For several centuries, going back to the revolutions of the 18th
century if not beyond, democratic societies of the West have
acknowledged a manifold debt to classical Greek antiquity whether in the
realm political theory or in political institutions, including the word
and concept of democracy itself. These societies have seldom
acknowledged any debt to the Byzantine Empire of the Middle Ages.
Rather, Byzantium – whether in its thought or in its institutions –
often is presented as the very antithesis of what classical Greek
antiquity stood for, or, by extension, what modern societies should
stand for. Byzantine thought is characterized as lacking creativity,
at best devoted to preservation or sterile imitation of classical forms
but with no grasp of the classical spirit. Byzantine institutions are
seen as hopelessly tainted by oriental despotism.
Such views, on the one hand, fail to see
the continuity of Hellenic culture. Though certainly different in many
ways, the Athens of Pericles and the Constantinople of Justinian are
not polar opposites! At the same time, such views fail to take into
account the way in which classical Greek thought, including political
thought, not only was taken over but also was transformed by its
engagement with Christianity. The Christian Hellenism of the Fathers of
Church, as applied in various ways in late antiquity and Byzantium,
addressed the most fundamental issues raised in classical thought and
life, but it did so from a radically new perspective.
The famous dictum of the Sophist
Protagoras, “Man is the measure of all things,” reflects the underlying
anthropocentric perspective of classical antiquity. Social institutions
of whatever sort were basically this-worldly, utilitarian means for
maintaining stability in the face of change, disintegration and
formlessness. With the coming of Christianity, and in the course of its
encounter with Greek thought, this gives way to a new theocentric
perspective. The worth or timê of a human being is no longer
relative, always being measured in comparison to others in society.
Rather, each and every human being is unique, irreplaceable and of
inestimable worth, because each one, created in the image and likeness
of God, is loved and valued by God. And just as each one is created by
God and for God, ultimately – at the Last Day – each one will be judged
by God. In this eschatological perspective, human beings – and also
human history – take on new meaning. History is no longer the eternal,
ceaselessly repetitive but ultimately static struggle of form against
mutability, of order against chaos. Like individual human beings,
history is marked by a beginning (in creation) and an end (in ultimate
judgment). Its true significance can be grasped only when finite human
preoccupations give way to divine infinity.
This shift in perspective needs to
be taken into account when assessing Byzantine political institutions
and Byzantine political philosophy. The Byzantine Empire was hardly a
democracy whether in the modern sense of that word or in the ancient.
In general, treatises on politics – not to mention actual institutions –
favored monarchy untempered whether by oligarchy or democracy. But the
rationale for monarchy was no longer simply that it enhanced the
well-being of the state by maintaining order and stability in the face
of change. Monarchy was valued because, in principle, it upheld the
dignity and acknowledged the worth of each human person while at the
same time holding each human person responsible for his or her actions.
The brilliance of classical Greek
political thought is evident its critical analysis of various forms of
government (which of course are not limited to democracy). But its
enduring importance lies in its concern for placing politics within a
broader philosophical and ethical context. What is the meaning of
life? How should human beings live? What is the nature of a good and
happy life? In the realm of politics, such questions lead to others:
What is the proper relationship between the self and society, the
personal good and the public good, the individual and the state?
Answers to these questions varied.
As in Plato’s dialogues, multiple voices can be heard. In the
background, we hear the primordial drone of the Eumenides and their
insistence on enforcement of inalterable nomos. But by the
fifth century B.C. we meet, in the Sophists, a rising current of
skepticism, rationalism and individualism. According to them, far from
being inalterable, law can be changed according to the interests of the
state, whether this state be founded by the establishment of a
multilateral social contract or by the strong will and clever words of a
single individual. What counts is success, measured by human will and
need, and obtained through opportune adaptation to circumstances. Such a
state, of course, could lend itself very easily to various forms of
totalitarianism – including what might be termed “democratic
totalitarianism.” Subordination of the interests of individual citizens
(not to mention the interests of aliens, slaves, women and other
non-citizens) is particularly conspicuous in oligarchic Sparta. It
appears in a more philosophical guise in the communism of Plato’s Republic.
