Defining Byzantium: Empire, Identity, and Historiography

When we utter the word "Byzantium," what precisely comes to mind? Golden mosaics flickering in candlelight, theologians embroiled in arcane disputes, courtiers weaving intricate plots—or perhaps a faded empire clinging to the shores of the Bosporus while the world surged past? These images, potent as they are, risk obscuring a more fundamental question: what do we actually mean by "Byzantium"? The term is so ubiquitous in modern discourse that we often forget it is not a native label but a historiographical construct, one that imposes a foreign identity onto a civilization that consistently understood itself as Roman. This chapter deconstructs that construct, establishing the core parameters of our study. We will trace the origins and implications of the label "Byzantine," contrast it with the empire's own self-designation as *Rhomaioi* (Romans), delineate the geographical and chronological scope of our inquiry, dismantle persistent misconceptions that cloud popular understanding, and introduce the central thesis that has guided this book: the Eastern Roman Empire survived for a millennium not in spite of its transformations but because of a synergistic triad—faith, law, and military pragmatism—that allowed it to adapt relentlessly to changing circumstances. By the end, you will possess the methodological tools to distinguish between Roman continuity and Byzantine innovation, and to approach primary sources with a nuanced understanding of how they reflect both the empire's self-perception and its pragmatic statecraft.

The very name "Byzantium" is a modern scholarly convenience, not a contemporary identity. It derives from *Byzantion*, the ancient Greek colony founded around 657 BCE on the site that would later become Constantinople. Yet for the inhabitants of the empire we study, this name would have been meaningless as a political or cultural identifier. They were *Rhomaioi*—Romans—the heirs of a universal state that traced its origins to Augustus and Constantine the Great. The shift from "Roman" to "Byzantine" in historical narratives did not occur until centuries after the empire's fall, primarily through the intellectual currents of the European Enlightenment. French scholar Charles Du Cange (1610–1688) was among the first to use "Byzantine" systematically in his glossaries on Greek texts, but it was Edward Gibbon who, in his magisterial *The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire* (1776–1788), cemented the division. Gibbon deliberately separated the "Eastern Empire" from the classical Roman tradition, portraying it as a degenerate, Orientalized despotism—a cautionary tale of what happened when Roman virtue succumbed to Eastern luxury and theological superstition. This was not a neutral chronological segmentation; it was a moral and cultural judgment. By consigning the medieval Eastern Roman Empire to a separate category, Western historians could preserve the classical Roman ideal for their own emerging national narratives while distancing themselves from a "Greek" empire they associated with absolutism, religious obscurantism, and political decay. The term thus absorbed centuries of anti-Eastern sentiment, from the Great Schism of 1054 to the Crusades, especially the traumatic sack of Constantinople by the Fourth Crusade in 1204. Even into the 20th century, this Orientalist framing persisted, evident in works like J.B. Bury’s *History of the Later Roman Empire* (1889), which, despite retaining "Roman" in the title, helped solidify the notion of a distinct "Byzantine" period.

Modern scholarship, particularly since the mid-20th century, has actively sought to dismantle this inherited bias. The monumental *History of the Byzantine State* by George Ostrogorsky (first published in German in 1940) insisted on the empire's Roman continuity, framing its history as the evolution of the Roman state in the East. More recent historians—John Haldon, Judith Herrin, Averil Cameron, and others—have moved beyond the continuity-versus-break debate to explore the empire's own innovative dynamics. They examine how the *Rhomaioi* adapted Roman institutions, blended them with Christian and Hellenistic elements, and created a distinctive medieval civilization. The terminological tension is not merely semantic; it shapes our interpretation of the empire's nature. Calling it "Byzantine" risks framing it as a static, exotic other—a "Greek" kingdom of intrigue and ritual—while recognizing it as the "Eastern Roman Empire" emphasizes its place in the longue durée of Roman history, with all the legal, administrative, and ideological baggage that entails. For clarity, this book will use "Byzantine" and "Eastern Roman Empire" interchangeably, but always with the awareness that the former is a modern label and the latter the empire's own understanding. Our task is to see the empire as its citizens saw themselves: as Romans, defending and transforming a legacy that spanned from the Atlantic to the Euphrates.

The self-identification as *Rhomaioi* was not a nostalgic fantasy but a living political reality, permeating every layer of society. Official documents, legal codes, chronicles, and even everyday correspondence resound with the claim to Roman continuity. Emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogennetos, in his 10th-century manual *De Administrando Imperio* ("On the Governance of the Empire"), explicitly refers to his realm as *Basileia Romaion* (Empire of the Romans) and to its subjects as Romans. This self-designation persisted undiminished even after the loss of the city of Rome in 476, and through the rise of the Holy Roman Empire in the West—an entity the Byzantines routinely dismissed as a fraudulent imitation, a "Frankish kingdom" with no legitimate claim to the Roman legacy. To be Roman was not a matter of ethnicity but of political allegiance, religious affiliation, and legal status. The empire was multi-ethnic, encompassing Greeks, Slavs, Armenians, Syrians, and many others. Assimilation into the Roman body politic was possible through conversion to Orthodoxy, service in the administration or army, and acceptance of imperial authority. This is evident in the empire's dealings with neighboring peoples: the Bulgars, after their conversion to Christianity and integration into the imperial system, were considered fully Roman. Even after the fall of Constantinople in 1453, the last emperors and their subjects never called themselves "Byzantines"; that label was imposed posthumously by historians. The resilience of the Roman identity is perhaps best captured by the empire's diplomatic correspondence, which consistently addressed Western rulers as equals or subordinates, insisting on the emperor's sole legitimacy as *Basileus* and *Autokrator* of the Romans. This self-understanding is crucial because it reveals that the empire's rulers and subjects saw themselves not as defenders of a dying tradition but as the legitimate heirs of a universal state, with all the responsibilities and prestige that entailed. Their history is therefore not one of decline from a classical golden age but of continuous adaptation of Roman imperial ideals to a new world.

Defining the spatial and temporal boundaries of Byzantium is itself an act of interpretation, requiring us to navigate historiographical debates while establishing a workable framework for this study. Chronologically, the conventional dates are 330 (or 324) to 1453. The foundation of Constantinople by Constantine I in 330 serves as a symbolic starting point: it marked the establishment of a new capital in the East, which would become the administrative, cultural, and spiritual heart of the empire for over a millennium. This date also coincides with Constantine's consolidation of power and his policies favoring Christianity, setting the stage for the empire's distinctive character. However, some scholars argue for earlier beginnings. The reign of Diocletian (284–305) introduced the tetrarchy and profound administrative,