In this epilogue, we consider first the language of resistance and how its rhetoric encodes a complex and competing set of positionalities: it is hard, we argue, to distinguish between cultural resistance and cultural difference. This process is especially complex in the Roman Empire, where cultural conflict between Roman and Greek, for example, has to negotiate the surprising dynamics of cultural authority where the colonisers privilege the culture of the conquered, and where Christianity is a major vector in the changing nature of resistance over time. This opening discussion leads to six ways in which the case of the Roman Empire offers a particularly productive and challenging model for contemporary resistance studies, which shows a way forward from this volume: first, resistance from marginalised groups and the possibility of institutional rejection of dominant culture; second, resistance from within the elite; third, resistance as a multidirectional process which is testimony to the fragility of imperial self-assertion; fourth, the resistance between classes, and especially slaves to masters; fifth, how the imaginary of resistance – its narratives and tropes – functions; sixth, how resistance has its own historical account which shifts from public acts of resistance to models of inwardness.

This chapter is a response to the volume’s arguments. It explores the book’s two central claims – that literary works must be seen as products of their time, and are best understood as being in dialogue with one another. It argues that ‘being of one’s time’ is a complex idea that requires a sophisticated sense of ‘situatedness’. Specifically, it first explores how the imperial and colonial conditions of Hellenistic culture produce contested performances of belonging that change over time as the imaginary of empire is constructed. Second, it looks at how ‘dialogues’ between texts are gestures of self-authorisation for ancient writers and for modern historians. Third, it draws attention to the physical affordances of the construction of belonging – from how a person speaks and walks to the material culture of empire. Finally, it suggests that the book’s unwillingness to discuss the full range of, say, Jewish Greek writing from the period restricts how we can understand cultural translation and cultural belonging in the Hellenistic age, and produces a potentially misleading literary history of the era.

One answer to the questions posed at the end of the last chapter is to recognize that Christianity gives new and powerful and transformative impetus to the question, ‘What are you waiting for?’. That is this chapter’s subject.

In my view, there is no artwork that captures the modern sense of time as profoundly as Christian Marklay’s installation, The Clock – first produced in 2010, and, since its opening, repeatedly staged in galleries around the world, to amazed reviews. It is, as Zadie Smith declared, ‘sublime’. The Clock is made up of around 12,000 short film and television clips that run on a 24-hour loop. In every single clip, you can see a watch or clock which shows the exact time at which you are watching The Clock. The synchronization is both funny and uncanny. If you start watching at 2.10, each of the short extracts contains a timepiece showing 2.10 – often several clips for the same minute. At 2.11, it is all 2.11 – and so on for twenty-four hours. At 6.00, a string of hatted men suggests a cocktail; tea is taken repeatedly between 4.00 and 4.30, tea-time; high noon looms and awaits its gunshots. The joy or frustration of interruption is replayed again and again with an extraordinary fascination.

To a reader familiar with the Hebrew text, both the action of the raven and the interpretation are challenging. The Hebrew text reads va’yetze yatzov vashov, which is standardly translated ‘he went to and fro’ until the waters receded. The first bird, that is, can find no place to land but travels around and around. This leads to some delightful and bizarre midrashim. In bSandhedrin 108b, a conversation is imagined between the raven and Noah in which the raven rejects the task offered with a knock-down argument. He must be hated by God and by Noah, the raven argues, to have been selected for the mission, because, since they are unclean animals, there are only two ravens in the ark. If he died from heat or cold, therefore, the species of ravens would be wiped out. He adds that he suspects Noah of wanting to get rid of him so that he can have sex with the raven’s wife! (Noah retorts angrily that since he has observed the prohibition of sex on the ark with his own wife he is scarcely likely to have sex with a raven.) Hence, however, the fearful raven will only fly round and round the ark. Midrash Rabbah Bereshit imagines a different conversation – the idea of a conversation comes from an etymological play on the Hebrew verbs. Noah asserts blithely that the raven can be sent because as an unclean animal he is no good for food or for a sacrifice, only to be reminded by God that ravens would feed Elijah in the desert (Kings 1.17.6) – a paradigmatic demonstration of how the narrative of the Talmud is informed by God’s omniscient (always already) time.