But we should not forget that “the radical democracy of Periclean
Athens likewise presupposed the voluntary devotion, at all cost, of the
individual citizen to the interests of the state”[1] and that it ignored altogether the interests and the very humanity of the non-citizen
At one end of the ancient Greek
political spectrum, we find totalitarianism. At the other, we find the
anarchism of the Cynics, who taught that the wise man is self-sufficient
and does not need a state. Is there a middle way? In certain
respects, Aristotle provided one when he taught that the state is a
product of nature and based on reason. The state is a natural
consequence of man’s social nature, not an arbitrary imposition. But
neither is it an organic entity analogous to the individual human being,
as Plato had suggested. Rather, the state is “a composite thing, in
the same sense as any other of the things that are wholes but consist of
many parts.”[2]
It is a “collection of citizens,” whose collective needs – presumed to
reflect individual needs – are to be pursued in accordance with reason.
It is where human need for political community and human desire for
autonomy are reconciled.
How, practically speaking, can this
reconciliation be accomplished most effectively? Put somewhat
differently, what kind of constitution should the state have? Unlike
many of the politicians of his age, Aristotle took a pragmatic approach
to this question rather than an ideological one: Whatever works best,
seems to have been his answer. Whatever is likely to endure longest in
the face of the forces of decay and disintegration that inevitably
plague this phenomenal world. At times Aristotle seems to favor a mixed
constitution combining oligarchic and democratic elements. But he also
agrees with Plato in his appreciation of the rule of the “best man.”
If a true philosopher-king can be found, someone preeminent in virtue,
by all means he should rule, “since such a man will naturally be as a
god among men.”[3]
By the mid-fourth century, the defects
both of oligarchy and of democracy had become painfully obvious to
thinking Greeks. The overweening ambitions of successive demagogues and
the impotent rivalries of the city-states were undermining the very
foundations of civilization. For Isocrates, disillusioned Athenian
democrat that he was, the only hope lay in monarchy – which at the time
was most conspicuously embodied in Philip of Macedon. Needed was
someone who could successfully implement Isocrates’ dream of the union
of all Greeks, someone who could combine thought and action, someone who
exhibited both the sagacity of a philosopher-king and the know-how and
practical expertise that the Sophists had prized.
For Isocrates, monarchy represented the
“last best hope” for Greek civilization. After his death, the value of
monarchy seemed to be confirmed by the establishment of a new world
order, initially by Alexander the Great and thereafter by the Roman
Empire. For Isocrates’ innumerable successors and imitators, from the
Hellenistic period to the final centuries of Byzantium, the superiority
of monarchy over any other form of government became axiomatic. In his Discourses on Kingship, Dio Chrysostom (late 1st - early 2nd
century AD) offers a collection of observations that already by his day
had become commonplace. For example, he quotes Homer: “One must be
chief.”[4]
Nature confirms this, as we see with swarms of bees, which always have
one king. As Zeus is the first and best and most powerful of the gods,
who alone governs the universe, so also the king must imitate his
administration. Like Zeus the king deserves the honorific titles of
Father, Protector of Cities, Guardian of the Race. Imitating the
greatest of gods, the king must act as benefactor, guardian and savior
to his subjects. He must act as a sea captain who cares day and night
for the safety of his passengers. He must perform his duties willingly
and regularly, as does the sun throughout the ages. He must be to his
subjects what a physician is to the sick, a good shepherd and not a
butcher, a skilled charioteer directing the course of state affairs,
etc.
Christian writers, beginning with
Eusebius of Caesarea in the early 4th century, took over this
Hellenistic conception of kingship, with its emphasis on theomimetic
rule, with only superficial changes. Here are some of the elaborate
parallelisms that he develops in the course of his oration on the
thirtieth anniversary of Constantine’s imperial rule:
The only begotten Word of God reigns,
from ages which had no beginning, to infinite and endless ages, the
partner of His Father’s kingdom. And our emperor ever beloved by him,
who derives the source of imperial authority from above, and is strong
in the power of his sacred title, has controlled the empire of the world
for a long period of years. Again, just as that Preserver of the
universe orders the whole heaven and earth, and the celestial kingdom,
consistently with His Father’s will. Even so our emperor whom He loves,
by bringing those whom he rules on earth to the only begotten and
saving Word renders them fit subjects for His kingdom. And as He who is
the common Saviour of mankind, by His invisible and divine power as a
good shepherd, drives far away from His flock, like savage beasts, those
apostate spirits which once flew through the airy tracts above this
earth, and fastened on the souls of men; so this His friend, graced by
His heavenly favour with victory over all his foes, subdues and chastens
the open adversaries of truth in accordance with the usages of war….
