Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages 9782503547992, 9782503552606

Table of contents :
Front Matter ("Title Page", "Copyright Page", "Table of Contents", "Illustrations", "Acknowledgements"), p. i
Free Access
Plates, p. xiv
Introduction, p. 1
Sigrid Danielson, Evan A. Gatti
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102224
Female Patronage and Episcopal Authority in Late Antiquity, p. 13
Aneilya Barnes
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102225
Ecclesius of Ravenna as Donor in Text and Image, p. 41
Deborah M. Deliyannis
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102226
Bishops and Balancing Acts: Divine and Human Agency in Gregory of Tours’s Vision of Episcopal Authority, p. 63
Kalani Craig
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102227
Bede both Subject and Superior to the Episcopacy, p. 91
George Hardin Brown
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102228
Between Censorship and Patronage: Interaction between Bishops and Scholars in Carolingian Book Dedications, p. 103
Sita Steckel
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102229
The Bishop’s Presence: Depicting Episcopal Authority in the Early Middle Ages, p. 127
Sigrid Danielson
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102230
Feed My Sheep: Pastoral Imagery and the Bishops’ Calling in Early Ireland, p. 157
Dorothy Hoogland Verkerk
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102231
The Ordo Missae of Warmund of Ivrea: A Bishop’s ‘Two Bodies’ and the Image In Between, p. 181
Evan A. Gatti
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102232
Bishop and Monk: John the Baptist in the Episcopal Image of Anglo-Saxon England and Ottonian Germany, p. 215
Jennifer P. Kingsley
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102233
Sigebert ‘the Beloved’: A Liturgical Perspective on Episcopal Image from Eleventh-Century Minden, p. 249
Joanne M. Pierce
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102234
‘Reims and Rome are Equals’: Archbishop Manasses I (c. 1069–80), Pope Gregory VII, and the Fortunes of Historical Exceptionalism, p. 275
John S. Ott
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102235
Rewriting St Wulfstan of Worcester, the Last Anglo-Saxon Bishop, in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries, p. 303
Sherry Reames
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102236
Ideal and Reality: Images of a Bishop in Bernard of Clairvaux’s Advice to Eugenius III (1145–53), p. 331
Alice Chapman
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102237
Ordination, Purification, and Consecration: Episcopal Privilege at Bourges Cathedral, p. 347
Kara Ann Morrow
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102238
Teaching the Mnemonic Bishop in the Medieval Canon Law Classroom, p. 377
Winston Black
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102239
Exhibiting Ottonian Bishops in Modern Germany: The 1993 Bernward of Hildesheim and Egbert of Trier Exhibitions, p. 405
William J. Diebold
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102240
Afterword: Images Matter: The Cultural History of the Medieval Bishop, p. 427
Maureen C. Miller
https://doi.org/10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102241
Back Matter ("Index", "Titles in Series"), p. 437

Citation preview

En v is io n in g

the

B is h o p

MEDIEVAL C H U R C H STUDIES

Previously published volumes in this series are listed at the back of the book.

Volume 29

En v is io n in g

the

B is h o p

Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages

Edited by

Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti

BREPOLS

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

© 2014, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. d

/2014/0095/99

ISBN: 978-2-503-54799-2 e-ISBN: 978-2-503-55260-6 Printed in the E U on acid-free paper

Contents Illustrations Acknowledgements

xii

Introduction SIGRID D a n i e l s o n and EVAN A. GATTI

1

Female Patronage and Episcopal Authority in Late Antiquity ANEILYA BARNES

13

Ecclesius of Ravenna as Donor in Text and Image De b o r a h m . d e l iy a n n is

41

Bishops and Balancing Acts: Divine and Human Agency in Gregory of Tours’s Vision of Episcopal Authority KALANI CRAIG

63

Bede both Subject and Superior to the Episcopacy GEORGE HARDIN BROWN

91

Between Censorship and Patronage: Interaction between Bishops and Scholars in Carolingian Book Dedications SITA ‫ ؛‬TECKEL

103

The Bishop’s Presence: Depicting Episcopal Authority in the Early Middle Ages SIGRID DANIELSoN

127

Feed My Sheep: Pastoral Imagery and the Bishops’ Calling in Early Ireland DOROTHY HOOGLAND VERKERK

157

CONTENTS

The Ordo Missae of Warmund of Ivrea: A Bishop's ‘Two Bodies' and the Image In Between evan a . g a t t i

181

Bishop and Monk: John the Baptist in the Episcopal Image of Anglo-Saxon England and Ottonian Germany JENNIFER P. KINGSLEY

215

Sigebert ‘the Beloved': A liturgical Perspective on Episcopal Image from Eleventh-Century Minden JOANNE M. p i e r c e

249

‘Reims and Rome are Equals': Archbishop Manasses I (c. 1069-80), Pope Gregory VII, and the Fortunes of Historical Exceptionalism JO H N S. OTT

275

Rewriting St Wulfstan of Worcester, the Last Anglo-Saxon Bishop, in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries SHERRY REAMES

303

Ideal and Reality: Images of a Bishop in Bernard of Clairvaux's Advice to Eugenius III (1145-53) ALICE CHAPMAN

331

Ordination, Purification, and Consecration: Episcopal Privilege at Bourges Cathedral KARA ANN MORROW

347

Teaching the Mnemonic Bishop in the Medieval Canon Law Classroom W INSTON BLACK

377

Exhibiting Ottonian Bishops in Modern Germany: The 1993 Bernward of Hildesheim and Egbert of Trier Exhibitions WILLIAM J. DIEBOLD

405

Afterword: Images Matter: The Cultural History of the Medieval Bishop MAUREEN C. m i l l e r

Index

427 437

I l l u s t r a t io n s

P k te s

Plate 1, p. xiv. ‘Liturgical Scenes with Baptism', ivory plaque, Paris, Musée du Louvre MR 369. c. 870-75. Plate 2, p. xv. ‘o rd o missae', Ivrea, Biblioteca Capitolare Cod. IV, fols 3v- 4 r. c. 1000. Plate 3, p. xvi. ‘Ordo missae', Ivrea, Biblioteca Capitolare Cod. IV, fols 5v-6 r. c. 1000. Plate 4, p. xvii. ‘Agnus dei', Liber sacramentum, Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, MS theol. lat. fol. 2, 8v. Eleventh century. Plate 5, p. xviii. ‘Bishop Sigebert at the altar', Liber sacramentorum, Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, MS theol. lat. fol. 2, 9r. Eleventh century. Plate 6, p. xix. ‘The stoning of St Stephen, and Aaron with Moses', Bible moralisée, Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Bodleian 270b, fol. 79v. Second quarter of thirteenth century. Plate 7, p. xx. ‘Ordination of St Stephen by St Peter and the rites of the bishop', Bible moralisée, London, BL, MS Harley 1527, fol. 63v. Second quarter of the thirteenth century.

vili

ILLUSTRATIONS

F ig u re s

Figure 1.1, p. 18. ‘Plan of the Basilica Apostolorum’ and ‘Plan of S. Marla Maggiore’. Figure 2.1, p. 42. ‘Apse Mosaic Showing Saint Vitalis’ and ‘Bishop Ecclesius Being Presented by Angels to Christ’, Ravenna, Church of San Vitale. c. 547. Figure 6.1, p. 128. ‘Liturgical Scenes with the Eucharist’, ivory plaque, Paris, Musée du Louvre MR 368. c. 870-75. Figure 6.2, p. 130. ‘Liturgical and Biblical Scenes’, front cover, Drogo Sacra­ mentary, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Lat. 9428. c. 845-55. Figure 6.3, p. 131. ‘Eucharist Scenes’, back cover, Drogo Sacramentary, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Lat. 9428. c. 844-55. Figure 6.4, p. 133. ‘Presentation Scene’, First Bible of Charles the Bald, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Lat. 1, fol. 423r. c. 849-51. Figure 6.5, p. 134. ‘Scene from the Fides Catholica Folio’, Utrecht Psalter, Utrecht, University Library, MS 32, fol. 90v. 820-30 or c. 845-55. Figure 6.6, p. 139. ‘Liturgical Scenes with Baptism’, detail, ivory plaque, Paris, Musée du Louvre MR 369. c. 870-75. Figure 6.7, p. 143. ‘Scenes from the Life of St Remi’, ivory plaque, Amiens, Musée de la Picardie, inventory no. 61. Late ninth or tenth century. Figure 6.8, p. 146. ‘Eucharist Scenes’, detail, ivory plaque, Paris Musée du Louvre MR 368. c. 870-75. Figure 6.9, p. 149. ‘Healing of Nicetius’, detail on rear side of altar, Milan, Church of Sant’Ambrogio. c. 850. Figure 7.1, p. 158. ‘West Cross, Monasterboice’, Co. Louth, Ireland. Early tenth century. Figure 7.2, p. 159. ‘Crucifixion’, West Cross, Monasterboice, Co. Louth, Ireland. Early tenth century.

IL L U S T A T IO N S

Figure 7.3, p. 161. ‘Crucifixion’, Muiredach’s Cross, Monasterboice, Co. Louth, Ireland. Tenth century. Figure 7.4, p. 162. ‘Crucifixion’, Cross of Durrow, Durrow, Co. Laois, Ireland. Ninth century. Figure 7.5, p. 167. ‘Fragment of Sarcophagus Lid from Rome’, Bode Museum, Berlin. c. 300. Figure 7.6, p. 175. ‘Dysert O ’Dea Cross’, Co. Clare, Ireland. Twelfth century. Figure 8.1, p. 185. ‘Otto III Enthroned’, Liuthar Gospels, Aachen, Cathedral Treasury, fol. 16r. c. 990. Figure 8.2, p. 188. ‘Charles the Bald Enthroned’, Codex Aureus, München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 14000, fol. 5v. c. 820. Figure 8.3, p. 189. ‘Christ in Majesty’, Codex Aureus, München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 14000, fol. 6v. c. 820. Figure 8.4, p. 196. ‘Blessing of the Chrism, Sacramentary of Warmund of Ivrea’, Ivrea, Biblioteca Capitolare, Cod. 31 (LXXXVI), fol. 52v. c. 966-1002. Figure 8.5, p. 202. ‘Nine Scenes from Exodus’, Farfa Bible (Ripoll Bible), Biblio­ teca Apostolica Vaticana, MS vat. lat. 5729, fol. 1r. Early eleventh century. Figure 8.6, p. 203. ‘Henry II Accompanied by Bishops’, Pontifical of Henry II, Bamberg, Staatsbibliothek, Lit. 53, fol. 2v. c. 1007-24. Figure 8.7, p. 207. ‘Portable Altar with Figure of Melchizedek, Aaron, and Abraham’, 23 cm X 26 cm. Musée de Cluny Paris. c. 1030. Figure 9.1, p. 217. ‘J ohn the Baptist and the Four Evangelists from the Throne of Maximianus’, Museo Arcivescovile, Ravenna, Italy. Mid-sixth century. Figure 9.2, p. 223. ‘Maniple of Bishop Frithestan’, Durham Cathedral. 909-16. Figure 9.3, p. 227. ‘John the Baptist’s Birth and Naming’, Benedictional of St Aethelwold. London, BL, MS Additional 49598, fol. 92v. c. 980.

IL L U S T A T IO N S

Figure 9.4, p. 229. ‘Portrait of John the Evangelist’, Benedictional of St Aethelwold, London, BL, MS Additional 49598, fol. 19v. c. 980. Figure 9.5, p. 231. John the Baptist Preaching’ (above) and ‘Christ Calling the First Apostles to his Service’ (below). Bernward Gospels, Hildesheim, Dom und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz MS 18, fol. 75r. c. 1015. Figure 9.6, p. 232. ‘Dedication Bifolium’, Bernward Gospels, Hildesheim, Dom und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz MS 18, fol. 16v. c. 1015. Figure 9.7, p. 233. ‘Dedication Bifolium’, Bernward Gospels, Hildesheim, Dom und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz MS 18, fol. 17r. c. 1015. Figure 9.8, p. 235. ‘Ascension’ (top) and ‘Portrait of John the Evangelist’ (bottom), Bernward Gospels, Hildesheim, Dom und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz MS 18, fol. 175v. c. 1015. Figure 10.1, p. 252. ‘Bishop Sigebert of Minden between a Priest and Deacon’, ivory panel from the Ordo missae of Sigebert of Minden, Berlin, Staats­ bibliothek, MS germ. qu. 42. c. 1022-36. Figure 10.2, p. 254. ‘Bishop Sigebert of Minden between a Priest and Deacon’, Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, MS thol. lat. qu. 3. 11th century. Figure 14.1, p. 348. ‘Southernmost Portals of the West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen’, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Figure 14.2, p. 349. ‘St Stephen Tympanum’, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Figure 14.3, p. 350. ‘St Ursin Tympanum’, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Figure 14.4, p. 351. ‘Ordination of the First Deacons’, detail of the St Stephen Tympanum, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Figure 14.5, p. 351. ‘St Stephen’s Ordination at the Hands of St Peter’, detail in the Bible moralisée, London, British Library, MS Harley 1527, fol. 63v. Second quarter of thirteenth century.

IL L U S T A T IO N S

Figure 14.6, p. 361. ‘Translation of the Relics’, detail of the St Ursin Tympanum, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Figure 14.7, p. 362. ‘Consecration of the Church’, detail of the St Ursin Tympanum, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Figure 14.8, p. 369. ‘Baptism of the Donors’, detail of the St Ursin Tympanum, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Figure 16.1, p. 411. ‘Front Cover of First Volume of Egbert, Erzbischofvon Trier 977-993, ed. by Franz Ronig (Trier: Selbstverlag des Rheinischen Landes­ museums. Trier, 1993). Figure 16.2, p. 413. ‘Poster for Bernward von Hildesheim und das Zeitalter der Ottonen’, 1993. Figure 17.1, p. 428. ‘Early Release Front Cover’, Für Königtum und Himmelreich:1000Ja,hreB ischofM e inwerfevonPai e rborn t d.. byChr'\‫؛؛‬t.ophStà g١tmann and Martin Kroker, 2009. ١

T h b le s

Table 2.1, p. 59. Churches in Rome with donor-portraits of bishops. Table 16.1, p. 407. Large-scale exhibitions of medieval art and culture in Ger­ many since World War II.

Acknow ledgem ents

his collection of essays has its genesis in a series of panels at the International Medieval Congress at the University of Leeds in 2009 and at the International Medieval Congress at western Michigan University in Kalamazoo in 2009, 2010, and 2011. organized through the Society for the Study of Bishops and the Secular Clergy in the Middle Ages (e p i s c o p u s ) the sessions endeavoured to synthesize scholarship on the episcopacy that would have been otherwise separated by discipline, geographical, and chronological focus. o n e point of continuity shared by the essays presented in this volume is a dedication to and curiosity about the complex manner in which the episcopal office has been imagined and envisioned during the Middle Ages and in the contemporary world. Any project relies upon the support, engagement, and generosity of others to help see it through to completion. First, we are indebted to the contributors to the volume for sharing their expertise and perspectives on the image of the medieval bishop with us. The diligence and patience demonstrated by our authors through the writing and revision process was much appreciated. w e are also grateful for many other individuals who offered their guidance, institutional resources, and resolute enthusiasm to help us complete this work. John S. o tt, as president of e p i s c o p u s , was unfailing in his support for multidisciplinary examination of the episcopal image in providing sponsorship for conference panels and providing formative advice for two novice editors. The encouragement of Maureen C. Miller was instrumental at all phases of the volume as a reader of many essays and in her contribution of the Afterword. w e would also offer our sincere appreciation to Simon Forde, Guy Carney, and Katharine Handel at Brepols, as well as the anonymous peer reviewers. w e are indebted to copyeditor Erin Thomas Dailey, designer Martine Maguire-weltecke, and to Laura Napran who prepared the index. Their efforts were essential to completing the project.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

xill

We thank Elon University and Grand Valley State University for their support, especially the Provost's office and the Faculty Research and Development Committee at Elon University for funding a summer fellowship and travel to various conferences related to the volume, and the Center for Scholarly and Creative Excellence at Grand Valley State for travel grants that supported conference participation. We have enjoyed the personal support of valuable colleagues, especially Lynn Huber, Anna Trumbore Jones, Genevra Kornbluth, Diane Reilly, and Kirstin Ringelberg. A special thank you is owed to the staff at Elon University's Belk Library, notably Lynn Melchor and Lynne Bisko, and Grand Valley State's University Libraries and the Document Delivery staff, for their persistence with even the most obscure loan and purchase requests. w e were also fortunate to work near outstanding institutions with excellent collections in medieval studies and are grateful for the assistance of the library staffs at The University of North Carolina at Chapel Hiil, the Library of Congress, Calvin College, western Michigan University, and Notre Dame University. From the formative days of the project, discussed over pints at the Stables in Leeds, and the countless conversations that followed, we thank family and friends for their support. Sigrid is grateful for the love and encouragement of her family, Larry and Kerstin Danielson, Gudrun Danielson, and Chris Fisher, Jason, Josephine, and william. Their support has made all the difference. Evan remembers the unwavering support of her mother, Michael Gatti, and is thankful for the continued encouragement of David Gatti, Gina, Bret, and Royton Boulware, and Jules and Judy Nicolet. Finally, Evan thanks Todd and Foster Nicolet for their steadfast love and willingness to share their lives with so many medieval bishops.

PLATES

xiv

Plate 1. ‘Liturgical Scenes with Baptism’, ivory plaque, Paris, Musée du Louvre MR 369. c. 870–75. Photo © Genevra Kornbluth.

PLATES

xv

Plate 2. ‘Ordo missae’, Ivrea, Biblioteca Capitolare Cod. IV, fols 3v–4r. c. 1000. Reprinted with permission from Arte medievale in Canavese, ed. by Franco Ferrero and Enrico Formica (Ivrea: Priuli & Verlucca, 2002).

xvi

PLATES

Plate 3. ‘Ordo missae’, Ivrea, Biblioteca Capitolare Cod. IV, fols 5v–6r. c. 1000. Published with permission.

PLATES

Plate 4. ‘Agnus dei’, Liber sacramentum, Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, MS theol. lat. fol. 2, 8v. Eleventh century. Photo bpk, Berlin / Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz / Art Resource, NY.

xvii

xviii

PLATES

Plate 5. ‘Bishop Sigebert at the altar’, Liber sacramentorum, Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, MS theol. lat. fol. 2, 9r. Eleventh century. Photo bpk, Berlin / Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz / Art Resource, NY.

PLATES

Plate 6. ‘The stoning of St Stephen, and Aaron with Moses’, Bible moralisée, Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Bodleian 270b, fol. 79v. Second quarter of thirteenth century. By permission of the Bodleian Library.

xix

xx

PLATES

Plate 7. ‘Ordination of St Stephen by St Peter and the rites of the bishop’, Bible moralisée, London, BL, MS Harley 1527, fol. 63v. Second quarter of the thirteenth century. By permission of the British Library. Photo © British Library Board.

Introduction Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti Images are neither on the wall (or on the screen) nor in the head alone. They do not exist by themselves, but they happen; they take place whether they are moving images (where this is so obvious) or not. They happen via transmission and perception.1 Hans Belting

I

n a 2005 essay published in Critical Inquiry Hans Belting offered an approach to iconology that prioritized the intersection between mental images and physical artifacts. Images happen, Belting argued, noting that his proposal was ‘another among the many attempts to grasp images in their rich spectrum of meanings and purposes’.2 His words remind us that images are never isolated. They must be both invented and perceived creating complex and recurring processes around their production, dissemination, affects, and after­effects. The essays included in this volume encourage recognition of an approach to images similar to Belting’s, but with a focus on those produced by, for, and about the medieval episcopacy. Simultaneously an individual, an ideal, and a symbolic entity, the bishop and his image were conceived, transmitted, and received by allies, opponents, as well as the clerics themselves. In a similar fash1  Belting, ‘Image, Medium, Body’, p. 302. See also his collection of essays on the topic: Belting, An Anthropology of Images. 2  Belting, ‘Image, Medium, Body’, p. 302.

Sigrid Danielson is Associate Professor of Art History at Grand Valley State University in Allendale, Michigan. ([email protected]) Evan A. Gatti is Associate Professor of Art History at Elon University in North Carolina. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 1–12 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102224

2 Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti

ion to Belting’s call for the image to embody a ‘rich spectrum of meanings’ across history, the contributors to this volume present a variety of attitudes about the episcopal office articulated through words, pictorial representations, and actions. Within this spectrum the medieval bishop happens. He emerges as a model of piety and intellectual life, a man of political and religious action, and as an ideal for medieval and contemporary audiences. This expanded field of inquiry for images of the episcopacy builds on other efforts by scholars to employ an interdisciplinary framework for the medieval image. For example, Jean-Claude Schmitt has approached the subject through the medieval use of the Latin term, imago.3 The word conveys a fluid space for objects to be simultaneously functional, have aesthetic qualities, and operate in nuanced ways. It incorporates both material representation (imagines) and imagination (imaginatio) in a manner that recognizes physical objects and visual depictions, but also the language used for the processes of description.4 Schmitt’s imperative asks for an examination of the image that is inclusive of formal elements and function, but also in connection with its social, cultural, and ideological settings.5 Applying the imago construction within an interdisciplinary framework reveals the complex interplay of politics, religion, and artistic production which permits characterization of the bishop as a type and an individual. Just such a multifaceted image of the bishop is also reflected in formative contributions of Eric Palazzo. His ground-breaking book L’Évêque et son image, introduced readers to an iconography of the bishop by analysing episcopal representations included in that most episcopal of liturgical manuscripts, the pontifical. Significantly, Palazzo has argued that the image of the medieval bishop served not only as a ‘material reality, but also — and above all — functioned as a visual expression of ideas and mentalities’.6 He stressed a multidimensional function for the image of the bishop in the Middle Ages that was individual and collective. This identification of the episcopal body as both unique and institutional is explored by the contributors to this volume. Some investigate the ways in which a pictorial depiction of a bishop stood in for the 3 

Schmitt, ‘La culture de l’imago’. Schmitt summarizes this concept in Schmitt, ‘Images and the Historian’. 4  Schmitt, ‘Images and the Historian’, p. 37. 5  Schmitt, ‘Images and the Historian’, pp. 42–43. 6  Palazzo, ‘The Image of the Bishop in the Middle Ages’, p. 86. See also Schmitt, ‘Le Miroir du Canoniste’. For further discussion of the methodological framework for discussing visual art and the liturgical experience see: Palazzo, ‘Art and Liturgy in the Middle Ages’, p. 173, and Palazzo, ‘Art, Liturgy, and the Five Senses’.

Introduction

3

physical person, one who existed in a certain historical moment and could enact rites using a material body. Others explore the episcopal image as a process of representation informed by a multitude of influences including canon law, theology, hagiography, poetic and epistolary texts, sacerdotal privilege as well as ritual actions, which in turn revealed the office.7 Other recent publications have furthered recognition for the dynamic environment that embodied the bishop through the production of works. What follows is not is an exhaustive discussion, but an overview of the ways that scholars, like Schmitt and Palazzo, have engaged the episcopal image through the examination of patronage, exegetical writing, and material culture. For example, Maureen C. Miller’s The Bishop’s Palace: Architecture and Authority in Medieval Italy examined the ways that clerical culture created a visual presence for the episcopacy in the urban landscape. As patrons of architecture, this elite community shaped the civic environment and embellished its buildings in ways that established and confirmed their power during the emergence of the Italian communes in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Other scholars have focused upon the individual cleric including Pierre-Alain Mariaux whose discussion of the bishop-patron Warmund of Ivrea addressed the local northern Italian context for episcopal manuscript production as well as his patronage of Marian devotion.8 Also concentrating on a unique historical figure, the volume of essays edited by Robert Dunning, Jocelin of Wells: Bishop Builder and Courtier, emphasized the archaeological and architectural examination of the sites associated with his episcopacy. The focused analysis of manuscripts, buildings, and topographies by Mariaux and Dunning provide tangible and contextualized visualizations of the bishop. In addition to these models, images could be crafted through the descriptive and metaphorical potential of words. In her book, Sex, Gender, and Episcopal Authority in an Age of Reform, 1000–1122, Megan McLaughlin assessed the role of images in reform efforts of the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Her consideration of common textual motifs, such as the Bride of Christ and the maternal as well as paternal metaphors employed by ecclesiastics, reminds us that texts also illustrate.9 They shaped the social context for expectations within religious communities, and they also attested to episcopal investment in employing word-images crafted for diverse audiences.

7 

Palazzo, ‘The Image of the Bishop in the Middle Ages’, pp. 86–91. Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images. 9  McLaughlin, Sex, Gender, and Episcopal Authority, p. 229. 8 

4 Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti

Scholars have also addressed the changing conceptions of the responsibilities and powers of the episcopal office and its occupants during the Middle Ages. For example, Claudia Rapp and Michael Moore have considered the episcopacy of the late antique and early medieval periods with an emphasis on changing expectations for the episcopacy in relation to structures of lay political rule.10 Rapp’s Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity examined episcopal identity between the years 300 and 600 as a period of shifting ideals in which a focus on asceticism was replaced by a model for the office that stressed aspects of civic governance and sacred agency associated with the office.11 Moore’s A Sacred Kingdom: Bishops and the Rise of Frankish Kingship, 300–850 extended the period under consideration from the late antique period to the early reign of Charles the Bald in the ninth century. This study considered the pivotal role of the episcopacy in defining early medieval kingship within a Christian framework. The shifting terrain of episcopal self-definition between the eighth and tenth centuries has also been examined by Steffen Patzold in his book, Episcopus. Wissen über Bischöfe im Frankenreich des späten 8. bis frühen 10. Jarhunderts. Significantly, the author revised previous approaches to Carolingian episcopal authority and power with his examination of changing attitudes during the 830s as bishops’ social power was expressed through the concept of ministerium. Disseminated in text and through such rituals as church councils and royal anointing, the bishop extended his spiritual oversight of the broader Christian community. In addition to framing the episcopal experience as expressions of leadership, scholars also have provided a much needed examination of the centrality of the episcopacy to other medieval social institutions. John S. Ott and Anna Trumbore Jones reminded us of this in the introduction to their volume, The Bishop Reformed: Studies of Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages: ‘[The bishop] did not simply stand at the center of things — he was the center.’12 The essays included in The Bishop Reformed, written from a variety of disciplinary perspectives, articulated the complexities of the medieval office, presenting a multifaceted bishop whose duties, while varied, were interconnected and essential to life in the European Middle Ages. Another recent volume, Patterns of Episcopal Power: Bishops in Tenth and Eleventh Century Western 10 

Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity; Moore, A Sacred Kingdom. Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity, p. 289. 12  For their comprehensive literature review see: Ott and Jones, ‘Introduction: The Bishop Reformed’. The notion that the medieval bishop was a man ‘in the middle’ is also notably used by Gilsdorf, ‘Bishops in the Middle’. 11 

Introduction

5

Europe, edited by Ludger Körntgen and Dominik Waßenhoven, illustrated the shifting focus of episcopal studies away from institutional authority and towards analyses of the patterns formed by institutional practice.13 The collection was a response to Timothy Reuter’s article, ‘Ein Europa der Bischöfe. Das Zeitalter Burchards von Worms’, which suggested that the study of bishops (rather than kings and queens) might be the best apparatus to approach tenth- and eleventhcentury Europe. Presented as a series of case studies, the essays included in Patterns of Episcopal Power examined the responsibilities of the bishop in light of social and political relationships. As with the collections described above, the contributions to this volume engage with, expand upon, and amplify the work of previous scholars, but also contribute sustained examinations of how the image of the bishop was conceived, transmitted, and received. The papers cover a broad chronology from the late antique period through the fourteenth century and represent a variety of disciplines as they address diverse forms of cultural production and performance including literary, historical, liturgical, material culture, as well as medieval and modern historiography. No collection of essays can ever be exhaustive and there are lacunae in this volume as well. It emphasizes insular and westEuropean traditions, but this should not suggest that the crafting of episcopal representations was unique to these locales or that the ecclesiastics of Spain and Byzantium did not engage with the production and use of images. Rather, we hope that this volume offers a catalyst for future discussions that incorporate broader geographic and theoretical interests. As a collection, this volume and the contributions of the authors remind readers of how, regardless of medium, the image is more than a literal representation, it reflects desires as well as conventions. Shaped by supporters and detractors alike, medieval images of the bishop were crafted through historical models as a response to present realities and with consideration of the eschatological future.

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Körntgen and Waßenhoven, Patterns of Episcopal Power had its origins in the research endeavours of ‘Der Handlungsspielraum von Bischöfen. Eine vergleichende Untersuchung am Beispiel der ottonischsalischen und angelsächsischen Herrscherwechsel’. The conclusion of the volume (pp. 166–224) includes a ‘Selective Bibliography on Bishops in Medieval Europe, from 1980 to the present day’ with four foci: 1) Editions, Translations, Regesta, and Series episcoporum, 2) Comprehensive and Comparative Studies, 3) Studies on Anglo-Saxon England, and 4) Studies on the Ottonian-Salian Kingdom.

6 Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti

Writing the Bishop: Images from the Outside Some of the most complex images of the medieval bishop come from authors outside the episcopal office. Letters of advice or admonition from abbots, hagiography composed in monastic houses, and even mnemonic poetry used in the education of clerics all recognized anxieties about the role of the bishop, especially as the men occupying the office mediated between episcopal ideals and lived realities. George Brown and Alice Chapman offer analyses of letters written by powerful abbots who lived four hundred years apart. Both clerics expressed concern about the place of the bishop as an authority situated between the secular and sacred worlds, but provide notably different characterizations for how a bishop should rule. Focusing on Bede’s letters to bishops Egbert and Acca, Brown (Chapter 4) gives us our first glimpse of how the office was shaped by those who desired to prepare the bishop for office. One observes in Brown’s analysis a reformer’s concern for a bishop’s role in pastoral care. Chapman (Chapter 13) presents a similar ideal image for the bishop in her analysis of the letters from Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux to Bernard of Pisa upon his election as Pope Eugenius III. Bernard used symbolic language to illustrate his concern that his former pupil should not become a persona mixta (mixed person), stressing that he must balance ministry with dominion, wielding temporal power but resist acting as a lord. Sherry Reames and Winston Black discuss how the lessons of hagiographers and teachers also communicated the diverse qualifications necessary for the episcopal office. Reames’s (Chapter 12) examination of the shifting narratives about St Wulfstan demonstrates distinct phases for the articulation of his saintly character. Thus, medieval authors periodically recreated the image of the cleric ensuring that he became the right bishop for the right time. This kind of mental imaging can also be found in the mnemonic poetry used in the training of clerics during the twelfth century. Black (Chapter 15) examines verses that describe the qualifications necessary for the thirteenth-century bishop. Prepared for the schoolroom and widely circulated, these texts contributed to the scholastic discourse outlining the expectations and responsibilities that identified the limits and possibilities of episcopal authority. These four essays emphasize one of the central points of this volume, namely that the historic bishop was not static but rather a malleable entity within the church.

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Making Space for the Bishop: The Image, Patronage, and Rome The images described above existed most powerfully in a mental space. But others were articulated through acts of patronage. The built environment and court culture offer powerful images particularly in relationship to that most episcopal of cities, Rome. Aneilya Barnes, Deborah M. Deliyannis, and John Ott offer discussions of place that engage with the centrality of Rome in relation to local episcopal identity. For example, Barnes’s (Chapter 1) discussion of holy sites of Rome during the fifth and sixth centuries, considers the changing role of episcopal authority in relation to patronage by aristocratic women. As bishops worked to establish the Christian topography of Rome, the female patrons of the circus basilicas were valuable allies for the early popes. When later bishops became active patrons of architecture themselves, these influential women became notable liabilities. Deliyannis’s discussion (Chapter 2) also stresses the role of the bishop as builder of his see. Her analysis of portraits of Bishop Ecclesius as a patron offers a comparison wherein the apse mosaic at San Vitale in Ravenna works in tandem with text-based images found in the Liber pontificalis ecclesiae Ravenna. The importance of patronage in creating a relationship to Rome also employed metaphor. Ott’s essay (Chapter 11) examines the role of text in crafting the image of a specific episcopate, that of Archbishop Manasses I at Reims during the late eleventh century. Pleading his case against impending deposition to Pope Gregory VII, the poetry and letters produced at Manasses’s court stressed the exceptional position of Reims in relation to Rome and are significant for understanding the breakdown in communications that ended in the rémois archbishop’s loss of his diocese. In these examples, the place and idea of Rome was central to artistic patronage. As these bishops altered the built environment and commissioned written texts they invoked the authority of the Holy See, but ultimately met with varying degrees of success.

Models for the Bishop: Biblical and Saintly Ideals Medieval written and pictorial sources offer diverse exempla that project an image of the bishop that created an episcopal family tree through the motifs of apostolicity and succession. The contributions by Dorothy Hoogland Verkerk, Kalani Craig, Jennifer Kingsley, and Kara Ann Morrow discuss how authority was shaped by and articulated through the biblical priesthood and the apostolic tradition. Verkerk (Chapter 7) revisits the medieval iconography of the shepherd and its depictions on the tenth-century monumental West Cross located

8 Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti

at Monasterboice in Ireland. Informed by historiography, early Christian texts, and the lineage of St Patrick, her consideration of these ‘pastoral’ scenes situates them within expectations for episcopal conduct towards the Christian flock. Contributions from Kalani Craig (Chapter 3) and Jennifer P. Kinsley (Chapter 9) consider how written and pictorial traditions employed biblical exemplars for the bishop. Craig takes as her formative text the Historiarum libri decem (Histories), by Gregory of Tours. The prelate’s vision for the episcopacy was influenced by biblical models, but was also grounded in Gallo-Roman identity, crafting the bishops’ authority for Frankish society. This lineage, with its emphasis on connections to the biblical and Roman past, balanced episcopal authority with that of the Merovingian kings. Considering the use of biblical models during the central Middle Ages, Kingsley offers a comparative examination of the bishop’s relationship to the figure of John the Baptist as depicted in textile and in illuminated manuscripts from Anglo-Saxon and Ottonian traditions. Thus in referencing the active and contemplative life, the Baptist became a model for both the bishop and the monk. The early apostolic tradition is also significant for Kara Ann Morrow’s interpretation (Chapter  14) of the thirteenth-century portal sculpture on the west facade of Bourges Cathedral in France. Morrow considers how episodes from the lives of early saints were employed as ideological models for images of the bishop. Scenes from the life of the proto-martyr St Stephen are depicted adjacent those of an early bishop at Bourges, St Ursin. Together they foreground apostolic lineage through episcopal participation in rituals such as ordination and consecration. These essays emphasize aspects of symbolic lineage, but as with other contributions to the volume, present an image of the bishop envisaged through his actions.

Performing the Bishop: Responsibilities and Office In addition to framing the office from the outside, engaging in patronage, and employing exemplars, the bishop’s image was also conveyed through the actions performed by the men who held the office. Sita Steckel, Sigrid Danielson, Evan A. Gatti, and Joanne Pierce consider images of the bishop that, at first glance, may simply reflect his spiritual responsibilities. Each author argues that attention to the ritual aspects of these actions also reveals the expression of the office and its authority. Steckel (Chapter 5) examines Carolingian episcopal scholarly exchange in relation to patronage and censorship. Her consideration of the social, epistemological, and political contexts for the practice reveal a complex performance in which the bishop assumed a pivotal role. Danielson

Introduction

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(Chapter 6) explores the episcopal presence as depicted in Carolingian ivory covers illustrating the baptismal and eucharistic liturgies with a consideration of how these works assert the bishop’s authority in his execution of the sacraments. Gatti (Chapter 8) introduces a series of eleventh-century miniatures depicting a bishop in liturgical postures as representative of the bishop’s ‘Two Bodies’. Modelled on Kantorowicz’s King’s Two Bodies, she discusses how the bishop’s bodies are comprised of a symbolic body that acknowledges the bishop as the leader of a community and a natural body that highlights the bishop as devotee and actor in the Mass. Pierce’s essay (Chapter 10) also draws our attention to the symbolic meaning behind liturgical actions in her discussion of a series of eleventh-century liturgical portraits prepared for the Bishop Sigebert of Minden. Her analysis of private liturgical prayers paired with depictions of the cleric considers how the image addressed personal aspects of the bishop’s moral development as well as his conception of the duties for the office. Formed through words, deeds, and pictures, these essays reflect upon the synchronous nature of the episcopal office. Simultaneously an ideal and a reality, the images emphasize the significance of the bishop’s actions, as well as his significance as the actor who performs them.

The Medieval Bishop: Curating and Commentary As demonstrated in the essays discussed above, images of the bishop were transmitted and perceived in the Middle Ages and scholars revisit them in the present. William J. Diebold (Chapter 16) considers the context for two late twentieth-century exhibitions devoted to the Ottonian bishops Bernward of Hildeshiem and Egbert of Trier. His focused examination reveals the significance of these museum shows as interest in the Ottonian period intensified during the decades after German reunification. The afterward to the volume by Maureen C. Miller (Chapter 17) highlights the portrait of Meinwerk of Paderborn from his portable altar, included in the 2009–10 exhibition celebrating the millennial anniversary of his consecration.14 Using the portrait as a motif, Miller threads the contributions to this volume together, synthesizing the broader themes explored by the authors and the potential for a single episcopal image to embody the many complex ways of envisioning the office.

14 

The exhibit was held at the Diözesanmuseum Paderborn between 23 October 2009 and 21 February 2010. Stiegemann and Kroker, Für Königtum und Himmelreich.

10 Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti

Envisioning the Medieval Bishop With the numerous perspectives on the image of the bishop offered in this volume the episcopal office emerges not as a singular contour, but one of successive marks and erasures. Never a static institution, it was formed and reformed making it visible to the bishop, to those with whom he interacted, and to broader communities. These medieval efforts to make present the power and authorities of the office established the duties, expectations, and ideals of the bishop in ways often specific to time and place. While some of these outlines leave us with bold impressions, others efface or make dull the lines that came before them. Images of the bishop formed by perceptions, reflections, condemnations, and aspirations reveal how one became a bishop. If one acted in specific ways, wore particular vestments, performed particular duties, and in doing so was recognized to have certain authorities, then he was the bishop. The essays included in this volume suggest that regardless of whether the office and those who occupied it were articulated as individuals or corporate bodies, the episcopal image was a formative strategy of representation. It is in the disclosing of the bishop through text, actions, and material objects that the office and by extension the episcopal body itself becomes perceptible — this is the process of envisioning the bishop. Returning to the quotation by Hans Belting that opened this volume, images do not exist in isolation ‘but they happen’. The image of the bishop happened for medieval communities, not as a passive reflection, but as the embodiment of active engagement with representation.

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Works Cited Secondary Studies Belting, Hans, An Anthropology of Images: Picture, Medium, Body, trans. by Thomas Dunlap (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011); originally published in German as Bild-Anthropologie: Entwürfe für eine Bildwissenschaft (München: Fink, 2001) —— , ‘Image, Medium, Body: A New Approach to Iconology’, Critical Inquiry, 31 (2005), 302–19 Dunning, Robert, ed., Jocelin of Wells: Bishop, Builder, Courtier, Studies in the History of Medieval Religion, 36 (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2010) Gilsdorf, Sean, ‘Bishops in the Middle: Mediatory Politics and the Episcopacy’, in The Bishop: Power and Piety at the First Millennium, ed. by Sean Gilsdorf (Münster: Lit, 2004), pp. 51–73 Körntgen, Ludger, and Dominik Waßenhoven, eds, Patterns of Episcopal Power: Bishops in Tenth and Eleventh Century Western Europe (Berlin: De Gruyter, 2011) Mariaux, Pierre-Alain, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images: politique et création iconographique autour de l’an mil, European University Studies, Series 28, History of Art, 388 (Berne: Lang, 2002) McLaughlin, Megan, Sex, Gender, and Episcopal Authority in an Age of Reform, 1000–1122 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010) Miller, Maureen C., The Bishop’s Palace: Architecture and Authority in Medieval Italy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000) Moore, Michael Edward, A Sacred Kingdom: Bishops and the Rise of Frankish Kingship, 300–850, Studies in Medieval and Early Modern Canon Law, 8 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2011) Ott, John S., and Anna Trumbore Jones, ‘Introduction: The Bishop Reformed’, in The Bishop Reformed: Studies of Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages, ed. by John S. Ott and Anna Trumbore Jones, Church, Faith, and Culture in the Medieval West (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 1–20 Palazzo, Eric, ‘Art and Liturgy in the Middle Ages: Survey of Research (1980–2003) and Some Reflections on Method’, The Journal of English and Germanic Philology, The State of Medieval Studies, 105.1 (2006), 170–184 —— , ‘Art, Liturgy, and the Five Senses in the Early Middle Ages’, Viator, 41 (2010), 25–56 —— , L’Évêque et son image: l’illustration du pontifical au Moyen Âge (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999) —— , ‘The Image of the Bishop in the Middle Ages’, in The Bishop Reformed: Studies of Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages, ed. by John S. Ott and Anna Trumbore Jones, Church, Faith, and Culture in the Medieval West (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 86–91 Patzold, Steffen, Episcopus: Wissen über Bischöfe im Frankenreich des späten 8. bis frühen 10. Jahrhunderts, Mittelalter-Forschungen, 25 (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2008)

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Rapp, Claudia, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005) Schmitt, Jean-Claude, ‘Images and the Historian’, in History and Images: Towards a New Iconology, ed. by Axel Bolvig and Phillip Lindley (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003), pp. 19–44 —— , ‘La culture de l’imago’, Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales, 1 (1996), 3–36 —— , ‘Le Miroir du Canoniste: à propos d’un manuscrit du Decret de Gratien de la Walters Art Gallery’, Journal of the Walters Art Gallery, 49–50 (1991–1992), 67–82 Stiegemann, Christoph, and Martin Kroker, eds, Für Königtum und Himmelreich: 1000 Jahre Bischof Meinwerk von Paderborn (Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner, 2009)

Female Patronage and Episcopal Authority in Late Antiquity Aneilya Barnes Introduction In recent decades, prominent historians of late antiquity, such as Peter Brown and Thomas F. X. Noble, have addressed various developments that led to the rise of the powerful medieval bishops who came to dominate early Christendom, including the role of bishops as the new patrons in the East and the establishment of the papacy in the West, respectively.1 While this is a complex history, scholars typically understate the influences of prominent women on the development of the episcopacy in favour of a more politically focused history that centres on senators, emperors, and other elite males. In an effort to advance the current historical understanding of women’s influence on the development of the early Church and the establishment of the episcopacy, this essay examines Rome’s sacred landscape between the fourth and sixth centuries as a record of the competition among the city’s upper echelons, which often contended   * I would like to express my deepest gratitude to Dr Lynda Coon for reading an earlier draft of this paper. I would also like to thank the volume’s gracious editors for their helpful comments and suggestions. Any mistakes that remain are entirely my own. Additionally, I would like to thank Coastal Carolina University for a Professional Enhancement Grant, which facilitated the writing of this essay. For purposes of clarity, the English, Italian, and Latin names of buildings have been used in an attempt to employ the most familiar nomenclature. Also, all Latin translations are mine unless otherwise noted. 1 

Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity; Noble, The Republic of St. Peter; Noble, ‘Topography, Celebration, and Power’; Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity; Sterk, Renouncing the World; Drake, Constantine and the Bishops. Aneilya Barnes is Associate Professor in the Department of History at Coastal Carolina University in Conway, South Carolina. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 13–40 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102225

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for authority through the patronage of public basilicas. In so doing, it argues that the evolving architectural designs and shifting topography of Rome’s early Christian basilicas provide significant historical evidence for documenting the declining roles of women in the early Church as the power of the episcopacy increased. Undoubtedly, the underrepresentation of women in the current historical narrative is largely because of the lack of extant textual evidence, which is the most common methodological approach for historians. The built environment, however, provides important evidence for recreating women’s involvement in the development of the early Church, but here too the evolution of early Christian architecture complicates the historical narrative. Saint Peter’s basilica has been the most important sacred space in Christendom for more than 1500 years and, consequently, the driving force behind historical inquiry into the development of early Christian architecture and the rise of the episcopacy in Rome.2 The resulting history is a masculinized version that privileges the physical site of Saint Peter’s, Constantine (r. 312–37) as its great imperial patron, and the emergence of the Vatican’s ruling bishops. If, however, the original basilica of Saint Peter’s (built c. 325) is situated within the context of the first Christian basilicas in Rome, the narrative becomes far more complex, as Saint Peter’s was originally only one of ten Christian basilicas constructed between c. 320 and 390 in the city. Eight of these ten basilicas, including Saint Peter’s, functioned as covered cemeteries near catacombs (or a necropolis in the case of Saint Peter’s) where Christians congregated to honour their dead. Additionally, nearly half of these edifices honoured the memory of important Christian women who patronized or endowed the structures, such as Constantine’s mother Helena (d. c. 330) whose name was connected to three different fourth-century basilicas. Holy sites attached to the basilicas, such as mausolea and martyria, commemorated their prominent female inhabitants in memoria, particularly those who became holy intercessors, such as Saint Agnes and, eventually, Saint Helena. Moreover, bishops, like Damasus (r. 366–84), were made and unmade at these same sites, making Rome’s sacred spaces arenas for gender conflicts, as bishops and elite laywomen contended for authority at these holy sites. 2  While Saint John the Lateran was the first episcopal palace and seat of the papacy in Rome, historians and architectural historians alike tend give it only a brief nod before moving their focus on to Saint Peter’s. Miller, The Bishop’s Palace, is one of the few exceptions to this rule, as she does a fine job of underscoring the role of the Lateran as an important power base for the early episcopacy.

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By the fourth century, elite women had long patronized the cult of the martyrs, because they had the resources necessary for building shrines worthy of housing the holy dead in their private cemeteries and, consequently, often controlled access to the saints’ bodies.3 Therefore, as Christians began to construct their first grand public meeting spaces, women, particularly the wealthy, continued to wield a great deal of influence over the development of the first Christian basilicas. Among these important early structures were circus basilicas, so-called for their architectural similarities to the circus arenas. Circus basilicas served as covered cemeteries and housed the massive feasts and cele­ brations honouring the holy dead buried nearby and the regular dead whose graves they covered.4 Because women were patrons of the covered cemeteries, controlled access to the holy dead, and were prominent martyrs in the Church, bishops found elite Christian women to be powerful allies. Throughout the fourth and fifth centuries, however, the male episcopacy came increasingly from elite backgrounds, and the Church grew in prominence, making bishops less dependent on the patronage of aristocratic women.5 During this same period, Pope Sixtus III (r. 432–40) began to build Christian basilicas in an architectural style that mirrored earlier imperial civil basilicas, which were comprised of an audience hall flanked by side aisles and terminated by an apse. Rather than use the circus basilica design that had embodied the memory of the Church’s female patrons for nearly a century, he asserted the bishop’s authority through a new imperial and, consequently, masculinized style of Christian architecture. During this same period, Augustine of Hippo (354–430) and other bishops began to criticize the celebrations held in honour of the regular dead that took 3 

For more on women and the development of the cult of the martyrs, see Brown, Cult of the Saints. See also Clark, ‘Patrons, Not Priests’; Brown, Body and Society; Clark, Women in Late Antiquity; Torjesen, When Women Were Priests; Grig, Making Martyrs in Late Antiquity; Moss, The Other Christs. 4  For more on the circus basilicas, particularly the debates surrounding their design, see Krautheimer, ‘Mensa-Coemeterium-Martyrium’; Holloway, Constantine and Rome, pp. 86–115; Lehmann, ‘“Circus Basilicas”’; Gatti, ‘Una basilica di età Constantiniana’; Torelli, ‘Le basiliche circiformi di Roma’; La Rocca, ‘Le basiliche cristiane’. 5  See Kuefler, The Manly Eunuch, which provides a useful explanation of the shifting views of masculinity in the Church in late antiquity and examines how late antique aristocratic males adapted to Christianity. See also Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity, which discusses how bishops, particularly in the east, claimed authority by virtue of the spiritual power bestowed on them through ordination. Additionally, Lifshitz, ‘The Martyr, the Tomb, and the Matron’, addresses how bishops promoted the martyr cults to compete with women for authority in the Church.

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place at the covered cemeteries, and by the sixth century the circus basilicas had essentially fallen out of use. While Augustine was only in Rome for a short time, his writings demonstrate just how far-reaching anxieties concerning the ritual observances of the dead — and women’s involvement in them — had become in the western Mediterranean. Thus, the evolution of early Christian architecture, particularly the rise and fall of Rome’s circus basilicas, provides important evidence of women’s shifting roles in the establishment of the early Church in Rome. Additionally, the architectural and topographic shifts of Rome’s holy landscape document the gradual decline of female prominence within the Church in favour of bishops who promoted sites that supported their claims to and strengthened their episcopal authority as Rome’s new civic patrons of the Church.

Women and Rome’s Holy Landscape As the architectural environment of the early Church in Rome demonstrates, covered cemeteries were central to early Christian observances, because Christians continued to honour their dead in a manner that had long been practised in Rome. Like the ancient Romans who feasted with the dead in ancestral tombs during celebrations, such as the Parentalia and Feralia, fourthcentury Christians accepted that the dead were present in their suburban necropolises and that the living could interact with them. Bishops, however, did not celebrate Mass in honour of the regular dead. The only time Church leaders officially recognized taking the Eucharist in celebration of the dead was during the dies natalis of the martyrs and bishops, celebrating the anniversary of their entrance into the blessed afterlife.6 As a result, the commemoration of the regular dead was not a specifically Christian practice, nor was it a pagan 6 

Augustine, Epistulae, ed. by Daur, Epistola 22, p. 53, ll. 43–49. ‘Comissationes enim et ebrietates ita concessae et licitae putantur, ut in honourem etiam beatissimorum martyrum non solum per dies sollemnes, quod ipsum quis non lugendum uideat qui haec non carneis oculis inspicit, sed etiam cottidie celebrentur. Quam foeditatem, si tantum flagitiosa et non etiam sacrilega esset, quibuscumque tolerantiae uiribus sustinendam putaremus’ (‘They believe that revelry and drunkenness are permitted and lawful in honour of the most blessed martyr not only on the solemn days but also on the commonly celebrated, which one should see as needing to be mourned itself when inspected with more than the carnal eye. We might settle this disgrace that ought to be checked with the strength of tolerance if it were only so shameful and not sacrilegious’). For more on Augustine’s concerns about the practices for the regular dead, see Rebillard, ‘The Cult of the Dead’; Rebillard, ‘The Church, the Living, and the Dead’; and Rebillard, The Care of the Dead.

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assimilation accepted by the Church; instead, Christian funerary rituals were private family functions held in honour of their ancestors and decidedly separate from public liturgical practices.7 Despite this distinction, festivities in remembrance of the regular dead were so prominent among early believers that, throughout the fourth century, eight large basilical halls were constructed in the city’s most prominent cemeteries to accommodate the celebrations. Like funerary practices prior to Christianity, Christian festivities honoured ancestors, including female ancestors, in a manner that befitted their standing in life.8 Furthermore, women continued to participate in these rituals as they always had in the Roman world. While Christians often commemorated their deceased relatives with spectacular events, the most important celebrations were those that memorialized the martyrs, making the structures that housed these events some of early Christianity’s most important basilicas. Architectural historian Richard Krautheimer has argued that the earliest Christian basilica was likely the circus-like structure dedicated to Sts Peter and Paul, the Basilica Apostolorum (built c. 315), on the Via Appia.9 The Basilica Apostolorum was one of the six ambulatory basilicas known to have existed outside the city walls of Rome. The design of the circus basilicas was fairly uniform: a nave encircled by a single aisle, creating an ambulatory. The combination of nave, aisle, and ambulatory gave this idiosyncratic form of an early Christian basilica its circus-like design (Figure 1.1). Like the other circus basilicas, the Basilica Apostolorum was located near a catacomb, but it was built on top of a triclia, or loggia, which had served as a space for feasting and celebrating since at least the early third century and contained graffiti invoking the apostles.10 Additionally, each cir7 

Brown, Cult of the Saints, p. 24. Tulloch, ‘Women Leaders’. 9  Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum, iv, p. 145. Krautheimer concludes the date must be between c. 315 and 320 based on several points. Similar building styles and materials, which will be discussed more later, suggest that the rotunda of the Maxentian complex only 200 m away and the basilica may have been built by the same architect. Krautheimer does not oppose a date between 310 and 313 for the basilica and states that the basilica construction may have been begun during the reign of Maxentius, especially considering the emperor’s religious tolerance, but it is certainly not conclusive. Also, Antonius Ferrua found an inscription in the basilica that can be read three different ways, which has led Ferrua to conclude that the basilica may have been constructed as late as 330. Krautheimer disregards this possibility, however, both because the inscription could be read as an earlier name, and because it could have easily been added after the basilica was constructed. 10  For more on the triclia, see Kjægaard, ‘From “Memoria Apostolorum”’. 8 

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Figure 1.1. ‘Plan of the Basilica Apostolorum’ (i.e. S. Sebastiano) and (right) ‘Plan of S. Maria Maggiore’. Author drawing.

cus basilica, including the Basilica Apostolorum, had at least one mausoleum physically attached to it or located a few metres away, and four of the six circus basilicas are known to have been within relatively close proximity to martyrs’ shrines. Each of the basilicas functioned as a covered cemetery where Christians celebrated the memory of the dead members of their community, venerated the martyrs, and conducted liturgical activities. Both the size and number of these buildings alone illustrate that they were important spaces for the early Church. In fact, six of the eight known Christian basilicas built outside the city walls of Rome during the fourth century were circus basilicas, and all eight functioned as covered cemeteries. Perhaps the most significant feature of Rome’s fourth-century basilicas is that elite laywomen, particularly women belonging to the imperial family, patronized almost half of them. In many ways, Helena set a new standard for elite female patronage of the Church, as she both built and endowed many of Rome’s first Christian edifices, including Saint Peter’s.11 Like the six circus basilicas located outside the walls, Saint Peter’s was primarily a covered cemetery, but it was the first basilica to incorporate a saint’s shrine within the edifice. Constantine commissioned the attachment of a basilical hall onto the 11 

The volume edited by Kolb, Augustae demonstrates that imperial women’s public patronage was not a new development in late antiquity. Similarly, as noted in Brubaker, ‘Memories of Helena’, Helena set a standard for imperial women’s patronage of the Church.

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already extant rectangular martyrium, creating a distinct cruciform design.12 After the construction of the basilica, Christians continued to burrow under the Constantinian pavement level to create room for their loved ones within privileged proximity of the saint (depositio ad sanctos).13 By the time the basilica was first excavated in the sixteenth century, graves completely carpeted its floor, and Christians had dug down several layers to add burial spaces, placing marble slabs over the tombs as markers.14 The décor provided for the saint’s royal complex of Saint Peter’s included an apse over his tomb that was gilded with gold foil. Directly below the apse, just above the saint’s shrine, was a gold cross donated by the emperor and Helena etched with the inscription, ‘Constantinus Augustus et Helena Augusta. Hanc domum regalem simili fulgore coruscans aula circumdat’ (‘Constantine Augustus and Helena Augusta. The glittering hall envelops this royal house with equal splendour’).15 Thus, the inscription recognized Helena as an equal benefactor alongside Constantine. Women were also celebrated in the afterlife at Saint Peter’s with festivities that mirrored those taking place at Rome’s other covered cemetery basilicas. A letter by the late fourth-century bishop Paulinus of Nola, written in the winter of 396–97, stated that the senator Pammachius gave an extraordinary banquet at Saint Peter’s in honour of his wife Paulina’s memory. Pammachius invited the rich and poor alike.16 So many people attended the feast that they filled 12 

On the phases of construction, see Carpiceci and Krautheimer, ‘Nuovi dati sull’Antica Basilica’, pp. 6–7; Holloway, Constantine and Rome, p. 79. 13  Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum, v, no. 2, pp. 177–79; Toynbee and Ward-Perkins, The Shrine of St. Peter; Kirschbaum, The Tombs of St Peter and St Paul, trans. by Murray. 14  Toynbee and Ward-Perkins, The Shrine of St. Peter; Kirschbaum, The Tombs of St Peter and St Paul, trans. by Murray; Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum, v, no. 2, pp. 165–279. 15  Liber pontificalis, ed. by Duchesne, 34, p. 176; Krautheimer, ‘The Building Inscriptions’. Krautheimer’s translation of the inscription is essentially the same as mine, but Ross Holloway translates it to read ‘Constantine Augustus and Helena Augusta. He surrounds this house making | it gleam regal in its splendor with a hall’, in Holloway, Constantine and Rome, p. 80. Also, Raymond Davis translates the inscription with its imperial attributes and ‘He surrounds this house with a royal hall gleaming with equal splendor’, in Davis, The Book of the Pontiffs, p. 18. 16  Paulinus of Nola, Opera, ed. by Hartel, Epistola 13. 11, pp. 92–93: ‘itaque patronos animarum nostrarum pauperes, qui tota Roma stipem meritant, multitudinem in aula apostoli congregasti. pulchro equidem tanti operis tue spectaculo pascor. uidere enim mihi uideor tota illa religiosa miserandae plebis examina, illos pietatis diuinae alumnos tantis influere penitus agminibus in amplissimam gloriosi Petri basilicam per illam uenerabilem regiam cerula eminus fronte ridentem, ut tota et intra basilicam et pro ianuis atrii et pro gradibus campi spatia coartentur’ (‘and so you congregated in the hall of the apostle the patrons of our souls, the poor from all of Rome deserving the multitude of alms. Truly I myself feast on the illustrious

20 Aneilya Barnes

the nave, aisles, courtyard, and spilled out into the streets. Measuring 123 m × 66 m, the grand audience hall of Saint Peter’s could have held thousands of Christians attending the festivals.17 Thus, any celebration that was too large to have been contained within its walls was not a humble affair, and this particular event commemorated an elite laywoman. An imperial woman’s patronage of the site, the massive celebration of an aristocratic woman’s dies natalis at the basilica, and the participation of women in the festivities all illustrate women’s active involvement at one of the Church’s most sacred spaces. Moreover, such female involvement and commemoration at the basilica reveals a far more complex history of Saint Peter’s that goes well beyond the extant narrative, which centres on an alliance of Constantine and his bishops. In addition to her patronage of Saint Peter’s, Helena also founded the basilica of Santa Croce in Gerusalemme on the imperial property of the Sessorian palace in Rome. Santa Croce is the site that has most closely connected Helena’s memory to Rome’s sacred landscape, because she was believed to have endowed the basilica with a relic of the true cross after having gone on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land in 326.18 Eusebius, bishop of Caesarea (c. 263–339), claimed that the empress adorned places of worship, built shrines in even the smallest of towns, and that Constantine had remitted to her the authority to use imperial treasures at her discretion.19 In addition to Santa Croce, Helena’s name was also linked to a circus basilica built on the Via Labicana. The circus basilica was near the tombs of SS Marcellino e Pietro, who were buried in the nearby catacombs. Built in the early fourth century, the basilica had a mausoleum attached to it for Helena. While it is not certain whether she was ever actually entombed at the site, the mausoleum and basilica preserved her charitable name for centuries.20 Eusebius of Caesarea claimed that Helena was buried in Rome, and the early spectacle of your whole work. Indeed to see for myself all those pious crowds of plebs needing to be pitied, those locals of divine piety to flow in such processions through that venerable court into the most grand basilica of the glorious Peter, smiling at a distance with candlesticks in the front, so that all might pack into the basilica and in front of the gate of the atrium and even onto the areas of the field before the steps’). See also, Krautheimer, St. Peter’s and Medieval Rome, p. 17; and Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum, v, no. 2, p. 173; Trout, Paulinus of Nola, pp. 136–37 and 206–07. 17  Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum, v, no. 2, pp. 165–279. 18  Consolino, ‘Helena Augusta’; Leadbetter, ‘The Illegitimacy of Constantine’; Pohlsander, Helena: Empress and Saint. 19  Eusebius, Life of Constantine, trans. by Cameron and Hall, 45–47, pp. 138–39. 20  Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum, v, no. 2, p. 202.

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sixth-century text known as the Liber pontificalis stated that the basilica and Helena’s burial site were adjacent to one another.21 At the very least, there is no doubt that within only a few decades of her death, the site memorialized her as one of the early Church’s most prominent patrons.22 Following her grandmother’s example, Constantine’s daughter Constantina commissioned the building of a circus basilica on the Via Nomentana.23 She also had her own mausoleum built next to the basilica. The Liber pontificalis specifically stated that Constantine built the circus basilica and accompanying baptistery on the Via Nomentana dedicated to the martyr Agnes on behalf of his daughter Constantina.24 Despite this claim, scholars Karl Lehmann, Gillian Mackie, Ross Holloway, and W. Eugene Kleinbauer have argued for alternative patrons of the mausoleum, including Julian the Apostate and Constantius II.25 While each have presented compelling theories — some based on the religious ambiguity of the building’s mosaics and others on excavations that have revealed remnants of a previous structure under the mausoleum — the fact remains that within little more than a decade after Constantina’s death Pope Damasus commemorated Constantina in an acrostic inscription placed in the circus basilica. Damasus inscribed the phrase ‘Constantina Deo’ on the fabric of the building in recognition of Constantina’s patronage of the templum dedicated to the victorious virgin Agnes.26 In 360, only six years after Constantina’s death, her 21 

Liber pontificalis, ed. by Duchesne, 34; Eusebius, Life of Constantine, trans. by Cameron and Hall, 47. 1, p. 139. 22  Brubaker, ‘Memories of Helena’, p. 57. 23  While there has been some debate regarding Constantine’s relationship to Constantina, the Liber pontificalis, 34, states that Constantine’s daughter requested the building of the basilica for St Agnes and the accompanying baptistery. After the construction of the basilica, she and her aunt of the same name were baptized in the baptistery. The acrostic inscription seems to validate this passage. For a summary of this debate, see Holloway, Constantine and Rome, pp. 98–99; Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum, i, p. 16. 24  Liber pontificalis, ed. by Duchesne, 34. 25  Kleinbauer, ‘Santa Costanza at Rome’; Lehmann, ‘Sta. Costanza’; Mackie, ‘A New Look at the Patronage of Santa Costanza’; Holloway, Constantine and Rome, pp. 103–04. 26  Duchesne includes the entire inscription in his commentary (Liber pontificalis, ed. by Duchesne, p. 196). Kleinbauer, ‘Santa Costanza at Rome’, p. 59; Mackie, ‘A New Look at the Patronage of Santa Costanza’, p. 391. Duchesne and Krautheimer accept the inscription as Damasus’s (Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum, i, p. 16). Also, see the Epigrammata damasiana, ed. by Ferrua, which contains all fifty-nine epigrams that Ferrua determined were composed by Damasus. Ferrua accepts the acrostic inscription as Damasus’s as well, pp. 175–78 and pp. 246–50.

22 Aneilya Barnes

imperial kinswoman, Helena, was entombed alongside her in the mausoleum. While Constantina may not have commissioned the building of the mausoleum, at the very least she patronized the building of the massive circus basilica to which it was attached. Therefore, an imperial woman commissioned the construction of the largest circus basilica ever known to have existed, the mausoleum connected to the largest known circus basilica entombed two of the imperial family’s most prominent women, and the covered cemetery that gave the site its holy prominence was dedicated to the memory of a female martyr, Agnes. Even if Constantina was not specifically responsible for the erection of the mausoleum that accompanied the basilica, there is little doubt that women of the imperial family were patrons of the site and that the covered cemeteries were arenas where women had a great deal of prestige, both as patrons and martyrs, within the Church long after Helena. Because women, including those belonging to the imperial ranks, were such powerful figures in the Church, bishops often aligned themselves with elite female benefactors in an effort to bolster their episcopal claims. A prime example of such an alliance occurred in 366 when the death of Pope Liberius left Rome’s episcopal see unmanned, leading to a bloody rivalry between his two potential successors, Damasus and Ursinus. According to a collection of papal and imperial letters written between the fourth and sixth centuries, the Collectio Avellana, upon Liberius’s death factions quickly formed to support their chosen bishop.27 The Damasians collected at the Basilica Lucina, and the Ursinians congregated at the Basilica Julius.28 The text claimed that when Damasus learned of the growing resistance, he assembled an ‘ignorant mob’ to attack the Ursinians at the Basilica Julius where war was waged for three days.29 27 

Epistolae imperatorum pontificum, ed. by Guenther, i, pp. 1–5. For an excellent summary of source criticism and concerns regarding the Collectio Avellana, see Blair-Dixon, ‘Memory and Authority’; see also Curran, Pagan City and Christian Capital, pp. 136–41. 28  As noted in Blair-Dixon, ‘Memory and Authority’, p.  72 this text must have been written after the construction of the Basilica Lucina, which was not constructed until the reign of Sixtus III (r. 432–44), meaning the text could not have been written before the early fifth century. This is the basilica now known as San Lorenzo in Lucina. 29  Epistolae imperatorum pontificum, ed. by Guenther, i, 1. 5, p. 2: ‘quod ubi Damasus, qui semper episcopatum ambierat, comperit, omnes quadrigarios et imperitam multitudinem pretio concitat et armatus fustibus ad basilicam Iuli perrumpit et magna fidelium caede per triduum debacchatus est’ (‘when Damasus, who had always been around the episcopate, discovered the place, he assembled all the charioteers and the ignorant masses with payment. Enraged and armed with a club, he broke into the basilica of Julius and slaughtered the masses of the faithful for three days’).

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Damasus emerged as the victor, and he was ordained as bishop seven days later at the Lateran Basilica. The Collectio Avellana alleged that soon after his ordination Damasus bribed a judge to send Ursinus into exile.30 Damasus attempted to suppress the remaining opposition with physical force, but his challengers retreated to the Basilica Liberius. In response, Damasus recruited gladiators, charioteers, and gravediggers to fight with him, arming them with clubs, hatchets, and swords. Damasus and his heavily equipped followers waged war against the Ursinians at the Basilica Liberius, killing one hundred and sixty men and women in the church.31 According to the text, the slaughter outraged Rome’s Christians who called bishops to convene a council to depose Damasus, but the Church’s matrons stood in the bishop’s defence, earning him the name of matronarum auriscalpius, or ‘ear-tickler of matrons’.32 In December of 367, the emperor ordered Ursinus into exile, but it did not settle the dispute. In a show of support, a group of Ursinus’s followers gathered at the tomb of St Agnes on the Via Nomentana, establishing a congregation in his name. Because Agnes’s martyrium held such prominence within Rome’s early Christian community, Damasus could not afford to allow his foes to control the site. Consequently, Damasus led a final battle, massacring the opposition at the martyr’s tomb.33

30 

Epistolae imperatorum pontificum, ed. by Guenther, i, 1. 6, p. 3. Epistolae imperatorum pontificum, ed. by Guenther, i, 1. 7, p. 3: ‘tunc Damasus cum perfidis inuitat arenarios quadrigarios et fossores omnemque clerum cum securibus gladiis et fustibus et obsedit basilicam hora diei secunda septimo Kalendarum Nouembrium die Gratiano et Dagalaifo conss. et graue proelium concitauit. nam effractis foribus igneque subposito aditum. unde inrumperet, exquirebat; nonnulli quoque de familiaribus eius tectum basilicae destruentes tegulis fidelem populum perimebant. tunc uniuersi Damasiani irruentes in basilicam centum sexaginta de plebe tam uiros quam mulieres occiderunt; uulnerauerunt etiam quam plurimos, ex quibus multi defuncti sunt. de parte uero Damasi nullus est mortuus’ (‘then with the faithless, Damasus, heavily armed with axes, swords, and clubs, summoned gladiators, charioteers, gravediggers, and all the clerics, who he spurred, and besieged the basilica in the second hour on the seventh day of the November Kalends. The basilica was attacked by smashing in the doors and setting it afire. At which point he invaded and hunted; meanwhile several of his companions destroying the roof killed the faithful people with roof tiles. Then the mass of Damasians, rushing into the basilica, slaughtered 160 men and women equally; additionally they wounded as many as possible, as a result of which so many have died. In truth for this part nothing of Damasus has been forgotten’). 31 

32 

Epistolae imperatorum pontificum, ed. by Guenther, i, 1. 9, p. 4; Brown, Cult of the Saints, p. 36. Epistolae imperatorum pontificum, ed. by Guenther, i, 1. 12, p. 4: ‘unde cum ad sanctam Agnem multi fidelium conuenissent, armatus cum satellitibus suis Damasus irruit et plurimos uastationis suae strage deiecit’ (‘when the multitudes of the faithful convened near the sacred 33 

24 Aneilya Barnes

While the text is decidedly critical of Damasus’s efforts to secure his position as bishop of Rome, and should be read within this light, it demonstrates the anxieties that resonated with its early fifth-century audience, including women’s active involvement in instituting bishops and the significance of sacred spaces as centres of power, including those dedicated to female martyrs. According to the text, both men and women fought to the death during the rivalry, and emperors, bishops, and laity alike were involved in the disputes that took place at Rome’s most holy sites. Furthermore, the text effectively feminized Damasus, presenting him as the leader of some of Rome’s most disreputable and effeminate public figures — gladiators and charioteers.34 Likewise, the text emphasized that Damasus had to rely on elite women to maintain his episcopal status, as Rome’s upper-class matrons were more capable of establishing the bishop’s authority than he was. In recent scholarship, Kate Cooper, Julia Hillner, and Kate Blair-Dixon have argued that fifth- and sixth-century sources, including the Collectio Avellana, demonstrate that competition for resources and prestige within the Church resulted in coalitions of aristocracy, clergy, and imperial family members rather than factions of aristocracy versus clergy. While agreeing with Cooper and others that intricate networks comprising emperors, bishops, and laity existed, this author thinks that it is also evident that the complexity of these coalitions resulted in gendered tensions. According to the Collectio Avellana, women were among those who died opposing Damasus at the Basilica Liberius, women were the central force that allowed the bishop to maintain his episcopal see, and a female martyr’s tomb was the site of Damasus’s final battle for Rome’s bishopric. As the text makes clear, both sacred space and women were integral aspects of the Church’s early development, and historians should recognize the importance of both when examining the powerful alliances of the early Church. Likewise, the text demonstrates that bishops who depended upon these coalitions to institute their authority created a paradox for themselves, risking accusations of effeminacy, because they had to act as ‘ear ticklers’, or clients, of elite matrons in order to establish and maintain their powerful positions. Agnes, Damasus, having been armed, invaded with his accomplices and purged the greatest number of people with the slaughter of his ravaging’). 34  A great deal of recent scholarship has examined the feminization of arena performers within the broader constructs of Roman masculinity, including Hallett and Skinner, Roman Sexualities; Barton, The Sorrows of the Ancient Romans; Fredrick, The Roman Gaze; Karras, ‘Active/Passive, Acts/Passions’: Karras, Sexuality in Medieval Europe; Richlin, ‘Towards a History of Body History’; Clarke, Looking at Lovemaking; Bartsch, The Mirror of the Self.

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In his brief fourth-century account, Ammianus Marcellinus (c. 330–95) attributed the violence that had taken place over the Roman bishopric to both the Damasian and Ursinian factions equally and noted that the feud resulted in the death of a hundred and thirty-seven Christians in a single day.35 Regardless, he claimed that the benefits bishops enjoyed under the patronage of wealthy women in Rome made such struggles to win the episcopal see worth these extreme efforts: neque ego abnuo, ostentationem rerum considerans urbanarum, huius rei cupidos ob impetrandum quod appetunt, omni contentione laterum iurgare debere, cum id adepti, futuri sint ita securi, ut ditentur oblationibus matronarum, procedantque vehiculis insidentes, circumspecte vestiti, epulas curantes profusas, adeo ut eorum convivia regales superent mensas.36 Bearing in mind the ostentation in city life, I do not deny that those [bishops] who are desirous of such a thing ought to struggle with the exercise of all their strength to gain what they seek; for when they attain it, they will be so free from care that they are enriched from the offerings of matrons, ride seated in carriages, wearing clothing chosen with care, and serve banquets so lavish that their entertainments outdo the tables of kings.

While this earlier account varies from that of the Collectio Avellana in a number of places, including the number of people who died at the Basilica Liberius, the anxieties surrounding aristocratic women’s patronage remain. Ammianus Marcellinus’s narrative mocked the bishops for their greed and extravagant indulgences, exposing their labile desires, which would have resonated with a Roman audience that expected the masculine virtues of gravitas and constantia in its male leadership. In both accounts, the bishops were so involved with their female patrons that they became like them. To underscore this point, Ammianus Marcellinus went on to claim that if Rome’s bishops were to have true fortune they should model themselves after the provincial bishops who were modest in food, drink, dress, and other carnal desires. Although fourthcentury bishops often found it necessary to align themselves with aristocratic women in order to establish and maintain their episcopal authority, such reliance on female patronage also left bishops vulnerable to accusations of a feminine and, therefore, weak character.

35  36 

Ammianus Marcellinus, Res gestae, trans. by Rolfe, 27. 3. 13. Ammianus Marcellinus, Res gestae, trans. by Rolfe, 27. 3. 14.

26 Aneilya Barnes

In addition to creating strategic alliances with elite women, control over Rome’s extramural holy sites also became central to asserting episcopal authority in the fourth century. Shortly after Damasus took the bishopric, he wrote fifty-nine poems, which were inscribed above martyria surrounding the city honouring Rome’s most holy dead. In so doing, the bishop legitimized the sites with the authority of the Church while simultaneously labelling the martyria as officially under his episcopal purview.37 Included among the saints he commemorated were Peter, Paul, Agnes, and Lawrence, undoubtedly Rome’s most prestigious martyrs. Furthermore, St Agnes’s martyrium held particular importance to his claims to authority, because it was at her tomb that he finally defeated his rivals in battle. The epitaph Damasus wrote in honour of Agnes stated, ‘O veneranda mihi sanctum decus alma pudoris | ut damasi precib[us] faueas precor inclyta martyr’ (‘O glorious martyr who should be venerated, whose virtue of modesty having been confirmed for me, I beseech you so that you might favour the prayers of Damasus’).38 Thus, there was no mistaking for those who read it that the bishop acknowledged the holy power of the martyr who heard his prayers, while serving as a warning to those who might challenge his authority.39 In addition to his reliance on female patronage, the bishop also depended on the backing of the female martyr and the powerful protection her shrine offered to maintain his authority. Because aristocratic women could wield vast power through their patronage, they were targeted by the Church as much as they were courted by churchmen. By the early fifth century, the influence of female patrons and their powerful ties to sacred space was a common theme in early Christian hagiographies, such as the Vita Melaniae, the sacred biography of the Roman ascetic Melania the Younger.40 In the Vita Melaniae, the devil appeared to Melania the Younger after had she had collected 45,000 gold pieces to give to the poor.41 He asked 37 

For more on this, see Saghy, ‘Scinditur in partes populus’; Lamberigts and Van Deun, Martyrium in Multidisciplinary Perspective, pp. 157–77; Sizgorich, Violence and Belief; BlairDixon, ‘Damasus and the Fiction of Unity’, i, pp. 331–52; Pietri, Roma Christiana, i, pp. 603–17. 38  Damasus, Epistola 37, in Epigrammata damasiana, ed. by Ferrua, p. 176. 39  Saghy, ‘Scinditur in partes populus’, p. 281. 40  For more on the vitas of ascetic women that functioned as both tropes for aristocratic women and warnings to the men they might subordinate, see Coon, Sacred Fictions, pp. 95–119. See also Giardina, ‘Melania the Saint’; Brown, Body and Society; Cooper, The Virgin and the Bride; Mulder-Bakker and Wogan-Browne, Household, Women, and Christianities. 41  Gerontius, Vita S. Melaniae Iunioris, ed. by Rampolla. See also, The Life of Melania the Younger, trans. by Clark.

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her what sort of place the Kingdom of Heaven was that it could be bought with so much money. The saint prayed, and then replied that despite the corruption that could come with such riches, wealth could also be used for holy purposes.42 Gerontius, a priest and the author of the text, used Melania as a warning to elite laywomen, cautioning them to be vigilant at all times so that they might use their money appropriately on behalf of the Church. At the same time, the Vita Melaniae functions as a cautionary tale for bishops, warning them about the potential dangers of influential women. According to the text, Melania was not released from the burden of her marital reproductive responsibilities until after a brief visit to the shrine of St Lawrence, which was the martyrium adjacent to the circus basilica on the Via Tiburtina.43 During her visit to the martyr’s shrine, Melania begged to be freed from the world so that she could lead a solitary life. Shortly after her supplications at the shrine, Melania delivered her second child prematurely. The child barely lived long enough to be baptized, and Melania’s first-born died soon thereafter. Because the saint had spared Melania’s life during childbirth, her husband kept the vows that he himself had made while at the martyrium pleading for his wife’s survival, and agreed to live the rest of his life as a chaste spiritual sibling with Melania.44 Additionally, not long after the passing of her children, Melania’s father, who had repeatedly prohibited her from living the sort of Christian life that she desired, also died.45 Consequently, the young ascetic’s private interaction with the martyr at the shrine relieved her of her all worldly responsibilities as a wife, mother, and daughter and, ultimately, resulted in her becoming a prominent woman of the Church. As the text illustrates, however, the aristocratic woman was not powerful simply because of her wealth. Instead, her active involvement at the circus basilica complex allowed her to have an intimate audience with the saint on the Via Tiburtina. Because of her participation at the saint’s shrine, her celestial gynaecologist delivered her from her earthly burdens, allowing her to become an ascetic and vital member of the Church. Furthermore, the text makes a distinction between her involvement at the larger circus basilica and the martyrium that accompanied it. While the circus basilica was sufficient for celebrating the festivities honouring the special dead, Melania’s more personal needs could only be resolved through the intercession of the holy dead who lived in memoria in the martyrium next door. 42 

Gerontius, Vita S. Melaniae Iunioris, ed. by Rampolla, 17, pp. 39–40. Gerontius, Vita S. Melaniae Iunioris, ed. by Rampolla, 5–6, pp. 29–30. 44  Gerontius, Vita S. Melaniae Iunioris, ed. by Rampolla, 6, p. 30. 45  Gerontius, Vita S. Melaniae Iunioris, ed. by Rampolla, 7, p. 31. 43 

28 Aneilya Barnes

Episcopal Challenges As Gerontius’s text emphasizes, women’s active participation at the covered cemeteries created anxiety for the episcopacy, but he was not the first among the clergy to address women’s involvement at the cemetery basilicas as an episcopal concern. By the beginning of the fifth century, bishops, including Ambrose of Milan and Augustine of Hippo, began denouncing the chaotic spectacles that took place in celebration of the dead. Augustine was one of the most vocal opponents of the Parentalia and even advocated ending feasting at the tombs of the martyrs. Ambrose eventually convinced Augustine’s mother, Monica, to give up the rituals honouring the regular dead, and in 395, Augustine wrote a letter to a fellow cleric that denounced the chaotic celebrations taking place in the Christian cemeteries.46 From North Africa to Milan, bishops hoped to assert their authority over the ritual practices and spaces that most publicly involved women in the Church, which were the festivities housed in the circus basilicas, and Monica became the trope for a pious woman who followed suit. Augustine condemned the drunkenness, brawls, elaborate feasting, bawdy songs, and dancing that accompanied the great feasts.47 By this time, Augustine had officially forbidden the banquets in his bishopric, and in 412, he claimed that the better Christians had abandoned the custom.48 He maintained that concealing drunkenness under the veil of a festival did not make it acceptable, and the converts who did not want to renounce the pleasures of feasting, drinking, and other activities that accompanied the non-Christian festivals simply were indulging their weaknesses.49 Most of Augustine’s letter focused on criticizing the celebrations and advising his fellow clerics to adopt the sort of sermons he had given to encourage other Christians to forego the practices. Augustine praised the work of bishops who successfully convinced 46  See Augustine, Confessiones, trans. by Chadwick, 6. 2. 2, pp. 91–92. See also, Brown, Cult of the Saints, p. 26. 47  Augustine, Epistulae, ed. by Daur, Epistle 29. 10–11, p. 104, ll. 212–15: ‘[…] habui breuem sermonem quo gratias agerem deo; et quoniam in haereticorum basilica audiebamus ab eis solita conuiuia celebrata, cum adhuc etiam eo ipso tempore, quo a nobis ista gerebantur, illi in poculis perdurarent’ (‘I kept the sermon short for the purpose of giving thanks to God; because we heard in the basilica of the heretics that after these same customary banquets were celebrated, and while the same had been conducted by us, they long continued their social drinking’). 48  Augustine, De civitate Dei, ed. by Dombart and Kalb, 7. 27; and Krautheimer, ‘MensaCoemeterium-Martyrium’, p. 47. 49  Augustine, Epistulae, ed. by Daur, Epistle 29. 10–11.

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their congregations to renounce the activities, noting that it was best to imitate the eastern churches, which did not indulge in such practices. Augustine specifically stated that the practice of feasting over the dead was out of control at the basilica of Saint Peter’s in Rome, but that the bishop was too far removed from the site to enforce its abolishment.50 Augustine’s epistle demonstrates that sites dedicated to the martyrs were of particular importance to the festivities, and even episcopal authority could not prevent the holding of such spectacles at Saint Peter’s. Furthermore, the celebrations in honour of the martyrs were not the bishop’s target, as Augustine condemned the drinking and extravagant banquets held over the regular dead in the cemeteries, claiming that the participants believed such rituals brought solace to the dead.51 In his sermon on Psalm 48, Augustine criticized the vanity of wealth and, along with it, the practice of the Parentalia, which he claimed did nothing for the dead, as Christian salvation could only take place for the living.52 For Augustine and Ambrose, the rituals commemorating the regular dead were not practices under the purview of the Church; therefore, these rites served no purpose for Christians. Perhaps most importantly, the bishops’ accusations about the celebrations taking place at the covered cemeteries were indictments of the same kinds of carnal indulgences in which Ammianus Marcellinus claimed Damasus and Rome’s other labile bishops participated, specifically lavish banquets and outlandish entertainment. Likewise, aristocratic women’s patronage of sacred spaces and their participation in the rituals at the covered cemeteries gave them prominence within their congregations, turning Rome’s covered cemeteries, including the circus basilicas, into centres of anxiety and gender conflict. The resulting narrative was that only the masculine leadership of bishops like Augustine and Ambrose could properly advise congregations on doctrinal matters, such as salvation and the afterlife, because they embodied the gravitas and constantia necessary to resist the world’s temptations, including false doctrines. As bishops challenged the private practices that honoured the regular dead and, consequently, remained outside the purview of the Church’s official recognition, fifth-century bishops, including Ambrose, took an increased interest in the martyr cult practices that were celebrated in the cemetery basilicas, as they could not be 50 

Augustine, Epistulae, ed. by Daur, Epistle 29. 10. At this time, the bishop’s residence was still at the Lateran, which was all the way across the city from the Vatican. 51  See n. 7 above. 52  See Rebillard, ‘The Cult of the Dead’; Rebillard, ‘The Church, the Living, and the Dead’; and Rebillard, The Care of the Dead.

30 Aneilya Barnes

so easily disregarded. Following Peter Brown, Felice Lifshitz has convincingly argued that martyr cults were the basis on which late-Roman matrons maintained their status within the Church even though the Nicene/episcopal Roman church progressively challenged their leadership roles.53 She claims that the martyr churches of Milan ‘posed a serious problem for Bishop Ambrose because they formed the power bases of rival religious leaders: those religious leaders were primarily Roman matrons (excluded from the hierarchy of the episcopal church)’.54 Moreover, she maintains that prior to Ambrose’s conflict with Monica, the bishop had not taken a serious interest in the martyr cult. Afterwards, however, he realized just how useful the martyrs, particularly their historical image, could be for him. As a result, he began ‘rediscovering’ the bodies of those martyred at the hands of persecuting state officials, which were especially important to the bishop after his conflict with the emperor Theodosius.55 Ambrose also took the additional step of placing the bodies of the holy dead in his basilica, which stood at the heart of Milan’s traditional Roman sacro-political imperial complex.56 Thus, Ambrose’s adoption of the martyr cult simultaneously bolstered his authority as a religious rival to those who celebrated the dead in the covered cemeteries, particularly elite women, and as a political rival to the emperor. Like Damasus, Ambrose employed the bodies of the holy dead to bolster his authority within the Church. Unlike Damasus, however, Ambrose moved the martyrs under his purview within the urban setting rather than claim jurisdiction in the extramural spaces that had been the traditional power bases centred on the holy dead, challenging the very female power base upon which Damasus had relied. Thus, Ambrose’s actions were more in line with the sort of urban civic patronage expected of traditional Roman aristocrats.

The Masculinization of Rome’s Sacred Landscape By 395, the Roman emperor proclaimed Christianity the official religion of the empire. With the growth of the religion, bishops came from increasingly prominent backgrounds and were accustomed to acting as civic patrons, making public building an acceptable outlet for the Church’s wealth and episcopal patronage. Likewise, as the Church grew and acquired more wealth, the need for women’s patronage declined, leading to diminished public female authority 53 

Brown, Cult of the Saints; Lifshitz, ‘The Martyr, the Tomb, and the Matron’, pp. 324–41. Lifshitz, ‘The Martyr, the Tomb, and the Matron’, p. 334. 55  Lifshitz, ‘The Martyr, the Tomb, and the Matron’, pp. 324–25. 56  Lifshitz, ‘The Martyr, the Tomb, and the Matron’, p. 329. 54 

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by the beginning of the sixth century. Councils held between the mid-fifth and mid-sixth centuries began to strip women of their titles, their access to altar space, and even their right to touch the Eucharist with their bare hands.57 The increasing restrictions women faced within the Church coincided with a shift in ecclesiastical building designs and functions. While Damasus and other early bishops had long used sacred space to support their claims to authority, in the fifth century bishops were able to act as patrons of the built environment at an unprecedented level. Consequently, the patronage of Rome’s sacred structures became central to the conflict between bishops and elite laywomen, and the growing gendered tensions that centred on the ritual practices and spaces honouring the dead resulted in the masculinization of Rome’s basilical designs, as well as shifts in the city’s sacred landscape from extramural to intramural. Prior to the fifth century, bishops had only built on sites that previously functioned as domestic space inside Rome’s city walls, such as Damasus’s construction of the titular church San Lorenzo in Damaso on the Campus Martius, which had belonged to his family. The only additional episcopal constructions were those that lay outside the city walls, including the circus basilica on the Via Ardeatina and the catacomb chapels. In the fourth century, only the imperial family built basilicas inside the city walls, and even those were constructed on private imperial property on the edge of the city and were limited to Santa Croce and Saint John the Lateran. Therefore, when Pope Sixtus III commissioned the construction of the basilica of Santa Maria Maggiore in 432 on the Esquiline Hill, his decision to do so represented a decidedly bold move, because the edifice was the first Christian basilica ever constructed inside Rome’s city walls that was neither located on private domestic space nor backed by the imperial family. Furthermore, Sixtus revived a distinctly classical basilical style for the structure that included a nave flanked by side aisles and terminated by an apse, which was an architectural pattern that continued in Christian basilicas until approximately 480.58 The mosaic inscription decorating the triumphal arch of the basilica stated, ‘Xystus episcopus plebi Dei’ (‘Sixtus, bishop to the people of God’), mirroring the Roman political dictum ‘Senatus populusque romanus’.59 Measuring 79 m × 35 m, Santa Maria Maggiore was the largest Christian basilica ever founded by a bishop at that time, and its style and décor 57 

Coon, Sacred Fictions, pp. 64–65; Muschiol, ‘Men, Women and Liturgical Practice’; Muschiol, Famula Dei. 58  See Krautheimer, ‘The Architecture of Sixtus III’. 59  Brandenburg, Ancient Churches of Rome, p. 178.

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invoked an imperial architectural trope that had long been the standard for civil basilicas. While Sixtus continued to rely on alliances with aristocratic women, including the empress, to assert his episcopal authority, he began a masculinization of Rome’s built environment. Rome’s civil basilicas continued to function as courts of law and business venues in the fifth century, meaning they were some of Rome’s most masculine spaces and continued to be the preserve of the elite male. Not only did Sixtus copy the architectural motif of the civil basilica, he also inscribed on it a Christianized version of Rome’s ancient mantra that replaced the senate with the bishop and Rome with God. Sixtus alone claimed to be the new civic patron on behalf of the faithful. In addition to Santa Maria Maggiore, Sixtus built San Lorenzo in Lucina on the Campus Martius and San Pietro in Vincoli on the Oppian Hill and completed the construction of Santa Sabina on the Aventine Hill. In his final designs of Santa Sabina, Sixtus included the hallmarks of classical basilical features, such as uniform rows of Corinthian columns and marble revetment in the arcade area.60 Sixtus also reconstructed the Lateran Baptistery, employing a classical style for the structure, as the marble revetment recalled the fourthcentury Basilica of Junius Bassius, which was a secular reception hall.61 Richard Krautheimer argued that the Christian architectural renaissance that took root in the mid-420s and came to fruition under Sixtus III responded to the defeat of paganism in the West, meaning Christians were then free to employ the classical architectural motifs without fear of the pagan religious connotations that had once accompanied them.62 Additionally, he maintained that the absence of the imperial court in Rome, compounded by the sack of the city in 410, had opened the door for the growth of the Christian civil service aristocracy, which had been increasingly linked to the imperial court since the middle of the fourth century. The result was a shift in Church architecture from the utilitarian layout of the cemetery basilicas to a high-class official ecclesiastical architectural design that mirrored the bishops’ growing claims on the cultural and political topography of Rome. Sixtus completely abandoned the circus-like plan that had been the trademark design of more than half of the Christian basilicas constructed in the previous century. Likewise, he did not retain the massive peristyle courtyard that dominated the entrances to Saint Peter’s and Saint Paul’s for his basilicas. Instead, he looked to the civic realm for a model 60 

Krautheimer, ‘The Architecture of Sixtus III’, p. 183. Krautheimer, ‘The Architecture of Sixtus III’, p. 184. 62  Krautheimer, ‘The Architecture of Sixtus III’, pp. 191–96. 61 

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that had been the preserve of Rome’s elite males for centuries, erecting basilicas that were far more akin in plan to those that had long stood on the Forum. While Krautheimer correctly assessed the Sistine Renaissance within the context of Rome’s changing religious and political environment, this author believes that the classical renaissance that emerged was in response to a far more complex situation that included gendered tensions within the Church. Rome’s ruling bishops were not only looking to fill an imperial power vacuum, but were also responding to the powerful positions elite women had claimed as patrons of the Church. Because prominent women had long established themselves within the upper-echelons of the religious realm, bishops turned to the hyper-masculine political realm to bolster their religious authority. Undoubtedly, the shifting political climate of early fifth-century Rome made this more feasible, but the fusion of the traditional aristocratic civic patron with the leadership role of the bishop reduced the reliance of the episcopacy on elite women’s support for their authoritative claims within the Church, which resulted in an increasingly imperial bishop and an architectural language that mirrored the conventional masculine qualities befitting such a leader. Sixtus III arguably constructed more basilicas inside Rome’s city walls than any previous bishop had. He also effectively associated his name with that of the imperial family. Medieval copies of inscriptions from San Pietro in Vincoli state that the empress Eudoxia supported the building of the Church, making it a joint episcopal and imperial project.63 Clearly, the backing of an imperial woman was still important for the bishop’s claims to authority in the early fifth century. Unlike the dedicatory inscription in Saint Peter’s that only acknowledged the benefaction of the imperial family, however, the inscription in San Pietro in Vincoli named the bishop as a patron of the basilica alongside the imperial woman. Sixtus had replaced Constantine as Peter’s benefactor. Furthermore, Sixtus linked himself to both the imperial family and Rome’s most prominent martyr near one of the city’s most important civic centres. While Sixtus also added decorations to the Church’s most significant basilicas and martyria outside the city walls and aligned himself with an imperial female patron, he used his patronage of the built environment to advance the figure of the bishop as a legitimate imperial persona within the city of Rome. Within a century of Sixtus’s administration, Pope Felix IV (c. 527) established the first church on the Forum in honour of Sts Cosmas and Damian, and in 609 Pope Boniface IV rededicated the Pantheon, one of Rome’s most 63 

Brandenburg, Ancient Churches of Rome, p. 178.

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revered ancient temples, to the Virgin Mary. As bishops gained authority within the Church, their patronage of the built environment turned increasingly away from Rome’s early extramural holy sites where women were active patrons, celebrated with lavish festivities, and revered as martyrs. Just as the bishops denounced the events held in honour of the regular dead, they turned away from the circus basilicas that were so closely connected to the celebrations and the prominent women the circus basilicas commemorated. Additionally, no circus basilicas were built after the fourth century. Instead, those built at the beginning of the fifth century, especially after Sixtus’s reign, imitated the architectural designs of earlier imperial civil basilicas and increasingly masculinized Rome’s sacred landscape. By the sixth century, Pope Pelagius II rebuilt the martyrium to St Lawrence that accompanied the circus basilica on the Via Tiburtina, creating a basilica ad corpus that distinctly mirrored the design of the imperial secular basilicas, comprising a nave terminated by an apse and flanked by two side aisles. As a result, the circus basilica next door was no longer necessary for public communion with the saint. Between the seventh and eighth centuries, each of the circus basilicas had fallen out of use or had been rededicated, including the Basilica Apostolorum, which was rededicated to San Sebastiano.64 Bishops acting as the new civic patrons of the Church incorporated the blueprint of Rome’s highly masculinized civil basilicas into Rome’s built environment, gradually replacing the circus basilicas that had embodied the active participation of the Church’s early female patrons in both function and design.

Concluding Remarks While the built environment of early Christian Rome supports much of the currently accepted political narrative that claims bishops increasingly filled a growing imperial power vacuum in late antiquity, it equally complicates the story by demonstrating the significant power Roman women held in the early Church, acting as patrons of the city’s most powerful bishops and the city’s most sacred spaces, particularly the covered cemeteries. Of the ten Christian basilicas constructed between c. 320 and 390, all of them except two functioned as covered cemeteries, and imperial women commissioned and/or endowed nearly half of 64 

Krautheimer, Corpus basilicarum, iv, p. 105. Krautheimer notes that a seventh-century itinerary (c. 638–42), Epitome de locis sanctorum, is the first known reference that no longer refers to the basilica as the Basilica Apostolorum, using Sebastian’s name for the site instead.

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them, including Saint Peter’s. Additionally, since at least the mid-third century, women were active participants in Rome’s cult of the dead, as the faithful celebrated their deceased female relatives in the afterlife just as they commemorated their male relatives, and they equally participated in the rituals honouring the dead. By the fourth century, elite women were such influential members of the Church that bishops, including Damasus, aligned themselves with them, because bishops needed the backing of elite Christian women against opposing factions. Gendered tensions, however, existed because of such alliances, and the rituals and sacred spaces women participated in and patronized, such as those celebrated at the circus basilicas, became the casualties of these gender conflicts. By the fifth century, bishops came from increasingly aristocratic backgrounds and the Church grew in prosperity. As Rome’s cultural and political climate changed, bishops seized their opportunity to fuse the traditional role of Rome’s urban aristocratic male patrons with the Church hierarchy, resulting in a more imperial episcopacy. Just as bishops began to target the rituals housed in the covered cemeteries that had long been a realm of female authority and participation, the episcopacy likewise abandoned the building designs that were so closely associated with the rituals they housed. Consequently, the circus basilica form was no longer replicated after the fourth century, and by the reign of Sixtus III, bishops were building basilicas inside the city walls that mirrored the designs of earlier imperial civil basilicas, which were the preserve of elite Roman men. Additionally, the increasingly powerful bishops began to build more prominently within the city walls, acting as Rome’s holy aristocratic patrons in place of a waning imperial presence. By the beginning of the sixth century, feminine liturgical roles, acts of patronage, and rituals had been greatly altered to underscore the authority of the late antique bishop, and Rome’s sacred landscape had been renovated to reflect this shift as Pelagius and his successors renovated, rededicated, and altogether abandoned the circus basilicas. While the built environment of the early Church may not allow historians to fill all voids concerning women’s involvement in the development of early Christianity, it certainly weaves a more complex historical narrative with them at the centre and, in so doing, reveals the gendered paradigms behind the rise of the medieval bishop.

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Works Cited Primary Sources Ammianus Marcellinus, Res gestae, trans. by John C. Rolfe, Ammianus Marcellinus, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1939) Augustine, Confessiones, trans. by Henry Chadwick (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1991) —— , De civitate Dei, ed. by B. Dombart and A. Kalb, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 47–48 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003) —— , Sancti Aurelli Augustini: Epistulae i–lv, ed. by Klaus D. Daur, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 31 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2004) Epigrammata damasiana, ed. by Antonio Ferrua (Città del Vaticano: Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 1942) Epistulae imperatorum pontificum aliorum inde ab a. CCCLXVII usque ad a. DLIII datae Avel­lana quae dicitur collectio, ed. by Otto Guenther, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesi­asti­ corm Latinorum, 35, 2 vols (Wien: F. Tempsky, 1895) Eusebius, Life of Constantine, trans. by Averil Cameron and Stuart Hall (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1999) Gerontius, Vita S. Melaniae Iunioris, in Santa Melania giuniore, senatrice romana: documenti contemporanei e note, ed. by Mariano del Tindaro Rampolla (Roma: Tipografia Vaticana, 1905) Le Liber pontificalis: texte, introduction et commentaire, ed. by Louis Duchesne, 2nd edn, 3 vols (Paris: de Boccard, 1955–57) The Life of Melania the Younger: Introduction, Translation, and Commentary, trans. by Elizabeth A. Clark (New York: Mellen, 1984) Paulinus of Nola, Sancti Pontii Meropi Paulini Nolani Opera Pars I, ed. by Wilhelm August Hartel, Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorm Latinorum, 29–30 (Wien: F.  Tempsky, 1894)

Secondary Studies Barton, Carlin, The Sorrows of the Ancient Romans: The Gladiator and the Monster (Prince­ ton: Princeton University Press, 1993) Bartsch, Shadi, The Mirror of the Self: Sexuality, Self-Knowledge, and the Gaze in the Early Roman Empire (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2006) Blair-Dixon, Kate, ‘Damasus and the Fiction of Unity: The Urban Shrines of Saint Laurence’, in Ecclesiae Urbis: Atti del Congresso Internazionale di Studi sulle Chiese di Roma (IV–X secolo), Roma, 4–10 settembre 2000, ed. by Federico Guidobaldi and Alessandra Guiglia Guidobaldi, 3 vols (Città del Vaticano, Pontificio Istituto di Archeologia Cristiana, 2002), i, pp. 331–52 —— , ‘Memory and Authority in Sixth-Century Rome: The Liber pontificalis and the Collectio Avellana’, in Religion, Dynasty, and Patronage in Early Christian Rome,

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300–900, ed. by Kate Cooper and Julia Hillner (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007), pp. 59–76 Brandenburg, Hugo, Ancient Churches of Rome from the Fourth to the Seventh Century: The Dawn of Christian Architecture in the West, Bibliothèque de l’Antiquité tardive, 8 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005) Brown, Peter, Body and Society: Men, Women, and Sexual Renunciation in Early Christi­ anity (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988) —— , Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1981) —— , Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison: Uni­versity of Wisconsin Press, 1992) Brubaker, Leslie, ‘Memories of Helena: Patterns in Imperial Female Matronage in the Fourth and Fifth Centuries’, in Women, Men and Eunuchs: Gender in Byzantium, ed. by Liz James (New York: Routledge, 1997) Carpiceci, Alberto Carlo, and Richard Krautheimer, ‘Nuovi dati sull’Antica Basilica di San Pietro in Vaticano (Part I)’, Bollettino D’Arte, 93–94 (1995), 1–70 Clark, Elizabeth, ‘Patrons, Not Priests: Women and Power in Late Ancient Christianity’, Gender and History, 2 (1990), 253–73 Clark, Gillian, Women in Late Antiquity: Pagan and Christian Lifestyles (Oxford: Claren­ don Press, 1993) Clarke, John, Looking at Lovemaking: Constructions of Sexuality in Roman Art, 100 bc – ad 250 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001) Consolino, Franca Ela, ‘Helena Augusta: From Innkeeper to Empress’, in Roman Women, ed. by Augusto Fraschetti, trans. by Linda Lappin (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), pp. 141–59 Coon, Lynda, Sacred Fictions: Holy Women and Hagiography in Late Antiquity (Phila­ delphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1997) Cooper, Kate, The Virgin and the Bride: Idealized Womanhood in Late Antiquity (Cam­ bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1996) Curran, John, Pagan City and Christian Capital: Rome in the Fourth Century (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000) Davis, Raymond, ed. and trans., The Book of Pontiffs (Liber Pontificalis): The Ancient Bio­ graphies of the First Ninety Roman Bishops to ad 715 (Liverpool: Liverpool Uni­versity Press, 1989) Drake, Harold A., Constantine and the Bishops: The Politics of Intolerance (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000) Fredrick, David, ed., The Roman Gaze: Vision, Power, and the Body (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2002) Gatti, Guglielmo, ‘Una basilica di età Constantiniana recentemente riconosciuta presso la Via Prenestina’, Capitolium, 35 (1960), 3–8 Giardina, Andrea, ‘Melania the Saint’, in Roman Women, ed. by Augusto Fraschetti and trans. by Linda Lappin (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), pp. 190–208 Grig, Lucy, Making Martyrs in Late Antiquity (London: Duckworth, 2004)

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Hallett, Judith, and Marilyn Skinner, eds, Roman Sexualities (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997) Holloway, Ross, Constantine and Rome (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2004), pp. 86–115 Karras, Ruth Mazo, ‘Active/Passive, Acts/Passions: Greek and Roman Sexualities’, American Historical Review, 105 (2000), 1250–65 —— , Sexuality in Medieval Europe: Doing unto Others (New York: Routledge, 2005) Kirschbaum, Engelbert, The Tombs of St Peter and St Paul, trans. by John Murray (London: Secker & Warburg, 1959) Kjægaard, Jørgen, ‘From “Memoria Apostolorum” to Basilica Apostolorum: On the Early Christian Cult-Centre on the Via Appia’, Analecta Romana Instituti Danici, 13 (1984), 59–76 Kleinbauer, W. Eugene, ‘Santa Costanza at Rome and the House of Constantine’, Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia, 18 (2004), 55–70 Kolb, Anne, ed., Augustae: Machtbewusste Frauen am römischen Kaiserhof ? (Berlin: Aka­ demie Verlag, 2010) Krautheimer, Richard, ‘The Architecture of Sixtus III: A Fifth-Century Renascence?’, in Studies in Early Christian, Medieval, and Renaissance Art, ed. by Richard Krautheimer (New York: New York University Press, 1969), pp. 181–96 —— , ‘The Building Inscriptions and the Dates of Construction of Saint Peter’s: A Reconsideration’, Römisches Jahrbuch der Bibliotheca Hertziana, 25 (1989), 1–23 —— , Corpus basilicarum Christianarum Romae: Le basiliche cristiane antiche di Roma (sec. IV–IX), 5 vols (Città del Vaticano: Pontificio istituto di archeologia cristiana, 1970) —— , ‘Mensa-Coemeterium-Martyrium’, Cahiers archéologiques, 11 (1960), 15–40 (repr. in Studies in Early Christian, Medieval, and Renaissance Art (New York: New York University Press, 1969), pp. 35–58) —— , St. Peter’s and Medieval Rome (Roma: Unione internazionale degli istituti di archeologia, storia e storia dell’arte in Roma, 1985) Kuefler, Mathew, The Manly Eunuch: Masculinity, Gender Ambiguity, and Christian Ideology in Late Antiquity (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2001) La Rocca, Eugenio, ‘Le basiliche cristiane “a deambulatori” e la sopravivenza del culto erioco’, in Aurea Roma: dalla città pagana alla città cristiana, ed. by Serena Ensoli and Eugenio La Rocca (Roma: L’Erma di Bretschneider, 2000), pp. 204–20 Lamberigts, M., and P. Van Deun, eds, Martyrium in Multidisciplinary Perspective: Memorial Louis Reekmans (Leuven: Peeters, 1995) Leadbetter, Bill, ‘The Illegitimacy of Constantine and the Birth of the Tetrarchy’, in Constantine: History, Historiography and Legend, ed. by Samuel N. C. Lieu and Dominic Montserrat (New York: Routledge, 1998), pp. 74–85 Lehmann, Karl, ‘Sta. Costanza’, Art Bulletin, 37 (1955), 193–96 Lehmann, Thomas, ‘“Circus Basilicas”, “coemeteria subteglata” and Church Buildings in the suburbium of Rome’, in Rome ad 300–800: Power and Symbol, Image and Reality, ed. by J. Rasmus Brandt, Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia, 17 (Roma: Bardi Editore, 2003), pp. 57–77

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Lifshitz, Felice, ‘The Martyr, the Tomb, and the Matron: Constructing the (Masculine) “Past” as a Female Power Base’, in Medieval Concepts of the Past: Ritual, Memory, Historiography, ed. by Gerd Althoff, Johannes Fried, and Patrick Geary (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), pp. 311–41 Mackie, Gillian, ‘A New Look at the Patronage of Santa Costanza, Rome’, Byzantion, 67 (1997), 381–406 Miller, Maureen C., The Bishop’s Palace: Architecture and Authority in Medieval Italy (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000) Moss, Candida R., The Other Christs: Imitating Jesus in Ancient Christian Ideologies of Martyrdom (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010) Mulder-Bakker, Anneke B., and Jocelyn Wogan-Browne, eds, Household, Women, and Christianities in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages, Medieval Women: Texts and Contexts, 14 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006) Muschiol, Gisela, Famula Dei — Zur Liturgie in merowingischen frauenklöstern, Beiträge zur Geschichte des Alten Mönchtums und des Benediktinertums, 41 (Münster: Aschendorff, 1994) —— , ‘Men, Women and Liturgical Practice in the Early Medieval West’, in Gender in the Early Medieval World: East and West, 300–900, ed. by Leslie Brubaker and Julia H. Smith (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), pp. 198–216 Noble, Thomas F. X., The Republic of St. Peter: The Birth of the Papal State, 680–825 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1984) —— , ‘Topography, Celebration, and Power: The Making of Papal Rome in the Eighth and Ninth Centuries’, in Topographies of Power in the Early Middle Ages, ed. by Mayke de Jong, Frans Theuws, and Carine van Rhijn, Transformation of the Roman World, 6 (Leiden: Brill, 2001) Pietri, Charles, Roma Christiana: Recherches sur l’Eglise de Rome, son organisation, sa politique, son idéologie de Miltiade à Sixte (311–440), 2 vols (Roma: Ecole Francaise de Rome, 1976) Pohlsander, Hans A., Helena: Empress and Saint (Chicago: Ares, 1995) Rapp, Claudia, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005) Rebillard, Éric, The Care of the Dead in Late Antiquity, trans. by Elizabeth Trapnell Rawlings and Jeanne Routier-Pucci (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2009) —— , ‘The Church, the Living, and the Dead’, in A Companion to Late Antiquity, ed. by Philip Rousseau and Jutta Raithel (Malden: Wiley-Blackwell, 2009), pp. 220–30 —— , ‘The Cult of the Dead in Late Antiquity: Toward a New Definition of the Relation between the Living and the Dead’, in Rome ad 300–800: Power and Symbol, Image and Reality, ed. by J. Rasmus Brandt, Acta ad archaeologiam et artium historiam pertinentia, 17 (Roma: Bardi Editore, 2003), pp. 47–56 Richlin, Amy, ‘Towards a History of Body History’, in Inventing Ancient Culture: Histori­ cism, Periodization, and the Ancient World, ed. by Mark Golden and Peter Toohey (London: Routledge, 1997), pp. 16–35 Saghy, Marianne, ‘Scinditur in partes populus: Pope Damasus and the Martyrs of Rome’, Early Medieval Europe, 9 (2000), 273–87

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Sizgorich, Thomas, Violence and Belief in Late Antiquity: Militant Devotion in Christianity and Islam (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009) Sterk, Andrea, Renouncing the World Yet Leading the Church: The Monk-Bishop in Late Antiquity (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004) Torelli, Mario, ‘Le basiliche circiformi di Roma, iconografia, funzione, simbolo’, in Felix temporis reparatio: Atti del Convegno archeologico internazionale Milano capitale dell’impero romano: Milano, 8–11 marzo 1990, ed. by Gemma Sena Chiesa and Ermanno A. Arslan (Milano: ET, 1992), pp. 203–17 Torjesen, Karen Jo, When Women Were Priests: Women’s Leadership in the Early Church and the Scandal of their Subordination in the Rise of Christianity (San Francisco: Harper, 1993) Toynbee, Jocelyn M. C., and John Bryan Ward-Perkins, The Shrine of St. Peter and the Vatican Excavations (London: Longmans, 1956) Trout, Dennis E., Paulinus of Nola: Life, Letters, and Poems (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1999) Tulloch, Janet H., ‘Women Leaders in Family Funerary Banquets’, in A Woman’s Place: House Churches in Earliest Christianity, ed. by Carolyn Osiek, Margaret Y. Macdonald, and Janet H. Tulloch (Minneapolis: Fortress, 2006), pp. 164–93

Ecclesius of Ravenna as Donor in Text and Image Deborah M. Deliyannis

I

n the early sixth century, the bishops of Ravenna stood at the epicentre of political and ecclesiastical struggles in Italy, and emerged as powerful urban leaders. Thanks to a variety of sources, we know quite a lot about several of these men. Bishop Peter  II, who held the see from 494–520, worked successfully with Italy’s Ostrogothic king Theoderic, despite the latter’s installation of an Arian bishop in the same city. Bishop Maximian (r. 546–57) is probably the best known, because it was during his reign that the churches of San Vitale and Sant’Apollinare in Classe were decorated and dedicated. Paradoxically, the bishop about whom we have the most information has been rather underappreciated, namely Ecclesius (r.  522–32), whose reign included the contentious last years of King Theoderic (d. 526). Ravenna’s ninth-century historian, Agnellus, tells us a number of fascinating things about Ecclesius, and we know yet more because pictures of Ecclesius survive in both San Vitale and Sant’Apollinare in Classe. In the apse of the church of San Vitale in Ravenna, a magnificent mosaic depicts St Vitalis and Ecclesius being presented to Christ (Figure 2.1). Ecclesius, dressed as a bishop and identified by name, holds in his hands a model of the church, which he offers to Christ.1 This portrait of Ecclesius is our best-docu 

* I would like to thank Sarah Bassett, Sigrid Danielson, Evan Gatti, Gregor Kalas, and Dennis Trout for their extremely helpful comments. 1  Friedrich Wilhelm Deichmann’s study of San Vitale (Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt, ii, pp. 34–205), offers a complete survey of the architecture and the mosaics. See also recently the studies in Martinelli, La basilica di San Vitale, and Deliyannis, Ravenna In Late Antiquity, pp. 223–50.

