Panagiotis Roilos, Ed - Medieval Greek Storytellin - 230811 - 211731

Offprint from
Medieval Greek Storytelling

Fictionality and Narrative in Byzantium
Edited by Panagiotis Roilos
2014
Harrassowitz Verlag · Wiesbaden
© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

This PDF file is intended for personal use only. Any direct or indirect electronic publication
by the author or by third parties is a copyright infringement and therefore prohibited.
Other Worlds, Other Voices: Form and Function
of the Marvelous in Late Byzantine Fiction
Carolina Cupane
For a story to work, narrative setting and narrative time have first to be established. Time
and setting are the necessary prerequisites that allow a plot to start and unfold; together they
form the one indivisible whole—displaying of course different features according to differ-
ent genres—that, following Bakhtin, we commonly call “chronotope.”1 The study of the
chronotope in fiction has advanced a lot since Bakhtin, but whereas the topic of narrative
time attracted scholarly attention early on,2 the ways in which narrative texts conceptualize
and depict space has been rather neglected so far, with very few exceptions.
This holds true not only for the modern novel but also for ancient fiction, although nar-
rative structure and strategies in the love and adventure novels of late antiquity have re-
ceived in-depth analysis.3 When we turn to fictional narratives of the Greek Middle Ages,
especially the vernacular ones, this neglect is all the more conspicuous.4 In what follows,
my aim will be to investigate the ways in which medieval Greek fictional texts create and
fashion fictional space; my analysis will also take into account the (direct or indirect) con-
nections of these works with their predecessors of late antiquity.
Every story needs to construct many narrative spaces, each one having different func-
tions and playing different roles in the economy of the narrative. These spaces are mostly
hierarchically organized, the importance of each depending on what the author wants to
stress and on the meaning that he intends to convey. This chapter focuses on the space of
wonders and marvels, in other words on the space of “otherness.” By “marvelous” I mean
all that is unknown and strange (as belonging to the world of others) but also everything
that is beyond common human experience and thus arouses the beholder’s amazement, yet
without crossing the invisible dividing line to “the fantastic”, which may be seen as the
negative, reverse side of the marvelous,5 and which is not to be found, in my opinion, in
1 Bakhtin 1981: 84-258.

2 Müller 1968: 247-86, Genette 1971: 81-207, Genette 1983: 15-32. On narrative time in the ancient
novels, see Hägg 1971: 189-210 and more recently Branhan 2002; Morgan 2007.
3 Hoffmann 1978 discusses exclusively modern fiction. Only recently literary criticism on the ancient
novel has begun to deal with this topic; see among others Lowe 2000: 228-440; Paschalis and
Frangoulidis 2002: 1-11 (Konstan), 26-39 (Winkler), 132-42 (Paschalis), 143-56 (Martin).
4 The only exceptions are the studies by Agapitos 1991: 272-333 and 1999: 116-28, as well as Nilsson
2000: 94-108 and 2001: 136-45, though they consider narrative space from a different perspective than
my own.
5 For a definition and taxonomy of the medieval marvelous, see Le Goff 1991 (1985): 1-39, Peron 1989,
Schmidtke 1994, Eming 1999: 1-45, Friede 2003: 1-19. By contrast, the fantastic is a modern aesthetic
category, which has gradually been gaining ground in medieval literary history as well, although its
application to this field is still controversial (on the fantastic aspects of medieval [French] narrative, see

184 Carolina Cupane
medieval Greek fiction.6 By focusing on this essential aspect of medieval narrative I hope
to highlight both the innovative and traditional elements of these texts and at the same time
to explore to what extent they are bound by the conventions of the literary tradition to
which they belong.
Ancient authors defined a certain number of spaces appropriate for the typical situations
of the narrative pattern that they followed. Since the notions of destiny and trial played a
crucial role in those adventure and love tales, ancient fictional narratives were usually
interested in broad spaces and tended to “send” their heroes far away from their homeland,
back and forth across the Mediterranean. The journey theme was of paramount importance
in late antique novels, for it gave the authors the opportunity, among other things, to de-
scribe foreign and exotic countries.7 Such descriptions corresponded to the literary taste of
an audience that lived in the enlarged world which had been opened up by Alexander the
Great and which had learned to appreciate the fascinating East and its “marvelous posses-
sions.”8 However, there was also another, mainly literary reason for such an emphasis on
the exotic ante litteram. The typical romance plot dealing with the erotic adventures (love,
violent separation, and final reunion) of two overwhelmingly beautiful young people was,
of course, at the same time a story of alienation and removal from the familiar native envi-
ronment. The depiction of the foreign world that the heroes experienced, with its unusual
animals and objects, and its wild, barbarian people, made this alienation more tangible for
the audience of the novels.9 Therefore, it is not fortuitous that only the world of the “oth-
ers”—which is unknown and thus dangerous, but also wonderful and fascinating—is de-
scribed in ancient fiction. By contrast, the familiar world is taken for granted and is present
only as a shadowy background.
As a result, the marvelous in late antique fiction is almost always depicted in the form
of mirabilia of the natural world. Accordingly, the descriptions in those texts should be
regarded as digressions of an ethnological or scientific nature, very similar (from a generic
point of view) to paradoxography, and only loosely tied to the main narrative.10 One could
mention here strange animals such as the elephant, the crocodile, or the hippopotamus in
Achilles Tatios,11 the giraffe (καμηλοπάρδαλις) in Heliodoros,12 or mythical creatures such
as the phoenix13—and, beyond the animal world, wonder-working precious stones such as
Dubost 1991: 60-149, which should be read together with the critical remarks of Wolfzettel 2003).
Tzvetan Todorov, who was the first to identify the fantastic as a separate literary genre that was
established as such in the nineteenth century, argues that the fantastic is defined by its capacity to cause
uncertainty among the readers with regard to the possible natural or supernatural origins and
explanations of the narrated events (Todorov 1970: 29).
6 Pace Stavrakopoulou 2008: 29-44.
7 See Landfester 1992. On the paramount importance of description of spaces in several narrative genres
as actual or fictional accounts of journeys, see Roilos 2007: 338-43.
8 As Stephen Greenblatt calls the reactions of the Spanish conquerors to the otherness of the New World
(Greenblatt 1991).
9 On this topic, see Cupane 1994: 103-109.
10 See Rommel 1923, Fusillo 1989: 68-77.
11 IV 4-5; 19, 1-6. 2-3.
12 X 27. 1-4.
13 III 25. 1-7.

Other Worlds, Other Voices 185
the pantarbê, which could resist fire,14 or the amethyst, which prevented drunkenness,15
both of which play important narrative roles in the text. Exotic customs and ways of life are
also described in detail, as, for example, the robbers (βουκόλοι) in Heliodoros16 and
Achilles Tatios,17 or famous towns such as the Ethiopian Meroe in Heliodoros,18 Alexandria
and Tyros in Achilles Tatios.19
Paradoxically, in these texts this kind of the marvelous functions as an authenticating
mark, the specific task of which is to create plausibility and to invest the narrated stories
with realistic credibility.20 The real geographical setting of the eastern Mediterranean is
filled with wonderful creatures and objects to make it concrete and therefore credible for
the audience. A suitable vocabulary of amazement and astonishment, expressing what is
incredible but nevertheless true, defines the sphere of the marvelous within this geograph-
ical space.21
Furthermore, the ancient novelists try to avoid all that would violate the laws of nature
for the sake of plausibility—one could perhaps speak here of strategies of realism. When
natural laws are set aside, for example when the Nile suddenly rises and puts out the flames
of the pyre, thus rescuing Habrokomes from death,22 the author takes care to present divine
intervention as responsible for the wonder, which was entirely acceptable to an audience
that actually believed in miraculous divine help.23 The same holds true for the chastity
ordeals in Achilles Tatios,24 which were overseen by the goddess Artemis, or Charikleia’s
immunity against fire, which was granted to her by the miraculous stone (pantarbê) that she
was carrying. From the perspective of the horizon of expectations shared by the novelists
and their audiences, the function of these agencies of divine or miraculous power could be
viewed in terms of scientific explanation.25
Despite the colorful display of the exotic and the marvelous in them and by contrast to
their Latin counterparts,26 magic and the supernatural are conspicuously absent in the extant
ancient Greek novels—except for the Alexander romance, which, however, has a special
status and to which I will return later. Heliodoros is the only ancient Greek novelist to deal
with such topics, emphasizing the difference between Egyptian (black) magic, “which is
14 IV 8.7 and VIII 11.2.

15 V 13. 3-4.
16 I 2. 5-6.
17 IV 12. 6-8.
18 X 5. 1-2.
19 V1. 1-6 and II 14. 2-4.
20 See the brilliant discussion of this topic by Morgan 1993: 197-215.
21 E.g. Ach. Tat. IV 4. 1: παράδοξος (“unexpected,” “astonishing”); IV 4. 7: θαῦμα καινόν (“unprece-
dented wonder”); IV 18. 5: ἐθάμαυσα (“I marveled at”); V 1. 1: καινὸς καὶ παράλογος (“unprecedented
and against logic”) or Hel. X 27. 4: ζῴου … εἶδος ἀλλοκότου καὶ θαυμασίου τὴν φύσιν (“an animal of
portentous form and marvelous appearance”); Hel. VIII 11, 2: ἀδόκητα (“unexpected things”); IV 8. 7:
ἀπόρρητος δύναμις (“ineffable power”); V 13. 3: ὑπερφυὲς καὶ θεσπέσιον (“supernatural and marvel-
ous”).
22 Xen. Eph. IV 2. 3.
23 The episode is well analyzed in Morgan 1994: 202-203.
24 VIII 6 and 12.
25 Heliod.VIII 9; see Morgan 1994: 204-205.
26 On magic in the Latin novel with a special focus on Apuleius’s Metamorphoses, see Frangoulidis 2008.