Lastly, invested as he is with a semblance of divine sovereignty, he
directs his gaze above, and frames his earthly government according to
the pattern of that divine original, feeling strength in its conformity
to the monarchy of God. And this conformity is granted by the universal
Sovereign to man alone of the creatures of this earth: for He only is
the author of sovereign power, who decrees that all should be subject to
the rule of one. And surely monarchy far transcends every other
constitution and form of government: for that democratic equality of
power, which is its opposite, may rather be described as anarchy and
disorder….[5]
After Eusebius, the legacy of Isocrates
passes most notably to Synesius and then to Agapetus, deacon of the
Great Church of Constantinople in the sixth century, who offers 72
“heads” or chapters of advice and counsel to Justinian, the reigning
emperor. Agapetus’ work will set the model and supply much of the
content for subsequent “mirror for princes” literature in both East and
West. Over a dozen Byzantine works relating to kingship draw directly
or indirectly on Agapetus, and echoes of his work can be found far more
widely – for example, in Muscovite Russia. In the West during the
Renaissance, Agapetus’ Exposition of Advice and Counsel appeared
in twenty or more print editions, and it influenced in various ways a
multitude of original works on the subject of the godly prince.[6]
Agapetus’ popularity requires little
explanation. His work is noteworthy not for its originality but for the
way in which presents in popular form a collection of commonplaces. But
– as is so often the case with such works – the commonplaces that
Agapetus presents derive from various sources and could be appropriated
and applied in a variety of ways. His main source is Isocrates’ Letter
to Diocles, prince of Cyprus. But he also draws on the Greek Fathers of
the Church and other writers who put their own spin on the ideas of
Isocrates and subsequent Hellenistic exponents of monarchy. It is
impossible right now to enter into a detailed analysis of Agapetus’
sources, but a few observations may be in order.
Much of Agapetus’ practical advice comes straight out of Isocrates. The basileus
must watch his words and his temper; he must not listen to flatterers,
but take advice from good friends; he must not employ evil-doers in the
management of affairs; he must not act in haste; he must be just to
friend and foe; he must inspire love and fear; he must be fearless in
battle; he must be a true philosopher; he must be the father of his
subjects and do good, as the benefactor of all men; he must be the
steady pilot, etc. But in his discussion of the divine source and
theomimetic character of kingly rule, Agapetus shows some of the ways in
which Hellenistic political theory was being subtly transformed through
its engagement with Christianity.
Consider, for example, chapter 21:
In the nature of his body the king is on
a level with all other men, but in the authority attached to his
dignity he is like God who rules over all; for he has no man on earth
who is higher than he. Therefore, like God, he must never by angry, yet
as a mortal man he must never be lifted up in conceit; for if he be
honored by being in the divine image, he is also involved in the earthly
image whereby he is taught his equality with other men.
In the authority of his office the king is indeed like God.
On earth he images God’s universal authority, and in his behavior he
certainly should imitate God in various ways. But this does not mean
that the king is God or a god. In his creaturely origin he is
no different from any other human being. And here we must note an
important point. Unlike classical Greek religion and thought, where
(according to Hesiod) “the gods and mortal men have the same origin,”[7]
Christianity postulates a radical difference between Creator and
created, between God and man. The radical monotheism of Christianity
allows no possibility of an intermediate political “space” between the
gods and men that could be filled by demigods – or by kings. The king
therefore must view his subjects in a new light. If the king truly
honors God, from whom he has received not only earthly dominion but also
his very being, then he must honor his fellow human beings, who also
are created by God. Agapetus develops this theme in chapter 61:
Having received the scepter of kingship
from God, take thought how you may please Him who gave it; and having
been honored above all men by Him, hasten to honor Him more than all
other men. And this He regards as the highest honor you can render –
that you look upon those whom He has fashioned as if they were [God]
Himself, [and fulfill the measure of your well-doing as if it were the
payment of debts.]
The king may be superior to his subjects
in many earthly ways, but this superiority is not the result of noble
descent that would somehow set him apart from others, as though he in a
unique way was sprung from a divine source. As Agapetus points out in
chapter 4, “Let no man feel conceit about nobility of birth. All men
alike have clay for their first ancestor – both those who boast
themselves in purple and fine linen, and those who are afflicted by
poverty and sickness; both those who are crowned with a diadem, and
those who are attendants in the palace….”
The king, like all men, has clay for his
first ancestor. He is a creature, not God. If he rules over all on
earth, he does so neither by right of succession nor by right of
conquest but precisely because he has been chosen by God and given the
scepter by God (also cap. 1). Agapetus’ emphasis on divine election –
an emphasis shared by virtually every patristic and Byzantine writer on
the subject of kingship – may seem at first glance to encourage
absolutism, but in fact – in its practical application – it serves to
limit and regulate the ruler’s conduct in various ways.