Deborah M. Deliyannis is Associate Professor in the Department of History at Indiana University, Bloomington. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 41–62 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102226

42 Deborah M. Deliyannis

Figure 2.1. ‘Apse Mosaic Showing Saint Vitalis’ (left) and ‘Bishop Ecclesius Being Presented by Angels to Christ’, Ravenna, Church of San Vitale. c. 547. Author photograph.

mented example of a new form of episcopal glorification, namely the donorportrait; such images were part of an effort to promote the role of bishops as urban leaders in the sixth century. Episcopal donor-portraits appear for the first time in the 530s, at precisely the same time as their literary counterpart, the Roman Liber pontificalis. Both visual and literary formats express the idea that the bishop deserves praise for all construction activity in his city, no matter who provided the money. From several sources we know that Ecclesius was a controversial figure both politically and ecclesiastically, and we also know that he was not the principal financial donor for the church. It is therefore all the more striking that in San Vitale he was nevertheless the person depicted among the saints, offering the building to Christ. The information that we have about Ecclesius and Ravenna enables us to trace the development and spread of the idea of the bishop-patron in both textual and visual formats, and to appreciate more fully its long afterlife both at Rome and elsewhere.

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Ecclesius as Bishop Most of our information about Ecclesius comes from Agnellus’s Liber pontificalis ecclesiae Ravennatis, written in the first half of the ninth century.2 In his Life of Ecclesius, Agnellus directly quotes from a series of documents and inscriptions that relate to his subject. Bishop Ecclesius was a man who played a role both within Ravenna and in the wider world. He seems to have come from a wealthy Ravennate family, and he became bishop after the death of Aurelian, who reigned only for one year, 521.3 We know nothing about the way that Aurelian and Ecclesius were chosen for their positions, nor of the role that the Ostrogothic king Theoderic might have played in these elections, but it seems probable that Ecclesius was supported by Theoderic. Ecclesius was one of the clerics whom Theoderic sent with Pope John I to Constantinople in 525 to protest the emperor Justin I’s treatment of the Arians.4 Unlike the unfortunate Pope John, Ecclesius did not attract Theoderic’s ire upon their return,5 but kept his episcopal throne under what must have been difficult circumstances. Ecclesius’s actions during this period, however, made him enemies. After the death of Theoderic, sometime between 526 and 530, some of Ecclesius’s clergy protested about him to Pope Felix IV. Felix, while still a deacon, had also been a member of the embassy to Constantinople, and thus probably knew Ecclesius well.6 Felix was nominated to be pope by Theoderic in 526, and worked fairly well with Theoderic’s heir Athalaric and his mother Amalasuntha.7 2 

Agnellus of Ravenna, Liber pontificalis ecclesiae Ravennatis, ed. by Deliyannis (hereafter LPR), chs 57–61. 3  Even Agnellus knew almost nothing about Aurelian except that he had been bishop at the time of a donation of one piece of property to the church of Ravenna, LPR, ch. 53. 4  LPR, chs  39 and 57, and also Anonymus Valesianus, ii.  90. Liber pontificalis, ed. by Duchesne, Johannes I, 1–6, vol. i, pp. 275–76 describes the embassy but does not mention Ecclesius as part of the delegation. 5  Pope John was imprisoned at Ravenna when the delegation returned to Italy, and he died while in prison. See Noble, ‘Theoderic and the Papacy’, pp. 420–23, who argues that there is no evidence, except for the Roman Liber pontificalis, that Pope John was mistreated or executed; his death was simply unlucky timing for Theoderic. 6  See Richards, The Popes and the Papacy, p. 122. Most of the controversy about Felix IV concerned his attempt to name his own successor; see Duchesne, ‘La Succession du pape Félix IV’. 7  Cf. Cassiodorus, Variae, viii. 15, praising the Senate of Rome for confirming Felix IV as Theoderic’s choice. Athalaric issued an edict confirming the right of the pope to judge cases concerning the Roman clergy; Cassiodorus, Variae, viii. 24; see Richards, The Popes and the Papacy, p. 122.

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In the case of the dispute between Ravenna’s clergy, Felix issued a document of reconciliation that is quoted in full by Agnellus. Felix issues the following rather severe rebuke towards the rebellious clergy: ‘Ex invidia sacerdotes ecclesiae Ravennatis talia contigerunt quae omnium catholicorum animas contristasse noscuntur: altercationes, seditiones, pravitates, quae omnem disciplinam ecclesiasticam disrumpere niterentur’ (‘From envy, the priests of the church of Ravenna have done things which are known to have saddened the souls of all catholics: altercations, seditions, depravities, which strive to disrupt all ecclesiastical discipline’).8 The document goes on to proscribe simony, political intrigue, and clerics appearing at public entertainments, and to set out arrangements for episcopal finances to prevent corruption. The origin of this dispute is not known; one wonders which of the offenses listed in the document was the main stimulus.9 Certainly the reorganization of the episcopal financial structure detailed in the document implies that Ecclesius had been accused of misappropriating church funds, while the moral accusations seem aimed at the clergy. The document is signed by the members of each faction; the leader of the opposition to Ecclesius was a priest named Victor, who may be the same man who later became bishop in 538. Could they have been on opposite sides politically, one in favour of Ostrogothic rule and the other supporting the Byzantines and Pope John? There is no evidence to tell us. We don’t even know whether Ecclesius got what he wanted (whatever that was), or whether he was forced to make concessions.

Ecclesius as Patron In addition to his political and administrative activities, Ecclesius pursued an active policy of patronage of art and architecture;10 as we will see, he was the 8 

LPR, ch. 60. This document is in need of serious study, to place it in the context of ecclesiastical dispute resolution and legislation at this time. Agnellus quotes this document in full because one of his main concerns was the distribution by the bishop of ecclesiastical property and income among the clergy; however, this does not mean that financial issues were the main concern of the sixthcentury clergy. 10  In addition to his buildings, we have the example of München, Bayerische Staats­ bibliothek, Clm. 6212, an early ninth-century gospel book that contains an inscription saying that a certain Patricius had emended the text at the request of Bishop Ecclesius; thus this Carolingian manuscript is assumed to be a copy of one produced in Ravenna in the early sixth century. 9 

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first in a series of bishops who built large churches in Ravenna and Classe. After Ecclesius returned from the East (thus presumably between 526 and 532, during the reign of Amalasuntha and Athalaric), he initiated construction of two major churches in the north-western sector of the city, close to the complex of Santa Croce that had been founded by Galla Placidia a century earlier. According to Agnellus, Ecclesius, ‘in suae proprietatis iura aedificavit ecclesiam sanctae et semper virginis intemeratae Mariae’ (‘on his own legal property built the church of the holy and always inviolate Virgin Mary’), with the financial assistance of one Julian, who is sometimes described as argentarius.11 Now known as Santa Maria Maggiore, this church’s mosaics were destroyed in 1550, and in 1671 it was largely rebuilt in the Baroque style.12 The sixteenth-century Ravennate historian Girolamo Rossi tells us that the apse mosaic, by his day in ruinous condition, depicted the Virgin and Child with Ecclesius offering them the church.13 Agnellus confirms that there was a picture of the Virgin in the apse, and quotes the poetical dedicatory inscription that was found beneath the mosaic, which concludes with the line, ‘Culmina sacra Deo dedicat Ecclesius’ (‘Ecclesius dedicates these holy rooftops to God’).14 As we will see below, the 11 

LPR, ch. 57: ‘Incohatio uero aedificationis ecclesiae parata est ab Iuliano.’ Mazzotti, ‘La basilica di Santa Maria’; Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt, ii.  2, pp. 343–48; and Deliyannis, Ravenna In Late Antiquity, pp. 222–23. 13  Girolamo Rossi, Hieronymi Rubei, pp. 153–54: ‘Dum autem celebre templum illi [SV] aedificatur, Ecclesius Archiepiscopus, inde haud procul, paternas aedes in templum erexerat D. Mariae Virgini matri, quod Maioris appellavit […] In eius templi testudine D. Mariae Virginis imaginem, tanta artificis eruditione, opere vermiculato, pictam fuisse fertur, ut nihil pulchrius, et simile magis, posset videri: Ad eius pedes haec carmina legebantur […] Eiusdem [Ecclesii] imago, templum D. Mariae Virgini, ac infanti Christo Deo offerentis, in D. Mariae maioris cernitur, opere picta vermiculato, sed ita corrupta, ut nisi eorum, qui praesunt, liberalitas latius pateat, paucis adhinc annis penitus collapsura sit’ (‘When that famous church [San Vitale] was being built, Archbishop Ecclesius, not far from there, erected on his paternal house a church to the blessed Virgin mother Mary, which he called Major. […] In this church in the apse he had made a image of the blessed Virgin Mary, depicted, by the knowledge of art, in mosaic work, so that nothing more beautiful and similar to it could be seen: At her feet these verses are read. […] The picture of him [Ecclesius], offering the church of the blessed Virgin Mary to the infant Christ God, can be seen in blessed Mary Major, depicted in mosaic work, but so damaged, that unless the liberality of those who are there is extended more widely, in a few years it will completely collapse’). 12 

14 

LPR, ch. 57. Agnellus’s text is a bit enigmatic, but he describes the apse as follows: ‘et in ipsa tribunali camera effigies sanctae Dei genitricis, cui simile numquam potuit humanis oculis conspicere. Quis vir ille ausus est diutissime intuere imaginem illam, continentem ita versus metricos sub suis pedibus, videlicet […]’ (‘in this vault of the apse the image of the holy

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combination of a mosaic of a bishop-patron and a poetic dedicatory inscription is also found in other Italian churches of the same date, making it likely that Rossi’s description was correct. The church of San Vitale is unquestionably a building ‘like no other in Italy’.15 Built according to a design that reflected the most up-to-date architectural ideas from Constantinople, it has impressed visitors since the time it was completed, both because of its unusual and impressive layout and because of the beauty and splendour of the mosaics that are still preserved in its presbytery and apse. The construction of this church established St Vitalis as Ravenna’s chief martyr. There may have been an earlier small chapel on the site,16 but in the late 520s, Ecclesius decided to rebuild this chapel as an architectural showplace, and he again engaged the help of the wealthy Julian the argentarius to do so. Agnellus provides three pieces of information about the construction of San Vitale. Citing Julian’s epitaph, he says that in Ecclesius’s reign, the banker built the church, spending 26,000 gold solidi.17 Agnellus also quotes a poetic dedicatory inscription made of silver tesserae, found in the atrium of the church, whose second part states: ‘Tradidit hanc primus Iuliano Ecclesius arcem, | Qui sibi commissum mire peregit opus’ (‘Ecclesius first gave this stronghold to Julian, who marvellously completed the work committed to him’).18 Finally, mother of God, the like of which can never be seen by human eyes. This man himself dared to contemplate the image for the longest time, which contained metrical verses under its feet, namely […]’). It is not clear who ‘quis vir ille’ was, whether Agnellus or Ecclesius, but if the latter, it would correspond to the depiction that Rossi describes. 15  LPR, ch. 59: ‘Nulla in Italia ecclesia similis est in aedificiis et in mechanicis operibus.’ 16  Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt, ii. 2, p. 47. 17  LPR, ch. 59: ‘Sed, sicut superius dixi, in tempore istius ecclesia beati Vitalis martiris a Iuliano argentario constructa est. […] Expensas vero in praedicti martiris Vitalis ecclesia, sicut in elogio sanctae recordationis memoriae Iuliani fundatoris invenimus, .xxvi. milia aureorum expensi sunt solidorum’ (‘But, as I said above, in his reign the church of the blessed martyr Vitalis was built by Julian the banker. […] As for the expenses for the church of the said martyr Vitalis, as we find in the inscription of the founder Julian of blessed memory, twenty-six thousand gold solidi were spent’). Julian also donated to the church a marble reliquary, which still survives, with the inscription: ‘Julianus Argent(arius) servus vest(er) praecib(us) vest(ris) bas(ilicam) a funda(mentis) perfec(it)’ (‘Julian the Banker your servant by your prayers has completed the basilica from the foundations’). (Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, xi. 289; Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt, ii. 2, p. 4). 18  LPR, ch. 61; the poem continues, ‘Hoc quoque perpetua mandavit lege tenendum, | His nulli liceat condere membra locis. | Sed quod pontificum constant monumenta priorum, | Fas

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Agnellus also quotes the inscription, located in the narthex of the church, commemorating the dedication by Maximian: Beati martiris Vitalis basilicam, mandante Ecclesio viro beatissimo episcopo, a fundamentis Iulianus argentarius aedificavit, ornavit atque dedicavit, consecrante viro reverendissimo Maximiano episcopo, sub die .xiii. sexies p.c. Basilii iunioris.19 Julian the argentarius built from the foundations the basilica of the blessed martyr Vitalis, authorized by the most blessed Bishop Ecclesius, and decorated and dedicated it, with the most reverend Bishop Maximian consecrating it on 19 April, in the tenth indiction, in the sixth year after the consulship of Basilius [the year 547].

F. W. Deichmann exhaustively analysed these inscriptions, and proposed that the various terms mandare, dedicare, and consecrare describe specific legal and/ or ritual procedures for constructing a church in the sixth century.20 He concluded that Ecclesius’s role was limited to authorizing Julian to construct the church.21 However, another piece of evidence seems to contradict this interpretation, namely the representation in San Vitale of Ecclesius offering the building to Christ (Figure 2.1). While in the text of the inscriptions Julian the argentarius is given credit alongside Ecclesius as the patron, only Ecclesius appears in the image. It should also be noted that there is no evidence for any dedicatory poetic inscription beneath the apse mosaic, as was found, for example, in Santa Maria Maggiore; San Vitale’s dedicatory poem was inscribed in its atrium.22 Who was Julian the argentarius? 23 The inscriptions copied by Agnellus state that he was the primary donor for Santa Maria Maggiore, San Vitale, ibi sit tantum ponere seu simile’ (‘He also ordered it to be maintained by perpetual law that in these places no-one’s body is permitted to be placed. But because tombs of earlier bishops are established here, it is allowed to place this one, or one like it’). 19  LPR, ch. 77. 20  Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt, ii. 2, pp. 7–33. 21  Deichmann, ‘Gründung und Datierung’, and Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt, ii. 2, pp. 10–11, 48–49, and 103. The date of the foundation and original construction of San Vitale matters because of what it implies about the relationship of this building to others being constructed in Constantinople at around the same time; see Deliyannis, Ravenna In Late Antiquity, pp. 225–26. 22  LPR, ch. 61. 23  See Barnish, ‘The Wealth of Iulianus Argentarius’, who provides an explanation of the political and economic background of Julian’s wealth.

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Sant’Apollinare in Classe, and San Michele in Africisco. He must therefore have been extremely wealthy, and the word argentarius, which was not part of his name but rather a designation of his occupation, seems to imply that he was a banker.24 This construction activity has been interpreted as evidence of a Machiavellian conspiracy by Justinian, abetted by his secret agent Julian, to prepare the way for the eventual reconquest of Italy by the empire.25 This explanation, however, is not supported by any evidence, and it is better to see Julian the argentarius simply as an extremely wealthy private individual whose piety and political sympathies matched those of the Orthodox bishops of Ravenna.26 Given its prominence, less has been made of San Vitale’s apse mosaic than one might think. Most scholars note simply that this depiction raised the bishop to the level of the saints, an indication of the rise in prestige of bishops in the sixth century; the concomitant suppression of the secular donors of the church is not addressed.27 And yet, if we situate this image in the context of other pictures of Ecclesius, of the history of Ravenna, and of a similar textual suppression of secular donors in the Roman Liber pontificalis, we can understand more clearly what its meaning was.

Portraits of Ecclesius Before considering the meaning of the depictions of Ecclesius as architectural patron, a third portrait of Ecclesius should be noted, which contributes to the significance of Ecclesius himself. The church of Sant’Apollinare in Classe was founded by Ecclesius’s successor Ursicinus, and decorated and dedicated by Maximian in 549. As far as we know, Ecclesius had nothing to do with this church. Saint Apollinaris was considered the first bishop of Ravenna, and the mosaics of the window zone depict four of his notable successors, labelled by name: from left to right, these are Ecclesius, Sanctus Severus, Sanctus Ursus, and Ursicinus. Certainly the presence of four bishops holding books must be intended to evoke the four 24 

Deichmann, ‘Gründung und Datierung’, pp.  113–14 and Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt, ii. 2, pp. 22–23, notes that he was probably not a financial official of the Ravennate church, nor a government official, since his name is never given with any title such as coactor or honorific epithets such as vir illustris. 25  Expressed most comprehensively by von Simson, Sacred Fortress, pp. 5–9. 26  Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt, ii. 2, pp. 16 and 21–27; and Barnish, ‘The Wealth of Iulianus Argentarius’, pp. 5–6. 27  See e.g. Caillet, ‘L’Évêque et le saint en Italie’.

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evangelists.28 But why were these particular bishops chosen? Severus’s cult as a confessor was growing, and he would be honoured with a church dedicated to him at the end of the sixth century. Ursus was famous for having overseen the construction of Ravenna’s cathedral, which was named ‘Ursiana’ after him, and his presence here must represent his status as a sort of second founder-bishop. Ursicinus was the founder of this church of Sant’Apollinare. But Ecclesius? His presence here is a mystery, since he is not given any credit, by Agnellus or by any other source, for work on this building.29 Clearly the bishops who oversaw the decoration both of this church and of San Vitale, namely Bishops Victor and Maximian, had an interest in promoting Ecclesius, but why?

Ecclesius’s Successors Controversy did not disappear from Ravenna’s church after the death of Ecclesius in 532. He was succeeded by Ursicinus, who, curiously, is not listed among the clergy in the papal document of reconciliation. Who was he, and who appointed him? We know nothing. In any case, after Ursicinus’s threeyear reign, and then an eighteen-month interval, on 4  March 538 a man named Victor became bishop, perhaps Ecclesius’s erstwhile opponent in the controversy resolved by Pope Felix.30 The Goths still held Ravenna, led locally by Theoderic’s granddaughter Matasuintha, but the Byzantine war of reconquest was well under way, and Victor’s eventful reign saw both the conquest of Ravenna by Belisarius in 540, and the outbreak of the plague. When Victor died in 545, there was a twenty-month interval, after which Maximian was sent by Justinian from Constantinople to take the episcopal throne and was, according to Agnellus, opposed by some part of Ravenna’s citizens.

28 

Caillet, ‘L’Affirmation de l’autorité’, pp. 27–29, and Caillet, ‘L’Évêque et le saint en Italie’, pp. 30–32, citing Dinkler, Das Apsismosaik, p. 75. Cf. also Nauerth, Agnellus von Ravenna, p. 21, who does not offer any further explanation. 29  Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt, ii.  2, p.  262 proposes that it was Ecclesius who ‘found’ the tomb of Apollinaris, but this is purely hypothetical. 30  Interestingly, this almost exactly coincides with the date that Witigis, having failed in his siege of Rome, fell back to Ravenna. Bury, History of the Later Roman Empire, ii, p. 183 n. 2, says that Procopius (De bello Gothico, ii. 10 and ii. 24) says the siege lasted one year and none days, and beginning at the beginning of March and ending around the equinox, i.e. 20 March, but that the Liber pontificalis (Vita Silverii) says that it began 12 February, which would mean it ended on around 2 March.

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It is difficult to sort through the bits of information to determine what was happening in Ravennate episcopal politics in the 530s and 540s. It seems likely that there were pro- and anti-Gothic factions among Ravenna’s clergy, and that their disagreements at times stimulated outside intervention. Most scholars note that Justinian’s appointment of Maximian and his bestowal of the title ‘archbishop’ on the holder of Ravenna’s episcopal throne was connected to the Three Chapters Controversy, which had begun in late 543 or early 544.31 This added yet another political dimension to the Ravennate diocese, and may have confused some of the earlier factional divisions. One thing that is striking is that, despite political divisions, the building boom sponsored by Ravenna’s bishops gained steam through this period. It had been inaugurated by Ecclesius before Theoderic’s death,32 but was then actively continued and expanded by Ursicinus, Victor, and Maximian, despite the probable impact of war and plague. Ursicinus, as we saw, founded Sant’Apollinare in Classe. Victor completed the baptistery of the Petriana church in Classe, which had been begun by Peter II (494–520), restored a bath complex near the cathedral, built a large silver canopy over the altar in the cathedral, and continued work on San Vitale and Sant’Apollinare, prominently placing his monogram and portrait in several of these sites.33 Finally, Maximian completed and dedicated San Vitale and Sant’Apollinare in Classe, restored a church of St Andrew and built a church to St Stephen within Ravenna, and decorated St Euphemia and St Probus in Classe. Indeed, Maximian enthusiastically took up the promotion of Ravenna’s bishopric, creating, as far as we know, the first histories of the see in both text and image. He wrote historical texts, donated an altar cloth with pictures of his predecessors on it, set up an inscription listing a series of bishops in a newly completed building in the episcopal palace, sponsored several portraits of bishops on various churches, and imported a new episcopal throne made of ivory.34 In fundamental ways he shaped the way that Ravenna’s future bishops saw themselves. 31  See e.g. Markus, Gregory the Great and his World, p. 146; Sotinel, ‘The Three Chapters’, pp. 88–89. 32  On the buildings sponsored by Orthodox bishops during the reign of Theoderic, see Deichmann, Ravenna, Hauptstadt, ii. 2, pp. 187–200. 33  Andreescu-Treadgold and Treadgold, ‘Procopius’, pp. 716–17, state that Victor was responsible for San Vitale’s apse mosaic, and argue that the mosaic depiction of Justinian and his retinue in San Vitale originally depicted Victor, who was then replaced by Maximian with a named portrait of himself. Was this an excision of the faction of Victor? Or simply Maximian trying to claim more prominence for himself ? 34  See Deliyannis, Ravenna In Late Antiquity, pp. 212–13.

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In Maximian’s church of St Stephen, there may have been yet another donorportrait of a bishop; Agnellus quotes the poetical dedicatory inscription praising Maximian that was found on the triumphal arch: Templa micant Stephani meritis et nomine sacra, Qui prius eximium martiris egit opus. […] Ipse fidem votumque tuum nunc, magne sacerdos Maximiane, iuvans, hoc opus explicuit.35 The temple of Stephen shines, holy in relics and in name, he who first performed the exceptional act of martyrdom. […] He himself now assisting your faith and your vow, great priest Maximian, has completed this work.

Agnellus also tells us that Maximian’s name (presumably his monogram) could be found on the column capitals.36 It seems likely that it was either Victor or Maximian who commissioned the pictures of Ecclesius in the apses of San Vitale and Sant’Apollinare in Classe, although Ecclesius himself probably set up the first donor-portrait in Santa Maria Maggiore.37 Despite possible political differences, the bishops of Ravenna in the 540s wanted to emphasize episcopal continuity during challenging times, and Ecclesius seems to have been viewed as a successful negotiator of episcopal authority. We cannot, as yet, determine clearly what the specific factions represented, nor who was on which side, but both Maximian and Victor were involved in praising the memory of their predecessors as a way of increasing episcopal authority.

35 

LPR, ch. 72. LPR, chs 72–73, and especially 72: ‘et in cameris tribunae sua effigies tessellis variis infixa est’ (‘and in the vaults of the apse his image is fixed in multi-coloured mosaic’). Agnellus uses the phrase cameris tribunae to mean the window zone or vault of the apse; see The Book of Pontiffs of the Church, trans. by Deliyannis, pp. 315–16. 37  Regarding the mosaics of Sant’Apollinare in Classe, much has been made of the fact that the decorative scheme of the apse was changed from an original design involving birds and vases to the mosaic that we see today, featuring St Apollinaris, and this is attributed to Maximian’s intervention, since he was the bishop who was obsessed with promoting Ravenna’s bishops. And yet, the whole church was built in honour of Apollinaris, so it is not out of the question that it was Victor who changed the design. See Deliyannis, Ravenna In Late Antiquity, pp. 265–70. 36 

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Bishops (and Others) as Architectural Patrons By placing portraits of Ecclesius prominently in the churches of Ravenna and Classe, Victor and/or Maximian emphasized the role of the bishop, as opposed, say, to Julian the argentarius, in this highly visible construction activity, and, especially given the prominence of Julian in the inscriptions, this is significant. The depictions of Ecclesius as patron, offering a church within the church itself, in San Vitale and Santa Maria Maggiore are among the earliest examples of this iconography. They have not, perhaps, been appreciated as the innovations that they were.38 Much has been written about the various roles of bishops in late antiquity, and in particular on their adoption of many tasks once carried out by Roman city magistrates. One of these tasks was the patronage of public buildings, and as Christianity became ever more important, many of those buildings were churches.39 Architectural patronage came to be promoted as a pious religious act, and indeed not just bishops, but people from all branches of society donated money to build churches, and often were commemorated in them, usually in inscriptions.40 In the early to mid-sixth century, we suddenly see, at the same time, two new ways of commemorating episcopal patrons of churches, and I believe that these were linked. First, we see portraits of bishop-patrons prominently displayed in churches, often with an associated inscription. The examples of Ecclesius are among the earliest, but the first securely attested such depiction is the mosaic in the church of Sts Cosmas and Damian in Rome, erected by Pope Felix IV (presumably between 526 and 530) which shows him offering his church to Christ, with a dedicatory inscription beneath the mosaic: Aule Dei claris radiat speciosa metallis in qua plus fidei lux pretiosa micat. Martyribus medicis populo spes certa salutis venit et ex sacro crevit honore locus. Obtulit hoc domino Felix antistite dignum minus ut aetheria vivat in arce poli.41 38 

Cf. Caillet, ‘L’Affirmation de l’autorité’. See Ward-Perkins, From Classical Antiquity, and Picard, ‘Les Évêques bâtisseurs’, p. 44. 40  On patronage, see Palazzo, L’Évêque et son image, p.  54; Caillet, L’Évergétisme monumental chrétien; and Yasin, Saints and Church Spaces, pp. 101–50. Kleinbauer, ‘Orants as Donors’, iii, pp. 89–94, suggests that donors were sometimes depicted as orants, but the only secure example he adduces are the orants in the mosaic pavement of the church of Sts Cosmas and Damian in Jerash. 41  Caillet, ‘L’Évêque et le saint en Italie’, pp. 33–34. 39 

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This hall of God glows in its adornment with shining marbles, a hall in which the precious light of faith gleams even more brightly. To the people a sure hope of salvation comes from the martyred doctors, and the place increases from the holy honour. Felix has made to the Lord this offering, worthy of the bishop, that he might live in the airy citadel of heaven.

Early scholars assumed that this portrait could not have been the first such donor-portrait, and have proposed various earlier models, now lost, but, as we will see, there is in fact every reason to think that the type was invented in the 530s.42 And it is surely no coincidence that Felix IV was the pope who played a key role in the episcopacy of Ecclesius. Other surviving images from the sixth century include those made in the 560s in the Euphrasian Basilica in Poreč (again with an inscription), and those set up in the 580s in San Lorenzo fuori le mura, Rome.43 As we have seen, another such image may have been set up in St Stephen in Ravenna by Maximian. The Poreč material is closely related to mosaics and inscriptions in Ravenna, and is unusual in that it depicts not only the bishop, Eufrasius, but also an archdeacon named Claudius and his son Eufrasius, possibly relatives of the bishop, as participants in an act of donation.44 In addition, we know that other people also gave money to support the decoration of the building, and received credit in inscriptions in the mosaic pavement.45 Nevertheless, Eufrasius is the one who 42  Lipsmeyer, ‘The Donor and his Church Model’, p. 31, notes that the visual model of a person offering something to a ruler is probably derived from imperial art such as that found on the Arch of Constantine. Klinkenberg, Compressed Meanings, pp. 23–32 and 243–44, seems particularly concerned about the fact that Felix did not build the church, but only paid for its mosaics; he does not discuss the dedication poem, nor the text of the Liber pontificalis. He concludes that, first, the donor-portrait originated as imperial iconography, and was perhaps represented in St Peter’s (also p. 244) and second, that perhaps an earlier papal donor-portrait was found in a church dedicated to St Stephen between 455–61. Unfortunately, both parts of this thesis are entirely hypothetical, and in particular, the evidence for a donor-portrait of Constantine in St Peter’s need not date such a mosaic (if it even existed) to the fourth century, but could easily refer to a mosaic set up in the ninth century. See also Yasin, Saints and Church Spaces, pp. 271–78. For arguments in favour of the novelty of this image, see Matthiae, SS. Cosma e Damiano e S. Teodoro, p. 23 and Gandolfo, ‘Il ritratto di committenza’, pp. 175–76. 43  For a complete list, with descriptions, see Caillet, ‘L’Évêque et le saint en Italie’, who sees the importance of these depictions as the way that they associate the bishops with the saints and with Christ. He is less interested in the meaning of the act of donation. 44  Terry and Maguire, Dynamic Splendor, i, pp. 140–44, suggest that Claudius and his son are performing a more private act of donation. 45  Caillet, L’Évergétisme monumental chrétien, pp. 324–31; Terry and Maguire, Dynamic Splendor, i, pp. 140–44.

54 Deborah M. Deliyannis

holds the model of the church, and he is the only one credited in the dedicatory poem found beneath this mosaic: […] † Ut vidit subito labsuram pondere sedem, providus et fidei fervens ardore sacerdus Eufrasius s(an)c(t)a precessit mente ruinam. Labentes melius sedituras deruit aedes; Fundamenta locans erexit culmina templi. † Quas cernis nuper vario fulgere metallo, perficiens coeptum decoravit munere magno, aecclesiam vocitans signavit nomine XRI. Congaudens operi sic felix vota peregit.46 […] Immediately when Eufrasius, provident bishop and fervent in the zeal of faith, saw that the church was about to fall under its own weight, he forestalled the ruin with saintly inspiration; he demolished the ruinous temple in order to set it more firmly; he built the foundations and erected the roof of the temple, finishing what you now see, shining with new and varied mosaic. Completing his undertaking he decorated it with great magnificence and naming the church he consecrated it in the name of Christ. Thus, joyful from his work, a happy man, he fulfilled his vow.

Certainly individuals, both living and dead, had been depicted in churches before this. Emperor-portraits began appearing in Constantinople and Rome in the fifth century. 47 In Ravenna itself, a number of emperors had been depicted on the walls of an early fifth-century church dedicated to St John the Evangelist, as was Bishop Peter I, apparently in a liturgical pose.48 Donors were commemorated in mosaic floor pavements in both inscriptions and, occasionally, in orant portraits.49 But images of bishops in such a prominent position, in the apse vault in the company of Christ and the saints, as donors of the church, were something new, and mark a transition in the way that the episcopal role was conceived and promoted.50 46 

Text and translation in Terry and Maguire, Dynamic Splendor, i, pp. 4–5 and 190 n. 14. Deliyannis, Ravenna In Late Antiquity, pp. 67–69 and pp. 329–30 n. 164. 48  LPR, ch. 27. In the 560s an apparently similar portrait of the long-dead Bishop John I was set up in the apse of St Agatha, where he was buried (ch. 44); see Nauerth, Agnellus von Ravenna, pp. 29–31 and Deliyannis, Ravenna In Late Antiquity, p. 342 n. 383. 49  Caillet, L’Évergétisme monumental chrétien, pp. 326–300; Caillet, ‘L’Affirmation de l’autorité’, pp. 21–24; Kleinbauer, ‘Orants as Donors’; and Yasin, Saints and Church Spaces. 50  I think there is more to Ecclesius’s appearance here than simply the fact that he was already dead, as proposed by Caillet, ‘L’Évêque et le saint en Italie’, p. 36. 47 

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Bishops as donors appear not only in apse mosaics from this period, but also in new texts that commemorate episcopal history. Jean-Charles Picard has traced the rise of the tradition of episcopal commemoration in Italy, and has shown that this flowering appeared in many places in the early sixth century.51 Episcopal lists were produced in many cities, and at precisely this time, Rome’s list was developed into a narrative text, now known as the Liber pontificalis, that would become enormously influential. The earliest record of the papacy is a fourth-century papal list, the Liberian Catalogue, which dates to c. 354. Between 514 and 519, the papal list was expanded and more information added; only a small part of this text, known as the Laurentian Fragment, survives, but it clearly represents an initial version of what would become the Liber pontificalis. The first full version of the text that we know as the Liber pontificalis dates probably to the early 530s, and ends with the Life of John II (d. 535).52 It is no coincidence that at the same time that apse mosaics of donor bishops start to appear, the Liber pontificalis explicitly glorifies, among other things, the role of bishops as architectural patrons in their cities. The Liberian Catalogue did not include information about church-building or patronage, but the Laurentian Fragment does mention construction activity undertaken by Pope Symmachus, which we will examine below. The first edition of the Liber pontificalis contains even lengthier lists of construction and donation activity, which seem to be based on archival documents; their inclusion as a category of information, and indeed their sheer volume, underscore the role of the popes as urban patrons.53 It is highly likely that Pope Felix IV, whose reign coincided with the early stages of production of the Liber pontificalis, had the deliberate idea to emphasize episcopal architectural patronage through both textual and visual imagery. It should not be surprising that a new type of episcopal image, created in Rome under a pope with close connections to Ecclesius, should have influenced developments in Ravenna.

51 

Picard, Le Souvenir des évêques. On the date, see Liber pontificalis, ed. by Duchesne, pp. xlix–lxvii and 47–113; The Book of Pontiffs, trans. by Davis, pp. xii–xiv and xlvi–xlvii, but most recently, with a new explanation of the first edition, Geertman, ‘Documenti’. The Liber pontificalis was heavily influenced by the accounts of the rulers in the biblical Books of Kings (see Deliyannis, ‘A Biblical Model’). By historicizing the popes as similar to the biblical kings, this text made a host of new claims about episcopal authority, and indeed, about authority generally in a post-Roman world. 53  Geertman, ‘Documenti’, pp. 153–55. 52 

56 Deborah M. Deliyannis

One of the striking aspects of both the visual and the textual presentations of episcopal patrons is the absence of the people who actually provided the money, and this is particularly clear in the Ravenna example. As a result of the information reported by Agnellus from inscriptions, we know more about the funding of San Vitale than about most other churches of this period, and surprise is often expressed that Ecclesius is depicted as the donor in San Vitale, although Julian had provided the money. It is perhaps significant that in Santa Maria Maggiore, St Stephen, Sts Cosmas and Damian, and the Euphrasian Basilica a poetical dedication praising only the bishop was placed in the apse beneath the donor-portrait, whereas in San Vitale the equivalent poetical dedication, which included the name of Julian, was found instead in the atrium. But even without an inscription, the mosaic’s message is clear, and implies more than that Ecclesius simply agreed that Julian could build the church. On the one hand, it is possible that Ecclesius had played a greater role in the construction than the inscriptions credit; perhaps, for example, he gave the land for the church. But whether or not that was true, the mosaic certainly makes the point that it was not necessarily the person who gave the money, but rather the bishop who promoted church-building in his city, perhaps by having an idea and successfully canvassing wealthy donors, who could enter the realm of the saints and offer the building to Christ. Picard suggests that, especially in the case of large donations and of churches in their cities, bishops were careful to channel the money through themselves rather than allowing people to build their own, independent churches. He proposes that bishops encouraged anonymous donation as a virtue, with only the bishop taking the credit.54 In the San Vitale mosaic, we literally see the bishop acting as intermediary between the congregation and God, in the particular context of church-building. As the Ravenna inscriptions make clear, though, a certain degree of credit was given to Julian in Ravenna, just not to the extent of including his picture in the apse. Remarkably, another example of this transition from commemoration of secular donors to commemoration only of bishop-patrons can be found in the early sixth-century Roman texts. In the Laurentian fragment of the biography of Pope Symmachus, it says that around 518: ‘Hic beati Martini ecclesiam iuxta sanctum Silvestrem Palatini inlustris viri pecuniis fabricans et exornans, eo ipso instante dedicavit […]’ (‘He built and decorated the church of St Martin close to St Sylvester’s with the money of the illustrious Palatinus, and at that per54 

Picard, ‘Les Évêques bâtisseurs’, p. 48.

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son’s plea he dedicated it’).55 The language is very similar to that of the inscriptions commemorating Ecclesius and Julian in Ravenna’s churches, and indeed the author may have derived this information from an inscription. However, in the first edition of the Liber pontificalis, Symmachus gets all the credit for this church: ‘basilicam sanctorum Silvestri et Martini a fundamento construxit iuxta Traianas, ubi et super altare tyburium argenteum fecit […]’ (‘He [Symmachus] built from its foundations the basilica of saints Sylvester and Martin, next to the [baths of ] Trajan, and over its altar he made a silver ciborium […]’).56 The illustrious Palatinus has been erased. It should also be noted that we do not really know who funded the church of Sts Cosmas and Damian in Rome. Because the building in which the church was installed was originally a secular government structure, is it usually assumed that King Theoderic or his daughter Amalasuntha must have given it to Pope Felix and authorized its conversion to a church.57 This was the first time a public, imperial building on the Roman forum had been converted to a church, and Francesco Gandolfo links the novelty of the image with the novelty of the transformation of a public, imperial building into a church.58 However, in the apse mosaic, in the inscription below it, and in the Liber pontificalis, Felix alone is given the credit.59 Thus the Liber pontificalis, the portrait of Felix  IV in the church of Sts Cosmas and Damian, and the information about San Vitale, taken together, show us the moment of transition in the early sixth century, from a mode of commemoration that celebrated the financial donor as well as the dedicator, to a mode that privileged the bishop-patron alone. Texts and images were creating a new category of praise for bishops, as administrators of church money 55 

The Book of Pontiffs, trans. by Davis, p. 105; Liber pontificalis, ed. by Duchesne, i, p. 46. Geertman, ‘Le biografie del Liber pontificalis’, p. 225. 57  See Kalas, ‘Conservation’, p. 4. 58  Gandolfo, ‘Il ritratto di committenza’, pp. 175–75. 59  Liber pontificalis, ed. by Duchesne, Felix IV, 2: ‘Hic fecit basilicam sanctorum Cosmae et Damiani in urbe Roma […]’ (‘He made the church of saints Cosmas and Damian in the city of Rome […]’). Geertman, ‘Le biografie del Liber pontificalis’, p. 233. It is sometimes stated that St Theodore, who appears on the right side of the composition as a pendant to Felix, was there because he was the patron saint of Theoderic. This idea was first suggested by Wilpert, Die römischen mosaiken, ii, p. 1074, who thought, erroneously, that the Arian cathedral of Ravenna had been dedicated to St Theodore. In fact, Theodore was the saint to whom the church was rededicated after it had been converted from Arian to orthodox worship; see Deliyannis, Ravenna In Late Antiquity, p. 174. Thus, if anything, Theodore must have been viewed as an anti-Arian saint. See also Brenk, ‘Da Galeno a Cosma e Damiano’. 56 

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and as the leaders who could solicit donations from wealthy congregants and turn the donations into beautiful churches. Churches could not simply be built by wealthy people; they had to be authorized and consecrated by bishops. The men who oversaw this activity, such as Pope Felix IV and Ecclesius of Ravenna, were the true managers of their Christian cities, and as such, they deserved the honour of being depicted in the company of the saints.

Afterlife of the Concept As a postscript, it is remarkable that if one lists all of the known papal donorportraits from Rome from the sixth to ninth centuries (Table  2.1),60 they match up almost exactly with moments in which the Liber pontificalis was exciting interest either in Rome itself, or elsewhere.61 The first edition of the Liber pontificalis was modified around 555, but it was then left aside until the reign of Pope Honorius I (625–38), when it was brought up to date and began to be continued. Note that two more donor portraits coincide exactly with this moment. And then in the early ninth century, a time when, we know, many manuscripts of the Liber pontificalis up to the year 795 were being copied and disseminated throughout Europe, we see four more donor portraits of this type set up in Rome. As has been often noted, the Carolingian popes were consciously emulating late antique artistic models; but it has not often been noted that imitators of the Liber pontificalis were consciously imitating the late antique model of the bishop-patron, as depicted in both text and image.

60 

In addition to sources noted above, see Wisskirchen, ‘Christus – Apostelfürsten’. It should also be noted that throughout the eighth century, some non-papal donor portraits of the same type also start to turn up in Rome, such as that of Theodotus in the chapel in Santa Maria Antiqua. 61 

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Table 2.1. Churches in Rome with donor-portraits of bishops. Church

Date

Pope

Composition of Liber pontificalis

Sts Cosmas and Damian

526–30

Felix IV

First full redaction of the LP written between 530 and 546

San Lorenzo flm

579–90

Pelagius II

LP imitated by Gregory of Tours

Sant’Agnese flm

625–38

Honorius I

LP re-started after 625/638

Lateran, chapel of St Venantius

640–49

John IV (640–02) and New lives of LP in progress Theodore (642–09)

Oratory to the Virgin, St Peter’s

705–07

John VII

1st redaction of LP starts to be disseminated

Zachariah (but Theodotus offering church)

2nd redaction of LP being disseminated

Leo III (and Charlemagne)

3rd redaction of LP being disseminated; new gesta being written elsewhere

Santa Maria Antiqua, chapel of Sts Quiricus and Julitta

c. 741

Santa Susanna

c. 795–816

Santa Prassede

c. 820

Pascal I

ibid.

Santa Caecilia in Trastevere

c. 820

Pascal I

ibid.

Gregory IV

ibid.

San Marco

827–44

60 Deborah M. Deliyannis

Works Cited Primary Sources Agnellus of Ravenna, Liber pontificalis ecclesiae Ravennatis, ed. by Deborah Mauskopf Deliyannis, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 199 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006); trans. by Deborah Mauskopf Deliyannis, The Book of Pontiffs of the Church of Ravenna (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2004) Anonymus Valesianus, ed. by Henri de Valois (orig. publ. Paris, 1636); also publ. in Monu­ menta Germaniae Historica: Auctores antiquissimi, ix: Chronica minora saec. IV. V. VI. VII. (I) (Berlin: Weidmann, 1892), pp. 1–11, 259, 306–28 Cassiodorus, Variae, ed. by Åke J. Fridh, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 96 (Turn­ hout: Brepols, 1973) Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, ed. by Theodor Mommsen and others, 17 vols to date (Berlin: Berlin-Brandenburgische Akademie der Wissenschaften, 1853–) Girolamo Rossi, Hieronymi Rubei Historiarum Ravennatum Libri Decem (Venezia: Guerraea, 1589) Le Liber pontificalis: texte, introduction et commentaire, ed. by Louis Duchesne, 2nd edn, 3 vols (Paris: de Boccard, 1955–57); trans. by Raymond Davis, The Book of Pontiffs (Liber pontificalis) (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2000)

Secondary Studies Andreescu-Treadgold, Irina, and Warren Treadgold, ‘Procopius and the Imperial Panels of S. Vitale’, Art Bulletin, 79 (1997), 708–23 Barnish, Samuel J. B., ‘The Wealth of Iulianus Argentarius: Late Antique Banking and the Mediterranean Economy’, Byzantion, 55 (1985), 5–38 Brenk, Beat, ‘Da Galeno a Cosma e Damiano: Considerazioni attorno all’introduzione del culto dei ss. Cosma e Damiano a Roma’, in Salute e guarigione nella tarda antichità: atti della giornata tematica dei Seminari di Archeologia Cristiana (Roma - 20 maggio 2004), ed. by Hugo Brandenburg, Stefan Heid, and Christoph Markschies (Città del Vaticano: Pontificio istituto di archeologia cristiana, 2007), pp. 79–92 Bury, John Bagnell, History of the Later Roman Empire: From the Death of Theodosius to the Death of Justinian: (ad 395 to ad 565), 2 vols (London: Macmillan, 1923) Caillet, Jean-Pierre, ‘L’Affirmation de l’autorité de l’évêque dans les sanctuaires paléochrétiens du haut Adriatique: de l’inscription à l’image’, Deltion tes Christianikes Archaiologikes Hetaireias, s. 4, 24 (2003), 21–30 —— , ‘L’Évêque et le saint en Italie: le témoignage de l’iconographie haut-médiévale et romane’, Les cahiers de Saint-Michel de Cuxa, 29 (1998), 29–44 —— , L’Évergétisme monumental chrétien en Italie et à ses marges, d’après l’épigraphie des pavements de mosaïque (ive–viie s.) (Roma: École française de Rome, 1993) Deichmann, Friedrich Wilhelm, ‘Gründung und Datierung von San Vitale in Ravenna’, in Arte del primo millennio: atti del ii. Convegno per lo studio dell’arte dell’alto medio evo

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tenuto presso l’Università di Pavia nel settembre 1950, ed. by Edoardo Arslan (Torino: Viglongo, 1954), pp. 111–17 —— , Ravenna, Hauptstadt des spätantiken Abendlandes, 4 vols (Wiesbaden: Steiner, 1969–89) Deliyannis, Deborah Mauskopf, ‘A Biblical Model for Serial Biography: The Books of Kings and the Roman Liber Pontificalis’, Révue Bénédictine, 107 (1997), 15–23 —— , Ravenna in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010) Dinkler, Erich, Das Apsismosaik von S. Apollinare in Classe (Köln: Westdeutscher Verlag, 1964) Duchesne, Louis, ‘La Succession du pape Félix IV’, Mélanges d’archéologie et d’histoire de l’école française de Rome, 3 (1883), 239–66 Gandolfo, Francesco, ‘Il ritratto di committenza’, in Arte e iconografia a Roma: da Costan­ tino a Cola di Rienzo, ed. by Maria Andaloro and Serena Romano, Di fronte e attraverso, 537, Storia dell’arte, 15 (Milano: Jaca, 2000), pp. 175–92 Geertman, Herman, ‘Le biografie del Liber pontificalis dal 311 al 535. Testo e commentario’, in Hic fecit basilicam: studi sul Liber Pontificalis e gli edifici ecclesiastici di Roma da Silvestro a Silverio, ed. by Herman Geertman (Leuven: Peeters, 2004), pp. 169–236 —— , ‘Documenti, redattori e la formazione del testo del Liber Pontificalis’, in Hic fecit basilicam: studi sul Liber Pontificalis e gli edifici ecclesiastici di Roma da Silvestro a Silverio, ed. by Herman Geertman (Leuven: Peeters, 2004), pp. 149–67 Kalas, Gregor, ‘Conservation, Erasure, and Intervention: Rome’s Ancient Heritage and the History of SS. Cosma e Damiano’, ARRIS, 16 (2005), 1–11 Kleinbauer, W. Eugene, ‘Orants as Donors’, in Studien zur spätantiken und byzantinischen Kunst Friedrich Wilhelm Deichmann gewidmet, ed. by Otto Feld, 3 vols (Bonn: Habelt, 1986), iii, pp. 89–94 Klinkenberg, Emanuel, Compressed Meanings: The Donor’s Model in Medieval Art to around 1300: Origin, Spread and Significance of an Architectural Image in the Realm of Tension between Tradition and Likeness, Architectura Medii Aevi, 2 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2009) Lipsmeyer, Elizabeth, ‘The Donor and his Church Model in Medieval Art from Early Chris­tian Times to the Late Romanesque Period’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Rutgers University, 1981) Markus, Robert A., Gregory the Great and his World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) Martinelli, Patrizia Angiolini, ed., La basilica di San Vitale a Ravenna, 2 vols (Modena: Panini, 1997) Matthiae, Guglielmo, SS. Cosma e Damiano e S. Teodoro (Roma: Danesi, 1948) Mazzotti, Mario, ‘La basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore in Ravenna’, Corso di cultura sull’arte ravennate e bizantina, 7 (1960), 253–60 Nauerth, Claudia, Agnellus von Ravenna, Untersuchungen zur archäologischen Methode des ravennatischen Chronisten, Münchener Beiträge zur Mediävistik und RenaissanceForschung, 15 (München: Arbeo-Gesellschaft, 1974)

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Noble, Thomas F. X., ‘Theoderic and the Papacy’, in Teoderico il Grande e i Goti d’Italia: Atti del xiii Congresso Internazionale di Studi sull’Alto Medioevo, Milano, 2–6 novembre 1992 (Spoleto: CISAM, 1993), pp. 395–424 Palazzo, Eric, L’Évêque et son image: l’illustration du pontifical au Moyen Âge (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999) Picard, Jean-Charles, ‘Les Évêques bâtisseurs (ive–viie siècle)’, in Naissance des arts chrétiens: atlas des monuments paléochrétiens de la France (Paris: Imprimerie nationale Editions, 1991), pp. 44–49 —— , Le Souvenir des évêques: sépultures, listes episcopales et culte des évêques en Italie du Nord des origines au xe siècle (Roma: École française de Rome, 1988) Richards, Jeffrey, The Popes and the Papacy in the Early Middle Ages, 476–752 (London: Routledge, 1979) Simson, Otto von, Sacred Fortress: Byzantine Art and Statecraft in Ravenna (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1948) Sotinel, Claire, ‘The Three Chapters and the Transformations of Italy’, in The Crisis of the Oikou­mene: The Three Chapters and the Failed Quest for Unity in the Sixth-Century Medi­ter­ranean, ed. by Celia Chazelle and Catherine Cubitt (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), pp. 85–120 Terry, Ann, and Henry Maguire, Dynamic Splendor: The Wall Mosaics in the Cathedral of Eufrasius at Poreč, 2 vols (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2007) Ward-Perkins, Bryan, From Classical Antiquity to the Middle Ages: Urban Public Building in Northern and Central Italy, ad 300–850 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1984) Wilpert, Josef, Die römischen mosaiken und malereien der kirchlichen bauten vom IV. bis XIII. Jahrhundert (Freiburg im Bresigau: Herder, 1917) Wisskirchen, Rotraut, ‘Christus – Apostelfürsten – Heilige Stifter: Zur Stellung und Beziehung von Einzelfiguren oder Gruppen in Mosaiken stadrömischer Kirchen’, in Chartulae: Festschrift für Wolfgang Speyer, ed. by Ernst Dassmann (Münster: Aschen­ dorffsche, 1998), pp. 295–310 Yasin, Ann Marie, Saints and Church Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean: Archi­ tecture, Cult, and Community (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009)

Bishops and Balancing Acts: Divine and Human Agency in Gregory of Tours’s Vision of Episcopal Authority Kalani Craig

A

t its core, Gregory of Tours’s Libri historiarum x (Histories) presents an idealized sixth-century vision of two late antique institutions: royalty and episcopacy. The author, a Gallo-Roman bishop writing in Merovingian France, begins his history on the widest of scales — the creation of the world — and narrows its focus until only Merovingian kings, aristocrats and bishops appear to matter for the future of the early medieval Frankish kingdom. The importance of the interactions between these two groups is key to understanding the internal strife in Tours specifically and in the sixth-century Frankish kingdom at large. Scholarship on the Histories inevitably focuses on a combination of factors which manifest in the interactions between royalty and episcopacy; scholars have separately examined cultural divisions in sixthcentury Gaul, Gregory’s use of the Old Testament1 differentiation between kings and prophets in a Merovingian context, and his reconstruction of urban 1 

Gregory’s interpretation of Biblical structure is clearly oriented towards an understanding of the Old Testament as foundational, if Jewish, books of the Christian New Testament. Despite the functional difference that this essay describes, Gregory was still working within a Christian context and dependent on the canonical collection of Biblical books set out in Jerome’s Vulgate. Here, ‘Old Testament’ refers not to Hebrew scripture as such, but to the books of the Bible which originated in Hebrew scripture but had, in Gregory’s world, already been translated from their original languages into Latin and collected. Kalani Craig is Lecturer in the Hutton Honors College at Indiana University, Bloomington. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 63–89 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102227

64 Kalani Craig

episcopal authority.2 Unifying all three lines of scholarship yields a particularly interesting result, though: Gregory certainly utilized Old Testament religious, social, and political structures to present his own idealized vision of Frankish society. He did so, however, not to emphasize the vast chasm between his own Gallo-Roman family and the Merovingian kings he served, but rather to integrate the two cultural groups, portraying a single, unified Merovingian France without distancing himself from his own Gallo-Roman heritage. Gregory accomplishes this reconfiguration in several ways. A close examination of the role of Levite priests in the Old Testament demonstrates several implicit similarities between Levite inheritance and the Gallo-Roman lineage Gregory emphasizes in his vision of idealized episcopal authority. These implicit adaptations of biblical roles are coupled to Gallo-Roman priests and bishops via echoes of specific Latin vocabulary drawn from the Vulgate and used in Gregory’s sixth-century Frankish text. By coupling biblical descriptions of the priesthood to priestly lineage, Gregory shaped his image of priestly authority wielded by members of the network of Gallo-Roman families closely related to him. However, Gregory also linked individual prophetic authority to a hereditary Gallo-Roman priestly class by harnessing the style and form of the Roman Liber pontificalis, a source that catalogues the individual virtues of Roman bishops. While the form and style of the Liber pontificalis provided a lineage of episcopal authority, its lineage was spiritual, not hereditary. Thus, the underlying model of episcopal authority in the Roman Liber pontificalis and other late antique sermons rejected hereditary priesthood in favour of a priesthood modelled solely on the spiritual authority instilled in individuals through their professed faith in Christ. The inherent tension between the two models speaks to a number of important contextual issues that influenced the idealized vision of episcopal authority that Gregory lays out in the Histories. By portraying the extended GalloRoman network to which he belonged as a new priestly caste, Gregory justified 2  For Gregory establishing his identity as a Gallo-Roman narrator, see in particular Reimitz, ‘Social Networks and Identities’; Goffart, The Narrators of Barbarian History; and Wood, Gregory of Tours. For Gregory as concerned episcopal urban administrator and as Gallo-Roman outsider perched precariously on the edge of losing power, see Halsall, ‘Nero and Herod?’; and Mathisen, Roman Aristocrats. Raymond Van Dam presents Gregory as a Frank — a designation marked by geographic boundaries rather than ethnic or cultural boundaries — in Van Dam, Leadership and Community, p. 180, but Gregory’s insistence on Roman senatorial lineage suggests otherwise. For Gregory’s emphasis on the prophetic nature of the episcopal role, see Heinzelmann, Gregor von Tours, pp. 32–33; Heinzelmann, ‘Heresy in Books I and II’, pp. 70–71.

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the predominance of Gallo-Roman aristocrats in the ranks of the episcopacy and clerical body. For Gregory, Gallo-Roman authority was grounded in a biblical model that united Gallo-Roman aristocrats in a religious covenant with the whole of sixth-century Frankish society and with Merovingian kings in particular. Gregory did not portray his Gallo-Roman bishops as explicit heirs to the Levite caste of the Old Testament. Instead, he depicted a new priestly lineage with echoes of the Levitical priesthood, remade and reconfigured to meet the needs of Christian sixth-century Franks and Gallo-Romans alike.

Old Testament Priests in Gregory’s Vision of Frankish Episcopal Authority Scholarship on the topic of late antique elite culture suggests that a senatorialclass background — an upbringing that had ceased to include Greek scholarship but still required education in Latin and participation in a literary exchange of ideas and culture — was one of the qualifications for early medieval episcopal officeholders.3 Gregory’s own claim that he was not classically educated paints a different picture of late antique educational practices, at least as Gregory saw them.4 If we consider Gregory’s claim in context of the Old Testament model of a priestly caste, the education required of a priest was perpetuated by a hereditary upbringing that allowed such education, not the other way around. Martin Heinzelmann, among others, has argued that Gregory saw himself as part of a recreated Israelite society, a modified reiteration of God’s chosen people in which the familiar role of anointed king was paralleled by an episcopal claim to prophetic augury.5 In the same way, we can augment our understanding of 3 

Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity, pp. 183–203; Coates, ‘Venantius Fortunatus’; Mathisen, Roman Aristocrats, pp. 9–16, pp. 105–18; Brown, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity, pp. 35–70. 4  Gregory of Tours, Libri Historiarum x, ed. by Krusch and Levison (hereafter Hist. followed by book and chapter numbers), praefatio, p. 1. For a comprehensive list of editions, introductions, and translations of all of Gregory’s work, see Murray, ‘Chronology’, p. 158. For more scholarship on Gregory’s education, see Goffart, The Narrators of Barbarian History, pp. 117–20, pp. 145–50. Goffart summarizes a number of scholars on the subject, noting particularly that by the sixth century, formulaic claims of linguistic ineptitude had become less ironic and were oriented more towards the praise of simplistic prose rather than the false modesty of self-deprecation. Peter Heather offers a slightly differing view, describing Gregory’s mockery of Chilperic’s badly-scanned verse in Heather, ‘Literacy and Power’. 5  Heinzelmann, Gregor von Tours, pp. 32–33; Heinzelmann, ‘Heresy in Books I and II’, pp. 70–71; Mitchell, ‘Saints and Public Christianity’; Heinzelmann, Gregor von Tours, p. 97,

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Gregory’s attitude towards accession to the priesthood by examining the way the office is described in the Old Testament. We first see the priesthood dedicated to Aaron and his sons, who are of the Levite tribe, in Exodus 28. In chapter 29. 9, they are specifically called to the priesthood and, according to the Vulgate, invested with the mitre: ‘Aaron scilicet et liberos eius et inpones eis mitras eruntque sacerdotes mei in religione perpetua’ (‘To wit, Aaron and his children, and thou shalt put mitres [mitras] upon them; and they shall be priests to me by a perpetual ordinance’).6 The Levites set themselves apart even further after the delivery of the Ten Commandments, when Moses returned to find that his people had made and worshipped the golden calf: quibus ait haec dicit Dominus Deus Israhel ponat vir gladium super femur suum […] et occidat unusquisque fratrem et amicum et proximum suum fecerunt filii Levi iuxta sermonem Mosi cecideruntque in die illo quasi tria milia hominum et ait Moses consecrastis manus vestras hodie Domino unusquisque in filio et fratre suo ut detur vobis benedictio.7 Thus saith the Lord God of Israel: Put every man his sword upon his thigh […] and let every man kill his brother, and friend, and neighbour. And the sons of Levi did according to the words of Moses, and there were slain that day about three and twenty thousand men. And Moses said: ‘You have consecrated your hands this day to the Lord, every man in his son and in his brother, that a blessing may be given to you’.

Moses’ blessing conferred honour on the Levites, but at the cost of additional responsibility. When Moses and Aaron counted the children of Israel for war in the book of Numbers, the Levites were excluded, for their role was to ‘portabunt tabernaculum et omnia utensilia eius’ (‘carry the tabernacle and all the furniture thereof ’).8 The Levites were to minister to and ‘erunt in ministerio ac per gyrum tabernaculi metabuntur’ (‘encamp round about the tabernacle’), acting as the protectors and disseminators of the Israelites’ intellectual and religious heritage while the remainder of the tribes reconquered the land they had been promised.9 Each tribe, including the tribe of Judah to which the also notes that Gregory praised his contemporaries for their ratio, which was tied in Gregory’s mind to the order perpetuated by episcopal control of a normalized Christian society. 6  Exodus 29. 9. 7  Exodus 32. 27–29. 8  Numbers 1. 50. 9  Numbers 1. 50.

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Levites belonged, was rewarded for its warrior’s role in reconquering the land of Canaan. Each tribe gained — because they fought for — specific land holdings over which they then had administrative control. The close ties between the development of the Israelites as a band of warriors and the development of the Levites as a priestly caste in the Vulgate’s early books echo in Gregory’s own late antique and early medieval influences. These influences included Eusebius, Jerome, Sulpicius Severus, and Orosius, who ‘bella regum et virtutes martyrum pariter texuerunt’ (‘interwove the wars of kings and the miracles of the martyrs’). Such juxtaposition revealed what Gregory referred to as ‘saeculorum ordo vel annorum ratio usque nostra tempora tota’ (‘the order of the centuries and the system of the years down to our day’).10 By the same token, because the Levites’ duty to protect the most important part of the Israelites’ patrimony — the tabernacle itself, the intellectual and religious centre of Israelite life — had excluded them from the draft, so to speak, they had no part of the land division once the tribes reached Israel. Instead, they were given a part of the agricultural products from the other twelve tribes: ‘quam ob rem non habuit Levi partem neque possessionem cum fratribus suis quia ipse Dominus possessio eius est sicut promisit ei Dominus Deus tuus’ (‘Wherefore Levi hath no part nor possession with his brethren: because the Lord himself is his possession, as the Lord thy God promised him’).11 Again, with added honour came added responsibility. Rather than holding arable land, these Levites were urban administrators whose duties required their residence in cities scattered throughout the new land of Israel. The new role was theoretically simple: to provide urban centres for shelter and judgement for Israelites in need of justice, to provide consistent religious guidance to the Israelite tribes and to perform the religious rituals required by Israelite law as part of their urban administrative duties. These responsibilities were established in chapter 17 of Deuteronomy, with particular emphasis on the role of the priestly caste as judge: si difficile et ambiguum apud te iudicium esse perspexeris inter sanguinem et sanguinem causam et causam lepram et non lepram et iudicum intra portas tuas videris verba variari surge et ascende ad locum quem elegerit Dominus Deus tuus veniesque ad sacerdotes levitici generis et ad iudicem qui fuerit illo tempore quaeresque ab eis qui indicabunt tibi iudicii veritatem.12 10 

Hist., ii. praefatio, p. 36. Deuteronomy 10. 9. 12  Deuteronomy 17. 8–9. 11 

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If thou perceive that there be among you a hard and doubtful matter in judgment between blood and blood, cause and cause, leprosy and leprosy: and thou see that the words of the judges within thy gates do vary: arise, and go up to the place, which the Lord thy God shall choose. And thou shalt come to the priests of the Levitical race, and to the judge, that shall be at that time: and thou shalt ask of them, and they shall shew thee the truth of the judgment.

Such a description of Levites as hereditary mediators in feuds highlights the social and political role the Levite caste played as part of their religious inheritance. Hereditary rights to feud mediation would guarantee the stability of a judicial system by codifying the identity and location of judges for non-Levites. Priestly responsibilities in Deuteronomy were associated with the judgement rights of both early Israelite judges and later Israelite kings, but the book of Joshua shifted the emphasis from judgement rights to the urban administrative role of the Levite caste: accesseruntque principes familiarum Levi ad Eleazar sacerdotem et Iosue filium Nun et ad duces cognationum per singulas tribus filiorum Israhel […] locutique sunt ad eos in Silo terrae Chanaan atque dixerunt Dominus praecepit per manum Mosi ut darentur nobis urbes ad habitandum et suburbana earum ad alenda iumenta dederuntque filii Israhel de possessionibus suis iuxta imperium Domini civitates et suburbana earum.13 Then the princes of the families of Levi came to Eleazar the priest, and to Josue the son of Nun, and to the princes of the kindreds of all the tribes of the children of Israel […] and said: The Lord commanded by the hand of Moses, that cities should be given us to dwell in, and their suburbs to feed our cattle. And the children of Israel gave out of their possessions according to the commandment of the Lord, cities and their suburbs.

This portion of the land was, in part, set aside to provide the Levites with a payment for their task as judges, but it was also an acknowledgement of the fact that the Levite cities were intended as sanctuary for those currently standing trial. The urban administrative role inherent in feeding and caring for fugitives, and the role monetary tithing played in the Levite’s ability to carry out that role, takes precedence in Joshua. This shift in the description of the Levite role is important because of the way the shift is described. The cities set aside for the Levites in the book of Joshua were named only after a clear statement of the injunction that the Levite caste should be given cities.14 Gregory of Tours’s 13  14 

Joshua 21. 1–3. Joshua 20 and Joshua 21. 1–3 delineate the role of the Levites, and the remainder of

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recounting of the founding of Gaul’s sees follows a similar pattern. Book I’s first mention of Gaul as a concrete place with specific geographical markers is, at its most basic level, a laundry list of Roman bishops rather than a list of Gaul’s cities. The seven bishops first sent to minister to Gaul — Gatianus of Tours, Trophimus of Arles, Paulus of Narbonne, Saturninus of Toulouse, Dionysius (or Denis) of Paris, Stremonius of Clermont-Ferrand, and Martialis of Limoges — emerged as the ‘primum ac summum’ (‘first and greatest’) priests of their sees.15 The cities to which the bishops were assigned are named only after the bishops themselves are listed. Like the cities set aside for the Levites in the book of Joshua, the seven sees in Gaul took on import only after being assigned a priest of Roman origin. The parallel of the Levite distribution in Joshua to Gregory’s litany of Roman priests and bishops scattered throughout the cities of Frankish Gaul is a fairly clear, easy connection to make. To emphasize the fundamental role the bishops’ Roman inheritance played in the newfound importance of their assigned sees, Gregory also tied the event to the Roman consular year of Decius and Gratus. This use of consular dating is a departure from Gregory’s standard; the bulk of his dating depends on either biblical time or regnal dates of Israelite kings and then Roman emperors. 16 By tying the Seven Bishops explicitly to the Roman consular role, particularly when imperial dating would have served equally well, Gregory emphasizes both the Roman origins of Gaul’s

Joshua 21 is a list of cities and the Levites assigned to those cities. 15  Hist., i.  30, p.  23. Saturninus in particular is described as ‘primum ac summum […] sacerdotem’, but all of the bishops are marked by the use of sacerdos and episcopus interchangeably: ‘septem viri episcopi ordenati ad praedicandum in Galliis missi sunt.’ The bishops were sent from Rome according to Gregory’s other works works (e.g. in Gregory of Tours, Liber de gloria confessorum, ed. by Migne, Gatianus appears in chs 4 and 30, cols 832C and 851A, Martialis in ch. 27, col. 849B, and Stremonius in ch. 30, cols 850C–51A. See also Ferreiro, ‘“Petrine Primacy”’. Ferreiro also traces the origin of the seven bishops to Rome and suggests that, in addition to the explicit mention in the Gloria Confessorum, the ‘hic’ in ‘hic ergo missi sunt’ (Hist., i. 30, p. 23) refers to the Roman pope, who is mentioned immediately prior to the sentence describing the dispensation of the seven Gallic sees. 16  Hist., i. 30, p. 23: ‘Sub Decio et Grato consolibus sicut fideli recordationem retenitur primum ac summum Tholosana civitas sanctum Saturninum habere coeperat sacerdotem.’ McKitterick, History and Memory, pp. 87–90 notes specifically the use of regnal dating as a way of making ‘political time’ separable from religious time. See also Reimitz, ‘Social Networks and Identities’, p. 249. Reimitz is largely concerned with the structure of Gregory’s networks and how those structures play out in textual transmission of the Histories, but he documents the unbroken lineage back to the seven bishops, in which ‘Gregory particularly emphasized the religious tradition of his own family as a key factor of [Tours] — and his own — eminence’.

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sees as well as a contemporary Roman trend away from consular administration and towards episcopal administration.17 The Roman foundation of Gaul’s episcopal seats was simply the beginning. Many of the bishops to whom Gregory refers were, in his words, ‘ex senatoribus’; this senatorial claim matched the Biblical inheritance the Levites had to the Israelite priesthood until the appearance of Jesus.18 In documenting the transition from Roman to Gallo-Roman and tying the transition to the development of a priestly caste, Gregory turned secular time into sacred time, as Mitchell and Heinzelmann have suggested.19 Gregory’s vision of a GalloRoman dominance of the priesthood was not an explicit repositioning of Gallo-Roman senatorial-class men as direct heirs to the Levites. It was, instead, a re-envisioning of an Old Testament tradition of drawing priests from within one specific bloodline of a unified kingdom adapted for the unique concerns of late antique Merovingian Gaul. Just as biblical models informed Gregory’s reenvisioning of the Gallo-Roman priestly role, so too did biblical models inform the language he used to shape his vision of Gallo-Roman familial rights to the priesthood.

The Language of Gregory’s Episcopal Vision The echoes of Levite caste apparent in the vision Gregory presents of a GalloRoman priesthood also become visible in the vocabulary utilized in descriptions of priests. Of course, Gregory’s confession of his linguistic shortcomings plays a role in his vocabulary choices, as does the shifting nature of sixth-century educational conventions.20 Gregory’s own education limited his knowledge of classical Latin.21 Additionally, late antique Latin authors added loan words from Germanic and Celtic languages in dramatic fashion.22 Gregory, 17 

Noble, The Republic of St. Peter, pp. 10–11. Among other bishops not included in the lineage of the Tourangeaux episcopacy, Gregory identifies Urbicus (Hist., i. 44, p. 28), Injuriosus (Hist., i. 47, p. 30), Venerandus (Hist., ii. 13, p. 62) and Sidonius Apollinaris (Hist., ii. 21, p. 67) as ‘ex senatoribus’. 19  See note 5 in this paper. 20  Heinzelmann, Gregor von Tours, pp. 85–86. 21  See note 4 in this paper. 22  For a brief discussion of Germanic and Celtic loan words in early medieval Latin, which provides context for the low occurrence of loan words in Gregory’s language, see Mantello and Rigg, Medieval Latin, p. 94 and p. 111. 18 

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however, depended on the works of early church fathers like Augustine and on other early Christian authors, including Orosius, as both historical sources and linguistic references. As a result, the language he used to describe priests is indicative of his attitudes towards priestly duties, in that it is both closely related to biblical language and to the language of the church fathers themselves and largely devoid of loan words borrowed from Germanic or Celtic languages.23 This vocabulary is another facet of the vision of renewed biblical heritage Gregory had in mind for the bishops and kings of his Merovingian France. In the New-Testament book of Hebrews, which was influential in describing the role priests should play after the appearance of Christ and the breaking of Hebrew law, only the words sacerdos and pontifex are used to refer to priests, the latter denoting high priests in particular. The first two uses of the word pontifex in the Histories clearly delineate Gregory’s use of similar vocabulary to construct his re-envisioning of idealized priesthood. Both words are used in the Vulgate to refer to the Jewish high priests involved in Jesus’s crucifixion. The word sacerdos often appears in Hebrews as a synonym of pontifex, though when it appears alone it tends to refer to a slightly less elite priest. The first occurrence of sacerdos is invoked in a description of the high priests who condemned Jesus.24 Likewise, Joseph of Arimathea, who embalmed Christ’s body, was watched over by high priests who are referred to as pontiffs — ‘pontificis custodibus’ — and as ‘sacerdotum’.25 The third use of sacerdos constitutes a break between the first two references to the last of the Jewish high priests — those who saw the coming of the Messiah, refused to recognize him and therefore repudiated their right to high-priest status — and the first Christian reference to the Seven Bishops who founded sees in Gaul.26 The referential shift from the last of the New Testament high priests — the Sadducees, or sons of Zadok, who had claimed the priestly 23  Isidore of Seville’s Etymologies, produced approximately thirty years after Gregory’s Histories, makes use of existing sources in order to contextualize and document the use of Latin words in the early medieval milieu. See more detailed discussion below. 24  Hist., i. 20, p. 17. ‘Ergo ut veterum vatum conplerentur oracula a discipolo traditur a pontificibus condemnatur.’ 25  Hist., i. 21, p. 18: ‘Cumque pontifecis custodibus exprobrarent et sanctum corpus ab eisdem instanter inquirerent dicunt eis militis Reddite vos Ioseph et nos reddimus Christum’, and later Hist., i. 21, p. 21: ‘Ioseph […] recondedit in cellolam includitur et ab ipsis sacerdotum principibus custoditur.’ 26  Hist., i. 30, p. 23: ‘“Domine Iesu Christe exaudi me de caelo sancto tuo ut numquam haec eclesia de his civibus mereatur habere ponteficem in sempiternum”.’

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lineage as the last of the Levites — to the first of the Christian episcopal elite in Gaul provides a clear line of religious authority from biblical priesthood to contemporary sixth-century Frankish ecclesiastical roles. The other term used to describe the Seven Bishops is sacerdos; this is also true of the Jewish high priests who guarded Joseph, an interesting use of the biblical term for priest that dominates the Latin Vulgate. Gregory’s references to clerici and presbyteri, on the other hand, are largely oriented towards bodies of anonymous priests who serve a more central sacerdos or episcopus figure. Of the eighty-five uses of clericus, twenty-five, or less than a quarter, are used to refer to a single cleric. In several of the singular cases of clericus referring to specific people, Gregory also mentions that cleric’s eventual appointment to an episcopal seat. The remaining sixty uses of clericus are in the plural, referring to groups of priests; often these groups of priests are also referred to with townspeople, as part of a procession following a bishop or other dominant figure, reducing the individual importance of a clericus even further. The structural differences between sacerdos, pontifex, and episcopus — historical characters whose importance in establishing the Gallo-Roman dominance of the Frankish priesthood is clearly unimpeachable — and a mass of faceless clerici and presbyteri, point to a clear difference in the linguistic usage Gregory employs to talk about his priestly peers.27 The sacerdotal or truly holy nature of bishops — whose senatorial background is key to their authority — is well beyond that of the mass of clerici. These nameless priests’ nebulous background brings them into parallel not with the kings and bishops whose agency 27 

The first use of the words presbyter and clericus, which do not appear in Hebrews at all and similarly appear far less frequently in the body of the Histories, appear only after the importance of sacerdos and pontifex are established. One early reference to Jerome as a presbyter bucks the general trend, but overall, in the body of the Histories, a presbyter is generally an unimportant priest, an administrative hack with little power, and often with little honour. For instance, the first use of presbyter in the body of the Histories references two priests who abandoned Saturninus, the first Christian bishop referred to as a pontifex, in the hour of his greatest need: his martyrdom in i. 30 of the Histories (p. 23). The direct reference to Jerome as a presbyter in the Histories’ preface may be partially explained by an appearance of presbyter as a referent to Jerome in the preface to the Felicien redaction of the Liber pontificalis. See Duchesne, Müntz, and Clédat, Étude sur le Liber pontificalis, pp. 6–12, and the introduction to The Book of the Popes, ed. and trans. by Loomis, i, pp. xv–xvi; both note the appearance of two forged letters which refer to Jerome as presbyter, letters which were designed to lend credence to the first redaction of the Liber pontificalis. In the body of the Liber pontificalis, as with the Histories, presbyter in the singular is a referent to episcopal sidekicks or relatives and in the plural to groups of nameless priests ordained by a bishop.

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drives and resolves Frankish political conflicts; instead, they are passive figures whose lives are important only in so far as they relate to kings and bishops. By far the most common word Gregory used to denote a bishop is episcopus, which appears more than six hundred times throughout the Histories. Fiftyfour uses of pontifex and one hundred and ninety-four uses of sacerdos similarly refer to highly placed priests. Antistes is also a common descriptor for powerful clerical figures, though antistes is generally dependent on a previous reference to episcopus, pontifex, or sacerdos and used stylistically to avoid repetition rather than to impart significant additional meaning. Finally, one use each of archipresbyter and consacerdos round out the references to bishops or priests with demonstrated political or religious authority. Eighty-five uses of clericus and one hundred and five uses of presbyter refer to less important religious figures or groups of important figures. Of particular interest to this study is levita, or deacon. Of the six instances in which it appears, four refer to martyrs, three of whom bore the title ‘Levite’ rather than holding the office of deacon. The fourth concerns a Spanish martyr named Vincent the deacon, whose relics were brought to Tours by a deceitful relic peddler.28 The other two, appearing in Book X, refer to the deacon Agiulfus, whom Gregory sent to Rome for Gregory the Great’s investiture. This latter reference to Agiulfus’s specific office, the only one in the entirety of the Histories, serves to highlight the role Agiulfus played as Gregory’s personal representative at the consecration of Pope Gregory I the Great.29 Throughout the Histories, though, the biblical sacerdos and pontifex dominate the other synonyms for bishops. The presence of sacerdos is a useful metric for judging biblical influence in Gregory’s vocabulary precisely because of the contextual use of sacerdos in other medieval texts. Isidore’s Etymologies tackles clericus, episcopus, pontifex, vates, and even antistes before then describing the etymology and use of sacerdos. In Isidore’s lexicon, sacerdos is a generic word for priests of any level, and the word itself is a foil for rex, a comparison that differentiates between the role of a king who rules and a priest who sacrifices.30 For Gregory, sacerdos reflected the biblical origins of the priestly role and, by 28 

Hist., ix. 6, p. 418. Sot, ‘Local and Institutional History’, p. 101, notes the hypothesis that Agiulfus was directed to bring Gregory copies of Roman historical documents, one of which may have been the Felicien redaction of the Liber pontificalis. See below for a more detailed discussion of the composition date of the Histories and the timing of Agiulfus’s pilgrimage to Rome. 30  Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae, ed. by Lindsay, i, vii. xii, 1–16. Chapter xii. 16 is the entry on sacerdos. 29 

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extension, the discrete nature of kingship in relation to priesthood. This contrast between king and priest is also borne out in the patterns that emerge in a study of the ethnicity and familial connections that dominate descriptions of the priests in Gregory’s Histories.

The Levitical Model in Sixth-Century Gallo-Roman Family Networks Gregory enhances the dominance of his Gallo-Roman priestly caste by carefully focusing on specific people — like Remigius of Reims — in his narrative, positioning the Gallo-Romans he mentions in ordained or appointed religious roles more often and more consistently than their royal Merovigian counterparts. Gregory mentions almost three hundred men and women by name who are tied specifically and explicitly to religious roles (bishop, deacon, monk, martyr, saint, hermit, heretic, etc.). Of the two hundred and seventy-seven men he mentions who are associated with religious offices, Gregory specifically refers to nineteen priests, bishops, and deacons related to one of the Auvergnat senatorial families (his own and Sidonius Apollinaris’s family in particular). An additional ninety-four are noted as having deep spiritual or administrative connections to — but are not explicitly named as related to — Gallo-Roman families. Still another fifty-eight of these men have names of clear Gallo-Roman origin and are placed contextually, though less explicitly than the first and second groups, in a Gallo-Roman context.31 Twenty of these figures are saints, martyrs, or heretics who were in Gaul prior to St Martin; the remainder includes ordained or tonsured men with specific positions in the Frankish church hierarchy. Among them are eighty-three clearly identified Gallo-Roman bishops and another forty-three bishops whose names or contexts suggest that they are Gallo-Roman in origin. Gallo-Roman men account for forty per cent of the total number of religious men Gregory identified; the number jumps to sixty-one per cent if we count those figures who are very likely Gallo-Roman in origin. By contrast, religious men with Germanic names account for only twenty per cent of the total, including the seven per cent of men whose names and con31 

Here, it is important to note that it was common for Gallo-Romans to take Germanic names — Gregory’s uncle, Duke Gundulf (Hist., vi. 11) is a prime example of a senatorial-class man with a Germanic name — but very uncommon for Romans to take Germanic names: Hist., vi. 11, p. 281. Thus, starting with Roman naming customs provides useful insight into the intersecting patterns of priesthood and ethnicity, though it is far from scientifically accurate. See following note.

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textual presentation place them in the Germanic camp but who are not explicitly identified as Germanic. Twenty-two of the thirty-seven clearly Germanic religious figures are bishops, with another fourteen bishops and nineteen total religious figures who are more than likely Germanic. Of course, this leaves more than thirty names, twenty of whom are bishops, suspended somewhere in the limbo of intermingled Germanic-Gallo-Roman naming customs, which we know from studies of ethnic group divisions can be somewhat fuzzy.32 Still, the Gallo-Roman dominance of the priesthood — ordained bishops and priests or appointed deacons, abbots, and monks — is one of the keys to understanding how Gregory saw himself and his relatives interacting with the Merovingian kings whom he served. Of course, the Levites did not have a solid hold on the Israelite priesthood throughout the entirety of the Old Testament, and the numbers suggest that the same was true in Frankish Gaul.33 However, the distribution of urban centres among Levites in the book of Joshua specifically, and the proof of the importance of this division as it breaks down in the book of II Chronicles, is the bridge Gregory uses to narrow the gap between ethnic German and ethnic Roman. By tying Gallo-Roman urban administrative duties together with a hereditary priesthood reminiscent of the Levite dominance over both priesthood and urban administrative duties set out in Deuteronomy, Gregory clearly expressed his vision of how the two ethnic groups could be effectively integrated into a single political Frankish body. The Merovingian hereditary role was clearly to make war, just as the early Israelite tribes’ role in the books of Exodus and Numbers was to war against their enemies to win back Canaan from pagans and idolaters. The Levite caste, on the other hand, was marked, both intermingling with and separated from the Israelite whole in order that the intellectual and religious patrimony of the tribes be maintained whole and unharmed. Gregory’s vision of late antique Gaul was one in which he could celebrate the separate origins of Gallo-Roman and Merovingian cultural values while simultaneously emphasizing the unity of Gallo-Roman and Merovingian in a single political and geographic Frankish space. As a result, the image Gregory sketched of his Gallo-Roman bishop was twofold. Bishops inherited both the 32 

Reynolds, ‘Our Forefathers?’; Schmauder, ‘The Relationship between Frankish gens and regnum’; Goetz, ‘Gens, Kings and Kingdoms’. 33  A sixty per cent majority of the priesthood in Merovingian France does demonstrate dominance but does not approach the complete Levite dominance of the early Old Testament books. As the Old Testament progressed, as we will see later in the article, Levite dominance of the priesthood began to diminish.

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unique urban administrative status of the Levite caste — furthering the importance of his Gallo-Roman heritage — and a shared political Frankish heritage which incorporated Gallo-Romans into the Frankish tribes and into the Frankish body politic.

Merging Levitical and Roman Models In Book X of the Histories, Gregory described the Israelites wandering in the desert. He noted that they had to assimilate the law before they were allowed to enter the Promised Land.34 Likewise, Gregory’s description of the Babylonian captivity suggests that God’s chosen people had forgotten the law they so carefully assimilated during that forty years in the desert. In part, the Israelites’ forgetfulness can be ascribed to the failure of their priests. Priests were not, however, automatically imbued with prophetic wisdom; they were simply hereditary administrative functionaries, and their administrative roles required proper education. For instance, Heli, a high priest during the prophet Samuel’s childhood, failed to properly raise his sons in the way of the Levite priesthood. Hofni and Phineas ‘porro filii Heli filii Belial nescientes Dominum’ (were children of Belial, not knowing the Lord).35 Because Heli failed to properly educate his sons, the Lord cursed Heli’s family, destining the men to short lives and therefore moving the role of high priest to another line of Levites. Thus, even in the early Old Testament, a combination of caste and personal comportment defined the Levite high priest after the exodus from Egypt. Gregory emphasizes these characteristics when he admonishes a would-be bishop, Burgundio: Habemus scriptum in canonibus, fili, non posse quemquam ad episcopatum acce­ dere, nisi prius ecclesiasticos gradus regulariter sortiatur. Tu ergo, dilectissime, revertere illuc, et pete, ut ipse te qui elegit debeat tonsorare. Cumque presbyterii honourem acceperis, ad ecclesiam assiduus esto; et cum eum Deus migrare voluerit, tunc facile episcopalem gradum ascendes.36 It is set out here in the canons, my dear boy, that no one can be consecrated as a bishop until he has first passed through the various ranks of the Church in the nor34 

Hist., i. 11, p. 13. ‘Exin per quadraginta annos Israelitae eremo utuntur, imbuuntur legibus; probantur, victibusque pascuntur angelicis. Deinceps enim post acceptam Legem, transgressoque cum Jesu Nave Jordane, terram repromissionis accipiunt.’ 35  i Kings 2. 13. 36  Hist., vi. 15, p. 285; English translation: The History of the Franks, trans. by Thorpe, pp. 346–47.

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mal way. You had better go back to Nantes and ask the person who is sponsoring you to give you the tonsure. Once you have been found worthy of admission to the priesthood, apply yourself seriously to all that the Church asks of you. When God decides that the moment has come to remove your uncle the Bishop to a better world, it may well be that you yourself will be given episcopal rank.

One indication that may help us understand how Gregory saw Merovingian kings relating to Gallo-Roman priests is in the division of the Israelite kingdom and the subsequent Babylonian captivity. These two events dramatically changed the relationships established in the first half of the Old Testament between priests, prophets, and kings. Rehoboam’s famous line — ‘pater meus cecidit vos flagellis ego autem caedam scorpionibus’ (‘my father beat you with whips, but I will beat you with scorpions’)37 — does make it a little easier to understand the revolt and subsequent political division of Israel into southern and northern kingdom described in i Kings chapter 12. Gregory is particularly dismissive of the behaviour of the kingdom of Israel, noting that Israel under Jeroboam ‘ad idololatriam declinantes, nec prophetarum vaticinia, nec eorum interitus, nec clades patriae, nec ipsorum etiam regum eos excidia domuerunt’ (‘strayed to idolatry, [regardless of ] the predictions and the death of their prophets, the destruction of their homeland, or the ruin of their kings’).38 Gregory’s condemnation of the kingdom of Israel, which fell into ruin, is not mirrored in his mentions of the kingdom of Judah, which according to biblical sources fell equally into ruin. The ensuing idolatry Jeroboam encouraged among the ten northern tribes also resulted in a significant shift in the priesthood, a shift described in scathing words and accompanied by the description of Jeroboam’s return to worship of golden calves: ‘et fecit fana in excelsis et sacerdotes de extremis populi qui non erant de filiis Levi’ (‘And he made temples in the high places, and priests of the lowest of the people, who were not of the sons of Levi’).39 Rather than equating the fragile position of the Levites in the northern kingdom with his own dangerous position as a Gallo-Roman in a Frankish society, Gregory laments that the early Merovingians had no access to the kind of priestly guidance that helped the Israelites rise to dominance in the first place. 37 

i Kings 12. 11. Hist., i.  14, p.  14; The History of the Franks, trans. by Thorpe, p.  78, with some modifications. Thorpe’s translation appends ‘nothing served to soften their hearts’ without noting that the Israelite’s refusal to repent is inferred in the text rather than explicitly described. 39  i Kings 12. 31. 38 

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Quid de his qui initiati Beelphegor cum Moabitidibus scortis commixti, a proximis caesi, prostrati sunt? In qua plaga Phinees sacerdos, interemptis adulteris, sedavit furorem Dei, et reputatum est illi ad justitiam.40 What of those who were initiated into the worship of Belphegor and who fornicated with the women of Moab and were cut down and slaughtered by their own people? In this massacre, when all the others were destroyed, the priest Phineas appeased the wrath of God, and so the plague was stayed.

The political and religious health of a kingdom sustained by a properly-educated priestly caste, which Gregory initially addresses in Book I with the Seven Bishops brought into Gaul, is matched in Book X by a list of bishops that closes Gregory’s history, adding another layer of inheritance to the episcopal role. While Book I emphasizes the Roman origins of the Seven Bishops themselves, Book X draws the lineage of the bishops of Tours from the Roman past into the Gallo-Roman present by utilizing a contemporary Roman form of episcopal lineage, the Liber pontificalis.41 Scholars differ on whether Gregory of Tours had access to the Liber pontificalis.42 Ian Wood, for instance, relies on Gregory’s dating of Clovis’s death as his main reference point; the Liber pontificalis recorded Clovis’s death after a gift given to the Roman bishop in 514, while Gregory’s Histories date Clovis’s death to 511 or 512, suggesting that Gregory did not have access to the Liber pontificalis when he dated Clovis’s death in Book I of the Histories.43 However, it is possible that this is an instance in which Gregory actively ignored a source in order to craft his own interpretation of a historical event.44 Luce Pietri, on the other hand, notes a number of studied references in the Histories to the Liber pontificalis’ method of mentioning, dating, and cataloguing bishops. Pietri insists that these serve as proof of Gregory having had access to the Liber pontificalis by the time he wrote Book X.45 In particular, Pietri points out the return 40 

Hist., ii. 10, p. 59; The History of the Franks, trans. by Thorpe, p. 126. Anderson, Imagined Communities, is a useful theoretical framework for thinking about how Gregory created physical lineage and intellectual networks via text. 42  McKitterick, ‘The Illusion of Royal Power’, p. 9, puts the original composition date of the Liber pontificalis between 530 and 540. 43  Wood, ‘Gregory of Tours and Clovis’, p. 77. 44  Thomas F. X. Noble similarly points out that Gregory ‘severely compressed the raw information with which his sources supplied him’ in order to suit his own point of view. Noble, ‘Gregory of Tours’, pp. 150–51, with Gregory’s selective use of sources continuing to p. 151. 45  Pietri, ‘La Succession’, p.  568. Pietri specifically calls attention to the structural 41 

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of Gregory’s deacon Agiulfus from Gregory the Great’s investiture in 590; the timing of the Histories’ composition dovetails nicely with Agiulfus’s return.46 It might be useful to consider Gregory’s reference to ‘Hieronimos presbyter’ in his Preface and the appearance of a similar reference in the preface to the Felicien redaction of the Liber pontificalis, despite linguistic patterns that consign presbyter to a less noble role in the body of both works. Gregory’s method of marking episcopal regnal dates and the timing of Agiulfus’s visit to coincide with the availability of the Felicien Liber pontificalis together help confirm Gregory’s dependence on the Liber pontificalis for both stylistic and content purposes. If we consider Gregory’s use of the Liber pontificalis not as a papal document but as an episcopal document, Gregory’s use of the Liber pontificalis in episcopal catalogues, and his preference for the Frankish dating of Clovis’s death, becomes clearer. The Liber pontificalis was not a universal papal decree; rather, it was another creation of an extended Gallo-Roman priestly caste which effectively described the role of the Roman episcopal caste not simply in the city of Rome but in other cities throughout the whole of the Christian ecclesiae.47 In addition to the Roman inheritance of the Histories’ last chapter, a lineage culminating in an ordo episcoporum provides access to a second kind of heredity, one modelled on but not identical to the Roman Liber pontificalis. While some features of Gregory’s bishop were indeed drawn from the Old Testament priestly caste, other features were ultimately tied to individual people. These individuals were unusual examples of holy men with a direct line to God. The differences between Book III’s numbering years of the regnal dates of Brice, Theodorus, and Proculus, compared to Book X in which the Liber pontificalis formula of ‘sedit autem annos __ menses __ dies __’ prevails. 46  Murray, ‘Chronology’, generally argues that the composition of the Histories took place in its entirety after 585 (for the strongest statement of this claim, see pp. 161–62). Murray’s dating of the composition of the Histories is a well-considered study of intertextual and contextual issues, focusing particularly on Gregory’s silence regarding Childebert II. Arguments for earlier or synchronic composition include Breukelaar, Historiography and Episcopal Authority, and Halsall, ‘Nero and Herod?’. See also note 29 for more detail on Agiulfus’s presumed role in bringing the Felicien redaction of the Liber pontificalis to Gregory. 47  Noble notes that Gregory saw ‘important relics and shrines in Rome, but elsewhere too […] Gregory was staunchly, aggressively Catholic, but his Catholicism was not fundamentally Roman’. Noble, ‘Gregory of Tours’, p. 155. See also Hen, Culture and Religion. Ferreiro disagrees with Noble and Hen’s conclusion that Gregory ignored papal primacy, but he does demonstrate the Gallo-centric nature of Gregory’s references to Rome (Ferreiro, ‘“Petrine Primacy”’, p. 2 and pp. 5–6).

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preface to Book II of the Histories offers a particularly conspicuous example of what Gregory felt was his own biblical inheritance. A litany of important royal biblical figures meant to prefigure Clovis, David and Hezekiah among them, is interspersed with an equally impressive list of the Hebrew prophets who supported those royal figures. Elias, who prayed to withhold rain and then again to deliver rain to a parched Israel, together with the even more impressive Elisha, presage the appearance of St Martin; the royal figure of Clovis paired with the sainted bishop, a contemporary king with his prophet, created a Frankish tie to the biblical history that told ‘se filicem beatorum vitam inter miserorum memoremus excidia’ (‘of the blessed lives of the Saints together with the disasters of the unfortunate’).48 St Martin’s own prophetic gifts are repeated throughout the Histories, and in ways that mirror the biblical role of prophets pronouncing doom on kings. Salvius is perhaps the best example: after a heated discussion with King Chilperic, Salvius and Gregory were exchanging goodbyes when Salvius saw ‘evaginatum irae divinae gladium’ (‘the naked sword of divine wrath’) hanging over the house of Chilperic.49 Gregory, unable to see the omen himself, took Salvius at his word, and twenty days later the two sons of Chilperic died. Despite Gregory’s own inability to see the sword of damnation Salvius described, Gregory could still claim access to such prophetic wisdom by emphasizing the lineage of episcopal authority itself. Combined with his emphasis on the Gallo-Roman nature of the priesthood — the earthly hereditary inheritance of blood relationship — Gregory’s use of the Liber pontificalis tradition does double duty. Use of the Roman source emphasized the intellectual and holy inheritance of the episcopal office, but it also carefully documented the earthly Gallo-Roman provenance of the individual Gallo-Roman men who held the office of the bishops of Tours. As each bishop administered to the needs of his urban see, he augmented the office itself with his own particular gifts. These gifts were then at the spiritual disposal of the current bishop.50 48 

Hist., ii. praefatio, p. 36; The History of the Franks, trans. by Thorpe, p. 103. Hist., v. 51, p. 263: ‘At ille alta trahens suspiria, ait: “Video ego evaginatum irae divinae gladium super domum hanc dependentem”’; The History of the Franks, trans. by Thorpe, p. 323. 50  Sot, Gesta episcoporum. The serial-life format of episcopal gesta depicted unbroken episcopal access to localized administrative authority back to the founding of the see, augmenting the authority of the current bishop via the conflicts resolved by all of the see’s previous bishops. The discussion in McKitterick, History and Memory, on the role of textual commemoration augments Sot’s work and helps us to understand how textual transmission plays a role in delimiting and defining real-world spheres of political and intellectual authority. 49 

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Whether administrative in nature like Ommatius, whose expert distribution of property helped the diocese of Tours become financially stable, or divine in nature like St Martin, the dual nature of such linear inheritance negated the need for each bishop to have prophetic visions, reemphasizing the hereditary Gallo-Roman nature of the episcopacy while still acknowledging the importance of prophetic vision that had been so vital to the Israelite people since Samuel first appointed Saul king.

Tensions between the Levitical Model and the Roman Model The historiography of bishops drawing on multiple fonts of authority is very present in Gregory’s Histories. Claudia Rapp’s late antique model — which posits spiritual, pragmatic, and ascetic realms of authority — is a useful one for understanding Gregory’s Gallo-Roman bishop. Rapp’s late antique episcopacy is defined by spiritual authority, which is granted by divine grace, ascetic authority, in which one’s own self-regulating acts are then publicized by others, and pragmatic authority, in which one does good for others.51 Rapp’s model, which certainly prevailed in the eastern Mediterranean and in Rome, privileges the ideal of episcopacy as a ‘confirmation of personal virtue’, in which the path to ascetic authority — the ability to self-regulate and the role of public acknowledgement of that self-regulation — was open to all in equal measure.52 Provided he could find the means to properly care for his flock, even a middleclass man could aspire to the episcopacy. Ascetic authority was therefore the path both to pragmatic and spiritual episcopal authority. Gregory’s intermingling of urban administrative authority based on hereditary right coupled to a spiritual authority earned through proper individual comportment, however, differs slightly from Rapp’s model. While the components are the same, the emphasis on ascetic authority is lessened in favour of the importance of pragmatic authority drawn from money and socio-political influence. Whereas Rapp suggests that a tradition of familial involvement in episcopal service ‘undermines the distinctive tenets of the episcopal office’, I 51 

Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity, pp. 16–18. Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity, p. 18, specifically calls attention to the role ascetic authority plays in her introduction: ‘At the same time, ascetic authority is also the motivation and legitimation of pragmatic authority. […] It allows us to perceive a crucial distinction between bishops and civic leaders. […] The emphasis on the ascetic component distinguishes this model from previous work on the authority of bishops, while the identification of pragmatic authority as an independent component facilitates the study of the public role of holy men.’ 52 

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would instead argue that Gregory’s Gallo-Roman aristocracy contributed to a uniquely Frankish definition of episcopacy precisely because of their shared inheritance.53 For Gregory, the Gallo-Roman bishop’s ability to self-regulate was predominantly rooted in the social networks into which a Gallo-Roman aristocrat was born, and the wealth and training to which those networks provided access. Thus, participation in a communal expression of pragmatic authority — Gallo-Roman aristocratic education — was the primary path to self-regulation, which itself was the first step on the path to spiritual authority granted by God. The pragmatic authority of an aristocratic body of priests connected to each other by kinship led to the training of young aristocratic Gallo-Roman men, on whose shoulders the future authority of the Gallo-Roman episcopal community rested. This shift in the nature of episcopal authority is slight but important in order to understand some of the underlying tension between the ideal vision of late antique and early medieval episcopal authority in the reality of sixth-century Frankish Gaul. Despite Gregory’s descriptions of Gallo-Roman aristocrats like Burgundio expecting the inclusion of episcopal seats in the family patrimony, the Roman model presented in the Liber pontificalis idealized the presence of a Roman pontiff completely independent from familial inheritance. This disengagement between lineage and priestly duties was common in late antique Christianity. One of Pope Leo I’s fifth-century sermons, for instance, explicitly discusses the difference between the new Roman ideal and the Old Testament ideal. Popes were not Old Testament priests, at least ‘non secundum ordinem Aaron, cujus sacerdotium per propaginem sui seminis currens, temporalis ministerii fuit, et cum veteris Testamenti lege cessavit’ (‘not after the order of Aaron, whose priesthood descending along his own line of offspring was a temporal ministry, and ceased with the law of the Old Testament’). Instead, Roman pontiffs held their office ‘secundum ordinem Melchisedech, in quo aeterni Pontificis forma praecessit’ (‘after the order of Melchizedek, in whom was prefigured the eternal High Priest’).54 53 

Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity, p. 298. ‘Ipse est enim de quo prophetice scriptum est: Tu es sacerdos in aeternum secundum ordinem Melchisedech [Hebrews 8.  11]: hoc est, non secundum ordinem Aaron, cujus sacerdotium per propaginem sui seminis currens, temporalis ministerii fuit, et cum veteris Testamenti lege cessavit; sed secundum ordinem Melchisedech, in quo aeterni Pontificis forma praecessit.’ Leo I, Sermones, ed. by Migne, Sermon III, ch. 1, col. 145A; English translation: Leo I, The Letters and Sermons, trans. by Feltoe, Sermon 3. 1, vol. xii, p. 116. 54 

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This prefiguration by Melchizedek of Jesus Christ is not entirely explained in Leo I’s sermon. Another early Christian source, Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical Histories, parallel’s Leo’s interpretation and may help us better understand the evolution of the Melchizedekian model. Although the full text of Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical Histories was not available in Western Europe, Eusebius also saw Melchizedek as the only Old Testament precursor to Christ, the only replacement for an older, Jewish tradition of priesthood. Unlike Leo, however, Eusebius provides a step-by-step explanation of the late antique thought process behind the transition away from Old Testament hereditary priesthood and towards a Melchizedekian priesthood that included Christ. οὗτος δὲ εἰσάγεται ἐν τοῖς ἱεροῖς λόγοις ὁ Μελχισεδὲκ ἱερεὺς τοῦ θεοῦ τοῦ ὑψίστου, οὐκ ἐν σκευαστῷ τινι χρίσματι ἀναδεδειγμένος, ἀλλ’ οὐδὲ διαδοχῇ γένους προσήκων τῇ καθ’ Ἑβραίους ἱερωσύνῃ·δι’ ὃ κατὰ τὴν αὐτοῦ τάξιν, ἀλλ’ οὐ κατὰ τὴν τῶν ἄλλων σύμβολα καὶ τύπους ἀνειληφότων Χριστὸς καὶ ἱερεὺς μεθ’ ὅρκου παραλήψεως ὁ σωτὴρ ἡμῶν ἀνηγόρευται ὅθεν οὐδὲ σωματικῶς παρὰ Ἰουδαίοις χρισθέντα αὐτὸν ἡ ἱστορία παραδίδωσιν, ἀλλ’ οὐδ’ ἐκ φυλῆς τῶν ἱερωμένων γενόμενον, ἐξ αὐτοῦ δὲ θεοῦ πρὸ ἑωσφόρου.

Now this Melchizedek is introduced in the sacred books as priest of the most high God, without having been so marked by any material unction, or even as belonging by racial descent to the priesthood of the Hebrews. For this reason our Saviour has been called Christ and priest, on the authority of an oath, according to his order and not according to that of the others who received symbols and types. For this reason, too, the narrative does not relate that he was anointed physically by the Jews or even that he was of the tribe of those who hold the priesthood, but that he received his being from God himself before the day-star.55

Abraham, with whom Melchizedek was a contemporary, renounced the religion of his forefathers, but had not yet become tied to Jewish tradition. In part, the explanation Eusebius provides is a response to a more general late antique re-envisioning of Abraham as Christian ‘ἔργῳ […] εἰ καὶ μὴ ὀνόματι…β’ (in fact if not in name), a tradition to which Leo’s sermon definitely belongs.56 In this tradition, Melchizedek renounced his superstitious religion in favour of accepting Abraham’s tithe — and therefore his religion — but Melchizedek’s acknowledgement of Abraham’s religion came before Moses brought law to the Israelites. 55  Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, ed. by Bardy, i. 3. 17–18. English translation: Eusebius, The Ecclesiastical History, ed. and trans. by Lake and others, p. 37. 56  Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, ed. by Bardy, i. 4. 6; Eusebius, The Ecclesiastical History, ed. and trans. by Lake and others, pp. 41–43.

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According to Eusebius, Melchizedek therefore prefigured Christianity and Christian priests, because he was outside of Jewish law but still blessed by God. This emphasis on faith as a path to salvation pre-empted earthly laws of inheritance associated with the Levite priesthood. Et dum quibus parentibus sit editus non refertur, in eo ille intelligitur ostendi, cujus generatio non potest enarrari. Denique cum hujus divini sacerdotii sacramentum etiam ad humanas pervenit functiones, non per generationum tramitem curritur, nec quod caro et sanguis creavit, eligitur; sed cessante privilegio patrum, et familiarum ordine praetermisso, eos rectores Ecclesia accipit, quos Spiritus sanctus preparavit; ut in populo adoptionis Dei, cujus universitas sacerdotalis atque regalis est, non praerogativa terrenae originis obtineat unctionem, sed dignatio coelestis gratiae gignat antistitem.57 And no reference is made to his parentage because in him it is understood that He was portrayed, whose generation cannot be declared. And finally, now that the mystery of this Divine priesthood has descended to human agency, it runs not by the line of birth, nor is that which flesh and blood created, chosen, but without regard to the privilege of paternity and succession by inheritance, those men are received by the Church as its rulers whom the Holy Christ prepare: so that in the people of God’s adoption, the whole body of which is priestly and royal, it is not the prerogative of earthly origin which receives the unction, but the condescension of Divine grace which creates the bishop.

While the full Greek text of Eusebius’s Ecclesiastical Histories was not available in late antique western Europe, it is clear that Leo’s conception of the order of Melchizedek shared much with Eusebius’s description. This widespread interpretation of early Christian priesthood as a purely spiritual body of authority exclusive of inheritance is clearly visible in Leo’s sermon. Moreover, the exclusion of earthly inheritance from this Melchizedekian model of priesthood functioned well in the context of the late antique Roman papal model described in the Liber pontificalis, in which scions from elite aristocratic families vied with priests from outside the walls of Rome for the Roman episcopacy.58 In Gaul, however, there were few families that could lay claim to a senatorial background, and these families tended to dominate episcopal life, a de facto result of their access to education.59 The Roman Liber pontificalis pro57 

Leo I, Sermones, ed. by Migne, Sermon III, ch. 1, col. 145A; Leo I, The Letters and Sermons, trans. by Feltoe, Sermon 3. 1, vol. xii, p. 116. 58  According to Rapp, half of the Roman bishops prior to 483 were not Roman. Rapp, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity, p. 199. 59  Mathisen, Roman Aristocrats, pp. 91–97.

