 183, 319 Faustinus 63
Dara 11–12, 45, 64, 77, 110, 113, 140, 143–45, Fidelius 217
148–49, 180–81, 183–84, 316, 326–27, Franks 17, 19–20, 27, 84, 88, 161, 182, 207,
396–99, 402, 404 209, 210n.38, 232–33, 278, 289, 296–97,
Darial 331 299–303, 308
Datius 295 Frigeridus 157
Datius of Milan 217n.33, 218 Frisians 302
Decius 163
Demosthenes 62, 179 Gallienus 162
Derbent (Derbend) 331 Gallipoli 146
Dexippus (Dexippos) 2, 160–62, 170 Gaul 17, 19, 27, 169, 281, 296, 299, 300, 302
Deylamnites 329 Gaza 1–2, 61–64, 178, 342n.14
Diocletian 126, 164, 187, 357–58 Geiseric (Gaiseric) 182, 189, 192n.68, 218,
Diodorus of Sicily 178, 339, 382 289–91, 367n.33, 371
Dionysius of Halicarnassus 105, 178, 339, Gelimer 16, 80–81, 102, 205, 208, 226,
341–42, 346, 382 242–43, 286, 291–92, 344–45, 351, 369
Dolomites 328 Gento 290
Dorotheos 406 Georgius 181
Dory 283 Gepids 16, 228, 280–81, 292–93, 295–99,
Dubius 217n.31 307–08
Germans 16–18, 73, 86, 127, 162, 299, 333
Edessa 79, 141, 144–45, 149, 158, 185, 188, 197, Germanus 47, 86–88, 102, 362
225, 239, 333, 387 Ghassanids 12, 331–32
Egypt and Egyptians 25–26, 140, 187, 233, Glycerius 192
288, 388 Godas 242
England 26, 39 Göktürks 13, 16 see also Turks
Ephesus 143, 172 Gontharis 181, 184, 199, 218, 245, 289
Ephoros of Cyme 162 Gorga (Gorgo) 328–29
- 978-90-04-49877-8
470 Index
Gorippus see Corippus Iberia and Iberians 12, 18, 188, 215, 278, 330
Goths 19, 83, 155n.2, 161, 176, 182, 184, 191, Iran 10, 27, 313, 315n.38, 319, 327–38, 249
199, 206, 208, 210, 214, 218, 222, 239, Ireland 9, 26
261n.30, 262, 268–71, 275, 279–86, Isaurians 163, 174
293, 296, 298–303, 307–08, 336, 345, Isocrates 179, 389
350, 360, 363, 365–67, 368n., 369n.36, Isthmus 403
370n.39, 372, 392, 395n.58, 404 see also Italy 16–19, 27, 41, 44, 54, 57, 65, 67–68,
Ostrogoths, Visigoths 72–108, 113, 116, 127, 138, 176, 180–83,
Greece 88, 107, 344, 361n.18, 403 see also 190–93, 199–203, 206–12, 217n.33,
Athens, Peloponnesus 226, 231–33, 239, 256–64, 267–73,
Gregory of Corinth 34 278–85, 293, 297–304, 310, 341,
Gregory of Tours 157 344–45, 351, 353, 361–72, 392, 394,
Grepes 16 400
Gunderic 182 Iulius Africanus (Sextus) 165
Gunthamund 291
Guntharis 82, 93 Jacob (anachorete) 188, 225, 334
Gusanastades 313–14 Jerome 158, 165–66
Jerusalem 143, 146, 177, 214n.9, 239, 402
Hadrumetum 217 Jesus 24, 41, 165, 185–86, 216, 333
Hagia Sophia 23, 137, 139–40, 144–45, 150, John of Aigai 174
228, 339, 384–85, 387, 390, 401–02, John the Cappadocian 22, 52, 68, 77, 79, 92,
412–14 102, 182, 218, 221, 241, 258, 267, 344, 347,
Hellestheaios of Ethiopia 215n.15, 218 409, 410n.87
Hephthalites 13, 116, 214, 238, 245, 278–79, John Cedrenus 151, 188
313–15, 318, 331 John Cyrtus 132
Hermogenes 44, 317, 347–48, 396, 398–99 John Diakrinomenos 174
Herodian 157, 178 John of Ephesus 229n.114, 320, 348
Herodotus 34, 46, 74, 76, 100, 107, 110–12, John of Epiphaneia 34, 177, 237
117, 141, 155, 172, 178, 213, 220, 224, 229, John Kourkouas 247
276, 281, 327, 339, 341, 344–45, 377, John the Lydian 23, 66, 110, 117–18, 139, 259,
381–82, 407, 416 351
Heruls (Heruli) 16, 50, 85, 161, 192n.65, John Malalas 66, 103, 110, 137, 147–48,
215n.17, 239, 278–79, 285n.23, 292–98, 150–51, 175, 233, 243, 245, 250, 317
308, 333 John of Nikiu 65, 240–41
Hesychius 34, 248–49 John Troglita 44, 82, 87, 93
Hildebad 284 John (Ioannes) Tzetzes 348
Hilderic 80, 243, 291, 369 Jordanes 44, 99, 176, 191–92, 295, 298, 304
Hildigisel 297–99 Joshua son of Nun 239
Hippolytos 165 Joshua the Stylite 158, 327
Hira 332 Jovian 170
Homer 15, 81, 97, 115, 179, 284, 339, 346, Julian 163, 167–70, 175
349–50 Juliopolis 144
Honorius 170, 190, 312, 371–72, 394–95 Justin I 20–21, 47n.96, 121, 187–88, 234, 246,
Horace 179 259n.29, 260, 311, 316, 335, 349, 357,
Huneric 225, 239, 290–91, 367n.33 400–01, 405
Hydatius 176–77 Justin II 20, 137, 177
Justin (officer) 132
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Index 471
Kabaon 292 Mauritania Sitifensis 91

