Architecture and Power in Early Central Europe 1641892048, 9781641892049, 9781802700145

Table of contents :
List of Illustrations vii
Introduction xiii
Chapter 1. Displays of Power — Architecture as Sign and Symbol 1
Chapter 2. Choice of Architectural Forms 25
Chapter 3. The Code of Form and Shape 37
Chapter 4. Composition of Spatial Arrangements 45
Chapter 5. Appropriation and/or Influence 53
Chapter 6. Architecture as a Vehicle of Meanings 65
Chapter 7. Form versus Function 71
Chapter 8. Interpreting Function 81
Chapter 9. Reading Architecture 91
Conclusion 97
Select Bibliography 99
Index 105

Citation preview

BEYOND MEDIEVAL EUROPE Further Information and Publications www.arc-humanities.org/our-series/arc/bme/

ARCHITECTURE AND POWER IN EARLY CENTRAL EUROPE

by

MARTA GRACZYŃSKA Translated by

JOANNA SOBCZAK

Published in partnership with Wawel Royal Castle – State Art Collection Zamek Królewski na Wawelu – Państwowe Zbiory Sztuki

All figures and the cover illustration were created by Grzegorz Wojtasik. Maps were drawn by Katarzyna Wójtowicz.

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. © 2022, Arc Humanities Press, Leeds

The authors assert their moral right to be identified as the authors of their part of this work.

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CONTENTS

List of Illustrations. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii

Chapter 1. Displays of Power—Architecture as Sign and Symbol. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Chapter 2. Choice of Architectural Forms . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 Chapter 3. The Code of Form and Shape. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 37 Chapter 4. Composition of Spatial Arrangements. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 45 Chapter 5. Appropriation and/or Influence. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 53 Chapter 6. Architecture as a Vehicle of Meanings. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 Chapter 7. Form versus Function . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71 Chapter 8. Interpreting Function. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81 Chapter 9. Reading Architecture . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 91 Conclusion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 97 Select Biblio­graphy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 99

Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Maps Map 1: The Carolingian Empire . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Map 2: Europe in the Eleventh Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Map 3: The Holy Roman Empire, ca. 1000 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . x

Map 4: Central Europe in the Eleventh Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi

Map 5: The Kingdom of Poland under the Piasts, 992–1058 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xii Map 6: The Kingdom of Hungary in the Eleventh Century . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xii

Figures Figure 1. Plan of the stronghold of Stará Boleslav. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 6 Figure 2. Plan of the stronghold of Giecz, showing bridge, ca. 990. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 8 Figure 3. Sketch of timber fortifications at Ostrów Lednicki. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 9

Figure 4. Plan of the stronghold of Ostrów Lednicki. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 10 Figure 5. Plan of the church of Ostrów Lednicki. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 11 Figure 6. Plan of the stronghold of Valy near Mikulčice. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 12 Figure 7. Plan of the stronghold of Poznań. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 14 Figure 8. Location of the Kraków stronghold on Wawel Hill. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 15 Figure 9. Phases in development of the Hradčany Hill stronghold, Prague. . . . . . . . . . . 17 Figure 10. Plan of the stronghold on Vyšehrad Hill in Prague. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 18 Figure 11. Plan of the stronghold at Esztergom. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 Figure 12. Plan of the stronghold at Székesfehérvár. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 20

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List of Illustrations

Figure 13. Plan of the palace (palatium) and chapel at Ostrów Lednicki. . . . . . . . . . . . . . 38 Figure 14. Plan of the church of Feldebrő. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 40 Figure 15. Plan of the abbey church of Sv. Jiří on Hradčany Hill, Prague. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 47 Figure 16. Plan of the cathedral in Poznań. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 48 Figure 17. Plan of the basilica at Székesfehérvár . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49 Figure 18. Plan of the abbey church of Tyniec. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 Figure 19. Plan of the abbey church of Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek) . . . . . 58 Figure 20. Plan of the stages in development of the rotunda on Hradčany Hill, Prague. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 72 Figure 21. Plan of the basilica on Hradčany Hill, Prague. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 Figure 22. Plan of the rotunda at Gniezno. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 Figure 23. Plan of the basilica at Gniezno, from 1064. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Figure 24. Plan of the basilica at Gniezno, from 1097. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 75 Figure 25. Plan of the basilica at Pécs, after 1100. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 77 Figure 26. Map showing relative locations of the strongholds on Hradčany Hill and Vyšehrad Hill, Prague. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 82 Figure 27. Overview of the Wawel Hill stronghold in Kraków. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83 Figure 28. Plan of the ducal palace on the Wawel Hill stronghold in Kraków. . . . . . . . . 84 Figure 29. Plan of the ducal church on the Wawel Hill stronghold in Kraków. . . . . . . . . 85 Figure 30. Plan of the residential building in Vyšehrad stronghold, Prague . . . . . . . . . . 86 Figure 31. Plan of the Vyšehrad stronghold, Prague. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87

Map 1: The Carolingian Empire.

Map 2: Europe in the Eleventh Century.

x



Map 3: The Holy Roman Empire, ca. 1000.





Map 4: Central Europe in the Eleventh Century.

xi

xii



Map 5: The Kingdom of Poland under the Piasts, 992–1058.

Map 6: The Kingdom of Hungary in the Eleventh Century.

INTRODUCTION

The focus of this book is architecture and power, and the mutual relations between

the two. My aim was to trace their co-existence, and how they complemented each other—by conferring significance upon one another, or accentuating each other’s functions. In order to present a detailed view of the two subjects and their interconnections, I selected the seminal period between the ninth and eleventh centuries in Central Europe. I have focused on royal power in all its grandeur, specificity, and distinctive needs. Clad in abundant ostentation and symbolism, royal power was displayed to the world in a variety of ways involving military, economic, and trade-related measures, not to mention lavish ceremonies or the choice of attire and insignia of authority. Furthermore, some occasions required a proper setting for the theatre of power to truly emerge, resound, and make an impression on its spectators and participants. By far the most enduring of all these expressions, architecture was one of the many ways of displaying power and has been a popular topic of research. On the one hand, churches and palaces were erected for utilitarian purposes as both sanctuaries and residences. Yet on the other, they offered far more, and were eagerly used to emphasize the role of their founders. Such contrivances have been known to mankind for thousands of years, and are employed until this day across the globe. The purpose of architecture is to bestow meaning, and emphasize the splendour and capacity of authority. In order to clarify the symbolism concealed in architecture from olden days, researchers have expanded their own methodo­logies to include written and archaeo­ logical resources, finding themselves at the intersection of at least three fields: history, history of architecture, and archaeo­logy. Drawing on commentaries from written sources, they can find reasons for a given building being raised, and its intention. Yet written evidence does not exist for certain parts of the world or periods of history—or if they do, they are insufficient, with archaeo­logical relics being the only source confirming earlier human presence. Strati­graphic deposits tell the story of the length and type of human activity in a given region—whereas uncovered artefacts, including burial and building remnants, offer information on religious, economic, or trading behaviours. From the Scandinavian Peninsula in the north to the Adriatic coastline in the south, central Europe is one such area. While its eastern and western borders were fluid, the territories located in the basins of the rivers Oder, Bug, and Tisza and in the middle course of the Danube from the tenth until the eleventh/twelfth centuries are focal to the deliberations considered in my book. Given these geo­graphical and chrono­logical parameters, it is no surprise to assert that the major part of this territory’s history has been written in the ground rather than on paper, in ink, by human hand. Reference sources containing information on the part of Europe I am concerned with were usually not written by eyewitnesses, and produced considerably later than the events in

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question—which is exactly why all data therein requires a critical eye and historical analysis.1 Some of the quoted facts can be verified thanks to artefacts and relics discovered underground—notable examples include remarks on incidents in these lands during the ninth and tenth centuries. Such records include accounts of rulers of the Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád dynasties embracing Christianity. While quoting the years of specific events, chroniclers frequently failed to mention exact locations or personal details of individuals attending particular ceremonies—often such information was only confirmed in much later records. Archaeo­logical findings can confirm such events as well. The use of dating methods drawn from archaeo­logy allows the two types of sources to be combined. In this way, written and material evidence can complement and support each other. This is how the baptism in 966 of Mieszko, the Piast duke of Poland, can be tied to the building of a brick residential building, with a church included, on Ostrów Lednicki island. When selecting the territory I intended to analyze—the geo­graphical boundaries and chrono­logy, considering the availability of written and archaeo­logical evidence—I captured a number of common denominators. These included three characteristic features: limited influence of the Roman Empire; similarities in policies in relation to their powerful neighbours; and the comparability of political, social, and cultural developments. Consequently, almost the entire area I have selected as my field of focus was located beyond the borders and influence of the ancient Roman Empire. Even where corners of the Empire reached into the barbarian kingdoms—such as the Imperial border extending along the lower course of the Danube—mutual influence was virtually non-existent. With regard to this, one should absolutely ignore the few, dispersed artefacts or numismatic findings; their presence only suggests trade exchange between these territories. Had the lands I am describing actually been inspired by ancient heritage, space would have been planned to the Roman design: urban residential quarters would have been arranged within a regular geometric street grid with two main centrelines (the north to south cardo and the east–west decumanus axes); ancient plans and patterns would have been applied in the design of individual dwellings; settlements and districts would have been organized to Roman paradigms; at the very least, these lands would have been infiltrated with ancient polytheism with its array of characteristics, such as burial specificities. None of these—and no derivatives—have been ever discovered locally. Other features typical for the entire territory include its being wedged between two enormous centres of political and religious supremacy which had evolved west of the River Oder and east of the Bug between the fifth and ninth centuries, their power discharged by the King of Germany in the west, and the Byzantine Emperor (basileus), inheritor of the Roman imperial ideal, in the east.2 Like any politically forceful organ1  Consider the respective accounts by the Benedictine monk of Brauweiler and Gallus Anonymus regarding Richeza of Lotharingia and her story, both narratives of which have been recently compiled and described by Małgorzata Delimata-Proch, Rycheza Królowa Polski (ok. 995–21 marca 1063): Studium Historiograficzne (Kraków: Avalon, 2019).

2  Stefan Burkhardt, “Between Empires: South-Eastern Europe and the Two Roman Empires in the Middle Ages,” in Medi­eval East Central Europe in a Comparative Perspective, ed. Jaritz and Szende,



Introduction

xv

ism, both attempted to expand the reach of their influence as far as possible onto lands with which they bordered—the territory I am describing here. Assorted chronicles and other written sources contain extensive descriptions of such endeavours. How did the rulers of the regions handle the situation—were they successful in managing such a difficult neighbourhood? They had two options: fragile co-existence or collaboration; or instead joining a coalition or an antagonistic party. Written evidence and archaeo­logical findings tell us that until the ninth century, the interest of the German king and the basi­ leus in these territories had been somewhat sporadic, any exchanges based chiefly on trade rather than political pressure. Yet from the mid-ninth century onwards, contacts were much more intense, becoming military, religious, and cultural in nature. This was a time when the names of lands and the rulers of Slavic, Bohemian, Moravian, and Magyar tribes began appearing more and more frequently in German and Byzantine written chronicles. Formerly attracting little or no interest, territories between the Rivers Oder and Bug morphed into objects of desire for these crowned Christian monarchs keen on finding ways to influence the interior affairs of their neighbours. This was primarily due to the obvious developments which had taken place among these tribes. Their most powerful leaders had consolidated powere and strived to centralize it, changing what had been familial group-based forms of governance. Having seized all authority in their respective lands, the most powerful tribal chieftains became rulers of specific territories supported by stable economic and political resources.3 The third and final feature (comparable political, social, and cultural developments)—more or less a true common denominator for the entire studied area—involved a very specific decision made by each of the respective local sovereigns in altering the nature of governance and the way rulers functioned by introducing extensive changes to the social system and culture, namely by the adoption of Christianity. This was a longterm transformation between the eighth/ninth and late eleventh centuries, combining the rulers’ baptism and then adopting Christian values. Their decisions were made at relatively comparative points in time and assumed that privileges received in return for conversion would be rather similar.4 The benefits included membership of a larger and more powerful community; yes, religious, but mainly a political one. This in turn guaranteed the elevated status of each ruler, boosting his aspirations to a royal crown; most importantly, however, it allowed him to preserve the sovereignty of the land and its independent governance. In return, certain duties had to be discharged. A Christian 47–61; Berend et al., Central Europe in the High Middle Ages, 1–16; Florin Curta, East Central and Eastern Europe in the Early Middle Ages (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2005), 1–38; Nora Berend, “The Mirage of East Central Europe: Historical Regions in a Comparative Perspective,” in Medi­eval East Central Europe in a Comparative Perspective, ed. Jaritz and Szende, 9–24; Curta, Eastern Europe in the Middle Ages, 5–14.

3  Přemyslovici. Budování Českého Státu, ed. Petr Sommer et al. (Prague: Nakladatelství� Lidové noviny, 2009); The Ancient Hungarians, ed. Fodor; Andrzej Buko, The Archaeo­logy of Early Medi­eval Poland. Discoveries—Hypotheses—Interpretations (Leiden: Brill, 2008).

4  Readers may wonder whether the use of the phrase “comparative points in time” is appropriate when applying to events one hundred years apart—yet one needs to bear in mind that in postancient Europe, perspectives of time differ from ours.

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ruler was obliged to support the clergy and aid his own people in spiritual development, such as through missionary campaigns or by founding sanctuaries. In theory, this was not strange: most religions combined secular and divine rule. Yet Christianity demanded far more than usual—new principles and values were introduced. Archaeo­logical research suggests that prior to embracing Christianity, masonry or brick architecture had not been known or used in Central Europe, construction materials were solely wood, clay, and earth. Structures with complex plans were unknown, as were particular elements within buildings. Using and processing stone, arranging it into assorted patterns and joining masonry elements with mortar were an absolute novelty—and rulers were the only people bold enough to use them. They had to face new techno­logies as well as novel forms, functions, and meanings: most stone buildings from the early days of adopting Christianity were churches. Other structures—far fewer in number—were homes for the clergy and secular elites close to the court. All three criteria applied to the dominions which would later become the Kingdom of Poland, Kingdom of Bohemia, and Kingdom of Hungary. Consequently, to highlight the interdependence of architecture and power, I have taken exemplars of churches and palaces erected between the ninth and late eleventh centuries, founded by the rulers of the Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád dynasties. My area of interest has been the architectural forms of key foundations identified by archaeo­logists and art historians—my aim being to discuss them as examples of the diverse use and arrangement of space while offering the reader some comparative context. Western Europe at the time is an obvious reference-point when highlighting processes of power-related and social change. More than simply being a successor of the ancient Roman Empire, with all the cultural and social legacy that involved, Western Europe was also the creator of attitudes, models of behaviour, social needs, and forms of art. Similarities and differences between Western and Central Europe have been extensively discussed.5 Yet I believe the two regions are all too often set in juxtaposition rather than as places in dialogue with each other. Each of these European areas did more than draw from its neighbour’s achievements and solutions; each remained a reference point for the other. This publication comprises two parts, differing in composition and extent. Part one is considerably more extensive, divided into subchapters and smaller textual sections; part two is much shorter and undivided into shorter sections. In the first chapter, “Displays of Power—Architecture as Sign and Symbol,” I explore fortified strongholds as residential areas rather than on architecture itself, selecting key locations of power for the Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád houses—seats of central authority (sedes regni principales). I compare their founding in the context of historical events; their geo­graphical locations; fortification systems and spatial arrangements; and the type and purpose of the buildings. This survey attempts to answer the question whether 5  Jerzy Kłoczowski, Młodsza Europa (Warszawa: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1998); Jerzy Kłoczowski, “Chrześcijaństwo w Europie Ś� rodkowowschodniej i Budowa Organizacji Kościelnej,” in Ziemie Polskie w X wieku i ich Znaczenie w Kształtowaniu się nowej mapy Europy, ed. Henryk Samsonowicz (Kraków: Universitas, 2000), 3–17; Jenő Szücs, Nation und Geschichte. Studien (Budapest: Corvina Kiadó, 1981), 251; Szücs, Les trois Europes.



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fortified towns could be a setting for the playing out the theatre of power. If so, which elements were the most important in a fortified stronghold? Were any demarcation lines required in planning and arranging them? Did fortified strongholds feature any visible partitioning between the respective sections associated with secular and ecclesiastical authority? The next chapter, “Choice of Architectural Forms,” explores the justification for choosing specific forms. I compare Central European architecture to exemplars developed by the Merovingians, Carolingians, Ottonians, and the Salian dynasty. To the Piasts, Přemyslids, and Á� rpáds, this was an obvious array of paradigms, an inspiration for architectural solutions (such as basilicas or rotundas) or individual structural components, such as massive western fronts or the elevated crypt. Sovereigns could reference a paradigm in designing structures to meet their individual needs. I then analyze the how and why of architectural choices in “Code of Form and Shape.” In this chapter I focus on meanings concealed in forms and shapes typical for individual buildings, such as churches and palaces. Codes and connotations were also embedded in interior spatial arrangements, a theme explored in the next chapter: “Composition of Spatial Arrangements.” Interiors were composed of various forms, each assigned an individual and specific function. Space could be modified through the introduction of supplementary elements, say, by adding altar rails or burial sites (ciboria or tombs). An obvious question arises: did such components simply affirm or irreversibly and permanently transform former meanings, purpose, and functions? “Appropriation and/or Influence,” the fifth chapter explores the question concerning sources of inspiration and how design might infiltrate. In Central Europe, buildings erected with the use of any material other than wood were usually a novelty, techno­ logically and symbolically. This is why I wanted to learn how selected architectural exemplars came to new territories; but this gave rise to the following questions: could architectural projects designed and developed in Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád sovereignties also influence or inspire one another? If so, what had been the original sequence of events producing such an outcome? If not, I wanted to find the underlying cause. A peripheral motif, involving subtexts and the ensuing ideo­logical content with which all architecture is imbued, runs throughout the first part of my deliberations. I explore the topic in greater detail in the chapter “Architecture as a Vehicle of Meanings.” I am looking for an answer to the most fundamental of all questions: can an architectural work become “scripted culture”? This question gives rise to another issue concerning culture codes: were they consciously applied, or skilfully interpreted and paraphrased by sovereigns in these “younger European” countries? The culture code question appears in the chapter “Form vs. Function,” in which I concentrate on the interdependency between the function and form of any given building, be it church or residence (episcopium, palatium): was the mutuality always there—and if so, how was it manifested? Did a change to the original role conferred upon an architectural scheme affect its form, but also—were formal modifications in any way important to function? The question pointed to a different approach to the theme of function. In the penultimate chapter, “Interpreting Function,” I look for additional meanings and/or functions potentially carried by or assigned to buildings. Obvious functions arising from their inherent

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nature apart, could an abbey or cathedral, say, be used for other purposes? If so, could they become vehicles for other meanings? One aspect of creating architecture seemed particularly noteworthy: my attention was drawn to a Leitmotif: the foundation pursuits of sovereigns. Could it be that monarchs of the young Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád dynasties consciously and intentionally decided to use architecture—its form, shape, function, and meaning in particular—as a palpable sign of their authority? And can we read late eleventh-century architecture in parts of what I will call “Younger Europe” (after Jerzy Kłoczowski, for east-central Europe) as nothing but a tool of propaganda? Were architectural projects conscious time- and place-specific ideo­logical programs overflowing with content designed to showcase power and set it in specific scenery? My work closes with a summary of sorts, based upon an assumption that researchers may refer to architecture as a non-textual historical resource. Clearly, if architectural remains are all that we are left with, the identification of all meanings intended by builders, architects, or founding patrons becomes impossible. Dealing with missing pieces and avoiding forced interpretation, contextuality becomes fundamental to the nature of architecture and all other works of art. This is why only an extensive comparative analysis of each example discussed may give rise to and resolve most of the questions listed herein, as well as many others which shall most certainly arise in the future. The issues and questions I explore in individual chapters of this book have been designed to showcase specific changes to the mechanics of authority in Central Europe. I hope that this will contribute to the debate concerning the ways and means the image of sovereigns and displays of power in the Middle Ages were created and developed. By adding architecture to a well explored subject, I wish to add a piece to the panoramic puzzle of medi­eval Christian Europe. Given the shortage of written sources available I shall examine other evidence as far as possible. My underlying interest is on what has been termed “scripted culture”: architecture and all aspects tying in with its creation and use. Such an approach to this particular field of art will make it easier to incorporate the examples discussed here into an all-encompassing debate regarding medi­eval architecture, whether from the vantage point of history, archaeo­logy, or the history of art. It will also allow an alternative approach to architecture, monuments, and buildings, all potentially interpretable as elements of the landscape and tools of propaganda.

Chapter 1

DISPLAYS OF POWER— ARCHITECTURE AS SIGN AND SYMBOL In the Gesta principum Polonorum attributed to the Polish chronicler commonly referred to as Gallus Anonymus, descriptions of Bolesław the Brave’s power included a list of individual strongholds and the potential number of conscripts they could provide: From Poznań, 1,300 mailed knights and 4,000 footsoldiers; from Gniezno, 1,500 mailed knights and 5,000 footsoldiers; from the stronghold of Włocławek, 800 mailed knights and 2,000 footsoldiers; from Giecz, 300 mailed knights and 2,000 footsoldiers—such were the troops mustered under Bolesław the Great, all the bravest of the brave, fully trained for war. How many came from other cities and castles would be a long and endless labour for us to list, and perhaps tedious for you to listen to.1

The brief list of options open to Poland’s future king emphasizes the importance of individual centres across the territories ruled by the Piasts. Lands held by the Přemyslids and the Á� rpáds were also dotted with centres under local rule, all available as sources of army conscripts and financial backing. This is why I have focused on selected strongholds recognized as centres of power (sedes regni principales), as they were part of the infrastructure a ruler could employ in developing his or her power, and a space for displaying it when needed. Yet what makes them different to other strongholds developed at that time? Was it their geo­graphical location? The way space was organized around and within the stronghold? The defence system employed, or the type and/or purpose of buildings within? I hope that by answering these and other questions, I will capture the similarities and differences between how the princes and kings of the Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád dynasties defined, created, and exhibited power. A stronghold, especially if fortified, encircled with a rampart and palisade, with its access protected by a natural knoll or river, was one of the most obvious symbols of power across Europe. Were it not for such strongholds—or rather networks of strongholds—chieftains who began developing their dominion over the period of the eighth/ ninth and eleventh centuries across Central Europe, particularly in what would later become Poland, Bohemia, and Hungary, could not have commanded such vast areas. The stronghold was the fundamental economic and military unit, providing inhabitants with a support and safety structure. Developed at pre-specified and well-planned intervals, strongholds delineated exact territories while keeping their primary purpose of defending key locations or borders. Chieftains built their supremacy by transforming old strongholds to new conditions, or developing new centres from scratch. Leaders of 1  Gesta Principum Polonorum: The Deeds of the Princes of the Poles, ed. Paul W. Knoll and Frank Schaer (Budapest: Central European University Press 2003), 47–49 (bk. 1, chap. 8).

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the Piasts were noted for their buildings, distinct for their time and their techno­logy, and dated by archaeo­logical methods to the tenth century. That was a period of growing centralization of power—and the early days of the Piast dynasty.2 While not identical the Přemyslids and Á� rpáds did likewise, the process apparent in written and archaeo­ logical evidence describing territories where the Přemyslids had organized their dominion. While some older strongholds were abandoned (Mikulčice, for example), others were renovated to make them more central, as in the case of Prague. Some strongholds were purposely destroyed, Libice being a case in point. In the Pannonian Basin, on territories lawfully occupied by Hungarian chieftains from the late ninth century onwards, other reasons had to be considered. Parts were formerly under the Roman Empire, some ancient settlements had been inhabited without interruption or were used by newcomers to support their own strongholds, as in case of Sopiane or Gorsium/Herculia.3 Yet they would usually establish new strongholds of their own, the founders’ needs reflected in their form and the arrangement of space. Of all strongholds identified by archaeo­logical research, I have selected whose development spanned the late eleventh century. I also considered evidence for continued activity, with artefacts dated between the ninth and late eleventh centuries. My selection criteria also involved the exact stronghold location, presence of fortifications, and of there being buildings within the strongholds. Such variables allowed me to identify one indirect and two main groups of stronghold. Our period (the ninth to eleventh centuries) was particularly dynamic in Central European history. Over that period, communities inhabiting this part of Europe—that is, the future Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád territories—were undergoing major cultural, social, religious, and (last but not least) political change. While written sources primarily reference political change, archaeo­logical sources offers evidence of the entire cultural and social context, and offer scenarios for cause and effect. Written sources contain, among other things, information on the rulers and historical events, and some strongholds referred to as main ducal seats (sedes regni princi­ pales). Archaeo­logical evidence has confirmed accounts on several strongholds. Their sites coincide with areas naturally suitable for defence; with a system of ramparts and support structures. They can be dated by the techno­logies employed. Wood-and-earth structures would be the usual choice, commonly bolstered by interconnected crates filled with stones, earth, or clay, then reinforced with a palisade. Other techno­logies were the so-called drywall or hook techno­logies. Once a formerly pagan prince decided to assume a Christian role and new responsibilities, he might have encountered restistance from his family or cultural circles. His decision would involve being baptized and joining “the empire of Christians” (imperium christianorum). This would require him to form appropriate alliances and change the official creed by imposing it on his subjects—and to learn a whole range of behaviours, 2  Kara, Najstarsze Państwo Piastów, 203–52.

3  Zsuzsanna Bánki, “Villa II von Tác,” Alba Regia 4–5 (1963–1964): 91–127.



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gestures, duties, and privileges of a Christian ruler.4 It seems that the entire process, religious as well as political, would turn at the moment when a ruler from a dynasty with a pagan family tree was crowned as a Christian king. His lands would be transformed from a dominion or (often as not) fiefdom into a sovereign kingdom (regnum). During the coronation ceremony, in all probability to rules penned in St. Alban’s Abbey in Mainz and contained in the Pontificale Romano-Germanicum (ca. 960), a duke would become a Christian king (rex christianorum). It can be assumed that royal rights and obligations were well known at the courts of these new dynasties. In his Admoni­ tions, Stephen I of the Á� rpád dynasty passed on to his son and heir Emeric the rules with which every king should comply. Mieszko II of the Piast dynasty learned about the hallmarks of a king as described by Matilda of Swabia in a letter included in the so-called Matilda’s Codex.5 Both works emphasize the role of God’s grace; at His behest a duke became king. Pursuant to a divine decree, the crown was placed on the royal head with all the responsibilities that involved: firstly, to protect all subjects, including the institution of the Church. The crown constituted the very essence of royal power, wherein one can distinguish two fundamental and inalienable elements: its sacramentally granted omnipotence and its divine origin, which was also sacramental. Every Christian ruler was organically linked with the Church.6 Their magnificence both arose from the same divine source. Royal rights included direct involvement in organizing the ecclesiastical institution, including the appointment of abbots and bishops.7 The choice of the coronation venue was as important as the ceremony itself and the people taking part therein. Given the sacredness of power and the necessity to demonstrate it, the range of options was limited. Churches, secular buildings, or open spaces 4  Eugen Ewig, “Zum christlichen Konigsgedanken im Fruhmittelalter,” in Das Königtum: seine geistigen und rechtlichen Grundlagen, ed. Theodor Mayer (Konstanz: Thorbecke, 1956), 7–73; Roman Michałowski, “Podstawy Religijne Monarchii we Wczesnym Ś� redniowieczu Zachodnioeuropejskim: Próba Typo­logii,” Kwartalnik Historyczny 105 (1998): 3–34; Michałowski, “Christianization of the Piast Monarchy”; Bak, Studying Medi­eval Rulers; Kalhous, Anatomy of a Duchy; Zupka, Ritual and Symbolic Communication. 5  Kodeks Matyldy: księga obrzędów z kartami dedykacyjnymi, ed. Brygida Kürbis et al., Monumenta Sacra Polonorum 1 (Kraków: PAU, 2000); Wiszewski, Domus Bolezlai; Zbigniew Dalewski, Modele Władzy Dynastycznej w Europie Środkowo-Wschodniej we Wczesnym Średniowieczu (Warszawa: Instytut Historii PAN, 2014), 109–16; Andrzej Pleszczyński, The Birth of a Stereotype: Polish Rulers and Their Country in German Writings, c. 1000 A.D. (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 254–56.

6  Roux, Le Roi: mythes et symboles (trans. as Król: Mity i symbole (Warszawa: Volumen, 1998), 235–46).

7  Describing the scale of influence is no mean feat. The eleventh century was a turbulent time, once one takes into account the issue of election and investiture of Church dignitaries. Having joined the Christian community, the rulers of Younger Europe almost immediately found themselves in the centre of the Investiture dispute between the pope and Holy Roman emperor: Blumenthal, The Investiture Controversy; Kazimierz Skwierczyński, Recepcja Idei Gregoriańskiej w Polsce do Schyłku XIII Wieku (Wrocław: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Wrocławskiego, 2005), 69–81; Wilfried Hartmann, Der Investiturstreit (München: Oldenbourg, 2007); Marzena Matla-Kozłowska, Pierwsi Przemyślidzi i Ich Państwo (Od X do Połowy XI wieku). Ekspansja Terytorialna i Jej Polityczne Uwarunkowania (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 2008), 170–219.

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met the requirements. This is why such buildings had to be designed in ways ensuring that their interiors, external design, and location could serve as a sign and symbol of power and religion.8 Such buildings would exist in all strongholds, sharing space with other edifices. Given the shortage of written sources, the correct interpretation of individual components becomes particularly important, with particular focus given to the stronghold itself, its location, and defence system, the stronghold’s potential inner layout, and spaces produced for internal delineation. Other considerations are the components of the development of the stronghold; construction techno­logies used (wood or stone); the functions and locations of individual buildings; and information on how the elements were interconnected. An analysis of spatial and architectural layouts of individual strongholds erected from the ninth until the eleventh centuries offers two discernible variations. One includes strongholds with predominantly secular space, with sacred aspects highlighted. The other includes spaces with both secular and sacred powers accentuated. In the case of the latter, areas under ducal (curia ducis) and episcopal (curia episcopalis) control were located close to each other while remaining clearly separate. The first variation is represented by older strongholds whose origins date back to the ninth/ tenth centuries: Pohansko near Břeclav, Budeč, Stará Boleslav, Giecz, Ostrów Lednicki, and Przemyśl. All are strongly linked to the local ducal power which is clearly visible in their spatial structure. Pohansko near Břeclav is the oldest, its foundations dated to the last decades of the ninth century, and associated with the development of the Great Moravian princedom and the dukes of the house of Mojmir.9 The stronghold was developed on woodland floodplains, downstream of the confluence of the Thaya and Morava rivers. Flanked by rivers to the south and southeast, its northern and western exposures were elevated upon a hillock. The stronghold was fortified (vallum) with a timber, earth, and stone structure.10 Characteristic rampart features include the use of drywall construction. In this particular case, limestone and sandstone were imported to Pohansko for rampart cladding. The central stronghold section, or acropolis, located upon the northwestern elevated section, was additionally delineated with a palisade. Wooden fencing further divided the interior of the acropolis into smaller compartments, creating two isolated areas in the northwestern and southeastern stronghold corners, respectively. A stone church (referred to as church number 1) was built in the northern section. It was a single-aisle church terminating in an east-facing apse (ecclesia propria). Another section, nearly as large as the nave, was delineated along the western wall, and held multiple burials. In all probability, the choir was divided as well, the east section separated out 8  Pleszczyński, Przestrzeń i polityka.

9  Pád Velké Moravy ane Kdo byl Pohřben v Hrobu 153 na Pohansku u Břeclavi, ed. Jiří� Macháček and Martin Wihoda (Prague: Nakladatelství� Lidové noviny, 2016). 10  Petr Dresler et al., “Dendrochrono­logické Datování� Raně Středověké Aglomerace na Pohansku u Břeclavi,” in Zaměřeno na Středověké. Zdeňkovi Měřínskému k 60. Narozeninám, ed. Š� imon Ungerman et al. (Prague: Nakladatelství Lidové noviny, 2010), 1–35.



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with an altar partition, the west section housing a matroneum.11 The church would have been surrounded by a cemetery. The interior of the stronghold was developed with scattered huts surrounded by a small square area containing a wooden structure. Archaeo­logical findings prove these dwellings to have been inhabited by craftsmen. Similar abodes were located beyond the ramparts to the north and south, and organized in two baileys. A stone rotunda church with apse was erected in the north bailey, along the axis of church number 1. This rotunda church was surrounded with a cemetery, its interior concealing four rich burials.12 Burial placement in the rotunda and lavish embellishment suggest the high rank of persons interred. The next two strongholds, Budeč and Stará Boleslav, are connected to the Přemyslid dynasty. They were among the key centres of power in their domain (dominium), spanning lands along the tributaries of the Vltava, Elbe, and Sázava rivers.13 Archaeo­logical dating suggests that both strongholds were erected at the turn of the ninth and tenth century. The construction of the Budeč stronghold is attributed to Bořivoj I, Duke of Bohemia (852–ca. 889), in all likelihood its founder. Budeč was developed on a hillock flanked by two streams: the Zákolansky and Týnecký. The stronghold was fortified with a rampart—a clay-filled wooden structure, its external wall drywall-clad.14 A palisade delineated the so-called acropolis area, nearly rectangular in shape, along the stronghold’s southern exposure at its highest point.15 A stone rotunda with apse was built up there. Its south section, a horseshoe-shaped apse jutting far out to the east, was additionally separated out from the nave with longitudinal walls, in all probability forming a chancel arch. The rotunda could be entered via a portal in the north wall of the nave. Oblong wooden buildings of the ducal manor supplemented the acropolis development.16 Another church was raised immediately beyond the palisade and to the north of the 11  Jiří� Macháček, “Early Medi­eval Centre in Pohansko near Břeclav/Lundeburg: munitio, emporium or palatium of the Rulers of Moravia?,” in The Heirs of the Roman West, ed. Joachim Henning, vol. 1 of Post-Roman Towns: Trade and Settlement in Europe and Byzantium, the Heirs of the Roman West (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2007), 473–568; Jiří� Macháček et al., “Großmährische Kirchen in Pohansko bei Břeclav,” in Frühmittelalterliche Kirchen als archäo­logische und historische Quelle, ed. Lumí�r Poláček and Jana Maří�ková-Kubková (Brno: Archeo­logický Ú� stav Akademie Věd Č� eské Republiky, 2010): 187–204. 12  Macháček and Wihoda, eds., The Fall of Great Moravia.

