The first casualty of war is truth
In 1916, just over one-hundred years ago, when the First World War was still in full swing, the Russian epigraphist Vasilij V. Latyšev (1855-1921) published a volume of the inscriptions of Tyrae, Olbiae, Chersonesi Tauricae, Aliorum Locorum a Danubio usque ad Regnum Bosporanicum, notionally the first volume of a collection of the Inscriptiones Antiquae Orae Septentrionalis Ponti Euxini, i. e. of the Ancient Inscriptions of the North Coast of the Black Sea (ed. St. Petersburg).
In his still eminently important work, Latyšev records, among many other pieces, a fragmentary Latin verse inscription from Chernosesus Taurica.
Chersonesus is a world heritage site whose roots as a settlement of eminent strategic importance go back some 2,500 years. It lies in the immediate vicinity of the modern-day city of Sevastopol on the Crimean peninsula: a city whose territorial and political affiliation Wikipedia currently lists as “disputed”: Ukraine “de jure”, Russia “de facto”.
The inscription, listed as no. 657 in Latyšev’s corpus, is described as a sizeable marble slab (31 x 85 x 20.5 cm, with a letter height of 4-5 cm), almist fully preserved on the right but damaged on all other sides:
Latyšev reports that in 1916 the inscription was kept in the local museum.
The text, roughly datable to the sixth century A. D., has been documented as follows by Latyšev, incorporating some supplements by one R. (Chr. f.) Loeper (who, incidentally, also is responsible for the photographic documentation):
. . . . t]ur
[exercit]us devotione probatu[s]
. . . civit]ati paravit
[. . . t]is(q)ue procellit
[. . publ]ica felicitate t(e)netur
. . . . .a ed[ixit . . .]tiv . . . .
Latyšev suggested that this fragment once pertained to a sizeable monument in honour of a Roman magistrate (and military leader), even though the man’s identity cannot be established on the basis of what has survived. More recently, Paolo Cugusi has suggested – arguably convincingly – that this piece was once part of a larger hexametrical verse composition (cf. Per un nuovo corpus dei Carmina Latina Epigraphica pp. 80–1 and CLEMoes 48). (The piece has also been included in E. I. Solomonik, Latinskie nadpisi Chersonesa tavriceskogo, Moscow 1983 as no. 54, as EDCS reveals, but this publication is, unfortunately, unavailable to me.)
Hauntingly, the text (as much as it can be understood) seems to capture much of the current horrors that we witness to unfold, in real time, in the area:
. . .
(the army?) proven in its devotion
. . . provided for the (commonwe)alth . . .
. . . burst forth also with . . .
. . . is held in (publ)ic blessedness . . .
. . .
The 1916 edition of Latyšev’s corpus is, technically, a second edition – he made a first attempt already some fifteen years prior to that, namely in 1901. The preface of this first edition is included in that of the second, and it contains the following two paragraphs that are relevant as never before:
“Quamvis in materia huius partis qua par est diligentia sim versatus, tamen fieri potuisse, ut aliquid me fugeret, facile concedet quicunque reputaverit, quantis difficultatibus aetate nostra impediatur qui librorum chartarumque periodicarum quotidie fere in omnibus Europae partibus in lucem prodeuntium acervos perlustrandos sibi proposuerit.”
Although I have engaged with the matter of this volume with the diligence it deserves, it is still possible that I have missed something, as anyone will readily admit who has ever pondered the immense difficulties with which in our time anyone is faced who has tasked themselves with the study of the piles of books and journals that, on an almost daily basis, are published in all parts of Europe.
“Non sine magno animi dolore fatendum est per quindecim hos annos in Russia meridiana satis multos titulos spurios ab hominibus nequam lucri causa esse confectos. In quibus copiosius explicandis cum tempus terere taederet, praesertim cum omnes fere aut a me ipso aut ab aliis viris doctis essent editi, satis habui in calce libri brevem eorum indicem proponere, in quo sedulo indicavi, ubi singuli tituli essent requirendi.”
One must confess, not without a major pain in one’s heart, that over those fifteen years [sc. 1885–1900, an excavation period of especial relevance to Latyšev’s work] in southern Russia a great deal of spurious inscriptions were produced by vile people for the sake of making money. As it would be a pain to waste time to elucidate those at greater length, especially as they have all been published either by myself or other scholars, I felt that it was enough to give a short list of them at the end of this book, in which I indicated with due diligence where each and everone of them may be found.
Effectively to share with one another the information on which we depend, and diligently to ponder and to document fake information that has been put out there by those who place their own, personal benefit above truth and the common good: Latyšev’s words resonate loud and clear with me in this dark February of the year 2022.
May the publica felicitas prevail, and may it prevail sooner rather than later.
Much more urgently, however, I feel, we all will have to learn ways to support a civitas in need in a very real, very tangible, and very meaningful way – devotione – and this must extend beyond the safe confines of social media, illuminated buildings far away from the action, and flag emojis.