186 Carolina Cupane
deceptive and passes off the unreal as real,” and the true Egyptian “wisdom” (σοφία);27 he
fiercely condemns the former and is appalled by any kind of magical practice—an attitude
that is made explicit when he describes the macabre magical tricks (τερατεύματα and
μαγγανείαι) of an old Egyptian woman, who tries to learn about her future by reviving the
dead body of her own son. This storia oscura,28 which almost anticipates the atmosphere of
the typical conte phantastique,29 is of course strongly reminiscent of the Homeric νέκυια;30
at the same time, it is the only intrusion of black magic in ancient Greek fiction, which
enjoys exploring the otherness of the earthly foreign world but avoids approaching the
otherworld.
With the decline and fall of the Roman empire the foreign world becomes slowly less
and less interesting for its legitimate heirs, the eastern Romans. A lot has been said about the
“xenophobia” of the Byzantines, about the “small-mindedness” and intolerance with which
they rejected and decreed as “barbarian” everything that did not partake of Greek culture and
was not in accordance with Orthodoxy; it should not be repeated here.31 To confine myself
to the scope of my topic, I only want to note that no doubt in Byzantine mentality one can
detect a deep mistrust of all that is new and unknown. This mistrust resulted in a generally
negative (although nuanced) attitude toward travelling.32 In the early Byzantine era, the
oikoumenê still encompassed a vast geographical area, despite the territorial losses to the
Slavs and the Arabs. Holy men, monks and ascetics, who are the new heroes of Christian
light fiction, now travel all over this broad space—always on the road on God’s behalf.33
The world they encounter on their journeys appears to them, of course, as a battlefield of
supernatural powers. Demons lurk everywhere, trying to ruin men, but God always defeats
them; His might manifests itself through the miracles that holy men work in His name. A
broad range of the Christian marvelous—together with its necessary demonic counterpart—
now appears.34 It steps onto the literary stage and occupies it wholly, almost driving out for
centuries what had been before. The otherworld is also superimposed on the earthly world at
the level of images. In visions sent by God, Paradise and Hell appear only to chosen few,
whose reports on what they witness provide the pious audience every imaginable marvel;
their stories represent, so to speak, a veritable compendium of the Christian marvelous. In
particular, the image of the heavenly city of Jerusalem, with its decorated walls and luxuri-
ous palaces, as depicted in apocalyptic tradition, constitutes an excellent substitute for the
ethnographical exotic of the late antique novel.35
27 III 16; on this sequence, see Jones 2004: 79-89; generally on magic in ancient novel, see Ruiz Montero
2007: 38-56.
28 According to Ginzburg’s definition; see Ginzburg 1989 (English edition 1991).
29 For a definition and history of this genre, see Todorov 1970 and, more recently, Wehr 1997.
30 Od. XI 24-633; on Heliodoros’s imitation of Homer in this episode, see Slater 2007: 57-69.
31 The bibliography on this topic is huge. I confine myself to Magdalino 1991, no XIV; on the meaning
and function of the barbaros topos in the novel, see Jouanno 1992, Cupane 2007: 307-309.
32 On this topic, see Mullet 2002.
33 On travels in hagiography, see Malamut 1993, Pratsch 2005: 147-59.
34 On wonders in hagiography as manifestations of God’s omnipotence, see Pratsch 2005: 225-97; on
wonders as Christian marvelous, see Kazhdan 1995.
35 On the descriptions of the heavenly Jerusalem, see Angelidi 1982; on its impact on late-Byzantine
secular fiction, see Cupane 2014.

The latter of course continued to live a shadowy life, as it were, in the “trivial literature”
through the countless rewritings of the Alexander Romance. This immensely popular story
was transmitted all over the world and soon after its “publication” it became the main res-
ervoir for every kind of wonders and τέρατα. Its extensive transmission defined the image
of the East in the West until the modern age. The natural and exotic marvelous, monsters,
hybrid and mythological creatures, immense richness and magnificent palaces mark
Alexander’s way to the East, while his birth from Olympias and Nectanebo takes place
under the influence of magic. Byzantine rewritings Christianize Alexander’s figure and
give him imperial features: the world-conqueror appears now as the emperor empowered
and chosen by God and entrusted with the mission to Christianize the new nations (ἔθνη)
with whom he may come in contact.36 Interconnections between the Alexander Romance
and hagiographic and apocalyptic narratives can also be detected: thanks to his expedition
to the end of the world Alexander enters the otherworld and is allowed to see the torments
of hell and come close to earthly Paradise.37
However, the Alexander Romance was from the very beginning a literary category of its
own and it remained such during the whole Byzantine era. Although the figure of Alexan-
der was extensively exploited as an example of virtue in Byzantine literature,38 the traces
the romance itself leaves in Byzantine literature are very vague.39 It certainly played no role
in the revival of the love romance that took place around the middle of the twelfth century
at the Komnenian court.40 Imitation (μίμησις) and awareness of the literary tradition are the
most conspicuous features of the four texts that have come down to us, although recent
research has shown that their mimesis does in fact function by way of subtle variation and
by no means excludes self-consciousness.41 More than that, the four authors, three of whom
were well-known court poets, appear proud of their own literary skills and succeed in de-
veloping an original, truly Byzantine literary discourse.42 Originality however does not
affect the plot, which follows quite closely the late-antique models. As in the novels of
Achilles Tatios and Heliodoros, the setting of the Komnenian narratives is the world of “the
other.” However, the foreign world in these new novels has lost entirely its fascination with
36 On Byzantine rewritings of the original story by Pseudo-Kallisthenes, see Moennig 1992: 234-51 (about
Alexander’s travel to the earthly Paradise).
37 In the Vita Macarii (152 Vassiliev), the three monks Theophilos, Sergios, and Hygieinos, who are on
the road to the end of the world, reiterate Alexander’s adventurous journey eastwards and come closely
to the earthly Paradise, which, of course, they are not allowed to enter; on this topic, see Angelidi 1989:
682-84; Roilos, in this volume; Moenning, in this volume.
38 Aerts 1988: 1-18.
39 Jouanno 2002.
40 A good overview of the Komenian revival of the genre can be found in Roilos 2005: 4-24; see also
Agapitos 2000: 1-24.
41 Hunger 1967: 72-76; Hunger 1980 and more recently Nilsson 2001; Roilos 2005. A good example of
literary self-consciousness is Theodoros Prodromos’s dedicatory epigram of his novel (I. 9-14 [Agapitos
2000] and already Jeffreys 1998: 191-99; also 2000: 127-36, who was the first to bring this epigram to
the attention of the scholarly community), in which the author, while recognizing the supremacy of clas-
sical writers, displays a proud awareness of his own literary skills. Self-referentiality in the Komnenian
novels is explored in Roilos 2005: 50-61, 67-71, 104-109.
42 See, for example, the entirely Byzantine reinterpretation of old novelistic topoi such as dream and sui-
cide, which is well analyzed in MacAlister 1996: 115-64.

188 Carolina Cupane
the exotic: no room has been left here for exotic spaces and objects. At the same time, the
geographical setting becomes all the more indistinct and empty: no monsters or other
strange creatures inhabit it, and there is nothing to make it attractive or in any way worth
seeing, or even telling about.43
This is not to say that the foreign world—which here, too, is the world of the barbari-
ans—has no mirabilia at all to exhibit. The novel by Theodore Prodromos, Rhodanthe and
Dosicles, for example, shows clearly with what artistry and subversive irony old topoi can
be reinvented and presented. One example: the satrap Artaxanes is given a formal reception
at the court of the pirate leader Mistylos, while at the same time numerous illusionary tricks
are performed in an attempt to intimidate him. At the very beginning of the banquet spar-
rows fly out of the stomach of a roast lamb, when the guest tries to carve it, and at the end
the court jester feigns suicide with a knife, only to celebrate his resurrection immediately
after his fake death by performing a hymn in praise of Mistylos.44 In shaping the scene,
Prodromos deploys the vocabulary of amazement and astonishment: the banquet is prepared
to arouse astonishment (IV 123: πρὸς τὸ θαυμάσιον), Artaxanes is of course exceedingly
astonished (IV 130: ἦλθεν εἰς θάμβος μέγαν) by the bewildering spectacle (IV 144: θαῦμα)
and truly terrified, when the magician (IV 215: θαυματουργός) Satyrion pretends to commit
suicide. And yet the wonders (θαύματα) at Mistylos’s court are not real; they are nothing
but tricks of illusion (πλαστῶς), which arouse laughter among those who have planned
them—Gobryas cannot but giggle covertly (IV 131: τὸν Γωβρύαν λαμβάνει πλατὺς γέλως;
212: κρυφίως πως ἐγγελῶν)—and which are certainly intended to arouse the same reaction
among the actual audience. Satyrion’s performance no doubt gave to the original audience
of the novel very good grounds for amusement, not least because it was modelled upon
very similar performances at the imperial court which are recounted in historical sources.
Panagiotis Roilos’s insightful analysis has disclosed the multilayered semantic levels of the
scene and shown its allusions to Byzantine reality.45 I would perhaps add a small remark to
his brilliant interpretation. Whereas, on the one hand, the episode fulfils the expectations of
the Byzantine audience by offering it the satisfaction of recognizing something familiar to
them, perhaps even of detecting allusions to concrete persons, on the other hand, the ex-
pectations of an ideal reader, a person well acquainted with the world of ancient fiction that
the author was pretending to offer, would have been left unsatisfied; for here Prodromos
transfers the marvelous from the realm of the alien to that of the familiar. Instead of the
excitement and fascination caused by the strange, the audience is given the discreet charm
of the known. More than this, Prodromos goes so far as to dismiss at the end whatever
reality he had claimed to create by transforming the “wonder” itself into an illusion: in
reality Satyrion is nothing but a court jester, his death and resurrection a trick.
There are many such cases, for Prodromos often endeavors to deny the reality of what other
people within the fiction call astonishing, amazing (τεράστιον),46 new, or unusual (καινός). The
43 See Cupane 1994: 110-15, Meunier 1998.

