A Shark's Tale
from the first millennium CE...
Hello,
Welcome back! I’ve got a great one for you this week, in the category of ‘stuff I found when I went looking for something else’.
This is the thing I probably love most about history. When I’m jaded or cross, it reminds me why I’ll always be a historian. Whenever I go back to the sources, whether it is coins, texts, buildings, pictures or cityscapes, there is always something unexpected.
A man with a lot to say
Some time ago, I read the complete surviving works of Procopius of Caesarea, a courtier who spent most of his life in the capital of the Byzantine Empire, Constantinople, in the 6th century. Reading it all from start to finish was a lockdown, luxury. That’s because they are really quite extensive:
History of the Wars (often referred to just as Wars): when Procopius wasn’t in Constantinople, hanging out with the emperor Justinian I (r. 527-565), he was a secretary to Justinian’s most successful general, Belisarius. Justinian was an ambitious emperor and fought wars with the Persian Empire and rival regimes in formerly Roman territory in North Africa, Italy and the Iberian Peninsula (modern Spain and Portugal). Belisarius often got shunted from one front to another where his talents were need and, as a result, Procopius got a front row view of much of the subject of his magnum opus, an 8-book work about Justinian’s wars. It was released sequentially and Procopius started by writing about the Persian and western campaigns in separate books. (This can get a bit confusing, as they were actually happening at the same time and affected one another.) When the wars dragged on and on, he changed tack, weaving together the Persian and western wars in chronological order. Justinian’s aim in Wars was to present heroic deeds under the command of a heroic emperor.
Buildings: does what it says on the tin - it describes numerous building projects undertaken by Justinian. They include churches, fortresses, bridges and city walls. They also include renovations and repairs. And they include at least a few projects actually carried out under Justinian’s immediate predecessors, but hey! The aim here was to make Justinian look even more awesome than in Wars, so chucking in a few minor renovations or other people’s projects served Procopius’s wider goals. (Honestly, I wasn’t expecting much from Buildings, and there are a lot of lists, but it has some lovely bits. My favourite is a charmingly relatable description of the anxiety that a particularly rickety bridge used to cause to people before Justinian fixed it (chorus: Justinian! What a guy!). As each person walked over it, Procopius says, they would visibly hope they wouldn’t be the one on it when it finally gave way.
Secret History (also referred to by its Greek title, Anecdota): until the 16th century, Wars and Buildings were the only known works of Procopius but then, in the Vatican Library, a manuscript turned up. It declared itself to be something amazing - a ‘secret history’ written by none other than… Procopius of Caesarea, lifting the lid on court intrigue so intriguing it could cost him his life if it became public. Bizarre as it seemed, scholars concluded that it really is what it says. And boy-oh-boy, is it something! If Justinian (and his wife, Theodora, and his general, Belisarius, and a whole lot of other people) was unbelievably awesome in his public works, here Procopius tells a different story. When I teach with Procopius, students are sometimes tempted to think that ‘secret’ means ‘true’. But Procopius is far too interesting for that. There’s Justinian’s disembodied head floating through the palace at night and a lewd description of Theodora performing a sex act with a swan, that might just be a bit misogynistic… Anything Justinian ever did, Procopius tells us, even if it seemed good, was motivated by pure evil. Take that, Wars and Buildings!
One of the most chewy and fascinating problems in the study of the 6th century is what to do with Procopius. You can’t ignore him. His work is just too important as a source of information, and opinions, we can’t get elsewhere. And anyway, where we can get them elsewhere, he clearly was very well informed about lots of things. But you also have to read him knowing that he might directly contradict what he says in one place somewhere else and that, alongside the sober historian and the slightly boring building surveyor, he was also… whoever the heck he was when he was writing the Secret History.
So there so go: Procopius. He is absolutely awesome (though might not make it onto my fantasy dinner party list). And this week, I was back at Procopius’s door...
Writing for posterity
I’ve written here before about an article I’m writing on ideas and theories of barter in the Middle Ages. I went in knowing a bunch of examples I wanted to use, but something was missing. I needed a really good story to pull things together.
Before I found it though, I got distracted by something else. Obviously, I had read it before, but apparently it could still surprise me.
Procopius opens Wars by explaining what he is doing. He is going to write a new history for the ages about the great struggles of the Hellenes (Greek-speaking Romans/Byzantines in our terms) against the Persians (in this case, the Sasanian Empire) and other enemies.
By doing this, he was placing himself in the tradition of two other great Greek-speaking historians. Herodotus and Thucydides wrote about 800 years before Procopius, about wars between Greek-speaking city states and a different Persian empire (in their case, the Achaemenid Empire). By Procopius’s day they were considered ideal models of excellent writing.
Next, he sets the scene for his main narrative by laying out some short vignettes from the preceding century or so.
One of these involves a war between the Persians and a group of warriors from the Eurasian steppe, the Hephthalites (sometimes also spelled Ephthalites and also called, Procopius tells us, White Huns).
The Hephthalites, facing the large and well-equipped army of the Persian shah, Peroz, decide to dig a wide trench across a plain. They cover it with sticks and earth, leaving just a single, solid causeway in the middle of the plain, like a bridge (in my imagination, it’s a bit like the bridge across the chasm in ‘Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade’).
