Forgery and Counterforgery: The Use of Literary Deceit in Early Christian Polemics (31 page)

Augustine cites this as the reason for the production of an anti-Christian letter embracing magical practices in the name of Christ himself:

And it is quite possible that either the enemies of the name of Christ, or certain parties who thought that they might impart to this kind of execrable arts the weight of authority drawn from so glorious a name, may have written things of that nature under the name of Christ and the apostles.
⁸⁶

So too in the one instance we have from late antiquity of a Christian detected in the act of forgery, Salvian of Marseilles, who indicates that had he written the book
Ad Ecclesiam
in his own name, rather than in the name of Timothy, no one would have paid it any heed. And so he “wisely selected a pseudonym for his book
for the obvious reason that he did not wish the obscurity of his own person to detract from the influence of his otherwise valuable book.” Or, as he then says, “For this reason the present writer chose to conceal his identity in every respect for fear that his true name would perhaps detract from the influence of his book, which really contains much that is exceedingly valuable.”
⁸⁷

The same motivation is explicitly attested for the analogous case of textual falsification, in which one’s own words are claimed to be the words of another; and so Rufinus indicates that heretics altered the writings of faithful Christian authorities: “By this means, of course, the assertion of the man’s own heresy was more easily advanced under the names of all the most learned and renowned among the ecclesiastical writers in view of the fact that some brilliant men among the Catholics appeared to have thought likewise.”
⁸⁸
Similarly, some heretics tried to pass off a “false teaching” of Tertullian on the Holy Spirit by inserting his tractate on the Trinity, unnamed, into a collection of the writings of the impeccable Cyprian: “The result was that the heretics found a way of gaining credit for their perfidy by means of the authority of such a great man.”
⁸⁹

Within Christian circles there seems to be no reason to doubt that the need for authority—in particular, apostolic authority—is what motivated most forgers to practice their craft.
⁹⁰
That the apostles were unique authorities is evident from the earliest postapostolic times, for example in Ignatius, himself no mean authority, who could nonetheless tell his readers in Tralles: “But I have not thought that I, a condemned man, should give you orders like an apostle.”
⁹¹
Later it was seen that apostolic books alone could carry Scriptural authority, as indicated by the Muratorian Fragment at the end of the second century, by Origen soon thereafter, and throughout our period, up to its end with Augustine.
⁹²
The importance of apostolic writings for establishing Christian doctrine can be seen in a myriad of places throughout our literature; as just one example we might take the words of Jerome
about the virginity of Mary: “That God was born of a virgin we believe, because we read [that it was so]. That Mary was married after she gave birth we do not believe, because we do not read [that it was so]” (Natum deum esse de virgine credimus, quia legimus. Mariam nupsisse post partum non credimus, quia non legimus;
Adv. Helv
. 19).

Small wonder, then, that forgers wrote so many Gospels, epistles, apocalypses, and other works in the names of apostles. Among the names that carried authority, theirs carried the greatest authority of all. But they were not the only authority figures of the early church: Ignatius, Origen, Augustine, and Jerome themselves carried some weight, and so it is no surprise that forgers penned writings in their names as well—and in the names of others, whenever deemed appropriate. The issue was authority, and authority was indelibly linked to the names of authors.

Forty years ago Wolfgang Speyer made a tantalizing claim that remains no less true today: “The history of literary gullibility has yet to be written.”
⁹³
Still, despite the astounding credulity of readers—modern as well as ancient—forgers have always made efforts to cover up the traces of their deceit. In many instances, it is simply enough for a forger to claim to be someone other than who he is. Anyone in antiquity who came across a letter of Paul addressed to a church (in Thessalonica, in Ephesus, in Colossae, etc.) naturally thought that Paul had written the letter, unless there was a glaring mistake that indicated otherwise. The forger’s craft involved making sure there were no such mistakes: anachronisms, inconsistencies, or gaffes. But more than that, many, possibly most, forgers went out of their way to make their work believable. Some forgers, of course, were more skilled at deceit than others. The following are some of the ploys they typically used.