44 IV 122-316, the hymn (248-308) is strophic with thirteen stanzas and a refrain opening each stanza and
concluding the song.
45 Roilos 2000: 114-26, Roilos 2005: 275-88.
46 In Prodromos’s novel, the adjective τεράστιος usually refers to the highest of the Olympian gods, Zeus
(VII 518), or describes the overwhelming beauty of the heroes (VII 220: Dosikles), as in Niketas

formulaic expression “I’m saying nothing unexpected or astonishing” (οὐ καινὸν οὐδέν, οὐ
τεράστιον λέγω) occurs more than once in the novel, for example when Prodromos describes
the drunken Nausikrates sleeping and swallowing his saliva, as if it were wine—whereupon a
scientific explanation follows47—or when he prefers to attribute the marvelous rescue of
Kratandros from the ordeal by fire to God’s intervention rather than to magic.48 This, of course,
conforms to the conventions of the late antique novel,49 thus satisfying the literary expectations
of the educated audience to whom the novel was addressed. However, at the same time that
audience would have been reminded of very similar biblical examples,50 which to the eyes of a
Byzantine audience would render Kratandros’s rescue equivalent to (or reminiscent of) a
Christian miracle and thus all the more acceptable.
The world of the Komnenian novels appears somehow as a “disenchanted world.”51
However, in my opinion, this disenchantment derives not so much from a new critical and
scientific attitude toward the marvelous as, rather, from the reductive process to which the
traditional narrative material was subjected, as well as from a fundamental change of the
focus of its new literary treatment, which one could describe as quite “Byzantine.” Adven-
ture and action are now radically reduced in favor of static rhetorical pieces such as songs,
letters, laments, and ekphraseis of gardens and art objects.52 The exotic marvelous that had
excited the audience of the late antique novel was the first “victim” of this reduction. The
world of the others, or rather its fictional reconstruction, was of course still available in the
Alexander Romance, as I have already mentioned. For generations that text continued to
fascinate the Byzantines and to remind them that wonders and marvels could still await
them beyond the boundaries of the empire.
Still, the Alexander Romance was, after all, nothing but the rewriting of an old story, a
second-hand marvelous, as it were. However, in the meantime strong currents of innovation
were “bubbling” under the smooth surface of “high” literature. New narrative subject mat-
ters, expressed in the linguistic register that is usually referred to as vernacular,53 succeeded
in finding their place in Byzantine literature on the eve of the fourteenth century. Love
romances constitute a very important category of this new literary production, especially
with regard to the marvelous, since romance is the genre in which one usually expects
imaginary worlds to be created.
Eugeneianos (VI 422: Drosilla). In Eumathios Makrembolites, the vocabulary of amazement is strongly
present, but its use is rather narrower, since it reflects the exceedingly subjective feelings and reactions
of the young and naïve Hysminias, who does not understand the meaning of what he sees. Hysminias’s
adventures and especially the allegorical pictures that he sees on the garden’s wall are described as
τέρας, τερατῶδες, τερατούργημα, θαῦμα (XI 12. 2, p. 145, 10; II 7. 2; II 10. 4). The wonder lies there-
fore in his perception and not in the works of art themselves, which the experienced Krathisthenes is
able to interpret without difficulty.
47 III 39s.
48 I 390.
49 A very similar episode is to be found in the novel by Xenophon of Ephesos IV 2, 3 (see above, n. 20).
50 Dan. 3. 1-97 (three young people in the furnace).
51 I use the definition of Weber 1958: 105.
52 On this topic, see Beaton 19962: 63-68 with the remarks of Agapitos and Smith 1992: 39-40; see also
Cupane 2004: 421-23, Roilos 2005: 145-68.
53 A still useful overview on this issue is provided by Browning 1978 and Browning 19832; see also
Horrocks 1997: 49.

190 Carolina Cupane
The vernacular love romance rediscovers the marvelous for its own sake and shapes it in
entirely new ways. Whereas the world of “the other” still remains beyond its thematic
horizon, it appropriates the otherworld but removes it from the religious sphere and places
it in the domain of Eros. At the same time it allows the powers of darkness, the devil and
his servants, to have an essential impact, negative as well as positive, on the development
of the plot. In what follows I analyze how the three earliest vernacular love romances—
Libistros and Rhodamne, Belthandros and Chrysantza, and Kallimachos and
Chrysorrhoe—construct the spaces of the marvelous and how they manipulate them in the
narrative. I will refer to other texts belonging to the same category only exceptionally. My
decision to confine my discussion to these three texts is justified, in my opinion, by the
pivotal role that marvelous settings play in them as well as by the striking similarities of
their constitutive elements; these two aspects allow us to view these works as a
(sub)category of their own, with peculiar and distinctive features.54 To begin with, in these
specific romances, and only in these, the heroes encounter the supernatural in the same
clearly defined space: a wondrous castle.55 Moreover, the protagonists in Libistros and
Rhodamne and Kallimachos and Chrysorrhoe are victims of very similar magical acts,
which are performed by sorceresses with the devil’s help. Here, however, the question
should be raised as to whether the figure of the sorceress with her magical apples and
rings—which, to our modern mind, may seem to constitute quintessential embodiments of
the fairy tale marvelous—really belonged at that time to this latter sphere, and if so, to what
extent.56
Be this as it may, one should view the three vernacular romances Libistros and
Rhodamne, Belthandros and Chrysantza, and Kallimachos and Chrysorrhoe—like the
earlier four Komnenian novels that were composed more than a century before them—as
very closely related to one another with regard to subject matter and time of composition,
despite the fact that it is not possible to establish a reliable relative dating for them.57 This
chronological uncertainty should not worry us, as it did not worry their medieval audience,
for which a new text was never completely understandable on its own terms but only in
relation to the background of other texts belonging to the same genre.
Let us begin with Libistros and Rhodamne. The young king Libistros, who has not ex-
perienced love yet, enters the realm of Eros without having left his bedroom, in a dream.
While riding in a beautiful meadow he is arrested by warrior cupids and brought to the
palace of Eros, where no human beings but only personifications of abstract qualities per-
taining to love—such as Affection, Desire, Justice, Truth—dwell.58 There, he has to stand
trial for having offended the emperor Eros. Libistros is terrified and believes that he is
already dead and dwelling in the otherworld. He is eventually pardoned but is forced to take
an oath of vassal allegiance to the mighty ruler Eros. After doing so he is told in a prophecy
54 On the common features of the three romances, see Agapitos 1991: 15-16, Cupane 1995: 20-24,
Moennig 2004: 38-45, Cupane 2004: 437-41.
55 On the castle theme in the three novels, see Cupane 1978: 236-46.
56 Cf. below, p. 195-96, nn. 89 and 90.
57 The attempt of Agapitos 1993 to establish the relative chronology of the three texts is not entirely
persuasive; see the cautious remarks in Lendari 2007: 65-71.
58 Human beings enter Eros’s realm only to stand trial and be duly punished, as Libistros himself
witnesses; one does not hear anything about their future fate.