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vided a model which in some ways reconciled the idea of a Levitical priesthood (marked solely by tangible symbols of inheritance) and a Melchizedekian priesthood marked by the absence of inherited birthright. Gregory’s ex senatoribus bishops like Sidonius or Felix were worthy of their positions by virtue of their learning, and through their learning they became worthy of divine grace. However, elite bishops had acquired the learning necessary to hold office by virtue of their access to the tangible power inherited from familial networks and embodied in access to elite education, money, and land ownership. Thus the inheritance of Gallo-Roman status became itself a path to spiritual authority. Access to the education Gregory emphasized as the most important tool in the episcopal arsenal — note particularly Gregory’s advice that Felix’s nephew Burgundio should study, pray, and be tonsured prior to investiture as a bishop — was predicated on access to wealth but also based on individual persistence and dedication. Burgundio, and many other Gallo-Roman elite men like him, however, clearly saw their right to the episcopal seats of their older relatives as hereditary in nature. Access to the Liber pontificalis, Rome’s own documentation of an unbroken line of urban administrators, augmented with concepts of Old Testament Levite priesthood and his own Gallo-Roman ancestry, gave Gregory a diverse model for episcopal authority rooted simultaneously in personal access to prophetic divinity and caste-based priestly administrative rights. This particular vision of a Gallo-Roman bishop at work on an equal footing with and integrated into the Merovingian kingship is something of a departure from scholarly descriptions of Gallo-Roman bishops as outsiders gingerly working their way into the hearts and minds of a barbarian royal clan. At issue in the reconstruction of Gregory’s view of episcopal authority is a singular question: Can Gregory be seen as representative of Gallo-Roman bishops throughout Frankish Gaul?60 While Gregory’s episcopal base was in northern Gaul, he participated in a network of cultural and intellectual exchange with Gallo-Roman aristocrats throughout the Frankish kingdom, and most heavily with his family in southern Gaul.61 These social networks are vital to understanding Gregory’s perspective on the role of episcopal officeholders and Gallo-Roman aristocrats in important urban sees. While the individual names in Gregory’s family story may have been 60  Scholars who raise this question include Wood, ‘The Individuality of Gregory of Tours’; Van Dam, Leadership and Community; and Ferreiro, ‘“Petrine Primacy”’. 61  Mathisen, Roman Aristocrats, pp. 111–18.

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unique, their access as Gallo-Roman aristocrats to the power of the episcopacy was not unusual, as the appearance of several senatorial families in Gregory’s Histories suggests. The incorporation of all of these aristocratic Gallo-Roman lines into a biblically consecrated line of Gallo-Roman priests created the appearance of a unified sixth-century Gaul in a very practical political arrangement. More importantly, Gregory’s description of the Gallo-Roman bishop recast as the religious right hand of Merovingian kings forged a religious covenant far more useful for the future generations of Franks, a vision of unity during a transitional period in which Gallo-Roman and Merovingian were finally, but painfully, merging into ‘Frankish’.

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Works Cited Primary Sources The Book of the Popes (Liber pontificalis), ed. and trans. by Louise Ropes Loomis, 3 vols (New York: Columbia University Press, 1916) Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, ed. and trans. by Gustave Bardy, Eusèbe de Césarée, Histoire ecclésiastique, Sources chrétiennes, 31, 41, 55, 73, 4 vols (Paris: Cerf, 1952–60; repr. 1967); ed. and trans. by Kirsopp Lake and others, The Ecclesiastical History, Loeb Classical Library, 153, 2 vols (London: Heinemann, 1926–32) Gregory of Tours, Liber de Gloria beatorum Confessorum, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), lxxi (1849), cols 827–911 —— , Libri Historiarum x, ed. by B. Krusch and W. Levison, Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores rerum Merovingicarum, 7 vols (Hannover: Hahn, 1884–1920, 1951), i. 1 (1885; 2nd edn 1951); trans. by Lewis Thorpe, The History of the Franks (London: Penguin, 1974) Isidore of Seville, Isidori Hispalensis Episcopi Etymologiarum sive Originum Libri XX, ed. by W. M. Lindsay, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1911) Leo I, Sermones, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), LIV (1846); trans. by Charles Lett Feltoe, The Letters and Sermons of Leo the Great Bishop of Rome, in A Select Library of the Nicene and PostNicene Fathers of the Christian Church, ed. by Philip Schaff and Henry Wace, 2nd series, 12 vols (Grand Rapids: Eerd­mans, 1894)

Secondary Studies Anderson, Benedict, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism, rev. edn (London: Verso, 2006) Breukelaar, Adriaan H. B., Historiography and Episcopal Authority in Sixth-Century Gaul: The Histories of Gregory of Tours Interpreted in their Historical Context, Forschungen zur Kirchen- und Dogmengeschichte, 57 (Göttingen: Vanderhoeck and Ruprecht, 1994) Brown, Peter, Power and Persuasion in Late Antiquity: Towards a Christian Empire (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1992) Coates, Simon, ‘Venantius Fortunatus and the Image of Episcopal Authority in Late Antique and Merovingian Gaul’, English Historical Review, 115 (2000), 1109–37 Duchesne, Louis, Eugène Müntz, and Léon Clédat, eds, Étude sur le Liber pontificalis, Bibliothèque des Ecoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome, 1 (Paris: Thorin, 1877) Ferreiro, Alberto, ‘“Petrine Primacy” and Gregory of Tours’, Francia, 33 (2006), 1–16 Goetz, Hans-Werner, ‘Gens, Kings and Kingdoms: The Franks’, in Regna and Gentes: The Relationship between Late Antique and Early Medieval Peoples and Kingdoms in the Transformation of the Roman World, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz, Jörg Jarnut, and Walter Pohl (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 307–44

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Goffart, Walter, The Narrators of Barbarian History (A.D. 550–800) (Princeton: Prince­ ton University Press, 1988) Halsall, Guy, ‘Nero and Herod? The Death of Chilperic and Gregory’s Writing of History’, in The World of Gregory of Tours, ed. by Kathleen Mitchell and Ian Wood (Leiden: Brill, 2002), pp. 337–50 Heather, Peter, ‘Literacy and Power in the Migration Period’, in Literacy and Power in the Ancient World, ed. by Alan K. Bowman and Greg Woolf (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press: 1994), pp. 177–97 Heinzelmann, Martin, Gregor von Tours (538–594): ‘Zehn Bücher Geschichte’: Historio­ graphie und Gesellschaftskonzept im 6. Jahrhundert (Darmstadt: Wissenschaft­liche Buch­g esellschaft, 1994) —— , ‘Heresy in Books I and II of Gregory of Tours’ Historiae’, in After Rome’s Fall: Narrators and Sources of Early Medieval History: Essays Presented to Walter Goffart, ed. by Alexander C. Murray (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998), pp. 67–82 Hen, Yitzhak, Culture and Religion in Merovingian Gaul, ad 481–75, Cultures, Beliefs and Traditions, 1 (Leiden: Brill, 1995) Mantello, F. A. C., and A. G. Rigg, eds, Medieval Latin: An Introduction and Bibliographical Guide (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1996) Mathisen, Ralph W., Roman Aristocrats in Barbarian Gaul: Strategies for Survival in an Age of Transition (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1993) McKitterick, Rosamond, History and Memory in the Carolingian World (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004) —— , ‘The Illusion of Royal Power in the Carolingian Annals’, English Historical Review, 115 (2000), 1–20 Mitchell, Kathleen, ‘Saints and Public Christianity in the Historiae of Gregory of Tours’, in Religion, Culture, and Society in the Early Middle Ages: Studies in Honor of Richard E. Sullivan, ed. by Richard Eugene Sullivan, Thomas F. X. Noble, and John J. Contreni (Kalamazoo: Medieval Institute Publications, 1987), pp. 7–26 Murray, Alexander Callander, ‘Chronology and the Composition of the Histories of Gregory of Tours’, Journal of Late Antiquity, 1 (2008), 157–96 Noble, Thomas F. X., ‘Gregory of Tours and the Roman Church’, in The World of Gregory of Tours, ed. by Kathleen Mitchell and Ian Wood (Leiden: Brill, 2002), pp. 145–61 —— , The Republic of St. Peter: The Birth of the Papal State, 680–825 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1984) Pietri, Luce, ‘La Succession des premiers évêques tourangeaux: essai sur la chronologie de Grégoire de Tours’, in Mélanges de l’Ecole française de Rome. Moyen-Âge, Temps Modernes, 94 (1982), pp. 551–619 Rapp, Claudia, Holy Bishops in Late Antiquity: The Nature of Christian Leadership in an Age of Transition (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005) Reimitz, Helmut, ‘Social Networks and Identities in Frankish Historiography: New Aspects of the Textual History of Gregory of Tours “Historiae”’, in The Construction of Communities in the Early Middle Ages: Texts, Resources and Artefacts, ed. by Richard Corradini, Max Diesenberger, and Helmut Reimitz (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 229–68

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Reynolds, Susan, ‘Our Forefathers? Tribes, Peoples, and Nations in the Historiography of the Age of Migrations’, in After Rome’s Fall: Narrators and Sources of Early Medieval History: Essays Presented to Walter Goffart, ed. by Alexander C. Murray (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1998), pp. 17–36 Schmauder, Michael, ‘The Relationship between Frankish gens and regnum: A Proposal Based on the Archaeological Evidence’, in Regna and Gentes: The Relationship between Late Antique and Early Medieval Peoples and Kingdoms in the Transformation of the Roman World, ed. by Hans-Werner Goetz, Jörg Jarnut, and Walter Pohl (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 271–306 Sot, Michel, Gesta episcoporum, gesta abbatum (Turnhout: Brepols, 1981) —— , ‘Local and Institutional History (300–1000)’, in Historiography in the Middle Ages, ed. by Deborah Mauskopf Deliyannis (Leiden: Brill, 2003), pp. 89–114 Van Dam, Raymond, Leadership and Community in Late Antique Gaul (Berkeley: Uni­ versity of California Press, 1992) Wood, Ian, Gregory of Tours (Bangor: Headstart History, 1994) —— , ‘Gregory of Tours and Clovis’, in Debating the Middle Ages: Issues and Readings, ed. by Barbara H. Rosenwein and Lester K. Little (Malden: Blackwell, 1998), pp. 73–91 —— , ‘The Individuality of Gregory of Tours’, in The World of Gregory of Tours, ed. by Kathleen Mitchell and Ian Wood (Leiden: Brill, 2002), pp. 29–46

Bede both Subject and Superior to the Episcopacy George Hardin Brown

H

ow is it that the Venerable Bede (c. 673–735), admired throughout the Middle Ages and in our own time for his prudence, sagacity, and loyalty to the hierarchical Church, could in his later career be such a severe critic of the episcopacy? As Anglo-Saxon England’s pre-eminent theologian and historian, he acted in two capacities: he was for the English episcopacy both a loyal ecclesiastic subject and an authoritative doctrinal and moral instructor. The right to criticize and advise bishops was grounded on his conviction that the educated Christian was endowed by grace and inspiration to act as a spiritual teacher and preacher, doctor et praedicator, and that the trained and inspired monk had the right and duty to instruct the members of the Church and, when necessary, also its ecclesiastical leaders.1 His own qualifications were undisputed. He was known for his piety and humility as well as for his authority both in his life and in his writing.2 As a monk historian and exegete, renowned for his discretion and ideals, he was intensely loyal to the episcopacy and the papacy. Compelled by his role as teacher, faithful interpreter of Scripture and 1 

See Thacker, ‘Bede’s Ideal of Reform’, pp. 130–31, with citations to Bede’s writings in notes 2–8. Also DeGregorio, ‘Bede’s In Ezram’, and DeGregorio, ‘“Nostrorum socordiam temporum”’. 2  The Letter of Abbot Cuthbert, Bede’s former student, on Bede’s edifying piety in his last hours provides the confirmation of Bede’s lifelong ascesis (Cuthbert, Epistola de obitu Bedae, ed. by Colgrave and Mynors). George Hardin Brown is Professor emeritus in the Department of English at Stanford Uni­ versity, Stanford, California, 94305–2087. Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 91–102 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102228

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history, and guardian of souls, he was convinced that he had to voice strong criticism of wayward English prelates and clergy. In his writings he did what he could to reform them. Bede’s exegetical and doctrinal works were widely recognized as authoritative. For example, his diocesan, Bishop Acca, was both a friend and disciple, frequently asking for his instruction.3 No contemporary theologian either in England or on the Continent had comparable authority. His widely circulated works commanded so much respect that they ranked with those of the Fathers of the Church, long before he was formally declared Doctor Ecclesiae.4 His acknowledged authority as monastic teacher allowed him to propose the radical reform called for in his commentaries and letters. His most urgent call for reform is expressed in the long letter written in 734, a year before his death, to Bishop Egbert, his former pupil and the prelate who would become the first archbishop of York. Bede’s position as legitimate advisor and critic of the episcopacy should be understood in the context of the historical development of medieval monasticism as separate but within the hierarchical Church. Monasticism in its early history had evolved independently of episcopal control and was sometimes outright hostile to it, but since the late third century had been incorporated into the institutional Church, so much so that from the time of Pope Gregory the Great (c. 540–604), himself a monk, monasticism furnished the Church with the men who became bishops and, as Gregory’s Book of Pastoral Care demonstrates, established monastic asceticism as the ideal for the clergy.5 From the time of the mission to England by St Augustine, first archbishop of Canterbury (ruled 597–c. 609), and his monastic companions, nearly all the bishops of England were monks. Bede was a monk in a monastery whose founder Benedict Biscop (d. 689) was devoted to the pope and had obtained papal exemption from local episcopal control. Bede, who frequently assured his readers that in all his works he was following in the footsteps of the Fathers of the Church, honoured the pope’s apostolic succession and acknowledged papal authority in the Catholic Church. Bede’s ardent orthodoxy and devotion to the Roman 3  See, for instance, the preface to the commentary in Bede, In Lucam, ed. by Hurst, pp. 5–10. Bede dedicated five of his commentaries to Acca. See Lapidge, ‘Acca of Hexham’, p. 66, and Brown, A Companion to Bede, pp. 11, 14, 43, 45, 55, 59, 63 n. 140, 65, 91, 94, 112. 4  On the circulation of Bede’s works and their influence even in his lifetime as well as thereafter, see Whitelock, After Bede; Whitelock, From Bede to Alfred, pp. 3–13; also Whitelock, ‘Bede and his Teachers’. For the wide dissemination of his History, see Davis, ‘Bede after Bede’. 5  On the monk as bishop, see Coates, ‘The Bishop as Pastor and Solitary’.

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Church was fostered within the matrix of his education, the twin monastery dedicated to Sts Peter and Paul, under its founder-abbot, Benedict, who had made pilgrimages to Rome, once with Wilfrid (d. 709), later the great upholder of the Roman Church against the Irish faction at the Synod of Whitby in 664. The abbots Benedict Biscop and his coadjutor Ceolfrith (c. 642–716) had carefully assembled a great library of orthodox biblical and patristic works for the monastic library in which Bede laboured. Symptomatic of the close ties to the Roman tradition of the papacy that Wearmouth-Jarrow fostered was the formal production of the Bible pandect, the great Codex Amiatinus.6 That magnum opus is not in the exuberant Irish style of the Lindisfarne Gospels but in austere Roman format and decoration.7 Nonetheless, Bede admired much of the Irish tradition of the Lindisfarne monastery as represented by the founder Aidan and rendered English by the Anglo-Saxon Saint Cuthbert. Bede in his Life of St Cuthbert and in his Historia ecclesiastica praised the way the bishops of Lindisfarne performed humbly and without pomp the true functions of the episcopacy. He reports how they travelled by foot to the villages and remote areas of the diocese and preached the gospel and taught the catechism without remuneration. Their way of life differed starkly from the rich trappings, conspicuous wealth, and military entourage of the English bishop of the north, Wilfrid, who not only built great stone churches furnished with tapestries and gold and silver vessels but who lavishly dispensed largesse to his followers. Bede’s diocesan was first Wilfrid himself, about whose power and career as bishop of the vast northern diocese Bede wrote in the Historia ecclesiastica with ‘discreet omissions and careful neutrality’.8 Whatever his attitude was to individual bishops and their lifestyles, Bede was extremely sensitive to the power and authority of the bishops and their episcopal curia. A prime example of that sensitivity was his reaction when he 6 

The Codex Amiatinus has long been housed in the Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana of Florence as Amiatino 1. As noted in Marsden, The Text of the Old Testament, p. 76, the Amiatinus is ‘the earliest surviving complete Vulgate Bible anywhere and our only complete preConquest source for the Old Testament text in Anglo-Saxon England’. 7  Brown, Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts, p.  49, says about the Codex Amiatinus, ‘So classicizing is it in style that it was only recently identified as Anglo-Saxon, rather than made by Mediterranean craftsman’. See further in Marsden, The Text of the Old Testament, pp. 87–90. On the formal Uncial script with which the Bible is written, see Parkes, The Scriptorium of Wearmouth-Jarrow, pp. 3–4. 8  Thacker, ‘St Wilfrid’, p. 476.

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learned in 708 from the monk and friend, Plegwin, that he had been accused of heresy at a banquet in the monastery of Hexham at which Bishop Wilfrid was present. Bede was accused of asserting in his De temporibus that Christ’s birth came in the fifth age instead of at what the accusers considered the correct time, the beginning of the sixth. To Bede, Plegwin had reported ‘quod me audires a lasciuientibus rusticis inter hereticos per pocula decantari. Exhorrui, fasteor’ (‘that he had heard it babbled out by lewd rustics in their cups that I was a heretic. I confess I was aghast’).9 Bede who ardently abhorred anything smacking of heresy and who also considered time and God’s work in time a serious matter, responded in his letter sharply to Plegwin, demanding that the detailed justification it contained be read in the presence of Bishop Wilfrid before whom no one had defended him. The following year, 709, Acca became bishop of Hexham and Bede’s diocesan. Even though Acca was Wilfrid’s protégé and owed his position to him, Acca became Bede’s patron, his disciple, and his friend.10 Bede’s warm relationship with this bishop was complex. Bede’s own dedicatory statements and correspondence with Acca reveal him as devoted subject, honoured friend, and superior teacher. Acca sent Bede queries about biblical meanings and interpretations. Bede dedicated to him his poem on the Day of Judgement and presented to him his Commentary on Genesis and the Commentary on Mark’s Gospel. Acca had persuaded Bede to do that Marcan commentary even though Bede had first demurred because patristic commentaries on the gospel already existed. For all his respect for the bishop’s authority, in all his instructional correspondence Bede is the authority. Bede was not only a familiar of this prelate but corresponded authoritatively with a number of others, including the man from whom Bede solicited records from Canterbury and Rome, Nothhelm, who became archbishop of Canterbury (735–39). With the assurance of his right to speak as a theologian and historian, Bede sent a letter to his former pupil, Bishop Egbert (Ecgberht) (bishop 723–35, then the first archbishop of York, 735–66), on the need for

9 

Bede, Epistola ad Pleguinam, ed. by Jones, p. 617, ll. 6–7. English translation: Bede, Epistola ad Pleguinam, trans. by Wallis, p. 405. 10  Emblematic of the relationship of Bede to Acca as recognized in a later period (the twelfth century) is a drawing identified as Bede presenting his work to the bishop: online image from Harvard, Houghton Library, MS Typ 202, in a manuscript from the Abbey of Gladbach, Germany, listed in the Catalogue of Manuscripts, i (1988), p. 251. Acca ruled until 732, until deposed for unknown reasons that will probably never be disclosed.

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extensive reform in the northern English Church.11 The letter, detailing the evils and defects of the northern Church with a personal call for reform stands in marked contrast to the optimistic conclusion to his Historia ecclesiastica. This letter is sent not out of arrogance but out of humble duty: ‘Precorque te per Dominum, ne harum apices litterarum arrogantiae supercilium esse suspiceris, sed obsequium potius humilitatis ac pietatis ueraciter esse cognoscas’ (‘I ask you in God’s name not to consider my words to be proud and arrogant but rather the expression of humble duty, which they are’).12 After a general admonition to both live and teach in a manner worthy of the episcopal status, in accord with the admonitions of St Paul in his letters to Timothy and Titus and of Pope Gregory the Great in his Pastoral Care and homilies, Bede proceeds through a list of ecclesiastical problems and abuses and prescribes appropriate remedies. He voices his first concern: Et quia latiora sunt spatia locorum, quae ad gubernacula tuae diocesis pertinent, quam ut solus per omnia discurrere, et in singulis uiculis atque agellis uerbum Dei praedicare, etiam anni totius emenso curriculo, sufficias, necessarium satis est, ut plures tibi sacri operis adiutores a sciscas, presbyteros uidelicet ordinando, atque instituendo doctores, qui in singulis uiculis praedicando Dei uerbo, et consecrandis mysteriis caelestibus, ac maxime peragendis sacri baptismatis officiis, ubi oportunitas ingruerit, insistant. (sec. 5) Because the distances between the places which belong to your diocese are too great for you alone to suffice for visiting them all and preaching the word of God in its many hamlets and homesteads within the span of a year, you should certainly appoint several helpers for yourself in this holy work, that is, by ordaining priests and appointing teachers who will zealously preach in each hamlet the word of God and offer the heavenly mysteries and above all perform the sacrament of baptism whenever the opportunity arises.13

He adds that the priests should see to it that the people ignorant of Latin learn by heart the Apostles’ Creed and the Lord’s Prayer in the vernacular (sec. 5). Christ ordered that his message be preached gratis, so placing an episcopal levy 11  Bede, Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum, ed. by Plummer. The translation used in this essay is Bede, Letter to Egbert, trans. by Farmer. The letter is also translated elsewhere, and conveniently in English Historical Documents, i, pp. 799–810. 12  Bede, Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum, ed. by Plummer, i, p. 405; Bede, Letter to Egbert, trans. by Farmer, p. 337. 13  Bede, Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum, ed. by Plummer, i, p. 408; Bede, Letter to Egbert, trans. by Farmer, pp. 339–40.

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on these services invites divine retribution (sec. 6). This leads Bede to demand: in section 7: ‘Attende quid grauissimi sceleris illi commiserint, qui et terrena ab auditoribus suis lucra diligentissime requirere, et pro eorum salute aeterna nichil omnino praedicando, uel exhortando, uel increpando, laboris impendere contendunt’ (‘Pay heed then to how serious a sin is committed by those who most diligently demand earthly rewards from their hearers but take no trouble at all with preaching, exhorting or reproving for their eternal salvation’).14 In addition, he calls attention to clerical greed: Cum enim antistes, dictante amore pecuniae, maiorem populi partem, quam ulla ratione per totum anni spatium peragrare praedicando aut circuire ualuerit, in nomen sui praesulatus assumpserit, satis exitia|bile et sibimet ipsi, et illis quibus falso praesulis nomine praelatus est, comprobatur concinnare periculum. (sec. 8) When indeed a bishop, at the dictate of love of money, in the name of his office takes on a greater population than he can possibly visit and preach to in the course of a year, this evidently results in danger both to himself and to those over whom he is promoted, because he is falsely called their protector.15

Bede does not have to put a name to such a prelate, since Wilfrid, as discussed above (on page 93), was the negative model. As Charles Plummer noted long ago and Scott DeGregorio has done recently, Bede’s criticism of greedy clergy had already been expressed in his Commentary on Ezra and Nehemiah: God’s people are hampered by clergy qui habitu religionis uidentur esse praediti cum ipsi ab eis quibus praeesse uidentur et immensum rerum saecularium pondus ec uectigal exigunt et nihil eorum saluti perpetuae uel docendo uel exempla uiuendi praebendo uel opera pietatis impendendo conferunt. who seem to be endowed with the garb of religion, but who exact an immense tax and weight of worldly goods from those whom they claim to be in charge of while giving nothing for their eternal salvation either by teaching them or by providing them with examples of good living or by devoting effort to works of piety for them.16

14 

Bede, Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum, ed. by Plummer, i, p. 410; Bede, Letter to Egbert, trans. by Farmer, p. 341. 15  Bede, Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum, ed. by Plummer, i, pp. 411–12; Bede, Letter to Egbert, trans. by Farmer, p. 342. 16  Bede, In Ezram et Neemiam, ed. by Hurst, ch. 3, ll. 829–33, p. 359; Bede, On Ezra and Nehemiah, trans. by DeGregorio, p. 184. See also Blair, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society, p. 1556.

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Like an Old Testament prophet, Bede in his late biblical commentaries and in the letter to Egbert attacks religious leaders for their pride, depredations, and dereliction of duty. In a further admonitory section Bede reminds Egbert (sec. 9) that Pope Gregory the Great had envisaged twelve bishops subject to the Metropolitan of York.17 The only northern sees besides York in Bede’s time were Hexham, Lindisfarne, and Whithorn. Bede advises locating a diocesan centre in one of the monasteries, which would be assisted with lands and possessions from a reformation of some of the sham monasteries throughout the land, which were established to evade social and military duties and provide a comfortable living for their pseudo-abbots and abbesses (sec. 10–12). These ‘monasteriola’, that had become prevalent since the time of King Aldfrith (ruled 686–705) instead of being terminated are still protected by the bishops ‘driven by the love of money’ (sec. 13). Bede urges Egbert to monitor diligently the monasteries of men and women in his diocese and reform bad and irregular practices (sec. 14). Here Bede is treading on historically highly sensitive territory, the jurisdiction of the bishop and of the abbot. The parurchia of Iona and its daughter institution on Lindisfarne established an interlocking relationship between episcopacy and monasticism in which the bishops were subject to the abbot’s control.18 This ran contrary to the tradition of medieval and modern western Catholicism, in which the monastery is at least nominally under episcopal control. Abbots nonetheless strove to maintain their autocracy. Indeed Bede’s abbots had arranged for their monasteries to be under direct papal control, exempt from episcopal oversight. Despite this exemption of his own monastery, Bede proposes episcopal control over monasteries, especially the ‘monasteriola’ that he viewed as sham. Concerning this request for royal oversight for the control and reform of monasteries, Dorothy Whitelock remarks that the letter ‘shows how far removed Bede was from later monastic opinion on episcopal interference [in monastic affairs], and it is not surprising that it was not copied’.19 She rightly calls attention to how little circulation the manuscript of Bede’s letter to Egbert enjoyed. It is an ominous indication that while hundreds of manuscripts 17 

See Pope Gregory the Great’s letter quoted in Bede, Ecclesiastical History, ed. by Colgrave and Mynors, book i, ch. 29, pp. 104–07. 18  See Sharpe, ‘Churches and Communities’. I am grateful to Arthur Holder for his advice and assistance on this topic. 19  Introductory note to the letter, no. 170, in English Historical Documents, ed. by Douglas, p. 799.

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of Bede’s Ecclesiastical History circulated in England and the Continent, the letter to Egbert is only found in three manuscripts, one from the tenth century, one from the twelfth, and one from the fifteenth.20 With this letter Bede seems to have been ‘a voice crying in the wilderness’ (Mark 1. 3). Besides proposing this episcopal oversight, in section  15 Bede presses Egbert to supply religious teachers and to instruct the faithful ‘quam salutaris sit omni Christianorum generi cotidiana dominici corporis ac sanguinis perceptio’ (‘how salutary it is for every kind of Christian to receive daily the body and blood of our Lord’). He adds: Quod uidelicet genus religionis, ac Deo deuotae sanctificationis tam longe a cunctis paene nostrae prouinciae laicis per incuriam docentium quasi prope peregrinum abest, ut hii qui inter illos religiosiores esse uidentur, non nisi in natali Domini, et epiphania, et pascha sacrosanctis mysteriis communicare praesumant This kind of observance and devout consecration to God has so long been absent from and almost foreign to most laymen of our province through the neglect of preachers, that those of them who are considered more devout do not presume to receive communion except at Christmas, the Epiphany and Easter.21

Bede concludes his admonitory letter with a warning ‘contra uirus auaritiae’ (‘against the poison of avarice’) among the clergy, and, not to prolong the letter inordinately, foregoes similar admonitions against the prevalent vices ‘de ebrietate, commessatione, luxuria, et ceteris huiusmodi contagionibus’ (‘of drunkenness, gluttony, impurity, and other plagues’) (sec. 17).22 Bede’s letter to Egbert may seem at first to be preaching to the choir, since Egbert with his brother, King Eadberht, in their joint control over the Northumbrian Church and state proved remarkably upright and effective, and were considered by Egbert’s pupil Alcuin and later writers to have been excellent rulers over a church and state, in a kingdom then unparalleled for peace and stability. Like Bede, Egbert was reform-minded: he is ‘the author of Dialogus ecclesiasticae institutionis, a treatise on ecclesiastical discipline and the observance of the Quatember fasts’.23 20 

Laistner and King, A Hand-List of Bede Manuscripts, p. 120. Bede, Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum, ed. by Plummer, i, p. 419; Bede, Letter to Egbert, trans. by Farmer, p. 348. 22  Bede, Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum, ed. by Plummer, i, p. 423; Bede, Letter to Egbert, trans. by Farmer, p. 351. 23  Lapidge, ‘Ecgberht’. See also Mayr-Harting, ‘Ecgberht [Egbert]’. 21 

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So what sort of success did Bede’s call for reform have on the York diocese and on the Anglo-Saxon Church at large? About the same as that of reformers generally throughout history — some success, some failure. Posterity, especially monastic posterity, was unenthusiastic about heeding Bede’s programme of reform. Nonetheless, some of its calls for improvement seem to have had an effect. Addressing Egbert in section 10, Bede asserted ‘facillime etiam, ut arbitramus, hoc obtinebis, ut iuxta decreta sedis apostolicae, Eboracensis ecclesia metropolitanum possit habere pontificem’ (‘if with God’s help you accomplish what we suggest, you will very easily obtain also, we believe, that the Church of York receive a metropolitan archbishop in accordance with the decrees of the Apostolic See’).24 That elevation actually occurred in 735, the year of Bede’s death, and Egbert, according to Pope Gregory the Great’s initial plan, became York’s first archbishop. However, even though York became an archbishopric as Bede proposed, the added dioceses Bede hoped for in section 9 were never realized. Some other proposals in Bede’s letter had desired effects. The decrees of the Council of Clovesho of 747 were surely inspired by this letter. These include Canon 1 on the quality of the bishops’ life styles; Canon 3 on their visiting their dioceses every year; Canons 4 and 5 on their duty to sustain the observance of monasteries, even when these are owned by laypeople who cannot be expelled; Canon 9 that no fees should be charged for baptisms; Canon 10 that they learn and teach the Lord’s Prayer and Creed in English.25 However, Bede’s plea for the practice of frequent communion of the faithful went unheeded until our modern period, especially by decree of Pope Pius X (1835–1914).26 Archbishop Egbert and King Eadberht got into trouble with Pope Paul I for sequestering three monasteries that an abbess had bestowed on a certain Abbot Forthred. Strongly admonishing Eadberht for acting ‘extra praeceptum Dei hoc omnino’ (‘entirely against the precept of God’), the pope commands: Atque quod ab eis ablatum est, modis omnibus eisdem sanctis restituendum vestrae adhaereat curae; ut ex hoc prava vitiorum usurpatione amputata, nulli laicoum vel aliae cuilibet personae denuo licentia admittatur piorum pertinentia locorum 24 

Bede, Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum, ed. by Plummer, i, p. 413; Bede, Letter to Egbert, trans. by Farmer, pp. 343–44. 25  D. H. Farmer, introductory note, in Bede, Ecclesiastical History, trans. by Sherley-Price, p. 336. 26  Known as the ‘pope of frequent communion’, Pius X recommended daily communion in his decree of 1905 and children’s communion a year later.

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invadendi, sed magis vestro studio ea, quae respiciunt ad religiositatis propositum, impensius propagentur.27 Let it be your care by all means to restore to the same holy man what has been taken away from them; so that when this wrongful and vicious seizure has been rescinded, permission may never again be granted to any layman or any person whatsoever to invade the possessions of religious places; but rather, that the things which are concerned with the purpose of the religious life may by your zeal be more abundantly increased.28

Dorothy Whitelock suggests that the pope’s protest seems to be in reaction to King Eadberht’s and his brother Archbishop Egbert’s ‘carrying out Bede’s advice on the suppression of spurious monasteries to recover the lands for the rewards of the king’s secular followers’.29 However, Ian Wood points out that these monasteries in question were probably not spurious. In his opinion they were royal foundations that were moved within the royal kin.30 As kings did in other realms at the time, they presumed the right to bestow royal monastic foundations as they saw fit. So whether Egbert and Eadberht actually abolished any of the ‘monasteriola’ about which Bede complains the historical record remains mute. Despite some unaccomplished goals, Bede’s letter to Egbert manifests Bede’s authoritative rank. As simple priest, not an abbot or bishop but as doctor and spiritalis magister, he commandingly voices serious problems that the English Church had to address if it was to accomplish its apostolate.31 Although Bede experienced the patronage of numerous prelates in his life and works, especially in receiving the help for sources and dates incorporated in the Ecclesiastical History, and was an obedient son of the Roman Church, he was not just a passive receiver of that episcopal patronage; he was a forceful teacher of the English episcopacy, especially of Northumbria. Although the English hierarchy did not adopt all his proposals, Bede’s authority continued to be recognized both in England and on the Continent throughout the Middle Ages. 27 

Councils and Ecclesiastical Documents, ed. by Haddan and Stubbs, iii, p. 395. English Historical Documents, ed. by Douglas, letter no. 184, vol. i, p. 831. 29  Dorothy Whitelock’s editorial note preceding the Letter of Pope Paul I to Eadberht and Egbert, English Historical Documents, ed. by Douglas, letter no. 184, vol. i, p. 830. 30  Ian Wood, in private correspondence, 21 July 2010. He adds: ‘The monks of Donamutha were probably transferred to Jarrow when it was founded, and Donamutha itself (across Jarrow Slake at South Shields) was turned into a royal nunnery.’ 31  Thacker, ‘Bede’s Ideal of Reform’, pp. 130–31. 28 

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Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Documents Harvard, Houghton Library, MS Typ 202

Primary Sources Bede, Ecclesiastical History, ed. by Bertram Colgrave and R. A. B. Mynors, Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969); trans. by Leo Sherley-Price, rev. by R. E. Latham, intro., notes, and trans. of minor works by D. H. Farmer, Ecclesiastical History of the English People with Bede’s Letter to Egbert and Cuthbert’s Letter on the Death of Bede (London: Penguin, 1990) —— , Epistola ad Ecgbertum episcopum, ed. by Charles Plummer, in Venerabilis Baedae opera historica (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1896), i, pp. 405–23 —— , Epistola ad Pleguinam, ed. by Charles Jones, Opera de temporibus, pars 3, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 123C (Turnhout: Brepols, 1980), pp. 617–26; trans. by Faith Wallis, in Bede: The Reckoning of Time (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1999), pp. 405–15 —— , In Ezram et Neemiam, ed. by D. Hurst, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 119A (Turnhout: Brepols, 1969); trans. by Scott DeGregorio, Bede: On Ezra and Nehemiah (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 2006) —— , In Lucam, ed. by D. Hurst, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 120 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1960) —— , Letter to Egbert, trans. by D. H. Farmer, in Ecclesiastical History of the English People with Bede’s Letter to Egbert and Cuthbert’s Letter on the Death of Bede, trans. by Leo Sherley-Price, rev. by R. E. Latham, intro., notes, and trans. of minor works by D. H. Farmer (London: Penguin, 1990), pp. 357–60 Councils and Ecclesiastical Documents Relating to Great Britain and Ireland, ed. by Arthur West Haddan and William Stubbs, 3 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1869–78) Cuthbert, Epistola de obitu Bedae, ed. by Bertram Colgrave and R. A. B. Mynors, in Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969), pp. 580–87 English Historical Documents, ed. by David C. Douglas, 12 vols (Oxford: Oxford Uni­ versity Press, 1953–77), i: c. 500–1042, ed. by Dorothy Whitelock, 2nd edn (1979)

Secondary Studies Blair, John, The Church in Anglo-Saxon Society (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) Brown, George Hardin, A Companion to Bede (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2009) Brown, Michelle, Anglo-Saxon Manuscripts (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1991) Catalogue of Manuscripts in the Houghton Library, Harvard University, 8 vols (Alexandria: Chadwyck-Healey, 1986–87)

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Coates, Simon, ‘The Bishop as Pastor and Solitary: Bede and the Spiritual Authority of the Monk-Bishop’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 47 (1996), 601–19 Davis, R. H. C., ‘Bede after Bede’, Studies in Medieval History Presented to R. Allen Brown, ed. by Christopher Harper-Bill, Christopher J. Holdsworth, and Janet L. Nelson (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1989), pp. 103–16 DeGregorio, Scott, ‘Bede’s In Ezram et Neemiam and the Reform of the Northumbrian Church’, Speculum, 79 (2004), 1–25 —— , ‘“Nostrorum socordiam temporum”: The Reforming Impulse of Bede’s Later Exegesis’, Early Medieval Europe, 11 (2002), 107–22 Laistner, M. L. W., and H. H. King, A Hand-List of Bede Manuscripts (Ithaca: Cornell Uni­versity Press, 1943) Lapidge, Michael, ‘Acca of Hexham and the Origin of the Old English Martyrology’, Analecta Bollandiana, 123 (2005), 24–78 —— , ‘Ecgberht’, in The Blackwell Encyclopaedia of Anglo-Saxon England, ed. by Michael Lapidge and others (Oxford: Blackwell, 1999), p. 157 Marsden, Richard, The Text of the Old Testament in Anglo-Saxon England, Cambridge Studies in Anglo-Saxon England, 15 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995) Mayr-Harting, Henry, ‘Ecgberht [Egbert]’, in Oxford Dictionary of National Biography: In Association with the British Academy, ed. by H. C. G. Matthew and Brian Harrison, 61 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004), xvii, pp. 634–35 Parkes, Malcolm B., The Scriptorium of Wearmouth-Jarrow, Jarrow Lecture (1982); repr. in Bede and his World, ii: The Jarrow Lectures 1979–1993, ed. by Michael Lapidge (Aldershot: Variorum, 1994), pp. 555–86 Sharpe, Richard, ‘Churches and Communities in Early Medieval Ireland’, in Pastoral Care before the Parish, ed. by John Blair and Richard Sharpe (Leicester: Leicester University Press, 1992), pp. 81–109 Thacker, Alan, ‘Bede’s Ideal of Reform’, in Ideal and Reality in Frankish and Anglo-Saxon Society: Studies presented to J. M. Wallace-Hadrill, ed. by Patrick Wormald, Donald Bullough, and Roger Collins (Oxford: Blackwell, 1983), pp. 130–53 —— , ‘St Wilfrid’, in The Blackwell Encyclopaedia of Anglo-Saxon England, ed. by Michael Lapidge and others (Oxford: Blackwell, 1999), pp. 474–76 Whitelock, Dorothy, After Bede, Jarrow Lecture (1960); repr. in Bede and his World, i: The Jarrow Lectures 1958–1978, ed. by Michael Lapidge (Aldershot: Variorum, 1994), pp. 37–50 —— , ‘Bede and his Teachers and Friends’, in Famulus Christi: Essays in Commemoration of the Thirteenth Centenary of the Birth of the Venerable Bede, ed. by Gerald Bonner (London: SPCK, 1976), pp. 19–39 —— , From Bede to Alfred: Studies in Early Anglo-Saxon Literature and History, Collected Studies Series, 121 (London: Variorum Reprints, 1980)

Between Censorship and Patronage: Interaction between Bishops and Scholars in Carolingian Book Dedications Sita Steckel Introduction: Carolingian Bishops as ‘Censors’? At first glance, it does not seem controversial to state that bishops in Carolingian Francia in the late eighth and ninth centuries frequently received dedications of books and acted as censors of doctrinal writings. In addition to presiding at church councils, bishops had been responsible for overseeing new writings since late antiquity. And though Carolingian kings played an important role in initiating and controlling ecclesiastical reform, it was the bishops to whom the task of overseeing the church and its doctrine naturally fell. As we know, they were increasingly aware of their active political role from at least 829 onwards, and episcopal power continued to be established locally and defined in a wide-ranging ecclesio-political discourse throughout the course of the ninth century.1 Yet the question of how and when bishops acted as both censors and literary patrons of new books within the Carolingian Empire has hardly been studied, even though it would appear rather important, and a great number of book dedications were made to bishops. The sources yield many references to procedures apparently akin to later ‘censorship’, variously called examinatio, correctio or even censura. As will emerge in more detail in the course of this chapter, such ‘censorship’ cannot merely be understood as standardized control or even as a 1 

For the role and self-image of bishops in the Carolingian period, see the exhaustive treatment by Patzold, Episcopus with references to the older literature. Sita Steckel is Junior Professor of History (European High and Late Middle Ages) at Westfälische Wilhelms-Universität in Münster, Germany. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 103–126 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102229

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particularly repressive activity in the earlier and high Middle Ages.2 As I would like to argue in the following essay, the supervision of doctrine was increasingly perceived as a productive and useful aspect of the office of the bishop in the first half of the ninth century because it was closely intertwined with patronage of learning and religious writing. As I shall attempt to demonstrate, portraying bishops as patrons allowed the formation of an ideal image of the bishop as ‘guardian of doctrine’. And by according the episcopacy much religious and intellectual prestige, this image-formation may in turn have helped the development of ideas of censorship and control of doctrinal writing. A source example that encapsulates some of the ideas inherent in episcopal censorship in the earlier Middle Ages comes from the pen of the famous Northumbrian teacher Alcuin of York (d. 804), one of the well-known scholars connected to the court of Charlemagne around 800. In the context of the controversy over Adoptionism in the 790s, Alcuin submitted a treatise against the Adoptionist archbishop Elipand of Toledo to a group of bishops and abbots in Southern France. In his accompanying letter, he stated: judicio vestrae auctoritatis atque sanctitatis tantummodo contentus, nec in publicas aures easdem meae devotionis litterulae procedere velim, nisi prius vestrae auctoritatis censura examinentur, et fraternae congregationis lectione confirmentur. I am content with the judgment of your authority and sanctity, and do not want my devoted writing to go out unto public ears unless it has been examined in censorship by your authority, and confirmed in a reading of the fraternal congregation.3

In another letter, dedicating his prosimetric Vita Sancti Willibrordi to Arch­bishop Beornrad of Sens (d. 797), Alcuin similarly asked for a censoring judgement: Sed et omnia quae […] dictavi, tuae sanctitatis spectant judicium, utrum digna memoriae, an pumice radenda feroci; nec nisi tuo roborata examine procedant in puplicum’. But everything I have dictated […] awaits the judgment of Your Holiness, whether it be worthy of remembrance, or to be erased with savage pumice. Only corroborated by your examination should it go out to the public.4 2  For literature on censorship in the Middle Ages, see the recent overview in Werner, Den Irrtum liquidieren, esp. pp. 17–19. For late antiquity, see esp. Speyer, Büchervernichtung und Zensur; for the Middle Ages, see Godman, The Silent Masters; Bianchi, Censure et liberté; Vollrath, ‘Bernhard und Abaelard’; Flahiff, ‘Ecclesiastical Censorship’; Wiest, The Precensorship of Books; and Hilgers, Die Bücherverbote. 3  Alcuin, Contra epistolam, ed. by Migne, col. 232C. 4  Alcuin, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, no. 120, p. 175.

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In a few well-put lines, Alcuin manages to evoke a striking image of pre-censorship (censura praevia), the main form of ecclesiastical censorship of books in the Middle Ages.5 Used from late antiquity onwards, this form of censorship prescribed a public reading and/or examination of a doctrinal text before circulation, either by a bishop and his advisors, by a council, or by the pope. As Alcuin put it, texts might or might not be ‘worthy’ to enter a public sphere of the church in written or aural (publicas aures) form. To safeguard this hypothesized space of ecclesiastical communication, bishops and abbots should not be squeamish in their wielding of the ‘savage pumice’, a somewhat fanciful image for the various devices used for erasing writing from parchment. According to the ideal image that Alcuin painted, their duty to preserve the purity of doctrine made bishops natural gatekeepers of a sphere of ecclesiastical writing, and thus censors. Whether this amounts to actual ‘censorship’ has not been discussed in much detail and the general view of early medieval censorship we can glean from extant research appears extraordinarily ambivalent.6 A glance at Alcuin’s two references illustrates this attitude. On the one hand, he implies a plausible necessity for careful political handling of doctrine in the controversy over Adoptionism in the 790s.7 But his insistence that even a Saint’s life needed Archbishop Beornrad’s censura seems suspiciously overeager. If we look at other letters of dedication by Alcuin, it quickly emerges that the Northumbrian scholar did not mean to imply that systematic censorship of all writings was generally necessary. A second dedication in the same genre, of Alcuin’s Vita Sancti Vedasti to Abbot Rado of Saint-Vaast, lacks the pointed reference to censorship. In a strikingly different plea for examination, Alcuin merely asked his friend Rado to praise or criticize the work, since he had encouraged its conception. Alcuin was sending the Vita as a gift: ‘vestrae haec munuscula direxi pietati, obsecrans, ut tam humili ea fraternitatis intuitu respicere digneris, quam nos pia devotionis caritate illa vobis dirigere studuimus’ (‘I am sending this as a little gift to Your Piety, out of faithful brotherly love, asking for it to be regarded with a humble observance of brotherhood fitting the spirit of pious and devout love in which 5 

See the literature above in n. 2. For thoughts on early medieval censorship, we mostly have to rely on brief reflections in works treating later periods, e.g. Godman, The Silent Masters, pp. 4–31; Werner, Den Irrtum liquidieren, pp. 127–30; Speyer, Büchervernichtung und Zensur, pp. 121–76; Hilgers, Die Bücherverbote, pp. 3–15; and Wiest, The Precensorship of Books, pp. 10–14. 7  For the context, see Cavadini, The Last Christology of the West. 6 

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it has been sent’).8 Not only is the formalized process of examination watered down to a request for friendly praise or criticism, but the tell-tale designation of the text as a gift (munusculum) puts the whole exchange firmly in a different context, that of literary exchange within and between scholarly and ecclesiastical networks. Once it becomes clear that Alcuin did not consider it strictly necessary to ask for pre-censorship at all times and for all genres, his formal plea for censorship to Archbishop Beornrad of Sens appears in a different light. Alcuin was apparently trying to express his respect for Beornrad’s ecclesiastical role and rank — highlighting for example his own modesty and humility by speaking of Beornrad’s ‘command’ to write, and referring to his own resulting ‘obedience’ and ‘charity’ in dedicating the work.9 Though this was a multi-layered relationship, Alcuin’s dedication and appeal for censorship to Beornrad appears to reinforce a patronage relationship10 — as do similar appeals by other authors.11

8 

See the context passages, Alcuin, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, no. 74, pp. 116–17: ‘nihil tuae reverentiae iussis denegare ratum putavi. Idcirco ad te maxime pertinet harum laus vel vituperatio litterarum […] Et ego quamvis scientia inops, tamen fraterno fidelis amore, vestrae haec munuscula direxi pietati’ etc. (‘I did not hold it wise to deny anything to the commands of Your Reverence. Therefore the praise or criticism of these writings should also be yours most of all.[…] And, though poor in learning, I am sending this as a little gift to Your Piety, out of faithful brotherly love’). 9  See Alcuin’s opening of the letter to Beornrad, Alcuin, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, no. 120, p. 175: ‘Delatis ad nos vestrae excellentiae litteris […] magno me gaudio affectum esse fateor. Sed tamen longe imparem me petitioni vestrae consideravi, utpote nullo praerogativae munere eloquentiae suffultus, ad implendum quod iussisti; ac nisi me caritas urgeret, quae nulla negare solet, non auderem ultra meae paupertatis vires negotium attingere’ (‘When Your Excellency’s letters were delivered to us […], I admit that I felt great pleasure. But I considered myself utterly unable to grant your petition, seeing that without the gifts of eloquence, I cannot lay any claim to carry our your order; and I should not dare to begin a work beyond my very poor skills at all, if I did not feel the urge of charity, which is not wont to deny anything’). 10  To avoid misunderstandings, it must be stated clearly that speaking about a ‘patronage’ relationship in this instance does not imply denouncing Alcuin’s dedications of his books as openly or solely instrumental. Given the opacity of the source genre, this could hardly be decided either way, even if it seems highly unlikely that Alcuin saw book-gifts primarily as means to a social end. Here, the term ‘patronage’ is used to describe a hierarchical relationship, in which Beornrad was nevertheless obliged to recognize Alcuin’s abilities as an expert on doctrine and as an author. See e.g. the classic treatment in Eisenstadt and Roniger, Patrons, Clients and Friends. 11  Literature is scarce for the earlier Middle Ages, but see Bumke, Courtly Culture, first published in German, 1986. For analysis of prologues and letters of dedication detailing mechanisms of book dedication: Simon, ‘Untersuchungen zur Topik’; Janson, Latin Prose Prefaces.

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This connection of censorship with patronage is hardly surprising. It would seem that bishops make almost natural addressees for book dedications by young monks or clerics, and their office would also imply a role as censor. But these connections have not been explored in any detail in the extant research — and neither has the nature of censorship in the earlier Middle Ages nor has the idea that bishops acted as censors. One reason for this is that modern observers have often doubted that ‘censorship’ existed in the earlier Middle Ages. Given the unsystematic nature of his references, for example, Alcuin does not seem to be as concerned with the control of doctrinal writing as his resounding words on ‘savage erasing’ to Beornrad imply. The unsystematic, apparently merely situational distribution of references to examinatio or censura implies that there was no real ecclesiastical censorship of books in this period. The literature unanimously states that, in theory, concepts of pre- and post-publication censorship were known from late antiquity onwards (censura praevia, censura repressiva), as was the notion of a list of ‘forbidden’ books such as the Decretum Gelasianum de libris recipiendis et non recipiendis. But records of actual censorship are limited to a few, well-known cases connected to larger, politicized controversies, and we have only sporadic mention of censorship outside of those examples, which do not seem to have prompted any episcopal action. Significantly, we have only a single instance of a letter documenting papal pre-censorship for the whole Carolingian period.12 Extant research concludes that we have to wait for the twelfth century and its exponential increase in the number of schools and scholarly mobility for censorship to become an institutionalized and formalized practice. But then, what do we do with the many instances of books being dedicated to bishops, abbots, and kings with accompanying pleas for examination, censorship, and correction? Most literature on this question has discounted them, stating that the sentences are taken to be mere topoi, empty words.13 But this situation leaves much to be desired and indeed seems somewhat ironic. Even today, the twelfth century is habitually presented as the period of increasing academic and intellectual freedom par excellence, while the earlier Middle Ages and the Carolingian church in particular often enough continue to be portrayed as restrictive, pointedly orthodox, and intellectually narrow. This description of Carolingian culture as highly ‘repressive’ directly conflicts with the assumption 12 

See Somerville, ‘Pope Nicholas I’. See e.g. Speyer, Büchervernichtung und Zensur, p. 176. Most similar judgements are influenced by Curtius, European Literature, e.g. pp. 82–105. 13 

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that it knew no institutionalized control of doctrinal writing.14 To uphold both notions, Peter Godman had to take recourse in the vague formulation that even if formal procedures may have been lacking, the early medieval centuries would have witnessed a ‘mentality’ of censorship.15 But if we ask for documentation or further illustration of such a repressive mentality, it seems that we can only point to the same topoi of correction that have been routinely discarded as meaningless in the search for formalized mechanisms of control. This way of thinking about censorship in the earlier Middle Ages seems contradictory and unsatisfying. It remains caught up in a painfully ambivalent methodical stance on the hermeneutic status of topoi, and overlooks the possibility that verbal formulae may indeed have something to do with formalization of social practices and could be read, for example, as ritualized communication. In the following, I would like to propose a systematic study of references to censorship and related concepts. Engaging in this study will enable us to deal with three interconnected questions on the history of episcopal control of doctrine which have so far been left unanswered. First, if the topical references to censorship in early medieval writing are not really censorship — then what are they? What do they do, and what ideals of bishops and scholars do they present? Second, in what sense can we talk about ‘censorship’ at all? Can we even surmise that early medieval censoring practices could work like modern ones — in a period without modern notions of textuality, and indeed without marked concepts of ‘theory’, ‘sentences’, or ‘theology’ like the ones developed in the twelfth century?16 And if these considerations can be addressed, third, what does this tell us about the image of the episcopal office, and about the interaction between bishops and scholars? Might their exchanges of idealized images of their respective roles even have influenced the concepts of the episcopal teaching office, and the structure of an ecclesiastical sphere of communication? The present chapter attempts to address all three questions. It explores first the social, then the epistemological, and finally the political angles of ninthcentury book dedications to bishops. Some important aspects such as the role of Carolingian kings and of popes can only be hinted at, and to keep the argument simple, examples shall only be drawn from a very limited number of texts.17 While the various aspects relating to the complex field cannot be 14 

Compare, for example, Vollrath, ‘Bernhard und Abaelard’, p. 315. Godman, The Silent Masters, p. 26. 16  See for example Evans, Old Arts and New Theology; and Evans, ‘Sententia’. 17  Besides the handful of texts used in the following pages, conclusions presented here are based on a broader study of the prologues, letter-treatises, and letters of dedication from 15 

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discussed exhaustively, some tentative conclusions do emerge. It appears that episcopal censorship was made popular in the first half of the ninth century because scholars’ desire to gain episcopal support prompted them to pointedly address bishops as censors.18

Idealizing the Bishop: Social Interaction and Patronage Patterns in Book Dedication To shed some light on the social implications of book dedication, many cases of ninth-century scholars dedicating books to bishops could be cited besides Alcuin’s evocative pleas for pre-censorship. But an especially illuminating example comes from one of his students, the scholar-monk Hrabanus Maurus of Fulda (c. 783–d. 856). In the year 819, he dedicated a substantial work to the bishop responsible for his monastery of Fulda, Archbishop Haistulf of Mayence (d. 825). This was the De institutione clericorum, a handbook for the clergy and only Hrabanus’s second work. In his mid-thirties, Hrabanus was a priest and Fulda’s esteemed teacher, but he still had three years to go before he would be elected abbot of Fulda in 822 and decades more before eventually succeeding Haistulf as archbishop of Mayence in 847.19 As is typical for a letter from a younger scholar to a markedly higher-ranking ecclesiastic, Hrabanus’s carefully phrased dedication to Haistulf thus pays much attention to social and rhetorical conventions. This becomes visible from the first lines of the letter, as Hrabanus idealized Archbishop Haistulf ’s episcopal status considerably. In the first paragraph, Hrabanus called Haistulf ‘holy father’, and then insisted on the Archbishop being ‘honourable and lovable to all’ because of his ‘piety, faith, and sound doctrine’.20 Haistulf was thus described as practising the pastoral ideals of spirthe period 790–870 which are contained in the MGH Epistolae, iv, v, and vi, ed. by Ernst Dümmler and others (Berlin: Weidmann, 1895, 1899, and 1925). 18  For a more detailed treatment and full documentation, see Steckel, Kulturen des Lehrens, pp. 515–688. 19  For Hrabanus’s career and writing, see the overview in Kottje and Zimmermann, Hrabanus Maurus; the appraisal in de Jong, ‘Old Law and New-Found Power’; also see de Jong, ‘The Empire as ecclesia’. 20  See the relevant passage, Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, no. 3, p. 385: ‘Domino reverentissimo ac religiosissimo Haistulfo archiepiscopo Hrabanus minimus servorum Dei servus aeternam in Christo optat salutem. Cum te, sancte pater, pro merito summae pietatis plurimi venerentur et omnibus fidelibus causa magnae fidei et sanæ doctrinæ honorabilis atque amabilis existas […]’ (‘To the very reverend and very religious lord Archbishop Haistulf,

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itual fatherhood and amiability on one hand, and correct faith and doctrine on the other — two halves of an ecclesiastical ideal that was deeply embedded in the Carolingian ecclesiastical reform agenda shaped by authors like Alcuin.21 In lauding Haistulf as an ideal bishop, Hrabanus Maurus also portrayed himself as an ideal subordinate and knowledgeable scholar. He started by declaring that the book he was dedicating to the bishop was meant as a gift.22 Indeed, it was a counter-gift: since Haistulf had already shown much benevolence to him, Hrabanus dared to offer his book, even if the gift was small (munusculum) and hardly worthy of the recipient. He was still confident that it would be accepted, since a spirit that was rich in goodness as Haistulf ’s apparently was or should be, would certainly respect the devotion of the giver more than the value of the gift.23 The book’s material value, Hrabanus implied, might be inconsiderable, but his devotion in giving it was all the more real. These lines put the dedication firmly in a context of scholarly exchange and literary patronage. The book is turned into an erudite gift, a token, which had separate social and symbolic worth in addition to its literary or material value. Haistulf ’s ritualized response to Hrabanus’s multi-layered gift would have been to show continued loving benevolence to his subject. This would, in turn, engender more respect and gifts from Hrabanus, and so on. In this case, we know that a mutual exchange of real and symbolic gifts continued, with both the bishop and the scholar-abbot engaged in a felicitous give-and-take of symbolic and social capital.24 Hrabanus the lowliest servant of all the servants of God wishes eternal salvation in Christ. As many revere you, holy father, for the merit of your intense piety, and you are held to be honourable and pleasing by all the faithful because of your great faith and sane doctrine […]’). [continued in n. 23 below]. 21  See for example Cristiani, ‘Le Vocabulaire’. 22  For concepts of gift-giving and gift exchange appearing in this dedication and related texts, see Steckel, ‘Ammirabile commertium’. See also Curta, ‘Merovingian and Carolingian Gift Giving’, and the recent contributions in Davies and Fouracre, The Languages of the Gift. 23  Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, no. 3, p. 385: [continued from n. 20 above] ‘[…] congruum esse iudicavi, ut ego, in quem plurimum tuorum beneficiorum contulisti, aliquod munusculum, licet non condignum, tamen ut credo non ingratum, tuæ venerationi deferrem, nihil verens de pretio, quia animus in bonitate dives magis estimat devotionem offerentis quam donum’ (‘[…] I judged it proper that I, as one on whom so many of your beneficial deeds were conferred, should offer Your Veneration a gift as well — and though it may not be a worthy gift, it may still be welcome, as I believe — in fact I have no fears about its value, as the spirit rich in goodness deems the devotion of the giver more important than the gift itself ’). 24  For the following exchanges, see Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, nos 5–6, pp. 388–91.

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But Hrabanus did more than simply give his book away. He formally submitted it to censorship by Archbishop Haistulf: Et hac fiducia ausus sum partem laboris mei […] tibi, quem benignissimum et æquis­ simum esse scio, vice muneris dirigere, ut a te qualiscumque sit, reciperetur ac tuo sacro iudicio probaretur atque ad purum examinatur. […] Proinde obsecro te, sancte pater, ut oblatum tibi opus suscipias ac pie relegens diligenter illud examines, et ita quæ in eo rationabiliter inveneris dictata, ei hoc tribuas, a quo est omnis ratio creata. Si qua vero inconsiderate repperieris prolata, tuo studio cito reddas illa emendata. Et sic credo legentibus erunt utilia. And because of this trust I have dared to send you, whom I know as very benevolent and just, a part of my work as a gift, so that it should be received by you, however it appears, to be tried by your sacred judgment, and to be examined for purity. […] And therefore I beseech you, holy father, to receive the offered work and to examine it diligently, in a pious reading. And this way, you will be able to attribute anything that you find reasonably said to Him who created reason. But if you should find any inconsiderate things, they can be quickly emended thanks to your zeal. And in this way they will be useful to the reader, I think.25

Like his teacher Alcuin, Hrabanus envisioned a detailed examination and correction of his book in a full-blown procedure of censura praevia. Going beyond Alcuin, Hrabanus put this double enterprise of dedication and examination into a specific context. Alluding to the fact that Haistulf had been the bishop who ordained him, he added, ‘Tuo enim magisterio semper me libens subdam, a quo recordor me accepisse dignitatem aecclesiasticam’ (‘For I always submit voluntarily to your teaching office, remembering that from it I accepted my ecclesiastical dignity [i.e. the priesthood, S.S.]’).26 Personalizing the bond between himself as an author and his ecclesiastical superior, Hrabanus established a connection between Haistulf ’s power to consecrate and his authority over the resulting doctrine of the subordinate. Hrabanus was reminding the archbishop that he was his ‘spiritual father’ in a very specific and individual sense. The use of the term magisterium for an ecclesiastical teaching office, which typically brings to mind much later debates, is all the more interesting in this instance as it is not often used for bishops in ninth-century sources.27 Recent 25 

Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, no. 3, pp. 385–86. Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, no. 5, p. 386 [continued from passage quoted at n. 22]. 27  There is no very clear-cut idea of magisterium in the earlier and high Middle Ages, and the term only gained prominence with nineteenth and twentieth debates on the Magisterium 26 

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research has emphasized that the conceptual framework of lay and ecclesiastical political power was reworked fundamentally in Carolingian Francia in the first half of the ninth century.28 But as Steffen Patzold has made quite clear, ministerium remained the keyword for the episcopal office, magisterium as a term appears only rarely.29 The effect of Hrabanus’s elegant wrapping of his scholarly gift-exchange into an idealized concept of episcopal and priestly office is clear. To call upon a magisterium, a doctrinal/scholarly part of Haistulf ’s official ministerium, put subtle but insistent pressure on the archbishop to pay attention to this author and his work. On a personal level, Haistulf may have been pleased by Hrabanus’s gift. But in his official capacity, he was obliged to acknowledge it because of the plea for episcopal examination and correctio, another political keyword in the ninth century.30 Haistulf had to take Hrabanus seriously, read his book carefully, and put to it to good ecclesiastical use, because his episcopal office demanded it. Maybe quite unintentionally, Hrabanus Maurus, in transforming his gift into a highly official duty, had reinforced the idea that censorship was an important part of the episcopal office.

Idealizing Knowledge: Epistemological Aspects of Book Examinations If we go a step further and take the exact form and concept of apparent ‘censorship’ into consideration, contemporary ideas about knowledge come to the foreground. If we read Hrabanus’s De institutione clericorum closely, the Fulda scholar not only asked Archbishop Haistulf to correct things that might be wrong, he asked him to select those things which were said reasonably (rationabiliter) and ascribe them to the creator of reason, God himself, while others should be ‘emended’.31 This is clearly a topos, and a very popular one in the ninth century, which could be called the topos of selection (as opposed to topical references to correction). Hrabanus himself used it many times, as had his teacher Alcuin before of the Catholic Church. For the earliest developments, see Congar, ‘Bref historique’. See also Steckel, Kulturen des Lehrens. 28  See e.g. Patzold, Episcopus; de Jong, The Penitential State; and Airlie, Pohl, and Reimitz, Staat im frühen Mittelalter. 29  See Patzold, Episcopus, passim. 30  See for example Depreux, ‘Ambitions et limites’, pp. 732–37. 31  See above at n. 22.

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him, walking in the footsteps of the church fathers. Other Carolingian scholars down to John Scottus Eriugena in the third quarter of the ninth century would continue to employ it in their dedications.32 The idea behind it is quite intriguing: As Hrabanus’s words show, he distinguished two types of knowledge, God-given reasonable findings and his own human ‘inconsiderate things’. It thus appears that he envisioned the knowledge relating to doctrine (later ‘theology’) as a broad dichotomy of divine truth and human error.33 In themselves, humans could not do good or recognize truth — they needed divine grace. To clarify by contrast, it could be added that from the twelfth century onwards, this dichotomy would be replaced with a more nuanced model, in which various modes of human knowing were acknowledged, and considered to lead gradually to divine wisdom and absolute certainty. Besides fides, absolute ‘faith’, the twelfth century for example also postulated human opinions, opiniones, and human learning as scientia based intellectus.34 In the ninth century, we see a much harsher division of knowledge into divine truth and human error. The thin line between the two was established by divine grace, which filled the exegete and teacher of doctrine with inspiration through the Holy Spirit.35 If it was absent, a human author would eventually err. But if it elevated him beyond the human plane, he could recognize and write about truth — which he nevertheless owed to God. Hrabanus would actually set this out as a general rule in his very handbook De institutione clericorum. Even if human authors expressed truth and wisdom, this still should

32  For repeated use of this topos in Hrabanus’s letters, see Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, no. 3, p. 386; no. 19, p. 425; no. 27, p. 442; no. 34, p. 468; no. 35, p. 470; and no. 42, p. 481. For Alcuin, see e.g. Alcuin, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, no. 80, p. 123: ‘si quid in eis perperam dixerim, tu fraterno stilo corrigere studeas; si quid vero bene, non mihi, sed largitori gratias age, qui et te proficere et me tibi sufficere ex donis suis faciat’ (‘if I have said anything in them wrongly, aim to correct it with a brotherly pen; though if something is good, do not say thanks to me, but to the Provider of all, who out of His gifts shall make you prosper and allow me to satisfy you’). For John Scottus Eriugena, see Iohannis Scotti seu Erivgenae Periphyseon, ed. by Jeauneau, p. 861. 33  In this, Hrabanus would have been in accordance with other ninth-century and earlier authors, going back in a clear line of tradition to Paul, who had underlined the role of grace in his ‘non ego autem, sed gratia Dei mecum’ (i Corinthians 15. 10). See e.g. Meier, ‘Autorschaft im 12. Jahrhundert’, p. 209. 34  For such concepts in the twelfth century, see in detail Bezner, Vela Veritatis. 35  Literature on epistemology in the earlier Middle Ages is scarce, but see Evans, Getting it Wrong, pp. 68–69.

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be ascribed to God. These things were only understood by humans in so far as higher powers actively allowed them to investigate.36 While twelfth-century authors could handle and rearrange their merely human theories with considerable insouciance, ninth-century exegetes like Hrabanus were somewhat limited by these assumptions. Carolingian doctrinal writers apparently assumed that, buoyed by the Holy Spirit, they were handling divine truth itself. And that was a dangerous business, calling for humility, awareness of one’s own human fallibility, and consequently for caution in circulating a new work. According to his own theory, Hrabanus Maurus could hope and pray that God would inspire him with the truth. But he could never be arrogant enough to be certain of it. Aware of his own human frailty, he could never fully claim to know or to write true or wise things, especially when he went beyond known authorities such as the church fathers.37 Since Hrabanus was subscribing to the notion of a broad dichotomy of divinely inspired truth and human error — and actually reinforcing such a concept in the process — he had no immediate way to determine the status of his own writing. The solution to this dilemma leads to further insights into the function of topoi of correction in dedication letters, and of the role of bishops in the emerging scholarly endeavour of clarifying doctrine. To gain clarity about the status of his writings, Hrabanus needed to have external confirmation of their quality, and that was exactly what Archbishop Haistulf was expected to give him. When Hrabanus asked him for censura praevia and selection of true or erroneous passages, we can surmise that he was not only asking for a check-up on his doctrine, for censorship in the sense of control. He was also, and mainly, asking for approbation.

36 

Hrabanus Maurus, De institutione clericorum, ed. and trans. by Zimpel, ii, 3. 2, p. 462: ‘Nec enim illa, quae in libris prudentium huius saeculi vera et sapientia reperiuntur, alii quam veritati et sapientiae tribuendae sunt, quia non ab illis haec primum statuta sunt, in quorum dictis haec leguntur, sed ab aeterno manentia magis investigata sunt, quantum ipsa doctrix et inluminatrix omnium veritas et sapientia eis investigare posse concessit’ (‘Nor are the true and wise words found in the books of the sages of this world to be attributed to anyone but to Truth and Wisdom itself. For they have not been first instituted by them whose sayings now transmit them. Rather, they have been researched among the eternal and unchanging things, and just as far as skill for such investigation was given to them by Truth and Wisdom itself, the teacher and illuminator of all’). 37  For an appraisal of Hrabanus’s exegesis, which presented new arguments fairly frequently, see de Jong, ‘Old Law and New-Found Power’, passim.

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Given ninth-century ideas about sacred truth and human access to it through humility and adherence to authority, it could in fact only be Haistulf ’s acceptance of the work — in his official capacity as bishop, representing the church — that completed and confirmed the text and gave it status as an orthodox and inspired book. Receiving such an endorsement, which, to early medieval authors, was implicit in silent acceptance of a work,38 gave Hrabanus the status of an orthodox and divinely inspired author. In his case, we know that news about his inspiration spread quickly. Only a few years later, bishop Frechulf of Lisieux would implore him to write down what inspiration had told him. Eventually, the Emperor Lothar I himself would call Hrabanus a light of doctrine, and even put him on a par with the church fathers Jerome, Augustine, Gregory, and Ambrose.39 But this elevated status, and a task as important as the explanation of doctrine, carried its own dangers. If a scholar handled divine truth and Christian doctrine, he was in fact exercising a kind of magisterium himself — or herself, as the case might be.40 And since Carolingian thought did not possess a concept of ‘learning’ approximating the later sense of scientia, expertise on doctrinal matters could not be seen as a province of experts. In theory, episcopal authority over doctrine was a cornerstone of ecclesiastical order — even if lowly monks or clerics sometimes surpassed bishops as biblical scholars. But in practice, ecclesiastical office-holders and scholars without such offices had the same teaching function and taught the same divine truth. This latent competition between bishops and scholars had to be rather upsetting if it was openly discussed. Possible differences in learning had to be explained away, or somehow made invisible. As a study of the distribution of topoi of correction shows, Carolingian scholars did this in a quite systematic manner, and found various complementary solutions to address the underlying dilemma. For example, scholars could allude to the concept of an episcopal magisterium by stating that they, in the name of humility, did not wish to teach a superior.41 Especially in prologues or widely circulating treatises, this could 38 

See Simon, ‘Untersuchungen zur Topik’, part 1, p. 61–62. See Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, no. 7, p. 392 (Frechulf ); Epistolae, no. 49, p. 504 (Lothar I). 40  One of the most interesting aspects of early medieval concepts of a ‘teaching office’, which begs comparative study, is that the vocabulary of magisterium was also ascribed to women. See for example the Vita Leobae by Rudolf of Fulda, himself a disciple of Hrabanus: Rudolf of Fulda, Vita Leobae, ed. by Waitz. 41  See e.g. an anonymous letter in which a former student successfully demolished a teacher’s opinion, and then added: ‘Hoc autem dico, Deus scit, non docere affectans, qui nichil 39 

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be boiled down to a formula declaring ‘readiness to accept correction’, as for example, ‘Haec ergo iuxta id quod sensimus et a magistris traditum accepimus, stylo protulimus, non praeiudicantes his, qui melius sapiunt ac melius sermonibus proferre norunt’ (‘All this we propose according to what we feel and what we have learned from our masters, but not to the prejudice of others, who may know better and will put this in better words’).42 Alternatively, scholars could assert that the bishop they addressed probably knew all that was written already. Being part of the apostolic hierarchy, a bishop was already ‘conscious of divinity’.43 Finally, scholars could always ask a bishop for pre-censorship as with Hrabanus in the case of Haistulf, and thus ascribe a superior position in the magisterium to him.44 While often rather transparent, these strategies allowed scholars to frame their interaction with bishops in an idealized social order. This apparently allowed order to be upheld even though the scholars’ presence threatened an older idealized concept of an apostolic hierarchy, in which bishops and abbots were always meant to take precedence over their subordinates. sum, sed discere cupiens in quod libentissime promtus sum, neque pertinaciter refellens, sed humiliter quaerens […]’ (‘But I who am nothing do not say this, God knows, in a pretension to teach. I just wish to learn, and am most willing to do so, not refusing obstinately, but asking humbly’). Epistolae Variorum, ed. by Dümmler, no. 26, p. 184. 42  Hrabanus Maurus again, in a dedication of his Commentary on the Song of Songs, Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, no. 33, p. 467. 43  For an especially illuminating example, see the anonymous letter no. 11 in Variorum Supplementum, ed. by Dümmler, p. 635: ‘Unum certe scio idque animo persuasi meo: vos ad hoc interrogasse, ut doceretis; requisisse, ut veri callis tramitem ignaro previus ipse monstraretis. Quod enim remota subdolæ adolationis suspicione liceat dicere, non necesse habetis, ut aliquis vos doceat, quia mistica sancti Spiritus eruditio sacro pontificalis unguinis crismate coaptans vos de omnibus cælestis benedictionis plenitudine consecratum edocuit et quadam mirabili metamorphosi in virum alterum, immo in apostolicam ierarchiam transfusum, in Domini potentias, sapientiæ videlicet scientiæque thesauros, introduxit atque ipsius divinitatis conscium reddidit’ (‘One thing I know for sure, and have quite convinced myself: You asked me just in order to teach me, you posed this question to show the outline of the true way to one who previously ignored it. I believe it can be said without suspicion of undue flattery that you do not need anyone to teach you. For the mystical erudition of the Holy Spirit, by pontifical anointing with holy chrism, taught you and made you ready as one consecrated to the plenitude of all celestial blessings. In a wonderful metamorphosis, it made you into another man, transposed into the apostolic hierarchy, introduced you into the powers of the Lord and his treasures of wisdom and knowledge, and rendered you conscious of His divinity itself ’). 44 

Thus for example John Scottus Eriugena (as in n. 32) or, to cite a random example, Abbot Otfried of Weissenburg in his German translation of the Gospel harmony, vis-à-vis archbishop Liutbert of Mayence, letter no. 19, Epistolae Variorum, ed. by Dümmler, p. 169.

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Younger scholars, who were dedicating their first works to higher-ranking patrons, usually seem very conscious of this hierarchy. Not least, they emphasized an episcopal magisterium to produce a binding obligation for the bishop as patron, as we have seen with Hrabanus. In the speculative debates and controversies that were developing in the first half of the ninth century,45 however, scholars had to take more than ecclesiastical rank into account. Given the epistemological dichotomy of divine truth and human error, they not only lacked a concept of scientia. There was also no very clear concept of ‘opinion’.46 Everything that was not truth logically had to be error, not simply a mistake. Such error would even constitute heresy when defended. But Carolingian scholars did want to advance opinions. Quite sensibly, they did not understand every word they wrote as sacred truth. They were clearly conscious of the social and epistemological implications of debating truth, and were thus careful to demonstrate that they did not mean to defend their words with heretical stubbornness, pertinacia.47 The typical way to mark a statement as an ‘opinion’ avant la lettre was, again, to ask the recipient of a book or a treatise to correct it. Scholars also added generalized statements declaring their willingness to be corrected. Such ‘safety clauses’, which toned down the validity of scholars’ assertions to mere hypotheses, may in fact be seen as the direct forerunners of late medieval salva-fide clauses.48 If we consider these functions of the frequent topoi of correction, that is, as tools for negotiating the respective rank of the author and recipient of a text and the respective validity of the statements, a pattern emerges from their seemingly sporadic use and random distribution. In the twelfth century, censorship would be keyed to a medium or to physical boundaries, to ensure examination whenever something was written down, or left a circumscribed space like a monastery. Ninth-century pleas for correction were primarily keyed to the rank of the recipient and specific situations. As far as can be ascertained, authors of doctrinal writing always negotiated their respective authority vis-à-vis higherranking recipients of books, such as bishops, kings, and abbots — unless, the one great exception, they were on very familiar terms with them. Also, debates conducted by letter almost always prompted the use of typical formulae. 45 

For an overview, see Ganz, ‘Theology and the Organization of Thought’. The ninth century also lacks the concept of ‘sentence’ as in twelfth-century sententiae. For these, see Evans, ‘Sententia’, passim. 47  See e.g. the text cited in n. 41 above. 48  On late medieval developments, see Piron, ‘Ecrire en Aveugle’. 46 

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If patron-client relationships between bishops and scholars indeed had this strong influence on the rules of book dedication and ecclesiastical control, it seems hardly surprising that we know of very few actual rebuttals, and of even fewer formal approvals of submitted books.49 The written demonstrations debated here mainly demonstrate awareness of rules and norms. They permitted a bishop who was less learned than his scholarly client to save face. Equally, an opinion could be marked as a debatable, hypothetical argument by mentioning correction, and in both cases, this worked with or without replies and reactions. On a methodical level, the topoi and formulae of correction written in ink and parchment can indeed be analysed exactly like gestures. While based on a written discursive logic, they were also highly performative, and we could indeed understand them as gestures on parchment. Quite far from being empty words, they appear as ritualizations that helped to uphold the social and epistemological order of the early medieval church.

Ideals and Practices: Bishops, Scholars, and the Dimensions of Ecclesiastical Control To describe the overall structures that emerged from the practices discussed so far, it may be helpful to add what the chronology of topoi and ‘safety clauses’ in ninth-century doctrinal writing can tell us. The patterns of communication discussed here do seem to gain in clarity and uniformity with the spread of learning from the court of Charlemagne. Frequently, successive generations of scholars would have handed them on to their students. In the case of Hrabanus, for example, specific similarities make clear that he learned mechanisms of handling book-dedications and censorship from his teacher Alcuin. But the ritualizations they and their contemporaries employed lose coherence in the second half of the ninth century, when the Carolingian Empire had broken up into smaller, localized communities of schools and scholars. Censorship simply stopped being a common concern, until the late eleventh century, when it surfaced again in rather different circumstances. But another, more short-term pattern of development would make much more sense than a model of continuous growth, and still allows some insight into the growth of norms and ideals within the church. The ninth-century formulae and ‘written gestures’ of censorship frequently seem to have evolved around controversies — especially the cause célèbre of ninth-century doctrinal 49 

For the extant approvals, see Simon, ‘Untersuchungen zur Topik’, part 2, pp. 133–36.

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debates, the heavily politicized conflict over divine predestination in the years 848 to 859.50 This conflict was initiated by the monk Gottschalk (d. c. 869), who provoked a controversy about the nature of divine predestination. While inciting much scholarly debate, he also created unrest by announcing to broader audiences of his itinerant preaching that some people were predestined to be damned, and that good works would not save them. In this debate, the rather flexible ideas and formulations about examination and correction, which had so far mostly been uttered voluntarily, seem to have crystallized momentarily into rather rigid norms. For example, actual ‘correction’, when it came, took the form that Hrabanus Maurus and other scholars had envisaged. While some apologetic writing of Gottschalk’s was burned in toto, his condemnation primarily concerned his preaching, rather than a ‘book’ he had written. But when debate broke out over the legitimacy of this condemnation, other scholars were asked to write treatises, or wrote and published them on their own initiative. A heavy attack was then made on a treatise about predestination written by the Irish court scholar, John Scottus Eriugena (d. after 875), famous then as now for the sophistication of his unusual theology. Bishop Prudentius of Troyes (d. 861) was asked to correct John’s book, and found various errors. He flagged them, like the topos of selecting ‘inspired’ from ‘erroneous’ passages envisioned, and famously marked errors with a Greek ‘theta’ signifying death.51 This led to further mishap. Archbishop Hincmar of Reims (d. 882) had commissioned the Irishman’s treatise, initially endorsing its contents by accepting its dedication. In a rather awkward manoeuvre, he then had to extricate himself from his responsibility as the addressee of John’s dedication and his failure to actively censor the work as seemingly required by his episcopal status, claiming publicly that he had never heard of it before.52 To negotiate embarrassing situations like this one, or even just to enable the exchange of opinions among ecclesiastical leaders and scholars, pleas for correction also saw extensive use as ‘safety clauses’ and marks of polite rather than savage exchange. Hrabanus, for example, managed to exchange opinions with his archiepiscopal colleague Hincmar of Reims without compromising their respective authority. He humbly asked Hincmar to approve his writings, but 50 

See the overviews in Ganz, ‘The Debate on Predestination’; Chazelle, The Crucified God in the Carolingian Era, pp. 165–208. 51  See Prudentius of Troyes, De Praedestinatione, ed. by Migne, cols 1011–12. 52  See Hincmar of Reims, De praedestinatione, ed. by Migne, col. 51.

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asserted his own authority by approving Hincmar’s work in the same breath.53 The monk Ratramnus of Corbie (d. c. 868), a scholar without higher office, took a clear stance against Archbishops Hrabanus and Hincmar. But he submitted his treatise for correction to King Charles II (d. 877), to ensure that, if necessary, he would be given a locus defensionis.54 Bishop Prudentius of Troyes, who had been asked to correct the treatise of John Scottus Eriguena by archbishop Guenilo of Sens (d. 856), did end up correcting the Irish scholar’s treatise. But cautiously pursuing a shared policy, Prudentius also asked Archbishop Guenilo for a correction of his correction.55 While all this posturing and ‘written gesturing’ appears somewhat laborious, the topical references to correction and censorship emerge as highly functional. Even though an utter breakdown of communication should have been the consequence of the bitter doctrinal differences, the ecclesiastical writers involved managed to avoid it. The debate on predestination yields one additional fascinating document. At least one bishop had bothered to check the writings of the accused monk Gottschalk for ‘safety clauses’. This reader, Archbishop Amolo of Lyon (d. 852), found that Gottschalk’s writing lacked them. He thus accused him of a ‘malum in moribus tuis’, a ‘fault’ in his ‘morals’. Having no good name for the practice of asking for examination or correction, Amolo had to describe it by giving an example.56 But this still allows us to conclude that at least for Amolo, submitting writing for correction had now become a norm. At this point, clauses and ideas that scholars had mainly introduced to further their own ends — to please bishops and gain patronage, to enable them to communicate, and to demonstrate their savoir-faire — had now suddenly turned into constraints on 53 

Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, no. 44, pp. 490, 498. Ratramnus of Corbie in Epistolae Variorum, ed. by Dümmler, no. 9, p. 151. 55  Prudentius of Troyes, De Praedestinatione, ed. by Migne, col. 1012. 56  Amulo of Lyon, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, no. 2, p. 377: ‘Alterum vero malum est in moribus tuis, quod in omnibus quę dicis et sentis, sicut scriptura tua declarat, nullum omnino hominum more bonorum pie et humiliter deprecaris, nullius te sensui et auctoritati summittis, nec dicis quod sepe solet et debet pietas dicere: “Obsecro, bone vir aut bone frater, si in his quae dico aliquatenus erro, ferto infirmitatem meam, instruito ignorantiam meam, et probabis oboedientiam meam, quia paratus ero libenter suscipere quicquid veritas dignabitur declarare”’ (‘And there is another evil in your morals, for as your writings tell, in nothing that you say and feel do you ask any person at all humbly and piously, as good people do. You do not submit to anyone’s interpretation and authority, and you do not say that which piety rightly demands to be said often: ‘“I entreat you, good man or good brother, that if I err in anything that I say here, bear my weakness and instruct my ignorance — and you will experience my obedience, because I will be quite ready to accept whatever the truth shall deign to declare”’). 54 

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their own behaviour. Having been cast in the role of censors for some decades, Carolingian bishops now acted on this ideal. To employ the image used by Alcuin, they now had the ‘savage erasing pumice’ in their hands — but it may have been the scholars who handed it to them. If one looks for censorship practices which can be compared to modern or late medieval ones, Carolingian Francia simply lacked them. This was especially true for forms of standardized control of doctrinal writing at publication, later introduced by the mendicant orders. In contrast to this model, Carolingian bishops seem to have had little interest in systematically checking all their subordinates’ literary productions. But power and authority are not necessarily always imposed from above. As Patzold’s work on Carolingian bishops emphasizes, for example, power also depends on being ascribed from below by its subjects.57 This mechanism may have been at work in gradually establishing censorship as an active component of the episcopal office during the first half of the ninth century. We have a large number of sources in which Carolingian authors ascribe the authority to examine and correct doctrinal writing to bishops, frequently described in idealizing language which was actually meant to flatter and generate obligation. Seen over time, this activity seems to have amounted to — as it were — norm-building from below. While the developments are largely unsystematic and driven by specific situations, shared expectations about concepts of knowledge, about censorship, and about the social status of scholars with respect to bishops seem to have developed. In the debate about predestination, these expectations crystallized into norms, at least momentarily. If we ask what these norms meant for the ecclesiastical control of doctrinal writing, the documented patterns still do not amount to a control of all writing. Many books, especially those only circulated among the friends of the authors, would never have gone through a bishop’s or abbot’s hand. But the custom of always ceding authority to higher-ranking ecclesiastics still implies a measure of control within a sphere of communication dependent on their physical or imagined presence. While this does not totally coincide with modern or secular notions of a public sphere, it could be called an ecclesiastical public sphere.58 Ninth-century contemporaries would certainly have called it ecclesia. 57 

See Patzold, Episcopus, pp. 37–41. For discussion of medieval applications of the term ‘public sphere’, see Melve, Inventing the Public Sphere. 58 

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As a whole, the Carolingian church may thus not have known an official approval such as later ‘Nil obstat’ remarks. But it developed a specific social and epistemological order relating to the control of doctrine. It was primarily the hierarchical socio-political order of the church, and of Carolingian society as a whole, that provided the patterns and structured the forms of communication. Within an ecclesiastical public sphere built around higher ecclesiastical officeholders (which would have included various kings), ritualized interactions like the practices of inserting ‘safety clauses’ in dedications grew up to prevent loss of face and open conflict. If we are looking for the ‘mentality’ of censorship proposed by Godman,59 this is it. And to some modern scholars, the measures necessary to communicate about doctrine within the Carolingian church may well feel ‘repressive’. Read as ritualized communication, however, the formulae used in prologues and letters of dedication do not seem very different from the good manners of a courtier. Any ninth- or tenth-century noble would have known that it was inadvisable to publicly lecture or contradict a king. To assert influence, a good courtier would allow the king to save face in public, and negotiate in private. While not written down anywhere, these were the ‘rules of the game’.60 With their careful topoi, Carolingian scholars seem to have established a comparable suspension of established norms. In putting the social and epistemological order of the church into words in their writings, authors with or without ecclesiastical office inscribed a social space in which hierarchy was suspended. Their explicit upholding of ecclesiastical authority on a theoretical plane allowed them to mould it on parchment, and thus to move around it with astonishing freedom. Lowly monks contradicted bishops, colleagues exchanged opinions over immutable truth, and students even managed to correct their own former teachers — all things that we would still find surprising in the twelfth century. To the modern mind that finds all censorship odious, this ordering of social interaction may still not appear very civilized. But for a world that knew no middle ground of ‘theory’, and which had to see everything in the religious shades of divine light or heretical darkness, the sophistication of debate seems extraordinary. And this was largely due to the highly sophisticated reflection on the offices and duties of bishops and their subordinates, in steps that sometimes complemented and sometimes contradicted each other, and eventually produced certain, well-trodden paths. 59  60 

See Godman, The Silent Masters, p. 26. See Althoff, ‘Colloquium familiare’.

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In the end, one might say that outside of the escalating controversies like the debate on predestination, the interaction between scholars and bishops in Carolingian Francia sometimes resembles nothing so much as a somewhat ponderous, but elegant and very expressive dance. There were complicated figures and gestures, and obligatory bows and scrapes in fixed places. But altogether, both office-holders and experts managed to establish a pattern, and eventually created a flexible structure in a world that would otherwise have been quite rigid.

Works Cited Primary Sources Alcuin, Contra epistolam sibi ab Elipando directam libri quatuor, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), ci (1851), cols 231–71 —— , Epistolae, ed. by Ernst Dümmler, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Epistolae, 8 vols (Berlin: Weidmann, 1891–1939), iv: Epistolae Karolini aevi (ii) (1895), pp. 18–481 Amulo of Lyon, Epistolae, ed. by Ernst Dümmler and Karl Hampe, in Monumenta Ger­ maniae Historica: Epistolae, 8 vols (Berlin: Weidmann, 1891–1939), v: Epistolae Karolini aevi (iii) (1899) Epistolae Variorum, ed. by Ernst Dümmler and Ernst Perels, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Epistolae, 8 vols (Berlin: Weidmann, 1891–1939), vi: Epistolae Karolini aevi (iv) (1925) Hincmar of Reims, De praedestinatione, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), cxxv (1852), cols 49–473 Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, ed. by Ernst Dümmler and Karl Hampe, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Epistolae, 8 vols (Berlin: Weidmann, 1891–1939), v: Epistolae Karolini aevi (iii) (1899), pp. 379–516 —— , De institutione clericorum: Über die Unterweisung der Geistlichen, ed. and trans. by Detlev Zimpel, Fontes Christiani, 61, 2 vols (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006) John Scottus Eriugena, Iohannis Scotti seu Erivgenae Periphyseon. Liber Quintus, ed. by Édouard A. Jeauneau, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 165 (Turn­ hout: Brepols, 2003) Prudentius of Troyes, De Praedestinatione contra Joannem Scotum […] Liber, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), cxv (1881), cols 1009–1366 Rudolf of Fulda, Vita Leobae abbatissae Biscofesheimensis auctore Rudolfo Fuldensi, ed. by Georg Waitz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores, 39 vols (Hannover: Hahn and Hiersemann, 1826–2009), xv. 1 (1887), pp. 118–31 Variorum Supplementum, ed. by Ernst Dümmler and Karl Hampe, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Epistolae, 8 vols (Berlin: Weidmann, 1891–1939), v: Epistolae Karolini aevi (iii) (1899)

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Secondary Studies Airlie, Stuart, Walter Pohl, and Helmut Reimitz, eds, Staat im frühen Mittelalter, Forsch­ ungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters, 11, Österreichische Akademie der Wissen­ schaften Philosophisch-Historische Klasse, Denkschriften, 334 (Wien: Öster­reichi­ sche Akademie der Wissenschaften, 2006) Althoff, Gerd, ‘Colloquium familiare — colloquium secretum — colloquium publicum: Beratung im politischen Leben des früheren Mittelalters’, reprinted in Gerd Althoff, Spielregeln der Politik im Mittelalter. Kommunikation in Frieden und Fehde (Darmstadt: Primus, 1997), pp.  157–85; orig. publ. in Frühmittelalterliche Studien, 24 (1990), 145–67 Bezner, Frank, Vela Veritatis: Hermeneutik, Wissen und Sprache in der ‘Intellectual History’ des 12. Jahrhunderts, Studien und Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters, 85 (Leiden: Brill, 2005) Bianchi, Luca, Censure et liberté intellectuelle à l’université de Paris (xii–xiv Siècles) (Paris: Les Belles Lettres, 1999) Bumke, Joachim, Courtly Culture: Literature and Society in the High Middle Ages, trans. by Thomas Dunlap (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1991; orig. publ. in German, 1986) Cavadini, John C., The Last Christology of the West: Adoptionism in Spain and Gaul, 785–820 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1993) Chazelle, Celia, The Crucified God in the Carolingian Era: Theology and the Art of Christ’s Passion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001) Congar, Yves, ‘Bref historique des formes du “magistère” et de ses relations avec les docteurs’, Revue des sciences philosophiques et théologiques, 60 (1976), 99–112; repr. in Yves Congar, Droit ancien et structures ecclésiales, Variorum Collected Studies, 159 (London: Variorum Reprints, 1982), vii Cristiani, Marta, ‘Le Vocabulaire de l’enseignement dans la correspondance d’Alcuin’, in Vocabulaire des écoles et des méthodes d’enseignement au Moyen Âge: Actes du colloque, Rome, 21–22 Oct. 1989, ed. by Olga Weijers, Civicima: Etudes sur le vocabulaire intellectuel du Moyen Âge, 5 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1992), pp. 13–32 Curta, Florin, ‘Merovingian and Carolingian Gift Giving’, Speculum, 81 (2006), 671–99 Curtius, Ernst Robert, European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages, trans. by Willard R. Trask, Bollingen Series, 36 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1991; orig. publ. in German, 1948) Davies, Wendy, and Paul Fouracre, eds, The Languages of the Gift in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010) Depreux, Philippe, ‘Ambitions et limites des réformes culturelles à l’époque carolingienne’, Revue historique, 307 (2002), 721–53 Eisenstadt, Shmuel N., and Luis Roniger, Patrons, Clients and Friends: Interpersonal Relations and the Structure of Trust in Society (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1984) Evans, Gillian R., Getting it Wrong: The Medieval Epistemology of Error, Studien und Texte zur Geistesgeschichte des Mittelalters, 63 (Leiden: Brill, 1998)

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—— , Old Arts and New Theology: The Beginnings of Theology as an Academic Discipline (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1980) —— , ‘Sententia’, in Latin Culture in the Eleventh Century: Proceedings of the Third International Conference on Medieval Latin Studies, Cambridge, Sept. 9–12, 1988, ed. by Michael W. Herren, C. J. McDonough, and Ross G. Arthur, Publications of the Journal of Medieval Latin, 5, 2 vols (Turnhout: Brepols, 2002), i, pp. 315–23 Flahiff, G. B., ‘Ecclesiastical Censorship of Books in the Twelfth Century’, Mediaeval Studies, 4 (1942), 1–22 Ganz, David, ‘The Debate on Predestination’, in Charles the Bald: Court and Kingdom, ed. by Margaret T. Gibson and Janet L. Nelson, 2nd rev. edn (Aldershot: Variorum, 1990), pp. 283–302 —— , ‘Theology and the Organization of Thought’, in The New Cambridge Medieval His­ tory: c. 700–900, ed. by Rosamond McKitterick and others, 7 vols (Cambridge: Cam­ bridge University Press, 1995–2005), ii (1995), pp. 758–85 Godman, Peter, The Silent Masters: Latin Literature and its Censors in the High Middle Ages (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000) Hilgers, Joseph, Die Bücherverbote in Papstbriefen: Kanonistisch-bibliographische Studie (Freiburg: Herder, 1907) Kottje, Raymund, and Harald Zimmermann, eds, Hrabanus Maurus: Lehrer, Abt und Bischof, Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur: Abhandlungen der Geistesund Sozialwissenschaftlichen Klasse, 4 (Mainz: Akademie der Wissenschaften und der Literatur, 1982) Janson, Tore, Latin Prose Prefaces: Studies in Literary Conventions, Studia Latina Stock­ holmensia, 13 (Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell, 1964) Jong, Mayke de, ‘The Empire as ecclesia: Hrabanus Maurus and Biblical historia for Rulers’, in The Uses of the Past in the Early Middle Ages, ed. by Yitzhak Hen and Matthew Innes (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), pp. 191–226 —— , ‘Old Law and New-Found Power: Hrabanus Maurus and the Old Testament’, in Centres of Learning: Learning and Location in Pre-Modern Europe and the Near East, ed. by Jan W. Drijvers and Alasdair A. MacDonald, Studies in Intellectual History, 61 (Leiden: Brill, 1995), pp. 161–76 —— , The Penitential State: Authority and Atonement in the Age of Louis the Pious, 814–840 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009) Meier, Christel, ‘Autorschaft im 12. Jahrhundert: Persönliche Identität und Rollen­ konstrukt’, in Unverwechselbarkeit: Persönliche Identität und Identifikation in der vormodernen Gesellschaft, ed. by Peter von Moos, Norm und Struktur, 23 (Köln: Böhlau, 2004), pp. 207–66 Melve, Leidulf, Inventing the Public Sphere: The Public Debate during the Investiture Con­ test (c. 1030–1122), Studies in Intellectual History, 154, 2 vols (Leiden: Brill, 2007) Patzold, Steffen, Episcopus: Wissen über Bischöfe im Frankenreich des späten 8. bis frühen 10. Jahrhunderts, Mittelalter-Forschungen, 25 (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2008) Piron, Sylvain, ‘Ecrire en Aveugle: Jean de Roquetaillade ou la Dissidence par l’Obéissance’, in Autorität und Wahrheit: Kirchliche Vorstellungen, Normen und Verfahren (13. bis

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15. Jahrhundert), ed. by Gian Luca Potestà, Schriften des Historischen Kollegs, 84 (München: Oldenbourg, 2012), pp. 91–111 Simon, Gertrud, ‘Untersuchungen zur Topik der Widmungsbriefe mittelalterlicher Geschichts­schreiber bis zum Ende des 12. Jahrhunderts’, Archiv für Diplomatik, 4 (1958), 52–119; 5/6 (1959–60), 73–153 Somerville, Robert, ‘Pope Nicholas I and John Scottus Eriugena: JE 2833’, Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte — Kanonistische Abteilung, 114 (1997), 67–85 Speyer, Wolfgang, Büchervernichtung und Zensur des Geistes bei Heiden, Juden und Christen, Bibliothek des Buchwesens, 7 (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1981) Steckel, Sita, ‘Ammirabile commertium: Die Widmungen des Hrabanus Maurus und andere symbolische Geschenke als Gaben im Angesicht Gottes’, in Geschenke erhalten die Freundschaft: Gabentausch und Netzwerkpflege im europäischen Mittelalter, Akten des Internationalen Kolloquiums Münster, 19–20 November 2009, ed. by Michael Grünbart, Byzantinistische Studien und Texte, 1 (Münster: Lit, 2011), pp. 209–49 —— , Kulturen des Lehrens im Früh- und Hochmittelalter: Autorität, Wissenskonzepte und Netzwerke von Gelehrten, Norm und Struktur, 39 (Köln: Böhlau, 2011) Vollrath, Hanna, ‘Bernhard und Abaelard: Ein Beispiel für die Entstehung von Zensur in einer Umbruchsituation’, in Kanon und Zensur, ed. by Aleida and Jan Assmann, Bei­ träge zur Archäologie der literarischen Kommunikation, 2 (München: Fink, 1987), pp. 309–16 Werner, Thomas, Den Irrtum liquidieren: Bücherverbrennungen im Mittelalter (Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht, 2007) Wiest, Donald H., The Precensorship of Books: (Canons 1384–1386, 1392–1394, 2318 § 2) A History and a Commentary, Canon Law Studies, 329 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1953)

The Bishop’s Presence: Depicting Episcopal Authority in the Early Middle Ages Sigrid Danielson

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iscussions of early medieval works of art frequently require mediating between approaches that prioritize the factual histories of objects and analyses that explore the ideal qualities of the subjects they depict.1 Several contributors to this volume explore the interplay between aspects of reportage and desire in their examination of the medieval episcopal image. With an eye towards the delicate balance between the image as testimonial and as paradigm, this essay explores depictions of the Carolingian bishop performing the sacraments produced in the mid- to late ninth century. Examination of what one could term vocational portraits, images that present the bishop’s actions as those of a ‘ritual specialist’, reveals an emphasis on his presence as an officiant.2 Frequently, scholarship about these images stresses their importance

* Versions of this paper were presented at the 13th International Medieval Congress held at Leeds, England in 2009 and at the Sewanee Medieval Colloquium held at the University of the South, Sewanee in 2012. I am grateful for the comments offered by the respondents and audiences for these conferences. Special thanks must be extended to my co-editor, Evan Gatti, Maureen Miller, and the anonymous reviewer who provided valuable guidance in bringing this essay to press. Additional thanks are due to Genevra Kornbluth for her photography and expertise. All errors are my own. 1

For a recent examination of approaches to images in the fields of history and art history, see: Bolvig and Lindley, History and Images. Although controversial, the work of Philippe Buc considers related issues in his discussion of medieval ritual: Buc, The Dangers of Ritual. 2 I have appropriated this term from Janet Nelson’s discussion of royal anointing rituals Sigrid Danielson is Associate Professor of Art History at Grand Valley State University in Allendale, Michigan. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 127–156 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102230

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Figure 6.1. ‘Liturgical Scenes with the Eucharist’, ivory plaque, Paris, Musée du Louvre MR 368. c. 870–75. Photo © Genevra Kornbluth.

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as visual confirmation of the success of ninth-century reform efforts to integrate elements of the Roman rite in the Carolingian north.3 As an alternative to these interpretations, this essay suggests that depictions of ‘the bishop at work’ operate within the early medieval framework of commemoration as they participate in the broader context of efforts by the episcopacy to define its authority within Carolingian society. These images reinforce the centrality of the bishop as a conduit for the divine as he executes the sacraments on behalf of the Christian community. This inquiry takes as it starting point a pair of Carolingian ivory plaques. Once part of the treasury at St Denis, they are now in the Musée du Louvre. (Plate 1 and Figure 6.1) Long separated from their original manuscript, the panels depict a bishop presiding over the liturgical ceremonies of baptism, consecration, and the Eucharist in the presence of male members of the royal court.4 Since the early twentieth century the panels have been dated to circa 870 on the basis of formal similarities to other works associated with the reign of Charles the Bald, who governed as King of West Francia beginning in 843 and then as emperor between 875 and 877. Damage to the surface as well as the loss of historical information about the manuscript they originally covered and the circumstances of their creation provide an invitation to reconsider the depiction of the Carolingian bishop. The Louvre ivories share an emphasis on the baptism and Eucharist with a better-known set of covers, those from the Drogo Sacramentary (Figures 6.2 and 6.3). Prepared for Archbishop Drogo of Metz during his episcopacy between 844 and 855, each cover is composed of nine

during the Carolingian period: Nelson, Politics and Ritual, p. 251. The phrase ‘ritual expert’ is used in a recent publication: Moore, A Sacred Kingdom, p. 82 and elsewhere. 3 A contrast to this trend includes recent discussions of the ordo and church consecration scenes on the front cover of the Drogo Sacramentary: Crowder, ‘Recontextualizing the Performances of the Drogo Sacramentary’. Also see the discussion in chapter 9 of this volume: Kingsley, ‘Bishop and Monk’. 4 Paris, Louvre, MR 368 and Paris, Louvre, MR 369 (16.2 cm × 10.5 cm). MR 368 is included in the engravings illustrating the contents of the treasury completed by Félibien, Histoire de L’abbaye Royale. The panels were removed from Saint Denis in the early 1790s. Molinier, Catalog des Ivoires, pp. 42–48 proposed a later date for the ivories of the late tenth or early eleventh century, but since the early twentieth century scholars have favoured a Carolingian date for the works: de Montesquiou-Fezensac and Gaborit-Chopin, Le Trésor de Saint-Denis; and Goldschmidt, Die Elfenbeinskulpturen, i, 70–71. The Eucharist scene has also been briefly discussed by Heitz, ‘Eucharistie, Synaxe et Espace Liturgique’, p. 623. Also see the catalogue: Alcouffe, Le Trésor de Saint-Denis, pp. 112–15.

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Figure 6.2. ‘Liturgical and Biblical Scenes’, front cover, Drogo Sacramentary, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Lat. 9428. c. 845–55. Photo courtesy Bibliothéque nationale de France.

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Figure 6.3. ‘Eucharist Scenes’, back cover, Drogo Sacramentary, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Lat. 9428. c. 844–55. Photo courtesy Bibliothéque nationale de France.

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smaller, individual carvings each depicting a separate scene.5 The original order of these panels is uncertain, but the front cover includes three Gospel narratives including Christ’s baptism and post-Resurrection appearances to his followers. However, the majority of the scenes, fifteen of the eighteen carvings, are devoted to the bishop’s execution of his official responsibilities within his diocese. Both the Louvre and Drogo Sacramentary plaques with their emphasis on liturgical performance beg reassessment of modern expectations about the relationship between medieval strategies of representation and lived experience, topics that have seen extensive reconsideration in the field of early medieval studies.6

Documentation and Aspiration: Scholars and Carolingian Images In recent years scholars have reconsidered Carolingian attitudes towards the role of images prompting new examination of how they helped shape hagiographic, royal, and episcopal ideals. For example, Paul Edward Dutton’s and Herbert L. Kessler’s analysis of the illuminations and verses in the First Bible of Charles the Bald created at the Monastery of St Martin at Tours in 845 challenges older assertions that the presentation miniature depicting of the offering of the manuscript to Charles should be understood in a literal fashion. 7 (Figure 6.4) Combining analysis of the monastery’s history, the volume’s dedicatory verse, and examination of the image, they propose an anticipatory role for the miniature that confirms the king’s place as a central figure within the continuum of sacred history. Thus, the illumination serves as an aspirational depiction of a ceremony in which he would receive the manuscript and confirm his renewal of patronage obligations to the monastery thereby sustaining his place within the larger framework of human salvation.8 In effect, this ideal image simultaneously anticipates the presentation and would ultimately commemorate the gift. 5 Paris, BnF, MS Lat. 9428 (28.8 cm × 21.5 cm). There is an extensive body of scholarship devoted to this manuscript and its ivories. Key texts for the work include Goldschmidt, Die Elfenbeinskulpturen, i, 41–42; Köhler and Mütherich, Drogo Sakramentar; and Unterkircher, Zur Ikonographie und Liturgie. For a detailed discussion about the original order of the panels, including summaries of early scholarship, see: Reynolds, ‘A Visual Epitome of the Eucharistic Ordo’. 6 For a summary of recent approaches see: Chazelle and Lifshitz, ‘Introduction’, pp. 9–11. 7 Paris, BnF, MS Lat. 1, fol. 423r. 8 Dutton and Kessler, Poetry and Paintings, p.  79. For a comprehensive treatment of Carolingian royal imagery see: Garipzanov, The Symbolic Language of Authority.

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Figure 6.4. ‘Presentation Scene’, First Bible of Charles the Bald, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Lat. 1, fol. 423r. c. 849–51. Photo courtesy Bibliothéque nationale de France.

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Figure 6.5. ‘Scene from the Fides Catholica Folio’, Utrecht Psalter, Utrecht, University Library, MS 32, fol. 90v. 820–30 or c. 845–55. Photo courtesy Utrecht University Library.

In a similar fashion, Celia Chazelle has related the council scene accompanying the Fides catholica text in the Utrecht Psalter to Hincmar of Reims and his efforts to secure the pallium from Pope Leo IV in 851.9 (Figure 6.5) This unusual image depicts a circle of seated clergy and scribes in the presence of a bishop as the pallium is draped over his shoulders. Rather than assert that it depicts a specific late antique council, she situates the vignette within Carolingian reflective interest in historical councils and the significance of orthodoxy for archiepiscopal authority. Chazelle asks for a reconsideration regarding the traditional affiliation of the Utrecht Psalter with Archbishop Ebo (c. 840) and proposes that the manuscript may be a product from the early years of Hincmar’s episcopacy and dates to the late 840s or early 850s.10 In a similar manner to the royal presentation scene, this depiction seems to blur the distinction between the past, present, and future by invoking historical events as it evokes aspirational ones. Rather than stress questions that measure the level of verism within the images, the work of Dutton, Kessler, and Chazelle broadens the field of inquiry to consider the ways in which Carolingian miniatures served interests beyond that of the documentary record. They are by no means alone in using this approach to Carolingian art, but their discussions of these scenes resonate with the content of the Louvre and Drogo Sacramentary panels. The presentation images in 9

Utrecht, University Library, MS 32, fol. 90v. 10 Chazelle, ‘Archbishops Ebo and Hincmar’, p. 99.

