Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages 027109737X, 9780271097374

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Contents
Illustrations
Introduction: Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages
1. Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance: The Triumphal Column of Justin II
2. Ottonian Resistances
3. Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice
4. Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean
5. The “Holy Blood” of ʿUthmān ibn Affān: in the Great Mosque of Córdoba: On Manābir, Relics, and Sunni Struggles
6. The Names of God: Art, Power, and Ritual in Medieval Córdoba
7. Power and Authority in Visual Paratext: The Case of the Grandes chroniques de France
8. Roses and Resistance: The Iconography of Courtly Love in the #MeToo Moment
Contributors
Index

Citation preview

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

Papers of the Index of Medieval Art at Princeton University

signa

Signa: Papers of the Index of Medieval Art at Princeton University explores questions of image and meaning in the context of current scholarship on medieval visual culture. It aims to provide a forum for fresh scholarly perspectives on the ways in which visual images addressed the concerns of both makers and viewers within a diverse and mutable medieval world. series editor: Pamela A. Patton Director, Index of Medieval Art

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages Pamela A. Patton

The Pennsylvania State University Press University Park, Pennsylvania

This publication is made possible in part by the Barr Ferree Foundation Fund for Publication, Department of Art and Archaeology, Princeton University. Library of Congress Cataloging-​in-​Publication Data Names: Patton, Pamela A., 1964– editor. Title: Art, power, and resistance in the Middle Ages / [edited by] Pamela A. Patton. Other titles: Signa (Princeton University. Department of Art and Archaeology. Index of Medieval Art) Description: University Park, Pennsylvania : The Pennsylvania State University Press, [2025] | Series: Signa : papers of the Index of Medieval Art at Princeton University | Includes bibliographical references and index. Summary: “A collection of essays exploring how medieval works of art have engaged with discourses of power and resistance in both the Middle Ages and the modern world”—Provided by publisher. Identifiers: LCCN 2024016320 | ISBN 9780271097374 (hardback) Subjects: LCSH: Power (Social sciences) in art. | Resistance (Philosophy) in art. | Art, Medieval—Themes, motives. | LCGFT: Essays. Classification: LCC N8236.P695 A78 2025 | DDC 709.02— dc23/eng/20240423 LC record available at https://​lccn​.loc​.gov​/2024016320

Copyright © 2025 The Index of Medieval Art All rights reserved Printed in Türkiye Published by The Pennsylvania State University Press, University Park, PA 16802–1003 The Pennsylvania State University Press is a member of the Association of University Presses. It is the policy of The Pennsylvania State University Press to use acid-​free paper. Publications on uncoated stock satisfy the minimum requirements of American National Standard for Information Sciences—Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Material, ansi z39.48–1992.

Contents List of Illustrations  |  vii



1

Introduction  | 1 Pamela A. Patton Stones of Pretension and Acts of Resistance: The Triumphal Column of Justin II  | 7 Elena N. Boeck

2 Ottonian Resistances  | 35 Eliza Garrison 3 Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice  | 57 Thomas E. A. Dale 4 Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean  | 91 Heather A. Badamo 5 The “Holy Blood” of ʿUthmān ibn Affān in the Great Mosque of Córdoba: On Manābir, Relics, and Sunni Struggles  | 119 Avinoam Shalem 6 The Names of God: Art, Power, and Ritual in Medieval Córdoba  | 137 Tom Nickson 7 Power and Authority in Visual Paratext: The Case of the Grandes chroniques de France  |  165 Anne D. Hedeman 8 Roses and Resistance: The Iconography of Courtly Love in the #MeToo Moment  | 189 Martha Easton

Contributors  |  215 Index  |  217

Illustrations 1.1. (a) Solidus of Justinian I (538–45 ce), (b) Solidus of Justin II (565–78 ce), (c) Solidus of Tiberios II (579/80 ce)  | 10 1.2. (a) Solidus of Justinian I, (b) Solidus of Justin II, (c) Solidus of Tiberios II  | 11 1.3. Gold solidus of Tiberios II as consul (579– 82 ce)  | 15 1.4. Pharos of Alexandria, detail of mosaic floor, sixth century  | 18 1.5. Justinian’s bronze horseman atop his triumphal column and the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople  | 19 1.6. Approximate reconstruction of the center of Constantinople with the baths of Zeuxippos, the Augoustaion, and the imperial palace  |  20 2.1. Dedication page from first edition of Hans Jantzen, Ottonische Kunst (Munich: Münchner Verlag, 1947)  |  36 2.2. Henry II crowned by Christ, in the Regensburg Sacramentary / Sacramentary of Henry II, ca. 1002–12  | 37 2.3. Henry II enthroned, in the Regensburg Sacramentary / Sacramentary of Henry II, ca. 1002–1012  | 38 2.4. Dedication series, in the Gospels of Otto III, ca. 1000  |  42 2.5. Dedication series, in the Pericope Book of Henry II, ca. 1002–12  | 43 2.6. Women at the Tomb, in the Regensburg Sacramentary / Sacramentary of Henry II, ca. 1002–12  | 45

3.1. Griffin with Black African, ca. 1250–80  | 58 3.2. Lion with Black African, ca. 1250–80  | 58 3.3. Black African water carrier, thirteenth century  | 59 3.4. Martyrdom of Mark in Alexandria, late 1260s or early 1270s  | 59 3.5. South façade of Cappella Zen (former Porta da Mar), San Marco, Venice  |  62 3.6. Saint Mark in Rome and Aquileia, late 1260s or early 1270s  |  63 3.7. Saint Mark’s mission and martyrdom in Alexandria, late 1260s or early 1270s  |  64 3.8. Lion with ram or sheep, ca. 1250–80  | 73 3.9. Griffin with sheep, ca. 1250–80  | 74 3.10. Joseph sold to Ishmaelite traders by his brothers, early thirteenth century  | 77 3.11. Muslim merchant with camel, late thirteenth or early fourteenth century  | 78 3.12. Paolo Veneziano, Pala feriale, 1342–45  | 79 3.13. Martyrdom of Saint Mark in Alexandria, in Vita, Translatio et Apparitio Sancti Marci, mid-​ fourteenth century  | 81 3.14. Crusaders encircle the sultan of Egypt, in Marin Sanudo Torsello, Liber Secretorum Sancti crucis, 1310–30  |  82 4.1. Saint George and David IV “the Builder,” late eleventh or twelfth century  |  92 4.2. Asan, metal relief of Saint George attacking Diocletian, Nakiʾpari, eleventh century  | 93 4.3. Mural of Saint George, 1232/33  | 94

2.7. Gregory the Great in his study, in the Regensburg Sacramentary / Sacramentary of Henry II, ca. 1002–12  | 45

4.4. Harbaville Triptych with Deesis and Saints, Constantinople, mid-​eleventh century  | 99

2.8. Detail of text of Incipit, in the Regensburg Sacramentary / Sacramentary of Henry II, ca. 1002–12  |  46

4.5. Aspron Trachy of John II Komnenos from Constantinople, Constantinople (Thrace), ca. 1118–22?  | 99

4.6. Marble relief of Saint George, thirteenth century  | 100 4.7. Mosaic of Emperor Alexander VII, tenth century  |  102 4.8. Copper coin of Davit IV, Georgia, 1089– 1125  |  102 4.9. Drawing of the wall painting with Saint Pigoshe, 1022–32  | 107

7.1. Chapter list for the life of Louis the Stammerer and descendants with marginal note to Henri de Trévou, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1275–80  |  168

4.11. Ewer, Mosul Iraq, 1246/47  | 110

7.2. Notes addressed to Henri de Trévou and substituted rubrics in lower margins, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1275– 80  |  169

6.1. Pardon Portal, Córdoba Cathedral, made between 1377 and 1390  | 138

7.3. Marginal note to Henri, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1275–80  | 170

6.2. Pardon Portal, detail of carved alfiz: (A) inscription showing “el muy alto et poderoso don Enrrique”; (B) traces of earlier stucco; (C) the crown timbre over the royal arms; (D) the arms of Juan I of Castile. F, Kufic epigraphy, “ʿIzz li-​mawlānā al-​sulṭān”; Córdoba Cathedral, made between 1377 and 1390  | 139

7.4. Murder of Duke William I of Normandy, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1370–75  | 171

4.10. Mural of Saint Mercurios, 1232/33  | 108

6.3. Pardon Portal, detail of the left door and knocker, Córdoba Cathedral, made between 1377 and 1390  | 140 6.4. North wall, Córdoba Cathedral  | 141 6.5. Córdoba Cathedral: (A) the Pardon Portal; (B) the site of the high altar from 1236 to 1607; (C) the chapel of Saint Peter, formerly the maqsura; (D) the chapel of the Holy Spirit; (E) the royal chapel; (F) the chapel of Saint Paul; (G) the Arco de Benediciones  |  142 6.6. Saint Ildefonso Portal, Córdoba Cathedral, made between 961 and 976  | 143 6.7. Royal chapel looking east, Córdoba Cathedral, ca. 1371  | 145 6.8. Portal in the Casa de Mesa, Toledo, second half of the fourteenth century  |  146 6.9. Feast of Balthasar, from the Morgan Beatus, San Salvador de Tábara, ca. 945  | 148 6.10. Baptismal font, Toledo, ca. 1400  | 149 6.11. Pardon Portal, Seville Cathedral, early thirteenth century, with additions in the 1520s  | 151 6.12. Detail of right door leaf from Seville Cathedral’s Pardon Portal, early thirteenth century  |  152

viii

6.13. The Tree of Virtues, in Ramon Llull, Llivre del gentil et des tres savis, made in Córdoba, 1378  | 154

Illustrations

7.5. Baptismal procession of Charles VI, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1375–77  | 174 7.6. Rubrics concerning the Meeting of the Order of the Star. Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1375–77  | 175 7.7. Meeting and feast of the Order of the Star, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1375–77  | 175 7.8. Edward II pays homage to Philip of Valois, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1370  | 179 7.9. Edward II prepares for homage to Philip of Valois, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1379–80  | 181 7.10. Edward II pays homage to Philip of Valois, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1379– 80  |  182 7.11. Textual description specifying how Edward II should pay homage, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1379–80  | 184 8.1. Leaf of a writing tablet, France, fourteenth century  |  192 8.2. Mirror back depicting a game of chess, France (Paris) or Lower Rhine (Cologne), ca. 1320  | 193 8.3. Mirror back with lovers, France, fourteenth century  | 194 8.4. Mirror back with a hunting party, Lower Rhine (Cologne) or France, ca. 1320  | 195 8.5. Cover of a writing tablet (verso), France, 1325– 50  |  196

8.6. Reliefs from a casket with scenes of lovers and game playing, France, ca. 1340–60  | 198

8.9. Mirror back with scenes of lovers, England, 1340–60  |  201

8.7. Mirror back with the attack on the Castle of Love, Paris, second quarter of the fourteenth century  | 199

8.10. Scenes of a virgin invited to dinner, raped, and then married off to her attacker, in Gratian’s Decretum, England, 1300–1330  |  204

8.8. Venus shooting an arrow through an opening in the tower, in the Roman de la Rose, Paris, ca. 1405  |  200

8.11. A knight offering his heart to a lady, Italy (north Italy), 1380–90  |  206

Illustrations

ix

Introduction Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

Pamela A. Patton

Popular stereotypes tend to cast medievalist art historians as ivory-​tower sorts who sit sequestered in book-​lined sanctuaries as they churn out papers on arcana—say, the origins of the codex form, the production and exchange of tiraz textiles, or the mechanics of stained-​glass production. Yet in the present era, where sociopolitical turmoil coincides with relentless online connectivity, neither the tranquility of the bookshelf nor the remoteness of the archive insulates medievalists from present-​day conflicts and concerns. Nor indeed do they seem to desire such insulation: on the contrary, as any review of recent conferences or working-​group publications demonstrates, most medievalists actively desire a fuller understanding of how the historical problems that they study intersect with and shed light on modern ones.1 Among the most consequential of these questions is that of how works of art relate to power. Nearly all art produced in the Middle Ages engaged with power in some way. To return to the examples noted above, European Christendom’s adoption of the codex, that innovative book format that made it possible to compress the contents of dozens of unwieldy scrolls into a compact, portable textual repository, not only supported the efforts of early Christians to resist the religious restrictions imposed by the ancient Roman Empire but ultimately became indispensable to the workings of the Church as a new global power.2 Costly silk textiles produced by Muslim weavers in centers such as Baghdad and Fustat and then gifted or marketed throughout the medieval world routinely served to express authority, forge alliances, build capital, and assert political

and cultural authority; yet when looted and/or repurposed, they also could strike a symbolic blow against a dominant community.3 And the production of Gothic stained glass for northern European cathedrals, as is now widely understood, was at least as often motivated by episcopal competition and the desire for local economic control as it was by pious impulse.4 Common to all these examples is not just the potential of the works of art in question to influence power relationships but their makers’ recognition of how they could be manipulated to do so. Nor have medieval patterns of expressing power disappeared in modernity. Exemplary is the tradition of equestrian portraiture, a form that endured from antiquity through and beyond the medieval world. The ninth-​century equestrian bronze statuette now in the Louvre and thought to represent either Charlemagne or Charles the Bald is widely recognized, despite its diminutive scale, as echoing imperial Roman equestrian statuary long used to project imperial political authority;5 in the twentieth century, the same tradition found modern expression in American equestrian monuments, such as the 1924 sculpture commemorating Confederate general Robert E. Lee in Charlottesville, Virginia. One of many such monuments produced in the first decades of the twentieth century—not, as is popularly believed, after the United States Civil War—this work was deployed to reinforce white dominance at a time of sharpened racist and anti-​immigrant sentiment in the United States. The tenacity of its ties to an older language of power can be seen in the fact that when the decision was made to remove the statue in 2017, it sparked a protest by white supremacists that led to deadly violence.6 The genre was powerfully upended by Kehinde Wiley in his 2019 bronze Rumors of War, which depicts a young Black man in contemporary streetwear astride a horse in a composition echoing another Confederate monument dedicated to J. E. B. Stuart. Wiley’s work stood temporarily in Times Square before its permanent installation at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts, near the end of Monument Avenue in Richmond, as an enduring reply to the tradition.7 The ways in which images relate to power are complicated for modern viewers by the pervasiveness of digital media in which images can be created, manipulated, and disseminated with ease. This can challenge public confidence in both the images’ own veracity and that of the narratives behind them. Over the past two decades, public access to and awareness of many forms of digital fakery—from the simple but formerly viral photo of “Snowball the giant cat” at the dawn of the internet age to the far more convincing deepfakes now used to spread political disinformation—enable modern viewers to cast doubt on almost any image.8 Was the 1969 moonwalk by Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin, then seen as a moment of American triumph in the space race, the “fake news” that some now claim it to be? Even when faced with photographic evidence and the continuing testimony of Aldrin himself, some viewers now imagine the image to be part of a government conspiracy.9 Such examples underscore the need to increase critical understanding of how images contribute to discourses of power, both historically and in the present. 2

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

This premise inspired the conference on which the present volume is based. The conference date, 16 November 2019, predated the global pandemic that just a few months later would reshape the landscape of research and teaching—and the role of images in public discourse—just as thoroughly as it did nearly every other aspect of modern life. This pre-​COVID period found medievalists preoccupied with a different but no less far-​reaching series of public questions, from how long-​standing patterns of racism and sexual violence have shaped modern society to the impact of nationalism and capitalism on political movements and the changing human relationship to the environment. None of these issues were new—all had parallels or even obvious foundations in the problems of the medieval world, but all shared a common element in having been impacted by discourses of power in which the production and consumption of visual images played a central part. At the Index of Medieval Art, we believed there was no better time for comparative exploration of the place of medieval images within a wider economy of power and resistance. Our hope was to refine modern understanding of how images worked in medieval culture while also fostering critical attention to how they have continued to operate within the power structures and resistance movements of the modern world. The eight speakers, whose papers became the foundation for the essays collected here, examined these questions across a field that stretched from the Byzantine, Ottonian, and Valois courts to the successive mythoi of Umayyad and Castilian authority in Iberia and from the military and commercial confrontations of the eastern Mediterranean to the metaphorical and personal ones of courtly love culture. Each contribution offers a chance to reflect upon how enduringly visual culture has served to assert or to resist power in various medieval settings, as well as on how the same strategies can persist, sometimes obviously but often barely perceptibly, within a modern ambit. The volume opens with two chapters that examine the complex claims made by visual expressions of imperial power. Elena N. Boeck finds in a now-​lost equestrian statue of the Byzantine emperor Justin II a dramatic opposition between Justin’s efforts to emblematize his power through the construction of the monument and the “spectacularly didactic” act of resistance in its dismantlement by his successor, Tiberios II. Resistant herself to accepting at face value John of Ephesos’s account of the monument’s history, Boeck dissects John’s text in light of numismatic, architectural, and textual evidence to find in Tiberios’s coins and commissions a preference for overtly Christian iconography to project imperial authority, rejecting the ill and unpopular Justin’s preference for using Roman imperial signs of power. Eliza Garrison’s contribution characterizes the tension between “absorption” and “avoidance” of imperial visual rhetoric in the often-​politicized historiography of Ottonian portraiture, the understanding of which, she argues, is too often oversimplified by the projection of modern political ideals. Focusing on the portraiture of Emperor Henry II, the last and most tenuous ruler in the Ottonian line, she shows how the tendency to interpret such images as flat statements of political authority can obscure Introduction

3

the ambiguity that often lay behind them. The complex iconography, verbose inscriptions, and lavish covers of the Regensburg Sacramentary, as she shows, both speak to Henry’s desire to cement his authority and silence the resistance that he had encountered to his own accession in 1002. In doing so, they invite a broader reevaluation of the interplay of power and resistance in Ottonian imperial imagery. The often-​tacit connections between power and religious or cultural identity form the theme of the next several essays. Heather Badamo demonstrates how the hagiography and image of Saint George were mobilized to consolidate identity and assert religious and political authority by widely diverse communities in the eastern Mediterranean. Comparing Coptic and Georgian representations of the saint, she shows how George’s portrayals in text and image were transformed as they traveled the networks of the Mediterranean world, responding to the predominant pressures and agenda of the saint’s diverse communities. At the same time, her essay critiques lopsided approaches to the “global Middle Ages” that sometimes obscure rather than reveal the contributions and interconnections of communities beyond widely studied medieval centers. Thomas E. A. Dale explores the interplay of power and identity in Venice, focusing his contribution upon the distinctively varied representations of Muslims produced in and around the cathedral of San Marco. Drawing attentively on recent scholarship on race and identity in the Middle Ages, he scrutinizes the variable discourses of race, religion, and conversion that are suggested by the carefully calibrated combinations of physiognomy, skin color, and dress used to depict Muslims of diverse status and semiotic role. The frequent racialization and exoticization of such figures, he argues, served as proxies for the actual Muslims with whom the Venetians regularly interacted economically, politically, and socially, strengthening the latter’s self-​perception as categorically white and Christian while arguing for the city’s dominance as a commercial and pilgrimage center in the eastern Mediterranean. The quintessentially multicultural mosque-​cathedral of Córdoba provides the locus for two essays, one related to the structure’s original life as Iberia’s preeminent Umayyad mosque, the other following upon its conversion into a Castilian cathedral. Avinoam Shalem contends that a minbar added to the mosque in its late tenth-​century renovation under al-​Hakam II represented not just a religious but a political symbol that its viewers perceived to track directly back to the minbar in the House of the Prophet in Mecca. The commission of the structure for the Córdoba mosque, he suggests, sought to validate the legitimacy of the caliph, while its conjunction there with the bloodstained Quran leaves of the assassinated third caliph ʿUthmān ibn Affān also constituted an expression of Sunni legitimacy and resistance to the Shiite movement then expanding elsewhere in the Mediterranean. Tom Nickson’s essay parses the “silent rhetoric” presented by the mosque-​turned-​ cathedral’s Puerta del Perdón, which was rebuilt in the late fourteenth century with an array of decoration that intermingles vernacular, Latin, and Arabic inscriptions with 4

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

allusive geometric and foliate forms. He proposes that as an ensemble, these offered a multivalent message. For Christian viewers who could read some or all of the texts, the portal could evoke Castilian triumphs in the history of this contested site, staking claims that were central to both royal and ecclesiastical authority. To the illiterate, the presence of even unreadable Arabic on the portal of a converted site still could suggest dominance over an acquiescent Muslim populace. And the faith of all viewers, literate or not, could be swayed by the paradisiacal and even magical associations of the portal’s abstract ornament. Nickson’s observations present the visual articulation of power as intersecting with other factors characteristic of multicultural medieval societies, such as the motivations behind cultural exchange, the relationship of performance to architecture, and the semiotic value of ornament and material. The volume’s final chapters trace the distinctive discourses of power and resistance found in luxury objects from late medieval France. Anne D. Hedeman harnesses the concept of the paratext to analyze how images and rubrics created for King Charles V’s manuscript of the Grandes chroniques de France reshaped an established text by adding paratextual material that affirmed Valois authority for the manuscript’s royal reader. Through analysis of surviving instructions to the écrivains du roy charged with producing the new manuscript, as well as through a close reading of several newly added illuminations and their rubrics, she reveals how such additions “sculpted” and sometimes controverted the text to craft a discourse of authority that aligned with the king’s own claims to power. Martha Easton’s contribution draws an explicit line from the Middle Ages to the modern day as it challenges prevailing interpretations of so-​called courtly love scenes in fourteenth-​century Gothic ivories. Easton engages the framework of the #MeToo movement and current discourse about rape culture to disrupt romanticized modern readings of such imagery. Instead, she proposes to apply a “period eye” to female figures whose facial expressions and gestures often seem far from neutral, sometimes strongly resembling those of victims in contemporaneous images. Highlighting the violence and power inequities embedded in both these images and the literary texts to which they closely relate, the chapter exhorts modern viewers to resist entrenched tendencies to silence the victim, urging readers to recognize the ivory maidens’ own resistance to pictorial sexual aggression. The contributions here, then, ask readers not merely to contemplate the degree to which discourses of power and resistance threaded through the visual culture of the Middle Ages but to reflect on how modern perception of those discourses might have been either emphasized or muted by contemporary sensitivities. They also demonstrate that while the resources to make and preserve lasting works of art have tended to lie in the hands of the powerful, committed modern study of their gaps, erasures, and successive rereadings can also find within them meaningful expressions of resistance. Above all, they remind us that power expressed in any form is most clearly understood when it is placed in dynamic relationship to the resistance it has inspired. Introduction

5

Notes 1. As this volume reached final form, such initiatives included numerous scholarly sessions and thematic strands on race, gender, immigration, colonialism, and the environment at the annual medieval conferences at Kalamazoo and Leeds; the influential “Race B4 Race” conference series founded by Ayanna Thompson (​ https://​www​.ayannathompson​.com​ /raceb4race​); interventions initiated by Medievalists of Color and The Material Collective; and numerous other freestanding conferences and lecture series, as well as such recent publications, such as Heng, Invention of Race; Whitaker, Black Metaphors; Albin et al., Whose Middle Ages?; Betancourt, Byzantine Intersectionality; and Hsy, Antiracist Medievalisms. 2. Roberts and Skeat, Birth of the Codex, 38–74. 3. See examples in Mackie, Symbols of Power.

4. As memorably formulated by Williams, Bread, Wine, and Money. 5. Heuschkel, “Metzer Reiterstatuette,” 32–33. 6. Stolberg and Rosenthal, “Man Charged After White Nationalist Rally.” 7. “Sculpture Created by Kehinde Wiley for VMFA,” Virgina Museum of Fine Arts, accessed 15 September 2023, https://​www​.vmfa​.museum​ /about​/rumors​-of​-war/. 8. Campbell, “ ‘Monster’ Cat a Photo Experiment,” and Satariano and Mozur, “People Onscreen Are Fake.” 9. See “Buzz Aldrin on the Moon,” NASA, 11 July 2013, https://​www​.nasa​.gov​/mission​_pages​/apollo​ /40th​/images​/apollo​_image​_12​.html.

Bibliography Albin, Andrew, Mary C. Erler, Thomas O’Donnell, Nicholas L. Paul, and Nina Rowe, eds. Whose Middle Ages? Teachable Moments for an Ill-​Used Past. New York: Fordham University Press, 2019. Betancourt, Roland. Byzantine Intersectionality: Sexuality, Gender, and Race in the Middle Ages. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2020. Campbell, Jennifer. “ ‘Monster’ Cat a Photo Experiment, Owner Says.” Ottawa Citizen, May 18, 2001, E10. Heng, Geraldine. The Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018. Heuschkel, Gunnar. “Metzer Reiterstatuette.” In Karl der Große = Charlemagne, ed. Frank Pohle, 3:32– 33. Dresden: Sandstein, 2014. Hsy, Jonathan. Antiracist Medievalisms: From “Yellow Peril” to Black Lives Matter. Amsterdam: ARC Humanities Press, 2021. Mackie, Louise W. Symbols of Power: Luxury Textiles from Islamic Lands, 7th‒21st Centuries. Cleveland: Cleveland Museum of Art, 2015.

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Roberts, Colin H., and T. C. Skeat. The Birth of the Codex. London: Oxford University Press, 1983. Satariano, Adam, and Paul Mozur. “The People Onscreen Are Fake: The Disinformation Is Real.” New York Times, February 7, 2023. https://​www​ .nytimes​.com​/2023​/02​/07​/technology​/artificial​ -intelligence​-training​-deepfake​.html. Stolberg, Sheryl Gay, and Brian M. Rosenthal. “Man Charged After White Nationalist Rally in Charlottesville Ends in Deadly Violence.” New York Times, August 12, 2017. https://​www​.nytimes​ .com​/2017​/08​/12​/us​/charlottesville​-protest​ -white​-nationalist​.html. Whitaker, Cord. J. Black Metaphors: How Modern Racism Emerged from Medieval Race-​Thinking. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2019. Williams, Jane Welch. Bread, Wine, and Money: The Windows of the Trades at Chartres Cathedral. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993.

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

1 Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance The Triumphal Column of Justin II

Elena N. Boeck

Resistance takes multiple, sometimes unexpected forms. Resistance works in mysterious ways—people can resist objects, and objects, in turn, can resist people. The case study presented here engages various forms of resistance to tradition, memory, and even materiality. It analyzes the short life of a lost triumphal column, which was set up by Justin II (r. 565–78 ce). His successor, Tiberios II (r. 574–82 ce), in a spectacularly didactic act of resistance, dismantled the column together with the honorific traditions it represented. Our sole source for the column’s participation in an imperial contest of wills is the account by a contemporary, John of Ephesos, a Syriac, a bishop, and a historian. I propose that if scholars resist John’s willful reshaping of reality, a more complicated picture of both the monument and the period can emerge.

A Ghostly Column: The State of the Question The column of Justin II is something of a historiographic ghost: its brief existence is questioned, its dimensions are unknown, its exact location is disputed.1 Its state of completion is uncertain.2 Realizing that we are dependent on John of Ephesos, scholars are confronted with three alternatives: (1) accept John’s account at face value, (2) dismiss

his evidence, or (3) selectively mine his account for facts. Averil Cameron, whose sustained analysis of the historical sources for the reign of Justin II is incomparable, acknowledges John’s biases regarding the column: “For John of Ephesus, who knew the emperor well, his many building schemes were but signs of folly, fit for doggerel inscriptions and doomed to be left unfinished or torn down by the mad emperor’s virtuous successor.”3 The logic for the location of Justin’s column was proposed by Cyril Mango. Mango, who occasionally alluded to the column in passing but devoted no separate study to it, posited a dialogue with the column constructed by Justinian (r. 527–65 ce). He states: “If it was indeed at the Zeuxippus . . . it must have been a stone’s throw from Justinian’s and may, therefore, have been meant as a pendant to it.”4 John’s account of the column within the framework of Kaiserkritik (criticism of a ruler) was revived by Benjamin Anderson. Anderson deploys elements of John’s account to prove that “by the sixth century, imperial monuments had become convenient loci for the criticism of the ruling emperor.”5 In support of this position, he briefly discusses the satirical epigram that was attached to the column, as well as the column’s dismantling. He writes, “It is significant in and of itself that imperial disavowal of honorific monuments had, by the late sixth century, become a plausible literary construct.”6 More recently, Luke Lavan accepts as fact the column’s physical dismantling by Tiberios and notes the significance of this rupture with tradition. He states: “The fact that neither Tiberius, Maurice nor his successors invested in honorific columns, suggests that this monument was seen as an honorific column and that the disgrace of not completing it and having it demolished afterwards, affected their own judgement as to how to represent themselves in the capital.”7 In order to shed additional light on the ghost column and the contest of imperial wills it provoked, this study will test the account of John of Ephesos against numismatic evidence and other accounts from the era. John diverted attention from Tiberios’s decision to resist a long-​standing imperial tradition by portraying Justin as the one who opposed the populace and God. In John’s Christian narrative, Tiberios instituted the necessary change that Justin had resisted because Tiberios was not interested in worldly glory.

Contextualizing the Contest: Historical Introduction The elusive and tragic Justin II is a complex figure. He was dominated by his disease and was often obscured by the long shadow of the legacy of Justinian I and unfavorably compared with Tiberios II. Justin II, a nephew of Justinian, was married to Sophia, the niece of Empress Theodora.8 During Justinian’s lifetime, Justin commanded armies on the eastern front.9 Though Justin had a rival murdered upon accession, his reign began with the restoration of the institution of consulship, which had been dismantled by Justinian, before spectacularly unraveling due to madness and catastrophic defeats.10 8

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

His reign is narratively divided into three periods: the first six good years; the subsequent five bad years, when he became gradually more incapacitated by disease, both physically and mentally; and the final four years (574–78 ce), after Justin publicly abdicated in favor of his old friend Tiberios but still retained the imperial title until death. Tiberios became Tiberios II Constantine in 574 ce, when Justin II reportedly announced that name for his successor in his abdication speech: “Henceforward be thy name called Constantine; for in thee shall the kingdom of the great Constantine be renewed.”11 It was the first time in more than two hundred years that a new Constantine appeared on the imperial stage.12 Tiberios II set in motion a definitive paradigm shift. This name game prefigured the subsequent debates for imperial role models and initiated arbitration of Justinian’s legacy in imperial memory, which was to last for centuries to come.13 Though the majority judgment of historians pronounced the handsome Tiberios a good emperor, he spent prodigiously, fought wars on multiple fronts, and had to buy peace from the Avars and Sasanians. Tiberios’s successor yet again inherited a bankrupt empire.

Dialogues in Gold and Imperial Rivalries As the most widely disseminated public iconography of imperial power, coins can reveal how new rulers crafted their image in relation to their predecessors. They also provide means of drawing conclusions parallel to those of the narrative sources at our disposal. I will use the conclusions gleaned from the numismatic evidence—gold coins (solidi) of Justinian I (figs. 1.1a–2a), Justin II (figs. 1.1b–2b), and Tiberios II (figs. 1.1c–2c)—to test some of the statements made by John of Ephesos. On the one hand, imperial images were governed by constraints of tradition.14 On the other hand, each ruler crafted a distinct identity—by continuing or severing dialogue with immediate predecessors and by distilling particularly important ideological choices into a succinct visual format. The fact that contemporaries paid close attention to changes in numismatic iconography is attested by John of Ephesos, as discussed below. Let us first consider the obverse of the coins. Like Justinian I, Justin II and Tiberios II are represented completely frontal and beardless. The latter two rulers therefore endorsed the iconographic innovations introduced by Justinian. Justinian had made changes in the presentation of the imperial head (in addition to the three-​ quarter and profile views); substituted an orb for the spear, which his predecessors held over their right shoulder; and placed a large cross on the orb.15 Like his Roman predecessors, Justinian continued to be represented as a bust-​length cuirassed and helmeted figure, holding a shield decorated with a horseman device. Most notably, he became the first Byzantine emperor to be consistently represented completely frontal, gazing directly out from his coin. This became the standard mode of imperial Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance

9

Figure 1.1 (a) Gold solidus of Justinian I (538–45 ce), BZC.1956.6.61. (b) Gold solidus of Justin II (565– 78 ce), BZC.1948.17.1596. (c) Gold solidus of Tiberios II (579/80 ce), BZC.1968.16. Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC. © Dumbarton Oaks, Coins and Seals Collection, Washington, DC.

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representations until the end of Byzantium. The other major innovation of Justinian’s numismatic iconography is the large orb surmounted by an enormous cross (the globus cruciger) in his raised right hand. Though the orb was a traditional symbol of Roman imperial power, and the globus cruciger only appeared around 420 ce; it was first incorporated into the iconography of imperial coinage at the time of Justinian.16 This change had powerful ideological implications, signifying that the emperor rules and is victorious by the grace of God. The numismatic iconography issued immediately upon succession, for any emperor, is a balancing act of dialogue and difference.17 In part, Justin II is represented as very similar to his uncle: fully frontal, helmeted, and cuirassed, with large jewels suspended from his helmet.18 Like Justinian, he holds an orb in his right hand. This represents selective continuity. Unlike the cross-​topped orb of Justinian, Justin’s orb is surmounted by a winged figure of Victory who offers a wreath (of victory) to the emperor. Justin had a penchant for winged Victory, who appears on another key symbolic object of his imperial power: his throne, which was decorated with a pair of Victory figures who “held the right side and the left side, hanging high into the air on extended wings, stretching out in [their] shining right hand[s] a crown of laurel.”19 This was a notable restitution of Roman tradition: Victory was regularly represented on imperial coins from Augustus to Anastasios. It was only in the early seventh century that a Byzantine author declared that the Mother of God had finally superseded her.20 On the obverse of his coin, Tiberios II Constantine charted an iconographic course in dialogue with the numismatic innovations of Justinian.21 We behold a solidus of the iconographic type issued immediately upon his accession to sole power in 578 ce.22 The winged Victory of Justin II has been banished from the orb, which is, instead, once again surmounted by a large cross. Thus, Tiberios restituted Justinian’s iconography, but he further amplified the Christian preeminence. Though Tiberios is represented cuirassed, he is no longer helmeted. Instead, he wears a diadem surmounted by a prominent cross. His power comes not from arms but from faith. This was a statement Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

of resistance to a long-​standing imperial iconographic tradition. The unprecedented numismatic innovation was a bold symbolic step in the Christianization of the imperial image, which lasted until the end of the Byzantine Empire. His reign has been called “a watershed in coins and seals’ iconography.”23 On the reverse of our three solidi, we encounter a remarkable divergence of symbolic messaging. On Justinian’s solidus, we behold a standing angel with an orb in hand, who, like the emperor, is fully frontal and stares directly outward. The angelic iconography is identical to the coins of Justin I (Justinian’s uncle and immediate predecessor), who had replaced the figure of winged Victory of his predecessors with that of an angel. The iconography on the reverse of the solidi of Justin II eschews angels, but it does not return to Victory either. Instead, we behold a bare-​armed female figure (in the Tyche tradition), seated on a throne, her proper right leg planted forward and exposed from the knee down, her helmeted head facing to viewer’s right. In her proper right hand, she holds a spear; in her proper left hand, a globus cruciger. The intended identity of this figure is contested by John of Ephesos (who identifies her as Venus) and debated by scholars. This female warrior, accompanied by a legend “Victoria,” was intended to represent Roma, the personification of victorious Rome (further discussed below in the context of Justin’s restoration of consulship). Though this figure is usually identified as Constantinopolis, Alan Cameron convincingly argues that she should be understood as Roma, signifying both the capital of the empire (namely, New Rome, that is Constantinople) and the victorious Roman Empire.24 The reverse of Justin’s coin, therefore, constitutes a complex encoding of competitive Roman identity through iconographic restitution. We would have to go back more than a hundred years to Theodosian coins (such as the solidus of Theodosios II of 443 ce) to encounter a Tyche with the same iconography and attributes on a Constantinopolitan coin.25 Justin’s Roma represents a valiant attempt to shore up tradition against the waves of change, but ultimately she marked the end of an era: she was the last personification and the swan song of Tyche to appear on the Byzantine coins.26 Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance

Figure 1.2 (a) Gold solidus of Justinian I, BZC.1956.6.61. (b) Gold solidus of Justin II, BZC.1948.17.1596. (c) Gold solidus of Tiberios II, BZC.1968.16. Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC. © Dumbarton Oaks, Coins and Seals Collection, Washington, DC.

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In the sixth century, this image of a seated female figure would have demanded sophisticated iconographic analysis and cultural references to decipher the intended visual message. Justin’s learned allusion to triumphal empire was willfully misconstrued by John of Ephesos. Instead, his reading of the iconography amounted to a charge of impiety against Justin II: “For Justin had introduced in the coinage . . . a female figure, which was generally compared to Venus.”27 John chose to code Justin’s iconographic choice neither as symbolic of victorious empire nor as dialogue with a long Roman tradition. John’s interpretation was one of the most scandalous for a Christian reader: the goddess of love and her salacious associative baggage of carnal impropriety. Tiberios II soundly rejected the iconography of Justin’s reverse. Instead, he radically innovated on his first gold issue: the obverse bears a cross potent on four steps.28 No Byzantine coin had ever featured such iconography. Perhaps unsurprisingly, John of Ephesos was greatly pleased with the coins of Tiberios. Continuing his iconographic comparison between the coins of Justin and Tiberios, he observes: “And this Tiberios discontinued [Justin’s Venus], and had a cross struck upon the reverse of his coins: and this act, as he himself said, was dictated to him in a vision.”29 The fact that Tiberios II Constantine would have a vision of the cross is hardly surprising considering the famous vision of the first Constantine before the Battle of the Milvian Bridge. What can we conclude from the iconographic messages of these coins? Both Justin II and Tiberios II set out to confront the legacies of their immediate predecessors and to selectively engage with the past. While Justin II envisioned the restoration of Roman tradition (at least in part for political and military reasons), Tiberios II chose a Christian framework for projecting his authority.

The Peoples’ Emperor: Justin II Brings Back Consulship Justin’s numismatic embrace of Roma correlates with his public gesture of popular appeasement and makeover of imperial power, namely the revival of the office of consulship, enacted immediately upon his accession. It was a very public, deliberate, and visible act of resistance to Justinian’s legacy, in the form of the restoration of a centuries-​long Roman tradition that had been ended by Justinian. The presence of Roma on Justin’s coins embodied that return to tradition.30 Equally important for our purposes is the fact that John of Ephesos avoids mentioning it. Why did Justin II make consulship a significant issue in crafting his imperial image? It was a multifaceted public-​relations move intended to distance Justin II from the negative legacies of his uncle. In relation to the populace, this act bought good publicity since the newly minted emperor had purportedly proclaimed: “I shall enrich the people and bring back as consul the name denied to consuls for so long, so that all the world may rejoice in Justin’s gift.”31 In the late antique period, consulship was

12

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

a very costly honor, which was the domain of emperors and the wealthiest aristocrats, who spent fantastic sums while holding the yearlong office.32 Consulship was a venerable Roman office of Republican pedigree, a singular honor and a keystone for a brilliant public career. While in the Republican period it entailed leadership of civic and military institutions, by the sixth century, it was a symbolic honor that carried the responsibility “to put on seven days of entertainments for the inhabitants of the city [Constantinople].”33 In 535 ce, Justinian’s superstar general Belisarios celebrated his remarkable victories against the Vandals with an astonishing consular largesse: “For the people carried off the silver plate, golden girdles, and a vast amount of the Vandals’ other wealth as a result of Belisarios’ consulship.”34 Justin’s restoration of consulship and assumption of the office enabled him to acquire popular consent to his rule.35 Justinian’s radical transformation of Roman traditions and aggressive rewriting of Roman history had scandalized his contemporaries.36 The consulship was a uniquely Roman and proudly Republican office of the highest order.37 Justinian had absorbed the consular office into his imperial titulature and created a model of absolute imperial power.38 The erasure of consulship even extended to timekeeping: Justinian altered the structure of established timekeeping by decreeing in 537 ce that official documents were to “take as their primary chronological indicator the regnal years of the emperor, rather than the indiction cycle or the name of the consuls.”39 Justinian de facto abolished the consulship in 541 ce.40 This act galvanized resistance to Justinian’s overreaches.41 For Justin II, restoration of consulship was a key act of restoring Roman traditions and correcting Justinian’s mistakes. The importance of consulship is underscored by the fact that the five subsequent emperors (Tiberios II, Maurice, Phocas, Herakleios, and Constans II) became consuls within a year of their accession to the throne. Though every politician makes an accession speech, not all speeches survive. Justin’s early rhetoric of crafting his imperial identity was captured in the corpus of the ebullient Corippus, a Roman poet of north African origins. Here we encounter promises of peace, justice, prosperity, virtue, upholding of morality, and fiscal responsibility.42 Justin had publicly pledged to ensure “that everything had been done according to the custom of our ancestors.”43 In his speech to the Senate, which Justin delivered shortly upon his accession—after sneaking into the palace in the dead of the night,44 and after dispatching another contender to the throne45—Justin, according to Corippus, claims to bring the dawn of the bright new age, while condemning the bad old days of Justinian: We honour justice, venerate the just and love them. Justice we commend to you and bid you preserve. Many things were too much neglected while my father was alive, and as a result the exhausted treasury contracted so many debts, which we propose, moved by piety, to restore to the unfortunate people. Let the world rejoice that whatever was not done or put into practice because

Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance

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of our father’s old age has been corrected in the time of Justin. The old man no longer cared: he was altogether cold and only grew warm with love of another life. All his mind was fixed on heaven. . . . And although he emptied the resources of the exhausted treasury, nevertheless the blessing of my holy father is with me and can restore it completely and make good the losses. We allow no one to do harm to the holy treasury, nor anyone to be harmed in the name of the treasury.46 Justin II sought to draw a line between himself and his predecessor. The highlighted messages of justice, the rule of law, and fiscal responsibility engage in a not-​so-​hidden dialogue with the injustices and financial recklessness of Justinian’s reign.47 The restoration of consulship was the material embodiment of these goals and the quickest path to acquiring popular good will. Justin held the consular office in 566 ce and 568 ce and possibly even for the third time in 570 ce.48 It is in this context of the restoration of consulship as a pointed response to Justinian’s legacy that the Roma of Justin’s coins fully comes into her own. Her presence alludes to the restoration of consulship as the first fruit of Justin’s new just age.49 The residents of Constantinople understood the new emperor’s message and reciprocated in kind. The grateful Constantinople, “to commemorate flourishing justice,” within a year honored Justin with an honorific statue for the restoration of consulship. He was represented in the costume of a consul.50 This was an image of the peoples’ emperor, since late antique consuls were consistently represented as presiding over fabulous, popular entertainments at the hippodrome, which they had sponsored. None of this is discussed by John of Ephesos. Although the statue is no longer extant, we can infer what it would have looked like from the coins of Tiberios II in consular garb (fig. 1.3) and late antique ivory consular diptychs, as well as from a detailed description of the consular costume and its attributes by John Lydus.51 The image of Tiberios II, for the most part, closely adheres to consular iconography. He is represented in richly textured consular robes, with a piece of cloth (mappa) in his right hand, which was used to signal the beginning of entertainments.52 In his left hand, he holds another traditional attribute of the consular office, an eagle scepter, but here it is surmounted by a prominent cross. Justin’s sculpted image as consul would have drawn stark contrast with Justinian’s militantly imperial, grand bronze horseman, which towered over Constantinople from the top of the triumphal column. Justin’s halcyon days of popularity were relatively short-​lived. Within a few years, the emperor succumbed to the pressures of the imperial office and to a grave illness. He also succumbed to the power of Justinian’s monumental legacy. Though Justin’s reign began in opposition to Justinian’s with the restoration of consulship, it ended in direct dialogue with his uncle—and with the construction of Justin’s own great triumphal column. 14

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

Figure 1.3 Gold solidus of Tiberios II as consul (579–82 ce). Dumbarton Oaks, Washington, DC, BZC.1948.17.1716. © Dumbarton Oaks, Coins and Seals Collection, Washington, DC.

John of Ephesos: Faulty Pillar or False Witness? Was Justin’s column a contentious monument to hubris or a calculated statement of dynastic power? The answer depends on our assessment of John of Ephesos, our sole source on the tumultuous life of the column of Justin II.53 John, the titular bishop of Ephesos (ca. 507–88/89 ce), was a native of northern Mesopotamia and a Monophysite. He served as a missionary to the pagans at the behest of Justinian, crisscrossed the Mediterranean, and became a leader of the Monophysites in Constantinople. At times, he was also a court insider. John’s Ecclesiastical History was written in Syriac. It commenced with the reign of Julius Caesar and concluded around the time of John’s own death. The first two parts have been virtually lost, but the third part (from the reign of Justin II onward) survives almost complete.54 While being persecuted for his beliefs, exiled, and even imprisoned by Justin II, John was writing the third part of Ecclesiastical History, narrating the years 571–88/89 ce (with some flashbacks). John never completed editing the manuscript or integrating its different sections.55 Justin’s harsh persecution of the Monophysites, John’s own suffering, and Justin’s malady contributed to the narrative’s transformation of a “victorious” emperor into a mad, rapacious sinner who was chastised by God.56 As harsh as John is toward Justin II, he is affectionate toward Tiberios II. He does occasionally acknowledge some of Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance

15

Tiberios’s faults, including excessive fiscal liberality and religious persecutions. John assures the reader of the authenticity and authoritativeness of his account because of his close acquaintance with Tiberios long before the latter became Tiberios II Constantine. John writes that “when . . . Tiberius was but a youth, and his cheeks undarkened by a beard, we both of us, together with the rest of the court, were constantly in one another’s company, in attendance upon . . . Justin; and owing to this, I have long had the fullest knowledge of his manner of life and conduct.”57 John’s narrated empire is an outsider-​insider experience. The patriarchs of Constantinople are bad because they persecute the righteous (the Monophysites), the underappreciated frontier allies are noble, and the crowds of Constantinople command vast, dangerous powers, which occasionally flare up in spectacular acts of violence, like the immolation of heretics. John provides glimpses of the levers of power at court and of strategies of influence (such as bribery). He is at ease with the geographies of Constantinopolitan spaces of power, from the hippodrome, the Great Palace, and the Great Church to the suburban palaces. Like many historians, he is fascinated by novelty and scandalous items: from trophy elephants who make the sign of the cross or nod to a church as they pass by to pernicious images, like the column of Justin II or a subversive double-​sided pagan icon with Christ represented on one side and Apollo on the other. In John’s narrative, the reign of Justin II is shaped into a morality tale. John infuses the emperor’s activities with hubris, redirects his readers from Justin’s attempted restoration of Roman tradition, and recasts Justin’s legacy within a framework of divine retribution. Furthermore, he overemphasizes the elements that fit his narrative interests (like the toppling of Justin’s and Sophia’s statues at their suburban palace in a storm or the emperor’s dreadful malady) and turns a blind eye to Justin’s accomplishments.

Restitution or Resistance? Grappling with the Design of a Contentious Column As we saw in the numismatic analysis above, Justin II pointedly engaged in dialogue with a long Roman tradition. It would therefore be natural that such an engagement continued in other spheres of the emperor’s endeavors. Justin II was both an active and a strategic builder. His triumphal column would have been a highly visible form of commitment to tradition. John is lamentably our only witness to this magnum opus. As I argue below, John engages in linguistic and topographical redirection in order to resist this monument and the tradition that it embodied. John of Ephesos conjures an image of a lighthouse—a pharos—as the frame of reference for Justin’s ambitious column: “But Justin, nothing discouraged, next determined upon building a pharos, that is, a tall and lofty pillar, whence to enjoy the view: and this he commenced in the eastern part of the city on the seashore, in what is called the Zeuxippus. Within it a vaulted stair was constructed, so broad and strong that the workmen could mount up it with loads of massive hewn stone; which were cramped 16

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

together with bars of iron, and strongly cemented with lead.”58 His linguistic choice of transcribing a Greek word in a Syriac text is deliberate.59 This was an unusual term to conjure an image of the column, unlike the Greek words stele or kiōn, terms that directly mean column. Later on, in an excoriating satire of Justin and his column, the more conventional term pillar is reported by our author. The term pharos has a double meaning. It is the name of the island (Pharos) on which stood the lighthouse of Alexandria. Because of the awesome structure, the term became the noun for lighthouses in Greek, Latin (pharus), and other languages. What was John trying to convey? Was he comparing the appearance of the new column to a lighthouse, thus evoking one of the seven wonders of the ancient world, or was his allusion much less complimentary? Let us consider the latter option first. The lighthouse of Alexandria was the most famous lighthouse of the ancient and medieval Mediterranean world. The enormous landmark, reaching more than one hundred meters in height, was built on the island of Pharos, off the coast of Alexandria, in the third century bce and remained standing until the fourteenth century (though repeatedly damaged in earthquakes from the eighth century on).60 It was a legendary edifice, whose far-​reaching, talismanic reputation outlived the physical structure and whose architectural design became standard for lighthouses for centuries. It was crowned with a great statue, possibly of Helios, which still stood in the sixth century, as attested in a mosaic representation (fig. 1.4).61 If John named Justin’s column a pharos within this frame of reference, it would have been planned as an astonishing column, indeed. Or is the word play with pharos akin to the evocation/imposition of Venus on Justin’s coins? Could it be a diversion from and a negation of restitution of Roman tradition? What we learn from John about the technology of the column’s construction also supports the structural and engineering framework of reference for the unusual choice of the term pharos for the column. As tall landmarks, calculatedly placed for maximum visibility, lighthouses signaled access to a harbor or dangerous shore. They were constructed of hewn blocks of stone and had interior staircases. What John tells us about Justin’s column aligns with major structural elements of the lighthouses: Justin’s was a masonry pillar of impressive diameter with a capacious internal staircase that allowed workers to carry up massive stones for the pillar’s construction as they were building it. John’s technical description of the column’s construction seems probable based on the information in Prokopios. John tells us that the stones of Justin’s column were secured with iron clamps and molten lead. Prokopios describes the construction of Hagia Sophia’s massive masonry piers as bound together by lead “poured into the interstices, which flowed about everywhere in the spaces between the stones and hardened in the joints, binding them to each other.”62 The two narratives of the construction process and of the binding agents are closely aligned. They indicate skill transfer from the generation of builders who toiled for Justinian to those who labored for Justin II. Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance

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Figure 1.4 Pharos of Alexandria, detail of mosaic floor, sixth century. Church at Qasr Libya, Libya. © Art Resource, New York.

And yet, Justin’s column was designed differently from that of Justinian, the most recent and ambitious triumphal imperial column. This column was a colossal monument of empire.63 When it was completed in 542/43 ce, it became the tallest freestanding column of the premodern world, rivaling in height the adjacent great church of Hagia Sophia (fig. 1.5). It was daringly innovative as the first and only monumental triumphal column to be crowned with a large bronze equestrian statue (taken from the forum of Theodosios). The column—of solid masonry construction—was a centerpiece of Justinian’s forum, known as the Augoustaion (see fig. 1.6). Justinian’s forum and his statue came to define the skyline and imperial power in the Byzantine capital. His statue became an object of cross-​cultural fascination and an imperial talisman that persisted in memory long after the end of the Byzantine Empire.64 Choosing a triumphal column as a vehicle for dialogue with a glorious predecessor had notable antecedents in both New and Old Rome. The two imperial fora of the 18

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

Figure 1.5 Justinian’s bronze horseman atop his triumphal column and the Hagia Sophia in Constantinople. Modern artistic representation by Rob Hassan.

Theodosian emperors, Theodosios I and Arkadios, and their respective historiated triumphal columns transformed the monumental fabric of Constantinople. While the column of Theodosios forged a dialogue with Old Rome, the column of Arkadios engaged with the column of his father, Theodosios, and with the columns of Old Rome. The two historiated columns of Rome, those of Trajan and of Marcus Aurelius, were similarly great marvels. While the column of Trajan was a remarkably innovative monument, the historiated column of Marcus Aurelius emulated the column of Trajan to such an extent that it has been called “perhaps the most unashamed instance of copying in the whole history of Roman architecture.”65 The column of Justin II was likely intended to create a dialogical relationship with its predecessors and enhance the dynastic core of imperial power with an unprecedented visual arrangement of a pair of great columns in direct visual dialogue. Justin II embarked upon the construction of a great column pendant to, or in competition with, Justinian’s monumental column. Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance

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Figure 1.6 Approximate reconstruction of the center of Constantinople with the baths of Zeuxippos, the Augoustaion, and the imperial palace. Image: Cplakidas, constantinoplecenter.svg.

The design and construction of Justin’s column, with its internal staircase, was a radical departure from Justinian’s column, and yet, like the Roma of Justin’s solidi, it was also a kind of return to earlier tradition. Some of the great imperial triumphal columns, both in Rome and Constantinople, also had interior staircases. The internal staircase of Justin’s monumental column aligned with the design of the columns of Theodosios and Arkadios in Constantinople and with the columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius in Rome.66 These staircases were great attractions for visitors since they offered an unparalleled opportunity to admire the city from a bird’s-​eye view. The internal staircase of Trajan’s column, for example, was covered with graffiti by enthusiastic visitors over the centuries.67 Justin II would not live to see the views from the top of his column, and popular resistance of John would narratively transform the envisioned opportunity into calamity.

Placing the Column of Justin II Although John knew Constantinople well, he loosely describes the column’s topography, which, I argue, was a deliberate misdirection. He names the place as Zeuxippos but 20

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

identifies it as the coast (fig. 1.6). As the crow flies, the outer edge of Zeuxippos was around half a kilometer away from the sea. Because John calls the column a pharos and identifies its placement on the shore, he deliberately obscures the location and the nature of the column. Even though the column had been erased from the topography of Constantinople by Tiberios II, John still insists on removing Justin’s memory from a nodal place of power in Constantinople. I argue that it is plausible that Justin II strategically chose the Zeuxippos complex as the location for his triumphal column in order to establish dialogue with Justinian’s spaces of power. If an emperor wanted to build a highly visible imperial monument but the ceremonial center was already built up, where would the emperor locate that monument? To imagine Justin’s triumphal column on the shore, one would have to reckon with the sea walls, the topography of an uneven sloping descent of the terrain to the water’s edge, and the strategic value of shoreside real estate. The cumulative weight of circumstantial evidence, including Constantinopolitan topography of power, Justinian’s revisioning of the city center, and the large footprint of the construction site make the Zeuxippos area a more plausible location. The baths of Zeuxippos were a venerable landmark of the city. Originally a Severan foundation (ca. 196 ce), the baths’ sprawling complex was located in close proximity to the imperial palace. Though we do not know the precise dimensions or boundaries of the baths, the complex was extended by Constantine I, remained in active use for centuries, and was restored by Justinian in the aftermath of the destruction of the city center in the Nika Riots of 532 ce.68 Prior to 532 ce, the baths of Zeuxippos housed an extensive and impressive collection of ancient statues (perhaps as many as one hundred); they formed a “memory place” within the nexus of Constantinopolitan topographies of power. The site also served as a performative space and remained a functioning bathing facility.69 Though the baths are well known from literary accounts, they remain enigmatic as a physical complex.70 The baths of Zeuxippos were located at the intersection of key vectors of imperial power, in the ceremonial center. The façade of the baths opened onto the continuation of the main street, the Mese (the Regia), across from the grandiose Augoustaion. Justinian had transformed the Augoustaion into the foremost forum of Constantinople following the Nika Riots. His Augoustaion was flanked by very important ceremonial spaces on all sides. The senate house opened onto the Augoustaion across the Mese on its southeast side. The Chalke Gate of the imperial palace stood in close proximity to the senate house as the focal point of the main processional venue, the Mese, when it bent southeast from the Milion, the mile marker and “the symbolic centre of the empire.”71 The centerpiece of Justinian’s program was a pairing of two soaring structures, the Hagia Sophia and his triumphal column, which was the focus of the Augoustaion. Justin II had established dynastic dialogue with this complex. Statues of Justin II and his empress, Sophia, were erected in front of the entrance to the baths of Zeuxippos. These statues were still visible in the eighth century.72 Statues of the women Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance

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of Justin’s family graced the Milion.73 Thus, Justin II successfully created a narrative of dynastic continuity within the sight lines of the Augoustaion, in dialogue with Justinian’s colossal architectural accomplishments.74 Justin’s column would thus have faced Justinian’s forum. What could this placement have accomplished? G. Woolf argues that the construction of monuments “draws societies together, entrenches social power, expresses particular views of time, space and cosmology, and might civilise and appropriate landscapes.”75 Justin II was bolstering his place within the space of “imperial memory.”76 By erecting a column across from Justinian’s, he would have been establishing a symmetrical relationship with his predecessor, anchoring his power in the visible accomplishments of the former, and appropriating Zeuxippos as his space of power within the monumental dynastic ensemble that framed the imperial palace and articulated imperial power. Had the column been completed, it would have strongly impacted two points of view, both converging on imperial power: the approach to the Chalke Gate of the imperial palace and the view from the hippodrome. For a visitor approaching the Chalke Gate along the Mese from the direction of the forum of Constantine, Justinian’s column would have stood on the left while the column of Justin II would have risen on the right. The two lofty columns would have thus framed the entrance to the imperial palace. The view from the hippodrome, that greatest stage of imperial power, would have given a visual advantage to the projected column of Justin II. Justin’s column in the Zeuxippos would have been closer to the hippodrome than Justinian’s column in the Augoustaion. Therefore it would have, from certain vantage points, loomed larger and looked taller than the column of Justinian. Justin II appears to have entered into a competitive dialogue with the earlier monument within a few decades of its creation. Yet, almost finished by the time of Justin’s demise, Justin’s would become a failed column. Was this a decision from above or the result of pressure from below?

Political Satire or Popular Resistance? For John of Ephesos, the rise upward of Justin’s column parallels the rise of the emperor’s unpopularity. Ravaged by disease and incapable of governing, Justin had lost the support of his people. Just how much the people now hated him was emphasized, as we will see below, in a satirical poem that was purportedly affixed to the column, which John decided to transcribe for posterity. The pendulum of the popular sentiment had swung dramatically. Upon Justin’s accession, the ebullient Corippus reported the chatter of the rejoicing crowds. They hailed the beginning of a golden age and the end of Justinian’s era: “ ‘After its old age,’ they said, ‘the world rejoices to grow young again, and goes back to its old shape and 22

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appearance. The iron age has now gone, and the golden age is rising in your time, Justin, hope of the city and the world, light of the Roman Empire, glory added to all the emperors who have reigned before, whose conquering wisdom has gained the highest peaks of your father’s throne.’ ”77 These glory days were fleeting. The sudden onset of a terrible illness six years into Justin’s reign could not be concealed within the palace walls.78 Coinciding with disastrous military losses, it cast a long and dark shadow until his final demise. Justin II had been a condemned man for a decade, before finally giving up his ghost. It was an open secret in Constantinople and beyond that the emperor was mad, and his detractors viewed his malady as divine chastisement.79 In an extended but pertinent vignette, John describes Justin in excruciating terms, writing that: And He [God] sent it [madness] by means of an evil angel, who suddenly entered into him [Justin II], and took his form, and domineered over him cruelly and fearfully, making him an example of the terribleness of their malice. For suddenly it destroyed his reason, and his mind was agitated and darkened, and his body given over both to secret and open tortures and cruel agonies, so that he even uttered the cries of various animals, and barked like a dog, and bleated like a goat; and then he would mew like a cat, and then again crow like a cock: and many such things were done by him, contrary to human reason, being the workings of the prince of darkness, to whom he had been given up, and who had darkened his understanding, and taken it captive, and who wrought in him every thing that he did. At other times the evil spirit filled him with agitation and terror, so that he rushed about in furious haste from place to place, and crept, if he could, under the bed, and hid himself among the pillows; and then, when the horror came upon him, he would rush out with hot and violent speed, and run to the windows to throw himself down . . . and the queen was obliged to give orders for carpenters to come, and fix bars in the windows, and close them up on the whole of that side of the palace on which the king lived. Moreover they selected strong young men to act as his chamberlains and guard him; for . . . he would turn upon them, and seize them with his teeth, and tear them: and two of them he bit so severely about the head, as seriously to injure them, and they were ill, and the report got about the city that the king had eaten two of his chamberlains.80 Though John is a hostile witness, the description of the symptoms is so extensive that modern doctors have refined the diagnosis beyond schizophrenia or manic-​depressive psychosis by reading John as a medical file.81 The alternation between lucid episodes (namely, “clinical remissions” in modern medical parlance82) and rage and hallucinations, along with the decline in motor skills and control of muscles (discussed below), Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance

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have been diagnosed as now-​treatable hyperparathyroidism.83 It was during one of these lucid moments, in 574 ce, that Justin elevated Tiberios to the rank of Caesar and delivered an extraordinary public speech, abdicating his power and purportedly declaring: “Come, my son [Tiberios], enter upon thy office, and displace him who has set his Creator at nought, that Creator Who gave him the kingdom, from which his own eyes now see him rejected and fallen.”84 The exceptional event was so momentous that it was recounted by other contemporary and later Byzantine historians.85 Justin’s unpopularity and malady doomed his monument. John of Ephesos is the sole witness to an anonymous poem of “popular” resistance to the emperor and to his monument: And when it [the column] had reached a great height and was all but completed, some of the city wits wrote a doggerel inscription, and fixed it up on a tablet there, as follows: Build, build aloft thy pillar, And raise it vast and high; Then mount and stand upon it, Soaring proudly in the sky: Eastward, south, and north, and westward, Wherever thou shalt gaze, Nought thou’lt see but desolations, The work of thy own days.86 The column had succeeded in provoking a very strong audience response. In dialogue with established cultural expectations, the doggerel envisions the emperor or his statue standing at the top of the column; it countered the established expectations by envisioning not a sight of prosperity but a panorama of devastation. The column had galvanized resistance to Justin’s policies and become a magnet for dissent and the place for speaking back to power. Though the text is presented as a spontaneous expression of popular resentment, its structure is predicated on the inversion of the genre of praise: the great column exposes wreckage of the empire rather than its flourishing, weakness rather than strength.87 It is political satire and a counter-​narrative to imperial propaganda.88 The poem’s biting power lies in a close dialogue with the genre of official praise. For instance, a “propaganda poem” from the beginning of Justin’s reign proclaims: “The bold Mede will set up one statue within Susa to our ruler for his victory, wearing the spoils; the long-​haired army of Avars another beyond the Hister, cutting a lock from their sun-​dried head. This one the ruling city set up here as a result of his consulship, to commemorate flourishing justice. Now stand firm, blessed Byzantine Rome, and

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repay the divine might of Justin.”89 The official celebration of the emperor offers the following recipe for the appropriate glorification: a vast geography of the imperial reach in different cardinal directions; submission of distant enemies; assertion of Roman dominion by imposing an honorific imperial statue in a foreign, captured land; celebration of imperial virtues (such as justice); and admiration for imperial power and glory. The doggerel inverts this formula. It undercuts the greatest achievement of the monument, its commanding height: the panopticon of the unparalleled view thus becomes the condemnation of the total cumulative failures of Justin II. In view of Justin’s malady, we can interpret the exhortation for Justin to climb to the top of his column as a particularly cruel comment. Though the statement could refer to the view afforded to Justin’s intended sculpture, we can also interpret it as directed at the ill person of the emperor. As such, it would have been a pointed attack on Justin’s physical condition. As John himself reports, the emperor could neither stand unaided nor climb stairs: Justin survived the appointment of Tiberius as Caesar for four years, and hopes were long entertained of his recovery, chiefly because of the recurrence of lucid intervals, during which he could be propped up in his chair, and shown to the people, and even taken to the entertainments of the Hippodrome in the morning: and sometimes he was sufficiently well to give audience, and receive the salutations of the senate. Sometimes also he distributed largesses to the people, for which purpose they put money into his hand, which he scattered, with the help of his attendants, who guided his arms.90 The emperor’s inability to move would have been visible in his public appearances and spread through rumors. Thus, the exhortation to climb the stairs of his column could easily have been understood as a taunt to Justin II and as an allusion to his divine chastisement.