13  In the early tenth century, the princedom of the Přemyslid dynasty spanned territories defined by the position of its most important strongholds: Mělí�k, Stará Boleslav, Lštění�, Tetí�n, Libušjí�n, Budeč, Levý Hradec and Prague: Jiří� Sláma, “Přemyslovská Doména na Počátku 10. století�,” in Přemyslovci. Budování Českého Státu, ed. Petr Sommer et al. (Prague: Nakladatelství� Lidové noviny, 2009): 74–76; Andrea Bartošková, Budeč: Významné Mocenské Centrum Prvních Přemyslovců (Prague: Nakladatelství� Lidové noviny, 2014); Jiří� Macháček, “Nové Publikace,” Archeo­logické rozhledy 67 (2015): 498–501. 14  Zdeněk Váňa, “Vnitřní� Opevněni Přemyslovské Budce,” Památky Archeo­logické 80 (1989): 123–58. 15  Andrea Bartošková and Ivo Š� tefan, “Raně Středověká, Budeč—Pramenná Základna a Bilance Poznatků (K Problematice Funkcí� Centrální� Lokality),” Archeo­logické rozhledy 58 (2006): 724–57.

16  Bartošková and Š� tefan, “Raně Středověká, Budeč.”

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Figure 1. Plan of the stronghold of Stará Boleslav.

acropolis in the 860s or 870s, this one a single-aisle structure with an apse in its east section; it would be shortly surrounded by a cemetery with numerous burials. This reconstruction of the Budeč stronghold determines the purpose of church buildings. The rotunda was a ducal church; later, when the need arose to provide local dwellers with a place of worship, a single-aisle church was built.17 Stará Boleslav, another Přemyslid stronghold, is associated with Spytihněv I, Duke of Bohemia (875–915), and the life of St. Wenceslaus (888–929 or 935). The stronghold was erected upon a small hillock on the bank of the River Elbe. The entire stronghold was surrounded by a stone rampart and reinforced with a wooden lattice construction.18 In addition, the stronghold was defended from the east and west by a settlement and marshy floodplains respectively. Its central section was separated 17  Miloš Š� olle, “Kostel Panny Marie na Budči (okr. Kladno). Podle Archeo­logického Výzkumu v Letech 1975–1980,” Památky Archeo­logické 82 (1991): 231–65; Andrea Bartošková, “Zánik kní�žecí�ho dvorce na Budči,” Archeo­logické rozhledy 63 (2011): 284–306.

18  The technique of constructing the rampart surrounding the stronghold was described by Cosmas as opera Romana: Ivana Boháčová, “Stevby Raného Středověku,” in Stará Boleslav. Přemyslovský Hrad v Raném Středověku—Stará Boleslav (Central Bohemia). Přemyslid Stronghold in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Ivana Boháčová (Prague: Archeo­logický Ú� stav Akademie Věd Č� eské Republiky, 2003): 133–39.



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from the outside world with walls and a moat. A single-aisle church with an eastwardfacing apse section was erected in the stronghold’s central section. According to written evidence, Duke Wenceslaus was assassinated in front of this church in 929 or 935. In the mid-eleventh century, Břetislav I (1002/05–1055) restructured the church, changing its original form into a triple-aisle, bipolar basilica without a transept. St. Wenceslaus became its new patron.19 The layout and spatial arrangement of the three known strongholds of the Piast princedom resemble the previously described Great Moravian and Přemyslid examples. These are Giecz, Ostrów Lednicki (both built in the second half of the ninth century) and Przemyśl (mid-eleventh century). Giecz was developed in phases, over a period from the second half of the eighth century until the 1040s. The original stronghold was founded on the elevated site of a small peninsula jutting into a lake which had formed on the River Maskawa. While the peninsula did not overlook the lake along its southwestern exposure, nearby marshes offered excellent protection. Since the stronghold occupied practically all the inhabitable land, support settlements were developed at a distance rather than in the immediate vicinity. The main bulk of the stronghold was the first element to be erected (in the 860s) and occupied the peninsula’s furthest extremity. This was from the so-called tribal era when we do not expect such developments, unless it were associated with the rise of the Piasts.20 Its second phase of development started in the second quarter of the tenth century and is unquestionably the most characteristic. This part of the stronghold’s history ties in with the growing power of Mieszko I (d. 992) who was busy establishing a new network of strongholds across the territories under his rule.21 During this time, the first minor section of the stronghold was renovated, a bigger section added in the southeast part of the peninsula. Before the expansion began, the wood-and-earth rampart structure had been reinforced with drywalling. The duke’s palace (palatium)22 was erected in the new part of the stronghold. While the structure was never completed, the remains of its foundations allow us to conclude that its layout involved a rectangular building with internal partitioning. Relics suggest that a rotunda, in all likelihood a royal chapel, was planned along the central building’s shorter eastern wall.23 During the next development

19  Dating of architectural remains shows that the church was erected in the second half of the twelfth century: Ivana Boháčová and Jaroslav Š� paček, “Sakrální� architektura,” in Stará Boleslav: Přemyslovský hrad v raném středověku—Stará Boleslav (Central Bohemia). Přemyslid Stronghold in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Ivana Boháčová (Prague: Archeo­logický Ú� stav Akademie Věd Č� eské Republiky, 2003), 181–86. 20  Zofia Kuranatowska and Michał Kara, “Wczesnopiastowskie Regnum—Jak Powstało i Jaki Miało Charakter? Próba Spojrzenia od Strony Ź� ródeł Archeo­logicznych,” Slavia Antiqua 51 (2010): 23–96. 21  Kara, Najstarsze Państwo Piastów; M. Kara et al., Gród Piastowski w Gieczu. Geneza—Funkcja— Kontekst (Poznań: Instytut Archeo­logii i Etno­logii PAN, Poznańskie Towarzystwo Przyjaciół Nauk 2016). 22  Teresa Krysztofiak, “Ośrodek Grodowy w Gieczu w Okresie Przed- i Wczesnopaństwowym,” in Gród Piastowski w Gieczu. Geneza-Funkcja-Kontekst, ed. Michał Kara et al. (Poznań: Instytut Archeo­ logii i Etno­logii PAN, Poznańskie Towarzystwo Przyjaciół Nauk 2016), 115–54 at 122–26. 23  Rodzińska-Chorąży, Zespoły rezydencjonalne, 98–104.

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phase, in the 1030s, a single-aisle church was built in the stronghold’s older eastern part.24 Despite its rather simple form, it was later expanded to include east and west sections, both complex in design, the east section terminating in an apse. This part of the church’s interior was erected above a corridor crypt. In contrast, the west section formed a tripartite front, its rectangular central part housing the matroneum flanked with two central towers. While considerably younger, dated to the third quarter of the ninth century, the stronghold in Ostrów L e d n i c k i re s e m b l e s Giecz in a number of aspects. The stronghold Figure 2. Plan of the stronghold of Giecz, showing bridge, ca. 990. itself was located on an island on Lake Lednica. Two bridges connected the island to the mainland. The stronghold sat on a route connecting two major centres of power: Poznań and Gniezno.25 Originally, from the late eighth century until ca. 921, the stronghold was developed along the island’s southern bank on a low hillock. Fortifications were not fully closed: with the gap to the south of the island, they were ultimately built up in a horseshoe form. Identifying the exact construction method is 24  Current archaeo­logical research is examining the exact strati­graphy of the church and its forms. It is probable that the basilica was the second church on the site. The first one could have been erected during the first phase of the stronghold’s development: Krysztofiak, “Ośrodek Grodowy w Gieczu.” Given the archaeo­logical works in progress, these churches cannot be analyzed in the context of historical events of the first half of the eleventh century. 25  Andrzej Kola et al., “Mosty Traktu ‘Poznańskiego’ i `Gnieźnieńskiego’ w Ś� wietle Badań Podwodnych (1982–2015),” in Ostrów Lednicki, ed. Kurnatowska and Wyrwa, 107–29.



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Figure 3. Sketch of timber fortifications at Ostrów Lednicki.

impossible for reasons of general damage. During the subsequent stronghold construction phase (920s until the 950s), the space it occupied was expanded to the north. Twice the size of the original development, this section was encircled with a wood-and-earth rampart of wooden trusses filled with turf and earth. The remaining part of the island— stronghold excepted—was occupied by floodplains with open settlements. Both early stages of the stronghold’s history tie in with Piasts gaining progressively more influence and creating dominions. The third and most important development phase of the stronghold dates back to the period from the 950s until about the 1050s. During that time, the stronghold’s two sections (previously separate) were merged once the first-phase rampart was levelled.26 The remaining rampart section was renovated and reinforced. New fortifications were added along the island’s southern arm, employing wooden latticing and earth-and-hook techno­logy. Thus prepared, the stronghold’s southern section and highest point became the construction site for an oblong building, its eastern part coupled with the central edifice. While internally connected, the two buildings were in all likelihood accessible from the stronghold via the south building’s southern section. The location of the palace site is noteworthy: it was raised in the stronghold’s southern part, at its highest point, on a site unobscured by ramparts and thus perfectly visible from the opposite bank of the lake. While in all probability originally single-storeyed, the form of the palace was modified several decades later with another storey added. The change also affected the form of the central building; it was expanded to provide extra height, and seemingly slight yet major changes to the interior. Apart from the palace, the stronghold included a single-aisle church, its chancel terminating in an upright wall, about seventy metres north of the complex.27 Despite the different church construction methods, its appearance coincides with the construction of the aforementioned oblong residential building, complementing it in terms of 26  Janusz Górecki and Mateusz Łastowiecki, “Konstrukcje Obronne Ostrowa Lednickiego,” in Ostrów Lednicki, ed. Kurnatowska and Wyrwa, 59–71. 27  Adam Biedroń, “Kościół Jednonawowy,” in U Progu Chrześcijaństwa w Polsce. Ostrów Lednicki, ed. Klementyna Ż� urowska (Kraków: Ośrodek Dokumentacji Zabytków, Muzeum Pierwszych Piastów na Lednicy, Instytut Historii Sztuki Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego, 1993), 91–102.

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form and function.28 It is noteworthy that burials of three persons, including a child, were discovered in the church’s nave. Strati­graphy dates them to the first half of the eleventh century. The arrangement— tombs fenced with stone—and the location of the graves suggest a high social status for the people buried there.29 The stronghold’s third development phase ties in with the Piasts gaining importance as the ruling family; the dating of the buildings, palace, and church against archaeo­logical evidence has linked individual items to specific historical events. The process of constructing the palace was both the outcome and proof of missionary bishop Jordan’s presence on site, and Mieszko I’s 966 baptism. Conversely, the effort to reconstruct the entire complex ties in with the year 1000 and Emperor Otto III’s pilgrimage to Gniezno—the burial site of martyr Adalbert of Prague. Przemyśl30 was another Piast strongFigure 4. Plan of the stronghold hold. Archaeo­logical records point to its of Ostrów Lednicki. development in the last years of the ninth century, the final phase spanning the 1020s and 1030s. Its central part was located on a hill. The stronghold’s borders were delineated with an earthen rampart reinforced with wooden cladding. The courtyard was adorned with a rotunda, with an oblong building added to it a few years later.31 Architectural remains allow us to reconstruct the form

28  The church was made of wood and stone. The stone foundations of the aisle and chancel provided the underpinning for a wooden wall. Like other elements of the stronghold, the church underwent several reconstructions, but was never transformed into a building made exclusively of stone: Jacek Wrzesiński and Michał Kara, “Chrono­logia i Fazy Użytkowania tzw. II Kościoła na Ostrowie Lednickim,” in Ostrów Lednicki, ed. Kurnatowska and Wyrwa, 173–201. 29  See the following three articles: Jacek Wrzesiński, “Pochówki w Rejonie tzw. II Kościoła (z badań w latach 1961–1980 i w roku 2000),” Tomasz Gloslar, “Datowanie Radiowęglowe Szkieletów z Cmentarzyska Wokół tzw. II Kościoła,” and Danuta Banaszak and Arkadiusz Tabaka, “Analiza Stratygrafii i Chrono­logii w Rejonie tzw. II Kościoła (Na Podstawie Badań w Latach 1983–1984),” all in Ostrów Lednicki, ed. Kurnatowska and Wyrwa, 203–38, 239–42, and 243–57 respectively.

30  Ewa Sosnowska, ed., Przemyśl wczesnośredniowieczny (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 2010).

31  The insignificant difference in age between both structures and the identical construction methods suggest that this was a single construction phase in two stages: Ewa Sosnowska, “Stan



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and layout of both buildings. The rotunda had a single nave, and an apse with altar. The rotunda’s nave was either bi-sectioned with a far-protruding matroneum gallery, or divided into two storeys. It can be assumed that the rotunda was accessible to the inhabitants of the stronghold, as traces of a direct external entrance have been preserved. The Figure 5. Plan of the church of Ostrów Lednicki. oblong building, that is, the duke’s palace (palatium), was two-storeyed, the lower storey divided into several smaller spaces, the upper floor comprising a single spacious hall probably leading into the rotunda.32 The second variant of stronghold involves a clear separation of elements related to the ecclesiastical and secular powers. They existed next to each other, complementing each other’s image. Importantly, areas assigned to each of the respective powers were delineated at the early stages of constructing all these “type two” strongholds. Written and archaeo­logical evidence illustrate the difference, accentuating the respective status of ecclesiastical and secular powers. All listed structures were developed over a period spanning the late ninth until the tenth century: Mikulčice, Poznań, Kraków (Cracow), Prague, Esztergom, and Székesfehérvár. The earliest of the examples chosen, with its origins dating back to the eighth century, is the Great Moravian stronghold of Valy near Mikulčice, a structure comprising numerous elements. During the first phase dated to the eighth/ninth century, the foundations of the stronghold were built up on the Morava River. The stronghold was among the most Badań Archeo­l ogicznych nad Wczesnośredniowiecznym Grodem Przemyskim Ulokowanym na Wzgórzu Zamkowym,” in Przemyśl Wczesnośredniowieczny, ed. Ewa Sosnowska (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 2010), 177–89. 32  Ewa Sosnowska, “Analiza Porównawcza Stratygrafii i Architektury Rotundy i Palatium na Wzgórzu Zamkowym w Przemyślu,” in Przemyśl wczesnośredniowieczny, ed. Ewa Sosnowska (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 2010), 231–42.

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important ones already by the mid-ninth century. 33 Its main part, or acropolis, was surrounded by a rampart of stone and wood. 34 Neighbouring settlements surrounded with palisades stretched to the south, northeast , and northwest. All parts of the stronghold included wooden residential and farm buildings, and a total of ten stone churches.35 Church layouts were varied: from oblong forms (single-aisle churches) to basilicas; we have a tetrakonchos in the rotunda, and an Figure 6. Plan of the stronghold of Valy near Mikulčice. extremely rare twoapse rotunda.36 Most were built in the northern part of the stronghold, the highest and best-fortified area. They formed a semi-circle stretching between two gates. An oblong building of stone and wood, the palace (palatium) was located in the exact centre, between the basilica

33  Zdeněk Klanica, “Zur Periodisierung Vorgroßmährischer Gunde aus Mikulčice,” in Studien zum Burgwall von Mikulčice, Band 1, ed. Falko Daim and Lumí�r Poláček (Brno: Archeo­logický Ú� stav Akademie Věd Č� eské Republiky 1995), 299–469; Poláček, “Great Moravia, the Power Centre at Mikulčice.” 34  The rampart was made of earth and clay, reinforced inside with wooden spacers. From the outside, the rampart was reinforced with a stone face and palisade; from the inside, it was fitted with a wooden structure: Marian Mazuch, “Předběžné Výsledky Záchranného Výzkumu; s Ú� seku Opevnění� Akropole Raně Středověkého Mocenského Centra Mikulčice-Valy,” Přehled výzkumů 54, no. 2 (2013): 25–44.

35  The layout of so-called church number 1 remains unknown due to the scarcity of extant remains.

36  Lumí� r Poláček, “Die Kirchen von Mikulčice aus Siedlungsarchäo­l ogischer Sicht,” in Frühmittelalterliche Kirchen als archäo­logische und historische Quellen, ed. Lumí�r Poláček and Jana Maří�ková-Kubková (Brno: Archeo­logický Ú� stav Akademie Věd Č� eské Republiky, 2010), 31–55.



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and the single-aisle church number 4. This seemingly coherent space was partitioned with palisades surrounding three main aras of the acropolis. Churches were surrounded with numerous burials; in some cases, such as the basilica, burials formed large cemeteries. The entire history of the Mikulčice stronghold coincides with the house of Mojmir gaining power and status, and of Christianity gaining ground locally by infiltrating the territories with multiple missions under the auspices of both Rome and Constantinople.37 Following a time of prosperity (the last decades of the tenth century), the stronghold would never regain its splendour, gradually falling into decline. Other examples of strongholds from the Piast dominium include Poznań and Kraków. As one of the oldest strongholds associated with the Piast dynasty and its increasing power, Poznań peaked in the 970s and 980s.38 Built on a hilly area of the Ostrów Tumski river island, it was naturally divided into several parts, the two oldest areas functioning throughout its existence. They were surrounded by an earth-and-wood rampart comprising wooden earth-filled latticing; they would duly become its focal point as development continued.39 Timber and stone buildings were built. An oblong residential building (palatium) was erected in the stronghold’s southern section, its eastern longer wall flanked with a single-space oblong chapel terminating in an apse to the east.40 In all probability, the chapel’s interior was embellished with mosaics and polychromes, fragments of which have been discovered during archaeo­logical excavations.41 This complex dates back to the 960s and is associated with the wedding ceremony of Mieszko I of Poland and Doubravka of Bohemia. It was ultimately completed with a basilica built in the western part of the stronghold in the 980s: a triple-aisle church with a so-called low transept, its eastern section terminating in a rectangular presbytery with apse. This part of the church was erected upon a triple-aisle crypt, with chapels in the transept arms. The west section was similarly developed with a so-called low transept, also divided into three separate spaces to mirror the building’s eastern part. In the year 1000, the church became a cathedral following the so-called Congress of Gniezno.42 Each section included additional oblong and residential buildings made of timber.43 37  Poláček, “Great Moravia, the Power Centre at Mikulčice.”

38  Kara, Najstarsze Państwo Piastów, 290–308.

39  The rampart in Poznań is an example of advanced construction methods employed by the Piasts in the development of their major strongholds in the third quarter of the tenth century: Poznań, Gniezno, Giecz, Moraczewo, Kłock, and Ostrów Lednicki. See Kara, Najstarsze Państwo Piastów, 272–73; Tomasz Sawicki, “Powstanie i Rozwój Wczesnośredniowiecznego Zespołu Grodowego,” in Gniezno: Wczesnośredniowieczny Zespół Grodowy, ed. Tomasz Sawicki and Magdalena Bis (Warszawa: Instytut Archeo­logii i Etno­logii PAN, 2018), 119–44. 40  Kóčka-Krenz, “The Beginnings.”

41  Hanna Kočka-Krenz, “Kaplica Wczesnośredniowiecznej Rezydencji Książęcej w Poznaniu,” Architektura. Czasopismo techniczne 23, no. 108 (2011): 143–58.

42  Jurek, Biskupstwo Poznańskie, 71, 78–94. Archaeo­logical research shows that the eastern part of the stronghold featured a building dating back to the 960s and 970s: Kara, Najstarsze Państwo Piastów, 291–92; Bukowska, Najstarsza katedra w Poznaniu. 43  Kóčka-Krenz, “The Beginnings,” 128–30, 139.

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While the layout of the Kraków stronghold on Wawel Hill, an elevated site overlooking a bend in the River Vistula, was slightly different, its functions were identical to those of Poznań. Highlights of the Wawel development date back to the 1040s and 1050s, its two distinct stages of development each being noteworthy. The first one covers the period from the end of the tenth century until the 1030s, initiated at a time when Kraków was part of the Přemyslid dominion; the stronghold would later be incorporated into lands ruled by the Piasts, and ultimately granted the status as a bishopric in the year 1000. The crisis of decentralized power of the years 1038–1039 Figure 7. Plan of the stronghold of Poznań. marked the end of that period. The stronghold’s second period of dynamic development spans the years 1040 to 1060, involving major works by the successive monarchs: Casimir I the Restorer, Bolesław II the Generous, and Ladislaus I Herman.44 Apart from its natural defensive location, the Wawel stronghold was surrounded by an earth-and-wood rampart and was only accessible by two paths winding up the hill. Stone buildings located along the north rampart within were both ecclesiastic and secular in purpose. 45 During the first development phase, two rotundas were

44  Firlet and Pianowski, “Uwagi o topografii wczesnośredniowiecznego Wawelu,” 45–51. The stronghold on Wawel Hill is much older, most probably dating back to the ninth century, when Cracovian lands were part of the Přemyslid dominion. The final years of the tenth century were the most intense for the stronghold; the lands of Kraków were ruled by Bolesław I the Brave, himself not an independent sovereign—this was the final phase of Casimir I the Restorer’s reign. It was Bolesław who finally transformed Wawel, changing its status from ducal residence into principal royal stronghold: Zbigniew Pianowski, “Który Bolesław? Problem Początku Architektury Monumentalnej w Małopolsce,” in Początki Architektury Monumentalnej w Polsce, ed. Tomasz Janiak (Gniezno: Muzeum Poczatków Państwa Polskiego, 2004), 45–54.

45  Janusz Firlet and Zbigniew Pianowski, “Nowe Odkrycia i Interpretacje Architektury Przedromańskiej i Romańskiej na Wawelu,” in Architektura Romańska w Polsce: Nowe Odkrycia i Interpretacje, ed. Tomasz Janiak (Gniezno: Muzeum Poczatków Państwa Polskiego, 2009), 251–78.



Displays of Power—Architecture as Sign and Symbol

Figure 8. Location of the Kraków stronghold on Wawel Hill.

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built on the south side of the stronghold—an unprecedented location. They were also both unusual in shape, one rotunda two-apsed church,46 the other four-apsed.47 Partly underground, a small quadrilateral building was located north of the two rotundas. In all probability, a church based on the Greek cross floor plan existed further north, a rotunda terminating in an eastward-facing apse sat to the west, on the north face of the hill. This, one might assume, was a basilica, built as the final element of the stronghold. Its development ought to be associated with the year 1000 and linked to the function of bishopric being conferred upon Kraków as well as Poznań. The stronghold was also certainly rich in wooden residential and farm buildings.48 The next stage of stronghold development marked the beginning of a return to centralized political power. The church on the Greek cross floor plan on the north side was pulled down, a basilica built in its place. This was a transept triple-aisled basilica with a rectangular presbytery terminating in an east-facing apse, with the east walls of the transept arms similarly terminating in apses. The basilica’s western section was tripartite; furthermore, the presbytery choir was erected above a triple-aisle crypt, with matronea housed at the extremities of the transept arms. Along the axis of the basilica, an oblong residential building (palatium) was built to the east, in all likelihood double-storeyed and paired with an eastward-facing quadrilateral building. This stronghold form dates back to the second half of the eleventh century; this was when construction of a new cathedral began on the hill.49 The structure and layout of other strongholds (Prague and nearby Vyšehrad in the Přemyslid domain, and Esztergom and Székesfehérvár on Á� rpád territory) are proof of the co-existence of secular and religious power. The most dynamic period of change and changed appearance of the Prague stronghold are associated with the early days of the Přemyslid dynasty and their territorial expansion. The stronghold itself was erected on Hradčany Hill (hereafter we may refer to this simply as Hrad), rising above the River Vltava. Just like in Poznań, key stronghold sections grew out of the landscape. The larger eastward-facing part of the hill was girdled with a wood-and-clay rampart no earlier than the tenth century. Later, the circle of stronghold walls was expanded to include the western hill section, the rampart 46  Zbigniew Pianowski, Z Dziejów Średniowiecznego Wawelu (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie Kraków, 1984), 64–65. 47  Klementyna Ż� urowska, “Rotunda Wawelska. Studium nad Centralna Architekturą Epoki Wczesnopiastowskiej,” Studia do Dziejów Wawelu 3 (1963): 1–116.

48  Most buildings on Wawel Hill were erected directly on calcareous rock which makes the preservation of traces of local activity, including any remains of the development of the stronghold, extremely difficult. Even if remains are found, identifying the original shape of any given building or its function is a gruelling proposition. Analyzing the construction methods applied in erecting a given building offers some promise, though: Janusz Firlet and Zbigniew Pianowski, “Wawel Przedromański i Romański w Ś� wietle Nowych Badań Archeo­logicznych,” in Kraków Romański, ed. Marta Bochenek (Kraków: Towarzystwo Miłosników Historii i Zabytków, 2014), 90–95.

49  Klementyna Ż� urowska, “Geneza zachodniej części tak zwanej drugiej katedry wawelskiej,” Zeszyty Naukowe Uniwersytetu Jagiellońskiego. Prace z Historii Sztuki 7, no. 10 (202) (1972): 35–70.



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reinforced with a drywall and palisade. 50 The first stone structure was a small singleaisle church, terminating in an apse to the east. However, it remained outside the stronghold’s walls in the early days, a rotunda terminating in an apse to the east built in the settlement’s central location. A triple-aisle transept-less basilica was erected along the east axis. Sometime after 972, when Prague became a bishopric, the rotunda was used as a cathedral, while the basilica became a convent church for Benedictine nuns. Both changes coincided with and were made possible by the reign of Boleslaus II the Pious, Duke of Bohemia. While all the early buildings within the Prague stronghold changed their appearance several times prior to the end of the eleventh century, their Figure 9. Phases in development of the respective functions remained Hradčany Hill stronghold, Prague. unaltered. 51 It can be safely assumed that in the second part of the eleventh century, the majority of the buildings on Hradčany Hill remained under ecclesiastical power. Approximately three kilometres up the Vltava River, the Vyšehrad Hill rose from the landscape. In the final decades of the ninth century, a stronghold was built on the southwestern part of the hill. The initial development spanned the years 980 to 1070; the next phase commenced in the final quarter of the eleventh century and works finalized in the 1140s.52 From the earlies construction, the stronghold was encased with an earth-and-wood rampart and reinforced with a palisade. Its westernmost section was 50  Ivana Boháčová, “Pražský Hrad a Jeho Nejstarší� Fortifikační� Systemy,” Mediaevalia Archaeo­ logica 3 (2001): 179–301. 51  Frolí�k et al., Nejstarší sakrální architektura, 97–218.

52  Ladislav Varadzin, “Akropole v Raném Středověku,” in Vyšehrad, ed. Moucha, 569–619.

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Figure 10. Plan of the stronghold on Vyšehrad Hill in Prague.

separated with a palisade.53 Fortifications enveloped two oblong, wooden residential buildings, the central area housing a church, in all likelihood a rotunda with an apse to the east. Outside the rampart, a church with a cruciform floor plan was erected at the east. The church was connected to the stronghold by a gate. The second development phase, its start coinciding with the reign of Vratislaus II, Duke of Bohemia (d. 1092), brought changes: the residential building and farm were rebuilt; while the original site remained unaltered, the construction material was now stone. The palace was an oblong building, in all likelihood two-storeyed. Major changes were introduced to the area outside beyond the ramparts, east and north. This was the point when the church’s cruciform plan was replaced with a triple-aisle transept-less basilica, its eastern section a rectangular presbytery terminating in an apse. Transept arms also terminated in eastward-facing apses. The basilica’s western section was most likely tripartite, replicating the layout of the nave. Another church erected at the time was located north of the stronghold—a transept-less, triple-aisle bipolar basilica, side aisles terminating in apses to the east, upright walls to the west. The church could be accessed via an entrance in the south nave, a stone bridge leading from the doorway and connecting the basilica to the stronghold. The stronghold in Esztergom, whose Á� rpád origin dates it back to the 970s, should be added to these examples. It is one of many strongholds in the Á� rpád princedom, built on a hill rising above the Danube.54 The stronghold was surrounded with embankments, 53  Bořivoj Nechvátal, “K Středověkému Opevnění� Vyšehradu,” Archaeo­logia Historica 36, no. 1 (2011): 93–221; Ivana Boháčová, “Prezentace Archeo­logických Památek v Č� echách: Archeo­logické Areály in Situ—Pří�klady z Pražského Hradu a Vyšehradu,” Archaeo­logia historica 40, no. 2 (2015): 331–51. 54  Julianna Altmann et al., eds., Medium Regni: Medi­eval Hungarian Royal Seats (Budapest: Nap Kiado, 1999).



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their structure originally earth and wood, replaced with drywall during the next chapter in its history.55 An oblong palace (palatium) was erected in the northern area of the main section, a single-aisle church terminating in an eastward-facing apse perpendicularly adjacent to it. During the next stage, before the year 1000, the southern part of the stronghold was separated off with a palisade. This area housed an oblong residential building (palatium), a basilica built between the new section and the original palatium. After the year 1001, cathedral status was bestowed upon the church. Consequently, the stronghold was divided into two parts, one each assigned to the archbishop and to the reigning sovereign.56 The final exemple we will describe here is a major central stronghold established once the Á� rpáds seized power. They proceeded to develop a settlement at the intersection of two main trade routes, offered natural protection by wetlands and marshes. The founding of Székesfehérvár is associated with the reign of Géza, Duke of Hungary, with all the subsequent developments under Figure 11. Plan of the stronghold at Esztergom. the reign of Stephen I of Hungary. During the first stage of development in the late tenth century, a stone-and-earth rampart was used to delineate a rectangular-plan stronghold.57 A stone church was then erected at its central point, encircled with a rampart, and separated with a ditch. Construction followed the Greek cruciform floor plan, 55  The technique of rampart building in Esztergom can be compared to that of Stará Boleslav, where an earth-and-wood rampart was subsequently reinforced with stone cladding. The ramparts in Esztergom have not been sufficiently preserved to identify the construction methods, nor their eleventh-century reconstruction. Maxim Mordovin, A Várszervezet Kialakulása a Középkori Magyarországon. Csehországban és Lengyelországban a 10–12. Században (Budapest: Archaeolingua, 2016), 146–47.

56  László Gerevich, “The Rize of Hungarian Strongholds Along the Danube,” in Strongholds in Medi­ eval Hungary, ed. László Gerevich (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1990), 28–32. 57  Erik Fügedi, “Die Entstehung des Städtewesens in Ungarn,” Alba Regia 9 (1969): 101–18.

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each arm in all likelihood terminating in an apse.58 An open settlement developed north of the site; when Stephen I of Hungary became king, a stage of dynamic development began, creating a completely new stronghold. Construction works on a new church in the central area began after the year 1000. The grandiose plans for the church made it impossible to finish construction works before 1038. It was a tripleaisled basilica, its main nave terminating in an apse in the east, side aisles terminating in square-plan towers. The had a western front whose central section was flanked with a pair of square-plan towers mirroring the eastern section. The basilica was surrounded by other stone structures, such as Figure 12. Plan of the stronghold at Székesfehérvár. chapels and buildings serving the canons (claustrum). Both archaeo­logical traces and textual sources confirm an inextricable link between the basilica and the royal power, beginning with the first king of Hungary. Stephen was not only the church’s founder. In 1038, he buried his prematurely deceased son Emeric at the church and was interred within its walls himself. His relics became an object of cult following his beatification, fifty years after his death. Yet the basilica was more than a place of interment: coronation ceremonies for Hungarian kings were all held at Stephen’s tomb. In consequence, although the basilica was no more than a canonical church, it became the most important place of worship in the kingdom, a necropolis and coronation church in one. This example illustrates the unity and co-existence of secular and religious power, a tendency prevalent until the late eleventh century. The Székesfehérvár basilica is an iconic symbol of power for this historical period.