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the First Bible of Charles the Bald and the Utrecht Psalter provide the modern viewer with sophisticated conceptualizations of relationships between individuals, communities, and the divine. The analyses by these authors effectively demonstrate that efforts to measure these scenes as reportage have limitations. Yet, early medieval images depicting liturgical practices are frequently parsed in just such a manner, as documentary representations of the liturgy. For example, the architectural motifs of the Louvre carvings have been associated with miniatures depicting Charles the Bald which has led to the suggestion that the baptismal panel depicts a specific historical event, Pope Stephen II’s visit to St Denis to re-anoint Pippin as well as baptize, confirm, and anoint his sons Carloman and Charlemagne in 754.11 Similarly, the individual scenes depicting stages of the Eucharist on the back cover of the Drogo Sacramentary have been understood as visual confirmation for the successful integration of elements from the Roman service into the Gallican rite thereby privileging details of verism over an important aspect of their subject, the bishop administering the sacraments. The cover has been called a ‘directive’ for Drogo’s performance of the ceremonies.12 It has also been described as a ‘publicity drive’ to encourage acceptance of liturgical elements from the Roman rite.13 These statements suggest that the ivories served to illustrate correct procedure or as instructional images. Recent scholarship has emphasized that Carolingian reform efforts stressed education and compatibility with Roman doctrine rather than the adoption of a single liturgical practice creating an environment that engaged in a ‘rhetoric of reform’.14 Certainly, elements of the Mass associated with the Roman tradition are present in these scenes, but a documentary focus can obscure recognition of other Carolingian concerns associated with the sacraments. In stark contrast to the substantial attention given to the Drogo Sacramentary ivories by historians of art and the liturgy, the Louvre panels have received significantly less coverage in publications. When considered together, both sets of ivory covers are noteworthy for their somewhat unusual subject, namely the bishop executing the sacraments. These panels speak to the signifi11

Alcouffe, Le Trésor de Saint-Denis, p. 113. Reynolds, ‘Image and Text’. Reynold’s work on the relationship between image and text of the ordines is referenced by Palazzo, ‘Art and Liturgy in the Middle Ages’, pp. 181–82 and Palazzo, ‘Art, Liturgy, and the Five Senses’, pp. 45–46. 13 Palazzo, ‘Art, Liturgy, and the Five Senses’, p. 46. 14 Keefe, Water and the Word, i, p. 131. Hen, ‘The Romanization of the Frankish Liturgy’, p. 120. 12

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cance of objects as discursive elements that participated in defining episcopal authority. In addition, they invite consideration of the seemingly conflicted art historical expectations for medieval artefacts to simultaneously construct an authoritative identity for their patrons, an aspirational conceit, and to accurately record the practices of an era, a documentary one. Both of these functions certainly have resonance with the ways in which Carolingian writers articulated the potential value and meaning of images. The complexity of their attitudes towards representations and media has been examined by David Appleby, William J. Diebold, and extensively by Thomas F. X. Noble.15 Carolingian texts frequently betray a reluctance to ascribe specifically miraculous roles to images, but their place as vehicles of commemoration was noted by many authors who also reiterated older discussions that emphasized pictorial representation as useful for the unlettered.16 For Jonas of Orléans and Walahfrid Strabo these discussions also stressed the correct attitudes towards images and their utility for the spiritually unsophisticated to understand scripture and facilitate moral improvement.17 The subtleties of how these petite ivory covers may or may not have served an ‘unlettered’ audience are beyond the scope of this essay, but surely they served their privileged viewers in some fashion.18 In his Libellus, a text concerning the history and ceremonies of the church, Walahfrid Strabo suggested that certain objects could ‘bring to mind some mystery’, particularly works which had been ordered by God such as the Temple or the Ark of the Covenant. He also noted the commemorative potential for images of holy subjects to cultivate a sense of devotion in the viewer towards the individuals depicted in the images.19 15 Appleby, ‘Instruction and Inspiration’; Diebold, ‘Changing Perceptions of the Visual’; Diebold, ‘Medium as Message’; and the comprehensive treatment by Noble, Images, Iconoclasm, and the Carolingians. 16 Noble, Images, Iconoclasm, and the Carolingians, pp. 340–47. 17 Appleby, ‘Instruction and Inspiration’, pp. 100–03 and pp. 107–08; Noble, Images, Iconoclasm, and the Carolingians, pp. 324–28 for a summary of Walafrid; Noble, Images, Iconoclasm, and the Carolingians, p. 342, and pp. 354–57 on Ermoldus Nigellus’s discussion of paintings at the palace at Ingelheim in relation to Carolingian attitudes towards images as exemplars. 18 Noble, Images, Iconoclasm, and the Carolingians, pp. 338–40, stresses the importance of considering differences in reception between small-scale works and larger ones visible from a distance. Whether and in what ways images may have ‘taught’ has been explored by many scholars, but see the foundational discussion: Duggan, ‘Was Art Really a “Book for the Illiterate”?’. 19 Appleby, ‘Instruction and Inspiration’, pp.  100–01; Walahfrid Strabo, Libellus de Exordiis, ed. and trans. by Harting-Correa, pp. 74–75. ‘Quae ab illis vel nobis facta sunt vel

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As an interpretive strategy, commemoration connects the liturgical subjects of the ivory panels to the bishop’s authority within lay and religious communities. Both the Louvre and Drogo Sacramentary ivories present moments in the baptismal and eucharistic services when the bishop is officiating. These images reinforce the bishop’s leadership in the most significant Christian commemorative actions, the sacraments. In the celebrations of baptism and confirmation, Christ’s baptism is re-enacted ensuring the initiate’s place within Christian society. With the Eucharist, not only were Christ’s actions commemorated through the performance of the rite, but the Mass invoked the sacrificial aspects of his death and Resurrection.20 The significance of these actions for the episcopacy has long been acknowledged, but scholars have also paid careful attention to the ways in which bishops were distinguished from other clerics and laypersons. The ninth century saw increasing focus on articulating the orders of the clergy and the bishop’s place in this hierarchy.21 Although it would be defined as a consecrated office in subsequent centuries, Carolingian authors regularly placed the episcopacy at the apex above other clerics who performed specific duties in services and for the church.22 Such discussions were not confined to ranking those within the clergy, but also articulated the relationship between episcopacy and lay rulers. The recent work of Steffen Patzold has stressed how in the decades following the Paris Synod of 829 the Carolingian episcopacy emphasized ministerium as a defining quality of the bishop’s authority and his expression of power.23 Episcopal responsibilities and actions on behalf of the ruler and the realm codified his role as a conduit between the sacred and earthly spheres. This process stressed the bishop’s performance of rituals, including royal anointing and reinforced his place not as one beholden to the king, but as a participant in leadership and as an elevated servant of God.24

fiunt aut significandi alicuius mysterii causa, ut in tabernaculi et templi structura omnia, aut ob commemorationem rerum gestaurum, ut picturae hystoriarum, aut ob amorum eorum, quorum similitudines sunt, animis videntium artius imprimendum, ut imagines Domini et sanctorum eius.’ 20 Otten, ‘Between Augustinian Sign’, p. 146. 21 Reynolds, ‘Clerics in the Early Middle Ages’; Reynolds, ‘“At Sixes and Sevens”’. 22 Reynolds, ‘Clerics in the Early Middle Ages’, pp. 29–31. 23 Patzold, Episcopus. 24 Patzold, Episcopus, pp. 529–30.

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Baptism and Confirmation: Princes and Proletariats Carolingian baptismal ordines record some variation in the sequence of service, but they typically include preparation of the catechumen through examination, exorcism, immersion, anointing, the first communion, and the confirmation with chrism by a bishop. Early in the Carolingian period this rite was most frequently performed on the feasts of Easter and Pentecost.25 In the Louvre ivory, the baptismal and confirmation ceremonies dominate the centre of the composition (Plate  1). The panel depicting scenes of baptism separates the activities into three tiers.26 The bottom register includes male members of the royal court, identified by their characteristic short tunics and swords, in attendance at the ceremony.27 Interaction between the clergy and lay communities is focused in the upper two registers (Figure 6.6). In the centre tier, a youth, often identified as a prince, is baptized followed by his confirmation and anointing when he is marked with chrism. The left section depicts the youth standing in an elaborate font next to a clerical figure wearing a chasuble. The officiant and his charge are surrounded by clerics and in the left hand-corner two figures wait to receive the new member of the Christian community. The right side of this panel depicts the moment of confirmation, and presumably anointing, when the bishop marks the youthful initiate, who stands on an elevated platform, with chrism in the sign of the cross in the presence of clerics. This sequence is linked by slender columns to the top register. Here, the divine gifts of Christian initiation are neatly reversed in a presentation scene. Damage to the panel makes the details difficult to discern, but a cleric in a chasuble, likely a bishop, receives gifts from members of the court. Traditionally the items have been identified as, on the left, a crown and on the right, a textile or manuscript wrapped in cloth.28 In contrast to the royal emphasis in the Louvre Ivories, the baptismal scenes on the Drogo Sacramentary ivory depict a generalized lay population including men, women, and children (Figure 6.2). The front cover also includes three nar25

Fisher, Christian Initiation, p. 73. These panels were likely attached to a sacramentary. For the early inventories of St Denis noting this piece see: Alcouffe, Le Trésor de Saint-Denis, p. 112. Presumably the baptism scenes would have been on the front cover and the Eucharist scenes would have been on the back of the manuscript. 27 Smith, Europe after Rome, p. 175. 28 See Molinier, Catalog des Ivoires, p. 46 for the manuscript and Alcouffe, Le Trésor de Saint-Denis, p. 113 for the crown. 26

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Figure 6.6. ‘Liturgical Scenes with Baptism’, detail, ivory plaque, Paris, Musée du Louvre MR 369. c. 870–75. Photo © Genevra Kornbluth.

rative scenes devoted to Christ including one depicting his baptism, located at the centre of the top register. In a similar fashion to the Louvre ivories, the remaining panels depict the bishop as a ritual specialist performing his duties in the presence of clergy and laypeople. In the upper right, a haloed figure, alternately identified as St Arnulf, or a Carolingian bishop, ordains several new clerics.29 29

Gatti, ‘Developing an Iconography of the Episcopacy’, pp. 52–64.

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The remaining five scenes present him performing liturgical acts including the consecration of a church and, in the bottom row, three scenes related to baptism and confirmation. The two panels at the centre and right of this register depict the archbishop’s preparation of the font and the immersion of the initiate. The panel at the left depicts the ritual of confirmation. Here, the viewer’s attention is drawn to the cleric’s action by his large hands placed at the centre of the composition as he anoints the forehead of an infant held by a youth. Behind them, more people wait their turn to present the baptized to the church official for his touch.30 As the ceremony that ushered individuals into the Christian community, Carolingian examination of the meaning of and protocol for baptism expanded after the distribution of Charlemagne’s questionnaire regarding the practice in 812.31 Bishops’ responses to it and discussions of the topic from the ninth century reveal a diversity of attitudes in which reform efforts placed less stress on the systematic adoption of a single liturgical protocol, but instead emphasized improvement of the clergy.32 With its origins in Roman practice, confirmation became a significant topic of interest for Carolingian authors. Some, including Theodulf of Orléans associated episcopal confirmation with the acceptance of the seven gifts of the Holy Spirit.33 Liturgical commentators also placed an emphasis on the procedures necessary to activate these benefits. For example, Hrabanus Maurus in his De institutione clericorum recognized two stages of anointing. The first, performed just after the immersion, allowed for the habitation of the Holy Spirit in the new Christian. A second one, executed by a bishop ensured that the gifts of the spirit would come upon the recipient. 34 30 An abbreviated version of this image is also included in an illuminated letter ‘O’ (fol. 52r) inside the sacramentary next to the ordo for confirmation. 31 Fisher, Christian Initiation, p.  19 and Johnson, The Rights of Christian Initiation, pp. 219–33. 32 Keefe, Water and the Word, i, p. 131; with reference to art: Deshman, ‘Otto III and the Warmund Sacramentary’, p. 4. 33 ‘Cur ab episcopo confirmatis per manus impositione accipiat septiformis gratiae spiritum.’ Theodulf of Orléans, De Ordine Baptismi, ed. by Migne, col. 235C. Keefe, Water and the Word, i, p. 170. Keefe discusses how the practices described as ‘Roman’ could differ from manuscript to manuscript, suggesting that variation in liturgical practice was frequent (i, pp. 150–53). 34 Hrabanus Maurus, De institutione clericorum, ed. and trans. by Zimpel, i, p. 202–04: ‘De impositione manus episcopalis et chrismatis sacramento […] Signatur enim baptizatus cum chrismate per sacerdotem in capitis summitate; per pontificem vero in fronte, ut in priore

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Clearly, for many northern writers, the immersion may have welcomed the Holy Spirit, but it was the authority of the bishop’s imposition of chrism on the forehead of the initiate that facilitated the transmission of its gifts and the understanding of them. In other words, while there was not a uniform practice or consensus about the rite, the episcopal presence and action was crucial to its efficacy.35 By the middle of the ninth century, Carolingian writers increasingly asserted that the right to perform the confirmation was a privilege that distinguished the episcopal ranks from their lower order brethren. Through conciliar efforts, bishops endeavoured to disseminate statutes that articulated the responsibilities, education, and ceremonial duties of the priests in their dioceses.36 For Hrabanus, certain ritual actions were unique to the bishop and other clerics could not execute them, even when they shared the same nomenclature: ‘Ideo autem presbyteri sacerdotes vocantur, quod sacrum dant, sicut et episcopi, qui licet sint sacerdotes, tamen pontificatus apicem non habent: quia nec chrismate frontem signant, nec paraclitum spiritum dant’ (‘Therefore priests are also called sacerdotes, who dispense the sacred, just like bishops. Although priests are sacerdotes, they do not have the high office of pointifex, for they neither anoint the head with chrism, nor are they spiritual leaders’).37 Walahfrid Strabo reiterated this emphasis on the priestly hierarchy in his Libellus by citing apostolic and papal precedence for the procedure: Quae confirmatio et tunc ad primos ecclesiae pastores pertinuit et nunc pertinere non dubitatur; unde in canonibus saepius iterdicitur presbyteris, ne chrisma conficiant neque baptizatos in fronte consignent, quod solis debetur episcopis. Testantur hoc decreta Innocentii papae et statuta Silvestri. Consecration was the right of the Church’s first bishops then, and there is no doubt that it is the right of bishops today: this is why quite frequently the canons forbid

unctione significetur spiritus sancti super ipsum descensio ad habitationem deo consecrandam; in secunda quoque, ut eiusdem spiritus sancti septi formis gratia cum omni plenitudine sanctitatis et scientiae et virtutis venire in hominem declaretur.’ 35 Writers also discussed that if an individual expired between baptism and confirmation, this would not necessitate full exclusion from heaven. 36 Van Rhijn, Shepherds of the Lord, p. 142. Also, de Jong notes the shifting nomenclature in conciliar documents and efforts to distinguish episcopal functions from those of other clerics. de Jong, The Penitential State, p. 179–80. 37 Hrabanus Maurus, De Universo, ed. by Migne, ii, ch. 5, cols 92B–C; also cited and translated in van Rhijn, Shepherds of the Lord, p. 53.

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priests to administer the chrism or sign on the forehead those being baptized: only bishops should do this. Pope Innocent’s decrees testify to this; so do Sylvester’s statutes.38

The Louvre and Drogo Sacramentary panels both stress an authoritative role for the episcopal office in relation to the transformative power of the sacraments for both the lay and royal populations. This focus can be found in hagiographic imagery of the period as well. For example, Cynthia Hahn has observed how the ninth and tenth centuries saw the emergence of an ideal episcopal type that emphasized the saints directing liturgical responsibilities.39 Narratives about sacramental miracles and their depiction in the arts provided significant testimonials for a saint’s worthiness and status. Citing the writings of Gregory of Tours among other sources, she identifies a central role for the bishop who oversees the execution of activities including ordinations, baptism, and the Mass. As a genre, images of episcopal saints demonstrate the responsibilities of the office as well as ‘its significance and place within the church’.40 Depictions frequently emphasize divine intervention ensuring the cleric’s successful completion of the ritual. For example, a late ninth- or early tenthcentury ivory panel depicting episodes from the life of St Remi, a fifth-century bishop of Reims, reinforces this theme with two baptismal scenes (Figure 6.7).41 The middle register depicts just such a miracle where an invalid woman lies on a bier awaiting baptism. The vials of holy chrism on the altar, necessary for the bishop’s blessing of the water and the confirmation, are empty. St Remi intervenes with a prayer and the containers are supernaturally filled ensuring that the woman will be made a member of the Christian community. The bottom section depicts the saint’s role in a key moment of Frankish history when he converts King Clovis to orthodox Christianity. Remi is depicted twice, once to the left of the font as he baptizes the king and a second time at the right of the font. Here, the saint places his hand on the forehead of the ruler in confirmation of the transference of the Holy Spirit which emanates from the dove depicted above the king’s head. As noted by Robert Deshman and subsequent scholars, this panel fuses the tradition of the confirmation with the royal 38 Walahfrid Strabo, Libellus de Exordiis, ed. and trans. by Harting-Correa, ch.  27, pp. 170–71. 39 Hahn, Portrayed on the Heart, p. 131. 40 Hahn, Portrayed on the Heart, p. 131. 41 Amiens, Musée de la Picardie, inventory no. 61. Goldschmidt, Die Elfenbeinskulpturen, i, pp. 31–32, Deshman, ‘Otto III and the Warmund Sacramentary’, p. 3.

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Figure 6.7. ‘Scenes from the Life of St Remi’, ivory plaque, Amiens, Musée de la Picardie, inventory no. 61. Late ninth or tenth century. Photo: Scala / White Images / Art Resource, NY.

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anointing ritual.42 This tandem gesture had assumed increased importance for the episcopacy during the Carolingian period as a ritual significant for confirming a king’s right to rule.43 This action differentiated the bishop’s authority from that of the king and, by extension, reinforced that kingship was marked by the administration of confirmation and anointing by a bishop.44 In a similar fashion to the Louvre panel, the figure of St Remi reinforces the centrality of episcopal action wherein the bishop, in his role as an officiant, confirms royal authority. Returning to the suggestion that the Louvre plaque represents a specific historical event — the baptism, confirmation, and anointing of Carloman and Charlemagne — this interpretation treats the subject as primarily a documentary one. The gifts, the baptism, and the confirmation emphasized in the carving may reflect multiple moments of commemoration. In a similar fashion to the presentation miniature and the Fides catholica image discussed earlier, the panel mediates between the historical and aspirational. Towards the later ninth century episcopal participation in these practices became increasingly prominent as bishops fortified their role in its execution, most notably with Hincmar of Reims’s anointing of Charles the Bald at Metz in 869.45 The Louvre panel may depict a historical moment, but it also powerfully anticipates, if not requires, the episcopal presence and exercise of episcopal ministerium at future royal baptisms, confirmations, and anointings. The practice of episcopal confirmation has its origins in the Roman rite, and likely gained authority from associations with that apostolic tradition, but significantly the Louvre and Drogo panels emphasize the bishop at work. After all, it was the episcopal agent who sealed the deal, as it were, confirming with chrism those destined to rule the Franks and ensuring that the lay community received the benefits of the Holy Spirit. In the bottom register of the Drogo Sacramentary ivory (Figure 6.2), the bishop presides at all stages of the baptismal ceremony as he blesses the water, oversees the baptism of a figure in the font, and marks a tiny infant with the seal of confirmation. The bishop makes 42

Deshman, ‘Otto III and the Warmund Sacramentary’, p.  9. For another example of a non-royal baptism, see the illuminated initial D from the Drogo Sacramentary (fol. 91 r) depicting miracles of St Arnulf, Bishop of Metz. This folio includes depictions of several stages in the ritual including the exorcism of demons, and the saint performing a baptism. 43 Deshman, ‘Otto III and the Warmund Sacramentary’, pp. 8–11. 44 Moore, A Sacred Kingdom, pp. 373–74 and Patzold, Episcopus, pp. 529–30. 45 Nelson, The Frankish World, pp. 118–19 and Moore, A Sacred Kingdom, pp. 372–74.

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the sign of the cross and, like the gesture of St Remi and the mortal bishop in the Louvre panels, it is liturgical and operative revealing that, in the words of Cynthia Hahn, ‘bishops transmit God’s power’.46 These scenes also reinforce the commemorative aspect of the baptismal rite. As is frequently noted, the bishop’s performance re-enacts Christ’s baptism by John the Baptist, a scene that is also included in the sequence of images on this cover.47 Whatever the original order of these plaques may have been, the Drogo Sacramentary ivories link the Carolingian episcopal actions to biblical precedents for the benefit of those in his diocese.

Consecrating Bodies: The Rite of Communion In contrast to the medieval texts concerning baptism which outlined the bishop’s specific responsibilities for the confirmation rite, the celebration of the Eucharist was not confined to the episcopacy, but was also celebrated by other clerics. In both the Louvre and Drogo Sacramentary ivories, the focus is on the depiction of the bishop presiding over the eucharistic celebration. The Louvre panel presents an abbreviated sequence of the Mass. At the centre of the work, a cleric holding an object stands before the laypeople gathered in the bottom register. Given the surface wear to the panel secure identification of this scene remains elusive (Figure 6.8).48 Some scholars have suggested that it is a codex and he is the lector who will begin or has concluded the reading of the Gospel. As prescribed in ordines of the period, he has processed to the front of the presbytery and is flanked at either side by clerics holding thuribles. 49 Others have interpreted the object’s slightly oval appearance to indicate the cleric has just received the offering of bread from the laymen.50 This section is architecturally 46

Hahn, Portrayed on the Heart, p. 161. See for example, Kingsley, ‘Bishop and Monk’, p. 219. 48 Alcouffe, Le Trésor de Saint-Denis, p. 113; the catalogue entry notes the damaged object, but does not offer an identification for it. 49 Molinier originally identified the object as a Gospel book. This does reflect the Roman use as described. The figure also does not wear a chasuble, which is consistent with the text of Amalarius, who states in his Liber Officialis that lectors and cantors remove this garment prior to performing their duties. 50 According to Carol Heitz, this scene may depict a shield shaped reliquary or the bread offering: see Heitz, ‘Eucharistie, Synaxe et Espace Liturgique’, p. 623. I am grateful to Genevra Kornbluth for her careful examination of this work. She has noted that the extensive damage to the object prevents clear identification as to whether it represents a Gospel book or an offering. 47

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Figure 6.8. ‘Eucharist Scenes’, detail, ivory plaque, Paris Musée du Louvre MR 368. c. 870–75. Photo © Genevra Kornbluth.

united to the top register by a pair of slender columns. Here, the bishop initiates the consecration with the Sanctus or Canon. Sometimes identified as an archbishop because of his pallium, he is surrounded by clerics as he raises his arms above the altar prepared with a cloth and chalice. At his left, a deacon holds an open book and at the right another censes the altar.

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The nine panels on the Back cover of the Drogo Sacramentary (Figure 6.3) provide a more comprehensive treatment of the service. The original order of the scenes has been discussed, at length, by several scholars.51 The sequence begins with the entrance of the bishop, his participation in the prayers, and the Kiss of Peace. The series culminates in the bottom register. In the first panel the bishop is depicted twice. Initially, he receives the offerings from laypeople standing behind the cancelli or low screens that separate the public spaces of the church from those reserved for clergy. At the right of the panel he turns towards the altar to complete the blessing. The middle scene depicts the bishop conducting the rite and in the final image he presents the consecrated host to a bowing cleric. At a most basic level one could interpret the focus on the Mass as merely an appropriate choice for the sacramentary manuscript that the Drogo panels and likely the Louvre ones originally covered. This model potentially limits investigation of connections between this ritual and Carolingian concerns about human salvation. In addition, it separates these works from consideration of the theological and administrative contexts that linked baptism with the eucharistic celebration. These images visually affirm the importance of the bishop’s role as an authority with oversight of the sacrament at a time of intense discussions about the salvation of humankind, its relationship to the concept of predestination, and the nature of the Eucharist. Questions of who would be saved and what happened during the ceremony were debated as scholars considered whether the body and blood of Christ manifested a symbolic or physical presence. As discussed by Celia Chazelle, responses to these theological concerns were intertwined with one another.52 The writings of Hincmar of Reims, Hrabanus, and Gottschalk of Orbais attest to the diversity of beliefs as well as an intense interest in controlling the dissemination of heretical ideas.53 In a gesture reminiscent of his grandfather’s questionnaire about baptism, Charles the Bald sought out explanations from scholars about the meaning of the Eucharist and authoritative opinions on predestination.54 The monks Paschasius Radbertus and Ratramnus of Corbie both authored treatises debat51 For example: Goldschmidt, Die Elfenbeinskulpturen, i, p. 42 and Reynolds, ‘A Visual Epitome of the Eucharistic Ordo’, pp. 254–59. 52 Chazelle, The Crucified God in the Carolingian Era, p. 166. 53 Colish, Medieval Foundations, p. 73. 54 For a general discussion of the sequence of inquiry see Ganz, ‘Theology and the Organisation of Thought’, ii, pp. 758–85.

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ing the real presence of Christ in the bread and wine used in the Mass. For Paschasius the bread and wine were transformed into the historical body of Christ during the sacrament whereas for Ratramnus, the materials were commemorative of the larger sacrifice.55 Their concerns also extended beyond defining the content of the Eucharist to its significance for the Christian community, understanding communion as a ritual that complemented the initiation of baptism.56 For the monk and preacher Gottschalk, the elect had been chosen by God and the sacraments of baptism and the Eucharist allowed grace only for those individuals.57 Hrabanus expressed intense dismay over the negative implications of this idea for lay worship practices. In a letter to Eberhard of Friuli he lamented: Ita ut dicant: Quid mihi necesse est pro salute mea et vita aeterna laborare? quia si bonum fecero, et predestinatus ad vitam non sum, nihil mihi prodest; si autem malum egero, nihil mihi obest, quia predestinatio Dei me facit ad vitam aeternam pervenire. For they say: ‘What shall it profit me to strive to serve God, for if I am predestined to death I shall never escape it, but if on the contrary, I behave badly and am predestined to life, without any doubt I shall go to eternal rest’.58

Another vocal opponent of Gottschalk’s ideas, Hincmar of Reims reminded his readers about the necessity for appropriate modes of worship. He repeatedly confirmed the links between the salvific power of baptism, the penance of the faithful, and the reception of the eucharistic sacrifice as commemorative and anticipatory of heavenly rewards.59 Participation in both sacraments was crucial, but it was the reception of the holy feast and particularly the chalice, that was essential in pursuing the path towards salvation. 60 Attitudes towards the mystical nature of the Eucharist may have varied between scholars, but the commemorative qualities of the rite were reinforced not only within texts, but also through episcopal imagery. 55 Phelan, ‘Horizontal and Vertical Theologies’, pp.  279–80 and Otten, ‘Between Augustinian Sign’, p. 140. 56 Phelan, ‘Horizontal and Vertical Theologies’, p. 275 and p. 281. 57 Chazelle, The Crucified God in the Carolingian Era, pp. 172–81 (p. 178) and pp. 227–28. 58 Hrabanus Maurus, Epistolae, ed. by Dümmler, no. 42, p. 481; translation in Ganz, ‘The Debate on Predestination’, pp. 287–88. 59 Chazelle, The Crucified God in the Carolingian Era, pp. 219–20. 60 Chazelle, The Crucified God in the Carolingian Era, pp. 194–95.

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Figure 6.9. ‘Healing of Nicetius’, detail on rear side of altar, Milan, Church of Sant’Ambrogio. c. 850. Photo Foto Marburg / Art Resource, NY.

The eucharistic emphasis present in the Louvre and Drogo Sacramentary panels finds parallels in Carolingian depictions of clerical saints. To cite one example, the rear side of the altar commissioned by Archbishop Angilbertus II for the church of Sant’Ambrogio in Milan (c. 850) presents a cycle of twelve gilded, silver repoussé panels depicting key moments from the vita of the late antique bishop, St Ambrose. One scene depicts the miraculous healing of a layman named Nicetius during the preparation of the eucharistic sacrifice (Figure 6.9). 61 The saint stands behind the altar with the host laid out on 61

Elements of this image have also been used to support documentary readings of the scene. For example, the bread has been identified as historically accurate, see: Elbern, Der Karolingische Goldaltar, p. 50, and noted in Hahn, ‘Narrative on the Golden Altar of Sant’Ambrogio’, p. 177.

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its surface while a deacon approaches from the right with the chalice. To the left, Nicetius steps forward to receive the Eucharist, his painful foot indicated by a substantial bandage. St Ambrose treads on the layman’s sore limb, while simultaneously touching the man’s shoulder and the top of the altar. Below, the titulus reads: ‘ubi pede[m] A[m]brosius calcat dolenti’ (‘in which Ambrose treads on the foot of the sick man’).62 Nicetius is healed of his debilitating condition though divine intervention mediated by the physical touch of the saint at the altar. As with the panel depicting the baptism miracles associated with St Remi discussed previously, the scene with Nicetius shares an emphasis on the episcopal hierarchy and action as St Ambrose transmits divine healing as he prepares the Eucharist, the source of salvation. The altar’s ‘decided episcopal emphasis’, presents the saint as an active agent dispensing sacred gifts to a lay member of the Christian community.63 The composition highlights three points of physical contact with the saint, visually reinforcing his authority at the altar as well as the miraculous aspects of the narrative. Ambrose touches the altar, places his hand on Nicetius’s shoulder, and steps on his foot. This triumvirate of gestures not only amplifies the miracle of healing, it places the bishop as an intermediary between the layman and the site of the sacrament, the altar. The representations of the anonymous bishop in the Louvre panel and the Archbishop of Metz from the Drogo Sacramentary lack saintly status, but like St Ambrose these men are depicted as authorities who deftly command the rites performed in the presence of clerics, men of the court, and laypeople. In the Louvre panel the bishop presides over the altar at the apex of the composition neatly ensconced under the ciborium within the apse. In the next tier down, presumably at the edge of the chancel, stand the clerics and furthest removed from the bishop and the ceremonies are the laymen depicted in the bottom In addition, Nicetius’s inappropriate proximity to the saint has been interpreted as a reflection of ninth-century ecclesiastical efforts to restrict laypeople’s access to the altar during the preparation of the Eucharist. See: Elbern, Der Karolingische Goldaltar, p. 60, cites the Liber Pontificalis of Rome as documentation for this concern. Hahn, ‘Narrative on the Golden Altar of Sant’Ambrogio’, p. 177, suggests that this image may also be informed by prohibitions about approaching the altar in Milan described in the vita of St Ambrose. 62 Tatum, ‘The Paliotto’, p. 30; Hahn, ‘Narrative on the Golden Altar of Sant’Ambrogio’, p. 176. For a discussion of the altar, its iconography, and its contexts see: Capponi, L’Altare d’Oro. The convention of translating ubi as ‘in which’ indicating that a titulus describes the content of an image is addressed in Dutton and Kessler, Poetry and Paintings, p. 76. 63 Abou-El-Haj, The Medieval Cult of Saints, p. 12.

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register. In the Drogo Sacramentary cover, this hierarchy is reinforced not only by his large stature in comparison with the other clerics and lay people, but also by the emphasis placed on his hands that, as in the baptismal and confirmation scenes, draws attention to his actions. In addition, the architectural elements highlight his place in the most restricted areas of the church in a similar fashion to the Louvre panel. Here, the fabric of the church denotes his presence in the most sacred part of the building as Drogo stands under the ciborium at the altar. These images visually affirm the importance of the bishop’s role as an authority administering the sacraments at a time when the metaphysical and salvific aspects of the Eucharist were coming under increased scrutiny by Carolingian clerics. The pairing of these eucharistic scenes with the baptismal ones is also suggestive of Carolingian discussions that reinforced the relationship between the sacraments. In both sets of ivories, the bishop’s command of baptism, confirmation, and anointing is balanced with his officiating at the Mass. It seems problematic to suggest that these panels reveal a specific attitude in debates over the nature of the real presence in the Eucharist. Regardless of whether the original viewers of these ivories adhered to a specific conviction, in both works the bishop is depicted executing the actions of commemoration. His role in the sacrament repeats the actions of the historical Christ, thus linking the bread and wine of the liturgy to the great sacrifice, blurring the boundary of past, present, and future as it anticipates the communal body of the Christian faithful, at the end of time.

Commemorating Episcopal Authority The bishops depicted in the Louvre and Drogo Sacramentary ivories share with the royal and hagiographical images an insistence on the delineation of hierarchy, one that privileges the episcopacy. As elaborations on this theme, the images create an authoritative presence for the bishop in these rituals revealing, in pictorial form, aspects of the episcopal ministerium. This subject emerged in the liturgical arts contemporaneously with ninth-century clerical efforts to codify the bishop’s decisive place in the performance and doctrinal oversight of these rites. Irrespective of whether they depict saints or mortals, these images stress the deft performance of the sacraments essential to the salvation the Christian flock. Carolingian attitudes towards the ways that images and the liturgy participated in the processes of commemoration encourage attention not only to the protocols depicted in these works, but also to the substance of these actions for Carolingian ecclesiastics as articulations of their position within the sacred hierarchy.

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I began this essay with a consideration of how art historical methods engage with medieval objects towards documentary and ideal ends. It is indebted to the formative discussions of the Louvre and Drogo Sacramentary panels by scholars who have intently deciphered and interpreted the content of these works. I suggest, however that the Drogo Sacramentary ivories provide the researcher with a tidy package. The panels remain with the original manuscript, have an identifiable recipient whose biography is known to historians, and benefit from extant documents associated with the Metz diocese. When combined, these factors provide a foundation with which to interpret the panels as a unit conducive to questions of influence, patronage, and function. In other words, our understanding of the context supports an analytical approach favouring documentary interpretations. In contrast, the Louvre panels have, to date, received less attention than the Drogo Sacramentary ivories because, I suggest, the package is much less tidy. Their damaged condition and the absence of key elements such as a known patron and an original manuscript render the panels problematic for many of the paradigms employed in scholarship about the Carolingian luxury arts. In the Louvre and Drogo Sacramentary ivories, the bishop’s presence as a ritual specialist is evocatively entwined with the broader pictorial traditions of hagiographic narratives and royal images impressing an essential role for the episcopacy in the sacraments. Examining these ivories in light of early medieval episcopal efforts to assert their privileges through actions, texts, and material culture reveals an additional subject for these works, the authority of the Carolingian bishop.

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Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Documents Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS Lat. 1 —— , MS Lat. 9428 Paris, Louvre, MR 368 —— , MR 369 Utrecht, University Library, MS 32

Primary Sources Hrabanus Maurus, De institutione clericorum: Über die Unterweisung der Geistlichen, ed. and trans. by Detlev Zimpel, Fontes Christiani, 61, 2 vols (Turnhout: Brepols, 2006) —— , Epistolae, ed. by Ernst Dümmler and Karl Hampe, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Epistolae, 8 vols (Berlin: Weidmann, 1892–1939), v: Epistolae Karolini aevi (iii) (1899), pp. 379-516' —— , De Universo, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), cxi (1849), cols 9A–614B Theodulf of Orléans, De Ordine Baptismi, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), cv (1864), cols 223A–240C Walahfrid Strabo, Walahfrid Strabo’s Libellus de Exordiis et Incrementis Quadrundam in Observationibus Ecclesiasticis Rerum, ed. and trans. by Alice L. Harting-Correa (Leiden: Brill, 1996)

Secondary Studies Abou-El-Haj, Barbara, The Medieval Cult of Saints: Formations and Transformations (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1997) Alcouffe, Daniel, ed., Le Trésor de Saint-Denis (Paris: Musée du Louvre, 1991) Appleby, David, ‘Instruction and Inspiration through Images in the Carolingian Period’, in Word, Image, Number: Communication in the Middle Ages, ed. by John J. Contreni and Santa Casciani (Firenze: SISMEL-Edizioni del Galluzzo, 2002), pp. 85–111 Bolvig, Axel, and Phillip Lindley, eds, History and Images: Towards a New Iconology (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003) Buc, Philippe, The Dangers of Ritual: Between Early Medieval Texts and Social Scientific Theory (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001) Capponi, Carlo, ed., L’Altare d’Oro di Sant’Ambrogio (Milan: Silvana Editoriale, 1996) Chazelle, Celia, ‘Archbishops Ebo and Hincmar of Reims and the Utrecht Psalter’, Speculum, 72 (1997), 1055–77; repr. in Approaches to Early-Medieval Art, ed. by Lawrence Nees (Cambridge, MA: The Medieval Academy of America, 1998), pp. 97–119 —— , The Crucified God in the Carolingian Era: Theology and the Art of Christ’s Passion (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001)

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Chazelle, Celia, and Felice Lifshitz, ‘Introduction’, in Paradigms and Methods in Early Medieval Studies, ed. by Celia Chazelle and Felice Lifshitz (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), pp. 1–20 Colish, Martha, Medieval Foundations of the Western Intellectual Tradition: 400–1400 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2002) Crowder, Susannah, ‘Recontextualizing the Performances of the Drogo Sacramentary within Ninth-Century Metz’, presented at the 12th SITM Congress 2–7 July 2007, Lille [accessed 20 June 2012] Deshman, Robert, ‘Otto III and the Warmund Sacramentary: A Study in Political Theology’, Zeitschrift fur Kunstgeschichte, 34 (1971), 1–20 Diebold, William J., ‘Changing Perceptions of the Visual in the Middle Ages: Hucbald of St Amand’s Carolingian Rewriting of Prudentius’, in Reading Images and Texts: Medieval Images and Texts as Forms of Communication: Papers from the Third Utrecht Symposium on Medieval Literacy Utrecht, 7–9 December 2000, ed. by Mariëlle Hageman and Marco Mostert (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), pp. 161–75 —— , ‘Medium as Message in Carolingian Writing about Art’, Word and Image, 22 (2006), 196–201 Duggan, Lawrence, ‘Was Art Really a “Book for the Illiterate”?’, Word and Image, 5 (1989), pp. 227–51 Dutton, Paul Edward, and Herbert L. Kessler, The Poetry and Paintings of the First Bible of Charles the Bald (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1997) Elbern, Victor H., Der Karolingische Goldaltar von Mailand, Bonner Beiträge zur Kunstwissenschaft, 2 (Bonn: Des Kunsthistorischen Institut der Universität, 1952) Félibien, Dom Michel, Histoire de L’abbaye Royale de Saint-Denys en France (Paris: Leonard, 1706) Fisher, John D. C., Christian Initiation: Baptism in the Medieval West, rev. edn (Mundelein: Hildenbrand, 2004) Ganz, David, ‘The Debate on Predestination’, in Charles the Bald: Court and Kingdom, ed. by Margaret T. Gibson and Janet L. Nelson, 2nd rev. edn (Aldershot: Variorum, 1990), pp. 283–302 —— , ‘Theology and the Organisation of Thought’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History: c. 700–900, ed. by Rosamond McKitterick and others, 7 vols (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995–2005), ii (1995), pp. 758–85 Garipzanov, Ildar H., The Symbolic Language of Authority in the Carolingian World (c. 751–877), The Early Middle Ages, 16 (Leiden: Brill, 2008) Gatti, Evan A., ‘Developing an Iconography of the Episcopacy: Liturgical Portraiture and Episcopal Politics in Tenth- and Eleventh-Century Manuscripts’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2005) Goldschmidt, Adolf, Die Elfenbeinskulpturen aus der Zeit der karolingischen und sächsischen Kaiser viii–xi Jahrhundert, 2 vols (Berlin: Deutscher, 1914–18) Hahn, Cynthia, ‘Narrative on the Golden Altar of Sant’Ambrogio in Milan: Presentation and Reception’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 53 (1999), 167–88 —— , Portrayed on the Heart: Narrative Effect in Pictorial Lives of Saints from the Tenth through the Thirteenth Century (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001)

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Heitz, Carol, ‘Eucharistie, Synaxe et Espace Liturgique, in Segni e Riti nella Chiesa Alto Medievale Occidentale’, Settimani de Studi, 33 (Spoleto: La Sede del Centro, 1987), pp. 609–38 Hen, Yitzhak, ‘The Romanization of the Frankish Liturgy: Ideal, Reality and the Rhetoric of Reform’, in Rome Across Time and Space: Cultural Transmission and the Exchange of Ideas c. 500–1400, ed. by Claudia Bolgia, Rosamond McKitterick, and John Osborne (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001), pp. 111–23 Johnson, Maxwell E., The Rights of Christian Initiation, rev. and exp. edn (Collegeville: Liturgical Press, 2007) Jong, Mayke de, The Penitential State: Authority and Atonement in the Age of Louis the Pious, 814–840 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009) Keefe, Susan A., Water and the Word: Baptism and the Education of the Clergy in the Carolingian Empire, 2 vols (Notre Dame: Notre Dame Press, 2002) Köhler, Wilhelm, and Florentine Mütherich, Drogo Sakramentar: Manuscrit Latin 9428, Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris, 2 vols (Graz: Akademische Verlag, 1974) Molinier, Émile, Catalog des Ivoires (Paris: Librairies-Imprimeries Réunies, 1896) Montesquiou-Fezensac, Blaise de, and Danielle Gaborit-Chopin, Le Trésor de SaintDenis, 3 vols (Paris: Picard, 1973–77) Moore, Michael Edward, A Sacred Kingdom: Bishops and the Rise of Frankish Kingship, 300–850, Studies in Medieval and Early Modern Canon Law, 8 (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 2011) Nelson, Janet L., The Frankish World 750–900 (London: Hambledon, 1996) —— , Politics and Ritual in Early Medieval Europe (London: Hambledon, 1986) Noble, Thomas F. X., Images, Iconoclasm, and the Carolingians (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2009) Otten, Willemein, ‘Between Augustinian Sign and Carolingian Reality: The Presence of Ambrose and Augustine in the Eucharistic Debate between Paschasius Radbertus and Ratramnus of Corbie’, Nederlands archief voor Kerkgeschiedenis, 80 (2000), 137–56 Palazzo, Eric, ‘Art and Liturgy in the Middle Ages: Survey of Research (1980–2003) and Some Reflections on Method’, The State of Medieval Studies = Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 105 (2006), 170–84 —— , ‘Art, Liturgy, and the Five Senses in the Early Middle Ages’, Viator, 41 (2010), 25–56 Patzold, Steffen, Episcopus: Wissen über Bischöfe im Frankenreich des späten 8. bis frühen 10. Jahrhunderts, Mittelalter-Forschungen, 25 (Ostfildern: Thorbecke, 2008) Phelan, Owen, ‘Horizontal and Vertical Theologies: “Sacraments” in the Works of Paschasius Radbertus and Ratramnus of Corbie’, Harvard Theological Review, 103 (2010), 271–89 Reynolds, Roger E., ‘“At Sixes and Sevens” — and Eights and Nines: The Sacred Mathematics of Sacred Orders in the Early Middle Ages’, Speculum, 54 (1979), 699–84 (repr. in Roger E. Reynolds, Clerics in the Early Middle Ages: Hierarchy and Image (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), iii) —— , ‘Clerics in the Early Middle Ages: Hierarchies and Functions’, in Roger E. Reynolds, Clerics in the Early Middle Ages: Hierarchy and Image (Ashgate: Variorum, 1999), pp. 1–31

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—— , ‘Image and Text: A Carolingian Illustration of Modifications in the Early Roman Eucharistic “Ordines”’, Viator, 14 (1983), 59–75 —— , ‘A Visual Epitome of the Eucharistic Ordo from the Era of Charles the Bald: The Ivory Mass Cover of the Drogo Sacramentary’, in Charles the Bald: Court and Kingdom, ed. by Margaret T. Gibson and Janet L. Nelson, 2nd rev. edn (Aldershot: Variorum, 1990), pp. 241–60 Rhijn, Carine van, Shepherds of the Lord: Priests and Episcopal Statutes in the Carolingian Period (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007) Smith, Julia M. H., Europe after Rome: A New Cultural History 500–1000 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005) Tatum, George Bishop, ‘The Paliotto of the Church of Sant’Ambrogio at Milan’, Art Bulletin, 26 (1945), 25–45 Unterkircher, Franz, Zur Ikonographie und Liturgie des Drogo-Sakramentars: (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, Ms. Lat. 9428), Interpretationes ad codices, 1 (Graz: Akademische Verlag, 1977)

Feed My Sheep: Pastoral Imagery and the Bishops’ Calling in Early Ireland Dorothy Hoogland Verkerk

O

The ancients therefore that are among you, I beseech, who am myself also an ancient, and a witness of the sufferings of Christ: as also a partaker of that glory which is to be revealed in time to come: Feed the flock of God which is among you, taking care of it, not by constraint, but willingly, according to God: not for filthy lucre’s sake, but voluntarily: Neither as lording it over the clergy, but being made a pattern of the flock from the heart. And when the Prince of pastors shall appear, you shall receive a never fading crown of glory. i Peter 5. 1–41

verlooking the River Boyne, Monasterboice, Co. Louth, was the site of a medieval monastery that has left little textual evidence of its existence, but has left an impressive group of archaeological remains, including a round tower and a group of freestanding sculpture.2 Monasterboice is the home of three medieval Irish crosses, two of which are the largest and best preserved of the so-called scripture crosses, so named due to the extensive narrative scenes carved on the surfaces.3 The West Cross, or Tall Cross, located 1 

All biblical quotes are from the Douay–Rheims version.

2 

On the round tower see Stalley, ‘Sex, Symbol and Myth’. The group of surviving scripture crosses include those at Ardboe, Clonmacnoise, Durrow, Kells, and Monasterboice, which are concentrated in the midlands and the east. Fragments of stone crosses survive at Armagh, Bangor, and Connor, indicating that a far larger group of stone crosses existed at one time. For a comprehensive survey of the Irish crosses, see: Harbison, The High Crosses of Ireland; Veelenturf, Dia Brátha. 3 

Dorothy Hoogland Verkerk is Associate Professor of Art History at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 157–179 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102231

158 Dorothy Hoogland Verkerk Figure 7.1. ‘West Cross, Monasterboice’, Co. Louth, Ireland. Early tenth century. Author photograph.

near the round tower in the western corner of the site, is 6.5 m high, making it the tallest high cross in Ireland (Figure 7.1). Dating to the early tenth century, it is more weathered than the adjacent Muiredach’s Cross,4 especially at the base, leaving only a handful of its original panels distinguishable. On the West Cross, the identification of specific scenes and figures is disputed, but they are generally understood to depict events from the Life of David and the Life of Christ. In addition to the narrative panels that can be tentatively linked to biblical texts, there are ornamental panels and additional genre figures, for lack of a better term, that cannot be linked to biblical stories. The central scenes on either face of the cross are the Crucifixion and the Second Coming. This essay will focus on two small figures — shepherds tending their flock — that appear on either side of the crucified Christ on the west side of the West Cross. Iconographic and compositional cues suggest that the shepherds can be understood as a visual embodiments of the pastoral theme found in i Peter and expanded 4 

The North Cross, the third surviving at Monasterboice, is relatively simple, with a Crucifixion carved on the west face and an ornamental disk on the east face.

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Figure 7.2. ‘Crucifixion’, West Cross, Monasterboice, Co. Louth, Ireland. Early tenth century. Author photograph.

upon in the writing of the early Christian authors with special meaning for early Christian Ireland. Specifically, with the sacrifice of the Agnus Dei, the Good Shepherd passes the care of his flock to his earthly shepherds, the bishops, who will tend his flock until his return at the End of Time, a theme found on the east side of the West Cross in the scene of the Second Coming. The Crucifixion, the central narrative of the cross, includes puzzling figures whose presence at the Crucifixion is as mysterious as they are important since they are witnesses to the moment of Christ’s sacrifice. The crucified figure of Christ is flanked on the viewer’s left by a shepherd milking a sheep and on the viewer’s right by a shepherd shearing a sheep (Figure 7.2). The shepherd milking the sheep is easily identified since it is the manner in which sheep are still milked today; it is an old motif and one firmly rooted in thousands of years of husbandry practice. Helen Roe recognized the milking shepherd as a motif derived from early Christian sarcophagi, though she did not assign any particu-

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lar meaning to the figures featured so prominently next to the Crucifixion.5 The pair of shepherds are a-typical figures to include in a narrative scene of the Crucifixion; therefore, their presence suggests a specific meaning for their medieval Irish audience. The question thus arises as to the reason for incorporating such seemingly banal figures of lowly shepherds tending their flock in the central narrative of Christianity displayed so prominently on a monumental work of sculpture. The Crucifixion on the West Cross is unusual in several ways, departing from the standard iconography of Crucifixions, though it includes figures found in works of art such as the Carolingian carved ivories from the late ninth century. The central figure of Christ, for example, is flanked by two Roman soldiers. These figures are traditionally identified as Stephaton, who offers Christ the vinegar soaked sponge on the viewer’s left, and Longinus, who pierces Christ’s side with a lance on the viewer’s right. On the West Cross, the soldiers are squeezed rather awkwardly into the compositional frame and the position of Longinus and Stephaton is reversed from the standard iconography. On Carolingian ivories, Longinus is on the right side of Christ, while Stephaton stands to Christ’s left, indicating that the Irish were not averse to manipulating standard iconography for their own ends.6 The cross’s Crucifixion narrative also excludes Mary and John, who are conventional witnesses, and includes unusual, if not unique, motifs not found on other Crucifixions. Behind the Stephaton and Longinus, one on each side, are two disembodied heads. Although they are badly eroded, they may be tentatively identified as examples of the type of head so common in La Tène Celtic art, with their blunt-cut hairstyles and flowing moustaches. They correspond to the figures of Sol and Luna found on Carolingian ivories, but the Irish example is unmistakably two males and they lack the attributes of the sun and moon personifications. The figure of Christ is also unusual in several ways, with his head sharply tilted towards his right shoulder and his longsleeved tunic. Perhaps the most remarkable feature is his large hands, which are grossly exaggerated in scale compared to the rest of his body. They are almost half again the length of his arms. The hands are shown with the palms facing outward and they lead the eye directly towards the shepherds at either side of 5 

Roe, Monasterboice and its Monuments, p. 46. The early Christian sarcophagi as icono­ graphic sources for the Irish High crosses is summarized in Verkerk, ‘Pilgrimage ad Limina Apostolorum’, pp. 9–26. 6  For example, Book Cover with the Crucifixion, ivory, northern France, c.  870–80, Walters Art Gallery, Baltimore, MA, 71. 142 [accessed 21 April 2012].

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Figure 7.3. ‘Crucifixion’, Muiredach’s Cross, Monasterboice, Co. Louth, Ireland. Tenth century. Author photograph.

Christ. The arms are not outstretched parallel to the ground, but rather reach downward following the framing device and terminate in large fingertips that almost touch the two shepherds who face the crucified Christ. Although the compositional space is difficult on these carved crosses, the arms of Christ on the adjacent Muiredach’s Cross, which stands only a few feet from the West Cross, are thrust straight out allowing ample room for the two Roman soldiers (Figure 7.3). On Muiredach’s Cross, the arms of Christ are truly nailed to the cross, emphasizing the physical suffering of the crucified figure. In contrast, the West Cross with the arms flowing over the frame to touch the shepherds as if in benediction, emphasizes the connection between the Prince of pastors and the earthly shepherds tending their flock. Another comparison drives home the compositional, and I believe the iconographical, significance of the shepherds in the West Cross Crucifixion. Related

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Figure 7.4. ‘Crucifixion’, Cross of Durrow, Durrow, Co. Laois, Ireland. Ninth century. Author photograph.

stylistically to the West Cross, the cross at Durrow also has large hands and sloping arms, but this comparison shows how well the carver of the West Cross conceived of the relationship between the arms, hands, and shepherds (Figure 7.4). On the Durrow example, the arms seem to be raised simply in order to accommodate the two soldiers and the large hands lead the eye to the seated figures on the viewer’s left; however, the figure on the right turns its back to the outstretched hand, severing the visual connection between Christ’s hand and the flanking scene. In a similar manner to the West Cross, the Durrow Crucifixion also depicts Longinus on Christ’s left, the non-traditional position for the centurion. This feature strongly suggests that the two crosses were in iconographical conversation, though each monument has a different emphasis for the action. In summary, the creators of the West Cross gave a prominence to the two shepherds not only by their inclusion in the Crucifixion scene, but also by their direct visual connection to the central figure of the crucified Christ by means of the large hands that visually connect the shepherds to the body of Christ.

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Iconographic Precedents Pastoral imagery is one of the first themes found in early Christian art; the most well known bucolic image is the standing figure of the youthful Christ with a sheep or goat carried around his shoulders. Christ as the Good Shepherd is such a well-known pastoral image from the Early Christian period that it is often taken for granted that it represents an enduring image of Christ that enjoyed a long history. In fact, Christ as the Good Shepherd is a relatively fleeting motif in late antiquity and is rarely found in western medieval art despite common assumptions to the contrary. Christ as the Agnus Dei, on the other hand, begins to gain its place in the repertoire of Christian art just as the Good Shepherd is fading from prominence. Concomitant with the disappearance of the Good Shepherd and the emergence of the Agnus Dei, is the rise in number and prominence of shepherds tending sheep. It is worthwhile to explore the disappearance of the Good Shepherd, since it has repercussions for shepherds taking a more central role in Christian art. A discussion of the Good Shepherd and the lesser shepherds, in both pictorial and literary traditions, will also place the pastoral imagery of the West Cross in a larger context. Scholars who discuss the Good Shepherd struggle with the thorny issue that few of the earliest representations of a shepherd carrying a ram or a sheep can be firmly identified with the second Person of the Trinity, God the Son. Compounding this problem is that the Good Shepherds that can be securely identified are limited to the relatively short period of time from the mid-third century through the fourth century.7 Typically, the Good Shepherd is discussed as an example of syncretism in art history, where the iconography of Christ the Good Shepherd is adapted from depictions of Hermes Kriophoros, the youthful Greek shepherd.8 Hermes Kriophoros, the artistic model for the Good Shepherd, appears early as a pre-Hellenic god, whose worship was most prevalent in Arcadia and then spread throughout the Roman Empire.9 Essentially, Hermes Kriophoros was a pastoral deity and was typically shown as a youth carrying a ram or a sheep. The animal was carried by Hermes in several poses: wrapped around the neck and shoulders of the youth with the legs clutched in either one or both hands, or tucked under his left arm. Hermes Kriophoros also had chthonian aspects of a god who was associated with death and his represen7 

Carder, ‘The Louvre Good Shepherd Christ’, provides a succinct discussion of the issues in dating the sculptures with images of the Good Shepherd. 8  Taylor, ‘The Problem of Labels’. 9  Wright, ‘The Good Shepherd’, pp. 46–48 traces the imagery to ancient Mesopotamia.

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tation could be found in tombs and on graves.10 Thus, Hermes and Christ, both as shepherds, shared iconographical and iconological traits: a youth carrying a ram/sheep around the shoulders and the close association of a guide through the passage of death. The pastoral imagery of Hermes and Christ is not surprising since it has ancient roots in husbandry; shepherding was one of the earliest occupations and a source of wealth and power.11 From the routine of daily life in an agrarian society, a complex and extensive stock of shepherd and flock imagery was developed. Jewish scripture is filled with pastoral references that lay the foundation for all subsequent literary references to the metaphor of the shepherd as a leader and protector of their flocks. The shepherd guides the sheep to food and water and protects the herd from wild animals and thieves who might steal the animals. Jewish heroes such as Abel, Jacob, and David, for example, were caretakers of their flocks. God is allegorically described as a shepherd who seeks out his own scattered sheep, Ezekiel 34. 12.12 In the New Testament, the pastoral metaphor is continued, depicting Christ as the compassionate and trustworthy shepherd who is willing to die for his sheep. Scholars of early Christianity are essentially uniform in their assessment that the disappearance of the Good Shepherd is due to two factors. First, the youth in tunica exomis would not have served a Christian audience that had evolved into a body of believers who saw their god in more royal terms. Second, the shepherd no longer had sufficient dogmatic or liturgical heft.13 In other words, in the understanding of modern scholarship, the shepherd would not have had adequate theological distinction or satisfactory stature for public worship. Although I do not exclude these arguments for the disappearance of the Good Shepherd, I believe the reasons for the shift away from the motif may be more complicated. As Ernst Kitzinger noted in his discussion of the Cleveland Good Shepherd of the third century, the physiognomy of many Good Shepherds on Christian sarcophagi belongs to the Alexander the Great type, a connection that was recognized early in the twentieth century.14 The simile of a good shep10 

Farnell, The Cults of the Greek States, v, pp. 1–31, remains one of the most important publications on Hermes Kriophoros. 11  Wright, ‘The Good Shepherd’, p. 44. 12  ‘As the shepherd visiteth his flock in the day when he shall be in the midst of his sheep that were scattered, so will I visit my sheep, and will deliver them out of all the places where they have been scattered in the cloudy and dark day.’ 13  Jensen, Understanding Early Christian Art, pp. 37–41. 14  Kitzinger, ‘The Cleveland Marbles’, i, pp. 653–75. For the earliest connection to the

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herd had been applied for centuries as a royal symbol for the good ruler, which early Christian patrons would have surely known.15 Jewish scriptures also use the imagery of the shepherd in national and political terms far more than the bucolic figure gently tending the flock.16 The iconography of the ruler as a shepherd can be traced back to the Egyptian Pharaohs who are typically shown with a flail and crook, the latter a tool of the shepherd. Although the modern, postagricultural viewer may only see a humble figure associated with a romantic agrarian past, the early Christian may have been aware of the royal connotations of the figure as well as its overtones of Hermes Kriophoros. If the royal connotations, or lack of them, are not the sole reason for the retiring of the Good Shepherd, then other factors may be brought into play. The early fifth-century mosaic of Christ in the so-called ‘Mausoleum of Galla Placidia’ at Ravenna is often singled out as the transitional moment between the unassuming shepherd and the royal King of Heaven — ‘he is the king of his sheep, rather than their shepherd’.17 Boniface Ramsey’s argument, that reflects so many other scholars’ opinions, is that the humble shepherd was no longer an appealing figure; he is replaced by an imperial figure more representative of the Church’s higher status as the religion of the imperial family. The cult of the emperor, it is now argued, has been transferred to images of Christ.18 One must remember, however, that the mosaic is a private image, in a liturgical space commissioned by an empress, that would not have had a significant public audience. The patron of this mosaic composition may have a bearing on the type of Christ as the Good Shepherd. Galla Placidia was the wealthy daughter of the emperor Theodosius and his second wife Galla, and mother of the emperor Valentinian III, though it is generally accepted that Galla Placidia was buried in Rome, not Ravenna.19 On one of the lunette mosaics in the diminutive building, Christ, as the shepherd of his flocks, is beautifully portrayed as a young man wearing a long gold tunic decorated with purple clavi. Rather than carrying a shepherd’s staff, or a bucket, or pipes, he holds a golden crucifix staff Alexander type, see: Wulff, Altchristliche und byzantinische Kunst, i, p. 107; see also, Wixom, ‘Early Christian Sculptures’. 15  Dvornik, Early Christian and Byzantine, ii, pp. 597–98. 16  Tooley, ‘The Shepherd and Sheep Image’, p. 18 and pp. 24–25. 17  Ramsey, ‘A Note on the Disappearance’, p. 376; Jensen, Understanding Early Christian Art, pp. 37–40. 18  Mathews, The Clash of Gods, for a discussion and critique of the early Christ iconography and the cult of the emperor. 19  Oost, ‘Some Problems’. For the larger context: Johnson, The Roman Imperial Mausolem.

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in his right hand. The traditional knee-high boots are replaced by delicate sandals. Christ is now seated, rather than standing, among his sheep in a mountainous landscape. He reaches out his right hand in an affectionate gesture to one of the sheep, and does not drape a ram around his shoulders. The royal connotations of the shepherd, in a building commissioned by a royal patron, are given overt representation. Deborah Deliyannis has argued that the small cruciform building, which probably did not contain the remains of Galla Placidia, is both funerary and memorial in the mosaic programme decorating the walls and ceilings.20 The cross plays a central role not only in the shape of the building, which is cruciform, but also in the cross sceptres held by Christ and St Lawrence, and the heavenly cross floating in the star-studded ceiling.21 Christ as Shepherd in a paradisiacal setting and the heavenly dome link the cross/crucifixion motif to the Second Coming. This is also the general theme found on both faces of the West Cross: crucifixion, pastoral imagery, and the Second Coming. Although the context is funerary, the depiction of Christ is quite different from the earlier images of Christ as the Good Shepherd that survive on sarcophagi and catacomb walls. It should also be noted that this princely shepherd is a lonely survivor that was not repeated, suggesting this representation of Christ did not enjoy any wide-spread popularity, but rather spoke to the desires of a particular patron who was drawing upon and elaborating on a traditional theme. On the other hand, when the Good Shepherd was no longer the primary representation of Christ, about the fifth century, there was, along with the Agnus Dei, a corresponding rise in narrative and symbolic pastoral imagery that would enjoy a long history. The strong appeal of bucolic imagery was not completely abandoned but, I will contend, was transferred to the iconography of the bishops who were the shepherds of Christ’s flock until the Prince of pastors would return. The West Cross picks up the bucolic tradition in Christian art, combining the image of shepherds tending their flocks with the sacrifice of the Prince of pastors, as represented by the Crucifixion. The transfer of responsibility for tending the flock, or the Christian community under the care of the bishops, is given visual expression on the cross in the careful disposition of Christ’s large hands that reach out to the two shepherds. While the Good Shepherd iconography is phased out, an equally ancient tradition of sheep herding is appropriated and applied to visualize the respon20 

Deliyannis, Ravenna In Late Antiquity, pp. 74–84; Deliyannis, ‘Bury Me in Ravenna?’. Mackie, ‘New Light on the So-Called Saint Lawrence Panel’, suggests that the deacon in the mausoleum should be identified as St Vincent of Sargossa. 21 

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Figure 7.5. ‘Fragment of Sarcophagus Lid from Rome’, Bode Museum, Berlin. c. 300. Author photograph.

sibilities of the bishop. The secondary pastoral tradition shows shepherds tending their flocks; this bucolic motif includes a shepherd milking a goat or sheep, or a piping shepherd, or a shepherd leaning on his staff. This tandem shepherd iconography can include all three shepherd activities, or an abbreviated version of them. Both traditions have their origins in pre-Christian art; however, the pastoral shepherd is far more long lasting than the Good Shepherd.22 On the other hand, the milking shepherd in particular can be found in a variety of contexts and media for over a thousand years; as early as the stunning Scythian golden pectoral from the first century bce and as late as the fifteenth-century Rohan Hours.23 The depiction of shepherds caring for their sheep enjoys a long tradition. However, I know of no other example where they are given a central role in a scene of the Crucifixion as found on the West Cross of Monasterboice in Ireland. The second shepherd in the act of sheep shearing is also a relatively unknown figure in ancient art, though it can be found in later illustrations of the labours of the months.24 22 

Muller, ‘Prehistory of the “Good Shepherd”’. Rolle, ‘Die Ausgrabung’; Reeder, Scythian Gold, catalogue 172, pp. 326–31; Meiss and Thomas, The Rohan Master, pl. 46. 24  See for example, Homilies of Gregory of Nazianzus, Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de 23 

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Shepherds attending their flocks survive in number on sarcophagi from the third and fourth century. They were no doubt related to bucolic images such as mosaics for the Roman villa or illustrations in manuscripts such as the Vergilius Romanus (Vatican City, Cod. Vat. lat. 3867), though due to the vagaries of survival rates, the funerary examples survive in greater numbers. Rather than the examples from mosaics and illuminated books, the funerary sculptures were probably the source for the shepherds found on the Irish cross (Figure 7.5). It is well documented that the Irish were frequent pilgrims to Rome, where they would have encountered the sarcophagi either as containers for relics or scattered among the cemeteries and churches of the city.25 In fact, many Irish bishops, as part of their consecration, travelled to Rome to receive the blessing of the Roman bishop. The motif of the shepherd milking a goat or sheep has received some study, but the general consensus is that the motif is an innocuous reference to the delights of the pastoral life. Josepha Weitzmann-Fiedler, for example, traced the milking shepherd motif from its Roman origins to its appearance in Byzantine manuscripts such as the Mount Sinai Homilies of Gregory of Nazianzus (Mount Sinai, St Catherine, Cod. 339, fol. 53r), in which the third-century martyr St Mamas milks a doe. However, her interest was in a motif displayed on the mosaic from the Great Palace in Constantinople as a witness to lost, illustrated bucolic books such as Theocritus’s Idylls, which do not survive in text form.26 Weitzmann-Fiedler was reconstructing a lost prototype rather than exploring how this motif became significant for the iconography of the bishop. Ernst Kitzinger, in his study of the twelfth-century mosaics of St Mary’s of the Admiral in Palermo, at first thought the milking shepherd adjacent to the Nativity was added in a later restoration; he then acknowledged that the motif was included in the original design.27 Thus, these interpretations link the milking shepherd to bucolic texts on the delights of the country or to calendars depicting genre scenes of daily life or as compositional place markers.28 France, MS gr. 533, fol. 34r, in Galvaris, The Illustrations of the Liturgical Homilies, fig. 237. 25  Verkerk, ‘Life After Death’; also discussed in Verkerk, ‘Pilgrimage ad Limina Apostolorum’, pp. 18–20. 26  Weitzmann-Fiedler, ‘Some Obversations’; on the mosaic: Brett, ‘The Mosaic of the Great Palace’; Trilling, ‘The Soul of the Empire’. 27  Kitzinger, The Mosaics of St. Mary’s, p. 177 n. 280, fig. 187b. 28  Weitzmann-Fiedler, ‘Some Obversations’, pp.  103–06; Hanfmann, The Season Sarcophagus, i, p. 62; Brett, ‘The Mosaic of the Great Palace’, pp. 38–39.

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When the milking shepherd appears in Christian contexts, liturgical and dogmatic interpretations are superimposed on the bucolic image. Josef Wilpert, for example, suggested that the milking shepherd was yet another reference to Christ the Good Shepherd.29 The Good Shepherd is sometimes shown with the milking shepherd as in the third-century painting in the Coemeterium Maius at Rome where a female orant is flanked by both types of shepherds. In this interpretation the pail, or pot, of milk would be an allusion to the early practice of offering milk at baptism.30 One could argue that both depictions of the shepherds are Christ, performing two different pastoral activities referring to both the funeral psalms and baptism. In early Christian thought, one’s Dies Natalis was the day of baptism, when the Christian was reborn as a child into the Kingdom of Heaven.31 Although this may be a plausible interpretation of this abbreviated scene, it does not address why one shepherd type would fall out of favour and the other version would enjoy continuous popularity. It is also difficult to explain the appearance of the Good Shepherd together with another milking shepherd as two representations of Christ in the same scene, since this would presumably cause theological difficulties.

The Literary Tradition The Bible contains well over one hundred references to shepherds caring for their flocks, whether as part of a narrative, or part of poetic, or epistolary literature. In the majority of these passages the shepherd feeds, protects, and cares for the flock; many of the Old Testament shepherds would be read typologically as precursors to the Christian Church’s shepherds. Most famous, of course, is Psalm 23 [22] where the shepherd is interpreted as Christ who leads his sheep by the still waters. In the Gospels Christ describes himself, either overtly or in parables, as the Good Shepherd.32 St Paul adds a new dimension to the hierarchy of pastoral care by exhorting the leaders of the church in Ephesus to: ‘Take heed to yourselves, and to the whole flock, wherein the Holy Ghost hath placed you bishops, to rule the church of God, which he hath purchased with 29  Wilpert, Die malereien der Katakomben Roms, pl.  117; Weitzmann-Fiedler, ‘Some Obversations’, p. 106 concurs with Wilpert’s interpretation. 30  Tertullian, De Corona, ed. by Kroyman, pp. 1042–43; Barnard, ‘The Epistle of Barnabas’; Draper, ‘Ritual Process and Ritual Symbol’. 31  See for example, Verkerk, ‘The Font is a Kind of Grave’. 32  John 10. 11–16.

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his own blood.’33 The pattern emerges that the Old Testament shepherds were prototypes for the Good Shepherd who in turn gives over the care of his flock to the shepherds, or clergy, of the emerging early Christian Church. Church leaders, such as elders and bishops, were instructed to take up Christ’s work with titles such as presbyteros and episcopos, which were adopted from the work of shepherding.34 Writing in the mid-fourth century, the ‘Persian Sage’ Aphraates wrote at length on the role of the bishop as shepherd of his flock. In his tenth Demonstration (Homily on Pastors), Aphraates picks up on the biblical pattern in his admonition to the leaders in the Syrian Church.35 It is worthwhile to trace Aphraates’ thoughts on the pastoral role, since his writing is one of the earliest and most complete discussions of the pastoral rigors and responsibilities of the bishop as shepherd of his flock. Aphraates outlines a clear hierarchy: the earthly shepherds are the disciples of the Good Shepherd. Pastors are set over the flock and give the sheep the food of life, a clear reference to Christ as the Agnus Dei and the sacrifice repeatedly performed in the Eucharist. Not only is Christ the ultimate Good Shepherd, but also Old Testament leaders were the ancient shepherds that provided additional role models for clerics. Jacob, Joseph, Moses, David, and Amos were all shepherds who led and then fed their flocks. Aphraates emphasizes the physical demands upon the shepherd who suffers the scorching heat of the daytime sun, and then shivers through the cold hours of the night. A few generations later in the mid-fifth century, St Patrick also refers to his physical sufferings while a captive in Ireland in his Confessio. As a slave in northern Ireland, he was a shepherd who tended his master’s flock in harsh conditions. However, it was as a shepherd that he realized the full depth of his faith. St Patrick rose before dawn to pray in the cold created by the icy snow or driving rain, continuing to pray throughout the day until his prayers numbered a hundred, while reciting an additional one hundred throughout the night. Despite the physical hardships endured by a shepherd, he realized the Holy 33 

Acts 20. 28. Acts 14. 22; Acts 20. 28. 35  Aphraates, Demonstrations, nos  6 and 10, in Christianity in Late Antiquity, ed. by Ehrman and Jacobs, pp. 150–54 and 316–30. Aphraates wrote 23 Demonstrations as the head of a monastery of Mar Mattai, near modern Mosul in Iraq. Holding the rank of bishop, he took the name Jacob, which led to his confusion with Jacob of Nisibis. He wrote during a time of persecution and warfare between the Persian and Roman empires. Barnes, ‘Constantine and the Christians of Persia’, p. 126. 34 

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Spirit burned within him so that he did not shirk his pastoral duties nor suffer any illness. As with Aphraates, St Patrick stressed that it was as a shepherd he learned the faith that would prepare him for his role as a bishop. The lessons and tribulations learned while tending the flock are what prepare the bishop for his office. Those chosen for the office of guidance served an apprenticeship in the feeding, guiding, and protecting of the sheep. The vocation of a shepherd is not the end result, but a preparation for the next step of caring for a human flock, or the calling of a bishop. Moses, for example, was called from his sheep to lead the Israelites to the Promised Land. David did not return to his father’s flocks, but guided his people as their king. The example of David is another reiteration that the skills of shepherding applied to that of kingship. The early church fathers also frequently invoke the metaphor of the bishop as shepherd of the flock until the return of the Prince of pastors. Clement of Alexandria, for example, instructs those who preside over the Church to act as the image of Christ the shepherd. For the lambs of the flock, these shepherds are to offer them the milk of Christ’s teaching rather than the meat of more difficult concepts.36 A less well-known literary tradition exists that utilized the motif of the shepherd in a more specific fashion. This literary tradition expresses the themes of visions, repentance and deliverance brought about by the shepherd tending his flock. The Shepherd of Hermas, written by an anonymous Roman author in the second century ce, survives in fragmentary form. In the Fifth Vision, the shepherd is introduced and brings a vision of the Mandates and the Similitudes that concern the moral behaviour of living the Christian life in second-century Rome: the morality of living with an adulterer, for example, and the sticky question of post-baptismal sinning and repentance. In other words, the treatise addresses the cares and concerns of the clergy guiding its flocks through the wolves of this world.37 Later in the sixth century, Gregory the Great, in his treatise on pastoral care, frequently refers to the clergy as shepherds tending their flocks. The duties and skills of a shepherd are invoked by Gregory the Great in his letter to Abbot 36 

Clement of Alexandria, Paedagogus, I. vi, in The Ante-Nicene Fathers, ed. by Roberts, Donaldson, and Cox, ii, [accessed 22 June 2012]. 37  Pastor of Hermas, Visions, I. v, in The Ante-Nicene Fathers, ed. by Roberts, Donaldson, and Cox, ii, [accessed 22 June 2012].

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Columbus, who was concerned about the Donatists making inroads on his congregation.38 Gregory casts the Donatists into the role of the wild beast or wolf that preys on the flock both under cover of darkness and in the bright light of the sun. He exhorts Columbus to imitate the earthly shepherds who keep watch throughout the cold of winter nights to protect the flock, so that not one sheep should fall to the predators. And should the wolf attack and bite the sheep, the bishop must imitate the shepherd whose heart races and whose cries frighten away the predator until the sheep is returned to the flock. In an inversion of a well-known biblical passage, Patrick pinpoints the moment of his lifelong calling when he hears the ‘Voice of the Irish’ urging him to return to the land of his captivity where he laboured as a shepherd. Patrick’s ‘Voice of the Irish’ is a reference to John 10. 2–4, 27: But he that entereth in by the door is the shepherd of the sheep. To him the porter openeth; and the sheep hear his voice: and he calleth his own sheep by name, and leadeth them out. And when he hath let out his own sheep, he goeth before them: and the sheep follow him, because they know his voice. […] My sheep hear my voice: and I know them, and they follow me.

In a typical self-effacing manner, Patrick references the passage in John’s gospel, but inverts it so that he is the one who hears the Voice and responds to the command to lead his Irish flock. Irish saints’ lives are rife with typological allegories that equate local Irish saints, and Patrick in particular, with heroes of the Old Testament.39 Brendan, for example, is the Irish patriarch Abraham, the Irish psalmist David, the Irish Church Father Augustine. Mochuda has the characteristics of Daniel, David, and Moses, while Berach possesses those of Abraham, Moses, David, Solomon, and John the Beloved. These literary models suggest that similar typological layers may have existed in the iconography of the crosses. Before these Old Testament heroes assumed their roles as patriarch, king, and law-giver, Abraham, David, and Moses were shepherds who tended their flocks. As in the writings of Aphraates and Patrick, their husbandry work in the fields was a precursor to their final calling as leaders of their people.

38  39 

Gregory the Great, Registrum Epistularum, ed. by Norberg, Ep. no. II. 39, pp. 125–27. O’Leary, ‘An Irish Apocryphal Apostle’, p. 288.

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Historical Context The early history of the Christian church in Ireland is shrouded in obscurity, though the four figures of Patrick, Colum Cille, Columbanus, and Bridget dominate the history and the myth of Christianity in early Ireland. Of the four saints, only Patrick was a bishop. Colum Cille, Columbanus, and Bridget were famous for founding the legendary monasteries at Iona in Scotland, Bobbio in Italy, Luxieul in France, and Kildare in Ireland.40 In Ireland, the diocesan system was introduced by Patrick, though the diocesan territory was usually coextensive with political boundaries.41 Irish kings could also be clerics, and kings worked in concert with bishops to further their political aims. For example, Feidlimid mac Crimthainn (r. 820–d. 847), king of Munster and also a cleric, solidified his sovereignty over Munster in 823 with the aid of Bishop Artrí mac Conchobar of Armagh, who was also seeking to solidify the supremacy of Armagh: political and ecclesiastical ambitions were inseparable.42 A poem written after the defeat of Feidlimid by Niall mac Áeda of the northern Uí Néill suggests the intricacies of political and ecclesiastical power where a symbol of clerical power could be defeated by a sword: ‘Bachall Fheidlimidh fighligh | fo-racbadh isna draighnibh; | dos-fuc Niall co nert n-atha | a cert in catha claidhmigh’ (‘The crozier of the devout Feidlimid | Was abandoned in the blackthorns | Niall, mighty in combat, took it | By right of victory in battle with swords’).43 Despite the conflation of Irish kingship, episcopacy, and abbacy, the consecration of bishops and the introduction of the diocesan system are firmly tied to Patrick. Legend has it that Patrick built three hundred and sixty-five churches and consecrated an equal number of bishops. At the top of the episcopal hierarchy was the Archbishop of Armagh. Since Patrick was the Apostle to the Irish, the churches established in the early days of Christian Ireland were to belong to him and to his heir, the bishop of Armagh. Columbanus was the first Irishman to write to the Bishop of Rome affirming his authority and framing that authority in terms of a shepherd, or watchman, who guards the fold.44 Thus, Columbanus, who writes to Boniface IV as a native son of Patrick’s 40 

Lacey, Colum Cille. On Columbanus: Richter, Bobbio in the Early Middle Ages. Bieler, ‘St Patrick and the Irish People’, p. 304. 42  Annals of Ulster, 823. 5. 43  Annals of Ulster, 841. 44  Bracken, ‘Authority and Duty’. 41 

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adopted land, repeatedly uses Patrick’s pastoral motif in framing the role of the bishop of Rome, whom he addresses as the Shepherd of Shepherds and Most Revered Bishop. Of all the Irish churches, the ecclesiastics at Armagh were the most aggressive in promoting the primacy of the diocese in Ireland by analogy with Rome. Armagh was the head of the churches of Ireland as Rome was head of the Church. Armagh governed with the same status and prerogatives over the Irish church beginning with Patrick by virtue of his being the first bishop because every subsequent bishop succeeded him directly as his son. This apostolic succession was traced back from the bishops of Armagh to Patrick, and from Patrick to Peter, Paul, Stephen, and Lawrence, whose relics were laid in Rome. One of the most prominent and important of these Irish ‘sons’ was the monastic foundation at Monasterboice. The early history of Monasterboice is obscure due to a lack of textual sources. Despite this dearth of sources, it is known that Monasterboice enjoyed close ties to Armagh, the premier foundation of Patrick, and fell within its archdiocese. Two of Monasterboice’s abbots, for example, were serious contenders for the abbacy at Armagh.45 Furthermore, Monasterboice was founded by St Buithe (d. 520), a follower of Patrick. The lack of historical facts regarding Monasterboice precludes any definitive connection between events of the ninth and tenth centuries and the creation of the West Cross; however, what little is known is that Monasterboice’s fortunes and reputation were firmly tied to Armagh and thus to Rome itself.46

Conclusion I would like to return to the West Cross with its unusual Crucifixion scene that includes the milking and shearing shepherds and place these motifs within the context of the pictorial and literary traditions outlined above. The shepherd shearing a sheep, on the viewer’s right, is probably a reference to both i Peter and Isaiah 53. 7: He was offered because it was his own will, and he opened not his mouth: he shall be led as a sheep to the slaughter, and shall be dumb as a lamb before his shearer, and he shall not open his mouth.47 45 

Roe, Monasterboice and its Monuments, pp. 8–10, and Columbanus, Letter 5, Corpus of Electronic Texts, University College Cork, [accessed 20 June 2012]. 46  Doherty, ‘The Monastic Town’, i, p. 56; Doherty, ‘The Cult of St Patrick’, p. 70. 47  Roe, Monasterboice and its Monuments, p. 52, misidentifies the passage as Isaiah 57. 7.

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Figure 7.6. ‘Dysert O’Dea Cross’, Co. Clare, Ireland. Twelfth century. Author photograph.

In the Book of Acts 8.  26–39, Paul relates the story of the wealthy Ethiopian eunuch who is reading Isaiah’s prophecy, specifically the passage early Christians associated with the Agnus Dei. When approached by Philip the Evangelist, the eunuch inquires about the meaning of the sheep who is silently led to the slaughter; upon hearing of the Good News the Ethiopian is converted and baptized, a moment that tradition has it marks the beginning of the Coptic church. 48 The shepherds at the Crucifixion may be an allegorical reference to the directive from Christ, the Prince of pastors, to care for his flock until his return at the Second Coming. The large hands of the sacrificed Christ point to the shepherds, or bishops, who engage in the acts of caring for the flock such as milking and shearing. The Second Coming is the subject depicted on the reverse of the West Cross, thus tying together the Crucifixion of Christ, the Agnus Dei, the care of the flock, and the End of Time. The literary tradition builds from the Old and New Testament 48  Although Philip the Evangelist was frequently conflated with Philip the Apostle, he was one of the seven deacons who were chosen to minister to the church in Jerusalem as described earlier in the Book of Acts, 6.

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imagery of shepherds to the writings of the early Christian Fathers and culminates in the writings of St Patrick in his Confessio. Patrick’s writings about his life as a shepherd were probably an accurate portrayal of the realities of shepherding in the agrarian society of early medieval Ireland. If these scenes are in fact a reference to the role of the bishop, the meaning becomes overt in the twelfth-century crosses at Kilfenora, Co. Meath and Dysert O’Dea, Co. Clare (Figure 7.6). In these later crosses, the large-scale representations of a bishop rival those of the crucified Christ, though the ranking is hierarchical. On the cross at Kilfenora, known as the Doorty Cross, the image of the bishop takes the place of the Second Coming on the reverse of the Crucifixion face. On the Dysert O’Dea Cross, the bishop, possibly a representation of St Tola consecrated by Patrick, stands below the crucified Christ. 49 These later depictions of the Irish bishop would thus seem to be the fulfilment of the promises of the tenth-century West Cross. As the Prince of pastors passes the care of his flock to the Bishop of Rome, so the Irish bishops will care for their flock at the ends of the world until the End of Time.

49 

The reverse of the cross depicts an ornamental panel of strapwork.

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Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Documents Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS gr. 533 (Homilies of Gregory of Nazianzus)

Primary Sources Annals of Ulster Corpus of Electronic Texts, University College Cork [accessed 20 June 2012] The Ante-Nicene Fathers: Translations of the Writings of the Fathers down to A.D 325, ed. by Alexander Roberts, James Donaldson, and Cleveland Cox, 10 vols (Buffalo: Christian Literature Company, 1885), ii, Christian Classics Ethereal Library [accessed 22 June 2012] Christianity in Late Antiquity 300–450 CE: A Reader, ed. by Bart D. Ehrman and Andrew S. Jacobs (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003) Corpus of Electronic Texts, University College Cork [accessed 20 June 2012] Gregory the Great, Registrum Epistularum, ed. by Dag Norberg, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 140 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1982) Tertullian, De Corona, ed. by Aem Kroyman, in Tertulliani Opera, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 2 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1954), pp. 1039–65

Secondary Studies Barnard, L. W., ‘The Epistle of Barnabas — A Paschal Homily?’, Vigiliae Christianae, 15 (1961), 8–22 Barnes, T. D., ‘Constantine and the Christians of Persia’, Journal of Roman Studies, 75 (1985), 126–36 Bieler, Ludwig, ‘St Patrick and the Irish People’, Review of Politics, 10 (1948), 290–309 Bracken, Damian, ‘Authority and Duty: Columbanus and the Primacy of Rome’, Peritia, 16 (2002), 168–213 Brett, George, ‘The Mosaic of the Great Palace in Constantinople’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 5 (1942), 34–43 Carder, James Nelson, ‘The Louvre Good Shepherd Christ: A Forgery’, Gesta, 18 (1978), 121–26 Deliyannis, Deborah Mauskopf, ‘Bury Me in Ravenna? Appropriating Galla Placidia’s Body in the Middle Ages’, Studi medievali, 42 (2001), 289–99 —— , Ravenna In Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010) Doherty, Charles, ‘The Cult of St Patrick and the Politics of Armagh in the Seventh Century’, in Ireland and Northern France, ad 600–850, ed. by Jean-Michel Picard (Dublin: Four Courts, 1991), pp. 53–94

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—— , ‘The Monastic Town in Early Medieval Ireland’, in The Comparative History of Urban Origins in Non-Roman Europe: Ireland, Wales, Denmark, Germany, Poland, and Russia from the Ninth to the Thirteenth Century, ed. by H. B. Clarke and Anngret Simms, 2 vols (London: BAR, 1985), i, pp. 45–75 Draper, Johnathan A., ‘Ritual Process and Ritual Symbol in Didache 7–10’, Vigiliae Christianae, 54 (2000), 121–58 Dvornik, Francis, Early Christian and Byzantine Political Philosophy: Origins and Background, Dumbarton Oaks Studies, 9, 2 vols (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1966) Farnell, Lewis R., The Cults of the Greek States, 5 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1896– 1909) Galvaris, George, The Illustrations of the Liturgical Homilies of Gregory Nazianzenus, Studies in Manuscript Illumination, 6 (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1969) Hanfmann, George M. A., The Season Sarcophagus in Dumbarton Oaks, 2 vols (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1951) Harbison, Peter, The High Crosses of Ireland: An Iconographic and Photographic Survey, 3 vols (Bonn: Habelt, 1992) Jensen, Robin Margaret, Understanding Early Christian Art (New York: Routledge, 2000) Johnson, Mark J., The Roman Imperial Mausolem in Late Antiquity (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009) Kitzinger, Ernst, ‘The Cleveland Marbles’, in Atti del ix congresso internazionale di archaeologia Cristiana, Roma 21–27 settembre 1975, Studi di antichità cristiana, 32, 2 vols (Città del Vaticano: Pontifico Istituto di Archaeologia Cristiana, 1978), i, pp. 653–75 (repr. in Art, Archeology, and Architecture of Early Christianity, ed. by Paul Corby Finney (New York: Garland, 1993), pp. 117–39) —— , The Mosaics of St. Mary’s of the Admiral in Palermo, Dumbarton Oaks Studies, 27 (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 1990) Lacey, Brian, Colum Cille and the Columban Tradition (Dublin: Four Courts, 1997) Mackie, Gillian, ‘New Light on the So-Called Saint Lawrence Panel at the Mausoleum of Galla Placidia, Ravenna’, Gesta, 29 (1990), 54–60 Mathews, Thomas F., The Clash of Gods: A Reinterpretation of Early Christian Art, rev. edn (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003) Meiss, Millard, and Marcel Thomas, The Rohan Master: A Book of Hours: Bibliothèque nationale, Paris (M.S. Latin 9471) (New York: Braziller, 1973) Muller, Valentine, ‘The Prehistory of the “Good Shepherd”’, Journal of Near Eastern Studies, 3 (1944), 87–90 O’Leary, Aideen, ‘An Irish Apocryphal Apostle: Muirchú’s Portrayal of Saint Patrick’, Harvard Theological Review, 89 (1996), 287–301 Oost, Stewart Irvin, ‘Some Problems in the History of Galla Placidia’, Classical Philology, 60 (1965), 1–10 Ramsey, Boniface, ‘A Note on the Disappearance of the Good Shepherd from Early Christian Art’, Harvard Theological Review, 76 (1983), 375–78 Reeder, Ellen D., ed., Scythian Gold: Treasures from Ancient Ukraine (New York: Abrams, 1999)

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Richter, Michael, Bobbio in the Early Middle Ages: The Abiding Legacy of Columbanus (Dublin: Four Courts, 2008) Roe, Helen M., Monasterboice and its Monuments, 3rd edn (Dundalk: County Louth Archeological and Historical Society, 2003) Rolle, Renate, ‘Die Ausgrabung des skythischen Fürstengrabes “Tolstaja mogila” bei Ordzonikidze’, Antike Welt, 4 (1973), 48–52 Stalley, Roger, ‘Sex, Symbol and Myth: Some Observations on the Irish Round Towers’, in From Ireland Coming: Irish Art from the Early Christian to the Late Gothic Period and Its European Context, ed. by Colum Hourihane (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2001), pp. 27–47 Taylor, Alice, ‘The Problem of Labels: Three Marble Shepherds in Nineteenth-Century Rome’, in The Ancient Art of Emulation: Studies in Artistic Originality and Tradition from the Present to Classical Antiquity, ed. by Elaine K. Gazda, Memoirs of the American Academy in Rome, Supplementary vol. i (Ann Arbor: University of Michi­ gan Press, 2002), pp. 47–59 Tooley, Wilfred, ‘The Shepherd and Sheep Image in the Teaching of Jesus’, Novum Testamentum, 7 (1964), 15–25 Trilling, James, ‘The Soul of the Empire: Style and Meaning in the Mosaic Pavement of the Byzantine Imperial Palace in Constantinople’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 43 (1989), 27–72 Veelenturf, Kees, Dia Brátha: Escatological Theophanies and Irish High Crosses (Amsterdam: Stichtung Amsterdamse Historische Reeks, 1997) Verkerk, Dorothy Hoogland, ‘The Font is a Kind of Grave: Remembrance in the Via Latina Catacombs’, in Memory and the Medieval Tomb, ed. by Elizabeth Valdez del Alamo and Carol Stamatis Pendergast (Burlington: Ashgate, 2000), pp. 157–81 —— , ‘Life After Death: The Afterlife of Sarcophagi in Medieval Rome and Ravenna’, in Felix Roma: Formation and Reflections of Medieval Rome, ed. by Éamon Ó Carragáin and Carol Neuman de Vegvar (Burlington: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 81–96 —— , ‘Pilgrimage ad Limina Apostolorum in Rome: Irish Crosses and Early Christian Sarcophagi’, in From Ireland Coming: Irish Art from the Early Christian to the Late Gothic Period and its European Context, ed. by Colum Hourihane (Princeton: Prince­ ton University Press, 2001), pp. 9–26 Weitzmann-Fiedler, Josepha, ‘Some Obversations on the Theme of the Milking Shepherd’, in Byzantine East, Latin West: Art-Historical Studies in Honor of Kurt Weitzmann, ed. by Christopher Moss and Katherine Kiefer (Princeton: Department of Art and Archeology, 1995), pp. 103–07 Wilpert, Josef, Die malereien der Katakomben Roms (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1903) Wixom, William D., ‘Early Christian Sculptures at Cleveland’, Bulletin of the Cleveland Museum of Art, 54 (1967), 67–88 Wright, G. Ernest, ‘The Good Shepherd’, Biblical Archaeologist, 2 (1939), 44–48 Wulff, Oskar, Altchristliche und byzantinische Kunst, 3 vols (Berlin-Neubabelsberg: Aka­ de­mische Verlagsgesellschaft Athenaion, 1914–37)

The Ordo Missae of Warmund of Ivrea: A Bishop’s ‘Two Bodies’ and the Image In Between Evan A. Gatti

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he medieval image of an ideal bishop is always found somewhere in between. On the one hand, a bishop was measured by how well he presented the antiquity of his office and its apostolic legacy. On the other hand, the bishop embodied the local, specific, and even mundane concerns of his see. Images of this ideal, formed by words, remembered through deeds, and preserved in parchment, glass, stone, and ivory, modelled the episcopal office in ways that at once seemed exceptional and familiar. Like the liturgies that defined the privileges of the episcopal office, images made by, for, and of the bishop existed as both diachronic and synchronic referents. They lay in between the historical moment and the eternal, as a dialogue between the secular and the sacred, and as a representation of both the individual and the episcopal. While all types of medieval episcopal images share the liminal space of the episcopal ideal, each did so in ways specific to their medium and their message. The focus of this essay is the visual image of the bishop, and more specifically a series of full-folio miniatures included at the beginning of an ordo missae belonging to bishop Warmund of Ivrea (r. c. 966–c. 1006).1 (Plates 2–3)

* An earlier version of this paper was read at the Midwestern Art History Society meeting held in Grand Rapids, Michigan on 15  April 2011. I am grateful for the comments and encouragement I received there as well as the valuable suggestions on early drafts of the essay provided by Sigrid Danielson, Maureen C. Miller, Todd Nicolet, and an anonymous reviewer. Any errors that remain are entirely my own. 1 Ivrea, Biblioteca Capitolare, Cod. 9 (IV). For discussion of the manuscript and a Evan A. Gatti is Associate Professor of Art History at Elon University in North Carolina. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 181–214 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102232

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Building upon the notion of ‘l’évêque et ses doubles’ (‘a bishop and his double’), first articulated by Pierre-Alain Mariaux in 2002, I will argue that the brief series of images included at the opening of Warmund’s personal prayer book draw significance from the representational practices inherent in the rites of the liturgy.2 More than anecdotal illustrations of liturgical moments, these visual images offered insight into the larger process of the liturgy as a series of re-presentations. As a thing presented, the visual image exists as that thing, but it is also and always an idea beyond itself, or a thing re-presented. In the same way, the medieval bishop existed as a mediator between worlds, a man in time, a temporally-bound authority, and an office across time, legitimized by its adherence to biblical models and the authority of apostolic succession. In making these shifts from a specific to a transcendental authority, from a thing in the present to ideal re-presented, the bishop reflected a spectrum of attitudes. He stood in majesty at the head of his congregation, then acted in modesty, as a servant of God with the humility of the saints. I argue that the miniatures of Bishop Warmund of Ivrea from his personal prayer book offer glimpses of the bishop’s body as it moves between these parallel states. Taking inspiration from Ernst Kantorowicz’s famous study, The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology, the portraits of Bishop Warmund of Ivrea included in his personal prayer book will be analysed for the ways they reveal what Kantorowicz defined as a ‘body natural’, one that is temporally and physically bound, and a ‘body politic’, one defined by and for a community. While these bodies are separate, they are also equal to, or at least dependent upon, each other.3 Like the king’s two bodies, I argue that the visual transcription of the text see Baroffio and Dell’Oro, ‘“L’ordo missae”. For a discussion of the ordo missae in the context of the Ivrea scriptorium, see Cracco and Piazza, Storia della Chiesa, pp. 528, 530, 536, 620, 623, and 625. For full catalogue details and a current bibliography, see Kay, Pontificalia, p. 53, no. 277. 2 In his book dedicated to the Warmund of Ivrea and his images, Pierre-Alain Mariaux first posits the thesis that the miniatures of the bishop balance multiple authorities as they present the bishop’s body in concert with all of those other personages he may be: Moses, Christ, king, or priest. Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images, pp. 167–86. While I am indebted to Mariaux’s work, this essay offers a continuation of his model, especially in its discussion of the liturgical image as depicting the shifts between humility and majesty. As discussed below, these shifts reflect concurrent trends in the evolution of the liturgical prayers included in the ordo missae type that encourage the celebrant, here often a bishop, to be involved in active and almost constant reflection. 3 In this essay I am using Kantorowicz’s book as both example and ‘inspiration’, as described in Jussen, ‘The King’s Two Bodies Today’, p. 104. ‘The vast majority of authors referring in one

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images of the bishop are best understood when articulated as dual parts — two bodies — that perform best as one.4

Kantorowicz’s Kings and the Bishop’s Bodies In Between As an introduction to his discussion of Edmund Ploweden’s Reports, Kantorowicz states simply: ‘The King’s Two Bodies thus form one unit indivisible, each being fully contained in the other’. 5 Little else of this book is simple or succinct, and I will not argue for or against its merits here; rather, I would like to draw attention to the part of the book where Kantorowicz uses a visual image to illustrate the king’s two bodies and, firstly, to his discussion of the reflection of this iconographic tradition in the writings of the so-called Norman Anonymous and the bodies of the bishop caught in between. In Chapter 3 of The King’s Two Bodies, which is dedicated to articulations of Christ-centred kingship, Kantorowicz discusses a pamphlet (c. 1100) now attributed to a Norman archbishop from York.6 A curious text, the work seems to have had little impact on later writings, acting instead, Kantorowicz argues, ‘as a kind of mirror that magnifies, and thereby slightly distorts, the ideals current in the preceding era’.7 Of particular emphasis for Kantorowicz are those parts of the text that refer to the king (and the bishop, a point to which we will return below) as persona geminatae, or twinned persons ‘human by nature and divine by grace’.8 The notion of twinning at the heart of the Anonymous’s way or the other to The King’s Two Bodies have used the book more as a source of inspiration than as a reference for a convincing narrative about constitutional history or as an exemplary method for the study of political theory.’ Jussen argues that Kantorowicz’s book takes on two lives, one in medieval constitutional law where it was deemed by Fleckenstein and others to be an ‘erratic block’ or as Jussen called it ‘a continuous failure’ and another in art history, where Horst Bredekamp declared the book to be a ‘continuous success’. For me, as for Bredekamp, the book is valuable for its ‘central idea…the coincidence of individual and institutional body’ as quoted by Jussen. 4 While writing this essay it was also brought to my attention that an essay with a similar title exists. Chin, ‘The Bishop’s Two Bodies’, pp. 532–33. While the focus of our studies, evidence, and conclusions are different, Chin’s essay similarly takes Kantorowicz as inspiration and the visible and invisible (or unseen, but imagined) play a significant role in both studies. 5 Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, p. 9. 6 See also Williams, The Norman Anonymous. 7 Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, p. 61. 8 Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, p. 59. See also Mariaux’s discussion of the sacerdos

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discussion is not exactly the same as the persona mixta, who is understood to have separate temporal and spiritual capacities. This will be established in the following decades.9 Rather, the Anonymous, and according to Kantorowicz other tenth and eleventh-century thinkers, understood the temporal and the spiritual, or natura (nature) and gratia (grace), to be embedded in one another as part of a super-body. 10 This fully integrated super-body is made possible through liturgical rites, and especially the rites of unction through which the king receives gratia. While Kantorowicz had little to say about the persona geminatae as exemplified through the bodies of the bishop, a few years earlier George Williams had argued that the twinned persona, as it was affirmed through the power granted through the rite of unction, was best understood as it was established in the interdependence of the dual natures of the bishop. For example, Williams described the Anonymous’s position on the authority of the clerical office as ambivalent. [The Anonymous] insisted that ordination conferred an indelible character upon the cleric, of which he might not be deprived, but he was equally concerned that this character should become visible, if not in saintliness, at least in a markedly superior quality of Christian life.11

This ambivalence, however, might be better understood as the interdependence of the bishop’s twinned bodies, wherein the body politic and the body natural were extensions of what Williams identified as the historical problem of episcopal privilege. Though drawn from the official authority of apostolic traditions, it takes a certain individualized, or what Williams called ‘charismatic’, influence to make this authority known. A good bishop must keep these two aspects of his persona in check. While the ordination of the bishop established

as a persona mixta or a persona geminate. Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images, pp. 167–68. In these pages Mariaux offers a rich (and often overlooked) discussion of tenth-century expectations for the bishop’s balancing of temporal and spiritual roles. In a study with a similar concern for visual iconographies of episcopal authority, Diane J. Reilly applies Gerard of Cambrai’s conception of the bishop as persona geminata to the miniature depicting the divine nature of a bishop found on fol. 15r in the eleventh-century Bible of St Vaast. Reilly, The Art of Reform, pp. 131–36. 9 Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, p. 45. 10 Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, p. 45. 11 Williams, The Norman Anonymous, p. 133.

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Figure 8.1. ‘Otto III Enthroned’, Liuthar Gospels, Aachen, Cathedral Treasury, fol. 16r. c. 990. © Domkapitel Aachen. Photo Pit Siebigs.

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an indelible mark that set him apart, his privilege only remains intact through the ‘maintenance of charity and humility’.12 Returning to Kantorowicz, it should be remembered that the personae geminatae of both the bishop and the king are established and affirmed through the liturgy, which in and of itself is an act of doubling, or in the words of Kantorowicz, ‘image and reality at the same time’.13 As with the king’s bodies, the bishop’s two bodies are thus the result of a larger process of representation that establishes the thing itself, or the body presented, as something other than itself, an idea re-presented. It is with this idea in mind — that the presentation of two bodies requires a process of re-presentation — that we turn to Kantorowicz’s discussion of a visual image. Kantorowicz does not claim that the Anonymous’s text was influential in defining later eleventh- and twelfthcentury definitions of the personae mixtae; rather, he sees the pamphlet as a reflection of Ottonian and Salian notions of liturgical kingship. In order to illustrate this concept, Kantorowicz turns to the frontispiece of the Liuthar Gospels (which he calls the Aachen Codex or Aachen Gospels), identifying it as a visual exposition of the Anonymous’s persona geminata.14 (Figure 8.1) For our purposes, Kantorowicz’s discussion of the Gospels frontispiece also offers a methodological model for how a bishop’s two bodies might also be understood as a compilation of diverse visual iconographies that draw from both secular and sacred models of authority. The Gospels frontispiece depicts Otto III (whom Kantorowicz identifies as Otto II), seated on a bench throne, supported by a Tellus figure, and crowned by the Hand of God. The symbolic aspects of the miniature are prominent, with the Hand of God oversized, encircled by a mandorla, and marked with the transverse arm of a cross. Otto too is surrounded by a mandorla, which intersects with that of the Hand of God, and the four beasts of the Apocalypse hold a white veil that divides the king’s body in half, separating the cerebral or upper functions from the corporeal or lower functions.15 Two male figures in gestures of veneration flank the throne. Both are depicted with crowns and hold standards, leading Kantorowicz to suggest that they are men of high rank, perhaps

12

Williams, The Norman Anonymous, p. 134. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, p. 59. 14 Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, pp. 61–77. 15 See the discussion of the hand of the Father versus the Son in Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, pp. 65 and 78. 13

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dukes or rulers of the regna.16 In the lowest register ‘the princes spiritual and secular’ are presented: two archbishops at the bottom-right and two ‘warriors’ at the bottom-left of the folio.17 Kantorowicz describes the miniature as divided into three superimposed planes: a celestial realm, an earthly realm, and an emperor who exists in between. The Hand of God and the beasts of the Apocalypse represent the eternal realm of heaven, while below the veil, a throne supported by a Tellus figure locates the king on earth. Although Kantorowicz argues this space in between defines the king in ways similar to that outlined in the text of the Anonymous, ‘usque ad celum erectus’ (‘the emperor elevated into heaven’), a full explication of the king’s two bodies requires information beyond the miniature itself.18 The frontispiece conflates two well-known miniature types, Maiestas Domini (Christ in Majesty) and the ruler enthroned. Both can be found, for example, in the ninthcentury Codex Aureus of St Emmeram with the ruler enthroned, here Charles the Bald, on folio 5v and the Maiestas Domini on folio 6v.19 (Figures 8.2–8.3) The frontispiece of the Liuthar Gospels substitutes the body of Christ from the Maiestas domini type with the royal figure from the enthroned type. The superimposed bodies present Otto III as a divine authority for an earthly realm. More than just a theological or liturgical ideal, the articulation of Otto’s two bodies required the merging of recognizable visual image types.20 In turn these types were never simple models for composition, but images that expressed theology, the rites of the liturgy, and political ideals.21 16

Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, p. 62. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, p. 62. 18 Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, pp. 63, n. 47 and 65. 19 München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 14000. The Codex Aureus is mentioned in Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies (p. 76 and fig. 16b), however, he uses other images to makes the point that the body of Otto is derived from secular and sacred models; an ivory book cover from St Gall and another tenth-century cover from Darmstadt (pp. 64–65 and figs 6–7). 20 Kantorowicz’s reading of this miniature is part of a larger bibliography from the 1950s and 60s dedicated to Ottonian kingship and imperial portraiture. Of special note for the history of art is Schramm, and Mütherich, Denkmale. More recently, Eliza Garrison has published a historiographical contextualization of Schramm and Mütterich’s study. See Garrison, ‘Ottonian Art and Its Afterlife’. 21 Eliza Garrison has argued that the imago of Otto III presented by the Liuthar Gospels represents the potential of the king/emperor and should be studied in concert with the portrait of the emperor enthroned from the Gospel Book of Otto III. Garrison’s conclusions regarding the potential of the imperial imago are compelling especially as they connect the frontispieces to other miniatures in the pictorial cycle and both books to a lifetime of donations by Otto 17

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Figure 8.2. ‘Charles the Bald Enthroned’, Codex Aureus, München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 14000, fol. 5v. c. 820. Reproduced with permission.

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Figure 8.3. ‘Christ in Majesty’, Codex Aureus, München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 14000, fol. 6v. c. 820. Reproduced with permission.