Tiberios II and the Stones of Atonement While Justin’s illness was, at least, a contributing factor for the unfinished state of his triumphal column, the business of the incomplete column was decisively concluded by Tiberios II.91 Tiberios made the decision to dishonor his predecessor’s monument and to cleanse its stones. It heralded a powerful shift away from traditional Roman values and undermined the validity of a half-​millennium-​long imperial tradition. Tiberios refused to participate in the culture of Roman imperial commemoration by declining to either complete the column or to appropriate it for his own use. We return again to John’s narration:

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Before its completion, however, Justin died, and it is said that the question who should finish it led to a quarrel between Tiberius and Sophia [Justin’s widow]: for she bade him undertake it; but he said, “I shall do nothing of the sort; for it is your duty to finish it.” And she, supposing that at all events he would complete it, if his own statue were placed upon it, said, “If you will not finish it in honour of him who began it, do so for yourself”: at which he was angry, and vowed that his statue should stand neither upon it nor any where else.92 Though we cannot adjudicate the veracity of this dialogue, we can scrutinize how John positions Tiberios’s shocking decision. Tiberios clearly violated the expectations of the empress Sophia. We cannot assess why Sophia did not or could not finish the legacy project of her husband. John levels accusations of cupidity against her and Justin throughout the narrative. To John, Sophia is a villain: she derides Justin, she desires to marry Tiberios, and she is unwilling to let Tiberios’s wife live in the great palace.93 And yet, she is also the person Tiberios consults about his own successor. Since we can infer from John’s text that Tiberios’s resistance to Justin’s column became a subject of speculation, we can deduce that Tiberios had violated decorum and tradition. The reader is offered two explanations for his unprecedented behavior: an economic one (which is less radical) and an emotional one (which is more radical). The fiscal situation of the empire was precarious.94 In John’s retelling, Sophia attempted to persuade Tiberios by offering to let him appropriate the glory of the monument.95 Within the traditional system of imperial values, this was an effective strategy, but the subsequent events reveal that the empress had terribly miscalculated. Tiberios beheld no glory in Justin’s imperial column. Though Tiberios’s reported refusal to install any statues of himself is factually inaccurate—his statue was added to the busy sculptural assembly of the Chalke Gate of the imperial palace—it is narratively effective within the framework of John’s own values.96 By rejecting Justin’s column, Tiberios had broken a long-​established tradition. Roman emperors made a habit of appropriating notable monuments of their imperial predecessors, occasionally even divine ones.97 The very act of taking acknowledges the remarkable power of the appropriated monument. This happened to no fewer than three triumphal columns in Constantinople. The colossal nude statue that stood at the top of Constantine’s triumphal column was a repurposed statue of Apollo.98 The top of the column of Theodosios was claimed by the emperor Anastasios for his own image, when the space was made vacant by a weather event. Within Tiberios’s own lifetime, Justinian had chosen a colossal bronze horseman from the forum of Theodosios for his own stupendous triumphal column. Why was Tiberios so resistant to long-​standing imperial tradition? The rejection of Justin’s column aligns with the iconographic statements on the reverse of Tiberios’s coins. For Tiberios, the framework of imperial gloria was changing dramatically: he was interested in elevating Christian values. 26

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Tiberios was a product of a decisively shifting cultural landscape—it was a facet of the Zeitgeist to question honorific monuments of traditional Roman and urban culture. We encounter a similar verdict on the cultural valuation of triumphal monuments in a contemporary prefatory epigram of Agathias (ca. 532–582 ce) to his assembled epigrams: “Monuments and tablets and pillars are a source of great delight to those who possess them—but only as long as they live; for the empty glory of mortals does not benefit the souls of the departed. But virtue and the grace of wisdom both accompany them there and remain here attracting remembrance. So neither Plato nor Homer takes pride in pictures or monuments, but in wisdom alone. Happy are those whose memory is enshrined in wise volumes, and not in empty images.”99 The Christian framework of Tiberios and the philosophical approach of Agathias yielded the same conclusion: monuments of imperial gloria have transitory utility and illusory longevity. While Agathias had exhorted his readers to embrace wisdom, Tiberios II fervently embraced Christianity. He would quite literally transform the prideful signifier of Justin’s traditional imperial gloria into the signified of Christian devotion. Tiberios’s unenviable task of reckoning with his predecessor was a difficult one. Justin’s was an inglorious memory and a damaged legacy. After all, the emperor had been condemned by the will of God, as he himself had acknowledged in the abdication speech when he urged Tiberios to “rectify my mistakes.”100 The column was a particularly notable place of Justin’s hubris, as confirmed by the public opinion about the location of choice in the scathing doggerel. It had become the place of Justin’s tainted memory, and as such, it would be subjected to cleansing. The solution was atonement: in an act of pious redistribution, Tiberios both erased the column from the fabric of the city and glorified his faith. John concludes the narrative: “Subsequently, when he [Tiberios] saw that the huge blocks of stone employed in it [the column] would be useful for his new buildings in the palace, he had it entirely taken down, and the stones removed thither, and to the church he was building close by, dedicated to the ‘forty martyrs’: and it supplied him with materials for a long time. This folly was said to have cost Justin many talents of gold.”101 For John’s parable-​like biography of Justin’s column, there could have been no better resolution. His Tiberios behaved like a good Christian emperor: he transformed a prideful edifice into a triumph of faith. This was, however, not only a narrative action but a real event. Tiberios’s Christianization of contentious stones was a masterstroke of devotion and a grave transgression of traditional imperial practice. The dismantling of the column would have been a highly visible, months-​long process of re-​forming Justin’s legacy since the sizeable stones were moved along the main processional road of the city. The location of the new church was no accident. This was a dialogue of Tiberios with Justin, as well as Justinian. Not only did the dismantling of Justin’s column restore Justinian’s vision to the environs of the Augoustaion, but the choice of the Forty Martyrs as beneficiaries of the building blocks also referenced him. Stones of Pretention and Acts of Resistance

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The relics of the Forty Martyrs were closely and publicly connected with Justinian: they were rediscovered thanks to the emperor, and in turn, they spectacularly cured him. We learn this from Prokopios, who informs his readers that in the course of the renovations of the church of Saint Eirene, the workmen “found a chest showing by an inscription that it contained the remains of these very men [that is the Forty Martyrs].”102 The miraculous discovery happened to coincide with a grave physical affliction suffered by Justinian, who at the time had a severe infection in the leg: “A dangerous discharge had set in at the knee and caused him to be tortured with pain.”103 Having had no effective help from the human physicians, Justinian turned to saintly help: For as soon as the priests laid the reliquary on the Emperor’s knee, the ailment disappeared instantly, driven out by the bodies of men who had been dedicated to the service of God. And God did not permit this to be a matter of dispute, for he shewed a great sign of what was being done. For oil suddenly flowed out from these holy relics, and flooding the chest poured out over the Emperor’s feet and his whole garment, which was purple. So this tunic, thus saturated, is preserved in the Palace, partly as testimony to what occurred at that time, and also as a source of healing for those who in future are assailed by any incurable disease.104 Not only was the emperor fully healed, but his delivery from illness was documented by a contact relic: the imperial garment became a validation of the astonishing cure and was kept in the palace in order to help others with incurable maladies. Justin, who was ravaged by a disease for over a decade and who died at the hands of his physicians after a botched kidney-​stone surgery, was never granted such divine intervention. This was yet another proof that he was right when he declared that he had “made God angry, so that He has rejected him.”105 Tiberios II allowed the contentious stones of Justin’s column to be visible from the Mese, in a nodal space of urban geography. His church of the Forty Martyrs was located nearly equidistant between the forum of Constantine and the hippodrome, on the site of the ancient praetorion (prison). The church built by Tiberios would be known as the Forty Martyrs on Mese, one of several churches dedicated to Forty Martyrs in Constantinople.106

Conclusion This momentous policy shift by Tiberios conditioned the behavior of his successors. Neither Tiberios nor his follower, Maurice (r. 582–602 ce), erected triumphal columns. The last known column in Constantinople (completed in 609 ce) was that of Phokas 28

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(r. 602–10 ce), which was erected adjacent to another church of the Forty Martyrs, at the intersection of the two branches of the Mese.107 But Phokas’s successor, Hera­ kleios (r. 610–41 ce), quickly corrected this statement of hubris. In the Christian spirit of the age, just three short years later, he placed a cross at the top of the column, but in the traditional Roman spirit, he claimed the accomplishment as his own.108

Notes I would like to thank Pamela Patton for the invitation to participate in the stimulating conference “Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages,” Anthony Kaldellis for his astute comments on an early draft of the paper, Daniëlle Slootjes for the invitation to present some of this material at the University of Amsterdam, and the anonymous readers of the Penn State University Press. I would also like to thank Annika Fisher for the excellent copy editing. 1. “Last Statues of Antiquity,” University of Oxford, accessed July 2021, http://​laststatues​.classics​ .ox​.ac​.uk​/database​/detail​.php​?record=​LSA​-2766. 2. Rudolf Stichel refers to the statue as “begonnen” (started) (Die römische Kaiserstatue, 112 [no. 135]). 3. Av. Cameron, “Artistic Patronage of Justin II,” 62. 4. Mango, “Columns of Justinian,” 14. 5. Anderson, “Disappearing Imperial Statue,” 305–6. 6. Ibid., 306. 7. Lavan, Public Space in the Late Antique City, 448 (appendix 1). 8. Av. Cameron, “Empress Sophia,” 5–21. 9. Agathias, Histories 4.21.4, trans. Frendo, 123. 10. On the murder of his rival, see Evagrius, Ecclesiastical History 5.2, trans. Whitby, 256, and Al. Cameron, “Early Byzantine Kaiserkritik,” 3. His military defeats included the Lombard conquests in Italy, the loss of Dara to Sassanians in 573 ce, and the Avar and western Turkish encroachments into Byzantine territories. It was rumored that Justin went mad because of the loss of Dara. Whitby, “Byzantine Diplomacy,” 137. 11. John of Ephesos, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 3.5, trans. Payne Smith, 175. Michael Whitby discussed this episode in relation to the image of Constantine rather than in terms of Justin’s relation with Justinian (“Images for Emperors in Late Antiquity,” 83–93). 12. Whitby, “Images for Emperors in Late Antiquity,” 83. 13. Haldon, “Constantine or Justinian?” 95–107, and Kovalchuk, “Founder as a Saint,” 205–38. 14. Hekster, Emperors and Ancestors.

15. For the range of coins issued by Justinian I, see Bellinger, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins, 1:62–193 (plates xiii–xlviii). 16. Schramm, Sphaira, Globus, Reichsapfel, 24–25, and Boeck, Bronze Horseman of Justinian, 31. 17. For the range of coins issued under Justin II, see Bellinger, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins, 1:195– 263 (plates xlix–lix). 18. Justin was the first Byzantine emperor to have his empress (Sophia) represented on his coinage. Av. Cameron, “Artistic Patronage of Justin II,” 82. 19. Corippus, In laudem Iustini 3.200–204, trans. Av. Cameron, 106. 20. George of Pisidia, quoted in Av. Cameron, “Corippus’ Poem on Justin II,” 165. 21. For the range of coins issued by Tiberios II, see Bellinger, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins, 1:264– 90 (plates lx–lxv). 22. Compare to Bellinger, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins, 1:266 (A 4.37). 23. Morrisson and Nesbitt, “Unpublished Lead Seal of Tiberios II,” 423. 24. Al. Cameron, “City Personifications and Consular Diptychs,” 270–71. For Constantinopolis, see Bühl, Constantinopolis und Roma, 76–77, and Av. Cameron, “Artistic Patronage of Justin II,” 83. 25. Bühl, Constantinopolis und Roma, 69–71 (no. 38). See also Lenski, “Constantine and the Tyche of Constantinople.” 26. Ibid., 76, and Al. Cameron, “City Personifications and Consular Diptychs,” 250–87. 27. John of Ephesos, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 3.14, trans. Payne Smith, 192. For a recent discussion of “Venus,” see Vorderstrasse, “Coinage of Justin II,” 23–24. 28. Bellinger, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins, 1:266. 29. John of Ephesos, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 3.14, trans. Payne Smith, 192. 30. Al. Cameron notes: “Only Roma had the authority to confer so ancient an office as the consulship” (“City Personifications and Consular Diptychs,” 270).

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31. Corippus, In laudem Iustini, 2.351, trans. Av. Cameron, 101, and Cameron and Schauer, “Last Consul,” 142. 32. Justinian had reportedly spent 288,000 solidi on his consulship in 521 ce. Marcellinus, Chronicle 521.1, trans. Croke, 41. 33. Pina Polo, Consul at Rome, and Eastmond, “Consular Diptychs,” 743. 34. Prokopios, Wars of Justinian 4.9.16, trans. Dewing, 210. 35. He was drawing a contrast with Justinian, who had restricted the amounts that consuls could distribute to the populace (Novel 105). See Kruse, Politics of Roman Memory, 110–16. 36. Ibid., ch. 4. 37. John Lydos, On Powers or the Magistracies 1.31, trans. Bandy, 49. Further on Lydos, see Maas, John Lydus and the Roman Past. 38. For recent discussion, see Kruse, Politics of Roman Memory, 102–47. 39. Ibid., 107. 40. Ibid., 103. 41. Ibid., 103–4. 42. On virtue, see Corippus, In laudem Iustini 2.215, 4.135, trans. Av. Cameron, 98, 113. On morality, see Cameron and Cameron, “Anth. Plan 72,” 102. On fiscal responsibility, see Corippus, In laudem Iustini 2.270 f., trans. Av. Cameron, 99. 43. Corippus, In laudem Iustini 2.160, trans. Av. Cameron, 97. 44. Ibid. 1.190 ff., trans. Av. Cameron, 91. 45. Evagrius, Ecclesiastical History 5.2, trans. Whitby, 256, and Av. Cameron, “Empress Sophia,” 9. 46. Corippus, In laudem Iustini 2.257–74, trans. Av. Cameron, 99. 47. Kaldellis, “Republican Theory and Political Dissidence,” 1–16. 48. Stichel and Stichel, “Kaiser Justin II (565–78) als Konsul,” 832–44. 49. Kruse, Politics of Roman Memory, 102–47, and Kaldellis, “Republican Theory and Political Dissidence,” 3. 50. Cameron and Cameron, “Anth. Plan 72,” 101–3, and Av. Cameron, “Artistic Patronage of Justin II,” 70. 51. Lydos, On Powers or the Magistracies 1.32, trans. Bandy, 49. On consular diptychs, see Eastmond, “Consular Diptychs,” 742–65, and Bowes, “Ivory Lists,” 338–57. 52. Eastmond, “Consular Diptychs.” 53. Van Ginkel, “John of Ephesus: A Monophysite Historian.” 54. Van Ginkel, “John of Ephesus on Emperors,” 324; Van Ginkel, “John of Ephesus: A Monophysite Historian,” 46–68. 55. Van Ginkel, “John of Ephesus: A Monophysite Historian,” 71–73.

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56. John of Ephesos, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 1.19, trans. Payne Smith, 28. 57. Ibid., 3.22, trans. Payne Smith, 202–3. 58. Ibid. 3.24, trans. Payne Smith, 205. 59. Lavan made a special inquiry into the use of the term pharos: “[It] has been confirmed to me as the word used in the Syriac text by J. Watt pers. comm. 2015, who notes that the Greek word pharos is transcribed exactly into the Syriac” (Public Space in the Late Antique City, 488). 60. Thiersch, Pharos, Antike, Islam und Occident, and Behrens-​Abouseif, “Islamic History of the Lighthouse,” 1–14. 61. Goodchild, “Helios on the Pharos,” 218–23. 62. Prokopios, Buildings 1.1.53, trans. Dewing, 25, and Boeck, Bronze Horseman of Justinian, 54. 63. Boeck, Bronze Horseman of Justinian. 64. Rutledge, Ancient Rome as a Museum, 171–72. 65. Wilson Jones, Principles of Roman Architecture, 174 66. Beckmann, “ ‘Columnae Coc(h)lides,’ ” 348–57, and Wilson Jones, “One Hundred Feet,” 23–38. 67. Mateos, Pizzo, and Ventura, “Arcus Divi Constantini,” 270, and Wilson Jones, Principles of Roman Architecture, 165. 68. Mango, Brazen House, 37–39, and Janin, Constantinople byzantine, 216. For Justinian’s relationship with antiquities, see Bassett, Urban Image of Late Antique Constantinople, 121–36. 69. Kaldellis, “Christodoros on the Statues,” 369; Höschele, “Cataloguing Statues”; Janin, Constantinople byzantine, 215. 70. Kaldellis, “Christodoros on the Statues,” 361–83. 71. Bauer, “Urban Space and Ritual,” 32 72. Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai, ch. 81, trans. Cameron and Herrin, 159, 272, and Stichel, Die römische Kaiserstatue, 112 (no. 134). 73. Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai, ch. 35, trans. Cameron and Herrin, 95, 208–9; Av. Cameron, “Artistic Patronage of Justin II,” 70; Stichel, Die römische Kaiserstatue, 112 (no. 133). 74. Taddei, “Giustino II e il restyling,” 81. 75. Woolf, “Monumental Writing,” 30. 76. This is a term used by Machado, “Building the Past,” 186. 77. Corippus, In laudem Iustini 3.75–82, trans. Av. Cameron, 104. 78. John of Ephesus, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 3.1, trans. Payne Smith, 165. 79. Ibid., 3.3, trans. Payne Smith, 170. 80. Ibid., 3.2, trans. Payne Smith, 167–8; Al. Cameron, “Emperor’s Abdication,” 161–62. 81. Kroll and Bachrach, “Justin’s Madness,” 51. 82. Ibid., 52. 83. Ibid., 55–61.

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84. John of Ephesos, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 3.5, trans. Payne Smith, 173. For the analysis of Justin’s abdication, see Al. Cameron, “Emperor’s Abdication,” 161–67. 85. In addition to John of Ephesos, these historians are Evagrios, Theophylact Simocatta, and Theophanes, as discussed by Al. Cameron, “Emperor’s Abdication,” 161–67. 86. John of Ephesos, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 3.24, trans. Payne Smith, 205–6. 87. Anderson, “Disappearing Imperial Statue,” 305. 88. On political satire, see Magdalino, “Political Satire,” 104–25. 89. Cameron and Cameron, “Anth. Plan 72,” 101. 90. John of Ephesos, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 3.6, trans. Payne Smith, 176. 91. Ibid., 3.5, trans. Payne Smith, 172. 92. Ibid., 3.24, trans. Payne Smith, 206. 93. Ibid., 3.23, trans. Payne Smith, 203–4. 94. Haldon, “Economy and Administration,” 54. 95. John of Ephesos, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 3.10, trans. Payne Smith, 184. 96. Stichel, Die römische Kaiserstatue, 114 (no. 140); Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai, ch. 44a, trans. Cameron and Herrin, 123, 234; Mango, Brazen House, 101.

97. Caligula wanted to bring statues of gods from Greece, including that of the Olympian Zeus, “in order to remove their heads and put his own in their place.” Suetonius, Lives of Caesars 4.22.2, trans. Rolfe, 1:437. 98. Kinney, “Spolia. Damnatio and Renovatio Memoriae,” 146, and Ousterhout, “Life and Afterlife,” 309. 99. Agosti, “Greek Epigram in Late Antiquity,” 600–601. 100. Evagrius, Ecclesiastical History 5.13, trans, Whitby, 272, and Al. Cameron, “Emperor’s Abdication,” 165. 101. John of Ephesos, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 3.24, trans. Payne Smith, 206, and Van Ginkel, “John of Ephesus: A Monophysite Historian,” 153–55. 102. Prokopios, Buildings 1.7.4, trans. Dewing, 67. 103. Ibid., 1.7.6, trans. Dewing, 67. 104. Ibid., 1.7.14–16, trans. Dewing, 69. 105. John of Ephesus, Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History 3.5, trans. Payne Smith, 172–73. 106. Janin, Géographie ecclésiastique, 1:483–4, and Janin, “Églises byzantines.” 107. Chronicon Paschale for the year 609 ce, trans. Whitby and Whitby, 148, and Janin, Géographie ecclésiastique, 1:485–86. 108. Mango, “Columns of Justinian,” 15.

Bibliography Agathias. The Histories. Translated by Joseph D. Frendo. New York: De Gruyter, 1975. Agosti, Gianfranco. “Greek Epigram in Late Antiquity.” In A Companion to Ancient Epigram, edited by Christer Henriksén, 597–613. Hoboken: Wiley Blackwell, 2019. Anderson, Benjamin. “The Disappearing Imperial Statue: Toward a Social Approach.” In The Afterlife of Greek and Roman Sculpture: Late Antique Responses and Practices, edited by Troels Myrup Kristensen and Lea Stirling, 290–309. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2016. Bassett, Sarah. The Urban Image of Late Antique Constantinople. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004. Bauer, F. A. “Urban Space and Ritual: Constantinople in Late Antiquity.” Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia, n.s., 15 (2001): 27–61. Beckmann, M. “The ‘Columnae Coc(h)lides’ of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius.” Phoenix 56 (2002): 348–57. Behrens-​Abouseif, Doris. “The Islamic History of the Lighthouse of Alexandria.” Muqarnas 23 (2006): 1–14.

Bellinger, Alfred R. Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins in the Dumbarton Oaks Collection and in the Whittemore Collection, vol. 1, Anastasius I to Maurice, 491–602. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1966. Boeck, Elena N. The Bronze Horseman of Justinian in Constantinople: The Cross-​Cultural Biography of a Mediterranean Monument. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2021. Bowes, Kim. “Ivory Lists: Consular Diptychs, Christian Appropriation and Polemics of Time in Late Antiquity.” Art History 24, no. 3 (2001): 338–57. Bühl, Gudrun. Constantinopolis und Roma: Stadtpersonifikationen der Spätantike. Zürich: Akanthus, 1995. Cameron, Alan. “City Personifications and Consular Diptychs.” Journal of Roman Studies 105 (2015): 250–87. ———. “Early Byzantine Kaiserkritik: Two Case Histories.” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 3, no. 1 (1977): 1–17. ———. “An Emperor’s Abdication.” Byzantinoslavica 37, no. 2 (1976): 161–67.

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Cameron, Alan, and Diane Schauer. “The Last Consul: Basilius and His Diptych.” Journal of Roman Studies 72 (1982): 126–45. Cameron, Averil. “The Artistic Patronage of Justin II.” Byzantion 50, no. 1 (1980): 62–84. ———. “Corippus’ Poem on Justin II: A Terminus of Antique Art?” Annali della Scuola Normale Superiore di Pisa: Classe di Lettere e Filosofia, ser. 3, 5, no. 1 (1975): 129–65. ———. “The Empress Sophia.” Byzantion 45, no. 1 (1975): 5–21. Cameron, Averil, and Alan Cameron. “Anth. Plan 72: A Propaganda Poem from the Reign of Justin II.” Bulletin of the Institute of Classical Studies 13 (1966): 101–4. Chronicon Paschale, 284–628 ad. Translated by Michael Whitby and Mary Whitby. 2nd ed. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2007. Corippus, Flavius Cresconius. In laudem Iustini Augusti minoris, libri IV. Edited with translation and commentary by Averil Cameron. London: Athlone, 1976. Eastmond, Anthony. “Consular Diptychs, Rhetoric and the Languages of Art in Sixth-​Century Constantinople.” Art History 33, no. 5 (2010): 742–65. Evagrius. Ecclesiastical History. Translated by Michael Whitby. Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000. Goodchild, R. G. “Helios on the Pharos.” Antiquaries Journal 41 (1961): 218–23. Haldon, John F. “Constantine or Justinian? Crisis and Identity in Imperial Propaganda in the Seventh Century.” In New Constantines: The Rhythm of Imperial Renewal in Byzantium, 4th–13th Centuries, 95–107. Farnham: Ashgate, 1994. ———. “Economy and Administration: How Did the Empire Work?” in The Cambridge Companion to the Age of Justinian, edited by Michael Maas, 28–59. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Hekster, Olivier. Emperors and Ancestors: Roman Rulers and the Constraints of Tradition. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Höschele, Regina. “Cataloguing Statues: Christodoros’ Ekphrasis of the Baths of Zeuxippos.” In Lists and Catalogues in Ancient Literature and Beyond, edited by Rebecca Laemmle, Cédric Scheidegger Laemmle, and Katharina Wesselmann, 401–20. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2021. Janin, Raymond. Constantinople byzantine: Développement urbain et répertoire topographique. 2nd ed. Paris: Institut Français d’Études Byzantines, 1964. ———. “Les églises byzantines des saints militaires.” Échos d’Orient 34 (1935): 56–70. ———. La géographie ecclésiastique de l’Empire byzantin, vol. 1, Le siège de Constantinople et le patriarcat

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œcuménique. 2nd ed. Paris: Institut français d’études byzantines, 1969. John of Ephesos. The Third Part of the Ecclesiastical History of John Bishop of Ephesus. Translated by R. Payne Smith. Oxford, 1860. Kaldellis, Anthony. “Christodoros on the Statues of the Zeuxippos Baths: A New Reading of the Ekphrasis.” Greek, Roman, and Byzantine Studies 47 (2007): 361–83. ———. “Republican Theory and Political Dissidence in Ionannes Lydos,” Byzantine and Modern Greek Studies 29, no. 1 (2005): 1–16. Kinney, Dale. “Spolia, Damnatio and Renovatio Memoriae.” Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome 42 (1997): 117–48. Kovalchuk, Kateryna. “The Founder as a Saint: The Image of Justinian I in the Great Church of St. Sophia.” Byzantion 77 (2007): 205–38 Kroll, Jerome, and Bernard Bachrach. “Justin’s Madness: Weak-​mindedness or Organic Psychosis?” Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 48, no. 1 (1993 ): 40–67. Kruse, Marion. The Politics of Roman Memory: From the Fall of the Western Empire to the Age of Justinian. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2019. Lavan, Luke. Public Space in the Late Antique City. Boston: Brill, 2021. Lenski, Noel. “Constantine and the Tyche of Constantinople.” In Contested Monarchy: Integrating the Roman Empire in the Fourth Century AD, edited by Johannes Wienand, 330–52. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Lydos, John. On Powers or the Magistracies of the Roman State: Introduction, Critical Text, Translation, Commentary, and Indices. Translated by A. C. Bandy. Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1983. Maas, Michael. John Lydus and the Roman Past: Antiquarianism and Politics in the Age of Justinian. London: Routledge, 1992. Machado, Carlos. “Building the Past: Monuments and Memory in the Forum Romanum.” In Social and Political Life in Late Antiquity, edited by W. Bowden, A. Gutteridge, and C. Machado, 157–92. Leiden: Brill, 2006. Magdalino, Paul. “Political Satire.” In Satire in the Middle Byzantine Period: The Golden Age of Laughter?, edited by Przemyslaw Marciniak and Ingela Nilsson, 104–25. Boston: Brill, 2021. Mango, Cyril. The Brazen House: A Study of the Vestibule of the Imperial Palace of Constantinople. Copenhagen: I kommission hos Ejnar Munksgaard, 1959. ———. “The Columns of Justinian and His Successors.” In Studies on Constantinople, 10:1–20. Brookfield: Variorum, 1993.

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Marcellinus. The Chronicle of Marcellinus: A Translation with Commentary. Translated by Brian Croke. Leiden: Brill, 1995. Mateos, Pedro, Antonio Pizzo, and Ángel Ventura. “Arcus Divi Constantini: An Architectural Analysis and Chronological Proposal for the Arch of Janus in the Forum Boarium in Rome.” Journal of Roman Studies 107 (2017): 237–74. Morrisson, Cécile, and John W. Nesbitt. “An Unpublished Lead Seal of Tiberios II Constantine (578–82).” Revue numismatique, 6e ser., 165 (2009): 421–25. Ousterhout, Robert. “The Life and Afterlife of Constantine’s Column.” Journal of Roman Studies 27 (2014): 304–26. Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai. In Constantinople in the Eighth Century: The Parastaseis Syntomoi Chronikai, edited and translated by A. Cameron and J. Herrin. Leiden: Brill, 1984. Pina Polo, Francisco. The Consul at Rome: The Civil Functions of the Consuls in the Roman Republic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Prokopios. Buildings, vol. 7 of Works. Translated by H. B. Dewing. Loeb Classical Library. London: W. Heinemann, 1940. ———. The Wars of Justinian. Translated by H. B. Dewing. Revised by A. Kaldellis. Indianapolis: Hackett, 2014. Rutledge, S. H. Ancient Rome as a Museum. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012. Schramm, P. E. Sphaira, Globus, Reichsapfel: Wanderung und Wandlung eines Herrschaftszeichens von Caesar biz zu Elisabeth II. Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1958. Stichel, Damian, and Rudolf H. W. Stichel. “Kaiser Justin II (565–78) als Konsul auf Folles der Münzstätte Kyzikos.” Byzantinische Zeitschrift 108, no. 2 (2015): 832–44. Stichel, Rudolf H. W. Die römische Kaiserstatue am Ausgang der Antike: Untersuchungen zum plastischen Kaiserporträt seit Valentian I (364–75 v. Chr.) Rome: G. Bretschneider, 1982.

Suetonius. The Lives of Caesars. Translated by J. C. Rolfe. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1914. Taddei, Alessandro. “Giustino II e il restyling del Portus Novus a Costantinopoli.” Hortus atrium medievalium 22 (2016): 76–82. Thiersch, Hermann. Pharos, Antike, Islam und Occident. Leipzig, 1909. Van Ginkel, Jan Jacob. “John of Ephesus: A Monophysite Historian in Sixth-​century Byzantium.” PhD diss., University of Groningen, 1995. ———. “John of Ephesus on Emperors: The Perception of the Byzantine Empire by a Monophysite.” In VI Symposium Syriacum, 1992, edited by René Lavenant, 323–33. Orientalia Christiana Analecta 247. Rome: Pontifico Instituto Orientale, 1994. Vorderstrasse, Tasha. “Coinage of Justin II and Its Imitations: Historical, Papyrological, Numismatic, and Archaeological Sources.” Anatolica 335 (2009): 15–35. Whitby, Michael. “Byzantine Diplomacy: Good Faith, Trust and Co-​Operation in International Relations in Late Antiquity.” In War and Peace in Ancient and Medieval History, edited by Philip de Souza and John France, 120–40. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008. ———. “Images for Emperors in Late Antiquity: A Search for New Constantine.” In New Constantines: The Rhythm of Imperial Renewal in Byzantium, 4th–13th Centuries, edited by Paul Magdalino, 83–93. Brookfield: Variorum, 1994. Wilson Jones, Mark. “One Hundred Feet and a Spiral Stair: The Problem of Designing Trajan’s Column.” Journal of Roman Studies 6 (1993): 23–38. ———. Principles of Roman Architecture. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000. Woolf, Greg. “Monumental Writing and the Expansion of Roman Society in the Early Empire.” Journal of Roman Studies 86 (1996): 22–39.

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2 Ottonian Resistances Eliza Garrison

Ottonian artworks tend to address various types of power, even in cases where the subject matter might seem unrelated, as is the case for works concerned with commemoration or rituals of penance. Such triumphalist tendencies were coercive at their core: Ottonian artworks were made with the expectation of the viewer’s acquiescence to the political and ecclesiastical ideals hammered into their surfaces or limned onto their parchment pages. In the twentieth century, this trait facilitated the instrumentalization of Ottonian art and history to serve a National Socialist agenda, through which the political ideals visualized so forcefully in Ottonian imperial artworks were earnestly offered up as models to follow—often in official terms—by German scholars whose research and publications shaped this art-​historical subfield for many years. These scholars include the historian Percy Ernst Schramm and the art historian Hans Jantzen. In 1933, Schramm held a visiting professorship at Princeton University for the spring term (he had a chair in History at the University of Göttingen). During his Ivy League sojourn, Schramm gave public talks in which he extolled the virtues of his country’s new administration and found ways to justify the anti-​Jewish policies of the National Socialists.1 Schramm’s scholarly project during his time in Princeton was devoted to medieval allegoresis, which he had begun while working with colleagues at the Warburg Library in Hamburg.2 Jantzen’s famous Ottonische Kunst, which first appeared in 1947 (with publication subventions from the United States), was penned over the course of the National Socialist period as part of his participation in the so-​called Kriegseinsatz der Geisteswissenschaften (war effort of the humanities);

Figure 2.1 Dedication page from first edition of Hans Jantzen, Ottonische Kunst (Munich: Münchner Verlag, 1947).

he dedicated the study to his son Bogislav, who had died on the Russian front in 1941 (fig. 2.1).3 In the book’s opening paragraph, Jantzen proclaims in no uncertain terms that the beginnings of German art are tied inextricably to the beginnings of the Reich (empire).4 “Resistance,” therefore, is not what one might call a leitmotif in the historiography of Ottonian art. Instead, for a long time, scholars of Ottonian material continued to look to canonical artworks as sites of projection for their own political interests, just as Schramm and Jantzen had. One result of the political instrumentalization of this subfield is that the Ottonian specialist’s own art-​historical practice must always involve a process of second-​guessing details in the scholarship—to a greater degree than in many other fields of art history. In this essay, I will undertake precisely this as I briefly reflect on the historiography of Ottonian art before casting my gaze anew on a group of Ottonian ruler portraits that have long captured the attention and imagination of scholars in the twentieth and twenty-​first centuries. In examining these, I will consider the issue of resistance in the two successive ruler portraits of King Henry II in the Regensburg Sacramentary (Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, CLM 4456), which together narrate and sacralize his triumphant acquisition of the royal title in the wake of the Emperor Otto III’s death (figs. 2.2–3). 36

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Figure 2.2 Henry II crowned by Christ, in the Regensburg Sacramentary / Sacramentary of Henry II, ca. 1002–12. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, CLM 4456, fol. 11r.

Ottonian Historiography and German Nationalism The historiography of Ottonian art is intimately tied to Germany’s nineteenth- and twentieth-​century political history. From the late nineteenth century until 1933, the scholarship on Ottonian material tended to be connoisseurial in tone, with a focus on the isolation of hands and the localization of regional schools. And yet during this period there was also an interest in the Ottonian use of antique models to mold the royal/imperial image. The chief representative of this strain of scholarship, Schramm, developed this interest in response to his mentor Aby Warburg’s interest in the Nachleben (afterlife) of antique forms. By 1933, in a turn of events that mirrored Germany’s rightward shift, Schramm became one of the many medievalists responsible for the instrumentalization of Ottonian art and history in the service of National Socialist ideals.5 Schramm’s numerous studies of Ottonian artworks were attentive to their representational force, and, as I have argued elsewhere, his nationalistic and royalist sentiments coalesced with his art-​historical interests in the 1962 publication of perhaps his most famous book, Denkmale der deutschen Könige und Kaiser (hereafter Denkmale), which he coauthored with Florentine Mütherich.6 Denkmale appeared alongside two Ottonian Resistances

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Figure 2.3 Henry II enthroned, in the Regensburg Sacramentary / Sacramentary of Henry II, ca. 1002–1012. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, CLM 4456, fol. 11v.

works devoted to documents that Schramm had compiled while working for the historical wing of the National Socialist propaganda ministry.7 In his medieval publications more broadly—but especially in Denkmale—and in his publications related to his time spent serving the Wehrmacht as Germany’s official war diarist, Schramm encourages his reader to retroactively access and apprehend the physical presence of historical figures and events as they page through and contemplate, on the one hand, photographs of medieval artworks paired with descriptive texts and, on the other, textual evocations and descriptions of Adolf Hitler himself. The National Socialists understood the Ottonian period as the First Reich; for them, the seeds for their own rise to power had been planted in tenth-​century Saxony. Schramm was instrumental in creating a link between Ottonian artistic monuments and the totalitarian politico­ aesthetic interests of the National Socialists. In spite of all of this and although he was trained as an historian, Schramm’s numerous publications on German imperial art thus determined the tenor of scholarship on Ottonian art for many decades after the end of World War II.8 For his part, Jantzen moved on to considerations of Gothic art and architecture (among other things) in the postwar period; it is telling, though, that Jantzen’s survey 38

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of Ottonian art is, to this day, the only survey of the period to have ever been published, appearing in numerous editions until 2002.9 In the opening section of this monographic study entitled Die Kunst im ottonischen Reich, Jantzen proclaims that Ottonian art is not only “German” but that it is also intrinsically connected to the development of the German Reich, which was a creation (he uses the word “Schöpfung,” which has a distinctly religious connotation) of the Saxon rulers of the tenth century.10 Jantzen’s brief characterization of how “Germanic peoples” picked up the pieces of Charlemagne’s empire in the tenth century, an era that he labels “a German century,” has a distinctly triumphant tone.11 Indeed, the opening paragraph to Jantzen’s study ends with a sentence exalting the coalescence of art and politics at King Henry I’s Pfalz (Palatinate) in Merseburg, where the monarch commissioned a visual representation of a Saxon triumph over the Hungarians. Jantzen notes that Emperor Otto I went on to build upon the foundations that his father had laid, allowing Otto “to reify the idea of a Christian empire with a western stamp.”12 Just two pages on, Jantzen proclaims that Ottonian art is, for the most part, aristocratic.13 While this statement is by no means inaccurate, Jantzen offers this characterization as an explanation for why this period in art history is worthy of study; such an attitude is entirely in keeping with the nationalist-​royalist bent of other deeply conservative German academics, including Schramm, who were comfortable with the persecution of Jews if it brought with it the defeat of bolshevism and communism. Following the end of World War II, other art historians of this period, all of whom were working in Germany (and chiefly in West Germany), continued to focus mostly on issues that had driven the scholarship before 1933, namely iconography, the determination of workshops, and the localization of schools. With some notable exceptions, such as Hiltrud Westermann-​Angerhausen’s rigorous object-​based approach to the contextual analysis of Ottonian artworks, this mode of inquiry dominated the field until the 1990s.14 If artworks created for Ottonian patrons had served as models to follow during the National Socialist period, during the postwar period in West Germany, they could symbolize German ideals of nationhood and political strength, and such propositions were couched in terms that appeared on their surface to be entirely objective and apolitical.15 One such example of this mode of scholarship is Schramm and Mütherich’s aforementioned Denkmale from 1962. As Schramm proposed in his introduction to this study, the monuments of German kings and emperors he and Mütherich compiled and arranged chronologically would allow readers to visually apprehend the history of German kingship by familiarizing themselves with the works reproduced and briefly described in the book. Mütherich’s short entries on the individual objects in Denkmale were structured like texts in an exhibition catalogue: every entry begins with a list of the basic facts, like the work’s rough date of facture, its materials and dimensions, and its acquisition number or shelf mark. This is followed by between one and three paragraphs offering a bit of historical context, which is rounded out by a brief bibliography. Denkmale’s format became a model to follow and, indeed, still Ottonian Resistances

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finds resonances to this day in the general organization of many large-​scale exhibition catalogues of medieval German artworks. During the 1990s, the field of art history opened up to considerations of questions related to context and reception, and with some notable exceptions, it was really only in this period that anglophone scholarship on Ottonian art began to emerge.16 The historian Henry Mayr-​Harting’s two-​volume Ottonian Book Illumination: An Historical Study appeared in 1991, and its publication provided fertile ground for later studies based in the anglophone world.17 Yet as important as Ottonian Book Illumination was for the growth of the subfield, it did not take advantage of new disciplinary methodologies and thus its value as an art-​historical monograph is limited; major manuscripts act as window dressing for the author’s discussions of the personalities of the figures for whom the books were made. John Lowden’s 1992 review of Ottonian Book Illumination offers useful insight into the importance of this publication and its limitations as an art-​historical resource while also drawing attention to the state of the field in 1992: “Ottonian Germany produced some of the most stunning illuminated manuscripts in existence, but their study has . . . been shamefully neglected in works in English. This is doubtless due to the history of our century: not only were these manuscripts undeniably German, but they were often intensely involved with (and hence generated particular study of) issues of Reich, and Herrschertum (rulership), which seemed distasteful to contemporary British sensibilities” [emphases original].18 A more successful effort to integrate Ottonian art into art-​historical discourse was published nine years later by Adam Cohen in The Uta Codex: Art, Philosophy, and Reform in Eleventh-​Century Germany, which was the first anglophone art-​historical monograph dealing with Ottonian material. Cohen’s analysis of the Uta Codex integrated the work into a larger historical narrative by asking how the illumination cycle of the manuscript component of the object was keyed to the intellectual concerns of its eleventh-​century audience.19 Cohen’s exacting analyses of the connections between word and image in the Uta Codex paved the way for studies that sought to understand the dynamic ties that bound Ottonian artists, artworks, and their viewers. Cohen’s monograph on the Uta Codex heralded a scholarly sea change for Ottonian art history, and the field has grown steadily since its appearance, with attention to issues such as reception, gender, materiality, and postcolonialism.20 In spite of the recent broadening of the field, it is not controversial to state outright that Ottonian artworks carried with them the taint of the recent past well into the 1990s, with the most critical changes coming in the wake of German reunification. Prime evidence is the fact that perhaps one of the most influential and widely read studies of the power of the image in the Middle Ages to be published in the past thirty-​plus years and translated into English from German, Hans Belting’s Bild und Kult / Likeness and Presence, has not a single thing to say about Ottonian visual culture, in spite of the book’s general interest in tracking the power of the image in Byzantium and medieval Europe (among its many

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other tasks) and in spite of the real historical connections between the Ottonians and the Byzantines. Like Mayr-​Harting’s Ottonian Book Illumination, Bild und Kult appeared in 1991, yet where the former often took political and spiritual hierarchies visualized in Ottonian manuscripts at face value, the latter simply did not cast its astute scholarly gaze on the confluence of the spiritual and the political in artworks made for Ottonian rulers. One might think that in a book devoted in part to the religious and political cult of the image in the East and the West, Ottonian artistic culture would be an obvious choice, particularly given the emphatic and creative adaptation of Byzantine models at Ottonian workshops and in light of Emperor Otto I and Theophanu’s marriage in 972 ce. Its omission was likely not a question of space: I will remind the reader that Bild und Kult is 545 pages long, not including appendices; its English translation, Likeness and Presence, is 490 pages long without appendices. It is worth noting that in this otherwise legendarily thorough and pathbreaking analysis, the author appears to have opted not to deem Ottonian material worthy even of a paragraph or two. This lacuna is even more remarkable when one reflects on the fact that the subjects of both Belting’s dissertation and his first monograph were tenth-​century southern Italian frescoes— works created at the edge of the Ottonian world.21 For a scholar with an intellectual range as broad and ambitious as Belting’s, omissions like this one seem deliberate, as if there were something untouchable about Ottonian artworks and Ottonian history.22 These two poles—obsession in the early and middle decades of the twentieth century and relative avoidance into the 1990s—are not inconsequential: one critical outcome is that present-​day scholars of this material have to grapple with foundational secondary texts that are often deeply ideological. As a result, simply trying to analyze and understand an Ottonian artwork on its own terms perforce involves an aspect of resistance. And yet the pared-​down evaluations of Ottonian artworks that typify German art-​historical scholarship (and just about all of it is in German) from the sixties, seventies, eighties, and into the nineties likewise demand—with a handful of notable exceptions—more critical distance than one might initially suspect. One might say that the postwar approach to the object focused on its value as an artifact, as a kind of document or text, as opposed to other kinds of considerations, such as the circumstances of its facture, donation, use, and reception. To be sure, this approach has its merits, and yet I would propose that the steadfast traditionalism of this mode of scholarly inquiry became a means to demystify artworks that had been forced to serve as models for the German state to follow in its various political guises over the course of the twentieth century. For those of us who were graduate students in the late 1990s and early 2000s, the practitioners of this type of scholarship in Germany were often also among its most powerful gatekeepers, and they took this role very seriously. Alternative approaches to Ottonian material—even when it came to accessing it—seemed only to be possible with their stamp of approval.23

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Figure 2.4 Dedication series, in the Gospels of Otto III, ca. 1000. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, CLM 4453, fols. 23v and 24r.

Image—Text—Silence The Sachlichkeit (objectivity) that typifies so much postwar scholarship on Ottonian art might be attributed to the fact that the “documentary” appearance of many Ottonian artworks, especially ruler portraits, is easy to take at face value. This category of images appears to do a great deal of work in relaying “facts” through visual and textual means, and yet they are deceptive: they had as their motivating purpose the visualization of critical but familiar themes, among them the sacredness of Ottonian rulership and the ruler’s steady and constant support from the ecclesiastical and military realms. These concerns are bodied forth in the most widely reproduced Ottonian ruler portraits associated with Otto III (r. 983–1002): one in the Liuthar Gospels and the other in the Gospels of Otto III (fig. 2.4).24 Both of these portraits are contained in service books that were originally presented to the Aachen treasury at different points over the course of the ruler’s short life. So famous that they are often used indexically to refer to all of Ottonian art and history in survey texts, the ruler portrait of Otto III in the Liuthar Gospels reached a special level of ubiquity after the historian Ernst Kantorowicz presented the image as an embodiment of what he called “Christ-​centered kingship” in his magnum opus, The King’s Two Bodies.25 Similar functions were performed by the ruler portraits of Henry II in the Regensburg Sacramentary and in his Pericope Book, both of which he presented to the Bamberg Cathedral treasury at its dedication in May 1012 (figs. 2.2, 2.3, 2.5). All of these images of rule have distinct and powerful agendas, but those associated with Henry II visualized the figure of the ruler in new and varied ways. At Bamberg, the collected body of material he presented to the newly founded cathedral and affiliate churches in town amounted to what I discuss in an

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Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

Figure 2.5 Dedication series, in the Pericope Book of Henry II, ca. 1002–12. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, CLM 4452, fols. 1v and 2r.

earlier study as a collective material portrait of the king.26 In the Bamberg treasury, the Regensburg Sacramentary, which was made at Saint Emmeram in Regensburg, was a functional partner to the Pericope Book, which was illuminated for Henry II at Reichenau. Both of these luxury codices boast covers made at the goldsmith workshop at Saint Emmeram. If the illuminators of the Pericope Book of Henry II broke with the representational type established for Otto II and Otto III at Reichenau, the creators of the Regensburg Sacramentary drew upon Carolingian, Byzantine, and local models to recast the official image of the ruler. Perhaps in keeping with his position as the last ruler of the Saxon line, official images of Henry II are places where one can detect cracks in the wall: as majestic as they are, I see them not as straightforward statements of power but as sites of political ambiguity and unease. Such hints of crisis are remarkable because, as we shall see, they are visually entirely absent from official portraits of Otto III; this may explain why modern scholars and admirers of this material used them as sites of projection for their own political ideals. Surely the reasons for the different tenor of the portrait types designed for Otto III and Henry II are related to the ways in which each ruler came to power, even if, for both men, these transfers were anything but straightforward.27 I see the loquaciousness of the dedication series in the Regensburg Sacramentary, in particular, as evidence for the creation of a new visual rhetoric for a line of Saxon rulers whose legacy had yet to be sanctified by the power of the image. Both the ruler portraits in this manuscript and that in the slightly later Pericope Book are strikingly text-​heavy, and it is significant that they formed a mismatched pair of sorts in the Bamberg Cathedral treasury. I suggest that the distinctly different style of illumination in each stood for the two political legacies of the Saxon line to which Henry II laid claim. The visual complexity

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of the ruler portraits in the Pericope Book and the Regensburg Sacramentary stands in contrast to the pared-​down grace of the compositions and easy legibility of the two surviving ruler portraits of Otto III in the Gospels of Otto III and the Liuthar Gospels (fig. 2.4). The illuminations in the Regensburg Sacramentary are the opposite of pared-​down (see figs. 2.2–3). They present a fruitful case study in relation to issues of resistance, for conflict looms in the background of the manuscript’s two successive ruler portraits. Made shortly after his accession to the crown by designers at the scriptorium and goldsmith workshop of Saint Emmeram in Regensburg, the manuscript was donated by Henry II to the Bamberg Cathedral treasury at its dedication in 1012, along with a host of other liturgical objects for use in the celebration of the Mass.28 This first raft of donations included the Gospels of Otto III, which Henry II had removed from the Aachen treasury after his enthronement ceremony, possibly as early as 1002. The presence of the Gospels of Otto III in the Bamberg treasury created a space for comparisons to other treasury objects made for Henry II; it also disrupted the memorial archive for Otto III that he and his forbears had established at the treasury at the Palace Chapel of Aachen.29 At the time of its completion, the Regensburg Sacramentary was undoubtedly one of the most exquisite books to have emerged from the scriptorium and goldsmith workshop at Saint Emmeram. The ambitiousness of the cycle of illumination in the sacramentary is so extraordinary, in fact, that it seems possible that Henry II or one of his advisors requested that a special team of artists trained in styles that gestured both to the Carolingians and the Byzantines be tasked with the creation of the book’s illuminations. The stakes for this commission were extremely high: Regensburg had been a center of power for Henry II during his tenure as duke of Bavaria, just as it had been for his father and grandfather before him. The king had even been educated, in part, at the monastery of Saint Emmeram, where his father, Duke Henry the Quarrelsome, was buried. His mother, Gisela of Burgundy, was buried just a stone’s throw away at the abbey of Niedermünster; Henry II’s paternal grandmother, Judith, had founded the canonry. In many ways, the history of certain aspects of the Regensburg style of illumination and its development over the waning decades of the tenth century and the first two and a half decades of the eleventh went hand in hand with the increased political prominence of King Henry II and his ancestors, a fairly important point with regard to his family’s antagonizing posturing vis-​à-​vis Otto I, Otto II, and Otto III.30 Henry II’s connections to Regensburg created a fertile ground for a flourishing of the arts there during his reign. Art and power are central to the visual program of this magnificent service book, and yet resistance makes an appearance, too, if in unexpected ways. The almost obsessive complexity of the painterly techniques on display in its illuminations function as a visual rhetoric of power, implying that what is beautiful and well crafted must also embody certain eternal, God-​given truths. In a book addressed to an extremely 44

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small circle of viewers and, most of all, to God himself, the artistic sophistication of the illuminations could function as visual proof of Henry II’s right to the throne and the sacredness of his rule. Here, artistic skill was placed in the service of highlighting the inevitability of Henry II’s accession, and the book’s narrative specificity situated Henry II’s coronation and enthronement on folios 11r and 11v in direct relation to a two-​page series visualizing Christ’s death and Resurrection on folios 15r and 15v.31 Close scrutiny of the miniatures in the sacramentary makes clear that its illuminators were interested in adorning every corner of the page; indeed, they seem to have been enjoining the reader-​viewer to spend time marveling at the impossible intricacy of the images and reflecting on the various political and theological messages contained therein. Certain details indicate an interest in simulating precious materials, such as marble, while other elements suggest metalwork techniques and ivory carving. A quick glance at the materials comprising Christ’s empty tomb on folio 15v offers a case in point: the green marble columns of the tomb are flecked with tiny dots of white in the interest of evoking the sheen of polished stone, and the leftmost angel’s gold and silver thurible swings through the air on a thick golden chain (fig. 2.6). The brightly colored acanthus leaves framing the scene of Saint Gregory on folio 12r evoke similar carvings found on both Carolingian and contemporary Ottonian ivories (fig. 2.7). The Ottonian Resistances

Figure 2.6 Women at the Tomb, in the Regensburg Sacramentary / Sacramentary of Henry II, ca. 1002–12. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, CLM 4456, fol. 15v. Figure 2.7 Gregory the Great in his study, in the Regensburg Sacramentary / Sacramentary of Henry II, ca. 1002–12. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, CLM 4456, fol. 12r.

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Figure 2.8 Detail of text of Incipit, in the Regensburg Sacramentary / Sacramentary of Henry II, ca. 1002–12. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, CLM 4456, fol. 12v.

detail of the Incipit to the text of the sacramentary on folio 12v provides a glimpse into the exacting process involved in the creation of the dense thicket of abstract forms and vegetal tendrils used to call to mind a space and time in which the universe was pure logos (fig. 2.8). Close examination of the surface of the page brings into focus layers of pigment, with swirling lines and miniscule dots coming together to shape a vision of the Word. These components, as well as myriad other details, testify to a sheer delight in the process of painting, as well as an awareness of its significance as a devotional practice. That is, just as was the case at other Ottonian centers of manuscript illumination, artistic creation at Regensburg was also understood in relation to Creation itself, and truly skilled craftspeople could, in an echo of the Creator, harness the materials at hand to work their inherent sacred potentiality.32 The two ruler portraits of concern here are placed on either side of the same leaf, on folios 11r and 11v, following the calendar; they represent two stages in a story of Henry II’s accession of the crown (see figs. 2.2–3). In each depiction, Henry II’s figure is situated at the center of the composition; he is not only the focus of all action, but he is also an active participant in the narrative of his own coronation and enthronement. Indeed, foregrounding the ruler’s agency was a critical innovation in official imagery created for Henry II. In the first portrait, the enthroned Christ, framed by a mandorla, appears in the upper register; he raises his right hand in benediction and with his left crowns Henry II, who stands below him. Henry strikes a pseudo-​liturgical posture as his arms are held aloft by Saint Ulrich (on the left of the page) and Saint Emmeram (on the right). Two angels descend from both sides of the upper register and place the Holy Lance and royal sword—two of three critical royal insignia—into the king’s hands. 46

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A closer look at the first folio in the series reveals that the image’s framing devices are filled with golden text, which guides the reader-​viewer in interpreting what they see. In keeping with the eschatological tenor of this image, the inscriptions encasing the holy figures are addressed to a future that is always eternally present. For example, the inscription that identifies Saint Ulrich, which is located along the leftmost edge of the illumination, reads: “May Ulrich bless his heart and deeds.”33 Saint Emmeram, whose identifying inscription is placed along the illumination’s right edge, enjoins the holy figure: “May Emmeram favor him with sweet solace.”34 In keeping with the short inscriptions identifying Ulrich and Emmeram, the inscription that frames the king’s own figure marvels at Henry II’s lineage, and its tenor suggests that the reader-​viewer beholds an event that is constantly unfolding: “Behold, the pious, renowned King Henry is crowned and blessed by God through the lineage of his ancestors.”35 Henry II’s inscription in many ways responds to the text inside Christ’s mandorla, which reads: “Merciful Christ, give your anointed one a long life, so that he, devoted to you, does not waste the use of time.”36 Likewise, inscriptions announcing the purpose of the angels remind us that the Holy Lance “protects him from worry” and the sword will allow Henry II “to spread fear.”37 The use of the future tense in many of the inscriptions is connected to the book’s memorial functions, and the inscriptions that remark on Henry II’s ancestry break what amounts to a “fourth wall” by calling upon the reader-​ viewer to validate the narrative presented in the series. The other texts suggest to the reader-​viewer that they are beholding an event that is constantly unfolding and eternal; the space that was instantiated in the book’s use in the liturgy was one in which past, present, and future could coalesce. Together, the figures and the inscriptions on this folio envision a political order that is unbreakable and thus impervious to resistance. In earlier work on this sequence, I note that the shifting organization of the inscriptions from the multidirectional text boxes on folio 11r to the more orderly appearance on folio 11v signaled a new order heralded by Henry II’s accession. The composition of this scene borrows heavily—and deliberately—from the famous portrait of Charles the Bald in his Codex Aureus, in which the reader-​viewer sees the ruler majestically seated in the throne loge at the Palace Chapel of Aachen. This magnificent manuscript arrived at Saint Emmeram in Regensburg at some point in the waning years of the ninth century. There, the captivating style of the illuminations in the Codex Aureus reverberated throughout numerous other books made at the scriptorium, and the careful adaptation of Charles the Bald’s portrait for a book made for Henry II was suggestive of a tie between the two rulers’ legacies.38 On folio 11v, Henry II sits beneath an elaborate baldachin and upon a golden, gem-​ encrusted throne in a scene that is supposed to reference his enthronement at the Palace Chapel of Aachen in September 1002 (see fig. 2.3). The momentousness of this occasion is signaled by a new hierarchy of scale, for the king’s body outsizes those of his subjects, a device that was not in place in the previous scene. Henry II’s dazzling robes are of the richest hues, and their edges are lined with all manner of precious Ottonian Resistances

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materials. The king’s figure thus forms a fitting backdrop for the golden orb he clasps in his left hand and the flowering scepter he grips in his right. The moment placed before the reader-​viewer is a decisive one, and like the preceding coronation scene, it is presented as constantly unfolding and eternal: just beneath the arch of the baldachin, the hand of God hovers above a blue and gold veil that serves as a frame for Henry II’s crowned head. Here, the allusion to the veil of the temple emphasizes a coalescence between heaven and earth, and the king’s figure is presented as the physical link between those two realms. Much in the same way that Saints Ulrich and Emmeram flanked him on the preceding folio, representatives from the military realm stand at the ready on either side of his sumptuous throne. Crowned female personifications of the subject territories of his kingdom bear cornucopias and gaze upon the scene from its outer edges. Horizontal bands of text are stacked in three rows along the upper and lower portions of the scene; they speak of the king’s triumphs and conquests, reading: “Behold, after parts of the earth’s circle have been conquered, countless peoples follow the orders of the ruler and venerate the pinnacle of honor with gifts. Rejoice, o blessed king, that such things happen now, for all is subject to your power. Take this on now, for in the future you will receive the heavenly crowns.”39 If the tenor of the inscriptions in the coronation scene spoke to a ruler who needed protection, in the enthronement scene, the reader-​viewer is assured of the strength of Henry II’s reign and the compliance of his subjects. As idealized as the two portraits in this series are, conflict and resistance loom large in both to the extent that one might say that it structures the two images and provides the scaffolding for their narrative. The coronation scene on folio 11r presents us with an image of the king supported by saintly representatives of the Church in a tableau that implies forward movement through space. This scene references an actual feature of the rite followed at Henry’s coronation at Mainz Cathedral in June 1002, which prescribed that the king enter the coronation church with his arms held aloft by two bishops.40 In the second scene, which is slightly more static, the reader-​viewer would have been reminded of Henry II’s enthronement at the Palace Chapel of Aachen in September of the same year. From his throne loge, Henry gazes over to a scene of Saint Gregory in his study; the saint is preparing the text of the sacramentary, which commences in magnificent form in the next opening (see fig. 2.8). The exultant Henry II, we are reminded, is to draw inspiration from the sacred text that his portraits preface.41 The tone of triumphalism in this series is not something we should take for granted. In the first scene of this short narrative, Christ places a bejeweled golden crown on Henry II’s head. In the next part, the hand of God appears from behind the colorful baldachin that frames Henry II’s figure, which is draped in the most sumptuous of textiles, replete with gold and all manner of precious gems. Indeed, as I suggested above, both moments in this two-​part narrative are staged as instances when heaven and earth united around the body of the king. However, the opulent terms of this

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visual narrative, with its implication of divine sponsorship, are belied by texts alluding to a story of accession that was, from the very start, beset with conflict and general resistance to Henry II’s candidacy as a successor to Otto III.42 Indeed, Otto III’s untimely death brought about a fight for the crown that involved eight total claimants, and in his Chronicon, Thietmar of Merseburg (975–1018) notes that Otto III’s advisors felt that the future Henry II was not suited to the throne “for a variety of reasons.”43 One of these reasons might have been the rumor that one of Henry II’s ancestors, Duke Henry I of Bavaria, a son of King Henry I and Queen Mathilde, had been conceived on Maundy Thursday after the king had had too much to drink. In spite of the queen’s resistance to her husband’s advances, the king, possessed by Satan, forced himself upon her. Although the son that was born of this coupling (in what we would now recognize as marital rape) was not only fair of face but also Queen Mathilde’s favorite, it was believed that the unholy circumstances of his conception cursed his heirs.44 Surely from Henry II’s own perspective and from that of his supporters, the king’s path to the coronation and his eventual enthronement was itself an expression of resistance: it was a continuation of the challenges that his father and grandfather had posed to Otto I in 936, to Otto II in 973, and to the three-​year-​old Otto III in 983. In late January 1002, the twenty-​one-​year-​old Emperor Otto III succumbed to a malarial infection at his palace outside of Rome. The young emperor was unmarried and had no issue; there were no laws in place that governed succession in such a circumstance. Before his death, Otto III had informed his advisors—among them Bishop Notker of Liège, Archbishop Heribert of Cologne, and Pope Sylvester II himself—that he wanted to be interred at the Palace Chapel of Aachen in close proximity to Charlemagne’s own resting place. In order to comply with this dying wish, Otto III’s corpse had to be transported roughly 1500 kilometers from Rome to Aachen in the dead of winter. By the time the body and its cortège reached the town of Polling at the feet of the Bavarian Alps, Duke Henry IV of Bavaria (the future Henry II) and his forces were lying in wait: they demanded that the leader of the group, Archbishop Heribert of Cologne, relinquish the royal insignia—the Holy Lance, the royal orb, and the royal crown—for possession of all three of these sacred objects conferred royal power on the person who controlled them. Archbishop Heribert (and surely others in Otto III’s entourage) had known better than to keep all three objects together for the duration of the trip north, and so he had entrusted the care of the most precious of these objects, the relic of the Holy Lance, to a courier, who rode ahead of the rest of the group toward Aachen. In response, Duke Henry IV took Bishop Henry I of Würzburg—Archbishop Heribert’s brother—as an additional hostage and refused to release him until the Holy Lance was placed in Henry’s hands, which it eventually was. After disemboweling Otto III’s corpse and burying its entrails at a chapel dedicated to Saint Ulrich in the church of Saint Afra in

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Augsburg, Henry accompanied the deceased emperor’s cortège to the town of Neuburg, a site located at the territorial borders of Bavaria, Swabia, and Franconia, where he released his hostages. As the imperial corpse and its caretakers made their way to Aachen, Otto III’s body stood in for the body of Christ in public reenactments of the Passion in time for Otto III’s burial at the Palace Chapel of Aachen on Easter Sunday 1002. Shortly afterward, Duke Henry IV was crowned King Henry II in Mainz by Archbishop Willigis. The hasty coronation took place on 6 and 7 June 1002, before the new king had had the chance to garner the support of the majority of the imperial nobility. Indeed, there had been seven other claimants to the throne whose bids had, on the surface, just as much merit as Henry’s did. From his coronation in Mainz, King Henry II began a ritual perambulation of his royal territory—called an Umritt—as part of a campaign to rally political support and official recognition as king. This Umritt brought him to Worms, Reichenau, Bamberg, Merseburg, Paderborn, Utrecht, and Aachen, where the Lotharingian nobles officially acknowledged his kingship and where he was the star of the show in a ritual enthronement at the Palace Chapel of Aachen on 8 September 1002, the feast of the Nativity of Mary. References to these key events found their way into the coronation and enthronement series in the Regensburg Sacramentary. The coronation portrait refers to Henry’s acquisition of the insignia in its depiction of angels depositing the Holy Lance, along with the royal sword, in his hands; the support of the Bavarian saints Ulrich and Emmeram refer to the location of Henry’s initial conquest in his home territory; the textual inscriptions emphasize the strength of his lineage in the story of his accession of the crown; and the compositions of the two illuminations create a visual connection between his coronation in Mainz and his enthronement at Aachen three months later. And yet, of course, the series presents its narrative as if the entire story were preordained and inevitable; it is framed in the most sacred of terms and limned using the most precious materials. In this series, then, the loquaciousness of the images and their visual splendor obfuscates and silences resistance to Henry II’s rule. The series likewise naturalizes a path to the throne that was anything but clear-​cut when Henry II came to power in 1002. To be sure, the other artworks that Henry II amassed for the Bamberg Cathedral treasury were intended to both reify the king’s power in their use and commemorate the forcefulness and righteousness of his rule after his death. And yet the Bavarian provenance of the Regensburg Sacramentary could also testify to the new cultural inflections of Henry II’s court. Furthermore, the dizzying visual complexity of the illuminations in the book’s prefatory sequence and the triumphalist tone of its inscriptions create what one could characterize as an Ottonian “reality effect,” in which the effusion of text and the dazzling technical skill involved in the creation of all aspects of the book testify to the righteousness and inevitability of Henry II’s rise to power.45

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Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

Today, as much as one can appreciate and marvel at the beauty of this series, we can also understand the ways in which its expression of power masks the significant resistance and opposition Henry II faced. Arguably, interlocking liturgical, political, and aesthetic tensions form the core of the majority of artworks created for or in association with Henry II: the repetition of intermingling versions of this narrative in other major works created for Henry II suggests that the story was programmatic to a certain degree. I would further submit that the creation of ruler types for Henry II that consistently showcase his agency demanded the presentation of a political narrative that was neatly “on message.” The emphasis in the sacramentary is consistently on his lineage as the earthly source of his power, which Christ and a host of saints ordain.

Conclusion Previous work of mine has considered the representational and memorial functions that books like the Regensburg Sacramentary had to perform. However, such artworks were additionally tasked with the presentation of official narratives that could be distinctly at odds with what we might call the whole truth. As evident as this is to us now, I should point out that, until fairly recently, the dominant explanation for the coronation image on folio 11r in the Regensburg Sacramentary focused on how certain details in the illumination promote a likeness between Henry II and the prophet Moses; this connection, as this interpretation goes, must have meant that he not only perceived of himself in this way but that others did as well.46 And yet, the Regensburg Sacramentary was also a response to the political conditions of its time, and it thus was created, in part, to exalt the political changes that Henry II’s reign initiated. Along with a great many other objects from the Ottonian canon, the Regensburg Sacramentary’s coronation and enthronement sequence testifies not simply to the expression of power but also to a silencing of important voices from outside of the royal echo chamber. In this short analysis, I argued that artworks made for Henry II harnessed the agency of text and image with the partial intent of speaking over any potential words of opposition. Artworks like those made for Otto III also point to an interest in silencing opposing voices, but they do so by different means, in a scenario where the spare nature of any texts or inscriptions—or the absence thereof—evokes a court culture that especially prized the ruler’s symbolic function and that relied on enigmatic and hieratic imagery to project constancy and strength.47 Scholars of this material know well that these kinds of messages could be both true and untrue at once—and for many different reasons. Walter Benjamin speaks of the aestheticization of politics as one of the key features of fascism, and it was surely the bold and forceful integration of the political and spiritual realms that captivated not only the National Socialists but also other twentieth-​century scholars of this material who used Ottoman ruler imagery

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as a site of projection for their own ideals.48 This fact makes it all the more critical for present-​day students of this material to hear the roars of the powerful while at the same time seeking out—and listening for—the voices of the silenced.

Notes The author extends her deepest thanks to Pamela Patton for her work in shepherding this essay and this volume to publication. The author also wishes to thank both Annika Fisher and this volume’s anony­ mous reader, whose suggestions greatly improved the scope of the arguments presented here. 1. See Thimme, Percy Ernst Schramm und das Mittelalter, 338–43. 2. David Thimme relates the story of Schramm and none other than Erwin Panofsky traveling on the same ocean liner from Hamburg to New York. Although Panofsky was traveling first class and Schramm was making do in tourist class, in the lead-​ up to the trip, letters between the two make clear that they were looking forward to spending time together on the way over. By the time their ship had arrived at port in New York, Adolf Hitler had already taken his oath of office. See ibid., 335–36. I suspect that the ruler portrait of Emperor Otto III enthroned amid representatives from the ecclesiastical and military realms and approached by representatives of his subject territories (Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, CLM 4453, fols. 23v and 24r) was the central point of departure for the project Schramm was pursuing while at Princeton. See Schramm, Kaiser, Könige und Päpste, 1:8. 3. For analyses of Hans Jantzen’s involvement with National Socialism, see Held, “Kunstgeschichte im ‘Dritten Reich,’ ” 17–59, and Held, “Hans Jantzen an der Münchener Universität,” 154–57. 4. “Die Anfänge der deutschen Kunst sind untrennbar mit der Entstehung des ‘Reiches’ verknüpft.” Jantzen, Ottonische Kunst, 7. 5. See Garrison, “Ottonian Art and Its Afterlife,” 205–22. See also Thimme, Percy Ernst Schramm und das Mittelalter. 6. Garrison, “Ottonian Art and Its Afterlife,” 205–22. 7. See Schramm and Mütherich, Denkmale der deutschen Könige und Kaiser. 8. For an extended consideration of these connections, see Garrison, “Ottonian Art and Its Afterlife.” 9. There are five editions of Jantzen’s Ottonische Kunst: 1947, 1959, 1963, 1990, and 2002. This text was never translated into English.

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10. See Jantzen, Ottonische Kunst, 7. 11. Ibid. All translations by the author unless otherwise indicated. 12. “[Otto I.] gelang die Verwirklichung der Idee christlichen Kaisertums abendländischer Prägung.” Ibid. 13. Ibid., 9. 14. Westermann-​Angerhausen’s publications are too numerous to list here in their entirety, but her scholarship bucked many of the trends that dominated the rest of the field in the 1970s in the German-​speaking world. See, for example: Die Goldschmiedearbeiten der Trierer Egbertwerkstatt, “Das ottonische Kreuzreliquiar,” “Eine unbekannte Fibel,” “Überlegungen zum Trierer Egbertschrein,” and “Ein ottonisches Schmuckstück.” 15. Much of William Diebold’s recent scholarship is addressed to some of these concerns. See, e.g., “Balancing Medieval History.” 16. The individual scholarship of Robert Deshman and Madeline Caviness forms exceptions here. Each began to incorporate considerations of Ottonian material into their work over the course of the 1970s and 1980s. See Deshman, “Christus Rex et Magi Reges,” 367–405, and Caviness, “Images of Divine Order.” For a reflection on medieval art-​historical methodologies, see Caviness, “Iconography Deconstructed.” 17. Mayr-​Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination. The first volume was devoted to themes in Ottonian illumination, and the second attended to individual books. 18. Lowden, review of Ottonian Book Illumination, 668. 19. It should be said that Cohen’s pathbreaking monograph built constructively on work by the German art historian Jutta Rütz, whose studies of the Uta Codex marked a shift in the approach to Ottonian artworks. See in particular Rütz, Text im Bild. 20. Since the publication of Cohen’s Uta Codex, senior scholars working in the anglophone and German-​speaking worlds have increasingly incorporated Ottonian material into their scholarship, and some focus more or less exclusively on Ottonian material. To name just a few: Joseph Ackley,

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

Benjamin Anderson, Klaus-​Gereon Beuckers, Anna Bücheler, William Diebold, Beate Fricke, David Ganz, Evan Gatti, Cynthia Hahn, Jeffrey Hamburger, Jennifer Kingsley, Larry Nees, Joshua O’Driscoll, Nancy Thebaut, Ittai Weinryb, Hiltrud Westermann-​ Angerhausen, and Christoph Winterer. 21. See Belting, Die Basilica dei SS. Martiri in Cimitile. Belting’s 1959 dissertation from the University of Mainz, which he wrote under the direction of Friedrich Gerke (1900–1966), was devoted to the same subject. 22. I urge the reader to refer to Roland Betancourt’s probing analysis of Belting’s failure to define “art” as a term in Bild und Kult (“Medieval Art After Duchamp,” 5–17). Betancourt’s essay responds also to a special issue of Gesta (vol. 34, no. 1) devoted to the question, “Medieval Art Without ‘Art’?,” which appeared in 1995. See also Jeffrey Hamburger’s consideration of Bild und Kult on the occasion of the twentieth anniversary of its publication: “Art History Reviewed XI.” 23. Although times have changed, this was most uncomfortably and discouragingly palpable to anglophone graduate students wishing to gain access to the German libraries where so much Ottonian material is housed. As I embarked upon my dissertation research into the art policy of Henry II, one noted scholar in the field issued a warning to me through my PhD advisor: “Sie begibt sich auf schwieriges Terrain” (She is treading in difficult territory). While this could be understood as a general acknowledgment of the trickiness of the scholarship (which it was, in part), it was also a threat to not set foot onto this scholar’s turf. 24. For the Liuthar Gospels image, see Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture, color plates 11 and 12. 25. Kantorowicz’s analysis of this image famously avoided a discussion of the portrait of the monk Liuthar and the inscription on the facing folio. 26. See Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture, 113–63. 27. This had much to do with their ages at the time of their succession: Otto III was three, and Henry II was twenty. 28. Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture, 113–63. 29. Ibid., 113–63. 30. Ibid., 2–6. 31. Themes of death and resurrection link the iconographic programs of the Pericope Book and the Regensburg Sacramentary, an unsurprising combination in light of the fact that Bamberg was constructed as Henry II’s burial site. In the sacramentary, the two-​part series of Henry II’s coronation and enthronement on folios 11r and 11v is paired

with a two-​part series of the Crucifixion and the Resurrection on folios 15v and 15r. Here, Henry II’s accession of the crown is set in a direct relationship to Christ’s death and Resurrection. I interpret this in relation to Henry II’s proposed renovation regni francorum (Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture, 124–54, esp. 138). 32. This impulse is directly related to some of the artistic phenomena that are at play in the marriage charter of Empress Theophanu (Wolfenbüttel, Niedersächsisches Staatsarchiv, 6 Urk 11). See Garrison, “Mimetic Bodies,” 212–32. See also Weinryb, “Living Matter,” 113–32. 33. “Huius Odalricus cor regis signet et actus.” For all the transcriptions from the book, see Mütherich and Dachs, Regensburger Buchmalerei, 32 (no. 16). 34. “Emmerammus ei faveat solamine dulci.” 35. “Ecce coronatur divinitus atque beatur/ Rex pius Heinricus proavorum stirpe polosus.” 36. “Clemens, Christe, tuo longum da vivere Christo, Ut tibi devotus non perdat temporis usus.” 37. “Propulsans curam sibi confert angelus hastam, Aptat et hic ensem cui praesignando timorem.” 38. See Diebold, “Anxiety of Influence,” 51–64. See also Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture, 124–54, esp. 138–54. 39. Ecce triumphatis terrarium partibus orbis / Innumerere gentes dominantia iussa gerentes / Muneribus multis venerantur culmen honoris. / Talia nunc gaude fieri rex o benedicte / Nam ditione tua sunt omnia iura subacta, / Hec modo suscipias, celi sumpture coronas. 40. See Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture, 141n71. 41. These portraits could also stand in for the ruler in his physical absence. See full discussion in Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture. 42. See ibid., 2–6, and Weinfurter, Heinrich II, 36–58. 43. Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon 4:54, trans. Warner, Ottonian Germany, 190. 44. For this story, see ibid., 4:1, trans. Warner, 149–50. David Warner’s introduction to his translation of the Chronicon offers a clear overview of these events (Ottonian Germany, 32–33). Indeed, Duke Henry I, his son Duke Henry II (aka Henry the Wrangler or Henry the Quarrelsome), and his grandson Duke Henry IV (the future King Henry II) all attempted to overthrow the reigns of Emperors Otto I, Otto II, and Otto III. 45. Barthes, “Reality Effect,” 141–48. 46. Weinfurter, Henrich II, 201–2. 47. Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture, 39–86. 48. Benjamin, “Work of Art,” 19–20.

