It comes as no surprise that the Synopsis Minor of the Basilics has been more or less neglected by modern scholars, for it is hardly an impressive monument of Byzantine jurisprudence. It is little more than a hack compilation of excerpts taken for the most part from the Synopsis Major of the Basilics and the Ponema Iuris of the eleventh-century historian Michael Attaleiates. Its main interest lies in the inclusion of some of Manuel I Komnenos’s (1143–80) legislation. This furnishes a terminus post quern for the date of the Synopsis Minor. A terminus ante quern is furnished by its earliest manuscript, which dates from the late thirteenth century. K. E. Zachariae von Lingenthal, the editor of the Synopsis Minor, ventured to suggest that it was compiled under the Emperors of Nicaea, most probably during the reign of John III Vatatzes (1222–54). Modern scholarship has followed him, with a greater or lesser degree of conviction.

‘No art or science, except poetry, was foreign to this universal scholar’. Thus Edward Gibbon. It has long been notorious that poets are excluded from the Bibliotheca. Why? The question persists. Hence the present paper.

The Hellenistic and Roman passion for founding, or renaming, Eastern cities in honour of their rulers abated only with the decline of urban life itself under the Byzantines, although it was never entirely forgotten. The last notable example seems to be the tragi-comic career of Tralles (Aydin) as Andronikopolis or Palaiologopolis in 1278–82. But the last emperor to have notably bestowed his (or his family’s) name on cities with the old gusto seems to have been Heraclius. It was perhaps part of a recognizable pattern of traits—the complex naming of his sons, the family groups on his coins, the concern for his own title, the quest for the True Cross, and the style of his victory despatch from Nineveh—in which one may glimpse in Heraclius a relentless and self-conscious sense of dynasty and historicity.

The historian Nicephorus Gregoras, writing of the Patriarch Athanasios I, dismisses him scathingly as . Yet we know that Athanasius, who came from the countryside near Adrianople, was reading the Lives of Saints before the age of twelve. And his surviving writings—homilies, encyclicals, canonical decisions, letters, etc.—fill the 204 folios of codex Vaticanus graecus 2219. Most of these writings still await publication. But the recent edition by Mrs. Alice-Mary Talbot of 115 of Athanasios’ letters shows that he wrote fluent literary Koine Greek, without the archaizing affectations of Byzantine Atticism and with occasional voluntary or involuntary lapses into the spoken language of his time. He was no stylist: for him it was the matter, not the manner, that counted. He had little acquaintance with classical Greek literature. But in addition to the Scriptures, which he constantly quotes, he was familiar with the more widely read works of the fourth-century fathers, knew the basic texts of civil and canon law, and could quote the Epanagoge. Clearly he was no illiterate, but a professional user of the written word.

‘Few scholars so equipped are disposed to abandon Homer and Sophocles, Thucydides and Plato, for George of Pisidia, Paul the Silentiary, Procopius of Caesarea and Michael Psellus.’ So Romilly Jenkins explained the late development of Byzantine studies. One might add that fewer still are prepared to forsake George of Pisidia, Paul the Silentiary, Procopius of Caesarea and Michael Psellus for Kaisarios Dapontes, Sergios Makraios, Nikodimos Agioreitis and Athanasios Komninos Ypsilantis. Not so Sir Steven Runciman who, in addition to his manifold contributions to the development of Byzantine studies stretching over a period of almost fifty years, has also found the time to make important forays into the as yet largely uncharted seas of what Nicolae Iorga termed Byzance après Byzance. The ethnic complexity of the Ottoman Empire in its prime is strikingly illuminated in Sir Steven’s The Great Church in Captivity: A Study of the Patriarchate of Constantinople from the Eve of the Turkish Conquest to the Greek War of Independence. One of the lesser known features of this great agglomeration of races and cultures was the confusion of alphabets employed by the minorities of the Empire.

In Greco-Roman times there were many ways of honouring a person of high importance. For example, certain dignitaries of the empire were honoured with lights which were carried before them. Lights appear as symbols of office at least in the Notitia dignitatum {c. A.D. 405–425). In other instances portraits of persons of noble birth were placed on a table surrounded by candles burning on candelabras. The use of lights for honouring a person can be traced back to the illumination in sanctuaries, common during ceremonies of cult, achieved by various means such as torches, candles and lamps.