58  Alán Kralovánszky, “The Earliest Church of Alba Civitas,” Alba Regia 20 (1983): 75–88.



Conclusion

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The strongholds we have just discussed have been chosen as being the most representative for the issue I am concerned with: how secular and ecclesiastical power manifested themselves in the form and internal layout of strongholds. My main focus was the layout and subsequent development of the strongholds and/or their individual components; I have also linked their appearance with contemporary political changes. I have necessarily looked at the strongholds in general, and at each of their elements separately (location, spatial arrangement, placement of buildings with respect to one another). In each case, the sites offered natural defence. Sometimes strongholds would be erected on islands within lakes, as in case of Ostrów Lednicki; or on small rivers—consider Poznań and Ostrów Tumski. Hills were another safe location (such as at Przemyśl), as were elevations above river banks—see Stará Boleslav, Prague, Kraków, Esztergom, and Vyšehrad. Protection was also offered by mounds surrounded by marshes and marshes, as in the case of Valy near Mikulčice, Giecz, Budeč, Pohansko near Břecl, and Székesfehérvár. Natural shielding apart, additional buffers were developed, with open settlements around the strongholds being the customary first circle of defence. Such settlements would be laid at varying distances from the stronghold but offering food and military support. They were found near every major stronghold, the bestpreserved traces observable in Pohansko, Valy near Mikulčice, Giecz, and—partly—in Székesfehérvár and Ostrów Lednicki. Site selection and development of the vicinity were not primary features, but they accentuated the founders’ concern for basic safety and supplies. Secondary differences between individual locations, as a consequence of their dating and changes arising from political developments, are seen in the techniques used in rampart developments, the layout of strongholds, and the functions of stronghold buildings. In terms of rampart construction techniques, two were common. One was the socalled drywall-reinforced rampart—found in the initial phase of stronghold construction at Pohansko, Budeč, Stará Boleslav and the second stronghold construction phase in Giecz, at Prague on Hradčany Hill, and at Esztergom. We also observe wood-and-earth structures and wooden latticed crates, always filled with material available locally, such as earth, clay, or turf. The development of fortifications also involved palisades to reinforce and supplement existing ramparts or help divide stronghold space, as we see at Pohansko, Valy near Mikulčice, Budeč, or the two centres in Prague: Hrad and Vyšehrad. Both the drywall and palisades are from later stages of development, and do not formpart of the initial defensive system. Palisades or reinforced fencing would also be employed as enclosures for selected areas within the stronghold, as we observed in Pohansko, Budeč, Vyšehrad, and Valy near Mikulčice. This is how space would be arranged around residential buildings and churches. Furthermore, buildings would usually be made of stone. Only three (Pohansko, Budeč, and the initial stage of Vyšehrad) were wooden. Other important residences—Giecz, Ostrów Lednicki, Poznań, Kraków, Przemyśl, and the second stage at Vyšehrad)—were stone buildings. Only in Valy near Mikulčice was a mix of stone and timber used. Strongholds with residences built for rulers or princes shared one other typical feature: a church. Both buildings—the residence

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and the church—would usually form a chrono­logically and formally consistent architectural complex. We have seen a number of solutions (Giecz, Ostrów Lednicki, Poznań and Przemyśl), wherein such buildings formed a single physical entity. Providing stronghold inhabitants with access to a church was part of the solution. In all likelihood, Ostrów Lednicki was the only stronghold where the palace chapel was open solely to the inhabitants of the palatium. In contrast, the presence of a second church in the stronghold, this one open to all other dwellers, points to the elite nature of architectural decisions applied in residential buildings. In all other cases, we either have no knowledge of the subject—consider Giecz, for example—or, if access to the church was open to all stronghold residents, the palace nobility would occupy a privileged church area: the galleried, stilted matroneum.59 In four of the cases described (Stará Boleslav, the Hrad of Prague, Esztergom, and Székesfehervár), no remains have been discovered to suggest the actual site of a residence; while we cannot conjecture on construction methods, the existence of residential buildings at these strongholds is unquestionable. Let us now return to my key question: defining and identifying specific elements used to manifest power. It goes without saying—as demonstrated by written accounts and available evidence—that elements portraying power included a fortified site and specific architecture. In the earliest strongholds (from the ninth and tenth centuries), different buildings but which were complementary in function would be erected close to one another. It may also be assumed—though it cannot be proven—that they were equally accessible to all stronghold dwellers. This is how a group identity was formed, internally egalitarian, yet elite in the eyes of anyone outside the stronghold. The elite nature and high social status of stronghold inhabitants can be confirmed, for instance, by richly decorated burials located inside a church or close by. Concurrently, it becomes much easier to argue that (during the initial phase of stronghold history in particular) secular and ecclesiastical powers did not specifically set themselves apart, and in fact could even make the occasional effort to emphasize the proximity of their respective premises. During the subsequent period commencing at the turn of the tenth and eleventh century, ecclesiastical power became entrenched, with the security of a prince of the ruling dynasty being baptized, and a hierarchical ecclesiastical organization headed by a bishop or archbishop established on a territory ruled by the baptized sovereign. This was when so-called “group two” or “type two” strongholds began appearing. Their spatial arrangements, observable from the second half of the eleventh century, began differentiating between stronghold areas subject to the prince (curia ducis) and the bishop (curia episcopalis), respectively. In strongholds like Prague on Hradčany Hill, Esztergom, Kraków, or Poznań, the ducal–episcopal division is highly visible. The physical partitioning resulted from the division of functions and gradual changes of context, spurred on by the need to highlight the independence of the two areas of the stronghold. The differentiation is even more apparent in the case of the Prague settlements and their gradual 59  August S. Fenczak, “Wczesnośredniowieczny Przemyśl w Ś� wietle Ź� ródeł Historycznych,” in Przemyśl Wczesnośredniowieczny, ed. Ewa Sosnowska (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 2010), 38–91.



Displays of Power—Architecture as Sign and Symbol

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transformation: Hrad and Vyšehrad. The initial period of the Přemyslid dominion on the Vltava was dominated by Hrad. This is where all the most important buildings in terms of function and symbolism were erected; this was the focal location for both secular and ecclesiastical power. Yet, over time, Vyšehrad (established in geo­graphical and symbolic opposition to Hrad, as it were) took over as the ducal seat. The two centres competed with each other in terms of development as well: the space surrounding the ducal pala­ tium at Vyšehrad was the one shown most care and attention, whereas the main church remained outside the stronghold’s fortifications, clearly visible from the opposite hill of Hrad. Another question arises in the context of the new layout evolving at several strongholds: was ecclesiastical power the only factor behind the change, or were other issues relevant? Is this simply an example of diversification of power, a phenomenon typical for all developments prior to the end of the eleventh century? Often, seizing more power— whether secular or ecclesiastical—resulted in changes with the immediate environment. I believe that we can best see this phenomenon as struggles between individual dukes and bishops, and the reasons varied.60 The main issue was nearly always that of a struggle for primacy of power, as we see with the sons of Břetislav I from the Přemyslid dynasty. When Vratislaus II of Bohemia became duke, his brother Jaromí�r, having adopted the name Gebhard, was consecrated as bishop. However, the brothers’ antagonism grew abruptly after the duke’s decision to restore the bishopric in Olomouc (1063), curtailing the influence of the Prague diocese, that is, the power of Jaromí�r/Gebhard.61 From that moment onward, the bishop began openly resisting his brother, even ignoring his coronation (1086). Duke Vratislaus’ attitude towards his brother Jaromí�r/Gebhard, Bishop of Prague, should therefore come as no surprise. At odds with his brother, the future king of Bohemia selected Vyšehrad as his seat and embarked upon a major program of rebuilding and construction. Major reconstruction of the cathedral on Hradčany Hill began on ducal initiative as well. The tension between the ruler and newly consecrated bishops is well illustrated by examples from Gniezno and Poznań. Radim Gaudentius became “archiepiscopus sancti Adalberti” in Gniezno, while Unger, former abbot of Memleben, was appointed suffragan of Poznań by Otto III.62 Amicable relations between the two Church dignitaries were inevitably doomed. The emperor was Unger’s former superior: subordinating him to Radim was equivalent to demotion. The only solution involved an appeal to the pope, and subordinating Poznań directly to the Holy See.63 The layout of the two strong60  The conflict between Boleslaus II, Duke of Bohemia, and Adalbert, Bishop of Prague, was of considerable consequence. Ultimately, the bishop was forced to relinquish his seat: Labuda, Swiety Wojciech, 114–22. Another conflict, more gory in course and outcome, arose between Bolesław II the Generous and Stanisław of Szczepanów, Bishop of Kraków: the bishop died the death of a martyr while the king was banished from the kingdom: Skwierczyński, Recepcja Idei Gregoriańskiej, 191–210. 61  Berend et al., Central Europe in the High Middle Ages, 373–74.

62  Michałowski, Zjazd Gnieźnieński, 110–14.

63  This was far from unique: exempt bishoprics are known in Italy and the Holy Roman empire: Kiss, “Magdeburg/Poznań and Gniezno”; Jurek, Biskupstwo Poznańskie, 71, 78–94.

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holds could not be more different. In Gniezno, the cathedral housing St. Adalbert’s relics became the dominant structure. In contrast, the Poznań stronghold was in the course of its history divided into two sections shared by the prince and bishop, one comprising the palatium and chapel, the other—the cathedral. Notwithstanding the above, collaboration between ducal and episcopal powers should not be ignored. While conflicts could unquestionably result in the introduction of symbolic divisions at a local stronghold, it could also be employed otherwise: manifestations of power became much more distinct at crucial moments, such as when ceremonies were presided over. In the second half of the eleventh century, a secular ruler was still dependent on the clergy; he built up his prestige upon them, displaying his power by celebrating church ceremonies or supporting the chancery. The clergy in turn sought royal support when developing the local church. However, co-operation was increasingly hampered by the growing role of aristocrats, as early as the turn of the eleventh and twelfth century. Apart from belonging to a natural group of a given ruler’s allies or enemies, representatives of powerful noble families would increasingly seek high clerical positions.64 On the other hand, bishops and clergymen at court were the closest associates of a given duke or king. They would support the ruler with knowledge and experience in such fields as evangelization, missionary work, or diplomacy. They played a primary role in decision-making, especially as members of the chancery. This interdependence is well illustrated by the example of the chancery of Otto I in Magdeburg.65 Bishops were custodians of the royal insignia and presided over the consecration of kings. Without their participation, a duke could not assume all rightful royal powers. The coronation rite (ordines coronandi) of Hungarian kings clearly shows how coronations were organized and which representatives of the church hierarchy had to be present. The archbishop of Esztergom was present at coronations in Székesfehérvár.66 Coronations were the most important ceremonies in any kingdom, embodying the joint magnificence of ecclesiastical and secular power. In each of the two groups of stronghold that I have outlined, even if one group could display elements of the other, their scale and architecture is significant. Fortified settlements and major buildings in plastered stone, frequently with layouts unknown to these territories, were signs and symbols of power. Individual buildings, even if sharing a courtyard, would be separated by a palisade or located in different parts of a stronghold, which impacted their image and defined the status of their main users—the duke and bishop.

64  Raffensperger, Conflict, Bargaining, and Kinship.

65  Ernst Schubert and Gerhard Leopold, “Magdeburgs ottonische Dom,” in Otto der Große: Magde­ burg und Europa, ed. Puhle et al., 1:353–66. 66  Erik Fügedi, Kings, Bishops, Nobles and Burghers, 159–89; Zupka, Ritual and Symbolic Com­ munication, 44–45.

Chapter 2

CHOICE OF ARCHITECTURAL FORMS

Any discussion of the new dynasties evolving between the ninth and tenth cen-

turies in Central and Eastern Europe inevitably brings up the matter of their conscious participation in the Christian European world. Were their gestures—as princes and future kings—intentional political decisions, or did they choose to blindly emulate their surroundings? Were they consciously developing power, or simply replicating recently acquired content? Or, alternatively, was it the influence of their personal advisors who grafted an array of behaviours, practices, and rules? One way of exploring these questions is through examining the choice of architectural forms. Who were the people behind the choice of architectural formats of individual establishments? What “purpose” or use was served by the forms employed in architectural solutions? Were they merely intended to help create a functional building—whether palace or church? Or did the choice of form follow specific rules, important to particular cases? Last but not least, did the Piasts, Přemyslids, and Á� rpáds develop new models once they began ruling or reach back for lessons from their ancestors? Any building’s form and size are the key components obvious to any viewer, including researchers wanting to analyze architectural forms. Yet connecting these elements to the issue of the display of power is rarely researched. Initially, the focus of researchers was on the issue of adapting ancient forms to the language and needs of Christian liturgy.1 It was only later that analyses of change in architectural forms over the centuries yielded a link to displays of power. Later research has looked at the genealogy of structural forms, stylistic inspiration, and the design of interior space. This method offers an opportunity to form a more detailed image of architecture and its users—the direct or indirect founders. Founding patrons mainly hailed from centres of power. Let me outline how power could be wielded. In the case of dynastic rule, where all or most power was held by a single person, two basic types of architectural patron can be distinguished. One was more conciliar and was based on the royal house and the associated circle of beneficiaries from noble families whose representatives could also constitute the ecclesiastical hierarchy (familiae infulatae). The sovereign could use their loyalty (built up through family connections and mutual interests) to expand his position in his immediate domain and the region. An additional tool involved something akin to shared power: a vast circle of

1  Richard Krautheimer can be described as a forerunner of such an approach. In his publications, he drew the readers’ attention to many formal aspects of Rome’s architecture: Richard Krautheimer et al., Corpus Basilicarum Christianarum Romae: The Early Christian Basilicas of Rome (IV–IX Centuries), 5 vols. (Vatican City: Pontificio Istituto di Archeo­logia Cristiana, 1937–1977); Krautheimer, “Icono­ graphy of Mediaeval Architecture”; Krautheimer, “The Carolingian Revival”; Blaauw, Cultus et decor; Iogna-Prat, La Maison Dieu.

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aristocrats close to the monarch would participate in the decision-making process and share any related liability. In such an arrangement, the ruler and his family became “the first family.” This model was the most common. The second model involved the authoritarian monarch, all power gathered under his sceptre, his position dervied from a belief in its divine origin. From the moment he was anointed, the sovereign’s power was considered legitimate, the Church becoming his natural ally. Direct instruments of power used by the authoritarian ruler consisted in using and controlling his subjects through a whole system of administrative and fiscal jurisdictions. The ruler reigned through resolutions issued by councils and an efficient administration reporting directly to the court. In both types, the monarch would be surrounded by carefully selected close advisers: members of the royal family or elevated to a high rank through ennoblement (by a prince or king) or coronation (by an emperor). The institution of friendship (amici­ tia) was a particularly efficient way of broadening a circle of trusted associates.2 Certainly, we can find deviations from each model or even rulers who went from one type to another during their reign due to changing political or diplomatic circumstances. Rulers employed various instruments of power, creating their own system of authority. Some drew on methods used by their predecessors. While the main objective was to legitimize themselves, they also exploited images of their great predecessors for their own ends.3 Looking at European rulers between the eighth and eleventh centuries suggests they all followed a certain model of governance drawing on established patterns, but picking and mixing elements appropriate to their situation. What, choices did the Merovingian, Carolingian, and Liudofing monarchs have? Merovingian kings would base their rule mostly on a close community of nobles, seeking their advice. These nobles were not yet a major political force, but merely an advisory body, a background for their supreme rulers.4 However, Merovingian rulers’ dominance was not indisputable or unassailable and depended largely on the success of military campaigns yielding huge profit. Carolingian rule was completely different. Initially, they were authoritarian by nature (everything began with a coup d’état by Pepin the Short) while introducing administrative and judiciary reforms under Charlemagne.5 However, from the middle of the ninth 2  This kind of co-dependence had been typical since ancient Rome; the general rule had not changed. Yet over the centuries, the principles and forms of such co-dependence were subject to farreaching modifications. The following publications show the transformation in the approach to and use of amicitia kept changing: Roman Michałowski, “Przyjaźń i Dar w Społeczeństwie Karolińskim w Ś� wietle Translacji Relikwii,” Studia Źródłoznawcze 29 (1985): 9–65; Althoff, Amicitiae und Pacta; Bernhardt, Itinerant Kingship and Royal Monasteries, 12–13; Hyatte, The Arts of Friendship, 1–55; Williard, “Friendship and Diplomacy.”

3  The best-known case of this approach involves Otto III’s attitude to his distinguished imperial predecessor, Charlemagne: Gerd Althoff, Otto III (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003), 82–84, 104–7. Other examples from the area of Younger Europe include the policy of Ladislaus I of the Á� rpád dynasty who strived to imitate the figure of the first Hungarian king Stephen I, or Boleslaus III the Wry-Mouth towards Boleslaus I the Brave: Wiszewski, Domus Bolezlai. 4  Wood, The Merovingian Kingdoms, 55–70.

5  Dieter Hägermann, Karl der Grosse: Herrscher des Abendlandes. Bio­graphie (Berlin: Propyläen, 2000); McKitterick, Charlemagne, 137–213.



Choice of Architectural Forms

27

century onwards, a slow yet discernible change crept in. The partitioned empire began evolving into smaller kingdoms whose kings had to rebuild their positions as leaders. They did not preserve power in forms typical of the earlier Carolingian imperial era. It was the outcome of a policy implemented by a series of rulers, beginning with Louis the Pious, and the aristocracy’s ability to benefit from the weakened position of kings and their dynasties. This reality was exploited by the Liudofings whose power grew slowly and steadily, breeding an increasingly wider circle of connections and interests. They became a royal family and reached for the imperial crown barely fifty years from first appearing in history. Their model of rulership might appear authoritarian—yet Henry I’s accession to the German throne and the practices of him and his successors suggest otherwise. These were rulers skilled in combining Merovingian and Carolingian examples. They developed a circle hailing from aristocratic families whom they blessed with their grace. They sought and listened to their advice, offering financial assistance to their families.6 Regardless of the two models of power developed from Merovingian times into the early twelfth century (the more conciliar one of a ruler supported by a network of advisers or wider family versus the authoritarian model), a whole set of rituals were employed to enhance the image of rule and to influence its practice.7 Yet to deliver their role well, these rituals had to be performed in public, with appropriate imagery and setting. And this is exactly what architecture could provide. Churches and palaces were places of public gatherings; religious rituals organized to display power would be held within or in their immediate proximity. The ruler’s objectives could be reached through a careful choice of form. Which architectural patterns and forms could rulers, aristocrats, or founding patrons employ? How did they combine them and what made some more common than others? What did they achieve through particular choices? Did these forms change depending on the type of rule in a given European domain or kingdom between the sixth century and late eleventh century? Between the sixth and eighth centuries, buildings, ducal palaces, and abbeys comprising both churches and monastic communities were erected by aristocratic families and “first families.” The period yielded an impressive network of abbeys,8 their founders often local landowners. Architectural form was primarily determined by ancient tradition and the early Christian use of liturgical space. But it was an exceptional time of development and change. Transept-less basilicas and smaller single-aisle churches became the most common, all terminating in eastward-facing apses. Over time, their spatial design was altered in view of a growing need for burials in close proximity to a sacred place (ad sanctos); crypts were introduced to church space. Elements from old buildings, or spolia, would be reused, or their forms directly copied. Stone residential buildings, on the other hand, were modelled on the Roman villa rustica, obviously reflecting the perceived architectural magnificence of the Roman Empire, and this was 6  Althoff, Die Ottonen.

7  Althoff, Die Macht der Rituale.

8  Wood, The Merovingian Kingdoms, 181–202.

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common throughout Central Europe. Existing buildings would be converted or used as stores of building material. Construction of the Saint-Jean Baptistery in Poitiers is a good example. The layout takes an ancient form: the design of the nave and its reuse of a large number of architectural details. Yet the interior was completely rearranged. Columns spaced along walls were intended to produce the sculptural effect of chiaroscuro, “disrupting” the solid structure of the wall. Many buildings, palaces, and churches erected at the time by aristocrats would be maintained by the same families for decades to come. However, by the mid-eighth century one family began making changes that would affect all aspects of their contemporaries’ lives. That family had been increasingly bold in reaching for power from the times they had served as majordomos at the Merovingian court; ultimately, they metamorphosed into the Carolingian dynasty and took the imperial crown.9 Their power reached far beyond Charlemagne’s death in 814, or the division of his empire under the 842 Treaty of Verdun. Throughout that time, the perception of royal power changed dramatically. The king was no longer just the head of the first family. Upon ascending the throne, he became God’s anointed, that is, the one who personified both spiritual and secular power. This transformed the model of rulership.10 The Carolingians were deliberate and consistent in creating such an image of the sovereign. They were also fuelled by the notion of restoring the power of the Roman Empire (renovatio imperii), the Leitmotif of their reign. They heeded the tradition of ancient patterns and symbols in their architecture. This can be seen in the form, shape, and interior of particular buildings, churches, and ducal and episcopal palaces. Earlier buildings were inadequate for this new claim to power. So, more attention was paid to the symbolism of form, size, shape, and building materials. And spolia were used in deliberate and premeditated ways.11

9  Research on the Carolingian dynasty is exceptionally rich and includes multiple editions and translations of Pierre Riché’s Les Carolingiens: une famille qui fit l’Europe. Mono­graphs and exhibition catalogues on the reign of Charlemagne and the renaissance of art at that time are plentiful, including Wolfgang Braunfels, Karl der Grosse: Werk und Wirkung (Aachen: Schwann, 1965), while many were published to commemorate the 1200th anniversary of the emperor’s death: Paul L. Butzer et al., Charlemagne and his Heritage: 1200 Years of Civilization and Science in Europe, 2 vols. (Turnhout: Brepols 1997–98); Joanna Story, Charlemagne: Empire and Society (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2005); Karl der Große—Charlemagne. Orte der Macht, ed. Pohle; Franz Fuchs and Dorothea Klein, eds., Karlsbilder in Kunst, Literatur und Wissenschaft: Akten eines interdisziplinären Symposions anläßlich des 1200. Todestages Karls des Großen (Würzburg: Königshausen und Neumann, 2015). 10  Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies; Roux, Le Roi: mythes et symboles; Ildar H. Garipzanov, “David, Imperator Augustus, Gratia Dei Rex: Communication and Propaganda in Carolingian Royal Icono­graphy,” in Monotheistic Kingship, ed. Al-Azmeh and Bak, 89–117. 11  Debates and research into the use of detail and components associated with ancient-referencing buildings that were founded by Charlemagne, their function, and on patrons known to the medi­eval emperor, have been in progress for years. Beat Brenk’s research is a solid case in point, as described in his “Legitimation—Anspruch—Innovation.”



Choice of Architectural Forms

29

The royal abbey in Lorsch is one of the best examples of how ancient patterns were chosen and modified.12 The monastery’s gatehouse was located on the western side of the area delineated by porticoes adjacent to the west part of the church. The gate emulates forms explicitly drawn from ancient tradition. It consists of a triple entrance crowned with a rectangular single-space interior.13 The shorter walls of the building are flanked by stairways in semi-circular turrets. The building’s front chiefly references forms drawn from the triumphal arches of Roman emperors. The arrangement of the three openings was highlighted and reduced in terms of architectural detail, its forms also referencing patterns from antiquity. Additionally, the cladding of walls, regular ornamentation and colour were enhanced by diamond-shaped brickwork (opus reticulatum),14 a masonry technique known since the second century bce. Such architectural choices did not predetermine traditional functions of a building as they would have in ancient times (a grand gate to celebrate its founder’s triumph, for example). However, choices and forms made by architects of the imperial palace in Aachen influenced ostensible new functions conferred upon buildings forming the entire complex.15 The palace consisted of a royal hall (aula regia)—the ancient basilica joined by a passage to a royal chapel of elaborate design. Its central section was an octagonal building inspired by the form of the Church of St. Vitus in Ravenna. Its interior design was very different, with galleries in Aachen located over the ambulatory.16 The galleries were adorned with antique columns. However, the most important and novel element of the form is to be seen in the west part of the building. It was a structure consisting of a square tower flanked by two double-storey towers with staircases. The lower storey was shared by both towers at the level of the nave, the upper one connecting the galleries. Charlemagne’s throne was placed opposite the choir.17 Such designs had already been used in monastic churches in Lorsch and Centula (Saint-Riquier). Significantly, they were introduced during reconstructions when the status of royal abbey (Reichskloster, Königskloster) was bestowed upon individual churches in the final decades of the eighth century. Ever since, both Lorsch and Saint-Riquier developed as 12  For questions on the building’s age see Hendrik W. Dey, The Afterlife of the Roman City: Architecture and Ceremony in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2015), 235n56.

13  Discussion on the chamber’s purpose has yielded two options: as an official hall or as a chapel: Binding, “Die karolingische Königshalle,” 2:281–84.

14  Rebecca Müller, “Antike im frühen Mittelalter. Erbe und Innovation,” in Karolingische und ottonische Kunst, ed. Bruno Reudenbach, 190–237, vol. 1 of Geschichte der Bildenden Kunst in Deutschland (München: Prestel, 2009), 200–201 and 224–26.

15  Wojciech Fałkowski, “Wahrnehmung des Königlichenpalatium im Westfränkischen Reich im 9. und 10. Jahrhundert,” Bulletin der Polnischen Historischen Mission 5 (2009): 181–213; Patzold, “Kunst und Politik.” 16  Janet L. Nelson, “Aachen as a Place of Power,” in Topo­graphies of Power, ed. de Jong and Theuws, 217–41. 17  Brenk, “Wer sitzt auf der Empore?”

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religious and intellectual centres with close ties to the court.18 Libraries and scriptoria were created and numerous relics of saints collected to encourage pilgrimage; first and foremost, however, these structures were a place of continuous worship and prayer, intended to ensure a dynasty’s well-being and to bring prosperity to its king, his lands, and his subjects. The entire repertoire of functions served by abbeys directly influenced the cultural, intellectual, and architectural landscape of the Empire. The west fronts of both churches were of particular importance. At Lorsch abbey, the western part was an elaborate tripartite two-storey structure, its width identical to that of the main body of the building.19 A different form and spatial arrangement was chosen for Saint-Riquier. The basilica was expanded to include a west transept, complete with balconies for singers. The transept was connected to twin towers with staircases and porticoes for the atrium.20 Yet the central part was key to this structure, comprising a crypt holding relics, a gallery, and a coronation tower.21 In both cases, the western sections were dedicated to the Saviour, monks gathering to address Him with prayer. The form selected by the Aachen architects, and forms previously applied in the west sections of the Lorsch and Saint-Riquier churches, already lavish in liturgical meaning and function, introduced a new narrative into the architecture of palace chapels. The choice combined liturgical functions related to the Salvation and Resurrection to the monarch’s location during a religious service. The king would stand in front of his subjects gathered in the chapel in all his earthly and spiritual glory. The influence of such arrangements should not be underestimated. It completely transformed layouts in later years of Carolingian rule. It was certainly also influenced by the political situation (which changed after 814), and monastic reforms after 817. All these elements have been reflected in the history of Fulda abbey, its architecture in particular. Already by 750, the abbey fell under the protectorate of Franconian king Charlemagne. From then, like many royal abbeys of the time, it became an important place of political, religious, and cultural power. Due to the changed status of the abbey under Carolingian monastic reform, architectural forms had to be adjusted. Construction began in the late eighth century, that is, during Charlemagne’s reign and under his reforms, and would continue over the next twenty years. The monastery evolved into its final shape by 819. Fulda was redesigned by a group of people more confident in their hold on power. Frequently hailing from noble families, they were well-educated 18  McKitterick, Charlemagne, 297–98.

19  Friedrich Behn, Die karolingische Klosterkirche von Lorsch an der Bergstrasse nach der Ausgrabungen von 1927–28 und 1932–33, 2 vols. (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1934), 2:32–40.

20  Honoré Bernard, “Saint-Riquier: fouilles et découvertes récentes,” in Avant-nefs et espaces d’accueil dans l’église entre le IVe et le XIIe siècle: actes du colloque international du CNRS (Auxerre, 17–20 juin 1999), ed. Christian Sapin (Auxerre: Comité des travaux historiques et scientifiques, 2002), 88–107.

21  Conversion scenarios and the ultimate appearance of the church are still subject to discussion. In terms of form and symbolism, the basilica unquestionably referred to Jerusalem, Rome, and Constantinople as the key centres of Christianity. On the other hand, the basilica’s west section corresponded to the Rotunda of the Holy Sepulchre (Anastasis). All those references were reflected in the abbey’s liturgy: Dey, The Afterlife of the Roman City, 229n36.



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31

and held important positions at royal and papal courts. They were abbots; their residences reflected their position, manifesting strength, affluence and—above all—power. The Fulda development best illustrates the aspirations and influence of three successive abbots: Baugulf, Ratgar, and Eigil.22 The reconstruction affected the whole church. Before, it had been a triple-aisled basilica, the nave terminating in an apse, the aisles ending in an upright wall. The west façade was closed off in the same way. Then, St. Boniface’s tomb was discovered in the building’s west section. In theory, the choice of architectural forms for the new church should reference earlier designs, architectural style, form, and proportions. In fact, the scale of the redesign involved such an expansion that Boniface’s tomb was effectively shifted to the central part of the new nave (in medio ecclesiae). The west section was completely transformed. To the west, the nave flanked a wide transept terminating in an apse.23 Both choirs comprised hall crypts.24 The form of the transformed building clearly invoked the Vatican basilica.25 However, the crypt in the east choir and the tomb in the central part of the church once and for all altered the way all design worked going forward. The structure became an Occidentalized two-choir basilica referencing two main sites of Christian worship—St. Peter’s Basilica in the Vatican and the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The east choir counterbalanced the elaborate structure of the west. This layout for abbey churches built in the post-Carolingian era were applied by the next dynasty: the Ottonians.26 The emergence of this house ties in with a crisis which followed the division of Charlemagne’s empire, and political changes east of its borders. Firstly, rulers from the Liudofing family had to consolidate their position before taking power. This is why the authoritarian model of rule employed in Charlemagne’s times had to change. They needed a large, trustworthy group of supporters interested in contributing to the power of a single family. This happened primarily thanks to a policy of marriage alliances, and their ability to fill key ecclesiastical and secular posts with family members. The Ottonians employed friendship (amicita) as an enormously useful tool for expanding their circle of influence and trust. Assorted gestures to display power were of particular importance to anyone intending to build up his or her position among their “co-rulers,” more effective than administrative tools. Establishing religious houses was one such gesture. Most such houses targeted women from noble families (Damenstift) and followed the Benedictine rule, which was itself the subject of reform at this period by Benedict of Aniane. Members of these congregations would lead a communal life, receive education, and were committed to 22  Raaijmakers, Sacred Time, Sacred Space, 95n11.

23  Louis Grodecki, Au seuil de l’art roman: L’architecture ottonienne (Paris: Colin, 1958).

24  Heinrich Hahn, “Die Ostkrypta in der Fuldaer Stiftskirche,” Fuldaer Geschichtsblätter 58 (1982): 42–91; Heinrich Hahn, “Von der Benediktuskrypta zur Bonifatiusgruft,” Fuldaer Geschichtsblätter 60 (1984): 49–117. The discussion concerning the crypts in Fulda is presented in Raaijmakers, Sacred Time, Sacred Space, 119–23. 25  Krautheimer, “The Carolingian Revival,” 10–11.

26  Timothy Reuter, “Ottonische Neuanfänge und karolingische Tradition,” in Otto der Große: Magdeburg und Europa, ed. Puhle et al., 1:179–88. Althoff, Die Ottonen.

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praying for the founder’s family. More importantly, they could leave the congregation at any time with no consequences. The foundation and maintenance of a convent was more than a manifestation of the founding family’s affluence; it was proof of its care for the religious community, and its concern for salvation. Such communities had started as early as the sixth century, but took on new form and meaning as the Ottonian dynasty founded abbeys in Gandersheim, Quedlinburg, and elsewhere. The family’s image changed significantly as a result.27 Gandersheim and Quedlinburg would enjoy the family’s protection when they became an imperial dynasty. They were intended primarily for members of aristocratic families as long as the office of abbess would be entrusted to a representative of the Ottonians. The first congregation in Gandersheim named after two popes (Saints Anastasius and Innocent) and St. John the Baptist was founded by Liudolf and Oda, progenitors of the Ottonian dynasty. Permission to build the monastery and to have relics placed in a convent church had to be brought from Rome. The church was a triple-aisled basilica with a transept, a relatively simple building at first. It was only during the tenth and eleventh centuries—after a series of fires—that the church was reconstructed, the building’s main body and interior layout transformed.28 Similar steps were taken at Quedlinburg where Otto the Great and his mother Matilda had supported the founding of a Damenstift in the mid-tenth century. The congregation itself was established to honour the name of Henry the Fowler, father and husband of the two founders, who was buried in a chapel near the ducal palace.29 The St. Peter and St. Servatius chapel, initially the congregation’s church, was relatively swiftly rebuilt and expanded. In all probability, it had been a triple-aisled basilica, its exact form currently unknown. St. Servatius’ relics were transferred from Maastricht and placed in the basilica’s crypt. Through this patron saint, the seat of the Liudofings was symbolically linked with a key location in the Meuse valley: Charles Martel’s centre of power. Here we see a royal family building its prestige and legend.30 These two locations and their statement of power were not highly visible. But these religious congregations were established by a family aspiring to the crown without this outcome being certain—the Liudofings were just one of many competitors in a time of political instability. Over time, however, the dynasty and the two convents did gain considerable prestige. For instance, the founding of Quedlinburg abbey (936) coincided with the death of Otto’s father and his accession to the German royal throne as prince of Saxony; yet he would have to wait another twenty-six years for the imperial crown. 27  Ottonian rulers founded female religious congregations in numerous locations. Others followed in their footsteps, founding congregations intended for family members. This way of organizing religious life over the period between the mid-ninth and early eleventh centuries became popular. 28  Its east section underwent conversion, and was raised on hall crypts. The far west wall was developed as a tripartite façade with twin towers. Over the church entrance, there was an indoor gallery accessible via staircases in both towers. 29  Althoff, Die Ottonen.

30  Frans Theuws, “Maastricht as a Centre of Power in the Early Middle Ages,” in Topo­graphies of Power, ed. de Jong and Theuws, 155–216.