How, first of all, is divine election
expressed? Agapetus does not address this issue, but many others did.
God elects, but he does so through human means. Reflecting the Roman
imperial heritage of Byzantium, the imperial dignity remained in
principle elective. Of course no actual elections were held, with a
slate of candidates and a counting of votes. But the emperor was
presumed to rule with the willing consent of his subjects. To the last
days of the empire, acclamation – by the army, senate and leading
popular elements – remained part of the ritual accompanying the
installation of an emperor. And from the late fifth century, another
important element was added: coronation at the hands of the patriarch.
None of these formal steps in the making of an emperor was meant to be
“democratic.” They were meant to be tangible expressions of divine
election. But neither could they be lightly discarded without
undermining legitimacy of imperial authority.
In principle the power of the divinely
elected emperor was unrestricted and absolute. He was legislature,
judicature and executive all rolled into one. But in fact the emperor’s
power was not absolute, because he was expected – indeed obliged – to
act in certain ways and not to act in certain other ways.
First of all, the emperor was supposed
to imitate God by whose grace he ruled. And here a question may be
asked: what aspects or qualities of divinity – what kind of god – was
the ruler supposed to imitate? In Hellenistic treatments of kingship
this most often means divine dominion over all, divine might that is
potent to subdue adversaries, divine “eyesight” that is aware of
everything going on, divine foresight that anticipates dangers and
perils before they can cause any harm, etc. Christian writers like
Agapetus appropriate these themes and many others, but to an extent
unmatched in their Hellenistic sources they emphasize the importance of
such qualities as mercy, forbearance, disinterested love, and – above
all – philanthropia – love for humankind.
As Fr. Demetrios Constantelos has demonstrated in his classic study of Byzantine Philanthropy and Social Welfare, the concept and practice of philanthropia
was by no means unknown in classical Greek antiquity, but it did not
hold the central position that it was to have in Byzantium. As he
observes, “philanthropia in the ancient Greek world was mostly
anthropocentric.” But in Christianity philanthropia “became eminently theocentric.” Its principle “was the love of God rather than the love of man.”[8] This shift had important consequences. To quote Constantelos once more,
As the evidence indicates, one can
clearly discern that in the early Christian societies of both the East
and the West philanthropia had assumed an integrated and far-reaching
meaning. The term was used to describe man’s love for the totality of
humanity. Its application was directed to even the humblest among men.
Philanthropia appropriated the meaning of selfless love and willing
sacrifice. It was extended to the underprivileged, as it proclaimed
freedom, equality, and brotherhood, transcending sex, race, and national
boundaries. Thus, conclusively, philanthropia was not limited to
equals, allies, and relatives, nor to citizens and civilized men, as was
most often the case in ancient Greece.[9]
How was this philanthropy expressed? In
part, as Fr. Constantelos has shown, through the establishment of
various charitable institutions. But in the case of the imperial
authority it also was expressed in the form of legislation intended to
protect what today we would call human rights. This included measures
to avoid imposition of the death penalty as far as possible without
endangering public welfare, measures to improve the legal position of
women (for example, in cases of child custody, inheritance, and property
ownership); measures to protect poor peasant farmers against the
encroachments of rich landowners, measures to recognize slaves as
persons rather than mere property (for example, by according to them the
right to marry and enjoy the legal benefits of lawful marriage), This
list could be expanded. The Byzantine Empire was hardly a democracy,
but it was concerned about human dignity – and this concern was
significantly more encompassing than, for example, that of Periclean
Athens, where rights were in effect limited to a narrow body of
citizenry.
The God-imitating emperor was expected to act in certain ways – above all to practice philanthropy. He also was expected not to
act in certain ways. Among other things, he was expected not to act in
ways that might cause him to be labeled a tyrant – i.e., he was
expected not to be capricious or arbitrary or harsh in the exercise of
his authority. He also was expected not to act in ways contrary to the
law – whether the received Roman civil law or the divinely established
moral law. To be sure, the emperor was the supreme legislator, the
source of law, even law animate – nomos empsychos – as
Hellenistic writers had described him. But his free submission to the
law was deemed to be mark of true imperial power. Thus a 10th-century legal compendium can speak of the imperial power as “an authority bound by the law.”[10]
Imperial absolutism in Byzantium thus
was tempered by imperial self-restriction. But it was tempered in other
ways as well, above all by the authority of the church. At the time
Deacon Agapetus was directing his counsel on imperial monarchy to the
Emperor Justinian, the emperor himself was setting forth a somewhat
different conception of authority, one sometimes referred to as
diarchy: Here is what Justinian says in his famous Sixth Novella:
The greatest gifts that God’s heavenly philanthropia have bestowed upon men are the priesthood and the imperial authority – the hierosyne and the basileia
– , of which the former serves divine matters, the latter presides and
watches over human affairs, and both proceed from one and the principle
and regulate human life. Hence, nothing should claim the emperors’ care
so much as the saintliness of the priests, since these constantly pray
to God for them. For if the priesthood is in every way blameless and
acceptable to God, and the basileia rules justly and properly
over the state entrusted to it, good harmony will result, which will
bestow whatever is beneficial upon the human race.