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An Iconography of the Episcopacy in the ‘Double Dimension’ Unlike the king, whose body in the Gospels frontispiece is acted upon — the beasts drape a veil over Otto and his throne is supported by Tellus — the bishop’s bodies to be considered below act out. These bodies simultaneously represent a body politic, or a public body that acknowledges the bishop as the leader of a community and exalts the authorities of the office, and a body natural that highlights the bishop as devotee with an emphasis on the reverential postures necessary for the proper celebration of the Mass. Whereas the king’s two bodies combined heaven and earth, in majesty (maiestas) enthroned, the bishop’s two bodies conflate past and present with humility at the altar. The bishop’s two bodies re-present the dualities inherent in the office wherein one man is both celebrant and devotee, saintly-bishop and bishop-servant. The images at the centre of this study do not simply picture the medieval bishop, rather they show the medieval bishop being a bishop. For a king, an image enthroned can be seen to project his natura and his gratia (he is and has been blessed). The iconography of the bishop, however, works in other ways. But unlike the many studies devoted to iconographies of kingship, before Eric Palazzo’s book, L’Évêque et son image: l’illustration du pontifical au Moyen Âge, there had been no focused study of images of the medieval bishop.22 Images of the bishop had been seen as modifications or rather reflections of other ‘types’ of images such as those developed for royal iconography, the Christological cycle, or hagiography more broadly. The image of the bishop in a liturgical posture, however, is unique. As Palazzo has argued, the liturgical image of the bishop did not evolve from other artistic images but from the liturgical acts themselves.23 to Aachen. See Garrison, ‘Otto III at Aachen’; also Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture, pp. 39–86. 22 Palazzo, L’Évêque et son image, pp.  73–109. Henry Mayr-Harting provides a brief introduction to episcopal portraits, including a discussion of the ordo missae of Warmund of Ivrea, in Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, ii, pp. 57–97 (p. 89). 23 Eric Palazzo argues that liturgical images should be understood according to four types. For a discussion of the biblical type see Palazzo, L’Évêque et son image, pp. 76–79; for the hagiographical type, pp. 79–84; for the liturgical type, pp. 84–101; for the theological and political type, pp. 101–08. While there have been a number of essays and even collected volumes dedicated to the intersection of art and the liturgy, there has been little work dedicated to depictions of specific moments from the liturgy. See Palazzo, ‘Art and Liturgy in the Middle Ages’, p. 173. While not intended to be a survey of ritual images Roger E. Reynolds offers two studies of the function of liturgical images within specific contexts. Reynolds, ‘The Portrait of the Ecclesiastical Officers’, and Reynolds, ‘A Visual Epitome of the Eucharistic Ordo’. In an unpublished paper Susannah Crowder offers a reading of the Drogo Sacramentary that focuses

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Although we should not go so far as to mistake these images for something simply observed from life and thereby something other than the imagination of an illuminator or the prescription of a programmer, once presented the liturgical image, as a re-presentation, is also the liturgical act. This twinned function for liturgical art/acts creates what Palazzo calls a ‘double dimension’, wherein visual art as part of the phenomenological experience of the liturgy activates the simultaneous ritualized and theological aspects of artistic production and reception.24 The image/act is the memory of a gesture meant to recall something beyond itself. It offers a re-presentation of something that came before. For Palazzo the images included in liturgical books, and especially the pontifical, were reflections of an evolving episcopal ideal that was linked to the rising significance of visual aspects of the liturgy. The analysis of a series of pre-pontifical portraits to be discussed in the pages below represent a specific bishop and are included in a specifically clerical (yet here also episcopal) text. As a negotiation of the spectrum of sacerdotal responsibilities included in the ordo missae, these images offer a prequel to Palazzo, whose work with the pontifical need not separate the episcopal celebrant from the priest. Dating to the decades before the exclusively episcopal pontifical replaced the sacramentary and the ordo missae (texts which include prayers for a range of celebrants), the miniatures in Warmund’s ordo missae (hereafter OM) play a significant role in marking the manuscript as having an episcopal emphasis. 25 The images, must balance the sacerdotal nature of the bishop-celebrant with a celebration of the eminence of the episcopal office. The images in the Ivrea OM also draw attention to the performative function of liturgical images, emphasizing medieval as well as modern receptions. While we will never know the ‘stimulating effect’ of seeing a medieval miniature in its original context, a residue of the desired effect of these images may be revealed through the examination of series of individualized liturgical portraits.26 I use on the liturgy as an aspect of ‘performance culture’. See Susannah Crowder, ‘Recontextualizing the Performances of the Drogo Sacramentary within Ninth-Century Metz’, presented at the 12th SITM Congress 2–7 July 2007, Lille [accessed 26 December 2012]. 24 The term ‘double dimension’ is found in Palazzo, ‘Art and Liturgy in the Middle Ages’, p. 173. For a discussion of the role of visual art in activating the liturgical experience see Palazzo, ‘Art, Liturgy, and the Five Senses’, p. 32. 25 The capital ‘OM’ is used to separate this particular version of ordines from the more general term ordo missae, meaning simply the ‘order of the Mass’. See Pierce, ‘The Evolution of the ordo missae’, pp. 5–8. 26 Palazzo, A History of Liturgical Books, pp. 60–61 warns the historian to be ‘prudent’ in

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the term ‘liturgical portraits’ here not to suggest that the imagery bears any particular adherence to the bishop’s unique physiognomy. Rather the term liturgical portrait is used to draw attention to the fact that these miniatures, which can at least be said to represent a particularized bishop, are included in the personal prayer book of the specific celebrant depicted. 27 By suggesting that we might recognize something of the desired effect of the images here, we cannot of course recapture their immediate effect, but we can speculate as to why the images were included at all as well as how they, as reflections of other familiar image types, might have been understood by their compiler, who in this case is also their intended audience.28 In the pages that follow, I argue that the miniatures depicting Bishop Warmund of Ivrea included in his OM oscillate between depictions of a specific historical person enacting a specific liturgical rite and celebrations of the ideal bishop as defined by the tradition and privileges of the office.29 Including these miniatures in the manuscript programme at all gives us some insight into their potential as an aid, or enhancement, to prayer. The miniatures will be shown to humble and exalt, to serve as portrait and as exemplum, an expression of natura and gratia. When seen as an extension of the public privileges and personal responsibilities of the office, the miniatures of Bishop Warmund present the metaphor of the episcopal image in full — ‘two bodies’, distinct yet interdependent. assessing what (if any) role liturgical images may have played in enhancing prayer: ‘Apart from the decorative aspect, one may wonder whether such illustrations, joined to the text which the celebrant must speak, played any role in the act of praying itself. It is fitting to be prudent on this point because we know nothing of the eventual stimulating effect produced on the theological discourse by these images’. 27 Mariaux takes the personalized and reciprocal function of these miniatures a step futher calling them autoportraits (self-portraits). For more about the use of the term ‘liturgical portrait’ see Gatti, ‘Building the Body of the Church’, pp. 101–02. 28 While the OM does not carry an identifying inscription as do some of the of the manuscripts commissioned by Warmund, there is ample evidence to connect the manuscript to Warmund not the least of which is that it is still located in the Ivrea scriptorium. Additionally, Baroffio and Dell’Oro, ‘“L’ordo missae”, p. 797 attribute the manuscript to Warmund based on codicological evidence. For additional discussion of Warmund of Ivrea as an astute and involved patron of the arts, see Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images, and Mackie, ‘Warmundus of Ivrea’. 29 Eric Palazzo, following Jean-Claude Schmitt’s discussion of imago, has argued that the image of the medieval bishop is not only a ‘material reality’ but also presents the ‘ideals and mentalities’ of the bishop. Palazzo, ‘The Image of the Bishop in the Middle Ages’, p. 86. See also Schmitt, ‘Le Miroir du Canoniste’.

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Warmund’s Two Bodies and an Iconography In-Between The OM of Warmund of Ivrea is not a grand manuscript, measuring only 230 mm × 157 mm and containing only forty-two folios.30 But what seems at first glance to be a humble and practical text, once opened, is found to be intimately beautiful, with three small portraits of Warmund in liturgical postures gathered in the first few folios and a decorated initial on almost every other folio.31 Despite these illuminations, it is easy to imagine that OM was a manuscript the bishop readily used. Unlike a larger sacramentary, also commissioned by Bishop Warmund, which made a public statement about the significance of the bishop at Ivrea, the OM served a more personal function. The word ‘personal’ refers to illustrations and prayers included in the manuscript that are inward-focused, meaning they were included to direct or bolster the performance of the liturgy by a celebrant.32 As reflections of the actions of the bishop-celebrant, the images in the OM modelled the priestly potential of the bishop as he prepared to perform the Eucharistic rite; an act, as suggested above, that will require two bodies: one humble and one exalted, one visible and one ‘invisible’, one man and one metaphor. First, it should be noted that although the miniatures in the Ivrea OM have great potential for illuminating an iconography of the episcopacy, the manuscript itself is not particularly significant, either to modern scholarship where the early eleventh-century OM is known primarily to liturgical scholars 30

The measurements listed here are those as observed by the author. There are conflicting accounts of the size in the inventories. Alfonso Professione lists the manuscript’s measurements as 255 mm × 170 mm while Maria Antonietta Casagrande Mazzoli describes the codex as 230  mm × 155–160  mm. It should be noted that Professione’s inventory was completed before the 1910 restoration of the codex by the Vatican. Professione, Inventario dei manoscritti, pp. 3–20, rev. edn p. 22; Mazzoli, ‘I Codici Warmondiani’, pp. 93–94. See also Baroffio and Dell’Oro, ‘“L’ordo missae”, pp. 796–97. 31 Mazzoli, ‘I Codici Warmondiani’, p. 93. 32 Clerical writing from the later half of the eleventh century cites some unease in the celebration of Mass in limited or ‘personal’ contexts. For example, a letter from Peter Damian to Leo of Sitria expresses concern over hermits who are also priests reciting the Mass alone. He notes as points of concern the parts of the Mass designed to elicit a response from a congregation. See Letter 28 in Peter Damian, Letters, trans. by Blum, i, pp. 255–93. I would like to thank Maureen C. Miller for bringing my attention to this issue and to the letter by Peter Damian. The personalized prayers discussed here are only parts of larger public Mass and are accompanied by, and some might argue necessary for, communal prayer. See Joanne Pierce’s discussion of apologia in this volume (Chapter 10), and Mayr-Harting, ‘Ottonian Tituli in Liturgical Books’, p. 458.

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interested in the ordo-type, or in its own time where the manuscript may only have been viewed by Warmund, his deacons, and perhaps the secular clergy he served.33 Rather one recognizes in the Ivrea OM an emerging image-type, the liturgical portrait of a bishop celebrant. This image-type should not be seen as decoration meant simply to call attention to the opening folios of a manuscript, but instead, these images and others that grace episcopal objects should be seen in the true sense of the word as illuminations meant to brighten or even enliven the mind. Furthermore, each iteration of the image type must be placed into its distinctive context in order to ask what it might mean for the miniature to be envisioned by an episcopal audience as an example of episcopal ideals.34 With this call for context in mind, we pause before a discussion of the Ivrea OM to look at one of Warmund’s more familiar commissions, an enigmatic and heavily illuminated sacramentary. The Sacramentarium Episcopi Warmundi measures 220 mm × 310 mm and is composed of two hundred and twenty-two vellum folios decorated with sixty-two full-folio and partial-folio miniatures and well over three hundred smaller initials of varying elaboration.35 By far the most heavily decorated of the manuscripts commissioned by Warmund, the sacramentary was more than likely the most luxurious product of the scriptorium. The codex was commissioned (or compiled) over the tenure of Bishop Warmund of Ivrea between 966 and 1002.36 Its miniatures include scenes of important priestly ministrations, such as baptism, the anointing of the sick, and the burial of the dead, as well as specifically episcopal rites, such as the coronation of kings, the ordination of a bishop, and the blessing of the chrism. This elaborate painted cycle suggests that Warmund was intensely interested in the 33 The portability of the manuscript may suggest that it was carried beyond the context of the cathedral and in particular on visits to the parish churches. I would like to thank Maureen C. Miller for suggesting this possibility; it is an aspect of the use of the manuscript and the tenure of Warmund that begs for further study. 34 Palazzo, L’Évêque et son image, pp. 73–109. See also Gatti, ‘Developing an Iconography of the Episcopacy’, pp. 26, 33–75. 35 Ivrea, Biblioteca Capitolare, MS 86. For significant bibliography see especially Magnani, Le miniature del Sacramentario d’Ivrea; Deshman, ‘Otto III and the Warmund Sacramentary’; Bettazzi, Dell’Oro, and Magnani, Sacramentario del vescovo Warmondo; Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images; Gatti, ‘Developing an Iconography of the Episcopacy’, pp. 87–126; Gatti, ‘In a Space Between’; and Mackie, ‘Warmundus of Ivrea’, pp. 219–63. 36 There is some debate as to whether the manuscript can be said to have a pictorial ‘programme’. In his careful codicological investigation of the sacramentary Mariaux suggests that the manuscript was created over a period of time, by a series of different artists. Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images, pp. 241–48.

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power of the liturgy as a process of representation, especially as its might be seen as a form of legitimization.37 This legitimization takes on special significance when we recognize that both Warmund and Ivrea played significant roles in northern Italy at the turn of the millennium. An important city on the ‘road to Rome’, the Via Romea Francigena, Ivrea became a site for conflict. The area gave rise to two kings of Italy, Berengar II (r. 950–52) and Arduin of Ivrea (r. 1002–04), who in turn challenged the imperial aspirations of Otto I (r. 962–73), Otto III (r. 996–1002), and Henry II (r. 1014–24). Among these kings and emperors, Warmund was elected Bishop of Ivrea sometime after Otto I’s second trip to Italy, and remained bishop through the reign of Otto III (r. c. 966–c. 1006).38 Seen as an ally of the pope and the German emperors, Warmund twice excommunicated the Italian King Arduin who had gathered support from local nobles concerned with the loss of their territory to Warmund and other regional bishops. This contest culminated in an attack on the episcopal city of Vercelli in which the cathedral was set on fire killing the Bishop Peter and his canons.39 It was perhaps in response to this act that Otto III sided with Warmund by publicly condemning his rebellious adversary at the Easter Synod in Rome.40 This contested relationship between bishop, emperors, and a king has drawn significant attention to Warmund’s sacramentary, and especially to the halffolio miniature on folio 160v which shows the Virgin crowning Otto ‘pro bene defenso Warmundo’ (‘for his good defence of Warmund’). This small miniature has been used to suggest an alternative patron for the manuscript, with Robert Deshman arguing the manuscript’s elaborate and imperial pictorial cycle must have been the invention of the more significant and better-connected Bishop 37

See Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images; Mackie, ‘Warmundus of Ivrea’, pp. 221–35. There is significant debate about the dates for Warmund’s birth, consecration as bishop, and death. See Mackie, ‘Warmundus of Ivrea’, p. 219, nn. 2–5. 39 Sergi, ‘The Kingdom of Italy’, p. 365. 40 Warmund was also believed to have been present at this synod. For a translation of letters relating to the conflict between Warmund and Arduin, see Bettazzi, Dell’Oro, and Magnani, Sacramentario del vescovo Warmondo, especially the sermon threatening Arduin with excommunication (XXIV), the excommunication of Arduin, as pronounced at the Cathedral in Ivrea (XXV) followed by the excommunication formula (XXV), a letter from Warmund to Pope Gregory (XXVI), a letter from Pope Gregory V to Arduin (XXVI), and finally the public condemnation of Arduin by Sylvester II, Gregory’s successor, and Otto III at a Synod in Rome (XXVI). For further discussion of the excommunication of Arduin by Warmund as a case study for penitential practices in the Middle Ages see Hamilton, The Practice of Penance, pp. 1–2, 7–8, 13, 173, 207–08. 38

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Figure 8.4. ‘Blessing of the Chrism, Sacramentary of Warmund of Ivrea’, Ivrea, Biblioteca Capitolare, Cod. 31 (LXXXVI), fol. 52v. c. 966–1002. Reprinted with permission from Franzoni and Pagella, Arte in Piemonte. Antichità e Medioevo.

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Leo of Vercelli.41 However, recent scholarship, especially the monograph dedicated to the artistic patronage of Warmund of Ivrea by Pierre-Alain Mariaux, has shifted focus back to Warmund, not just as a proper patron for the codex but also as its most significant audience.42 I have argued elsewhere that the large portrait of Warmund on folio 52v, which shows the bishop blessing the chrism, was intended specifically to celebrate Warmund’s position within the contested territory at Ivrea. (Figure 8.4) The blessing of the chrism represents an action that prefigures the liturgical activity pictured in the rest of the manuscript: the coronation and consecration of the king; the consecration of the bishop; the sacrament of Baptism; and finally, the anointing of the sick and the liturgies for the dead included at the end of the sacramentary.43 When placed within its specific historical context, Warmund’s blessing of the chrism takes on heightened social, political, and spiritual significance, recognizing the bishop’s position as a fulcrum. If read as a negotiation of a tenuous political situation, the miniature becomes a spiritual signifier for the bishop and for his congregation not as they received the image, since it may never have been accessible to them, but as the miniature reassured and focused Warmund on the significance of the rite at the centre of his privilege.44 It is this final reading of the miniature, which suggests that liturgical images served as a touchstone for Warmund, that finally brings us back to the OM. While a more humble production than Warmund’s elaborate Sacramentarium, the OM also includes portrait miniatures of Warmund in liturgical postures. The miniatures in the OM highlight the more personalized and specifically sacerdotal functions of the text. This shift in function is due in great part to differences in the liturgical texts themselves. As a type of liturgical book, the OM 41

Robert Deshman argues Warmund might have received the instructions necessary for such a complicated politically motivated programme from visits to court, although he was only a ‘minor provincial supporter of the emperor’. Deshman, ‘Otto III and the Warmund Sacramentary’, p. 16. A black-and-white figure of the miniature can be found on p. 2. 42 Mariaux’s book is derived from his unpublished doctoral dissertation (Mariaux, ‘Entre le scepter et la crosse’) and offers a long overdue re-contextualization of Robert Deshman’s rather brief article on the Sacramentary of Warmund. See also the review by Cohen, ‘Review. Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images’. Mariaux’s book, especially when paired with Palazzo, L’Évêque et son image, plays a key role in establishing the early medieval bishop as an active art patron. 43 The baptism of Constantine is pictured on folio 23v; the miniature for the sacrament of Baptism on fol. 61v; and the anointing of the sick and the liturgies for the dead on fols 191r, 193r, 195v, 198v, 199v, 200v, 201v, 203v, 205r, and 206v. 44 Portraits of Warmund are also included on fols  13 r and 27v. See Gatti, ‘In a Space Between’, pp. 27, 42–44.

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evolved from early liturgical ‘booklets’ or libelli as part of the ordines romani. More like a liturgical handbook, the ordines romani combined specific ordines, or liturgies, with rubrics that have been called ‘stage directions’ for the performance of liturgical celebrations.45 These small books are of particular interest to scholars of the Middle Ages because, according to Cyrille Vogel, they allow one ‘to reconstruct the actual ways of worshipping of a general period or geographic area, a task that would be quite impossible using Sacramentaries alone’.46 As an expansion of the texts necessary for the celebration of the Mass, the Ivrea OM brings attention to the concerns of the celebrant, or perhaps more significantly the concerns of an ecclesiastical hierarchy, for the proper presentation of liturgical rites. I use the term ecclesiastical hierarchy here because while the OM includes prayers said by the priest that are not exclusive to the bishop, the decorated version of the Ivrea OM draws attention to what others have called the ‘clericalization’ of the Mass, where special attention is paid to the differentiation between and the hierarchy among clerics.47 Furthermore, of the few copies of the OM that remain, the two illuminated examples both belonged to bishops who also commissioned elaborately decorated sacramentaries.48 While the text of the OM may not be uniquely episcopal, these two illuminated examples suggest that their bishop-patrons saw the OM as a significant part of their artistic patronage, as a way to ‘fill out’ the necessary instructions for the Mass.49 As an addition to the sacramentary, the illuminated Ivrea OM helps us understand the ways in which the Mass, a priestly rite, might also serve as a celebration

45

Pierce, ‘The Evolution of the ordo missae’, p. 5 n. 27, 28. Vogel and others, Medieval Liturgy, p. 137. 47 See Pierce, ‘The Evolution of the ordo missae’, p. 10, n. 55 citing Luykx, ‘Klerikalisierungserscheinung in der Liturgie’. See also Pierce, ‘New Research Directions in Medieval Liturgy’, p. 59. 48 See Pierce’s essay in this volume for a discussion of Sigebert of Minden and the illustrated sacramentary and ordo missae (also called the libellus precum) associated with him. Both manuscripts include a portrait of the bishop. One depicts an active liturgical posture, the other a seated, hierarchical position. A third portrait that might be seen as something in between, a liturgical posture that also takes a hierarchical position like the orans pose to be discussed below, is depicted on an ivory panel believed to have once served as the cover to the libellus precum. See also Gatti, ‘Developing an Iconography of the Episcopacy’, pp. 136–65. 49 In the succeeding decades the sacramentary and the OM would be replaced by the missal and pontifical, the latter being an object Eric Palazzo has argued makes a strong statement about the interdependence of episcopal authority and liturgical iconography. Palazzo, A History of Liturgical Books, pp. 55–56. 46

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of the episcopal office.50 More specifically, the three miniatures of Warmund in liturgical postures alternate between connotations of majesty and humility. Within the context of Warmund’s personal mass handbook the miniatures function as both a reminder and a reflection of proper episcopal demeanour within the priestly rite. Connotations of both the priestly and the episcopal aspects of the Ivrea OM are deepened by a discussion of the specific type of ordo represented by the Ivrea codex. Known as the Rhenish type, these ordines are unique in their inclusion of a number of personal prayers among the directions and prescriptions for the celebration of the Mass.51 These prayers, called sacerdotal apologiae, are recited silently by the bishop or priest presiding at the Mass and are intended to express a personal account of the celebrant’s sinfulness.52 The apologiae included in the Ivrea OM give a voice to the three liturgical portraits of Warmund. Grouped together at the beginning of the codex, the miniatures focus the bishop’s attention on the moments immediately preceding the offertory and representing the process the bishop must undergo both mentally and physically to successfully confect the Eucharist.53 The first of the three miniatures, on folio 3v (Plate 2 in this volume) depicts the ritual of hand washing, which takes place at two times during the Mass: first, during the rites for vesting, and second, before the celebration of the offertory rite.54 In the miniature, Warmund is seated on a stool at the left of the scene, wearing an alb, dalmatic, stole and episcopal slippers; his feet rest on a raised platform. Behind the bishop stand four assistants. To his right, a deacon kneels before the bishop holding two bowls, pouring water from one bowl to the next. Warmund reaches forward, holding his hands together under the water. Another figure stands behind the deacon holding a towel and two additional figures are crowded behind Warmund.

50

Baroffio and Dell’Oro, ‘“L’ordo missae”, pp. 801–02. Baroffio and Dell’Oro, ‘“L’ordo missae”, p. 806; Pierce, ‘The Evolution of the ordo missae’, p. 8, n. 44; and Pierce in this volume. 52 These prayers tie Bishop Warmund to the region north of the Alps, where a ‘new spiritual attitude’ was said to be evolving within the clergy and which is reflected in the apologia, see Bragança, ‘A apologia’, as cited in Pierce, ‘The Evolution of the ordo missae’, p. 9 n. 52. 53 One might imagine something similar to the state of mind suggested by the elaborate ivory covers of the Drogo Sacramentary or the Louvre panels discussed by Sigrid Danielson in this volume. 54 See also Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images, p. 182. 51

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The liturgical text of the Ivrea OM does not include the prayers for vesting; instead the codex begins with the Preces and introduction of the Canon of the Mass. If the portrait miniatures are simple illustrations of the text, the scene of hand washing here must refer to the second washing before the offertory rite, which is included in the liturgical text of the OM at the base of folio 20v and the top of folio 21r.55 Interestingly, the miniature does not depict the bishop in full regalia as he is missing the chasuble and pallium.56 The following two miniatures of the bishop will show the bishop wearing both garments. This small detail would suggest that the ritual depicted in the miniature is not that performed before the offertory but before the vesting. The miniatures should not be seen to illustrate the text but instead reflect the enacted and sequential process of clerical preparation.57 Here, the action of washing one’s hands should be seen as it is in the liturgy itself, as having a symbolic significance. A proper opening for the visual programme, the gesture symbolizes the purification of the cleric’s body, mind, and spirit in preparation for the celebration of the Eucharistic Mass. The following folio, 4r, shows Warmund flanked by two standing clerics. The bishop is depicted in full mass vestments, including alb, dalmatic, chasuble, and pallium. The figure to his right holds the bishop’s right arm and wears a stole over his shoulder. The figure to his left, holding the bishop’s left arm, wears only the dalmatic. Three figures stand behind the cleric at the left of the miniature, one holds a censer. Another figure is included at the far right of the miniature and is depicted holding a candlestick with a lighted taper. All of the figures in

55

There is no mention of this early hand washing in the OM as it begins with the offertory rite. In other examples of the Rhenish-type Ordo, however, the liturgical programme opens with the hand washing at vesting. 56 The pallium was and is not a standard element of episcopal regalia but the subsequent folios show Warmund wearing the pallium, which makes its absence in this miniature notable. There is no evidence of Warmund’s receiving the pallium from the pope, however, the garment is clearly depicted in the two portraits in this manuscript on fols 4v–5r and in all of portrait miniatures from the sacramentary found on fols 13r, 52v, and 57v. Although there is no evidence to suggest it to be fact, it would have been possible that Warmund received the pallium in Rome from the newly installed Pope Sylvester II as he presided, with Otto III, over the Easter Synod in 999. It was at this synod that Otto III recognized the excommunication of Arduin of Ivrea for, among other things, the murder of Peter of Vercelli. Althoff, Otto III, trans. by Jestice, p. 93. 57 Mariaux suggests a similar symbolic role for the miniatures arguing that they present a more cohesive narrative than those included in the sacramentary. Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images, pp. 181–82.

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the background of the miniature are represented with their mouths open as if they were singing. It is difficult to say what exact moment this miniature illustrates. The presence of the censer would suggest it occurs after the censing of the altar, which follows the blessing of the gifts. The orant gesture of the bishop may refer to a series of prayers, Orate frates, or Orates pro me. At this point in the Mass, the celebrant adds his own gift to the oblation of the faithful and the clergy. He then turns to face the congregation, assumes the orant position with arms outstretched, and asks the clergy to pray for him. 58 Next, the celebrant requests that the sacrifice he is about to be perform, as a representative of his congregation, be found acceptable to God. The moment is one of humility, but at the same time it emphasizes the bishop as the head the congregation and the clergy. Rather than attempt to tie this miniature tightly to a specific moment in the Mass, I would like to suggest the miniature reflects a well-known and often-used symbolic composition. The three central figures in the miniature reflect an older image type depicting Moses flanked by Aaron and Hur often adopted to connote the cooperation between bishops and kings during the art of the early Middle Ages.59 A contemporary example from the Ripoll Bible illustrates Exodus 17. 9–13 wherein the victory of the Israelites over the Amalekites depended upon Moses’ upraised arms, ‘And when Moses lifted up his hands, Israel overcame; but if he let them down a little, Amalec overcame’60 (Figure 8.5). Meyer Schapiro argued that during the Carolingian and Ottonian periods the imagetype shifted from an illustrative purpose to a more symbolic function wherein the Exodus story was told in support of contemporary military campaigns.61 In these examples, the emperor, reflecting on the gesture of Moses, prays for divine sanction in the face of a hardship. The prayer is an act of piety and humility, but the retelling serves as proof that God sanctioned their campaign. Schapiro’s essay includes a set of miniatures that demonstrate how the Moses/ Aaron/Hur image type was borrowed by the Holy Roman Emperors to celebrate their worthiness as such, but he takes care to note that this success was seen to be 58

Jungmann, The Mass of the Roman Rite, pp. 352–53. See also Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images, pp. 182–86. Also Schapiro, ‘Theme of State and Theme of Action’. 60 Exodus 17. 11. All biblical quotations are taken from the Douay-Rheims translation of the Vulgate Bible. 61 Schapiro, ‘Theme of State and Theme of Action’, p. 21. See also Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images, p. 183. 59

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Figure 8.5. ‘Nine Scenes from Exodus’, Farfa Bible (Ripoll Bible), Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, MS vat. lat. 5729, fol. 1r. Early eleventh century. © [2013] by permission of Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, with all rights reserved.

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Figure 8.6. ‘Henry II Accompanied by Bishops’, Pontifical of Henry II, Bamberg, Staatsbibliothek, Lit. 53, fol. 2v. c. 1007–24. Reproduced with permission of Hirmer Fotoarchiv.

dependent upon a supportive relationship between the Church, Christ, and its emperors.62 Both miniatures depict Henry II (r. 1012–14) between clerical figures that support his upraised arms. In the first example, from the Sacramentary of Henry II, the emperor is crowned by the hand of Christ and handed the symbols of his office by two angels while bishop-saints Emmeram of Regensburg and Ulric of Augsburg support his arms.63 Schapiro has less to say about the second miniature from the Pontifical of Henry II, a much simpler composition and style than the Sacramentary of Henry II. (Figure 8.6) But, it is with this second example that we might add another layer to Schapiro’s study of the image type, one that also aids in reading the miniature as a significant symbol for Warmund as he prepares to celebrate the Rite of the Eucharist. 62

Schapiro, ‘Theme of State and Theme of Action’, pp. 39–41. Sacramentary of Henry II, München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Staatsbibliothek lat. MS 4456, folio 11r; Pontifical of Henry II, Bamberg, Staatliche Bibliothek, lit. 53, folio 2v. 63

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In the pontifical miniature the emperor stands beneath the central niche of an arcade flanked by two unidentified and un-haloed clerical figures, although both are dressed in episcopal vestments.64 Schapiro remarks: The image of a royal or sacred personage with arms held up by other figures may be a sign of power apart from these special considerations of medieval priest and king. It may express not a dependence of the supported figure but his power to command support.65

The OM miniature usurps or borrows from the royal traditions the surety of clerical support, but in this case it functions to validate the bishop’s spiritual leadership.66 Following the above quotation and of more relevance to the image of Warmund than those of the miniatures of Henry II, Schapiro also writes, ‘Supporting figures […] make visible the majesty of Christ and the power of a bishop’.67 When the image type shifts from king to bishop, the consequence of what it might mean to ‘make visible the majesty of Christ’ takes on a different meaning. When Warmund takes the pose of Moses, arms outstretched, he reflects the original gesture of prayer, a connection Schapiro notes is borrowed from orant figures typical in catacomb images. But the pose of the orant is always also in imitation of Christ on the cross, and offers a shade of the posture Warmund will assume at the altar each time he conducts the Mass. At all points in the Mass Warmund is supported by his deacons, not literally, as pictured here, but in the many ways they assist and attend to him. Similarly, local priests with whom Warmund concelebrated the Mass, might aid him. But in all of these circumstances, as symbolized in the miniature, the role of the bishop as the principal celebrant is clearly and visually maintained.68 While we 64

Schapiro, ‘Theme of State and Theme of Action’, p. 24, nn. 40, 41, and 42. Schapiro, ‘Theme of State and Theme of Action’, p. 26 66 Mayr-Harting also draws a connection between the Henry miniatures and the orant miniature, citing the motif as a clear appropriation of ‘ruler iconography’. Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, ii, p. 89, n. 107; Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, i, p. 66. For a brief discussion of the Pontifical of Henry II as it relates to the sacramentary and the image type, see Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, i, p. 199. 67 Schapiro, ‘Theme of State and Theme of Action’, p. 26. 68 During the eleventh century the hierarchical order of the clerics was a major concern, not simply as a way to distinguish the authority of the church from the secular nobility, but also, each order of cleric from another. For more about the efforts before and after this period to distinguish the clerical hierarchy, see Reynolds, ‘Clerics in the Early Middle Ages’ and Reynolds, ‘“At Sixes and Sevens”’. 65

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see the bishop’s arms supported by clerics as a symbol of unity and support, in the liturgical rite the bishop will move forward to stand alone, consecrating the bread and the wine, and making present the Body and the Blood. In confecting the Eucharist, Warmund brings about the communion of the Church. As a bishop, in taking and offering the bread/Body, the Church too celebrates a unified, ecclesiastical Body. The physical body of the bishop, through word and gesture, allows the historical bishop’s body to disappear and to leave in its place the Body of Christ as the Body of the Church.69 It is notable that in his discussion of this miniature and it similarity to the Moses/Aaron/Hur type, PierreAlain Mariaux reminds us that Theodulf of Orléans sets forth Moses as a model for the celebrant specifically because he is a mediator between God and man.70 This moment in the Mass offers a point of tension where things ‘made visible’ and exalted must be balanced by something ‘made invisible’ and humbled. Accordingly, the exaltation of Warmund in the fully-frontal orant pose is balanced by the last of the three prefatory miniatures showing Warmund bowing before the altar, his maniple in his hands (Plate 3). Again, the bishop is dressed in mass vestments including the pallium. The altar is draped with an altar cloth and ornamented with magnificently cut gemstones; a votive crown hangs above it. Three figures are crowded behind the head of the bishop, in the upper left corner of the miniature.71 This miniature may represent the moment after the Sanctus, where the celebrant bows at the altar.72 After the celebrant bows, he makes three signs of the cross, and begins to recite the Supra quae prayer followed by the Te igitur. The Supra quae, a silent prayer included towards the end of the Canon of the Mass, reads: 69

For a discussion of the role of vision in the Eucharistic rite see Kobialka, This is my Body, pp. 30–33; and as it relates to images of the bishop, see Mariaux, ‘The Bishop as Artist?’. For a discussion of the role of the bishop at this point in the Mass as facilitator in the liminal state of communitas, see Gatti, ‘Building the Body of the Church’, pp. 116–17. 70 Theodulf of Orléans, Liber de ordine baptismi, ed. by Migne, col. 234A–B. Mariaux, Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images, pp. 184–85 offers a rich discussion of medieval contexts for understanding the role of the bishop celebrant as a mediator, especially in the moments, as Mariaux explains, where the bishop imitates and becomes Christ. 71 One of the figures in the upper left of the miniature overlaps the decorated border, which appears to have been painted before the miniature. This is notable here only because it suggests that the number of figures assisting the bishop is significant. 72 Jungmann, The Mass of the Roman Rite, pp. 386. There are several points during the Mass where the bishop bows, yet given the arrangement of the miniatures, this seems to be the most convincing interpretation.

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Supra quae propitio ac sereno vultu respicere digneris; et accepta habere, sicuti accepta habere dignatus es munera pueri tui justi Abel, et sacrificium patriarchae nostri Abrahae, et quod tibi obtulit summus sacerdos tuus Melchisedech, sanctum sacrificium, immaculatam hostiam. Deign to regard with gracious and kindly attention and hold acceptable, as You deigned to accept the offerings of Abel, Your just servant, and the sacrifice of Abraham our Patriarch, and that which Your chief priest Melchizedek offered to You, a holy Sacrifice and a spotless victim.73

The purpose of the Supra quae prayer is to make certain that the sacrifice performed at the altar will be acceptable to God.74 This silent prayer, which precedes the offering, is a reminder to the celebrant that the sacrifice must not be made by unworthy hands. As opposed to aggrandizing the position of the celebrant, this passage keeps the celebrant humble yet focused on his position within larger spiritual hierarchies.75 Notably the focus of the Supra quae — Melchizedek, Abraham, and Abel — frequently appear along the lower side walls of apse programmes, within liturgical books for the Mass, and on mass furniture such as the portable altar, places rarely seen by those not celebrating at the altar (Figure 8.7).76 This silent prayer, reserved for clerical spaces, highlights an interior, or personalized, moment. On the other hand, this interior moment is made perceptible through its depiction in the folios of a manuscript, the space of a presbytery, or the engraving on a portable altar. 77 What at first 73

Medieval Sourcebook: Mass of The Roman Rite [accessed 18 July 2011]; also Jungmann, The Mass of the Roman Rite, p. 434. 74 Jungmann, The Mass of the Roman Rite, p. 435. 75 Mayr-Harting, ‘Ottonian Tituli in Liturgical Books’, includes a discussion of this miniature. While we both read the image as one that humbles the celebrant in order to prepare him for the Eucharistic rite, Mayr-Harting cites the prayer said by Warmund as he approaches the altar, ‘O God who makes of the unworthy the worthy, of sinners repentant, of the unclean the clean, make me a worthy minister at your altar’. Mayr-Harting goes on to note that while the Ivrea OM is unique, the ‘idea which it reflects was far from unique in its age’ (p. 459). 76 Depictions of the Supra quae prayer can be found in the presbyteries at San Vitale and Sant’Apollinare in Classe; on the frontispiece of the Fulda Sacramentary; on portable altars from the Cathedral of Paderborn (Paderborn, Erzbischöfliches Diözesanmuseum, Inv. no. DS 2); and in Cologne’s Schnütgen-Museum, c. 1160–80. See Ornamenta Ecclesiae, ed. by Legner, i, C 33, and ii, E 102. 77 A similar argument is made regarding the images on the front and back, or what Cynthia Hahn calls the public and clerical sides of the Altar of Saint Ambrose. See Hahn, ‘Narrative on the Golden Altar of Sant’Ambrogio’.

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Figure 8.7. ‘Portable Altar with Figure of Melchizedek, Aaron, and Abraham’, 23 cm × 26 cm. Musée de Cluny Paris. c. 1030. Photo Jean-Gilles Berizzi. © RMN-Grand Palais / Art Resource, NY.

seemed to this author like an inversion — an interior moment brought to the exterior — goes to the heart of the function of the liturgical imagery included in the Ivrea OM. The miniatures and their accompanying prayers, prepare the mind, body, and soul as one, sparking the physical senses, which ignite mental processes and spiritual ambitions. This spark, as Palazzo argues in his essay ‘Art, the Liturgy, and the Five Senses’, is often and significantly a visual image.78 No matter the specific moment of the liturgy depicted in the final miniature, the meaning of the posture is quite clearly one of humility. Rather than a central figure of the bishop in orant pose, here the altar itself is the most significant 78

Palazzo, ‘Art, Liturgy, and the Five Senses’, p. 49.

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part of the miniature, depicted almost as high as the bishop is tall. At this point in the Mass, immediately before the Eucharistic rite, the bishop must again, having proved himself worthy, make himself humble. The exalted portrait of the bishop is kept in check by his purification and final supplication. These three prefatory miniatures reflect the breadth of the order of the Mass, from Hand Washing to the moments before the confection of the Eucharist, but it should be emphasized that they are not paired with specific moments of the Mass; rather they refer to attitudes, or more literally to the postures the bishop-celebrant will adopt. They are not instructions for how to perform the rites of the liturgy but rather inspirations for how to be during the rites of the liturgy. The role of these miniatures as a means to right the mind is further reinforced by their inclusion after the silent prayer included on folio 3r: Aufer a nobis quaesumus domine iniquitates nostras ut ad sancta sanctorum puris mereamur mentibus introire. Take away from us our iniquities, we beseech Thee, O Lord, in order that we may be worthy with pure minds to enter into the holy of holies.

This attitude continues after the miniatures on folio 5r–v: (5r)Fac (5v)me quaeso omnipotens deus ita iusticia indui ut sancta sanctorum tuorum merear exultatione laetari. quatinus emundatus ab omnibus sordibus peccatorum consortium adipiscar tibi placentium sacerdotum meque tua misericordia a viciis omnibus exuat. quem reatus propriae conscientiae gravat. Make me, I beseech Thee, Almighty God, to be so arrayed in righteousness, that I may be enabled to rejoice in the gladness of Thy Saints; so that being cleansed from all filthiness of sin, I may attain the fellowship of the Priests who are pleasing to Thee; and that I, who am burdened by the guilt of my own conscience, may be delivered by Thy mercy from all vices, through our Lord.79

While the first prayer, Aufer a nobis, is quite common, the second is more unusual and may be unique even within this type of OM. The intention of the prayer, however, is quite clear and is in keeping with the interior focus of the Rhenish-type.80 Furthermore, the prayer brings attention to the significance of the liturgical vestments and gestures featured in the miniatures, ‘to be so arrayed in righteousness’ and to be ‘cleansed from all filthiness of sin’. These details 79 Baroffio and Dell’Oro, ‘“L’ordo missae”, p. 809. English translation from Bright, Ancient Collects and Other Prayers, p. 182. 80 Jungmann, The Mass of the Roman Rite, pp. 46, 200 and 208.

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emphasize the physical body as an implement that must be properly tuned to perform best in the ‘fellowship of Priests’ as a representative body of the Church. It is here that one of the contradictions about this manuscript might be resolved. The OM is smaller and less elaborate than some of Warmund’s other commissions but that does not mean the manuscript was insignificant. In fact, this OM seems to have been regularly used; its current state suggests heavy wear.81 While evidence of use cannot be located to Warmund alone with any certainty, it sets the manuscript apart in ways that make it particularly useful for this study. As one of a series of manuscripts commissioned from his local scriptorium, many of which are decorated, the OM seems to have performed a specific and perhaps even practical function. But do not let that description mislead you for this practical function may also have required focused but quite spectacular decoration. There is ample use of gold in the manuscript, especially in the elaborate illuminated initials that begin the rites and prayers, and pigments of red, blue, and yellow are thickly applied within the miniatures. The OM is a practical text because it is beautiful. The jewel-like quality of the small portraits as well as the inclusion of elaborate illuminated initials suggests that this book is not a secondary production. The small liturgical miniatures and illuminated initials are exalted through precious pigments, while at the same time the manuscript is humbled by its smaller size and concentrated decoration. Even more than in the sacramentary, the usefulness of this smaller liturgical book suggests the functionality of the liturgical images. These liturgical portraits reinforce the significance of even the simplest of liturgical gestures, as seen in the hand washing miniatures, or the tradition of the episcopal office, as can be seen in the miniature with the bishop flanked by two clerics. In these ways the physical qualities of the OM embody the potential of its written and ultimately its performed texts. The images re-present the liturgical rites and their theological significance as well as the ‘ideals and mentalities’ of the episcopal office.82 81 In its present condition the manuscript shows significant signs of damage, particularly in the lower left corner and along the gutter. The decorated miniatures also show some damage, but this damage does not hinder an understanding of the basic iconography of the images. The Vatican restored the manuscript in 1910 along with the other manuscripts commissioned by Warmund. 82 As referenced in the Introduction to this volume Eric Palazzo uses this phrase to mark the duality of the episcopal image. Palazzo, ‘The Image of the Bishop in the Middle Ages’, p. 86. See also Joanne Pierce in this volume for a similar discussion of the Minden libellus precum as a representation of the ‘ideals and mentalities’ of the episcopal office.

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Our encounter with the miniatures included in the Ivrea OM coupled with a discussion of liturgical illumination as both the process and a product of representation brings attention to the many attitudes necessary for Warmund to be a good bishop. We cannot hope to know exactly how he may have perceived these images, but we can imagine — through their inclusion as frontispieces, the care of the text as a whole, and their comparison with other commissions by this bishop and his contemporaries — something of the expectations Warmund had for the office in a period of evolving liturgical responsibilities. At the centre of this evolution, like Kantorowicz’s visual model for the dual natures of kingship, we find the re-presentation of the bishop’s two bodies and the image that lies in between. As they oscillate between past and present, illustration and illumination, majesty and humility, the liturgical portraits of Warmund of Ivrea re-present a good bishop. Preserved in each portrait is the bishop’s body natural, as it is temporally and physically bound, and the bishop’s body politic, as it is defined by and for the community. Made so though unction and drawing on what Williams called ‘charismatic’ influence, the bishop’s two bodies, legitimized through apostolic succession, and maintained through practised humility recognize the full prestige of the episcopal office past, present, and for the future.83 The liturgical portraits of Warmund of Ivrea give us a glimpse of a bishop’s super-body — or the bishop’s two bodies re-presented as one.

83

Williams, The Norman Anonymous, p. 134.

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Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Documents Bamberg, Staatliche Bibliothek, lit. 53 (Pontifical of Henry II) Ivrea, Biblioteca Capitolare, Cod. 9 (IV) (Warmund of Ivrea, Ordo missae) —— , MS Cod. 31 (LXXXVI) (Sacramentarium Episcopi Warmundi) München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, clm. 14000 (Codex Aureus) —— , lat. MS 4456 (Sacramentary of Henry II)

Primary Sources Medieval Sourcebook: Mass of The Roman Rite [accessed 12 June 2012] Peter Damian, Letters: 1–30, trans. by Owen J. Blum, Fathers of the Church, Medieval Continuation, 1, 4 vols (Washington, DC: Catholic University of America Press, 1989) Theodulf of Orléans, Liber de ordine baptismi, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), cv (1864), col. 234A–B

Secondary Studies Althoff, Gerd, Otto III, trans. by Phyllis G. Jestice (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2003) Baroffio, Bonifacio, and Ferdinando Dell’Oro, ‘“L’ordo missae” di Warmondo d’Ivrea’, Studi medievali, 16 (1975), 795–823 Bettazzi, Luigi, Ferdinand Dell’Oro, and Luigi Magnani, Sacramentario del vescovo Warmondo di Ivrea: fine secolo x: Ivrea, Biblioteca capitolare, MS 31 lxxxvi (Torino: Priuli & Verlucca, 1990) Bragança, Joaquim, ‘A apologia “Suscipe confessionem meam”’, Didaskalia, 1 (1971), 319–34 Bright, William, Ancient Collects and Other Prayers: Selected for Devotional Use from Various Rituals, 2nd edn (London: Parker, 1862) Chin, Catherine, ‘The Bishop’s Two Bodies: Ambrose and the Basilicas of Milan’, Church History, 79 (2010), 531–55 Cohen, Adam, ‘Review. Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images: politique et création iconographique autour de l’an mil’, Speculum, 79 (2004), 795–98 Cracco, Giorgio, and Andrea Piazza, eds, Storia della Chiesa di Ivrea: dalle origini al XV secolo, Chiesa di Italia, 1 (Roma: Viella, 1984) Crowder, Susannah, ‘Recontextualizing the Performances of the Drogo Sacramentary within Ninth-Century Metz’, presented at the 12th SITM Congress 2–7 July, 2007, Lille [accessed 26 December 2012] Deshman, Robert, ‘Otto III and the Warmund Sacramentary: A Study in Political Theology’, Zeitschrift fur Kunstgeschichte, 34 (1971), 1–20

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Franzoni, Claudio, and Enrica Pagella, eds, Arte in Piemonte. Antichità e Medioevo (Ivrea: Priuli & Verlucca, 2002) Garrison, Eliza, ‘Otto III at Aachen’, Peregrinations: A Journal for the International Society for the Study of Pilgrimage Art, 3 (2010), 83–137 —— , ‘Ottonian Art and Its Afterlife’, Oxford Art Journal, 32 (2009), 205–22 —— , Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture: The Artistic Patronage of Otto III and Henry II (Burlington: Ashgate, 2012) Gatti, Evan A., ‘Building the Body of the Church: A Bishop’s Blessing in the Benedictional of Engilmar of Parenzo’, in The Bishop Reformed: Studies in Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages, ed. by John S. Ott and Anna E. Trumbore Jones (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 92–121 —— , ‘Developing an Iconography of the Episcopacy: Liturgical Portraiture and Episcopal Politics in Tenth- and Eleventh-Century Manuscripts’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2005) —— , ‘In a Space Between: Warmund of Ivrea and the Problem of (Italian) Ottonian Art’, Peregrinations: A Journal for the International Society for the Study of Pilgrimage Art, 3 (2010), 8–48 [accessed 29 February 2012] Hahn, Cynthia, ‘Narrative on the Golden Altar of Sant’Ambrogio in Milan: Presentation and Reception’, Dumbarton Oaks Papers, 53 (1999), 167–88 Hamilton, Sarah, The Practice of Penance, 900–1050, Royal Historical Society, Studies in History, new series, 20 (Rochester, NY: The Royal Historical Society; The Boydell Press, 2001) Jungmann, Joseph A., The Mass of the Roman Rite: Its Origins and Development (Missarum Sollemnia), trans. by Francis A. Brunner, rev. by Charles K. Riepe (New York: Benziger Brothers, 1959) Jussen, Bernhard, ‘The King’s Two Bodies Today’, Representation, 106 (2009), 102–17 Kantorowicz, Ernst Hartwig, The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Mediaeval Political Theology, 7th edn (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997) Kay, Richard, Pontificalia: A Repertory of Latin Manuscript Pontificals and Benedictionals (2009) [accessed 29 February 2012] Kobialka, Michal, This Is My Body: Representational Practices in the Early Middle Ages (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1999) Luykx, Bonifaas, ‘Der Ursprung der gleichbleibenden Teile der heiligen Messe (Ordinarium Missae)’, in Liturgie und Mönchtum, 29 (1961), 72–119; orig. publ. De oorsprong van het gewone der Mis, De eredienst der kerk, 3 (Utrecht: Het Spectrum, 1955) Mackie, Gillian, ‘Warmundus of Ivrea and Episcopal Attitudes to Death, Martyrdom and the Millennium’, Papers of the British School at Rome, 78 (2010), 219–63 Magnani, Luigi, Le miniature del Sacramentario d’Ivrea e di altri codici warmondiani, Codici ex ecclesiasticis Italiae bybliothecis delecti, phototypice expressi, 6 (Città del Vaticano: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1934)

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Mariaux, Pierre-Alain, ‘The Bishop as Artist? The Eucharist and Image Theory around the Millennium’, in The Bishop: Power and Piety at the First Millennium, ed. by Sean J. Gilsdorf, Neue Aspekte der europäischen Mittelalterforschung, 4 (Münster: Lit, 2004), pp. 155–66 —— , ‘Entre le scepter et la crosse: portrait d’un évéque du xe siècle’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Université de Lausanne, 1997) —— , Warmond d’Ivrée et ses images: politique et création iconographique autour de l’an mil, European University Studies, Series 28, History of Art, 388 (Berne: Lang, 2002) Mayr-Harting, Henry, Ottonian Book Illumination, 2 vols (London: Harvey Miller, 1999) —— , ‘Ottonian Tituli in Liturgical Books’, in Reading Images and Texts: Medieval Images and Texts as Forms of Communication. Papers from the Third Utrecht Symposium on Medieval Literacy, Utrecht, 7–9 December 2000, ed. by M. Hageman and M. Mostert (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), pp. 457–75 Mazzoli, Maria Antonietta Casagrande, ‘I Codici Warmondiani e la cultura a Ivrea fra IX and XI secolo’, Ricerche Medievali, 6–9 (1971–74), 89–139 Ornamenta Ecclesiae: Kunst und Künstler der Romanik, ed. by Anton Legner, 3 vols (Köln: Schnütgen Museum, 1985) Palazzo, Eric, ‘Art and Liturgy in the Middle Ages: Survey of Research (1980–2003) and Some Reflections on Method’, The State of Medieval Studies = Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 105 (2006), 170–84 —— , ‘Art, Liturgy, and the Five Senses in the Early Middle Ages’, Viator, 41 (2010), 25–56 —— , L’Évêque et son image: l’illustration du pontifical au Moyen Âge (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999) —— , A History of Liturgical Books: From the Beginning to the Thirteenth Century, trans. by Madeleine Beaumont (Collegeville: Liturgical, 1998) —— , ‘The Image of the Bishop in the Middle Ages’, in The Bishop Reformed: Studies of Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages, ed. by John S. Ott and Anna Trumbore Jones, Church, Faith, and Culture in the Medieval West (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 86–91 Pierce, Joanne M., ‘The Evolution of the ordo missae in the Early Middle Ages’, in Medieval Liturgy: A Book of Essays, ed. by Lizette Larson-Miller, Garland Medieval Casebooks, 18, Garland Reference Library of the Humanities, 1884 (London: Garland, 1997), pp. 3–24 —— , ‘New Research Directions in Medieval Liturgy: The Liturgical Books of Sigebert of Minden (1022–1036)’, Fountain of Life: In Memory of Niels K. Rasmussen, ed. by Gerard Austin (Collegeville: Liturgical, 1991), pp. 51–67 Professione, Alfonso, Inventario dei manoscritti della biblioteca capitolare di Ivrea, in Giuseppe Mazzantini, Inventari dei manoscritti delle biblioteche d’Italia, 4 (Forli: Casa Editrice Luigi Bordandini, 1894); rev. edn ed. by Ivo Vignono (Alba: Tip Domenicane, 1967) Reilly, Diane J., The Art of Reform in Eleventh Century Flanders: Gerard of Cambrai, Richard of Saint-Vanne and the Saint-Vaast Bible, Studies in the History of Christian Traditions, 128 (Leiden: Brill, 2006)

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Reynolds, Roger E., ‘“At Sixes and Sevens” — and Eights and Nines: The Sacred Mathematics of Sacred Orders in the Early Middle Ages’, Speculum, 54 (1979), 699–84; repr. in Roger E. Reynolds, Clerics in the Early Middle Ages: Hierarchy and Image (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1999), iii —— , ‘Clerics in the Early Middle Ages: Hierarchies and Functions’, in Roger E. Reynolds, Clerics in the Early Middle Ages: Hierarchy and Image (Ashgate: Variorum, 1999), pp. 1–31 —— , ‘The Portrait of the Ecclesiastical Officers in the Raganaldus Sacramentary and Its Liturgico-Canonical Significance’, Speculum, 46 (1971), 432–42 —— , ‘A Visual Epitome of the Eucharistic Ordo from the Era of Charles the Bald: The Ivory Mass Cover of the Drogo Sacramentary’, in Charles the Bald: Court and Kingdom, ed. by Margaret T. Gibson and Janet L. Nelson, 2nd rev. edn (Aldershot: Variorum, 1990), pp. 241–60 Schapiro, Meyer, ‘Theme of State and Theme of Action (I)’, Words, Script, and Pictures: Semiotics of Visual Language (New York: Braziller, 1996), pp. 25–46 Schmitt, Jean-Claude, ‘Le Miroir du Canoniste: À Propos d’un Manuscrit du Decret de Gratien de la Walters Art Gallery’, Journal of the Walters Art Gallery, 49–50 (1991–92), 67–82 Schramm, Percy Ernst, and Florentine Mütherich, Denkmale der deutschen Könige und Kaiser (München: Prestel, 1962) Sergi, Guiseppe, ‘The Kingdom of Italy’, in The New Cambridge Medieval History: c.900– c.1024, ed. by Timothy Reuter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), pp. 369–71 Vogel, Cyrille, and others, eds, Medieval Liturgy: An Introduction to the Sources (Washington, DC: Pastoral, 1986) Williams, George Hunston, The Norman Anonymous of 1100 ad: Toward the Identification and Evaluation of the So-Called Anonymous of York (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1951; repr. New York: Kraus, 1969)

Bishop and Monk: John the Baptist in the Episcopal Image of Anglo-Saxon England and Ottonian Germany Jennifer P. Kingsley

J

ohn the Baptist is arguably a conventional model for the episcopate. Indeed several separate studies attest to the prominent role of the Baptist in imaging any one of a number of medieval prelates.1 From the mosaics of the early fifth-century Neonian Baptistery in Ravenna to the thirteenth-century vision of the Beguine Mechthild of Magdeburg that pairs John the Baptist with that other John, the Evangelist, the deployment of the Baptist as a type for this highest rank of the priesthood may even seem normative.2 Yet the enduring place of the Baptist in the episcopal image represents more than merely a constant. When 1

The representation of the Baptist on the cathedra made in the sixth century for Archbishop Maximian of Ravenna has probably garnered the most attention in this regard. See especially Cecchelli, La cattedra di Massimiano; Morath, Die Maximianskathedra; von Simson, Sacred Fortress, pp. 63–68; Montanari, ‘Massimiano arcivescovo’; and Campanati, ‘Cattedra d’avorio di Massimiano’. I will discuss this object further below. On the whole, however, the iconography of Saint John the Baptist has been little studied. An overview of the iconography of the Baptist appears in Weis, ‘Johannes der Täufer’. A comparison of Byzantine and western trends in the later medieval iconography of the Baptist appears in Mouilleron, ‘Entre Orient et Occident’. 2 On the Neonian baptistery see especially: Wharton, ‘Ritual and Reconstructed Meaning’. On the paired Johns as priests, including in Mechthild’s vision, see: Hamburger, St John the Divine, pp. 65–82. Jennifer Kingsley, a specialist in Medieval and Byzantine Art History, teaches in Johns Hopkins University’s interdisciplinary programme in Museums and Society, Baltimore, Maryland. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 215–248 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102233

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considered diachronically, textual and pictorial representations of the Baptist indicate that the saint offered a particularly multivalent guise for the early medieval episcopacy, one that prelates exploited selectively in response to contemporary concerns. Nowhere is this more apparent than in Anglo-Saxon England and Ottonian Germany, where, under the impetus of the reforming movements of the tenth century, the Baptist came to serve as the ultimate exemplar of the coexistence of monastic ideals and sacramental authority in the same person.

The Baptist and the Episcopal Image before the Tenth Century The cult of John the Baptist developed over the course of the fourth century. Augustine is the first witness to a feast commemorating the birth of John the Baptist on 24 June. His significant remarks on the Baptist, in the dozen or so surviving sermons he preached on the Nativity of the Baptist, in three of his tracts commenting on the Gospel of John the Evangelist, and in one of the De diversis quaestionibus, lay the basis for the medieval understanding of the Baptist. Augustine was primarily concerned with the typological relationship of the Baptist to Christ, both of whose births the Gospels presented as miraculous events announced by the angel Gabriel. John was born above hope, to a sterile woman, while Christ was born above nature, to a Virgin. For Augustine, John the Baptist, the forerunner and herald to Christ, was the voice to Christ’s word and the lamp to Christ’s light. He was the boundary stone between the two testaments, the Old and the New.3 Following Augustine, early medieval exegetes emphasized the parallels between Christ and John the Baptist, but beginning with Bede highlighted in particular John’s priestly lineage. While Bede followed Augustine in describing the Baptist as the line between law and gospel, Bede added to Augustine’s discussion that John came from a priestly lineage in order to proclaim a change in the priest-hood. In a homily for the Vigil of the Nativity of John the Baptist, Bede tracked John’s bloodline back to the Abijah, the descendant of the High Priest Aaron who was the eighth priest David had selected to serve as chief to one of the twenty-four orders into which David divided the priesthood (i Chronicles 24).4 Carolingian exegesis on the continent, such as the sermons of Haimo of Auxerre and Hrabanus Maurus, continued in the same vein.5 3 4 5

Lienhard, ‘John the Baptist’. Bede, In Nativitae, ed. by Hurst, pp. 328–34. Among others: Haimo of Auxerre, In nativitate, ed. by Migne, col. 759A. Migne mistakenly

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Figure 9.1. ‘John the Baptist and the Four Evangelists from the Throne of Maximianus’, Museo Arcivescovile, Ravenna, Italy. Mid-sixth century. Photo Scala / Art Resource, NY.

The impetus for the early medieval emphasis on John’s priesthood probably came from the liturgy. John’s most celebrated act from the Gospels and the earliest to be represented in art is Christ’s Baptism. Whereas the Gospels used the event primarily to develop John’s identity as a witness to Christ’s divinity, the early Christian liturgy offered a way to understand John typologically in relation to the baptizing priest. Fourth-century monuments already used images of the Baptism to develop connections between the biblical narrative and baptismal rituals. In the baptisteries of Ravenna a mosaic rendering of the Baptism appears at the centre of each dome directly above the baptismal font, thus establishing a visual link between the Baptist above and the living bishop below.6 attributed this text to Haimo, Bishop of Halberstadt. Hrabanus Maurus, Homiliae in evangelia, ed. by Migne, Homily 104: In Eodem festo lectio sancti evangelii secundum Lucam, col. 342B. 6 Wharton, ‘Ritual and Reconstructed Meaning’, pp. 365–69.

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When Christian artists started representing John the Baptist as an isolated figure in the sixth century, they continued to associate the Baptist with the priesthood. The ivory cathedra made for Archbishop Maximian of Ravenna in the middle of that century may be the earliest direct comparison between the Baptist and an historical bishop. The throne includes five large plaques along the front of the seat which depict John the Baptist flanked by the four evangelists (Figure 9.1).7 Panels on the sides of the cathedra below the chair’s arm rests represent narrative scenes from the life of the patriarch Joseph, while the panels on the backrest depict scenes from the life of Christ, including the Baptism. Within this cycle of images, the cathedra gives the Baptist particular prominence. The front of the seat features the only full-length iconic portraits on the entire structure, and among these the Baptist is the centremost figure and the only one to stand in a fully frontal pose. The Baptist’s placement aligns him with a complex monogram which can be deciphered to read MAXIMIANVS EPISCOPVS (Bishop Maximian), making a direct visual connection between the saint and Bishop Maximian.8 During the Mass, the presence of the living bishop, doubled by the monogram, would have further underscored the comparison between living bishop and model saint. The portrait of the Baptist also links him especially to the four evangelists.9 Both its location and iconic pictorial mode place the Baptist in the company of the gospel writers, while the Baptist’s portrait type resembles that of the evangelists by virtue of his stance and gesture. The Baptist carries in his veiled left hand a medallion with the Lamb of God, while his right hand points in a traditional gesture for speech. The Evangelists’ left hands are also veiled, and each carries a codex marked with the cross, while their right hands make varied gestures for speech. The association of the Baptist with the Evangelists presents him as a 7

On the throne see note 1. Gerola, ‘Il monogramma della cattedra’. Earlier attempts to interpret the monogram as referring to other bishops, either John of Alexandria, Maximus of Salona, or Maximianus of Constantinople, are refuted by Cecchelli, La cattedra di Massimiano, pp. 33–38 and Gerola’s discovery of an almost identical monogram in the archiepiscopal palace provides convincing evidence that the monogram is local to Ravenna and refers to Ravenna’s Bishop Maximianus. 9 I do not discuss the narrative scenes here because their pictorial mode contrasts with that of the portraits. That is not to say that together the iconic and narrative carvings may not develop a common programme, but for the purposes of this study it is the representation of the Baptist and its link with the bishop that is most significant. On the narrative scenes, see especially Cecchelli, La cattedra di Massimiano; Morath, Die Maximianskathedra; and von Simson, Sacred Fortress, pp. 63–68. On the Joseph cycle under the armrests see also: Schapiro, ‘The Joseph Scenes’; Rupprecht, Die Ikonographie. 8

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witness to Christ, while the motif of the lamb implies he bears witness to both Christ’s divinity and his humanity. The Evangelists preach their written testimonial to Christ’s life and the Baptist heralds Christ’s advent as the sacrificial lamb. Among the church’s liturgical furnishings the episcopal throne symbolizes both the bishop’s office and authority. In that context the Evangelists allude also to the bishop’s teaching, namely the four Gospels, and to his witness, namely Christ’s Incarnation or the Word of God made flesh. The placement of the Baptist in the Evangelists’ company may also imply the throne’s use in baptismal rites wherein catechumens are initiated into the mysteries of the Gospels.10 Whatever the cathedra’s actual use in Ravenna, which has been debated, it would make sense to read the cathedra’s pictorial programme with reference to baptism. Not only does the Baptist continue to be closely identified with baptism in contemporary images and liturgy, but also, as Annabel Wharton has pointed out, baptism symbolized the bishop’s authority of incorporation, an authority to which the western episcopacy maintained a privileged relationship throughout the Middle Ages.11 That authority as well as the sacramental nature of baptism informs the comparison between a bishop and the Baptist on the ivory covers of the Drogo Sacramentary (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS lat. 9428; Chapter 6, Figures 6.2 and 6.3). Made after 844, the codex establishes typological connections between Christian rites and stories from the New Testament. The book’s liturgical text seems to have been compiled specifically for Bishop Drogo of Metz and it includes sequences of mass prayers for the most important feasts of the year. Throughout the book are illuminations illustrating the events commemorated by these feasts combined with depictions of contemporary, ninthcentury liturgical celebrations — scenes of the Mass, baptism and other rites.12 10 Von Simson, Sacred Fortress, pp. 64–66 suggests the throne was used in baptismal rituals. Other proposed uses include for the display of a jewelled cross or Gospel book (Beckwith, Early Christian and Byzantine Art, p. 53). Lowden, Early Christian and Byzantine Art, p. 116 explains the throne is too structurally weak to support the weight of a person. Whatever its actual use in Ravenna, the monogram that identifies the throne with Maximian and the shape of the object, which associates it with contemporary cathedrae, serve to present the work as a symbolic image of the bishop. 11 Wharton, ‘Ritual and Reconstructed Meaning’, p. 365. Although in practice an infant might be baptized in his local village, to be confirmed as an initiate in the faith required the action of the bishop. That confirmation was understood as an extension of baptism. Schwalbach, Firmung und religiöse, pp. 21–23. 12 Köhler and Mütherich, Drogo Sakramentar; Unterkircher, Zur Ikonographie und Liturgie.

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The book’s ivory covers key the sacramentary’s liturgical themes by illustrating Roman and Romano-Gallican rites. The back depicts, in a series of nine panels, the Roman Eucharistic ordo.13 The front portrays, in three panels, scenes from the life of Christ, including his Baptism and his appearance to the Apostles, and, in six panels, a bishop performing the rites of baptism, ordination, and the dedication of a church, all acts of initiation that allegorical explanations of the liturgy related to baptism.14 The bishop’s liturgical acts are thereby paired with those historical actions of the Baptist and Christ to which they are related, while the representation of the Eucharistic ordo on one cover and baptismal rites on the other emphasize sacramental themes. The covers in that way use the Baptist to present Bishop Drogo, the patron and user of the manuscript, as part of the sacramental priesthood.15 In light of such liturgical and pictorial associations, it is unsurprising to find that eighth- and ninth-century hagiography also compared historical bishops to the Baptist when establishing claims for their subjects’ sanctity. Much of the point of the textual comparison’s focus in this early period was on the fact that the Baptist’s saintliness was indicated even before his birth. The early anonymous life of Saint Cuthbert, a bishop and monk from Northumbria, for example, explains how Cuthbert was like Samuel, David, Jeremiah, and John the Baptist in having been ‘a vulva matris sanctificati leguntur’ (‘sanctified for the work of the Lord in their mothers’ wombs’).16 Alcuin’s life of Archbishop 13

On the back cover see: Reynolds, ‘A Visual Epitome of the Eucharistic Ordo’. For an image of the front cover see: Lasko, Ars Sacra, fig. 46. 14 For more on medieval perceptions about baptism see: Cramer, Baptism and Change. 15 The specific identity of the depicted bishops is somewhat ambiguous, as some have haloes while others do not. Might the haloed figures represent the Merovingian saint Arnulf of Metz, bishop of Metz from 614–29 and those without haloes his descendant Drogo? Arnulf was buried in the basilica of the Holy Apostles in Metz (later Abbey Church of St Arnulf ), and was an important cult figure for the Carolingian court. Arnulf ’s son had married the daughter of Pepin I and for this reason played an important role in linking the Merovingian royal dynasty to the future Carolingian kings. As Drogo was the illegitimate son of Charlemagne, Arnulf would have been both a sainted ancestor as well as a sainted predecessor in the office. On Arnulf see especially Ruggini, ‘The Crisis of the Noble Saint’. Whether or not the covers depict both Arnulf and Drogo, the patron and original user of the manuscript was Drogo of Metz, and its programme places him and his office in relation to John the Baptist in the context of the performance of liturgical rites. 16 Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert, ed. and trans. by Colgrave, p. 67. For more on Merovingian and early Anglo-Saxon saints’ lives see Saints’ Lives and Chronicles, ed. by Jones; Graus, Volk, Herrscher und Heiliger; Anglo-Saxon Saints and Heroes, ed. and trans. by Albertson; Van Dam,

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Willibrord and Hincmar of Reims’s biography of Bishop Remigius compare their episcopal subjects to the Baptist on the same grounds.17 Among these, Hincmar offered the most extensive presentation of Remigius’s Baptist-like attributes, arguing two main points. First, Hincmar suggested, conventionally, that Remigius’s sanctity was indicated even before his birth. 18 With his second point, however, he offered a fresh comparison for which the Baptist served specifically as a model of Christian action. Hincmar explained that Remigius converted the Franks to the light of the Gospels, just as John had brought his people to Christ.19 In contrast to the themes of prophetic witness and episcopal authority developed in pictures, the Baptist serves in these texts to establish the hagiographic subject’s holiness as an intrinsic quality, one with which the saint was born, although the comparison might be extended to characterize pastoral action as a saintly pursuit, a theme that became increasingly important during the course of the tenth and eleventh centuries.

The Baptist and the Episcopal Image in the Tenth and Eleventh Centuries In the second decade of the tenth century, the Anglo-Saxon Queen Aelfflaed presented Bishop Frithestan of Winchester with a finely embroidered stole and maniple to wear at the altar.20 The stole depicts to either side of a central Saints and their Miracles; Noble and Head, Soldiers of Christ; Fouracre and Gerberding, Late Merovingian France. 17 Alcuin, Vita Willibrordi, ed. by Levison, Book 1, Chapter 2, p. 117, English translation: Anglo-Saxon Missionaries in Germany, trans. by Talbot, p. 4; Hincmar of Reims, Vita Remigii episcopi, ed. by Krusch, Chapter 1, p. 262. 18 Hincmar of Reims, Vita Remigii episcopi, ed. by Krusch, p. 261, ll. 12–14: ‘Et propterea, qui Cornelium ac domum eius ante perceptionem baptismi sua gratia consecravit, ipse utique beatum Remigium non solum ante baptismum, sed etiam ante nativitatem. Ortus est autem ex anu et vetulo diu sterilibus per repromissionem, ut Isaac et Iohannes, vir iste sanctus, antequam natus, nomine designatus, antequam mundo cognitus, in pago Laudunensi alto parentum sanguine, ut monstraretur in ortu, qualis futurus erat in actu.’ 19 Hincmar of Reims, Vita Remigii episcopi, ed. by Krusch, p. 262, ll. 2–6: ‘Iohannes populum suo inluminaturus alloquio, in utero materno propheticam suscepit gratiam. Et beatus Remigius gentem Francorum a tenebris ignorantiae ad lucem perducturus evangelii, itidem divina donatus est gratia, ut, quod perfecturus erat ministerio, cum participibus suis pari claresceret munere; et qui, ut dictum est, aecclesiam Dei, spetiali autem cura Remorum civitatem atque provinciam remigio alarum sanctarum, scilicet verbo et exemplo, meritis et orationibus, erat Dei predestinatione recturus, et perfecto certamine, spiritu caelestia regna petiturus, angelorum utique subvectus auxiolio, Remigius est iure Dei preceptione vocatus.’ 20 Both the stole and the maniple are inscribed on the reverse of their end panels:

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quatrefoil containing the Lamb of God the standing figures of thirteen prophets and on the end panels the busts of two Apostles.21 Surviving inscriptions identify eleven of the prophets as Zechariah, Jonah, Habbakkuk, Joel, Hosea, Isaiah, Jeremiah, Daniel, Amos, Obadiah, and Nahum, and the two Apostles as Thomas and James. The maniple parallels the design of the stole, portraying to either side of a central quatrefoil containing the Hand of God the full-length figures of Popes Sixtus II (257–58) and Gregory the Great (590–604) followed by their respective deacons, Lawrence and Peter, and the half-figures of John the Baptist and John the Evangelist (Figure 9.2). Each figure is flanked by an identifying inscription. Reserved for use during the Mass, the vestments’ iconography relates Bishop Frithestan to prophets and a select group of saints.22 Particularly significant in that context is that the saints of the maniple wear mass vestments, which assimilate them mimetically to the Bishop in his role as the celebrant of the Eucharistic sacrament. As if to reinforce this association, John the Evangelist carries a chalice in his right hand, an unusual attribute for the saint.23

AELFFLAED FIERI PRECEPIT and PIO EPISCOPO FRIDESTANO. Queen Aelfflaed died in 916 and Frithestan served Winchester as bishop from 909–31, suggesting the embroideries were produced between 909 and 916. The vestments were discovered in St Cuthbert’s coffin in Durham in 1827. King Aethelstan, step-son of Aelfflaed, may have donated them to the shrine during a visit in 934. Brown and Christie, ‘S. Cuthbert’s Stole’. Although when found they were in several pieces, technical evidence secures the current arrangement of figures, which are identified by means of embroidered inscriptions. Plenderleith, ‘Technique’. For more on the vestments see: Freyhan, ‘The Place of the Stole’; Coatsworth, ‘Embroideries from the Tomb’; and Coatsworth, ‘Stitches in Time’. 21

The stole may have originally depicted three more prophets from the Old Testament. This would provide the even and canonical number of sixteen prophets, and extend the length of the stole to ten feet, which is comparable to other early medieval stoles such as that now in Trier. Brandt and Eggebrecht, Bernward von Hildesheim, ii, pp. 187–88. 22 Braun, Die liturgische Gewandung, pp. 515–619. Much of the iconography of Frithestan’s vestments is unique and has yet to be fully elucidated. Hohler, ‘Iconography’. 23 According to Hohler, ‘Iconography’, pp. 401 and 406 n. 2 this is unprecedented and remains unparalleled in any other work for several centuries. There is, however, a painting of John the Evangelist celebrating Mass in a sacramentary produced in Fulda around 975 (Göttingen, Universitätsbibliothek, MS 231, fol. 15v). He does not hold a chalice but he stands in an orant pose before an altar set with the chalice and paten. Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, ii, p. 130, fig. 81. For later medieval depictions of the Evangelist as either a deacon or priest, see Zeh, ‘Johannes Evangelist im Priestergewand’, and Hamburger, St John the Divine, figs 10, 18 and 61.

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223 Figure 9.2. ‘Maniple of Bishop Frithestan’, Durham Cathedral. 909–16. Photo copyright the Chapter of the Durham Cathedral.

The inclusion of the Baptist among the bishops of Rome and their deacons, each dressed in liturgical garb, underscores that he serves as a priestly type for the episcopal celebrant.24 Doubled by that other John, the chalice-carrying Evangelist, the Baptist becomes more 24

Hohler offers a more complicated interpretation of the selection of saints on the maniple. He argues that the deacons Peter and Lawrence both died to protect books: the work of Gregory the Great for Peter and the Bible for Lawrence. Pope Gregory the Great might appear then as the author of the Regula pastoralis who sent Augustine (of Canterbury) to convert England as well as the author of revisions to the Mass. The portrait of Sixtus might suggest itself from the fact that Sixtus and Lawrence are celebrated in the Roman Canon of the Mass that Gregory revised. Hohler, ‘Iconography’, p.  401. Catherine Karkov builds upon Hohler’s suggestions, but argues the maniple’s choice of saints should be understood within the context of Winchester’s development as a royal centre during Edward the Elder’s reign, in Karkov, The Ruler Portraits, pp. 73–78. In particular she argues the motif of the Hand of God, together with the motif of the lamb on the stole, serve as royal symbols at Edward’s court. In my opinion Hohler and Karkov’s arguments rely on some rather tenuous connections. A large part of the difficulty is the comparative poverty of evidence for Bishop Frithestan’s episcopacy and Edward the Elder’s reign. Higham, ‘Edward the Elder’s Reputation’; Campbell, ‘What is Not Known about the Reign of Edward’, pp. 12–24.

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specifically a symbol for the sacrament of baptism. In that way the maniple emphasizes in particular the bishop’s sacramental authority. That message is underscored by the depiction of the Hand of God, a symbol for the divine origin of the sacraments. The motif ’s placement would have aligned it with Bishop Frithestan’s hand when he used the maniple in the liturgy and so signified the sacramental process by which the bishop became the full instrument of the divine during the Mass. How the maniple’s programme relates to the pictorial content of the stole is less clear. The vestments’ shared liturgical function and identical design indicate they were meant to be understood as a pair. Frithestan would have worn both the stole and maniple to celebrate the Mass and both embroideries consist of a series of full-standing figures followed by busts which appear to each side of a quatrefoil containing symbolic representations of God. Even the setting and the foliate ornament that frame the figures on the stole are identical to the decoration of the maniple. But the choice and combination of saints and prophets on the stole remain puzzling, as does the iconographic detail that the prophets hold books instead of the more traditional scrolls. 25 Whatever motivated the choice of figures on Frithestan’s stole, in their company John the Baptist appears not only as a priest, but also as a prophet and proto-Apostle. At some point after Frithestan retired from office the stole and maniple were presented to the shrine of St Cuthbert, then at Chester-le-Street, perhaps by King Aethelstan in 934.26 In this secondary context, the embroidered vestments became part of a collection of objects associated with the sainted Bishop Cuthbert. At that time it is probable that special attention would have been granted to the presence of both Johns on the maniple; several works associated with Cuthbert place particular emphasis on John the Evangelist, while others give particular prominence to John the Baptist. Most notably the early life of Cuthbert cited earlier compares Cuthbert to the Baptist. 27 This has particular significance because Cuthbert was a saint who gained prominence during the course of the tenth-century English Benedictine reforms for being not only a 25

Especially peculiar is the pairing of Thomas and James and their inclusion among the prophets. Hohler suggests the presence of Thomas and James may relate to the fact that they were the Apostles who preached Christ’s message respectively to the easternmost and westernmost parts of Christendom. Hohler, ‘Iconography’, p. 406. 26 The vestments were discovered in St Cuthbert’s coffin in Durham in 1827, and historic records indicate King Athelstan, step-son of Aelfflaed, made offerings to the shrine during a visit in 934. Brown and Christie, ‘S. Cuthbert’s Stole’; Coatsworth, ‘Embroideries from the Tomb’. 27 Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert, ed. and trans. by Colgrave, p. 67.

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bishop, but also a monk. In that context might the Baptist have taken on an additional guise, that of the monk? In the Early Middle Ages the Baptist was a powerful representative of monastic virtues. Particularly known for his virginity, asceticism, and penitential life, John figured as a model for the monastic life and the Baptist’s rough clothing served as the prototype of the monk’s habit.28 Indeed in widely circulating commentaries, Jerome consistently presented the Baptist as a type for the monk, who withdraws from the world to develop spiritual discernment.29 The identifying characteristics of the Evangelist, celebrated for his virginity and treated as the living embodiment of the contemplative life, also resonated particularly well with monastic ideals. Whether the model of the monastic life that the two Johns could signify would have been understood to resonate with Cuthbert’s image, whom biographers praised for continuing to live like a monk even after his accession to the episcopacy, cannot be stated with absolute certainty.30 Yet for the tenth-century reformers of England, the association seems almost inevitable.31 The exploitation of the Baptist’s monastic identity in episcopal contexts was fully developed in a benedictional made around 980 for one such reformer, Bishop Aethelwold of Winchester (London, British Library, MS Additional 49598). Bishop Aethelwold was Frithestan’s successor at Winchester and his benedictional — a type of service book reserved for the use of bishops — places a particular emphasis on both John the Baptist and John the Evangelist.32 Both are among the small group of saints whose feasts the codex honours with miniatures. The artist singled them out among these saints, however, by representing them in conjunction with the motif of the cloud.33 Robert Deshman has shown the complex symbolism of this motif in the Benedictional, and I will not restate it here.34 28

Oppenheim, Das Mönchskleid, pp. 175, 182 and 240. For example Jerome, Tractatus sive Homiliae in Psalmos, ed. by Morin, Capelle, and Fraipont, pp. 517–18 and 453–54; Jerome, Epistula, ed. by Hilberg, Ep. no. 22, vol. i, p. 36; and Ep. no. 75, vol. iii, p. 7. 30 Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert, ed. and trans. by Colgrave. 31 O’Reilly, ‘St John as a Figure’. 32 Deshman, The Benedictional of Aethelwold. 33 Other saints whose feasts in the codex are illustrated with a full-page miniature include Stephen (fols 17v–18r); Aethelthryth (fols 90v–91r); Peter and Paul (fols 95v–96r); Swithun (fols 97v–98r) and Benedict (fols 99v–100r). 34 On the cloud see Deshman, The Benedictional of Aethelwold, pp. 10–17, 29–30, 55, 66–70, 73, 99–105, 112–15, 216–17, 224, and 242. Deshman tentatively suggests that the cloud in the Doubting Thomas image may also serve to symbolize the Apostles’ preaching mission (on 29

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What I would add to Deshman’s characterizations is that the cloud takes two forms in the manuscript’s illuminations, one of which is more conspicuous than the other. The prominent cloud type enervates the space around the Baptist and his mother Elizabeth in the scene of John’s birth and naming (fol. 92v; Figure 9.3); the same conspicuous cloud surrounds the upper body of the Evangelist in his portrait (fol. 19v; Figure 9.4). Elsewhere in the Benedictional, such noticeable clouds appear only in conjunction with Christ and the Virgin Mary. Aethelwold’s Benedictional draws conceptual parallels between both Johns and the book’s episcopal patron. As Deshman has pointed out, the manuscript links John’s Baptism of Christ (fol. 25r) to a representation of the bishop blessing his congregation (fol. 118v), a picture that prefaces the blessing for the dedication of the Church, which was understood liturgically as a type of baptism.35 The same Benedictional also likens the bishop to John the Evangelist. Although in the manuscript the Evangelist’s depiction adheres to many of the characteristics of an author portrait (fol. 19v; Figure 9.4), his usual writing pose has been transformed into a preaching one. Rather than holding a pen, the Evangelist raises his right hand with two fingers extended in a gesture of speech and, instead of allowing the book to rest on the table, he lifts it up in his left hand. The benediction which this portrait illustrates underscores the meaning of the change; it characterizes the Evangelist primarily as a preacher.36 Yet at the same time as it presents the two Johns as priests, the Benedictional also portrays the two Johns as monks. In the scene of Christ’s Baptism, John the Baptist wears a knotted girdle, a motif that serves in the context of the Benedictional’s illuminations as a symbol of monastic humility and mortification (fol. 25r).37 John the Evangelist also serves the book’s monastic programme. He is one of many examples of saints represented in the Benedictional specifically to portray the ideals of the vita contemplativa.38 p. 77). Yet as Deshman himself points out, in that picture the cloud surrounds Christ entirely, and the central point of the motif is Christ’s dual nature. Since Christ is absent from both the representation of the Baptist and Evangelist, it is certain that the cloud motif serves a different purpose here, possibly to designate the two Johns as Christological types. For more on the two Johns as joint heirs in Christ see Hamburger, St John the Divine, pp. 65–82. 35 Deshman, The Benedictional of Aethelwold, pp. 27–30, 48–50 and 145. 36 Deshman, The Benedictional of Aethelwold, pp. 109–14 and 177–79. 37 Deshman, The Benedictional of Aethelwold, pp. 179–80 and pl. 19. 38 O’Reilly, ‘St John as a Figure’; Hamburger, St John the Divine, pp. 1–20. On the Evangelist’s role in the Benedictional’s monastic programme, see Deshman, The Benedictional of Aethelwold, pp. 177–79.

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Figure 9.3. ‘John the Baptist’s Birth and Naming’, Benedictional of St Aethelwold. London, BL, MS Additional 49598, fol. 92v. c. 980. Photo © British Library Board.

Thus the manuscript’s pictures deliberately use the two Johns to refer equally to the active life of the priesthood and the contemplative life of the monk. The book’s prefatory miniatures similarly blend the episcopal and the monastic when they include Abbot Benedict, author of the rule most often followed in

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early medieval monasteries, among a group of confessor saints and dress him in episcopal garb (fol. 1r).39 The Benedictional’s development of the Baptist, doubled by that other John, the Evangelist, as both priest and monk is significant because in theory the responsibilities of the medieval priesthood were incompatible with the virtues of the monastic life. To exercise their duties, priests, especially bishops, had to engage the world. In so doing they ran the risk of crossing the line between spiritual and worldly concerns and thus spiritual and worldly values. Indeed, in the Rule of Saint Benedict priests appear as a disruptive presence in the monastery. Chapters concerning priests emphasize that the ordine sacerdotum, meaning bishops, priests, and deacons, should not be too readily granted permission to reside in the monastery. If accepted into the monastery, they must particularly beware of the self-exaltation that, the Rule implies, is an intrinsic temptation of the rank.40 Against that background, John the Baptist’s capacity to image both the priest and the monk creates an intrinsic potential for tension in his persona. Aethelwold served first as Abbot of Abingdon before joining the episcopate. He helped produce the Regularis concordia, a version of the rule of St Benedict with additions regulating communal prayer that were prescribed by the council of Winchester in 970 for all English religious houses, translating the work himself into the vernacular. He also advocated replacing the secular canons attached to cathedrals with Benedictine monks. His deployment of the two Johns as both a priestly and monastic model thus suited the bishop’s own monastic conception of the episcopate during the English Benedictine reforms.41 Similar themes inform the image of the Ottonian bishop Bernward of Hildesheim (993–1022). Although perhaps better known for a pair of bronze doors that represent the most complex bronze-casting project since antiquity, Bishop Bernward was also a major sponsor of the manuscript arts. Among these celebrated works, one stands out in particular, the manuscript known to German scholars as the kostbare or ‘most precious gospels’ of Bernward of Hildesheim (Hildesheim, Dom und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz MS 18). 42 39

Deshman, The Benedictional of Aethelwold, pl. 1. Kardong, Benedict’s Rule, pp. 493–97 and 505–14. 41 On the English Benedictine reform in general, see Gretsch, Intellectual Foundations. Julia Barrow proposes a revised chronology of the reform during King Edgar’s reign in Barrow, ‘Chronology of the Benedictine Reform’. On the ‘monk-bishop’ in the English reform, see Barlow, The English Church, pp. 62–66. This practice was never as widespread on the continent. Frank, Die Klösterbischöfe des Frankenreiches. 42 On the Bernward Gospels, see: Kratz, Der Dom zu Hildesheim, pp. 117–23; Beissel, 40

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Figure 9.4. ‘Portrait of John the Evangelist’, Benedictional of St Aethelwold, London, BL, MS Additional 49598, fol. 19v. c. 980. Photo © British Library Board.

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As with the other examples cited thus far, the Bernward Gospels would have had a role to play in the liturgy.43 Stored with a community’s service books and displayed on the altar to be venerated as the Word of God made flesh, namely the Incarnate Christ, gospel books were objects of particular symbolic power.44 Partly for that reason, it was common practice for the celebrant to kiss the gospels during the Mass. This special treatment and status meant that the gospel book often served in the Early Middle Ages as a locus for memory and that was the case here as well.45 Bernward gave the work to the abbey where he would be buried and, as I have argued elsewhere, its design anticipates both the Bishop’s liturgical commemoration at the monastery and the monks’ intercessory prayers on his behalf.46 The book’s programme gives particular emphasis to both Johns. Six scenes present stories involving the Baptist, more than is devoted to any other figure in the manuscript except Christ (fols 75r, 111r, 174v). These are divided among the illustrations for the Gospels of Mark, Luke, and John and generally emphasize the Baptist’s priestly identity. The cycle includes the image, rare for this period, of the Baptist preaching (fol. 75r; Figure 9.5) wherein John wears a long tunic girded with a golden sash draped in the manner of a deacon’s stole. Other illuminations show John’s father Zechariah acting as High Priest in the Jewish Temple, the Naming of the Baptist and Christ’s Baptism. The book’s programme assimilates the Bishop to John the Baptist both by means of such liturgical content and by drawing formal parallels between the Baptist cycle and a bifolium painting at the beginning of the manuscript that shows the Bishop celebrating Mass (fols 16v–17r; Figure 9.6). For example, John’s liturgical garb in the scene that shows him preaching (fol. 75r; Figure 9.5) echoes the dedication painting’s emphasis on Bernward’s ritual vestments (fols 16v–17r; Figures 9.6–9.7). Bernward wears the alb, cope, stole and dalmatic required for the performance of the liturgy. His garments are highlighted by an inscription Das heiligen Bernward; and Josten, Neue Studien. More recent publications include: Tschan, Saint Bernward of Hildesheim, ii, pp. 35–54; Bauer, ‘Corvey oder Hildesheim?’; Stähli, Die Handschriften im Domschatz; Brandt, Kahsnitz, and Schuffels, Das kostbare; and Kingsley, ‘Picturing the Treasury’. 43 Rupert of Deutz (1075–1129) states explicitly that the gospel book is the most important of the books used in the liturgy. Rupert of Deutz, Liber de divinis officiis, ed. by Haacke, p. 31. 44 Lentes, ‘Textus Evangelii’. 45 Beissel, Geschichte der Evangelienbücher; Palazzo, ‘Le Livre dans les trésors’. 46 Kingsley, ‘Picturing the Treasury’, pp. 30–32.

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Figure 9.5. ‘John the Baptist Preaching’ (above) and ‘Christ Calling the First Apostles to his Service’ (below). Bernward Gospels, Hildesheim, Dom und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz MS 18, fol. 75r. c. 1015. Photo © Dom und Diözesanmuseum.

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Figure 9.6. ‘Dedication Bifolium’, Bernward Gospels, Hildesheim, Dom und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz MS 18, fol. 16v. c. 1015. Photo © Dom und Diözesanmuseum.

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Figure 9.7. ‘Dedication Bifolium’, Bernward Gospels, Hildesheim, Dom und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz MS 18, fol. 17r. c. 1015. Photo © Dom und Diözesanmuseum.

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in the lower frame that reads ‘tanti vestitu pontificali’ (‘such great episcopal vestments’). Like John’s father Zechariah (fol. 111r), Bernward stands before an altar set for the celebration of a ritual — in Bernward’s painting the eucharistic sacrament, with the chalice, paten and portable altar. Bernward’s book helps move him into the space of the altar towards the saints. Similarly Zechariah’s censer crosses into the innermost sanctuary of the Jewish temple to the angel. Finally, Bernward’s two-handed grip on the gospel book during a moment that the dedicatory picture constructs as both gift-giving and sacramental performance, imitates the Baptist’s touch of Christ’s shoulder (fol. 174v) in what was for the Church the sacramental act through which Christians became part of the community of the saved.47 The manuscript also singles out John the Evangelist among other figures represented in the book. It pairs the portrait of the gospel writer with an image of Christ disappearing from view as he ascends into heaven (fol. 175v, Figure 9.8).48 Below the disappearing Christ, John sits and props his chin on his right hand. The expected writing gesture has been changed to indicate an act of contemplation. John gazes up towards the corner where appears a lightand cloud-filled semi-circle, the same motif that hides Christ’s divinity from bodily eyes in the Ascension. By means of pairing the portrait of John with an image of the Ascension and changing John’s usual pose, the painting presents John the Evangelist as a witness to Christ’s Ascension, singled out from the other evangelists for his penetrating spiritual insight.49 Together with John the Baptist, John the Evangelist serves as one of several models of spiritual perception related to the Bishop’s sensory experience during the Mass.50 For instance, the dedicatory painting (Figures 9.6 and 9.7) offers a vision to Bernward as he

47

I have offered a thorough analysis of these comparisons elsewhere: Kingsley, The Bernward Gospels, pp. 51–52, 55–56, 75, 81, 91, 95, 102–03 and Kingsley, ‘To Touch the Image’. Michael Brandt has recently argued that rather than a liturgical moment, the presence of the chalice and paten on the altar in the dedicatory painting serves as part of a broader effort on the page to relate Bernward to Solomon, a common comparison for artistic patrons in medieval justifications for art. Brandt, ‘Bernward d’Hildesheim’. I do not believe the two suggestions to be mutually exclusive and as Bernward wears mass vestments and stands before an altar set with chalice and paten, the reference to the Eucharistic Mass seems inescapable. 48 Schapiro, ‘Image of the Disappearing Christ’; Deshman, ‘Another Look at the Disappearing Christ’. 49 See the discussion in Deshman, ‘Another Look at the Disappearing Christ’, p. 538. 50 Kingsley, ‘To Touch the Image’.

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Figure 9.8. ‘Ascension’ (top) and ‘Portrait of John the Evangelist’ (bottom), Bernward Gospels, Hildesheim, Dom und Diözesanmuseum, Domschatz MS 18, fol. 175v. c. 1015. Photo © Dom und Diözesanmuseum.

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celebrates the Mass; it is pictured on the opposite folio where Mary and Christ appear enthroned in the heavenly church.51 Significant for exploring the possibility that the Ottonian codex develops a monastic programme which inflects the use of the two Johns as models for the bishop is that the Bernward Gospels was a codex made to be used by a monastic community. In that context, Robert Deshman’s suggestion that the iconography of the disappearing Christ served as a prompt for the manuscript’s monastic viewers to contemplate Christ with their spiritual sight presents John the Evangelist as a suitable monastic model. In so doing, the monks would imitate the behaviour of John the Evangelist whose portrait accompanies the composition. This underscores the very multivalency of the two Johns’ identities. On the one hand, in the Ottonian book’s memorial programme, the two Johns serve as models for the bishop. In that context, the Baptist is a type for the priesthood, but as doubled by the Evangelist, also a model of penetrating spiritual insight.52 On the other hand, in the context of the monastery, the two Johns also have the potential, as in Aethelwold’s Benedictional, to convey monastic ideals. In that context, the Baptist might be argued to mediate a spiritual meditation on Christ thought to be more consistent with the vita contemplativa of the monastery than the vita activa of the bishop. That the Bernward Gospels’ programme deliberately courts this ambiguity in its imaging of the bishop is suggested by changes in how tenth- and eleventhcentury texts presented the Baptist. In comparison to the early Anglo-Saxon and Carolingian examples analysed earlier, tenth- and eleventh-century hagiographers used the model of the Baptist with increasing frequency, but as part of a subtle shift of focus.53 Although rarely treating officially canonized subjects, 51

Bruns, ‘Das Widmungsbild im Kostbaren’. This is not the only Ottonian example to picture the bishop’s celebration of the Eucharistic Mass in connection with a heavenly vision. For example, in the Uta Codex, the picture of Bishop Erhard celebrating the Mass faces a symbolic Crucifixion (München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 13601, fols  3 v–4 r). Tituli in the opening urge the viewers to meditate upon the image. Cohen, The Uta Codex, pp. 53–77. An even closer parallel appears in the Sacramentary of Sigebert of Minden where the depiction of the Bishop celebrating Mass is paired with a vision of the apocalyptic lamb (Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, MS theol. lat. Fol. 2, fols 8v–9r). 52 Deshman, ‘Another Look at the Disappearing Christ’, pp. 538–40; cf. my remarks in Kingsley, ‘To Touch the Image’, pp. 138–39. 53 Phyllis Jestice has suggested the hagiographic interest in the Baptist as model stems from his typological connection to Christ, in Jestice, ‘A New Fashion in Imitating Christ’. While the typological connection to Christ is vital in the medieval conception of the Baptist, my aim here is to show the interest in the Baptist around the year 1000 may stem from multiple factors,

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these biographical texts use the formulas of hagiographic writing, wherein comparisons to biblical models serve to prove the sanctity of their subjects. In several instances, for which the life of the monk John of Gorze is illustrative, authors justified their treatment of their subjects as saints by citing the example of the Baptist. In that sense, their use of the Baptist was consistent with earlier traditions. Yet, the Baptist no longer served solely or even primarily to show that the saint’s holiness was an intrinsic quality recognized before birth. The preface to John of Gorze’s Life explains the purpose of the comparison to John the Baptist. Iamque ut caeteros taceamus, Iohannes ipse, quo nemo in natis mulierum maior, teste evangelio, signum fecit nullum, et dum in carcere gladio feriretur, utrum vel extrema qualibet nota a quolibet homicidarum seu latronum distiterit, perpetuo omnium scripturarum silentio consopitur.54 And now that we may pass over the rest in silence, for John himself, compared to whom, according to the gospel witness, no one was greater among those born from woman, made no miracle. It has been put to sleep for perpetuity in the silence of all of Scripture whether while he was struck by the sword in prison, he was distinguished by some last miracle from any type of murderers or thieves.

The author reveals that he cannot or will not prove John of Gorze’s holiness by establishing that he performed miracles. Rather, as with much of the hagiography that was written under the influence of the tenth-century reforms emerging from Gorze and Cluny, the biography constructs John of Gorze’s sanctity primarily by means of cataloguing the monk’s virtues and good deeds.55 The Baptist, like John of Gorze, did not perform miracles, but was nonetheless among those saints that exegetes acknowledged to be most like Christ. Cluniac writers followed the same trend. In the early tenth century Odo of Cluny wrote a biography that specifically evoked the comparison to the Baptist to explain why he treated his subject as a saint, even though — as with John of Gorze — no miracles could be or would be ascribed to him.56 This is espeincluding his dual identity as priest and monk. On bishops’ lives in the Ottonian era more specifically, see: Coué, Hagiographie im Kontext; the same as Haarländer, Vitae Episcoporum. 54 John, Abbot of Saint-Arnulf, Vita Johannis Gorzienzis, ed. by Pertz, p. 338, ll. 14–17. 55 Barone, ‘Une hagiographie sans miracles’. 56 Qui vero judaizantes signa quaerunt, quid faciunt de Joanne Baptista, qui post nativitatem suam nullum signum legitur edidisse? Odo of Cluny, De vita, ed. by Migne, Book 2, Preface, cxxxiii, col. 670A.

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cially significant because the biography centres on a noble, Count Gerard, and with this biography Odo established a novel type of saint, the Christian knight, who although he never entered the religious life, was worthy because he practised a life of asceticism and prayer.57 The text’s central message, like that of the biography of John of Gorze, was that sanctity stems primarily from leading a life pleasing to Christ. A century later, the reformer Peter Damian would use the Baptist for the same purpose, but in the biography of an Italian monk, Saint Romuald.58 What these examples suggest is that under the impetus of Benedictine reforms, the persona of the Baptist on the continent was adapted to both monastic and lay subjects in ways that reconciled their activities in the world with monastic ideals. Ottonian accounts used the comparison to the Baptist more directly as a reference to the performance of good deeds. For example, the mid-eleventhcentury biography of Archbishop Heribert of Cologne names the archbishop another Elijah or John the Baptist on the grounds that he corrected the behaviour of both clerics and laymen. Factum est et alia tempestate, ut messis omnino deperiret prae siccitate, et alter Helias, salvo Iohanne baptista, ad nota praesidia confugiens, a Deo monuit esse quaerendum, et clerum et populum hortatur tridui afflictione secum adterendum, et ut pariter cotidie votivi sanctorum frequentarent patrocinia, et conculcatos et humilis eorum adiuvarent merita.59 And in a different season it happened that because of a drought the crop was entirely perishing, and the saving John the Baptist, like another Elijah, taking refuge with known protections he warned must be sought from God, exhorts both the clergy and the people to weaken themselves with him by suffering for three days, and equally urges that they visit daily the shrines of the saints and help both their oppressed and their poor […].

The author here selects John the Baptist as a model in the specific instance of describing Bishop Heribert’s pastoral care and preaching. The text also compares the Baptist to Elijah, a comparison that in medieval sources signified their respective service as witnesses to Christ’s advent and imbues the biog57

Rousset, ‘L’Idéal chevaleresque’; Airlie, ‘The Anxiety of Sanctity’; Facciotto, ‘La Vita Geraldi’. 58 Peter Damian, Vita beati Romualdi, ed. by Tabacco, p. 11. Phipps, ‘Romuald – Model Hermit’. 59 Lantbert of Deutz, Vita Herberti, ed. by Pertz, p. 745, ll. 40–44.

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raphy with eschatological overtones. In the Gospel of John, John the Baptist’s birth foreshadowed Christ’s first advent, his Incarnation and birth. In the Old Testament, Elijah is a prophet. He was first named in the book of Kings, and later mentioned in the Book of Malachi. There it was prophesied that Elijah’s return to earth would precede the End of Days. Elijah’s return would thus foreshadow Christ’s Second Advent on the Day of Judgement. Throughout the eleventh century continental comparisons between hagiographic subjects and the Baptist continued to focus on John’s priestly actions, and this even, or perhaps especially, when the Baptist was being deployed as a model for monks. In the Vita Theoderici written before 1091, for example, the author reports that during her pregnancy Theodoric’s mother had a vision in which a nun told her that her son would be a priest ‘per quem et multorum saluti consulendum providit’ (‘through whom will be provided salvation for many’).60 These were the same words that prophesied John the Baptist’s conception. Here the comparison suggests not only the pastoral responsibility of the protagonist, in this instance a future abbot, but also more specifically the spiritual leadership exercised by his actions as a priest rather than as a monk. Together these texts suggest how the Baptist’s different identities as priest and as monk could be exploited in the tenth and eleventh centuries. It is against that background that the pictorial assimilation of Anglo-Saxon and Ottonian bishops to the two Johns must be understood. In Anglo-Saxon England, Bishop Frithestan’s maniple presented the two Johns as symbols of the bishop’s sacramental authority. When offered to the shrine of St Cuthbert, the maniple may have reminded the donor that Cuthbert was both a monk and a bishop. For Frithestan’s successor Bishop Aethelwold the comparison to both Johns emphasized the bishop’s exemplary adherence to monastic ideals as well as his exercise of priestly authority. In fact, Aethelwold’s Benedictional suggests how readily both Johns could be deployed to convey simultaneously an episcopal and a monastic programme in the context of the Benedictine reforms; similar themes pepper Aethelwold’s biography. 61 Hagiographic texts influenced by reforms emanating from Gorze and Cluny suggest the two Johns in the Bernward Gospels should also be understood both in relation to the active life of the priesthood and the contemplative life of the monk. In Ottonian 60

Vita Theoderici, ed. by Pertz, Incipit, p. 38, l. 44. Wulfstan frequently describes Aethelwold as an eagle, John the Evangelist’s symbol. Wulfstan of Winchester, Life of St. Aethelwold, ed. and trans. by Lapidge and Winterbottom, pp. 5, 7. 61

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Germany as in Anglo-Saxon England, groupings of reformed communities frequently came under the aegis of local bishops.62 There is evidence to suggest that Bishop Bernward was not only aware of these reforms, but also actively engaged with them. He founded St Michael’s in accordance with the Gorze reforms and populated the abbey with monks from the already reformed abbey of St Pantaleon in Cologne.63 Supporting the probability that the two Johns’s potential to signify monastic ideals played a role in Bernward’s episcopal image is that Bernward chose to be buried and remembered in the Benedictine monastery he had founded in adherence to the Gorze reforms.64

Conclusion John the Baptist offered a particularly multivalent guise for the early medieval episcopacy, one whose complexity gained import during the reforming movements of the tenth century.65 At this time both bishops and monks deliberately exploited the Baptist’s capacity to represent the expectations for the contemplative life on the one hand and the responsibilities of the active life on the other. It was thus the layering of priestly and monastic identities that made the Baptist, sometimes doubled by that other John, the Evangelist, useful for the Anglo-Saxon and Ottonian episcopate. In the tenth and eleventh centuries, textual and pictorial sources used the Baptist to harmonize monastic ideals with priestly activities, suggesting the two remained somewhat in tension in this period. This is significant because that capacity for tension engendered the Baptist’s potential not only to reconcile the life of the monk with that of the secular clergy, but also to accommodate 62

For a comparison of reformers in England and on the continent, see Wormald, ‘Aethelwold and his Continental Counterparts’. On possible contacts between English monastic reformers and the continent, see Nightingale, ‘Oswald, Fleury’. The classic study of continental reforms is Hallinger, Gorze-Kluny; but cf. Kottje, ‘Monastische Reform oder Reformen?’. 63 Faust, ‘Das Hildesheimer Benediktinerkloster’, pp. 397–406; Oexle, ‘Bernward von Hildesheim’; and Sanderson, ‘Gorze Reform Architecture’. 64 Gallistl, ‘Bernward of Hildesheim’, argues that the founding of St  Michael’s for his commemoration was one of Bishop Bernward’s gestures towards preparing his own sainthood as part of efforts to strengthen and expand the Hildesheim see. 65 The identification of episcopal interests in the monastic reforms of the tenth and eleventh centuries has been somewhat neglected, especially with regards to the continent. Two recent exceptions are Eldevik, ‘Driving the Chariot of the Lord’, and Flesch, ‘Egbert, Trier, Gent und Egmond’.

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bishops’ broad exercise of authority in the world with more traditional models of sanctity. It is a commonplace to observe that in the performance of their duties bishops were required to move between spiritual and worldly concerns. Frithestan, Aethelwold and Bernward all had close ties to their respective rulers’ courts.66 Indeed Aethelwold played such a vital role in royal politics that his death resulted in a coup and the emergence of a new faction of court advisers. Moreover, as Robert Deshman has pointed out, Aethelwold’s Benedictional develops not only monastic themes, but also an important royal programme.67 The Ottonian bishop Bernward is a prelate whose career exemplifies the administrative, jurisdictional or secular features of the early medieval episcopate. 68 Yet Frithestan’s mass vestments develop the bishop’s sacramental authority, and present him as witness to Christ. Aethelwold’s Benedictional evinces alongside its royal programme both a monastic and, it ought to be more emphasized, an episcopal one.69 And Bernward shaped his commemoration in the books commissioned for St Michael’s by portraying his adherence to both spiritual and pastoral ideals. For these Anglo-Saxon and Ottonian prelates, the Baptist invested bishops simultaneously with episcopal authority and monastic virtue. In this layered guise, the model of the Baptist engaged directly with the bishop’s mediation of pastoral action and monastic rumination, politics and spiritual revelation, exterior behaviour, and interior purpose.

66

Charter evidence suggests the free movement between the household of Edward the Elder and the religious communities at Winchester. Keynes, ‘The West Saxon Charters’. 67 Deshman, ‘Christus rex et magi reges’; Yorke, ‘Aethelwold and the Politics’, pp. 65–88; Deshman, ‘Benedictus Monarcha et Monachus’; Deshman, The Benedictional of Aethelwold, pp. 45–48, 50–51, 95, 117–21, 136, 193–94, 200–09, 212–14. 68 On the so-called imperial church system see Fleckenstein, Die Hofkapelle, ii. See also: Reuter, ‘The Imperial Church System’. Fleckenstein responds to Reuter in ‘Problematik und Gestalt’. For a discussion of Bernward’s political motivations in founding St Michael’s, see Gallistl, ‘Bernward of Hildesheim’, pp.  155. On the courtier bishop see Jaeger, Origins of Courtliness, and Jaeger, The Envy of Angels. 69 The liturgical books not only of Aethelwold, but also of the reformers Dunstan and Oswald attest to the importance each attached to his episcopal office. Prescott, ‘The Text of the Benedictional’; Rosenthal, ‘The Pontifical of St Dunstan’; Corrêa, ‘The Liturgical Manuscripts’, pp. 285–324.