that he will be searching for the princess Rhodamne: she will be his punishment and his
reward.59 This is really quite a mild verdict: other people have been less lucky and have
been condemned to perpetual torture, as Libistros realizes when he reads relevant inscrip-
tions and watches with astonishment the symbolic statue of a naked man standing in the
middle of a basin and being tortured by a serpent. The statue suddenly begins to speak and
urges the young king not to defy the commands of Love.60 It is only in dreams that
Libistros is allowed to experience this and all the other wonders of Eros’s realm. Dream is,
of course, a time-honored narrative device, the main function of which is that of a deus ex
machina; here, however, its role and meaning are much more fundamental. Not only does
this dream actually set the plot in motion, but it also intrudes into Libistros’s real life as
well. In fact, the mighty ruler Eros appears to the heroes on suitable occasions, first encour-
aging Libistros when he is in danger of despair, and then forcing Rhodamne to accept his
love. Last but not least, the dream works also as a marker of the inherent liminality of the
marvelous space, which only the elect ones are allowed to enter.61
On the text’s surface, the entering in the marvelous dimension activates already famil-
iar relevant terminology, which expresses amazement, wonder, and astonishment (albeit in
the vernacular, this time). The keywords are the verbs ξενίζομαι (“to be astonished”) and
θαυμάζω (“to wonder”), as well as the adjectives ξενοχάραγος (“strangely drawn”) and
παράξενος (“amazing”). A few years ago Panagiotis Agapitos stressed the prominence of
such terminology in this section of the romance. He understood it as an expression of the
romance’s poetics, that is, of those “inner operative principles through which authors might
explicitly or implicitly express in their literary works concepts about their art,” this being,
in Libistros’s case, the notion of “art as a mystery provoking the beholder’s astonish-
ment.”62 In my opinion, the above-mentioned terms should rather be viewed as “markers”
signaling the transition from the real to the wondrous narrative space. One should therefore
speak of a poetics—or perhaps better of a rhetoric—of the marvelous, indeed of a secular
marvelous, which till then was by and large absent from Byzantine literature. The fact that
most elements of this “otherworld” are artificial products, works of art created by a crafts-
man, reflects first of all the well-known predilection of Byzantine literature in general and
of fictional narrative in particular for ekphraseis of objets d’art as well as the Byzantine
preference for organized artificiality (in contradistinction to wild nature).63
59 Quotations from Libistros are taken from the version α of the romance edited by Agapitos 2006a; for the
dream sequence, see vv. 203-627. On the work’s probable links to Western allegorical poetry, see
Cupane 1992: 292-97; on the spatial aesthetics, see Agapitos 1999: 115-28.
60 442-461: 460: “he summoned me” (ἐφώναξέ με). This figure is not the only automaton occurring in the
romance; Libistros was already amazed to encounter four speaking cupid statues placed on the four
corners of the arch leading to the courtyard of Eros’s palace (331-340), which are strongly reminiscent
of the similar speaking ἐρωτιδόπουλα in the War of Troy (6296-6379; ed. Papathomopoulos-Jeffreys
1996; this motif goes back to the twelfth-century Roman de Troie). On automata in late byzantine
romances, see Jouanno 1987: 211-14 (who considers them as elements of Byzantine reality); Canavas
2003: 49-71, Brett 1954: 477-87.
61 On the narrative function of dreams in Libistros, see Agapitos 1999: 116-28, Cupane 2010b: 99-104; on
liminality in the vernacular and older romances and in travel narratives, see Roilos 2007: 335-58.
62 Agapitos 2004: 38-46; further passages are been collected by Stavrakopoulou 2008: 25, 32-33.
63 On the well-known predilection of Byzantine literates for artificiality, see Schissel 1942: 7-8, 34-35, 50,
Jouanno 1989: 209-14, Beaton 1996: 66-68.

192 Carolina Cupane
Belthandros too, after leaving his homeland (which is probably the capital of the Byz-
antine empire, for he is often called Ρωμαῖος), enters suddenly the realm of Eros, the
Erotokastron, in the neighborhood of Tarsos, as he travels through central Anatolia. A small
stream that carries a flame in its current (which runs with it without going out) marks the
boundaries between the real space and the wondrous one.64 Belthandros is still inexperi-
enced in matters of love, as Libistros was. In the wondrous castle of Eros, he meets the
mighty ruler, seating on his throne. Eros orders him to select the fairest among forty noble
maidens; Belthandros painstakingly does so65 and later finds out that the woman he has
chosen will become his beloved. This second castle of Eros is adorned with allegorical
statues and images, as was the one in Libistros and Rhodamne. These allegorical visual
elements inform the hero about his future love life and show him the punishments and the
rewards that await those who rebel against Love and those who are Love’s faithful servants,
in Eros’s hell and Paradise, respectively. In the Erotokastron, these allegorical signs have
the form of reliefs on the walls of the main hall: on the lower level, flying, fire-breathing
cupids chain up the damned and torture them,66 whereas on the upper level, Erotes bear up
the blessed ones on their hands.67 Every figure is labeled with an inscription stating its
name and condition.68
The originality of both vernacular romances is beyond question, although the literary
picture of Eros as a mighty ruler bearing all the characteristic features of a Byzantine em-
peror certainly derives from Eumathios Makrembolites and, at the same time, reflects Byz-
antine court reality.69 However, a closer comparison of the development of this motif in the
vernacular romance with its Komnenian model illustrates the relevant differences. With
regard to the construction of the marvelous space of Eros’s realm and his role as a powerful
judge presiding over the fate of mankind, the vernacular romances have in fact drawn
motifs from vision literature, and, by combining them with topical narrative conventions,
they created something new in Byzantine literature. This cross-fertilization produced a form
of secular otherworld, modelled upon the Christian one as its reverse image.70 Accordingly,
Eros is allotted the functions of the Christian God and, at the same time, of the Christian
emperor, whose power derives from God. Like God in heaven and the emperor on earth, he
has the authority to punish and to reward, and to decide about the fate of lovers.71 The love
visions in Libistros and Rhodamne and Belthandros and Chrysantza do not only reproduce
64 On rivers as typical markers of a liminal narrative space, see Brinker-von der Heyde 2005: 210-14; on
the fiery stream in Belthandros and its links to classical literature, see Cupane 2010a: 94-97.
65 486-724.
66 340-341: ἔβλεπεν …τὸ μὲν ὡς σχῆμα γυναικὸς τραχηλοδεσμωμένον/καὶ ἐρωτοσύρτην τύραννον τὰ
ζώδια νὰ σύρνῃ (“he saw one figure in the form of a woman, tied by neck/and being dragged by the
tyrant who leads to love”); 342-43: ἄλλον…ὡσὰν ἀνδρὸς ποδοσιδηρωμένον/Ἔρωταν δήμιον στέκοντα
ἔχον κατόπισθέν του (“and another in the form of a man with his feet in iron shackles,/having behind
him a cupid that was standing and torturing him”).
67 344: ἄλλον εἰς χέριν ἵστατο ἄνωθεν τῶν Ἐρώτων (“another stood above in the hands of the cupids”).
68 On these inscriptions, see Agapitos 2006b: 152-55, Cupane 2008: 31-32.
69 II 7, 1-5; see Cupane 1973-74: 245-61 as well as the critical reply of Magdalino 1993: 200-204, with the
remarks of Cupane 2000: 44-52.
70 On paradisus amoris, see Ruhe 1974: 74-91.
71 On the links with vision literature from the middle Byzantine period, see Cupane 2014, Maguire 2012:
37-48.

essential features of otherworld imagery of hell and Paradise in religious visions; they also
have the same didactic function, since they aim to bring about a conversion, albeit the
character of this conversion is diametrically different from that in Christian narratives.
Prince Joasaph, the hero of the so-called Narrative about Barlaam and Ioasaph, Beneficial
to the Soul, succeeds in overcoming the temptations of the flesh by experiencing visions of
hell and Paradise,72 while a similar kind of vision compels Belthandros and Libistros to
accept the rules of Love.
One might be surprised by the boldness and radical manner in which the authors of
these vernacular romances secularize patterns and imagery typical to edifying and hagio-
graphic literature, although especially vernacular literature provides other, much more
shocking, parodic distortions of religious and liturgical discourse (Spanos; Synaxarion of
the Donkey).73 Our romances, however, are not parodies; they simply equate the love Para-
dise with the heavenly one in all (albeit fictional) seriousness. They were, of course, not the
first literary texts to do so. In French thirteenth-century love allegory, and before that in the
Latin treatise on love De amore by Andreas, chaplain at the court of Marie de Champagne,
the supernatural realm of Love had been given comparable contours74 Whether one is able
to hear the echo of Western love allegory among the several voices resounding in the love
discourse of these vernacular romances depends on how much creative room and lack of
bias we are prepared to concede to late Byzantine vernacular literature. In this chapter, I do
not wish to discuss this highly controversial topic.75
Be that as it may, the bold innovation of Libistros and Rhodamne and Belthandros and
Chrysantza was not in fact developed any further in later fictional works—with very few
exceptions. The pilgrim who travels in search of Dame Fortune’s castle in the Logos
Parêgorêtikos peri Dystychias kai Eutychias has to walk across the netherworld in order to
attain his goal. During his journey he comes into contact more than once with marvelous
objects—the most intriguing of them being a magical flute—and supernatural creatures
such as Father Time, two personifications of luck (bad and good luck), and finally his old
helper in the guise of a sorceress, who holds a magical staff and a magical wheel.76 The
motif of his journey is deeply indebted to Libistros’s visit to the kingdom of Eros, as is
indicated by a number of verses common in both works.77 The disappointment expressed by
the copyist of the oldest manuscript at such a “love story” without love and, even worse,
without a beautiful heroine (φουδούλα), can be viewed as strong evidence that his horizon
of expectations was shaped by the conventions of love romance.78 But from then on the
72 30 (315, 201-318, 244 Volk 2006): ἥ τε δαιμονιώδης ἐπιθυμία τοῦ κάλλους καὶ τῆς ὡραιότητος τῆς
ἀκολάστου κόρης ἐκείνης…δυσωδεστέρα βορβόρους καὶ σαπρίας αὐτῷ λελόγιστο (“the satanic desire
of the overwhelming beauty of the licentious girl…was to him more stinking than filth and putridity”).
73 On Spanos and liturgical parody in Byzantine literature, see Eideneier 1977; on the Synaxarion of the
Donkey, see the recent edition and in-depth literary analysis in Moennig 2009.
74 Edition of the text in Trojel2 1964 (1892); on the importance of the work for the medieval theory of love
and its influence on the vernacular fictional literature, see Schlösser 1959, Schnell 1982, Karnein 1985.
75 I have dealt with this topic in earlier papers; see e. g. Cupane 1974: 282-97, Cupane 1992: 291-305; see
now Jeffreys 2012: 218-33.
76 Edition of the text in Cupane 1995: 635-91; see further Cupane 1993 and Cupane 2005: 286-93.
77 See the list of common verses and similar expressions in Agapitos 2006: 174-91.
78 On the ending of the poem, see Agapitos 2004: 18-21; for a different interpretation, see Cupane 2005:

194 Carolina Cupane
gate of Eros’s realm was to remain closed to Byzantine visitors forever; furthermore, it
appears that erotic narrative gave rise to increasing criticism. In the mid-fourteenth century,
Theodoros Meliteniotes, like the authors of the vernacular romances, employed the motif of
the wondrous castle and of the pilgrim who sets out on an allegorical journey through the
otherworld. The poor protagonist, however, was not as lucky as Libistros and Belthandros.
The castle that suddenly appeared to him, albeit as magnificent as theirs, was unfortunately
not Eros’s palace but Sophrosyne’s dwelling. Before being allowed to enter it, he had to
overcome no less than seven dangerous obstacles; when he finally overcame them and saw
the wonders hidden in the castle, he was told that he had to avoid all earthly pleasures and
to take care of his immortal soul, instead. Without realizing it, he found himself acting in
the wrong story, because the narrative (διήγησις) was romantic (ἐρωτική) but mainly a
“most prudent” one (σωφρονεστάτη)!79 Since the author’s intention is a didactic one, the
marvelous that he depicts cannot display its ability to bewitch: behind the attractive appear-
ance there is always hidden a deeper meaning, which does not permit amazement.
Didactic or moralizing intentions are in fact detrimental to the marvelous. The story of
prince Kallimachos and its moralization by Manuel Philes are a good case in point.
Kallimachos’s encounter with the marvelous is far less transcendental than that of Libistros
and Belthandros. The castle he chances upon on his adventurous journey is not an
Erotokastron but a dragon’s castle. Its appearance follows the iconographical patterns es-
tablished in Libistros and Rhodamne and Belthandros and Chrysantza. It is also lavishly
adorned with gold and precious stones and secluded from the real world,80 the boundaries
between the two spaces being marked twice, first by a towering mountain that reaches into
the sky and then by a wasteland.81 The reader is not told where the action is set, for topo-
graphical information is not required in the world of fairy tale, which he has entered from
the very beginning of the story.82 In accordance with the rules of this genre, the
Drakontokastron is an awe-inspiring, mysterious castle. No inhabitants dwell there to in-
dulge in the treasures it contains or even to enjoy the exquisite dishes lying on the golden
tables in its dining hall.83 As a result, the hero’s reactions are ambivalent, oscillating be-
tween amazement and fear. This ambivalence is indicated through the use of appropriate
terminology, mainly of keywords such as the substantives ἀπορία, ζάλη, σύγχυσις (“per-
plexity,” “distress,” “confusion”) or the verbs φοβοῦμαι, τρέμω, ἐξαπορῶ (“to be fright-
ened,” “to tremble,” “to be troubled”).84 However, Kallimachos is a hero and has to behave
290-93, Cupane 2013: 84-90.

79 This, of course, does not keep the author from imitating Libistros, sometimes verbatim; see Agapitos
2006: 191-98. The poem is still to be read in the old edition by Miller 1857; only a small part of it is
available in a modern edition: Schönauer 1996; for a literary analysis, see Cupane 1978: 246-60.
80 177-447.
81 79-100 (mountain), 170-174 (waste land).
82 On Kallimachos’s links to the genre of fairy tale, see Megas 1956, Diller 1977, Aleksidze 1982.
83 355-370.
84 Transition from “perplexity” (345: ἀπορία) to “distress,” “confusion” (369: ζάλη, σύγχυσις),
culminating in trouble and fear (383: ἐξαπορῶ καὶ τρέμω; 386-387: φοβοῦμαι τὰ παράδοξα καὶ παρὰ
φύσιν ταῦτα/μή πως καὶ τίποτε κακὸν ἔχουσι κεκρυμμένον [“I am afraid that these supernatural
wonders/may hide something evil”]; 412: δειλαινόμενος τὴν ἐρημανθρωπίαν [“He was scared of the
solitude”]). On the terminology of fear in Kallimachos, see Stavrakopoulou 2008: 42-43, who considers
it as typical of the fantastic in Todorov’s sense, actually reading all the three romances as fantastic

as one. He thus overcomes his fear soon, continues to explore the mysterious castle, and
finds the fair maid Chrysorrhoe, whom he rescues from the dragon, whom he finally kills
with a magical wooden sword, thus breaking the spell that had been haunting the castle: the
Drakontokastron becomes a Chrysokastron, and there the heroes will eventually consum-
mate their love.
This could be the fairy tale’s happy end. Romance conventions, however, require that
the fair heroine be kidnapped and that the hero go in search of her in order to rescue her,
thus finally reestablishing the original symmetry. This is indeed what happens in this ro-
mance too, albeit the means that the author employs is quite unusual: instead of pirates or
robbers suddenly ravaging the country and carrying off rich spoils, we now have a sorceress
using her magic and the devil’s support to help the hero’s rival. The full analysis that the
episode deserves is beyond the scope of my discussion here; in fact, I have discussed it in
detail elsewhere.85 Here I would like to confine myself only to a few brief remarks. First,
the sorceress episode in Kallimachos and Chrysorrhoe is not an original invention of the
poet but it can be linked to the corresponding passage in Libistros and Rhodamne. The
differences between the two texts in handling the narrative sequence are irrelevant,86 the
relatively greater complexity and refinement of the episode in the second romance probably
being due to the loss of a folium in the codex unicus of the first one.87 Moreover, there are
some linguistic similarities88 (which are surely not to be ascribed to the formulaic style),
which prove that the two texts in fact are closely related.
Second, in approaching magic as a manifestation of the marvelous in medieval literature
we first should take into account what was considered “normal” in each historical period, in
order to evaluate whether we are dealing with a departure from the norm or not.89 Magic
was accepted as a reality everywhere in the Middle Ages, in Western Europe as well as in
Byzantium. The same holds true for the belief in supernatural, demonic powers, whose
existence and influence on human life were considered to be real by people of all social
novels. However, this interpretation cannot stand, if we accept, as Todorov himself maintains, that the
fantastic is characterized by the hero’s (and reader’s) hesitation between belief and disbelief in the
reality of the narrated events, since Kallimachos never mistrusts the reality of what he experiences
(Todorov 1970: 29-37).
85 Cupane 2009.
86 In Kallimachos and Chrysorrhoe, for example, the hero is eliminated for a short time by means of a
magical apple; in Libistros and Rhodamne, it is a magical ring that does the job. On further differences,
see Cupane 2009: 72-73.
87 There is a gap at the end of folium 27r (in the printed text after the rubric of verse 1260), ending with
the announcement that the sorceress is looking for a suitable place in order to prepare her magical trick.
Folium 28r begins abruptly with a dialogue between the two lovers.
88 E.g. Libistros and Rhodamne, α 4065–67: καὶ τὸ κεφάλιν ἔκοψεν τῆς κακομάγου γραίας·/“Λυτρώσω,–
λέγει–σήμερον μέγαν κακὸν τὸν κόσμον/καὶ θανατώσω δαίμοναν ψυχοσωματωμένον” (“he cut off the
evil witch’s head./ ‘Today–he said–I free the world of a great evil/and I kill a demon in human form”) =
Kallimachos and Chrysorrhoe 2585–87: Τίνα δὲ σήμερον ἐγὼ σωματωμένον ἄλλον/δαίμονα
κακομήχανον, ψυχόλεθρον στοιχεῖον/λυτρώσω πρὸς ὑπόμνησιν τοῦ γένους τῶν ἀνθρώπων; (“whom am
I going to free today/from another deadly demon in human form,/from a baneful spirit, to be a reminder
for the humankind?”).
89 On this issue, see Eming 1993: 33-37 and Friede 1999: 9-13, both referring to the Western chivalric
novels; see also Dubost 1991: 61-91.