When the Persians arrive, a small detachment of Hephthalites ride out over this causeway, poke the Persians in the eye (metaphorically) and ride back across it to convince their enemy that the ground is solid.
The Persians, thoroughly duped by this clever ruse, charge forward, fall in the ditch and are slaughtered in their thousands. Persians 0, Hephthalites 1.
So far, so much what you might expect from a history about grand deeds, great wars and how they were won. Then, abruptly, things get kind of wacky.
The shark’s tale
Procopius says that, as he was falling into the ditch, Peroz, as his dying act, yanked a massive pearl earring off his ear and threw it away, presumably, Procopius suggests, so that nobody else would ever get to wear it.
In fairness, Procopius says he isn’t sure whether he believes this story because, in his opinion, ‘a man who found himself in such peril would have thought of nothing else [i.e. his impending and ignominious death]’. But, he says with a sort of literary shrug, that is the story.
On we go for a short paragraph explaining that the Hephthalites looked for the pearl but couldn’t find it and that a bunch of other people, including the Romans, tried to find it but couldn’t.
Then Procopius breaks the narrative again and says, ‘The story of the pearl is worth recounting, for perhaps to some it may not seem altogether incredible’.
Now it is up to you to decide, because the story goes like this…
Once upon a time, there was a little oyster. Well, quite a big oyster, actually. And inside the oyster was a huge, beautiful pearl. It sat, snuggled (genuinely, these are details provided by Procopius, not me editorialising) between the two valves of the oyster while the oyster went about its merry way.
The pearl was so beautiful that an enormous shark became obsessed with it. The shark followed the oyster wherever it went [like a sort of aquatic Mary and her little lamb: this is me editorialising]. In fact, the shark only bothered eating things that practically stumbled into its mouth so it wouldn’t have to leave the oyster to go and hunt.
Life went on this way for the shark and the oyster (whose opinion on the subject is not offered), until, one day, the great king of the Persians, the same Peroz we met earlier, heard of this amazing pearl and developed an immediate and insatiable desire for it (as great kings in fanciful stories are wont to do). Nobody would go and get it for him, though, on account of the ENORMOUS SHARK.
Eventually, the king got pushy. ‘Name your price!’ he demanded of a beleaguered fisherman. ‘What will it take for you to bring me that pearl?’ [This is me paraphrasing but only slightly.]
Procopius tells us what the fisherman said in reply:
My Master, precious to a man is money, more precious still is his life, but most prized of all are his children; and being naturally constrainedly his love for them a man might perhaps dare anything. Now I intend to make a trial of the monster [i.e. the ENORMOUS SHARK], and hope to make thee [i.e. Peroz] master of the pearl. And if I succeed in this struggle, it is plain that henceforth I shall be ranked among those who are counted blessed. For it is not unlikely that thou, as King of Kings, wilt reward me with all good things; and for me it will be sufficient, even if it so fall out that I gain no reward, to have shown myself a benefactor of my master. But if it needs be that I become the prey of this monster, thy task indeed it will be, O King, to requite my children for their father’s death. Thus even after my death I shall still be a wage earner among those closest to me, and thou wilt win greater fame for thy goodness, - for in helping my children thou wilt confer a boon upon me, who shall have no power to thank thee for the benefit - because generosity is seen to be without alloy only when it is displayed towards the dead.1
If this seems like an unusually verbose and Shakespearean fisherman, there are a few reasons for that.
Procopius’s style in Greek is pretty elaborate.
This English translation, written in the early 20th century, represents the Greek as accurately as possible in correct English, rather than making the English as readable as possible while retaining the overall meaning of the Greek. (Both are perfectly valid translation choices. Scholarly translations of historical texts usually prefer accuracy over style because their aim is to convey the details of the original. Translations for wider readership, e.g. Penguin Classics, tend to be led by style because their aim is to share some of the experience of the original, be that beautifully poetic, thrillingly fast-paced or touchingly romantic.)
Putting speeches into the mouths of actors in historical works was a well-established practice (both Herodotus and Thucydides did it). Nobody was ‘fooled’. Speeches like this weren’t meant to be what was really said. They were there to make the narrative livelier. They also gave the writer a chance to show off: what would somebody have said in this sort of situation? What should they have said? As a result, they always end up sounding a bit like a very educated writer showing off.
Strip back Procopius’s fancy footwork, though, and the fisherman’s deal is a daring one: sure, I’ll have a go at getting you that pearl and if I succeed, you don’t have to give me anything at all! I’m a good subject and will do it just to show how loyal I am to you, and anyway, you’re a good king, so I expect you’ll reward me anyway. But, if I die, you’d better look after my children because I won’t be able to. And since you’ll be taking care of them even though I can’t do anything to make you (because I’ll be dead) people will know that your generosity is for real.
To put you out of your misery (but not the poor fisherman), the fisherman goes out to the coast, waits for the shark to be distracted by something yummy swimming into its jaws, and seizes his opportunity. He grabs the pearl and makes a run for the beach.