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Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Documents Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, MS theol. lat. fol. 2 Göttingen, Universitätsbibliothek, MS 231 München, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 13601

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Odo of Cluny, De vita Sancti Geraldi Auriliacensis, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), cxxxiii, col. 670A Rupert of Deutz, Ruperti Tuitiensis Liber de divinis officiis, ed. by Hrabanus Haacke, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis, 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1967) Saints’ Lives and Chronicles in Early England: Together with the First English Translations of the Oldest Life of Pope St. Gregory the Great by a Monk of Whitby and the Life of St. Guthlac of Crowland by Felix, ed. by Charles W. Jones (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1947) Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert: Texts, Translation and Notes, ed. and trans. by Bertram Colgrave (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1940; repr. 1985) Vita Theoderici abbatis Andaginensis, ed. by Georg H. Pertz, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Scriptores, 39 vols (Hannover: Hahn and Hiersemann, 1826–2009), xii (1856) Wulfstan of Winchester, Life of St. Aethelwold, ed. and trans. by Michael Lapidge and Michael Winterbottom (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1991)

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Brown, Gerald Baldwin, and Grace Christie, ‘S. Cuthbert’s Stole and Maniple at Durham’, Burlington Magazine, 23 (1913), 3–17 Bruns, Bernhard, ‘Das Widmungsbild im Kostbaren Evangeliar des heiligen Bernward’, Die Diözese Hildesheim in Vergangenheit und Gegenwart, 65 (1997), 29–55 Campanati, Raffaella Farioli, ‘Cattedra d’avorio di Massimiano’, in Konstantinopel: Scultura bizantina dai Musei di Berlino (Roma: De Luca, 2000), pp. 95–97 Campbell, James, ‘What is Not Known about the Reign of Edward the Elder’, Edward the Elder 899–924, ed. by Nick J. Higham and David Hill (London: Routledge, 2001), pp. 12–24 Cecchelli, Carlo, La cattedra di Massimiano ed altri avorii romano-orientali (Roma: Istituto di Archeologia e Storia dell’Arte, 1936–40) Coatsworth, Elizabeth, ‘The Embroideries from the Tomb of St Cuthbert’, in Edward the Elder 899–924, ed. by Nick J. Higham and David Hill (London: Routledge, 2001), pp. 292–306 —— , ‘Stitches in Time: Establishing a History of Anglo-Saxon Embroidery’, in Medieval Clothing and Textiles, ed. by Robin Netherton and Gale R. Owen-Crocker, 9 vols to date (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2005–13), I (2005), 1–27 Cohen, Adam, The Uta Codex: Art, Philosophy and Reform in Eleventh-Century Germany (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2000), pp. 53–77 Corrêa, Alicia, ‘The Liturgical Manuscripts of Oswald’s Houses’, in St Oswald of Worcester: Life and Influence, ed. by Nicholas Brooks and Catherine Cubitt (London: Leicester University Press, 1996), pp. 285–324 Coué, Stephanie, Hagiographie im Kontext: Schreibanlaß und Funktion von Bischofsviten aus dem 11. und vom Anfang des 12. Jahrhunderts, Arbeiten zur Frühmittelalterforschung, 24 (Berlin: Gruyter, 1997) Cramer, Peter, Baptism and Change in the Early Middle Ages c. 200–c. 1150 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993) Damian, Peter, Vita beati Romualdi, ed. by Giovanni Tabacco, Fonti per la storia d’Italia, 94 (Roma: Istituto storico italiano per il Medio Evo, 1957) Deshman, Robert, ‘Another Look at the Disappearing Christ: Corporeal and Spiritual Vision in Early Medieval Images’, Art Bulletin, 79 (1997), 518–46 —— , The Benedictional of Aethelwold (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1995) —— , ‘Benedictus Monarcha et Monachus: Early Medieval Ruler Theology and the AngloSaxon Reform’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien, 22 (1988), 204–40 —— , ‘Christus rex et magi reges: Kingship and Christology in Ottonian and Anglo-Saxon Art’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien, 10 (1976), 367–405 Eldevik, John, ‘Driving the Chariot of the Lord: Siegfried I of Mainz (1060–1084) and Episcopal Identity in an Age of Transition’, in The Bishop Reformed: Studies of Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages, ed. by John S. Ott and Anna Trumbore Jones, Church, Faith, and Culture in the Medieval West (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 161–88 Facciotto, Paolo, ‘La Vita Geraldi di Oddone di Cluny un problema aperto’, Studi Medievali, 3rd ser., 33 (1992), 243–63

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Faust, Ulrich, ‘Das Hildesheimer Benediktinerkloster Sankt Michael in den monastischen Reformbewegungen’, in Bernward von Hildesheim und das Zeitalter der Ottonen, ed. by Michael Brandt, 2 vols (Hildesheim: Bernward, 1993), i, 397–406 Fleckenstein, Josef, Die Hofkapelle der deutschen Konige, ii: Die Hofkapelle im Rahmen der ottonisch-salischen Reichskirche, Schriften der Monumenta Germaniae Historica, 64 vols to date (Hannover: Hahn, 1938–), xvi (Stuttgart: Hiersmann, 1966) —— , ‘Problematik und Gestalt der ottonisch-salischen Reichskirche’, in Reich und Kirche vor dem Investiturstreit: Vorträge beim wissenschaftlichen Kolloquium aus Anlaß des achtzigsten Geburtstages von Gerd Tellenbach, ed. by Karl Schmid (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1985), pp. 83–98 Flesch, Stefan, ‘Egbert, Trier, Gent und Egmond’, in In het spoor van Egbert: Aartsbisschop Egbert van Trier, de bibliotheek en geschiedschrijving van het klooster Egmond, ed. by G. N. M. Vis (Hilversum: Verloren, 1997), pp. 13–24 Fouracre, Paul, and Richard A. Gerberding, Late Merovingian France: History and Hagiography 640–720 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1996) Frank, Hieronymus, Die Klösterbischöfe des Frankenreiches, Beiträge zur Geschichte des Alten Mönchtums und des Benediktinerordens, 17 (Münster in Westfalen: Aschendorff, 1932) Freyhan, R., ‘The Stole and Maniples: c) The Place of the Stole and Maniples in AngloSaxon Art of the Tenth Century’, in The Relics of St Cuthbert, ed. by C. F. Battiscombe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1956), pp. 409–32 Gallistl, Bernhard, ‘Bernward of Hildesheim: A Case of Self-Planned Sainthood?’, in The Invention of Saintliness, ed. by Anneke B. Mulder-Bakker (London: Routledge, 2002), pp. 145–62 Gerola, Gius, ‘Il monogramma della cattedra Christol di Ravenna’, Felix Ravenna, 19 (1915), 807–13 Graus, František, Volk, Herrscher und Heiliger im Reich der Merowinger: Studien zur Hagiographie der Merowingerzeit (Praha: Nakladatelství Československé akademie, 1965) Gretsch, Mechthild, The Intellectual Foundations of the English Benedictine Reform (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999) Haarländer, Stephanie, Vitae Episcoporum: Eine Quellengattung zwischen Hagiographie und Historiographie, untersucht an Lebensbeschreibungen von Bischöfen des Regnum Teutonicum im Zeitalter der Ottonen und Salier, Monographien zur Geschichte des Mittelalters, 47 (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 2000) Hallinger, Kassius, Gorze-Kluny: Studien zu den monastischen Lebensformen und Gegensätzen im Hochmittelalter, 2 vols (Roma: Herder, 1950–51) Hamburger, Jeffrey, St John the Divine: The Deified Evangelist in Medieval Art and Theology (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002) Higham, Nick, ‘Edward the Elder’s Reputation: An Introduction’, in Edward the Elder 899–924, ed. by Nick J. Higham and David Hill (London: Routledge, 2001), pp. 1–11 Hohler, Christopher, ‘The Stole and Maniples: b) Iconography’, in The Relics of St. Cuthbert, ed. by C. F. Battiscombe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1956), pp. 396–408

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Nightingale, John, ‘Oswald, Fleury and Continental Reform’, in St Oswald of Worcester: Life and Influence, ed. by Nicholas Brooks and Catherine Cubitt (London: Leicester University Press, 1996), pp. 23–45 Noble, Thomas F. X., and Thomas Head, eds, Soldiers of Christ: Saints and Saints’ Lives from Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1995) O’Reilly, Jennifer, ‘St John as a Figure of the Contemplative Life: Text and Image in the Art of the Anglo-Saxon Benedictine Reform’, in St Dunstan: His Life, Times and Cult, ed. by Nigel Ramsey, Margaret Sparks, and Tim Tatton-Brown (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1992), pp. 165–85 Oexle, Otto Gerhard, ‘Bernward von Hildesheim und die religiösen Bewegungen seiner Zeit’, in Bernward von Hildesheim und das Zeitalter der Ottonen, ed. by Michael Brandt, 2 vols (Hildesheim: Bernward, 1993) 1, 355–68 Oppenheim, Philippus, Das Mönchskleid im christlichen Altertum (Freiburg im Breisgau: Herder, 1931) Palazzo, Eric, ‘Le Livre dans les trésors du Moyen Âge: Contribution à l’histoire de la Memoria médiévale’, Annales. Histoire, Sciences Sociales, 52 (1997), 93–118 Phipps, Colin, ‘Romuald – Model Hermit: Eremitical Theory in Peter Damian’s Vita Beati Romualdi, chapters 16–27’, Studies in Church History, 22 (1985), 65–77 Plenderleith, Elizabeth, ‘The Stole and Maniples: a) Technique’, in The Relics of St Cuthbert, ed. by C. F. Battiscombe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1956), pp. 375–95 Prescott, Andrew, ‘The Text of the Benedictional of St Aethelwold’, in Bishop Aethelwold: His Career and Influence, ed. by Barbara Yorke (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1988; repr. 1997), pp. 119–47 Reuter, Timothy, ‘The Imperial Church System of the Ottonian and Salian Rulers: A Reconsideration’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 33 (1982), 347–74 Reynolds, Roger E., ‘A Visual Epitome of the Eucharistic Ordo from the Era of Charles the Bald: The Ivory Mass Cover of the Drogo Sacramentary’, in Charles the Bald: Court and Kingdom, ed. by Margaret T. Gibson and Janet L. Nelson, 2nd rev. edn (Aldershot: Variorum, 1990), pp. 241–60 Rosenthal, Jane, ‘The Pontifical of St Dunstan’, in St Dunstan: His Life, Times and Influence, ed. by Nigel Ramsay, Margaret Sparks, and Tim Tatton-Brown (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1992), pp. 143–63 Rousset, Paul, ‘L’Idéal chevaleresque dans deux Vitae clunisiennes’, in Études de civilisation médiévale (ixe–xiie siècles): mélanges offerts à Edmond-René Labande à l’occasion de son départ à la retraite et du xxe anniversaire du CÉSCM par ses amis, ses collègues (Poitiers: CÉSCM, 1974), pp. 623–33 Ruggini, Lellia Cracco, ‘The Crisis of the Noble Saint: The Vita Arnulfi’, in Le Septième siècle: changements et continuités: actes du Colloque bilatéral franco-britannique tenu au Warburg Institute les 8–9 juillet 1988 / The Seventh Century: Change and Continuity: Proceedings of a Joint French and British Colloquium Held at the Warburg Institute 8–9 July 1988, ed. by Jacques Fontaine and J. N. Hillgarth (London: Warburg Institute, 1992), pp. 116–53

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Rupprecht, Friederike, Die Ikonographie der Josephsszenen auf der Maximianskathedra in Ravenna (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Ruprecht-Karl University, 1969) Sanderson, Warren, ‘Gorze Reform Architecture’, in The White Mantle of Churches: Architecture, Liturgy and Art around the Millennium, ed. by Nigel Hiscock, International Medieval Research, 10, Art History Subseries, 2 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003), pp. 81–90 Schapiro, Meyer, ‘The Image of the Disappearing Christ: The Ascension in English Art Around the Year 1000’, Gazette des Beaux Arts, 6th ser., 23 (1943), 133–52 (repr. in Meyer Schapiro, Late Antique, Early Christian, and Mediaeval Art: Selected Papers (New York: Braziller, 1979), pp. 267–87) —— , ‘The Joseph Scenes on the Maximianus Throne in Ravenna’, Gazette des Beaux-Arts, ser. 6, 40 (1952), 27–38 (repr. in Meyer Schapiro, Late Antique, Early Christian, and Mediaeval Art: Selected Papers (New York: Braziller, 1979), pp. 34–47) Schwalbach, Ulrich, Firmung und religiöse Sozialisation, Innsbrucker theologische Studien, 3 (Innsbruck: Tyrolia, 1979) Simson, Otto von, Sacred Fortress: Byzantine Art and Statecraft in Ravenna (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1948) Stähli, Marlis, Die Handschriften im Domschatz zu Hildesheim (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1984) Tschan, Francis J., Saint Bernward of Hildesheim, 3 vols (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1942–52) Unterkircher, Franz, Zur Ikonographie und Liturgie des Drogo-Sakramentars: (Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, Ms. Lat. 9428), Interpretationes ad codices, 1 (Graz: Akademische Verlag, 1977) Van Dam, Raymond, Saints and their Miracles in Late Antique Gaul (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1993) Weis, Elisabeth, ‘Johannes der Täufer (Baptista), der Vorläufer (Prodromos)’, in Lexikon der christlichen Ikonographie, 7, ed. by Engelbert Kirschbaum, Günter Bandmann, and Wolfgang Braunfels (Roma: Herder, 1974), pp. 170–90 Wharton, Annabel J., ‘Ritual and Reconstructed Meaning: The Neonian Baptistery in Ravenna’, Art Bulletin, 69 (1987), 358–75 Wormald, Patrick, ‘Aethelwold and his Continental Counterparts: Contact, Comparison, Contrast’, Bishop Aethelwold: His Career and Influence, ed. by Barbara Yorke (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1988; repr. 1997), pp.  13–42 (repr. in The Times of Bede: Studies in Early English Christian Society and Its Historian (Oxford: Blackwell, 2006), pp. 169–206) Yorke, Barbara, ‘Aethelwold and the Politics of the Tenth Century’, in Bishop Aethelwold: His Career and Influence, ed. by Barbara Yorke (Woodbridge: Boydell, 1988; repr. 1997), pp. 65–88 Zeh, Ernst, ‘Johannes Evangelist im Priestergewand: Eine ikonographische Vorstudie’, Jahrbuch für das Bistum Mainz, 6 (1951–54), 254–65

Sigebert ‘the Beloved’: A Liturgical Perspective on Episcopal Image from Eleventh-Century Minden Joanne M. Pierce

Introduction In this essay I hope to provide an example of how the analysis of certain liturgical prayer texts can offer deeper insight into the ‘image’ of the medieval bishop, following in part the recent understanding of ‘the medieval image [that] not only illustrated a material reality but also — and above all — functioned as a visual expression of ideas and mentalities’.1 I will begin with a discussion of specific portraits of an early medieval bishop, Sigebert of Minden (1022–36), and then move to a brief consideration of how certain sections of the ‘private rites’ prescribed for the bishop during the public celebration of Mass shed light on deeper nuances shaping that image — not just in terms of physical appearance but also in terms of the bishop’s spiritual ‘image’, the articulation of the reality of his current spiritual state and ecclesiological role and also, his desire to more completely ‘realize’ the spiritual goals of becoming both a more perfect Christian and a more ‘ideal’ bishop.

1  Palazzo, ‘The Image of the Bishop in the Middle Ages’; he notes the earlier work of Schmitt, ‘Le Miroir du Canoniste’.

Joanne M. Pierce is Professor in the Department of Religious Studies at the College of the Holy Cross, Worcester, Massachusetts 01610. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 249–273 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102234

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The Minden Manuscripts Sometime before the year 1030, the fifteenth bishop of Minden, Sigebert, ordered a set of liturgical manuscripts for his use at the Minden cathedral, most likely from the monastery of St Gall.2 Astonishingly, this corpus of liturgical manuscripts survived the religious, political, and military turmoil of almost a thousand years, and entered the twenty-first century almost intact.3 However, the remaining manuscripts are now divided among three different libraries: two in Germany, the Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin and the Herzog-August Bibliothek (Wolfenbüttel); and one in Poland at the Jagiellonian University library (in Kraków).4 According to Heinrich Tribbe, fifteenth-century author of the first catalogue of these Minden manuscripts, two of the books contained the same dedication verse. Both the epistle lectionary (Kraków, Jagiellonian University Library, MS theol. lat. qu. 1) and the gospel lectionary (Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, MS theol. lat. qu. 3) once contained the inscription ‘Condidit istud opus Sigebertus praesul amandus’ (‘Sigebert, beloved bishop, established this work’); neither contains the inscription today.5 However, the affection expressed in these lost dedication verses gives us a sense of the genuine warmth with which Sigebert was regarded.6 This is a touching and edifying reflection of Sigebert’s impact as 2 

See, for example, von Euw, ‘St Galler Kunst im frühen’, pp. 198–99 and Hoffmann, Buch­ kunst und Königtum, i, pp. 91, 370, 374–76, 398. However, some have questioned this, based on analysis of the illuminations, especially those in the sacramentary (which have been the most intensively studied). See Meyer, ‘Die Miniaturen im Sakramentar’; Suckale-Redlefsen, ‘Prachtvolle Bücher’, p. 76; and Stiegemann and Kroker, Für Königtum und Himmelreich, pp. 465–75. 3  For a more complete discussion, see Milde, ‘Die Handschriften’. See also von Euw, Die St Galler Buchkunst, i, pp. 141–251 and i, pp. 513–28 (a catalogue of the various manuscripts), and ii, pp. 620–33, nos 790–803 (colour images of the manuscript illuminations and sample text pages). 4  Milde, ‘Die Handschriften’, pp. 7–25. 5  According to Milde, the inscription in the gospel lectionary was apparently lost along with its original book cover. He also notes that the cover of the epistle lectionary was restored in the nineteenth century, but makes no connection between that and the loss of inscription in that manuscript; see Milde, ‘Die Handschriften’, pp. 17–18. In the same volume, Martin Klöckener makes no mention of the lost inscription in his codicological description of the epistle lectionary; see Klöckener, ‘Der Mindener “Liber Lectionarius”’, p. 29. 6  See Stork, ‘Sigebert von Minden’. As Stork notes, ‘Seine Amtsführung wurde allseits geschätzt, und es wird nicht nur ein Höflichkeitstopos sein, daß er in einer von ihm gestifteten Handschrift “Sigebertus praesul amandus — Sigebert der Liebenswerte” — genannt wird’

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a bishop, already felt during his lifetime. What more can be understood about this ‘beloved bishop’? Little is known about Sigebert’s life before his election as bishop; he seems to have been of Saxon ancestry, and to have been a student at the cathedral school at Minden.7 His career as bishop was busy and successful; he enjoyed a positive political relationship with both Henry II and his successor, Conrad II.8 However, a more complete ‘portrait’ of Sigebert can be gleaned from an examination of some of his liturgical books. I will begin with a brief discussion of the depictions of Sigebert in two manuscript illuminations (with their accompanying tituli, or inscriptions),9 and then will continue by analysing a few samples of private prayers in one of the books, his libellus precum. The three extant portraits of Sigebert, components of the libellis precum (Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek, MS Cod. Guelf. 1151. Helmstadt) and of the sacramentary (Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Haus Unter den Linden, MS theol. lat. fol. 2), have become the subjects of some intensive study over the past several decades. Two of these three, detached from their original document, the libellus precum, are the ivory carving of Sigebert that once decorated the cover (Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, MS germ. qu. 42)10 and the single-page dedication portrait that was once bound with the manuscript (Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, MS theol. lat. qu. 3).11 (Figures 10.1–10.2) Both of these present Sigebert in a hierarchical manner: standing (in the case of the ivory carving) or seated (the (‘His administration has been roundly appreciated and it would not only have been a courtesy title that he is said to be ‘Sigebertus praesul amandus — Sigebert the beloved’ in a manuscript endowed by him’). 7  Stork, ‘Sigebert von Minden’; see also Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, ii, p. 91. 8  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, pp. 11–17; for example, Conrad II expanded Sigebert’s territorial jurisdiction, approved his construction of a monastic foundation, and spent Christmas at Minden in 1024 and 1033. See Die Bischofschroniken des Mittelalters, ed. by Löffler; pp. 128–30 and 135, n. 2; Krieg, ‘Handschriften der Mindener’; and Schroeder, Chronik der Stadt Minden, pp. 74, 76– 77. 9  See Mayr-Harting, ‘Ottonian Tituli in Liturgical Books’, and Gatti, ‘Building the Body of the Church’. For more on the libellus precum, see Pierce, ‘New Research Directions in Medieval Liturgy’. 10  Milde, ‘Die Handschriften’, pp. 12–13. See Kirmeier and others, Kaiser Heinrich II, pp. 299–300, no. 131, for a picture and discussion. See also Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, ii, p. 94, for a black and white plate of this image. 11  Milde, ‘Die Handschriften’, p. 13. See Kirmeier and others, Kaiser Heinrich II, pp. 296–97, no. 129, for a picture and short discussion. See also von Euw, Die St Galler Buch­kunst, ii, p. 620, no. 790, for a colour plate of this portrait.

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Figure 10.1. ‘Bishop Sigebert of Minden between a Priest and Deacon’, ivory panel from the Ordo missae of Sigebert of Minden, Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, MS germ. qu. 42. c. 1022–36. Photo bpk. Berlin / Staatsbibliothek, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz, Ruth Schacht, Manuscript Division / Art Resource, NY.

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manuscript illumination) between two lesser clerics.12 The titulus inscribed on the border offers this dedicatory wish: ‘Nomine sacra tuo Sigeberte dicatur imago. Quae suffulta suo presidet officio’ (‘Sigebert, this sacred image is dedicated to your name. It guards over his office as a support’). The third portrait is a full-page illumination, found in the Minden sacramentary13 at the end of the canon of the Mass. Actually, there are two illustrations at this point in the manuscript, on facing pages: the Lamb of God (fol. 8v) and Sigebert receiving communion (fol. 9r).14 The image is of the triumphant ‘fierce’ Lamb with ‘seven eyes and seven horns’ as seen in the book of Revelation, standing on a raised platform (suggesting both throne and altar) with an open book leaning against his front legs (Plate 4).15 This illumination is ringed by an inscription that runs around the frame: ‘Ecce triumphator mortis vitae reparator † Agnus mirifici pandit signacula libri’ (‘Behold the victor over death, the renewer of life; the Lamb opens the seals of the wondrous book’). The Lamb is surrounded by the figures of the ‘four living creatures’ (Rev. 4. 6–7), each holding a book or scroll, and thus identified with the four gospels (as had long since become customary).16 On the opposite page, Sigebert takes the communion

12 

Four, in the case of the ivory carving; two smaller clerics or acolytes kneel at Sigebert’s feet, ‘holding a cloth underneath the bishop’s feet’; see Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, ii, pp. 95–96, who interprets this as an attempt to portray Sigebert ‘as if he were Christ in a Transfiguration scene’. Evan Gatti disagrees and argues instead that this is an artistic attempt to place Sigebert in the context of Moses, Aaron, and the priestly hierarchy of the Old Testament; see Gatti, ‘Developing an Iconography of the Episcopacy’, pp. 163–65. 13  Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, MS theol. lat. fol. 2; for a full description, see Fingernagel, Die illuminierten. 14  See Kirmeier and others, Kaiser Heinrich II, pp. 297–99, no. 130, for pictures and short discussions. See von Euw, Die St Galler Buchkunst, ii, p. 625, no. 795 and ii, p. 626, no. 796, for colour plates of the Agnus Dei image and the Sigebert communion image. 15  The focus seems to be on the vision of the Lamb in Chapter 5, part of a longer narrative on the Lamb and the opening of the seven seals that begins at Chapter 4; these two chapters ‘are the very heart of the book’ according to Murphy, Fallen is Bablyon, p. 169. Here we see the Lamb ‘standing as if it had been slaughtered’, identified with the conquering ‘Lion of the tribe of Judah’ who is worthy to open the seven seals of the scroll and whose death has purchased those who have become ‘a kingdom and priests’ serving God, that is, Christ (Revelation 5. 5–10); see Murphy, Fallen is Bablyon, pp. 192–93. Although the Lamb can be seen as a more gentle image than that of the Lion, both are images of Christ, who ‘will engage the enemies of God in the final battle’, Collins, ‘Pergamon’, as cited in Murphy, pp. 199–200. All Biblical quotations are taken from the New Revised Standard Version (NRSV). 16  Murphy, Fallen is Bablyon, p. 185.

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Figure 10.2. ‘Bishop Sigebert of Minden between a Priest and Deacon’, Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, MS thol. lat. qu. 3. 11th century. Photo bpk. Berlin, Staatsbibliothek, Stiftung Preußischer Kulturbesitz / Art Resource, NY.

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chalice from a figure now held to be that of Ecclesia (Plate 5).17 The titulus running around the border reads: † ‘Hauri perpetuae Sigeberte charismata vitae † His tua clementer. reficit te gratia mater’ (‘Take, Sigebert, the spiritual gifts of eternal life; through these your mother gently refreshes you by grace’). This portrait of Sigebert is interesting for several reasons, and has already been analysed by a number of scholars. However, since this image is framed as a liturgical act, specifically, the communion rite of the Mass, it offers a point of access to another way of ‘filling out’ that image: an analysis of some of the prayer texts in Sigebert’s libellus precum. It is important first to take a closer look at the inscription. The opening imperative, hauri, does not simply mean ‘take’; it may also mean ‘drink’, ‘swallow’, or ‘imbibe’, or (with the act of pouring or shedding blood) to ‘draw blood’ or to ‘absorb’, either physically or spiritually.18 The figure of Ecclesia here is in the act of handing the bishop at the altar the chalice of consecrated wine, the Blood of Christ; as the ‘high priest’ of his diocese, he takes communion first, before any other clergy, assisting ministers, or laity, yet he receives it from the hands of the Church herself. As he raises the cup to his lips to drink from it, he symbolically takes in all that ‘surrounds’ it. As he drinks, he re-experiences Christ’s sacrificial death on the cross (as the facing inscription states, the reparator vitae), and it is this, the source of grace, that refreshes, restores and remakes him spiritually (as this inscription notes, reficit te).19 It is important to remember here the illustration facing this one on the opposite page, the fierce Lamb who, even as he ‘presents’ the open book from Revelation, stands upon an altar-throne with blood streaming from the wound in his side.20 Sacramentally, this is the same Blood of Christ the bishop on the 17 

While some earlier writers had wondered if this older, slightly military-looking figure might represent St Gorgonius, a soldier-saint who was one of the patrons of Minden cathedral, scholars over the last several decades seems to have come to the consensus that the figure is that of Ecclesia. See Meyer, ‘Die Miniaturen im Sakramentar’, p. 186, and Mayr-Harting, ‘Ottonian Tituli in Liturgical Books’, p. 461. 18  See the entry ‘haurio’, in Glare, Oxford Latin Dictionary, pp. 787–88. 19  See the entries ‘reficio’ and ‘reparo’, Glare, Oxford Latin Dictionary, pp. 1595 and 1616. Many thanks to my colleague, Professor Nancy Andrews of the Department of Classics at the College of the Holy Cross, for helpful discussion of the texts of these inscriptions and valuable comments on an early draft of this essay. 20  In the Book of Revelation, he stands before the throne at this point, but note the strong connection between the Lamb and the One who sits on the throne (God); see Murphy, Fallen is Bablyon, p. 195. There is also a reference to a heavenly altar, underneath which ‘the souls of those who had been slaughtered for the word of God’ call out, in the next chapter (6. 9–11); see

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facing page is about to drink.21 The two images act as mutual mirrors, reflecting and reinforcing each other.22 The triumphant Lamb seems to look beyond the plane of the page at the viewer (Sigebert), with all of his ‘apocalyptic’ eyes (two physical and seven spiritual).23 This gaze connects the past events of the life of Christ with the future eschatological expectation of the Church, and brings both into the ‘present-now’ time of the viewer.24 The cross-topped staff and banner held by Ecclesia mutely echo the theme of victory over death explicitly mentioned on the facing page, a visual linking Christ’s blood shed on the Cross, his resurrection in glory, and his sacramental presence in the consecrated bread and wine.

The Minden ‘Libellus precum’ (Cod. Helmst. 1151) If the word image (imago) can be understood, not only as a literal representation, but also as a cluster not just of ideas and mentalities, but also of ideals, then these images of Sigebert, connected as they are to the celebration of the Mass, should be interpreted in conjunction with the rites and individual prayer texts of that liturgy.25 Some historians and art historians have already begun to do so. However, I would like to move away from the ‘official’ liturgical texts contained in the ‘public’ ordo missae of the sacramentary26 to a brief discussion Murphy, Fallen is Bablyon, pp. 208–09. 21  See also Mayr-Harting, ‘Ottonian Tituli in Liturgical Books’, p. 461. 22  Ruth Meyer would link the first three of the illuminations in the sacramentary together, the ‘historical reality’ of the Crucifixion and the ‘spiritual reality’ of the victory over death brought together in the celebration of Mass, focused in the reception of communion; see Meyer, ‘Die Miniaturen im Sakramentar’, pp. 186–87. 23  See Murphy, Fallen is Bablyon, pp. 195–96; the number seven is used repeatedly in the Book of Revelation, echoing the presence of the ‘seven spirits of God’. Other OT references include ii Chron 16. 9 (‘For the eyes of the Lord range throughout the entire earth, to strengthen those whose heart is true to him’) and Zech 4. 10 (seven lamps which are ‘the eyes of the Lord, which range through the whole earth’, as cited in Murphy). 24  See Meyer, ‘Die Miniaturen im Sakramentar’, p. 187. 25  Palazzo, ‘The Image of the Bishop in the Middle Ages’, p. 86, and entry ‘imago’, in Glare, Oxford Latin Dictionary, p. 831. See also the discussion of Otto III’s liturgical manuscripts and objects by Eliza Garrison, who defines imago as ‘a pre-established series of representational and ideological norms’; Garrison, ‘Otto III at Aachen’, p. 86. 26  See the ordo missae (hereafter abbreviated OM) found in the Gregorian Sacramentary; it dates from the early seventh century, and certainly antedates this redaction. See the edition by Deshusses, Le Sacramentaire Grégorien, i, pp. 50–52, and nos 1–20.

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of certain texts in the ‘private’ ordo missae contained in the libellus precum prepared for Sigebert as one of his corpus of liturgical books.27 During the Carolingian period, the ‘soft spots’ (these are best described as ‘moments of “action without words”’ 28 of which the communion rite is an example) of the formal liturgical structure of the Mass had begun to be ‘filled in’ with private prayers to be recited by the presider. By the late tenth and eleventh century, the public liturgy of the Mass had become shadowed by a series of private prayers and ritual actions prescribed for the presider, his own kind of parallel, personal liturgy.29 The number, placement, and genre of these prayers can be studied as markers in the early medieval evolution of the ordo missae.30

The Bishop as ‘Indignus peccator’ The most characteristic prayers of this ‘private rite’ were the apologiae (apologytype prayers), private prayers for the priest to express his own sinfulness and unworthiness, and request God’s forgiveness. The most famous example to survive into modern times in the Roman Catholic Eucharistic liturgy is the Confiteor.31 27 

See Milde, ‘Die Handschriften’, pp.  12–13. My earlier edition of this manuscript, Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass is under revision for publication by the Henry Bradshaw Society. The sixteenth-century edition of the Eucharistic section of the manuscript by the Lutheran theologian Matthias Flacius Illyricus (1557) is most accessible in one of two reprints: Patrologia latina, ed. by Migne, cxxxviii (1880), cols 1301–36; and Martène, De antiquis Ecclesiae ritibus, Lib. i. Cap. iv, Ordo iv, cols 489–528. 28  Taft, ‘How Liturgies Grow’, p. 204. 29  Pierce, ‘New Research Directions in Medieval Liturgy’, p. 61. Several other writers have commented more generally on this intersection between ‘public’ and ‘private’ in the tenth and eleventh centuries, for example, Mayr-Harting, ‘Ottonian Tituli in Liturgical Books’, p. 458: ‘we must not be swept off our feet so much by Ottonian ritualism, that we overlook the strong element of interiority in its religious culture […].’ 30  The last, most complex stage is called the ‘Rhenish’ ordo missae; the model was first proposed by Luykx, De oorsprong van het gewone der Mis; and Luykx, ‘Der Ursprung der gleichbleibenden Teile’. Over the past few decades, other scholars have continued to evaluate and augment his suggested developmental model. For overviews of this research, see Missale Basileense, ed. by Hänggi and Ladner; i, pp. 37–38, 116–26; Pierce, ‘New Research Directions in Medieval Liturgy’; Pierce, ‘The Evolution of the ordo missae’; Odenthal, ‘Zwei Formulare’, pp. 25–27; and Witczak, ‘St Gall Mass Orders’. Witczak (with Daniel Merz) has published editions of three OMs from St Gall manuscripts (mentioned in Luykx’s study); others appeared in Ecclesia Orans in 2005 and 2007, and a fourth is in preparation. 31  From the 1962 edition of the Missale Romanum: ‘Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini, beato Michaeli Archangelo, beato Joanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis

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These prayers became the most numerous type of prayer texts in the most elaborate developmental stage of the OM before the Gregorian reform at the end of the eleventh century.32 These penitential expressions and general confessions are found in many, if not all, of the OMs of this period, possibly because the rite of private, auricular penance had not developed fully at this time.33 However, the Minden OM, an extreme example, can be divided into some two hundred and five discrete liturgical ‘units’ (blocks of rubrics or individual prayer texts), and over eighty of them are apologiae or apology-type prayers.34 Thus, the overwhelming image of the bishop communicated in this OM is that of the unworthy sinner, begging God to excuse or forgive him his uncleanliness and ‘crimes’ that he might worthily carry out his sacred duties.35 One example might be helpful here.36 At the beginning of Mass, after the bishop has processed to the altar and kissed it, he recites this (widely used) apologia: Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et tibi Pater: quia peccavi nimis cogitatione verbo, et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Joannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et te Pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum Nostrum’ (‘I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary ever Virgin, to Blessed Michael the Archangel, to Blessed John the Baptist, to the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, to all the angels and saints, and to you my brothers and sisters, that I have sinned exceedingly in thought, word, deed through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault, and I ask Blessed Mary ever Virgin, Blessed Michael the Archangel, Blessed John the Baptist, the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul, all the Angels [sic] and Saints, and you my brothers and sisters, to pray for me to the Lord our God’). See the Medieval Sourcebook: Mass of The Roman Rite [accessed 18 July 2011]. For further discussion, see Jungmann, Mass of the Roman Rite, trans. by Brunner, i, pp. 298–311. For a review of scholarship on the OM since Jungmann, see A Commentary on the Order of Mass, ed. by Foley and others. 32  Jungmann, Mass of the Roman Rite, trans. by Brunner, i, p. 79 states that during the next century they ‘disappear as at a blow’. 33  See Pierce, ‘The Evolution of the ordo missae’, p. 9; Bragança, ‘A apologia’; and DenisBoulet, ‘Analysis of the Rites and Prayers’, p. 78. 34  Pierce, ‘Early Medieval Liturgy’, pp. 515–16. 35  In fact, it has been suggested that the rather intense expression on the face of Sigebert in the dedication portrait for the libellus precum may indeed be an ‘expression’ of the ‘interiority’ of the spirituality of the time: ‘Perhaps, after all, what we earlier characterized as the bishop’s “miserable looking” face is intended to represent the “interiority” of his religion, the artist’s attempt to realize the setting of his gaze on the nobility of his interior regeneration.’ MayrHarting, Ottonian Book Illumination, ii, p. 97. 36  My thanks to both Professor Nancy Andrews and Reverend Edward Vodoklys, S. J. in

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Suscipe confessionem meam unica spes salutis meae Domine Deus meus Ihesu Christe. quia gula. ebrietate. fornicatione. | libidine. tristitia. accedia. somnolentia. neglegentia. ira. cupiditate. inuidia. malicia. odio. detractione. periurio. falsitate. mendacio. uanagloria. leuitate. ac superbia perditus sum. et omnino cogitatione. locutione. actione. atque omnibus malis extinctus sum. qui iustificas impios et uiuificas mortuos iustifica me. et resuscita me Domine Deus meus. Qui uiuis. Receive my confession, only hope of my salvation, Lord my God Jesus Christ. For I am ruined by gluttony, drunkenness, fornication, lust, sorrow, sloth, sleepiness, negligence, anger, desire, envy, malice, hatred, slander, perjury, falsehood, lying, vainglory, levity and pride. And I am blotted out by every thought, word, action and all evils. Lord my God, you who make righteous the impious and revivify the dead, justify me and revive me, Lord my God. [You] who live.37

This is obviously a key text, since another form of this prayer, explicitly entitled Apologia sacerdotis, is found at the Offertory.38 The prayer does contain a rather detailed list of possible sins, but it is not the longest prayer of this type in the Minden OM; it is followed by two other, longer prayers of the same type, one of which appears to have been a new composition.39 Then, as the Introit verses and Kyrie are being sung, the OM contains a series of nine other apologiae, some or all to be recited before the singing of the Gloria.40 And this takes place at the very beginning of Mass; much more is to follow. Note also in this text the reference to Jesus Christ as the one who gives life to the dead.

the Department of Classics at the College of the Holy Cross, for their generous assistance in translating these prayer texts. 37  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 54: ‘Post Hec Secreto Dicat Hanc Confessionem’ (‘After this he quietly recites this confession’), p. 174. For a more complete discussion of this prayer, see Bragança, ‘A apologia’, pp. 327–34. 38  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 125: ‘Apologia Sacerdotis’, p. 220. 39  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 56: ‘Alia’, pp. 176–77. There are a few textual similarities to a text in the so-called ‘Chigi’ ordo, an eleventh-century text from San Vincenzo al Volturno (Città del Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Chigi D V 77); Martène, De antiquis Ecclesiae ritibus, Lib. i. Cap. iv, Ordo xii, cols 568–74; here, col. 569. The noneucharistic section of the libellus has been edited by Salmon, ‘Libelli precum’. 40  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 67: ‘Has Orationes Interim Dicat Donec Uersus Cantentur Ad Introitum Et Kyrieyson [sic] Deinde Carmen Angelorum’ (‘Let him say these prayers while the Introit verses are sung and the Kyrie Eleison then the Gloria’), p. 184.

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The Bishop as ‘Alter Christus’ A second element in the image of the bishop in the Minden OM involves the imitation of Christ and the hierarchical/ecclesiastical functions of the bishop; in short, the bishop’s hierarchical role in the Church, particularly in his own diocese, as alter Christus, another Christ. This ideal is not infrequently intertwined with the unworthiness/purification motif that characterizes so many of the private prayers for the bishop in the Minden OM. One example is the bishop’s personal communion rite mentioned above. The importance of this episcopal ideal can be inferred from its structure and placement within the general communion rite of the Mass: the bishop receives communion first, before anyone else, and each ‘moment’ of this rite is elaborately interlaced with psalm versicles, communion ‘formulas’, and prayers of various lengths for his personal recitation. Both the texts and the actions speak clearly to the bishop, even if they cannot be readily observed by the laity in attendance. Other prayer texts in the Minden OM also express this theme. I would like to discuss four examples from another ‘soft spot’ in the Minden OM: the vesting rite. The bishop is expected to prepare himself for the celebration of Mass in an elaborate rite that takes him from his initial entrance into the cathedral, through his donning of the liturgical vestments, each accompanied by at least one short prayer (‘major’ vestments, like the chasuble, are accompanied by two), to post-vesting prayers.41 However, these rather variable prayers ‘seem to fall into three categories, which stress different allegorical or symbolic themes: the earliest, which focuses on the moral or ethical expectations for the presider; a later shift to the connection between the priest and the person of Christ; and last, an emphasis on elements of Christ’s passion commemorated in the Mass’.42 Most of the prayers in the Minden OM fall into the first group, and involve either a request for the strengthening of a certain virtue or virtues, or the elimination of a particular vice or vices. However, four offer a different perspective on the bishop’s imago. The first is for the bishop to recite as he puts on the dalmatic: Indumento hoc typico priscorum patrum ritu in modum crucis tramitibus purpureis contexto uestitus humiliter postulo. ut ex commemoratione passionis tuae fiam tibi Domine Iesu Christe iugiter gratiosus. QUI VIVIS.

41  For a more complete discussion, see Pierce, ‘Early Medieval Vesting Prayers’, p. 82. For a more general survey (and further bibliography), see Pierce, ‘Vestments and Objects’. 42  Pierce, ‘Early Medieval Vesting Prayers’, p.  82, summarizing Jungmann, Mass of the Roman Rite, trans. by Brunner, i, pp. 280–81.

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Clothed by this symbolic garment according to the rite of the early fathers, woven in the shape of a cross with bright bands, I humbly ask that from the commemoration of your passion, Lord Jesus Christ, I might be continually graced.43

Here, the bishop specifically refers to two important elements: the connection to the ‘early fathers’ that the dalmatic represents, and the cross-like shape of that vestment (a tunic with long sleeves) that suggests his request to be continually graced/favoured by the commemoration of ‘your’ (Christ’s) passion. The place of the bishop in the apostolic succession, underscored by the antiquity of the vestment, is joined with the literal act of the bishop ‘carrying’ the cross of Christ himself (suggested by the shape of the dalmatic) as he prepares to celebrate the memorial of Christ’s suffering and death, the Mass. The hem of the dalmatic can be clearly seen under the chasuble in all three portraits of Sigebert. The next vestment in the sequence is in fact the chasuble, accompanied by two vesting prayers. The first explicitly refers to the bishop being ‘covered/ wrapped’ by the ‘priestly justice/law’ as he is enveloped by this poncho-like vestment; in this way, the bishop prays that the spiritual ‘clothing’ of priestly righteousness will permit him to enter into the eternal ‘tabernacles’ as he physically vests in preparation for entering the sanctuary of his own earthly cathedral: Indue me Domine sacerdotali iustitia ut induci merear in tabernacula sempiterna. Clothe me, Lord, with priestly righteousness that I might be worthy to be led into the eternal tabernacles.44

Echoes of the dalmatic prayer can be found in the first of two prayer texts that accompany the donning of the next vestment, the maniple, a kind of stylized and ornamented napkin that is worn over the left arm or wrist. As he takes the maniple, the bishop recites this prayer: Inuestione istius mappulae subnixe deprecor Domine ut sic operer in temporali con­uer­satione quatinus exemplo priorum patrum infuturo merear. perenni/niter [sic] gaudere. Per Dominum. 43  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 23: ‘Ad Dalmaticam’, p. 159. It was customary for the bishop to don the vestments of the lower clerical orders under the priestly chasuble, including the dalmatic worn by deacons; see Pierce, ‘Early Medieval Vesting Prayers’, pp. 93–95. The ‘bright bands’ refer to the clavi, decorative stripes or bands on the dalmatic. Two run vertically, one over each shoulder of the vestment from top to hem, and another one or two around the edges of each sleeve. See also Norris, Church Vestments, p. 44. 44  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 24: ‘Ad Casulam’, p. 160. See also Pierce, ‘Early Medieval Vesting Prayers’, pp. 95–96.

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By the supportive donning of this maniple I ask, Lord, that I might so act in daily conduct according to the example of the early fathers that I might merit to rejoice forever in the future.45

Here again, the bishop invokes the actions of the ‘early fathers’ but for a personal, moral purpose, ‘to guide [his] daily interactions’ so that he might eventually be worthy to rejoice perpetually in eternal life.46 All three of the above texts accompany vestments that are shared by other clerics: the dalmatic is the major vestment of the deacon, and the chasuble and maniple are worn by priests. However, the fourth vesting prayer to be examined is one that accompanies a vestment reserved for bishops, and only certain ones at that: the rationale. Appearing first in the tenth century, the vestment could be worn as a kind of ribbon or sash, draped across the front of the chasuble and fastened with shoulder clasps; it seems to have been associated with the choshen, referred to in the Old Testament as a vestment of the high priest. The two ‘lot’ stones (the Urim and the Thummim), used to discover God’s will, were kept in it.47 Thus, as a Christian vestment, the rationale became connected with the bishop’s ‘responsibility for the teaching of correct doctrine and the safeguarding of the truth’.48 As in most of the earlier vesting prayers, the emphasis is on attaining a virtue; but here, the virtues are a special part of the bishop’s responsibilities and goals — preaching and teaching orthodox doctrine49: Da mihi Domine ueritatem tuam firmiter retinere et doctrinam ueritatis plebi tuae digne aperire. Grant me, Lord, to hold firmly to your truth and worthily to disclose the teaching of truth to your people.50

45 

Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 26: ‘Cum Mappulam Acceperit’, p. 160. See also Pierce, ‘Early Medieval Vesting Prayers’, p. 97. 46  Pierce, ‘Early Medieval Vesting Prayers’, p. 97. 47  Exodus 28. 15–30 (a description of the vestment); see also Leviticus 8. 7–8 (Moses vesting Aaron as high priest); Numbers 27. 21 (on the choice of Joshua to succeed Moses); Deuteronomy 33. 8 (Moses’ blessing of the tribe of Levi); i Samuel 14. 41–42 (Saul determining Jonathan’s guilt), and 23. 9–12 (David consulting God on battling Saul); Ezra 2. 62–63 (on determining individuals’ descent from Aaron on the return from the Babylonian Exile). 48  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, p. 314. See also Honselmann, Das Rationale der Bischöfe, and Honselmann, ‘Das Rationale der Bischöfe von Minden’. 49  Pierce, ‘Early Medieval Vesting Prayers’, pp. 100–01. 50  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 30: ‘Ad Rationale’, p. 161.

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Here, the bishop asks that the Lord grant him two specific virtues: to firmly hold to ‘your truth’ and to worthily/fittingly disclose the instruction/teaching of truth to ‘your people’. As he spoke these words, he would not be unmindful of the ‘image’ and role of Christ as teacher, and of the ancient emphasis on fidelity to the bishop as a defence against heresy.51 In both of the formal, hierarchical portraits of Sigebert (standing, in the ivory piece, and seated in the dedication miniature), the rationale is prominently featured. On a number of different levels, this elaborate vesting rite illustrates the old adage that ‘the clothes make the man’. However, in this case, this ‘making’ is really a ‘remaking’: by carefully and thoughtfully putting on these physical, outward symbols of office, the bishop literally, audibly affirms both his own weakness and ideals; in the case of these particular vestments, his identity as ‘another Christ’, whose passion he is about to commemorate as head of his diocesan community.

The Communion Rite in the Minden ‘Libellus precum’ Now let us return to the Sigebert image in the sacramentary. As others have noted in earlier analyses, the structure and prayers of the communion rite can shed light on the deeper meaning of the image, for example, as an expression of the importance of the bishop as part of the hierarchical structure of the church.52 The communion rite in the Minden libellus precum, composed to accompany the OM in the Minden Sacramentary, should offer useful insights in ‘filling out’ this visual image. Throughout this discussion, one important theme is clearly emphasized: the indignus peccator, the sinfulness and unworthiness of the bishop and his request for forgiveness or purification. Even though most of these prayers are not formal apologiae, they have clearly been influenced by the same underlying spirituality, intensified by the ultimate sacrality of the act of eating and drinking the Body and Blood of Christ. And as we have seen in several of the vesting prayers, the second theme, that of the bishop as alter Christus, the high priest and ecclesiastical leader who stands in the place of Christ, is also present but emphasized more by the placement and elaboration 51 

For example, Ignatius of Antioch (d. c. 110), Letter to the Smyrneans, chs 7. 2–8. 2. See Schoedel, Ignatius of Antioch, pp. 238–44. 52  Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, ii, pp. 92–93; he uses a rubric for Holy Thursday found in one of the ordines Romani (Ordo L, mid-tenth century), Les Ordines Romani, ed. by Andrieu, v, Cap. XXV, 77, p. 215.

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of the ritual than by the actual wording of the prayers; for example, he receives communion first, followed by other clerics according to their ranks, and finally, the laity.53 The communion rite begins after the Pax, when the bishop has offered the greeting of peace to the ministers near him at the altar, and they, in turn, offer the peace to one another.54 Strangely, there is no reference to the text of the Agnus Dei in the OM of the libellus, even though other prayers and ritual actions are clearly ‘pegged’ to other components of the public OM as found in the sacramentary. The omission is even more striking given the detailed image of the apocalyptic Lamb in the sacramentary. The structure of the communion rite for the bishop is rather elaborate, and can be divided into ten connected liturgical units (individual prayers or series of psalm versicles). As he takes the consecrated host in his hand, the bishop55 recites a verse from Psalm 115 (116),56 then at least one of two prayers of personal preparation, stressing his unworthiness. The first, shorter text reads: Perceptio corporis tui Domine Jesu Christe quam indignus sumere presume non mihi proueniat ad iudicium et condemnationem. sed pro tua pietate prosit mihi ad tutamen mentis et corporis. May the reception of your body, Lord Jesus, which [I] unworthy one presume to take, lead me not into judgment and condemnation but, by your kindness, help me into strength of mind and body.57 53 

Jungmann, Mass of the Roman Rite, trans. by Brunner, ii, pp. 343–44; for a slightly different perspective, see the discussion in Gatti, ‘Building the Body of the Church’, pp. 116–17, stressing the concept of communitas as represented in the Sigebert/Ecclesia illumination. 54  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 173 and 174, p. 244. 55  The manuscript here reads sacerdos, but in other places (e.g. the vesting prayers), the word episcopos is used. ‘The more general term most often used in the manuscript, sacerdos, could refer to the bishop himself or (more usually by the eleventh century) to a priest of the cathedral who might be using its liturgical books’, see Pierce, ‘Early Medieval Prayers’, p. 183, n. 16. However, this book (and all of the Minden/Sigebert corpus) was clearly compiled for Sigebert himself, the ‘high priest’ of the diocese and its principal ‘user’. For further discussion on the shift from sacerdos to episcopos, see Gy, ‘Notes on the Early Terminology’. 56  A rephrasing of Psalm  115 (116): 13, with the phrase ‘heavenly bread’ substituted for ‘cup of salvation’: ‘Panem caelestem accipiam et nomen Domini inuocabo’, 175: ‘Quando Corpus Dominicum Sacerdos in Manus Accipit’, Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, p. 245. 57  This prayer (176: ‘Sequitur Oratio’) is used widely in libelli precum and ordines missae in the tenth and eleventh centuries, and may well have been used earlier as a private prayer during the Carolingian period; see Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, p. 245, Jungmann, Mass of

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The second prayer, a slightly later composition, expands on the first: Fiat mihi obsecro Domine hoc sacramentum tuum quod indignus et peccator presumo percipere. confisus de tua larga clementia ad uiscera misericordiae et gratiam salutis ac sanitatem animae. et corporis. remissionemque omnium peccatorum. ut non ad iudicium sed ad remedium illud merear percipere. Saluator mundi. Make me confident, I ask, Lord, [so] that I might merit to receive not for judgment but for a remedy this your sacrament which I, unworthy and sinner, presume to receive, from your abundant kindness, unto [my] innermost parts, the grace of both salvation and mercy, and health of soul and body, and remission of all sins.58

Just before he consumes the host, he recites a communion formula (used, with minor changes in wording, for the chalice, as well as for the communion of the lesser clerics and the laity): Corpus Domini nostri Jesu Christi sit mihi remedium sempiternum in uitam aeternam. May the body of our Lord Jesus Christ be for me an everlasting remedy into eternal life.59

A similar series of prayers and verses accompanies the bishop’s communion from the cup. First, he takes the cup in his hands, with these psalm verses: Quid retribuam Domino pro omnibus quae retribuit mihi Calicem salutaris accipiam et nomen Domini inuocabo Laudans inuocabo Dominum. et ab inimicis meis saluus ero. What will I render to the Lord for all that he has rendered to me | I will take the cup of salvation and I will call upon the name of the Lord | Praising, I will call upon the Lord and I will be saved from my enemies.60

Note the reference to ‘taking the cup / chalice of salvation’.61 The portrait of Sigebert in the sacramentary appears to capture just this moment in the bishop’s the Roman Rite, trans. by Brunner, ii, pp. 344, 350, and Denis-Boulet, ‘Analysis of the Rites and Prayers’, p. 183. 58  This text is found in a handful of eleventh-century ordines; see Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 177: ‘Alia’, p. 246. 59  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 178: ‘Cum Corpus Sumitur’, p. 246. 60  Psalm 115 (116): 12 and 13, and Psalm 17: 4; see Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 179: ‘Quando Calicem in Manus Accpit [sic] Dicat Sacerdos’, p. 247. 61  See also Mayr-Harting, ‘Ottonian Tituli in Liturgical Books’, p. 462.

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communion rite, as he takes the cup from the Ecclesia figure. Next, he recites at least one of the next two prayers; forms of both are found in many of the OMs from the tenth and eleventh centuries. As with the prayers accompanying the bishop’s receiving the consecrated bread, these prayers express a desire to be forgiven of sin. The first, shorter prayer contains the simple request that the bishop’s sins be forgiven and that he be ‘preserved’ to eternal life: Communicatio et confirmatio corporis et sanguinis Domine [sic] nostri Jesu Christi prosit mihi in remissionem omnium peccatorum meorum. et conseruet me ad uitam aeternam. May the reception and strengthening of the body and blood of our Lord Jesus Christ help me for the forgiveness of all my sins, and preserve me for eternal life.62

The second, slightly longer prayer is essentially an expression of the same themes: Domine sancte Pater omnipotens aeterne Deus. da mihi hoc corpus et sanguinem Filii tui ita sumere. ut per hoc merear remissionem omnium peccatorum accipere. et tuo Sancto Spiritu repleri. quia tu es Deus. et preter [sic] te non est alius. cuius gloriosum nomen permanet in saecula seculorum [sic] amen. Lord, holy Father almighty eternal God; give to me this body and blood of your Son now to receive, that through this I might merit to receive forgiveness of all sins and be filled with your Holy Spirit, for you are God, and there is no other besides you, whose glorious name endures forever and ever. Amen.63

Here, the concluding request is slightly different: the bishop asks to be filled with the Holy Spirit through the (power) of God, here clearly One and Triune. Just before the bishop drinks from the chalice (cum sanguis sumitur), he recites this communion formula, a shorter parallel to that for the host: Sanguis Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat me in uitam aeternam. May the blood of our Lord Jesus Christ preserve me for eternal life.64

A few moments earlier, the bishop would have reflected on the offer of eternal life in the inscription on the Lamb illumination in the sacramentary during the 62 

Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 180: ‘Sequitur Oratio’, p. 247. Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 181: ‘Alia Ad Utrumque’, p.  248; see also Jungmann, Mass of the Roman Rite, trans. by Brunner, ii, p. 346. 64  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 182: ‘Cum Sanguis Sumitur’, p. 248. 63 

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Agnus Dei,65 and he now quietly requests this eternal life aloud before himself drinking the Blood of Christ, the Lamb of God. The bishop concludes his reception of communion by reciting at least one of two private post-communion prayers. The first, strongly trinitarian, text reads: Domine Jesu Christe Fili Dei uiui qui ex uolunte Patris cooperante Spiritu Sancto per mortem tuam mundum uiuificasti. libera me per hoc sacrum corpus et sanguinem tuum a cunctis inquitatibus [sic] et uniuersis malis meis. et fac me tuis obedire mandatis. et a te numquam in perpetuum separare digneris. Qui uiuis et regnas. Lord Jesus Christ Son of the living God who from the will of the Father by the coworking of the Holy Spirit have revivified the world through your death. Free me through this your holy body and blood from all my sins and adversities. And make me obey your commandments and worthy never to be separated from you forever. [You] who live and reign.66

Again, note the reoccurring thematic connection between the life-giving death of Christ and the request for both the forgiveness of the bishop’s personal sins and support for his quest to be more fully ‘conformed’ to Christ. The second prayer is more brief, and expresses again the theme of the sacrament purifying the bishop’s ‘innermost parts’ (figuratively, his heart): Corpus tuum Domine quod accepi et calix quem potaui adhereant in uisceribus meis. et praesta ut nulla ibi remaneat peccati macula. ubi tua sancta introierunt sacramenta Qui uiuis et regnas. Lord, may your body that I receive and cup that I drink remain in my heart, and grant that no stain of sin might remain there where your holy sacraments have entered. [You] who live and reign.67

The priests and deacons receive communion with a much simpler rite, reciting one short text before taking the bread and a second, slightly longer one, before the cup, while the subdeacons ‘and other clerics’ recite a single formula

65 

Noted also by Mayr-Harting, ‘Ottonian Tituli in Liturgical Books’, p. 462. Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 183: ‘Post Perceptam Communionem’, p. 249; it was probably composed for use in Carolingian libelli precum, see Jungmann, Mass of the Roman Rite, trans. by Brunner, ii, p. 368. 67  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 184: ‘Alia’, p. 249; ‘after a few centuries [this group of prayers] played no special role in private Communion devotions’, Jungmann, Mass of the Roman Rite, trans. by Brunner, ii, p. 369. 66 

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that refers specifically to both the ‘Body and Blood’ of Christ.68 The laypersons who receive communion recite a similar short prayer that refers only to the ‘Body’ of Christ.69 While communion is being distributed to the clergy and congregation, the bishop is to recite this apologia: Ignosce Domine quod dum [sic] rogare compellor. dum per inmunda labia nomen sanctum tuum assumo. et inmundorum actuum. screta [sic] confiteor. non habeo apud te uerba sine crimine. Tu enim conscientiae meae uulnera. tu cogitationum mearum occulta nosti et inmunditias meas. tu solus agnoscis. Miserere mihi Domine. Miserere mihi. ignosce. mysterii tui secretatractanti. nec indignum misericordiae uae iudices. quem pro aliis rogare permittis. et in quo testimonium boni operis non agnoscis. officium saltim dispensationis credite [sic] non recuses. Saluator mundi. Forgive, Lord, whatever I am compelled to ask as long as I take your holy name through unclean lips and confess the secrets of unclean acts. I do not have words without guilt before you. You, however, you know the wounds of my conscience, you know the hidden faults of my thoughts and my impurities you alone recognize. Have mercy on me Lord, have mercy, forgive [me] performing the secrets of your mystery. Alas, may you not judge [me] unworthy of your mercy, whom you permit to pray on behalf of others, yet in whom at the same time you do not recognize the testimony of good work. May you at least not refuse, the service of stewardship entrusted [to me]. Saviour of the world.70

This prayer text is widely used (at different points) in OMs of the ninth through the eleventh centuries, and appears in some manuscripts of the Gregorian sacramentary as well (in a list of sacerdotal apologiae); it is also sometimes attributed to St Ambrose.71 Note the focus on the filthiness or uncleanliness of the bishop (e.g. unclean lips, inmunda labia) and the detailed request for the Lord’s mercy and pardon. 68 

Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 185–88, pp. 250–51. The subdeacons and lesser clergy are not directed in the rubrics to take the host or chalice in their hands as are the priests and deacons, since by this century they were not permitted to receive communion in the hand; see Jungmann, Mass of the Roman Rite, trans. by Brunner, ii, p. 382. 69  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 189: ‘Populo Quidem Communicando Dicat’, p. 251. The phrase ‘et sanguis’ has been added in pencil, in a later hand, above the original text line (in ink). 70  Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 190: ‘Interim Dum Communicant’, p.  252. This prayer is followed by four more private post communion prayers for the bishop to recite before the concluding rites in the Minden libellus begin with the Ite missa est dismissal (Pierce, ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass’, 196, p. 255). 71  See Deshusses, Le Sacramentaire Grégorien, iii, no. 4374.

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Conclusion This essay provides an example of how the ‘image’ of one early medieval bishop, Sigebert of Minden, was ‘performative’, in a sense ‘lived into’ through the visual images, ritual gestures, and spoken texts of the Mass, both the official public liturgy and the private devotional rites in use in the early eleventh century. This image functions on the two levels of the ‘real’ (the indignus peccator) and the ‘ideal’ (the alter Christus), and includes not only the expression, visually and verbally, of who the bishop is, but also of who the bishop must grow to be (with the help of the triune God). The visual image ‘texts’ of Sigebert in ivory and ink, which he would have seen each time he celebrated Mass at his cathedral, and the auditory/kinetic ‘texts’, in the private prayers he would have recited and gestures he would have made during each celebration, would have served as both a composite mirror and goal for Sigebert. Today both provide access to that reality and that ideal. Each set of ‘texts’ must be studied fully, both individually and in combination, using the tools of the art historian and the liturgical historian in order to access the full image of Sigebert as bishop more completely and fruitfully.

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Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Documents Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Haus Potsdamer Straße, MS germ. qu. 42. Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Haus Potsdamer Straße, MS theol. lat. qu. 3 Berlin, Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin, Haus Unter den Linden, MS theol. lat. fol. 2 Città del Vaticano, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Chigi D V 77 Kraków, Jagiellonian University Library, MS theol. lat. qu. 1 Wolfenbüttel, Herzog August Bibliothek, MS Cod. Guelf. 1151. Helmstadt

Primary Sources Die Bischofschroniken des Mittelalters, Hermans von Lerback Catalogus episcoporum Min­ den­sium und seine Ableitungen, ed. by Klemens Löffler, Mindener Geschichts­quel­len, 1 (Münster in Westfalen: Aschendorff, 1917) A Commentary on the Order of Mass of the Roman Missal: A New English Translation, ed. by Edward Foley and others (Collegeville: Liturgical, 2011) Jungmann, Josef, Mass of the Roman Rite, trans. by Francis A. Brunner, 2nd edn, 2 vols (New York: Benziger Bros, 1950) Martène, Edmund, De antiquis Ecclesiae ritibus (1737; repr. Hildesheim: Olms, 1967) Medieval Sourcebook: Mass of The Roman Rite [accessed 18 July 2011] Missale Basileense, saec. xi: (Codex Gressly), 2 vols, ed. by Anton Hänggi and Paschal Ladner, Spicilegium Friburgense 35A, 35B (Freiburg, Schweitz: Universitätsverlag, 1994) Les Ordines Romani du Haut Moyen Âge, ed. by Michel Andrieu, Spicilegium sacrum lovaniense, études et documents, fasc. 11, 23–24, 28–29 (Leuven: Spicilegium Sacrum Lovaniense Administration, 1960–65), v: Les Textes (Ordo L) (1961), fasc. 29 Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris: Migne, 1844–64)

Secondary Studies Bragança, Joaquim, ‘A apologia “Suscipe confessionem meam”’, Didaskalia, 1 (1971), 319–34 Collins, Adela Yarbro, ‘Pergamon in Early Christian Literature’, in Pergamon: Citadel of the Gods, ed. by Helmut Koester, Harvard Theological Studies, 46 (Harrisburg: Trinity, 1998), pp. 163–84 Denis-Boulet, Noele Maurice, ‘Part Two: Analysis of the Rites and Prayers’, in The Church at Prayer: The Eucharist, ed. by Aimé Georges Martimort, N. M. Denis-Boulet, and Roger Beraudy (Shannon: Irish University Press, 1973), pp. 75–193 Deshusses, Jean, Le Sacramentaire Grégorien: ses principles forms d’après les plus anciens manuscrits: édition comparative, Spicilegium Friburgense, 16, 24, 28, 3 vols (Fribourg: Éditions Universitaires, 1971 [2nd edn 1979], 1979, 1982)

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Euw, Anton von, Die St Galler Buchkunst vom 8. bis zum Ende des 11. Jahrhunderts, Monasterium Sancti Galli, 3, 2 vols (St Gall: Klosterhof, 2008) —— , ‘St Galler Kunst im frühen und hohen Mittelalter’, in Das Kloster St Gallen im Mittelalter: Die kulturelle Blüte vom 8. bis zum 12. Jahrhundert, ed. by Peter Ochsenbein (Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 1999), pp. 167–204 Fingernagel, Andreas, Die illuminierten lateinischen Handschriften süd-, west- und nord­ europäischer Provenienz der Staatsbibliothek zu Berlin PK: 4. – 12. Jahrhundert, 2 vols (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz, 1999), i, pp. 141–45, no. 131 [accessed 07 July 2011] Garrison, Eliza, ‘Otto III at Aachen’, Peregrinations: A Journal for the International Society for the Study of Pilgrimage Art, 3 (2010), 83–137 [accessed 11 June 2012] Gatti, Evan A., ‘Building the Body of the Church: A Bishop’s Blessing in the Benedictional of Engilmar of Parenzo’, in The Bishop Reformed: Studies in Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages, ed. by John S. Ott and Anna E. Trumbore Jones (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 92–121 —— , ‘Developing an Iconography of the Episcopacy: Liturgical Portraiture and Episcopal Politics in Tenth- and Eleventh-Century Manuscripts’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, 2005) Glare, Peter G. W., ed., Oxford Latin Dictionary (London: Oxford University Press, 1982) Gy, Pierre-Marie, ‘Notes on the Early Terminology of the Christian Priesthood’, in The Sacrament of Holy Orders: Some Papers and Discussions Concerning Holy Orders at a Session of the Centre de Pastorale Liturgique, 1955, ed. by Bernard Botte and others (Collegeville: Liturgical, 1962), pp. 98–115 Hoffmann, Hartmut, Buchkunst und Königtum im ottonischen und frühsalischen Reich, Schriften der Monumenta Germaniae Historica, 30, 3 vols (Stuttgart: Anton Hiersemann, 1986) Honselmann, Klemens, Das Rationale der Bischöfe (Paderborn: Vereins für Geschichte und Altertumskunde Westfalens, 1975) —— , ‘Das Rationale der Bischöfe von Minden: Ein kostbares mittelalterliches Ornatstück’, in Zwischen Dom und Rathaus: Beiträge zur Kunst- und Kulturgeschichte der Stadt Minden, ed. by Hans Nordsiek (Minden: Stadt, 1977), pp. 71–83 Kirmeier, Josef, and others, eds, Kaiser Heinrich II. 1002–1024 (Stuttgart: Theiss, 2002) Klöckener, Martin, ‘Der Mindener “Liber Lectionarius” als liturgische Quelle’, in Lectionarium: Berlin, Ehem. Preussische Staatsbibliothek, Ms. theol. lat. qu. 1 (z. Zt. Kraków, Biblioteka Jagiellónska, Depositum), ed. by Martin Klöckener, Codices illuminati medii aevi, 18 (München: Helga Lengenfelder, 1993), pp. 27–33 Krieg, Martin, ‘Handschriften der Mindener Chronistik im 16. und 17. Jahrhundert’, Westfälische Zeitschrift, 107 (1957), 107–34 Luykx, Bonifaas, De oorsprong van het gewone der Mis, De eredienst der kerk, 3 (Utrecht: Het Spectrum, 1955) —— , ‘Der Ursprung der gleichbleibenden Teile der heiligen Messe (Ordinarium Missae)’, trans. by J. Madey, Liturgie und Mönchtum, 29 (1961), 72–119

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Mayr-Harting, Henry, Ottonian Book Illumination: An Historical Study, 2 vols (London: Harvey Miller, 1991) —— , ‘Ottonian Tituli in Liturgical Books’, in Reading Images and Texts: Medieval Images and Texts as Forms of Communication. Papers from the Third Utrecht Symposium on Medieval Literacy, Utrecht, 7–9 December 2000, ed. by M. Hageman and M. Mostert (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), pp. 457–75 Meyer, Ruth, ‘Die Miniaturen im Sakramentar des Bischofs Sigebert von Minden’, in Studien zur Buchmalerei und Goldschmiedekunst des Mittelalters: Festschrift für Karl Hermann Usener, ed. by Freda Dettweiler, Herbert Köllner, and Peter Anselm Riedl (Marburg an der Lahn: Universität Marburg an der Lahn, 1967), pp. 181–200 Milde, Wolfgang, ‘Die Handschriften des Bischofs Sigebert von Minden’, in Lectionarium: Berlin, Ehem. Preussische Staatsbibliothek, Ms. theol. lat. qu. 1 (z. Zt. Kraków, Biblioteka Jagiellónska, Depositum), ed. by Martin Klöckener, Codices illuminati medii aevi 18 (München: Edition Helga Lengenfelder, 1993), pp. 7–25 Murphy, Fredrick J., Fallen is Bablyon: The Revelation to John (Harrisburg: Trinity, 1998) Norris, Herbert, Church Vestments: Their Origin and Development (New York: Dutton, 1950; repr. Mineola: Dover, 2002) Odenthal, Andreas, ‘Zwei Formulare des Apologientyps der Messe vor dem Jahr 1000. Zu Codex 88 und 137 der Kölner Dombibliothek’, Archiv für Liturgiewissenschaft, 37 (1995), 25–44 Palazzo, Eric, ‘The Image of the Bishop in the Middle Ages’, in The Bishop Reformed: Studies of Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages, ed. by John S. Ott and Anna Trumbore Jones, Church, Faith, and Culture in the Medieval West (Alder­ shot: Ashgate, 2007), pp. 86–91 Pierce, Joanne M., ‘Early Medieval Liturgy: Some Implications for Contemporary Litur­ gical Practice’, Worship, 65/66 (1991), 509–22 —— , ‘Early Medieval Prayers Addressed to the Trinity in the ordo missae of Sigebert of Minden’, Traditio, 51 (1996), 179–200 —— , ‘Early Medieval Vesting Prayers in the ordo missae of Sigebert of Minden (1022– 1036)’, in Rule of Prayer, Rule of Faith: Essays in Honor of Aidan Kavanagh, O.S.B., ed. by Nathan Mitchell and John Baldovin, S.J. (Collegeville: Liturgical, 1996), pp. 80–105 —— , ‘The Evolution of the ordo missae in the Early Middle Ages’, in Medieval Liturgy: A Book of Essays, ed. by Lizette Larson-Miller, Garland Medieval Casebooks, 18, Garland Reference Library of the Humanities, 1884 (London: Garland, 1997), pp. 3–24 —— , ‘New Research Directions in Medieval Liturgy: The Liturgical Books of Sigebert of Minden (1022–1036)’, Fountain of Life: In Memory of Niels K. Rasmussen, ed. by Gerard Austin (Collegeville: Liturgical, 1991), pp. 51–67 ——  , ‘Sacerdotal Spirituality at Mass: The Prayerbook of Sigebert of Minden (1022–1036)’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, University of Notre Dame, 1988) —— , ‘Vestments and Objects’, in The Oxford History of Christian Worship, ed. by Geoffrey Wainwright and Karen B. Westerfield Tucker (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2006), pp. 841–57

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Salmon, Pierre, ‘Libelli precum du viiie au xiie siècle’, in Analecta liturgica: extraits des manuscrits liturgiques de la Bibliothèque Vaticane, ed. by Pierre Salmon (Città del Vaticano: Bibliotheca Apostolica Vaticana, 1974), pp. 165–66 Schmitt, Jean-Claude, ‘Le Miroir du Canoniste: À Propos d’un Manuscrit du Decret de Gratien de la Walters Art Gallery’, Journal of the Walters Art Gallery, 49–50 (1991–92), 67–82 Schoedel, William R., Ignatius of Antioch: A Commentary on the Letters of Ignatius of Anti­och, ed. by Helmut Koester, Hermeneia (Philadelphia: Fortress, 1985) Schroeder, Wilhelm, Chronik der Stadt Minden (Minden: Leonardy, 1883) Stiegemann, Christoph, and Martin Kroker, eds, Für Königtum und Himmelreich: 1000 Jahre Bischof Meinwerk von Paderborn (Regensburg: Schnell & Steiner, 2009) Stork, Hans-Walter, ‘Sigebert von Minden’, in Biographisch-Bibliographisches Kirchen­ lexikon, ed. by Friedrich Wilhelm Bautz, 33 vols (Hamm: Bautz, 1970–), x (1995), pp. 252–56 Suckale-Redlefsen, Gude, ‘Prachtvolle Bücher zur Zierde der Kirchen’, in Kaiser Heinrich II. 1002–1024, ed. by Josef Kirmeier and others (Stuttgart: Theiss, 2002), pp. 52–77 Taft, Robert F., S.J., ‘How Liturgies Grow: The Evolution of the Byzantine Divine Liturgy’, in Beyond East and West: Problems in Liturgical Understanding, 2nd rev. edn (Roma: Edizioni Orientalia Christiana, 1997), pp. 203–32 Witczak, Michael, ‘St Gall Mass Orders (I): Ms. Sangallensis 338: Searching for the Origins of the “Rhenish Mass Order”’, Ecclesia Orans, 16 (1999), 393–410

‘Reims and Rome are Equals’: Archbishop Manasses I (c. 1069–80), Pope Gregory VII, and the Fortunes of Historical Exceptionalism John S. Ott

O

ne of the enduring images that medieval and modern writers have captured from the annals of the late eleventh-century church reform period in France is the spectacular fall from grace of the Archbishop of Reims, Manasses I of Gournay (c. 1069–80). The precursor to the prelate’s very public undoing — and the reason it made for such a spectacle — was the end of Manasses’s eleven-year friendship with Pope Gregory  VII (1073–85). Like many friendships, theirs began with token gifts and high expectations. Manasses’s consecration in 1069 was made possible by the direct intervention of the Roman archdeacon Hildebrand and Pope Alexander II (1061–73), and Rome in turn hoped for the Archbishop’s political support.1 By the time of  

* An earlier version of this paper was read at The Marco Institute Annual Symposium held 26–27 March 2010 at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, and later circulated among the Portland Medieval Consortium. I would like to thank those audiences for their helpful feedback and suggestions, along with Maureen Miller, who read a draft of this essay. The volume’s editors, Evan Gatti and Sigrid Danielson, exercised exceptional diligence in rooting out myriad infelicities and errors. The rest are nobody’s fault but mine. 1 

That Hildebrand, once consecrated as Pope Gregory VII, intended to rely heavily on Manasses’s support during his pontificacy, is indicated by the fact that one of his first recorded letters (Das Register Gregors VII., ed. by Caspar, no. 1. 4, dated 28 April 1073) was sent to notify the Archbishop of Reims of his recent election. Further indications of his role in promoting Manasses to the see of Reims are found in no. 1. 13 (30 June 1073), 1. 52 (14 March 1074), and John S. Ott is Associate Professor of Medieval History at Portland State University. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 275–302 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102235

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the union’s bitter demise, its end, like the end of many wrecked relationships, had already seemed a long time in coming. As Pope, Gregory VII deposed the Archbishop and ordered a new election. The church of Reims plunged into a three-year vacancy.2 No amicable bond was salvaged. All that remained at its conclusion was finger-pointing and angry allegations, and a spurned Manasses lingering outside the closed gates of Rome, perhaps hoping for one last hearing of his cause.3 It was not to be. Gregory had already washed his hands of the Archbishop, writing in his final letter to Manasses that he had handed him over to Satan so that his flesh might be destroyed, thus bringing their relationship to its irrevocable end.4 A rush to judgement followed Manasses’s fall. In the posthumous, gossipy war of words that has shadowed the protagonists’ reputations all the way down to the present, the Archbishop’s detractors easily dominated public opinion. Hugh of Flavigny, an ardent partisan of Gregory VII, served up especially scathing allegations. In a chronicle composed a few years after Manasses’s expulsion from office in 1080, Hugh wrote that Manasses ‘had prepared numerous ambushes’ for the canons of Reims, ‘and eventually destroyed their houses, sold their prebends, and laid their possessions to waste’.5 Guibert of Nogent also dredged up salacious stories. Manasses, Guibert reported — thirty-five years after the fact — had chopped up a chalice containing bits of the gold offered to Christ by the Magi, and divided it among his vassals. As to his fitness for office, Guibert avowed that Manasses was on record as having said that the archbish-

in Manasses’s 1077 letter to Gregory (Die Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit, ed. by Erdmann and Fickermann, v, no. 107, pp. 178–82). For an English translation of Gregory VII’s epistolary corpus, see The Register of Pope Gregory VII, trans. by Cowdrey. Indications that Gregory considered the Archbishop of Reims his chief episcopal ally in northern France have been noted by Cowdrey, Pope Gregory VII, pp. 359–60, 375–78. For a general appraisal of Manasses’s rapport with Gregory, see Williams, ‘Archbishop Manasses I of Rheims’, p. 807. 2  Renaud of Montreuil-Bellay, formerly the custos of Saint-Martin of Tours, was later imposed by Philip I in 1083. 3  Reference to Manasses’s presence at Rome may be found in Letter 5 of his court poet, Fulcoius of Beauvais, ed. by Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, pp. 219–24, and in the work of Benzo of Alba (see below, n. 81). On Henry IV’s 1081 siege of Rome, which Manasses attended, see Cowdrey, The Age of Abbot Desiderius, pp. 146–49. 4  Das Register Gregors VII., ed. by Caspar, no. 8. 17 (27 December 1080). 5  Hugh of Flavigny, Chronicon, ed. by Pertz, p. 415, referring to Manasses as an ‘invasor symoniacus’, reports: ‘plurimas parasset insidias, demum domos eorum fregit, praebendas eorum vendidit, et bona eorum diripuit.’

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opric would have been a fine thing, if only it did not mean having to sing the Mass.6 Words of praise for the Archbishop are rare.7 Modern historians’ tastes for such vivid images have not been all that different from their medieval predecessors’. Augustin Fliche, whose monographs on the papacy and Capetian government deeply influenced the twentieth-century historiography of church reform, pronounced: ‘Never had a bishop more cynically considered his office as a source of revenue that he must exploit as thoroughly and for as long as possible.’8 Fliche rated Manasses’s deposition an unchecked ‘triumph’ for the Gregorian party. By mid-century historians had begun to temper their criticism of the prelate, yet they still found fault with Manasses’s leadership or character, suggesting that everything from his ‘narrowly provincial and selfish’ outlook to ‘the wild blood of his ancestors’ had fuelled his conflict with Gregory.9 Consensus of late has suggested that the 6 

Guibert of Nogent, Autobiographie, ed. by Labande, 1. 11, p. 64; English translation: Guibert of Nogent, A Monk’s Confession, trans. by Archambault, pp. 30–31. This quote has proved irresistible to many modern historians, and has been repeated for generations in a popular American textbook (Bennett, Medieval Europe, p.  168). Guibert’s hindsight was influenced by the parting words of Gregory VII and his legate Hugh of Die, who from the outset seems to have written off Manasses as ‘that heresiarch of Reims’. On Hugh’s legatine activity and his relationship with Gregory, see Schieffer, Die päpstlichen Legaten, pp. 92–101; Rennie, ‘Extending Gregory VII’s “Friendship Network”’; along with Rennie, Law and Practice in the Age of Reform. Walo, the Abbot of Saint-Arnoul of Metz and (briefly) Abbot of Saint-Remi of Reims, mixed flattery with harsh words about the prelate; see Die Briefe des Abtes Walo, ed. by Schütte, nos 2 and 4, pp. 56–60 and 64–67. The former letter (no. 2) is also in Die Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit, ed. by Erdmann and Fickermann, v, no.  108, pp.  182–85. For a summation of Manasses’s relationship with Walo and the language of Walo’s letters concerning the Archbishop, see the discussion by Jaeger, ‘Courtliness and Social Change’, pp. 297–99; Williams, ‘Archbishop Manasses I of Rheims’, pp. 809–10; Hoch, ‘Abt Walo von Metz’; and Gaul, Manasses I: Erzbischof von Reims, i, pp. 37–44 (Gaul never completed vol. ii of his monograph). 7 

But they do exist; Lanfranc of Bec, Manasses’s former schoolmaster, addressed him in a letter with a mixture of deference and pride as ‘a man greatly to be honoured among the pillars of the Church’. See The Letters of Lanfranc, ed. and trans. by Clover and Gibson, no. 25, pp. 108–09. 8  Fliche, Le règne de Philippe Ier, p. 417: ‘Jamais évêque ne considéra plus cyniquement sa dignité comme une source de bons revenus qu’il fallait exploiter le plus largement et le plus longtemps possible.’ Quoted also by Gaul, Manasses I: Erzbischof von Reims, p. 28, n. 58. 9  Williams, ‘Archbishop Manasses I of Rheims’, p. 823; Gaul, Manasses I: Erzbischof von Reims, p. 108 (‘das wilde Blut seiner Ahnen bei ihm durchbricht und ihn zu Taten fortreißt, die seinen Namen bei den Mitlebenden und der Nachwelt mit Schmach bedecken’). And see Becker, Studien zum Investiturproblem, p. 72 (‘Der Reimser Erzbischof kämpfte schließlich nur

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source of Gregory and Manasses’s incompatibility lay in their fundamentally different ecclesiologies rather than in defects of personality. Gregory embraced a hierarchical conception of ecclesia, stressing universal episcopal obedience to St Peter, regardless of local custom or clerical dignity. Manasses, building on the tradition long established by his Carolingian predecessor Hincmar (845–82), zealously defended the privilege of his metropolitan status and his authority over the regional church, especially his jurisdictional autonomy and freedom from the ad hoc judgements of papal legates and emissaries.10 Historians’ focus on the differing ecclesiologies of Pope and Archbishop is entirely appropriate in Gregory and Manasses’s case, although because of the more extensive documentary record, Gregory’s vision of the church has been the more thoroughly treated. A number of surviving documents, however, permit us to reconstruct Manasses’s understanding of his office. In particular, three letters, along with a series of poems dedicated to the Archbishop and written to Rome on his behalf by his court poet Fulcoius of Beauvais, reveal the crux of Manasses’s view of his relationship with Gregory: namely, that he and Gregory enjoyed a special relationship because the churches of Reims and Rome were bound by a unique, ancient, and sororal partnership. Reims’s exceptional historical connection to Rome was expressed in the city’s foundation stories, which stressed its unbending allegiance to Rome, even in the face of considerable adversity. It also carried political and juridical implications, notably in Manasses’s insistence that as metropolitan he could be judged by Rome, and Rome alone.11 Beyond the cities’ linked pasts, Manasses repeatedly appealed to the political outlook, sense of justice, and personal temperament he believed he shared with Gregory. The Archbishop portrayed — and seems to have considered — himself as the Pope’s helpmate in the conduct of the ecclesia christiana. In a um seine eigenen Rechte, Interessen und seine persönliche Stellung’) and Demouy, Genèse d’une cathédrale, pp. 375–91, 611–14 (p. 377: ‘Un archevêque dur et cupide’). 10  Manasses emphatically makes this last point in his two surviving letters (of 1077 and 1078) to Gregory. In addition to Gaul, Manasses I: Erzbischof von Reims, p. 41, see in the first place Robinson, ‘“Periculosus Homo”’, pp. 125–27; and more recently Tellenbach, The Church in Western Europe, pp. 174–75, 210–11; Cowdrey, Pope Gregory VII, pp. 375–88; Blumenthal, Gregor VII, pp. 214–18; and Rennie, Law and Practice in the Age of Reform, pp. 134–41. On Archbishop Hincmar’s vision of metropolitan autonomy and papal-episcopal relations, see O’Keefe, ‘A History of the Metropolitan Office’, ch. 2; and Devisse, Hincmar, archevêque de Reims, ii (1976), pp. 565–82. 11  See Meyer, ‘Reims und Rom’, and below.

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world full of enemies and self-interested opportunists, Manasses suggested in his correspondence that his Frankish character was especially suited to fulfilling the Pope’s vision of the church. Working together as partners, they would guide her through the tempests of political opposition and violence. This essay will examine the body of historical ideas upon which Manasses drew to explain and understand his relationship with Gregory VII, and will suggest that those ideals, rather than his supposedly avaricious or litigious character, were at the heart of its demise.

‘Reims and Rome are Equals’ We know little that is certain about Manasses’s early career, though he was unquestionably steeped in the classical curriculum common to clerical education in the eleventh century. A student of Lanfranc at Bec and of Herimann at Reims, he cultivated an abiding passion for classical poetry, which he exercised as both a writer and a patron.12 On becoming Archbishop of Reims, he attracted brilliant young poets to his court, where they joined an already formidable and contentious assembly of scholars. In addition to Fulcoius, he promoted and sustained the poet Godfrey of Reims, collaborated with Herimann, the aged schoolmaster and ‘bright lamp of scholarship’, and clashed with Bruno of Cologne, the famous schoolmaster and chancellor.13 To judge by the extant works of the rémois courtiers and a highly critical letter by Abbot Walo of Saint-Arnoul of Metz, Orphic poetry and Trojan legends were mainstays of Manasses’s court entertainment.14 We know that they were a favoured subject of 12 

Fulcoius notes that Manasses was educated at Bec by Lanfranc and at Reims by the schoolmaster Herimann; see Letter 5, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, ll. 131–32, p. 222. In Letter 26 (ll. 85 and 89, p. 269) Fulcoius mentions that Manasses had excused himself for not having sent carmina to him, and asked that he send him poems ‘regularly’ (frequenter). Regrettably, none of Manasses’s poems survive. 13  In general, consult Williams, ‘The Cathedral School of Rheims’. Praise for Herimann comes from the pen of Baudry of Bourgeuil, Les Oeuvres poétiques de Baudri de Bourgueil, ed. by Abrahams, no. 161, ll. 101–02, p. 154: ‘Et mundo studii clara lucerna fuit.’ Much has been written concerning Bruno, who left and went on to found La Chartreuse, but for a brisk summary of his time at Reims, see Demouy, ‘Bruno et la réforme’. Bruno was friendly with Fulcoius; see Wilmart, ‘Deux lettres concernant Raoul le Verd’, p. 264, although Wilmart’s information about Fulcoius is dated. It is also likely that Roscelin of Compiègne, Abelard’s teacher, was there for a brief time under Manasses; see Mews, ‘Bruno of Rheims’, ii, p. 130. 14  On Godfrey’s poetic tastes and sources, see Williams, ‘Godfrey of Rheims’, pp. 39–41, and the complementary work (of which Williams was unaware) of Boutemy, ‘Trois oeuvres

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Godfrey, and had seemingly led Walo of Saint-Arnoul, who had been brought to Reims by Manasses to serve as Abbot of Saint-Remi, to complain that he had tried to soothe the Archbishop’s anger by substituting Davidic for Thracian (that is, Orphic) poetry.15 Such learned predilections were typical of clerical tastes in Manasses’s day, and Fulcoius of Beauvais likewise favoured pagan and classical themes in his work.16 Fulcoius is without doubt one of the more intriguing figures of the archiepiscopal court. Close personal ties connected him to Pope Alexander II and the Archbishop.17 Manasses and the Pope were both students at Bec, and Fulcoius was closely associated with the leading figures of the literary and epistolary circle around Anselm.18 Early in his career, the budding poet wrote verses he came to regret; these may have been the carmina he later noted as having initially offered, unsuccessfully, to the Roman curia.19 Indeed, Fulcoius actively pursued Rome’s patronage of his work, in addition to the support he received from the Archbishop.20 Manasses may have lured the poet to Reims from Meaux, inédites’, pp. 337–38, 352, 357; and Boutemy, ‘Autour de Godefroid de Reims’, pp. 251–55. A new edition of Godfrey’s work has been achieved: see Kritische Gesamtausgabe, ed. by Broecker. On his Orphic poetry, see Tilliette, ‘Le Retour d’Orphée’, ii, pp. 449–63. 15  Die Briefe des Abtes Walo, ed. by Schütte, no. 2, p. 57, and Die Briefe der deutschen Kaiser­ zeit, ed. by Erdmann and Fickermann, v, no. 108, p. 183: ‘O quotiens adhibui tibi medicamina scripturarum! Quotiens celestibus verbis quas quibusdam carminibus tuum temptavi mitigare furorem! Quotiens non Treicia sed Davitica cythara conatus sum illud vel expellere vel sedare demonium, quo vexaris!’ See also Jaeger, ‘Courtliness and Social Change’, p. 298 n. 45. 16  On his classical learning, see Colker, ‘Fulcoius of Beauvais’, pp. 148–50, 153–54, and in the same volume, Haye, ‘Christliche und pagane Dichtung’. 17  The friendship between the two men has been seldom noted. See Robinson, ‘The Friendship Network’. 18  That Anselm of Baggio, the future Pope Alexander II, was once a student at Bec (he also studied at Milan) has been put forward by Vaughn, Anselm of Bec and Robert of Meulan, pp. 33–34. Fulcoius, according to a biographical fragment in a manuscript containing his works (Beauvais, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 11, fol. 1r), was educated at Meaux, but had numerous connections to the epistolary circle associated with Anselm. My thanks to Professor Vaughn for sharing her knowledge of the Bec circle with me. 19  Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, p. 194. 20  Haye, Päpste und Poeten, pp. 147–53. Marvin L. Colker has described the dependent rela­tionship linking Fulcoius to Manasses in several articles; see, in the first place, his edition of the poet’s letters, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, especially pp. 194 and 204, and Colker, ‘Fulcoius of Beauvais’, pp. 151–52. Older, in some places inaccurate, and decidedly more judgemental, but still offering a useful survey of Fulcoius’s works is Olleris, Lettre sur Fulcoie, pp. 11–12.

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where he had been first educated and where he later returned.21 Fulcoius wrote widely on subjects prized by contemporary poets: love, sex, friendship, and other passions; and the hazards and rewards of the poet’s life. Many of his works from this period were dedicated to or directly concerned Manasses, and he praised the prelate’s physical beauty, generosity, and poetic prowess.22 The following line sums up succinctly the nature of his debt to the Archbishop: ‘While my pectoral, brooch, and clothes are yours, Manasses, | I should never be forgetful, even were I to drink the entire Lethe.’23 Owing as he does his wel21 

Fulcoius’s personal history can be patched together, but significant lacunae remain. For the poet’s background and literary production, see Colker, ‘Fulcoius of Beauvais’, pp. 144–45; Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, pp. 191–98; Fulcoii Belvacensis Utriusque, ed. by Rousseau, pp. 1–36; and the older works of Omont, ‘Épitaphes métriques’, and Boutemy, ‘Essai de chronologie’. Certain precisions may be added to the general observations of earlier scholars through the application of charter evidence. A Fulcoius appears in a 1070 charter of Bishop Geoffrey of Paris, witnessed by King Philip I, along with Manasses and the Bishop of Meaux, Walter. (Recueil des actes de Philippe Ier, ed. by Prou, no. 48, p. 132.) Fulcoius was granted a prebend at Reims, probably through Manasses’s intervention in 1069 or 1070, and he is named a canon of Reims in a charter of 1089 for the cathedral chapter of Soissons (Archives Départementales de l’Aisne, G 253, fols 2v–3r; pace Williams, ‘Archbishop Manasses I of Rheims’, p. 810), and in a 1097 charter of Archbishop Manasses II for Marmoutier (Paris, BnF, fonds latin MS 17043, p. 17). He later went on to become an archdeacon at Meaux, where an episcopal charter of September 1107 for the cathedral chapter lists among the witnesses a ‘Fulgonis archidiaconi’ (Meaux, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 63, p. 17). (Manuscript evidence sometimes indicates that he was an archdeacon, sometimes that he was a subdeacon. The introduction to Fulcoii Belvacensis Utriusque, ed. by Rousseau, p. 1 n. 4, gives several possible options for his office.) I have found no evidence that he was a canon, let alone an archdeacon, at Beauvais, though there are substantial gaps in our knowledge of the canonicate of this city between 1078 and 1097. He does not appear in the prosopographical study of the Beauvais cathedral chapter done by Newman, Les seigneurs de Nesle, i, pp. 225–52. There is at present no edition of the episcopal charters nor a prosopographical sketch of the cathedral chapter of Meaux; a survey of the charters published in Du Plessis, Histoire de l’Eglise de Meaux, yields no reference to a Fulcoius among the clerical dignitaries; but the collection is not comprehensive. See now most recently the essays of Wilmart, ‘Fulcoie de Beauvais’ and ‘Education et culture à Meaux’. My thanks to Christine Barralis for bringing Prof. Wilmart’s work to my attention. 22  Specifically, in Letters 2, 3, 5, 6, 7, and 26, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’; see also Omont, ‘Épitaphes métriques’, p. 214. The letters survive in a single manuscript (Beauvais, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 11) containing an extensive collection of the Fulcoian corpus. Like any smart artist, Fulcoius did not limit himself to a single patron. He also sent letters of praise to Archbishop Richer of Sens, Manasses’s predecessor Gervais, King Henry IV, and Ida of Boulogne. He tended to reserve invective for fellow clerics (and no doubt rivals), including Odo and Milo, deans of Paris, and Fulcrad, an archdeacon of Laon. 23  Letter 26, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, l. 68, p. 269: ‘Cum tua sint, Manases, mea bractea, fibula, pelles, | Si totum Letem biberem, non immemor essem.’

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fare to the Archbishop, the poet exults in the munificence and wisdom of his patron, who supported him when others — including Rome — would not.24 Fulcoius’s poetry, seldom considered by historians in the context of Gregory’s relationship with the Archbishop of Reims, reveals the high expectations Manasses carried into his relationship with Alexander II and Gregory.25 The Archbishop’s confidence no doubt stemmed from the fact that Alexander and his then archdeacon Hildebrand, the future Pope Gregory, had supported his election to the episcopal see.26 On coming to Reims, perhaps in 1069 or 1070, Fulcoius immediately went to work as episcopal prolocutor. Not long after Manasses’s consecration, he offered his longest surviving work, the De nuptiis Christi et ecclesiae libri septem (On the Marriage of Christ and the Church in Seven Books, also known as the Utriusque) to Alexander and Hildebrand.27 On the Marriage of Christ and the Church is a versified, moralizing account of biblical history. It is prefaced in one manuscript by dedicatory verses to Alexander and Hildebrand, and the text of the poem identifies Manasses as having commissioned the work.28 Praise for the Archbishop marks the beginning and end of the De nuptiis, and it is possible that Manasses urged the poet to revise the work out of gratitude for Rome’s assistance in his election. The subject matter is certainly lofty enough for a papal gift. Fulcoius then seems to have delivered the work in person, along with its dedicatory verses, to the papal court.29 The verses read, in part: 24  Letter 26, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, ll. 14–19, p. 267; Fulcoii Belvacensis Utriusque, ed. by Rousseau, p. 37. 25  Although see now Haye, Päpste und Poeten, pp. 34–38. 26  Manasses bluntly states that Gregory had ‘established him in the diocese’; Die Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit, ed. by Erdmann and Fickermann, v, no. 107, pp. 180–81: ‘appellamus [Manasses, speaking of himself in the third person] […] domnum papam, qui eum in sede Remensi constituit.’ 27  Fulcoii Belvacensis Utriusque, ed. by Rousseau, pp. 2*–182*. Compare to Haye, Päpste und Poeten, pp. 150–53. Haye argues that Fulcoius had written and first presented the De nuptiis to Rome in his own name, and only later, at Manasses’s urging, dedicated it to Alexander and Gregory as a ‘literary olive branch’ while adding the verses in praise of his patron (p. 152). 28  The verses in praise of Alexander and Hildebrand are found only in Paris, BnF, fonds latin MS 16701, fols 4v–5r, and are published in Fulcoii Belvacensis Utriusque, ed. by Rousseau, p. 2*. 29  The precise date may only be fixed in the years c.  1069–73, but my reading differs from that of Haye in that I believe it is likely a product of the earliest years of Manasses’s rule (c. 1069–71). See Williams, ‘Archbishop Manasses I of Rheims’, p. 808; Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, p. 193; Fulcoii Belvacensis Utriusque, ed. by Rousseau, pp. 40–42, 83–84,

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Qualis sit princeps dat consiliarius eius; Qualis sit pastor docet archidiaconus aptus; Quis sit Alexander docet Hyldebrannus amator Veri, iustitiae, pax sancti, poena profani. Vltimus hoc Caesar, Romanae gloria gentis, Vltimus ille Cato, rigidi seruator honesti.[…]30 We shall know the prince by his councillor; and the pastor by his archdeacon; Hildebrand teaches us what kind of man Alexander is: a lover of truth and justice, the peace of holy men and the punishment of the wicked. One is the greatest Caesar, glory of the Roman people, the other a great Cato, preserver of unbending honesty.[…]

Alexander and Hildebrand, the poem proclaims, would restore Rome to the glory of its ancient imperial predecessors; it is Hildebrand who announces the pope’s greatness.31 Fulcoius offered added praise of Hildebrand, now Gregory VII, later in Manasses’s prelacy, when relations between the two men had been strained. In a letter composed in defence of the Archbishop sometime between late 1077 and early 1081, Fulcoius addressed the Pope in the language of panegyric: Fortis aper, leo fortior, eximius uir in actu Perque canes et per casses, per spicula Papa Hildebrannus et hic Gregorius ethera scandit.32 Like a powerful boar, or even stronger lion, this man, distinguished in deed, despite the hunter’s dogs, snares, and spears, the Pope — Hildebrand, now Gregory — scales the heavens. and on the Archbishop’s patronage of the work, Rousseau’s edition of the poem, at ll. 11–12, p. 3*; ll. 134–35, p. 7*; ll. 1300–01, p. 167*; l. 1453, p. 171*. 30  Fulcoii Belvacensis Utriusque, ed. by Rousseau, ‘Versus papae Alexandro et Hyldebranno archidiacono’, ll. 9–14, p. 2*. 31  Fulcoius was not the only contemporary poet to exalt Hildebrand, nor to link the powerful archdeacon to Roman renewal. Alfanus of Salerno, writing between c. 1059–73, was another; see Cowdrey, Pope Gregory VII, pp. 55–56; Haye, Päpste und Poeten, pp. 153–57; and Raby, A History of Secular Latin Poetry, i, pp. 381–82. 32  Letter 2, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, ll. 16–18, p. 213. Colker (p. 213 n. 40) rightly argues that the letter was written either upon Manasses’s suspension at Autun in 1077 or after his excommunication in January 1080. Following both occasions Manasses travelled to Rome, and likely brought the poem with him.

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Gregory, Fulcoius went on, would take the Lord’s vineyard, so long neglected and overgrown with thorns, and prune it, compelling the arid soil to come back to life. ‘Rome’, Fulcoius pointedly wrote, ‘would have no equal to [Gregory]’.33 In a separate letter, but composed under the same circumstances, the poet offered blandishments to the papal legate Hugh of Die, beseeching him to make peace with Manasses and to deal with him not by deposition, but through honest correction.34 The generous words Fulcoius directed towards his patron’s superiors are certainly to be expected. Behind the flattering tone, however, they also presented a vision of an idealized relationship between Rome and Reims, one no doubt endorsed by Manasses himself. Let us take three brief examples. In the justquoted letter submitted to Gregory in defence of Manasses, Fulcoius offers the Pope the following summation of the Archbishop: Nec tibi Roma parem, Manassae nec Remis habebit. Fallitur et fallit qui detrahit emulus illi. Nec fallor nec fallo. [Q]uidem si credere uelles, Roma, mihi stulto, quid amicus, non inimicus, Vir possit Manasses uehemens in utroque probares.35 Rome will have no equal to you, nor Reims an equal to Manasses. The zealous man who would drag him down deceives, and is deceived. But I am neither fooled, nor a fool. Indeed should you wish to believe me, unless I am stupid, you shall discover what a friend — not an enemy — and dedicated man Manasses can be in any case.

Here, the Pope’s position in Rome and the Archbishop’s in Reims are set in parallel — both men are the greatest in their respective cities. How desirable to Rome, then, would be a suitably powerful ally and friend such as Manasses! Fulcoius’s claim that Reims would have no equal to Manasses, and Rome no better friend, echoed passages in an earlier letter he had directed to Pope Alexander. The letter was composed, perhaps in 1072 or 1073, shortly after Fulcoius had made a journey to Rome, perhaps to deliver the De nuptiis. Its ostensible purpose was to answer a question Alexander had put to Fulcoius 33 

Letter 2, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, l. 29, p. 213: ‘Nec tibi [Gregory] Roma parem […] habebit.’ 34  Letter 3, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, l. 24, p. 214; l. 50, p. 215. The probable date of this letter is 1077 or 1078. 35  Letter 2, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, ll. 29–34, p. 213.

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while he was at his court: who, Alexander wanted to know, was the more powerful prelate — Manasses or the Archbishop of Sens? Naturally, Fulcoius answered, Manasses was more powerful: ‘Richerius [Archbishop of Sens] commands the night, Manasses the day in the place of the sun.’36 The real purpose of the letter, however, seems to have been to pacify Alexander, who had grown impatient with Manasses’s inability or refusal to appoint a new abbot for Saint-Remi of Reims, which had been without one since 1071.37 Fulcoius thus reassures the Pope about the Archbishop’s fitness and good intentions. Approbat ipse Deus […]; Laudet et agnoscat per quem laudatur et ipse. Remus Remensem, Romanam Romulus urbem Si condunt fratres, sint Remis Roma sorores; Auspiciis fratrum sed ne sint fata sororum. Ut frater fratrem, ne mactet Roma sororem. Digne tractetur non qualiscunque sacerdos.38 God approves of this man […]; May [God] praise and recognize him by whom he is praised. If the brothers Remus and Romulus founded the cities of Reims and Rome, may Reims and Rome be as sisters; But let the fates of the sisters not lie in the auspices of the brothers. May Rome not smite her sister, as brother did brother. May [Manasses] be dealt with honourably, and not like just any sort of priest.

Within the context of Fulcoius’s defence of Manasses, the poet’s evocation of the sisterhood of Reims and Rome stands out. This is not just any sorority. Reims and Rome, like their classical founders, are presented as twins, produced of twins. It seems likely that Fulcoius here was referencing the Roman foundation story described in Livy’s Ab urbe condita.39 As Livy had there indicated, Romulus and Remus’s status as twins precluded any question of senior36 

Letter 7, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, ll. 18–20, p. 227: ‘[P]reponitur inde | Richerius nocti, Manases pro sole diei.’ 37  We lack correspondence from Alexander to Manasses on this issue, but one of Gregory’s first orders of business was to remonstrate the Archbishop for his dilatory conduct in the abbatial election, of which, he noted, Alexander had also grown weary; see Das Register Gregors VII., ed. by Caspar, no. 1. 13 (30 June 1073). It may be inferred, from this and from Fulcoius’s letter to Alexander, that the Pope had been publicly critical of Manasses. 38  Letter 7, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, ll. 31–36, p. 227. 39  See below.

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ity between the two.40 This was a bold comparison for Fulcoius to make. And when we consider that in the poem Remus grammatically precedes Romulus, as Reims does Rome, the claim is bolder still. In any case, the fate of Rome and Reims, unlike that of their unfortunate founders, was not, hopefully, set in stone. Must Rome smite her own sister? The sons of those sisters, the Pope and Archbishop, did not have to fight, and their close relationship implied shared sympathies which demanded a level of mutual respect. A third example of the Roman-rémois theme exists in a brief elegiac poem written by Fulcoius for Manasses. It appears in a single, twelfth-century manuscript of northern French provenance.41 The verses’ literary and historical context is obscure; they may have been written as part of a rededication of the De nuptiis to Manasses sometime after 1073. They read, in part: Solus homo, solus princeps, migrabis ab orbe, Optime uir Manases, sed non migrabis ab ore Tempore nostra uident non uisum tempore longo, Dignum uate uirum, condignum principe uatem. Romam Caesaribus nostris fortuna diebus Quod si priuauit? Te, nos meliore beauit. Remis, Roma pares; Manasses, Gregorius idem […]42 As a man or a prince alone you will pass from the earth, O best of men, Manasses — but you will not pass from the lips! Our times bear witness to something not seen in ages, a man worthy of poets, and an equally worthy poet among princes. But if fortune has deprived Rome of caesars in our time? She blesses you and us for the better. Reims and Rome are equals; Manasses and Gregory, likewise […]

Thus, the heroic Manasses is a worthy subject of poetry; the two cities of Rome and Reims are equals, as are their office-holders. It is a message that explicitly 40 

Livy, Ab urbe condita, ed. and trans. by Foster, 6, p. 24: ‘Quoniam gemini essent nec aetatis verecundia discrimen facere posset’ (‘Since they were twins, it was impossible to distinguish their age’). 41  Paris, BnF, fonds latin MS 16701, fol. 4v, described in Fulcoii Belvacensis Utriusque, ed. by Rousseau, pp. 64–66. The dating of this manuscript is discussed at p. 64 n. 226. Based on my own consultation, I agree with Léopold Delisle in placing it in the twelfth century. The link between this poem and Fulcoius’s other works is obscure, but there is no question of authorship. 42  Fulcoii Belvacensis Utriusque, ed. by Rousseau, p. 37. This passage is also reprinted in Williams, ‘Archbishop Manasses I of Rheims’, p. 822 n. 98.

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positions the Archbishop of Reims as a partner of standing and dignity with the Pope, possessed of similar temperament, and deserving of the same consideration the Pope enjoys within his own city. Clearly, this was a reliable theme for the poet, and one no doubt approved, if not suggested, by his educated benefactor. Past scholarly commentators have not without reason typically viewed all this as either poetic extemporization, propagandistic puffery, or both. It was, of course, the task of court poets to celebrate their patrons, and Fulcoius was not the only poet to extol Manasses. Baudry of Bourgeuil, a contemporary of Godfrey, Fulcoius’s fellow court poet at Reims, said of Godfrey’s verses in praise of Manasses, ‘You ennobled his name with poetry while he lived, | and through you Reims was ennobled. | You made each alike immortal by your poems.’43 In one of his final surviving letters, a eulogy for Manasses, Fulcoius acknowledges that he had received gifts from him that he could never forget (‘Mercedem dedit, quae non a mente recedit’). He acknowledges having sought Rome’s favour, but received the warmest embrace from Reims: ‘Why, I ask, O Muse, do you lament? You sent poems to Reims, | you sent them to Rome […] | While he praised you and loved you passionately, | what did Rome ever offer?’44 Clearly, Fulcoius owed much to his patron, and implies that the Archbishop had perceived the poet’s prowess when Rome could not. Apart from this fairly typical praise, Fulcoius’s juxtaposition of Romulus and Remus, Rome and Reims — whose Latin spellings presented obvious material for poetic punning — was not exactly novel.45 Later in Baudry’s poem to Godfrey, for example, the poet wrote in honour of Godfrey’s native city: Nobilis urbs Remis, Remis velut altera Roma, Quam miles Remi constituit profugus, Vires Romuleas veritus post funera Remi, Si famae volumus credere, fama refert. Nobilis urbs, Romae soror, inquam, et Roma secunda, Te genuit, peperit, promeruitque sibi.46 43 

Les Oeuvres poétiques de Baudri de Bourgueil, ed. by Abrahams, no. 161, ll. 109–11, p. 154: ‘Carmine, dum vixit, sua nomina nobilitasti, | Et per te Remis nobilitate fuit. | Ipsum carminibus, ipsam quoque perpetuasti.’ 44  Letter 26, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, ll. 41–44, 50, p. 268: ‘Quid, rogo, Musa, gemis? Misisti carmina Remis, | Misisti Romae […] | Cum te [Manasses] laudauit, cum te uehementer amauit, | Quid plus Roma dedit?’ 45  Fulcoius seems to have enjoyed the legendary story of Remus; he further references his ex­ ploits in Letters 10 and 12, Colker, ‘Fulcoii Belvacensis Epistulae’, l. 72, p. 236, and ll. 14–15, p. 247. 46  Les Oeuvres poétiques de Baudri de Bourgueil, ed. by Abrahams, no. 161, ll. 87–92, p. 154.

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Noble city of Reims, Reims like another Rome, which rumour holds […] (if we wish to put our stock in rumour) a soldier of Remus fleeing from the forces of Romulus established after his funeral; Noble city, sister of Rome — and, I say, a second Rome — conceived you, brought you forth, and deserves you.

Baudry confirms what Fulcoius had already demonstrated: the etymological linkage of Remus and the Remi, the people of Reims, was pure poetic gold. From it could be spun elegant elegies, similes, and allusions to the natal, mythohistorical bonds between cities. Yet it seems clear that to Manasses these assertions were much more than panegyric — they were also good history. According to local tradition, Reims had been linked with Rome since the cities’ origins, and the tenth-century church historian and archivist Flodoard of Reims popularized their relationship in the opening chapters of his monumental Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, a work he concluded in 948–52. 47 It is inconceivable that Manasses was ignorant of Flodoard’s masterwork, which drew extensively upon the Reims church archives and was intended to be the authoritative account of the city’s sacred history, privileges, and the deeds of its bishops. The Historia’s potential for utilization, expansion, and adaptation would be realized by numerous later writers, including a variety of local annalists and Manasses’s predecessor as Archbishop, Gervais of Château-du-Loir (1055–67), who drew upon it in a sermon he wrote on the life of St Donatian.48 Flodoard opens his history with a consideration of the origins of Reims. He first weighs whether Remus could have personally founded the city, which the similarity of their names would seem to imply. On the authority of Livy, who acknowledges no such connection, he ultimately rejects this possibility. But the Roman origins of the city were nevertheless apparent. Flodoard could point to the Mars Gate, which stands to this day, as evidence, for upon its right-hand arch was a carving of a she-wolf nursing Romulus and Remus. It was therefore See also p. 157 n. 6, where Abrahams indicates this was a common poetic motif on the perceived etymological connection. 47  Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, ed. by Stratmann. On rémois origin myths, see Sot, ‘Le Mythe des origines romaines’. 48  An incomplete list of later works that made use of Flodoard’s Historia may be found in Jacobsen, Flodoard von Reims, p. 86 n. 22. I discuss Gervais of Château-du-Loir’s knowledge of Flodoard in a chapter in my forthcoming book Bishops, Authority and Community in North­ western Europe, c.1050–1150 (Cambridge University Press).

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probable, Flodoard decided, that warriors of Remus, fleeing from Romulus, had established the city in honour of their deceased leader.49 Writers of ecclesiastical history often connected their cities’ foundations to Rome in some way, particularly by asserting the Roman origins of their founding bishops.50 Flodoard’s history does all this and takes a step further. After explaining the connection of the city to Remus, he next demonstrates the people of Reims’s ancient and ‘most steadfast friendship’ (‘tenacissima […] amicicia’) with the people of Rome. This was borne out in Julius Caesar’s Bellum Gallicum, which Flodoard cites directly and at great length. 51 As Caesar’s army marched northward and approached the lands of the Belgae, the first to send him legates were the Remi. In a gesture of good faith and friendship to the Roman people, the Remi gave oaths and hostages in exchange for peace and friendship.52 They also very helpfully offered to act as informants on the other rebellious peoples of Belgica secunda, who had taken up arms against the Romans. In a final act of generosity the Remi then joined Caesar and fought on Rome’s side against their own countrymen. Flodoard selectively edits the remaining sections of the Bellum Gallicum concerning the Remi, pausing long enough to declare that ‘always and in all adversities the Remi have kept with the Romans’, even when it clearly went against their self-interest, and even when they found themselves standing alone among the other peoples of the region.53 For that reason Rome had bestowed upon the Remi the highest rank, the prin49 

Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, ed. by Stratmann, 1. 1, p. 62. Such is the connection made by Baudry of Bourgeuil in his letter to Godfrey of Reims; see also Sot, Un historien et son église au xe siècle, pp. 357–64; Sot, ‘Le Mythe des origines romaines’, pp. 61–63. 50  As did the ninth-century authors of the gesta of the bishops of Auxerre; see Les gestes des évêques d’Auxerre, ed. and trans. by Lobrichon and others, i, pp. 10–17, and the comments of Bouchard, ‘Episcopal Gesta’, p. 10. 51  Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, ed. by Stratmann, 1. 2, p. 63: ‘Constat itaque Remorum populum populo Romanorum tenacissima priscis olim temporibus amicicia iunctum, prelibate Iulii Cesaris historie libris hoc ipsum astipulantibus.’ 52  Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, ed. by Stratmann, 1. 2, p. 63. Flodoard interjects the phrase ‘offerentes […] amicitiam’, which does not appear in the original text but further underscores his contention that Reims and Rome shared a special bond. He also entitles the second chapter of Book 1, ‘De amicitia Romanorum atque Remorum’. 53  Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, ed. by Stratmann, 1. 2, p. 65: ‘Semper enim et in omnibus bellis Remi fidem Romanis servaverant. Etiam quando tocius pene Galliae populi adversus Romanos conspirasse conciliumque Bibracte habuisse leguntur, illi nullatenus adesse voluere, quod amicitiam Romanorum sequebantur.’ Also see Sot, Un historien et son église au xe siècle, pp. 362–63.