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Bibliography Barthes, Roland. “The Reality Effect.” In The Rustle of Language, edited by François Wahl, translated by Richard Howard, 141–48. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989. Belting, Hans. Die Basilica dei SS. Martiri in Cimitile und ihr frühmittelalterlicher Freskenzyklus. Wiesbaden: Franz Steiner, 1962. ———. Bild und Kult: Eine Geschichte des Bildes vor dem Zeitalter. Munich: C. H. Beck, 1990. ———. Likeness and Presence: A History of the Image Before the Era of Art. Translated by Edmund Jephcott. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994. Benjamin, Walter. “The Work of Art in the Age of Mechanical Reproduction.” In Illuminations, edited by Hannah Arendt, translated by Harry Zohn, 1–26. New York: Schocken, 1969. Betancourt, Roland. “Medieval Art After Duchamp.” Gesta 55, no. 1 (2016): 5–17. Caviness, Madeline. “Iconography Deconstructed, from Mâle to the Alt Right.” In Iconography Beyond the Crossroads: Image, Meaning, and Method in Medieval Art, ed. Pamela Patton and Catherine Fernandez, 195–222. University Park: Penn State University Press, 2022. ———. “Images of Divine Order and the Third Mode of Seeing.” Gesta 22, no. 2 (1983): 99–120. Cohen, Adam. The Uta Codex: Art, Philosophy, and Reform in Eleventh-​Century Germany. University Park: Penn State University Press, 2000. Deshman, Robert. “Christus Rex et Magi Reges: Kingship and Christology in Ottonian and Anglo-​Saxon Art.” Frühmittelalterliche Studien 10 (1976): 367–405 Diebold, William. “The Anxiety of Influence in Early Medieval Art: The Codex aureus of Charles the Bald in Ottonian Regensburg.” In Under the Influence: The Concept of Influence in the Study of Illuminated Manuscripts, ed. Alixe Bovey and John Lowden, 51–64. Turnhout: Brepols, 2007. ———. “Balancing Medieval History, Culture, and Art in Exhibitions at the Turn of the Second Millennium: ‘Europas Mitte um 1000’ and ‘Otto der Große, Magdeburg und Europa.’ ” In Musealisierung mittelalterlicher Kunst: Anlässe, Ansätze, Ansprüche, edited by Wolfgang Brückle, Pierre Alain Mariaux, and Daniela Mondini, 269–81. Berlin: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2015. Garrison, Eliza. “Mimetic Bodies: Repetition, Replication, and Simulation in the Marriage Charter of Empress Theophanu.” Word & Image 33, no. 2 (2017): 212–32. ———. “Ottonian Art and Its Afterlife: Revisiting Percy Ernst Schramm’s Portraiture Idea.” Oxford Art Journal 32, no. 2 (June 2009): 205–22.

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———. Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture: The Artistic Patronage of Otto III and Henry II. Farnham: Ashgate, 2012. Hamburger, Jeffrey. “Art History Reviewed XI: Hans Belting’s ‘Bild und Kult: Eine Geschichte des Bildes vor dem Zeitalter der Kunst.’ ” Burlington Magazine 153, no. 1294 (January 2011): 40–45. Held, Jutta. “Hans Jantzen an der Münchener Universität (1933–1945).” In 200 Jahre Kunstgeschichte in München: Positionen, Perspektiven, Polemik, 1780–1980, ed. Christian Drude, 154–57. Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 2003. ———. “Kunstgeschichte im ‘Dritten Reich’: Wilhelm Pinder und Hans Jantzen an der Münchner Universität.” In Schwerpunkt: Kunstgeschichte an den Universitäten im Nationalsozialismus, ed. Martin Papenbrock, 17–59. Göttingen: V&R Unipress, 2004. Holtzmann, Robert. Geschichte der Sächsischen Kaiserzeit, 900–1024. Munich: Callwey, 1941. Jantzen, Hans. Ottonische Kunst. Munich: Münchner Verlag, 1947. Kantorowicz, Ernst. The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1957. Lowden, John. Review of Ottonian Book Illumination; Part One: Themes; Part Two: Books, by Henry Mayr-​Harting. Burlington Magazine 134, no. 1075 (October 1992): 668–69. Mayr-​Harting, Henry. Ottonian Book Illumination: An Historical Study. 2 vols. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991. Mütherich, Florentine, and Karl Dachs, eds. Regensburger Buchmalerei: Von frühkarolingischer Zeit bis zum Ausgang des Mittelalters. Munich: Prestel, 1987. Rütz, Jutta. Text im Bild: Funktion und Bedeutung der Beischriften in den Miniaturen des Uta-​Evangelistars. Frankfurt: Peter Lang, 1991. Schramm, Percy Ernst. Kaiser, Könige und Päpste: Gesammelte Aufsätze zur Geschichte des Mittelalters. Vol. 1. 1968; Hiersemann: Stuttgart, 1970. Schramm, Percy Ernst, and Florentine Mütherich. Denkmale der deutschen Könige und Kaiser: Ein Beitrag zur Herrschergeschichte von Karl dem Großen bis Friedrich II. Munich: Prestel, 1962. Thietmar of Merseburg. Chronicon. In Ottonian Germany: The “Chronicon” of Thietmar of Merseburg. Edited and translated by David Warner. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2001. Thimme, David. Percy Ernst Schramm und das Mittelalter. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2006. Weinfurter, Stefan. Henrich II.: Herrscher am Ende der Zeiten. Regensburg: Pustet, 1999.

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Weinryb, Ittai. “Living Matter: Materiality, Maker, and Ornament in the Middle Ages.” Gesta 52, no. 2 (2013): 113–32. Westerman-​Angerhausen, Hiltrud. Die Goldschmiedearbeiten der Trierer Egbertwerkstatt. Trier: Spee, 1973. ———. “Das ottonische Kreuzreliquiar im Reliquientriptychon von Ste. Croix in Lüttich.” Wallraf-​Richartz-​Jahrbuch 36 (1974): 7–22. ———. “Ein ottonisches Schmuckstück aus dem Rheinland in Schleswig.” Beiträge zur Schleswiger Stadtgeschichte 22 (1977): 7–20.

———. “Überlegungen zum Trierer Egbertschrein.” Trierer Zeitschrift für Geschichte und Kunst des Trierer Landes und seiner Nachbargebiete 40/41 (1977/78): 201–20. ———. “Eine unbekannte Fibel aus dem ottonischen Kaiserinnenschmuck?” Mainzer Zeitschrift 70 (1975): 67–71.

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3 Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice Thomas E. A. Dale

Barely noticed in the extensive scholarship on medieval Venetian art are two disturbing sculptures that appear to depict Black Africans alongside domestic animals as prey for lions and griffins (figs. 3.1–2). These works were designed as part of an impressive doorway on the south side of San Marco in Venice, the Porta da Mar—the principal sea entrance from the Grand Canal and Adriatic, facing one of the city’s most important markets in the Piazzetta adjacent the Palazzo Ducale.1 Despite the absence of polychromy, which may have been removed in later restorations, the physiognomic type is clear: fleshly lips and tight curly hair are the attributes commonly assigned to Black Africans by late medieval Christian artists in Europe. In fact, on the west façade of San Marco, we find another depiction of a clearly identifiable Black African with polychromy still preserved, depicting a water carrier (fig. 3.3). In medieval European writings, Black Africans are routinely described as Ethiopians, a term used since antiquity to describe the “burnt skin” of inhabitants of African dwelling near the equator. Ethiopians were also one of the monstrous races described by Pliny and Solinus, whom medieval Christian Europeans conflated with Muslims or, as these writers termed them, Saracens, the quintessential enemies of the Crusaders. This interpretation of the figures in the paws of the lion and griffin is further confirmed by the depiction of another figure with the same physiognomic features who plays a leading role in the violent martyrdom of Saint Mark in Alexandria, represented in the mosaics on the interior vault of the porch (fig. 3.4). In this case, the inscription clearly labels the figure

Figure 3.1 Griffin with Black African, ca. 1250–80. Porta da Mar, south façade, San Marco, Venice. Photo: author. Figure 3.2 Lion with Black African, ca. 1250– 80. Cappella Zen (former Porta da Mar), San Marco, Venice. Photo: Archivio della Procuratoria di San Marco. © By kind permission of the Procuratoria di San Marco, Venice.

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as a Saracen even though the martyrdom took place before the emergence of Islam in the seventh century.2 These images, I will argue, reflect underlying attitudes and structures of racism in contemporary society that were formed in antiquity and codified within a white Christian European world view in the Middle Ages.3 Fundamental racial metaphors of Blackness and whiteness were also powerfully reinforced in works of art.4 In what follows, I propose to reexamine selected pictorial narratives and sculpted figures of the basilica of San Marco in Venice that contribute to the religious myth of Venice, in particular its religious reorientation after the city acquired its powerful patron saint from Alexandria in Egypt. I argue that while Venice complemented its translation of religious and economic power from the Middle East by the hybrid of Eastern Orthodox and Islamic visual culture found there, it simultaneously reinforced its European Christian identity by representing racialized images of Muslims as Saracens. The term Saracen, as I will elaborate in greater detail below, has a complex history. Mindful of the continuing, harmful resonance of this term for contemporary Muslims, I cite it in its late medieval European context primarily to underline how it was used as a derogatory term to racialize Muslims, although it was also applied in late medieval sources to a range of ethnic identities, including Turks, Arabs, Tatars, and any idol-​ worshipping pagans.5 For the Venetians, the term was used interchangeably with Ishmaelites, tracing the genealogy of contemporaneous Muslims back to Ishmael, the

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

elder son of Abraham, who was eventually cast out with Hagar, the enslaved woman who conceived Ishmael, before Abraham’s wife, Sara, bore Isaac.6 While I will make the case that Venice participates in a broader racialized discourse based primarily on religious identity in the thirteenth century in the wake of the Crusades, the city’s complex relationship with the Middle East and its adherence to certain aspects of the visual culture of the medieval Eastern Roman (Byzantine) Empire led it to resist the kind of extreme racialized caricatures of Muslims found in contemporaneous northern European art, especially in England and France. Indeed, the case study of Venice prompts us to consider in a more nuanced way the complexity of medieval race making, especially in the Mediterranean world. Favorable trading relationships with both the Eastern Roman Empire and the Islamic polities of the Middle East and Spain, as well as the inheritance of the Roman Empire’s ideology of inclusion and universalism, complicated the understanding of the non-​Christian Other.7 The basilica of San Marco, the ducal church and primary venue for self-​ representation of the Venetian Republic, has long been understood in conjunction with the city’s relationship with the Eastern Roman Empire, forged through history, politics, and trade.8 Venetian participation in the Fourth Crusade irrevocably altered this association, however, as Venice acquired the spoils of war after conquering Constantinople and established its own colonies in the eastern Mediterranean, strengthening its trade with the Islamic powers of the Middle East.9 Deborah Howard’s foundational study,

Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

Figure 3.3 Black African water carrier, thirteenth century. West façade, San Marco, Venice. Photo: author. Figure 3.4 Martyrdom of Mark in Alexandria, late 1260s or early 1270s. Mosaics on the vault of Cappella Zen (former Porta da Mar), San Marco, Venice. Photo: Archivio della Procuratoria di San Marco. © By kind permission of the Procuratoria di San Marco, Venice.

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Venice and the East, uncovers a range of visual echoes of the Islamic Middle East. The significant role of Venetian shipping in trade and pilgrimage in the Middle East offers rationales for this eastward turn and suggests a generally positive view of cultural hybridity, albeit one inflected with Orientalist exoticism. I have elsewhere built on Howard’s work to suggest how the thirteenth-​century narratives of San Marco complemented the new architectural framing and portable objects from the Middle East to reinforce Venice’s newfound role as pilgrimage center modeled on Mark’s Egyptian homeland.10 In the present chapter, I consider how such cultural encounter became racialized in representations of Muslims as quintessential non-​Christian Others and thus as targets for conversion. Focusing on the narrative mosaics of Saint Mark’s mission and martyrdom in Egypt and sculpture of the former Porta da Mar as well as the biblical narratives of the atrium mosaics, I show how Muslims are defined within Venetian discourses of race as Saracens, Ethiopians, and Ishmaelites by inscription, geography, costume, physiognomy, and skin color.

Considering Race Before analyzing the images in greater detail, I want to make the case for considering these images in terms of race rather than the more neutral concept of ethnicity. Until recently, scholarship in medieval studies has avoided using the terminology of race because the modern sense of the term focused on immutable biological traits, a view that emerged only during early modernity alongside presumed scientific evidence for race, based on phrenology, physiognomy, and climate theory.11 Yet powerful arguments in favor of using the hermeneutics of race have been made by Jeffrey Jerome Cohen and Geraldine Heng. Cohen sees medieval discourses of race as fundamentally “about body and climate,” seen as aligned with moral and religious alterity.12 Heng, in her groundbreaking Invention of Race in the European Middle Ages, further encourages us to consider the concept of premodern “racial thinking,” arguing that race is a “structural relationship for the articulation and management of human differences” that serves to “distribute positions and powers differentially to human groups.”13 As medievalists of color have forcefully led all medievalists to consider, silence about such structural racism in the Middle Ages and about the existence of ethnic diversity within medieval European societies constitutes a form of “white innocence” that distorts modern perceptions of medieval Europe and dangerously perpetuates the myths of ethnically pure, Christian medieval nations as models for white supremacy in the present.14 While much of the scholarship on medieval race is focused on literature, art historians have highlighted the impact of visual culture in reinforcing racial difference and prejudice. Paul Kaplan emphasizes how the increasingly numerous, naturalistic depictions of Black sub-​Saharan Africans during the thirteenth century were tied to expansionist, universalizing claims of the Holy Roman Empire, especially under Frederick II, although 60

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he fails to comment on the subservient position of Black Africans in Hohenstaufen iconography or even the segregationist policies manifested in the establishment of the separate Black colony of Lucera in south Italy.15 By contrast, Madeline Caviness stresses that color is a “multivalent sign” in medieval art, “changing with its reception in different viewing communities.”16 Caviness juxtaposes the positive images of the Black Sheba, Saint Maurice, and the Black magus, situated within Christian biblical and hagiographic contexts, with images of Black African executioners. She also locates the invention of “whiteness” in tandem with more naturalistic images of Black Africans in the visual arts in the thirteenth century, noting an emphasis on porcelain white skin in northern European depiction of Christian men and women.17 Focusing on late medieval England, Debra Higgs Strickland reveals how the visual codes of physiognomic caricature and skin color, along with clothing, helped to define not only the canonical monstrous races defined by Pliny but also the non-​Christian Others within and outside Europe, namely Jews and Muslims.18 She emphasizes the importance of visual culture in reinforcing pervasive and coercive discourses of race in northern Europe. An assessment of the visualization of race in southern European states bordering on the Mediterranean reveals a more complex picture because trade, colonization, and settlement led to more frequent interactions with both Jews and Muslims. Assessing the case of cultural interaction and race in medieval Iberia, for example, Pamela Patton argues that the modern characterization of a relatively peaceful coexistence of Jews and Christians under Umayyad rule and its expression in a shared visual culture—often called in the past convivencia—has masked a more complex range of attitudes ranging from hostility and martyrdom to tolerance.19 From the time that Christian rulers gained ascendency in the later twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the much vaunted Iberian Islamicate style traditionally referred to as Mudejar, shared by Jews, Christians, and Muslims, contrasts with antagonistic, racialized attitudes toward Jews and Muslims who are sometimes depicted in similarly negative terms and may appear as targets of conversion.20 In more recent studies, Patton emphasizes the multivalence of skin color in medieval art, arguing that “while its power to signal race qua race remained relatively weak, it inflected medieval imagery with social, religious and moral connotations that foreshadowed modern racial thinking in ways easily missed, or misconstrued, by modern viewers.”21 She asserts that medieval images, far from recording mimetically the realities of Iberian society, constitute “imaginative constructions that harnessed the semiotic power of color and stereotype.”22 The visualization of race in the Italian peninsula manifests a similar complexity generated through mercantile exchange and the slave trade, colonization, and settlement.23 Apart from Kaplan’s work on representations of Black Muslims in the Hohenstaufen empire, mentioned above, relatively little scholarship has been devoted to race in medieval Italian art, though considerable attention has been given to cultural hybridity in Sicily and southern Italy.24 Seeking to understand the visual discourses of race in the thirteenth- and fourteenth-​century art of Venice, I acknowledge that Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

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Figure 3.5 South façade of Cappella Zen (former Porta da Mar), San Marco, Venice. Photo: author.

medieval Venetian visual culture, in conformity with the conventions of the Eastern Roman “Byzantine” Empire, avoids the explicit xenophobic caricature found in contemporaneous art of northern Europe.25 Instead, it uses larger narrative structures, other forms of bodily marking, and interpretive inscriptions to reinforce racial difference. While acknowledging that race is about more than visual distinctions marked on the body—religious, linguistic, and geographical origins were all counted among the invisible terms of classifying racial difference—I argue that visual imagery has a particular power to reinforce racial prejudices and serve coercive functions.26

Race-​ing the Legend of Saint Mark: Conversion and Martyrdom in Saracen Egypt The former Porta da Mar of San Marco offered a highly visible setting for the representation of racial and religious identities in the Venetian Republic. Facing the Piazzetta, 62

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alongside the Palazzo Ducale, the seat of Venetian government, the ducal chapel’s south portal was an important ceremonial space for religious processions and diplomatic arrivals as it stood on axis with the primary entrance to the city from the Adriatic Sea (fig. 3.5). It also provided the backdrop for outdoor markets and judicial proceedings. Though enclosed to form a funerary chapel for Cardinal Battista Zen between 1503 and 1515, the Porta da Mar originally comprised an open, barrel-​vaulted vestibule. It was at least planned in the early decades of the thirteenth century with a monumental two-​tiered protiro (porch portal) typical of north Italian Romanesque churches, with lions and griffins clutching human and animal prey and supporting colonnettes on either side of the entrance and a tympanum featuring the Adoration of the Magi in high relief.27 The mosaics on the barrel vault over the Porta da Mar, dated in the late 1260s or early 1270s, evoke connections with distant lands and peoples in the narrative of Saint Mark in Alexandria (figs. 3.6–7).28 While the east side of the vault is devoted to Mark’s Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

Figure 3.6 Saint Mark in Rome and Aquileia, late 1260s or early 1270s. Mosaics on the east side of barrel vault in Cappella Zen (former Porta da Mar), San Marco, Venice. Photo: Department of Image Collections, National Gallery of Art Library, Washington, DC.

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writing of his Gospel in Rome at the behest of Saint Peter and founding the church of Aquileia on the Venetian terra firma, the west side shifts focus to Egypt, the primary location of Saint Mark’s mission, his claims to apostolicity, and his martyrdom. The narrative commences on the east side of the barrel vault in the upper register with Mark diligently writing his Gospel in Rome (fig. 3.6). Besides documenting his role as author of one of the four Gospel books, the mosaic alludes specifically to the apostolic mission to convert and cast out demons in the selected inscriptions on the book itself and the scroll draped over the table. The text in his codex reads “VOS CL,” which Maria Villa Urbani reasonably interprets as an abbreviated form of “Vox Clamantis,” the first words of Mark 1:3: “Vox clamantis in deserto: Parate viam Domini, rectas facite semitas ejus” (A voice crying out in the desert: prepare the way of the Lord, make his paths straight).29 The text on the scroll reads “IN NOMINE MEO DEMONIA,” which is based on Mark 16:17: “In nomine meo, demonia eicient, linguis loquentur novis” (In my name shall they cast out devils, they shall speak with new tongues). While this image works on one level as a literal representation of the Gospel text as an instrument of Mark’s mission, its pairing with the specific authorization by Saint Peter in Rome and the baptism of the leper Athaulf in Aquileia reveals another level of meaning for contemporaneous viewers of the thirteenth century: the conversion of both Jews and Muslims to Roman Christianity. Peter, who is shown enthroned adjacent to a centrally planned, domed, structure, which might be construed as the Lateran Baptistery, represents the papacy and the authority of the Roman Church. The inscription affirms the authority of the text: “s[an]c[tu]s petrus app[ro]bat evangelium s[an]c[t]i marci [et] tradit eccl[es]ie, lege[n]du[m]” (Saint Peter approves the Gospel of Saint Mark and hands it down to the Church to be read). In the adjacent scene to the right, Mark completes Peter’s command by conducting his mission in Aquileia, baptizing a bearded figure who stands in the font with arms crossed over his chest in humility. The inscription refers to a generic baptism: “hic beat[us] marc[us] baptizat in aqvileja” (Here, Saint Mark baptized him in Aquileia). In the lower register, the Praedestinatio legend is represented for the first time, at far left. As the inscription describes, “cu[m] t[ra]nstiu[m] face[re]t p[er] mare ubi nu[m]c po[s]ita e[st] eccl[es]ia s[ancti] ma[r]ci ang[e]l[u]s ei nu[n]ciavit q[uod] post aliquan[n]tu[m] t[em]p[u]s a morte ip[s]i[us] co[rp]us ei[us] hi[c] honorifice locaret[ur” (When Mark was taking his voyage by sea [at the place] where the church of San Marco now stands, an angel announced to him that after a certain time had passed after his death his own body would be honorably buried here).30 This is the first instance of the prophecy invented in the thirteenth century to help justify the theft of relics from Alexandria: it thus foreshadows the narrative of Mark’s mission to Egypt on the opposite side of the vault. What is more, the connection with Egypt is visually reinforced by the composition itself, which is tied to the sculptural group known as the sogno (dream) of Saint Mark, which once formed part of a narrative that was destined to be displayed in the Porta da Mar.31 Moved in the Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

Figure 3.7 (opposite) Saint Mark’s mission and martyrdom in Alexandria, late 1260s or early 1270s. Mosaics on the west side of barrel vault in Cappella Zen (former Porta da Mar), San Marco, Venice. Photo: Department of Image Collections, National Gallery of Art Library, Washington, DC.

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fifteenth century to the lunette of the Porta Maggiore in the atrium, the image was reinterpreted as Mark’s dream, the Praedestinatio, but its original identification was the dream of Joseph, warning the holy family to return from Egypt. The mosaic image of the Praedestinatio provides a transition in the narrative, mapping the journey between Venice’s precursor on the terra firma, the ancient Roman metropolis of Aquileia, and Rome itself, where Mark witnesses Peter consecrating Hermagoras as his successor and as the first patriarch of Aquileia, thus asserting again the role of the Church of Rome.32 Finally, the narrative shifts to Egypt with a generic scene of healing identified in the inscription: “s[anctus] mar[cus] recede[n]s roma per[gi] i[n] egypt[um] ibiq[ue] eic[i]t de[mo]nia et alia m[u]ta s[i]g[n]a f[e]c[i]t” (Saint Mark, departing from Rome, hastened to Egypt and there, cast out demons and performed many other miracles). In the upper register of the west side of the vault, an angel appears in a dream to urge Mark to depart from Pentapolis for Alexandria, conforming to the formula used in the Praedestinatio, but here Mark reclines before a gabled structure, perhaps representing a pagan temple (fig. 3.7). In the adjacent scene, Mark appears with two men sailing toward Alexandria, inscribed, “s[anctus] mar[cus] recede[n]s roma pergit navigio alexandriam” (Saint Mark, departing from Rome, hastens by ship to Alexandria). As Mark reaches the Egyptian coast, the pharos (lighthouse) of Alexandria, one of the seven wonders of the world and well known to Venetian travelers, comes into view: in accordance with ancient coin imagery and a detailed twelfth-​century description by the traveler Ibn al Shaik, it appears as a three-​tiered tower surmounted by a cupola.33 The identical structure is depicted by Gentile Bellini in his detailed record of the west façade mosaics of the translation of Mark’s relics from Alexandria, the Procession in Piazza San Marco, now in the Galleria dell’ Accademia in Venice.34 After arriving on shore, Mark realizes that his sandal is broken and looks for a cobbler. The cobbler Anianus comes to Mark’s aid, but as he is repairing Mark’s sandal, he wounds his hand, and Mark heals it. This miracle causes Anianus and his entire household to convert to Christianity. The third scene in this register depicts the combined moment of healing and conversion, as confirmed by the inscription: “tradit calcia[men]tv[m] rvptv[um] suto[r]i q[uo]d cu[m] sveret vvlneravit manu[m] sva[m] [et] s[anctus]. marc[vs] sanav[it]” (He hands over his broken sandal to the cobbler, which, while he was repairing [it], wounded his hand, and Mark healed [it]). Although Anianus is a citizen of Roman Alexandria in the original narrative, he is recast here as a light-​skinned Muslim, with dark hair and a turban. This emphasis on Anianus’s alterity contrasts with the ivory relief of the same subject from the so-​called Grado chair, thought to have been carved during the seventh or eighth centuries in Alexandria, on which Anianus is depicted with a physiognomy similar to that of Peter in the same series.35 At the same time, the episode highlights Christianity’s claims to inclusivity—the Muslim cobbler, understood as a Saracen in the larger narrative, is both healed and converted. 66

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The origins of this idea of inclusivity can be traced to early Christianity, when, as Denise Kimber Buell shows, Christianity was promoted by its theologians as a new race superseding conventional ethnicities, coinciding with the ideology of the Holy Roman Empire as a multiethnic, Christian empire spanning the entire Mediterranean.36 In the thirteenth-​century context, during the Crusades that targeted Egypt (the Fifth Crusade, 1217–21; the Seventh Crusade, 1248–54; and the Eighth Crusade, 1270), this conflation of race with religion was conceived by Christians and Muslims alike as a fundamental means of classifying the Other, a category distinct from ethnicity used, for example, in documents recording the sale and manumission of enslaved people.37 These categories were not uncomplicated: Jacques de Vitry, bishop of Acre, asserts that even Christians in the Middle East and Africa were considered heretics or schismatics excluded from the Roman Church, and Crusaders could treat Christian and Muslim residents of conquered cities with equal contempt.38 Starting with Pope Honorius III, the Roman Church intensified efforts both to convert Muslims to Christianity and to bring the Christians of the eastern Mediterranean, including those of the Egyptian Church, into the Roman fold. In 1221, a year after Latin Crusaders gained possession of Damietta in Egypt during the Fifth Crusade, Honorius III issued a call for evangelization and conversion, hoping that Frederick II would lead a new crusade to conquer the Holy Land and Egypt.39 The papal bull of Innocent IV, “Cum Hora Undecima,” specifically empowered the Franciscans to convert both non-​ Christians, including Mongols, Muslims, pagans, and Gazarians of Crimea, as well as schismatic Nubian and Eastern Orthodox Christians.40 Early in the fourteenth century, the Venetian merchant and statesman Marin Sanudo the Elder (ca. 1270–1343) successively lobbied Popes Clement V (r. 1305–14) and John XXII (r. 1316–34), as well as King Philip V of France (r. 1316–22) and other European princes to promote a new crusade in Egypt, provisioning a professional expedition force and offering detailed plans for financing and maps.41 These intersections of Egypt and crusade, enslavement and race, offer a crucial context for understanding the figure of Anianus in the conversion mosaics over the Porta da Mar, a figure who, within the larger narrative, might be interpreted by contemporaneous viewers either as a pagan Roman or a virtuous Muslim convert (see fig. 3.7). The Venetian Translatio narrative and the inscription of the martyrdom scene suggest that his primary identity is as a Muslim. While the conceptualization of Muslims encompassed a range of ethnicities and skin colors, the conversion of Anianus is facilitated here by the fact that he is light-​skinned. As Suzanne Conklin Akbari shows, this was a trope of “assimilability” used in medieval romances to anticipate the spiritual transformation into a Christian body.42 Breaking with the dichotomy of Blackness and whiteness defined by geography and climate, romance literature allowed for a distinction between fair-​skinned, blond-​haired, well-​proportioned Muslim “knights,” such as the emir Baligant in the Chanson de Roland, whose appearance foreshadows his spiritual conversion, with those who are “dark-​skinned, deformed, or of grotesque Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

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stature and doomed to destruction.”43 As the case of the king of Tars reveals, even a dark-​skinned Muslim was perceived as being “whitened” through conversion, metaphorically contrasting the darkness of sin with the whiteness of spiritual renewal.44 While the hagiographic texts do not specify that Anianus was an enslaved person in Roman Egypt, his occupation and visual representation as a cobbler and his religious identity as a Muslim allude to an increasingly significant social reality: the Venetian traffic in enslaved people from the Black Sea, the Balkans, and North Africa to serve as craftspeople or domestic servants. Enslaved people of all ethnic and religious identities—including Russians, Slavs, Greeks, North Africans, Turks, and Tatars— circulated among other commodities traded in the Mediterranean, and Venice was already engaged in the shipping of enslaved people as early as the ninth century; a pact signed with the Eastern Roman Empire in 960 ce banned all slave trade on Venetian ships between central and eastern Europe in exchange for fiscal privileges being granted to the Venetians.45 Charles Verlinden cites pertinent notarial documents recording that, already in the second half of the twelfth century, Venetians had acquired enslaved Muslims in the Levant who, like Anianus in the Marcian narrative, were converted and baptized.46 For example, Marco Venier, stopping at Armiro, the ancient Philippopolis in northern Greece, in 1158, purchased a slave named James “de genere Saracenorum.”47 James was his baptismal name, as confirmed in an act held in 1163. Serving as Venier’s valet, James was granted his liberty and provided with capital to set up his own business on condition that he would serve Venier’s son for six more years. After the Venetian colonization of part of the Eastern Roman Empire in the aftermath of the Fourth Crusade, it became increasingly common for Venetians to have Muslim captives, with Acre, Cyprus, and Crete as major way stations for transporting enslaved people to Venice and elsewhere. Enslaved laborers from abroad were employed as cobblers and textile workers. From the early fourteenth century, we have documentation of enslaved Muslims from North Africa, including individuals from Alexandria as noted below. As Hannah Barker has recently shown, Venetians, Genoese, and Mamluks from Egypt shared an understanding and justification of the practices of slavery that divided people on racial/religious lines.48 Christians would willingly enslave Muslims and other non-​Christian groups—and sometimes even non-​Catholic Christians—but not their own coreligionists, and from the mid-​thirteenth century, they would often insist that the enslaved convert to Catholic Christianity and take on a new Christian name, thus justifying enslavement by increasing the number of souls belonging to the master’s own religion. Likewise, Muslims would enslave Christians and non-​Muslims but not other Muslims, and they would have their captives circumcised and converted to Islam.49 Given that Pope Gregory IX explicitly affirmed in 1237 that non-​Christians who converted to Christianity remained legally enslaved, thus circumventing false conversions of non-​Christians to obtain their freedom, the act of manumission seems to have been tied most often to the death of the master and the desire to benefit one’s 68

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own soul through the release of the enslaved, as was the case for a Tatar or Mongol who served in Marco Polo’s household.50 Another visual trope that explicitly identifies the non-​Christian Other as a Saracen is found in the scene of the martyrdom of Saint Mark in the lower register of the Porta da Mar (see figs. 3.4, 3.7). According to the saint’s Passio, Mark was assailed by Saracens as he was celebrating Easter Mass. At left, two turbaned, light-​skinned, bearded men tie a noose around Mark’s neck as he stands behind the altar. The scene is described in the badly restored inscription: “siraceni celebrantem [sic] percvtivnt s[an]c[tu] m marcvm celebrantem missam” (The Saracens strangled Saint Mark while he was celebrating Mass). The translation narrative describes how Mark was taken to prison and the next day dragged through the streets to the Buculi, where he died. The pictorial narrative skips the scene in prison, included in the Pala d’Oro narrative, to focus on the two turbaned Muslims cruelly dragging the body of Mark in chains through the streets to the Buculi.51 However, on the Porta da Mar, in conformity with the racialized type of the Black executioner used in northern European art, it is a dark-​skinned figure with curly hair who beats the saint. In physiognomic type and skin color, this latter figure coincides with sub-​Saharan Africans that medieval European Christians would have described generically as Ethiopians. As noted above, the term Ethiopian, often used as an attribute of Muslim identity, originated in ancient Greek descriptions of Black Africans as Aethiops, denoting a “burnt-​faced person” and suggestive of excessive exposure to the sun in regions closest to the equator.52 Geographically and ethnically, Ethiopian was used in the European imaginary to essentialize a non-​Christian with a spiritual and ethnic alterity whose origins encompassed an expansive territory, including not only present-​day Ethiopia to the south of Sudan but also Nubia, much of North African, and sometimes even India.53 Within the Egyptian context, this figure might have been understood as Nubian or Kushite, belonging to the people beyond Upper Egypt, who were at times enslaved by lighter-​skinned Egyptians during the Middle Kingdom but built a flourishing kingdom themselves that rivaled Egypt.54 In contrast to the Saracen convert Anianus, the dark-​skinned Muslim takes on the aggressive role of executioner, a convention seen commonly in northern European images.55 The narrative of Mark’s life in Alexandria concludes with one final scene: the entombment of Mark in the church at the Buculi within a lavish verde antique marble tomb surmounted by a ciborium (see fig. 3.7, lower right). The inscription describes the scene concisely and confirms the success of Mark’s mission to convert the local population: “sepilitur beatu[s] marcus a xpi fidelib[v]s” (The Blessed Mark is buried by the Christian faithful). The detailing of the marble is important, as it anticipates the spoliation of precious marbles from Christian shrines by the Muslim caliph of Cairo at the time of the translation of relics in the ninth century, thereby offering a justification for the relic theft by Venice. The depiction of Mark’s assailants in Alexandria as Saracens also foreshadows the translation of Mark’s relics depicted in the mosaics over the doors of the west façade.56 Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

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All but the last mosaic depicting the entry of the relics into the present church, at far left in the Porta di Sant’Alippio, have been replaced, but Bellini’s aforementioned Procession in Piazza San Marco gives a quite precise rendition of the original series, starting at far right with the removal of relics from the tomb in Alexandria. According to the Translatio text, likely composed at the end of the tenth century, the Venetian merchants Rusticus, Tribunus, and Bonus came to Alexandria at a time when the “Saracens,” described as the “descendants of Abraham’s younger son Ishmael,” were despoiling the churches throughout Egypt of columns and marble slabs to build a new palace for the caliph in Cairo.57 The Venetians thus justified their theft of the relics on account of this disrespect for Saint Mark’s tomb. In fact, this spoliation of the shrine is given as the primary reason why the Orthodox custodians of the tomb finally agreed to the Venetian merchants’ plan to take the relics “home” to Venice, in the region where he had once preached the Gospel.58 This same point is emphasized in the liturgy for the feast of the translation at the beginning of February.59 This reference to the destruction of churches has a significant historical resonance related to the sectarian conflicts in Egypt under the Fatimids. Although the Fatimids have long been considered relatively tolerant toward Christians in Egypt, Jennifer Pruitt has shown how Caliph al-​Hakim made the destruction of churches a significant pillar of his harder line against the Christians at the end of the tenth century. He not only infamously destroyed the church of the Holy Sepulcher but also systematically tore down many other churches within Egypt itself as part of a shift in his own identification with the less tolerant Sunni majority.60 In this light, the removal of the relics of Mark from Alexandria and their translation to Christian Venice is understood as a rebuilding of the former shrine of Mark in the homeland where he had first preached the Gospel prior to the Alexandrian mission. Significantly, the green marble ciborium depicted in the mosaic of Mark’s entombment in Alexandria is echoed by the actual verde antique ciborium set up over Mark’s Venetian tomb beneath the high altar of San Marco in the mid-​thirteenth century (see fig. 3.7). The term Saracen, used to name the Egyptians who assail Saint Mark in Alexandria in these thirteenth-​century mosaics, is hardly a neutral descriptor (see fig. 3.7). The conceptualization of Muslims as the quintessential non-​Christian Other in medieval European historical, literary, and religious writings was rooted in the genealogies of Genesis 10–11. These, in turn, formed the basis for Isidore of Seville’s influential theorization of distinct races originating in the three sons of Noah.61 According to Isidore, Ishmael, firstborn son of Abraham from the servant Hagar, was the founder of the Ishmaelites, whose name was corrupted into Saracens, as if from Sarah, and Agarenes, from Hagar.”62 With the emergence of Islam later in the seventh century, Saracens came to be conflated with Muslims and, by the era of the Crusades, with Moors, a term that originated in the designation of inhabitants of Mauritania (and in the later Middle Ages was applied to both to Muslims and the enslaved in the Iberian context).63 Within this later medieval context, Cohen proposes, it denotes “an imagined shared alterity . . . 70

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written across a collective body . . . a racial difference encompassing religion, skin color, anatomy, and sexuality.”64 Although Sanudo the Elder, writing in the early fourteenth century, views Nubians as potential Christian allies in a crusade to be led by the Venetians against the Egyptian sultan, as mentioned above, the more common descriptor, Ethiopian, was often connected to Saracen for its visible and geographic associations with the Egyptian caliphate, as primary seat of the “Sultan of Babylon” in Cairo.65 As noted above, medieval European accounts, inspired by ancient theories of the influence of climate and geography on character, included the dark-​skinned Ethiopians among the monstrous races of Africa and the East.66 Gregory the Great, in his Moralia in Job, interprets Ethiopia as symbol of the fallen world and Blackness as a symbol of their sinfulness. By the late eleventh century, when Crusaders sought to wrest control of the Holy Land from Islamic rule, Moors, Saracens, and Ishmaelites became conflated with Black Ethiopians to the extent that the Chanson de Roland casts the “Sarazins” who confront Roland as a “cursed people, blacker than ink.”67 The elision of these sometimes distinct categories with Blackness is predicated, as Cord Whitaker forcefully shows, on the “shimmer” of Black metaphors that offer a rhetorical contrast to, and help define the normative whiteness of, medieval Christian identity.68 This trope of whiteness as the Christian norm—in contrast to Saracen Blackness—obscures a more complex reality in the delineation of race and ethnicity in the Mediterranean world. While we have seen that it was common for religious difference to serve as a primary criterion for enslavement by both Muslims and Christians, the classification of enslaved people in terms of geographical ethnicity and skin color was considerably more varied. The enslaved begin to be recorded by skin color in Italy around 1200 during the period leading up to the creation of the mosaics in the Porta da Mar. Genoese documents described by Steven Epstein include an 1190 contract for a white enslaved “Saracen” and 1239 records for an enslaved Black female and Black male from Valencia and two enslaved females both named Axia, one who was brown and another one who was white.69 As Barker’s recent work on the Mediterranean slave trade from the Black Sea shows, however, the modern binary contrast between blackand white-​skinned individuals belies the complexity found in medieval texts, which interpret skin color not only in terms of climate and race but also in relation to humoral theory as a marker of health or moral status.70 Color used to describe the enslaved in notarial documents commonly included black, brown, olive, red, and white but could also be indicated as mixtures—whitish brown, brown between two colors, olive-​brown, blackish olive, mixed color, or medium color, the last used to designate a humoral balance and, thus, good health. The Venetian mosaics reflect this ambivalence toward the white/black binary. Both light-​skinned Egyptian Arabs and Black Nubians or Ethiopians are depicted as Saracens in the scene of Saint Mark’s martyrdom in Alexandria, while light-​skinned Arabs and dark-​skinned Egyptians appear as targets of the apostolic mission and Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

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conversion in late twelfth-​century mosaics of the Pentecost dome at San Marco.71 This complexity reflects what Jean Devisse describes as the more nuanced attitude toward Blackness and race in the art of the Eastern Roman (Byzantine) Empire, which lies behind much of the vocabulary and subject matter of the Venetian mosaics.72 On one hand, the representation of a Black Ethiopian who torments Mark as he is dragged through the streets of Alexandria recalls the depictions of the race of the Blemmyae in the Vatican Menologion of Basil II.73 Unlike the depictions in the English Wonders of the East tradition, which portray the Blemmyae as headless monsters with faces over their chests, these Blemmyae appear as turbaned figures with both black and brown skin, who torture and slay the Holy Fathers of Sinai and the Thirty Fathers of Raithu in the Sinai. Yet in the same manuscript, the Ethiopian eunuch (as described in Acts 8:26–40) offers a counterexample in which Black Africans are incorporated into the Christian Church. Roland Betancourt suggests that the inhabitants of the Eastern Roman Empire “turned racist stereotypes on their heads and had a radically different geopolitical placement in their identity as Mediterranean subjects,” given their range of contacts with people with a great variety of skin colors.74 Betancourt posits that the Ethiopian eunuch reflects the welcoming of people of different ethnicities into the broader Christian empire and suggests that they would have been understood in positive terms within the context of a cosmopolitan city like Constantinople. Expanding on these ideas, Betancourt adduces significant textual evidence, including a sermon of Eustathios of Thessaloniki (1174), to demonstrate an appreciation of the range of different peoples present in the empire as a sign of the emperor’s magnanimous rule and worldly renown.75 Yet within this same listing of different peoples or races, including Armenians, Muslims (“sons of Hagar”), Franks, Ethiopians, Scythians, Slavs, and Italians, one finds a clear delineation of alterity and inferiority as the narrator affirms that “these men are accustomed to be fellow-​slaves, but there are not a few who are enrolled among our own slaves, whom you yourself, after acquiring them as prisoners of war, have honored with servitude.”76 It must be admitted, then, that in the Eastern Roman Empire, the inclusion of a dark-​skinned target of conversion in the guise of the Ethiopian eunuch does not escape racist undertones. At the very least, we find an equivalent to, or continuity with, what Nandini Pandey describes as the “commodification of race” as a tool for maintaining authority over a sprawling, multiethnic Roman Empire of the first and second centuries.77

Ethiopians, Saracens, and the Enslaved in the Porta da Mar In the Porta da Mar’s narrative of Saint Mark in Egypt, the figure of the Saracen has distinct resonances—as a light-​skinned “assimilable” Muslim and potential convert to Christianity, as a representative of the social reality of slavery in the Mediterranean world in which Venice played a significant role, and as a dark-​skinned Ethiopian and 72

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Figure 3.8 Lion with ram or sheep, ca. 1250– 80. Cappella Zen (former Porta da Mar), San Marco, Venice. Photo: Archivio della Procuratoria di San Marco. © By kind permission of the Procuratoria di San Marco, Venice.

violent executioner. The racialized interpretation of the men who attack Saint Mark in Alexandria is reinforced by the depiction of similar figures in thirteenth-​century sculptures flanking the original portal (see figs. 3.1–3). The presumed two-​tiered protiro, following other examples in northern Italy, would have had columns bearing lions at the lower level and two griffins on the upper level.78 Each pair is depicted with two kinds of prey—one human, the other animal. The sculptures from the lower level, executed in Veronese pink marble, now flank the altar behind the tomb of Doge Zen.79 At right, a half-​naked youth, distinguished as an Ethiopian type by his tight curly hair, is prostrate beneath the lion’s paws, face buried in his left arm with the hand wrapping around the back of his head (fig. 3.1). On the opposite side, a young ram or sheep, typical in ancient Roman sacrificial offerings, appears beneath the paws of the lion (fig. 3.8).80 On the upper level of the portal, still in situ on the south façade of San Marco, one finds a similar pairing of a prostrate human figure and a calf or Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

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Figure 3.9 Griffin with sheep, ca. 1250–80. Former Porta da Mar, south façade of San Marco, Venice. Photo: author.

bovine prey executed in pietra d’Istria (figs. 3.2, 3.9). Although the half-​naked youth with the lion is not clearly defined, the figure in the griffin’s paws is unambiguously represented as a Black African, with enlarged lips and curly hair resembling those of the Ethiopian in the mosaic of the martyrdom of Saint Mark (cf. fig. 3.1 and fig. 3.4). This identification would have been more visible with the original polychromy, traces of which are found in the prophet sculptures on the interior of the porch. The inclusion of sculpted lions and griffins supporting columns as part of porches or protiri is common in Italian churches, including the group of sculpted portals associated with the sculptor Niccolò in the early twelfth century, which can be traced back to guardian figures in ancient Near Eastern and Greek art.81 The specific rationale for representing lions with prey, however, relates to Greek images of lion attacks and Roman images of gladiatorial combat and hunting, in which lions attack both other animals and humans and are interpreted as symbolic of conquest and mastery.82 Lions attacking animal and human prey are also found in funerary art, as witnessed in the Cramond Lioness (now in the National Museums of Scotland), which depicts an almost naked captive being devoured by a lioness.83 One can thus see how, in a medieval context, a dark-​skinned version of this mauled figure could be construed in terms of Venetian triumphalism and enslavement, using the Ethiopian as a stand-​in for both. The display of a half-​naked body of a Black African in the clutches of a lion or a griffin at San Marco finds parallels elsewhere in central and northern Italian portal sculpture, where the enslaved African is paired with the lion to perform the servile function of bearing a column. In one example attributed to Tuscany, now in the Gardner Museum in Boston, an almost naked African youth lying on his side struggles with the lion and knifes its belly while crying out with open mouth.84 The figures’ physiognomic traits align with their role in these works, as shown by the Liber physiognomis, composed by Michael Scotus at the court of Frederick II between 1228 and 1235.85 In his discussions of hair, Scotus argues that long and straight hair 74

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signified timidity and meekness; strong and curly hair indicated strength, courage, and fallacy; frizzy hair, simplemindedness; thick and curly hair suggested arrogance, mendacity, malice, and wrath; thick hair, cruelty.86 Ilaria Sabatini remarks that all these physiognomic features were ascribed to Saracens in contemporaneous literature; in addition, wide nostrils indicated not only large testicles, and therefore lust, but also falsehood and envy; the wide mouth, shamelessness, fearmongering, voracity, and impurity; a large head and broad face, a suspicious nature.87 The fact that the Black African held by the griffin in Venice is depicted as bound and that it faces the Piazzetta, the primary market of goods and human laborers brought from overseas, suggests that this figure would have called attention to the many enslaved individuals from Alexandria bought by Venetian noble and mercantile families (see fig. 3.1). It is surely significant that the sculptor chose to depict a Black Saracen or Ethiopian in this subservient position, suggesting that prevalent European racial stereotyping prevailed over the reality of the conditions on the ground in Venice itself, where Black Muslims from North Africa represented a relatively small percentage of the enslaved population.88 Yet, by now, dark skin appears to have been associated with enslavement. As Barker points out, religious identity was not always clear in notarial documents for Venetian purchases of enslaved people, and it could change with circumstances: in certain cases, a dark-​skinned enslaved person was identified as an Ethiopian Christian in Egypt under Muslim rule but as a Saracen by the eventual Venetian Christian owner.89 In such instances, then, skin color trumped the original religious identity to make the dark-​skinned subject enslavable. Enslaved Muslims are already described as Saracens in twelfth-​century Venetian notarial documents, and from the fourteenth century, skin color becomes part of the description. For example, an enslaved girl, referred to as “saracena nigra” aged thirteen, baptized as Cita, was sold for forty ducats in 1389. Documentation of another likely dark-​skinned “Saracen” from Alexandria is found in an act of the notary Giovanni Similiante in 1332, which records the sale of “una Sarasine Mussud, quam conduxi de Alexandria” (“a Saracen woman named Mussud who was brought from Alexandria.”)90 Legal provisions regulating the conduct and sale of enslaved people from 1270 onward make clear that such human trade was practiced in the markets of Venice, both at Rialto and the Piazzetta.91 In fact, Petrarch pointedly remarks in the late 1360s that galleys arrive alongside shipments of grain with “an unusually large and countless crowd of slaves of both sexes [that] has afflicted this city with deformed Scythian faces, just like when a muddy current destroys the brilliance of a clear one.”92 As Sarah McKee points out, Petrarch, an antiquarian at heart, uses the ancient Roman term Scythian to blur distinctions between a range of ethnicities described in contemporaneous documents of enslaved people, including Tartars, Abkhazi, Circassians, Bulgarians, Russians, Turks, and Greeks. The fact that Petrarch emphasizes the enslaved people’s “deformed” physiognomies, and their “muddy” complexions parallels the exaggeration of difference in depicting enslaved Ethiopians or Saracens in the portal sculpture. Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

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Another ominous association of the Black men in the clutches of the griffin and lion at the Porta da Mar is with the judicial proceedings that took place between the two triumphal columns at the entrance to the Piazzetta, on the north-​south axis leading to the Porta da Mar. A document of November 1370 refers to an enslaved man named John who had cut the throat of his master, the bishop of Cività Nova, and stolen his ring; after he was captured, he was punished by having his hands cut off and “was brought in between the two columns and was bound, drawn and quartered in the midst of the two columns over a grill and suspended there until Sunday.”93 This severe punishment took place in the public space between the south entrance to San Marco and the west façade of the Palazzo Ducale, which, in the second half of the fourteenth century was rebuilt to incorporate the Palace of Justice. As Fabio Barry shows, public executions in the Piazzetta can be traced back at least to 1264, when Ranieri Zeno had ringleaders of a riot hanged there.94 Barry also documents how, over time, the decapitated porphyry head, known as the Carmagnola, which had been placed above the Porta da Mar on the balcony of the west façade, and the celebrated porphyry tetrarchs were associated with captives and the exercise of justice. The Black Africans depicted in the paws of a lion and a griffin in the adjacent portal likewise seem to have evoked the nearby executions of enslaved people.

Ishmaelites in the Genesis Narratives of the Atrium A second distinctive setting for the representation of Muslims is found in the Genesis cycle in the atrium of San Marco. As we have already seen, the genealogy of Muslims was traced back to Ishmael, and thus the term Ishmaelite was used alongside Saracen to define Muslims as a race. The narrative of Abraham’s life in the west branch of the atrium emphasizes this lineage by including an unusually detailed sequence of seven images concerning the conception, birth, and circumcision of Ishmael, the son of Abraham and his wife’s Egyptian slave, Hagar.95 The circumcision of Ishmael provides the model for the subsequent genital marking of Abraham and his non-​Christian descendants, including Isaac, who represents the lineage of Judaism and ultimately Christianity, within a broader narrative of supersession or replacement.96 Although I cannot adequately address this complex theme here, it is important to acknowledge that this emphasis on Ishmael and circumcision contributes to the Christian argument for othering both Jews and Muslims in favor of a new covenant in which baptism rather than circumcision generates a new race that transcends traditional notions of race and ethnicity.97 The Genesis narratives of the atrium in San Marco abruptly shift from the birth and circumcision of Isaac (Genesis 21:2, 4) to the narrative of Joseph’s youth and his abduction to Egypt, displayed in the westernmost cupola (the first Joseph cupola) of the north branch of the atrium, thus omitting the narratives of Isaac and Jacob 76

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Figure 3.10 Joseph sold to Ishmaelite traders by his brothers, early thirteenth century. Atrium, San Marco, Venice. Photo: Department of Images Collections, National Gallery of Art Library, Washington, DC.

(Genesis 37). While the narrative begins with Joseph’s dream and the prophecy that he shall preside over his brothers, five scenes deal with his abduction to Egypt. The foreign merchants, whom Otto Demus describes as “Midianites,” are inscribed both as “mercantes” and “Ishmaelites”—followers of Ishmael, ancestor of the Muslims (fig. 3.10).98 After Joseph’s jealous brothers thrust him into a well, they appear feasting as two exotic merchants riding on camels, inscribed: “comedentib[us] f[rat]rib[us] vederu[n]t me[r]catores venire” (While they are feasting, Joseph’s brothers see the merchants approaching).99 This contrasts with the biblical text of Genesis 37:25, which describes them specifically as “viatores Ismahelitas” riding camels from Gilead, laden with aromatic spices, balsam, and resin to trade in Egypt. After retrieving Joseph from the well, his brothers sell him to the merchants for twenty pieces of silver. Here, in keeping with Genesis 37:28, the inscription describes the traders as Ishmaelites: “hi[c] vendideru[n]t ioseph ismaelitis xx arge[n]tei” (Here they sold Joseph to Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

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Figure 3.11 Muslim merchant with camel, late thirteenth or early fourteenth century. Palazzo Mastelli, Venice. Photo: author.

the Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver). As in the previous scene, the Ishmaelites appear in the guise of contemporary Saracens: both are dark-​skinned, bare-​chested, and sport long hair held back by a fillet and headband, respectively. In the next scene Joseph is led off on the back of one of the camels, and the inscription describes the traders simply as merchants: “hic ducitur iosep in egiptum a me[r]catorib[us]” (Here Joseph is led off to Egypt by the merchants). Within the broader racial discourses already traced in San Marco, one might consider the camel-​riding exotics as biblical prototypes for Saracen slave traders. As we have already seen, the shared culture of slavery in the thirteenth-​century Mediterranean prohibited enslaving one’s coreligionists. The Ishmaelites who take Joseph to Egypt thus allude to the contemporaneous Muslims of Mamluk Egypt, who abducted large numbers of Christians and non-​Muslims into slavery. At the same time, the Ishmaelites also evoke Venetian ambivalence toward the Islamic world by highlighting through their convoys of camels the more positive aspect of trade between Venice and the Egyptian sultans.100 The biblical narratives in San Marco are thus recast to represent the realia of Middle Eastern trade as envisaged by contemporary Venetian merchants. A similar interpretation applies to a late thirteenth- or early fourteenth-​ century relief redisplayed on the exterior of the fifteenth-​century façade of the Palazzo Mastelli, the home of Venetian spice traders who purchased their goods in Alexandria or Cairo (fig. 3.11). Here a figure depicted in Orientalizing garb with a turban is shown leading a camel with a large pack of goods on its back. Tellingly, this figure is joined by four others traditionally described by Venetians as Moors, installed within the exterior walls of buildings facing the adjacent Campo dei Mori. One of the four, a porter with a pack carried on his shoulders, wears a headband comparable to the San Marco figures; the three others wear ill-​fitting turbans that may have been added in the fifteenth century, when the sculptures were placed in their present locations. Where these reliefs were originally displayed is not known, but Alberto Rizzi suggests 78

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that they once joined the camel relief as part of an ensemble decorating the medieval precursor of the present Palazzo Mastelli.101 A further chapter in the narrative of Venice’s relations with the Saracens in Egypt ties Venice’s racial discourse back to Saint Mark. The Golden Legend composed by the Dominican Jacobus de Voragine circa 1259 to 1261 includes among Mark’s posthumous miracles the conversion of a Saracen sailor. This account lies behind the representation of a Muslim among the converts and miraculously healed pilgrims at Mark’s tomb in the last episode of the Pala feriale, which was commissioned by Doge Andrea Dandolo (r. 1343–54) and painted by Paolo Veneziano between 1342 and 1345 to cover the resplendent Pala d’Oro (fig. 3.12).102 The larger narrative sequence here, which summarizes Mark’s career in a mere seven episodes, displays a distinctive focus on Venice’s role in the conversion of the Saracen East and the powerful presence of Mark’s relics at the heart of the Venetian state. The cycle begins with Mark’s commission by Peter, depicted in full papal regalia with pallium, crimson cope, and papal miter. He holds what might be construed as a copy of Mark’s newly commissioned Gospel as Mark kneels before him to be blessed and consecrated as patriarch of the Venices. The text on the open book, however, makes clear that the focus is on Peter sending Mark to convert the people of Alexandria: “fili. marce, p[er]ge alexandria[m]/praedic[a] eva[ngelium] d[omi]n[i] ih [esv] x[ri] st[i] . . . [filii?] [d]e[i]” ([My] son, Mark, go to Alexandria and preach the Gospel of the Lord Jesus Christ, son of God).103 The inclusion of the group of cardinals to the right enhances the official nature of the scene and enforces the idea of Mark’s role as papal envoy, thus enhancing the contemporary role of Venice in the Crusades, starting with the Fourth Crusade in 1204, and the Church’s hope for the conversion of Muslims to Christianity. The second scene shows the arrival of Mark in Alexandria and the healing Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

Figure 3.12 Paolo Veneziano, Pala feriale, 1342–45. San Marco, Venice. Photo: Archivio della Procuratoria di San Marco. © By kind permission of the Procuratoria di San Marco, Venice.

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of the cobbler Anianus, who appears as a dark-​skinned Arab with long beard, kaftan, and turban. In the third scene, a similar figure, now in a white kaftan and turban, appears at right as witness to the miraculous appearance of Christ in a vision to Mark while he was in prison in Alexandria, the moment in which the motto on the Venetian banner of Saint Mark is uttered by Christ: “Pax tibi Marce, evangelista meus” (Peace be with you, Mark, my Evangelist). The central scene of Mark’s martyrdom conflates two separate moments from the Cappella Zen discussed earlier: Mark is beaten by dark-​skinned Arabs wearing turbans and dragged off from the sanctuary of the church where he had been celebrating Mass. The fifth scene stands in for the larger translation cycle from Alexandria to Egypt: Mark himself wakes the slumbering merchants in time to avoid a shoal as the Venetians approach the Upper Adriatic. The great sail is marked with a cross on a stepped platform, as if to remind the Venetians of the role of their ships in conveying Crusaders to the East. The sixth scene shows the Apparitio miracle in which Mark’s relics miraculously emerge from within the southeast pier of the cathedral supporting the central dome, a reaffirmation of the presence of Mark’s relics in San Marco at the time of the consecration of the new basilica in 1094, a miracle that was only recorded from the thirteenth century. The posthumous healing miracles at the tomb recorded in the Golden Legend are depicted in the last panel.104 Among the disabled seeking healing at Mark’s tomb and the prisoner from Mantua giving thanks to Mark for releasing him, a well-​dressed figure appears at far left. Sporting a long wispy beard, a bright crimson headdress with a long tassel that extends behind his back, and an elegant blue silk tunic with gold embroidered dragons or phoenixes of the kind seen on Chinese silks and their imitations in Middle Eastern and Italian textiles, this elegant figure has been identified as Emperor Henry IV, who visited Venice in 1094 at the time of the consecration of the new basilica, but he displays no typical attributes of an emperor or ruler.105 He has also been identified as one of two figures mentioned in the Golden Legend: a nobleman of Provence who punished his servant for going to Mark’s tomb without his permission but, after his efforts were thwarted by the saint, begged forgiveness and joined his servant in veneration; or a knight whose arm was badly wounded but was healed after he prayed to Mark. While both suggestions have some merit, the distinctive costume favors his identification as the Saracen sailor who was saved from drowning by Saint Mark when he prayed to the saint and pledged to convert; he later traveled to Venice where he was baptized and renamed Mark. Similarly exotic headdresses and luxurious costumes are associated with Saracens outside the prison in Alexandria where Mark is visited in a dream by Christ, as seen on the Pala feriale, but a closer parallel is found in the mid-​fourteenth-​century Venetian manuscript of the Vita, Translatio et Apparitio Sancti Marci made for Doge Giovanni Dolfin (r. 1356–61). In a historiated initial depicting the strangling of Mark as he celebrates Easter Mass, a Black Ethiopian conforming to the Saracen type seen in the thirteenth-​century mosaic sports a red hat with a long tassel (fig. 3.13). Thus, for Christian and Saracen alike, physical and spiritual 80

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Figure 3.13 Martyrdom of Saint Mark in Alexandria, in Vita, Translatio et Apparitio Sancti Marci, mid-​ fourteenth century. Venice, Biblioteca del Museo Correr, Cod. Correr 1498, fol. 15r [p. 28]. Photo: author. Permission by the Biblioteca del Museo Correr.

healing are associated with Mark’s tomb, a symbol of the universalism of the Christian Church and Venice’s role in forging a pan-​Mediterranean, Catholic empire.106 It was this elusive goal that was most explicitly articulated in the crusading treatise composed in the early fourteenth century by the Venetian merchant and diplomat Sanudo the Elder in his Liber secretorum fidelium crucis. The visual complexity that we have been exploring in the narrative mosaics of San Marco is likewise witnessed in the illuminated manuscripts of Sanudo’s text. In the British Library, Additional 27376, the bas-​de-​page image associated with book 1, part 5 depicts the king of Armenia trampling on a dragon labeled as the symbol of the Saracens; a ship under the Christian flag, carrying Tatars wearing distinctive conical headdresses, approaches from the left; and the sultan of Egypt together with dark- and light-​skinned Arabs wearing turbans are brought before the king as prisoners, roped together.107 In a later scene in book 2, by contrast, the sultan of Egypt finds himself by two groups of Christian allies (fig. 3.14). He appears as an exotic figure, wearing gold leggings and an elaborate helmet with a gold finial, riding a panther, and flanked by his own soldiers, who are all light-​skinned but wear turbans. Riding toward the left, he faces European Christians both on horseback and in a heavily armed ship, approaching from the coast to move up the Nile. However, the sultan turns in his saddle to observe a battalion of dark-​skinned Nubian Christians, clearly identified as allies of the Crusaders by virtue of their red banner and shields displaying the same white cross carried by the Christian knights at left. The Nubian allies, virtually indistinguishable in skin color and ethnic dress from the conventional Ethiopians or Black Saracens, here speak to the power of conversion to transform the trope of Blackness or darkness as emblems of sin and Otherness into the potential of Christian universality. By contrast, the light-​skinned Egyptian Saracens, Visualizing Muslims and/as Black Africans in Medieval Venice

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deceptively similar to the European white Christians in their physiognomies and skin color, are faced with defeat and the judgment of Christ who presides from above with the Christian Europeans at his favored right hand. The fact that a bearded male figure with a turban appears in the bow of the Venetian ship suggests the possibility of Muslim converts joining the Christians to defeat Islam in the Middle East. The figure of Saint Mark the Evangelist, so central to the “myth of Venice” and the maritime empire that endured until the eighteenth century, offers the ideal link connecting Christian universalist claims, global cultural encounter, and European constructions of race. The sea-​faring Evangelist and founder of both the Venetian Church and the Alexandrian Church could be recast in the context of the later Middle Ages not only as patron saint and protector of maritime trade between Venice and the Levant but also as an agent of European Christendom with Venetian Christians in opposition to, and superior to, Muslims. Yet the images tell only a partial story at a particular moment in time, an official narrative from the standpoint of the doge and the Venetian state. This is a story in which the Venetians, despite their reliance upon Muslims for their thriving trade in the eastern Mediterranean and despite the persistent cultural borrowing from both the Eastern Roman Empire and the Islamic cultures of the Middle East, conformed to western European attitudes in defining race by inscription and religion as well as the visible signs of skin color, physiognomy, and costume.

Notes 1. Demus et al., Sculture esterne di San Marco, 209–10, and Demus, Church of San Marco, 120, 145. 2. Demus, Mosaics of San Marco in Venice, 2:186– 88, and Dale, “Inventing a Sacred Past,” 89–90. 3. See, e.g., Eliav-​Feldon, Isaac, and Ziegler, Origins of Racism in the West; Heng, Invention of Race; and Whitaker, Black Metaphors. 4. See, e.g., Dee, “Black Odysseus”; Caviness, “From the Self-​Invention of the Whiteman”; and Patton, “Blackness, Whiteness.” 5. On the function of Saracens in the medieval European imaginary, see Tolan, Saracens. For its pre-​Islamic use, see Ward, Mirage of the Saracen, esp. 17–41, and Rajabzadeh, “Depoliticized Saracen and Muslim Erasure.” 6. For the biblical genealogies used in medieval sources to racialize the Muslim Other, see Dale, “Cultural Encounter,” esp. 8–24. 7. For the agency of the Jewish community in Venetian Crete, see, e.g., Lauer, Colonial Justice. 8. The primary contextual study of San Marco in Venice and its sculpture remains Demus, Church of San Marco. See also Polacco, San Marco, and Vio, San Marco.

9. For the Venetian perpsective on the Fourth Crusade, see Madden, “Venetian Version of the Fourth Crusade.” On the spolia brought from Constantinople, see Jacoff, Horses of San Marco; Dale, “Sacred Space”; and Barry, “Disiecta membra.” 10. Dale, “Cultural Hybridity in Medieval Venice.” 11. See, e.g., West, “Genealogy of Modern Racism,” and Hannaford, Race, esp. 187–233, 235–76. For critiques on the application of race to medieval culture, see Bartlett, “Medieval and Modern Concepts,” and Jordan, “Why ‘Race’?” 12. Cohen, “On Saracen Enjoyment.” 13. Heng, Invention of Race, 27. 14. See, e.g., Kim, “Teaching Medieval Studies”; Lomuto, “White Nationalism and the Ethics”; Otaño Gracia, “Towards a Decentered Global North Atlantic”; Whitaker, Black Metaphors, 1–8. 15. Kaplan, Rise of the Black Magus; Kaplan, “Black Africans”; Kaplan, introduction to Image of the Black in Western Art, vol. 2, part 1. 16. Caviness, “(Ex)Changing Colors,” esp. 569. 17. Caviness, “From the Self-​Invention of the Whiteman.”

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Figure 3.14 (opposite) Crusaders encircle the sultan of Egypt, in Marin Sanudo Torsello, Liber Secretorum Sancti crucis, 1310–30. London, British Library, Additional MS 27376*, fol. 8v. © The British Library Board.

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18. Hassig, “Iconography of Rejection,” 25–46, and Strickland, Saracens, Demons, and Jews. 19. Patton, Art of Estrangement. For a critique of the term Convivencia, see Ray, “Beyond Tolerance and Persecution.” 20. See, e.g., Dodds, “Mudéjar Tradition and the Synagogues”; Robinson, “Mudéjar Revisited”; Ruggles, “Alcazar of Seville and Mudejar Architecture.” 21. Patton, “Blackness, Whiteness,” esp. 164. 22. Patton, “What Did Medieval Slavery Look Like?” 23. See Barker, That Most Precious Merchandise. 24. See, e.g., Tronzo, Cultures of His Kingdom, and Hoffman, “Pathways of Portability.” 25. On physiognomic caricature of the Jews in northern European art, see Hassig, “Iconography of Rejection,” and Lipton, Dark Mirror, 171–99. 26. Barker notes that notarial documents recording transactions of the slave trade in Venice and Genoa refer primarily to religion, place of origin, and language, and only secondarily to skin color (That Most Precious Merchandise, 52–54). 27. For the Porta da Mar’s architecture and sculpture, see Dale, “Epiphany at San Marco,” and Demus, Church of San Marco, 183–86. 28. See Demus, Mosaics of San Marco, 2:210–11. 29. Urbani, “Inscriptions,” 21–23, esp. 22, 181. 30. For the inscriptions quoted throughout this discussion, see Demus, Mosaics of San Marco, 2:186– 87. See also Dale, “Inventing a Sacred Past,” 88–89. 31. Dale, “Epiphany at San Marco,” 41; Huse, “Über ein Hauptwerk,” esp. 95; Tigler, “Catalogo delle sculture,” esp. 107–9. 32. For the more extended narrative of the foundation of the original Venetian Church at Aquileia, see Dale, “Inventing a Sacred Past,” 67–68, and Dale, Relics, Prayer, and Politics, 42–56. 33. Clayton, “Pharos of Alexandria,” 7–9, and Howard, Venice and the East, 91–94. 34. Dale, “Inventing a Sacred Past,” fig. 48, and Howard, Venice and the East, 94. 35. See Bühl, “Ivories of the So-​Called Grado Chair.” 36. Buell, “Early Christian Universalism,” and Kaplan, introduction to Image of the Black in Western Art, vol. 2.1, 9–18. 37. As discussed by Hannah Barker, even an enslaved Tatar could be described as belonging to the “race of the Christians” (“Race in the Archives,” paper presented for the Center for Medieval and Early Modern Studies, via Zoom, January 13, 2021). Similarly, the expression “sclavum de nacione Sarracenorum” was applied to the race of an enslaved person sold in Venetian Crete in Candia (quoted in Verlinden, Esclavage dans l’Europe médiévale, 2:652). See also Barker, That Most Precious Merchandise, 39–60.