Choice of Architectural Forms

33

A foundation by the family under Margrave Gero stands out among the multitude of religious congregations founded by the Liudofings.31 Gero’s family is an exemplar of shared rule; having provided the ruling circle with administrative and military assistance for years, they enjoyed the benefits of those with close connections to the throne. The congregation in Gernrode was established to commemorate Gero’s brother, Siegfried, Margrave of Saxony, who was related to the royal house on the maternal side. The church of St. Cyriakus’ was the central section of Gernrode convent.32 It was a triple-aisled basilica with elaborate east and west sections, the east part comprising a presbytery protruding eastward, terminating in an apse, and built over a crypt. This part was joined to the nave with a transept on a square floor plan (quadratische Schematismus).33 To the east, transept walls terminated in small apses. The west section consisted of a rectangular central area and two round flanking towers, the central area terminating in a west-facing apse. Aisles were expanded to include galleries. One would be hard-pressed to claim this was the first ever application of such a pattern, though no earlier examples have so far survived. We can assume that the style of the building as such and the shape of its east and west sections were frequently used in other churches founded by specific families. The design of the west front, which dominates the basilica’s silhouette and its galleries (like at the Aachen chapel or the church at Saint-Riquier), was a blatant manifestation of the founders’ power; it became a hallmark of Ottonian architecture.34 Gandersheim, Quedlinburg, and Gernrode were also the burial sites of their founders. Persons whose memory was to be hailed by local congregations were also buried inside churches, their tombs clearly marked. Henry the Fowler was buried behind the altar; Margrave Gero at the intersection of the nave and transept, in front of the presbytery that was raised over the crypt. Such highlighting of burial places determined the spatial arrangement of the church interior, conferring specific symbolism and memorial status upon the building. This had further consequences. Firstly, the church became a place of remembrance for the founding family; prayers for the founder and his or her next of kin assured swifter salvation. Secondly, both the prestige and status of the location grew. Gernrode is a good example: after Gero’s death, it was (like Magdeburg) incorporated into the group of congregations under the direct protectorate of the emperor (Reichstift). Magdeburg had been intended as a remembrance venue for Henry the Fowler and his family, in addition to Quedlinburg—yet its role changed dramatically once it was transformed into a major bishopric and imperial residence. 31  Gerhard Streich, “Bistümer, Klöster und Stifte im ottonischen Sachsen,” in Otto der Große: Magdeburg und Europa, ed. Puhle et al., 1:75–88.

32  This case of one of the few monastic churches preserved in well-nigh unchanged form is signi­ ficant. Other buildings were either rebuilt or destroyed, any information available only through icono­graphic sources or archaeo­logical and architectural research. Werner Jacobsen et al., “Ottonische Baukunst,” in Otto der Große: Magdeburg und Europa, ed. Puhle et al., 1:251–82 at 262–65. 33  Schubert, “Magdeburg statt Memleben?,” 37.

34  Dagmar von Schönfeld de Reyes, Westwerkprobleme: Zur Bedeutung der Westwerke in der Kunsthistorischen Forschung (Weimar: VDG, 1999).

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At these main seats of royal power (sedes regni principales) councils and synods took place. They were part of the array of implements of power used by the Ottonian dynasty. In an era of numerous military forays into Italy, it was difficult for rulers to control the situation or distribute power across their empire, which is why all councils and synods were attended by members of close families, including bishops and abbots, and those aspiring to the inner circle of royal power. Such meetings would confirm the status of individuals and their place in the hierarchical order.35 Other gatherings would celebrate the most important feastdays, such as Christmas, Easter, and Pentecost—they were an opportunity to display the entire repertoire of religious and political rituals and diplomatic gestures expected of a sovereign. Intended as manifestations of power, such occasions required an appropriate setting. The Aachen palace was certainly one of the most spectacular centres of power, its elaborate layout designed to highlight the magnificence of the monarch. From the late eleventh century onwards, many such seats of power were built or reconstructed, Paderborn one such example with a long tradition.36 From the mid-eighth until the late eleventh centuries, Paderborn served numerous purposes as times changed.37 Originally, it comprised a palace and a church.38 Simple antiquity-referencing forms had been chosen for both buildings: a multi-storey villa rustica with a hall on the upper floor, and a single-aisle church with a simple presbytery flanked by pastophories, and a west vestibule area (nartex).39 In 799 Charlemagne and Pope Leo III famously met at Paderborn, after which, rather secondarily, Paderborn was granted the status of a bishopric. The complex was remodelled, the palace and church gaining a new monumental form. The palace was expanded to include a new west wing. The church was also enlarged to a triple-aisled basilica design, nave and aisles terminating in apses. The development of the west front, in all probability including an unadorned façade, cannot be described in detail due to later changes. A passage connected the church to the canons’ house in the north. The next change was introduced in the 840s when relics of St. Liborius of Le Mans were purchased, elevating the basilica’s status. More importantly, communication within the complex (between storeys, and the palace and church) was improved. A rectangular single-storey section fitted with a rostrum was added in the west part. The palace’s south section was also given a rostrum, jutting out from the façade. The rostrum opened onto the basilica’s western front; people 35  Althoff, Die Macht der Rituale; Jacek Banaszkiewicz, “Uczta Rozrachunkowa (Quentin Tarantino, Wincenty Kadłubek, Bruno z Kwerfurtu, Richer z Reims). Krótko o Pewnym Schemacie Narracyjnym Racjonalizującym Przedstawianą Rzeczywistość,” in Świat Średniowiecza: Studia Ofiarowane Profesorowi Henrykowi Samsonowiczowi, ed. Agnieszka Bartoszewicz et al. (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 2010), 634–46.

36  On Paderborn cathedral, see Carola Jäggi, “Orte des christlichen Kultes. Klöster, Bischofssitze, Kapellen und Pfarrkirchen,” in Karolingische und ottonische Kunst, ed. Bruno Reudenbach, 370–433, vol. 1 of Geschichte der Bildenden Kunst in Deutschland (München: Prestel, 2009), 401–2.

37  Sveva Gai, “Il complesso palaziale di Paderborn,” in Monasteri in Europa occidentale, ed. De Rubeis and Marazzi, 181–86.

38  Ursula Hoppe, Die Paderborn Domfreiheit. Untersuchungen zur Topo­graphie, Besitzgeschichte und Funktionen (München: Fink, 1975). 39  Lobbedey, “Wohnbauten.”



Choice of Architectural Forms

35

upon the rostrum were clearly visible from the stronghold’s courtyard. The main body of the church did not undergo any significant change—yet a whole new unit was added to the naves from the west: a transept, wider than the three aisles and terminating in an apse elongating the axis. The central part of the new structure included a choir, elevated above the hall crypt to the west. The choice of form at a time when Louis the Pious was consolidating power is significant. Some aspects introduced during the reconstruction of the palace hint at direct references to the chapel in Aachen, while the elaborate west section and transfer of the Gallic bishop’s relics ought to be associated with the reform of monastic life, and interpreted as a formal reference to other buildings founded by the emperor, such as the church in Fulda. Under Ottonian rule, Paderborn was the supreme residence of the ruler (sedes regni principalis), having been also chosen as the bishop’s seat. Expressions of both secular and ecclesiastic power was clearly visible in later developments of the complex under bishops Rethar (983–1009) and Meinwerk (1009–1036).40 Both these dignitaries were deeply involved in the political activities of Otto III and Henry II, using their position to the benefit of the bishopric. They refurbished their residence: previously a seat of military and administrative officials, it became a bishop’s abode with direct connections to the imperial dynasty. Rethar and Meinwerk rebuilt both the palace and church. The palace and the canons’ monastery north of the basilica were enlarged. The church itself was afforded new space, albeit its architectural style remained unchanged. Its east and west sections were remodelled. The former triple-apse east section was completely transformed, becoming a multicomponent choir in the central part above the hall crypt; the west area was expanded to include a structure replicating the basilica’s layout, its façade flanked by twin towers concealing staircases within. By the mid-eleventh century, the cathedral in Paderborn would have become a two-choir basilica with a transept and an elaborate west front dominating the building’s profile. This brief presentation of forms selected for the period between the sixth and eleventh centuries proves their powerful connection to their founders’ political and diplomatic circumstances. By introducing, replicating, or developing analogies with other churches and palaces, founders built their position and benefited from the prestige that accrued when their buildings were successful. The following question arises: did rulers of territories lacking such rich architectural and political traditions also take advantage of opportunities like those that we have described? Were they able to make conscious choices and combine forms associated with particular functions, symbols, and cultural codes? Did they try to use the arrangement of their churches and palaces as a way to enhance their prestige or that of the location, or was a more functional reflection on the building’s political and liturgical purpose sufficient? Should the former be true: is it possible to identify the cultural context behind the choices made by local rulers? These are the questions facing researchers who try to understand the political and architectural history of Younger Europe and these are the subject of our next chapter. 40  Bannasch, Das Bistum Paderborn.

Chapter 3

THE CODE OF FORM AND SHAPE

Models of power

exercised by rulers in Younger Europe were not that different from those followed by Merovingian, Carolingian, or Ottonian rulers. Relatively swiftly—over a period of no more than three generations—the “first families” (Piasts, Přemyslids, Á� rpáds) became dynasties who were negotiating with emperors and dispatching envoys to the papacy. Yet we have to draw a line between power held by a very powerful group, such as a family, and the one that would evolve into the dynastic phenomenon at the time that was typical of aristocratic, royal, and imperial courts. The situation of sovereigns across Younger Europe, all striving to secure and maintain power, became even more difficult once they decided to adopt Christianity for themselves and their subjects. The difficulty lay in meeting the demands of an extended community surrounding any given ruler, including family and court members, long-term allies carried over from the period when they were struggling for power, and new associates from the circle of other Christian rulers. Religious conversion by an individual ruler gave rise to another group who demanded care, assistance, and delivery of expectations in exchange for support—the prelates comprising bishops, abbots, missionaries, and other clerics. Arriving in Younger Europe, they brought a deep knowledge of the Christian faith, including detailed information on the requirements and meanings of liturgy, gesture, and ritual. The right use timber and brick architecture was meaningful—design through layout and the arrangement of interiors. Supporting the clergy was of major importance especially in the early days, certainly as early as the mid-eleventh century when most conversions took place, and immediately afterwards. The use of specific architectural forms were conscious decisions of individuals with profound comprehension of architecture-related ideals, and knowledge of their use and how they might be adjusted, as required. The two early phases of the stronghold complex on Ostrów Lednicki island in the Piast dominion are an excellent example. Local buildings associated with ducal rule are distinctly religious in style. The entire complex consisted of a ducal palace, its shorter east wall flanking a central building used as a chapel.1 A single-aisle church with protruding chancel terminating in an upright wall was erected to the east. The palace was 1  Academic literature describing the architectural complex of Ostrów Lednicki is exceptionally rich. Most important publications include Ostrów Lednicki: U Progu Chrześcijaństwa w Polsce, ed. Klementyna Ż� urowska (Kraków: Gutenberg, 1993); Teresa Rodzińska-Chorąży, “Stan badań nad architekturą Ostrowa Lednickiego (1993–2003),” in Ostrów Lednicki, ed. Kurnatowska and Wyrwa, 143–93; and Teresa Rodzińska-Chorąży, “Some Remarks on the Design of two Residential Complexes in Poland from the End of the tenth Century. St. Augustine, Boethius and the Concept of Palatium,” Hortus Artium Mediaevalium 24 (2018): 271–81. The publication edited by Klementyna Ż� urowska presents the current state of historical, archaeo­logical and architectural research as

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Figure 13. Plan of the palace (palatium) and chapel at Ostrów Lednicki.

originally (in the 1060s and 1070s) a single-storey building, housing four rooms, one large with a western exposure and a square floor plan, the other three rectangular; the two external rooms were half the size of the largest square area, the room in between— a quarter of its size. In all probability, the palace had a north-facing main entrance bring people into the smallest room which opened onto the other areas. Another building designed to a Greek cross floor plan flanked the rectangular palace to the east, the eastern arm of the cross terminating in an apse, the other arms—in upright walls. An ambulatory of quarter circles was arranged between the arms. Inside the building, four square-plan pillars delineated the central floor plan. In the ambulatory area in the north and south arms of the cross, a floor section was recessed. A well that was accessible to palace dwellers only was dug in the southwestern corner in the wall of the building. Windows in the north and south arms of the cross afforded daylight illumination, with another window in the apse. The complex was remodelled before the year 1000, gaining a storey. The outer palace walls were reinforced, affording communication between the ground and first floor. Probably, the two storeys were separated with a wooden ceiling supported by partitioning walls and two pillars, added to the west-facing room. The largest room was rebuilt to include stairs leading to the upper floor. The chapel was expanded to include an upper well as pre–1993 outcomes and interpretations of the same. In her publication, Teresa RodzińskaChorąży presents discussions commenced once research results were published in 1993.



The Code of Form and Shape

39

storey supported by quarter-circular pillars. Its interior was remodelled as well, both the new and previously existent storeys accessible from the palace interior only. The floor was raised to eliminate recessing in the north floor and reduce recessing in the south floor. The whole complex was also freshly plastered; originally cream-coloured, it was repainted light pink. A simple single-aisle church to the north of the palace and chapel was the third element in the complex,2 its existence confirmed from the early days of the stronghold. A nearly square nave terminated in an east-facing wall with a protruding chancel terminating in an upright wall. This church was also rebuilt and expanded to include a north and east annexe as part of the second stage of development around the year 1000. Interpreting the code of form and shape selected by the architects of the Lednica complex requires us to note all the formal and ideo­logical analogies available. Firstly, all their solutions point to inspirations from the architecture of antiquity, later adopted by Christianity. The palace’s design involves forms originally used in the Roman countryside (villa rustica), then in aristocratic and episcopal residences.3 The chapel’s style hints at similar references, primarily in the central floor plan of the martyria and baptisteries.4 The form and shape of the palace and adjoining chapel indicate the needs of the dwellers and users. These needs are best seen in the chapel’s architecture: its connection to the palace with no direct communication with the stronghold, and the two original instances of recessed ambulatory floors. The other elements seem to have been built round those two decisions. The way communication was planned for the palace and chapel complex (with chapel access restricted for stronghold dwellers) may point to the exclusive nature of the group afforded access. This exclusivity was further emphasized by the prestigious and distinct location of the entrance along the palace’s shorter axis to face the courtyard of the stronghold. The location of the entrance remained unchanged in the first two stages of the building’s development and use, other changes to the spatial layout notwithstanding. As proven by the reconstruction of the chapel’s main body, it became the dominant feature of the entire complex through the diversification of the height of its individual sections. The quarter-circular elements of the ambulatory between the elevated arms of the cross were the lowest section. The chapel’s entire body was capped with a square tower, defining its central floor plan. The shape of the building was an important formal and ideo­logical reference for all the architectural decisions in the stronghold.

2  Adam Biedroń, “Kościół Jednonawowy,” in Ostrów Lednicki: U progu chrześcijaństwa w Polsce, ed. Klementyna Ż� urowska (Kraków: Gutenberg, 1993), 91–102; Jacek Wrzesiński and Michał Kara, “Chrono­logia i fazy użytkowania tzw. II kościoła na Ostrowie Lednickim,” in Ostrów Lednicki, ed. Kurnatowska and Wyrwa, 173–202. 3  Klementyna Ż� urowska, “Dom Biskupi,” in Ostrów Lednicki: U źródeł chrześcijaństwa w Polsce, ed. Klementyna Ż� urowska (Kraków: Gutenberg, 1993), 192.

4  Teresa Rodzińska-Chorąży, “Baptysterium,” in Ostrów Lednicki: U źródeł chrześcijaństwa w Polsce, ed. Klementyna Ż� urowska (Kraków: Gutenberg, 1993), 161.

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Figure 14. Plan of the church of Feldebrő.

To fully decipher the code of the form and size of the Ostrów Lednicki buildings, one has to focus on the recessed floors of the north and south arms of the chapel,5 the depression covering the entire surface of the arms and reaching beyond the pillar line. Recesses emulated halves of the Greek cross; the only nod to the chapel floor plan involved the rounding of the east and west arms of the cross. The purpose of the depressed floor has been analyzed in detail. In view of its shape and origin (the first development phase for the complex is dated at the 1060s), it has been assumed that the recess served as a baptismal font. Should this hypothesis be accepted, all buildings in the complex, their interdependence, and their form and size take on a completely new meaning. According to such a hypothesis, the elements taken together (diversity of chapel section elevations; recessed floor; ways of connecting the chapel to the palace; architectural solutions applied to the palace; location of the main entrance to the palace; the church’s location in close proximity to the palace) would suggest that the stronghold was a ducal residence, in all probability owned by Mieszko I—or the residence of bishop Jordan. Moreover, the stronghold’s development, location, form, and function hint at links with the events of 966: the baptism of Mieszko I. This in turn would mean that the architectural decisions present in the Ostrów Lednicki constituted a formal and ideo­logical whole, closely connected to the displays of power by the newly Christian duke. 5  Debates concerning the presence, shape, and function of these structures are extensive; from the first research findings were published: Teresa Rodzińska-Chorąży has collected and presented them in her publication “Stan badań nad architekturą,” 161–71.



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The church in Feldebrő6 is another example of a building on a central floor plan. Yet the time of its construction (late 1030s and early 1040s), its founders (the Aba family), and especially the forms and patterns applied suggest that this was a new interpretation of the same idea, with a focus on the ideo­logy behind the form. The church was erected on a square floor plan, with an apse along the axis of each wall. Its interior was partitioned with four rows of supports for five aisles in strict symmetrical order. The outer aisle spans formed a square; the inner aisle spans formed a rectangle. The east choir terminated in an apse and upright walls closed off the aisles. The apse, chancel span, and aisles were elevated over a crypt, its layout replicated in the east choir floor plan. The crypt comprises a north-to-south corridor, with an apse on the east side and a rectangular room (loculus) to the west in front of the apse.7 Communication between the crypt and the aisles was secured through a single flight of stairs at both ends of the corridor. There are five compound supports in the crypt’s corridor. Two supplementary supports are located along the axis of the apse and rectangular room. The corridor walls were fitted with lesenes. The passageway between the corridor and rectangular room was delineated with two arcades, lower in height than the corridor ceiling. Round windows were inserted into the wall above the arcade’s arches. A rectangular niche was developed in the central section of the loculus, along its east–west axis. Remains of the altar have been found between the niche and the west wall. The structure designed on this plan was also diverse in elevation. The apses were lower than the aisles, and the entire structure was capped with a tower or dome. A rectangular two-storey residential brick building was erected southwest of the church, but very close to it.8 The exceptional form of the church in Feldebrő gave rise to a wide search for analogies. It was thought that it might have been inspired by churches in Armenia and Georgia in the seventh century. That would suggest that Eastern Christian rites were observed locally.9 Researchers also considered forms originating in Western European culture, 6  Júlia Kovalovszki, “A Feldebrői Templom Régészeti Kutatása,” in Képzőművészeti Emlékek Védelme, ed. Géza Barcza (Eger: Az Egri Nyári Egyetem előadásai, 1981), 37–42; Júlia Kovalovszki, Feldebrő: Plébániatemplom (Budapest: Tájak Korok Múzeumok Szervező Bizottsága, 1987). The latest research has been presented by Szakács, “Architecture in Hungary,” 210–14. A full survey of the subject was produced by Romhányi, Kolostorok és társaskáptalanok, 23–24; and Edit Szentesi et al., “Feldebrői templom,” in Magyar művelődéstörténeti lexikon: Középkor és kora újkor, ed. Péter Kőszeghy, vol. 3, Falkonéta–Halászat (Budapest: Balassi Kiadó, 2005), 47–51.

7  The crypt concealed polychromes with figurative ornamentation. Melinda Tóth described their condition, offering analysis and interpretation in “The Romanesque Mural Paintings of the Feldebrő Church,” in Evolution générale et développements régionaux en histoire de l’art. Actes du XXIIe Congrès international d’histoire de l’art, Budapest 1969, ed. Rózsa György, 3 vols. (Budapest: Akademiai Kiado, 1972), 2:459–66; Melinda Tóth, Árpád-kori falfestészet (Budapest: Akadémiai Kiadó, 1974).

8  The building was found during archaeo­logical excavations, remnants discovered about nine metres away from the church. While the condition of relics does not allow full reconstruction, this could have been a two-storey building with a west-facing entrance: Júlia Kovalovszki, “Á� rpád-kori Bronzöntő Műhely Feldebrőn,” in Entz Géza nyolcvanadik születésnapjára. Tanulmányok, ed. Ilona Valter (Budapest: Országos Műemlékvédelmi Hivaral, 1993), 87–98. 9  Václav Mencl, “Két ősi épí�tészeti emlék Magyarországon,” Művészettörténeti értesítő 8, no.

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strongly influenced by ancient and early-Christian traditions: the Rotunda of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, the oratory in Germigny-des-Prés, to examples in Italy and Salzburg.10 It seems we should narrow down our search for formal models and focus on the San Stefano Rotondo church in Rome, and on churches from the Marche: San Vittore alle Chiuse Church in Gange, the abbey church of Santa Maria in Moie, San Claudio al Chienti Church near Corridonia, and the Santa Croce church in Sassoferrato.11 The presence of a crypt in the Feldebrő church was significant for searching for formal prototypes for the entire complex. Researchers have analyzed its form, layout, relative size in comparison with the church, and the polychrome figurative ornamentation of its interior.12 Consequently, the architectural detail, and the style and form of the murals were linked to the Abdinghof Abbey church in Paderborn and the art circles of St. Emmeram’s Abbey in Regensburg.13 Forms typical for central Italy were also considered (the church of Santi Bonifacio ed Alessio in Rome, the church of San Pietro alla Carità in Tivoli, and the cathedral in Salerno).14 A comprehensive analysis of the Feldebrő church, including the form of the building and the crypt dominating the interior and emphasizing the church’s size, provides various ideo­logical implications: private devotion and observances required of families close to the throne. Dating back to the seventh century, such rules were well known to the noble families of the Franconian Empire, and involved the founding of monasteries and religious communities. Continuous prayer for the founder’s family members was an essential purpose of such institutions. In case of Feldebrő church, all these conditions seem to have been met: the whole complex was remarkably consistent in terms of form and ideo­logy, from the church’s 4 (1959): 217–20; Dezső Dercsényi, Románkori építészet Magyarországon (Budapest: Magyar Helikon, 1972), 187. 10  Géza Lux, “A feldebrői templom,” A Magyar Mérnök- és Építész-Egylet Közlönye, 76, no. 23–24 (1942): 89–94 at 93.

11  Béla Zsolt Szakács, “The Italian Connection: Theories on the Origins of Hungarian Romanesque Art,” in Medioevo: Arte e Storia, ed. Arturo Carlo Quintavalle (Milano: Electa, 2008), 648–55; Béla Zsolt Szakács, “Hungary, Byzantium, Italy: Architectural Connections in the Eleventh Century,” in Romanesque and the Mediterranean, ed. Rosa Maria Bacile and John McNeill (London: British Archaeo­logical Association, 2015), 193–203.

12  Apart from carefully chosen analogies of form and style, there were also suggestions linking the crypt of the Feldebrő church to the circle of South German culture from the eleventh century. Moreover, older literature describing the crypt in this church suggests that the whole church might have been built in two stages. The church was to be constructed during the initial phase, the crypt developed later in the pre-existing church structure. A thorough analysis of formal features of murals preserved in the crypt allowed the hypothesis to be ultimately rejected. Sándor Tóth, “A 11–12. századi Magyarország Benedek-rendi templomainak maradványai,” in: Paradisum plantavit: Bencés monostorok a középkori Magyarországon, ed. Imre Takács (Pannonhalma: Pannonhalmi Főapátság, 2001), 233 (available online at https://paradisum.osb.hu/tan51_h.htm); Tóth, Árpádkori falfestészet. 13  Antal Kampis, “A feldebrői altemplom,” Művészettörténeti értesítő 2 (1955): 191–95 at 193.

14  Ferenc Levárdy, “Feldebrő Kelet vagy Róma?,” Műemlékvédelem 20 (1976): 145–51 at 149–50; Sándor Tóth, “Feldebrõrõl, hipotézisek nélkül,” Mûemlékvédelem 21 (1977): 29–39 at 35–37.



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invocation—the Holy Cross—to its size.15 The central floor plan superimposed two plans, a Greek cruciform upon a square. This is how a building divided into five aisles by ancillary columns evolved. The central aisles were the widest, terminating in apses. An empty tomb located in a separate crypt area was the central element, observable in the church’s design, form, and spatial composition. 16 It is noteworthy that the church’s interior was arranged in a way allowing Mass to be celebrated in the nave with simultaneous aisle traffic to and from the crypt. Moreover, round windows in the crypt’s west wall allowed persons in the crypt to participate in the service. All aspects point to the probable commemorative function of the Feldebrő church, and an ideo­logical reference to Christ’s symbolic tomb in the Rotunda of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem.17 The two churches described here share two aspects in common: architectural style and foundation by aspiring families. The Piasts were dukes of a princedom that would be afforded state status (civitas Schinesghe) within twenty-five years18. As for the Aba family, they were related to the Á� rpád dynasty, members ascending the royal throne through a variety of diplomatic connections. In both cases, the families used their connections to the clergy and Church to boost their prestige as the ruling family by their decisions to found the Ostrów Lednicki complex and the church in Feldebrő. The decision was taken before the dates quoted in written and archaeo­logical evidence. It was a watershed not only in terms of the presence of the buildings, but also their ideo­logical content. In both cases, the indoor elements are most meaningful: the recessed chapel floor in Ostrów Lednicki, and the church crypt tomb in Feldebrő. The entire cultural, historical, social, and religious context of both structures proves that their founders were skilled in comprehending and using symbolism as an attribute of secular power. Such ways of combining and manipulating rules and symbols to form an image of power authorized by the Church and the clergy remain among the numerous characteristic features of architecture developed in Younger Europe before the late eleventh cen15  Béla Zsolt Szakács, “Romanesque Architecture: Abbeys and Cathedrals,” in The Art of Medi­eval Hungary, ed. Xavier Barral et al. (Roma: Viella, 2018), 133–44 at 135.

16  Scholars are not unanimous whether the tomb was intentionally empty or used as a burial. Most older sources claim King Sámuel had been temporarily interred there before his burial in Abasár. Another hypothesis suggests that the first abbot was buried at the church: András Gergelyffy, “Feldebrő,” in Heves megye műemlékei II, ed. Dezső Dercsényi and Pál Voit, 2 vols. (Budapest: Akademia Kiado, 1969–1972), 2:714–28 at 716; Levárdy, “Feldebrő Kelet vagy Róma?”; Tóth, “Feldebrõrõl, hipotézisek nélkül”; Kovalovszki, “A feldebrői templom régészeti kutatása,” 40, 42.

17  Similarities were confirmed in a thorough analysis by Béla Zsolt Szakács, who analyzed the formal aspects of church architecture as well as the form and style of architectonic detail. Szakács, “Hungary, Byzantium, Italy,” 193–203. 18  Publications on “the state of Mieszko I,” the so-called civitas Schinesghe, is abundant. The most important include: Gerard Labuda, “Stan dyskusji nad dokumentem ‘Dagome iudex’ i państwem `Schinesghe’,” in Civitas Schinesghe cum pertinentiis, ed. Wojciech Chudziak (Toruń: Instytut Archeo­logii Uniwersytetu Mikołaja Kopernika, 2003), 9–17; Przemysław Wiszewski, “Dagome iudex—Mieszko I wobec Rzeszy,” in Świat średniowiecza: studia ofiarowane Profesorowi Henrykowi Samsonowiczowi, ed. Agnieszka Bartoszewicz et al. (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego, 2010), 441–53.

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tury. Foundations sponsored by ruling dynasties and noble families sent a clear signal to other rulers—their proof of belonging to a world wherein the Christian God was the origin of all power.19

19  Aristocratic foundations appeared as early as the tenth century, when the Slavnikovci family in Libice founded a church, later attempting to secure greater and greater power. Yet after the socalled slaughter of Libice in 995, such acts were probably not repeated. On the territory of the Kingdom of Hungary, an increase in the number of foundations by noble families was recorded only in the 1040s. In the Polish Kingdom, the earliest cases date back to late tenth century (consider the alleged foundation of the church of św. Andrzeja in Kraków). However, their history remains uncertain: Piotr Włostowic’s foundation dating from the first half of the twelfth century is the only confimed.

Chapter 4

COMPOSITION OF SPATIAL ARRANGEMENTS1

Designing a building involves working on its form and size as well as its interior. The shapes, forms, and style of buildings of the period were primarily influenced by architectural choices—for instance, the width and arrangement of windows and doors. Interior arrangements also impacted the spatial composition. All partitioning was the result of development and placement of nave supports, and walls. Other components that defined the interior style and form included columns, pilasters, and niches, and the width and distribution of doors and windows. All these factors influenced the basic rhythm and dynamic of the layout of the interior space. Elements such as an east or west choir elevated upon a crypt or a west-section gallery were more than architectural choices, though. Their primary purpose was to delineate liturgical areas. They included an episcopal throne (cathedra), altars, altar screens, a ciborium, semi-circular benches for the clergy in the main apse (synthronon, subsellia), a pulpit (ambo), a raised passage between the altar and pulpit (solea), and a baptismal font.2 Most were defined by the church’s function: a bishop’s cathedra would not be found in an abbey church; a baptismal font would be placed in a baptistery or an area of the church designated for baptism. Since church furnishings were used in the liturgy and during assorted ceremonies, their form and location having to correspond to the particular rites. In case of modification to any given rite, the form and location of particular church furnishings were adapted to new requirements.3 However, one trait never changed: each item of church furnishing drew the faithful to it, impacting the circulation of people. 1  Part of this chapter is drawn from an article by Marta Graczyńska and Monika Kamińska, “Requiescat in pace.” The intent behind this present chapter is to highlight architectonic aspects of matters tying in with the interment of monarchs along the main church axis. I have not considered topics associated with royal attitudes or behaviours, or the circumstances of their canonization— both issues are far too extensive for here, or citing them could oversimplify an important topic.

2  This chapter focuses on fixed liturgical furnishings. Movable items, such as paschal candles, crucifixes, lighting, liturgical vestments, or reliquaries have not been taken into account, although they too belonged to the attributes of liturgy and influenced the symbolism of particular parts of the church’s interior. See for instance Dark Ages? Licht im Mittelalter: l’Éclairage au Moyen Âge, ed. Laurent Chrzanovski and Peter Kaiser (Milano: ET, 2007); Lara Catalano, “Gli altari dipinti tra VI e XII secolo nell’Italia centro-meridionale,” Hortus Artium Medi­evalium 15, no. 1 (2009): 117–26.

3  Abundant literature, both editions and detailed analyses, describes the development of liturgy, its influence on other ceremonies, and the adjustment and development of forms, styles, liturgical vestments and other paraments, related texts, or the spaces where ceremonies were to be held. For our present purpose, the following are key: Parkes, The Making of Liturgy in the Ottonian Church, 2; on liturgy as a factor influencing architecture, see: Krautheimer, “Icono­graphy of Mediaeval Architecture”; Noël Duval, “Les installations liturgiques dans les églises paléochrétiennes,” Hortus Artium Medi­evalium 5 (1999): 7–30; Catherine Metzger, “Installations liturgiques en Gaule,” Hortus

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There was one exceptional interior element whose emergence substantially influenced a given church’s spatial arrangement and symbolism while adding to the manifestation of power—burials in the church interiors.4 Two alternatives existed: one not physically visible in the church (the tomb placed underground), and one where a tomb was accentuated with additional architectural structures, their potential forms diverse. The simplest one, its interference with sacred space kept to the bare minimum, involved marking the tomb’s presence with a gravestone on the floor of the nave. Marking a burial with an elevated architectural structure (memoria or confessio)5 offered various options. The latter evolved significantly through to the ninth to eleventh centuries, developing precise forms, meanings, and connections to the liturgy.6 Let us focus on these now: in terms of physical and liturgical influences on the use of church space, monumental tombs may well be compared to the main altar, pulpit, or solea. The burial would be usually arranged along the main axis of the church. The main axis, its geometrical centre included, lay in the nave and aisles—this was the pathway to the altar; also, this was where some rituals and parts of the liturgy took place. The centre of the nave (in medio ecclesiae) was the third most important architectural point of the church’s interior (after a choir elevated above the crypt or delineated by an altar screen; and the western front). These three features attracted attention, building up the sacred space of the interior. All three locations housed altars where religious services associated with the church’s function would be held. Moreover, the altar closest to the founder’s or ruler’s burial place assumed additional meaning—each religious ceremony held there would be directly or indirectly linked with paying tribute to the memory of the person buried near the altar (coram altari) and his/her gesture of founding a given church, cathedral, or abbey.7 The Artium Medi­evalium 5 (1999): 4–44; Jasna Jeličić-Radonić, “Liturgical Installations in the Roman Province of Dalmatia,” Hortus Artium Medi­evalium 5 (1999):133–46; Giuseppe Cuscito, “L’arredo liturgico nelle basiliche paleocristiane della “Venetia” orientale,” Hortus Artium Medi­evalium 5 (1999): 87–104; Clement Rizzardi, “L’impianto liturgico nelle chiese Ravennati (V–VI secolo),” Hortus Artium Medi­evalium 5 (1999): 67–85; Blaauw, Cultus et decor; Brandenburg, “Kirchenbau und Liturgie”; Iogna-Prat, La Maison Dieu; Brandt, “The Archaeo­logy of Roman Ecclesial Architecture.”

4  Canon law regulations on church burials changed over time, reflecting local traditions and customs: Sapin, “Dans l’église ou hors l’église?”; Picard, “L’évolution de lieux de sépulture”; Michel Lauwers and Cécile Treffort, “De l’inhumation privilégiée à la sépulture de prestige: conclusions de la Table Ronde,” in Inhumation de prestige ou prestige de l’inhumation? Expressions du pouvoir dans l’Au-delà (IVe–XVe siècle), ed. Armelle Alduc-Le Bagousse (Caen: CRAHM, 2009), 439–50; Elżbieta Dąbrowska, “W kościele czy poza kościołem – lokalizacja pochówków w Polsce piastowskiej,” in Grób w przestrzeni, przestrzeń w grobie : przestrzenne uwarunkowania w dawnej obrzędowości pogrzebowej, ed. Tomasz Kurasiński and Kalina Skóra, Acta Archaeo­logica Lodziensa 60 (Łódz: Łódzkie Towarzystwo Naukowe, 2014), 81–85; Ferraiuolo, “I luoghi della memoria funeraria.” 5  Crook, The Architectural Setting, 40–49.