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cipatum, among their neighbours. To accentuate the depths of their relationship, Flodoard then borrowed a line from Orosius: ‘Always and to the point of extermination the Remi had fought for the salvation of the Romans (pro salute Romanorum).’54 In addition to their political friendship, Flodoard innovatively established that Rome and Reims shared an apostolic connection. As Flodoard relates, Peter himself sent St Sixtus, ‘first bishop of the Remi’, and his companions to evangelize and found the first churches in the region. The saints’ bodies were later translated, in Flodoard’s time, to an altar dedicated to St Peter in the abbey of Saint-Remi.55 In the same province, some of the earliest Christian martyrs in the west, Timothy and Apollinaris, surrendered their lives during the persecutions of Nero, which also claimed Peter’s life. 56 Reims’s sacred and secular histories thus moved in parallel with those of Rome, and she had proven her fidelity in blood and self-sacrifice since their beginnings. The presentation of Roman-rémois relations in Flodoard’s Historia never goes as far as Fulcoius, who stated boldly that the cities were equals. But the Historia does appear to be the source to which Manasses turned when he later made claims to Gregory about Reims’s (and thus his) special privileges, as it helpfully contained the writings of Hincmar and many of the papal letters and decretals which established the city’s position vis-à-vis papal authority.57 More directly, however, Fulcoius repeatedly maintained that Manasses was a powerful friend (‘amicus, non inimicus’) to the Pope — and thus one deserving of special consideration — much as Flodoard had asserted the original, steadfast friendship of the Remi to the Romans. If, on behalf of his patron, the court poet of Reims flattered Alexander and Gregory, that flattery was as sincere and earnest as the claims made by the historical tradition of Reims, its people, and its earliest prelates. 54 

Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, ed. by Stratmann, 1. 2, p. 65. Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, ed. by Stratmann, 1. 3, p. 67. 56  Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, ed. by Stratmann, 1. 3–4, pp. 66–67; Sot, Un historien et son église au xe siècle, pp. 366–68; and Sot, ‘Le Mythe des origines romaines’, pp. 63–65. 57  A slender bit of circumstantial evidence that Manasses was familiar with the Historia Remensis Ecclesiae surfaces in his citation of Pope Leo I’s fourteenth letter to Bishop Anastasius of Thessalonika (PL, 54, cols 668–77) in his 1077 letter to Gregory (Die Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit, ed. by Erdmann and Fickermann, v, no. 107, p. 180). The same letter (virtually the same section) is excerpted by Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, ed. by Stratmann, 3. 13, pp. 229–30. 55 

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‘Longobardi non sumus’ Manasses also expressed his feelings of a personal and historical connection with Rome in three letters to Gregory and Hugh of Die, the papal legate. The surviving letters were composed during a two-year period between late 1077 and 1079, at a time when the Archbishop’s relationship with Gregory came under severe and ultimately insurmountable strain.58 The lingering issue, and one of the reasons Manasses went to Rome in 1078 to swear an oath of obedience and good conduct on St Peter’s tomb, was his acrid dispute with the provost and canon of Sainte-Marie, Manasses, and the schoolmaster Bruno of Cologne.59 The conflict between Manasses bishop and Manasses provost erupted in 1076, shortly after the latter assumed his office.60 He was evidently not the Archbishop’s choice (provosts at Reims were elected by the chapter), and was by August 1076 obligated to surrender his office to Hugh of Die and confess to its acquisition by simony.61 This the provost was no doubt compelled to do because the accusation had been raised by none other than the Archbishop, who then seized the provost’s possessions and confiscated his prebend. Hugh of Die forgave and reinstalled the provost, and Manasses won himself a committed enemy. At precisely this time, the Archbishop may have dispossessed or marginalized the schoolmaster-chancellor Bruno by bringing the poet and master Godfrey to his court. A powerful and determined coalition soon emerged around the slighted provost and Bruno, backed by other 58 

This period of Manasses’s episcopacy has been well surveyed by Williams, ‘Archbishop Manasses I of Rheims’, pp. 811–20; Cowdrey, Pope Gregory VII, pp. 378–88; and others. The letters have been published multiple times. For the letter of late 1077, see n. 1 above. The letter of May-August 1078 is reproduced in Sacrorum conciliorum, ed. by Mansi, xx, pp. 486–87. The letter of late 1079 to Hugh of Die is reproduced in Recueil des historiens des Gaules, ed. by Brial, xiv, pp. 781–86, and in Museum Italicum, ed. by Mabillon and Germain, i Pars altera, pp. 119–27. 59  Das Register Gregors VII., ed. by Caspar, no.  5. 17 (9  March 1078). His troubles with Manasses and Bruno stretched back to 1076, and were the subject of Gregory’s last communication with him, no. 7. 20 (17 April 1080). 60  The two Manasseses first appear together in a royal charter of 28 February 1076 for Saint-Amé of Douai; see Recueil des actes de Philippe Ier, ed. by Prou, no. 80, pp. 206, 441. Their relationship seems to have gone steadily downhill after that. 61  On the election of provosts at Reims, see Demouy, Genèse d’une cathédrale, p.  67. Manasses voluntarily surrendered his office to Hugh of Die at the Council of Clermont, held 7 August 1076; see Hugh’s letter from the following year, reprinted in Sacrorum conciliorum, ed. by Mansi, xx, pp. 488–90.

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clergy and laymen, including the provost’s relative, Count Ebles of Roucy. They eventually succeeded in driving Manasses out of Reims, but already by 1079, Gregory had begun to lose confidence in Manasses’s honesty and become increasingly irritated by his refusals to submit to the judgement of the papal legate to France, Hugh of Die. This resistance ultimately proved to be the Archbishop’s undoing with Rome. In his letters to Gregory and Hugh of Die, all of which complain about Bruno, the provost, and his other enemies, Manasses repeatedly defends his conduct and his refusal to attend the papal legate’s summonses to councils at Autun (1077) and Lyon (1080). He employs a variety of arguments, which have often been interpreted as evidence of his evasiveness (if not his disingenuousness) and refusal to bow to the authority of Gregory’s legates. Evasive though they may be, Manasses’s objections also show a prelate struggling to frame his relationship with the papacy in terms consistent with his own understanding of their personal relationship, and the historical relationship of the archbishops of Reims and bishops of Rome. First, Manasses appealed to what we might call the Gallic ‘spirit’. He repeatedly speaks with hostility about outsiders, using their perceived national differences as a way of dismissing his critics and, crucially, sympathizing with what he presumed to be Rome’s sentiments. His alleged description of Abbot Walo of Saint-Arnoul (Metz), whom Manasses had called to lead the abbey of Saint-Remi, presents an early example. When their relationship crumbled, an aggrieved Walo had written to Manasses in response to a letter the Archbishop had sent to Gregory, and complained that Manasses had falsely ‘characterized me as a peace-loving man, humble and retiring, always bent on reading, and for this reason suited neither to your own nor to Frankish mores’. If what Walo reports is true, Manasses’s description of the abbot as incompatible with Frankish mores was certainly not offered, nor taken, as a compliment. 62 It implies that the abbot was simply not cut out for the fast-paced life of the episcopal court, its poets, or its politics. Frankish (and, presumably, Roman) mores were not, could not, be those of a cloistered monk.63 Another example comes in his earliest surviving letter to Gregory, in which Manasses protested that he had demonstrated his faithfulness to Rome by 62 

Die Briefe des Abtes Walo, ed. by Schütte, no. 2, p. 59: ‘Asserebas enim in illis literis tuis me hominem esse pacificum, humilem et quietum, lectioni semper intentum, ac per hoc non me Francigenarum tuisque moribus convenire. […] O monstrum nulla virtute redemptum a viciis.’ 63  Die Briefe des Abtes Walo, ed. by Schütte, no. 2, pp. 56–57, 59. Walo, perhaps to rebut the charge, sprinkles his letter with references to Virgil and Juvenal.

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refusing to consecrate the bishop of Cambrai, whose cathedral lay under his ecclesiastical jurisdiction but was subject politically to the German empire. Manasses had refused, he said, because at the time ‘he knew the king to have been bound’ by Gregory’s sentence of excommunication, thus making the episcopal appointment invalid.64 Just to be clear where his sympathies lay, a few lines later Manasses stressed his devotion to Rome by gratuitously making another obvious claim, noting to the Pope that ‘we are no Lombards’. This, of course, was a reference to the rebellious churches of northern Italy, especially Milan, which frequently sided with imperial interests and rejected papal authority.65 In a similar quest for a sympathetic hearing regarding his treatment of the schoolmaster Bruno, Manasses explained to Hugh of Die that he should not have to answer for having seized Bruno’s possessions, arguing that he ‘was neither our clerk, nor ours by birth or baptism, but is a canon of St Cunibert’s of Cologne, located in the German regnum’.66 Given the Pope’s own anger with the German king and large elements of the German episcopate, the Archbishop perhaps reasoned that Hugh could understand Manasses’s objection to intrusive German clerics. If not, the legal implications of Bruno’s German birth were clear enough from Manasses’s point of view: the Pseudo-Isidorian Decretals denied the validity of accusations brought against bishops by ‘those who were not of their people’ (‘qui non sunt eorum gentis’).67 The Archbishop of Reims evidently harboured his share of national or ethnic biases.68 National differences and antipathies were commonly referenced in the Middle Ages, and Reims’s proximity to German-speaking lands and the frequent intervention in West Frankish affairs by the Ottonian kings led its tenth-century historian Richer to comment on the customary hostility between the Germans and the ‘Gauls’.69 But Manasses also self-consciously played up political antagonisms between 64 

Die Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit, ed. by Erdmann and Fickermann, v, no. 107, p. 182: ‘sciens anathemate vestro regem esse obligatum.’ 65  Die Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit, ed. by Erdmann and Fickermann, v, no. 107, p. 182: ‘nos, qui Longobardi non sumus.’ For Lombard resistance to Gregory, see Cowdrey, Pope Gregory VII, pp. 280–89. 66  Recueil des historiens des Gaules, ed. by Brial, xiv, p. 783 (letter of late 1079): ‘nec noster clericus, nec noster natus aut renatus est, sed S. Cuniberti Coloniensis, in regno Teutonicorum positi, canonicus est.’ 67  Meyer, ‘Reims und Rom’, p. 447 n. 4 (decretal of Pseudo-Pelagius). 68  Meyvaert, ‘“Rainaldus est malus scriptor Francigenus”’. 69  Meyvaert, ‘“Rainaldus est malus scriptor Francigenus”’, p. 755; Riché, ‘Expression du sentiment national’; Richer of Saint-Remi, Historiae, ed. by Hoffmann, 1. 20, p. 57.

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Rome, the Lombard bishops, and Germany, by implying that he, and he alone, identified with and understood Rome’s frustrations. Second, Manasses repeatedly insisted that in church matters he was loyal to and ought to be judged by Rome, by which he meant the Pope or clergy who were either Roman-born or members of the Roman church, not ‘ultramontanes’ like the Burgundian Hugh of Die. Manasses claimed to have Rome’s honour and best interests at heart, while the ultramontane legates only wished to line their pockets. Non-Roman legates were hurting the church, he argued in his 1078 letter to Gregory, which might best be served if Rome remembered its past love of Reims — ‘among all churches prepared to obey your law’ — and allowed Manasses to act on Rome’s behalf.70 The Archbishop beseeched Gregory ‘to uphold the dignity which your predecessors reserved for my archiepiscopal predecessors, along with the privileges and other writings they left for the memory of later generations’.71 We do not know to which ‘privileges and writings’ Manasses was referring, but he could easily have taken his pick from the many recorded in Flodoard’s Historia: for instance Pope Hormisdas’s elevation of St Remi as papal vicar for Clovis’s kingdom; or Pope Hadrian’s expansive bull on behalf of Archbishop Tilpin in 789, granting the Archbishop primacy in his province and exclusive subjection to pontifical authority; or perhaps Leo IV’s conferral to Hincmar of the pallium for daily use and confirmation of the ‘bishop of the Remi’ as primas inter primates.72 Flodoard’s history demonstrated at multiple reprises that the church of Reims and the authority of its bishops were products of Roman intention and favour, and Manasses appears to have had this tradition in mind when he wrote to Gregory. The Pope, for his part, was incredulous. 73 Why, he asked, should Rome extend to Reims a consideration which it had extended to no other church? Confronted with the reality that Manasses’s claims undermined his own hardwon vision of the church, Gregory dismissed the Archbishop’s concerns, noting in his return letter that ‘some things may be granted in privileges in respect of matter, person, or time, which, if necessity or greater benefit shall so require, 70 

Sacrorum conciliorum, ed. by Mansi, xx, p. 486; Meyer, ‘Reims und Rom’, pp. 430–31. Sacrorum conciliorum, ed. by Mansi, xx, p.  486: ‘Obsecro…ut dignitatem, quam antecessores vestri antecessoribus meis archiepiscopis servaverunt, et privilegiis, aliisque scriptis ad posterorum memoriam reliquerunt, mihi reservare dignemini.’ 72  Flodoard of Reims, Historia Remensis Ecclesiae, ed. by Stratmann, 2. 17, pp. 168–69; 3.10, pp. 206–07; 4. 1, pp. 365–66; Sot, Un historien et son église au xe siècle, pp. 708–19. 73  Das Register Gregors VII., ed. by Caspar, no. 6. 2 (22 August 1078); Meyer, ‘Reims und Rom’, pp. 431–33. 71 

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may licitly again be altered in these respects’.74 Put in other words, past privileges did not constitute sufficient precedent for continued favours or special consideration, and Gregory reserved for himself the right to alter previous agreements should necessity require it. Gregory held firm against Manasses’s imprecations. The Archbishop’s final letter, a lengthy missive to Hugh of Die giving his reasons for refusing to come to a council the legate had set for Lyon in February 1080, signals a change of tone. Manasses refused to attend partly on the grounds that he and Gregory had previously agreed that he would only be required to come to councils held in partibus Galliarum, to which Lyon, in the Kingdom of Burgundy, did not belong. Manasses insists on this point, and carefully explains the meaning of in partibus Galliarum to Hugh. ‘No one’, he ventures, ‘should consider [it] to mean, “anywhere north of the Alps”.’75 Gregory, moreover, had stipulated that Manasses should be able to assist at the council unharmed, and travelling to Lyon was dangerous. How, Manasses continues, could a legitimate council be held if it occurred where no reverence was shown Manasses or the king? Hence, the Archbishop concludes, there can be no doubt that the partes Galliarum is ‘where the kingdom of France is located’.76 Along these lines, he proposes to Hugh that a council be held in the heart of Capetian lands, ‘in France’, at Compiègne, Reims, Senlis, or Soissons.77 By the time Manasses sat down to write his long complaint to Hugh in late 1079, it is evident how the Pope’s earlier refusal to acknowledge the Archbishop’s claim to a special relationship with Rome had driven him into a corner. This point is rather starkly made when Manasses ceased to identify with Rome and turned for protection and advocacy to the royal court: ‘for we’, he wrote, ‘are the king’s bishop’.78 This really is an exceptional statement from Manasses, who owed his promotion to Hildebrand and Alexander, and is completely without precedent or parallel in his earlier writings. His words signal, from the papal point of view, an opportunity lost. Apart from a few brief years at the end of the eleventh century, close papal collaboration with the Archbishops of Reims would not fully re-engage until the second half of the twelfth century. The political advantage 74 

The Register of Pope Gregory VII, trans. by Cowdrey, p. 276. Recueil des historiens des Gaules, ed. by Brial, xiv, p. 785: ‘Quod dictum est, in partibus Galliarum, nullus aestimare debet de omni parte citra montes Alpium dictum.’ 76  Recueil des historiens des Gaules, ed. by Brial, xiv, p. 785. 77  Recueil des historiens des Gaules, ed. by Brial, xiv, p. 786. 78  Recueil des historiens des Gaules, ed. by Brial, xiv, p. 782: ‘eo quod Regis episcopi sumus.’ 75 

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passed to the Capetians and to King Philip I, who installed Manasses’s successor, Renaud of Montreuil-Bellay (1083–96), and later had his bigamous marriage to Bertrade of Montfort confirmed by him. Gregory’s last known letter to Philip, sent in late December 1080, seems to recognize the change in circumstance. The pontiff orders the king to shun the consort of excommunicates, and to end his friendship with Manasses.79 Fulcoius’s rich correspondence and its frequent imagery of Roman-rémois relations as Manasses envisioned them remind us that one of the casualties of the papal reform movement generally, and of Gregory’s fallout with the Archbishop of Reims specifically, was the value of local historical traditions whose mixture of myth and memory put stock in apostolic and pagan Roman origins. For Manasses and Fulcoius, this past was a fundamental source of understanding about the nature and origins of the Archbishop’s friendship with Popes Alexander and Gregory. To deny the historicity of that relationship as Gregory had done was to undermine a fundamental marker of Reims’s ecclesiastical identity, which, within its own tradition, touted its exceptional, if not unique, status and closeness with Rome. Gregory, given his own historical and ecclesiological understanding of his office, had little choice but to ignore or downplay fantastic local claims of privilege and shared dignity. Moreover, the Pope rarely drew upon the classical tradition for material to support his governing agendas. Thus, Manasses’s appeals to Gregory’s learning and erudition along these lines were bound to fall flat. Gregory VII’s proof texts were scripture, church councils, and the church fathers — not Livy, nor Caesar, nor classical poets.80 The Pope’s rejection of Manasses was not inconsequential. With his historical and amicable connection to Rome sundered, the Archbishop embraced a political alliance centred on the kingdom of France and the person of the king. It is no coincidence that when Manasses reappears in the historical record following his deposition, he is encamped with Henry IV’s army outside Rome, where Benzo of Alba refers to him as the ‘venerable legate of King Philip of France’.81 For Gregory, this outcome was the necessary result of insisting that 79 

Das Register Gregors VII., ed. by Caspar, no. 8. 20 (27 December 1080). Cowdrey, Pope Gregory VII, pp. 495, 514–16. He references classical authors like Cicero, Horace, and Lucan a handful of times in his letters; see The Register of Pope Gregory VII, trans. by Cowdrey, p. 456. 81  Benzo of Alba, Sieben Bücher, ed. by Seyffert, p. 506: ‘Residebat inter eos [Henry IV’s ecclesiastical courtiers] Manases archipresul Remensis nobilis et litteratus, Phylippi regis Francie venerabilis legatus.’ 80 

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his relationship with Manasses was that of a superior to his servant, not a partnership. It could not have surprised Gregory that Manasses sought aid elsewhere, and the pontiff obviously deemed it a risk worth taking in order to end a relationship whose promise had not been realized. The implications for Reims, its Archbishops, and their version of history went somewhat farther. Rather than simply reject an errant Archbishop, the Pope denied the rémois understanding of the past and its exceptional account of the city’s foundations and relationship to Rome. This was a history enshrined by the archbishopric’s official historian, Flodoard, and embraced by the prelates who came after him. By countering with a universal vision of Christian history that denied that any of Rome’s daughter-churches were exemplary, Gregory turned a deaf ear to the proud histories of those churches and their prelates, who, like Manasses, insisted that they were. It is uncertain whether the rémois vision of the past was subsequently redrawn as a result of this rejection. But Gregory’s valuation of local and global narratives of church history could only diminish the power of the former while elevating the prestige of the latter.

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Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Documents Archives Départementales de l’Aisne, G 253 Beauvais, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 11 Meaux, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 63 Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS fonds latin 17043 —— , MS fonds latin 16701

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Newman, William M., Les seigneurs de Nesle en Picardie (xiie–xiiie siècle): Leurs chartes et leur histoire, 2 vols (Philadelphia: American Philosophical Society, 1971) O’Keefe, Peter P., ‘A History of the Metropolitan Office at Rheims from Hincmar (845–882) to the Romana Ecclesia of Innocent IV (1243–1254)’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Fordham University, 1971) Olleris, Alexandre, Lettre sur Fulcoie, archidiacre de Beauvais, à Monsieur Jos. Vict. Le Clerc (Paris: Imprimerie Dondey-Dupré, 1842) Raby, F. J. E., A History of Secular Latin Poetry in the Middle Ages, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1957) Rennie, Kriston R., ‘Extending Gregory VII’s “Friendship Network”: Social Contacts in Late Eleventh-Century France’, History: The Journal of the Historical Association, 93 (2008), 475–96 —— , Law and Practice in the Age of Reform: The Legatine Work of Hugh of Die (1073– 1106), Medieval Church Studies, 17 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2010) Riché, Pierre, ‘Expression du sentiment national dans la correspondance de Gerbert d’Aurillac et dans l’Histoire de Richer de Reims’, in Peuples du Moyen Âge: problèmes d’iden­­ti­fication, ed. by Claude Carozzi and Huguette Taviani-Carozzi (Aix-en-Pro­ vence: Publications de l’Université de Provence, 1996), pp. 131–43 Robinson, Ian Stuart, ‘The Friendship Network of Gregory VII’, History: The Journal of the Historical Association, 63 (1978), 1–22 —— , ‘“Periculosus Homo”: Pope Gregory VII and Episcopal Authority’, Viator, 9 (1978), 103–32 Schieffer, Theodor, Die päpstlichen Legaten in Frankreich, vom Vertrage von Meersen (870) bis zum Schisma von 1130 (Berlin: Ebering, 1935) Sot, Michel, Un historien et son église au xe siècle: Flodoard de Reims (Paris: Fayard, 1993) —— , ‘Le Mythe des origines romaines de Reims au xème siècle’, in Rome et les églises nationales, viie–xiiie siècles: colloque de Malmédy, 2 et 3 juin 1988, ed. by Claude Carozzi and Philippe George (Aix-en-Provence: Publications de l’Université de Provence, 1991), pp. 55–70 Tellenbach, Gerd, The Church in Western Europe from the Tenth to the Early Twelfth Century, trans. by Timothy Reuter (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993) Tilliette, Jean-Yves, ‘Le Retour d’Orphée: réflexions sur la place de Godefroid de Reims dans l’histoire littéraire du xie siècle’, in Latin Culture in the Eleventh Century: Proceedings of the Third International Conference on Medieval Latin Studies, Cambridge, September 9–12, 1998, ed. by Michael W. Herren, C. J. McDonough, and Ross G. Arthur, 2 vols (Turnhout: Brepols, 2002), ii, pp. 449–63 Vaughn, Sally N., Anselm of Bec and Robert of Meulan: The Innocence of the Dove and the Wisdom of the Serpent (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1987) Williams, John R., ‘Archbishop Manasses I of Rheims and Pope Gregory VII’, American Historical Review, 54 (1949), 804–24 —— , ‘The Cathedral School of Rheims in the Eleventh Century’, Speculum, 29 (1954), 661–77 —— , ‘Godfrey of Rheims, a Humanist of the Eleventh Century’, Speculum, 22 (1947), 29–45

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Wilmart, André, ‘Deux lettres concernant Raoul le Verd, l’ami de Saint Bruno’, Revue bénédictine, 51 (1939), 257–74 Wilmart, Mickaël, ‘Education et culture à Meaux et à Provins du xiie au xive siècle. Tentative d’approche’, in L’education en Brie à travers les siècles: Actes du colloque de Meaux, 18 novembre 2000, ed. by Mickaël Wilmart, Cahiers de Meaux, 1 (Étrépilly: Presses du Village, 2003), pp. 39–53; online at [accessed 21 November 2012] —— , ‘Foulcoie de Beauvais, itinéraire d’un intellectuel du xie siècle’, Bulletin de la Société Littéraire et Historique de la Brie, 57 (2002), 35–52

Rewriting St Wulfstan of Worcester, the Last Anglo-Saxon Bishop, in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries Sherry Reames

T

he most famous story about St  Wulfstan, who served as bishop of Worcester from 1062 to 1095, is a fictional one that did not originate among the Worcester monks who had personal memories and communal traditions about Wulfstan, but with Osbert of Clare, Prior of Westminster, who was writing to promote the cult of Edward the Confessor. This story, related first in Osbert’s Vita of King Edward (c. 1138) and two decades later in Aelred of Rievaulx’s influential revision of that Vita, explains Wulfstan’s long survival in office after the Conquest as the result of a miracle at Edward’s tomb that vindicated him when the new regime tried to depose him.1 Although the surrounding details vary, the gist of the story is always the same. Wulfstan is said to have insisted on returning his episcopal staff to Edward, the king who had entrusted it to him, and once he had deposited it in the stonework around Edward’s tomb the stone held it fast, miraculously preventing its removal by anyone except Wulfstan himself. Thus the new rulers were forced to yield and seek Wulfstan’s forgiveness, having recognized that God and St Edward clearly wanted him to remain in office.

1 

Osbert of Clare, Vita Ædwardi Regis, ed. by Bloch. See also Aelred, Opera omnia, ed. by Migne, cols 779–81; for a recent English translation, see Aelred of Rievaulx, trans. by Freeland, pp. 220–25. Sherry Reames is Professor emerita of English and Medieval Studies at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 303–329 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102236

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The dramatic story of St Wulfstan’s staff was very popular with medieval English audiences, to judge by the number of surviving retellings and adaptations. It must also have been effective in calling attention to the sanctity of Wulfstan (as well as Edward), at least marginally strengthening the case for his canonization (which finally occurred in 1203, some forty years after Edward’s), and promoting his cult thereafter. From the perspective of the Worcester community, however, the fictional story about his staff was a mixed blessing, as we shall see. It lessened Wulfstan’s stature as a bishop, implicitly denying the strengths of character and intelligence that his followers remembered as having enabled him to survive and even flourish under the Normans, and making him dependent on miraculous help. The staff story was also hard to reconcile with local traditions about Bishop Wulfstan’s success in increasing the resources of his church — a success attributed in large part to his good working relationships with the new Norman rulers. Given the competing attractions of the staff story and the local Worcester traditions, later accounts of Wulfstan are remarkably inconsistent with each other, and they provide unusual opportunities to see the hagiographers in one medieval community grappling with their subject — trying to resolve the contradictions in the sources about their patron saint and also to produce the best version of the saint’s image to meet the perceived needs of their own time. The remainder of this paper will trace four stages in the writing and rewriting of Wulfstan’s legend: early traditions (through William of Malmesbury’s Vita Wulfstani, 1124–42), Aelred’s version of the staff story (c. 1160) and its possible influence on King John (who reigned from 1199 to 1216), the staff story in Senatus’s abridged Life of Wulfstan (later twelfth century), and thirteenth-century Worcester accounts.2 The successive stages are worth studying because each stage of rewriting seems to have its own logic and rationale, suggesting both the changing needs and priorities of Wulfstan’s own community and the extraordinary mutability of the criteria for an ideal bishop during these two centuries.

2  My research has benefited greatly from the historical essay by Mason, ‘St Wulfstan’s Staff ’, and her full-length study of Wulfstan’s life and cult, Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester. The present essay attempts to go beyond Mason’s work by focusing specifically on the development of Wulfstan’s legend at Worcester and making detailed comparisons between different versions of the legend.

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Early Worcester Traditions Regarding Bishop Wulfstan The first full-scale Life of Wulfstan, written in Anglo-Saxon before 1113 by Coleman, a Worcester monk who had served during Wulfstan’s life as his chaplain and later his chancellor, is no longer extant, having vanished early in the thirteenth century after it was sent to Rome in support of his canonization. Since William of Malmesbury used Coleman’s work as the principal source for his own Vita Wulfstani (1124–42), historians have generally relied on this Latin Vita as the most authoritative account of Wulfstan’s life.3 Less conventionally hagiographical than the Latin Vita, however, and probably a more trustworthy indication of the way Wulfstan’s community initially wanted to remember him, are three other sources: the account of Wulfstan’s career in William’s Gesta pontificum anglorum (1125), also based primarily on Coleman, and the accounts by Hemming (c. 1100?) and John of Worcester (before 1140), two other monks in Wulfstan’s community who had known him during their youth. All three texts present Wulfstan as not only a saintly bishop, who retained the humility and abstemious habits of his monastic training, but also a capable and intelligent one, who actively governed his diocese, maintained good working relationships with both Anglo-Saxon and Norman kings, and energetically defended the interests of his monastery and his see. Hemming’s brief overview of Wulfstan’s career, in both Anglo-Saxon and Latin, which may predate even the lost Life by Coleman, is found in his Cartulary. The preface to this Cartulary emphasizes the careful attention that Wulfstan himself paid to the old charters and other documents that recorded grants of property and privileges to the monastery. It was Wulfstan who ordered him to make permanent copies of all these documents, as Hemming explains: Erat namque idem reverentissimus pater noster, licet secularium rerum minime cupidus, hujus monasterii plurimum studens semper utilitatibus, et ne sua, ut quorundam predecessorum suorum, negligentia, comissa sibi ecclesia damnum aliquid posteris temporibus pateretur, pro posse suo precavebat providus.4 3  The most easily identified differences between the Latin Vita and the Anglo-Saxon version by Coleman are discussed by Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester, pp. 289–96. For a more ambitious attempt to differentiate between William of Malmesbury’s contributions to the Vita and the features attributable to Coleman, see Orchard, ‘Parallel Lives’. 4  Hemming’s cartulary survives in one manuscript and an early edition in Hemingi Chartularium, ed. by Hearne, on which I have relied; the present quotation appears in i, p. 284. Throughout this paper I have silently modernized capitalization and punctuation and normalized the distribution of u/v and i/j when quoting from medieval texts that have not

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For this, our most reverend father, though he coveted little the things of this world, strove with might and main for what was of advantage to this monastery. And he exercised the most watchful care lest in the ages to come the church committed to his charge should suffer loss from any negligence on his part, as has happened in the case of some of his predecessors.5

Hemming’s preface, which he calls the ‘Enucleatio libelli’, also emphasizes the grievous losses that the monastery has suffered in his own day, and he blames the current king (most likely William Rufus) for fostering injustice and lawlessness instead of order.6 [E]a maxime intentione composui, ut posteris nostris claresceret, que et quante possessiones terrarum ditioni hujus monasteri adjacere, ad victum dumtaxat servorum Dei, monachorum videlicet, jure deberent, quamque injuste vi et dolis spoliati his caremus. […] Quantum tamen ad meam attinet dispositionem hec est, ut, si quando, Dei gratia concedente, cor regis justitia, qua nunc marcescit, consolidetur, lexque, que nunc injustis principibus confusa est, justitia fulciente stabilietur, sciat sive episcopus, sive decanus, vel aliquis prelatus hujus monasterii, dum tempus aptum invenerit, quomodo eas proclamet, quomodo eas expetat.[…].7 My chief purpose has been to make clear to future generations the nature and size of the estates which ought of right to belong to this monastery, for the support of the servants of God, to wit, the monks; and to show how by force or fraud we have been unjustly despoiled and deprived of them. […] As far as my intention goes it is this: that when, someday, by God’s grace, the heart of the king shall be [e]stablished in justice (which now is in decay), and the law, which in our time has been thrown into confusion by the unrighteousness of princes, shall be reinstated, the bishop, the prior, or some other official of the monastery may know, when the right moment comes, how to claim the estates and to demand their restitution […].8

already been edited in these ways; all unattributed translations are my own. The fullest and most useful discussion of Hemming’s work is still that of Atkins, ‘The Church of Worcester’. On the manuscript, see Ker, ‘Hemming’s Cartulary’. 5  Atkins, ‘The Church of Worcester’, p. 3. 6  John of Worcester’s Chronicle is eloquent on the crimes of William Rufus in particular, accusing him not only of taxing the church heavily to support his wars, but also of selling some churches and destroying others to create the New Forest. The Worcester church had particular reasons to resent this king because of the sizable fees he exacted from both the diocesan officers and many of the monks when he took possession of the see after Wulfstan’s death; for details, see Atkins, ‘The Church of Worcester’, pp. 209–10. 7  Hemingi Chartularium, ed. by Hearne, i, pp. 282–83. 8  Atkins, ‘The Church of Worcester’, p. 2.

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As one might expect from Hemming’s statements here, property transactions loom large in his overview of Wulfstan’s career. In fact, the Anglo-Saxon version consists largely of a list of the estates that were added or restored to the endowment of the bishopric and monastery during Wulfstan’s tenure, with the benefactors’ names. 9 Most prominent among the benefactors is ‘King William’ — not William Rufus but his father, William the Conqueror. The Anglo-Saxon version offers no reason for these grants beyond the general statement that kings, earls, and ealdormen all honoured Wulfstan and asked for his prayers; but the Latin version adds a little explanation, asserting that King William in particular loved and honoured him above other men and in response to his request granted him two estates and restored five others to his possession, all of which Wulfstan subsequently donated to the monastery: A Willelmo quoque rege ceteris amplius amabatur, ceteris amplius majoris et minoris glorie viris pro vite sue merito honorabatur. Cui poscenti dedit terram duorum cassatorum, que Cullaclif dicitur, at alteram xv cassatorum, que Alfestun nominatur. Has insuper terras, Myttun scilicet et Eastun, et duas Linderycgeas, et Penhyll, et Grimanleah sibi reddidit. Que ille omnia Thome venerabili priori […] commisit.10 By King William he was loved more than others and honoured more for the merit of his life than other men of greater and lesser renown. When he asked, the king gave him the estate of two hides of land called Cullaclif [Cookley], and another estate of fifteen hides called Alveston. In addition, the king restored to him these lands, namely Mitton and Aston and two Lindenridges [Lindridge] and Penn Hall and Grimley. And he entrusted them all to Thomas, the reverend prior (trans. mine, with place names from Atkins).11

John of Worcester and William of Malmesbury portray Wulfstan’s care for Worcester properties and his good relationships with kings in more vivid and specific ways. Especially noteworthy are the stories that illustrate his loyal support for the English throne, whatever his feelings about its current occu9 

For the Anglo-Saxon version, see Hemingi Chartularium, ed. by Hearne, ii, pp. 403–05; modern English translation in Atkins, ‘The Church of Worcester’, pp. 208–09. 10  Hemingi Chartularium, ed. by Hearne, ii, p. 407. 11  For more specific information on the grants attributed to William I, see The Cartulary of Worcester Cathedral Priory, ed. by Darlington, esp. the introduction and documents 2, 3, 5, 23, 259, and 260. William’s generosity to Wulfstan’s church is corroborated by the inclusion of his obit in the calendar of the manuscript known as Wulfstan’s Collectar (Cambridge Corpus Christi College, MS 391).

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pant. William of Malmesbury portrays him in the Vita as having accompanied King Harold Godwinson to Northumbria in 1066 to help persuade the rebels there to accept his rule, but also as having warned Harold along the way about ‘quanto detrimento et sibi et Angliae foret’ (‘what damage he would do both to himself and to England’) unless he corrected his subjects’ wicked behaviour.12 William of Malmesbury’s Gesta pontificum also quotes him as refusing after the Conquest to sympathize with Englishmen who complained about King William I: ‘respondit: “Flagellum Dei est quod patimini”. Referentibus illis nichil deteriores Anglos fuisse quam Normannos esse, dixit: “Malis ergo illorum bene in vos utitur Deus, et per indignos exercet ultionem in meritos”’ (‘[He said]: “It is the scourge of God that you are suffering”. When they retorted that the English had been no worse in the past than the Normans were now, Wulfstan said, ‘Well is it then that God uses their evil-doing against you, and wreaks his revenge on those who deserve it in the persons of those who do not’).13 John of Worcester’s entry for 1066 presents a more positive view of William’s Anglo-Saxon rivals to the throne, praising Harold’s virtues at some length, lamenting his fall at Hastings, and mentioning the short-lived efforts of some (mostly unidentified) English leaders to form a coalition thereafter to support the claims of Edgar Atheling. Once that effort has failed, however, John acknowledges Wulfstan’s presence (along with Ealdred of York and the bishop of Hereford) in the delegation that recognized William as the new king, formally submitted to him, and swore to serve him faithfully.14 More tellingly, John’s entry for 1074 has Wulfstan and the abbot of Evesham joining their own military forces with those of Urse, the Norman sheriff of Worcester, to help suppress a rebellion against King William I by the earl of Hereford. And the entry for 1088 presents a detailed and dramatic story about Wulfstan’s personal role during the civil war between William Rufus and his brother Robert, when the king’s outnumbered loyalists gathered at Worcester and the holy bishop miraculously enabled them to repel a huge attacking army by sending them into

12 

William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, ed. and trans. by Winterbottom and Thomson, i. 16. 2–3. 13  William of Malmesbury, Gesta pontificum anglorum, ed. and trans. by Winterbottom and Thomson, i. 42. 5–6β, vol. i, pp. 94–95. The β following the section number identifies this passage as coming from a portion of the text that was omitted from Hamilton’s edition and restored by Winterbottom. 14  John of Worcester, Chronicle, ed. and trans. by Darlington and McGurk, vol.  ii, pp. 598–607.

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battle with his blessing and adding a powerful curse on the enemy forces as they approached the city. As Emma Mason has explained, a saintly bishop’s interventions on behalf of the monarchy would have made perfect sense in Wulfstan’s own day, since the central role of the king was then reinforced by both the principles of the monastic reform movement and the experience of the last Danish invasions, when the consecrated king had become the living symbol of unity and survival for England’s besieged Christian community.15 But some of these stories about Wulfstan clearly conflicted with later notions of saintly conduct. Coleman’s Anglo-Saxon Life of Wulfstan must have included at least the 1088 story of Wulfstan’s support for William Rufus since William of Malmesbury briefly retells it in Gesta pontificum, iv. 144, and also (with different emphases) in Gesta regum, iv. 306. 4. However, despite the hagiographical elements in this story William of Malmesbury excludes it from his own Vita of Wulfstan, and thereafter it seems to disappear entirely from the hagiographical traditions on Wulfstan. The 1074 story of Wulfstan’s role in suppressing the rebellion against King William I is not retold even in William’s historical works. As Nicholas Brooks has noted, ‘[the] omission of these stories […] probably reflects unease at any image of Wulfstan as a warrior bishop’.16 Even more significant, in comparison with later accounts of Wulfstan, is another early story about Wulfstan’s dealings with the monarchy that William of Malmesbury chose to retain and revise. In John of Worcester’s Chronicle the story begins with William I’s great council at Winchester in 1070, which (according to John) removed from office not only the corrupt Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury, and his brother Æthelmær, but a number of other church leaders whose only apparent crime was being English: […] in quorum locum sue gentis personas subrogaret, ob confirmationem scilicet sui quod noviter adquisierat regni. Hinc et nonnullos, tam episcopos quam abbates, quos nulla evidenti causa nec concilia nec leges seculi damnabant, suis honoribus privavit, et usque ad finem vite custodie mancipatos detinuit, suspitione […] tantum inductus novi regni. In their place [William] would appoint men of his own race and strengthen his position in the newly acquired kingdom. He stripped of their offices many bishops and abbots who had not been condemned for any obvious cause, whether of

15  16 

Mason, ‘St Wulfstan’s Staff ’, pp. 165–66. Brooks, ‘Introduction’, p. 10.

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conciliar or secular law. He kept them in prison for life simply on suspicion […] of being opposed to the new kingdom.17

At this dangerous juncture, John says, only Wulfstan had the courage to stand up and ask the new king and his supporters to resolve a past injustice to his see: In hoc itaque consilio, dum ceteri trepidi, utpote regis agnoscentes animum, ne suis honoribus privarentur timerent, venerandus vir Wulstanus, Wigornensis episcopus, possessiones quamplures sui episcopatus ab Aldredo arciepiscopo, dum a Wigornensi ecclesia ab Eboracensem transferretur, sua potentia retentos, qui tunc eo defuncto in regiam potestatem devenerant, constanter proclamabat, expetebat, justitiamque inde fieri tam ab ipsis qui concilio preerant, quam a rege flagitabat. In this synod also, while others, aware of the king’s resolve, were afraid of losing their honours, the venerable Wulfstan, bishop of Worcester, was fearless and asked for many lands of his see which had been retained by Archbishop Ealdred when he was transferred from the church of Worcester to York, which had, on his death, come under royal control. Wulfstan demanded that justice be done both by those who were at the council and by the king.18

Here we have the closest early approximation to the later legend of Wulfstan’s staff — most obviously, in the image of the saint standing alone before unfriendly Norman authorities. What is being tested in this story, however, is not Wulfstan’s right to remain a bishop, but his determination to restore to Worcester the lands and revenues that Ealdred, his predecessor and one-time mentor, had transferred to the possession of York. In effect, he is filing a lawsuit over property rights against the archdiocese of York. From the perspective of John’s Chronicle, this deed is saintly because it shows Wulfstan’s willingness to risk his own deposition or worse in order to restore the endowment of his church. The saint does of course prevail, but lawsuits do not lend themselves easily to the conventions of hagiography. In John’s retelling, the ultimate victory sounds less like an act of God than a vindication of Wulfstan’s emphasis on good record-keeping: Cunctis siquidem machinamentis non veritate stipatis, quibus Thomas [the new arch­ bishop of York] ejusque fautores Wigornensem ecclesiam deprimere, et Eboracensi ecclesie subicere, ancillamque facere modis omnibus satagebant, justo Dei judicio ac scriptis evidentissimis detritis, et penitus annichilatis […]

17  18 

John of Worcester, Chronicle, ed. and trans. by Darlington and McGurk, iii, pp. 12–13. John of Worcester, Chronicle, ed. and trans. by Darlington and McGurk, iii, pp. 12–13.

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All the machinations, none founded in the truth, by which Thomas and his abettors tried by all means to lower the church of Worcester, subject it to the church of York, and make it its handmaiden were quashed and destroyed completely by the fair judgement of God and the clearest evidence of the documents.19

And the crucial result, as John presents it, is the validation and renewal by King William of all the ancient charters, restoring to Wulfstan’s community even more lands and freedoms than the saint had requested.20 When William of Malmesbury relates this same story in Vita Wulfstani, ii. 1. 2–8, he nudges it much closer to conventional hagiography. He makes Wulfstan’s victory sound more miraculous by omitting any mention of documents and portraying the saint as a completely unworldly figure who relies solely on prayer and refuses even to think ahead about what to say before the court. The Vita adds further hagiographical colouring by elaborating the portrayal of Thomas of York and his key allies as powerful and unscrupulous men who use every means available, including bribery, to pursue their claims against Wulfstan, with Lanfranc of Canterbury alone resisting their influence. With regard to King William, however, the Vita treads much more cautiously than John’s Chronicle did. Instead of representing a potential persecutor in this story, the king acts solely as the wise judge — almost the voice of God — who issues the proper verdict. The Vita’s version of this story also redefines the issues in dispute. It raises the stakes by having Archbishop Thomas claim the right to be bishop of Worcester, not just retain some of the see’s lands, and stressing the importance of this question not only for Worcester but also for the jurisdictional claims of Canterbury as against those of York. And it climaxes the story not with the king’s confirmation of additional Worcester charters, but with Lanfranc’s appointment of Wulfstan to oversee a second diocese, the vacant see of Chester, as well as his own. Wulfstan’s success in restoring other lost Worcester properties is still mentioned (being too important to omit), but it is downgraded to a single sentence and relegated to a prefatory passage about King William’s love and reverence for the saint: Rex […] Willelmus nullo umquam sanctum virum affecit incommodo, quin immo multo eum honore veritus patrem et venerabatur amore et dignabatur nomine. Wlstanus ergo, benignitatem temporum nactus, multas Wigornensis aecclesiae possessiones, quas vel olim Danorum impudentia vel nuper Aldredi archiepiscopi potentia eliminaverat, usibus debitis reformavit. Sic ei regis favebat dignatio, sic 19  20 

John of Worcester, Chronicle, ed. and trans. by Darlington and McGurk, iii, pp. 16–17. John of Worcester, Chronicle, ed. and trans. by Darlington and McGurk, iii, pp. 16–17.

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sanctitas rerum dominos ad se diligendum invitat, sic religio aliis timendos ad sui reverentiam inclinat. King William never caused the holy man any problems. Rather, he honoured and respected him, venerating him as a father and dignifying him by that name. So Wulfstan took advantage of the good times, and brought back to their proper status many possessions of the church of Worcester which had been taken away by the shameless Danes of old or more recently by Ealdred’s overweening power. For such was the favour that the king deigned to afford him; indeed, holiness causes even the lords of the world to love it.21

Thus the Vita already betrays more discomfort than earlier Worcester sources did with the image of the saintly bishop as a successful defender of the property rights claimed by his own community, but also goes beyond them in its claims about Wulfstan’s warm relationship with King William.

The Twelfth-Century Story of Wulfstan’s Staff and King John’s Choice of a Patron Saint In the middle years of the twelfth century, when hagiographers from elsewhere devised the story of Wulfstan’s staff, they provided an appealingly simple alternative to the complex Worcester traditions about the saint’s character and relations with the Norman monarchy. Although Osbert of Clare was the first hagiographer to relate the staff story, the revision by Aelred of Rievaulx is the version from which nearly all subsequent retellings descend.22 As both Osbert and Aelred present the story, the challenge to Wulfstan comes from Lanfranc, the very learned new archbishop of Canterbury, who has undertaken to reform the English church after the Conquest and demands the return of Wulfstan’s staff because he has been informed that Wulfstan is too ignorant and ‘simple’ to be a good bishop. Wulfstan humbly confesses his unworthiness, but once he has deposited the staff at Edward’s tomb not even Lanfranc himself can retrieve it. In its original context, the Vita S. Edwardi, this story thus presents what Marsha Dutton calls ‘a highly public manifestation of Edward’s continuing interest in and authority over matters in the English church, outweighing even that of

21  William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, ed. and trans. by Winterbottom and Thomson, ii. 1. 1–2, pp. 60–61. 22  On the evidence for the wide circulation of Aelred’s Vita S. Edwardi and its later adaptations in Latin and several vernaculars, see Dutton, ‘The Staff in the Stone’, p. 7.

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Lanfranc’.23 Lanfranc is not denigrated, however. Indeed, Aelred departs from Osbert’s account by presenting two models of episcopal virtue, affirming not only the righteous simplicity of the humble monastic bishop Wulfstan, but also the goodness of the scholar-reformer bishop Lanfranc, who reacts to the staff miracle with great generosity and humility of his own. Aelred, who was writing in part for Henry II, also carefully endorses the ideal of cooperation between church and king, not only in the pre-Conquest figure of St Edward, but also in Henry’s Norman ancestor William I, who is called in at the conclusion to witness the staff miracle and participate in the apologies to Wulfstan and the general rejoicing. The only villains in this story are the nameless informants who gave Lanfranc such a pejorative picture of Wulfstan. The story of Wulfstan’s staff became so popular that multiple versions of it survive in Anglo-French and Middle English, as well as Latin, and visual representations proliferated as well. The image of the holy bishop at King Edward’s tomb, sometimes both depositing and removing his staff, became the standard iconography for St Wulfstan, with examples known to have existed in tapestries at Westminster Abbey, wall paintings in both Worcester and Norwich Cathedrals, and stained glass at Worcester, Wells, and St Albans. 24 Marsha Dutton has argued convincingly that the story of Wulfstan’s staff may even have had a significant impact on secular literature, by inspiring the Arthurian legend of the sword in the stone.25 The story also served some unexpected political agendas in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, as Emma Mason has shown. Gerald of Wales produced an imaginative variation on the story, giving the role of Wulfstan’s chief antagonist to Urse, the Norman sheriff of Worcester, who supposedly wanted the bishop replaced because he had opposed Urse’s encroachments on church lands; here, then, the miraculous vindication of Wulfstan proved the righteousness of defending church property against the greed of powerful laymen, and also expressed a more specific resentment against abuses of power by local Norman officials.26 According to the Burton annals, the story was also appropriated in 1211 by King John, who in his fierce dispute with the papacy over the appoint23 

Dutton, ‘The Staff in the Stone’, p. 8. On the visual representations, see Flower, ‘A Metrical Life of St Wulfstan’; Park, ‘Simony and Sanctity’. 25  Dutton, ‘The Staff in the Stone’, pp. 3–4 and pp. 6–16. 26  Mason, ‘St Wulfstan’s Staff ’, pp. 168–69 (n. 173). Gerald of Wales, Opera, ed. by Brewer, Speculum ecclesie, iv. 34, vol. iv, pp. 343–44. 24 

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ment of Stephen Langton cited Wulfstan’s account of how Edward made him bishop to support his own claim that it had traditionally been the prerogative of English kings to appoint bishops, archbishops, and abbots. In response Pandulf, the papal legate, reportedly informed John that he was drawing the wrong lesson from this historical precedent and went on to trump John’s argument with his own interpretation of the staff story.27 Mason and other historians have cited King John’s reported use of the staff story to help explain this king’s decision to adopt Wulfstan as his patron saint. The account of John’s debate with Pandulf in the Burton annals is highly implausible, it seems to me, because both parties refer to a popularized version of the staff legend that is full of anti-Norman embellishments; but John might realistically have known and appreciated a version like Aelred’s, which endorses the ideal of cooperation between bishops and kings.28 And Worcester’s own traditions — including both the Vita by William of Malmesbury and the more historical accounts of Wulfstan’s loyal assistance to some of John’s ancestors — might well have reinforced the belief of John or his advisors that Wulfstan would be a good patron saint for a controversial ruler who was often at odds with the church. As Mason puts it, ‘Notwithstanding King John’s imprecise knowledge of the Bishop’s heritage and achievements, he could scarcely have chosen a more apposite champion than St Wulfstan.’29

27 

Mason, ‘St Wulfstan’s Staff ’, pp.  159–62. For the debate in the Burton Annals, see Annales monastici, ed. by Luard, i, pp. 209–15. 28  Here are the key lines from the synopsis of the story attributed to the king, with italics added to indicate significant departures from Aelred’s version: ‘Dum Willelmus Bastardus, conquestor Angliae, voluit ei auferre episcopatum quia nescivit Gallicum, respondens Sanctus Wlstanus Bastardo ait, “Mihi non contulisti baculum, nec tibi reddam”; sed ivit ad tumulum Sancti Edwardi et dixit in lingua sua, “Edwarde, dedisti mihi baculum, nec possum tenere pro rege, et ideo illum tibi committo: et si potestis defendere, defende”’ (‘When William the Bastard, conqueror of England, wanted to deprive him of the bishopric because he did not know French, St Wulfstan answered, “You did not grant me my staff, and I will not surrender it to you”. Instead, he went to the tomb of St Edward, and said in his native language, “Edward, you gave me my staff, and now I cannot hold it, because of the king, so I commit it to you. And if you can keep it, then defend it”’) (trans. by Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester, p. 282). Highly partisan retellings of the staff story like this were common later in the thirteenth century, raising the possibility that the Burton annalist might have composed or elaborated this part of the debate between Pandulf and John well after the fact and borrowed the details from an account popular in his own time. The other surviving source on the debate lacks the whole discussion of the staff story. 29  Mason, ‘St Wulfstan’s Staff ’, p. 171.

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Whatever motivated King John’s choice of Wulfstan as his patron saint, he left posterity in no doubt about the choice itself. Just before he died in 1216, the king renounced his long-stated intention to be buried at Beaulieu, the Cistercian abbey he himself had founded, and requested burial instead in Worcester Cathedral beside the recently canonized Wulfstan.30 His followers complied, despite the difficulty of transporting his body from Newark Castle, where he had died, to Worcester in the midst of the ongoing civil war. Two years later, with England at peace again, Wulfstan was officially translated from his tomb to an actual shrine, and King John was reburied next to him. The presiding prelate was Sylvester, the new bishop of Worcester, whose predecessor Bishop Mauger had fled to France to escape John’s rage after proclaiming the papal interdict against him and had died there, still in exile. Among the other participants in this great symbolic ceremony of forgiveness and reconciliation were ten additional English and Welsh bishops, more than seventeen abbots, and John’s eleven-year-old son, the young Henry III.31 Despite the power of its imagery, however, the 1218 translation did not breathe new life into the old image of Wulfstan as a patron of concord and mutual help between the church and the crown. Before the end of the twelfth century, as we shall see, some Worcester church leaders had started using the staff story to redefine Wulfstan’s relationship with the monarchy, and the process of redefinition would grow apace in the decades after his translation.

The Staff Story in Senatus’s Account of Wulfstan (Later Twelfth Century) During Roger of Gloucester’s episcopate (1164–79), the Worcester monk Senatus produced a new, shorter Life of the not-yet-canonized Wulfstan and presented it to the bishop, along with a new Life of St Oswald. For the most part, this ‘Abridged Life’ of Wulfstan (the title given to it by Darlington) simply condenses the Vita Wulfstani by William of Malmesbury and updates the end by adding some recently fulfilled prophecies and two recent miracles. But Senatus also makes a few notable additions to the middle of the Vita, the largest and most conspicuous of which is an abbreviated version of Aelred’s story about the miracle of Wulfstan’s staff. At the end of this story he pauses to jus30 

Mason, ‘St Wulfstan’s Staff ’, p. 282; Draper, ‘King John and St Wulfstan’. Annals of Worcester Cathedral Priory, Annales monastici, ed. by Luard, iv, pp. 409–10; Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester, p. 283; Mason, ‘St Wulfstan’s Staff ’, pp. 170–71; Draper, ‘King John and St Wulfstan’, p. 45. 31 

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tify its inclusion despite its previous absence from written Lives of Wulfstan: ‘Hujus autem memoria miraculi usque adeo per Angliam grata et celebris habita est, quod non fuit opus scripto comprehendere, quod erat omnium assertione et attestatione subnixum’32 (‘The memory of this miracle was considered so pleasing and famous everywhere in England that there was no need to capture it in writing, because it was supported by the declaration and testimony of everyone’). The unstated purpose behind this addition was of course to help popularize Wulfstan’s legend and cult, as Senatus and Bishop Roger were also trying to do with the cult of Oswald, Worcester’s other bishop-saint. The legend of Wulfstan’s staff obviously has much broader appeal than the more historical story of Wulfstan’s victory in court over the archbishop of York for the sake of Worcester church properties and the primacy of Canterbury. Senatus also revises the narrative that frames the staff miracle as Aelred told it. He moves King William from the periphery of the story, where Aelred had him, to the centre, making him Wulfstan’s chief antagonist, and says nothing about the need to reform the English church, replacing that benign reason for demanding Wulfstan’s episcopal staff and ring with the king’s desire to consolidate his power by replacing English office-holders as fast as possible with his own Norman ones: ‘Jubetur ergo baculum resignare cum anulo. Et quia rex ab honoribus pristinis Anglos extirpare et suos erigere satagebat, ut regnum sic facilius sibi conciliaretur in solidum, instabat importune precipiendo’33 (‘[Wulfstan] was therefore ordered to give back his staff with the ring. And since the king was busy rooting out Englishmen from their former places of honour and raising up his own men, so that he could more easily win over the kingdom as a whole, he eagerly and unseasonably pressed for its [the staff ’s] taking in advance’). At the end of the story Senatus nearly obliterates Aelred’s suggestions of mutual help and good will between church and crown, retaining Lanfranc’s apology and reconciliation with Wulfstan, but not the king’s, and omitting Aelred’s closing point about King William’s subsequent generosity to the cult of his predecessor.34 32  Senatus, Vita Wulfstani, ed. by Darlington, i. 12, p. 78. Darlington based his edition on the earliest surviving manuscript, Durham Chapter Library, MS B.IV.39b (thirteenth century), but also included some notes on the major variants in the other manuscripts known in his time, BL, MS Harley 322, and BL, MS Lansdowne 436. 33  Senatus, Vita Wulfstani, ed. by Darlington, i. 12, p. 77. 34  Although this final omission is not surprising in an account written for Worcester rather than Westminster, it noticeably changes the tone.

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If Senatus’s account of Wulfstan was written after 1173, these small changes in the staff story may suggest a specific desire at Worcester to emulate the successful new cult of Thomas Becket at Canterbury. In any event, they have the effect of significantly raising the stakes in the demand for Wulfstan’s staff, transforming an intra-church argument over the qualifications for episcopal office into the unsuccessful persecution of a saintly bishop by an unsaintly king. Senatus is rather diplomatic in his account of the Conquest, however, refraining from harsh judgements on either William or Harold Godwinson and presenting the history in enough detail to suggest some of its complexities and ambiguities. It may be relevant that Bishop Roger, for whom he was writing, was a cousin of Henry II. Despite the potential advantages of the staff story, it could hardly be incorporated into the Worcester narrative of Wulfstan’s life without conflicting with important local traditions. As it happens, the problem is clearly illustrated by the very next chapter in the Abridged Life, for Senatus moves directly from the staff story to the first post-Conquest episode in the Vita Wulfstani: Wulfstan’s success in restoring lost Worcester properties, thanks to his good relations with King William and the just verdict in his lawsuit against the new archbishop of York. The most obvious problem here is the unresolved contradiction between the portrayals, in successive chapters, of the king and his attitude towards Wulfstan. If William I was intent on using ecclesiastical appointments for his own political advantage, why did he start favouring Wulfstan and responding generously to his requests?35 Senatus does not answer that question directly. Instead, as if anxious to forestall any idea that Wulfstan might have been politically savvy enough to help such a king achieve his goals, Senatus begins the next chapter by redoubling William of Malmesbury’s emphasis on the saintly bishop’s ‘simplicity’ or naiveté in worldly matters: Et quoniam filii hujus regni prudentiores sunt filiis lucis in generatione sua, quante simplicitatis fuerit iste in exterioribus ubi silentium turbo strepentium confundit, etiam exemplum subnectam.36

35 

The Lansdowne manuscript of Senatus’s account resolves the contradictions between this material and the staff story by the simple but drastic expedient of omitting the whole chapter on Wulfstan’s success in restoring Worcester properties. But Senatus himself, who would eventually become prior of the monastery, evidently regarded the restored Worcester properties and the charters from King William as indispensable parts of Wulfstan’s legacy. 36  Senatus, Vita Wulfstani, ed. by Darlington, i. 13, p. 78.

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And since the sons of this realm are wiser than the sons of light in their generation [Luke 16. 8], I will add another example illustrating how ‘simple’ he was with regard to outward things, in which [inner] stillness is disturbed by a storm of clamourers.

The theme of Wulfstan’s ‘simplicity’ also becomes more problematic, however, when the story of his staff is included in his vita. For this was the charge against him by the enemies in that story who wanted him deposed: in Senatus’s version, borrowed almost verbatim from Aelred, ‘simplicitatis et impericie accusatus Wlstanus, et quasi homo idiota et sine literis deponendus decernitur.’37 Aelred’s most recent translator renders ‘simplicitatis et impericie’ as ‘simplemindedness and ignorance’ and ‘quasi homo idiota et sine literis deponendus’ as ‘he was to be deposed as if he were an uneducated and illiterate man’.38 The quasi, however, is sufficiently ambiguous in this sentence to imply that Wulfstan actually was or appeared to be uneducated and illiterate. In any case, there is no doubt about the kind of ignorance that Wulfstan’s critics had in mind. When Aelred told this story, he attempted to redeem Wulfstan’s ‘simplicity and ignorance’ by giving Lanfranc a later speech that implicitly redefines simplicitas as innocence or guilelessness, a virtue, and turns impericia into ‘a little knowledge’, which becomes a strength when used well.39 Senatus’s abridged version does not include that speech, though it makes a gesture in the same direction by having Lanfranc say that Wulfstan’s simplicity is pleasing to God, who shows the wisdom of this world to be foolish.40 But such distinctions are subtler and less memorable than the idea of Wulfstan’s ignorance, and most later retellings of the story do not even try to make them.41 Despite the importance to Worcester of his successful efforts to defend and augment the endowment of his church, and despite the cartulary and Latin chronicle that bore witness to his intelligence and far-sightedness, even locally the image of Wulfstan in the 37 

Senatus, Vita Wulfstani, ed. by Darlington, i. 12, p. 78. English translation and helpful annotations in Aelred of Rievaulx, trans. by Freeland, p. 221. 39  ‘Plainly a little knowledge, with the faith that works with love in simplicity, is superior to the riches of wisdom and worldly knowledge, which many abuse either for empty human praise or in a greedy desire for shameful advantage’ (Aelred of Rievaulx, trans. by Freeland, p. 224). 40  ‘Lanfrancus […] implorat veniam, dicens simplicitatem eius deo amicam et beneplacitam; qui sapientiam hujus mundi stultam fecit ut confundat fortia’ (Senatus, Vita Wulfstani, ed. by Darlington, i. 12, p. 78) (‘Lanfranc […] begged his pardon, saying that his simplicity was pleasing and acceptable to God, who has made the wisdom of this world foolish and confounds its powers’). 41  This issue is discussed in some detail by Mason, ‘St Wulfstan’s Staff ’, pp. 166–67. 38 

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thirteenth century would become that of an old-fashioned bishop who was poorly educated and naive in the ways of the world, though admirably moral and plain-spoken.

St Wulfstan in Thirteenth-Century Worcester Accounts At least two new Worcester narratives of Wulfstan’s life were composed between Wulfstan’s canonization in 1203 and the end of the thirteenth century, along with a complete set of sung texts for the divine office on his feast day and some shorter texts.42 Each of these sources shows the influence of the staff miracle; indeed, that story seems to have crowded out most of the older and more authentic material on Wulfstan’s achievements as a bishop. In the following discussion I will focus primarily on the two Latin narratives — the abbreviated prose account that Darlington calls the Short Life and the anonymous Verse Life in NLW, MS Peniarth 386 — and one vernacular source, the retelling in the early South English Legendary, which was also produced in western England during the thirteenth century and has some surprising points of agreement with these two Latin narratives. The earliest known copy of the anonymous Short Life of Wulfstan is a set of nine liturgical lessons in BL, MS Cotton Vespasian E.9. Although nine is the right number for use at Matins in a non-monastic church, this text was almost certainly borrowed from a fuller monastic version, now lost, that was composed for use in Wulfstan’s own monastery, Worcester Cathedral Priory.43 Liturgical texts often downplay the political elements in a saint’s life in favour of more devotional ones, but this particular liturgical text is more outspokenly promonastic and anti-Norman than any earlier source on Wulfstan that I have seen. Sometimes it closely parallels Senatus’s narrative, even using the same distinctively worded summaries of material from William of Malmesbury, but it often 42 

Although these texts lack known authors and specific dates, they cannot precede Wulfstan’s canonization, and they all appear in manuscripts which have been identified on palaeographic grounds as belonging to the thirteenth century. Mason, St Wulfstan of Worcester, pp. 298–300 summarizes the most essential information about the Latin ones, including their manuscripts and dates. 43  Specific connections with Worcester include its unflattering portrayal of Ealdred, Wulfstan’s predecessor, who had to be forced by the pope to renounce the see of Worcester when he became archbishop of York, its unusually detailed account of the process by which Wulfstan himself was chosen to succeed him, and the similarity in wording to the Worcester Cathedral liturgy noted below in the text.

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takes a direction of its own. Its pro-monastic slant can clearly be seen when it commends the young Wulfstan’s decision to become a monk, rather than remain a priest, and describes this choice in Biblical terms as a prudent escape from servitude in Egypt, leaving behind the world’s ‘pallium’ (garment, cloak):44 Ne autem segetes boni agricole zizanniorum mixtura horrentibus frutectis sordescerent, induit monachum Brithego prestante benedictionem et habitum. Et prudenter quidem ut evaderet Egyptiam dominationem, seculi pallium fugiens dereliquid’.45 Lest the good farmer’s fields become wild by intermingling the rough bushes of weeds, in the presence of Brihtheah [bishop of Worcester] he put on the blessing and attire of monks. Thus wisely he abandoned the world’s garb, fleeing, in order to escape Egyptian tyranny.

The connection between this text and the liturgy for St Wulfstan at Worcester Cathedral Priory is confirmed by an unmistakable echo of its wording in a text sung at Matins in the thirteenth-century Worcester Antiphonal: ‘Relinquens Wulstanus pallium Egypcie, regularis ritu vestis militat justicie’46 (‘Abandoning the garment of Egypt, Wulfstan, clothed as a monk, serves as a soldier of justice’). The anti-Norman stance of the Anonymous Short Life comes vividly to the fore in its account of the Conquest, which refuses to attribute William’s victory to either the justice of his claim to the crown, or any weakness in the English forces at Hastings, or God’s punishment of the English for their sins. Those were the major explanations offered by William of Malmesbury, but this text rejects such mitigating arguments. Instead, it insists on the united strength and virtue of the English fighters, blaming their defeat on Harold’s shortcomings as leader and the guile of the French, and it laments the Norman victory as an unmitigated and continuing disaster for England: 44  The principal Biblical allusion here is to the story of Joseph, enslaved in Egypt, escaping from seduction by the wife of his master Potiphar. In the Clementine Vulgate, 4th edn (Madrid, 1965), Genesis 39. 12 reads: ‘et illa, apprehensa lacinia vestimenti eius, diceret: Dormi mecum. Qui relicto in manu eius pallio fugit, et egressus est foras’ (‘And she catching the skirt of his garment, said: Lie with me. But he leaving the garment in her hand, fled, and went out’) (Douay– Rheims version). The corresponding event in Wulfstan’s life is the saint’s decision to leave the relative luxury and freedom of the secular priesthood to become a monk, despite repeated offers from Brihtheah, his early mentor, to give him a richly endowed church of his own (William of Malmesbury, Vita Wulfstani, ed. and trans. by Winterbottom and Thomson, i. 3. 1) 45  Short Life of Wulfstan, ed. by Darlington, lec. 1, p. 111. 46  The Worcester Antiphonal, Worcester Chapter Library, MS F.160, is available in facsimile in Paléographie musicale: Facsimiles phototypiques, xii, Matins antiphon 5.

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Juventus Anglorum sane insignis, juventus strenua et nulli cessura victori, si consultius ausa, si capud nacta incolume, perjurii regis penale fatum non sensissent. Set heu hominum mens, venturi nescia. Arte hostium et irrupcione acies intercisa prorumpitur, et nostrorum virtus sui prodiga et vite contemptor impetus succubuit, totumque robur regni cum rege mactator gladius sic assumpsit, quod nunquam denuo resumptis viribus ad libertatem assurgere attemptarentur.47 The truly excellent young men of England, those valiant young warriors, would not have submitted to any conqueror if they had been used more skilfully, if they had found their leader uninjured, if they had not experienced the destined punishment of the king’s perjury. But alas, the human mind does not know the future. By the enemies’ stratagem, the vanguard of the invasion was sent forth divided, and the courage of our men, lavish and heedless of life, fell before their assault; and the murderous sword so claimed all the flower of our realm, along with the king, that never again did they strive to rise up for freedom with restored powers.

This highly charged account of the Norman Conquest obviously changes the context for the story of Wulfstan’s staff, which follows immediately in the Short Life. With England defeated, in almost total servitude to the foreign invaders, the attempt to depose Wulfstan becomes another act of Norman aggression, an attempt to humiliate and destroy the last remnant of Anglo-Saxon authority in the church. Even Wulfstan’s reputed ignorance can be understood here as a national characteristic — and a virtue, in comparison with the arrogance and intellectual pretensions of the invaders: Translato itaque Anglorum regno ad exteras naciones, cunctisque Neustrie freno subjugatis, beatus Wlstanus quasi ex Anglis superstes pontificatu indignus decernitur quasi homo ydiota, nimie simplicitatis et inpericie. Unde jubetur baculum resignare et anulum, archiepiscopo annuente et rege hoc ipsum prescribente.48 After the rule of Englishmen was thus transferred to foreign peoples and everyone became subject to the bridle of Neustria,49 blessed Wulfstan as the survivor of the English [pontificate] was determined to be unworthy of episcopal office as an uneducated man, of great ‘simplicity’ and ignorance. Therefore he was ordered to surrender his staff and ring, with the archbishop consenting and the king prescribing exactly this.

47 

Short Life of Wulfstan, ed. by Darlington, lec. 5, p. 112. Short Life of Wulfstan, ed. by Darlington, lec. 6, p. 112. 49  The term Neustria originally referred to the entire western kingdom of the Franks, but was used in the High Middle Ages and later to designate Normandy in particular. 48 

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Although the rest of the story is taken almost verbatim from Senatus, it has much more political weight in its new context. In this retelling, Wulfstan’s miraculous vindication and the humbling of his foreign enemies becomes a powerful symbol of English national pride and hope in the face of Norman tyranny. And it is not followed in the Short Life by any suggestion of his subsequent good relations with the king. In fact, every mention of Wulfstan’s success in restoring lost Worcester properties seems to have been dropped from his legend from this time on — abandoned in favour of his new image as a national hero, a patron saint of English resistance to foreign rulers. A hint of this evolution appears also in the Cathedral Priory’s sung liturgy for Wulfstan’s feast day, where one of the responsories depicts the saint as braving King William’s wrath and hoping for King Edward’s assistance when he refuses to surrender his staff: Regis iram non formidans, baculum non tradidit apud regem sed defunctum baculum deposuit, quem jacentis virtus servat, reddit ut Wulstanus voluit50 Not fearing the king’s anger, he did not hand over the staff but deposited it with the dead king, whose power saves it [and] gives it back as Wulfstan wished.

The new, patriotic image of Wulfstan was developed even more boldly in popular sources than in the liturgical ones. The most striking example I have seen is the Middle English retelling of his legend in the earliest known manuscript of the South English Legendary, Bodleian MS. Laud Misc. 108, which has been variously dated from the 1270s to about 1300.51 This retelling markedly changes the characterization of Wulfstan himself, casting him as the last brave defender of English virtues, who spoke out intrepidly against William the Bastard (as the SEL insists on calling him) when everyone else was afraid, and it portrays William as an unjust and tyrannical oppressor: […] sone so he was king imad     and al Enguelond bisette, Ase he wolde, with straunge men    and no man ne mighhte him lette, This holie Bischop seint Wolston     wel ofte him withseide That he with onrighhte hadde ido     a swuch luther dede, And spac ayein him baldeliche     and ne sparede for no drede — For he was tho the cuyndeste Englische man     that was of enie manhede, 50 

Matins responsory 11. The dating of this manuscript and other early versions of the South English Legendary is discussed by many of the contributors to Blurton and Wogan-Browne, Rethinking the South English Legendaries; see for example pp. 6, 8, 23, 77, 84, 139, 140 n. 1, and 252–53 in this collection. 51 

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And for alle othure weren deseritede neighh.     The king was with [him] wrothth That he was so luyte adrad of him,     and swor anon is othth To pulte him out of is bischopriche.     He liet [him] somoune also To Westmunstre, to answerien him     of that he him hadde misdo.52 As soon as he was made king and occupied all of England as he desired with foreign men, and no one could hinder him, this holy bishop Wulfstan often rebuked him, [saying] that he unjustly had done such a wicked deed, and boldly spoke against him and didn’t hold back for any fear — for he was then the noblest [and/or truest, most genuine, most honourable] Englishman of any valour, for nearly all the others were dispossessed. The king was angry because he was so unafraid of him and immediately swore an oath to pluck him out of his bishopric. He had him summoned also to Westminster, to answer to him for his crimes against him.

In this retelling of the story, then, Wulfstan is summoned to Westminster specifically to be shamed and punished for his opposition to the king, and Lanfranc is reduced to an accomplice in the king’s attempt to humiliate Wulfstan. As I have shown elsewhere, the South English Legendary prefaces this story with an account of the Conquest that closely parallels parts of the polemical Conquest narrative in the Short Life of Wulfstan.53 But the SEL is even more outspokenly anti-Norman. It strongly defends King Harold, blaming the English loss entirely on treachery rather than any failing on his part, and the oldest surviving copy of this version (LM 108) closes the ensuing lament with some daring lines of protest, omitted from all but a few later manuscripts, which charge that England has had no legitimate kings since 1066:      […] alas thulke stounde, That Enguelond was thorugh tresoun     thare ibrought to grounde! For thulke that the king [Harold] truste to     failleden him wel faste; So that he was bineothe ibrought     and overcome at the laste And to grounde ibrought, and alle his,     and al Enguelond also, Into unecouthe mannes honde,     that no righht ne hadden tharto, And never eft ne cam ayein     to righhte Eyres none — Unkuynde Eyres yeot huy beothth,     ore kingues echone.54

52 

The Early South-English Legendary, ed. by Horstmann, ll. 101–10, pp. 73–74. When quoting from this source, I have replaced the medieval letters thorn and yogh with their modern equivalents, normalized word division, and modernized the punctuation. 53  Reames, ‘The South English Legendary’, pp. 95–98. 54  The Early South-English Legendary, ed. by Horstmann, ll. 83–90, p. 73.

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Alas that time when England was brought down through treason! For those whom the king trusted failed him completely, so that he was defeated and overcome at last and brought down, and all his troops and all England too, [brought] into the hands of strangers that had no right to it, and it never afterwards returned to any rightful heirs. All our kings still are alien [and/or unnatural, untrue, ungrateful, ungenerous] heirs.

We might expect the monks and bishops of Worcester to have remained at a safe, diplomatic distance from the excesses in popular sources like the South English Legendary, but the Latin Verse Life of Wulfstan, which was apparently written for a bishop of Worcester around the middle of the thirteenth century, has some surprising commonalities with the SEL account — at least in its version of the staff story.55 Like the SEL, the Latin Verse Life envisions a personal confrontation between Wulfstan and King William; in fact, it invents a fairly extended dialogue between them that allows the saint to be portrayed in action, talking back to the king and openly defying his authority. The scene begins with the king making fun of the saint’s appearance, saying he can tell from Wulfstan’s rough clothing that he is uneducated and uncivilized, and wondering who was so ignorant as to consecrate this unsuitable person as a bishop. When the king suggests that he might at least consider wearing catskin instead of sheepskin, Wulfstan quickly puts him in his place with a clever reply that includes a nice play on words: Presul ait: ‘Feda placet illis vivere preda; Hostia pacifica datur agnus, pacis amica. “Agne Dei,” canitur, de “catto” nil reperitur’. The bishop said, ‘It pleases them [cats] to live by foul prey; [but] the lamb is given as a peaceable victim, a lover of peace. “Lamb of God” is sung; nothing is reported about “cat of God”’.

Here the Verse Life has borrowed an anecdote that was told by William of Malmesbury about Wulfstan’s reply to a French prelate, Geoffrey of Coutances (Vita Wulfstani, 3. 2). Here as elsewhere, it emphasizes Wulfstan’s adherence to 55 

For the dedication to a bishop, see the brief quote in Flower, ‘A Metrical Life of St Wulfstan’, p. 121. Flower dates the scribes’ handwriting in this manuscript to the middle of the thirteenth century (p. 120) and points out some apparent connections with the collection of posthumous miracles in the Durham manuscript (appended to the Abridged Life by Senatus), which is thought to have been completed after 1235. For the Latin Verse Life, I have relied on the text of Flower (pp. 122–23).

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monastic simplicity in his apparel, even as a bishop, and suggests the vanity of the more regal bishops to whom he is implicitly being compared. In the context of the staff story, it may serve the additional purpose of defusing the accusation that Wulfstan was uneducated by showing that his critics were judging him by superficial standards. Having lost the opening skirmish, the king drops all pretence and flatly demands Wulfstan’s staff because of his English birth: Rex ita: ‘Redde cito baculum pastoris; abito Anglicus es natu, te privo pontificatu’. The king said, ‘Surrender the pastoral staff at once; from your attire or your bear­ ing you are [recognizable as] English by birth; [therefore] I deprive you of high ecclesiastical office’.

And Wulfstan drops all ceremony in response, calling the king a bastard and a foreign interloper who has no right to expect his obedience: Presul ait: ‘Quare placet innocuum spoliare? Cum sis bastardus, cum veneris advena tardus, Pontificis signum tibi non dabo quod fero lignum’. The bishop said, ‘Why is it acceptable to rob an innocent man? Since you are a bastard [and] since you have come late as a foreigner, I will not give you the episcopal symbol, the wood that I carry’.

If this rude exchange weren’t in Latin, it could almost be mistaken for one of the entertainingly outrageous dialogues in popular vernacular retellings of martyr legends. But like the laments over the Conquest in the early South English Legendary, it invites readers to apply it to the current political situation in England — in which case, of course, it would reverse the message of both Aelred’s staff story and the early Worcester tradition by claiming Wulfstan’s patronage and God’s approval for current opponents of the monarchy. Despite its lack of discretion, the Latin Verse Life must have enjoyed some degree of official acceptance in the church of Worcester during the thirteenth century. As Flower has shown, the manuscript in which it survives unquestionably belonged to Worcester Cathedral.56 The manuscript also preserves a number of shorter texts with Worcester connections, including an epitaph for Sylvester 56 

According to Flower, the physical evidence includes ownership inscriptions written c.  1400 and a label on the front cover that is also characteristic of books from Worcester Cathedral. Flower, ‘A Metrical Life of St Wulfstan’, p. 120.

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(d. 1218), the same bishop who oversaw Wulfstan’s translation, and two sets of inscriptions that evidently accompanied visual illustrations of Wulfstan’s life and miracles on the walls and/or windows of the cathedral complex. There is some evidence as well that the person or persons who commissioned the illustrations used the Verse Life or something very similar as a source. In fact, one of the inscriptions has the king demanding Wulfstan’s staff with threats, and the next one comments on his clothes– a juxtaposition that only makes sense if one knows the Verse Life’s expanded version of the staff story. Flower and Mason have both suggested that the Latin Verse Life might have been commissioned by Walter de Cantilupe, an active supporter of Simon de Montfort’s rebellion against Henry III, who was bishop of Worcester from 1236 to 1266.57 And so it might. But the rewriting of Wulfstan’s relationship with the monarchy cannot all be ascribed to the political stance of one later bishop. As I have attempted to show, the pattern of change began even before the end of the twelfth century and can be seen to have developed further in two texts that the monks of Worcester Cathedral Priory would have needed soon after Wulfstan’s canonization in 1203: the Anonymous Short Life of the saint, which evidently provided some of the lessons read during the liturgy on his annual feast day, and the sung liturgy for the same occasion. It seems possible that the increasingly strident denials of Wulfstan’s sympathy with the monarchy, later in the century, might have been prompted in part by discomfort within the Worcester community over the conspicuous presence of King John’s tomb in their cathedral, right beside Wulfstan’s, from 1218 on — an all-toovisible reminder of the royal donors to whom both the episcopal see and the monastic priory owed much of their wealth and of the era when their patron saint had been seen as a reliable ally of the monarchy. Even without certain knowledge of its immediate causes, the shaping and reshaping of Wulfstan’s legend in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries provides an unusually vivid reminder that medieval hagiographic images were always subject to change, in response to new circumstances and new expectations. The re-envisioning of Wulfstan by his own community suggests that the priorities and perceived needs of the church at Worcester underwent some profound changes between about 1070 and 1270, and that their working definitions of a good bishop and ideal patron changed accordingly. Although Wulfstan’s supposed defiance of King William came to overshadow his other attributes, it is worth recalling the many other potential images of the bishop-saint that 57 

Mason, ‘St Wulfstan’s Staff ’, p. 163; Flower, ‘A Metrical Life of St Wulfstan’, p. 121.

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were tried at least briefly during this period: warrior bishop, capable provider and defender of church property, elder statesman, spiritual adviser to kings, humble and guileless monk, unpretentious Englishman despised by foreigners. Evidently it was hard to reach any lasting consensus on what an ideal bishop should be, other than an opponent of royal tyranny.

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Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Documents Aberystwyth, National Library of Wales, MS Peniarth 386 Cambridge Corpus Christi College, MS 391 Durham Chapter Library, MS B.IV.39b London, British Library, MS Cotton Vespasian E.9 —— , MS Harley 322 —— , MS Lansdowne 436 Oxford, Bodleian, MS Laud Miscellaneous 108 Worcester Chapter Library, MS F.160

Primary Sources Aelred of Rievaulx, Opera omnia, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), cxcv (1853), cols 779–81 Aelred of Rievaulx: The Historical Works, trans. by Jane Patricia Freeland and ed. by Marsha L. Dutton, Cistercian Fathers, 56 (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 2005) Annales monastici, ed. by Henry R. Luard, Rolls Series, 36, 5 vols (London, 1864–69) The Cartulary of Worcester Cathedral Priory (Register I), ed. by R. R. Darlington (London: Pipe Roll Society, 1968) The Early South-English Legendary or Lives of Saints: MS Laud, 108, in the Bodleian Lib­ rary, ed. by Carl Horstmann, Early English Text Society, original series, 87 (London: Trübner, 1887) Gerald of Wales, Opera, ed. by J. S. Brewer, Rolls Series, 21, 8 vols (London, 1861–91) Hemingi Chartularium Ecclesiae Wigorniensis E Codice MS. penes Richardum Graves, De Mickleton in agro Gloucestriensi, Armigerum, ed. by Thomas Hearne, 2 vols (Oxford: Sheldonian Theatre, 1723) John of Worcester, Chronicle, ed. and trans. by R. R. Darlington and continued by P. McGurk, The Chronicle of John of Worcester, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995–98) Osbert of Clare, Vita Ædwardi Regis, ed. by Marc Bloch, Analecta Bollandiana, 41 (1923), 5–131 Senatus, Vita Wulfstani, ed. by R. R. Darlington, in The Vita Wulfstani of William of Malmes­bury, to Which Are Added the Extant Abridgments of this Work and the Miracles and Translations of St Wulfstan (London: Royal Historical Society, 1928), pp. 68–108 Short Life of Wulfstan, ed. by R. R. Darlington, in The Vita Wulfstani of William of Malmesbury, to Which Are Added the Extant Abridgments of this Work and the Miracles and Translations of St Wulfstan (London: Royal Historical Society, 1928), pp. 111–14 William of Malmesbury, Gesta pontificum anglorum: The History of the English Bishops, ed. and trans. by M. Winterbottom and R. M. Thomson, 2 vols (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2007)

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—— , Vita Wulfstani, ed.and trans. by M. Winterbottom and R. M. Thomson, in William of Malmesbury, Saints’ Lives: Lives of SS. Wulfstan, Dunstan, Patrick, Benignus and Indract (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2002) Worcester Antiphonal = Paléographie musicale: Les principaux manuscrits de chant gregorien, ambrosien, mozarabe, gallican publiés en fac-similés phototypiques (Tournai, Belgium, and elsewhere, 1889–), xii (1922)

Secondary Studies Atkins, Ivor, ‘The Church of Worcester from the Eighth to the Twelfth Century’, Anti­ quaries Journal, 20 (1940), 1–38 and 203–29 Blurton, Heather, and Jocelyn Wogan-Browne, eds, Rethinking the South English Legen­ daries (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2012) Brooks, Nicholas, ‘Introduction: How Do We Know about St Wulfstan?’, in St Wulfstan and his World, ed. by Julia Barrow and Nicholas Brooks (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), pp. 1–21 Draper, Peter, ‘King John and St Wulfstan’, Journal of Medieval History, 10 (1984), 41–50 Dutton, Marsha, ‘The Staff in the Stone: Finding Arthur’s Sword in the ‘Vita Sancti Edwardi’ of Aelred of Rievaulx’, Arthuriana, 17.3 (2007), 3–30 Flower, Robin, ‘A Metrical Life of St Wulfstan of Worcester’, National Library of Wales Journal, 1 (1939–40), 119–30 Ker, Neil R., ‘Hemming’s Cartulary: A Description of the Two Worcester Cartularies in Cotton Tiberius A.XIII’ (1948); repr. in Neil R. Ker, Books, Collectors and Libraries: Studies in the Medieval Heritage, ed. by Andrew G. Watson (London: Hambledon, 1985), pp. 31–59 Mason, Emma, St Wulfstan of Worcester c. 1008–1095 (Oxford: Blackwell, 1990) —— , ‘St Wulfstan’s Staff: A Legend and Its Uses’, Medium Ævum, 53 (1984), 157–79 Orchard, Andy, ‘Parallel Lives: Wulfstan, William, Coleman, and Christ’, in St Wulfstan and his World, ed. by Julia Barrow and Nicholas Brooks (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), pp. 39–57 Park, David, ‘Simony and Sanctity: Herbert Losinga, St Wulfstan of Worcester and Wallpaintings in Norwich Cathedral’, in Studies in Medieval Art and Architecture Presented to Peter Lasko, ed. by David Buckton and T. A. Heslop (Dover: Alan Sutton, 1994), pp. 157–70 Reames, Sherry L., ‘The South English Legendary and its Major Latin Models’, in Re­ thinking the South English Legendaries, ed. by Heather Blurton and Jocelyn WoganBrowne (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2012), pp. 84–105

Ideal and Reality: Images of a Bishop in Bernard of Clairvaux’s Advice to Eugenius III (1145–53) Alice Chapman

W

hen Bernard of Clairvaux (1091–1153) heard that his former novice and namesake Bernard of Pisa had been elected pope, he wrote, ‘Parcat vobis Deus: quid fecistis?’ (‘God help you, what have you 1 done?’). This remark is the opening line of a letter that Bernard of Clairvaux sent to the Roman Curia in 1145 after receiving news of the election. In the same letter the abbot describes his hesitation at the election, saying, ‘quoniam filius delicatius[…]timendumque ne non ea auctoritate, qua oportuerit, apostolatus sui officia exsequatur’ (‘he is a delicate son[…] I fear he will not pursue the duties of his apostolic office with all the authority he ought’).2 This reaction is likely genuine since Bernard worried that the future pope might not be the right man for the job. However, the initial shock revealed at the beginning of the letter is a bit more complicated since the Curia’s decision to elect Bernard of Pisa may have not been altogether surprising.3 The letter, like most of Bernard’s 1 

Ep 237. 1 (SBO viii: p. 113). In this article Bernard’s texts are cited as follows. The first part of the citation designates the name of the work, which in this case is from the Letters (Ep) followed by the specific number and then the paragraph number within the letter. Within the parentheses, the abbreviated letters represent the Latin critical edition (hereafter SBO), followed by the volume number, which appears in Roman numerals and finally, the page number, cf., Sancti Bernardi Opera Omnia, ed. by Leclercq, Talbot, and Rochais. 2  Ep 237. 3 (SBO viii: p. 114). 3  Bernard of Pisa’s immediate predecessor was Lucius II, who died in 1145 due to wounds Alice Chapman is Assistant Professor of History at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 331–346 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102237

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writing, is complex and the meaning and ideas are often deliberately exaggerated or subtlety argued in order to make a point. This makes it difficult for modern readers to agree on the meaning of Bernard’s writings, often resulting in diametrically opposing viewpoints about the interpretation of a specific text. The text of the De consideratione is no exception.4 Bernard of Pisa, also known as Bernard Paganelli, entered Clairvaux in 1138 and soon found himself back in Italy, as the head of a small group of Cistercians sent to assist the monastic community at Farfa.5 By the fall of 1140, Pope Innocent II named him abbot of the Cistercian house St Anastasius, commonly known as Tre Fontane, just outside Rome. Only five years later, in 1145, Bernard of Pisa was elected Pope Eugenius III (r. 1145–53) the first Cistercian to hold the papal office.6 suffered while fighting against rebellious factions in Rome. Giordano Pierleone, who was the brother of former antipope, Anacletus II (d. 1138), led the fight against the Senate. The city continued to be quite unstable and in addition to Pierleone, Arnold of Brescia led uprisings of the Roman people that challenged papal power. It was this dangerous and tumultuous situation in Rome that motivated some of Bernard’s comments in the letter he sent to the Curia on Eugenius III’s election. For further reading on Arnold of Brescia and the threat of communes, see Mews, ‘The Council of Sens’, pp. 353 and 358–62. What seemed clear was that the pope needed external assistance in order to quell the uprisings and solidify the position in the city. Turning to his traditional protector, Pope Lucius II wrote a letter to the German king, Conrad III (r. 1138–52) in 1144 asking him to bring troops to Rome and stabilize the situation. See Ullmann, A Short History of the Papacy, p. 184. Karl Hampe also agrees with Ullmann, cf., Hampe, Germany Under the Salian, p. 142. Adriaan Bredero claims that there was a link between Bernard’s relationship with Conrad and Eugenius’s election, see Bredero, Bernard of Clairvaux, p. 146. Bernard did write a letter to Conrad, Ep 244 (SBO viii: pp. 134–36) requesting military support for the pope, but that letter dates to 1146, a year into the pontificate of Eugenius III. 4 

Elizabeth T. Kennan has written an article reviewing the research on Bernard’s De consideratione up to the year 1967: Kennan, ‘The “De consideratione”’. It is clear from this thorough article that the De consideratione has been interpreted in a variety of ways. Some scholars such as Augustin Fliche and Walter Ullmann view the text as belonging to the Gregorian tradition while others like Abbé Vacandard and Edouard Jordan see it as a clear break with Gregorian hierocracy and a clear argument for the division of church and state. On the Latin style of the De consideratione pointing out Bernard’s use of rhetoric, repetition and linguistic structure, see Kennan, ‘Rhetoric and Style’. I am indebted to yet another excellent article by Elizabeth Kennan in which she also discusses the opposing terms in Bernard’s text: Kennan, ‘Antithesis and Argument’. 5  He and his small band of Cistercians were housed in Holy Savior monastery in the small town of Scandrilia. 6  The other was Benedict XII (1334–42); he was the third of the Avignon popes.

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Upon his election, Eugenius received advice and guidance from his former abbot, Bernard of Clairvaux. An active mentor, Bernard wrote many letters to the new pontiff, including the five extended letters that together comprise the text of the De consideratione. The five letters referred to as ‘books’ were written between 1147 and 1153, the work as a whole represents an ideal for which a pope should strive. However, the text also demonstrates an acceptance of the realistic situation in which the pope finds himself in the twelfth century. In the first book, which serves as a kind of overview of the work, Bernard acknowledges that the office of the papacy is an extremely difficult office in part because the pope is beset with unrelenting demands on his time and energy. The abbot says, ‘quod corpusculi pausationi sufficiat, et rursum ad iurgia surgitur’ (‘your poor body scarcely gets the time it needs to rest before it must get up and begin again dealing with all these disputes’).7 Furthermore, Bernard warns Eugenius, ‘cum omnes te habeant, esto etiam tu ex habentibus unus’ (‘since everyone possesses you, make certain that you also are among the possessors’). 8 Bernard certainly sympathized with his former novice acknowledging the difficult task ahead saying ‘Olim mihi invisceratus es: non mihi e medullis tam facile abstraheris’ (‘You were once in my womb; you will not be drawn from my heart so easily’).9 The remainder of the De consideratione is divided into four sections in which Eugenius is asked to consider who he is (Book II), who is beneath him (Book III), who is around him (Book IV) and who is above him (Book V).10 The initial section of this article will examine the ideal images that Bernard encourages Eugenius to emulate, namely: prophet, shepherd, apostle, and steward; this imagery is tied to his ministry (ministerium) as a bishop. These concepts extend broadly to bishops in general and in a sense, the advice to Eugenius as pope can be applied to bishops throughout the church, particularly 7 

Csi i. 4 (SBO iii: p. 397); Csi is the standard abbreviation for the De consideratione and subsequent citations appear as such. The Roman numeral signifies the book number, followed by the paragraph number. The Latin translations in this article are my own, however, some phrases are similar to those in the English version, Bernard, Five Books on Consideration, trans. by Anderson and Kennan; here cf., p. 29. 8  Csi i. 6 (SBO iii: p. 400). Cf., Bernard, Five Books on Consideration, trans. by Anderson and Kennan, p. 33. 9  Csi Praefatio (SBO iii: p. 393). 10  Augustine proposed that there are four things that should be loved: that which is above us (supra nos); we ourselves (nos sumus); that which is around us (iuxta nos); that which is beneath us (infra nos). This fourfold structure is similar to the categories in the De consideratione. See Augustine, De doctrina Christiana, 1. 22.

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those holding important and influential sees. St Peter is the ideal embodiment of these images and should act as a model for bishops, particularly the pope. In contrast the titles, lord, king and benefactor are associated with dominion (dominium), and describe the function of temporal rulers. The second section focuses on the reality both of the episcopal office in general and the papal office in particular. Although he acknowledges the dangers of the episcopal regalia, Bernard does not argue for its renunciation, but rather a tempering of its influence. For the pope, likewise, there is no explicit denial of worldly power, but a strict admonition to use it sparingly and wisely. The image for this second section is that of the Emperor Constantine. Just as the world had changed during the time between St Peter and the Constantine, so too had the episcopal office changed, taking on accruements and other additions that had become an integral part of the role of the bishop in the twelfth century. Bernard was a realist as well as a reformer and he did not deny that the pope and other bishops should possess temporal power. By embracing seemingly contrasting images, Bernard’s intention was to encourage Eugenius and other bishops to uphold the spiritual aspects of their offices, observing the essential nature of their positions. The dramatic distinction between ministry and dominion was a warning to Eugenius to keep his priorities straight and maintain right order (rectus ordo) while guiding and ruling the church. In the end, bishops, including the Bishop of Rome, held offices that included the responsibilities of both St Peter and the Emperor Constantine. Bernard was demanding, arguing that bishops must function and minister in a complex and complicated world and yet, they should strive to live up to a spiritual ideal.

Ideal The division between ministry and dominion is a study in contrasts. The two terms are opposing concepts and are associated with very different images of leadership. Drawing on an image in the gospel of Luke, Bernard tells Eugenius that the kings (reges) of the nations hold power over the people and are called benefactors (benefici).11 These benefactors have dominion (dominantur) over their people and similarly possess power over them (potestatem eos).12 Eugenius is not to be either a lord or benefactor since his duties and his office require him to carry out ministry (ministratio) and to act according to the model of an 11  12 

Cf. Luke 22. 25. Csi ii. 10 (SBO iii: p. 418).

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apostle (forma apostolica).13 Part of his ministry includes protecting the flock, by dispersing the wolves, but not lording over the sheep.14 The figure of the apostle is one who ministers, not one who dominates; dominion is forbidden (interdicitur) ministry imposed (indicitur). Here Bernard uses opposite verbs to reflect the opposing nature of dominion and ministry. The example that Eugenius should follow is that of Jesus, the Lawgiver (Legislator) invoking the words, again from the Gospel of Luke, ‘Ego autem in medio vestrum sum tamquam qui ministrat’ (‘I am with you as one who serves [ministers]’).15 To minister is to follow the pattern established by the apostles and to serve in the image of Christ. Bernard explains for the apostle, dominion is not only discouraged but also forbidden, ‘Planum est: Apostolis interdicitur dominatus’ (‘It is clear, domination is forbidden for an apostle’).16 It is this concept, to act as one who serves, which should guide Eugenius.17 Certainly the minister of the Lord should imitate him (imitetur), for, ‘qui mihi ministrat, me sequatur’ (‘he who ministers to me, let him follow me’).18 Following Jesus means serving him and the image of ministry is based on the Gospel of John, which Bernard often invokes to make this point.19 Exercising the duties of the papal office precludes the appropriation of dominion, a point that appears many times throughout the De consideratione. Bernard not only denies dominion to Eugenius but pushes the admonition further, warning him, ‘et tibi usurpare aude aut dominus apostolatum, 13 

The Latin text reads, ‘Forma apostolica haec est: dominatio interdicitur, indicitur ministratio, quae et commendatur ipsius exemplo Legislatoris, qui secutus adiungit: Ego autem in medio vestrum sum tamquam qui ministrat’. Csi ii. 11 (SBO iii: p. 418). Also see Vita Sancti Malachiae, V Mal 44 (SBO iii: p. 349). 14  ‘Domabis lupos, sed ovibus non dominaberis’. Csi ii. 13 (SBO iii: p. 420). Cf., Bernard, Five Books on Consideration, trans. by Anderson and Kennan, p. 62. 15  Luke 22. 27. 16  Csi ii. 10 (SBO iii: p. 418). A similar distinction occurs in letter 42, see, Ep 42. 28 (SBO vii: pp. 123–24). 17  Bernard warns Eugenius not to be a slave to all, Csi i. 5 (SBO iii: pp. 398–99). This admonition against following Paul in i Corinthians 9. 19 is meant to warn Eugenius of the dangers of the ambitious and deceitful men who would try to exploit him and his position. 18  Csi i. 14 (SBO iii: p. 409). See also Csi iii. 14 (SBO iii: p. 441), ‘Sane minister Domini Dominum imitetur, quia ipse ait: Qui mihi ministrat, me sequatur’; and Ep 251 (SBO viii: p. 148); Sermones de Diversis (hereafter Div), 62 (SBO vi.1, p. 295) and Sermo super Cantica Canticorum (hereafter SC), 21. 2 (SBO i: p. 123). 19  John 12. 26. Csi i. 14 and iii. 14 (SBO iii: p. 409) and (SBO iii: p. 441).

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aut Apostolicus dominatum. Plane ab alterutro prohiberis’ (‘dare to usurp the apostolic office as lord and as the Apostle (i.e. pope) usurp dominion, it is clear, you are prohibited from either one’).20 Should the pope wish to exercise (voles habere) the duties of the apostolic office as though here were a lord or should he try to usurp dominion while serving as the pope, he will surely lose both.21 Even the very office of bishop that Eugenius holds stands in opposition to dominion. Rather than the term ministry (ministerium), the word office (officium) is placed in contrast to dominion. Having inherited his position, Eugenius can now supervise (superintendis) everything boasting not of the dominion of the episcopacy but rather its duty.22 The pope should not delight in the papal throne, but rather should view his office as an observation tower from which he can oversee all aspects of the church. From this vantage point he can carry out his duty, exercising not dominion but rather the ministry of his office. Bernard’s subtlety is evident here and he is counting on the fact that his reader will hear the term officium both as ‘office’, which is associated with ministry, and its earlier classical and patristic meaning, ‘duty’.23 Furthermore, the duty that is imposed is ministry and so it is also possible that hearers would have understood the term in its many dimensions, as office, duty and ministry; all three placed in contrast with dominion. The office that Eugenius inherited (hereditabis) bestows work (operam) and responsibility (curam) rather than glory (gloriam) or riches (divitias).24 One important role of the Bishop of Rome involves care for the churches (sollicitudinem, super ecclesias), a responsibility passed on by the apostles. This care for the ecclesia is likewise distinguished from the riches of the church, which Eugenius also inherited. Although Bernard does not deny that the wealth and 20 

Csi ii. 11 (SBO iii: p. 418). As Book ii was written after the failure of the Second Crus­ ade, the language, especially at the beginning of the book is quite sharp. 21  ‘Si utrumque simul habere voles, perdes utrumque.’ Csi ii. 11 (SBO iii: p. 418). 22  ‘Inde denique superintendis, sonans tibi episcopi nomine non dominium, sed officium.’ Csi ii. 10 (SBO iii: p. 417). 23  Part of the duty attached to the office (officium) of the shepherd was to teach (docere), Csi iv. 20 (SBO iii: p. 464); Csi v. 24 (SBO iii: p. 486); De moribus et officio episcoporum, Mor 34 (SBO vii: p. 128). Teaching is often connected to auctor, Csi i. 9 (SBO iii: p. 404); Homilia super Missus est in laudibus virginis matris, Miss 4. 4 (SBO iv: p. 50); Sermo in Adventu Domini, Adv 1. 6 (SBO iv: p. 166). Reason (ratio) teaches and authority (auctoritas) confirms, Sermo in die sancto Pentecostes, Pent 1. 3 (SBO v: p. 162). One is taught by the authority of the Fathers (auctoritate Patrum), SC 51. 7 (SBO ii: p. 88). 24  ‘curam potius hereditabis et operam, quam gloriam et divitias.’ Csi ii. 10 (SBO iii: p. 417).

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other aspects of the papal office are part of Eugenius’s patrimony, they were not initially part of the apostolic inheritance. The reason for this is that the apostles could not pass on what they did not possess and therefore, the riches associated with the papal office cannot be claimed by apostolic right (apostolico iure).25 The original apostolic commission conferred care, ministry, and other spiritual responsibilities for the church. Bernard questions, ‘Numquid dominationem? Audi ipsum. Non dominantes, ait, in clero, sed forma facti gregis’ (‘Did the Apostle give you dominion? Listen to him, do not lord over them but act as an example for the flock’).26 In addition to the role of shepherd, the image of the steward (villicus) is another model for the pope to follow. The world is the field (ager est mundus) and the pope is a labourer who brings in a harvest consequently Eugenius should go into the field to work as a steward (villicus) and not as a lord (dominus).27 The steward has charge over the field and must not only watch over (videre) and manage (procurare) the land but also must give an account for the yield (exigendus es rationem).28 This image is developed further in Book Three when Bernard explains that an estate is subject to a steward just as a young lord is subject to a teacher.29 Nevertheless, the steward (ille [villicus]) is not the lord of the estate 25 

‘Nec enim tibi ille dare quod non habuit potuit.’ Csi ii. 10 (SBO iii: p. 418). The care for the churches is distinguished from the wealth of the church here partly due to the influence of Arnold of Brescia. Arnold denied that the apostles held possessions and temporal power, a status he though should apply to ecclesiastical officials in the twelfth century as well. This is explained in the notes of the English translation of Bernard’s treatise, Bernard, Five Books on Consideration, ed. by Pennington, p. 198. 26  The full Latin text reads, ‘Quod habuit, hoc dedit: sollicitudinem, ut dixi, super ecclesias. Numquid dominationem? Audi ipsum. Non dominantes, ait, in clero, sed forma facti gregis.’ Csi ii. 10 (SBO iii: p. 418). Cf. i Peter 5. 3. For other references to the pope as shepherd, see Csi i. 5 (SBO iii: p. 399); ii. 15 (SBO iii: p. 423); iv. 3 (SBO iii: p. 451) and iv. 6 (SBO iii: p. 453). 27  ‘non tamquam dominus, sed tamquam villicus, videre et procurare unde exigendus es rationem.’ Csi ii. 12 (SBO iii: p. 419). 28  ‘Exi, inquam, in mundum: ager est enim mundus, isque creditus tibi […] videre et procurare unde exigendus es rationem.’ Csi ii. 12 (SBO iii: p. 419). Villicus, see Csi iii. 2 (SBO iii: p. 432). The idea of rendering an account is reminiscent of Gelasius I (d. 496) who claimed that the nature episcopal authority (auctoritas sacra) was weightier than the royal power (potestas regalis). He argued that the bishops must render account for all souls at the end of time (reddituri sunt examine rationem) and therefore have the greater responsibility. See Gelasius I, Epistola VIII to Emperor Anastasius, ed. by Migne. 29  Csi iii. 2 (SBO iii: p. 432). ‘Numquid non et villa villico, et parvulus dominus subiectus est paedagogo? Nec tamen villae ille, nec is sui domini dominus est.’

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(ville) nor is the teacher the lord of his lord (nec […] domini dominus est). The steward should preside over the estate, provide counsel, proper administration and service to the lord. However, he should not attempt to rule over others for that might cause sin to rule over him. In a dramatic ending to this section of text, Bernard warns, ‘nam nullum tibi venenum, nullum gladium plus formido, quam libidinem dominandi’ (‘no poison is more dangerous, no sword more lethal, than the desire to rule’).30 In a related image, Bernard encourages Eugenius to undertake the work of the Prophet to learn and teach. The Prophet’s labour is spiritual and is best expressed by the image of the sweating peasant. Therefore the tool required is a hoe (sarculo) rather than a sceptre (sceptro).31 The model for Eugenius is that of the Prophet Jeremiah, who carried out his duties to build and to plant, for which he needed the proper tool, a hoe.32 Similarly, Eugenius’s role is to learn and teach and to do this, he must view his role as one who works by planting and reaping. Therefore the pope should focus on carrying out the duties of his office and be mindful that the world has its own princes and judges.33

Reality Having considered the imagery of the ‘ideal’ pope the remainder of the article will focus on the reality of the papal office and will also address the episcopal office in general. An aspect of the De consideratione, which has been widely discussed, is the division between the terms: contemplation (contemplatio) and consideration (consideratio). Bernard distinguishes the terms in the following 30  The full Latin text for this passage reads, Csi iii. 2 (SBO iii: p. 432). ‘Hoc fac, et domi­ nari ne affectes hominum homo, ut non dominetur tui omnis iniustitia. At satis superque id intimatum supra, cum quis sis disputaretur. Addo tamen et hoc, nam nullum tibi venenum, nullum gladium plus formido, quam libidinem dominandi.’ 31  Csi ii. 9 (SBO iii: p. 417). ‘Disce sarculo tibi opus esse, non sceptro, ut opus facias Prophetae.’ This image is significant since the Concordat of Worms in 1122 divided investiture between the emperor and the church. The bishops’ ring and staff were symbols of spiritual authority given to the candidate by the church; the sceptre symbolized earthly dominion [and] was bestowed by the king or emperor. These symbols are discussed in one of Bernard’s sermons, In cena Domini (SBO v: p. 67–72). 32  Jeremiah 1. 10. 33  Csi i.  7 (SBO iii: p.  402). In Book One of the De consideratione, Bernard draws a distinction between the power over sins and the power over dividing estates. While neither exercise of power is wrong, each has its appropriate sphere of operation. This will be discussed later in the essay.

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way. Consideratio pertains to the investigation into what is unknown (ad inquisitionem), as though one’s mind were seeking the truth through active searching. Contemplatio on the other hand concerns that which is known for certain (ad certitudinem), a true and certain intuition of the mind or the apprehension of the truth without doubt.34 While Bernard concedes that the two terms are often used as synonyms, the active aspect of consideration is preceded by and relies upon contemplation. Rooted securely in contemplation, the pope must investigate, weigh and consider all aspects of his office. This active consideration serves as the basis for the fourfold division of the De consideratione as a whole, as Bernard asks Eugenius to consider who he is, who is below him, who is around him and who is above him. This advice to seek out actively and investigate the unknown must be undertaken with care so that Eugenius can do so without getting lost or losing himself. Bernard understood that the papal office had changed over time and had taken on additional elements or accoutrements, which were not part of the original office since, ‘Petrus hic est, qui nescitur processisse aliquando vel gemmis ornatus, vel sericis, non tectus auro, non vectus equo albo, nec stipatus milite, circumstrepentibus saeptus ministris’ (‘Peter was never known to have undertaken a procession wearing jewels or silks, covered in gold carried by a white horse, attended by a knight or surrounded by noisy servants’).35 In these things, Eugenius is the successor of Constantine, not Peter. The additional aspects of the papal office had developed over time, gradually creeping into the exercise of the office. While they were tolerated, they do not endow obligation.36 Bernard urged Eugenius to remember that even though he was adorned in purple and ornamented in gold he should see himself as the heir of the Shepherd (heres Pastoris) and not abhor his pastoral duty.37 Though the papal office was no longer the comparatively simple one held by Peter, the expansion of the office should be accepted as part of the reality of the twelfth century but not considered fundamental to the original apostolic office.