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For the visual ramifications of these justifications of enslavement, see Patton, “What Did Medieval Slavery Look Like?” 38. Zacharopoulou, “Black St Maurice of Magdeburg.” 39. Macavity, Martyrdom of the Franciscans, 79–80. 40. Ibid, 88. 41. Harte, “How One Fourteenth-​century Venetian Remembered the Crusades”; Edson, “Reviving the Crusade”; Sanudo Torsello, Book of the Secrets, trans. Lock, esp. 10–11. Sanudo specifies in book 2, chapter 2 that the Venetians have the experience necessary to defeat the Saracens in Egypt by deploying coastal fortifications and waging war against the towns and places on their lakes and rivers (trans. Lock, 70–71). 42. Akbari, Idols of the East, 157–58, 166–72. 43. Ibid., 156. 44. See Hahn, “Difference the Middle Ages Makes,” esp. 13–15, and Whitaker, Black Metaphors, 20–47. 45. Rotman, Byzantine Slavery, 79–81. 46. Verlinden, Esclavage dans l’Europe médiévale, 2:550–709. 47. Quoted in ibid., 2:550–51. 48. Barker, That Most Precious Merchandise, 3, 13, 39–60. 49. Ibid., 13–14, 19–20. 50. For Gregory IX’s stance, see Epstein, Speaking of Slavery, 175–76. For Marco Polo’s will, see Plebani, Testamento di Marco Polo, and in English translation, Barker, “Source: Marco Polo’s Will.” On the conditions of manumission in Genoese and Venetian wills from Cyprus, see Coureas, “Manumission of Slaves.” See also Epstein, Speaking of Slavery, 86–93. 51. On the Pala d’Oro, see Dale, “Inventing a Sacred Past,” 67–68, fig. 11. 52. Strickland, Saracens, Demons, and Jews, 80–94. 53. Ibid., 86–87, and Akbari, “Where Is Medieval Ethiopia?” esp. 83–89. 54. See Van Pelt, “Revising Egypto-​Nubian Relations.” 55. Devisse, “Christians and Black,” esp. 65–72. 56. Demus, Mosaics of San Marco in Venice, 2:199– 206. 57. “Post passionem beatissimi marci evangeliste . . . occupata est regio Egyptia a paganis filiis ismahel qui alio nomine sarraceni vocantur.” McCleary, “Note storiche ed archeologiche,” 238. For the spoliation of marble columns and revetments from the churches in Alexandria, see 247–48. 58. Ibid., 248–49. The Venetian merchants also inform the custodians of Mark’s shrine that Venetians were Mark’s “firstborn” spiritual sons because Mark had preached the Gospel first in the ancient province of Venetia before coming to Alexandria (252–53).

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59. The text of the thirteenth-​century antiphonary of San Marco is transcribed by Cattin, Musica e liturgia a San Marco, 3:290–93. 60. Pruitt, Building the Caliphate, 106–13. 61. For the Noahtic genealogy of races associated with the three continents, see Braude, “Sons of Noah,” and Friedman, Monstrous Races, 99–105. 62. Isidore, cited in Tolan, Saracens, 10. 63. Patton, Art of Estrangement, 114–19, and Patton, “What Did Medieval Slavery Look Like?” 667–68. 64. Cohen, “On Saracen Enjoyment,” esp. 119. 65. Sanudo Torsello, Book of the Secrets 2.1.3, trans. Lock, 71. Tirumular Narayanan traces this epithet back to the Chanson de Roland, where it is the “Emir” of Babylon who comes from the Levant to aid Marsile in Spain and shows how later medieval texts and images used the concept to personify Islam and villainous Saracen behavior (“They are Coming Over our Walls”). For the Middle English romance of the same title, see Cohen, “On Saracen Enjoyment,” 115, and Lupack, Three Middle English Charlemagne Romances. 66. Friedman, Monstrous Races, 54–55, 64–66. 67. Bédier, Chanson de Roland, 1:1932–34 (ll. 1916– 18), cited and translated in Friedman, Monstrous Races, 64. 68. Whitaker, Black Metaphors, 3–17. 69. Epstein, Speaking of Slavery, 79. 70. Barker, That Most Precious Merchandise, 53–59. 71. Demus, Mosaics of San Marco, 1:153–54, figs. 186, 189. 72. Devisse, “The Black and His Color.” 73. Ibid., 89. 74. Betancourt, “Imperial Brutality.” 75. Betancourt, Byzantine Intersectionality, 169–72. 76. Eustathios of Thessaloniki, quoted in ibid., 169. 77. Pandey, “Roman Roots of Racial Capitalism.” 78. Demus, Church of San Marco, 80, 145, 195, and Dale, “Epiphany at San Marco,” 46, 47–49, fig. 11. Geymonat and Lazzarini propose that the narrative sculptures formed a continuous frieze of a lost choir screen for San Marco (“Nativity Cycle”). 79. Demus, Church of San Marco, 120, 145, and Cochetti-​Pratesi, “Contributi alla scultura veneziana,” esp. 207. Tigler suggests that they were placed in front of the central west portal between the atrium and the nave (in Demus et al., Sculture esterne di San Marco, 208–9). There is no evidence of the lions ever having been placed there, and it is hard to understand how they would fit into the current entrance without impeding north-​south movement through the atrium. 80. On animal sacrifices in Roman art, see Elsner, “Sacrifice in Late Roman Art.” 81. Gandolfo, “ ‘Protiro Lombardo,’ ” and Verzar Bornstein, Portals and Politics, 32–36, 45–46, n. 14.

82. For the imagery of lion attacks in Near Eastern and Greek Art, see Markoe, “ ‘Lion Attack’ in Archaic Greek Art.” For the damnatio bestias in the Roman arena, see Futrell, Blood in the Arena, 28–29, 169–71. 83. Hunter and Collard, “Cramond Lioness.” 84. Cahn, “Romanesque Sculpture in American Collections,” esp. 52–53 (nos. 7–8). 85. Sabatini, “Physiognomy of the Enemy”; Strickland, Saracens, Demons, and Jews, 85. 86. Scotus, Liber physigonomiae 1.59 (“De Capillis”). 87. Ibid. 1.64 (“De Naso”); Sabatini, “Physiognomy of the Enemy,” 142–43. 88. Verlinden, Esclavage dans l’Europe médiévale, 2:550–709, 712–19. 89. Barker, That Most Precious Merchandise, 40. The documentation of a young woman purchased by Biagio Dolfin in Alexandria in 1419 refers to her in the Arabic contract as a “female slave of Nubian race, called Mubaraka, a Christian woman,” but the letter written to the eventual owner, Niccolò Dolfin in Venice, describes her as “a little slave girl, black, Saracen, about fourteen years old” (quoted in ibid.). 90. Quoted in Verlinden, Esclavage dans l’Europe médiévale, 2:652. 91. Quoted in ibid., 2:666–96, esp. 671–72. 92. Petrarch, Opere di Francesco Petrarca 10.2, ed. Bigi, 956–58, cited by McKee, “Domestic Slavery in Renaissance Italy.” 93. Quoted in Verlinden, Esclavage dans l’Europe médiévale, 2:687–88. 94. Barry, “Disiecta membra,” 41–55. 95. Demus, Mosaics of San Marco, 2:81–83, 125–30. I will address the circumcision of Jews and Muslims as part of the Venetian discourse of race in a book in progress, provisionally entitled Visualizing Race and Cultural Encounter in Medieval Venice. 96. Buell, “Early Christian Universalism,” 117–18, 120–28. 97. On Christian opposition to, and racialization of, circumcision, see Tartakoff, “From Conversion to Ritual Murder,” and Resnick, Marks of Distinction, 53–92. 98. Demus, Mosaics of San Marco, 2:84, 131. 99. For all inscriptions and translations in this paragraph, see ibid., 2:84–85. 100. See, e.g., Moukourzel, “Venetian Merchants,” and Beaucamp and Cordez, “Glass Vessels, Camel Imagery.” 101. See Rizzi, Scultura esterna a Venezia, 267–72 (nos. CN 174, 177A-​D), and Howard, Venice and the East, 150–51. 102. The fullest account of the narrative scenes on the Pala feriale is given by Goffen, “Paolo Veneziano e Andrea Dandolo.” 103. See Muraro, Paolo da Venezia, plate 51, and Manno, San Marco Evangelista, 60–61 (no. I.9).

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104. See Jacobus de Voragine, Legenda Aurea, bk. 59, trans. Ryan, 246. 105. Batistella, Repubblica di Venezia, 94, cited by Muraro, Paolo da Venezia, 78n121

106. Cf. Pincus, “Venice and Its Doge,” esp. 258–64. 107. See Degenhard and Schmitt, “Marino Sanudo und Paolino Veneto, 28–33.

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245–73. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2010. Plebani, Tiziana, ed. Il testamento di Marco Polo: Il coumento, la storia, il contesto. Milan: Edizioni Unicopoli, 2019. Polacco, Renato. San Marco: La basilica d’oro. Milan: Rizzoli, 1991. Pruitt, Jennifer A. Building the Caliphate: Construction, Destruction, and Sectarian Identity in Early Fatimid Architecture. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2020. Rajabzadeh, Shokoofeh. “The Depoliticized Saracen and Muslim Erasure.” Literature Compass 16 (2019): e12548. https://​doi​.org​/10​.1111​/lic3​.12548. Ray, Jonathan. “Beyond Tolerance and Persecution: Reassessing Our Approach to Medieval ‘Convivencia.’ ” Jewish Social Studies, n.s., 11, no. 2 (2005): 1–18. Resnick, Irven. Marks of Distinction: Christian Perceptions of Jews in the High Middle Ages. Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2012, 53–92. Rizzi, Alberto. Scultura esterna a Venezia: Corpus delle Sculture Erratiche all’aperto di Venezia e della sua Laguna. Venice: Stamperia di Venezia Editrice, 1987. Robinson, Cynthia. “Mudéjar Revisited: A Prologoména to the Reconstruction of Perception, Devotion, and Experience at the Mudéjar Convent of Clarisas, Tordesillas, Spain (Fourteenth Century A.D.)” Res: Anthropology and Aesthetics 43 (2003): 51–77. Rotman, Youval. Byzantine Slavery and the Mediterranean World. Translated by Jane Marie Todd. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2009. Ruggles, D. Fairchild. “The Alcazar of Seville and Mudejar Architecture.” Gesta 43, no. 2 (2004): 87–98. Sabatini, Ilaria. “The Physiognomy of the Enemy: The Image of Saracens in Travel Literature.” Coldnoon: Travel Poetics, The International Journal of Travel Writing 4, no. 1 (2015): 136–59. Sanudo Torsello, Marin. The Book of the Secrets of the Faithful of the Cross: Liber Secretorum Fidelium Crucis. Translated by Peter Lock. London: Taylor & Francis, 2011. Scotus, Michael. Liber physiognomiae. Venice: Jacobus de Fivizano, 1477; Proquest Early European Books, 2017. Strickland, Debra. Saracens, Demons, and Jews: Making Monsters in Medieval Art. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003.

Tartakoff, Paola. “From Conversion to Ritual Murder: Re-​Contextualizing the Circumcision Charge.” Medieval Encounters 24 (2018): 361–89. Tigler, Guido. “Catalogo delle sculture.” In Demus et al., Sculture esterne di San Marco, 15–227. Tolan, John V. Saracens: Islam in the Medieval European Imagination. New York: Columbia University Press, 2002. Tronzo, William. The Cultures of His Kingdom: Roger II and the Cappella Palatina in Palermo. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997. Urbani, Maria da Villa. “The Inscriptions.” In San Marco: The Patriarchal Basilica of Venice; The Mosaics; The Inscriptions; The Pala d’Oro, edited by Maria Andaloro et al., 21–23. Milan: Rizzoli, 1991. Van Pelt, Paul. “Revising Egypto-​Nubian Relations in New Kingdom Lower Nubia: From Egyptianization to Cultural Entanglement.” Cambridge Archaeological Journal 23, no. 3 (2013): 523–50. Verlinden, Charles. L’esclavage dans l’Europe médiévale, 2 vols. Ghent: Royal University of Ghent, 1977. Verzar Bornstein, Christine. Portals and Politics in the Early Italian City-​State: The Sculpture of Nicholaus in Context. Parma: Università degli Studi di Parma, Istituto di Storia dell’Arte and Centro di Studi Medievale, 1988. Vio, Ettore, ed. San Marco: La basilica di Venezia; Arte, storia, conservazione. 2 vols. Venice: Marsilio, 2019. Voragine, Jacobus de. The Golden Legend: Readings on the Saints. Translated by William Granger Ryan. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2012. Ward, Walter D. Mirage of the Saracen: Christians and Nomads in the Sinai Peninsula in Late Antiquity. Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2014. West, Cornell. “A Genealogy of Modern Racism.” In Race Critical Theories, edited by Philomena Essed and David Theo Goldberg, 90–112. Oxford: Blackwell, 2002. Whitaker, Cord. Black Metaphors: How Modern Racism Emerged from Medieval Race-​Thinking. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2019. Zacharopoulou, Effrosyni. “The Black St Maurice of Magdeburg and the African Christian Kingdoms in Nubia in Ethiopia in the Thirteenth Century.” Southern African Journal of Medieval and Renaissance Studies / Suider-​Afrikaanse Tydskrif vir Middeleeuse en Renaissancestudies 25 (2015): 77–110.

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4 Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean Heather A. Badamo

In the late eleventh or early twelfth century, a painter depicted Saint George in full armor, acting as an intercessor between the Bagratid ruler Davit IV “the Builder” and Christ (fig. 4.1). The icon, held today at the monastery of Saint Catherine at Mount Sinai, belongs to a larger series of images that depict the sovereigns of Georgia alongside various warrior saints.1 Significantly, these representations of imperial power circulated alongside images of George as an equestrian warrior attacking the late Roman emperor Diocletian (r. 284–305 ce). Produced by the goldsmith Asan, an eleventh-​ century metal-​relief icon epitomizes the theme (fig. 4.2). Made for an elite patron rather than a king, it shows George on a galloping horse, raising his arm to thrust a cross-​topped spear into a defenseless Diocletian.2 Georgian image makers and devotees, then, invoked George as both the succor of righteous kings and the slayer of pagan emperors. In doing so, they sought aid from a saint whose story was celebrated across the eastern Mediterranean. Just more than a century later, a workshop led by Theodore “the Painter” included a similar depiction of George in the 1232/33 wall painting program at the Coptic monastery of Saint Antony at the Red Sea in Egypt (fig. 4.3). Located at the threshold of the sanctuary, the mural represents the warrior saint on a high-​stepping horse, standing protectively over his shrine, using his spear to fend off a Roman general who desecrates his altar.3 While equestrian warrior saints were a common sight in the medieval Mediterranean, they were depicted in combat against human enemies primarily in Georgia and Egypt.4

Figure 4.1 (opposite) Saint George and David IV “the Builder,” late eleventh or twelfth century. Panel painting. Monastery of Saint Catherine, Mount Sinai, Egypt. By permission of Saint Catherine’s Monastery, Sinai, Egypt. Photograph courtesy of Michigan-​Princeton-​Alexandria Expeditions to Mount Sinai. Figure 4.2 Asan, metal relief of Saint George attacking Diocletian, Nakiʾpari, eleventh century. Silver and gilding. Photo courtesy of Nina Iamanidzé.

These images of George were produced thousands of miles apart in vastly different milieux, the elite circles of Bagratid Georgia and a Coptic monastery in Ayyubid Egypt. This chapter focuses on the seeming coincidence of their affinity, taking it as a point of departure for an investigation of saintly translation and imperial politics in the Middle Ages. My entrée to these topics is George, an eastern Mediterranean saint enshrined in Lydda, Palestine, who became a hero across Afro-​Eurasia over the course of the eleventh through fifteenth centuries.5 The global spread of his story resulted in countless translations of his life and miracles, along with a dazzling array of images that represented George in different guises. I assemble some of this material to reflect on the creative adaptation and localization of George, emphasizing the fluidity of his identity and the political repurposing of his image. In focusing on empire and translation, I draw on Daniel Selden’s concept of the “text network,” which refers to premodern narratives with rhizomatic patterns of diffusion, mobilized by different Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean

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communities to negotiate their position within tributary states.6 Approaching George as a network composed of images and texts enables us to see him as part of a common monotheistic tradition that could be used by communities in places as apparently distant as the Caucasus and Egypt to articulate claims to—or against—imperial power. There are many places to gain access to the political dimensions of George. My focus on Georgia and Egypt responds both to contemporary scholarship on world systems and the historical importance of these communities. During this period, Samir Amin shows, Europe constituted a periphery to overlapping world systems centered in the Mediterranean and Asia.7 His argument finds support in an array of premodern mapping practices, which often represent the Mediterranean as the center of the

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world.8 Yet despite the clear centrality of the region, most scholarship on medieval art focuses on western Europe, perpetuating a Eurocentric perspective embedded in the nineteenth-​century construction of the field.9 Even the recent adoption of global approaches to medieval art tends to focus on East-​West trajectories, reinforcing the centrality of traditional disciplinary foci and undermining the supposed openness of global approaches.10 The pasts associated with communities that did not emerge as major powers on the world stage remain little studied or, though acknowledged as significant in their own right, unintegrated into broader histories of the period. This is true of both Georgian and Coptic art, which scholars long regarded as products of the Byzantine Empire’s peripheries, a term that designated both places as the passive recipients of a more creative Byzantine culture, resulting in derivative or less authentic hybrid traditions.11 Abandoning this teleological perspective allows both to emerge as innovative centers of production. In doing so, I depart from scholarship that traces the movement of George from the eastern Mediterranean (typically the Byzantine Empire) to different destinations in the West. By the early modern era, George had become a patron saint of England, Genoa, Malta, Catalonia, and other places in Europe.12 Yet he remained closely associated with numerous communities in the eastern Mediterranean and adjacent territories. To better elucidate the complexities of exchange in this period, my chapter draws on a rich body of scholarship on the hagiographic and visual traditions of George in these regions. I consider the textual transmission of George’s story, emphasizing its mutability and drawing out its resonant themes, and then I turn to his images. Though the movement of his story inspired increasingly diverse representations, it was a Byzantinizing image of George that took hold in the Mediterranean. I reflect on how this particular depiction became part of a universalizing Mediterranean language of power, which was later adapted to express political and religious ascendency in Georgia and Coptic Egypt.

Telling Stories of Empire Regardless of language or recension, medieval martyrdoms of George all share the same basic content and plot structure, which promotes a message of imperial resistance, Christian triumph, and conversion. In its earliest incarnations, it tells how a Roman general from Cappadocia traveled to Persia to confront Dadianos, a mythical pagan emperor who issued an edict compelling Christians to venerate idols. George seeks to show Dadianos the error of his ways by proving the greater power and truth of Christianity. He engages the emperor’s court magicians in contests and handily bests them by performing miracles of revivification: wooden bowls grow leaves, pillars put down roots, a cow rises from the dead, and a human is resurrected. George’s miracles inspire such widespread conversions that even the empress decides to embrace Christianity. Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean

Figure 4.3 (opposite) Mural of Saint George, 1232/33. Church of Saint Antony, Eastern Desert, Egypt. Elizabeth Bolman, ed., Monastic Visions: Wall Paintings in the Monastery of St. Antony at the Red Sea (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 243, fig. 25. Reproduced by permission of the American Research Center in Egypt, Inc. (ARCE). This project was funded by the United States Agency for International Development (USAID). Photo: Patrick Godeau.

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Enraged, Dadianos orders his soldiers to torture and execute George, who endures a series of gruesome torments and repeated deaths. An angel revives him three times, once even rejoining the severed fragments of his body. The lengthy narrative concludes when George escapes from prison, smashes the idols at the court, and faces his final beheading. In return for his sacrifice, George attains union with God in heaven.13 Soon after the appearance of this story, hagiographers composed a new version of the martyrdom in which George confronts Diocletian, maintaining the message of Christian victory but relocating the action to the Roman Empire. Both versions circulated in the Middle Ages.14 The martyrdom of George emerged in the eastern Mediterranean sometime in the late fourth or early fifth century, then spread rapidly across adjacent regions. It appeared more or less simultaneously in Greek, Latin, Coptic, Syriac, and Armenian in the fifth century. From there it moved in multiple directions. Manuscript fragments in Sogdian preserved at Turpan in China document its eastward trajectory. After the seventh century, the story was rendered into Arabic, Persian, and Uighur, facilitating its transmission into Islamic traditions. The tenth century witnessed its dissemination to the north and south, with translations into Georgian, the Slavic languages, Nubian, and Ethiopian. In the eleventh through thirteenth centuries, vernacular versions of the martyrdom began to appear in Germany, France, England, Spain, and elsewhere. George’s story moved as part of the cultural traffic of the Silk Roads, imperial translation projects, religious translation projects, and as a souvenir of the Crusades.15 Over the centuries, the fact of translation became central to George’s story, as seen in a late medieval Greek hymn that celebrates his universal appeal: “All the peoples, believers and unbelievers, venerate him / Each in his language and each in his tribe. / For he is the victor of all the enemies of the earth, both visible and invisible.”16 In this triumphalist verse, interfaith and multilinguistic veneration signifies the expanse of George’s devotees and, hence, the extent of the Christian ecumene. As the martyrdom moved across cultures, George acquired new feats and meanings, either through adaptation to novel contexts or the addition of new materials. In the eighth through tenth centuries, the story of his martyrdom found its way into Islamic traditions, where it was included in the Qiṣaṣ al-​anbiyāʾ (Tales of the prophets) and al-Ṭabarī’s Taʾrīkh. Both present George (or, rather, Jirjīs) as a merchant and “Muslim follower of Christ,” reframing his story within narratives of Islamic supersession. Later, the Anatolian Sufi mystic Jalāl al-​Dīn Rūmī celebrated Jirjīs as a prophet and exemplar of ascetic devotion, willing to “die seventy times” to attain metaphysical union with God.17 Christian texts, in contrast, transformed George into a paradigm of militant Christianity. In the sixth through eighth centuries, hagiographers at the church of Saint George in Lydda appended miracles to his martyrdom, which relate how he returned to earth in full armor to liberate captives, fight enemies of the faith, and inspire conversions. The importance of these texts cannot be overstated since they refashioned the martyr as an armed defender of the Christian community.18 96

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Further additions transformed George into an epic hero. Eleventh-​century versions of his martyrdom from Georgia inserted new episodes into his biography, including his defeat of a demon and slaying of a dragon to rescue a princess. Not coincidentally, these interpolations date to a period marked by an influx of Persian epics, which shaped not only literary but also hagiographic tastes.19 While the account of demon combat remained within Georgia, the story of the dragon-​slaying was retold across Afro-​Eurasia. The cross-​cultural spread of George’s story recalls the text networks investigated by Selden. Epitomized by the Alexander Romance, text networks comprised multiple retellings of the same story, all of which held equal authority, existing simultaneously in dynamic states of tension.20 The territory marked out by their transmission corresponded with the boundaries of the ancient Achaemenid-​Mediterranean tributary empires and their successor states. Selden locates the popularity of such texts in their capacity to negotiate the tensions generated by tributary empires, which simultaneously incorporate and “abrogate” local communities, creating potentially fractious elements within the state.21 Such texts, moreover, tended to accrete new materials as they moved so that they came to resemble the heterogeneous constitution of their audiences.22 The story of George fits easily among the text networks explored by Selden, thematizing the “risks run by religious enclaves in the tributary state,” meditating on metaphysical unity (a common preoccupation of the period), and transposing the language of empire into the realm of monotheism.23 George is a soldier of God who trades life on earth for service to the one true sovereign in heaven. In its earliest form, the story combined elements of Judaic literature, the late antique novel, Christian apocrypha, Zoroastrianism, and Hellenistic religions.24 As the story moved, it synthesized new materials into a seamless whole, performing on the textual level the acts of conversion it was intended to accomplish in the social realm. The broad appeal of George also led to the dissemination of visual material. Depictions of the saint might travel as manuscript illuminations or as independent images in the form of icons and artists’ models. Visualizations of George added further layers of meaning to his story, emphasizing different aspects of his nature or cultural affiliations. Turning to the flow of George’s images during the period in which he rose to fame helps to clarify how they functioned geopolitically.

An Image of George Takes Off Veneration of George took hold in the Mediterranean amid rapid changes in the political scene. In the tenth century, the establishment of rival caliphates in Cairo and Córdoba contested the sovereignty of Baghdad. Just a century later, the rise of the Great Seljuk Empire and its successor states challenged Abbasid authority and threatened Byzantine dominion in Anatolia, prompting Emperor Alexios I Komnenos (r. 1081–1118) Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean

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to request military aid from Pope Urban II. The armies of the First Crusade arrived in the East soon thereafter and captured Jerusalem, leading to the establishment of Latin kingdoms along the Levantine coast. In 1204, the armies of the Fourth Crusade sacked Constantinople, leading to the fragmentation of the empire itself. The events of the period resulted in the regionalization of power and an unprecedented degree of mobility. One result of these changes was the diffusion of a Mediterranean imperial culture, which drew on both Abbasid and Byzantine art—epitomized by the arts of Norman Sicily.25 Representations of George became part of this cultural traffic. Many of those produced in the Mediterranean during the eleventh through fifteenth centuries evoke models first seen in devotional objects made for elite patrons in Constantinople. Dating to the mid-​eleventh century, the ivory Harbaville triptych represents the Deesis, flanked by warrior saints arrayed in full Byzantine military gear (fig. 4.4). George appears on the right wing, depicted as a youthful man with a cap of curly hair, armed with sword and spear, wearing a cloak (chlamys) pulled back to reveal a lamellar cuirass (klibanion) with a general’s sash tied about the chest.26 The triptych emphasizes the military qualities of George, aligning with new interests in sacralized warfare that framed imperial victory as victory over the enemies of Christ.27 Over the course of the tenth century, George emerged as an imperial model and patron of the Byzantine Empire. Under the militaristic emperors Nikephoros II Phokas (r. 963–69 ce), John I Tzimiskes (r. 969–76 ce), and Basil II (r. 976–1025), he became a defender of the empire, called upon to repel hostile forces perceived as foes to Christendom. Constantine IX Monomachos (r. 1042–55) kept a relic of George, whom he regarded as his personal patron, and carried a battle standard that depicted the saint on horseback “setting enemies to flight.”28 George’s visibility rose further as the Komnenoi elevated him to a state symbol. John II Komnenos (r. 1118–43) depicted George on his coinage, where he stands beside the emperor, holding the patriarchal cross between them (fig. 4.5).29 The coin presents the emperor as the rightful ruler of the Orthodox realm, supported by God’s holy warrior. A later text refers to George as the “comrade” of Manuel I Komnenos (r. 1143–80) “in battles,” pointing to his continued favor.30 These developments associated a specific image of George with imperial culture in the Mediterranean. Byzantine visualizations of George were continuously appropriated by emergent states, many of which sought to assume the Roman mantle. In the 1204 sack of Constantinople, for instance, Venice acquired relics and images of George, which inspired the production of a marble relief icon installed on the façade of San Marco (fig. 4.6). The sculptor replicated the key features of Byzantine icons, claiming George’s patronage to position Venice as heir of the Byzantine legacy and its divine patrons.31 Of course, not every image refers to Byzantine imperial power. Byzantine forms and styles also appeared in the churches of the Holy Land and perhaps even in the church of Saint George at Lydda, which held the saint’s relics. Executed at a distance from Constantinople, such images may have conveyed a generalized message of imperial 98

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Figure 4.4 Harbaville Triptych with Deesis and Saints, Constantinople, mid-​ eleventh century. Ivory, 24 × 28 cm. Paris, Musée du Louvre, OA3247. Photo: Daniel Arnaudet © RMN-​ Grand Palais / Art Resource, New York. Figure 4.5 Aspron Trachy of John II Komnenos from Constantinople, Constantinople (Thrace), ca. 1118– 22? . Electrum, 6 × 33.6 mm. Yale University Art Gallery, transfer from the Yale University Library, Numismatic Collection, 2001.87.20898.

Figure 4.6 Marble relief of Saint George, thirteenth century. San Marco, Venice. Photo: Cameraphoto Arte, Venice / Art Resource, New York.

might and splendor, rather than Byzantine affiliations. Some communities probably employed this local iteration of the Byzantine style to draw not on imperial prestige but on the sacred authority of Jerusalem.32 Others sought to preserve forms that were proven to be efficacious, reiterating the features that enabled icons to act as conduits of divine power.33 In the course of its movement across states and religious communities, this image of George became a universal symbol of Christian power that could be employed to articulate statements of authority across the Mediterranean.

Envisioning Empire in Georgia The advantages to be gained from the strategic deployment of this image of George are evident in the case of the Bagratid king of Georgia Davit IV “the Builder” (r. 1089–1125). In the twelfth century, Davit united the independent kingdoms of Georgia and expanded into Seljuk territories, creating a trans-​Caucasian empire that reached its zenith under his great-​granddaughter, Queen Tamar (r. 1184–1213). Increasingly, the people of Georgia called this empire Sakʿartʿvelo, which means “where the Kartvelians dwell.”34 Davit’s rise capitalized on the simultaneous decline of Byzantine power and the dissolution of the Great Seljuk Empire, which enabled Sakʿartʿvelo to emerge as the pre-​eminent Christian empire in the East. Davit’s chroniclers called him the “king of kings” and based his claims to legitimacy on lineage, military prowess, and divine favor.35 100

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Davit actively shaped his public image in a Byzantine/Roman mold. Early in his reign, he established the monastery of Gelati in Kutaisi along with a college, modeled after the Magnaura Pandidakterion, Constantinople’s university. Staffed by monks from monasteries in Bulgaria, Greece, Jerusalem, Cyprus, and Antioch, the college taught geometry, arithmetic, music, rhetoric, grammar, and philosophy. The poet Ioane Shavteli justly praised it as “a new Rome . . . a Hellas where saints’ relics are interred.”36 Davit lavished money on religious foundations on Cyprus, on Mount Sinai, and Jerusalem, eliciting comparisons to Constantine the Great.37 It seems that Davit intended to set himself up as the successor of, rather than client to, the beleaguered Byzantine Empire. Or, at least, his chronicler explicitly fashions him as the ruler of a vast empire, claiming that Davit “made the sultan tributary to himself and the king of the Greeks like a member of his household. He overthrew the heathen and destroyed the barbarians; he made subjects of kings and slaves of rulers.”38 Finally, Davit employed Byzantine symbols of rule to project his royal image.39 Exemplary of Davit’s strategic appropriation of Byzantine forms is the icon at the monastery at Saint Catherine at Mount Sinai, with which I began (see fig. 4.1). Rather than drawing on the local visual language of power, it depicts Davit in full Byzantine regalia, wearing a loros (Byzantine imperial stole) and a crown with hanging pendilia (dangling ornaments). Completing this act of Roman imitatio, he holds the labarum in his right hand and a scroll in his left. In the upper left-​hand corner, a Greek inscription identifies Davit and declares his imperial ambitions: “Pious emperor of all the East, Bagratounianos.” At the base of the icon, a supplicatory prayer in Georgian enumerates the peoples of his state: “the Abxazetians, Kartlians, Ranians, Kʾaxetians, and Armenians.”40 Saint George stands beside Davit and a Greek inscription that records his donations abroad, acting as intercessor between Christ and king. Christ turns toward George to hear the supplication but reaches out to bless Davit and bestow a crown. Here, Davit offers gifts to Christ and, in return, receives divine sanction to rule as emperor of the Christian East. What makes this icon so expressive of imperial ambition is its confident appropriation of Byzantine regalia, as seen in a tenth-​century mosaic of the Byzantine emperor Alexander VII (r. 912–13 ce) located in Hagia Sophia (fig. 4.7). Like Alexander, Davit wears the loros and crown with pendilia, while clasping a scroll.41 Though the orb is not depicted here, it appears on a copper coin at the British Museum that portrays, on the obverse, Davit in Byzantine imperial dress, holding the cross-​surmounted orb and scepter and, on the reverse, an invocation in Georgian: “Lord, aid Davit, king of the Abxazetians, Kartlians, Ranians, Kʾaxetians, and Armenians” (fig. 4.8).42 The image draws on the prestige of Byzantine imperial culture while also potentially setting Davit up as the empire’s heir and rival.43 These received forms are adapted to express local devotional and political priorities, as seen in the prominent depiction of George. Though the icon recalls the coin of John II Komnenos discussed above, they date to the same period, opening up the possibility that they constituted parallel developments. Like Davit, George is depicted Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean

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Figure 4.7 Mosaic of Emperor Alexander VII, tenth century. North gallery tympanum in the narthex, Hagia Sophia, Istanbul. Photo: Erich Lessing / Art Resource, New York. Figure 4.8 Copper coin of Davit IV, Georgia, 1089–1125. London, British Museum, Coins & Medals, 1857,1226.7. © The Trustees of the British Museum.

in a form that evokes earlier Byzantine representations. Though he does not wear the lamellar cuirass of the Harbaville triptych, the gilded-​plate muscle cuirass, red cloak, and richly patterned leggings also draw on Byzantine pictorial traditions and ceremonies.44 At his side rests an almond-​shaped shield decorated with pseudo-​Arabic, crescent moons, and a jeweled rim, while a faint line indicates that a spear once rested against his shoulder. Less typical is his role as intercessor, which shows the special patron of Georgia supporting the ambitious Davit. Already in the tenth century, the hymnographer Mikael Modrekʾili hailed George and Mary as the main patrons of Georgia, urging him to rescue the country from the Ishmaelites (namely the Muslims) and bring unity to its people.45 Arsen of Iqalto, bishop and councilor to Davit IV, praised George as the “victorious rider . . . the mediator, the protector, the help of all believers and especially of our people, the famous martyr of Christ, George, who fought under Diocletian.”46 Represented on the icon, George—special patron of Georgia—offers spiritual authorization for the exercise of terrestrial authority. Davit also cultivated the patronage of George in service of dynastic affiliation. At least as early as the tenth century, the Bagratids called on George for aid in battle. In the anonymous eleventh-​century chronicle known as the Book of Kʿartʿli, Konstanti I (ca. 892/93–ca. 922/57 ce), king of Apʿxas, is reported to have triumphed over his rivals in Heretʿi, returned to the church of Alaverdi, and covered an icon of George in gold to express thanks for his successful military campaign.47 Here, Konstanti credits George with the defeat of fellow Georgians, demonstrating how he could be used to define a shifting array of political rivals as enemies (including Kartvelian Christians). More often, the Bagratids invoked George against Muslims. Again in the tenth century, the monk Grigol prayed that the three sons of King Ashot I would receive arms to ward off enemies through George’s intercession, securing victory over invading Muslim forces, construed as hostile, foreign, and anti-​Christian.48 The fortunes of the Bagratids waxed and waned over the centuries, so depicting Davit alongside George projected continuity in divine patronage and power over more complex realities. Yet nowhere is George more closely linked to Davit’s imperial ambitions than in the Georgian Chronicle. According to The History of Davit, King of Kings, George appeared at the battle of Didgori on 12 August 1121, leading the Georgian forces to a resounding victory over a coalition of Seljuks, Turks, and Arabs. The battle took place in southern Georgia, which had been under Arab and Persian control for four hundred years. It was at Didgori that Davit IV began to break the Muslim hold on the region, enabling his reconquest of Tbilisi, regarded as the traditional capital of Sakʿartʿvelo.49 Though his troops were significantly outnumbered, he attained victory. George, according to the chronicle, was instrumental to this hugely symbolic triumph: “At first encounter he routed their army and put it to flight; for the hand of the One on High assisted him, and strength from heaven protected him, and the holy martyr Giorgi, clearly and in the sight of all, guided him and with his own arm destroyed all the impious heathen who fell upon him.”50 The miracle at Didgori is unprecedented in Georgian Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean

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annals. At Didgori, George appears on the battlefield of his own volition, independent of prayer, rituals, or sacred images. He does not manifest himself as a vision but as a physical presence, capable of slaying adversarial forces. The chronicler concludes: “The ignorant infidels themselves later admitted it, and told us of that miracle of the chiefmartyr Giorgi—by what means he destroyed those famous warriors of Arabia, and how adroitly and carefully he pursued those fleeing and destroyed them, with whose corpses the fields, mountains, and valleys were filled.”51 The strategic crafting and recording of this miracle offered a powerful authorization for Davit’s reign and also framed the battle as sacralized warfare, redefining his enemies as the enemies of Christ.52 Not coincidentally, the account resonates with a widespread image in Georgia that depicts George on horseback in combat against Diocletian. The aforementioned metal relief icon made by Asan characteristically crafts a dynamic portrait of George on horseback, arrayed in Byzantine armor, thrusting his spear into Diocletian, who has fallen on his back and dropped his shield (see fig. 4.2).53 The image does not refer to any known narrative. Rather, it pits George against one of the greatest persecutors of the early Christian Church and his own executioner. Locked into an axial relationship of domination and defeat, the icon offers a symbolic image of Christian triumph over paganism that would have resonated with the miracle at Didgori for many Georgians. Davit’s claim would have been legible not only to his subjects but also to rival rulers. During this period, battlefield manifestations of the warrior saints became a means of claiming divine ordination. Perhaps the earliest example comes from the reign of the Byzantine emperor John Tzimiskes. According to the Greek chronicler Leo the Deacon, Saint Theodore Stratelates and Saint Theodore Teron appeared on horseback during a battle against the Rus in 971 ce, aiding the imperial army by sowing confusion among enemy ranks.54 Chroniclers of the First Crusade appropriated this miracle in crafting their own histories, citing eyewitness accounts in which Saints George, Theodore, and Mercurios (or Demetrios) led the Crusader armies to a resounding victory over the Seljuks at Antioch. In citing the manifestation, the chroniclers sacralized the military campaigns in the East and symbolically abducted Byzantium’s patrons, depriving the empire of their divine favor. The implication was that the Crusaders would replace the Byzantines as the defenders of Christianity in the East.55 The miracle at Didgori, dating to 1121, enters Davit into this rivalry, positioning him as the rightful guardian of Christendom. In crafting his image as military hero and ruler, Davit also drew from Islamic cultures. His coinage proclaimed him, in Arabic, “The Sword of the Messiah” and, in Georgian, “Emperor of the East and West,” providing a universalizing context for his reign.56 This ideal of Davit as warrior and ruler is reiterated in his epithet, composed by his advisor Arsen of Iqalto. Carved in stone at Gelati in 1127, it eulogizes Davit: “He who at Nacharmagevi Castle united for our substance seven kings, / Who chased over our borders Turks, Persians, Arabs.”57 The epigraph praises Davit as the leader of a vast tributary state who united the Christian rulers of Caucasia and freed Georgia 104

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from foreign domination—overcoming the Great Seljuks, nomadic Turkomen tribes, and the Arab emirs of neighboring territories. This rhetoric provides a context for understanding the prominence of George in the Sinai icon as a statement of divine support by a saint whose qualities served as a model for Davit’s own. For Davit, George operated as a sacred analogue to mythic heroes and rulers drawn from various Mediterranean imperial cultures. His biographer compares him to Chosroe, Bahram Gur, Constantine, and Alexander the Great. Of these, the most frequently cited is Alexander, the legendary emperor who united the diverse peoples of the ancient Mediterranean in a single ecumene. Parallels between Davit and Alexander the Great must have been easy to see in his career. Like Alexander, Davit assumed power at a young age, led numerous successful campaigns, thirsted for knowledge (even traveling with his library on campaigns), and died at an early age. Comparing him to the fabled ruler, his biographer exclaims: “Who, then, was so exact in weighing deeds and so knowledgeable of the character of men, in whose shadow were gathered the peoples, races, and tongues, the kings and rulers of the Ossetes and Kipchaks, of Armenia and P‘ranget‘i, of Šarvan and Persian.”58 Like Alexander, Davit’s kingdom was polyglot, multiethnic, and multireligious. This rhetoric was supported by lived realities. Davit established his court in the reclaimed city of Tbilisi, home to substantial populations of Jews and Muslims who were allowed to practice their own religions. He welcomed Persian poets, fostering a vibrant period in Georgian literary production, based on translations from Persian texts, creative imitations, and new compositions.59 Multilingual and cosmopolitan, these citations stake a claim to universal sovereignty, portrayed as the inheritance of varied and competing cultural legacies. In Davit’s reign, Byzantinizing images of George were assimilated into Caucasian forms to create a dialectical variant of a visual language of power and imperial rhetoric that was distinctly local but legible across the Mediterranean.

Visualizing Coptic Authority in Ayyubid Egypt This broader historical context enables us to understand better the political deployments of George in Egypt. In 1171, Saladin put an end to the Fatimid dynasty and established Ayyubid rule in Cairo, before going on to wage jihad and capture Jerusalem in 1178. In the early years of Saladin’s rule, he removed Coptic notables employed in government diwans, required dhimmis to adopt distinctive dress, and declined to protect churches from violent mobs—prompting a number of scribes to convert to Islam. Yet he soon repealed these measures and allowed Copts to resume their positions in civil society. By the thirteenth century, the challenges the Church faced came from within: bitter divides over who should be elected patriarch resulted in a nineteen-​year vacancy in the office. Monasteries assumed a leading role in Church politics, irrevocably weakening the patriarchal office, and fostered a cultural flowering centered on the production of Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean

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Copto-​Arabic literature.60 The Coptic embrace of Arabic as a religious and theological language sought to address a general decline in knowledge of Coptic, which left many members of the flock unfamiliar with their religion. By translating the patristic tradition into Arabic, Coptic lay and religious elites sought to assuage mounting concerns over the Arabization of the flock, regarded as a dangerous precursor to Islamization and conversion. The adoption of Arabic not only shored up the faith but also made Egypt into the premier center for the production of Christian theology in Arabic.61 The painting of George at Saint Antony’s (with which I began) dates to this period of rapid transformations, with implications for how we understand its meanings (see fig. 4.3). The monastery of Saint Antony’s traces its history back to the fourth century, when an ascetic community took shape in the Eastern Desert, gathering near the cave where—according to medieval traditions—Antony the Great retreated to the inner desert to battle the demons of sin and temptation.62 Over the course of the Middle Ages, this community prospered and built a large fortified complex with living quarters, a keep, a refectory, gardens, and a church (datable between the sixth and seventh century) that held the relics of Saint Antony.63 In the Middle Ages, it supplied several patriarchs for the Church, sent its abbot to the council of Florence-​Ferrara in 1440, and participated in the translation movement.64 Saint Antony’s also played a key role in the ecclesiastic politics of the period and, evidently, proved reluctant to relinquish power when the nineteen-​year vacancy ended, and Cyril III ibn Laqlaq (in office 1235–43) was consecrated patriarch. In a letter sent to the monastery between 1238 and 1243, Cyril III calls for the community’s obedience. “Subordinates,” he chides, “should submit to their overseers as a slave submits to his master.”65 Though his missive postdates the wall painting program, it captures the shifting power relations of the period. The program in question was undertaken during a renovation campaign and completed in 1232/33. According to dedicatory inscriptions, it was funded collectively by at least thirty-​three monks, who may have helped in planning its content.66 Its most striking feature is a sacred lineage in the naos, which presents the living monastic community as the rightful heirs to the early Christian martyrs (envisioned primarily as warrior saints) and their successors, the great Desert Fathers of late antiquity.67 The paintings also employ Coptic inscriptions, saints, and pictorial models.68 When read in relation to trends in Egyptian society, it engages Islamic concepts of nasab (ancestry), using lineage and language to present the glorious past as a source of pride and legitimacy, countering claims to Islamic religious and cultural preeminence. The program, then, asserts Coptic monastic prestige and authority.69 While the painting of George does not belong to this lineage, it does share its celebratory tone (see fig. 4.3). George rides a white horse stepping to the right, loosely clasping a cross-​topped spear in his right hand, with which he pierces the face of a diminutive kneeling figure. Identified as “Euchios, the wicked soldier,” this man holds a staff that points at a lamp hanging in the sanctuary of the church beneath the horse.70 George wears the Byzantine klibanion over a short tunic, a fluttering red cape, and a 106

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Figure 4.9 Drawing of the wall painting with Saint Pigoshe, 1022–32. Monastery of the Archangel Gabriel at Naqlun, Fayoum, Egypt. Drawing by Mark Puszkarski. Courtesy of the Polish Centre of Mediterranean Archaeology of the University of Warsaw.

general’s sash. To this, the artist added local motifs, bestowing George with a round shield embossed with a cross and Arabic inscription that reads “al-​Fadi” (the Redeemer). Euchios wears the robe and wool cap (kalawta) of the Turkish military elite, while the horse sports a knotted tail after the practice of the Turkish cavalry.71 The appropriation of Mediterranean forms, combined with pictorial details drawn from everyday life and older Egyptian images, was a typical feature of thirteenth-​century Coptic art that spoke to the overall prestige of the community in relation to both Muslims and other Christian denominations.72 The paintings localize the Mediterranean visual language of power to hint at monastic—rather than imperial—aspirations. Though the painting resembles Asan’s icon, it has a narrative emphasis particular to the Christian art of Egypt and East Africa. The two images share the same format, pictorial motifs, and awareness of Byzantine imagery. Yet the similarities likely indicate parallel traditions, with the Georgian representations ultimately deriving from Sassanian images of imperial victory and Coptic ones from the Roman visual language of power, epitomized by the famous Barberini ivory now in the Louvre.73 More to the point, the painting of George engages a Coptic tradition of depicting warrior saints vanquishing human enemies, as seen in an image of Saint Pigoshe at the monastery of the Archangel Gabriel at Naqlun, in Fayoum, datable between 1022 and 1032 (fig. 4.9).74 Equipped like the Fatimid military elite, a mounted Pigoshe looms over a circular structure (presumably a pagan temple) and impales a fallen man.75 Other paintings depict Saint Mercurios attacking the late Roman emperor Julian “the Apostate”—a point to Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean

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which I return later. Coptic visual culture, then, represents many warrior saints (not just George) as defenders of the Orthodox community. The greatest difference, however, is that the image of George in Saint Antony’s refers to a specific miracle account, which circulated across the Coptic communities of Egypt, Nubia, and Ethiopia. This particular miracle thematizes Christian triumph and self-​determination. It begins with Diocletian, who sends General Euchios to the Holy Land to destroy all the Christian churches and replace them with temples. Euchios embarks on a campaign of church destruction that comes to a halt at the shrine of Saint George in Lydda, where he strikes a lamp burning over the altar in the sanctuary. When the lamp shatters, oil splashes Euchios’s eye and infects him with a fatal case of leprosy. After Diocletian receives news of Euchios’s death, he decides to travel to the Holy Land to finish the job. Yet before he can embark on his journey, George and the Archangel Michael appear to him in a vision and, just before killing him, proclaim: “There will be no forgiveness for you either in this world or the next. And now your dominion has passed away and is given to Constantine.”76 Dramatizing the shift from polytheism to monotheism, the miracle credits George with the defeat of Roman paganism and the creation of a Christian imperium under Constantine. In it, the holy warrior returns to earth to ensure the survival and autonomy of the early Christian Church.77 At Saint Antony’s, the painters compressed the narrative and heightened its violence, showing George thrusting his spear into Euchios. The composition also effectively translates the power relationships established in the miracle into a visual idiom. These themes are further localized by pairing the image of George with one of Mercurios, painted on the opposite wall (fig. 4.10). A general in the Roman army martyred by Emperor Decius in 250 ce, Mercurios was among the most popular saints in the Coptic Church. He was still a pagan when he received a visitation from an angel, who gave him a sword and urged him to rout an army of barbarians in the name of God. After leading his unit to victory, Mercurios converted to Christianity, refused to participate in the sacrifices required of generals, and died by decapitation.78 The painting depicts the warrior saint riding a black horse, flanked by attendants, and wearing a combination of Byzantine and Ayyubid cavalry gear. While the cloak and general’s sash refer to Byzantine imagery, his kalawta, lamellar armor, and padded leggings come from the Turkish sphere. Further, the horse has its tail knotted in the Turkish fashion, wears a luxurious saddle cloth, and bears a composite bow at the saddle.79 These features are all associated with riders in Ayyubid visual culture, as seen in a roundel depicting a princely hunter on an inlaid bronze ewer produced in 1246/47 (fig. 4.11). Far more than George, this image draws on Islamic languages of power to convey Christian might. Finally, the saint has two swords, one carried on his saddle and the other proffered by an angel, evoking his Arabic moniker, Abu Sefein (Father of the two swords). Mercurios was best known for a posthumous miracle that circulated far and wide in the Mediterranean. Recorded in numerous chronicles, it tells how Mercurios returned to earth after his death to slay the apostate emperor Julian (r. 361–63 ce), who had Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean

Figure 4.10 (opposite) Mural of Saint Mercurios, 1232/33. Church of Saint Antony, Eastern Desert, Egypt. Elizabeth Bolman, ed., Monastic Visions: Wall Paintings in the Monastery of St. Antony at the Red Sea (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002), 61, fig. 4.26. Reproduced by permission of the American Research Center in Egypt, Inc. (ARCE). This project was funded by the United States Agency for International Development (USAID). Photo: Patrick Godeau.

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Figure 4.11 Ewer, Mosul, Iraq, 1246/47. Brass with silver and gold inlay and black organic resin decoration, 44.5 × 31.8 × 16.5 cm. Baltimore, Walters Art Museum, acquired by Henry Walters, 1917. 54.456.

reinstated Roman polytheism as the state religion. Christians saw him as a pernicious persecutor who threatened the survival of the early Church and attributed his death on the battlefield to divine intervention. Basil the Great, who had been imprisoned by Julian, prayed before an icon of Mercurios in his cell, prompting Christ to dispatch Mercurios to the battlefield to slay Julian. The next day, Basil saw the painted Mercurios brandishing a bloody spear and knew that Christ had answered his prayers.80 At Saint Antony’s, Mercurios pierces Julian’s head with his spear, while Basil of Caesarea and Gregory of Nazianos witness the miracle from their position in an ecclesiastical structure. Together, the paintings present the most revered warrior saints in the Coptic Church defeating the most reviled enemies of the faith. Both triumph over worldly rulers to ensure Church autonomy and survival, though the depiction of Mercurios adds the power of prayer, showing the great Church Fathers and warrior saints working together. The themes of these paintings are reiterated by their aesthetics, which simultaneously draw on—and resist—imperial hegemonies. The rhetorical force of these paintings comes, in part, from their nature as apotropaia. Both are painted in the khurus, an architectural feature particular to Coptic churches. Derived from the Greek word for choir, the khurus is a narrow rectangular space demarcated by screens (hijab) that serves as a transitional zone between the naos and the sanctuary (known as the haykal).81 Their placement just before the screen, which regulates physical and visual access to the sanctuary, indicates their role in protecting the space from desecration.82 110

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Coptic religious elites cultivated the patronage of George and Mercurios both for protection and to secure Christian power under Islamic rule. Accounts from the Fatimid and Ayyubid period relate how George and Mercurios appeared on earth to mete out punishment to heretics or non-​Christians, free imprisoned Copts, reveal the location of relics, suffuse churches with light, and battle unbelievers.83 Read together, the accounts offered faithful Copts proof that the saints were still present in Egypt, even though Egypt was no longer a Christian land. Sometimes chroniclers record the wonder of Muslim witnesses, unbelievers whose acknowledgment of Christian saints underlined the power of the faith.84 Manifestations of George might also counter caliphal claims to authority over the Coptic community, as can be seen in the reign of the Fatimid caliph al-​Hakim (r. 966–1021). After coming to power, al-​Hakim embarked on an ambitious building program intended to Islamize the built environment through the destruction of churches and the erection of mosques.85 In stark contrast to previous caliphs, he instituted repressive measures against the Copts, enforcing sumptuary laws that required dhimmis to wear distinctive dress, closing or destroying churches, forcing conversions, and even imprisoning Patriarch Zacharias (in office 1004–32 ce) for three months in 1012.86 According to the History of the Patriarchs of the Egyptian Church, the only churches that celebrated the liturgy uninterrupted during this period were those of the Wadi al-​Natrun, a prestigious monastic center south of Cairo founded as Scetis in the late antique period. The chronicler Bishop Michael accounts for this anomaly by citing a miraculous intervention of George. Before al-​Hakim’s men could demolish all the churches, he explains, “the martyr Girgis [George] appeared to them, drove them back, and terrified them, so they returned [to Cairo].”87 Here, George protects the churches—understood both as physical structures and the communities they enfold— from obliteration at the hands of a hostile, non-​Christian ruler. The links between such miracles and the Saint Antony’s paintings are self-​evident and would have been particularly clear on feast days, when celebrants read the stories of the saints and their miracles aloud before their images.88 Miracles of communal defense had immediate political applications in contexts marked by the constant threat of apostasy. In contrast to the battlefield manifestations recorded in Georgian, Frankish, and Byzantine sources, the appearance of saints in times of persecution constituted a statement of unity, moral superiority, and reassurance to an anxious flock.89 With divine support, they imply, even the most powerful Muslim ruler can be repelled. These accounts, then, operated like apologetic texts popular in medieval Egypt, which included stories of Coptic bishops winning interfaith debates at the court or performing jaw-​dropping miracles before the caliph. Such accounts appealed to audiences because they reversed the world order, proclaiming Christian religious (if not political) superiority over Islam. As Mark Swanson observes, the stories performed a vital function, reassuring Christians that the faith had power even if their particular community did not.90 Religious elites employed Saint George, Translation, and Empire in the Medieval Mediterranean

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them to persuade members of the flock to remain committed to the Coptic faith and its leadership.91 The paintings of George and Mercurios at Saint Antony’s, then, go beyond their apotropaic functions to envision a world in which Christianity reigns supreme, countering caliphal claims and legitimizing the exercise of monastic authority.

Conclusion Rather than serving as witnesses to discrete cultures or examples of slavish imitation, the permutations of George investigated here attest to the status of Georgia and Coptic Egypt as innovative centers in their own right. Over the course of the Middle Ages, the story of George became a powerful means for different communities to envision their place in the world and navigate their relationships to past and present empires. The movement of his story demonstrates not only its universal appeal but also the importance of the Mediterranean to its cultivation. At the meeting place of Africa, Europe, and Asia, George acquired multiple overlapping—and even contradictory—meanings, simultaneously attesting to Islamic and Christian supremacy, modeling metaphysical union with God, symbolizing imperial power, and offering models of resistance to it. In his visual incarnations, George signified political power, enabling communities as seemingly distant as Georgia and Egypt to employ his portrait in service of articulating claims to imperial and ecclesiastic authority, respectively. The cases considered here further demonstrate how the appropriation and localization of imperial visual culture by rival communities resulted in artworks that simultaneously tap into—and resist—imperial hegemonies, making them into a universalizing language of power. The trajectories of George considered in this chapter offer a glimpse of global diffusion and interaction that cannot be reduced to either center-​periphery models or simple narratives of East-​West transmission. Writing about the transmission of imperial knowledge in the Middle Ages, Sharon Kinoshita emphasizes the contingencies of modern globalism and the importance of accumulated imperial cultures in the operation of power in premodern tributary states. The prominence of Mediterranean cultures in medieval translation projects, she explains, “highlight the modern specificity of Orientalist paradigms” and remind us that “few people would have regarded the road out of antiquity as a Latin monopoly.”92 Her comments are relevant to the images of George considered here, which provided a resource for envisioning sovereignty and community that emerged outside the Latin West. While these traditions would go on to flourish in the West, they remained an important legacy in the East, where they still inspire cultural production. Such legacies—and the particularities of their modern incarnations—can only be understood if we revise our understandings of artistic, religious, and political networks in the premodern era.

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Notes 1. Eastmond, Royal Imagery in Medieval Georgia, 25. See, for instance, Grabar, “Shared Culture of fig. 55, 74–76, plates xii, xvii–xvii (same panel); and Objects”; Hoffman, “Pathways of Portability”; Hoff44–47, 55–57, plates xvii and xvii (same program). man and Redford, “Transculturation in the Eastern 2. Akhalashvili, X–XV ss. tsʾartsʾerebi svanestis, Mediterranean.” 17–18, and Iamanidzé, Saints cavaliers, 143–44. For 26. Grotowski, Arms and Armour, 137–51, 255–64, this image type, see Gedevanishvili, “Cult and Image,” 277–80, and Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, 20–24. 146–51, and Schrade, “Byzantium and Its Eastern 27. Dagron, “Byzance et le modèle islamique”; Barbarians,” 77. Demacopoulos, “Politics of Liturgical Violence”; 3. Bolman, “Theodore, ‘The Writer of Life,’ ” 61, Pentcheva, Icons and Power, 83–86; Riedel, Leo VI, and Pearson, “Coptic Inscriptions,” 231. 56–73. Cf. Oikonomides, “Concept of ‘Holy War.’ ” 4. Gerstel, “Art and Identity,” 268–80. 28. Psellos, Poems, 295, no. 27. 5. For the church of Saint George at Lydda, see 29. Hendy, Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins, 4.1:248; Pringle, Churches of the Crusader Kingdom, 2:9–27. 4.2: plate ix, EI.8a.1–8e.2; Walker, Emperor and the 6. Selden, “Mapping the Alexander Romance,” World, 126; Walter, Warrior Saints, 131–33, 291–92. and Selden, “Text Networks.” 30. Prodromos, Satire Against the Hegoumens, 7. Amin, Eurocentrism, 103. See also Abu-​Lughod, trans. Jansleme and Oeconomos 25. Before European Hegemony. 31. Perry, “St. George and Venice,” esp. 16–18. 8. Sen and Smith, “Trans-​Eurasian Routes,” 25. See also Andriollo, “Epigrams on a Saint George,” 9. Davis, “Theory in Time,” and Graves, “Feeling 1303–10, and Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, 76–78. Uncomfortable.” 32. Dodd, “Jerusalem”; Mahoney, “Art and Effi 10. See, e.g., Hilsdale, “Worldliness in Byzancacy”; Mahoney, “Frankish Icon.” For paintings in the tium,” 57–59, 87–89. church of Saint George, see Pringle, Churches of the 11. Badamo, “Rethinking Coptic Art,” 169–72; Crusader Kingdom, 2:13. Eastmond, “Art and the Periphery”; Thunø, “Cross-​ 33. Maguire, Icons of Their Bodies, 20–24, and Cultural Dressing,” 152–53. For the language of Mahoney, “Frankish Icon.” authenticity, see Fabian, Time and the Other, 11. 34. Rayfield, Edge of Empires, 85–97. 12. See, for instance, Castiñeiras, “Crossing 35. Georgian Chronicle, ed. Thomson, 309–53; Cultural Boundaries”; Didi-​Huberman, Saint Georges Eastmond, Royal Imagery in Medieval Georgia, 43–71; et le dragon; Nelson, “Byzantine Painter in Trecento Rapp, “Sumbat Davitʾs-​dze,” 570–76. Genoa”; Ng and Hodges, “Saint George, Islam, and 36. Quoted in Rayfield, Edge of Empires, 88. Regional Audiences”; Perry, “St. George and Venice”; 37. Georgian Chronicle, ed. Thomson, 343–44. Riches, St. George. 38. Ibid., 342. 13. Delehaye, Légendes grecques des saints militaires, 39. Eastmond, Royal Imagery in Medieval Georgia, 45–76; Krumbacher, Heilige Georg, 464–535; Matzke, 67–70. “Contributions to the History,” 1–2. See also Walter, 40. K’ldiašvili, “Icône de saint George”; Soteriou Warrior Saints, 111–19. and Soteriou, Icônes du Mont Sinaï, text, 2:131–32; 14. Walter, Warrior Saints, 111, and Krumbacher, plate, 1:152; Eastmond, Royal Imagery in Medieval GeorHeilige Georg. gia, 67–71; Thunø, “Cross-​Cultural Dressing.” 15. Badamo, Saint George Between Empires. 41. Eastmond, Royal Imagery in Medieval Georgia, 16. Aufhauser, Miracula Sancti Georgii, 155, and 61–71, and Underwood and Hawkins, “Mosaics of Festugière, Collections grecques de miracles, 341. Hagia Sophia,” 187–217. 17. Badamo, Saint George Between Empires. 42. Eastmond, Royal Imagery in Medieval Georgia, 18. Aufhauser, Miracula Sancti Georgii, and 56–58; Lang, “Notes on Caucasian Numismatics,” Festugière, Collections grecques de miracles, 259–347; 137–46; Thunø, “Cross-​Cultural Dressing,” 149–50. Papaconstantinou, “Saints and Saracens,” 328–32, 43. Thunø, “Cross-​Cultural Dressing,” 152. 335–36. 44. Grotowski, Arms and Armour, 129–32, and 19. Tuite, “Old Georgian Version.” Parani, Reconstructing the Reality, 103, 115, 126. 20. Selden, “Text Networks.” 45. Gedevanishvili, “Cult and Image,” 153 21. Selden, “Mapping the Alexander Romance,” 46. Life of Nino 3:11, for French translation, see 47. Martin-​Hisard, “Saint Georges,” 129. See also 22. Ibid., 40. “Gedevanishvili, “Cult and Image,” 153. 23. Ibid., and Assman, Of God and Gods, 79–89. 47. Georgian Chronicle, ed. Thomson, 267. 24. Cumont, “Plus ancienne légende 48. Life of Saint Grigol 1.1030–1035, trans. Martin-​ de S. Georges,” 69, and Tuite, “Old Georgian Version.” Hisard, 50.

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49. Peacock, “Georgia and the Anatolian Turks,” 130. 50. Georgian Chronicle, ed. Thomas, 333. 51. Ibid. 52. Rayfield, Edge of Empires, 92. 53. Akhalashvili, X–XV ss. tsʾartsʾerebi svanestis, 17–18, and Iamanidzé, Saints cavaliers, 143–44. For this image type, see Gedevanishvili, “Cult and Image,” 146–51. See also Schrade, “Byzantium and Its Eastern Barbarians,” 77. 54. Leo the Deacon, Historia 9.9, ed. Hase, 153–54. See also Pentcheva, Icons and Power, 68–69. 55. Lapina, Warfare and the Miraculous, 6. 56. Rayfield, Edge of Empires, 89. 57. Ibid., 96. 58. Georgian Chronicle, ed. Thomson, 350. 59. Rayfield, Edge of Empires, 93–94. 60. Sidarus, “Pré-​renaissance copte arabe”; Sidarus, “Renaissance copte arabe”; Swanson, Coptic Papacy, 59–96;Werthmuller, Coptic Identity. 61. Gabra, “Perspectives on the Monastery of St. Antony,” 173, and Parker, “Coptic Language and Identity.” See also Griffith, “Kitāb miṣbāḥ al-ʿaql,” and Papaconstantinou, “They Shall Speak.” 62. Athanasius, Life of Saint Antony, and Abuʾl Mākarim, Churches and Monasteries of Egypt, 160. 63. Jones, “Church of St. Antony,” 29. 64. Gabra, “Perspectives on the Monastery of St. Antony,” 173–84, and Werthmuller, Coptic Identity, 107–15. 65. Cyril III, quoted in Werthmuller, Coptic Identity, 110–11. 66. Bolman, “Theodore, ‘The Writer of Life,’ ” 38. 67. Badamo, “Depicting Religious Combat,” 157–81, and Bolman, “Theodore, ‘The Writer of Life,’ ” 37–76. 68. Bolman, “Theodore, ‘The Writer of Life,’ ” 54–55. 69. Badamo, “Depicting Religious Combat,” 180. 70. Pearson, “Coptic Inscriptions,” 231. 71. Lyster, “Reflections of the Temporal World,” 109–10, 119. Warrior saints with pseudo-​Arabic

on their shields also appear at Hosios Loukas and Cefalú. 72. See, e.g., Bolman, “Theodore’s Program in Context”; Bolman, “Theodore’s Style”; Hunt, “Christian Art in Greater Syria”; Hunt, “Christian-​Muslim Relations.” 73. Iamanidzé, “Georgian Reception of Sasanian Art,” and Nelson, “ ‘And So, With the Help of God,’ ” 171–74. 74. Bolman, “Theodore’s Program in Context,” 92–95, and Leroy, Manuscrits coptes, plates 105–7. 75. Parandowska, “Preservation of the Wall Paintings,” 281. 76. Budge, Martyrdom and Miracles, 273. 77. See Gaddis, There Is No Crime, 96–98. 78. Martyrdom and Miracles of St. Mercurius, 256–82, 809–27, and Delehaye, Légendes grecques des saints militaires, 238–58. 79. Lyster, “Reflections of the Temporal World,” 115. 80. Gaddis, There Is No Crime, 96–98. 81. Bolman, “Veiling Sanctity in Christian Egypt.” 82. Jeudy and Snelders, “Guarding the Entrances,” 114–22. 83. History of the Patriarchs 2.2:156, 201, 275–77, 303, 356–58. 84. Ibid., 2.2:275–68; 4.1:47–49. 85. Pruitt, “Method in Madness,” and Pruitt, Building the Caliphate. 86. Swanson, Coptic Papacy, 54. 87. History of the Patriarchs, 2.2:201. 88. Bolman, “Theodore, ‘The Writer of Life,’ ” 38–40, and Zanetti, “Icônes chez les théologiens.” 89. Similar to Platt, Facing the Gods, 147–48. 90. Swanson, “Christian al-​Maʾmūn Tradititon,” 85. See also Badamo, “Depicting Religious Combat,” 172–73, and Shenoda, “Displacing Dhimmī.” 91. Badamo, “Depicting Religious Combat.” 92. Kinoshita, “Translatio(n), Empire, and the Worlding,” 381. She cites and paraphrases Fowden, Empire to Commonwealth, 9.

Bibliography Abuʾl Mākarim. The Churches and Monasteries of Egypt and Some Neighbouring Countries, Attributed to Abû Ṣâliḥ, the Armenian. Translated by B. T. A. Evetts. Oxford: Clarendon, 1895. Abu-​Lughod, Janet. Before European Hegemony: The World System, A.D. 1250–1350. New York: Oxford University Press, 1989. Akhalashvili, M. X–XV ss. tsʾartsʾerebi svanetis ch’eduri khelovnebis dzeglebze. Tbilisi: Metsniereba, 1987.

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Amin, Samir. Eurocentrism: Modernity, Religion, and Democracy; A Critique of Eurocentrism and Culturalism. Translated by Russell Moore and James Membrez. New York: Monthly Review, 2009. Andriollo, Luisa. “Epigrams on a Saint George Sculpted on Marble.” In The Visual Culture of Later Byzantium (c. 1081–c. 1350), edited by Foteini Spingou, 1302–10. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2022.

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Assman, Jan. Of God and Gods: Egypt, Israel, and the Rise of Monotheism. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 2008. Athanasius. The Life of Antony: The Coptic Life and the Greek Life. Translated by Tim Vivian and Apostolos Athanassakis. Kalamazoo: Cistercian Studies, 2003. Aufhauser, Johannes. Das Drachenwunder des Heiligen Georg in der griechischen und lateinischen Überlieferung. Byzantinisches Archiv 5. Leipzig: Teubner, 1911. ———. Miracula Sancti Georgii. Leipzig: Teubner, 1913. Badamo, Heather. “Depicting Religious Combat in the Thirteenth-​Century Program at the Monastery of St. Anthony at the Red Sea.” Gesta 58, no. 2 (2019): 157–81. ———. “Rethinking Coptic Art: The Allusive Aesthetics of a Thirteenth-​Century Key.” RES: Anthropology and Aesthetics 77/78 (2022): 167–83. ———. Saint George Between Empires: Image and Encounter in the Medieval East. University Park: Penn State University Press, 2023. Bolman, Elizabeth, ed. Monastic Visions: Wall Paintings in the Monastery of St. Antony at the Red Sea. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002. ———. “Theodore, ‘The Writer of Life,’ and the Program of 1232/1233.” In Bolman, Monastic Visions, 37–76. ———. “Theodore’s Program in Context: Egypt and the Mediterranean Region.” In Bolman, Monastic Visions, 91–102. ———. “Theodore’s Style, the Art of Christian Egypt, and Beyond.” In Bolman, Monastic Visions, 77–89. ———. “Veiling Sanctity in Christian Egypt: Visual and Spatial Solutions.” In Thresholds of the Sacred, edited by Sharon E. J. Gerstel, 72–104. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2006. Budge, Ernest A. Wallis. The Martyrdom and Miracles of Saint George of Cappadocia: The Coptic Texts. London: D. Nutt, 1888. ———. St. George of Lydda, the Patron Saint of England: A Study of the Cultus of St. George in Ethiopia. London: Luzac, 1930. Castiñeiras, Manuel. “Crossing Cultural Boundaries: Saint George in the Eastern Mediterranean Under the Latinokratia (13th–14th Centuries) and His Mythification in the Crown of Aragon.” Arts 9, no. 3 (2020): 1–56. Cumont, Franz. “La plus ancienne légende de S. Georges.” Revue de l’histoire des religions 114 (1936): 5–41. Dagron, Gilbert. “Byzance et le modèle islamique au Xe siècle: À propos des constitutions tactiques de l’empereur Léon VI.” Comptes rendus de l’academie des inscriptions des belles lettres (1983): 219–43.