The collection of Finlay Papers in the British School at Athens though throwing invaluable light on the character of George Finlay and on conditions in the Greece and western Europe of his day, are by no means complete in their coverage. The diaries cover only certain years; the Letter Book records mainly family and business correspondence; the actual copies of surviving letters both to and from Finlay—apart from Finlay to Leake or Leicester Warren—seem to owe their preservation to chance rather than policy. Yet Finlay was no less interested in the history of Trebizond than in Greek topography or in numismatics, and a stray survival among his papers seems to indicate that he had closer relations with Fallmerayer than is suggested by the almost total omission of any reference to him in the works on the Fragmentist (as Fallmerayer called himself). The editor of Fallmerayer’s collected works, his best friend G. M. Thomas (the ‘carissimus Thomas’ of the Tagebücher), does mention the generosity of Fallmerayer’s attitude towards Finlay’s work on Trebizond, but that is about all.

The campaign of Alexios Philanthropenos in Asia Minor, and his subsequent rebellion and punishment were among the most dramatic events in the Byzantine Empire in the 1290s. When first he assumed the responsibilities of a general and doux of the Thrakesion theme, Alexios was the great hope of the Emperor, Andronikos II, and of the population of Asia Minor. With his army, the general soon achieved spectacular victories in the Maeander valley. The Turks of the area were defeated, the Greek population took heart, deserted cities and villages were repopulated; he was able to send back to Constantinople the spoils of war, gold and silver and corn, and many captives. Large numbers of Turks, pressed on the other side by the Mongols, preferred to join Philanthropenos’ army, and came to form a substantial part of it. To his own followers he gave a considerable portion of the spoils, and this too spurred them on to greater victories. The local population, having at last found a defender, joined him and gave him their loyalty.

That the emperor Manuel I Komnenos (1143–80) was responsible for some building activity in the Great Palace of Constantinople is a fact well attested by published sources and not entirely unknown to modern scholarship. However, the armchair archaeology of this work remains confused and obscure, and can benefit from a fresh review of the evidence.

It was at Istanbul, more man thirty years ago, that I first had the privilege of meeting Sir Steven. It seems appropriate, therefore, that in honouring him on his approaching 75th birthday I should take as my subject a monument of that city.

The Acta Patriarchatus Constantinopolitani, published by Miklosich and Müller, contain a pittakion sent by Matthew I, Patriarch of Constantinople (1397–1410), to his subordinate and representative in Moscow, Cyprian, Metropolitan of Kiev and All Russia. The document is undated, but it is clear from the contents that it was written either in the last three weeks of December 1399 or, more probably, in 1400. Its professed aim was to persuade the Russian primate to embark on a fund-raising campaign in aid of Constantinople, besieged by the forces of the Ottoman Sultan, Bayazid I.

In his perceptive book, Cavafy’s Alexandria (Cambridge, Mass., 1976), Edmund Keeley describes how Cavafy’s major poetic preoccupation during the years 1911 to 1921 was the delineation of a mythical city called Alexandria and of the Greek, or Hellenic, way of life it represents. An essential element in this way of life is its erotic style, which is explicitly homosexual; and it is through his poems on erotic themes that Cavafy slowly and deliberately builds his image of Alexandria as the Sensual City. His method of doing this is particular. In depicting other features of his mythical city Cavafy locates his poems in that ancient Hellenistic world of which Alexandria was the centre. Most of his erotic poetry, on the other hand, speaks of episodes and relationships in contemporary Alexandria, the city in which Cavafy actually lived. Indeed, all the poetry which Cavafy wrote that is located in contemporary Alexandria deals with erotic themes to the exclusion of all others. And it is with the help of this poetry that Cavafy builds up his image.

Adémar of Chabannes (988–1034) of noble family, a monk in the monastery of St. Cybard (Eparchus) at Angoulême, compiled a Chronicon in three books. The first begins with the origins of the Franks and ends with the death of Pepin the Short in 768; the second deals with the reign of Charlemagne;the third covers the years 814 to 1030. The first two books and the first fifteen chapters of the third (down to the year 877) are wholly derivative from identifiable sources. But from chapter sixteen onward the third book provides valuable information chiefly on the period 877–1030 in Aquitaine, presumably drawn from local written sources and from the memories of Adémar’s associates. These included notably his two uncles, who were attached to the monastery of St. Martial at Limoges, as was Adémar himself in his youth. It was at St. Martial that on a stormy night in 1010 Adémar had a vision in the heavens of a fiery Cross with Christ upon it weeping a great river of tears: an experience that rendered him so thunderstruck (attonitus) that he kept it secret in his heart until many years later when he was nearing the end of his Chronicon. Then he wrote it down. From St. Martial he returned at the age of twenty-two to St. Cybard, took orders, and spent his life in writing. The ‘original’ chapters of his Chronicon only occasionally evince any interest in or knowledge of events in France north of Loire.