196 Carolina Cupane
strata.90 Even an outstandingly educated author such as Niketas Choniates, to mention just
one example, had no doubts about the magical skills of the well-known contemporary al-
leged magician Skleros Seth, whom he most vehemently condemns and of whose punish-
ment by blinding he completely approves. It is worth noting here that Seth’s magical tricks
are strongly reminiscent of those of the sorceress in Kallimachos: as Niketas Choniates
reports, Seth had seduced a girl by casting a spell on a peach that he gave her to eat.91
And yet, this interpretation of magic is but a plausible hypothesis, because our
knowledge of what in Byzantium was in fact considered “normal” is far from satisfactory.
The romances themselves, however, might allow us some glimpse of this matter. In de-
scribing the heroes’ reactions to their encounters with magic, it is easy to see that the authors
constantly avoid employing the specific terminology of astonishment they, for instance, use
in portraying the realm of Eros. Libistros is frightened but not really astonished, when he
listens to the voices of the demons the sorceress has conjured up as they speak unknown
languages.92 It is fear, not amazement that he feels, before he rides the magical horse that
will bring him across the sea to his beloved.93 No matter whether the sudden intrusion of
magic in the romance’s world is a manifestation of the marvelous as I have defined it or not,
it is certainly a noteworthy literary innovation, which enriches the genre’s narrative conven-
tions with elements drawn from the world of folklore and fairy tale.
Be that as it may, we do have a Byzantine reader’s reaction to one of those romances,
who tried to come to terms with the use of the marvelous and magic in the text in a typi-
cally Byzantine way. A poem of 161 iambic verses survives from the hand of the well-
known author Manuel Philes, in which he celebrates a romance written by Andronikos
Palaeologos, a nephew of the emperor Michael VIII Palaeologos. The plot of that work, as
described by Philes, roughly matches the subject matter of Kallimachos and Chrysorrhoe.94
The differences in detail are not relevant to my discussion here, since the elements regard-
ing the marvelous and magical space are the same. Philes’ attempt to neutralize both is a
very old and venerable interpretive strategy. He proposes an allegorical interpretation of the
love story, equating Kallimachos’s adventurous journey and exploits to the soul’s struggle
against the devil’s traps on man’s way toward the heavenly Paradise. In so doing, Philes
adopts a strategy similar to that employed around the same time by Theodoros Meliteniotes
in his poem on Sophrosyne. In both cases, the interpretive enterprise was successful. The
only “victims” were love and the marvelous, since fair Chrysorrhoe became a metaphor for
man’s soul, her love affair with Kallimachos a “spiritual engagement” (ἀρραβὼν τοῦ
90 On magic in Byzantium in the Palaeologan period, see Greenfield 1995; the older bibliography on the
topic is collected by Lendari (Lendari 2007: 403-404, where she also comments on the passage of
Libistros and Rhodamne under discussion); a useful introduction on magic in Western literature is
provided in Kieckhefer 1989 (1997): 95-115; see also Habiger-Tuczay 2006: 291-326; on the firm belief
in the reality of the supernatural and the demonic in medieval societies, see Wolfzettel 2003: 11-14,
Varvaro 1994: 94-96.
91 148, 86-95; commentary of the episode by Kazhdan 1995: 81-82.
92 3071-3078, only displaying the typical terminology of fear: φόβου πέλαγος (3077), φρίττω (3078).
93 3113-3146, once again with the appropriate terminology of fear: φόβος (3113. 3132), φοβοῦμαι (3119),
θορυβοῦμαι (3122), κλονίζομαι (3124), θόρυβος (3126).
94 Text edited, with a paraphrase, in Knös 1962: 280-87.

πνεύματος), and the terrifying dragon was transformed into an allegorical one standing for
the devil himself.
By way of conclusion I would like to recapitulate some main points I have discussed in
this chapter. Greek fiction was from the very beginning familiar with manifold forms of the
marvelous, even though this category always had a subordinate, mainly decorative function
in the narrative, the only exception to this rule being the Alexander Romance. In the revival
novels of the Komnenian era, the marvelous was even more severely restricted, since the
focus there shifted from narrative to rhetoric. Only in the earlier Palaeologan vernacular
romances is a marvelous space created in its own right. This space appears to be confined in
practice to the area of a wondrous castle, the realm of Eros or the dwelling of a fabulous
creature, which functions as a metaphor of the otherworld. While the dimensions of such a
marvelous space are certainly small, its function within the narrative is an essential and
meaningful one. This new “other” world of imagination95 stands beyond Greek narrative
conventions and mythology but it presupposes both of them; hence the ambiguous sense of
strangeness and familiarity that it causes to Byzantine and to modern readers alike: they
both could and still can stop at that marvelous space, abandoning themselves with aston-
ishment and admiration to the pleasure of wonder and, as Coleridge called it, that “willing
suspension of disbelief,”96 which every successful fiction is able to arouse.
WORKS CITED
Aerts W.J. 1988. “Alexander the Great in Exempla et Similitudines in Byzantine Literature.” In W.J.
Aerts and M. Gosman (eds.), Exemplum et Similitudo. Alexander the Great and Other Heroes as
Points of Reference in Medieval Literature, Groningen, 1-18.
Agapitos, P. A. 1991.Narrative Structure in the Byzantine Vernacular Romances. A Textual and Lit-
erary Study of Kallimachos, Belthandros and Libistros. Miscellanea Byzantina Monacensia 34.
München.
—. 1993. “Ἡ χρονολογικὴ ἀκολουθία τῶν μυθιστορημάτων Καλλίμαχος, Βέλθανδρος καὶ
Λίβιστρος.” In Panayotakis 1993 (2): 97-134.
—. 1999. “Dreams and Spatial Aesthetics of Narrative Presentation in Livistros and Rhodamne.”
Dumbarton Oaks Papers 53: 111-47.
—. 2000a. Der Roman der Komnenenzeit: Stand der Forschung und weitere Perspektiven.” In
Agapitos and Reinsch 2000, 1-24.
—. 2000b. “Poets and Painters: Theodoros Prodromos’ Dedicatory Verses of His Novel to an Anony-
mous Caesar.” Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik 50: 173-85.
—. 2004. “Genre, Structure and Poetics in the Byzantine Vernacular Romances of Love.” Symbolae
Osloenses 79: 7-54.
— (ed.). 2006a. Αφήγησις Λιβίστρου και Ροδάμνης. Διασκευή α. Βυζαντινή και Νεοελληνική
Βιβλιοθήκη 9. Athens.
—. 2006b. “Writing, Reading and Reciting (in) Byzantine Erotic Fiction.” In B. Μondrain (ed.), Lire
et écrire à Byzance. Centre de recherche d’Histoire et Civilisation de Byzance, Monographies 19,
Paris, 125-78.
Agapitos P.A and D.R. Reinsch (eds.). 2000. Der Roman im Byzanz der Komnenenzeit. Referate des
Internationalen Symposiums an der freien Universität Berlins, 3.-6. April 1998. Meletemata 8.
Wiesbaden.
95 Jauss 1977: VIII [294].

96 See Shedd (ed.) 1854, vol. III, cap. XIV: 365.

198 Carolina Cupane
Agapitos, P.A. and O.L. Smith. 1992. The Study of Medieval Greek Romance. Opuscula Graecolatina
33. Copenhagen.
Aleksidze, A. 1982. “Kallimach i Chrisorroja: problema žanra.” Jahrbuch der österreichischen
Byzantinistik 32/3, 93-98 (=Akten des XVI. Byzantinistenkongreß, Wien, 4.-9. Oktober 1981).
Angelidi, Ch. 1982. “Remarques sur la description de la Jérusalem céleste. » Jahrbuch der
österreichischen Byzantinistik 31(3) :207-15 (= Akten 16. Byzantinistenkongreß, Wien, 4.-9.-
Oktober 1981).
—. 1989. “Εμπορικοί και αγιολογικοί δρόμοι (4ος–7ος αι.). Οι μεταμορφώσεις της ταξιδιωτικής
αφήγησης.” In Η καθημερινή ζωή στο Βυζάντιο. Τομές και συνέχειες στην ελληνιστική και
ρωμαϊκή παράδοση, Athens, 675-85.
Angelidi, Ch. and G. Calofonos (eds.). 2014. Dreaming of Byzantium and Beyond: Papers of the
Conference Athens, 22-24 May 2008. Aldershot.
Babbi, A.M, Pioletti, A., Rizzo Nervo, F., Stevanoni, C. (eds.). 1992. Medioevo romanzo e orientale.
Testi e prospettive storiografiche. Colloquio internazionale, Verona, 4-6 aprile 1990. Soveria
Mannelli.
Bakhtin, M.M. 1981.The Dialogic Imagination: Four Essays. Ed. M. Holquist. Austin.
Beaton, R. 1996. The Medieval Greek Romance2 . London.
Branhan, B. 2001. “Representing Time in Ancient Fiction.” Ancient Narrative 1: 1-31.
Brett, G. 1954.”The Automata in the Byzantine Throne of Solomon.” Speculum 29: 477-87.
Brinker-von der Heyde, C. 2005. “Zwischenräume: Zur Konstruktion und Funktion des
handlungslosen Raums.” In Vavra 2005, 203-14.
Browning, R. 1978. “The Language of Byzantine Literature.” In Sp. Vryonis (ed.), The “Past” in
Medieval and Modern Greek Culture, Malibu, 103-33.
—. 19832. Medieval and Modern Greek. Cambridge.
Browenlee, M.S. et al. (eds.). 2013. Renaissance Encounters. Greek East and Latin West. Leiden.
Canavas, C. 2003. “Automaten in Byzanz. Der Thron von Magnaura.” In Grubmüller and Stock
2003, 49-71.
Cassarino, M. (ed.). 2009. Sulle Orme di Shahrazàd. Le mille e Una Notte fra Oriente e Occidente.
Medioevo romanzo e orientale. Atti VI Colloquio Internazionale. Ragusa, 12-14 ottobre 2006.
Soveria Mannelli.
Cavallo, G. (ed.). 2004. Lo spazio letterario del Medioevo. 3. Le culture circostanti. I. La cultura
bizantina. Roma.
Colonna, A. (ed.). 1938. Heliodoros. Aethiopika. Roma.
Conca, F. (ed.). 1990. Nicetas Eugeneianus. De Drosillae et Chariclis amoribus. London Studies in
Classical Philology 24. Amsterdam.
— (ed.). 1994. Il romanzo bizantino del XII secolo. Teodoro Prodromo, Niceta Eugeniano, Eustazio
Macrembolita, Costantino Manasse. Torino.
Cupane, C. 1974. “Ἔρως βασιλεύς: La figura di Eros nel romanzo bizantino d’amore.” Atti
Accademia di Scienze, Lettere e Arti di Palermo, ser IV, XXXIII, 243-97.
—. 1978. “Il motivo del castello nella narrativa tardo-bizantina: Evoluzione di un’allegoria.”
Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik 27: 229-67.
—. 1992. “Concezione e rappresentazione dell’amore nella narrativa tardo-bizantina. Un tentativo di
analisi comparata.” In Babbi et al. 1992, 283-305.
—. 1993. “Κατέλαβες τὰ ἀμφίβολα τῆς τυφλῆς δαίμονος πρόσωπα: Il Λόγος παρηγορητικὸς περὶ
Δυστυχίας καὶ Εὐτυχίας e la figura di fortuna nella letteratura greca medievale.” In Panayotakis
1993 (1): 413-37.
—. 1994. “Lo straniero, l’estraneo, la vita da straniero nella letteratura (tardo)bizantina di finzione.”
In Mayali 1994, 103-26.