Davis, Kathleen. “Theory in Time.” Publications of the Modern Language Association 130, no. 3 (2015): 759–67. Delehaye, Hippolyte. Les légendes grecques des saints militaires. Paris: Picard, 1909. Demacopoulos, George. “The Politics of Liturgical Violence in the Akolouthia Before Battle.” Presentation at the Byzantine Studies Association of North America Annual Conference, Los Angeles, November 3–6, 2022. Didi-​Huberman, Georges. Saint Georges et le dragon: Versions d’une légende. Paris: A. Biro, 1994. Dodd, Erica Cruikshank. “Jerusalem: ‘Fons et Origo’; Sources in Outremer for the Development of Western Medieval Art.” In Interactions: Artistic Exchange Between the Eastern and Western Worlds in the Medieval Period, edited by Colum Hourihane, 11–27. University Park: Penn State University Press, 2007. Eastmond, Antony. “Art and the Periphery.” In The Oxford Handbook of Byzantine Studies, edited by Elizabeth Jeffreys, Robin Cormack, and John Haldon, 770–76. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. ———. Royal Imagery in Medieval Georgia. University Park: Penn State University Press, 1998. Fabian, Johannes. Time and the Other: How Anthropology Makes Its Object. New York: Columbia University Press, 1983. Festugière, A.-J. Collections grecques de miracles: Sainte Thècle, saints Côme et Damien, saints Cyre et Jean (Extraits), saint Georges. Paris: Picard, 1971. Fowden, Garth. Empire to Commonwealth: Consequences of Monotheism in Late Antiquity. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993. Gabidzashvili, Enriko. Tsminda Giorgi dvel kartul mtserlobashi [Saint George in Old Georgian Literature]. Tbilisi: Armazi, 1991. Gabra, Gawdat. “Perspectives on the Monastery of St. Antony: Medieval and Later Inhabitants and Visitors.” In Bolman, Monastic Visions, 173–83. Gaddis, Michael. There Is No Crime for Those Who Have Christ: Religious Violence in the Christian Roman Empire. Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005. Gedevanishvili, Ekaterine. “Cult and Image of St. George in Medieval Georgian Art.” In Cultural Interactions in Medieval Georgia, edited by Michele Bacci, Thomas Kaffenberger, and Manuela Studer-​Karlen, 143–68. Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2018. Georgian Chronicle. In Robert W. Thomson, Rewriting Caucasian History: The Medieval Armenian Adaptation of the Georgian Chronicles; The Original Georgian Texts and the Armenian Adaptation. Oxford: Clarendon, 1996.

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Gerstel, Sharon. “Art and Identity in Medieval Morea.” ———. Saints cavaliers: Culte et images en Géorgie aux In The Crusades from the Perspective of Byzantium IVe–XIe siècles. Wiesbaden: Reichert, 2016. and the Muslim World, edited by Angeliki Laiou Jeudy, Adeline, and Bas Snelders. “Guarding the and Roy P. Mottahedeh, 263–78. Washington, Entrances: Equestrian Saints in Egypt and DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 2001. North Mesopotamia.” Eastern Christian Art 3 Grabar, Oleg. “The Shared Culture of Objects.” (2006): 105–42. In Byzantine Court Culture from 829 to 1204, Jones, Michael. “The Church of St. Antony: The Archiedited by Henry Maguire, 115–30. Washington, tecture.” In Bolman, Monastic Visions, 21–30. DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1997. K’ldiašvili, D. “L’icône de saint George du Mont Sinaï Graves, Margaret. “Feeling Uncomfortable in the avec le portrait de Davit Agmašenebeli.” Revue Nineteenth Century.” Journal of Art Historiogrades études géorgiennes et caucasiennes 5 (1989): phy 6 (2012): 1–27. 197–28. Griffith, Sidney. “The Kitāb miṣbāḥ al-ʿaql of Severus Kinoshita, Sharon. “Translatio/n, Empire, and the ibn al-​Muqaffaʿ: A Profile of the Christian Worlding of Medieval Literature: The Travels Creed in Arabic in the Tenth Century.” Medieval of Kalila wa Dimna.” Postcolonial Studies 11, no. 4 Encounters 2, no. 1 (1996): 15–41. (2008): 3371–85. Grotowski, Piotr. Arms and Armour of the Warrior Krumbacher, Karl. Der Heilige Georg in der friechischen Saints: Tradition and Innovation in Byzantine Überlieferung. Munich: Königlich Bayerischen Iconography (843–1261). Leiden: Brill, 2010. Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1911. Hendy, Michael. Catalogue of the Byzantine Coins in the Lang, David. “Notes on Caucasian Numismatics Dumbarton Oaks Collection and in the Whittemore (Part 1).” Numismatic Chronicle and Journal of the Collection, vol. 4, Alexius I to Michael VIII, 1081– Royal Numismatic Society 17 (1957): 137–46. 1261. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1999. Lapina, Elizabeth. Warfare and the Miraculous in the Hilsdale, Cecily. “Worldliness in Byzantium and Chronicles of the First Crusade. University Park: Beyond: Reassessing the Visual Networks of Penn State University Press, 2015. Barlaam and Ioasaph.” Medieval Globe 3, no. 2 Leo the Deacon. Historia. Latin edition edited by (2017): 57–96. C. Hase, Leonis Diaconi Calonoësis Historia. History of the Patriarchs of the Egyptian Church, Known In Corpus Scriptorum Historiae Byzantinae 5. as the History of the Holy Church, by Sawirus ibn Bonn: Impensis ed. Weberi, 1828. Translated al-Mukaffaʿ, Bishop of al-​Asmunin. Vols. 2–4. by Alice-​Mary Talbot and Denis F. Sullivan as Edited and translated by Aziz Suryal Atiya, The History of Leo the Deacon: Byzantine Military Yassa ʿAbd al-​Masih, and O. H. E. Burmester. Expansion in the Tenth Century. Dumbarton Oaks Cairo: Societé d’Archéologie Copte, 1948–74. Studies 41. Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, Hoffman, Eva. “Pathways of Portability: Islamic and 2005. Christian Interchange from the Tenth to the Leroy, Jules. Les manuscrits coptes et coptes-​arabes illusTwelfth Century.” Art History 24, no. 1 (2001): trés. Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1974. 17–50. Life of Nino. In Monuments of Hagiographical Literature Hoffman, Eva, and Scott Redford. “Transculturation in Ancient Georgian, edited by Ilia Abuladze, 3:11. in the Eastern Mediterranean.” In A Companion T’bilisi: Georgian Academy of Sciences, 1963–68. to Islamic Art and Architecture, edited by Finbarr Life of Saint Grigol. Translated by Bernadette Martin-​ Barry Flood and Gülru Necipoǧlu, 405–30. Hisard in “Moines et monastères géorgiens Oxford: Wiley, 2017. du 9e siècle: La vie de saint Grigol de Xancta; Hunt, Lucy-​Anne. “Christian Art in Greater Syria and Part I.” Revue des études byzantines 59 (2001): 5–94. Egypt: A Triptych of the Ascension with Military Lyster, William. “Reflections of the Temporal World: Saints Reattributed.” Muqarnas 12 (2000): 1–36. Secular Elements in Theodore’s Program.” ———. “Christian-​Muslim Relations in Painting in In Bolman, Monastic Visions, 103–26. Egypt of the Twelfth to Mid-​Thirteenth CentuMaguire, Henry. The Icons of Their Bodies: Saints and ries: Sources of Wallpainting at Deir es-​Suriani Their Images in Byzantium. Princeton: Princeton and the Illustration of the New Testament MS University Press, 1996. Paris, Copte-​Arabe 1/Cairo, Bibl. 94.” Cahiers Mahoney, Lisa “Art and Efficacy in an Icon of archéologiques 33 (1985): 111–55. St George.” In The Eloquence of Art: Essays in Iamanidzé, Nina. “Georgian Reception of Sasanian Honour of Henry Maguire, edited by Andrea Art.” In Sasanian Elements in Byzantine, Caucasian Olsen Lam and Rossitza Schroeder, 188–203. and Islamic Art and Culture, edited by Neslihan New York: Routledge, 2020. Asutay-​Effenberger and Falko Daim, 93–106. ———. “The Frankish Icon: Art and Devotion in the Mainz: Römisch-​Germanischen ZentralmuLatin Kingdom of Jerusalem.” In The Crusades seums, 2019. and Visual Culture, edited by Elizabeth Lapina,

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April Jehan Morris, Susanna A. Throop, and Laura J. Whatley, 15–34. London: Routledge, 2015. Martin-​Hisard, Bernadette. “Saint Georges dans le monde caucasien médiéval.” In San Giorgio e il Mediterraneo: Atti del II Colloquio internazionale per il XVII Centenario, Roma, 28–30 novembre 2003, edited by Guglielmo de Giovanni-​Centelles, 101–30. Vatican City: Pontificia Insigne Accademia di Belle Arti e Lettere dei Virtuosi al Pantheon, 2004. Martyrdom and Miracles of St. Mercurius. Edited and translated by Ernest A. Wallis Budge in Miscellaneous Coptic Texts in the Dialect of Upper Egypt, 256–82 (Coptic), 809–71 (English). London: British Museum, 1915. Matzke, John. “Contributions to the History of the Legend of Saint George, with Special Reference to the Sources of the French, German, and Anglo-​Saxon Metrical Versions: Part I.” PMLA 17, no. 4 (1902): 464–535. ———. “Contributions to the History of the Legend of Saint George, with Special Reference to the Sources of the French, German, and Anglo-​ Saxon Metrical Versions: Part II.” PMLA 18, no. 1 (1903): 99–171. Nelson, Robert. “ ‘And So, With the Help of God’: The Byzantine Art of War in the Tenth Century.” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 65/66 (2011–12): 169–92. ———. “A Byzantine Painter in Trecento Genoa: The Last Judgment at S. Lorenzo.” Art Bulletin 67, no. 4 (1985): 548–66. Ng, Su Fang, and Kenneth Hodges. “Saint George, Islam, and Regional Audiences in Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.” Studies in the Age of Chaucer 32 (2010): 257–94. Oikonomides, Nicholas. “The Concept of ‘Holy War’ and Two Tenth-​Century Byzantine Ivories.” In Peace and War in Byzantium: Essays in Honor of G. T. Dennis, S.J., edited by Timothy Miller and John Nesbitt, 62–82. Washington, DC: Catholic University of American Press, 1995. Papaconstantinou, Arietta. “Saints and Saracens: On Some Miracle Accounts of the Early Arab Period.” In Byzantine Religious Culture: Studies in Honor of Alice-​Mary Talbot, edited by Denis Sullivan, Elizabeth Fisher, and Stratis Papaioannou, 323–38. Leiden: Brill, 2008. ———. “ ‘They Shall Speak the Arabic Language and Take Pride in It’: Reconsidering the Fate of Coptic After the Arab Conquest.” Le Muséon 120, nos. 3–4 (2007): 273–99. Parandowska, Ewa. “Preservation of the Wall Paintings in the Church of the Archangel Gabriel at Naqlun.” In Christianity and Monasticism in the Fayoum Oasis, edited by Gawdat Gabra, 279–88. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2005.

Parani, Maria. Reconstructing the Reality of Images: Byzantine Material Culture and Religious Iconography (11th–15th Centuries). Leiden: Brill, 2001. Parker, Kenneth. “Coptic Language and Identity in Ayyūbid Egypt.” al-​Masāq 25, no. 2 (2013): 222–39. Peacock, Andrew. “Georgia and the Anatolian Turks in the 12th and 13th Centuries.” Anatolian Studies 56 (2006): 127–46. Pearson, Birger. “The Coptic Inscriptions in the Church of St. Antony.” In Bolman, Monastic Visions, 217–41. Pentcheva, Bissera. Icons and Power: The Mother of God in Byzantium. University Park: Penn State University Press, 2006. Perry, David. “St. George and Venice: The Rise of Imperial Culture.” In Matter of Faith: An Interdisciplinary Study of Relics and Relic Veneration in the Medieval Period, edited by James Robinson and Anna Harnden, 15–22. London: British Museum Press, 2014. Platt, Verity. Facing the Gods: Epiphany and Representation in Graeco-​Roman Art, Literature and Religion. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011. Pringle, Denys. The Churches of the Crusader Kingdom of Jerusalem. Vol. 2. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998. Pruitt, Jennifer. Building the Caliphate: Construction, Destruction, and Sectarian Identity in Early Fatimid Architecture. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2022. ———. “Method in Madness: Recontextualizing the Destruction of Churches in the Fatimid Era.” Muqarnas 30 (2013): 120–39. Psellos, Michael. Poems. Latin edition edited by L. G. Westerink, Michaelis Pselli poemata. Stuttgart: Teubner, 1992. Prodromos, Theodore. Satire Against the Hegoumens. French translation edited by E. Jansleme and L. Oeconomos, La satire contre les higoumènes: Poèmes attribué à Théodore Prodrome; Essai de traduction français. Liège, 1924. Rapp, Stephen. “Sumbat Davitʿis-​dze and the Vocabulary of Political Authority in the Era of Georgian Unification.” Journal of the American Oriental Society 120, no. 4 (2000): 570–76. Rayfield, Donald. Edge of Empires: A History of Georgia. London: Reaktion, 2012. Riches, Samantha. St. George: Hero, Martyr, Myth. Sutton: Sutton, 2000. Riedel, Meredith. Leo VI and the Transformation of Byzantine Christian Identity. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2018. Schrade, Brigitta. “Byzantium and Its Eastern Barbarians: The Cult of Saints in Svanetʾi.” In Eastern Approaches to Byzantium: Papers from the Thirty-​Third Spring Symposium of Byzantine

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Studies, University of Warwick, Coventry, March 1999, edited by Antony Eastmond, 169–98. London: Routledge, 2017. Selden, Daniel “Mapping the Alexander Romance.” In The Alexander Romance in Persia and the East, edited by Richard Stoneman, Kyle Erickson, and Ian Netton, 19–59. Groningen: Barkhuis, 2012. ———. “Text Networks.” Ancient Narrative 8 (2009): 1–23. Sen, Tansen, and Pamela Smith. “Trans-​Eurasian Routes of Exchange: A Brief Historical Overview.” In Entangled Itineraries: Materials, Practices, and Knowledges Across Eurasia, edited by Pamela H. Smith, 25–46. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2019. Shenoda, Maryann. “Displacing Dhimmī, Maintaining Hope: Unthinkable Coptic Representations of Fatimid Egypt.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 39, no. 4 (2007): 578–606. Sidarus, Adel. “La pré-​renaissance copte arabe du Moyen Âge (deuxième moitié du XIIe / début du XIIIe siècle).” In Eastern Crossroads: Essays on Medieval Christian Legacy, edited by Juan Pedro Monferrer-​Sala, 191–216. Piscataway: Gorgias, 2007. ———. “La Renaissance copte arabe du Moyen Âge.” In The Syriac Renaissance, edited by Herman Teule and Carmen Fotescu Tauwinkl, 311–40. Leuven: Peeters, 2010. Soteriou, George, and Maria Soteriou. Icônes du Mont Sinaï. 2 vols. Athens: Institut français d’Athènes, 1956–58. Swanson, Mark. “The Christian al-​Maʾmūn Tradition.” In Christians at the Heart of Islamic Rule: Church Life and Scholarship in ʿAbbasid Iraq,

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edited by David Thomas, 63–92. Leiden: Brill, 2003. ———. The Coptic Papacy in Islamic Egypt (641–1517). New York: American University of Cairo Press, 2010. Thunø, Erik. “Cross-​Cultural Dressing, the Medieval South Caucasus and Art History.” In The Medieval South Caucasus: Artistic Cultures of Albania, Armenia and Georgia, edited by Ivan Foletti and Erik Thunø, 145–58. Turnhout: Brepols, 2001. Tuite, Kevin. “The Old Georgian Version of the Miracle of St George, the Princess and the Dragon: Text, Commentary and Translation.” In Sharing Myths, Texts and Sanctuaries in the South Caucasus: Apocryphal Themes in Literatures, Arts and Cults from Late Antiquity to the Middle Ages, edited by Igor Dorfmann-​Lazarev, 60–94. Studies on Early Christian Apocrypha. Leuven: Peeters, forthcoming. Underwood, Paul, and E. J. W. Hawkins. “The Mosaics of Hagia Sophia at Istanbul: The Portrait of Emperor Alexander; A Report on Work Done by the Byzantine Institute in 1959 and 1960.” Dumbarton Oaks Papers 16 (1961): 187–217. Walker, Alicia. The Emperor and the World: Exotic Elements in the Imagining of Middle Byzantine Imperial Power, Ninth to Thirteenth Centuries C.E. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2012. Walter, Christopher. The Warrior Saints in Byzantine Art and Tradition. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003. Werthmuller, Kurt. Coptic Identity and Ayyubid Politics in Egypt, 1218–1250. Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 2010. Zanetti, Ugo. “Les icônes chez les théologiens de l’église Copte.” Le Monde copte 19 (1991): 77–91.

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5 The “Holy Blood” of ʿUthmān ibn Affān in the Great Mosque of Córdoba On Manābir, Relics, and Sunni Struggles

Avinoam Shalem

Kings have inherited it both from east and west, How much have they forsaken in ignorance their obligation to it. You have clothed it with rubies and pearls as an adornment Someone other than you has drenched it with the blood of its owner. —Ibn ʿAyyāsh (d. 1221), verses on the Holy Quran of ʿUthmān ibn Affān

Introduction: Manābir Beyond Khuṭba If one were interested in accumulating information on the minbar (pl. manābir), one may be tempted to Google the term. When the word minbar is typed in the search engine, the following information pops up on Wikipedia: “A minbar (Arabic: ‫منرب‬‎; ; some� times romanized as mimber) is a pulpit in a mosque where the imam (leader of prayers) stands to deliver sermons (‫خطبة‬, khutbah). It is also used in other similar contexts such as in a Hussainiya where the speaker sits and lectures the congregation.”1 Another entry, this one from the Encyclopaedia Britannica, provides similar information: “Minbar,

in Islam, the pulpit from which the sermon (khutbah) is delivered. In its simplest form the minbar is a platform with three steps. Often it is constructed as a domed box at the top of a staircase and is reached through a doorway that can be closed.”2 Most of the information about the minbar found on the Internet is more or less the same. The description recounts the minbar’s function in the mosque and provides a basic description of its common form. It usually focuses on the specific and generally accepted use of the minbar in its sacred context, namely as the object from which the Friday sermon (khuṭba) is performed by the imam (preacher). All of this is valid. The minbar is indeed a specific piece of furniture, either a transportable or stable archi� tectural element, that serves specific functions in the mosque. This definition is also affirmed in the second edition of the Encyclopaedia of Islam, which states that the minbar is “the raised structure or pulpit from which solemn announcements to the Muslim community were made and from which sermons were preached.”3 And yet, the basis of this definition of the minbar’s specific religious function in the mosque during the Friday sermon is anachronistic since it suggests that this was always its usage. As far as its form is concerned, its origins very likely can be found in the judge’s seat in pre-​Islamic Arabia, and according to early medieval sources going back to the days of Muḥammad, this specific furniture was an elevated wooden seat used by the Prophet in Medina for leading prayers and preaching to his believers on all subjects, pious or impious alike.4 In fact, C. Becker and J. Schacht, who both trace the history of the use of manābir in the early days of Islam, assert that the object was first and foremost the symbol of legitimate authority and that only by the end of the Umayyad period, during the reign of the last Umayyad caliph, Marwān II (r. 744–50 ce), did it gain its religious function.5 Thus manābir, even though venerated in the early days of Islam, functioned rather as thrones for rulers or governors.6 Their use gradually changed from political to religious, and it was Marwān II’s decree in around 750 ce, which provided the major mosques in the provinces of the Muslim empire with manābir, that marked the end of this initially slow transformation. In turn, the mosque in the early days of Islam, especially during the Umayyad period (ca. 650–750 ce), was transformed, as Schacht describes it, “from a hall of assembly into a purely religious building.”7 Supported by the careful study of Jean Sauvaget of the Great Mosque of Medina, Schacht adds, “Following the example of the mosque of the Prophet [the mosque of Medina], the mosques of the Umayyads were not buildings reserved for worship, but places of assembly for political functions, which were incidentally opened or closed by a short act of common worship. The mosque was the public annex of the palace of the ruler or the governor.”8 It is necessary that we look deeper at the minbar’s diverse functions. For example, we hear that Khālid b. ʿAbd Allāh al-​Qasrī (r. 723–38 ce) was condemned because he conducted a prayer for water on the minbar.9 Other accounts discussing the grave crime of taking a false oath on or next to a minbar suggest that this locale was often used for vow taking.10 And accounts about the Prophet, though perhaps imaginary, tell us of 120

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his ability to tell the future from a minbar or how prayers that he uttered on a minbar were particularly efficacious.11 These narratives suggest an alternative type of popular history that regarded the minbar as a powerful object able to work good deeds. It is thus no wonder that the All About Turkey website claims, “A minbar is considered as a good place for baraka, blessing, and for giving oaths.”12 The mention of the minbar as a place to obtain baraka might suggest a practice that was more popular than orthodox, tinged with folkloristic traditions and habits. Yet, this issue opens up a new spectrum for historians and art historians interested in the range of meanings for the minbar in Muslim society. I would like to present a specific case of an Andalusian minbar commissioned by the Umayyad caliph al-​Hakam II (r. 961–76 ce) on the occasion of the expansion of the Great Mosque in Córdoba in the second half of the tenth century.13 This particular minbar sheds light on an additional meaning that has become attached to—or, I might say, propagated by—the minbar, which was part of al-​Hakam II’s total reinvention of the Great Mosque of Córdoba as a “pure” house of worship, recalling the Great Mosque of the Prophet in Medina.14 Moreover, the emphasis placed by al-​Hakam II on the cult of the relics of the third caliph, ʿUthmān ibn Affān, in the mosque, namely the rituals surrounding specific physical objects associated with his murder in 656 ce, evokes memories from the very early days of Islam and tinges the whole building, including its minbar, with additional properties that could be associated with Umayyad resistance to the rapidly spreading Shiite religious and political influence in the world of Islam, in general, and in the Mediterranean during the second half of the tenth century, in particular.15 Before we attempt to uncover the specific task fulfilled by the minbar of Córdoba, a brief introduction to the traditions and history relating to the making of the first minbar for the Prophet Muḥammad is warranted. This initial minbar served as the archetype (Urform) for all manābir in the Muslim world, while regional styles contrib� uted to variations in shape and material.16 According to tradition, the first minbar was made in Medina between around 628 and 631 ce. Though, unfortunately, this version constructed for the Prophet has not survived, extant accounts help to form our knowledge of it. The minbar was reportedly made of wood (aʿwād)—at times tarfā or tamarisk wood are mentioned—and had two steps and a seat (maqʿad or majlis) on top. Several accounts claim that the artisan was either a Byzantine or Copt called Bāqūm (Pachomius?) or Bāqūl.17 But other names are also mentioned, such as Ibrāhīm, Maymūn, Sabāh, Kulāb, Minā, and Tamim.18 Becker was able to sort the many traditions attached to the Prophet’s minbar into two main groups. The first group draws its information from Sahl b. Saʿd and the second from Jābir and Nāfiʿ.19 Sahl b. Saʿd (d. 845 ce) emphasizes the minbar’s mate� rial, namely acacia wood from al-​Ghāba (a village in the eastern part of the Arabian Peninsula), and the fact that the craftsman was an enslaved worker. Another series of traditions accentuates the story of the lamenting palm tree, on which Muḥam� mad used to lean before the minbar was made and to which he felt great tenderness; The “Holy Blood” of ʿUthmān ibn Affān in the Great Mosque of Córdoba

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tradition describes how the palm tree cried when the minbar was first introduced. In fact, a fragment of the remains of this tree was still being venerated by pilgrims to Medina in the fourteenth century. The relic is described as being attached to a pillar located between the tomb and the minbar in this mosque.20 Though the earliest sources on the minbar can be found in al-​Tabarī (839–923 ce) and Yāqūt (1179–1229), I have chosen to present the account written by Ibn Battuta (1304–1368/69) while visiting the mosque in Medina around 1326.21 His is perhaps the most comprehensive account and includes various traditions and anecdotes: The holy pulpit. It is related in the Tradition that the Apostle of God (God bless and give him peace) used to deliver his addresses, leaning on the trunk of the palm-​tree in the mosque, and that, when the pulpit was made for him and he removed to it, the palm-​trunk whimpered for him as a she-​camel whimpers for her calf. It is related further that he (God bless and give him peace) came down to it and placed his arms around it, whereupon it ceased its lamenta� tions, and he said, “Had I not embraced it, it would have whimpered until the Day of Resurrection.” The Traditional narratives are at variance as to who actually constructed the holy pulpit. It is related that Tamīm al-​Dārī (God be pleased with him) was the one who made it; others say that a slave belonging to al-ʿAbbās (God be pleased with him) made it; others again a slave belonging to a woman of the Anṣār, and this version is found in the authentic Tradition. It was constructed of ordinary tamarisk-​wood from al-​Ghāba, some say of the wood of the oriental tamarisk; it had three steps, and the Apostle of God (God bless and give him peace) used to sit on the highest step and place his holy feet on the middle one. When Abū Bakr al-Ṣiddīq (God be pleased with him) was invested with the supreme authority, he sat upon the middle step and placed his feet upon the lowest one, and when ʿOmar (god be pleased with him) succeeded, he sat upon the first and placed his feet on the ground. ʿOthmān (God be pleased with him) did the same to begin with during his Caliphate, but later on mounted to the third step. When the rule passed to Muʿāwiya (God be pleased with him), he proposed to remove the pulpit to Damascus, whereupon the Muslims raised a loud clamour, a violent wind blew up, the sun was eclipsed and the stars appeared in the daytime, the earth was darkened, so that man collided with man and no path could be distinguished. When Muʿāwiya saw this he let it stay where it was and added six steps to the bottom of it, so that it amounted to nine steps in all.22 The information provided by Ibn Battuta, as well as by other medieval Arabic authors, tells us of the construction and uses of this minbar were established immediately after the Prophet’s death. All coalesce around the notion that the minbar was as a symbol of authority. Indeed, the story of the first Umayyad caliph Muʿāwiya’s attempt to move the 122

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minbar from Medina to Damascus, namely from the capital of authority during the period of Muḥammad and the Rāshidūn (the first four caliphs) to the new caliphal city of the Umayyad dynasty, clearly illustrates its important role as the symbol of legit� imate power. Moreover, the information about Muʿāwiya’s addition of a further six steps is interesting. It is plausible that, to a certain extent, this modification separated the minbar from its sole association with Muḥammad and the period of the four first caliphs and introduced a new visible layer of identity, linking this venerated object to Muʿāwiya. According to al-​Tabarī, the wish of the Umayyads to have the Proph� et’s minbar in Damascus was expressed again during the reign of ʿAbd al-​Malik ibn Marwān (r. 685–705 ce) and al-​Walīd ibn ʿAbd al Malik (r. 705–15 ce).23 During the early Abbasid period, in 778 ce, the Abbasid caliph al-​Mahdī suggested the removal of the extra six steps from the Prophet’s minbar, thus restoring it to its original form.24 It is not possible here to trace the full history of the Medina minbar. Fritz Meier, who discussed the Arabic sources on the history of the Prophet’s minbar, proposes that it likely survived at least until the second half of the twelfth century. It was last recorded by Ibn Jubayr in 1184 during his rihla (travel) to the holy city of Medina.25 According to Ibn Jubayr, the minbar consisted of eight steps and an upper platform used as the Prophet’s seat. This seat at the top was covered by a wooden panel to prevent anyone from sitting on it. He added that pilgrims used to slide their hands between this panel and the seat’s platform in order to receive a blessing. They either kissed the wooden supports of the minbar or touched the Prophet’s seat and then caressed their faces.26 This same ritual is also related by al-​Samhūdī (1440–1506).27 Unfortunately, the great fire that broke out in the Mosque of the Prophet in 1256 destroyed nearly all wooden objects within it, and as al-​Samhūdī says, no blessing was therefore provided from this minbar (“wa faqada an-​nas barakatahu”).28 However, later thirteenth-​century sources relate that, though burnt, several surviving pieces of this minbar from Medina were deposited within the minbar commissioned by the Mamluk sultan al-Ẓāhir Baybars between 1267 and 1268.29 Supposedly, visitors could, by stretching out their hands, reach these burnt fragments and receive blessings.30 Miriam Kühn traces several other Arabic sources that claim the presence of surviving burnt fragments of the original minbar within several other Mamluk manābir.31 However, since multiple sources mention that the minbar disin� tegrated prior to the fire of 1256 (one Abbasid caliph even decided to fashion combs [amshāt] from the original wood, probably as baraka objects, we can assume that the Prophet Muḥammad’s Medina minbar disappeared sometime between 1184 and 1256.32 The minbar was treated as a sign of legitimate authority, and the caliphs succeed� ing the Prophet, along with governors of different provinces, kept to this tradition. They ascended the minbar on their accession to office and descended it to mark their resignations. Moreover, as early as the Umayyad period, at each Friday sermon the name of the legitimate reigning sovereign was publicly announced by the imam or designated person leading the prayer from the minbar. The minbar thus came to be the specific spot in the mosque from which political power was audibly declared. The “Holy Blood” of ʿUthmān ibn Affān in the Great Mosque of Córdoba

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As previously mentioned, the evolution of the minbar’s function as the elevated seat of the ruler or governor to that of the imam—that is, its shift from a political to a primarily religious context—occurred toward the end of the Umayyad period. However, despite its use as a specific piece of furniture in a religious context, the minbar still retained political significance. In accordance with the aforementioned custom of mentioning the name of the legitimate caliph from the minbar, the existence of a minbar in a mosque or a city symbolized its importance and power; conversely, the absence of a minbar indicated a place’s relative insignificance. For example, al-​ Muqaddasī (d. 991 ce) writing in the tenth century claimed that a city could be called a city only if it had the right to possess a minbar. He also classified towns into those that did or did not have manābir.33 Therefore, the common act of the caliph’s dona� tion of a minbar to a specific province might be regarded as a symbol of the center stretching its power or even control over a specific district. This was the case for the famous wooden minbar of Kairouan, for example, which was sent from the Abbasid capital city of Baghdad to the Aghlabid governor of Ifriqiya, Ibrāhīm II ibn Aghlab (874–902 ce).34 Numerous other examples also illustrate this role of the minbar to extend a ruler’s power: the minbar commissioned by the Fatimid vizier Badr al-​Jamālī in 1091 and sent to the mosque of al-Ḥusayn in Ascalon, Palestine (now in Hebron);35 the Fatimid minbar that was made in 1155 in Cairo, which ended up at ʿAmri Mosque in Qūs;36 the minbar ordered by Nūr ad-​Dīn (r. 1146–74) in Aleppo, which was later, as soon as al-​Quds (Jerusalem) was again in Muslim hands, sent by Saladin to the al-​Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem as per the ruler’s request (unfortunately destroyed by a zealot in 1969);37 and the famous Almoravid minbar, which was executed in Córdoba between the years 1125 and 1130 for display in Marrakech and was later transferred to the Kutubiyya Mosque by the Almohads as a symbol of their assumption of power.38 In short, the history of commissioning, restoring, endowing, and even demolish� ing manābir is intermingled with politics and issues relating to the performance of power.39 Unfortunately, the minbar of al-​Hakam II made for the Great Mosque of Córdoba has not survived. It is said to have been destroyed by Christian zealots in the sixteenth century.40 According to Arabic sources, especially the account of al-​Maqqarī in his famous book, Nafḥ al-ṭīb, the minbar of al-​Hakam II was of great workmanship. Al-Maqqarī, who, like other authors, relied on earlier sources, writes: There stood against one of its sides (of the mihrab) a pulpit, also constructed by Al-​hakem, and equaled by none other in the world for workmanship and materials. It was built of ivory, and of the most exquisite woods, such as ebony, sandal, bakam, Indian plantain, citron wood, aloe, and so forth, at the expense of thirty-​five thousand seven hundred and five dinars, three dirhems and one third; and the steps by which it was ascended were nine in number. Another writer says that it was formed of thirty-​six thousand small pieces 124

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of wood, which were fastened together with gold and silver nails, and occa� sionally incrusted with precious stones, and that the original cost of each piece was seven dirhems of silver; that its construction lasted for seven years, eight artists being daily employed in it, with an allowance of half a mithkal Mohammedi a day. This pulpit was once the repository of a copy of the Koran written, as it is generally supposed, by the Khalif ʿOthman.41 The Moroccan historian Ibn ʿIdhāri, who lived in the late thirteenth and early four� teenth centuries in Marrakech, also informs us that the minbar was made of wood and inlaid with red and yellow sandalwood, ebony, Indian wood, and ivory. He adds that the minbar was made by six craftsmen and their trainees, that it took seven years to complete, and that it cost the great amount of 35,705 dinars.42 Although both authors may well have propagated the legendary character of this minbar for specific ideological reasons, it is quite interesting that al-​Maqqarī and Ibn ʿIdhāri both put an emphasis on the accurate sum of dinars it cost and the detailed description concerning its laborious making. Precision in narration probably strengthened the impression of authenticity, especially as the minbar did not survive until the time that these men wrote their histories. As Jonathan Bloom suggests, it is likely that memories of al-​Hakam II’s minbar were preserved in the construction of another minbar in Córdoba—the so-​ called Kutubiyya minbar—made between circa 1125 and 1130 and now in the Badīʿ Palace Museum in Marrakech.43 One of the interesting features of al-​Hakam II’s minbar was the fact that it was on wheels. This, of course, facilitated its transportability within the mosque and was especially useful, as Schacht argues, for moving it in and out of a niche in the qibla wall.44 Schacht demonstrates that this type of wheeled minbar was quite common, especially in North Africa, and he points out that the earliest minbar on wheels is the one built in 849 ce for the Great Mosque in Sfax.45 As Nouha Khoury demonstrates, the lavishly decorated wheeled minbar of al-​ Hakam II was part of the caliph’s endeavors to forge a new caliphal image for the Great Mosque of Córdoba, exploiting art and architecture as carriers of the new identity of Umayyad Spain in the tenth century.46 She rightly interprets al-​Hakam’s whole archi� tectural program as part of the call in the Umayyad Spain for a daʿwa, “a pure Islam of the original ahl al-​bayt.”47 The Great Mosque’s architectural decoration and iconography, Khoury demonstrates, “reinvented it as the ‘first’ Islamic house of worship,” recalling the Great Mosque of the Prophet in Medina and its first minbar.48 In fact, this notion of interpreting the form of the Great Mosque of Córdoba as a reminder of early Muslim devotion in Medina is far older and goes back to the building’s initial construction by ʿAbd al-​Raḥmān I (731–788 ce) and his son Hishām I (r. 788–96 ce) between 785 and 793. No wonder that al-​Maqqarī chose to cite the specific verses of the poet Dihya Mohammed ibn Mohammed al-​Balūnī in his section on the early formation of the Great Mosque of Córdoba: The “Holy Blood” of ʿUthmān ibn Affān in the Great Mosque of Córdoba

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ʾAbdu-​r-​rahman has spent, for the sake of his God and the honour of religion, of silver and gold eighty thousand dinārs. He has employed them in building a temple for the use of this devout nation, and the better observance of the religion of the Prophet Mohammed. There thou wilt see the gold which covers its ceiling in profusion glitter as brightly as the lightning crossing the clouds.49 Four bloodied leaves of the Quran read by ʿUthmān ibn Affān at the very moment of his assassination in Medina in 565 ce were integrated into the mosque.50 They were given a space in the treasury, in a specific room located off the mihrab, and stored in a special container. But they were also exhibited and played a major role in the formation of the rituals around ʿUthmān’s relics in the mosque. The earliest account about these leaves from ʿUthmān’s Quran is found in the writings of the famous historian and geographer al-​Idrīsī (d. ca. 1165), a native of the city of Córdoba, who held an office at the court of the Norman king Roger II (r. 1130–54) in Palermo. Al-​Idrīsī speaks of four folios that were part of the muṣḥaf (codex) written by ʿUthmān that retained drops of his blood from the very day on which he was murdered.51 He adds that the venerated muṣḥaf was taken out of its storage room every morning and brought into the main hall of the mosque to be read by the imam.52 The book was most likely read within the area protected by the maqṣūra (the defined and guarded enclosure next to the mihrab). Ibn Bashkuwāl, who also wrote around the mid-​twelfth century, tells us that this Quran was one of the four Quran codices commissioned by ʿUthmān that were then sent to the four main capital cities of Islam: Mecca, Basra, Kufa, and Damascus.53 The donation of these four books was ideological and sought to emphasize the prestige of the places that received them. However, he also assures us that the one kept in Córdoba was the one once sent by ʿUthmān to Damascus.54 This information empha� sizes that the genealogy of this muṣḥaf in Córdoba was clearly associated, supposedly, with ʿUthmān and, no less importantly, Muʿāwiya, to whom this muṣḥaf was first sent (Muʿāwiya served at the time as the governor of Bilad al-​Sham in Damascus and was later the founder of the Umayyad caliphate). Moreover, as Travis Zadeh notes, later Arabic sources, such as Ibn Khaldūn (1382), even suggest that this important muṣḥaf was brought to al-​Andalus by ʿAbd al-​Rahmān al-​Dākhil, that is, ʿAbd al-​Rahmān I, the founder of the Umayyad dynasty in al-​Andalus.55 The tradition of the four different Quran codices of ʿUthmān fostered further narratives and led to other sites in the Muslim world claiming to be repositories of an authentic Quran of ʿUthmān. For example, one version was said to have been kept in the mosque of Amr in Fustat. It was later removed from the treasury by the Fatimids, 126

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who replaced it with a Quran said to have been written by ʿAlī—a clearly demonstra� tive act that emphasized the shift from Sunni to Shiite Islam in Misr (Egypt).56 Other Quran codices associated with ʿUthmān were recorded in Basra, Kufa, Medina, Mecca, Baghdad, the Fadiliyya madrasa in Cairo (according to al-​Maqrīzī), Fez, and Damas� cus, the exemplar of which was reported to have been brought to the Great Mosque of Damascus from Tiberias in 1099; it was later recorded, in 1184, by Ibn Jubayr as being displayed to visitors.57 According to al-​Maqqarī, the muṣḥaf of Córdoba was protected by a case made of gold with pearls and rubies, covered by a colored silk, and set on an aloewood stand.58 The Quran codices of ʿUthmān kept in Medina and Córdoba are both said to have been presented to the visitors of the mosques on a mahmal, an elaborate wooden piece of furniture made for the display of this important relic.59 This form of presentation is understandable since the Quran codices must have been rather large in size and, being made of parchment folios, quite heavy.60 Ibn Jubayr, for example, tells us of a specific large Quran that he saw in the Haram of Mecca. He dates it to the time of “one of the four Caliphs” and says it was written down by Zayd ibn Thābit eighteen years after Muḥammad’s death in 632 ce. This date for the book (presumably 650 ce) suggests that it was one of ʿUthmān’s codices. Though missing numerous pages, we are told that it has two large wooden boards covered with leather that served as its covers, which were secured by brass clasps. Ibn Jubayr adds, “The pages are big and comprehend much script. We inspected it and were blessed in kissing it and stroking our cheeks with it. . . . The custodian of this dome, whose task it was to show it to us, told us that when the people of Mecca are smitten by a drought, or suffer a rising of prices, they take out this Koran and, opening the door of the venerated House, place it on the blessed threshold with the venerated maqam, the maqam of the Friends (of God) Abraham—may God bless both the Prophet and him.”61 The mahmal of the Quran of ʿUthmān from Córdoba was discussed extensively by Alfred Dessus Lamare in 1936.62 The similarity in the descriptions of the ornamentation of the mahmal and those of the minbar and the fact that both were set on wheels is astounding, making one wonder about the degree of similarity in mosque furnishings. One is also tempted to conclude that al-​Maqqarī may have confused the description of the mahmal with that of the minbar in Córdoba because, as cited above, he writes, “This pulpit was once the repository of a copy of the Koran written, as it is generally supposed, by the Khalif ʿOthman.”63 I will return to this issue below. At any rate, the similarity between the mahmal, namely the transportable stand (kursī) for the Quran of ʿUthmān, and the minbar in the Great Mosque of al-​Hakam II in Córdoba stresses the undoubted importance of this holy relic of ʿUthmān.64 The relic was at that time presented on a “throne-​like” stand and most likely had, in addition to its religious character, a political meaning, acting as the symbol of the legitimacy of the Umayyad power in Spain. The daily ceremony of moving this venerated Quran within the mosque played a role in presenting Umayyad legitimacy through this relic’s cult. It is likely that, The “Holy Blood” of ʿUthmān ibn Affān in the Great Mosque of Córdoba

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as time passed, stories and tales about the mahmal and the minbar from Córdoba were commingled and thus caused confusion as to which of the two was being discussed. The transfer of the holy Quran of ʿUthmān from Córdoba to North Africa, specif� ically Marrakech, took place during the time of the Almohads, most probably in 1157. Dessus Lamare also adds that it was probably done during the reign of the Almohad ruler ʿAbd al-​Muʾmin in the month of Shawwal in 1157.65 It was displayed in Marrakech in 1158 and was recorded there until 1247.66

Manābir and Blessed Relics As we have discussed, in addition to the common function of the minbar as the pulpit on which the imam delivers his khuṭba each Friday, it was also regarded as a symbol of the hegemony and power of a ruler and, for this reason, was likely also accepted as a sacred object in the mosque. The traditions concerning the first minbar of the Prophet and the cult developing around this specific object in the early history of Islam presumably fostered the concept of the minbar’s sacredness and its role as a symbol of authority. Immediately following the Prophet’s death, his minbar was regarded a relic of the past. It was understood as a type of aide-​mémoire. The tradition that claims it was made from the wood of the palm tree in the inner court of Muḥammad’s house suggests how the minbar likewise evoked the memory of the Prophet’s house. Moreover, several traditions concerning the fate of the palm tree in the Medina mosque inform us that, following the Prophet’s request, the stem of the palm tree was buried in the muṣallā (the prayer area) of the house of the Prophet under the very spot where the minbar stood.67 The minbar of the Prophet was thus an aide-​mémoire of the days of Muḥammad and his close friends (ashāb). It is quite understandable that ʿUthmān took the decision of providing the Prophet’s minbar with a cover (qatifa [velvet?]), an act that undoubt� edly immediately endowed the object with sacredness and recalled the memory of the kiswa (cover) of the Ka’ba in the Haram in Mecca. Muʿāwiya did the same. He also sent a cover for the Prophet’s minbar in Mecca, as did the Fatimid caliph al-​Hakim (985–1021).68 Thus the idea of the sacredness associated with this piece of furniture in the mosque was clearly demonstrated by the habit of covering it with a textile kiswa.69 Moreover, the idea of the sacredness of the minbar is well illustrated in the specific customs developed around manābir in different mosques, especially by pilgrims who visited these sites. As mentioned above, one of these rituals was the caressing (maskh) of the minbar of the Prophet for attaining baraka.70 Ibn Jubayr, in the late twelfth century, likewise informs us that pilgrims in Medina touched the minbar of the Prophet with their hands: “We prayed in the Rawdah [the garden] that is between the sacred tomb and the pulpit, and kissed the wooden supports of the old pulpit on which once stood the Prophet—may God bless and preserve him.”71 He adds that right after touching 128

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the pulpit, the custom was to caress one’s face. He explains this act as an expression of the pilgrims’ yearning for baraka.72 The minbar of Muʿāwiya in Damascus was also regarded as a holy relic. In one account, we hear that Muʿāwiya took it with him on his pilgrimage to Mecca and endowed it to the Haram there.73 Another interesting account, which is found in Tabarī, informs us that the minbar of Muʿāwiya was also used for the display of the relics of ʿUthmān. The writer mentions that the relics associated with the murder of ʿUthmān were hung on the minbar of Muʿāwiya in Damascus.74 The early display of relics of ʿUthmān on this minbar clearly demonstrates the shift in function of the minbar and its use as a reliquary or monstrance. The relics of ʿUthmān—the muṣḥaf stained with his blood—displayed on Muʿāwiya’s minbar in Damascus served not only as an aide-​mémoire for ʿUthmān’s canonization of the Quran—the making of order and unity in the Muslim world— but also as a reminder of the murder of ʿUthmān by his rivals. Thus, a new cult of Umayyad martyrdom seemed to develop around the memory of this first Umayyad caliph, Muʿāwiya, who, in fact, was accused of plotting the murder of ʿAlī in January 661 ce in the Great Mosque of Kufa. It was the cult of veneration of one of the members of the Banū Umayya (the Umayyads), namely of ʿUthmān ibn Affān, who was murdered in 656 ce in the mosque of Medina.75 The minbar in Damascus played an important role in establishing this cult. Placed in the Great Mosque of the Umayyads in Damascus and fashioned as a replacement for the primary minbar of the Prophet Muḥammad in Medina, the exemplar in Damascus played a major role in the histories of manābir. In fact, the minbar in Medina was also deliberately used for political messages by the Umayyads. In addition to the account about Muʿāwiya ascending this minbar on the day he took up the role of caliph, Maribel Fierro mentions that “the blood-​stained clothes of ʿUthman b. ʿAffān, the ancestor of the Umayyads, were hung on that same minbar after he had been assassinated.”76 The display of the concrete evidence of a crime on the minbar in Medina stresses its function as a site on which news and messages are transmitted. But at the same time, the stained clothes of ʿUthmān could be understood as sacred relics and, like the stained Quran, may have transformed the minbar into a sort of monstrance. Moreover, it seems that the cult of relics in the very early days of Islam was divided by the politics of the day, split by the rivalry between Shiite and Sunnite powers fighting to consolidate their right to succeed to the throne, specifically their right to appear on and have their names mentioned from the minbar. It would also appear that there was competition about which specific cult venerated the throne/minbar (kursī) of ʿAlī. The accounts of the cult that developed around the minbar of ʿAlī in the city of Kufa illustrate the existence of parallel histories of Sunni and Shiite martyrdom in the very early days of Umayyad rule, when the splitting up between the two forces took a strong political impetus. The account Elizabeth Key Fowden discusses goes back to the year 686 ce in Kufa.77 It tells us how al-​Mukhtār ibn Abī ʿUbayd, an Umayyad rebel who fought against the Umayyad recapture of Mecca in 683/84 ce and later established The “Holy Blood” of ʿUthmān ibn Affān in the Great Mosque of Córdoba

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in Kufa a pro-ʿAlid coalition, celebrated the cult of the throne (al-​kursī) of ʿAlī.78 In a ceremonial act, he revealed the throne to the audience at the mosque. The inaugura� tion, so to speak, of this throne of ʿAlī symbolizes a parallel site of ʿAlid power during the Sunni rule of the Umayyads. Whereas the minbar/throne of the Prophet in the mosque of Medina acted as a symbol for the Umayyads’ right to power and justified their succession to the throne of the Prophet Muḥammad, the throne of ʿAlī in Kufa presented the rivals’ right to rule in Kufa. This city, like Basra, was known for its anti-​ Umayyad sentiment and its pro-ʿAlid core resistant to Umayyad rule.79 It is also worth mentioning that al-​Mukhtār ibn Abī ʿUbayd also took this kursī of ʿAlī to the battlefield, probably as a blessing and benediction to secure God’s help. And it was recounted that the kursī was covered with a specific cloth and was carried on a donkey.80 Nevertheless, with the emergence of the cult of the relics of ʿUthmān in different places in the Islamic world—especially in Córdoba under al-​Hakam II—ʿUthmān became an important Umayyad martyr, and his cult may have functioned as a coun� terbalance to that of ʿAlī. In fact, as Fierro suggests, during the tenth century, as Shiite Fatimid propaganda established its power in North Africa, several Fatimid manābir were destroyed by the Andalusian Sunni regime. And, more important, other Sunni manābir were either restored or newly commissioned. Thus the famous wheeled minbar at the Great Mosque of Córdoba, commissioned by al-​Hakam II, should also be regarded as part of Sunni-​Fatimid enmity and the accentuation of their own spaces of power at this specific point in time. The sects’ rivalry might also explain the decision taken under the Fatimids to replace the muṣḥaf of ʿUthmān in Amr Mosque by the one said to be written by ʿAlī.81

Conclusion: Between Sunni and Shiite Propaganda Both the mahmal and the minbar were on wheels and were designed to be moved from their storage rooms located behind the qibla wall and next to the mihrab in the newly enlarged Great Mosque built by al-​Hakam II. The ritual of moving these furniture pieces within the mosque, from the invisible depositories next to the mihrab to the visible and protective enclosure of the maqṣūra in front of the mihrab, must have been impressive. Thus the maqṣūra was probably turned into a showcase, an “architectural reliquary” for public viewing, acting like a transparent monstrance.82 The reveal of the minbar of Córdoba from its storage space in the mosque made it seem to have emerged “from the shadows into the light” (Quran, sura 2:257), as suggested by Bloom.83 And yet, the possibility of displaying certain folios of the Quran on the minbar of Córdoba should not be overlooked. As mentioned above, histories of particular manābir clearly suggest that relics were sometimes displayed on them. This ritual might explain the veneration of manābir over history and even the desire to revere fragments of them as baraka.84 Moreover, since some Mamluk exemplars were even designed to have storage 130

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spaces secured by locks, it is plausible that specific venerated objects might have been stored in manābir as well.85 The display of the muṣḥaf of ʿUthmān with several stains of his precious blood during specific ceremonies performed on either the wheeled minbar or mahmal in Córdoba by al-​Hakam II might have marked a further stage, if not the zenith, in the development of the relic cult of ʿUthmān.86 It illustrates the broad interest in ʿUthmān’s cult in al-​Andalus—a cult that underscored links between Córdoba and Medina and the early history of Islam. But it also consolidated the history of the Umayyad dynasty in Spain and coupled Córdoba with Damascus. In the Córdoba of al-​Hakam II, this cult probably addressed issues concerning contemporary politics and international affairs, all related to Muslim hegemony in general and Sunni resistance to emerging Shiite power in the Mediterranean in particular. Moreover, if we accept the account by Sahl b. Saʿd, the drops of blood that were spilled over the open Quran at the very moment of ʿUthmān’s murder stopped exactly at verse 137 of the sura al-​Baqarah. This verse addresses the matter of schism (shiqāq) and promised to the right believers that God would support them in their fight against sectarian divisions.87 How appropriate then that these venerated folios of ʿUthmān’s Quran in Córdoba served to intensify Sunni propaganda vis-​à-​vis Shiite ideology. In fact, as Khoury argues, similar to the act of Muʿāwiya’s soldiers in the famous battle of Siffin on the banks of the Euphrates in 657 ce, during which leaves of the Quran were raised to evoke divine aid, in al-​Hakam’s Córdoba, “ʿUthmān’s muṣḥaf is once again raised as the instrument of taḥkīm in the blood feud against the Abbasids who has usurped the caliphate and the Fatimids who had declared their own in 910, both unjustly.”88

Notes 1. Wikipedia, s.v. “Minbar,” last modified 15 March 2023, https://​en​.wikipedia​.org​/w​/index​ .php​?title=​Minbar​&​oldid=​1144833237. 2. Encyclopaedia Britannica Online, s.v. “Minbar,” by Jonathan M. Bloom, 20 July 1998, https://​www​ .britannica​.com​/topic​/minbar. 3. Bearman et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., s.v. “Minbar,” by J. Pedersen et al., 7:73. See also Houtsma et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 1st ed., s.v. “Minbar,” by Ernst Diez. It should be noted that the term kursī, which at times refers to a Quran’s stand, could be applied to another particular furniture piece of the Muslim world that strongly recalls a minbar; see Erzini and Vernoit, “Professional Chair.” 4. See Turner, Dictionary of Art, s.v. “Minbar”; see also Bloom and Blair, Grove Encyclopedia of Islamic Art and Architecture, s.v. “Minbar,” 2:534–36, http://​www​ .oxfordislamicstudies​.com​/article​/opr​/t276​/e601. Moreover, the Prophet used the minbar for important

announcements (like the prohibition of wine), and his khuṭbāt were not restricted to the Friday worship (as we today associate the khuṭba with the Friday noon prayer), and could be delivered without a minbar (see Bearman et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., s.v. “Minbar,” by J. Pedersen et al., 7:74). It is worth noting that the musallā of the mosque of Medina during the lifetime of the Prophet (d. 632 ce) was used for divine services, and the minbar was therefore located outside this space; see Becker, “Die Kanzel im Kultus,” 345–46, and Houtsma et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 1st ed., s.v. “Minbar,” by Ernst Diez, 5:499. 5. Becker, “Die Kanzel im Kultus”; Schacht, “Unknown Type of Minbar,” see esp. 172. On the use of the word minbar in the Quran and its association with the judge seat, see also Mielck, “Zur Geschichte der Kanzel.” 6. It is worth mentioning that elevated and especially stepped thrones were also used in Jewish

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and Christian contexts. These include, for example, 18. Bearman et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., the five-​stepped seat that is located to the right s.v. “Minbar,” by J. Pedersen et al., 7:74. side of the Torah niche in the synagogue of Dura 19. Becker, “Die Kanzel im Kultus,” 333. Europos (275 ce) (Kraeling, Synagogue, 8.1:17) and the 20. Ibn Battuta, Travels of Ibn Battuta, 1:164. so-​called Seat of Moses, which was in use in early 21. The former two sources are based on the medieval synagogues in Palestine and Syria (Renov, accounts of al-​Wāqidī; see Becker, “Die Kanzel im “Seat of Moses”). See, for example, the carved basalt Kultus,” 334. seat from the fourth- to sixth-​century synagogue in 22. Ibn Battuta, Travels of Ibn Battuta, 1:173–74. Chorazin (Israel Museum, Jerusalem). Pre-​Islamic 23. See Bearman et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, stone and marble pulpits with stairs survive from 2nd ed., s.v. “Minbar,” by J. Pedersen et al., 7:74. the early Byzantine period, datable mainly to the 24. Meier, “Der Prediger auf der Kanzel,” fifth and sixth centuries. See, for example, the 226–27n7. pulpit (ambo) from Hagios Georgios in Thessaloniki 25. Ibid., 227n8, and Travels of Ibn Jubayr, 200. (now in the İstanbul Arkeoloji Müzeleri) (Zchome� 26. Travels of Ibn Jubayr, 197, and Meier, lidse, “Epiphany of the Logos”) and the fragments “Der Prediger auf der Kanzel,” 227. of a marble pulpit with a raised platform and two 27. Becker, “Die Kanzel im Kultus,” 343. staircases excavated under the waters of Marzamemi, 28. Al-Samhūdī, Wafa‘ al-​wafa, 2:15, cited by Kühn, near Sicily (Russell and Leidwanger, “Energetics of Mamlukische Minbare, 344. Lost Cargoes,” esp. 13–16). See also the Coptic throne 29. Kühn, Mamlukische Minbare, 344. that was excavated by James Quibell in the cloister of 30. Ibid.; see also Meier, “Der Prediger auf der Apa Jeremias in Saqqara (now in the Coptic Museum, Kanzel,” 228. Cairo) (Creswell, Umayyads, 41, fig. 15). 31. Kühn, Mamlukische Minbare, 344–45. 7. Schacht, “Unknown Type of Minbar,” 172. 32. Meier, “Der Prediger auf der Kanzel,” esp. 8. Schacht, “Unknown Type of Minbar,” 170. 227–28. See Sauvaget, La Mosquée omeyyade. On professorial 33. Bearman et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., chairs used in mosques that are similar to manābir, s.v. “Minbar,” by J. Pedersen et al., 7:76. see Erzini and Vernoit, “Professorial Chair.” 34. Picotin and Déléry, “Fragments d’histoire.” 9. Bearman et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., 35. Berchem, “Chaire de la Mosquée d’Hébron.” s.v. “Minbar,” by J. Pedersen et al., 7:75; this case was 36. See Pauty, “Minbar de Qous”; on woodwork at mentioned by ʿAlī ibn al-​Athīr in his famous book this time, see Bloom, “Woodwork in Syria.” al-Kāmil fīl-​tārīkh. 37. See mainly Auld, “Minbar of Al-​Aqsa.” 10. Ibid. See also Pedersen, Der Eid bei den Semiten, 38. Bloom et al., Minbar from the Kutubiyya Mosque. 144, 147. 39. The story of the dismantling of the minbar 11. Bearman et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., of the Great Mosque at Damietta and the sending of s.v. “Minbar,” by J. Pedersen et al., 7:75. its fragments to Europe, as related by Ibn Wāṣil 12. “Some Elements of the Mosque: Minbar— (1208–1298), likewise emphasized this notion. This Minber,” All About Turkey, accessed 5 October 2023, occurred during the Fifth Crusade, probably in https://​www​.allaboutturkey​.com​/mosque2​.html. 1219, when the city was captured and handed over 13. The Christian history of this paradigmatic to al-​Malik al-​Kāmil. The destruction of the minbar Umayyad monument is addressed by Tom Nickson’s by the Crusaders should then be understood as an essay in this volume. act symbolizing the fall of Ayyubid power in this 14. Khoury, “Meaning of the Great Mosque,” and city. Accordingly, the sending of its fragments to Ruggles, “Stratigraphy of Forgetting.” Europe should be interpreted as an action similar 15. See the discussion on the rivalry between the to the transport of trophies of war to the capital as three caliphates at this specific moment in history, a sign of victory. The fragments were the concrete, namely in Baghdad, Cairo, and Córdoba: Anderson visual evidence asserting the end of Muslim power in and Pruitt, “Three Caliphates”; see also Martinez-​ Damietta. See Gabrieli, Arab Historians of the Crusades, Gros, Idéologie omeyyade. 265–66. 16. Becker, “Die Kanzel im Kultus,” 331–37; Meier, 40. See Bloom, “Masterpiece Minbar.” “Der Prediger auf der Kanzel”; Busse, “Die Kanzel des 41. Al-​Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-ṭīb, ed. and trans. Propheten.” For a discussion on the term minbar and de Gayangos, History of the Mohammedan Dynasties, its Ethiopic root, see Schwally, “Lexikalische Studien.” 1:222. 17. The name of the carpenter Bāqūm is also 42. Ibn ʿIdhārī, Al-​bayān al-​mughrib fī akhbār mentioned as the architect who rebuilt the Ka’ba mulūk al-​Andalus wa-​l-​maghrib, quoted in Fierro, house in Mecca after the fire of 608 ce; see Shalem, “Mobile Minbar,” 153; see also Buresi, “D’une pénin� “Made for the Show,” 273n29. sule à l’autre.”

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43. On this minbar, see mainly Bloom et al., Minbar from the Kutubiyya Mosque, 21, and Bloom, “Masterpiece Minbar.” 44. Schacht, “Unknown Type of Minbar,” 150, 154. The fact that the minbar on wheels in the Maghreb was pushed back into a niche might suggest, as Carboni argues, that it had to be out of sight when not in use (based on Maliki juristic rule) (“Historical and Artistic Significance,” 45–46). 45. Schacht, “Unknown Type of Minbar,” esp. 149–50. See also Maroc médiéval, in which several manābir on wheels were on display, which are also listed in Fierro, “Mobile Minbar,” 159. 46. Khoury, “Meaning of the Great Mosque,” 80–98. For a more recent discussion about the Great Mosque of Córdoba, see Calvo Capilla, “Mosque of Cordoba”; see also Grabar, “Notes sur le mihrâb”; Dodds, Architecture and Ideology, 106–9; and Ruggles, “Stratigraphy of Forgetting.” 47. Khoury, “Meaning of the Great Mosque,” 89. 48. Ibid. 49. Al-​Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-ṭīb, ed. and trans. de Gayangos, History of the Mohammedan Dynasties, 1:219. 50. On the murder of ʿUthmān, see Hinds, “Murder of the Caliph”; see also Madelung, Succession to Muhammad, 78–140, and Sellheim, Der zweite Bürgerkrieg, 87–111. 51. Zadeh, “From Drops of Blood,” 330–31n36; see also Dessus Lamare, “Muṣḥaf de la mosquée,” 552. 52. Zadeh, “From Drops of Blood,” 332. 53. Reported by Ibn Marzuq and retold by al-Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-ṭīb, ed. and trans. de Gayangos, History of the Mohammedan Dynasties, 1:222. On the muṣḥaf of ʿUthmān, see Altıkulaç, Al-​Muṣḥaf; see also Shalem, “On Original and ‘Originals.’ ” 54. Dessus Lamare, “Muṣḥaf de la mosquée,” 552. 55. Ibn Khaldūn, Kitāb al-ʿibar, 7:170; cited by Zadeh, “From Drops of Blood,” 333–34. 56. Dessus Lamare, “Muṣḥaf de la mosquée,” 574 (citing al-​Maqrīzī). The tension between Shiite relics and Sunni relics, especially as to Quran codices writ� ten by ʿAlī or by ʿUthmān, is emphasized by Mouton, “De quelques reliques conservées,” 248. 57. For the transfer of the ʿUthmān’s Quran from Tiberias or perhaps Maʿarrat al-​Nuʿmān to Damas� cus, see Buresi, “D’une péninsule à l’autre,” 16; see also Mouton, “De quelques reliques conservées,” esp. 247 (for its transfer in 1099) and 253 (for the record� ing of the Quran in 1184 by Ibn Jubayr). 58. Al-​Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-ṭīb, ed. and trans. de Gayangos, History of the Mohammedan Dynasties, 222. Al-​Maqqarī discusses in length the scholarly debate about the authenticity of the ʿUthmān Quran of Cordoba (223–24). 59. Ibid., esp. 222.

60. A marble relief from the synagogue of Capernaum in Palestine (fourth or fifth century ce), displays the image of the Ark of the Covenant, a piece of furniture that was made for holding the stone slabs of the Ten Commandments, set on wheels. See Ritmeyer, “Is the Ark of the Covenant Depicted.” 61. Travels of Ibn Jubayr, 99–100. 62. Dessus Lamare, “Muṣḥaf de la mosquée,” esp. 566–67 and n. 5. Dessus Lamare also notes that the root of the word mahmal, which is sometimes pronounced as mihmal (pl. mahāmil), suggests a Semitic origin linked to the biblical word mahmal in Ezekiel 24:21 (mahmal nafshekhem), which denotes an “object of your affection”; this expression relates to the Temple in Jerusalem. Thus mahmal denotes an object that initiates the feelings of love and compas� sion. 63. Al-​Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-ṭīb, ed. and trans. de Gayangos, History of the Mohammedan Dynasties, 1:222; also cited by Houtsma et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 1st ed., s.v. “Minbar,” by Ernst Diez, 5:500, who says that the minbar of al-​Hakam II in Córdoba contained the famous Quran of ʿUmar. 64. The third Umayyad caliph, Hishām II (r. 976–1003; 1010–13), the son of al-​Hakam II, was also interested in collecting relics of the pre- and very early Islamic era. See Fierro, “Mobile Minbar,” 162 (based on the accounts of Ibn Bassām). 65. See Dessus Lamare, “Muṣḥaf de la mosquée,” 555. 66. The afterlife of the muṣḥaf outside the Iberian Peninsula, namely after its transfer from Córdoba to Marrakech in 1157, was first discussed by ibid., esp. 556–58; see also Zadeh, “From Drops of Blood,” esp. 336–41, and Bennison, “The Almohad and the Qurʾān.” 67. Ibn Saʿd, cited in Busse, “Die Kanzel des Propheten,” 104. 68. Bearman et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., s.v. “Minbar,” by J. Pedersen et al., 7:75; see also Becker, “Die Kanzel im Kultus,” 434. 69. This costume is mostly rooted in the aesthetic of the sacred (especially in monotheistic religions) and in the idea of concealment and the avoidance of the seeing the most sacred objects, as was often the case in sacred spaces. See Hofius, Der Vorhang vor dem Thron Gottes; Landsberger, “Old-​Time Torah Curtains”; Papastavrou, “Voile, symbole de l’Incarna� tion”; Eberlein, Apparitio Regis. On the veil of Moses, see Brock, “Jacob of Serugh”; Agnon, “Idea of the Radiant Skin”; Dozeman, “Masking Moses”; Britt, “Concealment, Revelation and Gender.” 70. Becker, “Die Kanzel im Kultus,” 343. 71. Travels of Ibn Jubayr, 197. 72. Meier, “Der Prediger auf der Kanzel,” 227. 73. Becker, “Die Kanzel im Kultus,” 338.

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74. Ibid., 345. 75. On the profit that Muʿāwiya sought to gain from the murder of ʿUthmān, see Hinds, “Murder of the Caliph,” 496. 76. Fierro, “Mobile Minbar,” 156. ʿAbd Allāh ibn Arqam, a treasurer at the service of the Caliphs ʿUmar and ʿUthmān, in a performative act of resigning from his position as treasurer because of a disagreement with ʿUthmān, suspended the keys of the public treasury (bayt al-​māl) on the pulpit in Medina. See Madelung, Succession to Muhammad, 93–94. 77. Key Fowden, “Schreine und Banner,” esp. 422–26. 78. Fishbein, Victory of the Marwānids, esp. 67–73. 79. See Natif, “ ‘Painters Will Be Punished.’ ” 80. Key Fowden, “Schreine und Banner,” 424, and Fishbein, Victory of the Marwānids, 69–73. 81. Dessus Lamare, “Muṣḥaf de la mosquée,” 547. 82. The term “architectural reliquary” was coined by Khoury, “Meaning of the Great Mosque,” 86. 83. Bloom et al., Minbar from the Kutubiyya Mosque, 19. 84. Fernández Jiménez suggested that the stor� ing of the minbar of Córdoba in a specific room behind the Qibla wall after the Friday sermon might have been done to avoid the believers taking pieces as relics (cited in Fierro, “Mobile Minbar,” 154). 85. See, for example, the minbar of the mosque of Timrāz al-​Aḥmadī (1477 ce), depicted in Kühn,

Mamlukische Minbare, plate 140a. In fact, numerous modern manābir contain cupboards for the storage of books at their back, located exactly beneath their platform. The idea of a throne that incorporates a relic is quite interesting, especially if one considers the Ark of the Covenant in the Jewish Temple as a throne designed for God’s shekinah. See also the so-​called throne of Saint Mark in Venice, which is an usual and relatively small throne—measuring 57 7/8 × 21 5/8 × 13 inches (147 × 55 × 33 centimeters)— made as a reliquary display, or the marble throne in Aachen, which has a possible relic niche (Hahn, “Meaning of Early Medieval Treasuries,” esp. 8–9). 86. If we can trust the fourteenth-​century histo� rian Ibn Khaldūn and his hypothesis that the muṣḥaf of ʿUthmān arrived in Spain in 755 ce via ʿAbd al-Rahmān ibn Muʿāwiya (al-​Dākhil), it is plausible that it might have been displayed on the old minbar of Córdoba as well. 87. The verse in Sūrat al-​Baqarah (2:137) reads: “So if they believe as you believe, then they are indeed on the right path; but if they turn back, it is they who are in schism; for God will suffice you against them, for He is the All-​Hearing, the All-​Knowing.” See discussion in Zadeh, “From Drops of Blood,” 331–32. 88. Khoury, “Meaning of the Great Mosque,” 86. On the assassination of the third Caliph ʿUthmān b. Affān, see Hinds, “Murder of the Caliph.”

Bibliography Agnon, Mordechai. “The Idea of the Radiant Skin of Moses’s Face and the Veil” [in Hebrew]. Beth Mikra 104 (1985): 186–88. Altıkulaç, Tayyar, ed. Al-​Muṣḥaf al-​Sharīf Attributed to ʿUthmān ibn ʿAffān. Istanbul: Research Centre for Islamic History, Art and Culture, 2007. Anderson, Glaire D., and Jennifer Pruitt. “The Three Caliphates, a Comparative Approach.” In A Companion to Islamic Art and Architecture, edited by Finbarr Barry Flood and Gülru Necipoğlu, 1:223–49. Hoboken: John Wiley, 2017. Auld, Sylvia. “The Minbar of Al-​Aqsa: Form and Func� tion.” In Image and Meaning in Islamic Art, edited by Robert Hillenbrand, 42–60. London: Altajir Trust, 2005. Bearman, P., et al. Encyclopaedia of Islam. 2nd ed. Vol. 7. Leiden: Brill, 1993. Becker, C. H. “Die Kanzel im Kultus des alten Islam.” In Orientalische Studien Theodor Nöldeke zum siebzigsten Geburtstag, edited by Carl Bezold, 1:331–51. Giessen: Alfred Töpelmann, 1906.

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Bennison, Amira. “The Almohad and the Qurʾān of ʿUthmān: The Legacy of Umayyads of Cordoba in the Twelfth Century Maghrib.” Al-​Masāq 19, no. 2 (2007): 131–54. Berchem, Max van. “La chaire de la Mosquée d’Hé� bron et le martyrion de la tête de Husain à Ascalon.” Opera Minora 2 (1978): 633–45. Bloom, Jonathan M. “The Masterpiece Minbar.” Aramco World 49, no. 3 (1998): 2–11. http://​www​ .saudiaramcoworld​.com​/issue​/199803​/the​ .masterpiece​.minbar​.htm. ———. “Woodwork in Syria, Palestine and Egypt During the 12th and 13th Century.” In Ayyubid Jerusalem: The Holy City in Context, 1187–1250, edited by Robert Hillenbrand and Sylvia Auld, 129–46. London: Altajir Trust, 2009. Bloom, Jonathan M., and Sheila S. Blair, eds. The Grove Encyclopedia of Islamic Art and Architecture. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009. Bloom, Jonathan M., et al. The Minbar from the Kutubiyya Mosque. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 1998.