No “separation of church and state” is
envisioned here, but rather the close and harmonious cooperation of
ecclesiastical and civil authorities, a veritable symphonia.
Both have the same source – God’s heavenly philanthropy – and both have
the same end in mind – the bestowal of whatever is beneficial upon the
human race – , but they are not merged into a single authority. Each is
accountable to God, but each also has to care for the other, and
therefore each is accountable to the other. The imperial authority has
to be concerned about religious matters, since the well-being of the
empire depends upon maintaining God’s favor – and in practice this
concern could amount to blatant interference and domination in
ecclesiastical matters, whether disciplinary or even doctrinal. But the
ecclesiastical authority also had to be concerned about civil matters.
Is the basileia ruling justly and properly – i.e., is the emperor behaving the way that a true servant and imitator of God should behave?
Imperial interference in doctrinal
matters met resistance as early as the fourth century, in the course of
the Arian controversy. St. Athanasius, for example, knew how to address
the emperor in properly deferential terms, using all the polite
vocabulary of Hellenistic kingship. But when the emperor Constantius
became resolute in his support of the Arian heresy, Athanasius quickly
changed his style of address: Constantius is now unholy, godless,
heretical, worse than Pilate, a parricide, a forerunner of the
Antichrist. “Do not meddle with Church affairs,” Athanasius warns. “To
you God has entrusted the basileia, to us the Church. Whoever
takes away from your sovereignty would offend the providence of God. In
the same way, if you subject the Church to yourself, you will be guilty
of a grave misdeed. It is written, ‘Render unto Caesar what is
Caesar’s and to God what is God’s.’ [Mt 22:21] As we are not allowed to
rule the world, so you have not the power to swing the censer.”[11]
Such boldness of speech in the face of
imperial interference in doctrinal matters was not forgotten in
following centuries. Emperors deficient in orthodoxy could expect stiff
opposition. And, following the final Triumph of Orthodoxy over the
iconoclast heresy in the ninth century, ecclesiastical concern for
imperial orthodoxy expands to include ethical and moral matters. The
emperor must be orthodox in his faith. He also must act in accordance
with the behavioral norms of the Orthodox Church or else face
excommunication.
These developments in the relationship between basileia and hierosyne
are reflected in imperial iconography – i.e., in the way in which
emperors are depicted. Down to the time of the iconoclastic
controversy, emperors most often were depicted in ways that emphasized
their power – crowned with victory, for example, or astride a horse,
trampling down enemies or hunting for big game. In the
post-iconoclastic period, by contrast, emperors most often are depicted
in ways that emphasize their piety and devotion to Christ – as donors,
for example, offering to Christ a little model of the church they have
built. But the most famous depiction from this period – a mosaic
leading from the narthex of Haghia Sophia into the nave – is different.
It is closely linked to the controversy attendant on Emperor Leo VI’s
attempt to enter into an uncanonical fourth marriage. Excommunicated,
the emperor is compelled to beg for pardon – and that is precisely what
this mosaic shows. To one side the emperor is prostrate before Christ,
who is seated at the center of the composition, flanked at the higher
zone by the Theotokos and the emperor’s guardian angel, intercessors for
the penitent.[12]
An emperor prostrate in repentance! It
is hard to imagine such a representation in Hellenistic times. It is
equally hard to imagine anything comparable in Periclean Athens. But
this mosaic does tell us a lot about how ancient Greek political
philosophy was maintained and transformed within the Byzantine Empire of
the Middle Ages. Here, as in the other imperial portrait mosaics that
still survive in Haghia Sophia, all the trappings of monarchical rule
are present – the crown and imperial vestments, for example. We are
reminded that Byzantium did indeed preserve what ancient political
philosophy had come to regard as the most viable form of government –
the one best suited for sustaining the politeia as a stable,
well-ordered society in which human need for community and human desire
for freedom are reconciled. But the emperor is no longer at the center
of the composition, depicted as a triumphant conqueror or omnipotent
ruler or superhuman demigod as once would have been the case. At the
center is Christ, the only true Son of God. An anthropocentric vision
for the ordering of human society has given way to a theocentric one.