The shark spots what’s up and gives chase. The heroic fisherman, with all his might, flings the pearl up the beach to the waiting crowd then gets eaten by the shark. The pearl gets taken to the Shah, where it can now rejoin the beginning of this story, as Procopius tells it, with Peroz, in a neat parallel with the fisherman, lobbing the pearl out of the ditch where he himself is about to perish.
We never do find out if Peroz honoured the deal with the fisherman to look after the poor man’s family. On we go to higher politics.
So, there you go. It wasn’t what I thought I was looking for but I loved it.
I hope you did, too.
There have, naturally, been efforts to understand what is going on with the shark and the pearl.
Pearls of wisdom hiding in plain sight?
Could it be a cunning plan to evade state censors by talking about the qualities of bad rulers? Is the shark secretly… Justinian?! or just evidence of how awful those dastardly Persians are?
I guess, maybe..? I mean, Peroz hardly comes across as a perfect king but if you wanted to reflect on how bad kings can really be, or how bad Persian kings are, is this the best example out there? Peroz has questionable taste in jewellery and is a bit reckless with his fishermen (but they still get to come to court, make fancy speeches and set the price of their service). Surely Procopius could have imagined worse? (In the Secret History he certainly can!)
Alternatively, might this all really be about Christianity versus paganism (i.e. traditional Roman religion)? Roman emperors had become Christian two centuries earlier but changing the religions of millions of people takes time. By the 6th century, there were still occasional conflicts between Christians and non-Christians (as well as more frequent fights between different kinds of Christians). Procopius doesn’t actually talk much about religion but people have tried to read these conflicts in his works. It’s pretty hard to see it in this one though!
Or is a shark just a shark?
Over-reading is an occupational hazard of doing history. We have incomplete records of complete worlds. We have to squeeze what we can out of what remains. We also have to be aware that people in the past were just as capable as we are of communicating on many levels, using signs, symbols and logics that may not be identical with our own. Often things are not simply as they first appear.
So, we thread our way through the shadows of the past, never absolutely certain that what we’re looking at is what it looks like to us.
The shadows, the things that remain, are a gift, but sometimes a gift like one of those evil little boxes that only open in a particular way, carefully designed to take up most of Christmas Day being fiddled with and poked and shaken in frustration as you try to figure it out.
Procopius was highly educated in a complex tradition of inter-related texts, stories and ideas, only some of which we still have. He also knew he had various personal axes to grind and he lived in proverbially interesting times.
There is nothing wrong with asking what the shark might mean. And yet…
All we can do is work with what we’ve got and sometimes what we’ve got might be telling us that, for once, it isn’t that complicated after all.
Here, I would like to thank a lovely colleague who has done a massive amount of work on Procopius. When I dropped him a mail basically saying, ‘so, the shark?’, he was kind enough to send me a chapter he recently published:
Greatrex, Geoffrey, ‘Procopius and the Kings of Persia’, in Byzantium to China: Religion, History and Culture on the Silk Roads: Studies in Honour of Samuel N.C. Lieu, ed. by Gunner B. Mikkelsen and Kenneth Parry, Texts and Studies in Eastern Christianity, volume 25 (Brill, 2022), pp. 197–217, doi:10.1163/9789004517981
It makes what I think is the most plausible explanation for why the shark is there, right at the start of Wars.
Quite simply, people like a good story and Procopius, like every other writer, had to get them hooked. Procopius might now be required reading for any scholar of Byzantium but in Byzantium he was just another writer competing for his public.
At the start of a book they expected to be entertained. At the start of a book about history, especially fairly recent history, they expected to be shown what this author knew that they couldn’t find elsewhere.
Why bother reading Procopius if you’d already read the Chronicle of Malalas? Or if you actually remembered the events he’s writing about? What was it going to get you?
Procopius was setting out his stall: he had stories you hadn’t heard anywhere before and he knew how to tell them! Decadent Persians? You bet! Cunning plans and heroic barbarians? Get ‘em here! We’ve got monsters and eunuchs, beautiful princesses and bloody revenge!
Of course, as Geoffrey Greatrex notes in his chapter, there’s no way to prove that somebody in the 6th century might not have detected a deeper meaning and there is no way to prove that that wasn’t what Procopius intended but, to you from me, speaking as somebody who spends a lot of time explaining how much detail and meaning could be hiding in the traces of the past, this time I buy the simple answer:
Who doesn’t love a good shark tale?
And just as we can only speculate about what happened to the fisherman’s family, so we can only speculate what happened to the shark.
Me, I think when the sand settled on the seabed, the shark realised its feelings were really for the oyster, after all, not just its pearl, and they lived happily ever after, even if the shark’s separation anxiety sometimes got a little wearing. But then, I’m a sucker for a happy ending.
Wars Book 1, chapter 4. 24-27. I am here using this translation: Procopius, Procopius I - History of the Wars, Books I and II, trans. by H. B. Dewing, Loeb Classical Library, 61, 6 vols (William Heinemann, 1914), i <https://archive.org/details/procopiuswitheng01procuoft/> [accessed 27 October 2012]