Kandidos (historian) 174 Maximinus 184
Kandidos of Sergiopolis 225 Maximinus Thrax 157
Kawad I 12, 14, 76–77, 116, 187–88, 217, Mebodes 316–17
234–35, 237, 246, 313–16, 319, 323–25, Medes 74, 379
333–34 Melitene 143, 146
Kayanids 313 Melito of Sardis 216
Khosrow I 13–14, 77–79, 91–92, 101–02, 105, Memmius Symmachus 176, 191, 370
113, 116, 182–84, 197–99, 205, 207–08, Menander (Menandros) Protector 177, 231,
217–18, 234, 237, 239, 246, 256–57, 263, 236–38, 248, 305n.47
311, 315–20, 322, 324, 233–34, 265–66 Mesopotamia 64, 73, 76, 79, 80, 96, 140,
Khosrow II 10–11, 148n.43, 238 310, 317
Khuzestan 329 Milan 85, 217–18
Kniva 161 Mindouos 395–96, 404–05
Kutrigurs (Kutriguri) 187n.40, 232–33, Moesia 384
282–83, 297–98 Mons Lactarius 88, 232, 350
Moors 141, 182, 184, 239, 242, 244–45,
Lactantius 126 278–79, 286–92, 306–08, 379
Lakhmid 331 Mount Aurasius 141
Lakhmids 12 Mountain Papua 242, 265n.42, 286, 291
Langobards see Lombards Mundus (Mundo) 83, 298, 365n.29
Lazi 78, 87, 215, 232–33, 330
Lazica 12, 54, 79, 87, 93–95, 101, 146, 184, 203, Naples and Neapolitans 65, 84, 98, 180,
232, 256, 330 181n.14, 214, 221, 262, 285n.22, 370, 373
Leontius 302 Narses 85, 88–89, 95, 102, 192n.65, 199,
Leptis Magna (Leptimagna) 141, 244 201n.23, 211, 222, 239, 261n.30, 285,
Libya 184, 206, 240n.41, 267, 287, 384, 392 293–94, 308, 365
Libyans 83, 243, 257, 259, 261, 265, 268, Nero 21
290–91 Nestorians 10, 25
Licinius 157, 165 Nestorius 10–11
Livius 159, 166 Nicephorus Phocas 248
Lombards 16, 27, 228, 281, 292–93, 295–99, Nicholas Mystikos 247
308 Nicomachus Flavianus 167
Lucian 51, 179n.9, 263n.38, 339, 342 Nisibis 78, 328, 405
Lysias 348 Nobati 187
North Africa see Africa, Numidia
Maiorinus 284 Numidia 82, 265n.42
Malalas see John Malalas
Malchus (Malchos) of Philadelphia 174, Odoacer (Odoaker) 193n.71, 268–71,284,
188n.45, 192–93 372n.43
Mammes 113 Olympiodorus (Olympiodoros) 159, 170–71,
Manuel Komnenos 247, 249–50 173, 190, 366, 371–72
Marcellinus Comes 99, 118, 166, 176, 191 Onesimos 162
Marcian 190 Orestes 220, 221n.56, 259, 381
Martyropolis 142–43, 145, 147–49 Oriens 78, 80, 96, 103
Mauri see Moors Origen 63
Maurice 177, 237, 305, 308 Orosius 160
Mauritania 169 Ortaias (Ortaïas) 98, 182, 183n.23
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472 Index
Osimo 85, 98 Praxagoras 163
Ostrogoths 17, 73, 75, 83–84, 191, 193, 106, Priscus (Priskos) of Panium 99, 117, 174,
207, 209, 257–58, 263 see also Goths 187–90, 192–93, 248, 281, 283, 329, 331,