A good forger who wanted his readers to assume that he really was who he said he was tried to imitate the writing style of the author he was claiming to be. The ability to effect imitation was all part of a rhetorical education in ethopoeia, as Cribiore and many others have noted.
⁹⁴
Not all forgers were good at it, and some apparently did not even make the effort. This was possibly the case with the famous incident recounted by Galen in
De propriis libris
, where an amateur scholar informed a dupe that the book in question was not by Galen, simply on the basis of the style of the first two lines. Caveat emptor. But most forgers almost certainly
did their best, often with spectacular success. It took many centuries for anyone to realize that the writing style of Ephesians was not that of Paul.

We have only one instance from antiquity in which a forger actually acknowledges what he has done (not counting Salvian, who does not explicitly admit his guilt). This is the second century
CE
Mithridates, who forged a cover letter for a second edition of the letters of the general Brutus—from three centuries earlier—explaining why he himself had produced pseudepigraphic responses from the recipients of the various missives.
⁹⁵
Among other things, Mithridates claims that in producing the letters he has tried to replicate the plausible contents of what they would have written and to have done so in an appropriately imitative style. But he admits it was not easy: “how difficult it turns out [to be] to contend with another person’s skill when it is hard even to keep up one’s own!”
⁹⁶

In addition to using a familiar name and trying to imitate style, forgers would typically insert verisimilitudes in order to ground yet further the plausibility of their writings. As we will see when we turn to the Pastoral epistles, proponents of authenticity have long maintained that the personal touches that pervade 2 Timothy are the clearest indication that this book (and, often, by implication, its two companions) was actually written by Paul. Why would a forger bother to remind his recipient of their past relationship in such intimate detail? “I remember your tears, I long night and day to see you.… I remember your sincere faith, which first lived in your grandmother Lois and your mother Eunice and now, I am sure, lives on in you” (1:3–5). Why would a forger tell a feigned recipient to be sure to “bring the cloak I left at Troas with Carpus, and the books, and especially the parchments” (4:13)?

For scholars of forgery, the answer is obvious. A forger would invent such verisimilitudes precisely in order to convince the reader that he is who he says he is. This has been shown beyond any doubt in a now-famous article by Norbert Brox, “Zu den persönlichen Notizen der Pastoralbriefe,”
⁹⁷
which demonstrates that “personal notes” are a standard ruse of the forger. Brox’s position has been strengthened by further researchers, such as Lewis Donelson, who appeals to the forged letters of Plato, especially letters 12 and 13, in support:

The particular genre of the pseudepigraphical letter displays in abundance the exact type of deception we find in the pastorals. The careless references to mundane affairs of daily life, the specific requests for ordinary and seemingly insignificant objects to be delivered, and even the attempt to display personal feelings are all fully documented in other letters.
⁹⁸

One particular method of verisimilitude involves the use of first-person narrative, in which an author not only claims to be someone other than who he is, but also narrates events as a personal participant. We have already seen this ploy at work, for example in the canonical non-pseudepigraphic forgery, Ecclesiastes, where the author provides “autobiographical” discussions as King Solomon, and in the embedded forgery of the Ascension of Isaiah. It was also used in the earlier apocalypses, such as Daniel and Enoch, as well as in apocalypses of the Christian tradition such as those of Paul and Peter. It can be found in other narrative accounts too, such as the Coptic Apocalypse of Peter or the Gospel of Peter, or in narratives embedded in other sorts of texts, as in 2 Peter’s first-person “recollection” of the transfiguration. The value of the first-person narrative is that it makes the writer an authority not only because of his name but also because of his firsthand experiences. This was clearly recognized, yet again, by Speyer:

First person narrative and eye-witness report immediately inspire the belief in the hearer that the narrator has himself experienced that which he recounts. Such first-person narration and eyewitness report are practically characteristic of miracle stories and liars’ tales. First-person narrative appears no less frequently in forgeries, frequently in conjunction with a false authorial claim.
⁹⁹

An even bolder ploy was used by some forgers in order to explain why it is that a writing by an ancient author was not widely known by earlier readers. The reason: the book was hidden and discovered only in recent times.