6  Oswald, “In medio ecclesiae”; Grzegorz Pac, “Problem świętości władców we wczesnym i pełnym średniowieczu: przypadek Polski na tle europejskim,” Historia Slavorum Occidentis 2, no. 11 (2016): 90–121; Schmid and Wollasch, eds. Memoria. 7  In this context, one should not underestimate the Cluniac idea and cultivated in other Benedictine monasteries under St. Benedict’s Rule, concerning prayer for a given monastery’s founders, donors, and patrons, that is, persons included in the Cluniac Liber tramitis and thus considered members



Composition of Spatial Arrangements

47

Figure 15. Plan of the abbey church of Sv. Jiří� on Hradčany Hill, Prague.

phenomenon developed on imperial territory between the fourth and the sixth centuries and remains observable to the turn of the millennium. In the early eleventh century, burials were held in the immediate vicinity of the altar of the Holy Cross.8 This symbolized the union between the ruler and Christ the Saviour after a sovereign’s anointment.9 As the knowledge of Christian religion and its influence on the perception of power increased, such solutions became increasingly frequent in the Piast, Á� rpád, and Přemyslid princedoms. Similar examples can be found in almost all major churches whose founders were kings and dukes of dynasties in Younger Europe. The icono­graphic program and textual sources for three locations—the Bazilika Sv. Jiří� (St. George’s Church) in Prague, the Bazylika Ś� więtych Apostołów Piotra i Pawła (St. Peter’s cathedral) in Poznań, and the former Nagyboldogasszony-bazilika (Basilica of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary) in Székesfehérvár—are sufficiently interesting to merit special attention now. Each features the full range of interior furnishings typical for the period. The function of a given church played a key role: each had a different purpose. It should be further borne in mind that regardless of where and when a church or palace of the community: Michałowski, “Ś� więta moc fundatora klasztoru”; Marcel Pacaut, L’Ordre de Cluny: 909–1789 (Paris: Fayard, 1999; cited from the Polish translation: Dzieje Cluny (Kraków: Tyniec, Wydawnictwo Benedyktynów, 2010), 194–98).

8  Michael Müller-Wille, “Königsgrab und Königsgrabkirche. Funde und Befunde im früh­geschicht­ lichen und mittelalterlichen Nordeuropa,” Bericht der Römisch-Germanischen Kommission 63 (1982): 349–412; Emmerik, “Building more romano in Francia”; Pac, “Problem świętości władców,” 93–96.

9  The issue has been widely discussed; see especially the classic analysis by Kantorowicz, Laudes Regiae.

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Figure 16. Plan of the cathedral in Poznań.

was constructed, it always reflected the needs of its founders and users. Consequently, individual elements differed accordingly. The Sv. Jiří� church on Hradčany Hill in Prague is the oldest, its foundation and construction works spanning the period of the 920s until the 970s.10 Initially used by a religious community related to the Přemyslid dynasty, in ca. 950 it became an abbey church for a convent of Benedictine nuns. Its architectural style has been identified as a tripleaisled basilica without transept. In all probability, its west-section was triple-aisled, the east section terminating in an apse along the nave axis.11 A cruciform recess intended to hold relics was developed along the main axis of the church to the east.12 Further west, along the main axis, there was a tomb with the remains of a male, aged around sixty to sixty-five. Despite their privileged location in medio ecclesiae, no records justifying the special place of either element in church space have been found.13 The cathedral in Poznań is another example of a church with interior furnishing elements that influenced its spatial design. During its earlieset existence, between the 980s and 1040s, the church itself was a triple-aisled basilica with a low transept, the east 10  Frolí�k et al., Nejstarší sakrální architektura, 141–43.

11  Frolí�k et al., Nejstarší sakrální architektura, 131, 137, 140, 141. The extent of damage precludes unambiguous identification or re-enactment of either part of the church.

12  The recess form and function can be related to a similar structure in the chapel of St. Peter’s abbey in Mistail (Grisons, Switzerland): Hans Rudolf Sennhauser, “Frühchristliche und frühmittelalterliche kirchliche Bauten in der Diözese Chur und in den nördlich und südlich angrenzenden Landschaften,” in Frühe Kirchen im östlichen Alpengebiet, ed. Sennhauser, 1:9–221 at 32–33 and 123–27. 13  Ivan Borkovský, “Piscina ve tvaru kří�že ve svatojiřské bazilice na Pražském hradě,” Archeo­ logické Rozhledy 12 (1960): 680–700; Ivan Borkovský, Svatojiřská bazilika a klášter na Pražském hradě (Prague: Academia, 1975), 28–32; Frolí�k et al., Nejstarší sakrální architektura, 133, 140–43. Researchers speculated that there could have been an altar above the recess. Yet this remains hypothetical due to the lack of archaeo­logical evidence. Researchers also offered a hypothesis that the Bazilika Sv. Jiří� (St. George’s) in Prague was the deposit of St. Ludmila’s relics upon their transfer from Tetí�n. Relics might have been placed in the cruciform recess. Milena Bravermanová et al., “Architektonické články z baziliky a kláštera sv. Jiří�,” in Otevři zahradu rajskou. Benediktini v srdci Evropy, 800–1300, ed. Dušan Foltýn et al. (Prague: Národní� galerie v Praze, 2014): 122–28 at 122.



Composition of Spatial Arrangements

49

Figure 17. Plan of the basilica at Székesfehérvár.

choir in the central part elevated above a hall crypt. This was where the nave and transept intersected. The west section was probably constructed in bulk with no distinct section.14 Throughout the next stage of the cathedral’s history, in the 1050s, its general form remained unchanged, changes restricted to changes to the layout: the distribution of aisles was transformed, original pillars replaced with a rhythmic alternation of pillars and columns. As a result, the western front opened via arcades onto the aisles rather than the nave only. Single arcades were supported with pillars in the aisles, and a single column in the nave. In all probability, a gallery was located in the centre of this part of the church.15 During both stages in the cathedral’s architectural history, its central point housed a rectangular structure interpreted as a highlight of the Holy Cross Altar.16

14  Bukowska (Najstarsza katedra w Poznaniu, 242–46) has linked the elements of the west section to formal solutions applied in the abbey of Memleben, cathedral in Magdeburg, and the Carolingian era of Co­logne cathedral. She has also considered the scenario of the central part of the church having been accentuated with a tower housing a gallery, making comparisons with churches in Gernrode, Quedlinburg, Nivelles, and Essen.

15  Krystyna Józefowiczówna, “Architektura i sztuki plastyczne do 1253 r.,” in Dziesięć wieków Poznania, ed. Kazimierz Malinowski, 3 vols. (Poznań: Sztuka, 1956), 3:5–15.

16  Zofia Kurnatowska, “Wczesnopiastowskie grody centralne. Podobieństwa i różnice,” in Gniezno i Poznan w panstwie pierwszych Piastów, ed. Andrzej Wójtowicz (Poznań: Ośrodek Wydawnictw Naukowych, 2000), 9–31 at 19; Zofia Kurnatowska, “Jeszcze Raz o Grobowcach Poznańskich,” in Scriptura custos memoriae. Prace historyczne, ed. Danuta Zydorek (Poznań: Instytut Historii Uniwersytetu im. A. Mickiewicza, 2001), 503–10 at 504; Tomasz Janiak, “Czy Bolesław Chrobry był

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This section included parts of two tombs dated to the early years of the cathedral’s existence.17 Our third featured church, the one in Székesfehérvár, involved a different solution to an important tomb. The church was built in the early eleventh century as a triple-aisled basilica without a transept, aisles terminating in upright walls, the nave in an apse. A façade flanked by two towers formed the basilica’s west section. The geometrical centre of the church housed a 1038 tomb of Stephen of the Á� rpád dynasty.18 In all probability, it was originally marked with a slab in the nave floor. This changed in 1083 after the canonization of Stephen. The burial site was remodelled through the addition of a small crypt with a marble sarcophagus with royal remains placed in it.19 In all likelihood, a confessio memorial was developed above the crypt.20

Conclusion

These three examples have been taken to show individual decisions. Each church had its own specific purpose: the church in Prague was a monastery; Poznań was the seat of the bishopric and thus a cathedral; Székesfehérvár served as a church for canons. Most probably, their construction or plans for interior design had not assumed any a priori commemorative function, nor had set aside any specific areas separated out from the liturgical or other functional spaces in the church. Clearly later burial traditions did not czczony jako święty?: z badań nad przestrzenią liturgiczną przedromańskiej katedry w Poznaniu (do połowy XI w.),” Slavia Antiqua, 44 (2003): 67–95 at 79–81; Bukowska, Najstarsza katedra w Poznaniu, 77–78. This interpretation seems to be debatable in terms of altar access for liturgical purposes.

17  Krystyna Józefowiczówna, Z badań nad architekturą przedromańską i romańską w Poznaniu (Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich, 1963), 51–55, 149, 166–67, 175–79; Kurnatowska, “Jeszcze Raz,” 504–5; Bukowska, Najstarsza katedra w Poznaniu, 70–78; Graczyńska and Kamińska, “Requiescat in pace,” 327–29. 18  Alán Kralovánszky, “Szent István király székesfehérvári sí�rjának és kultuszhelyének kérdése,” in Szent István és kora, ed. Ferenc Glatz and József Kardos (Budapest: MTA Történettudományi Intézet, 1988), 166–72; Alán Kralovánszky, “Szent István király székesfehérvári sí�rja és kultuszhelye. / Grab des Königs Hl. Stephan und Ort seiner Verehrung in Székesfehérvár Stuhlweissenburg,” Folia archaeo­logica 40 (1989): 155–173; Sándor Tóth, “A székesfehérvári szarkofág és köre,” in Pannonia regia. Művészet a Dunántúlon 1000–1541, ed. Á� rpád Mikó and Imre Takács (Budapest: Magyar Nemzeti Galéria,1994), 82–86; Piroska Biczó, “Romkert—a Mennybe felvett Szűz Máriának szentelt prépostság templomának maradványai,” in Szent István király és Székesfehérvár, ed. Gyula Fülöp (Székesfehérvár: A Szent István Király Múzeum Közleménye, 1996), 25–29.

19  The current state of research and debates have been presented by Piroszka Biczó in “Szent István Király Sí�rja a Székesfehérvári Szűz Mária-Prépostság Templomában / The Burial Place of King Stephen the Saint in the Provostal Church of the Virgin Mary, Székesfehérvár,” in In medio regni Hungariae. Régészeti, művészettörténeti és történeti kutatások “az ország közepén”, ed. Elek Benkő and Krisztina Orosz (Budapest: Magyara Tudományos Akadámia Bölcsészettudományi Kutatóközpont Régészeti Intézet, 2015), 299–323 (description of older publications). 20  Árpád-kori legendák és intelmek, ed. Géza Erszegi et al. (Budapest: Szépirodalmi Kiadó, 1983), 21, 49.



Composition of Spatial Arrangements

51

in any way affect the purpose previously served by any of these churches.21 At the same time, burials placed in central church locations and close to key liturgical places, namely the altar, formed part of the same ideo­logical code. In all the cases we have described, we seem to be dealing with the interment and commemoration of the church’s founder or benefactor. All three include burials of persons whose distinctive status arose from the authority they exercised. We see the first monarchs of the Piast dynasty, Boleslaus II of Bohemia, and the first king of Hungary Stephen I, being interred in Poznań, Prague, and Székesfehérvár, respectively. Each of these monarchs had succeeded during their reigns in embedding Christianity in their lands which led to deep social, cultural, and (naturally) religious change.22 This explains the special nature of their places of burial. Firstly, such monumental burials served the purpose of manifesting the Christian faith of the ruler and his people and educating those unaware of the symbolic gesture of Mieszko’s or Stephen’s baptism. These rulers, Mieszko I of Poland being a notable exception, had been raised in the Christian faith and we should not forget their acceptance therefore of the doctrine of the resurrection of the body in the context of such prominent burials.23 Various initiatives were taken to reinforce practices that emphasized the Christian creed, including the “resurrection of the body” dogma in particular. The aim was to bring about religious, social, and cultural change. Campaigns were varied in nature, pure legislation (such as fasting laws in Bolesław the Brave’s dominion) to the dissemination of desirable role models.24 Hagio­graphic examples are significant in this policy. Over a relatively short period (prior to the end of the eleventh century), the Přemyslids and Á� rpáds succeeded in producing family members canonized as Christian saints in recognition of their life choices and attitudes.25 While the Piasts had been less fortunate, written 21  This observation extends beyond these examples. While a church’s function in relation to power could have changed, it would have been influenced by factors beyond simply that of the ruler’s burial. The church in Székesfehérvár is a case in point: originally a canons’ church, it became the coronation and interment venue for Hungarian kings after 1038. 22  The identity of persons buried in Prague and Poznań is widely discussed. Using historical and archaeo­logical analyses, Bohemian researchers argued that King Boleslaus II of the Přemyslid dynasty was buried in the Prague church, next to the cruciform recess. Bravermanová et al., “Architektonické články z baziliky a kláštera sv. Jiří�,” 122–23. According to the most recent hypothesis, St. Ludmila’s relics were deposited there after a transfer from Tetí�n: Milena Bravermanová, “K hrobu c. 98 v bazilice sv. Jirí�,” in Pohrbívání na Pražském hrade a jeho predpolích. Díl I. 1, Textová cást, ed. Katerina Tomková (Prague, 2005), 47–48; Milena Bravermanová, “Relikviárové tkaniny z hrobu sv. Ludmily,” in Ludmila: knežna a svetice, ed. Jakub Izdný et al. (Prague: NLN, 2020), 338–58. The Poznań burials gave rise to two hypotheses based on textual and archaeo­logical evidence. The textual evidence has been discussed by Danuta Zydorek, “W sprawie tradycji o pochówku Bolesława Chrobrego—raz jeszcze,” in Scriptura custos memoriae. Prace historyczne, ed. Danuta Zydorek (Poznań: Instytut Historii Uniwersytetu im. A. Mickiewicza, 2001), 511–22. For the current state of research see: Wiszewski, Domus Bolezlai; Pac, “Problem świętości władców.” 23  Michałowski, “Ś� więta moc fundatora klasztoru,” 13n28.

24  Roman Michałowski, “The Nine-Week Lent in Boleslaus the Brave’s Poland. A Study of the First Piasts’ Religious Policy,” Acta Poloniae Historica 89 (2004): 5–50.

25  Jaroslav Ludví�kovský, “Nově zjištěný rukopis legendy Crescente fide a jeho význam pro datování� Kristiána,” Liosty filo­logické 81 (1958): 56–68.

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sources were full of praise for their attitudes or behaviours perceived as desirable in Christian sovereigns.26 Efforts to conform to universally accepted rules have also been illustrated in the burials that we have discussed. Located in direct proximity to the altar, these sites for commemorating rulers were placed in prime liturgical space. This was also an expression of belief: not only did it improve the interred monarch’s chances for swift remission of sins, but also offered hope that at the Last Judgment he or she would find themselves in direct proximity to the most sacred bread of life (sanctum sancto­ rum), and be granted access to the Heavenly Kingdom. This in turn required acceptance of the principles of anointed power, and the manifestation of its sacral nature. Such prominent locations express the aspirations of the Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád houses, and displayed their power to other Christian rulers who were capable of reading the semantic code. They were members of dynasties aspiring to join the most powerful rulers of the period—it should come as no surprise that they followed patterns of behaviour developed at other courts.27 Indeed, burials of representatives of the German royal house were perceived at the time as something akin to a role model, to be followed and aspired to. Many such burials were located along the main church axis, frequently very close to the altar. This was not something invented by the Liudofings or Salian dynasty, as the tradition dates back to Merovingian times.28 The relatively frequent choice of such a burial notwithstanding, not all members of royal houses were interred at such sites. On the other hand, this was the period (preceding the end of the eleventh century) when monumental burials within churches and located close to the altar became common.29 The diligence we can observe in developing secondary commemorative sites for monarchs—such as St. Stephen’s memoria at Székesfehérvár—merits mention too, the need arising from a desire to manifest one’s own status, particularly as a Christian monarch, with virtues visible to one and all. Familial connections meant that rulers of subsequent generations became their guardians. We have seen, then how architectural types and detailed forms were developed in particular areas of the church, taking account of religious services and ceremonies. The unique setting made it possible to combine political and religious aspects. As a result, space was given new meanings and symbols were manipulated by members of the ruling dynasty without disturbing the existing liturgical order. 26  Wiszewski, Domus Bolezlai; Pac, “Problem świętości władców,” 98–101.

27  Klaniczay, Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses, 114–23. One cannot underestimate the role of the tradition of this burial type, going back to Merovingian rulers.

28  The tradition of locating burials along the church axis in close proximity to the altar dates back to the earliest days of Christianity; St. Paul’s burial, the most important of all, is located at the Vatican basilica. It initiated a tradition but is not a direct inspiration for her. Firstly, in no way does it tie in with the sacralization of secular power. Secondly, the chrono­logy of introducing successive elements to the Vatican—the burial followed by the erection of a basilica—is entirely different from all our examples. 29  Caspar Ehlers, “Die salischen Kaisergräber im Speyerer Dom,” in Die Salier: Macht im Wandel; Begleitband zur Ausstellung im Historischen Museum der Pfalz Speyer, ed. Laura Heeg, vol. 1 (München: Der Kunsthandel, 2011), 202–9.

Chapter 5

APPROPRIATION AND/OR INFLUENCE

Places of worship needed to meet formal and ideo­logical requirements as well

as satisfy the demand for the prestige of the powerful meant a quest for a particular style and form. Their appearance in particular locations resulted from adopting prototypes from abroad as a result of the movement of mason workshops, as well as agreements between church architects and founding patrons. Two examples may be used as illustrations: firstly, the Ostrów Lednicki stronghold complex and secondly the basilica in Poznań. The ducal palace and chapel (palatium) at Ostrów Lednicki built at its foundation by Mieszko I in the 960s was in all probability a result of the duke’s collaboration with bishop Jordan—whereas at the turn of the tenth and eleventh century, Bolesław the Brave instigated a rebuilding, probably in light of the Congress of Gniezno planned for the year 1000. The basilica in Poznań is a similar example: while built with the support of Bolesław the Brave, bishop Unger was most certainly the driving force behind its form.1 In most cases it was the founder who truly impacted the choice.2 By analyzing detailed forms, differences, specific elements, proportions, as well as irregularities, one can identify the original cultural circle behind a given pattern—and thus the community that could have inspired the builders, founding patrons, and architects. We might also assume that the inspirations were conscious and deliberate. Of all buildings, churches and palaces erected on the territory of Younger Europe by the end of the eleventh century are considered to be of mutual inspiration. But is that so? Had they shared their cradle, their cultural circle? These and similar key issues are the focus of researchers analyzing two Benedictine abbeys, one in Tyniec, the other in Hronský Beňadik (Hungarian: Garamszentbenedek). Both were royal foundations dating back to the second half of the eleventh century. The abbey of Tyniec, a church with a monastery added at a later stage, was located on a limestone mound defended by a bend in the River Vistula on one side, floodplains and marshes on the other. The abbey was built close to Kraków, a key centre of power from the second half of the eleventh century onwards.3 The Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek) abbey, on the other hand, was 1  Bukowska, Najstarsza katedra w Poznaniu, 222–26.

2  Consider the following examples: the palace chapel on Wawel Hill; the palace (the “hall of twentyfour pillars”) most probably built by Casimir I the Restorer; the basilica built in Székesfehérvár by Stephen of the Á� rpád dynasty: Rodzińska-Chorąży, Zespoły rezydencjonalne, 46–51, 53, 299; Piroska Biczó, “A szekesfehervári királyi bazilika regeszeti asatásainak üjabb eredmenyei [Recent Findings of the Excavations at the Royal Basilica in Szekesfehervár],” in A közepkor es a kora ujkor regeszete magyarorszagon [Archaeo­logy of Medi­eval and Early Modern Hungary], ed. Elek Benko and Gyöngyi Kovács (Budapest: MTA Régészeti Intézete, 2010), 315–32. 3  Rafał Quirini-Popławski, “Parę uwag o adriatycko-węgierskiej genezie stylu kapiteli z klasztoru benedyktynów w Tyńcu,” in Multa et varia. Studi offerti a Marta Marcella Ferraccioli e Gianfranco

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erected on one of the many hills along the River Hron, on a trade route connecting Nitra to Bratislava. Both were triple-aisled basilicas without a transept. Their aisles terminated in east-facing apses, west sections divided into three parts consisting of central elements flanked by twin towers. While the architectural style and form of both buildings are identical, formal parallels end here, despite the continuous efforts by researchers to link the two. Research has mainly resulted in an accentuation of their function, which has determined the long-term perception of their formal type. Following this way of thinking, when analyzing Benedictine abbeys appearing across Younger Europe, researchers began referring to these transept-less basilicas terminating in three eastern-exposure apses and west-facing pair of towers as “Benedictine” churches, or—taking a wider typo­logy and formal observations—as “Lombard”.4 Genetic and formal explorations described herein and potentially identifiable in earliest Benedictine churches erected in the geo­graphical area under scrutiny gave rise to something akin to a collection, including the basilicas in Tyniec and Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek). Nonetheless one should ponder whether any specific formal church type referable as “Benedictine” exists—and if so, how and why it had disseminated.5 What were the circumstances of its popularization? I wish to reference the Tyniec and Hronský Beňadik abbeys to resolve problems of influence and use of certain formal solutions, not least because the analysis of such architecture had produced such phrasing for the first time. What, thus, were the formal similarities and differences between the two churches? In Tyniec, apses closing the east section of the abbey and flanking aisle and adjacent structure walls formed a recess. Recesses are also visible along the exterior. The main body of the church was divided into aisles by four pillar pairs. Across from pillars, aisle Giraudo, ed. Florina Cret Ciure et al., 2 vols. (Milano: Biblion, 2012), 2:458–60. For a summary of latest research see Monika Kamińska, “Aktualny stan badań i nowe koncepcje interpretacyjne romańskiego Tyńca,” in Kraków Romański, ed. Marta Bochenek (Kraków: Towarzystwo Miłośników Historii i Zabytków Krakowa, 2014), 137–68. 4  Tibor Gerevich, Magyarország Román Kori Emlékei. Magyarország művészeti emlékei 1 (Budapest: Királyi magyar egyetemi nyomda, 1938), 29; Václav Mencl, “Kláštor sv. Beňadiku nad Hronem,” Vlastivedný časopis 15 (1966): 149. This became the basis for the search for formal analogies between the earliest Benedictine churches built in Younger Europe and the basilicas in Tyniec and Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek) came to the fore. In their analyses, researchers began presenting ever more detailed findings on the formal aspects of the churches, their dating, and their founders. However, the most important question that influenced the way both churches were perceived involved the identical functions they fulfilled (as church, as Benedictine abbey) and their mutual impact. See Ż� urowska, “Kraków, Tyniec i benedyktyni”; Quirini-Popławski, “Parę uwag,” 459. 5  Béla Zsolt Szakács, “Á� llandó alaprajzok—változó vélemények? Megjegyzések a “bencés templomtí�pus” magyarországi pályafutásához,” in Maradandóság év Változás, ed. Szilvia Bodnár et al. (Budapest: MTA Művészettörténeti Kutatóintézet, 2004), 25–37; Marta Graczyńska and Monika Kamińska, “Architektura monastyczna w Polsce do końca XI wieku. Nowe spojrzenie,” in Średniowieczna Architektura Sakralna w Polsce w Świetle Najnowszych Badań, ed. Tomasz Janiak and Dariusz Stryniak (Gniezno: Muzeum Początków Pańska Polskiego, 2014), 50–51.



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walls were developed with pilasters crowned with engaged columns. Transverse arches supporting the vaults of the aisles rested on engaged columns and pillars. Yet the nave was most probably capped with a flat ceiling.6 The tripartite west section consisted of a pair of towers and a lower central area with a gallery. The interior of the basement under the entire west section was partitioned with arcades supporting the vault.7 The basilica in Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek) differs from the church in Tyniec in terms of selected solutions.8 East section walls, all three apses and aisle walls were connected seamlessly, with no recess. The basilica’s aisles were divided by five pairs of square-plan pillars. The triple-aisled west section consisted of a central area and a pair of flanking towers, wider than the aisles. The central section featured a gallery supported by a square-plan central pillar.9 Analysis of some formal solutions allows us to identify some cultural circles of potential impact on the churches in Tyniec and Hronský Beňadik. Firstly, it ought to be borne in mind that both churches are representative of the same architectural style: basilica without transept. Secondly, impulses that are quite distinct to the architecture of ancient Rome, rooted instead in Asia Minor, ultimately spread across Christendom along the Italian and Dalmatian coastline from the sixth century onwards. This is why the Eastern Mediterranean may be a source for the forms we find in Tyniec and Hronský Beňadik.10 Yet was this the single source of influence? 6  The system of vaults in Tyniec has been described by Klementyna Ż� urowska, “Romański kościół opactwa benedyktynów w Tyńcu,” Folia Historiae Artium 6–7 (1971): 49–119 at 81–82, esp. n47. 7  Ż� urowska, “Romański kościół opactwa benedyktynów w Tyńcu,” 82–83, 100–101; Ż� urowska, “Kraków, Tyniec i benedyktyni,” 231.

8  Ernő Marosi, A Romanika Magyarországon (Budapest: Corvina, 2013), 111; Béla Zsolt Szakács, “The Research on Romanesque Architecture in Hungary. A Critical Overview of the Last Twenty Years,” Arte medi­evale, n.s. 4, no. 2 (2005): 31–44 at 34; Béla Zsolt Szakács, “Toronyaljak és toronyközök a magyarországi romanikában,” in Arhitectura religioasă medi­evală din Transilvania / Középkori egyházi építészet Erdélyben, IV, ed. Péter Levente Szőcs and Adrian Andrei Rusu (Satu Mare: Muzeului Sătmărean, 2007), 7–36 at 13.

9  The basilica interior was studied only in 1882 to 1885. An inventory of artefacts was made by Ferenc Storno and Kálmán Storno, Nádor Knauz supervizing restoration works in the church. After the fire which consumed the abbey in 1881 and after the floor had been removed, older walls were discovered. Surviving records only include two inventory drawings by an architect. As no more excavations have been embarked upon, these drawings are the only basis for conclusions concerning the church’s dimensions or form. Respective data has been secured from an indirect source rather than research. Other difficulties include the fact that none of the drawings feature scale annotations, although one does quote the length of selected fragments: Knauz, A Garanmelletti Szent-Benedeki Apátság, 34; Imre Takács, “Garamszentbenedek temploma és liturgikus felszerelése,” in Paradisum plantavit: Bencés monostorok a középkori Magyarországon, ed. Imre Takács (Pannonhalma: Pannonhalmi Főapátság, 2001), 160n11.

10  Ż� urowska, “Romański kościół opactwa benedyktynów w Tyńcu,” 113; Klementyna Ż� urowska, “Romański kościół i klasztor benedyktynów w Tyńcu na tle architektury piastowskiej XI wieku,” in Benedyktyni tynieccy w średniowieczu, ed. Klementyna Ż� urowska (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Benedyktyńskie, 1995), 185–97; Sennhauser, “Typen, Formen und Tendenzen im frühen Kirchenbau des östlichen Alpengebietes: Versuch einer Ü� bersicht,” in Frühe Kirchen im östlichen Alpengebiet, ed. Sennhauser, 2:919–80 at 933–43.

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In the case of Tyniec, it was very difficult to decide where to look for analogies and stylistic inspirations. Universal forms gradually altered over the eighth and ninth centuries, outcomes visible in developments across southern Europe, sub-Alpine churches in particular.11 Each aisle terminating with an apse was the key distinctive feature. Apses would usually be slightly narrower than their corresponding aisles, the differences in width outlined with single or multiple wall offsets. The measure allowed an effect resembling a sculpted divide of a wall mass in the church’s east section.12 Another element common to the architecture of Dalmatia—and, primarily, Italy, north (Lombardy) to south (Apulia)—from around the second half of the tenth century, also generating chiaroscura sculptural effects, involved engaged columns embedded onto side-aisle wall pilasters.13 These two solutions—apse section wall offsets and aisle half-columns— might have somewhat altered the perception of the Tyniec church interior, modelling rather than dividing its space with individual elements: apses, spans, and so on. Slightly elongated and rectangular in projection, the side-aisle spans of the church in Tyniec are notable as well. Characteristic and rather infrequent, the feature was most common to developments influenced by so-called early Romanesque art—Sant Pere de Casserres in Catalonia, for example. Moreover, the Tyniec structure employed two forms developed in circles heavily influenced by Ottonian art and with artistic and aesthetic tropes identified as having derived from Cluniac reform, as seen in the west section: the tripartite western front common to Ottonian architecture. In all probability, the dual square-plan tower form was the one chosen for Tyniec. Concealing stairwells within, towers flanked the rectangular central section holding the matroneum. Furthermore, the western-exposure central section was designed to slightly protrude from the façade, giving rise to the avantcorps, or risalto.14 The T-shaped internal pillars are another feature, examples identifiable in the abbey church of Brauweiler, and in the St. Maria im Kapitol church in Co­logne. This is why the church in Tyniec may be referenced in terms of form as comprising elements that are both southern and northern in origin, owing the mix of style to its geo­ graphical location beyond the borders of the ancient Roman Empire, in lands devoid of ancient architectural traditions, near influential centres of power (Kraków and Prague), with rulers aspiring to the highest honour of all: a royal crown. Such a blend of southern and northern elements comes from a refusal to accept the prevailing order resulting 11  Hans Rudolf Sennhauser, “Monasteri del primo millennio nelle Alpi Svizzere,” in Monasteri in Europa occidentale, ed. De Rubeis and Marazzi, 43–65. 12  Ż� urowska, “Romański kościół opactwa benedyktynów w Tyńcu,” 103; Ż� urowska, “Romański kościół i klasztor benedyktynów w Tyńcu.”

13  Structural components have to be identified: confirmed wall reinforcement techniques involving pilasters added to locations prone to transverse arches dropping from wall recesses most frequently developed as ornamentation in the west section of the church. Depending on other components used, such solutions may be mediums of style suggesting ways of finding for formal analogies. 14  Ż� urowska, “Romański kościół opactwa benedyktynów w Tyńcu,” 79–84, 99.



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Figure 18. Plan of the abbey church of Tyniec.

from years of tradition (decorum) on the one hand, and the need to secure adequate functionality and take advantage of form-embedded symbolism on the other. In light of the above: which formal solutions were the ones selected for Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek)? Not all are certain, given the limited extent of architectural remains that can be identified; yet those we do have reveal an entirely different application of architectural decisions. Firstly, no outer or inner wall offsets are visible between apses and aisle walls. Side-aisle wall faces were uniform as well. The western front was the only distinct location, its outline exceeding the width of the aisle body, coupled with a visible wall offset. Another difference involved the east section layout: while comprising a triple-aisle-end structure, the Hronský Beňadik layout was different to the one in Tyniec. In contrast to Tyniec, the central aisle did not protrude eastward, its walls streamlined into side-aisle walls flush against the central section. Moreover, the main aisle walls of the Á� rpád basilica were elongated in parallel to the aisle body in a shallow, rectangular-projection chancel; additionally, these walls formed a separate space in front of side-aisle apses. The outcome made all three apses seem deeper, the impression augmented by a chancel arch topping the walls. Furthermore, the layout of the body of the aisle at Hronský Beňadik was also different to the one in Tyniec. First and foremost, it was longer, comprising six rather than four spans. The square-plan side-aisle spans were separated out with austere squareplan pillars. The square-plan side-aisle spans and rectangular main aisle span were all replicated in the western front that comprised three elements (two square-plan towers flanking a rectangular central space) joining to form a uniform façade. The final difference between the two basilicas involved their spatial layout. In all probability, the towers of Hronský Beňadik were not connected to the body of the aisle with an arcade walkway (as opposed to Tyniec), the matroneum in the central section of the Á� rpád basilica most

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Figure 19. Plan of the abbey church of Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek).

probably was also supported by a square-plan pillar.15 In view of such forms at Hronský Beňadik, one might assume that the architect had been inspired by developments in Bavaria and the Upper Rhine in the first decade of the tenth century, especially on territories between Lakes Constance and Thun. The church of the Stift in Schönenwerd is a good example of a structure closest to the basilica in form and style.16 Local architecture primarily referenced forms applied in “Lombard style,” typical features including lisenes on external walls, with internal walls remaining smooth.17 In contrast, the west section of the Hronský Beňadik abbey, similar to the west section of the church in Tyniec, references comparable solutions found north of the Alps. Such a dual-towered western front with the central section equal in height to the main aisle would usually house the main entrance to the church and matroneum, the latter accessed via staircases concealed in both towers.

15  These components, that is, the lack of arcade walkways and the central pillar supporting the matroneum, have been reconstructed on the basis of remains and research published by Nádor Knauz: Knauz, A Garan-melletti Szent-Benedeki Apátság, 33–35. 16  Szakács, “Á� llandó alaprajzok—változó vélemények?,” 25–37; Béla Zsolt Szakács, “The Place of East Central Europe on the Map of Romanesque Architecture,” in Medi­eval East Central Europe in a Comparative Perspective, ed. Jaritz and Szende, 205–24 at 213; Szakács, “Architecture in Hungary,” 217–18.

17  Max Grütter, “Die romanischen Kirchen am Thunersee. Ein Beitrag zur Frage der Ausbreitung frühlombardischer Architektur,” Anzeiger für schweizerische Altertumskunde /. Indicateur d’antiquités suisses, n.s. 34 (1932): 119–30.