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

Britt, Brian. “Concealment, Revelation, and Gender: The Veil of Moses in the Bible and in Christian Art.” Religion and the Arts 7 (2003): 227–73. Brock, Sebastian. “Jacob of Serugh on the Veil of Moses.” Sobornost 3 (1981): 70–85. Buresi, Pascal. “D’une péninsule à l’autre: Cordoue, ʿUṭmān (644–56) et les arabes à l’époque Almo� hade (XIIe–XIIIe siècle).” Al-​Qanṭara 31 (2010): 7–29. Busse, Heribert. “Die Kanzel des Propheten im Para� diesgarten.” Die Welt des Islam 28 (1988): 99–111. Calvo Capilla, Susana. “The Mosque of Cordoba.” In The Religious Architecture of Islam, edited by Hasan-​Uddin Khan and Kathryn Blair Moore, 2:30–41. Turnhout: Brepols, 2022. Carboni, Stefano. “Historical and Artistic Significance of the Minbar from the Kutubiyya Mosque.” In The Minbar from the Kutubiyya Mosque, 41–65. New York: Metropoli� tan Museum of Art, 1998. Creswell, Keppel A. C. Umayyads, A.D. 622–750, vol. 1 of Early Muslim Architecture. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1932. Dessus Lamare, Alfred. “Le muṣḥaf de la mosquée de Cordoue et son mobilier mécanique.” Journal Asiatique 23 (1938): 551–75. Dodds, Jerrilynn D. Architecture and Ideology in Early Medieval Spain. University Park: Penn State University Press, 1990. Dozeman, Thomas B. “Masking Moses and Mosaic Authority in Torah.” Journal of Biblical Literature 119 (2000): 21–45. Eberlein, Johann Konrad. Apparitio Regis—revelatio veritatis: Studien zur Darstellung des Vorhangs in der bildenden Kunst von der Spätantike bis zum Ende des Mittelalter. Wiesbaden: Reichert, 1982. Erzini, Nadia, and Stephen Vernoit. “The Professorial Chair (kursī ʿilmī or kursī li-​l-​waʿẓ wa-​l-​irshād) in Morocco.” Al-​Qanṭara 34, no. 1 (July 2013): 89–122. Fierro, Maribel. “The Mobile Minbar in Cordoba: How the Umayyads of Al-​Andalus Claimed the Inheritance of the Prophet.” Jerusalem Studies in Arabic and Islam 33 (2007): 153. Fishbein, Michael, ed. The Victory of the Marwānids, A.D. 685-93/A.H. 66–73, vol. 21 of The History of al-Ṭabarī. Albany: State University of New York Press, 1985. Gabrieli, Francesco. Arab Historians of the Crusades. Translated by E. J. Costello. London: Rout� ledge & Kegan Paul, repr. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984. Grabar, Oleg. “Notes sur le mihrâb de la Grande Mosquée de Cordoue.” In Le mihrab dans l’architecture et la religion musulmanes, edited by Alexandre Papadopoulo, 115–18. Leiden: Brill, 1988.

Hahn, Cynthia. “The Meaning of Early Medieval Treasuries.” In Reliquiare im Mittelalter, edited by Bruno Reudenbach and Gia Toussaint, 1–20. Berlin: Akademie, 2005. Hinds, Martin. “The Murder of the Caliph ʿUthmān.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 3, no. 4 (1972): 450–69. Hofius, Otfried. Der Vorhang vor dem Thron Gottes. Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 1972. Houtsma, M. Th., et al., eds. Encyclopaedia of Islam. 1st ed. 1927; Leiden: Brill, 1987. Ibn Battuta. The Travels of Ibn Battuta, A.D. 1325– 1354. Translated by H. A. R. Gibb. Edited by C. Defrémery and B. R. Sanguinetti. Cambridge: Hakluyt Society at Cambridge University Press, 1958. Ibn Khaldūn. Kitāb al-ʿibar wa-dīwān al-​mubtadaʾ wa-​al-​khabar. Edited by Yūsuf A. Dāghir. 7 vols. Beirut: Dār al-Kitāb al-Lubnānī, 1959. Key Fowden, Elizabeth. “Schreine und Banner: Paläomuslime und ihr materielles Erbe.” In Denkraum Spätantike: Reflexionen von Antiken im Umfeld des Koran, edited by Nora Schmidt, Nora K. Schmid, and Angelika Neuwirth, 405–30. Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 2016. Khoury, Nouha N. N. “The Meaning of the Great Mosque of Cordoba in the Tenth Century.” Muqarnas 13 (1996): 80–98. Kraeling, Carl H. The Synagogue, vol. 8 of The Excavations at Dura-​Europos: Final Report. Reprint (with new foreword and indices). New York: Ktav, 1980. Kühn, Miriam. Mamlukische Minbare: Islamische Predigtkanzeln in Ägypten, Syrien, Libanon, Israel und den Palästinensischen Autonomiegebieten zwischen 1250 und 1517. Göttingen: V&R Unipress, 2019. Landsberger, Franz. “Old-​Time Torah Curtains.” Hebrew Union College Annual 19 (1945/46): 353–87. Madelung, Wilferd. The Succession to Muhammad: A Study of the Early Caliphate. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997. Al-​Maqqarī, Aḥmad ibn Muḥammad. Nafḥ al-ṭīb min ghusn al-​Andalus al-​ratīb wa-​dhikr wazīrihā Lisān al-​Dīn ibn al-​Khatīb. Edited by M. Tawil and Y. Tawil. 8 vols. Beirut: Dār al-​Kutub al-ʿIlmiyya, 1995. Translated as The History of the Mohammedan Dynasties in Spain. Edited and translated by Pascual de Gayangos. 2 vols. London: Allen, 1840–43. Le Maroc médiéval: Un empire de l’Afrique à l’Espagne. Paris: Hazan, 2014. Martinez-​Gros, Gabriel. L’idéologie omeyyade: La construction de la légitimité du Califat de Cordoue (Xe–XIe siècles). Bibliothèque de la Casa de Velázquez 8. Madrid: Casa de Velázquez, 1992.

The “Holy Blood” of ʿUthmān ibn Affān in the Great Mosque of Córdoba

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Meier, Fritz. “Der Prediger auf der Kanzel (Minbar).” In Studien zur Geschichte und Kultur des Vorderen Orients: Festschrift für Berthold Spuler zum siebzigsten Geburtstag, edited by Hans R. Roemer and Albrecht Noth, 225–48. Leiden: Brill, 1981. Mielck, R. “Zur Geschichte der Kanzel im Islam.” Der Islam 13 (1923): 109–12. Mouton, Jean-​Michel. “De quelques reliques conservées à Damas au Moyen Âge: Straté� gie politique et religiosité populaire sous les Bourides.” Annales islamologiques 27 (1993): 245–54. Natif, Mika. “ ‘Painters Will Be Punished’: The Poli� tics of Figural Representation Amongst the Umayyads.” In The Image Debate: Figural Representation in Islam and Across the World, edited by Christiane Gruber, 32–45. London: Gingko Library, 2019. Papastavrou, Hélène. “Le voile, symbole de l’Incar� nation: Contribution à une étude sémantique.” Cahiers archéologiques 41 (1993): 141–68. Pauty, Edmond. “Le minbar de Qous.” In Mélanges Maspero, vol. 2, Orient islamique, 41–48. Cairo: Institut français d’archéologie oriental, 1940. Pedersen, Johannes. Der Eid bei den Semiten, in seinem Verhältnis zu verwandten Erscheinungen sowie die Stellung des Eides im Islam. Strasbourg: K. J. Trübner, 1914. Picotin, Nadège, and Claire Déléry. “Fragments d’his� toire du minbar de Kairouan.” In The Aghlabids and Their Neighbors: Art and Material Culture in Ninth-​Century North Africa, edited by Glaire D. Anderson, Corisande Fenwick, and Mariam Rosser-​Owen, 207–27. Leiden: Brill, 2017. Renov, I. “The Seat of Moses.” Israel Exploration Journal 5, no. 4 (1955): 262–67. Ritmeyer, Leen. “Is the Ark of the Covenant Depicted on a Carved Stone at Capernaum?” Ritmeyer Archaeological Design, July 3, 2018. https://​www​ .ritmeyer​.com​/2018​/07​/03​/is​-the​-ark​-of​-the​ -covenant​-depicted​-on​-a​-carved​-stone​-at​ -capernaum/. Ruggles, D. Fairchild. “The Stratigraphy of Forget� ting: The Great Mosque of Cordoba and Its Contested Legacy.” In Contested Cultural Heritage: Religion, Nationalism, Erasure, and Exclusion in a Global World, edited by Helaine Silverman, 51–67. New York: Springer, 2011.

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Russell, Ben, and Justin Leidwanger. “The Energetics of Lost Cargoes: A New Perspective on the Late Antique Marzamemi 2 Wreck.” Memories of the America Academy in Rome 64 (2021): 5–28. Al-​Samhūdī. Wafa‘ al-​wafa bi-​akhbar dar al mustafa. Edited by Abd al-​Hamid and Muhammad Muhyi al-​Din. 3 vols. Beirut: Dar al Kutub al ‘Ilmiyah, 1984. Sauvaget, Jean. La Mosquée omeyyade de Médine. Paris: Vanoest, 1947. Schacht, J. “An Unknown Type of Minbar and Its Historical Significance.” Ars Orientalis 2 (1957): 149–73. Schwally, Friedrich. “Lexikalische Studien.” Zeitschrift der deutschen morgenländischen Gesellschaft 52 (1898): 146–48. Sellheim, Rudolf. Der zweite Bürgerkrieg in Islam (680–92): Das Ende der mekkanisch-​medinensischen Vorherrschaft. Weisbaden: F. Steiner, 1970. Shalem, Avinoam. “Made for the Show: The Medieval Treasury of the Kaʿba in Mecca.” In The Iconography of Islamic Art: Festschrift in Honour of Professor Robert Hillenbrand, edited by Bernard O’Kane, 269–83. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2005. ———. “On Original and ‘Originals’: The ‘Copy’ of the Tashkent Qurʾān Codex in the Rare Collec� tion Books at the Butler Library.” Philological Encounters 5, nos. 3–4 (2020): 1–26. https://​brill​ .com​/view​/journals​/phen​/aop​/article​-10​.1163​ -24519197​-BJA10009​/article​-10​.1163​-24519197​ -BJA10009​.xml. The Travels of Ibn Jubayr. Translated by R. J. C. Broad� hurst. London: Jonathan Cape, 1952. Turner, Jane, ed. The Dictionary of Art. Vol. 21. New York: Grove, 1996. Zadeh, Travis. “From Drops of Blood: Charisma and Political Legitimacy in the Translation of the Uthmanic Codex of al-​Andalus.” Journal of Arabic Literature 39, no. 3 (2008): 321–46. Zchomelidse, Nino. “The Epiphany of the Logos in the Ambo in the Rotunda (Hagios Georgios) in Thessaloniki.” In Synergies in Visual Culture (Bildkulturen im Dialog): Festschrift for Gerhard Wolf, edited by Manuela De Giorgi, Annette Hoffmann, and Nicola Suthor, 83–96. Munich: Fink, 2013.

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

6 The Names of God Art, Power, and Ritual in Medieval Córdoba

Tom Nickson

Texts in three different scripts and languages offer competing notions of power on the great fourteenth-century Pardon Portal of Córdoba Cathedral, formerly the city’s congregational mosque (fig. 6.1). A damaged vernacular inscription in Lombardic capitals encloses the arch and refers to King Enrique II of Castile-León as “most high and mighty” (muy alto et poderoso), biblical epithets that were also paired in contemporaneous royal palaces and chancery documents (fig. 6.2, marked A).1 Another fragmentary stucco inscription, this time in Latin and in Gothic lettering, follows the square alfiz that frames the portal. It forms part of a prayer to “God Almighty” (omnipotens Deus), a formulation frequent in the book of Genesis that ultimately derives from the Hebrew, “El Shaddai” (‫ֵאל ַַׁש ַַּדי‬‎ֵ ).2 Finally, hundreds of bronze lozenges nailed to the portal’s wooden doors bear Arabic inscriptions in angular Kufic script with the phrase “Sovereignty belongs to God alone” (Al-mulk li’llāh waḥdahu), which draws on the Quranic conception of mulk (power, sovereignty, or kingship) (fig. 6.3).3 The doxology was closely associated with the Almohad dynasty that controlled Córdoba and much of al-Andalus in the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, until the city was captured in 1236 by King Fernando III of Castile and its congregational mosque converted to a church.4 The inscriptions on Córdoba’s Pardon Portal evoke a cacophony of voices shouted, chanted, or softly muttered in different tongues, but they represent just one element of the portal’s silent rhetoric. Whereas most contemporary church portals depended on scale, color, and narrative sculpture to express their eulogistic message, in Córdoba

Figure 6.1 Pardon Portal, Córdoba Cathedral, made between 1377 and 1390. From an engraving in José Amador de los Ríos and Rodrigo Amador de los Ríos, Monumentos latino-​bizantinos de Córdoba, Monumentos arquitectónicos de España (Madrid, 1879), 2: n.p. Photo: author.

E B D C A

it is conveyed through the combination of inscriptions, ornament, materials, and scale, thanks not least to the 9.45-meter-​high bronze doors, the largest to survive anywhere in medieval Europe or the Mediterranean.5 In this essay, I focus on the portal’s relationship to structures of power, simultaneously offering a deep dive into fourteenth-​century Córdoba and new perspectives on current debates regarding ornament, performativity, magic, materiality, rhetoric, and cross-​cultural transfer.

The Pardon Portal, Córdoba, and the Kings of Castile

Figure 6.2 Pardon Portal, detail of carved alfiz: (A) inscription showing “el muy alto et poderoso don Enrrique”; (B) traces of earlier stucco; (C) the crown timbre over the royal arms; (D) the arms of Juan I of Castile. F, Kufic epigraphy, “ʿIzz li-​mawlānā al-sulṭān”; Córdoba Cathedral, made between 1377 and 1390. Photo: author.

Córdoba’s Pardon Portal opens through the massive wall that encloses the north flank of the cathedral’s cloister, formerly the patio of the Great Mosque (fig. 6.4).6 Closed by two huge pine doors covered with bronze plaques and inscriptions, the arched opening is framed by a square alfiz formed of carved stucco with inscriptions and vegetal designs. Flanking the portal are shallow polylobed niches with vestiges of Baroque paintings.7 Directly over the alfiz, spoliated columns and capitals support The Names of God

139

Figure 6.3 Pardon Portal, detail of the left door and knocker, Córdoba Cathedral, made between 1377 and 1390. Photo: author.

polylobed arches, creating three shallow niches with further Baroque paintings. A strainer arch above supports a heavy frieze and cornice with a relief sculpture of God the Father, added during reforms to the portal in the 1650s.8 Directly aligned with the mihrab and high altar (before it moved in 1607), the Pardon Portal served as the principal entrance to Córdoba’s mosque-​cathedral before and after its conversion in 1236 (fig. 6.5, A). Described as the “portal of the minaret” (bāb aṣ-ṣawmaʻa) in the tenth century, the original portal on this site was presumably constructed together with the adjacent minaret, built in the 950s and enclosed in a new bell tower between 1593 and 1664.9 As I will show, the portal that stands today is largely the result of remodeling in the 1370s and 1380s, but traces of earlier carved stucco— visible on the alfiz where the fourteenth-​century stucco has come away—resemble that on the mosque-​cathedral’s other tenth-​century portals and suggest that much of the original portal survives under its fourteenth-​century remodeling (fig. 6.2, B).10 Indeed, the portal’s basic morphology is broadly similar to portals on the mosque-​cathedral’s west façade, added to the mosque in the 960s; like them, it was probably always closed with gilded bronze or copper-​alloy doors (fig. 6.6).11 The portal is first mentioned after 1236 in the cathedral’s Libro de las tablas, which in 1364 refers to the reception of the bishop-​elect “a la puerta del Perdón.”12 This designation was common in medieval Iberia, usually connected to the indulgences or “pardons” granted to those visiting the church.13 The earliest such indulgence for Córdoba’s mosque-​cathedral dates to 1246, but the name may also refer to the custom

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of proclaiming juridical decisions from the door, documented both before and after 1236.14 The vernacular inscription around the portal’s opening, damaged at the start and end, dates the portal to the Hispanic era of 1415, equivalent to 1377 ce: “The second day of the month of March in the year 1415 of the era of Caesar, reigning the most high and mighty Lord Enrique, king of Castile and son of the most” (dia dos del mes de marco de la era de cesar de mill et quatrocientos et quinçe annos rreynante el muy alto et poderoso don enrrique rey de castilla et fiio del muy alt[o]) (fig. 6.2, A). This must refer to Enrique Trastámara, the illegitimate son of Alfonso XI, who after a long civil war murdered his half-​brother, King Pedro I (r. 1350–69) and ruled as Enrique II from 1369 until his own death in 1379. Enrique’s (contested) kingship is emphasized by the crown that divides the word “annos” and is positioned directly over a medallion with the royal arms of castles and crowned lions (fig. 6.2, C).15 The inscription, first recorded in 1677, presumably once extended down the full length of the jambs.16 It draws on standard formulae, and probably began with “estas puertas [or portadas] fueron acabadas el dia dos” and ended “fijo del muy alto don alfonso rey de castilla.”17 Enrique II regularly visited Córdoba between 1374 and 1377, lingering there for several months in 1377 when he arranged the betrothal of his illegitimate son Fadrique to Beatriz, daughter of King Fernando I of Portugal.18 Construction of the portal in 1377 is not absolutely certain, however, for shields in the portal’s spandrels bear the arms of Castile-​León combined with those of Portugal and were presumably carved after November 1383, when Juan I (Enrique’s legitimate, firstborn son) adopted the Portuguese royal arms following his own marriage to Beatriz of Portugal (the betrothal with Fadrique having been annulled) (fig. 6.2, D).19 Juan continued to use the arms

The Names of God

Figure 6.4 North wall, Córdoba Cathedral. Photomontage and drawing by Antonio Almagro, 2011. Escuela de Estudios Arábes, C.S.I.C, inv. AA-101_107.

141

A

G

Figure 6.5 Córdoba Cathedral: (A) the Pardon Portal; (B) the site of the high altar from 1236 to 1607; (C) the chapel of Saint Peter, formerly the maqsura; (D) the chapel of the Holy Spirit; (E) the royal chapel; (F) the chapel of Saint Paul; (G) the Arco de Benediciones. Plan by Antonio Almagro, 2011. Escuela de Estudios Arábes, C.S.I.C, inv. AA-101_107. Amended by author.

B D

C

E

F

as late as 1389, styling himself king of Portugal right up to his death in October 1390.20 It is thus possible that the spandrels and upper sections of the portal were added in a second, separate campaign, which might explain some of the differences in the vegetal ornament and scripts. Such variety was common in this type of stuccowork, however, and there are no unambiguous breaks.21 Alternatively, the stucco may have been relaid, perhaps in honor of Juan I’s visits to Córdoba in November 1384 or March 1385.22 Further references to kingship are found in the Kufic inscriptions in lozenges at the top right of the alfiz (fig. 6.2, E). They repeat the phrase “Glory to our Lord the Sultan” (ʿIzz li-​mawlānā al-​sulṭān ʿizz li-​mawlānā al-​sulṭān), ending with a superfluous “maw.” In the royal palace in Seville, the same formula was employed frequently, followed by the name of King Pedro I, who expanded the palace in the 1360s.23 It was also commonly used in the Alhambra before the names of Yusuf I and Muhammad V, but occasionally it also stood alone, and that was evidently the case here.24 Allusions to kings, kingship, and Andalusi visual culture were heavily charged in fourteenth-​century Córdoba. In the 1360s, during the war between Enrique Trastámara and Pedro I, Córdoba had declared for the Trastamaran side late in 1367 but was nearly taken back the following year by the combined forces of Pedro I and Muhammad V of Granada; the city continued to face occasional threats from Nasrid Granada and Merinid Morocco (as well as famine and epidemics).25 References to kingship must also be understood in the context of the relationship between Enrique and Córdoba Cathedral and especially two interrelated projects: the privatization of the mosque-​cathedral’s interior, in many cases by Trastámara loyalists, and the transformation of the central axis of the mosque-​ cathedral, including the mihrab, high altar, royal chapel, Pardon Portal, and possibly the Arco de Benediciones, which gives access to the mosque-​cathedral from the cloister (fig 6.5, A, B, C, E and G).26 Many of these changes can be linked to Enrique, and they demonstrate that he and his supporters were enthusiastic patrons of Islamicate art and architecture, much like their predecessors.27 Royal interest in Córdoba Cathedral can be traced back to the burial in 1245 of King Fernando III’s son, the infante Juan, near the high altar.28 King Fernando IV (d. 1312) was also buried in some kind of royal chapel in the mosque-​cathedral, and although Alfonso XI was interred in the royal chapel in Seville Cathedral in 1350, his

The Names of God

Figure 6.6 Saint Ildefonso Portal, Córdoba Cathedral, made between 961 and 976. Photo: author.

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son, Pedro I, immediately confirmed his intention to fulfil his father’s request to be buried in Córdoba.29 The burial there of Alfonso’s ally, Pedro de Xérica (1362), and the installation of new choir stalls (1362) and a new organ (1365) suggest that Pedro I still planned to move Alfonso’s body in the early 1360s, but this was evidently delayed by the deteriorating political situation.30 Enrique’s earliest interventions in Córdoba can be traced to June 1366 when, already styling himself king, he signaled his intention to move his father’s body from Seville.31 In the same letter, he also confirmed a series of privileges that protected the rights of Muslim craftsmen responsible for maintaining woodwork and stucco in the mosque-​ cathedral, a clear indication that the chapel’s decoration was to follow Andalusi traditions.32 Two years later, at Enrique’s request, the Cordoban chapter permitted Enrique’s ally, Alfonso Fernández de Córdoba, Lord of Montemayor, to convert two bays of the former maqsura (adjacent to the former mihrab) into the chapel of Saint Peter (fig. 6.5, C).33 In June 1369, a few months after Enrique killed his half-​brother, the cathedral chapter also gave the Holy Spirit Chapel over to Alfonso’s younger brother, Diego, who had converted to the Trastámara side two years earlier (fig. 6.5, D).34 Through these burials, Córdoba Cathedral became increasingly associated with the Trastamaran cause, but Enrique’s most significant intervention was his modeling (or, perhaps, remodeling) of the royal chapel directly behind the high altar, its upper walls covered in carved stucco like that on the Pardon Portal or on a number of palaces in Tordesillas, Toledo, Seville, and Granada (figs. 6.5, E; 6.7).35 In March 1371, Enrique translated the body of his father, Alfonso XI, to the royal chapel, fulfilling his promise of five years earlier—a move that was part of a much wider program through which Enrique emphasized his descent from Alfonso XI.36 These changes to Córdoba Cathedral suggest, in part, that its bishop and chapter were being courted in the power struggle between Pedro I and his brother. Ultimately Enrique emerged the victor, but his relationship with the Cordoban Church was far from stable. In June 1371, the king returned goods seized in retaliation for Bishop Andrés Pérez Navarro’s loyalty to Pedro I and intrigues with the king of Portugal.37 Three years later Enrique was implicated in the murder of Diego Alfonso, archdeacon of Córdoba and supporter of Pedro I; in atonement, and following papal intervention, Enrique founded a new chaplaincy in the cathedral the following year.38 Enrique also made a claim on rents from royal donations to the Córdoba Church and only renounced these in August 1377, the year inscribed on the Pardon Portal.39 Might these circumstances suggest that Enrique was responsible for Córdoba’s new Pardon Portal? While the kings of medieval Castile were enthusiastic patrons of royal chapels and monastic institutions, they almost never made direct cash donations to cathedral construction.40 Córdoba’s Pardon Portal was instead more likely funded by the chapter as a way of reaffirming the close relationship between Crown and Church while plastering over the occasional cracks. Possible protagonists include Anton Garçia, a cathedral canon who was also the royal and apostolic notary and witnessed the 144

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Figure 6.7 Royal chapel looking east, Córdoba Cathedral, ca. 1371. Photo: author.

matrimonial agreement with Portugal in 1377, or Gonzalo Sánchez, recorded as canon obrero (with responsibility for the fabric) in 1386.41 Bishop Alfonso de Vargas (in office 1372–79) may have also played a role: as we have seen, newly elected bishops were received at the portal, and it continued to be used for important ceremonial occasions into the modern period.42 Beyond questions of patronage, the portal’s inscriptions also hint at its ritual significance. The damaged Latin inscription around the alfiz, for example, is based on a prayer traditionally sung at Compline: “Visit this dwelling, O Lord, and drive far from it all the snares of the enemy; let your holy angels dwell with us to preserve us in peace; and let your blessings” (Uysyta quesumus domyne habytacionem istam et omnes insidyas inymicy ab ea longe repelle; angely tuy sancty habitantes in ea nos in pacem [sic]custodiant et benedictio tua). The inscription is cut off nonsensically and, as on contemporary inscriptions elsewhere, presumably once extended down the jambs to continue, “Let your blessings remain always upon us. Save us, omnipotent God, and grant us your The Names of God

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perpetual light. Through our Lord, Jesus Christ, your son.”43 Sight of just a few words was anyway probably sufficient to recall the entire text, but the position of “habytacionem istam” over the portal’s central axis underlines the mosque-​cathedral’s status as “this dwelling.” Like many other inscriptions on church portals, the prayer can thus be understood in broadly apotropaic terms, though references to the “snares of the enemy” were doubtless especially charged when it was first built: letters of Enrique II, for example, refer frequently to his political enemies or to enemies of God.44 On the stucco in Córdoba’s royal chapel and even on the bronze doors of Seville Cathedral’s very similar Pardon Portal of circa 1200, traces of paint suggest that the legibility of the ornament and inscriptions of Córdoba’s Pardon Portal was once enhanced by color.45 But for those who could not read the inscriptions—undoubtedly the great majority of the medieval viewers—the portal still offered a compelling visual statement, albeit one rather different from that of contemporaneous Gothic portals in Seville, Toledo, or elsewhere.46 The Pardon Portal’s carved stucco aligns it instead with Córdoba’s royal chapel, with the portals and interiors of several palaces in Castile and al-​Andalus, and ultimately with the carved stucco added to the mihrab and portals of the Great Mosque. But despite these general similarities, the slender concentric vine tendrils in the Pardon Portal’s spandrels and its combination of stylized and naturalistic leaf forms are unmatched in fourteenth-​century Córdoba. The closest parallels (by no means exact) lie in the Casa de Mesa in Toledo, which may suggest that artists or templates were moving between the two cities (fig. 6.8).47

Figure 6.8 Portal in the Casa de Mesa, Toledo, second half of the fourteenth century. Photo: author.

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Bronze Hanging below the Pardon Portal’s opening, each massive door is 1.93 meters wide by 9.45 meters high. To a pine core are pinned hundreds of four-​pointed stars and bronze hexagonal plaques, cast with inscriptions and scrolling vines, all forming a dense and hypnotic strapwork design that almost entirely covers the doors’ outer faces (fig. 6.3). Two plaques at the center record restoration in 1739, perhaps the moment when some of the shields and inscriptions were (inadvertently?) replaced in an inverted position.48 The doors’ vine ornament and multilingual inscriptions align them closely with the portal in which they hang, implying that they, too, were probably made in the 1370s or 1380s. The vertical plaques contain a floriated cross set in a shield, the interstices filled by the letters of “Deus” (God); the horizontal plaques bear Kufic inscriptions, “Sovereignty is of God alone” (Al-​mulk li’llāh waḥdahu). The repeating rectangular strips that frame each door read, “Blessed be the name of the Lord” (Bendicho sea el no[m]bre de dios), while intricate Latin inscriptions on the elaborate door knockers state, “Benedictus dominus Deus Israhel quia v:” (Blessed be the Lord God of Israel who visited [and wrought the redemption of his people]), the opening line of the Canticle of Zaccariah (Luke 1:68). In the preface to his chronicle of the reigns of Pedro I and Enrique II, Pedro López de Ayala notes that the Maccabees “ordered that all agreements and events that took place be written in capital letters on tablets of copper in order to fix them in memory.”49 It can be argued that the crosses and inscriptions on the Pardon Portal likewise memorialize the consecration in 1236 of Córdoba’s Great Mosque, which was celebrated with readings from a number of chronicles that are known to have been owned by members of the chapter.50 At that event, to the chants of the Te Deum, a cross with the lignum domini (relic of the True Cross) was displayed at the top of the mosque’s minaret where, in the words of Archbishop Rodrigo of Toledo, “previously the name of that perfidious man had been invoked.”51 As the “Adesto Deus” was sung (“I am coming, One All-​Powerful God”), the mosque was circumambulated three times and sprinkled with holy water; it was then entered so that consecration crosses could be installed. A cross was also formed on the floor out of an ashy paste into which the bishop inscribed the Greek and Latin alphabets with his crozier, and altars were set up for Mass as the Canticle of Zaccariah was sung. The mosque lamps—created out of the bronze bells stolen from Santiago de Compostela—were returned to Compostela in triumph. The events of June 1236 thus serve as a hermeneutic tool with which to understand the doors, particularly the appropriation of bronze spolia, the combination of oral and epigraphic rituals, and the repeated invocation of God’s name, “Deus.” Concern with God’s names is re-​enforced by the bronze strips that frame the doors, which, as we have seen, bear a Castilian version of “Sit nomen domini benedictum” (Blessed be the name of the Lord). This doxology from the Laudate Psalm (113:2) and Job 1:21 was commonly cited in medieval Iberia: on coins from Navarre and Aragon, during the Office of the The Names of God

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Figure 6.9 Feast of Balthasar, from the Morgan Beatus, San Salvador de Tábara, ca. 945. New York, Morgan Library, MS M.644, fol. 255v. Purchased by J. P. Morgan (1867–1943) in 1919. Photo: The Morgan Library & Museum.

Dead, and on epitaphs, for example.52 But in its vernacular form, it was also common in oral culture, pronounced at the election of a new bishop and frequently exclaimed by characters in contemporary literature at moments of danger or solemnity.53 Even if read only partially, the inscriptions may have also triggered associations with Daniel 2:20, in which the prophet utters the phrase before interpreting Nebuchadnezzar’s dream. In the Iberian Peninsula, this passage was often associated with the rise and fall of Islam, largely because of Daniel’s next line: “And he changeth times and ages: taketh away kingdoms and establisheth them.” The relevance of Daniel’s prophesies is made clear in the tenth-​century copy of Paulus Alvarus’s Indiculus luminosus in Córdoba Cathedral’s library (MS 123) and is pictured eloquently in a miniature from the tenth-​century Morgan Beatus in New York (MS 644, fol. 255v), which shows the writing on the wall of Balthasar’s palace (Daniel 5), pictured with a red-​and-​white-​striped horseshoe arch like those in Córdoba’s Great Mosque (fig. 6.9).54 These associations with triumph also resonate with references to “the redemption of his people” in the

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Figure 6.10 Baptismal font, Toledo, ca. 1400. Tin-​glazed earthenware with green glaze, 64 × 86.5 cm. New York, Hispanic Society of America, E503. Photo: author.

Canticle of Zaccariah on the portal’s door knockers and with the history of the mosque-​ cathedral itself. They are further betrayed by an early fourteenth-​century life of King Fernando III, which records that, as he surveyed the newly conquered city of Seville in 1248, Fernando exclaimed, “Blessed be the name of God who enabled us to win such a noble thing.”55 The name of God was also commonly invoked when delivering good news or introducing agreements. For example, the matrimonial agreement between Castile and Portugal, signed in Córdoba in January 1377 and originally proclaimed aloud (“en voz”), opens, “In the name of God.”56 The repetition of such phrases around the doors thus simultaneously evokes eschatological concerns, formal notarial practices, and the oral cultures of litanies, chants, and commonplace blessings. The juxtaposition of the cross and different names for God in close proximity to one another on the portal was also surely deliberate.57 Amongst Iberia’s Christian, Muslim, and Jewish communities, there was a long tradition of devotion to the almost-​magical powers of the many names of God.58 Córdoba Cathedral itself still preserves a tenth-​ century treatise on the holy names, while the fifteenth-​century roof of the choir is painted with the IHS, the name of Christ.59 In fifteenth-​century Castile, badges bearing crosses or the name of Christ were also sometimes worn as signs of Christian orthodoxy.60 On Córdoba’s Pardon Portal, the cross and the name of God are enclosed not by badges but by heraldic shields, reminiscent of those on contemporary tiles, textiles, coins, and seals associated with Jews, Muslims, and Christians from across the peninsula.61 The trefoil crosses resemble the cathedral’s own rock-​crystal processional cross, first recorded in 1294, while their combination with “Deus” recalls a Toledan baptismal font of circa

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1400, in which crosses alternate with the I set in shields, making literal the words of the baptismal ceremony: “I baptize thee in the name of Christ” (fig. 6.10).62 Like the chrismons found on a number of church portals in northern Iberia, the crosses on Córdoba’s Pardon Portal thus emphatically assert the triumph of Christianity, neutralizing the power of the Arabic texts.63 But juxtaposition of the cross and the name of Christ may have also carried juridical associations.64 As set out in the Siete partidas, the law code first promulgated in Castile in 1348, oaths should be taken at church portals or on the cross and be invoked in the name of God, while Muslims swearing oaths “should go to the door of the mosque, if there is one there, and if not to a place designated by a judge.”65 The inscriptions and crosses thus combine to endow the doors with legal and near-​magical power that is appropriate to the portal’s status as a legal and spiritual threshold.

Reading the Pardon Portal Arabic culture and learning were long associated with magic, especially in the Iberian Peninsula, so for Córdoba’s Christian community, the presence of Arabic inscriptions on the doors probably enhanced their quasi-​magical power.66 But what did Muslim or Arabic-​speaking viewers make of the Arabic inscriptions, and might they even have been responsible for them? Documentary evidence from nearby cities suggests that Muslim blacksmiths were often employed for highly skilled crafts in this period, and in 1366, Enrique confirmed the rights of Muslim craftspeople responsible for maintaining the woodwork and stucco in the mosque-​cathedral.67 However, Christian and Muslim craftspeople often worked together, and in medieval Iberia (and elsewhere), the religious identities of these workers generally mattered far less than their skill levels.68 The inscriptions “al-​mulk” and “al-​mulk li’llāh” were commonly found on Islamic and Christian objects in medieval Iberia; to some extent, they can thus be understood as a relatively neutral invocation of God’s name, revealing nothing about the craftspeople.69 But the full phrase, “Sovereignty is of God alone” (Al-​mulk li’llāh waḥdahu) is especially found on Almohad buildings and objects, where it carried a polemically loaded, anti-​ Trinitarian significance.70 This resonance was not confined to the Almohad period. Debates about the Trinity had long been central to Muslim-​Christian polemics, and the inscriptions on the Pardon Portal partially complement the anti-​Trinitarian messages inscribed in the caliphal period on the portals and mosaics of Córdoba’s Great Mosque, some of them probably visible still in the 1370s.71 So to what extent do the doors on Córdoba’s Pardon Portal impose or maintain power for different communities and constituencies from Córdoba and elsewhere? Might the Arabic inscriptions at Córdoba represent a form of resistance or “talking back” from Muslim craftspeople?72 By 1386 and probably earlier, it seems that Córdoba’s Muslim community was very small, making it unlikely that the Arabic inscriptions were ever fully understood.73 Instead, I propose that, notwithstanding their content, they 150

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functioned as a kind of pseudo-​signature—recognizable but unreadable to most who saw them—that purported to speak for Arabic-​speaking communities, irrespective of the religious identities of those who made the doors. Soothing concerns among Córdoba’s Christian majority, the Arabic inscriptions—however ill-​chosen—represent a form of appropriation, promoting a fiction of Muslim acquiescence in the doors’ production and, by extension, in the conversion of Córdoba’s Great Mosque.74 In a society where writing was heavily regulated, the Arabic scripts on Córdoba’s Pardon Portal are signs not of resistance but of the maintenance of power.75 Consideration of the morphology and materials of the doors and portal sheds further light on these issues. The doors’ strapwork designs find broad parallels in tiles, woodwork, and manuscripts from across Castile and al-​Andalus, and they ultimately depend on the kind of strapwork employed on the mosque’s minbar, which remained in the mosque-​cathedral into the sixteenth century.76 But the doors’ closest model is the bronze doors that hang in Seville Cathedral’s own Pardon Portal, made circa 1200 for Seville’s then-​new Almohad Mosque, itself converted into a cathedral in 1248 (fig. 6.11).77 The horizontal plaques on the Sevillan doors are impressed with Kufic inscriptions that

Figure 6.11 Pardon Portal, Seville Cathedral, early thirteenth century, with additions in the 1520s. Photo: Jean Laurent, ca. 1870. © Library of Congress.

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Figure 6.12 Detail of right door leaf from Seville Cathedral’s Pardon Portal, early thirteenth century. Photo: author.

read, “Sovereignty belongs to God / Eternity is God’s” (Al-​mulk lillāh / Al-​baqāʾ lillāh), while the repeating rectangular strips bordering the doors bear, “Praise be to God of his graces / Thanks be to God / Sovereignty belongs to God / Glory is for God” (Al-ḥamd lillāh ʿan niʿmatih / Al-​shukr lillāh / Al-​mulk lillāh / Al-ʿizz lillāh). Analogies with Seville’s Pardon Portal extend to the door knockers as well as the stucco alfiz, although most of the stucco was carved only in the 1520s (fig. 6.12). There are two possible explanations for these striking similarities. Prompted perhaps by the reburial of Alfonso XI in Córdoba rather than Seville, Córdoba’s chapter may have sought to imitate and surpass the Sevillian doors, which stand “only” 7.24 meters high. Alternatively, the Cordoban doors may replicate a lost set of doors installed in Córdoba’s Great Mosque by the Almohads.78 Whatever the case, it is likely that the significant quantity of bronze required to make new doors in the fourteenth century was recycled from whatever hung previously in Córdoba’s Pardon Portal. Its doors should thus be understood within a wider discourse concerning the looting and reuse of precious objects, especially those in bronze.79 Famously, the bells from Santiago de Compostela were seized by al-​Mansur in 997 ce, installed as lamps in Córdoba’s Great Mosque, and then supposedly returned in 1236.80 Many other bronze bells were likewise looted and repurposed as lamps in al-​Andalus and Morocco, inscribed with new Quranic verses alongside their original Latin inscriptions.81 But doors and door knockers also form part of this story: al-​Mansur reputedly took the doors from Santiago and used them in the roof of Córdoba’s Great Mosque, while the door knockers 152

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in Córdoba’s caliphal palace were reputedly spolia from Narbonne.82 In turn, Count Armengol VI of Urgel seized the door knockers from an unspecified Cordoban mosque in 1146 and installed them in Santa Maria in Valladolid, while the Genoese stole the doors of Almería’s Friday mosque in 1148 and set them up in a parish church.83 If the bronze for the doors in Córdoba’s Pardon Portal did come from an earlier set of doors, then these must have been melted down and recast. This was a long-​standing practice and topos both before and after the Middle Ages.84 In many cases, recasting clearly stemmed from the pragmatic desire to reuse prestigious and expensive materials, but it also established what Philippe Buc terms a “memorial network,” binding the object to its past, preserving “the memory of what is not there,” in the words of the Siete partidas.85 Impressed with multilingual inscriptions, the Pardon Portal’s doors thus acknowledge the mosque-​cathedral’s Islamic past while celebrating its Christian present. But impression was also associated with the creation of apotropaic objects, especially in bronze.86 In the twelfth century, for example, John of Seville and Limia had translated Thabit ibn Qurra’s treatise on astronomy, which explains how molds could be created to cast apotropaic images in metal.87 On Córdoba’s Pardon Portal, the apotropaic power of impressed bronze was redoubled by the repetition and tessellation of forms and texts across the doors. The hypnotic geometric patterns generate a kind of “cognitive stickiness” that captures and holds the eye, just as repeated magical incantations entrance the ear.88

Conception and Perception Although no medieval descriptions of Córdoba’s Pardon Portal survive, other sources hint that my reading of the portal chimes with contemporary perceptions. Ibn al-​ Khaṭīb’s description of festivities in Granada in 1362 contrasts the size of rather similar doors in the Alhambra with their polished finish and inscriptions.89 Ibn Marzūq’s Al Musnad (ca. 1371) also offers a contemporary description of a similar set of bronze doors, this time at the shrine of Abu Madyan Shuʿayb near Tlemcen in modern-​day Algeria, built in 1338/39.90 The portal, he writes, “is of bronze, comprising two valves each of which is plated with bronze, pierced and engraved with polygons combining one with the other; different colors of bronze were used. It is a marvel that travelers do not neglect to notice. To make these two valves the coppersmiths had to use about 700 dinars of gold coin.”91 Here Ibn Marzūq calls on a common trope of wonder (gharīb) to avoid describing the complex geometric designs, but he is also attentive to the doors’ material value.92 The complexity and expense of Córdoba’s Pardon Portal might likewise have inspired wonder, the richness of these effects enhanced by the scrolling vine forms on the doors and the vegetal forms in the stucco. Elsewhere in al-​Andalus and medieval Castile, such vegetal ornament has been understood in relation to Quranic descriptions of paradise, to Arabic poetry and The Names of God

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Figure 6.13 The Tree of Virtues, in Ramon Llull, Llivre del gentil et des tres savis, made in Córdoba, 1378. London, British Library, MS Add. 14040, fol. 2r. © The British Library Board.

aesthetic theory, and to arboreal imagery in devotional texts.93 These connections are admittedly elusive, but one such devotional text, a Castilian version of Ramon Llull’s Llivre del gentil et des tres savis, deserves special consideration because a colophon records that the translation was made in 1378 in Córdoba, where Llull’s writings continued to attract interest in the following decades.94 Its opening folios contain five images of trees, which correspond to the trees discovered by three sages—a Christian, a Jew, and a Muslim—who encounter a disconsolate Gentile in a wood and seek (inconclusively) to persuade him of the merits of their faiths (fig. 6.13). The miniatures offer certain analogies with the Pardon Portal and its doors, particularly the multiplication of small leaves (or plaques) bearing texts (in the case of the illumination, of the vices and virtues). These similarities do not offer an iconographic “key” to the doors, but—this time in a Christian context—they indicate a wider validation of the power of letters and brief texts, as well as of arboreal imagery, as ways of structuring knowledge.95 It can be argued then that the ornament of the Pardon Portal does not represent or symbolize, but instead, as implied by Ibn Marzūq, its intricate forms—some deliberately varied, others insistently repeated—call attention to its own crafted nature.96 In his fourth-​ century commentary on Plato’s Timaeus, Calcidius, deacon to the bishop of Córdoba, described primordial matter as silva, the Latin term for trees, foliage, or forest, matter that is ready to be made into something.97 It is this primordial silva of plaster and water, 154

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copper and tin, that is shaped and cultivated by the craftsperson’s skill—mixing, melting, casting, carving, polishing, chasing, and coloring—and ultimately transformed into what we see today on Córdoba’s Pardon Portal. In the preface to his treatise on rhetoric, penned in the first half of the fourteenth century, M(artin?) de Córdoba explains how eloquent speech was distinguished by its beauty (lepor), agreeableness (suavitas), and ornamentation (ornatus).98 By the same measure, he clarifies, dwellings were distinguished from rude huts because “we ornament them with curious pictures and cut stone, with polished fir and pine, we paint the walls and ceilings, we place before the eyes of those gathered a somewhat special pleasure” (habitacula curiosis ornamus picturis eciam saxo quadrato, abiete ac pino politis, parietes pingimus atque tecta, aliquid voluptatis ultra conferens intuencium luminibus anteponimus).99 On Córdoba’s Pardon Portal, this pleasurable ornament not only captures the eye, but according to the long-​standing rhetorical notion of captatio benevolentiae, it also secures the goodwill of the viewer, charming them in every sense of the word.100 Through its scale, inscriptions, materials, and ornament, the portal offers a lesson in the exercise of soft power.

Notes I am indebted to the advice of many people over the long gestation of this article, but I would like to especially thank Razan Francis and Elena Paulino. 1. See Pascual Martínez, Documentos de Enrique II, 283; Marquer, “Poder escrito,” 507; Campos Sánchez-​ Bordona and Pérez Gil, Palacio Real de León, 110. 2. Notably Genesis 17:1, 28:3, 35:11, 43:14, 48:3, and 49:25. 3. Bearman et al., Encyclopaedia of Islam, 2nd ed., s.v. “Mulk,” by M. Plessner, and Anderson, Islamic Villa, 144–49. 4. Martínez Núñez, “Epigrafía y propaganda almohades,” 443–44. 5. Cf. Binski, Gothic Sculpture, 95–116. 6. Previous studies of the portal largely focus on its formal characteristics and restorations: Amador de los Ríos, “Arqueología artístico-​industrial”; Nieto Cumplido, Catedral de Córdoba, 604–10; Jordano Barbudo, “Puerta del Perdón.” 7. Carrillo de Córdoba, Certamen historico, 195. 8. Aguilar Priego, “Obras de la torre,” 30–31. 9. Harit al-​Jusani, “Kitāb al-​quḍāt bi-​Qurṭuba,” 91 (Arabic), 111 (Spanish); Marfil Ruiz, “Puertas de la Mezquita,” 1:107, 400; Hernández Giménez, Alminar de ‘Abd al-​Rahman III; Carrillo Calderero, “Del almuédano a la campana.” 10. Jordano Barbudo, “Puerta del Perdón,” 293. 11. For the mosque’s doors, see Dozy and Lévi-​ Provençal, Histoire des Musulmans, 2:261; Idrīsī, “Waçf

al-​Masjid,” 10–11; Fagnan, Extraits inédits relatifs, 28–29; Vallvé, “Industria en al-​Andalus,” 216; Amador de los Ríos, Inscripciones árabes de Córdoba, 80. 12. See Nieto Cumplido, Catedral de Córdoba, 604, and Jordano Barbudo, “Puerta del Perdón,” 17 (citing Biblioteca de la Catedral de Córdoba, MS 125, fol. 155v). 13. See Nickson, “ ‘Sovereignty Belongs to God,’ ” 861n96. 14. Nieto Cumplido, Corpus mediaevale cordubense, 1: no. 299; Calvo Capilla, “Justicia, misericordia y cristianismo,” 155–56; Herrero Soto, “El perdón del gobernante.” For juridical proclamations see Calvo Capilla, “Ampliación califal de la Mezquita de Córdoba,” 99; Escobar Camacho, “Ciudad de Córdoba,” 206. 15. Crowned lions were first employed on a portal in Castile on the entrance to the Saint Catherine Chapel in Burgos Cathedral, complete by 1345. See Melero, “Destello arquitectónico del siglo XIV,” 176, 189. 16. Nieto Cumplido, “Catedral de Córdoba en el siglo XVII,” 157–58 17. Cf. Nickson, “Texts and Talismans,” 33n44; Marquer, “Epigrafía y poder”; Llaguno y Amírola, Noticias de los arquitectos y arquitectura, 1:67; Campos Sánchez-​Bordona and Pérez Gil, Palacio Real de León, 110; Nieto Cumplido, Catedral de Córdoba, 606. 18. Pascual Martínez, “Itinerario andaluz de Enrique II,” 213; Santarém, Corpo diplomatico

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portuguez, 357–94; Valdeón Baruque, Enrique II, 111; Nieto Cumplido, “Aportación histórica,” 205–6. 19. Lopes, Chronica de El-​Rei D. João I, 1:158–61, and Suárez Fernández, Historia del reinado de Juan I, 1:402. 20. Díez Martínez, Bejarano Rubio, and Molina Molina, Documentos de Juan I, 358–59, and Fernández de Córdova Miralles, “Emblemas de la conquista,” 237. 21. See Pavón Maldonado, Tratado de arquitectura hispanomusulmana, 3:772. 22. See Díez Martínez, Bejarano Rubio, and Molina Molina, Documentos de Juan I, 306–8; 336–37; López de Ayala, Crónicas, 584–87; Rosell, Crónicas de los reyes de Castilla, 97–99. 23. Marquer, “Epigrafía y poder,” paragraphs 44–47. Cf. Amador de los Ríos, Inscripciones árabes de Córdoba, 399, and Paulino Montero, “Reassessing the Artistic Choices,” esp. 148. 24. See Amador de los Ríos, Inscripciones árabes de Córdoba, 123n1; Puerta Vílchez, “Alhambra de Granada,” 69; Moreno Coll, “Pervivencia de motivos islámicos,” 147–48. 25. López de Ayala, Crónicas, 1367 (chap. 36), 1368 (chaps. 4–5); Nieto Cumplido, “Aportación histórica,” 205; Nieto Cumplido, “Luchas nobiliarias y movimientos populares,” 20; Lomax, “Cronicón Cordubense de Fernando de Salmerón,” 635; O’Callaghan, Last Crusade in the West, 30–32; Edwards, Christian Córdoba, 22; Valdeón Baruque, Enrique II, 115–20. 26. Jordano Barbudo, Mudéjar en Córdoba, 91–92, 120–29. 27. Valdeón Baruque, “Propaganda ideológica,” esp. 463–64; Paulino Montero, “Architecture and Artistic Practices”; Paulino Montero, “Reassessing the Artistic Choices,” esp. 150. 28. Abad Castro and González Cavero, “Capilla real de la catedral de Córdoba,” 395, 402–6. 29. Nieto Cumplido, “Documentos de Pedro I,” 219. 30. Abad Castro and González Cavero, “Capilla real de la catedral de Córdoba,” 402–6, and Nieto Cumplido, Catedral de Córdoba, 450–51. 31. Ramírez de Arellano, Colección de documentos inéditos, 1:128–34. 32. Ibid., 1:130, and Ecker, “Great Mosque of Córdoba,” documents A–D, H–J. 33. Romero de Lecea and García Gómez, Privilegios reales y viejos documentos, document 7. 34. In 1387, another ally of Enrique, Don Pedro Muñiz de Godoy, was buried in the chapel of Saint Paul adjacent to the royal chapel (fig. 5, F) (Jordano Barbudo, “Linajes de Córdoba,” 162, 165). 35. Nieto Cumplido, Catedral de Córdoba, 460–66; Ruiz Souza, “Capillas reales funerarias catedralicias,” 18–21; Nogales Rincón, “Representación religiosa de la realeza,” 1405–74; Abad Castro and González

156

Cavero, “Capilla real de la catedral de Córdoba,” 412–13. 36. Nieto Cumplido, Catedral de Córdoba, 461, and Paulino Montero, “Architecture and Artistic Practices.” 37. Sanz Sancho, “Episcopologio medieval cordobés,” 60, and Nieto Cumplido, Catedral de Córdoba, 450–51. 38. Ramírez de Arellano, Colección de documentos inéditos, 1:143–47, and Sanz Sancho, “Cabildo catedralicio de Córdoba,” 230–31. 39. Sanz Sancho, “Episcopologio medieval cordobés,” 63. 40. See Nogales Rincón, “Representación religiosa de la realeza”; Vroom, Financing Cathedral Building, 122–34; Valdeón Baruque, “Cuaderno de cuentas de Enrique II,” 132; Valdeón Baruque, Enrique II, 185. 41. Sanz Sancho, “Prosopografía de los componentes,” 40, 46, and Suárez Fernández, “Política internacional de Enrique II,” 101. 42. Jordano Barbudo, “Puerta del Perdón,” 17–20. Bernardo de Frexneda records that it was also used for Palm Sunday processions (Estatutos de la Sancta Yglesia, fol. 10v). 43. Nickson, “Texts and Talismans,” 22–23. 44. Pascual Martínez, Documentos de Enrique II, 176, 198, 204, 246, and Rábade Obradó, “Simbología y propaganda política,” 227. For similar vocabulary on objects associated with Pedro I, see Barceló, “Pedro I humilla a Pedro I,” 59. 45. Nickson, “ ‘Sovereignty Belongs to God,’ ” 6. 46. See Nickson, Toledo Cathedral, 192–96, and Laguna Paúl, “Portadas del Bautismo y del Nacimiento.” These differences would have been very obvious to Enrique II or to Bishop Alfonso, formerly bishop of Ávila and archdeacon of Toledo (Sanz Sancho, “Episcopologio medieval cordobés,” 61). 47. See Pavón Maldonado, “Aproximación a la data.” 48. Jordano Barbudo, “Puerta del Perdón,” 25, 28n47, and Gómez Bravo, Catálogo de los obispos, 2:791. 49. Rosell, Crónicas de los reyes de Castilla, 398. See also Weinryb, Bronze Object in the Middle Ages, 77–86. 50. The ceremonies conflated the mosque’s temporary conversion on 18 May 1146 with that of 1236. See Nieto Cumplido, Historia de la Iglesia en Córdoba, 362–63; Nieto Cumplido, Catedral de Córdoba, 332–36; Sanz Sancho, “Cabildo catedralicio de Córdoba,” 209. Cf. Carrero Santamaría and Fernández Somoza, “Conjunto epigráfico de San Miguel de Neila.” 51. Ximénez de Rada, Historia de rebus Hispanie, 299–300. See also Ecker, “Great Mosque of Córdoba,” 118; Nieto Cumplido, Historia de la Iglesia en Córdoba, 36–64; Andrieu, Pontifical romain au moyen-​âge, 2:428, 3:464.

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52. Vandervorst, “Emprunts bibliques dans les monnaies,” 148, 155–56; Steiner, “Musical Interpolations,” 205, 216; Godoy and Cobos Fajardo, “Inscripció mètrica medieval.” 53. Bujanda, “Elecciones de obispos,” 421; McMillan, Episcopal Ordination, 173; González Muela, Libro del Caballero Zifar, 121, 152, 163, 316, 404; Gayangos, Escritores en prosa anteriores, 40b. 54. See Williams, “Purpose and Imagery,” and Delgado León, Álvaro de Córdoba. 55. Menéndez Pidal, “Relatos poéticos,” 365. 56. Suárez Fernández, “Política internacional de Enrique II,” 87, 102, and Santarém, Corpo diplomatico portuguez, 357. 57. See Vega and Peña, “Allah cristiano, Deus islámico.” 58. Isidore of Seville, Etymologies 7.2, in Patrilogia Latina, 82:259–64; Alfonso X, “Setenario,” 3–7; Bozoky, Charmes et prières apotropaïques, 54–55; Thompson, Strife of Tongues, 151, 171; Fierro, “Magia en al-​Andalus,” 248. 59. LeClercq, “Tratado sobre los nombres divinos,” and Nieto Cumplido, Catedral de Córdoba, 440, 449. 60. Carrete Parrondo, Fontes iudaeorum regni castellae, 3: nos. 42, 52, 122, and Edwards, “Fifteenth-​ Century Franciscan Reform.” 61. See, for example, García Luján and Marsilla de Pascual, Catálogo sigilográfico del Archivo Municipal, no. 27; Bango Torviso, Memoria de Sefarad, 126–27, 258; Morales, Metropolis totius hispaniae, 281–83; Rosser-​Owen, Islamic Arts from Spain, 54; Aroz Pascual, Sellos eclesiásticos, nos. 271, 276; Hernández Canut, “Cruzado,” 145. 62. See Hahnloser and Brugger-​Koch, Corpus der Hartsteinschliffe, no. 90, and Ecker, Caliphs and Kings, 145. 63. On chrismons, see García García, “hii tres ivre qvidem dominvs,” with bibliography. Cf. Cressier, “Graffiti cristianos sobre monumentos.” 64. Escobar Camacho, “Ciudad de Córdoba,” 206. 65. Alfonso X, Siete partidas, ed. Burns, 3:641; O’Callaghan, Learned King, 105; Ecker, “How to Administer a Conquered City,” 52n14. Cf. Ramírez de Arellano, Colección de documentos inéditos, 1:138, and Anasagasti Valderrama and Sanz Fuentes, “Hermandad de Andalucía,” 21. 66. Porter, “Use of the Arabic Script,” and Nickson, “ ‘Sovereignty Belongs to God,’ ” 9–17. 67. On blacksmiths, see, for example, in Toledo, maestro Çayde el Ferrero, son of maestro Abraham (Archivo de la Catedral de Toledo Z.11.B.3.21, 2 December 1370), or maestro Ali, son of maestro Mahommed al Quifahe, herrador (Archivo de la Catedral de Toledo, V.6.I.1.9, 24 December 1379). Cf. Collantes de Terán Delorme, Inventario de los papeles del Mayordomazgo, 54. On Muslim craftsmen

in the mosque-​catherdral, see Ramírez de Arellano, Colección de documentos inéditos, 1:130. 68. See Fernández y González, Estado social y político, 382–83; Carande Thobar, Sevilla, fortaleza y mercado, 200–201; Cómez Ramos, Constructores de la España medieval. 69. Cano Ávila and Tawfik Mohamed Essawi, “Estudio epigráfico-​histórico,” 72, and Martínez Enamorado, Epigrafía y poder, 157. 70. Acién Almansa, “Cerámica y propaganda,” 183; Gubert, “Pouvoir, sacré et pensée mystique,” 407; Fontenla Ballesta, “Numismática y propaganda almohade,” 451; Ali-​de-​Unzaga, “Qur’anic Inscription”; Porter, “Islamic Seals,” 183; Martínez Núñez, “Epigrafía y propaganda almohades,” 443–44. Cf. Marquer, “Jesús y María.” 71. See Nickson, “ ‘Sovereignty Belongs to God,’ ” 3, and Calvo Capilla, “Justicia, misericordia y cristianismo,” 165–71. 72. I borrow here from hooks, Talking Back. 73. See Nieto Cumplido, “Crisis demográfica y social,” 31–32. 74. Cf. Nickson, “Remembering Fernando.” 75. For scribal regulations, see González Arce, “Ordenanzas y fuero concedidos,” 404–5, and Pascual Martínez, “Cancillería de Enrique II,” 178–88. 76. Nickson, “ ‘Sovereignty Belongs to God,’ ” 14–15. Compare the miniatures to cantiga 32 in Real Biblioteca del El Escorial, MS T.I.1, fol. 47v, and see Avinoam Shalem’s essay in this volume. 77. For these doors, see Nickson, “ ‘Sovereignty Belongs to God,’ ” and Jiménez Martín, “Puerta principal.” 78. For Almohad interventions, see Ecker, “Great Mosque,” 117. 79. See especially Rosser-​Owen, “Andalusi Spolia in Medieval Morocco,” but also Ruiz Souza, “Botín de guerra”; Jaspert, “Zeichen und Symbole”; Mols, “Mamluk Metalwork Fittings,” 132–34, 158; Ewert, “Moscheetore-​Triumphbögen.” 80. Among many other recent studies, see, for example, Alibhai, “Reverberations of Santiago’s Bells,” and Nickson, “Sound of Conversion.” 81. Alibhai, “Reverberations of Santiago’s Bells,” 159–60. 82. Dozy and Lévi-​Provençal, Histoire des Musulmans, 2:261; al-​Maqqarī, Nafḥ al-ṭīb, ed. and trans. de Gayangos, History of the Mohammedan Dynasties, 1:209; Pérez Saez, “Córdoba y su mezquita aljama,” 30. 83. Barton, “The Count, the Bishop and the Abbot,” 91n5, and Jaspert, “Zeichen und Symbole,” 313n41. 84. Compare Bernard, “Architecture antique,” 43–44; Droth, introduction to Bronze, edited by Droth, 13; Glaber, Historiarum libri quinque, 206–9; Aurell, Noces du comte, 239–47; Kinney, “Spolia,” 120; Pereda and Gonzálvez Ruiz, Catedral de Toledo, 176.

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85. Buc, “Conversion of Objects,” 127, and Alfonso X, Siete partidas 2.13.18, ed. 1807, 2:117. 86. Flood, “Image Against Nature,” 148–50, and Weinryb, Bronze Object, 108–46. 87. Carmody, Astronomical Works of Thabit b. Qurra, 180–97. Cf. Forshaw, “From Occult Ekphrasis to Magical Art”; Samsó, On Both Sides, 206–8; Alarcón Román, Catalogo de amuletos, 36–38; Martínez Enamorado, “Mano de Fátima.” 88. See Gell, Art and Agency, 86, and Nickson, “ ‘Sovereignty Belongs to God,’ ” 16–17. 89. García Gómez, Foco de antigua luz, 143. 90. Bloom, Architecture of the Islamic West, 195–96, fig. 6.22. 91. Ibn Marzuq, El Musnad, 333–34, and Renard, Windows on the House of Islam, 256–57. 92. See Rabbat, “ ‘Ajīb and Gharīb.” 93. Fierro, “Madīnat al-​Zahrāʾ”; Bush, Reframing the Alhambra; Jordano Barbudo, “ ‘Vestido floral’ para el Jardín del Paraíso”; Robinson, “Trees of Love.”

94. London, British Library, MS Add. 14040, fols. 1r–85v, images at https://​lullus​.ub​.uni​-freiburg​.de​ /?doc​_id=​14493 (accessed 30 December 2020). Robinson misdates it to 1416 (“Trees of Love,” 400). See Stone, Critical Edition of the Libro del gentil, xii–xiii; Hames, “Conversion via Ecstatic Experience”; López Estrada, “Imaginado desvelo por los viajes”; Taylor, “Old Spanish Translation”; Taylor, “Old Spanish Tale,” 172; Campos Serrano, Pensamiento filosófico en Andalucía, 1042. 95. See Ruggles, “Representation, Signature and Trace” 96. Cf. Bush, Reframing the Alhambra, 110–65, and Nickson, “ ‘Sovereignty Belongs to God,’ ” 15–16. 97. See especially Weinryb, Bronze Object in the Middle Ages, 65–73, and Binski, Gothic Sculpture, 197–98. 98. Jiménez Calvente, “El prefacio del ‘Breve compendium,’ ” 235–36. 99. Ibid., 237. 100. Murphy, Rhetoric in the Middle Ages, 220–34.

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García Gómez, Emilio. Foco de antigua luz sobre la Alhambra: Desde un texto de Ibn al-​Jatib en 1362. Madrid: Publicaciones del Instituto Egipcio de Estudios Islámicos, 1988. García Luján, José Antonio, and Francisco Reyes Marsilla de Pascual. Catálogo sigilográfico del Archivo Municipal de Córdoba. 1st ed. Córdoba: Servicio de Publicaciones, 1994. Gayangos, Pascual de. Escritores en prosa anteriores al siglo XV. Madrid: M. Rivadenyra, 1860. Gell, Alfred. Art and Agency: An Anthropological Theory. Oxford: Clarendon, 1998. Glaber, Rodulfus. Historiarum libri quinque. Edited by John France. Oxford: Clarendon, 1989. Godoy, Jaume, and Antoni Cobos Fajardo. “Una inscripció mètrica medieval a Sant Esteve de Vilacolum.” Annals de l’Institut d’Estudis Empordanesos 37 (2004): 412–14. Gómez Bravo, Juan. Catálogo de los obispos de Córdoba. 2 vols. Córdoba, 1778. González Arce, José Damián. “Ordenanzas y fuero concedidos a la ciudad de Córdoba por Fernando III.” Cuadernos de estudios medievales 17 (1992): 399–411. González Muela, Joaquín. Libro del Caballero Zifar. Madrid: Castalia, 1990. Gubert, Serge. “Pouvoir, sacré et pensée mystique.” Al-​Qantara 17 (1996): 391–427. Hahnloser, Hans R., and Susanna Brugger-​Koch. Corpus der Hartsteinschliffe des 12–15 Jahrhunderts. Berlin: Deutscher Verlag für Kunstwissenschaft, 1986. Hames, Harvey J. “Conversion via Ecstatic Experience in Ramon Llull’s ‘Libre de gentil e dels tres savis.’ ” Viator 30 (1999): 181–200. Harit al-​Jusani, Muhammad b. “Kitāb al-​quḍāt bi-​ Qurṭuba.” Translated as Historia de los jueces de Córdoba. Edited by Julián Ribera y Tarragó. Madrid: Junta de Ampliación de Estudios e Investigaciones Científicas, 1914. Hernández Canut, León. “Cruzado.” In Ibn Khaldun: The Mediterranean in the 14th Century, edited by Jerónimo Páez López, 145. Seville: Fundación José Manuel Lara, 2006. Hernández Giménez, Felix. El alminar de ‘Abd al-Rahman III en la Mezquita Mayor de Cordoba: Genesis y repercusiones. Granada: Patronato de la Alhambra, 1975. Herrero Soto, Omayra. “El perdón del gobernante (al-Andalus, ss. II/VIII–V/XI): Una aproximación a los valores político-​religiosos de una sociedad islámica pre-​moderna.” PhD diss., University of Salamanca, 2012. hooks, bell. Talking Back: Thinking Feminist—Thinking Black. London: Sheba, 1989. Ibn Marzuq. El Musnad: Hechos memorables de Abu l-​Hasan, sultan de los Benimehnes. Edited by

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mittelalterlichen Offiziums, edited by David Hiley, 205–18. Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 2009. Stone, Herbert Reynolds. A Critical Edition of the Libro del gentil e de los tres sabios. Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina, 1965. Suárez Fernández, Luis. Historia del reinado de Juan I de Castilla. 2 vols. Madrid: Universidad Autonóma, 1977. ———. “Política internacional de Enrique II.” Hispania 62 (1956): 16–129. Taylor, Barry. “An Old Spanish Tale from Add. Ms. 14040, ff. 113r–114v: ‘Exenplo que acaesçio en tierra de Damasco a la buena duenna climeçia que avia veynte annos e la meçia en cuna.’ ” British Library Journal 22, no. 2 (1996): 172–85. ———. “An Old Spanish Translation from the ‘Flores Sancti Bernardi’ in British Library Add. Ms 14040, ff. 111v–112v.” British Library Journal 16, no. 1 (1990): 58–65. Thompson, Colin P. The Strife of Tongues: Fray Luis de León and the Golden Age of Spain. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988. Valdeón Baruque, Julio. “Un cuaderno de cuentas de Enrique II.” Hispania 101 (1966): 99–134. ———. Enrique II, 1369–1379. Palencia: La Olmeda, 1996. ———. “La propaganda ideológica, arma de combate de Enrique de Trastamára (1366–1369).” Historia, Instituciones, Documentos 19 (1992): 459–68. Vallvé, Joaquín. “La industria en al-​Andalus.” Al-​ Qantara 1 (1980): 209–41. Vandervorst, Joseph. “Les emprunts bibliques dans les monnaies de la péninsule ibérique.” Revue belge de philologie et d’histoire 25 (1946): 145–62. Vega, Miguel, and Salvador Peña. “Allah cristiano, Deus islámico: Implicaciones de la traducción de un nombre.” In Cristianismo, Islam y Modernidad, edited by José Luis Sánchez Nogales, J. S. Béjar Bacas, and P. Ruiz Lozano, 215–26. Granada: Facultad de Teología, 2011. Vroom, W. H. Financing Cathedral Building in the Middle Ages: The Generosity of the Faithful. Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2010. Weinryb, Ittai. The Bronze Object in the Middle Ages: Sculpture, Material, Making. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016. Williams, John. “Purpose and Imagery in the Apocalypse Commentary of Beatus of Liébana.” In The Apocalypse in the Middle Ages, edited by Richard Kenneth Emmerson and Bernard McGinn, 217–33. Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1992. Ximénez de Rada, Rodrigo. Historia de rebus Hispanie sive Historia gothica. In Corpus Christianorum: Continuatio medievalis, edited by Juan Fernández Valverde, vol. 72. Turnholt: Brepols, 1987.

