I wouldn’t say that it’s been the highlight of this academic year – that would be my lovely Thucydides seminar, for whose final class I spent yesterday morning baking shortbread and brownies – but the most unexpectedly memorable thing, both exhausting and rewarding, has been teaching Greek Historiography to first and second years. It’s not a new module, even if it’s the first time that I’ve taught it, so there hasn’t been a lot of extra time for preparing new material – but the previous lecturer had a unique style (hi, Irene!) that doesn’t suit me at all, so I’ve had to start from scratch anyway. Above all, this has involved revisiting the range of authors covered…
When I say that this isn’t a new module, I think in fact I mean that it’s clearly a pretty old module. The official title is Greek Historiography in the Fifth Century, but clearly Xenophon has been on the reading list since time immemorial, and for some reason Arrian also seems to be very well established. As a stickler for accuracy, I have submitted a module change proposal to ditch the ‘Fifth Century’ from the rubric – and in the meantime, if we’re bringing in Arrian, why not Polybius? (If my colleague Emma Nicholson ever has to teach this module, she will thank me…). It’s not just that I can’t imagine doing two lectures on Arrian; if we’re talking about ideas and development of historiography, P. surely has a lot more to offer. Actually, I think there’s a plausible case for having two lectures on P and then I have to do only one on Xenophon – having to lecture on the Hellenica, rather than his more interesting works, has not improved my opinion of it.
And then, with a spare lecture at the end, how could I miss the chance to do a bit of Procopius? (It was either that or Lucian, and I’d used him in the first class). This was absolutely the right decision. I was thinking just in terms of the awkward relationship between the History of the Wars and the Anekdota – how can we trust either author, let alone if they’re the same person? – and a powerful memory of how much I enjoyed Averil Cameron’s book on Procopius and the Sixth Century. But doing the actual research for the lecture revealed what a good choice this was. Consider the opening:
Procopius of Caesarea has written the history of the wars which Justinian. Emperor of the Romans, waged against the barbarians of the East and the West, relating separately the events of each one, so that the long course of time may not overwhelm deeds of singular importance through lack of a record, and thus abandon them to oblivion and utterly obliterate them. The memory of these events he deemed would be a great thing and most helpful to men of the present time, and to future generations as well, in case time should ever again place men under a similar stress. For men who purpose to enter upon a war or are preparing themselves for any kind of struggle may derive some benefit from a narrative of a similar situation in history, inasmuch as this discloses the final result attained by men of an earlier day in a struggle of the same sort, and foreshadows, at least for those who are most prudent in planning, what outcome present events will probably have. Furthermore he had assurance that he was especially competent to write the history of these events, if for no other reason, because it fell to his lot… to be an eye-witness.(History of the Wars, 1.1.1-3)
If you told Chat-GPT to think of itself as a well-educated Greek author of the mid-sixth century, well-versed in the classical historiographical tradition, and then gave it a prompt to write the opening of its history of the wars of Justinian, you would get something remarkably similar. I know this because, having had this thought, I actually tried it.
I, Procopius of Caesarea, with a deep sense of duty and reverence for the traditions of historiography, undertake the task of chronicling the wars of Justinian. In the footsteps of Herodotus, the Father of History, and Thucydides, the master of political and military narrative, I endeavour to present a comprehensive and impartial account of the tumultuous events that shaped the reign of Emperor Justinian. My intention is not only to recount the sequence of battles and sieges, but to delve into the intricate web of alliances, betrayals, and aspirations that defined the era. Drawing upon a wide range of sources, both written and oral, I pledge to offer a truthful and insightful portrayal of the conflicts that ravaged the Mediterranean world. Just as Herodotus sought to “prevent the traces of human events from being erased by time,” and Thucydides aimed to provide “a possession for all time,” so too do I aspire for my work to stand as a testament to the enduring importance of understanding the past for the guidance of present and future generations.
Procopius reminds me of sone of the brighter elements of Britpop: a heartfelt, overly knowing tribute to past greatness, that aspires to match it through creating something that is half pastiche, half collage. Whereas Arrian, say, spends too much time telling you that he’s the new Xenophon (as if that’s going to impress anyone) and is the Alexander of historiography who will be Alexander’s Homer – I have powerful, and unintelligible-to-anyone-who-wasn’t-a-regular-NME-reader-in-1994, flashbacks to some old Menswear interviews – Procopius is perhaps better compared to Denim or The Auteurs, something that makes sense in its own slightly hyperbolic terms but is packed to the gunnels with references and allusions. It is, if nothing else, a fascinating insight into the reception of the original classics – what Greek historiography and/or 1960s rock/pop come to mean for later generations, the aspects they idolise and the awkward edges they conveniently forget. And the Secret History is perhaps Pulp’s This Is Hardcore...
Look, it’s week 11 of a very long term, on a day when I’ve done four hours of lectures and three hours of student consultations on four and a half hours’ sleep; you don’t get to demand coherence in my vague musical analogies.
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