34 

Csi ii. 5 (SBO iii: p. 414). The phrase ‘apprehension of the truth without doubt’, is an excellent English rendering of the Latin text. The translation is taken from Bernard, Five Books on Consideration, trans. by Anderson and Kennan, p. 52. 35  Csi iv. 6 (SBO iii: p. 453). Cf., Bernard, Five Books on Consideration, trans. by Anderson and Kennan, p. 117. 36  ‘[…] toleranda pro tempore, non affectanda pro debito.’ ‘[…] horreas operam curamve pastoralem, […].’ Csi iv. 6 (SBO iii: p. 453). 37  Csi iv. 6 (SBO iii: p. 453).

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In addition to the spiritual duties of the episcopal office, the added responsibilities associated with Constantine, the jewels, silks, and ornamented purple robes referred to the growing responsibilities associated with the temporal duties of the episcopal office, represented by the regalia. At his consecration, the bishop-elect received both the ring representing the sacred duties, spiritual gifts and sacramental privileges and also the staff, which entitled him to manage the buildings, lands, tithes, and other aspects that were part of the episcopal see.38 Bishops also received the sceptre, which conferred the regalia, the duties pertaining to the royal offices, taxation, and other obligations associated with the secular or governmental service owed to the king (regnum). In particular, these expanded duties meant that the bishop had the responsibilities of his episcopal office but also held some obligations proper to a layman. This dual role had the potential to lead to a confusion of one’s status and ultimately to a persona mixta, a mixed person.39 Such a situation was abhorrent to someone like Bernard, who believed strongly in right order (rectus ordo) which included carrying out duties that befit one’s status. In the case of a bishop, it certainly was the case that, due to the nature of the office, he had loyalties to two worlds. This said, Bernard was not opposed in principle to bishops holding the regalia, as long as these temporal functions did not usurp their spiritual duties. Bernard’s acceptance of the secular duties of bishops associated with the regalia can be seen in Letter 42, On the Conduct and Office of the Bishops (De moribus et officio episcoporum). In this extended letter to Henry, Bishop of Sens, Bernard was clear that bishops ought to show reverence for secular power (saecularibus potestatibus). Furthermore, bishops involved in governance (suis curiis), councils (conciliis), and military affairs (negotiis exercitibusque) of the king, should show respect to the king while not forgetting to show reverence for Christ’s vicar as well.40 Bernard argued his point based on Matthew 22, ‘render therefore to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s and to God the things that are God’s’ and also Romans 13, which instructs that Christians should be 38 

Wilks, ‘Ecclesiastica and Regalia’, pp.  80–81. By the twelfth century the tripartite division of the episcopal office was quite common. The spiritualia, or spiritual aspects, the ecclesiastica, or the tithes and other jurisdictional parts of the see and finally the regalia, or the secular functions associated with service to the king. The spiritualia would later become the potestas ordinis and the ecclesiastica the potestas iurisdictionis. The distinction was made in the work of Gratian but Bernard does not use this language. See Stroll, Calixtus II, p. 365. 39  Bernard drew a firm distinction between a cleric (clericus) and a knight (miles) in letter 78 to Abbot Suger of St Denis. Cf., Ep 78. 11 (SBO vii: pp. 208–09). 40  Ep 42. 31 (SBO vii: p. 126).

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subordinate to secular powers since all power comes from God.41 The injunction to show reverence for the king with respect to military affairs (negotiis exercitibus) seems to contradict claims that the Abbot made concerning the danger of a persona mixta. In the case of a bishop, he should carry out the demands of the regalia, but worldly concerns should not impede or supersede his ability to perform his primary duties as a bishop of the church. It was extremely difficult to know just where to draw the line since the regalia often blurred the distinction between the temporal and the spiritual worlds. Gerhoh of Reichersberg (d. 1169), a twelfth-century contemporary of Bernard argued this point quite clearly: sic etenim confuse sunt regalia et aecclesiastica, ut iam videretur episcopus regnum spoliare, si aecclesiae facultates militibus vellet denegare. thus, since the regalia and the ecclesiastica are so mixed together, a bishop would seem to rob the monarchy if he wished to refuse the ecclesiastical properties to the knights.42

The idea that the regalia could be renounced without significant damage to the church did not reflect reality.43 There was a real possibility that the ecclesiastical lands and other property of the church might be compromised. Therefore, it seems that for Bernard, the regalia was a necessary evil; evil because it forced bishops to take on the role of a prince, parcelling church lands out to knights; necessary because much of the ecclesiastica was tied to or co-mingled with the regalia. For the Bishop of Rome the pressures were even more pronounced. In the case of the pope, the growing legal appeals threatened to completely monopolize the pontiff ’s time. Holding the see of St Peter, Eugenius’s power (potestas) is over crimes or sins (criminibus) and not possessions (possessionibus).44 The func41 

Matthew 22. 21 and Romans 13. 1. Gerhoh of Reichersberg, De Aedificio Dei, ed. by Dümmler, ch. 14. Gerhoh’s text was written after the Concordat of Worms in 1122. See Benson, The Bishop-Elect, p. 309. Benson explains Gerhoh’s position in detail and cites this passage to underscore the issues surrounding the mingling of the regalia and ecclesiastica. The English translation here is my own but is similar to Benson’s. 43  M. J. Wilks argues that the episcopal office was divided into three parts, and it was this tripartite division that the church accepted. Conversely, kings and royal officials supported the dual nature of the office, cf., Wilks, ‘Ecclesiastica and Regalia’, p. 76. This twofold aspect of the episcopal office is also discussed at length in Benson, The Bishop-Elect, pp. 263–83. 44  Csi i. 7 (SBO iii: p. 402). ‘Ergo in criminibus, non in possessionibus potestas vestra 42 

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tion of the keys is to exclude sinners not possessors and therefore possessions do not merit condemnation in themselves. Bernard asks Eugenius, ‘Quaenam tibi maior videtur et dignitas et potestas, dimittendi peccata an praedia dividendi?’ (‘Which holds greater honour and power, forgiving of sins or dividing estates?’).45 There is no comparison between the two; certainly the exalted power is over sins. After all, explains Bernard, the lower, earthly (terrena) matters they have their own judges, the kings and the princes of the world.46 These earthly matters are not in themselves sinful, and therefore, the keys of the kingdom are meant to exclude sinners (exclusuri praevaricatores) not possessors (possessores).47 The greater and more honourable power for the pope is to carry out his spiritual duties, primarily, to judge sins and to loose and bind accordingly. Again, there is no denial of regalia here, nor is there a repudiation of the pope’s power to act as a judge of worldly matters, but there is a stern warning to avoid involvement in the day-to-day legal issues that threaten to swallow up every moment of Eugenius’s time. The message to the pope is clear, he should reserve his power to adjudicate only weighty or important matters and leave other disputes to the judges of the world.

Conclusions Bernard was aware in his own life how difficult it was to live in two worlds. He too was a monk dedicated to prayer, community, and other aspects of the Rule, while at the same time he was also an ecclesiastical advocate travelling […].’ Literally, crimen in Latin means, crime or fault. 45  Csi i. 7 (SBO iii: p. 402). Cf., Bernard, Five Books on Consideration, trans. by Anderson and Kennan, p. 36. 46  ‘Sed non est comparatio. Habent haec infima et terrena judices suos, reges et principes terrae.’ Csi i. 7 (SBO iii: p. 402). 47  ‘Ergo in criminibus, non in possessionibus potestas vestra, quoniam propter illa, et non propter has, accepistis claves regni caelorum, praevaricatores utique exclusuri, non possessors.’ Csi i. 7 (SBO iii: p. 402). Cf., Csi iii. 1 (SBO iii: p. 431). The spiritual power of the pope is tied to the keys representing both the sacramental power to forgive sins and also the power of discretion in the eschatological sense of excluding and admitting sinners. See SC 69. 5 (SBO ii: p. 204) ‘Et hae claves quae? Potestas aperiendi et claudendi, atque inter excludendos et admittendos discretio.’ Also see Letter 276, ‘Claves vestras, qui sanum sapiunt, alteram in discretione, alteram in potestate constituunt’, Ep 276. 3 (SBO viii: p. 188). For the keys representing power and wisdom, see SC 69. 4 (SBO ii: p. 204).

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throughout Europe defending the papacy and supporting the rapidly expanding Cistercian Order. For his novice, who achieved the highest office in the church, the balance was no easier. From the moment of his election, Eugenius experienced the demands and difficulties of his office. Driven out of Rome by Arnold of Brescia, who had set up a commune in the city, Eugenius was consecrated pope at Farfa, the very monastery to which he had been sent by Bernard in 1138.48 Except for a brief victory in 1146, he spent the remainder of his papacy outside Rome, unable to solidify his position within the city. In addition to this political reality, Eugenius was beset by the ever-growing legal cases that were appealed to Rome. This threatened to usurp his time and compromise his ability to carry out his other duties. It is tempting to see Bernard’s directives as encouraging the pope to abandon the temporal aspects of the papal office, but this would be a mistake. So what can we make of Bernard’s assessment of the papal office? One thing that can be said is that the De consideratione was written after the papacy of Innocent II, a man who Bernard had supported during the papal schism of 1130, but a man who must have been a great disappointment to him. Innocent II (r. 1130–43) was supposedly the candidate of the new reform movement, but he certainly did not act like it.49 His papacy was not indicative of service or one that reflected reform, rather he increased the judicial involvement of the papacy and was concerned with augmenting his power.50 Bernard’s letter to Innocent II in 1135 underscored his disapproval of Innocent’s actions particularly when it came to appeals made to Rome. While Bernard was not keen on this practice, he was even less supportive when papal decisions undermined episcopal authority. When Albero, the Archbishop of Trèves, wrote to Innocent II in order to gain support against his troublesome suffragans, the pope seems to have ignored him. In support of the Archbishop, Bernard wrote to the pope in protest, complaining that his lack of action undermined the authority of bishops in their own dioceses. Vox una omnium, qui fideli apud nos cura populis praesunt, iustitiam in Ecclesia deperire, annullari Ecclesiae claves, episcopalem omnino vilescere auctoritatem, dum nemo episcoporum in promptu habeat ulcisci inurias. Dei, nulli liceat illicita quaevis in propria quidem parochia, castigare. 48 

See Mews, ‘The Council of Sens’, pp. 342–82. Innocent II (d. 1143); Celestine II (d. 1144); Lucius (d. 1145); Eugenius III (r. 1145–53). 50  Stroll, The Jewish Pope, pp.  73–78; and Stroll, Symbols as Power, pp.  188–92. Cf., Bernard, The Letters, trans. by James, p. 297. 49 

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those who faithfully carry out their pastoral duties say that justice in the church is dying, the keys of the church are invalid and the authority of the bishops is debased since they are not able to avenge the injuries to God and are not permitted to reprimand illicit behaviour even in their own dioceses.51

Such lack of papal leadership left bishops embarrassed and reviled and acted as an insult to the faithful; ‘proh pudor’ (for shame) exclaimed Bernard. Therefore, in his advice to Eugenius there is an underlying admonition to avoid the pattern of behaviour established by Innocent II. In this sense the De consideratione reads like a manual on how to be a good pope, warning Eugenius to observe the gravity and solemnity of the papal office. There is a clear emphasis on the spiritual nature of the papacy, which Bernard thought Innocent II had neglected during his reign. The De consideratione certainly paints the picture of an ideal bishop, devoted to ministry, teaching and service but there is something more than that here. The text also reflects an acceptance of the reality of the papacy and the episcopal office in general, for the ring and staff were only two of the symbols of investiture. The sceptre, which conferred the regalia was also an integral part of the office and a part that Bernard of Clairvaux did not deny but embraced. The key for Bernard was ensuring right order and proper delineation between temporal and ecclesiastical functions. It was essential that the pope, or any bishop, avoid becoming a mixed person (persona mixta), a situation in which one was simultaneously a cleric and a layman. Such a mixture in function was a fundamental violation of right order. Balance was not easy but it was incumbent upon the pope to focus on his ministry and not allow worldly concerns to pull him away from his spiritual duties. While it was permitted for the pope to hold temporal power, it was not the same as that which was held by a ruler. In the end, the key for Eugenius was not to abdicate his power or position but to focus on his role as the leader of the church; to reserve and conserve his power and use it carefully and wisely.52

51 

Ep 178 (SBO vii: pp.  397–98). Archbishop Albero wrote two letters to Pope Innocent II, the first dating to c. 1135, and the other to 1139. These letters both appear among Bernard’s letters and are Ep 176 (SBO vii: pp. 394–95) and Ep 177 (SBO vii: pp. 396–97). Bernard also wrote other letters to Innocent II on behalf of Albero, Ep 179–80 (SBO vii: pp. 400–02) and Ep 323 (SBO viii: pp. 258–60). Innocent II needed the loyal support of his ecclesiastics due to the disputed papal election that had occurred in 1130. 52  Csi i. 7 (SBO iii: p. 402); Csi ii. 7 (SBO iii: p. 415).

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Works Cited Primary Sources Augustine, De doctrina Christiana, in Brepols Library of Latin Texts — Series A (LLT-A) [accessed 5 July 2013] Bernard, Five Books on Consideration: Advice to a Pope, trans. by John D. Anderson and Elizabeth T. Kennan, Cistercian Fathers Series, 37 (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publi­ca­ tions, 1976) —— , The Letters of St Bernard of Clairvaux, trans. by Bruno Scott James (Stroud: Sutton, 1998) Gelasius I, Epistola VIII to Emperor Anastasius, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), lix (1862), cols 41–47 Gerhoh of Reichersberg, De Aedificio Dei, ed. by Ernst Dümmler, in Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Libelli de lite imperatorum et pontificum saeculis XI. et XII. conscripti, 3 vols (Hannover: Hahn, 1891–97), iii (1897), p. 145 Sancti Bernardi Opera Omnia, ed. by Jean Leclercq, Charles H. Talbot, and Henri-Marie Rochais, 8 vols (Roma: Editiones Cistercienses, 1957–77)

Secondary Studies Benson, Robert L., The Bishop-Elect: A Study in Medieval Ecclesiastical Office (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1968) Bredero, Adriaan, Bernard of Clairvaux: Between Cult and History (Grand Rapids: Eerdmans, 1996) Hampe, Karl, Germany Under the Salian and Hohenstaufen Emperors, trans. by Ralph Bennet (Totowa: Rowman and Littlefield, 1973) Kennan, Elizabeth T., ‘Antithesis and Argument in the De Consideratione’, in Bernard of Clairvaux: Studies presented to Jean Leclercq, ed. by John Sommerfeldt, Cistercian Studies, 23 (Washington, DC: Consortium, 1973), pp. 91–109 —— , ‘The “De consideratione” of St Bernard of Clairvaux and the Papacy in the MidTwelfth Century: A Review of Scholarship’, Traditio, 23 (1967), 73–115 —— , ‘Rhetoric and Style in the De consideratione’, in Studies in Medieval Cistercian History II, ed. by John Sommerfeldt, Cistercian Studies, 24 (Kalamazoo: Cistercian Publications, 1976), pp. 40–48 Mews, Constant J., ‘The Council of Sens (1141): Abelard, Bernard, and the Fear of Social Upheaval’, Speculum, 77 (2002), 342–82 Stroll, Mary, Calixtus II (1119–1124), A Pope Born to Rule, The History of Christian Traditions, 116 (Leiden: Brill, 2004) —— , The Jewish Pope: Ideology and Politics in the Papal Schism of 1130 (Leiden: Brill, 1987) —— , Symbols as Power: The Papacy Following the Investiture Contest (Leiden: Brill, 1991)

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Ullmann, Walter, A Short History of the Papacy in the Middle Ages (London: Methuen, 1972) Wilks, Michael J., ‘Ecclesiastica and Regalia: Papal Investiture Policy from the Council of Guastalla to the First Lateran Council, 1106–23’, in Councils and Assemblies, Papers Read at the Eighth Summer Meeting and the Ninth Winter Meeting of the Ecclesiastical History Society, ed. by G. J. Cuming and Derek Baker, Studies in Church History, 7 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1971), pp. 69–86

Ordination, Purification, and Consecration: Episcopal Privilege at Bourges Cathedral Kara Ann Morrow

T

hrough the course of the twentieth century, scholars have investigated the iconographic and narrative significance of the grand western façade of Bourges Cathedral in Berry with its five intricately sculpted portals (Figure  14.1). While the meanings of the sculpted images within this portal system are linked to one another by virtue of their inclusion on the monument, two of the portals demonstrate a more complex ritual relationship than is commonly acknowledged within the literature. In addition to relating the narratives of the cathedral’s titular saint and first bishop — St Stephen and St Ursin — the two southern-most portals provide a complex juxtaposition of liturgical ceremonies through the depiction of episcopal rites. Of particular relevance here is the visualization of ordination, consecration, and baptism through the compositional and metaphoric alignment of the physical fabric of the church with the corporal body of the faithful. Within the context of hagiographic narrative, episcopal powers reinvented the visual narrative of the proto-martyr and Bourges’s proto-bishop, highlighting their connections to the first bishop, St Peter. As such, the cathedral’s sculpted portals reflect episcopal perspectives in a manner yet unexplored by scholars.

Kara Ann Morrow is Assistant Professor of Art History at The College of Wooster in Ohio (where she focuses her teaching and research on Medieval and African art history). (kmorrow@ wooster.edu) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 347–376 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102238

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Figure 14.1. ‘Southernmost Portals of the West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen’, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Author photograph.

The portals’ congruent narratives begin within the St Stephen tympanum (Figure 14.2). On the left side of the lowest register, St Stephen kneels before St Peter for his ordination as the proto-deacon. According to the Acts of the Apostles, he was the first ordained deacon as well as the first martyr to follow the example of Christ, and medieval writers often refer to St Stephen as such. Opposite, Stephen is led from the city gates of Jerusalem for his martyrdom, which is depicted in the middle register above. To the left Saul, the unconverted Paul, sits on the discarded garments of the executioners, witnessing St Stephen’s death. Stephen kneels in the middle of the composition and the Jews of Jerusalem stand over him and hold their stones aloft. An angel descends from the heavens with the martyr’s crown. In the peak of the tympanum, Christ appears as Stephen’s vision within the celestial realm. Like the St Stephen narrative, the tympanum of St Ursin begins with the saint’s ordination before St Peter (Figure 14.3). The story begins on the right side of the lowest register, so that the narrative moves towards the St Stephen

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Figure 14.2. ‘St Stephen Tympanum’, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Author photograph.

composition. St Ursin and St Just begin their evangelical missions and Ursin buries his companion in the central scene, before arriving at the gates of Bourges where he finds a willing congregation. On the right of the central register St Ursin receives the local governor, his son, and other converts. A unique sculpted translation and consecration scene appears in the central space, which is dominated by a Gothic façade. St Ursin stands to the left of the building and inserts the relics of St Stephen into the edifice. Above, St Ursin baptizes the secular ruler and his son in the presence of the faithful. Together the two tympana present a remarkable composition of scenes. Views of St Stephen’s ordination, of church dedication, and of baptism typically only exist in liturgical books such as sacramentaries or on their covers. This essay explores the relationship of these sculpted images to one another, their context within medieval theology and ritual, as well as their correlation to episcopal power at Bourges. While these ceremonies have a wide-reaching relevance to the thirteenth-century Church, the tympana at Bourges settle the

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Figure 14.3. ‘St Ursin Tympanum’, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Author photograph.

ceremonies on the very site of that city’s cathedral, and make direct visual references to the building behind the portals. When viewed together these narratives support a lofty ideal of episcopal prerogative in Berry, founded on the premise of episcopal succession. The portals visually collapse the timeline of the see’s history, connecting the apostolic saints pictured there to the current Gothic building, and contemporary archbishops. As such, these portals were conceived as a promotion of Bourges’s place in the Christian universe and as an idealization of the archbishop’s office in the ecclesiastical history of the see. Moreover, these tympana illustrate a complicated notion of sacred space where the rituals of purification elemental to both the consecration of the church and baptism of the individual are highlighted compositionally. While scenes of baptism, consecration, and donor portraits are known in Romanesque and Gothic architectural sculpture, nowhere are they so carefully composed to relate to one another through composition and narrative. Importantly, the narrative threads begin at the hands of St Peter and terminate at the hands of the bishop, St Ursin. Through St Stephen’s martyrdom, and the episcopal translation of his relics, each scene culminates in the opening of the heavens above the

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Figure 14.4. ‘Ordination of the First Deacons’, detail of the St Stephen Tympanum, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Author photograph.

Figure 14.5. ‘St Stephen’s Ordination at the Hands of St Peter’, detail in the Bible moralisée, London, British Library, MS Harley 1527, fol. 63v. Second quarter of thirteenth century. By permission of the British Library. Photo © British Library Board

faithful. Thus, the compositions allow the viewer an understanding of the construction of purified sacred space, and allow him or her to envision the prerogative and power of the bishop. Unlike most imagery depicting liturgical rites, these very public scenes were available to an audience of episcopal, clerical, lay, and even royal viewers. By considering comparable scenes in various media only accessible to particular audiences we can detect subtle inferences of meaning particular to distinct viewers.

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From an episcopal perspective, such careful compositional and narrative alignment of these ritual scenes at Bourges may echo the preoccupation with orthodoxy that was surely present in Berry during the first half of the thirteenth century during the Church’s expedition to root out Albigensian heretics in Languedoc. The episcopal leadership at Bourges was integral in the organization and funding of the crusade both ideologically and geographically, providing a link between Roman papal crusading efforts and Parisian royal politics. Interestingly, individual scenes within the system of tympana are closely related to painted scenes in the richly illuminated compositions in the manuscripts of Parisian royalty. The intersection of papal politics, royal agency, and local facility on this episcopal monument provides an important context with which to consider the western façade of Bourges Cathedral.

The Proto-Deacon: The Ordination of St Stephen at Bourges The original cathedral in Bourges was consecrated to St Stephen, the protomartyr, and he remains even today the church’s titular saint. His story as related on the tympanum does not begin with his preaching to the Jews, as is so common, but rather commences with his ordination (Figure 14.4). The rarity of St Stephen’s ordination by St Peter in Gothic monumental architectural sculpture suggests sensitivity on behalf of the ecclesiastical community at Bourges to its patron saint’s relationship to the apostles and the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Stephen’s role as a disputatious preacher is completely omitted from the composition, perhaps to better emphasize his role as deacon and martyr, and his association with the first, and ideal, bishop. St Peter ordains Stephen on the portal.1 A bearded apostle stands facing the kneeling proto-deacon. The apostle’s left hand holds a piece of cloth and touches the deacon’s fingers which are held in prayer in front of him. The apostle’s right hand is blessing Stephen. Behind the proto-deacon, another apostle touches him on the back of the shoulder with his left hand, which also holds a book. His right hand blesses the kneeling man.2 In addition to recalling the biblical ordination of Stephen, the scene also 1  Acts of the Apostles 6. 5–8. 2. Each biblical citation in this chapter derives from the Douay-Rheims Bible. For images of St Stephen’s preaching and disputation see for example Paris, Chartres, Auxerre, Meaux, Bayeux, and Sens Cathedrals. For a sculpted ordination scene see Auxerre Cathedral. 2  It should be acknowledged that these details are being observed from a restored area of the façade. Heads, costumes, hands and attributes may not be original here. The modern ceremony for the ordination of a deacon has changed very little in appearance from the twelfth century. As such, nineteenth-century restorers could have depicted the modern details of the

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echoes the early ordination liturgy of the deaconate, which re-enacts the laying on of hands by St Peter. The ordination ceremony has changed very little from the Early Christian era to the present. The Apostolic Constitutions — extant in the Middle Ages but not particularly well known — testify to the ancient quality of the ritual, as well as St Stephen’s early association with the rite: You shall ordain a deacon, O Bishop, by laying your hands upon him in the presence of the whole presbytery and of the deacons, and you shall pray […] let Your ears receive our supplication and ‘cause the light of Your countenance to shine upon this Your servant’ who is to be ordained for You to the office of deacon and replenish him with your Holy Spirit and with power, as You did replenish Stephen, who was Your martyr, and follower of the sufferings of Christ.3

As the bishop placed his hands on the kneeling deacon-elect, he spoke, ‘Accipe spiritum sanctum ad robur’ (‘Receive the Holy Spirit for strength’) and the deacon received the stole of his office and a book of the gospels.4 It seems probable that the drapery and the book held by the apostles on the Bourges tympanum are meant for St Stephen, as they would be meant for a medieval deacon. The Roman rite of the Ordination of Deacons as it survives in the Leonian and Gelasian sacramentaries establishes the form of the early medieval ceremony. In an analogous ceremony in the early Gallican rite the bishop laid hands on the deacon and pronounced a blessing, ‘eorum gradu quos Apostoli tui in septenario numero, beato Stephano duce ac praevio, sancto Spirtu auctore dignus existat’ (‘of which the Apostles numbering seven, with their leader St Stephen, scene. Nevertheless, the general position and number of the figures in the composition confirm it was an ordination scene. 3  Apostolic Constitutions, trans. by Roberts, Donaldson, and Coxe, viii, pp. xvii–xviii. This text has been made available online by The New Advent Catholic Encyclopedia. The Apostolic Constitutions is a pseudo-apostolic collection in eight books, compiled under the name of St Clement of Rome. While the identity of the true collectors/writers is unknown, early manuscripts survive in both eastern and western Christendom. The collection is primarily concerned with recording liturgical practices, disciplinary actions, moral codes, and early Christian doctrine, both real and ideal. While the quote from the Apostolic Constitutions is very early, sources agree that the ordination ceremony changed very little through the course of the Middle Ages, and is still very similar even today. The Greek and English texts were originally published in: Primitive Christianity, ed. by Whiston. On the stole and garments of the deacon’s office, see ‘Dalmatique’ in the Dictionnaire d’archeologie chretienne, ed. by Cabrol and Leclerq (hereafter DACL), iv, pp. 111–19; see also, Honorius of Autun, Gemma animae, ed. by Migne, cols 599B–599C; Gregory the Great, Opera omnia, ed. by Migne, col. 487D in particular. 4  Gregory the Great, Opera omnia, ed. by Migne, col. 487D; Apostolic Constitutions, trans. by Roberts, Donaldson, and Coxe, viii, p. xvii; ‘Dalmatique’, DACL, iv, pp. 111–19.

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who the Holy Spirit found worthy’).5 The Roman and Gallican blessings place the medieval bishop within the tradition of the proto-martyr and the apostles. The other six deacons stand in a line behind Stephen on the tympanum, as if mirroring the medieval liturgical rite. For the medieval clergy of Bourges, the figural group over the portal would have recalled not only the first deacons consecrated at the hands of St Peter, but also their own ordination ceremonies at the hands of the archbishop. As such, the composition reinforces the official clerical hierarchy within the medieval Church. The deacons’ appearance on the tympanum with their books — suggesting they have already been ordained — is anachronistic, since Stephen was first among the seven to receive the Holy Spirit. However, the inclusion of the six deacons provides a context that enables the viewer to associate St Stephen with his clerical office. While St Stephen typically appears in his dalmatic in Gothic images, at Bourges, the iconographers have devoted a significant part of their composition to Stephen’s place at the apostles’ sides in order to link him to not only his office but also the ecclesiastical hierarchy. St  Peter’s presence serves as a constant reminder ‘let the deacon be the bishop’s ear, and eye, and mouth, and heart, and soul’, as stated in the Apostolic Constitutions.6 Because St Peter and the apostles laid hands upon him while praying, the ecclesiastical hierarchy was established through the formal act of ordination, and the office of the deacon would be forever linked to the power and privilege of the bishop.7 As twelfth- and thirteenth-century clergymen reinvented the visual narratives of the proto-deacon, they did so with the knowledge of Stephen’s special relationship with the first bishop, St Peter, as characterized in the imagery of Stephen’s ordination, and the reenactment of that rite with medieval deacons. Therefore, Stephen’s popular visual presence on French cathedrals — the architectural containers of the bishops’ seats — received particular attention and focus from the leaders of those episcopal sees. The visual imagery of St Stephen, the preeminent deacon, serves as a locus for the communication of the bishops’ preoccupations and concerns. 5 

Latin in Duchesne, Christian Worship, pp. 368–70. Apostolic Constitutions, trans. by Roberts, Donaldson, and Coxe, ii, p. xliv. The deacon’s connection to the bishop, as well as Stephen’s invocation during the ordination of the deacon and the call for loyalty to rank suggests Stephen’s connection to the bishop was established in the Early Christian era. 7  See for example Peter Lombard, In Libros Sententiarum, ed. by Migne, Book  4, Distinctio 42, De spirituali cognatione, col. 941. Stephen is also linked with Peter in visual ima­ gery even though the Acts of the Apostles is not so specific. 6 

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More general visual interpretations of the ordinations of deacons are also common in liturgical manuscripts and even small-scale sculpture.8 For compositionally similar examples of Stephen’s ordination in thirteenth-century France, one must turn to manuscript illumination. The imagery of Stephen’s legend in the moralized Bibles provides a greater visual context by which to evaluate the thirteenth-century French association of the proto-martyr with medieval ecclesiastical sees. Few medieval manuscript types can boast the sheer volume of illumination as the seven extant Bibles moralisées, or moralized Bibles, which were produced in Paris in the mid-thirteenth century.9 They are generally accepted as the picture Bibles of French royalty. The pages of the Bibles moralisées are recognizable for their distinctive layout of eight roundels in two vertical columns. The top two roundels depict the biblical story, while the two images below illustrate moralized commentary on the biblical scenes. Each of the biblical compositions is paired with a brief, often abbreviated and roughly paraphrased, biblical text. A moralizing caption explains the accompanying images below, elucidating the thirteenth-century Parisian and Christian understanding of the relevance of the chosen biblical imagery. That Bourges’s sculpted imagery could be loosely associated with the moralized Bibles is probable and similar connections have been made between Bourges’s thirteenth-century glazing and the royal manuscripts.10 The monument’s west façade is roughly contemporary in date to the Bibles addressed here. From the mid-twelfth century onwards, the archbishops provided exceptional support for the French crown, creating a mutually beneficial relationship for both the ecclesiastical see and the monarch.11 Moreover, the Capetian monarchs and Bourges’s archbishops were closely tied to anti-heretical efforts in central and southern France, as will be discussed below. Such a cooperative relationship would have made artistic exchange likely. St Stephen’s ordination is represented in conjunction with the personification of ideal ecclesiastical authority, St Peter, in the Bibles moralisées. In folio 63 of Harley 1527, the seven elect kneel before the apostles for ordination 8 

Reynolds, ‘Image and Text’; Palazzo, L’Évêque et son image, esp. pp. 214–17. Over the last few years many influential publications have appeared that have contributed greatly to our knowledge of the Bibles moralisées. Important to this chapter are the studies by Lowden, The Making of the Bibles Moralisées; Bible moralisée: Codex Vindobonensis 2554, ed. by Guest; Hassall, Bible Moralisée. 10  See for example: Lowden, ‘An Image’. 11  Branner, The Cathedral of Bourges, p. 9, n. 32. 9 

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(Figure 14.5). St Peter reaches forward with his right hand, touching the protodeacon’s head. St Stephen, clad in his dalmatic, bows his head and lifts his hands to receive the book in St Peter’s cloaked grasp. The paired first bishop and first deacon form the focal point of the composition. The connections between the rites of the bishop and the roles of the deacon are not only made through St Peter and St Stephen, but also through their visual associations with archetypes of the bishop and deacon, Moses and Aaron from the Hebrew Scriptures throughout the moralized Bibles. The book of Exodus relates God’s directions to Moses to consecrate Aaron, dressing him in vestments so that he may serve as the Lord’s minister for the Israelites. Moses and Aaron go on to serve at the altar, like their Christian counterparts. (Plate 6) Imagery directly related to St Stephen’s life, martyrdom, or the discovery of his relics is carefully executed throughout the moralizing commentary of the Bibles moralisées. The images of St Stephen reinforce the connection of the medieval ecclesiastical hierarchy with the apostles of Christ. They also provide an exemplar for ‘the good prelates’. For example, the Oxford Bodleian 270b folios of the Oxford Paris-London Bible contain imagery of the proto-martyr that is employed as moralizing commentary within the books of Numbers, Deuteronomy, and Joshua.12 Folio 79v depicts Numbers 16. 44 through 17. 9 (Plate 6). Situated at the top left of the page, Moses and Aaron kneel in supplication to God on the left side of the round frame. The right side of the composition is filled with a crowd of Israelites who seem to fall or flee as God appears in the top of the composition. Following Numbers 16. 44–46, and as per the text, Moses and Aaron make supplication for their people.13 In the roundel just below, Stephen is executed by stoning. His tonsured head and medieval dal12  Parts of four moralized Bibles survive from the mid-thirteenth century in various states of division and completeness. They include Wien, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, MS 2554; Wien, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, MS 1179; and three volumes at Toledo Cathedral, a folio of which is in New York, Morgan Library, MS M 240. The fourth Bible is divided between Oxford, Bodelian Library, MS 270b; Paris, Bibliothèque nationale, MS lat. 11560; and London, BL, MS Harley 1526 and BL, MS Harley 1527. The Oxford-Paris-London Bible, including Bodleian 270b, with Latin text, was probably produced 1235–50. It is a copy of the Toledo Bible and its patronage is linked with Louis IX and his mother Blanche of Castile. It could also be associated with Louis IX’s wife, Marguerite of Provence. Later manuscripts were produced but do not appear here. For the production of the moralized Bibles, see Lowden, The Making of the Bibles Moralisées. See also La Bible moralisée. 13  See also Hassall’s description, ‘God, appearing out of a cloud, speaks with Moses and Aaron who are making supplications on behalf of their sinful people. In his anger God smites the murmurers with a plague.’ Hassall, Bible Moralisée, iii, p. 21.

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matic set him apart from the other figures in the composition. Saul sits on the garments of the executioners and witnesses the martyrdom from the left side of the picture, much like the central composition in the Bourges tympanum. Three persecutors, with stones gathered in their garments, surround the protomartyr and barrage him with these stones. Christ, suggesting Stephen’s vision, appears above an arc of celestial clouds. His right hand is raised in benediction. His left hand supports an orb. The cruciform halo just overlaps the disk-like shape that anchors the biblical roundel to the moralizing roundel. Stephen, kneeling and at prayer, gazes up past his persecutors to his own private divine vision. The text acknowledges St Stephen as a model for prayer for one’s enemies because he prayed for those who stoned him.14 However, his appearance beneath Moses and Aaron needs further comment. Moses and Aaron were considered ideal types for the bishop and deacon in the early Middle Ages. As the Apostolic Constitutions state, ‘For now the deacon is to you Aaron, and the bishop Moses […] For as Christ does nothing without his father, so neither does the deacon do anything without his bishop.’15 Aaron and Moses are in effect named deacon and bishop. Moreover, their offices are linked to one another by likening them to two components of the Trinity, the Son and Father. The four vertical scenes on folio 79v of Bodleian 270b form a visual commentary on the examples set by the prophets and their followers (Plate 6). In the top illustration the brothers are set apart from the Israelites in their supplication to God. They kneel on his right and their charges scatter on God’s left. It seems that a judgement is taking place. In the roundel below, Stephen’s body divides the composition as he prays for his persecutors. He is the good deacon in the tradition of Aaron and he will be credited with the conversion of St Paul who sits on the coats behind the martyr. However, the persecutors who are situated beneath the fleeing Israelites of the upper composition will be blind to the martyr’s testimony. Similar observations can be made in the next two miniatures. Below the Stephen roundel, the narrative from the book of Numbers continues.16 Again, there is a cloud from which God watches and actively engages the earthly figures, as he did in the two compositions above. Aaron is dressed as 14 

See Hassall above. ‘We should pray for our persecutors as St Stephen prayed for those who stoned him’, Hassall, Bible Moralisée, iii, p. 21. 15  Apostolic Constitutions, trans. by Roberts, Donaldson, and Coxe, ii, p. xxx. 16  Numbers 16. 47–48. The Oxford-Paris-London text first moves vertically all the way down the left column and then down the right column.

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a priest. His body separates the living from the dead. He atones for the sins of the Israelites as he swings a censer.17 Like Stephen above him, Aaron, here the Hebrew priest, intercedes for the people. As Stephen prays for the immortal souls of his persecutors, Aaron saves the lives of his congregation. The figure of Aaron bisects the composition. The plague-ridden victims fall in a heap at the right, again God’s left. Those whose lives are spared stand in an orderly crowd behind the priest. The moralizing scene below is similarly configured. A mitred bishop, dressed in his vestments, stands between two figural groups in the bottom left roundel (Plate 6). The just of society are represented on the left by a group of three clerics, tonsured, hooded, barefooted, and with pious downcast eyes. On the right, two lovers grasp each other lecherously. The bishop’s position in the composition mirrors that of Aaron and Stephen above him. Moreover, like those of Aaron and Stephen, the bishop’s intervention stands between the saved and the damned, or salvation and damnation. Tellingly, the bishop’s hands mirror the gesture of prayer established by Stephen in the moralizing roundel discussed above. The head of the bishop, like Stephen’s, is almost centred in the composition and is turned to the right in three-quarter profile. He witnesses the same celestial vision awarded to Stephen. Just like Stephen and Aaron, the bishop prays for the just and the sinners.18 These four vertically aligned roundels function together, presenting an exemplar for the ideal prelate that cuts through time and Christian history. They establish a link between medieval ecclesiastical authority and the hierarchy of the apostolic era.19 Not only do the moralized Bibles provide examples that illuminate St Stephen’s connection to the ideal Christian bishop, they also provide examples of the ordination of the first seven deacons in the tradition of the sculpted ordination scene on Bourges’s tympanum (Figure 14.4). The scene is represented in the Oxford-Paris-London Bible. Folio 63v of the book of Acts in the Harley 1527 has a roundel devoted entirely to Stephen’s ordination at the hands of the first bishop, St Peter in Acts 6. 6 (Figure 14.5).20 In the upper right image, St Peter lays his right hand on Stephen’s head. Much as in the image of 17 

Hassall, Bible Moralisée, iii, p. 21. ‘Aaron is the good prelate or priest praying for the just lest they fall and for sinners that they may arise.’ Hassall, Bible Moralisée, iii, p. 21. 19  It is noteworthy that in the roundel to the right of the stoning of Stephen, a bishop lays a hand on one tonsured head, an overt reference to the very creation of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, the laying on of hands, first described in the Acts of the Apostles with the ordination of Stephen. 20  La Bible moralisée. 18 

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the ordination at Bourges (Figure 14.4), the bishop holds the Gospel book in his veiled hand and offers it to the proto-deacon. In the next set of biblical roundels, Stephen and Peter preach in similarly composed scenes.21 (Plate 7) Each saint stands in three-quarter profile with a haloed, tonsured head. Their right hands are raised as they gesture to their audiences, and their left hands support their codices. The visual repetition of the composition, and the juxtaposition of the scenes, suggests the close connection that the first bishop and the first deacon share in medieval texts, which explain, ‘sicut Petrus a petra nomen adeptus est […] Stephanus vocatus est a corona’ (‘as Peter is named the rock […] Stephen is called the crown’).22 In these paired images, even their work in spreading the word of God is the same. Through the ordination the proto-deacon is bound to the first bishop and their roles are conflated in the imagery of the moralized Bible. The juxtaposition of St Stephen with St Peter in the moralized Bibles provides additional context that helps to elucidate the decision to include the ordination scene on the tympanum at Bourges Cathedral. Moreover, the similarities of the painted and sculpted compositions link the portals at Bourges with royal pictorial traditions. Such exchange is not surprising given the close interactions and concerns shared by the kings and the archbishops in the first half of the thirteenth century. Of particular relevance to the archiepiscopacy of Bourges in the early years of the thirteenth century was the papal call to root out heresy in central and southern France. By 1209 Bourges found itself the organizational and geographic centre of the Albigensian Crusade, a series of wars against a dualist sect known as the Cathars in Languedoc. Popes Innocent III and Honorius III eventually drew in the French crown promoting military action against the heretics by offering the land seized from local lords who supposedly sheltered the Cathars. The same period also marked the early stages of construction of the archbishop’s great church. Archbishop Guillaume du Donjon was embroiled in the papal mission of rooting out dualist heresy in Languedoc when his untimely death in 1209 cut short his involvement with the early stages of the crusade. However, his successor Archbishop Gérard de Cros continued Bourges’s episcopal involvement, accompanying Simon de Montfort in 1217. Archbishop Simon de Sully, 1218–32, continued crusading efforts. The see of Bourges was considered so central to the Albigensian Crusade that a council was held there 21  The third image from the top of the page. Peter is in the left column and Stephen is in the right. 22  Peter Chrysologus, Sermones, ed. by Migne, no. 154, cols 608B–608C.

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in 1225, establishing the so-called second Albigensian Crusade.23 The outcome of the council was the confirmation that the French crown, or forces loyal to it, would maintain the land seized by the northern nobles, and four years of clerical income would be taxed for the continued crusading efforts in Languedoc. The crown and papacy designated the archbishop of Bourges primas Aquitaniae, the organizational authority of the final years of the Albigensian Crusade.24 It was in the shadow of this momentous anti-heretical council, uniting papal, royal, and episcopal interests, that clerics conceived the iconography of the west façade of the cathedral. The five western portals were probably laid out between 1225 and 1230 and the façade was completed between 1255 and 1265.25 In the light of Capetian interests in the archdiocese of Bourges, it comes as no surprize that the façade of the cathedral shares compositional prototypes with contemporary Parisian manuscripts. Moreover, this observation provides an additional opportunity to assess the construction of meaning behind these compositions from the perspective of a specific audience. The inclusion of familiar themes and compositions on the cathedral’s west facade must have assured royal officials and kings themselves of the support they expected or desired from the ecclesiastical hierarchy. Importantly, the Church had its own set of expectations in the form of respect for episcopal autonomy and military support. Such quid pro quo is exemplified in the 1225 Council of Bourges.

Translation, Consecration, and Baptism: The Depiction of Episcopal Rites In addition to the ordination rite, Bourges’s façade supports liturgical performances of relic translation, church consecration, and baptism. To the right of the Stephen doorway stands the portal devoted to the life of St Ursin, the first Bishop of Bourges (Figure 14.3). However, Stephen’s history, or rather the history of his relics, is closely tied to the life and ministry of Ursin.26 The narrative 23 

Kay, The Council of Bourges; Cazel, ‘Review: The Council of Bourges’. Brugger and Christe, Bourges: La cathédrale, p. 49. Brugger acknowledges the possibility of influence in the overall programme of the façade from the crusade pp. 48–51. 25  Branner, The Cathedral of Bourges, p. 59, and Vitry, French Sculpture, pp. 83–84. 26  The primary sources on the life of St Ursin appear in Gregory of Tours, Liber de gloria confessorum, ed. by Migne, ch. 80, ‘De sancto Ursino Biturigum episcopo’, cols 886c–d–887c; Monuments inédits, ed. by Faillon and Migne; Labbe, Nova bibliotheca manuscriptorum, ii, pp. 455–59; Duchesne, Fastes Épiscopaux, ii, pp. 122–24; Les Sources de l’histoire de France, ed. by Molinier, i, p. 23. For the contradictions in the texts see: Bayard, Bourges Cathedral, p. 23 and Boinet, Les Sculptures de la cathédrale, pp. 36–40. For the most current translation see Gregory 24 

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Figure 14.6. ‘Translation of the Relics’, detail of the St Ursin Tympanum, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Author photograph.

begins on the right side of the tympanum’s lintel. The design reverses the typical direction of thirteenth-century narrative tympana, and moves towards the proto-martyr’s imagery, linking the two portals compositionally. In the first scene, St Ursin and his companion, St Just, receive the assignment for their ministry from St Peter, who holds his key.27 Moving to the left, St Just and St Ursin begin their journey. The bishop-saint, Ursin, is differentiated by his mitre. They both carry books of the gospels and walking staffs. In the central scene St Just dies and angels carry his soul to heaven within a draped cloth. St Ursin buries this companion beneath the celestial scene and angels swing censers over the tomb. On the left side of the burial, the bishop approaches the city gates of Bourges with his walking staff in one hand and a reliquary with the relics of St Stephen in the other (Figure 14.6). St Ursin was said to have been a witness to the execution of the proto-martyr28 and collected the holy blood of of Tours, Glory of the Confessors, trans. Van Dam, and Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Martyrs, trans. by Van Dam. 27  As Bayard notes, the sources are contradictory as to exactly who gives St  Ursin his instructions. Faillon suggests Ursin received his ministry from the apostles, Monuments inédits, ed. by Faillon and Migne, ii, p. 423. Labbe’s text notes St Clement (Labbe, Nova bibliotheca manuscriptorum, ii, p. 457). Bayard, Bourges Cathedral, p. 23 identifies the bishop in the scene at Bourges as St Peter. 28  Labbe, Nova bibliotheca manuscriptorum, ii, p. 456.

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Figure 14.7. ‘Consecration of the Church’, detail of the St Ursin Tympanum, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Author photograph.

St Stephen in Jerusalem.29 While the visual inference of the presence of the relics in the tympanum is subtle, the connection would surely have been emphasized for lay viewers in the sermons and liturgy in the church. Ecclesiastical audiences would have recognized the link between the translation of the relics, the consecration of the building, and episcopal privilege, especially with their particular access to and knowledge of St Stephen’s relics inside the cathedral. Thus access to the holy body within the church is a consistent subtext of the two tympana. In the next sculpted scene, a crowd of people is converted by the missionary zeal of St Ursin and the power of St Stephen’s relics. Now the head of an ecclesiastical see rather than a traveller, St Ursin carries a crozier rather than a staff. Moving up the tympanum to the middle register, St Ursin grasps the hands of the first of four men who kneel before him. Léocade, the Roman governor, and his son Lusor are first in line among the men who may indicate new con29 

Monuments inédits, ed. by Faillon and Migne, p. 423.

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verts.30 In the centre of the register St Ursin places the reliquary of St Stephen’s blood into a miniature Gothic church (Figure 14.7), thus correlating the consecration of the first Cathedral of St Stephen in Bourges with the consecration of the new Gothic building.31 While images of the translation of St Stephen’s relics are known in Roman­ esque sculptural imagery, they are rarely included in the programmes of Gothic monumental sculpture.32 The twelfth-century images almost always suggest Stephen’s entombment or his translation from Jerusalem to Constantinople or from Constantinople to Rome. The tertiary movement of the holy relics in small portable reliquaries into French churches is implied by any entombment or translation image and some viewers would have been familiar with the story of the discovery of St Stephen’s relics and their subsequent translations, which were documented by St Augustine and widely disseminated. However, in most architectural imagery the viewer’s knowledge of the presence of the relic inside the church is required in order to make the leap from legendary translation to local veneration. Interestingly, this understanding is not required at Bourges where the hagiographies of Christ’s first martyr and Bourges’s first bishop are intertwined and displayed beside one another on the most public space of the monument. The image of the small reliquary in the hand of St Ursin on Bourges’s façade is unique. By depicting the actual insertion of Stephen’s relics into the fabric of the church by the bishop’s hands, the ecclesiastical officials at Bourges place their archiepiscopal see as the culmination of the primary destinations of the proto-martyr’s relics: Jerusalem, Constantinople, Rome, and ultimately Bourges.33 Much like the image of the ordination of the first deacons, the consecration of the church with holy relics at Bourges is notable 30 

Monuments inédits, ed. by Faillon and Migne, p. 426. Literally speaking, the very first church in Berry had been the Church of St-Ursin; see de Laugardière, L’Église de Bourges, pp. 42–49. 32  For Romanesque versions see for example the Abbey of St Pierre at Moissac and the church of St Stephen in Lubersac. 33  On the invention of the relics and their translation to Rome: Avitus presbyter, Epistola aviti ad palchonium, ed. by Migne, cols 805–08; Lucian presbyter Caphamargala, Epistola Luciani ad omnem ecclesiam, ed. by Migne, cols 807–17. On manuscript sources including Translation to Constantinople: Anastasius bibliothecarius, Epistola ad landuleum, ed. by Migne, cols 817–18; and Anastasius bibliothecarius, De translatione s. Stephani, ed. by Migne, cols 817–22. For secondary sources on the primary sources: Bovon, ‘The Dossier on Stephen’; Lemaitre, ‘La Legende de Saint Etienne’; Vanderlinden, ‘Revelatio sancti Stephani’; Vies des saints, ed. by Baudot and Chaussin, xii, pp. 691–700; and ‘Étienne (martyr et sépulture de saint)’, DACL, v, pp. 631–48. 31 

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within the corpus of extant Gothic architectural sculpture.34 Similarly, carved Romanesque images prove quite separate in their pictorial conceptions.35 However, surviving medieval ordines and sermons referencing consecration rites relate just how meaningful the Bourges composition is. Both the Roman and Gallic consecration rites are well recorded and studied.36 The depositing of relics into churches predates formal consecration rituals.37 However, from the time the rites were combined in the ninth century, little changed in the ceremonies.38 According to the Ordo ad benedicendam ecclesiam, studied in depth by Brian Repsher, the consecration began with the installation of the relics in a sanctuary away from the new building.39 The bishop and presbyters processed around the exterior of the building, purifying the walls and foundations. The procession circumambulated the building three times and each time the bishop passed the door, he knocked on the lintel with his crosier, and recited a prayer. A lone deacon answered from within the building. The prayers requested the unification of the people of God, particularly the Christians and Jews. The clerics repeated the church prayers and litanies upon entering. The bishop traced the Greek and Latin alphabet in the shape of a cross on the building’s floor. The presbyters recited prayers.40 The bishop blessed and exorcized the altar with consecrated water, salt, ashes, wine, and hyssop. He then sprinkled the interior walls three times and purified the middle 34 

See for example the illumination from the consecration of the abbey church of Saint Victor in Lauwers, ‘Consécration d’églises’, p. 132. 35  Mariaux, ‘Mettre en scène le souvenir’. 36  Andrieu, Les Ordines Romani, pp. 397–402; Duchesne, Christian Worship, pp. 403–09; Palazzo, L’Évêque et son image, pp.  307–56; Palazzo, A History of Liturgical Books, esp. pp. 175–94; Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication. 37  Andrieu, Les Ordines Romani, iv, pp. 397–402; Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, p. 23; Duchesne, Christian Worship, pp. 403–04. 38  On the history of the rites, Méhu, ‘Historiae et imagines’, pp. 15–28. And for the modest twelfth-century changes see ‘Incipit ordo ad benedicendam ecclesiam’, Le Pontifical romain au Moyen-Âge, ed. by Andrieu, i, 176–95; ‘Ordo ad benedicendam ecclesiam’, ii, pp. 420–52; and ‘De ecclesie dedicatione’, iii, 455–78. On the history of the thirteenth century rite see Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, pp. 18–25. Hayes, Body and Sacred Place, p. 11; Jounel, ‘The Dedication of Churches’, p. 220. Duchesne, Christian Worship, pp. 403–13; Le Pontifical romain au Moyen-Âge, ed. by Andrieu, i, pp. 176–95. 39  Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, p. 13. He notes the critical edition of the text in Le Pontifical Romano-Germanique, ed. by Vogel and others, i, pp. 124–73. 40  Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, p. 51. ‘How awesome is this place, truly there is not anything here except the house of God and the door of heaven’ (Genesis 28. 17).

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of the building. The bishop invoked the saint whose relics still waited outside. The bishop then began the consecration of the altar, pouring the water at the altar. He offered incense over it and marked the altar with a cross of chrism and requested God’s blessing. He anointed the walls in a similar fashion, and then blessed the sacred tablet that would cover the altar. Subdeacons and ministers entered with the liturgical linens, vestments, and ornaments, which the bishop similarly blessed. The bishop and clerics then left the building and retrieved the relics. They prayed in front of the main entrance and anointed the main doors: In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti, porta sis benedicta, consecrate, sanctificata, consignata et domino Deo commendata. Porta sis introitus salutis et pacis. Porta sis ostium pacificum, per eum qui se ostium et ostiarium appellavit, Jesus Cristus dominus noster. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit may you be a gate blessed, consecrated, sanctified, given over and entrusted to the Lord God. May you be an entrance of salvation and peace. Gate, may you be a peaceful door through him who called himself the door and the doorkeeper, Jesus Christ our Lord.41

The bishop and his retinue circled the building with the relics. Upon returning to the main doors, the bishop spoke to the entire assembly, reminding the faithful of their Christian responsibilities. He announced the identity of the titular saint. He then publicly acknowledged the donors and benefactors of the church and encouraged their attention to the maintenance of the institution. The benefactors publically announced their support. Finally, the bishop walked through the main portal of the building with the relics, encouraging God to enter the church as well. The bishop took the relics to the altar, behind a curtain out of sight of the congregation, and deposited the relics in or beneath the altar. Both God and the saint whose relics had been deposited were again invoked. The bishop placed the tablet into the altar covering the relics. Clerics lit the candles and the first Mass began.42 Repsher goes on to compare the ordo discussed above with a liturgical exposition — an interpretation of the meanings behind the liturgy — ‘Quid significent duodecim candela’. The expositor provides a running commentary on the importance and meaning of elements of the ceremony. According to the explanations the striking of the lintel by the bishop was meant to demonstrate 41  42 

Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, p. 58. Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, pp. 58–64.

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‘that the powers of heaven, earth, and hell yield to him’. The staff symbolized the power inherited by the bishop from the apostles through episcopal succession and as such is particularly meaningful on the Bourges tympanum.43 The crosier, which seems to lean against the façade of the church in front of the bishop, is reflected in the baptism scene above, drawing attention to its position and importance in both scenes.44 The expositor continues by explaining that the entry of the relics into the church and ultimately the introduction of the relics to the altar also had a particular significance not readily apparent in the text of the rite. The text relates the ceremony to Jesus’s promise to prepare a place for the faithful in the heavenly Jerusalem, as well as his assurance that he would return for the immortal souls of the consecrated so that they may join him in heaven.45 This concept is not only generally applicable to the presence of St Ursin in the tympanum of Bourges Cathedral. The adjacent doorway, the church’s central entrance, is surmounted by a sculpted rendition of the Last Judgement of Christ, where Christ collects the souls of the blessed. The ecclesiastical audience would have connected the liturgical performances of the bishop-saint to Christ’s ultimate act of salvation, which is the visual culmination of the façade system’s portals. The bishop’s public interaction, as described in the ordo and the exposition, with the builders and benefactors in front of the church’s portals is an important element of the ceremony for understanding the central composition of the St Ursin tympanum (Figure 14.3). The Roman governor, Léocade, according to the legend donates the land on which his own palace stands for the new church.46 The secular leader’s presence here is remarkable. Typically donors play a very minor role in such ceremonies even though benefactors are mentioned in such famous dedication narratives as Abbot Suger’s record of St Denis’ construction.47 Moreover the benefactor’s inclusion with his son in the baptismal font above the building is relevant. St Ursin baptizes the governor and his son at the peak of the composition, in a font that replicates the structure and posi-

43 

Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, pp. 77–78. The crosier’s shape has often been noted in dedicatory inscriptions in medieval churches. Treffort, ‘Une consécration “à la lettre”’. 45  Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, p. 99. See also, Gauthier, ‘L’odeur et la lumière des dédicaces’. 46  Monuments inédits, ed. by Faillon and Migne, i, p. 426 and ii, p. 459. 47  Iogna-Prat, ‘The Consecration of Church Space’. 44 

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tion of the church below.48 (Figure 14.3) The repeated figures of St Ursin in each scene are virtually identical and exactly aligned on a vertical axis. The gesture of blessing is likewise indistinguishable. The edges of the font are carefully aligned with the perpendicular edges of the building directly below. The font’s blind arcade with its pointed arches and tri-lobed frame reflects the gallerylevel decoration in the building. With the inclusion of the two figures in the font, even the scale of the baptism scene is a reflection of the consecration scene below. This compositional alignment is indicative of the close relationship shared by the rites of consecration and baptism in medieval philosophy.49 Ordination, translation, consecration, and baptism: the representations of the ceremonies celebrated by apostolic era bishops on the façade of Bourges Cathedral are an extraordinary and complex amalgamation of church ritual. As remarkable as their inclusion is in architectural sculpture, the juxtaposition of these ceremonies also occurs on the ivory cover of the Drogo Sacramentary, but recalls a very different pictorial tradition. Importantly the sculpted portals, and the manuscript cover and illuminations have very different visual roles and viewers.50 The liturgical function of the manuscript and cover excludes the scrutiny of the lay viewer thus emphasizing the elite status of altar officiants even above other members of the clergy. As on the Bourges portal, the sacramentary’s consecration scene emphasizes the necessity for access to the saintly remains while underscoring the exclusivity of that access. Susannah Crowder observes, ‘the ivory visually reinforces the centrality of the saints’ presence by literally placing their relics in the centre scene, flanked by the archbishop on both sides’.51 This same centrality is emphasized in the composition of the St Ursin portal, where the relic is not only bracketed by the first bishop, but also always in his possession. Importantly, the presence of these scenes on a liturgical book indicates the complexity of the iconographic system on the public portal, despite differences in medium, scale, use, and audience. The sacramentary cover includes images of the baptism of Christ, blessing of holy water and oil, consecration of a church, and the ordination of deacons, among other scenes. The combina48 

Brugger, ‘La Cathédrale de Bourges’. See for example: ‘Learned Conceptions of Sacred Place: Building and Body as Two Façades of Christian Worship in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’, in Hayes, Body and Sacred Place, pp. 3–23. 50  Crowder, ‘Recontextualizing the Performances of the Drogo Sacramentary’. Palazzo, L’Évêque et son image, pp. 199–205. 51  Crowder, ‘Recontextualizing the Performances of the Drogo Sacramentary’, p. 13. 49 

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tion is not nearly as surprising on a liturgical manuscript whose very content focuses on Church rites and ceremonies. Unfortunately the individual plaques that make up the composition of the cover were rearranged during reframing. Thus, we no longer know their original arrangement, which may have provided some insight into the seemingly hierarchical organization of the rites on the Bourges façade.52 Nevertheless, medieval and modern scholars of Church ritual have often commented on the connection of consecration ceremonies to baptism rituals.53 In her study of philosophical and metaphorical space in Christian philosophy, Dawn Marie Hayes deciphers a tension between Christian conceptions of sacred places citing contradictions between Old Testament notions of temple spaces for worship and New Testament metaphors of the human body as temple. She explains: A way medieval Christians harmonized the two facades of sacred place was to think of the baptism of bodies and the consecration of churches as two sides of the same ritual. Both separated, cleansed, and strengthened places of worship. The only real difference was the material they affected: baptism was a sacrament of flesh, consecration a rite of stone.54

The concept of purification informed both rites. In light of this observation the tympanum of St Ursin at Bourges juxtaposes the spaces — the masonry and the flesh — but in a hierarchical arrangement. The church, purified and consecrated with the proto-martyr’s relics, provides a place for the purification of the soul, which opens the heavens above the donor’s head for a dove of the Holy Spirit to descend (Figure 14.8). The bishop is of course integral in all of these earthly rites. Repsher argues that the dedication of a building was understood as more than the consecration of a building, but was the dedication of a people. As such the building was personified, and treated as a person to be baptized.55 He notes ‘the church building, representing a new assembly called to serve God, was baptized into the church universal’.56 The metaphors become much more literal when considering the imagery of the St Ursin portal or the language of medieval sermons on the topic of church consecration, which bol52 

Reynolds, ‘A Visual Epitome of the Eucharistic Ordo’, p. 259. See Ivo of Chartres, Sermones, ed. by Migne, Sermon 4, cols 527–35; Hugh of St Victor, De presbyteris, ed. by Migne, col. 429; Hayes, Body and Sacred Place, pp. 13–15. 54  Hayes, Body and Sacred Place, p. 3. 55  Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, p. 33. 56  Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, p. 17. 53 

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Figure 14.8. ‘Baptism of the Donors’, detail of the St Ursin Tympanum, West Façade of the Cathedral of St Stephen, Bourges, France. First half of thirteenth century. Author photograph.

ster the connection of the physical structure of the building with the corporal bodies of the faithful. Early sermons by influential presbyters such as St Ambrose refer to individuals in the congregation as ‘spiritual stones’ and ‘sensible temples’. 57 The very bodies of the baptized faithful are likened to the stones of the consecrated churches. Indeed, writing on the dedication of churches St Augustine states: Domus ergo nostrarum orationum ista est, domus Dei nos ipsi. Si domus Dei nos ipsi, nos in hoc saeculo aedificamur, ut in fine saeculi dedicemur […] Credendo enim quasi de silvis et montibus ligna et lapides praeciduntur: cum vero catechizantur, baptizantur, formantur, tanquam inter manus fabrorum et opificum dolantur, collineantur, complanantur. It is the home of our prayers, we are ourselves the house of God. If we are the house of God, we are being built in this era, so that we may be dedicated at the end of the era. Indeed, for the believer it is like wood and stones cut from forests and mountains; truly they [Christians] are being catechized, baptized and formed just 57 

Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, p. 25. Ambrose, Exhortatio virginitatis, ed. by Migne, Book 1, col. 364.

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like they [wood and stones] are hewn, straightened and levelled in the hands of craftsmen and artisans.58

The body is likened to the building itself as well as the base building materials, and here, people are ‘dedicated’ for the sake of the dedication or salvation of their souls at the final judgement. Closer to the time and date of the construction of the façade of Bourges Cathedral, Hugh of St Victor states: Et primum sicut dictum est de dedicatione Ecclesiae, quasi de primo baptismate, quo ipsa quodammodo Ecclesia primum baptizatur, ut in ea post modum homines ad salutem regenerandi baptizentur. Quasi enim primum sacramentum in baptism cognoscitur, per quod fideles omnes inter membra corporis Christi per regenerationis novae gratiam computantur. Idcirco hoc primum tractandum occurrit. Primum in dedicatione figuratum Ecclesiae, deinde in sanctificatione animae fidelis exhibitum. Quod enim in hac domo orationis visibiliter per figuram exprimitur, totum in anima fideli per invisibilem veritatem exhibetur. Ipsa enim verum templum Dei est confoederatione virtutum, quasi quadam structura lapidum spiritualium aedificata ubi fides fundamentum facit, spes fabricam erigit, charitas consummationem imponit. Sed et ipsa Ecclesia ex multitudine fidelium in unum congregata: domus est Dei vivis lapidibus constructa, ubi Christus fundamentum angulare positus est; duos parietes Judaeorum et gentium in una fide conjungens. We must speak of the dedication of a church, just as of the first baptism by which the church itself in a manner is baptized […] For the first sacrament, as it were, is recognized in baptism through which all the faithful are computed among the members of the body of Christ through the grace of the new regeneration […] Regeneration is first symbolized in the dedication of a church; then it is exhibited in the sanctification of a faithful soul. For what is expressed visibly in a figure in this house is exhibited entirely through invisible truth in the faithful soul. For the faithful soul is the true temple of God by the covenant of virtue which is built, as it were, by a kind of structure of spiritual stones, where faith makes the foundation, hope raises the building, charity imposes the finish. But the Church herself also, brought together as one from the multitude of the faithful, is the house of God constructed of living stones, where Christ has been placed as the cornerstone, joining the two walls of the Jews and gentiles in one faith.59 58 

Augustine, Sermones, ed. by Migne, Sermon 336, ‘In Dedicatione Ecclesiae’, cols 1471– 72. In his discussion of Augustine’s sermon on church dedication, Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, p. 29 notes: ‘Augustine said that whatever is done in a church at its dedication signifies an analogous operation on the soul.’ Specifically, Augustine suggests the witnesses to the church’s consecration achieve in their hearts and souls, what they see completed in the wood and stone of the edifice. See ‘In Dedicatione Ecclesiae’, col. 1475. 59  Hugh of St Victor, De Sacramentis, ed. by Migne, Part 5, ‘De Dedicatione Ecclesiae’,

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Not only does Hugh of St Victor incorporate the similes of baptism as consecration and the body as building material, his language, in a general way, references the images of Saul — the not yet converted Paul — and the martyrdom of St Stephen at the hands of the Jews in the neighbouring tympanum. St Stephen’s stoning makes possible the conversion of the Apostle Paul, joining the Jews of the old covenant with the Christians of the new. On the St Ursin portal the neophytes occupy the prominent peak of the composition, reserved for the Court of Heaven in all the other tympana of the west façade (Figure 14.3). The expositor of the ordo may give us insight into why the baptism is given the higher placement in the hierarchical arrangement where surely the pinnacle of the composition is the privileged, most holy part of the space in a visual narrative which lifts the viewer’s eyes in anagogical fashion. The church building is a transitory structure; however, he explains it is made of ‘holy ones who are the true rocks by participation in that cornerstone’.60 The composition bodes well for the future of their eternal souls. The peak of every surviving thirteenth-century tympana on Bourges’s great façade houses the opening of the heavens: the Virgin’s Assumption, the Last Judgement, the baptism scene, and St Stephen’s vision.

Conclusion The southern-most portals of the western façade of Bourges Cathedral operate on several levels. For the medieval laity, the St Ursin tympanum presents an ideal outcome for the faithful of Bourges who would have been baptized at this church. The imagery connects the individual Christian to both the building and the body of the faithful, proclaiming the orthodoxy of the ancient rituals. The pre-eminence of the see is heightened by referencing the original consecration with the relics of the proto martyr, through the rites established by St Peter — the rock upon which the Church was built — and executed by the bishop. For the medieval clergy, the portal system links their rites of ordination to the ancient lineage of the Church hierarchy and ultimately to St Peter himself. Again it is St Peter who establishes episcopal privilege at Bourges through the mission of St Ursin, the see’s first bishop. Episcopal prerogative is clearly outlined on the tympana through the translation, consecration, and baptism scenes. Moreover, the compositional alignment of the liturgical performances col. 439; Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, pp. 32–33; Deferrari, Hugh of St. Victor, p. 279. 60  Repsher, The Rite of Church Dedication, p. 101.

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provides a complex theological commentary on the relationship of the consecrated faithful and the physical building of worship. Such a message bolstered the role of Bourges’s medieval archbishop and grounded his actions in the undisputable pre-eminence of the apostolic era. The inclusion of such a complex and powerful statement of episcopal privilege on the façade of Bourges Cathedral is curious when such liturgical subjects are not seemingly common themes in French Gothic architectural sculpture. The prevalence of the imagery here might be explicable as a statement of orthodoxy at a time when the Church, the French crown, and the clerical authorities at Bourges were combatting Cathar heresy nearby. The iconographic and compositional similarities between the portals and the royal moralized Bibles suggest artistic links that parallel the political connections between Bourges’s archbishops and the Capetian crown during the layout and construction of the portals. When considering this historical context visual images that confirm both the orthodoxy of the liturgy and the ancient inheritance of the Church hierarchy might be anticipated on the façade of Bourges’s cathedral. Regardless of particular historic circumstances scholars need to reconsider the influence of liturgical rites and performance — especially as embedded in hagiographic narrative — on the façades of thirteenth-century cathedrals. Such a possibility forecasts avenues for further research. The striking similarities in the iconographic constructions of Bourges’s tympana and the cover of the Drogo Sacramentary suggest the narrative subjects of architectural sculpture may benefit from closer scrutiny. The complex theological relationship pictured between the physical structure of the church, the corporal body of the faithful, and the sacred relics of the saint provides a view of episcopal privilege at St Stephen’s Cathedral at Bourges.

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Works Cited Manuscripts and Archival Documents London, British Library, MS Harley 1526 —— , MS Harley 1527 New York, Morgan Library, MS M 240 Oxford, Bodelian Library, MS 270b Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, MS lat. 11560 Wien, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, MS 1179 —— , MS 2554

Primary Sources Ambrose, Exhortatio ad virginitatis, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), xvi (1845) Anastasius bibliothecarius, Epistola ad landuleum, ‘De scriptura translationis protomartyris Stephani, quam e graeco in latinum vertit’, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), xli (1845), cols 817–818 —— , ‘De translatione s. Stephani, scriptura de translatione sancti Stephani de Jerusalem in urbem Byzantium’, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), xli (1845), cols 817–822 Apostolic Constitutions, in Ante-Nicene Fathers, trans. by Alexander Roberts, James Donaldson, and A. Cleveland Coxe (Buffalo: Christian Literature, 1886), rev. and ed. by Kevin Knight [accessed 12 June 2012] Augustine, Sermones, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), xxxviii (1845) Avitus presbyter, Epistola aviti ad palchonium, re reliquiis sancti Stephani, ed de Luciani epistola a se e graeco in latinum versa, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), xli (1845), cols 805–08 Bible moralisée [accessed 10 June 2012] Bible moralisée: Codex Vindobonensis 2554, Vienna, Österreichische Nationalbibliothek, ed. by Gerald B. Guest, Manuscripts in Miniature, 2 (London: Miller, 1995) La Bible moralisée: conservée à Oxford, Paris et Londres, reproduction intégrale du manuscript du xiiie siècle accompagnée d’une notice par le comte A. de Laborde, 5 vols (Paris: Société Française de Reproductions de Manuscrits à Peintures, 1911–27) Gregory of Tours, Glory of the Martyrs, trans. by Raymond Van Dam (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1988) —— , Liber de gloria confessorum, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by JacquesPaul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), lxxi (1849); trans. Raymond Van Dam, Glory of the Confessors (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1988)

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Gregory the Great, Opera omnia Gregorii Magni, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), lxxviii (1862) Hassall, W. O., Bible Moralisée: Bodleian Library Mss 270b, SC 2937 c. 1250, 7 parts (Wakefield: Microform Academic, [n.d.]) [accessed 10 June 2012] Honorius of Autun, Gemma animae, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), clxxii (1854) Hugh of St Victor, De presbyteris, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), clxxvi (1854) —— , De Sacramentis, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), clxxvi (1854) Ivo of Chartres, Sermones, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), clxii (1854) Lucian presbyter Caphamargala, Epistola Luciani ad omnem ecclesiam, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), xli (1845), cols 807–17 Monuments inédits sur l’apostolat de Sainte Marie-Madeleine en Provence et sur les autres apotres de cette contré, ed. by Étienne Michel Faillon and J. P. Migne, 2 vols (Paris: Migne, 1865), ii, pp. 423–28 The New Advent Catholic Encyclopedia, ‘Duties of Deacons’ [accessed 12 June 2012] Peter Chrysologus, Sermones, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by JacquesPaul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), lii (1846) Peter Lombard, In Libros Sententiarum, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–64), cxcii (1855) Le Pontifical romain au Moyen-Âge, ed. by Michel Andrieu, Studi e Testi, 86 and 87, 88, 99, 4 vols (Città del Vaticano: Bibliotheca apostolica vaticana, 1938–41) Le Pontifical Romano-Germanique du Dixième Siècle, ed. by Cyril Vogel and others, Le Text, Studi e Testi, 226, 227, 228, 3 vols (Città del Vaticano: Bibliotheca apostolica vaticana, 1963) Primitive Christianity, ed. by William Whiston, 2 vols (London, 1711); repr. and ed. by Irah Chase, The Work Claiming to be the Constitutions of the Holy Apostles, Including the Canons; Winston’s Version Revised from the Greek (New York: Appleton, 1848) Les Sources de l’histoire de France des origines aux guerres d’Italie (1494), ed. by Auguste Molinier, 6 vols (Paris: Picard, 1901–06) Vies des saints et des bienheureux selon l’ordre du calendrier, avec l’historique des fêtes, ed. by R. P. Baudot and Chaussin, 13 vols (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1935–59)

Secondary Studies Andrieu, Michel, Les Ordines Romani du haut Moyen-Âge, Spicilegium sacrum Lovaniense, 11, 5 vols (Leuven: Spicilegium sacrum Lovaniense, 1931) Bayard, Tania, Bourges Cathedral: The West Portals (New York: Garland, 1976)

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Boinet, Amédée, Les Sculptures de la cathédrale de Bourges: façade occidentale (Paris: Champion, 1912) Bovon, François, ‘The Dossier on Stephen, the First Martyr’, Harvard Theological Review, 96 (2003), 279–315 Branner, Robert, The Cathedral of Bourges and its Place in Gothic Architecture (Cambridge, MA: MIT, 1989) Brugger, Laurence, ‘La Cathédrale de Bourges au regard du tympan de saint Ursin’, in En Berry, du Moyen-Âge à la Renaissance: pages d’histoire et d’histoire de l’art: mélanges offerts à Jean-Yves Ribault, ed. by Philippe Goldman and Christian-E. Roth (Bourges: Société d’archéologie et d’histoire du Berry, 1996), pp. 67–72 Brugger, Laurence, and Yves Christe, Bourges: La cathédrale, Ciel et la pierre, 4 (SaintLéger-Vauban: Zodiaque, 2000) Cabrol, Fernand, and Henri Leclerq, eds, Dictionnaire d’archeologie chretienne et de liturgie, 15 vols (Paris: Letouzey et Ané, 1907–53) Cazel, Fred A., Jr., ‘Review: The Council of Bourges’, Speculum, 79 (2004), 1105–07 Crowder, Susannah, ‘Recontextualizing the Performances of the Drogo Sacramentary within Ninth-Century Metz’, presented at the 12th SITM Congress 2–7 July, 2007, Lille [accessed 18 June 2012] Deferrari, Roy J., Hugh of St. Victor on the Sacraments of the Christian Faith (Cambridge, MA: Medieval Academy of America, 1951) Duchesne, Louis, Christian Worship: Its Origin and Evolution: A Study of the Latin Liturgy up to the Time of Charlemagne, trans. by M. L. McClure, 5th edn (London: Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, 1949) —— , Fastes Épiscopaux de l’ancienne Gaule, 3 vols (Paris: Fontemoing, 1900–15) Gauthier, Catherine, ‘L’odeur et la lumière des dédicaces: L’encens et le luminaire dans le rituel de la dédicace d’église au haut Moyen Âge’, in Mises en Scène et Mémoires de la Consecration de l’église dans l’occident Medieval, ed. by Didier Méhu, Collection d’Etudes Medievales de Nice, 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), pp. 85–90 Hayes, Dawn Marie, Body and Sacred Place in Medieval Europe, 1100–1389, Medieval History and Culture, 18 (New York: Routledge, 2003) Iogna-Prat, Dominique, ‘The Consecration of Church Space’, in Medieval Christianity in Practice, ed. by Miri Rubin (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009), pp. 95–99 Jounel, Pierre, ‘The Dedication of Churches’, in The Church at Prayer: An Introduction to the Liturgy, ed. by Aimé Georges Martimort, 4 vols (Collegeville: Liturgical, 1985–88), i, pp. 215–25 Kay, Richard, The Council of Bourges, 1225: A Documentary History (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2002) Labbe, Philippe, Nova bibliotheca manuscriptorum librorum, 2 vols (Paris: Cramoisy, 1657) Laugardière, Maurice de, L’Église de Bourges avant Charlemagne (Paris: Tardy, 1951) Lauwers, Michel, ‘Consécration d’églises, réforme et ecclésiologie monastique: Recherches sur les chartes de consécration provençales du xie siècle’, in Mises en Scène et Mémoires de la Consecration de l’église dans l’occident Medieval, ed. by Didier Méhu, Collection d’Etudes Medievales de Nice, 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), pp. 93–142

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Lemaitre, Jean-Loup, ‘La Legende de Saint Etienne ses sources litteraires’, in Histoires tissées: 14 juin–28 septembre 1997, Avignon: la légende de saint Etienne, palais des papes, Brocarts célestes, Musee du Petit Palais, ed. by Sophie Lagabrielle (Avignon: RMG, 1997), pp. 29–36 Lowden, John, ‘An Image in the Three-Volume Bibles Moralisées, a Parallel in the Ambul­ atory Glass at Bourges Cathedral and the Cult of the Relics of Saint Stephen: Exploring Possible Connections’, in Tout le Temps du Veneour est Sanz Oyseuseté: mélanges offers à Yves Christe pour son 65ème anniversaire par ses amis, ses collegues, ses élèves, ed. by Christine Hediger and Yves Christe, Culture et Société Médiévales, 8 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), pp. 229–48 —— , The Making of the Bibles Moralisées, 2 vols (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2000) Mariaux, Pierre-Alain, ‘Mettre en scène le souvenir du fondateur laic: note sur les chapiteaux du chœur de Saint-Priest de Volvic’, in Mises en Scène et Mémoires de la Consecration de l’église dans l’occident Medieval, ed. by Didier Méhu, Collection d’Etudes Medievales de Nice, 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), pp. 327–43 Méhu, Didier, ‘Historiae et imagines de la consecration de l’église au Moyen Âge’, in Mises en Scène et Mémoires de la Consecration de l’église dans l’occident Medieval, ed. by Didier Méhu, Collection d’Etudes Medievales de Nice, 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), pp. 15–48 Palazzo, Eric, L’Évêque et son image: l’illustration du pontifical au Moyen Âge (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999) —— , A History of Liturgical Books: From the Beginning to the Thirteenth Century, trans. by Madeleine Beaumont (Collegeville: Liturgical, 1998) Repsher, Brian, The Rite of Church Dedication in the Early Medieval Era (Lewiston, NY: Edwin Mellen, 1998) Reynolds, Roger E., ‘Image and Text: The Liturgy of Clerical Ordination in Early Medieval Art’, Gesta, 22. 1 (1983), 27–38 —— , ‘A Visual Epitome of the Eucharistic Ordo from the Era of Charles the Bald: The Ivory Mass Cover of the Drogo Sacramentary’, in Charles the Bald: Court and Kingdom, ed. by Margaret T. Gibson and Janet L. Nelson, 2nd rev. edn (Aldershot: Variorum, 1990), pp. 241–60 Treffort, Cécile, ‘Une consécration “à la lettre”: place, rôle et autorité des textes inscrits dans la sacralisation de l’église’, in Mises en Scène et Mémoires de la Consecration de l’église dans l’occident Medieval, ed. by Didier Méhu, Collection d’Etudes Medievales de Nice, 7 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2007), pp. 219–51 Vanderlinden, S., ‘Revelatio sancti Stephani’, Revue des etudes Byzantines, 4 (1946), 178–217 Vitry, Paul, French Sculpture During the Reign of St. Louis, 1226–1270 (New York: Hacker Art Books, 1929)

Teaching the Mnemonic Bishop in the Medieval Canon Law Classroom Winston Black

O

pen nearly any textbook or manual composed after the twelfth century for the purpose of teaching law, theology, or pastoral care, and you are bound to find a poem like the following: Primo praecipitur, quod sit sine crimine praesul, Monogamus, sobrius, prudens, ornatus, et hospes, Casta docens, non percussor, non litigiosus, Non cupidus, bene dispositus, non neophitusve. Talis Apostolica quod praesit regula iussit. First it is ordered that a bishop be without reproach, Monogamous, sober, prudent, distinguished, and a good host, Teaching purity, neither a violent man, nor litigious, Not greedy, but well behaved, and not a neophyte. The Apostolic Rule orders that such a man be in charge.1

 

* Versions of this essay were presented at the International Congress on Medieval Studies in Kalamazoo, Michigan, in May 2010, and at a History Department Colloquium at Binghamton University, Binghamton, New York, in November 2010. I am grateful to the organizers, panelists, and audiences of these sessions for their comments and support. I would especially like to thank my wife Dr Emily Reiner, Dr Joseph Goering and Dr A. G. Rigg, both of the University of Toronto, Dr Richard Mackenney of Binghamton University, the editors of this volume, and the anonymous reader for their support and helpful suggestions. Any remaining errors or infelicities are my own. 1  This poem is printed with slight variations (especially in the first word, variously given primo, -a, -um) in William de Montibus, Tractatus metricus, no. 44, in Goering, William de Montibus, p. 175; Raymond of Penyafort, Summa (Rome: 1603), 3. 1, De qualitate ordinandorum, Winston Black is Assistant Professor of History at Assumption College, Worcester, Massa­ chusetts. ([email protected]) Envisioning the Bishop: Images and the Episcopacy in the Middle Ages, ed. by Sigrid Danielson and Evan A. Gatti MCS 29 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), 377–404 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/M.MCS-EB.1.102239

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In such a way did masters of canon law and theology, such as William de Montibus, St Raymond of Penyafort, and Cardinal Hostiensis, teach the necessary requirements for an ideal candidate for the episcopate. But why frame this information in a poem? What purpose did it serve within a written work and how might it have been used in the context of a medieval university classroom? In the following essay I will answer these questions and examine how masters and students of law and theology composed and employed mnemonic verses about the ideal bishop, his ordination and consecration, life and behaviour, his duties and the limits of his authority. It is through such mnemonic verses that we can best understand what aspects of the bishop and his authority were considered most important for clergy-in-training to know. More broadly, a study of mnemonic verse in the medieval university provides a doorway to the grey area between the texts and contexts of medieval education. This study in particular will highlight the area between the written authorities of canon law and the administration of the church that shaped, and was in turn reshaped by, that body of law. It should go without saying that bishops and episcopal authority were important subjects in the medieval university. Even during the thirteenth century, an era of sweeping papal monarchy and Roman claims to plenitudo potestatis (fullness of power), often made at the expense of the episcopate, bishops remained, as they had for centuries, leading figures in Christian society. They acted as both temporal lords and spiritual leaders for many in their dioceses.2 What is more, most medieval universities and their faculties came directly or indirectly under the authority of the local bishop, so all students, not just those destined for pastoral care and ecclesiastical administration, had to know something of the bishop’s oversight in numerous spiritual matters. By the early thirteenth century young men were flocking in ever greater numbers to the nascent universities in Bologna, Paris, Oxford, and Cambridge. They did so, at least in p. 258; and Hostiensis, Summa aurea (Venice: 1574), 1, De temporibus ordinationum, col. 175. The poem is also recorded in many more manuscripts by Walther, Initia, nos 14624, p. 758 and 14636, p. 759; Walther, Proverbia, iii, nos 22391, p. 950 and 22400d, p. 953. Medieval authors, beginning with St Augustine, frequently employed the phrase regula apostolica, particularly in a monastic context and in conjunction with discussions of the vita apostolica. But claims to apostolic perfection, or at least to an apostolic legacy, were made by almost all types of clergy, and some laymen, by the later Middle Ages: Chenu, ‘Monks, Canons, and Laymen’. This use of ‘Apostolic Rule’ belongs to that movement. 2  I hope with this essay to play a part in remedying what John Ott and Anna Trumbore Jones have called the ‘bishop’s vanishing act’ in the historiography of the medieval church in the last several decades in Ott and Jones, ‘Introduction: The Bishop Reformed’, p. 4. For an introduction to changing papal and episcopal relations, see Pennington, Pope and Bishops.

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part, in response to the demands of civil and ecclesiastical authorities, especially bishops, for more literate advisors, administrators, and clerks who were educated not only in the arts but in a rapidly growing body of civil and canon law.3 Many students, particularly those engaged in law or theology, attended university for the very purpose of becoming part of the growing body of episcopal officials and diocesan administrators: rural deans, archpriests, archdeacons, treasurers, chancellors, judges of the commissary or consistory court, vicars general, penitentiaries, and licensed confessors, to name only a few of the higher church officers in this increasingly bureaucratic age. Clerics hoping to gain such preferments were expected to understand, at least in summary, centuries of the canon law surrounding bishops. The study of episcopal authority was a topic of obvious significance to the efficient spiritual and secular administration of the Roman Church. Major portions of Gratian’s Decretum, the primary teaching text on canon law for nearly a century after its publication in the 1140s, were dedicated to bishops and ecclesiastical decrees concerning their duties and authority.4 By the mid-thirteenth century lawyers, masters of law, and their successful students had to know not only the law organized in the Decretum and Gregory IX’s Decretales (or Liber extra, officially promulgated in 1234), but a century of scholastic questions, commentaries and lectures about those two works, not to mention further training in civil law, knowledge and practice of which was becoming inextricably woven with canon law. University education in canon law was typical of this scholastic age, sharing pedagogical techniques with the arts, medicine, and theology: at least four years of ordinary lectures on the titles of the authoritative texts (here, the Decretum and Liber extra) with glosses and commentary, extraordinary (or ‘cursory’) lectures delivered by the bachelors, review sessions on noteworthy points of law, and public disputations and oral examinations for the more advanced 3 

James Brundage has written extensively on the teaching of canon law. See particularly Brundage, ‘Teaching and Study of Canon Law’, and Brundage, The Medieval Origins of the Legal Profession, pp. 219–82. 4  For example D. 17–18 on councils and bishops’ duties at them; D. 19–20 on the reception and handling of papal decretals; D. 22 on the relative authority of the pope and patriarchs; canons in D. 23, 24, 26, and 28 on the proper examination and ordination of clergy, particularly the bishop-elect; D. 25 c. 1–2 on the duties and authority of bishops; canons in D. 33–35 on the life and behaviour of clergy, including bishops; D. 64 on the ordination of bishops, and so on: Decretum Magistri Gratiani, ed. by Friedberg and Richter, i. For an introduction to bishops and episcopal authority in twelfth-century canon law, see Orsy, ‘Bishops, Presbyters, and Priesthood’.

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students. As a means of teaching subjects of increasing complexity and theoretical rigor through a set of required texts, masters of law and their students (as in every faculty) developed a wealth of educational tools: ordinary and extraordinary lectures and their reportationes, disputed questions and quodlibeta, collections of sententiae, summae of entire subjects, and other teaching tools such as glosses, notabilia, brocarda, postillae.5 Scholars of law and theology also employed less formalized methods of organizing and memorizing complex sets of data, including diagrams, charts, tables, and mnemonic verses like the one given at the start of this essay. It is this last category of verse that is surely the most foreign to a modern historian. While common into the early twentieth century, especially for teaching Latin grammar, mnemonic verse has almost entirely vanished as an acceptable pedagogical method. Yet in the medieval classroom even the most respected masters frequently quoted poems and epigrams in their lectures and included them in their published commentaries. The students, we can presume, were trained far better than any today in the memorative arts, and had the ability to recall large amounts of information. Mnemonic verse was only one of many numerous forms of mnemotechnics practised in the medieval schools. Training in the artes memoriae, or memorative arts, made up a significant portion of some medieval students’ education.6 The use of poems might seem incongruous in the study of canon law, but mnemonic verses are quoted in the Glossa ordinaria on Gratian’s Decretum, the Summa decretalium of Bernard of Pavia, Raymond of Penyafort’s Summa de poenitentia, and the Summa aurea and Commentaria of Cardinal Hostiensis, to name only a few of the most noteworthy examples. Poems were likewise employed by some theologians, whose works were read by canon lawyers, especially St Thomas Aquinas.7 Lengthier poems were also composed to help the 5 

The most comprehensive survey of medieval canon law texts at the start of the universities is still Kuttner, Repertorium der Kanonistik. 6  Classical and medieval development of the artes memoriae is chronicled by Yates, The Art of Memory, and Carruthers, The Book of Memory. Both of these authors ignore mnemonic verse, outside of a few passing mentions, in their studies of memory. 7  The ordinary gloss on Gratian’s Decretum, in its usual form, is Bartholomew of Brescia’s c. 1245 revision of Johannes Teutonicus’ original gloss (written before 1217). See Brundage, Medieval Canon Law, pp. 201 and 207. It is found most accessibly in the first two volumes of Corpus iuris canonici emendatum, hosted online by the UCLA Library at ‘Digital Collections. Canon Law’ [accessed 23  January 2012]; Bernard of Pavia’s summa is published as Bernardi Papiensis, ed. by Laspeyres; see note 1

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student understand — or even to replace — manuals of canon law, such as the versifications of Gratian’s Decretum and the Decretales of Gregory IX by the talented and prolific English poet Henry of Avranches (fl. 1243–60).8 Among the most popular authors and compilers of shorter verses on practical theology and canon law was William de Montibus, chancellor of Lincoln Cathedral in the later twelfth century and until his death in 1213. Hundreds of copies still exist of his hugely popular poem on proper penance, Peniteas cito peccator. He also compiled several collections of mnemonic verses from other authors and his fellow theologians: a Tractatus Metricus on the seven sacraments, the Collecta, a collection of verses with prose commentary made by one of his students, and the Versarius, a ‘summa of mnemonic and didactic verses’, containing 1375 separate short poems or single lines of verse on religious topics. The career of William de Montibus demonstrates that mnemonic verses were not only inserted occasionally in prose works but could form one of the most important genres of a religious teacher and author.9 Before I turn to verses on bishops themselves, a few words are necessary on the general development of mnemonic and didactic verse. A distinctive feature of medieval educational texts, especially after the turn of the thirteenth century, is the widespread use of Latin verses or epigrams aimed at summarizing, simplifying, and popularizing difficult subjects and authoritative texts.10 This is equally true of all the major disciplines of medieval education: the arts (particularly grammar), philosophy, theology, medicine, civil and canon law. Some of these poems are lengthy, finely crafted works, intended to stand on their own for teaching or reference. Many others are short, usually under ten lines, most likely designed for memorization and oral transmission. Following the example of Jan Ziolkowski, I shall call the former for Raymond of Penyafort and Hostiensis, Summa aurea; Hostiensis, Commentaria (Venice: 1581) — the latter edition also includes Hostiensis’s lectures on the Novellae of Pope Innocent IV as the sixth book of decretals. Only the verses of Aquinas have been studied: Vansteenkiste, ‘“Versus”’. Every mnemonic verse published by Vansteenkiste is found in Aquinas’s commentary on the Sentences (Scriptum super IV libros Sententiarum) and not in his Summa Theologiae. 8  Rigg, A History of Anglo-Latin Literature, pp. 179 and 187–88. 9  Goering, William de Montibus, pp. 107–38 (Peniteas cito peccator), pp. 158–78 (Tractatus metri­cus), pp. 504–14 (Collecta). 10  The role of mnemonic and didactic verse in medieval education has not received the attention it deserves. Part of the difficulty lies simply in collecting and synthesizing the vast amount and variety of verse, a process begun by Thomas Haye, primarily on the topic of longer didactic poems, in Haye, Das lateinische Lehrgedicht.

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didactic verse and the latter mnemonic verse.11 Didactic poems are, generally, designed to teach the whole of a topic and run from hundreds to tens of thousands of lines of verse. A typical example is a thirteenth-century poem, 946 lines in its one incomplete, extant manuscript, written to teach pastors of souls the causes and consequences of sin in a simple, scholastic format.12 Other didactic poems were written to summarize important prose works such as the Bible or Peter Lombard’s Sentences, and teaching essential liberal arts like grammar (Alexander of Villa Dei’s Doctrinale and Eberhard of Béthune’s Graecismus) or more esoteric topics such as uroscopy or algorithms (Gilles of Corbeil’s De urinis and Alexander of Villa Dei’s Carmen de algorismo).13 It is with the shorter, mnemonic poems that I am concerned here. These Latin poems and epigrams were included in sermons, lectures and textbooks on every possible subject and can be found in students’ reportationes from those lectures, as well as added in the margins and flyleaves of countless manuscripts.14 When an author intentionally copied such poems within the body of a prose text, they are often introduced by the phrase Unde versus, or a variation on it.15 Some poems seem to be included simply to entertain the students or to keep their attention. Many others serve a more worthy function as pedagogical tools to encourage the exploration of complex topics and the recollection 11 

Ziolkowski, ‘From Didactic Poetry’, p. 229. Described by A. G. Rigg, with an edition of excerpts of the poem, in Rigg, ‘“De motu et pena peccandi”’. 13  The most popular of the versified Bibles was Peter Riga, Aurora, ed. by Beichner. Poets who versified the Bible are examined by Dinkova-Bruun, ‘Rewriting Scripture’, and DinkovaBruun, ‘The Verse Bible as Aide-mémoire’. On the versified Lombard, see de Ghellinck, ‘Medieval Theology in Verse’, and Peter Lombard, The Sentences Book 1, trans. By Silano, p. xxix. On verse grammars, see Copeland and Sluiter, Medieval Grammar and Rhetoric, p. 584, and Law, ‘Why Write a Verse Grammar?’. Gilles’s poems on diagnosis from urine and the pulse are published in Gilles de Corbeil, Aegidius Corboliensis, ed. by Choulant; see also O’Boyle, The Art of Medicine, pp. 112–13. Poems on algorithms and other topics from Arabic learning are reviewed by Burnett, ‘Learned Knowledge of Arabic Poetry’, p. 42. 14  A survey of just one manuscript collection, that of the Bibliothèque municipale de Reims described by Loriquet, Catalogue général des manuscrits, reveals many such examples of marginal mnemonic verses of a legal nature: MSS 345 (a penitential), 460 (Peter Lombard’s Sentences), 548–49 (two summae on vices and virtues), 582 (theological miscellany), 678 (Gratian’s Decretum with its gloss), 694–97 (multiple copies of Gregory IX’s Decretales), 707 (summa on the Decretales of Godfrey of Trani), etc. 15  Thorndike, ‘Unde Versus’. Thorndike treats primarily scientific verse, and makes no mention of legal poems. 12 

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of sets of data. Siegfried Wenzel, in his study of verses in medieval sermons, identified four different functions of verse when included within a prose text: mnemonic, rhetorical, meditative, or simply to demonstrate literary skill.16 Or, in the words of an anonymous medieval theorist on verse: Metra iuvant animos, comprehendunt plurima paucis, Pristina commemorant et sunt ea grata legenti. Poems assist the mind: they summarize the many with the few, Help recall the original, and are pleasing to the reader.17

The medieval author recognized the multiple functions of a poem: in an oral format, it could function as a memorable summary of the speaker’s argument, listing the most important points that the reader or listener is expected to recall, while in a written format, a poem can serve as a summary or guide to a chapter or book, or as an emotional trigger which leads the student to a more complete memory of a difficult topic. Many mnemonic verses are classical in origin and were obviously not written for the purpose of teaching in the medieval university. Individual lines or couplets from Virgil, Ovid, Horace, Juvenal, and other Roman poets appear frequently in educational texts, taken out of their original context to help students remember a point of vocabulary, philosophy, or law. It can be assumed that the masters who used these verses believed that their students, who had studied Latin grammar through such authors, knew them intimately. Similarly, some teachers (particularly my example of Hostiensis, below) used contemporary, popular verses now known best from the Carmina Burana, the value of which must have been immediate recognition by the students.18 Most mnemonic verses, however, were composed specifically for teaching by masters and students in the later medieval schools. They stand witness to what scholars considered most important to remember.

16 

Wenzel, Verses in Sermons, pp. 66–67. Quoted by Wenzel, Verses in Sermons, p. 67. 18  For example, the following verses quoted by Hostiensis are also found in the Carmina Burana: ‘Invidus invidia comburit intus et extra’, Hostiensis, Summa aurea, 5, col. 1758 (Carmina Burana, no. 13. 1); ‘Quicquid habes meriti, praeventrix gratia donat’, Hostiensis, Summa aurea, 5, col. 1751 (Carmina Burana, no. 40. 1); ‘Rumor de veteri faciet ventura tueri’, Hostiensis, Summa aurea, 3, col. 861 (Carmina Burana, no. 101. 18). I am following the numbering of Carmina Burana, ed. by Hilka, Schumann, and Bischoff. 17 

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Especially popular in the wake of the Third and Fourth Lateran Councils were verses on practical theology, written to improve pastoral care, preaching, and confession, issues of concern to most students in the northern schools like Paris and Oxford, where every single student was an ordained cleric and many could expect a position entailing care of souls.19 Verses on canon and civil law appear to be nearly as common, but have not received as much attention, perhaps because they are often buried within lengthy lectures and summae which have been studied extensively for the ideas they contain, but not necessarily for their teaching methods and format. Moreover, no collections of legal verse were ever compiled in the Middle Ages, so far as I know, whereas several such compilations survive of theological and pastoral verse, more broadly construed.20 As a focus for this study of mnemonic verses about bishops, I will take most of my examples from the teaching texts of one master of canon law, Henry of Susa (Henricus de Segusio, born c. 1200–71), better known from his later title of Hostiensis, as cardinal bishop of Ostia (1262–70).21 Hostiensis is a valuable resource for investigating clerical education and the legal image of bishops for several reasons. First, he is widely considered one of the most important canon lawyers of the thirteenth century, particularly for his influential writings on papal authority and plenitudo potestatis, or ‘fullness of power’, which dramatically affected later medieval conceptions of episcopal authority and its relation to both the pope and subordinates.22 Second, he taught canon law for several 19 

The more notable examples include the many theological poems of William de Montibus (see note 2, above) and those published by Dinkova-Bruun, ‘Notes on Poetic Composition’. 20  One such florilegium of theological verse is in BL, MS Harley 956, published by Dinkova-Bruun (see note 17) and another collection, mostly pastoral in nature, is found in BL, MS Arundel 507 printed as Appendix ii, Part ii, to Yorkshire Writers, ed. by Horstmann, i, 420–35. Reference is to the original edition of Yorkshire Writers. See also the revised edition with the same title and a new introduction by Anne Clark Bartlett. 21  There exists no complete study of the life, career, and works of Hostiensis. His early biography has been pieced together by Noel Didier in a series of articles: Didier, ‘Henri de Suse’; Didier, ‘Henri de Suse en Angleterre’; Didier, ‘Henri de Suse, prieur d’Antibes’. These and other studies are summarized by Pennington, ‘Enrico da Susa’; repr. in English: Pennington, ‘Henricus de Segusio’. The only scholar to comment on Hostiensis’s use of poetry is Gallagher, Canon Law and the Christian Community. 22  The concept is examined by Kenneth Pennington with relation to episcopal authority and in the more general context of legislative authority in, respectively, Pennington, Pope and Bishops, pp. 43–74, and Pennington, The Prince and the Law, pp. 50–75. For a history of the phrase plenitudo potestatis, see Benson, ‘Plenitudo potestatis’. On the use of the term by Hostiensis in particular, see Watt, ‘The Use of the Term “Plenitudo potestatis”’.

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years in the schools of Paris, perhaps 1239 to 1242, so we have a good understanding of the educational milieu of his verses on bishops. Third, he served as prior of the cathedral of Antibes in Savoy, provost of Grasse, and as archdeacon of Paris, all administrative positions in which he would be expected to be thoroughly familiar with episcopal jurisdiction. And finally, he used verse more often in his teaching and writing than any other medieval canonist I have found, quoting short poems on nearly every title in the Liber extra, writing his own, and commenting on them to help his students better remember and apply their content.23 While his most important written works, in which we now find these verses, were not published until well after his tenure at Paris (his Summa in 1253 and Lectura or Commentaria by the late 1260s), it is a fair assumption that they still reflect the pedagogical methods of that earlier period. Masters of law were expected to lecture in the order of the books they taught, and Hostiensis’s Summa and Commentaria rightly follow the books of the Liber extra, the text they were composed to teach. Because this collection of papal letters and church decrees was organized topically according to aspects of church law and not according to specific orders or offices in the church, Hostiensis’s verses on any given topic, such as bishops, are scattered throughout his works and are not gathered together. Well over one hundred different mnemonic verses are given in both the Summa and Commentaria, and only about half of those are the same in both works. One of those verses, a single hexameter, addresses the standard division of topics found in the Liber extra, and in his own commentaries on it: ‘Iudex, iudicium, clerus, sponsalia, crimen’ (‘Judge, Trial, Cleric, Marriage, Crime’).24 Hostiensis’s mnemonic verses take two main forms: very short poems of one or two lines that usually serve as a gloss on a difficult word or phrase, or longer poems (4–8 lines) providing lists of cases, conditions, or exceptions 23 

Hostiensis’s particular fondness for verse does not overshadow the fact that nearly every legal teaching text from the thirteenth century contains some mnemonic verse. 24  Hostiensis, Summa aurea, 1, col. 9; Hostiensis, Commentaria, 1, fol. 3v, col. A. This verse is found in nearly every work of the decretalists (often with connubia instead of sponsalia), and was so popular that it was even included on the title page of some early printed editions of the Liber Extra, such as Decretales domini pape Gregorii, which is subtitled Quinque libri decretalium totidem vocabulis explicantur. Judex: judicium: clerus: sponsalia: crimen. A five-line poem on the contents of the Liber extra was also popular, which begins ‘Pars prior officia creat ecclesieque ministros’ (Walther, Initia, no. 13719). This topical arrangement was replaced in the new Codex iuris canonici of 1917 with another based on Roman law: personae, res, actiones (law of persons, law of things, law of actions). See van de Wiel, History of Canon Law, pp. 167–74.

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which would be important to remember in both the external forum and internal forum, that is, in ecclesiastical courts and during confession.25 Among the most commonly versified topics are the sacraments, particularly confession and ordination, procedural law and the handling of rescripts and appeals, and the proper behaviour and duties of bishops, the pope, and clergy in general. Since the bishop served as the spiritual pastor and ordinary judge for most Christians in his diocese, mnemonic verses were written and quoted in classrooms concerning many aspects of a bishop’s career, from his election and consecration, to details of his background and behaviour, his performance of penance, ordination, and consecration, punishment of wayward clergy, and so on. The poem I quoted at the start of this essay is typical of Hostiensis and of the wider tradition of mnemonic verse: five lines of unrhymed Latin hexameters summarizing twelve important attributes of a candidate for bishop. He did not compose it himself, but most likely learned it from Raymond of Penyafort’s hugely popular Summa de poenitentia (c. 1220).26 It also could have circulated orally among students and masters in the Bologna or Paris faculties of law and theology while he was studying or teaching in those cities. Many similar poems circulated, listing the qualities required of certain individuals within the religious and legal spheres, such as priests, judges delegate, husbands and wives, godparents, and witnesses. A selection of such poems, found in a variety of legal texts, is provided in the note below.27 25 

On the concept of the two ecclesiastical fora, or courts, see Mostaza, ‘Forum internum – forum externum’; and Goering, ‘The Internal Forum’. 26  Raymond includes this poem at the start of his discussion of ordination and ordinands: Raymond of Penyafort, Summa, 3, De qualitate ordinandorum, p. 258. For a recent biography of Raymond, see Pierre Payer’s introduction to Raymond of Penyafort, Summa on Marriage, pp. 1–6. 27  Priest (Walther, Initia, no. 3357; Goering, William de Montibus, p. 168): Corporis integritas, sine crimine, sexus et etas, Littera, libertas, baptismus, vita, voluntas, Fama, fides, titulus, intentio, forma, potestas, Tempus: In ordinibus faciendis ista requiris.   Judge delegate (Hostiensis, Summa aurea, 1, col. 281): Liber, mas, gnarus, cui sit mens, integra fama, Aetas, qui subsit, committitur huic bene causa.   Husband and wife (Walther, Initia, no. 5520; Walther, Proverbia, no. 7175): Error, conditio, votum, cognatio, crimen, Cultus disparitas, vis, ordo, ligamen, Honestas, dissensus, et affinis, si forte coire nequibis. Haec socianda vetant connubia facta retractant.

Teaching the Mnemonic Bishop in the Medieval Canon Law Classroom 387

Such a verse would be especially useful during the election of a bishop, when candidates are vetted, and even after a cleric is elected bishop, the bishop-elect must be consecrated. One of the most controversial issues among high medieval canonists was the legal status of the candidate in this transitional period between election and consecration. It is only after the 1160s that the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of a bishop-elect was defined as distinct from that of the fully consecrated bishop.28 In light of these changing electoral developments, ancient doctrines on the bishop were examined anew. The locus classicus on the bishopelect is the Bible itself, where St Paul outlines the qualities required of a bishop in letters to Timothy (i Tim. 3. 1–7) and Titus (Titus 1. 7–9). These two passages, taken together, came to be known as the Regula Apostolica and formed the foundation of later legal discussions of bishops and, of course, mnemonic verses. Raymond of Penyafort, when discussing the requirements of all ordinands, but particularly bishops, in the third book of his Summa de poenitentia, summarizes the Regula using the poem quoted above. These verses serve not only as a mnemonic for the biblical passages in question, but also as a versified table of contents for the following sections of his book. He explains to his students or readers how and why he will use the poem: ‘And note that many things should be said about the individual aforesaid headings of the Apostolic Rule, but nevertheless, since I want to avoid prolixity, I will say something about the individual points, so that at least the simple have some understanding about these issues, and matter for reflection.’29 Hostiensis quotes this poem in his  

 

Godparent (Raymond of Penyafort, Summa, 3, p. 539; Hostiensis, Summa aurea, 3, col. 1337; St Thomas Aquinas, In IV Sent. d. 42, q. 1, a. 3, ql. 2, and printed in Vansteen­kiste, ‘“Versus”’, p. 84): Quae mihi, vel cuius, mea natum fonte levavit. Haec mea commater, fieri mea non valet uxor. Si qua meae natum non ex me fonte levavit, Hanc post fata meae non inde verebor habere [Raymond: uetabor nunquam].

Witness (Walther, Initia, no. 3113; Walther, Proverbia, no. 3053a): Conditio, sexus, etas, discretio, fama, Et fortuna, fides: in testibus ista require [also requires]. 28  On the difficult legal issues and theory surrounding this process see Benson, The BishopElect. 29  Raymond of Penyafort, Summa, 3, p.  258: ‘Nota etiam, quod de singulis capitulis supradictis Apostolicae regulae multa essent dicenda: verumtamen volens prolixitatem vitare de singulis per ordinem dicam aliqua, ut saltem simplices habeant super his aliquam notitiam, et materiam cogitandi.’ The supposedly brief (i.e., ‘volens prolixitatem vitare’) prose commentary on the poem and Apostolic Rule is found on pp. 259–86 of this edition.

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own Summa and, like Raymond, uses it both as a mnemonic about bishops and a versified table of contents to a lengthy discussion of their ordination.30 The dangers of mnemonic verse, however, are shown in how these great canonists understand and unpack the same poem. While the poem ostensibly covers twelve aspects of the bishop-elect, Raymond understood there to be thirteen,31 and Hostiensis for some reason counted fourteen headings in the same poem. What’s more, Hostiensis adds a lengthy discussion of the gender requirement — the bishop must be male — noting that it is not included in the mnemonic verse. Regardless of their variant readings, each canonist saw the value of verse as a prompt towards a fuller discussion of the topic at hand. If we turn to the next stage in a bishop’s career, his consecration after election, we run into further legal issues and teaching opportunities. Electoral law in the church changed significantly in the long twelfth century, and episcopal elections were obviously among the most important and most often contested.32 Principles of election, the status of electors, and the relative weight of the electors’ votes were debated vigorously by lawyers and teachers of law. The Third Lateran Council of 1179 and Pope Innocent III (1198–1216) both issued new canons on ecclesiastical elections. An entire section of the Liber extra is dedicated to ‘Election and the Authority of the Bishop-Elect’, so Hostiensis naturally devotes an extensive discussion to the topic of running a canonical election by valid electors of a valid candidate. Whereas the previous poem reviewed the necessary moral qualities of a candidate for bishop, more objective standards also applied. In response to his question ‘Who should be elected?’, he provides a poem outlining those aspects of the bishop-elect which must be examined for possible impediments: Anni triginta, sacer ordo, pura uolunta