358, 371
Pacurius 333 Probus 162
Palestine 26, 61, 63, 140, 178, 223, 288 Propontis 1
Panodoros 165 Prosper Tiro 160, 176
Parthians 10 Proterius 174
Paul of Cilicia 182 Pudentius 244
Paul the Silentiary 137, 151
Pegae 144 Ravenna 45, 65, 85, 97, 138, 181, 209, 258,
Peloponnesus and Peloponnsians 255–56, 270–71, 300–01, 312, 369
402 Recinarius 44
Pentapolis 141, 244 Resafa 148
Pericles 103, 111, 119, 268n.52, 272n.64 Rhegium 142
Peroz 188, 214, 235n.21, 238, 245, 246n.69, Rimini 85, 286
250n.90, 313, 318, 326, 329n.148, 334, Rome 10, 12–19, 23, 28–29, 37, 45, 54, 65,
380–81, 389n.47, 395n.59, 396, 398–99 84, 88–89, 97–98, 101, 113, 115, 162–63,
Persarmenia 328–30 168–70, 175–76, 180, 182, 189–91, 203, 214,
Persia 10–15, 27, 64, 76, 79, 87, 93, 186–187, 226, 259–62, 269, 274, 281, 284, 286, 288,
206, 209, 232, 234–35, 256, 260, 270, 290, 334–35, 350, 363, 369, 370–73, 395
313, 317, 319–20, 322, 330, 332, 335–36, Romulus Augustulus 193, 259–60, 268–69,
365, 387, 395–96, 400, 404–05 272, 372
Persians 9, 11, 13–14, 45, 50, 54, 110, 148, 160, Rufinus 172, 316, 396
183–84, 208, 225, 240, 271, 275, 279–80, Rufius Festus 166–67
307–08, 310–11, 315–316, 318–19, 322, Rugians 285, 293, 307
326–27, 330, 332–36, 357, 365–66, Rusticiana 370
380–81, 387, 395–97, 399, 404–06 see
also Sasanians Salona 88
Peter Barsymes (Petrus Barsymas) 214n.12, Samaritans 63, 69, 137, 142, 182, 214
249n.80, 361n.16, 369n.36 Sardinia 242
Peter the Patrician (Petros Patrikios) 50, Sasanians 10–11, 13–14, 16, 73, 232, 234–35,
102, 158, 207, 360–61, 368 256, 310–13, 315n.36, 315n.38, 317,
Petronius Maximus 190n.56, 371 318–22, 324–36 see also Persians
Petrus of Thracia 181 Satala 180
Pharnabazos 345 Sclavenes (Sclaveni) see Slavs
Philip the Arab 162 Scythians 15, 161, 282, 308
Philostorgios 171–72 Senigallia 88
Philostratus (Philostratos) 51, 161–62 Seoses 314, 316–17, 324
Photius (Photios) 1–4, 34, 174, 231, 238, Serdica 163
246–48, 250, 342 Sergius 82, 121, 144, 243–44
Phrygia 143 Severus 64, 172
Picenum 97, 181n.14 Shapur I 162
Pindar 179, 339 Shirin 11
Plataiai 344 Sicily 64–65, 81, 83, 96, 98, 243, 261, 382
Plato 62, 179 Sidonius Apollinaris 157, 177
Plutarch 126, 178, 255, 273, 339 Silverius 50–51
Polybios 117, 119, 155n.2, 159, 178, 202, Sinai 142, 146
286n.25, 318, 339, 341 Singidunum 280, 295
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Index 473
Sirmium 163, 280, 196–97 Theopompus 51