—. 1995 (ed.). Romanzi cavallereschi bizantini: Callimaco e Crisorroe, Beltandro e Crisanza, Storia
di Achille, Florio e Plaziaflore, Storia di Apollonio di Tiro, Favola consolatoria sulla Cattiva e la
Buona Sorte. Torino.
—. 2004. “Il Romanzo.” In Cavallo 2004, 407-53.
—. 2005. “Die Leipziger Fassung des Logos paregoretikos peri Dystychia kai Eutychias.” In Kolditz
and Müller 2005, 281-98.
—. 2006. “Literarische Bilder und Vorbilder: Die Helden im Roman.” In Hahn and Vielberg 2006,
299-321.
—. 2008. “Das erfundene Epigramm: Schrift und Bild im Roman.” In Hörandner and Rhoby 2008,
19-28.
—. 2009. “Itinerari Magici: Il viaggio del cavallo volante.” In Cassarino 2009, 65-83.
—. 2010a. “Jenseits des Schattens der Alten? Zum Umgamg mit der Tradition in der
volkssprachlichen Erzählliteratur.” In Rhoby and Schiffer 2010, 93-102.
—. 2010b. “Ἄκουσε τί μὲ ἐφάνη. Sogni e visioni nella narrativa greca medievale.” In La Lomia 2010,
81-104.
—. 2013. “Una passeggiata nei boschi narrativi. Lo statuto della finzione nel Medioevo romanzo e
Orientale. In margine a un contributo recente.” Jahrbuch der österreichischen Byzantinistik 63:
61-90.
—. 2014. “The Heavenly City: Religious and Secular Visions of the Other World in Byzantine Litera-
ture.” In Angelidi and Calofonos 2014.
van Dieten, J.-L. (ed.). 1975.Nicetae Choniatae Historia I-II. Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae
XI/1-2. Berlin.
Diller, I. 1977.”Märchenmotive in Kallimachos und Chrysorrhoe.” Folia neohellenica 2:25-40.
Dubost, F. 1991. Aspects fantastiques de la littérature médiévale (XIIème-XIIIème siècles). L’Autre,
l’Ailleurs, l’Autrefois. Geneva.
Eideneier, H. (ed.). 1977. Spanos. Eine byzantinische Satire in der Form einer Parodie. Supplementa
Byzantina. Texte und Untersuchungen 5. Berlin.
Eming, J. 1999. Funktionswandel des Wunderbaren. Studien zum Bel Inconnu, zum Wigalois und zum
Wigoleis vom Rade. Trier.
Frangoulidis, S. 2008. Witches, Isis and Narrative: Approaches to Magic in Apuleius’ Metamorpho-
ses. Trends in classics, Supplementary volumes 2. Berlin.
Friede, S. 2003. Die Wahrnehmung des Wunderbaren. Der Roman d’Alexandre im Kontext der
französischen Literatur des 12. Jahrhunderts. Tübingen.
Fusillo, M. 1989. Il romanzo greco. Polifonia ed eros. Venice.
Genette, G. 1972. Figures III. Discours du récit. Essai de méthode. Paris.
—. 1983. Nouveau discours du récit. Paris.
Ginzburg, C. 1989. Storia notturna. Una decifrazione del sabba. Torino. (English: Ecstasies. Deci-
phering the witches’ Sabbath. New York 1991).
Greenblatt S. 1991. Marvelous Possessions: The Wonders of the New World. Oxford.
Greenfield, R.P.H. 1995. “A Contribution to the Study of Palaeologan Magic.” In Maguire 1995, 117-
53.
Grubmüller, K. and M. Stock (eds.). 2003. Automaten in Kunst und Literatur des Mittelalters und der
frühen Neuzeit. Wolfenbütteler Mittelalter-Studien 17. Wiesbaden.
Habiger-Tuczay, Ch. 2006. Magie und Magier im Mittelalter. München2.
Hägg, Th. 1971. Narrative Technique in Ancient Greek Romances: Studies of Chariton, Xenophon
Ephesius and Achille Tatius. Stockholm.
Hahn, J. and M. Vielberg 2006 (eds.). Formen und Funktionen von Leitbildern. Altertumswissen-
schaftlichen Kolloquium 17. Stuttgart.

200 Carolina Cupane
Hörandner, H. and A Rhoby (eds.). 2008. Die kulturhistorische Bedeutung byzantinischer

Epigramme. Akten des Internationalen Workshops, Wien, 1.-2. Dezember 2006.
Veröffentlichungen zur Byzanzforschung 15. Vienna.
Hoffmann, G. 1978. Raum, Situation, erzählte Wirklichkeit: Poetologische und historische Studien
zum englischen und amerikanischen Roman. Stuttgart.
Horrocks, G. 1997. Greek: A History of the Language and Its Speakers. London.
Hunger, H. 1968. “Die byzantinische Literatur der Komnenenzeit, Versuch einer Neubewertung.”
Anzeiger phil.-hist. Klasse österr. Akademie d. Wissenschaften 105: 59-76 (repr. in Id.,
Byzantinistische Grundlageforschung. Gesammelte Aufsätze. London 1973, Nr. XVI).
—. 1980. Antiker und byzantinischer Roman. Sitzungsberichte d. Heidelberger Akademie d. Wissen-
schaften, phil.-hist. Klasse 3. Heidelberg.
Jauss, H.-R. 1977. Alterität und Modernität der mittelalterlichen Literatur. Munich
Jeffreys, E. 1998. “The Novels of Mid-Twelfth Century Constantinople: The Literary and Social
Context.” In Ševčenko and Hutter 1998, 191-99.
—. 2000. “A Date for Rhodanthe and Dosikles?” In Agapitos and Reinsch 2000, 127-36.
Jeffreys, E.M and Papathomopoulos, M. (eds.). 1996. Ο πόλεμος της Τρωάδος (The War of Troy).
Βυζαντινή και Νεοελληνική Βιβλιοθήκη 7. Athens.
Jones, M. 2004. “The Wisdom of Egypt: Base and Heavenly Magic in Heliodoros’ Aethiopika.” An-
cient Narrative 4:79-98.
—. 2012. “Byzantine Romances: Eastern or Western?” In Brownlee et al. (eds.), Princeton, NJ, 217-
33.
Jouanno, C. 1987. L’ekphrasis dans la littérature byzantine d’imagination. PhD thesis, Paris.
—. 1992. “Les barbares dans le roman byzantin du XIIe siècle. Fonction d’un topos.” Byzantion
62:264-300.
—. 2001. “La réception du Roman d’Alexandre à Byzance.” Ancient Narrative 1: 301-21.
Karnein, A. 1985. De amore in der volkssprachlichen Literatur. Untersuchungen zur Andreas-
Cappellanus-Rezeption im Mittelalter und in der Renaissance. Germanisch-romanische
Monatsschrift, Beiheft 4. Heidelberg.
Kazhdan, A. 1995. “Holy and Unholy Miracle Workers.” In Maguire 1995, 73-82.
Kieckefer, R. 19972. Magic in the Middle Ages. Cambridge.
Knös, B. (ed.). 1962. “Qui est l’auteur de Callimaque et Chrysorrhoé. “ » Hellenika 17: 274-95.
Kolditz, S. and R. C. Müller (eds.). 2005. Geschehenes und Geschriebenes. Studien zu Ehren von G.S.
Henrich und K.-P. Matschke. Leipzig.
La Lomia, G. (ed.). 2010. Temi e motivi epico-cavallereschi fra Oriente e Occidente. Medioevo
Romanzo e Orientale. Atti VII Colloquio, Ragusa, 8-10 maggio 2008. Soveria Mannelli.
Landfester, M. 1992.”Reise und Roman in der Antike. Über die Bedeutung des Reisens für die
Entstehung und Verbreitung des antiken Romans.” In X. von Etzendorff and D. Neukirch (eds.),
Reisen und Reiseliteratur in Mittelalter und in der frühen Neuzeit, Amsterdam, 29-41.
Lanza, D. and O. Longo (eds.). 1989. Il meraviglioso e il verosimile tra antichità e medioevo. Flor-
ence.
Le Goff, J. 19912. L’imaginaire médiéval: Le Merveilleux. Paris.
Lendari, T. (ed.). 2007. Αφήγησις Λιβίστρου και Ροδάμνης (Livistros and Rodamne). The Vatican
Version. Βυζαντινή και Νεοελληνική Βιβλιοθήκη 10. Athens.
Lowe, N.J. 2000. The Classical Plot and the Invention of Western Narrative. Cambridge.
MacAlister, S. 1996. Dreams and Suicides. The Greek Novel from Antiquity to the Byzantine Empire.
London.
Macrides, R. (ed.). 2002. Travel in the Byzantine World. Papers from the Thirty-four Spring Sympo-
sium of Byzantine Studies, Birmigham, April 2000. Aldershot.
Magdalino, P. 1991. “Hellenism and Nationalism in Byzantium.” In Id., Tradition and Transfor-
mations in Medieval Byzantium, Nr. XIV. London, 1-29.