Attention is directed to Him, the true ruler of all who also is the true
philanthropos, uniting in himself justice and mercy, and indeed all the qualities most necessary in a ruler.
This remarkable mosaic illustrates
another important aspect of Byzantine political philosophy. It is
placed above the doors where Leo (and also his successors) would
normally have entered the church, which was also the spot where the
excommunicated Leo would have prostrated himself before the patriarch
and metropolitans, beseeching readmission to the communion of the
church. The mosaic would have reminded emperors that they had to
account for their lives and actions not simply at the end of life, when
they would appear before the judgment seat of Christ, but also in this
life, before the spiritual authority, which along with their own
imperial authority God had bestowed as a great gift to humankind. This
mosaic suggests the way in which diarchy, rather than monarchy – not to
mention democracy or any of the other forms of government discussed by
ancient Greek political philosophers – had become the functional basis
for the politeia.
One final point should be noted. The
prostrate emperor wears a crown, but a halo also surrounds his head,
indicating that his entreaties have been heard, that his penitence has
been accepted. He could again resume the routines of monarchical rule
because he had, as it were, internalized the values that Byzantine
writers had come to ascribe to monarchy. And ultimately these were
spiritual values. When one reads patristic and Byzantine literature on
the subject of kingship, it is not always clear whether politics or
spirituality is being discussed. This, for example, is what Synesius
has to say in his treatise on the ideal king:
There are all kinds of opposites within us, and a certain medial force of nature runs through them which we call Mind (nous). That is what I desire to reign in the king’s soul, destroying the mob rule (ochlokratia) and democracy (demokratia)
of the passions. So from his hearth would this man be a king, using
the natural beginning of authority, who, by taming and domesticating the
unreasonable parts of the soul, has made them subservient to reason,
marshalling their multitude under one intelligent leadership. Such a
man as this is godly, whether he be a commoner or a king….[13]
Certainly the king should be
distinguished by his virtue, by making the passions subservient to
reason. But as this passage suggests, the capacity for true kingship is
not limited to one who wears a crown.
In the Haghia Sophia mosaic, Emperor Leo wears both crown and halo. According to the Byzantine conception of the well-ordered politeia, that is the way things should be. But ultimately, in the well-ordered politeia
which is more important, crown or halo? To what extent should true
virtue – which is possible only when irrational passions are subservient
to reason – be expected in those who rule, be they monarchs or
oligarchs or “we, the people”? The message of Greek political
philosophy, as developed in antiquity and sustained in Byzantium, is
that politics and ethics cannot be separated. Wherever Orthodox
Christians are concerned about the public order, where they lend their
support to the creation and maintenance of a just society, where they
prize human dignity, seeing in every human person the image of God
Himself, there echoes of the Byzantine symphonia of hierosyne and basileia can still be heard.
This was a paper presented at
the Tenth Annual Educational Forum of the American Foundation for Greek
Language and Culture, by Fr. John H. Erickson, in Tampa FL, March 3-5,
2005 and is posted here with permission.
[1] Francis Dvornik, Early Christian and Byzantine Political Philosophy: Origins and Background (Washington DC, 1966) I.166.
[2] Politics 1274b-1275a, quoted by Dvornik I.184.
[3] Politics 1284a, quoted by Dvornik I.185.
[4] Iliad II line 204.
[5] In A New Eusebius, ed. J. Stevenson (London, 1965) 391-92.
[6] Partial translation as well as discussion of later influence in Ernest Barker, Social and Political Thought in Byzantium (Oxford, 1957) 54-63.
[7] Works and Days line 108.
[8] (New Brunswick NJ, 1968) 11.
[9] Ibid. 16.
[10] Noted by W. Ensslin, in The Cambridge Medieval History IV.2 (Cambridge, 1967) 14.
[11] Historia Arianorum ad monachos 44, quoted by Dvornik II.739-40.
[12]
This mosaic, together with several others that illustrate the theme of
emperor as benefactor/donor, can be found at
http://www.patriarchate.org/ecumenical_patriarchate/chapter_4/html/hagia_sophia__page_3.html
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