Possibly the most famous instance among pagan writings is the account of the Trojan War allegedly written by a participant, Dictys of Crete, a companion of Idomeneus, widely read as authentic throughout the Middle Ages. The Preface of
the account, by Lucius Septimius, indicates how the book came to be uncovered, through pure serendipity.

After many centuries the tomb of Dictys at Cnossos (formerly the seat of the Cretan king) collapsed with age. Then shepherds, wandering near the ruins, stumbled upon a little box skillfully enclosed in tin. Thinking it was treasure, they soon broke it open, but brought to light, instead of gold or some other kind of wealth, books written on linden tablets. Their hopes thus frustrated, they took their find to Praxis, the owner of that place. Praxis had the books transliterated into the Attic alphabet and presented them to the Roman Emperor Nero.
¹⁰⁰

The author of the account then indicates that he has translated the books into Latin, thus explaining both how they have mysteriously now appeared and why they are not circulating in a form of ancient Greek. The reality is that the entire set of books, preface and all, were forged.
¹⁰¹

We have already seen a comparable account in the Pythagorean writings falsely claiming to be written by none other than the second (legendary) king of Rome, Numa, as reported by both Livy (
History of Rome
, 40, 29) and Pliny the Elder (
Natural History
, 13, 84–87). Livy indicates that the “discovery” was made in 181
BCE
in a field under construction. Workers uncovered two large stone chests with lids fastened by lead. On them were inscriptions in Latin and Greek. One chest was said to be the sarcophagus of Numa Pompilius; the other was said to contain his books. There was no trace of the body in the one chest, but the other contained two bundles tied with waxed rope, each containing seven books, “not merely whole, but looking absolutely fresh” (non integros modo sed recentissima specie;
History of Rome
40.29).
¹⁰²

Seven of these books dealt with pontifical law (of which, by tradition, Numa was the author); the seven in Greek dealt with “a system of philosophy which might have been current at that time” (septem Graeci de disciplina sapientiae quae illius aetatis esse potuit). Valerius Antias indicates that “they were Pythagorean, confirmation of the common belief, which says that Numa was a pupil of Pythagoras, being arranged by a plausible invention.” As the books circulated, officials began to be worried about them; the praetor urbanus, Quintus Petilius, thought that a good portion of what was in them could be seen as subversive of religion: pleraque dissolvendarum religionum esse. After consultation he decided to have them publicly burned.

Livy is not explicit about the authenticity of the books, but Pliny clearly suggests they were forged. The reason for thinking so: as an authority from the time of the alleged discovery pointed out, it was difficult to believe that books could have lasted so long without deteriorating.

These pagan examples have their clear counterparts in the best-known discovery narrative of Christian writings, the Apocalypse of Paul. The visions of Paul are introduced with this validation:

In the consulship of Theodosius Augustus the younger and Cynegius, a certain nobleman was then living in Tarsus, in the house which was that of Saint Paul; an angel appeared in the night and revealed it to him, saying that he should open the foundations of the house and should publish what he found; but he thought that these things were dreams.

But the angel coming for the third time beat him and forced him to open the foundation. And digging he found a marble box inscribed on the sides; there was the revelation of Saint Paul, and his shoes in which he walked teaching the word of God. But he feared to open that box and brought it to the judge; when he had received it, the judge, because it was sealed with lead, sent it to the emperor Theodosius, fearing lest it might be something else; when the emperor had received it he opened it, and found the revelation of Saint Paul, a copy of which he sent to Jerusalem and retained the original himself.
¹⁰³