Slavs 16, 20, 27, 86, 209, 274n.70, 279, 295, Thermopylae 142, 403
304–08 see also Antes Thessaly 384
Socrates Scholasticus 159, 171–73, 349 Theudebald 302–03
Solomon 65, 82, 90, 102, 121, 181, 237, Theudebert 19, 300–03
242–44, 247, 257 Thorisin 298–98
Sophanene 328 Thrace (Thracia) 140, 181, 193, 281, 283,
Sozomenos 171, 173, 177, 196 296–98, 384, 389
Spain 17, 27, 242, 281, 283, 289–300 Thrasamund 291–92
Sparta 257 Thucydides 1–2, 34, 46, 62, 72, 74–75, 77, 79,
Stotzas 245 81, 84, 88, 97, 101, 103, 110–14, 116–119,
Strabo 100, 179 132, 155, 160–61, 178, 195–96, 202,
Suartuas 295, 298 207n.32, 210, 213, 220, 224, 228–29,
Suebi 299 255–56, 257n.11, 258, 267, 276, 318, 339,
Suetonius 179 341–45, 355, 377–78, 416
Sulpicius Alexander 157 Thule 85, 99, 182, 191, 294–95, 304, 381n.28
Syracuse 64, 84, 96, 98, 105, 115, 180, 182, Thuringians 299–300
344, 346, 406 Ticinum 217
Syria and Syrians 13, 25–26, 76, 78, 80, 140, Titus 18
162, 240, 311, 317, 319, 329 Totila 86, 88–89, 101–02, 107, 111, 182, 184,
Syriac 10, 109, 158, 174, 185, 188, 329 198–99, 201n.23, 210–11, 222, 278,
284–85, 302, 344, 350, 363, 365, 369–73
Tacitus 167 Trajan 18, 247, 388
Taginae 88, 182, 199, 210, 285 Transcaucasia 76, 78, 256, 310
Theia 88–89, 350, 362 Tribonian 360–61
Theodahat 50, 83–84, 207, 284, 299–300, Tricamarum (Tricamerum, Trikamaron) 81,
360, 368–69 209, 265n.42, 292
Theodebert 233 Trier 163–64
Theodora 21, 29, 38, 40, 42–43, 46–47, 50–52, Tripolis 243–44
92, 104, 121–27, 129–32, 134–35, 195, 200, Tripolitana 169
219–20, 240, 345–48, 351–52, 359–61, Turkey 148
364, 368, 373, 393–94, 400–01, 409, 411 Turks 73, 331 see also Göktürks
Theoderic 17, 83, 11, 193, 242, 248, 268–73, Tzanica and Tzani 52, 137, 146, 218, 232–33,
278, 281, 283–85, 290, 293, 298, 300, 259n.21, 330, 387, 389
308, 367, 369 Tzazon 242
Theodoretos 171, 173 Tzetzes see John Tzetzes
Theodoros Anagnostes 179
Theodoros Lektor 174 Urbisaglia 97
Theodoros of Mopsuhestia 158, 173 Ursicinus 168
Theodosiopolis 146 Ustrigoth 298
Theodosius II 167, 170–71, 173, 186–87, 234, Utigurs 232–33, 282–83, 297
312, 334, 394–95, 400–01
Theophanes the Confessor 137–38, 150–51, Valens 166, 168
159, 165, 177, 179, 187, 231, 233, 238, Valentinian III 170, 189–90, 290, 371
241–48, 250, 312n.19 Vandals 17–18, 64–65, 75, 81–82, 97, 99,
Theophilus 247, 249 140–41, 146, 176, 181, 189, 190, 192, 199,
Theophylact (Theophylactus) 205–09, 215–18, 225, 242, 256–57,
Simocatta 231, 237–38, 240, 244n.58, 245, 265–67, 275, 279–93, 336, 346, 362–63,
249, 305n.47, 342 366–71, 404
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474 Index
Varni 279, 302 Yazdegerd I 186–87, 234, 235n.21, 247,