Conclusion

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We have seen from our reconstruction of the archaeo­logical remains of the two oldest churches in Tyniec and Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek) that they could not have directly inspired each other—in terms of style or form—as the trends behind them have originated from diverse cultural circles; their only commonality is their formal type and purpose. But, they both emerged in the same period, that is, the second half of the eleventh century. Previous historical research had tended to analyze non-architectural issues, such as the date of their foundation and the founders themselves, including their family connections, the environments of their upbringing, experience, and their rule. The abbey in Tyniec was built in 1044 thanks to Casimir I the Restorer, as confirmed by textual evidence.18 Building began later, and received support from subsequent rulers of the Piast dynasty: Bolesław II the Generous and Ladislaus I Herman. As for the abbey in Hronský Beňadik, it was founded by Géza I in 1075 and completed by the early twelfth century.19 The prolonged building process should come as no surprise: the very gesture of founding an abbey was meaningful enough.20 When looking for influences and inspirations the founders of both abbeys might have followed, one should take a look at their social and cultural circles: these mainly included family members, close associates, and allies. By the mid-eleventh century, not only were the Piast and Á� rpád rulers related to each other; they were also connected to all the most eminent courts of the period, the imperial court included.21 Such relations may have had consequences for both abbeys. 18  Zofia Kozłowska-Budkowa, Repertorium polskich dokumentów doby piastowskiej: z. 1, Do końca wieku XII (Kraków: Polskiej Akademji Umiejętności, 1937), 29–33; Gerard Labuda, “Klasztor Benedyktynów w Tyńcu,” in Szkice historyczne X–XI wieku. Z dziejów organizacji Kościoła w Polsce we wczesnym średniowieczu, ed. Ewa Dobosz (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 2004), 241–304. 19  Kálmán Haiczl, A Garamszentbenedeki apátság története (Budapest: É� let, 1913); Melinda Szőke, A garamszentbenedeki apátság alapítólevelének nyelvtörténeti vizsgálata (Debrecen: Egyetemi Kiadó, 2015).

20  It would be worthwhile to compare the number of abbey foundations with the number of architectural projects and the time lapse between the foundation and the start of building. These comparisons make sense only when considering the kingdoms of Younger Europe ruled by the Přemyslids, Piasts, and Á� rpáds. Cases in point include the foundation of an abbey in Hradisko near Olomouc by Otto the Fair and his wife Euphemia upon having received their own principality within the borders of lands ruled by Otto’s brother, Vratislaus II. Sázava. Památník staroslověnské kultury v Čechách, ed. Květa Reichertová et al. (Prague: Odeon, 1988), 91–92; Jiří� Kroupa and Jana Oppeltová, “Olomouc—Klášterní� Hradisko,” in Encyklopedie moravských a slezských klášterů, ed. Dušan Foltýn et al. (Prague: Libri, 2005), 513–22. Similar examples include post–1083 foundations by Ladislaus from the Á� rpád dynasty, such as abbeys in Szentjobb (Sâniob) and Tata: Ferenc Levente Hervay, “A bencések és apátságaik története a középkori Magyarországon,” in Paradisum plantavit: Bencés monostorok a középkori Magyarországon, ed. Imre Takács (Pannonhalma: Pannonhalmi Főapátság, 2001), 461–547 at 519; Romhányi, Kolostorok és társaskáptalanok, 97. 21  Royal intermarriage guaranteed the durability of diplomatic decisions, and determined— throughout the course of the given union—the overall policy direction of individual dominions and/or kingdoms. This is exactly what happened in case of marriages entered into by Piast and Á� rpád rulers in the early decades of the eleventh century. In consequence, they affected the rule of

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In analyzing Tyniec, we turn therefore to the household of prince Casimir and his mother, queen Richeza of Lotharingia: it was thanks to his mother that the young prince was introduced to European royal courts, specifically to persons associated with the former Ottonian court. In 1013, Duke Mieszko II Lambert married Richeza, daughter of the Count Palatine of Lotharingia Ezzo by Matilda, sister of Emperor Otto III. It would be to her father’s court that Richeza would take her son and royal insignia upon a crisis of power which hit the Piasts in the 1030s. Casimir’s stay with the Ezzonids during the Piast interregnum would most certainly leave a strong imprint on the young prince. The Ezzonids achieved high social and political rank among all the other imperial aristocratic families thanks to the Count Palatine’s constant efforts, and the particularly detailed diplomatic efforts to promote and foster the house.22 It goes without saying that while marriage arrangements connecting the family to the Liudofings stabilized its position, it was the Count Palatine’s accomplishments—as well as those of his children, grandchildren, and other family members—that would reinforce it. Suffice to mention the highranking offices and positions the Count Palatine’s children sought. Apart from Richeza herself—who became queen—his other daughters were made abbesses, most notably at Essen, a nunnery founded by the Ottonians.23 The Count Palatine’s sons, on the other hand, gained prestigious and privileged positions: Otto inherited the Rhineland Palatinate upon his father’s death; in 1045 he would also be made duke of Swabia. His brother Herman was archbishop of Co­logne.24 Meanwhile, any work to preserve their status was hugely important in view of Ezzo’s support for the anti-imperial opposition formed in the wake of Otto III’s death. Positions and offices were only part of the security a family could offer. Ezzo’s wish was also to provide his kin with additional support by ensuring their immortal souls were saved in the afterlife. This is why Ezzo and his wife Matilda founded St. Nicolaus’ monastery in Brauweiler, on land owned by the family.25 This was a religious community (Stift) typical of the Liudofings, supported by and operating for the benefit of the founder’s family. Many details of the abbey’s history have been preserved thanks to written sources. Richeza’s donations to support the monastery were numerous as well, Casimir the Restorer and Géza I in later years, as both were linked to the circles of imperial Ottonian circles through marriage, and connected as next of kin: Casimir the Restorer’s sister Adelaide was mother of Géza I: Peter Schreiner, Richeza—Die Polnische Königin aus dem Rheinland. Anfänge der Beziehungen zwischen Deutschen und Polen (Pulheim: Verein für Geschichte, 2012).

22  Jacek Banaszkiewicz, “Jak Erenfried Ezzo wygrał od Ottona III jego siostrę Matyldę,” in Trzy po trzy o dziesiątym wieku, ed. Jacek Banaszkiewicz (Kraków: Avalon 2014), 169–84. 23  Edith Ennen, “Die sieben Töchter des Pfalzgrafen Ezzo,” in Der Aquädukt 1763–1988. Ein Almanach aus dem Verlag C. H. Beck im 225. Jahr seines Bestehens, ed. Wolfgang Beck (München: Beck, 1988), 160–71; Grzegorz Pac, Kobiety w dynastii Piastów. Rola społeczna piastowskich żon i córek do połowy XII wieku—studium porównawcze (Toruń: Wydawnictwo Naukowe Uniwersytetu Mikołaja Kopernika, 2013), 406–11, 433n50.

24  On the Ezzonids and their social and cultural circles, see Michał Tomaszek, Klasztor i jego dobroczyńcy: średniowieczna narracja o opactwie Brauweiler i rodzie królowej Rychezy (Kraków: Avalon, 2007) 42–51. 25  Beuckers, Die Ezzonen und ihre Stiftungen; Pac, Kobiety w dynastii Piastów, 224–27.



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as proven by a diploma dated 1028. One witness to the drafting of the document merits mention: Aron, a Brauweiler monk.26 Wincenty of Kielcza’s Chronicles mention his name under the year 1046. Yet Aron is mentioned then as a bishop of Kraków and— concurrently—as a monk of Tyniec abbey. If we can assume that both documents refer to the same person, it might well be concluded that the monk arrived in Poland as part of Casimir the Restorer’s cortege, the king returning to claim his father’s throne. As the dominion the prince was returning to had suffered a major breakdown in centralized power, his immediate circle had to comprise his most trusted and loyal officials. Aron could have been such a person, similar to all the first inhabitants of Tyniec abbey. They had come from the abbey of St. Jacques in Liège, one a close collaborator of Herman Ezzonid, Richeza’s brother and bishop of Co­logne. It is clear that the individuals selected to rebuild the power structures in eleventh-century Poland hailed from a community close to the highest circles of power, familiar with and skilled in the code of gestures and symbols associated with the manifestation of power. Meanwhile, the notion of reform— gradually and ever more strongly impacting monastic centres, episcopal communities, and some noble families—was definitely not foreign to them, having been powerful influences in the dioceses of Liège and Co­logne.27 To sum up, it is possible that the foundation in Tyniec was primarily inspired by the idea of a family abbey based on a Stift, a popular mechanism across the Empire. Founders would include members of the ruling dynasty and nobility. Moreover, the monastery in Tyniec was inhabited by monks from a Benedictine abbey with connections to Monastic Reform, a concept from the early eleventh century. Combining important reforms from the Western Church into local dominions speaks volumes about these founders. It can be assumed that Casimir I the Restorer’s foundation was a display of power for the benefit of the political and familial circles of Christian rulers and the imperial court. Through this act, the Piast duke was presenting himself as their peer. We have no information on the first abbot or first monks of the Hronský Beňadik abbey.28 Nonetheless, the abbey’s status is known from other thirteenth-century texts based on the original founding documents. A royal abbey, it would preserve its status for centuries, receiving donations from the Crown. It is also assumed that, from its early days, the abbey followed St. Benedict’s rule. The likely date of founding the abbey (1075) coincided with Géza I’s coronation. This points to the foundation and building starting on the initiative of the duke, as legitimation for him as monarch.29 This moment was significant for the Kingdom of Hungary. The almost forty years separating the death of 26  Urkundenbuch für die Geschichte des Niederrheins, ed. Theodor Josef Lacomblet, 4 vols. (Bonn: Wölf, 1840–1858), 4:103; Labuda, “Klasztor Benedyktynów w Tyńcu,” 280n95.

27  Tjamke Snijders, “Near Neighbours, Distant Brothers: The Inter-Monastic Networks of Benedictine Houses in the Southern Low Countries (900–1200),” in Medi­eval Liège at the Crossroads of Europe, ed. Vanderputten et al., 69–108; Vanderputten, Reform, Conflict, and the Shaping of Corporate Identities, 3–82.

28  Kristóf Keglevich, A garamszentbenedeki apátság története az Árpád- és az Anjou korban (Szeged: Szegedi Tudományegyetem Történeti Intézete, 2012); Szőke, A garamszentbenedeki apátság. 29  Takács, “Garamszentbenedek temploma és liturgikus felszerelése,” 159–86.

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Stephen I of Hungary in 1038 and his canonization in 1083 was fundamental to the history of medi­eval Hungary, when it adopted a character as a Western Christian country.30 After the strong reign of Stephen I, first Christian king of Hungary, the Á� rpád dominion began suffering internal conflict and difficulties in maintaining centralized power. Individual dynastic representatives questioned each other’s claim to the crown, engaged in independent foreign policy, and did not hesitate to engage external powers in Hungary’s internal affairs. This is why the period merits a much broader European perspective. The main dispute which would cast a long-lasting shadow upon the Hungarian crown involved a conflict between Andrew I and Béla I of Hungary. The issue revolved around the abandoned principle of seniority: while Andrew I’s brother Béla I rather than his son Salomon should have inherited the throne, the crown went to the latter. Just a few years old, the young prince was crowned during his father’s lifetime in 1057. The move, intended to secure power for Andrew I’s direct heirs, triggered an avalanche of events and decade-long strife. Yet the second rather than the first generation of protagonists in the conflict is more noteworthy: studying the sons of the brothers who were at odds— Salomon, son of Andrew I, and Géza I and Ladislaus I of Hungary, sons of Béla I—offers insight into the foundation of Hronský Beňadik abbey. The clash between these cousins drew in their natural allies (families of their mothers and wives with connections to European royal courts) on the one hand, and their respective factions within Hungary. Changes happening in the background, associated with the uncertain circumstances over the German succession (with two sides—the reforming and the conservative—violently in disagreement), simply reinforced the Hungarian debacle. External and internal dynastic pressures notwithstanding, Salomon and Géza I reached a temporary ceasefire. In 1064, pursuant to the Treaty of Győr, Géza I was awarded land to the east of the River Tisa, including the city of Nitra and its vicinity: the eastern part of which had then been under the Hungarian Crown.31 Principles of joint rule by the cousins were set down: by accepting his princedom, Géza I was also recognizing Salomon as his king.32 This truce survived a decade before Salomon fled and was deprived of power. Given this turn of events, we might assume that the prince would assume the crown. Yet since approval by the emperor and the pope, rather than the dethronement of a previous monarch, were essential for a coronation, Géza I was forced to await the outcome of his victorious warfare. While the emperor and pope were scarcely co-operating at the time, they decided not to support the prince to prevent further division of power. Henry IV, Holy Roman Emperor, organized a crusade to restore Salomon to the throne, Pope Gregory VII repeatedly admonishing Géza I by letter and reminding him of his obligation to yield to papal authority. The amount of force behind the prince’s push towards the throne allowed him to withstand both imperial and papal pressure and be crowned as king in 1075. But, to succeed, he had to defeat the imperial power and take a stand against the pope, and seek support amongst his closest allies— 30  György Györffy, István király és műve (Budapest: Gondolat, 1977); Klaniczay, Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses, 114–33. 31  Berend et al., Central Europe in the High Middle Ages, 179.

32  Zupka, Ritual and Symbolic Communication, 44.



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the princes of Croatia, Bohemia, and Poland—and from the Byzantine emperor himself. Géza I’s forward-looking policy allowed him to form alliances with rulers of lands adjacent to his own, calling in feudal “services” he had previously provided to enforce allegiance within this region to him. So was he able to stand his ground against the German emperor and the pope. Interestingly, Géza I shared his former princedom with his brother Ladislaus, who had joined a powerful anti-imperial coalition in the course of the Investiture Conflict of 1075 between Henry IV, Holy Roman Emperor, and Pope Gregory VII. The Hungarian prince had then formed an alliance with Rudolph of Rheinfelden, Duke of Swabia, part of the previously mentioned coalition, the alliance reinforced by Ladislaus I’s marriage in 1077 to Rudolph’s daughter by Adelaide of Sabaudia, Adelaide of Rheinfelden.33 In so doing, both brothers manifested their strong position as rulers—unafraid of displaying their independence to the highest-ranking powers—while openly taking a side in an ongoing European conflict by supporting the reforms proposed by Pope Gregory VII. They later confirmed Hungary’s subordination to the Holy See when they seemed threatened by Salomon’s flight to the court of Henry IV, Holy Roman Emperor, and becoming an imperial fief. In view of this turn of events—ultimately resulting in Géza I securing the crown— the monarch’s triumphant and commemorative gesture of founding the abbey in Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek) is fully comprehensible. It indicates that the most important function of the abbey was prayer for the founder and his family, for his success, and their eternal salvation. Notwithstanding, the question of which of the two brothers—Géza I or Ladislaus I of Hungary—had chosen the abbey’s architectural appearance, has remained unanswered. Yet a formal analysis of individual elements in the church points to inspiration by traditions from the duchy of Swabia, especially aspects showing reformist tendencies. We have seen how the foundations of Tyniec and Hronský Beňadik were chiefly inspired by the notion of commemorating the founders-cum-rulers and supporting them spiritually in prayer. The main, demonstrable affinity between both monasteries is their connection to the Monastic Reform, increasingly popular from the 1040s onwards regardless of geo­graphical and political borders.34

33  Jarosław Nikodem, “Władysław I Ś� w.,” in Słownik władców Europy średniowiecznej, ed. Józef Dobosz and Maciej Serwański (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 1998), 399–400; Eduard Hlawitschka, “Zur Herkunft und zu den Seitenverwandten des Gegenkönigs Rudolf von Rheinfelden. Genealogische und politisch-historische Untersuchungen,” in Die Salier und das Reich, ed. Stefan Weinfurter et al., 3 vols. (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1999), 1:175–220. 34  Vanderputten, Monastic Reform as Process; Ecclesia in medio nationis: Reflections on the Study of Monasticism in the Central Middle Ages, ed. Steven Vanderputten and Brigitte Meijns (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2011).

Chapter 6

ARCHITECTURE AS A VEHICLE OF MEANINGS

Like all art forms, architecture is a text that can be read. The narrative it offers always refers to the moment it was created and the people contributing to its creation. In order to comprehend the “text” of architecture, one has to identify codes concealed in the form, shape, and spatial arrangement of the given building. If widely used, these codes will be recognized and “read” beyond the viewer’s conscious awareness. However, in time and under the influence of social, cultural, and political change, these codes can evolve, others may be lost or deemed useless. Though secondary to codes of meaning, the aesthetic aspect of any art form, including architectural ones, is an important factor which we do not underestimate today: even if unaware of these implicit codes, contemporary viewers can communicate with premodern art through their sense of aesthetics.1 Anyone interested in plunging beneath the stratum of aesthetics can try to comprehend a work of art in two other ways. One can employ everyday cognitive criteria and codes of signification or semiotics, most probably only some of which are discernible. The main function of a building (particularly if it is a church or a palace) will most certainly be recognisable. Yet other aspects—whether the church served as a cathedral or as a religious community; whether it was used by members of an abbey or the inhabitants of a stronghold; its liturgical aspects; and whether the building was a ducal residence (palatium) or an episcopal one (episcopium)—will in all probability escape most viewers. The onlooker might also attempt to recognize and comprehend the needs of the community for whom specific artefacts (buildings, liturgical vessels) were created. Such an approach will allow a better understanding of old codes of meaning, and the artefact to be set into its appropriate historical, cultural, and intellectual context.2 Deciphering codes enables viewers to “read” and interpret unique artistic texts.3 In the case 1  Viewers of art down the ages, often equipped only with their aesthetic understanding, face the same problem. This is why they will find Kazimir Malevich’s Black Square less comprehensible than, say, Vermeer’s The Milkmaid. In the latter the viewer will recognize the activity performed by the protagonist of the painting, her clothes, and the domestic background against which she was painted. They feel comfortable admiring this work of art. Malevich’s oeuvre is completely different, the viewer confronted with an aesthetically sophisticated work of art employing a narrow range of painting techniques. Its starkness can either be accepted or rejected, the latter the most usual outcome. Most onlookers will fail to perceive the codes of meaning embedded in both paintings without guidance. The social, religious, and political processes and circumstances associated with the creation of these paintings usually remains beyond the audience’s reach, even for paintings generally considered aesthetic works of art. 2  Gurevich, Categories of Medi­eval Culture.

3  Labuda, “Klasztor Benedyktynów w Tyńcu,” 302.

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of architecture, appropriate interpretation is essential: identical or similar forms were applied in buildings intended for completely different purposes. The chief difficulty here involves the viewer’s capacity for defining and discerning detailed architectural forms and codes.4 Their sequences, that is, the combinations of forms, generate a layer of significance concealed in the shape, size, and style of a building. Once such knowledge is supplemented with written and archaeo­logical evidence, and information concerning a building’s function and time of construction, one may try to answer key questions: Why was the building erected? Who chose its form and why? For whom was it built? What was its significance?5 Sometimes researchers are confronted with works of art with no written record, and with archaeo­logical sources which are insufficient or too difficult to interpret, given the current state of research.6 This gap can be filled by a comparative analysis of another building or work of art. By comparing particular elements (forms, shapes, spatial designs, and many minor aspects such as construction methods, proportions, patterns, style) against similar structures, one can find answers to basic questions concerning likely cultural circles the models originated from, and/or the likely date of construction of a building. As a result we can begin to discern meanings contained within works of art. While applying such methods to the art of post-Roman Europe will certainly generate clues, they will always be questionable with regard to Christian art of Younger Europe between the ninth and eleventh centuries. Almost every element of a work of art in this region had to be imported. While small movable property migrated with its users, churches and palaces had to be constructed on site. Their functional and aesthetic design had to be created on site but using expertise from outside. Hence the question: how many codes within a building’s form, shape, or its ideo­logical content were consciously and deliberately made by their founders?7 The architecture of the oldest cathedral in Poznań is a case in point. Its remains have been analyzed from an archaeo­logical and architectural point of view, and subject to thorough scrutiny. Results prove that the building was a triple-aisled basilica with externally identical yet internally different designs for its east and west sections. The east part featured a choir above a crypt; the west section across the aisle contained a central 4  Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies. This classic analysis should now be read alongside later writings by Jussen, “The King’s Two Bodies Today” and Premodern Rulership and Contemporary Political Power, ed. Mroziewicz and Soczyński.

5  We must proceed carefully: we might encounter a multi-layered narrative, the construct offered by the original author of a text which may be reinforced or deconstructed by subsequent historians or readers: White, The Content of the Form; Topolski, Narrare la storia. We can see this by comparing the Chronicles of Gallus Anonymus to its interpretations, analyzing what the chronicler wrote, for whom, and why: Tomasz Jasiński, O pochodzeniu Galla Anonima (Kraków: Avalon, 2008); Jacek Banaszkiewicz, “Gallus as a Credible Historian, or Why the Bio­graphy of Boleslaw the Brave is as Authentic and Far from Grotesque as Boleslaw the Wrymouths,” in Gallus Anonymous and his Chronicle in the Context of Twelfth-Century Historio­graphy from the Perspective of the Latest Research, edited by Krzysztof Stopka (Krakow: Polish Academy of Arts and Sciences, 2010), 19–34; Wiszewski, Domus Bolezlai. 6  New techniques such as electrical resistance or carbon dating offer us new possibilities.

7  Kalinowski, Speculum artis, 13–56.



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arcade, probably supporting a gallery. North and south annexes served as a low transept.8 Most probably, the form was selected in the late tenth century.9 According to textual evidence, the building was proclaimed a cathedral in 1000, and Unger appointed its first bishop.10 Further analyses and interpretations of available sources have proven that Unger had been an abbot at Memleben, and was responsible for commencing construction works on a monumental church in Poznań.11 Given these facts, formal similarities between the two churches should come as no surprise. However, we should note the choice of detailed forms influencing the spatial design of both interiors in the context of their respective functions (for which see figure 16 above). In Memleben, the form of the building reflected its monastic needs and purposes. The building was part of a residence owned by the dynasty ruling the contemporaneous world, the Stift to which the church belonged expected to have undisturbed access to the building and to be able to maintain the remembrance of the ruling family.12 Its forms correspond to those employed in other churches of an identical status and function: triple-aisled basilicas with both choirs raised on crypts and two square-plan transepts facing each other.13 The same concept was adapted in Poznań to meet the requirements of a new cathedral. The building was designed to serve the bishop and ruler rather than a religious community. Consequently, its layout was altered, the twin choirs replaced with other formal solutions, a gallery replacing the choir raised over the west section crypt. The east choir, also raised over a crypt, referenced the magnificence of the bishop, his throne placed in the church’s east area.14 Across the aisle, the west gallery contained 8  On the current state of research on the Memleben abbey: Bukowska, Najstarsza katedra w Poznaniu.

9  As confirmed by research (2008–2010) in the Institute of Archaeo­logy and Ethno­logy of the Polish Academy of Sciences in Warsaw under professor Przemysław Urbańczyk, www.iaepan.edu. pl/projekty/kamien/sesja1/poznan.html (accessed on June 1, 2019). 10  On the appointment of Unger see Jurek, Biskupstwo Poznańskie, 78–88.

11  Johannes Fried, “Theophanu und die Slawen. Bemerkungen zur Ostpolitik der Kaiserin,” in Kaiserin Theophanu, ed. von Euw and Schreiner, 2:361–70 at 365.

12  Vogtherr, “Grablege und Königskloster.” The monastery was granted imperial abbey status; requiring confirmation by papal privilege, it did not fall under the jurisdiction of the local bishop. On one hand, this is indicative of Cluniac-type reform; on the other, it follows a strong trend introduced by the Saxon dynasty—who founding religious communities at their principal residences (for which see chapter 2 above). 13  The question has been discussed by Arnold Wolff, “Maß und Zahl am Alten Dom zu Köln,” in Baukunst des Mittelalters in Europa: Festschrift für Erich Kubach, ed. Franz J. Much (Stuttgart: Stuttgarter Gesellschaft für Kunst und Denkmalpflege, 1988), 97–106. Formal similarities between the church in Memleben and the cathedral basilica in Magdeburg are intriguing: Gerd Althoff, “Die Gründung des Erzbistums Magdeburgs,” in Otto der Große. Magdeburg und Europa, ed. Puhle, 1:344–52; Ernst Schubert and Gerard Leopold, “Magdeburgs ottonischer Dom,” in Otto der Große. Magdeburg und Europa, ed. Puhle, 1:353–66. 14  Monica Chiellini Nari, “Cathedra,” in Encyclopedia of the Middle Ages, ed. André Vauchez et al., 2 vols. (Cambridge: Clarke, 2000), 1:257–58; Jan Frederik Niermeyer, Mediae latinitatis lexicon minus: lexique latin médiéval-français, rev. ed. and Abbreviationes et index fontium by C. van de Kieft (Leiden: Brill, 1997), 158. The throne occupied by a bishop when exercising the authority

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a throne signifying christomimetes (he whose human and divine nature evoked Christ).15 Consequently, the basilica can be read as a stage set, providing appropriate surroundings for liturgical rites as well as ceremonies highlighting the splendour of the ruler’s prestige and dominance.16 Similar criteria may be applied in considering the main reconstruction of St. Vitus’ Church in Prague in the second half of the eleventh century. Originally, in the 920s, when the church had still been the stronghold’s main place of worship, it was a rotunda comprising an aisle with an ambulatory, terminating in an east-facing apse (see figure 20 below). Yet given the changed status of the Hrad of Prague, becoming the central seat of ducal authority in the early tenth century, work started to rebuild the rotunda. The rotunda aisle was expanded to include a new south-facing apse with the aim of making it the resting place for St. Wenceslaus’ relics moved there (translatio) around 938.17 These remains of a martyr duke of the house of Přemyslid were translated from the church in Stará Boleslav, former seat of the Přemyslids, to the new one in Hrad. We might expect further reconstruction in the 970s when Prague was selected as a bishopric, the rotunda gaining a new cathedral function. Yet this change of status and function did not influence the church’s architectural form in any way. A northern-exposure apse was only added to the aisle of the rotunda in the 1040s, in order to provide a suitable location for the relics of St. Adalbert and the Five Martyred Brothers, taken from Gniezno in 1039 by the Přemyslid Bretislav I. Extensive changes to the cathedral’s architecture would only be initiated twenty years later. In 1060, Spytihněv II, Duke of Bohemia, decided to rebuild the cathedral. Works were finished in 1096 with the help of Břetislav II, Duke of Bohemia.18 This was when the Prague cathedral finally gained the form of a bipolar, triple-aisle, transept basilica, terminating to the east in a multicomponent structure. The central section was developed with a chancel elevated upon a triple-aisle dual-part crypt. The entire east section, a presbytery terminating in an apse, was extended eastward, and flanked with non-uniform structures. The north section was developed with an apse terminating in a side aisle; the south-facing rotunda apse remained in unchanged form as the building’s south façade. The west section was developed with a chancel elevated upon a five-aisled crypt and terminating in a west-facing apse, and two transept arms designed on a floor plan resembling a square. of his office or celebrating liturgy was originally referred to as καθέδρα or cathedra. In time, the edifice housing the bishop’s throne (καθέδρα, cathedra) assumed the name of the symbolic piece of furniture; consequently, the building’s function rather than its form or size determined its name. 15  Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, 51–65.

16  Graczyńska, “The Cathedrals.”

17  Frolí�k et al., Nejstarší sakrální architektura, 145–207; Kalhous, Anatomy of a Duchy, 240–65, esp. 240n313.

18  The main altar was consecrated in 1094, the entire cathedral in 1096: Anežka Merhautová et al., Katedrála sv. Víta v Praze. K 650. výročí založení (Prague: Academia, 1994), 16–24; Dušan Foltýn and Jana Maří�kovä-Kubková, “Hrobová kaple kní�žete Břetislava II. při bazilice sv. Ví�ta, Václava, Vojtěcha a Panny Marie na Pražském hradě,” in Castrum Pragense 6, ed. Jana Maří�ková-Kubková (Prague: Archeo­logický ústav AV Č� R, 2005), 89–98.



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Furthermore, the eastern exposure of the transept was flanked with two square-plan towers containing stairwells.19 While the rebuilding of the cathedral to a new design went considerably over time, researchers have argued that the individual forms as part of the whole proves the consistency of the architectural concept drafted in the 1060s.20 The adoption and knowledge of the basilica’s overall design allowed attempts at interpreting the message within any changes. Firstly, the gravity of the interior was shifted to the church’s east section. This space was previously dominated by the chancel, extending well into the nave and reaching the second of its six spans (see figure 21 below). It was flanked by two spaces completely different in structure and composition: the north aisle terminating in an apse, and the south aisle with a chapel area delineated at the eastern extremity. This is why Spytihněv II’s decision to leave the area unchanged and in situ is particularly noteworthy: the new basilica seems to have been developed around this particular section. Secondly, an analysis of the basilica overall suggests that the west section dominates the entire development externally, the effect reached through combining various elements in terms of form, shape, and the ratios of heights. Was the accentuation of this particular section of the oldest church on Hradčany, including the key west area comprising somewhat outmoded architectural forms, truly consistent in terms of ideo­logy? The entire formal and ideo­logical change was initiated by the duke; following longstanding disputes with his brothers, he had finally seized full power as senior prince, in line with the last will and testament of his father, Břetislav I, Duke of Bohemia. Spytihněv II had also taken action to secure a crown—to no avail. That particular symbol of authority had to be replaced with something else. The duke secured papal permission to wear a mitre (mitra romana) during church feastdays.21 A distinctive symbol, it also altered the nature of the duke’s power; yet its manifestation could only coincide with moments strictly defined by the rhythm of the liturgical calendar. We might conclude then that the duke’s bold and long-term aspirations were best expressed in the forms chosen for the cathedral. All the architectural forms were drawn from imperial foundations across Rhineland. This is how a Přemyslid duke defined and demonstrated his power, referencing monastic churches (such as those in Reichenau-Mittelzell, Gernrode, Fulda, or Hildesheim) rather than prototypes from imperial cathedrals.22 Moreover, the expanse of the new cathedral was designed to include a part of the older building (the southern rotunda apse) as the resting place of St. Wenceslaus’ relics, which certainly served a specific purpose, linking Spytihněv to St. Wenceslaus by their shared genealogy. We now see clear parallels between Poznań and Prague. Neither the Piast nor the Přemyslid founders drew on architectural models based on cathedrals—churches where bishops held sway.23 The forms they adopted were drawn from prestigious cen19  Frolí�k et al., Nejstarší sakrální architektura, 214–17.

20  Anežka Merhautová-Livorová, “Biskupský Kostel na Pražském Hradě,” Umění 21 (1973): 81–92. 21  Bernhard Sirch, Der Ursprung der bischöflichen Mitra und päpstlichen Tiara (St. Ottilien: EOS, 1975). 22  Graczyńska and Kamińska, “Katedra Krakowska versus Katedra Praska,” 79.

23  Graczyńska, “The Cathedrals,” 47; Iogna-Prat, La Maison Dieu, 518–37.

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tres with direct connections to royal houses: abbey churches or religious communities. These formal similarities made an ideo­logical connection to their prototype, namely sites of prayer for the well-being of the monarch and his dynasty, and where the greatest attention was being made to the founder.24 We have seen how knowledge of architectural paradigms and their ideo­logical content spared their creators the need to find new solutions.25 It gave them freedom to select forms and codes, and use them to create works of art containing messages comprehensible to onlookers,26 especially those conversant with this “language.” In the context of the ruling dynasties in Younger Europe between the ninth and the eleventh centuries, this skill was very important, allowing rulers to design messages and verbalize their power. Architecture served as an appropriate stage for ceremonies and liturgy, with the glory of rulers duly proclaimed—yet it also became a permanent manifestation of their power.

24  Richard Krautheimer, “Santo Stefano Rotondo in Rome and the Rotunda of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem,” in Studies in Early Christian Medi­eval and Renaissance Art, ed. Richard Krautheimer (New York: New York University Press, 1969), 69–106.

25  A famous sentence by Hermann Heimpel merits citing here: “Literaturkenntnis schützt vor Neuentdeckungen und ist das Elementarste an jenem zweckmäßigen Verhalten, das man etwas hochtrabend historische Methode zu nennen pflegt.” As far as Christian architecture emerging between the ninth and eleventh centuries is concerned, the princedoms of Younger Europe were inspired by the achievements of Carolingian and Ottonian architects, who themselves drew from ancient tradition: Hermann Heimpel, “[Rezension zu] Friedrich August Freiherr von der Heydte: Die Geburtsstunde des souveränen Staates […],” Göttingische Gelehrte Anzeigen 208 (1954): 197–221 at 210. 26  Aron Gurevich, The Origins of European Individualism, trans. from the Russian by Katharine Judelson (Oxford: Blackwell 1995; Polish translation: Jednostka w Dziejach Europy (Średniowiecze) (Gdańsk: Marabut, 2002), 21ff.).

Chapter 7

FORM VERSUS FUNCTION

Composing forms attuned

to the function of a building was a skill increasingly employed by trhe dynasties in Younger Europe, especially the Piasts, Přemyslids, and Á� rpáds. It was originally one developed by architects and builders, capable of comprehending the requirements and designing a suitable solution—or taking existing examples and adapting them to the local conditions. Any architectonic form will inevitably carry semantic codes; furthermore, once combined with other forms, it will always need to serve the purpose defined at its creation. In the case of religious buildings, the particular combination of form and function(s) reflected the ideo­logical purposes and needs of the authorities and the liturgy. In the region and period that we are examining, from the ninth to eleventh centuries in what we are calling Younger Europe, the newly Christian rulers applied these elements with an ever-greater awareness of how to build a space of faith, in both the literal and metaphorical senses. Everything was connected under the need for the salvation of the soul.1 In this context we should also analyze the founding of cathedrals—the most important places for both ecclesiastical and secular powers. The bishop’s role and significance and the place where he discharged his duties were all associated with the ruler and his position in both domestic and international politics. A ruler commissioning works that would change the form of a cathedral might reflect an intention to redeem his sins, or create a new image or change his existing image, and we have seen this already in the construction of new churches. Such actions could involve the preserving or highlighting of a special place (genius loci), or maintaining earlier forms of architecture in ways to prevent the erasure of the original codes and their associated ideo­logical meanings.2

1  From the moment of their conversion and baptism into Christianity, most of the public acts by these rulers and their courts were connected to spreading Christianity across the region. Each act, from the purchase by Bolesław the Brave from the murdering Prussians of the body of the region’s missionary saint, Adalbert of Prague (Vojtěch Slavní�kovec) to the establishment of independent Church organizations in Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád lands and the subsequent foundations of monasteries and abbeys can be cynically interpreted as just instruments of power—yet one should not forget that power at the time comprised a significant religious aspect, and that faith gave power to the powers: Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, 157–253; Klaniczay, Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses, 19–61; Al-Azmeh and Bak, eds., Monotheistic Kingship; Zupka, Ritual and Symbolic Communication, 45–49; Gnieźnieńskie koronacje królewskie i ich środkowoeduropejski kontekst, ed. Józef Dobosz et al. (Gniezno: Urząd Miasta w Gnieźnie, Instytut Kultury Europejskiej UAM w Gnieźnie, Instytut Historii UAM w Poznaniu, 2011). 2  Erwin Panofsky, Studies in Icono­logy. Humanistic Themes in the Art of the Renaissance (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1939), 3–19.