—. 1993. “Eros the King and the King of Amours: Some Observations on Hysmine and Hysminias.”
Dumbarton Oaks Papers 46:197-204.
Maguire, H. (ed.). 1995. Byzantine Magic. Washington D.C.
—. 2012. “The Heavenly City in Ekphrasis and in Art.” In Odorico and Messis 2012, 37-48.
Malamut, E. 1993. Sur la route des saints byzantins. Paris.
Marcovich, M. (ed.). 1992. Theodorus Prodromus. De Rhodanthe et Dosicles amoribus libri IX.
Stuttgart.
— (ed.). 2001. Eustathius Macrembolites. De Hysmines et Hysminiae amoribus libri XI. Munich.
Mayali, L. (ed.). 1994. Identité et droit de l’autre. Berkeley.
Megas, G. 1956. “Καλλιμάχου καὶ Χρυσορρόης ὑπόθεσις.” In Mélanges M. et O. Merlier. Collections
de l’Institut français d’Athènes 92. II, 147-162 (= Laographia 25 [1967] 228-53).
Meunier, F. 1998. “Le voyage imaginaire dans le roman byzantin.” Byzantion 68: 72-90.
Moennig, U. 1992. Die spätbyzantinische Rezension *ζ des Alexanderromans. Neograeca Medii Aevi
6. Gologne.
— (ed.). 2004. Die Erzählung von Alexander und Semiramis. Supplementa Byzantina. Texte und
Untersuchungen 7. Berlin.
— (ed.). 2009. “Das Συναξάριον τοῦ τιμημένου Γαδάρου: Analyse, Ausgabe, Wörterverzeichnis.”
Byzantinische Zeitschrift 102: 109-66.
Morgan, J.R. 1993. “Make-believe and Make Believe: The Fictionality of the Greek Novels.” In Ch.
Gill and T.P. Wiseman (eds.), Lies and Fiction in the Ancient World, Exeter, 174-229.
—. 2007. “The Novel.” In I.J.F. De Jong (ed.), Time in Ancient Greek Literature. Mnemosyne
Supplements 291, Leiden, 433-503.
Müller, G. 1968. Morphologische Poetik. Gesammelte Aufsätze, hrsg. von E. Müller. Tübingen.
Mullett, M. 2002. “In Peril on the Sea: Travel Genres and the Unexpected.” In Macrides 2002, 259-
84.
Nilsson, I. 2000. “Spatial Time and Temporal Space: Aspects of Narrativity in Makrembolites.” In
—. 2001. Erotic Pathos, Rhetorical Pleasure. Narrative Technique and Mimesis in Eumathios
Makrembolites’ Hysmine & Hysminias. Acta Universitatis Upsaliensis. Studia Byzantina
Upsaliensia 7. Uppsala.
Odorico, P. and Ch. Messis (eds.). 2012. Villes de toute beauté. L’ekphrasis des cités dans les
littératures byzantine et byzantinoslaves. Actes du colloque international, Prague, 25-26
novembre 2011. Dossiers byzantins 12). Paris.
O’Sullivan, J.M. (ed.). 2005. Xenophon Ephesius de Anthia et Habrocome Ephesiacorum libri V.
Munich.
Panayotakis, N.M. (ed.). 1993. Origini della letteratura neogreca. Atti del secondo Congresso
Internazionale Neograeca Medii Aevi (Venezia, 7-10 novembre 1991), I-II. Venice.
Paschalis M. and S.A. Frangoulidis 2002 (eds.). Space in the Ancient Novel. Ancient Narrative. Suppl.
1. Groningen.
Paschalis, M., et al. (eds.). 2007. The Greek and Roman Novel: Parallel Readings. Ancient Narrative,
Suppl. 8. Groningen.
Peron, G. 1989. “Meraviglioso e verosimile nel romanzo francese medievale.” In Lanza and Longo
1989, 293-323.
Pratsch, T. 2005. Der hagiographische Topos. Griechische Heiligenviten in mittelbyzantinischer Zeit.
Millennium-Studien 6. Berlin.
Rhoby, A. and E. Schiffer (eds.). 2010. Imitatio, aemulatio, variatio. Akten des internationalen
wissenschaftlichen Symposions, Wien, 22.-25. Oktober 2008. Veröffentlichungen zur
Byzanzforschung 21. Vienna.
Roilos, P. 2000. “Amphoteroglossia: The Role of Rhetoric in Medieval Greek Learned Novel.” In

202 Carolina Cupane
—. 2005. Amphoteroglossia. A Poetics of the Twelfth-Century Medieval Greek Novel. Washington D.C.
—. 2007. “Ekphrastic Semantics and Ritual Poetics: From the Ancient Greek Novel to the Late Medie-
val Greek Romance.” In A. Bierl et al. (eds.), Literatur und Religion; 2. Wege zu einer mythisch-
rituellen Poetik bei den Griechen. Berlin, 335-58.
Rommel, H. 1923. Die naturwissenschaftlich-paradoxographischen Exkurse bei Philostratos,
Heliodoros und Achilleus Tatios. Stuttgart.
Ruhe, D. 1974. Le dieu d’amour avec son paradis. Beiträge zur romanischen Philologie des
Mittelalters 6. München.
Ruiz Montero, C. 2007. “Magic in the Ancient Novel.” In Paschalis et al. 2007, 39-56.
Schissel, O. 1942. “Der byzantinische Garten. Seine Darstellung im gleichzeitigen Romane.”
Akademie d. Wissnschaften in Wien, phil.-hist. Klasse. Sitzungsberichte 221/2:5-69.
Schlösser, F. 1959. Andreas Cappellanus. Seine Minnelehre und das christliche Weltbild um 1200.
Bonn.
Schmidtke, D. 1994. “Nachwort.” In D. Schmidtke (ed.), Das Wunderbare in der mittelalterlichen
Literatur, Göppinger Arbeiten zur Germanistik 606, Göppingen, 209-18.
Schnell, R. 1882. Andreas Cappellanus. Zur Rezeption des römischen und kanonischen Rechts in De
Amore. Münstersche Mittelalterschriften 46. München.
Schönauer, S. (ed.). 1996. Untersuchungen zum Steinkatalog des Sophrosyne-Gedichts von
Meliteniotes mit kritischer Edition der Verse 1107-1247. Meletemata 6. Wiesbaden.
Ševčenko I. and I. Hutter (eds.). 1998. Ἀετός. Studies in Honour of C. Mango. Stuttgart.
Shedd, [W.G.T.] (ed.). 1854. The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge in Seven Volumes.
Vol. III: Biographia literaria. New York.
Slater, N.W. 2007. “Posthumous Parleys: Chatting up the Dead in the Ancient Novel.” In Paschalis et
al. 2007, 57-69.
Stavrakopoulou, S. 2008. “Φαντασιακό και ποιητική ρητορική στα βυζαντινά δημώδη ερωτικά
μυθιστορήματα.” Επιστημονική Επετηρίδα Φιλοσοφικής Σχολής Πανεπιστημίου Θεσσαλονίκης,
Τμήμα Φιλολογίας 11: 21-51.
Todorov, S. 1970. Introduction à la littérature fantastique. Paris.
Trojel H. (ed.). 1892. Andreae Cappellani regis Francorum De amore libri tres. Hauniae (= Copen-
hagen).
Varvaro, A. 1994. Apparizioni fantastiche. Tradizioni folcloriche e letteratura nel Medioevo: Walter
Map. Bologna.
Vassiliev, A. (ed.). 1893. “Vita Macarii.” In A. Vassiliev (ed.), Anecdota graeco-byzantina, Moscow,
135-65.
Vavra, E. (ed.). 2005. Virtuelle Räume. Raumwahrnehmung und Raumvorstellung im Mittelalter,
Akten 10. Symposiums des Medievistenverbandes, Krems, 24.-26. März 2003. Berlin.
Vilborg, E. (ed.). 1955. Achilles Tatius. Leucippe and Clitophon. Studia Graeca et Latina
Gothoburgensia 1. Göteborg.
Volk, R. (ed.). 2006-2009. Die Schriften des Johannes von Damaskos VI/1-2. Historia animae utilis
de Barlaam et Ioasaph (spuria). Patristische Texte und Studien 60, 61. Berlin.
Weber, M. 1958. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. New York.
Wehr, Ch. 1997. Imaginierte Wirklichkeiten. Untersuchungen zum “récit fantastique” von Nodier bis
Maupassant. Tübingen.
Wolfzettel, F. 2003. “Das Problem des Phantastischen im Mittelalter. Überlegungen zu Francis
Dubost.” In F. Wolfzettel (ed.), Das Wunderbare in der arthurischen Literatur. Probleme und
Perspektiven. Tübingen, 3-21.


Panagiotis Roilos, Ed - Medieval Greek Storytellin - 230811 - 211731

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

You might also like

Panagiotis Roilos, Ed - Medieval Greek Storytellin - 230811 - 211731

Uploaded by

Document Information

Original Title

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Panagiotis Roilos, Ed - Medieval Greek Storytellin - 230811 - 211731

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Offprint from

Medieval Greek Storytelling

Edited by Panagiotis Roilos

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

1 Bakhtin 1981: 84-258.

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

14 IV 8.7 and VIII 11.2.

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

43 See Cupane 1994: 110-15, Meunier 1998.

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

290-93, Cupane 2013: 84-90.

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

95 Jauss 1977: VIII [294].

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

Hörandner, H. and A Rhoby (eds.). 2008. Die kulturhistorische Bedeutung byzantinischer

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

© Harrassowitz Verlag, Wiesbaden 2014

You might also like