Veneto 296–97, 302 312–13, 320, 334
Vigilius 50 Yemen 275
Visigoths 17, 27, 280–83, 300, 307 see also
Goths Zaberganes 135, 317
Vitalian 44, 85, 102, 401 Zachariah (philosopher) 64
Vitigis (Vittigis) 84–85, 91, 102, 113, 217n.33, (Pseudo-) Zachariah Rhetor 158, 174
218, 284, 299–301, 366, 369–70 Zames 318–19
Zeno 174, 176, 188, 192, 260, 268–70, 282, 291
Xenophon 111–12, 178, 339, 345, 355 Zenobia 145
Xerxes 105, 107, 258n.18, 344 Zosimos 155, 168n.51, 170–71, 174–75
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A Companion To Procopius of Caesarea, Meier and Montinaro (Eds.)

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A Companion to Procopius of Caesarea

The titles published in this series are listed at brill.com/bcbw

The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available online at https://catalog.loc.gov

Copyright 2022 by Koninklijke Brill nv, Leiden, The Netherlands.

This book is printed on acid-free paper and produced in a sustainable manner.

The Search for Harmony in Procopius’ Literary Works 28

Procopius: Life and Works 61

The Secret History 121

Procopius’ Buildings and Panegyric Effect 137

Historiography in Late Antiquity before Procopius 155

Procopius and Christian Historical Thought 212

Procopius of Caesarea and His Byzantine Successors 231

War and Empire in Procopius’ Wars 255

Procopius and the Barbarians in the West 275

Procopius and the East 310

The Classicism of Procopius 339

Procopius and His Protagonists 355

A Narratological Reading of Procopius 374

In the sixth Christian century lived Procopius, a Christian magis-

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004498778_002 - 978-90-04-49877-8

3 Thucydides, Peloponnesian War 1.22.

entertaining piece,7 if anecdotal, as the Secret History (Anekdota), with the

10 See now also Bleckmann, Die letzte Generation.

1 The World Connected in Darkness

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004498778_003 - 978-90-04-49877-8

2 The Most Prudent Sceptre: Persia

9 Greatrex, “Byzantium and the East”.

13 Payne, “Cosmology”, p. 13.

3 The Most Powerful Kingdom: The Empire of Justinian

16 Oikonomidès, “Silk Trade and Production in Byzantium”.

19 Menander Protector, ed. Blockley, pp. 398–407.

26 Pohl, “Justinian and the Barbarian Kingdoms”.

Belisarius, upon reaching Byzantium (sc. Constantinople) with Gelimer

3.2 Political Order

Critics of the emperor suggested that eunuchs, especially his personal

33 For Theodora see Leppin, Justinian, pp. 189–91; 288–92; 309–13.

38 Kelly, Ruling the Later Roman Empire.

40 Leppin, “Power from Humility”.

natures of Christ. They are traditionally called Miaphysites or Monophysites

43 Chazelle/Cubitt (eds), The Crisis of the Oikoumene.

4 Connecting the Eurasian Continent

45 McCormick, “Rats, Communications, and Plague”; Horden, “Mediterranean Plague”;

© Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, 2022 | doi:10.1163/9789004498778_004 - 978-90-04-49877-8

published sooner.5 Although it appears Alemanni had completed his work in

1 Framing the Problem

Methodology is the most pressing problem confronting modern understand-

12 Averil Cameron, Procopius, p. ix, but more systematically articulated in “History as

The reason of so different a Conduct, in one and the same Author

in particular, although one of the unsung contributions to establishing the

24 Dewing is a significant omission from Briggs, Biographical Dictionary. Brought up and

36 [Constantine Porphyrogenitus], Excerpta de legationibus Romanorum ad gentes, ed.

common output of a single writer.42 By contrast, for modern scholarship, two

3 The Centrality of the Secret History

Passing over the Procopian plagiarism of Leonardo Bruni (1370–1444) in his De

of the past, including Procopius.47 However, by 1623 the humanist tradition of

47 Grafton, What was History?, passim.

54 Croke, “Manuscripts to Books”, pp. 87–88.

59 E.g. Letter 35, in Montesquieu, Persian Letters, trs. Mauldon, p. 35.

66 Marmontel, Belisarius, pp. iii–vi (translation of French original, 1787); Stanhope,

complicated, treatment of Procopius came from Berthold Rubin (1911–1990)

most reliable contemporary source”74 for Theodora. Whether inspiration or

4 Character of Procopius’ Writings

74 Kaldellis, Secret History, p. lii.