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7 Power and Authority in Visual Paratext The Case of the Grandes chroniques de France

Anne D. Hedeman

In 1987, the French theoretician Gérard Genette coined the term “paratext” to describe the combination of two things: the peritext, which in modern printed books consists of such material as the title page, preface, or index that accompany an author’s text and has the power to shape its reception, and the epitext, which is external to the text and consists of such things as the author’s interviews, letters, or diaries.1 His analysis concentrates on print in the modern period and presents paratext as essentially authorial and fundamentally subordinated to the printed text. Scholars of the Renaissance period challenge Genette’s notion that the author is central in controlling paratext and broaden the field of paratextual study of printed books to consider historical difference and change. They also consider the “roles played through paratextual forms by other actors of the book market such as printers, editors, readers, annotators, who may or may not be acting in accordance with original authorial intentions.”2 This approach echoes that of medievalists who study the transmission of knowledge through hand-​ produced books. Medievalists have long known that texts are neither stable in form nor in content and realized that a diachronic approach to texts embodied in books is essential. They have also begun to think about paratext within dual frameworks of power and of the diverse actors and actions involved in producing medieval books. This essay focuses on two highly visual paratextual elements—images and their associated rubrics—as they work together as a unit to express power and to legitimate authority in King Charles V’s Grandes chroniques de France (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale

de France [BnF], MS fr. 2813), the French translation of the royal histories written in Latin and originally preserved at the Abbey of Saint-​Denis. An unusual description of a book presentation that took place on 6 March 1472, about one hundred years after Charles V’s Grandes chroniques was made, offers insight into the potential importance that such textual/visual units have in shaping a book’s impact on a royal audience.3 Cardinal Bessarion had sent a copy of his Orations Against the Turks to Guillaume Fichet, a Parisian scholar at the Sorbonne, and Fichet had taken it upon himself to make a series of manuscript and printed copies of Bessarion’s text to present to notable figures. After Fichet presented the illuminated manuscript made for the French king Louis XI to him, Fichet wrote a letter to Bessarion to describe the event. This rare account of a book’s presentation underscores how important the paratextual elements that Fichet added were to the king’s understanding of the book. Fichet writes: I presented your orations, which I had prepared as elaborately as I could, to the king, and I spoke to a few people both about the need for concord among the Christian princes and the project of a war against the enemies of the cross, and I omitted nothing which should have been said to the king in your name. He took the book with an agreeable expression and for a short while read the little preface which I wrote at the start of your work. Then, turning the parchment pages, he looked closely at all the paintings and figures scattered in the margins. Next, he read almost all the glosses to the Demosthenes oration (which you yourself had provided), for they had been inserted into the text in gold and various colors. While he read, he asked me some questions to which I gave a ready reply. Finally, he returned to the beginning of the book and read three or four times the distich which he found at the foot of the painting in which he himself appeared: “Accept, your majesty, the gifts of Bessarion: they will serve you well, both at home and abroad.” One of the secretaries present then took the book away for safekeeping.4 Fichet’s description of a presentation suggests that specific paratextual materials—the image and its caption, the glosses in color, and the paintings and figures in the margins—were of equal importance, shaping the king’s first and possibly his only response to the manuscript he was given. These paratextual elements may even have had more impact on the king than the traditional orientation given in Fichet’s added preface or his short spoken speech of presentation that layered over his preface. His description suggests that a consideration of rubrics and illuminations together as a specialized paratextual unit might offer more sophisticated insight into the mechanisms by which those who made illuminated manuscripts sought to weave authority through them. The association of rubrics and images as units in manuscripts has more to do with editorial planning that seeks to shape the text’s reception than with production practice because, with very few exceptions, the rubrics are written and 166

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illuminations painted by different artisans at distinct moments in the book’s fabrication. What might be the role of rubricated images in shaping perceptions of power in the emerging genre of vernacular history in France, particularly in cases where rubrics were not part of an original authorial text that had a long life? Consideration of the emergence between circa 1370 and 1375 of a systematically rubricated visual cycle in King Charles V’s copy of the Grandes chroniques de France offers insight into how such power dynamics work. Charles’s copy set a precedent with the inclusion at an important political moment of a fully developed rubricated visual cycle in a text transcribed by Henri de Trévou, one of Charles’s écrivains du roi (scribes of the king) who often acted as a libraire (bookmaker) for the king by writing and coordinating the artistic decoration of his manuscripts.5 The king’s manuscript is also important because it contains a second revised and extended rubricated visual cycle by Raoulet d’Orléans, a second royal écrivain and libraire who disbound and added two distinct illuminated and rubricated continuations to the manuscript just a few years after Henri had completed it.6

Henri de Trévou’s Collaboration In the first campaign, Henri annotated the hundred-​year-​old original manuscript of the French chronicle (Paris, Bibliothèque Sainte-​Genevieve, MS 782) from the royal library in the Louvre, under the likely supervision of King Charles V’s chancellor, Pierre d’Orgemont.7 It was the authoritative “original” incorporating the monk Primat’s late thirteenth-​century translation into French of the Latin histories accumulated by the abbey of Saint-​Denis in a manuscript presented to King Philip III around 1270.8 This manuscript of the Grandes chroniques served Pierre and Henri both as a textual source up through the description of the death of Saint Louis in 1270 and as a maquette for the layout of text and image for that portion of Charles V’s chronicle. The text of this venerable model from the royal library was copied in Charles V’s manuscript but its paratext rethought. Three marginal notes expressly addressed to the scribe Henri offer insights into the choices made and the mechanisms by which they were accomplished.9 These notes rearranged chapter divisions, introduced rubrics, and planned the placement of a more extensive image cycle. They reveal three interesting things. First, they tightened relationships between rubrics and text. For instance, one particular section of chapters described ambiguously in a chapter list on folio 202r–v and transcribed with vague or nonexistent rubrics on folios 208v to 212r in the first Grandes chroniques was unclear. The note to Henri on folio 202r in the chapter list told him what he should do: “Henri, do not make any chapters here after the sign II . . . because these chapters serve no purpose here” (Henri ne faites ci p[oint] de capitres, usque ad signum II . . . , car ces chapitres ne servent ci de riens) (fig. 7.1). The dotted section in this quotation corresponds to the portion crossed by a diagonal line in the note to Henri, Power and Authority in Visual Paratext

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Figure 7.1 Chapter list for the life of Louis the Stammerer and descendants with marginal note to Henri de Trévou, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1275–80. Paris, Bibliothèque Sainte-​Geneviève, MS 782, fol. 202r. Photo: Bibliothèque Sainte-​ Geneviève, Paris, cliché IRHT.

which contains the beginning of the list of rubrics that were to be substituted: “Here begins the history of Rollo, who then was called Robert and the dukes of Normandy who descended from him . . . iij chapters . . . how the Count Gerbert de Vermendois then had them die in prison” (Ci commence lystoire de rol[lo] qui puis fu apelle Robert et des ducs de Normandie qui de li descendirent . . . iij chapitres . . . comment li cuens Herberz de Vermendois le fist puis morir en prison). After this initial note to Henri, marginal annotations on folios 208v through 212r indicated how to rearrange the actual text that corresponded to the six chapters in the chapter list to which this note to Henri referred. Several annotations in the lower margins on folios containing the text that was to be rearranged transcribe the new rubrics that were inserted at the beginning of the newly subdivided chapters when this section was transcribed in Charles V’s manuscript (fig. 7.2). At the end of this newly subdivided text in Philip III’s manuscript, another note to Henri suggests that he should return to doing what he had done up to that point by inserting rubrics that follow the divisions already existing or created by new marginal annotations: “Henri, put chapter 1 here and then afterwards each in its place” (Henri, metez c(i) les chapitres I, pu(is) après chascun en s(on) lieu) (fig. 7.3). Henri may well have had a separate list of rubrics to insert. In addition to placing rubrics at the beginning of chapters that had previously only been listed in the chapter lists beginning each section of text in Phillip III’s Grandes chroniques, he also inserted new rubrics that had not been transcribed in the margins of Philip III’s chronicle into newly subdivided chapters of Charles V’s book.10 As one example, on folio 213v of Philip III’s manuscript, the marginal annotation subdivides a chapter to create a new chapter 3, but no new rubric is transcribed in the lower margin. Nonetheless, Charles V’s Grandes chroniques

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Figure 7.2 Notes addressed to Henri de Trévou and substituted rubrics in lower margins, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1275–80. Paris, Bibliothèque Sainte-​Geneviève, MS 782, fol. 209r. Photo: Bibliothèque Sainte-​ Geneviève, Paris, cliché IRHT.

Figure 7.3 Marginal note to Henri, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1275–80. Paris, Bibliothèque Sainte-​Geneviève, MS 782, fol. 212r. Photo: Bibliothèque Sainte-​ Geneviève, Paris, cliché IRHT.

begins the new chapter 3 at the point suggested in the model’s text and adds a new rubric and an unusually placed illustration for that chapter (fig. 7.4). Finally, other inscriptions added throughout Philip III’s book indicate to Henri where to place new illustrations. An exceptional note to Henri—“Henri do not leave any illumination here” (Henri ne lessiez ci point d’hyst[oire]), placed adjacent to the upper left corner of a historiated initial on folio 209r—and the abbreviation “hyst” (for histoire or illumination) inserted in the blank space ending the rubric a few lines lower in the column adjusts placement and subject for the illustration in Charles V’s manuscript (see fig. 7.2). The word “hyst” (histoire or illumination) or in rare cases “hyst double” (double illumination) written adjacent to multiple chapter divisions in the text of Philip III’s manuscript dictate the placement of images throughout Charles V’s Grandes chroniques.11 The result of this detailed planning in preparation for Charles V’s manuscript was a clearly systemized layout in which all chapters were rubricated, most were also illuminated with historiated initials or one- or two-​column-​wide illuminations, and all but a handful of illuminated chapters sandwiched their illumination between the rubric and the text of the chapter.12 This layout was used consistently in both the portion of text copied from the original Grandes chroniques manuscript and in the sections of French texts transcribed by Henri that had been translated from Latin chronicles at Saint-​Denis or written in Paris to extend the chronicle to cover events until 1350. This pattern of rubrication regularized the appearance of Charles V’s chronicle and updated it to meet late fourteenth-​century French expectations that histories would be both rubricated throughout and illuminated at major text divisions. When first completed sometime between 1370 and 1375 under the supervision of Henri, Charles V’s two-​volume manuscript traced French history from its Trojan origins through the 170

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Figure 7.4 Murder of Duke William I of Normandy, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1370–75. Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813, fol. 169r. Photo: BnF.

death in 1350 of his own grandfather, King Philip VI, in a book with fully rubricated chapters illustrated with 129 images. Only two of these 129 images diverge from this pattern by using illuminations to subdivide chapters. As one example, on folio 213v of Philip III’s manuscript, the marginal annotations “Ca iij” and “hyst” subdivides chapter 2 to create a new illustrated chapter 3, despite the fact that there was no rubric for this new chapter in the chapter list of Philip’s manuscript and no new rubric provided for transcription in the lower margin. Charles V’s Grandes chroniques begins the new chapter 3 at the point suggested in the model’s text and adds a new rubric and an unusually placed illustration (see fig. 7.4). As he transcribed the text and wrote the rubric, Henri broke from tradition in order to leave space for the illustration parallel with the rubric in the column directly to its left, drawing special attention to its content, which addressed Power and Authority in Visual Paratext

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Norman history. The new rubric in the left column clarifies that the chapter deals with treachery against Duke William Longsword, the second ruler of Normandy. It is explicit: “How the good duke William was betrayed and martyred by the disloyal count of Flanders who was named Arnulf” (Comment le bon duc Guillaume fu traïz et martiriez par le desloyal conte de Flandres qui avoit non Arnoul). The illumination in the second column is centered parallel to that rubric, and it breaks the phrase in the description of Arnulf’s treacherous betrayal and murder of William that categorizes Arnulf as “having the treason of Judas in his heart” (Et Arnoul qui la traison iudas avoit ou cuer). It shows Arnulf’s four collaborators killing William as he stepped off the boat onto an island to which Arnulf had lured him under the pretext of discussing peace.13 This expansion of the history of the first dukes of Normandy would have special contemporary appeal to Charles V, who had been named duke of Normandy by his father, King John the Good, in the mid-1350s. Normandy had been a point of contention for rivals to the French throne ranging from Charles V’s cousin, King Charles of Navarre, to the English King Edward III, whose claim of the French throne sparked the Hundred Years’ War between England and France.14 Because their ongoing conspiracies against Charles V from the 1350s on questioned his legitimacy as both duke of Normandy and future king of France, this image of disloyalty against one of Charles V’s ducal predecessors would have reminded Charles of his own difficulties in Normandy and encouraged him to see his antagonists as also resembling Judas.15

Raoulet d’Orléans’s Collaboration, ca. 1375–1377 Just a few years after the Grandes chroniques transcribed by Henri was completed and put in the royal collection, the manuscript was removed from the library so that it could be extended by the addition of an illuminated history of the reigns of Charles V’s father and of Charles himself (up to 1375), which was probably also drafted by the French chancellor Pierre d’Orgemont and penned by Raoulet d’Orléans, a second écrivain du roy. After 1379, the chronicle was disbound for a second time so that Raoulet could extend it again with more newly written text by Pierre about Charles V’s life. At this same moment, several pages were cut from earlier portions of the book so that Raoulet could replace them with rewritten illuminated texts. In the same campaign, frontispieces were added at the beginnings of each of the manuscript’s two volumes. The ultimate result of this ongoing collaboration between the chancellor, two libraires du roi, and at least four to five artists was a manuscript in which 176 innovative illustrations, ranging in size from historiated initials to full-​page illuminations, visibly sculpted sections of the text with increasing distinctive responses to both ongoing historical events and to models from the king’s library collection. Because Raoulet understood and adopted Henri’s practice of creating a visual unit by sandwiching illuminations between the rubric and the text that they introduce, it is not surprising 172

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that Raoulet worked with Pierre to manipulate the paratextual apparatus of regularized rubricated illuminations to draw attention to particularly important portions of text. Raoulet and Pierre used a small set of rubricated illuminations inventively to invert the expectations established by Henri’s normative layout in order to emphasize authority, resolve power struggles, and try to shape conversation about the contested historical events that the chronicle’s text describes when it records episodes from the reigns of John the Good and Charles V. What is particularly innovative in these two illuminated continuations is Pierre’s and Raoulet’s additions to the king’s manuscript of about eight unusually tight rubric/ image pairings that command attention for their distinct deviations from the normative layout, for their scale, and for their content.16 These exceptional pairings exploit rubrics and illuminations in an attempt to shape interpretation of the chronicle’s representation of the past at a difficult moment in Charles V’s present when the legitimacy of the new Valois line of kings was questioned by the English, and France and England were embroiled in the Hundred Years’ War. Consideration of three examples of these powerful, politically charged additions reveal how such innovative pairings of rubrics with illuminations occasionally could even contest the meaning of the texts they accompany.17 The Baptism of the Dauphin Charles The first example, from the first continuation penned by Raoulet, is a large image representing a royal baptismal procession (fig. 7.5). While there are numerous two-​ column-​wide illuminations in this manuscript, this is the only one in which the paired rubric and illumination each slash across the page above the beginning of the text that begins in the left column below the image. This unusual mise-​en-​page ensures that readers first digest the rubric and then the large image before the text is read. The rubric, “Concerning the solemnity of the Baptism of Charles son of Charles the fifth of that name” (De la solempnité du baptisement de Charles, filz du roy Charles le Quint de ce nom), only names the small baby wrapped in ermine borne by a queen. It seems designed to pique curiosity about the other people shown in the picture, who are identified and whose identities are then complicated by the text beginning below the picture and continued in the second column, eight lines above the picture. It describes Hughes de Chatillon carrying a candle and the count of Tauquarville carrying a cup for the salt, followed by Queen Jeanne d’Evreux, who carried the baby and who was followed, in turn, by the baby’s godfathers: Charles of Montmorency and Charles of Dammartin.18 This text identifies the queen as Jeanne d’Evreux, who was the last Capetian queen and an important political supporter of Charles V when the legitimacy of the Valois succession to the Capetians was questioned by both the English and her relative Charles of Navarre.19 However, as the chapter continues in the lower right column below the picture, it casts doubt on the authenticity of the Capetian queen’s act of carrying the baby in Power and Authority in Visual Paratext

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Figure 7.5 Baptismal procession of Charles VI, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1375–77. Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813, fol. 446v. Photo: BnF.

the actual ceremony. Five lines below the miniature in the second column, Jeanne is mentioned for a second time following with her daughter among the distinguished guests further back in the procession, “Queen Jeanne, the Duchess of Orléans, her daughter” (La royne Jeanne, la Duchesse d’Orliens sa fille). This textual contradiction was noticed almost immediately but not corrected in this manuscript of the Grandes chroniques. However, subsequent chronicles based on the text in Charles V’s manuscript, such as the Continuation of Guillaume de Nangis’s Chronique abregée, compiled in 1380, recognized this conflict and rewrote the text that mentions Queen Jeanne d’Evreux carrying the child. Instead, the Chronique abregée describes Charles of Montmorency carrying the child with his fellow godfather, Charles of Dammartin, beside him.20 Whether Queen Jeanne d’Evreux actually carried the baby or not, it is clear that 174

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this image was intended to establish a powerful, although possibly untruthful, political representation of Capetian-​Valois continuity. The Meeting and Feast of the Order of the Star A luxurious large illumination celebrating Charles V’s father, King John the Good, forms part of a second innovative combination of rubric and illumination in Raoulet’s first continuation to the chronicle (figs. 7.6–7). This combination worked to denigrate the English and promote the French during the Hundred Years’ War. The rubric began on the page before the illumination at the bottom of the first column and continued at the top of the column; it reads, “How the city and the castle of Guines were captured by the English through treason the day that King John held the feast of the Order of the Star at Saint-​Ouen, which feast is hereafter represented and imagined” (emphasis added).21 However, because the illumination planned to follow the rubric was thirty-​nine lines high and two columns wide, Raoulet knew it would not fit in the space allocated, so he Power and Authority in Visual Paratext

Figure 7.6 Rubrics concerning the Meeting of the Order of the Star. Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1375–77. Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813, fol. 393v. Photo: BnF. Figure 7.7 Meeting and feast of the Order of the Star, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1375–77. Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813, fol. 394r. Photo: BnF.

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filled some of the column with a transcription of the very short chapter the illumination illustrated and left the rest blank, thereby inverting the normative pattern. This short chapter documented the English army’s treacherous action: In that year 1351 in the month of October the confraternity of the Noble Maison de Saint-​Ouen near Paris debuted. Each of those who were in it wore a star on the front of their hood or on their mantel. And during this feast of the Star the English captured the city and chateau of Guines by treachery. A good treaty had been sworn between the kings of France and England, and because of this, the Sire of Banelinguehan, Capitain and guard of the city came to see the feast and left the city in the care of Guillaume de Biauconroy, with whom the English negotiated so that by treachery and without resistance, the English entered and captured the city. The people marveled, saying that the English had neither truth, loyalty or good faith. And Guillaume, who had committed treason, was captured, decapitated, and hung.22 In the alignment on folio 393v, the rubric announces the illumination to follow and juxtaposes English treason with the meeting of the French Order of the Star. The very short text that fills part of the column between the rubric and the picture expands on the theme of English treason, while the image that follows celebrates French chivalry. The chapter’s description of the actions of the English and of the French traitor Guillaume, whom they suborned, establishes a strong contrast with the representation of chivalric French behavior that the illumination of the meeting and feast of the Order of the Star on the facing page celebrates. This large image shows members of the order wearing the costume of that short-​lived chivalric association (fig. 7.7). Royal accounts relating to the execution of elements of costume for the Order of the Star and John the Good’s ordinance sent to a group of nobles and princes in 1351 to recruit members confirm the authenticity of the costumes included in the illumination.23 Because the order did not meet after the 1350s, the artist was either informed by a former member of the order, like Charles V himself, who had attended a meeting of it about twenty years before this illumination was painted, or Pierre himself, who, as a chancellor, could seek out the ordinances concerning the order preserved at the Trésor des chartes. This informant described to artists the costume of white tunics, red mantles, pearl-​studded fillets that the participants tied around their foreheads, and the complicated stars they wore on their chests. The inclusion of such realia in the representation of the order that shows loyal knights rallying around the king and feasting together visualizes chivalric French behavior as a strong pictorial contrast to the English soldiers who are described in the text as breaking treaties. This particular paratextual unit of rubric, text, and image celebrates the loyalty and support of French chivalry for the king. It was a unique construction that only appeared in this specific Grandes chroniques. All subsequent manuscripts containing this chapter are 176

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not illustrated and contain a rubric that edits out the phrase, “which feast is hereafter represented and imagined,” which draws a specific connection between the rubric and the large image of the meeting and feast of the chivalric order.

Raoulet d’Orléans’s Collaboration after 1379 The final example is one of a series of drastic interventions that Pierre and Raoulet made to Charles V’s Grandes chroniques when they were finishing off the king’s manuscript with the second continuation that described the visit of Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV to Paris in 1378 and of subsequent events until 1379. Charles V used the emperor’s visit to offer his justification for war with England in a speech on 8 January 1378, at a political summit with the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV and his son, Wenceslas, the king of the Romans. The impact of King Charles V’s speech before the Holy Roman Emperor in the Grandes chroniques offers a particularly striking example of the complicated use of rubricated illuminations to retroactively authenticate and shape the memory of an oral performance.24 The description of the king’s speech before the Holy Roman Emperor in Pierre’s final extension to the chronicle makes clear that, as Charles V spoke, he had several treaties read aloud in French and Latin in order that his international audience might better comprehend his point of view. He also had his men show the original sealed copies of various documents involving negotiations with England, such as treaties or the letter Edward III wrote to Philip of Valois at Eltham on 30 March 1331 confirming his homage of 1329 to have been liege.25 The description in the Grandes chroniques of the planning for Charles V’s speech emphasizes how those who met with him the night before agreed that the king needed arguments to counter the false claims of the English in the Hundred Years’ War. Charles suggested that he should counter English disinformation by having “the Emperor and the princes and his council who were with him hear and see that which the king would say to [them] and show them through the letters and treaties of peace made and the alliances so that they could know and honestly respond to and support the truth against those who put effort into, are putting effort into, or will put effort into speaking or manifesting or publishing the opposite.”26 Through his oration, Charles hoped to shape interpretation of these documents by countering past, present, and future English claims in an attempt to rally the emperor and others who might see his manuscript to the French side in the Hundred Years’ War. Pierre helped plan the speech and watched the king deliver it before Emperor Charles IV, so he knew exactly which documents were shown and read to the audience assembled at the Louvre. More important, he also realized that many of them were not included in the king’s Grandes chroniques, even though the text describing the imperial visit that Pierre had Raoulet add to the manuscript makes clear that it is the documents Power and Authority in Visual Paratext

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that validated Charles V’s assertions. The documents needed to be present because there was no transcription of Charles V’s speech; he had spoken for two hours without a text, using his memory to construct a narrative woven around the documents that he had selected with the help of his chancellor and members of his council and had displayed during the speech. Illustrating the Speech Given by King Charles V Before the Holy Roman Emperor Charles IV As supervisor of the Grandes chroniques’s text, Pierre worked with Raoulet to plan innovative rubricated illustrations of these important documents. Raoulet excised leaves from the earlier part of the chronicle written circa 1370 by Henri. He replaced them with others that contained transcriptions of documents that had been missing from earlier sections of the chronicle. These illustrated documents, couched within elaborately rubricated and illuminated framing texts, achieve the status of illuminations. The most complex paratextual insertion exemplifies how this was done, by intertwining two rubricated illuminations, text, and a transcribed document that was never included in subsequent copies of the Grandes chronique. This document was the English king Edward III’s letter in 1331 to the French king Philip of Valois that confirmed that Edward’s homage of 1329 to Philip should be considered liege homage.27 To make room for it, Raoulet excised the first folio of the chronicle’s forty-​seventh quire in a section of the chronicle that Henri had transcribed that contained the end of the fifth chapter through the beginning of the seventh chapter of Philip of Valois’s life. Raoulet then replaced it with an illuminated bifolio with two rubricated images and inserted a rewritten text in order to restructure and expand the fifth and sixth chapters in Charles V’s manuscript to frame the transcription of Edward III’s letter. Consideration of an earlier Grandes chroniques from circa 1370 (Paris, BnF, MS fr. 10135) that also belonged to Charles V gives insight into the likely appearance of the original rubricated and illuminated text that Raoulet revised.28 The earlier manuscript’s rubricated illustration represents the moment in the homage ceremony when the English king Edward kneels and extends his hands, but Philip of Valois has not yet clasped both of Edward’s hands in his (fig. 7.8). A man in red standing by the king raises his hand. Its rubric, “How Edward king of England, paid homage to king Philip of Valois at Amiens for the land that he held from him in Gascony and elsewhere” (Comment Edouart roi d’Angleterre fit hommage au roi Phelippe de Valois à Amiens de la terre qu’il tenoit de luy en gascoinge et ailleurs), transitions to a text that explains what actually happened in 1329. This text reports that Edward III came to Amiens in 1329 with his retinue and negotiated with Philip of Valois about whether he even owed homage for the duchy of Acquitaine.29 The English argued that because Philip’s father, Charles of Valois, had aggressively taken some of Edward’s land in the duchy of Aquitaine, Edward no longer owed homage to the French; the French countered that the land was forfeited because Charles of Valois and Edward II had been at war. Ultimately both agreed that Edward 178

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Figure 7.8 Edward II pays homage to Philip of Valois, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1370. Paris, BnF, MS fr. 10135, fol. 416r. Photo: BnF.

Figure 7.9 (opposite) Edward II prepares for homage to Philip of Valois, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1379–80. Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813, fol. 357r. Photo: BnF.

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owed homage for the land he still possessed. This chapter does not report the upshot, which was that Edward performed plain and not liege homage in 1329. In planning two illustrations for the illuminated bifolio that Raoulet substituted, Raoulet and his artist redeployed the rubricated image seen in figure 7.8 to illustrate the newly inserted document and added a different rubricated image as an illustration to the text that reported Edward’s actions in 1329. The rewritten and inserted bifolio manipulates text and two rubricated illuminations to revise the traditional arrangement. The new rubricated image (fig. 7.9) occurs at the same spot in the text as the previous image (fig. 7.8), but it is not presented as a new chapter. Rather it appears as an interruption of the previous chapter, which had begun one and a half folios earlier. This new image’s unique rubric states: “How the king of England went to sea to go to the city of Amiens where the above-​mentioned king of England should have paid homage to the king of France for the duchy of Aquitaine and the county of Poitou as man of the king of France” (Comment le roy d’Angleterre se mist en mer pour venir en la cité d’Amiens ou le Roy d’angleterre dessus dit devoit faire hommage au roy de France de la duchié d’Aquitaine et de la conté de Pontieu comme homme du roy de France) (emphasis added). Its rubricated image shows the English king preparing for homage; he begins to kneel, resting his left hand on his knee and extending his right. The French king faces him with both hands extended, but he does not yet clasp the English king’s hands between his own. This rubric was edited further, possibly at Pierre’s request. A simple edit crosses out a line at the bottom of the first column of text to remove the conditional “should have” in the phrasing given in italics in my transcription. In the edited version, the king of England went to Amiens “to pay homage to the king of France.”30 It seems that the anxiety felt about Edward III’s homage during the Hundred Years’ War shaped both this edited rubric and its illumination in an effort to distract from its text, which normally was the only chapter to deal with Edward III’s homage. Through visual slippage, this unique rubricated illumination on the first leaf of the inserted bifolium seeks to distract readers’ attention away from the “normal” textual summary of the discussions about homage to focus it on the actual rubricated scene of homage and transcription of the document from 1331 that appears when the first page of the inserted bifolio is turned (fig. 7.10). The complicated paratextual layering of illuminations, rubrics, and texts surrounding this inserted document not only illustrate the charter Edward III wrote to King Philip VI but also work to create the impression that what it says should happen actually had happened: that Edward III had paid the more binding liege homage to Philip of Valois in 1329. The image in Charles V’s earlier chronicle represents a moment in the homage ceremony that falls between the two represented by the artist on the inserted bifolium. In designing the substituted bifolium, Pierre and Raoulet effectively revised the classic paratextual unit of rubricated illumination concerning homage in figure 7.8; they enlarged the image and moved it to begin a chapter at a new spot before the inserted document but preserved its original rubric almost intact. The rubricated Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

images inserted on the new bifolium redeploys and amplifies the sole rubricated illumination illustrating Edward III’s homage in Charles V’s earlier royal manuscript. This two-​column-​wide illumination illustrating the transcribed document fills the bottom of the folio on which begins the transcription of the letter from King Edward III to Philip VI of Valois about how Edward’s homage in 1329 should have been liege. This wide image shows Edward kneeling before Philip and placing his enlarged hands within the French king’s. Witnesses observe the gesture and listen to the man in red who raises his hand as he stands besides Philip of Valois and begins the speech on behalf of Philip. In this speech, he will ask Edward to become either a “liege man” or a “man” of the king of France, thereby distinguishing verbally between the liege homage that Philip argued for and the less binding plain homage that Edward actually paid Philip in 1329. Unusual framing baguettes bracket the other three sides of the text block, drawing special attention to the paratextual sequence they enclose. This sequence begins at the bottom of the first column of text with a version of the rubric that begins the traditional text in figure 7.8. It introduces the large miniature at the bottom of the page. These are followed by five lines of text at the top of the second column, the second rubric, and finally, the beginning of the transcribed document, which continues onto the second inserted folio.31 The first rubric anchors the image: “How the king of England paid homage to the King of France at Amiens for the duchy of Aquitaine and the county of Poitou as he ought to” (Coment le roy d’Angleterre fist hommage au roy de France à Amiens de la duchié d’Aquitaine et de la conté de Pontieu si come faire devoit). The five lines of text at the top of the second column report: “Thus the king of England paid homage to the king of France in the form and manner that is contained in the charter sealed with the seal of the king of England whose content follows” (Adonc fist le roy d’Angleterre hommage au roy de France en la forme et manière que contenu est en la chartre scellée du seel du roy d’Angleterre dont la teneur s’ensuit). The rubric that follows this brief text authenticates the transcribed document it introduces: “Here follows the transcription of the sealed charter which the king of England gave [and] which contains the manner of homage that the king of England paid at Amiens to the king of France for the lands named within it” (Ci après s’ensuit la teneur de la chartre scellée que le roy d’Angleterre donna, laquelle contient la manière de l’ommage que le roy d’Angleterre fist à Amiens au roy de France des terres dessus nommées). The transcribed document begins with a formula, “to all those who these present letters see or hear” (à tous ceuls qui ces presentes lettres verront ou orront) that encourages returning to the illumination at the bottom of the column that shows the most abject moment of the ceremony, in which a multitude of witnesses see Edward III kneel and place his oversized hands in the gesture of immixtio manuum within those of Philip VI, who stands below a canopy decorated with fleurs de lis to hear his oath. The meaning of the precise moment represented in this large illumination is made clear a bit later in the transcribed charter, within the first column of folio 358r (fig. 7.11) that is immediately adjacent to this illumination on folio 357v at the bottom of the facing folio. That text Power and Authority in Visual Paratext

Figure 7.10 (opposite) Edward II pays homage to Philip of Valois, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1379–80. Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813, fol. 357v. Photo: BnF.

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Figure 7.11 Textual description specifying how Edward II should pay homage, in the Grandes chroniques de France, ca. 1379–80. Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813, fol. 358r. Photo: BnF.

describes the ceremony and clarifies that the homage was liege. It also explains that the man in red who stands behind the French king speaks for him: The King of England, duke of Guyenne, will hold his hands between the hands of the king of France, and he who will speak for the king of France will address his words to the king of England, duke of Guyenne and will speak thus, “You become a liege man of the king of France, my lord who is here, as duke of Guienne and peer of France and promise him faith and loyalty. Say ‘certainly.’ ” And then the king of France will receive the king of England and duke in liege homage in faith and by oath excepting his rights and those of others.32 Raoulet’s insertions of documents into the Grandes chroniques incorporate increasingly complex paratextual constructions that re-​present contested historical events to favor political arguments made by Charles V in 1378. As the example of Edward III’s homage before King Philip of Valois demonstrates, the initial rubric in the newly inserted text does not contradict the textual account immediately following it. However, the rubricated and illuminated document from 1331, framed by baguettes and added to the insertion, does revise historical events by using the rubricated image’s inter­ action with its text to affirm that the homage that took place was liege. As a result, the combination highlights how, by waging war with the French, the English king has broken his oath of absolute fealty. 184

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

Conclusion The sequence of additions made to Charles V’s Grandes chroniques over time shows how self-​consciously the king’s chancellor Pierre d’Orgemont and his écrivains du roy Henri de Trévou and Raoulet d’Orléans worked with artists to first establish and then manipulate paratextual combinations of rubrics and images. These particular rubricated images derive their power, in part, by deviating from the normative relationship between image and rubric used throughout the manuscript, a relationship that would become visible to any viewer who flipped through the book in a way comparable to that described by Fichet. Because of the random access that illuminated manuscripts encouraged, visually striking and exceptional paratextual units, like these, are particularly potent agents in expressing power and shaping the reception of history in the Grandes chroniques.

Notes 1. See Genette, Paratexts. 2. Brown-​Grant et al., Inscribing Knowledge in the Medieval Book, 5. 3. Guillaume Fichet supervised the publication in Paris of Besarion’s letters and orations about the Turks in 1471. See Meserve, “Patronage and Propaganda,” 521–88, esp. 525. 4. “Orationes tuas quam apparatissimas potui reddidi Serenissimo Regi, verbaque deci paucis cum de concordia christianis principibus inter se necessaria, tum de bello contra crucis hostes obeundo, nihilque praetermisi quod tuonomine Regi esset offerendum. Graciosoquidem vultu librum excepit, legitque parumper praefaciunculam quam operi tuo praescripsi. Revolutis deinde membranis picturas et imagines in marginibus sparsas cominus inspexit. Tum glosulas in oratione Demosthenis a ta quidem positas fere singulas legit; erant enim auro varioque colore in contextu orationis interiectae. Inter legendum quaestiunculas a mequasdam rogavit, quibus praesto fuit responsum. Postremo reversus ad codicis principium, distichon ter quaterque resumpsit, quotd in calce regiae imaginis scriptum repperit. ‘Fausta futura tibi, Rex, accioe Bessarionis / munera, quae tibi prosint et foris atque domi.’ A secretis qui aderat librum custodiendum accepit.” Fichet, cited and translated in Meserve, “Patronage and Propaganda,” 562–64. 5. For Henri de Trévou, see Rouse and Rouse, Manuscripts and Their Makers, 1:270–73; 2:51–52. For illuminations of the Grandes chroniques, see Hedeman, Royal Image. 6. For Raoulet d’Orléans, see Rouse and Rouse, Manuscripts and Their Makers, 1:273–79; 2:121–22. 7. Roland Delachenal (Grandes chroniques de France, 3:xii–xviii) reviews Léon Lacabane’s

arguments (“Recherches sur les auteurs,” 57–74, esp. 68–69) that Pierre d’Orgemont supervised production of Charles V’s manuscript and was more comfortable with presenting Pierre d’Orgemont’s role as a hypothesis. Lacabane cites a document from 1377 in which Charles V orders that the Italian merchant Dyno Rapondi be paid for material to make the covers for “the spines and covers of the Chronicles of France and those prepared by our faithful and loyal chancellor, in two volumes for ourselves, a piece of baudequin leather, twenty-​six francs” [Item pour les hez et chemises des Croniques de France et celles que a faittes nostre amé et féal chancelier, pour deux volumes pour nous une pièce de bandequin XXVI franz]. On this basis, Guenée accepted the attribution of the lives of John the Good and Charles V to Chancellor Pierre d’Orgemont (“Grandes chroniques de France,” 217). 8. For the most recent states of research on the origin and diffusion of the Grandes chroniques, see Guenée, Comment on écrit l’histoire, and Brix, “Itinéraires et séjours.” For an edition of the text, see Viard, Grandes chroniques, and Delachenal, Grandes chroniques de France. 9. For partial description of the marginal notes in Philip III’s Grandes chroniques for Henri de Trévou, see Delisle, Recherches sur la librairie, 1:310–11, and Rouse and Rouse, Manuscripts and Their Makers, 1:272. 10. For discussion of the evidence for separate rubric lists in the fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, see Rouse and Rouse, “Some Assembly Required,” 405–16. For evidence that libraires often wrote and preserved exemplars for rubrics that were kept separate from exemplars for texts, that scribes or libraires collected parallel sets of separate rubric

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185

lists, and that scribes often composed rubrics in an impromptu manner, see Croenen, “Rubricating History,” 105–42. For analysis of the role of scribal rubricators and their impact on illustrators in a late fourteenth-​century literary text, see Veysseyre, “Structuring, Stressing, or Recasting Knowledge,” 160–82. 11. There are only six cases where the note “hyst” in Philip III’s manuscript does not have an equivalent illustration in Charles V’s manuscript: book 2, chaps. 3 and 19; book 3, chap. 19; book 5, chaps. 21 and 28; and the life of Saint Louis, chap. 82. 12. The only exceptions occur in cases when there was not enough room to fit the rubric/illumination combination in the space available for it at the bottom of a column of text. In that case, illuminations would appear at the bottom of a column, and the rubricated text would follow at the top of the next folio. This occurs on Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813, fols. 41v, 50v, 148, 156, 160, 195v, 203, 211, 221, 223v, 227v, 298v, 299v, 330v, 340v, 350, 368, and 385v. 13. For the full account, see Viard, Grandes chroniques, 4:333–34. 14. For Charles’s struggles with Normandy, see Calmette, Charles V, 62–65, and Cazelles, Société politique et la crise, 421–22. 15. Other images inserted in the chronicle equally emphasize the lives of early Norman dukes and establish parallels with French kings. For instance, the first chapter of the life of Rollo, the first Christian duke of Normandy, introduced an illustration of his baptism, which echoed the image of the baptism of Clovis, the first Christian king of France, illustrated earlier in Charles V’s Grandes chroniques. For further discussion of the illustrations of early Norman dukes and their appeal to Charles V, see Hedeman, Royal Image, 97–98. 16. The unusual images added to this manuscript during the last two stages of production overseen by Raoulet include the two full-​page frontispieces added at the beginnings of what was the first and second volume of the two-​volume chronicle: fol. 3v (Coronation) and fol. 265r (six scenes: the birth of Louis IX, the education of Louis IX, Louis IX feeds the leper monk at Royaumont, Louis IX washes the feet of the poor, Louis IX buries the Crusaders’ bones at Sidon, and Louis IX whipped by his confessor). Those that reveal complex relationships between rubrics, text, and illuminations include fol. 290r (King Henry III of England pays homage to King Louis IX); fol. 357r (King Edward III of England prepares to pay homage to King Philip of Valois); fol. 357v (two-​column miniature: King Edward III of England pays homage to King Philip of Valois); fol. 394r (miniature covering two-​thirds of a page: meeting of the Order of the Star and feast of the Order of the Star); fol. 446v (two-​column miniature: baptismal

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procession for Charles VI); and fol. 473v (two-​thirds of a page: great feast in the Grande Salle of the palace). 17. I have discussed these images and some of their rubrics in a number of publications, but I never realized how dependent their meaning was on their deviation from the norm and on expectations about rubricated images established by Pierre and his collaborating libraires, who were very self-​conscious about the power of the mise-​en-​pages. For prior discussions, see Hedeman, Royal Image, 107–9, 114–22; Hedeman, “Performing Documents and Documenting Performance”; and Hedeman, “Visualizing History in Medieval France.” 18. “Et après estoit messire Hue de Chasteillon, seigneur de Dampierre, maistre des arbalestiers, qui portoit un cierge en sa main, et le conte de Tanquarville si portoit une couppe, en la quelle estoit le sel, et avoit une touaille en son col, dont le dit sel estoit couvert. Et après estoit la royne Jehanne d’Evreux, qui portoit le dit enfant sur ses bras; et monseigneur Charles, seigneur de Montmorenci, et monseigneur Charles, conte de Dampmartin, estoient de costé lui.” Delachenal, Grandes chroniques de France, 2:64. 19. For discussion of Charles V’s conflicts with Charles of Navarre and of English claims to the throne of France, see Cazelles, Société politique et la crise; and Cazelles, Société politique, noblesse et couronne. 20. For the Chronique abrégée, see Delisle, “Mémoire sur les ouvrages.” Delisle divides the Chronique abrégée into families on the basis of the date of the latest event recorded in the continuations of the manuscripts that survive. Family E, stopping in 1381, and family F, stopping in 1383, are the only continuations to incorporate the reigns of John the Good and Charles V. The text for the Chronique abrégée of the reigns of Philip the Bold to Charles VI is based almost exclusively on the Grandes chroniques and, more specifically, on Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813, the copy belonging to Charles V. See also Delachenal, Grandes chroniques de France, 2:64. At the same point in the text where the Grandes chroniques describes Jeanne d’Evreux carrying the child, the Chronique abrégée was amended to read, “Et après estoit messire Charles, seigneur de Montmorency qui portoit le dit enfant sur ses bras, et monseigneur Charles, conte de Dampmartin, estoient de costé de lui.” This text occurred in each copy of the Chronique abrégée that I consulted— Paris, BnF, MSS fr. 17267 and 2816 of family E, and Paris, BnF, MSS fr. 23138 and 20351 of family F. 21. Neither the italicized portion of the rubric nor the illustration appears in subsequent versions of the chronicle. 22. “En celui an mil CCCLI dessus dit, ou mois d’octobre, fu publiée la confrarie de la Noble-​Maison de Saint-​Puyn, pres de Paris, par le dit roy Jehan; et portoient ceuls qui en estoit chascun une estoille

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

en son chapperon par devant ou en son mantel. Et durant celle feste de l’Estoille fu prise, par trayson, la ville et chastel de Guynes par les Angloiz, car bonnes treves jurées estoient entre les roys de France et d’Angleterre ; et pour ce, en celle seurté estoit venu veoir la dite feste le sire de Bavelinguehan, capitaine et garde du dit lieu. Et, durant ce, les Anglois traicterent avecques un de ceuls à qui la garde du dit chastel estoit bailliée, nommé Guillaume de Biauconroy; et par trahison, sanz ce que deffense y feust mise, y entrerent et la pristrent. De la quelle prise le peuple se merveilla trop, disans que verité, loyauté ne foy n’estoit es Anglois. Et pour ce fu pris le dit Guillaume, qui pour la dite trayson ainsi faite par luy, à la requeste des diz Anglois, fy decapité et pendu, comme raison estoit.” Delachenal, Grandes chroniques de France, 1:33–35. 23. On the Order of the Star, see Boulton D’Arcy, Knights of the Crown, 67–21, and Pannier, Noble-​maison de Saint-​Ouen, esp. 84–146, 63–75 (pièces justificatives). 24. For an analysis of the full set of documents shown during Charles V’s speech, see Hedeman, “Performing Documents and Documenting Performance.” 25. For the summary of Charles V’s speech before the Holy Roman Emperor and his entourage given in the text of the Grandes chroniques, see Delachenal, Grandes chroniques de France, 2:251–56. 26. “l’Empereur et princes et son conseil, qui avecques lui estoient, oy et veu ce que le Roy leur en diroit et feroit veoir par lectres et les traictiez de paix faites et les aliances sur ce, ilz peussent cognoistre et vraiement respondre et soustenir sur ce la vérité, contre ceuls qui se sont efforciez, efforcent ou efforceront de parler ou de magnifester ou publier le contraire.” Ibid., 2:248–56. 27. Jacques Le Goff studied the ritual of homage and isolated its components: the verbal oath expressing willingness to serve, which clarified whether the homage was liege or plain and was accompanied

by the gesture of placing hands within the clasped hands of the lord (the immixtio manuum); the act of faith, the kiss (osculum); and the investiture of the fief, which involves the lord presenting the vassal with a symbolic object. He concluded that the immixtio manuuum and oath created an unequal relationship between lord and vassal, the osculum made them equal, and the subsequent investiture involved them in a reciprocal relationship. See Le Goff, “Symbolic Ritual of Vassalage,” 237–87. 28. This manuscript was painted circa 1370 and probably belonged to Charles V before it belonged to Charles VI, who signed on folio 450v. It has a different numeration of chapters, yet the same text as Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813. The multitude of copies of the chronicle postdating Charles V’s Grandes chroniques adopted the chapter numeration and divisions used in Paris, BnF, MS fr. 2813. For Paris, BnF, MS fr. 10135, see Tesnière and Gifford, Creating French Culture, 83–84. 29. For the text, see Viard, Grandes chroniques, 9:99–101. 30. The fact that the edited portion of the rubric was meant to be seen as correcting an error is clear. The editor of the critical edition leaves that portion of the rubric out. See ibid., 9:99. 31. For this sequence of texts, see ibid., 101–4. 32. “Le roy d’Angleterre, duc de Guyenne, tendra ses mains entre les mains du roy de France, et cil qui parlera pour le roy de France, adrescera ses paroles au roy d’Angleterre duc de Guyenne et dira ainsy. ‘Vous devenez home lige du roy de France mon seigneur qui ci est, comme duc de Guyenne et per de France, et li promettez foy et loyauté porter. Dites voire.’ Et ledit roy et duc et ses successeurs ducs de Guyenne diront ‘Voire.’ Et lors, le roy de France recevra ledit roy d’Angleterre et duc audit hommage lige à la foy et à la bouche, sauf son droit et l’autruy.” Viard, Grandes chroniques, 9:103.

Bibliography Boulton D’Arcy, Jonathan Dacre. The Knights of the Crown: The Monarchical Orders of Knighthood in Later Medieval Europe, 1325–1520. Woodbridge: Boydell, 1987. Brix, Antoine. “Itinéraires et séjours des rois d’encre: Histoire médiévale de la fortune littéraire des Grandes chroniques de France, XIIIe–XVIe siécles.” 2 vols. PhD diss., Université catholique de Louvain, 2018. Brown-​Grant, Rosalind, Patrizia Carmassi, Gisela Drossbach, Anne D. Hedeman, Victoria Turner,

and Iolanda Ventura, eds. Inscribing Knowledge in the Medieval Book: The Power of Paratexts. Berlin: DeGruyter, 2020. Calmette, Joseph. Charles V. Paris: A. Fayard, 1979. Cazelles, Raymond. La société politique et la crise de la royauté sous Philippe de Valois. Paris: Librarie d’Argences, 1958. ———. Société politique, noblesse et couronne sous Jean le Bon et Charles V. Geneva: Droz, 1982. Croenen, Godfried. “Rubricating History in Late Medieval France.” In Vernacular Manuscript:

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Culture, 1000–1500, edited by Erik Kwakkel, 105–42. Leiden: Leiden University Press, 2018. Delachenal, Roland, ed. Les grandes chroniques de France: Chroniques des règnes de Jean II et de Charles V. 4 vols. Paris: Société de l’histoire de France, 1910–20. Delisle, Léopold. “Mémoire sur les ouvrages de Guillaume de Nangis.” Mémores de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles-​lettres 27, pt. 2 (1873): 287–372. ———. Recherches sur la librairie de Charles V. 2 vols. Paris: Honoré Champion, 1907. Genette, Gerard. Paratexts: Thresholds of Interpretation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987. Guenée, Bernard. Comment on écrit l’histoire au XIIIe siècle: Primat et le “Roman des roys.” Paris: CNRS Éditions, 2016. ———. “Les Grandes chroniques de France: Le roman aux rois (1274–1518).” In La nation, vol. 1.2 of Les lieux de la mémoire, edited by Pierre Nora, 739–58. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001. Hedeman, Anne D. “Performing Documents and Documenting Performance in the Procès de Robert d’Artois (BnF MS fr. 18437) and Charles V’s Grandes chroniques de France (BnF MS fr. 2813).” In The Social Life of Illumination: Manuscripts, Images, and Communities in the Late Middle Ages, edited by Joyce Coleman, Mark Cruse, and Kathryn Smith, 339–69. Turnhout: Brepols, 2013. ———. The Royal Image: Illustrations of the “Grandes chroniques de France,” 1274–1422. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991. ———. “Visualizing History in Medieval France.” Perspectives in Histoire de l’art 80 (2017): 25–36. Lacabane, Léon. “Recherches sur les auteurs des Grandes chroniques de France, dites

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de Saint-​Denys.” Bibliothèque de l’école des chartes 2 (1841): 57–74. Le Goff, Jacques. “The Symbolic Ritual of Vassalage.” In Time, Work and Culture in the Middle Ages, translated by Arthur Goldhammer, 237–87. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980. Meserve, Margaret. “Patronage and Propaganda at the First Paris Press: Guillaume Fichet and the First Edition of Bessarion’s ‘Orations against the Turks,’ ” Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America 97, no. 4 (2003): 521–88. Pannier, Léopold. La noble-​maison de Saint-​Ouen, la villa Clippiacum et l’ordre de l’Etoile: D’après les documents originaux. Paris: A. Franck, 1872. Rouse, Richard, and Mary Rouse. Manuscripts and Their Makers: Commercial Book Producers in Medieval Paris, 1200–1500. 2 vols. Turnhout: Harvey Miller, 2000. ———. “Some Assembly Required: Rubric Lists and other Separable Elements in Fourteenth-​ Century Parisian Book Production.” In “Li Premerains Vers”: Essays in Honor of Keith Busby, edited by Logan E. Whalen, 405–16. New York: Brill, 2011. Tesnière, Marie-​Hélène, and Prosser Gifford, eds. Creating French Culture: Treasures from the Bibliothèque nationale de France. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1995. Veysseyre, Géraldine. “Structuring, Stressing, or Recasting Knowledge on the Page? Rubrication in the Manuscript Copies of the Pèlerinage de l’âme by Guillaume de Deguileville.” In Brown-​Grant et al., Inscribing Knowledge in the Medieval Book, 160–82. Viard, Jules, ed. Les grandes chroniques de France. 10 vols. Paris: Société de l’histoire de France, 1920–53.

Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

8 Roses and Resistance The Iconography of Courtly Love in the #MeToo Moment

Martha Easton

In the fourteenth century, there was a veritable explosion in the production of ivory objects, particularly in Paris.1 In part, this was due to the establishment of new trade routes from Africa, bringing elephant ivory into northern Europe.2 The luxury objects created from this influx were very often used for personal devotion, such as statuettes of the Virgin Mary and Child or diptychs and triptychs depicting scenes from the life of Christ. Other ivory objects were more functional—tablets that were covered with wax for writing, caskets for the storage of jewelry, or other personal items, particularly objects associated with grooming. Ivory mirrors, combs, and gravoirs (hair-​parting tools) often came together as sets, contained in leather cases, for use in the daily toilette.3 These objects could be purchased in shops or commissioned specially, and some objects also have inscriptions that confirm they were likely intended as gifts.4 The intimate nature of both the function of these objects and the images decorating them have led to the suggestion that they might have often been given to women from men, although it is likely that men used these grooming tools as well.5 The decoration of these secular objects was most often drawn from the iconography of so-​called courtly love, a term popularized by the French scholar Gaston Paris in the nineteenth century and applied to a wide variety of literary traditions, beginning with the love poetry of the Provençal and Occitan troubadours.6 By the twelfth century, French romances, such as the Arthurian tales of Chrétien de Troyes, detailed the exploits of lovers, such as Erec and Enide or Lancelot and Guenevere.7 In addition,

De Amore (The Art of Courtly Love) by Andreas Capellanus delineated, perhaps satirically, some of the features of codified courtship.8 In the thirteenth century came the most popular romance of them all, the dream-​poem Roman de la Rose, written by Guillaume de Lorris, with a later addition by Jean de Meun, which survives in more than three hundred manuscripts.9 This flourishing textual tradition of romantic tales had its counterpart in medieval material culture. Scenes of courtly love appear in manuscript illuminations, on tapestries, in metalwork, and in wall paintings, but by far the greatest number decorate the ivory objects under discussion here. On occasion, identifiable scenes from familiar medieval texts appear on the courtly love ivories, particularly on the so-​called composite caskets. But the writing tablets, mirror backs, and combs more typically have somewhat codified imagery with no specific textual anchor, usually depicting heterosexual couples participating in various sorts of seemingly amorous interactions with a variety of props.10 To modern eyes, the scenes of courtly love on the ivories can seem relatively innocuous and unassuming, even interchangeable. The ubiquity of the motifs might tell us something about workshop practice, model books, or the marketplace, but I am particularly interested in what it tells us about the ideological construction of gender. Art historians over the years have described the figures as “loving couples” and have used words such as “charming” and “playful” to describe the scenes.11 An early description of a writing tablet suggested that the ivory depicted a couple whose “meeting is felicitous and their conversation is comprised on sweet nothings.”12 According to the online description of one of the ivories in the collection of the Victoria and Albert Museum, “The primary function [of the scenes of courtly love] was not to stimulate memories of the viewers, but to delight and entertain.”13 Another description specifically ties these ivory objects to their female audience: “When the lady for whom the mirror was made gazed into the silver disc, she became part of the romance.”14 And yet, perhaps what the mirrors reflect back to us might differ depending on who is doing the viewing, and what we are told we see might not be all that is visible, if we look at things a different way. In this essay, I would like to reexamine the iconographic motifs of courtly love and think about not just what they meant in their own time but also what they mean in ours; I will also consider the ways that a viewer, either medieval or modern, might resist some of the more benign interpretations of such images. Perhaps more precisely, what I am suggesting here is that the issues and events that shape our modern viewpoints, particularly those that force a reckoning and a sudden shift in attitudes, might lead us to reevaluate not just the present but also the past. Instead of depicting charming vignettes of romantic couples, the standard iconography of courtly love participates in the sort of rape culture that expects female sexual acquiescence and normalizes sexual violence, particularly when examined in the larger context of medieval attitudes toward sexuality found in medieval texts, both legal and literary. These patriarchal assumptions of the later Middle Ages are the very same ones that spawned the modern #MeToo movement.15 The explosion of grief and 190

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rage in the wake of #MeToo has dramatically raised an awareness of the prevalence of sexual harassment and violence, particularly against women, in the workplace and in society in general. As a consequence, not only are sexual predators increasingly held accountable for their past actions, but even predators of the past are being stripped of the excuse that the cloak of historical distance somehow absolves them of the contemporary acknowledgment of their actions. While some might argue that such an approach is somehow anachronistic, I would claim instead that our position in the present, and our own contemporary concerns, can enable us to look with fresh eyes at historical objects and to see what might be reflected back from a different angle. A writing tablet now in the collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York includes four scenes that are relatively standard in the iconography of courtly love (fig. 8.1). In the top left scene, the man steps toward the woman and places his hand near her breast as she raises her hands and turns her face away. Reading the scenes in the usual order, the next one on the top right depicts the man sitting with crossed legs, with one arm around the woman’s shoulders and the other on her neck. The woman sits holding a small animal, most likely a rabbit, on the leg farthest away from the man. In the bottom left, the couple plays a game of chess, and the woman holds several of the chess pieces. The final scene shows the couple again, with the man kneeling before the woman, his hands clasped in front of her, seemingly on her belly. She, in turn, holds his hands in one of her own and places her other arm around him. Catalogue and curatorial accounts of such objects are often straightforward visual analyses rather than narrative interpretations, as if to err on the side of neutrality for fear of employing modern prejudices about what is happening in these scenes. In fact, the description of the object on the Metropolitan Museum’s website focuses almost exclusively on the mechanics of writing tablets and barely mentions the iconography at all beyond characterizing such objects in general as “carved with scenes of courtship and chivalric romances.”16 But outside of mere description, how could we interpret this sequence of events? In the first scene, it seems that the woman’s gestures and body language could indicate her distress or, at least, her lack of acquiescence. In fact, the gestures she is making, with one hand pushing at the man and the other raised in alarm, are often used by rape victims in medieval art.17 In the second scene, the man sits with his leg crossed, a typical sign of power often used by rulers in scenes of judgment and even execution.18 He also chucks her under the chin, a gesture that is often characterized as one of affection, but, as I will discuss below, can also have more sinister implications. In addition, other motifs on the tablet—the small animal held by the woman, the chess game, the final scene of the man kneeling in front of the woman—all are common motifs in the iconography of courtly love but are more complicated than they appear at first glance. But by the end of the sequence, the woman seems to be accepting the man’s advances. Is she being successfully wooed? Or are we meant to understand that the woman is slyly winning the chess game and, through her feminine wiles, is bending the man to her will, articulating the medieval topos of Roses and Resistance

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Figure 8.1 (opposite) Leaf of a writing tablet, France, fourteenth century. Ivory, overall: 11.7 × 7.8 × 0.6 cm. New York, Metropolitan Museum of Art, gift of Ann Payne Blumenthal, 1938, 38.108. Figure 8.2 Mirror back depicting a game of chess, France (Paris) or Lower Rhine (Cologne), ca. 1320. Ivory, 8.7 × 8.4 cm. London, Victoria and Albert Museum, A.563–1910. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

the power of women?19 Either way, these scenes seem to reinforce views of women as either cunning temptresses or as weakly susceptible to male pressure—or perhaps as both: as women who pretend they do not want it but really do. The images represented on the writing tablet reappear on many other ivories. Several surviving mirror backs depict heterosexual couples playing chess (fig. 8.2); some of them are so similar in appearance that they may have come from the same atelier or used the same model book.20 These figures have sometimes been identified as Lancelot and Guinevere or, more usually, Tristan and Iseult because of the game of chess the latter couple played on the boat during their journey to King Mark. Even without a specific identity, it seems clear that the couple is playing not just a game of chess but a game of love, jockeying for the pole position in a match of sexual one-​ upmanship. Michael Camille draws attention to the parted curtains framing some of these scenes, while Madeline Caviness discusses the deep folds in the drapery between the thighs of the women; both are suggestive of female genitalia.21 In this particular mirror back in the Victorian and Albert Museum, the man crosses his legs and firmly grasps the erect pole, which both supports and penetrates the labial folds of the curtains, suggesting that there is more at stake than just a chess game. The rabbit cradled by the woman on the writing tablet is but one of a variety of animals held by women in scenes of courtly love. These are often interchangeable visual and linguistic metaphors of male and female genitalia.22 The Old French word for both rabbit and vagina is con, and thus the rabbit makes visible what is hidden beneath the woman’s skirt.23 Similarly, the many images of men and women holding falcons

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Figure 8.3 Mirror back with lovers, France, fourteenth century. Ivory, 9.5 × 9.5 × 0.5 cm. Baltimore. Walters Art Museum, acquired by Henry Walters, 1924, 71.97.

(or faux con) substitute birds for body parts. Most likely they could signify either male or female genitalia, even though the name connotes the latter. In some cases, the men display the falcons erect on their wrists while the women hold the hoods that will go over their heads to tame them.24 Capellanus used the falcon as a symbol of the sport of flirtation, and the iconography of the hunt in general is symbolic of amorous pursuit and conquest, with an element of violence.25 Animals as sexual metaphors are also a feature of the fabliaux, the bawdy tales popular in the later Middle Ages.26 There are more than one hundred fabliaux in French, and they appear to have had a wide audience from across the late medieval social strata, enjoyed by both the lower classes and by those at court. They are decidedly ribald, in effect parodies of courtly romances, with both veiled and explicit descriptions of flirtations, seductions, and sexual consummations, by and large told from the man’s point of view (not surprising since, with very few exceptions, they were written by men). The women in the fabliaux are often so foolish that they are easily duped into fornication. A typical example is the fabliau L’Escuiriel, which recounts the trickery of a man who calls his penis a hungry squirrel and convinces a naïve maiden that it needs to feast on some of the nuts she has recently eaten.27 When she asks how his squirrel will reach the nuts since they are already inside her stomach, he says, “Through your vagina.” A number of ivory mirror cases include squirrels, which are often held by women. In one notable example, a woman cradles a squirrel just out of reach as a man lunges toward her with his left arm around her shoulders and his right hand on her belly, perhaps illustrating where his squirrel needs to go (fig. 8.3). Phallic motifs include the sword that juts out stiffly behind him, suggesting the body part that will make the journey, and the man’s tapered hood, which hangs down his front rather than 194

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Figure 8.4 Mirror back with a hunting party, Lower Rhine (Cologne) or France, ca. 1320. Ivory, 12.5 × 12.1 cm. London, Victoria and Albert Museum, 222–1867. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

in the usual position down his back. Like rabbits, falcons, and squirrels, horses are frequently included on the ivories (fig. 8.4). The common image of couples mounted on horses suggests an interpretation beyond that of a courtly pair taking a leisurely ride on horseback; horses connoted virility and unbridled passion. In the London example, the man chucks the woman under the chin, and the erect pommel of his sword peeks in front him; below the pair, a dog chases and appears to mount a rabbit. Some of these ivory objects, particularly mirrors, depict women holding circular objects that are variously identified as chaplets, crowns, garlands, or even other mirrors. The round shape of the chaplets, especially in conjunction with the daggers and swords of the men, suggest that they are sexual metaphors, and their combination points to the aggression inherent in the act of intercourse itself.28 This connection is underscored in an image of a couple in an early fourteenth-​century illuminated manuscript of Gratian’s Decretum, the collection of canon law authored in the mid-​twelfth century.29 In a hypothetical case meant to explicate the issues surrounding the marriage of two people who had already had sexual relations, causa (case) 36 gives the account of a young man who had invited a virgin to dinner and then raped her. Her parents then agreed that the two should be wed, so the man supplied his victim with a dowry and publicly married her. In the image, the woman holds a chaplet in front of her with her left hand and drapes her right arm over the man’s shoulders as he encircles her waist with his right arm and grasps the bottom of the chaplet with his right hand. On the right side of the illumination, the pair appear again, but now the man strides away holding the chaplet, while the woman raises one hand, perhaps in protest, while the other dangles limply in front of her, covering the area that has just been ravished. Here it seems that the chaplet is a stand-​in for the loss of the young woman’s virginity. Roses and Resistance

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Figure 8.5 Cover of a writing tablet (verso), France, 1325–50. Ivory, overall: 9.3 × 5.9 × 0.8 cm. New York, Met Cloisters, 2003.131.3b.

In some of the scenes on the ivories, the chaplets held by the women are often first concealed and then revealed and given to the men. But depending on the point of view of the beholder, rather than seeing this as some sort of coquettish flirtation, we might see the final bestowal as a reluctant or even forced surrender and not a freely given gift. While it is usually the case that the woman holds the chaplet, there is a writing tablet now in the Met Cloisters that depicts it in the hands of a man (fig. 8.5). While it has been suggested that the man is crowning the woman with the chaplet, it may also be that he is taking it from her, and the erect position of the woman’s finger pointing to the man makes the image even more suggestive. The woman on this ivory also appears to be dancing; in his discussion of the object, Mark Cruse suggests that chaplets were connected with dance in late medieval culture.30 He mentions in particular the Jeu de Robin et Marion by Adam de la Halle, perhaps the earliest secular play 196

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with music, and Adams’s incorporation of a preexisting dance song with the words “Bergeronnet, douche baisselete, / Donné moi vostre chapelet” (Sweet shepherdess, / dearest little girl, / give me your chaplet).31 While Cruse sees the intersection of dance and chaplet as representative of the increasing interest in performance in late medieval literature and art, Adam’s play was a dramatization of a pastourelle, which, as I will discuss below, was a literary tradition featuring the seduction and often rape of a shepherdess. Therefore the lyrics seem aggressive rather than festive. An ivory box now in the Courtauld Gallery is decorated with fifteen scenes of couples, six of which feature chaplets in various stages of bestowal. In one of the scenes, the man grabs the woman by the wrist, a common motif indicating rape.32 Some motifs are more blatantly sexual than others, such as the themes represented on an ivory now in the Princeton Art Museum that originally made up the front panel of a casket (fig. 8.6).33 The scenes on the panel include some of the imagery previously discussed, including a man holding a leashed squirrel while his female companion feeds it. The way the woman tugs at her dress and the position of the man’s dagger are both highly suggestive. The lower sections of the second and third fields of the panel illustrate the games Haute Coquille (Hot Cockles) and La Grenouille (Frog in the Middle). In the former, one person hides his head in the lap of another and must guess who is hitting or slapping him.34 In the latter, the “frog” sits in the middle of a group of men and women while he is buffeted by others and cannot move until he catches one of them.35 In both games, there is an intermingling of sexual play and violence. Frog in the Middle appears in the bas-​de-​page of the Annunciation scene in the Hours of Jeanne d’Evreux, and Caviness argues that the secular and sexual marginalia in the manuscript might have helped instruct the new young queen on her proper role as wife and mother, with the marginalized games illustrating the sorts of things she should not be doing at court.36 In the Hot Cockles scene, the man has his head under the woman’s skirt and appears to be pushing her legs apart in a position that suggests he is obscuring his sense of sight but engaging two others—touch and, presumably, taste—since what appears really to be happening is an act of cunnilingus. The woman rests her left hand on his head and raises her hand, mimicking the man’s likely erection, an allusion made more explicit by the position of his dagger. One of the most familiar themes represented particularly on the lids of caskets and on mirror backs is the Castle of Love (fig. 8.7). Typically these scenes include a castle besieged by knights, defended by women who throw roses at their attackers.37 The origins of the Castle of Love are unclear. Some scholars suggest that it might have a link to actual medieval festivals that featured staged attacks on castles, while others have posited that the image appears to be in response to an already existing literary tradition.38 A more recent suggestion links its origin to the battle between the Virtues and Vices.39 As I write elsewhere, and as others have also suggested, the closest literary parallel seems to be the climax of the Roman de la Rose, during which the besieging of a castle is clearly the equivalent of a violent sexual assault (although the imagery is not Roses and Resistance

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necessarily a direct illustration since there are some significant differences between the poem and the variations of the depictions on the ivories).40 The first part of the Roman de la Rose, written by Guillaume de Lorris around 1230, details the exploits of the narrator, who, although not named in the poem, is usually called Amant (Lover). During a visit to the garden of Deduit (Pleasure), he stares into the same pond in which Narcissus had fallen in love with his own reflection. Amant sees instead the image of a rosebud, and after being hit with the arrow of Amor (Love), he doggedly pursues the Rose. At the end of the first section of the poem, Jalousie (Jealousy) builds a castle in order to protect both the Rose and Bel Acueil (Fair Welcome), who had at first welcomed Amant’s advances but later rejects them, and Amant bemoans their loss. It is here that Guillaume’s portion of the poem ends. In 1275, Jean de Meun added a new section of 18,000 lines, introduced new characters, and 198

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Figure 8.6 (opposite) Reliefs from a casket with scenes of lovers and game playing, France, ca. 1340–60. Ivory, 10.5 × 25.0 × 0.7 cm. Princeton University Art Museum, museum purchase, John Maclean Magie, class of 1892, and Gertrude Magie Fund, 1996–153. Figure 8.7 Mirror back with the attack on the Castle of Love, Paris, second quarter of the fourteenth century. Ivory, 12.9 cm. London, Victoria and Albert Museum, 9–1872. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

most notably, described the final stage of Amant’s quest, when the castle is assaulted. Unlike the more circumspect language employed by Guillaume, Jean’s description of the attack on the castle uses metaphors that are blatantly sexual, as he describes kneeling “between the two fair pillars” in order to “sheathe” his “staff” in the “aperture.”41 The violent nature of the penetration is emphasized as he encounters resistance but does not give up until he is fully inside, where he encounters the rosebud and spreads his seed.42 The elision of the female body and the castle is made clear in some illuminated manuscripts of the Roman de la Rose. In the poem, before the final attack by Amant, Venus shoots an arrow at the castle. In an illustration of the scene in a manuscript illuminated in Paris around 1405, Venus stands to the left of the castle and draws back her bowstring, her target the naked lower half of a woman standing in the window (fig. 8.8).43 The arrow is aimed directly at the woman’s pudendum, with her labia majora clearly indicated. In an early fifteenth-​century miniature of the climactic scene, Amant is depicted thrusting a phallic staff into an opening between the two pillars of the castle whose upper half is a woman and lower half is a toppling bit of architecture.44 The Castle of Love is a parody of a siege. Part of the joke is that female resistance is ineffectual at best, particularly since the women in the castle defend themselves against their invaders by throwing roses. Roses, in general, connote scenes of courtship in romance; they frequently appear, for example, in the full-​page miniatures of the Codex Manesse, the compendium of German love poems produced in the early fourteenth century, along with other courtly love tropes of castle storming, hunting, hawking, and chess playing.45 Roses signify love and specifically the female body in Roses and Resistance

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medieval literature, both spiritual and secular. In the Roman de la Rose of Jean Renart (not to be confused with the one by Guillaume de Lorris and Jean de Meun), the heroine Lienors has a birthmark in the shape of a rose on her thigh, which becomes the subject of both male fantasy and male treachery.46 Her future husband, Emperor Conrad, has heard about the birthmark and fantasizes about it, but its presence is also divulged by her mother to a knight, who uses the information to insinuate to Conrad that he has already “deflowered” Lienors.47 The idea of the rose itself becomes a multivalent metaphor of the female body and virginity. The titular character in the Roman de la Rose is, in effect, a rosebud waiting to be plucked; likewise, the women occupying the Castle of Love are really tossing away their virtue and inviting their attackers to enter through the portcullis, which is often depicted on the medieval ivories as already raised in anticipation. The imagery on an ivory mirror back now in the Princeton Art Museum gives further evidence that the castle is simply a stand-​in for the female body (fig. 8.9). The man kneels before the woman as she crowns him with her chaplet; in the next scene, she points up the castle steps where the implication is that they will indulge in further sensual pleasures. They hold a flower between them, although it is not clear Figure 8.8 (opposite) Venus shooting an arrow through an opening in the tower, in the Roman de la Rose, Paris, ca. 1405. Los Angeles, J. Paul Getty Museum, MS Ludwig XV 7, fol. 129v (83.MR.177.129v). Figure 8.9 Mirror back with scenes of lovers, England, 1340–60. Ivory, diam. 9 cm. Princeton University Art Museum, gift of Mrs. Albert E. McVitty, y1954–61.