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Figure 20. Plan of the stages in development of the rotunda on Hradčany Hill, Prague.

Naturally, Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád rulers took advantage of these opportunities. Three bishoprics and cathedrals established in the tenth and early eleventh centuries were subjected to such treatment. The bishop’s residence and its location were taken from places already associated with Christianity: previously established strongholds with existing palaces and churches. In most cases, the construction of a new episcopal church would begin shortly after the appointment of a bishop; or construction could already have been in progress with completion imminent.3 At some places, churches existed already—and we will see this take place at Prague, Pécs, Poznań, or Gniezno. These might undergo some reconstruction, but it was more their function than their form that would be changed in the decades after their gaining a status as bishopric and their promotion by the ruling dynasty. 3  According to written evidence and archaeo­logical research, new churches, the construction of which was initiated by the establishment of a bishopric, under the Piasts were built in Kraków and Wrocław. On Kraków, see Zbigniew Pianowski, “‘Który Bolesław?’—problem początku architektury monumentalnej w Małopolsce,” in Początki architektury monumentalnej w Polsce, ed. Tomasz Janiak and Dariusz Stryniak (Gniezno: Muzeum Poczatków Państwa Polskiego, 2004), 257–82 at 258–63. On Wrocław, see Edmund Małachowicz, “Przedromański kościół i pierwsza katedra we Wrocławiu,” Kwartalnik Architektury i Urbanistyki 44, no. 4 (1999): 191–206; Paweł Rzeźnik and Adam Ż� urek, “Wrocław około roku 1000,” in Polska na przełomie I i II tysiąclecia, ed. Szczęsny Skibiński (Poznań: Stowarzyszenie Historyków Sztuki, 2001), 335–52; Firlet and Pianowski, “Familia ecclesiae na grodach wawelskim i praskim.”   No architectural remains have been found in Kołobrzeg. Moreover, as archaeo­logical dating suggests, the construction of the cathedral church in Poznań started within two decades of the founding of the bishopric. According to experts in the Poznań basilica, its construction commenced with the function of a cathedral already in mind: Bukowska, Najstarsza katedra w Poznaniu, 259–62.   Written records and excavations suggest that in the Hungarian Kingdom, churches were erected in Esztergom, Veszprém, Győr, Eger, Kalocsa, Vác, and Alba Iulia during successive stages of forming an episcopal network. No architectural remains exist to help us understand the process in Bihar, Csanád, Nitra, or Zagreb: Szakács, “The Research on Romanesque Architecture in Hungary,” 31–44; Béla Zsolt Szakács, “Town and Cathedral in Medi­eval Hungary,” Hortus Artium Medi­evalium 12 (2006): 207–20; Béla Zsolt Szakács, “Cathedrals in the Early 13th Century in Hungary,” in Secolul al XIII-lea: pe Meleagurile Locuite de Către Români, ed. Adrian Andrei Rusu (Cluj-Napoca: Mega, 2006), 179–205.



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Figure 21. Plan of the basilica on Hradčany Hill, Prague.

The cathedral in Prague is the earliest exemplar of this process. The Bohemian bishopric with its seat on Hradčany Hill, or simply Hrad, in Prague was established in the final decades of the tenth century. The function of cathedral church for the bishop was assumed by a rotunda previously used as a church for the inhabitants of the stronghold.4 Originally, its form referenced the basic architectural style of a nave with an apse attached from the east. The process of adding new elements and introducing changes to the layout was completed in four stages. Over the years 950 to 1060, the rotunda probably became a triple-apse structure with a west annex, its form remaining unknown. Additional apses housed the burials of St. Wenceslaus and St. Adalbert in the south and north apse, respectively. The west annex probably featured a gallery. A complete change in form took place between the years 1060 and 1096, initiated by Spytihněv II, Duke of Bohemia, and completed under Břetislav II, Duke of Bohemia.5 4  Frolí�k et al., Nejstarší sakrální architektura, 145–207.

5  The main altar was consecrated in 1049, but the full cathedral had to wait two more years: Foltýn and Maří�kovä-Kubková, “Hrobová kaple kní�žete Břetislava,” 89–90.

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Figure 22. Plan of the rotunda at Gniezno.

By that point, Prague cathedral had entirely changed its appearance from a triple-apse rotunda into a bipolar, triple-aisled basilica, complex in both its interior and external appearance.6 The cathedral in Gniezno is another example of such radical architectural modification upon change in function: stronghold church to seat of the bishopric. The stronghold became the seat of the archbishopric following the Gniezno Congress of 1000. In resembling to Prague, the local church built much earlier was used to the purpose.7 Originally, it was a rotunda with an east-facing apse, the time of its construction dated to the second half of the tenth century—it was most probably founded by Mieszko I. Two new annexe had been added to the rotunda before reconstruction works began in the first half of the eleventh century. The northeastern annex was adjacent to the apse and nave of the rotunda from the north, the other one probably constructed post–997. Quartercircular in form, it was added to the rotunda nave from the southwest. The remains of Vojtěch Slavní�kovec (St. Adalbert), who died a martyr’s death during a Christianization mission to Prussia, were deposited in the annex.8 Many indications suggest that after 1000 building began in and around the church. Yet they were completed only in the second half of the eleventh century.9 Unfortunately, the absence of written records precludes identification of the ruling Piast directly sup6  Frolí�k et al., Nejstarší sakrální architektura, 214–17.

7  Michałowski, Zjazd Gnieźnieński, 99–114.

8  Labuda, Święty Wojciech, 192–99, 229–38.

9  On the excavations of architectural remains, see Tomasz Janiak, “Katedra gnieźnieńska we wczesnym średniowieczu” in Gniezno: Wczesnośredniowieczny zespół grodowy, ed. Tomasz Sawicki



Form versus Function

Figure 23. Plan of the basilica at Gniezno, from 1064.

Figure 24. Plan of the basilica at Gniezno, from 1097.

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porting the project. More information on the subsequent developments of the cathedral’s form is provided by written and archaeo­logical evidence. Due to the political and religious crisis hanging over the Piast dominion throughout the 1040s, the whole cathedral required reconstruction. Casimir the Restorer initiated the rebuilding which continued until 1064, when the new church was consecrated by Bolesław the Generous. While the cathedral’s form was entirely changed, the building was on the exact spot of its predecessor, replicating its structure. The new church was a triple-aisled basilica without a transept. Its nave and aisles terminated in apses, the building closed off in the west with an upright façade. The location of the previous altar, where relics of St. Adalbert and the Five Martyred Brothers had been deposited at the end of the tenth century, was marked out along the axis of the nave. This was simply of symbolical importance because the relics had already, in 1038, been transferred to Prague.10 Gniezno Cathedral was further reconstructed at the end of the eleventh century on the initiative of Ladislaus I Herman. This work was completed in the first half of the twelfth century.11 Unlike previous works that involved complete change (from rotunda to basilica), these changes were less radical. The central area of the east section (extended eastward almost in its entirety) was the main part modified in the triple-aisle transeptless basilica. The form of the church’s west section was modified as well. Its tripartite block consisted of a central part with a gallery and two flanking towers with staircases. The central part of the nave housed an extended altar structure, probably a memorial in the form of a martyr’s tomb.12 The cathedral in Pécs is another example of a church rebuilt as a cathedral, albeit completely different to the projects in Prague and Gniezno.13 It is thought that the bishopric was established by Stephen I Á� rpád in 1009. The bishopric was founded together with the dioceses of Győr and Eger and the archbishopric of Kalocsa as part of the process of extending the network of bishoprics across the Hungarian Kingdom.14 The creation of a diocese based on Pécs did not include any effort to build a church. Until the 1040s, and Magdalena Bis (Warszawa: Instytut Archeoligii i Etno­logii PAN, 2018), esp. 208–16. Janiak also covers the academic debates and historio­graphy.

10  Relics were removed from their original location (at the southwestern annex of the rotunda) by Břetislav I and transferred to Prague in 1038. Along the same axis, east of the so-called confessio (memorial) of St. Adalbert, there was a brick tomb of a man, not marked out, in the east choir. The location and form of the tomb indicate someone of high rank.

11  Written sources have revealed the exact consecration date (1097) of a part of the rebuilt cathedral, linked to the miraculous discovery St. Adalbert’s relics. The ceremony was attended by Ladislaus I Herman. 12  On changes to the overall concept, see Janiak, “Katedra gnieźnieńska,” 217–30, esp. 221–22.

13  Tomás Fedeles, “Eine Bischofsresidenz in Südungarn im Mittelalter: die Burg zu Fünfkirchen (Pécs),” Quaestiones medii aevi novae 13 (2008): 179–205; Krisztina Homvasi, “The Medi­eval Cathedral of Pécs,” in The Art of Medi­eval Hungary, ed. Barral i Altet et al., 367–73. 14  See “Esztergom és Kalocsa kapcsolata a 11–12. században: Az egységes magyar egyháztartomány megosztása (The Relationship between Esztergom and Kalocsa in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries: The Division of a Unified Hungarian Diocese),” chap. 9 of László Koszta, Írásbeliség és egyháztörténet. Fejezetek a középkori magyar egyház történetéből (Szerző: JATE, 2007), 57–63.



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Figure 25. Plan of the basilica at Pécs, after 1100.

the bishops in Pécs seem to have used a structure in the grounds of an early Christian cemetery.15 Building the new cathedral is linked to Peter Orseolo, who was to be buried there in 1046.16 The new cathedral church founded by the king was most probably constructed to the design of a basilica without a transept, its east section terminating in an apse, aisles terminating in upright walls. The basilica’s west section terminated in an upright simple façade.17 The original location of the royal remains is unknown due to a fire that ravaged the cathedral in 1064, and its subsequent numerous reconstructions. While the building was also reconstructed to the triple-aisled basilica without transept design, its form was changed and remodelled.18 Flanked by square-plan towers from the 15  As recent archaeo­logical research shows, it was probably the so-called Cella trichora rather than the Cella septichora that was the place of worship and used as an episcopal church: Csaba Pozsárkó et al., “Sopianae: a Cella Septichora és Környéke Beszámoló a 2005–2006. évi Régészeti Feltárásról,” Ókor 6, no. 3 (2007): 84–90; Gergely Buzás, “A pécsi székesegyházak a román korban,” Archeo­logia—Altum Castrum Online (2013): 1–43; Buzás, Gergely and Tóth Zsolt, “Lehetett-e a Cella Septichora Pécs első középkori székesegyháza?,” Archeo­logia—Altum Castrum Online (2015): 2–32; Zsolt Tóth, “Jelentés, pécsi székesegyház nyugati oldala előtt, a Cella Trichora I.-től északra végzett megelőző (hitelesí�tő) régészeti feltárásról. (2013.10.30.–2013.12.11.) és a Cella Trichora I. védőépületének bontása során végzett régészeti felügyeletről (2014.01.08. - 2014.03.19.),” Archeo­ logia—Altum Castrum Online (2015): 2–31.

16  The process of building the basilica itself is difficult to document. The discussion and state of research was presented by Dániel Bagi, Królowie węgierscy w Kronice Galla Anonima (Kraków: Polska Akademia Nauk, 2008), 133–40. 17  Buzás, “A pécsi székesegyházak.”

18  Havasi, “The Medi­eval Cathedral of Pécs,” 367–73.

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north and south, its east section terminated in three apses. The entire section, up to the third span of aisles, was elevated above a crypt. It was a vast, five-aisle space, which also included the lowest parts of the towers. There was a recess in the western wall of the crypt. Exactly above it, the choir housed an expansive structure of the Holy Cross Altar.19 The recess and altar are located in the central area of the church. From the west, the basilica presents a flat façade with square towers, similar to the east part of the church. Towers housed staircases, most probably leading to the west gallery.20 The reconstruction of the cathedral was probably finalized around the year 1100.

Conclusion

The work on all three cathedrals at Prague, Gniezno, and Pécs was undertaken by rulers who not only came from the reigning dynasty but were also descendants of Christian rulers. Their initiatives not only strengthened the prestige of the cathedral and the bishopric itself but were a manifestation of their power—the power of a Christian prince seeking to fortify his authority, and improve his chances for the salvation of his soul. Coupled with political and diplomatic circumstances, the salvatory factor seems to have been key when deciding to alter the physical and ideo­logical structure of cathedrals. Spytihněv II, Ladislaus I Herman, and Peter Orseolo’s decisions to rebuild individual cathedrals and remodel their interiors also seem to suggest this aim. The rotunda in Prague served as a cathedral as well as the depository of the most sacred relics of the Přemyslid dynasty: of St. Vitus, St. Wenceslaus, and St. Adalbert. Each martyr had been a guarantor of their rulers’ authority. Martyrs supported the kings with their intercessions and testified to the legitimacy of their earthly power. Although the reconstruction of Prague Cathedral was completed at the end of the eleventh century, the most important moment of its architectural change seems to be under Spytihněv II. His situation is indicative of royal motives. The catehdral reconstruction was started by a prince who, upon assuming the throne, faced a period of turbulent dynastic disputes caused by Břetislav I having partitioned the dominion on his deathbed. The construction of the monumental basilica began once the prince’s political and diplomatic situation had become stable and was at its height. Spytihněv II obtained papal permission to wear a mitre (mitra romana) on church feastdays, in lieu of the crown which he had 19  Both the structure of the altar and the entrance to the crypt were embellished with sculpted ornamentation with an elaborate icono­graphic program: Melinda Tóth, “A pécsi székesegyház köszobrászati dí�szí�tése a románkorban: I–34, 63–68, 70–74,” in Pannonia Regia: müvészet a Dunántúlon 1000–1541; Magyar Nemzeti Galéria 1994 október–1995 február / Kunst und Architektur in Pannonien 1000–1541]: Ungarische Nationalgalerie, Oktober 1994–Februar 1995 (Budapest: MNG, 1994), 123–47 (also see her discussion of a mural fragment at 219–20); Gergely Buzás, “Az egyházmegye épí�tészeti emlékei,” in A pécsi egyházmegye története. 1. A középkor évszázadai (1009–1543), ed. Tamás Fedeles et al. (Pécs: Fény, 2009), 611–713 at 622–41.

20  It seems likely that this part of the church was built later, around 1200. However, in order to preserve the proportions of the building, works presumably conformed to the original design, subsequent changes affecting details only.



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not received from the emperor.21 The boldness and far-sightedness of the duke’s project are reflected in forms chosen for the cathedral and drew on imperial foundations in the Rhineland.22 The forms show a consistency in the architectural concept, which was carried out from 1060 until the end of the eleventh century.23 Ladislaus I Herman’s decision to reconstruct Gniezno Cathedral and its partial consecration in 1097 should probably be interpreted as a typical votive foundation.24 Having come to power after the exile of Bolesław the Generous, Herman engaged in numerous monumental buildings.25 Yet his works in Gniezno deserve special attention—he intended to mark St. Adalbert’s original burial site and endow the basilica with a monumental appearanc. Previously, all the cathedral’s elements had focused on the memorial altar; his new concept involving the formal accents, the volume, and the interior design were now more balanced and evenly distributed between the altar, east choir, and the magnificent west-facing body. The building gained a form similar to those used in imperial basilicas.26 It seems that Peter Orseolo’s involvement in the reconstruction of the cathedral in Pécs and the church in Buda should be interpreted as an attempt to confirm his rightful place among rulers of Hungary, seated upon the throne of Stephen.27 Firstly, Buda and Pécs, both associated with Christianity, had a pedigree dating back to 1001. Forms chosen for Pécs in the 1040s referenced north Italian basilicas in their simplicity— yet reconstruction works commenced post-1064 afforded them a monumental form typical of other basilicas of the period (Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek) and

21  Sirch, Der Ursprung der Bischöflichen Mitra.

22  Graczyńska and Kamińska, “Katedra Krakowska versus Katedra Praska,” 79.

23  Anežka Merhautová-Livorová, “Biskupský Kostel na Pražském Hradě,” Umění 21 (1973): 81–92.

24  Similar circumstances have been identified for the foundation of Lubin abbey by Bolesław the Generous (i.e., a votive offering for his coronation). The rhetoric analyzed by Dániel Bagi suggests that such acts could also be associated with penances: for instance, foundations for St. Giles sponsored by Ladislas Á� rpád, building the abbey in Somogyvár, and Ladislaus I Herman’s votive offering to the abbey of Saint-Gilles-du-Gard: Dániel Bagi, Królowie węgierscy, 124–26; Althoff, Die Macht der Rituale, 99–116. 25  Zbigniew Dalewski, who points out that the Kraków Cathedral was founded during the same period, argues along similar lines. He believes Ladislaus I Herman, ruler of the two leading centres of dynastic power intended it as a symbolic gesture: Zbigniew Dalewski, Władza, przestrzeń, ceremoniał: Miejsce i uroczystość inauguracji władcy w Polsce średniowiecznej do końca XIV w. (Warszawa: Instytyt Historii PAN, 1996), 68. Benyskiewicz afrgues that only St. Adalbert’s confessio may be seen as such a gesture—its 1097 consecration should be interpreted as an attempt to alleviate the tense contemporaneous situation: Krzysztof Benyskiewicz, Władysław Herman: Książę Polski 1079–1102 (Kraków: Avalon, 2014), 218–20. 26  The present author has undertaken research into the formal inspirations and ideo­logical content of the basilica. 27  Basing himself on written records, Bagi presents this view in Królowie Węgierscy, 140.

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Somogyvár).28 Their shape suggests that north Italian forms were interlaced with references to imperial centres, such as Co­logne.29 The examples we have studied her suggest that basic form or scale was the least important aspect for cathedral churches.30 Attention was chiefly paid to the cathedral’s location and detailed elements, especially the bishop’s throne and an altar housing relics of the patron saint. Since the early ages of Christianity, both were key to episcopal churches.31 In Younger Europe between the ninth and eleventh centuries, there was a need to identify a patron saint for the diocese and for ideo­logical content to be signified by the building. Cathedrals were founded only once a ruler was settled in place. This is how a bishopric would combine the earthly manifestations of a monarch’s Christian power with centuries-old traditions of worship. Later formal developments to the cathedral only served to intensify and emphasize the Christian features of power, and the needs of the rulers.

28  Buzás, “Az egyházmegye épí�tészeti emlékei.”

29  Especially considering the composition of elements in the east choir at Pécs Cathedral. However, pinpointing all formal and ideo­logical inspirations and influences requires a deeper analysis of the basilica’s architectural form: Ernő Marosi, “Művészet a királyi udvarban és udvari művészet az ország közékori közepén,” in In medio regni Hungariae. Régészeti, művészettörténeti és történeti kutatások “az ország közepén”, ed. Elek Benkő and Krisztina Orosz (Budapest: Magyara Tudományos Akadámia Bölcsészettudományi Kutatóközpont Régészeti Intézet, 2015), esp. 40–41.

30  The monumental character of cathedrals is often considered their characteristic feature. One exampled is quoted in Jurek, Biskupstwo Poznańskie, 83: “If Unger remained in office as Poznań bishop, he must have held the position pre-1000. Further proof includes the aforementioned project commenced in 985—to build a church in Poznań that due to its very size and monumental character should obviously be considered a cathedral.” 31  Michałowski, Zjazd Gnieźnieński, 15–89; Halfond, Archaeo­logy of Frankish Church Councils; Brandt, “The Archaeo­logy of Roman Ecclesial Architecture.”

Chapter 8

INTERPRETING FUNCTION

The non-liturgical significance of function in ecclesiastical buildings is

best illustrated by foundations directly connected with ruling sovereigns. Yet between the ninth and eleventh centuries, the Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád lands were no different from other parts of Christian Europe. Foundations elsewhere would always in some way serve a religious purpose. Of course, at that time power was closely associated with Christian spirituality, and the main source of its meaning and sense: any action by the ruling monarch—providing it fitted with the canon of behaviours expected of a Christian ruler—carried a religious aspect.1 However, certain royal gestures can be interpreted as a manifestation of the position of the ruler and other representatives of the “first family.”2 New foundations were most frequent at a coronation or immediately afterwards, which we see in all three lands in the mid-eleventh century. While crises could arise for various reasons, the effect was always to undermine the power and position of the local duke or prince. Depending on the nature of the crisis, the monarch could select such remedies as would allow him to re-seize full authority and appease the situation. In the Piast dynasty, following the destruction of ducal and ecclesiastical power structures during the 1038–1039 invasions, Casimir the Restorer sought his remedy in reorganizing his centres of power. He moved his main seat from Poznań and Gniezno in Greater Poland to Kraków in Lesser Poland. Although Přemyslid rule was more stable than that of the Piasts, the death of Spytihněv II in 1061 triggered an internal dynastic crisis. The power struggle between the sons of Bořivoj I and Spytihněv’s brothers Vratislaus II and Jaromí�r-Gebhard stymied the foreign policies of the Přemyslids for a long time. Vratislaus II was forced to dissociate himself from his brother’s actions and seek the support of papal and imperial forces in countering him.3 After the death of Stephen I in 1038, the Kingdom of Hungary managed to avoid a potential crisis but it did lead to turbulence and local struggles that weakened royal and ecclesiastical power. Ultimately, consolidation of power took place during the long reign 1  As we see by warnings allegedly left by Stephen I Á� rpád of Hungary to his son and heir.

2  Where we have written or archaeo­logical evidence we can conjecture the motives behind the ruler’s behaviour with some certainty. Often we are left with comparative analysis and conjecture, unfortunately.

3  When bishop of Prague, Jaromir-Gebhard often left the diocese for long periods of time, which lefd to tensions between the pope and Vratislaus II, the ruling prince. The bishop seems to have been running his own foreign and domestic policies, wanting to dissolve the Olomouc bishopric and form coalitions against the monarch with his own and Vratislaus’s younger brothers, Otto the Beautiful and Konrad I: David Kalhous, “Jaromí�r-Gebhard, pražský biskup a ří�šský kancléř (1038–1090): několik poznámek k jeho životu,” Mediaevalia historica Bohemica 9 (2003): 27–45.

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Figure 26. Map showing relative locations of the strongholds on Hradčany Hill and Vyšehrad Hill, Prague.

of Vladislav I. He evoked the first Christian king and got Stephen made a saint in 1083, with pope Gregory VII canonizing Stephen’s son Emeric, Gellert [Gerard], Bishop of Csanád, and two hermits of Nitra, Andrew and Benedict, at the same time. Accordingly, Vladislav himself basked in the splendour, wisdom, and holiness of being a descendant of this holy king.4

4  Less than one hundred years after his death, Ladislav I was also canonized by Béla III of Hungary: Gábor Klaniczay, “L’image chevaleresque du Saint Roi au XIIe siècle,” in La Royauté sacrée dans le monde chrétien: bilan et perspectives. Colloque de Royaumont, mars 1989, ed. Alain Boureau and



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Figure 27. Overview of the Wawel Hill stronghold in Kraków.

Each of these political and diplomatic successes required a coherent campaign of broader actions. Among the Piasts, Casimir the Restorer took up residence on Wawel Hill rather than on Poznań’s Ostrów Tumski island. Vratislaus II persevered in his efforts to curb the hostile actions of Jaromí�r-Gebhard. Vladislav I marked the year 1083 with a series of canonizations which would strongly influence the future course of Hungarian history. All these acts were accompanied by religious and secular foundations which became visible symbols of change. Some—such as Báta, Tata, or Szentjobb originally founded by Vladislav I—were either left unfinished or continued by successors, Casimir I the Restorer establishing his residence on Wawel Hill as a case in point.5 Claudio S. Ingerflom (Paris: É� cole des Hautes études en sciences sociales, 1992), 53–62; Klaniczay, Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses, 123–34 and 175–94.

5  On excavations at Báta Abbey, see József Sümegi, “Adalékok Báta, Cikádor és Zebegény monasteriológiájához,” Magyar egyháztörténeti vázlatok 1–2 (1993): 143–54. For Tata and Szentjobb, see Romhányi, Kolostorok és társaskáptalanok, 90–91; Hervay, “A bencések,” in Paradisum plantavit, 461–547 at 515.   The creation of the ducal residence on Wawel Hill is a subject of an ongoing debate over its identity, dating, complex reconstruction, and the source of inspiration of the forms. Important publications include: Zbigniew Pianowski, “Wawel hill as a Place of power in Early Middle Ages.

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Figure 28. Plan of the ducal palace on the Wawel Hill stronghold in Kraków.

The important purposes of these buildings is apparent in the extant architectural remains of the Piast residence, and in the Přemyslids establishing a space separate from the stronghold on Hradčany Hill, with the ducal space being located on nearby Vyšehrad Hill. Upon his return to the Piast lands, Casimir I the Restorer was faced with his fundamental duty of activating the administrative apparatus of power, including the ecclesiastical structures. Thanks to Břetislav’s army having bypassed the area around Kraków, the prince could look for allies locally and settle in peace. He decided to build a residential complex east of the cathedral, on the north slope of Wawel Hill.6 Earlier structures on this part of the hill first had to be razed. These included a building designed with a Greek cross floor plan and most probably a residential building to its west, a similar development to the southeast of the aforementioned two. It consisted of an oblong building, probably residential, connected with a corridor to a square-plan structure. The square building with adjacent corridor were the only ones that survived. The new ducal residence comprised a palatium, simple in form. Damage precludes exact identification of the settlement’s details, save for ascertaining that its outline was rectangular; it remains unknown whether it had been a single- or double-storeyed building, or where its main entrance had been.7 To the west of the building, a church was 10th–12th century,” in Deutsche Königspfalzen. Beiträge zu ihrer historischen und archäo­logischen Erforschung, Bd. 8: Places of Power, Orte der Herrschaft, Lieux du pouvoir (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007), 289–312; Rodzińska-Chorąży, Zespoły rezydencjonalne, 25–26, 45–51, 55–57; Klaudia Stala, Architektura rezydencji wczesnośredniowiecznych w Polsce: próba reinterpretacji dotychczasowych poglądów z uwzględnieniem tła europejskiego (Kraków: Politechniki Krakowskiej im. Tadeusza Kościuszki 2013), 57–61, 103–8.

6  Janusz Firlet and Zbigniew Pianowski, “Przemiany architektury rezydencji monarszej oraz katedry na Wawelu w świetle nowych badań,” Kwartalnik Architektury i Urbanistyki, 44, no. 4 (1999), 207–37; Firlet and Pianowski, “Uwagi o topografii wczesnośredniowiecznego Wawelu.” 7  The remains of “pillars” discovered in the building are still a contentious issue. Their regular



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Figure 29. Plan of the ducal church on the Wawel Hill stronghold in Kraków.

built along its east–west axis, filling the space between the cathedral (post-1000) and the palace.8 The church was a triple-aisled basilica with transept.9 Its east section was a multi-component structure, comprising a choir above a triple-aisled crypt, and galleries in the arms of the transept. The transept arms terminated in apsidioles to the east, their axes aligned with those of the aisles. The apsidioles housed additional altars.10 We now know that the basilica’s west section consisted of three parts. Yet the amount of damage arrangement and shape give rise to two opposing hypotheses regarding their function. One claims they served as supports for a storage space of the horrea type; the other (more likely) one suggests they were remnants of a hypocaustum heating system: Pianowski, “Architektura monumentalna,” 177; Rodzińska-Chorąży, Zespoły rezydencjonalne, 163. A quadrilateral annex would later be added to the shorter east side of the palace; its indoor partitioning suggests that the structure comprised more than one storey: Zbigniew Pianowski, “Dziesiąty kościół wczesnośredniowieczny na Wawelu—kaplica pałacowa pod wezwaniem św. Gereona,” in Ars sine scientia nihil est : księga ofiarowana profesorowi Zygmuntowi Świechowskiemu, ed. Joanna Olenderek (Warszawa: Dom Wydawniczy ARS, 1997), 211–20.

8  The new church was probably preceded by older buildings: Pianowski, “Architektura monumentalna,” 177. 9  The residential complex, especially St. Gereon’s Church, are the subject of ongoing research by the present author and Monika Kamińska.

10  The space in front of the two altars was probably occupied by burials: Zbigniew Pianowski, “Kraków–Wawel, rejony I, V/B, IX, XI, XII, AZP 102–56/–,” Informator Archeo­logiczny 26 (1992): 73–75.

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Figure 30. Plan of the residential building in Vyšehrad stronghold, Prague.

means we cannot say if it was a two-towered façade or a western front with a central tower.11 Forms applied in the palace and church were typical for Ottonian imperial architecture. Basilicas in Hildesheim and Co­logne feature forms similar to those in the church, albeit much more monumental, while features applied in the palace are akin to the imperial residence in Goslar.12 The choice of location for the residence is noteworthy as well. It was developed at the highest elevation on the hill away from buildings connected to the bishop’s court, cathedral, and the bishop’s palace, and positioned in an area already occupied by similar buildings.13 The Přemyslid princes resolved the residence issue in a different way both in terms of topo­graphy and form. When establishing their main seat of power in Prague, they chose Hradčany Hill above a bend in the River Vltava. In our period, the stronghold grew into several sections developed to reflect different assigned functions. Aside from Hradčany, Prague had another stronghold on the Vltava, south of the bend (see figure 26 above). Originally referred to as Vyšehrad, it served as a defensive stronghold as early as the second half of the tenth century. In the early eleventh century, it began gaining importance in relation to Hrad. Having evolved into its final form reflecting its new function conferred upon it by Vratislaus II, Vyšehrad became the ducal stronghold.14 It consisted of two sections located at the highest point of the hill at the time. Rising above the 11  Ż� urowska, “Kraków, Tyniec i benedyktyni,” 230; Teresa Rodzińska-Chorąży, “Wątki Kamienne w Architekturze w Polsce do Schyłku XII wieku,” in III Forum architecturae Poloniae medi­evalis, Kraków 22–24 marca 2013, ed. Klaudia Stala (Kraków: Politechnika Krakowska im. Tadeusza Kościuszki, 2013), 295–318 at 303. 12  Firlet and Pianowski, “Familia ecclesiae na grodach wawelskim i praskim.” 20–21.

13  Traces and remains of activity on Wawel Hill are difficult to interpret, the degree of preservation poor due to the topo­logy. While its limestone rock was covered with a small layer of earth, potentially a source of strati­graphic clues, numerous reconstructions have obliterated most of them: Firlet and Pianowski, “Uwagi o topografii wczesnośredniowiecznego Wawelu.” 14  The stronghold was fortified; archaeo­logical findings suggest that a Přemyslid mint was established there in the late tenth century. For overviews see: Pleszczyński, Przestrzeń i polityka;



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Figure 31. Plan of the Vyšehrad stronghold, Prague.

western slope, a wooden palisade (acropolis) most probably encircled wooden residential buildings. The remaining part of the stronghold was also partitioned and fortified, with a rampart and palisade. Two gates led to the stronghold from the north and east. Vyšehrad’s church stood in the central area of the stronghold’s courtyard.15 The post-1061 reconstruction sponsored by Vratislaus II included the construction of a church (triple-aisled bi-sectioned basilica) just outside the northern fortifications of the stronghold. To the east, its nave and aisles terminated in apses—to the west, only the nave terminated in an apse, the aisles being closed off with upright walls. To the south, the church was connected to the stronghold with a stone passageway—a structure bridging the defensive rampart at the site of the former north gate.16 Královský Vyšehrad. 3. Sborník příspěvků ze semináře Vyšehrad a Přemyslovci, ed. Bořivoj Nechvátal (Prague: Karmelitánské nakladatelství�, 2007); Vyšehrad, ed. Moucha.

15  The presence of a church presumably erected in the central part of the stronghold has not yet been archaeo­logically confirmed. It is believed that its remnants may be located under the Romanesque church of St. John the Evangelist: Varadzin, “Akropole v Raném Středověku,” in Vyšehrad, ed. Moucha, 569–619. 16  Bořivoj Nechvátal, “K interpretaci archeo­logického výzkumu baziliky sv. Petra a Pavla na Vyšehradě,” Archaeo­logia historica 40, no. 2 (2015): 639–59.