To stand in Rome before the Pantheon and stare up at the huge bronze letters of the domineering inscription M. AGRIPPA L F COS TER FECIT is to recognize the memorializing power of the ancient epigraphic habit – and the degree to which the ancient city was full of sites that made the past physically, visibly present. The Parthenon parades its anonymity, proud in its generalization of the democratic ideal: the Pantheon broadcasts its maker’s name. Even or especially here, however, the act of making memory visible turns out to be more complicated than it might at first seem. The temple itself, originally built by Agrippa, had been burnt down twice, and the second rebuilding was completed by Domitian, an emperor so despised by those who remembered him that his statues were said to bleed and scream (it will be remembered) when beaten in violent damnatio. There is no record of his name on the Pantheon. This facade was rebuilt by Hadrian, who nonetheless has also not left his name anywhere on the building. This may seem an act of surprising restraint, but later history (HA Hadrian 20.3) records that Hadrian did not care to have his name proclaimed on buildings that he established or restored (though he was happy for cities to be named after him).

We ended with first words. Let us start there again. And with a startling beginning.

It has been a strange time in which to write about time. This book was written during a year marked and scarred across the world by the Coronavirus, Covid-19. It would be nice to imagine that the comments I am about to make will quickly be out of date, but at the time of writing not only is there no immediate sign of any lessening of the pandemic, but also the glib slogans of public discourse ‘build back better’, ‘the new normal’, seem peculiarly hollow. It seems unlikely that this time of pandemic will be forgotten in the near future, or its impact unfelt.

Let us return to eternity, which in truth we have not ever fully left since the opening chapter.

For Gregory of Nazianzus, then, Christmas Day is to be experienced as a celebration of the history of the universe and as a living recognition of the transformative epiphany of Jesus Christ, an epiphany that changes how time is lived and perceived by the Christian faithful. Gregory wants to redefine how time is counted, recounted, experienced. Ambrose of Milan at around the same time, over in the West, is rather more modest in his vision. At least at first sight. His hymns are designedly simple and easily memorable in form, though, like William Blake’s lyrics, they are far from simple in their linguistic depth and significance – and they proved extraordinarily influential in the invention of Christian time as well as of the Christian hymnic tradition. These hymns are to be sung by a congregation, and there are reports not just of people singing lustily and of the hymns spreading across Italy, but also of annoyance by Ambrose’s opponents at their success in inculcating particular doctrinal views in the singers. Hymns, that is, are to work not by a preacher telling his audience what to think but by a congregation’s absorption of ideas through repeated performance, by the pleasure of singing.

One of the most surprising expressions that captures a self-conscious positioning in time comes in a remarkable poem in Book 1 of the Palatine Anthology. The poem is not an epigram at all, despite its inclusion in the anthology, but rather a 76-line poem of dedication celebrating the construction of the church of St Polyeuctos in Constantinople. The church was rebuilt in the early sixth century by Anicia Juliana, who came from one of the most distinguished family lines in eastern Greek Christian nobility. Indeed, the original church had been built in the fifth century by the empress Eudocia, who was Juliana’s great-grandmother. Juliana, in her act of rebuilding, was certainly engaging in the familiar competitiveness, aimed at both contemporary and historical rivals, that continued Hellenistic euergetism – the public display of wealth and authority through the sponsoring of public buildings – in order to contribute to the splendid redesign of Christian urban space.

The discipline of classics is unthinkable without the notion of the exemplary. On the one hand, for centuries in the West, the classical past has provided models of the best in literature, style, political system, sexual freedom – and many other idealisms. The very name ‘classics’ exists because the great texts of the past give us the first, second and third classes by which we classify and evaluate the modern. The lure of classicism is its image of the ideal in the past – a perfection or grandeur or beauty to strive after. The repeated challenges to the privilege of the Greek and Latin past in the education system, the hierarchy of cultural value, or in the very assumption of how the past matters, have sought again and again – often with a self-defeating obsessiveness – to dethrone this position of classics in the tradition of the West. In English, the apparent connection between classics and class has become a byword for such a challenge, insisting on the complicit and corrupting link between social elites and the fantasies of entitled genealogy that ground classicism.