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if he is giving it to her or if she is offering it to him. Either way, the combination of erotic metaphors is clear. Although the defense of the Castle of Love is benign at best, the attack itself is inherently violent, as the besieging knights are armed with pikes and swords, at times wielding them against one another in the manner of narwhals who battle for sexual dominance. In addition to the knights and ladies, some images of the Castle of Love include the God of Love, a character in the Roman de la Rose who often launches arrows from turrets of the tower. In the Victoria and Albert Museum ivory, the God of Love stands at the apex of the castle, pulls back his bow, and aims his arrow downward (see fig. 8.7). One of his arrows has already pierced the eye of the knight on the far right, who holds a long spear in his left hand and tugs at the arrow in his eye with the right. The God of Love appears early in the Roman de la Rose, shooting an arrow into the eye of Amant shortly after he enters the garden at the beginning of the poem and setting him off on his quest for the Rose.48 The significance of the arrow in the eye is underscored by the description of love by Capellanus, who calls it “a certain inborn suffering derived from the sight of and excessive meditation upon the beauty of the opposite sex.”49 Capellanus addresses his prescriptions for love to the lovesick Walter and describes him as having been struck by an arrow. The very material with which these scenes are crafted connotes violence as the procurement of ivory necessitates the slaughter of elephants, walruses, and even narwhals themselves, whose ivory spears were mistaken for magical unicorn horns and fashioned into drinking cups and other luxury objects.50 This emphasis on violence has its counterpart in other medieval texts. The pastourelle was a type of verse that proliferated in Europe during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries and generally described a seduction in a pastoral setting from the male point of view.51 Often the woman was a willing participant, but if she was not, then in many cases the man raped her.52 An abbreviated version of a thirteenth-​ century example found in the Carmina Burana describes the rape of a shepherdess by a passing knight: A maiden of elegant features Was standing beneath verdant foliage . . . As fate would have it I came by . . . When she saw me hastening toward her She took flight with her bleating flock In great alarm . . . She defended herself with her distaff. I seized her and threw her on the ground . . . To her it seemed rather hard to bear, To me pleasing and agreeable. “What have you done,” she said, “you wretch! . . . 202

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If my father finds out Or my big brother Martin, The day will be harsh for me.”53 The conclusion of the pastourelle illustrates the misogynist trope that women who are raped, despite being victims, have to defend themselves to the other men in their lives. A portion of a fifteenth-​century German pastourelle describes a particularly violent rape. An older man attempts to seduce a young maiden who loves another; unsuccessful in his attempts at flattery, he attacks her. The man details the encounter: I stepped a little nearer And reached out for her breast . . . And reached out for her cunt. She jumped up and defended herself . . . But I got it in my mouth . . . I threw her down in the clover. The door was shut, [but] that was fine with me. Resisting, struggling, striving, Grabbing, gripping, wrestling . . . There was plenty of that and the like. The pastourelle ends with the lamentation of the old man that his equipment no longer functions as efficiently as it once did, but he nevertheless insists, “We old lovers won’t give up, although we serve with worn-​out tackle!”54 In the pastourelle tradition, there is frequently a class distinction between the male rapists and their female victims since the women are often characterized as shepherdesses or other sorts of peasants. This corresponds to Capellanus’s advice about how to approach women of different classes. For farmers, he suggests that the man “be careful to puff them up with lots of praise and then, when you find a convenient place, do not hesitate to take what you seek and to embrace them by force.”55 Most notable here is the lack of interest in the woman’s consent, and it would appear that this same callousness extended beyond the literary and artistic tradition to be true of the lived experience of medieval women.56 It is somewhat difficult to get a handle on the incidence of rape in medieval Europe because of the lack of documentation, although by the time that the courtly love ivories were being produced in Paris, the first written evidence of rape trials in France had appeared. The Registre de l’Officialité de Cerisy from the Abbey of Cerisy in Normandy and the Registre Criminel de la Justice de Saint-​Martin-​des-​Champs à Paris from a seignorial court both contain documentation of these trials.57 Overall, there are very few of them because, then as now, it is likely that most rapes were unreported; the same situation appears to have been true in fourteenth-​century England, as well as in other areas in Europe.58 Even Roses and Resistance

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Figure 8.10 Scenes of a virgin invited to dinner, raped, and then married off to her attacker, in Gratian’s Decretum, England, 1300–1330. Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum, MS 262, fol. 137r. © The Fitzwilliam Museum.

though the prescribed punishments for rape were severe in both secular and ecclesiastical law, they were seldom enforced.59 As Kathryn Gravdal notes, in the Middle Ages, “the crime of rape was already marked by the characteristics it bears today: indictment and prosecution are heavily influenced by the character and status of the victim, the rapist is seldom prosecuted, and the penalties are lighter than those for other crimes of violence or crimes against property.”60 Significantly, in two of the few cases that made it to trial, there were female accomplices to the rapes. In both cases, it is recorded that the women were burned alive. In one case, there is no mention of the male rapist at all (he may have fled). In the second case, the man was not even arrested.61 The obsession with sexual aggression and conquest, often encouraged or, at least, accepted by women, is also mirrored in various iconographic motifs on the courtly love objects. The gesture of chucking under the chin, often interpreted as one of affection, can seem more coercively threatening, particularly as part of a sequence of actions, bookended between the woman who hides her chaplet and then gives it up.62 The incident in Gratian’s Decretum of the virgin invited to dinner who is raped and then married off to her attacker is illustrated in a four-​part miniature in another fourteenth-​century manuscript of the text (fig. 8.10).63 One of the images depicts the man and the woman at dinner, standing behind a table spread with plates, cups, and utensils. The man grasps her chin, but the aggressive rather than affectionate nature of the gesture becomes clear since the next image in the series is a graphic depiction of the rape, with the woman on her back, pushing away the man who raises her dress and prepares to penetrate her, his penis fully on display. (And yet, a reviewer of a book that discusses this image states that, in the scene at dinner, “the young man caresses the woman’s cheek tenderly.”)64 Hunting and hawking parties, the God of Love hurling arrows, and knightly battles in front of castles all underscore the extent to which romantic pursuit was really a quest for the body rather than the heart. In a late fourteenth-​century Italian ivory, the man offers his heart to a lady, but at the same time, he grabs the large phallic sword between his legs, and it seems clear what he is really after (fig. 8.11). The women in the scenes of courtly love often seem all too willing to lose the castle, to give the rose, to crown the lover, to lose (or is it win?) the chess game. The same is often true of the women in medieval romances, in pastourelles, and in many fabliaux. In all of these texts, seduction often turns violent when it is met with resistance, but typically, once a woman acquiesces, she becomes insatiable, often beyond the physical capabilities of their seducer. In the fabliau La demoiselle qui sonjoit, a young man happens upon a sleeping girl and has sex with her four times before she awakens. Instead of protesting, she wishes to continue. When the man grows tired, she climbs on top of him, saying, “It is not shameful, it seems to me, for the woman to mount when the man fails.” And the narrator concludes the tale with the words, “Thus her dream turned out well.”65 Just as the violence of scenes like the Castle of Love is reminiscent of the violent ways ivory was procured, the very nature of the substance upon which these “courtly love” scenes are carved provides a connection between the physical appearance and Roses and Resistance

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Figure 8.11 A knight offering his heart to a lady, Italy (north Italy), 1380–90. Ivory, 8.9 × 5.71 cm. London, Victoria and Albert Museum, given by Sydney Vacher, A.108–920. © Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

material properties of ivory with the way women were characterized in medieval culture. The Roman de la Rose contains several mentions of ivory as a marker of female beauty. In Jean de Meun’s section, he includes the story of Pygmalion, describing the statue with which the sculptor falls in love as made of ivory. Here it is interesting to think about ivory and its color. The popularity of ivory as a material for devotional objects, including statuettes of the Virgin Mary, might seem particularly appropriate since the whiteness of the material could suggest purity and virginity.66 And yet, markedly white skin was used in various media to depict not just the Virgin but also the tempting beauty of seductive women, such as Eve and Bathsheba.67 Chrétien de Troyes described the neck of one of his heroines as “four times as white as ivory.”68 Although the equation between whiteness and beauty is complicated in that many, if not most, medieval ivories were originally painted, it seems that areas that were meant to read as flesh were generally left bare.69 In the climactic scene in the Roman de la Rose, the castle under attack is described as ivory, and therefore we might understand its “fair pillars” as a description not just of their beauty but of their very material. The physical properties of ivory could also connote the sliding scale of feminine virtue. When it is first touched, ivory feels cool.70 However, since ivory heats up the longer it is held, it could also connote the sexual malleability of the pursued woman.71 Scenes of intimate touching are repeated over and over again in the ivories, primarily of men touching women while women seemingly reward them for these bodily breaches. 206

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And yet, it is the female owner who handles her ivory objects, feeling them warm within her own hands. When she opens the ivory mirror case to assess her appearance, she becomes the object of the gaze as she looks upon her own visage inside. In fact, of the surviving secular objects, the largest number are mirror backs. In actual practice, it seems that both women and men used ivory grooming tools, including mirrors. However, in medieval literature and art, women are usually the ones who are represented scrutinizing themselves in mirrors, more often than not as signs of vanity and sexual temptation. But the process of gazing into a mirror, or at any material object, is by its very nature an act of agency. There can be no doubt that women not only looked into their mirrors at themselves but also examined the carved imagery visible on their mirrors when they were closed. So how did real medieval women who owned such objects react to scenes of courtly love, motifs that were often derived from misogynistic literary and artistic traditions? Margaret, duchess of Flanders, owned about eight ivory objects.72 The inventory of Clémence de Hongrie contained several ivory pieces, including mirror backs, a comb, a backgammon set, a chess set, and “an ivory casket with images, garnished with silver.”73 Mahaut, the countess of Artois, purchased an ivory casket herself and asked for an ivory mirror to be enlumine (illuminated).74 Because her collection was well documented, we also know that she owned not only other ivories but also a number of chivalric romances.75 We do not know what scenes appeared on Mahaut’s casket or what exactly she ordered to be carved on her mirror. Given what survives, it is very likely that the scenes depicted some of the motifs discussed here. Elizabeth L’Estrange has discussed the agency of the female spectator, positing that there was a place for the desiring and active female gaze upon the bodies of knights participating in jousts and tournaments, which were the real-​life counterparts to the sorts of activities represented in medieval courtly love ivories, especially in the scene of the Castle of Love. By extension, female readers of chivalric romances and female owners of ivory objects could enjoy and find erotic both the literary descriptions and visual images of heterosexual encounters.76 In contrast, Susan Smith details the way that medieval culture often represented the active female gaze as negative, sexually subversive, and even violent, so that it was denigrated by theologians, poets, and authors of conduct manuals for women.77 In light of this, Smith suggests that the imagery on ivory mirrors “offered women a model of looking that encouraged them to see themselves as they were seen by men and to subordinate their own looking to the demands of male heterosexual desire.”78 Understanding the response of the medieval woman to her ivory objects as innately intertwined with masculine desire informs the way that Richard J. Randall writes about a casket that he presumes had a female owner: “All the stories on the box were currently popular and of interest to the recipient, but she would have been aware of the double meanings of all of them. She would also have been pleased, thinking of herself as the Castle of Love or as the object of adoration of her own noble knight, probably the donor.”79 Roses and Resistance

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Certainly still today women are conditioned in various ways to operate in a patriarchal society that sexualizes and objectifies them, reinforced by visual images and mass media, such as advertising, television, films, and now social media.80 So then as now, women were likely socialized to see themselves in the scenes of courtly love, to see themselves both inside and outside their ivory mirrors. And yet, we do know of a medieval voice of resistance. Christine de Pizan actively overturned the literary conventions of the pastourelle in her Dit de la pastoure.81 Instead of recounting a seduction laced with sexual violence told from the man’s point of view, Christine foregrounded the voices of women. Her female protagonists, Marote and Lorete, are at first fearful as they see men approach them, as are the shepherdesses in traditional pastourelles (with good reason). But in Christine’s version, the romance is mutual, even if, in the end, Marote is abandoned by her aristocratic lover Monseigneur. And Christine used telling language, such as: “When we were together, we were completely engrossed in gazing at each other.”82 Here both the man and the woman are active participants in the gaze, both equally experiencing Capellanus’s “inborn suffering.” Rather than serving as a passive object of the penetrating male gaze, Marote, in Christine’s story, has her own desire, which is just as strong as her lover’s, and they both give and receive the looks of love. As is well known, Christine also participated in the famous Querelle (Quarrel) of the Roman de la Rose, and she wrote passionately against the misogynist views of women inherent in the section added to the text by Jean de Meun.83 In fact, her Book of the City of Ladies can be interpreted as a reinterpretation and reversal of some of the iconographic motifs of courtly love present in both the Roman de la Rose and the late medieval secular ivories.84 Instead of the castle functioning as an easily penetrable feminine space, Christine’s City of Ladies is a castle filled with noble women. Christine-​as-​narrator receives instruction about how to build the castle from Lady Reason, Lady Rectitude, and Lady Justice, who assure her that the City of Ladies, “although it will be stormed by numerous assaults . . . will never be taken or conquered.”85 When Christine bemoans the patriarchal assumption that women want to raped, Lady Rectitude assures her that this is not the case and that rape is woman’s greatest sorrow.86 In her Treasury of the City of Ladies, a sort of conduct manual for women, Christine expressly warns them about men who might try to seduce them.87 Not only do Christine’s three Ladies wear their own crowns firmly on their own heads rather than handing them over to men, they each have an additional attribute. Lady Reason holds a mirror, which is very likely a direct response to the function of the mirror in the Roman de la Rose, where it is held by the personification of Idleness. Rather than functioning as a symbol of feminine vanity, the mirror, Lady Reason states, has the power of granting self-​awareness: “No one can look into this mirror, no matter what kind of creature, without achieving clear self-​knowledge.”88 Castles stand firm, chaplets stay put, mirrors reflect inner truths rather than outward appearances. And in Christine’s Dit de la Rose, the rose itself is transformed from a sexual metaphor of 208

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female conquest to an actual flower that is distributed by the goddess Loyauté to men who are worthy of joining the Order of the Rose and who demonstrate their fealty by swearing an oath to “protect ladies’ good reputation in all things.”89 And yet, even though Christine de Pizan reconceived certain courtly love motifs, like the mirror and the castle, and her City of Ladies was a monument to the power of women, her resistance only went so far. Christine’s own conduct manuals still prescribed modest and humble behavior for women, cautioning girls to keep their eyes to themselves and to not allow any men to touch them, lest their good name be ruined.90 And, of course, this sort of attitude still exists today, where survivors of sexual violence are often blamed for their assaults based on the way they were dressed, how flirtatiously they behaved, or how much they had to drink. The modern lack of resistance to patriarchal narratives can extend to the way contemporary viewers understand the imagery of these medieval ivories. As I have noted throughout, historians often describe the images as benign scenes of courtship, perhaps to avoid any sort of anachronism or presentism. Carissa M. Harris further points out that scholars working on the pastourelles often characterize them as “amorous dialogues” or “love adventures” rather than “rape songs.”91 But I would argue that in addition to the historical past, the present moment is a legitimate place from which to understand objects. Medieval courtly love ivories still exist in our own time and have an effect on modern viewers, and the meanings we bring to them are informed by contemporary concerns. Our evolving awareness of the issues surrounding sexual consent in the present can be read back onto the art of the past in a way that is illuminating rather than anachronistic. In the end, creating connections between the issues of the present and the images of the past is scholarship as activism—not only the personal but also the art-​historical is political. It is not necessarily that the meanings we see through this contemporary lens were previously invisible but that, because of cultural shifts like the #MeToo movement, we see them reflected back to us in a way we might not have noticed before, so long as we tip the mirror not just back toward the past but toward ourselves as well.

Notes I thank Pamela Patton and the Index of Medieval Art for the invitation to participate in the conference “Art, Power, and Resistance,” as well as the audience members for their helpful feedback about the initial version of this paper. 1. The classic work for Gothic ivories is Koechlin, Ivoires gothiques français. While there are several publications that focus on specific museum collections, more general works include Randall, Golden Age of Ivory; Barnet, Images in Ivory; and Gaborit-​ Chopin, Gothic Ivories. All the ivories discussed in this

essay appear in the database of the Gothic Ivories Project at The Courtauld Institute of Art, London, www​.gothicivories​.courtauld​.ac​.uk. 2. Guérin, “Avorio d’ogni ragione,” 156–74. 3. Wolfthal, “Sexuality of the Medieval Comb,” 179, and Sears, “Ivory and Ivory Workers,” 29. 4. Wolfthal, “Sexuality of the Medieval Comb,” 179. 5. Lowden, Medieval and Later Ivories, 94, and Gajewski, “Attack on the Castle of Love,” 387n27. On men’s use of ivory objects, see Sears, “Ivory and Ivory Workers,” 31; 37n68, 75.

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6. Hult, “Gaston Paris and the Invention,” 192–224. 7. See Chrétien de Troyes, Complete Romances. 8. Capellanus, Art of Courtly Love. 9. De Lorris and de Meun, Romance of the Rose. There is a vast literature on the Roman de la Rose; as one example, see Morton, “État Présent,” 79–86, with older bibliography in the footnotes. 10. While there has been more scholarship on ivories with religious iconography, some sources that cover secular ivories include Olds et al., Images of Love and Death; Randall, “Medieval Ivories in the Romance Tradition”; Roy, “Archéologie de l’amour Courtois”; Smith, “Gothic Mirror and the Female Gaze”; Sand, “Fairest of Them All”; Wolfthal, “Sexuality of the Medieval Comb”; and Kline, “From Harmonious to ‘Rough’ Music.” 11. Lowden, Medieval and Later Ivories, 134. 12. Robinson, “Notes on a French Gothic Writing Tablet,” 86. 13. See Scenes from Romance Literature, Casket, 1320–30 (made), Victoria and Albert Museum, https://​collections​.vam​.ac​.uk​/item​/O90898​/scenes​ -from​-romance​-literature​-casket​-unknown/. 14. Lowden, Medieval and Later Ivories, 134. 15. The phrase “MeToo” originated in 2006, after the social activist Tarana Burke began using it on MySpace to create a community of “empowerment through empathy” among women of color who had been victims of sexual assault. It dramatically escalated in 2017 after public revelations about prominent men who had used their positions and power to sexually harass and assault women, and those who had experienced similar situations included the tag “#MeToo” on social media to demonstrate the prevalence of the problem. 16. See Leaf of a Writing Tablet, Metropolitan Museum of Art, https://​www​.metmuseum​.org​/art​ /collection​/search​/467643. 17. Wolthal, “ ‘Hue and a Cry,’ ” and Wolfthal, Images of Rape. 18. Sandler, “Notes for the Illuminator,” 558. 19. Smith, Power of Women. 20. Sears, “Ivory and Ivory Workers.” 21. Camille, Medieval Art of Love, 124, and Caviness, “Patron or Matron?” 40. 22. Sandler, “Bawdy Bethrothal.” 23. In addition to ibid., see the discussion in Caviness, “Patron or Matron?” 41–42. 24. Smith, “Gothic Mirror and the Female Gaze,” 81. 25. Thiébaux, Stag of Love; Friedman, “The Falcon and the Hunt”; Sand, “Fairest of Them All,” 551–55. 26. There is a vast literature on the fabliaux. A fairly recent source is Burr, Moran, and Lacy, Old French Fabliaux. 27. Jewers, “L’Esquiriel or What’s in a Tail?” 28. Caviness, “Erotic Iconography,” 273.

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29. Paris, BnF, MS lat. 3898, fol. 361r. See Camille, Medieval Art of Love, 56–57, fig. 43. 30. Cruse, “Intimate Performance,” 63–66. 31. See Cruse, Parussa, and Ragnard, “Aix Jeu de Robin et Marion.” 32. Wofthal, “Hue and A Cry,” 41–44. For the object, see Lowden, Medieval and Later Ivories, 92–95 (no. 15, scene 12). 33. Randall, “Games on a Medieval Ivory.” 34. Hartnell, “Epilogue,” 143–45. 35. Randall, “Frog in the Middle.” 36. Caviness, “Patron or Matron?,” 37, and Randall, “Games and the Passion.” 37. For a recent overview of the theme, see Gajewski, “Attack on the Castle of Love.” See also Koechlin, Ivoires gothiques français, 1:403–10; Greene, Besieging the Castle of Ladies; Barnet, Images in Ivory, 65, 72–73, 230–31; Camille, Medieval Art of Love, 87–93; Smith, “Gothic Mirror and the Female Gaze”; Whitehead, Castles of the Mind; and Zonno, “Illumination Translates.” 38. Loomis, “Allegorical Siege”; Smith, “Gothic Mirror and the Female Gaze,” 78; and Olds et al., Images of Love and Death, 106–7. 39. Gajewski, “Attack on the Castle of Love,” esp. 402–6. 40. Easton, “Wound of Christ,” 404–5, and Easton, “Was It Good For You Too?” 21. Other scholars feel that this connection is too tenuous; see Husband, Wild Man, 73. 41. De Lorris and de Meun, Romance of the Rose, 332. 42. For a discussion about the violence inherent in this section of the poem, see Guynn, “Authorship and Sexual/Allegorical Violence.” 43. Los Angeles, Getty Museum, MS Ludwig XV 7, fol. 129v. 44. Valencia, Biblioteca de la Universidad, MS 1327, fol. 146v. See Camille, Gothic Idol, fig. 172; Lewis, “Images of Opening,” 239, fig. 47, 241; and Smith, “Gothic Mirror and the Female Gaze,” 80, fig. 4.4. 45. Heidelberg, Universitätsbibliothek, Cod. Pal. Germ. 848. See Walther and Siebert, Codex Manesse. 46. See Solterer, “At the Bottom of Mirage.” 47. The term “deflowering” has a lengthy history as a euphemism for the loss of virginity; see Sissa, “Subtle Bodies,” 143–56. 48. Lewis, “Images of Opening,” 227, and Cruse, “Intimate Performance,” 61–62. 49. Capellanus, Art of Courtly Love, 28. 50. Houston, “ ‘From which it was carved.’ ” 51. Paden, Medieval Pastourelle, and Gravdal, Ravishing Maidens. 52. Smith, Medieval French Pastourelle Tradition, 31–38, and Harris, Obscene Pedagogies, 103–49. 53. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 4660, fols. 63v–64. Reprinted in Paden, Medieval Pastourelle, 2:53.

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54. Paden, Medieval Pastourelle, 2:499 ff. From the pastourelle entitled “The Grass Maid” (German, 1450– 53, by Hermann von Sacherheim [1366/69–1458]). 55. Capellanus, Art of Courtly Love, 150. 56. Karras, Sexuality in Medieval Europe, 156. 57. See Gravdal, Ravishing Maidens, 124–40, for more on these sources. 58. Ibid., 125. 59. Brundage, Law, Sex, and Christian Society, 472. 60. Gravdal, Ravishing Maidens, 127. 61. Ibid., 128. 62. Steinberg, Sexuality of Christ, 110–18. See also Caviness, “Erotic Iconography,” 273. 63. Cambridge, Fitzwilliam Museum, MS 262, fol. 137r. 64. Pennington, review of Illuminating the Law, by L’Engle and Gibbs, 305. 65. Cooke, Old French and Chaucerian Fabliaux, 155–56. 66. Guérin, “Meaningful Spectacles,” 62. 67. Wolfthal, “Sexuality of the Medieval Comb,” 178. 68. Smith, “Gothic Mirror and the Female Gaze,” 88n24. 69. Bleeke, “Ivory and Whiteness.” For paint on Gothic ivories, see Gaborit-​Chopin, “Polychrome Decoration of Gothic Ivories.” 70. For more on touch and ivories, see Hartnell, “Epilogue,” 143–58; Sand, “Materia Meditandi”; Staab, “Tactile Pleasures”; Guérin, “Saisir le sens”; and Guérin, “Meaningful Spectacles,” 71. 71. One is reminded of the words of 1990 Texas gubernatorial candidate Clayton Williams, who said of rape, “If it’s inevitable, just relax and enjoy it.”

(“Texas Candidate’s Comment About Rape Causes a Furor,” New York Times, March 26, 1990). 72. Smith, “Gothic Mirror and the Female Gaze,” 73. 73. Proctor-​Tiffany, Medieval Art in Motion, 39. 74. Richard, Petite-​nièce de Saint Louis, 321. 75. Carns, “Remembering Floire et Blancheflor,” 124–25. For Mahaut’s art collection, see Richard, Petite-​nièce de Saint Louis. See also Sears, “Ivory and Ivory Workers,” 34, and Smith, “Gothic Mirror and the Female Gaze,” 74. 76. L’Estrange, “Gazing at Gawain.” 77. Smith, “Gothic Mirror and the Female Gaze,” 83–86, and Caviness, Visualizing Women, 45–81. 78. Smith, “Gothic Mirror and the Female Gaze,” 75. 79. Randall, “Popular Romances,” 68. 80. See the discussion of gendered socializations in Basil, “Relax, Ladies.” 81. Smith, “Christine de Pizan’s ‘Dit.’ ” 82. Ibid., 289. 83. There are numerous sources about the Querelle and about Christine in general. A recent example is McWebb, Debating the “Roman de la rose.” 84. I began to explore these connections in Easton, “Feminist Art History,” 431–32. 85. Pizan, Book of the City of Ladies, 11. 86. Ibid., 160–61. 87. Pizan, Medieval Woman’s Mirror, 135. 88. Pizan, Book of the City of Ladies, 9. 89. Brownlee, “Discourses of the Self,” 244. 90. Pizan, Medieval Woman’s Mirror, 135–47. 91. Harris, Obscene Pedagogies, 115.

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Art, Power, and Resistance in the Middle Ages

Contributors Heather A. Badamo is Associate Professor of the History of Art and Architecture at the University of California, Santa Barbara. Her research investigates the arts of interfaith contact and exchange in the medieval eastern Mediterranean. Her first book, Saint George Between Empires: Image and Encounter in the Medieval East, explores how rival religious and political communities in the East employed George to negotiate their place in a world of many faiths during the Crusader era. Elena N. Boeck is Professor of History of Art and Architecture at DePaul University. She is the author of Imagining the Byzantine Past: The Perception of History in the Illustrated Manuscripts of Skylitzes and Manasses and The Bronze Horseman of Justinian in Constantinople: The Cross-Cultural Biography of a Mediterranean Monument. Thomas E. A. Dale is Simona and Jerome Chazen Distinguished Chair of Art History at the University of Wisconsin-Madison and past President of the Medieval Academy of America. His most recent book is Pygmalion’s Power: Romanesque Sculpture, the Senses, and Religious Experience. His current research on race and cultural encounter in medieval Venice is previewed in “Cultural Encounter, Race, and a Humanist Ideology of Empire in the Art of Trecento Venice,” Speculum 98, no. 1 (2023): 1–48. Martha Easton is Associate Professor of Art History at Saint Joseph’s University in Philadelphia. Her recent publications have appeared in Different Visions: New Perspectives on Medieval Art, Journal of the History of Collections, Studies in Iconography, Perspectives Médiévales: Revue d’épistémologie des langues et littératures du Moyen Âge, and A Cultural History of Hair in the Middle Ages, edited by Roberta Milliken. Eliza Garrison is Professor in the Department of the History of Art and Architecture at Middlebury College in Vermont. Recent work of hers on the reliquary of Saint Servatius, the Uta Codex, and the simulative qualities of Ottonian manuscript illumination has appeared in A Companion to the Abbey of Quedlinburg in the Middle Ages, Illuminating Metalwork: Metal, Object, and Image in Medieval Manuscripts, and Das Gießener Evangeliar und die “Malerische Gruppe” der Kölner Buchmalerei. Anne D. Hedeman is Distinguished Professor Emerita in the Kress Foundation Department of Art History at the University of Kansas. Her most recent publication is Visual Translation: Illuminated Manuscripts and the First French Humanists.

Tom Nickson is Reader in Medieval Art and Architecture at the Courtauld Institute of Art, London. He recently edited Gothic Architecture in Spain: Invention and Imitation, and “The Cult of St Thomas Becket: Art, Relics and Liturgy in Britain and Europe,” a special issue of the Journal of the British Archaeological Association. Pamela A. Patton is director of the Index of Medieval Art at Princeton University. Her monographs and edited volumes include Art of Estrangement: Redefining Jews in Reconquest Spain and Envisioning Others: Race, Color, and the Visual in Iberia and Latin America, and her articles have appeared in such journals as Gesta, Speculum, Medieval Encounters, and the Journal of Medieval Iberian Studies. She is series editor of Penn State University Press’s Signa book series and a coeditor of Studies in Iconography. Avinoam Shalem holds the Riggio Professorship for the Arts of Islam at Columbia University in New York. He has published extensively on the arts of Islam, especially the art of the object. His main field of interest is the global context of the visual cultures of the world of Islam (mainly in the Mediterranean, the Near East, North Africa, Spain, southern Italy, and Sicily), medieval aesthetic thoughts on visual arts and craftsmanship, the image of “Islamic” art, and the historiography of the field.

216

Contributors

Index Italicized page references indicate illustrations. Endnotes are referenced with “n” followed by the endnote number. Aachen Palace Chapel, 44, 47, 48, 49, 50 throne, 134n85 Abbasids, 97–98, 123, 131 See also specific Abbasid caliphs ʿAbd Allāh ibn Arqam, 134n76 ʿAbd al‑Malik ibn Marwān (Umayyad caliph), 123 ʿAbd al‑Raḥmān I (Umayyad caliph), 125–26 Abraham (biblical figure), 59, 70, 76 Adam de la Halle Jeu de Robin et Marion, 196–97 Agathias (poet), 27 agency, 207 Akbari, Suzanne Conklin, 67 Alexander VII, Byzantine Emperor, 101, 102 Alexander the Great, 105 Alexandria lighthouse, 17, 66 Mark, St, martyrdom of, 57–58, 59, 64, 66, 69–70, 71–72, 73, 79–80, 81 Pharos, 17, 18 relics, theft of, 65, 69–70 Alexios I Komnenos, Byzantine Emperor, 97–98 Alfonso XI of Castile, 141, 143–44, 152 Alfonso de Vargas, 145 ʿAlī ibn Abī Ṭalib, 127, 129–30 ʿAlī ibn al‑Athīr, 132n9 Almería, 153 Almohad dynasty, 137 Alvarus, Paulus Indiculus luminosus, 148 Amin, Samir, 94–95 ancestry (nasab), 106 See also lineage al‑Andalus, 126, 131 Anderson, Benjamin, 8 Andreas Capellanus, 190, 194, 202, 203 angels, 11, 37, 45, 45, 46, 47, 66 Anianus of Alexandria, St, 66, 67–68, 80 animals, 191, 192, 193–95, 194, 195, 197, 202 anti-​Judaism, 35, 39, 61 Antony the Great, St, 106

Apollo, 26 apostasy, 111 apotropaia, 110, 153 Aquileia (Italy), 63, 65, 66 Arabic language, 106, 114n71, 150–51 architecture, 125 Ark of the Covenant, 133n60, 134n85 Arkadios, Roman Emperor, 19, 20 Armengol VI, Count of Urgel, 153 Arsen of Iqalto, 103, 104–5 art. See images; specific artworks and types of art art historians, 36–42, 52–53n20, 53n23 Asan (goldsmith), 91, 93, 104, 107 Ascalon al-Ḥusayn, mosque of, 124 Augsburg Afra, St, Church of, 49–50 authority. See power Ayyubids, 105, 109 badges, 149 Badr al‑Jamālī, 124 Bagratids, 103 Bamberg, 53n31 Cathedral treasury, 42–43, 44, 50 baptism, 65, 68, 76, 149–50, 149, 173–75, 174 baraka (blessing), 121, 123, 128, 130 Barberini ivory, 107 Barker, Hannah, 68, 71, 75, 84n26, 84n37 Barry, Fabio, 76 Basil II, Byzantine Emperor, 98 Vatican Menologion, 72 Basil of Caesarea, St, 110 Basra (Iraq), 126, 130 Bathsheba (biblical figure), 206 Baybars, Sultan of Egypt, 123 Beatriz of Portugal, 141 Becker, C., 120, 121 Belisarios, 12–13 Bellini, Gentile, 66, 70 Belting, Hans Bild und Kult, 40–41, 53n22 Benjamin, Walter, 51 Bessarion (Cardinal), 166 Betancourt, Roland, 72 Black Africans, 57, 58, 59, 60–61, 72, 74, 74, 75, 76

Blackness, 58, 67–68, 71–72, 81 Blemmyae (“headless men”), 72 blessing (baraka), 121, 123, 128, 130 Bloom, Jonathan, 125, 130 Book of Kʿartʿli, 103 books. See codices; illuminations; paratexts bronze, 147–50, 152–53 Buc, Philippe, 153 Buell, Denise Kimber, 67 Burgos Cathedral, 155n15 Burke, Tarana, 210n15 Byzantine Empire coins, 9–11 Davit IV and, 101, 102, 103 George, St, and, 98, 100 and Ottonians, 40–41 race, attitudes towards, 59, 62, 72 Venice, trade with, 59, 68 See also specific Byzantine Emperors Cairo Timrāz al‑Aḥmadī, mosque of, 134n85 Calcidius, 154–55 Caligula, Roman Emperor, 31n97 camels, 78–79, 78 Cameron, Alan, 11 Cameron, Averil, 8 Camille, Michael, 193 Capernaum (Israel) synagogue, 133n60 Carmina Burana, 202–3 Carolingian art, 43, 44, 45 Carrillo de Acuña, Alfonso, 156n46 caskets, 190, 197, 198, 207 Castle of Love theme, 197–99, 199, 200, 201–2, 205–6, 207 Caviness, Madeline, 52n16, 61, 193, 197 Chanson de Roland (poem), 67–68, 71, 85n65 chaplets, 195–97 Charlemagne, Emperor, 2, 39, 49 Charles II of Navarre, 172 Charles IV, Holy Roman Emperor, 177 Charles V of France, 172–73, 176, 177–78, 184 See also Grandes chroniques de France Charles VI of France, 173–74, 174 Charles the Bald, 47 Charles of Dammartin, 173–74 Charles of Valois, 178 chess, 191, 192, 193, 193 China, 96 Chorazin synagogue, 132n6 Chrétien de Troyes, 189, 206 Christianity churches, destruction of, 70, 105, 111 and codex form, 1

218

Index

coins featuring Christian symbols, 10–12, 10, 11, 14, 15, 26, 98, 99 Crusades, 59, 67, 71, 79–80, 81, 82, 98, 104 George, St, 95–96, 100, 104, 111–12 in imperial iconography, 8, 10–11, 10, 11, 12, 26–27, 37, 45–47, 45 and inclusivity, 59, 66–67, 80–81, 83 and Islam, 111–12, 148–51 as race, 67, 76 Christians conversion of, 67–69 Jews, coexisting with, 61 and slavery, 68, 71, 75, 78, 84n37, 85n89 Christine de Pizan Book of the City of Ladies, 208–9 Dit de la pastoure, 208 Dit de la rose, 208–9 churches, destruction of, 70, 105, 111 circumcision, 68, 76 class, 203 Clémence de Hongrie, 207 Clement V (pope), 67 clothing. See dress Clovis I of France, 186n15 coats of arms, 139, 141 Codex Manesse, 199 codices, 1 Cohen, Adam The Uta Codex, 40, 52n19 Cohen, Jeffrey Jerome, 60, 70–71 coins Christian symbols on, 10–12, 10, 11, 14, 15, 26, 98, 99 of Davit IV, 101, 102, 104 George, St, featured on, 98, 99 of John II Komnenos, 101 of Justin II, 10, 10, 11, 11, 14, 17, 29n18 of Justinian I, 9, 10–11, 10, 11 of Tiberios II, 9, 10–12, 10, 11, 14, 15, 26 columns enslaved Africans bearing, 74 of Justin II, 7–8, 14–15, 16–22, 19, 22–28 of Justinian I, 7, 17–22, 26, 27–28 of Marcus Aurelius, 19, 20 of Theodosius I, 26 of Trajan, 19, 20 Confederate statues, 2 Constantine I, Roman Emperor, 12, 21, 109 Constantine IX Monomachos, Byzantine Emperor, 98 Constantinople (Istanbul) Augoustaion, 18, 21–22, 27 Chalke Gate, 21, 22, 26 consulship, 14 Forty Marters on Mese, Church of, 27–28 Hagia Sophia, 17, 18, 19, 101, 102 hippodrome, 14, 16, 22, 25, 28 Justin II’s column, 7–8, 14–15, 16–22, 19, 22–28 map, 20

Mese, 21, 28 Milion, 21–22 sack of, 59, 98 Zeuxippos, 16, 20–21, 22 consulship, 8, 12–14, 15, 29n30 conversion of Christians, 67–69 of Copts, 105–6 by George, St, 95–96 by Mark, St, 65, 66, 69, 79–80 and race/Otherness, 60, 61, 67–69, 72, 81, 83 Copts art, Coptic, 95, 106–7, 109–10 Church, Coptic, 109–10 converting to Christianity, 105–6 and warrior saints, 109–12 Córdoba Kutubiyya minbar, 125 Córdoba, Mosque-​Cathedral burials, 143–44, 152, 156n34 conversion to Cathedral, 137, 140, 147, 151 doors, 137, 139–41, 140, 147–54 God’s names, 147–50 Holy Spirit Chapel, 144 Ildefonso, St, Portal, 143 inscriptions, 137, 139, 139, 141, 143, 145–48, 150–51, 153 kingship, references to, 143–46 layout, 142 looted items, 152–53 minbar of al‑Hakam II, 121, 124–25, 127–28, 130–31, 134n84, 151 North wall, 141 Peter, St, chapel of, 144 Puerta del Perdón (Pardon Portal), 137, 138, 139–41, 139, 140, 143, 144–46, 149–55 Quran codex of ʿUthmān ibn Affān, 121, 126, 127, 131, 134n86 royal chapel, 144, 145, 146 Corippus (Roman poet), 13, 22–23 coronations of Davit IV, 101 of Henry II, 37, 45, 46, 48, 50, 51, 53n31 courtly love about, 189–90 animals depicted in, 191, 192, 193–95, 194, 195, 197, 202 Castle of Love theme, 197–99, 199, 200, 201–2, 205–6, 207 chaplets depicted in, 195–97 chess depicted in, 191, 192, 193, 193 and fabliaux, 194, 205 genitalia depicted in, 193–95, 197, 199, 204 and rape culture, 190–91, 193, 195, 197, 202–3, 204, 205, 211n71 See also ivory objects; sexual violence craftspeople, 150, 155 Cramond Lioness (sculpture), 74 crosses, 10, 10, 11, 12, 14, 29, 147, 149–50

Crusades, 59, 67, 71, 79–80, 81, 82, 98, 104 Cruse, Mark, 196–97 cultural hybridity, 58–60 Cyril III, Coptic Patriarch of Alexandria, 106 Da Villa Urbani, Maria, 65 Dadianos (mythical pagan emperor), 95–96 Damascus, 123, 126, 129, 131 Great Mosque, 129 Damietta (Egypt) Great Mosque, 132n39 dance, 196–97 Dandolo, Andrea, 79 Daniel (Bible book), 148, 148 Davit IV of Georgia, 91, 92, 100–101, 102, 103–5 Decius, Roman Emperor, 109 deepfakes, 2 Deesis, 98, 99 Demetrios, St, 104 demoiselle qui sonjoit, La (fabliau), 205 Demus, Otto, 77 Deshman, Robert, 52n16 Dessus Lamare, Alfred, 127, 128 Devisse, Jean, 72 Didgori, Battle of (1121), 103–4 digital media, 2 Dihya Mohammed ibn Mohammed al‑Balūnī, 125–26 Diocletian, Roman Emperor, 91, 93, 96, 109 Dolfin, Giovanni, 80 dominance, 2 dress Byzantine imperial, 9–10, 14, 98, 101, 103, 109 dhimmis forced to wear distinctive dress, 105, 111 Order of the Star, 176 racialized depictions of, 80–81 turbans, 66, 69, 72, 78, 78, 80–83 Dura Europos synagogue, 132n6 Dyno Rapondi, 185n7 Eastern Roman Empire. See Byzantine Empire Edward II of England, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 184 Edward III of England, 172, 177, 178, 180, 183–84 Egypt Christian theology, production of, 106 Crusades, 67, 82, 84n41 George, St, 93–94, 94, 105–7, 109, 111–12 Islam in, 127 Joseph’s abduction to, 76–77 sectarian conflicts under Fatimids, 70 slavery in, 68 Venice, San Marco, depicted at, 64, 65–66 elephants, 202 See also ivory objects Emmeram, St, 37, 46–47, 50 Enrique II of Castile-​León, 137, 141, 143–44, 146, 150 Epstein, Steven, 71

Index

219

equestrian portraiture. See portraits, equestrian Escuiriel, L’ (fabliau), 194 Ethiopians, 57, 60, 69, 71, 72–73 See also Black Africans; Muslims ethnicity, 60, 67, 71 See also racism; skin color Euchios (General), 109 Europe, 94–95 See also specific European countries and places Eustathios of Thessaloniki, 72 Eve (biblical figure), 206 ewers, 109, 110 exoticism, 60, 80–81 fabliaux (late-​Medieval bawdy tales), 194, 205 Fadrique of Castile, 141 falcons, 193–94 Fatimids, 70, 105, 111, 130, 131 See also specific Fatimid caliphs Fernández de Córdoba, Alfonso, 144 Fernández de Córdoba, Diego, 144 Fernando I of Portugal, 141 Fernando III of Castile, 137, 149 Fernando IV of Castile, 143 Fichet, Guillaume, 166, 185 Fierro, Maribel, 129, 130 fora, 18–19, 21 Forty Martyrs, 27–28 Fowden, Elizabeth Key, 129–30 Franciscans, 67 Frederick II, Holy Roman Emperor, 60–61, 67 Friday sermon (khuṭba), 120, 123 Fustat (Egypt) Amr, Mosque of, 126, 130 games, 197, 198 See also chess Garçia, Anton, 144–45 gender, 190–91, 193, 207–9 Genesis (Bible book), 70, 76–78 Genette, Gérard, 165 genitalia, 193–95, 197, 199, 204 George, St as Christian symbol, 95–97, 100, 104, 111–12 and Davit IV, 92, 101, 103, 105 in Egypt, 93–94, 94, 105–7, 109, 111–12 equestrian portrait, 91, 93, 94, 104, 106–7 in Georgia, 93–94, 100, 103–5 Harbaville triptych, 98, 99, 103 martyrdom, 95–97 in Mediterranean, 95, 96, 97–98, 107, 112 miracles, 95, 96, 103–4, 109, 111 regional adaptations of, 93–97, 112 relics, 98 visualizations, 97–98 as warrior saint, 91, 93, 94, 96, 98, 103–4, 107, 109, 111 Georgia, 91, 93–94, 95, 100, 103–5

220

Index

Georgian Chronicle, 103 Germany, 36, 37–42 Gisela of Burgundy, 44 God, 48, 150 See also Jesus Christ Grandes chroniques de France about, 165–66 baptismal procession of Charles VI, 173–75, 174 Henri de Trévou’s annotations, 167–68, 170–72, 185 homage, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183–84, 184, 187n27 illuminations, 166–67, 170–73, 175–76, 175, 177, 178, 180, 183–85, 186n12 illustrations, 169, 170–71, 170, 171, 172, 174, 175, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183 marginal notes, 167–68, 168, 169, 170, 171 Order of the Star, 175–77, 175 Philip III’s copy, 167–68, 170–71 Raoulet d’Orléans’ annotations, 167, 172–78, 180, 183–84, 185 rubrication, 166–68, 169, 170–73, 175–77, 175, 178, 180, 183–85, 186n12 Gratian Decretum, 195, 204, 205 Gravdal, Kathryn, 205 Gregory IX (pope), 68 Gregory the Great, St, 45, 45, 48, 71 Gregory of Nazianos, St, 110 griffins, 57, 58, 63, 73–74, 74, 75, 76 Guillaume de Biauconroy, 176 Guillaume de Lorris Roman de la Rose, 190, 197–99, 200, 202, 206, 208 Guillaume de Nangis Chronique abregée, 174 Hagar (biblical figure), 59, 70, 72, 76 hagiography, 68, 96–97 hairstyles, 74–75 al‑Hakam II (Umayyad caliph), 121, 124–25, 127–28, 130–31, 134n84, 151 al‑Hakim (Fatimid caliph), 70, 111, 128 Harbaville triptych, 98, 99, 103 Harris, Carissa M., 209 Hassan, Rob, 19 headwear, 66, 69, 72, 78, 78, 80–83 healings, 66, 79, 80–81 Heng, Geraldine, 60 Henri de Trévou, 167–68, 170–72, 185 Henry I, Duke of Bavaria, 39, 49, 53n44 Henry I of Würzburg, 49 Henry II, Duke of Bavaria (the Quarrelsome), 44, 53n44 Henry II, Holy Roman Emperor coronation, 37, 45, 46, 48, 50, 51, 53n31 enthronement, 38, 46, 47–48, 50, 51, 53n31 Pericope Book, 42–44, 43, 53n31 portraits, 36, 42–44, 43, 46–48, 50, 53n41 Regensburg Sacramentary, 36, 37, 38, 42–46, 45, 46, 48, 50–51, 53n31

and resistance, 44–45, 48–49, 50–51 succession of Otto III, 49–50, 53n27, 53n31, 53n44 Henry II of Castile-​León, 137, 141, 143–44, 146, 150 Henry IV, Holy Roman Emperor, 80 Herakleios, Byzantine Emperor, 29 Heribert of Cologne, St, 49 Hermagoras, 66 Hishām I of Córdoba (Umayyad ruler), 125 Hishām II (Umayyad ruler), 133n64 Hitler, Adolf, 38 Holy Lance, 46–47, 49, 50 Holy Land, 67, 71, 98, 109 Holy Roman Empire, 60–61, 67 See also specific Holy Roman Emperors homage, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183–84, 184, 187n27 Honorius III (pope), 67 horses. See equestrian portraiture Howard, Deborah, 59–60 Hundred Years’ War (1337–1453), 172, 173, 175–78, 180, 184 Iberia, 150 Ibn ʿAyyāsh, 119 Ibn Bashkuwāl, 126 Ibn Battuta, 122 Ibn ʿIdhāri, 125 Ibn Jubayr, 123, 127, 128–29 Ibn Khaldūn, 126, 134n86 Ibn al‑Khaṭīb, 153 Ibn Marzūq, 153–54 Ibn al Shaik, 66 Ibn Wāṣil, 132n39 Ibrāhīm II ibn Aghlab of Ifriqiya, 124 iconography. See images al‑Idrīsī, 126 illuminations Grandes chroniques de France, 166–67, 170–73, 175–76, 175, 177, 178, 180, 183–85, 186n12 Liber secretorum fidelium crucis, 81 Ottonian books, 40, 46 Pericope Book of Henry II, 43 Regensburg Sacramentary, 44–47, 50, 51 Roman de la Rose, 199, 200 images of courtly love (see courtly love; ivory objects) faking of, 2 in medieval culture, 3 Middle Eastern visual culture, 58–60, 80 and power, in general, 1–3 of racism (see racism) See also paratexts images of rule Coptic, 107 in Córdoba, 143–46 critique of, 27 Davit IV, 101, 103–5 Henry II, 46, 51

imperial, 9–11, 20, 37 on ivory objects, 191 Ottonian rulers, 40–44, 51–52 See also clothing; coins; columns; coronations; manābir; portraits; royal insignia; thrones inclusivity, 59, 66–67, 80–81, 83 Innocent IV (pope), 67 inscriptions at Córdoba, Mosque-​Cathedral, 137, 139, 139, 141, 143, 145–48, 150–51, 153 at Seville, Almohad Mosque, 151–52 Isaac (biblical figure), 76 Ishmael (biblical figure), 58–59, 70, 76 Ishmaelites, 58–59, 60, 71, 76–78, 77, 103 Isidore of Seville, 70 Islam and Christianity, 111–12, 148–51 Copts converting to, 105–6 in Egypt, 127 Friday sermon (khuṭba), 120, 123 Shiite/Sunnite conflict, 121, 127, 129–30, 131 visual culture, Islamic, 58 See also manābir; Muslims; Quran Istanbul. See Constantinople (Istanbul) Italy, 61, 71 ivory objects about, 189–90, 209 caskets, 190, 197, 199, 207 courtly love depicted on, 189–90, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 198, 199, 201, 206 mirror backs, 190, 193, 194–95, 194, 195, 199, 201, 201, 207–8 physical properties and color, 206–7 slaughter of animals necessary for, 202, 205–6 writing tablets, 192, 196 Jacobus de Voragine Golden Legend, 79–80 Jacques de Vitry, 67 Jalāl al‑Dīn Rūmī, 96 Jantzen, Hans, 38–39 Ottonische Kunst, 35–36, 36, 39, 52n9 Jean de Meun, 190, 198–99, 206, 208 Jean Renart Roman de la Rose, 201 Jeanne d’Evreux, 173–75, 197 Jerusalem, 100, 105 al‑Aqsa Mosque, 124 Holy Sepulcher, Church of, 70 Jesus Christ Crucifixion, 53n31 and George, St, 91, 92, 101 Henry II, crowning, 37, 45–47, 48 in Liber secretorum fidelium crucis, 82, 83 Mark, St, appearing to, 80 Resurrection, 45, 45, 53n31 Jews, 35, 39, 61, 65

Index

221

Jiménez de Rada, Rodrigo, 147 Jirjīs. See George, St Job (Bible book), 147 John I of Castile, 139, 141, 143 John I Tzimiskes, Byzantine Emperor, 98, 104 John II Komnenos, Byzantine Emperor, 98, 99, 101 John II of France, 172, 173, 175, 175, 176 John XXII (pope), 67 John of Ephesos about, 7–8, 15–16 Ecclesiastical History, 15 on Justin II’s column, 16–17, 20–21, 22–23, 24, 25–26, 27 on numismatic iconography, 9, 11, 12, 14 John of Seville and Limia, 153 Joseph (biblical figure), 66, 76–78, 77 Juan I of Castile (d. 1358), 139, 141, 143 Juan of Castile (d. 1245), 143 Julian, Roman Emperor, 107, 109–10 Justin II, Byzantine Emperor abdication, 8–9, 24 coins of, 10, 10, 11, 11, 14, 17, 29n18 column, 7–8, 14–15, 16–22, 19, 22–28 and consulship, 12–14 illness and decline, 8, 14, 22–25, 28, 29n10 popularity, 14, 24–25 resistance to, 7–8, 22–28 Roman influences, 9–14, 10, 11, 17, 19–20, 25 Justinian I, Byzantine Emperor abolishing consulship, 12–14 Christian influences, 10–11 coins, 9, 10–11, 10, 11 column, 8, 17–22, 26, 27–28 legacy, 8–9, 12, 14 portraits, 18, 19 Kairouan (Tunisia), 124 Kantorowicz, Ernst, 42, 53n25 Kaplan, Paul, 60, 61 Khālid b. ʿAbd Allāh al‑Qasrī, 120 Khoury, Nouha, 125, 131 khurus (architectural feature in Coptic churches), 110 khuṭba (Friday sermon), 120, 123 Kinoshita, Sharon, 112 Konstanti I, King of Apʿxas, 103 Kufa (Iraq), 126 Great Mosque, 129–30 Kühn, Miriam, 123 Kutaisi (Georgia) college, 101 Gelati, monastery of, 101 Lacabane, Léon, 185n7 Lamare, Alfred Dessus, 127, 128 Lavan, Luke, 8 Le Goff, Jacques, 187n27 Lee, Robert E., 2

222

Index

Leo the Deacon, 104 L’Estrange, Elizabeth, 207 lighthouses, 17, 66 lineage, 47, 50, 51, 76, 100, 106, 144 lions, 57, 58, 63, 73–74, 73, 76, 85n79 Liuthar (monk), 53n25 Llull, Ramon Llivre del gentil et des tres savis, 154, 154 looting, 69, 70, 139–40, 147, 152–53 López de Ayala, Pedro, 147 Louis XI of France, 166 love. See courtly love Lowden, John, 40 Lydda (Palestine), 93 George, St, Church of, 96, 98, 109 Lydus, John, 14 magic, 150 mahāmil (ceremonial palanquins), 127–28, 130, 131, 133n62 Mahaut of Artois, 207 al‑Mahdī (Abbasid caliph), 123 mahmal. See mahāmil Mainz, 48 al‑Malik al‑Kāmil, Sultan of Egypt and Syria, 132n39 manābir about, 119–21 of al‑Hakam II, 121, 124–25, 127–28, 130–31, 134n84, 151 Muḥammad, belonging to, 120–23, 125, 128, 131n4 political function, 120, 122–24, 128, 129–30, 132n39 religious function, 124, 129, 130–31 sacredness, 128–29, 133n69 storage spaces in, 130–31, 134n85 mandorlas, 46, 47 Mango, Cyril, 8 al‑Mansur (Abbasid caliph), 152 Manuel I Komnenos, Byzantine Emperor, 98 mappa (cloth), 14 al‑Maqqarī, 127 Nafḥ al-ṭīb, 124–25, 125–26 al‑Maqrīzī, 127 marble, 69 Marcus Aurelius, Roman Emperor, 19, 20 Margaret, duchess of Flanders, 207 Mark (Bible book), 65 Mark, St conversions, 65, 66, 69, 79–80 Jesus appearing to, 80 martyrdom of, 57–58, 59, 64, 66, 69–70, 71–72, 73, 79–80, 81 race represented in visualizations of, 69, 71–73, 83 relics, 65, 69–70, 79–80 and Venice, 70, 84n58 Venice, Porta da Mar mosaics, 57, 59, 63, 63, 64, 65–66, 69–70 Marrakech, 124, 125, 128

Marwān II (Umayyad caliph), 120 Mary, St, 103, 206 materials, precious, 38, 45–46, 47–48, 50, 69 Mathilde of Ringelheim, 49 Maurice, Byzantine Emperor, 28 Mayr-​Harting, Henry Ottonian Book Illumination, 40, 41 McKee, Sarah, 75 Mecca Haram, 127, 128, 129 Ka’ba, 128 Quran codex of ʿUthmān ibn Affān, 126, 127 medievalists, 1, 165 Medina Great Mosque, 120, 121, 122, 123, 125, 128, 129, 131n4 making of first minbar, 121–23 minbar, 128–29, 130 palm tree, 121–22, 128 Quran codex of ʿUthmān ibn Affān, 121, 126–27, 131 Mediterranean, 94–95, 96, 97–98, 107, 112 Meier, Fritz, 123 Mercurios, St, 104, 107, 108, 109–12 #MeToo movement, 190–91, 209, 210n15 Michael (Archangel), 109 Middle East, 58–60, 78, 80, 83 minbar. See manābir miracles by George, St, 95, 96, 103–4, 109, 111 by Mark, St, 66, 79, 80 by Mercurios, St, 109–10 misogyny, 203, 207–8 See also rape; sexual violence mobility, 98 Modrekʾili, Mikael, 103 monasteries Antony, St, 91, 94, 106, 108, 109, 111–12 and church politics, 105 Kutaisi, Gelati, 101 Mount Sinai, Catherine, St, 91, 92, 101, 105 Naqlun, Gabriel, Archangel, 107, 107 Saqqara, Apa Jeremias, 132n6 Monophysites, 15–16 Montmorency, Charles of, 173–74 monuments, 27 Moors, 70, 71, 78, 78 Morgan Beatus (illuminated manuscript), 148, 148 mosaics of Alexander VII, 101, 102 Córdoba, Great Mosque, 150 Pharos of Alexandria, 18 Venice, Basilica of San Marco, 71–72 Venice, Porta da Mar mosaics, 57, 59, 63, 63, 64, 65–66, 69–70 Moses (biblical figure), 51 mosques, 120, 127, 128–29, 130 See also manābir; specific mosques

Mount Sinai Catherine, St, monastery of, 91, 92, 101, 105 Muʿāwiya (Umayyad caliph), 122–23, 126, 128–29, 131 Mudejar (Iberian Islamicate style), 61 Muḥammad (Prophet) minbar, 120–23, 125, 128, 131n4 relics, 128 Muhammad V of Granada, 143 al‑Mukhtār ibn Abī ʿUbayd, 129–30 Muñiz de Godoy, Pedro, 156n34 al‑Muqaddasī, 124 muṣḥaf of ʿUthmān ibn Affān, 126–28, 129–30, 131, 134n86 Muslims conversion of, 60, 65, 67–68, 79, 83 craftspeople, 150–51 derogatory terms used for describing, 57–58, 69, 70, 75 enslaving of, 67, 68, 71–72, 75 George, St, invoked against, 103 merchant with camel, 78 as non-​Christian Others, 60, 61, 70 racialization, 59, 61, 66, 67–68, 75, 76 See also Ethiopians; Saracens Mütherich, Florentine Denkmale der deutschen Könige und Kaiser, 37–38, 39–40 Naqlun (Egypt) Gabriel, Archangel, monastery of, 107, 107 narwhals, 202 nasab (ancestry), 106 See also lineage national socialism, 35–36, 37–39, 40, 51–52 Navarro, Andrés Pérez, 144 Neuburg, 50 Niccolò (sculptor), 74 Nikephoras II Phokas, Byzantine Emperor, 98 Normandy, 172, 186n15 Nubians, 67, 69, 71, 81 numismatics. See coins Nūr ad-​Dīn, 124 orbs, 9–11, 10, 48, 49, 101, 102 Order of the Star, 175–77, 175 Orgemont, Pierre d’, 167, 172–73, 176, 177–78, 180, 185 ornament, 153–55 Otherness, 60, 61, 70 Otto I, Holy Roman Emperor, 39, 41, 44, 49, 53n44 Otto II, Holy Roman Emperor, 44, 49, 53n44 Otto III, Holy Roman Emperor Gospels of, 44 portraits, 42–44, 42, 52n4 succession of, 36, 49–50, 53n44 Ottonian artworks art historians on, 36–42, 52–53n20, 53n23 and national socialism, 37–39, 40

Index

223

Ottonian artworks (continued) and power, 35, 50–51 and resistance, 36, 41 Pandey, Nandini, 72 Panofsky, Erwin, 52n4 Paolo Veneziano Pala feriale, 79–80, 79 paratexts, 165–68, 168, 169, 170–71, 170, 185 See also illuminations; rubrication Paris, Gaston, 189 pastourelles, 202–3, 208, 209 Patton, Pamela, 61 Pedro I of Castile and Leon, 141, 143–44 Pedro de Xérica, 144 Pericope Book of Henry II, 42–44, 43, 53n31 Persia, 97 Peter, St, 65, 66, 79 Petrarch, 75 Pharos (island near Alexandria), 17, 18 Philip III of France, 167–68, 170–71 Philip V of France, 67 Philip VI of France, 177, 178, 179, 180, 181, 182, 183 Phokas, Byzantine Emperor, 28–29 Pigoshe, St, 107, 107 pilgrims, 60, 79, 122, 123, 128–29 Pliny the Elder, 57, 61 political satire, 24 Polo, Marco, 69 portraits of Charles the Bald, 47 of Henry II, 36, 42–44, 43, 46–48, 50, 53n41 of Otto III, 42–44, 42, 52n4 portraits, equestrian and courtly love, 195, 195 of George, St, 91, 93, 94, 104, 106–7 of Justinian I, 18, 19 of Mercurios, St, 108, 109 power represented by, 2 power and images, in general, 1–3 manābir conferring, 120, 122–24, 128, 129–30, 132n39 in Ottonian artworks, 35, 50–51 in paratextual elements, 165, 167, 172–78, 180, 183–84, 186n17 See also clothing; coins; columns; coronations; images; manābir; portraits; resistance; royal insignia; rulers and rule; thrones Prokopios, 17, 28 Pruitt, Jennifer, 70 Psalm (Bible book), 147 public executions, 76 Qiṣaṣ al-​anbiyāʾ (Tales of the prophets), 96 Quibell, James, 132n6 Quran, 126–28, 129–30, 131, 134n86

224

Index

Qūs (Egypt) ʿAmri Mosque, 124 rabbits, 191, 192, 193–94 race Byzantine attitudes towards, 59, 62, 72 Christianity envisioned as, 67, 76 and conversion, 60, 61, 67–69, 72, 81, 83 See also ethnicity; skin color racism in general, 60–62 in contemporary US culture, 2 dress, racialized depictions of, 80–81 physiognomic features, 57, 60, 61, 66, 69, 74–75 and religion, 57–59, 60, 67–68, 71 and slavery, 68, 71, 72, 84n37, 85n89 Venice, visualization of racial difference, 59–60, 61–62, 66, 69, 71–72, 72–75, 78–79 white supremacy, 2, 60 See also Black Africans; ethnicity; Muslims; Other‑ ness; skin color rams, 73, 73 Randall, Richard J., 207 Raoulet d’Orléans, 167, 172–78, 180, 183–84, 185 rape, 49, 190–91, 193, 195, 197, 202–3, 204, 205, 211n71 Regensburg Emmeram, St, 43, 44, 46 Regensburg Sacramentary, 36, 37, 38, 42–46, 45, 46, 48, 50–51, 53n31 relics authority conferred by, 127–28 of the Forty Martyrs, 28 of George, St, 98 of Mark, St, 65, 69–70, 79–80 of Muʿāwiya, 129 of Muḥammad, 128 thrones incorporating, 127, 134n85 of ʿUthmān ibn Affān, 121, 129–30, 131 religion and racialized discourse, 57–59, 60, 67–68, 71 and slavery, 67, 68, 71–72, 75, 78, 84n37, 85n89 See also Christianity; Christians; conversion; Islam; Jews; Muslims resistance in general, 2, 7 Córdoba, Mosque-​Cathedral, inscriptions, 150–51 female, 199, 205, 208–9 and George, St, 95–96, 112 and Henry II, 44–45, 48–49, 50–51 and Justin II’s column, 7–8, 21, 25–28 and Mercurios, 110 in Ottonian artworks, 36, 41 revivification, 95 Rizzi, Alberto, 78–79 Roger II of Sicily, 126 Rollo, Count of Rouen, 186n15 Roma (personification of Rome), 11, 12, 14, 29n30

Roman Church, 65, 67 Roman Empire ideology of inclusion, 59, 66–67, 80–81, 83 Justin II, influence on, 9–14, 10, 11, 17, 19–20, 25 See also specific Roman Emperors Rome, 20, 65, 66 See also Roma (personification of Rome) roses, 199, 201, 208–9 royal insignia crown, royal, 49 Henry II’s acquisition of, 49–50 Holy Lance, 37, 46–47, 49, 50 orb, royal, 9–11, 10, 48, 49, 101, 102 sword, royal, 37, 46–47, 50 See also coronations rubrication, 166–68, 169, 170–73, 175–77, 175, 178, 180, 183–85, 186n12 rulers and rule manābir conferring authority to, 120, 122–24, 128, 129–30, 132n39 sacredness of, 10, 45, 101 See also coins; coronations; images of rule; portraits; power; royal insignia; thrones; specific rulers, e.g. Justin ii Rütz, Jutta, 52n19 Sabatini, Ilaria, 75 sacrificial offerings, 73, 73 Sahl b. Saʿd, 121, 131 Saint-​Denis abbey, 166, 167, 170 Sakʿartʿvelo, 100 Saladin, Sultan of Egypt and Syria, 105, 124 al‑Samhūdī, 123 Sánchez, Gonzalo, 145 Santiago de Compostela, 147, 152 Sanudo, Marino, the Elder, 67, 71, 81, 82, 83, 84n41 Saqqara (Egypt) Apa Jeremias, Monastery of, 132n6 Saracens, 57, 58, 60, 69–71, 72, 75, 78, 79, 80–81 See also Muslims Sauvaget, Jean, 120 Schacht, J., 120, 125 schism (shiqāq), 131, 134n87 Schramm, Percy Ernst, 35, 37, 52n4 Denkmale der deutschen Könige und Kaiser, 37–38, 39–40 Scotus, Michael Liber physiognomis, 74–75 sculptures, 2 Scythians, 75 Selden, Daniel, 93–94, 97 Seville Cathedral (formerly Almohad Mosque), 143, 146, 151–52, 151, 152 royal palace, 143 sexual violence, 190–91, 193–99, 201–3, 204, 205–6, 209 See also rape

Sfax (Tunisia) Great Mosque, 125 Shavteli, Ioane, 101 sheep, 74 Siete partidas (law code), 150, 153 Siffin, Battle of (657 CE), 131 Similiante, Giovanni, 75 skin color, 61, 67–68, 69, 71, 75, 81, 83 slavery manumission, 67, 68–69 and racism, 68, 71, 72, 84n37, 85n89 and religion, 67, 68, 71–72, 75, 78, 84n37, 85n89 in Venice, 68, 75–76, 78, 84n26 Smith, Susan, 207 solidi. See coins Solinus, 57 Sophia, Byzantine Empress, 16, 21, 26, 29n18 Spain, 125, 131 speeches, 177–78 spolia, 69, 70, 139–40, 147, 152–53 squirrels, 194–95, 197 staircases, 20 statues appropriating of, 26 and Caligula, 31n97 Confederate statues, 2 ivory statuettes, 106 of Justin II, 14, 16, 21–22, 24–25, 26 of Justinian I, 18, 19 at Pharos, 17, 18 of Tiberios II, 26 See also columns; portraits Strickland, Debra Higgs, 61 Stuart, J. E. B., 2 Swanson, Mark, 111 Sylvester II (pope), 49 al-Ṭabarī, 122, 123, 129 Taʾrīkh, 96 Tamar, Queen of Georgia, 100 Tbilisi, 103, 105 “text networks” (Selden), 93–94, 97 Thabit ibn Qurra, 153 Theodore “the Painter,” 91 Theodore Stratelates, St, 104 Theodore Teron, St, 104 Theodosios I, Roman Emperor, 19, 20, 26 Theodosios II, Roman Emperor, 11 Theophanu, Holy Roman Empress, 41, 53n32 Thessaloniki Hagios Georgios, 132n6 Thietmar of Merseburg, 49 thrones Henry II’s enthronement, 38, 46, 47–48, 50, 51, 53n31 on Justin II’s coins, 10, 11 manābir functioning as, 120, 129–30

Index

225

thrones (continued) relics incorporated in, 127, 134n85 stepped, 131–32n6 Tiberios II, Byzantine Emperor Christian influences, 8, 10–11, 10, 11, 12, 26–27 coins, 9, 10–12, 10, 11, 14, 15, 26 consulship, 13, 15 dismantling of Justin II’s column, 7–8, 21, 25–28 faults, 9, 15–16 succession of Justin II, 8–9, 24 Tlemcen (Algeria) Abu Madyan Shuʿayb, shrine of, 153 Toledo Casa de Mesa, 146, 146 Trajan, Roman Emperor, 19, 20 trees, 121–22, 128, 154, 154 Trinitarian God, 150 turbans, 66, 69, 72, 78, 78, 80–83 Tyche, 11 Ulrich, St, 37, 46–47, 50 Umayyads coexistence of Jews and Christians under, 61 and manābir, 120–21, 122–24, 125, 129–30 and Quran codex of ʿUthmān ibn Affān, 126, 127, 131 See also specific Umayyad caliphs Urban II (pope), 98 ʿUthmān ibn Affān (Rashidun caliph), 121, 126–28, 129–30, 131, 134n86 Valladolid, 153 Venice art, Venetian, 57 Atrium, 76–78, 77, 85n79 basilica of San Marco, 59, 79, 80 Carmagnola, 76 and George, St, 98 Palazzo Ducale, 63, 76 Palazzo Mastelli, 78–79, 78 Piazzetta, 75, 76 Porta da Mar, 57, 58, 62–63, 62, 63, 64, 65, 67, 69, 71–72, 72–73, 73, 74, 76, 80 religious myth of, 58–59, 83

226

Index

San Marco, 57, 59, 60, 72, 73–74, 76, 98, 100 slavery, 68, 75–76, 78, 84n26 throne of Mark, 134n85 tomb of Mark, 70, 80–81 trade with Middle East and Byzantine Empire, 59–60, 68, 78, 83 visualization of racial difference in, 59–60, 61–62, 66, 69, 71–72, 72–75, 78–79 Venier, Marco, 68 Venus, 11, 12, 17, 199, 200 Verlinden, Charles, 68 violence public executions, 76 sexual violence, 190–91, 193–99, 201–3, 204, 205–6, 209 See also rape virginity, 195, 201, 206 visual culture. See images Wadi al‑Natrun, 111 al‑Walīd I (Umayyad caliph), 123 Warburg, Aby, 37 warrior saints, 91, 103–4, 106–7, 109–10, 111, 114n71 Wenceslas, King of the Romans, 177 Westermann-​Angerhausen, Hiltrud, 39 Whitaker, Cord, 71 white supremacy, 2, 60 whiteness, 61, 67–68, 71, 206 Wiley, Kehinde Rumors of War, 2 William Longsword, 172 Williams, Clayton, 211n71 wonder (gharīb), 153 Woolf, G., 22 Yāqūt al‑Hamawī, 122 Yusuf I of Granada, 143 Zacharias of Alexandria (pope), 111 Zadeh, Travis, 126 Zayd ibn Thābit, 127 Zeno, Battista, 63 Zeno, Ranieri, 76