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Another church was built on the hill outside the stronghold palisades. Due to the absence of written evidence and strati­graphic ambiguity, the actual date of its construction raises numerous questions. The church was located to the east of the gate. Originally, it was built to a cruciform floor plan (square-delineated Greek cross). The central section of each wall jutted out in an apse, except for the west wall with an adjacent quadrilateral entrance annex. In the late eleventh century, the church was transformed into a triple-aisled basilica with transept. Its east nave terminated in an apse, as did the transept arms. In all likelihood, the west section was left simple and had no gallery. Given the absence of elaborate structures in the east choir and the west section, it is assumed that the church displayed features of Cluniac monastic reform which had infiltrated the Přemyslid lands.17 The location and arrangement of both princely spaces met all the necessary functions, ideo­logical messages concealed in each element. In the case of the Wawel residence, they needed a residence worthy of the rank of its ruler. Concurrently, given the post-1040s period of crisis, they also needed to accentuate the duke’s power as a real political force anchored in the world of contemporary politics and endowed with prestige, emphasizing his Christian credentials.18 This meant that the choice of location, the hill itself and the stronghold, unmistakably referenced its previous princely residential function (genius loci comes to mind). Meanwhile, the use of architectural patterns and forms typical of imperial circles unambiguously connected the founder of the Wawel residence to them. A similar conclusion can be drawn in view of the residence comprising two buildings separate in terms of space and function—a replacement of the single structure typical in older Piast sites. This allowed the Christian prince to simultaneously display his power and his faith, proving himself to be equal to his peers in authority and standing. This showed itself in the prince and his court attending services in the palace chapel. In order to reach the chapel, the ruler had to cross the aforementioned stronghold, in full view of other occupants of the hill.19 Reconstruction of the ducal residence in Vyšehrad began shortly after Vratislaus II succeeded to the throne, during a period of intense conflict with his brother, Jaromir17  Ladislav Varadzin, “Bazilika sv. Vavřince na Vyšehradě: Zhodnocení� dosavadní�ch archeo­ logických výzkumů v bazilice a její�m okol,” in Rotunda sv. Martina a bazilika sv. Vavřince na Vyšehradě. Archeo­logický výzkum, Bořivoj Nechvátal et al. (Prague, Archeo­logický ústav AV Č� R, 2009), 302–99; Bořivoj Nechvátal, “K archeo­logickému Poznání� bazyliky sv. Vavřince na Vyšehradě,” in Královský Vyšehrad. 3. Sborník příspěvků ze semináře Vyšehrad a Přemyslovci, ed. Bořivoj Nechvátal (Prague: Karmelitánské nakladatelství�, 2007), 243–78. 18  I will avoid discussions here on the identity of the founder, and thus the exact dating of the residential complex. Given the current state of archaeo­logical and historical knowledge, it may be declared that this part of the Wawel Hill complex was erected in the mid-eleventh century. In all probability, all works had been completed by the late eleventh century. 19  Magnificent passages from the palace to the palace chapel have a longstanding tradition, dating back to the early days of the ninth century and the imperial complex built in Aachen by Charlemagne. While there is no evidence that the Piast rulers were mimicking Aachen, they were certainly aware of rituals followed by other Christian rulers, having adopted similar customs as part of their own cultural code well before 1000.



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Gephard. The monarch established a second centre of authority traditionally associated with princely power. Firstly, Vyšehrad played an important role in the Přemyslid dynastic legend and was associated with their ancestors, Přemysl and Libuše. Secondly, the Vyšehrad treasury held Přemysl’s insignia which were used during enthronement ceremonies of successive rulers.20 Once Vratislaus II founded the church, it became the natural celebratory venue. The importance of the stronghold and the basilica was confirmed in annual celebrations attended by ruling princes; during the Easter service; and through the establishing of the Vyšehrad chapter, soon to be made exempt from the authority of the Bishop of Prague. All these gestures prove beyond doubt that Vratislaus II and his successors intentionally took advantage of their capacity to display their power as legitimate rulers of Bohemia, independent of the Bishop of Prague. Neither Casimir I the Restorer nor Vratislaus II showed any hesitation when it came to the use of venues associated with ducal traditions to highlight their standing. As proven by both exemplars of ducal secular and ecclesiastical foundations, their form was less important than their function, especially when we see palace chapels located in close proximity to cathedrals, or the ducal chapter located on the hill facing the cathedral chapter. Both residences can be seen as stage sets for formal ceremonies as well as daily displays of ducal authority.

20  While enthronement ceremonies of Bohemian rulers were probably held on Vyšehrad before the 1070s, the shortage of written evidence precludes their exact identification or interpretation.

Chapter 9

READING ARCHITECTURE

For an architectural historian, the environment in which a piece of architec-

ture was created and functioned is a fundamental task. In this book we have presented hypotheses for why architectural forms and patterns were created and what their functions were. We have made use of historical data and of archaeo­logical research, such as traces in the strati­graphic system of the studied area, providing information about the needs of dwellers of a given territory at a given time.1 In the case of what we have called Younger Europe, given the shortage of written evidence, archaeo­logy will be crucial for future research into the social, cultural, and religious developments of the local population.2 Artefacts, both produced locally and those imported, are of considerable importance. The latter include collections of small objects closely related to Christianity and brought in from other cultures.3 In the field of architecture, artefacts found in close proximity to physical remains are of particular interest.4 All help provide a general context—social, religious, economic, and cultural—for any given building, when we set ourselves the research problems I defined at the outset—what was the origin of architectural models and forms and the resulting semantic codes, and how exactly did they make their way to these new territories? Let us conclude our analysis by looking at the 1  Our data can be divided into primary and secondary. The most important information will include artefacts and burials, including tools and furnishings. Contextual information includes data obtained from auxiliary archaeo­logical sciences, such as palaeobotany, archaeozoo­logy, physical anthropo­logy, palaeoentomo­logy and palaeolimno­logy.

2  Zofia Kurnatowska and Stanisław Kurnatowski, “Pare uwag o odkrywaniu rzeczywistosci kulturowej poprzezzródla archeo­logiczne,” in Historia narrat. Studia mediewistyczne ofiarowane Profesorowi Jackowi Banaszkiewiczowi, ed. Andrzej Pleszczyński (Lublin: Wydawnictwo Uniwersytetu Marii Curie-Skłodowskiej, 2012), 21–64. The stronghold in Mikulčice is a prime example of such research. A thorough study of the site allowed a more comprehensive analysis, and altered earlier interpretations: Studien zum Burgwall von Mikulčice, 10 vols. (Brno: Archeo­logický ústav AV Č� R, Brno, v. v. i., 1995–10); Internationale Tagungen in Mikulčice, 10 vols. (Brno: Archeo­ logický ústav AV Č� R, Brno, v. v. i., 1994–2014).

3  Matthias Hardt, “Salzburg und Hamburg. Christianisierung am südöstlichen und nördlichen Rand des Frankenreiches,” in Vom spätantiken Erbe zu den Anfängen der Romanik, ed. Lübke and Hardt, 176–87; Credo. Christianisierung Europas im Mittelalter, ed. Stiegemann et al. (Petersberg: Imhof, 2013), 1:44–307.

4  This is not a fixed rule. These objects could also have been part of other ornaments or their assemblies produced locally. Burials are the most common places to find jewellery with Christianity-related form and function; church graveyards apart, remote interment locations have to be considered as well: Jacek Wrzesiński and Andrzej M. Wyrwa, Srebrny naszyjnik z kaptorgami i krzyżowatą zawieszką z Dziekanowic (Lednica: Muzeum Pierwszych Piastów, 2011). There is also a large body of literature relating to similar findings from the Piast dynasty.

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roots of art and architecture in this region and at this period, taking Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád art and architecture in turn. Art forms created between the ninth and eleventh centuries under Piast rule had several backgrounds. Generally speaking, they were based on the forms and ideas of the pagan world. Native Slavic traditions co-existed with influences from the Celtic world and other pagan cultures.5 Elements of Celtic culture came from Celts having occupied lands later ruled by the Piasts. Influences from other pagan cultures were usually versions of ideas filtered through Christianity, which adapted itself to local traditions. 6 When seen as a philosophical and religious movement, Christianity was the other fundamental element in art and architecture.7 It evoked ideas originating in the assorted communities and centres of the Ottonian Empire, rooted in the Carolingian and ancient Roman empires. Early art and architecture in Přemyslid lands, including that evolving under Přemyslid rule, drew on native Slavic tradition and heritage, being connected to the social structure known as “Great Moravia.”8 Yet it remained considerably influenced by ancient non-local traditions, associated, for instance, with trade routes connecting them to the west, east, and south of Europe. Exchange of aesthetic prototypes was important—it generated a constant flow of ideas across the region.9 Christianity was a major factor. In the wake of missions of conversion, Christian ideas had been trickling into the region since around 750. Centres that missionaries would most frequently arrive from were important in themselves: their western or eastern origin would determine the con5  Issues related to Slavic languages present a whole array of research problems. Notable recent publications on the ethnogenesis of Slavs include studies by the prolific Florin Curta: Curta, “Four Questions.”

6  Since the 1980s, pre-twelfth century literature on Polish art and architecture has been under­ going review. In his extensive and erudite articles, Lech Kalinowski focused on both its form and content, having identified a distinct period between the reign of Mieszko I and the crisis of the 1040s. The specific features he defined allowed a new name, “early Piast,” to be coined for the period: Kalinowski, Speculum artis, 13–56 and 57–80. Subsequent historians, archaeo­logists, and art historians debated the affinities, or lack thereof, between “early Piast” and Romanesque art. Ultimately, the term “early Piast art,” chiefly in architectural analysis, has become widespread: for one of the last comprehensive studies in the field, see Rodzińska-Chorąży, Zespoły rezydencjonalne, 291–303. 7  Gerard Labuda, “Jakimi drogami dotarło do polski chrześcijaństwo,” in Szkice historyczne X–XI wieku. Z dziejów organizacji Kościoła w Polsce we wczesnym średniowieczu, ed. Ewa Dobosz (Poznań: Wydawnictwo Poznańskie, 2004), 101–38.

8  Interdisciplinary research carried out recently in Bohemia and Moravia means that earlier findings should be reevaluated. Debates now exist on the nature of the socio-cultural construct existing between the ninth and tenth century which has been known as the “Great Moravian State.” Literature on the subject is lavish, particularly: Dušan Třeští�k, “Great Moravia and the Beginnings of the State (9th and 10th Centuries),” in A History of the Czech Lands, ed. Jaroslav Pánek and Oldrich Tuma (Prague: Karolinum, 2009), 65–82. For recent debates see Jiří� Macháček, “‘Velkomoravský stát’—kontroverze středoevropské medievistiky,” Archeo­logické rozhledy 64 (2012): 775–87 with English abstract on p. 775. 9  Sebastian Brather, “Neuformierungen im frühen Mittelalter. Slaven und Balten,” in Vom spätantiken Erbe zu den Anfängen der Romanik, ed. Lübke and Hardt, 154–63.



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tent of religious tidings as well as the social, cultural, and artistic ideas and notions they brought with them, imbued either with the Byzantine Empire, or the Frankish state and in turn the Carolingian and Ottonian Empires. Á� rpád art and architecture also drew on a centuries-old native tradition of decorative art from the ancient Hungarians.10 Another influence was the local ancient tradition, still thriving within the former borders of the Roman Empire, on the Pannonian Plain based on the Danube basin. Á� rpád art and architecture referenced a range of nonhomogenous sources of ancient culture. In major and provincial centres alike, it was subject to modification and local influence while following a certain set of basic principles.11 Such diversity has been reflected in eminent Á� rpád art and architecture created in the post-Roman areas of Italy and Dalmatia. Art created in the cultural centres of the Carolingians and Ottonians was equally significant, its assorted variations observable far beyond their original borders. Last but not least, Á� rpád art and architecture featured a strong Byzantine undercurrent. While some notions were rooted in antiquity, their authors were also familiar with the art of the nomadic peoples of the steppes, and had a capacity for referencing Carolingian art as well.12 Clearly in all three lands, antiquity and Carolingian–Ottonian sources remained the common denominator for the art of Younger Europe, with Christianity the dominant strain. Christianity allowed the art of the Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád lands to flourish, and local dynasties to evolve into sovereign political forces in their European world. Yet power and authority were prerequisites, one the dynasties of Younger Europe took seriously, as we have seen with their strongholds, fortification systems, through to the techno­logies used in building ditches and their internal layout. These sites communicated the prestige and position of the dynasty. Perceived as both religion and philosophy, Christianity was an instrument that offered greater and better possibilities for reinforcing a ruler’s image. It was adopted once the Piasts, Přemyslids, and Á� rpáds opened their lands to the influence of missionaries from the Ottonian Empire while adopting the authority of the Western Church, which only further manifested their power. Its most important focus was on the role of the ruler in the Christian sacrum. Carolingians and 10  Theories on the origin of the Hungarian nation vary depending on the field and date of the theory: The Ancient Hungarians, ed. Fodor; Berend et al., Central Europe in the High Middle Ages, 66–68; Péter Langó, “Archaeo­logical Research on the Conquering Hungarians: A Review,” in Research on the Prehistory of the Hungarians: A Review. Papers Presented at the Meetings of the Institute of Archaeo­ logy of the HAS, 2003–2004, ed. Balázs Gusztáv Mende (Budapest: Akaprint, 2005), 175–340; László Révész. “Die Kunst der Steppe in Ostmitteleuropa. Die ungarische Landnahmezeit,” in Vom spätantiken Erbe zu den Anfängen der Romanik, ed. Lübke and Hardt, 164–73.

11  For the lands outside the Roman Empire and its influence throughout the first and second centuries, with a catalogue of historical monuments: Orsolya Heinrich-Tamáska, “Nachwirkungen der Antike. Das Erbe Roms in der Völkerwanderungszeit,” in Vom spätantiken Erbe zu den Anfängen der Romanik, ed. Lübke and Hardt, 100–15; Franz Glaser and Wilfried Franzen, “Von Konstantin bis Justinian: Spätantike und frühes Christentum zwischen Adria und Donau,” in Vom spätantiken Erbe zu den Anfängen der Romanik, ed. Lübke and Hardt, 116–27. 12  Falko Daim, “Die Steppe und Byzanz. Kunsthandwerk und Bilderwelten im Awarenkhaganat,” in Vom spätantiken Erbe zu den Anfängen der Romanik, ed. Lübke and Hardt, 138–53.

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Ottonians built their image upon this doctrine, creating a pattern borrowed by other strong rulers or sovereigns aspiring to such a position—with the model adapted to local circumstance and tradition. The Přemyslid dominion is a case in point: the Přemyslids combined acclamation by tribal assembly with an enthronement ceremony and the use of Christian liturgy.13 Subsequently, mimicking sovereigns of the Carolingian–Ottonian Empire, the ruler was the head of a hierarchical society, anointed with a sacred aura. The event reflected a new nature of power. The constant compulsion to display power and accentuate its sacred origin was reflected in architecture developed between the ninth and eleventh centuries. The choice of architectural type and detailed forms for a palace or a church, as well as a building’s location within a stronghold and thus how it was perceived, remained ultimately with the ruler.14 We see these characteristics clearly in the initial period when these dynasties had taken power and were formalizing their position; we see less of these characteristics when they underwent early periods of crisis. After regaining their supremacy the organization of power began to change. The central authority slowly widened its group of stakeholders. We can follow this process in our analysis of architectural works from this period.15 Initially, architecture drew quite freely from an array of patterns referencing every possible tradition in the area, typical features including formal diversity as well as the accentuation of specific features of a given ruler’s power. In the final decades of the eleventh century, the respective forms and (chiefly) architectural solutions began displaying clearly links to contemporary trends in Romanesque art, as power fragmented, no longer firmly in the hands of a single family. Architecture needs to be read in its wide historical setting. While each building is a finite collection of forms, if one fails to consider the complete context, the world in which it was erected will remain incomprehensible. A comparative perspective also helps understand processes, territories, and works of art.16 What is unique becomes clearer. The Piast, Přemyslid, and Á� rpád dynasties were certainly driven by the same initial objective—to preserve the sovereignty of their 13  Written evidence leaves us in no doubt that such actions were taken by all rulers: Dušan Třeští�k, “Prehistory and Beginnings of Slavic Settlement (to the 8th Century),” in A History of the Czech Lands, ed. Jaroslav Pánek and Oldrich Tuma (Prague: Karolinum, 2009), 55–63; Jacek Banaszkiewicz, “Bolesław i Peredsława: uwagi o uroczystości stanowienia władcy w związku z wejściem Chrobrego do Kijowa,” in Takie sobie Średniowieczne Bajeczki, ed. Jacek Banaszkiewicz (Kraków: Avalon: 2013), 229–89; earlier version in Kwartalnik Historyczny 97, no. 3–4 (1990): 3–35.

14  Roman Michałowski, Princeps fundator: studium z dziejów kultury politycznej w Polsce X–XIII wieku (Warszawa: Arx Regia, Ośrodek Wydawniczy Zamku Królewskiegw Warszawie, 1993).

15  Cause and effect have been reversed. Normally, a building is secondary to the cause of its construction. But where there is a shortage of written sources, the cause often remains unknown, its nature unclear, the only manifestation of its existence involving the produced effect: the building. Culler, On Deconstruction, 86–87; Michał P. Markowski, Efekt inskrypcji: Jacques Derrida i literatura (Bydgoszcz: Studio Φ / Homini, 1997), 112; Bartosiewicz, “Like a Headless Chicken.” I would like to thank Professor Choyke for drawing my attention to this text. 16  Jaritz and Szende, eds., Medi­eval East Central Europe in a Comparative Perspective.



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domains. They reached for all and any means available; they achieved the intended effect, albeit at different paces and in different ways. We see this in architectural forms and decisions, such as when a building was commissioned. Architecture of this place and period shows ample examples of structures referencing rulers and their role. This is why I believe that it is most certainly justified to speak of “early Piast,” “early Přemyslid,” and “early Á� rpád” art and architecture.17 At the same time, works of art, architecture in particular, are defined by their locale and the particular circumstances of their creation—they are a story of the world inhabited by their architects and designers.

17  Kalinowski, Speculum artis, 70.

CONCLUSION

The strongholds and their buildings—whether churches or palaces—that we have examined here demonstrate the poverty of textual evidence for social and cultural processes in Central Europe in the tenth and eleventh centuries. Historians have typically depended on written sources, sometimes arguing that chronicles offer a more complete and reliable image than any other source available to researchers. But the extensive archaeo­logical evidence that we have presented fills the gap, even if only partly. But archaeo­logy and related sciences benefit from fast-changing techno­ logies. Research basing on archaeo­logical findings requires patience, given the duration of field works. Some techno­logies and findings only allow a range of possibilities and interpretations, not exactitude. Furthermore, the shortage of textual evidence prevents us unambiguously and indisputably describing a given building in terms of its assigned function, the name of its founder, the value of an endowment from a founder to a given chapter or abbey, or a simple identification of persons in burials. Available written sources and a comparative method help. But a comparative approach allows us to identify formal (and, consequently, ideo­logical) patterns, and recognize the cultural circle of the origins of prototypes. Equally, the lack of archaeo­logical tools, either underdeveloped or unavailable techno­logies, or the physical impossibility of analyzing an entire area, may contribute to some matters remaining obscure—which in turn affects the stratification of individual construction phases, and consequently their forms and appearance. Once these features have been properly identified, we can pursue further research on a specific building: its function (as in case of Ostrów Lednicki) or its dating and/or founder (as in case of the Poznań cathedral). But we should not be surprised if current or old hypotheses are overturned. Countless monuments are undergoing long-term research: the palatium on Ostrów Tumski island in Poznań, the cathedral in Wrocław, to the church in Giecz, St. Gereon’s church in Kraków, and Kalocsa cathedral, to name just a few. Architectural evidence identified through archaeo­logy is never unambiguous. Damage and subsequent reconstruction hamper making identifications, offering a complete image, and/or interpreting the purpose or ideo­logy behind individual buildings. Such are the circumstances of, for instance, the Bazilika Sv. Jiří� (St. George’s) in Prague, the Esztergom cathedral, or the abbeys of Břevnov, Sázava, and Kaposszentijakab. It seems to me that in such cases, an optimum research outcome would involve drafting varied scenarios of when phases of building may have taken place, and—if necessary—a proposed sequence of events to support architectural and other choices. In some cases archaeo­logy suggests further research is required: previous works have been rendered incomplete (consider the church in Hronský Beňadik) or left unfinished (as in case of the Benedictine abbey in Lubiń). Once we have such information our understanding of these monuments and their entire history may change.

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Conclusion

I have argued in favour of ongoing multi-faceted research using archaeo­logical tools, and for new approaches to be applied: architectural remains and their associated strati­ graphy, as well as assorted artefacts and remains (human, animal, floral), which can help provide a more rounded and complete understanding of the past in this fascinating region and period of history.

SELECT BIBLIO­GRAPHY

This biblio­graphy includes key works for further reading, background to the topic, and also those works that are cited several times across the notes.

Abrutyn, Seth and Kirk Lawrence. “From Chiefdom to State: Toward an Integrative Theory of the Evolution of Polity.” Socio­logical Perspectives 53, no. 3 (2010): 419–42. Althoff, Gerd. Amicitiae und Pacta. Bündnis, Einung, Politik und Gebetsgedenken im Beginnen­ den 10. Jahrhundert. Hannover: Hahn, 1992. —— . Die Macht der Rituale. Symbolik und Herrschaft im Mittelalter. Darmstadt: Primus, 2003. —— . Die Ottonen: Königsherrschaft ohne Staat. Stuttgart: Kohlhammer, 2000. Al-Azmeh, Aziz and János M. Bak, eds. Monotheistic Kingship: The Medi­eval Variants. Budapest: Central European University Press, 2004. Bak, János M. Studying Medi­eval Rulers and Their Subjects. Central Europe and Beyond. Edited by Balázs Nagy and Gábor Klaniczay. Variorum Collected Studies 956. Farnham: Ashgate, 2010. Bannasch, Hermann. Das Bistum Paderborn unter den Bischöfen Rethar und Meinwerk (983– 1036). Paderborn: Bonifatius, 1972. Barabás, Gábor. “The Christianization of Hungary.” In Chrystianizacja Młodszej Europy, edited by Józef Dobosz et al., 115–19. Poznań: Wydawnictwo Naukowe UAM, 2016. Barral i Altet, Xavier et al., eds. The Art of Medi­eval Hungary. Roma: Viella, 2018. Bartosiewicz, László. “Like a Headless Chicken: Meaning, Medium and Context in Medi­eval Urban Taphonomy.” In Animaltown: Beasts in Medi­eval Urban Space, edited by Alice M. Choyke and Gerhard Jaritz, 19–26. Oxford: British Archaeo­logical Reports, 2017. Berend, Nora et al., ed. Central Europe in the High Middle Ages. Bohemia, Hungary and Poland, c. 900–c. 1300. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013. Berend, Nora, ed. Christianization and the Rise of Christian Monarchy: Scandinavia, Central Europe and Rus’ c. 900–1200. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007. Bernhardt, John W. Itinerant Kingship and Royal Monasteries in Early Medi­eval Germany: c. 936–1075. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993. Beuckers, Klaus Gereon. Die Ezzonen und ihre Stiftungen. Eine Untersuchung zur Stiftungs­ tätigkeit im 11. Jahrhundert. Münster: Lit, 1993. Binding, Günther. “Die karolingische Königshalle.” In Die Reichsabtei Lorsch: Festschrift zum Bedanken an ihre Stiftung 764, edited by Friedrich Knöpp, 273–97. 2 vols. Darmstadt: Hessische Historische Kommission, 1973–1977. Blaauw, Sible de. Cultus et decor. Liturgia e Architettura nella Roma Tardoantica e Medi­evale: Basilica Salvatoris, Sanctae Mariae, Sancti Petri. 2 vols. Vatican City: Biblioteca Aposto­ lica Vaticana, 1994. Originally published in Dutch in 1987 as Cultus et decor: liturgie en architectuur in laatantiek en middeleeuws Rome. Blumenthal, Uta-Renate. The Investiture Controversy. Church and Monarchy from the Ninth to the Twelfth Century. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1988. Brandenburg, Hugo. “Kirchenbau und Liturgie. Ü� berlegungen zum Verhältnis von architektonischer Gestalt und Zweckbestimmung des frühchristlichen Kultbaues im 4. und 5. Jahr­ hundert.” In Divitiae Aegypt: Kopto­logische und verwandte Studien zu Ehren von Martin Krause, edited by Cäcilia Fluck et al. 36–69. Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1995.

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INDEX

Aachen, 28, 27, 30, 33, 34, 35, 88 Adalbert of Prague, martyr, 10, 71 Adelaida of Rheinfelden, 63 Adelaida of Sabaudia, 63 Alba Iulia, 72 Anastasius, saint and pope, 32 Andrew I, king of Hungary, 62 Andrew, martyr, 82 Armenia, 41 Aron, monk of Brauweiler, 61

Báta, 83 Baugulf, abbot of Fulda, 31 Bavaria, 58 Béla I, king of Hungary, 62 Béla III, king of Hungary, 82 Benedict of Aniane, 31 Benedict, martyr, 82 Bihar, 72 Bohemia, xv, xvi, 1, 63, 92 Boleslaus I the Brave, king of Poland, 1, 14, 26, 51, 53, 71 Boleslaus II the Pious, duke of Bohemia, 17 Boleslaus II of Bohemia, king of Bohemia, 23, 51 Boleslaus III the Wry-Mouth, king of Poland, 26 Boleslaw II the Generous, king of Poland, 14, 23, 59, 76, 79 Bratislava, 54 Brauweiler, abbey (church of St. Nicolaus), xiv, 56, 60, 61 Břeclav, 4, 5 Břetislav I, duke of Bohemia, 7, 23, 68, 69, 76, 78 Břetislav II, duke of Bohemia, 68, 73 Břevnov, abbey, 97 Buda, 79 Budeč, 4, 5, 6, 21 Bug (river), xiii, xiv, xv Byzantine Empire xiv, xv, 63, 93

Carolingians, dynasty, xvii, 28, 93 Casimir I Restorer, duke of Poland, 14, 53, 59, 60, 61, 76, 81, 83, 84, 89 Charlemagne, 26, 28, 29, 30, 31, 34, 88 Cologne, 61, 80 cathedral, 49 church of St. Maria in Kapitol, 56, 86 Constance, lake, 58 Constantinople, 13, 30 Corridonia (church of San Claudio al Chienti), 42 Cracow. See Kraków Csanád, 72, 82 Dalmatia, 56, 93 Danube, river, xiii, xiv,18, 93 Doubravka of Bohemia, princess, 13

Eger, 72, 76 Eigil, abbot of Fulda, 31 Elbe, river, 5, 6 Emeric, son of Stefan I, duke of Hungary, 3, 20, 82 Esztergom, 16, 18, 19, 21, 22, 24, 72, 97 Euphemia, wife of Otto the Fair, 59 Ezzo, Count Palatine of Lotharingia, 60 Feldebrő, 40, 41, 42, 43 Five Martyred Brothers, 68, 76 Fulda, abbey, 30, 31, 35, 69

Gallus Anonymus, xiv, 1, 66 Gandersheim, abbey (church of St. John the Baptist, church of St. Cyriakus), 32, 33 Gange (church of San Vittore alle Chiuse), 42 Garamszentbenedek. See Hronský Beňadik Gellert/Gerard, bishop and martyr, 82 Georgia, 41 Germany, xv, 27, 32, 42, 52, 62, 63 Germigny-des-Prés, oratory, 42 Gernrode, abbey, 33, 49, 69

106

Index

Gero, margrave, 33 Géza, duke of Hungary, 19, Géza I, king of Hungary, 59, 60, 61, 62, 63 Giecz, 1, 4, 7, 8, 13, 21, 22, 98 Gorsium/Herculia, 2 Goslar, abbey, 86 Greater Moravia, 5, 92 Gregory VII, pope, 62, 63, 82 Győr, 62, 72, 76

Henry II, emperor, 35 Henry IV, emperor, 62, 63 Henry the Fowler, 32, 33 Herman, bishop, 60, 61 Hildesheim, abbey, 69, 86 Hradčany Hill, 16, 17, 21, 22, 23, 48, 73, 84 Hradisko near Olomouc, 59 Hron, river, 54 Hronský Beňadik (Garamszentbenedek), abbey, 53, 54, 55, 57, 58, 59, 61, 62, 63, 79, 97 Hungary, xvi, 1, 61, 62, 63, 79, 81 Innocent, pope, 32 Italy, 23, 34, 42, 56, 93

Jaromir-Gebhard, bishop, 81, 88–89 Jerusalem, 30 Rotunda of the Holy Sepulchry (Anastasis), 31, 42, 43 Jordan, bishop, 40, 53

Kalocsa, 72, 76, 97 Kamimir Malevich, 65 Kaposszentjakab, abbey, 97 Kołobrzeg, 72 Konrad I, duke of Bohemia, 81 Kraków (Cracow), 11, 13, 14, 16, 21, 22, 44, 53, 56, 61, 72, 79, 81, 84 church of St. Gereon, 85, 97 See also Wawel Ladislaus I Herman, duke of Poland, 14, 59, 76, 78, 79 Ladislaus I, king of Hungary, 26, 62, 63 Lednica, lake, 8 Leo III, pope, 34 Liborius of Le Mans, saint, 34 Libuše, 89 Liège, abbey (church of St. Jacques), 61

Liudolf, duke of Saxony, 32 Lorsch, abbey, 29, 30 Louis the Pious, emperor, 27, 35 Ludmila, martyr, 48, 51

Maastricht, 32 Magdeburg, cathedral, 33, 49, 66 Magyars, xv Maskawa, river, 7 Matilda of Ringelheim, saint, 32 Matilda of Svabia, 3 Matilda of Germany, 60 Meinwerk, bishop, 35 Memleben, abbey, 49, 67 Merovingians, dynasty, 26, 27, 28, 37, 52 Mieszko I the Piast, duke of Poland, xiv, 7, 10, 13, 40, 42, 51, 53, 74, 92 Mieszko II Lambert, king of Poland, 3, 60 Mikulčice, 2, 11, 13, 21, 91 See also Valy Mistail, abbey of St. Peter, 48 Moie, abbey (church of Santa Maria), 42 Mojmir, 4, 13 Moravia. See Greater Moravia Nitra, 54, 62, 72, 82

Oda, Duchess Consort of Saxony, princess, 32 Oder, river, xiii, xiv, xv Olomouc, bishopric, 23, 81 See also Hradisko Ostrów Lednicki, island and stronghold, xiv, 4, 7, 8, 13, 21, 22, 37, 40, 43, 53, 97 Otto I the Great, emperor, 24, 32 Otto III, emperor, 10, 23, 26, 35, 60 Otto the Beautiful, duke of Bohemia, 81 Otto the Fair, duke of Moravia, 59 Ottonians, dynasty, xv, 31, 32, 60, 93, 94 Paderborn, 34, 35, 42 Pannonia, 92, 93 Pécs, 72, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80 Pepin the Short, 26 Peter Orseolo, 77, 78, 79 Pohansko, 4, 21 Poitiers (baptistery of Saint-Jean), 28 Poland, 61, 63, 81



Poznań, bishopric and stronghold, 1, 8, 11, 12, 14, 16, 21, 22, 23, 24, 50, 51, 81 Cathedral of St. Peter, 47, 48, 53, 66, 67, 69, 73, 80, 97 Prague, bishopric and stronghold, 2, 5, 10, 11, 16, 17, 21, 22, 23, 48, 51, 56, 58, 69, 81, 86, 89 abbey church of St. Georg, 50, 97 church of St. Vitus, 68, 69, 72, 73, 74, 76, 78 See also Hradčany and Vyšehrad Přemysl, 89 Przemyśl, 4, 7, 21, 22 Quedlinburg, abbey (chapel of St. Peter and St. Servatius), 32, 33, 49

Radim Gaudenty, bishop, 23 Regensburg, abbey (church of St. Emmeran), 42 Ratgar, abbot of Fulda, 31 Ravenna (church of St. Vitus), 29 Reichenau-Mittelzell, abbey, 69 Rhine, river, 58 Richeza of Lotharingia, queen of Poland, xiv, 60 Rome and the Roman Empire, xiv, xvi, 2, 23, 27, 28, 56, 93 church of San Stefano Rotondo, 42 church of Sant Bonifacio ed Alessio, 42 basilica of St. Peter’s, Vatican, 31, 52 Rudolph of Rheinfelden, duke of Swabia, 63 Saint-Gilles-du-Gard, abbey, 79 Saint-Riquier, abbey, 29, 30, 33 Salerno, cathedral, 42 Salier, dynasty, xvii, 52 Salomon, king of Hungary, 62, 63 Salzburg, 42 Sassoferrato (church of Santa Croce), 42 Sázava abbey, 97 river, 5 Schönenwerd, abbey, 58 Siegfried, margrave of Saxony, 33 Slavic peoples, xv, 92

Index

107

Somogyvár, abbey, 79, 80 Sopiane, 2 Spytihněv I, duke of Bohemia, 6 Spytihněv II, duke of Bohemia, 68, 69, 73, 78, 81 Stanisław of Szczepanów, 23 Stará Boleslav, stronghold, 4, 5, 6, 19, 21, 22, 68 Stehan I, king of Hungary, 3, 19, 20, 26, 50, 51, 53, 62, 76, 79, 81, 82 Székesfehérvár, stronghold, 11, 16, 19, 21, 22, 24 basilica of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, 20, 47, 50, 51, 52, 53 Szentjobb, 59, 83 Tata, 59, 83 Tetín, 5, 48, 51 Thaya, river, 4 Thun, lake, 58 Tisa, river, 62 Tivoli (church of San Pietro alle Carità), 42 Tyniec, abbey, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 58, 59, 60, 61, 63 Unger, abbot of Memleben, bishop, 23, 53, 67, 80

Vác, bishopric, 72 Vatican. See Rome Valy near Mikulčice, 11, 12, 21 Vermeer, 66 Veszprém, bishopric, 72 Vistula (River), 14, 53 Vratislaus II, duke of Bohemia, 18, 23, 59, 81, 83, 86, 87, 88, 89 Vyšehrad Hill, 16, 17, 21, 23, 84, 86, 88, 89

Wawel Hill, 14, 16, 52, 83, 84, 86, 88 Wenceslaus, martyr, duke of Bohemia, 6, 7, 68, 69, 73, 78 Wincent of Kielcza, 61 Wrocław, bishopric, 97, 72 Zagreb, bishopric, 72